harper's new monthly magazine. no. iii.--august, .--vol. i. [illustration: sir thomas more.] [from the art-journal.] pilgrimage to the home of sir thomas more. by mrs. s. c. hall. while living in the neighborhood of chelsea, we determined to look upon the few broken walls that once inclosed the residence of sir thomas more, a man who, despite the bitterness inseparable from a persecuting age, was of most wonderful goodness as well as intellectual power. we first read over the memories of him preserved by erasmus, hoddesdon, roper, aubrey, his own namesake, and others. it is pleasant to muse over the past; pleasant to know that much of malice and bigotry has departed, to return no more, that the prevalence of a spirit which could render even sir thomas more unjust and, to seeming, cruel, is passing away. though we do implicitly believe there would be no lack of great hearts, and brave hearts, at the present day, if it were necessary to bring them to the test, still there have been few men like unto him. it is a pleasant and a profitable task, so to sift through past ages, so to separate the wheat from the chaff, to see, when the feelings of party and prejudice sink to their proper insignificance, how the morally great stands forth in its own dignity, bright, glorious, and everlasting. st. evremond sets forth the firmness and constancy of petronius arbiter in his last moments, and imagines he discovers in them a softer nobility of mind and resolution, than in the deaths of seneca, cato, or socrates himself; but addison says, and we can not but think truly, "that if he was so well pleased with gayety of humor in a dying man, he might have found a much more noble instance of it in sir thomas more, who died upon a point of religion, and is respected as a martyr by that side for which he suffered." what was pious philosophy in this extraordinary man, might seem frenzy in any one who does not resemble him as well in the cheerfulness of his temper as in the sanctity of his life and manners. oh, that some such man as he were to sit upon our woolsack now; what would the world think, if when the mighty oracle commanded the next cause to come on, the reply should be, "_please your good lordship, there is no other!_" well might the smart epigrammatist write: when more some time had chancellor been, no more suits did remain; the same shall never more be seen, till more be there again! we mused over the history of his time until we slept, and dreamed: and first in our dream we saw a fair meadow, and it was sprinkled over with white daisies, and a bull was feeding therein; and as we looked upon him he grew fatter and fatter, and roared in the wantonness of power and strength, so that the earth trembled; and he plucked the branches off the trees, and trampled on the ancient inclosures of the meadow, and as he stormed, and bellowed, and destroyed, the daisies became human heads, and the creature flung them about, and warmed his hoofs in the hot blood that flowed from them and we grew sick and sorry at heart, and thought, is there no one to slay the destroyer? and when we looked again, the eighth harry was alone in the meadow; and, while many heads were lying upon the grass, some kept perpetually bowing before him, while others sung his praises as wise, just, and merciful. then we heard a trumpet ringing its scarlet music through the air, and we stood in the old tilt-yard at whitehall, and the pompous wolsey, the bloated king, the still living holbein, the picturesque surrey, the aragonian catharine, the gentle jane, the butterfly anne bullen, the coarse-seeming but wise-thinking ann of cleves the precise catherine howard, and the stout hearted catherine parr, passed us so closely by, that we could have touched their garments; then a bowing troop of court gallants came on; others whose names and actions you may read of in history; and then the hero of our thoughts, sir thomas more--well dressed, for it was a time of pageants--was talking somewhat apart to his pale-faced friend erasmus, while "son roper," as the chancellor loved to call his son-in-law, stood watchfully and respectfully a little on one side. even if we had never seen the pictures holbein painted of his first patron, we should have known him by the bright benevolence of his aspect, the singular purity of his complexion, his penetrating yet gentle eyes, and the incomparable grandeur with which virtue and independence dignified even an indifferent figure. his smile was so catching that the most broken-hearted were won by it to forget their sorrows; and his voice, low and sweet though it was, was so distinct, that we heard it above all the coarse jests, loud music, and trumpet calls of the vain and idle crowd. and while we listened, we awoke; resolved next day to make our pilgrimage, perfectly satisfied at the outset, that though no fewer than four houses in chelsea contend for the honor of his residence, doctor king's arguments in favor of the site being the same as that of beaufort house--upon the greater part of which now stands beaufort-row--are the most conclusive; those who are curious in the matter can go and see his manuscripts in the british museum. passing beaufort-row, we proceeded straight on to the turn leading to the chelsea _clock-house_. [illustration: clock house.] it is an old, patched-up, rickety dwelling, containing, perhaps, but few of the original stones, yet interesting as being the lodge-entrance to the offices of beaufort-house; remarkable, also, as the dwelling of a family of the name of howard, who have occupied it for more than a hundred years, the first possessor being gardener to sir hans sloane, into whose possession, after a lapse of years, and many changes, a portion of sir thomas more's property had passed. this howard had skill in the distilling of herbs and perfumes, which his descendant carries on to this day. we lifted the heavy brass knocker, and were admitted into the "old clock-house." the interior shows evident marks of extreme age, the flooring being ridgy and seamed, bearing their marks with a discontented creaking, like the secret murmurs of a faded beauty against her wrinkles! on the counter stood a few frost-bitten geraniums, and drawers, containing various roots and seeds, were ranged round the walls, while above them were placed good stout quart and pint bottles of distilled waters. the man would have it that the "clock-house" was the "real original" lodge-entrance to "beaufort house;" and so we agreed it might have been, but not, "_perhaps_" built during sir thomas more's lifetime. to this insinuation he turned a deaf ear, assuring us that his family, having lived there so long, must know all about it, and that the brother of sir hans sloane's gardener had made the great clock in old chelsea church, as the church books could prove. "you can, if you please," he said, "go under the archway at the side of this house, leading into the moravian chapel and burying-ground, where the notice, that 'within are the park-chapel schools,' is put up." and that is quite true; the moravians now only use the chapel which was erected in their burying-ground to perform an occasional funeral service in, and so they "let it" to the infant school. the burying-ground is very pretty in the summer time. its space occupies only a small portion of the chancellor's garden; part of its walls are very old, and the south one certainly belonged to beaufort house. there have been some who trace out a tudor arch and one or two gothic windows as having been filled up with more modern mason-work: but that may be fancy. there seems no doubt that the moravian chapel stands on the site of the old stables. "then," we said, "the clock-house could only have been at the entrance to the offices." the man looked for a moment a little hurt at this observation, as derogatory to the dignity of his dwelling, but he smiled, and said. "perhaps so;" and very good-naturedly showed us the cemetery of this interesting people. indeed, their original settlement in chelsea is quite a romance. the chapel stands to the left of the burying-ground, which is entered by a primitive wicket-gate; it forms a square of thick grass, crossed by broad gravel walks, kept with the greatest neatness the tombstones are all that, and the graves not raised above the level of the sward. they are of two sizes only: the larger for grown persons, the smaller for children. the inscriptions on the grave-stones, in general, seldom record more than the names and ages of the persons interred. the men are buried in one division, the women in another. we read one or two of the names, and they were quaint and strange: "anne rypheria hurloch;" "anna benigna la trobe;" and one was especially interesting, james gillray, forty years sexton to this simple cemetery, and father of gillray, the h. b. of the past century. one thing pleased us mightily, the extreme old age to which the dwellers in this house seemed to have attained. a line of ancient trees runs along the back of the narrow gardens of milman's-row, which is parallel with, but further from town than beaufort-row, and affords a grateful shade in the summer time. we resolved to walk quietly round, and then enter the chapel. how strange the changes of the world! the graves of a simple, peace-loving, unambitious people were lying around us, and yet it was the place which erasmus describes as "sir thomas more's estate, purchased at chelsey," and where "he built him a house, neither mean nor subject to envy, yet magnificent and commodious enough." how dearly he loved this place, and how much care he bestowed upon it, can be gathered from the various documents still extant.[ ] the bravery with which, soon after he was elected a burgess to parliament, he opposed a subsidy demanded by henry the seventh, with so much power that he won the parliament to his opinion, and incensed the king so greatly, that, out of revenge, he committed the young barrister's father to the tower, and fined him in the fine of a hundred pounds! that bravery remained with him to the last, and with it was mingled the simplicity which so frequently and so beautifully blends with the intellectuality that seems to belong to a higher world than this. when he "took to marrying," he fancied the second daughter of a mr. colt, a gentleman of essex; yet when he considered the pain it must give the eldest to see her sister preferred before her, he gave up his first love, and framed his fancy to the elder. this lady died, after having brought him four children; but his second choice, dame alice, has always seemed to us a punishment and a sore trial. and yet how beautifully does erasmus describe his mode of living in this very place: "he converseth with his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law, his three daughters and their husbands, with eleven grandchildren. there is not a man living so affectionate to his children as he. he loveth his old wife as if she were a young maid; he persuadeth her to play on the lute, and so with the like gentleness he ordereth his family. such is the excellence of his temper, that whatsoever happeneth that could not be helped, he loveth, as if nothing could have happened more happily. you would say there was in that place plato's academy; but i do his house an injury in comparing it to plato's academy, where there were only disputations of numbers and geometrical figures, and sometimes of moral virtues. i should rather call his house a school or university of christian religion; for, though there is none therein but readeth and studyeth the liberal sciences, their special care is piety and virtue."[ ] [illustration: more's house.] the king was used to visit his "beloved chancellor" here for days together to admire his terrace overhanging the thames, to row in his state barge, to ask opinions upon divers matters, and it is said that the royal answer to luther was composed under the chancellor's revising eye. still, the penetrating vision of sir thomas was in no decree obscured by this glitter. one day the king came unexpectedly to chelsea, and having dined, walked with sir thomas for the space of an hour, in the garden, having his arm about his neck. we pleased ourselves with the notion that they walked where then we stood! well might such condescension cause his son roper--for whom he entertained so warm an affection--to congratulate his father upon such condescension, and to remind him that he had never seen his majesty approach such familiarity with any one, save once, when he was seen to walk arm in arm with cardinal wolsey. "i thank our lord," answered sir thomas, "i find his grace my very good lord, indeed; and i do believe, he doth as singularly love me as any subject within the realm; however, son roper, i may tell thee i have no cause to be proud thereof, for if my head should win him a castle in france, it should not fail to go off." with the exception of his own family (and his wife formed an exception here), there are few indeed of his contemporaries, notwithstanding the eulogiums they are prone to heap upon him, who understood the elevated and unworldly character of this extraordinary man. the duke of norfolk, coming one day to dine with him, found him in chelsea church, singing in the choir, with his surplice on. "what! what!" exclaimed the duke, "what, what, my lord chancellor a parish clerk! a parish clerk! you dishonor the king and his office." and how exquisite his reply, "nay, you may not think your master and mine will be offended with me for serving god his master, or thereby count his office dishonored." another reply to the same abject noble, is well graven on our memory. he expostulated with him, like many of his other friends, for braving the king's displeasure. "by the mass, master more," he said, "it is perilous striving with princes; therefore, i wish you somewhat to incline to the king's pleasure, for '_indignatio principis mors est._'" "and is that all, my lord?" replied this man, so much above all paltry considerations; "then in good faith the difference between your grace and me is but this--that i may die to-day, and you to-morrow." [illustration: chelsea church.] he took great delight in beautifying chelsea church, although he had a private chapel of his own; and when last there they told us the painted window had been his gift. it must have been a rare sight to see the chancellor of england sitting with the choir; and yet there was a fair share of pomp in the manner of his servitor bowing at his lady's pew, when the service of the mass was ended, and saying, "my lord is gone _before_." but the day after he resigned the great seal of england (of which his wife knew nothing), sir thomas presented himself at the pew-door, and, after the fashion of his servitor, quaintly said, "madam, my lord is _gone."_ the vain woman could not comprehend his meaning, which, when, during their short walk home, he fully explained, she was greatly pained thereby, lamenting it with exceeding bitterness of spirit. we fancied we could trace a gothic door or window in the wall; but our great desire would have been to discover the water-gate from which he took his departure the morning he was summoned to lambeth to take the oath of supremacy. true to what he believed right, he offered up his prayers and confessions in chelsea church, and then, returning to his own house, took an affectionate farewell of his wife and children, forbidding them to accompany hum to the water-gate, as was their custom, fearing, doubtless, that his mighty heart could not sustain a prolonged interview. who could paint the silent parting between him and all he loved so well--the boat waiting at the foot of the stairs--the rowers in their rich liveries, while their hearts, heavy with apprehension for the fate of him they served, still trusted that nothing could be found to harm so good a master--the pale and earnest countenance of "son roper," wondering at the calmness, at such a time, which more than all other things, bespeaks the master mind. for a moment his hand lingered on the gate, and in fastening the simple latch his fingers trembled, and then he took his seat by his son's side; and in another moment the boat was flying through the waters. for some time he spoke no word, but communed with and strengthened his great heart by holy thoughts; then looking straight into his son roper's eyes, while his own brightened with a glorious triumph, he exclaimed in the fullness of his rich-toned voice, "i thank our lord the field is won." it was no wonder that, overwhelmed with apprehension, his son-in-law could not apprehend his meaning then, but afterward bethought him that he signified how he had conquered the world. the abbot of westminster took him that same day into custody, on his refusal to "take the king as head of his church;" and upon his repeating this refusal four days afterward, he was committed to the tower. then, indeed, these heretofore bowers of bliss echoed to the weak and wavering complaints of his proud wife, who disturbed him also in his prison by her desires, so vain and so worldly, when compared with the elevated feelings of his dear daughter margaret. how did the fond, foolish woman seek to shake his purpose! "seeing," she said, "you have a house at chelsea, a right fair house, your library, your gallery, your garden, your orchard, and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might in company with me, your wife, your children, and household, be merry, i marvel that you who have been always taken for so wise a man, can be content thus to be shut up among mice and rats, and, too, when you might be abroad at your liberty, and with the favor and good-will both of the king and his council, if you would but do as all the bishops and best learned men of the realm have done." and then not even angered by her folly, seeing how little was given her to understand, he asked her if the house in chelsea was any nearer heaven than the gloomy one he then occupied? ending his pleasant yet wise parleying with a simple question: "tell me," he said, "good mistress alice, how long do you think might we live and enjoy that same house?" she answered, "some twenty years." "truly," he replied, "if you had said some thousand years, it might have been somewhat; and yet he were a very bad merchant who would put himself in danger to lose eternity for a thousand years. how much the rather if we are not sure to enjoy it one day to an end?" it is for the glory of women that his daughter margaret, while she loved and honored him past all telling, strengthened his noble nature; for, writing him during his fifteen months' imprisonment in the tower, she asks, in words not to be forgotten, "what do you think, most dear father, doth comfort us at chelsey, in this your absence? surely, the remembrance of your manner of life passed among us--your holy conversation--your wholesome counsels--your examples of virtue, of which there is hope that they do not only persevere with you, but that they are, by god's grace, much more increased." after the endurance of fifteen months' imprisonment, he was arraigned, tried, and found guilty of denying the king's supremacy. alack! is there no painter of english history bold enough to immortalize himself by painting this trial? sir thomas more was beheaded on tower hill, in the bright sunshine of the month of july, on its fifth day, , the king remitting the disgusting quartering of the quivering flesh, because of his "high office." when told of the king's "mercy," "now, god forbid," he said, "the king should use anymore such to any of my friends; and god bless all my posterity from such pardons." one man of all the crowd who wept at his death, reproached him with a decision he had given in chancery. more, nothing discomposed, replied, that if it were still to do, he would give the same decision. this happened twelve months before. and, while the last scene was enacting on tower-hill, the king, who had walked in this very garden with his arm round the neck, which, by his command, the ax had severed, was playing at tables in whitehall, queen anne bullen looking on; and when told that sir thomas more was dead, casting his eyes upon the pretty fool that had glittered in his pageants, he said, "thou art the cause of this man's death." the coward! to seek to turn upon a thing so weak as that, the heavy sin which clung to his own soul! [illustration: tomb.] some say the body lies in chelsea church, beneath the tomb we have sketched--the epitaph having been written by himself before he anticipated the manner of his death.[ ] it is too long to insert; but the lines at the conclusion are very like the man. the epitaph and poetry are in latin: we give the translation: "for alice and for thomas more's remains prepared, this tomb johanna's form contains one, married young; with mutual ardor blest, a boy and three fair girls our joy confest. the other (no small praise) of these appear'd as fond as if by her own pangs endeared. one lived with me, one lives in such sweet strife, slight preference could i give to either wife. oh! had it met heaven's sanction and decree, one hallowed bond might have united three; yet still be ours one grave, one lot on high! thus death, what life denied us, shall supply." [illustration: roper's house.] others tell that his remains were interred in the tower,[ ] and some record that the head was sought and preserved by that same daughter margaret, who caused it to be buried in the family vault of the ropers in st. dunstan's church, canterbury;[ ] and they add a pretty legend how that, when his head was upon london bridge, margaret would be rowed beneath it, and, nothing horrified at the sight, say aloud, "that head has layde many a time in my lappe; would to god, would to god, it would fall into my lappe as i pass under now," and the head did so fall, and she carried it in her "lappe" until she placed it in her husband's, "son roper's" vault, at canterbury. the king took possession of these fair grounds at chelsea, and all the chancellor's other property, namely, dunkington, trenkford, and benley park, in oxfordshire, allowing the widow he had made, twenty pounds per year for her life, and indulging his petty tyranny still more, by imprisoning sir thomas's daughter, margaret, "both because she kept her father's head for a relic, and that she meant to set her father's works in print." we were calling to mind more minute particulars of the charities and good deeds of this great man, when, standing at the moment opposite a grave where some loving hand had planted two standard rose-trees, we suddenly heard a chant of children's voices, the infant scholars singing their little hymn; the tune, too, was a well-known and popular melody, and very sweet, yet sad of sound; it was just such music, as for its simplicity, would have been welcome to the mighty dead; and, as we entered among the little songsters, the past faded away, and we found ourselves speculating on the hopeful present. * * * * * we close mrs. hall's pleasant sketches of sir thomas more and his localities, with a brief description of a scene in his prison, which the pencil of mr. herbert, of the royal academy, has beautifully depicted. it must be remembered that more was a zealous roman catholic. he was committed to the tower in , by the licentious henry viii., partly to punish him for refusing to assist that monarch in his marriage with anne boleyn, "the pretty fool," as mrs. hall calls her; but particularly because he declined to acknowledge the king's ecclesiastical supremacy as head of the reformed church. there he remained until his execution the following year. "during his imprisonment," says his son-in-law and biographer, roper, who married his favorite daughter margaret, "one day, looking from his window, he saw four monks (who also had refused the oath of supremacy) going to their execution, and regretting that he could not bear them company, said: 'look, megge, dost thou not see that these blessed fathers be now going as cheerful to their death, as bridegrooms to their marriage? by which thou may'st see, myne own good daughter, what a great difference there is between such as have spent all their days in a religious, hard, and penitential life, and such as have (as thy poore father hath done) consumed all their time in pleasure and ease;'" and so he proceeded to enlarge on their merits and martyrdom. his grandson, cresacre more, referring to this scene, says, "by which most humble and heavenly meditation, we may easily guess what a spirit of charity he had gotten by often meditation, that every sight brought him new matter to practice most heroical resolutions." [illustration: sir thomas more and his daughter.] footnotes: [ ] after the death of more, this favorite home of his, where he had so frequently gathered "a choice company of men distinguished by their genius and learning," passed into the rapacious hands of his bad sovereign, and by him was presented to sir william pawlet, ultimately lord high treasurer and marquis of winchester; from his hands it passed into lord dacre's, to whom succeeded lord burghley; then followed his son, the earl of salisbury, as its master; from him it passed successively to the earl of lincoln, sir arthur gorges, the earl of middlesex, villiers duke of buckingham, sir bulstrode whitelock, the second duke of buckingham, the earl of bristol, the duke of beaufort, and ultimately to sir hans slonne, who obtained it in , and after keeping it for two years razed it to the ground; an unhappy want of reverence on the part of the great naturalist for the home of so many great men. there is a print of it by j. knyff, in , which is copied (p. ); it shows some old features, but it had then been enlarged and altered. erasmus has well described it as it was in more's lifetime. it had "a chapel, a library, and a gallery, called the new buildings, a good distance from his main house, wherein his custom was to busy himself in prayer and meditation, whensoever he was at leisure." heywood, in his _ii moro_ (florence, ), describes "the garden as wonderfully charming, both from the advantages of its site, for from one part almost the whole of the noble city of london was visible, and from the other the beautiful thames, with green meadows by woody eminences all around, and also for its own beauty, for it was crowned with an almost perpetual verdure." at one side was a small green eminence to command the prospect. [ ] the conduct of this great man's house was a model to all, and as near an approach to his own utopia as might well be. erasmus says, "i should rather call his house a school or university of christian religion, for though there is none therein but readeth and studyeth the liberal sciences, their special care is piety and virtue; there is no quarreling or intemperate words heard; none seen idle; which household discipline that worthy gentleman doth not govern, but with all kind and courteous benevolence." the servant-men abode on one side of the house, the women on another, and met at prayer-time, or on church festivals, when more would read and expound to them. he suffered no cards or dice, but gave each one his garden-plot for relaxation, or set them to sing or play music. he had an affection for all who truly served him, and his daughters' nurse is as affectionately remembered in his letters when from home as are they themselves. "thomas more sendeth greeting to his most dear daughters margaret, elizabeth, and cecily; and to margaret giggs, as dear to him as if she were his own," are his words in one letter; and his valued and trustworthy domestics appear in the family pictures of the family by holbein. they requited his attachment by truest fidelity and love; and his daughter margaret, in her last passionate interview with her father on his way to the tower, was succeeded by margaret giggs and a maid-servant, who embraced and kissed their condemned master, "of whom, he said after, it was homely but very lovingly done." of these and other of his servants, erasmus remarks, "after sir thomas more's death, none ever was touched with the least suspicion of any evil fame." [ ] wood and weaver both affirm that the body of more was first deposited in the tower chapel, but was subsequently obtained by his devoted and accomplished daughter, margaret roper, and re-interred in chelsea church, in the tomb he had finished in , the year in which he had surrendered the chancellorship, and resolved to abide the issue of his conscientious opposition to the king's wishes, as if he felt that the tomb should then be prepared. [ ] faulkner, in his history of chelsea, adheres to this opinion, and says that the tomb in that church is but "an empty cenotaph." his grandson, in his life, says, "his body was buried in the chapel of st. peter, in the tower, in the belfry, or, as some say, as one entereth into the vestry;" and he does not notice the story of his daughter's re-interment of it elsewhere. [ ] the ropers lived at canterbury, in st dunstan's-street. the house is destroyed, and a brewery occupies its site; but the picturesque old gateway, of red brick, still remains, and is engraved above. margaret roper, the noble-hearted, learned, and favorite daughter of more resided here with her husband, until her death, in , nine years after the execution of her father, when she was buried in the family vault at st. dunstan's, where she had reverently placed the head of her father. the story of her piety is thus told by cresacre more, in his life of his grandfather, sir thomas: "his head having remained about a month upon london bridge, and being to be cast into the thames, because room should be made for divers others, who, in plentiful sort, suffered martyrdom for the same supremacy, shortly after, it was bought by his daughter margaret, lest, as she stoutly affirmed before the council, being called before them after for the matter, it should be food for fishes; which she buried, where she thought fittest." anthony-a-wood says, that she preserved it in a leaden box, and placed it in her tomb "with great devotion;" and in , dr. rawlinson told hearne the antiquary, that he had seen it there "inclosed in an iron grate." this was fully confirmed in , when the chancel of the church being repaired, the roper vault was opened, and several persons descended into it, and saw the skull in a leaden box, something like a bee-hive, open in the front, and which was placed in a square recess, in the wall, with an iron-grating before it. a drawing was made, which was engraved in the _gentleman's magazine_ of may, , which we have copied in our initial letter; summerly, in his handbook to canterbury, says: "in the print there, however, the opening in the leaden box, inclosing the head, is made oval, whereas it should be in the form of a triangle." we have therefore so corrected our copy. [from hunting adventures in south africa.] a buffalo chase. early on the th we inspanned and continued our march for booby, a large party of savages still following the wagons. before proceeding far i was tempted by the beautiful appearance of the country to saddle horses, to hunt in the mountains westward of my course. i directed the wagons to proceed a few miles under guidance of the natives, and there await my arrival. i was accompanied by isaac, who was mounted on the old gray, and carried my clumsy dutch rifle of six to the pound. two bechuanas followed us, leading four of my dogs. having crossed a well wooded strath, we reached a little crystal river, whose margin was trampled down with the spoor of a great variety of heavy game, but especially of buffalo and rhinoceros. we took up the spoor of a troop of buffaloes, which we followed along a path made by the heavy beasts of the forest through a neck in the hills; and emerging from the thicket, we beheld, on the other side of a valley, which had opened upon us, a herd of about ten huge bull buffaloes. these i attempted to stalk, but was defeated by a large herd of zebras, which, getting our wind, charged past and started the buffaloes. i ordered the bechuanas to release the dogs; and spurring colesberg, which i rode for the first time since the affair with the lioness, i gave chase. the buffaloes crossed the valley in front of me, and made for a succession of dense thickets in the hills to the northward. as they crossed the valley by riding hard i obtained a broadside shot at the last bull, and fired both barrels into him. he, however, continued his course, but i presently separated him, along with two other bulls, from the troop. my rifle being a two-grooved, which is hard to load, i was unable to do so on horseback, and followed with it empty, in the hope of bringing them to bay. in passing through a grove of thorny trees i lost sight of the wounded buffalo; he had turned short and doubled back, a common practice with them when wounded. after following the other two at a hard gallop for about two miles, i was riding within five yards of their huge broad sterns. they exhaled a strong bovine smell, which came hot in my face. i expected every minute that they would come to bay, and give me time to load; but this they did not seem disposed to do. at length, finding i had the speed of them, i increased my pace; and going ahead, i placed myself right before the finest bull, thus expecting to force him to stand at bay; upon which he instantly charged me with a low roar, very similar to the voice of a lion. colesberg neatly avoided the charge, and the bull resumed his northward course. we now entered on rocky ground, and the forest became more dense as we proceeded. the buffaloes were evidently making for some strong retreat. i, however, managed with much difficulty to hold them in view, following as best i could through thorny thickets. isaac rode some hundred yards behind, and kept shouting to me to drop the pursuit, or i should be killed. at last the buffaloes suddenly pulled up, and stood at bay in a thicket, within twenty yards of me. springing from my horse, i hastily loaded my two-grooved rifle, which i had scarcely completed when isaac rode up and inquired what had become of the buffaloes, little dreaming that they were standing within twenty yards of him. i answered by pointing my rifle across his horse's nose, and letting fly sharp right and left at the two buffaloes. a headlong charge, accompanied by a muffled roar, was the result. in an instant i was round a clump of tangled thorn-trees; but isaac, by the violence of his efforts to get his horse in motion, lost his balance, and at the same instant, his girths giving way, himself, his saddle, and big dutch rifle, all came to the ground together, with a heavy crash right in the path of the infuriated buffaloes. two of the dogs, which had fortunately that moment joined us, met them in their charge, and, by diverting their attention, probably saved isaac from instant destruction. the buffaloes now took up another position in an adjoining thicket. they were both badly wounded, blotches and pools of blood marking the ground where they had stood. the dogs rendered me assistance by taking up their attention, and in a few minutes these two noble bulls breathed their last beneath the shade of a mimosa grove. each of them in dying repeatedly uttered a very striking, low, deep moan. this i subsequently ascertained the buffalo invariably utters when in the act of expiring. on going up to them i was astonished to behold their size and powerful appearance. their horns reminded me of the rugged trunk of an oak-tree. each horn was upward of a foot in breadth at the base, and together they effectually protected the skull with a massive and impenetrable shield. the horns, descending and spreading out horizontally, completely over-shadowed the animal's eyes, imparting to him a look the most ferocious and sinister that can be imagined. on my way to the wagons i shot a stag sassayby, and while i was engaged in removing his head a troop of about thirty doe pallahs cantered past me, followed by one princely old buck. snatching up my rifle, i made a fine shot, and rolled him over in the grass. early in the afternoon i dispatched men with a pack-horse to bring the finer of the two buffalo-heads. it was so ponderous that two powerful men could with difficulty raise it from the ground. the bechuanas who had accompanied me, on hearing of my success, snatched up their shields and assagais, and hastened to secure the flesh, nor did i see any more of them, with the exception of the two baquaines, who remained with me, being engaged in a plot with my interpreter to prevent my penetrating to bamangwato. isaac did not soon forget his adventure with the buffaloes; and at night over the fire he informed my men that i was mad, and that any man who followed me was going headlong to his own destruction. at an early hour on the th, i continued my march through a glorious country of hill and dale, throughout which water was abundant. [from household words.] earth's harvests. "peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war." milton's _sonnet to cromwell._ two hundred years ago,[ ] the moon shone on a battle plain; cold through that glowing night of june lay steeds and riders slain; and daisies, bending 'neath strange dew, wept in the silver light; the very turf a regal hue assumed that fatal night. time past--but long, to tell the tale, some battle-ax or shield, or cloven skull, or shattered mail, were found upon the field; the grass grew thickest on the spot where high were heaped the dead, and well it marked had men forgot, where the great charge was made. to-day--the sun looks laughing down upon the harvest plain, the little gleaners, rosy-brown, the merry reapers' train; the rich sheaves heaped together stand, and resting in their shade, a mother, working close at hand, her sleeping babe hath laid. a battle-field it was, and is, for serried spears are there, and against mighty foes upreared-- gaunt hunger, pale despair. we'll thank god for the hearts of old, their strife our freedom sealed; we'll praise him for the sheaves of gold now on the battle-field. footnotes: [ ] naseby, june , . [illustration: z. taylor [from a daguerreotype by brady.]] biographical sketch of the late president. who has not heard of the opening words with which the court preacher massilon startled the titled throng who had gathered in notre dame to do the last honors to that monarch whose reign was the longest and most splendid in french annals, "_god only is great!_" how often does the knell of vanished power repeat the lesson! how constantly does the fleeting away of our own men of might teach us that the paths of glory lead but to the grave! death has again asserted his supremacy by striking down the most exalted ruler of the land. the last sad cadence, dust to dust, his just been faltered aver one who was our country's pride, and joy, and strength. the love, the gratitude, and the veneration of a nation could not save him. the crying need of an imperiled republic could not reprieve him. his mortal strife over, his appointed task finished, he went down into the cold embrace of the grave, and there, like a warrior taking his rest, he lies and will lie forever. but he has left behind him what can not die, the memory of noble aims and heroic deeds. the plain story of his life is his best eulogy. zachary taylor was born in orange county virginia, in november, . he was the second son of col. richard taylor, whose ancestors emigrated from england about two centuries ago, and settled in eastern virginia. the father, distinguished alike for patriotism and valor, served as colonel in the revolutionary war, and took part in many important engagements. about he left his virginian farm and emigrated with his family to kentucky. he settled in the "dark and bloody ground," and for years encountered all the trials then incident to border life. the earliest impressions of young zachary were the sudden foray of the savage foe, the piercing warwhoop, the answering cry of defiance, the gleam of the tomahawk, the crack of the rifle, the homestead saved by his father's daring, the neighboring cottage wrapped in flames, or its hearth-stone red with blood. such scenes bound his young nerves with iron, and fired his fresh soul with martial ardor; working upon his superior nature they made arms his delight, and heroism his destiny. zachary was placed in school at an early age, and his teacher, who now resides in preston, connecticut, still loves to dwell on the studiousness of his habits, the quickness of his apprehension, the modesty of his demeanor, the firmness and decision of his character, and a general thoughtfulness, sagacity, and stability, that made him a leader to his mates and a pride to his master. after leaving school, the military spirit of young taylor was constantly fanned by the popular excitement against the continual encroachments of england; and soon after the murderous attack of the british ship leopard upon the chesapeake, in , he entered the army as first lieutenant in the th regiment of infantry. he soon gained distinction in border skirmishes with the indians, and the declaration of war with england found him promoted to the rank of captain. within sixty days after the commencement of hostilities in , the imbecility of hull lost to the country its michigan territory, and fearfully jeoparded the whole northwestern region. it was of the utmost importance to intrust the few and feeble forts of that great dominion to men of established valor and discretion. captain taylor was at once invested with the command of fort harrison, situated on the wabash, in the very heart of the indian country. the defenses of this post were in a miserable condition, and its garrison consisted of only fifty men, of whom thirty were disabled by sickness. with this little handful of soldiers, the young commander immediately set about repairing the fortifications. he had hardly completed his work, when, on the night of the th of september, an alarm shot from one of his sentinels aroused him from a bed of fever, to meet the attack of a large force of miami indians. every man was at once ordered to his post. a contiguous blockhouse was fired by the enemy, and a thick discharge of bullets and arrows was opened upon the fort. the darkness of the night, the howlings of the savages, the shrieks of the women and children, the fast approaching flames, and the panic of the debilitated soldiers, made up a scene of terror, but could not shake the determination nor the judgment of the young chieftain. he inspired his men with his own courage and energy. the flames were extinguished, the consumed breast-works were renewed, and volley answered volley for six long hours till day break enabled the americans to aim with a deadly precision that soon dispersed their foes. this gallant repulse, at odds so unfavorable, prompted a report from major general hopkins to governor shelby that "the firm and almost unparalleled defense of fort harrison had raised for captain zachary taylor a fabric of character not to be affected by eulogy;" and forthwith procured from president madison a preferment to the rank of brevet major, the first brevet, it is said, ever conferred in the american army. major taylor continued actively engaged throughout the war; but, being without a separate command, he had no opportunity to again signalize himself by any remarkable achievement. after the treaty of peace, he remained at the west, faithfully performing his duties at different military posts, and preparing himself for any future call to more active service. in , he was promoted to the rank of colonel; and soon after the opening of the florida war, he was ordered to that territory. here he was in constant service, and distinguished himself for his discretion and gallantry in circumstances of the most trying difficulty and peril. his entire career won for him universal esteem and confidence. the greatest achievement of colonel taylor in florida was his victory of okee-chobee, which was gained on the th of december, . the action was very severe, and continued nearly four hours. the indians, under the command of alligator and sam jones, numbered about warriors, and were posted in a dense hammock, with their front covered by a small stream, almost impassable on account of quicksands, and with their flanks secured by swamps that prevented all access. colonel taylor's force amounted to about men, a portion of whom were inexperienced volunteers. by an extraordinary effort, the stream in front was crossed, under a most galling fire of the enemy, by our soldiers, who sunk to the middle in the mire. a close and desperate fight ensued, during which the five companies of the sixth infantry, who bore the brunt of the fray, lost every officer but one, and one of these companies saved only four privates unharmed. the enemy's line was at last broken, and their right flank turned. they were soon scattered in all directions, and were pursued till near night. the american loss was killed and wounded; that of the indians was very large, but never definitely ascertained. throughout the whole engagement, colonel taylor was passing on his horse from point to point within the sweep of the indian rifles, emboldening and directing his men, without the least apparent regard for his own personal safety. this victory had a decisive influence upon the turn of the war; and the government immediately testified their sense of its importance by conferring upon its gallant winner the rank of brigadier-general by brevet. in the following may, general taylor succeeded general jesup in the command of the florida army, and in this capacity, during two years, he rendered vast services to the country by quelling the atrocities of indian warfare, and restoring peace and security to the southern frontier. in , at his own request, he was relieved by brigadier-general armistead, and was ordered to the southwestern department. here he remained at various head-quarters until government had occasion for his services in texas. the project for the annexation of texas, which was first officially broached in the last year of president tyler's administration, acquired more and more weight and influence, until finally, in march, , an act to that effect was passed by both houses of congress, and was soon after ratified by the texian government. mexico, although the independence of texas had been long before _de facto_ secured, stoutly protested against the annexation. the special american envoy sent to the mexican capital to attempt an adjustment of this and other difficulties, was refused a hearing, and great preparations were carried on by the mexican government for another invasion of texas. in june, general taylor received orders to advance with his troops over the sabine, and protect all of the territory east of the rio grande, over which texas exercised jurisdiction. he accordingly marched into texas, and in august concentrated his forces, amounting to about men, at corpus christi. receiving orders from washington to proceed to the rio grande, the general, with his little army, moved westward in march, : and after considerable suffering from the heal and the want of food and water, reached the banks of the river opposite matamoras on the th of the month. colonel twiggs, with a detachment of dragoons, in the mean time took possession of point isabel, situated on an arm of the gulf, about miles east. general taylor took every means to assure the mexicans that his purpose was not war, nor violence in any shape, but solely the occupation of the texian territory to the rio grande, until the boundary should be definitively settled by the two republics. after encamping opposite matamoras, the american general prepared with great activity for mexican aggression, by erecting fortifications, and planting batteries. the mexicans speedily evinced hostile intentions. general ampudia arrived at matamoras with cavalry and infantry, and made overtures to our foreign soldiers to "separate from the yankee bandits, and array themselves under the tricolored flag!" such solicitations were of course spurned with contempt. the american general was summoned to withdraw his forces at the penalty of being treated as an enemy; he replied that, while avoiding all occasion for hostilities, he should faithfully execute the will of his government. general arista soon arrived at matamoras, and, superseding ampudia, issued a proclamation to the american soldiers, begging them not to be the "blind instruments of unholy and mad ambition, and rush on to certain death." he immediately threw a large body of troops over the river, in order to cut off all communication between general taylor and his dépôt at point isabel. a detachment of soldiers, under captain thornton, was waylaid by a mexican force of ten times their number, and after a bloody conflict and the loss of many lives, was obliged to surrender. with but eight days' rations, and the country to the east fast filling up with the mexican troops, the position of general taylor became very critical. he at once resolved, at every hazard, to procure additional supplies; and, leaving the fort under the command of major brown, he set out with a large portion of his army, on the st of may, for point isabel. he reached that place the next day without molestation. soon after his departure, the mexicans opened their batteries upon fort brown. the fire was steadily returned with two long eighteen and sixteen brass six pounders by the garrison, which numbered about men. the bombardment of the fort was kept up at intervals from batteries in its rear, as well as from the town, for six days. the americans, though possessed of little ammunition, and having to mourn the fall of their gallant commander, sustained the cannonade with unyielding firmness until the afternoon of the th, when their hearts were thrilled with exultation by the answering peals of general taylor at palo alto. on the evening of the th, the american general, with about men and wagons left point isabel for the relief of fort brown, and after advancing seven miles encamped. the next morning he resumed his march, and at noon met mexican troops under arista, with cavalry, and seven field-pieces, in line of battle, on a plain flanked at both sides by small pools, and partly covered in front by thickets of chaparral and palo alto. general taylor at once halted, refreshed his men, advanced to within a quarter of a mile of the mexican line, and gave battle. the conflict first commenced between the artillery, and for two hours ringgold's, and duncan's, and churchill's batteries mowed down rank after rank of the enemy. the infantry remained idle spectators until general torrejon, with a body of lancers, made a sally upon our train. the advancing columns were received with a tremendous fire, and faltered, broke, and fled. the battle now became general, and for a time raged with terrific grandeur, amid a lurid cloud of smoke from the artillery, and the burning grass of the prairie. it rested for an hour, and then again moved on. the american batteries opened with more tremendous effect than ever; yet the ranks of the enemy were broken only to be refilled by fresh men courting destruction. captain may charged upon the left, but with too few men to be successful. the chivalrous ringgold fell. the cavalry of the enemy advanced upon our artillery of the right to within close range, when a storm of cannister swept them back like a tornado. their infantry made a desperate onset upon our infantry, but recoiled before their terrible reception. again they rallied, and again were they repulsed. panic seized the baffled foe, and soon squadron and column were in fall retreat. the conflict had lasted five hours, with a loss to the americans of killed and wounded, and to the mexicans of at least killed and wounded. in the evening, a council of war was held upon the propriety of persisting to advance upon fort brown in spite of the vastly superior force of the enemy. of the thirteen officers present some were for retreating to point isabel, others for intrenching upon the spot, and only four for pushing ahead. the general, after hearing all opinions, settled the question by the laconic declaration, "i will be at fort brown before to-morrow night if i live." in the morning the army again marched. the enemy were again met most advantageously posted in the ravine of resaca de la palma within three miles of fort brown. about p.m. the battle commenced with great fury. the artillery on both sides did terrible execution. by order of general taylor, may, with his dragoons, charged the enemy's batteries. the mexicans reserved their fire until the horses were near the cannons' mouth, and then poured out a broadside which laid many a proud fellow low. those of the dragoons not disabled rushed on, overleaped the batteries, and seized the guns. the enemy recoiled, again rallied, and with fixed bayonets returned to the onset. again they were repulsed. the "tampico veterans" came to the rescue, were met by the dragoons now reinforced with infantry, and all but seventeen fell sword in hand after fighting with the most desperate bravery. this decided the battle. the flanks of the enemy were turned, and soon the rout became general. the mexicans fled to the flat boats of the river, and the shouts of the pursuers and the shrieks of the drowning closed the scene. a great number of prisoners including officers, eight-pieces of artillery, and a large quantity of camp equipage fell into the hands of the victors. the american loss was killed and wounded; that of the enemy in the two actions was at least killed and wounded. fort brown was relieved, and the next day barita on the mexican bank was taken by colonel wilson without resistance. the victories of the th and th filled our country with exultation. government acknowledged the distinguished services of general taylor by making him major-general by brevet; congress passed resolutions of high approval; louisiana presented him with a sword, and the press every where teemed with his praise. as soon as means could be procured, general taylor crossed the rio grande, took matamoras without opposition, and made colonel twiggs its governor. the army soon received large volunteer reinforcements, and on the th of august the american general left matamoras for camargo, and thence proceeded through seralos to monterey, where he arrived the th of september. the mexicans, under general ampudia had placed this strongly fortified town in a complete state of defense. not only were the walls and parapets lined with cannons, but the streets and houses were barricaded and planted with artillery. the bishop's palace on a hill at a short distance west of the city was converted into a perfect fortress. the town was well supplied with ammunition, and manned with troops of the line, and from to irregulars. the attack commenced on the st, and two important redoubts without the city, and an important work within, were carried with a loss to the americans in killed and wounded of not less than . at three the next morning, a considerable force under general worth dragged their howitzers by main strength up the hill, and assaulted the palace. the enemy made a desperate sortie, but were driven back in confusion, and the fortification was soon taken by the americans with a loss of only killed and wounded. the next night, the mexicans evacuated nearly all their defenses in the lower part of the city. the americans entered the succeeding day, and by the severest fighting slowly worked their way from street to street and square to square, until they reached the heart of the town. general ampudia saw that further resistance was useless, and, on the morning of the th, proposed to evacuate the city on condition that he might take with him the personel and materiel of his army. this condition was refused by the american general. a personal interview between the two commanders ensued, which resulted in a capitulation of the city, allowing the mexicans to retire with their forces and a certain portion of their materiel beyond the line formed by the pass of the rinconada and san fernando de presas and engaging the americans not to pass beyond that line for eight weeks. our entire loss during the operations was officers and men killed, officers and men wounded; that of the enemy is not known, but was much larger. the terms accorded by the conqueror were liberal, and dictated by a regard to the interests of peace; they crowned a gallant conquest of arms with a more sublime victory of magnanimity. general taylor could not long remain inactive, and with a bold design to seek out the enemy and fight him on his own ground, he marched as far as victoria. but by the transfer of the seat of the war to vera cruz, he was deprived of the greater portion of his army, and was obliged to fall back on monterey. here he remained until february, when, having received large reinforcements of volunteers, he marched at the head of , men, to meet santa anna; and on the th, took up a position at buena vista, the great advantages of which had previously struck his notice. on the d, a mexican army of , made its appearance, and santa anna summoned the american commander to surrender. general taylor, with spartan brevity, "declined acceding to the request." the next morning the ten-hour's conflict began. we shall not attempt to rehearse the history of that fearful battle: it is written forever on the memory of the nation. the advance of the hostile host with muskets and swords, and bayonets gleaming in the morning sun; the shouts of the marshaled foemen; the opening roar of the artillery; the sheeted fire of the musketry; the unchecked approach of the enemy; the outflanking by their cavalry and its concentration in our rear; the immovable fortitude of the illinoians; the flight of the panic-stricken indianians; the fall of lincoln; the wild shouts of mexican triumph; the deadly and successful charge upon the battery of o'brien; the timely arrival of general taylor from saltillo, and his composed survey, amid the iron hail, of the scene of battle; the terrible onset of the kentuckians and illinoians; the simultaneous opening of the batteries upon the mexican masses in the front and the rear; the impetuous but ill-fated charge of their cavalry upon the rifles of mississippi; the hemming-in of that cavalry, and the errand of lieutenant crittenden to demand of santa anna its surrender; the response of the confident chieftain by a similar demand; the immortal rejoinder, "general taylor never surrenders!" the escape of the cavalry to a less exposed position; its baffled charge upon the saltillo train; its attack upon the hacienda, and its repulse by the horse of kentucky and arkansas; the fall of yell and vaughan, the insolent mission, under a white flag, to inquire what general taylor was waiting for; the curt reply "for general santa anna to surrender;" the junction, by this ruse, of the mexican cavalry in our rear with their main army; the concentrated charge upon the american line; the overpowering of the battery of o'brien; the fearful crisis; the reinforcement of captain bragg "by major bliss and i;" the "little more grape, captain bragg;" the terrific carnage; the pause, the advance, the disorder, and the retreat; the too eager pursuit of the kentuckians and illinoians down the ravines; the sudden wheeling around of the retiring mass; the desperate struggle, and the fall of harden, mckee, and clay; the imminent destruction, and the rescuing artillery; the last breaking and scattering of the mexican squadrons and battalions; the joyous embrace of taylor and wool; and old rough and ready's "'tis impossible to whip us when we all pull together;" the arrival of cold nightfall; the fireless, anxious, weary bivouac; the general's calm repose for another day's work; the retreat of the enemy under the cover of darkness--are not all these things familiar to every american schoolboy? the american loss was killed, wounded, and missing. the mexicans left dead on the field, and the whole number of their killed and wounded was probably near . history tells not of a battle more bravely contested and more nobly won: and well did the greatest warrior of the age, in learning it exclaim, "general taylor's a general indeed!" the victory of buena vista was the last and crowning achievement of general taylor's military life. his department in mexico was entirely reduced by it to subjection, and the subsequent operations of his army were few and unimportant. at the close of the war he retired from mexico, carrying with him not only the adoration of his soldiers, but even the respect and attachment of the very people he had vanquished. louisiana welcomed him with an ovation of the most fervent enthusiasm. thrilling eloquence from her most gifted sons, blessings, and smiles, and wreaths from her fairest daughters, overwhelming huzzas from her warm-hearted multitudes, triumphal arches, splendid processions, costly banners, sumptuous festivals, and, in short, every mode of testifying love and homage was employed; but modesty kept her wonted place in his heart, and counsels of peace were, as ever, on his tongue. his prowess in conflict was no more admirable than his self-forgetfulness in triumph. his last great deed had hardly ceased to echo over the land, before the people began to mark him out for their highest gift. he coveted no such distinction, and constantly expressed a wish that henry clay might be the chosen one. but the popular purpose grew stronger and stronger; and general taylor was named for the presidency by one of the great political parties of the country. during the political contest he remained steadfastly true to himself. he neither stooped nor swerved, neither sought nor shunned. he was borne by a triumphant majority to the presidential chair, and in a way that has impelled the most majestic intellect of the nation to declare, that "no case ever happened in the very best days of the roman republic, where any man found himself clothed with the highest authority of the state, under circumstances more repelling all suspicion of personal application, all suspicion of pursuing any crooked path in politics, or all suspicion of having been actuated by sinister views and purposes." the inaugural address of president taylor was redolent with old-fashioned patriotism, and breathed the very spirit of washington. and his subsequent administration, though beset by sectional strifes of fearful violence, was conducted with wisdom, firmness, equanimity, and moderation, on great national principles, and for great national ends. owing to his profound deference to the co-ordinate branches of government, and his inability to either dictate or assume, his policy in reference to some of the exciting questions of the day was not, during the short period of his administration, fully proclaimed to congress, and pressed upon its adoption; but, though a southern man and a slaveholder, he had deliberately and explicitly declared himself in favor of the prompt and untrammeled admission of california into the union. he was taken away in the midst of the controversy, just as he was about to submit his views upon the subject to the representatives of the people. his last public appearance was in doing homage to washington, on the birthday of our liberties, and his last official act was adding a new guaranty to the peace of the world, by signing the convention recently concluded between our country and great britain respecting central america. disease soon did its work. confronting death with the fearless declaration, "i am prepared--i have endeavored to do my duty," the old hero succumbed--his first and last surrender. general taylor married in early life a lady of virginia, and was connected either by affinity or blood with many of the most noted families of the old dominion. his excellent consort, a son, and a daughter, survive him. in person, general taylor was about five feet eight inches in height, and like most of our revolutionary generals, was inclined to corpulency. his hair was gray, his brow ample, his eye vivid, and his features plain, but full of firmness, intelligence, and benevolence. his manners were easy and cordial, his dress, habits, and tastes simple, and his style of living temperate in the extreme. his speeches and his official papers, both military and civil, are alike famed for their propriety of feeling and their chastity of diction. his private life was unblemished, and the loveliness of his disposition made him the idol of his own household and the favorite of all who knew him. his martial courage was only equaled by his spartan simplicity, his unaffected modesty, his ever wakeful humanity, his inflexible integrity, his uncompromising truthfulness, his lofty magnanimity, his unbounded patriotism, and his unfaltering loyalty to duty. his mind was of an original and solid cast, admirably balanced, and combining the comprehensiveness of reason with the penetration of instinct. its controlling element was a strong, sterling sense, that of itself rendered him a wise counselor and a safe leader. all of his personal attributes and antecedents made him pre-eminently a man of the people, and remarkably qualified him to be the stay and surety of his country in this its day of danger. a braver soldier never wielded sword-- a gentler heart did never sway in council. but he is dead--and millions weep his loss. [from "hunting adventures in south africa."] encounter with a lioness. suddenly i observed a number of vultures seated on the plain about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and close beside them stood a huge lioness, consuming a blesblok which she had killed. she was assisted in her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her in the most friendly and confidential manner. directing my followers' attention to the spot, i remarked, "i see the lion;" to which they replied, "whar? whar? yah! almagtig! dat is he;" and instantly reining in their steeds and wheeling about, they pressed their heels to their horses' sides, and were preparing to betake themselves to flight. i asked them what they were going to do. to which they answered, "we have not yet placed caps on our rifles." this was true; but while this short conversation was passing the lioness had observed us. raising her full, round face, she overhauled us for a few seconds, and then set off at a smart canter toward a range of mountains some miles to the northward; the whole troop of jackals also started off in another direction; there was, therefore, no time to think of caps. the first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to be lost. spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to follow, i flew across the plain, and, being fortunately mounted on colesberg, the flower of my stud, i gained upon her at every stride. this was to me a joyful moment, and i at once made up my mind that she or i must die. the lioness having had a long start of me, we went over a considerable extent of ground before i came up with her. she was a large, full-grown beast, and the bare and level nature of the plain added to her imposing appearance. finding that i gained upon her, she reduced her pace from a canter to a trot, carrying her tail stuck out behind her, and slewed a little to one side. i shouted loudly to her to halt, as i wished to speak with her, upon which she suddenly pulled up, and sat on her haunches like a dog, with her back toward me, not even deigning to look round. she then appeared to say to herself, "does this fellow know who he is after?" having thus sat for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet, and, fating about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth, and growling fiercely. she next made a short run forward, making a loud, rumbling noise like thunder. this she did to intimidate me; but, finding that i did not flinch an inch, nor seem to heed her hostile demonstrations, she quietly stretched out her massive arms, and lay down on the grass. my hottentots now coming up, we all three dismounted, and, drawing our rifles from their holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up in the nipples, and put on our caps. while this was doing the lioness sat up, and showed evident symptoms of uneasiness. she looked first at us, and then behind her, as if to see if the coast were clear; after which she made a short run toward us, uttering her deep-drawn murderous growls. having secured the three horses to one another by their rheims, we led them on as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a broadside. but this she carefully avoided to expose, presenting only her full front. i had given stofulus my moore rifle, with orders to shoot her if she should spring upon me, but on no account to fire before me. kleinboy was to stand ready to hand me my purdey rifle, in case the two-grooved dixon should not prove sufficient. my men as yet had been steady, but they were in a precious stew, their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness, and i had a painful feeling that i could place no reliance on them. now, then, for it, neck or nothing! she is within sixty yards of us, and she keeps advancing. we turned the horses' tails to her. i knelt on one side, and, taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. the ball cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder, upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and in the twinkling of an eye she was in the midst of us. at this moment stofolus's rifle exploded in his hand, and kleinboy, whom i had ordered to stand ready by me, danced about like a duck in a gale of wind. the lioness sprang upon colesberg, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on his haunch, which exhibited a sickening, yawning gash, more than twelve inches long, almost laying bare the very bone. i was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the least degree nervous, having fortunately great confidence in my own shooting; but i must confess, when the whole affair was over, i felt that it was a very awful situation, and attended with extreme peril, as i had no friend with me on whom i could rely. when the lioness sprang on colesberg, i stood out from the horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should give me of a clear shot. this she quickly did; for, seemingly satisfied with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted colesberg, and, slewing her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me, taking one step to the left. i pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and in another second the lioness was stretched on the plain a lifeless corpse. in the struggles of death she half turned on her back, and stretched her neck and fore arms convulsively, when she fell back to her former position; her mighty arms hung powerless by her side, her lower jaw fell, blood streamed from her mouth, and she expired. at the moment i fired my second shot, stofolus, who hardly knew whether he was alive or dead, allowed the three horses to escape. these galloped frantically across the plain, on which he and kleinboy instantly started after them, leaving me standing alone and unarmed within a few paces of the lioness, which they, from their anxiety to be out of the way, evidently considered quite capable of doing further mischief. such is ever the case with these worthies, and with nearly all the natives of south africa. no reliance can be placed on them. they will to a certainty forsake their master in the most dastardly manner in the hour of peril, and leave him in the lurch. a stranger, however, hearing these fellows recounting their own gallant adventures, when sitting in the evening along with their comrades round a blazing fire, or under the influence of their adored "cape smoke" or native brandy, might fancy them to be the bravest of the brave. having skinned the lioness and cut off her head, we placed her trophies upon beauty and held for camp. before we had proceeded a hundred yards from the carcass, upward of sixty vultures, whom the lioness had often fed were feasting on her remains. [from dickens's "household words."] the young advocate. antoine de chaulieu was the son of a poor gentleman of normandy, with a long genealogy, a short rent-roll, and a large family. jacques rollet was the son of a brewer, who did not know who his grandfather was; but he had a long purse and only two children. as these youths flourished in the early days of liberty, equality, and fraternity, and were near neighbors, they naturally hated each other. their enmity commenced at school, where the delicate and refined de chaulieu being the only gentilhomme among the scholars, was the favorite of the master (who was a bit of an aristocrat in his heart) although he was about the worst dressed boy in the establishment, and never had a son to spend; while jacques rollet, sturdy and rough, with smart clothes and plenty of money, got flogged six days in the week, ostensibly for being stupid and not learning his lessons--which, indeed, he did not--but, in reality, for constantly quarreling with and insulting de chaulieu, who had not strength to cope with him. when they left the academy, the feud continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by a thousand little circumstances arising out of the state of the times, till a separation ensued in consequence of an aunt of antoine de chaulieu's undertaking the expense of sending him to paris to study the law, and of maintaining him there during the necessary period. with the progress of events came some degree of reaction in favor of birth and nobility, and then antoine, who had passed for the bar, began to hold up his head and endeavored to push his fortunes; but fate seemed against him. he felt certain that if he possessed any gift in the world it was that of eloquence, but he could get no cause to plead; and his aunt dying inopportunely, first his resources failed, and then his health. he had no sooner returned to his home, than, to complicate his difficulties completely, he fell in love with mademoiselle natalie de bellefonds, who had just returned from paris, where she had been completing her education. to expatiate on the perfections of mademoiselle natalie, would be a waste of ink and paper; it is sufficient to say that she really was a very charming girl, with a fortune which, though not large, would have been a most desirable acquisition to de chaulieu, who had nothing. neither was the fair natalie indisposed to listen to his addresses; but her father could not be expected to countenance the suit of a gentleman, however well-born, who had not a ten-sous piece in the world, and whose prospects were a blank. while the ambitions and love-sick young barrister was thus pining in unwelcome obscurity, his old acquaintance; jacques rollet, had been acquiring an undesirable notoriety. there was nothing really bad in jacques' disposition, but having been bred up a democrat, with a hatred of the nobility, he could not easily accommodate his rough humor to treat them with civility when it was no longer safe to insult them. the liberties he allowed himself whenever circumstances brought him into contact with the higher classes of society, had led him into many scrapes, out of which his father's money had one way or another released him; but that source of safety had now failed. old rollet having been too busy with the affairs of the nation to attend to his business, had died insolvent, leaving his son with nothing but his own wits to help him out of future difficulties, and it was not long before their exercise was called for. claudine rollet, his sister, who was a very pretty girl, had attracted the attention of mademoiselle de bellefonds' brother, alphonso; and as he paid her more attention than from such a quarter was agreeable to jacques, the young men had had more than one quarrel on the subject, on which occasions they had each, characteristically, given vent to their enmity, the one in contemptuous monosyllables, and the other in a volley of insulting words. but claudine had another lover more nearly of her own condition of life; this was claperon, the deputy governor of the rouen jail, with whom she had made acquaintance during one or two compulsory visits paid by her brother to that functionary; but claudine, who was a bit of a coquette, though she did not altogether reject his suit, gave him little encouragement, so that betwixt hopes, and fears, and doubts, and jealousies, poor claperon led a very uneasy kind of life. affairs had been for some time in this position, when, one fine morning, alphonse de bellefonds was not to be found in his chamber when his servant went to call him; neither had his bed been slept in. he had been observed to go out rather late on the preceding evening, but whether or not he had returned, nobody could tell. he had not appeared at supper, but that was too ordinary an event to awaken suspicion; and little alarm was excited till several hours had elapsed, when inquiries were instituted and a search commenced, which terminated in the discovery of his body, a good deal mangled, lying at the bottom of a pond which had belonged to the old brewery. before any investigations had been made, every person had jumped to the conclusion that the young man had been murdered, and that jacques rollet was the assassin. there was a strong presumption in favor of that opinion, which further perquisitions tended to confirm. only the day before, jacques had been heard to threaten mons. de bellefonds with speedy vengeance. on the fatal evening, alphonse and claudine had been seen together in the neighborhood of the now dismantled brewery; and as jacques, betwixt poverty and democracy, was in bad odor with the prudent and respectable part of society, it was not easy for him to bring witnesses to character, or prove an unexceptionable alibi. as for the bellefonds and de chaulieus, and the aristocracy in general, they entertained no doubt of his guilt, and, finally, the magistrate; coming to the same opinion, jacques rollet was committed for trial, and as a testimony of good will. antoine de chaulieu was selected by the injured family to conduct the prosecution. here, at last, was the opportunity he had sighed for! so interesting a case, too, furnishing such ample occasion for passion, pathos, indignation! and how eminently fortunate that the speech which he set himself with ardor to prepare, would be delivered in the presence of the father and brother of his mistress, and, perhaps, of the lady herself! the evidence against jacques, it is true, was altogether presumptive; there was no proof whatever that he had committed the crime; and for his own part, he stoutly denied it. but antoine de chaulieu entertained no doubt of his guilt, and his speech was certainly well calculated to carry that conviction into the bosom of others. it was of the highest importance to his own reputation that he should procure a verdict, and he confidently assured the afflicted and enraged family of the victim that their vengeance should be satisfied. under these circumstances could any thing be more unwelcome than a piece of intelligence that was privately conveyed to him late on the evening before the trial was to come on, which tended strongly to exculpate the prisoner, without indicating any other person as the criminal. here was an opportunity lost. the first step of the ladder on which he was to rise to fame, fortune, and a wife, was slipping from under his feet. of course, so interesting a trial was anticipated with great eagerness by the public, and the court was crowded with all the beauty and fashion of rouen. though jacques rollet persisted in asserting his innocence, founding his defense chiefly on circumstances which were strongly corroborated by the information that had reached de chaulieu the preceding evening--he was convicted. in spite of the very strong doubts he privately entertained respecting the justice of the verdict, even de chaulieu himself, in the first flush of success, amid a crowd of congratulating friends, and the approving smiles of his mistress, felt gratified and happy: his speech had, for the time being, not only convinced others, but himself; warmed with his own eloquence, he believed what he said. but when the glow was over, and he found himself alone, he did not feel so comfortable. a latent doubt of rollet's guilt now burst strongly on his mind, and he felt that the blood of the innocent would be on his head. it is true there was yet time to save the life of the prisoner, but to admit jacques innocent, was to take the glory out of his own speech, and turn the sting of his argument against himself. besides, if he produced the witness who had secretly given him the information, he should be self-condemned, for he could not conceal that he had been aware of the circumstance before the trial. matters having gone so far, therefore, it was necessary that jacques rollet should die; so the affair took its course; and early one morning the guillotine was erected in the court-yard of the jail, three criminals ascended the scaffold, and three heads fell into the basket, which were presently afterward, with the trunks that had been attached to them, buried in a corner of the cemetery. antoine de chaulieu was now fairly started in his career, and his success was as rapid as the first step toward it had been tardy. he took a pretty apartment in the hôtel marboeuf, rue grange-batelière, and in a short time was looked upon as one of the most rising young advocates in paris. his success in one line brought him success in another; he was soon a favorite in society, and an object of interest to speculating mothers; but his affections still adhered to his old love natalie de bellefonds, whose family now gave their assent to the match--at least, prospectively--a circumstance which furnished such an additional incentive to his exertions, that in about two years from the date of his first brilliant speech, he was in a sufficiently flourishing condition to offer the young lady a suitable home. in anticipation of the happy event, he engaged and furnished a suite of apartments in the rue du helder; and as it was necessary that the bride should come to paris to provide her trousseau, it was agreed that the wedding should take place there, instead of at bellefonds, as had been first projected; an arrangement the more desirable, that a press of business rendered mons. de chaulieu's absence from paris inconvenient. brides and bridegrooms in france, except of the very high classes, are not much in the habit of making those honeymoon excursions so universal in this country. a day spent in visiting versailles, or st. cloud, or even the public places of the city, is generally all that precedes the settling down into the habits of daily life. in the present instance st. denis was selected, from the circumstance of natalie's having a younger sister at school there; and also because she had a particular desire to see the abbey. the wedding was to take place on a thursday; and on the wednesday evening, having spent some hours most agreeably with natalie, antoine de chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor apartments. his wardrobe and other small possessions, had already been packed up and sent to his future home; and there was nothing left in his room now, but his new wedding suit, which he inspected with considerable satisfaction before he undressed and lay down to sleep. sleep, however, was somewhat slow to visit him; and the clock had struck _one_, before he closed his eyes. when he opened them again it was broad daylight; and his first thought was, had he overslept himself? he sat up in bed to look at the clock which was exactly opposite, and as he did so, in the large mirror over the fire-place, he perceived a figure standing behind him. as the dilated eyes met his own, he saw it was the face of jacques rollet. overcome with horror he sunk back on his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ventured to look again in that direction; when he did so, the figure had disappeared. the sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to occasion in a man elate with joy, may be conceived! for some time after the death of his former foe, he had been visited by not unfrequent twinges of conscience; but of late, borne along by success, and the hurry of parisian life, these unpleasant remembrancers had grown rarer, till at length they had faded away altogether. nothing had been further from his thoughts than jacques rollet, when he closed his eyes on the preceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun which was to shine on what he expected to be the happiest day of his life! where were the high-strung nerves now? the elastic frame? the bounding heart? heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it was time to do so; and with a trembling hand and quivering knees, he went through the processes of the toilet, gashing his cheek with the razor, and spilling the water over his well-polished boots. when he was dressed, scarcely venturing to cast a glance in the mirror as he passed it, he quitted the room and descended the stairs, taking the key of the door with him for the purpose of leaving it with the porter; the man, however, being absent, he laid it on the table in his lodge, and with a relaxed and languid step proceeded on his way to the church, where presently arrived the fair natalie and her friends. how difficult it was now to look happy, with that pallid face and extinguished eye! "how pale you are! has any thing happened? you are surely ill?" were the exclamations that met him on all sides. he tried to carry it off as well as he could, but felt that the movements he would have wished to appear alert, were only convulsive; and that the smiles with which he attempted to relax his features, were but distorted grimaces. however, the church was not the place for further inquiries; and while natalie gently pressed his hand in token of sympathy, they advanced to the altar, and the ceremony was performed; after which they stepped into the carriage waiting at the door, and drove to the apartments of madme. de bellefonds, where an elegant _déjeuner_ was prepared. "what ails you, my dear husband?" inquired natalie, as soon as they were alone. "nothing, love," he replied; "nothing, i assure you, but a restless night and a little over-work, in order that i might have to-day free to enjoy my happiness!" "are you quite sure? is there nothing else?" "nothing, indeed; and pray don't take notice of it, it only makes me worse!" natalie was not deceived, but she saw that what he said was true; notice made him worse; so she contented herself with observing him quietly, and saying nothing; but as he _felt_ she was observing him, she might almost better have spoken; words are often less embarrassing things than too curious eyes. when they reached madame de bellefonds' he had the same sort of questioning and scrutiny to undergo, till he grew quite impatient under it, and betrayed a degree of temper altogether unusual with him. then every body looked astonished; some whispered their remarks, and others expressed them by their wondering eyes, till his brow knit, and his pallid cheeks became flushed with anger. neither could he divert attention by eating; his parched mouth would not allow him to swallow any thing but liquids, of which, however, he indulged in copious libations; and it was an exceeding relief to him when the carriage, which was to convey them to st. denis, being announced, furnished an excuse for hastily leaving the table. looking at his watch, he declared it was late; and natalie, who saw how eager he was to be gone, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and bidding her friends _good morning_, they hurried away. it was a fine sunny day in june; and as they drove along the crowded boulevards, and through the porte st. denis, the young bride and bridegroom, to avoid each other's eyes, affected to be gazing out of the windows; but when they reached that part of the road where there was nothing but trees on each side, they felt it necessary to draw in their heads, and make an attempt at conversation. de chaulieu put his arm round his wife's waist, and tried to rouse himself from his depression; but it had by this time so reacted upon her, that she could not respond to his efforts, and thus the conversation languished, till both felt glad when they reached their destination, which would at all events furnish them something to talk about. having quitted the carriage, and ordered a dinner at the hôtel de l'abbaye, the young couple proceeded to visit mademoiselle hortense de bellefonds, who was overjoyed to see her sister and new brother-in-law, and doubly so when she found that they had obtained permission to take her out to spend the afternoon with them. as there is little to be seen at st. denis but the abbey, on quitting that part of it devoted to education, they proceeded to visit the church, with its various objects of interest; and as de chaulieu's thoughts were now forced into another direction, his cheerfulness began insensibly to return. natalie looked so beautiful, too, and the affection betwixt the two young sisters was so pleasant to behold! and they spent a couple of hours wandering about with hortense, who was almost as well informed as the suisse, till the brazen doors were open which admitted them to the royal vault. satisfied, at length, with what they had seen, they began to think of returning to the inn, the more especially as de chaulieu, who had not eaten a morsel of food since the previous evening, owned to being hungry; so they directed their steps to the door, lingering here and there as they went, to inspect a monument or a painting, when, happening to turn his head aside to see if his wife, who had stopped to take a last look at the tomb of king dagobert, was following, he beheld with horror the face of jacques rollett appearing from behind a column! at the same instant, his wife joined him, and took his arm, inquiring if he was not very much delighted with what he had seen he attempted to say yes, but the word would not be forced out; and staggering out of the door, he alleged that a sudden faintness had overcome him. they conducted him to the hôtel, but natalie now became seriously alarmed; and well she might. his complexion looked ghastly, his limbs shook, and his features bore an expression of indiscribable horror and anguish. what could be the meaning of so extraordinary a change in the gay, witly, prosperous de chaulieu, who, till that morning, seemed not to have a care in the world? for, plead illness as he might, she felt certain, from the expression of his features, that his sufferings were not of the body but of the mind; and, unable to imagine any reason for such extraordinary manifestations, of which she had never before seen a symptom, but a sudden aversion to herself, and regret for the step he had taken, her pride took the alarm, and, concealing the distress, she really felt, she began to assume a haughty and reserved manner toward him, which he naturally interpreted into an evidence of anger and contempt. the dinner was placed upon the table, but de chaulieu's appetite, of which he had lately boasted, was quite gone, nor was his wife better able to eat. the young sister alone did justice to the repast; but although the bridegroom could not eat, he could swallow champagne in such copious draughts, that ere long the terror and remorse that the apparition of jacques rollet had awakened in his breast were drowned in intoxication. amazed and indignant, poor natalie sat silently observing this elect of her heart, till overcome with disappointment and grief, she quitted the room with her sister, and retired to another apartment, where she gave free vent to her feelings in tears. after passing a couple of hours in confidences and lamentations, they recollected that the hours of liberty granted, as an especial favor, to mademoiselle hortense, had expired: but ashamed to exhibit her husband in his present condition to the eyes of strangers, natalie prepared to re-conduct her to the _maison royale_ herself. looking into the dining-room as they passed, they saw de chaulieu lying on a sofa fast asleep, in which state he continued when his wife returned. at length, however, the driver of their carriage begged to know if monsieur and madame were ready to return to paris, and it became necessary to arouse him. the transitory effects of the champagne had now subsided; but when de chaulieu recollected what had happened, nothing could exceed his shame and mortification. so engrossing indeed were these sensations that they quite overpowered his previous ones, and, in his present vexation, he, for the moment, forgot his fears. he knelt at his wife's feet, begged her pardon a thousand times, swore that he adored her, and declared that the illness and the effect of the wine had been purely the consequences of fasting and over-work. it was not the easiest thing in the world to reassure a woman whose pride, affection, and taste, had been so severely wounded; but natalie tried to believe, or to appear to do so, and a sort of reconciliation ensued, not quite sincere on the part of the wife, and very humbling on the part of the husband. under these circumstances it was impossible that he should recover his spirits or facility of manner; his gayety was forced, his tenderness constrained; his heart was heavy within him; and ever and anon the source whence all this disappointment and woe had sprung would recur to his perplexed and tortured mind. thus mutually pained and distrustful, they returned to paris, which they reached about nine o'clock. in spite of her depression, natalie, who had not seen her new apartments, felt some curiosity about them, while de chaulieu anticipated a triumph in exhibiting the elegant home he had prepared for her. with some alacrity, therefore, they stepped out of the carriage, the gates of the hôtel were thrown open, the _concierge_ rang the bell which announced to the servants that their master and mistress had arrived, and while these domestics appeared above, holding lights over the balusters, natalie, followed by her husband, ascended the stairs. but when they reached the landing-place of the first flight, they saw the figure of a man standing in a corner as if to make way for them; the flash from above fell upon his face, and again antoine de chaulieu recognized the feature of jacques rollet! from the circumstance of his wife's preceding him, the figure was not observed by de chaulieu till he was lifting his foot to place it on the top stair: the sudden shock caused him to miss the step, and, without uttering a sound, he fell back, and never stopped till he reached the stones at the bottom. the screams of natalie brought the concierge from below and the maids from above, and an attempt was made to raise the unfortunate man from the ground; but with cries of anguish he besought them to desist. "let me," he said, "die here! what a fearful vengeance is thine! oh, natalie, natalie!" he exclaimed to his wife, who was kneeling beside him, "to win fame, and fortune, and yourself, i committed a dreadful crime! with lying words i argued away the life of a fellow-creature, whom, while i uttered them, i half believed to be innocent; and now, when i have attained all i desired, and reached the summit of my hopes, the almighty has sent him back upon the earth to blast me with the sight. three times this day--three times this day! again! again!"--and, as he spoke, his wild and dilated eyes fixed themselves on one of the individuals that surrounded him. "he is delirious," said they. "no," said the stranger! "what he says is true enough--at least in part;" and bending over the expiring man, he added, "may heaven forgive you, antoine de chaulieu! i was not executed; one who well knew my innocence saved my life. i may name him, for he is beyond the reach of the law now--it was claperon, the jailor, who loved claudine, and had himself killed alphonse de bellefonds from jealousy. an unfortunate wretch had been several years in the jail for a murder committed during the frenzy of a fit of insanity. long confinement had reduced him to idiocy. to save my life claperon substituted the senseless being for me, on the scaffold, and he was executed in my stead. he has quitted the country, and i have been a vagabond on the face of the earth ever since that time. at length i obtained, through the assistance of my sister, the situation of concierge in the hôtel marboeuf, in the rue grange-batelière. i entered on my new place yesterday evening, and was desired to awaken the gentleman on the third floor at seven o'clock. when i entered the room to do so, you were asleep, but before i had time to speak you awoke, and i recognized your features in the glass. knowing that i could not vindicate my innocence if you chose to seize me, i fled, and seeing an omnibus starting for st. denis, i got on it with a vague idea of getting on to calais, and crossing the channel to england. but having only a franc or two in my pocket, or indeed in the world, i did not know how to procure the means of going forward; and while i was lounging about the place, forming first one plan and then another, i saw you in the church, and concluding you were in pursuit of me, i thought the best way of eluding your vigilance was to make my way back to paris as fast as i could; so i set off instantly, and walked all the way; but having no money to pay my night's lodging, i came here to borrow a couple of livres of my sister claudine, who lives in the fifth story." "thank heaven!" exclaimed the dying man; "that sin is off my soul! natalie, dear wife, farewell! forgive! forgive all!" these were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been summoned in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few strong convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then all was still. and thus ended the young advocate's wedding day. [from the dublin university magazine.] the revolutionism of mirabeau. the moral is evolved out of the physical, and the extraordinary in animal structure has a kinship to the portentous in human action. mirabeau, the infamous, born in an age, of a family, in a rank the most vicious in the annals of vice, of parents whose depravity had contaminated even their blood, was ushered with infinite difficulty into the breathing scene he was so much to trouble, and offered, at the outset of his disorderly career, misfortune and singularity in a twisted fool, a tied tongue, and two molar teeth. maltreated by fortune, which, at the age of three, turned him by disease into the ugliest of children--"a tiger marked by the small-pox"--caressed and neglected by his dissolute mother, disowned and persecuted as a spurious graft in his house and home by the celebrated "economist," his father--his very childhood presaged the disorders of his youth and manhood; and his father, mysteriously reverting to early crimes and calamities as the blight of his life, made it matter of complaint that honoré gabriel, as a boy, had more cleverness "than all the devils in h--l," and seemed destined from his childhood "to disturb the monarchy, as a second cardinal de retz." he was indeed _born_ a revolutionist; and if he had not found the elements of a _bouleversement_, was competent to have created them. but just as nature gave the instinct, fortune supplied the breeding and the occasion. the heir, pupil, find victim of a second family of atreus and thyestes, the child was _trained_ into demoralization, vicissitude, and daring. believed himself to have been the favorite lover of the most lovely of his sisters, he describes her as the "atrocious memoir-writer," a "messalina, boasting of the purity of her morals, and an absconding wife, bragging of her love for her husband." the vicomte, his brother, "would have been a _roué_ and a wit," he tells us, "in any family but his own," and _was_, of a dissolute noblesse, its most dissolute member. his mother, driven with contumely from her home and the bosom of her family, under accusations the most revolting a wife may hear from one who is her husband and a father, addressed the world in public recriminations for her persecutor, not less disgusting or condemnatory. the son himself, the most infamous man of his time, completes the picture in the boast he made to the national assembly, that among the tragic woes of his family he had been the witness of fifty-four lettres-de-cachet, seventeen of them on his own account! as in eastern climates the abundance of degenerate man will, at some spot and moment, reach a point where it breeds the plague which diminishes by depopulation the evil it can not remove by more merciful agencies, so would it seem that in france the demoralization which necessitated a revolution, concentrating itself in one family, produced the man who was to begin the catastrophe. at seventeen, leaving a military academy, he entered the army as a sub-lieutenant, knowing, as he tells us, a little latin, and no greek, but possessing, with very tolerable acquirements in the mathematics, a fair share of the scattered erudition won by readings more desultory than diligent. presented at court, admitted to the rare aristocratic privilege of riding in the king's carriages at versailles, laughed at as the princess elizabeth's living specimen of inoculation, the incipient courtier and embryo revolutionist was awakened from his delightful vision to find himself suddenly transferred from his regal residence and gayeties, to the sombre solitude of a country jail. he had been guilty of a passionate attachment to a young lady of disproportionate expectations. the young victim of parental wrong, thus severely taught that the splendors of a court were but a veneer under which lay the terrible springs of a wayward tyranny, killed time in brooding over the ideas and studies which subsequently formed his "_essai_" no less than his character--"_sur le despotisme_." but before completing the work, the father's monomania had been temporarily mitigated by the vengeance of a year's imprisonment; and the son, instead of being sent to surinam, the dutch sierra leone of that day, was graciously permitted, under the _bourgeois_ name of "buffiere," to enter as a gentleman volunteer the french army that was about to crush the corsicans in their noble struggle against genoese oppression. in this liberticidal war, the liberty-loving mirabeau performed his first manly act, won his first public distinction, and initiated that series of paradox, and moral revolutionism, that was hence to follow him as lover, _litterateur_, and politician, to the grave. as his sword was against corsica and freedom, his pen was for them. he wrote over the ruins of both a boyish philippic, admired by his victims, and burnt by his father! and while the brain that was to rule france as a tribune-king, was thus evolving its idle progeny, the womb of a corsican woman near him was travailing with him who was to be napoleon! at the instant france, by the sword of her future liberator, was mowing down the new-born liberties of corsica--corsica was breathing the breath of life into a child, whose sword was to cleave down the fresh-won freedom of france! as a cæsar and a marius sprung from the blood of the gracchi, there would have been no corsican exterminator for france, had there been no french exterminators for corsica.[ ] there are surely times when fate plays with mortals, making of the murder of a generation or the revolution of an empire a nursery game of coincidences! of the twenty years that followed, bringing mirabeau to the footsteps of the revolution, and within two years of his death, it was the odd fate of this gay and gifted noble, guilty of no offense against the state, nor in a legal sense against society, to pass more than the moiety of his time in the sad rôle of a state prisoner; and the main incidents in the unhappy sequence of wrong and suffering, the inevitable but unrecognized logic of providence, were briefly, and in succession, a profitless marriage with the most distinguished heiress of his province, carried off from twenty more eligible rivals by the superior strategy of seduction and defamation, pecuniary extravagance, dissipation, debts, sequestration of property, marital separation, successive imprisonments by paternal intervention, deadly hate with the father, permanent alienation from his adulterous wife and only child, licentious connection with a friend's wife, with whom he abandoned his country, exile in switzerland, holland, and england, successive litigations self-conducted, a ministerial spyship in prussia, and a career more or less stormy, as a _litterateur_, in france. entombed in one of the horrid dungeons of vincennes, solitary, hopeless, almost without a sympathy, though in the very spring-tide of his rich youth and activity, the angel of consolation, never far from us in our darkest hour, came down, and in the genial guise of literature, visited in his dungeon this man of infamies and suffering. it must, however, be confessed against him that, maddened by the severity of a despotism without appeal, in the wrong--and from that hand, too, whence he might fairly have hoped a kinder gift, even the wholesomeness of books became poisoned under his diseased digestion, and it became his wretched pleasure through months to avenge himself on the virtue in whose injured name he suffered, by licentious compilations, in which the man degenerates into the satyr, and the distinctions of right and decency are lost in the beastly excesses of a maniac imagination. but so morbid a vice in a mind like his can be protected by no madness of the passions or vindictiveness of misanthropy from the healing influence of time; and if the leisure of his tedious incarcerations gave us four or five books in the worst of services, they gave us also those extensive studies of history and its philosophy to which we owe, among much else that is great in literature or in event, the three works on "despotism," "state prisons," and "lettres-de-cachet." to our present purpose it would be of little use to indulge in any lengthened analysis or literary estimate of these performances. gratifying his need of money, his love of fame, and, above all, a vengeance warmly nursed, which even virtue can not censure, their publication formed, probably, the happiest incidents of his life. the first published in his twenty-fifth year, bears all the characteristics of the young man of genius, roughened, no less than strengthened by the asperities of the experience out of whose ireful plenitude he writes. rough and disorderly in arrangement, it is lofty, striking, eloquent in style--cogent, daring, powerful in matter. the last, the result of his long, final imprisonment, and published in his thirty-first year, possesses similar attributes, aggrandized, or improved. a great work, involving an inquiry into the first principles of government, and, therefore, of infinite practical utility in the career reserved for him, it wants too obviously the elevation of a montesquieu, the philosophy of a bolingbroke, or the comprehensive profundity of a burke. it is a work of genius, but by a partisan, an advocate, a man of powerful emotion and vivid conception, having a strong will, a high purpose, and an enduring conviction. with a great, sometimes an inapt parade of erudition, and an occasional loss of time in inflated and declamatory commonplaces, there is yet, as a general rule, work, rather than literature, in his sentences, and the just, the practical, the statesman-like are the dominating qualities. we must not look for the artist in mirabeau as a writer: he is above that: nor, whatever the range of thought we may justly concede him, may we, therefore, expect the sublime; he is below that. with the eloquence of an impassioned imagination, united to the unornamented vigor of a ready, versatile, and comprehensive reason, he reminds one of some colossal engine in forceful, though not always in graceful action. in holland, occupied in literature and the society of literary men, and subsequently in england, in commerce with franklin, dr. price, samuel romilly, and wilkes--among whom be it said, _en passant_, he acquired the reputation of an habitual liar--a thousand circumstances must have presented themselves, not more in his own studies than in the freedom, seriousness, and activity he saw around him, to prepare and stimulate his ambition for the lofty career of political action that awaited him at home. in truth, if we may judge from the letters written during his english residence, or the biographical fragments that occur in his other correspondence, he seems, beyond his personal indigence, to have had no other enduring interest but that of public affairs. his mind broods over the tragic epochs of english history with a fascinating and curious sympathy: there is an evident faith in a coming drama of popular action for france, in which he is to play a leading part--a faith so early ripened that, in , meeting at neufchatel certain state deputies of geneva, he based on the inevitable meeting of the states general the prediction, or rather the promise, that he would become a deputy, and in that character restore their country to freedom. returning to paris at a moment when the increasing and unmanageable _deficit_ brought national bankruptcy and confusion to the very door of the state, a course of angry and mercenary pamphleteering on finance, while connecting him with discontented men of wealth and influence, willing, jointly with the police, to hire or use his ready pen, forced on him education in another important, if unattractive, department of the great question of the times. his ministerial spyship in prussia, which, subsequently divulged by his own audacious publication of his secret correspondence, won from m. de montesquieu the remark, that "the infamy of the person might be estimated by the infamy of the thing," was not without its compensations in the political experience he extracted from it. it brought before him the main interests of european diplomacy: won him access to the principal intrigues and intriguers of a court in transitionship, by the death of frederick, from eccentric greatness to orderly mediocrity; habituated him to ministerial correspondence and reports, which, if disgustingly mean, were, at all events, systematic and prescient, and secured him--i could wish to say honestly--those historic and statistical _data_ which, published in his elaborate work on the prussian monarchy, countenanced some serious claims to statesmanship. misfortune, passion, solitude, suffering, travel, extraordinary adventures, extensive readings, varied studies, innumerable writings thus admirably endowing his mind, so disposed, too, by nature, for the daring and stormy struggles of the revolution, the only resource that could surely be wanting to so enormous a compound of intellectual strength, i mean the power of oratory, he was fated to acquire in his lengthened trials for the recovery of his wife and legal rights. opposed by alps of difficulties, the moral greater than the legal, for the suits ploughed deeply into all the crimes or errors that had dishonored his career, and would necessarily turn up masses of documentary evidence, which on no less authority than that of his father, must carry the tale of his infamy to every eye; yet his audacity dared, as his genius surmounted, every disadvantage, and after fixing the admiration of a province--to him a sufficient compensation--by the ingenuity, the power, and the extraordinary resources of his eloquence in a path so new to him, he succeeded in re-establishing his civil rights, and but failed in the second, and, perhaps, less important suit, by the accident of a technicality. passing by his double election as deputy, at aix and marseilles, marked by excitement, insurrection and all the stirring incidents that, in a moment of great public agitation, might be expected to accompany the _début_ of a daring and accomplished demagogue, we are now brought to the greatest epoch of france, and, therefore, of mirabeau--the meeting of the states general; and the observation is naturally suggested that, if this extraordinary succession of circumstances, marvelous as _incidents_, but still more marvelous as _coincidents_, had not specially moulded the man for his work, it might well be doubted that the french revolution could have happened, or at all events, in such gigantic proportions. mirabeau's life was, as we have seen, a pupilage, as it is now to become a mastership, in revolution. his saturn of a father had trained him, from his youth upward, into the executionership of his order; and heaven itself, as if seconding some such inscrutable design, seems to have stooped to lead by the hand this servant of nemesis, through paths the most devious and unfrequented, but, of all others, the most fitted to form and conduct him to the emergency. a change, it is true of some kind in french government, accompanied by more or less confusion and bloodshed, had been long inevitable. genius, good sense, suffering, luxury, oppression, contumely, unprincipledness, and folly, each boon of nature, each wrong of man, had concurred, after more than a century of struggle, in necessitating a consummation. in my opinion, the popular horrors that darkened the end of the eighteenth century, though pointed in their way by the finger of mirabeau, legitimately trace their pedigree to the royal grandeurs that closed the preceding one. the french revolution was born of louis the fourteenth. his policy--his achievements--his failures, and, still more, his personal character and court deportment, killed monarchy in the hearts of the french people. the prominent ruling characteristic of himself and reign was an all-absorbing egotism. a maelstrom of selfishness, and unconscious of any law of reciprocity to arise from his relations to a common humanity, this chief and example of a numerous aristocracy was the grand centre to which was to be directed every affection and service, from which was to be circulated every volition and ordinance. and need i say that no eminence of intellectual power--no prudence of personal deportment--no brilliancy of external achievement, can or ought to have any effect on spectators so keen-witted and impressionable as the french, save to make additionally insupportable a character which, even on the smallest scale, is, of all others, the most odious and repulsive. the stern unity and perfection of order in which he was enabled to present political power--that necessary evil of human existence--but added intensity to the hate, as it added grandeur to the idea of his despotism. in the eyes of his suffering subjects it brought him face to face with the catastrophes no less than with the glories of his reign, and without the merit of the avowal--_adsum qui feci!_ gave him all its dread responsibilities. an old despot surviving his greatness while retaining the stinging irony of its title--a saint amid the standing reminiscences of his adulteries, expiating his pleasures by annihilating those of others, and tormenting consciences to save his own--his suffering and downcast people became at length disabused but too utterly of the base apotheosis of his person and character, so long maintained by him in the name of a false glory and debased religion. they even publicly rejoiced at a death-bed made pitiable by the absence of his mistress, confessor, and family; and meeting in mobs that, encountering his corpse on its way through by-lanes to hugger-mugger interment at st. denis, they might tear it into shreds, gave early and portentous evidence that the germ of an envenomed and bloody democracy had been elicited in the very perfection of his stern and heartless tyranny. the unblushing excesses of the regent and of louis the fifteenth, who gratuitously withdrew the last vail that concealed the utter rottenness of all that claimed popular obedience, under the names of religion, and authority, sufficed, though scarcely needed, to _complete_ the discredit of the french monarchy; and, ascending his throne, surrounded by a dissolute clergy, an overbearing aristocracy, and a discontented and impoverished people, the robed louis the sixteenth seemed but the calf of atonement of the scriptures decked for sacrifice, and doomed to expiate a century of court gayeties and crimes in which he had had no part! mirabeau began the revolution with a thousand vague hopes and expectations, and the conviction, communicated to his friend mauvillon, that "it was not given to human sagacity to devise where _all this_ would end." a living conflict of passions and principles, of low needs and high ambitions, of lofty genius and infamous repute, a demagogue by policy, an aristocrat by vanity, a constitutionalist by conviction, his public conduct anxiously and perpetually brought in evidence one or other of these conflicting agencies; but beyond the personal aim of recovering his rank, and winning some sort of greatness at any price, he was without one pervading or dominant public purpose, save that of extinguishing the despotism that had injured him. above all policies, _abstractedly_ considered, this was the one dear to his heart. "i come here to grant, not to ask pardon," was his reply, in a voice of angry defiance, to some oratorical assurance that a life of usefulness might secure the pardon of his earlier delinquencies. a horrid, but too natural vindictiveness had interwoven the hate of arbitrary power into every fibre of his brain. it was a passion or sentiment that he never abandoned: it may be even doubted if he could have been purchased out of it. despite all the evils and mischances of life, there stood erect in his soul this one small altar to virtue, or something that resembled it, which he would have thrown down but under the direst necessity. but of all the circumstances glanced at as furnishing the key to many of the paradoxes of his public conduct, one of the most important, though perhaps the least appreciated, is the dishonor of his repute. it is difficult, with his present position in history, especially when taken in relation to the now well-certified worthlessness of his contemporaries, to realize to the imagination the full extent of his infamy. "you dare," said his former friend rulhiere, in a pamphlet that had a wide circulation, "_you_ dare to speak of a country, count mirabeau! if your brow were not trebly bronzed, how must you have blushed at its very name! have you one quality of father, friend, brother, husband, or relative? an honorable vocation? any one attribute that constitutes the citizen? not one! you are without a refuge, without a relative. i seek your most ordinary domiciles, and i find them but in the prison of vincennes, the chateau d'if, the fortress of ioux, the jail of pontarlier!"[ ] dumont, coming over to paris, was so moved by the discredit attached, in respectable circles, to his acquaintance, that he visited him with repugnance and as a duty, but records the characteristic incident, that on his first call he was so won by the magic of his host's conversation, as to depart resolved on retaining, at all hazards, so agreeable a friendship. the mention of his name, with the sight of his person, at the opening of the states general, elicited groans and hisses on all sides. the _tiers-etat_--whom he had honored by his aristocratic adoption--were unanimous in refusing him a hearing the two or three occasions on which he first sought to address them. the queen, whose life, family, and regal heritage were at stake, received the assurance, that such a person was willing to assist the views of the court, with "the contempt due to vice;"[ ] and "assassin!" "robber!" "slanderer!" were the epithets almost daily applied to him in the senate of the nation! society, expiring under the weight of its own vices, saw in him that well-defined excess that entitled it to the merits of purgation in his extruism, of atonement in his martyrdom, and to place the hand of menace and malediction on his head, as the scape-goat of its redemption! thus detested by all parties, his low character keeping him low, mirabeau, with all his marvelous power, found himself placed, by public contempt, more even than by private need, at the mercy of circumstances. befoulment had so far eaten into his name, that, with occasionally the best of desires, and always the greatest of energies, there stood a blight over both. he felt that a moral leprosy incrusted him, which repelled the good, and kept aloof the prudent. the contemned inferior, in moral standing, of those that surrounded him, it was difficult to be honest, and impossible to be independent. by a sort of law of nature, too, his tarred repute attracted to it every floating feather of suspicion, no less than of guilt, as to its natural seat; and thus it happened that the lofty genius of mirabeau, under the "grand hests" of a hateful necessity, like the "too delicate spirit," ariel, tasked to the "strong biddings" of the "foul witch sycorax," was condemned for a while to pander rather than teach, to follow rather than lead, to please rather than patronize, and to halloo others' opinions rather than vindicate his own! no man could appreciate the misfortune more fully or sensitively than himself. dumont tells us that, taught by events that a good character would have placed france at his feet, "he would have passed seven times through the fiery furnace to purify his name;" and that, "weeping and sobbing, he was accustomed to exclaim, 'cruelly do i expiate the errors of my youth!'" and, indeed, the more sensible his heart, the more rich and elevated his soul, the more must his torments have been bitter and redoubled; for the very preciousness of the gifts of nature, the charms of society, even the friendship of those that surrounded him, must have turned but to the increase of his wretchedness! it is easy to understand, then, that the tactics of mirabeau, in the first days of the revolution, were those of a man outside "a swelling scene," "a kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold," which he could only occupy by rudely breaking through a thousand circumvallations of usage, propriety, and public opinion. as it was the boast of luther, that he, an obscure monk, stood alone for some time against respectable europe, so mirabeau, on the eve of his public greatness, was the most isolated politician of his age. "mean men, in their rising," says lord bacon, "most adhere; but great men, that have strength in themselves, were better to maintain themselves indifferent and neutral." instinctively feeling that this was the policy of his position, when repelled by both sides, he haughtily repelled them in return, and the more he was despised the more inevitable did he make the establishment of his importance. as, without a party, he became one himself, so without a plan he took that of events, and without a policy was content with that of display. in these early days, indeed, his whole plan, system, and policy was to make his individualism tell, to demonstrate, to all parties, what he was worth in journalism as a writer, in the assembly as an orator, in every thing as a statesman. as he had nothing but himself, it became his business to make the most of the commodity, which, so valueless in the beginning, ended in outworthing all that was opposed to it. but if this policy of display, no less than his education, sympathies, and hates, bore him to the opposition, there were in his pecuniary wants, and his ambitious dreams of a statesmanship, _à la richelieu_, circumstances that at times resistlessly brought him within the influence of court power. uncertain how far he could overpower the disadvantages of his personal position, wounded that the movement party were little inclined to value his co-operation, and still less to accept his leadership, he early felt, or feigned alarm at the fermentation in the public mind, and its possible evolution in great national calamities; and before one act of legislation was accomplished, or he had had a month's experience of the fanatical impracticability of one side, i use his own words, and the intolerant spirit of resistance on the other, he personally proposed to his enemy, necker, and through him to the queen, "the only _man_," he said, "connected with the court," to concur, at the price of an embassadorship to constantinople, in supporting the court system of policy. he appears to have fancied for some days that his proposals were accepted; but before he could enter on any of the eastern arrangements his active mind had already suggested, he learned that the overture was rejected "with a contempt which," as madame campan sagaciously admits, "the court would doubtless have concealed, if they could have foreseen the future." contenting himself with the angry menace, "they shall soon hear some of my news," within a month he became the author of successive defeats, the most insulting a monarch could receive from his parliament, and which were fated to exercise an active influence in the overturn of that royalty he was afterward to defend. the king, anxious to arrange the differences which kept the three orders aloof from each other, and from legislation, had sent to the _tiers-etat_ a message, wise in its suggestions, and conciliatory in its tone. under the eloquence of mirabeau, the house passed to the order of the day. irritated by insult, and complaining that the antagonism of the three orders prevented any progress in the public business for which they were convened, the king summoned a general meeting of all the deputies, and after an address, in which he expressed his royal pleasure that the three orders should form separate chambers, he commanded the assembly to disperse, that they might meet under the ordinances his prerogative had prescribed. the clergy, the nobles obey; the commons remain uncertain, hesitating, and almost in consternation. the royal command is again communicated to them, with the intimation, that having heard the king's intentions they had now only to obey. the crisis of the royal prerogative, obedience, hung but on the turn of a feather: the repulsed mirabeau arose, and turned it against the king. "we _have_," said he, in a voice of thunder, "we _have_ heard the intentions _attributed_ to the king; and you, sir, who have no place, nor voice, nor right of speech here, are not competent to remind us of them. go tell your master that we are here by the will of the people, and that we are not to be expelled but by the power of bayonets!" cheered and supported by the now reassured _tiers-etat_, he next, in imitation of the english parliament, carried, that the persons of the deputies were inviolate, that any one infringing that right should be pursued as an enemy of the country, and that the payment of taxes, till further legislation, should be obligatory only during the existence of the legislative corps. added to the bold title of "national assembly," newly adopted, these votes were the assumption of a kingship by the _tiers-etat_; and as public opinion enthusiastically backed the innovation, the divided peers and ecclesiastics were compelled at length to join, and be submerged in the mass of popular deputies. a civil war could alone stand between royal power and its destruction. for some weeks the court prepared for even such an eventuality. "ministers play high stakes," writes mirabeau, on the th of july; "they are compromising the king, for in menacing paris and the assembly they are menacing france. all reaction is equal to action: the more the pressure now, the more terrible do i foresee will be the reaction. paris will not suffer itself to be muzzled by a bevy of nobles thrown into despair by their own stupidity; but they shall pay the penalty of the attempt.... the storm must soon break out. it is arranged that i ask the withdrawal of the troops; but be you ready (at paris) to help the step!" the demand was evaded by the king; the soldiery were largely increased and concentrated; the arrests of the more revolutionary deputies, including, of course, mirabeau, were decided on; necker was summarily dismissed: but on the other side able and active emissaries roused paris by statements the most exciting, and taking all characters, with the costumes of either sex, caressed, fêted, and partially won over the soldiery, and before the court could take one step toward its purposes, paris was in full insurrection, the troops corrupted or overpowered, the bastile taken, and under the plea of anarchical excuse, the whole _bourgeoisie_ of paris placed in a few hours under arms as national guards. the king, taught that it was not revolt but revolution, preferred, as every body foresaw, submission to civil war, recalled necker, and visited triumphant paris, at once the hostage and conquest of a popular triumph. mirabeau, more or less connected with the orleanists, had speculated with them on the chances of confusion; for to him it was a small thing, provided he had bread, that it was baked in an oven warmed with the conflagration of an empire. looking forward with complacency to every contingency of revolutionary crises, assured that a common danger, flinging aside, as unimportant, questions of personal character, would make power the prey of genius and audacity, he was correspondingly annoyed by a re-arrangement that promised for a time a well-grounded tranquillity. the destruction of the bastile securing that of "the syllas of thought," he now transformed into a full political newspaper, his weekly "letter to his constituents," under which title he had evaded, from the first assembly of the states-general, the censorship on the press. aware, from a knowledge of wilkes and his history, of the power of journalism to a politician, and above all, to a demagogue in a free country, he was, in the full sense of the term, the first newspaper editor of france, and owed to the vigorous use of this novel agency, not only useful additions to his pecuniary resources, but a great portion of that popular idolatry that followed him to the grave. the court which, in calling together the states, had no higher aim than to regenerate the finances of the country, and, as one step, to obtain the help of the people in stripping a numerous aristocracy of their baneful exemption from state-burdens, had already found out its own share in the peril of the experiment, and now sought, by a close alliance with the _noblesse_, to avert the ruin that too evidently menaced both. but the torrent had but accumulated at each irresistible concession, and every day's work added to the democratic elements of a constitution that had already made royalty a cipher, and annihilated, as political institutions, the church and aristocracy. of course new schemes of regal antagonism again raised their heads, and again a popular manifestation, bringing paris into the very boudoir of the queen, at versailles, demonstrated the impuissance of all that took the name of french royalism. the october insurrection was fomented by mirabeau and his orleanist friends, for the same purpose as that of july, to secure personal safety, and obtain a new scene of action, by terrifying the court into exile, or the acceptance of orleans' protection. had the duke been raised to the "lieutenant-generalship of the kingdom," mirabeau counted on a premiership, in which he purposed to become the chatham or pitt of france. had louis the sixteenth fled the kingdom after the example of the comte d'artois, he purposed to proclaim a republic, and become its "first consul;" and should the doom be that france should be divided by civil war, and cut up into its old kingdoms, he speculated on a sovereignty in his ancestral country, provence, which had already greeted him with so encouraging an enthusiasm. strangeness of event! while the monarchy, so short-lived, still survived the insatiate mirabeau, two of the extraordinary contingencies he speculated on have already happened, to the profit of other actors, and the existing republic, in its mutinous armies, intolerant factions, and insane dynasties, offers no very improbable portent that, even after half a century of a centralized and well-fixed nationality, the old repartition of kingdoms may again present itself! the great consummation of the confusion, however, failed for the overmuch of means. "a bottle of brandy was given," said the orator, "instead of a glass!" and the mob's capricious _impromptu_ of carrying the king back with them to paris, still more than the cowardice of the duke of orleans, defeated this deep-laid machiavelian combination. whatever the character, however, of the people's success, it could not but be an additional success for their leader. the revolution, of which he stood recognized the unquestioned head, was now beyond all danger of royal aggression, except by his own treacherous agency. in a campaign of unimaginable brevity, he had not only vindicated the first place as an orator in a senate now omnipotent, and become out of it the most potent demagogue of his time, but as _un homme d'état_, surrounded by a brilliant staff of the most active spirits and practical thinkers of the day, camille desmoulins, danton, volney, champfort, lamourette, cabanis, reybaz, dumont, duroverai, claviere, servan, de caseaux, panchaud, pellenc, brissot, and others, was understood by every party to hold the future destinies of france in his hand emerging from two insurrections, possessing, by his power, all their profits, and by his adroitness, none of their responsibility, he found it now worth his while to break terms with the duke of orleans, by a public expression of his contempt for him as a scoundrel not worth the trouble that might be taken for him; and excluded from the ministry, that lay open to him, by a self-denying ordonnance of the assembly, directly leveled at his pretensions, he accepted a large subsidy from the king's brother--the comte de provence--and formed with him, for the restoration or upholding a monarchical authority, a mysterious and ineffective conspiracy, the character and extent of which may be conjectured from its involving the assassination of the marquess de lafayette. the hate of mirabeau for this worthy but feeble nobleman--his diligent colleague in the struggle for liberty--was as intense as, at first sight, it seems incredible. he was his mordecai at the king's gate, for whom he could neither sleep nor eat. remembering that mirabeau's passion for complicated intrigue and daring adventure, even in politics, was extravagant to disease, it seems possible that, as he advanced in his rapid greatness, he secretly nursed projects or hopes as incompatible with a constitutional monarchy, and an organized public force, in respectable hands, as with the despotism with which he had originally battled; and that, in his successive conspiracies, now with the republicans and orleanists, now with the count de provence and the queen, he had no fixed intention of ultimately benefiting those he professed to serve, but proposed to use them as ladders to that exalted position of a sylla or a cæsar, which, as bonaparte subsequently proved, was no more, perhaps, beyond his grasp than his ambition; influenced by the insidious suggestions and doubts he carefully spread abroad, the queen, as he saw with pleasure, looked on the new commander of the national guards as a "grandison-cromwell" (mirabeau's damaging epithet), whose concealed ambition aimed at the constableship of france, as a step to that dread of french sovereigns, the "mayorship of the palace;" and hence the court systematically declined the aids it might so often have derived from the honesty, the popularity, and sometimes the good sense of the american volunteer. at all events, we know that the assassination of lafayette--twice it seems plotted--would have left the national guards in the hands of some less popular and more pliant chief; and that, when the general specifically accused his rival of the horrid project, naming time, place, and means, he won no better defense than the reply, "you were sure of it, and i am alive! how good of you! and you aspire to play a leading part in a revolution!" the compact with the comte de provence was of short duration: the queen began to distrust the personal views of her brother-in-law, who threatened to become the duke d'orleans of a philosophical party, and mirabeau, to whom popularity was the only capital, probably found that he could not afford the sacrifices his employers demanded. to preserve the _status quo_, and wait events, became now, for some weeks or months, as much his policy as his accessibility to passion and sudden influences would permit. he seemed to feel that he should give time to the molten lava of his volcanic greatness to settle, harden, and assume its individualism among things received. holding aloof, therefore, from indentification with either party--leaning now on one side, now on the other; his speeches more with the movement, his policy more with the court; forcing both parties into explanations, while keeping himself, however, disengaged--he constituted himself their arbitrator and moderator, overawing both extremes; and while maintaining his pre-eminence of political influence, held himself ready to take advantage, at the least cost of consistency, of any fundamental change in the position of affairs. in the month of may or june, however, a private interview with the queen, in the royal garden of st. cloud, followed by others, to the renewed scandal of her fame, laid the foundation of a new compact with the court, and a more decided policy. the chivalry of mirabeau revived under the enthusiasm won by "earth's loveliest vision"--a queen in distress and a suppliant--and he pledged himself, as the hungarians to her royal mother, to die in the service of saving her throne. but the highest endeavors of mirabeau have always at their base, like the monuments of his country, the filthy and the repulsive; and the chivalry of this new saviour of the monarchy received sustentation in a bribe--higgled for through months--of twenty thousand pounds, and a pension of more than that per annum. about the end of the year, three or four months before his death, he opened systematically his great campaign for what professedly was the restoration of regal authority. he was to out-herod in patriotism the herods of the jacobin club: the court was to dare every thing short of civil war--perhaps even that; and the existing confusion, whatever it might be, was to be cured by another of greater extent, artificially induced by the charlatanism of art political. his scheme, in some points, it must be allowed, successfully imitated in our own days in prussia, was: first--to reorganize the party of order in the assembly; and while, as far as possible, winning for it the sympathy of the country, to excite, by all available agencies, distrust and discontent with the opposing majority. secondly--to inundate the provinces with publications against the assembly; and by commissioners, sent nominally for other purposes, to obtain remonstrances from the departments against its further continuance. thirdly--at a proper opportunity, to dissolve the assembly, and order fresh elections; at the same time canceling the constitution as illegal, and granting another by royal charter, formed on a popular basis, and on the written instructions which (on a system unknown to england) had originally been drawn up for each deputy by his electors. i shall not descend to discuss the oft-mooted point, how far the wholesale venality that based the project is justified or palliated by the object it is supposed to have had in view, because i know that with mirabeau money was not _a means_ to his defense of constitutional monarchy, but his defense of constitutional monarchy a means to money. if we except his relentless hate to french despotism in any hands not his own, the principles, moral or political, of this leader of a nation had no other tenure but the interest of his personal aggrandizement. on another debate, whether with a longer life he could have carried his counter-revolution to success, i will only remark, that, conceding that in robust health he would have had it at heart as sincerely as in the recorded hours of his sickness and despondency, it may be admitted, that a struggle which, under every imprudence, seemed long to hang in doubt, with the aid of his energetic and masterly polity might, perhaps, have poised for royalty. but it is not to be concealed that the difficulty of arresting and unmaking were even greater than those of creating and consolidating the revolution. the king's aversion to decisive measures, and well-known horror of civil war, made him the worst of colleagues for the only policy his tool could wield with effect; and the great demagogue himself, when obliged to discard the mask of democratic hypocrisy that still partly hid the subtle and venal traitor of his party, would have lost, like strafford, many of the elements of his potency; and despoiled, especially, of the miraculous resources of his eloquence, must have contented himself with that lucid, common-sense, consecutive daring, and power of strategic combination, which his new friends were so ill-fitted to support. fortunately, perhaps, for his future fame, he died ere the structure his arts had undermined tested his powers of reparation, and before that wonderful magic of popularity which had so long survived, as it had, indeed, so long anticipated, his deserts, had time to vanish under the cock-crow of truth. his death was as well-timed as his political advent, and has been praised by french wit as the best evidence of his tact; for the expectations which the unparalleled rapidity, no less than the innate marvelousness of his achievements had raised, no future activity and fortune, scarcely those of a napoleon, could have realized. but if the retrospect of his career must convince us that one man in so short a period never accomplished so much before, against such disadvantages, so also must we admit that probably never before did any one rest so wholly for his amazing achievements on the sole power of intrinsic genius. it was intellect that did all with mirabeau; and made his head, according to his own boast, a power among european states. it united almost every possible capacity and attainment. his rare and penetrating powers of observation were sustained by the equal depth and justness of his discrimination, and the rapidity and accuracy of his judgment. uniting, to his admirable natural capacity, an activity and habitual power of application, more marvelous almost in their extent than even in their rare combination, he possessed an understanding full, beyond precedent, both of the recorded knowledge of books, and of that priceless experience of men and things, without which all else is naught; and as the complement of these amazing and unparalleled advantages, he had the still rarer advantage of a felicity and power of diction every way worthy of so incomparable a genius. looking with contempt at the stiff, ornamental, and childishly antithetical style of his day and nation, he welded the flimsy elements of the french language into instruments of strength akin to his own conceptions, and wrought out of them a style for himself in which a demosthenic simplicity and severity of language is sustained by an earnest and straightforward power which vivifies and amplifies all that it touches. startled by an innovation far beyond the conceptions of the french academy, the writer was smiled at and neglected by the critics; and it was not till they heard him launching from the tribune the thunders of justice, disposing at pleasure of the inclinations of the multitude, and subjugating even the captious by the imperious power of his eloquence, that they began to discover that there was a "power of life"[ ] in his rude and singular language; that "things, commonplace, in his hand became of electric power;"[ ] and that, standing "like a giant among pigmies,"[ ] his style, albeit "savage,"[ ] dominated the assembly, stupefying, and thundering down all opposition. it is the affliction of history, that, while raising her monuments to gigantic genius, she is compelled so often to record an immorality of parallel proportions. it is right that the infamy of mirabeau should be as eternal as his greatness. he was a man who, in his political, as in his private life, had no sense of right for its own sake, and from whom conscience never won a sacrifice. with great and glorious aims at times, he never had a disinterested one. his ambition, vanity, or passions, were his only standard of conduct--a standard, be it added, which, despite the wonderful justness of his judgments, the depravity of a sunken nature kept always below even his needs. policy with him was often but a campaign of vengeance or market of venality, and the glorious exercises of literature but a relaxation of indecency or business of wrong. in the study, in the tribune, or in the council-chamber, glory was the only element that remained to counterpoise, often with a feather's weight, the smallest influence of gold or spleen; and in the most critical epoch of an empire, the poising of his tremendous influence--the influence of so much earnestness and magical power--was the accident of an accident. we admit for him, in palliation, the demoralizing influence of terrific example, and of maddening oppression; but where is the worth of a morality that, in a man of heroic mould, will not stand assay? and what is virtue but a name, if she may be betrayed whenever she demands an effort? but however much a moral wreck was the heart of mirabeau, nature, true to the harmony, no less than the magnificence, of her great creations, had essentially formed it of noble and gentle elements. touched to the core by the contaminating influence of "time and tide," its instincts were yet to the kindly, the generous, and elevated; and those about him who knew him best--attached to him more by his affections than his glory--eagerly attested that in the bosom of this depraved citizen resided most of the qualities which, under happier agencies, would have made him a dutiful son, a devoted husband, an attached friend, and truly noble character! in fine, with an eye to see at a glance, a mind to devise, a tongue to persuade, a hand to execute, this great man was circumspect in recklessness, poised and vigorous in violence, cool and calculating to a minutia in audacity and passion. as a friend, affectionate and volatile--as an enemy, fierce and placable--as a politician, patriotic and venal. proud of his patricianship, whose _status_ and manners he has lost, he is humble about a statesmanship that makes the first of his glories. the best of writers, his works are written for him; the greatest of orators, his speeches are made for him! has he the most unerring of judgments? he prefers another's! is he a popular tribune? he is also a royalist parasite! is he earnest? he is then insincere! does he evidence great principles? he seeks bribes! does he enforce moderation? he awaits vengeance! does he cause confusion? he is seeking order! would he save the nation? he is selling its liberties! wonderful man! great with enormous weaknesses, bad with many excellencies, immortal by the expedients of an hour, his genius is a combination of almost impossible perfections, as his political life the colossal result of a thousand contradictions. united, they yield a deathless character, whose titanic proportions shall, age after age, be huger, as the mighty shadows that cover it shall grow darker! footnotes: [ ] it was this invasion that made corsica a french island, and consequently napoleon bonaparte a french citizen [ ] he had also been confined in two prisons, in the ile de rue, and the castle of dijon. [ ] madame campan's memoirs. [ ] madame de staël. [ ] bertrand de moleville. [ ] de levis. [ ] de ferrieres. [from hogg's instructor.] the "communist" sparrow--an anecdote of cuvier. we have been struck with the following anecdote of the great cuvier, which is recorded in the "courrier de l'europe" for february, , and trust the following translation will prove as interesting to our readers as it has been to us. it forms an amusing chapter in natural history, and forcibly illustrates that close observation which so frequently characterizes eminent men. poverty in youth has a purifying tendency, like the "live coal" of old which the angel passed over the lips of isaiah. it inures the soul to struggling, and the mind to persevering labor and self-confidence: it keeps the imagination away from the temptations of luxury, and the still more fatal one of idleness, that parent of vice. it, moreover, becomes one of the most fruitful sources of happiness to the man whom god permits to come out of the crowd and take his place at the head of science and art. it is with ineffable delight that he looks behind, and says, in thinking of his cold and comfortless garret, "i came out of that place, single and unknown." george cuvier, that pupil of poverty, loved to relate one of his first observations of natural history, which he had made while tutor to the children of count d'henry. cuvier and his scholars inhabited an old mansion in the county of caux à fiquanville; the teacher's room overlooked the garden, and every morning, at break of day, he opened the window to inhale the refreshing air, before commencing his arduous duties to his indifferently trained pupils. one morning he observed, not without pleasure, that two swallows had begun to build their nest in the very corner of his little chamber window. the birds labored with the ardor of two young lovers who are in haste to start in housekeeping. the male bird brought the moistened clay in his beak, which the female kneaded, and with the addition of some chips of straw and hay, she built her little lodging with wonderful skill. as soon as the outside was finished, the betrothed gathered feathers, hair, and soft dry leaves for the inside, and then departed to hide themselves in a neighboring wood, there to enjoy the sweets of repose after their labor, and amid the thick foliage of the trees the mysterious joys of the honeymoon. however that may be, they did not think of returning to take possession of their nest till the end of twelve or fifteen days. alas! changes had taken place during their absence. while the swallows were laboring with such assiduity in building a house, cuvier had observed two sparrows, that perched at a short distance, watching the industry of the two birds, not without interchanging between themselves some cries that appeared to cuvier rather ironical. when the swallows departed for their country excursion, the sparrows took no pains to conceal their odious schemes; they impudently took possession of the nest, which was empty and without an owner to defend it, and established themselves there as though they had been its veritable builders. cuvier observed that the cunning sparrows were never both out of the nest at the same time. one of the usurpers always remained as sentinel, with his head placed at the opening, which served for a door, and with his large beak interdicted the entrance of any other bird, except his companion, or rather, to call things by their right names, his brother robber. the swallows returned in due time to their nest, the male full of joy, which showed itself in the brightness of his eye, and in the nervous kind of motion in his flight; the female rather languid, and heavy with the approach of laying. you can imagine their surprise at finding the nest, on which they had bestowed so much care, occupied. the male, moved with indignation and anger, rushed upon the nest to chase away the usurpers, but he found himself face to face with the formidable beak of the sparrow who, at that moment, guarded the stolen property. what could the slim beak of the swallow do against the redoubtable pincers of the sparrow, armed with a double and sharpened point? very soon, the poor proprietor, dispossessed and beaten back, retreated with his head covered with blood, and his neck nearly stripped of its feathers. he returned with flashing eye, and trembling with rage, to the side of his wife, with whom he appeared for some minutes to hold counsel, after which they flew away into the air, and quickly disappeared. the female sparrow came back soon after; the male recounted all that had passed--the arrival, the attack, and flight of the swallows--not without accompanying the recital with what seemed to cuvier to be roars of laughter. be this as it may, the housekeeper did not rest satisfied with making only a hullah-balloo, for the female went forth again, and collected in haste a much larger quantity of provisions than usual. as soon as she returned, after having completed the supplies for a siege, two pointed beaks, instead of one, defended the entrance to the nest. cries, however, began to fill the air, and an assemblage of swallows gathered together on a neighboring roof. cuvier recognized distinctly the dispossessed couple, who related to each newcomer the impudent robbery of the sparrow. the male, with blood-stained head and bared neck, distinguished himself by the earnestness of his protestations and appeals of vengeance. in a little while two hundred swallows had arrived at the scene of conflict. while the little army was forming and deliberating, all at once a cry of distress came from an adjacent window. a young swallow, doubtless inexperienced, instead of taking part in the counsels of his brethren, was chasing some flies which were buzzing about a bunch of neglected or castaway flowers before the window. the pupils of cuvier had stretched a net there to catch sparrows; one of the claws of the swallow was caught by the perfidious net. at the cry which this hair-brained swallow made, a score of his brethren flew to the rescue: but all their efforts were in vain; the desperate struggles which the prisoner made to free himself from the fatal trap only drew the ends tighter, and confined his foot more firmly. suddenly a detachment took wing, and, retiring about a hundred paces, returned rapidly, and, one by one, gave a peck at the snare, which each time, owing to the determined manner of the attack, received a sharp twitch. not one of the swallows missed its aim, so that, after half an hour of this persevering and ingenious labor, the chafed string broke, and the captive; rescued from the snare, went joyously to mingle with his companions. throughout this scene, which took place twenty feet from cuvier, and at almost as many from the usurped nest, the observer kept perfectly still, and the sparrows made not the slightest movement with their two large beaks, which, formidable and threatening, kept its narrow entrance. the council of swallows, while a certain number of them were succoring their companion, had continued to deliberate gravely. as soon as all were united, the liberated prisoner included, they took flight, and cuvier felt convinced they had given up the field, or rather the nest, to the robbers, who had so fraudulently possessed themselves of it. judge of his surprise when, in the course of a few seconds, he beheld a cloud of two or three hundred swallows arrive, with the rapidity of thought throw themselves before the nest, discharge at it some mud which they had brought in their bills, and retire to give place to another battalion, which repeated the same manoeuvre. they fired at two or three inches from the nest, thus preventing the sparrows from giving them any blows with their beaks. besides, the mud, shot with such perfidious precision, had so blinded the sparrows, after the first discharge, that they very soon knew not in what manner to defend themselves. still the mud continued to thicken more and more on the nest, whose original shape was soon obliterated: the opening would have almost entirely disappeared, had not the sparrows, by their desperate efforts at defense, broken away some portions of it. but the implacable swallows, by a strategic movement, as rapidly as it was cleverly executed, rushed upon the nest, beat down with their beaks and claws the clay over the opening already half stopped up, and finished the attack by hermetically closing it. then there arose a thousand cries of vengeance and victory. nevertheless, the swallows ceased not the work of destruction. they continued to carry up moistened clay till they had built a second nest over the very opening of the besieged one. it was raised by a hundred beaks at once, and, an hour after the execution of the sparrows, the nest was occupied by the dispossessed swallows. the drama was complete and terrible; the vengeance inexorable and fatal. the unfortunate sparrows not only expiated their theft in the nest they had taken possession of, whence they could not escape, and where suffocation and hunger were gradually killing them, but they heard the songs of love from the two swallows, who thus so cruelly made them wipe out the crime of their theft. during the fight the female remained alone, languishing and motionless, on an angle of the roof. it was with difficulty, and with a heavy flight, that she left this spot to take up her abode in her new house; and, doubtless, while the agony of the sparrows was being filled up, she laid her eggs, for she did not stir out for two days; the male, during that time, taking upon himself to search for insects and hunt for flies. he brought them alive in his beak, and gave them to his companion. entirely devoted to the duties of incubation and maternity, she was only seen now and then to put out her head to breathe the pure air. fifteen days after, the male flew away at day-break. he appeared more gay and joyful than usual; during the whole day he ceased not to bring to the nest a countless number of insects, and cuvier, by standing on tiptoe at his window, could distinctly see six little yellow and hungry beaks, crying out, and swallowing with avidity all the food brought by their father. the female did not leave her family till the morrow; confinement and fatigue had made her very thin. her plumage had lost its lustre; but in seeing her contemplate her little ones, you might conceive the maternal joy which filled her, and by what ineffable compensations she felt herself indemnified for all her privations and sufferings. after a short time the little creatures had advanced in figure; their large yellow bills were transformed into little black and charming ones; their naked bodies, covered here and there with ugly tufts, were now clothed with elegant feathers, on which the light played in brilliant flashes. they began to fly about the nest, and even to accompany their mother when she hunted for flies in the neighborhood. cuvier could not refrain from feelings of admiration, and was somewhat affected when he saw the mother, with indefatigable patience and grace, show her children how they should set about catching flies, which darted about in the air--to suck in an incautious one, or carry away a spider which had imprudently made his net between the branches of two trees. often she would hold out to them at a distance in her beak a booty which excited their appetite; then she would go away by degrees, and gradually draw them unconsciously off to a shorter or a longer distance from the nest. the swallow taught her children to fly high when the air was calm, for then the insects kept in a more elevated part of the air; or to skim along the ground at the approach of a storm, as then the same insects would direct their course toward the earth, where they might find shelter under the stones at the fall of the first drop of rain. then the little ones, more experienced, began, under the guidance of their father, to undertake longer flights. the mother, standing at the entrance of the nest, seemed to give her instructions before they departed: she awaited their return with anxiety, and when that was delayed, took a flight high, very high in the air, and there flew to and fro till she saw them. then, full of a mother's joy, she would utter cries of emotion, scud before them, bring them back to the nest, happy and palpitating, and seemed to demand an account of the causes of their delay. the autumn arrived. some groups of swallows collected together on the very roof of the mansion of fiquanville. after grave deliberation, and a vote being taken (whether by ballot or otherwise, cuvier does not mention), the young ones of the nest, along with the other young swallows of the same age, were all placed in the middle of the troop; and one morning a living cloud rose above the chateau, and flew away swiftly due east. the following spring two swallows, worn down by fatigue, came to take possession of the nest. cuvier recognized them immediately; they were the very same--those whose manners and habits he had studied the preceding year. they proceeded to restore the nest, cracked and injured in some places by the frost: they garnished anew the inside with fresh feathers and choice moss, then, as last year, made an excursion of some days. on the very morrow after their return, while they were darting to and fro close to cuvier's window, to whose presence they had become accustomed, and which did not in the least incommode them, a screech-owl, that seemed to fall from above, pounced upon the male, seized him in his talons, and was already bearing him away, when cuvier took down his gun, which was within reach, primed and cocked it, and fired at the owl; the fellow, mortally wounded, fell head over heels into the garden, and cuvier hastened to deliver the swallow from the claws of the dead owl, who still held him with his formidable nails. the poor swallow had received some deep wounds; the nails of the owl had penetrated deeply into his side, and one of the drops of shot had broken his leg. cuvier dressed the wounds as well as he could, and, by the aid of a ladder, replaced the invalid in his nest, while the female flew sadly around it, uttering cries of despair. for three or four days she never left the nest but to go in search of food, which she offered the male. cuvier saw his sickly head come out with difficulty, and try in vain to take the food offered by his companion; every day he appeared to get weaker. at length, one morning, cuvier was awakened by the cries of the female, who with her wings beat against the panes of his window. he ran to the nest--alas! it contained only a dead body. from that fatal moment the female never left her nest. overwhelmed with grief, she, five days after, died of despair, on the dead body of her companion. some months after this, the abbé tessier, whom the revolutionary persecution had compelled to flee to normandy, where he disguised himself under the dress of a military physician of the hospital of fécamp, fell in with the obscure tutor, who recounted to him the history of the swallows. the abbé engaged him to deliver a course of lectures on natural history to the pupils of that hospital, of which he was the head, and wrote to jussieu and geoffrey saint hilaire, to inform them of the individual he had become acquainted with. cuvier entered into a correspondence with these two learned men, and a short time after he was elected to the chair of comparative anatomy at paris his subsequent career is well known. [from hunting adventures in south africa.] a giraffe chase. this day was to me rather a memorable one, as the first on which i saw and slew the lofty, graceful-looking giraffe or camelopard, with which, during many years of my life, i had longed to form an acquaintance. these gigantic and exquisitely beautiful animals, which are admirably formed by nature to adorn the fair forests that clothe the boundless plains of the interior, are widely distributed throughout the interior of southern africa, but are nowhere to be met with in great numbers. in countries unmolested by the intrusive foot of man, the giraffe is found generally in herds varying from twelve to sixteen; but i have not unfrequently met with herds containing thirty individuals, and on one occasion i counted forty together; this, however, was owing to chance, and about sixteen maybe reckoned as the average number of a herd. these herds are composed of giraffes of various sizes, from the young giraffe of nine or ten feet in height, to the dark, chestnut-colored old bull of the herd, whose exalted head towers above his companions, generally attaining to a height of upward of eighteen feet. the females are of lower stature and more delicately formed than the males, their height averaging from sixteen to seventeen feet. some writers have discovered ugliness and a want of grace in the giraffe, but i consider that he is one of the most strikingly beautiful animals in the creation; and when a herd of them is seen scattered through a grove of the picturesque parasol-topped acacias which adorn their native plains, and on whose uppermost shoots they are enabled to browse by the colossal height with which nature has so admirably endowed them, he must, indeed, be slow of conception who fails to discover both grace and dignity in all their movements. there can be no doubt, that every animal is seen to the greatest advantage in the haunts which nature destined him to adorn; and among the various living creatures which beautify this fair creation i have often traced a remarkable resemblance between the animal and the general appearance of the locality in which it is found. this i first remarked at an early period of my life, when entomology occupied a part of my attention no person following this interesting pursuit can fail to observe the extraordinary likeness which insects bear to the various abodes in which they are met with. thus, among the long green grass we find a variety of long green insects, whose legs and antennæ so resemble the shoots emanating from the stalks of the grass that it requires a practiced eye to distinguish them. throughout sandy districts varieties of insects are met with of a color similar to the sand which they inhabit. among the green leaves of the various trees of the forest innumerable leaf-colored insects are to be found; while, closely adhering to the rough gray bark of these forest-trees, we observe beautifully-colored, gray-looking; moths of various patterns, yet altogether so resembling the bark as to be invisible to the passing observer. in like manner among quadrupeds i have traced a corresponding analogy, for, even in the case of the stupendous elephant, the ashy color of his hide so corresponds with the general appearance of the gray thorny jungles which he frequents throughout the day, that a person unaccustomed to hunting elephants, standing on a commanding situation, might look down upon a herd and fail to detect their presence. and further, in the case of the giraffe, which is invariably met with among venerable forests, where innumerable blasted and weather-beaten trunks and stems occur, i have repeatedly been in doubt as to the presence of a troop of them until i had recourse to my spy-glass; and on referring the case to my savage attendants, i have known even their optics to fail, at one time mistaking these dilapidated trunks for camelopards, and again confounding real camelopards with these aged veterans of the forest. although we had now been traveling many days through the country of the giraffe, and had marched through forests in which their spoor was abundant, our eyes had not yet been gifted with a sight of "tootla" himself; it was therefore with indescribable pleasure that, on the evening of the th, i beheld a troop of these interesting animals. our breakfast being finished, i resumed my journey through an endless gray forest of cameel-dorn and other trees, the country slightly undulating and grass abundant. a little before the sun went down my driver remarked to me, "i was just going to say, sir, that that old tree was a camelopard." on looking where he pointed, i saw that the old tree was indeed a camelopard, and, on casting my eyes a little to the right, i beheld a troop of them standing looking at us, their heads actually towering above the trees of the forest. it was imprudent to commence a chase at such a late hour, especially in a country of so level a character, where the chances were against my being able to regain my wagons that night. i, however, resolved to chance every thing; and directing my men to catch and saddle colesberg, i proceeded in haste to buckle on my shooting-belt and spurs, and in two minutes i was in the saddle. the giraffes stood looking at the wagons until i was within sixty yards of them, when, galloping round a thick bushy tree, under cover of which i had ridden, i suddenly beheld a sight the most astounding that a sportsman's eye can encounter. before me stood a troop of ten colossal giraffes, the majority of which were from seventeen to eighteen feet high. on beholding me they at at once made off, twisting their long tails over their backs, making a loud switching noise with them, and cantered along at an easy pace, which, however, obliged colesberg to put his best foot foremost to keep up with them. the sensations which i felt on this occasion were different from any thing that i had before experienced during a long sporting career. my senses were so absorbed by the wondrous and beautiful sight before me that i rode along like one entranced, and felt inclined to disbelieve that i was hunting living things of this world. the ground was firm and favorable for riding. at every stride i gained upon the giraffes, and after a short burst at a swinging gallop i was in the middle of them, and turned the finest cow out of the herd. on finding herself driven from her comrades and hotly pursued, she increased her pace, and cantered along with tremendous strides, clearing an amazing extent of ground at every bound; while her neck and breast, coming in contact with the dead old branches of the trees, were continually strewing them in my path. in a few minutes i was riding within five yards of her stern, and, firing at the gallop, i sent a bullet into her back. increasing my pace, i next rode alongside, and, placing the muzzle of my rifle within a few feet of her, i fired my second shot behind the shoulder; the ball, however, seemed to have little effect. i then placed myself directly in front, when she came to a walk. dismounting, i hastily loaded both barrels, putting in double charges of powder. before this was accomplished she was off at a canter. in a short time i brought her to a stand in the dry bed of a water-course, where i fired at fifteen yards, aiming where i thought the heart lay, upon which she again made off. having loaded, i followed, and had very nearly lost her; she had turned abruptly to the left, and was far out of sight among the trees. once more i brought her to a stand, and dismounted from my horse. there we stood together alone in the wild wood. i gazed in wonder at her extreme beauty, while her soft dark eye, with its silky fringe, looked down imploringly at me, and i really felt a pang of sorrow in this moment of triumph for the blood i was shedding. pointing my rifle toward the skies, i sent a bullet through her neck. on receiving it, she reared high on her hind legs, and fell backward with a heavy crash, making the earth shake around her. a thick stream of dark blood spouted out from the wound, her colossal limbs quivered for a moment, and she expired. [from picturesque sketches of greece and turkey.] adventure in a turkish harem. by aubrey de vere. a short time before leaving constantinople i enjoyed a piece of good fortune which i believe has fallen to the lot of few men. often as i passed by the garden walls of some rich pacha, i felt, as every one who visits constantinople feels, no small desire to penetrate, into that mysterious region--his harem--and see something more than the mere exterior of turkish life. "the traveler landing at stamboul complains," i used to say to myself, "of the contrast between its external aspect and the interior of the city; but the real interior, that is the inside of the houses, the guarded retreats of those vailed forms which one passes in gilded caiques--of these he sees nothing." fortune favored my aspirations. i happened to make acquaintance with a young frenchman, lively, spirited, and confident, who had sojourned at constantinople for a considerable time, and who bore there the character of prophet, magician, and i know not what beside. the fact is, that he was a very clever fellow, living on his wits, ever ready to turn his hand to any thing, and numbering among his other accomplishments, a skill in conjuring feats extraordinary even in the east. he used to exhibit frequently before the sultan, who always sent him away laden with presents, and who would, probably, had he professed the mohammedan faith, have made him his prime minister or his lord high admiral. there was nothing which this conjuror could not do. he told me that on one occasion, dining in a numerous company, he had contrived to pick the pocket of every one present, depriving one of his watch, another of his purse, and a third of his pocket-handkerchief. as soon as the guests discovered their losses, to which he managed to direct their attention, a scene of violent excitement ensued, every one accusing his neighbor of theft; and at last it was agreed that the police should be sent, for to search the pockets of all present. the police arrived, and the search was duly made, but without any effect. "i think," said the young magician, "it would be but fair that the police should themselves undergo the same scrutiny to which we have all submitted." the suggestion was immediately acted on; and to the amazement of all present, and especially of the supposed culprits, in the pockets of the police all the missing articles were found. the life of this man had been strange and eventful. having quarreled with his family in early youth he had assumed an incognito, and enlisted as a private soldier, i forget in what service. on one occasion, in his first campaign, he was left for dead on the field of battle. in the evening some peasants visited the field for the sake of plunder. he was badly wounded, but had his wits sufficiently about him to know that, if he wished not to have his throat cut, he had better lie still and feign to be dead. in his turn he was visited by the marauders; but, as fame goes, it turned out that while they were hunting after the few pence he possessed, he contrived to lighten their pockets of their accumulated spoil. he had grown tired of war, however, and had settled in constantinople, where he embarked in all manner of speculations, being bent, among other things, upon establishing a theatre at pera. in all reverses he came down, like a cat, on his feet: he was sanguine and good-humored, always disposed to shuffle the cards till the right one came up; and, trusting a good deal to fortune, while he improved what she gave, he was of course rich in her good graces. one day this youth called on me, and mentioned that a chance had befallen him which he should be glad to turn to account--particularly if sure of not making too intimate an acquaintance with the bosphorus in the attempt. a certain wealthy turk had applied to him for assistance under very trying domestic circumstances. his favorite wife had lost a precious ring, which had doubtless been stolen either by one of his other wives, under the influence of jealousy, or by a female slave. would the magician pay a visit to his house, recover the ring, and expose the delinquent? "now," said he, "if i once get within the walls, i shall be sure to force my way into the female apartments on some pretense. if i find the ring, all is well: but if not, this turk will discover that i have been making a fool of him. however, as he is a favorite at court, and can not but know in what flattering estimation i am held there, he will probably treat me with the distinction i deserve. in fine, i will try it. will you come, too? you can help me in my incantations, which will serve as an excuse." the proposal was too tempting to be rejected, and at the hour agreed on we set off in such state as we could command (in the east, state is essential to respect), jogging over the rough streets, in one of those hearse-like carriages without springs, which bring one's bones upon terms of far too intimate a mutual acquaintance. we reached at last a gate, which promised little; but ere long we found ourselves in one of those "high-walled gardens, green and old," which are among the glories of the east. passing between rows of orange and lemon-trees, we reached the house, where we were received by a goodly retinue of slaves, and conducted, accompanied by our dragoman, through a long suite of apartments. in the last of them stood a tall, handsome, and rather youthful man, in splendid attire, who welcomed us with a grave courtesy. we took our seats, and were presented in due form with long pipes, and with coffee, to me far more acceptable. after a sufficient interval of time had passed for the most meditative and abstracted of men to remember his purpose, our host, reminded of what he had apparently forgotten by my companion's conjuring robes, an electrical machine, and other instruments of incantation, which the slaves carried from our carriage, civilly inquired when we intended to commence operations. "what operations?" demanded my companion, with much apparent unconcern. "the discovery of the ring." "whenever his highness pleased, and it suited the female part of his household to make their appearance," was the answer. at this startling proposition even the oriental sedateness of our majestic host gave way, and he allowed his astonishment and displeasure to become visible. "who ever heard," he demanded, "of the wives of a true believer being shown to a stranger, and that stranger an infidel and a frank?" as much astonished in our turn, we demanded, "when a magician had ever been heard of, who could discover a stolen treasure without being confronted either with the person who had lost or the person who had appropriated it?" for at least two hours, though relieved by intervals of silence, the battle was carried on with much occasional vehemence on his part, and on ours with an assumption of perfect indifference. our host at last, perceiving that our obstinacy was equal to the decrees of fate, retired, as we were informed, to consult his mother on the subject. in a few minutes he returned, and assured us that our proposition was ridiculous; upon which we rose with much dignified displeasure, and moved toward the door, stating that our beards had been made little of. a grave-looking man who belonged to the household of our host, and occupied apparently a sort of semi-ecclesiastical position, now interposed, and after some consultation it was agreed that as we were not mere men, but prophets, and infidel saints, an exception might be made in our favor without violation of the mussulman law; not, indeed, to the extent of allowing us to profane the inner sanctuary of the harem with our presence, but so far as to admit us into in apartment adjoining it, where the women would be summoned to attend us. accordingly, we passed through a long suite of rooms, and at last found ourselves in a chamber lofty and large, fanned by a breeze from the bosphorus, over which its lattices were suspended, skirted by a low divan, covered with carpets and cushions, and "invested with purpureal gleams" by the splendid hangings through which the light feebly strove. among a confused heap of crimson pillows and orange drapery, at the remote end of the apartment, sat, or rather reclined, the mother of our reluctant host. i could observe only that she was aged, and lay there as still as if she had belonged to the vegetable, not the human world. usually she was half-vailed by the smoke of her long pipe; but when its wreaths chanced to float aside or grow thin, her dark eyes were fixed upon us with an expression half indifferent and half averse. presently a murmur of light feet was heard in an adjoining chamber: on it moved along the floor of the gallery; and in trooped the company of wives and female slaves. they laughed softly and musically as they entered, but seemed frightened also; and at once raising their shawls and drawing down their vails, they glided simultaneously into a semicircle, and stood there with hands folded on their breasts. i sat opposite to them, drinking coffee and smoking, or pretending to smoke a pipe eight feet long: at one side stood the mollah and some male members of the household: at the other stood the handsome husband, apparently but little contented with the course matters had taken; and my friend, the magician, moved about among the implements of his art clad in a black gown spangled with flame-colored devices, strange enough to strike a bold heart with awe. beyond the semicircle stood two children, a boy and a girl, holding in their hands twisted rods of barley-sugar about a yard long each, which they sucked assiduously the whole time of our visit. there they stood, mute and still as statues, with dark eyes fixed, now on us, and now on the extremity of their sugar wands. my companion commenced operations by displaying a number of conjuring tricks intended to impress all present with the loftiest opinion of his powers, and stopped every now and then to make his dragoman explain that it would prove in vain to endeavor to deceive a being endowed with such gifts. to these expositions the women apparently paid but little attention; but the conjuring feats delighted them; and again and again they laughed until, literally, the head of each dropped on her neighbor's shoulder. after a time the husband, who alone had never appeared the least entertained, interposed, and asked the conjuror whether he had yet discovered the guilty party. with the utmost coolness, my friend replied, "certainly not: how could he while his highness's wives continued vailed?" this new demand created new confusion and a long debate: i thought, however, that the women seemed rather to advocate our cause. the husband, the mollah, and the mother again consulted; and in another moment the vails had dropped, and the beauty of many an eastern nation stood before us revealed. four of those unvailed orientals were, as we were informed, wives, and six were slaves. the former were beautiful indeed, though beautiful in different degrees and in various styles of beauty: of the latter two only. they were, all of them, tall, slender, and dark-eyed, "shadowing high beauty in their airy brows," and uniting a mystical with a luxurious expression, like that of sibyls who had been feasting with cleopatra. there was something to me strange as well as lovely in their aspect--as strange as their condition, which seems a state half-way between marriage and widowhood. they see no man except their husband; and a visit from him (except in the case of the favorite) is a rare and marvelous occurrence, like an eclipse of the sun. their bearing toward each other was that of sisters: in their movements i remarked an extraordinary sympathy, which was the more striking on account of their rapid transitions from the extreme of alarm to child-like wonder, and again to boundless mirth. the favorite wife was a circassian, and a fairer vision it would not be easy to see. intellectual in expression she could hardly be called; yet she was full of dignity, as well as of pliant grace and of sweetness. her large black eyes, beaming with a soft and stealthy radiance, seemed as if they would have yielded light in the darkness; and the heavy waves of her hair, which, in the excitement of the tumultuous scene, she carelessly flung over her shoulders, gleamed like a mirror. her complexion was the most exquisite i have ever seen, its smooth and pearly purity being tinged with a color, unlike that of flower or of fruit, of bud or of berry, but which reminded me of the vivid and delicate tints which sometimes streak the inside of a shell. though tall she seemed as light as if she had been an embodied cloud, hovering over the rich carpets like a child that does not feel the weight of its body; and though stately in the intervals of rest, her mirth was a sort of rapture. she, too, had that peculiar luxuriousness of aspect, in no degree opposed to modesty, which belongs to the east: around her lips was wreathed, in their stillness, an expression at once pleasurable and pathetic, which seemed ever ready to break forth into a smile: her hands seemed to leave with regret whatever they had rested on, and in parting to leave something behind; and in all her soft and witching beauty she reminded me of browning's lines-- "no swan-soft woman, rubbed in lucid oils. the gift of an enamored god, more fair." as feat succeeded to feat, and enchantment to enchantment, all remnant of reserve was discarded, and no trace remained of that commingled alarm and pleased expectation which had characterized those beaming countenances when first they emerged from their vails. those fair women floated around us, and tossed their hands in the air, wholly forgetting that their husband was by. still, however, we had made but little progress in our inquiry; and when the magician informed them that they had better not try to conceal any thing from him, their only answer was a look that said, "you came here to give us pleasure, not to cross-question us." resolved to use more formidable weapons, he began to arrange an electrical machine, when the mollah, after glancing at it two or three times, approached and asked him whether that instrument also was supernatural. the quick-witted frenchman replied at once, "by no means; it is a mere scientific toy." then, turning to me, he added, in a low voice, "he has seen it before--probably, he has traveled." in a few minutes, the women were ranged in a ring, and linked hand-in-hand. he then informed them, through our interpreter, that if a discovery was not immediately made, each person should receive, at the same moment, a blow from an invisible hand; that, the second time, the admonition would be yet severer; and that, the third time, if his warning was still despised, the culprit would drop down dead. this announcement was heard with much gravity, but no confession followed it: the shock was given, and the lovely circle was speedily dislinked, "with shrieks and laughter." again the shock was given, and with the same effect; but this time the laughter was more subdued. before making his last essay, the magician addressed them in a long speech, telling them that he had already discovered the secret, that if the culprit confessed, he would make intercession for her, but that, if she did not, she must take the consequences. still no confession was made. for the first time, my confident friend looked downcast. "it will not do," he said to me; "the ring can not be recovered: they know nothing about it: probably it was lost. we can not fulfill our engagement; and, indeed, i wish," he added, "that we were well out of all this." i confess i wished the same, especially when i glanced at the master of the household, who stood apart, gloomy as a thunder-cloud, and with the look of a man who thinks himself in a decidedly false position. the easterns do not understand a jest, especially in a harem; and not being addicted to irony (that great safety-valve for enthusiasm), they pass rapidly from immovability to very significant and sometimes disagreeable action. speaking little, they deliver their souls by acting. i should have been glad to hear our host talk, even though in a stormy voice: on the whole, however, i trusted much to the self-possession and address of my associate. nor was i deceived. "do as you see me do," he said to me and the dragoman; and then, immediately after giving the third shock, which was as ineffectual as those that preceded it, he advanced to our grim host with a face radiant with satisfaction, and congratulated him vehemently. "you are a happy man," he said. "your household has not a flaw in it. fortunate it was that you sent for the wise man: i have discovered the matter." "what have you discovered?" "the fate of the ring. it has never been stolen: if it had, i would have restored it to you. fear nothing; your household is trustworthy and virtuous. i know where the ring is; but i should deceive you if i bade you hope ever to find it again. this is a great mystery, and the happy consummation surpasses even my hopes. adieu. the matter has turned out just as you see. you were born under a lucky star. happy is the man whose household is trustworthy, and who, when his faith is tried, finds a faithful counselor. i forbid you, henceforth and forever, to distrust any one of your wives." it would be impossible to describe the countenance of our mussulman friend during this harangue. there he stood, like a tree half in sunshine and half in shade; gratification struggling with displeasure in his countenance, and wonder eclipsing both. it was not by any means our policy to wait until he had adjusted the balance, and made up his mind as to the exact degree of gratitude he owed his guests. on, accordingly, we passed to the door. in a moment the instinct of courtesy prevailed, and our host made a sign to one of his retinue. his slaves preceded us with torches (it had grown late); and, accompanied by half the household, as a guard of honor, we again traversed the large and straggling house, passed through the garden, and entered the carriage which waited for us beyond the wall. our evening passed rapidly away as we discussed our adventure; and i have more than once thought, with pleasure, how amusing an incident the visit of the strangers must have been to the secluded beauties. no doubt the baths of constantinople have rung with many a merry laugh occasioned by this invasion of the franks. never, perhaps, have the inmates of a harem seen so much of the infidel before, and conversed with him so familiarly, in the presence of their husband. [from sharpe's magazine.] the wife of kong tolv.[ ] a fairy tale of scandinavia. by the author "cola monti." hyldreda kalm stood at the door of her cottage, and looked abroad into the quietness of the sabbath morn. the village of skjelskör lay at a little distance down the vale, lighted by the sunshine of a zealand summer, which, though brief, is glowing and lovely even as that of the south. hyldreda had looked for seventeen years upon this beautiful scene, the place where she was born. sunday after sunday she had stood thus and listened for the distant tinkle of the church bell. a stranger, passing by, might have said, how lovely were her face and form; but the widowed mother, whose sole stay she was, and the little delicate sister, who had been her darling from the cradle, would have answered, that if none were so fair, none were likewise so good as hyldreda; and that all the village knew. if she did love to bestow greater taste and care on her sunday garments than most young damsels of her class, she had a right--for was she not beautiful as any lady? and did not the eyes of esbern lynge say so, when, week after week, he came up the hilly road, and descended again to the little chapel, supporting the feeble mother's slow steps, and watching his betrothed as she bounded on before, with little resa in her hand? "is esbern coming?" said the mother's voice within. "i know not--i did not look," answered hyldreda, with a girlish willfulness. "i saw only the sun shining on the river, and the oak-wood waving in the breeze." "look down the road, child; the time passes. go quickly." "she is gone already," said resa, laughing merrily. "she is standing under the great elder-tree to wait for esbern lynge." "call her back--call her back!" cried the mother, anxiously. "to stand beneath an elder-tree, and this night will be st. john's eve! on sunday, too, and she a sunday child! call her quickly, resa." the little child lifted up her voice, "hyld--" "not her name--utter not her name!" and the widow kalm went on muttering to herself, "perhaps the hyldemoer[ ] will not have heard. alas the day! when my child was born under an elder-tree, and i, poor desolate mother! was terrified into giving my babe that name. great hyldemoer, be propitiated! holy virgin!" and the widow's prayer became a curious mingling of superstition and piety, "blessed mary! let not the elves have power over my child! have i not kept her heart from evil? does not the holy cross lie on her pure breast day and night? do i not lead her every sunday, winter and summer, in storm, sunshine, or snow, to the chapel in the valley? and this day i will say for her a double prayer." the mother's counted beads had scarce come to an end when hyldreda stood by her side, and, following the light-footed damsel, came esbern lynge. "child, why didst thou linger under the tree?" said the widow. "it does not become a young maiden to stand flaunting outside her door. who wert thou watching so eagerly?" "not thee, esbern," laughed the girl, shaking her head at her betrothed, who interposed with a happy conscious face; "i was looking at a grand train that wound along the road, and thinking how pleasant it would be to dress on a sunday like the lady of the castle, and recline idly behind four prancing horses instead of trudging on in these clumsy shoes." the mother frowned, and esbern lynge looked sorrowful. "i wish i could give her all she longs for," sighed the young man, as they proceeded on their way, his duteous arm supporting the widow, while hyldreda and resa went bounding onward before them; "she is as beautiful as a queen--i would that i could make her one." "wish rather, esbern, that heaven may make her a pious, lowly-hearted maid, and, in good time, a wife; that she may live in humility and content, and die in peace among her own people." esbern said nothing--he could not think of death and _her_ together. so he and the widow kalm walked on silently--and so slowly that they soon lost sight of the two blithe sisters. hyldreda was talking merrily of the grand sight she had just seen, and describing to little resa the gilded coach, the prancing horses, with glittering harness. "oh! but it was a goodly train, as it swept down toward the river. who knows? perhaps it may have been the king and queen themselves." "no," said little resa, rather fearfully, "you know kong tolv[ ] never lets any mortal king pass the bridge of skjelskör." "_kong tolv!_ what, more stories about kong tolv!" laughed the merry maiden; "i never saw him; i wish i could see him, for then i might believe in thy tales, little one." "hush, hush!--but mother told me never to speak of these things to thee," answered resa; "unsay the wish, or some harm may come." "i care not! who would heed these elfin tales on such a lovely day? look, resa, down that sunny meadow, where there is a cloud shadow dancing on the grass; a strange cloud it is too, for it almost resembles a human form." "it is kong tolv rolling himself in the sunshine," cried the trembling child; "look away, my sister, lest he should hear us." again hyldreda's fearless laugh made music through the still air, and she kept looking back until they passed from the open road into the gloom of the oak wood. "it is strange that thou shouldst be so brave," said resa once more. "i tremble at the very thought of the elle-people of whom our villagers tell, while thou hast not a single fear. why is it, sister?" "i know not, save that i never yet feared any thing," answered hyldreda, carelessly. "as for kong tolv, let him come, i care not." while she spoke, a breeze swept through the oak wood, the trees began to bend their tops, and the under branches were stirred with leafy murmurings, as the young girl passed beneath. she lifted her fair face to meet them. "ah 'tis delicious, this soft scented wind; it touches my face like airy kisses; it makes the leaves seem to talk to me in musical whispers. dost thou not hear them too, little resa? and dost thou not--?" hyldreda suddenly stopped, and gazed eagerly down the road. "well, sister," said resa, "what art dreaming of now? come, we shall be late at church, and mother will scold." but the elder sister stood motionless. "how strange thine eyes look; what dost thou see, hyldreda." "look--what is there!" "nothing, but a cloud of dust that the wind sweeps forward. stand back, sister, or it will blind thee." still hyldreda bent forward with admiring eyes, muttering, "oh! the grand golden chariot, with its four beautiful white horses! and therein sits a man--surely it is the king! and the lady beside him is the queen. see, she turns--" hyldreda paused, dumb with wonder, for despite the gorgeous show of jeweled attire, she recognized that face. it was the same she had looked at an hour before in the little cracked mirror. the lady in the carriage was the exact counterpart of herself! the pageant came and vanished. little resa turned round and wiped her eyes--she, innocent child, had seen nothing but a cloud of dust. her elder sister answered not her questionings, but remained silent, oppressed by a nameless awe. it passed not, even when the chapel was reached, and hyldreda knelt to pray. above the sound of the hymn she heard the ravishing music of the leaves in the oak wood, and instead of the priest she seemed to behold the two dazzling forms which had sat side by side in the golden chariot. when service was ended, and all went homewards, she lingered under the trees where the vision, or reality, whichever it was, had met her sight, half longing for its reappearance. but her mother whispered something to esbern, and they hurried hyldreda away. she laid aside her sunday mantle, the scarlet woof which to spin, weave, and fashion, had cost her a world of pains. how coarse and ugly it seemed! she threw it contemptuously aside, and thought how beautiful looked the purple-robed lady, who was so like herself. "and why should i not be as fair as she? i should, if i were only dressed as fine. heaven might as well have made me a lady, instead of a poor peasant girl." these repinings entered the young heart hitherto so pure and happy. they haunted her even when she rejoined her mother, resa, and esbern lynge. she prepared the noonday meal, but her step was heavy and her hand unwilling. the fare seemed coarse, the cottage looked dark and poor. she wondered what sort of a palace home was that owned by the beautiful lady; and whether the king, if king the stranger were, presided at his banquet table as awkwardly as did esbern lynge at the mean board here. at the twilight, hyldreda did not steal out as usual to talk with her lover beneath the rose-porch. she went and hid herself out of his sight, under the branches of the great elder-tree, which to her had always a strange charm, perhaps because it was the spot of all others where she was forbidden to stay. however, this day hyldreda began to feel herself to be no longer a child, but a woman whose will was free. she sat under the dreamy darkness of the heavy foliage. its faint sickly odor overpowered her like a spell. even the white bunches of elder flowers seemed to grow alive in the twilight, and to change into faces, looking at her whithersoever she turned. she shut her eyes, and tried to summon back the phantom of the golden chariot, and especially of the king-like man who sat inside. scarce had she seen him clearly, but she felt he looked a king. if wishing could bring to her so glorious a fortune, she would almost like to have, in addition to the splendors of rich dress and grand palaces, such a noble-looking man for her lord and husband. and the poor maiden was rudely awakened from her dream, by feeling on her delicate shoulders the two heavy hands of esbern lynge. haughtily she took them off. alas! he, loving her so much, had ever been lightly loved in return! to-day he was not loved at all. he came at an ill time, for the moment his hand put aside the elder branches, all the dazzling fancies of his betrothed vanished in air. he came, too, with an ill-wooing, for he implored her to trifle no more, but to fulfill her mother's hope and his, and enter as mistress at the little blacksmith's forge. she, who had just been dreaming of a palace home! not a word she answered at first, and then cold, cruel words, worse than silence. so esbern, who, though a lover, was a manly-hearted youth, and thought it shame to be mocked by a girl's light tongue, left her there and went away, not angry, but very sorrowful. little resa came to summon her sister. but hyldreda trembled before the gathering storm, for widow kalm, though a tender mother, was one who well knew how to rule. her loud, severe voice already warned the girl of the reproof that was coming. to avoid it only for a little, until her own proud spirit was calmed. hyldreda told resa she would not come in until after she had taken a little walk down the moonlight road. as she passed from under the elder-tree, she heard a voice, like her mother's, and yet not her mother's--no, it could never be, for it shouted after her, "come now, or come no more!" some evil impulse goaded the haughty girl to assert her womanly right of free action, and she passed from her home, flying with swift steps. a little, only a little absence, to show her indignant pride, and she would be back again, to heal all strife. nevertheless, ere she was aware, hyldreda had reached the oak-wood, beneath which she had seen the morning's bewildering sight. and there again, brighter in the moonlight than it had ever seemed in the day, came sweeping by the stately pageant. its torches flung red shadows on the trees, its wheels resounded through the night's quiet with a music as of silver bells. and sitting in his state alone, grand but smiling, was the lord of all this splendor. the chariot stopped, and he dismounted. then the whole train vanished, and, shorn of all his glories, except a certain brightness which his very presence seemed to shed, the king, if he were indeed such, stood beside the trembling peasant maid. he did not address her, but looked in her face inquiringly, until hyldreda felt herself forced to be the first to speak. "my lord, who art thou, and what is thy will with me?" he smiled. "thanks, gentle maiden, for thy question has taken off the spell. otherwise it could not be broken, even by kong tolv." hyldreda shuddered with fear. her fingers tried to seize the cross which always lay on her breast, but no! she had thrown aside the coarse black wooden crucifix, while dreaming of ornaments of gold. and it was st. john's eve, and she stood beneath the haunted oak-wood. no power had she to fly, and her prayers died on her lips, for she knew herself in the hill-king's power. kong tolv began to woo, after the elfin fashion, brief and bold. "fair maiden, the dronningstolen[ ] is empty, and 'tis thou must fill it. come and enter my palace under the hill." but the maiden sobbed out that she was too lowly to sit on a queen's chair, and that none of mortals, save the dead, made their home underground. and she prayed the elle-king to let her go back to her mother and little resa. he only laughed. "wouldst be content, then, with the poor cottage, and the black bread, and the labor from morn till eve. didst thou not of thyself wish for a palace and a lord like me? and did not the hyldemoer waft me the wish, so that i came to meet and welcome thee under the hill?" hyldreda made one despairing effort to escape, but she heard again kong tolv's proud laugh, and looking up, she saw that the thick oak-wood had changed to an army. in place of every tree stood a fierce warrior, ready to guard every step. she thought it must be all a delirious dream that would vanish with the morning. suddenly she heard the far village clock strike the hour. mechanically she counted--one--two--three--four--up to _twelve_. as she pronounced the last word, kong tolv caught her in his arms, saying, "thou hast named me and art mine." instantly all the scene vanished, and hyldreda found herself standing on the bleak side of a little hill, alone in the moonlight. but very soon the clear night darkened, and a heavy storm arose. trembling, she looked around for shelter, and saw in the hill-side a tiny door, which seemed to invite her to enter. she did so! in a moment she stood dazzled by a blaze of light--a mortal amidst the festival of the elves. she heard the voice of kong tolv, half-speaking, half-singing, "welcome, maiden, fair and free, thou hast come of thyself in the hill to me; stay thou here, nor thy fate deplore; thou hast come of thyself in at my door." and bewildered by the music, the dance, and the splendor, hyldreda remembered no more the cottage, with its one empty chair, nor the miserable mother, nor the little sister straining her weeping eyes along the lonely road. * * * * * the mortal maiden became the elle-king's bride, and lived in the hill for seven long years; at least, so they seemed in elfinland, where time passes like the passing of a strain of music, that dies but to be again renewed. little thought had she of the world above ground, for in the hill-palace was continual pleasure, and magnificence without end. no remembrance of lost kindred troubled her, for she sat in the dronningstolen, and all the elfin people bowed down before the wife of the mighty kong tolv. she might have lived so always, with no desire ever to go back to earth, save that one day she saw trickling down through the palace roof a pearly stream. the elves fled away, for they said it was some mortal weeping on the grassy hill overhead. but hyldreda staid and looked on until the stream settled into a clear, pellucid pool. a sweet mirror it made, and the hill-king's bride ever loved to see her own beauty. so she went and gazed down into the shining water. there she beheld--not the image of the elfin-queen, but of the peasant maid, with her mantle of crimson wool, her coarse dress, and her black crucifix. she turned away in disgust, but soon her people brought her elfin mirrors, wherein she could see her present self, gorgeously clad, and a thousand times more fair. it kindled in her heart a proud desire. she said to her lord, "let me go back for a little while to my native village, and my ancient home, that i may show them all my splendor, and my greatness. let me enter, sitting in my gilded chariot, with the four white horses, and feel myself as queen-like as the lady i once saw beneath the oak-wood." kong tolv laughed, and assented. "but," he said, "keep thy own proud self the while. the first sigh, the first tear, and i carry thee back into the hill with shame." so hyldreda left the fairy-palace, sweeping through the village, with a pageant worthy a queen. thus in her haughtiness, after seven years had gone by, she came to her mother's door. seven years, none of which had cast one shadow on the daughter's beauty. but time and grief together had bowed the mother almost to the verge of the grave. the one knew not the other, until little resa came between; little resa, who looked her sister's olden self, blooming in the sweetness of seventeen. nothing to her was the magnificence of the beautiful guest; she only saw hyldreda, the lost and found. "where hast thou been?" said the mother, doubtfully, when in answer to all their caresses, the stately lady only looked on them with a proud smile; "who gave thee those grand dresses, and put the matron's vail upon thy hair?" "i am the hill-king's wife," said hyldreda. "i dwell in a gorgeous palace, and sit on a queen's throne." "god preserve thee!" answered the mother. but hyldreda turned away, for kong tolv had commanded her never to hear or utter the holy name. she began to inquire about her long-forgotten home, but half-carelessly, as if she had no interest in it now. "and who was it," she asked, "that wept on the hill-side until the tears dropped through, staining my palace walls?" "i," answered resa, blushing; and then hyldreda perceived that, young as she was, the girl wore the matron's head-tire. "i, sitting there with my babe, wept to think of my poor sister who died long ago, and never knew the sweetness of wifehood and motherhood. and almost it grieved me, to think that my love had blotted out the bitterness of her memory even from the heart of esbern lynge." at the name, proudly laughed the elder sister, "take thy husband, and be happy, girl; i envy thee not; i am the wife of the great hill-king." "and does thy lord love thee? does he sit beside thee at eve, and let thee lean thy tired head on his breast, as esbern does with me? and hast thou young children dancing about thy feet, and a little blue-eyed one to creep dove-like to thy heart at nights, as mine does? say, dear sister, art thou as happy as i?" hyldreda paused. earth's sweet ties arose before her, and the grandeur of her lot seemed only loneliness. forgetting her lord's command, she sighed, she even wept one regretful tear; and that moment in her presence stood kong tolv. "kill me, but save my mother, my sister," cried the wife, with a broken heart. the prayer was needless; _they_ saw not the elle-king, and he marked not them--he only bore away hyldreda, singing mockingly in her ear something of the same rhyme which had bound her his: "complainest thou here all drearily-- camest thou not of thyself in the hill to me? and stayest thou here thy lot to deplore? camest thou not of thyself in at my door?" when the mother and sister of hyldreda lifted up their eyes, they saw nothing but a cloud of dust sweeping past the cottage-door, they heard nothing but the ancient elder-tree howling aloud as its branches were tossed about in a gust of wintry wind. * * * * * kong tolv took back to the hill his mortal bride. there he set her in a golden chair, and brought to her to drink a silver horn of elfin-wine, in the which he had dropped an ear of wheat. at the first draught, she forgot the village where she had dwelt--at the second, she forgot the sister who had been her darling--at the third, she forgot the mother who bore her. again she rejoiced in the glories of the fairy-palace, and in the life of never-ceasing pleasure. month after month rolled by--by her scarce counted, or counted only in jest, as she would number a handful of roses, all held so fast and sure, that none could fall or fade; or as she would mark one by one the little waves of a rivulet whose source was eternally flowing. hyldreda thought no more of any earthly thing, until there came, added to her own, a young, new life. when her beautiful babe, half-elf, half-mortal, nestled in her woman's breast, it wakened there the fountain of human love, and of long-forgotten memories. "oh! let me go home once--once more," she implored of her lord. "let me go to ask my mother's forgiveness, and above all, to crave the church's blessing on this my innocent babe." kong tolv frowned, and then looked sad. for it is the one great sorrow of the elle-people, that they, with all others of the elfin race, are shut out from heaven's mercy. therefore do they often steal mortal wives, and strive to have their children christened according to holy rite, in order to participate in the blessings granted to the offspring of adam. "do as thou wilt," the hill-king answered; "but know, there awaits a penalty. in exchange for a soul, must be given a life." his dark saying fell coldly on the heart of the young mother. it terrified her for a time, but soon the sweet strange wiles of her elfin-babe beguiled her into renewed happiness; so that her longing faded away. the child grew not like a mortal child. an unearthly beauty was in its face; wondrous precocious signs marked it from its birth. its baby-speech was very wisdom. its baby-smile was full of thought. the mother read her olden soul--the pure soul that was hers of yore--in her infant's eyes. one day when hyldreda was following the child in its play, she noticed it disappear through what seemed the outlet of the fairy-palace, which outlet she herself had never been able to find. she forgot that her boy was of elfin as well as of mortal race. out it passed, the mother eagerly pursuing, until she found herself with the child in a meadow near the village of skjelskör, where years ago she had often played. it was on a sunday morning, and cheerfully yet solemnly rang out the chapel-bells. all the sounds and sights of earth came back upon her, with a longing that would not be restrained. in the white frozen grass, for it was wintertime, knelt the wife of kong tolv, holding fast to her bosom the elfin babe, who shivered at every blast of wind, yet, shivering, seemed to smile. hyldreda knelt, until the chapel-bells ceased at service-time. and then there came bursting from her lips the long-sealed prayers, the prayers of her childhood. while she breathed them, the rich fairy garments crumbled from her, and she remained clad in the coarse dress she wore when kong tolv carried her away; save that it hung in miserable tatters, as if worn for years, and through its rents the icy wind pierced her bosom, so that the heart within might have sunk and died, but for the ever-abiding warmth of maternal love. _that_ told her how in one other mother's heart there must be warmth still. "i will go home," she murmured, "i will say, 'mother, take me in and save me, or else i die!'" and so, when the night closed, and all the villagers were safe at home, and none could mock at her and her misery, the poor desolate one crept to her mother's door. it had been open to her even when she came in her pride; how would it be closed against her sorrow and humility? and was there ever a true mother's breast, that while life yet throbbed there, was not a refuge for a repentant child? hyldreda found shelter and rest. but the little elfin babe, unused to the air of earth, uttered continual moanings. at night, the strange eyes never closed, but looked at her with a dumb entreaty. and tenfold returned the mother's first desire, that her darling should become a "christened child." much the old grandame gloried in this, looking with distrust on the pining, withered babe. but keenly upon hyldreda's memory came back the saying of kong tolv, that for a soul would be exchanged a life. it must be _hers_. that, doubtless, was the purchase; and thus had heaven ordained the expiation of her sin. if so, meekly she would offer it, so that heaven would admit into its mercy her beloved child. it was in the night--in the cold white night, that the widow kalm, with her daughter and the mysterious babe, came to the chapel of skjelskör. all the way thither they had been followed by strange, unearthly noises; and as they passed beneath the oak-wood, it seemed as if the overhanging branches were transformed into giant hands, that evermore snatched at the child. but in vain; for the mother held it fast, and on its little breast she had laid the wooden cross which she herself used to wear when a girl. bitterly the infant had wailed, but when they crossed the threshold of the chapel, it ceased, and a smile broke over its face--a smile pure and saintly, such as little children wear, lying in a sleep so beautiful that the bier seems like the cradle. the mother beheld it, and thought, what if her foreboding should be true; that the moment which opened the gate of heaven's mercy unto her babe, should close upon herself life and life's sweetnesses? but she felt no fear. "let me kiss thee once again, my babe, my darling!" she murmured; "perhaps i may never kiss thee more. even now, i feel as if my eyes were growing dark, and thy little face were gliding from my sight. but i can let thee go, my sweet! god will take care of thee, and keep thee safe, even amidst this bitter world." she clasped and kissed the child once more, and, kneeling, calm, but very pale, she awaited whatever might be her doom. the priest, performing by stealth what he almost deemed a desecration of the hallowed rite, began to read the ceremony over the fairy babe. all the while, it looked at him with those mysterious eyes, so lately opened to the world, yet which seemed to express the emotions of a whole existence. but when the sprinkled water touched them, they closed, softly, slowly, like a blue flower at night. the mother, still living, and full of thankful wonder that she did live, took from the priest's arms her recovered treasure, her christian child. it lay all smiling, but it lifted not its eyes: the color was fading on its lips, and its little hands were growing cold. for it--not for her, had been the warning. it had rendered up its little life, and received an immortal soul. * * * * * for years after this, there abode in the village of skjelskör a woman whom some people thought was an utter stranger, for none so grave, and at the same time so good, was ever known among the light-hearted people of zealand. others said that if any one could come back alive from fairy land, the woman must be hyldreda kalm. but as later generations arose, they mocked at the story of kong tolv and the palace under the hill, and considered the whole legend but an allegory, the moral of which they did not fail to preach to their fair young daughters continually. nevertheless, this woman had surely once lived, for her memory, embalmed by its own rich virtues, long lingered in the place where she had dwelt. she must have died there, too, for they pointed out her grave, and a smaller one beside it, though whose that was, none knew. there was a tradition that when she died--it was on a winter night, and the clock was just striking _twelve_--there arose a stormy wind which swept through the neighboring oak-wood, laying every tree prostrate on the ground. and from that hour there was no record of the elle-people or the mighty kong tolv having been ever again seen in zealand. footnotes: [ ] the idea of this story is partly taken from a danish _visa_, or legendary ballad, entitled "proud margaret." [ ] _hyldemoer_, elder-mother, is the name of a danish elf inhabiting the elder-tree. _eda_ signifies a grandmother or female ancestor. children born on sundays were especially under the power of the elves. [ ] kong tolv, or _king twelve_, is one of the elle-kings who divide the fairy sovereignty of zealand. [ ] dronningstolen, or queen's chair. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. [_continued from page ._] chapter vi. "the army sixty years since." i followed the soldiers as they marched beyond the outer boulevard, and gained the open country. many of the idlers dropped off here; others accompanied us a little further; but at length, when the drums ceased to beat, and were slung in marching order on the backs of the drummers, when the men broke into the open order that french soldiers instinctively assume on a march, the curiosity of the gazers appeared to have nothing more to feed upon, and one by one they returned to the capital, leaving me the only lingerer. to any one accustomed to military display, there was little to attract notice in the column, which consisted of detachments from various corps, horse, foot, and artillery; some were returning to their regiments after a furlough; some had just issued from the hospitals, and were seated in charettes, or country-cars; and, others, again, were peasant boys only a few days before drawn in the conscription. there was every variety of uniform, and, i may add, of raggedness, too--a coarse blouse and a pair of worn shoes, with a red or blue handkerchief on the head, being the dress of many among them. the republic was not rich in those days, and cared little for the costume in which her victories were won. the artillery alone seemed to preserve any thing like uniformity in dress. they wore a plain uniform of blue, with long white gaiters coming half way up the thigh; a low cocked hat, without feather, but with the tricolored cockade in front. they were mostly men middle-aged, or past the prime of life, bronzed, weather-beaten, hardy-looking fellows, whose white mustaches contrasted well with their sunburned faces. all their weapons and equipments were of a superior kind, and showed the care bestowed upon an arm whose efficiency was the first discovery of the republican generals. the greater number of these were bretons, and several of them had served in the fleet, still bearing in their looks and carriage something of that air which seems inherent in the seaman. they were grave, serious, and almost stern in manner, and very unlike the young cavalry soldiers, who, mostly recruited from the south of france, many of them gascons, had all the high-hearted gayety and reckless levity of their own peculiar land. a campaign to these fellows seemed a pleasant excursion; they made a jest of every thing, from the wan faces of the invalids, to the black bread of the "commissary;" they quizzed the new "tourleroux," as the recruits were styled, and the old "grumblers," as it was the fashion to call the veterans of the army; they passed their jokes on the republic, and even their own officers came in for a share of their ridicule. the grenadiers, however, were those who especially were made the subject of their sarcasm. they were generally from the north of france, and the frontier country toward flanders, whence they probably imbibed a portion of that phlegm and moroseness so very unlike the general gayety of french nature; and when assailed by such adversaries, were perfectly incapable of reply or retaliation. they all belonged to the army of the "sambre et meuse," which, although at the beginning of the campaign highly distinguished for its successes, had been latterly eclipsed by the extraordinary victories on the upper rhine and in western germany; and it was curious to hear with what intelligence and interest the greatest questions of strategy were discussed by those who carried their packs as common soldiers in the ranks. movements and manoeuvres were criticised, attacked, defended, ridiculed, and condemned, with a degree of acuteness and knowledge that showed the enormous progress the nation had made in military science, and with what ease the republic could recruit her officers from the ranks of her armies. at noon the column halted in the wood of belleville; and while the men were resting, an express arrived announcing that a fresh body of troops would soon arrive, and ordering the others to delay their march till they came up. the orderly who brought the tidings could only say that he believed some hurried news had come from germany, for before he left paris the rappel was beating in different quarters, and the rumor ran that reinforcements were to set out for strasbourg with the utmost dispatch. "and what troops are coming to join us?" said an old artillery sergeant, in evident disbelief of the tidings. "two batteries of artillery and the voltigeurs of the th, i know for certain are coming," said the orderly, "and they spoke of a battalion of grenadiers." "what! do these germans need another lesson," said the cannonier, "i thought fleurus had taught them what our troops were made of?" "how you talk of fleurus," interrupted a young hussar from the south; "i have just come from the army of italy, and, ma foi! we should never have mentioned such a battle as fleurus in a dispatch. campaigning among dykes and hedges--fighting with a river on one flank and a fortress on the t'other--parade manoeuvres--where, at the first check, the enemy retreats, and leaves you free, for the whole afternoon, to write off your successes to the directory. had you seen our fellows scaling the alps, with avalanches of snow descending at every fire of the great guns--forcing pass after pass against an enemy, posted on every cliff and crag above us--cutting our way to victory by roads the hardiest hunter had seldom trod; i call that war." "and i call it the skirmish of an outpost!" said the gruff veteran, as he smoked away, in thorough contempt for the enthusiasm of the other. "i have served under kleber, hoche, and moreau, and i believe they are the first generals of france." "there is a name greater than them all," cried the hussar with eagerness. "let us hear it, then--you mean pichegru, perhaps, or massena?" "no, i mean bonaparte!" said the hussar, triumphantly. "a good officer, and one of us," said the artilleryman, touching his belt to intimate the arm of the service the general belonged to "he commanded the seige-train at toulon." "he belongs to all," said the other. "he is a dragoon, a voltigeur, an artillerist, a pontonièr--what you will--he knows every thing, as i know my horse's saddle, and cloak-bag." both parties now grew warm; and as each was not only an eager partisan, but well acquainted with the leading events of the two campaigns they undertook to defend, the dispute attracted a large circle of listeners, who, either seated on the green-sward, or lying at full length, formed a picturesque group under the shadow of the spreading oak trees. mean while the cooking went speedily forward, and the camp-kettles smoked with a steam whose savory odor was not a little tantalizing to one who, like myself, felt that he did not belong to the company. "what's thy mess, boy?" said an old grenadier to me, as i sat at a little distance off, and affecting--but i fear very ill--a total indifference to what went forward. "he is asking to what corps thou belong'st?" said another, seeing that the question puzzled me. "unfortunately i have none," said i. "i merely followed the march for curiosity." "and thy father and mother, child--what will they say to thee on thy return home?" "i have neither father, nor mother, nor home," said i, promptly. "just like myself," said an old red-whiskered sapeur; "or if i ever had parents, they never had the grace to own me. come over here child, and take share of my dinner." "no, parbleu! i'll have him for _my_ comrade," cried the young hussar. "i was made a corporal yesterday, and have a large ration. sit here, my boy, and tell us how art called." "maurice tierney." "maurice will do; few of us care for more than one name, except in the dead muster they like to have it in full. help thyself, my lad, and here's the wine-flask beside thee." "how comes it thou hast this old uniform, boy," said he, pointing to my sleeve. "it was one they gave me in the temple," said i. "i was a 'rat du prison' for some time." "thunder of war!" exclaimed the cannonier, "i had rather stand a whole platoon fire than see what thou must have seen, child." "and hast heart to go back there, boy," said the corporal, "and live the same life again?" "no, i'll never go back," said i. "i'll be a soldier." "well said, mon brave--thou'lt be a hussar, i know." "if nature has given thee a good head, and a quick eye, my boy, thou might even do better; and in time, perhaps, wear a coat like mine," said the cannonier. "sacre bleu!" cried a little fellow, whose age might have been any thing from boyhood to manhood--for while small of stature, he was shriveled and wrinkled like a mummy--"why not be satisfied with the coat he wears?" "and be a drummer, like thee," said the cannonier. "just so, like me, and like massena--he was a drummer, too." "no, no!" cried a dozen voices together, "that's not true." "he's right; massena _was_ a drummer in the eighth," said the cannonier; "i remember him when he was like that boy yonder." "to be sure," said the little fellow, who, i now perceived, wore the dress of a "tambour;" "and is it a disgrace to be the first to face the enemy?" "and the first to turn his back to him, comrade," cried another. "not always--not always"--said the little fellow, regardless of the laugh against him. "had it been so, i had not gained the battle of grandrengs on the sambre." "thou gain a battle!" shouted half-a-dozen, in derisive laughter. "what, petit pièrre gained the day at grandrengs!" said the cannonier; "why, i was there myself, and never heard of that till now." "i can believe it well," replied pièrre; "many a man's merits go unacknowledged: and kleber got all the credit that belonged to pièrre canot." "let us hear about it, pièrre, for even thy victory is unknown by name to us, poor devils of the army of italy. how call'st thou the place?" "grandrengs," said pièrre, proudly. "it's a name will live as long, perhaps, as many of those high-sounding ones you have favored us with. mayhap, thou hast heard of cambray?" "never!" said the hussar, shaking his head. "nor of 'mons,' either, i'll be sworn?" continued pièrre. "quite true, i never heard of it before." "voila!" exclaimed pièrre, in contemptuous triumph. "and these are the fellows who pretend to feel their country's glory, and take pride in her conquests. where hast thou been, lad, not to hear of places that every child syllables nowadays?" "i will tell you where i've been," said the hussar, haughtily, and dropping at the same time the familiar "thee" and "thou" of soldier intercourse--"i've been at montenotte, at millesimo, at mondove--" "allons, done! with your disputes," broke in an old grenadier; "as if france was not victorious whether the enemies were english or german. let us hear how pièrre won his battle--at--at--" "at grandrengs," said pièrre. "they call it in the dispatch the 'action of the sambre,' because kleber came up there--and kleber being a great man, and pièrre canot a little one, you understand, the glory attaches to the place where the bullion epaulets are found--just as the old king of prussia used to say, 'dieu est toujours a coté de gros bataillons.'" "i see we'll never come to this same victory of grandrengs, with all these turnings and twistings," muttered the artillery sergeant. "thou art very near it now, comrade, if thou'lt listen," said pièrre, as he wiped his mouth after a long draught of the vine-flask. "i'll not weary the honorable company with any description of the battle generally, but just confine myself to that part of it, in which i was myself in action. it is well known, that though we claimed the victory of the th may, we did little more than keep our own, and were obliged to cross the sambre, and be satisfied with such a position as enabled us to hold the two bridges over the river--and there we remained for four days: some said preparing for a fresh attack upon kaunitz, who commanded the allies; some, and i believe they were right, alleging that our generals were squabbling all day, and all night, too, with two commissaries that the government had sent down to teach us how to win battles. ma foi! we had had some experience in that way ourselves, without learning the art from two citizens with tricolored scarfs round their waists, and yellow tops to their boots! however that might be, early on the morning of the th we received orders to cross the river in two strong columns and form on the opposite side; at the same time that a division was to pass the stream by boat two miles higher up, and, concealing themselves in a pine wood, be ready to take the enemy in flank, when they believed that all the force was in the front. "sacre tonnerre! i believe that our armies of the sambre and the rhine never have any other notion of battles than that eternal flank movement!" cried a young sergeant of the voltigeurs, who had just come up from the army of italy. "our general used to split the enemy by the centre, out him piecemeal by attack in columns, and then head him down with artillery at short range--not leaving him time for a retreat in heavy masses--" "silence, silence, and let us hear petit pièrre," shouted a dozen voices, who cared far more for an incident, than a scientific discussion about manoeuvres. "the plan i speak of was general moreau's," continued pièrre; "and i fancy that your bonaparte has something to learn ere he be _his_ equal!" this rebuke seeming to have engaged the suffrages of the company, he went on: "the boat division consisted of four battalions of infantry, two batteries of light-artillery, and a voltigeur company of the "regiment de marboeuf"--to which i was then, for the time, attached as "tambour en chef." what fellows they were--the greatest devils in the whole army! they came from the faubourg st. antoine, and were as reckless and undisciplined as when they strutted the streets of paris. when they were thrown out to skirmish, they used to play as many tricks as school-boys: sometimes they'd run up to the roof of a cabin or a hut--and they could climb like cats--and, sitting down on the chimney, begin firing away at the enemy, as coolly as from a battery; sometimes they'd capture half-a-dozen asses, and ride forward as if to charge, and then, affecting to tumble off, the fellows would pick down any of the enemy's officers that were fools enough to come near--scampering back to the cover of the line, laughing and joking as if the whole were sport. i saw one--when his wrist was shattered by a shot, and he couldn't fire--take a comrade on his back and caper away like a horse, just to tempt the germans to come out of their lines. it was with these blessed youths i was now to serve, for the tambour of the marboeuf was drowned in crossing the sambre a few days before. well, we passed the river safely, and, unperceived by the enemy, gained the pine wood, where we formed in two columns, one of attack, and the other of support, the voltigeurs about five hundred paces in advance of the leading files. the morning was dull and hazy, for a heavy rain had fallen during the night, and the country is flat, and so much intersected with drains, and dykes, and ditches, that, after rain, the vapor is too thick to see twenty yards on any side. our business was to make a counter-march to the right, and, guided by the noise of the cannonade, to come down upon the enemy's flank in the thickest of the engagement. as we advanced, we found ourselves in a kind of marshy plain, planted with willows, and so thick, that it was often difficult for three men to march abreast. this extended for a considerable distance, and, on escaping from it, we saw that we were not above a mile from the enemy's left, which rested on a little village." "i know it well," broke in the cannonier; "it's called huyningen." "just so. there was a formidable battery in position there; and part of the place was stockaded, as if they expected an attack. still there were no videttes, nor any look-out party, so far as we could see; and our commanding officer didn't well know what to make of it, whether it was a point of concealed strength, or a position they were about to withdraw from. at all events, it required caution; and, although the battle had already begun on the right--as a loud cannonade and a heavy smoke told us--he halted the brigade in the wood, and held a council of his officers to see what was to be done. the resolution come to was, that the voltigeurs should advance alone to explore the way, the rest of the force remaining in ambush. we were to go out in sections of companies, and, spreading over a wide surface, see what we could of the place. "scarcely was the order given, when away we went; and it was now a race who should be earliest up, and exchange first shot with the enemy. some dashed forward over the open field in front; others skulked along by dykes and ditches; some, again, dodged here and there, as cover offered its shelter; but about a dozen, of whom i was one, kept the track of little cart-road, which, half-concealed by high banks and furze, ran in a zig-zag line toward the village. i was always smart of foot; and now, having newly joined the 'voltigeurs,' was naturally eager to show myself not unworthy of my new associates. i went on at my best pace, and being lightly equipped--neither musket nor ball-cartridge to carry--i soon out stripped them all; and, after about twenty minutes' brisk running, saw in front of me a long, low farm-house, the walls all pierced for musketry, and two small eight-pounders in battery at the gate. i looked back for my companions, but they were not up, not a man of them to be seen. 'no matter,' thought i 'they'll be here soon; meanwhile, i'll make for that little copse of brushwood;' for a small clump of low furze and broom was standing at a little distance in front of the farm. all this time, i ought to say, not a man of the enemy was to be seen, although i, from where i stood, could see the crenelated walls, and the guns, as they were pointed: at a distance all would seem like an ordinary peasant-house. "as i crossed the open space to gain the copse, piff! came a bullet, whizzing past me; and just as i reached the cover, piff! came another. i ducked my head, and made for the thicket, but just as i did so, my foot caught in a branch. i stumbled, and pitched forward; and, trying to save myself, i grasped a bough above me. it smashed suddenly, and down i went. ay! down sure enough, for i went right through the furze, and into a well--one of those old, walled wells they have in these countries, with a huge bucket that fills up the whole space, and is worked by a chain. luckily the bucket was linked up near the top, and caught me, or i should have gone where there would have been no more heard of pièrre canot; as it was, i was sorely bruised by the fall, and didn't recover myself for full ten minutes after. then i discovered that i was sitting in a large wooden trough, hooped with iron, and supported by two heavy chains that passed over a windlass, about ten feet above my head. "i was safe enough, for the matter of that; at least none were likely to discover me, as i could easily see, by the rust of the chain and he grass-grown edges, that the well had been long disused. now the position was far from being pleasant. there stood the farm-house, full of soldiers, the muskets ranging over every approach to where i lay. of my comrades, there was nothing to be seen, they had either missed the way or retreated: and so time crept on, and i pondered on what might be going forward elsewhere, and whether it would ever be my own fortune to see my comrades again. "it might be an hour--it seemed three or four to me--after this, as i looked over the plain, i saw the caps of our infantry just issuing over the brushwood, and a glancing lustre of their bayonets, as the sun tipped them. they were advancing, but, as it seemed, slowly--halting at times, and then moving forward again, just like a force waiting for others to come up. at last they debouched into the plain; but, to my surprise, they wheeled about to the right, leaving the farm-house on their flank, as if to march beyond it. this was to lose their way totally: nothing would be easier than to carry the position of the farm, for the germans were evidently few, had no videttes, and thought themselves in perfect security. i crept out from my ambush, and holding my cap on a stick, tried to attract notice from our fellows, but none saw me. i ventured at last to shout aloud, but with no better success; so that, driven to the end of my resources, i set to and beat a 'roulade' on the drum, thundering away with all my might, and not caring what might come of it, for i was half mad with vexation as well as despair. they heard me now; i saw a staff officer gallop up to the head of the leading division, and halt them: a volley came peppering from behind me, but without doing me any injury, for i was safe once more in my bucket. then came another pause, and again i repeated my manoeuvre, and to my delight perceived that our fellows were advancing at quick march. i beat harder, and the drums of the grenadiers answered me. all right now, thought i, as, springing forward, i called out, 'this way, boys; the wall of the orchard has scarcely a man to defend it;' and i rattled out the 'pas-de-charge' with all my force. one crashing fire of guns and small arms answered me from the farm-house; and then away went the germans as hard as they could; such running never was seen! one of the guns they carried off with them; the tackle of the other broke, and the drivers, jumping off their saddles, took to their legs at once. our lads were over the walls, through the windows, between the stockades, every where, in fact, in a minute, and once inside, they carried all before them. the village was taken at the point of the bayonet, and in less than an hour the whole force of the brigade was advancing in full march on the enemy's flank. there was little resistance made after that, and kaunitz only saved his artillery by leaving his rear guard to be cut to pieces." the cannonier nodded, as if in full assent, and pièrre looked around him with the air of a man who has vindicated his claim to greatness. "of course," said he, "the dispatch said little about pièrre canot, but a great deal about moreau, and kleber, and the rest of them." while some were well satisfied that pièrre had well established his merits as the conqueror of "grandrengs," others quizzed him about the heroism of lying hid in a well, and owing all his glory to a skin of parchment. "an' thou went with the army of italy, pièrre," said the hussar, "thou'd have seen men march boldly to victory, and not skulk under ground like a mole." "i am tired of your song about this army of italy," broke in the cannonier; "we who have served in la vendée and the north know what fighting means, as well, mayhap, as men whose boldest feats are scaling rocks and clambering up precipices. your bonaparte, is more like one of these guerilla chiefs they have in the 'basque,' than the general of a french army." "the man who insults the army of italy, or its chief, insults _me_!" said the corporal, springing up, and casting a sort of haughty defiance around him. "and then?" asked the other. "and then--if he be a french soldier--he knows what should follow." "parbleu!" said the cannonier, coolly, "there would be little glory in cutting you down, and even less in being wounded by you; but if you will have it so, it's not an old soldier of the artillery will balk your humor." as he spoke, he slowly arose from the ground, and tightening his waist-belt, seemed prepared to follow the other. the rest sprung to their feet at the same time, but not, as i anticipated, to offer a friendly mediation between the angry parties, but in full approval of their readiness to decide by the sword a matter too trivial to be called a quarrel. in the midst of the whispering conferences as to place and weapons--for the short, straight sword of the artillery was very unlike the curved sabre of the hussar--the quick tramp of horses was heard, and suddenly the head of a squadron was seen, as, with glancing helmets and glittering equipments, they turned off the high-road, and entered the wood. "here they come; here come the troops!" was now heard on every side, and all question of the duel was forgotten in the greater interest inspired by the arrival of the others. the sight was strikingly picturesque, for, as they rode up, the order to dismount was given, and in an instant the whole squadron was at work, picketing and unsaddling their horses; forage was shaken out before the weary and hungry beasts; kits were unpacked, cooking utensils produced, and every one busy in preparing for the bivouac. an infantry column followed close upon the others, which was again succeeded by two batteries of field-artillery, and some squadrons of heavy dragoons; and now the whole wood, far and near, was crammed with soldiers, wagons, caissons, and camp-equipage. to me the interest of the scene was never-ending; life, bustle, and gayety on every side. the reckless pleasantry of the camp, too, seemed elevated by the warlike accompaniments of the picture; the caparisoned horses, the brass guns blackened on many a battle-field, the weather-seamed faces of the hardy soldiers themselves, all conspiring to excite a high enthusiasm for the career. most of the equipments were new and strange to my eyes. i had never before seen the grenadiers of the republican guard, with their enormous shakos, and their long-flapped vests descending to the middle of the thigh; neither had i seen the "hussars de la mort," in their richly braided uniform of black, and their long hair curled in ringlets at either side of the face. the cuirassiers, too, with their low cocked hats, and straight, black feathers, as well as the "portes drapeaux," whose brilliant uniforms, all slashed with gold, seemed scarcely in keeping with yellow-topped boots: all were now seen by me for the first time. but of all the figures which amused me most by its singularity, was that of a woman, who, in a short frock-coat and a low-crowned hat, carried a little barrel at her side, and led an ass loaded with two similar, but rather larger casks. her air and gait were perfectly soldier-like; and as she passed the different posts and sentries, she saluted them in true military fashion. i was not long to remain in ignorance of her vocation nor her name; for scarcely did she pass a group without stopping to dispense a wonderful cordial that she carried; and then i heard the familiar title of "la mère madou," uttered in every form of panegyric. she was a short, stoutly-built figure, somewhat past the middle of life, but without any impairment of activity in her movements. a pleasing countenance, with good teeth and black eyes, a merry voice, and a ready tongue, were qualities more than sufficient to make her a favorite with the soldiers, whom i found she had followed to more than one battle field. "peste!" cried an old grenadier, as he spat out the liquor on the ground. "this is one of those sweet things they make in holland; it smacks of treacle and bad lemons." "ah, grognard!" said she, laughing, "thou art more vised to corn-brandy, with a clove of garlic in't, than to good curaçoa." "what, curaçoa! mère madou, hast got curaçoa there?" cried a gray-whiskered captain, as he turned on his saddle at the word. "yes, mon capitaine, and such as no burgomaster ever drank better;" and she filled out a little glass, and presented it gracefully to him. "encore, ma bonne mère," said he, as he wiped his thick mustache; "that liquor is another reason for extending the blessings of liberty to the brave dutch." "didn't i tell you so?" said she, refilling the glass: "but, holloa, there goes gregoire at full speed. ah, scoundrels that ye are, i see what ye've done." and so was it: some of the wild, young voltigeur fellows had fastened a lighted furze-bush to the beast's tail, and had set him, at a gallop, through the very middle of the encampment, upsetting tents, scattering cooking-pans, and tumbling the groups, as they sat, in every direction. the confusion was tremendous; for the picketed horses jumped about, and some, breaking loose, galloped here and there, while others set off with half-unpacked wagons, scattering their loading as they went. it was only when the blazing furze had dropped off, that the cause of the whole mischance would suffer himself to be captured, and led quietly back to his mistress. half crying with joy, and still wild with anger, she kissed the beast, and abused her tormentors by turns. "cannoniers that ye are," she cried, "ma foi! you'll have little face for the fire when the day comes that ye should face it! pauvre gregoire, they've left thee a tail like a tirailleur's feather! plagues light on the thieves that did it! come here, boy," said she, addressing me, "hold the bridle: what's thy corps, lad?" "i have none now; i only followed the soldiers from paris." "away with thee, street-runner; away with thee, then!" said she, contemptuously; "there are no pockets to pick here, and if there were, thou'd lose thy ears for the doing it. be off, then; back with thee to paris and all its villainies. there are twenty thousand of thy trade there, but there's work for ye all!" "nay, mère, don't be harsh with the boy," said a soldier; "you can see by his coat that his heart is with us." "and he stole that, i'll be sworn," said she, pulling me round by the arm, full in front of her. "answer me, 'gamin,' where didst find that old tawdry jacket?" "i got it in a place where, if they had hold of thee and thy bad tongue, it would fare worse with thee than thou thinkest!" said i, maddened by the imputed theft and insolence together. "and where may that be, young slip of the galleys?" cried she, angrily. "in the 'prison du temple.'" "is that their livery, then?" said she laughing, and pointing at me with ridicule, "or is it a family dress made after thy father's?" "my father wore a soldier's coat, and bravely, too," said i, with difficulty restraining the tears that rose to my eyes. "in what regiment, boy?" asked the soldier who spoke before. "in one that exists no longer," said i, sadly, and not wishing to allude to a service that would find but slight favor in republican ears. "that must be the th of the line; they were cut to pieces at 'tongres.'" "no--no, he's thinking of the th, that got so roughly handled at fontenoy," said another. "of neither," said i; "i am speaking of those who have left nothing but a name behind them, the 'garde du corps' of the king." "voila!" cried madou, clapping her hands in astonishment at my impertinence; "there's an aristocrat for you! look at him, mes braves! it's not every day we have the grand seigneurs condescending to come among us! you can learn something of courtly manners from the polished descendant of our nobility. say, boy, art a count, or a baron, or perhaps a duke." "make way there--out of the road, mère madou," cried a dragoon, curveting his horse in such a fashion as almost to upset ass and "cantiniére" together, "the staff is coming." the mere mention of the word sent numbers off in full speed to their quarters; and now, all was haste and bustle to prepare for the coming inspection. the mère's endeavors to drag her beast along were not very successful; for, with the peculiar instinct of his species, the more necessity there was of speed, the lazier he became; and as every one had his own concerns to look after, she was left to her own unaided efforts to drive him forward. "thou'lt have a day in prison if thou'rt found here, mère madou," said a dragoon, as he struck the ass with the flat of his sabre. "i know it well," cried she, passionately; "but i have none to help me. come here, lad; be good-natured, and forget what passed. take his bridle while i whip him on." i was at first disposed to refuse, but her pitiful face and sad plight made me think better of it; and i seized the bridle at once; but just as i had done so, the escort galloped forward, and the dragoons coming on the flank of the miserable beast, over he went, barrels and all, crushing me beneath him as he fell. "is the boy hurt?" were the last words i heard, for i fainted; but a few minutes after i found myself seated on the grass, while a soldier was stanching the blood that ran freely from a cut in my forehead. "it is a trifle, general--a mere scratch," said a young officer to an old man on horseback beside him, "and the leg is not broken." "glad of it," said the old officer; "casualties are insufferable, except before an enemy. send the lad to his regiment." "he's only a camp-follower, general. he does not belong to us." "there, my lad, take this, then, and make thy way back to paris," said the old general, as he threw me a small piece of money. i looked up, and there, straight before me, saw the same officer who had given me the assignat the night before. "general la coste!" cried i, in delight, for i thought him already a friend. "how is this--have i an acquaintance here?" said he, smiling: "on my life! it's the young rogue i met this morning. eh! art not thou the artillery-driver i spoke to at the barrack?" "yes, general, the same." "diantre! it seems fated, then, that we are not to part company so easily; for hadst thou remained in paris, lad, we had most probably never met again." "ainsi je suis bien tombé, general," said i, punning upon my accident. he laughed heartily, less i suppose at the jest, which was a poor one, than at the cool impudence with which i uttered it; and then turning to one of the staff, said-- "i spoke to berthollet about this boy already--see that they take him in the th. i say, my lad, what's thy name?" "tiernay, sir." "ay, to be sure, tiernay. well, tiernay, thou shalt be a hussar, my man. see that i get no disgrace by the appointment." i kissed his hand fervently, and the staff rode forward, leaving me the happiest heart that beat in all that crowded host. chapter vii. a passing acquaintance. if the guide who is to lead us on a long and devious track, stops at every by-way, following out each path that seems to invite a ramble or suggest a halt, we naturally might feel distrustful of his safe conduct, and uneasy at the prospect of the road before us. in the same way may the reader be disposed to fear that he who descends to slight and trivial circumstances, will scarcely have time for events which ought to occupy a wider space in his reminiscences; and for this reason i am bound to apologize for the seeming transgression of my last chapter. most true it is, that were i to relate the entire of my life with a similar diffuseness, my memoir would extend to a length far beyond what i intend it to occupy. such, however, is very remote from my thoughts. i have dwelt with, perhaps, something of prolixity upon the soldier-life and characteristics of a past day, because i shall yet have to speak of changes, without which the contrast would be inappreciable; but i have also laid stress upon an incident trivial in itself, because it formed an event in my own fortunes. it was thus, in fact, that i became a soldier. now, the man who carries a musket in the ranks, may very reasonably be deemed but a small ingredient of the mass that forms an army: and in our day his thoughts, hopes, fears, and ambitions are probably as unknown and uncared for, as the precise spot of earth that yielded the ore from which his own weapon was smelted. this is not only reasonable, but it is right. in the time of which i am now speaking it was far otherwise. the republic, in extinguishing a class had elevated the individual; and now each, in whatever station he occupied, felt himself qualified to entertain opinions and express sentiments, which, because they were his own, he presumed them to be national. the idlers of the streets discussed the deepest questions of politics; the soldiers talked of war with all the presumption of consummate generalship. the great operations of a campaign, and the various qualities of different commanders, were the daily subjects of dispute in the camp. upon one topic only were all agreed; and there, indeed, our unanimity repaid all previous discordance. we deemed france the only civilized nation of the globe, and reckoned that people thrice happy who, by any contingency of fortune, engaged our sympathy, or procured the distinction of our presence in arms. we were the heaven-born disseminators of freedom throughout europe; the sworn enemies of kingly domination; and the missionaries of a political creed, which was not alone to ennoble mankind, but to render its condition eminently happy and prosperous. there could not be an easier lesson to learn than this, and particularly when dinned into your ears all day, and from every rank and grade around you. it was the programme of every message from the directory; it was the opening of every general order from the general; it was the table-talk at your mess. the burden of every song, the title of every military march performed by the regimental band, recalled it, even the riding-master, as he followed the recruit around the weary circle, whip in hand, mingled the orders he uttered with apposite axioms upon republican grandeur. how i think i hear it still, as the grim old quartermaster-sergeant, with his alsatian accent and deep-toned voice, would call out. "elbows back! wrist lower and free from the side; free, i say, as every citizen of a great republic! head erect, as a frenchman has a right to carry it! chest full out, like one who can breathe the air of heaven, and ask no leave from king or despot! down with your heel, sir; think that you crush a tyrant beneath it!" such and such like were the running commentaries on equitation, till often i forgot whether the lesson had more concern with a seat on horseback or the great cause of monarchy throughout europe. i suppose, to use a popular phrase of our own day, "the system worked well;" certainly the spirit of the army was unquestionable. from the grim old veteran, with snow-white mustache, to the beardless boy, there was but one hope and wish--the glory of france. how they understood that glory, or in what it essentially consisted, is another and a very different question. enrolled as a soldier in the ninth regiment of hussars, i accompanied that corps to nancy, where, at that time, a large cavalry school was formed, and where the recruits from the different regiments were trained and managed before being sent forward to their destination. a taste for equitation, and a certain aptitude for catching up the peculiar character of the different horses, at once distinguished me in the riding school, and i was at last adopted by the riding-master of the regiment as a kind of _aide_ to him in his walk. when i thus became a bold and skillful horseman, my proficiency interfered with my promotion, for instead of accompanying my regiment, i was detained at nancy, and attached to the permanent staff of the cavalry school there. at first i asked for nothing better. it was a life of continued pleasure and excitement, and while i daily acquired knowledge of a subject which interested me deeply, i grew tall and strong of limb, and with that readiness in danger, and that cool collectedness in moments of difficulty, that are so admirably taught by the accidents and mischances of a cavalry riding-school. the most vicious and unmanageable beasts from the limousin were often sent to us; and when any one of these was deemed peculiarly untractable, "give him to tiernay," was the last appeal, before abandoning him as hopeless. i'm certain i owe much of the formation of my character to my life at this period, and that my love of adventure, my taste for excitement, my obstinate resolution to conquer a difficulty, my inflexible perseverance when thwarted, and my eager anxiety for praise, were all picked up amid the sawdust and tan of the riding-school. how long i might have continued satisfied with such triumphs, and content to be the wonder of the freshly-joined conscripts, i know not, when accident, or something very like it, decided the question. it was a calm, delicious evening in april, in the year after i had entered the school, that i was strolling alone on the old fortified wall, which, once a strong redoubt, was the favorite walk of the good citizens of nancy. i was somewhat tired with the fatigues of the day, and sat down to rest under one of the acacia trees, whose delicious blossom was already scenting the air. the night was still and noiseless; not a man moved along the wall; the hum of the city was gradually subsiding, and the lights in the cottages over the plain told that the laborer was turning homeward from his toil. it was an hour to invite calm thoughts, and so i fell a-dreaming over the tranquil pleasures of a peasant's life, and the unruffled peace of an existence passed amid scenes that were endeared by years of intimacy. "how happily," thought i, "time must steal on in these quiet spots, where the strife and struggle of war are unknown, and even the sounds of conflict, never reach." suddenly my musings were broken in upon by hearing the measured tramp of cavalry, as at a walk, a long column wound their way along the zig-zag approaches, which by many a redoubt and fosse, over many a draw bridge, and beneath many a strong arch, led to the gates of nancy. the loud, sharp call of a trumpet was soon heard, and, after a brief parley, the massive gates of the fortress were opened for the troops to enter. from the position i occupied exactly over the gate, i could not only see the long, dark line of armed men as they passed, but also hear the colloquy which took place as they entered. "what regiment?" "detachments of the th dragoons and the d chasseurs-à-cheval." "where from?" "valence." "where to?" "the army of the rhine." "pass on!" and with the words the ringing sound of the iron-shod horses was heard beneath the vaulted entrance. as they issued from beneath the long, deep arch, the men were formed in line along two sides of a wide "place" inside the walls, where, with that dispatch that habit teaches, the billets were speedily distributed, and the parties "told off" in squads for different parts of the city. the force seemed a considerable one, and with all the celerity they could employ, the billeting occupied a long time. as i watched the groups moving off, i heard the direction given to one party, "cavalry school--rue de lorraine." the young officer who commanded the group took a direction exactly the reverse of the right one; and hastening down from the rampart, i at once overtook them, and explained the mistake. i offered them my guidance to the place, which being willingly accepted, i walked along at their side. chatting as we went, i heard that the dragoons were hastily withdrawn from the la vendée to form part of the force under general hoche. the young sous-lieutenant, a mere boy of my own age, had already served in two campaigns in holland and the south of france; had been wounded in the loire, and received his grade of officer at the hands of hoche himself on the field of battle. he could speak of no other name--hoche was the hero of all his thoughts--his gallantry, his daring, his military knowledge, his coolness in danger, his impetuosity in attack, his personal amiability, the mild gentleness of his manner, were themes the young soldier loved to dwell on; and however pressed by me to talk of war and its chances, he inevitably came back to the one loved theme--his general. when the men were safely housed for the night, i invited my new friend to my own quarters, where, having provided the best entertainment i could afford, we passed more than half the night in chatting. there was nothing above mediocrity in the look or manner of the youth; his descriptions of what he had seen were unmarked by any thing glowing or picturesque; his observations did not evince either a quick or a reflective mind, and yet, over this mass of commonplace, enthusiasm for his leader had shed a rich glow, like a gorgeous sunlight on a landscape, that made all beneath it seem brilliant and splendid. "and now," said he, after an account of the last action he had seen, "and now, enough of myself; let's talk of thee. where hast thou been?" "here!" said i, with a sigh, and in a voice that shame had almost made inaudible; "here, here, at nancy." "not always here?" "just so. always here." "and what doing, mon cher. thou art not one of the municipal guard, surely?" "no," said i, smiling sadly; "i belong to the 'ecole d'equitation.'" "ah, that's it," said he, in somewhat of confusion; "i always thought they selected old sergeants en retraite, worn out veterans, and wounded fellows, for riding-school duty." "most of ours are such," said i, my shame increasing at every word--"but somehow they chose me also, and i had no will in the matter--" "no will in the matter, parbleu! and why not? every man in france has a right to meet the enemy in the field. thou art a soldier, a hussar of the th, a brave and gallant corps, and art to be told, that thy comrades have the road to fame and honor open to them; while thou art to mope away life like an invalided drummer? it is too gross an indignity, my boy, and must not be borne. away with you to-morrow at day-break to the 'etat major,' ask to see the commandant. you're in luck, too, for our colonel is with him now, and he is sure to back your request. say that you served in the school to oblige your superiors; but that you can not see all chances of distinction lost to you forever, by remaining there. they've given you no grade yet, i see," continued he, looking at my arm. "none: i am still a private." "and _i_ a sous-lieutenant, just because i have been where powder was flashing! you can ride well, of course?" "i defy the wildest limousin to shake me in my saddle." "and as a swordsman, what are you?" "gros jean calls me his best pupil." "ah, true! you have gros jean here; the best 'sabreur' in france! and here you are--a horseman, and one of gros jean's 'eléves'--rotting away life in nancy! have you any friends in the service?" "not one." "not one! nor relations, nor connections?" "none. i am irish by descent. my family are only french by one generation." "irish? ah! that's lucky too," said he. "our colonel is an irishman. his name is mahon. you're certain of getting your leave now. i'll present you to him to-morrow. we are to halt two days here, and before that is over, i hope you'll have made your last caracole in the riding-school of nancy." "but remember," cried i, "that although irish by family, i have never been there. i know nothing of either the people or the language; and do not present me to the general as his countryman." "i'll call you by your name, as a soldier of the th hussars; and leave you to make out your claim as countrymen, if you please, together." this course was now agreed upon, and after some further talking, my friend, refusing all my offers of a bed, coolly wrapped his cloak about him, and, with his head on the table, fell fast asleep, long before i had ceased thinking over his stories and his adventures in camp and battle-field. chapter viii. "tronchon." my duties in the riding-school were always over before mid-day, and as noon was the hour appointed by the young lieutenant to present me to his colonel, i was ready by that time, and anxiously awaiting his arrival. i had done my best to smarten up my uniform, and make all my accoutrements bright and glistening. my scabbard was polished like silver, the steel front on my shako shone like a mirror, and the tinsel lace of my jacket had undergone a process of scrubbing and cleaning that threatened its very existence. my smooth chin and beardless upper lip, however, gave me a degree of distress, that all other deficiencies failed to inflict: i can dare to say, that no mediæval gentleman's bald spot ever cost _him_ one half the misery, as did my lack of mustache occasion _me_. "a hussar without beard, as well without spurs or sabretasche;" a tambour major without his staff, a cavalry charger without a tail, couldn't be more ridiculous: and there was that old sergeant of the riding-school, "tronchon," with a beard that might have made a mattress! how the goods of this world are unequally distributed! thought i; still why might he not spare me a little--a very little would suffice--just enough to give the "air hussar" to my countenance. he's an excellent creature; the kindest old fellow in the world. i'm certain he'd not refuse me; to be sure the beard is a red one, and pretty much like bell-wire in consistence; no matter, better that than this girlish smooth chin i now wear. tronchon was spelling out the _moniteur's_ account of the italian campaign as i entered his room, and found it excessively difficult to get back from the alps and apennines to the humble request i preferred. "poor fellows," muttered he, "four battles in seven days, without stores of any kind, or rations--almost without bread; and here comest thou, whining because thou hasn't a beard." "if i were not a hussar--" "bah!" said he, interrupting, "what of that? where should'st thou have had thy baptism of blood, boy? art a child, nothing more." "i shared my quarters last night with one, not older, tronchon, and _he_ was an officer, and had seen many a battle-field." "i know that, too," said the veteran, with an expression of impatience, "that general bonaparte will give every boy his epaulets, before an old and tried soldier." "it was not bonaparte. it was--" "i care not who promoted the lad; the system is just the same with them all. it is no longer, 'where have you served? what have you seen?' but, 'can you read glibly? can you write faster than speak? have you learned to take towns upon paper, and attack a breast-work with a rule and a pair of compasses!' this is what they called 'la génie,' 'la génie!' ha! ha! ha!" cried he, laughing heartily; "that's the name old women used to give the devil when i was a boy." it was with the greatest difficulty i could get him back from these disagreeable reminiscences to the object of my visit, and, even then, i could hardly persuade him that i was serious in asking the loan of a beard. the prayer of my petition being once understood, he discussed the project gravely enough; but to my surprise he was far more struck by the absurd figure he should cut with his diminished mane, than i with my mock mustache. "there's not a child in nancy won't laugh at me--they'll cry, 'there goes old tronchon--he's like klaber's charger, which the german cut the tail off to make a shako plume!'" i assured him that he might as well pretend to miss one tree in the forest of "fontainebleu"--that after furnishing a squadron like myself, his would be still the first beard in the republic; and at last he yielded, and gave in. never did a little damsel of the nursery array her doll with more delighted looks, and gaze upon her handiwork with more self-satisfaction, than did old tronchon survey me, as, with the aid of a little gum, he decorated my lip with a stiff line of his iron red beard. "diantre!" cried he, in ecstasy, "if thou ben't something like a man, after all. who would have thought it would have made such a change? thou might pass for one that saw real smoke and real fire, any day, lad. ay! thou hast another look in thine eye, and another way to carry thy head, now! trust me, thou'lt look a different fellow on the left of the squadron." i began to think so, too, as i looked at myself in the small triangle of a looking-glass, which decorated tronchon's wall, under a picture of kellerman, his first captain. i fancied that the improvement was most decided. i thought that, bating a little over-ferocity, a something verging upon the cruel, i was about as perfect a type of the hussar as need be. my jacket seemed to fit tighter--my pelisse hung more jauntily--my shako sat more saucily on one side of my head--my sabre banged more proudly against my boot--my very spurs jangled with a pleasanter music--and all because a little hair bristled over my lip, and curled in two spiral flourishes across my cheek! i longed to see the effect of my changed appearance, as i walked down the "place carrière," or sauntered into the café where my comrades used to assemble. what will mademoiselle josephine say, thought i, as i ask for my "petit vèrre," caressing my mustache thus! not a doubt of it, what a fan is to a woman, a beard is to a soldier! a something to fill up the pauses in conversation, by blandly smoothing with the finger, or fiercely curling at the point! "and so thou art going to ask for thy grade, maurice?" broke in tronchon, after a long silence. "not at all. i am about to petition for employment upon active service. i don't seek promotion till i have deserved it." "better still, lad. i was eight years myself in the ranks before they gave me the stripe on my arm. parbleu! the germans had given me some three or four with the sabre before that time." "do you think they'll refuse me, tronchon?" "not if thou go the right way about it, lad. thou mustn't fancy it's like asking leave from the captain to spend the evening in a guinguette, or to go to the play with thy sweetheart. no, no, boy. it must be done 'en regle.' thou'lt have to wait on the general at his quarters at four o'clock, when he 'receives,' as they call it. thou'lt be there, mayhap, an hour, ay, two, or three belike, and after all, perhaps, won't see him that day at all! i was a week trying to catch kellerman, and, at last, he only spoke to me going down stairs with his staff. "'eh, tronchon, another bullet in thy old carcass; want a furlough to get strong again, eh?' "'no, colonel; all sound this time. i want to be a sergeant--i'm twelve years and four months corporal.' "'slow work, too,' said he, laughing, 'ain't it, charles?' and he pinched one of his young officers by the cheek. 'let old tronehon have his grade; and i say, my good fellow,' said he to me, 'don't come plaguing me any more about promotion, till i'm general of division. you hear that?' "well, he's got his step since; but i never teased him after." "and why so, tronchon?" said i. "i'll tell thee, lad," whispered he, in a low, confidential tone, as if imparting a secret well worth the hearing. "they can find fellows every day fit for lieutenants and chefs d'escadron. parbleu! they meet with them in every café, in every 'billiard' you enter; but a sergeant, maurice, one that drills his men on parade--can dress them like a wall--see that every kit is well packed, and every cartouch well filled--who knows every soul in his company as he knows the buckles of his own sword-belt--that's what one should not chance upon, in haste. it's easy enough to manoeuvre the men, maurice; but to make them, boy, to fashion the fellows so that they be like the pieces of a great machine, that's the real labor--that's soldiering, indeed." "and you say i must write a petition, tronchon?" said i, more anxious to bring him back to my own affairs, than listen to these speculations of his. "how shall i do it?" "sit down there, lad, and i'll tell thee. i've done the thing some scores of times, and know the words as well as i once knew my 'pater.' parbleu, i often wish i could remember that now, just to keep me from gloomy thoughts when i sit alone of an evening." it was not a little to his astonishment, but still more to his delight, that i told the poor fellow i could help to refresh his memory, knowing, as i did, every word of the litanies by heart; and, accordingly, it was agreed on that i should impart religious instruction, in exchange for the secular knowledge he was conferring upon me. "as for the petition," said tronchon, seating himself opposite to me at the table, "it is soon done; for, mark me, lad, these things must always be short; if thou be long-winded, they put thee away, and tell some of the clerks to look after thee--and there's an end of it. be brief, therefore, and next--be legible--write in a good, large round hand; just as, if thou wert speaking, thou wouldst talk with a fine, clear, distinct voice. well, then, begin thus, 'republic of france, one and indivisible!' make a flourish round that, lad, as if it came freely from the pen. when a man writes 'france!' he should do it as he whirls his sabre round his head in a charge! ay, just so." "i'm ready, tronchon, go on." "'mon general!' nay, nay--general mustn't be as large as france--yes, that's better. 'the undersigned, whose certificates of service and conduct are herewith inclosed.'" "stay, stop a moment, tronchon; don't forget that i have got neither one or t'other." "no matter; i'll make thee out both. where was i? ay, 'herewith inclosed; and whose wounds, as the accompanying report will show--'" "wounds! i never received one." "no matter, i'll--eh--what? feu d'enfer! how stupid i am! what have i been thinking of? why, boy, it was a sick-furlough i was about to ask for; the only kind of petition i have ever had to write in a life long." "and _i_ am asking for active service." "ha! that came without asking for in my case." "then, what's to be done, tronchon? clearly, this won't do!" he nodded sententiously an assent, and, after a moment's rumination, said, "it strikes me, lad, there can be no need of begging for that which usually comes unlooked for; but if thou don't choose to wait for thy billet for t'other world, but must go and seek it, the best way will be to up and tell the general as much." "that was exactly my intention." "if he asks thee 'canst ride?' just say, 'old tronchon taught me;' he'll be one of the young hands, indeed, if he don't know that name! and mind, lad, have no whims or caprices about whatever service he names thee for, even were't the infantry itself! it's a hard word, that! i know it well! but a man must make up his mind for any thing and every thing. wear any coat, go any where, face any enemy thou'rt ordered, and have none of those new-fangled notions about this general, or that army. be a good soldier, and a good comrade. share thy kit and thy purse to the last sous, for it will not only be generous in thee, but that so long as thou hoardest not, thou'lt never be over eager for pillage. mind these things, and with a stout heart and a sharp sabre, maurice, 'tu ira loin.' yes, i tell thee again, lad, 'tu ira loin'." i give these three words as he said them, for they have rung in my ears throughout all my life long. in moments of gratified ambition, in the glorious triumph of success, they have sounded to me like the confirmed predictions of one who foresaw my elevation, in less prosperous hours. when fortune has looked dark and louring, they have been my comforter and support, telling me not to be downcast or depressed, that the season of sadness would soon pass away, and the road to fame and honor again open before me. "you really think so, tronchon? you think that i shall be something yet?' "'tu ira loin,' i say," repeated he emphatically, and with the air of an oracle who would not suffer further interrogation. i therefore shook his hand cordially, and set out to pay my visit to the general. (_to be continued.)_ [from the london eclectic review.] have great poets become impossible?[ ] "poetry is declining--poetry is being extinguished--poetry is extinct. to talk of poetry now is eccentricity--to write it is absurdity--to publish it is moonstruck madness." so the changes are rung. now, it is impossible to deny that what is called poetry has become a drug, a bore, and nuisance, and that the name "poet," as commonly applied, is at present about the shabbiest in the literary calendar. but we are far from believing that poetry is extinct. we entertain, on the contrary, sanguine hopes of its near and glorious resurrection. soon do we hope to hear those tones of high melody, which are now like the echoes of forgotten thunder: "from land to land re-echoed solemnly, till silence become music." we expect, about the very time, when the presumption against the revivication of poetry shall have attained the appearance of absolute certainty, to witness a tenth avatar of genius--and to witness its effect, too, upon the sapient personages who had been predicting that it was forever departed. but this, it seems, is "not a poetical age." for our parts, we know not what age has not been poetical--in what age have not existed all the elements of poetry, been developed all its passions, and been heard many of its tones. "were the dark ages poetical?" it will be asked. yes, for then, as now, there was pathos--there was passion--there were hatred, revenge, love, grief, despair, religion. wherever there is the fear of death and of judgment, there is, and must be poetry--and when was that feeling more intensely developed than during that dim period? the victims of a spell are objects of poetical interest. here was a strong spell, embracing a world. was no arm during the dark ages bared aloft in defense of outraged innocence? or was no head then covered with the snows of a hundred winters, through one midnight despair? was the voice of prayer then stifled throughout europe's hundred lands? was the mighty heart of man--the throbbing of which is just poetry, then utterly silent? but it was not expressed! we maintain, on the contrary, that it was--expressed at the time, in part by monks, and scalds, and orators, and expressed afterward in the glad energy of the spring which human nature made from its trance, into new life and motion. the elements of poetry had been accumulating in secret. the renovation of letters merely opened a passage for what had been struggling for vent. what is dante's work but a beautiful incarnation of the spirit of the middle ages? his passion is that of a sublimated inquisitor. his "inferno" is such a dream as might have been dreamed by a poet monk, whose body had been macerated by austerities, and whose spirit had been darkened by long broodings on the fate of the victims of perdition. it is the poetical part of the passion of those ages of darkness finding a full voice--an eternal echo. and it was not in vain that so deep had been the slumber, when such had been its visions. there is a grandeur about any passion when carried to excess. superstition, therefore, became the inspiration of one of the greatest productions of the universe. dante was needed precisely when he appeared. the precise quantity of poetical material to answer the ends of a great original poet was accumulated; and the mighty florentine, when he rose, became the mouth-piece and oracle of his age and of its cognate ages past--the exact index of all that redeemed, animated, excited, or adorned them. the crusades, too, were another proof that the slumber in which europe had been buried was not absolutely and altogether that of stupor or death. they occurred after the noon of that period we usually denominate dark. but they were the realization of a dream which had often passed through the monkish heart--the embodiment, of a wish which had often brought tears into the eyes of genuine enthusiasts. there was, surely, as much sublimity in the first conception as in the execution. what indeed were the crusades, but the means of bringing to light, feelings, desires, passions, a lofty disinterested heroism, which the very depth of the former darkness had tended to foster and fire? if the dark ages had thus their poetical tendencies, climbing toward a full poetic expression, surely no age need or can be destitute of theirs--need or can be called unpoetical. but the misfortune is, that men will not look at the essential poetry which is lying around them, and under their feet. they suppose their age to be unpoetical, merely because they grapple not with its great excitements, nor will venture to sail upon its "mighty stream of tendency." they overlook the volcano in the next mountain--while admiring or deploring those which have been extinct for centuries, or which are a thousand miles away. they are afraid that if they catch the spirit of their age in verse, they will give it a temporary stamp; and therefore they either abstain from writing, and take to abusing the age on which they have unluckily fallen, or else come to the same resolution after an unsuccessful attempt to revive faded stimulants. dante embodied, for instance, his countrymen's rude conception of future punishment--and he did well. but our modern religious poets have never ventured to meddle with those moral aspects of the subject which have now so generally supplanted the material. they talk instead, with pollok, of the "rocks of dark damnation," or outrage common sense by such barbarous mis-creations as he has sculptured on the gate of hell, and think they have written an "inferno," or that, if they have failed, it is because their age is not poetical. indeed, the least poetry is sometimes written in the most poetical ages. men, when acting poetry, have little time either to write or to read it. there was less poetry written in the age of charles i., than in that which preceded it, and more poetry enacted. but the majority of men only listen to the reverberations of emotion in song. they sympathize not with poetry, but with poets. and, therefore, when a cluster of poets die, or are buried before they be dead, they chant dirges over the death of poetry--as if it ever did or ever could die! as if its roots, which are just the roots of the human soul, were perishable--as if, especially when a strong current of excitement was flowing, it were not plain, that there was a poetry which should, in due time, develop its own masters to record and prolong it forever. surely, as long as the grass is green and the sky is blue, as long as man's heart is warm and woman's face is fair, poetry, like seed-time and harvest, like summer and winter shall not cease. there was little poetry, some people think, about england's civil war, because the leader of one party was a red-nosed fanatic. they, for their part, cannot extract poetry from a red nose; but they are in raptures with milton. fools! but for that civil war, its high and solemn excitement, the deeds and daring of that red-nosed fanatic, would the "paradise lost" ever have been written, or written as it has been? that stupendous edifice of genius seems cemented by the blood of naseby and of marston moor. such persons, too, see little that is poetical in the american struggle--no mighty romance in tumbling a few chests of tea into the atlantic. washington they think insipid; and because america has produced hitherto no great poet, its whole history they regard as a gigantic commonplace--thus ignoring the innumerable deeds of derring-do which distinguished that immortal contest--blinding their eyes to the "lines of empire" in the "infant face of that cradled hercules," and the tremendous sprawlings of his nascent strength--and seeking to degrade those forests into whose depths a path for the sunbeams must be hewn, and where, lightning appears to enter trembling, and to withdraw in haste; forests which must one day drop down a poet, whose genius shall be worthy of their age, their vastitude, the beauty which they inclose, and the load of grandeur below which they bend. nor, to the vulgar eye, does there seem much poetry in the french revolution, though it was the mightiest tide of human passion which ever boiled and raved: a great deal, doubtless, in burke's "reflections"--but none in the cry of a liberated people, which was heard in heaven--none in the fall of the bastile--none in danton's giant figure, nor in charlotte corday's homicide--nor in madame roland's scaffold speeches, immortal though they be as the stars of heaven--nor in the wild song of the six hundred marseillese, marching northward "to die." the age of the french revolution was proved to be a grand and spirit-stirring age by its after results--by bringing forth its genuine poet-children--its byrons and shelleys--but needed not this late demonstration of its power and tendencies. surely our age, too, abounds in the elements of poetical excitement, awaiting; only fit utterance. the harvest is rich and ripe--and nothing now is wanting but laborers to put in the sickle. _special_ objections might indeed, and have been taken, to the poetical character of our time, which we may briefly dispose of before enumerating the qualities which a new and great poet, aspiring to be the poet of the age, must possess, and inquiring how far mr. s. yendys exhibits those qualities in this very remarkable first effort, "the roman." "it is a mechanical age," say some. to use shakspeare's words, "he is a mechanical salt-butter rogue who says so." men use more machines than formerly, but are not one whit more machines themselves. was james watt an automaton? has the press become less an object of wonder or terror since it was worked by steam? how sublime was the stoppage of a mail as the index of rebellion. luther's bible was printed by a machine. the organ is a machine--and not the roar of a lion in a midnight forest is more sublime, or a fitter reply from earth to the thunder. the railway carriages of this mechanical age are the conductors of the fire of intellect and passion--and its steamboats may be loaded with thunderbolts, as well as with bullocks or yarn. the great american ship is but a machine; and yet how poetical it becomes, as it walks the waters of the summer sea, or wrestles, like a demon of kindred power, with the angry billows. mechanism, indeed, may be called the short-hand of poetry, concentrating its force and facilitating its operations. but this is an "age too late." so doubted milton, while the shadow of shakspeare had scarce left the earth, and while he himself was writing the greatest epic the world ever saw. and so any one may say, provided he does not mutilate or restrain his genius in consequence. we have reason to bless providence that milton did not act upon his hasty peradventure. but some will attempt to prove its truth, by saying that the field of poetry is limited--that the first cultivators will probably exhaust it, and that, in fact, a decline in poetry has been observed--the first poets being uniformly the best. but we deny that the field of poetry is limited. that is nature and the deep heart of man; or, more correctly, the field of poetry is human nature, and the external universe, multiplied indefinitely by the imagination. this, surely, is a wide enough territory. where shall poetry, if sent forth like noah's dove, fail to find a resting-place? each new fact in the history of man and nature is a fact for _it_--suited to its purposes, and awaiting its consecration. "the great writers have exhausted it." true, they have exhausted, speaking generally, the topics they have handled. few will think of attempting the "fall of man" after milton--and dryden and galt, alone, have dared, to their own disgrace, to burst within shakspeare's magic circle. but the great poets have not verily occupied the entire field of poetry--have not counted all the beatings of the human heart--have not lighted on all those places whence poetry, like water from the smitten rock, rushes at the touch of genius--have not exhausted all the "riches fineless" which garnish the universe--nay, they have multiplied them infinitely, and shed on them a deeper radiance. the more poetry there is, the more there must be. a good criticism on a great poem becomes a poem itself. it is the essence of poetry to increase and multiply--to create an echo and shadow of its own power, even as the voice of the cataract summons the spirits of the wilderness to return it in thunder. as truly say that storms can exhaust the sky, as that poems can exhaust the blue dome of poesy. we doubt, too, the dictum that the earliest poets are uniformly the best. who knows not that many prefer eschylus to homer; and many, virgil to lucretius; and many, milton to shakspeare; and that a nation sets goethe above all men, save shakspeare; and has not the toast been actually given, "to the two greatest of poets--shakspeare and _byron_?" to settle the endless questions connected with such a topic by any dogmatical assertion of the superiority of early poets, is obviously impossible. but "the age will not now read poetry." true, it will not read whatever bears the name it will not read nursery themes; nor tenth-rate imitations of tenth-rate imitations of byron, scott, or wordsworth; nor the effusions either of mystical cant, or of respectable commonplace; nor yet very willingly the study-sweepings of reputed men, who deem, in their complacency, that the world is gaping for the rinsings of their intellect. but it will read genuine poetry, if it be accommodated to the wants of the age, and if it be fairly brought before it. "vain to cast pearls before swine!" cast down the pearls before you call the men of the age swine. in truth, seldom had a true and new poet a fairer field, or the prospect of a wider favor, than at this very time. the age remembers that many of those poets it now delights to honor, were at first received with obloquy or neglect. it is not so likely to renew the disgraceful sin, since it recollects the disgraceful repentance. it is becoming wide awake, and is ready to recognize every symptom of original power. the reviews and literary journals are still, indeed, comparatively an unfair medium; but, by their multitude and their contradictions, have neutralized each other's power, and rendered the public less willing and less apt to be bullied or blackguarded out of its senses. were hazlitt alive now, and called, by any miserable scribbler in the "athenæum" or "spectator," a dunce, he could laugh in his face; instead of retiring as he did, perhaps hunger-bitten, to bleed out his heart's blood in secret. were shelley now called in "blackwood" a madman, and keats a mannikin, they would be as much disturbed by it as the moon at the baying of a lapland wolf. the good old art, in short, of writing an author up or down, is dying hard, but dying fast; and the public is beginning to follow the strange new fashion of discarding its timid, or truculent, or too-much-seasoned tasters, and judging for itself. we have often imaged to ourselves the rapture with which a poet, of proper proportions and due culture, if writing in his age's spirit, would be received in an age when the works of coleridge, and wordsworth, and keats, are so widely read and thoroughly appreciated. he would find it "all ear." great things, however, must be done by the man who cherishes this high ambition. he must not only be at once a genius and an artist, but his art and his genius must be proportioned, with chemical exactness, to each other. he must not only be a poet, but have a distinct mission and message, savoring of the prophetic--he must say as well as sing. he must use his poetic powers as wonders attesting the purpose for which he speaks--not as mere bravados of ostentatious power. he must, while feeling the beauty, the charm, and the meaning of mysticism, stand above it, on a clear and sun-lighted peak, and incline _rather_ to the classical and masculine, than to the abstract and transcendental. his genius should be less epic and didactic, than lyrical and popular. he should be not so much the homer as the tyrtæus of this strange time. he should have sung over to himself the deep controversies of his age, and sought to reduce them into an unique and intelligible harmony. into scales of doubt, equally balanced, he should be ready to throw his lyre, as a makeweight. not a partisan either of the old or the new, he should seek to set in song the numerous points in which they agree, and strive to produce a glorious synthesis between them. he should stand (as on a broad platform) on the identity and eternity of all that is good and true--on the fact that "faiths never die, but are only translated"--on the fact that beauty physical and beauty moral are in heart the same; and that christianity, as rightly understood, is at once the root and the flower of all truth--and, standing on this, should sing his fearless strains to the world. he should have a high idea of his art--counting it a lower inspiration, a sacred trust, a minor grace--a plant from a seed originally dropped out of the paradise of god! he should find in it a work, and not a recreation--an affair of life, not of moments of leisure. and while appealing, by his earnestness, his faith, his holiness, his genius, to the imagination, the heart, and the conscience of man, he should possess, or attain to, the mechanical ingenuity that can satisfy man's constructive understanding, the elegance that can please his sensuous taste, the fluency that can blend ease with instruction, and the music that can touch through the ear the inner springs of his being. heart and genius, art and nature, sympathy with man and god, love of the beautiful apparition of the universe, and of that divine halo of christianity which surrounds its head, must be united in our poet. he should conjoin byron's energy--better controlled; shelley's earnestness--better instructed; keats's sensibility--guarded and armed; wordsworth's christianized love of nature; and coleridge's christianized view of philosophy--to his own fancy, language, melody, and purpose; a lofty ideal of man the spirit, to a deep sympathy with man the worm, toiling, eating, drinking, struggling, falling, rising, and progressing, amidst his actual environments; and become the magnus apollo of our present age. perhaps we have fixed the standard too high, and forced a renewal of the exclamation in rasselas, "thou hast convinced me that no man can ever be a poet"--or, at least, the poet thus described. but nothing, we are persuaded, is in the imagination which may not be in the fact. had we defined a shakspeare ere he arose, "impossible" had been the cry. it must, too, be conceded that hitherto we have no rising, or nearly-risen poet, who answers fully to our ideal. macaulay and aytoun are content with being brilliant ballad-singers--they never seek to touch the deeper spiritual chords of our being. tennyson's exquisite genius is neutralized, whether by fastidiousness of taste or by morbidity of temperament--neutralized, we mean, so far as great future achievements are concerned. emerson's undisguised pantheism casts a cold shade over his genius and his poetry. there is something odd, mystical, and shall we say affected, about both the brownings, which mars their general effect--the wine is good, but the shape of the cyathus is deliberately _queer_. samuel brown is devoted to other pursuits. marston's very elegant, refined, and accomplished mind, lacks, perhaps, enough of the manly, the forceful, and the profound. bailey of "festus," and yendys of the poem before us, are the most likely candidates for the vacant laurel. that bailey's _genius_ is all that need be desired in the "coming poet," will be contested by few who have read and wondered at "festus"--at its fire of speech, its force of sentiment, its music of sound, its californian wealth of golden imagery; the infinite variety of its scenes, speeches, and songs; the spirit of reverence which underlies all its liberties, errors, and extravagances; and the originality which, like the air of a mountain summit, renders its perusal at first difficult, and almost deadly, but at last excites and elevates to absolute intoxication. it has, however, been objected to it, that it seems an exhaustion of the author's mind--that its purposeless, planless shape betrays a lack of constructive power--that it becomes almost polemical in its religious aspect, and gives up to party what was meant for mankind--that it betrays a tendency toward obscure, mystical raptures and allegorizings, scarcely consistent with healthy manhood of mind, and which seems _growing_, as is testified by the "angel world"--that there is a great gulf between the powers it indicates, and the task of leading the age--and that, on the whole, it is rather a prodigious comet in the poetical heavens, than either a still, calm luminary, or even the curdling of a future fair creation. admitting the force of much of this criticism, and that bailey's art and aptitude to teach are unequal to his native power and richness of mind, we are still willing to wait for a production more matured than "festus," and less fragmentary and dim than the "angel world;" and till then, must waive our judgment as to whether on his head the laurel crown is transcendently to flourish. but meanwhile a young voice has suddenly been uplifted from a provincial town in england, crying, "hear me--i also am a poet; i aspire, too, to prove myself worthy of being a teacher i aim at no middle flight, but commit myself at once to high, difficult, and daring song, and that, too, of varied kinds." nor has the voice been despised or disregarded. some of the most fastidious of critical journals have already waxed enthusiastic in his praise. many fine spirits, both young and old, have welcomed him with acclamation, as his own hero was admitted, for the sake of one song, into the society of a band of experienced bards. even the few who deny--unjustly and captiously, as it appears to us--the artistic, admit the poetical merit of his work and we have now before us, not the miserable drudgery of weighing a would-be poet, but the nobler duty of inquiring how far a man of undoubted genius, and great artistic skill, is likely to fulfill the high-raised expectations of the period. the scene of the "roman" is in italy. the hero is a patriot, filled and devoured by a love for the liberation of italy, and for the re-establishment of the ancient roman republic--"one, entire, and indivisible." to promote this purpose, he assumes the disguise of a monk; and the history of his progress--addressing now little groups, now single individuals, and now large multitudes of men--at one time captivating, unwittingly, a young and enthusiastic lady, by the fervor of his eloquence, who delivers him from death by suicide--and at another, shaking the walls of his dungeon, through the power and grandeur of his predictions and dreams--till at last, as, after the mockery of a trial, he is led forth to death, he hears the shout of his country, rising _en masse_--is the whole story of the piece. but around this slender thread, the author has strung some of the largest, richest, and most resplendent gems of poetry we have seen for years. let us present our readers with a few passages, selected almost at random. take the "song of the dancers" for its music: "_dancers._ sing lowly, foot slowly, oh, why should we chase the hour that gives heaven to this earthly embrace? to-morrow, to-morrow, is dreary and lonely; then love as they love who would live to love only! closer yet, eyes of jet--breasts fair and sweet! no eyes flash like those eyes that flash as they meet! weave brightly, wear lightly, the warm-woven chain, love on for to-night if we ne'er love again. fond youths! happy maidens! we are not alone! bright steps and sweet voices keep pace with our own, love-lorn lusignuolo, the soft-sighing breeze, the rose with the zephyr, the wind with the trees. while heaven blushing pleasure, is full of love notes, soft down the sweet measure the fairy world floats." p. i, . take the monk's appeal to his "mother, italy," for its eloquence: "by thine eternal youth, and coeternal utterless dishonor-- past, present, future, life and death, all oaths which may bind earth and heaven, mother, i swear it we know we have dishonored thee. we know all thou canst tell the angels. at thy feet, the feet where kings have trembled, we confess, and weep; and only bid thee live, my mother, to see how we can die. thou shalt be free! by all our sins, and all thy wrongs, we swear it we swear it, mother, by the thousand omens that heave this pregnant time. tempests for whom the alps lack wombs--quick earthquakes--hurricanes that moan and chafe, and thunder for the light, and must be native here. hark, hark, the angel! i see the birthday in the imminent skies! clouds break in fire. earth yawns. the exulting thunder shouts havoc to the whirlwinds. and men hear amid the terrors of consenting storms, floods, rocking worlds, mad seas, and rending mountains, above the infinite clash, one long great cry, thou shalt be free!" p. , . take the few lines about "truth," for their depth: "truth is the equal sun, ripening no less the hemlock than the vine. truth is the flash that turns aside no more for castle than for cot. truth is a spear thrown by the blind. truth is a nemesis which leadeth her belovèd by the hand through all things; giving him no task to break a bruisèd reed, but bidding him stand firm though she crush worlds." p. , . take, for its harrowing power, blended with beauty, the description of a "lost female," symbolizing the degradation of italy, and addressed to the heroine of the tale: "or, oh, prince's daughter, if in some proud street, leaning 'twixt night and day from out thy palace balcony to meet the breeze--that tempted by the hush of eve, steals from the fields about a city's shows, and like a lost child, scared with wondering, flies, from side to side in touching trust and terror, crying sweet country names and dropping flowers-- leaning to meet that breeze, and looking down to the so silent city, if below, with dress disordered, and disheveled passions streaming from desperate eyes that flash and flicker like corpse-lights (eyes that once were known on high morning and night, as welcome there as thine), and brow of trodden snow, and form majestic that might have walked unchallenged through the skies. and reckless feet, fitful with wine and woe, and songs of revel that fall dead about her ruined beauty--sadder than a wail-- (as if the sweet maternal eve for pity took out the joy, and, with a blush of twilight, uncrowned the bacchanal)--some outraged sister passeth, be patient, think upon yon heaven, where angels hail the magdalen, look down upon that life in death, and say, 'my country!'" p. . take, for its wondrous pathos and truth, the description of "infancy:" "thou little child, thy mother's joy, thy father's hope--thou bright pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their gladness-- thou little potentate of love, who comest with solemn sweet dominion to the old, who see thee in thy merry fancies charged with the grave embassage of that dear past, when they were young like thee--thou vindication of god--thou living witness against all men who have been babes--thou everlasting promise which no man keeps--thou portrait of our nature, which in despair and pride we scorn and worship." p. , . but time would fail us to quote, or even indicate a tithe of the beautiful, melting, and magnificent passages in this noble "roman." we would merely request the reader's attention to the whole of the sixth scene; to the ballad, a most exquisite and pathetic one, entitled the "winter's night;" to the "vision of quirinus," a piece of powerful and condensed imagination; and, best of all, to the "dream of the coliseum," in scene viii.--a dream which will not suffer by comparison with that of sardanapalus. but it is not the brilliance of occasional parts and passages alone, which justifies us in pronouncing the "roman" an extraordinary production. we look at it as a whole, and thus regarding it, we find--first, a wondrous freedom from faults, major or minor, juvenile or non-juvenile; wondrous, inasmuch as the author is still very young, not many years, indeed, in advance of his majority. there is exaggeration, we grant, in passages, but it is exaggeration as essential to the circumstances and the characters as lear's insane language is to his madness, or othello's turbid tide of figures to his jealousy. the hero--an enthusiast--speaks always in enthusiastic terms; but of extravagance we find little, and of absurdity or affectation none. diffusion there is, but it is often the beautiful diffusion of one who dallies with beloved thoughts, and will not let them go till they have told him all that is in their heart. and ever and anon we meet with strong single lines and separate sentences, containing truth and fancy concentrated as "lion's marrow." take a few specimens. of italy he says: "she wraps the purple round her outraged breast, and even in fetters cannot be a slave." again, she "stands menacled before the world, and bears two hemispheres--innumerable wrongs, illimitable glories." "the soul never can twice be virgin--the eye that strikes upon the hidden path to the unseen is henceforth for two worlds." "to both worlds --the inner and the outer--we come naked, the very noblest heart on earth, hath oft no better lot than _to deserve_." "before every man the world of beauty, like a great artist, standeth night and day with patient hand retouching in the heart god's defaced image." "rude heaps that had been cities clad the ground with history." "strange fragments of forms once held divine, and still, _like angels_, _immortal every where_." "the poet, in some rapt moment of intense attendance, the skies being genial, and the earthly air propitious, catches on the inward ear the awful and unutterable meanings of a divine soliloquy." "the very stars themselves are nearer to us than to-morrow." "the great man ... is set among us pigmies, with a heavenlier stature, and brighter face than ours, that we must _leap_ _even to smite it._" "great merchants, men who dealt in kingdoms; ruddy aruspex, and pale philosopher, who bent beneath the keys of wisdom." "the coliseum ... stood out dark with thoughts of ages: like some mighty captive upon his death-bed in a christian land, and lying, through the chant of psalm and creed unshriven and stern, with peace upon his brow, and on his lips strange gods." our readers must perceive from such extracts, that our author belongs more to the masculine than to the mystic school. deep in thought, he is clear in language and in purpose. since byron's dramas, we have seldom had such fiery and vigorous verse. he blends the strong with the tender, in natural and sweet proportions. his genius, too, vaults into the lyric motion with very great ease and mastery. he is a minstrel as well as a bard, and has shown power over almost every form of lyrical composition. his sentiment is clear without being commonplace, original, yet not extravagant, and betokens, as well as his style, a masculine health, maturity, and completeness, rarely to be met with in a first attempt. above all, his tone of mind, while sympathizing to rapture with the liberal progress of the age, is that of one who feels the eternal divinity and paramount power of the christian religion; that what god has once pronounced true can never become a lie; that what was once really alive may change, but can never die; that christianity is a fact, great, real, and permanent, as birth or death; and that its seeming decay is only the symptom that it is putting off the old skin, and about to renew its mighty youth. we have thus found many, if not all, the qualities of our ideal poet united in the author of the "roman," and are not ashamed to say that we expect more from him than from any other of our rising "sons of the morning." but he must work and walk worthy of his high vocation, and of the hopes which now lie upon him--hopes which must either be the ribbons of his crown or the cords of his sacrifice. he must discard his tendency to diffusion, and break in that demon-steed of eloquence, who sometimes is apt to run away with him. he must give us next, not scattered scenes, but a whole epic, the middle of which shall be as obvious as the beginning or the end. he should, in his next work, seek less to please, startle, or gain an audience, than to tell them in thunder and in music what they ought to believe and to do. thus acting, he may "fill his crescent-sphere;" revive the power and glory of song; give voice to a great dumb struggle in the mind of the age; rescue the lyre from the camp of the philistines, where it has been but too long detained; and render possible the hope, that the day shall come when again, as formerly, the names "of poet and of prophet are the same." footnotes: [ ] the roman: a dramatic poem. by sydney yendys. london: rantley, . [from sharpe's london magazine.] recollections of thomas campbell. in his intercourse with society, campbell was a shrewd observer of those often contradictory elements of which it is composed. adverting to the absurd and ludicrous, he had the art or talent of heightening their effect by touches peculiarly his own; while the quiet gravity with which he related his personal anecdotes or adventures, added greatly to the charm, and often threw his unsuspecting hearers into uncontrollable fits of laughter. nor was the _pathos_ with which he dilated on some tale of human misery less captivating; it runs through all his poetry, and in hearing or relating a story of human wrongs or suffering, we have often seen him affected to tears, which he vainly strove to conceal by an abrupt transition to some ludicrous incident in his own personal history. as an example, which has not yet found its way to the public, we may relate the following, which he told one evening in our little domestic circle where he was a frequent visitor, and where the conversation had taken, as he thought, a somewhat too serious turn: "in my early life, when i resided in the island of mull, most of those old feudal customs which civilization had almost banished from the lowlands, were still religiously observed in the hebrides--more especially those of a social and festive character, which it was thought had the effect of keeping up old acquaintance, and of tightening the bonds of good fellowship. rural weddings and "roaring wakes" were then occasions for social rendezvous, which were not to be overlooked. both these ceremonies were accompanied by feasting, music, dancing, and that liberal enjoyment of the native _browst_ which was too often carried to excess. i was in general a willing and a welcome guest at these doings; for, smitten as i often was with melancholy in this dreary solitude, i was glad to avail myself of any occasion that promised even temporary exhilaration. well, the first of these meetings at which i was present one evening, happened to be a _dredgee_, a term which i need only explain, by saying that it was got up for the sake of a young widow, who had just put on her weeds, and stood much in need of friendly sympathy, and consolation. at first it was rather a dull affair, for the widow looked very disconsolate, and every look of her fair face was contagious. but as the _quaigh_ was active, and the whisky went its frequent round, the circle became more lively; until at last, to my utter astonishment, the bagpipes were introduced; and after a _coronach_ or so--just to quiet the spirit of their departed host--up started a couple of dancers, and began jigging it over the floor with all the grace and agility peculiar to my hebridean friends. this movement was infectious: another and another couple started up--reel followed upon reel, until the only parties who had resisted the infection," continued the poet, "were the widow and myself, she, oppressed with her own private sorrow, and i, restrained by feelings of courtesy from quitting her side. i observed, however, that she 'kept time' with her hand--all unconsciously, no doubt--against the bench where we sat, while her thoughts were wandering about the moorland _cairn_, which had that very morning received her husband's remains. i pitied her from my very heart. but, behold, just as i was addressing to her one of my most sympathizing looks, up came a brisk highlander, whose step and figure in the dance had excited both admiration and envy; and, making a low bow to the widow, followed by a few words of condolence, he craved the honor of her hand for the next reel. the widow, as you may well suppose, was shocked beyond measure! while i starting to my feet, made a show as if i meant to resent the insult. but she, pulling me gently back, rebuked the kilted stranger with a look, at which he instantly withdrew. in a few minutes, however, the young chieftain returned to the charge. the widow frowned, and wept, and declared that nothing on earth should ever tempt her to such a breach of decorum. but the more she frowned, the more he smiled, and pressed his suit: 'just one reel,' he repeated, 'only one! allan of mull, the best piper in the isles, was only waiting her bidding to strike up.' the plea was irresistible. 'weel, weel,' sighed the widow, rising, and giving him her hand, 'what maun be, maun be! but, hech, sirs, let it be a lightsome spring, for i hae a heavy, heavy heart!' the next minute the widow was capering away to a most 'lightsome' air--hands across--cast off--down the middle, and up again. and a merrier dredgee," concluded the poet, "was never seen in mull." on another occasion, when he presented a copy of some verses, which he had just finished, to a lady of our family, he described their origin as follows: "many long years ago, while i was sealed up in the hebrides, i became intimate with a family who had a beautiful parrot, which a young mariner had brought from south america, as a present to his sweetheart. this happened long before my arrival in mull; and poll for many years had been a much-prized and petted favorite in the household. he was a captive, to be sure, but allowed at times to be outside his cage on _parole_; and, always observing good faith and gratitude for such indulgences, they were repeated as often as appeared consistent with safe custody. the few words of gaelic which he had picked up in his voyage to the north, were just sufficient, on his arrival, to bespeak the good-will of the family, and recommend himself to their hospitality; but his vocabulary was soon increased--he became a great mimic--he could imitate the cries of every domestic animal--the voices of the servants: he could laugh, whistle, and scold, like any other biped around him. he was, in short, a match even for kelly's renowned parrot: for although he could not, or would not, sing 'god save the king,' he was a proficient in 'charlie is my darling,' and other jacobite airs, with which he never failed to regale the company, when properly introduced. "poll was indeed a remarkable specimen of his tribe, and the daily wonder of the whole neighborhood. years flew by: and although kind treatment had quite reconciled him to his cage, it could not ward off the usual effects of old age, particularly in a climate where the sun rarely penetrated within the bars of his prison. when i first saw him, his memory had greatly failed him; while his bright green plumage was vast verging into a silvery gray he had but little left of that triumphant chuckle which used to provoke such laughter among the younkers; and day after day he would sit mute and moping on his perch, seldom answering the numerous questions that were put to him regarding the cause of his malady. had any child of the family been sick, it could hardly have been treated with greater tenderness than poll. "at last, one fine morning, just as the vernal equinox had blown a few ships into harbor, a stranger was announced, and immediately recognized by the master of the house as a 'don' something--a spanish merchant, whose kindness to a young member of the family had been often mentioned in his letters from mexico. one of his own ships, a brig, in which he had made the voyage, was then in the bay, driven in by stress of weather, for mull was no market for spanish goods. but that was not my business; he would most likely pay a visit to greenock, where, in the present day at least, spanish cargoes are rife enough. "no sooner had their visitor exchanged salutations with the master of the house and his family, than the parrot caught his eye; and, going up to the cage, he addressed the aged bird in familiar spanish. the effect was electric: the poor blind captive seemed as if suddenly awakened to a new existence; he fluttered his wings in ecstasy--opened his eyes, fixed them, dim and sightless as they were, intently on the stranger; then answered him in the same speech--not an accent of which he had ever heard for twenty years. his joy was excessive--but it was very short; for in the midst of his screams and antics, poor poll dropped dead from his perch." such was the incident upon which campbell composed the little ballad entitled "the parrot." it had taken strong hold of his memory, and, after the lapse of forty years,[ ] found its way into the pages of the "new monthly," and is now incorporated with his acknowledged poems. footnotes: [ ] see "life and letters of campbell." vol. i. residence in mull. [from sharpe's london magazine.] galileo and his daughter. by j. b. i had been walking in a grove of lime-trees, arched above me, like the stately roofing of a cathedral. as i entered, the daylight was yet strong; but when i left my temporary retreat, the heavens were clustered over with stars, and one of them, high above the old gray tower of the ancient monastery of st. augustine, almost cast a shadow across the landscape--it was the planet jupiter: and i have never observed it--at least, thus eminent among its brethren--without being more or less reminded of, "the starry galileo, and his woes." to this planet did the philosopher direct the then newly-invented telescope, the result being the discovery of four attendant moons: while the analogy derived from the motions of these little stars, performing their revolutions round the primary planet in perfect order and concord, afforded an argument that had a powerful influence in confirming galileo's own views in favor of the copernican system of the universe, and ultimately converting the scientific world to the same opinion. yet little more than two centuries since, on the th february, , the astronomer, cited before the inquisition, arrived at rome, to answer the charge of heresy and blasphemy; while, a few months ago, in the brief but glorious day-burst of roman liberty, that very inquisition was invaded by an exultant populace, and among its archives, full memorials of martyred worth and of heroic endurance, most eagerly, but in vain, was sought the record of the process against the great philosopher. galileo, on a former occasion, in reference to some of his scientific discoveries, had heard rumors of papal persecution, and as a cautious friend whispered to him the unpleasing tidings, he had exclaimed, "never will i barter the freedom of my intellect to one as liable to err as myself!" the time quickly arrived to test his courage and his resolution. for a little while, we are informed, he was allowed to remain secluded in the palace of his friend nicolini. in a few months, however, he was removed to an apartment in the exchequer of the inquisition, still being permitted the attendance of his own servant, and many indulgences of which they had not decided to deprive him. on the twenty-first of june, of the same year, he appeared before the holy office. through its gloomy halls and passages he passed to the tribunal. there was little here, as in the other ecclesiastical buildings of rome, to captivate the senses. the dark walls were unadorned with the creations of art; state and ceremony were the gloomy ushers to the chamber of intolerance. in silence and in mystery commenced the preparations. the familiars of the office advanced to the astronomer, and arrayed him in the penitential garment; and as he approached, with a slow and measured step, the tribunal, cardinals, and prelates noiselessly assembled, and a dark circle of officers and priests closed in, while, as if conscious that the battle had commenced in earnest between mind and power, all the pomp and splendor of the hierarchy of rome--that system which had hitherto possessed a sway unlimited over the fears and opinions of mankind--was summoned up to increase the solemnity and significance of the judgment about to be pronounced against him. to the tedious succession of technical proceedings, mocking justice by their very assumption of formality, it would be needless to refer. solemnly, however, and by an authority which it was fatal to resist, galileo was called on to renounce a truth which his whole life had been consecrated to reveal and to maintain, "the motion through space of the earth and planets round the sun." then, immediately, assuming he had nothing to allege, would attempt no resistance, and offer no defense, came the sentence of the tribunal, banning and anathematizing all who held the doctrine, that the sun is the centre of the system, as a tenet "philosophically false, and formally heretical." and then they sentenced the old and infirm philosopher--this band of infallibles!--they bade him abjure and detest the said errors and heresies. they decreed his book to the flames, and they condemned him for life to the dungeons of the inquisition, bidding him recite, "once a week, seven penitential psalms for the good of his soul!" did galileo yield? did he renounce that theory now affording such ample proof of the beauty and order of the universe; to whose very laws kepler, the friend and contemporary of the philosopher, was even then, though unconsciously, bearing evidence, by his wonderful theorem of velocities and distances, a problem which newton afterward confirmed and illustrated? did galileo yield? he did. broken by age and infirmity, importuned by friends more alarmed than himself, perhaps, at the terrors of that merciless tribunal, he signed his abjuration; yielded all his judges demanded; echoed their curse and ban, as their superstition or their hate required. there is a darker tale dimly hinted by those familiar with the technicalities of the holy office, that the terms, "il rigoroso esame," during which galileo is reported to have answered like a good christian, officially announce the application of the torture. then occurred, perhaps scarcely an hour afterward, that remarkable episode in this man's history. as he arose from the ground on which, all kneeling, he had pronounced his abjuration, he gave a significant stamp, and whispered to a friend, "_e pur si muove!_" "yet it does move"--ay, and in spite of inquisitions, has gone round--nay, the whole world of thought itself has moved, and having received an impulse from such minds, will revolve for ages in a glorious cycle for mankind! but the most touching incident of galileo's story is yet to come. after several years of confinement at arcetri, the great astronomer was permitted to retire to florence, upon the conditions that he should neither quit his house, nor receive the visits of his friends. they removed him from a prison, to make a prison of his home. alas! it was even worse than this. much as the greatest minds love fame, and struggle to obtain it, the proudest triumphs of genius and of science, the applause of the world itself, ever loud and obtrusive, is not to be compared to the low and gentle murmurs of pleasure and of pride from those we love. there was one being from whom galileo had been accustomed to hear those consolations--his child his gentle maria galilei. he had been otherwise a solitary indeed, and now more than ever so, when he was cut off from the communion of the greatest minds. to his lovely girl, his daughter, his heart clung with more than fondness. no wife of pliny, perhaps, ever wafted to her husband with sweeter devotion the echoes of the applauding world without, greeting him she loved, than she did--his maria galilei. as he returned from prison, the way seemed tedious, the fleetest traveling all too slow, till he should once more fold her to his heart; and she, too, she anticipated meeting her father with a pleasure greater than ever before enjoyed, since he had now become a victim, sainted in her eyes, by the persecution he had suffered. short, indeed, was this happiness, if enjoyed at all. within the month, she died, and the home of galileo was more than a prison--it was a desolate altar, on which the last and most precious of his household gods was shivered. and he died too, a few years afterward, that good old man! but he had yielded--he was no martyr! yes, indeed! but be it remembered, that if he possessed not the moral courage of a huss, a savonarola, or a luther, he was not called to exercise it in so high a cause. the assertion and support of a religious truth is impressed with far deeper obligations than the advocacy of a scientific one, however well maintained by analogy, and confirmed by reason. still there was a deep devotional sentiment that pervaded the character of galileo. before he died, he became totally blind; yet he did not despair. like milton, he labored on for mankind--nay, pursued his scientific studies, inventing mechanical substitutes for his loss of vision, to enable him still to pursue his arduous researches. it is true he was shut out, like the elder herschel, from the view of that glorious company, toward which his spirit had so often soared. well might his friend castelli say, in allusion to his infirmity, "that the noblest eyes were darkened which nature had ever made--eyes so privileged, and gifted with such rare qualities, that they might be said to have seen more than all those who had gone before him, and to have opened the eyes of all who were to come." galileo himself bore noble tribute to his friend, when he exclaimed, "never, never will i cease to use the senses which god has left me; and though this heaven, this earth, this universe, be henceforth shrunk for me into the narrow space which i myself fill, so it please god, it shall content me." the malice of his enemies long survived his death. the partisans of rome disputed his right to make a will. they denied him a monument for which large sums had been subscribed. a hundred years afterward, when a splendid memorial was about to be erected to his memory, the president of the florentine academy descended into his grave, and desecrated his remains, by bearing off, as _relics for a museum_, the thumb of his right hand, and one of his vertebræ! so the victims of the religious fury of one age become the martyrs of science in another! and what is the moral of what we have written concerning galileo? is there no teaching that may instruct our own times, especially when we see how, through scorn and persecution, and this world's contumely, and through the gloom and shadows of ignorance and fear, the form and substance of mighty truth rises, slowly and dimly, perchance, at first, but grandly and majestically ere long? little more than two hundred years have passed since the death of galileo, but ample justice has been done to his memory. his name will be a watchword through all time, to urge men forward in the great cause of moral and intellectual progress; and the tree of knowledge, whose fruits were once on earth, plucked, perhaps, ere they were matured, has shot up with its golden branches into the skies, over which has radiated the smiles of a beneficent providence to cheer man onward in the career of virtue and intelligence. "there is something," as a profound writer has observed,[ ] "in the spirit of the present age, greater than the age itself. it is, the appearance of a new power in the world, the multitude of minds now pressing forward in the great task of the moral and intellectual regeneration of mankind." and this cause must ultimately triumph. the energies and discoveries of men like galileo, remote as their history becomes, have an undying influence. the power of a great mind is like the attraction of a sun. it appears in the infinite bounds of space, far, far away, as a grain among other gold dust at the feet of the eternal, or, at most, but as a luminous spot; and yet we know that its influence controls, and is necessary for, the order and arrangement of the nearest, as well is the remotest system. so in the moral and intellectual universe, from world to world, from star to star, the influence of one great mind extends, and we are drawn toward it by an unseen, but all-pervading affinity. thus has the cause of moral and intellectual progress a sure guarantee of success. it has become a necessity, interwoven with the spirit of the age--a necessity impressed by every revelation of social evil, as well as proclaimed by every scientific discovery--gaining increased energy and power from the manifestation of every new wonder and mystery of nature--nay, from the building of every steam-ship, the laying down of every new line of railway. footnotes: [ ] channing. [from dickens's "household words."] ebenezer elliott the name of ebenezer elliott is associated with one of the greatest and most important political changes of modern times, with events not yet sufficiently removed from us, to allow of their being canvassed in this place with that freedom which would serve the more fully to illustrate his real merits. elliott would have been a poet, in all that constitutes true poetry, had the corn laws never existed. he was born on th march, , at the new foundry, masborough, in the parish of rotherham, where his father was a clerk in the employment of messrs. walker, with a salary of £ or £ per annum. his father was a man of strong political tendencies, possessed of humorous and satiric power, that might have qualified him for a comic actor. such was the character he bore for political sagacity that he was popularly known as "devil elliott." the mother of the poet seems to have been a woman of an extreme nervous temperament, constantly suffering from ill health, and constitutionally awkward and diffident. ebenezer commenced his early training at a dame's school; but shy, awkward, and desultory, he made little progress; nor did he thrive much better at the school in which he was afterward placed. here he employed his comrades to do his tasks for him, and of course laid no foundation for his future education. his parents, disheartened by the lad's apparent stolidity, sent him next to dalton's school, two miles distant; and here he certainly acquired something, for he retained, to old age, the memory of some of the scenes through which he used to pass on his way to and from this school. for want of the necessary preliminary training, he could do little or nothing with letters: he rather preferred playing truant and roaming the meadows in listless idleness, wherever his fancy led him. this could not last. his father soon set him to work in the foundry; and with this advantage, that the lad stood on better terms with himself than he had been for a considerable period, for he discovered that he could compete with others in work--sheer hand-labor--if he could not in the school. one disadvantage, however, arose, as he tells us, from his foundry life; for he acquired a relish for vulgar pursuits, and the village alehouse divided his attentions with the woods and fields. still a deep impression of the charms of nature had been made upon him by his boyish rambles, which the debasing influences and associations into which he was thrown could not wholly wipe out. he would still wander away in his accustomed haunts, and purify his soul from her alehouse defilements, by copious draughts of the fresh nectar of natural beauty imbibed from the sylvan scenery around him. the childhood and youth of the future poet presented a strange medley of opposites and antitheses. without the ordinary measure of adaptation for scholastic pursuits, he inhaled the vivid influences of external things, delighting intensely in natural objects, and yet feeling an infinite chagrin and remorse at his own idleness and ignorance. we find him highly imaginative; making miniature lakes by sinking an iron vessel filled with water in a heap of stones, and gazing therein with wondrous enjoyment at the reflection of the sun and skies overhead; and exhibiting a strange passion for looking on the faces of those who had died violent deaths, although these dead men's features would haunt his imagination for weeks afterward. he did not, indeed, at this period, possess the elements of an ordinary education. a very simple circumstance sufficed to apply the spark which fired his latent energies, and nascent poetical tendencies: and he henceforward became a different being, elevated far above his former self. he called one evening, after a drinking bout on the previous night, on a maiden aunt, named robinson, a widow possessed of about £ a year, by whom he was shown a number of "sowerby's english botany," which her son was then purchasing in monthly parts. the plates made a considerable impression on the awkward youth, and he assayed to copy them by holding them to the light with a thin piece of paper before them. when he found he could trace their forms by these means his delight was unbounded, and every spare hour was devoted to the agreeable task. here commenced that intimate acquaintance with flowers, which seems to pervade all his works. this aunt of ebenezer's, (good soul! would that every shy, gawky ebenezer had such an aunt!) bent on completing the charm she had so happily begun, displayed to him still further her son's book of dried specimens; and this elated him beyond measure. he forthwith commenced a similar collection for himself, for which purpose he would roam the fields still more than ever, on sundays as well as week days, to the interruption of his attendances at chapel. this book he called his "dry flora," (_hortus siccus_) and none so proud as he when neighbors noticed his plants and pictures. he was not a little pleased to feel himself a sort of wonder, as he passed through the village with his plants; and, greedy of praise, he allowed his acquaintance to believe that his drawings were at first hand, and made by himself from nature. "thomson's seasons," read to him about this time by his brother giles, gave him a glimpse of the union of poetry with natural beauty; and lit up in his mind an ambition which finally transformed the illiterate, rugged, half-tutored youth into the man who wrote "the village patriarch," and the "corn law rhymes." from this time he set himself resolutely to the work of self-education. his knowledge of the english language was meagre in the extreme; and he succeeded at last only by making for himself a kind of grammar by reading and observation. he then tried french, but his native indolence prevailed, and he gave it up in despair. he read with avidity whatever books came in his way; and a small legacy of books to his father came in just at the right time. he says he could never read through a second-rate book, and he therefore read masterpieces only; "after milton, then shakspeare; then ossian; then junius; paine's 'common sense;' swift's 'tale of a tub;' 'joan of arc;' schiller's 'robbers;' burger's 'lenora;' gibbon's 'decline and fall;' and long afterward, tasso, dante, de staël, schlegel, hazlitt, and the '_westminster review_.'" reading of this character might have been expected to lead to something; and was well calculated to make an extraordinary impression on such a mind as elliott's; and we have the fruit of this course of study in the poetry which from this time he began to throw off. he remained with his father from his sixteenth to his twenty-third year, working laboriously without wages, except an occasional shilling or two for pocket-money. he afterward tried business on his own account. he made two efforts at sheffield; the last commencing at the age of forty, and with a borrowed capital of £ . he describes in his nervous language the trials and difficulties he had to contend with; and all these his imagination embodied for him in one grim and terrible form, which he christened "bread tax." with this demon he grappled in desperate energy, and assailed it vigorously with his caustic rhyme this training, these mortifications, these misfortunes, and the demon "bread tax" above all, made elliott successively despised, hated, feared, and admired, as public opinion changed toward him. mr. howitt describes his warehouse as a dingy, and not very extensive place, heaped with iron of all sorts, sizes, and forms, with barely a passage through the chaos of rusty bars into the inner sanctum, at once, study, counting-house, library, and general receptacle of odds and ends connected with his calling. here and there, to complete the jumble, were plaster casts of shakspeare, achilles, ajax, and napoleon, suggestive of the presidency of literature over the materialism of commerce which marked the career of this singular being. by dint of great industry he began to flourish in business, and, at one time, could make a profit of £ a-day without moving from his seat. during this prosperous period he built a handsome villa-residence in the suburbs. he now had leisure to brood over the full force and effect of the corn laws. the subject was earnestly discussed then in all manufacturing circles of that district. reverses now arrived. in , he lost fully one-third of all his savings, getting out of the storm at last with about £ , , which he wrote to mr. tait of edinburgh, he intended, if possible, to retain. the palmy days of £ profits had gone by for sheffield, and instead, all was commercial disaster and distrust. elliott did well to retire with what little he had remaining. in his retreat he was still vividly haunted by the demon "bread tax." this, then, was the period of the corn-law rhymes, and these bitter experiences lent to them that tone of sincerity and earnestness--that fire and frenzy which they breathed, and which sent them, hot, burning words of denunciation and wrath, into the bosoms of the working classes--the toiling millions from whom elliott sprang. "bread tax," indeed, to him was a thing of terrible import and bitter experience: hence he uses no gentle terms or honeyed phrases when dealing with the obnoxious impost. sometimes coarse invective and angry assertion take the place of convincing reason and calm philosophy. at others, there is a true vein of poetry and pathos running through the rather unpoetic theme, which touches us with its wordsworthian feeling and gentleness. then he would be found calling down thunders upon the devoted heads of the monopolists, with all a fanatic's hearty zeal, and in his fury he would even pursue them, not merely through the world, but beyond its dim frontiers and across the threshold of another state. take them, however, as they stand--and more vigorous, effective, and startling political poetry has not graced the literature of the age. it was not to be supposed but that this trumpet-blast of defiance, and shrill scream of "war to the knife," should bring down upon him much obloquy, much vituperation: but all this fell harmlessly upon him; he rather liked it. when people began to bear with the turbid humor and angry utterances of the "corn law rhymer," and grew familiar with the stormy march of his verse, it was discovered that he was something more than a mere political party song-writer. he was a true poet, whose credentials, signed and sealed in the court of nature, attested the genuineness of his brotherhood with those children of song who make the world holier and happier by the mellifluous strains they bring to us, like fragments of a forgotten melody, from the far-off world of beauty and of love. elliott will not soon cease to be distinctively known as the "corn law rhymer;" but it will be by his non-political poems that he will be chiefly remembered by posterity as the poet of the people; for his name will still be, as it has long been, a "household word," in the homes of all such as love the pure influences of simple, sensuous, and natural poetry. as an author he did not make his way fast: he had written poetry for twenty years ere he had attracted much notice. a genial critique by southey in the "quarterly," another by carlyle in the "edinburgh," and favorable notices in the "athenæum" and "new monthly," brought him into notice; and he gradually made his way until a new and cheap edition of his works, in , stamped him as a popular poet. his poetry is just such as, knowing his history, we might have expected; and such as, not knowing it, might have bodied forth to us the identical man as we find him. as we have said, nature was his school; but flowers were the especial vocation of his muse. a small ironmonger--a keen and successful tradesman--we should scarcely have given him credit for such an exquisite love of the beautiful in nature, as we find in some of those lines written by him in the crowded counting-room of that dingy warehouse. the incident of the floral miscellany; the subsequent study of "the seasons;" the long rambles in meadows and on hill-sides, specimen-hunting for his _hortus siccus_, sufficiently account for the exquisite sketches of scenery, and those vivid descriptions of natural phenomena, which showed that the coinage of his brain had been stamped in nature's mint. the most casual reader would at once discover that, with thomson, he has ever been the devoted lover and worshiper of nature--at wanderer by babbling streams--a dreamer in the leafy wilderness--a worshiper of morning upon the golden hill-tops. he gives us pictures of rural scenery warm as the pencil of a claude, and glowing as the sunsets of italy. a few sentences will complete our sketch, and bring us to the close of the poet's pilgrimage. he had come out of the general collapse of commercial affairs in , with a small portion of the wealth he had realized by diligent and continuous labor. he took a walk, on one occasion, into the country, of about eighteen miles: reached argilt hill, liked the place, returned, and resolved to buy it. he laid out in house and land about one thousand guineas. his family consisted of mrs. elliott and two daughters; a servant-maid; an occasional helper; a welch pony and small gig; "a dog almost as big as the mare, and much wiser than his master; a pony-cart; a wheel-barrow; and a grindstone--and," says he, "turn up your nose if you like!" from his own papers we learn that he had one son a clergyman, at lothedale, near skipton; another in the steel trade, on elliott's old premises at sheffield; two others unmarried, living on their means; another "druggisting at sheffield, in a sort of chimney called a shop;" and another, a clergyman, living in the west indies. of his thirteen children, five were dead, and of whom he says. "they left behind them no memorial--but they are safe in the bosom of mercy, and not quite forgotten even here!" in this retirement he occasionally lectured and spoke at public meetings; but he began to suffer from a spasmodic affection of the nerves, which obliged him wholly to forego public speaking. this disease grew worse; and in december, , he was warned that he could not continue to speak in public, except at the risk of sudden death. this disorder lingered about him for about six years; he then fell ill of a more serious disease, which threatened speedy termination. this was in may, . in september, he writes, "i have been _very, very_ ill." on the first of december, , the event, which had so long been impending, occurred, and elliott peacefully departed in the sixty-ninth year of his age. thus, then, the sun set on one whose life was one continued heroic struggle with opposing influences--with ignorance first, then trade, then the corn laws, then literary fame, and, last of all, disease: and thus the world saw its last of the material breathing form of the rugged but kindly being who made himself loved, feared, hated, and famous, as the "corn law rhymer." [from cumming's hunting adventures in south africa.] conflict with an elephant. in a few minutes one of those who had gone off to our left came running breathless to say that he had seen the mighty game. i, halted for a minute, and instructed isaac, who carried the big dutch rifle, to act independently of me, while kleinboy was to assist me in the chase; but, as usual, when the row began, my followers thought only of number one. i bared my arms to the shoulder, and, having imbibed a draught of aqua pura from the calabash of one of the spoorers, i grasped my trusty two-grooved rifle, and told my guide to go ahead. we proceeded silently as might be for a few hundred yards, following the guide, when he suddenly pointed, exclaiming, "klow!" and before us stood a herd of mighty bull elephants, packed together beneath a shady grove about a hundred and fifty yards in advance. i rode slowly toward them, and, as soon as they observed me, they made a loud rumbling noise, and, tossing their trunks, wheeled right about and made off in one direction, crashing through the forest and leaving a cloud of dust behind them. i was accompanied by a detachment of my dogs, who assisted me in the pursuit. the distance i had come, and the difficulties i had undergone to behold these elephants, rose fresh before me. i determined that on this occasion at least i would do my duty, and, dashing my spurs into "sunday's" ribs, i was very soon much too close in their rear for safety. the elephants now made an inclination to my left, whereby i obtained a good view of the ivory. the herd consisted of six bulls; four of them were full grown, first-rate elephants; the other two were fine fellows, but had not yet arrived at perfect stature. of the four old fellows, two had much finer tusks than the rest, and for a few seconds i was undecided which of these two i would follow; when, suddenly, the one which i fancied had the stoutest tusks broke from his comrades, and i at once felt convinced that he was the patriarch of the herd, and followed him accordingly. cantering alongside, i was about to fire, when he instantly turned, and, uttering a trumpet so strong and shrill that the earth seemed to vibrate beneath my feet, he charged furiously after me for several hundred yards in a direct line, not altering his course in the slightest degree for the trees of the forest, which he snapped and overthrew like reeds in his headlong career. when he pulled up in his charge, i likewise halted; and as he slowly turned to retreat, i let fly at his shoulder, "sunday" capering and prancing, and giving me much trouble. on receiving the ball the elephant shrugged his shoulder, and made off at a free, majestic walk. this shot brought several of the dogs to my assistance which had been following the other elephants, and on their coming up and barking another headlong charge was the result, accompanied by the never-failing trumpet as before in his charge he passed close to me, when i saluted him with a second bullet in the shoulder of which he did not take the slightest notice. i now determined not to fire again until i could make a steady shot; but, although the elephant turned repeatedly, "sunday" invariably disappointed me, capering so that it was impossible to fire. at length, exasperated, i became reckless of the danger, and, springing from the saddle, approached the elephant under cover of a tree and gave him a bullet in the side of the head, when, trumpeting so shrilly that the forest trembled, he charged among the dogs, from whom he seemed to fancy that the blow had come; after which he took up a position in a grove of thorns, with his head toward me. i walked up very near, and, as he was in the act of charging (being in those days under wrong impressions as to the impracticability of bringing down an elephant with a shot in the forehead), stood coolly in his path until he was within fifteen paces of me, and let drive at the hollow of his forehead, in the vain expectation that by so doing i should end his career. the shot only served to increase his fury--an effect which, i had remarked, shots in the head invariably produced; and, continuing his charge with incredible quickness and impetuosity, he all but terminated my elephant-hunting forever. a large party of the bechuanas who had come up, yelled out simultaneously, imagining i was killed, for the elephant was at one moment almost on the top of me: i, however, escaped by my activity, and by dodging round the bushy trees. as the elephant was charging, an enormous thorn ran deep into the sole of my foot the old badenoch brogues, which i that day sported, being worn through, and this caused me severe pain, laming me throughout the rest of the conflict. the elephant held on through the forest at a sweeping pace; but he was hardly out of sight when i was loaded and in the saddle, and soon once more alongside. about this time i heard isaac blazing away at another bull; but when the elephant charged, his cowardly heart failed him, and he very soon made his appearance at a safe distance in my rear. my elephant kept crashing along at a steady pace, with blood streaming from his wounds; the dogs, which were knocked up with fatigue and thirst, no longer barked around him, but had dropped astern. it was long before i again fired, for i was afraid to dismount, and "sunday" was extremely troublesome. at length i fired sharp right and left from the saddle: he got both balls behind the shoulder, and made a long charge after me, rumbling and trumpeting as before. the whole body of the bamangwato men had now come up, and were following a short distance behind me. among these was mollyeon, who volunteered to help; and being a very swift and active fellow, he rendered me important service by holding my fidgety horse's head while i fired and loaded. i then fired six broadsides from the saddle, the elephant charging almost every time, and pursuing us back to the main body in our rear, who fled in all directions as he approached. the sun had now sunk behind the tops of the trees; it would very soon be dark, and the elephant did not seem much distressed, notwithstanding all he had received. i recollected that my time was short, and therefore at once resolved to fire no more from the saddle, but to go close up to him and fire on foot. riding up to him. i dismounted, and, approaching very near, i gave it him right and left in the side of the head, upon which he made a long and determined charge after me; but i was now very reckless of his charges, for i saw that he could not overtake me, and in a twinkling i was loaded, and, again approaching, fired sharp right and left behind his shoulder. again he charged with a terrific trumpet, which sent "sunday" flying through the forest. this was his last charge. the wounds which he had received began to tell on his constitution, and he now stood at bay beside a thorny tree, with the dogs barking around him. these, refreshed by the evening breeze, and perceiving that it was nearly over with the elephant, had once more come to my assistance. having loaded, i drew near and fired right and left at his forehead. on receiving these shots, instead of charging, he tossed his trunk up and down, and by various sounds and motions, most gratifying to the hungry natives, evinced that his demise was near. again i loaded, and fired my last shot behind his shoulder: on receiving it, he turned round the bushy tree beside which he stood, and i ran round to give him the other barrel, but the mighty old monarch of the forest needed no more; before i could clear the bushy tree he fell heavily on his side, and his spirit had fled. my feelings at this moment can only be understood by a few brother nimrods who have had the good fortune to enjoy a similar encounter. i never felt so gratified on any former occasion as i did then. by this time all the natives had come up; they were in the highest spirits, and flocked around the elephant, laughing and talking at a rapid pace. i climbed on to him, and sat enthroned upon his side, which was as high as my eyes when standing on the ground. in a few minutes night set in, when the natives, having illuminated the jungle with a score of fires, and formed a semicircle of bushes to windward, lay down to rest without partaking of a morsel of food. mutchuisho would not allow a man to put an assagai into the elephant until the morrow, and placed two relays of sentries to keep watch on either side of him. my dinner consisted of a piece of flesh from the temple of the elephant, which i broiled on the hot embers. in the conflict i had lost my shirt, which was reduced to streamers by the wait-a-bit thorns, and all the clothing that remained was a pair of buckskin knee-breeches. [from the ladies' companion.] lettice arnold. by the author of "two old men's tales," "emilia wyndham," &c. [_concluded from page ._] chapter vii. bless the lord, oh my soul! and all that is within me bless his holy name; who forgiveth all thy iniquities and healeth all thy diseases, who saveth thy life from destruction, and crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies. mrs. fisher. i must now introduce you to mrs. fisher. she is so great a favorite of mine, that before i relate what became of myra, i must make you acquainted with this lady. mrs. fisher was a respectable gentlewoman like personage of about fifty-four, of a grave, authoritative and somewhat severe aspect; but with the remains of very extraordinary personal beauty which she had once possessed in an eminent degree. she was somewhat above the middle size, of an erect, firm, full figure, her hair now gently turning gray, drawn over her finely proportioned forehead; her eyes large, and of a fine color and form--clear and steady; her mouth expressive of sense and temper; and her dress in character with the rest. mrs. fisher was always handsomely dressed in silks of the best description, but in slight mourning, which she always wore; and on her head, also, a cap rather plainer than the mode, but of the finest and most expensive materials: nothing could be more dignified and complete than her appearance. when first myra was introduced to her she was both daunted and disappointed; the gravity, amounting almost to sternness, with which mrs. fisher received her, and explained to her the duties she was expected to perform, awed in the first place, and mortified in the second. the establishment of this fashionable modiste, with which myra had associated nothing but laces and ribbons, dresses and trimmings, embroidery and feathers, flattery and display, struck cold and dull upon her imagination. she was introduced into a handsomely but very plainly furnished sitting-room, where not one trace of any of those pretty things were to be seen, and heard of nothing but regularity of hours, persevering industry, quaker neatness, attention to health, and the strictest observance of the rules of what she thought quite a prudish propriety. mrs. fisher's life had been one of vicissitude, and in its vicissitudes, she, a strong, earnest-minded woman, had learned much. she had known sorrow, privation, cruelly hard labor, and the loneliness of utter desolation of the heart she had, moreover, been extremely beautiful, and she had experienced those innumerable perils to which such a gift exposes an unprotected girl, struggling for her bread, under the cruelest circumstances of oppressive labor. every description of hardship, and every description of temptation belonging to perhaps the hardest and almost the most dangerous position of female life, mrs. fisher had gone through. she had outlived its sufferings and escaped its snares. the suffering, thanks to one of the finest constitutions in the world; the snares, thanks to what she always, with inexhaustible gratitude, acknowledged as the special mercy and providence of god. an orphan at the dangerous age of seventeen, the lovely blooming young creature was placed by her friends in one of the most fashionable and largest milliners' establishments at that time in london, and had found herself at once miserable and excited, oppressed and flattered. the mistress of this flourishing house, intent upon making a rapid fortune before the years in which she could enjoy it should come to a close, cared little--i might say nothing--for the welfare of the poor creatures whose labors were to construct that edifice. she, in fact, never thought about them. want of thought may be pleaded as the excuse, wretched one as it is, for the cruelties of those days. people certainly had not the claim of common humanity sounded into their ears as it is into all ears now. a few admirable philanthropists talked of it, and preached it; but it was not to be heard calling in the streets, as it is the triumph of our day to acknowledge, till the hardest heart for very shame is forced to pay _some_ attention to the call. it never entered into miss lavington's head that she had any other business with her young women, but to get all the work she possibly could out of their hands, and as well done, and as speedily done as possible. if she objected to night-work in addition to day-work, it was not in the slightest degree out of compassion for the aching limbs and wearied eyes of the poor girls; but because wax candles were expensive, and tallow ones were apt to drip; and there was always double the duty required from the superintendent (her special favorite), to keep the young women at those times to their duty, and prevent fine materials from being injured. oh! those dreadful days and nights of the _season_, which the poor lucy miles at that place went through. she--accustomed to the sweet fresh air of the country, to the cheerful variety of daily labor in her father's large farm, and under the care of a brisk, clever, but most kind and sensible mother--to be shut up twelve, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, nay twenty hours before a birth-night, in the sickening atmosphere of the close work-room. the windows were rarely opened, if ever; for the poor young things were so unnaturally chilly for want of exercise and due circulation of the blood, that they said they should, and perhaps they might, have taken cold if fresh air were admitted. there was nothing they all dreaded so much as taking cold; those fatal coughs, which every season thinned the ranks, to be filled with fresh victims, were invariably attributed to some particular occasion when they had "taken cold." they did not know that they were rejecting the very cordial of life and inhaling poison when they kept the room so close. oh! for the dreadful weariness which proceeds from _in_-action of the limbs! so different from the wholesome fatigue of action, _in_-action where the blood is stagnating in every vein: _in_-action, after which rest is not rest, but a painful effort of the repressed currents to recover their circulating power--so different from the delightful sensation of wholesome rest after physical exertion. at first she felt it almost insupportable. i have heard her say that it seemed at times as if she would have given years of her existence to be allowed to get up and walk up and down the room for a few minutes. the sensation was so insupportable. that craving desire of the body for what it is in want of--be it water, be it bread, be it rest, be it change of posture--is so dreadful in its urgency. the most abominable tortures men have in their wickedness invented are founded upon this fact--tortures that render the black history of inquisitors yet blacker: and here it was, in one at least of its numerous forms, daily inflicted upon a set of helpless young women, by a person who thought herself perfectly justifiable, and whose conscience never pricked her in the least. such is negligent moral habit. oh! the delight at meal-times--to spring up, i was going to say--i meant to _get_ up--for there was no _spring_ left in these poor stiffened frames. oh! the delight when the eye of that superintendent was no longer watching the busy circle, and her voice calling to order any one who durst just to raise a head, and pause in the unintermitting toil. oh! the delight to get up and come to breakfast, or dinner, or tea. they had not much appetite when they came to their meals to be sure. there was only one thing they were always ready to enjoy, and that was their tea. that blessed and long abused tea; which has done more to sweeten private life with its gentle warmth and excitement, than any cordial that has ever been invented. it is but a cordial, however; it is not a nourishment; though a little sugar, and wretched blue milk, such as london milk used to be, may be added to it. most of the young ladies, however, preferred it without these additions; they found it more stimulating so, i believe, poor things! such nourishment as they received, it is plain, would ill supply the rapid exhaustion of their employment. one by one in the course of the season they sickened and dropped off; some died out and out; some, alas! tempted by suffering and insupportable fatigue, or by that vanity and levity which seems to be too common a result with many girls living together, did worse. there would have been a heavy record against her every june, if miss lavington had taken the trouble to note down what had become of her missing young ladies. i said they were relieved from their irksome continuance in one posture by going to their meals, and what a relief it was; but they did not always get that. when there was more than usual to be done, their tea would be brought to them where they sat, and there would be no intermission. so things went on at miss lavington's in those days. i wonder in how many establishments of the same description, things go on so now! how many to which that voice of humanity which "calls in the streets" has not yet penetrated! we shall by-and-by see what was the case in mrs. fisher's, but for the present we will go on with her history. so beautiful a young creature as she was, could not long escape trials, yet more to be lamented than those of physical suffering. in the first place, there was the conversation of the young ladies themselves; a whispering manner of conversation when at work; a busy chattering of emancipated tongues during the intervals. and what was it all about? why, what was it likely to be about?--love and lovers--beauty and its admirers--dress and its advantages--he and him--and, dear me, weren't you in the park last sunday? where could you be? and did you not see the carriage go by? what had you on? oh, that pink bonnet. i cribbed a bit of mrs. m----'s blond for a voilette. if people will send their own materials they deserve as much. i've heard mrs. saunders (the superintendent) say so scores of times. well, well, and i saw it, i'm certain of it. well, did any thing come of it? alas! alas! and so on--and so on--and so on. and lucy was very soon taught to go on sundays into the park. at first, poor girl, merely to breathe the fresh air and inhale the delicious west wind, and look at trees and grass, and cows and deer once more, and listen to the birds singing. at first she thought the crowds of gayly dressed people quite spoiled the pleasure of the walk, and tried to coax her companions to leave the ring, and come and walk in the wood with her; but she soon learned better, and was rapidly becoming as bewitched with the excitement of gazing, and the still greater excitement of being gazed at, as any of them. she was so uncommonly beautiful that she got her full--and more than her full share of this latter pleasure; and it was not long before she had those for whom she looked out amid the crowds upon the ring, and felt her heart beat with secret delight as she saw them. then, as her health began to decline, as dislike insupportable for her occupation and its confinement; as weariness not to be described, came on; as longings for little luxuries to be seen in every shop which she passed by, for fruit or confectionary, haunted her palled and diseased appetite as the vision of food haunts the wretch who is starving; as the desire of fine clothes, in which her companions managed to array themselves; as the more insidious, and more honorable longings of the heart, the desolate heart, beset her--cravings for affection and sympathy; when all these temptations were embodied together in the shape of one, but too gentle, and insinuating; oh, then it was perilous work indeed! her mother had tried to give her a good, honest, homely education; had made such a christian of her, as going to church, reading a chapter in the bible on a sunday, and the catechism makes of a young girl. there was nothing very vital, or earnest about it; but such as it was, it was honest, and lucy feared her god and reverenced her saviour. such sentiments were something of a defense, but it is to be feared that they were not firmly enough rooted in the character to have long resisted the force of overwhelming temptation. this she was well aware of, and acknowledged to herself; and hence her deep, pervading, ineffable gratitude, for the providence which she believed had saved her. she was getting on very fast on the evil road upon which she had entered. every sunday the progress she made was fearful. a few more, at the pace at which she was advancing, and there would have been an end of it, when a most unexpected accident arrested her in the fatal career. one remarkably fine sunday, when all the members of the establishment had been enjoying their usual recreation in the park--just as lucy and some of her giddy friends were coming through grosvenor gate, they saw the superintendent before them. "there's that old saunders, i declare!" cried one. "stand back a little, won't ye?--she'll see our bonnets else, and i'll be bound she'll know the rosettes, and where they come from." there was time for no more. mrs. saunders, who was rather late, being in haste to get home, attempted to cross, as a curricle at full speed came driving down parklane, and before the gentleman within could draw up, the unfortunate woman was under the horses' heels. there was a terrible bustle. the young ladies with the rosettes managed to escape; but lucy, who had at least preserved her integrity thus far, and had nothing about her dress not strictly her own, rushed forward, and helped to raise the poor woman, declaring she knew who she was, and was placed with her by the assistants in the hackney coach in which she was carried home. lucy was naturally of a very kind and humane disposition; and her care of the poor suffering woman during the transit to miss lavington's--united to the kindness and assiduity with which, every one else but the under-maid of all being absent, she tended and waited upon her--so engaged mrs. saunders's affection, that afterward, during the whole of the subsequent illness, which broken limbs and ribs occasioned she made it her particular request to miss lavington that lucy might be spared from the work-room to nurse and keep her company; adding for that lady's satisfaction, that though the best nurse, and nicest young girl of the lot, she certainly, being the youngest, was the least of a proficient in the peculiar art she followed. * * * * * the poor woman lay groaning piteously upon her bed, waiting the arrival of the surgeon. the surgeon, an elderly man, was out of town, and could not attend; a young man, appeared in his place. he had just joined himself to the old man in the quality of assistant and future partner; and hearing that the case, was one of an accident, and urgent, he hurried to the house, resolving to send for more experienced assistance, if such should be found necessary. he was shown up-stairs, and hastily entered the room in which the sufferer lay. she was very much bruised about the chest, and she drew her breath with difficulty; and though exceedingly weak and faint, was unable to lie down. she was resting in the arms of one who appeared to the young man like an angel. the lovely girl, with a face of the tenderest pity, was holding the poor groaning woman upon one arm, bending over her with an air of almost divine kindness, and softly wiping the dew-drops which in the agony came starting upon the patient's brow. the young man received an impression which death alone effaced, though the bright visionary glance was only momentary. he was instantly by the side of his patient, and soon with much skill and courage doing what was necessary for immediate relief, though at the very first moment when he had discovered the serious nature of the case, he had begged the young lady to tell miss lavington that it would be proper to send for some surgeon of more experience and eminence than himself to take the direction of it. "don't go away," said mrs. saunders feebly, as lucy was rising to obey. "don't send her away, mister--i can't do without her--miss lavington's not at home--one need not ask her for _me_. who should be sent for?" the young man named a gentleman high in his profession. was it that able and benevolent man whom the world has so lately lost? that kind, frank, manly, courageous man of genius, whom no one approached but to find help and comfort? i don't know--but be he who he might, when he did at length arrive, he gave the most unqualified praise to the proceedings of our young gentleman, and called the color to the pale cheek of the young and serious-looking student by his approbation. he finished his visit by assuring mrs. saunders that she could not be in safer hands than those in which he had found her, and recommended her to put herself entirely under the charge of the young practitioner, adding an assurance that he would be ready at any instant to come if he should be wanted; and that he would, at all events, and in once or twice as a friend during the progress of the case. mrs. saunders liked the looks of the young man much--and who did not? and was quite contented with this arrangement, to which as i told you, was added the comfort of retaining lucy miles as her nurse and companion during what threatened to be a very tedious confinement. miss lavington well knew the value of a mrs. saunders in such an establishment as hers, and was willing to make any sacrifice to forward her recovery. so lucy left the wearying work-room and the dangerous recreations of the sunday, to sit and watch by the bed-side of a peevish, uncomfortable sort of an old woman, who was perpetually making demands upon her patience and good-nature, but who really suffered so greatly from her accident, that lucy's pity and kindness were proof against every thing. the young surgeon went and came--went and came--and every time he came, this angel of beauty and goodness was ministering by the old woman's bed. and those eyes of his--eyes of such prevailing power in their almost enthusiastic expression of serious earnestness--were bent upon her; and sometimes her eyes, soft and melting as those of the dove, or bright and lustrous as twin stars, met his. he could not but linger in the sick woman's room a little longer than was necessary, and the sick woman unwittingly favored this, for she took a great liking to him, and nothing seemed to refresh and amuse her amid her pains like a little chat with this nice young man. and then the young surgeon remarked that at such times lucy was allowed to sit quietly down and amuse herself with a little needlework, and he thought this an excellent reason for making his visits as as long as he decently could. the young nurse and the young doctor all this while had conversed very little with each other; but she listened and she gazed, and that was quite enough. the case proved a very serious one. poor mrs. saunders, superintendent as she was, and not workwoman-driver, not slave--yet could no more than the rest escape the deleterious effects of the close work room. her constitution was much impaired. the wines and cordials she had accustomed herself to take to support nature, as she thought, under these fatigues, had increased the mischief the wounds would not heal as they ought; contusions would not disperse; the internal injury in the chest began to assume a very threatening appearance. mr. l. came to the assistance of the young surgeon repeatedly--all that human skill could do was done, but mrs. saunders grew alarmingly worse. for a long time she resisted the evidence which her own sensations might have afforded her and avoided asking any questions which might enlighten her. she was determined not to die, and, even in a case so awfully serious and real as this, people seem to cling to the persuasion so prevailing in lighter circumstances, that because a thing _shan't_ be, it won't be, and because they are determined it is not, it _is_ not. so, for many days, mrs. saunders went on, exceedingly angry if every body did not say she was getting better, and half inclined to dismiss her young surgeon, much as she liked him, because he looked grave after he had visited her injuries. he _did_ look grave, very grave. he was exceedingly perplexed in his mind as to what he ought to do: young surgeon as he was, fresh from those schools which, alas! so many who are acquainted with them represent as the very nurseries of infidelity and license both in speech and action, he was a deeply, seriously pious man. such young men there are, who, like those three, walking unscathed through the furnace of fire in the faith of the lord their god, walk through a more terribly destructive furnace--the furnace of temptation--in the same faith, and "upon their bodies the fire hath no power, neither is a hair of the head singed." in what tears, in what prayers, in what anguished hope, what fervent aspiration, this sole treasure of a widowed mother, steeped in poverty to the very lips, had been reared, it would be long to tell; but she had committed him to one _never_ found faithless, and under that blessing she had found in her pure and disinterested love for the being intrusted to her charge, that which had given her an eloquence, and a power, and a strength, which had told upon the boy. he proved one of those rare creatures who pass through every stage of existence, as child, as schoolboy, as youth; through nursery, school, college, marked as some bright peculiar being--peculiar only in this one thing, sincere unaffected goodness. his religion had been, indeed, with him a thing little professed, and rarely talked about, but it had been a holy panoply about his heart--a bright shield, which had quenched all the darts of evil: it shone around him like something of the radiance from a higher world. there was a sort of a glory round the young saint's head. such being the man, you will not be surprised to hear that his practice called forth most serious reflections--most melancholy and sad thoughts--and in no sick room where he had ever attended more than in the present one. he could not frequent the house as much as his attendance rendered necessary without being pretty well aware of the spirit of the place; and while he grieved over the ruinous waste of health to which these young creatures were exposed, he was struck to the heart with horror at the idea of their moral ruin. mrs. saunders talked openly and unreservedly, and betrayed the state of mind she was in: so completely, so entirely devoted to, wrapt up in, buried fathoms and fathoms deep in the things of this world: so totally lost to--so entirely to seek in every thing connected with another: that the large, mournful, serious eye, as it turned to the sweet young creature sitting beside her, and passing her daily life in an element such as this, gazed with an expression of sad and tender pity such as the minister of heaven might cast upon a perishing soul. she did not quite understand all this. those looks of interest, so inexpressibly sweet to her, she thought were excited by the view of her position as affected her health and comfort. she thought it was that consumption which, sooner or later, she believed must be her fate, which he was anticipating with so much compassion. she was blind to the far more dreadful dangers which surrounded her. poor mrs. saunders! at last it could no longer be concealed from her. she must die. he broke the intelligence to her in the gentlest terms, as she, at last, in a paroxysm of terror, asked the question; giving her what hope he could, but still not denying that she stood in a fearful strait. it was a terrible scene that followed. such a frightful agitation and hurry to accomplish in a few counted hours what ought to have been the business of a life. such calling for psalms and prayers; such piteous beseechings for help; and, last of all, such an awful awakening of a slumbering conscience. like richard's bed, on the eve of bosworth fight, it seemed as if the spectral shadows of all those she had injured in the body or the soul, by her unerring demands upon one, and her negligence as to the other, rose a host of dismal spectres round. their pale, exhausted, pleading looks, as she scolded and threatened, when the clock struck one, and the task was yet undone, and the head for a moment dropped, and the throbbing fingers were still. those hollow coughs in which she would _not_ believe--those hectic flushes that she would not see--and worse, those walks, those letters, at which she had connived, because the girls did so much better when they had some nonsense to amuse them. what fearful revelations were made as she raved aloud, or sank into a drowsy, dreary delirium the old clergyman, who attended her, consoled, and reasoned, and prayed in vain. the two young people--that lovely girl, and that feeling, interesting, young man--stood by the bed appalled: he, ghastly pale--pale with an agony of despairing pity--she, trembling in every limb. the death agony, and then that poor woman went to her account. there was no one in the room but themselves; it was late in the night, the morning, indeed, began faintly to dawn. the maids were all gone to bed, glad enough to escape the scene. he stood silently watching the departing breath. it stopped. he gave a deep sigh, and, stooping down, piously closed the eyes. she had turned away in horror and in dread, but shedding some natural tears. he stood looking at her some time, as there she stood, weeping by the bed; at last he spoke. "this may seem a strange time to choose, but i have something to say to you. will you listen to me?" she took her handkerchief from her eyes, and gazed at him with a wondering, grave sort of look, as a child might do. his voice had something so very remarkable in it. he passed to the side where she was standing, and said, "i am a very, very poor man, and i have a helpless mother entirely dependent upon me for support, and, if it were my last morsel of bread, ay, and wife and children were perishing for want of it, it is _she_ who should have it." she only looked at him wondering like. "this is a fearful precipice upon which you stand. that poor creature has sunk into the gulf which yawns beneath your feet. may god, in his mercy, look upon her! but you, beautiful as one of heaven's angels--as yet pure and sinless as a child--must you fall, sink, perish, in this mass of loathsome corruption? better starve, better die--far, far better." "alas, alas!" she cried, with a scared and terrified look, "alas! alas! ten hundred thousand times better. oh, what must i do? what must i do?" "take up your cross: venture upon the hardships of a poor man's wife. discard all the prides, and pomps, and vanities--the vain, vain delusions of flattery: trample upon the sin, triumph over the temptation. put yourself under the protection of an honest man, who loves you from his soul. starve, if it must be, but die the death of the righteous and pure." she gazed at him, amazed; she did not yet understand him. "marry _me_. come to my blessed, my excellent mother's roof. it is homely, but it is honest; and let us labor and suffer together, if need be. it is all i can offer you, but it will save you." the arms, the beautiful arms were expanded, as it were, in a very agony of joy. the face! oh, was it not glorious in its beauty then! did he ever forget it? and so the contract was sealed, and so she was rescued from the pit of destruction into which she was rapidly sinking. and this it was that had excited such impassioned, such lasting, such devoted feelings of gratitude to him who rules the course of this world, in a heart which had only to be shown what was good to embrace it. fisher was all he had said; extremely poor. his salary, as assistant, was handsome, nevertheless. he received one hundred a year and his board from the gentleman with whom he was; but his dress, which was necessarily rather expensive, and his mother, who had only an annuity of twelve pounds a year, consumed it all. still you see he was by no means actually starving; and he thought the young wife he was going to bring home would be no very great addition to his expenses, and he trusted, if children came, that he should, by his exertions, be able to provide for them. in two years his engagement with the present gentleman as his assistant would be at an end; and he had received from the old man, who was a sort of humorist in his way, several very strong hints about partnership, if he would be satisfied with a reasonable share. partnership would, in the course of time, he knew, become sole proprietorship, at the death or retirement of his aged patron--one of which events could not be very far distant. it was, therefore, with great satisfaction, after having summoned the necessary attendance, and sent his young betrothed to rest, that fisher walked home on a fine fresh morning. it was true he had taken a step most people would call very imprudent, thus to encumber himself with a young wife at the very outset of his career; certainly, he had never intended any such thing. he had always resolved to be patient, and have a little store of money by him, before he persuaded any one to begin the world with him. he could not bear the idea of all being dependent upon his own life, and risking the chance of leaving a widow and a young family destitute. but this was an exceptional case, for he could not, without trembling, contemplate the dangers which surrounded this young and innocent girl. his medical knowledge taught him but too well the perils to the health of one so fresh and blooming, from labors in close rooms to which she was so little accustomed--death stared her in the face, unless she escaped it by means at which he shuddered to think. the only way in which he, young as he was, could possibly help her, was to withdraw her from the dangerous scene and make her his wife; and on that step he had been for some days resolving. the emotion she had shown, the timorous joy, the sweet confidence in his love and honor, had given a rapturous feeling of happiness to him quite new. he had intended benevolently and kindly; he had met with all the blessings of sincere attachment. instead of walking to mrs. stedman's to take some rest, which he very much needed, he went to his mother's house, or rather the house where he had taken a snug little apartment for his mother. it lay somewhere out brompton way; in which district neat rows of small houses are to be found looking backward upon pleasant greens and gardens. there he had found a modest little suite of apartments; one sitting-room and two bedrooms--a room for his mother and another sometimes occupied by himself. the little hut, a tiny place it was, was clean to the greatest nicety, and though fitted up in the very simplest and cheapest manner, had an air of perfect comfort. the walls were stained green, the drugget upon the floor was pink and fawn; the chairs were covered with what used to be called manchester stripe--very clean and pleasant-looking, and excellent for wash and wear. there was a pretty little table for tea and dinner, and a nice, round three-clawed one close by the mother's side--who was established in the only article of luxury in the room, a very comfortable arm-chair. there the old lady passed her life. she had lost the use of her lower limbs for some years; but her health of body and mind in other respects was sound. the only thing for which the son had as yet _coveted_ a little more money, had been that he might possess the means to give his mother the enjoyment of exercise and air; and when he passed young men, the very pictures of health and strength, lounging idly in their carriages, as one sometimes does in the park, though not given to such nonsense, he could not help uttering a secret exclamation against the inequalities of fortune, and thinking the blindness of the goddess of the wheel no fable. they were but passing thoughts these, such as the best have when they languish for the means of bestowing good. such indulgences, however, were rarely to be thought of, though now and then he managed to obtain them; but as the best compensation he could make, he paid a few guineas a year more for this pretty apartment, of which the back room, elongated into a little bow-window, formed the sitting-room--what would have been the front sitting-room being divided into the two bedrooms. this pleasant bow-window looked over a row of gardens belonging to the neighboring houses, and these to a considerable tract of nursery-ground filled with rows of fruit trees, and all the cheerful pleasant objects to be seen in such places. in summer the arm-chair was wheeled to the window, and the whole of the view was disclosed to the old lady; in winter it returned to the fire; but even there she did not lose her pretty view altogether, the room was so little that from her place she might easily command it. miss martineau, in a book of hers, has given us a most valuable and interesting account of the way in which, during a tedious and most trying illness, her active spirit confined to one place, she used to amuse herself, and while away the time by looking out of her window through her telescope and watching all that was going on. this old lady did much the same, minus the good telescope, which she had not. her son, however, had presented her with an old-fashioned opera-glass, which he had picked up at some second-hand retailer or other, and as it was a good one, and, moreover, very light to the hand, it did as well for her and better. in some things the old lady had a little resemblance to miss martineau. she had the same cheerful activity of mind, the same readiness of adapting herself to circumstances--things in a great measure constitutional. she was, moreover, a very shrewd, sensible woman, and deeply pious--pious in the most excellent way: really, vitally, seriously. she came of a good old puritan stock, where piety had been cherished from generation to generation. some physiologists say, that even the _acquired_ moral qualities and habits descend to the succeeding generation. it is possible an aptness for good or evil may be, and often is, inherited from those who have gone before. it would seem to have been so in this case. the pious father and mother, children of as pious parents, had left this pious daughter--and her excellencies had descended in accumulated measure to her son. this old lay had been sorely tried--death and poverty had done their worst--except in as far as the cruel ravager had spared her this one boy, one of many children, all followed the delicate, consumptive man who had been their father. she had borne it all. strong in faith, she had surrendered her treasures to the lord of life, in trust that they should be found again when he maketh up his jewels. cheerful as was her temper, life's course had been too rough with her, for her to value it very much, when those lovely, promising buds, but half disclosed, were one after the other gathered. but she had escaped that racking agony of the loving, but too faithless mother--when all the sweets of nature in its abundance flow around her, and _they_ are not there to enjoy. "when suns shine bright o'er heaven's blue vault serene, birds sing in trees, and sweet flowers deck the plain, weep i for thee, who in the cold, cold grave sleep, and all nature's harmony is vain. but when dark clouds and threat'ning storms arise, and doubt and fear my trembling soul invade; my heart one comfort owns, _thou_ art not here, safe slumbering, in the earth's kind bosom laid." she was happier far than the author of these lines. she looked upward; she almost saw those she had lost, the objects of a glorious resurrection--already living in the ineffable presence of the god whom they had so faithfully endeavored to serve. i need not tell you, after this, that her spirits were subdued to a holy calmness and composure. her life had been one of the most active endeavors after usefulness. the good she had managed to do can scarcely be calculated. grains of sand they might be, these hoarded minutes, but it was golden sand; the heap accumulated was large and precious, at the end of sixty-five years. what money she had possessed she had expended courageously in giving a professional education to her son. her little annuity of twelve pounds a year was all she had saved for herself. upon that she believed with her own exertions, she could manage to exist till her son was able to support both; but she had been struck down earlier than she calculated upon. she had at this time lost the use of her lower limbs altogether, and was visited with such trembling in her hands, that she was obliged to close the task abruptly, and to sit down dependent upon her son before she had expected it. it had been very trying work till he obtained his present situation, and he still felt very poor, because he was resolved every year to lay twenty pounds or so by, that, in case any thing should happen to him, his mother might have some little addition to her means provided. he was rather strangely provident for the case of his own death; so young man as he was; perhaps he felt the faltering spring of life within, which he had inherited from his father. three years the mother and son had thus lived together, and fisher was master of sixty pounds. he had never allowed himself to cast a thought upon marriage, though of a temper ardently to desire, and rapturously to enjoy, domestic felicity. he said to himself he must first provide for his mother's independence, and then think about his own happiness. but the accident which had brought him and lucy together had produced other thoughts--thoughts which he had, but the very day before the nursing so suddenly closed, communicated to his mother, and she had said, "i think you are quite right, john. imprudent marriages are, in most cases, very wrong things--a mere tempting of providence: and, that no blessing follows such tempting, we know from the best authority: but this is a most pious, benevolent, and very rational attempt to save a fellow-creature upon the brink of destruction, and i think it would be a want of faith, as well as a want of common humanity, in either of us to hesitate; i am very glad she seems such a sweet, innocent, pretty creature, for your sake, my darling john; i hope she will bring a blessing into your dwelling and repay you for your goodness to me; i am sorry she must come and live with your old mother, for young wives don't like that--but i promise you i will do my very best to be as amiable as an old woman can; and, moreover, i will neither be cross nor disappointed if she is not always as amiable as a young woman ought to be. will that do? yes, yes; fetch her away from that sink of iniquity, and we'll all get along somehow or other, never fear." and so lucy miles, blushing like a rose, and, as her young and delighted husband thought, more beauteous than an angel of light, was in a few weeks married to john fisher, and she went home to the old lady. "amid the smoke of cities did you pass the time of early youth, and there you learnt from years of quiet industry to love the living beings of your own fire-side." the eloquent tongue of fisher had over and over again related with deep feeling the history of all he owed to his mother, and lucy, far from feeling inclined to be jealous of the devoted affection he felt for her, like a good loving girl as she was, extended the ardent attachment she felt toward her husband to every thing that belonged to him. she had lost her own parents, whom she had loved exceedingly, though they were quite ordinary people. she soon almost worshiped old mrs. fisher. lucy had been little improved by those who had the rearing of her; she was a girl of excellent dispositions, but her education had been commonplace. in the society of the old lady her good gifts, both of head and heart, expanded rapidly. the passionate desire she felt to render herself worthy of her husband, whom she adored almost as some superior being, made her an apt and docile pupil. a few years thus spent, and you would scarcely have known her again. her piety was deep, and had become a habit--a part of her very soul; her understanding naturally excellent, had been developed and strengthened; the most earnest desire to perform her part well--to do good and extend virtue and happiness, and to sweeten the lives of all with whom she had to do, had succeeded to thoughtless good nature, and a sort of instinctive kindness. anxiety for her husband's health, which constantly oppressed her, a sort of trembling fear that she should be bereaved early of this transcendent, being; this it was, perhaps, which enhanced the earnest, serious tone of one so young. she was extremely industrious, in the hope of adding to her husband's means of rest and recreation, and the accidental acquaintance with a french _modiste_, who had fallen ill in london, was in great distress, and whom fisher attended through charity, had put her into the way of improving herself in this art more than she could have done even in that eminent school, the work-room of miss lavington. the french-woman was a very amiable, and pious person, too. she was a french protestant; the connection ripened into friendship, and it ended by placing mrs. fisher in the state of life in which we find her. fisher fell desperately ill in consequence of a fever brought on at a dissection, from which he narrowly escaped with life; the fever left him helpless and incapable of exertion. the poor mother was by this time dead; he succeeded to the vacant arm-chair. then his wife resolved upon doing that openly which she had till now done covertly, merely working for the bazaars. she persuaded her husband, when a return to his profession appeared hopeless, to let her employ his savings in setting up business with madame noel, and from small beginnings had reached that high place in her profession which she now occupied. * * * * * no sooner had mrs. fisher established a working-room of her own, and engaged several young women to labor under her superintendence, than the attention of her husband was seriously turned to the subject of those evils from which he had rescued his wife. she had suffered much, and experienced several of the evils consequent upon the manner such places were managed; but she would probably not have reflected upon the causes of these evils, nor interested herself so deeply as she afterward did in applying the remedies, if it had not been for the promptings of this excellent man. his medical skill made him thoroughly aware of the injurious effect produced upon the health by the ill-regulated system of such establishments; and his thoughts, as he sat resigned to helplessness in his arm-chair, were seriously directed to that subject. in consequence of his suggestions it was that mrs. fisher began her life of business upon a plan of her own, to which she steadily adhered. at first she found considerable difficulty in carrying it out--there are always numerous obstructions to be met with in establishing any improvements; but where the object is rational and benevolent, perseverance and a determined will triumph over every difficulty. the first thing fisher insisted upon was ventilation; the second, warmth; the third, plenty of good, wholesome, and palatable food; the fourth, exercise. he determined upon a house being selected which was not closely built up behind, and that the room in which the young ladies worked should be large and commodious in proportion to the inmates. a portion of the little money he had saved was sacrificed to the additional expense thus incurred. he looked upon it, he told his wife, as given to charity, for which she must expect no return, and for which he should look for no interest. a good wide grate, which should be well supplied with a cheerful fire in winter, was to assist the ventilation proceeding from a scientific plan of his own, which kept the room constantly supplied with a change of air; and under the table at which the girls sat at work, there was in winter a sort of long, square, wooden pipe filled with hot water and covered with carpeting, upon which they could put their feet: the extreme coldness of the feet arising from want of circulation, being one of the causes to which fisher attributed many of the maladies incident to this mode of life. the next object of attention was the table. fisher had been at school, at one or two different schools, resembling each other in one thing only--the scandalous--i must use the strong and offensive word--the scandalous neglect or worse than neglect--the infamous and base calculations upon the subject of food which pervaded the system of those schools, and which pervaded, i am sorry to say, so many of the schools with which he had chanced to be acquainted. in the course of his practice as a medical man, his opportunities for observation had been above the common. in fine ladies' schools, i can not assert that the shameful economy of buying inferior provisions, and the shameful indifference as to how they were cooked, which prevail in so many boys' schools, were to be found--but a fault almost equally great prevailed too generally. there was not _enough_. these growing girls, stimulated to most unnatural exertions both of body and mind, peculiarly unnatural to growing girls who require so much care, fresh air, exercise, and rest, for their due development--these young things had very rarely nearly so much to eat as they could have eaten. sometimes enough was literally not set before them; at others, a sort of fashion in the school to consider a good appetite as a proof of coarseness, greediness, and vulgarity, worked but too effectually upon these sensitive creatures. a girl at that age would rather be starved than ridiculed or sneered at for eating. but in boys' schools--expensive boys' schools too--where six times as much was paid for a boy's board as would have boarded him--either through scandalous parsimony, or the most inexcusable negligence, he had seen meat brought into the house not fit to eat; cheap and bad in itself, but rendered doubly unwholesome in summer by the most utter carelessness as to whether it was fresh. boys are hardy things, and it is right they should not be accustomed to be too nice; but wholesome, plain roast and boiled is what they pay for and ought to have; and the defrauding them of what is so necessary to health, vigor, and even intellect, in this unprincipled manner, is almost the very worst form of robbery any man can be guilty of. fisher was resolved it should not be so in his wife's house. he and his wife had agreed that the young ladies she employed should be lodged and boarded under her roof, unless they had respectable parents who could and would be fully answerable for them; and they should have a plentiful and a pleasant table--that he was resolved upon. as he was competent to little else, he took this matter upon himself. he calculated what ought fairly to be laid out, and he laid it all out. he would not economize a penny. if he was able to make a good bargain with his butcher, the young ladies, not he, should have the benefit of it all. they should have a bit of fish, or a little poultry, or a little good fruit, poor girls, to vary a meal, to which they could not bring the sturdy appetite of much out-of-door exercise. then came the great chapter of that exercise. there was the difficulty--how much time could mrs. fisher possibly afford to lose?--to abandon to this object?--for the work must _pay_--or it could not continue to be done. but the difficulty diminished upon examination. time may be counted by strength as well as by minutes. the same thing may, by two different hands, be accomplished in most unequal portions of time. the dreadful feeling of weariness, which, as lucy, she so well remembered--one consequence of sitting so long in an unchanged position, and at the same employment--that dreadful feeling could not be forgotten by her. her horror at the recollection was so strong, that of this matter she thought more than even her benevolent husband. he recollected to have heard that the jesuits, those masters of human development, physical as well as intellectual, never suffered a pupil to be employed more than two hours upon the same thing without a change--to get up and turn round the chair--to pace five minutes up and down the room would in many cases suffice. mr. fisher laid down his plan. two hours the young ladies worked, and then for ten minutes they were allowed to lay down their needles; they might walk about the room, into the passage, up and down stairs, or sit still and lounge. that precious, useful _lounge_, so fatally denied to the wearied spine of many a growing girl, was here permitted. they might look about them, or close their eyes and be stupefied; in short, do just what they liked. it was soon found by experience that the work done after this refreshing pause more than made up for the time thus expended. such were some of the plans of this kind-hearted and highly-principled man--and the blooming looks, the gay spirits, the bright eyes, of the happy little community did credit to the scheme. fisher lived but a few years to carry out the rule he had instituted; but to his wife it was as a sacred legacy from his hand, and during the whole course of her subsequent life she faithfully adhered to it. her house was like a convent in some things, but it was a very happy convent. every thing proceeded with a clock-work order, and yet there was a liberty such as few girls thus employed, in spite of their intervals of license, could enjoy. it was a happy party, over which this remarkably handsome, and now distinguishedly fashionable milliner, and dignified-looking lady presided. nothing indiscreet or unseemly was ever permitted. the rule, perhaps, might be a little too grave, and the manner of the young ladies too sedate; but they were innocent and good; and they had their recreations, for mrs. fisher look them out, turn and turn about, upon a sunday, in her carriage, and the others walked with the two superintendents--persons carefully selected for their good principles and good conduct. mrs. fisher, too, was a little bit of a match-maker; and if she had a weakness, it was her fondness for settling her young ladies. nothing pleased her better than when they were sought--and they were such nice, well-behaved girls, this often happened--by worthy young men in their own rank of life. mrs. fisher always gave the wedding-gown and bonnet, and the wedding dinner, and a white satin reticule or bag, drawn with rose-colored ribbons, with a pretty pink and white purse in it, with silver tassels and rings, and containing a nice little sum for the bride's pocket-money. you will easily understand how mrs. danvers had struck up quite a friendship with mrs. fisher. once, indeed, in her days of youth and gayety, she had been one of her most valuable customers. she had long done with fine things, but the interest she took in the affairs of mrs. fisher's establishment had endeared her very much to that good lady, and hence she had, at her earnest request, consented to take myra, though her own instinct, the moment she cast her eyes upon this beautiful, dawdling-looking being, had assured her that she was, to use her own phrase, not one of _her_ sort. myra was grievously disappointed, upon her side. she was quite one to be blind to the solid advantages of her position, and to look with querulous regret upon all the flashy and brilliant part of such a business, in which she was not allowed to take the least share. precisely because she was so beautiful did mrs. fisher exclude her from the show-room--that theatre which was to have been the scene of her triumphs. the beautiful things she was employed in manufacturing left her hands to be seen no more--and, alas! never by her to be tried on. it was tantalizing work to part with them, and forever, as soon as they left her hand. then she was obliged to be punctual to a moment in her hours; a grievous yoke to her who had never been educated to submit to any. to dress with the most careful attention to neatness, though there was "nothing but a pack of women to look at her"--to listen to "a prosy book"--a book, i forgot to say, was read aloud in the work-room--instead of gossiping and having a little fun; and to walk out on sundays under the wing of that old, hideous harridan, mrs. sterling, instead of going with her companions where she pleased. in short, it was worse "than negro slavery," but there was no help for it--there she was, and there she was obliged to stay. well, and did she improve under this good discipline? was she any the better for it? i am sorry to say very little. there are subjects that are almost unimprovable. she was, by nature, a poor, shallow, weedy thing; her education had been the worst possible for her. evil habits, false views, low aims, had been imbibed, and not one fault corrected while young; and self-experience, which rectifies in most so much that is wrong, seemed to do nothing for her. there was no substance to work upon. mrs. fisher was soon heartily tired of her, and could have regretted her complaisance to mrs. danvers' wishes in receiving her against her judgment; but she was too good to send her away. she laughed, and accepted her as a penance for her sins, she said--as a thorn in the flesh--and she let the thorn rankle there. she remembered her honored fisher, and the scene by the bed-side of poor saunders. she looked upon the endurance of this plague as a fresh offering to the adored memory. she bore this infliction like a martyr for a long time; at last a smart young tailor fell in love with myra at church--a place where he had been better employed thinking of other things. and so i believe he thought after he had married her, in spite of the white dress and silk bonnet, and the reticule with pink ribbons, and the bride's pocket-money, which mrs. fisher bestowed with more pleasure and alacrity than even she had been known to do upon many a worthier subject. chapter viii. "yet once more, oh, ye laurels, and once more, ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, i come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, and with forced fingers rude, shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, compels me--" milton's _lycidas_. i must beg of you to slip over a portion of time, and to suppose about two years passed over our heads, and we return to lettice, who has passed that period at general melwyn's. so useful, so cheerful, so thoroughly good, so sincerely pious, so generously disinterested she was; and the transformation she had accomplished was astonishing. and was she as happy herself as she made others? nobody at the hazels thought of exactly asking that question. and yet they might have reflected a little, and inquired, whether to one, the source of so much comfort to others, the natural felicity of her age was not denied? could a young being like _her_ be _very_ happy, living with two old people, and without one single companion of her own age? without prospect, without interest in that coming life, which the young imagination paints in such lovely colors? one may boldly affirm she was _not_ so happy as she deserved to be, and that it was quite impossible, with a heart formed for every tender affection as was hers, that she _should_. she began to be visited by a troublesome guest, which in the days of hardship she had never known. the very ease which surrounded her, the exemption from all necessity for laborious industry actually increasing the evil, gradually seemed to grow upon her. there was a secret distaste for life--a void in the heart, not filled by natural affections--a something which asked for tenderer relations, more earnest duties--a home--a household--a family of her own! she blamed herself very much when first this little secret feeling of dissatisfaction and discontent began to steal over her. how could she be so ungrateful? she had every comfort in the world--more, much more, than she had any title to expect; infinitely more than many far more deserving than herself were allowed to enjoy. why could she not have the same light contented spirit within her breast, that had carried her triumphantly through so many hardships, and enlivened so many clouded days? poor lettice! it was vain to find fault with herself. life would seem flat. the mere routine of duties, unsweetened by natural affection, would weary the spirit at times. there was a sweetness wanting to existence--and existence, without that invigorating sweetness, is to the best of us a tedious and an exhausting thing. so thought catherine, when, about eighteen months or two years after her marriage, she came for the first time with edgar to visit her father and mother. the regimental duties of the young officer had carried him to the ionian islands very shortly after his marriage; promotion had brought him home, and he and his young and happy wife, with a sweet infant of about twelve months old, hastened down to the hazels to visit catherine's parents. i pass over the joy of the meeting--i pass over the satisfaction felt by catherine at the happy revolution which had taken place--at her father's improved temper, her mother's more tranquil spirits, the absence of randall, and the general good behavior which pervaded the household. she looked upon every member of it with satisfaction except one; and that was the very one who ought to have been the happiest; for she was the cause and the origin of all this happiness. but lettice did not, she thought, look as she used to do; her eyes had lost something of their vivacity; and the good heart of catherine was grieved. "it pains me so, edgar--you can not think," she said to her husband, as she walked, leaning upon his arm, through the pleasant groves and gardens of the hazels. "i can scarcely enjoy my own happiness for thinking of her. poor, dear, she blames herself so for not being perfectly happy--as if one could have effects without causes--as if the life she leads here could make any one perfectly happy. not one thing to enjoy--for as to her comfortable room, and the good house, and the pretty place, and all that sort of thing, a person soon gets used to it, and it shuts out uneasiness, but it does not bring delight, at least to a young thing of that age. child of the house as i was, and early days as they were with me when you were among us, edgar--i never knew what true happiness was till then--that is, i should very soon have felt a want of some object of interest; though it _was_ my own father and mother--" "so i took the liberty to lay before you, my fair haranguer, if you recollect, when you made so many difficulties about carrying my knapsack." "ah! that was because it seemed so heartless, so cruel, to abandon my parents just when they wanted me so exceedingly. but what a debt of gratitude i owe to this dear lettice for settling all these matters so admirably for me." "i am glad you confess to a little of that debt, which i, on my part, feel to be enormous." "i heartily wish there were any means of paying it. i wish i could make lettice as happy as she has made all of us." the young officer shook his handsome head. "mammas in our rank of life make such a point of endeavoring to settle their daughters--to start them in households of their own--where, if they are exposed to many troubles which they escape under their father's roof, they have many more interests and sources of happiness. but there is nobody to think of such matters as connegated with this poor fatherless and motherless girl." "mothers, even in your rank, my love, don't always succeed in accomplishing this momentous object. i don't see what possible chance there is for one in lettice's condition--except the grand one, the effective one--in my opinion almost the only one, namely, the chapter of accidents." "ah! that chapter of accidents! it is a poor dependence." "nay, catherine, that is not said with your usual piety." "true--i am sorry--and yet, where another's happiness is concerned, one feels as if it were wrong to trust too much--even to providence; with great reverence be it said--i mean, that in no given event can we exactly tell how much we are expected to use our own exertions, how much diligence on our part is required of us, in order to produce a happy result." "i agree with you quite and entirely; and if there is a thing that angers me beyond measure, it is to see a pious person fold his hands--sit down and trust the happiness of another to, as he says, providence. if i have any just idea of providence, an ample retribution will be in store for these sort of religionists." "well, that is just as i feel--but in a sort of confused way. you say those things so much better than i do, edgar." "do i? well, that is news to me." "but to return. can not we do something for this good creature?" "i don't exactly see that we can do. besides, there is your poor mother. would you pull down all her little edifice of happiness, by taking lettice away from her?" "that is a terrible consideration; and yet what was true of me is doubly and trebly true of lettice. my darling mother would not hear of me relinquishing my happiness upon her account--and ought lettice to be allowed to make such a sacrifice?" "well, well, my dear, it is time enough to begin to deprecate such a sacrifice when the opportunity for it occurs, but i own i see little hope of a romance for your poor, dear lettice, seeing that an important personage in such matters, namely, a hero, seems to me to be utterly out of the question. there is not a young gentleman within twenty miles, so far as i can see, that is in the least likely to think of the good girl." "alas, no! that is the worst of it." but the romance of lettice's life was nearer than they imagined. * * * * * the visit of catherine at the hazels cheered up lettice very much; and in the delights of a little society with those of her own age, she soon forgot all her quarrels with herself; and brushed away the cobwebs which were gathering over her brain. she was enchanted, too, with the baby, and as she felt that, while catherine was with her mother, she rather interfered with, than increased mrs. melwyn's enjoyment, she used to indulge herself with long walks through the beautiful surrounding country, accompanying the nurse and helping to carry the babe. she visited several lonely places and remote cottages, where she had never been before; and began to feel a new interest given to existence when she was privileged to assist others under the pressure of that want and misery which she understood but too well. one evening she and the nurse had strayed in a new direction, and did not exactly know where they were. very far from the house she was aware it could not be, by the time she had been absent, but they had got into one of those deep, hollow lanes, from which it is impossible to catch a glimpse of the surrounding country: those lanes so still, and so beautiful, with their broken sandy banks, covered with tufts of feathering grass, with peeping primroses and violets, and barren strawberries between; the beech and ash of the copses casting their slender branches across, and checkering the way with innumerable broken lights! while, may be, as was here the case, a long pebbly stream runs sparkling and shining upon one side of the way, forming ten thousand little pools and waterfalls as it courses along. charmed with the scene, lettice could not prevail upon herself to turn back till she had pursued her way a little farther. at last a turn in the lane brought her to a lowly and lonely cottage, which stood in a place where the bank had a little receded, and the ground formed a small grassy semicircle, with the steep banks rising all around it--here stood the cottage. it was an ancient, picturesque looking thing, built one knows not when. i have seen one such near stony cross in hampshire, which the tradition of the county affirms to be the very identical cottage into which the dying william rufus was carried, and i am half inclined to believe it. their deep heavy roofs, huge roof-trees, little low walls and small windows, speak of habits of life very remote from our own--and look to me as if like a heap of earth--a tumulus--such edifices might stand unchanged for tens of ages. the cottage before us was of this description, and had probably been a woodman's hut when the surrounding country was all one huge forest. the walls were not more than five feet high, over which hung the deep and heavy roof, covered with moss, and the thatch was overlaid with a heap of black mould, which afforded plentiful nourishment to stonecrops, and various tufts of beautifully feathered grass, which waved in fantastic plumes over it. the door, the frame of which was all aslant, seemed almost buried in, and pressed down by this roof, placed in which were two of those old windows which show that the roof itself formed the upper chamber of the dwelling. a white rose bush was banded up on one side of this door; a rosemary tree upon the other; a little border with marigolds, lemon thyme and such like pot-herbs, ran round the house, which lay in a tiny plot of ground carefully cultivated as a garden. here a very aged man, bent almost double as it would seem with the weight of years, was very languidly digging or attempting it. the nurse was tired, so was the babe, so was lettice. they agreed to ask the old man's leave to enter the cottage, and sit down a little, before attempting to return home. "may we go in, good man, and rest ourselves a little while?" asked lettice. "anan--" "will you give us leave to go in and rest ourselves a little? we are both tired with carrying the baby." "i don't know well what it is you're saying. how many miles to brainford? maybe two; but it's a weary while sin' i've been there." "he can't understand us, nurse, at all. he seems almost stone deaf. let us knock at the door, and see who's within, for you look ready to drop; and i am so excessively tired i can hardly help you. however, give me your sleeping babe at all events, for you really seem as if you could stand no longer." she took the child, which had long been fast asleep, went to the cottage door, and knocked. "come in," said a voice. not such a voice as she expected to hear, but a sweet, well-modulated voice, that of a person of education. a man's voice, however, it was. she hesitated a little, upon which some one rose and opened the door, but started back upon seeing a young lady with a child in her arms, looking excessively tired, and as if she could hold up no longer. "pray, come in," he said, observing she hesitated, and, retreating back a little as he spoke, showed a small bed not far from the fire, standing in the chimney place, as it is called. in this bed lay a very aged woman. a large, but very, very ancient bible lay open upon the bed, and a chair a little pushed back was standing near it. it would seem that the young gentleman had risen from the chair where he to all appearance had been reading the bible to the bed-ridden old woman. "pray, come in, and sit down," he repeated, holding the door to let lettice enter. "you look exceedingly tired. the place is very humble but perfectly clean, and poor old betty rigby will be very happy to give you leave to enter." the young man who spoke was dressed in deep black; but as there was a crape band round his hat which lay upon the table, it would seem that he was in mourning, and possibly, therefore, not a clergyman. he was something above the middle height; but his figure was spoiled by its extreme thinness, and a stoop in the shoulder which seemed to be the effect of weakness. his face was very thin, and his cheek perfectly pale; but his features were beautifully proportioned, and his large gray eyes beamed with a subdued and melancholy splendor. there was the fire of fever, and there was that of genius. the expression of this face was soft and sweet in the extreme, but it was rendered almost painful by its cast of deep sadness. lettice looked at him, and was struck by his appearance in a way she had never in her life been before. he was, i believe, as much struck with hers. these unexpected meetings, in totally unexpected places, often produce such sudden and deep impressions. the happier being was moved and interested by the delicacy the attenuation, the profound sadness of the beautiful countenance before her; the other with the bloom of health, the cheerful, wholesome expression, the character and meaning of the face presented to him, as the young girl stood there holding the sleeping infant in her arms. certainly though not regularly pretty, she was a very picturesque and pleasing looking object at that moment. the old woman from her bed added her invitation to that of the young man. "please to walk in, miss. it's a poor place. please take a chair. oh, my poor limbs! i've been bed-ridden these half-score years; but pray, sit down and rest yourselves, and welcome. law! but that's a pretty bairn, ben't it." lettice took the offered chair and sat down, still holding the baby; the nurse occupied the other; the young man continued standing. "i am afraid we have interrupted you," said lettice, glancing at the book. "oh, pray don't think of it! i am in no hurry to be gone. my time," with a suppressed sigh, "is all my own. i will finish my lecture by-and-by." "ay, do--do--that's a good gentleman. do you know, ma'am, he's been the kindest friend, young as he looks, that ever i or my good man met with. you see we lie here out of the way like--it's a big monstrous parish this, and our parson has a world of work to do. so we gets rather overlooked, though, poor man, i believe, he does what he can. i've lived here these ten years, crippled and bed-ridden as you see, but i got along pretty well for some time, for i was a bit of a schollard in my youth; but last winter my eyes took to being bad, and since then i've not been able to read a line. all gets dizzy like. and i was very dull and sore beset that i couldn't even see to read the word of god, and my poor husband, that's the old man as is delving in the garden there, why he has hardly any eyes left in his head. enough just to potter about like, an' see his way, but he couldn't read a line, and it was never so; and so that blessed young gentleman--law! where is he? why, i declare he's gone!" the young gentleman had, indeed, quietly glided out of the cottage as soon as his _éloge_ began. "that young gentleman--i can say what i like now he is gone--has been _so_ good to us. many's the half-crown he's given me, and a warm winter coat of his own to my poor rheumatized old man. oh! he's a blessed one--and then he comes and sits and reads to me of an afternoon for an hour together, because as how one day he called he found me a-cryin, for why, i could no longer read the holy word--and he says 'cheer up, betty, be of good comfort, i'll read it to you daily'--and when i said 'daily, sir--that'll take up too much of your time, i fear'--he sighed a little, and said he'd nothing particular to do with his time." "who is he? does he belong to this neighborhood?" "no, miss, he's only been here maybe a half-year or so. he came down on a visit to mr. hickman the doctor out there, brainwood way, and presently he went and lodged at a cottage hard by, to be near hickman, who's a great name for such complaints as his'n--a-a--i don't know what's the name--but he's very bad, they say, and not able to do any thing in the world. well, he's the best, kindest, christian young man, you ever see or i ever see. the power of good he does among the poor--poor young fellow--is not to be told or counted--but he's so melancholy like, and so gentle, and so kind, it makes one a'most cry to look at him; that's the worst of it." "he looks like a clergyman; i could fancy he was in holy orders. do you know whether he is so or not?" "yes, ma'am, i have heard say that he is a parson, but nobody in these parts has ever seen him in a pulpit; but now it strikes me i've heard that he was to be curate to mr. thomas, of briarwood parish, but he was ta'en bad of his chest or his throat, and never able to speak up like, so it would not do; he can not at present speak in a church, for his voice sounds so low, so low." "i wonder we have never met with him, or heard of him before." "oh, miss! he's not been in this country very long, and he goes out nowhere but to visit the poor; and tired and weak as he looks, he seems never tired of doing good." "he looks very pale and thin." "ay, doesn't he? i'm afraid he's but badly; i've heard some say he was in a galloping consumption, others a decline; i don't know, but he seems mighty weak like." a little more talk went on in the same way, and then lettice asked the nurse whether she felt rested, as it was time to be returning home, and, giving the poor bed-ridden patient a little money, which was received with abundance of thanks, lettice left the house. when she entered the little garden, she saw the young man was not gone; he was leaning pensively against the gate, watching the swinging branches of a magnificent ash tree, which grew upon a green plot by the side of the lane. beautiful it was as it spread its mighty magnificent head against the deep blue summer sky, and a soft wind gently whispered among its forest of leaves. lettice could not help, as she observed the countenance of the young man, who seemed lost in thought, admiring the extraordinary beauty of its expression. something of the sublime, something of the angelic, which we see in a few remarkable countenances, but usually in those which are spiritualized by mental sufferings, and great physical delicacy. he started from his reverie as she and the nurse approached, and lifted the latchet of the little wicket to lot them pass. and, as he did so, the large, melancholy eye was lighted up with something of a pleasurable expression, as he looked at lettice, and said, "a beautiful afternoon. may i venture to ask were you intending to visit that poor bed-ridden creature? i thought by the expression she used that you were not acquainted with her case, and probably had never been in the cottage before. will you excuse me for saying she is in great necessity?" "it is the first time i have ever been down this lane, sir, but i assure you it shall not be the last; i will come and see the poor woman again. there are few things i pity so much as the being bed-ridden." she had walked into the lane. he had quitted the garden too, and continued to walk by her side talking as he went. "i hope there is not so much suffering in that state as we are apt to imagine," he said; "at least, i have observed that very poor people are enabled to bear it with wonderful cheerfulness and patience. i believe, to those who have lived a life of hard labor, rest has something acceptable in it, which compensates for many privations--but these old creatures are also miserably poor. the parish can not allow much, and they are so anxious not to be forced into the house, that they contrive to make a very little do. the poor woman has been for years receiving relief as member of a sick-club; but lately the managers have come to a resolution, that she has been upon the list for such an unexampled length of time, that they can not afford to go on with the allowance any longer." "how cruel and unjust!" "very sad, as it affects her comforts, poor creature, and certainly not just; yet, as she paid only about three years, and has been receiving an allowance for fifteen, it would be difficult, i fancy, to make the sort of people who manage such clubs see it quite in that light. at all events, we can get her no redress, for she does not belong to this parish, though her husband does; and the club of which she is a member is in a place at some distance, of which the living is sequestrated, and there is no one of authority there to whom we can apply. i only take the liberty of entering into these details, madam, in order to convince you that any charity you may extend in this quarter, will be particularly well applied." "i shall be very happy, if i can be of any use," said lettice, "but i am sorry to say, but little of my time is at my own disposal--it belongs to another--i can not call it my own--and my purse is not very ample. but i have more money than time," she added, cheerfully, "at all events. and, if you will be pleased to point out in what way i can best help this poor creature, i shall be very much obliged to you, for i am quite longing for the pleasure of doing a little among the poor. i have been very poor myself; and, besides, i used to visit them so much in my poor father's day." "i have more time than money," he said, with a gentle but very melancholy smile; "and, therefore, if you will give me leave, i _would_ take the liberty of pointing out to you how you could help this poor woman. if--if i knew...." "i live with general and mrs. melwyn--i am mrs. melwyn's _dame de compagnie_," said lettice, with simplicity. "and i am what ought to be mr. thomas's curate," answered he, "but that i am too inefficient to merit the name. general melwyn's family never attends the parish church, i think." "no; we go to the chapel of ease at furnival's green. it is five miles by the road to the parish church, and that road a very bad one. the general does not like his carriage to go there. "so i have understood; and, therefore, mr. thomas is nearly a stranger, and i perfectly one, to the family, though they are mr. thomas's parishioners." "it seems so strange to me--a clergyman's daughter belonging formerly to a small parish--that every individual in it should not be known to the vicar. it ought not to be so, i think." "i entirely agree with you. but i believe mr. thomas and the general never exactly understood or suited each other." "i don't know--i never heard." "i am myself not utterly unknown to every member of the family. i was at school with the young gentleman who married miss melwyn.... yet why do i recall it? he has probably forgotten me altogether.... and yet, perhaps, not altogether. possibly he might remember james st. leger;" and he sighed. it was a light, suppressed sigh. it seemed to escape him without his observing it. lettice felt unusually interested in this conversation, little as there may appear in it to interest any one; but there was something in the look and tone of the young man that exercised a great power over her imagination. his being of the _cloth_--a clergyman--may account for what may seem rather strange in her entering into conversation with him. she had been brought up to feel profound respect for every one in holy orders; and, moreover, the habits of her life at one time, when she had sunk to such depths of poverty, had, in a considerable degree, robbed her of the conventional reserve of general society. she had been so used at one time to be accosted and to accost without thinking of the ceremony of an introduction, that she probably forgot the absence of it in the present case, more than another equally discreet girl might have done. the young man, on his part, seemed under the influence of a strange charm. he continued to walk by her side, but he had ceased to speak. he seemed lost in thought--melancholy thought. it certainly would seem as if the allusion to edgar's home, and his own school life, had roused a host of painful recollections, in which he was for the time absorbed. so they followed the windings of the deep hollow lane together. necessarily it would seem, for this lane appeared to defy the proverb and have no turning. but that it had one we know--and to it the little party came at last. a gate led to some fields belonging to the estate of the hazels--lettice and the nurse prepared to open it and enter. "good morning, sir," said lettice, "this is my way; i will strive to do something for the poor woman you recommended to me, and i will mention your recommendation to mrs. melwyn." he started as if suddenly awakened when she spoke; but he only said, "will you? it will be right and kind. thank you, in her name." and, with a grave, abstracted sort of salute, he left her, and pursued his way. catherine was standing rather anxiously upon the hall-steps, looking round and wondering what had become of her nurse and her baby, when nurse, baby, and lettice returned. "dear people," she cried, "i _am_ glad you are come back." she had been, if the truth were told, a good deal fidgeted and frightened, as young mothers are very apt to be, when the baby does not come home at the usual hour. she had suffered a good deal of uneasiness, and felt half inclined to be angry. a great many people with whom i am acquainted, would have burst out into a somewhat petulant scold, when the cause for anxiety was at an end, and baby and her party, all safe, appeared quietly walking up the road as if nothing in the world were amiss. the very quiet and tranquillity which proved that they were quite unconscious of having done any thing wrong would have irritated some people more than all the rest. i thought it was very nice of catherine to be good-humored and content as soon as she saw all was safe, after the irritating anxiety she had just been going through. she, however, ran eagerly down the steps, and her eyes sparkling with impatience caught her little one in her arms and kissed it very fast and hard. that being the only sign of an impatient spirit which she showed, and, except crying out, "oh! i am glad to see you safe back, all of you. do you know, lettice, i began to wonder what had become of you?"--not a syllable approaching to reproof passed her lips. "dear mrs. d'arcy! dear catherine! i am afraid we are late. we went too far--we partly lost ourselves. we got into a long, but oh! such a lovely lane--where i never was before, and then, we have had a little wee bit of an adventure." "adventure! oh goodness! i _am_ glad of that. adventures are so excessively rare in this country. i never met with one in my life, but happening upon edgar, as the people say, when he was coming from hunting; and the wind had blown off my hat. a wind that blew somebody good, that ... dear, beloved, lettice, i wish to goodness, that i do--an adventure of the like of that, might have happened to you." lettice colored a little. "gracious!" cried catherine, laughing merrily, and peeping at her under her bonnet--"i declare--you're blushing lettice. your adventure is something akin to my adventure. have you stumbled upon an unparalleled youth--by mere accident as i did? and did he--did he pick up your hat?" "if he had," said lettice, "i am afraid my face with my hair all blown about it would not have looked quite so enchanting as yours must have done. no, i did not lose my bonnet." "any thing else? your heart, perhaps?" "dear catherine! how can you be so silly." "oh! it was such a blessed day when i lost mine," said mrs. d'arcy, gayly. "such a gain of a loss! that i wish just the same misfortune to befall every one i love--and i love you dearly, lettice." "there must be more than one heart lost i fancy, to make adventures turn out as well as yours did, catherine." "oh! that's a matter of course in such sort of things. there is always an exchange, where there is love at first sight. but now do tell me, that's a dear girl, what your adventure was." "i only saw a clergyman reading to a poor woman--or rather i only saw a clergyman, a bible, and a poor woman, and thence concluded that he _had_ been reading to her." "oh! you tiresome creature. poor, dear, old mr. hughes, i'll be bound. good old fellow--but such a hum-drum. nay, lettice, my dear, don't look shocked and cross. a clergyman may be a very stupid, hum-drum, tiresome fellow, as well as any other man. don't pretend to deny that." "i would as lief not hear them called so--but this was not mr. hughes." "oh, no! i remember now you were not in his parish. if you went down briarwood-lane far enough you would be in briarwood parish. mr. thomas, perhaps." "no." "mr. thomas's curate. oh! of course the curate. only i don't think mr. thomas keeps one." "no; i believe not mr. thomas's, or any one else's curate; but a gentleman who says he knew captain d'arcy at school." "nay, that is too charming. that really is like an adventure." "here, edgar!" he was crossing the paddock at some little distance. "come here for one instant. do you recollect what i was talking to you about this very morning? well, lettice has met with an adventure, and has stumbled upon an old acquaintance of yours--reading the bible to an old woman--he was at school with you. "well, as there were about five hundred people, more or less, who had that honor--if you mean to know any thing about him, miss arnold, you must go a little more into detail; and, first and foremost, what is the young gentleman's name?" "james st. leger," said lettice. a start for answer, and, "ha! indeed! poor fellow! _he_ turned up again. i little thought our paths in life would ever cross more. how strange to unearth him in such a remote corner of the world as briarwood. poor fellow! well, what is he like? and how does he look?" "ill and melancholy," said lettice. "i should say very ill and very melancholy--and with reason i believe; for though he is in holy orders, something is the matter with his throat or his chest; which renders him useless in the pulpit." "you don't say so. his chest! i hope not. and yet," continued edgar, as if musing aloud, "i know not. he was one when i knew him, miss arnold, so marked out through the vices of others for misery in this world, that i used to think the sooner he went out of it the better for him." "ah!" cried catherine, "there is an interesting history here. do tell it us, edgar. of all your charming talks, what i like almost the best are your reminiscences. he has such a memory, lettice; and so much penetration into the characters of persons: and the connection of things; that nothing is so delightful as when he _will_ tell some old history of his earlier years. do, dear edgar, tell us all about this charming young curate of briarwood." "flatterer! coaxing flatterer! don't believe a word she says, miss arnold. i am as empty-pated a rattle-skull, as ever was turned raw into one of her majesty's regiments--and that's saying a good deal, i can tell you. but this dear creature here loves a bit of romance in her heart. what's o'clock?" "oh!" looking at the tiniest of watches, "a full two hours to dinner; and such a day too for a story--and just look at that spreading oak with the bench under it, and the deer lying crouching there so sweetly, and the wind just lulling the boughs as it were to rest. here, nurse, bundle the baby away to her nursery. now, _do_, there's a darling edgar." "why, my love, you are making awful preparation. it is almost as terrible as reading a manuscript to begin a relation, all sitting solemnly upon a bench under a tree together. there is not much to tell, poor fellow; only i did pity him from my heart of hearts." catherine had her way, and they sat down under the green leafy canopy of this majestic oak; and she put her arm in her husband's, and her hand into that of lettice, and thus sitting between them, loving and beloved, she listened, the happiest, as she was one of the honestest and best, of heaven's creatures. "we were both together at a large rough sort of preparatory school," began edgar, "where there might be above a hundred boys or so. they were mostly, if not entirely, intended for the military profession, and came from parents of all sorts of positions and degrees, and of all sorts of principles, characters, and manners. a very omnium gatherum that school was, and the ways of it were as rough as in any school. i should think, they could possibly be. i was a tall, healthy rebel, when i was sent there, as strong as a little hercules, and excessively proud of my force and prowess. a bold, daring, cheerful, merry lad, as ever left his mother's apron-string; very sorry to quit the dotingest of mothers, and the happiest of homes, and the pleasantest of fathers; but mighty proud to come out of the _gynyseum_, and to be a man, as i thought it high time i should, in cloth trowsers and jacket, instead of a black velvet coatee. in i plunged, plump head-foremost amid the vortex, and was soon in a thousand scrapes and quarrels, battling my way with my fists, and my merry eye; for they used to tell me the merry eye did more for me even than my impudence in fighting every thing that would condescend to fight such a youngster. i was soon established, and then i breathed after my victories, and began to look round. "so long as i had considered the throng about me but in the light of so many adversaries to be beaten by main force, and their rude and insulting ways only as provocatives to the fray, i had cared little for their manners or their proceedings, their coarseness and vulgarity, their brutality and their vices. but now, seated in peace upon the eminence to which i had fought my way, i had time to breathe and to observe. i can not describe to you how shocked, how sickened, how disgusted i became. _par parenthèse_, i will say that it has always been an astonishment to me, how parents so tender as mine could send a frank, honest-hearted, well-meaning little fellow into such a place. but the school had a high reputation. i was then a fourth son, and had to make my way as best i could in the profession chosen for me. so here i came. i was about ten or eleven years old, i must add, in excuse for my parents, though i called myself so young, i felt younger, because this was my first school. to resume. when i had vanquished them, it is not in words to describe how i despised and detested the majority of my schoolfellows--for their vulgar pleasures, their offensive habits--their hard, rough, brutal manners--their vicious principles, and their vile, blasphemous impiety. i was a warm lover and a still more ardent hater, and my hatred to most of them exceeded all bounds of reason; but it was just such as a straightforward, warm-tempered fellow, is certain to entertain without mitigation in such a case. "it is a bad element for a boy to be living in. however, i was saved from becoming an utter young monster, by the presence in the school of this very boy, james st. leger. "in the bustle and hurry of my early wars, i had taken little heed of, scarcely observed this boy at all. but when the pause came, i noticed him. i noticed him for many reasons. he was tall for his age, slender, and of extremely delicate make, but with limbs of a symmetry and beauty that reminded one of a fine antique statue. his face, too, was extremely beautiful; and there was something in his large, thoughtful, melancholy eyes, that it was impossible ever to look upon and to forget. "i no sooner observed him at all, than my whole boyish soul seemed knit to him. "his manner was extremely serious; the expression of his countenance sad to a degree--deeply, intensely sad, i might say; yet through that deep sadness there was a tender sweetness which was to me most interesting. i never shall forget his smile--for laugh he never was heard to do. "i soon discovered two things, that made me feel more for him than all the rest. one, that he was an extremely well-informed boy, and had received a home education of a very superior order; and the other, that he was most unfortunate, and that his misfortunes had one peculiar ingredient of bitterness in them, namely, that they were of a nature to excite the scorn and contempt of the vulgar herd that surrounded him, rather than to move their rude hearts to sympathy and pity. "the propensity to good in rough, vulgar, thoughtless human beings, is very apt to show itself in this way--in a sort of contemptuous disgust against vice and folly, and an alienation from those connected with it, however innocent we must accept it, upon reflection, i suppose, as a rude form of good inclination; but i was too young for reflection--too young to make allowances, too young to be equitable. such conduct appeared to me the most glaring and barbarous injustice, and excited in me a passion ate indignation. "never did i hear st. leger taunted, as he often was, with the frailties of his mother or the errors of his father, but my heart was all in a flame--my fist clinched--my cheek burning. many a fellow have i laid prostrate upon the earth with a sudden blow who dared, in my presence, to chase the color from st. leger's cheek by alluding to the subject. there was this remarkable in st. leger, by the way, that he never colored when his mother's shame or his father's end was alluded to, but went deadly pale. "the history was a melancholy one of human frailty, and is soon told. his mother had been extremely beautiful, his father the possessor of a small independent fortune. they had lived happily together many years, and she had brought him five children; four girls and this boy. i have heard that the father doted with no common passion--in a _husband_, catherine--upon the beautiful creature, who was moreover accomplished and clever. she seemed devoted to her children, and had given no common attention to her boy in his early years. hence his mental accomplishments. the husband was, i suspect, rather her inferior in intellect; and scarcely her equal in refinement and manner, but it's no matter, it would have been probably the same whatever he had been. she who will run astray under one set of circumstances, would probably have run astray under any. she was very vain of her beauty and talents, and had been spoiled by the idolatry and flattery of all who surrounded her. "i will not pain you by entering into any particulars; in brief, she disgraced herself, and was ruined. "the rage, the passionate despair, the blind fury of the injured husband, it was said, exceeded all bounds. there was of course every sort of public scandal. legal proceedings and the necessary consequences--a divorce. the wretched history did not even end here. she suffered horribly from shame and despair i have been told, but the shame and despair, had not the effect it ought to have produced. she fell from bad to worse, and was utterly lost. the husband did the same. wild with the stings of wounded affection, blinded with suffering, he flew for refuge to any excitement which would for a moment assuage his agonies; the gaming-table, and excess in drinking, soon finished the dismal story. he shot himself in a paroxysm of delirium tremens, after having lost almost every penny he possessed at faro. "you tremble catherine. your hand in mine is cold. oh the pernicious woman! oh the depths of the misery--if i were indeed to tell you all i have met with and known--which are entailed upon the race by the vanity, the folly, and the vice of women. angels! yes, angels you are. sweet saint--sweet catherine, and men fall down and worship you--but woe for them when she they worship, proves a fiend. "dear miss arnold, you are shedding tears--but you _would_ have this dismal story. you had better hear no more of it, let me stop now." "go on--pray go on, edgar. tell us about the poor boy and the girls, you said there were four of them." "the boy and his sisters were taken by some relations. it was about a year after these events that i met him at this school. they had sent him here, thinking the army the best place for him. to get him shot off, poor fellow, perhaps, if they could. his four sisters were all then living, and how tenderly, poor lad, he used to talk to me about them. how he would grieve over the treatment they were receiving, with the best intentions he acknowledged, but too hardening and severe he thought for girls so delicate. they wanted a mother's fostering, a father's protection, poor things, but he never alluded in the remotest way to either father or mother. adam, when he sprung from the earth, was not more parentless than he seemed to consider himself. but he used to talk of future for his sisters, and sometimes in his more cheerful moods, would picture to himself what he would do when he should be a man, and able to shelter them in a home, however humble, of his own. his whole soul was wrapped up in these girls." "did you ever hear what became of them?" "three died of consumption, i have been told, just as they were opening into the bloom of early womanhood, almost the loveliest creatures that ever were seen." "and the fourth." "she was the most beautiful of all--a fine, high-spirited, dashing creature. her brother's secret terror and darling." "well!" "she followed her mother's example, and died miserably at the age of two-and-twenty." "what can we do for this man?" cried catherine, when she had recovered voice a little. "edgar, what can we do for this man?" "your first question, dear girl--always your first question--what can be done?" ever, my love, may you preserve that precious habit. my catherine never sits down lamenting, and wringing her hands helplessly about other people's sorrows. the first thing she asks, is, "what _can be done_." chapter ix. strongest minds are often those of whom the noisy world hears least; else surely this man had not left his graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. wordsworth. the first thing to be done, it was obvious to all parties, was for edgar to go and call upon mr. st. leger, which he did. he found him occupying one very small room, which served him for bed and sitting room, in a small cottage upon the outskirts of the little secluded town of briarwood. he looked extremely ill; his beautiful countenance was preternaturally pale; his large eyes far too bright and large; his form attenuated; and his voice so faint, husky, and low that it was with difficulty he could make himself heard, at least for any length of time together. the expression of his countenance, however, was rather grave than sad; resigned than melancholy. he was serious but perfectly composed; nay, there was even a chastened cheerfulness in his manner. he looked like one who had accepted the cup presented to him; had already exhausted most of the bitter potion, and was calmly prepared to drain it to the dregs. and so it had been. no man was ever more exquisitely constituted to suffer from circumstances so agonizing than he. but his mind was of a lofty stamp; he had not sunk under his sufferings. he had timely considered the _reality_ of these things. he had learned to connect--really, truly, faithfully--the trials and sorrows of this world with the retributions of another. he had accepted the part allotted to him in the mysterious scheme; had played it as best he could, and was now prepared for its impending close. it is consoling to know one thing. in his character of minister of the holy word of god he had been allowed the privilege of attending the last illness of both mother and sister, both so deeply, deeply, yet silently beloved, in spite of all; and, through those blessed means, the full value and mercy of which, perhaps such grievous sinners are alone able to entirely estimate, he had reconciled them, as he trusted, with that god "who forgiveth all our iniquities and healeth all our diseases." having been allowed to do this, he felt as if it would be the basest ingratitude to murmur because his services in the pulpit were suddenly arrested by the disease in his chest, and with it a stop put to further usefulness, and even to the supply of his daily bread. he was calmly expecting to die in the receipt of parish relief; for he had not a penny beyond his curate's salary; and it was impossible to allow mr. thomas, who was a poor man himself, to continue that, now the hope of restoration to usefulness seemed at an end. it was not likely, indeed, that he should, upon the spare hermit's diet which his scanty means allowed, recover from a complaint of which weakness was the foundation. he had tried to maintain himself by his pen; but the complaint which prevented his preaching was equally against the position when writing. he could do so little in this way that it would not furnish him with a loaf a week. a ray of genuine pleasure, however, shot to his eye, and a faint but beautiful flush mounted to his cheek, when edgar entered and cordially held out his hand. he was such a dear warm-hearted fellow, was edgar. st. leger had loved him so entirely at school; and those days were not so _very_ long since! the impression old time had not even yet attempted with his busy fingers to efface. "i am so glad to have found you out, my dear fellow," edgar began. "who would have thought of meeting you, of all people in the world, here, ensconsed in such a quiet nook of this busy island--a place where the noise and bustle and stir of the great babylon can not even be heard. but what are you doing in this place? for you look ill, i must say, and you seem to be left to yourself without a human being to look after you." "much so. you know i am quite alone in the world." "a dismal position that, and i am come to put an end to it. my wife insists upon making your acquaintance, and scuttled me off this morning without giving me time to eat my breakfast, though, to own the truth, i was ready enough of myself to set out. the general desired me to bring his card; he is too infirm to go out himself, and he and mrs. melwyn request the favor of your company to dinner to-morrow at six o'clock." "i should be very happy--but--," and he hesitated a little. "i'll come and fetch you in the dog-cart about five, and drive you down again in the evening. it's a mere step by hatherway-lane, which is quite passable at this time of the year, whatever it may be in winter." st. leger looked as if he should like very much to come. his was a heart, indeed, formed for society, friendship, and love; not the least of the monk or the hermit was to be found in his composition. and so it was settled. st. leger came to dinner, as arranged, edgar fetching him up in the dog-cart. every one was struck with his appearance. there was a gentleness and refinement in his manner which charmed mrs. melwyn; united to the ease and politeness of a man of the world, equally acceptable to the general; catharine was delighted; and lettice only in a little danger of being too well pleased. his conversation soon showed him to be a man of a very superior turn of thought, and was full of information. in short, it was some time, with the exception of edgar, since so agreeable a person had sat down at that dinner-table; for the hazels lay rather out of the way, and neither the general nor mrs. melwyn were of a temper to cultivate society. edgar returned home in the evening from an agreeable drive with his friend through the bright glittering starlight night. it was slightly frosty, and he came into the drawing-room rubbing his hands, with his cheeks freshened by the air, looking as if he was prepared very much to enjoy the fire. he found the whole party sitting up, and very amicably discussing the new acquaintance, who had pleased them all so much. so edgar sat down between his wife and her mother, and readily joined in the conversation. the general, who really was much altered for the better under the good influences of lettice, had been speaking in high terms of their late guest. and when edgar came in and sat down in the circle, spreading his hands to the fire, and looking very comfortable, the general, in an amicable tone, began: "really, edgar, we have been saying we are quite obliged to you for introducing to us so agreeable a man as this mr. st. leger, of yours. he is quite a find in such a stupid neighborhood as ours, where, during the ten years i have lived in it, i have never met one _resident_"--with an emphasis upon the word, that it might not be supposed to include edgar himself--"one _resident_ whose company i thought worth a brass farthing." "i am very glad my friend gives satisfaction, sir," said edgar cheerfully; "for i believe, poor fellow, he has much more to seek than even yourself, general, in the article of companionship. one can not think that the society of the worthy mr. thomas can afford much of interest to a man like st. leger. but whatever pleasure you may mutually afford each other will soon be at an end, i fear; and i have been beating my brains all the way coming home, to think what must be done." "why must the pleasure come so soon to an end, edgar?" asked mrs. melwyn. "why, if something can't be done, the poor lad is in a fair way to be starved to death," was the answer. "starved to death! how shockingly you do talk, edgar," cried mrs. melwyn. "i wish you would not say such things--you make one quite start. the idea is too horrible--besides, it can not be true. people don't starve to death nowadays--at least not in a sort of case like that." "i don't know--such things do sound as if they couldn't be true--and yet," said catherine, "they do come very nearly to the truth at times." "indeed do they," said lettice. "starved to death," observed the general, "i take to be merely a poetic exaggeration of yours, captain. but do you mean to say that young man is literally in distressed circumstances?" "the most urgently distressing circumstances, sir. the fact is, that he inherited nothing from his father but a most scandalous list of debts, which he most honorably sold every farthing of his own little property to pay--relying for his subsistance upon the small stipend be was to receive from mr. thomas. you don't like mr. thomas, sir." "who would like such a stupid old drone?" "he's a worthy old fellow, nevertheless. though his living is a very poor one, he has acted with great liberality to james st. leger. the poor fellow has lost his voice: you would perceive in conversation how very feeble and uncertain it was. it is utterly powerless in the reading-desk; and yet mr. thomas has insisted upon retaining him--paying his salary, and doing all the duty himself. as long as there was any hope of recovery, to this st. leger most unwillingly submitted; but, now he despairs of ever again being useful, it is plain it can no longer be done." "and what is to become of him?" exclaimed lettice. she knew what it was to be utterly without resource--she knew how possible it was for such things to happen in this world--she knew what it was to be hungry and to want bread, and be without the means of assistance--to be friendless, helpless, and abandoned by all. "what is to be done?" she cried. "what is to be done?" said the general, rather testily. "why, the young fellow must turn his hand to something else. none but a fool _starves_." "ay, but," said edgar, shaking his head, "but what is that something? i see no prospect for one incapacitated by his cloth for enlisting as a soldier or standing behind a counter, and by his illness for doing any thing consistent with his profession." "i should think he might write a canting book," said the general with a sneer; "_that_ would be sure to sell." "whatever book st. leger wrote," edgar answered coldly, "would be a good one, whether _canting_ or not. but he can not write a book. the fatigue, the stooping, would be intolerable to his chest in its present irritable state. besides, if he did write a book, it's a hundred to one whether he got any thing for it; and, moreover, the book is not written; and there is an old proverb which says, while the grass grows the horse starves. he literally _will_ starve, if some expedient can not be hit upon." "and that is too, too dreadful to think of," cried mrs. melwyn piteously. "oh, general!" "oh, papa! oh, edgar! can you think of nothing?" added catharine in the same tone. "it would be a pity he should starve; for he is a remarkably gentlemanlike, agreeable fellow," observed the general. "edgar, do you know what was meant by the term, one meets with in old books about manners, of 'led captain?' i wish to heaven _i_ could have a led captain like that." "oh, there was the chaplain as well as the led captain in those days, papa," said catherine, readily. "dearest papa, if one could but persuade you you wanted a domestic chaplain." "well, and what did the chaplain do in those days. mrs. pert?" "why, he sat at the bottom of the table, and carved the sirloin." "and he read, and played at backgammon--when he was wanted, i believe," put in edgar. "and he did a great deal more," added catherine in a graver tone. "he kept the accounts, and looked after important business for his patron." "and visited the poor and was the almoner and their friend," said lettice in a low voice. "and played at bowls, and drank--" catherine put her hand playfully over the general's mouth. "don't, dear papa--you must _not_--you must not, indeed. do you know this irreverence in speaking of the members of so sacred a profession is not at all what ought to be done. don't edgar. dear papa, i may be foolish, but i do _so_ dislike it." "well, well, well--any thing for a quiet life." "but to resume the subject," locking her arm in his, and smiling with a sweetness which no one, far least he, could resist. "really and seriously i do think it would be an excellent thing if you would ask mr. st. leger to be your domestic chaplain." "stuff and nonsense." "not such stuff and nonsense as you think. here's our darling lettice--think what a comfort she has been to mamma, and think what a pleasant thing it would be for you to have a confidential and an agreeable friend at your elbow--just as mamma has in lettice. hide your face, lettice, if you can't bear to be praised a little before it; but i will have it done, for i see you don't like it. but, papa, you see things are getting a good deal into disorder, they say, upon your property out of doors, just for want of some one to look after them. i verily believe, that if we could persuade this young gentleman to come and do this for you, he would save you a vast deal of money." the general made no answer. he sank back in his chair, and seemed to meditate. at last, turning to edgar, he said, "that little wife of yours is really not such a fool as some might suppose her to be, captain." "really--' "what say you, mrs. melwyn? is there any sense in the young lady's suggestion, or is there not? what says miss arnold? come, let us put it to the vote." mrs. melwyn smiled. catherine applauded and laughed, and kissed her father, and declared he was the dearest piece of reasonableness in the world. and, in short, the project was discussed, and one said this, and the other said that, and after it had been talked over and commented upon, with a hint from one quarter, and a suggestion from another, and so on, it began to take a very feasible and inviting shape. nothing could be more true than a person of this description in the family was terribly wanted. the general was becoming every day less able and less inclined to look after his own affairs. things were mismanaged, and he was robbed in the most notorious and unblushing manner. this must be seen to. of this edgar and catherine had been upon their return speedily aware. the difficulty was how to get it done; and whom to trust in their absence; which would soon, owing to the calls of the service, take place again, and for an indefinite period of time. mr. st. leger seemed the very person for such an office, could he be persuaded to undertake it; and his extremity was such, that, however little agreeable to such a man the proposal might be, it appeared not impossible that he might entertain it. then he had made himself so much favor with the general, that one difficulty, and the greatest, was already overcome. mrs. melwyn seconded their designs with her most fervent wishes. she could not venture to do much more. to have expressed her sentiments upon the subject--to have said how much she felt the necessity of some such plan, and how ardently she desired that it might be carried into execution, would have been one very likely reason for setting her wayward old partner against it. she had found so much happiness in the possession of lettice as a friend, that she anticipated every possible advantage from a similar arrangement for the general. you may remark as you go along, that it was because lettice had so admirably performed her own part, that the whole family were so desirous of repeating it under other circumstances. such are among the incidental--if i may call them so--fruits of good conduct. if the vices spread wide their devastating influences--the virtues extend their blessings a thousand fold. the general did not want for observation he had estimated the good which had arisen from the admission of lettice arnold into his family, and he felt well inclined to the scheme of having a companion of his own. he could even tolerate the idea of a species of domestic chaplain; provided the personage so designated would look to his home farm and keep his accounts. the proposal was made to mr. st. leger. he hesitated. edgar expected that he would. "i do not know," he said. "i feel as if i were, in some measure, running the risk of degrading my holy office, by accepting, merely for my personal convenience, a dependent position, where certain compliances, as a necessary condition, might be expected, which are contrary to my views of things." "why so? i assure you, upon my honor, nothing of that sort is to be apprehended. these are really very well meaning people, and you may serve them more than you seem aware. the part of domestic chaplain is not held beneath the members of your church. i own this is not a noble family, and doubt whether you can legitimately claim the title. yet the office is the same." "yes--if i may perform the duties of that office. on that condition alone, will i entertain the thought of it for a moment. and i must add, that as soon as ever i am in a condition--if that time ever arrives--to resume my public duties, i am to be allowed to do so." "unquestionably." "and, that while i reside under the general's roof, i may carry out certain reforms which i believe to be greatly wanted." "no doubt." "and that i shall be enabled to assist mr. thomas in the care of this extremity of his large parish, which so deplorably requires looking after." the general grumbled a little at some of these conditions, but finally consented to all. he was getting an old man. perhaps he was not sorry--though he thought it due to those ancient prejudices of his profession, i am happy to say now fast growing obsolete, to appear so--perhaps he was not really sorry, now the wheel was beginning to pause at the cistern, and the darkness of age was closing around him, to have some one in his household to call his attention to things which he began to feel had been neglected too long. perhaps he was not sorry to allow family prayer in a mansion, where the voice of united family prayer had, till then, never been heard. to anticipate a little--i may add, as certain, that he, who began with never attending at all, was known to drop in once or twice; and ended by scolding lettice heartily in a morning if there was any danger of her not having bound up his arm in time for him to be present. his gray venerable head--his broken, but still manly figure--his wrinkled face--his still keen blue eye, might be seen at last amid his household. the eye fixed in a sort of determined attention--the lips muttering the prayer--a sort of child in religion still--yet far to seek in many things; but accepted, we will hope, as a child. he could share, too, as afterward appeared, in the interest which mrs. melwyn and lettice, after mr. st. leger's arrival, ventured openly to take in the concerns of the poor; and even in the establishment of a school, against which, with an obstinate prejudice against the education of the lower classes, the general had long so decidedly set his face. in short, having accepted all the conditions upon which alone st. leger, even in the extremity of his need, could be persuaded to accept a place in his family, the old soldier ended by taking great comfort, great interest, great pleasure, in all the improvements that were effected. * * * * * one difficulty presented itself in making the arrangement; and this came from a quarter quite unexpected by catherine--from poor mrs. melwyn. "ah, catherine," said she, coming into her room, and looking most nervous and distressed, "take care what you and edgar are about, in bringing this mr. st. leger into the family. suppose he should fall in love with lettice?" "well, mamma, suppose he should--where would be the dreadful harm of that?" said catherine, laughing. "ah, my dear! pray, don't laugh, catherine. what _would_ become of us all?" "why, what would become of you all?" "i'm sure i don't wish to be selfish. i should hate myself if i were. but what _could_ we do without lettice? dear catherine! only think of it. and that would not be the worst. they could not marry--for they would have nothing to live upon if they left us--so they would both be miserable. for they _could_ neither go nor stay. it would be impossible for them to go on living together here, if they were attached to each other and could never be married. and so miserable as they would be, catherine, it makes me wretched to think of it." "ah! dear, sweet mother, don't take up wretchedness at interest--that's my own mother. they're not going to fall in love. mr. st. leger looks not the least inclined that way." "ah, that's easily said, but suppose they _did_?" "well, suppose they did. i see no great harm in it; may i confess to you, mother, for my part, i should be secretly quite glad of it." "oh, catherine! how _can_ you talk so? what would be _done_?" "done! why, let them marry to be sure, and live on here." "live on here! who on earth ever heard of such a scheme! dearest child, you are too romantic. you are almost absurd, my sweet catherine--forgive your poor mother for saying so." "no, that i won't," kissing her with that playful tenderness which so well became her, "that i won't, naughty mamma. because, do you know, you say the most unjust thing in the world when you call me romantic. why, only ask papa, ask edgar, ask mrs. danvers, ask any body, if i am not common-sense personified." "if i asked your papa, my dear girl, he would only say you had a way of persuading one into any thing, even into believing you had more head than heart, my own darling," said the fond mother, her pale cheek glowing, and those soft eyes swimming in delight, as she looked upon her daughter. "that's right; and now you have acknowledged so much, my blessed mother, i am going to sit down by you, and seriously to give you my well weighed opinions upon this most weighty matter." so catherine drew a low stool, and sat too down by her mother's knee, and threw her arm over her lap, and looked up in her face and began her discourse. "first of all, then, dearest mamma, i think you a little take up anxiety at interest in this case. i really never did see a man that seemed to me less likely to fall in love imprudently than this mr. st. leger. he is so extremely grave and sedate, so serious, and so melancholy, and he seems so completely to have done with this world--it has, indeed, proved a bitter world to him--and to have so entirely placed his thoughts upon another, that i think the probability very remote indeed, if to the shadow of any thing above a possibility it amounts, of his ever taking sufficient interest in present things to turn his thoughts upon his own happiness. he seems absorbed in the performance of the duties to which he has devoted himself. secondly, this being my idea of the state of the case, i have not the slightest apprehension in the world for dear lettice's happiness; because i know what a sensible, kind, and what a well regulated heart hers is, and that she is far too good and right-minded to attach herself in any way beyond mere benevolence, and friendship, and so forth, where there was not a prospect of an adequate return." "oh, yes! my love, very true; yet, catherine, you admit the possibility, however remote, of what i fear. and then what _would_ become of us all? surely, it is not right to shut our eyes to this possibility." "why, mamma, i don't deny the possibility you speak of, and i quite see how wrong it would be to shut our eyes to it; but just listen to me, dearest mother, and don't call me wild and romantic till you have heard me out." "well, my love, go on; i am all attention." "i should think it really, the most ridiculous thing in the world," and she laughed a little to herself, "to enter so seriously into this matter, if edgar and i, alas! were not ordered away in so short a time, and i fear my dearest mamma will be anxious and uncomfortable after i am gone--about this possibility, if we do not settle plans a little, and agree what ought, and what could be done, supposing this horrible contingency to arise." "how well you understand your poor mother, love! yes; that is just it. only let me have the worst placed steadily before my eyes, and the remedies, if any, proposed, or if none, the state of the case acknowledged, and i can bear the contemplation of almost any thing. i think it is not patience, but courage, that your poor mother wants, my child. uncertainty--any thing that is vague--the evils of which are undefined, seems to swell into such terrific magnitude. i am like a poor frightened child, catherine; the glimmering twilight is full of monstrous spectres to me." "yes, mamma, i believe that is a good deal the case with most of us; but more especially with those who have so much sensibility and such delicate nerves as you have. how i adore you, dear mother, for the patient sweetness with which you bear that trying sort of constitution." "dear child!" "well, then, mother, to look this evil steadily in the face, as you say. suppose lettice and mr. st. leger _were_ to form an attachment for each other, what should hinder them from marrying?" "ah, my dear, that was what i said before, what _would_ become of them--they must starve." "why so? why not live on here?" "nay, catherine, you made me promise not to call you romantic, but who ever heard of such an out-of-the-way scheme. a young married couple, living in the condition of domestic companions to people, and in another man's house. utterly impossible--what nobody ever attempted to do--utterly out of the question." "well, mamma, i, for one, think that a great many rather out-of-the-way plans, which, nevertheless, might make people very happy, are often rejected--merely because 'nobody ever heard of such a thing,' or, 'nobody ever thought of doing so, and therefore it is utterly impossible.'... but i think i have observed that those who, in their own private arrangements, have had the courage, upon well considered grounds--mind i say upon _well considered grounds_--to overlook the consideration of nobody ever having thought of doing such a thing before--have found their account in it, and a vast deal of happiness has been secured which would otherwise have been quite lost." "as how, catherine. give me instances. i don't quite follow you." "why, in marriages, for instance, then, such cases arise very often. late marriages for one--between people quite advanced in years--which the world often laugh and sneer at. most wrongly in my opinion--for through them how often do we see what would otherwise have been a solitary old age, rendered cheerful and comfortable; and sometimes a weary, disappointed life, consoled by a sweet friendship and affection at its close. then, there are marriages founded upon reason and arrangement; such as when an ugly man with an ungraceful manner, yet perhaps a good heart and head, and with it plenty of money, marries one rather his inferior in social rank, whom his circumstances enable him to indulge with many new sources of enjoyment, and who in return is grateful for the elevation, and proud of a husband young ladies of his own class might have looked down upon. then there might be another arrangement, which is, indeed, at present, i own, almost a romance, it is so rarely entered into. i mean, supposing single women from different families, somewhat advanced in life, were to put their little fortunes together, and form a household, wherein, by their united means, they might live easily--instead of almost in penury alone. in short, the instances are innumerable, in which, i think, the path a little out of the ordinary course, is the wisest a person can pursue." "go on, my love, you talk so prettily, i like to hear you." the daughter kissed the soft white hand she held in hers--white it was as the fairest wax, and still most beautiful. the signs of age were only discernible in the wasting blue veins having become a little too obvious. "well, then, mamma, to draw my inference. i think, under the peculiar circumstances of our family, you, who are so in want of children and companions, could not do better, than if these two valuable creatures _did_ attach themselves to one another, to let them marry and retain them as long as they were so minded under your roof." "my goodness, child!" "i have planned it all. this house is so big. i should allot them an apartment at the east end of it. quite away from the drawing-room and yours and my father's rooms--where they might feel as much at home as it is possible for people to feel in another man's house. i should increase their salary--by opening a policy upon their lives; as a provision for their children if they had any. a large provision of this sort would not be needed. it is not to be supposed their children would not have to earn their own living as their parents had done before them. why should they not? _nota bene_--edgar and i hold that the rage for making children independent, as it is called--that is, enabling them just to exist, doing nothing, so as just to keep them from starving upon a minimum income, is a very foolish thing among those whose habits of life render no such independence necessary, and who have never thought of enjoying this exemption from labor in their own case." "but, your father! and then, suppose they got tired of the plan, and longed for a house of their own?" "my father is much more easily persuaded to what is good for him, than we used to think, dear mother. see how nice he has been about lettice and this mr. st. leger. as to their wishing at last for a home of their own, that is possible i allow: but think, sweetest mother, of the pleasure of rewarding this dear, good girl, by making her happy. as for the rest, fear not, mamma. god will provide." mrs. melwyn made no answer. but she listened more comfortably. the nervous, anxious, harassed expression of face, which catherine knew but too well, began to compose, and her countenance to resume its sweet and tranquil smile. "mind, dear mamma, after all i am only speaking of the remote possibility, and what might be done. you would have such pleasure in carrying out the scheme. oh! i do wish there were but a chance of it--really i can't help it, mamma--it would be so nice;" said the sanguine, kind-hearted catherine. chapter x. truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, and fools who came to scoff, remained to pray. goldsmith. accordingly, mr. st. leger, his objections having been overruled by edgar, accepted the place offered him in general melwyn's family. in old times it would probably have been called, what it literally was, that of domestic chaplain: and the dignity of the name, the defined office, and the authority in the household which it implies, would not have been without their use--but, in spite of the want of these advantages, mr. st. leger managed to perform the duties, which, in his opinion, attached to the office, to the satisfaction of every one. it had not been without considerable difficulty and hesitation that he had persuaded himself to enter into the plan. he had scruples, as we have seen; and he had, moreover, an almost invincible dislike to any thing approaching to family dependence. the extremity of his circumstances, however, made him, upon a little consideration, feel that the indulgence of these latter mentioned feelings of pride and delicacy, was not only unreasonable but almost positively wrong. and, as for the scruples connected with his profession, edgar did not find it difficult to dissipate them. he set forth, what was in truth the present state of the family at the hazels, and enlarged upon the very great need there was for the introduction of more religious views than now prevailed. according to a fashion almost universally prevalent when general melwyn was young, except with those of professed religious habits, and who were universally stigmatized as methodists, family prayer had been utterly neglected in his family. and, notwithstanding the better discipline maintained since the evil star of randall had sunk beneath the horizon, not the slightest approach to regularity, in this respect, had been as yet made. mrs. melwyn was personally pious, though in a timid and unconfiding way, her religion doing little to support and strengthen her mind; but the general, though he did not live, as many of his generation were doing, in the open profession of skepticism, and that contempt for the bible, which people brought up when tom paine passed for a great genius, used to reckon so clever, yet it was but too probable that he never approached his creator, in the course of the twenty-four hours, in any way; nor had he done so, since he was a child at his mother's knee. the young captain and his lady were blest with loving, pious, simple dispositions. they loved one another--they delighted in the dear, happy world in which they lived, and in the sweet little creature, their own darling and most precious possession, and they both loved, and most gratefully served their god, who had given them all these good things, and loved him with the full warmth of their feeling hearts. they showed their reverence for divine things by every means in their power: and though they were not of those who go about hurling the awful vengeance of god, upon all they may think less pious than themselves, they were naturally anxious, and as advancing years brought increase of serious thought, they became more and more anxious that their parents should share the consolations, and their house hold the moral guidance to be derived from a better system. then, as i hinted to you before, in anticipation of this change, there had been a very serious neglect, upon the part of this family, of all those duties connected with the poor and ignorant. none of those efforts were here made to assist in softening the evils of destitution, or in forwarding the instruction of the young, which almost every body, nowadays, considers such obvious duties. such were among the considerations urged by edgar, and to such mr. st. leger yielded. the general was profuse in his offers as regarded salary, and gave edgar a _carte blanche_ upon the matter; but mr. st. leger would only accept of one hundred a year, and this, with the stipulation that so soon as the state of his health would enable him, he should be at liberty to undertake the duties belonging to a curate for mr. thomas, without diminishing that gentleman's slender stipend by receiving any remuneration from his hands. this last part of the arrangement was particularly acceptable to mr. st. leger, as he thought with the highest satisfaction upon the probability now opening of resuming his clerical duties, and of thus being able to repay the debt of gratitude he felt to be owing to the good old vicar. * * * * * and now behold mr. st. leger introduced as a member of the family at the hazels, and shedding, on his part, as lettice had before him done, upon hers, a new set of benign influences upon this household. he was installed the first day by the general, with much politeness and some little formality, in edgar's place, at the bottom of the table; that young gentleman having made it his particular request that he might see his friend sitting there before his departure. with due gravity was all this done; while edgar, chuckling with delight, came and popped down in his place by the side of his wife. the young stranger, looking extremely quiet and composed, without fuss, ceremony, or hurry, took the place appointed to him; but, before seating himself, with a serious air, he opened his ministerial functions, by saying grace. not as the general was wont to say it--for say it he did, more as if making a grimace than even as going through a form--but so impressively and reverently, though very briefly, that the hearts of those about to sit down, were touched, and they were reminded in spite of themselves, as they ought to be reminded, that there is one above all who is the giver of these good things. the scene was striking. the very footmen--the officer's footmen--paused, napkin in hand; astonished--awe-struck by the service. they stood and stared with vacant eyes, but remained stock still. that over, the dinner went on as usual. people ate and drank with cheerful enjoyment. they all, indeed, felt particularly warm-hearted and comfortable that day. a sort of genial glow seemed to pervade the little party. the footmen rushed about more light-footed and assiduous than ever; and, be it observed to their credit, they were all, without exception, most particularly attentive to the new comer. in the evening, at ten o'clock, the bell rang for prayers. mr. st. leger, be it understood, had not stipulated for obligatory attendance upon this service--only for the right to have candles in the library, and of reading prayers to such as might chose to come; but mrs. melwyn had ordered the servants to attend; and she, and edgar, and catherine, were also there, leaving poor lettice to take charge of the general. the service was short, but impressive, as the grace had been before. it was necessarily very brief, for the voice of the fair and delicate young man, looking, indeed, as we might imagine one of the angels of the churches, figured in scripture, was so extremely feeble that more he could not do. but even if he had possessed the power, i question whether much more he would have done, he looked upon impressive brevity as the very soul of such exercises in a family like the present. poor lettice! how hard she found it that evening to remain playing backgammon with the general, when the rest went out of the room. going to attend those services to which she had been accustomed in the house of her father; and after which, during her stay here, her heart had so often yearned; but it could not be. she was, however, consoled by a whisper from catherine, as she came back, passing her upon her way to take her place by the fire. "to-morrow you go and i stay. we will take it in turns." the new plans were of course--as what taking place in a family is not--discussed in full conclave that evening over the kitchen fire. the servants all came back and assembled round it preparatory to washing up and going to bed; for though it was summer and warm weather, what servant in the world does not enjoy the kitchen fire in the evening, be the weather what it may? and, to tell truth, there are not a few in the parlor, who usually would be glad to share the privilege; but to proceed. "well, thomas, how do _you_ like these new ways of going on?" asked mary, the serious, stiff, time-dried, and smoke-dyed head-laundress--a personage of unknown antiquity, and who had been in the family ever since it was a family--addressing the fine powdered gentleman in silk stockings, and pink, white, and silver livery, who leaned negligently against the chimney-piece. "for my part, i'm glad, indeed, to see serious ways taken up in this house; but how will it suit the rest of you? and especially you, my fine young gentleman?" "why," answered thomas, assuming a grave and thoughtful aspect, "i'm going to confess something which will, perhaps, astonish you, mistress mary--and thus it is--if i'd been told twelve months ago that such new regulations were to be introduced into this household, i have very great doubts whether i could have made up my mind to have submitted to them; but within these few hours, d'ye see, there's been a change." "bravo, thomas!" said the butler; "a conversion like--i've heard of such things in my time." "call it what you will, mr. buckminster, i call it a change--for a change there has been." "what! well! what!" from different voices round. "do tell us all about it." "why, charles, you were there; and mr. buckminster, you were there too. but charles is young and giddy; and mr. buckminster being always rather of the serious order, very probably the effect you see was not produced so strongly upon either of them as upon me." "what effect? well--" "why of the grace, as was said before they sat down to dinner." "the grace! was it the first time you ever heard grace said, you booby?" "yes, i'd heard grace said--i should suppose as often as any as may be here--though, perhaps, not so sensible to its importance and value as some present, meaning you, mistress mary. the general, for one, never used to omit it; but, save us! in what a scuffling careless manner it was said. i protest to you, i thought no more of it than of mr. buckminster taking off the covers and handing them to me. just as a necessary preliminary, as they say, to the dinner, and nothing on earth more." "well, do go on, thomas. it's very _interesting_," said mistress mary, and the rest gathered closer, all attention. "well, i was a-going to go scuttling about just as usual, thinking only of not making any noise lest i should see the general--heeding no more of the grace than of what cook was doing at her fire--when that young gentleman, as is come newly among us, bent forward and began to speak it. the effect upon me was wonderful--it was electric--mr. buckminster, you know what i mean; i stood as one arrested--i couldn't have moved or _not_ cared if it had been never so--i really couldn't. it seemed to me as if he truly _was_ thanking god for the good things that were set before them. their plenty, and their comfort, and their abundance; it seemed to me as if things were opened to my mind--what i had never thought of before--who it was--who _did_ give them, and us after them, all sorts of delicacies, and food, and drink, when others might be wanting a morsel of bread; and i seemed to be standing before him--i felt need to thank him with the rest.... all this flashed through me like lightning; but he had done in a moment, and they all sat down." "how beautiful thomas does talk when he has a mind," whispered the under-housemaid to the under-laundry-maid. "what a fine tall young man he is, and what a gift of the gab." "well," said the rest, "go on--is there any more?" "yes, there is more. someway, i could not get it out of my head--i kept thinking of it all dinner. it was as much as i could do to mind what i was about; and once i made such a clatter in putting a knife and fork upon a plate, that if it hadn't been for the greatest good luck in the world, i should have got it. but the general was talking quite complacent like with the two young gentlemen, and by huge good fortune never heeded." "well!" "well, when i got into the pantry and began washing up, i had more time for quiet reflection. and this is what i thought. what a lot of lubberly, inanimated, ungrateful, stupid slaves we all must be. here serving an earthly master, to the best of our abilities, for a few beggarly pounds, and for his meat and drink and fine clothing; and very well contented, moreover, when there's roast beef of a sunday, or plum-pudding, and a glass of wine besides on a wedding-day or a birthday; and thank him, and feel pleased with him, and anxious next day to do better than ordinary, mayhap--and there's the great master--the lord and giver of all, who made us by his hand, and created us by his power, and feeds us by his bounty, and shelters us by his care; and all for no good of his, but ours--simply ours. for what's he to get of it, but the satisfaction of his merciful and generous spirit, when he sees his poor creatures happy? "and we are such dolts! such asses! such brute beasts! such stocks! such stones! that here we go on from day to day, enjoying the life he gives us, eating the bread and meat he gives us, drinking his good refreshments, resting upon his warm beds, and so on.... every day, and every day, and every day--and who among us, i, most especially for one, ever thinks, except may be by scuttling through a few rigmarole words--ever thinks, i say, of thanking _him_ for it--of lifting up a warm, honest heart, of true real thanking, i mean? of loving him the better, and trying to serve and please him the better--when he, great and powerful as he is--lord of all the lords, emperors, and kings, that ever wore crowns and coronets in this world--condescends to _let_ us thank him, to _like_ us to thank him, and to take pleasure in our humble love and service!" ha paused--every eye was fixed upon the speaker. "and, therefore," continued thomas, turning to the laundry-maid, who stood there with a tear in her eye; "therefore, mistress mary, i _am_ pleased with, and i do _like_ these new ways of going on, as you say; and i bless god, and hope to do it well in my prayers this night, for having at last made of us what i call a regular christian family." * * * * * i have told you, a little in the way of anticipation, that the popularity of mr. st. leger's new measures was not confined to the kitchen; but that the general, by slow steps, gradually conformed to the new usages established at the hazels. lettice and catherine had not long to take it it turns to stay out with him, playing backgammon, at the time of evening prayers. at first it was a polite--"oh, pray don't think of staying in the drawing-room upon my account; i can do very well by myself."... next it was, "nay, rather than that, i will go into the library too; why should i not?" he began to feel, at first, probably, from a vague sense of propriety only, but before long from better reasons, that it was not very seemly for the master of the house alone to be absent, when the worship of god was going on in his family. so there he might, as i told you, ere long be seen, regularly at night--in the morning more and more regularly--muttering the responses between his teeth at first; at length, saying them aloud, and with greater emphasis than any of the rest of the little congregation. his once majestic figure, now bent with age, towering above the rest; and his eagle eye of authority, still astonishingly piercing, rolling round from time to time, upon the watch to detect and rebuke, by a glance, the slightest sign of inattention upon the part of any of those assembled. it was a beautiful picture that evening meeting for prayer, for the library was a very ancient room, it having retained the old fittings put in at the time the hazels was built, some three half centuries ago. the massive and handsome book-cases of dark oak; the family pictures, grim with age, which hung above them; the urns and heads of old philosophers and poets adorning the cornice; the lofty chimney-piece, with the family arms carved and emblazoned over it; the massive oaken chairs, with their dark-green morocco cushions; the reading-desk; the large library table, covered with portfolios of rare prints; and large books containing fine illustrated editions of the standard authors of england; gave a somewhat serious, almost religious aspect to the apartment. mrs. melwyn, in her soft gray silks and fine laces; her fair, colorless cheek; her tender eyes bent downward; her devout, gentle, meek, humble attitude and expression; catherine by her side, in all the full bloom of health and happiness; that charming-looking, handsome edgar; and lettice, with so much character in her countenance, seated upon one side of the room, formed a charming row of listening faces, with this rugged, magnificent-looking old general at their head. on the opposite side were--the grave, stern, old housekeeper, so fat, so grave, and so imposing; mrs. melwyn's new maid, a pretty young woman, in the lightest possible apology for a cap, trimmed with pink ribbons; the laundry-maid, so serious, and sitting stiff and starched as one of her own clear muslins; the cook and housemaid looking as attentive as they could; and the under-servants staring with vacant eyes--eyes that looked as if they were ready to drop out of their heads; mr. buckminster, as the charming dickens has it, _so_ "respectable;" thomas, all spirit and enthusiasm; and charles doing all in his power not to fall asleep. at the table the young minister, with that interesting and most delicate face of his; his tall, wasted figure bending forward, his fair, emaciated hands resting upon the book, from which, in a voice low and feeble, but most penetrating and sweet, he read. they would come back to the drawing-room in such a composed, happy, cheerful frame of mind. the general more remarkably so. he felt more self-satisfaction than the others; because the course of proceeding was so new to him that he imagined it to be very particularly meritorious. a bit of a pharisee you will think--but not the least of that, i assure you. only people, at their first trying of such paths, do often find them most peculiarly paths of pleasantness and ways of peace; and, this sort of peace, this being at ease with the conscience, is, to be sure, very soothing and comfortable. in short, nothing could proceed better than things did; and every one was quite content but the charming match-maker, catherine. she watched, and watched with the greatest interest; but watch as she might, she could detect no symptoms of falling in love upon the part of mr. st. leger. he spent, indeed, the whole of his mornings either in his own room or in the library, absorbed in the books of divinity, of which there happened to be a very valuable collection; a collection which had slept undisturbed upon the shelves for many and many a long year. these afforded to him a source of interest and improvement which he had never enjoyed since he had left the too often neglected library of the small college where he had been educated. he was ready to devour them. every moment of time he considered his own--and the whole of the morning was chiefly at his disposal--was devoted to them; with the exception, be it mentioned, of a large portion, which, when the weather would allow, was spent in visiting among the poor at that end of the parish. at dinner mr. st. leger for the first time joined the family party. when he did, however, it must be confessed, he made ample amends for his absence, and was excessively agreeable. he had great powers of conversation, and evidently considered it his duty to exert himself to raise the tone of conversation at the general's table, so as to make the time pass pleasantly with the old man. in this edgar and catherine seconded him to the best of their power. lettice said little. she sat at the bottom of the table, by mr. st. leger; but though he often addressed her--taking care that she should not feel left out--as did catherine also, she was very silent. she had not, indeed, much that she could venture to say. when conversation took this higher tone, she felt afraid of her own ignorance; and then she first knew what it was to lament not having had a better education. as they grew more intimate--for people who sit side by side at dinner every day can not help growing intimate--mr. st. leger would gently remark upon this reserve; and one day he began to speak openly upon the subject. he had attributed her silence, i believe, to a bashful feeling of inferiority in rank; for her face was so intelligent and full of meaning, that he did not divine its real cause, so he said, with a certain gentle abruptness which became him much: "i have discovered a fault in you, miss arnold, at last; though every body here seems to think it impossible you should have one. may i tell you of it?" "oh! if you once begin with my faults, i am afraid you will never have done. i know the length of the score that might be summed up against me, though others are so good-natured as to forget it. yes, indeed, i shall be much obliged to you." "don't you think it is the duty of all to exert themselves in a family party, to make conversation circulate in an agreeable manner?" "to be sure, i do--and" ... how well you perform that duty, she was prompted to say, but she did not. she hesitated a little, and then added--"and, perhaps, you think i do not do that so much as i ought to do." "precisely. you will not be angry. no, you can not be angry. you never are. the most trying and provoking things, i observe, can not ruffle you. so i will venture to say, that i think you don't play fair by me. we are both here chiefly to make ourselves agreeable, i believe; and i sometimes wish i had a little more assistance in that duty from one who, i am sure, could perform it admirably, if she so pleased." lettice shook her head. then she said, with her usual simplicity, "i used to talk more before you came." "did you? but that's not quite generous, is it, to throw the whole burden upon me now i _am_ come, instead of sharing it? why will you not talk now?" "simply, because i can't. oh, mr. st. leger! the talk is so different since you came here, and i feel my own incapacity so sadly--my own ignorance so forcibly--i should say so painfully; but that, indeed, is not my own fault, and that takes the worst pain, you know, out of things." "ignorant!" he said: "of what?" "of all these things you talk about. i used to pick up a little from the newspapers, but now i have done reading them i seem literally to know nothing." "nothing! nothing about books, i suppose you mean; for you seem to me to understand men and things better than most people i have met with." "i have experienced more, perhaps, than most girls of my age have done, through my poverty and misfortunes; but what is that?" "ah, miss arnold! what is it but the best part of all knowledge; to understand one's self and others; the best of all possessions; to possess one's own spirit. but i beg your pardon, i will only add, that i do not, by what i say, intend at all to undervalue the advantages of reading, or the happiness of having a love of reading. do you love reading?" "why, i don't quite know. i find the books i read aloud to mrs. melwyn often very tiresome, i must confess." "and what sort of books do you read to mrs. melwyn?" "why, only two sorts--novels and essays." he laughed a little, in his quiet way, and then said, "i wonder at any young lady disliking novels; i thought it was the very reading they liked best; but as for essays, with very few exceptions, i must own i share in your distaste for them." "i can't understand them very often. i am ashamed to say it; but the writers use such fine language and such strange new words, and then they go over and over again upon the same thought, and illustrate it twenty different ways, when one happy illustration, i think, would be so much better; i like a writer who marches promptly through a subject; those essayists seem as if they never could have done." "what you say is just, in many instances, i think. it is a pity you have not tried other reading. history, travels, poetry; you can not think how pleasantly such subjects seem to fill and enlarge the mind. and if you have a little time of your own, you can not easily believe, perhaps, how much may be done. even with an hour each day, of steady reading, a vast deal." "ah! but where shall i begin? every body reads hume's history of england first, and i have never even done that; and if i were to begin i should never get to the end of it." "oh, yes, but you would, and be surprised to find how soon that end had arrived, and what a pleasant journey you had made. but if you are frightened at hume, and i own he _looks_ formidable, let me select you something in the library, to commence operations with, which will not be quite so alarming." "oh! if you would...." "with the greatest pleasure in the world. if you will allow me to assist you a little in the choice of your books, i think, with the virtue of perseverance--and i know you have all the virtues--you would get through a good deal in a comparatively short space of time; and when i reflect how much it would add to your happiness, as it does to every one's happiness, i confess i can not feel easy till i have set you going." this conversation had been carried on in a low voice, while the rest had been talking over some family matters together. the speakers at the head of the table stopped, and the silence aroused the two. catherine glanced at them suddenly; she saw lettice color a little, but mr. st. leger preserved the most provoking composure. the evenings mr. st. leger devoted exclusively to the good pleasure of the general. he read the newspapers, making them the vehicle of the most intelligent and agreeable comments, he looked out the places mentioned in the maps, and had something perpetually to say that was interesting of this or that. he answered every question the general wanted solved in the cleverest manner; and, in short, he so won upon the old man's heart, that he became quite attached to him. the evenings, once so heavy, and spent in a sort of irritable fretfulness, became quite delightful to him: nor were they less delightful to others. at last, things came to that pass that the wearisome backgammon was given up, and reading aloud took its place. the ladies worked and read in turns, edgar taking double tides, and mr. st. leger doing a little, which he insisted upon, assuring them that it did not hurt his chest at all. he was, indeed, getting stronger and better every day; he was a beautiful reader. lettice sat plying her busy needle, but with a countenance so filled with intelligent pleasure, that it is not to be wondered at if mr. st. leger, when his reading was over, and he had nothing else to do, and, the books being usually such as he was well acquainted with, not much at the moment to think of, took pleasure in observing her. he had not forgotten his promise of selecting authors for her own private studies; he seemed to take much benevolent pleasure in endeavoring to compensate to this generous and excellent creature, for the intellectual disadvantages of a life devoted to others as hers had been. he usually, also, found or made an opportunity for talking over with her what she had been reading; and, he believed, in all sincerity, and so did she, that he was actuated in these proceedings merely, as i said, by the disinterested desire of offering compensation for past sacrifices; stimulated by the very high value he himself attached to mental cultivation, regarding it as the best source of independent happiness both for men and women. but whatever were the motives with which he began this labor of kindness, it is certain as he proceeded therein a vast deal more interest and pleasure were mingled up with this little task than had been the case at first. her simple, unaffected purity of heart; her single-mindedness, unstained by selfish thought, pride, or vanity, or folly, in its simplicity and singleness of purpose, were displayed before him. the generous benevolence of purpose; the warm and grateful piety; the peculiar right-mindedness; the unaffected love for all that was excellent, true, good, or beautiful, and the happy facility of detecting all that was good or beneficial wherever it was to be found, and wherever observed; the sweet cheerfulness and repose of the character; that resemblance to a green field, which i have heard a husband of only too sensitive a nature gratefully attribute to his partner; all this worked strongly, though unmarked. mr. st. leger began to experience a sense of a sweetness, solace, and enjoyment, in the presence of lettice arnold, that he had not found upon this earth for years, and which he never had hoped to find again. but all this time he never dreamed of falling in love. his imagination never traveled so far as to think of such a thing as appropriating this rare blessing to himself. to live with her was his destiny at present, and that seemed happiness enough; and, indeed he scarcely had got so far as to acknowledge to his own heart, how much happiness that privilege conferred. she, on her side, was equally tranquil, undisturbed by the slightest participation in the romance catherine would so gladly have commenced. she went on contentedly, profiting by his instructions, delighting in his company, and adoring his goodness; but would as soon have thought of appropriating some "bright particular star" to herself as this gifted man. she deemed him too infinitely her superior. well, it is no use keeping the matter in suspense any longer. you all see how it must end. you do not fret and worry yourselves as catherine did, and abuse mr. st. leger for his indifference. you see plainly enough that two such very nice people, and so excellently suited to each other, must, thrown together as they were every day, end by liking each other, which, but for the previous arrangements of the excellent catherine, would have been a very perplexing business to all parties. when at last--just before edgar and his wife were going to sail for canada, and he and she were making their farewell visit at the hazels--when at last mr. st. leger, after having looked for two or three days very miserable, and having avoided every one, and particularly poor lettice--to whom he had not spoken a word all that time, and who was miserable at the idea that she must have offended him--when at last he took edgar out walking, and then confessed that he thought it no longer right, safe, or honorable, for him to remain at the hazels, finding, as he did, that one creature was becoming too dear to him; and he trembled every moment, lest by betraying his secret he might disturb her serenity. when at last the confession was made, and edgar reported it to his wife--then catherine was ready to jump for joy. in vain edgar strove to look wise, and tell her to be reasonable. in vain he represented all the objections that must be urged against her out-of-the-way scheme, as he was ill-natured enough to call it. she would hear of none. no, nothing. she was perfectly unreasonable--her husband told her so--but it was all in vain. men are more easily discouraged at the idea of any proceeding out of the usual course than women are. they do not, i think, set so much value upon _abstract_ happiness, if i may use the term; they think more of the attending circumstances, and less of that one ingredient--genuine happiness--than women do. catherine could and would think of nothing else, but how perfectly these two were suited to each other, and how excessively happy they would be. dear, good thing! how she labored in the cause, and what a world of contradiction and trouble she had to go through. first, there was mr. st. leger himself, to be persuaded to be happy upon her plan, the only possible plan under the circumstances; then there was lettice to persuade that mr. st. leger's happiness and dignity would not be hazarded; then there was edgar to reason out of calling her romantic; and last of all there was the general, for mrs. melwyn, i consider, as catherine did, already persuaded. this last task _did_ appear formidable. she put it off as long as she could; she got every body else in the right frame of mind before she ventured upon it; she had persuaded both edgar and mrs. melwyn to second her, if need were, and at length, with a dreadful feeling of trepidation, she broached the subject to the old veteran. with all the coolness she could muster she began her speech, and laid the whole matter before him. he did not interrupt her while she spoke by one single word, or remark good, bad, or indifferent. it was awful--her poor little heart fluttered, as if it were going to stop; she expected the storm every instant to burst forth in some terrible outbreak. she sat there shuddering at her own rashness. if even edgar had called her absurd, what would her father do! if st. leger himself had been so difficult to manage, what would the old general say! he said nothing. she would not be discouraged: she began to speak again, to recapitulate every argument; she warmed with the subject; she was earnest, eloquent, pathetic--tears were in the good creature's eyes; still he was silent. at last, wearied out with useless exertion, she ceased to urge the matter any further; and endeavoring to conquer her feelings of deep disappointment, looked up in his face to see whether the slightest relenting expression was visible in it. no; his eyes were fixed upon the floor; he seemed lost in deep thought. "papa," she ventured to say, "have you heard all i have been saying?" "yes, child." silence again for a few minutes, then--"catherine, did you ever know me do a good action in your life?" "dear papa, what a question." "did you ever know me, i say, to do one thoroughly generous, benevolent action, without regard to self in the slightest degree--such as i call--such as alone merits the name of a really _good_ action? if you ever did, i can't easily forgive you." "dearest papa! what have i done? did i ever say? did i ever hint? dear papa!" and she looked ready to cry. "did you ever?--no--i know you never did." "don't say so--don't think so badly of me, papa." "i'm not thinking badly of you, child--god forbid; for well he knows if i ever did one really generous, benevolent action--one without reference to self.... heaven bless thee, thou dearest thing, thy life seems only made up of such actions; but i say again, did you ever?--no; i know you never did--and i'll tell you why i know it." "ah, papa! what _can_ you mean?" "because," he went on without seeming to mind her emotion, "because, i observe, that whenever you want to persuade other people--your mother, or edgar, or lettice, for instance--to do something you've set your heart upon, you hussy--you always enlarge upon the happiness it will give to other people; but when you're trying to come round me, you only talk of how comfortable it will make myself." she could only utter a faint exclamation. the accusation, if accusation it may be called, was not to be denied. "now, catherine, since this young man came into the house, what with his conversation, he's a most gentlemanlike, agreeable converser as ever i met with ... and the prayers, and the chapters, and such like; and, in short, a certain new tone of thought altogether; there has been gradually something new growing up in me. i have at times begun to think back upon my life, and to recollect what a nasty, mean, greedy, calculating, selfish fellow i've been throughout, never troubling myself about other people's comforts, or so on, but going on as if every body was only created to promote mine; and i'd have been glad, catherine, before i went into my grave, which won't be long too--i own to you i would have been glad, for once in my life to have done a purely good, unselfish thing--made a sacrifice, as you pious folk call it; and, therefore, to own the truth, i have been very sorry, and could not help feeling disappointed, as here you've sat prosing this half hour and more, showing me what a great deal i was to get by this notable arrangement of yours." "papa!--dearest--dear papa!" "be quiet--i have indeed--i'd have liked to have had something to give up, instead of its being, as i verily believe it is, the most charmingly delightful scheme for your mother and me that ever was hit upon--for that man is the happiness of my life--my body's comfort and my soul's health--and lettice is more like a dear child than any thing else to that poor mother of yours, whom i have not, perhaps, been so considerate of as i ought; and to have them thus fixed together in this house, is better luck than could be conceived, such as scarcely ever happens in this world to any body; and far better than i--almost better than your poor mother deserves. so you're a darling little courageous creature for planning it, when i'll be bound they all thought you a fool, so have it all your own way, and give your old father a kiss," which she joyfully did. "and now you go to mr. st. leger, and tell him from me, that if he consents to this scheme i shall esteem it the greatest favor and satisfaction that was ever conferred upon me in my life. i know what it is to be thus trusted by such a man--i know the confidence on his part which such an arrangement implies--and you may add, that if he will only extend to me his usual indulgence for human folly and frailty, i will do every thing that is in the power of an ill-tempered, good-for-nothing, selfish old fellow, to prevent him repenting his bargain. and tell lettice she's a darling, excellent creature; and i have thought so long, though i have said little about it, and she has been like an angel of love and peace in our family; and if she will only go on as she has done, she will make us all as happy as the day is long; and tell your mother i wish i did not enjoy the thoughts of this so much myself, that i might have the pleasure of making an offering of my satisfaction to her." "dear!--dear beloved papa!" "stop a little, child; edgar and you will have to pay the piper, you know." "oh, gladly! thankfully!" "because you see, my dear, if these two people marry and live with us, and become as children, i must treat them, in a manner, as children, and make a little codicil to my will; and you and edgar will be something the worse for it. but, bless you, child, there's enough for all." "and bless you, my honored, generous father, for thinking so; that there is. edgar and i only earnestly desired this; thank you, thank you, ten thousand times." i will only detain you for a few moments longer, to tell you that the scheme was carried into execution, and fully answered the hopes of the generous contriver. mr. st. leger found, in the attachment of lettice, a compensation for the cruel sufferings of his past life; and, under her tender and assiduous care, he speedily recovered his health and his powers of usefulness. she, while performing a woman's best and happiest part, that of proving the true happiness of an admirable and a superior man, contrived likewise to fulfill all her other duties in the most complete and exemplary manner. it would be difficult to say, whether the happiness she felt or conferred was the greater. exceptional people may venture upon exceptional measures. those who are a great deal more sweet tempered, and loving, and good, and reasonable than others, may venture to seek happiness in ways that the generality would be mad to attempt. and sensible, well-principled, right-tempered human beings, one may take into close family intimacy, and discard that reserve, and those arm's-length proceedings, which people's faults, in too many cases, render prudent and necessary. it was because the subjects of catherine's schemes were so excellent, that the object of them was so wise. i have now told you how perfectly they answered upon trial; and i am only sorry that the world contains so very few with whom one could venture to make the same experiment. for a very large portion of possible happiness is thrown away, because people are not fit to take part in plans of this nature--plans wherein one shall give what he has, to receive back what he wants; and thus the true social communism be established. [from the memoirs of dr. chalmers, vol. ii., unpublished.] recollections of dr. chalmers. his personal appearance in the pulpit. the first sermon which mr. chalmers preached in glasgow was delivered before the society of the sons of the clergy, on thursday the th day of march, , a few months after his appointment, and a few months previous to his admission as minister of the tron church. the recent excitement of the canvass, the rumors strange and various, which crossing the breadth of scotland were circulating in all quarters through the city, the quickened curiosity of opponents, the large but somewhat tremulous expectation of friends, drew together a vast multitude to hear him. among the crowd which filled the church was a young oxford student, himself the son of a scottish minister, who had been surprised by hearing mr. chalmers's work on the evidences of christianity mentioned with high approval, within the walls of an english university, shortly after the date of its publication. the keen dark eye of the youthful auditor fixed itself in searching scrutiny upon the preacher, and a few years later his graceful and graphic pen drew the following sketch: "i was a good deal surprised and perplexed with the first glimpse i obtained of his countenance, for the light that streamed faintly upon it for the moment did not reveal any thing like that general outline of feature and visage for which my fancy had by some strange working of presentiment, prepared me. by-and-by, however, the light became stronger, and i was enabled to study the minutiae of his face pretty leisurely, while he leaned forward and read aloud the words of the psalm, for that is always done in scotland, not by the clerk, but the clergyman himself. at first sight, no doubt, his face is a coarse one, but a mysterious kind of meaning breathes from every part of it, that such as have eyes to see cannot be long without discovering. it is very pale, and the large, half-closed eyelids have a certain drooping melancholy weight about them, which interested me very much. i understood not why. the lips, too, are singularly pensive in their mode of falling down at the sides, although there is no want of richness and vigor in their central fullness of curve. the upper lip, from the nose downward, is separated by a very deep line, which gives a sort of leonine firmness of expression to all the lower part of the face. the cheeks are square and strong, in texture like pieces of marble, with the cheek-bones very broad and prominent. the eyes themselves are light in color, and have a strange dreamy heaviness, that conveys any idea rather than that of dullness, but which contrasts in a wonderful manner with the dazzling watery glare they exhibit when expanded in their sockets, and illuminated into all their flame and fervor in some moment of high entranced enthusiasm. but the shape of the forehead is, perhaps, the most singular part of the whole visage; and, indeed, it presents a mixture so very singular, of forms commonly exhibited only in the widest separation, that it is no wonder i should have required some little time to comprehend the meaning of it. in the first place, it is without exception the most marked mathematical forehead i ever met with--being far wider across the eyebrows than either mr. playfair's or mr. leslie's--and having the eyebrows themselves lifted up at their exterior ends quite out of the usual line, a peculiarity which spurzheim had remarked in the countenances of almost all the great mathematical or calculating geniuses--such, for example, if i rightly remember, as sir isaac newton himself, kaestener, euler, and many others. immediately above the extraordinary breadth of this region, which, in the heads of most mathematical persons, is surmounted by no fine points of organization whatever, immediately above this, in the forehead, there is an arch of imagination, carrying out the summit boldly and roundly, in a style to which the heads of very few poets present any thing comparable, while over this again there is a grand apex of high and solemn veneration and love, such as might have graced the bust of plato himself, and such as in living men i had never beheld equaled in any but the majestic head of canova. the whole is edged with a few crisp dark locks, which stand forth boldly, and afford a fine relief to the death-like paleness of those massive temples.... of all human compositions there is none surely which loses so much as a sermon does when it is made to address itself to the eye of a solitary student in his closet and not to the thrilling ears of a mighty mingled congregation, through the very voice which nature has enriched with notes more expressive than words can ever be of the meanings and feelings of its author. neither, perhaps, did the world ever possess any orator whose minutest peculiarities of gesture and voice have more power in increasing the effect of what he says--whose delivery, in other words, is the first, and the second, and the third excellence of his oratory--more truly than is that of dr. chalmers. and yet were the spirit of the man less gifted than it is, there is no question these, his lesser peculiarities, would never have been numbered among his points of excellence. his voice is neither strong nor melodious, his gestures are neither easy nor graceful; but, on the contrary, extremely rude and awkward; his pronunciation is not only broadly national, but broadly provincial, distorting almost every word he utters into some barbarous novelty, which, had his hearer leisure to think of such things, might be productive of an effect at once ludicrous and offensive in a singular degree. but, of a truth, these are things which no listener can attend to while this great preacher stands before him armed with all the weapons of the most commanding eloquence, and swaying all around him with its imperial rule. at first, indeed, there is nothing to make one suspect what riches are in store. he commences in a low, drawling key, which has not even the merit of being solemn, and advances from sentence to sentence, and from paragraph to paragraph, while you seek in vain to catch a single echo that gives promise of that which is to come. there is, on the contrary, an appearance of constraint about him that affects and distresses you. you are afraid that his breast is weak, and that even the slight exertion he makes may be too much for it. but then, with what tenfold richness does this dim preliminary curtain make the glories of his eloquence to shine forth, when the heated spirit at length shakes from it its chill confining fetters, and bursts out elate and rejoicing in the full splendor of its disimprisoned wings.... i have heard many men deliver sermons far better arranged in regard to argument, and have heard very many deliver sermons far more uniform in elegance both of conception and of style; but most unquestionably, i have never heard, either in england or scotland, or in any other country, any preacher whose eloquence is capable of producing an effect so strong and irresistible as his."[ ] * * * * * first delivery of the astronomical discourses.--at the time of dr. chalmers's settlement in glasgow it was the custom that the clergymen of the city should preach in rotation on thursday in the tron church, a duty which, as their number was then but eight, returned to each within an interval of two months. on thursday, the d of november, , this week-day service devolved on dr. chalmers. the entire novelty of the discourse delivered upon this occasion, and the promise held out by the preacher that a series of similar discourses was to follow, excited the liveliest interest, not in his own congregation alone, but throughout the whole community. he had presented to his hearers a sketch of the recent discoveries of astronomy--distinct in outline, and drawn with all the ease of one who was himself a master in the science, yet gorgeously magnificent in many of its details, displaying, amid "the brilliant glow of a blazing eloquence,"[ ] the sublime poetry of the heavens. in his subsequent discourses dr. chalmers proposed to discuss the argument or rather prejudice against the christian revelation which grounds itself on the vastness and variety of those unnumbered worlds which lie scattered over the immeasurable fields of space. this discussion occupied all the thursday services allotted to him during the year . the spectacle which presented itself in the trongate upon the day of the delivery of each new astronomical discourse, was a most singular one. long ere the bell began to toll, a stream of people might be seen pouring through the passage which led into the tron church. across the street, and immediately opposite to this passage, was the old reading-room, where all the glasgow merchants met. so soon, however, as the gathering quickening stream upon the opposite side of the street gave the accustomed warning, out flowed the occupants of the coffee-room; the pages of the herald or the courier were for a while forsaken, and during two of the best business hours of the day the old reading-room wore a strange aspect of desolation. the busiest merchants of the city were wont, indeed, upon those memorable days to leave their desks, and kind masters allowed their clerks and apprentices to follow their example. out of the very heart of the great tumult an hour or two stood redeemed for the highest exercises of the spirit; and the low traffic of earth forgotten, heaven and its high economy and its human sympathies and eternal interests, engrossed the mind at least and the fancy of congregated thousands. in january, , this series of discourses was announced as ready for publication. it had generally been a matter of so much commercial risk to issue a volume of sermons from the press, that recourse had been often had in such cases to publication by subscription. dr. chalmers's publisher, mr. smith, had hinted that perhaps this method ought in this instance also to be tried. "it is far more agreeable to my feelings," dr. chalmers wrote to him a few days before the day of publication, "that the book should be introduced to the general market, and sell on the public estimation of it, than that the neighborhood here should be plied in all the shops with subscription papers, and as much as possible wrung out of their partialities for the author." neither author nor publisher had at this time the least idea of the extraordinary success which was awaiting their forthcoming volume. it was published on the th of january, . in ten weeks copies had been disposed of, the demand showing no symptom of decline. nine editions were called for within a year, and nearly , copies were in circulation. never previously, nor ever since, has any volume of sermons met with such immediate and general acceptance. the "tales of my landlord" had a month's start in the date of publication, and even with such a competitor it ran an almost equal race. not a few curious observers were struck with the novel competition, and watched with lively curiosity how the great scottish preacher and the great scottish novelist kept for a whole year so nearly abreast of one another. it was, besides, the first volume of sermons which fairly broke the lines which had separated too long the literary from the religious public. its secondary merits won audience for it in quarters where evangelical christianity was nauseated and despised. it disarmed even the keen hostility of hazlitt, and kept him for a whole forenoon spell-bound beneath its power. "these sermons," he says, "ran like wild-fire through the country, were the darlings of watering-places, were laid in the windows of inns, and were to be met with in all places of public resort.... we remember finding the volume in the orchard of the inn at burford bridge, near boxhill, and passing a whole and very delightful morning in reading it without quitting the shade of an apple tree." the attractive volume stole an hour or two from the occupations of the greatest statesman and orator of the day. "canning," says sir james mackintosh, "told me that he was entirely converted to admiration of chalmers; so is bobus, whose conversion is thought the greatest proof of victory. canning says there are most magnificent passages in his 'astronomical sermons."[ ] four years before this time, through the pages of the "edinburgh christian instructor," dr. chalmers had said, "men of tasteful and cultivated literature are repelled from theology at the very outset by the unseemly garb in which she is presented to them. if there be room for the display of eloquence in urgent and pathetic exhortation, in masterly discussion, in elevating greatness of conception, does not theology embrace all these, and will not the language that is clearly and appropriately expressive of them possess many of the constituents and varieties of good writing? if theology, then, can command such an advantage, on what principle should it be kept back from her?... in the subject itself there is a grandeur which it were vain to look for in the ordinary themes of eloquence or poetry. let writers arise, then, to do it justice. let them be all things to all men, that they may gain some; and if a single proselyte can be thereby drawn from the ranks of literature, let all the embellishments of genius and fancy be thrown around the subject. one man has already done much. others are rising around him, and with the advantage of a higher subject, they will in time rival the unchristian moralists of the day, and overmatch them." he was one of the first to answer to his own call, to fulfill his own prediction. no single writer of our age has done so much to present the truths of christianity in new forms, and to invest them with all the attractions of a fascinating eloquence; nor could a single volume be named which has done more than this very volume of "astronomical discourses" to soften and subdue those prejudices which the infidelity of natural science engenders. * * * * * effect of his eloquence.--sermon on dissipation in large cities.--dr. chalmers returned to glasgow on saturday, the th december, and on the following day found a prodigious crowd awaiting his appearance in the tron church pulpit. his popularity as a preacher was now at its very highest summit, and judging merely by the amount of physical energy displayed by the preacher, and by the palpable and visible effects produced upon his hearers, we conclude that it was about this period, and within the walls of the tron church, that by far the most wonderful exhibitions of his power as a pulpit orator were witnessed. "the tron church contains, if i mistake not," says the rev. dr. wardlaw, who, as frequently as he could, was a hearer in it, "about hearers, according to the ordinary allowance of seat-room; when crowded of course proportionally more. and, though i can not attempt any pictorial sketch of the _place_, i may, in a sentence or two, present you with a few touches of the _scene_ which i have, more than once or twice, witnessed within its walls; not that it was at all peculiar, for it resembled every other scene where the doctor in those days, when his eloquence was in the prime of its vehemence and splendor, was called to preach. there was one particular, indeed, which rendered such a scene, in a city like glasgow, peculiarly striking. i refer to the _time_ of it. to see a place of worship, of the size mentioned, crammed above and below, on a _thursday forenoon_, during the busiest hours of the day, with fifteen or sixteen hundred hearers, and these of all descriptions of persons, in all descriptions of professional occupation, the busiest as well as those who had most leisure on their hands, those who had least to spare taking care so to arrange their business engagements previously as to _make time_ for the purpose, all pouring in through the wide entrance at the side of the tron steeple, half an hour before the time of service, to secure a seat, or content if too late for this to occupy, as many did, standing room--this was, indeed, a novel and strange sight. nor was it once merely, or twice, but month after month the day was calculated when his turn to preach again was to come round, and anticipated, with even impatient longing, by multitudes. "suppose the congregation thus assembled--pews filled with sitters, and aisles, to a great extent, with standers. they wait in eager expectation. the preacher appears. the devotional exercises of praise and prayer having been gone through with unaffected simplicity and earnestness, the entire assembly set themselves for the _treat_, with feelings very diverse in kind, but all eager and intent. there is a hush of dead silence. the text is announced, and he begins. every countenance is up--every eye bent, with fixed intentness, on the speaker. as he kindles the interest grows. every breath is held--every cough is suppressed--every fidgety movement is settled--every one, riveted himself by the spell of the impassioned and entrancing eloquence, knows how sensitively his neighbor will resent the very slightest disturbance. then, by-and-by, there is a pause. the speaker stops--to gather breath--to wipe his forehead--to adjust his gown, and purposely too, and wisely, to give the audience, as well as himself, a moment or two of relaxation. the moment is embraced--there is free breathing--suppressed coughs get vent--postures are changed--there is a universal stir, as of persons who could not have endured the constraint much longer--the preacher bends forward--his hand is raised--all is again hushed. the same stillness and strain of unrelaxed attention is repeated, more intent still, it may be, than before, as the interest of the subject and of the speaker advance. and so, for perhaps four or five times in the course of a sermon, there is the _relaxation_ and the '_at it again_' till the final winding up. "and _then_, the moment the last word was uttered, and followed by the--'_let us pray_,' there was a scene for which no excuse or palliation can be pleaded but the fact of its having been to many a matter of difficulty, in the morning of a week-day, to accomplish the abstraction of even so much of their time from business--the closing prayer completely drowned by the hurried rush of large numbers from the aisles and pews to the door; an unseemly scene, without doubt, as if so many had come to the house of god not to worship, but simply to enjoy the fascination of human eloquence. even this much it was a great thing for eloquence to accomplish. and how diversified soever the motives which drew so many together, and the emotions awakened and impressions produced by what was heard--though, in the terms of the text of one of his most overpoweringly stirring and faithful appeals, he was to not a few 'as one that had a pleasant voice and could play well on an instrument,' yet there is abundant proof that, in the highest sense, 'his labor was not in vain in the lord;' that the truths which, with so much fearless fidelity and impassioned earnestness, he delivered, went in many instances farther than the ear, or even the intellect--that they reached the heart, and, by the power of the spirit, turned it to god." "on thursday, the th february, ," i now quote from a manuscript of the rev. mr. fraser, minister of kilchrennan, "dr. chalmers preached in the tron church before the directors of the magdalene asylum. the sermon delivered on this occasion was that 'on the dissipation of large cities.' long before the service commenced every seat and passage was crowded to excess, with the exception of the front pew of the gallery, which was reserved for the magistrates. a vast number of students deserted their classes at the university and were present. this was very particularly the case in regard to the moral philosophy class, which i attended that session, as appeared on the following day when the list of absentees was given in by the person who had called the catalogue, and at the same time a petition from several of themselves was handed in to the professor, praying for a remission of the fine for non-attendance, on the ground that they had been hearing dr. chalmers. the doctor's manner during the whole delivery of that magnificent discourse was strikingly animated, while the enthusiasm and energy which he threw into some of its bursts rendered them quite overpowering. one expression which he used, together with his action, his look, and the very tones of his voice when it came forth, made a most vivid and indelible impression upon my memory: 'we, at the same time,' he said, 'have our eye perfectly open to that great external improvement which has taken place, of late years, in the manners of society. there is not the same grossness of conversation. there is not the same impatience for the withdrawment of him who, asked to grace the outset of an assembled party, is compelled, at a certain step in the process of conviviality, by the obligations of professional decency, to retire from it. there is not so frequent an exaction of this as one of the established proprieties of social or of fashionable life. and if such an exaction was ever laid by the omnipotence of custom on a minister of christianity, it is such an exaction as ought never, never to be complied with. it is not for him to lend the sanction of his presence to a meeting with which he could not sit to its final termination. it is not for him to stand associated, for a single hour, with an assemblage of men who begin with hypocrisy, and end with downright blackguardism. it is not for him to watch the progress of the coming ribaldry, and to hit the well selected moment when talk and turbulence and boisterous merriment are on the eve of bursting forth upon the company, and carrying them forward to the full acme and uproar of their enjoyment. it is quite in vain to say, that he has only sanctioned one part of such an entertainment. he has as good as given his connivance to the whole of it, and left behind him a discharge in full of all its abominations; and, therefore, be they who they may, whether they rank among the proudest aristocracy of our land, or are charioted in splendor along, as the wealthiest of our citizens, _or flounce in the robes of magistracy_, it is his part to keep as purely and indignantly aloof from such society as this, as he would from the vilest and most debasing associations of profligacy.' "the words which i have underlined do not appear in the sermon as printed. while uttering them, which he did with peculiar emphasis, accompanying them with a flash from his eye and a stamp of his foot, he threw his right arm with clenched hand right across the book-board, and brandished it full in the face of the town council, sitting in array and in state before him. many eyes were in a moment directed toward the magistrates. the words evidently fell upon them like a thunderbolt, and seemed to startle like an electric shock the whole audience." another interesting memorial of this sermon is supplied by dr. wardlaw, who was present at its delivery. "the eloquence of that discourse was absolutely overpowering. the subject was one eminently fitted to awaken and summon to their utmost energy all his extraordinary powers; especially when, after having cleared his ground by a luminously scriptural exhibition of that supreme authority by which the evils he was about to portray were interdicted, in contradistinction to the prevailing maxims and practices of a worldly morality, he came forward to the announcement and illustration of his main subject--'_the origin, the progress, and the effects of a life of dissipation_.' his moral portraitures were so graphically and vividly delineated--his warnings and entreaties, especially to youth, so impassioned and earnest--his admonitions so faithful, and his denunciations so fearless and so fearful--and his exhortations to preventive and remedial appliances so pointed and so urgent to all among his auditors who had either the charge of youth, or the supervision of dependents! it was thrilling, overwhelming. his whole soul seemed in every utterance. although saying to myself all the while, 'oh! that this were in the hands of every father, and master, and guardian, and young man in the land!' i yet could not spare an eye from the preacher to mark how his appeal was telling upon others. the breathless, the appalling silence told me of that. any person who reads that discourse, and who had the privilege of listening to dr. chalmers during the prime and freshness of his public eloquence, will readily imagine the effect of some passages in it, when delivered with even more than the preacher's characteristic vehemence." footnotes: [ ] _peter's letters to his kinsfolk_, d edit, vol. iii pp - . [ ] foster. [ ] _memoirs of the life of the right hon. sir james mackintosh_, vol. ii. p. . the person known among his particular friends by the name of "bobus" was robert smith, who had held the office of advocate-general in bengal, and who is not to be confounded with his namesake, the brother of the rev. sydney smith. [from the dublin university magazine.] the old man's bequest; a story of gold. through the ornamental grounds of a handsome country residence, at a little distance from a large town in ireland, a man of about fifty years of age was walking, with a bent head, and the impress of sorrow on his face. "och, yer honor, give me one sixpence, or one penny, for god's sake," cried a voice from the other side of a fancy paling which separated the grounds in that quarter from a thoroughfare. "for heaven's sake, mr. lawson, help me as ye helped me before. i know you've the heart and hand to do it." the person addressed as mr. lawson looked up and saw a woman whom he knew to be in most destitute circumstances, burdened with a large and sickly family, whom she had struggled to support until her own health was ruined. "i have no money--not one farthing," answered john lawson. "no money!" reiterated the woman in surprise; "isn't it all yours, then? isn't this garden yours, and that house, and all the grand things that are in it yours? ay, and grand things they are--them pictures, and them bright shinin' things in that drawing-room of yours and sure you deserve them well, and may god preserve them long to you, for riches hasn't hardened your heart, though there's many a one, and heaven knows the gold turns their feelin's to iron." "it all belongs to my son, henry lawson, and mrs. lawson, and their children--it is all theirs;" he sighed heavily, and deep emotion was visible in every lineament of his thin and wrinkled face. the poor woman raised her bloodshot eyes to his face, as if she was puzzled by his words. she saw that he was suffering, and with intuitive delicacy, she desisted from pressing her wants, though her need was great. "well, well, yer honor, many's the good penny ye have given me and the childer, and maybe the next time i see you you'll have more change." she was turning sadly away, when john lawson requested her to remain, and he made inquiries into the state of her family; the report he heard seemed to touch him even to the forgetfulness of his own sorrows; he bade her stop for a few moments and he would give her some relief. he walked rapidly toward the house and proceeded to the drawing-room. it was a large and airy apartment, and furnished with evident profusion: the sunlight of the bright summer day, admitted partially through the amply-draperied windows, lighted up a variety of sparkling gilding in picture-frames, and vases, and mirrors, and cornices; but john lawson looked round on the gay scene with a kind of shudder; he had neither gold, silver, nor even copper in his pocket, or in his possession. he advanced to a lady who reclined on a rose-colored sofa, with a fashionable novel in her hand, and, after some slight hesitation, he addressed her, and stating the name and wants of the poor woman who had begged for aid, he requested some money. as he said the words "some money," his lips quivered, and a tremor ran through his whole frame, for his thoughts were vividly picturing a recently departed period, when he was under no necessity of asking money from any individual. "bless me, my dear mr. lawson!" cried the lady, starting up from her recumbent position, "did i not give you a whole handful of shillings only the day before yesterday; and if you wasted it all on poor people since, what am i to do? why, indeed, we contribute so much to charitable subscriptions, both mr. lawson and i, _you_ might be content to give a little less to common beggars." mrs. lawson spoke with a smile on her lips, and with a soft caressing voice, but a hard and selfish nature shone palpably from her blue eyes. she was a young woman, and had the repute of beauty, which a clear pink-and-white complexion, and tolerable features, with luxuriant light hair, generally gains from a portion of the world. she was dressed for the reception of morning visitors whom she expected, and she was enveloped in expensive satin and blond, and jewelry in large proportions. john lawson seemed to feel every word she had uttered in the depths of his soul, but he made a strong effort to restrain the passion which was rising to his lips. "augusta, my daughter, you are the wife of my only and most beloved child--i wish to love you--i wish to live in peace with you, and all--give me some money to relieve the wants of the unfortunate woman to whom i have promised relief, and who is waiting without. i ask not for myself, but for the poor and suffering--give me a trifle of money, i say." "indeed, mr. lawson, a bank would not support your demands for the poor people; that woman for whom you are begging has been relieved twenty times by us. i have no money just now." she threw herself back on the sofa and resumed her novel; but anger, darting from her eyes, contrasted with the trained smile which still remained on her lips. a dark shade of passion and scorn came over john lawson's face, but he strove to suppress it, and his voice was calm when he spoke. "some time before my son married you, i gave up all my business to him--i came to live here among trees and flowers--i gave up all the lucrative business i had carried on to my son, partly because my health was failing, and i longed to live with nature, away from the scenes of traffic; but more especially, because i loved my son with no common love, and i trusted to him as to a second self. i was not disappointed--we had one purse and one heart before he married you; he never questioned me concerning what i spent in charity--he never asked to limit in any way my expenditure--he loved you, and i made no conditions concerning what amount of income i was to receive, but still i left him in entire possession of my business when he married you. i trusted to your fair, young face, that you would not controvert my wishes--that you would join me in my schemes of charity." "and have i not?" interrupted mrs. lawson, in a sharp voice, though the habitual smile still graced her lips; "do i not subscribe to, i don't know how many, charitable institutions? charity, indeed--there's enough spent in charity by myself and my husband. but i wish to stop extravagances--it is only extravagance to spend so much on charity as you would do if you could; therefore you shall not have any money just now." mrs. lawson was one of those women who can cheerfully expend a most lavish sum on a ball, a dress, or any other method by which rank and luxury dissipate their abundance, but who are very economical, and talk much of extravagance when money is demanded for purposes not connected with display and style. "augusta lawson, listen to me," his voice was quivering with passion, "my own wants are very few; in food, in clothes, in all points my expenditure is trifling. i am not extravagant in my demands for the poor, either. all i have expended in charity during the few years since you came here, is but an insignificant amount as contrasted with the income which i freely gave up to my son and you; therefore, some money for the poor woman who is waiting, i shall now have; give me some shillings, for god's sake, and let me go." he advanced closer to her, and held out his hand. "nonsense!" cried mrs. lawson; "i am mistress here--i am determined to stop extravagance. you give too much to common beggars; i am determined to stop it--do not ask me any further." a kind of convulsion passed over john lawson's thin face; but he pressed his hand closely on his breast, and was silent for some moments. "i was once rich, i believe. yes--it is not a dream," he said, in a slow, self-communing voice. "gold and silver, once ye were plenty with me; my hands; my pockets were filled--guineas, crowns, shillings--now i have not one penny to give to that starving, dying woman, whose face of misery might soften the very stones she looks on--not one penny." "augusta," he said, turning suddenly toward her, after a second pause of silence, "give me only one shilling, and i shall not think of the bitter words you have just said?" "no; not one shilling," answered mrs. lawson, turning over a leaf of her novel. "one sixpence, then--one small, poor sixpence. you do not know how even a sixpence can gladden the black heart of poverty, when starvation is come. one sixpence, i say--let me have it quickly." "not one farthing i shall give you. i do beg you will trouble me no further." mrs. lawson turned her back partially to him, and fixed all her attention on the novel. "woman! i have cringed and begged; i would not so beg for myself, from you--no; i would lie down and die of want before i would, on my own account, request of you--of your hard heart--one bit of bread. all the finery that surrounds you is mine--it was purchased with my money, though now you call it yours; and, usurping the authority of both master and mistress here, you--in what you please to call your economical management--dole out shillings to me when the humor seizes you, or refuse me, as now, when it pleases you. but, woman, listen to me. i shall never request you for one farthing of money again. no necessity of others shall make me do it. you shall never again refuse me, for i shall never give you the opportunity." he turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly. in the lobby he met his son, henry lawson. the young man paused, something struck by the excited appearance of his father. "henry," said the father, abruptly, "i want some money; there is a poor woman whom i wish to relieve--will you give me some money for her?" "willingly, my dear father; but have you asked augusta. you know i have given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she is so very clever and economical." "she has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me; she saves from the starving poor; she saves, that she may waste large sums on parties and dresses. i shall never more ask her for money; give me a few shillings. my god! the father begs of the son for what was his own--for what he toiled all his youth--for what he gave up out of trusting love to that son. henry, my son, i am sick of asking and begging--ay, sick--sick; but give me some shillings now." "you asked augusta, then," said henry, drawing out his purse, and glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door. "henry," cried mrs. lawson, appearing at that instant with a face inflamed with anger--"henry, _i_ would not give your father any money to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away." henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively to mrs. lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was a true index of his yielding and easily-governed nature. his features were small, delicate, and almost effeminately handsome; and in every lineament a want of decision and force of character was visible. "henry, give me some shillings, i say--i am your father--i have a just right." "yes, yes, surely," said henry, making a movement to open his purse. "henry, i do not wish you to give him money to waste in charity, as he calls it." mrs. lawson gave her husband an emphatic, but, at the same time, cunningly caressing and smiling look. "henry, i am your father--give me the money i want." "augusta, my love, you know it was all his," said henry, going close to her, and speaking in a kind of whisper. "my dearest henry, were it for any other purpose but for throwing away, i would not refuse. i am your father's best friend, and your best friend, in wishing to restrain all extravagance." "my dear father, she wishes to be economical, you know." he dangled the purse, undecidedly, in his fingers. "will you give me the money at once, and let me go?" cried john lawson, elevating his voice. "my dear augusta, it is better." "henry, do not, i beg of you." "henry, my son, will you let me have the money?" "indeed, augusta--" "henry!" mrs. lawson articulated but the one word; there was enough of energy and determination in it to make her husband close the purse he had almost opened. "i ask you only this once more--give me the few shillings?" john lawson bent forward in an eager manner; a feverish red kindled on his sallow cheeks; his eyes were widely dilated, and his lips compressed. there was a pause of some moments. "you will not give it me?" he said, in a voice deep-toned and singularly calm, as contrasted with his convulsed face. henry dangled the purse again in his hand, and looked uneasily and irresolutely toward his wife. "no, he will not give it--you will get no money to squander on poor people this day," mrs. lawson said, in a very sharp and decided voice. john lawson did not say another word; he turned away and slowly descended the stairs, and walked out of the house. he did not return that evening. he had been seen on the road leading to the house of a relative who was in rather poor circumstances henry felt rather annoyed at his father's absence; he had no depth in his affection, but he had been accustomed to see him and hear his voice every day, and therefore he missed him, but consoled himself with the thought that they would soon meet again, as it never entered his imagination that his father had quitted the house for a lengthened period. mrs. lawson felicitated herself on the event, and hoped that the old man would remain some time with his relative. the following day a letter was handed to henry; it was from his father, and was as follows: "to my son henry--i have at last come to the resolution of quitting your house, which i can no longer call mine, in even the least degree. for weeks--for months--ever since you married--ever since your wife took upon herself what she calls the management of your house and purse, i have felt bound down under the weight of an oppressive bondage. i could not go and take a pound or a shilling from our common stock, as i used to do before you married, when you and i lived in one mind, and when i believed that the very spirit of your departed, your angel mother, dwelt in you, as you had, and have still, her very face and form. no, no, we had no common stock when you married. she put me on an allowance--ay, an allowance. you lived, and saw me receiving an allowance; you whom i loved with an idolatry which god has now punished; you to whom i freely gave up my business--my money-making business. i gave it you--i gave all to you--i would have given my very life and soul to you, because i thought that with your mother's own face you had her noble and generous nature. you were kind before you married; but that marriage has proved your weakness and want of natural affection. yes, you stood at my side yesterday; you looked on my face--i, the father who loved you beyond all bounds of fatherly love--you stood and heard me beg for a few shillings; you heard me supplicate earnestly and humbly, and you would not give, because your wife was not willing. henry, i could force you to give me a share of the profits of your business; but keep it--keep it all. you would not voluntarily give me some shillings, and i shall not demand what right and justice would give me. keep all, every farthing. "it was for charity i asked the few shillings; you know it. you know from whom i imbibed whatever i possess of the blessed spirit of charity. i was as hard and unpitying as even your wife before your mother taught me to feel and relieve the demands of poverty. yes, and she taught you; you can not forget it. she taught you to give food to the starving, in your earliest days. she strove to impress your infant mind with the very soul of charity; and yesterday she looked down from the heaven of the holy departed, and saw you refusing me, your father, a few shillings to bestow on charity. "henry, i can live with you and your wife no more. i should grow avaricious in my old age, were i to remain with you. i should long for money to call my own. those doled out shillings which i received wakened within me feelings of a dark nature--covetousness, and envy, and discontent--which must have shadowed the happiness of your mother in heaven to look down upon. i must go and seek out an independent living for myself, even yet, though i am fifty-two. though my energies for struggling with the world died, i thought, when your mother died, and, leaving my active business to you, i retired to live in the country, i must go forth again, as if i were young, to seek for the means of existence, for i feel i was not made to be a beggar--a creature hanging on the bounty of others; no, no, the merciful god will give me strength yet to provide for myself, though i am old, and broken down in mind and body. farewell; you who were once my beloved son, may god soften and amend your heart." when henry perused this letter, he would immediately have gone in search of his father, in order to induce him to return home; but mrs. lawson was at his side, and succeeded in persuading him to allow his father to act as he pleased, and remain away as long as he wished. * * * * * ten years rolled over our world, sinking millions beneath the black waves of adverse fortune and fate, and raising the small number who, of the innumerable aspirants for earthly good, usually succeed. henry lawson was one of those whom time had lowered in fortune. his business speculations had, for a lengthened period, been rather unsuccessful, while mrs. lawson's expensive habits increased every day. at length affairs came to such a crisis, that retrenchment or failure was inevitable. henry had enough of wisdom and spirit to insist on the first alternative, and mrs. lawson was compelled by the pressure of circumstances to yield in a certain degree; the country-house, therefore, was let, mrs. lawson assigning as a reason, that she had lost all relish for the country after the death of her dear children, both of whom had died, leaving the parents childless. it was the morning of a close sultry day in july, and mrs. lawson was seated in her drawing-room. she was dressed carefully and expensively as of old, but she had been dunned and threatened at least half-a-dozen times for the price of the satin dress she wore. her face was thin and pale, and there was a look of much care on her countenance; her eyes were restless and sunken, and discontent spoke in their glances as she looked on the chairs, sofas, and window-draperies, which had once been bright-colored, but were now much faded. she had just come to the resolution of having new covers and hangings, though their mercer's and upholsterer's bills were long unsettled, when a visitor was shown into the room. it was mrs. thompson, the wife of a very prosperous and wealthy shopkeeper. mrs. lawson's thin lips wreathed themselves into bright smiles of welcome, while the foul demon of envy took possession of her soul. mrs. thompson's dress was of the most costly french satin, while hers was merely british manufacture. they had been old school companions and rivals in their girlish days. during the first years of the married life of each, mrs. lawson had outshone mrs. thompson in every respect; but now the eclipsed star beamed brightly and scornfully beside the clouds which had rolled over her rival. mrs. thompson was, in face and figure, in dress and speech, the very impersonation of vulgar and ostentatious wealth. "my goodness, it's so hot!" she said, loosening the fastening of her bonnet, the delicate french blond and white satin and plume, of which that fabric was composed, contrasting rather painfully at the same time with her flashed mahogany-colored complexion, and ungracefully-formed features. "bless me, i'm so glad we'll get off to our country-house to-morrow. it's so very delightful, mrs. lawson, to have a country residence to go to. goodness me what a close room, and such a hot, dusty street. it does just look so queer to me after fitzherbert-square." to this mrs. lawson made a response as composed as she could; she would have retorted bitterly and violently, but her husband had a connection with the thompson establishment, and for strong reasons she considered it prudent to refrain from quarreling with mrs. thompson. she, therefore, spoke but very little, and mrs. thompson was left at liberty to give a lengthened detail of mr. thompson's great wealth and her own great profusion. she began first with herself, and furnished an exact detail of all the fine things she had purchased in the last month, down to the latest box of pins. next, her babies occupied her for half an hour--the quantity of chicken they consumed, and the number of frocks they soiled per diem were minutely chronicled. then her house came under consideration: she depicted the bright glory of the new _ponceau_ furniture, as contrasted with shocking old faded things--and she glanced significantly toward mrs. lawson's sofas and chairs. next she made a discursive detour to the culinary department, and gave a statement of the number of stones of lump sugar she was getting boiled in preserves, and of the days of the week in which they had puddings, and the days they had pies at dinner. "but, mrs. lawson, dear, have you seen old mr. lawson since he came home?" she said, when she was rising to depart; "but i suppose you haven't, for they say he won't have any thing to do with his relations now--he won't come near you, i have heard. they say he has brought such a lot of money with him from south america." at this intelligence every feature of mrs. lawson's face brightened with powerful interest. she inquired where mr. lawson stopped, and was informed that he had arrived at the best hotel in the town about three days previously, and that every one talked of the large fortune he had made abroad, as he seemed to make no secret of the fact. a burning eagerness to obtain possession of that money entered mrs. lawson's soul, and she thought every second of time drawn out to the painful duration of a long hour, while mrs. thompson slowly moved her ample skirts of satin across the drawing-room, and took her departure. mrs. lawson dispatched a messenger immediately for her husband. henry lawson came in, and listened with surprise to the intelligence of his father's return. he was taking up his hat to proceed to the hotel in quest of him, when a carriage drove to the door. mrs. lawson's heart palpitated with eagerness--if it should be her husband's father in his own carriage--how delightful! that horrible mrs. thompson had not a carriage of her own yet, though she was always talking of it. they, mrs. lawson and her husband, had just been about setting up a carriage when business failed with them. she ran briskly down the stairs--for long years she had not flown with such alertness--rapid visions of gold, of splendor, and triumph seemed to bear her along, as if she had not been a being of earth. she was not disappointed, for there, at the open door, stood john lawson. he was enveloped in a cloak of fur, the costliness of which told mrs. lawson that it was the purchase of wealth; a servant in plain livery supported him, for he seemed a complete invalid. mrs. lawson threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him with a warmth and eagerness which brought a cold and bitter smile over the white, thin lips of john lawson. he replied briefly to the welcomings he received. he threw aside his cloak, and exhibited the figure of an exceedingly emaciated and feeble old man, who had all the appearance of ninety years, though he was little more than sixty; his face was worn and fleshless to a painful degree; his hair was of the whitest shade of great age, but his eyes had grown much more serene in their expression than in his earlier days, notwithstanding a cast of suffering which his whole countenance exhibited. he was plainly, but most carefully and respectably dressed; a diamond ring of great value was on one of his fingers; the lustre of the diamonds caught mrs. lawson's glance on her first inspection of his person, and her heart danced with rapture--mrs. thompson had no such ring, with all her boasting of all her finery. "i have come to see my child before i die," said the old man, gazing on his son with earnest eyes; "you broke the ties of nature between us on your part, when, ten years ago, you refused your father a few shillings from your abundance, but--" he was interrupted by mrs. lawson, who uttered many voluble protestations of her deep grief at her having, even though for the sake of economy, refused the money her dear father had solicited before he left them. she vowed that she had neither ate, nor slept, nor even dressed herself for weeks after his departure; and that, sleeping or waking, she was perpetually wishing she had given him the money, even though she had known that he was going to throw it into the fire, or lose it in any way. her poor, dear father--oh, she wept so after she heard that he had left the country. to be sure henry could tell how, for two or three nights, her pillow was soaked with tears. a cold, bitter smile again flitted across the old man's lips; he made no response to her words, but in the one look which his hollow eyes east on her, he seemed to read the falsehood of her assertions. "i was going to add," he said, "that though you forgot you were my son, and refused to act as my son, when you withheld the paltry sum for which i begged, yet i could not refrain from coming once more to look on my child's face--to look on the face of my departed wife in yours--for i know that a very brief period must finish my life now. i should not have come here, i feel--i know it is the weakness of my nature--should have died among strangers, for the strangers of other countries, the people of a different hue, and a different language, i have found kind and pitiful, compared with those of my own house. "oh, don't say so--don't say so--you are our own beloved father; ah, my heart clings to every feature of your poor, dear, old face; there are the eyes and all that i used to talk to henry so much about. don't talk of strangers--i shall nurse you and attend to you night and day." she made a movement, as if she would throw her arms around his neck again, but the old man drew back. "woman! your hypocritical words show me that your pitiless heart is still unchanged--that it is grown even worse. you forced me out to the world in my old age, when i should have had no thoughts except of god and the world to come; you forced me to think of money-making, when my hair was gray and my blood cold with years. yes, i had to draw my thoughts from the future existence, and to waste them on the miserable toils of traffic, in order to make money; for it was better to do this than to drag out my life a pensioner on your bounty, receiving shillings and pence which you gave me as if it had been your heart's blood, though i only asked my own. woman! the black slavery of my dependence on you was frightful; but now i can look you thanklessly in the face, for i have the means of living without you. i spent sick and sleepless days and nights, but i gained an independence; the merciful god blessed the efforts of the old man, who strove to gain his livelihood--yes, i am independent of you both. i came to see my son before i die--that is all i want." mrs. lawson attempted a further justification of herself, but the words died on her lips. the stern looks of the old man silenced her. after remaining for a short time, he rose to take his departure; but, at the earnest solicitations of his son, he consented to remain for a few days, only on condition that he should pay for his board and lodging. to this mrs. lawson made a feint of resistance, but agreed in the end, as the terms offered by the old man were very advantageous. "i shall soon have a lodging for which no mortal is called on to pay--the great mother-earth," said the old man, "and i am glad, glad to escape from this money-governed world. do not smile so blandly on me, both of you, and attend me with such false tenderness. there, take it away," he said, as mrs. lawson was placing her most comfortable footstool under his feet; "there was no attendance, no care, not a civil action or kind look for me when i was poor john lawson, the silly, most silly old man, who had given up all to his son and his son's wife, for the love of them, and expected, like a fool that he was, to live with them on terms of perfect equality, and to have the family purse open to him for any trifling sums he wished to take. go, go for god's sake; try and look bitterly on me now, as you did when you forced me out of your house. i detest your obsequious attentions--i was as worthy of them ten years ago, before i dragged down my old age to the debasing efforts of money-making. you know i am rich; you would worship my money in me now. not a smiling look, not a soft word you bestow on me, but is for my riches, not for me. ay, you think you have my wealth in your grasp already; you know i can not live long. thank god that my life is almost ended, and i hope my death will be a benefit to you, in softening your hard hearts." mrs. lawson drew some hope from his last words, and she turned away her head to hide the joy which shone on her face. in a few days the old man became seriously ill, and was altogether confined to his room. as death evidently approached, his mind became serene and calm, and he received the attentions which mrs. lawson and his son lavished on him with a silent composure, which led them to hope that he had completely forgotten their previous conduct to him. the night on which he died, he turned to his son, and said a few words, a very few words, regarding worldly matters. he exhorted henry to live in a somewhat less expensive style, and to cultivate a spirit of contentment without riches; then he blessed god that he was entering on a world in which he would hear no more of money, or earthly possession. he remained in a calm sleep during the greater part of the night, they thought, but in the morning they found him dead. the funeral was over, and the time was come in which the old man's will was to be opened mrs. lawson had waited for that moment--she would have forcibly dragged time onward to that moment--she had execrated the long hours of night since the old man's death--she had still more anathematized the slowly passing days, when gazing furtively through a corner of the blinded window, she saw fine equipages and finely-dressed ladies passing, and she planned how she would shine when the old man's wealth would be her own. she drew glorious mental pictures of how she would burst from behind the shadowing cloud of poverty, and dazzle all her acquaintances. her dress, her carriage, her style of living would be unique in her rank of life for taste and costliness. she would show them she had got money--money at last--more money than them all. now at last she sat and saw the will being opened; she felt that it was a mere formality, for the old man had no one but them to whom he could leave his money; she never once doubted but all would be theirs; she had reasoned, and fancied herself into the firm conviction. her only fear was, that the amount might not be so large as she calculated on. she saw the packet opened. her eyes dilated, her lips became parched; her heart and brain burned with a fierce eagerness--money, money! at last uttered the griping spirit within her. the will, after beginning in the usual formal style, was as follows: "i bequeath to my son henry's wife, augusta lawson, a high and noble gift" (mrs. lawson almost sprung from her seat with eagerness), "the greatest of all legacies, i bequeath to augusta lawson--charity! augusta lawson refused me a few shillings which i wished to bestow on a starving woman; but now i leave her joint executrix, with my son henry, in the distribution of all my money and all my effects, without any reservation, in charity, to be applied to such charitable purposes as in this, my last will and testament, i have directed." then followed a statement of his effects and money, down to the most minute particular; the money amounted to a very considerable sum; his personal effects he directed to be sold, with the exception of his valuable diamond ring, which he bequeathed to the orphan daughter of a poor relation in whose house he had taken refuge, and remained for a short time, previous to his going abroad. all the proceeds of his other effects, together with the whole amount of his money, he bequeathed for different charitable purposes, and gave minute directions as to the manner in which various sums were to be expended. the largest amount he directed to be distributed in yearly donations among the most indigent old men and women within a circuit of ten miles of his native place. those who were residing with their sons, and their sons' wives, were to receive by far the largest relief. he appointed as trustees two of the most respectable merchants of the town, to whom he gave authority to see the provisions of his will carried out, in case his son and mrs. lawson should decline the duties of executor-ship which he had bequeathed to them; the trustees were to exercise a surveillance over mr. and mrs. lawson, to see that the will should in every particular be strictly carried into effect. the will was dated, and duly signed in the town in south america where the old man had for some years resided; a codicil, containing the bequest of the ring, with some further particulars regarding the charities, had been added a few days previous to the old man's death. mrs. lawson was carried fainting from the room before the reading of the will was concluded. she was seized with violent fever, and her life was despaired of. she recovered, however, and from the verge of the eternal existence on which she had been, she returned to life with a less worldly and ostentatious nature, and a soul more alive to the impulses of kindness and charity. [from cumming's hunting adventures in south africa.] elephant shooting. it was a glorious day, with a cloudy sky, and the wind blew fresh off the southern ocean. having ridden some miles in a northerly direction, we crossed the broad and gravelly bed of a periodical river, in which were abundance of holes excavated by the elephants, containing delicious water. having passed the river, we entered an extensive grove of picturesque cameel-dorn trees, clad in young foliage of the most delicious green. on gaining a gentle eminence about a mile beyond this grove, i looked forth upon an extensive hollow, where i beheld, for the first time for many days, a fine old cock ostrich, which quickly observed us, and dashed away to our left. i had ceased to devote my attention to the ostrich, and was straining my eyes in an opposite direction, when kleinboy called out to me, "dar loup de ould carle;" and turning my eyes to the retreating ostrich, i beheld two first-rate old bull elephants, charging along at their utmost speed within a hundred yards of it. they seemed at first to be in great alarm, but quickly discovering what it was that had caused their confusion, they at once reduced their pace to a slow and stately walk. this was a fine look-out; the country appeared to be favorable for an attack, and i was followed by wolf and bonteberg, both tried and serviceable dogs with elephants. owing to the pace at which i had been riding, both dogs and horses were out of breath, so i resolved not to attack the elephants immediately, but to follow slowly, holding them in view. the elephants were proceeding right up the wind, and the distance between us was about five hundred yards. i advanced quietly toward them, and had proceeded about half way, when, casting my eyes to my right, i beheld a whole herd of tearing bull elephants standing thick together on a wooded eminence within three hundred yards of me. these elephants were almost to leeward. now, the correct thing to do was to slay the best in each troop, which i accomplished in the following manner: i gave the large herd my wind, upon which they instantly tossed their trunks aloft, "a moment snuffed the tainted gale," and, wheeling about, charged right down wind, crashing through the jungle in dire alarm. my object now was to endeavor to select the finest bull, and hunt him to a distance from the other troop, before i should commence to play upon his hide. stirring my steed, i galloped forward. right in my path stood two rhinoceroses of the white variety, and to these the dogs instantly gave chase. i followed in the wake of the retreating elephants, tracing their course by the red dust which they raised, and left in clouds behind them. presently emerging into an open glade, i came full in sight of the mighty game: it was a truly glorious sight; there were nine or ten of them, which were, with one exception, full-grown, first-rate bulls, and all of them carried very long, heavy, and perfect tusks. their first panic being over, they had reduced their pace to a free, majestic walk, and they followed one leader in a long line, exhibiting an appearance so grand and striking, that any description, however brilliant, must fail to convey to the mind of the reader an adequate idea of the reality. increasing my pace, i shot alongside, at the same time riding well out from the elephants, the better to obtain an inspection of their tusks. it was a difficult matter to decide which of them i should select, for every elephant seemed better than his neighbor; but, on account of the extraordinary size and beauty of his tusks, i eventually pitched upon a patriarchal bull, which, as is usual with the heaviest, brought up the rear. i presently separated him from his comrades, and endeavored to drive him in a northerly direction. there is a peculiar art in driving an elephant in the particular course which you may fancy, and, simple as it may seem, it nevertheless requires the hunter to have a tolerable idea of what he is about. it is widely different from driving in an eland, which also requires judicious riding: if you approach too near your elephant, or shout to him, a furious charge will certainly ensue, while, on the other hand, if you give him too wide a berth, the chances are that you lose him in the jungle, which, notwithstanding his size, is a very simple matter, and, if once lost sight of, it is more than an even bet that the hunter will never again obtain a glimpse of him. the ground being favorable, kleinboy called to me to commence firing, remarking, very prudently, that he was probably making for some jungle of wait-a-bits, where we might eventually lose him. i continued, however, to reserve my fire until i had hunted him to what i considered to be a safe distance from the two old fellows which we had at first discovered. at length closing with him, i dared him to charge, which he instantly did in fine style, and as he pulled up in his career i yelled to him a note of bold defiance, and cantering alongside, again defied him to the combat. it was thus the fight began, and the ground being still favorable, i opened a sharp fire upon him, and in about a quarter of an hour twelve of my bullets were lodged in his fore-quarters. he now evinced strong symptoms of approaching dissolution, and stood catching up the dust with the point of his trunk, and throwing it in clouds above and around him. at such a moment it is extremely dangerous to approach an elephant on foot, for i have remarked that, although nearly dead, he can muster strength to make a charge with great impetuosity. being anxious to finish him, i dismounted from my steed, and availing myself of the cover of a gigantic nwana-tree, whose diameter was not less than ten feet, i ran up within twenty yards, and gave it him sharp right and left behind the shoulder. these two shots wound up the proceeding; on receiving them, he backed stern foremost into the cover, and then walked slowly away. i had loaded my rifle, and was putting on the caps, when i heard him fall over heavily; but, alas! the sound was accompanied by a sharp crack, which i too well knew denoted the destruction of one of his lovely tusks; and, on running forward, i found him lying dead, with the tusk, which lay under, snapped through the middle. i did not tarry long for an inspection of the elephant, but mounting my horse, at once set off to follow on the spoor of the two old fellows which the ostrich had alarmed. fortunately, i fell in with a party of natives, who were on their way to the wagons with the impedimenta, and assisted by these, i had sanguine hopes of shortly overtaking the noble quarry. we had not gone far when two wild boars, with enormous tusks, stood within thirty yards of me: but this was no time to fire: and a little after a pair of white rhinoceroses stood directly in our path. casting my eyes to the right, i beheld within a quarter of a mile of me a herd of eight or ten cow elephants, with calves, peacefully browsing on a sparely-wooded knoll. the spoor we followed led due south, and the wind was as fair as it could blow. we passed between the twin-looking, abrupt, pyramidal hills, composed of huge disjointed blocks of granite, which lay piled above each other in grand confusion. to the summit of one of these i ascended with a native, but the forest in advance was so impenetrable that we could see nothing of the game we sought. descending from the hillock, we resumed the spoor, and were enabled to follow at a rapid pace, the native who led the spooring-party being the best tracker in bamangwato. i had presently very great satisfaction to perceive that the elephants had not been alarmed, their course being strewed with branches which they had chewed as they slowly fed along. the trackers now became extremely excited, and i strained their eyes on every side in the momentary expectation of beholding the elephants. at length we emerged into an open glade, and, clearing a grove of thorny mimosas, we came full in sight of one of them. cautiously advancing, and looking to my right, i next discovered his comrade, standing in a thicket of low wait-a-bits, within a hundred and fifty yards of me; they were both first-rate old bulls, with enormous tusks of great length. i dismounted, and warily approached the second elephant for a closer inspection of his tusks. as i drew near, he slightly turned his head, and i then perceived that his farther one was damaged toward the point; while at the same instant his comrade, raising his head clear of the bush on which he browsed, displayed to my delighted eyes a pair of the most beautiful and perfect tusks i had ever seen. regaining my horse, i advanced toward this elephant, and when within forty yards of him, he walked slowly on before me in an open space, his huge ears gently flapping, and entirely concealing me from his view. inclining to the left, i slightly increased my pace, and walked past him within sixty yards, upon which he observed me for the first time; but probably mistaking "sunday" for a hartebeest, he continued his course with his eye upon me, but showed no symptoms of alarm. the natives had requested me to endeavor, if possible, to hunt him toward the water, which lay in a northerly direction, and this i resolved to do. having advanced a little, i gave him my wind, when he was instantly alarmed, and backed into the bushes, holding his head high and right to me. thus he stood motionless as a statue, under the impression, probably, that, owing to his lilliputian dimensions, i had failed to observe him, and fancying that i would pass on without detecting him. i rode slowly on, and described a semicircle to obtain a shot at his shoulder, and halting my horse, fired from the saddle; he got it in the shoulder-blade, and, as slowly and silently i continued my course, he still stood gazing at me in utter astonishment. bill and flam were now slipped by the natives, and in another moment they were barking around him. i shouted loudly to encourage the dogs and perplex the elephant, who seemed puzzled to know what to think of us, and, shrilly trumpeting, charged headlong after the dogs. retreating, he backed into the thicket, then charged once more, and made clean away, holding the course i wanted. when i tried to fire, "sunday" was very fidgety, and destroyed the correctness of my aim. approaching the elephant, i presently dismounted, and, running in, gave him two fine shots behind the shoulder; then the dogs, which were both indifferent ones, ran barking at him. the consequence was a terrific charge, the dogs at once making for their master, and bringing the elephant right upon me. i had no time to gain my saddle, but ran for my life. the dogs, fortunately, took after "sunday," who, alarmed by the trumpeting, dashed frantically away, though in the heat of the affray i could not help laughing to remark horse, dogs, and elephant all charging along in a direct line. the dogs, having missed their master, held away for kleinboy, who had long disappeared, i knew not whither. "sunday" stood still, and commenced to graze, while the elephant, slowly passing within a few yards of him, assumed a position under a tree beside him. kleinboy presently making his appearance, i called to him to ride in, and bring me my steed; but he refused, and asked me if i wished him to go headlong to destruction. "sunday" having fed slowly away from the elephant. i went up, and he allowed me to recapture him. i now plainly saw that the elephant was dying, but i continued firing to hasten his demise. toward the end he took up a position in a dense thorny thicket, where for a long time he remained. approaching within twelve paces, i fired my two last shots, aiming at his left side, close behind the shoulder. on receiving these, he backed slowly through the thicket, and clearing it, walked gently forward about twenty yards, when he suddenly came down with tremendous violence right on his broadside. to my intense mortification, the heavy fall was accompanied by a loud, sharp crack, and on going up i found one of his matchless tusks broken short off by the lip. this was a glorious day's sport: i had bagged, in one afternoon, probably the two finest bull elephants in bamangwato, and, had it not been for the destruction of their noble trophies, which were the two finest pair of tusks i had obtained that season, my triumph on the occasion had been great and unalloyed. [from dickens's household words.] the power of mercy. quiet enough, in general, is the quaint old town of lamborough. why all this bustle to-day? along the hedge-bound roads which lead to it, carts, chaises, vehicles of every description are jogging along filled with countrymen; and here and there the scarlet cloak or straw bonnet of some female occupying a chair, placed somewhat unsteadily behind them, contrasts gayly with the dark coats, or gray smock-frocks of the front row; from every cottage of the suburb, some individuals join the stream, which rolls on increasing through the streets till it reaches the castle. the ancient moat teems with idlers, and the hill opposite, usually the quiet domain of a score or two of peaceful sheep, partakes of the surrounding agitation. the voice of the multitude which surrounds the court-house, sounds like the murmur of the sea, till suddenly it is raised to a sort of shout. john west, the terror of the surrounding country, the sheep-stealer and burglar, had been found guilty. "what is the sentence?" is asked by a hundred voices. the answer is "transportation for life." but there was one standing aloof on the hill, whose inquiring eye wandered over the crowd with indescribable anguish, whose pallid cheek grew more and more ghastly at every denunciation of the culprit, and who, when at last the sentence was pronounced, fell insensible upon the green-sward. it was the burglar's son. when the boy recovered from his swoon, it was late in the afternoon; he was alone; the faint tinkling of the sheep-bell had again replaced the sound of the human chorus of expectation, and dread, and jesting; all was peaceful, he could not understand why he lay there, feeling so weak and sick. he raised himself tremulously and looked around, the turf was cut and spoiled by the trampling of many feet. all his life of the last few months floated before his memory, his residence in his father's hovel with ruffianly comrades, the desperate schemes he heard as he pretended to sleep on his lowly bed, their expeditions at night, masked and armed, their hasty returns, the news of his father's capture, his own removal to the house of some female in the town, the court, the trial, the condemnation. the father had been a harsh and brutal parent, but he had not positively ill-used his boy. of the great and merciful father of the fatherless the child knew nothing. he deemed himself alone in the world. yet grief was not his pervading feeling, nor the shame of being known as the son of a transport. it was revenge which burned within him. he thought of the crowd which had come to feast upon his father's agony; he longed to tear them to pieces, and he plucked savagely a handful of the grass on which he leant. oh, that he were a man! that he could punish them all--all--the spectators first, the constables, the judge, the jury, the witnesses--one of them especially, a clergyman named leyton, who had given his evidence more positively, more clearly, than all the others. oh, that he could do that man some injury--but for him his father would not have been identified and convicted. suddenly a thought occurred to him, his eyes sparkled with fierce delight. "i know where he lives," he said to himself; "he has the farm and parsonage of millwood. i will go there at once--it is almost dark already. i will do as i have heard father say he once did to the squire. i will set his barns and his house on fire. yes, yes, he shall burn for it--he shall get no more fathers transported." to procure a box of matches was an easy task, and that was all the preparation the boy made. the autumn was far advanced. a cold wind was beginning to moan among the almost leafless trees, and george west's teeth chattered, and his ill-clad limbs grew numb as he walked along the fields leading to millwood. "lucky it's a dark night; this fine wind will fan the flame nicely," he repeated to himself. the clock was striking nine, but all was quiet as midnight; not a soul stirring, not a light in the parsonage windows that he could see. he dared not open the gate, lest the click of the latch should betray him, so he softly climbed over; but scarcely had he dropped on the other side of the wall before the loud barking of a dog startled him. he cowered down behind the hay-rick, scarcely daring to breathe, expecting each instant that the dog would spring upon him. it was some time before the boy dared to stir, and as his courage cooled, his thirst for revenge somewhat subsided also, till he almost determined to return to lamborough, but he was too tired, too cold, too hungry--besides, the woman would beat him for staying out so late. what could he do? where should he go? and as the sense of his lonely and forlorn position returned, so did also the affectionate remembrance of his father, his hatred of his accusers, his desire to satisfy his vengeance; and once more, courageous through anger, he rose, took the box from his pocket, and boldly drew one of them across the sand-paper. it flamed; he stuck it hastily in the stack against which he rested--it only flickered a little, and went out. in great trepidation, young west once more grasped the whole of the remaining matches in his hand and ignited them, but at the same instant the dog barked. he hears the gate open, a step is close to him, the matches are extinguished, the lad makes a desperate effort to escape, but a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep, calm voice inquired, "what can have urged you to such a crime?" then calling loudly, the gentleman, without relinquishing his hold, soon obtained the help of some farming men, who commenced a search with their lanterns all about the farm. of course they found no accomplices, nothing at all but the handful of half-consumed matches the lad had dropped, and he all that time stood trembling, and occasionally struggling, beneath the firm but not rough grasp of the master who held him. at last the men were told to return to the house, and thither, by a different path, was george led, till they entered a small, poorly-furnished room. the walls were covered with books, as the bright flame of the fire revealed to the anxious gaze of the little culprit. the clergyman lit a lamp, and surveyed his prisoner attentively. the lad's eyes were fixed on the ground, while mr. leyton's wandered from his pale, pinched features to his scanty, ragged attire, through the tatters of which he could discern the thin limbs quivering from cold or fear; and when at last impelled by curiosity at the long silence, george looked up, there was something so sadly compassionate in the stranger's gentle look, that the boy could scarcely believe that he was really the man whose evidence had mainly contributed to transport his father. at the trial he had been unable to see his face, and nothing so kind had ever gazed upon him. his proud bad feelings were already melting. "you look half-starved," said mr. leyton; "draw nearer to the fire, you can sit down on that stool while i question you; and mind you answer me the truth. i am not a magistrate, but of course can easily hand you over to justice if you will not allow me to benefit you in my own way." george still stood twisting his ragged cap in his trembling fingers, and with so much emotion depicted on his face, that the good clergyman resumed, in still more soothing accents: "i have no wish to do you any thing but good, my poor boy; look up at me, and see if you can not trust me: you need not be thus frightened. i; only desire to hear the tale of misery your appearance indicates, to relieve it, if i can." here the young culprit's heart smote him. was this the man whose house he had tried to burn? on whom he had wished to bring ruin and perhaps death? was it a snare spread for him to lead to a confession? but when he looked on that grave compassionate countenance, he felt that it was _not_. "come, my lad, tell me all." george had for years heard little but oaths, and curses, and ribald jests, or the thief's jargon of his father's associates, and had been constantly cuffed and punished; but the better part of his nature was not extinguished; and at those words from the mouth of his _enemy_, he dropped on his knees, and clasping his hands, tried to speak; but could only sob. he had not wept before during that day of anguish; and now his tears gushed forth so freely, his grief was so passionate as he half knelt, half rested on the floor, that the good questioner saw that sorrow must have its course ere calm could be restored. the young penitent still wept, when a knock was heard at the door, and a lady entered. it was the clergyman's wife, he kissed her as she asked how he had succeeded with the wicked man in the jail? "he told me," replied mr. leyton, "that he had a son whose fate tormented him more than his punishment. indeed, his mind was so distracted respecting the youth, that he was scarcely able to understand my exhortations. he entreated me with agonizing energy to save his son from such a life as he had led, and gave me the address of a woman in whose house he lodged. i was, however, unable to find the boy in spite of many earnest inquiries." "did you hear his name?" asked the wife. "george west," was the reply. at the mention of his name, the boy ceased to sob. breathlessly he heard the account of his father's last request, of the benevolent clergyman's wish to fulfill it. he started up, ran toward the door, and endeavored to open it; mr. leyton calmly restrained him, "you must not escape," he said. "i can not stop here. i can not bear to look at you. let me go!" the lad said this wildly, and shook himself away. "why, i intend you nothing but kindness." a new flood of tears gushed forth; and george west said, between his sobs, "while you were searching for me to help me, i was trying to burn you in your house. i can not bear it." he sunk on his knees, and covered his face with both hands. there was a long silence, for mr. and mrs. leyton were as much moved as the boy, who was bowed down with shame and penitence, to which hitherto he had been a stranger. at last the clergyman asked, "what could have induced you to commit such a crime?" rising suddenly in the excitement of remorse, gratitude, and many feelings new to him, he hesitated for a moment, and then told his story, he related his trials, his sins, his sorrows, his supposed wrongs, his burning anger at the terrible fate of his only parent, and his rage at the exultation of the crowd: his desolation on recovering from his swoon, his thirst for vengeance, the attempt to satisfy it. he spoke with untaught, child-like simplicity, without attempting to suppress the emotions which successively overcame him. when he ceased, the lady hastened to the crouching boy, and soothed him with gentle words. the very tones of her voice were new to him. they pierced his heart more acutely than the fiercest of the upbraidings and denunciations of his old companions. he looked on his merciful benefactors with bewildered tenderness. he kissed mrs. leyton's hand, then gently laid on his shoulder. he gazed about like one in a dream who dreaded to wake. he became faint and staggered. he was laid gently on a sofa, and mr. and mrs. leyton left him. food was shortly administered to him, and after a time, when his senses had become sufficiently collected, mr. leyton returned to the study, and explained holy and beautiful things, which were new to the neglected boy: of the great yet loving father; of him who loved the poor, forlorn wretch, equally with the richest, and noblest, and happiest; of the force and efficacy of the sweet beatitude, "blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." i heard this story from mr. leyton, during a visit to him in may. george west was then head ploughman to a neighboring farmer, one of the cleanest, best behaved, and most respected laborers in the parish. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] borax lagoons of tuscany. in a mountainous district of tuscany, lying about twenty miles west of sienna, are situated the extraordinary lagoons from which borax is obtained. nothing can be more desolate than the aspect of the whole surrounding country. the mountains, bare and bleak, appear to be perpetually immersed in clouds of sulphurous vapor, which sometimes ascend in wreathed or twisted columns, and at other times are beaten down by the winds, and dispersed in heavy masses through the glens and hollows. here and there water-springs, in a state of boiling heat, and incessantly emitting smoke and vapor, burst with immense noise from the earth, which burns and shakes beneath your feet. the heat of the atmosphere in the vicinity of the lagoons is almost intolerable, especially when the wind blows about you the fiery vapor, deeply impregnated with sulphur. far and near the earth is covered with glittering crystallizations of various minerals, while the soil beneath is composed of black marl, streaked with chalk, which, at a distance, imparts to it the appearance of variegated marble. as you proceed, you are stunned by the noise of constant explosions, which remind you that you are traversing the interior of a mighty crater, which in past ages was, perhaps, filled with a flood of liquid fire. borax was first brought to europe, through india, from thibet, where it is found in a mountainous region, resembling in character the district of tuscany we have described. if we except some doubtful specimens, said to have been discovered in coal-pits in saxony, we may assert that the mineral is found nowhere else in europe, or that the territories of the grand duke enjoy a natural monopoly of the article, which, with the growth of the manufacturing system, is coming more and more into use every day, especially in france. in former times, when the value of the lagoons was not understood, the hollows and gorges in the mountains where they are situated were regarded by the superstitious peasantry as the entrance to hell. experience taught them that it was in many respects a region of death. whatever living thing fell into the lagoons inevitably perished, for the devouring acid almost in a moment separated the flesh from the bones. cattle were frequently thus lost, and the peasants themselves or their children sometimes encountered a similar fate. a celebrated chemist, engaged in making experiments on the impregnated water, accidentally fell into a lagoon which he himself had caused to be excavated, and perished immediately, leaving a wife and several children in indigence. for many ages no use was made of the boracic acid, and the whole district containing it--altogether about thirty miles in length--was dreaded and shunned by the inhabitants. many inducements were vainly held out to the peasantry to cultivate the lands in the neighborhood, which might generally be obtained for nothing. from time to time a few adventurous families would take up their residence near monte cerboli, and bring a few fields into cultivation, leaving, however, more than nine-tenths of the land fallow. about the middle of the last century, hoefer, who is described as apothecary to the grand duke, first detected the presence of boracic acid in the lagoon orcherio, near monte botardo. masgagin, a professor of anatomy, found the mineral in a concrete state in several streams issuing from the lagoons, and suggested the propriety of establishing manufactories of borax. as late, however, as , in consequence of the failure of numerous experiments, professor gazzeri arrived at the conclusion that the quantity of acid contained in the water of the lagoons was too small to render the working of them profitable. but this opinion was based on the old practice of attempting the extracting the mineral by the use of charcoal furnaces. it was m. larderel who introduced the improved method of employing the hot vapors of the lagoons themselves in the elaboration of the acid, and may be said to have invented the present method, which will probably go on improving for ages. the system of the chevalier larderel, now comte de pomerasce, displays at once great ingenuity and courage. the _soffioni_, or vapors, having been observed to burst forth with more or less vehemence in various parts of the mountains--which, fortunately for industry and commerce, are copiously irrigated with streams of water--the idea was conceived of forming an artificial lagoon on the site of the most elevated vent. a large basin having been excavated, the nearest stream was turned into it. the burning blasts from below forcing up their way through the water, keep it in a state of perpetual ebullition, and by degrees impregnate it with boracic acid. nothing can be more striking than the appearance of such a lagoon. surrounded by aridity and barrenness, its surface presents the aspect of a huge caldron, boiling and steaming perpetually, while its margin trembles, and resounds with the furious explosions from below. sometimes the vapor issues like a thread from the water, and after rising for a considerable height, spreads, and assumes an arborescent form as it is diluted by the atmospheric air. it then goes circling over the surface of the lagoon, till, meeting with other bodies of vapor in a similar condition, the whole commingling, constitute a diminutive cloud, which is wafted by the breeze up the peaks of the mountains, or precipitated into the valleys, according to its comparative density. to stand on the brink of one of these deadly lakes, stunned by subterranean thunder, shaken by incessant earthquakes, and scorched and half suffocated by the fiery pestilential vapor, is to experience very peculiar sensations, such as one feels within the crater of vesuvius or Ã�tna, or in the obscurity of the grotto del cave. another lagoon is scooped out lower down the mountain, the site being determined by the occurrence of soffioni; and here the same processes are followed, and the same phenomena observable. the water from the lagoon above, after it has received impregnation during twenty-four hours, is let off, and conducted by an artificial channel to the second lagoon; and from thence, with similar precautions, to a third, a fourth, and so on, till it at length reaches a sixth or eighth lagoon, where the process of impregnation is supposed to be completed. by this time the water contains half per cent, of acid, which professor gazzeri considered far too little to repay the expense of extracting it. from the last lagoon it is conveyed into reservoirs, whence again, after having remained quiescent a few hours, for what purpose is not stated, it passes into the evaporating pans. "here the hot vapor concentrates the strength of the acid by passing under shallow leaden vessels from the boiling fountains above, which it quits at a heat of degrees reaumur, and is discharged at a heat of degrees ( fahrenheit)." the evaporating pans are arranged on the same principles as the lagoons, though in some cases almost four times as numerous, each placed on a lower level than the other. in every successive pan the condensation becomes greater. all the water at length descends into the crystallizing vessels, where the process is completed. from these the borax is conveyed to the drying-rooms, where in the course of a very few hours, it is ready to be packed for exportation. the number of establishments has for many years been on the increase, though about twelve or fourteen years ago they did not exceed nine. nothing can be more fallacious than the opinions formed by hasty visitors on matters of this kind, which are susceptible of perpetual improvement. when the produce was from to tuscan pounds per day, the manufacturers were supposed to have reached the maximum, because all the water of the mountains was supposed to have been called into requisition. experience, however, is perpetually teaching us new methods of economy; and though it would _a priori_ be impossible to say by what means this economy is to be effected, we can not permit ourselves to doubt that the manufacture of borax in tuscany will hereafter be carried to a degree of perfection greatly transcending the expectations of those who formerly wrote on the subject. one of these observes the atmosphere has some influence on the results. in bright and clear weather, whether in winter or summer, the vapors are less dense, but the depositions of boracic acid in the lagoons are greater. increased vapors indicate unfavorable change of weather, and the lagoons are infallible barometers to the neighborhood, even at a great distance, serving to regulate the proceedings of the peasantry in their agricultural pursuits. as the quantity of boracic acid originally contained in the water of the lagoons is so very small as we now know it to be, we can no longer wonder at the opinion formerly entertained, that it did not exist at all. after five or six successive impregnations we see it does not exceed half per cent., which, estimating the quantity of borax at pounds a day, will give , , tuscan pounds, or tons, of water for the same period. by the construction of immense cisterns for the catching of rain water, by the employment of steam-engines for raising it from below, and probably by creating artificial vents for the soffioni, the quantity of borax produced might be almost indefinitely increased, since the range of country through which the vapor ascends is far too great for us to suppose it to be exhausted by the production of pounds of borax a day. science in all likelihood will bring about a revolution in this as in so many other manufactures, and our descendants will look back with a smile on our hasty and unphilosophical decision. we are without information on many points connected with the population of those districts, to throw light on which it would be necessary to institute fresh investigations on the spot. the lagoons are usually excavated by laborers from lombardy, who wander southward in search of employment in those months of the year during which the apennines are covered with snow. they do not, however, remain to be employed in the business of manufacture. this is carried on by native tuscan laborers, who occupy houses, often spacious and well built, in the neighborhood of the evaporating pans. they are in nearly all cases married men, and are enabled to maintain themselves and their families on the comparatively humble wages of a tuscan lira a day. it would have been satisfactory to know the number of the lombard navigators from time to time employed in excavating the lagoons, as well as of the native laborers, who carry on operations after their departure; but we may with certainty infer the successive appearance of fresh soffioni on the sides of the mountains from the perpetually-recurring necessity of excavating new lagoons. again, from the immense increase of borax produced in former times we may safely infer its increase in future. the quantity obtained was quadrupled in four years by superior methods of extraction, by economy of water and vapor, and other improvements suggested by experience. there can, therefore, be no doubt in our minds that similar improvements will produce similar results. in , about , tuscan pounds were obtained; in , , , . we quote the following suggestion from the observation of a traveler: "it appears to me that the power and riches of these extraordinary districts remain yet to be fully developed. they exhibit an immense number of mighty steam-engines, furnished by nature at no cost, and applicable to the production of an infinite variety of objects. in the progress of time this vast machinery of heat and force will probably become the moving central point of extensive manufacturing establishments. the steam which has been so ingeniously applied to the concentration and evaporation of the boracic acid, will probably hereafter, instead of wasting itself in the air, be employed to move huge engines, which will be directed to the infinite variety of production which engages the attention of the industrious artisans; and thus in course of time there can be little doubt that these lagoons, which were fled from as objects of danger and terror by uninstructed man, will gather round them a large, intelligent population, and become sources of prosperity to innumerable individuals through countless generations." whoever has traveled through tuscany, will every where have observed that the peasants live in better houses than they do any where else in europe. some one has said that nearly all their dwellings have been built within the last eighty years, an observation which in itself shows the substantial nature of their tenements, for where else will a peasant's house last so long? in the secluded mountain valleys, where agriculture supplies the only employment of the industrious classes, you sometimes meet with very ancient cottages, built quite in the style of the middle ages, with an abundance of projection and recesses, all calculated to produce picturesqueness of effect. the modern houses, more particularly in the district of the lagoons, are constructed more with reference to comfort than show, the object being to secure as much room and air as possible. in most places a garden is attached to every dwelling; and where trees will grow, a large linden or chestnut stretches its large boughs lovingly about the corner, and sometimes over the roof, of the dwelling. under this the peasant and his family sit to enjoy themselves on summer evenings. not to be entirely idle, however, the father is usually engaged in weaving baskets, while the children amuse themselves with cleaning and preparing the twigs; the mother, often with a baby in her lap, applies herself to the reparation of the family wardrobe; and the whole group, especially when lighted up by the slanting rays of the setting sun, presents to the eye a picture not to be equaled by dutch or flemish school. in other respects, the peasant of the lagoons aims at an inferior standard of luxury. his house is by far the finest portion of his possessions. the style of furniture, though comfortable, is inferior; and in the matters of dress and food the most primitive theories evidently prevail. here, however, as in most other parts of europe, we behold the extremities, as it were, of two systems--the one which is going out of date, and the one which is coming in. much bigotry is no doubt often displayed in the attachment of some persons to old habits and customs, not otherwise valuable or respectable than from their mere antiquity; but in several parts of italy the advocates of novelty are seldom in possession of so much comfort as they who abide by the habits and customs of their forefathers. these, for the most part, are content with the coarse manufactures of the country, which, rough and uncouth in appearance, supply the requisite warmth, and are extremely enduring. on the other hand, the imported goods within the reach of the poor, though gay, and of brilliant colors, are too often of the most flimsy texture, and melt away from about the persons of the wearers almost like vapor. the two classes of peasants view each other with secret contempt; but the old fashion is rapidly dying out because it is old, while the new chiefly triumphs perhaps because it is new. a native, when questioned on the subject of the recent innovations, observed that the lower classes of the population would have the means of providing for their necessities if they were not so eager after luxuries. the females are given to expensive dress, which deprives them of the means of supplying themselves with more necessary articles. the gluttony of the artisans has become proverbial among us: what is not spent in finery in dress is consumed in pampering the appetite. in consequence of the prosperity of the straw trade, which lasted from to , luxury spread throughout the country; and it would excite a smile, were it not a subject for regret, to observe the country folks in embroidered stockings and pumps, with large velvet bonnets trimmed with feathers and lace; but in their homes they, as well as the artisans in the towns, are miserably off; and they who are even genteelly dressed when abroad, have rarely more than a miserable palliasse for a bed at home. deprived of the advantages of the straw trade, the situation of the country people, especially those of the mountainous parts, is very distressing. but this and similar causes operate much less on the population in the district of the lagoons than elsewhere; and, indeed, it may almost be said that these persons, for the most part, offer a striking contrast with their neighbors. notwithstanding the nature of the vapors by which the air they breathe is impregnated, they are said, upon the whole, to be healthy and long-lived; and the regularity of employment, the goodness of their wages, and their constant residence on the same spot, with many other causes, combine to render them one of the most thriving sections of the tuscan population. it must, nevertheless, be admitted that we want several data for correctly appreciating their condition, and these could only be supplied by one who should remain a long time among them. the owners and conductors of the works are too much absorbed by the love of gain to pay much attention to the state of the laborers, who, as in most other parts of italy, lead a retired life, and are reserved and shy of communicating with strangers. on ordinary topics they will converse with you freely enough, but the moment you allude to their domestic concerns, they shrink into themselves, and decline entering into explanations. this, however, they usually do in the most civil manner, affecting stupidity, and carefully avoiding the least appearance of rudeness. even in the neighboring towns and villages the laborers of the lagoons are little known; and the produce of their manufacture, though exported to france and england, attracts little notice to the country itself, except among those who are engaged in its production. this will account for the very little that is popularly known of the borax lagoons of tuscany, or of the race of peasants by whom they are rendered profitable. [from colburn's "new monthly magazine."] wallace and fawdon. by leigh hunt. this ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the _lay of the last minstrel_. wallace, the great scottish patriot, had been defeated in a sharp encounter with the english. he was forced to retreat with only sixteen followers, the english pursued him with a bloodhound and his sole chance of escape from that tremendous investigator was either in baffling the scent altogether (which was impossible, unless fugitives could take to the water, and continue there for some distance), or in confusing it by the spilling of blood. for the latter purpose, a captive was sometimes sacrificed; in which case the hound stopped upon the body. the supernatural part of the story of fawdon is treated by its first relater, harry the minstrel, as a mere legend, and that not a very credible one; but as a mere legend it is very fine, and quite sufficient for poetical purposes; nor should the old poet's philosophy have thought proper to gainsay it. nevertheless, as the mysteries of the conscience are more awful things than any merely gratuitous terror (besides leaving optical phenomena quite as real as the latter may find them), even the supernatural part of the story becomes probable when we consider the agitations which the noble mind of wallace may have undergone during such trying physical circumstances, and such extremes of moral responsibility. it seems clear, that however necessary the death of fawdon may have been to his companions, or to scotland, his slayer regretted it; i have suggested the kind of reason which he would most likely have had for the regret; and, upon the whole, it is my opinion, that wallace actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in the fact. i do not mean to imply that fawdon became present, embodied or disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his spectre. i only say that what the legend reports wallace to have seen, was actually in the hero's eyes. the remainder of the question i leave to the psychologist. part the first. wallace with his sixteen men is on his weary way; they have hasting been all night, and hasting been all day; and now, to lose their only hope, they hear the bloodhound bay. the bloodhound's bay comes down the wind, right upon the road; town and tower are yet to pass, with not a friend's abode. wallace neither turn'd nor spake; closer drew the men; little had they said that day, but most went cursing then. oh! to meet twice sixteen foes coming from english ground, and leave their bodies on the track, to cheat king edward's hound oh! to overtake one wretch that left them in the fight, and leave him cloven to the ribs, to mock the bloody spite. suddenly dark fawdon stopp'd, as they near'd a town; he stumbled with a desperate oath, and cast him fiercely down. he said, "the leech took all my strength, my body is unblest; come dog, come devil, or english rack, here must fawdon rest." fawdon was an irishman, had join'd them in the war; four orphan children waited him down by eden scawr. but wallace hated fawdon's ways, that were both fierce and shy; and at his words he turn'd, and said, "that's a traitor's lie. "no thought is thine of lingering here, a captive for the hound; thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh hath not a single wound: the moment we depart, the lane will see thee from the ground." fawdon would not speak nor stir, speak as any might; scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd as though in angry spite. wallace drew a little back, and waved his men apart; and fawdon half leap'd up, and cried, "thou wilt not have the heart!" wallace with his dreadful sword, without further speech, clean cut off dark fawdon's head, through its stifled screech: through its stifled screech, and through the arm that fenc'd his brow; and fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead, and safe is wallace now. safe is wallace with his men, and silent is the hound; and on their way to castle gask they quit the sullen ground. part the second. wallace lies in castle gask, resting with his men; not a soul has come, three days, within the warder's ken. resting with his men is wallace, yet he fareth ill there are tumults in his blood, and pangs upon his will. it was night, and all were housed, talking long and late; who is this that blows the horn at the castle-gate? who is this that blows a horn which none but wallace hears? loud and louder grows the blast in his frenzied ears. he sends by twos, he sends by threes, he sends them all to learn; he stands upon the stairs, and calls but none of them return. wallace flung him forth down stairs; and there the moonlight fell across the yard upon a sight, that makes him seem in hell fawdon's headless trunk he sees, with an arm in air, brandishing his bloody head by the swinging hair. wallace with a stifled screech turn'd and fled amain, up the stairs, and through the bowers, with a burning brain: from a window wallace leap'd fifteen feet to ground, and never stopp'd till fast within a nunnery's holy bound. and then he turn'd, in gasping doubt, to see the fiend retire, and saw him not at hand, but saw castle gask on fire. all on fire was castle gask; and on its top, endued with the bulk of half a tower, headless fawdon stood. wide he held a burning beam, and blackly fill'd the light; his body seem'd, by some black art, to look at wallace, heart to heart, threatening through the night. wallace that day week arose from a feeble bed; and gentle though he was before, yet now to orphans evermore he gentlier bow'd his head. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] what becomes of all the clever children? during a visit to a friend in the country, i was enjoying a walk in his garden before breakfast on a delightful morning in june, when my attention was suddenly arrested by the pensive attitude of a little boy, the son of my host, whom i observed standing before a rose-bush, which he appeared to contemplate with much dissatisfaction. children have always been to me a most interesting study; and yielding to a wish to discover what could have clouded the usually bright countenance of my little friend, i inquired what had attracted him to this particular rose-bush, which presented but a forlorn appearance when compared with its more blooming companions. he replied: "this rose-bush is my _own_; papa gave it to me in spring, and promised that no one else should touch it. i have taken great pains with it; and as it was covered with beautiful roses last summer, i hoped to have had many fine bouquets from it; but all my care and watching have been useless: i see i shall not have one full-blown rose after all." "and yet," said i, "it appears to be as healthy as any other bush in the garden: tell me what you have done for it, as you say it has cost me so much pains?" "after watching it for some time," he replied, "i discovered a very great number of small buds, but they were almost concealed by the leaves which grew so thickly; i therefore cleared away the greater part of these, and my little buds then looked very well. i now found, as i watched them, that though they grew larger every day, the green outside continued so hard that i thought it impossible for the delicate rose-leaves to force their way out; i therefore picked them open; but the pale, shriveled blossoms which i found within never improved, but died one after another. yesterday morning i discovered one bud which the leaves had till then hidden from me, and which was actually streaked with the beautiful red of the flower confined in it; i carefully opened and loosened it, in the hope that the warm sun would help it to blow: my first thought this morning was of the pleasure i should have in gathering my _one_ precious bud for mamma--but look at it now!" the withered, discolored petals to which the child thus directed my eye did indeed present but a melancholy appearance, and i now understood the cause of the looks of disappointment which had at first attracted my attention. i explained to the zealous little gardener the mischief which he had unintentionally done by removing the leaves and calyx with which nature had covered and inclosed the flower until all its beauties should be ready for full development; and having pointed out to him some buds which had escaped his _care_, i left him full of hope that, by waiting patiently for nature to accomplish her own work, he might yet have a bouquet of his own roses to present to his mother. as i pursued my walk, it occurred to me that this childish incident suggested an answer to the question asked by dr. johnson, "what becomes of all the clever children?" too often, it is to be feared, are the precious human buds sacrificed to the same mistaken zeal that led to the destruction of the roses which had been expected with so much pleasure by their little owner. perhaps a few hints, suggested--not by fanciful theory, but by practical experience in the mental training of children--may help to rescue some little ones from the blighting influences to which they are too often exposed. the laws by which the physical development of every infant, during the earliest period of its existence, is regulated, seem to afford a striking lesson by the analogy they bear to these laws on which the subsequent mental development depends; and by the wise arrangement of an ever-kind providence, this lesson is made immediately to precede the period during which it should be carried into practice. on the babe's first entrance into the world, it must be fed only with food suitable to its delicate organs of digestion; on this depends its healthful growth, and likewise the gradual strengthening of those organs. its senses must at first be acted upon very gently: too strong a light, or too loud a noise, may impair its sight or hearing for life. the little limbs of a young infant must not be allowed to support the body before they have acquired firmness sufficient for that task, otherwise they will become deformed, and the whole system weakened; and last, not least, fresh and pure air must be constantly inhaled by the lungs, in order that they may supply vigor to the whole frame. all enlightened parents are acquainted with these laws of nature, and generally act on them; but when, owing to judicious management, their children emerge from babyhood in full enjoyment of all the animal organs, and with muscles and sinews growing firmer every day in consequence of the exercise which their little owners delight in giving them, is the same judicious management extended to the mind, of which the body, which has been so carefully nourished, is only the outer case? in too many cases it is not. too often the tender mind is loaded with information which it has no power of assimilating, and which, consequently, can not nourish it. the mental faculties, instead of being gradually exercised, are overwhelmed: parents who would check with displeasure the efforts of a nurse who should attempt to make their infant walk at too early a period, are ready eagerly to embrace any system of so-called education which offers to do the same violence to the intellect; forgetting that distortion of mind is at least as much to be dreaded as that of the body, while the motives held out to encourage the little victims are not calculated to produce a moral atmosphere conducive either to good or great mental attainments. children are sometimes met with--though few and far between--whose minds seem ready to drink in knowledge in whatever form or quantity it may be presented to them; and the testimony of dr. combe, as well as of many other judicious writers, proves the real state of the brain in such cases, and also the general fate of the poor little prodigies. such children, however, are not the subject of these observations, of which the object is to plead for those promising buds which are closely encased in their "hard" but protecting covering; to plead for them especially at that period when the "beautiful red streak" appears; in other words, when, amid the thoughtless sports and simple studies of childhood, the intellect begins to develop itself, and to seek nourishment from all that is presented to it. there exists at the period alluded to a readiness in comparison, and a shrewdness of observation, which might be profitably employed in the great work of education. and here it may be observed, that as to "educate" signifies to _bring out_, the term _education_ can only be applied with propriety to a system which performs this work, and never to one which confines itself to laying on a surface-work of superficial information, unsupported by vigorous mental powers. information may be acquired at any age, provided that the intellectual machinery has been kept in activity; whereas, if the latter has been allowed to rust and stiffen from disease, the efforts of the man--supposing him to have energy sufficient to make an effort--to redress the wrongs done to the boy, will in most cases be vain. that self-educated men are generally the best educated is a trite remark; so trite, indeed, that it frequently falls on the ear without rousing attention to the apparent paradox which it contains; and yet there must be some reason well worthy of attention for the fact, that so many who, in early life, have enjoyed advantages, have, on reaching manhood, found themselves surpassed by others who have been forced to struggle up unassisted, and in many cases surrounded by apparent obstacles to their rise. it is obvious that the point in which the latter have the advantage, is the necessity which they find for exercising their _own_ intellectual powers at every step; and, moreover, for taking each step firmly before they attempt the next; which necessity, while it may retard the rapid skimming over various subjects which is sometimes effected, gives new vigor continually to the mind, and also leads to the habit of that "industry and patient thought" to which the immortal newton attributed all he had done; while at the same time a vivid pleasure is taken in the acquirement of knowledge so obtained beyond any that can be conferred by reward or encouragement from others. from these considerations, it appears that the most judicious system of education is that in which the teacher rather directs the working of his pupil's mind than works for him; and it must be recollected that such a system, compared with some others, will be slow, though sure, in producing the desired result. every one familiar with children must have observed with what apparently fresh interest they will listen to the same tale repeated again and again now, if time and repetition are necessary to impress on the young mind facts interesting in themselves, they are surely more necessary when the information to be imparted is in itself dry and uninteresting, as is the ease with much which it is requisite for children to learn. the system here recommended is one which requires _patience_ both on the part of parents and teachers; but patience so exercised would undoubtedly be rewarded by the results, one of which would be, that we should not so frequently see "clever children" wane into very commonplace, if not stupid men. [from fraser's magazine.] lack of poetry in america. after the americans had established their political nationality beyond cavil, and taken a positive rank among the powers of the civilized world, they still remained subject to reproach, that in the worlds of art, science, and literature, they had no national existence. admitting, or, at any rate, feeling, the truth of this taunt, they bestirred themselves resolutely to produce a practical refutation of it. their first and fullest success was, as might be expected from their notoriously utilitarian character, in practical inventions. in oratory, notwithstanding a tendency to more than milesian floridness and hyperbole, they have taken no mean stand among the free nations of christendom. in history, despite the disadvantages arising from the scarcity of large libraries, old records, and other appliances of the historiographer, they have produced some books which are acknowledged to be well worthy a place among our standard works, and which have acquired, not merely an english, but a continental reputation. in the fine arts, notwithstanding obviously still greater impediments--the want at home, not only of great galleries and collections, but of the thousand little symbols and associations that help to educate the artist--the consequent necessity of going abroad to seek all that the student requires--they have still made laudable progress. the paintings of washington allston are the most noteworthy lions in boston; the statues of powers command admiration even in london. in prose fiction, the sweet sketches of irving have acquired a renown second only to that of the agreeable essayists whom he took for his models, while the indian and naval romances of cooper are purchased at liberal prices by the chary bibliopoles of england, and introduced to the parisian public by the same hand which translated walter scott. in poetry alone they are still palpably inferior: no world-renowned minstrel has yet arisen in the new atlantis, and the number of those versifiers who have attained a decided name and place among the lighter english literature of their day, or whose claims to the title of poet are acknowledged _in all sections_ of their own country, is but small. if we come to inquire into the causes of this deficiency, we are apt at first to light upon several reasons why it should _not_ exist. in the first place, there is nothing unpoetical about the country itself, but every thing highly the reverse. all its antecedents and traditions, its discovery, its early inhabitants, its first settlement by civilized men, are eminently romantic. it is not wanting in battle-grounds, or in spots hallowed by recollections and associations of patriots and sages. the magnificence of its scenery is well known. the rivers of america are at the same time the most beautiful and the most majestic in the world: the sky of america, though dissimilar in hue, may vie in loveliness with the sky of italy. no one who has floated down the glorious hudson (even amid all the un-ideal associations of a gigantic american steamer), who has watched the snowy sails--so different from the tarry, smoky canvas of european craft--that speck that clear water; who has noticed the faultless azure and snow of the heaven above, suggesting the highest idea of purity, the frowning cliffs that palisade the shore, and the rich masses of foliage that overhang them, tinged a thousand dyes by the early autumn frost--no one who has observed all this, can doubt the poetic capabilities of the land. a seeming solution, indeed, presents itself in the business, utilitarian character of the people; and this solution would probably be immediately accepted by very many of our readers. brother jonathan thinks and talks of cotton, and flour, and dollars, and the ups and downs of stocks. poetry _doesn't pay_: he can not appreciate, and does not care for it. "let me get something for myself," he says, like the churl in theocritus. "let the gods whom he invokes reward the poet. what do we want with more verse? we have milton and shakspeare (whether we read them or not). he is the poet for me who asks me for nothing;" and so the poor muses wither (or as jonathan himself might say, _wilt_) away, and perish from inanition and lack of sympathy. very plausible; but now for the paradox. so far from disliking, or underrating, or being indifferent to poetry, the american public is the most eager devourer of it, in any quantity, and of any quality; nor is there any country in which a limited capital of inspiration will go farther. let us suppose two persons, both equally unknown, putting forth a volume of poems on each side of the atlantic; decidedly the chances are, that the american candidate for poetic fame will find more readers, and more encouragement in his country, than the british in his. very copious editions of the standard english poets are sold every year, generally in a form adapted to the purses of the million; to further which end they are frequently bound two or three in a volume (coleridge, shelley, and keats, for instance, is a favorite combination). even bardlings like pollok enjoy a large number of readers and editions. nor is there--notwithstanding the much-complained-of absence of an international copyright law--any deficiency of home supply for the market. writing english verses, indeed, is as much a part of an american's education, as writing latin verses is of an englishman's; recited "poems" always holding a prominent place among their public collegiate exercises; about every third man, and every other woman of the liberally-educated classes, writes occasional rhymes, either for the edification of their private circle, or the poets'-corner of some of the innumerable newspapers that encumber the land; and the number of gentlemen and ladies one meets who have published a volume of something and other poems, is perfectly astounding. the true secret seems to be, that the americans, as a people, have not received that education which enables a people to produce poets. for, however true the _poeta nascitur_ adage may be negatively of individuals, it is not true positively of nations. the formation of a national poetic temperament is the work of a long education, and the development of various influences. a peculiar classicality of taste, involving a high critical standard, seems necessary, among the moderns, to high poetic production; and such a taste has not yet been formed in america. true, there are kinds of poetry--the ballad and the epic, which, so far as we can trace them, are born, pallas-like, full-grown; which sound their fullest tone in a nation's infancy, and are but faintly echoed in its maturity. but there are numbers in which lisps the infancy, not of a nation merely, but of a race. and the americans were an old race though a young nation. they began with too much civilization for the heroic school of poetry: they have not yet attained enough cultivation for the philosophic. [from the london christian times.] sir robert peel. all the ordinary incidents of the past week have been thrown into temporary oblivion, by the lamentable occurrence that has deprived the country of one of its most eminent statesmen; the house of commons, of one of its chiefs; the family of the right honorable baronet of its most amiable and distinguished head; and many of the public institutions, those of the fine arts especially, of an enlightened and generous patron. the late member for tamworth was the eldest son of the first sir r. peel, formerly of the house of peel and yates, which, in , employed about , persons at bury, and which paid at that time £ , a year duty on their printed cotton fabrics. in , mr. peel married his partner's daughter, miss yates, who bore the subject of this memoir-- th february, --in a little cottage, near chamber hall. the husband of miss yates was very successful in his cotton speculations, and in , when the english government appealed to the country for pecuniary aid to carry on the french war, subscribed himself £ , . some notion may be formed of the extent of the wealth of the first sir r. peel, from the fact that when, in , his will was proved, the _personal_ property was sworn at £ , , . the much-lamented baronet received the rudiments of his education under parental superintendence, near bury. he was removed to harrow, when he became a form-fellow of the more brilliant, but less amiable, lord byron, who has left several commendatory notices of his youthful friend, and whose eminence he very sagaciously predicted. from harrow, mr. peel became a gentleman commoner of christ church, oxford, where, in , he was the first who took the honors of double first-class. in the following year, having attained his majority, he entered the house of commons for cashel, as the nominee of mr. richard pennefather. mr. peel continued to represent the twelve electors of cashel and their lord till , when he represented the close borough of chippenham, with a constituency of . the prodigious wealth of the first baronet of drayton manor gave his son great advantages in the house of commons, where, in , he was selected to second the address, in reply to the royal speech. shortly after, he became the under-secretary of state in the perceval cabinet, and, upon the fall of his chief, though only twenty-six years of age, he was made principal secretary for ireland--an office, at that time, of the greatest difficulty and importance--and held that post with as much address as his ultra-toryism, and his extreme unpopularity in ireland, admitted, under the viceroyships of the duke of richmond, earl whitworth, and earl talbot. the most permanent and beneficial measure which ireland owes to its former secretary, peel, is its constabulary force, introduced in , which was the wedge to the introduction of the english body of police. the masterly tactics of the still youthful statesman, in part, but his "thorough and throughout" toryism, chiefly recommended him to the electors of oxford university, which he represented twelve years, till ; when, upon an obvious change in his opinions on the question of catholic emancipation, he was rejected. in , mr. peel, then in his thirty-third year, had married julia, the daughter of general sir john floyd, who was only twenty-five, and who survives her illustrious husband. the issue of this marriage is five sons and two daughters. one of his sons has already entered diplomatic employment in switzerland; a second has recently entered, as our readers will remember, the house of commons; a third is in the army, and one in the navy. one of sir robert's daughters was married to viscount villiers in . in , the monetary affairs of the country had become so alarming, that the house of commons appointed a secret committee to inquire into the state of the bank of england, of which committee mr. peel was appointed chairman. he had hitherto been one of the most strenuous opponents of mr. horner's celebrated propositions of , from which period he had strongly defended the currency policy of mr. vansittart. but the evidence produced to the secret committee effected a complete change in mr. peel's opinions, and it was chiefly through his agency that the currency was settled on its present metallic basis. in the conflict, a touching incident of antagonism, between the subject of this memoir and his father, occurred in the house of commons. mr. peel was, in , promoted to the head of the home-office, which he occupied till the overthrow of lord liverpool, in , when he retired, in consequence, as it is alleged, of the elevation of mr. canning, whose opinions were in favor of the abolition of the roman catholic disabilities. upon the accession of the duke of wellington to power, in , mr. peel returned to the home-office, and, in conjunction with his noble friend, repealed the disabilities of the roman catholics; which not only cost him ireland, and brought upon him a hurricane of abuse from his party, but shook the general confidence in either the soundness or the integrity of his opinions. the skirts of the gallic storm of , that crushed the bourbonic throne, destroyed the wellington administration, and made the reform bill no longer deferable, which the whigs entered office to carry. meantime, the deceased had succeeded to an enormous estate and the baronetcy, by the demise of his father, sir r. peel. but he was, in opposition, fiercely assailed with the maledictions of ireland; the censures of the high tory party--whom he was alleged to have betrayed--the clamors of the advocates of a paper currency; and what, perhaps, was the most difficult to bear, his party imputed to him the real authorship of the reform bill and its consequences, by his vacillation in reference to the emancipation of the catholics. but, nothing dismayed by the angry elements surrounding him, and the new political vista of england and the continent, sir r. peel now displayed all the resources of his statesmanship in concentrating the new conservative party. he so far succeeded--chiefly through the want of more courage and honesty in the whigs--that he was again called to office in , during his brief tenancy of which, no one can withhold praise for his command of temper, his liberal tendencies, and his spirit of general conciliation. in , sir r. peel again entered office; and--though he undeniably was enabled to do so by the protectionist party, by the force of circumstances, the stagnation of commerce, the failure of the crops, and the famine in ireland--he opened the ports, and repealed the corn-laws forever, to the consternation of the world, and in opposition to all the opinions of his life; this was in . since that period sir r. peel has been in opposition, indeed, but not its leader so much as a distinguished debater, an accomplished financier, and the expositor of opinions which neither the whigs nor tories heartily espouse. during forty years servitude in the house of commons--though not generally in favor of popular sentiments, and, in religious matters, rather liberal than generous--sir r. peel has undoubtedly rendered, in addition to his three great measures--the bullion-law, catholic emancipation, and the repeal of the corn-law--many minor political benefits to the country. of this class of services, that which reflects on him the most honor, is his amelioration of the criminal law. as to the measures to which we have just alluded, there will still continue to be a large diversity of opinion. thousands of the wealthy classes will regard them all as steps in the declination of the national power; while the more popular mind, that rarely troubles itself with large or profound views, has already registered its approval of them. it is a singular fact, that he spent eleven years in parliamentary opposition to the bullion doctrine that he adopted in ; that he waged strenuous war against the repeal of the roman catholic disabilities for eighteen years, and at last carried them in spite of his own party; and that for thirty years in the house of commons, he maintained that the prosperity of great britain depended on the retention of her corn-laws, which he repealed in . it is, therefore, clear that his final measures, in reference to these three great departments of his political life, were rather concessions to the force of events, than the voluntary policy of his own mind. his wisdom lay in the concession. many of his chief colleagues, in each of these instances, would have blindly rushed upon destruction. his greater sagacity foresaw the gulf and turned away, choosing to win the courage of relinquishing his life's opinions, than that of courting the dangers of resistance. and in these three famous instances of sir r. peel's life, we have the true elaboration of his own character. he was by education and preference a tory; by necessity he became a progressionist. while we have felt it our duty to write the last paragraph, we cheerfully record our admiration of sir robert peel's great talents, of his moral integrity, of his very exemplary private life, and, we believe, of his firm attachment to his country and its institutions. he is another memorable instance of what the children of democracy may become in england, with adequate talents and exertions. sir r. peel owed much to his wealth, to his associates, and to his early opinions. but far beyond the factitious influences derivable from such sources, he had great elements in himself. when his heart and mind received free permission from his policy to display themselves, they were of the highest order. such a man is not easily made: of his loss we are only at present very imperfectly able to appreciate the consequences, one of which, we fear will be a mischievous re-formation of the protectionist party, and, if we read the auspices aright, his death will not improve the ministerial whigs. the motion on wednesday night, in the house of commons, not to proceed with public business that evening, in honor of the memory of sir r. peel, was as becoming to the house itself as it was to its mover, mr. hume. it is a poor recompense to a bereaved family, we are aware; but it is such a tribute as has not always been granted to even greater men, and to some of the blood royal. in due time the public feeling will doubtless imbody itself in more tangible and permanent forms; and when that occurs, it will not be the least of the monumental honors of the deceased, that the gratitude of the widow, the orphan, the neglected genius, and suffering worth, will lead many to shed their tears on the bronze or marble effigies of him whose like england will not easily see again. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] sponges. about three centuries and a half before the christian era, the question, are sponges animal or vegetable? was proposed by aristotle, who, unable himself to solve the difficulty, was contented, in the true spirit of a lover of nature, with carefully recording the results of his accurate observations, and advancing his opinion rather in the form of an inquiry than of an allegation. upward of two thousand years rolled away ere this question was satisfactorily answered. nay, we believe that the vegetable theory has, even at the present time, its advocates; while some are still disposed to consider that the sponge is at one period of its existence a vegetable, and at another an animal. to any one who hesitates to acknowledge that the sponge is endowed with animal life--confessedly in its lowest form, yet with a most exquisite adaptation to its destiny--we would offer the spectacle of a living sponge in a portion of its native element. we would let him gaze on the animated fountain, which is perpetually sucking the water into its substance through its countless pores, and after assimilating such particles of it as are essential to its existence, ceaselessly expelling it, at more distant intervals, through the larger channels which may be observed on its outer surface. we would point out innumerable gemmules of gelatinous matter, which at certain seasons of the year may be seen spouting "from all parts of the living film which invests the horny skeleton;"[ ] until, at length, escaping from the nursery in which they grew, they are carried off to the wide sea by means of the force of the currents issuing from the sponge, though not left to perish at the mercy of the waves. for he will find that the young animal or egg is covered with numberless minute hairs or _cilia_, each one of which is endowed with a distinct and innate power of vibration; so that by means of thousands of almost invisible oars, the young sponge "shoots like a microscopic meteor through the sea," until it arrives at some rock or other place properly adapted for its future growth; then it settles calmly and contentedly down, and gradually losing its locomotive power, begins to spread on its base; and builds up, within its living substance, a horny framework, such as we have already seen in its parent. the above-named currents may be more distinctly seen by powdering the surface of the water with chalk or any similar substance; and professor grant mentions, that by placing pieces of cork or dry paper over the apertures, he could see them moving "by the force of the currents at the distance of ten feet from the table on which the specimen rested." dr. peysonell, who paid great attention to the structure of the sponge, brought proofs of its animal vitality before the royal society in the years -- . and mr. ellis, five years afterward, by his dissections, set the question quite at rest; though he fell into the error of believing that the frame of the sponge was the outer case of worms or polypes. later examination, however, has shown that the _frame_ or _sponge_, commonly so called, is an _internal_ skeleton, while the vital power is simply composed of a slimy film which coats over every fibre, and which, inert as it appears, possesses the power of secreting the particles essential to its growth. it has been affirmed, that the sponge is observed to contract or shrink when torn from the rooks; but there is satisfactory evidence to prove that neither this nor any degree of laceration has a sensible effect on this nerveless though vital mass. all sponges, however, have not a horny framework, but some, which are thereby rendered useless in a commercial point of view, are supported by a skeleton composed of siliceous particles imbedded in a tough, fibrous material. these particles, or _spicula_, as they are termed, are so uniform in the species to which they severally belong, that, in the words of professor grant, if the soft portion be destroyed, and a "few of them brought from any pan of the world on the point of a needle, they would enable the zoologist to identify the species to which they originally belonged." professor r. jones, however, considers that this opinion should be received with considerable limitations. the last fact, trivial as it appears, assumes immense importance when we learn that to these spicula we must turn for an explanation of the isolated masses of flint which abound in various chalk formations. "the mere assertion," says rhymer jones, "that flints were sponges, would no doubt startle the reader who was unacquainted with the history of these fossil relics of a former ocean;" and yet a little reflection "will satisfy the most skeptical." for long ages the sponge is imbedded in the chalk, through which water is continually percolating. a well-known law of chemistry explains why similar matter should become aggregated; and thus the siliceous matter of the sponge forms a nucleus for the siliceous matter contained in the water, until at length the entire mass is converted into a solid flint. but we are not left, he adds, to mere conjecture or hypothesis on this point, "for nothing is more common in chalky districts than to find flints, which, on _being broken, still contain portions of the original sponge in an almost unaltered state_." there is every reason to believe that the sponge-fisheries of the Ã�gean are at present conducted precisely in the same manner as they were in the time of aristotle. the sponge-divers are mostly inhabitants of the islands which lie off the carian coast, and of those situated between rhodes and calymnos. these men--who form a distinct society, and are governed by peculiar laws, which prohibit their marriage until they shall have attained a prescribed proficiency in their art--go out in little fleets, composed of caiques, each of six or seven tons' burden, and manned by six or eight divers: each man is simply equipped with a netted bag in which to place the sponges, and a hoop by which to suspend it round his neck; and thus furnished, he descends to a depth of from five to twenty, or even occasionally thirty fathoms. the sponges which he collects are first saturated with fresh water, which destroys the vitality, and decomposing the gelatinous matter, turns it black; this matter is stamped out by the feet of the divers, and the sponges are then dried in the sun, and strung in circles, after which they are ready for sale and exportation. in a good locality an expert diver may bring up fifty okes in a day, and for each oke he obtains about twenty-five drachmas. the weight is calculated, says forbes, when the sponges are dry, and a very large sponge may weigh two okes. the chief sponge-markets are smyrna. rhodes, and napoli. blount, who wrote in , affirms that these sponge-divers "are from infancy bred up on dry biscuites and other extenuatinge dyet, to make them extreme lean; then takinge a spunge wet in oyle, they hold it, part in their mouths, and part without, soe they go under water, where at first they can not stay long, but after practice, the leanest stay an hour and a halfe, even till the oyle of the spunge be corrupted.... thus they gather spunges from more than an hundred fathom deep," &c. all this is very wonderful, but the narrator stamps the value of his tale by telling us immediately afterward that "samos is the only place in the world on whose rocks the spunges grow." so that, in the words which he elsewhere makes use of, "we applaude hys belief, but keep our owne." we do not, however, mean to assert that there are not sponges of some species (though not the sponge of commerce) which exist at a depth as great as that which he mentions, for forbes dredged a living specimen of one small kind from fathoms in the gulf of macri. the sponge of commerce (_spongia officinalis_) was divided by aristotle into three kinds--namely, the loose and porous, the thick and close, and the fine and compact. these last, which are rare, were called the sponges of achilles, and were placed by the ancients in the interior of their helmets and boots, as protections from pressure and abrasion. the same naturalist states that those sponges are best which are found on coasts where the water becomes suddenly deep, and attributes this superiority to the greater equality of temperature obtained in such waters--observations which have been corroborated by professor e. forbes. fifty-six species of sponges have been enumerated, ten or eleven of which are found in the british isles. a portion of these inhabit fresh water, among which we may mention the river sponge (_s. fluviatilis_), which abounds in the thames. among the british sponges, too, is the stinging or crumb-of-bread sponge (_s. urens_), a widely-diffused species, which, when taken out of the sea is of a bright orange color, and which will, if rubbed on the hand raise blisters. this stinging quality is highly increased by drying the sponge; a process which also gives it the color and appearance of crumbs of bread, whence its popular name. sponges, as may be imagined from the mode of their growth, are most sportive in their forms: some a tubular, others mushroom-like, a few almost globular, and still others branched or hand-shaped; in the warmer seas they hang in fantastic and gorgeous fans from the roofs of submarine caverns, or decorate the sides with vases of classic elegance, though of nature's handiwork. nor are their colors less various: some are of the most brilliant scarlet or the brightest yellow, others green, brown, blackish, or shining white; while peron mentions one procured by him in the south sea which was of a beautiful purple, and from which a liquor of the same color was extracted by the slightest pressure; with this liquor he stained several different substances, and found that the color was not affected by the action of the air, and that it would bear several washings. the value of the sponge in surgery is well known; and it is also used, medicinally, being for this purpose lightly burned to powder, and given in small doses in scrofulous complaints. it has also been regarded as a specific in leprosy and hydrophobia. it is, however, needless to say that in these last it can have no influence whatever. there are several representations of sponges given in the balneal feasts depicted on various etruscan vases; and the sponge has been found in a perfect state in a roman barrow at bartlow hills. it was discovered near the sacrificing utensils. livy says that the covering of the breast of the samnite gladiators was sponge. when the animal matter remains in the sponges of various kinds, they have always a very strong fishy smell, which may perhaps be regarded as an additional proof of the fealty which they give to the animal kingdom. yet we must not omit that there are substances which, though they bear the name of sponges, would rather appear, from their microscopic structure, to belong to the vegetable world; we allude to those known as _gelatinous sponges_, which are perfectly different from the sponges properly so called. footnotes: [ ] professor rymer jones. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the railway works at crewe. "what place is this?" said the worthy old gentleman, my traveling companion on the london and north western railway, as he woke up from a comfortable nap when the train slackened speed, and entered a spacious and expensively-decorated station. "this is crewe, sir, i believe." and scarcely had i answered, when there was a general shout of "crewe, crewe!" from an army of porters who came rushing out, and pounced upon the train as if it were their lawful prey. presently a head peered in at the door, inquiring, "all here for the liverpool line?" and on my elderly friend saying that he was for manchester, he was politely but smartly informed that he must change carriages here. so i we both got out; and my friend, after some bother about his luggage, and the use of some hasty language, was at last made "all right" by being put into a carriage bearing an announcement that that was the "manchester train." on another carriage in front was a similar board announcing the "liverpool train," and behind was a third to announce that for chester. passengers were running up and down the platform: some looking after luggage, some for the right carriage, and others darting into the handsome refreshment-room. but nobody seemed to think of going away from the station; indeed the only mode of exit and entrance was through a close-shut iron gate, beside which sat a policeman looking with enviable coolness on all the bustle around him. there was a ring of a bell; a banging of doors; a puff of the engine; and off went the train to liverpool. another locomotive now appeared moving cautiously down the line, and was speedily attached to the manchester train, which was soon out of sight. a third came; caught hold of the chester train, and away _it_ rushed. the passengers who had journeyed so amicably together from london were now thoroughly dispersed, and ere the sun set, some would be crossing the scotch border at carlisle, some embarking at holyhead for dublin, and others attending to their business on the mersey or the dee, or amid the tall chimneys of manchester. a luggage train came crawling out from its hiding-place, and finding the coast clear, went thundering past: the porters wiped their foreheads, and went to have a little rest; and i, the solitary passenger for crewe, was left cooling my heels on the platform. "where is crewe?" i said to the guardian of the iron gate. "cross the bridge, go straight on, and turn to the right," was the concise reply. so i crossed the bridge, and found myself in a pleasant country road. the flat rich fields of cheshire extended on the left and to the right; at the distance of about half a mile appeared the square massive tower of a church, surrounded by long ranges of low buildings like work-shops, and rows of houses evidently quite new. some neat cottages lined the sides of the road, and there were two or three inns all bearing marks of youth; while some zealous people had caused a few bills, bearing the words "prepare to meet thy god," printed in conspicuous type, to be affixed to the walls, giving a stranger not & very high idea of the character of the people in the habit of using that road. turning to the right, i passed a methodist chapel, bearing the date of its erection, ; a new flour-mill driven by water; a new inn with a brave new sign-board; and, crossing the boundary made by the chester line, i arrived in crewe. not many years ago, there were only two or three houses here, and the land on which the station and the town are built formed part of a good cheshire farm. the worthy farmer plowed his fields and reaped his harvest, his dame made good cheshire cheese; and both lived merrily on, quite unconscious of the change that their farm was about to undergo. the eyes of engineers were on it: it was placed, as an irishman would say, "very convanient" for railway purposes and after a few years had rolled away, it became the great workshop of the grand junction line, and the point where the main line to birmingham received its tributaries from the north and west. several thousands of people were brought here; the company laid out streets and built houses; shops were opened; churches and schools erected; a market-place provided; a mechanics' institution established; many hotels built, one of which was destined to lodge royalty for a night; and a town was erected with a rapidity unexampled even in america. the general appearance of crewe is very pleasing. the streets are wide, and well paved; the houses are very neat and commodious, usually of two stories, built of bricks, but the brick concealed by rough-cast plaster, with porches, lattice-windows, and a little piece of garden-ground before the door. the greater part of these houses belong to the company, and are let to the men at rents from s. d. per week upward. the accommodation is good, and it would be difficult to find such houses at such low rents even in the suburbs of a large town. water is plentifully supplied by public pumps, and the town is well lighted with gas. the names of the streets are expressive: some are called after the towns to which their direction points--such as liverpool, chester, sandbach, &c.; others from the works to which they lead--such as forge-street; and others from well-known but very modern names--such as prince albert-street. the placards on the walls, however, seem somewhat out of place in a railway town, as nearly all have relation to sales of cattle, timber, &c, indicating clearly enough that crewe is but a mechanical settlement in an agricultural district. the market-place is spacious, and roofed over; the church is a handsome edifice of stone; and the mechanics' institution a fine building with a large lecture-room (used also as a town-hall), a good library and news-room, and commodious class-rooms. these were all built by the company; and indeed the completeness of every thing connected with the town gives evidence of such an amplitude of means possessed by its founders, as seldom, if ever, fall to the lot of private individuals. the most interesting objects, however, about crewe are the railway works. these are placed on a large tongue of land near the station, and so adapted, that wagons, and carriages, and engines can easily be run into them from the main line. in these works every thing connected with "the rolling stock" of the company for the northern section of the line (walnerton being used for the southern) is made and repaired. the number of hands employed at present is about eight hundred; but formerly, when railways were more prosperous than now, it exceeded a thousand. the workmen seem to belong, in tolerably equal proportions, to the four great divisions of the united kingdom; and the slow, deliberate speech of the scot, the rich brogue of the irishman, and the sharp, quick utterance of the welshman, have lost very little of their purity and richness amid the air of the county palatine of chester. the greater portion of the work is carried on in long, largo sheds, for the most part of one story, and called the "fitting," "erecting," and other shops, according to the nature of the work done in them. the artisans may be divided into two great classes--the workers in metal, and those in wood; the former being employed in making locomotives' wheels, axles, springs, &c, and the latter in constructing the carriages. by far the greatest number of hands are employed in the former. that our hasty inspection may begin at the beginning, let us peep at the foundry. both brass and iron are east here, but to-day it is iron. the sandy floor is covered with moulds of all descriptions, and swarthy workmen are preparing them to receive the melted iron. occasionally you are startled by the shout of "mind your eye!" which must be taken in its literal signification, for it comes from a moulder blowing away with a bellows the superfluous grains of fine sand, which, if once in the eye, will give some trouble. the moulds are ready, the furnace is opened, and a stream of bright white metal rolls out into the pots prepared for its reception, and is speedily poured into the moulds. in an adjoining shed are blacksmiths plying forehammers; but their greatest efforts are entirely eclipsed by the mighty steam-hammer that is seen at work in another part of the shed. this hammer is the invention of mr. nasmyth, of the bridgewater foundry, near manchester. it moves up and down in a strong frame, at a speed subject to such nice regulations, that, according to the will of its director, it can gently drive a nail, or crush to splinters a log of wood. when lord john russell lately visited manchester, the delicate touch of this hammer was strikingly displayed before him: an egg was procured, and placed in a wine-glass, and such was the power possessed over this giant, that after a little adjustment, the mighty hammer was brought repeatedly down so as just to chip the egg as gently as by a spoon in the hands of a child, while the glass was not in the slightest degree injured or disturbed. the labor saved by this hammer is immense. one man sits perched up on the frame to direct it, and another stands below to guide the iron on the anvil. the great long bar, white with heat, is pulled out of the furnace, laid on the massive piece of iron under the frame, and, with a dull, heavy sound, down conies the hammer, swiftly or slowly, according to the wishes of the director. from the forge and the foundry the "rough-hewn" iron-work passes to be planed, and its surface to be made "true." the wheel of an engine or a carriage, for example, after being forged by the black-smith, requires to be most carefully cut round the rim, so that the space between the flange--that is, the projecting inner part of the wheel, and the outer part--may be perfectly conical, in order that the least amount of surface may be exposed to the rail, and consequently the least amount of friction produced. again, when a cylinder comes from the foundry, the interior must be cut and polished to a perfect circle, otherwise it would be useless. in short, there is no part of a locomotive that does not require to be prepared with the most perfect accuracy to fit some other part; and if this accuracy is not gained, the engine will either not work at all, or work very imperfectly. it must be remembered that it is hard metal, like iron and brass, that has thus to be wrought on, not comparatively soft material, like wood and stone. but the machinery employed at crewe seems capable of cutting any thing, even though it were a rock of adamant. you pass into a shed full of little machines, standing separate from each other, with all manner of curious wheels and belts, driven by steam, of course, and each with a man stationed by its side, gazing attentively at the little machine, as if he were absorbed in thought; and, indeed, were it not for an occasional quick movement of his hands, and a rapid change of position, you might almost suppose that he was sleeping on his legs. but go close up, and you notice that the machine is slowly moving backward and forward, and still more slowly at the same time in a lateral direction. some curious piece of mechanism is placed on it, and the movements of the machine cause a sharp steel-cutter to pass over the iron surface, which cuts it as easily and truly as a joiner planes a piece of fir. the side motion brings all the surface gradually under the instrument, but the machine, clever and powerful though it is, requires to be constantly watched and regulated, and hence the fixed attention of the man in charge. at a large machine, you will see those long, curious rods called "eccentrics" undergoing this operation; at another, a cylinder is being planed; and at a third, the rims of wheels are being cut. the filings thus made are preserved, and will be seen in large heaps in a yard, ready to be melted down, and "used up" again. in some cases both iron and brass filings are produced, which, of course, are mixed with each other; but in a quiet corner of one of the sheds you will find a boy with a heap of these filings before him, separating the brass from the iron by means of a magnet. only imagine a boy of fourteen or fifteen doing nothing all day long except raking a magnet through a heap of black and yellow dust, and brushing into a separate heap the iron filings off his magnet! you will also see a series of three iron rollers working on each other, by means of which plate iron can be twisted into any given form; a mighty "punch" which will make a hole an inch in diameter through iron an inch in thickness as easily as though it were clay; and a sharp-cutting instrument that shears through sheets of iron as easily as a pair of scissors through a sheet of paper. go into another shed, and you will see all these various parts getting their last touches from the hand, and being fitted into each other; and here, also you find two or three men engraving, on circular segments of brass, the names the various engines are to be known by. in another shed the engines are being "erected." here you see from twenty to thirty in all stages of progress. perhaps the framework only has been laid; or the boiler, with its many rows of long, circular brass tubes, has just been fastened, and is now receiving its outer clothing of long slips of wood; or the whole is complete, merely wanting to be tried on the many lines of rail in and around the sheds. there are two classes of engines here, whose difference is observable at a glance: some have six wheels, two of which are very large, about six feet in diameter, and the other four much smaller. the two first only are driven by the machinery, the others being merely what are called "bearing wheels." with this description of engine more speed than power is obtained, and hence it is used for passenger trains, where a high velocity is required, and where there is usually little weight, comparatively speaking, to draw. the others have only four wheels, not so large as the two just described, but all driven by the machinery. such engines i are more remarkable for power than speed, and accordingly they are used for luggage trains. in another shed, "the hospital," will be found a number of engines laboring under various disorders, sent here to be repaired. but carriages and wagons are also built here. you enter a shed (of two stories this time), and find wood shavings instead of iron filings, and the hissing of a circular saw instead of the quiet, steady scraping of a "cutter." here all the woodwork of the carriages is executed, and when ready they are hoisted through a large trap-door in the roof to the second story, where they are painted and varnished, and, if first-class, "up-holstered." in a store-room above stairs, are piled heaps of cushions ready for the most expensive carriages; at a table is a boy stuffing with horse-hair the leathern belts that hang by the sides of the windows; and elsewhere an artist is painting the arms of the company on the panels of a door. here and there are boards placed before a carriage, with the intimation "wet!" indicating that you must not go too near; and some of the carriages give evidence of having seen service, but are now renewing their youth under the skillful hands of the painter and the upholsterer. when ready to "go on the line," they are let down through the trap-door, fixed on their wheels and axles, and sent to relieve others that require repair. six o'clock strikes, and work ceases. in walking back leisurely to the station, i saw many of the workmen digging in their little gardens, "bringing themselves," as emerson phrases it, "into primitive relations with the soil and nature;" others were reading the papers of the day at the mechanics' institution; others strolling among the green fields round the town; and others walking to a class-room, to hear a teetotal lecture; while some were proceeding to recreations of a very different kind. i was admitted through the iron gate by the same policeman; the "down" express train arrived, and it conveyed me in an hour and a half to liverpool, a distance of about forty-five miles, stopping only once at the well-known town of warrington. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] steam-bridge of the atlantic in the summer of the atlantic ocean was crossed for the first time by vessels exclusively propelled by steam-power. these pioneers were the _sirius_ and the _great western_--the former built for another class of voyages, and afterward lost on the station between cork and london; the latter built expressly for atlantic navigation, and which has ever since been more or less employed in traversing that ocean. other ships followed: the _british queen_, afterward sold to the belgian government; the _great liverpool_, subsequently altered and placed on the line between southampton and alexandria; and the _president_, lost, no man knows how or where, in the year . then came what is called "cunard's line," consisting of a number of majestic steam-ships built in the clyde, to carry passengers and mails between liverpool in europe, and halifax, boston, and new york in america; a service they have performed with the most marvelous regularity. the only great misfortune that has befallen this line has been the loss of one of the vessels, the _columbia_, which, in nautical phrase, "broke her back" on some rocks on the american shore of the atlantic. then came the _great britain_, the greatest of them all, differing from the others in two respects--first, in being built of iron instead of wood; and second, in being propelled by the archimedean screw instead of by the old paddle-wheels; and, alas! she has differed from them all in a third respect, inasmuch as neither the same good-luck attended her as in general fell to the lot of the ships of the cunard line, nor the same irretrievable bad fortune as was met by the _president_ and the _columbia_; for, after having made several voyages very successfully, she, to the amazement of all mankind, very quietly went ashore in dundrum bay, on the east coast of ireland, from whence, after spending a most uncomfortable winter, she was brought back to liverpool, and now lies in the bramley-moore dock there, like a huge mass of iron suffering under premature rust. but all this time these ocean steamers that periodically brought to new york passengers and intelligence from europe were british built. they had been constructed in the avon, the mersey, and the clyde, the greater number having been launched in the same waters as first received henry bell's little _comet_. why did america not embark in such enterprise? as regards steam navigation, fulton was before bell; new york before glasgow; the _fulton's folly_ before the _cornet_; and was "the greatest nation in all creation" to be outdone in the field of enterprise by the old britishers? american pride said "no;" american instinct said "no;" and, above all, american capitalists said "no!" keels were laid down in new york; the shipbuilders' yards became unusually active; and the stately timbers of majestic ships gradually rose before the admiring gaze of the citizens of the great republic. but the race of william the doubter is not yet extinct, and many, as usual, shook their wise heads at the enterprise. it was admitted that in inland navigation the americans had beaten the world; that except an occasional blow-up, their river steamers were really models of enterprise and skill; but it was gravely added, the mississippi is not the atlantic; icebergs are not snags; and an atlantic wave is somewhat different from an ohio ripple. these truisms were of course undeniable; but to them was quickly added another fact, about which there could be as little mistake--namely, the arrival at southampton, after a voyage which, considering it was the first, was quite successful, of the american-built steam-ship _washington_ from new york. there seemed to be a touch of calm irony in thus making the _washington_ the first of their atlantic-crossing steamers, as if the americans had said, "you doubting britishers! when you wished to play tyrant over us, did we not raise one washington who chastised you? and now that you want to monopolize atlantic navigation, we have raised another washington, just to let you know that we will beat you again!" the _washington_, however, was only the precursor of greater vessels. these were to sail between new york and liverpool, carrying the mails under a contract with the american government. in size, and speed, and splendor of fittings, these new ships were to surpass the old; even their names were, if possible, to be more grand and expressive. the vessels of cunard's line had lately appropriated the names of the four great continents of the globe, but the oceans remained, and their names were adopted; the new steamers being called the _atlantic_, _pacific_, _arctic_, _baltic_, and _adriatic_. the first of these was dispatched from new york on the th of april last, and arrived in the mersey on the th of may, thus making the passage in about thirteen days. the voyage would have been made in a shorter time but for two accidents: the bursting of the condenser, and the discovery, after the vessel was some distance at sea, of the weakness of the floats or boards on the paddle-wheels. about two days were entirely lost in making repairs; and the speed was reduced, in order to prevent the floats from being entirely torn away from the paddle-wheels. these things considered, the passage was very successful. the average time occupied during by the vessels of the old line between new york and liverpool was ; days; but their voyages were longer than those of the _atlantic_, as they called at halifax. the shortest passage was that made by the _canada_ from new york to liverpool _via_ halifax in eleven days four hours.[ ] the _atlantic_ remained for nineteen days at liverpool; and during all that time she had to lie in a part of the river called the sloyne, in consequence of none of the dock-entrances being wide enough to allow her to pass in. her breadth, measuring across the paddle-boxes, is feet; of the vessels of cunard's line, about feet; and the widest dock-entrance is barely sufficient to admit the latter. the _great britain_, though longer than any other steam-ship that ever entered the mersey, is not so broad, as, being propelled by the screw, she has no paddle-wheels. a dock at the north shore is now in course of construction expressly for the accommodation of the _atlantic_ and her consorts. for several days during her stay at liverpool the _atlantic_ was open to visitors on payment of sixpence each, the money thus realized (upward of £ ) being paid over to the trustees of the institution for the blind, whose church and school are now being removed to give greater space round the station of the london and northwestern railway. on the day of my visit crowds of people were waiting at the pier for the steamer that was to convey them to the _atlantic_. whitsuntide visitors from the manufacturing districts were hastening on board the numerous vessels waiting to take them on pleasure excursions to the isle of man, north wales, or round the light-ship at the mouth of the river. there was great risk of making mistakes in the hurry; and the remark of an old sailor, that the vessel could "easily be known by the yankee flag flying at the fore," served only still further to confuse the many, who could not tell one flag from another. however, a small tug-steamer soon appeared with a dirty piece of bunting, just recognizable as the famous "star-spangled banner," flying at the fore; and her deck was in a few minutes so crowded, that orders were issued to take no more on board, and away we steamed, leaving about a hundred people to exercise their patience until the steamer's return. a man at my elbow, who afterward appeared in the capacity of money-taker, whispered, "there's the _captin_" and on looking up the gangway, i saw "a man of middle age, in aspect manly, grave, and sage," looking calmly in the direction of the colossal ship of which he was the commander; his complexion browned by exposure to sun and wind, storm and spray; and his whole demeanor indicating the calm strength acquired by long familiarity with the elements in their roughest moods. as we approached the ship, her appearance was not prepossessing. she is undoubtedly clumsy; the three masts are low, the funnel is short and dumpy, there is no bowsprit, and her sides are painted black, relieved only by one long streak of dark red. her length between the perpendiculars--that is, the length of her keel--is feet; breadth (exclusive of paddle-boxes), ; thus keeping up the proportion, as old as noah's ark, of six feet of length to one of breadth. the stern is rounded, having in the centre the american eagle, clasping the starred and striped shield, but no other device. the figure-head is of colossal dimensions, intended, say some, for neptune; others say that it is the "old triton blowing his wreathed horn," so lovingly described by wordsworth; and some wags assert that it is the proprietor of the ship blowing his own trumpet. the huge bulk of the _atlantic_ was more perceptible by contrast with the steamer--none of the smallest--that was now alongside; for though the latter was large enough to accommodate about four hundred people on deck, yet its funnel scarcely reached as high as the bulwarks of the _atlantic_. the diameter of the paddle-wheels is feet; and the floats, many of which, split and broken, were lying about in the water, are nearly feet long. the depth of the hold is feet, and the estimated burden tons, being about the same as the _great britain_, and about tons more than the ships of the old cunard line. like all the other atlantic steamers, the run of the deck is almost a straight line. around the funnel, and between the paddle-boxes, is a long wooden house, and another is placed at the stern. these contain the state-rooms of the captain and officers; and in a cluster are to be found the kitchen, the pastry-room, and the barber's shop. the two former are, like similar establishments, replete with every convenience, having even a french _maître de cuisine_; but the latter is quite unique. it is fitted up with all necessary apparatus--with glass-cases containing perfumery, &c.; and in the centre is "the barber's chair." this is a comfortable, well-stuffed seat, with an inclined back. in front is a stuffed trestle, on which to rest feet and legs; and behind is a little stuffed apparatus like a crutch, on which to rest the head. these are movable, so as to suit people of all sizes; and in this comfortable horizontal position the passenger lies, and his beard is taken off in a twinkling, let the atlantic waves roll as they may. the house at the stern contains a smoking-room, and a small apartment completely sheltered from the weather for the steersman. the smoking-room communicates with the cabin below, so that, after dinner, those passengers so disposed may, without the least exposure to the weather, or annoyance to their neighbors, enjoy the weed of old virginia in perfection. this smoking-room is the principal prospect of the man at the helm, who, however, has to steer according to his signals. before him is a painted intimation that one bell means "port," and two bells mean "starboard;" a like intimation appears on the large bell in the bow of the ship; and according to the striking of the bell, so must he steer. proceeding below, we come to the great saloon, feet long, and the dining-saloon, feet long, each being feet broad, and divided from each other by the steward's pantry. this pantry is more like a silversmith's shop, the sides being lined with glass-cases stored with beautifully-burnished plate; crockery of every description, well secured, is seen in great quantities, and the neatness of arrangement shows that the gilded inscription, full in the sight of every visitor--"a place for every thing, and every thing in its place"--has been reduced to practice. above the tables in the dining-saloon are suspended racks, cut to receive decanters, passes, &c. so that they can be immediately placed on the table without the risk attendant on carrying them from place to place. the two saloons are fitted up in a very superior manner: rose, satin, and olive are the principal woods that have been used, and some of the tables are of beautifully-variegated marble, with metal supporters. the carpets are very rich, and the coverings of the sofas, chairs, &c. are of the same superior quality. the panels round the saloons contain beautifully-finished emblems of each of the states in the union, and a few other devices that savor very strongly of republicanism. for example, a young and beautiful figure, all radiant with health and energy, wearing a cap of liberty, and waving a drawn sword, is represented trampling on a feudal prince, from whose head a crown has rolled in the dust. the cabin windows are of beautifully-painted glass, embellished with the arms of new york, and other cities in the states. large circular glass ventilators, reaching from the deck to the lower saloon, are also richly ornamented, while handsome mirrors multiply all this splendor. the general effect is that of chasteness and a certain kind of solidity. there is not much gilding, the colors used are not gaudy, and there is a degree of elegant comfort about the saloons that is sometimes wanting amid splendid fittings. there is a ladies' drawing-room near the chief saloon full of every luxury. the berths are about in number, leading out, as usual, from the saloons. the most novel feature about them is the "wedding-berths," wider and more handsomely furnished than the others, intended for such newly-married couples as wish to spend the first fortnight of the honeymoon on the atlantic. such berths are, it seems, always to be found on board the principal river-steamers in america, but are as yet unknown on this side of the water. each berth has a bell-rope communicating with a patented machine called the "annunciator." this is a circular plate about the size of the face of an eight-day clock, covered with numbers corresponding with those of the state-rooms. each number is concealed by a semi-circular plate, which is removed or turned round as soon as the rope is pulled in the state-room with the corresponding number. a bell is at the same time struck to call the attention of the stewards, who then replace the plate in its former position, and attend to the summons. the machinery which propels the ship consists of two engines, each of horse-power, the engines of the old line being also two in number, but only about horse-power each such cylinders, and shafts, and pistons, and beams are, i believe unrivaled in the world. there are four boilers, each heated by eight furnaces, in two rows of four each. the consumption of coal is about fifty tons every twenty-four hours; "and that," said one of the engineers, "is walking pretty fast into a coal-mine, i guess!" according to the calculations of the very wise men who predicted the failure of atlantic steam navigation, such a vessel as the _atlantic_ ought to carry tons of coal; but it will be seen that one-fourth of that quantity is more than enough, even making allowance for extra stores to provide against accidents. in the engine-room is a long box with five compartments, each communicating with a wire fastened like a bell-pull to the side of the paddle-box. these handles are marked respectively, "ahead," "slow," "fast," "back," and "hook-on;" and whenever one is pulled, a printed card with the corresponding signal appears in the box opposite the engineer, who has to act accordingly. there is thus no noise of human voices on board this ship: the helmsman steers by his bells, the engineer works by the telegraph, and the steward waits by the annunciator. two traces of national habits struck me very much. even in the finest saloon there are, in places where they would be least expected, handsome "spittoons," the upper part fashioned like a shell, and painted a sea-green or sky-blue color, thus giving ample facility for indulging in that practice of spitting of which americans are so fond. again, much amusement was caused by the attempt of one of the officers in charge of the communication between the small steamer and the _atlantic_ to prevent the gentlemen from leaving the latter until the ladies had seated themselves on the former. the appearance of the deck, crowded with ladies only, and a host of gentlemen kept back, some impatient to get down, but the greater part entering into the humor of the thing, was quite new to english ideas. it is but fair to add that the ladies did not seem to like it; and that, when the steamer again came alongside, it was not repeated. upon the whole, this atlantic steamer is really worthy of the great country from which she has come. if, in shape and general appearance, she is inferior to the old vessels, she is decidedly equal, if not superior, to them in machinery and fittings. her powers as regards speed have of course yet to be tried. one voyage is no test, nor even a series of voyages during the summer months: she must cross and recross at least for a year before any just comparison can be instituted. the regular postal communication between liverpool and the united states will speedily be twice every week--the ships of the new line sailing on wednesday, and the old on saturday. but other ports besides liverpool are now dispatching steamers regularly to america. glasgow sent out a powerful screw steamer--the _city of glasgow_, tons--on th april, for new york, where she arrived on d may; thus making the passage in about seventeen days, in spite of stormy weather and entanglements among ice; the average time taken by the liverpool steamers during being fourteen days. her return voyage, however, made under more favorable circumstances, was within this average, the distance being steamed between the th may and the st june. a vessel called the _viceroy_ is about to sail from galway to new york, and her voyage is looked forward to with considerable interest. the _washington_ and _hermann_ sail regularly between bremen and southampton and new york, and the _british queen_ has been put on the passage between hamburg and new york. all these enterprises seem to indicate that ere long the atlantic carrying trade will be conducted in steam-ships, and sailing vessels superseded to as great extent as has been the case in the coasting trade. footnotes: [ ] the _atlantic_ has just made the passage direct in ten days and sixteen hours. [from sharpe's magazine] the little hero of haarlem. at an early period in the history of holland, a boy was born in haarlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but happily still more so for its manufactures and inventions in peace. his father was a _sluicer_--that is, one whose employment it was to open and shut the sluices, or large oak-gates which, placed at certain regular distances, close the entrance of the canals, and secure holland from the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water, rather than above it. when water is wanted, the sluicer raises the sluices more or less, as required, as a cook turns the cock of a fountain, and closes them again carefully at night; otherwise the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole country; so that even the little children in holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties. the boy was about eight years old when, one day, he asked permission to take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the dyke. his father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late. the child promised, and set off on his little journey. the blind man thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes, and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old man's stories, but as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home. as he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in october, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters, the boy now stopped to pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well, now, in childish gayety, hummed some merry song. the road gradually became more solitary, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager, returning to his cottage-home, nor the rough voice of the carter, grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer to be heard the little fellow now perceived that the blue of the flowers in his hand was scarcely distinguishable from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some dismay. the night was falling; not, however, a dark winter-night, but one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights, in which every object is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day. the child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles, attracted his attention. he was near one of the large sluices, and he now carefully examines it, and soon discovers a hole in the wood, through which the water was flowing. with the instant perception which every child in holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the country that must follow. to see, to throw away the flowers, to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment, and, to his delight, he finds that he has succeeded in stopping the flow of the water. this was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of the success of his device. but the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold. the little boy looked around in vain. no one came. he shouted--he called loudly--no one answered. he resolved to stay there all night, but, alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm. the pain became still greater, still harder to bear, but still the boy moved not. tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brothers, his neighbors--nay, the whole village. we know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of courage there might have been during that long and terrible night; but certain it is, that at day-break he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a death-bed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans, and bending over the dyke, discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale face and tearful eyes. "in the name of wonder, boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?" "i am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect simplicity, of the child, who, during that whole night had been evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage. the muse of history, too often blind to (true) glory, has handed down to posterity many a warrior, the destroyer of thousands of his fellow-men--she has left us in ignorance of the name of this real little hero of haarlem. [from cumming's hunting adventures in south africa.] adventure with a snake. as i was examining the spoor of the game by the fountain, i suddenly detected an enormous old rook-snake stealing in beneath a mass of rock beside me. he was truly an enormous snake, and, having never before dealt with this species of game, i did not exactly know how to set about capturing him. being very anxious to preserve his skin entire, and not wishing to have recourse to my rifle, i cut a stout and tough stick about eight feet long, and having lightened myself of my shooting-belt, i commenced the attack. seizing him by the tail, i tried to get him out of his place of refuge; but i hauled in vain; he only drew his large folds firmer together: i could not move him. at length i got a rheim round one of his folds, about the middle of his body, and kleinboy and i commenced hauling away in good earnest. the snake, finding the ground too hot for him, relaxed his coils, and suddenly bringing round his head to the front, he sprang out at us like an arrow, with his immense and hideous mouth opened to its largest dimensions, and before i could get out of his way he was clean out of his hole, and made a second spring, throwing himself forward about eight or ten feet, and snapping his horrid fangs within a foot of my naked legs. i sprang out of his way, and getting hold of the green bough i had cut, returned to the charge. the snake now glided along at top speed: he knew the ground well, and was making for a mass of broken rocks, where he would have been beyond my reach, but before he could gain this place of refuge, i caught him two or three tremendous whacks on the head. he, however, held on, and gained a pool of muddy water, which he was rapidly crossing, when i again belabored him, and at length reduced his pace to a stand. we then hanged him by the neck to a bough of a tree, and in about fifteen minutes he seemed dead; but he again became very troublesome during the operation of skinning, twisting his body in all manner of ways. this serpent measured fourteen feet. monthly record of current events the death of president taylor is the leading event of interest in our domestic record for the month, as it has been the leading topic of public attention throughout the country. he died at half-past ten o'clock on the evening of wednesday, july th, after an illness of but five days, the last of which alone was deemed dangerous. exposure to the sun in attendance upon the public celebration of the fourth, imprudent diet on returning home, and neglect of medical remedies until too late, aggravated rapidly and fatally the disease which he had contracted, which few of our army officers escaped, and from which several have already died, during his mexican campaign. on the afternoon of wednesday his alarming condition was announced in the two houses of congress, both of which at once adjourned: and they only met the next day to make arrangements for his funeral, which took place on saturday, and was attended by a large military display, by the officers of government and the representatives of foreign nations, and by an immense concourse of his fellow-citizens. his death was announced on thursday by the vice president, millard fillmore, upon whom the duties of the presidential office at once devolved, by virtue of the provisions of the constitution, in a message to both houses of congress, and suitable words of eulogy were pronounced, in the senate, by senators downs, of louisiana, webster, of massachusetts, cass, of michigan, king, of alabama, pearce, of maryland, and berrien, of georgia; and in the house by mr. speaker cobb, of georgia, messrs. conrad, of louisiana, winthrop, of massachusetts, baker, of illinois, bayly, of virginia, hilliard, of alabama, john a. king, of new york, mclane, of maryland, and marshall, of kentucky. mr. fillmore, on the same day, took the oath of the presidential office in presence of both houses of congress, and thus quietly, quickly, and peaceably was effected a transfer of all the executive powers of this great nation--a transfer never effected without difficulty, and often causing commotion, turmoil, and bloodshed in the less free and more conservative nations of the old world. in the preceding pages of this magazine will be found a condensed outline of the life of the late president, which obviates the necessity of further reference in this place. his decease was celebrated by public obsequies in all the principal cities of the union, and has awakened a universal and intense sentiment of regretful grief. immediately upon the death of president taylor the members of his cabinet tendered their resignations to president fillmore, but at his request, and for the safety of the public service, they retained their offices for a few days, to give him the desired opportunity for care and inquiry in selecting their successors. that selection was made as soon as practicable, and on the th the president made the following nominations, which were at once confirmed by the senate, which had previously and by a unanimous vote, chosen senator william r. king, of alabama, to preside over its deliberations: _secretary of state_ daniel webster, mass. _secretary of the treasury_ thomas corwin, ohio. _secretary of the interior_ james a. pearce, md. _secretary of war_ edward bates, missouri. _secretary of the navy_ william a. graham, n. c. _attorney general_ john j. crittenden, ky. _postmaster general_ nathan k. hall, n. york. it is understood that mr. pearce declines the secretaryship of the interior, but no official nomination has yet been made to fill his place. no business of public importance has been transacted in congress. in the senate the compromise bill, reported by mr. clay from the committee of thirteen, continues under debate. mr. webster, on the th ult., made a very eloquent speech in its support, declaring himself earnestly in favor of admitting california, of providing a territorial government for new mexico, without the anti-slavery proviso, which he deems superfluous, and of settling the question of boundary between texas and new mexico. he said he should have preferred to act upon these measures separately, but he was willing to vote for them as conjoined in the bill. speeches were also made by several senators against the bill, and some amendments, offered to obviate objections entertained to it in various quarters, were rejected. no decisive action has been had upon it up to the time of putting these pages to press. the chief action in the house, of general interest, relates to what is known as the _galphin claim,_ the history of which is briefly as follows: prior to the year george galphin, the original claimant, was a licensed trader among the creek and cherokee indians in the then province of georgia. the indians became indebted to him in amounts so large that they were unable to pay them; and in , in order to give him security for his claims, they ceded to the king of great britain, as trustee, a tract of land containing two and a half millions of acres. the trust was accepted, commissioners were appointed, some of the lands were sold, and the proceeds applied to the payment of the expenses of the commission, but none was then paid to the claimants for whose benefit the trust had been created. the sum found due to george galphin was £ , for which amount a certificate was issued to him by the governor and council in may, . meantime the war of the revolution broke out, and its successful result destroyed the trust, and the lands were no longer subject to the control of the king. after the war was over the state of georgia granted these lands to those of her soldiers who had been engaged in the war, and who became actual settlers upon them. the descendants of mr. galphin applied to the state of georgia for the payment of their claims, as georgia had merely succeeded to the trusteeship of the king of england. the claim was prosecuted and pressed for many years without success, it being contended that, as the lands had been used to pay for services in the revolution, the government of the united states was properly liable for the private injury that might have been sustained. in the legislature of the state of georgia passed resolutions directing their senators and representatives in congress to urge the payment of these claims upon the general government; and hon. george w. crawford was engaged by the claimants as their agent, and was made interested to the amount of one-third of the claim. congress, at the session of , passed a bill directing the secretary of the treasury to examine and adjust the claims, and to pay out of the public funds whatever might prove to be due. the hon. r. j. walker, then secretary of the treasury, examined the question, adjudged the claim valid, paid the principal sum which he found to be due, amounting to $ , , and left the question of paying interest upon it to the next cabinet. in that cabinet mr. crawford held a seat, having first transferred his agency for the claimants to judge bryan, but retaining his interest in the claim. the matter was pressed upon the attention of the secretary of the treasury, who consulted the attorney general as to the legality of paying interest on a claim of this kind. mr. johnson gave a written opinion in favor of its payment. mr. meredith paid the interest, amounting to $ , , mr. crawford receiving his share. the subject has been before congress for several weeks, and has excited a very earnest and somewhat acrimonious debate. the house, on the th, adopted a resolution affirming that "the claim of the representatives of george galphin was not a just demand against the united states," by a vote of yeas and nays. the same day they adopted another resolution, declaring that "the act of congress made it the duty of the secretary of the treasury to pay the principal of said claim, and it was therefore paid in conformity with law and precedent," by a vote of yeas and nays. a third resolution, declaring that "the act aforesaid did not authorize the secretary of the treasury to pay interest on said claim, and its payment was not in conformity with law or precedent," was also passed, yeas and nays. soon after the adoption of these resolutions, mr. crawford addressed a letter to the house asking that a suit might be commenced against him for the recovery of the interest which he had received, and payment of which the house had condemned, in order to bring the question to the test of the judicial tribunals. no further action has yet been had upon the subject.--the house has also taken action on the application of mr. hugh n. smith, a delegate from new mexico, chosen by a convention of her people, to be admitted upon the floor of congress, not of course to take any other part in the business of that body than to be heard upon questions affecting the rights and interests of his constituents. in the early part of the session the application was referred to the proper committee, the majority of which reported against his admission. on the th the whole subject was laid on the table--equivalent to mr. smith's rejection--by a vote of yeas, nays, and absent. this disposes of the question for the present session, although substantially the same issue will indubitably come up in some new form.--the next day a similar resolution was adopted rejecting the application of mr. babbitt to be admitted as a delegate from the territory of utah, or deseret. the authorities of cuba have decided to release the american prisoners taken from the island of contoy, beyond spanish jurisdiction. this will probably terminate all difficulties between the two governments growing out of this affair.--considerable currency has been given to a story stated by correspondents of the london press, that the spanish gen. narvaez had grossly insulted the u.s. minister at madrid, refusing in public to hold any intercourse with the representative of a nation which tolerated and countenanced pirates and assassins. the story is entirely discredited by direct advices.--the state convention of ohio called to revise the constitution has adjourned until the first monday in september.--a very destructive fire occurred at philadelphia on the night of the th ult. although not in the chief business part of the city, property to the amount of more than a million of dollars was destroyed, and over _thirty_ lives were lost by the explosion of various materials in the buildings burned the occurrence has elicited from prof. rogers, of the university of pennsylvania, a letter stating that, in his opinion, saltpetre by itself is not explosive, but that the great quantity of oxygen which it contains greatly increases the combustion of ignited matter with which it may be brought in contact, and that this may evolve gases so rapidly as to cause an explosion.--the cholera is prevailing with a good deal of fatality in some of the western cities. in cincinnati the number of deaths has averaged to , and has been as high as : in st. louis it has been still higher, and in nashville, tenn., it has been quite as large in proportion to the population. at the latest advices it seemed to be diminishing. it has not made its appearance in any of the eastern cities.--the case of prof. webster, convicted at boston of the murder of dr. parkman, has been definitively decided. soon after the trial he sent in a petition for a full pardon, on the ground of his entire innocence and ignorance of the whole matter, solemnly asserting, and calling god to witness, that he knew nothing whatever of the manner in which dr. parkman's remains came to be found in his room. a few days afterward he sent in another petition, praying for a commutation of his sentence. it was presented by the rev. dr. putnam, who had acted as his spiritual adviser, and who laid before the council a detailed confession, which he had received from prof. webster, in which he confessed that he killed dr. parkman with a single blow from a stick, but claimed that it was done without premeditation, in a moment of great excitement caused by abusive language. he gave at length a statement of the whole transaction. after considering the subject fully and carefully, acting under the advice of the council, governor briggs decided against the application, and appointed friday, the th day of august, for the execution of the sentence of the court. upon that day, therefore, prof. webster will undoubtedly be hung.--a good deal of public interest has been enlisted in the performances of the new american line of transatlantic steamers, running between new york and liverpool. there are to be five steamers in the line, but only two of them have as yet been finished. these two are the _atlantic_ and the _pacific_, the former of which has made two trips, and the latter one, each way. on the morning of sunday, july st, the _atlantic_ arrived at new york at o'clock, having left liverpool on the th, at o'clock a.m.--making the passage in ten days and sixteen hours, the shortest by several hours ever made between the two ports. her passage out was also very short. these trips have confirmed the opinion which has very generally been entertained, that the americans would speedily have a line of steamers on the ocean superior in speed, comfort, and elegance to those of the cunard company which have hitherto enjoyed so high a reputation.--mr. e. george squier, u. s. charge near the government of nicaragua, has returned to this country on a brief visit. we learn that he has made a very full record of his observations upon the country in which he has been residing, and that very volumnious papers from him on the subject are in possession of the state department. it is to be hoped that they may be given to the public.--the initial steps have been taken in virginia toward an enterprise of decided importance to the southern states if it should be carried out: it is nothing less than the establishment of direct intercourse by a line of steamers between some southern port and liverpool, for the export of cotton and other articles of southern growth, and for the transmission of southern correspondence, &c. the meeting of delegates was held at old point on the th of july, and committees were appointed to make proper representations on the subject to congress and the state legislature, and to take such other steps as they might deem essential.--a convention was held at syracuse of persons favorable to maintaining the existing free school system of the state of new york. the necessity for such action grows out of the fact that the principle is to be submitted to the popular suffrage in november. the legislature of passed a law making education in the common schools of the state absolutely free to all the children who might choose to attend, making the law dependent for its validity on its adoption by the people. accordingly it was submitted to them in november, , and was sanctioned by a majority of over , . it accordingly went into effect. at the last session of the legislature, however, petitions were sent in, in great numbers, some of them praying for the entire repeal of the law, and others for its essential modification. the opponents of the law resisted the principle that property should be taxed for purposes of education, inasmuch as men of property would thus be compelled to pay for educating children not their own. others objected mainly to details of the law, and to the injurious effect of the established mode of collecting the rate bills. the two branches of the legislature not being able to agree upon amendments of the law, and not wishing to discard the principle on which it is founded, agreed to submit it again to the popular suffrage. the convention in question assembled accordingly, to aid the law. hon. christopher morgan, secretary of state, presided, and an address and resolutions affirming the principles on which the law is based, and calling on the people to give it their renewed support, were adopted.--col. fremont has received from the royal geographical society of london a medal, in token of their sense of his eminent services in promoting the cause of geographical knowledge. it was presented through the u.s. minister.--mr. john r. bartlett, who was appointed by the president commissioner to run the boundary line between mexico and the united states, in accordance with the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo, has set out upon his mission. the point of departure is to be upon the rio grande, and the commissioners of the two countries are to meet at el paso. this will be the most extensive line of surveys ever made in the united states, extending from the atlantic to the pacific, and mostly through a country wholly unknown. * * * * * from mexico we have advices to the st of july. the presidential election, which was to occur soon, was becoming a topic of general discussion. there are several candidates, among whom gen. almonte, gomez farias, and domingo ibarra are the best known in this country. congress was to have assembled, but not a quorum of the members could be collected. the cholera was raging with excessive and terrible fatality. from the th of may to the th of june there had been in the city of mexico , cases, and on the last day named there were deaths. among the victims was don mariano otero, a distinguished statesman and lawyer. in san luis and other sections it was prevailing with great severity. the financial affairs of the state of durango were in such a condition that an extra session of the legislature had been called in order to save them from total ruin.--advices have been received of the conclusion of a treaty with the mexican government by the u.s. minister, mr. letcher, by which is ceded the right of transit by railroad across the isthmus of tehuantepec. this step has been taken in accordance with, and probably in consequence of, the position taken upon the subject by president taylor in his first message to congress. the late president polk, when he sent out mr. trist to negotiate a treaty of peace with mexico, authorized him to offer five millions of dollars for the right which has now been secured without the expense of a dollar: and mexico, moreover, has now stipulated to protect the parties constructing the work, as well as the work itself after it shall have been completed. the benefits resulting from this treaty, if the work shall be completed, will be of the most important character. as an auxiliary measure to the nicaraguan canal, it will tend very powerfully to unite the atlantic and the pacific states. * * * * * from california we have intelligence to the th of june. san francisco has been visited by two successive fires which had destroyed property to the amount of several millions of dollars. a large proportion of the goods burned were consigned by new york merchants to their agents in california, so that the loss will fall very heavily upon them. as insurance could not readily be effected the loss will be large. nearly three millions of dollars in gold dust have reached the united states during the month. the foreigners resident in california had resisted the payment of the tax of twenty-five dollars per month levied by the state laws, and some difficulty was anticipated in enforcing payment, but at the latest accounts this had been obviated, and every thing was quiet. the intelligence from the mines encourages the belief that the quantity of gold dug this season will be greater than ever before. from the valleys of both the sacramento and the san joaquin very large amounts were constantly obtained, and new mines have been found as far north as oregon, and as far south as los angelos. from the mariposa mines many very beautiful specimens of the gold-bearing quartz have been procured. difficulties had arisen with the indians in different sections of the country, and several severe battles between them and detachments of u. s. troops had been fought. they grew mainly out of the hostile disposition of the indians which is often excited and encouraged by the lawless conduct of the whites. measures were in progress which, it was hoped, would restore quiet and security. it is stated that the property in san francisco as assessed for taxation amounts to three hundred millions of dollars. * * * * * from new mexico we have intelligence of some interest. it seems that the people, becoming impatient of the delay of congress in acting upon the question of framing a government for them, and probably taking the hint from the declared sentiments of president taylor, resolved to form a government for themselves. public meetings were accordingly held, and resolutions adopted, requesting governor munroe to call a convention of delegates from the several counties to form a state constitution. col. munroe accordingly issued a proclamation to that effect, and a convention met at santa fé on the th of may. the session lasted eight or ten days, and a constitution was adopted, which was to go into operation in july. the boundaries of the state were defined, and slavery was prohibited. an election was soon to take place for members of the legislature. two senators and one representative in congress were to be elected, and application was to be made for the immediate admission of the state into the union. * * * * * of literary intelligence there is little of general interest. the distinguished english novelist, mr. g. p. r. james, arrived with his family at new york on the th of july, and will spend several months in visiting different sections of the united states. there are very few englishmen who would be more cordially welcomed to this country than mr. james. his long and most honorable and productive career as an author has made him universally known, and his works have been very widely read in the united states as well as in england. the officious and impertinent gossip of a portion of our newspaper press led mr. james to publish a note disclaiming the intention of writing a book upon this country. we regret that he should have found it necessary either to announce such a purpose, or to form it. this country has nothing to lose from the published observations of a man at once so competent and so candid. mr. james had for fellow-passengers count dembinski, who was a major in the hungarian service and nephew of general dembinski, whose name is so well known to the whole world in connection with that gallant but ill-fated struggle. count d. was also aid to kossuth, and fled with him, accompanied with his wife, whom he had married at temeswar during the war, to turkey, whence he came to this country. he is a young man of great talent and accomplishments, and will probably make the united states his home.--the anniversary of the declaration of american independence was celebrated on the th throughout the country with the usual demonstrations. orations were delivered in nearly all the principal cities of the union, some of which have since been published. the ablest one that has fallen under our notice was delivered by mr. e. p. whipple before the authorities of boston. he spoke upon washington and the principles of the revolution, holding up the former as a model of greatness, combating the popular notion that he was not a man of genius, and dwelling upon the fact that our revolution was fought, not on abstract principles, or in the assertion of abstract rights, but for the redress of practical evils and the attainment of practical ends. it was a timely, able, and judicious address, and was marked by the peculiar vigor of style and of thought, injured by an occasional straining after effect in expression and phrases, which characterize the writings of mr. whipple. senator foote, of mississippi, delivered an address before the washington monument association at the national capital; it was a strong appeal on behalf of united and harmonious councils, and was both timely and effective. hon. j. w. edmonds, of new york city, delivered the address at washington's head quarters at new-burgh, which the legislature of new york, very properly and creditably, took measures at the last session to preserve as a permanent monument of the revolution. e. a. raymond. esq. delivered an address at rochester, which was a skillfully condensed summary of the growth of the country, and especially of its political development.--a new historical society of the episcopal church has just been formed at trinity college, hartford, conn., of which bishop brownell has been chosen president.--the inventor of the ramage printing press, which, until superseded by subsequent improvements, was an important step in the progress of printing, adam ramage, died at philadelphia on the th of july. he was a native of scotland, and was nearly eighty years old at the time of his death.--margaret fuller, well known in this country as a gifted and accomplished lady, and author of several works of marked value and interest, perished on the th of july, by the wreck of the ship elizabeth from leghorn, in which she had taken passage with her husband, the marquis d'ossoli, and her child, in returning to her native land from italy, where she had been spending several years. her loss will be deplored by a large circle of personal friends, and by the still larger number of those who knew her only through her writings. she was the eldest daughter of hon. timothy fuller, formerly a lawyer of boston, but more recently a resident of cambridge. she was remarkable for her thorough intellectual cultivation, being familiar with both the ancient and most of the modern languages and their literature--for the vigor and natural strength of her mind--for her conversational powers, and for her enthusiastic devotion to letters and art. she was at rome during the recent revolution, and took the deepest interest in the struggles of that day. she had been for some time engaged upon a work on italy, which it is feared has perished with her. her husband and child were lost at the same time. mr. henry sumner, of boston, also perished.--ralph waldo emerson is traveling in the region on the upper waters of the mississippi.--no original books of special interest have been published during the month. in our department of literary notices mention is made of those which are of most importance.--mr. prescott, the historian, is traveling in europe. he is announced as having been present at a recent meeting of the london archaeological society.--mr. h. n. hudson, whose lectures on shakspeare have made him widely and favorably known as a critic, has been engaged by a boston publishing house to edit a new edition of the works of the great dramatist, which will be published during the coming year. mr. hudson's ability and familiarity with the subject will enable him to make a very valuable and interesting work.--garibaldi, who achieved distinction in the defense of rome against the french, is coming to new york, where he was to be honored with a public reception from the authorities.--the capture of stoney point was celebrated this year at that place, for the first time. hugh maxwell, esq., of new york, delivered the address. the celebration is hereafter to be annual.--in no department of mechanism is the progress of the age more conspicuous than in printing presses, as is shown by the fact that messrs. hoe and co., of new york, are now constructing a press which will work from , to , per hour. it will be thirty-three feet long, with eight printing cylinders, and will cost about $ , .--a newly invented locomotive engine, intended for use in the streets of cities, has just been put upon the hudson river railroad at its termination in new york. it consumes its own smoke, and is entirely inclosed from public view--presenting the appearance of a simple baggage-car. the engine is of ninety horse power. * * * * * news from liberia has been received announcing that the government has at last been able to effect the purchase of the gallinas territories, including the whole from cape mount to shebar, except a small strip of five miles of coast which will soon fall into their hands. the chief importance of this purchase springs from the fact that gallinas has been for many years the head quarters of the slave-trade--an enormous number of slaves having been shipped from there every year. the government paid $ for the territory, and further agreed to appoint commissioners to settle the wars in the country, and open trade with the interior tribes, as well as to settle among them and instruct them in the arts of civilized life. this may prove to be an important step not only toward the suppression of the horrible traffic in slaves, which the united efforts of england, france, and the united states have hither to been unable to effect, but also toward the civilization of africa, a result to which no philanthropic mind can be indifferent. * * * * * in england by far the most important event of the month is the sudden death of sir robert peel. on the th of june he had called at buckingham palace to pay his respects to the queen, and was riding away upon horseback, when his horse swerved slightly and threw him to the ground; he fell sideways, striking upon his left shoulder. he was at once raised up by several gentlemen who rushed to his assistance, and said that he was very much hurt indeed. he was taken to his residence and received all the attention of the highest surgical skill, which, however, was less effective than would have been anticipated on account of the intense pain which he suffered. he lingered until near midnight of the d july, when he expired. a partial examination of his body showed that one of his ribs had been broken and was pressing upon his lungs. his family declined a public funeral tendered by the government, and his remains were interred at tamworth. both houses of parliament adjourned, and demonstrations of profound regret and respect for his character were general. an outline of his life and political career will be found in the preceding pages of this magazine. his death is justly considered an event of great political importance. it was generally anticipated that he would soon be called upon to resume the office of prime minister, and universal confidence was felt in his large experience, his eminent ability, and his intimate acquaintance with the condition and events of the united kingdom. the greek question was still under discussion at our last advices: it has led to events of no small importance in connection with the politics of england and the fundamental principles of the british constitution. on the th of june, in the house of lords, lord stanley moved a resolution censuring the government for having adopted coercive measures to enforce claims against greece, doubtful in point of justice or exaggerated in amount. he supported his motion at great length, entering into a detailed history of the whole matter, and accusing the government of having, through its foreign minister, insisted on exorbitant demands, oppressed the weak, and endangered the peace of europe. he was sustained by the earl of aberdeen, lord brougham and others, and was answered by the marquis of lansdowne who, with others, defended the government. the resolution was _carried_ by to , showing a majority against the government of . on the th, mr. roebuck called the attention of the commons to the vote of the lords, and desired to know whether the government would adopt any special course of conduct in consequence of it. lord john russell replied that they should not alter their course in respect to foreign powers at all, and that they did not feel called upon to resign because the house of lords had passed a vote of censure. that house did not represent the nation: whenever the house of commons should adopt such a resolution the ministry would quit office. on the th, for the purpose of enabling the commons to express their opinion upon the subject, mr. roebuck moved a resolution declaring that the principles on which the foreign policy of the government had been regulated were calculated to maintain the honor and dignity of the country, and in times of unexampled difficulty, to preserve peace between england and foreign nations. the motion was warmly opposed by sir james graham and others, and was advocated with equal zeal. lord palmerston defended the foreign policy of the government in a speech of five hours, marked by great ability and eloquence. after going over the whole ground fully and in detail, he concluded by challenging the verdict of the house, whether the principles which had guided the foreign policy of the government had been proper and fitting, and whether, as a subject of ancient rome could hold himself free from indignity by saying, "civis romanus sum," a british subject in a foreign country should not be protected by the vigilant eye and the strong arm of his government against injustice and wrong. the debate was then adjourned, and had not been resumed at our latest advices. the ministry seems very firmly to have taken the position that england can be governed without the house of lords, and that its foreign policy is not to be shaped according to their wishes, but according to the popular will, as represented by the commons. this position indicates the strong tendency which prevails in england even, toward popular and democratic government. lord john russell, on the th, also remarked, in reply to the intimation that the foreign policy of the government was calculated to foment differences between england and other nations, that he could answer for it that lord palmerston, so long as he should continue in office, would act not as a minister of austria, russia, france, or any other country, but as the minister of england. the declaration was received with great applause, not only in the house but throughout the country. it is understood that the diplomatic misunderstanding between france and england, growing out of the greek question, has been settled. no other business of general interest in this country has been before parliament during the month. inquiries were made in both houses as to the cuban expedition, and the ministers stated that it was fitted out against the most strenuous efforts of the american government, which has, nevertheless, been very strongly censured for its inability to prevent it.--the government has issued orders restricting very considerably the posting and delivery of letters on sunday, which has elicited very clamorous complaints in every part of the country. lord brougham in speaking of the matter in parliament, doubted the power of the government to issue such orders, and said that it was causing a vast increase of sunday travel and work throughout the kingdom, as messengers were now dispatched to obtain indispensable intelligence formerly received by mail. lord ashley had carried a motion in the house of lords to suppress sunday labor in the post-office, by a vote of to .--sir edward buxton on the st of june, moved a resolution against exposing the free-grown sugar of the british colonies to unrestricted competition with the sugar of slave-trading countries. it failed, however, by to .--a bill prohibiting intra-mural interments, has passed the commons. the remaining transactions of parliament have no general interest. the queen while riding with the prince in an open carriage, on the th of june, was struck across the face by a respectably dressed man, armed with a small cane. her bonnet was cut through, and a severe wound was inflicted upon her forehead. she attended the opera, however, in the evening, and was received with great enthusiasm. the assailant proved to be a discharged officer, named robert pate, subject to attacks of insanity. he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to transportation for seven years.--very shortly, fifteen screw steamers will ply between liverpool and various ports in the mediterranean.--meyerbeer, the composer, has received the degree of doctor from the university of jena.--dr. gutzlaff, who is preaching at berlin and at potsdam, on behalf of the chinese mission, expresses a confident hope that the emperor of japan will be converted to christianity.--mr. corbould, the artist, has received the commands of her majesty to paint a large picture of the grand coronation scene in the opera of "la prophete," as represented at the royal italian opera, covent-garden.--mr. gibson, of rome, now in england, has received an order for a colossal group, in marble, of figures of her majesty, queen victoria, supported on either side by justice and clemency. the figure of the queen will be ten feet in height; the side figures, eight feet. this group will occupy a place in the new houses of parliament.--the duke of cambridge died on the th of july. he was the seventh and youngest son of george iii., and was seventy-six years old at the time of his death. many accidents to vessels in the northern atlantic have arisen during the season from floating icebergs. the ship oriental, of liverpool, was lost, with all her crew and cargo from this cause, on the th of april; and on the th of march, the english ship signet, with all on board, also foundered. eighteen or twenty other vessels are known to have been lost in the same manner, their crews having escaped. new hopes of the safety of sir john franklin have been suggested by these reports. it is supposed that these vast fields of ice are portions of the slowly released masses, the growth of many preceding winters, which were first broken two winters ago by the strong southwest and southerly gales over all the north atlantic and north pacific; but which, in consequence of their bulk and extent, were again condensed before they could be fairly swept into the atlantic, and thus offered continued obstruction to the release of franklin and his ships. nor would this appear to be impossible, assuming detention in the ice to have been the only danger, and that continued means of subsistence were accessible.--the steamer _orion_, plying between liverpool and glasgow, was wrecked june th, off port patrick, in a smooth sea, by striking upon a rock, and over two hundred lives were lost.--the baptism of the infant prince was celebrated june d, the duke of wellington being one of the sponsors, and the ceremony being performed by the archbishop of canterbury, who named the royal infant, "arthur william patrick albert." * * * * * the english literary intelligence of the month is summed up in the household narrative, from which mainly we copy. it remarks that the class of books which has received the largest additions, is that of biography. mr. edmund phipps has published extracts from the diaries and literary remains of the author of _tremaine_, with biographical and critical comment, under the title of "_memoirs of the political and literary life of robert plumer ward_;" and the book has been made more interesting than the subject would have seemed to promise, by the fact of mr. ward's intimate connection, both in private and public life, with the leading tory statesmen of the administrations of addington, perceval, and liverpool. the political and administrative characteristics of the duke of wellington have probably never had such vivid illustration.--mr. leigh hunt has published his "_autobiography, with reminiscences of friends and contemporaries_," of which very copious extracts were given in the july number of this magazine. it will be issued in a few days from the press of the harpers. some of it is the republication of a former work, but the greater part is original, or at least so changed by interpolations, recantations, or additions, as to produce the effect of novelty.--the reverend mr. field, an enthusiast for the separate and silent system of imprisonment, has published a new _life of howard_, dedicated to prince albert, of which the design appears to be to counteract the evil tendency of a recent memoir of the philanthropist, remarkable for what the reverend enthusiast calls "the advocacy of democratic principles, and the aspersion of a godly prince."--each in a goodly-sized volume, we have had a sort of general biographical notice of _celebrated etonians_, and of _speakers of the house of commons_, the first by an able man, quite competent to the subject.--miss pardoe has edited the first volume of a series of _memoirs of the queens of spain_, of which the author is a spanish lady, resident in america. an ingenious northern antiquary has published memorials of one of the old border mansions, called dilston hall, which amounts in effect to an interesting _memoir of the earl of derwentwater_, who suffered in the jacobite rebellion. and, finally, mr. andrew bisset has done good service to both history and biography by a very careful publication of the _memoirs and papers of sir andrew mitchell,_ lord chatham's embassador at the court of frederic the great, and one of the very ablest of english diplomatists. to the department of philosophy a somewhat remarkable contribution is to be noticed, under the title of _the progress of the intellect as exemplified in the religious development of the greeks and hebrews_. the writer is mr. robert william mackay. its design is to explain by a rationalistic process all the religious faiths and beliefs which have exerted the greatest influence over man, and to refer them exclusively to moral and intellectual development. in this design the writer may, or may not, have succeeded; but it is certain, making all draw-backs on the score of what has probably been borrowed from german investigation, that the book has high pretensions to eloquence and research, and reminds us of a time when publication was less frequent than now, and a single book might embody the labor of a life. for its antidote in respect of opinion and purpose there has been published, not inopportunely, after a peaceful slumber of nearly two centuries in the library at wotton, _a rational account of the true religion_, by john evelyn. here the design is, by all possible arguments and authorities, to confirm our faith in christianity. we must speak very summarily and briefly of the publications in general literature. of books of travel and adventure, the most attractive and interesting in point of subject is, _five years of a hunter's life in the far interior of south africa_, by mr. roualeyn gordon cumming, a kinsman of the chief of argyll, in whom a love of deer-stalking seems to have gradually expanded into dimensions too gigantic to be satisfied with any thing less than the stalking of the lion, the elephant, the hippopotamus, the giraffe, or the rhinoceros. the book is filled with astonishing incidents and anecdotes, and keeps the reader very nearly as breathless with excitement as the elephant and lion-hunter himself must have been. copious extracts from the work will be found in the preceding pages of this number.--mr. aubrey de vere has published some very graceful _picturesque sketches of greece and turkey_; and the brave and high-minded old general pepe has given the world, _a narrative of scenes and events in italy from to _. mr. johnson, the distinguished geographer of edinburgh, has issued the most complete _general gazetteer of the world_ that has yet been comprised in a single volume; and as part of the republication of the treatises of the encyclopædia metropolitana, in separate and portable volumes, we have to mention an interesting volume on greek literature by mr. justice talfourd, the bishop of london, and other accomplished scholars.--in poetical translation, a new version of _Ã�schylus_ by professor blackie, of aberdeen, has been issued; and in poetry, with the title of _in memoriam_, a noble and affecting series of elegies to the memory of a friend (son of the historian hallam), from the pen of mr. alfred tennyson. considerable interest was excited by the unswathing of an egyptian mummy at the residence of lord londesborough, at which mr. birch of the british museum, describing the embalming process, and following in this the narrative of herodotus, said the subject had evidently suffered from the use of bitumen and the application of heat, as the bones were charred and the muscles calcined. dr. cormack has published a letter in the _athenæum_ expressing and sustaining the opinion that all mummies were prepared in this way.--a recent number of galignani contains an interesting item of intelligence. it may be remembered that goethe in delivered over to the keeping of the government of weimar a quantity of his papers, contained in a sealed casket, with an injunction not to open it until . the th of may being fixed for breaking the seals, the authorities gave formal notice to the family of goethe that they would on that day deliver up the papers as directed by the deceased poet. the descendants of the poet schiller also received an intimation that, as the papers were understood to concern their ancestor likewise, they had a right to be present. the casket was opened with all due form, and was found to contain the whole of the correspondence between goethe and schiller. it is added, that these letters are immediately to be published, according to directions found in the casket. a new society has recently been formed in london for the investigation of the laws and nature of epidemic diseases, of which dr. babington has been chosen president. another has been instituted for the collection of facts, observations, &c, in meteorology, of which mr. whitbread is to be the first president. rogers the poet was severely injured by being knocked down by a cab in the streets of london. being years old his case was considered precarious, though at the last accounts he seems to have partially recovered.--several meetings have been held at the house of mr. justice coleridge for the purpose of initiating a subscription to do honor, in some form, to the memory of wordsworth, and have resulted in the formation of a powerful committee, with the bishop of london at its head. the objects which this committee have in view are--to place a whole length effigy of the deceased poet in westminster abbey--and, if possible, to erect some monument to his memory in the neighborhood of grasmere. the list of subscriptions is headed by the queen and her royal consort, with a sum of £ .--some singular decisions have recently been made by the vice chancellor. it seems that a mr. hartley deceased in , left directions in his will that £ should be set apart as a prize for the best essay on "natural theology," treating it as a substantive science, and as adequate to constitute a true, perfect, and philosophical system of universal religion. it was ruled by the vice chancellor that this bequest was void, on account of the evident tendency which the essay so described would have to demoralize society and subvert the church. another decision, arising out of the same trial, is yet more curious. mr. hartley had left £ for the best essay on emigration, and appointed the american minister trustee of the fund. this bequest was also declared void, on the ground that such an essay would encourage persons to emigrate to the united states, and so throw off their allegiance to the queen! the race of justice shallows seems not to be extinct. * * * * * in france, after the passage of the electoral law, a bill was presented for increasing the president's salary to , , francs per annum. its introduction created considerable feeling. the committee to which it was referred reported in its stead a bill granting , , francs to defray expenses incurred at the president's inauguration: and this was afterward modified so as to grant , , for the expenses of the president, in which form it was adopted by the assembly, by a vote of to , a majority of for the government. this is regarded as a government triumph, but it was not won until after a sharp struggle, and it has increased very considerably the public disaffection.--new laws for the restriction of the press have also been brought forward. the amount of caution money which newspapers are required to deposit is increased, and the system of postage stamps is introduced. during the discussion of these laws on the th of july, a scene of some warmth occurred in the assembly. m. rouher, in the course of a speech, spoke of the revolution of february as a great catastrophe, for which he was immediately called to order by girardin, recently elected a member by the department of the lower rhine, as well as by others. the president refused to call him to order, but rebuked those who had interrupted him. the laws in regard to the press have been declared "urgent" by a vote of to .--a man named walker has been arrested on his own confession of a design to assassinate louis napoleon, for which purpose he had waited several hours for him to pass out of his gate. he proves to have been insane.--m. thiers has been on a visit to london, where he was received with distinction. he visited louis philippe, whose health is said to be failing. * * * * * in germany the settlement of the constitution makes little progress. the saxon chambers were suddenly dissolved on the st, to evade a discussion in the second chamber on an address to the sovereign, expressing dissatisfaction with the conduct of the government on the german question; and the second chamber broke up in solemn silence, withholding the usual cheers for the king. the wurtemburg diet, for a similar reason, was prorogued on the th. the german senate has given its consent for the meeting of the peace congress at frankfort, and its sessions will commence on the d of august. it is to be a new world's convention of the friends of peace. * * * * * the king of prussia has recovered from the wound inflicted by the assassin sefeloge. a royal decree has been published at berlin, curtailing still further the freedom of the press. the system of "caution-money" is re-established, with the government powers of canceling the license to sell newspapers, and of refusing conveyance by post to obnoxious journals; and certain offenses against the press laws are "withdrawn from the competency of a jury." among the journals affected by the decree is the london _punch_, which has been proscribed in the city of konigsberg and its province, and placed on the list of journals that are no longer permitted to pass through the post-office. * * * * * from portugal we have intelligence of difficulties with this country, growing out of claims on that government which have been in existence for many years. the amount claimed is about $ , . the principal one grows out of the destruction of the american ship, the general armstrong, during the war of , by a british fleet, while lying in the neutral port of fayal, and therefore entitled to the protection of the portuguese government. according to the law of nations, portugal is responsible for her failure to protect her; and although great britain is the party in equity responsible, the united states have to look, in conformity to law, only to portugal. the claims have been unsuccessfully pressed for a number of years; but the administration of general taylor demanded an immediate settlement. our chargé, mr. clay, under instructions, had required an answer to his demands within twenty days, and an american squadron had meantime arrived in the tagus to enforce them. some uneasiness was felt as to the issue, but it was believed that the portuguese government would yield. literary notices. life and letters of thomas campbell. edited by william beattie. in two volumes, vo, pp. . new york: harper and brothers. this charming piece of biography is already familiar to the reading public in this country, from the copious and flattering notices it has received from the british journals and reviews. it will be welcomed in its present complete form by every lover of literary history, no less than by the admirers of the favorite poet of "the pleasures of hope." the author had _abundance of materials at his command_, and has executed his task with commendable industry and good taste. in any hands, the subject could not be without intense interest, and as it has been treated in the volumes before us, possesses a fascination rarely found in any recent production. free use is made of the letters of campbell, many of which are of the highest order of epistolary composition, abounding in those delicate and expressive touches which reveal the heart of the man and the genius of the poet in the purest and most beautiful light. the american edition is introduced by a letter of washington irving to the publishers, in which our admirable countryman relates some personal reminiscences of campbell with so much felicity and exquisite grace, that we can not avoid transferring them to our pages: "my acquaintance with campbell commenced in, i think, , through his brother archibald, a most amiable, modest, and intelligent man, but more of a mathematician than a poet. he resided at that time in new york, and had received from his brother a manuscript copy of "o'connor's child; or, the flower of love lies bleeding," for which he was desirous of finding a purchaser among the american publishers. i negotiated the matter for him with a publishing house in philadelphia, which offered a certain sum for the poem, provided i would write a biographical sketch of the author to be prefixed to a volume containing all his poetical works. to secure a good price for the poet, i wrote the sketch, being furnished with facts by his brother; it was done, however, in great haste, when i was 'not in the vein,' and, of course, was very slight and imperfect. it served, however, to put me at once on a friendly footing with campbell, so that, when i met him for the first time a few years subsequently in england, he received me as an old friend. he was living at that time in his rural retreat at sydenham. his modest mansion was fitted up in a simple style, but with a tact and taste characteristic of the occupants. "campbell's appearance was more in unison with his writings than is generally the case with authors. he was about thirty-seven years of age; of the middle size; lightly and genteelly made: evidently of a delicate, sensitive organization, with a fine intellectual countenance and a beaming poetic eye. "he had now been about twelve years married. mrs. campbell still retained much of that personal beauty for which he praises her in his letters written in the early days of matrimony; and her mental qualities seemed equally to justify his eulogies: a rare circumstance, as none are more prone to dupe themselves in affairs of the heart than men of lively imaginations. she was, in fact, a more suitable wife for a poet than poet's wives are apt to be; and for once a son of song had married a reality and not a poetical fiction. "i had considered the early productions of campbell as brilliant indications of a genius yet to be developed, and trusted that, during the long interval which had elapsed, he had been preparing something to fulfill the public expectation; i was greatly disappointed, therefore, to find that, as yet, he had contemplated no great and sustained effort. my disappointment in this respect was shared by others, who took the same interest in his fame, and entertained the same idea of his capacity. 'there he is, cooped up in sydenham,' said a great edinburgh critic to me, 'simmering his brains to serve up a little dish of poetry, instead of pouring out a whole caldron.' "scott, too, who took a cordial delight in campbell's poetry, expressed himself to the same effect. 'what a pity is it,' said he to me, 'that campbell does not give full sweep to his genius. he has wings that would bear him up to the skies, and he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if afraid to launch away. the fact is, he is a bugbear to himself. the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his future efforts. _he is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him_. "little was scott aware at the time that he, in truth, was a 'bugbear' to campbell. this i infer from an observation of mrs. campbell's in reply to an expression of regret on my part that her husband did not attempt something on a grand scale. 'it is unfortunate for campbell,' said she, 'that he lives in the same age with scott and byron.' i asked why. 'oh,' said she, 'they write so much and so rapidly. now campbell writes slowly, and it takes him some time to get under way; and just as he has fairly begun, out comes one of their poems, that sets the world agog and quite daunts him, so that he throws by his pen in despair.' "i pointed out the essential difference in their kinds of poetry, and the qualities which insured perpetuity to that of her husband. 'you can't persuade campbell of that,' said she. 'he is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his own little lights put out whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.' "i repeated the conversation to scott some time afterward, and it drew forth a characteristic comment. "'pooh!' said he, good humoredly, 'how can campbell mistake the matter so much. poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. my poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, and may pass well in the market as long as cairngorms are the fashion; but they are mere scotch pebbles after all; now tom campbell's are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.' "i have not time at present to furnish personal anecdotes of my intercourse with campbell, neither does it afford any of a striking nature. though extending over a number of years, it was never very intimate. his residence in the country, and my long intervals of absence on the continent, rendered our meetings few and far between. to tell the truth, i was not much drawn to campbell, having taken up a wrong notion concerning him from seeing him at times when his mind was ill at ease, and preyed upon by secret griefs. i had thought him disposed to be querulous and captious, and had heard his apparent discontent attributed to jealous repining at the success of his poetical contemporaries. in a word, i knew little of him but what might be learned in the casual intercourse of general society, whereas it required the close communion of confidential friendship to sound the _depths of his character and know the treasures of excellence_ hidden beneath its surface. besides, he was dogged for years by certain malignant scribblers, who took a pleasure in misrepresenting all his actions, and holding him up in an absurd and disparaging point of view. in what this hostility originated i do not know, but it must have given much annoyance to his sensitive mind, and may have affected his popularity. i know not to what else to attribute a circumstance to which i was a witness during my last visit to england. it was at an annual dinner of the literary fund, at which prince albert presided, and where was collected much of the prominent talent of the kingdom. in the course of the evening campbell rose to make a speech. i had not seen him for years, and his appearance showed the effect of age and ill health; it was evident also, that his mind was obfuscated by the wine he had been drinking. he was confused and tedious in his remarks; still, there was nothing but what one would have thought would be received with indulgence, if not deference, from a veteran of his fame and standing, a living classic. on the contrary, to my surprise, i soon observed signs of impatience in the company; the poet was repeatedly interrupted by coughs and discordant sounds, and as often endeavored to proceed; the noise at length became intolerable, and he was absolutely clamored down, sinking into his chair overwhelmed and disconcerted. i could not have thought such treatment possible to such a person at such a meeting. "hallam, author of the literary history of the middle ages, who sat by me on this occasion, marked the mortification of the poet, and it excited his generous sympathy. being shortly afterward on the floor to reply to a toast, he took occasion to advert to the recent remarks of campbell, and in so doing called up in review all his eminent achievements in the world of letters, and drew such a picture of his claims upon popular gratitude and popular admiration as to convict the assembly of the glaring impropriety they had been guilty of--to soothe the wounded sensibility of the poet, and send him home to, i trust, a quiet pillow. "i mention these things to illustrate the merit of the piece of biography which you are about to lay before the american world. it is a great act of justice to the memory of a distinguished man, whose character has not been sufficiently known. it gives an insight into his domestic as well as his literary life, and lays open the springs of all his actions and the causes of all his contrariety of conduct. we now see the real difficulties he had to contend with in the earlier part of his literary career; the worldly cares which pulled his spirit to the earth whenever it would wing its way to the skies; the domestic afflictions, tugging at his heart-strings even in his hours of genial intercourse, and converting his very smiles into spasms; the anxious days and sleepless nights preying upon his delicate organization, producing that morbid sensitiveness and nervous irritability which at times overlaid the real sweetness and amenity of his nature, and obscured the unbounded generosity of his heart. "the biography does more: it reveals the affectionate considerateness of his conduct in all the domestic relations of life. the generosity with which he shared his narrow means with all the members of his family, and tasked his precarious resources to add to their relief; his deep-felt tenderness as a husband and a father, the source of exquisite home-happiness for a time, but ultimately of unmitigated wretchedness; his constant and devoted friendships, which in early life were almost romantic passions, and which remained unwithered by age: his sympathies with the distressed of every nation, class, and condition; his love of children, that infallible sign of a gentle and amiable nature; his sensibility to beauty of every kind; his cordial feeling toward his literary contemporaries, so opposite to the narrow and despicable jealousy imputed to him; above all, the crowning romance of his life, his enthusiasm in the cause of suffering poland, a devotion carried to the height of his poetic temperament, and, in fact, exhausting all that poetic vein which, properly applied, might have produced epics; these and many more traits set forth in his biography bring forth his character in its true light, dispel those clouds which malice and detraction may at times have cast over it, and leave it in the full effulgence of its poetic glory." the life and correspondence of andrew combe, m.d. by george combe. philadelphia: a. hart. mo, pp. . the remarkable popularity of the works of andrew combe on physiology and hygiene, in this country, will make the present biography an object of interest with a very large number of readers. it is written with singular impartiality, indeed with too little of the spirit of affectionate admiration, by the celebrated george combe, whose own writings on the constitution of man and the observance of physical laws, have made him a general favorite in many intelligent circles, which have no peculiar interest in the special department of science with which his name has been identified. each of the brothers has the merit of presenting important principles in plain language. with utility for their motto, they have written for the mass of the people, and, perhaps, have done more for the diffusion of popular knowledge, than many authors whose intellectual pretensions are far superior to their own. destitute, to a remarkable degree, of every ray of imagination, with no approach to the creative power, which is the test of genius, their writings are marked with a robust common sense, a patience and clearness of statement, and a fertility of simple, homely illustration, which account for their deep impression on the popular mind. in early life, the subject of this memoir displayed none of the brilliant qualities which give promise of future eminence. he was shy and reserved in his manners, and with no facility in the use of words, though often showing a certain droll humor in his actions. his progress in learning was slow, though this may be ascribed in part to the injudicious method which was pursued in his education. while engaged in his medical studies, he first made the acquaintance of dr. spurzheim, an event which decided the direction of his mind for the remainder of his life. this soon ripened into intimate friendship, which was cherished by frequent personal intercourse with spurzheim during a visit at paris. he at once became a zealous convert to the doctrines of phrenology, making them the basis of his medical practice, and his anthropological system. from an imprudent exposure to cold, dr. combe's health early received a severe shock, from the effects of which his system never fully recovered. his subsequent life was that of an habitual invalid. he was forced to maintain a constant battle with disease. while spreading the principles of health in a multitude of households, wherever the english language is spoken, by his lucid writings on the subject, he was scarcely permitted for a single day to enjoy the inestimable treasure. he, consequently, spent no small portion of his time in traveling in different countries, visiting france, belgium, germany, and the united states, and his letters and observations during these various tours constitute one of the most interesting features in the present volume. his death took place on the th of august, . he left the character of a man of sterling integrity, excellent judgment, admirable candor and fairness of mind, a single-hearted devotion to truth, and a disposition of rare kindness and disinterested humanity. his biography will be read with satisfaction, by those who feel themselves indebted to his writings. it is simple, honest, unpretending, like its subject. with the singularly prosaic mind of mr. george combe, no one can expect to find it animated with any living glow. it records the life of a public benefactor, but with as little freshness or enthusiasm, as if the author were giving a phrenological lecture on a collection of skulls. dr. johnson; his religious life and his death. new york: harper and brothers. mo, pp. . the author of this volume is not surpassed by boswell in reverence for "the great old samuel," but happily is not infected with his puerilities. his book is a favorable specimen of the right kind of "hero worship," dealing tenderly with every relic of the departed, and religiously gathering every precious tribute to his memory. it reproduces a variety of characteristic events and scenes in the life of dr. johnson, without having the air of a compilation. no source of information seems to have been overlooked, while the labors of previous writers are so digested and arranged as to give the effect of an original production. the main subject to which the volume is devoted, is the illustration of dr. johnson's religious character, but numerous attractive episodes are also introduced, which relieve it from all tendency to monotony. the last incidents in his life are described with peculiar interest. several chapters are wholly occupied with his churchmanship, and under different heads, we have a spirited description of his humanity, his treatment of dissenters, his views of monastic life, his sympathy with roman catholics, and his superstition, all the statements being fortified with quotations from his own language. various questions of collateral interest are discussed by the author, as suggested by the topics under review, and are usually treated with equal ability and religious feeling. the work will doubtless be received as a valuable complement to our johnsonian literature. * * * * * _lossing's field book of the revolution_, published by harper and brothers, has reached its fifth number, and fully sustains the wide reputation which it has acquired, as an elegant, spirited, and instructive work on american history. the union of narrative and description, which forms a leading feature of the series, is managed by mr. lossing with remarkable dexterity, and gives a perpetual charm to the composition. in the five numbers already issued, we have a graphic survey of the scenery and historical reminiscences of the portion of the state of new york and of canada, which is embraced within the routes of our fashionable summer tourists. they describe the principal theatre of the french and indian wars, and many of the most interesting localities of the american revolution, including glenn's falls, lake george, ticonderoga and champlain from whitehall to st. john's, montreal, quebec, the st. lawrence to kingston, lake ontario, niagara, and a part of the upper valley of the mohawk--all truly classic ground to the lover of american history. whoever would obtain an accurate and indelible impression of the great battle-grounds of the revolution, while seeking recreation in a summer jaunt, should not fail to make these beautiful numbers his traveling companions. harper and brothers have reprinted sydney smith's posthumous lectures entitled _sketches of moral philosophy_, which is introduced with a commendatory letter by lord jeffrey, written but a few days before his death, wherein he says that these lectures "will do their author as much credit as any thing he ever wrote, and produce on the whole a stronger impression by the force and vivacity of his intellect, as well as a truer and more engaging view of his character than what the world has yet seen of his writings. the book seems to me to be full of good sense, acuteness, and right feeling--very clearly and pleasingly written--and with such an admirable mixture of logical intrepidity, with the absence of all dogmatism, as is rarely met with in the conduct of such discussions." the versatile author discusses a great variety of topics, slenderly connected it is true, with metaphysics or moral philosophy, and on this account has left a far more readable volume, than if it had been rigidly devoted to the questions which it professes to treat. his remarks are always lively, pointed, and apposite, betraying a familiar knowledge of the world, and a quick perception of the bearing and character of current events, while their caustic wit is usually attempered with an inexhaustible fountain of good humor. we have received _the plough, the loom, and the anvil_, volume d, from the veteran editor of whose zeal and ability in maintaining the doctrine of "harmony" and mutual dependence between all the great branches of domestic industry, it affords abundant evidence. mr. skinner contends, with every appearance of assured conviction, that as our country spreads over so many latitudes, and embraces climates and resources more various and abundant than any other, our policy, too, should be peculiar; and that instead of importing iron, cloth, and other manufactures, for which we have materials, or capabilities inexhaustible, we should import _men_, as the best of all importations, whose demands, while occupied with other industries, would create a steady and remunerating market for the products of agriculture, which, he insists, would be, of all things, the surest guarantee for improvements in the _art_ of terra-culture. this enterprise is one of the ablest of the kind, to illustrate the importance of placing the consumer by the side of the agriculturist; and whether reference be had to the long services of the editor in the cause of cultivators of the soil, or the earnestness and power with which he and his correspondents enforce their doctrine, there can be no hesitation in saying, that those who unite with them in opinion will do well to give encouragement to _the plough, the loom, and the anvil_. it is but justice to add, that it is well printed on fine paper, giving no less than pages monthly, at the rate of $ for two subscribers, or $ for one. edited and published by that old and tried soldier in the cause--the founder of the first agricultural journal in the united states--j. s. skinner, , walnut-street, philadelphia. phillips, sampson, and co. have published a new edition of _the rebels_, one of the earliest and most popular novels of the admirable mrs. child. its character is too well known to authorize criticism at this time, and its reproduction in the present edition will gratify the troops of friends, with whom the author is a distinguished favorite. one of the most remarkable books of the month is _the logic and utility of mathematics_, by charles davies, ll.d., published by barnes and co. it is not intended as a treatise on any special branch of mathematical science, and demands for its full appreciation a general acquaintance with the leading methods and routine of mathematical investigation. to those who have a natural fondness for this pursuit, and enjoy the leisure for a retrospect of their favorite studies, the present volume will possess a charm, not surpassed by the fascinations of a romance. it is an elaborate and lucid exposition of the principles which lie at the foundation of pure mathematics, with a highly ingenious application of their results to the development of the essential idea of arithmetic, geometry, algebra, analytic geometry, and the differential and integral calculus. the work is preceded by a general view of the subject of logic, mainly drawn from the writings of archbishop whately and mr. mill, and closes with an essay on the utility of mathematics. some occasional exaggerations, in presenting the claims of the science to which his life has been devoted, must here be pardoned to the professional enthusiasm of the author. in general, the work is written with singular circumspection; the views of the best thinkers on the subject have been thoroughly digested, and are presented in an original form; every thing bears the impress of the intellect of the writer; his style is for the most part chaste, simple, transparent, and in admirable harmony with the dignity of the subject, and his condensed generalizations are often profound and always suggestive. _the gallery of illustrious americans_, edited by c. edwards lester, esq. has reached its seventh number, which contains a portrait and biographical sketch of the distinguished ornithologist, j. j. audubon. the engraving presents a delightful view of the intellectual and expressive features of the veteran forester, savan, and artist, while the sketch by mr. lester gives a rapid and satisfactory summary of the principal incidents in his adventurous life. the daguerreotypes by brady, and the lithographs by d'avignon, throughout this series, are highly creditable specimens of their respective arts. the biographical notices are carefully written and beautifully printed. the previous numbers embrace taylor, calhoun, webster, wright, clay, and fremont--and that our readers may form some idea of the striking fidelity of the portraits, we present, in a previous page, the well-known likeness of our late president, copied on wood by lossing, from the first number of the work. a. hart, philadelphia, has reprinted from the english edition, _the phantom world_, from the french of calmet, with a preface and notes by rev. henry christmas, giving a general survey of the history and philosophy of spirits, apparitions, ghosts, elves, fairies, spooks, bogles, bugaboos, and hobgoblins. it will probably meet with an extensive circulation in these days when connecticut divines are haunted by infernal visits, and the rochester sibyls are on exhibition in new york. _dies boreales, or christopher under canvas_, is republished from blackwood's magazine in a neat edition, by a. hart, philadelphia, and will meet with a warm reception from the innumerable admirers of the noble, eloquent, impassioned, kaleidoscopic, frisky, and genial old christopher. among the valuable scientific serials now issuing from the new york press, is _the dictionary of mechanics, engine works, and engineering_, edited by oliver byrne, and published by d. appleton and co. of this work we have thirteen numbers, which bring the subjects, in alphabetical order, to the article on "etching," the last number completing the elaborate description of the "steam engine," which in itself forms a treatise on a leading branch of practical science, and may be commended in high terms to the attention both of the general reader and the professional engineer. it is rarely that such a mass of important information is condensed into so lucid and pleasing a form, attractive no less by the clearness of its scientific details, than by the bright picture which it gives of the progress of the useful arts in modern times. another work, of similar value, is _a treatise on marine and naval architecture_, by john w. griffiths, a serial which has reached its seventh number, and has elicited the warmest encomiums from distinguished constructors and engineers. the style is a fine model of scientific discussion, presenting the first principles of naval architecture with precision, compactness, and simplicity, abounding with graphic descriptive details, and preserving a spirited freedom and boldness in the most intricate and difficult expositions. the superior character of its contents, with the low price at which it is afforded, will insure it a wide circulation among american mechanics, who can not fail to gain both a pecuniary and an intellectual advantage from its perusal. _specimens of the bridges, viaducts, &c., on the united slates railroads_, by george duggin, deserves an honorable place by the side of the two preceding serials, as an important contribution to the science of civil engineering in this country. the sixth number has already made its appearance, being the commencement of an elaborate treatise on bridge-building, illustrated with sketches of the most remarkable specimens in this branch of architecture. the multiplicity of works like those we have just alluded to, and the great and instant popularity which they attain, present a cheering proof of the prevalence of scientific curiosity, and of the mental activity which leads to thorough investigation, among the leading artisans of the united states. _the second book in greek_, by john m'clintock, published by harper and brothers, is the complement to the previous volume, entitled _first book in greek_, which, as a practical manual in this branch of philology, has elicited the warmest approbation of judicious teachers. dr. m'clintock has brought the resources of a ripe and generous scholarship to the preparation of this work, which, with the other volumes of his elementary series in greek and latin, is a highly honorable proof of his sound learning and correct taste. the present work gives a full view of the greek syntax, with copious illustrations, and extracts from xenophon's anabasis, homer, anacreon, and sentences from the greek dramatists. its peculiar merit consists in the progressive manner in which the various difficulties of greek combination are unfolded, the pupil being thus led forward, by a natural sequence, to a mastery of the complicated idioms of the language, and trained imperceptibly to a perception of its rich and wonderful beauties. lea and blanchard, philadelphia, have republished _impressions and experiences of the west indies and north america in _, by robert baird, an intelligent scotchman, apparently of the legal profession, but with little of the talent essential to the composition of a popular book of travels. his remarks on the united states are in a more discriminating tone than is often attained by english tourists, but the whole tone of the volume is, for the most part, so prosy and commonplace as to make its perusal an intolerable bore. tallis, willoughby, and company are publishing a beautifully embellished edition of _the life of christ_, by the rev. john fleetwood, with original illustrations by warren, who has attained a distinguished reputation, as a delineator of oriental scenery, characters, and costumes. it is to be completed in twenty-five parts, of which two have been issued, in a style of elegant typography, highly creditable to the taste and enterprise of the publishers. the biography of the saviour by dr. fleetwood is written with decorum and gravity, reproducing the consecutive events of the sacred narrative in symmetrical order, and presenting with becoming reserve, such moral reflections as are naturally suggested by the different topics of the sublime history. the work is happily distinguished from several recent attempts on similar themes, by its freedom from the ambitious and disgusting pretension of dressing up the severe simplicity of the oriental writers in the tawdry and finical robes of modern rhetoric. _the shoulder-knot_, by the rev. b. f. tefft, published by harper and brothers, is a work of more than common originality, intended to convey important views of life, through the medium of fiction, and containing many passages of remarkable vigor and beauty. the story is derived from facts in the history of louis xiii. of france, who, with his queen, the admirable anne of austria, the queen mother, the selfish and passionate mary, and the consummate master of intrigue, cardinal richelieu, is made to act a leading part in the development of the narrative. the author displays less skill in the artistic blending together of the principal incidents of the plot, than in his isolated descriptions and conversations, many of which indicate a high order of talent. the whole story is pervaded with a wholesome and elevated religious tone, showing the power of fictitious creation to illustrate the most vitally important truths. stringer and townsend have published a _supplement to frank forrester's fish and fishing in the united states_, by w. h. herbert, correcting some errors which had crept into the principal work on that subject, and completing the memoirs of the finny tribes under the democratic institutions of america, with the jaunty airiness of description, and genuine relish of natural scenery (as well as of fried fish), which have given such a wide celebrity to the flowing and unctuous pen of frank forrester. the _morning watch_ is an anonymous poem, published by george p. putnam, breathing an atmosphere of tender, religious sentiment, and showing considerable descriptive power. it has not, however, sufficient vigor of imagination to atone for the intense subjectivity of thought which throws a dim haze over the best-conceived passages. j. ross browne's _report of the debates in the convention of california_ on the formation of the state constitution, is a curious historical document, and will possess still more interest when the antiquities of the modern eldorado shall become the object of learned research. _the mothers of the wise and good_, by jabez burns, d.d., reprinted by gould, kendall, and lincoln, boston, is a collection of interesting incidents, showing the effects of maternal influence on the formation of character, and tracing the excellence of many eminent men in various walks of life, to the pure and exalted virtues with which they were familiar in early life, within the sacred retirements of the domestic circle. the seventh number of _carlyle's latter-day pamphlets_, issued by harper and brothers, is a mere seven-fold repetition of the ancient discontent of the author, whose mirth is changed into a permanent wail, and for whom the "brave o'erhanging firmament has become only a foul and pestilential congregation of vapors." the subject of this number is the "statue of hudson," the great deposed railway king. it says much more of statues in general, than of this particular one of hudson's. like all the recent productions of carlyle, it reminds us of the strugglings of a sick giant, whom his friends in mercy should compel to take to his bed and turn his face to the wall. an elegant edition of _the illustrated domestic bible_, by the rev. ingram cobbin, is publishing in numbers by samuel hueston. it has brief notes and reflections by the editor, and copious pictorial embellishments, illustrative of oriental scenery and manners. the work is to be completed in twenty-five numbers. stanford and swords have reprinted a neat edition of _earnestness_, or _incidents in the life of an english bishop_, by charles b. taylor, whose rare talent for applying the resources of fiction to the illustration of religious truth has given him an enviable reputation with a large circle of readers. the present work will be found to possess equal interest with the previous religious stories of the author. _amy harrington_, by the author of _the curate of linwood_, another spirited religious novel, directing a battery of red-hot shot against the tractarian or puseyite movement in england, is republished by j. c. riker. it is written in a tone of uncommon earnestness, and contains some passages of genuine pathos and eloquence. _the vale of cedars_, by grace aguilar, republished by d. appleton and co., is a novel of more than ordinary power, indebted for its principal interest to its vivid description of the social condition of spain during the reign of isabella. the volume is introduced with an interesting biographical sketch of the able authoress, who died in . crosby and nichols, boston, have republished _chronicles and characters of the stock exchange_, by john francis, a work describing the progress of financial speculation in england, with great liveliness of delineation, and illustrated with a variety of personal incidents and scenes of the richest character. the volume is intended to give a popular narrative of the money power of england, in a manner at once interesting and suggestive, and it accomplishes its purpose with eminent success. _wah-to-yah, and the taos trail_, by lewis w. garrard published by h. w. derby and co., cincinnati, is a record of wild adventures among the indians, by a rollicking western youth, who never misses the opportunity for a scene, and who tells his story with a gay saucy, good-natured audacity, which makes his book far more companionable than most volumes of graver pretensions. commend us to young garrard, whoever he may be, as a free and easy guide to the mysteries of life in the forest. _poems_ by h. ladd spencer, published by phillips, sampson, and co., boston, are rather remarkable specimens of juvenile precocity, most of them having been written in the days of the author's earliest boyhood, and some of them during his twelfth year, and at a period little less remote. their poetical merit must, of course, be inconsiderable, and they are not sufficiently curious to warrant publication. d. appleton and co. have issued a novel entitled _heloise, or the unrevealed secret_, by talvi, the gifted authoress of _the sketch of the slavic language and literature_, which is entitled to special commendation among the recent productions of american literature. without the machinery of a complicated plot, and in language that is almost sculpturesque in its chaste simplicity, it possesses an intense and unflagging interest, by its artistic delineation of character, its profound insight into the mysteries of passion, and the calm, delicate, spiritual beauty of its heroine. its subtle conception of the nicest variations of feeling, is no less remarkable than its precision in the use of language, the work, for the most part, not only reading like the production of a native, but of one familiar with the most intimate resources of idiomatic english. a very few exceptions to this remark in some portions of the dialogue, whose naïveté atones for their inaccuracy, only present the general purity of the composition in a more striking light. we sincerely trust that the writer, who has been so happily distinguished in the field of literary research, will be induced, by the success of this volume, to continue her labors in the province of fictitious creation. nothing is wanting to her assurance of an enviable fame in this department of letters. _the initials_ is the title of an english novel, reprinted by a. hart, philadelphia, illustrative of german life and character, and in all respects of more interest than would be predicted from its ambiguous designation. _the lorgnette_, published by stringer and townsend, continues to make its appearance once a fortnight, and well sustains the reputation it has acquired, as a brilliant, searching, and good-humored satirical commentary on the many-colored phantasmagoria of the town. the name of the author is still a dead secret, in spite of numerous hints and winks among the knowing ones, and he is shrewd enough to prefer the prestige of concealment to the tickling of his vanity by publicity. the most noticeable feature in his work is its quiet, effective style of composition, which is utterly free from the pyrotechnic arts of so many current pretenders. summer fashions. fig. . promenade dress.--for walking in public gardens, _barège_ dresses, plain or figured, are generally adopted; but _glacé_, or damask bareges are the most _recherchés_. dresses of shot silk form also charming toilets. the skirts are less full than those of last year--but, to compensate for it, they are trimmed with graduated flounces up to the waist--as many as five are worn, and they are pinked and stamped at the edges. the bodies are tight, and open in front; a cord connects the two sides of the corsage, and buttons, either of silk, colored stones, or steel, are placed on the centre of this cord. the sleeves are wider at the bottom than at the top, and are trimmed with two small flounces; from beneath them a large lace sleeve falls over the hand, leaving the lower part of the arm uncovered. this form of sleeve is very becoming to the hand. mantelets are very slightly altered; they are, however, rather more closely fitted to the figure than last year; they are all made of _taffetas glacé_, and trimmed with pinked _ruches_ of the same material for young persons, and with wide black lace for married ladies. [illustration: fig. .--promenade dress.] fig. , is a pelerine of a pattern quite new; made of embroidered net, trimmed with three rows of _point d'alençon_, and ornamented with a large knot of _ribbons bayadère_. another pattern is of indian muslin _canezcu_, embroidered and trimmed with _malines_, open and buttoned up in the back. [illustration: fig. .--pelerine.] fig. is a neat costume for a little girl. dress of glacé silk, shaded in light green and lilac. the skirt trimmed with four rows of fringe of green and lilac silk intermingled. the corsage low and plain, with a pelerine which passes along the back and shoulders, and is brought down to the front of the waist in a point. this pelerine is edged with two rows of fringe. the sleeves of the dress, which are short, are edged simply with one row of fringe. attached to these short sleeves are long sleeves of white muslin made so as to set nearly close to the upper part of the arms, but finished between the elbow and the wrist with three drawings separated by bands of needlework insertion. above these drawings there is a frill which falls back on the arm. the neck is covered by a chemisette of muslin, finished at the throat with a trimming of needlework, turned over. [illustration: fig. .--little girl's costume.] fig. . home dress.--morning cap trimmed with valenciennes and gauze ribbons, cut out in the shape of leaves, muslin _guimpe bouillonné_, with embroidered _entre-deux_; the gown _en gros d'ecosse_, with facing and trimmings cut out; _pagode_ sleeves, with a white muslin puffing ornamented with a very large _bouillonné_. [illustration: fig. .--home dress.] in the engraving (fig. ) is represented a ball costume, with a graceful head-dress, composed of a vine garland with grapes; on each side hangs a bunch of grapes (several little hunches are preferred). the novelty of this year is to be observed in the length of the branches, which come down on the shoulders, mixing with long curls. this head-dress is worn also with _bandeaux_, but then the garland must be thicker in the lower part. the leaves are of different colors, from the various shades of green to the autumnal red tint. this kind of garland is made also of ivy, with small red balls. the gowns are of _taffetas d'italie_--_white, rose_, or _blue_ (their shades are to be _glacés de blanc_): the body is trimmed with a _berthe_, made of two rows of _blonde_; the front ornamented with a puffing of white net laced with satin ribbons the color of the gown. [illustration: fig. .--ball dress.] transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. harper's new monthly magazine. no. viii.--january, .--vol. ii. [illustration: robert southey] personal appearance and habits of robert southey. by his son.[ ] being the youngest of all his children, i had not the privilege of knowing my father in his best and most joyous years, nor of remembering greta hall when the happiness of its circle was unbroken. much labor and anxiety, and many sorrows, had passed over him; and although his natural buoyancy of spirit had not departed, it was greatly subdued, and i chiefly remember its gradual diminution from year to year. in appearance he was certainly a very striking looking person, and in early days he had by many been considered almost the _beau idéal_ of a poet. mr. cottle describes him at the age of twenty-two as "tall, dignified, possessing great suavity of manners, an eye piercing, a countenance full of genius, kindliness, and intelligence;" and he continues, "i had read so much of poetry, and sympathized so much with poets in all their eccentricities and vicissitudes, that to see before me the realization of a character which in the abstract so much absorbed my regards, gave me a degree of satisfaction which it would be difficult to express." eighteen years later lord byron calls him a prepossessing looking person, and, with his usual admixture of satire, says, "to have his head and shoulders i would almost have written his sapphics;" and elsewhere he speaks of his appearance as "epic," an expression which may be either a sneer or a compliment. his forehead was very broad; his height was five feet eleven inches; his complexion rather dark, the eyebrows large and arched, the eye well shaped and dark brown, the mouth somewhat prominent, muscular, and very variously expressive, the chin small in proportion to the upper features of his face. he always, while in keswick, wore a cap in his walks, and partly from habit, partly from the make of his head and shoulders, we never thought he looked well or like himself in a hat. he was of a very spare frame, but of great activity, and not showing any appearance of a weak constitution. my father's countenance, like his character, seems to have softened down from a certain wildness of expression to a more sober and thoughtful cast; and many thought him a handsomer man in age than in youth; his eye retaining always its brilliancy, and his countenance its play of expression. the reader will remember his republican independency when an under-graduate at oxford, in rebelling against the supremacy of the college barber. though he did not continue to let his hair hang down on his shoulders according to the whim of his youthful days, yet he always wore a greater quantity than is usual; and once, on his arrival in town, chantrey's first greetings to him were accompanied with an injunction to go and get his hair cut. when i first remember it, it was turning from a rich brown to the steel shade, whence it rapidly became almost snowy white, losing none of its remarkable thickness, and clustering in abundant curls over his massive brow. for the following remarks on his general bearing and habits of conversation i am indebted to a friend: "the characteristics of his manner, as of his appearance, were lightness and strength, an easy and happy composure as the accustomed mood, with much mobility at the same time, so that he could be readily excited into any degree of animation in discourse, speaking, if the subject moved him much, with extraordinary fire and force, though always in light, laconic sentences. when so moved, the fingers of his right hand often rested against his mouth, and quivered through nervous susceptibility. but, excitable as he was in conversation, he was never angry or irritable; nor can there be any greater mistake concerning him than that into which some persons have fallen, when they have inferred, from the fiery vehemence with which he could give utterance to moral anger in verse or prose, that he was personally ill-tempered or irascible. he was, in truth, a man whom it was hardly possible to quarrel with or offend personally and face to face; and in his writings, even on public subjects in which his feelings were strongly engaged, he will be observed to have always dealt tenderly with those whom he had once seen and spoken to, unless, indeed, personally and grossly assailed by them. he said of himself that he was tolerant of persons, though intolerant of opinions. but in oral intercourse the toleration of persons was so much the stronger, that the intolerance of opinions was not to be perceived; and, indeed, it was only in regard to opinions of a pernicious moral tendency that it was ever felt. "he was averse from argumentation, and would commonly quit a subject when it was passing into that shape, with a quiet and good-humored indication of the view in which he rested. he talked most and with most interest about books and about public affairs; less, indeed hardly at all, about the characters and qualities of men in private life. in the society of strangers or of acquaintances, he seemed to take more interest in the subjects spoken of than in the persons present, his manner being that of natural courtesy and general benevolence without distinction of individuals. had there been some tincture of social vanity in him, perhaps he would have been brought into closer relations with those whom he met in society; but, though invariably kind and careful of their feelings, he was indifferent to the manner in which they regarded him, or (as the phrase is) to his _effect_ in society; and they might, perhaps, be conscious that the kindness they received was what flowed naturally and inevitably to all, that they had nothing to give in return which was of value to him, and that no individual relations were established. "in conversation with intimate friends he would sometimes express, half humorously, a cordial commendation of some production of his own, knowing that with them he could afford it, and that to those who knew him well it was well known that there was no vanity in him. but such commendations, though light and humorous, were perfectly sincere; for he both possessed and cherished the power of finding enjoyment and satisfaction wherever it was to be found--in his own books, in the books of his friends, and in all books whatsoever that were not morally tainted or absolutely barren." his course of life was the most regular and simple possible. when it is said that breakfast was at nine, after a little reading,[ ] dinner at four, tea at six, supper at half-past nine, and the intervals filled up with reading or writing, except that he regularly walked between two and four, and took a short sleep before tea, the outline of his day during those long seasons when he was in full work will have been given. after supper, when the business of the day seemed to be over, though he generally took a book, he remained with his family, and was open to enter into conversation, to amuse and to be amused. it was on such times that the most pleasant fireside chattings, and the most interesting stories came forth; and, indeed, it was at such a time (though long before my day) that the doctor was originated, as may be seen by the beginning of that work and the preface to the new edition. notwithstanding that the very mention of "my glass of punch," the one, temperate, never exceeded glass of punch, may be a stumbling-block to some of my readers, i am constrained, by the very love of the perfect picture which the first lines of the doctor convey of the conclusion of his evening, to transcribe them in this place. it was written but for a few, otherwise the doctor would have been no secret at all; but those few who knew him in his home will see his very look while they re-peruse it, and will recall the well-known sound: "i was in the fourth night of the story of the doctor and his horse, and had broken it off, not, like scheherazade, because it was time to get up, but because it was time to go to bed. it was at thirty-five minutes after ten o'clock on the th of july, in the year of our lord . i finished my glass of punch, tinkled the spoon against its side, as if making music to my own meditations, and having fixed my eyes upon the bhow begum, who was sitting opposite to me at the head of her own table, i said, 'it ought to be written in a book.'" this scene took place at the table of the bhow begum,[ ] but it may easily be transferred to his ordinary room, where he sat after supper in one corner, with the fire on his left hand and a small table on his right, looking on at his family circle in front of him. i have said before, as indeed his own letters have abundantly shown, that he was a most thoroughly domestic man, in that his whole pleasure and happiness was centred in his home; but yet, from the course of his pursuits, his family necessarily saw but little of him. he could not, however he might wish it, join the summer evening walk, or make one of the circle round the winter hearth, or even spare time for conversation after the family meals (except during the brief space i have just been speaking of). every day, every hour had its allotted employment; always were there engagements to publishers imperatively requiring punctual fulfillment; always the current expenses of a large household to take anxious thoughts for: he had no crops growing while he was idle. "my ways," he used to say, "are as broad as the king's high road, and my means lie in an ink-stand." yet, notwithstanding the value which every moment of his time thus necessarily bore, unlike most literary men, he was never ruffled in the slightest degree by the interruptions of his family, even on the most trivial occasions; the book or the pen was ever laid down with a smile, and he was ready to answer any question, or to enter with youthful readiness into any temporary topic of amusement or interest. in earlier years he spoke of himself as ill calculated for general society, from a habit of uttering single significant sentences, which, from being delivered without any qualifying clauses, bore more meaning upon their surface than he intended, and through which his real opinions and feelings were often misunderstood. this habit, as far as my own observation went, though it was sometimes apparent, he had materially checked in later life, and in large parties he was usually inclined to be silent, rarely joining in general conversation. but he was very different when with only one or two companions; and to those strangers, who came to him with letters of introduction, he was both extremely courteous in manner, and frank and pleasant in conversation, and to his intimates no one could have been more wholly unreserved, more disposed to give and receive pleasure, or more ready to pour forth his vast stores of information upon almost every subject. i might go on here, and enter more at length into details of his personal character, but the task is too difficult a one, and is perhaps, after all, better left unattempted. a most intimate and highly-valued friend of my father's, whom i wished to have supplied me with some passages on these points, remarks very justly, that "any portraiture of him, by the pen as by the pencil, will fall so far short both of the truth and the ideal which the readers of his poetry and his letters will have formed for themselves, that they would be worse than superfluous." and, indeed, perhaps i have already said too much. i can not, however, resist quoting here some lines by the friend above alluded to, which describe admirably in brief my father's whole character: "two friends lent me a further light, whose equal hate on all unwholesome sentiment attends, nor whom may genius charm where heart infirm attends. "in all things else contrarious were these two: the one a man upon whose laureled brow gray hairs were growing! glory ever new shall circle him in after years as now; for spent detraction may not disavow the world of knowledge with the wit combined, the elastic force no burden e'er could bow, the various talents and the single mind, which give him moral power and mastery o'er mankind. "his sixty summers--what are they in truth? by providence peculiarly blest, with him the strong hilarity of youth abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest, his sun has veered a point toward the west, but light as dawn his heart is glowing yet-- that heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best, where truth and manly tenderness are met with faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set."[ ] what further i will venture to say relates chiefly to the external circumstances of his life at keswick. his greatest relaxation was in a mountain excursion or a pic-nic by the side of one of the lakes, tarns, or streams; and these parties, of which he was the life and soul, will long live in the recollections of those who shared them. an excellent pedestrian (thinking little of a walk of twenty-five miles when upward of sixty), he usually headed the "infantry" on these occasions, looking on those gentlemen as idle mortals who indulged in the luxury of a mountain pony; feeling very differently in the bracing air of cumberland to what he did in spain in , when he delighted in being "gloriously lazy," in "sitting sideways upon an ass," and having even a boy to "propel" the burro. upon first coming down to the lakes he rather undervalued the pleasures of an al-fresco repast, preferring chairs and tables to the greensward of the mountains, or the moss-grown masses of rock by the lake shore; but these were probably the impressions of a cold, wet summer, and having soon learned thoroughly to appreciate these pleasures, he had his various chosen places which he thought it a sort of duty annually to revisit. of these i will name a few, as giving them, perhaps, an added interest to some future tourists. the summit of skiddaw he regularly visited, often three or four times in a summer, but the view thence was not one he greatly admired. sea-fell and helvellyn he ranked much higher, but on account of their distance did not often reach. saddleback and causey pike, two mountains rarely ascended by tourists, were great favorites with him, and were the summits most frequently chosen for a grand expedition; and the two tarns upon saddleback, threlkeld and bowscale tarns, were among the spots he thought most remarkable for grand and lonely beauty. this, too, was ground rendered more than commonly interesting, by having been the scenes of the childhood and early life of clifford the shepherd lord. the rocky streams of borrowdale, high up beyond stonethwaite and seathwaite, were also places often visited, especially one beautiful spot, where the river makes a sharp bend at the foot of eagle crag. the pass of honistar crag, leading from buttermere to borrowdale, furnished a longer excursion, which was occasionally taken with a sort of rustic pomp in the rough market carts of the country, before the cars which are now so generally used had become common, or been permitted by their owners to travel that worst of all roads. occasionally there were grand meetings with mr. wordsworth, and his family and friends, at leatheswater (or thirlmere), a point about half way between keswick and rydal; and here as many as fifty persons have sometimes met together from both sides of the country. these were days of great enjoyment, not to be forgotten. [illustration: vale of watenlath.] there was also an infinite variety of long walks, of which he could take advantage when opportunity served, without the preparation and trouble of a preconcerted expedition: several of these are alluded to in his colloquies. the circuit formed by passing behind barrow and lodore to the vale of watenlath, placed up high among the hills, with its own little lake and village, and the rugged path leading thence down to borrowdale, was one of the walks he most admired. the beautiful vale of st. johns, with its "castle rock" and picturesquely placed little church, was another favorite walk; and there were a number of springs of unusual copiousness situated near what had been apparently a deserted, and now ruined village, where he used to take luncheon. the rocky bed of the little stream at the foot of causey pike was a spot he loved to rest at; and the deep pools of the stream that flows down the adjoining valley of new lands-- "whose pure and chrysolite waters flow o'er a schistose bed," formed one of his favorite resorts for bathing. yet these excursions, although for a few years he still continued to enjoy them, began in later life to wear to him something of a melancholy aspect. so many friends were dead who had formerly shared them, and his own domestic losses were but too vividly called to mind with the remembrance of former days of enjoyment, the very grandeur of the scenery around many of the chosen places, and the unchanging features of the "everlasting hills," brought back forcibly sad memories, and these parties became in time so painful that it was with difficulty he could be prevailed upon to join in them. he concealed, indeed, as the reader has seen, beneath a reserved manner, a most acutely sensitive mind, and a warmth and kindliness of feeling which was only understood by few, indeed, perhaps, not thoroughly by any. he said, speaking of the death of his uncle, mr. hill, that one of the sources of consolation to him was the thought that perhaps the departed might then be conscious how truly he had loved and honored him; and i believe the depth of his affection and the warmth of his friendship was known to none but himself. on one particular point i remember his often regretting his constitutional bashfulness and reserve; and that was, because, added to his retired life and the nature of his pursuits, it prevented him from knowing any thing of the persons among whom he lived. long as he had resided at keswick, i do not think there were twenty persons in the lower class whom he knew by sight; and though this was in some measure owing to a slight degree of short-sightedness, which, contrary to what is usual, came on in later life, yet i have heard him often lament it as not being what he thought right; and after slightly returning the salutation of some passer by, he would again mechanically lift his cap as he heard some well-known name in reply to his inquiries, and look back with regret that the greeting had not been more cordial. with those persons who were occasionally employed about the house he was most familiarly friendly, and these regarded him with a degree of affectionate reverence that could not be surpassed. it may perhaps be expected by some readers that a more accurate account of my father's income should be given than has yet appeared; but this is not an easy matter, from its extreme variableness, and this it was that constituted a continual source of uneasiness both to others and to himself, rarely as he acknowledged it. a common error has been to speak of him as one to whom literature has been a mine of wealth. that his political opponents should do this is not so strange; but even charles lamb, who, if he had thought a little, would hardly have written so rashly, says, in a letter to bernard barton, recently published, that "southey has made a fortune by book drudgery." what sort of a "fortune" that was which never once permitted him to have one year's income beforehand, and compelled him almost always to forestall the profit of his new works, the reader may imagine. his only certain source of income[ ] was his pension, from which he received £ , and the laureateship, which was £ : the larger portion of these two sums, however, went to the payment of his life-insurance, so that not more than £ could be calculated upon as available, and the quarterly review was therefore for many years his chief means of support. he received latterly £ for an article, and commonly furnished one for each number. what more was needful had to be made up by his other works, which as they were always published upon the terms of the publisher taking the risk and sharing the profits, produced him but little, considering the length of time they were often in preparation, and as he was constantly adding new purchases to his library, but little was to be reckoned upon this account. for the peninsular war he received £ , but the copyright remained the property of the publisher. with regard to his mode of life, although it was as simple and inexpensive as possible, his expenditure was with difficulty kept within his income, though he had indeed a most faithful helpmate, who combined with a wise and careful economy a liberality equal to his own in any case of distress. one reason for this difficulty was, that considerable sums were, not now and then, but regularly, drawn from him by his less successful relatives. the house which for so many years was his residence at keswick, though well situated both for convenience and for beauty of prospect, was unattractive in external appearance, and to most families would have been an undesirable residence. having originally been two houses, afterward thrown together, it consisted of a good many small rooms, connected by long passages, all of which with great ingenuity he made available for holding books, with which indeed the house was lined from top to bottom. his own sitting-room, which was the largest in the house, was filled with the handsomest of them, arranged with much taste, according to his own fashion, with due regard to size, color, and condition; and he used to contemplate these, his carefully accumulated and much prized treasures, with even more pleasure and pride than the greatest connoisseur his finest specimens of the old masters: and justly, for they were both the necessaries and the luxuries of life to him; both the very instruments whereby he won, hardly enough, his daily bread, and the source of all his pleasures and recreations--the pride of his eyes and the joy of his heart. his spanish and portuguese collection, which at one time was one of the best, if not itself the best to be found in the possession of any private individual, was the most highly-prized portion of his library. it had been commenced by his uncle, mr. hill, long prior to my father's first visit to lisbon; and having originated in the love mr. hill himself had for the literature of those countries, it was carried forward with more ardor when he found that his nephew's taste and abilities were likely to turn it to good account. it comprised a considerable number of manuscripts, some of them copied by mr. hill from rare mss. in private and convent libraries. many of these old books being in vellum or parchment bindings, he had taken much pains to render them ornamental portions of the furniture of his shelves. his brother thomas was skillful in calligraphy; and by his assistance their backs were painted with some bright color, and upon it the title placed lengthwise in large gold letters of the old english type. any one who had visited his library will remember the tastefully-arranged pyramids of these curious-looking books. another fancy of his was to have all those books of lesser value, which had become ragged and dirty, covered, or rather bound, in colored cotton prints, for the sake of making them clean and respectable in their appearance, it being impossible to afford the cost of having so many put into better bindings. of this task his daughters, aided by any female friends who might be staying with them, were the performers; and not fewer than from to volumes were so bound by them at different times, filling completely one room, which he designated as the cottonian library. with this work he was much interested and amused, as the ladies would often suit the pattern to the contents, clothing a quaker work or a book of sermons in sober drab, poetry in some flowery design, and sometimes contriving a sly piece of satire at the contents of some well-known author by their choice of its covering. one considerable convenience attended this eccentric mode of binding--the book became as well known by its dress as by its contents, and much more easily found. with respect to his mode of acquiring and arranging the contents of a book, it was somewhat peculiar. he was as rapid a reader as could be conceived, having the power of perceiving by a glance down the page whether it contained any thing which he was likely to make use of--a slip of paper lay on his desk, and was used as a marker, and with a slight penciled s he would note the passage, put a reference on the paper, with some brief note of the subject, which he could transfer to his note-book, and in the course of a few hours he had classified and arranged every thing in the work which it was likely he would ever want. it was thus, with a remarkable memory (not so much for the facts or passages themselves, but for their existence and the authors that contained them), and with this kind of index, both to it and them, that he had at hand a command of materials for whatever subject he was employed upon, which has been truly said to be "unequaled." many of the choicest passages he would transcribe himself at odds and ends of times, or employ one of his family to transcribe for him; and these are the extracts which form his "commonplace book," recently published; but those of less importance he had thus within reach in case he wished to avail himself of them. the quickness with which this was done was very remarkable. i have often known him receive a parcel of books one afternoon, and the next have found his mark throughout perhaps two or three different volumes; yet, if a work took his attention particularly, he was not rapid in its perusal; and on some authors, such as the old divines, he "fed," as he expressed it, slowly and carefully, dwelling on the page and taking in its contents deeply and deliberately--like an epicure with his "wine searching the subtle flavor." his library at his death consisted of about , volumes; probably the largest number of books ever collected by a person of such limited means. among these he found most of the materials for all he did, and almost all he wished to do; and though sometimes he lamented that his collection was not a larger one, it is probable that it was more to his advantage that it was in some degree limited. as it was, he collected an infinitely greater quantity of materials for every subject he was employed upon than ever he made use of, and his published notes give some idea, though an inadequate one, of the vast stores he thus accumulated. on this subject he writes to his cousin, herbert hill, at that time one of the librarians of the "bodleian:"--"when i was at the british museum the other day, walking through the rooms with carey, i felt that to have lived in that library, or in such a one, would have rendered me perfectly useless, even if it had not made me mad. the sight of such countless volumes made me feel how impossible it would be to pursue any subject through all the investigations into which it would lead me, and that therefore i should either lose myself in the vain pursuit, or give up in despair, and read for the future with no other object than that of immediate gratification. this was an additional reason for being thankful for my own lot, aware as i am that i am always tempted to pursue a train of inquiry too far." the reader need not be told that the sorrows and anxieties of the last few years of my father's life had produced, as might be expected, a very injurious effect upon his constitution, both as to body and mind. acutely sensitive by nature, deep and strong in his affections, and highly predisposed to nervous disease, he had felt the sad affliction which had darkened his latter years far more keenly than any ordinary observer would have supposed, or than even appears in his letters. he had, indeed, then, as he expressed himself in his letter declining the baronetcy, been "shaken at the root;" and while we must not forget the more than forty years of incessant mental application which he had passed through, it was this stroke of calamity which most probably greatly hastened the coming of the evil day, if it was not altogether the cause of it, and which rapidly brought on that overclouding of the intellect which soon unequivocally manifested itself. this, indeed, in its first approaches, had been so gradual as to have almost escaped notice; and it was not until after the sad truth was fully ascertained, that indications of failure (some of which i have already alluded to) which had appeared some time previously, were called to mind. a loss of memory on certain points, a lessening acuteness of the perceptive faculties, an occasional irritability (wholly unknown in him before); a confusion of time, place, and person; the losing his way in well-known places--all were remembered as having taken place, when the melancholy fact had become too evident that the powers of his mind were irreparably weakened. on his way home in the year , he passed a few days in london, and then his friends plainly saw, what, from the altered manner of the very few and brief letters he had latterly written, they had already feared, that he had so failed as to have lost much of the vigor and activity of his faculties. the impressions of one of his most intimate friends, as conveyed at the time by letter, may fitly be quoted here. "i have just come home from a visit which affected me deeply.... it was to southey, who arrived in town to-day from hampshire with his wife.... he is (i fear) much altered. the animation and peculiar clearness of his mind quite gone, except a gleam or two now and then. what he said was much in the spirit of his former mind as far as the matter and meaning went, but the tone of strength and elasticity was wanting. the appearance was that of a placid languor, sometimes approaching to torpor, but not otherwise than cheerful. he is thin and shrunk in person, and that extraordinary face of his has no longer the fire and strength it used to have, though the singular cast of the features, and the habitual expressions, make it still a most remarkable phenomenon. upon the whole, i came away with a troubled heart." ... after a brief account of the great trials of my father's late years, the writer continues: "he has been living since his marriage in hampshire, where he has not had the aid of his old habits and accustomed books to methodize his mind. all this considered, i think we may hope that a year or two of quiet living at his own home may restore him. his easy, cheerful temperament will be greatly in his favor. you must help me to hope this, for i could not bear to think of the decay of that great mind and noble nature--at least not of its premature decay. pray that this may be averted, as i have this night."[ ] on the following day the same friend writes: "i think i am a little relieved about southey to-day. i have seen him three times in the course of the day, and on each occasion he was so easy and cheerful that i should have said his manner and conversation did not differ, in the most part, from what it would have been in former days, if he had happened to be very tired. i say for the most part only, though, for there was once an obvious confusion of ideas. he lost himself for a moment; he was conscious of it, and an expression passed over his countenance which was exceedingly touching--an expression of pain and also of resignation. i am glad to learn from his brother that he is aware of his altered condition, and speaks of it openly. this gives a better aspect to the case than if he could believe that nothing was the matter with him. another favorable circumstance is, that he will deal with himself wisely and patiently. the charm of his manner is perhaps even enhanced at present (at least when one knows the circumstances), by the gentleness and patience which pervade it. his mind is beautiful even in its debility." much of my father's failure in its early stages was at first ascribed by those anxiously watching him, to repeated attacks of the influenza--at that time a prevailing epidemic--from which he had suffered greatly, and to which he attributed his own feelings of weakness; but alas! the weakness he felt was as much mental as bodily (though he had certainly declined much in bodily strength), and after his return home it gradually increased upon him. the uncertain step--the confused manner--the eye once so keen and so intelligent, now either wandering restlessly or fixed as it were in blank contemplation--all showed that the over-wrought mind was worn out. one of the plainest signs of this was the cessation of his accustomed labors; but while doing nothing (with him how plain a proof that nothing could be done), he would frequently anticipate a coming period of his usual industry. his mind, while any spark of its reasoning powers remained, was busy with its old day-dreams--the history of portugal--the history of the monastic orders--the doctor--all were soon to be taken in hand in earnest--all completed, and new works added to these. for a considerable time after he had ceased to compose, he took pleasure in reading, and the habit continued after the power of comprehension was gone. his dearly-prized books, indeed, were a pleasure to him almost to the end, and he would walk slowly round his library looking at them, and taking them down mechanically. in the earlier stages of his disorder (if the term may be fitly applied to a case which was not a perversion of the faculties, but their decay) he could still converse at times with much of his old liveliness and energy. when the mind was, as it were, set going upon some familiar subject, for a little time you could not perceive much failure; but if the thread was broken, if it was a conversation in which new topics were started, or if any argument was commenced, his powers failed him at once, and a painful sense of this seemed to come over him for the moment. his recollection first failed as to recent events, and his thoughts appeared chiefly to dwell upon those long past, and as his mind grew weaker, these recollections seemed to recede still farther back. names he could rarely remember, and more than once, when trying to recall one which he felt he ought to know, i have seen him press his hand upon his brow and sadly exclaim, "memory! memory! where art thou gone?" but this failure altogether was so gradual, and at the same time so complete, that i am inclined to hope and believe there was not on the whole much painful consciousness of it; and certainly for more than a year preceding his death, he passed his time as in a dream, with little, if any knowledge of what went on around him. one circumstance connected with the latter years of his life deserves to be noticed as very singular. his hair, which previously was almost snowy white, grew perceptibly darker, and i think, if any thing, increased in thickness and a disposition to curl. but it is time i drew a vail over these latter scenes. they are too painful to dwell on. "a noble mind in sad decay, when baffled hope has died away, and life becomes one long distress in pitiable helplessness. methinks 'tis like a ship on shore, that once defied the atlantic's roar, and gallantly through gale and storm hath ventured her majestic form; but now in stranded ruin laid, by winds and dashing seas decayed, forgetful of her ocean reign, must crumble into earth again."[ ] in some cases of this kind, toward the end, some glimmering of reason re-appears, but this must be when the mind is obscured or upset, not, as in this case, apparently worn out. the body gradually grew weaker, and disorders appeared which the state of the patient rendered it almost impossible to treat properly; and, after a short attack of fever, the scene closed on the st of march, , and a second time had we cause to feel deeply thankful, when the change from life to death, or more truly from death to life, took place. it was a dark and stormy morning when he was borne to his last resting-place, at the western end of the beautiful church-yard of crosthwaite. there lies his dear son herbert--there his daughters emma and isabel--there edith, his faithful helpmate of forty years. but few besides his own family and immediate neighbors followed his remains. his only intimate friend within reach, mr. wordsworth, crossed the hills that wild morning to be present. soon after my father's death, various steps were taken with a view to erecting monuments to his memory; and considerable sums were quickly subscribed for that purpose, the list including the names of many persons, not only strangers to him personally, but also strongly opposed to him in political opinion. the result was that three memorials were erected. the first and principal one, a full length recumbent figure, was executed by lough, and placed in crosthwaite church, and is certainly an excellent likeness, as well as a most beautiful work of art. the original intention and agreement was, that it should be in caen stone, but the sculptor, with characteristic liberality, executed it in white marble, at a considerable sacrifice. [illustration: southey's tomb.] the following lines, by mr. wordsworth, are inscribed upon the base: "ye vales and hills, whose beauty hither drew the poet's steps, and fixed him here; on you his eyes have closed; and ye loved books, no more shall southey feed upon your precious lore, to works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown adding immortal labors of his own-- whether he traced historic truth with zeal for the state's guidance or the church's weal, or fancy disciplined by curious art informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart, or judgments sanctioned in the patriot's mind by reverence for the rights of all mankind. wide were his aims, yet in no human breast could private feelings meet in holier rest. his joys--his griefs--have vanished like a cloud from skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed through a life long and pure, and steadfast faith calmed in his soul the fear of change and death." footnotes: [footnote : from an unpublished chapter of the life and correspondence of robert southey, now in press by harper and brothers.] [footnote : during the several years that he was partially employed upon the life of dr. bell, he devoted two hours before breakfast to it in the summer, and as much time as there was daylight for, during the winter months, that it might not interfere with the usual occupations of the day. in all this time, however, he made but little progress in it; partly from the nature of the materials, partly from the want of sufficient interest in the subject.] [footnote : miss barker, the senhora of earlier days, who was living at that time in a house close to greta hall.] [footnote : notes to philip van artevelde, by henry taylor.] [footnote : i speak of a period prior to his receiving his last pension, which was granted in .] [footnote : august , .] [footnote : robert montgomery. the fourth line is altered from the original.] [illustration: madame campan.] madame campan.[ ] jane louisa henrietta campan was born at paris, . she was the daughter of m. genet, first clerk in the office of the minister of foreign affairs. he was fond of literature, and communicated a taste for it to his daughter, who early displayed considerable talents. she acquired a knowledge of foreign languages, particularly the italian and english, and was distinguished for her skill in reading and recitation. these acquisitions procured for her the place of reader to the french princesses, daughters of louis xv. on the marriage of marie-antoinette to the dauphin, afterward louis xvi., mademoiselle genet was attached to her suite, and continued, for twenty years, to occupy a situation about her person. her general intelligence and talent for observation, enabled madame campan, in the course of her service, to collect the materials for her "memoirs of the private life of the queen of france," first published in paris, and translated and printed in london, , in two volumes. this work is not only interesting for the information it affords, but is also very creditable to the literary talents of the authoress. soon after the appointment at court, mademoiselle genet was married to m. campan, son of the secretary of the queen's closet. when marie-antoinette was made a prisoner, madame campan begged to be permitted to accompany her royal mistress, and share her imprisonment, which was refused. madame campan was with the queen at the storming of the tuilleries, on the th of august, when she narrowly escaped with her life: and, under the rule of robespierre, she came near being sent to the guillotine. after the fall of that tyrant, she retired to the country, and opened a private seminary for young ladies, which she conducted with great success. josephine beauharnais sent her daughter, hortense, to the seminary of madame campan. she had also the sisters of the emperor under her care. in , napoleon founded the school of ecouen, for the daughters and sisters of the officers of the legion of honor, and appointed madame campan to superintend it. this institution was suppressed at the restoration of the bourbons, and madame campan retired to nantes, where she partly prepared her "memoirs," and other works. she died in , aged seventy. after her decease, her "private journal" was published; also, "familiar letters to her friends," and a work, which she considered her most important one, entitled "thoughts on education." we will give extracts from these works. from the "private journal." mesmer and his magnetism. at the time when mesmer made so much noise in paris with his magnetism, m. campan, my husband, was his partisan, like almost every person who moved in high life. to be magnetized was then a fashion; nay, it was more, it was absolutely a rage. in the drawing-rooms, nothing was talked of but the brilliant discovery. there was to be no more dying; people's heads were turned, and their imaginations heated in the highest degree. to accomplish this object, it was necessary to bewilder the understanding; and mesmer, with his singular language, produced that effect. to put a stop to the fit of public insanity was the grand difficulty; and it was proposed to have the secret purchased by the court. mesmer fixed his claims at a very extravagant rate. however, he was offered fifty thousand crowns. by a singular chance, i was one day led into the midst of the somnambulists. such was the enthusiasm of the spectators, that, in most of them, i could observe a wild rolling of the eye, and a convulsed movement of the countenance. a stranger might have fancied himself amidst the unfortunate patients of charenton. surprised and shocked at seeing so many people almost in a state of delirium, i withdrew, full of reflections on the scene which i had just witnessed. it happened that about this time my husband was attacked with a pulmonary disorder, and he desired that he might be conveyed to mesmer's house. being introduced into the apartment occupied by m. campan, i asked the worker of miracles what treatment he proposed to adopt; he very coolly replied, that to ensure a speedy and perfect cure, it would be necessary to lay in the bed of the invalid, at his left side, one of three things, namely, a young woman of brown complexion; a black hen; or an empty bottle. "sir," said i, "if the choice be a matter of indifference, pray try the empty bottle." m. campan's side grew worse; he experienced a difficulty of breathing and a pain in his chest. all magnetic remedies that were employed produced no effect. perceiving his failure, mesmer took advantage of the periods of my absence to bleed and blister the patient. i was not informed of what had been done until after m. campan's recovery. mesmer was asked for a certificate, to prove that the patient had been cured by means of magnetism only; and he gave it. here was a trait of enthusiasm! truth was no longer respected. when i next presented myself to the queen (marie-antoinette), their majesties asked what i thought of mesmer's discovery. i informed them of what had taken place, earnestly expressing my indignation at the conduct of the barefaced quack. it was immediately determined to have nothing more to do with him. the emperor alexander's visit to madame campan's school. the emperor inquired into the most minute particulars respecting the establishment at ecouen; and i felt great pleasure in answering his questions. i recollect having dwelt on several points which appeared to me very important, and which were in their spirit hostile to aristocratical principles. for example, i informed his majesty that the daughters of distinguished and wealthy individuals, and those of the humble and obscure, were indiscriminately mingled together in the establishment. if, said i, i were to observe the least pretension on account of the rank or fortune of parents, i should immediately put an end to it. the most perfect equality is preserved; distinction is awarded only to merit and industry. the pupils are obliged to cut and make all their own clothes. they are taught to clean and mend lace; and two at a time, they by turns, three times a week, cook and distribute victuals to the poor of the village. the young ladies who have been brought up in my boarding-school are thoroughly acquainted with every thing relating to household business; and they are grateful to me for having made it a part of their education. in my conversations with them, i have always taught them that _on domestic management depends the preservation or dissipation of their fortunes_. i impress on their minds the necessity of regulating with attention the most trifling daily expenses; but at the same time i recommend them to avoid making domestic details the subject of conversation in the drawing-room, for that is a most decided mark of ill-breeding. it is proper that all should know how to do and to direct; but it is only for ill-educated women to talk about their carriages, servants, washing, and cooking. these are the reasons, sire, why my pupils are generally superior to those brought up in other establishments. all is conducted on the most simple plan; the young ladies are taught every thing of which they can possibly stand in need; and they are consequently as much at their ease in the brilliant circles of fashion, as in the most humble condition of life. fortune confers rank, but education teaches how to support it properly. from the "letters," &c. to her only son. you are now, my dear henry, removed from my fond care and instruction; and young as you are, you have entered upon the vast theatre of the world. some years hence, when time shall have matured your ideas, and enabled you to take a clear, retrospective view of your steps in life, you will be able to enter into my feelings, and to judge of the anxiety which at this moment agitates my heart. when first a beloved child, releasing itself from its nurse's arms, ventures its little tottering steps on the soft carpet, or the smoothest grass-plot, the poor mother scarcely breathes; she imagines that these first efforts of nature are attended with every danger to the object most dear to her. fond mother, calm your anxious fears! your infant son can, at the worst, only receive a slight hurt, which, under your tender care, will speedily be healed. reserve your alarms, your heart-beatings, your prayers to providence, for the moment when your son enters upon the scene of the world to select a character, which, if sustained with dignity, judgment, and feeling, will render him universally esteemed and approved; or to degrade himself by filling one of those low, contemptible parts, fit only for the vilest actors in the drama of life. tremble at the moment when your child has to choose between the rugged road of industry and integrity, leading straight to honor and happiness; and the smooth and flowery path which descends, through indolence and pleasure, to the gulf of vice and misery. it is then that the voice of a parent, or of some faithful friend, must direct the right course.... surrounded as you doubtless are, by thoughtless and trifling companions, let your mother be the rallying point of your mind and heart; the confidant of all your plans.... learn to know the value of money. this is a most essential point. the want of economy leads to the decay of powerful empires, as well as private families. louis xvi. perished on the scaffold for a deficit of fifty millions. there would have been no debt, no assemblies of the people, no revolution, no loss of the sovereign authority, no tragical death, but for this fatal deficit. states are ruined through the mismanagement of millions, and private persons become bankrupts and end their lives in misery through the mismanagement of crowns worth six livres. it is very important, my dear son, that i lay down to you these first principles of right conduct, and impress upon your mind the necessity of adhering to them. render me an account of the expenditure of your money, not viewing me in the light of a rigid preceptress, but as a friend who wishes to accustom you to the habit of accounting to yourself.... let me impress upon you the importance of attentive application to business; for that affords certain consolation, and is a security against lassitude, and the vices which idleness creates.... be cautious how you form connections; and hesitate not to break them off on the first proposition to adopt any course which your affectionate mother warns you to avoid, as fatal to your real happiness, and to the attainment of that respect and esteem which it should be your ambition to enjoy.... never neglect to appropriate a certain portion of your time to useful reading; and do not imagine that even half an hour a day, devoted to that object, will be unprofitable. the best way of arranging and employing one's time is by calculation; and i have often reflected that half an hour's reading every day, will be one hundred and eighty hours' reading in the course of the year. great fortunes are amassed by little savings; and poverty as well as ignorance are occasioned by the extravagant waste of money and time.... my affection for you, my dear henry, is still as actively alive as when, in your infancy, i removed, patiently, every little stone from a certain space in my garden, lest, when you first ran alone, you might fall and hurt your face on the pebbles. but the snares now spread beneath your steps are far more dangerous. they are strengthened by seductive appearances, and the ardor of youth would hurry you forward to the allurement; but that my watchful care, and the confidence you repose in me, serve to counteract the influence of this twofold power. your bark is gliding near a rapid current; but your mother stands on the shore, and with her eyes fixed on her dear navigator, anxiously exclaims, in the moment of danger, "reef your sails; mind your helm." oh! may you never forget, or cease to be guided by these warnings, which come from my inmost heart. footnotes: [footnote : from mrs. hale's female biography, now in the press of harper & brothers.] procrastination. by charles mackay. if fortune with a smiling face strew roses on our way, when shall we stoop to pick them up? _to-day, my love, to-day._ but should she frown with face of care, and talk of coming sorrow, when shall we grieve, if grieve we must? _to-morrow, love, to-morrow._ if those who've wrong'd us own their fault, and kindly pity pray, when shall we listen, and forgive? _to-day, my love, to-day._ but if stern justice urge rebuke, and warmth from memory borrow, when shall we chide, if chide we dare? _to-morrow, love, to-morrow._ if those to whom we owe a debt are harmed unless we pay, when shall we struggle to be just? _to-day, my love, to-day._ but if our debtor fail our hope, and plead his ruin thorough, when shall we weigh his breach of faith? _to-morrow, love, to-morrow._ if love estranged should once again her genial smile display, when shall we kiss her proffered lips? _to-day, my love, to-day._ but if she would indulge regret, or dwell with bygone sorrow, when shall we weep, if weep we must? _to-morrow, love, to-morrow._ for virtuous acts and harmless joys the minutes will not stay; we've always time to welcome them, _to-day, my love, to-day._ but care, resentment, angry words, and unavailing sorrow, come far too soon, if they appear _to-morrow, love, to-morrow._ [illustration: bona lombardi.] brunoro.[ ] bona lombardi, was born in , in sacco, a little village in vattellina. her parents were obscure peasants, of whom we have but little information. the father, gabriel lombardi, a private soldier, died while she was an infant; and her mother not surviving him long, the little girl was left to the charge of an aunt, a hard-working countrywoman, and an uncle, an humble curate. bona, in her simple peasant station, exhibited intelligence, decision of character, and personal beauty, which raised her to a certain consideration in the estimation of her companions; and the neighborhood boasted of the beauty of bona when an incident occurred which was to raise her to a most unexpected rank. in the war between the duke of milan and the venetians, the latter had been routed and driven from vattellina. piccinino, the milanese general, upon departing to follow up his advantages, left captain brunoro, a parmesan gentleman, to maintain a camp in morbegno, as a central position, to maintain the conquered country. one day, after a hunting party, he stopped to repose himself, in a grove where many of the peasants were assembled for some rustic festival; he was greatly struck with the loveliness of a girl of about fifteen. upon entering into conversation with her, he was surprised at the ingenuity and spirited tone of her replies. speaking of the adventure on his return home, every body told him that bona lombardi had acknowledged claims to admiration. brunoro, remaining through the summer in that district, found many opportunities of seeing the fair peasant; becoming acquainted with her worth and character, he at last determined to make her the companion of his life; their marriage was not declared at first, but, to prevent a separation, however temporary, bona was induced to put on the dress of an officer. her husband delighted in teaching her horsemanship, together with all military exercises. she accompanied him in battle, fought by his side, and, regardless of her own safety, seemed to be merely an added arm to shield and assist brunoro. as was usual in those times, among the condottieri, brunoro adopted different lords, and fought sometimes in parties to which, at others, he was opposed. in these vicissitudes, he incurred the anger of the king of naples, who, seizing him by means of an ambuscade, plunged him into a dungeon, where he would probably have finished his days, but for the untiring and well-planned efforts of his wife. to effect his release, she spared no means; supplications, threats, money, all were employed, and, at last, with good success. she had the happiness of recovering her husband. bona was not only gifted with the feminine qualities of domestic affection and a well-balanced intellect; in the hottest battles, her bravery and power of managing her troops were quite remarkable; of these feats there are many instances recorded. we will mention but one. in the course of the milanese war, the venetians had been, on one occasion, signally discomfited in an attack upon the castle of povoze, in brescia. brunoro himself was taken prisoner, and carried into the castle. bona arrived with a little band of fresh soldiers; she rallied the routed forces, inspired them with new courage, led them on herself, took the castle, and liberated her husband, with the other prisoners. she was, however, destined to lose her husband without possibility of recovering him; he died in . when this intrepid heroine, victor in battles, and, rising above all adversity, was bowed by a sorrow resulting from affection, she declared she could not survive brunoro. she caused a tomb to be made, in which their remains could be united; and, after seeing the work completed, she gradually sank into a languid state, which terminated in her death. footnotes: [footnote : from mrs. hale's female biography.] [illustration: thomas de quincey] a sketch of my childhood. by the "english opium-eater." september , . to the editor of hogg's "instructor." my dear sir--i am much obliged to you for communicating to us (that is, to my daughters and myself) the engraved portrait, enlarged from the daguerreotype original. the engraver, at least, seems to have done his part ably. as to one of the earlier artists concerned, viz., the sun of july, i suppose it is not allowable to complain of _him_, else my daughters are inclined to upbraid him with having made the mouth too long. but, of old, it was held audacity to suspect the sun's veracity: "solem quis dicere falsum audeat!" and i remember that, half a century ago, the "sun" newspaper in london, used to fight under sanction of that motto. but it was at length discovered by the learned, that sun _junior_, viz., the newspaper, _did_ sometimes indulge in fibbing. the ancient prejudice about the solar truth broke down, therefore, in that instance; and who knows but sun _senior_ may be detected, now that our optical glasses are so much improved, in similar practices? in which case he may have only been "keeping his hand in" when operating upon that one feature of the mouth. the rest of the portrait, we all agree, does credit to his talents, showing that he is still wide-awake, and not at all the superannuated old artist that some speculators in philosophy had dreamed of his becoming. as an accompaniment to this portrait, your wish is that i should furnish a few brief chronological memoranda of my own life. _that_ would be hard for me to do, and, _when_ done, might not be very interesting for others to read. nothing makes such dreary and monotonous reading as the old hackneyed roll-call, chronologically arrayed, of inevitable facts in a man's life. one is so certain of the man's having been born, and also of his having died, that it is dismal to lie under the necessity of reading it. that the man began by being a boy--that he went to school--and that, by intense application to his studies, "which he took to be _his_ portion in this life," he rose to distinction as a robber of orchards, seems so probable, upon the whole, that i am willing to accept it as a postulate. that he married--that, in fullness of time, he was hanged, or (being a humble, unambitious man) that he was content with deserving it--these little circumstances are so naturally to be looked for, as sown broadcast up and down the great fields of biography, that any one life becomes, in this respect, but the echo of thousands. chronologic successions of events and dates, such as these, which, belonging to the race, illustrate nothing in the individual, are as wearisome as they are useless. a better plan will be--to detach some single chapter from the experiences of childhood, which is likely to offer, at least, this kind of value--either that it will record some of the deep impressions under which my childish sensibilities expanded, and the ideas which at that time brooded continually over my mind, or else will expose the traits of character that slumbered in those around me. this plan will have the advantage of not being liable to the suspicion of vanity or egotism; for i beg the reader to understand distinctly, that i do not offer this sketch as deriving any part of what interest it may have from myself, as the person concerned in it. if the particular experience selected is really interesting, in virtue of its own circumstances, then it matters not to _whom_ it happened. suppose that a man should record a perilous journey, it will be no fair inference that he records it as a journey performed by himself. most sincerely he may be able to say, that he records it not _for_ that relation to himself, but _in spite of_ that relation. the incidents, being absolutely independent, in their power to amuse, of all personal reference, must be equally interesting [he will say] whether they occurred to a or to b. that is _my_ case. let the reader abstract from _me_ as a person that by accident, or in some partial sense, may have been previously known to himself. let him read the sketch as belonging to one who wishes to be profoundly anonymous. i offer it not as owing any thing to its connection with a particular individual, but as likely to be amusing separately for itself; and if i make any mistake in _that_, it is not a mistake of vanity exaggerating the consequence of what relates to my own childhood, but a simple mistake of the judgment as to the power of amusement that may attach to a particular succession of reminiscences. excuse the imperfect development which in some places of the sketch may have been given to my meaning. i suffer from a most afflicting derangement of the nervous system, which at times makes it difficult for me to write at all, and always makes me impatient, in a degree not easily understood, of recasting what may seem insufficiently, or even incoherently, expressed.--believe me, ever yours, thomas de quincey. a sketch from childhood. about the close of my sixth year, suddenly the first chapter of my life came to a violent termination; that chapter which, and which only, in the hour of death, or even within the gates of recovered paradise, could merit a remembrance. "it is finished," was the secret misgiving of my heart, for the heart even of infancy is as apprehensive as that of maturest wisdom, in relation to any capital wound inflicted on the happiness; "it is finished, and life is exhausted." how? could it be exhausted so soon? had i read milton, had i seen rome, had i heard mozart? no. the "paradise lost" was yet unread, the coliseum and st. peter's were unseen, the melodies of don giovanni were yet silent for me. raptures there might be in arrear. but raptures are modes of _troubled_ pleasure; the peace, the rest, the lulls, the central security, which belong to love, that is past all understanding, _those_ could return no more. such a love, so unfathomable, subsisting between myself and my eldest sister, under the circumstances of our difference in age (she being above eight years of age, i under six), and of our affinities in nature, together with the sudden foundering of all this blind happiness, i have described elsewhere.[ ] i shall not here repeat any part of the narrative. but one extract from the closing sections of the paper i shall make; in order to describe the depth to which a child's heart may be plowed up by one over-mastering storm of grief, and as a proof that grief, in some of its fluctuations, is not uniformly a depressing passion--but also by possibility has its own separate aspirations, and at times is full of cloudy grandeur. the point of time is during the months that immediately succeeded to my sister's funeral. "the awful stillness of summer noons, when no winds were abroad--the appealing silence of gray or misty afternoons--these were to me, in that state of mind, fascinations, as of witchcraft. into the woods, or the desert air, i gazed as if some comfort lay in _them_. i wearied the heavens with my inquest of beseeching looks. i tormented the blue depths with obstinate scrutiny, sweeping them with my eyes, and searching them forever, after one angelic face, that might perhaps have permission to reveal itself for a moment. the faculty of shaping images in the distance, out of slight elements, and grouping them after the yearnings of the heart, grew upon me at this time. and i recall at the present moment one instance of that sort, which may show how merely shadows, or a gleam of brightness, or nothing at all, could furnish a sufficient basis for this creative faculty. on sunday mornings i was always taken to church. it was a church on the old and natural model of england, having aisles, galleries, organ, all things ancient and venerable, and the proportions majestic. here, while the congregation knelt through the long litany, as often as we came to that passage, so beautiful among the many that are so, where god is supplicated on behalf of 'all sick persons and young children,' and that he 'would show his pity upon all prisoners and captives', i wept in secret; and, raising my streaming eyes to the windows of the galleries, saw, on days when the sun was shining, a spectacle as affecting as ever prophet can have beheld. the margins of the windows were rich in storied glass; through the deep purples and crimsons streamed the golden light; emblazonries of heavenly illumination mingling with the earthly emblazonries of what is grandest in man. _there_ were the apostles that had trampled upon earth, and the glories of earth, out of celestial love to man. _there_ were the martyrs that had borne witness to the truth through flames, through torments, and through armies of fierce, insulting faces. _there_ were the saints that, under intolerable pangs, had glorified god by meek submission to his will. and all the time, while this tumult of sublime memorials held on as the deep chords of some accompaniment in the bass, i saw through the wide central field of the window, where the glass was _un_colored, white fleecy clouds sailing over the azure depths of the sky; were it but a fragment or a hint of such a cloud, immediately, under the flash of my sorrow-haunted eye, it grew and shaped itself into a vision of beds with white lawny curtains; and in the beds lay sick children, dying children, that were tossing in anguish, and weeping clamorously for death. god, for some mysterious reason, could not suddenly release them from their pain; but he suffered the beds, as it seemed, to rise slowly through the clouds; slowly the beds ascended into the chambers of the air; slowly, also, his arms descended from the heavens, in order that he and his young children whom in judea, once and forever, he had blessed, though they _must_ pass slowly through the dreadful chasm of separation, might yet meet the sooner. these visions were self-sustained. these visions needed not that any sound should speak to me, or music mould my feelings. the hint from the litany, the fragment from the clouds, the pictures on the storied windows were sufficient. but not the less the blare of the tumultuous organ wrought its own separate creations. and often-times in anthems, when the mighty instrument threw its vast columns of sound, fierce, yet melodious, over the voices of the choir--high in arches when it rose, seeming to surmount and over-ride the strife of the vocal parts, and gathering by strong coercion the total storm of music into unity--sometimes i also seemed to rise and to walk triumphantly upon those clouds, which so recently i had looked up to as mementoes of prostrate sorrow. yes; sometimes, under the transfigurations of music, i felt of grief itself, as a fiery chariot for mounting victoriously above the causes of grief." the next (which was the _second_) chapter of my childish experience, formed that sort of fierce and fantastic contradiction to the first, which might seem to move in obedience to some incarnate principle of malicious pantomime. a spirit of love, and a spirit of rest, as if breathing from st. john the evangelist, had seemed to mould the harmonies of that earliest stage in my childhood which had just vanished; but now, on the other hand, some wicked harlequin mephistopheles was apparently commissioned to vex my eyes and plague my heart, through the next succession of two or three years: a worm was at the roots of life. yet, in this, perhaps, there lurked a harsh beneficence. if, because the great vision of love had vanished, idiocy and the torpor of despondency were really creeping stealthily over my faculties, and strangling their energies, what better change for me than the necessity (else how miserable!) of fighting, wrangling, struggling, without pause, or promise of pause, from day to day, or even from year to year? "if," as my good angel might have said to me, "thou art moving on a line of utter ruin, from mere palsy of one great vital force, and if that loss is past all restoration, then kindle a new supplementary life by such means as are now possible--by the agitations, for instance, of strife and conflict"--yes, possible, on the wide stage of the world, and for people who should be free agents enough to _make_ enemies, in case they failed to find them; but for a child, not seven years old, to whom his medical advisers should prescribe a course of hatred, or continued hostilities, by way of tonics, in what quarter was _he_ to look out for such luxuries? who would condescend to officiate as _enemy_ to a child! and yet, as regarded my own particular case, had i breathed out any such querulous demand, that same harlequin mephistopheles might have whispered in reply, "never you trouble yourself about _that_. do _you_ furnish the patience that can swallow cheerfully a long course of kicking, and _i_'ll find those that shall furnish the kicks." in fact, at this very moment, when all chance of quarrel, or opening for prolonged enmity, seemed the remotest of chimeras, mischief was already in the wind; and suddenly there was let loose upon me such a storm of belligerent fury as might, under good management, have yielded a life-annuity of feuds. i had at that time an elder brother, in fact, the eldest of us all, and at least five years senior to myself. he, by original temperament, was a boy of fiery nature, ten times more active than i was inert, loving the element of feuds and stormy conflict more (if that were possible) than i detested it; and these constitutional tendencies had in him been nursed by the training of a public school. this accident in his life was indeed the cause of our now meeting as strangers. singular, indeed, it seems, but, in fact, had arisen naturally enough, that both this eldest of my brothers, and my father, should be absolute strangers to me in my seventh year; so that, in the case of meeting either, i should not have known him, nor he me. in my father's case, this arose from the accident of his having lived abroad for a space that, measured against _my_ life, was a very long one. first, he lived in portugal, at lisbon; and at cintra; next in madeira; then in the west indies; sometimes in jamaica, sometimes in st. kitts, courting the supposed benefit of hot climates in his complaint of pulmonary consumption; and at last, when all had proved unavailing, he was coming home to die among his family, in his thirty-ninth year. my mother had gone to wait his arrival at the port (southampton, probably), to which the west india packet should bring him; and among the deepest recollections which i connect with that period, is one derived from the night of his arrival at greenhay. it was a summer evening of unusual solemnity. the servants, and four of us children--six then survived--were gathered for hours, on the lawn before the house, listening for the sound of wheels. sunset came--nine, ten, eleven o'clock, and nearly another hour had passed--without a warning sound; for greenhay, being so solitary a house, formed a _terminus ad quem_, beyond which was nothing but a cluster of cottages, composing the little hamlet of greenhill; so that any sound of wheels, heard in the winding lane which then connected us with the rusholme road, carried with it, of necessity, a warning summons to prepare for visitors at greenhay. no such summons had yet reached us; it was nearly midnight; and, for the last time, it was determined that we should move in a body out of the grounds, on the chance of meeting the traveling party, if, at so late an hour, it could yet be expected to arrive. in fact, to our general surprise, we met it almost immediately, but coming at so slow a pace, that the fall of the horses' feet was not audible until we were close upon them. i mention the case for the sake of the undying impressions which connected themselves with the circumstances. the first notice of the approach was the sudden emerging of horses' heads from the deep gloom of the shady lane; the next was the mass of white pillows against which the dying patient was reclining. the hearse-like pace at which the carriage moved recalled the overwhelming spectacle of the funeral which had so lately formed part in the most memorable event of my life. but these elements of awe, that might at any rate have struck forcibly upon the mind of a child, were for me, in my condition of morbid nervousness, raised into abiding grandeur by the antecedent experiences of that particular summer night. the listening for hours to the sounds from horses' hoofs upon distant roads, rising and falling, caught and lost, upon the gentle undulation of such light, fitful airs as might be stirring--the peculiar solemnity of the hours succeeding to sunset--the gorgeousness of the dying day--the gorgeousness which, by description, so well i knew of those west indian islands from which my father was returning--the knowledge that he returned only to die--the almighty pomp in which this great idea of death appareled itself to my young suffering heart--the corresponding pomp in which the antagonistic idea, not less mysterious, of life, rose, as if on wings, to the heavens, amidst tropic glories and floral pageantries, that seemed even _more_ solemn and more pathetic than, the vapory plumes and trophies of mortality--all this chorus of restless images, or of suggestive thoughts, gave to my father's return, which else had been fitted only to interpose a transitory illumination or red-letter day in the calendar of a child, the shadowy power of an ineffaceable agency among my dreams. this, indeed, was the one sole memorial which restores my father's image to me as a personal reality. otherwise, he would have been for me a bare _nominis umbra_. he languished, indeed, for weeks upon a sofa; and, during that interval, it happened naturally, from my meditative habits and corresponding repose of manners, that i was a privileged visitor to him during his waking hours. i was also present at his bed-side in the closing hour of his life, which exhaled quietly, amidst snatches of delirious conversation with some imaginary visitors. from this brief childish experience of his nature and disposition, the chief conclusion which i drew tended to this--that he was the most _benignant_ person whom i had met, or was likely to meet, in life. what i have since heard from others, who knew him well, tallied with my own childish impression. his life had been too busy to allow him much time for regular study; but he loved literature with a passionate love; had formed a large and well-selected library; had himself published a book, which i have read, and which really is not a bad one; and carried his reverence for distinguished authors to such a height, that (according to the report, of several among his friends) had either dr. johnson, or cowper, the poet--the two contemporary authors whom most he reverenced--happened to visit greenhay, he might have been tempted to express his homage through the pagan fashion of raising altars and burning incense, or of sacrificing, if not an ox, yet, at least, a baron of beef. the latter mode of idolatry dr. sam, would have approved, provided always that the _nidor_ were irreproachable, and that the condiments of mustard, horse-radish, &c., _more anglico_, were placed on the altar; but as to cowper, who was in the habit of tracing captain cooke's death at owyhee to the fact that the misjudging captain had once suffered himself to be worshiped at one of the society islands, in all consistency, he must have fled from such a house with sacred horror. why i have at all gone back to this little parenthesis in my childhood is, from the singularity that i should remember my father at all, only because i had received all my impressions about him into the very centre of my preconceptions about certain grand objects--about the tropics, about summer evenings, and about some mysterious glory of the grave. it seems metaphysical to say so, but yet it is true that i knew him, speaking scholastically, through _à priori_ ideas--i remember him _transcendenter_--and, were it not for the midsummer night's dream which glorified his return, to me he would have remained forever that absolute stranger, which, according to the prosaic interpretation of the case, he really was. my brother was a stranger from causes quite as little to be foreseen, but seeming quite as natural after they had really occurred. in an early stage of his career, he had been found wholly unmanageable. his genius for mischief amounted to inspiration; it was a divine _afflatus_ which drove him in that direction; and such was his capacity for riding in whirlwinds and directing storms, that he made it his trade to create them, as [greek: nephelêgerheta zehys] a cloud-compelling jove, in order that he _might_ direct them. for this, and other reasons, he had been sent to the grammar school of louth, in lincolnshire--one of those many old classic institutions which form the peculiar[ ] glory of england. to box, and to box under the severest restraint of honorable laws, was in those days a mere necessity of school-boy life at _public_ schools; and hence the superior manliness, generosity, and self-control, of those generally who benefited by such discipline--so systematically hostile to all meanness, pusillanimity, or indirectness. cowper, in his poem on that subject, is far from doing justice to our great public schools. himself disqualified, by delicacy of temperament, for reaping the benefits from such a warfare, and having suffered too much in his own westminster experience, he could not judge them from an impartial station; but i, though ill enough adapted to an atmosphere so stormy, yet, having tried both classes of schools, public and private, am compelled in mere conscience to give my vote (and, if i had a thousand votes, to give _all_ my votes) for the former. fresh from such a training as this, and at a time when his additional five or six years availed nearly to make _his_ age the double of mine, my brother very naturally despised me; and, from his exceeding frankness, he took no pains to conceal that he did. why should he? who was it that could have a right to feel aggrieved by his contempt? who, if not myself? but it happened, on the contrary, that i had a perfect craze for being despised. i doated on being despised; and considered contempt the sincerest a sort of luxury, that i was in continual fear of losing. i lived in a panic, lest i should be suspected of shamming contemptibility. but i did _not_ sham it. i trusted that i was really entitled to contempt; and, for this, i had some metaphysical-looking reasons, which there may be occasion to explain further on. at present, it is sufficient to give a colorable rationality to my craze, if i say, that the slightest approach to any favorable construction of my intellectual pretensions, any, the least, shadow of esteem expressed for some thought or some logical distinction that i might incautiously have dropped, alarmed me beyond measure, because it pledged me in a manner with the hearer to support this first attempt by a second, by a third, by a fourth--oh, heavens! there is no saying how far the horrid man might go in his unreasonable demands upon me. i groaned under the weight of his expectations; and, if i laid but the first round of such a staircase, why, then, i saw in vision a vast jacob's ladder towering upward to the clouds, mile after mile, league after league; the consequence of which would be, that i should be expected to run up and down this ladder, like any fatigue party of irish hodmen, carrying hods of mortar and bricks to the top of any babel which my wretched admirer might choose to build. but i put a stop to this villainy. i nipped the abominable system of extortion in the very bud, by refusing to take the first step. the man could have no pretense, you know, for expecting me to climb the third or fourth round, when i had seemed quite unequal to the first. professing the most absolute bankruptcy from the very beginning, giving the man no sort of hope that i would pay even one farthing in the pound, i never could be made miserable, or kept in hot water, by unknown responsibilities, or by endless anxieties about some bill being presented, which the monster might pretend for one moment that i had indorsed, or in some way had sanctioned his expecting that i would pay. still, with all this passion for being despised, which was so essential to my peace of mind, i found at times an altitude--a starry altitude--in the station of contempt for me assumed by my brother that nettled me. sometimes, indeed, the mere necessities of dispute carried me, before i was aware of my own imprudence, so far up the stair-case of babel, that my brother was shaken for a moment in the infinity of his contempt: and, before long, when my superiority in some bookish accomplishments displayed itself, by results that could not be entirely dissembled, mere foolish human nature forced me on rare occasions into some trifle of exultation at these retributory triumphs. but more often i was disposed to grieve over them. they tended to shake that solid foundation of utter despicableness upon which i relied so much for my freedom from anxiety; and, therefore, upon the whole, it was satisfactory to my mind that my brother's opinion of me, after any little transient oscillation, gravitated determinately back toward that settled contempt which had been the result of his original inquest. the pillars of hercules, upon which rested the vast edifice of his scorn, were these two-- st, my physics; he denounced me for effeminacy: d, he assumed, and even postulated as a _datum_, which i myself could never have the face to refuse, my general idiocy. physically, therefore, and intellectually, he looked upon me as below notice; but, _morally_, he assured me that he would give me a written character of the very best description, whenever i chose to apply for it. "you're honest," he said; "you're willing, though lazy; you _would_ pull, if you had the strength of a flea; and, though a monstrous coward, you don't run away." my own demurs to these harsh judgments were not many. the idiocy i confessed; because, though positive that i was not uniformly an idiot, i felt inclined to think that, in a majority of cases, i really _was_; and there were more reasons for thinking so than the reader is yet aware of. but, as to the effeminacy, i denied it _in toto_, and with good reason, as will be seen. neither did my brother pretend to have any experimental proofs of it. the ground he went upon was a mere _à priori_ one, viz., that i had always been tied to the apron-string of women or girls; which amounted at most to this: that, by training and the natural tendency of circumstances, i _ought_ to be effeminate--that is, there was reason to expect beforehand that i _should_ be so; but, then, the more merit in me, if, in spite of such general presumptions, i really were _not_. in fact, my brother soon learned better than any body, and by a daily experience, how entirely he might depend upon me for carrying out the most audacious of his own warlike plans; such plans, it is true, that i abominated; but _that_ made no difference in the fidelity with which i tried to fulfill them. this eldest brother of mine, to pass from my own character to his, was in all respects a remarkable boy. haughty he was, aspiring, immeasurably active; fertile in resources as robinson crusoe; but also full of quarrel as it is possible to imagine; and, in default of any other opponent, he would have fastened a quarrel upon his own shadow for presuming to run before him when going westward in the morning, whereas, in all reason, a shadow, like a dutiful child, ought to keep deferentially in the rear of that majestic substance which is the author of its existence. books he detested, one and all, excepting only those which he happened to write himself. and they were not a few. on all subjects known to man, from the thirty-nine articles of our english church, down to pyrotechnics, legerdemain, magic, both black and white, thaumaturgy, and necromancy, he favored the world (which world was the nursery where i, on his first coming home, lived among my sisters) with his select opinions. on this last subject especially--of necromancy--he was very great; witness his profound work, though but a fragment, and, unfortunately, long since departed to the bosom of cinderella, entitled, "how to raise a ghost; and when you've got him down, how to keep him down." to which work he assured us, that some most learned and enormous man, whose name was six feet long, had promised him an appendix; which appendix treated of the red sea and solomon's signet-ring; with forms of _mittimus_ for ghosts that might be mutinous; and probably a riot act, for any _émeute_ among ghosts inclined to raise barricades; since he often thrilled our young hearts by supposing the case (not at all unlikely, he affirmed), that a federation, a solemn league and conspiracy, might take place among the infinite generations of ghosts against the single generation of men at any one time composing the garrison of earth. the roman phrase for expressing that a man had died, viz., "_abiit ad plures_" (he has gone over to the majority), my brother explained to us; and we easily comprehended that any one generation of the living human race, even if combined, and acting in concert, must be in a frightful minority, by comparison with all the incalculable generations that had trod this earth before us. the parliament of living men, lords and commons united, what a miserable array against the upper and lower house composing the parliament of ghosts. perhaps the pre-adamites would constitute one wing in such a ghostly army. my brother, dying in his sixteenth year, was far enough from seeing or foreseeing waterloo; else he might have illustrated this dreadful duel of the living human race with its ghostly predecessors, by the awful apparition which, at three o'clock in the afternoon, on the th of june, , the mighty contest at waterloo must have assumed to eyes that watched over the trembling interests of man. the english army, about that time in the great agony of its strife, was thrown into squares; and under that arrangement, which condensed and contracted its apparent numbers within a few black geometrical diagrams, how frightfully narrow--how spectral did its slender lines appear at a distance, to any philosophic spectators that knew the amount of human interests confided to that army, and the hopes for christendom that even then were trembling in the balance! such a disproportion, it seems, might exist, in the case of a ghostly war between the harvest of possible results and the slender band of reapers that were to gather it in. and there was even a worse peril than any analogous one that has been _proved_ to exist at waterloo. a british surgeon, indeed, in a work of two octavo volumes, has endeavored to show that a conspiracy was traced at waterloo, between two or three foreign regiments, for kindling a panic in the heat of the battle, by flight, and by a sustained blowing-up of tumbrils, with the miserable purpose of shaking the british firmness. but the evidences are not clear; whereas my brother insisted that the presence of sham men, distributed extensively among the human race, and meditating treason against us all, had been demonstrated to the satisfaction of all true philosophers. who were these shams and make-believe men? they were, in fact, people that had been dead for centuries, but that, for reasons best known to themselves, had returned to this upper earth, walked about among us, and were undistinguishable, except by the most learned of necromancers, from authentic men of flesh and blood. i mention this for the sake of illustrating the fact, that the same crazes are everlastingly revolving upon men. two years ago, during the carnival of universal anarchy equally among doers and thinkers, a closely-printed pamphlet was published with this title: "a new revelation, or the communion of the incarnate dead with the unconscious living. important fact, without trifling fiction, by him." i have not the pleasure of knowing him; but certainly i must concede to him, that he writes like a man of education, and also like a man of extreme sobriety, upon his extravagant theme. he is angry with swedenborg, as might be expected, for his "absurdities;" but, as to _him_, there is no chance that he should commit any absurdity, because (p. ) "he has met with some who have acknowledged the fact of their having come from the dead"--_habes confitentem reum_. few, however, are endowed with so much candor; and, in particular, for the honor of literature, it grieves me to find, by p. , that the largest number of these shams, and perhaps the most uncandid, are to be looked for among "publishers and printers," of whom, it seems, "the great majority" are mere forgeries; a very few speak frankly about the matter, and say they don't care who knows it, which, to my thinking, is impudence; but by far the larger section doggedly deny it, and call a policeman, if you persist in charging them with being shams. some differences there are between my brother and him, but in the great outline of their views, they coincide. this hypothesis, however, like a thousand others, when it happened that they engaged no durable sympathy from his nursery audience, he did not pursue. for some time, he turned his thoughts to philosophy, and read lectures to us every night upon some branch or other of physics. this undertaking arose upon some one of us envying or admiring flies for their power of walking upon the ceiling. "pooh!" he said, "they are impostors; they pretend to do it, but they can't do it as it ought to be done. ah! you should see _me_ standing upright on the ceiling, with my head downward, for half-an-hour together, and meditating profoundly." my second sister remarked, that we should all be very glad to see him in that position. "if that's the case," he replied, "it's very well that all is ready, except as to one single strap." being an excellent skater, he had first imagined that, if held up until he had started, by taking a bold sweep ahead, he might then keep himself in position through the continued impetus of skating. but this he found not to answer, because, as he observed, "the friction was too retarding from the plaster of paris, but the ease would be very different if the ceiling were coated with ice." as it was _not_, he changed his plan. the true secret, he said, was this: he would consider himself in the light of a humming-top: he would make an apparatus (and he made it) for having himself launched, like a top, upon the ceiling, and regularly spun. then the vertiginous motion of the human top would overpower the force of gravitation. he should, of course, spin upon his own axis, and sleep upon his axis--perhaps he might even dream upon it; and he laughed at "those scoundrels, the flies," that never improved in their pretended art, nor made any thing of it. the principle was now discovered; "and, of course," he said, "if a man can keep it up for five minutes, what's to hinder him from going on for five months?" "certainly," my sister replied, whose skepticism, in fact, had not settled upon the five months, but altogether upon the five minutes. the apparatus for spinning him, however, would not work: a fact which was evidently owing to the stupidity of the gardener. on reconsidering the subject, he announced, to the disappointment of some among us, that, although the physical discovery was now complete, he saw a moral difficulty. it was not a _humming_-top that was required, but a _peg_-top; and this, in order to keep up the _vertigo_ at full stretch, without which to a certainty, gravitation would prove too much for him, needed to be whipped incessantly. now, that was what a gentleman ought not to tolerate: to be scourged unintermittingly on the legs by any grub of a gardener, unless it were father adam himself, was a thing that he could not bring his mind to endure. however, as some compensation, he proposed to improve the art of flying, which was, as every body must acknowledge, in a condition quite disgraceful to civilized society. as he had made many a fire balloon, and had succeeded in some attempts at bringing down cats by _parachutes_, it was not very difficult to fly downward from moderate elevations. but, as he was reproached by my sister for never flying back again, which, how ever, was a far different thing, and not even attempted by the philosopher in "rasselas" (for revocare gradum et _superas_ evadere ad auras, hic labor, hoc opus est), he refused, under such poor encouragement, to try his winged _parachutes_ any more, either "aloft or alow," till he had thoroughly studied bishop wilkins[ ] on the art of translating right reverend gentlemen to the moon; and, in the mean time, he resumed his general lectures on physics. from these, however, he was speedily driven, or one might say shelled out, by a concerted assault of my sister's. he had been in the habit of lowering the pitch of his lectures with ostentatious condescension to the presumed level of our poor understandings. this superciliousness annoyed my sister; and, accordingly, with the help of two young female visitors, and my next younger brother--in subsequent times a little middy on board many a ship of h.m., and the most predestined rebel upon earth against all assumptions, small or great, of superiority--she arranged a mutiny, that had the unexpected effect of suddenly extinguishing the lectures forever. he had happened to say, what was no unusual thing with him, that he flattered himself he had made the point under discussion tolerably clear; "clear," he added, bowing round the half-circle of us, the audience, "to the meanest of capacities;" and then he repeated, sonorously, "clear to the most excruciatingly mean of capacities." upon which a voice, a female one, but whose i had not time to distinguish, retorted: "no, you haven't; it's as dark as sin;" and then, without a moment's interval, a second voice exclaimed, "dark as night;" then came my young brother's insurrectionary yell, "dark as midnight;" then another female voice chimed in melodiously, "dark as pitch;" and so the peal continued to come round like a catch, the whole being so well concerted, and the rolling fire so well sustained, that it was impossible to make head against it; while the abruptness of the interruption gave to it the protecting character of an oral "round robin," it being impossible to challenge any one in particular as the ring-leader. burke's phrase of "the swinish multitude," applied to mobs, was then in every body's mouth; and, accordingly, after my brother had recovered from his first astonishment at this insurrection, he made us several sweeping bows that looked very much like tentative rehearsals of a sweeping _fusillade_, and then addressed us in a very brief speech, of which we could distinguish the words _pearls_ and _swinish multitude_, but uttered in a very low key, perhaps out of regard to the two young strangers. we all laughed in chorus at this parting salute: my brother himself condescended at last to join us; but there ended the course of lectures on natural philosophy. as it was impossible, however, that he should remain quiet, he announced to us, that for the rest of his life he meant to dedicate himself to the intense cultivation of the tragic drama. he got to work instantly; and very soon he had composed the first act of his "sultan selim;" but, in defiance of the metre, he soon changed the title to "sultan amurath," considering _that_ a much fiercer name, more bewhiskered and beturbaned. it was no part of his intention that we should sit lolling on chairs like ladies and gentlemen that had paid opera prices for private boxes. he expected every one of us, he said, to pull an oar. we were to _act_ the tragedy. but, in fact, we had many oars to pull. there were so many characters, that each of us took four, at the least, and the future middy had six. he, this wicked little middy,[ ] caused the greatest affliction to sultan amurath, forcing him to order the amputation of his head six several times (that is, once in every one of his six parts), during the first act. in reality, the sultan, though a decent man, was too bloody. what by the bowstring, and what by the scimetar, he had so thinned the population with which he commenced business, that scarcely any of the characters remained alive at the end of act the first. sultan amurath found himself in an awkward situation. large arrears of work remained, and hardly any body to do it but the sultan himself. in composing act the second, the author had to proceed like deucalion and pyrrha, and to create an entirely new generation. apparently, this young generation, that ought to have been so good, took no warning by what had happened to their ancestors in act the first; one must conclude that they were quite as wicked, since the poor sultan had found himself reduced to order them all for execution in the course of this act the second. to the brazen age had succeeded an iron age; and the prospects were becoming sadder and sadder, as the tragedy advanced. but here the author began to hesitate. he felt it hard to resist the instinct of carnage. and was it right to do so? which of the felons, whom he had cut off prematurely, could pretend that a court of appeal would have reversed his sentence? but the consequences were dreadful. a new set of characters in every act, brought with it the necessity of a new plot: for people could not succeed to the arrears of old actions, or inherit ancient motives, like a landed estate. five crops, in fact, must be taken off the ground in each separate tragedy, amounting, in short, to five tragedies involved in one. such, according to the rapid sketch which at this moment my memory furnishes, was the brother, who now first laid open to me the gates of war. the occasion was this, he had resented, with a shower of stones, an affront offered to us by an individual boy, belonging to a cotton-factory; for more than two years afterward, this became the _teterrima causa_ of a skirmish, or a battle, as often as we passed the factory; and, unfortunately, _that_ was twice a day on every day except sunday. our situation in respect to the enemy was as follows: greenhay, a country-house newly built by my father, at that time was a clear mile from the outskirts of manchester; but, in after years, manchester, throwing out the _tentacula_ of its vast expansions, absolutely enveloped greenhay; and, for any thing i know, the grounds and gardens which then insulated the house, may have long disappeared. being a modest mansion, which (including hot walls, offices, and gardener's house) had cost only six thousand pounds, i do not know how it should have risen to the distinction of giving name to a region of that great town; however, it _has_ done so;[ ] and, at this time, therefore, after changes so great, it will be difficult for the _habitué_ of that region to understand how my brother and myself could have a solitary road to traverse between greenhay and princess-street, then the termination, on that side of manchester. but so it was. oxford-_street_, like its namesake in london, was then called the oxford-_road_; and, during the currency of our acquaintance with it, arose the first three houses in its neighborhood; of which the third was built for the rev. s. h., one of our guardians, for whom his friends had also built the church of st. peters's--not a bowshot from the house. at present, however, he resided in salford, nearly two miles from greenhay; and to him we went over daily, for the benefit of his classical instructions. one sole cotton-factory had then risen along the line of oxford-street; and this was close to a bridge, which also was a new creation; for, previously, all passengers to manchester went round by garrat. this factory became the _officina gentium_ to us, from which swarmed forth those goths and vandals, that continually threatened our steps; and this bridge became the eternal arena of combat, we taking good care to be on the right side of the bridge for retreat, _i.e._, on the town side, or the country side, according as we were going out in the morning, or returning in the afternoon. stones were the implements of warfare; and by continual practice we became expert in throwing them. the origin of the feud it is scarcely requisite to rehearse, since the particular accident which began it was not the true efficient cause of our long warfare, but (as logicians express it) simply the occasion. the cause lay in our aristocratic dress: as children of an opulent family, where all provisions were liberal, and all appointments elegant, we were uniformly well-dressed, and, in particular, we wore trowsers (at that time unheard of, except in maritime places) and hessian boots--a crime that could not be forgiven in the lancashire of that day, because it expressed the double offense of being aristocratic, and being outlandish. we were aristocrats, and it was in vain to deny it; could we deny our boots? while our antagonists, if not absolutely _sans culottes_, were slovenly and forlorn in their dress, often unwashed, with hair totally neglected, and always covered with flakes of cotton. jacobins they were, not by any sympathy with the french jacobinism, that then desolated western europe; for, on the contrary, they detested every thing french, and answered with brotherly signals to the cry of "church and king," or, "king and constitution." but, for all that, as they were perfectly independent, getting very high wages, and in a mode of industry that was then taking vast strides ahead, they contrived to reconcile this patriotic anti-jacobinism with a personal jacobinism of that sort which is native to the heart of man, who is by natural impulse (and not without a root of nobility) impatient of inequality, and submits to it only through a sense of its necessity, or a long experience of its benefits. it was on an early day of our new _tyrocinium_, or, perhaps, on the very first, that, as we passed the bridge, a boy happening to issue from the factory,[ ] sang out to us, derisively--"holloa, bucks!" in this the reader may fail to perceive any atrocious insult commensurate to the long war which followed. but the reader is wrong. the word "_dandies_," which was what the villain meant, had not then been born, so that he could not have called us by that name, unless through the spirit of prophecy. _buck_ was the nearest word at hand in his manchester vocabulary; he gave all he could, and let us dream the rest. but, in the next moment, he discovered our boots, and he completed his crime by saluting us as "boots! boots!" my brother made a dead stop, surveyed him with intense disdain, and bade him draw near, that he might "give his flesh to the fowls of the air." the boy declined to accept this liberal invitation, and conveyed his answer by a most contemptuous and plebeian gesture, upon which my brother drove him in with a shower of stones. during this inaugural flourish of hostilities, i, for my part, remained inactive, and, therefore, apparently neutral. but this was the last time that i did so: for the moment, i was taken by surprise. to be called a _buck_ by one that had it in his choice to have called me a coward, a thief, or a murderer, struck me as a most pardonable offense; and, as to _boots_, that rested upon a flagrant fact that could not be denied, so that at first i was green enough to regard the boy as very considerate and indulgent. but my brother soon rectified my views or, if any doubts remained, he impressed me, at least, with a sense of my paramount duty to himself, which was threefold. first, it seems, i owed military allegiance to _him_, as my commander-in-chief, whenever we "took the field;" secondly, by the law of nations, i being a cadet of my house, owed suit and service to him who was its head; and he assured me, that twice in a year, on _my_ birthday, and on _his_, he had a right, strictly speaking, to make me lie down, and to set his foot upon my neck; lastly, by a law not so rigorous, but valid among gentlemen--viz., "by the _comity_ of nations," it seems i owed eternal deference to one so much older than myself, so much wiser, stronger, braver, more beautiful, and more swift of foot. something like all this in tendency i had already believed, though i had not so minutely investigated the modes and grounds of my duty. as a pariah, which, by natural temperament i was, and by awful dedication to despondency, i felt resting upon me always too deep and gloomy a sense of obscure duties, that i never _should_ be able to fulfill--a burden which i could not carry, and which yet i did not know how to throw off. glad, therefore, i was to find the whole tremendous weight of obligations--the law and the prophets--all crowded into this one brief command--"thou shalt obey thy brother as god's vicar upon earth." for now, if, by any future stone leveled at him who had called me "a buck," i should chance to draw blood--perhaps i might not have committed so serious a trespass on any rights which he could plead: but, if i _had_ (for, on this subject my convictions were still cloudy), at any rate, the duty i might have violated in regard to this general brother, in right of adam, was canceled when it came into collision with my paramount duty to this liege brother of my own individual house. from this day, therefore, i obeyed all my brother's military commands with the utmost docility; and happy it made me that every sort of distraction, or question, or opening for demur, was swallowed up in the unity of this one papal principle, discovered by my brother, viz., that all rights of casuistry were transferred from me to himself. _his_ was the judgment--_his_ was the responsibility; and to me belonged only the sublime duty of unconditional faith in _him_. that faith i realized. it is true, that he taxed me at times, in his reports of particular fights, with "horrible cowardice," and even with "a cowardice that seemed inexplicable, except on the supposition of treachery." but this was only a _façon de parler_ with him: the idea of secret perfidy, that was constantly moving under-ground, gave an interest to the progress of the war, which else tended to the monotonous. it was a dramatic artifice for sustaining the interest, where the incidents might be too slightly diversified. but that he did not believe his own charges was clear, because he never repeated them in his "general history of the campaigns," which was a _resumé_, or digest, of his daily reports. we fought every day; and, generally speaking, _twice_ every day; and the result was pretty uniform, viz., that my brother and i terminated the battle by insisting upon our undoubted right to run away. _magna charta_, i should fancy, secures that great right to every man; else surely it is sadly defective. but out of this catastrophe to most of our skirmishes, and to all our pitched battles except one, grew a standing schism between my brother and me. my unlimited obedience had respect to action, but not to opinion. loyalty to my brother did not rest upon hypocrisy: because i was faithful, it did not follow that i must be false in relation to his capricious opinions. and these opinions sometimes took the shape of acts. twice, at the least, in every week, but sometimes every night, my brother insisted on singing "te deum" for supposed victories which he had won; and he insisted also on my bearing a part in these "te deums." now, as i knew of no such victories, but resolutely asserted the truth--viz., that we ran away--a slight jar was thus given to the else triumphal effect of these musical ovations. once having uttered my protest, however, willingly i gave my aid to the chanting; for i loved unspeakably the grand and varied system of chanting in the romish and english churches. and, looking back at this day to the ineffable benefits which i derived from the church of my childhood, i account among the very greatest those which reached me through the various chants connected with the "o, jubilate," the "magnificat," the "te deum," the "benedicite," &c. through these chants it was that the sorrow which laid waste my infancy, and the devotion which nature had made a necessity of my being, were profoundly interfused: the sorrow gave reality and depth to the devotion; the devotion gave grandeur and idealization to the sorrow. neither was my love for chanting altogether without knowledge. a son of my reverend guardian, much older than myself, who possessed a singular faculty of producing a sort of organ accompaniment with one half of his mouth, while he sang with the other half, had given me some instructions in the art of chanting: and, as to my brother, he, the hundred-handed briareus, could do all things; of course, therefore, he could chant. he _could_ chant: he had a _right_ to chant: he had a right, perhaps, to chant "te deum." for if he ran away every day of his life, what then? sometimes the enemy mustered in over-powering numbers--seventy, or even ninety strong. now, if there is a time for every thing in this world, surely that was the time for running away. but in the mean time i must pause, reserving what has to follow for another occasion. footnotes: [footnote : elsewhere, viz., in the introductory part of the "_suspiria de profundis_," published in "blackwood," during the early part of the year . the work is yet unfinished as regards the publication.] [footnote : "_peculiar."_ viz., as _endowed_ foundations, to which those resort who are rich and pay, and those also who, being poor, can not pay, or can not pay so much. this most honorable distinction among the services of england from ancient times to the interests of education--a service absolutely unapproached by any one nation of christendom--is among the foremost cases of that remarkable class which make england, while often the most aristocratic, yet also, for many noble purposes, the most democratic of lands.] [footnote : "bishop wilkins:" dr. w., bishop of chester, in the reign of charles ii., notoriously wrote a book on the possibility of a voyage to the moon, which, in a bishop, would be called a translation to the moon; and, perhaps, it was _his_ name that suggested the "adventures of peter wilkins." it is unfair, however, to mention him in connection with that only one of his works which announces an extravagant purpose. he was really a scientific man, and already in the time of cromwell (about ), had projected that royal society of london, which was afterward realized and presided over by isaac barrow and isaac newton. he was also a learned man, but still with a vein of romance about him, as may be seen in his most elaborate work--"the essay toward a philosophic or universal language."] [footnote : "middy:" i call him so, simply to avoid confusion, and by way of anticipation; else he was too young at this time to serve in the navy. afterward, he did so for many years, and saw every variety of service in every class of ships belonging to our navy. at one time, when yet a boy, he was captured by pirates, and compelled to sail with them; and the end of his adventurous career was, that for many a year he has been lying at the bottom of the atlantic.] [footnote : "green_heys_" with a slight variation in the spelling, is the name given to that district, of which greenhay formed the original nucleus. probably, it was the solitary situation of the house which (failing any other grounds of denomination) raised it to this privilege.] [footnote : "factory:" such was the designation technically at that time. at present, i believe that a building of that class would be called a "mill."] [from dickens's household words.] visit to an english dairy. let the reader accompany us half-a-dozen miles out of town. we pass through camberwell, through peckham, and peckham rye, and we presently find ourselves in a district that looks uncommonly like "the country," considering how short a time it is since we left the "old smoke" behind us. we alight and walk onward, and certainly, if the sight of green fields, and cows, and hedges, and farm-yards, denote the country, we are undoubtedly in some region of the kind. we pass down a winding road, between high hedges of bush and trees, then climb over a gate into a field; cross it, and then over another gate into a field, from which we commence a gradual ascent, field after field, till finally the green slope leads us to a considerable height. we are on the top of friern hill. it is a bright sunny morning in september, and we behold to perfection the most complete panorama that can be found in the suburban vicinities of london. step down with us to yonder hedge, a little below the spot where we have been standing. we approach the hedge--we get over a gate, and we suddenly find ourselves on the upper part of an enormous green sloping pasturage, covered all over with cows. the red cow, the white cow, the brown cow, the brindled cow, the colley cow, the dappled cow, the streaked cow, the spotted cow, the liver-and-white cow, the strawberry cow, the mulberry cow, the chestnut cow, the gray speckled cow, the clouded cow, the black cow,--the short-horned cow, the long-horned cow, the up-curling horn, the down-curling horn, the straight-horned cow, and the cow with the crumpled horn--all are here--between two and three hundred--spread all over the broad, downward sloping pasture, feeding, ruminating, standing, lying, gazing with mild earnestness, reclining in characteristic thoughtfulness, sleeping, or wandering hither and thither. a soft gleam of golden sunshine spreads over the pasture, and falls upon many of the cows with a lovely, picturesque effect. and what cows they are, as we approach and pass among them! studies for a morland, a gainsborough, a constable. we had never before thought there were any such cows out of their pictures. that they were highly useful, amiable, estimable creatures, who continually, at the best, appeared to be mumbling grass in a recumbent position, and composing a sonnet, we never doubted; but that they were ever likely to be admired for their beauty, especially when beheld, as many as these were, from a disadvantageous point of view, as to their position, we never for a moment suspected. such, however, is the case. we have lived to see beauty in the form of a cow--a natural, modern, milch cow, and no descendant from any ovidian metamorphosis. we will now descend this broad and populous slope, and pay a visit to friern manor dairy farm, to which all these acres--some two hundred and fifty--belong, together with all these "horned beauties." we find them all very docile, and undisturbed by our presence, though their looks evidently denote that they recognize a stranger. but those who are reclining do not rise, and none of them decline to be caressed by the hand, or seem indifferent to the compliments addressed to them. in passing through the cows we were specially presented to the cow queen, or "master cow," as she is called. this lady has been recognized during twelve years as the sovereign ruler over all the rest. no one, however large, disputes her supremacy. she is a short-horned, short-legged cow, looking at first sight rather small, but on closer examination you will find that she is sturdily and solidly built, though graceful withal. "she is very sweet-tempered," observed the head keeper, "but when a new-comer doubts about who is the master, her eye becomes dreadful. don't signify how big the other cow is--she must give in to the master cow. it's not her size, nor strength, bless you, it's her spirit. as soon as the question is once settled, she's as mild as a lamb again. gives us eighteen quarts of milk a day." we were surprised to hear of so great a quantity, but this was something abated by a consideration of the rich, varied, and abundant supply of food afforded to these cows, besides the air, attendance, and other favorable circumstances. for their food they have mangold-wurtzel, both the long red and the orange globe sorts, parsnips, turnips, and kohl-rabi (jewish cabbage), a curious kind of green turnip, with cabbage leaves sprouting out of the top all round, like the feathery arms of the prince of wales. of this last mentioned vegetable the cows often eat greedily; and sometimes endeavoring to bolt too large a piece, it sticks in their throats and threatens strangulation. on these occasions, one of the watchful keepers rushes to the rescue with a thing called a _pro bang_ (in fact a cow's throat ramrod), with which he rams down the obstructive morsel. but, besides these articles of food, there is the unlimited eating of grass in the pastures, so that the yield of a large quantity of milk seems only a matter of course, though we were not prepared to hear of its averaging from twelve to eighteen and twenty quarts of milk a day, from each of these two or three hundred cows. four-and-twenty quarts a day is not an unusual occurrence from some of the cows; and one of them, we were assured by several of the keepers, once yielded the enormous quantity of twenty-eight quarts a day during six or seven weeks. the poor cow, however, suffered for this munificence, for she was taken very ill with a fever, and her life was given over by the doctor. mr. wright, the proprietor, told us that he sat up two nights with her himself, he had such a respect for the cow; and in the morning of the second night after she was given over, when the butcher came for her, he couldn't find it in his heart to let him have her. "no, butcher," said he, "she's been a good friend to me, and i'll let her die a quiet, natural death." she hung her head, and her horns felt very cold, and so she lay for some time longer; but he nursed her, and was rewarded, for she recovered; and there she stands--the strawberry durham short-horn--and yields him again from sixteen to eighteen quarts of milk a day. reverting to the "master cow," we inquired whether her supremacy in the case of newcomers was established "mesmerically" by a glance--or how? the eye, we were assured, had a great deal to do with it. the stranger cow _read_ it, and trembled. but, sometimes, there was a contest; and a cow-fight, with such fresh strong creatures as these--all used to their full liberty, and able to run or leap well, was a serious affair. if no keeper was at hand to separate them, and the fight got serious, so that one of them fell wounded, it was a chance but the whole herd would surround the fallen cow, and kill her. this was not out of wickedness, but something in the whole affair that put them beside themselves, and they couldn't bear the horrid sight, and so tried to get rid of their feelings, as well as the unfortunate object, by this wild violence. the effect was the same if the herd did not witness the fight, but came suddenly to the discovery of blood that had been spilled. they would stare at it, and glare at it, and snuff down at it, and sniff up at it, and prowl round it--and get more and more excited, till, at last, the whole herd would begin to rush about the field bellowing and mad, and make nothing at last of leaping clean over hedges, fences, and five-barred gates. but, strange to say--if the blood they found had not been spilt by violence, but only from some cause which the "horned beauties" understood, such as a sister or aunt having been bled by the doctor--then no effect of the sort occurred. they took no notice of it. we found that besides beauty, cows possessed some imagination, and were, moreover, very susceptible. the above excitement and mad panic sometimes occurs as the effect of other causes. once some boys brought a great kite into the field, with a pantomime face painted upon it; and directly this began to rise over the field, and the cows looked up at it, and saw the great glass eyes of the face looking down at them--then, oh! oh! what a bellowing! and away they rushed over each other, quite frantic. on another occasion, some experimental gentlemen of science, brought a fire-balloon near the pasturage one night after dark. it rose. up started all the cows in a panic, and round and round they rushed, till, finally, the whole herd made a charge at one of the high fences--tore down and overleaped every thing--burst into the lanes--and made their way into the high-road, and seemed to intend to leave their owners for some state of existence where fire-balloons and horrid men of science were alike unknown. instead of proceeding directly down the sloping fields toward the dairy farm, we made a detour of about half a mile, and passed through a field well inclosed, in which were about a dozen cows, attended by one man, who sat beneath a tree. this was the quarantine ground. all newly-purchased cows, however healthy they may appear, are first placed in this field during four or five weeks, and the man who milks or attends upon them is not permitted to touch, nor, indeed, to come near, any of the cows in the great pasture. such is the susceptibility of a cow to the least contamination, that if one who had any slight disease were admitted among the herd, in a very short time the whole of them would be affected. when the proprietor has been to purchase fresh stock, and been much among strange cows, especially at smithfield, he invariably changes all his clothes, and, generally takes a bath, before he ventures among his own herd. from what has already been seen, the reader will not be astonished on his arrival with us at the dairy farm, to find every arrangement in accordance with the fine condition of the cows, and the enviable (to all other cows) circumstances in which they live. the cow-sheds are divided into fifty stalls, each; and the appearance presented reminded one of the neatness and order of cavalry stables. each stall is marked with a number; a corresponding number is marked on one horn of the cow to whom it belongs; and, in winter time, or any inclement season (for they all sleep out in fine weather) each cow deliberately finds out, and walks into her own stall. no. once got into the stall of no. ; but, in a few minutes, no. arrived, and "showed her the difference." in winter, when the cows are kept very much in-doors, they are all regularly groomed with currycombs. by the side of one of these sheds there is a cottage where the keepers live--milkers and attendants--each with little iron bedsteads, all in orderly soldier fashion, the foreman's wife acting as the housekeeper. these men lead a comfortable life, but they work hard. the first "milking" begins at eleven o'clock at night; and the second, at half past one in the morning. it takes a long time, for each cow insists upon being milked in her own pail--_i.e._, a pail to herself, containing no milk of any other cow--or, if she sees it, she is very likely to kick it over. she will not allow of any mixture. in this there would seem a strange instinct, accordant with her extreme susceptibility to contamination. the milk is all passed through several strainers, and then placed in great tin cans, barred across the top, and sealed. they are deposited in a van, which starts from the farm about three in the morning, and arrives at the dairy, in farringdon-street, between three and four. the seals are then carefully examined, and taken off by a clerk. in come the carriers, commonly called "milkmen," all wearing the badge of friern farm dairy; their tin pails are filled, fastened at top, and sealed as before, and away they go on their early rounds, to be in time for the early-breakfast people. the late-breakfasts are provided by a second set of men. such are the facts we have ascertained with regard to one of the largest of the great dairy farms near london. sailing in the air.--history of aeronautics. aeronautics, or the art of sailing in the air, is of very modern date; if, indeed, we are warranted to say that the art has yet been acquired, for we have only got a machine or apparatus capable of sustaining some hundreds of pounds in the air, the means of guiding and propelling it having yet to be discovered. the attention and admiration of men would doubtless be attracted from the beginning to the ease, grace, and velocity with which the feathered race soar aloft, and wing their way in the upper regions; but there is no reason to believe that any of the nations of antiquity--not even greece and rome, with all their progress in science and art--ever made the smallest advances toward a discovery of a method of flying, or of aerial navigation. archytas of tarentum, a celebrated pythagorean philosopher, who flourished about four hundred years before the christian era, is indeed said to have constructed a wooden flying pigeon; but, from the imperfect accounts transmitted to us of its machinery, there is every probability that its flight was one of the many deceptions of the magic art which the ancients so well understood and so expertly practiced. the attention of man was much earlier, as well as more earnestly and successfully turned to the art of navigating lakes, rivers, and seas. to gratify his curiosity, or to better his condition, he was prompted to emigrate, or to pass from one place to another, and thus he would tax his ingenuity to discover the means by which he might be enabled to accomplish his journey. to make the atmosphere the medium of transit, would, in the early stages of society, hardly strike the mind at all, or, if it did, it would only strike it as a physical impossibility. nature has not supplied man with wings, as it has done the fowls of heaven, and to find a locomotive means of transportation through the air was in the infancy of all science absolutely hopeless. but advantage would be early taken of the buoyant property of water, particularly of the sea, which must have been known to mankind from the creation. the canoe and the raft would be first constructed, and, in the course of time, experience would teach men to build vessels of a larger size, to fix the rudder to the stern, to erect the mast, and unfurl the sails. thus would the art of navigating the ocean advance from step to step, while the art navigating the air remained a mystery, practiced, it may be, by flying demons, and flying witches, and the like ethereal beings of a dark mythology, but an achievement to which ordinary mortals could make no pretensions. our object in this paper is to give a concise history of aeronautics, commencing at that period when something like an approach was made to the principles upon which the art could be reduced to practice. the person who is entitled to the honor of the discovery of the main principle of aeronautics--atmospheric buoyancy--is roger bacon, an english monk of the thirteenth century. this eminent man, whose uncommon genius was, in that superstitious and ignorant age, ascribed to his intercourse with the devil, was aware that the air is a material of some consistency, capable, like the ocean, of bearing vessels on its surface; and, in one of his works, he particularly describes the construction of a machine by which he believed it was possible to navigate the air. it is a large, thin, hollow globe of copper, or other suitable metal, which he proposes to fill with "ethereal air or liquid fire," and then to launch from some elevated point into the atmosphere, when he supposes it will float on its surface, like a vessel on the water. he afterward says, "there may be made some flying instrument, so that a man, sitting in the middle of the instrument, and turning some mechanism, may put in motion some artificial wings, which may beat the air like a flying bird." but, though bacon knew the buoyancy of the atmosphere, he was very imperfectly acquainted with its properties. his idea seems to have been, that the boundaries of the atmosphere are at no great height, and that the aerial vessel, in order to its being borne up, must be placed on the surface of the air, just as a ship, in order to its being supported, must be placed on the surface of the water. and, whatever may be meant by his "ethereal air and liquid fire," there is no evidence that he, or any one living in that age, had any knowledge of the various and distinct gases. bacon merely reasoned and theorized on the subject; he never attempted to realize these flying projects by actual experiment. it was not till the year that the art of aerial navigation was discovered, and the merit of the discovery is due to two brothers, wealthy paper manufacturers, at annonay, not far from lyons--stephen and joseph montgolfier. this discovery they did not arrive at from any scientific reasoning founded on the elasticity and weight of the atmosphere, for, though attached to the study of mathematics and chemistry, they do not appear to have particularly turned their attention to aerostatics; but, from observing how clouds and smoke rise and float in the atmosphere, it occurred to stephen, the younger of the two, that a light paper bag, filled with cloud or smoke, would, from the natural tendency of these substances to ascend, be carried by their force in an upward direction. about the middle of november, , they made their first experiment in their own chamber at avignon, with a light paper bag of an oblong shape, which they inflated, by applying burning paper to an orifice in the lower part of the bag, and in a few minutes they had the satisfaction of seeing it ascend to the ceiling of the chamber. constructing a paper bag of larger dimensions, they made a similar experiment in the open air, with equal success, and, the bag being of a spherical shape, they gave it the name of balloon, from its resemblance to a large, round, short-necked, chemical vessel so called. finding, from repeated trials, that the larger the balloon the more successful was the experiment, they proceeded to construct one of linen lined with paper, feet in diameter; and, on the th of april, , after being filled with rarified air, it rapidly rose to the height of feet, and fell to the ground at the distance of three-quarters of a mile from the spot where it ascended. encouraged by this success, the montgolfiers came to the resolution of making a public experiment with this last constructed balloon at annonay, on the th of june following. it was inflated with heated air, by the lower orifice being placed over a pit or well, in which were burned chopped straw and wool. two men were sufficient to fill it; but, when fully inflated, eight men were required to prevent it from ascending. on being released from its fastenings, it rose majestically to the height of six or seven thousand feet, and made its descent at the distance of a mile and a half from the point of its departure. this novel experiment, which forms an important epoch in the history of the art of aeronautics, attracted universal attention, and stephen montgolfier, having soon after arrived in paris, was requested by the royal academy of sciences, whose sittings, immediately on his arrival, he had been invited to attend, to repeat the experiment at their expense. he gladly availed himself of their proposal, and speedily got prepared a large balloon of an elliptical shape, feet high, and feet in diameter. it was finished in a style of great magnificence, and elegantly decorated on the outer surface with beautiful and appropriate designs. when completed, it weighed pounds. as a preliminary experiment, it raised eight men from the ground, and, on the th of september, , it ascended, in the presence of the royal academy, with a load of from to pounds; but, in consequence of an injury it received in rising from a violent gust of wind, it did not present the same interesting spectacle as the public experiment previously made, and, upon its descent, it was found to be so seriously damaged, as to be unfit for future experiments. a new one of nearly the same dimensions was, therefore, ordered to be made, to which was added a basket of wicker-work, for the accommodation of a sheep, a cock, and a duck, which were intended as passengers. it was inflated, in the presence of the king and royal family, at versailles, and, when loosened from its moorings, it rose, with the three animals we have named--the first living creatures who ever ascended in an aerial machine--to the height of about feet, an accident similar to what befell the other preventing it from attaining a higher elevation. it, however, descended safely with the animals, at the distance of , feet from the place of its ascent. hazardous as it might be, it was now fully demonstrated, that it was quite practicable for man to ascend in the atmosphere, and individuals were soon found sufficiently daring to make the experiment. another balloon was constructed, feet high, and feet in diameter, and m. pilatre de rozier, superintendent of the royal museum, and the marquis de arlandes, volunteered to make an aerial voyage. at the bottom, it had an opening of about feet in diameter, around which was a gallery of wicker-work, three feet broad, with a balustrade all around the outer edge, of the same material, three feet high; and, to enable the aeronauts to increase or diminish at pleasure the rarified state of the air within, it was provided with an iron brazier, intended for a fire, which could easily be regulated as necessity required. on the st of november, in the same year, the adventurers having taken their places on opposite sides of the gallery, the balloon rose majestically in the sight of an immense multitude of spectators, who witnessed its upward course with mingled sentiments of fear and admiration. the whole machine, with fuel and passengers, weighed pounds. it rose to the height of at least feet, and remained in the air from to minutes, visible all the time to the inhabitants of paris and its environs. at several times it was in imminent danger of taking fire, and the marquis, in terror for his life, would have made a precipitate descent, which, in all probability, would have ended fatally, but m. pilatre de rozier, who displayed great coolness and intrepidity, deliberately extinguished the fire with a sponge of water he had provided for the emergency, by which they were enabled to remain in the atmosphere some time longer. they raised and lowered themselves frequently during their excursion, by regulating the fire in the brazier, and finally landed in safety five miles distant from the place where they started, after having sailed over a great portion of paris. this is the first authentic instance in which man succeeded in putting into practical operation the art of traveling in the air, which had hitherto baffled his ingenuity, though turned to the subject for two thousand years. the news of the novel and adventurous feat rapidly spread over the whole civilized world, and aerial ascents in balloons constructed on the same principle were made in other cities of france, in italy, and in the united states of america. the two montgolfiers soon obtained a high and wide-spread reputation; and the royal academy of arts and sciences of paris voted a gold medal to stephen, the younger brother. it was to heated or rarified air that these balloons owed their ascending power; but the montgolfiers, in the paper in which they communicated their discovery to the royal academy, erroneously attributed the ascending power, not to the rarified air in the balloon, but to a peculiar gas they supposed to be evolved by the combustion of chopped straw and wool mixed together, to which the name of montgolfiers' gas was given, it being believed for a time, even by the members of the academy, that a new kind of gas, different from hydrogen, and lighter than common air, had been discovered. hydrogen gas, or, as it was also called, inflammable air, whose specific gravity was first discovered in , by henry cavendish, though the gas itself had been known long before to coal-miners, from its fatal effects, was, from its being the lightest gas known, early taken advantage of for inflating balloons. it indeed occurred to the ingenious dr. black of edinburgh, as soon as he read mr. cavendish's paper, which appeared in the philosophical transactions for , that if a sufficiently thin and light bladder were filled with this gas, the bladder would necessarily ascend in the atmosphere, as it would form a mass lighter than the same bulk of atmospheric air. not long after, it suggested itself to tiberius cavallo, an italian philosopher, when he first began to study the subject of air, that it was possible to construct a vessel which, when filled with hydrogen gas, would ascend in the atmosphere. in , he actually attempted to perform the experiment, though the only success he had was to let soap balls, filled with that gas, ascend by themselves rapidly in the air, which, says he, were perhaps the first sort of inflammable air balloons ever made; and he read an account of his experiments to the royal society at their public meeting on june , . but, during the later part of the year , two gentlemen in the city of philadelphia actually tested the value of hydrogen gas as a means of inflating balloons. the french academy, guided by the suggestion of dr. black, and the experiments of cavallo, also concluded to make the experiment of raising a balloon inflated with the same gas. to defray the expense of the undertaking, a subscription was opened, and so great was the enthusiasm excited by the design among people of all ranks and classes, that the requisite sum was speedily subscribed for. a silken bag from lute-string silk, about thirteen feet in diameter, and of a globular shape, was constructed by the messrs. roberts, under the superintendence of m. charles, professor of experimental philosophy; and, to render the bag impervious to the gas--a very essential object in balloon manufacture--it was covered with a varnish composed of gum elastic dissolved in spirits of turpentine. it had but one aperture, like the neck of a bottle, into which was fastened the stop-cock for the convenience of introducing and stopping-off the gas. it was constructed and inflated near the place of victories, in august, , and after being inflated, which was then no easy task, occupying several days, it was removed on the morning of the th of that month, before daylight, to the camp of mars (two miles distant), the place appointed for its ascent. about five o'clock in the afternoon, it was released from its fastenings, and rose, in the presence of some hundred thousands of applauding spectators, to a height upward of feet; and, after remaining in the atmosphere for three-quarters of an hour, descended in a field near gonesse, a village about fifteen miles distant from the camp of mars. this marks another important era in the history of aeronautics. the hydrogen-gas balloon, in the first place, is attended with less risk than the montgolfiers' balloon, which requires the dangerous presence of a fire to preserve the air in a sufficiently rarified state; and, in the second place, it has a much greater ascending power than rarified air balloons of the same size, in consequence of its superior lightness. m. charles and the two messrs. roberts now resolved to undertake an aerial excursion in a balloon of this description. with this view, the messrs. roberts formed one of silk, varnished with gum elastic, of a spherical shape, feet in diameter, with a car suspended from it by several cords, which were fastened to a net drawn over the upper part of the balloon. to prevent the danger which might arise from the expansion of the gas under a diminished pressure of the atmosphere in the higher regions, the balloon was furnished with a valve, to permit the free discharge of gas, as occasion might require. the hydrogen gas with which it was filled was - / lighter than common air, and the filling lasted several days. on december , , m. charles and one of the roberts made their ascent from the garden of the tuilleries, and rose to the height of feet. after a voyage of an hour and three-quarters, they descended at nesle, a distance of miles from the place of their departure. on their descent, m. roberts having left the car, which lightened the vessel about pounds, m. charles reascended, and in twenty minutes mounted with great rapidity to the height of feet. when he left the earth, the thermometer stood at degrees, but, in the space of ten minutes, it fell degrees. on making this great and sudden transition into an atmosphere so intensely cold, he felt as if his blood had been freezing, and experienced a severe pain in the right ear and jaw. he passed through different currents of air, and, in the higher regions, the expansion of the gas was so great, that the balloon must have burst, had he not speedily opened the valve, and allowed part of the gas to escape. after having risen to the height of , feet, he descended, about three miles from the place where m. roberts stepped out of the car. jean pierre blanchard, a frenchman, who had long exerted his ingenuity, but with little success, in attempting to perfect a mechanical contrivance by which he might be enabled to fly, was the next to prepare a balloon upon the hydrogen-gas principle. it was feet in diameter. he ascended from paris, march d, , accompanied by a benedictine friar. after rising to the height of feet, the balloon was precipitated to the ground with a violent shock, which so frightened the friar, that he would not again leave _terra firma_. m. blanchard re-ascended alone, and, in his ascent, he passed through various currents of air, as aeronauts generally do. he rose to the height of feet, where he suffered from extreme cold, and was oppressed with drowsiness. as a means of directing his course, he had attached to the car an apparatus consisting of a rudder and two wings, but found that they had little or no controlling power over the balloon. he continued his voyage for an hour and a quarter, when he descended in safety. during the course of the year subsequent to the montgolfiers' discovery, several experiments on the ascending power of balloons had been made in england; but the first person who there ventured on an aerial voyage was vincent lunardi, an italian, who ascended from london, september , . in the succeeding year, he gratified the inhabitants of glasgow and edinburgh with the spectacle of an aerial excursion, which they had never witnessed before. the first aerial voyage across the sea was made by m. blanchard, in company with dr. jeffries, an american physician, who was then residing in england. on the th january, , a beautiful frosty winter day, they ascended about one o'clock from the cliff of dover, with the design of crossing the channel between england and france, a distance of about twenty-three miles, and, at great personal risk, accomplished their purpose in two hours and a half. the balloon at first rose slowly and majestically in the air, but it soon began to descend, and, before they had crossed the channel, they were obliged to reduce the weight, by throwing out all their ballast, several books, their apparatus, cords, grapples, bottles, and were even proceeding to cast their clothes into the sea, when the balloon, which had then nearly reached the french coast, began to ascend, and rose to a considerable height, relieving them from the necessity of dispensing with much of their apparel. they landed in safety at the edge of the forest of guiennes, not far beyond calais, and were treated by the magistrates of that town with the utmost kindness and hospitality. m. blanchard had the honor of being presented with , livres by the king of france. emboldened by this daring feat, pilatre de rozier, already mentioned, and m. romain, prepared to pay back the compliment of m. blanchard and dr. jeffries, by crossing the channel from france to england. to avoid the difficulty of keeping up the balloon, which had perplexed and endangered blanchard and his companion during nearly their whole course, rozier had recourse to the expedient of placing underneath the hydrogen balloon a fire balloon of smaller dimensions, which was intended to regulate the rising and falling of the whole machine. this promised to unite the advantages of both kinds of balloons, but it unhappily terminated in the melancholy death of the two adventurers. they ascended from boulogne, on the th of june, , but scarcely had a quarter of an hour elapsed from the time of their ascent, when, at the height of feet, the whole machine was discovered to be in flames. its scattered fragments, with the mangled bodies of the unfortunate aeronauts, who were probably killed by the explosion of the hydrogen gas, were found near the sea-shore, about four miles from boulogne. this was the first fatal accident which took place in balloon navigation, though several hundred ascensions had by this time been made. in the early practice of aerial voyages, the chief danger apprehended was from accidental and rapid descents. to countervail this danger, and enable the adventurer, in cases of alarm, to desert his balloon, and descend to the ground uninjured, blanchard invented the parachute, or _guard for falling_, as the word signifies in french, an apparatus very much resembling an umbrella, but of much larger dimensions. the design is to break the fall; and, to effect this, it is necessary that the parachute present a surface sufficiently large to experience from the air such resistance as will cause it to descend with a velocity not exceeding that with which a person can fall to the ground unhurt. during an aerial excursion which blanchard took from lisle in august, , when he traversed a distance of not less than miles, he dropped a parachute with a basket fastened to it, containing a dog, from a great elevation, and it fell gently through the air, letting down the animal to the ground in safety. the practice and management of the parachute were subsequently carried much farther by other aeronauts, and particularly by m. garnerin, an ingenious and spirited frenchman, who, during the course of his numerous ascents, repeatedly descended from the region of the clouds with that very slender machine. on one occasion, however, he suffered considerable injury in his descent. the stays of the parachute having unfortunately given way, its proper balance was disturbed, and, on reaching the ground, it struck against it with such violence, as to throw him on his face, by which he received some severe cuts. to let down a man of ordinary size from any height, a parachute of a hemispherical form, twenty-five feet in diameter, is required. but although the construction of a parachute is very simple, and the resistance it will meet with from the air in its descent, its size and load being given, can be exactly determined on scientific principles, few have ventured to try it; which may be owing partly to ignorance, or inattention to the scientific principles by which it is governed, and partly to a growing opinion among aeronauts, that it is unnecessary, the balloon itself, in case of its bursting, forming a parachute; as mr. wise, the celebrated american aeronaut, experienced on two different occasions, as he narrates in his interesting work on aeronautics, lately published at philadelphia--a work to which we have been mainly indebted in drawing up this article. in the early part of the french revolutionary war, the _savants_ of france, ambitious of bringing to the aid of the republic all the resources of science, strongly recommended the introduction of balloons, as an effectual means of reconnoitring the armies of their enemies. from the advantages it seemed to promise, the recommendation was instantly acted on by the government, which established an aeronautic school at meudon, near paris. the management of the institution, which was conducted with systematic precision, and concealed with the utmost care from the allied powers, was committed to the most eminent philosophers of paris. gyton morveau, a celebrated french chemist, and m. contel, superintended the operations. fifty military students were admitted for training. a practicing balloon of thirty-two feet in diameter was constructed, of the most durable materials, and inflated with hydrogen gas. it was kept constantly full, so as to be at all times ready for exercise; and, to make it stationary at any given altitude, it was attached to windlass machinery. balloons were speedily prepared by m. contel for the different branches of the french army; the _entreprenant_ for the army of the north, the _celeste_ for that of the sambre and meuse, the _hercule_ for that of rhine and moselle, and the _intrepide_ for the memorable army of egypt. the victory which the french achieved over the austrians, on the plains of fleurus, in june, , is ascribed to the observations made by two of their aeronauts. immediately before the battle, m. contel and an adjutant-general ascended twice in the war-balloon _entreprenant_, to reconnoitre the austrian army, and though, during their second aerial _reconnaissance_ they were discovered by the enemy, who sent up after them a brisk cannonade, they quickly rose above the reach of danger, and, on descending, communicated such information to their general, as enabled him to gain a speedy and decisive victory over the austrians. the balloon was also at an early period taken advantage of for making scientific experiments in the elevated regions of the atmosphere. with the view of ascertaining the force of magnetic attraction, and of examining the electrical properties and constitution of the atmosphere at great elevations, two young, enthusiastic french philosophers, mm. biot and gay lussac, proposed to make an ascent. these gentlemen, who had studied together at the polytechnic school of paris, and the latter of whom had especially devoted himself to the study of chemistry, and its application to the arts, while both were deeply versed in mathematical science, were well qualified for the undertaking; and they were warmly patronized by the government, which immediately placed at their command the _intrepide_, that had returned with the french army from egypt to paris, after the capitulation of cairo. m. contel, who had constructed the balloon, was ordered to refit it, under their direction, at the public expense. having furnished themselves with the philosophical instruments necessary for their experiments--with barometers, thermometers, hygrometers, compasses, dipping needles, metallic wires, an electrophorus, a voltaic pile, and with some frogs, insects, and birds--they ascended, at ten o'clock, on the morning of august , , from the garden of the repository of models. on rising english feet, they commenced their observations. the magnetic needle was attracted as usual by iron, but it was impossible for them at this time to determine with accuracy its rate of oscillation, owing to a slow rotary motion with which the balloon was affected. the voltaic pile exhibited all its ordinary effects, giving its peculiar copperas taste, exciting the nervous system, and causing the decomposition of water. at the elevation of feet, the animals which they carried with them appeared to suffer from the rarity of the air. the philosophers had their pulses much accelerated, but they experienced no difficulty in breathing, nor any inconvenience whatever. their highest elevation was , feet; and the result of their experiments at this distance from the earth was, that the force of magnetic attraction had not sensibly diminished, and that there is an increase of electricity in the higher regions of the atmosphere. in compliance with the request of several philosophers of paris, who were anxious that the same observations should be repeated at the greatest height that could be reached, gay lussac alone made a second ascent, on the morning of september , , from the garden of the repository of models, and rose, by a gradual ascent, to a great elevation. he continued to take observations at short intervals of the state of the barometer, the thermometer, and the hygrometer, of which he has given a tabular view, but he unfortunately neglected to mark the time at which they were made--a point of material importance, for the results would of course be modified by the progress of the day; and it would have added to their value, had these observations been compared with similar ones made at the same time at the observatory. during the ascent of the balloon, the hygrometer was variable, but obviously marked an increase of dryness; the thermometer indicated a decrease in the heat of the atmosphere, but the decrease is not uniform, the ratio being higher in the elevated regions than in the lower, which are heated from the earth; and it was found, by not fewer than fifteen trials at different altitudes, that the oscillations of a finely-suspended needle varied very little from its oscillations on the surface of the earth. at the height of , feet. lussac admitted the air into one of his exhausted flasks, and at the height of , feet, he filled the other. he continued to rise, till he was , feet above paris, or , feet--that is upward of four miles and a quarter--above the level of the sea, the utmost limit of his ascent, an elevation not much below the summit of nevado de sorato, the highest mountain of america, and the loftiest peak of the himalaya in asia, the highest mountains in the world, and far above that to which any mortal had ever soared before. one can not but admire the intrepid coolness with which lussac performed his experiments at this enormous elevation, conducting his operations with the same composure and precision as if he had been seated in his own parlor in paris. though warmly clad, he now began to suffer from the excessive cold, his pulse was quickened, he was oppressed by difficulty in breathing, and his throat became parched, from inhaling the dry, attenuated air--for the air was now more than twice as thin as ordinary, the barometer having sunk to . inches--so that he could hardly swallow a morsel of bread. he alighted safely, at a quarter before four o'clock afternoon, near the hamlet of st. gourgan, about sixteen miles from rouen. on reaching paris, he hastened to the laboratory of the polytechnic school, to analyze the air he had brought down in his flasks from the higher regions; and, by a very delicate analysis, it was found to contain exactly the same proportions as the air on the surface of the earth, every parts holding of oxygen, confirming the identity of the atmosphere in all situations. the ascents of these two philosophers are memorable, as the first which were made for purely scientific purposes. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune _(continued from vol. i. page .)_ chapter xviii. "the bay of rathfran." our voyage was very uneventful, but not without anxiety, since, to avoid the english cruisers and the channel-fleet, we were obliged to hold a southerly course for several days, making a great circuit before we could venture to bear up for the place of our destination. the weather alternated between light winds and a dead calm, which usually came on every day at noon, and lasted till about sunset. as to me, there was an unceasing novelty in every thing about a ship; her mechanism, her discipline, her progress, furnished abundant occupation for all my thoughts, and i never wearied of acquiring knowledge of a theme so deeply interesting. my intercourse with the naval officers, too, impressed me strongly in their favor, in comparison with their comrades of the land service. in the former case, all was zeal, activity, and watchfulness. the look-out never slumbered at his post; and an unceasing anxiety to promote the success of the expedition, manifested itself in all their words and actions. this, of course, was all to be expected in the discharge of the duties peculiarly their own; but i also looked for something which should denote preparation and forethought in the others; yet nothing of the kind was to be seen. the expedition was never discussed even as table-talk; and for any thing that fell from the party in conversation, it would have been impossible to say if our destination were china or ireland. not a book nor a map, not a pamphlet nor a paper that bore upon the country whose destinies were about to be committed to us, ever appeared on the tables. a vague and listless doubt how long the voyage might last, was the extent of interest any one condescended to exhibit; but as to what was to follow after--what new chapter of events should open when this first had closed, none vouchsafed to inquire. even to this hour i am puzzled whether to attribute this strange conduct to the careless levity of national character, or to a studied and well "got up" affectation. in all probability both influences were at work; while a third, not less powerful, assisted them--this was the gross ignorance and shameless falsehood of many of the irish leaders of the expedition, whose boastful and absurd histories ended by disgusting every one. to listen to them, ireland was not only unanimous in her desire for separation, but england was perfectly powerless to prevent it, and the only difficulty was, to determine the future fortune of the liberated land, when once her freedom had been proclaimed. among the projects discussed at the time, i well remember one, which was often gravely talked over, and the utter absurdity of which certainly struck none among us. this was no less than the intention of demanding the west india islands from england, as an indemnity for the past woes and bygone misgovernment of ireland. if this seem barely credible now, i can only repeat my faithful assurance of the fact, and i believe that some of the memoirs of the time will confirm my assertion. the french officers listened to these and similar speculations with utter indifference; probably to many of them the geographical question was a difficulty that stopped any further inquiry, while others felt no further interest than what a campaign promised. all the enthusiastic narratives, then, of high rewards and splendid trophies that awaited us, fell upon inattentive ears, and at last the word ireland ceased to be heard among us. play of various kinds occupied us when not engaged on duty. there was little discipline maintained on board, and none of that strictness which is the habitual rule of a ship-of-war. the lights were suffered to burn during the greater part of the night in the cabins; gambling went on usually till daybreak; and the quarter-deck, that most reverential of spots to every sailor-mind, was often covered by lounging groups, who smoked, chatted, or played at chess, in all the cool apathy of men indifferent to its claim for respect. now and then, the appearance of a strange sail afar off, or some dim object in the horizon, would create a momentary degree of excitement and anxiety; but when the "look-out" from the mast-head had proclaimed her a "schooner from brest," or a "spanish fruit-vessel," the sense of danger passed away at once, and none ever reverted to the subject of a peril then suggested. with general humbert i usually passed the greater part of each forenoon, a distinction, i must confess, i owed to my skill as a chess-player, a game of which he was particularly fond, and in which i had attained no small proficiency. i was too young and too unpracticed in the world to make my skill subordinate to my chief's, and beat him at every game with as little compunction as though he were only my equal, till, at last, vexed at his want of success, and tired of a contest that offered no vicissitude of fortune, he would frequently cease playing, to chat over the events of the time, and the chances of the expedition. it was with no slight mixture of surprise and dismay, that i now detected his utter despair of all success, and that he regarded the whole as a complete forlorn-hope. he had merely taken the command to involve the french government in the cause, and so to compromise the national character that all retreat would be impossible. "we shall be all cut to pieces, or taken prisoners the day after we land," was his constant exclamation, "and then, but not till then, will they think seriously in france of a suitable expedition." there was no heroism, still less was there any affectation of recklessness, in this avowal. by nature, he was a rough, easy, good-tempered fellow, who liked his profession less for its rewards, than for its changeful scenes and moving incidents--his one predominating feeling being that france should give rule to the whole world, and the principles of her revolution be every where pre-eminent. to promote this consummation, the loss of an army was of little moment. let the cause but triumph in the end, and the cost was not worth fretting about. next to this sentiment was his hatred of england, and all that was english. treachery, falsehood, pride, avarice, grasping covetousness, and unscrupulous aggression, were the characteristics by which he described the nation; and he made the little knowledge he had gleaned from newspapers and intercourse, so subservient to this theory, that i was an easy convert to his opinion; so that, ere long, my compassion for the wrongs of ireland was associated with the most profound hatred of her oppressors. to be sure, i should have liked the notion, that we ourselves were to have some more active share in the liberation of irishmen than the mere act of heralding another and more successful expedition; but even in this thought there was romantic self-devotion, not unpleasing to the mind of a boy; but, after all, i was the only one who felt it. the first sight of land to one on sea is always an event of uncommon interest; but how greatly increased is the feeling, when that land is to be the scene of a perilous exploit--the cradle of his ambition, or perhaps his grave! all my speculations about the expedition--all my day-dreams of success, or my anxious hours of dark forebodings--never brought the matter so palpably before me, as the dim outline of a distant headland, which, i was told, was part of the irish coast. this was on the th of august, but on the following day we stood farther out to sea again and saw no more of it. the three succeeding ones we continued to beat up slowly to the north'ard, against a head wind and a heavy sea; but on the evening of the st the sun went down in mellow splendor, and a light air from the south springing up, the sailors pronounced a most favorable change of weather, a prophecy that a starry night and a calm sea soon confirmed. the morning of the d broke splendidly--a gentle breeze from the sou'west slightly curled the blue waves, and filled the canvas of the three frigates, as in close order they sailed along under the tall cliffs of ireland. we were about three miles from the shore, on which now every telescope and glass was eagerly directed. as the light and fleeting clouds of early morning passed away, we could descry the outlines of the bold coast, indented with many a bay and creek, while rocky promontories and grassy slopes succeeded each other in endless variety of contrast. towns, or even villages, we could see none--a few small wretched-looking hovels were dotted over the hills, and here and there a thin wreath of blue smoke bespoke habitation, but, save these signs, there was an air of loneliness and solitude which increased the solemn feelings of the scene. all these objects of interest, however, soon gave way before another, to the contemplation of which every eye was turned. this was a small fishing-boat, which, with a low mast and ragged piece of canvas was seen standing boldly out for us; a red handkerchief was fastened to a stick in the stern, as if for a signal, and on our shortening sail, to admit of her overtaking us, the ensign was lowered, as though in acknowledgment of our meaning. the boat was soon alongside, and we now perceived that her crew consisted of a man and a boy, the former of whom, a powerfully-built, loose fellow, of about five-and-forty, dressed in a light-blue frieze jacket and trowsers, adroitly caught at the cast of rope thrown out to him, and having made fast his skiff, clambered up the ship's side at once, gayly, as though he were an old friend coming to welcome us. "is he a pilot?" asked the officer of the watch, addressing one of the irish officers. "no; he's only a fisherman, but he knows the coast perfectly, and says there is deep water within twenty fathoms of the shore." an animated conversation in irish now ensued between the peasant and captain madgett, during which a wondering and somewhat impatient group stood around, speedily increased by the presence of general humbert himself and his staff. "he tells me, general," said madgett, "that we are in the bay of killala, a good and safe anchorage, and, during the southerly winds, the best on all the coast." "what news has he from the shore?" asked humbert, sharply, as if the care of the ship was a very secondary consideration. "they have been expecting us with the greatest impatience, general; he says the most intense anxiety for our coming is abroad." "what of the people themselves? where are the national forces? have they any head quarters near this? eh, what says he? what is that? why does he laugh?" asked humbert, in impatient rapidity, as he watched the changes in the peasant's face. "he was laughing at the strange sound of a foreign language, so odd and singular to his ears," said madgett; but for all his readiness, a slight flushing of the cheek showed that he was ill at ease. "well, but what of the irish forces? where are they?" for some minutes the dialogue continued in an animated strain between the two; the vehement tone and gestures of each bespeaking what sounded at least like altercation; and madgett at last turned half angrily away, saying, "the fellow is too ignorant; he actually knows nothing of what is passing before his eyes." "is there no one else on board can speak this 'baragouinage,'" cried humbert in anger. "yes, general, i can interrogate him," cried a young lad named conolly, who had only joined us the day before we sailed. and now as the youth addressed the fisherman in a few rapid sentences, the other answered as quickly, making a gesture with his hands that implied grief, or even despair. "we can interpret that for ourselves," broke in humbert; "he is telling you that the game is up." "exactly so, general; he says that the insurrection has been completely put down, that the irish forces are scattered or disbanded, and all the leaders taken." "the fellow is just as likely to be an english spy," said madgett, in a whisper; but humbert's gesture of impatience showed how little trust he reposed in the allegation. "ask him what english troops are quartered in this part of the country," said the general. "a few militia, and two squadrons of dragoons," was the prompt reply. "no artillery?" "none." "is there any rumor of our coming abroad, or have the frigates been seen?" asked humbert. "they were seen last night from the church steeple of killala, general," said conolly, translating, "but believed to be english." "come; that is the best news he has brought us yet," said humbert, laughing; "we shall at least surprise them a little. ask him what men of rank or consequence live in the neighborhood, and how are they affected toward the expedition?" a few words, and a low, dry laugh, made all the peasant's reply. "eh, what says he?" asked humbert. "he says, sir, that, except a protestant bishop, there's nothing of the rank of gentry here." "i suppose we need scarcely expect _his_ blessing on our efforts," said humbert, with a hearty laugh. "what is he saying now?--what is he looking at?" "he says we are now in the very best anchorage of the bay," said conolly, "and that on the whole coast there's not a safer spot." a brief consultation now took place between the general and the naval officers, and in a few seconds the word was given to take in all sail, and anchor. "i wish i could speak to that honest fellow myself," said humbert, as he stood watching the fisherman, who with a peasant's curiosity had now approached the mast, and was passing his fingers across the blades of the cutlasses, as they stood in the sword rack. "sharp enough for the english, eh?" cried humbert, in french, but with a gesture that seemed at once intelligible. a dry nod of the head gave assent to the remark. "if i understand him aright," said humbert, in a half whisper to conolly, "we are as little expected by our friends as by our enemies; and that there is little or no force in arms among the irish." "there are plenty ready to fight, he says, sir, but none accustomed to discipline." a gesture, half contemptuous, was all humbert's reply, and he now turned away and walked the deck alone and in silence. meanwhile the bustle and movements of the crew continued, and soon the great ships, stripped of their white sails, lay tranquilly at anchor in a sea without a ripple. "a boat is coming out from the shore, general," whispered the lieutenant on duty. "ask the fisherman if he knows it." conolly drew the peasant's attention to the object, and the man, after looking steadily for a few seconds, became terribly agitated. "what is it, man--can't you tell who it is?" asked conolly. but although so composed before, so ready with all his replies, he seemed now totally unmanned--his frank and easy features being struck with the signs of palpable terror. at last, and with an effort that bespoke all his fears, he muttered--"'tis the king's boat is coming, and 'tis the collector's on board of her!" "is that all?" cried conolly, laughing, as he translated the reply to the general. "won't you say that i'm a prisoner, sir; won't you tell them that you took me?" said the fisherman, in an accent of fervent entreaty, for already his mind anticipated the casualty of a failure, and what might betide him afterward; but no one now had any care for him or his fortunes--all was in preparation to conceal the national character of the ships. the marines were ordered below, and all others whose uniforms might betray their country, while the english colors floated from every mast-head. general humbert, with serazin and two others, remained on the poop-deck, where they continued to walk, apparently devoid of any peculiar interest or anxiety in the scene. madgett alone betrayed agitation at this moment: his pale face was paler than ever, and there seemed to me a kind of studious care in the way he covered himself up with his cloak, so that not a vestige of his uniform could be seen. the boat now came close under our lee, and conolly being ordered to challenge her in english, the collector, standing up in the stern, touched his hat, and announced his rank. the gangway-ladder was immediately lowered, and three gentlemen ascended the ship's side and walked aft to the poop. i was standing near the bulwark at the time, watching the scene with intense interest. as general humbert stood a little in advance of the rest, the collector, probably taking him for the captain, addressed him with some courteous expression of welcome, and was proceeding to speak of the weather, when the general gently stopped him by asking if he spoke french. i shall never forget the terror of face that question evoked. at first, looking at his two companions, the collector turned his eyes to the gaff, where the english flag was flying; but still unable to utter a word, he stood like one entranced. "you have been asked if you can speak french, sir?" said conolly, at a sign from the general. "no--very little--very badly--not at all; but isn't this--am i not on board of--" "can none of them speak french?" said humbert, shortly. "yes, sir," said a young man on the collector's right; "i can make myself intelligible in that language, although no great proficient." "who are you, monsieur?--are you a civilian?" asked humbert. "yes, sir. i am the son of the bishop of killala, and this young gentleman is my brother." "what is the amount of the force in this neighborhood?" "you will pardon me, sir," said the youth, "if i ask, first, who it is puts this question, and under what circumstances i am expected to answer it?" "all frank and open, sir," said humbert, good-humoredly. "i'm the general humbert, commanding the advanced guard for the liberation of ireland--so much for your first question. as to your second one, i believe that if you have any concern for yourself, or those belonging to you, you will find that nothing will serve your interest so much as truth and plain dealing." "fortunately, then, for me," said the youth, laughing, "i can not betray my king's cause, for i know nothing, nothing whatever, about the movement of troops. i seldom go ten miles from home, and have not been even at ballina since last winter." "why so cautious about your information, then, sir," broke in serazin, roughly, "since you have none to give?" "because i had some to receive, sir; and was curious to know where i was standing," said the young man, boldly. while these few sentences were being interchanged, madgett had learned from the collector, that, except a few companies of militia and fencibles, the country was totally unprovided with troops, but he also picked up, that the people were so crest-fallen and subdued in courage from the late failure of the rebellion, that it was very doubtful whether our coming would arouse them to another effort. this information, particularly the latter part of it, madgett imparted to humbert at once, and i thought by his manner, and the eagerness with which he spoke, that he seemed to use all his powers to dissuade the general from a landing; at least i overheard him more than once say, "had we been further north, sir--" humbert quickly stopped him by the words: "and what prevents us, when we have landed, sir, in extending our line north'ard? the winds can not surely master us, when we have our feet on the sward. enough of all this; let these gentlemen be placed in security, and none have access to them without my orders. make signal for the commanding officers to come on board here. we've had too much of speculation; a little action now will be more profitable." "so, we are prisoners, it seems!" said the young man who spoke french, as he moved away with the others, who, far more depressed in spirit, hung their heads in silence, as they descended between-decks. scarcely was the signal for a council of war seen from the mast-head, when the different boats might be descried stretching across the bay with speed. and now all were assembled in general humbert's cabin, whose rank and station in the service, entitled them to the honor of being consulted. to such of us as held inferior grade, the time passed tediously enough as we paced the deck, now turning from the aspect of the silent, and, seemingly, uninhabited cliffs along shore, to listen if no sign betokened the breaking up of the council; nor were we without serious fears that the expedition would be abandoned altogether. this suspicion originated with the irish themselves, who, however confident of success, and boastful of their country's resources before we sailed, now made no scruple of averring that every thing was the exact reverse of what they had stated: for, that the people were dispirited, the national forces disbanded, neither arms, money, nor organization any where--in fact, that a more hopeless scheme could not be thought of than the attempt, and that its result could not fail to be defeat and ruin to all concerned. shall i own that the bleak and lonely aspect of the hills along shore, the dreary character of the landscape, the almost death-like stillness of the scene, aided these gloomy impressions, and made it seem as if we were about to try our fortune on some desolate spot, without one look of encouragement, or one word of welcome to greet us. the sight of even an enemy's force would have been a relief to this solitude--the stir and movement of a rival army would have given spirit to our daring, and nerved our courage, but there was something inexpressibly sad in this unbroken monotony. a few tried to jest upon the idea of liberating a land that had no inhabitants--the emancipation of a country without people; but even french flippancy failed to be witty on a theme so linked with all our hopes and fears, and, at last, a dreary silence fell upon all, and we walked the deck without speaking, waiting and watching for the result of that deliberation, which already had lasted above four mortal hours. twice was the young man who spoke french summoned to the cabin, but, from the briefness of his stay, apparently with little profit; and now the day began to wane, and the tall cliffs threw their lengthened shadows over the still waters of the bay, and yet nothing was resolved on. to the quiet and respectful silence of expectation, now succeeded a low and half subdued muttering of discontent; groups of five or six together were seen along the deck, talking with eagerness and animation, and it was easy to see that whatever prudential or cautious reasons dictated to the leaders, their arguments found little sympathy with the soldiers of the expedition. i almost began to fear that if a determination to abandon the exploit were come to, a mutiny might break out, when my attention was drawn off by an order to accompany colonel charost on shore to "reconnoitre." this, at least, looked like business, and i jumped into the small boat with alacrity. with the speed of four oars stoutly plied, we skimmed along the calm surface, and soon saw ourselves close in to the shore. some little time was spent in looking for a good place to land; for, although not the slightest air of wind was blowing, the long swell of the atlantic broke upon the rocks with a noise like thunder. at last, we shot into a little creek with a shelving gravelly beach, and completely concealed by the tall rocks on every side; and now we sprang out, and stood upon irish ground! chapter xix. a "reconnaissance." from the little creek where we landed, a small zig-zag path led up the sides of the cliff, the track by which the peasants carried the sea-weed, which they gathered for manure, and up this we now slowly wended our way. stopping for some time to gaze at the ample bay beneath us, the tall-masted frigates floating so majestically on its glassy surface--it was a scene of tranquil and picturesque beauty, with which it would have been almost impossible to associate the idea of war and invasion. in the lazy bunting that hung listlessly from peak and mast-head--in the cheerful voices of the sailors, heard afar off in the stillness--in the measured plash of the sea itself, and the fearless daring of the sea-gulls, as they soared slowly above our heads--there seemed something so suggestive of peace and tranquillity, it struck us as profanation to disturb it. as we gained the top and looked around us, our astonishment became even greater. a long succession of low hills, covered with tall ferns or heath, stretched away on every side; not a house, nor a hovel, nor a living thing to be seen. had the country been one uninhabited since the creation, it could not have presented an aspect of more thorough desolation! no road-track, nor even a foot-path, led through the dreary waste before us, on which, to all seeming, the foot of man had never fallen. and, as we stood for some moments, uncertain which way to turn, a sense of the ridiculous suddenly burst upon the party, and we all broke into a hearty roar of laughter. "i little thought," cried charost, "that i should ever emulate 'la perouse,' but it strikes me that i am destined to become a great discoverer." "how so, colonel?" asked his aid-de-camp. "why, it is quite clear, that this same island is uninhabited; and, if it be all like this, i own i'm scarcely surprised at it." "still, there must be a town not far off, and the residence of that bishop we heard of this morning." a half incredulous shrug of the shoulders was all his reply, as he sauntered along with his hands behind his back, apparently lost in thought; while we, as if instinctively partaking of his gloom, followed him in total silence. "do you know, gentlemen, what i'm thinking of?" said he, stopping suddenly, and facing about. "my notion is, that the best thing to do here, would be to plant our tri-color, proclaim the land a colony of france, and take to our boats again." this speech delivered with an air of great gravity, imposed upon us for an instant; but the moment after, the speaker breaking into a hearty laugh, we all joined him, as much amused by the strangeness of our situation, as by any thing in his remark. "we never could bring our guns through a soil like this, colonel," said the aid-de-camp, as he struck his heel into the soft and clayey surface. "if we could ever land them at all!" muttered he, half aloud; then added, "but for what object should we? believe me, gentlemen, if we are to have a campaign here, bows and arrows are the true weapons." "ah! what do i see yonder?" cried the aid-de-camp; "are not those sheep feeding in that little glen?" "yes," cried i, "and a man herding them, too. see, the fellow has caught sight of us, and he's off as fast as his legs can carry him." and so was it, the man had no sooner seen us than he sprung to his feet, and hurried down the mountain at full speed. our first impulse was to follow and give him chase, and even without a word, we all started off in pursuit; but we soon saw how fruitless would be the attempt, for, even independent of the start he had got of us, the peasant's speed was more than the double of our own. "no matter," said the colonel, "if we have lost the shepherd, we have, at least, gained the sheep, and so i recommend you to secure a mutton for dinner to-morrow." with this piece of advice, down the hill he darted, as hard as he could. briolle, the aid-de-camp, and myself following at our best pace. we were reckoning without our host, however, for the animals, after one stupid stare at us, set off in a scamper that soon showed their mountain breeding, keeping all together like a pack of hounds, and, really, not very inferior in the speed they displayed. a little gorge led between the hills, and through this they rushed madly, and with a clatter like a charge of cavalry. excited by the chase, and emulous each to outrun the other, the colonel threw off his chako, and briolle his sword, in the ardor of pursuit. we now gained on them rapidly, and though, from a winding in the glen, they had momentarily got out of sight, we knew that we were close upon them. i was about thirty paces in advance of my comrades, when, on turning an angle of the gorge, i found myself directly in front of a group of mud hovels, in front of which were standing about a dozen ragged, miserable looking men, armed with pitchforks and scythes, while in the rear stood the sheep, blown and panting from the chase. i came to a dead stop; and although i would have given worlds to have had my comrades at my side, i never once looked back to see if they were coming; but, putting a bold face on the matter, called out the only few words i knew of irish, "go de ma ha tu." the peasants looked at each other; and whether it was my accent, my impudence, or my strange dress and appearance, or all together, i can not say, but, after a few seconds' pause, they burst out into a roar of laughter, in the midst of which my two comrades came up. "we saw the sheep feeding on the hills, yonder," said i, recovering self-possession, "and guessed that by giving them chase, they'd lead us to some inhabited spot. what is this place called?" "shindrennin," said a man who seemed to be the chief of the party; "and, if i might make so bould, who are you, yourselves?" "french officers; this is my colonel," said i, pointing to charost, who was wiping his forehead and face after his late exertion. the information, far from producing the electric effect of pleasure i had anticipated, was received with a coldness, almost amounting to fear, and they spoke eagerly together for some minutes in irish. "our allies evidently don't like the look of us," said charost, laughing; "and if the truth must be told, i own the disappointment is mutual." "'tis too late you come sir," said the peasant, addressing the colonel, while he removed his hat, and assumed an air of respectful deference. "'tis all over with poor ireland, this time." "tell him," said charost, to whom i translated the speech, "that it's never too late to assert a good cause: that we have got arms for twenty thousand, if they have but hands and hearts to use them. tell him that a french army is now lying in that bay yonder, ready and able to accomplish the independence of ireland." i delivered my speech as pompously as it was briefed to me; and, although i was listened to in silence, and respectfully, it was plain my words carried little or no conviction with them. not caring to waste more of our time in such discourse, i now inquired about the country--in what directions lay the high roads, and the relative situations of the towns of killala, castlebar, and ballina, the only places of comparative importance in the neighborhood. i next asked about the landing-places, and learned that a small fishing-harbor existed, not more than half a mile from the spot where we had landed, from which a little country road lay to the village of palmerstown. as to the means of transporting baggage, guns, and ammunition, there were few horses to be had, but with money we might get all we wanted; indeed, the peasants constantly referred to this means of success, even to asking "what the french would give a man that was to join them?" if i did not translate the demand with fidelity to my colonel, it was really that a sense of shame prevented me. my whole heart was in the cause; and i could not endure the thought of its being degraded in this way. it was growing duskish, and the colonel proposed that the peasant should show us the way to the fishing-harbor he spoke of, while some other of the party might go round to our boat, and direct them to follow us thither. the arrangement was soon made, and we all sauntered down toward the shore, chatting over the state of the country, and the chances of a successful rising. from the specimen before me, i was not disposed to be over sanguine about the peasantry. the man was evidently disaffected toward england. he bore her neither good-will nor love; but his fears were greater than all else. he had never heard of any thing but failure in all attempts against her; and he could not believe in any other result. even the aid and alliance of france inspired no other feeling than distrust; for he said more than once, "sure, what can harm _yez_? haven't ye yer ships, beyant, to take yez away, if things goes bad?" i was heartily glad that colonel charost knew so little english, that the greater part of the peasant's conversation was unintelligible to him, since, from the first, he had always spoken of the expedition in terms of disparagement; and certainly what we were now to hear was not of a nature to controvert the prediction. in our ignorance as to the habits and modes of thought of the people, we were much surprised at the greater interest the peasant betrayed when asking us about france and her prospects, than when the conversation concerned his own country. it appeared as though, in the one case, distance gave grandeur and dimensions to all his conceptions, while familiarity with home scenes and native politics had robbed them of all their illusions. he knew well that there were plenty of hardships, abundance of evils, to deplore in ireland; rents were high, taxes and tithes oppressive, agents were severe, bailiffs were cruel; social wrongs he could discuss for hours, but of political woes, the only one we could be expected to relieve or care for, he really knew nothing. "'tis true," he repeated, "that what my honor said was all right, ireland was badly treated," and so on; "liberty was an elegant thing if a body had it," and such like; but there ended his patriotism. accustomed for many a day to the habits of a people where all were politicians, where the rights of man, and the grand principles of equality and self-government were everlastingly under discussion, i was, i confess it, sorely disappointed at this worse than apathy. "will they fight?--ask him that," said charost, to whom i had been conveying a rather rose-colored version of my friend's talk. "oh, be gorra! we'll fight sure enough!" said he, with a half-dogged scowl beneath his brows. "what number of them may we reckon on in the neighborhood?" repeated the colonel. "'tis mighty hard to say; many of the boys was gone over to england for the harvest; some were away to the counties inland, others were working on the roads; but if they knew, sure they'd be soon back again." "might they calculate on a thousand stout, effective men?" asked charost. "ay, twenty, if they were at home," said the peasant, less a liar by intention than from the vague and careless disregard of truth, so common in all their own intercourse with each other. i must own that the degree of credit we reposed in the worthy man's information was considerably influenced by the state of facts before us, inasmuch as that the "elegant, fine harbor" he had so gloriously described--"the beautiful road"--"the neat little quay" to land upon, and the other advantages of the spot, all turned out to be most grievous disappointments. that the people were not of our own mind on these matters, was plain enough from the looks of astonishment our discontent provoked; and now a lively discussion ensued on the relative merits of various bays, creeks, and inlets along the coast, each of which, with some unpronounceable name or other, was seen to have a special advocate in its favor, till at last the colonel lost all patience, and jumping into the boat, ordered the men to push off for the frigate. evidently out of temper at the non-success of his "reconnaissance," and as little pleased with the country as the people, charost did not speak a word as we rowed back to the ship. our failure, as it happened, was of little moment, for another party, under the guidance of madgett, had already discovered a good landing-place at the bottom of the bay of rathfran, and arrangements were already in progress to disembark the troops at day-break. we also found that, during our absence, some of the "chiefs" had come off from shore, one of whom, named neal kerrigan, was destined to attain considerable celebrity in the rebel army. he was a talkative, vulgar, presumptuous fellow, who, without any knowledge or experience whatever, took upon him to discuss military measures and strategy with all the assurance of an old commander. singularly enough, humbert suffered this man to influence him in a great degree, and yielded opinion to him on points even where his own judgment was directly opposed to the advice he gave. if kerrigan's language and bearing were directly the reverse of soldierlike, his tawdry uniform of green and gold, with massive epaulets and a profusion of lace, were no less absurd in our eyes, accustomed as we were to the almost puritan plainness of military costume. his rank, too, seemed as undefined as his information; for while he called himself "general," his companions as often addressed him by the title of "captain." upon some points his counsels, indeed, alarmed and astonished us. "it was of no use whatever," he said, "to attempt to discipline the peasantry, or reduce them to any thing like habits of military obedience. were the effort to be made, it would prove a total failure; for they would either grow disgusted with the restraint, and desert altogether, or so infect the other troops with their own habits of disorder, that the whole force would become a mere rabble. arm them well, let them have plenty of ammunition, and free liberty to use it in their own way and their own time, and we should soon see that they would prove a greater terror to the english than double the number of trained and disciplined troops." in some respects this view was a correct one; but whether it was a wise counsel to have followed, subsequent events gave us ample cause to doubt. kerrigan, however, had a specious, reckless, go-ahead way with him that suited well the tone and temper of humbert's mind. he never looked too far into consequences, but trusted that the eventualities of the morrow would always suggest the best course for the day after; and this alone was so akin to our own general's mode of proceeding, that he speedily won his confidence. the last evening on board was spent merrily on all sides. in the general cabin, where the staff and all the "chefs de brigade" were assembled, gay songs, and toasts, and speeches succeeded each other till nigh morning. the printed proclamations, meant for circulation among the people, were read out, with droll commentaries; and all imaginable quizzing and jesting went on about the new government to be established in ireland, and the various offices to be bestowed upon each. had the whole expedition been a joke, the tone of levity could not have been greater. not a thought was bestowed, not a word wasted upon any of the graver incidents that might ensue. all were, if not hopeful and sanguine, utterly reckless, and thoroughly indifferent to the future. chapter xx. killala. i will not weary my reader with an account of our debarkation, less remarkable as it was for the "pomp and circumstance of war" than for incidents and accidents the most absurd and ridiculous--the miserable boats of the peasantry, the still more wretched cattle employed to drag our artillery and train wagons, involving us in innumerable misfortunes and mischances. never were the heroic illusions of war more thoroughly dissipated than by the scenes which accompanied our landing! boats and baggage-wagons upset; here, a wild, half savage-looking fellow swimming after a cocked hat--there, a group of ragged wretches scraping sea-weed from a dripping officer of the staff; noise, uproar, and confusion every where; smart aid-de-camps mounted on donkeys; trim field-pieces "horsed" by a promiscuous assemblage of men, women, cows, ponies, and asses. crowds of idle country-people thronging the little quay and obstructing the passages, gazed upon the whole with eyes of wonderment and surprise, but evidently enjoying all the drollery of the scene with higher relish than they felt interested in its object or success. this trait in them soon attracted all our notice, for they laughed at every thing; not a caisson tumbled into the sea, not a donkey brought his rider to the ground, but one general shout shook the entire assemblage. if want and privation had impressed themselves by every external sign on this singular people, they seemed to possess inexhaustible resources of good humor and good spirits within. no impatience or rudeness on our part could irritate them; and even to the wildest and least civilized looking fellow around, there was a kind of native courtesy and kindliness that could not fail to strike us. a vague notion prevailed that we were their "friends;" and although many of them did not clearly comprehend why we had come, or what was the origin of the warm attachment between us, they were too lazy and too indifferent to trouble their heads about the matter. they were satisfied that there would be a "shindy" somewhere, and somebody's bones would get broken, and even that much was a pleasant and reassuring consideration; while others of keener mould reveled in plans of private vengeance against this landlord or that agent--small debts of hatred to be paid off in the day of general reckoning! from the first moment nothing could exceed the tone of fraternal feeling between our soldiers and the people. without any means of communicating their thoughts by speech, they seemed to acquire an instinctive knowledge of each other in an instant. if the peasant was poor, there was no limit to his liberality in the little he had. he dug up his half-ripe potatoes, he unroofed his cabin to furnish straw for litter, he gave up his only beast, and was ready to kill his cow, if asked, to welcome us. much of this was from the native, warm, and impulsive generosity of their nature, and much, doubtless, had its origin in the bright hopes of future recompense inspired by the eloquent appeals of neal kerrigan, who, mounted on an old white mare, rode about on every side, addressing the people in irish, and calling upon them to give all aid and assistance to "the expedition." the difficulty of the landing was much increased by the small space of level ground which intervened between the cliffs and the sea, and of which now the thickening crowd filled every spot. this and the miserable means of conveyance for our baggage, delayed us greatly, so that, with a comparatively small force, it was late in the afternoon before we had all reached the shore. we had none of us eaten since morning, and were not sorry, as we crowned the heights, to hear the drums beat for "cooking." in an inconceivably short time fires blazed along the hills, around which, in motley groups, stood soldiers and peasantry mingled together, while the work of cooking and eating went briskly on, amid hearty laughter and all the merriment that mutual mistakes and misconceptions occasioned. it was a new thing for french soldiers to bivouac in a friendly country, and find themselves the welcome guests of a foreign people; and certainly the honors of hospitality, however limited the means, could not have been performed with more of courtesy or good-will. paddy gave his "all," with a generosity that might have shamed many a richer donor. while the events i have mentioned were going forward, and a considerable crowd of fishermen and peasants had gathered about us, still it was remarkable that, except immediately on the coast itself, no suspicion of our arrival had joined currency, and even the country people who lived a mile from the shore were ignorant of who we were. the few who, from distant heights and headlands, had seen the ships, mistook them for english, and as all those who were out with fish or vegetables to sell were detained by the frigates, any direct information about us was impossible. so far, therefore, all might be said to have gone most favorably with us. we had safely escaped the often-menaced dangers of the channel fleet; we had gained a secure and well-sheltered harbor; and we had landed our force not only without opposition, but in perfect secrecy. there were, i will not deny, certain little counterbalancing circumstances on the other side of the account, not exactly so satisfactory. the patriot forces upon which we had calculated had no existence. there were neither money, nor stores, nor means of conveyance to be had; even accurate information as to the strength and position of the english was unattainable; and as to generals and leaders, the effective staff had but a most sorry representative in the person of neal kerrigan. this man's influence over our general increased with every hour, and one of the first orders issued after our landing contained his appointment as an extra aid-de-camp on general humbert's staff. in one capacity neal was most useful. all the available sources of pillage for a wide circuit of country he knew by heart, and it was plain, from the accurate character of his information, varying, as it did, from the chattels of the rich landed proprietor to the cocks and hens of the cottier, that he had taken great pains to master his subject. at his suggestion it was decided that we should march that evening on killala, where little, or, more likely, no resistance would be met with, and general humbert should take up his quarters in the "castle," as the palace of the bishop was styled. there, he said, we should not only find ample accommodation for the staff, but good stabling, well filled, and plenty of forage, while the bishop himself might be a most useful hostage to have in our keeping. from thence, too, as a place of some note, general orders and proclamations would issue, with a kind of notoriety and importance necessary at the outset of an undertaking like ours; and truly never was an expedition more loaded with this species of missive than ours--whole cart-loads of printed papers, decrees, placards, and such like, followed us. if our object had been to drive out the english by big type and a flaming letter-press, we could not have gone more vigorously to work. fifty thousand broad-sheet announcements of irish independence were backed by as many proud declarations of victory, some dated from limerick, cashel, or dublin itself. here, a great placard gave the details of the new provincial government of western ireland, with the name of the "prefect" a blank. there was another, containing the police regulations for the "arrondissements" of connaught, "et ses dependances." every imaginable step of conquest and occupation was anticipated and provided for in these wise and considerate protocols, from the "enthusiastic welcome of the french on the western coast," to the hour of "general humbert's triumphal entry into dublin." nor was it prose alone, but even poetry, did service in our cause. songs, not, i own, conspicuous for great metrical beauty, commemorated our battles and our bravery; so that we entered upon the campaign as deeply pledged to victory as any force i ever heard or read of in history. neal, who was, i believe, originally a schoolmaster, had great confidence in this arsenal of "black and white;" and soon persuaded general humbert that a bold face and a loud tongue would do more in ireland than in any country under heaven; and indeed, if his own career might be called a success, the theory deserved some consideration. a great part of our afternoon was then spent in distributing these documents to the people, not one in a hundred of whom could read, but who treasured the placards with a reverence nothing diminished by their ignorance. emissaries, too, were appointed to post them up in conspicuous places through the country, on the doors of the chapels, at the smiths' forges, at cross-roads, every where, in short, where they might attract notice. the most important and business-like of all these, however, was one headed "arms!--arms!" and which went on to say that no man who wished to lift his hand for old ireland need do so without a weapon; and that a general distribution of guns, swords, and bayonets would take place at noon the following day at the palace of killala. serazin, and, i believe, madgett, were strongly opposed to this indiscriminate arming of the people; but neal's counsels were now in the ascendant, and humbert gave an implicit confidence to all he suggested. it was four o'clock in the evening when the word to march was given, and our gallant little force began its advance movement. still attached to colonel charost's staff, and being, as chasseurs, in the advance, i had a good opportunity of seeing the line of march from an eminence about half a mile in front. grander and more imposing displays i have indeed often witnessed. as a great military "spectacle" it could not, of course, be compared with those mighty armies i had seen deploying through the defiles of the black forest, or spreading like a sea over the wide plain of germany, but in purely picturesque effect, this scene surpassed all i had ever beheld at the time, nor do i think, that, in after life, i can recall one more striking. the winding road, which led over hill and valley, now disappearing, now emerging, with the undulations of the soil, was covered by troops marching in a firm compact order; the grenadiers in front, after which came the artillery, and then the regiments of the line. watching the dark column, occasionally saluting it as it went with a cheer, stood thousands of country people on every hill-top and eminence, while far away, in the distance, the frigates lay at anchor in the bay, the guns at intervals thundering out a solemn "boom" of welcome and encouragement to their comrades. there was something so heroic in the notion of that little band of warriors throwing themselves fearlessly into a strange land, to contest its claim for liberty with one of the most powerful nations of the world; there was a character of daring intrepidity in this bold advance, they knew not whither, nor against what force, that gave the whole an air of glorious chivalry. i must own that distance lent its wonted illusion to the scene, and proximity, like its twin-brother, familiarity, destroyed much of the "prestige" my fancy had conjured up. the line of march, so imposing when seen from afar, was neither regular nor well kept. the peasantry were permitted to mingle with the troops; ponies, mules, and asses, loaded with camp-kettles and cooking vessels, were to be met with every where. the baggage-wagons were crowded with officers, and "sous-officiers," who, disappointed in obtaining horses, were too indolent to walk. even the gun-carriages, and the guns themselves, were similarly loaded, while at the head of the infantry column, in an old rickety gig, the ancient mail conveyance between ballina and the coast, came general humbert, neal kerrigan capering at his side on the old gray, whose flanks were now tastefully covered by the tri-colored ensign of one of the boats as a saddle-cloth. this nearer and less enchanting prospect of my gallant comrades i was enabled to obtain, on being dispatched to the rear by colonel charost, to say that we were now within less than a mile of the town of killala, its venerable steeple, and the tall chimneys of the palace, being easily seen above the low hills in front. neal kerrigan passed me, as i rode back with my message, galloping to the front with all the speed he could muster; but while i was talking to the general he came back to say that the beating of drums could be heard from the town, and that by the rapid movements here and there of people, it was evident the defense was being prepared. there was a look-out, too, from the steeple, that showed our approach was already known. the general was not slow in adopting his measures, and the word was given for quick march, the artillery to deploy right and left of the road, two companies of grenadiers forming on the flanks. "as for you, sir," said humbert to me, "take that horse," pointing to a mountain pony, fastened behind the gig, "ride forward to the town and make a reconnaissance. you are to report to me," cried he, as i rode away, and was soon out of hearing. quitting the road, i took a foot-track across the fields, and which the pony seemed to know well, and after a sharp canter reached a small, poor suburb of the town, if a few straggling wretched cabins can deserve the name; a group of countrymen stood in the middle of the road, about fifty yards in front of me; and while i was deliberating whether to advance or retire, a joyous cry of "hurra for the french!" decided me, and i touched my cap in salute, and rode forward. other groups saluted me with a similar cheer as i went on; and now windows were flung open, and glad cries and shouts of welcome rang out from every side. these signs were too encouraging to turn my back upon, so i dashed forward through a narrow street in front, and soon found myself in a kind of square or "place," the doors and windows of which were all closed, and not a human being to be seen any where. as i hesitated what next to do, i saw a soldier in a red coat rapidly turn the corner. "what do you want here, you spy?" he cried out in a loud voice, and at the same instant his bullet rang past my ear with a whistle. i drove in the spurs at once, and just as he had gained a doorway i clove his head open with my sabre--he fell dead on the spot before me. wheeling my horse round, i now rode back as i had come, at full speed, the same welcome cries accompanying me as before. short as had been my absence, it was sufficient to have brought the advanced guard close up with the town, and just as i emerged from the little suburb, a quick, sharp firing, drew my attention toward the left of the wall, and there i saw our fellows advancing at a trot, while about twenty red-coats were in full flight before them, the wild cries of the country people following them as they went. i had but time to see thus much, and to remark that two or three english prisoners were taken, when the general came up. he had now abandoned the gig, and was mounted on a large, powerful, black horse, which i afterward learned was one of the bishop's. my tidings were soon told, and, indeed, but indifferently attended to, for it was evident enough that the place was our own. "this way, general--follow me," cried kerrigan. "if the light-companies will take the road down to the 'acres,' they'll catch the yeomen as they retreat by that way, and we have the town our own." the counsel was speedily adopted; and although the dropping fire, here and there, showed that some slight resistance was still being made, it was plain enough that all real opposition was impossible. "forward!" was now the word; and the "chasseurs," with their muskets "in sling," advanced at a trot up the main street. at a little distance the grenadiers followed, and, debouching into the square, were received by an ill-directed volley from a few of the militia, who took to their heels after they fired. three or four red-coats were killed, but the remainder made their escape through the church-yard, and gaining the open country, scattered and fled as best they could. humbert, who had seen war on a very different scale, could not help laughing at the absurdity of the skirmish, and was greatly amused with the want of all discipline and "accord" exhibited by the english troops. "i foresee, gentlemen," said he, jocularly, "that we may have abundance of success, but gain very little glory, in the same campaign. now for a blessing upon our labors--where shall we find our friend, the bishop?" "this way, general," cried neal, leading down a narrow street, at the end of which stood a high wall, with an iron gate. this was locked, and some efforts at barricading it showed the intention of a defense; but a few strokes of a pioneer's hammer smashed the lock, and we entered a kind of pleasure-ground, neatly and trimly kept. we had not advanced many paces when the bishop, followed by a great number of his clergy--for it happened to be the period of his annual visitation--came forward to meet us. humbert dismounted, and removing his chapeau, saluted the dignitary with a most finished courtesy. i could see, too, by his gesture, that he presented general serazin, the second in command; and, in fact, all his motions were those of a well-bred guest at the moment of being received by his host. nor was the bishop, on his side, wanting either in ease or dignity; his manner, not without the appearance of deep sorrow, was yet that of a polished gentleman doing the honors of his house to a number of strangers. as i drew nearer i could hear that the bishop spoke french fluently, but with a strong foreign accent. this facility, however, enabled him to converse with ease on every subject, and to hold intercourse directly with our general, a matter of no small moment to either party. it is probable that the other clergy did not possess this gift, for assuredly their manner toward us, inferiors of the staff, was neither gracious nor conciliating, and as for myself, the few efforts i made to express, in english, my admiration for the coast scenery, or the picturesque beauty of the neighborhood, were met in any rather than a spirit of politeness. the generals accompanied the bishop into the castle, leaving myself and three or four others on the outside. colonel charost soon made his appearance, and a guard was stationed at the entrance gate, with a strong picket in the garden. two sentries were placed at the hall-door, and the words "quartier général" written up over the portico. a small garden pavilion was appropriated to the colonel's use, and made the office of the adjutant-general, and in less than half an hour after our arrival eight sous-officiers were hard at work, under the trees, writing away at billets, contribution orders, and forage rations; while i, from my supposed fluency in english, was engaged in carrying messages to and from the staff to the various shopkeepers and tradesmen of the town, numbers of whom now flocked around us with expressions of welcome and rejoicing. (_to be continued_.) [from dickens's household words.] a lunatic asylum in palermo. several years ago count pisani, a sicilian nobleman, while on a tour through europe, directed his attention to the condition of the receptacles for lunatics in some of the principal continental cities. deeply impressed by the injudicious and often cruel treatment to which the unhappy inmates of those establishments were subject, he determined on returning, to convert his beautiful villa near palermo into a lunatic asylum, which received the name of the _casa dei matti_; and withdrawing to a more humble place of abode, he devoted his fortune and energies to the purpose of carrying out his philanthropic scheme. count pisani himself offered to conduct me over the establishment. after a short walk we arrived in front of a spacious mansion, the exterior aspect of which presented nothing differing from that of a handsome private residence. the windows, it is true, were grated; but the gratings were so ingeniously contrived that had not my attention been particularly directed to them, i should not have discovered their existence. some represented vine leaves, tendrils, or bunches of grapes; others were fashioned like the long leaves and blue flowers of the convolvulus. foliage, fruit, and flowers were all painted in natural colors, and it was only from a very near point of view that the artifice could be detected. the gate was opened by a man, who, instead of carrying a huge stick or a bunch of keys (the usual insignia of the porter of a mad house), had a fine nosegay stuck in the breast of his coat, and in one hand he held a flute, on which he had apparently been playing when interrupted by our summons at the gate. we entered the building, and were proceeding along the corridor on the ground-floor, when we met a man whom i took to be a servant or messenger of the establishment, as he was carrying some bundles of fire-wood. on perceiving us, he laid down his burden, and advancing to count pisani, respectfully kissed his hand. the count inquired why he was not in the garden enjoying the fresh air and amusing himself with his companions. "because," replied the man, "winter is fast coming, and i have no time to lose. i shall have enough to do to bring down all the wood from the loft, and stow it away in the cellar." the count commended his forethought, and the man, taking up his fagots, bowed, and went his way. this man, the count informed me, was the owner of large estates in castelveleruno; but owing to a natural inactivity of mind, and the absence of any exciting or useful occupation, he sank into a state of mental torpor, which terminated in insanity. when he was brought to the _casa dei matti_, count pisani drew him aside, under the pretense of having a most important communication to make to him. the count informed him that he had been changed at nurse, that he was not the rightful owner of the wealth he had heretofore enjoyed; and that the fact having become known, he was dispossessed of his wealth, and must therefore work for his maintenance. the madman believed the tale, but showed no disposition to rouse himself from the state of indolence which had been the primary cause of his mental aberration. he folded his arms, and sat down, doubtless expecting that in due time a servant would enter as usual to inform him that dinner was ready. but in this he was deceived. dinner hour arrived, and no servant appeared. he waited patiently for some time; but at length the pangs of hunger roused him from his listlessness, and he began to call out loudly for something to eat. no one answered him; and he passed the whole night in knocking on the walls of his apartment, and ordering his servants to bring him his dinner. about nine o'clock next morning, one of the keepers entered the apartment of the new patient, who, starting up with more energy than he usually manifested, imperiously ordered his breakfast to be prepared. the keeper offered to go into the town to purchase something for his breakfast, if he would give him the money to pay for it. the hungry man eagerly thrust his hands into his pocket, and to his dismay, having discovered that he had no money, he implored the keeper to go and procure him some breakfast on credit. "credit!" exclaimed the keeper, who had received the requisite instructions from count pisani. "credit, indeed! no doubt you might easily have obtained credit to any amount, when you were living at castelveleruno, and every one believed you to be the rightful lord of those fine domains. but now that the truth has come out, who do you think will give credit to a pauper?" the lunatic immediately recollected what count pisani had told him respecting his altered position in life, and the necessity of working for his daily bread. he remained for a few moments as if absorbed in profound reflection; then, turning to the keeper, he asked whether he would point out to him some mode by which he could earn a little money to save himself from starvation. the keeper replied that if he would help him to carry up to the loft the fagots of firewood which were in the cellar, he would willingly pay him for his work. the proposal was readily accepted; and after carrying up twelve loads of wood, the laborer received his hire, consisting of a little money just sufficient to purchase a loaf of bread, which he devoured with a keener appetite than he ever remembered to have felt throughout the whole previous course of his life. he then set to work to earn his dinner as he had earned his breakfast; but instead of twelve, he carried up thirty-six loads of wood. for this he was paid three times as much as he had received in the morning, and his dinner was proportionably better and more abundant than his breakfast. thenceforward the business proceeded with the most undeviating regularity; and the patient at last conceived such a liking for his occupation, that when all the wood had been carried from the cellar to the loft, he began of his own voluntary accord to carry it down from the loft to the cellar, and _vice versâ_. when i saw this lunatic, he had been employed in this manner for about a year. the morbid character of his madness had completely disappeared, and his bodily health, previously bad, was now re-established. count pisani informed me that he intended soon to try the experiment of telling him that there was some reason to doubt the accuracy of the statements which had caused him to lose the property he once enjoyed; and that he (the count) was in quest of certain papers which might, perhaps, prove after all, that he was no changeling, but the rightful heir to the estates of which he had been deprived. "but," added the count, when he told me this, "however complete this man's recovery may at any time seem to be, i will not allow him to quit this place unless he gives me a solemn promise that he will every day, wheresoever he may be, carry twelve loads of wood from the cellar to the garret, and twelve loads down from the garret to the cellar. on that condition alone, shall i feel any security against the risk of his relapse. want of occupation is well known to be one of the most frequent causes of insanity." each patient had a separate apartment, and several of these little rooms were furnished and decorated in the most capricious style, according to the claims of their occupants. one, who believed himself to be the son of the emperor of china, had his walls hung with silk banners, on which were painted dragons and serpents, while all sorts of ornaments cut out in gold paper, lay scattered about the room. this lunatic was good-tempered and cheerful, and count pisani had devised a scheme which he hoped might have some effect in mitigating the delusions under which he labored. he proposed to print a copy of a newspaper, and to insert in it a paragraph announcing that the emperor of china had been dethroned, and had renounced the sovereignty on the part of his son and his descendants. another patient, whose hallucination consisted in believing himself to be dead, had his room hung with black crape, and his bed constructed in the form of a bier. whenever he arose from his bed, he was either wrapped in a winding sheet, or in some sort of drapery which he conceived to be the proper costume for a ghost. this appeared to me to be a very desperate case, and i asked count pisani whether he thought there was any chance of curing the victim of so extraordinary a delusion. the count shook his head doubtfully, and observed that his only hope rested on a scheme he meant shortly to try; which was to endeavor to persuade the lunatic that the day of judgment had arrived. as we were quitting this chamber, we heard a loud roaring in another patient's apartment near at hand. the count asked me whether i had any wish to see how he managed raving madmen? "none whatever," i replied, "unless you guarantee my personal safety!" he assured me there was nothing to fear, and, taking a key from the hand of one of the keepers, he led the way into a padded chamber. in one corner of the room was a bed, and stretched upon it lay a man, wearing a strait-waistcoat, which confined his arms to his sides, and fastened him by the middle of his body to the bed. i was informed that a quarter of an hour previously, this man had been seized with such a frightful fit of raving mania that the keepers were obliged to have recourse to restraint, very rarely resorted to in that establishment. he appeared to be about thirty years of age, was exceedingly handsome; he had fine dark eyes, and features of the antique mould, with the figure of a hercules. on hearing the door open, he roared out in a voice of thunder, uttering threats and imprecations; but, on looking round, his eyes met those of the count, and his anger softened down into expressions of grief and lamentation. count pisani approached the bed, and, in a mild tone of voice, asked the patient what he had been doing to render it necessary to place him under such restraint. "they have taken away my angelica," replied the maniac; "they have torn her from me, and i am resolved to be avenged on medora!" the unfortunate man imagined himself to be orlando furioso, and, as may readily be supposed, his madness was of the wildest and most extravagant character. count pisani endeavored to soothe his violence by assuring him that angelica had been carried off by force, and that she would doubtless seize the first opportunity of escaping from the hands of her captors and rejoining her lover. this assurance, repeated earnestly but gently, speedily had the effect of calming the fury of the maniac, who, after a little time, requested that the count would unfasten his strait-waistcoat. this count pisani agreed to do, on condition of the patient pledging his word of honor that he would not profit by his liberty to make any attempt to pursue angelica. this sympathy for imaginary misfortune had a good effect. the patient did not attempt to quit his bed, but merely raised himself up. he had been a year in the establishment, and, notwithstanding the deep grief into which his fancied misfortunes plunged him, he had never been known to shed tears. count pisani had several times endeavored to make him weep, but without success. he proposed soon to try the experiment of announcing to him the death of angelica. he intended to dress up a figure in funeral garments, and to prevail on the heart-broken orlando to be present at the interment. this scene, it was expected, would have the effect of drawing tears from the eyes of the sufferer; and if so, count pisani declared he should not despair of his recovery. in an apartment facing that of orlando furioso, there was another man raving mad. when we entered his room he was swinging in a hammock, in which he was fastened down, for biting his keeper. through the gratings of his window he could perceive his comrades strolling about and amusing themselves in the garden. he wished to be among them, but was not allowed to go, because, on a recent occasion, he had made a very violent attack on a poor harmless creature, suffering from melancholy madness. the offender was in consequence condemned to be tied down in his hammock, which is the secondary punishment resorted to in the establishment. the first and most severe penalty being imprisonment; and the third the strait-waistcoat. "what is the matter?" said count pisani. "what have you been doing to-day?" the lunatic looked at the count, and then began whining, like a peevish child. "they will not let me go out to play," said he, looking out of the window, where several of his companions were enjoying the air in the garden. "i am tired of lying here;" and he began rocking himself impatiently in his hammock. "well, i doubt not it is wearisome," said the count; "suppose i release you;" and, with those words, he unfastened the ligatures. the lunatic joyfully leapt out of his hammock, exclaiming, "now i may go into the garden!" "stay," said the count; "suppose before you go you dance the tarantella." "oh, yes!" exclaimed the lunatic, in a tone which showed that he received the proposal as the greatest possible indulgence; "i shall be delighted to dance the tarantella." "go and fetch teresa and gaetano," said the count to one of the keepers; then turning to me, he said, "teresa is also one of our violent patients, and she sometimes gives us a great deal of trouble. gaetano was a teacher of the guitar, and some time ago he became deranged. he is the minstrel of our establishment." in a few minutes, teresa, a pretty looking young woman about twenty years of age, was conducted into the room by two men, who held her by the arms, while she struggled to escape, and endeavored to strike them. gaetano, with his guitar slung round his neck, followed gravely, but without being held, for his madness was of a perfectly harmless kind. no sooner did teresa perceive count pisani, than, by a violent effort disengaging herself from the keepers, she flew to him, and, drawing him aside into a corner of the room, she began to tell him a long story about some ill-treatment to which she alleged she had been subjected. "i know it; i have heard of it," said the count; "and, therefore, i think it just to make you some amends. for this reason i have sent for you that you may dance the tarantella." teresa was delighted at hearing this, and immediately took her place in front of her intended partner. "now, gaetano, _presto! presto!_" said the count, and the musician struck up the air of the tarantella in very spirited style. i have frequently witnessed the magical effect which this air never fails to produce on the sicilians; but i never could conceive any thing like the change it wrought upon these two lunatics. the musician began to play the air in the time in which it is usually performed; but the dancers urged him to play it more and more quickly, till at length the measure became indescribably rapid. the dancers marked the tune with the most perfect precision by snapping their fingers. after keeping up this rapid movement with surprising energy for a quarter of an hour, they began to show some symptoms of fatigue. the man was the first to give in, and, overcome by the exertion, he threw himself on a bench which stood on one side of the room. teresa, however, kept up a very animated _pas seul_ for several minutes after the loss of her partner; but at length she also found herself compelled to stop. the man was placed on his bed, and the woman was conducted to her apartment. both were so completely overcome by the violence of their exertions, that count pisani observed he would answer for their remaining quiet for twenty-four hours to come. as to the guitarist, he was allowed to go into the garden to play to his companions. i was next conducted into a large hall, in which the patients walk and amuse themselves, when wet weather prevents them from going out. this place was adorned with a profusion of flowers, growing in pots and vases, and the walls were covered with fresco paintings, representing humorous subjects. the hall contained embroidery frames, spinning-wheels, and even weavers' looms; all presented traces of the work on which the lunatics had been engaged. having passed through the great hall, i was conducted to the garden, which was tastefully laid out, shaded by large spreading trees and watered by fresh fountains. i was informed that, during the hours allotted to recreation, most of the patients may be seen wandering about the garden separately, and without holding any communication one with another, each following the bent of his or her own particular humor, some noisy and others silent. one of the most decided characteristics of madness is the desire of solitude. it seldom happens that two lunatics enter into conversation with each other; or, if they do so, each merely gives utterance to his own train of thought, without any regard to what is said by his interlocutor. it is different when they converse with the strangers who occasionally visit them. they then attend to any observations addressed to them, and not unfrequently make very rational and shrewd replies. the first patient we met on entering the garden, was a young man apparently about six or eight-and-twenty years of age. before he lost his senses, he was one of the most distinguished advocates in catania. one evening, at the theatre, he got involved in some dispute with a neapolitan, who, instead of quietly putting into his pocket the card which lucca (as i shall call him) slipped into his hand, went out and made a complaint to the guard. this guard was composed of neapolitan soldiers, one of whom gladly availing himself of the opportunity of exercising authority over a sicilian, seized him by the collar, whereupon lucca struck his assailant. the other soldiers came to the aid of their comrade, and a violent struggle ensued, in the course of which lucca received a blow on the head which felled him on the ground. he was conveyed to prison in a state of insensibility and placed in a cell, where he was left for the night. next morning, when it was intended to conduct him before the judge for examination, he was found to be perfectly insane. this young man's madness had taken a very poetic turn. sometimes he fancied himself to be tasso; at another time shakspeare or chateaubriand. at the time of my visit to the asylum, he was deeply impressed with the delusion of imagining himself to be dante. when we approached him, he was pacing up and down an alley in the garden, pleasantly shaded by trees. he held in one hand a pencil, and in the other some slips of paper, and he was busily engaged in composing the thirty-third canto of his inferno. at intervals he rubbed his forehead, as if to collect his scattered thoughts, and then he would note down some lines of the poem. profiting by a pause, during which he seemed to emerge from his profound abstraction, i stepped up to him, saying, "i understand, sir, that i have the honor of addressing myself to dante." "that is my name," replied lucca. "what have you to say to me?" "to assure you how much pleasure i shall feel in making your acquaintance. i proceeded to florence, in the hope of finding you there, but you had left that city." "then," said lucca, with that sharp, quick sort of utterance often observable in insane persons, "then, it seems, you were not aware of my having been driven from florence, and that they charged me with having stolen the money of the republic? dante accused of robbery, forsooth! i slung my sword at my side, and having collected the first seven cantos of my poem, i departed." this strange hallucination excited my interest, and, pursuing the conversation, i said, "i hoped to have overtaken you between fettre and montefeltro." "oh! i staid only a very short time there," said he. "why did you not go to ravenna?" "i did go there, and found only your tomb!" "but i was not in it," observed he. "do you know how i escaped?" i replied in the negative. "i have discovered a mode of restoring one's life." "is it a secret?" "no; i will tell it you. when i feel that i am dying, i order a grave to be dug--a very deep grave. you are aware that in the centre of the earth there is an immense lake full of red water--and--and--" count pisani, who had overheard the latter part of this conversation, here suddenly interrupted lucca, saying, "signor dante, these people are very anxious to have a dance. will you indulge them by playing a quadrille?" he then hurriedly dispatched one of the attendants for a violin, on which instrument he informed me, lucca was a masterly performer. the violin being brought, the count handed it to lucca who began to tune it. meanwhile, the count, drawing me aside, said, "i interrupted your conversation, just now, somewhat abruptly; because i observed that lucca was beginning to wander into some of his metaphysical delusions, and i never allow him to talk on such subjects. these metaphysical lunatics are always very difficult to cure. "but yonder comes one who will never be cured!" pursued the count, shaking his head, sorrowfully, while he directed my notice to a young female who was advancing from another part of the garden, attended by a female servant or nurse. by this time the dancers had begun to range themselves in their places, and the young lady's attendant was drawing her forward, with the view of inducing her to take part in the quadrille. the young lady, whose dress and general elegance of appearance seemed to denote that she was a person of superior rank, was disinclined to dance; and as the attendant persisted in urging her forward, she struggled to escape, and at length fell into a paroxysm of grief. "let her alone! let her alone!" said count pisani to the attendant. "it is useless to contend with her. poor girl! i fear she will never endure, to see dancing, or to hear music, without this violent agitation. come hither, costanza," said he, beckoning kindly to her. "tell me what is the matter?" "oh, albano! albano!" shrieked the poor maniac. "they are going to kill albano!" and then, overcome by her emotion, she sank, exhausted, into the arms of her attendant, who carried her away. meanwhile, the sound of the violin had drawn together, from various parts of the garden, a number of patients, male and female, and the quadrille was formed. among the most conspicuous figures in the group were the son of the emperor of china, and the man who believed himself to be dead. the former wore on his head a splendid crown, made of gilt paper; and the latter, who was enveloped in a white sheet, stalked about with the grave and solemn air which he conceived to be common to a ghost. a melancholy madman, who evidently shared in the festivity with reluctance and regret, and who was, from time to time, urged on by his keepers, and a woman, who fancied herself to be saint catharine, and was subject to strange fits of ecstasy and improvisation, were also conspicuous among the dancers. lucca, who played the violin with extraordinary spirit, every now and then marked the time by stamping his foot on the ground, while, in a stentorian voice, he called out the figures, to which, however, the dancers paid not the slightest attention. the scene was indescribable, it was like one of those fantastic visions which are sometimes conjured up in a dream. as we were passing through the court-yard, on our way out, i espied costanza, the young lady who had so determinedly refused to join in the dance. she was now kneeling down on the edge of a fountain, and intently gazing on her own countenance, which was reflected from the limpid water as from a mirror. i asked the count what had caused the insanity of this interesting patient. "alas!" replied he, "it is a melancholy story of romantic _vendetta_, which might almost figure in a work of fiction." costanza's husband had been murdered on her bridal day by a rival. when costanza was first brought to the establishment, her madness was of a very violent character; but, by degrees it had softened down into a placid melancholy. nevertheless, her case was one which admitted of no hope. some time after my visit to palermo, i met lucca in paris. he was then, to all appearance, perfectly himself. he conversed very rationally, and even appeared to recollect having seen and conversed with me before. i inquired after poor costanza; but he shook his head sorrowfully. the count's prediction was fully verified. lucca had recovered his senses: but costanza was still an inmate of the _casa dei matti_. sloped for texas.--a tale of the west. this is an answer given in some of the states of america when a gentleman has decamped from his wife, from his creditors, or from any other responsibility which he finds it troublesome to meet or to support. among the curious instances of the application of this phrase is an adventure which happened to myself. it is the boast of the bloods of the town of rackinsack, in arkansas, that they are born with skins like alligators, and with strength like bears. they work hard, and they _play_ hard. gaming is the recreation most indulged in, and the gaming-houses of the western part of arkansas have branded it with an unenviable notoriety. one dark summer night, i lounged, as a mere spectator, the different rooms, watching the various games of hazard that were being played. some of the players seemed to have set their very souls upon the stakes; their eyes were bloodshot, and fixed, from beneath their wrinkled brows, on the table, as if their everlasting weal or woe depended there upon the turning of the dice; while others--the finished blacklegs--assumed an indifferent and careless look, though a kind of sardonic smile playing round their lips, but too plainly revealed a sort of habitual desperation. three of the players looked the very counterparts of each other, not only in face, but expression; both the physical and moral likeness was indeed striking. the other player was a young man, a stranger, whom they call a "green one," in this and many other parts of the world. his eyes, his nose, his whole physiognomy, seemed to project, and to be capable of growing even still longer. "fifty dollars more," he exclaimed, with a deep-drawn breath, as he threw down the stake. each of his opponents turned up his cards coolly and confidently; but the long-visaged hero laid his stake before them, and, to the astonishment of the three professionals, won. "hurrah! the luck has turned, and i crow!" he cried out in an ecstasy, and pocketed the cash. the worthy trio smiled at this, and recommenced play. the _green_ young man displayed a broad but silent grin at his good fortune, and often took out his money to count it over, and see if each piece was good. "here are a hundred dollars more," cried the sylvan youth, "and i crow." "i take them," said one of the trio. the youth won again, and "crowed" louder this time than he did the first. on went the game; stakes were lost and won. gradually the rouleaus of the "crower" dwindled down to a three or four of dollars, or so. it was clear that the gentlemen in black had been luring him on by that best of decoys, success at first. "let me see something for my money. here's a stake of two dollars, and i crow!" but he spoke now in a very faint treble indeed, and looked penitently at the cards. again the cards were shuffled, cut, and dealt, and the "plucked pigeon" staked his last dollar upon them. "the last button on gabe's coat, and i cr--cr--; no, i'll be hamstrung if i do!" he lost this too, and, with as deep a curse as i ever heard, he rose from the green board. the apartment was very spacious, and on the ground floor. there was only this one gaming table in it, and not many lookers-on besides myself. thinking the gaming was over, i turned to go out, but found the door locked, and the key gone. there was evidently something in the wind. at all events, i reflected, in ease of need, the windows are not very far to the ground. i returned, and saw the winners dividing the spoil, and the poor shorn "greenhorn," leaning over the back of their chairs, staring intently at the money. the notes were deliberately spread out one after another. those which the loser had staked were new, fresh from the press, he said, and they were sorted into a heap distinct from the rest. they were two-dollar, three-dollar, and five-dollar notes, from the indiana bank, and the bank of columbus, in ohio. "i say, ned, i don't think these notes are good," said one of the winners, and examined them. "i wish they were'nt, and i'd crow," cried out the loser, very chop-fallen, at his elbow. this simple speech lulled the suspicions of the counter, and he resumed his counting. at last, as he took up the last note, and eying it keenly, he exclaimed, in a most emphatic manner, "i'll be hanged if they _are_ genuine! they are forged!" "no, they ain't!" replied the loser, quite as emphatically. a very opprobrious epithet was now hurled at the latter. he, without more ado, knocked down the speaker at a blow, capsized the table, which put out the lights, and, in the next instant, darted out of the window, while a bullet, fired from a pistol, cracked the pane of glass over his head. he had leaped into the small court-yard, with a wooden paling round it. the winners dashed toward the door, but found that the "green one" had secured it. when the three worthies were convinced that the door would not yield to their efforts, and when they heard their "_victim_" galloping away, they gave a laugh at the trick played them, and returned to the table. "strike a light, bill, and let's pick up what notes have fallen. i have nearly the whole lot in my pocket." the light soon made its appearance. "what! none on the floor? capital; i think i must have them all in my pocket, then:" saying which, he drew out the notes, and laid them on the table. "fire and furies! these are the forged notes! the rascal has whipped up the other heap!" while all this was going on, i stepped toward the window, but had not stood there long, before i heard the clanking hoofs of a horse beyond the paling, and a shout wafted into the room--"sloped for texas!" the worst part of the story remains to be told: it was _my_ horse on which the rogue was now galloping off. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the volcano-girl. it is an axiom among travelers, that the bay of naples is the most beautiful place in the whole world. every one who beholds it repeats the same statement with unvarying uniformity; and if any quaint person were to make a contrary assertion, he would not be argued with, but laughed down. i dislike paradoxes, and therefore shall subscribe to the general opinion, although i never saw a scene so dismal as when i first entered the bay. dismal, but grand! we had left civita vecchia the day before, steaming through a restless, nasty sea, in the midst of as filthy a fog as ever defiled the surface of the mediterranean during the merry month of may. sometimes we could see nothing but the dirty-looking short waves; but now and then a dim streak of roman territory, or two or three ghost-like islands, rewarded the efforts of our winking eyes. the night was boisterous, if not tempestuous; but when morning came the wind had abated, though without driving away the mist, and the sea rolled still in a turbulent and uncivil way. the _maria christina_ was undoubtedly the worst steamer it has ever been my lot to voyage in. there seemed to be not a well hung piece in her whole composition; so that, in addition to the usual sea-sounds, there was a perpetual slamming of doors and creaking of timbers. the villainous little craft appeared to be in constant hesitation whether it would go to pieces or not; and i believe has since taken that freak into its head. the captain, as seamanlike a fellow as ever crossed my eyes, kept up our confidence, however, even in the most ugly moments; although it could not be denied that our expedition was something like a visit to the northern seas in a margate boat. we crawled on at the rate of some three or four knots an hour, until, after passing san stefano, we began to distinguish dimly the base of ischia; for the summit was plunged in a mass of black clouds. then a doubtful outline of rocks struggled through the vapor to the left; and at length we got into the pass, guessed at the form of the promontory, obtained a vague glimpse of procida, and fairly entered the famous bay. all the elements of its beauty showed faintly through a moving vapor that thickened aloft into driving clouds. capri looked like a cone of dark mist lingering to the south: the island we had passed dimmed away in our rear. bays and creeks innumerable ran in, to the left, between a strange mixture of rocks and vegetation. this was all we could see at first; but the lower half of vesuvius soon showed itself; and presently the curtain of mist was drawn hastily aside, just to give us a glimpse, as it were, of the giant peak, faintly penciled against the leaden sky, into which its wreath of smoke faded away, and of the reaper of castel à mare, and the craggy promontory of sorrento. then all was covered again; and a thin driving shower filled the air. not a single gleam of sunshine gilded the scene; but i once distinguished the orb, "shorn of its beams," poised over the depths of the bay. first impressions are every thing. whenever i try to recall the all-famous site, it always begins by presenting itself under this aspect--not without its grandeur, it is true--but far inferior to the bright and sunny scenes i witnessed, when, proceeding farther under more favorable auspices, i made acquaintance with the coasts of calabria, and the immortal straits of messina. with a little patience, however, i can figure to myself the bay of naples in all the loveliness which it afterward displayed; and when the operation is complete, the contrast becomes interesting. i shall say nothing about the castles of st. elmo and del ovo; nor of the useless fuss about granting _pratique_; nor of an attempt made to entrap us into smuggling by a worthy who had some silks to land; nor of the annoyances of the custom-house. it is not my intention to take the bread out of the mouths of the tourists. these are their legitimate topics. i have to relate a little incident which does not happen to every one who visits naples; and i can not therefore be accused of trespassing upon any body's ground. what i say about scenery and manners must merely be considered as a setting to the diamond. i am willing to concede superiority in this respect to any one who may claim it. we lodged in the hôtel de la belle venise, situated half-way up a steep street--name not mentioned in my journal--leading from the lower end of the strada toledo. we were bent on traveling cheaply, and did not think four _carlines_ a day too dear for a room. this hint is not intended as information to any who may follow in our footsteps; but it illustrates our character and position, and explains why in the course of our wanderings we were always meeting with strange adventures. a man may travel from dan to beersheba in first-class carriages of railways, coupés of diligences, saloons of steamers; he may put up at the best hotels, and hire the cleverest guides, and he will see nothing, learn nothing, feel nothing, but what has been seen, learned, and felt by his predecessors. but we defy even the shyest englishman to undertake the tour of europe on economical principles, unless he be positively determined to keep his eyes and heart as close shut as his pocket, without bringing back something to remember to the end of his days--something to make his eyes grow dim when he meditates on it, his lips tremble when he speaks of it, his hand falter when he writes of it. for in this system of traveling he is forced, while in a mood of mind highly susceptible of impressions, into contact with all sorts of characters and incidents; and if he has a spark of nature in him, it must be struck out. we dined the first evening at the trattoria dell' errole, and took an ice at the caffé di europa. but our heads were in a disagreeable whirl, and we enjoyed nothing. we missed the creaking and the groaning of the maria christina; for which the rumbling of a few carriages, and the buzz of voices on the promenade, seemed--such is the force of habit--an insignificant compensation. lines of well-lit shops, crowds of well-dressed people, balconies filled with ladies, colonnades of churches, and facades of palaces, danced dimly before our eyes, instead of the accustomed cordages, the naked masts, the smutty sail, the breast-high bulwarks, and that horrid squat funnel, with its cascade of black smoke tinged, as it rolled forth, with a dull red glow. when i retired to rest, i caught myself holding on to the bed as i prepared to get into it; and i dreamed of nothing all night but of trampling of feet overhead, whistling of wind through rigging, shifting of the anchor-chain, and all sorts of abominable noises. these physical reminiscences, however, disappeared next day, and i was prepared to enjoy naples. i did enjoy it; and i hope all my readers may live to enjoy it too. i know this is wishing a tremendously long life to some of them; but such a wish will offend nobody. during one of my strolls--this time i was alone--i came to the foot of that vast flight of steps shaded by trees which leads up toward the castle of st. elmo. it was just past mid-day; and i suppose every body was beginning the siesta; for not a single living soul could i see in any direction. i sat down on one of the steps, under the shadow of a huge elm, and looked upward toward the sky along the broken avenue of trees that led aloft. there was something singularly beautiful to me in the scene. the trees here and there met, and huddled their heads together, and threw down a thick black shadow: beyond was a bright patch of sunshine; and then some thinly-sprinkled branches bent across, and fluttered their green and gold leaves between me and the patch of blue sky that glanced at the top, seeming to be the only destination of this lofty staircase. i was gazing upward, as if in expectation, but in reality admiring this curious effect, when a small dark form intercepted my view of the sky. i had almost imagined myself at the foot of jacob's ladder; but the spell was at once broken, and i was about to rise and go away, when the singular motions of the person who had disturbed me drew my attention. it was evidently a girl with naked feet, but neat garments; her head was laden with flowers; and she skipped down with all the lightness of the gazelle for some space; then came to a halt, possibly on seeing a stranger; then continued her progress--now showing brightly in the sun, now dimly in the shade, until she came, and, after a sidelong glance at me, sat down on the opposite end of the same step, where there was no protection from the heat. i now noticed that she carried a basket in her hand, from which she produced a variety of objects, evidently manufactured from lava. these she arranged by her side, and examined with care, every now and then casting an impatient look toward me. there was a wildness in her eye, and a quaintness in her whole demeanor that pleased me, especially as her features were almost without a fault. so i remained where i was, studying her movements; and the idea suddenly struck me that i was occupying her usual place, and that shyness prevented her from coming nearer. so i arose and went a little higher up, when she at once crossed over, i thought, with a grateful smile. a little while afterward she called to me, and asked if i would buy some of her curiosities. there was evidently no sordid motive in this; for when i came near, she made no allusion to a bargain, but said i had chosen a place where there was not sufficient shade. i asked her a few questions about the lava, but got only vague answers. what conversation passed was a random kind of talk about the difference of italy and foreign countries. it was evident that in the girl's eyes "napoli"--which she pronounced with magnificent emphasis--was the only place in the world worth admiring. she had seen no other. the people, however, were bad--very bad. i thought, upon this observation, that something like a story was coming; but the throat and face of the girl only darkened with a rush of blood, and she grew utterly silent. suddenly she arranged her lava hastily in her basket, started up, leaving a piece which i had been holding in my hand, and had not paid for, and ran away down the street. i naturally ran after her to pay for what i had bought; but she turned round with flushed cheek and flashing eyes; and while i was indulging in the hope of being able to explain my intentions, i felt a blow on my breast from a stone lanched with no weak hand; and before i had time to recover from my surprise, the girl had disappeared. a curious termination to an interview which i had begun to persuade myself had something of a romantic character! i rubbed my thorax, tried to laugh at the little slut's vivacity, but could not get rid of the uneasy annoyance peculiar to misunderstood people. perhaps i had been taken for a robber--perhaps something i had said in my broken italian had been thought insulting. i grew quite morose; thought of nothing else all the afternoon; was set down as an ill-tempered fellow at dinner; and on retiring to bed, could not help perpetually stating this question--"why should that pretty girl, toward whom my heart had expanded, have left me in so abrupt a manner; and on my endeavoring to restore her property, have made a target of me?" all night, as i slept, i felt as if a hot coal were lying on my breast; and the place, indeed, _was_ black and blue in the morning. an excursion had been proposed to vesuvius, and we started at three in the afternoon--myself, four americans, with mr. jenkins and his wife--all crowded into what, i believe, is called a _corricolo_. the sea, along the brink of which we went, was still stormy, and the waves washed with a slushing noise up into the very street. the drive was beautiful to portici, the white houses and vine-wreathed porticoes of which i noticed with pleasure. at portici, after some wrangling in the house of the guide, we were transferred to horses and donkeys; and off we went, first up a hot lane between stone walls, and then along a fine paved road. the party was merry, and not unpicturesque, but out of character with the scene. not one of us was subdued by the tranquil beauty of the little landscapes, the bright green nooks that opened here and there. our temperaments were still too northern. we were not yet soothed down by the sunny sky and balmy air of italy; and got stared at in consequence with contemptuous curiosity by the languid peasants in the fields. at length a zig-zag road commenced, and up we went, turning round ever and anon to view the expanding bay, softened down into apparent calm by distance. green gullies and ravines of lava began to be intermingled; but tranquil observation was soon interrupted by tremendous gusts of wind that came roaring down the sides of the mountain, and enveloped us in whirlwinds of dust, sometimes mingled with pebbles, at every turn of the road. it was hard work to get on; and we were glad enough to reach the hermitage and observatory, where we tossed off a glass of _lachryma christi_ to restore us. the rest of the road was along a narrow ridge leading to the foot of the great black cone. on either side were gullies of green, and beyond great red fields of lava. it was not remarkably safe riding, and by no means commodious. sometimes one's nose touched the horse's or ass's neck; sometimes the back of one's head was whisked by the tail. it was a sort of rocking-horse motion. but we arrived safe at the dismounting-place; and, i must confess, looked rather dismayed at the desperately steep cone up which we were bound to scramble. but in traveling, "on, on," is the word; so on we went, stumbling up through the triturated and block lava, as if fame, or something else equally valuable, had been at the summit. mrs. jenkins was in an open palanquin, borne by eight men, who grunted, staggered, crawled up or slid back, shouted, laughed, and belabored one another with their climbing-poles, while the undaunted lady sat as coolly as in her drawing-room at home, making observations on the scenery, which we could scarcely hear, and were too breathless to answer. in about an hour we neared the summit, and got under a vast canopy of sulphurous smoke, which, blown by the furious wind, rolled grim and black over the serrated edge, stretched its impenetrable mass between us and the sky, and then swooped down toward the bay, and dispersed in a vast mist. most parts of the plain, too, were covered with a low ground-fog. it was a grand sight as we paused and looked back before the last effort. the whole sweep of the bay was visible from sorrento to baia, together with the islands, scattered like giant sentinels at the mouth; but all looked strange and fantastic through the sulphurous vapor. the sun was setting in a bath of blood and gold, just behind a straight line of ebony clouds with a sharp rim, like a wall of black marble. the white houses on the slopes of castel à mare were already looking ghastly in the twilight. our temples throbbed with fatigue; but the guide cried "forward," and we soon came to the most disagreeable part of the business. the smoke was forced by the wind in a kind of cascade some fifty yards down the declivity, and as soon as we got into it an awful sense of suffocation came on. the guide swore, and some of us talked of retreating. but the majority were for persevering; and, panting and coughing, we dashed upward, reached the summit, got into the midst of a fearful torrent of black smoke, like that which is vomited by a steamer's funnel, and staggered giddily about seeking which way to go. at this moment a slight form glanced toward us, said a few words to the guide, and presently we were running to the left along black and dizzy precipices, until suddenly we emerged from the volcanic vapor, and were in full view at the same time of the plain and the sea, and of all the wonders of vesuvius. the girl whose acquaintance i had made in so strange a manner had come to the assistance of the guide, and told him what direction to take in order soonest to escape from the smoke. i spoke to her; but although she recognized me, i think, she did not, or would not remember our former interview. the idea suggested itself that she was touched in her intellect, so i made no farther allusion to the subject. it was evident the guide knew her, and had confidence in her. he asked her advice about the path which it would be advisable to follow; and obeyed her directions implicitly. "who is that?" i whispered. "it is ghita, the volcano-girl," he replied in english, before repeating the italian name, which might be translated, the "daughter of the volcano." i had no time for further inquiries. we were once more in motion, and had enough to do to keep our footing on the rough lava in the teeth of as furious a blast as ever i remember encountering. it would have been dangerous to stand even near a precipice. it was a marvelous scene that vast black valley with its lake of fire at the bottom--its cone of fire on one hand. the discharges were constant, and had something appalling in their sound. we were almost too much excited for observation. now we looked at the cone of green and gold that sank and rose, faded and brightened, smoked or flamed; then at the seething lake; then at the strong mountains of lava; then at the burning fissures that yawned around. there were yet some remnants of day--a gloomy twilight at least revealed the jagged rim of the valley. down we went--down, down to the very edge of the boiling caldron of melted lava, that rolled its huge waves toward the black shore, waves whose foam and spray were fire and flame! an eruption evidently was preparing; and soon indeed took place. we missed the sight; but what we now saw was grand enough. a troop of heavy black clouds was hurrying athwart the sky, showing the stars ever and anon between "like a swarm of golden bees." the wind roared and bellowed among the lava-gullies, while the cone discharged its blocks of burning lava, or its showers of red sparks, with a boom like that of a park of artillery. a thousand travelers may witness and describe the scene, but it can never be hackneyed or vulgar. the volcano-girl, evidently familiar with every changing aspect, crept to my side, as i stood apart wrapt in silent admiration and wonder, and i caught her examining the expression of my face as it was revealed by the dismal glare of the burning lake. "e bellissima!" she whispered in a husky voice, pressing close to my side, and trembling like a leaf, not with present fear, but manifestly in memory of some dreadful event. we were friends from that moment, and she constituted herself my especial guide, running before me to choose the surest paths, giving me her delicate little hand, and showing, in fact, all possible willingness to make up our little quarrel, if she retained any remembrance of it. we returned toward the cone, and approached within dangerous proximity to it. the volcano-girl often pulled my arm to induce me to keep back; but when she saw i was determined to look down into the horrid flaming gulf of fire that yawned near the cone, she followed me, murmuring a low pensive song. on reaching the edge, which was uncertain and trembling, i halted and gazed; and while the guide and my companions shouted to me to come back, enjoyed a moment of fearful joy. i was standing on the brink of a vast chasm of fire, in which no flame was, but only a dreadful glow, that thickened by distance into substance. the wind shrieked around, the volcano roared above, the tremendous cloud of black smoke swayed and wavered as it rolled, beaten down by the wind to the outer edge of the crater, like a vast snake, or, when the blast for a moment ceased, towered aloft like an evil genius, and dispersed amid the clouds. "come back! come back!" cried ghita, as the smoky pile of cinders trembled beneath us, and we both, panic-stricken, rushed to a surer footing, while the point we had occupied slided into the gulf of fire! i never shall forget that moment. the very memory of it makes my hair stand on end, and a cold perspiration burst out over my whole body. the girl clasped my hand convulsively as we ran, and when we stood again on the hot solid lava, uttered a low, "dio grazia!" all this was unlike folly, and, together with our companionship in danger, heightened the interest i felt in my wild-looking, beautiful guide. we all returned toward the edge of the crater, and collected in a lava-cave to light torches for our journey back. here we met two or three men armed with guns, who professed to be guards, and might have been brigands. one of them spoke rather roughly to the volcano-girl, who took refuge by my side, and would not quit it. we started again by the light of great flaring torches, and soon began the descent down a dusty decline. it was a strange, rapid piece of work. the whole party ran, rushed, tumbled, slid, rolled down in one confused crowd, the torches glaring, flakes of burning pitch scattering here and there, the palanquin bobbing up and down, the mountain sloping up to the clouds behind, and down into darkness before. we descended this time into the old crater--a great plain of dust and pumice-stone. all was gloomy around; but the lights of naples and portici could be distinguished in the distance. our horses and donkeys were waiting for us where we had left them; and we rode rapidly back _via_ the hermitage, but over the plain of lava, instead of by the zig-zag road, toward portici. ghita ran all the way by my side, but rarely spoke, except to tell me when we approached a steep declivity. i should have felt jealous had she attended to any one else; but was quite angry at hearing her jestingly spoken of as "my conquest." a single vulgar remark sometimes throws cold water on the most delicate sentiment. at portici she left us. the guides were paid, and every body forgot the volcano-girl who had been of such signal service to us. i looked for her, and saw her standing in the court-yard with the back of her little hand to her mouth in a pensive attitude. "ghita," said i, approaching, "i must give you something"--she started slightly--"that you may buy a remembrance with it of our visit to the volcano." in such a form, the present--i did not write the amount down among my disbursements--was accepted frankly and freely. the poor girl was evidently in a state of great emotion: a few kind words from me had struck upon a chord ever ready to vibrate; the truth is, she sobbed, and could not answer. but when the tongue falters, and the lip trembles in the south, there is an eloquent substitute for language. she took my hand, and kissed it fervently, and a shower of warm tear-drops fell upon it. "ghita," i murmured, trying to be firm, but bending over her with the tenderest affection--i can not help it; i have an instinctive love for the sorrowful--"ghita, you are unhappy? can i do any thing for you?" "no," was her answer, as she again pressed my hand, and, gliding away, disappeared like a shadow in the street. we were at naples an hour after midnight; but i found it impossible to sleep. i could think of nothing save the story of the volcano-girl; for the substance of her story was evident--the material details alone were wanting. i afterward learned the whole truth. a volume might be filled with them: a line will be sufficient. she had been betrothed to a young man, a guide, who had perished during a visit to the volcano: she had gone mad in consequence--of a gentle, harmless madness in general; but as a few brutal people insulted her, she was sometimes suspicious of strangers. she gained her living by selling ornaments of polished lava, or by guiding travelers. this was all; but it was enough. i have kept a place in my memory for ghita, whose acquaintance i cultivated on other occasions. i saw her once among the ruins of pompeii, where she greeted me with a friendly nod, but without referring at all to our previous meetings--i mean in words; for at parting she gave me a handful of wild-flowers, and then ran away without waiting for a recompense. public opinion and the public press. perhaps there is no better guarantee of peace and progress to this country than the freedom of the press. opinion is king of england and victoria is queen. every phase of opinion speaks through some book or journal and is repeated widely in proportion to the hold it takes upon the public. government is the representative of whatever opinions prevail; if it prove too perverse it falls--ministers change, without a revolution. then too, when every man's tongue is free, we are accustomed to hear all manner of wild suggestions. fresh paint does not soon dazzle us; we are like children lavishly supplied with toys, who receive new gifts tranquilly enough. is king opinion an honest ruler? yes. for the english people speak unreservedly their thoughts on public matters, and are open, though it be with honorable slowness, to all new convictions. we must add, however, as a drawback, that the uneducated class amounts to a distressing number in this country in proportion to the whole. it forms, as long as it is ignorant, a source of profit to designing speculators. nonsense is put into the mouths of men who mean no evil, but who sincerely desire their own improvement. truth is murdered, and her dress is worn by knaves who burlesque sympathy with working-men for selfish purposes. the poor man's sincere advocate, at last, can not speak truth without incurring the suspicion of some treasonable purpose against honesty or common sense. the very language necessary to be used in advocating just rights sometimes becomes as a pure stream befouled by those who have misused it. therefore, in england, the uneducated classes arrive slowly at the privileges which they must acquire. they are impeded by false friends; but, even false friends are not able to delude them beyond a certain point. among us, for example, even the most ignorant well know that there is no field for a vulgar revolution against such a monarch as opinion makes. arguments must be used for barricades, and we must knock our neighbors on the head with facts; we must fire newspaper articles instead of cannon-balls, and use colloquial banter for our small shot. in all disputes an english citizen has, for his last and sole appeal, opinion; as a citizen of rome had cæsar. the government which puts its hand upon a nation's mouth and thinks to stifle what it has to say, will be inevitably kicked and bitten. the nation will, some day, get liberty and make amends for every minute of restraint with lusty shouting. among the continental states which suffered from the revolutions of , were some in which the people had less of social evil to complain of than we have in england; but they were fretted by political restrictions, by a system of espial which tabooed all conversation upon public matters before any stranger, and they were glad enough to get their tongues at liberty. adam, the old traditions say, was made of eight pounds: a pound of earth, his flesh; a pound of fire, his blood; a pound of cloud, his instability; a pound of grace (how that was weighed the legend saith not); his stature; a pound of blossom, his eyes; a pound of dew, his sweat; a pound of salt, his tears; and, finally, a pound of wind, his breath. now governments which don't allow each man his pound of wind, get themselves, sooner or later, into certain trouble; for, when the wind does come at last (which it is sure to do), it comes in a storm. the freedom and the power of opinion in england, have given an importance to the press which is attached to it, as a direct agent in producing social reforms, in no other european country. the journalist lays every day a mass of facts before all people capable of thought; the adult, who has learnt only to write and read, acquires his remaining education--often not despicable in amount--from his weekly paper. jeremy bentham, speaking of those old superstitious rites by which it was intended to exorcise evil spirits, says very truly, "in our days, and in our country, the same object is obtained, and beyond comparison more effectually, by so cheap an instrument as a common newspaper. before this talisman, not only devils but ghosts, vampires, witches, and all their kindred tribes, are driven out of the land, never to return again! the touch of holy water is not so intolerable to them as the bare smell of printer's ink." what can a man learn by skimming the newspapers and journals of the day? why, in the northern seas there floats a very little film of oil, where whales or seals have been. so thin a film, no bird could separate from any wave, yet there are birds who become grossly fat on no other nourishment. the storm petrel, or, in the faroese phrase, mother carey's chicken, skims the surface of the troubled water, till the feathers of its breast are charged with oil; and then feeds heartily on the provision so collected. a vast number of her majesty's subjects dart over the debater and the discussor of the newspaper, like storm petrels, and thrive upon what skimmings they retain. since the press in england has been actually free (and many of us can remember when it was not so), one fact has become every year more prominent amidst the din of parties. we have begun to see that, however much we are convinced of any one thing, those are not all and always fools who think the opposite. we get a strong suspicion of our individual fallibility, new facts come out, and display old opinions in an unexpected light. we respect our opponents, when they deserve respect, and on the whole are teachable. of course, our views in politics are often guided by our sense of private interest, but there is nothing very wonderful in that; nature intends man to cry out, when a shoe pinches him. but, there is now abroad, concerning social questions, a desire to hear all that can be said about them; to tolerate, if not to respect, conclusions that oppose our own; a readiness to seek for the right course and a desire to follow it.--_household words_. the dumb child. she is my only girl: i ask'd for her as some most precious thing, for all unfinish'd was love's jewel'd ring, till set with this soft pearl; the shade that time brought forth i could not see; how pure, how perfect seem'd the gift to me! oh, many a soft old tune i used to sing unto that deaden'd ear, and suffer'd not the lightest footstep near, lest she might wake too soon; and hush'd her brothers' laughter while she lay-- ah, needless care! i might have let them play! 'twas long ere i believ'd that this one daughter might not speak to me; waited and watched god knows how patiently! how willingly deceived: vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith, and tended hope until it starved to death. oh! if she could but hear for one short hour, till i her tongue might teach to call me _mother_, in the broken speech that thrills the mother's ear! alas! those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd to the deep music of that lovely word. my heart it sorely tries to see her kneel, with such a reverent air, beside her brothers at their evening prayer: or lift those earnest eyes to watch our lips, as though our words she knew-- then moves her own, as she were speaking too. i've watch'd her looking up to the bright wonder of a sunset sky, with such a depth of meaning in her eye, that i could almost hope the struggling soul _would_ burst its binding cords, and the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words. the song of bird and bee, the chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves, all the grand music to which nature moves, are wasted melody to her; the world of sound a tuneless void; while even _silence_ hath its charm destroyed. her face is very fair; her blue eye beautiful; of finest mould the soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold, ripples her shining hair. alas! this lovely temple closed must be, for he who made it keeps the master-key. wills he the mind within should from earth's babel-clamor be kept free, e'en that _his_ still small voice and step might be heard at its inner shrine, through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill? then should i grieve?--o murmuring heart be still! she seems to have a sense of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. she hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, whose voiceless eloquence touches all hearts, though i had once the fear that even _her father_ would not care for her. thank god it is not so! and when his sons are playing merrily, she comes and leans her head upon his knee. oh! at such times i know-- by his full eye and tones subdued and mild-- how his heart yearns over his silent child. not of _all_ gifts bereft, even now. how could i say she did not speak? what real language lights her eye and cheek, and renders thanks to him who left unto her soul yet open avenues for joy to enter, and for love to use. and god in love doth give to her defect a beauty of its own. and we a deeper tenderness have known through that for which we grieve. yet shall the seal be melted from her ear, yea, and _my_ voice shall fill it--but _not here_. when that new sense is given, what rapture will its first experience be, that never woke to meaner melody, than the rich songs of heaven-- to _hear_ the full-toned anthem swelling round, while angels teach the ecstasies of sound! curiosities of railway traveling. there are some peculiarities about railway traveling which we do not remember to have seen noticed, however commonplace the mode of transit itself may have become. there is a singular optical illusion, for instance, in going through a tunnel, which nearly every one must have observed, and yet which nobody, so far as we can learn, has thought it worth while to explain: no sooner have you plunged into complete darkness, and the great brassy monster at the head of the train is tearing and wheezing, and panting away with you through the gloom, at the rate possibly of twenty miles to the hour, than, if you happen to fix your eye on the faintly illuminated brickwork which you are so rapidly dashing past, the apparent movement of the engine will be in a reverse direction to the real; and the general effect will be that of retrogression at a furious pace, instead of the progression which is taking place in reality. this is altogether different from the trite illustration of the astronomical lecturer, who reminds us of the apparent movement of the shore when observed from the deck of a steamboat; for in this case it is the damp side of the tunnel that appears to be stationary, and the framework of the window through which the prospect is presented that seems to be receding; of course, the uniformity of the objects visible, and the faint light in which they are beheld, materially assist this ocular deception; but the hint thus thrown out may serve as a convenient peg on which passengers may hang a theory of their own, and thus beguile the tedium of their journey in default of more exciting topics of discussion. not but that the observant eye may find ample scope for employment in the ever-changing variety of landscape, which even on the least picturesque lines will be found constantly coming into view. the most ordinary objects have then a fresh interest imparted to them. you catch a distant glimpse perhaps of a haystack on the brow of an eminence miles away before you. as you proceed, a farm-house, with its out-buildings and granaries to follow, marches right out of the haystack, and takes up its position at the side. then the angles all change as the line of vision is altered. the farm-house expands, shuts up again, turns itself completely round, a window winks at you for an instant under one of the gables, and then disappears; presently the farm-house itself vanishes, and a rough, half-shaved corn-field, with sturdy sheaves of wheat staggering about its back, comes running up out of a coppice to overtake the farm. then, as we hear the pulse of the engine throbbing quicker and quicker, and the telegraph posts seem to have started off into a frantic gallopade along the line, we plunge into a plantation. long vistas of straggling trees--and leaf-strewn pathways winding in among them--give way to scattered clumps of firs and tangled masses of fern and brushwood, while broken fences come dancing up between, and then shrink down again behind rising knolls covered with a sudden growth of gorse and heather. a pit yawns into a pond; the pond squeezes itself longways into a thin ditch, which turns off sharply at a corner, and leaves a dreamy-looking cow occupying its place. then a gate flies out of a thicket; a man leaning over with folded arms grows out of the gate, which spins round into a lodge, and then strides off altogether; while the trees slink away after it, and a momentary glimpse is caught of a fine mansion perched upon rising ground at the back, and which has become suddenly disentangled from the woods surrounding it. you have hardly time to hazard a guess concerning the architecture, before a sloping bank comes sliding in between, and you find yourself in a deep cutting, with the soft snowy steam curling up the sides in ample folds, and rolling its billows of white vapor over the bright green grass, that seems all the fresher for the welcome moisture. then comes the open country again--a purple outline of distant hills, with a cloud or two resting lazily upon them; a long-drawn shriek from the valve-whistle, a few moments of slackened speed, and a gradual panoramic movement of sheds, hoardings, cattle-trucks, and piled-up packages, and we emerge upon a station, with a bustling company of anxious passengers ranged along the platform eager for our arrival. to us, at least, familiarity with the many phases of railroad traveling has not engendered the proverbial consequence. the refreshment station at wolverton is always impressed upon our mind as a perpetual marvel. to witness those well-stocked tables, one moment displaying the prodigal richness of a lord mayor's feast, and the next to behold this scene of gastronomical fertility laid bare, as the simoom of a hundred voracious appetites sweeps across the tempting viands, and leaves all blank behind it, is a theme of exhaustless wonderment. we involuntarily think of the , banbury cakes that are here annually consumed by pastry-loving passengers, and of the , bottles of stout that are uncorked every year to quench the thirst of these fleeting customers. we look with a proper veneration upon every one of the eighty-five pigs here maintained, and who, after being from their birth most kindly treated and most luxuriously fed, are annually promoted by seniority, one after another, into an indefinite number of pork pies, the vacancies caused by the retirement of these veterans being constantly supplied by the acquisition of fresh recruits. the returns of the railway company show that upward of seven millions of passengers are annually draughted through wolverton on their way northward. making a fair deduction for those who, from lack of means or inclination, do not avail themselves of the good things here provided, there is yet a startling number of customers to be supplied. fancy the three million mouths that, on the lowest average, annually demand at these tables the satisfaction of their appetite, craving at one time their accustomed sustenance in one vast aggregate of hunger. it is like having to undertake the feeding of the entire population of london. the mouth of gargantua is but a faint type of even one day's voracity; and all this is devoured in a spot which hardly twenty years ago was unmarked upon the map, a mere streak of pasture-land on the banks of the grand junction canal. surely this is not one of the least astonishing feats wrought by railway magic. the robbers' revenge.--from the recollections of a police-officer. levasseur and his confederates[ ] sailed for the penal settlements in the ill-fated convict-ship, the _amphytrion_, the total wreck of which on the coast of france, and consequent drowning of the crew and prisoners, excited so painful a sensation in england. a feeling of regret for the untimely fate of le breton, whom i regarded rather as a weak dupe than a purposed rascal, passed over my mind as i read the announcement in the newspapers; but newer events had almost jostled the incidents connected with his name from my remembrance, when a terrible adventure vividly recalled them, and taught me how fierce and untamable are the instincts of hate and revenge in a certain class of minds. a robbery of plate had been committed in portman-square, with an ingenuity and boldness which left no doubt that it had been effected by clever and practiced hands. the detective officers first employed having failed to discover the offenders, the threads of the imperfect and broken clew were placed in my hands, to see if my somewhat renowned dexterity, or luck, as many of my brother officers preferred calling it, would enable me to piece them out to a satisfactory conclusion. by the description obtained of a man who had been seen lurking about the house a few days previous to the burglary, it had been concluded by my predecessors in the investigation that one martin, a fellow with half-a-dozen _aliases_, and a well-known traveler on the road to the hulks, was concerned in the affair; and by their advice a reward of fifty pounds had been offered for his apprehension and conviction. i prosecuted the inquiry with my usual energy and watchfulness, without alighting upon any new fact or intimation of importance. i could not discover that a single article of the missing property had been either pawned or offered for sale, and little doubt remained that the crucible had fatally diminished the chances of detection. the only hope was, that an increased reward might induce one of the gang to betray his confederates; and as the property was of large value, this was done, and one hundred guineas was promised for the required information. i had been to the printer's to order the placards announcing the increased recompense; and after indulging in a long gossip with the foreman of the establishment, whom i knew well, was passing at about a quarter past ten o'clock through ryder's-court, newport-market, where a tall man met and passed me swiftly, holding a handkerchief to his face. there was nothing remarkable in that, as the weather was bitterly cold and sleety; and i walked unheedingly on. i was just in the act of passing out of the court toward leicester-square, when swift steps sounded suddenly behind me. i instinctively turned; and as i did so, received a violent blow on the left shoulder--intended, i doubted not, for the nape of my neck--from the tall individual who had passed me a minute previously. as he still held the handkerchief to his face, i did not catch even a momentary glance at his features, and he ran off with surprising speed. the blow, sudden, jarring, and inflicted with a sharp instrument--by a strong knife or a dagger--caused a sensation of faintness; and before i recovered from it all chance of successful pursuit was at an end. the wound, which was not at all serious, i had dressed at a chemist's shop in the haymarket; and as proclaiming the attack would do nothing toward detecting the perpetrator of it, i said little about it to any one, and managed to conceal it entirely from my wife, to whom it would have suggested a thousand painful apprehensions whenever i happened to be unexpectedly detained from home. the brief glimpse i had of the balked assassin afforded no reasonable indication of his identity. to be sure he ran at an amazing and unusual pace, but this was a qualification possessed by so many of the light-legged as well as lightfingered gentry of my professional acquaintance, that it could not justify even a random suspicion; and i determined to forget the unpleasant incident as soon as possible. the third evening after this occurrence i was again passing along leicester-square at a somewhat late hour, but this time with all my eyes about me. snow, which the wind blew sharply in one's face, was falling fast, and the cold was intense. except myself, and a tallish, snow-wreathed figure--a woman apparently--not a living being was to be seen. this figure, which was standing still at the further side of the square, appeared to be awaiting me, and as i drew near it, threw back the hood of a cloak, and to my great surprise disclosed the features of a madame jaubert. this lady, some years before, had carried on, not very far from the spot where she now stood, a respectable millinery business. she was a widow with one child, a daughter of about seven years of age. marie-louise, as she was named, was one unfortunate day sent to coventry-street on an errand with some money in her hand, and never returned. the inquiries set on foot proved utterly without effect: not the slightest intelligence of the fate of the child was obtained--and the grief and distraction of the bereaved mother resulted in temporary insanity. she was confined in a lunatic asylum for seven or eight months, and when pronounced convalescent, found herself homeless, and almost penniless, in the world. this sad story i had heard from one of the keepers of the asylum during her sojourn there. it was a subject she herself never, i was aware, touched upon; and she had no reason to suspect that i was in the slightest degree informed of this melancholy passage in her life. she, why, i know not, changed her name from that of duquesne to the one she now bore--jaubert; and for the last two or three years had supported a precarious existence by plausible begging-letters addressed to persons of credulous benevolence; for which offense she had frequently visited the police courts at the instance of the secretary of the mendicity society, and it was there i had consequently made her acquaintance. "madame jaubert!" i exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise, "why, what on earth can you be waiting here for on such a night as this?" "to see you!" was her curt reply. "to see me! depend upon it, then, you are knocking at the wrong door for not the first time in your life. the very little faith i ever had in professional widows, with twelve small children, all down in the measles, has long since vanished, and--" "nay," she interrupted--she spoke english, by the way, like a native--"i'm not such a fool as to be trying the whimpering dodge upon you. it is a matter of business. you want to find jem martin?" "ay, truly; but what can _you_ know of him? surely you are not _yet_ fallen so low as to be the associate or accomplice of burglars?" "neither yet, nor likely to be so," replied the woman; "still i could tell you where to place your hands on james martin, if i were but sure of the reward." "there can be no doubt about that," i answered. "then follow me, and before ten minutes are past, you will have secured your man." i did so--cautiously, suspiciously; for my adventure three evenings before, had rendered me unusually circumspect and watchful. she led the way to the most crowded quarter of st. giles's, and when she had reached the entrance of a dark blind alley, called hine's-court, turned into it, and beckoned me to follow. "nay, nay, madame jaubert," i exclaimed, "that won't do. you mean fairly, i dare say; but i don't enter that respectable alley alone at this time of night." she stopped, silent and embarrassed. presently she said, with a sneer, "you are afraid, i suppose?" "yes, i am." "what is to be done, then?" she added, after a few moments' consideration. "he is alone, i assure you." "that is possible; still i do not enter that _cul-de-sac_ to-night unaccompanied save by you." "you suspect me of some evil design, mr. waters?" said the woman, with an accent of reproach. "i thought you might, and yet nothing can be further from the truth. my sole object is to obtain the reward, and escape from this life of misery and degradation to my own country, and, if possible, begin the world respectably again. why should you doubt me?" "how came you acquainted with this robber's haunts?" "the explanation is easy, but this is not the time for it. stay--can't you get assistance?" "easily--in less than ten minutes; and, if you are here when i return, and your information proves correct, i will ask pardon for my suspicions." "be it so," she said, joyfully; "and be quick, for this weather is terrible." ten minutes had not passed when i returned with half-a-dozen officers, and found madame jaubert still at her post. we followed her up the court, caught martin sure enough asleep upon a wretched pallet of straw in one of the alley hovels, and walked him off, terribly scared and surprised, to the nearest station-house, where he passed the remainder of the night. the next day martin proved an _alibi_ of the distinctest, most undeniable kind. he had been an inmate of clerkenwell prison for the last three months, with the exception of just six days previous to our capture of him; and he was, of course, at once discharged. the reward was payable only upon conviction of the offender, and the disappointment of poor madame jaubert was extreme. she wept bitterly at the thought of being compelled to continue her present disreputable mode of life, when a thousand francs--a sum she believed martin's capture would have assured her--besides sufficient for her traveling expenses and decent outfit, would, she said, purchase a partnership in a small but respectable millinery shop in paris. "well," i remarked to her, "there is no reason for despair. you have not only proved your sincerity and good faith, but that you possess a knowledge--how acquired you best know--of the haunts and hiding-places of burglars. the reward, as you may have seen by the new placards, has been doubled; and i have a strong opinion, from something that has reached me this morning, that if you could light upon one armstrong, _alias_ rowden, it would be as certainly yours as if already in your pocket." "armstrong--rowden!" repeated the woman, with anxious simplicity; "i never heard either of these names. what sort of a person is he?" i described him minutely; but madame jaubert appeared to entertain little or no hope of discovering his whereabout; and, ultimately, went away in a very disconsolate mood, after, however, arranging to meet me the next evening. i met her as agreed. she could obtain, she said, no intelligence of any reliable worth; and she pressed me for further particulars. was armstrong a drinking, a gaming, or a play-going man? i told her all i knew of his habits, and a gleam of hope glanced across her face as one or two indications were mentioned. i was to see her again on the morrow. it came; she was as far off as ever; and i advised her to waste no further time in the pursuit, but to at once endeavor to regain a position of respectability by the exercise of industry in the trade or business in which she was reputedly well skilled. madame jaubert laughed scornfully; and a gleam, it seemed to me, of her never entirely subdued insanity shot out from her deep-set, flashing eyes. it was finally settled, that i should meet her once more, at the same place, at about eight o'clock the next evening. i arrived somewhat late at the appointed rendezvous, and found madame jaubert in a state of manifest excitement and impatience. she had, she was pretty sure, discovered armstrong, and knew that he was at that moment in a house in greek-street, soho. "greek-street, soho! is he alone?" "yes; with the exception of a woman who is minding the premises, and of whom he is an acquaintance under another name. you will be able to secure him without the least risk or difficulty, but not an instant must be lost." madame jaubert perceived my half-hesitation. "surely," she exclaimed, "you are not afraid of one man! it's useless affecting to suspect _me_ after what has occurred." "true," i replied. "lead on." the house at which we stopped in greek-street, appeared to be an empty one, from the printed bills in the windows announcing it to be let or sold. madame jaubert knocked in a peculiar manner at the door, which was presently opened by a woman. "is mr. brown still within?" madame jaubert asked, in a low voice. "yes: what do you want with him?" "i have brought a gentleman who will most likely be a purchaser of some of the goods he has to dispose of." "walk in, then, if you please," was the answer. we did so; and found ourselves, as the door closed, in pitch darkness. "this way," said the woman; "you shall have a light in half a minute." "let me guide you," said madame jaubert, as i groped onward by the wall, and at the same time seizing my right hand. instantly as she did so, i heard a rustle just behind me--two quick and violent blows descended on the back of my head, there was a flash before my eyes, a suppressed shout of exultation rang in my ears, and i fell insensible to the ground. it was some time, on partially recovering my senses, before i could realize either what had occurred or the situation in which i found myself. gradually, however, the incidents attending the artfully-prepared treachery of madame jaubert grew into distinctness, and i pretty well comprehended my present position. i was lying at the bottom of a cart, blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed, and covered over by what, from their smell, seemed to be empty corn sacks. the vehicle, was moving at a pretty rapid rate, and judging from the roar and tumult without, through one of the busiest thoroughfares of london. it was saturday evening; and i thought, from the character of the noises, and the tone of a clock just chiming ten, that we were in tottenham-court-road. i endeavored to rise, but found, as i might have expected, that it was impossible to do so; my captors having secured me to the floor of the cart by strong cords. there was nothing for it, therefore, but patience and resignation; words easily pronounced, but difficult, under such circumstances, to realize in practice. my thoughts, doubtless in consequence of the blows i had received, soon became hurried and incoherent. a tumultuous throng of images swept confusedly past, of which the most constant and frequent were the faces of my wife and youngest child, whom i had kissed in his sleep just previous to leaving home. madame jaubert and james martin were also there; and ever and anon the menacing countenance of levasseur stooped over me with a hideous expression, and i felt as if clutched in the fiery grasp of a demon. i have no doubt that the voice which sounded in my ear at the moment i was felled to the ground must have suggested the idea of the swiss--faintly and imperfectly as i caught it. this tumult of brain only gradually subsided as the discordant uproar of the streets--which no doubt added to the excitement i was suffering under by suggesting the exasperating nearness of abundant help which could not be appealed to--died gradually away into a silence only broken by the rumble of the cart-wheels, and the subdued talk of the driver and his companions, of whom there appeared to be two or three. at length the cart stopped, i heard a door unlocked and thrown open, and a few moments afterward i was dragged from under the corn-sacks, carried up three flights of stairs, and dropped brutally upon the floor till a light could be procured. directly one was brought, i was raised to my feet, placed upright against a wooden partition, and staples having been driven into the paneling, securely fastened in that position, with cords passed through them, and round my armpits. this effected, an authoritative voice--the now distinct recognition of which thrilled me with dismay--ordered that i should be unblinded. it was done; and when my eyes became somewhat accustomed to the suddenly dazzling light and glare, i saw levasseur and the clerk dubarle standing directly in front of me, their faces kindled into flame by fiendish triumph and delight. the report that they had been drowned was then a mistake, and they had incurred the peril of returning to this country for the purpose of avenging themselves upon me; and how could it be doubted that an opportunity, achieved at such fearful risk, would be effectually, remorselessly used? a pang of mortal terror shot through me, and then i strove to awaken in my heart a stern endurance, and resolute contempt of death, with, i may now confess, very indifferent success. the woman jaubert was, i also saw, present; and a man, whom i afterward ascertained to be martin, was standing near the doorway, with his back toward me. these two, at a brief intimation from levasseur, went down stairs; and then the fierce exultation of the two escaped convicts--of levasseur especially--broke forth with wolfish rage and ferocity. "ha--ha--ha!" shouted the swiss, at the same time striking me over the face with his open hand, "you find, then, that others can plot as well as you can--dog, traitor, scoundrel that you are! 'au revoir--alors!' was it, eh? well, here we are, and i wish you joy of the meeting. ha--ha! how dismal the rascal looks, dubarle!"--(again the coward struck me)--"he is hardly grateful to me, it seems, for having kept my word. i always do, my fine fellow," he added with a savage chuckle; "and never neglect to pay my debts of honor. yours especially," he continued, drawing a pistol from his pocket, "shall be prompt payment, and with interest too, scélérat!" he held the muzzle of the pistol to within a yard of my forehead, and placed his finger on the trigger. i instinctively closed my eyes, and tasted in that fearful moment the full bitterness of death; but my hour was not yet come. instead of the flash and report which i expected would herald me into eternity, a taunting laugh from levasseur at the terror he excited rang through the room. "come--come," said dubarle, over whose face a gleam of commiseration, almost of repentance, had once or twice passed; "you will alarm that fellow down stairs with your noise. we must, you know, wait till he is gone, and he appears to be in no hurry. in the meantime let us have a game of piquet for the first shot at the traitor's carcase." "excellent--capital!" shouted levasseur with savage glee. "a game of piquet; the stake your life, waters! a glorious game! and mind you see fair-play. in the mean time here's your health, and better luck next time, if you should chance to live to see it." he swallowed a draught of wine which dubarle, after helping himself, had poured out for him; and then approaching me, with the silver cup he had drained in his hand, said, "look at the crest! do you recognize it--fool, idiot that you are!" i did so readily enough: it was a portion of the plunder carried off from portman-square. "come," again interposed dubarle, "let us have our game." the play began, and--but i will dwell no longer upon this terrible passage in my police experience. frequently even now the incidents of that night revisit me in dreams, and i awake with a start and cry of terror. in addition to the mental torture i endured, i was suffering under an agonizing thirst, caused by the fever of my blood, and the pressure of the absorbing gag, which still remained in my mouth. it was wonderful i did not lose my senses. at last the game was over; the swiss won, and sprang to his feet with the roar of a wild beast. at this moment madame jaubert entered the apartment somewhat hastily. "this man below," she said, "is getting insolent. he has taken it into his tipsy head that you mean to kill your prisoner, and he won't, he says, be involved in a murder, which would be sure to be found out. i told him he was talking absurdly; but he is still not satisfied, so you had better go down and speak to him yourself." i afterward found, it may be as well to mention here, that madame jaubert and martin had been induced to assist in entrapping me, in order that i might be out of the way when a friend of levasseur's, who had been committed to newgate on a serious charge, came to be tried, i being the chief witness against him; and they were both assured that i had nothing more serious to apprehend than a few days' detention. in addition to a considerable money-present, levasseur had, moreover, promised madame jaubert to pay her expenses to paris, and assist in placing her in business there. levasseur muttered a savage imprecation on hearing the woman's message, and then said, "come with me, dubarle; if we can not convince the fellow, we can at least silence him! marie duquesne, you will remain here." as soon as they were gone, the woman eyed me with a compassionate expression, and approaching close to me, said in a low voice, "do not be alarmed at their tricks and menaces. after thursday you will be sure to be released." i shook my head, and as distinctly as i could made a gesture with my fettered arms toward the table on which the wine was standing. she understood me. "if," said she, "you will promise not to call out, i will relieve you of the gag." i eagerly nodded compliance. the gag was removed, and she held a cup of wine to my fevered lips. it was a draught from the waters of paradise, and hope, energy, life, were renewed within me as i drank. "you are deceived," i said, in a guarded voice, the instant my burning thirst was satisfied. "they intend to murder me, and you will be involved as an accomplice." "nonsense," she replied. "they have been frightening you, that's all." "i again repeat you are deceived. release me from these fetters and cords, give me but a chance of at least selling my life as dearly as i can, and the money you told me you stood in need of shall be yours." "hark!" she exclaimed. "they are coming!" "bring down a couple of bottles of wine," said levasseur, from the bottom of the stairs. madame jaubert obeyed the order and in a few minutes returned. i renewed my supplications to be released, and was of course extremely liberal of promises. "it is vain talking," said the woman. "i do not believe they will harm you; but even if it were as you say, it is too late now to retrace my steps. you can not escape. that fool below is already three parts intoxicated: they are both armed, and would hesitate at nothing if they but suspected treachery." it was vain to urge her. she grew sullen and menacing; and was insisting that the gag should be replaced in my mouth, when a thought struck me. "levasseur called you marie duquesne just now; but surely your name is jaubert--is it not?" "do not trouble yourself about my name," she replied; "that is my affair, not yours." "because if you _are_ the marie duquesne who once kept a shop in cranbourne-alley, and lost a child called marie-louise, i could tell you something." a wild light broke from her dark eyes, and a suppressed scream from her lips. "i am that marie duquesne!" she said, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "then i have to inform you that the child so long supposed to be lost i discovered nearly three weeks ago." the woman fairly leapt toward me, clasped me fiercely by the arms, and peering in my face with eyes on fire with insane excitement, hissed out, "you lie--you lie, you dog! you are striving to deceive me! she is in heaven: the angels told me so long since." i do not know, by the way, whether the falsehood i was endeavoring to palm off upon the woman was strictly justifiable or not; but i am fain to believe that there are few moralists that would not, under the circumstances, have acted pretty much as i did. "if your child was lost when going on an errand to coventry-street, and her name is marie-louise duquesne, i tell you she is found. how should i otherwise have become acquainted with these particulars?" "true--true," she muttered: "how else should he know? where is she?" added the woman, in tones of agonized entreaty, as she sank down and clasped my knees. "tell me --tell me, as you hope for life or mercy, where i may find my child?" "release me, give me a chance of escape, and to-morrow your child shall be in your arms. refuse, and the secret dies with me." she sprang quickly to her feet, unclasped the handcuffs, snatched a knife from the table, and cut the cords which bound me with eager haste. "another draught of wine," she said, still in the same hurried, almost insane manner. "you have work to do! now, while i secure the door, do you rub and chafe your stiffened joints." the door was soon fastened, and then she assisted in restoring the circulation to my partially benumbed limbs. this was at last accomplished, and marie duquesne drew me toward a window, which she softly opened. "it is useless," she whispered, "to attempt a struggle with the men below. you must descend by this," and she placed her hand upon a lead water-pipe, which reached from the roof to within a few feet of the ground. "and you," i said; "how are you to escape?" "i will tell you. do you hasten on toward hampstead, from which we are distant in a northerly direction about a mile. there is a house at about half the distance. procure help, and return as quickly as possible. the doorfastenings will resist some time, even should your flight be discovered. you will not fail me?" "be assured i will not." the descent was a difficult and somewhat perilous one, but it was safely accomplished, and i set off at the top of my speed toward hampstead. i had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, when the distant sound of a horse's feet, coming at a slow trot toward me, caught my ear. i paused, to make sure i was not deceived, and as i did so, a wild scream from the direction i had left, followed by another and another, broke upon the stillness of the night. the scoundrels had no doubt discovered my escape, and were about to wreak their vengeance upon the unfortunate creature in their power. the trot of the horse which i had heard was, simultaneously with the breaking out of those wild outcries, increased to a rapid gallop. "hallo!" exclaimed the horseman, as he came swiftly up. "do you know where these screams come from?" it was the horse-patrol who thus providentially came up! i briefly stated that the life of a woman was at the mercy of two escaped convicts. "then for god's sake jump up behind me!" exclaimed the patrol. "we shall be there in a couple of minutes." i did so: the horse--a powerful animal, and not entirely unused to carry double--started off, as if it comprehended the necessity for speed, and in a very brief space of time we were at the door of the house from which i had so lately escaped. marie duquesne, with her body half out of the window, was still wildly screaming as we rushed into the room below. there was no one there, and we swiftly ascended the stairs, at the top of which we could hear levasseur and dubarle thundering at the door, which they had unexpectedly found fastened, and hurling a storm of imprecations at the woman within, the noise of which enabled us to approach them pretty nearly before we were heard or perceived. martin saw us first, and his sudden exclamation alarmed the others. dubarle and martin made a desperate rush to pass us, by which i was momently thrown on one side against the wall; and very fortunately, as the bullet leveled at me from a pistol levasseur held in his hand would probably have finished me. martin escaped, which i was not very sorry for; but the patrol pinned dubarle safely, and i griped levasseur with a strength and ferocity against which he was powerless as an infant. our victory was complete; and two hours afterward, the recaptured convicts were safely lodged in a station-house. i caused madame duquesne to be as gently undeceived the next morning as possible with respect to her child; but the reaction and disappointment proved too much for her wavering intellect. she relapsed into positive insanity, and was placed in bedlam, where she remained two years. at the end of that period she was pronounced convalescent. a sufficient sum of money was raised by myself and others, not only to send her to paris, but to enable her to set up as a milliner in a small but respectable way. as lately as last may, when i saw her there, she was in health both of mind and body, and doing comfortably. with the concurrence of the police authorities, very little was said publicly respecting my entrapment. it might perhaps have excited a monomania among liberated convicts--colored and exaggerated as every incident would have been for the amusement of the public--to attempt similar exploits. i was also anxious to conceal the peril i had encountered from my wife; and it was not till i had left the police force that she was informed of it. levasseur and dubarle were convicted of returning from transportation before the term for which they had been sentenced had expired, and were this time sent across the seas for life. the reporters of the morning papers, or rather the reporter for the "times," "herald," "chronicle," "post," and "advertiser," gave precisely the same account, even to the misspelling of levasseur's name, dismissing the brief trial in the following paragraph, under the head of "old bailey sessions:"--"alphonse dubarle ( ), and sebastian levasson ( ), were identified as unlawfully-returned convicts, and sentenced to transportation for life. the prisoners, it was understood, were connected with the late plate-robbery in portman-square; but as a conviction could not have increased their punishment, the indictment was not pressed." levasseur, i had almost forgotten to state, admitted that it was he who wounded me in ryder's-court, leicester-square. footnotes: [footnote : see new monthly magazine for november.] wordsworth and carlyle. for well nigh thirty-four years the public curiosity has been excited by the knowledge that there existed in ms. an unfinished poem of very high pretensions, and extraordinary magnitude, from the pen of the late--is he to be the last?--poet-laureate of britain. at the tidings, lord jeffrey made himself very merry, and sought for a powerful calculus to compute the supposed magnitude of the poem. de quincey, on the other hand, had read it, and both in his writings and conversation, was in the habit of alluding to, quoting, and panegyrizing it as more than equal to wordsworth's other achievements. all of it that is publishable, or shall ever be published, now lies before us; and we approach it with curiously-mingled emotions--mingled, because although a fragment, it is so vast, and in parts so finished, and because it may be regarded as at once an early production of his genius, and its latest legacy to the world. it seems a large fossil relic--imperfect and magnificent--newly dug up, and with the fresh earth and the old dim subsoil meeting and mingling around it. the "prelude" is the first _regular versified_ autobiography we remember in our language. passages, indeed, and parts of the lives of celebrated men, have been at times represented in verse, but in general a vail of fiction has been dropped over the real facts, as in the case of don juan; and in all the revelation made has resembled rather an escapade or a partial confession than a systematic and slowly-consolidated life. the mere circumstances, too, of life have been more regarded than the inner current of life itself. we class the 'prelude' at once with sartor resartus--although the latter wants the poetic _form_--as the two most interesting and faithful records of the individual experience of men of genius which exist. and yet, how different the two men, and the two sets of experience. sartor resembles the unfilled and yawning crescent moon, wordsworth the rounded harvest orb: sartor's cry is, "give, give!" wordsworth's "i have found it, i have found it!" sartor can not, amid a universe of work, find a task fit for him to do, and yet can much less be utterly idle; while to wordsworth, basking in the sun, or loitering near an evening stream, is sufficient and satisfactory work. to sartor, nature is a divine tormentor--her works at once inspire and agonize him; wordsworth loves her with the passion of a perpetual honeymoon. both are intensely self-conscious; but sartor's is the consciousness of disease, wordsworth's of high health standing before a mirror. both have a "demon," but sartor's is exceedingly fierce, dwelling among the tombs--wordsworth's a mild eremite, loving the rocks and the woods. sartor's experience has been frightfully peculiar, and wordsworth's peculiarly felicitous. both have passed through the valley of the shadow of death; but the one has found it as christian found it, dark and noisy--the other has passed it with faithful, by daylight. sartor is more of a representative man than wordsworth, for many have had part at least of his sad experiences, whereas wordsworth's soul dwells apart: his joys and sorrows, his virtues and his sins, are alike his own, and he can circulate his being as soon as them. sartor is a brother man in fury and fever--wordsworth seems a cherub, almost chillingly pure, and whose very warmth is borrowed from another sun than ours. we love and fear sartor with almost equal intensity--wordsworth we respect and wonder at with a great admiration. compare their different biographies. sartor's is brief and abrupt as a confession; the author seems hurrying away from the memory of his woe--wordsworth lingers over his past self, like a lover over the history of his courtship. sartor is a reminiscence of prometheus--the "prelude" an account of the education of pan. the agonies of sartor are connected chiefly with his own individual history, shadowing that of innumerable individuals besides--those of wordsworth with the fate of nations, and the world at large. sartor craves, but can not find a creed--belief seems to flow in wordsworth's blood; to see is to believe with him. the lives of both are fragments, but sartor seems to shut his so abruptly, because he dare not disclose all his struggles; and wordsworth, because he dares not reveal all his peculiar and incommunicable joys. to use sartor's own words, applied to the poet before as, we may inscribe upon wordsworth's grave, "here lies a man who did what he intended;" while over sartor's, disappointed ages may say, "here lies a man whose intentions were noble, and his powers gigantic, but who from lack of proper correspondence between them did little or nothing, said much, but only told the world his own sad story." milton and wordsworth. the points of resemblance between milton and wordsworth are numerous--both were proud in spirit, and pure in life--both were intensely self-conscious--both essayed the loftiest things in poetry--both looked with considerable contempt on their contemporaries, and appealed to the coming age--both preferred fame to reputation--both during their life-time met with obloquy, which crushed them not--both combined intellect with imagination, in equal proportions--both were persevering and elaborate artists, as well as inspired men--both were unwieldy in their treatment of commonplace subjects. neither possessed a particle of humor; nor much, if any, genuine wit. both were friends of liberty and of religion--their genius was "baptized with the holy ghost and with fire." but there were differences and disparities as manifold. milton was a scholar of the first magnitude; wordsworth no more than respectable in point of learning; milton may be called a glorious book-worm; wordsworth an insect feeding on trees; milton was london born and london bred; wordsworth from the provinces; milton had a world more sympathy with chivalry and arms--with the power and the glory of this earth--with human and female beauty--with man and with woman, than wordsworth. wordsworth loved inanimate nature better than milton, or at least, he was more intimately conversant with her features; and has depicted them with more minute accuracy, and careful finish. milton's love for liberty was a wiser and firmer passion, and underwent little change; wordsworth's veered and fluctuated; milton's creed was more definite and fixed than wordsworth's, and, perhaps, lay nearer to his heart; wordsworth shaded away into a vague mistiness, in which the cross at times was lost; milton had more devotion in his absence from church than wordsworth in his presence there; wordsworth was an "idler in the land;" milton an incessant and heroic struggler. as writers, while wordsworth attains to lofty heights, with an appearance of effort; milton is great inevitably, and inhales with pleasure the proud and rare atmosphere of the sublime; wordsworth _comes up_ to the great--milton _descends_ on it; wordsworth has little ratiocinative, or rhetorical power; milton discovers much of both--besides being able to grind his adversaries to powder by the hoof of invective, or to toss them into the air on the tusks of a terrible scorn; wordsworth has produced many sublime lines, but no character approaching the sublime; milton has reared up satan to the sky--the most magnificent structure in the intellectual world; wordsworth's philosophic vein is more subtle, and milton's more masculine and strong; wordsworth has written much in the shape of poetry that is despicably mean; mistaking it all the while for the excellent; milton trifles seldom, and knows full well when he is trifling; wordsworth has sometimes entangled himself with a poetic system; milton no more than samson will permit withes, however green, or a cart-rope, however new, to imprison his giant arms; wordsworth has borrowed nothing, but timidly and jealously saved himself from theft by flight; milton has maintained his originality, even while he borrows--he has dared to snatch the urim and thummim from the high-priest's breast, and inserted them among his own native ornaments, where they shine in keeping--unbedimming and unbedimmed; wordsworth's prose is but a feeble counterpoise to his poetry; whereas milton's were itself sufficient to perpetuate his name; wordsworth's sonnets are, perhaps, equal to milton's, some of his "minor poems" may approach "lycidas," and "il penseroso," but where a whole like "paradise lost?" thus while wordsworth has left a name, the memory of a character and many works, which shall illustrate the age when he lived, and exalt him, on the whole, above all britain's bards of that period, milton is identified with the glory, not of an age, but of all ages; with the progress of liberty in the world--with the truth and grandeur of the christian faith and with the honor and dignity of the human species itself. wordsworth burns like the bright star arcturus, outshining the fainter orbs of the constellation to which it belongs. milton is one of those solitary oceans of flame, which seem to own but a dim and far-off relationship to aught else but the great being, who called them into existence. so truly did the one appreciate the other when he sung "thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." rats and rat-killers in england a rat! a rat! dead for a ducat.--_hamlet_. there is nothing like being in earnest when one begins a good work. so, evidently, thinks the author of a blue-covered pamphlet just issued, with a title page headed by three words and nine notes of exclamation--rat!!! rat!!! rat!!! the object of the writer is no less than to alarm the whole nation by showing what we lose every year by the animals against whom he has made such a dead set. not content with dilating on this fact in the body of his work, he puts what he calls "a startling fact," upon the blue wrapper. "one pair of rats," he says, "with their progeny, will produce in three years no less a number than six hundred and forty-six thousand eight hundred and eight rats! which will consume, day by day, as much food as sixty-four thousand six hundred and eighty men; leaving eight rats to starve." this, it must be admitted, is startling enough, but any one who has a cellar, or a corn-bin, will be inclined to believe almost any tale, however strong, or to applaud any abuse, however severe, which may be heaped upon that convicted thief, rat. midnight burglaries, undetected by the new police, sink into insignificance compared with the ravages of rats of the london sewers, which steal and destroy more in one week, than the value of all the robberies of plate that blaze away in the newspapers from year's end to year's end. and yet the plunderers go on almost unmolested. they are too knowing for traps, and arsenic seems to be more fatal to human, than to quadrupedal victims. the french journals, the other day, described a grand battue in the sewers of paris, when thousands of rats were captured and killed, and we heard of large sums cleared by the sale of their skins--for these thieves go about like swell mobsmen--very well clad. but the example of our french brethren was not imitated in the modern babylon. we neither spill blood on barricades above ground, nor in sewers beneath it. so mr. rat still carries on his plunder with impunity, to the great horror and indignation of good housewives in general, and of the writer we have just referred to in particular. protection is with him no explanation of national distress. _he_ says it is all owing to rats: "the farmers have been eaten out of house and home; bread kept up to a starvation price, to the misery, poverty, and crime of our manufacturing and agricultural population. men seldom think of rats, because they seldom see them; but are they less destructive because they carry on their ravages in the dark? certainly not." in another place he declares "there is not a farmer in the british dominions but would, if he at present had all the rats have deprived him of within the last ten years, this moment declare himself a wealthy man." if the real truth could be found out, it would be a safe speculation to back the statements of the rat-hater against the statistics of the protectionists. the question then suggests itself, what should be done to save this waste--to stop the plunder--to banish the thieves? and we turn to the little blue book for information. the naturalists are said to give a very clear notion of what the rat _is_, but what he _does_ they describe very imperfectly. rats are modest creatures; they live and labor in the dark; they shun the approach of man. go into a barn or granary, where hundreds are living, and you shall not see one; go to a rick that may be one living mass within (a thing very common, adds our writer), and there shall not be one visible; or dive into a cellar, that may be perfectly infested with them, rats you shall not see, so much as a tip of a tail, unless it be that of a stray one "popping across for a more safe retreat." as men seldom see them, they seldom think of them. "but this i say," goes on our author, "that if rats could by any means be made to live on the surface of the earth, instead of holes and corners, and feed and run about the streets and fields in the open day, like dogs and sheep, the whole nation would be horror-stricken, and, ultimately, there would not be a man, woman, or child able to brandish a stick, but would have a dog, stick, or gun for their destruction wherever they met with them. and are we to suppose, because they carry on their ravages in the dark, that they are less destructive? certainly not; and my object in making this appeal to the nation, and supplying it with calculations from the most experienced individuals and naturalists, is for the purpose of rousing it up to one universal warfare against these midnight marauders and common enemies of mankind, insomuch as they devour the food, to the starvation of our fellow-creatures." he does not altogether ignore the argument of the friends of the rat--for even the rat has found friends among naturalists, ready to argue in his favor, and in print, too--that these vermin destroy, in the sewers, much matter that would otherwise give out poisonous gases. sewer rats, he admits, are not the very worst of the race, but even they should be slain wherever they may be caught. but the rats of the cellar, the warehouse, the barn, the rick-yard, the granary, and the corn-field, are the grand destroyers against whom war to the terrier, the trap, and the ferret is proclaimed. do not let any reader suppose that the ratsbane, put forth in the guise of a blue pamphlet, is a mere tasteless dose of useful knowledge on the rat genus. it is no such thing. the author gives a passage or two of politics, and then a page or so of rats. he is an honest hater, such as dr. johnson would have admired; nor is his hatred confined to four-legged adversaries. he evidently dislikes communists and socialists, as sincerely as he does rats. "communism, socialism, and ratism," he says, "are terms synonymous;" but this is not the part of his book we have to deal with, so let us pass on from what he hates to what he admires. "now," he says, "for the prolific disposition of rats;" and here takes an opportunity of saying the best word he can for his friends, the rat-catchers--the rat-killers--the napoleons of the vermin war--the exterminators of the catchable rats--the nimrods of the hunting-grounds to be found in sewers and cellars, and under barn floors. the passage looks very like an advertisement; but since it is characteristic, and as the statements are curious, and really not without importance, they shall be here quoted: "now for their prolific disposition! in this respect i have been most ably assisted by the renowned james shaw, of rat-killing celebrity, landlord of the blue anchor tavern, bunhill-row, st. luke's, and of whom i can not speak too highly, for the civil, straightforward, and animated way in which he communicated every information i desired. curiosity prompted me to make inquiries respecting him, and i find him to be a man universally respected for his manly bearing and refined sentiments of honor, consequently, a man whose testimony can be relied upon. i have also been supplied with similar information from mr. sabin, of rat-killing renown, residing in broad-street, st. giles's. these men destroy between eight and nine thousand each annually, averaging seventeen thousand between them. we will now proceed with the calculations. in the first place, my informants tell me that rats will have six, seven, and eight nests of young in the year, and that for three and four years together; secondly, that they will have from twelve to twenty-three at a litter, and that the young ones will breed at three months old; thirdly, that there are more females than males, at an average of about ten to six. now, i propose to lay down my calculations at something less than one half. in the first place, i say four litters in the year, beginning and ending with a litter, so making thirteen litters in three years; secondly, to have eight young ones at a birth, half male, and half female; thirdly, the young ones to have a litter at six months old. at this calculation, i will take one pair of rats; and, at the expiration of three years, what do you suppose will be the amount of living rats? why, no less a number than six hundred and forty-six thousand eight hundred and eight! mr. shaw's little dog 'tiny,' under six pounds weight, has destroyed two thousand five hundred and twenty-five pairs of rats, which, had they been permitted to live, would, at the same calculation, and in the same time, have produced one thousand six hundred and thirty-three millions, one hundred and ninety thousand, two hundred, living rats! and the rats destroyed by messrs. shaw and sabin in two years, amounting to seventeen thousand pairs, would, had they been permitted to live, have produced, at the above calculation, and in the same time, no less a number than ten thousand nine hundred and ninety-five millions, seven hundred and thirty-six thousand, living rats! now, let us calculate the amount of human food that they would destroy. in the first place, my informants tell me, that six rats will consume day by day, as much food as a man; secondly, that the thing has been tested, and that the estimate given was, that eight rats would consume more than an ordinary man. now, i--to place the thing beyond the smallest shadow of a doubt--will set down ten rats to eat as much as a man, not a child; nor will i say any thing about what rats waste. and what shall we find to be the alarming result? why, that, the first pair of rats, with their three years' progeny, would consume in the night more food than sixty-four thousand six hundred and eighty men the year round, and leaving eight rats to spare! and the rats destroyed by the little wonder 'tiny,' had they been permitted to live, would, at the same calculation, with their three years' progeny, have consumed as much food as one hundred and sixty three millions, three hundred and nineteen thousand and twenty men: above two-thirds of the population of europe!!" here we come to the great glory of our author's thoughts. after its master, the rat-catcher of "manly bearing and refined sentiments of honor," "tiny" is his true hero. eclipse might lord it at epsom or newmarket; tom thumb might trot to renown at sixteen miles an hour, but what was that compared with the triumphs of tiny? the killer of rats who might have had a family capable of eating (if they had found it) as much victuals or more than one hundred and sixty millions of men? our writer proposes a solid gold collar testimonial for the "good" dog tiny, to be raised by public subscription. but that would be a paltry return for such great services. tiny's renown lifts him above such mercenary rewards. more wonders are in store: "now for the vermin destroyed by messrs. shaw and sabin. taken at the same calculation, with their three years' progeny--can you believe it?--they would consume more food than the whole population of the earth. yes, if omnipotence would raise up one hundred and twenty-nine millions five hundred and seventy-three thousand six hundred more people, these rats would consume as much food as they all!! you may wonder, but i will prove it to you." a calculation--like that which has made tiny immortal--is given, and then the reflection, succeeds, "is it not a most appalling thing to think that there are at the present time in the british empire, thousands, nay millions, in a state of starvation, while rats are consuming that which would place them and their families in a state of affluence and comfort? i ask this simple question" (emphatically continues our rat hater), "has not parliament, ere now, been summoned upon matters of far less importance to the empire? _i think it has_." a fine opening this for an oratorical patriot, whose themes are worn out. an agitation for protection against rats would inevitably secure the hearty support of the agricultural interest. enough has surely been said to show the great importance of rats, but it would be wrong to leave the little book which has suggested this article, without gleaning from it a few rat-catching statistics, and without pointing out the moral of the whole, by giving the writer's proposition for relieving us from the scourge he describes. it seems that one rat-catcher has frequently from one thousand five hundred to two thousand rats in his cages at one time--it is not stated, but we suppose--ready to be killed by "tiny." it is averred that these are all brought up from the country--all "fair barn rats"--and that "it would not pay to breed them"--a question probably open to doubt. the natural enemies of the rat are thus mustered, the ferret, polecat, stoat, weasel, cat, dog, and man. the ferret's powers of destruction are estimated very lightly; the polecats are very rare, prefer game when it can be had, and do little against the rat; the weasel also prefers a chicken or a duckling "to fighting with a rat for a meal." hence the farmers destroy them, and they do little against the rats. cats, as a rule, prefer hearth-rugs; and traps, _unless quite new_, and consequently sweet and free from the smell of rats, are useless. no! there is nothing in nature capable of saving the nation from rats, but "tinies." "i do not know of any quadruped equal to a well-bred london terrier for sagacity, courage fidelity, color, symmetry, general beauty, and economy: in a word, he seems in every respect formed by nature for man's companion and protector." with a fine burst of eloquence, the author asks, "are rats a calamity to be deplored, or are they not? the voices of religion and patriotism cry, with stentorian lungs, 'yes!' the voice of philanthropy cries, 'down with them! down with every barrier, and annihilate them!' the fainting stomachs of thousands of our starving fellow-creatures at home and in the sister country, with the agonized bowels of their withered offspring writhing beneath the ruthless fangs of hunger, shriek forth, with horrid yells, for their extermination!!" our friend then takes a higher flight, and discusses, with equal fervor and more notes of admiration, the question whether--on theological grounds--man has a right to kill these creatures, even though they be rats. but he soars into such altitudes of rhetorical theology, that we dare not follow him. he dismisses, in the same paragraph, several remedies for rats, with a brevity almost savoring of contempt; gliding gracefully from theology to arsenic and other poisons, he returns, with a gush of enthusiasm, to his old refrain, "tiny." the breed of small terriers of the tiny breed must be increased. "i do not mean," he says, "the little pigmy dwarf terrier; they are tantamount to useless, even where they are well-bred, not having strength enough for hunting. a dog, to be of sound service, ought to be from six to sixteen pounds weight; i would not recommend them over that, as they become too large and unwieldy for the purpose, and too expensive keeping: besides, little dogs will kill mice as well as rats, and that is a great recommendation. i would also recommend, above all others, the london rat-killing terrier; he is as hard as steel, courageous as a lion, and as handsome as a racehorse: the village dogs, on the other hand, are, generally speaking, too large, too coarse, and too soft. you ought to be as particular about breeding terriers as they are with racehorses." the writer suggests the abolition of the duty upon rat-catching terriers of the "tiny" family; that associations should be encouraged in the rural parts of england for the promotion of rat-catching in all its branches; that the bodies of the vermin be sold for manure; and lastly, that rewards be given to the greatest killers. literature has, from first to last, been strengthened by recruits from nearly every class; but till now we know of no volunteer who has enlisted under her banner from the ranks of rat-catching. we know not if the publication that has afforded a text for this article will effectually augment the exterminators of the rat-tribe; but this is certain, that, rat-killer though its writer be, he has produced between forty and fifty pages, in which, though there may be much comical exaggeration, there are, nevertheless, many curious facts and suggestions for abating one of the greatest animal nuisances that have infested our homes and fields, since the days when an english king levied tribute of wolves' heads upon our brethren of wales. the broken heart; or, the well of pen-morfa. a welsh tale. in two chapters.--chapter i. of a hundred travelers who spend a night at trê-madoc, in north wales, there is not one, perhaps, who goes to the neighboring village of pen-morfa. the new town, built by mr. maddocks, shelley's friend, has taken away all the importance of the ancient village--formerly, as its name imports, "the head of the marsh;" that marsh which mr. maddocks drained and dyked, and reclaimed from the traeth mawr, till pen-morfa, against the walls of whose cottages the winter tides lashed in former days, has come to stand high and dry, three miles from the sea, on a disused road to caernarvon. i do not think there has been a new cottage built in pen-morfa this hundred years; and many an old one has dates in some obscure corner which tell of the fifteenth century. the joists of timber, where they meet overhead, are blackened with the smoke of centuries. there is one large room, round which the beds are built like cupboards, with wooden doors to open and shut; somewhat in the old scotch fashion, i imagine: and below the bed (at least, in one instance i can testify that this was the case, and i was told it was not uncommon), is a great wide wooden drawer, which contained the oat-cake baked for some months' consumption by the family. they call the promontory of llyn (the point at the end of caernarvonshire), _welsh_ wales; i think they might call pen-morfa a welsh welsh village; it is so national in its ways, and buildings, and inhabitants, and so different from the towns and hamlets into which the english throng in summer. how these said inhabitants of pen-morfa ever are distinguished by their names, i, uninitiated, can not tell. i only know for a fact, that in a family there with which i am acquainted, the eldest son's name is john jones, because his father's was john thomas; that the second son is called david williams, because his grandfather was william wynn, and that the girls are called indiscriminately by the names of thomas and jones. i have heard some of the welsh chuckle over the way in which they have baffled the barristers at caernarvon assizes, denying the name under which they had been subpoenaed to give evidence, if they were unwilling witnesses. i could tell you of a great deal which is peculiar and wild in these true welsh people, who are what i suppose we english were a century ago; but i must hasten on to my tale. i have received great, true, beautiful kindness from one of the members of the family of whom i just now spoke as living at pen-morfa; and when i found that they wished me to drink tea with them, i gladly did so, though my friend was the only one in the house, who could speak english at all fluently. after tea, i went with them to see some of their friends; and it was then i saw the interiors of the houses of which i have spoken. it was an autumn evening; we left mellow sunset-light in the open air when we entered the houses, in which all seemed dark save in the ruddy sphere of the firelight, for the windows were very small, and deep set in the thick walls. here were an old couple, who welcomed me in welsh, and brought forth milk and oat-cake with patriarchal hospitality. sons and daughters had married away from them; they lived alone; he was blind, or nearly so; and they sat one on each side of the fire, so old and so still (till we went in and broke the silence), that they seemed to be listening for death. at another house, lived a woman stern and severe-looking. she was busy hiving a swarm of bees, alone and unassisted. i do not think my companion would have chosen to speak to her, but seeing her out in her hill-side garden, she made some inquiry in welsh, which was answered in the most mournful tone i ever heard in my life; a voice of which the freshness and "timbre" had been choked up by tears long years ago. i asked who she was. i dare say the story is common enough, but the sight of the woman, and her few words had impressed me. she had been the beauty of pen-morfa; had been in service; had been taken to london by the family whom she served; had come down in a year or so, back to pen-morfa; her beauty gone into that sad, wild, despairing look which i saw; and she about to become a mother. her father had died during her absence, and left her a very little money; and after her child was born she took the little cottage where i saw her, and made a scanty living by the produce of her bees. she associated with no one. one event had made her savage and distrustful to her kind. she kept so much aloof that it was some time before it became known that her child was deformed, and had lost the use of its lower limbs. poor thing! when i saw the mother, it had been for fifteen years bedridden; but go past when you would, in the night, you saw a light burning; it was often that of the watching mother, solitary and friendless, soothing the moaning child; or you might hear her crooning some old welsh air, in hopes to still the pain with the loud, monotonous music. her sorrow was so dignified, and her mute endurance and her patient love won her such respect, that the neighbors would fain have been friends; but she kept alone and solitary. this is a most true story. i hope that woman and her child are dead now, and their souls above. another story which i heard of these old primitive dwellings i mean to tell at somewhat greater length: there are rocks high above pen-morfa; they are the same that hang over trê-madoc, but near pen-morfa they sweep away, and are lost in the plain. every where they are beautiful. the great sharp ledges which would otherwise look hard and cold, are adorned with the brightest-colored moss, and the golden lichen. close to, you see the scarlet leaves of the crane's-bill, and the tufts of purple heather, which fill up every cleft and cranny; but in the distance you see only the general effect of infinite richness of color, broken here and there by great masses of ivy. at the foot of these rocks come a rich verdant meadow or two; and then you are at pen-morfa. the village well is sharp down under the rocks. there are one or two large, sloping pieces of stone in that last field, on the road leading to the well, which are always slippery; slippery in the summer's heat, almost as much as in the frost of winter, when some little glassy stream that runs over them is turned into a thin sheet of ice. many, many years back--a lifetime ago--there lived in pen-morfa a widow and her daughter. very little is required in those out-of-the-way welsh villages. the wants of the people are very simple. shelter, fire, a little oat-cake and buttermilk, and garden produce; perhaps some pork and bacon from the pig in winter; clothing, which is principally of home manufacture, and of the most enduring kind: these take very little money to purchase, especially in a district into which the large capitalists have not yet come, to buy up two or three acres of the peasants; and nearly every man about pen-morfa owned, at the time of which i speak, his dwelling and some land besides. eleanor gwynn inherited the cottage (by the road-side, on the left hand as you go from trê-madoc to pen-morfa), in which she and her husband had lived all their married life, and a small garden sloping southward, in which her bees lingered before winging their way to the more distant heather. she took rank among her neighbors as the possessor of a moderate independence--not rich, and not poor. but the young men of pen-morfa thought her very rich in the possession of a most lovely daughter. most of us know how very pretty welsh women are; but from all accounts, nest gwynn (nest, or nesta, is the welsh for agnes) was more regularly beautiful than any one for miles around. the welsh are still fond of triads, and "as beautiful as a summer's morning at sun-rise, as a white sea-gull on the green sea-wave, and as nest gwynn," is yet a saying in that district. nest knew she was beautiful, and delighted in it. her mother sometimes checked her in her happy pride, and sometimes reminded her that beauty was a great gift of god (for the welsh are a very pious people), but when she began her little homily, nest came dancing to her, and knelt down before her and put her face up to be kissed, and so with a sweet interruption she stopped her mother's lips. her high spirits made some few shake their heads, and some called her a flirt and a coquette; for she could not help trying to please all, both old and young, both men and women. a very little from nest sufficed for this; a sweet glittering smile, a word of kindness, a merry glance, or a little sympathy, all these pleased and attracted; she was like the fairy-gifted child, and dropped inestimable gifts. but some, who had interpreted her smiles and kind words rather as their wishes led them than as they were really warranted, found that the beautiful, beaming nest could be decided and saucy enough, and so they revenged themselves by calling her a flirt. her mother heard it and sighed; but nest only laughed. it was her work to fetch water for the day's use from the well i told you about. old people say it was the prettiest sight in the world to see her come stepping lightly and gingerly over the stones, with the pail of water balanced on her head; she was too adroit to need to steady it with her hand. they say, now that they can afford to be charitable and speak the truth, that in all her changes to other people, there never was a better daughter to a widowed mother than nest. there is a picturesque old farm-house under moel gwynn, on the road from trê-madoc to criccaeth, called by some welsh name which i now forget; but its meaning in english is "the end of time;" a strange, boding, ominous name. perhaps the builder meant his work to endure till the end of time. i do not know; but there the old house stands, and will stand for many a year. when nest was young, it belonged to one edward williams; his mother was dead, and people said he was on the look-out for a wife. they told nest so, but she tossed her head and reddened, and said she thought he might look long before he got one; so it was not strange that one morning when she went to the well, one autumn morning when the dew lay heavy upon the grass, and the thrushes were busy among the mountain-ash berries, edward williams happened to be there on his way to the coursing match near, and somehow his grayhounds threw her pail of water over in their romping play, and she was very long in filling it again; and when she came home she threw her arms round her mother's neck, and in a passion of joyous tears told her that edward williams of the end of time, had asked her to marry him, and that she had said "yes." eleanor gwynn shed her tears too; but they fell quietly when she was alone. she was thankful nest had found a protector--one suitable in age and apparent character, and above her in fortune; but she knew she should miss her sweet daughter in a thousand household ways; miss her in the evenings by the fire-side; miss her when at night she wakened up with a start from a dream of her youth, and saw her fair face lying calm in the moonlight, pillowed by her side. then she forgot her dream, and blessed her child, and slept again. but who could be so selfish as to be sad when nest was so supremely happy? she danced and sang more than ever; and then sat silent, and smiled to herself: if spoken to, she started and came back to the present with a scarlet blush, which told what she had been thinking of. that was a sunny, happy, enchanted autumn. but the winter was nigh at hand; and with it came sorrow. one fine frosty morning, nest went out with her lover--she to the well, he to some farming business, which was to be transacted at the little inn of pen-morfa. he was late for his appointment; so he left her at the entrance of the village, and hastened to the inn; and she, in her best cloak and new hat (put on against her mother's advice; but they were a recent purchase, and very becoming), went through the dol mawr, radiant with love and happiness. one who lived until lately, met her going down toward the well, that morning; and said he turned round to look after her, she seemed unusually lovely. he wondered at the time at her wearing her sunday clothes; for the pretty, hooded blue-cloth cloak is kept among the welsh women as a church and market garment, and not commonly used even on the coldest days of winter for such household errands as fetching water from the well. however, as he said, "it was not possible to look in her face, and 'fault' any thing she wore." down the sloping-stones the girl went blithely with her pail. she filled it at the well; and then she took off her hat, tied the strings together, and slung it over her arm; she lifted the heavy pail and balanced it on her head. but alas! in going up the smooth, slippery, treacherous rock, the encumbrance of her cloak--it might be such a trifle as her slung hat--something at any rate, took away her evenness of poise; the freshet had frozen on the slanting stone, and was one coat of ice; poor nest fell, and put out her hip. no more flushing rosy color on that sweet face--no more look of beaming innocent happiness;--instead, there was deadly pallor, and filmy eyes, over which dark shades seemed to chase each other as the shoots of agony grew more and more intense. she screamed once or twice; but the exertion (involuntary, and forced out of her by excessive pain) overcame her, and she fainted. a child coming an hour or so afterward on the same errand, saw her lying there, ice-glued to the stone, and thought she was dead. it flew crying back. "nest gwynn is dead! nest gwynn is dead!" and, crazy with fear, it did not stop until it had hid its head in its mother's lap. the village was alarmed, and all who were able went in haste toward the well. poor nest had often thought she was dying in that dreary hour; had taken fainting for death, and struggled against it; and prayed that god would keep her alive till she could see her lover's face once more; and when she did see it, white with terror, bending over her, she gave a feeble smile and let herself faint away into unconsciousness. many a month she lay on her bed unable to move. sometimes she was delirious, sometimes worn-out into the deepest depression. through all, her mother watched her with tenderest care. the neighbors would come and offer help. they would bring presents of country dainties; and i do not suppose that there was a better dinner than ordinary cooked in any household in pen-morfa parish, but a portion of it was sent to eleanor gwynn, if not for her sick daughter, to try and tempt her herself to eat and be strengthened; for to no one would she delegate the duty of watching over her child. edward williams was for a long time most assiduous in his inquiries and attentions; but by-and-by (ah! you see the dark fate of poor nest now), he slackened, so little at first that eleanor blamed herself for her jealousy on her daughter's behalf, and chid her suspicious heart. but as spring ripened into summer, and nest was still bedridden, edward's coolness was visible to more than the poor mother. the neighbors would have spoken to her about it, but she shrunk from the subject as if they were probing a wound. "at any rate," thought she, "nest shall be strong before she is told about it. i will tell lies--i shall be forgiven--but i must save my child; and when she is stronger perhaps i may be able to comfort her. oh! i wish she would not speak to him so tenderly and trustfully, when she is delirious. i could curse him when she does." and then nest would call for her mother, and eleanor would go, and invent some strange story about the summonses edward had had to caernarvon assizes, or to harlech cattle market. but at last she was driven to her wits' end; it was three weeks since he had even stopped at the door to inquire, and eleanor, mad with anxiety about her child, who was silently pining off to death for want of tidings of her lover, put on her cloak, when she had lulled her daughter to sleep one fine june evening, and set off to "the end of time." the great plain which stretches out like an amphitheatre, in the half-circle of hills formed by the ranges of moel gwynn and the trê-madoc rocks were all golden-green in the mellow light of sunset. to eleanor it might have been black with winter frost, she never noticed outward thing till she reached the end of time; and there, in the little farm-yard, she was brought to a sense of her present hour and errand by seeing edward. he was examining some hay, newly stacked; the air was scented by its fragrance, and by the lingering sweetness of the breath of the cows. when edward turned round at the footstep and saw eleanor, he colored and looked confused; however, he came forward to meet her in a cordial manner enough. "it's a fine evening," said he. "how is nest? but, indeed, you're being here is a sign she is better. won't you come in and sit down?" he spoke hurriedly, as if affecting a welcome which he did not feel. "thank you. i'll just take this milking-stool and sit down here. the open air is like balm after being shut up so long." "it is a long time," he replied, "more than five months." mrs. gwynn was trembling at heart. she felt an anger which she did not wish to show; for, if by any manifestations of temper or resentment she lessened or broke the waning thread of attachment which bound him to her daughter, she felt she should never forgive herself. she kept inwardly saying, "patience, patience! he may be true and love her yet;" but her indignant convictions gave her words the lie. "it's a long time, edward williams, since you've been near us to ask after nest;" said she. "she may be better, or she may be worse, for aught you know." she looked up at him, reproachfully, but spoke in a gentle quiet tone. "i--you see the hay has been a long piece of work. the weather has been fractious--and a master's eye is needed. besides," said he, as if he had found the reason for which he sought to account for his absence, "i have heard of her from rowland jones. i was at the surgery for some horse-medicine--he told me about her:" and a shade came over his face, as he remembered what the doctor had said. did he think that shade would escape the mother's eye? "you saw rowland jones! oh, man-alive, tell me what he said of my girl! he'll say nothing to me, but just hems and haws the more i pray him. but you will tell me. you _must_ tell me." she stood up and spoke in a tone of command, which his feeling of independence, weakened just then by an accusing conscience, did not enable him to resist. he strove to evade the question, however. "it was an unlucky day that ever she went to the well!" "tell me what the doctor said of my child," repeated mrs. gwynn. "will she live, or will she die?" he did not dare to disobey the imperious tone in which this question was put. "oh, she will live, don't be afraid. the doctor said she would live." he did not mean to lay any particular emphasis on the word "live," but somehow he did, and she, whose every nerve vibrated with anxiety, caught the word. "she will live!" repeated she. "but there is something behind. tell me, for i will know. if you won't say, i'll go to rowland jones to-night and make him tell me what he has said to you." there had passed something in this conversation between himself and the doctor, which edward did not wish to have known; and mrs. gwynn's threat had the desired effect. but he looked vexed and irritated. "you have such impatient ways with you, mrs. gwynn," he remonstrated. "i am a mother asking news of my sick child," said she. "go on. what did he say? she'll live--" as if giving the clew. "she'll live, he has no doubt of that. but he thinks--now don't clench your hands so--i can't tell you if you look in that way; you are enough to frighten a man." "i'm not speaking," said she in a low husky tone. "never mind my looks: she'll live--" "but she'll be a cripple for life. there! you would have it out," said he, sulkily. "a cripple for life," repeated she, slowly. "and i'm one-and-twenty years older than she is!" she sighed heavily. "and, as we're about it, i'll just tell you what is in my mind," said he, hurried and confused. "i've a deal of cattle; and the farm makes heavy work, as much as an able, healthy woman can do. so you see--" he stopped, wishing her to understand his meaning without words. but she would not. she fixed her dark eyes on him, as if reading his soul, till he flinched under her gaze. "well," said she, at length, "say on. remember i've a deal of work in me yet, and what strength is mine is my daughter's." "you're very good. but, altogether, you must be aware, nest will never be the same as she was." "and you've not yet sworn in the face of god to take her for better, for worse; and, as she is worse"--she looked in his face, caught her breath, and went on--"as she is worse, why, you cast her off, not being church-tied to her. though her body may be crippled, her poor heart is the same--alas!--and full of love for you. edward, you don't mean to break it off because of our sorrows. you're only trying me, i know," said she, as if begging him to assure her that her fears were false. "but, you see, i'm a foolish woman--a poor foolish woman--and ready to take fright at a few words." she smiled up in his face; but it was a forced, doubting smile, and his face still retained its sullen, dogged aspect. "nay, mrs. gwynn," said he, "you spoke truth at first. your own good sense told you nest would never be fit to be any man's wife--unless, indeed, she could catch mr. griffiths of tynwntyrybwlch; he might keep her a carriage, may be." edward really did not mean to be unfeeling; but he was obtuse, and wished to carry off his embarrassment by a kind of friendly joke, which he had no idea would sting the poor mother as it did. he was startled at her manner. "put it in words like a man. whatever you mean by my child, say it for yourself, and don't speak as if my good sense had told me any thing. i stand here, doubting my own thoughts, cursing my own fears. don't be a coward. i ask you whether you and nest are troth-plight?" "i am not a coward. since you ask me, i answer, nest and i _were_ troth-plight; but we _are_ not. i can not--no one would expect me to wed a cripple. it's your own doing i've told you now; i had made up my mind, but i should have waited a bit before telling you." "very well," said she, and she turned to go away; but her wrath bust the flood-gates, and swept away discretion and forethought. she moved and stood in the gateway. her lips parted, but no sound came; with an hysterical motion she threw her arms suddenly up to heaven, as if bringing down lightning toward the gray old house to which she pointed as they fell, and then she spoke: "the widow's child is unfriended. as surely as the saviour brought the son of a widow from death to life, for her tears and cries, so surely will god and his angels watch over my nest, and avenge her cruel wrongs." she turned away, weeping, and wringing her hands. edward went in-doors; he had no more desire to reckon his stores; he sat by the fire, looking gloomily at the red ashes. he might have been there half an hour or more, when some one knocked at the door. he would not speak. he wanted no one's company. another knock, sharp and loud. he did not speak. then the visitor opened the door; and, to his surprise--almost to his affright--eleanor gwynn came in. "i knew you were here. i knew you could not go out into the clear, holy night, as if nothing had happened. oh! did i curse you? if i did, i beg you to forgive me; and i will try and ask the almighty to bless you, if you will but have a little mercy--a very little. it will kill my nest if she knows the truth now--she is so very weak. why, she can not feed herself, she is so low and feeble. you would not wish to kill her, i think, edward!" she looked at him as if expecting an answer; but he did not speak. she went down on her knees on the flags by him. "you will give me a little time, edward, to get her strong, won't you, now? i ask it on my bended knees! perhaps, if i promise never to curse you again, you will come sometimes to see her, till she is well enough to know how all is over, and her heart's hopes crushed. only say you'll come for a month, or so, as if you still loved her--the poor cripple--forlorn of the world. i'll get her strong, and not tax you long." her tears fell too fast for her to go on. "get up, mrs. gwynn," edward said. "don't kneel to me. i have no objection to come and see nest, now and then, so that all is clear between you and me. poor thing! i'm sorry, as it happens, she's so taken up with the thought of me." "it was likely, was not it? and you to have been her husband before this time, if--oh, miserable me! to let my child go and dim her bright life! but you'll forgive me, and come sometimes, just for a little quarter of an hour, once or twice a week. perhaps she'll be asleep sometimes when you call, and then, you know, you need not come in. if she were not so ill, i'd never ask you." so low and humble was the poor widow brought, through her exceeding love for her daughter. chapter ii. nest revived during the warm summer weather. edward came to see her, and staid the allotted quarter of an hour; but he dared not look her in the face. she was indeed a cripple: one leg was much shorter than the other, and she halted on a crutch. her face, formerly so brilliant in color, was wan and pale with suffering: the bright roses were gone, never to return. her large eyes were sunk deep down in their hollow, cavernous sockets: but the light was in them still, when edward came. her mother dreaded her returning strength--dreaded, yet desired it; for the heavy burden of her secret was most oppressive at times, and she thought edward was beginning to weary of his enforced attentions. one october evening she told her the truth. she even compelled her rebellious heart to take the cold, reasoning side of the question; and she told her child that her disabled frame was a disqualification for ever becoming a farmer's wife. she spoke hardly, because her inner agony and sympathy was such, she dared not trust herself to express the feelings that were rending her. but nest turned away from cold reason; she revolted from her mother; she revolted from the world. she bound her sorrow tight up in her breast, to corrode and fester there. night after night, her mother heard her cries and moans--more pitiful, by far, than those wrung from her by bodily pain a year before; and, night after night, if her mother spoke to soothe, she proudly denied the existence of any pain but what was physical, and consequent upon her accident. "if she would but open her sore heart to me--to me, her mother," eleanor wailed forth in prayer to god, "i would be content. once it was enough to have my nest all my own. then came love, and i knew it would never be as before; and then i thought the grief i felt, when edward spoke to me, was as sharp a sorrow as could be; but this present grief, oh lord, my god, is worst of all; and thou only, thou canst help!" when nest grew as strong as she was ever likely to be on earth, she was anxious to have as much labor as she could bear. she would not allow her mother to spare her any thing. hard work--bodily fatigue--she seemed to crave. she was glad when she was stunned by exhaustion into a dull insensibility of feeling. she was almost fierce when her mother, in those first months of convalescence, performed the household tasks which had formerly been hers; but she shrank from going out of doors. her mother thought that she was unwilling to expose her changed appearance to the neighbors' remarks; but nest was not afraid of that: she was afraid of their pity, as being one deserted and cast off. if eleanor gave way before her daughter's imperiousness, and sat by while nest "tore" about her work with the vehemence of a bitter heart, eleanor could have cried, but she durst not; tears, or any mark of commiseration, irritated the crippled girl so much, she even drew away from caresses. every thing was to go on as it had been before she had known edward; and so it did, outwardly; but they trod carefully, as if the ground on which they moved was hollow--deceptive. there was no more careless ease; every word was guarded, and every action planned. it was a dreary life to both. once, eleanor brought in a little baby, a neighbor's child, to try and tempt nest out of herself, by her old love of children. nest's pale face flushed as she saw the innocent child in her mother's arms; and, for a moment, she made as if she would have taken it; but then, she turned away, and hid her face behind her apron, and murmured, "i shall never have a child to lie in my breast, and call me mother!" in a minute she arose, with compressed and tightened lips, and went about her household works, without her noticing the cooing baby again, till mrs. gwynn, heart-sick at the failure of her little plan, took it back to its parents. one day the news ran through pen-morfa that edward williams was about to be married. eleanor had long expected this intelligence. it came upon her like no new thing; but it was the filling-up of her cup of woe. she could not tell nest. she sat listlessly in the house, and dreaded that each neighbor who came in would speak about the village news. at last, some one did. nest looked round from her employment, and talked of the event with a kind of cheerful curiosity as to the particulars, which made her informant go away, and tell others that nest had quite left off caring for edward williams. but when the door was shut, and eleanor and she were left alone, nest came and stood before her weeping mother like a stern accuser. "mother, why did not you let me die? why did you keep me alive for this?" eleanor could not speak, but she put her arms out toward her girl. nest turned away, and eleanor cried aloud in her soreness of spirit. nest came again. "mother, i was wrong. you did your best. i don't know how it is i am so hard and cold. i wish i had died when i was a girl, and had a feeling heart." "don't speak so, my child. god has afflicted you sore, and your hardness of heart is but for a time. wait a little. don't reproach yourself, my poor nest. i understand your ways. i don't mind them, love. the feeling heart will come back to you in time. any ways, don't think you're grieving me, because, love, that may sting you when i'm gone; and i'm not grieved, my darling. most times we're very cheerful, i think." after this, mother and child were drawn more together. but eleanor had received her death from these sorrowful, hurrying events. she did not conceal the truth from herself; nor did she pray to live, as some months ago she had done, for her child's sake; she had found out that she had no power to console the poor wounded heart. it seemed to her as if her prayers had been of no avail; and then she blamed herself for this thought. there are many methodist preachers in this part of wales. there was a certain old man, named david hughes, who was held in peculiar reverence because he had known the great john wesley. he had been captain of a caernarvon slate-vessel; he had traded in the mediterranean, and had seen strange sights. in those early days (to use his own expression) he had lived without god in the world; but he went to mock john wesley, and was converted to the white-haired patriarch, and remained to pray. afterward he became one of the earnest, self-denying, much-abused band of itinerant preachers, who went forth under wesley's direction to spread abroad a more earnest and practical spirit of religion. his rambles and travels were of use to him. they extended his knowledge of the circumstances in which men are sometimes placed, and enlarged his sympathy with the tried and tempted. his sympathy, combined with the thoughtful experience of four-score years, made him cognizant of many of the strange secrets of humanity; and when younger preachers upbraided the hard hearts they met with, and despaired of the sinners, he "suffered long and was kind." when eleanor gwynn lay low on her death-bed, david hughes came to pen-morfa. he knew her history, and sought her out. to him she imparted the feelings i have described. "i have lost my faith, david. the tempter has come, and i have yielded. i doubt if my prayers have been heard. day and night have i prayed that i might comfort my child in her great sorrow; but god has not heard me. she has turned away from me, and refused my poor love. i wish to die now; but i have lost my faith, and have no more pleasure in the thought of going to god. what must i do, david?" she hung upon his answer; and it was long in coming. "i am weary of earth," said she, mournfully, "and can i find rest in death even, leaving my child desolate and broken-hearted?" "eleanor," said david, "where you go, all things will be made clear; and you will learn to thank god for the end of what now seems grievous and heavy to be borne. do you think your agony has been greater than the awful agony in the garden--or your prayers more earnest than that which he prayed in that hour when the great drops of blood ran down his face like sweat? we know that god heard him, although no answer came to him through the dread silence of that night. god's times are not our times. i have lived eighty-and-one years, and never yet have i known an earnest prayer fall to the ground unheeded. in an unknown way, and when no one looked for it, may be, the answer came; a fuller, more satisfying answer than heart could conceive of, although it might be different to what was expected. sister, you are going where in his light you will see light; you will learn there that in very faithfulness he has afflicted you!" "go on--you strengthen me," said she. after david hughes left that day, eleanor was calm as one already dead, and past mortal strife. nest was awed by the change. no more passionate weeping--no more sorrow in the voice; though it was low and weak, it sounded with a sweet composure. her last look was a smile; her last word a blessing. nest, tearless, streeked the poor worn body. she laid a plate with salt upon it on the breast, and lighted candles for the head and feet. it was an old welsh custom; but when david hughes came in, the sight carried him back to the time when he had seen the chapels in some old catholic cathedral. nest sat gazing on the dead with dry, hot eyes. "she is dead," said david, solemnly, "she died in christ. let us bless god, my child. he giveth and he taketh away!" "she is dead," said nest, "my mother is dead. no one loves me now." she spoke as if she were thinking aloud, for she did not look at david, or ask him to be seated. "no one loves you now? no human creature, you mean. you are not yet fit to be spoken to concerning god's infinite love. i, like you, will speak of love for human creatures. i tell you, if no one loves you, it is time for you to begin to love." he spoke almost severely (if david hughes ever did); for, to tell the truth, he was repelled by her hard rejection of her mother's tenderness, about which the neighbors had told him. "begin to love!" said she, her eyes flashing. "have i not loved? old man, you are dim and worn-out. you do not remember what love is." she spoke with a scornful kind of pitying endurance. "i will tell you how i have loved, by telling you the change it has wrought in me. i was once the beautiful nest gwynn; i am now a cripple, a poor, wan-faced cripple, old before my time. that is a change; at least people think so." she paused, and then spoke lower. "i tell you, david hughes, that outward change is as nothing compared to the change in my nature caused by the love i have felt--and have had rejected. i was gentle once, and if you spoke a tender word, my heart came toward you as natural as a little child goes to its mammy. i never spoke roughly, even to the dumb creatures, for i had a kind feeling for all. of late (since i loved, old man), i have been cruel in my thoughts to every one. i have turned away from tenderness with bitter indifference. listen!" she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "i will own it. i have spoken hardly to her," pointing toward the corpse. "her who was ever patient, and full of love for me. she did not know," she muttered, "she is gone to the grave without knowing how i loved her--i had such strange, mad, stubborn pride in me." "come back, mother! come back," said she, crying wildly to the still, solemn corpse; "come back as a spirit or a ghost--only come back, that i may tell you how i have loved you." but the dead never come back. the passionate adjuration ended in tears--the first she had shed. when they ceased, or were absorbed into long quivering sobs, david knelt down. nest did not kneel, but bowed her head. he prayed, while his own tears fell fast. he rose up. they were both calm. "nest," said he, "your love has been the love of youth; passionate, wild, natural to youth. henceforward you must love like christ; without thought of self, or wish for return. you must take the sick and the weary to your heart and love them. that love will lift you up above the storms of the world into god's own peace. the very vehemence of your nature proves that you are capable of this. i do not pity you. you do not require pity. you are powerful enough to trample down your own sorrows into a blessing for others; and to others you will be a blessing; i see it before you; i see in it the answer to your mother's prayer." the old man's dim eyes glittered as if they saw a vision; the fire-light sprang up and glinted on his long white hair. nest was awed as if she saw a prophet, and a prophet he was to her. when next david hughes came to pen-morfa, he asked about nest gwynn, with a hovering doubt as to the answer. the inn-folk told him she was living still in the cottage, which was now her own. "but would you believe it, david," said mrs. thomas, "she has gone and taken mary williams to live with her? you remember mary williams, i'm sure." no! david hughes remembered no mary williams at pen-morfa. "you must have seen her, for i know you've called at thomas griffiths's where the parish boarded her?" "you don't mean the half-witted woman--the poor crazy creature!" "but i do!" said mrs. thomas. "i have seen her sure enough, but i never thought of learning her name. and nest gwynn has taken her to live with her." "yes! i thought i should surprise you. she might have had many a decent girl for companion. my own niece, her that is an orphan, would have gone and been thankful. besides, mary williams is a regular savage at times; john griffiths says there were days when he used to beat her till she howled again, and yet she would not do as he told her. nay, once, he says, if he had not seen her eyes glare like a wild beast, from under the shadow of the table where she had taken shelter, and got pretty quickly out of her way, she would have flown upon him and throttled him. he gave nest fair warning of what she must expect, and he thinks some day she will be found murdered." david hughes thought awhile. "how came nest to take her to live with her?" asked he. "well! folk say john griffiths did not give her enough to eat. half-wits, they tell me, take more to feed them than others, and eleanor gwynn had given her oat-cake and porridge a time or two, and most likely spoken kindly to her (you know eleanor spoke kind to all), so some months ago, when john griffiths had been beating her, and keeping her without food to try and tame her, she ran away and came to nest's cottage in the dead of night, all shivering and starved, for she did not know eleanor was dead, and thought to meet with kindness from her. i've no doubt and nest remembered how her mother used to feed and comfort the poor idiot, and made her some gruel, and wrapped her up by the fire. and in the morning when john griffiths came in search of mary, he found her with nest, and mary wailed so piteously at the sight of him, that nest went to the parish officers and offered to take her to board with her for the same money they gave to him. john says he was right glad to be off his bargain." david hughes knew there was a kind of remorse which sought relief in the performance of the most difficult and repugnant tasks. he thought he could understand how, in her bitter repentance for her conduct toward her mother, nest had taken in the first helpless creature that came seeking shelter in her name. it was not what he would have chosen, but he knew it was god that had sent the poor wandering idiot there. he went to see nest the next morning. as he drew near the cottage--it was summer time, and the doors and windows were all open--he heard an angry, passionate kind of sound that was scarcely human. that sound prevented his approach from being heard; and standing at the threshold, he saw poor mary williams pacing backward and forward in some wild mood. nest, cripple as she was, was walking with her, speaking low, soothing words, till the pace was slackened, and time and breathing was given to put her arm around the crazy woman's neck, and soothe her by this tender caress into the quiet luxury of tears; tears which give the hot brain relief. then david hughes came in. his first words, as he took off his hat, standing on the lintel, were--"the peace of god be upon this house." neither he nor nest recurred to the past; though solemn recollections filled their minds. before he went, all three knelt and prayed; for, as nest told him, some mysterious influence of peace came over the poor half-wit's mind when she heard the holy words of prayer; and often when she felt a paroxysm coming on, she would kneel and repeat a homily rapidly over, as if it were a charm to scare away the demon in possession; sometimes, indeed, the control over herself requisite for this effort was enough to dispel the fluttering burst. when david rose up to go, he drew nest to the door. "you are not afraid, my child?" asked he. "no," she replied. "she is often very good and quiet. when she is not, i can bear it." "i shall see your face on earth no more;" said he. "god bless you!" he went on his way. not many weeks after, david hughes was borne to his grave. the doors of nest's heart were opened--opened wide by the love she grew to feel for crazy mary, so helpless, so friendless, so dependent upon her. mary loved her back again, as a dumb animal loves its blind master. it was happiness enough to be near her. in general she was only too glad to do what she was bidden by nest. but there were times when mary was overpowered by the glooms and fancies of her poor disordered brain. fearful times! no one knew how fearful. on those days, nest warned the little children who loved to come and play around her, that they must not visit the house. the signal was a piece of white linen hung out of a side window. on those days the sorrowful and sick waited in vain for the sound of nest's lame approach. but what she had to endure was only known to god, for she never complained. if she had given up the charge of mary, or if the neighbors had risen, out of love and care for her life, to compel such a step, she knew not what hard curses and blows--what starvation and misery, would await the poor creature. she told of mary's docility, and her affection, and her innocent little sayings; but she never told the details of the occasional days of wild disorder, and driving insanity. nest grew old before her time, in consequence of her accident. she knew that she was as old at fifty as many are at seventy. she knew it partly by the vividness with which the remembrance of the days of her youth came back to her mind, while the events of yesterday were dim and forgotten. she dreamt of her girlhood and youth. in sleep she was once more the beautiful nest gwynn, the admired of all beholders, the light-hearted girl, beloved by her mother. little circumstances connected with those early days, forgotten since the very time when they occurred, came back to her mind in her waking hours. she had a sear on the palm of her left hand, occasioned by the fall of a branch of a tree, when she was a child; it had not pained her since the first two days after the accident; but now it began to hurt her slightly; and clear in her ears was the crackling sound of the treacherous, rending wood; distinct before her rose the presence of her mother tenderly binding up the wound. with these remembrances came a longing desire to see the beautiful fatal well, once more before her death. she had never gone so far since the day when, by her fall there, she lost love, and hope, and her bright, glad youth. she yearned to look upon its waters once again. this desire waxed as her life waned. she told it to poor crazy mary. "mary!" said she, "i want to go to the rock well. if you will help me, i can manage it. there used to be many a stone in the dol mawr on which i could sit and rest. we will go to-morrow morning before folks are astir." mary answered briskly, "up, up! to the rock well! mary will go. mary will go." all day long she kept muttering to herself, "mary will go." nest had the happiest dream that night. her mother stood beside her--not in the flesh, but in the bright glory of a blessed spirit. and nest was no longer young--neither was she old--"they reckon not by days, nor years where she was gone to dwell;" and her mother stretched out her arms to her with a calm, glad look of welcome. she awoke; the woodlark was singing in the near copse--the little birds were astir, and rustling in their leafy nests. nest arose, and called mary. the two set out through the quiet lane. they went along slowly and silently. with many a pause they crossed the broad dol mawr; and carefully descended the sloping stones, on which no trace remained of the hundreds of feet that had passed over them since nest was last there. the clear water sparkled and quivered in the early sun-light, the shadows of the birch-leaves were stirred on the ground; the ferns--nest could have believed that they were the very same ferns which she had seen thirty years before, hung wet and dripping where the water overflowed--a thrush chanted matins from a holly bush near--and the running stream made a low, soft, sweet accompaniment. all was the same; nature was as fresh and young as ever. it might have been yesterday that edward williams had overtaken her, and told her his love--the thought of his words--his handsome looks--(he was a gray, hard-featured man by this time), and then she recalled the fatal wintry morning when joy and youth had fled; and as she remembered that faintness of pain, a new, a real faintness--no echo of the memory--came over her. she leant her back against a rock, without a moan or sigh, and died! she found immortality by the well side, instead of her fragile, perishing youth. she was so calm and placid that mary (who had been dipping her fingers in the well, to see the waters drop off in the gleaming sun-light), thought she was asleep, and for some time continued her amusement in silence. at last she turned, and said, "mary is tired. mary wants to go home." nest did not speak, though the idiot repeated her plaintive words. she stood and looked till a strange terror came over her--a terror too mysterious to be borne. "mistress, wake! mistress, wake!" she said, wildly, shaking the form. but nest did not awake. and the first person who came to the well that morning found crazy mary sitting, awe-struck, by the poor dead nest. they had to get the poor creature away by force, before they could remove the body. mary is in trê-madoc workhouse; they treat her pretty kindly, and in general she is good and tractable. occasionally the old paroxysms come on; and for a time she is unmanageable. but some one thought of speaking to her about nest. she stood arrested at the name; and since then, it is astonishing to see what efforts she makes to curb her insanity; and when the dread time is past, she creeps up to the matron, and says, "mary has tried to be good. will god let her go to nest now?" the young man's counselor. general conduct. move with the multitude in the common walks of life, and you will be unnoticed in the throng; but break from them, pursue a different path, and every eye, perhaps with reproach, will be turned toward you. what is the rule to be observed in general conduct? conform to every innocent custom as our social nature requires, but refuse compliance with whatever is inconsistent with propriety, decency, and the moral duties; and dare to be singular in honor and virtue. in conversation, truth does not require you to utter all your thoughts, yet it forbids you to speak in opposition to them. to open the mind to unreserved communication, is imbecility; to cover it with a vail, to dissever its internal workings from its external manifestations, is dissimulation and falsehood. the concordance of the thoughts, words, and deeds, is the essence of truth, and the ornament of character. a man who has an opportunity to ruin a rival, with whom he is at enmity, without public dishonor, and yet generously forbears, nay, converts the opportunity into a disinterested benefit, evinces a noble instance of virtuous magnanimity. he conquers his own enmity, the most glorious of all conquests, and overcomes the enmity of a rival by the most heroic and praiseworthy mode of retaliation. as to an evil report of a neighbor, the opinion of the frivolous is lightly regarded, the calumny of the known slanderer is discredited by all who venerate truth, and the character of the known liar is a sufficient antidote to falsehood. a respectable man, in his good name, offers a guarantee for his veracity; and, impressed with the benevolent affections and the love of justice, he is scrupulous to believe an evil report, and still more so to repeat it. as a rill from a fountain increases as it flows, rises into a stream, swells into a river, so symbolically are the origin and course of a good name. at first, its beginning is small: it takes its rise from home, its natural source, extends to the neighborhood, stretches through the community, and finally takes a range proportioned to the qualities by which it is supported--its talents, virtue, and usefulness, the surest basis of an honorable reputation. the relatives and kindred of a young man, by a natural process, communicate his amiable and opening character to a wider circle than that of home. his associates and friends extend the circle, and thus it widens till its circumference embraces a portion more or less of society, and his character places him in the class of respectable men. with good principles and conduct, neither envy nor malice can intercept the result of this progressive series; without good principles and conduct, no art or dissimulation can realize the noblest aim of a social being--a well-founded reputation. a person commits an error, and he has sufficient address to conceal it, or sufficient ingenuity to palliate it, but he does neither; instead of availing himself of concealment and palliation, with the candor of a great mind, he confesses his error, and makes all the apology or atonement which the occasion requires. none has a title to true honor but he who can say with moral elevation, when truth demands the acknowledgment, i have done wrong. the events of life are not fortunate or calamitous so much in themselves, as they are in their effect on our feelings. an event which is met by one with equanimity or indifference, will fret another with vexation, or overwhelm him with sorrow. misfortunes encountered with a composed and firm resolution, almost cease to be evils; it is, therefore, less our wisdom to endeavor to control external events, than to regulate the habitual temper of our minds to endurance and resignation. the emotions of the mind are displayed in the movements of the body, the expression of the features and the tones of the voice. it is more difficult to disguise the tones of the voice, than any other external manifestation of internal feeling. the changing accents of the voice of those with whom we have long lived in intimate intercourse, in the communication of sentiment, are less equivocal and more impressive than even language itself. the vocal sounds of speech, expressive of thought and feeling, are too much neglected by us in our individual and personal education. could we analyze the opinion which we form of people on a first acquaintance, we should certainly find that it is greatly influenced by the tones of the voice. study, then, agreeable sounds of speech, but seek not rules to guide you from etiquette--from artificial politeness; descend into the heart, there cherish the kind and moral sympathies, and speech will be modulated by the sincere and endearing tone of benevolence. with your commiseration for distress, join firmness of mind. interest yourself in general happiness, feel for all that is human, but suffer not your peace to be disturbed by what is beyond the sphere of your influence, and beyond your power to remedy. a medical man has all the humane feelings, but they are merged into the art of healing. when he sees a patient suffering, he feels no perturbation; he feels only the desire, by means of his art, to relieve the sufferer: thus should all our humane and social sympathies be regulated, divested of their morbid sensibility, and reduced to active and practical principles. some, when they move from the common routine of life, and especially on any emergency, are embarrassed, perplexed, and know not how to resolve with decision, and act with promptitude. presence of mind is a valuable quality, and essential to active life; it is the effect of habit, and the formation of habit is facilitated by rule. command your feelings, for strong feelings disconcert the mind, and produce confusion of ideas. on every occasion that requires attention, learn to concentrate your thoughts with quickness and comprehension. these two rules reduced into habits, if steadily practiced, will induce decision of resolve and promptitude of action. precipitation spoils the best concerted plan; perseverance brings the most difficult, when it is practicable, to a successful result. the flutter of haste is characteristic of a weak mind that has not the command of its thoughts; a strong mind, master of itself, possesses the clearness and prescience of reflection. in learning, concentrate the energy of the mind principally on one study. the attention divided among many studies, is weakened by the division; besides, it is not granted to an individual to excel in many things. but, while one study claims your main attention, make occasional excursions into the fields of literature and science, and collect materials for the improvement of your mind, and the advancement of your favorite pursuit. excellence in a profession, and success in business, can be attained only by persevering industry. none who thinks himself above his vocation can succeed in it, for we can not give our attention to what our self-importance despises. none can be eminent in his vocation who devotes his mental energy to a pursuit foreign to it, for, in such a case, success in what we love is failure in what we neglect. among men, you must either speak what is agreeable to their humor, or what is consistent with truth and good morals. make it a general rule of conduct neither to flatter virtue nor exasperate folly: by flattering virtue, you can not confirm it; by exasperating folly, you can not reform it. submit, however, to no compromise with truth, but, when it allows, accommodate yourself with honest courtesy to the prepossessions of others. in your whole behavior to mankind, conduct yourself with fairness and integrity. if an action is well received, you will have the credit it deserves; if it is not well received, you will have the approval of your own mind. the approval of a good conscience is preferable to the applause of the world. form no resolution, and engage in no undertaking, which you can not invoke heaven to sanction. a good man prays the almighty to be propitious to his virtuous plans: if his petition is denied, he knows it is denied in mercy, and he is resigned; if it is granted, he is grateful, and enjoys the blessings with moderation. a wicked man, in his iniquitous plans, either fails or succeeds: if he fails, disappointment is embittered by self-reproach; if he succeeds, success is without pleasure, for, when he looks around, he sees no smile of congratulation. [from fraser's magazine.] talleyrand.[ ] "celebrated people," said napoleon, when speaking of necker, "lose on a close view:" a remark not substantially different from that of the duke of marlborough, that "no man was a hero to his _valet de chambre_." proximity, like familiarity, "breeds contempt;" and the proper cure for the illusions of distance is nearness. few objects in nature, whether living or dead, can stand the application of that test, which is as fatal to the pretensions of men as of mountains: while it is notorious that the judgments of history are seldom in accordance with the decisions of contemporaries or friends. human greatness resembles physical magnitude in this, that its proportions are more or less affected by surrounding influences, which must be removed before its real dimensions can be ascertained. it is, in fact, one of the fluctuating quantities of social arithmetic, and to fix its precise amount is now, and ever has been, one of the most difficult enterprises in which a public writer can engage. it is apt, also, to be confounded with mere celebrity. obscurity is not one of its accidents, but fame is; and there is something like an irresistible tendency on the part of mankind at large, to believe in the claims to distinction of the man who has been _vulgatus per orbem_. humility does very well for poets--your horaces and grays, for instance--who can find agamemnons and hampdens on every village green, to whom the opportunity only of acquiring renown has been denied by envious fate; but the prose of life discards it as an unsuitable and troublesome adjunct, and refuses to extend its reverence to what is not appreciable. a famous man is, therefore, always presumed to be a great man, and he may be so in so far as popular reputation is concerned, though he need not be so otherwise. to which of these classes did talleyrand belong? that he was celebrated is beyond doubt. was he great? that is a different question, and could be answered satisfactorily only by a much more elaborate inquiry into his history than it is possible for us to institute. forty years must elapse from his death, which took place in , before those memoirs, which he is known to have compiled, shall be given to the world; and whoever tries will find it to be no easy task to anticipate those revelations which are reserved for the eyes and ears of the generation of . let us, then, be contented with a humbler effort, and endeavor to make the most of the materials which are accessible to us, scanty though they be. there are spurious lives of talleyrand by the dozen. he repudiated these scandalous and gossiping chronicles in his life-time, and it is no part of our business to resuscitate them. m. colmache's volume is of another stamp, however, and bears unexceptionable internal evidence of the honesty of the writer, whether we agree in his conclusions or not. as secretary to the prince he had superior facilities for acquiring a knowledge of, at least, the domestic habits of the _man_, but beyond this he has accomplished little; for though his work be well, and even powerfully written, and though it contain numerous fragments of strong dramatic interest which illustrate in a very remarkable manner talleyrand's moral idiosyncracy, as well as the usages of the age and country in which he lived--it would be absurd to suppose that the most reserved man in europe, who had drilled his passions into a state of repose, and disciplined his tongue into the obedient slave of his own secret purposes, had given his confidence to a servant, in the full knowledge that every word which he uttered, and every opinion which he expressed, would be noted down, and published to the world when the grave had closed upon his remains. a less astute person, occupying the same conspicuous position in life, would have been guilty of no such folly as this: and though m. colmache may have thought otherwise, he was obviously trusted with no more than it was perfectly safe for his master's posthumous reputation that he should be allowed to know. moreover, we must remember, that though the french pride themselves on their skill in conversation--_l'art de causer_, as they term it--it is a wholly different thing from what would pass by that name in britain. men do not meet together in france (or, rather, they _did_ not, for it is impossible to tell what they do now, and it would be unprofitable to inquire), freely to exchange their thoughts upon questions of importance, to discuss philosophy, religion, literature, or even politics; but to chat, to trifle with time, and to dispel weariness. every thing that is serious is interdicted as an offense against good taste; and a french talker would rather run the risk of being considered a fool than a bore. the tyranny of fashion has been always cheerfully submitted to on this point; and to be brilliant, startling, and epigrammatic, are the passports to conversational reputation: not to be weighty, solid, or wise. to judge by m. colmache's book, talleyrand did not converse. it was no part of his social economy to intercommune with any one. his thoughts were his own, and he kept them to himself: hence, after we have perused this book, abounding as it does in curious sketches and narratives, we know nothing more of talleyrand's sentiments on men and things than we did before. there was, no doubt, the usual lingual intercourse among his guests at the château vallençay, but the great man took no part in it. his _rôle_ was lofty, mysterious, and grand. when he spoke all were silent, all attentive, all obsequious: but there was no conversation, in our sense of the word, and no dialogue, for there were no interlocutors. it was a monologue, in fact, and an interesting one--for his memory was deeply impressed with the recollections of the past, and he delighted to call them up, and to astonish his auditors by the freshness and vigor of his coloring: but, so far as we can discover, he never allowed himself to indulge in unnecessary commentaries or disclosures, and, with all his diligence, m. colmache was unable to extract out of the wily diplomatist a single idea which it was his desire to conceal. let there be no mistake, then, about the character of these _revelations_. they are always amusing, sometimes highly interesting, and at others instructive: but they furnish exceedingly little toward a life of talleyrand; and what his own countrymen are unable to give, foreigners can not supply. in what follows, therefore, we must be both abrupt and irregular. charles maurice talleyrand-périgord, eldest son of the comte de talleyrand-périgord, was born at paris in the year ; and died in that city in the year , at the advanced age of eighty-four. his father was by position a member of the ancient _noblesse_, and by profession, a soldier: his mother a woman of fashion, and attached to the court. according to m. colmache, he came into the world "without spot or blemish," and we are led to infer that his lameness--the cause of so much suffering and injustice to him in after-life--was not congenital, as has been generally believed, but the result of want of care in his childhood; for, as it was not the custom in those days for women of rank to nurse their own offspring, or even to rear them in their own houses, the future diplomatist was removed to a distant part of the country a few days after his birth, and consigned to the care of a hired nurse, mère rigaut, in whose cottage, wild, neglected, and forgotten, he dwelt, for twelve years. he was at length recalled from his involuntary exile by the bailli talleyrand, his uncle--the youngest brother of his father, a naval officer, and a knight of malta; who, with the warmth of feeling proper to men of his profession, was enraged, upon his return home, to find the poor boy condemned to banishment and obscurity, and determined to free him from both. he accordingly brought him to paris, but was sadly mortified to find that his intention of making him a sailor was marred by his infirmity; and leaving him at the hôtel talleyrand in charge of the parties whom his mother had instructed to receive him--for she was not there to perform that maternal duty herself--the honest bailli set out for toulon, where he rejoined his ship, and was drowned at sea a few months afterward. young talleyrand was now placed at the college of louis le grand, and under the immediate direction of the père langlois, professor of rhetoric in that institution; a kind and benevolent-minded man, as it would seem, to whom his pupil remained attached throughout his whole life, and who, unchanged and unchangeable, wore, in , the academic costume which had prevailed before the revolution--a long-skirted, collarless black coat, buttoned to the chin; black knee breeches and silk stockings; large shoes with silver-plated buckles; well powdered hair, with _ailes de pigeon_ and a queue of portentous dimensions; and that indispensable companion of a _savant crasseux_ of the middle of the eighteenth century, a huge flat snuff-box, which lay concealed in the deep recesses in his ample pockets. talleyrand remained at this school for three years, and would appear to have made a respectable figure as a student, considering the disadvantages under which he labored from the want of preliminary training. it is probable that a sense of this deficiency on the part of a lively lad, joined to the stimulus of competition, quickened his diligence, and he was rewarded with praise and prizes. he was also addicted to active sports, for "he was strong and hardy in spite of his lameness;" and we are told that his temper was mild and tractable at this period, and that, when attacked, his defensive weapon was his tongue, not his hands--so true is it, that "the boy is father to the man." his sharp, quick speech, we are assured, was the terror of his comrades--_i.e._ when a bolder youth would have boxed his antagonist's ears, talleyrand scolded, and doubtlessly provoked him; but as there must be a philosophical reason for whatever concerns the nonage of a celebrated person, it is added, that "even then (between twelve and fifteen, observe) he had learned that the art of governing others consisted merely in self-command." during his residence at college he saw nothing of his father, and little of his mother; and when the latter did visit him, she was always attended by an eminent surgeon, whose duty it was to torture the unfortunate boy's leg, and to try, by bandages, cauteries, and other appliances, to make that long and straight which neglect had made short and crooked. these visits of _madame mère_ were anticipated with horror, and ever afterward spoken of with disgust; nor could they have increased that love for the author of his being which is so natural to youth, and which an incident that occurred about this time would seem to have utterly extinguished. at the close of his third year at college, his father died from the effects of an old wound received in battle. this event must have happened when his son had attained to the fifteenth year of his age, and, consequently, in the year . by the laws of nature and of feudal succession, that son was now the head of his house, a peer of france, the inheritor of those peculiar privileges which then belonged to his order, the owner of large territorial possessions, and the comte talleyrand-périgord: of all which rights, immunities, titles, and dignities, he was arbitrarily deprived by the cruel decision of a family council, of which his mother was the author and promoter, and his birthrights handed over to his younger brother, who, in his infancy, had been companion of his exile. why this act of iniquity was committed, and how, we shall allow m. colmache to tell: "it was at this time that his father died, and charles maurice was now the comte de talleyrand, and head of that branch of the family to which he belonged. meanwhile the younger son, archambaut, had likewise returned from his nursing; but he had the better chance--his limbs were sound and well developed, as god had made them. no dire accident, the consequence of foul neglect, had marred his shape, or tarnished his comeliness. so, one fine day, and as a natural consequence, mark you, of this fortunate circumstance, when charles maurice, the eldest son, had finished his course of study at louis le grand, having passed through his classes with great _éclat_, there came a tall, sallow, black-robed priest, and took him away from the midst of his friends to the grim old _séminaire_ of st. sulpice, and it was there that he received the astounding intimation, from the lips of the superior himself, that, by the decision of a _conseil de famille_, from which there was no appeal, his birthright had been taken from him, and transferred to his younger brother. "'why so?' faltered the boy, unable to conceal his emotion. "'he is not cripple,' was the stern and cruel answer. "it must have been that hour--nay, that very instant--the echo of those heartless words, which made the prince de talleyrand what he is even to this very day. who shall tell the bitter throes of that bold, strong-hearted youth, as he heard the unjust sentence? was it defiance and despair, the gift of hell, or resignation, the blessed boon of heaven, which caused him to suffer the coarse black robe to be thrown at once above his college uniform, without a cry, without a murmur? none will ever be able to divine what his feelings were, for this one incident is always passed over by the prince. he never refers to it, even when in familiar conversation with his most loved intimates. it is certain, therefore, that the single hour of which i speak bore with it a whole life of bitterness and agony. (p. , .)" let us pause for a moment to consider the probable effects of such nurture and treatment on a nature like talleyrand's. he was fifteen years of age; imperfectly educated for his station in life; lame, from the neglect of the guardians of his infancy; disinherited by those who should have watched with the most jealous care over his interests; cruelly punished for a physical defect chargeable to the carelessness of others; a stranger to hope, love, and fear; the victim of a domestic conspiracy; and the novitiate of a profession which he loathed, and to which, in his subsequent years, he did dishonor. his father he had never known, his mother he knew only as his tormentor and oppressor: no tie seems to have bound him to his brother, and up to this hour he had never yet slept one night under the paternal roof. these were no ordinary trials; and if the youth who was subjected to them became in after-life a cynic, is it to be wondered at? indeed, a hasty view of this remarkable man's character might lead to the conclusion of m. colmache, that the untoward accidents of his infancy and boyhood afforded an explanation of all his adult peculiarities; but we can not allow ourselves to accept this inference, natural as it would seem to be, for it appears to us, upon a closer inspection, that though these incidents might deepen the force of his mental inequalities, they could not have created them, and that the difference between the bishop of autun and the ancient noble, had he succeeded to his inheritance, would have amounted to little more than the difference between a proscribed ecclesiastic and a proscribed aristocrat. no doubt, if the generous affections expand and blossom under genial culture, they as certainly contract and wither under neglect and harshness; nor should we, in ordinary cases, have any hesitation in giving the benefit of this elementary rule to the subject of an ordinary biography: but talleyrand's is not such. there is no evidence in this book or elsewhere, for instance, that the sensitive part of his nature was acute, or that he was easily moved by strong emotions of any kind; and it is exceedingly difficult for us to comprehend how so singular a moral and intellectual organization as he unquestionably possessed could have been the result of any imaginable series of occurrences in early life, of whatever description they might happen to be. the power of intense concentration by which he was so remarkably distinguished was, assuredly, a gift from nature (whether good or bad we say not), and not a circumstantial accident; and it is all but incredible that a man of vivid sensibilities could have succeeded by a mere effort of the will in suppressing every manifestation of their existence during a life prolonged far beyond the ordinary term, and in the midst of the most terrible convulsions that had agitated the world since the establishment of society in western europe. the cause appears to us to be unequal to the effect; and we are obliged to conclude that the cold, sarcastic, and selfish man, who believed in nothing and nobody, and who rejected even the common impulses of humanity, was no casual product of events, but precisely what he had been designed to be from the cradle, and what he would have shown himself to have been--though, perhaps, in a different way--had he never known what paternal neglect and maternal cruelty were. we have no account in this volume of the progressive steps of his clerical education, beyond the intimation that it was wearisome and distasteful. talleyrand disliked references to his ecclesiastical career. it had not been a respectable one; and if m. colmache really got from him the stories which he tells in his book, we need not be surprised that there is nothing in them about either the abbé or the bishop. we know from other sources that, notwithstanding his constitutional timidity, he accepted the revolution eagerly; and that he did his best, by precept and example, to consummate the destruction of the old order of things. he was the bosom friend of mirabeau, so far as his suspicious nature would allow him to be the bosom-friend of any one; and his account (or what m. colmache says was his) of the last days of that able, but profligate person's troubled life is one of the most striking things in this volume. another extraordinary being likewise appears here, of whom less is generally known than of the other two, viz., the abbé cerutti, an italian jesuit, who had been in the service of the dauphin, the father of louis xvi., and who, like so many others, threw his religion and his allegiance behind his back when they could no longer subserve his personal ends, and who was, moreover, with mirabeau and talleyrand, one of the most active promoters of the popular cause. this trio, in conjunction with condorcet, started, in , the first democratical journal known in paris. it was called the _feuille villageoise_, and was designed for circulation among the rural populations of the provinces. it has been accused of having provoked many of the atrocities of the revolution; but this, it would seem, was a mistake. it only fanned the flames after they had broken out, but did not excite them: and it was remarkable for "burning columns" from mirabeau, the ex-noble; for "cold, bitter irony," from cerutti, the ex-jesuit; and for recommendations of the "divisions of church property, &c." from talleyrand, the ex-bishop. such pastimes could have done no harm, according to m. colmache; and were obviously inadequate to the production of a revolution--and such a revolution! let us acquit these patriots, then, of treason against society, and let us believe that they were actuated by the purest motives, when they used every effort within their reach to rouse to madness an ignorant and excitable multitude, and stimulated by every possible means, the cupidity of the poor by suggestions to plunder the rich and to despoil the church. it may be difficult to do this, but there is no help for it; and with such undeniable proofs of the wisdom, virtue, and moderation of this celebrated junta, as m. colmache has been pleased to furnish, we may let the matter drop. talleyrand was consumed by a burning hatred of england, even before the revolution broke out, and, in conjunction with a friend, gave a practical illustration of his hostility by fitting out a privateer at brest, which was designed to intercept british ships trading to the west indies; and as we do not remember to have seen this strange incident in his life mentioned elsewhere, we shall give the short account of it which m. colmache has furnished: "the sudden change from the frivolous _papillotage_ of the _ancien régime_ to the sombre enthusiasm which broke out at the epoch of the american war, made but little impression on m. talleyrand. he was evidently prepared; and at once declared his opinion, not by pamphlets or inflammatory speeches, but by an argument far more forcible than either. conjointly with his friend, the count choiseul gouffier, he equipped a privateer, which he called the holy cause, and which left the harbor of brest in the month of may, . the duc de castries, then minister of marine, furnished the guns. this single fact would almost serve to paint the time. a vessel of war armed and equipped by the _agent général du clergé de france_, aided by a _savant_ of the _haute noblesse_, and countenanced by one of the ministers, exhibits at once the utter confusion of ideas which must have existed just then. i have heard that the privateer, which, placed under command of a runaway scion of nobility, was to have carried death and destruction among the english merchant-ships trading from the west indies, never more made its appearance on the french coast. be this as it may, i know that the prince does not like to talk of this little episode in his life; and the other day, when questioned rather closely on the subject, he answered, '_laissons cela, c'est un de mes péchés de jeunesse._'" (p. .) the temper of mind indicated by this passage was itself one of the forerunners of the revolution, for at that time france had become delirious on the subject of the american struggle; and her soldiers and nobles who were aiding the revolted provincialists, were busily employed in gathering the fruits of that harvest of republicanism which they were so soon to transport to their own country, where they were destined to produce extraordinary results. at the time this event happened, talleyrand was twenty-five years of age, and in holy orders; and we are to presume that the anglo-mania, which overtook his countrymen ten years later, and was the rage in ' , had not yet set in. the anecdote is curious, but it strikes us as being illustrative rather of the character of the age and people than of the individual man, for whom in his natural mood, it was _trop prononcé_. as the revolution advanced talleyrand's safety was endangered, and like most french patriots, ancient and modern, that was a thing which he looked carefully to. some papers were found, after the sack of the tuilleries, which compromised him; and in ' he fled to the united states of america, taking up his abode in the city of new york. he was accompanied in his flight by a friend of the name of beaumetz, and in concert with whom he resolved to enter into trade. a small ship was freighted with goods for calcutta, whither the two exiles had resolved to proceed in search of fortune; and all that was wanted to enable them to put their scheme in execution was a fair wind, which, however, the elements refused. in the interval caused by this detention talleyrand had one of what he called his "presentiments;" and to its occult warnings, as he afterward declared, he owed the immediate preservation of his life, salvation from shipwreck, and that change in his "destiny" which led to all the future incidents of his eventful career. disappointment and vexation preying upon an irritable temper drove his partner mad. he saw insanity in his look and gestures, and suffering himself to be led by the lunatic to the heights of brooklyn, which overlook the harbor, he fixed his eyes sternly upon him, exclaiming, at the same time, "beaumetz, you mean to murder me; you intend to throw me from the height into the sea below. deny it, monster, if you can!" thus apostrophized, the unhappy and conscience-stricken maniac quailed beneath the intensity and sternness of his gaze; confessed that such was his design, the thought, "like a flash from the lurid fire of hell," having haunted him day and night; implored forgiveness, flung himself upon the neck of his meditated victim, and burst into tears. the paroxysm had passed off, and tottering reason had resumed her sway. beaumetz was conveyed home and placed under medical treatment, speedily recovered, proceeded on his voyage alone, and was never more heard of. "my fate," said talleyrand, when speaking of this incident in after life, "was at work." from the way in which this anecdote is introduced we learn that talleyrand had some strong leaning to the celtic superstition known as the second sight, which, in the adust imagination of a frenchman, is closely allied to fatalism, and which, we fear, loses its interest, as it certainly does its virtue, when transported into sunnier regions from "the land of the mountain and the flood." in ancient times augustus cæsar,[ ] and in modern samuel johnson, napoleon, and walter scott, were all, more or less, and after the manner of their several idiosyncracies, the victims of this imaginary belief; and if we knew the apocalyptic tendencies of obscure, as well as we do those of celebrated individuals, we should probably, discover that this weakness was much more prevalent than is generally supposed. we have no great difficulty in understanding how a fanciful notion of this kind should attach itself to minds of a certain conformation, or be even generated by them, and that it should exercise a considerable, though unseen influence over the secret convictions of men of ability, and of women of vivid religious emotions; but we do not so readily comprehend how such persons as napoleon and talleyrand should have embraced a delusion which was utterly irreconcilable with their skeptical natures, and which necessarily presupposed an immaterial state of existence, and the providential superintendence of human affairs by a benevolent order of beings, whose powers must have been deputed to them by a superior and over-ruling intelligence. it was the part of an ancient roman, like augustus, to believe in portents and omens, however insignificant; it might even require some philosophy to despise them; and among ourselves in modern times it will be found, if we mistake not, that strong poetical sensibilities, or a peculiarly impressible temperament, is the foundation of what can be regarded in no other light than an hallucination. the world of spirits, with all its shadowy tenants and imaginary impulses, might be a reality to scott, whose demonology never for one moment obscured the lucid perceptions of a singularly clear and masculine intellect; while the rosicrucianism of so vigorously-minded a man as samuel johnson was the plain result of that constitutional melancholy under which he labored--fortified, it may be, by theological tenets which bordered on the mystical: but what could napoleon mean by fate, or talleyrand by destiny? they were both of them unbelievers in spiritualism of any kind; and whence could those intimations come of which talleyrand, at least, conceived himself to be the recipient? he was obviously possessed by the idea that numerous premonitions had been vouchsafed to him; and what chiefly moved in him a desire to visit scotland was, not its scenery, its lakes, its mountains, or its people, but a wish to inquire into the (as he supposed) natural faculty of divination. the dream may be of jove[ ]--homer is a sound heathen authority upon this point; but talleyrand was no dreamer. his "presentiments" (for so he loved to call them), were, apparently, sudden intuitions, which he was wholly unable to explain, but in which he placed so much confidence that he acted upon them to the letter--so says m. colmache--and never, it would seem, in vain. they directed him rightly; and when, in old age, he had gathered around him at vallençay all that remained of the wit, genius, and talent of french society in its better forms, he delighted to recount the instances in which this supernatural influence, like socrates' dæmon, had befriended him. he believed in the reality of this power when he believed in nothing else, and that is the puzzle. having once returned to france, talleyrand never again quitted it--at least, as an exile; but continued for the next forty years of his eventful life to cultivate the art of advancement, and to study carefully the means of acquiring a fortune: and he succeeded in both. the first consul found in his extraordinary abilities precisely what he wanted and he in the first consul that social support which he required, and upon which he found he could rely. there was no mutual esteem, however, between these remarkable men, whom interest alone bound together; and bonaparte has left upon record his opinion of his minister for foreign affairs, delivered at a time when he had nothing to expect from the favors of men or the caprices of fortune. "talleyrand," said napoleon, at st. helena, "is a corrupt man, who has betrayed all parties and persons. wary and circumspect, always a traitor, but always in conspiracy with fortune, talleyrand treats his enemies as if they were one day to become his friends, and his friends as if they were to become his enemies. he is a man of unquestionable talent, but venial in every thing. nothing could be done with him but by means of bribery."[ ] this is not complimentary; and it would be curious to compare such a sentence of condemnation with the judgment of talleyrand on napoleon which is contained in his memoirs, for that there is one we need not doubt. talleyrand's department as a minister of state was that of foreign affairs, and the future historian of his diplomatic career will have to review his connection with all the great incidents which occurred in europe from the year to his death, in . that he was supple, unscrupulous, and able, is the conclusion of mankind at large; and, we presume, the correct one. passion never disturbed him, and feeling (except for himself) seldom. a revolutionary education superinduced upon a cold nature a distrust of all men--ay, and of women, too; and he seems to have entertained just so much respect for political stability of any kind as circumstances warranted, and no more. he was no believer in the reality of virtue--itself a quality of which he had but an inadequate conception, and to the active operation of which he would have held it to be mere simplicity and folly to trust. we may infer, therefore, that what he did not look for he did not find; and that, as generally happens to those who are wise beyond what is written, he denied the existence of a property, with the use of which, could it have been discovered, he was wholly unacquainted. he served the emperor so long as it was consistent with his interests to do so, and he deserted him when he saw that there was more peril in fidelity than in apostasy. the restoration was, in a great measure, the work of his hands, though he hated louis xviii. mortally; and the grounds of that hatred were, apparently, personal, resting partly on those antipathies which dissimilarity in habits and taste is apt to generate in all ranks of life, and partly on disappointed ambition. louis was fat; talleyrand was thin. louis liked good eating (most men do, by the way, be they kings or not); talleyrand cared little for it, and ate but once a day. louis had, rightly or wrongly, an idea that he was an independent monarch, to whose volitions some regard was due, and the legitimate sovereign of one of the greatest kingdoms in europe; talleyrand saw in him only a political stop-gap and glutton, to whose wishes little deference was owing, and whose intellect he despised: but he took care not to refuse the bounties or the honors bestowed upon him by his royal master--nor can we repress a smile when we find such a man gravely rebuking that prince for utter heartlessness and selfishness. it might be, and probably was so, but assuredly talleyrand was not the person to make the charge. the erection of the throne of the barricades was also talleyrand's work, if we may believe m. colmache; and many of the incidents connected with the expulsion of charles x., and the elevation of the duke of orleans, which are given in this volume, possess at this moment an instructive and melancholy interest, when we consider where the aspirant for that perilous honor is now, and what a dark cloud has settled down upon the stormy evening of his ambitious life.[ ] had we space, we would give some of these details; but we have not, and must be contented to refer to the book for them. the object of the writer, however, is, to construct an exculpation, and to vindicate (vain task!) the memory of talleyrand from the reproach of ingratitude; but it is abundantly evident, even from the narrative itself, that if not one of the most _active_, he was, at least, one of the most _zealous_, promoters of the revolution of . there was little sympathy between charles and talleyrand, though he preferred him much to his brother louis. he even admitted--which, for him, was going far--that charles was distinguished in private life by many excellent qualities; that he had "a feeling and a generous nature, and was a faithful and grateful friend;" but for many, and some of them obvious enough reasons, he disliked "the devout monarch," and we are told that charles "returned tenfold in hatred and suspicion all the pity and contempt which the wily diplomatist sought to cast upon his government." the conclusion is, of course, plain. talleyrand saw that every thing was going wrong, as did every body else after the event. he, therefore, withdrew from paris in the winter of -- ; and, under the pretense of consulting his health, retired to rochecotte, in touraine, the seat of his niece, the duchess de dino. he had no political object in view, and was only driven "by the force of circumstances," into that vortex which was whirling _tout le monde_ in the capital round about; but, somehow or other, the leaders of the movement gathered around him in his retreat, and, unfortunately for the theory of neutrality, it is stated that "it was at rochecotte, during the month of may, which thiers spent there with m. de talleyrand, that he (_i.e_., thiers) conceived the plan of those terrific articles in the _national_, which, every morning, like the battering-rams of ancient warfare, laid in ruins the wretched bulwarks, behind which the tottering monarchy thought itself secure." (p. .) all this was, no doubt, purely accidental; and, as the editor of the _national_ was a person of no social consideration whatever, it would be absurd to suppose that the prince of benevento had any secondary purpose to achieve by patronizing so obscure an adventurer. it turns out, indeed, that "m. thiers was, in the eyes of m. talleyrand, nothing more than a young writer, full of vigor and talent, whom the old seigneur loved to protect, and to initiate into the manners and customs of good society, without a knowledge of which (he would often say) there can be no good taste in literature. but he was the last person in the world who, at that time, would have looked upon thiers as a conspirator, of whom he was making himself, by such protection, the vile associate." (p. .) this should settle the point, and yet it does nothing of the kind; for, as if it were necessary that a mystery should involve all the actions of this man's life, and even comprehend his friends, we find in this very volume, and in immediate succession to the energetic disclaimer we have just quoted, the most elaborate proofs of his "complicity" in that "conspiracy," which ended by dethroning one monarch and elevating another. a single passage will set this matter at rest forever, and here it is: "it has been to this day a matter of speculation whether the duke of orleans had anticipated being called to the throne, or whether it was the force of circumstances which had brought him to it. these are the facts: although the duke of orleans had for a long time looked upon the event of a change in the dynasty as _possible_, and was most certainly _prepared_[ ] to place the crown upon his own head in case of such an event, yet even so late as the th of july he hesitated to grasp it, and resisted the arguments and persuasions of thiers. it is a known fact that the duke was concealed in the environs of neuilly in fear of a popular outbreak, when a secret message from m. de talleyrand, which he received on the evening of that day, caused him to decide at length upon re-entering paris, and proclaiming himself lieutenant-general of the kingdom--the head of the new power. the new king soon forgot, however, this proof of attachment (attachment!!) on the part of his old friend; and m. de talleyrand, who knew that kings, even when chosen by the will of the people, are, for the most part, compelled to be _illustres ingrats_, never, during the years which followed these events, alluded to the circumstances which brought about the _avénement_ of louis philippe." (p. .) and again: "now came the time when the high intelligence and marvelous sagacity of the prince were brought into action, and i hesitate not to repeat, saved the country. m. de talleyrand dispatched to neuilly, with all possible speed, a little billet written with his own hand. the bearer was a person of high courage and great integrity, and was charged, should he fall into danger, to destroy the billet. he could not in honor read its contents, but saw that there were but few words traced upon the paper. they were addressed to the king's sister, madame adelaide. this messenger was commissioned to place the billet himself in the hands of the princess, and to tell her that the prince de talleyrand conjured her to warn the duke of orleans that not a moment was to be lost; that the duke might reckon upon his aid, and that he must appear immediately; that he must come at once to paris, to place himself at the head of the movement, or all would be lost without recall. above all, he was only to take the title of lieutenant-general of the kingdom, which charles had conferred upon him before leaving st. cloud. he implored him not to manifest any other intention. in this advice the old diplomatist was reserving for himself a back door to creep out at in case charles should march on paris." (p. .) there follows this conclusive revelation an account of madame adelaide's astuteness (_astuce_)--her anxiety not to commit herself in writing; her transmission to prince talleyrand of a verbal message; and of the climax of the whole intrigue in the arrival in paris that same night of louis philippe, and of his proclamation in his capacity of lieutenant-general of the kingdom. the transition from this to royalty was easy, for it had been pre-arranged. it was m. de talleyrand, we are assured, who overcame the "faint scruples" of the duke of orleans, and it was his advice that "decided the king to go at once to the hôtel de ville, there to receive publicly the sceptre of france, and to swear allegiance to the charter." after such statements as these, what useful purpose can it serve to declaim about conspiracies, reservations, and the like, when they so conspicuously testify to the fact, that one of the most energetic agents--after his own peculiar way--in bringing about a change of dynasty in france, was the very man whose memory his secretary is so anxious to relieve from this reproach? it is mere folly and blundering to do so, the more especially when we are told that the orleans party comprehended all the leading members of the "opposition" in both chambers; that m. de talleyrand was its head; and that, without declaring himself in favor of the new _régime_, he regulated all its movements, and was in constant and direct communication with the individual in whose behalf the revolution of was got up. it is idle to quarrel about words; but if this was not "conspiracy," it was something so exceedingly like it, that it would require a very nice eye, indeed, to detect wherein the difference lay. the simple truth is this--that talleyrand and his associates did in - , what odillon barrot and his accomplices (including the ubiquitous thiers) did in - , but more successfully; for there can be no comparison between the government established under louis philippe and that inaugurated in the person of louis napoleon, and still less between the prospect of happiness which france enjoyed in , and that which lies before her in . the experiment has been closely copied by m. de talleyrand's pupils, though the result has not been analogous; but this does not depend so much upon the men as upon the circumstances. such a substitute for legitimate authority as the duke of orleans was can not be found twice in the same age and country; and one of the most mournful spectacles of our time is, the fate of the man and his family, for whom all these violent, and we must add, tortuous exertions, were made twenty years ago. talleyrand's share in these transactions can not be gainsaid. though a revolutionist, in so far as the elder branch of the bourbons was concerned, he was not, however, a republican in ; and had, probably, never been honestly so at any period of his life. the feeling of the ancient seigneur was strong in him to the last; and his constitutional timidity made him shrink with instinctive aversion from all contact with the mob: hence his terror during the "three glorious days of july" was agonizing: and when he discovered that, in the bloody triumph of the populace, no superiority of rank, talent, or fortune, was regarded, he trembled for his own safety--"for he knew that the people loved him not." talleyrand survived this, his last great political exploit, nearly eight years, having expired tranquilly at his hôtel in paris, in may, . his ex-secretary has a copious and rambling commentary upon his death, in which there is the usual amount of complaint and vindication. his patron had become reconciled to the church, and had submitted to its formalities immediately before his decease; and, considering his past hostility to it as a social institution, his renunciation of his sacred vows, and his ostentatious rejection of the christian religion, such a step naturally caused some talk, and requires explanation--though none is given by m. colmache, beyond the barren and somewhat commonplace intimation, that "he was influenced in this, as in many other instances, wherein he has drawn down the blame of the sticklers for consistency, by the desire to spare pain and trouble to his family; for he knew that his relatives would suffer much inconvenience by his resistance on his death-bed to the execution of certain religious formalities to which, in his own mind, he attached not the slightest importance." it is rather a delicate matter to scrutinize motives, however great the temptation to do so, may be: fortunately, however, all call for the performance of so ungracious a duty on the present occasion is removed by m. colmache, who tells us frankly what the reason was which induced m. de talleyrand to enact something like a solemn farce in his dying moments. it was not religious compunction, nor any affectation of it, but a regard for the convenience and the material interests of his successors; "for it can not be denied," said he, "that he had ever held in view the elevation and aggrandizement of his family." certainly not. nobody will be bold enough to do so. what prompted voltaire to attend his parish church regularly to the last hour of his life, and even to take the communion; what led franklin to mingle in the throngs which crowded around whitefield in america; and what induced gibbon to visit temples of religion when he had nothing else to do, and to record his impressions of the sermons he was condemned to listen to, must forever remain among the minor mysteries of humanity; but about m. de talleyrand's "retraction," as it has been called, strange to say, there is no mystery at all. it was a mere exemplification of "the ruling passion strong in death." he could no longer care for himself, which had been the chief business of his life; but he could do what was next thing to it--he could care for his relations whom he was leaving behind him, and he did so. the querulous part of this statement relates to louis philippe. the monarch, as is well known, visited his aged servant on his death-bed, and, we have not a doubt, behaved both gracefully and kindly. m. colmache, however, does not think so, and all but abuses the king for an act which, being spontaneous, has the look, if it had not the reality, of benevolence. his manner was, it seems, constrained, the task itself was irksome, and his "bearing," as compared with that of the dying statesman, _tant son peu bourgeois_. "despite the old faded dressing-gown of the one, and the snuff-colored coat, stiff neckcloth, and polished boots of the other, the veriest barbarian could have told at a glance which was the 'last of the nobles,' and which the 'first citizen' of the empire." (p. .) this would be severe were it not sheer gossip, and gossip dictated by a feeling of intense hostility to louis philippe, who committed the unpardonable blunder of not bestowing any particular regard upon the prince's secretary, though, with others, he had been specially introduced to him. in that case, and if m. colmache really was, as he says, present in the chamber when this interview took place, we can only express our surprise that his account of it is so meagre; for it is impossible to believe that the last conversation between two men so distinguished, and so closely united by the ties of mutual obligation, should have been confined to a formal inquiry and a formal reply, which is all we find in this volume. we are at a loss to know, also, why the king should have been less of a gentleman and more of a tradesman in his manners and appearance than m. de talleyrand; for, if that has any thing to do with the matter, he was as certainly _one_ of the "last of the nobles," as his minister; and as we find nothing in m. colmache's book respecting this valedictory visit, which the journals had not promulgated at the time of its occurrence, we are not only led to doubt the fact of his having been present, but likewise to withhold all confidence from his relation of its details. one reflection, however, he does make, which, as read in , is curious: "i had looked," he says, "upon this visit as the farewell of the safely-landed voyager (landed, too, amid storm and tempest), to the wise and careful pilot who had steered him skillfully through rock and breaker, and now pushed off alone amid the darkness, to be seen no more!" (p. .) alas for human wisdom in its most imposing forms! where is now the "skillful pilot?" dead, and his skill buried with him. and the "voyager" whom he "steered" into a secure haven amid "storm and tempest?" a fugitive and an exile, driven from the rickety throne which talleyrand's necromancy had conjured up by a wave of his wand, and which his sagacious biographer obviously considered to be as stable as the globe itself: fato profugus ... multum ille et terris jactatus, et alto. the share which talleyrand is alleged to have had in the murder of the duc d'enghein, and which the duke of rovigo positively declared to have been, from first to last, a contrivance of his,[ ] we must pass over in comparative silence; as the subject is one which it is impossible to elucidate, and which we could not hope to discuss with any profit in the short space which remains to us. if noticed at all in this volume, we have unfortunately mislaid the reference to it; and in a work which is without an index, and which has been compiled with a total disregard to chronological arrangement, we have not been able to recover it. all the parties to that infamous transaction were anxious in after times to shift the culpability from off their own shoulders; and amidst the criminations and recriminations of the future dukes and princes of the empire, there is little positive knowledge of any kind to be gained. it might be, as fouché said, "worse than a crime--a blunder;" but there was certainly nothing about the act itself from which a man of talleyrand's lax morality would have shrunk; and our present impression is, that he was privy to this odious and useless tragedy, if the whole scheme of the violation of a neutral territory, the arrest, the mock trial, and the execution, did not originate with him. even napoleon regretted the occurrence, though he was too inflexible in his character to throw the blame on others when the deed was done, and at st. helena he took the whole responsibility of it upon himself. "the duc d'enghein," said he, "died, because i willed it." this is the style imperial, but it is not the expression of a fact; and the duke of rovigo, with great probability, attributes this language to the desire which he latterly manifested to impress upon others a lofty idea of his absolute power as a sovereign. he was at the time only first consul, and he has himself stated that, to use a familiar phrase, he was _worried_ into it by those about him. "i did not rightly know," says he, "who the duc d'enghein was. the revolution had come upon me when i was very young, and i had never been at court. _all these points_ were explained to me. if it be so, i said, he must be seized, and the necessary orders were given in consequence. every thing had been provided beforehand. the papers were prepared, and there was nothing to do but to sign them, and the fate of the prince was already decided."[ ] this, if accepted as true--and we see no reason why it should not be--is conclusive; and if bonaparte may be believed, a letter addressed to him from strasburgh by the duke was kept by talleyrand, and not delivered up till after the execution. he likewise committed the gross outrage upon public decency of giving a masked ball to the diplomatic body on the night of the unfortunate prince's death; and, all the circumstances taken into account, we fear there can be no doubt of his active participation (to say no more) in one of the foulest political enormities of modern times. his motive for allowing himself to be involved in so perilous an enterprise was, as usual, altogether personal. he dreaded lest a successful conspiracy formed beyond the rhine might lead (a vain apprehension) to the restoration of the bourbons; and he would seem to have taken this dark mode of preventing it, for he had offended too deeply to expect forgiveness. but let us proceed to another theme--his marriage. it is well known that napoleon obtained from the fears of the pope, pius vii., a brief of secularization for his minister for foreign affairs, and that talleyrand subsequently married madame grand, or, as she is called in this book, grandt, a lady who had lived with him as his mistress, and who, in consequence of this transformation, became no less a personage than the princesse de benevento of the imperial court. much has been written about this woman, whose history was long a mystery; and of whose ignorance, _étourderies_, and arrogance, every body has heard something. in this volume her introduction to talleyrand is related in the usual melo-dramatic style of french writers, and her beauty described with that fullness of detail which approaches to voluptuousness. the meeting was accidental, at least on talleyrand's part. returning at an early hour of the morning from a gambling visit to the chevalier fénélon, the particulars of which are hideous, he found his study occupied by a female, who had waited for _five_ hours alone in the chamber; and who was now fast asleep in an arm-chair by the fire, the upper part of her body enveloped in a fashionable mantle, and the lower part displaying the gilded finery of a ball-dress. the diplomatist was stupefied by the fair vision, which he gazed upon with admiration, and having tried in vain to awaken her by coughing, and other innocent devices, he took up a letter addressed to himself which lay upon the table, and which he found to be from a friend, requesting him to give madame the benefit of his advice in a difficulty in which no one else could assist her. the servant slams the door--the lady awakes--a scene of mutual confusion ensues, which tries to the utmost m. colmache's powers of description, but which ends in m. de talleyrand giving to the lovely applicant the document she required, and in the commencement of a _liaison_ which ultimately terminated in matrimony. it was, of course, a trick or practical joke, which had been played off by certain wags, male and female, at madame hamelin's assembly on the unsuspecting and guileless madame grand, according to m. colmache; but to any one else it will seem plain enough that it was no more than the step of a daring and clever _intriguante_, who knew perfectly well what she was about, and who had resolved to conquer where madame tallien and madame beauharnais had failed--and she did conquer. who, then, was this bold lady who contrived so cunningly to ensnare in her toils the wariest man in france? "i have heard," says m. colmache, "that she was of english origin. this is not true. her maiden name was dayot, and she was born at l'orient; but her connection with india, where a great part of her family resided, and the peculiar character of her beauty, would seem to have been the ground-work of the supposition." (p. ). we can not clear up this riddle altogether, but we can do something toward its partial solution. her family name we are unacquainted with, but she was a native of scotland, and her _first_ husband was a british officer, though we are likewise ignorant of his name. her marriage most likely took place in india, and at an early age: for after her husband's death she became the wife of a m. grand, a french gentleman, who obtained a divorce from her in india in consequence of an improper intimacy with mr., afterward the celebrated sir philip francis. how long she lived with mr. francis we know not, but she subsequently passed under the protection of a mr. william macintosh, a british merchant, with whom she returned to europe in . mr. macintosh's private affairs calling him to france, madame grand accompanied him; but her protector was an unfortunate man, whose claims upon the french government were dissipated by the revolution, and we lose sight of his friend altogether till her reappearance on the theatre of the great world, after that event, as the companion of madame beauharnais, and other celebrated women of that day. there is thus a blank in her personal history of twenty-one years which we are quite unable to fill up, and which we must leave to be supplied by others. mr. macintosh died at eisenach, in saxony, in , at an advanced age; but his name is no longer associated with that of madame grand. he left a daughter, who became afterward the countess de colville; but whether madame grand was her mother, or whether he had married after his separation from that lady, are points on which we can throw no light.[ ] such, then, was the much-talked-of madame de talleyrand, princesse de benevento. the date of her death is not given, but she certainly predeceased her _last_ husband by several years. this marriage was not productive of happiness. there was not only much difference of habits, temper, and bearing, between the parties, to say nothing of the antecedents of both, but it appears that madame was jealous "of every member of her husband's family," to whom he showed affection. a separation was the consequence, and this loving couple dwelt in distinct establishments till the end of their lives. it is a remarkable, and not uninstructive fact, that the revolution could not extinguish the cultivated instincts of this extraordinary man; and one of the most interesting things in this volume, is the glimpses which we occasionally get of his impressions of the new order of things. harsh, and even cruel, as the old society had been to him, it had a profound hold upon his affections; and when the solitude and satiety of age invited reflection, he was compelled "to doubt whether the good which had been gained could ever compensate for that which had been forfeited". he lived on the memory of the past, and drew his best inspirations from it. "where," said he, "is the wit of your _salons_, the independence of your writers, the charm and influence of your women? what have you received in exchange for all these, which have fled forever? i would not give the remembrance of these times for all the novelty, and what you call _improvements_ of the social system of to-day, even with the youth and spirit necessary to enjoyment. 'tis true, there were abuse and exaggeration in many of our institutions, but where is the system in which these do not exist? if our people were devoured with misery and taxes, yours is wasting to the core with _envy_ and discontent. our _noblesse_ was corrupt and prodigal; yours is _bourgeoise_ and miserly--greater evils still for the prosperity of the nation. if our king had many mistresses, yours has many masters. has _he_ gained by the exchange? thus you see it clearly demonstrated, that not one of the three orders has advanced in happiness by these wonderful _improvements_ which you so much admire."[ ] this is a strange testimony to the blessings of revolution on a grand scale, and from one, too, who had been in the midst of it as a prominent actor; but we suspect it is what most others, in like circumstances, would give were they candid, and what, after all, is simply true. let any man of sound understanding look at france now, and say what she has gained, or the world through her, from the last outburst of popular fury; which has not only left her the prey of charlatanism, but made her the victim of the grossest passions. talleyrand was, undoubtedly, right in his retrospect, but his healthy convictions came too late to be of any use. of talleyrand's literary habits little is known that can be relied upon, but m. colmache tells as, that "he could neither write nor dictate with ease"; and that the most trifling productions of his pen caused him as much trouble as the most elaborate dispatch. this may have proceeded from fastidiousness in the choice of language, but was, most probably, attributable to the defects of his education, and to the want of early practice in composition. we are not told what kind of reading pleased him, nor whether he was addicted to books; but he was a great admirer of voltaire, with whom he had conversed in early life, and whose style, of its class, is perfect. he always deplored the scantiness of his classical attainments, and, particularly, his ignorance of the greek tongue; and, so far as this volume teaches us, he would not appear to have been what it is customary to call a learned man. m. colmache gives us certain "maxims for seasoning conversation," which, he says, were talleyrand's, but which convey to the mind the idea of a lively and acute, rather than that of a profound thinker. if they want the bitterness of rochefoucauld, they have not the point and pith of bacon, nor the gravity of locke. three of these may suffice as specimens, and as favorable ones: "both erudition and agriculture ought to be encouraged by government; wit and manufactures will come of themselves. "metaphysics always remind me of the caravanseras in the desert. they stand solitary and unsupported, and are always ready to crumble into ruin. "a great capitalist is like a vast lake, upon whose bosom ships can navigate; but which is useless to the country, because no stream issues therefrom to fertilize the land." m. colmache professes to give two fragments of the _memoirs_, but he does not state how he came by them, and we doubt the fact of their being genuine. they are gracefully written, however, and that on the death of mr. fox particularly so. in his "maxims" he speaks of women disrespectfully--a consequence, no doubt, of his disregard for the domestic virtues, and of the dissolute manners which prevailed in the higher ranks of french society in his time--and of the priesthood contemptuously. no hatred is so intense, or so durable, as that which is begotten of apostasy; and a renegade clerk, or a renegade politician, may be always expected to rail fiercely against his original creed. in his personal habits, the prince of the empire would seem to have adhered closely to the manners of the _ancien régime_, in the bosom of which he had been nurtured. he was courtly, formal, and somewhat exclusive; but his rigid temperance, and his regularity were proper to the man, and neither to the past nor present age. of his _bons mots_ we have a sprinkling, and but a sprinkling, in this volume; but the celebrated one about language is not there, though others of less piquancy are. did m. colmache consider it of apocryphal authenticity? we suspect so. to sum up, then, what was the character of m. de talleyrand? of his extraordinary abilities there is no question, since men of every variety of feeling and position have borne testimony to them; but, was he great, great as we esteem any of the models of our own, or other countries? we think not. celebrated he might be, but great he was not. no intensely selfish man like talleyrand can ever become so. where there is so much individual concentration, there is no room left for that expansion of the faculties of the soul upon which true renown rests, and out of which it springs. the region in which the mind acts is, necessarily, circumscribed by the constant pressure of a never-absent egotism; and when this mental constitution happens to be united to timidity, distrust, and temperamental coldness, greatness ceases to be a possible achievement. moreover, he wanted principle, which is the natural foundation of public virtue; and he had no higher an idea of morality than its conveniency. his sense of propriety, which, in some cases was high, was merely a conventional instinct but it was derived from no anterior obligation, and recognized no source more elevated than the canons of society. of _duty_ (that sacred word!) in its english sense, he had not the faintest conception; and provided that his person was protected, and his fortunes advanced, it was a matter of absolute indifference to him what master he served, or in what cause he enlisted. the first revolution, the empire, the restoration, and the throne of the barricades, all found in him a willing and an able instrument, and yet he proved faithless to all; for, though we have not circumstantial proof of this as to the last, his growing discontent with louis philippe shows clearly, that the political weathercock was again veering. even when we make allowance for the very peculiar circumstances by which he was surrounded from his entry into life until his exit from it, it is impossible to doubt that this versatility was a consequence of a particular mental organization, and that, if rigorously analyzed, its causes would be found to resolve themselves into habits of reasoning upon men and things from which courage, generosity, and masculine disinterestedness, were carefully excluded. patriotism may be pleaded in justification--it is a ready argument, and a common defense; but, ample as its proportions are, it will not cover every thing: besides that, in talleyrand's case it was a non-existence, for of that holy love of country which the word is designed to convey, and which is the fruitful mother of moral heroism, he had not one particle. he might be, and no doubt was, the clever minister of a system, whatever that system chanced to be, and we know that he carried out the views of his immediate employers _à toute outrance_, and without the slightest regard to their future social or political consequences; but of any grand conceptions resting upon the rights, or contemplating the happiness of mankind, and discriminated from the claims of an existing dynasty, be it democratical or monarchical, he was utterly incapable. _carpe diem_ was his motto, and he was faithful to it; but however proper that epicurean maxim might have been in the mouth of a roman poet, or however truly it might depict the philosophy of a roman courtesan, it is the deadly antagonist of greatness, which it blights in the bud. out of such a nature as this--a nature unequal to the slightest sacrifice for the benefit of others, conservative of itself, and indifferent to all the world besides, it is impossible to make a great, though it may be easy enough to make a celebrated man--and such we take m. de talleyrand, prince de benevento, to have been. footnotes: [footnote : _revelations of the life of prince talleyrand_. edited from the papers of the late m. colmache, private secretary to the prince. second edition. one volume. london, . h. colburn.] [footnote : suetonius, in vita, cap. .] [footnote : [greek: onar ek dios estin].] [footnote : _voice from st. helena_.] [footnote : the reader will perceive that this was written before the death of louis philippe, which took place at claremont on the th day of august last.] [footnote : the italics are not ours.] [footnote : see caulincourt's _recollections_, &c. vol. ii. appendix.] [footnote : caulincourt, vol. ii. p. , .] [footnote : the particulars have been gleaned from a few scanty notices contained in an unpublished volume by the late george macintosh, esq., the nephew of the mr. wm. macintosh spoken of above, entitled, _biographical memoir of the late charles macintosh, esq., f.r.s. &c. &c._ glasgow, .] [footnote : p. . the italics are in the original.] the dangers of doing wrong. a tale of the sea-side. by agnes strickland. "and so you will not join our party to dunwich fair to-morrow, elizabeth?" said margaret blackbourne to the pretty daughter of the vicar of southwold, with whom she was returning from a long ramble along the broken cliffs toward eastern bavent, one lovely july evening in the year . southwold, be it known to such of my readers as may happen to be unacquainted with its _locale_, is a pretty retired bathing town on the coast of suffolk, remarkable for its picturesque scenery and salubrious air. at the time when the events on which my tale is founded took place, southwold, though it boasted none of the pretty marine villas which now grace the gunhill and centre cliffs, was a place of greater wealth and importance than with all its modern improvements it is at present. it was then one of the most flourishing sea-ports in suffolk, and occasionally sheltered in its ample bay the stateliest ships in the british navy. and, in addition to the little corn-brigs and colliers, whose light sails alone vary the blue expanse of waters, a mighty fleet of vessels of war might not unfrequently be seen stretching in majestic order along the undulating coast between eastenness and dunwich, and the more remote promontory of orford-ness. dunwich, too, that tyre of the east angles, sat not then so wholly desolate on her crumbling cliff as now overlooking, in dust and ashes, the devouring waves of the german ocean in which her former glory lies buried two centuries ago. dunwich, however changed and fallen from what she was in olden time, still retained the rank of a city; and, instead of the miserable horde of smugglers' and fishermen's huts we now behold, with the roofless remains of one lonely church, there were busy and populous streets, with shops, and some appearances of maritime enterprise and mercantile prosperity. the annual fair, which still takes place there on st. james's-day, was at that time considered as a most attractive holiday by the denizens of all the scattered towns and villages along that picturesque coast. many a well-manned yawl and light sailing-vessel would, in those days, put off from southwold, lowestofft, or aldborough, freighted with a pleasure-loving crew, eager to enjoy a summer voyage and a merry day at old dunwich. a great revolution has taken place in public opinion since then, with respect to fairs, which, so far from being exclusively the saturnalia of the vulgar and dissolute, were then used as marts for the sale of various articles of domestic produce; and regarded by all classes of society as seasons of social glee, where all met together, from the highest to the lowest, in gala array, with smiles on their faces, and good-will in their hearts, to participate in cheerful sports and harmless mirth, in which good order and decency were observed out of respect for the presence of ladies and gentlemen. christopher younges, elizabeth's father, was, however, a man of stern notions; and looking on the dark side of the picture, the abuse of such assemblages, he absolutely condemned them as affording fatal opportunities for the idle, the extravagant, and the dissipated to indulge in sinful excesses, and to seduce the weak and unstable to follow bad example. he had never, on any occasion, permitted his pretty daughter elizabeth, then in the opening bloom of eighteen, to display her youthful charms and gay attire even at the annual fair held in their own town, and she knew, as she told her gay companion, margaret, "that it would be in vain to ask his permission to join the festive party on the morrow." "for my part," rejoined margaret, "i would as lief be a nun, and live shut up between four stone walls, as be subjected to such restraints! my father is the worshipful bailiff of this town, but he never stands in the way of a little harmless pleasure." "very true, margaret; but my father, being a minister of the gospel, understands these things better, you know." "what! better than a magistrate? the chief magistrate of the borough and corporation of southwold, bessy younges? no, no, my dear; you won't persuade me to that. your father is a very good kind of man, and has a deal of book knowledge; but my father says, 'he knows very little of the world, and is far too stiff in his notions for his congregation,'" exclaimed margaret. "it may be so," observed elizabeth, "but as i am bound to pay double attention to my father's advice, both as my parent and my pastor, i beg to hear no more on the subject." "as you please, elizabeth;--but have you seen arthur yet?" "arthur! i thought he was at sea." "he landed this morning at seven." "and you not to tell me of it before!" "i thought you had seen him; but i dare say he has called at the vicarage while we have been out walking." "how very provoking!" "never mind; you will have enough of his company to-morrow, if you go to dunwich fair with us." "but i am _not_ going to dunwich fair!" cried elizabeth, pettishly; "and if arthur blackbourne goes without me i will never speak to him again." "and if _you_ do not there are plenty in this town who will be ready to pull caps for him, i can tell you. there is joan bates will be only too happy to sit by him in the boat, and she says--" "something vastly impertinent, i dare say; but i don't want to hear any of her cross speeches second-hand: i beg you will save yourself the trouble of repeating them, margaret. it is getting late, and i must hasten home." time had, indeed, stolen a march on the vicar's fair daughter, while she had been discussing this interesting subject with her youthful friend and gossip, the sister of her sailor lover; for the full-orbed moon had already reared her bright face over the swelling waves, and was pouring a flood of radiance through the bay, and illuminating the high-arched windows of all-saints' church on the distant dark promontory of dunwich cat-cliff. elizabeth turned resolutely about to pursue a homeward path; but, at the little turnstile leading to the vicarage, which then with its neat garden and paddock adjoined the western boundary of the church-yard, she encountered arthur blackbourne and her brother edward. "where have you been cruising out of your course, girls, for the last age?" cried arthur: "here have i been giving chase to you both in all directions, till i have hardly a leg to stand on!" "we have only been for a walk to easton broad," said elizabeth. "a walk to easton broad, the very evening of my return, and without me!" "how should i know you were home?" "there were other girls in the town who contrived to find it out;--ay, and pretty girls too--but they took the trouble of keeping a look-out for the jolly nicholas," rejoined arthur, reproachfully. "so did bessy, i am sure!" exclaimed the boy edward, with great vivacity; "why, she wholly crazed us about the jolly nicholas, and sent me a dozen times a day to ask our old pilots at the station, whether she were in sight, till they were so sick of the jolly nicholas and me, that they got as savage as so many sea-bears, and gave me the name of 'old nick' for my pains." "joan bates was on the beach to welcome me on shore when i landed," pursued arthur. "just like her; she is always so forward," retorted elizabeth. "it would be well if some people thought as much of me as joan bates," continued arthur. "and if you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, arthur blackbourne, i will wish you good night," said elizabeth. "come, edward." "you are in a mighty hurry, i think; when you have not seen me for six months, and i have thought of you, sleeping and waking, all that time, and now you won't speak one kind word to a poor fellow!" said the young sailor. "i have spoken quite as many as you deserve," retorted elizabeth; "if you want flattery, you may go to joan bates." "and so i will, if you are not more lovingly disposed the next time we meet," said arthur; "but you will be better tempered, i hope, at dunwich fair to-morrow." "i am not going to dunwich fair." "not going to dunwich fair, bessy! a pretty joke, i'faith, when the royal anne is new painted and rigged with her best flags and canvas all ready to take us; and we have the prospect of a glorious day to-morrow." "no matter; i shall not go." "how very perverse;--just to vex me, i suppose!" "you know my father does not approve of fairs." "fiddle-de-dee! there will be plenty of people as good as parson younges at dunwich fair, and some a little wiser, mayhap." "i am sure there is no harm in going to a fair," said the boy edward; "and, oh, dear! how i should like to go to-morrow." "so you shall, my hearty, if you can persuade bessy to go with us." "pray, sister, let us go! there will be such fine doings;--a pair of dancing bears, and three jack-an-apes dressed like soldiers, a mountebank with an andrew and a master merriman, and such lots of booths with toys, and beads, and ribbons; more cakes and sweetmeats than i could eat in a year; besides a merry-go-round and two flying ships. then, there will be wrestling and cudgel-playing, foot-ball, jumping in sacks, and dancing on the church-green to the pipe and tabor, and you dance so well." "and we should dance together," whispered the handsome mate of the jolly nicholas. "it is all very fine talking; but my father will never consent." "tut, tut; you have not asked him yet." "it would be useless if i did." "that is more than i know; for no ship is always in the same tack. men change their minds as often as girls; and if you coax the old boy handsomely, when you bid him good-night, my compass to your distaff, he'll let you both go." "oh, do try, dear sister bessy!" cried edward, hanging on her arm. "well, i suppose i must; and if my father consents i will join you on the beach with edward at six to-morrow morning." "we shall wait for you, remember," said the sailor, "so come and let us know, at all events; for time and tide tarry for no one," and so they parted. elizabeth, when she preferred her suit to her father that evening, met with a positive denial, accompanied with a stern rebuke for her late return from her evening ramble. she retired to her own chamber in tears, and cried herself to sleep. she dreamed of the forbidden pleasure; and that she was seated in the gayly painted queen anne, at the helm by the side of her long-absent sailor love, listening to his whispered endearments, as the boat glided rapidly toward the scene of festive enjoyment, to which the merry pealing of bells seemed to invite her. at five she was awakened by a light tap at her chamber door, from her little brother, who whispered, "oh, sister bessy, it is such a lovely morning, let us go and see the boats push off for dunwich fair!" "to what purpose?" cried the mortified girl, "the sight of them will only increase my vexation." "oh, but you promised to let arthur and margaret know; and they will take it unkindly if you do not keep your word," said edward. far wiser would it have been for the brother and sister if they had kept out of the way of temptation; but mutually compounding with their consciences, that there could be no harm in going to see the boat off, since they did not mean to sail with her crew, they left the paternal roof together, and tripped hand-in-hand toward the spot where the queen anne, with her new crimson pennon, lay in readiness for the launch, surrounded by a gayly-dressed group of females, young and old, in their holiday attire, jovial seamen, and blithe young bachelors of the town, among whom, but superior to them all, stood arthur blackbourne, in his sable fur cap with a bullion cordon and tassels. his nautical dress differed little in fashion from that of the rowers of the yawl, only that his doublet was of a smarter cut and finer material, and surmounted with a full ruff of flanders lace, a piece of foppery in which the handsome mate of the jolly nicholas imitated the fashion of the court of james i., and was enabled, by his trading voyages to antwerp and hamburgh, to indulge without any great extravagance. he had brought home half-a-dozen yards of this costly adornment and a damasked gown for the vicar's fair daughter, and he communicated the fact to her in a loving whisper, when, after springing half-way up the cliff at three bounds to meet her, he had fondly encircled her waist with his arm, to aid her in the descent to the beach. "and the damask is white damask," pursued he, "on purpose for your wedding gown; and i have a pocket full of silver and gold besides, to treat you with any thing you may fancy at dunwich fair, my sweeting." "dear arthur, it is of no use talking of it; father was very angry with me for asking his leave to go, and so i can not go. i told you how it would be!" said elizabeth, with mingled wrath and sorrow in her tones. the mate of the jolly nicholas looked troubled for a moment, and then said, "never mind, my darling girl, you shall go to dunwich fair for all that, and so shall little teddy." "oh, dear arthur, i am so glad! hurrah for dunwich fair!" shouted the boy. "be quiet, foolish child, we can not go without my father's leave," said elizabeth. "yes, yes, you can; it is but for once, and i will take all the blame upon myself," cried arthur blackbourne. "goodness, arthur! i never disobeyed my father in my life." "then you have been a very good girl, bessy, and he can not reasonably rate you for a first fault; and if he does--there is the white damask ready bought for the wedding gown, and i am ready to take you for better or worse to-morrow," continued arthur, drawing the half-resisting, but more than half-willing girl, nearer and nearer to the boat at every word; while teddy, hanging on her arm, continued to wheedle and implore her to go. "it is only for once, sister bessy; only for once: father can't kill us if we do take this one day's pastime. oh, dear, oh, dear; i shall die if i don't go to dunwich fair!" "arthur blackbourne, we shall lose the tide if you stand palavering there," shouted half-a-dozen of the crew of the queen anne. "arthur blackbourne, you are to take charge of my niece, joan bates, if bessy younges doesn't go with us," screamed the shrill voice of the widow robson, one of the busiest bodies in the busy borough corporate of southwold two centuries ago. "oh gracious, aunt! you must not interfere between sweethearts;" expostulated joan, with a giggle of affected simplicity. "i am sure i don't wish to take arthur blackbourne from mistress elizabeth younges, if he prefers her company to mine, and it is her intention to go to dunwich fair with us; but i think she does not go to fairs. parson younges always preaches against them, does not he, aunt?" said joan. "why, to be sure he does," cried the widow robson; "so of course his daughter can not be seen at such a place." elizabeth turned pale with vexation at these observations, the drift of which she perfectly understood. margaret blackbourne stepped back, and whispered in her ear, "all that is said to keep you from going to dunwich fair with arthur." "i shall not ask their leave if i choose to go," returned elizabeth. "then pray make up your mind at once," said the widow robson, "or we shall none go, i fancy, as arthur blackbourne is the steersman of the queen anne." "i am coming," cried arthur, drawing elizabeth toward the boat. all the female voyagers had now scrambled in, save joan bates, who was exercising her coquettish skill in parrying the advances of bennet allen, the town-clerk's brother, with the evident design of securing the attentions of the handsome arthur blackbourne for the voyage. four stout seamen, aided by a bare-foot, ragged rout of auxiliaries, such as are always loitering on southwold beach in readiness to volunteer their services on such occasions, now began to impel the boat through the breakers with the usual chorus of, "yeo ho--steady--yeo ho!" and edward, following the example of some of the juvenile passengers, sprang into the boat with the agility of a squirrel, and a wild cry of delight. "edward, edward, you must not go," exclaimed his sister. "hurrah for dunwich fair!" shouted the willful urchin, tossing up his cap. "arthur, help me!" cried elizabeth. "ay, ay, by all means," rejoined the mate of the jolly nicholas, taking her about the waist, and swinging her into the boat. the next moment he was seated by her side, and the queen anne was gayly dashing through the waves. her canvas was hoisted amidst bursts of mirth, and snatches of nautical songs, and it was said that so gallant and fair a company and crew never before left southwold beach. elizabeth younges was perhaps the only one who looked back with boding glances toward the town, and in so doing recognized her father's tall, bending figure on the centre cliff, holding up his hand in an authoritative manner, as if to interdict her voyage. it was her first act of willful disobedience, and her heart sank within her; and though she had triumphed over her bold rival, by securing the company and attentions of arthur blackbourne for the day, she felt more dejected than if she had been left alone on the beach. one black cloud, the only one in the silver and azure sky, now floated across the horizon, and appeared to hover darkly and ominously over her forsaken home, as the shores of southwold receded in the distance. "arthur," whispered she to her lover, "i do not like to go to dunwich fair so entirely against my father's prohibition. do make the boat tack, and set the boy edward and me ashore." "dear heart! it is folly to think of such a thing; we are opposite dingle now." "it will be only a pleasant walk back to southwold for us." "very pleasant for you, perhaps; but recollect, there are twenty people besides yourself in the boat, and i really do not see why they should be put to inconvenience for your whims." "but, arthur, you know you put me into the boat against my will." "the more fool i," retorted the offended lover. elizabeth made an angry rejoinder, but instead of persisting in her purpose, she sat silent and sullen during the rest of the voyage. the merry pealing of bells from the three churches then remaining in dunwich, sounded a jocund welcome over the waves--the old city was adorned with flags and green boughs in honor of her chartered fair, and the tall cliffs were lined with gayly-dressed groups, rejoicing in their holiday; but these things gave no pleasure to elizabeth. the uproarious glee of her brother edward annoyed her, and finding arthur appeared in no haste to offer her his arm, to assist her in ascending the lofty cliffs of dunwich, after they had landed, she took that of the reluctant boy and walked proudly on, without deigning to direct a glance toward her lover. "i wish you would walk with your own man, sister bess," said edward. "i want to have some fun with the other boys." "you are very unkind, edward, to wish to desert me, when arthur has treated me so ill. if it had not been for your perversity in jumping into the boat, and refusing to leave it, i should not have disobeyed my father by coming here," said elizabeth. "it is of no use thinking of that now," rejoined edward; "as we are here, we had better enjoy ourselves." elizabeth never felt so little in the humor for any thing of the kind called pleasure. the want of sympathy, too, in her little brother, added to the bitterness of her feelings. she directed a furtive glance toward the party behind, and perceived arthur engaged in what in these days would be called an active flirtation with her rival, joan bates: under these circumstances she determined not to relinquish her brother's arm; but that perverse urchin, whom she had so entirely loved and petted from his cradle, with the usual ingratitude of a spoiled child, took the earliest opportunity of breaking from her, and joining a boisterous company of boys of his own age. bennet allen then approached, and offered his arm to elizabeth, with the mortifying observation, "that as they both appeared to be forsaken and forlorn, the best thing they could do would be to walk together." the proud heart of elizabeth was ready to burst at this remark, and had it been any where else, she would have rejected the proffered attentions of young allen with scorn; but she felt the impropriety of walking alone in a fair, and silently accepted the arm of her rival's discarded lover, and at the same time affected a gayety of manner she was far from feeling, in the hope of piquing arthur blackbourne. nothing is, however, so wearisome to both mind and body as an outward show of mirth when the heart is sorrowful. elizabeth younges relapsed into long fits of gloom and silence, and when addressed by her companion, made short and ungracious answers. "what a disagreeable thing a fair is," said she, at last; "i no longer wonder at my father saying it was not a suitable place for me--how i wish i were at home!" but many weary hours of noise and pleasureless excitement had to be worn away, ere the party with whom elizabeth came to dunwich would agree to return. elizabeth's remonstrances, entreaties, and anger were alike unheeded by the companions of her voyage. she had haughtily rejected every overture on the part of arthur toward a reconciliation, and declined to receive fairings or attentions of any kind from him, to manifest her indignant sense of the slight she had experienced from him in the early part of the day; and arthur had retorted by paying his court very ostentatiously to joan bates. elizabeth, neglected and alone, strayed from her party, and sought a solitary nook among the ivied ruins of a monastic pile, whose rifted arches overhung the verge of the lofty cliff, where she indulged in floods of tears, casting from time to time her wistful glances toward southwold, whose verdant cliffs looked so calm and peaceful in the mellow lights of a glowing sunset; but it was not till those cliffs were silvered by the rising moon that the tide served for the return of the boats. at length, elizabeth heard her name vociferated by many individuals of her party, and felt sorely mortified at the publicity thus given to the fact of her being at a forbidden place. ashamed to raise her voice in reply, yet painfully anxious to return to her deserted home, she hastened from her retreat among the ruins, and ran eagerly toward the steep narrow path that led to the beach. on the way she encountered arthur blackbourne, evidently the worse for his revels. "where have you been wandering about by yourself?" cried he, seizing her roughly by the arm. "you have used me very ill to-day, arthur," said she, bursting into tears. "you are jealous and out of temper," was the reply. "where is my brother edward?" sobbed elizabeth, for she could not trust her voice with a rejoinder to this taunt. "in the boat, and if you do not make haste, we shall lose the tide." "i have suffered enough for my disobedience to my father as it is," said elizabeth; "and oh, what will he say to me on my return from this disgraceful expedition!" "there is no time to think of that now," rejoined arthur, as they proceeded to the boat in mutual displeasure with each other. elizabeth perceived with alarm, that boatmen and passengers alike were in the same state of inebriation which was only too evident in arthur. the beach was now a scene of tumultuous bustle; a crowd of boats were putting off for southwold, walberswick, and all the other places along the coast for which the wind and tide served. "young woman," said an experienced dunwich mariner who had been regarding elizabeth with much interest, "which boat are you going in." "the queen anne of southwold," was the reply. "take an old man's counsel and go not in her to-night. she is too full of riotous head strong people, and those who ought to be the most cool and considerate there are the worst." "oh, but i must go; i dare not remain longer, for i came without my father's leave." "so much the worse, young girl, for you; no good can come of such doings," said the ancient mariner. "oh, if i but reach my home in safety, i will never, never so transgress again!" sobbed elizabeth as she took her seat among the reckless crew of the queen anne, and rested her aching head against the dewy canvas which was now unfurled to the gay breeze that came dancing over the summer waves. it was a night of intense beauty, and the contemplation of the starry heavens above, with that glorious moon shining in such cloudless splendor over the mighty expanse of heaving blue waters, might have drawn the minds of the midnight voyagers to far different themes than those which were so clamorously discussed by them as they glided through the murmuring waves. the queen anne had shot ahead of the swarm of sailing boats with which she left dunwich strand, and her thoughtless crew, with wild excitement, continued to accelerate her perilous speed by hoisting a press of canvas as they neared the shores of southwold. a dispute now occurred among them, whether they should land at the haven or opposite the town. none of the parties were in a state to form a very correct judgment as to which would be the best and safest point to bring the boat to shore. the importunities of joan bates and others of the female passengers, who had suffered severely from sea-sickness during the homeward voyage, prevailed on arthur blackbourne and a majority of the party to attempt a landing at the haven, and four of the boatmen scrambling through the surf proceeded to fix their rope and grapples, to bring the boat to shore. they were resisted by such of the men as were for landing opposite the town, and with reason, for the tide was rushing with great force into the river blythe. arthur blackbourne had seized one of the oars to assist in effecting a landing on that perilous spot. elizabeth younges, who perceived a cable lying athwart the haven, started up in an agony of terror, caught him by the arm, and entreated him to desist. arthur, attributing her opposition to angry excitement of temper, rudely shook off her hold and exerted a double portion of energy to accomplish his object, and just at the fatal moment when the men carelessly let go the rope, impelled the boat into immediate contact with the obstacle of which elizabeth was about to warn him. the next instant all were struggling with the roaring tide. the slumbering village of walberswick was startled with the death-shrieks of that devoted company. the anxious watchers on southwold cliff, the parents, relatives, and friends of the hapless voyagers, echoed back their cries in hopeless despair. then there was the impulsive rush of men, women, and children toward the spot where they had seen the boat capsized. in less than ten minutes the swift-footed neared it, but ere then, the dread gulf which divides time from eternity had already been passed by each and all, save one, of those who sailed so gayly from the town that morn. lovers and rivals, passengers and crew, were united in a watery grave. the solitary survivor was arthur blackbourne. the register of southwold for the year contains the record of this tragedy of domestic life, penned with mournful minuteness by the faithful hand of the bereaved parent of two of the victims, christopherus younges, the vicar of southwold: we copy it verbatim from the tear-stained page. "the names of those who were drowned and found again. they were drowned in the haven coming from _donwich fayer_, on st. james's day in a _bote_, by reason of one cable lying _overwharf_ the haven, for by reason the men that brought them down was so negligent, that when they were _redie_ to come ashore the _bote_ broke _lose_, and so the force of the tide carried the _bote_ against the cable and so overwhelmed. the number of them were xxii, but they were not all found. the widow robson, johne bates, mary yewell, susan frost, margaret blackbourne and the widow taylor, were all buried on the th day of july, being all cast away, coming from _donwick fayer_, on st. james's daye. "widow poster was buried the th day of julye. bennett allen was buried the th daie, goodie kerrison same daie. edward and elizabeth younges, daughter and son to me, c. younges, vicar and minister, was buried the st _dae of julie_. "all these were found again in this towne and buried."--_southwold register_ a. d. . anecdotes of napoleon. by the late lord holland.[ ] his early pursuits. napoleon was born at ajaccio in . it was affirmed by many that he was at least a year older, and concealed his real age from an unwillingness to acknowledge his birth in corsica, at a period when that island formed no part of the french dominions. the story is an idle one. a yet more idle one was circulated that he had been baptized by the name of nicholas, but from apprehension of ridicule converted it, when he rose to celebrity, into napoleon. the printed exercises of the military school of brienne, of the years , , , preserved in the bibliothèque at paris, represent him as proficient in history, algebra, geography, and dancing, under the name of buona-parte de l'isle de corse; sometimes d'ajaccio en corse. many traits of his aspiring and ambitious character, even in early youth, have been related, and pozzo di borgo quoted ( ) a conversation with him when years of age, in which, after inquiring and learning the state of italy, he exclaimed, "then i have not been deceived, and with two thousand soldiers a man might make himself king (principe) of that country." the ascendency he acquired over his family and companions, long before his great talents had emerged from obscurity, were formerly described to me by cardinal fesch and louis bonaparte, and have been confirmed since by the uniform testimony of such as knew him during his residence in corsica, or before his acquaintance with barras, the director. when at home he was extremely studious, ardent in some pursuit, either literary or scientific, which he communicated to no one. at his meals, which he devoured rapidly, he was silent, and apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. yet he was generally consulted on all questions affecting the interests of any branch of his family, and on all such occasions was attentive, friendly, decisive, and judicious. he wrote at a very early period of his life, a history of corsica, and sent the manuscript to the abbé raynal, with a flourishing letter, soliciting the honor of his acquaintance, and requesting his opinion of the work. the abbé acknowledged the letter, and praised the performance, but napoleon never printed it. persons who have dined with him at taverns and coffee-houses when it was convenient to him not to pay his reckoning, have assured me, that though the youngest and poorest, he always obtained, without exacting it, a sort of deference or even submission from the rest of the company. though never parsimonious, he was at that period of his life extremely attentive to the details of expense, the price of provisions, and of other necessary articles, and, in short, to every branch of domestic economy. the knowledge thus early acquired in such matters, was useful to him in a more exalted station. he cultivated and even made a parade of his information in subsequent periods of his career, and thus sometimes detected and frequently prevented embezzlement in the administration of public accounts. his attention to details. nothing could exceed the order and regularity with which his household both as consul and emperor was conducted. the great things he accomplished, and the savings he made, without even the imputation of avarice or meanness, with the sum comparatively inconsiderable of fifteen millions of francs a year, are marvelous, and expose his successors, and indeed all european princes to the reproach of negligence or incapacity. in this branch of his government, he owed much to duroc. it is said, that they often visited the markets of paris (les halles) dressed in plain clothes and early in the morning. when any great accounts were to be submitted to the emperor, duroc would apprise him in secret of some of the minutest details. by an adroit allusion to them or a careless remark on the points upon which he had received such recent and accurate information, napoleon contrived to impress his audience with a notion that the master's eye was every where. for instance, when the tuilleries were furnished, the upholsterer's charges, though not very exorbitant, were suspected by the emperor to be higher than the usual profit of that trade would have warranted. he suddenly asked some minister, who was with him, how much the egg at the end of the bell-rope should cost? "j'ignore," was the answer. "eh bien! nous verrons," said he, and then cut off the ivory handle, called for a valet, and bidding him dress himself in plain and ordinary clothes, and neither divulge his immediate commission or general employment to any living soul, directed him to inquire the price of such articles at several shops in paris, and to order a dozen as for himself. they were one-third less dear than those furnished to the palace. the emperor, inferring that the same advantage had been taken in the other articles, struck a third off the whole charge, and directed the tradesman to be informed that it was done at his express command, because on _inspection_, he had himself discovered the charges to be by one-third too exorbitant. when afterward, in the height of his glory, he visited caen, with the empress maria louisa, and a train of crowned heads and princes, his old friend, m. mechin, the prefect, aware of his taste for detail, waited upon him with five statistical tables of the expenditure, revenue, prices, produce, and commerce of the department. "c'est bon," said he, when he received them the evening of his arrival, "vous et moi nous ferons bien de l'esprit sur tout cela demain au conseil." accordingly, he astonished all the leading proprietors of the department at the meeting next day, by his minute knowledge of the prices of good and bad cider, and of the produce and other circumstances of the various districts of the department. even the royalist gentry were impressed with a respect for his person, which gratitude for the restitution of their lands had failed to inspire, and which, it must be acknowledged, the first, faint hope of vengeance against their enemies entirely obliterated in almost every member of that intolerant faction. other princes have shown an equal fondness for minute details with napoleon, but here is the difference. the use they made of their knowledge was to torment their inferiors and weary their company: the purpose to which napoleon applied it was to confine the expenses of the state to the objects and interests of the community. napoleon's powers of memory. his powers of application and memory seemed almost preternatural. there was scarcely a man in france, and none in employment, with whose private history, characters, and qualifications, he was not acquainted. he had, when emperor, notes and tables, which he called the moral statistics of his empire. he revised and corrected them by ministerial reports, private conversation, and correspondence. he received all letters himself, and what seems incredible, he read and recollected all that he received. he slept little, and was never idle one instant when awake. when he had an hour for diversion, he not unfrequently employed it in looking over a book of logarithms, which he acknowledged, with some surprise, was at all seasons of his life a recreation to him. so retentive was his memory of numbers, that sums over which he had once glanced his eye were in his mind ever after. he recollected the respective produce of all taxes through every year of his administration, and could, at any time, repeat any one of them, even to the centimes. thus his detection of errors in accounts appeared marvelous, and he often indulged in the pardonable artifice of displaying these faculties in a way to create a persuasion that his vigilance was almost supernatural. in running over an account of expenditure, he perceived the rations of a battalion charged on a certain day at besançon. "mais le bataillon n'était pas là," said he, "il y a erreur." the minister, recollecting that the emperor had been at the time out of france, and confiding in the regularity of his subordinate agents, persisted that the battalion must have been at besançon. napoleon insisted on further inquiry. it turned out to be a fraud and not a mistake. the peculating accountant was dismissed, and the scrutinizing spirit of the emperor circulated with the anecdote through every branch of the public service, in a way to deter every clerk from committing the slightest error, from fear of immediate detection. his knowledge, in other matters, was often as accurate and nearly as surprising. not only were the swiss deputies in astonished at his familiar acquaintance with the history, laws, and usages of their country, which seemed the result of a life of research, but even the envoys from the insignificant republic of san marino, were astonished at finding that he knew the families and feuds of that small community, and discoursed on the respective views, conditions, and interests of parties and individuals, as if he had been educated in the petty squabbles and local politics of that diminutive society. i remember a simple native of that place told me in that the phenomenon was accounted for by the saint of the town appearing to him over-night, in order to assist his deliberations. his knowledge of naval affairs. some anecdotes related to me by the distinguished officer who conveyed him in the undaunted to elba, in , prove the extent, variety, and accuracy of knowledge of napoleon. on his first arrival on the coast, in company with sir neil campbell, an austrian and a russian commissioner, captain usher waited upon him, and was invited to dinner. he conversed much on naval affairs, and explained the plan he had once conceived of forming a vast fleet of ships-of-the-line. he asked captain usher if he did not think it would have been practicable; and usher answered, that with the immense means he then commanded, he saw no impossibility in building and manning any number of ships, but his difficulty would have consisted in forming thorough seamen as distinguished from what we call smooth-water sailors. napoleon replied that he had provided for that also; he had organized exercises for them afloat, not only in harbor, but in smaller vessels near the coast, by which they might have been trained to go through, even in rough weather, the most arduous manoeuvres of seamanship, which he enumerated; and he mentioned among them the keeping a ship clear of her anchors in a heavy sea. the austrian, who suspected napoleon of talking in general upon subjects he imperfectly understood, acknowledging his own ignorance, asked him the meaning of the term, the nature of the difficulty, and the method of surmounting it. on this the emperor took up two forks, and explained the problem in seamanship, which is not an easy one, in so short, scientific, and practical a way, that captain usher assured me he knew none but professional men, and very few of them, who could off-hand have given so perspicuous, seamanlike, and satisfactory solution of the question. any board of officers would have inferred, from such an exposition, that the person making it had received a naval education, and was a practical seaman. yet how different were the objects on which the mind of napoleon must have been long, as well as recently, employed! on the same voyage, when the propriety of putting into a harbor of corsica was under discussion, and the want of a pilot urged as an objection, napoleon described the depth of water, shoals, currents, bearings, and anchorage, with a minuteness which seemed as if he had himself acted in that capacity; and which, on reference to the charts, was found scrupulously accurate. when his cavalry and baggage arrived at porto ferrajo, the commander of the transports said that he had been on the point of putting into a creek near genoa (which he named, but i have forgotten); upon hearing which napoleon exclaimed, "it is well you did not; it is the worst place in the mediterranean; you would not have got to sea again for a month or six weeks." he then proceeded to allege reasons for the difficulty, which were quite sufficient if the peculiarities of the little bay were really such as he described; but captain usher, having never heard of them during his service in the mediterranean, suspected that the emperor was mistaken, or had confounded some report he had heard from mariners in his youth. when, however, he mentioned the circumstance many years afterward to captain dundas, who had recently cruised in the gulf of genoa, that officer confirmed the report of napoleon in all its particulars, and expressed astonishment at its correctness. "for" (said he), "i thought it a discovery of my own, having ascertained all you have just told me about that creek, by observation and experience." his industry and curiosity. great as was his appetite for knowledge, his memory in retaining, and his quickness in applying it; his labor both in acquiring and using it was equal to them. in application to business he could wear out the men most inured to study. in the deliberations on the code civil, many of which lasted ten, twelve, or fifteen hours without intermission, he was always the last whose attention flagged; and he was so little disposed to spare himself trouble, that even in the moscow campaign he sent regularly to every branch of administration in paris directions in detail, which in every government but his would, both from usage and convenience, have been left to the discretion of the superintending minister, or to the common routine of business. this and other instances of his diligence are more wonderful than praiseworthy. he had established an office with twelve clerks, and mounier at their head, whose sole duty it was to extract, translate, abridge, and arrange under heads the contents of our english newspapers. he charged mounier to omit no abuse of him, however coarse or virulent; no charge, however injurious or malignant. as, however, he did not specify the empress, mounier, who reluctantly complied with his orders, ventured to suppress, or, at least, to soften any phrases about her; but napoleon questioned others on the contents of the english papers; detected mounier and his committee in their mutilations of the articles, and forbade them to withhold any intelligence or any censure they met with in the publications which they were appointed to examine. yet with all this industry, and with the multiplicity of topics which engaged his attention, he found time for private and various reading. his librarian was employed for some time every morning in replacing maps and books which his unwearied and insatiable curiosity had consulted before breakfast. he read all letters whatever addressed to himself, whether in his private or public capacity; and it must, i believe, be acknowledged, that he often took the same liberty with those directed to other people. he had indulged in that unjustifiable practice[ ] before his elevation, and such was his impatience to open both parcels and letters, that, however employed, he could seldom defer the gratification of his curiosity an instant after either came under his notice or his reach. josephine, and others, well acquainted with his habits, very pardonably took some advantage of this propensity. matters which she feared to mention to him were written and directed to her, and the letters unopened left in his way. he often complied with wishes which he thought he had detected by an artifice, more readily than had they been presented in the form of claim, petition, or request. he liked to know every thing; but he liked all he did to have the appearance of springing entirely from himself, feeling, like many others in power, an unwillingness to encourage even those they love in an opinion that they have an influence over them, or that there is any certain channel to their favor. his childish eagerness about cases led, in one instance, to a gracious act of playful munificence. he received notice of the arrival of a present from constantinople, in society with the empress and other ladies. he ordered the parcel[ ] to be brought up, and instantly tore it open with his own hand. it contained a large aigrette of diamonds which he broke into various pieces, and he then threw the largest into her imperial majesty's lap, and some into that of every lady in the circle. his literary taste and acquirements. among his projects were many connected with the arts and with literature. they were all, perhaps, subservient to political purposes, generally gigantic, abruptly prepared, and, in all likelihood, as suddenly conceived. many were topics of conversation and subjects for speculation, not serious, practical, or digested designs. though not insensible to the arts or to literature, he was suspected latterly of considering them rather as political engines or embellishments, than as sources of enjoyment. m. de talleyrand, and several artists concurred in saying, that "il avait le sentiment du grand, mais non pas celui du beau." he had written "bon sujet d'un tableau," opposite to some passage in letourneur's translation of ossian, and he had certainly a passion for that poem. his censure on david, for choosing the battle at the straits of thermopylæ as a subject for a picture, was that of a general rather than connoisseur: it smelt, if i may say so, of his shop; though, perhaps, the real motive for it was dislike to the republican artist, and distaste to an act of national resistance against a great military invader. "a bad subject," said he "after all, leonidas was turned." he had the littleness to expect to be prominent in every picture of national victories of his time, and was displeased at a painting of an action in egypt for madame murat, in which her wounded husband was the principal figure. power made him impatient of contradiction,[ ] even in trifles; and, latterly, he did not like his taste in music, for which he had no turn, to be disputed. his proficiency in literature has been variously stated. he had read much, but had written little. in the mechanical part he was certainly no adept; his handwriting was nearly illegible. some would fain persuade me that that fault was intentional, and merely an artifice to conceal his bad spelling; that he could form his letters well if he chose, but was unwilling to let his readers know too exactly the use he made of them. his orthography was certainly not correct; that of few frenchmen, not professed authors, was so thirty years ago: but his brothers lucien and louis, both literary men, and both correct in their orthography, write a similar hand, and nearly as bad a one as he did, probably for the same reason; viz., that they can not write a better one without great pains and loss of time. napoleon, when consul and emperor, seldom wrote, but he dictated much. it was difficult to follow him, and he often objected to any revision of what he had dictated. his religious sentiments. whatever were the religious sentiments of this extraordinary man, such companions were likely neither to fix nor to shake, to sway nor to alter them. i have been at some pains to ascertain the little that can be known of his thoughts on such subjects; and though it is not very satisfactory, it appears to me worth recording. in the early periods of the revolution, he, in common with many of his countrymen, conformed to the fashion of treating all such matters, both in conversation and action, with levity and even derision. in his subsequent career, like most men exposed to wonderful vicissitudes, he professed half in jest and half in earnest a sort of confidence in fatalism and predestination. but on some solemn public occasions, and yet more in private and sober discussion, he not only gravely disclaimed and reproved infidelity, but both by actions and words implied his conviction that a conversion to religious enthusiasm might befall himself or any other man. he had more than tolerance--he had indulgence and respect for extravagant and ascetic notions of religious duty. he grounded that feeling, not on their soundness or their truth, but on the uncertainty of what our minds may be reserved for, on the possibility of our being prevailed upon to admit and even to devote ourselves to tenets which at first excite our derision. it has been observed that there was a tincture of italian superstition in his character, a sort of conviction from reason that the doctrines of revelation were not true, and yet a persuasion, or at least an apprehension that he might live to think them so. he was satisfied that the seeds of belief were deeply sown in the human heart. it was on that principle that he permitted and justified, though he did not dare to authorize the revival of la trappe and other austere orders. he contended that they might operate as a safety-valve for the fanatical and visionary ferment which would otherwise burst forth and disturb society. in his remarks on the death of duroc and in the reasons he alleged against suicide, both in calm and speculative discussion and in moments of strong emotion (such as occurred at fontainbleau in ), he implied a belief both in fatality and providence. in the programme of his coronation, a part of the ceremony was to consist in his taking the communion. but when the plan was submitted to him, he, to the surprise of those who had drawn it, was absolutely indignant at the suggestion. "no man," he said, "had the means of knowing, or had the right to say, when or where he would take the sacrament, or whether he would or not." on this occasion, he added that he would not,[ ] nor did he! there is some mystery about his conduct in similar respects at st. helena, and during the last days of his life. he certainly had mass celebrated in his chapel while he was well, and in his bedroom when ill. but though i have reason to believe that the last sacraments were actually administered to him privately, a few days before his death, and probably after confession, yet count montholon, from whom i derive indirectly my information, also stated that he received napoleon's earliest and distinct directions to conceal all the preliminary preparations for that melancholy ceremony from all his other companions, and even to enjoin the priest, if questioned, to say he acted by count montholon's orders, but had no knowledge of the emperor's wishes. it seems as if he had some desire for such assurance as the church could give, but yet was ashamed to own it. he knew that some at st. helena, and more in france, would deem his recourse to such consolation, infirmity; perhaps he deemed it so himself. religion may sing her triumph, philosophy exclaim, "pauvre humanité," more impartial skepticism despair of discovering the motive, but truth and history must, i believe, acknowledge the fact. m. de talleyrand, who, on hearing of his death, spoke of his mental endowments, added the following remarks: "his career is the most extraordinary that has occurred for one thousand years. he committed three capital faults, and to them his fall, scarce less extraordinary than his elevation, is to be ascribed--spain, russia, and the pope. i say the pope; for his coronation, the acknowledgment by the spiritual head of christendom that he, a little lieutenant of corsica, was the chief sovereign of europe, from whatever motive it proceeded, was the most striking consummation of glory that could happen to an individual. after adopting that mode of displaying his greatness and crowning his achievements, he should never, for objects comparatively insignificant, have stooped to vex and persecute the same pontiff. he thereby outraged the feelings of the very persons whose enmity had been softened, and whose imagination had been dazzled by that brilliant event. such were his capital errors. those three apart, he committed few others in policy, wonderfully few, considering the multiplicity of interests he had to manage, and the extent, importance, and rapidity of the events in which he was engaged. he was certainly a great, an extraordinary man, nearly as extraordinary in his qualities as in his career; at least, so upon reflection i, who have seen him near and much, am disposed to consider him. he was clearly the most extraordinary man i ever saw, and i believe the most extraordinary man that has lived in our age, or for many ages." footnotes: [footnote : from a volume of foreign reminiscences, by henry richard lord holland, edited by his son, henry edward lord holland,--in the press of messrs. harper and brothers, and soon to be published.] [footnote : denon, mechin, and others.] [footnote : mechin.] [footnote : he was not so, however, either in deliberation or discussion, at least when the matter was invited by himself. he allowed his ministers to comment upon, and even to object to measures in contemplation (provided they acquiesced in them when adopted) in free and even strong terms, and he liked those he questioned on facts or opinions to answer without compliment or reserve.] [footnote : some attributed this repugnance to conform, to his fear of the army, others to a secret and conscientious aversion to what he deemed in his heart a profanation.] a crisis in the affairs of mr. john bull. as related by mrs. bull to the children mrs. bull and her rising family were seated round the fire, one november evening at dusk, when all was mud, mist, and darkness, out of doors, and a good deal of fog had even got into the family parlor. to say the truth, the parlor was on no occasion fog-proof, and had, at divers notable times, been so misty as to cause the whole bull family to grope about, in a most confused manner, and make the strangest mistakes. but, there was an excellent ventilator over the family fire-place (not one of dr. arnott's, though it was of the same class, being an excellent invention, called common sense), and hence, though the fog was apt to get into the parlor through a variety of chinks, it soon got out again, and left the bulls at liberty to see what o'clock it was, by the solid, steady-going, family time-piece: which went remarkably well in the long run, though it was apt, at times, to be a trifle too slow. mr. bull was dozing in his easy chair, with his pocket-handkerchief drawn over his head. mrs. bull, always industrious, was hard at work, knitting. the children were grouped in various attitudes around the blazing fire. master c. j. london (called after his god-father), who had been rather late at his exercise, sat with his chin resting, in something of a thoughtful and penitential manner, on his slate resting on his knees. young jonathan--a cousin of the little bulls, and a noisy, overgrown lad--was making a tremendous uproar across the yard, with a new plaything. occasionally, when his noise reached the ears of mr. bull, the good gentleman moved impatiently in his chair, and muttered "con--found that boy in the stripes, i wish he wouldn't make such a fool of himself!" "he'll quarrel with his new toy soon, i know," observed the discreet mrs. bull, "and then he'll begin to knock it about. but we mustn't expect to find old heads on young shoulders." "that can't be, ma," said master c. j. london, who was a sleek, shining-faced boy. "and why, then, did you expect to find an old head on young england's shoulders?" retorted mrs. bull, turning quickly on him. "i didn't expect to find an old head on young england's shoulders!" cried master c. j. london, putting his left-hand knuckles to his right eye. "you didn't expect it, you naughty boy?" said mrs. bull. "no!" whimpered master c. j. london, "i am sure i never did. oh, oh, oh!" "don't go on in that way, don't!" said mrs. bull, "but behave better in future. what did you mean by playing with young england at all?" "i didn't mean any harm!" cried master c. j. london, applying, in his increased distress, the knuckles of his right hand to his right eye, and the knuckles of his left hand to his left eye. "i dare say you didn't!" returned mrs. bull. "hadn't you had warning enough, about playing with candles and candlesticks? how often had you been told that your poor father's house, long before you were born, was in danger of being reduced to ashes by candles and candlesticks? and when young england and his companions began to put their shirts on, over their clothes, and to play all sorts of fantastic tricks in them, why didn't you come and tell your poor father and me, like a dutiful c. j. london?" "because the rubric--" master c. j. london was beginning, when mrs. bull took him up short. "don't talk to me about the rubric, or you'll make it worse!" said mrs. bull, shaking her head at him. "just exactly what the rubric meant then, it means now; and just exactly what it didn't mean then, it don't mean now. you are taught to act, according to the spirit, not the letter; and you know what its spirit must be, or _you_ wouldn't be. no, c. j. london!" said mrs. bull, emphatically. "if there were any candles or candlesticks in the spirit of your lesson-book, master wiseman would have been my boy, and not you!" here, master c. j. london fell a-crying more grievously than before, sobbing, "oh, ma! master wiseman with his red legs, your boy! oh, oh, oh!" "will you be quiet," returned mrs. bull, "and let your poor father rest? i am ashamed of you. _you_ to go and play with a parcel of sentimental girls, and dandy boys! is _that_ your bringing up?" "i didn't know they were fond of master wiseman," protested master c. j. london, still crying. "you didn't know, sir!" retorted mrs. bull "don't tell me! then you ought to have known. other people knew. you were told often enough, at the time, what it would come to. you didn't want a ghost, i suppose, to warn you that when they got to candlesticks, they'd get to candles; and that when they got to candles, they'd get to lighting 'em; and that when they began to put their shirts on outside, and to play at monks and friars, it was as natural that master wiseman should be encouraged to put on a pair of red-stockings, and a red hat, and to commit i don't know what other tom-fooleries and make a perfect guy fawkes of himself in more ways than one. is it because you are a bull, that you are not to be roused till they shake scarlet close to your very eyes?" said mrs. bull indignantly. master c. j. london still repeating "oh, oh, oh!" in a very plaintive manner, screwed his knuckles into his eyes until there appeared considerable danger of his screwing his eyes out of his head. but, little john (who though of a spare figure was a very spirited boy), started up from the little bench on which he sat; gave master c. j. london a hearty pat on the back (accompanied, however, with a slight poke in the ribs); and told him that if master wiseman, or young england, or any of those fellows, wanted any thing for himself, he (little john) was the boy to give it him. hereupon, mrs. bull, who was always proud of the child, and always had been, since his measure was first taken for an entirely new suit of clothes to wear in commons, could not refrain from catching him up on her knee and kissing him with great affection, while the whole family expressed their delight in various significant ways. "you are a noble boy, little john," said mrs. bull, with a mother's pride, "and that's the fact, after every thing is said and done!" "i don't know about that, ma;" quoth little john, whose blood was evidently up; "but if these chaps and their backers, the bulls of rome--" here mr. bull, who was only half asleep, kicked out in such an alarming manner, that for some seconds, his boots gyrated fitfully all over the family hearth, filling the whole circle with consternation. for, when mr bull _did_ kick, his kick was tremendous. and he always kicked, when the bulls of rome were mentioned. mrs. bull holding up her finger as an injunction to the children to keep quiet, sagely observed mr. bull from the opposite side of the fire-place, until he calmly dozed again, when she recalled the scattered family to their former positions, and spoke in a low tone. "you must be very careful," said the worthy lady, "how you mention that name; for, your poor father has so many unpleasant experiences of those bulls of rome--bless the man! he'll do somebody a mischief." mr. bull, lashing out again more violently than before, upset the fender, knocked down the fire-irons, kicked over the brass footman, and, whisking his silk handkerchief off his head, chased the pussy on the rug clean out of the room into the passage, and so out of the street-door into the night; the pussy having (as was well known to the children in general), originally strayed from the bulls of rome into mr. bull's assembled family. after the achievement of this crowning feat, mr. bull came back, and in a highly excited state performed a sort of war-dance in his top-boots, all over the parlor. finally, he sank into his arm-chair, and covered himself up again. master c. j. london, who was by no means sure that mr. bull in his heat would not come down upon him for the lateness of his exercise, took refuge behind his slate and behind little john, who was a perfect game-cock. but, mr. bull having concluded his war-dance without injury to any one, the boy crept out, with the rest of the family, to the knees of mrs. bull, who thus addressed them, taking little john into her lap before she began: "the b.'s of r.," said mrs. bull, getting, by this prudent device, over the obnoxious words, "caused your poor father a world of trouble, before any one of you were born. they pretended to be related to us, and to have some influence in our family; but it can't be allowed for a single moment--nothing will ever induce your poor father to hear of it; let them disguise or constrain themselves now and then, as they will, they are, by nature, an insolent, audacious, oppressive, intolerable race." here little john doubled his fists, and began squaring at the bulls of rome, as he saw those pretenders with his mind's eye. master c. j. london, after some considerable reflection, made a show of squaring, likewise. "in the days of your great, great, great, great, grandfather," said mrs. bull, dropping her voice still lower, as she glanced at mr. bull in his repose, "the bulls of rome were not so utterly hateful to our family as they are at present. we didn't know them so well, and our family were very ignorant and low in the world. but, we have gone on advancing in every generation since then; and now we are taught, by all our family history and experience, and by the most limited exercise of our rational faculties, that our knowledge, liberty, progress, social welfare and happiness are wholly irreconcilable and inconsistent with them. that the bulls of rome are not only the enemies of our family, but of the whole human race. that wherever they go, they perpetuate misery, oppression, darkness, and ignorance. that they are easily made the tools of the worst of men for the worst of purposes; and that they _can not_ be endured by your poor father, or by any man, woman, or child, of common sense, who has the least connection with us." little john, who had gradually left off squaring, looked hard at his aunt, miss eringobragh, mr. bull's sister, who was groveling on the ground, with her head in the ashes. this unfortunate lady had been, for a length of time, in a horrible condition of mind and body, and presented a most lamentable spectacle of disease, dirt, rags, superstition, and degradation. mrs. bull, observing the direction of the child's glance, smoothed little john's hair, and directed her next observations to him. "ah! you may well look at the poor thing, john!" said mrs. bull; "for the bulls of rome have had far too much to do with her present state. there have been many other causes at work to destroy the strength of her constitution, but the bulls of rome have been at the bottom of it; and, depend upon it, wherever you see a condition at all resembling hers, you will find, on inquiry, that the sufferer has allowed herself to be dealt with by the bulls of rome. the cases of squalor and ignorance, in all the world most like your aunt's, are to be found in their own household; on the steps of their doors; in the heart of their homes. in switzerland, you may cross a line no broader than a bridge or a hedge, and know, in an instant, where the bulls of rome have been received, by the condition of the family. wherever the bulls of rome have the most influence, the family is sure to be the most abject. put your trust in those bulls, john, and it's the inevitable order and sequence of things, that you must come to be something like your aunt, sooner or later." "i thought the bulls of rome had got into difficulties and run away, ma?" said little john, looking up into his mother's face inquiringly. "why, so they did get into difficulties, to be sure, john," returned mrs. bull, "and so they did run away, but, even the italians, who had got thoroughly used to them, found them out, and they were obliged to go and hide in a cupboard, where they still talked big through the key-hole, and presented one of the most contemptible and ridiculous exhibitions that ever were seen on earth. however, they were taken out of the cupboard by some friends of theirs--friends, indeed! who care as much about them as i do for the sea-serpent; but who happened, at the moment, to find it necessary to play at soldiers, to amuse their fretful children, who didn't know what they wanted, and, what was worse, would have it--and so the bulls got back to rome. and at rome they are any thing but safe to stay, as you'll find, my dear, one of these odd mornings." "then, if they are so unsafe, and so found out, ma," said master c. j. london, "how come they to interfere with us, now?" "oh, c. j. london!" returned mrs. bull, "what a sleepy child you must be to put such a question! don't you know that the more they are found out, and the weaker they are, the more important it must be to them to impose upon the ignorant people near them, by pretending to be closely connected with a person so much looked up to as your poor father?" "why, of course!" cried little john to his brother. "oh, you stupid!" "and i am ashamed to have to repeat, c. j. london," said mrs. bull, "that, but for your friend, young england, and the encouragement you gave to that mewling little pussy, when it strayed here--don't say you didn't, you naughty boy, for you did!" "you know you did!" said little john. master c. j. london began to cry again. "don't do that," said mrs. bull, sharply, "but be a better boy in future! i say, i am ashamed to have to repeat, that, but for that, the bulls of rome would never have had the audacity to call their connection, master wiseman, your poor father's child, and to appoint him, with his red hat and stockings, and his mummery and flummery, to a portion of your father's estates--though, for the matter of that, there is nothing to prevent their appointing him to the moon, except the difficulty of getting him there! and so, your poor father's affairs have been brought to this crisis: that he has to deal with an insult which is perfectly absurd, and yet which he must, for the sake of his family in all time to come, decisively and seriously deal with, in order to detach himself, once and forever, from those bulls of rome; and show how impotent they are. there's difficulty and vexation, you have helped to bring upon your father, you bad child!" "oh, oh, oh!" cried master c. j. london. "oh, i never went to do it. oh, oh, oh!" "hold your tongue!" said mrs. bull, "and do a good exercise! now that your father has turned that pussy out of doors, go on with your exercise, like a man; and let us have no more playing with any one connected with those bulls of rome; between whom and you there is a great gulf fixed, as you ought to have known in the beginning. take your fingers out of your eyes, sir, and do your exercise!" "or i'll come and pinch you!" said little john. "john," said mrs. bull, "you leave him alone. keep your eye upon him, and, if you find him relapsing, tell your father." "oh, won't i neither!" cried little john. "don't be vulgar," said mrs. bull. "now, john, i can trust _you_. whatever you do, i know you won't wake your father unnecessarily. you are a bold, brave child, and i highly approve of your erecting yourself against master wiseman and all that bad set. but, be wary, john; and, as you have, and deserve to have, great influence with your father, i am sure you will be careful how you wake him. if he was to make a wild rush, and begin to dance about, on the platform in the hall, i don't know where he'd stop." little john, getting on his legs, began buttoning his jacket with great firmness and vigor, preparatory to action. master c. j. london, with a dejected aspect and an occasional sob, went on with his exercise. waiting for the post.--interesting anecdotes. in the village in which we were at one time residing, there dwelt, in a small cottage commanded by our windows, a lieutenant in the navy on half-pay. we were a child at the time, and one of our amusements was to watch from our play-room the bees that worked in that cottage-garden, and the "old gentleman"--as we styled him, because his hair was gray--pace, with his quick, quarter-deck step the little path that divided the flower-beds. it was a neat though very small dwelling, almost shut from view by lilacs and evergreens; the garden was gay with sweet flowers, which might almost be called _domestic_ in this age of new buds and blossoms; and it was carefully tended by a young girl--his only daughter--and an old female servant. we noticed every morning that the lieutenant, who was a tall figure, and would have been a handsome and commanding-looking man but for his very great paleness and his stooping, walked briskly to the gate, and holding himself a little more erect than usual, glanced first at the vane, noticing with a sailor's instinct the quarter in which the wind sat; and then turning, gazed anxiously up the village in the direction of the postman's approach, till that functionary appeared in sight. then he would lay his hand nervously on the top of the little garden-gate, half open it, close it again, and finally, as the letter-carrier advanced, hail him with the inquiry, "any letter for me to-day, roger?" if the answer were a "no," and such was the ordinary reply, he would turn away with a sigh, and walk slowly back to the house, bending more than ever, and coughing painfully--he had a distressing cough at times; but his daughter would meet him at the door, and pass her arm through his, and lead him in, with a gentle affection in the action that was quite intelligible; and though we could not hear her words, we knew she was consoling him. _we_ also were sorry for his disappointment. sometimes a letter came, and he would take it eagerly, but look at it with a changed countenance, for most frequently it was only one of those large wafered epistles we have since learned to recognize as bills--even then we could be sure it was not the letter which he looked for. and thus he watched daily for something that never came, all through the bright summer and autumn, and even when the snow lay thick upon the ground, and the cold morning and evening breeze must have been injurious to one in feeble health. at last we missed him from his usual post, and the arrival of the village doctor at the cottage confirmed our fears that he was ill. we never saw him again. a fire glimmered from an upper room, the chamber in which he slept; and at times his daughter's figure passed the window as she moved across it, in her gentle and noiseless task of nursing the dying officer. one morning we did not see the usual blaze from the casement: but the old woman came out and shut the shutters close, and drew down the blinds, and we saw as she re-entered the house that she was weeping. that very morning the postman, roger, stopped at the little wicket, and rang the bell. he held in his hand a very large, long letter, with words printed outside. the woman-servant answered him, and took the letter, putting her apron to her eyes as he spoke. it was the long-hoped-for, long-expected letter from the admiralty appointing the old officer to a ship. alas, it came too late! he who had so long waited in restless anxiety--who had so sickened with disappointed hope--was gone to a world where the weary rest, and man's toil and worth are neither neglected nor forgotten. we heard afterward all his sad history, of which there are so many lamentable counterparts. he had gone to sea while yet a child, had toiled, suffered, and fought at the period when the very existence of his country depended on the valor of the navy; but then came the peace, and with many another brave man he had found himself on half-pay, alike unrewarded and forgotten. mr. st. quentin--our gentleman who waited for the post--was a widower with one only child, who was his idol. to educate and provide for her had been his great anxiety. how could this be done on his half-pay? it was impossible. true he read hard to become himself her teacher, but there was much he could not impart to her; and with heroic self-denial he placed her at an expensive school, and went himself almost without the common necessaries of life to keep her there. still the heavy burden thus laid on his slender means obliged him to contract debts, and it was agony to his just and upright spirit when he found it impossible to defray them. he had used great energy in his endeavors to get employed again, and just before we made his acquaintance, "waiting for the post," had received a promise that his services should be remembered. both promise and fulfillment came too late! the one awoke hopes which, daily deferred, had preyed on the very springs of life, and taxed too sorely a constitution much tried by toil and suffering in youth; the other came when the heart it would have cheered had eased to feel the joy or sorrow of mortality. his orphan daughter, a pretty gentle creature of seventeen, was left totally destitute--almost friendless. if they had relatives, all communion with them had long ceased; and the utterly desolate and isolated situation of mary st. quentin was nearly unparalleled. my family, who were of her father's profession, were much affected by it, and took a warm interest in her fortunes. they procured for her the small pension accorded to the orphans of naval or military men, with contributions from several similar funds; and finally received her into our house, until she could hear of a situation as governess, for which her dearly-purchased education admirably fitted her. i remember well the evening she first came among us. how sad and pale she looked in her solemn black dress, and how low and mournful her voice sounded! poor girl! a rough world was before her; a fiercer and more terrible conflict for her timid nature than contending with the storms and battles in which her father had borne a part. we pitied her greatly, and strove to soothe and cheer her with all our little skill; though we certainly did not adopt the most likely means to achieve our object, when some days afterward we told her how we had watched her poor father as he waited for the post. then for the first time since her coming among us we saw her weep; and she murmured, "if he could have seen the letter!" after a time the exertions of her friends procured her a situation, and she left us. how anxiously _we_ then watched for the letter that was to tell us that our dear new friend was safe, and well, and comfortable; and it did not tarry! mary wrote gratefully, and even cheerfully. she had been kindly received; the home in which her lot was cast was a splendid chateau, in which all the comforts and luxuries of life abounded. moreover, the family treated her as a gentlewoman, and her pupils were clever and well-trained. she was very thankful for the career of toil and seclusion to which circumstances condemned her--very willing to do her duty gladly in that state of life in which it had pleased god to place her. she remained with this family four or five years, passing her occasional holidays with us; and we learned to love her as a sister, and to look up to her for advice, which was ever as wise as it was gentle and affectionate. she was a very sweet creature--so quietly gay, so unselfish, so contented, and so modestly intelligent, that i can not remember that i have ever met with so perfect a woman. the last holiday she spent with us we saw a change in her, however; and it must have been a _great_ mental change to be perceptible in one so self-possessed and patient. she had grown less attentive to our often exacting wishes; she had become absent and thoughtful--nay, at times a slight irritation was observable in her manner; but that which struck us most was the habit she really appeared to have inherited from her father--of watching for the postman. we remarked how eagerly she listened for his knock--how tremulously she asked for whom the letters were directed--and the painfully-repressed sigh and darkened countenance with which she turned away when there was none for her! as she had finally quitted the family with whom she had so long resided, and was waiting for a new engagement, we thought at first that it was an epistle from some of the quarters in which she had applied for one she was expecting; but that could not be the case, for when she had made a re-engagement, and it was fixed that she was to proceed to the south of france with her future pupils' family, her watching for the post became more evident and more anxious: nay, to us who observed it, absolutely painful. what letter could she expect so nervously? why was she daily so sadly disappointed? the solution came at last. it was the very morning fixed for her departure for london, where she was to meet her future charge. her boxes, corded and directed, were in the hall; she stood at the window, dressed for her journey, weeping bitterly--for she loved us all, and still timidly shrank from strangers--and we were holding each a cold, trembling hand, when the servant entered with the letters--"one for miss st. quentin." she glanced at it, suppressed a faint exclamation, and taking it, her hand trembled so violently that she could scarcely break the seal. but when it _was_ open, and her eye had glanced over the contents, what a sudden change took place in her countenance! she blushed deeply, her lip trembled, and then smiled, and breaking from among us, she sought our mother, and asked to speak to her alone. that letter had changed her destiny. it was a proposal of marriage from a man of good position and fortune, who had won her affections by a thousand acts of attention and tenderness, but had left her uncertain whether he intended to fulfill an only implied promise or not. true he had said something of writing to her, and therefore she had waited for the post with such anxiety, and for so long a time in vain: but there had been good and sufficient reasons for his prolonged silence, and the lady was only too ready to forgive it. she went to town, accompanied by my father, arranged to remain in england (finding a substitute as governess for her disappointed employers), and two months afterward was married in our little village church to one who has made her as happy as it is possible to be in a world of trial and sorrow. a very singular and painful _waiting for the post_ occurred at malta, some years since: it was related to us by a person concerned in the affair, and we offer the reader the tale as it was told to us: it was st. john's day, a festival highly venerated by the maltese, who claim the beloved disciple as their patron saint. the english troops quartered in the island were to be reviewed on it, and as is usual, in compliment to the faith of the islanders, the artillery was ordered to fire a salute in honor of the day. it was a yearly custom; but the two officers whose duty it was at this time to see it fulfilled thought it savored of idolatry, and in the presence of the general and his staff refused to order their men to fire. they were of course put under an arrest for disobedience; but, the circumstances of the case considered, the general in command hesitated how to proceed with them, and at his request the governor of the island wrote to the commander-in-chief at home for instructions in the matter, as it was a case of "tender conscience." some delay of course necessarily occurred in getting a reply, and the anxiety with which the puzzled general and rebellious officers awaited it may be imagined. day after day did the eyes of the former traverse the bright blue sea, across which must come the decision of england, and day after day he waited for the post in vain. foul winds, bad weather, all sorts of causes, stayed the course of the packet--there was no steam conveyance in those days--and before she actually entered valetta harbor he to whom the letter had been written, the noble governor, was dead. it was judged expedient that the general should, however, open the commander-in-chief's answer, to prevent further unpleasant delay. alas, it had been intended for the eye of lord h----only! the commander-in-chief blamed the general, "who ought," he said, "to have tried and broke the officers on the spot--_nothing_ in a military man could excuse disobedience to orders;" adding with reference to the general (of course without intending that any one but lord h---- should learn his private sentiments), "_but i never had much opinion of that officer!_" poor general p---- loved and reverenced his military chief, as all soldiers must. those words so singularly presented to his eyes, wounded him deeply. he was at the time suffering from low fever; they completed its work, making an impression on his mind no arguments could remove. he obeyed the orders given; held a court-martial; tried the offenders; dismissed them from the service; and then, taking to his bed, sank rapidly, and died before the next post from england could reach the island. he never waited for another! and now i approach another reminiscence of this common human anxiety, of which i can not think without deep emotion. we had a young cousin, a fine lad full of spirit and ardor, a midshipman in the royal navy, who was our especial pride and delight. we had no brother, but he supplied the want to us, being, as a child, our constant playmate--as a youth, our merriest and best-loved correspondent. how full of fun, quaint humor, and droll adventures were his letters, and how we used to long for them, especially for that which proclaimed his arrival in the english seas! the period for receiving such an announcement had arrived, for his ship had entered plymouth harbor; and i can never forget how eagerly i used to wait for the postman, how restlessly i watched him at an opposite door, and how i hated the servant for delaying him by a tardy attention to his knock! no letter came, however; day after day, hour after hour passed, and disappointment became uneasiness, and alarm so terrible, that even the sad certainty was at last a relief. he never wrote again. he had perished in tampier bay, and his death had been one of many instances of unrecorded but undoubted heroism. the weather was stormy, but it was necessary to send a boat on shore, and charles had good-naturedly offered to take the duty of being its officer in the stead of a young and delicate messmate who had been ordered on the service. it upset in the surf: two men and our poor cousin clung to its keel for some minutes; at length it became apparent that one must let go his hold, or all would perish. both the seamen were married men, and uttered their natural regret at leaving their children fatherless. the gallant youth (as they afterward reported when picked up) observed, "then my life is less precious than yours. my poor mother, god bless you!" and, quitting his hold, perished in the ocean, which by a strange fatality has been the grave of nearly all his family. waiting for the post upon the mountains of western india is recalled by this anecdote to my recollection. i well remember the last time i stood on the heights of bella vista, as our ghaut was called, watching the fleet approach of the _tapaul_, or postman. it was near sunset--a glorious hour in all lands, but especially so in the east. a gorgeous canopy of colored light was above us; beneath the "everlasting hills;" their tops--for we looked down on the first ranges of ghauts--tipped with gold and crimson, and regal purple, or with blended colors, as if they had caught and detained a portion of the rainbow itself. here and there, bits of jungle were perceptible, from one of which issued the running courier, whose speed was no bad commentary or explanation of job's comparison--"my days are swift as a post." he was a tall, light figure, gayly dressed, and holding a lance with a little glittering flag at the top. he brought letters from the presidency; and some native correspondence was also transmitted through his means. these running posts are occasionally picked off by a tiger in their passage through the jungle; but the journey to our (then) abode was so frequently made, that the wild animals seldom appeared in the route, ceding it tacitly to the lords of creation, and permitting us to receive our letters safely. what joy it was to open one from england! it is really worth a journey to the east to feel this pleasure. the native letters destined for the official personages of the family are singular-looking affairs. they have for envelope a bag of king-cob cloth--a costly fabric of blended silk and gold thread; this is tied carefully with a gold cord, to which is appended a huge seal, as large and thick as a five-shilling piece. once during our residence in india the homeward post was delayed by the loss of the steamer which bore our dispatches to england; they must have been vainly expected for two months, doubtless to the great alarm and anxiety of the public. some of the mail boxes were, however, recovered from the sunken wreck by means of divers; and our epistles, after visiting the depths of the red sea, were safely conveyed to england. once before, we were told, a similar catastrophe had occurred, but the boxes became so saturated with sea-water, that the addresses of the letters were illegible. it was judged expedient, therefore, to publish as much of their contents as was decipherable, in the indian papers--under the idea that those to whom they were addressed would recognize their own missives from the context; and a most absurdly-mischievous experiment it proved. never was such a breach of confidence. all sorts of disagreeable secrets were made out by the gentle public of the presidency. intimate friends learned how they laughed at, or hated one another; matrimonial schemes were betrayed; the scandal, gossip, and confidential disclosures of the indian letter-bag making as strange and unpleasant a confusion as if the peninsula had suddenly been converted into madame de genlis's "palace of truth." there was no little alarm when our steamer was lost, lest a similar disclosure should be made; but the world had grown wiser; and those epistles which were illegibly addressed were, we believe, destroyed, unless when relating to commercial interests, and other business. we hope we have not wearied our gentle reader with this subject, for we have yet another little incident for his ear relative to it, which was told us as a fact by a french lady who knew the person concerned. some friends of hers residing in the provinces had an only daughter, an heiress, and consequently a desirable match. her hand was eagerly sought by many suitors, and was at last yielded by her parents to a gentleman of some property who had recently purchased a chateau in the neighborhood. his apparent wealth, his high connections, and very elegant manners, had won their favor; and in great delight at the excellent match her daughter was about to make, madame l---- wrote to her friends and relatives to inform them of the approaching happy event. among these was a lady residing at marseilles, to whom she described, with all a frenchwoman's vivacity, the person, manners, &c., of the bridegroom elect. answers of congratulation and good wishes poured in of course; and madame l----, who had a secret persuasion that she was an unknown and unhonored madame de sevigné, became so pleased with her increased correspondence, that she made a point of never leaving the house till after the delivery of the post. the marseilles correspondent was the only one of the number with whom she had communicated who had not replied to her letter. this answer was therefore desired with great eagerness; and madame l---- remembered afterward, though at the time it awoke no suspicion in her mind, that the lover always appeared uneasy when she expressed her anxiety on the subject, or her desire to hear from her friend. the wedding-day arrived; and the bride groom, manifesting a most flattering impatience for the performance of the ceremony, came early to the house of his affianced, to accompany the family party to the magistrates, where the contract was to be drawn up. but even on that momentous day madame l---- adhered to her custom of waiting for the post, to the evident rage and even agonized impatience of her destined son-in-law, who urged her with passionate eagerness to proceed at once to the magistrates. the delay proved most serviceable. the post came in due time, and brought a letter from marseilles. the writer, struck by some slight personal peculiarities which her friend had described, had fancied it possible that the _promesso sposo_ was no other than _an escaped galley-slave_, with whom, before his condemnation for a heinous crime, her family had been intimate. she had therefore, in some alarm, caused her husband to make inquiries into the matter, and a sufficient mass of evidence had been collected to justify her suspicion, and cause her to urge inquiry and delay on the part of m. and madame l----. she suggested, moreover, that the truth might be easily discovered by a personal examination of the gentleman, who, if the same individual, had been branded on the right shoulder. the surprise, horror, and alarm of madame l---- may be imagined. the contents of the letter were of course instantly communicated by her to her husband, and by him privately to the bridegroom, whom he requested to satisfy his wife's fears by showing him his right shoulder. the request was indignantly refused as an insult to his honor; and convinced of the fact by the agitation and dismay of the culprit, as well as by this refusal, the gentleman gave him at once into the hands of the police, who had no difficulty in finding the fatal mark of infamy. he was, indeed, an escaped convict, and the wealth with which he had dazzled the good provincials was the spoil of a recent robbery, undertaken by himself and some parisian accomplices, and so cleverly managed as to have set at naught hitherto the best efforts of the police for its discovery. we may be sure madame l---- congratulated herself highly on having, as if by a providential instinct, "waited for the post." cheerful views of human nature. by the king of the hearth. "do thee go on, phil," said a miner, one of sixteen who sat about a tap-room fire, "do thee go on, phil spruce; and, mrs. pittis, fetch us in some beer." "and pipes," added a boy. mr. spruce contemplated his young friend with a grim smile. "well," said he, "it's a story profitable to be heard, and so--" "ay, so it be," said a lame man, who made himself a little more than quits with nature, by working with his sound leg on the floor incessantly. "so it be," said timothy drum, "phil's a philosopher." "it always strucked me," said a dirty little man, "that phil has had a sort of nater in him ever since that night we lost old tony barker." "what happened then?" inquired the squire's new gamekeeper. "did ever you see down the shaft of a pit?" asked phil. "no; and i'd rather not." "a deep, deep well. whatever they may do in other parts, we sing hymns, when we are pulled up, and if so be any of our butties at such times says a wicked word, he gets cursed finely when we be safe up at the top. we gon up and down different ways. in some old pits they have ladders, one under another, which reminds me--" "always the way with phil." mr. spruce gazed sternly in the direction of the whisperer, and drank some beer. "which reminds me that once--" we must here announce the fact concerning mr. philip spruce, that his method of telling a story ("which reminds me," always meant a story with him) is very discursive. he may be said to resemble jeremy bentham, who, according to hazlitt's criticism, fills his sentence with a row of pegs, and hangs a garment upon each of them. let us omit some portion of his tediousness, and allow him to go on with his tale. "it was in the year one thousand, eight, four, four; by token it was the same month, november, in which the block fell upon tim drum's leg, i was invited to a christmas dinner by old jabez wilson. you are aware, gentlemen, that hereabouts there are a great number of deserted pits. the entrances to these are mostly covered with a board or two. there aren't many stiles in our pit-country, so we are drove to using these for firewood. the old pit mouths being left uncovered, and sometimes hidden in brushwood, it is a very common thing for sheep to tumble in, and if gentlemen go shooting thereabouts, they may chance to return home without a dog--your good health, timothy. as i was saying, i love to ponder upon causes and compare effects. i pondered as i walked--" "and the effect was, that you tumbled into a pit, phil spruce." "the truth has been told, gentlemen, but it has been told too soon. and now i've forgotten where i was. ay, pondering," here phil hung up a long shred of philosophy on one of his pegs; and after the first ten minutes of his harangue, which was chiefly occupied in abusing human nature, a fierce-looking individual said, "go on, sir; you've brought things to that pass where they won't bear aggravation. the company expects you to fall down the pit directly." "in the middle of my reflections--my natural christmas thoughts," continued phil, "i felt a severe bump on the back and a singular freedom about my legs, followed by a crash against the hinder part of my head--" "to the bottom at once," said the fierce-looking man. "i was at the bottom of a pit in two seconds. by what means my life was preserved i can not tell; certain it is that i sustained at that time no serious injury. of course i was much stunned, and lay for a long time, i suppose, insensible. when i opened my eyes there was nothing to be seen more than a faint glimmer from the daylight far above, and a great many dancing stars which seemed like a swarm of gnats, ready to settle on my body. i now pondered how i should obtain rescue from my dangerous position, when an odd circumstance arrested my attention. i was evidently, unless my ears deceived me, not alone in my misfortune; for i heard, as distinctly as i now hear mr. drum's leg upon the fender, i heard a loud voice. it proceeded from a distant gallery. 'who did you say?' inquired the voice in a hoarse tone; a softer voice replied, 'phil spruce, i think.' 'very well,' answered the big sound; 'i'll come to him directly.' "here was a state of things. a gentleman resided here and was aware of my intrusion. moreover, i was known. was the acquaintance mutual? well, gentlemen, that question was soon to be decided, for presently i heard a rustling and a crackling noise, like the approaching of a lady in a very stiff silk dress. but that gruff voice! i trembled. as the sound approached, a light gleamed over the dark, dirty walls, and glittered in the puddle upon which i was reposing. 'he or she has brought a candle, that is wise.' so i looked round. mother of miracles! he, she, or it. what do you think approached? a mass of cinder, glowing hot, shaped into head, body, arms, and legs; black coal on the crown of its head, red glow on the cheeks, and all the rest white hot, with here and there a little eruption of black bubbles, spirting out lighted gas. it was the shape of a huge man, who walked up with a most friendly expression in his face, evidently intending to give me a warm reception. "and so he did, as i will tell you presently. it needed not the aid of his natural qualities to throw me into a great and sudden heat; his supernatural appearance was enough for that. then i was seized with a great fear lest, in his friendliness, he should expect me to shake hands. that was as if i should have thrust my fingers into this tap-room grate. well, ma'am (your good health, mrs. pittis), the strange thing came up to me quite pleasant, with a beaming face, and said, in something of a voice like a hoarse blast pipe, 'glad to see you, mr. spruce. how did you come here?' 'o,' said i, 'sir,' not liking to be behind-hand in civility, 'i only just dropped in.' 'cold, up above, mr. spruce? will you walk in and take a little something warm?' a little something warm! what's that? thought i. 'o yes,' i said, 'with all my heart, sir.' 'come along, then; you seem stiff in the bones, mr. spruce, allow me to help you up.' 'o lord!' i cried, forgetting my manners. 'no, thank you, sir. spruce is my name, and spruce my nature. i can get up quite nimble.' and so i did, with a leap; although it made my joints ache, i can tell you. the thing bowed and seemed to be quite glowing double with delight to see me. take a little something warm, i thought again. o, but i won't though! however, i must not seem eager to get away just yet; the beast seems to think i came down on purpose to see him. 'after you, sir!' said i, bowing and pulling my forelock. 'if you will be so good as to lead, i'll follow.' 'this way, then, philip.' "so we went, along a gallery, and came to a vault which was lighted by the bodies of a great number of imps, all made of brisk live coal, like my conductor. 'i dare say you find the room close,' said the king--for i found afterward he was a real king, though he was so familiar. 'what will you take to drink?' i calculated there was nothing weaker than vitriol in his cellar, so i begged to be excused. 'it is not my habit, sir, to drink early mornings; and indeed i must not let my wife wait dinner. we will have a little gossip, if you please, and then you will let one of your servants light me out, perhaps. i merely dropped in, as you are aware, my dear sir.' 'quite aware of that, my dear phil. and very glad i am to get your company. of course you are anxious to be up above in good time; and if you can stop here an hour, i shall be happy to accompany you.' indeed, thought i to myself, polly will stare. 'most happy,' i replied. 'i fear you will take harm from that nasty puddle at my door,' observed the king. 'wouldn't you wish to lie down and rest a bit, before we start out together.' i thought that a safe way of getting through the time. 'you are very good,' said i. 'get a bed ready, coffin and purse!' two bright little imps darted away, and the thing turning round to me with a sulphurous yawn, said, 'i don't mind, phil, if i lie down with you.' surely he's roasting me, i thought. "true as sorrow, mr. timothy, coffin and purse came back in no time to say the bed was ready; and i followed the king with as good courage as a smithfield martyr. but i did not, i did _not_ expect what followed. we went into a small vault, of which half the floor was covered by a blazing fire: all the coals had been raked level, and that was coffin and purse's bed-making. 'well, i'll get in at once,' said the king; 'you see we've a nice light mattress.' 'light, sir! why it's in vivid blazes. you don't suppose i can lie down on that.' 'why not, phil? you see i do. here i am, snug and comfortable.' 'yes, my dear sir, but you forget the difference there is between us?' 'and yes again, mr. spruce; but please to remember this is christmas day, a day on which all differences should be ended.' "'and now,' said the monster, sitting up suddenly upon a corner of the bed, 'and now, phil, i will urge you to nothing. you are a reasoning man, and count for a philosopher. let's argue a bit, mr. spruce.' 'i'm favorable to free discussion.' i replied; 'but i decide on principles of common sense.' 'let common sense decide,' replied the king, crossing his knees and looking conversational. 'the point at issue is, whether with your views it would be better for you to remain a man or to become a cinder. what were your thoughts this morning, philip spruce?' 'this morning i was thinking about human nature, sir.' 'and how did you decide upon it, philip?' 'humbly asking pardon, sir, and meaning no offense, may i inquire whether in present company it is permitted to speak disrespectfully of the devil?' "i wouldn't have said that, phil, to a man of his appearance." "lord bless you, tim drum, he looked so mild disposed, and 'no offense,' he says; 'speak out without reserve.' 'then, sir,' said i, 'this is what i think of human nature. i believe that it was full of every sort of goodness, and that men were naturally well disposed to one another, till the devil got that great idea of his. men are born to worship their creator, and to supply the wants of their neighbors, but then comes in the deceiving fiery monster, with a pocketful of money, and says, quite disinterested, 'gentlemen and ladies, it's of no use asking you to venerate me; you don't do it, and you oughtn't to; but the most convenient and proper thing is for every individual to worship only just his self. you see the result of this,' says the old sinner; 'by paying sacrifice to your own images, you just change things from the right-hand pocket to the left, or if you go abroad, as you must do, in search of offerings, all the fish comes to your own net, and all the fat into your own belly. you smoke your own incense, and if you chance to be remiss in your devotions, you may make peace and atonement any way you please. then,' says the great brimstone beast--i beg your pardon, sir, excuse my liberty of speech--'if any body remark you are my servants, you can laugh, and tell them you are no such fools. as for any formulary of religion, follow in that the fashion of your country--' "the cinder gentleman, mrs. pittis, my dear, rolled about in the fire, quite at his ease, and said, 'very good, phil. and what else have you to say of human nature?' by which you will see that he had discrimination enough to perceive the value of my observations. 'the result is, sir,' i says to him then, 'that the whole human race is a-dancing and a-trumpeting in corners, every man singing hymns in honor of his self. and the old enemy capers up and down the country and the town, rejoicing at the outcry which he hears from every lip in his honor. a friend is rarer than a phoenix; for no man can serve two images, and each sticks firmly by his own.' "'have you no charity yourself this christmas, mr. spruce?' inquired the king, after he had called to his two imps that they should put fresh coals upon the bed, and rake it up. 'when i was a young man, sir,' said i, 'no one could have started in the world with a stronger faith in human goodness. but i've seen my error. all the ways of human nature are humbug, sir; as for my fellow-creatures, i've been very much deceived in 'em. that's all i know in answer to your question.' "'i understand you, phil,' the king said, lounging back upon the bed, and kindling the new coals into a blaze around him by the mere contact of his body. 'you are a philosopher out at elbows, and therefore a little out of temper with the world. you would like best to make your observations upon human nature without being jostled. you'd rather see the play from a snug little box, than be an actor in it, kicked about and worried.' 'ah, sir,' said i, 'and where is such a seat provided?' 'philip, i can answer that question,' said the king; 'and what is more, i can give you free admission to a snug private box.' 'how so, sir?' said i, quite eagerly. 'the coal-box, phil,' replied the king. 'i'm puzzled, sir,' said i. 'in what way is my condition to be improved by the act of sitting in a coal-box?' 'that, my dear phil, i will make as clear to you as a fire on a frosty night. know, then, that i am king among the coals.' i bowed, and was upon the point of kissing his extended hand, but drew back my nose suddenly. 'the cinder which i now have on i wear--because it is large and easy--in the manner of a dressing-gown, when here at home. i am, however, a spirit, and ruler over many other spirits similarly formed. now, phil, the business and amusement of myself and subjects is to transfer ourselves at will into the tenancy of any coal we please. the scuttles of the whole kingdom are our meeting-houses. every coal cast upon the fire, phil, is, by our means, animated with a living spirit. it is our amusement, then, to have a merry sport among ourselves; and it is our privilege to watch the scenes enacted round the hearths which we enliven. when the cinder becomes cold, the spirit is again set free, and flies, whither it pleases, to a new abode.'" "isn't that the doctrine of metamicosis?" asked the boy (a national scholar) tapping the ashes from his pipe-bowl. "it's a thing i never heard on," said the gamekeeper. mr. spruce went on: "'did you never,' continued his majesty, 'when gazing into the fire, see a grotesque face glow before you? that face, phil, has been mine. you have, then, seen the king among the coals. if you become a cinder, mr. spruce, you may consider yourself made a judge.' "'well, sir,' says i, 'your reverence, it's firstly requisite to judge whether i will or won't sit down upon the fire. it's my opinion i won't. i'd like a little more discussion.' 'talk away, phil,' said the king. 'well, sir,' says i, 'since you're always a-looking--leastways in winter--through the bars of grates, it's possible you've seen a bit yourself of human nature. don't it fidget you?' 'why,' says he, 'phil,' a-stretching out his arms for a great yawn so suddenly as very nigh to set my coat on fire with his red fingers, 'i have been tolerably patient, haven't i?' 'if it's sarcasm you mean,' says i, a little nettled, 'i must say, it's a figure of speech i don't approve of.' "'i beg your pardon, sir,' he says, 'and here's an answer to your question. it's my opinion, mr. spruce, that as a cinder you will be agreeably surprised. i do see people sitting around me, now and then, whom i can't altogether get my coals to blaze for cheerfully. they sit and talk disparagement about all manner of folks their neighbors; they have a cupboard in their hearts for hoarding up the grievances they spend their lives in searching for; they hate the world, and could make scandal out of millstones, but if one hints that they are erring, they are up in arms, and don't approve of sarcasm.' 'sir,' says i, 'you are personal.' 'by no means, mr. spruce; you, and a number like you, are good people in the main, and deeply to be pitied for your foolish blunder. you're a philosopher, phil,' he says, 'and did you never hear that your "i" is the only thing certainly existent, and that the world without may be a shadow or mere part of you, or, if external, of no certain form or tint, having the color of the medium through which you view it--your own nature.' here i saw occasion for a joke. 'sir,' i says, 'if my own "i" is the only thing certainly existing, then the external world is all my eye, which proves what i propounded.' his flames went dead all of a sudden, and he looked black from top to toe. 'i am sure i beg your pardon, sir,' says i, 'excuse my liberty.' "'he took no verbal notice of what i had said, but gave a tremendous shiver, and his flames began to play again. 'i'm of a warm and cheerful turn of mind,' says he, 'and i must say, that whenever i look out upon the men and women in the world, i see them warm and cheerful.' 'that's nothing wonderful,' said i; 'it's just because you see them sitting round your blaze.' 'well,' says he, 'mr. spruce, i'm very glad you own so much; for my opinion is, that if you had shone out cheerfully when you were in the world, and warmed the folks that came within your influence--if you had put a little kindly glow into your countenance, you would have been surrounded always as i generally am.' 'you're young, says i, 'and you have had no experience; leastways, your experience has not been human. you get stirred when you're low, and people tend you for their own sakes--you ain't preyed upon by disappointments.' "'young!' said he; 'disappointments!' and, to my horror, he stood bolt upright, to be impressive. 'look you, mr. spruce, the youngest is the wisest; the child remembers throughout years a happy day, and can forget his tears as fast as they evaporate. he grows up, and his budding youth imagines love. two or three fancies commonly precede his love. as each of these decays, he, in his inexperience, is eloquent about his blighted hopes, his dead first love, and so on. in the first blossom of his manhood, winds are keen to him--at his first plunge into the stream of active life, he finds the water cold. who shall condemn his shiver? but if he is to be a healthy man, he will strike out right soon, and glow with cheerful exercise in buffeting the stream. youth, mr. spruce, may be allowed to call the water of the world too cold, but so long only as its plunge is recent. it is a libel on maturity and age to say that we live longer to love less. preyed upon by disappointments--' "'yes,' says i, 'preyed upon.' "'say, rather, blessed with trial. who'd care to swim in a cork jacket! trouble is a privilege, believe me, friend, to those who know from whose hand, for what purpose, it is sent. i do not mean the trouble people cut out for themselves by curdling all the milk of kindness in their neighbors. but when a man will be a man, will labor with truth, charity, and self-reliance--always frank and open in his dealings--always giving credit to his neighbors for their good deeds, and humbly abstaining from a judgment of what looks like evil in their conduct--when he knows, under god, no helper but his own brave heart, and his own untiring hand--there is no disappointment in repulse. he learns the lesson heaven teaches him, his faith, and hope, and charity, by constant active effort became strong--gloriously strong--just as the blacksmith's right arm becomes mighty by the constant wielding of his hammer. disappointment--let the coward pluck up courage--disappointment is a sheet-and-pumpkin phantom to the bold. let him who has battled side by side with trouble, say whether it was not an angel sent to be his help. find a true-hearted man whose energies have brought him safe through years of difficulty; ask him whether he found the crowd to be base-natured through which he was called upon to force his way? believe me, he will tell you "no." having said this, his majesty broke out into a blaze, and lay down in his bed again. 'well,' he said, 'philip, will you come to bed with me?' "'why, sir,' said i, 'to say the best of it, you're under a misconception; but if it's in the nature of a coal to take such cheerful views of things as you appear to do, i'd rather be a coal than what i am. it's cold work living in the flesh, such as i find it--you seem jolly as a hot cinder, and for the matter of that, what am i now but dust and ashes? coke is preferable.' "'coffin and purse, you're wanted,' cried the king. and, indeed, mrs. pittis, and, indeed, gentlemen, i must turn aside one minute to remark the singularity of this king's body-guard, coffin and purse. 'cash and mortality,' said the king to me, 'make up, according to your theory, the aim and end of man. so with a couple of cinders you can twit him with his degradation. sometimes coffin, sometimes purse, leaps out into his lap when he is cogitating.' 'yes,' said i 'that will be extremely humorous. but, so please your majesty, i still have one objection to joining your honorable body.' 'what is that, phil?' 'i suppose, if i sits down in them there flames, they'll burn me.' 'to be sure,' said the king, kicking up his heels, and scraping a furnace load of live coal over his body, just as you might pull up the blanket when you're in bed to-night, mrs. pittis. 'well, your highness,' said i, 'how about the pain?' 'pah!' says the king, 'where's your philosophy? did you never see a fly jump into a lamp-flame?' 'yes, sure,' i answered. 'and what happened then? a moment's crackle, and an end of it. you've no time to feel pain.' 'well, then,' said i, 'if your majesty will make a hole for me as near the middle as is convenient to yourself, i will jump into the bed straightway.' the king made a great spatter among the coals, and in i jumped. you know, ma'am, that a great part of our bodies is composed of water.' "'i don't know that of any gentleman in this room,' replied the landlady. 'but i do believe that you are two parts built out of strong beer.' "there was a burst--a flash, gentlemen; the liquid part of me went off in instantaneous steam. i cried out with a sharp burn in my foot. the pot was boiling over furiously that contained our bit of dinner; and as i sat close in to the fire, i got considerably scalded. how i got back in the steam to my own fireside, i never rightly comprehended. fill the can now, mrs. pittis." "'yes,' said the landlady, 'but let me tell you, mr. spruce, that king of the hearth is a gentleman, and if you really had gone with the coals and got acquainted with fire-sides, it would have done you a great deal of good. you'd have owned then that there is a mighty deal more love than hatred in the world. you'd have heard round almost any hearth you chose to play eavesdropper to, household words, any thing but hard or bitter. some people do not pay their scores with me, but, on the whole, i live. some of our human natures may run termagant; but, on the whole, we men and women love. among the worst are those who won't bear quietly their share of work, who can't learn self-reliance, but run to and fro, squealing for help, and talking sentiment against their neighbors, who won't carry their burdens for them. it's all very well for a musty, discontented old bachelor to say there's no love in the world, but it's a falsehood. i know better.' "'my pipe's out,' said the boy. 'be smart there with the 'baccy.'" [from dickens's household words.] the mysteries of a tea-kettle. at one of mr. bagges's small scientific tea-parties, mr. harry wilkinson delivered to the worthy gentleman a lecture, based principally on reminiscences of the royal institution, and of a series of lectures delivered there by professor faraday, addressed to children and young people. for it is not the least of the merits of that famous chemist and great man, professor faraday, that he delights to make the mightiest subject clear to the simplest capacity, and that he shows his mastery of nature in nothing more than in being thoroughly imbued with the spirit of her goodness and simplicity. this particular lecture was on natural philosophy in its bearings on a kettle. the entertainment of a "night with mr. bagges" was usually extemporaneous. it was so on this occasion. the footman brought in the tea-kettle. "does it boil?" demanded mr. bagges. "it have biled, sir," answered the domestic. "have biled, sir!" repeated mr. bagges. "_have_ biled! and what if it has 'biled,' or _boiled_, as i desire you will say in future? what is that to the purpose? water may be frozen, you simpleton, notwithstanding it _has_ boiled. was it boiling, sir, eh? when you took it off the fire? that is the question, sir." "yes, sir, that was what i mean to say, sir," replied thomas. "mean to say, sir! then why didn't you say it, sir? eh? there--no, don't put it on, sir; hold it still. harry, reach me the thermometer," said mr. bagges, putting on his spectacles. "let me see. the boiling point of water is two hundred and--what?" "two hundred and twelve, fahrenheit," answered master wilkinson, "if commonly pure, and boiled in a metallic vessel, and under a pressure of the atmosphere amounting to fifteen pounds on every square inch of surface, or when the barometer stands at thirty inches." "gracious, what a memory that boy has!" exclaimed his uncle. "well; now this water in the kettle--eh?--why, this is not above one hundred and fifty degrees. there, sir, now set it on the fire, and don't bring me up cold water to make tea with again; or else," added mr. bagges, making a vague attempt at a joke, "or else--eh?--you will get yourself into hot water." mr. thomas was seized with a convulsion in the chest, which he checked by suddenly applying his open hand to his mouth, the effort distending his cheeks, and causing his eyes to protrude in a very ridiculous manner, while mr. bagges disguised his enjoyment of the effects of his wit in a cough. "now let me see," said the old gentleman, musingly contemplating the vessel simmering on the fire; "how is it, eh, harry, you said the other day that a kettle boils?" "la!" interrupted mrs. wilkinson, who was of the party, "why, of course, by the heat of the coals, and by blowing the fire, if it is not hot enough." "aha!" cried her brother, "that's not the way _we_ account for things, harry, my boy, eh? now, convince your mother; explain the boiling of a kettle to her: come." "a kettle boils," said harry, "by means of the action of currents." "what are you talking about? boiling a plum-pudding in a tea-kettle!" exclaimed the mystified mamma. "currents of heated particles--of particles of hot water," harry explained. "suppose you put your fire on your kettle--on the lid of it--instead of your kettle on your fire--- what then?" "you would be a goose," said his mother. "exactly so--or a gosling"--rejoined her son; "the kettle would not boil. water is a bad conductor of heat. heat passes through the substance of water with very great difficulty. therefore, it would have a hard matter to get from the top of a kettle of water to the bottom. then how does it so easily get from the bottom to the top?" "ah!" sighed mr. bagges. "in my young days we should have said, because the heat rises, but that won't do now. what is all that about the--eh--what--law of ex--what?--pansion --eh?" "the law of expansion of fluids and gases by heat. this makes the currents that i spoke of just now, mamma; and i should have spelt the word to explain to you that i didn't mean plums. you know what a draught is?" "i am sorry to say i do," mr. bagges declared with much seriousness, instinctively carrying his hand to the region of the human body from the latin for which is derived the term, lumbago. "well," pursued harry, "a draught is a current of air. such currents are now passing up the chimney, and simply owing to that trifling circumstance, we are able to sit here now without being stifled and poisoned." "goodness!" ejaculated mrs. wilkinson. "to be sure. the fire, in burning, turns into gases, which are rank poison--carbonic acid, for one; sulphurous acid, for another. hold your nose over a shovelful of hot cinders if you doubt the fact. the gases produced by the fire expand; they increase in bulk without getting heavier, so much so that they become lighter in proportion than the air, and then they rise, and this rising of hot air is what is meant by heat going upward. the currents of hot air that go up the chimney in this way have currents of cold air rushing after them, to supply their place. when you heat water, currents are formed just as when you heat gas or air. the heated portion of water rises, and some colder water comes down in its place; and these movements of the water keep going on till the whole bulk of it is equally hot throughout." "well, now," interrupted mr. bagges, "i dare say this is all very true, but how do you prove it?" "prove that water is heated by the rising and falling of hot currents? get a long, slender glass jar. put a little water, colored with indigo, or any thing you like, into the bottom of it. pour clear water upon the colored, gently, so as not to mix the two, and yet nearly to fill the jar. float a little spirit of wine on the top of the water, and set fire to it. let it blaze away as long as you like; the colored water will remain steady at the bottom of the jar. but hold the flame of a spirit-lamp under the jar, and the colored water will rise and mix with the clear, in very little time longer than it would take you to say harry wilkinson." "ah! so the water gets colored throughout for the same reason that it gets heated throughout," mr. bagges observed, "and when it gets thoroughly hot--what then?" "then it boils. and what is boiling?" "bubbling," suggested the young philosopher's mamma. "yes; but ginger-beer bubbles," said harry, "but you wouldn't exactly call that boiling. boiling is the escaping of steam. that causes the bubbling; so the bubbling of water over the fire is only the sign that the water boils. but what occasions the escape of the steam?" "the heat, of course--the--what is the right word?--the caloric," answered mr. bagges. "true; but what heat? why, the excess of heat over two hundred and twelve degrees--taking that as the average boiling point of water. you can heat water up to that point, and it remains water; but every degree of heat you cause to pass into it above that, turns a quantity of the water into steam; and flies off in the steam, unless the steam is hindered from escaping by extraordinary pressure. blow the fire under that kettle as much as you will, and you will make the water boil faster, but you won't make it a bit hotter than two hundred and twelve degrees." "well, to be sure!" mrs. wilkinson exclaimed. "if water," continued harry, "could keep on getting hotter and hotter above the boiling point, why, we might have our potatoes charred in the pot, or our mutton boiled to a cinder. when water is confined in a strong vessel--and strong it must be to prevent a tremendous blow-up--confined, i say, so that no steam can escape, it may be heated almost red-hot; and there is a vessel made for heating water under pressure, called papin's digestor, which will digest almost any thing." "what an enviable apparatus!" exclaimed mr. bagges. "well," resumed harry; "so the boiling point of water depends on the degree of force which the air, or what-not, is pressing on its surface with. the higher the spot on which you boil your water, the lower the point it boils at. therefore, water boiling at the top of a mountain is not so hot as water boiling at the mountain's base. the boiling point of water on the summit of mont blanc, is as low as one hundred and eighty-four degrees. so, if water must be at two hundred and twelve degrees, to make good tea, don't choose too high a hill to build a temperance hall on. the heavier, also, the air is, from the quantity of moisture in it, the hotter water becomes before it boils. if the atmosphere were carbonic acid gas, water would get much hotter without boiling than it can under--" "present arrangements," interposed mr. badges. "consisting of a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen," continued harry. "water requires only a very low heat to make it boil in an exhausted receiver, out of which the air has been pumped, so as to leave none to press upon its surface. owing to boiling depending upon pressure, you can actually make water boil by means of cold." "what next?" sighed mrs. wilkinson. "you can, indeed. put a little boiling water in a salad-oil flask; so that the flask may be a quarter full, say. cork the flask tightly. the boiling stops; and the upper three-fourths of the flask are full of vapor. squirt a jet of ice-cold water upon the flask, above where the water is, and the water below will instantly begin to boil. the reason why, is this. the vapor in the flask presses on the surface of the hot water. the cold condenses the vapor--turns it back to water. that takes off the pressure for the time; and then the hot water directly flies into vapor, and boils, and so on, till it cools down too low to boil any longer. what reduces the boiling point of water on a hill or a mountain is, that the pressure of the atmosphere decreases as you ascend. a rise of five hundred and thirty feet in height above the level of the sea, makes a difference of one degree; so, give me a kettle of water and a thermometer, and i'll tell you exactly how near the moon we are." "i shouldn't think one could make good hot mixed punch up in a balloon, now," observed mr. bagges, reflectively. "then," harry proceeded, "it requires more heat to make water boil in a glass vessel than it does in a metal one. a metal vessel's inner surface is made up of very small points and dents. scratching the inside of the glass so as to give it a roughness something like what the metal has, makes the boiling point lower; and a few iron filings thrown into water boiling in glass at two hundred and fourteen degrees, will bring it down to two hundred and twelve. the filings, and the roughness of the glass, are so many more points for the heat to pass into the water from, and form steam, and the water does not cling to them so hard as it clings to a smooth surface. throw a lot of hay into a pan of hot water, and it makes a quantity of steam rise directly; and i have heard a doctor say that some poor people are in the habit of giving themselves cheap steam-baths by this means." "a very good thing for rheumatic pains, i should think; certainly a much more rational remedy than patent medicines or government poison," mr. bagges remarked. "there are some salts," continued harry, "which, if dissolved in water, will prevent it from boiling till it is heated to two hundred and sixty-four degrees, as if they held the water back from flying into steam. so, then, the boiling of water may be hindered, more or less, by pressure from without, and attraction from within. the boiling point of water depends on another important fact which the kettle always mentions before it boils, although we don't all of us understand the kettle's language. the singing of the kettle tells us--" "that the water is going to boil," interrupted mamma. "yes, and that water contains air. the singing of the kettle is the noise made by the escape of the air, which is driven off by the heat. the air sticks and hangs in the water, till the heat expands it and makes it rise. put a glass of water under the receiver of an air-pump, and exhaust the receiver. as you pump, the water begins to bubble, as if it were boiling; but the bubbles are the air contained in the water, being pumped out. the air-bubbles act like wedges between the little invisible drops that make up the whole water. if it were not for them, the water would be a mass which would hold together so hard that it would not go into steam, or boil, till it was heated to two hundred and seventy degrees, as may be proved by boiling some water quite deprived of air. and not only that, but when it did boil, it would boil all at once, and blow up with a tremendous explosion; which would be a still greater inconvenience in boiling a kettle." "a pretty kettle of fish, indeed!" mr. bagges observed. "so," said harry, "strictly pure water would not be quite so great a blessing to us as you might think. of course, you know, uncle, i don't mean to say that there is any advantage in the impurity of such water as the thames, except when used for the purpose of fertilizing the earth. i am speaking of water so pure as to contain no air. water of such severe purity would be very unmanageable stuff. no fishes could live in it, for one thing. i have already given you one good reason why it would be unsuitable to our kettle; and another is, that it would not be good to drink. then water, as we find it in the world, has a very useful and accommodating disposition to find its own level. pump all the air out of water, however, and it loses this obliging character in a great measure. suppose i take a bent glass-tube, and fill one arm of it with airless water. then i turn the tube mouth upward, and if the water were common water, it would instantly run from one arm into the other, and stand at the same level in both. but if the water has been exhausted of its air, it remains, most of it, in the one arm, and won't run till i give the table a smart rap, and shake it. so, but for the air contained in water, we could not make the water run up and down hill as we do. if water were deprived of air, london would be almost deprived of water." "and water," observed mr. bagges, "would be robbed of a very valuable property." "good again, uncle. now, if we could see through the kettle, we should be able to observe the water boiling in it which is a curious sight when looked into. to examine water boiling, we must boil the water in a glass vessel--a long tube is the best--heated with a spirit lamp. then first you see the water in motion, and the air-bubbles being driven off by the heat. as the water gets hotter, other bubbles appear, rising from the bottom of the tube. they go up for a little way, and then they shrink, and by the time they get to the top of the water, you can hardly distinguish them. these are bubbles of steam, and they get smaller as they rise, because at first the water is colder above than below, in proportion to the distance from the flame, and the cold gradually condenses the bubbles. but when the water gets thoroughly hot, the bubbles grow larger and rise quicker, and go of the same size right up to the top of the water, and there escape--if you choose to let them. and steam was allowed to escape so for many, many ages, wasn't it, uncle, before it was set to work to spin cotton for the world, and take us to america within a fortnight, and whirl us over the ground as the crow flies, and almost at a crow's pace?" "for all which," remarked mr. bagges, "we have principally to thank what's his name." "watt _was_ his name, i believe, uncle. well; heat turns water into steam, and i dare say i need not tell you that a quantity of water becoming steam, fills an immense deal more space than it did as mere water. cold turns the steam back into water, and the water fills the same space as it did before. water, in swelling into steam and shrinking back into water again, moves, of course, twice, and mighty motions these are, and mighty uses are made of them, i should rather think." "i believe you, my boy," said mr. bagges. "and now," asked harry, "have you any idea of what a deal of heat there is in steam?" "it is hot enough to scald you," answered his mamma; "i know that." "yes; and hot enough, too, to cook potatoes. but there is much more heat in it than that comes to. take a kettle of cold water. see at what degree the thermometer stands in the water. put the kettle on the fire, and observe how long it takes to boil. it will boil at two hundred and twelve degrees; and therefore, during the time it has taken to boil, there has gone into it the difference of heat between two hundred and twelve degrees and the degree it stood at when first put on the fire. keep up the same strength of fire, so that the heat may continue to go into the water at the same rate. let the water boil quite away, and note how long it is in doing so. you can then calculate how much heat has gone into the water while the water has been boiling away. you will find that quantity of heat great enough to have made the water red-hot, if all the water, and all the heat, had remained in the kettle. but the water in your kettle will have continued at two hundred and twelve degrees to the last drop, and all the steam that it has turned into will not have been hotter--according to the thermometer--than two hundred and twelve degrees; whereas a red heat is one thousand degrees. the difference between two hundred and twelve degrees and one thousand degrees, is seven hundred and eighty-eight degrees; and what has become of all this heat? why, it is entirely contained in the steam, though it does not make the steam hotter. it lies hid in the steam, and therefore it is called latent heat. when the steam is condensed, all that latent heat comes out of it, and can be felt, and the quantity of it can be measured by a thermometer. the warmth that issues from steam-pipes used to warm a house, is the latent heat of the steam that escapes as the steam turns back to water." "latent, heat! latent heat!" repeated mr bagges, scratching his head. "eh? now, that latent heat always puzzles me. latent, lying hid. but how can you hide heat? when the zany in the pantomime hides the red-hot poker in his pocket, he cauterizes his person. how--eh?--how can heat be latent?" "why, the word heat has two meanings, uncle. in the first place, it means hotness. hotness can not be latent, as the clown finds when he pockets the poker. in the second place, heat means a something the nature of which we don't know, which is the cause of hotness, and also the cause of another effect. while it is causing that other effect, it does not cause hotness. that other effect which heat causes in the instance of steam, is keeping water in the form of steam. the heat that there is in steam, over and above two hundred and twelve degrees, is employed in this way. it is wholly occupied in preserving the water in an expanded state, and can't cause the mercury in the thermometer to expand and rise as well. for the same reason, it could give you no feeling of hotness above what boiling water would--if you had the nerve to test it. while it is making steam continue to be steam, it is latent. when the steam becomes water again, it has no longer that work to do, and is set free. free heat is what is commonly understood by heat. this is the heat which cooks our victuals, the heat we feel, the heat that singes mr. merriman. latent heat is heat that doesn't warm, singe, or cook, because it is otherwise engaged. if you press gas suddenly into a fluid, the latent heat of the gas is set free. you seem to squeeze it out. indeed, the same thing happens, if you violently force any substance into a closer form all at once. every thing appears to have more or less latent heat in it, between its little particles, keeping them at certain distances from each other. compress the particles within a smaller compass, and a part of the latent heat escapes, as if it were no longer wanted. when a substance in a compressed state expands on a sudden, it draws in heat, on the other hand. when a lady bathes her forehead with eau-de-cologne to cure a headache, the heat of the head enters the eau-de-cologne, and becomes latent in it while it evaporates. if you make steam under high pressure, you can heat it much above two hundred and twelve degrees. suppose you let off steam, so compressed and heated, by a wide hole, from the boiler, and put your hand into it as it rushes out--" "what? why, you'd scald your hand off!" cried mr. bagges. "no, you wouldn't. the steam rushes out tremendously hot, but it expands instantly so very much, that the heat in it directly becomes latent in a great measure; which cools it down sufficiently to allow you to hold your hand in it without its hurting you. but then you would have to mind where you held your hand; because where the steam began to condense again, it would be boiling hot." "i had rather take your word for the experiment than try it, young gentleman," mr. bagges observed. "another very curious thing," proceeded harry, "in regard to boiling, has been discovered lately. a kettle might be too hot to boil water in. take a little bar of silver, heated very highly; dip it into water. at first, you have no boiling, and you don't have any at all till the silver has cooled some degrees. put a drop of water into a platinum dish, heated in the same way, and it will run about without boiling till the heat diminishes; and then it bursts into steam. m. boutigny, the french chemist, made this discovery. vapor forms between the drop of water and the red-hot metal, and, being a bad conductor of heat, keeps the heat of the metal for some time from flowing into the water. owing to this, water, and mercury even, may be frozen in a red-hot vessel if the experiment is managed cleverly. a little more than a couple of centuries ago, this would have been thought witchcraft." "and the philosopher," added mr. bagges, "would have been fried instead of his water-drop. let me see--eh? what do they call this singular state of water?" "the spheroidal state," answered harry. "however, that is a state that water does not get into in a kettle, because kettles are not allowed to become red hot, except when they are put carelessly on the fire with no water in them, or suffered to remain there after the water has boiled quite away!" "which is ruination to kettles," mrs. wilkinson observed. "of course it is, mamma, because at a red heat iron begins to unite with oxygen, or to rust. another thing that injures kettles is the fur that collects in them. all water in common use contains more or less of earthy and other salts. in boiling, these things separate from the water, and gradually form a fur or crust inside the kettle or boiler." "and a nice job it is to get rid of it," said his mamma. "well, chemistry has lessened that difficulty," replied harry. "the fur is mostly carbonate of lime. in that case, all you have to do is to boil some sal-ammoniac--otherwise muriate, or more properly hydrochlorate of ammonia--in the furred vessel. the hydrochloric acid unites with the lime, and the carbonic acid goes to the ammonia. both the compounds formed in this way dissolve and wash away; and so you may clean the foulest boiler or kettle. this is a rather important discovery; for the effect of fur in a kettle is to oppose the passage of heat, and therefore to occasion the more fuel to be required to boil water in it, which is a serious waste and expense when you have a large steam-boiler to deal with. dr. faraday mentions the case of a government steamer that went to trieste, and during the voyage had so much fur formed in her boiler as to oblige all her coal to be consumed, and then the engineers were forced to burn spars, rigging, bulkheads, and even chopped cables, and to use up every shaving of spare timber in the ship. soot underneath the kettle, as well as fur inside it, is a hindrance to boiling, as it is a bad conductor; and that is the reason why one can bear to hold a kettle of hot water, which is very sooty on its under surface, on the flat of the hand. so a black kettle doesn't give out its heat readily to what touches it, and so far it is good to keep water hot; but it gets rid of heat in another way; as i dare say you know, uncle." "eh?" said mr. bagges, "why, what?--no--i did know something about it the other day--but i've such a memory!--and--eh?--no--i've quite forgotten it." "by radiation, you know. all warm bodies are constantly giving off rays of heat, as shining ones are giving off rays of light, although the heat-rays are invisible." "how do we know that?" asked mr. bagges. "get a couple of concave mirrors--a sort of copper basins, polished inside. stand them face to face, some yards apart. put a hot iron ball--not red hot--in the focus of one mirror. put a bit of phosphorus in the focus of the other. the phosphorus will take fire; though without the mirrors you might place it much nearer the hot iron, and yet it would not burn. so we know that there are rays of heat, because we can reflect them as we can rays of light. some things radiate better than others. those that have bright metal surfaces radiate worst, though such are what are used for reflectors. if their surfaces are blackened or roughened, they radiate better. a bright kettle gives off fewer rays of heat than a black one, and so far, is better to keep water hot in. but then, on the other hand, it yields more heat to the air, or the hob or hearth that it stands upon--if colder than itself. the bright kettle gives off heat in one way and the black in another. i don't know at what comparative rate exactly." "six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other," mr. bagges suggested. "now look at the wonderful relations of the kettle, uncle!" "relations?--eh?--what the pot and the saucepan?" said mr. bagges. "oh, oh, uncle! no; its relations to the pressure of the atmosphere and every cause that affects it--to the conveyance, and conduction, and radiation of heat--to latent heat or caloric, to the properties of water, to chemical decomposition--and to steam and its astonishing marvels, present and to come!" "well," said mr. bagges, "it is wonderful; and the kettle certainly is very respectably connected. eh? and i hope to profit by the subject of our conversation; and so, i say, pour me out a cup of tea." my novel; or, varieties in english life. _(continued from page_ .) book ii.--chapter vii. in spite of all his machiavellian wisdom, dr. riccabocca had been foiled in his attempt to seduce leonard fairfield into his service, even though he succeeded in partially winning over the widow to his views. for to her he represented the worldly advantages of the thing. lenny would learn to be fit for more than a day-laborer: he would learn gardening in all its branches--rise some day to be a head-gardener. "and," said riccabocca, "i will take care of his book-learning, and teach him whatever he has a head for." "he has a head for every thing," said the widow. "then," said the wise man, "every thing shall go into it." the widow was certainly dazzled; for, as we have seen, she highly prized scholarly distinction, and she knew that the parson looked upon riccabocca as a wondrous learned man. but still, riccabocca was said to be a papist, and suspected to be a conjurer. her scruples on both these points, the italian, who was an adept in the art of talking over the fair sex, would no doubt have dissipated, if there had been any use in it; but lenny put a dead stop to all negotiations. he had taken a mortal dislike to riccabocca; he was very much frightened by him--and the spectacles, the pipe, the cloak, the long hair, and the red umbrella; and said so sturdily, in reply to every overture, "please, sir, i'd rather not; i'd rather stay along with mother," that riccabocca was forced to suspend all further experiments in his machiavellian diplomacy. he was not at all cast down, however, by his first failure; on the contrary, he was one of those men whom opposition stimulates. and what before had been but a suggestion of prudence, became an object of desire. plenty of other lads might no doubt be had on as reasonable terms as lenny fairfield; but the moment lenny presumed to baffle the italian's designs upon him, the special acquisition of lenny became of paramount importance in the eyes of signor riccabocca. jackeymo, however, lost all his interest in the traps, snares, and gins, which his master proposed to lay for leonard fairfield, in the more immediate surprise that awaited him on learning that dr. riccabocca had accepted an invitation to pass a few days at the hall. "there will be no one there but the family," said riccabocca. "poor giacomo, a little chat in the servants' hall will do you good: and the squire's beef is more nourishing, after all, than the sticklebacks and minnows. it will lengthen your life." "the padrone jests," said jackeymo statelily, "as if any one could starve in his service." "um," said riccabocca. "at least, faithful friend, you have tried that experiment as far as human nature will permit;" and he extended his hand to his fellow-exile with that familiarity which exists between servant and master in the usages of the continent. jackeymo bent low, and a tear fell upon the hand he kissed. "_cospetto_." said dr. riccabocca, "a thousand mock pearls do not make up the cost of a single true one. the tears of women, we know their worth; but the tear of an honest man--fie, giacomo! at least i can never repay you this! go and see to our wardrobe." so far as his master's wardrobe was concerned, that order was pleasing to jackeymo; for the doctor had in his drawers suits which jackeymo pronounced to be as good as new, though many a long year had passed since they left the tailor's hands. but when jackeymo came to examine the state of his own clothing department, his face grew considerably longer. it was not that he was without other clothes than those on his back--quantity was there, but, the quality! mournfully he gazed on two suits, complete in the three separate members of which man's raiments are composed: the one suit extended at length upon his bed, like a veteran stretched by pious hands after death; the other brought piecemeal to the invidious light--the _torso_ placed upon a chair, the limbs dangling down from jackeymo's melancholy arm. no bodies long exposed at the morgue could evince less sign of resuscitation than those respectable defuncts! for, indeed, jackeymo had been less thrifty of his apparel--more _profusus sui_--than his master. in the earliest days of their exile, he preserved the decorous habit of dressing for dinner--it was a respect due to the padrone--and that habit had lasted till the two habits on which it necessarily depended had evinced the first symptoms of decay; then the evening clothes had been taken into morning wear, in which hard service they had breathed their last. the doctor, notwithstanding his general philosophical abstraction from such household details, had more than once said, rather in pity to jackeymo, than with an eye to that respectability which the costume of the servant reflects on the dignity of the master--"giacomo, thou wantest clothes, fit thyself out of mine!" and jackeymo had bowed his gratitude, as if the donation had been accepted; but the fact was that that same fitting-out was easier said than done. for though, thanks to an existence mainly upon sticklebacks and minnows--both jackeymo and riccabocca had arrived at that state which the longevity of misers proves to be most healthful to the human frame, viz., skin and bone--yet, the bones contained in the skin of riccabocca all took longitudinal directions; while those in the skin of jackeymo spread out latitudinally. and you might as well have made the bark of a lombardy poplar serve for the trunk of some dwarfed and pollarded oak--in whose hollow the babes of the wood could have slept at their ease--as have fitted out jackeymo from the garb of riccabocca. moreover, if the skill of the tailor could have accomplished that undertaking, the faithful jackeymo would never have had the heart to avail himself of the generosity of his master. he had a sort of religious sentiment too, about those vestments of the padrone. the ancients, we know, when escaping from shipwreck, suspended in the votive temple the garments in which they had struggled through the wave. jackeymo looked on those relics of the past with a kindred superstition. "this coat the padrone wore on such an occasion. i remember the very evening the padrone last put on those pantaloons!" and coat and pantaloons were tenderly dusted, and carefully restored to their sacred rest. but now, after all, what was to be done? jackeymo was much too proud to exhibit his person, to the eyes of the squire's butler, in habiliments discreditable to himself and the padrone. in the midst of his perplexity, the bell rang, and he went down into the parlor. riccabocca was standing on the hearth under his symbolical representation of the "patriæ exul." "giacomo," quoth he, "i have been thinking that thou hast never done what i told thee, and fitted thyself out from my superfluities. but we are going now into the great world: visiting once begun, heaven knows where it may stop! go to the nearest town and get thyself clothes. things are dear in england. will this suffice?" and riccabocca extended a £ note. jackeymo, we have seen, was more familiar with his master than we formal english permit our domestics to be with us. but in his familiarity he was usually respectful. this time, however, respect deserted him. "the padrone is mad!" he exclaimed; "he would fling away his whole fortune if i would let him. five pounds english, or a hundred and twenty-six pounds milanese![ ] santa maria! unnatural father! and what is to become of the poor signorina? is this the way you are to marry her in the foreign land?" "giacomo," said riccabocca, bowing his head to the storm; "the signorina to-morrow; to-day, the honor of the house. thy small clothes, giacomo. miserable man, thy small-clothes!" "it is just," said jackeymo, recovering himself, and with humility; "and the padrone does right to blame me, but not in so cruel a way. it is just--the padrone lodges and boards me, and gives me handsome wages, and he has a right to expect that i should not go in this figure." "for the board and the lodgment, good," said riccabocca. "for the handsome wages, they are the visions of thy fancy!" "they are no such thing," said jackeymo, "they are only in arrear. as if the padrone could not pay them some day or other--as if i was demeaning myself by serving a master who did not intend to pay his servants! and can't i wait? have i not my savings too? but be cheered, be cheered; you shall be contented with me. i have two beautiful suits still. i was arranging them when you rang for me. you shall see, you shall see." and jackeymo hurried from the room, hurried back into his own chamber, unlocked a little trunk which he kept at his bed head, tossed out a variety of small articles, and from the deepest depth extracted a leathern purse. he emptied the contents on the bed. they were chiefly italian coins, some five-franc pieces, a silver medallion inclosing a little image of his patron saint--san giacomo--one solid english guinea, and two or three pounds' worth in english silver. jackeymo put back the foreign coins, saying prudently, "one will lose on them here;" he seized the english coins and counted them out. "but are you enough, you rascals?" quoth he angrily, giving them a good shake. his eye caught sight of the medallion--he paused; and after eying the tiny representation of the saint with great deliberation, he added, in a sentence which he must have picked up from the proverbial aphorisms of his master--"what's the difference between the enemy who does not hurt me, and the friend who does not serve me? _monsignore san giacomo_, my patron saint, you are of very little use to me in the leathern bag. but if you help me to get into a new pair of small-clothes on this important occasion, you will be a friend indeed. _alla bisogna, monsignore_." then gravely kissing the medallion, he thrust it into one pocket, the coins into the other, made up a bundle of the two defunct suits, and, muttering to himself, "beast, miser that i am to disgrace the padrone, with all these savings in his service!" ran down stairs into his pantry, caught up his hat and stick, and in a few moments more was seen trudging off to the neighboring town of l----. apparently the poor italian succeeded, for he came back that evening in time to prepare the thin gruel which made his master's supper, with a suit of black--a little threadbare, but still highly respectable--two shirt fronts, and two white cravats. but, out of all this finery, jackeymo held the small-clothes in especial veneration; for as they had cost exactly what the medallion had sold for, so it seemed to him that san giacomo had heard his prayer in that quarter to which he had more exclusively directed the saint's attention. the other habiliments came to him in the merely human process of sale and barter; the small-clothes were the personal gratuity of san giacomo! chapter viii. life has been subjected to many ingenious comparisons; and if we do not understand it any better, it is not for want of what is called reasoning by illustration. among other resemblances, there are moments when, to a quiet contemplator, it suggests the image of one of those rotatory entertainments commonly seen in fairs, and known by the name of "whirligigs or roundabouts," in which each participator of the pastime, seated on his hobby, is always apparently in the act of pursuing some one before him, while he is pursued by some one behind. man, and woman too, are naturally animals of chase; the greatest still finds something to follow, and there is no one too humble not to be an object of prey to another. thus, confining our view to the village of hazeldean, we behold in this whirligig dr. riccabocca spurring his hobby after lenny fairfield; and miss jemima, on her decorous side-saddle, whipping after dr. riccabocca. why, with so long and intimate a conviction of the villainy of our sex, miss jemima should resolve upon giving the male animal one more chance of redeeming itself in her eyes, i leave to the explanation of those gentlemen who profess to find "their only books in woman's looks." perhaps it might be from the over-tenderness and clemency of miss jemima's nature; perhaps it might be that, as yet, she had only experienced the villainy of man born and reared in these cold northern climates; and in the land of petrarch and romeo, of the citron and myrtle, there was reason to expect that the native monster would be more amenable to gentle influences, less obstinately hardened in his iniquities. without entering farther into these hypotheses, it is sufficient to say, that on signor riccabocca's appearance in the drawing-room, at hazeldean, miss jemima felt more than ever rejoiced that she had relaxed in his favor her general hostility to man. in truth, though frank saw something quizzical in the old-fashioned and outlandish cut of the italian's sober dress; in his long hair, and the _chapeau bras_, over which he bowed so gracefully, and then pressed it, as if to his heart, before tucking it under his arm, after the fashion in which the gizzard reposes under the wing of a roasted pullet; yet it was impossible that even frank could deny to riccabocca that praise which is due to the air and manner of an unmistakable gentleman. and certainly as, after dinner, conversation grew more familiar, and the parson and mrs. dale, who had been invited to meet their friend, did their best to draw him out, his talk, though sometimes a little too wise for his listeners, became eminently animated and agreeable. it was the conversation of a man who, besides the knowledge which is acquired from books and life, had studied the art which becomes a gentleman--that of pleasing in polite society. riccabocca, however, had more than this art--he had one which is often less innocent--the art of penetrating into the weak side of his associates, and of saying the exact thing which hits it plump in the middle, with the careless air of a random shot. the result was, that all were charmed with him; and that even captain barnabas postponed the whist-table for a full hour after the usual time. the doctor did not play--he thus became the property of the two ladies, miss jemima and mrs. dale. seated between the two, in the place rightfully appertaining to flimsey, who this time was fairly dislodged, to her great wonder and discontent, the doctor was the emblem of true domestic felicity, placed between friendship and love. friendship, as became her, worked quietly at the embroidered pocket-handkerchief, and left love to its more animated operations. "you must be very lonely at the casino," said love, in a sympathizing tone. "madam," replied riccabocca, gallantly, "i shall think so when i leave you." friendship cast a sly glance at love--love blushed or looked down on the carpet, which comes to the same thing. "yet," began love again--"yet solitude, to a feeling heart--" riccabocca thought of the note of invitation, and involuntarily buttoned his coat, as if to protect the individual organ thus alarmingly referred to. "solitude, to a feeling heart, has its charms. it is so hard even for us, poor ignorant women, to find a congenial companion--but for _you!_" love stopped short, as if it had said too much, and smelt confusedly at its bouquet. dr. riccabocca cautiously lowered his spectacles, and darted one glance, which with the rapidity and comprehensiveness of lightning, seemed to envelop and take in it, as it were, the whole inventory of miss jemima's personal attractions. now, miss jemima, as i have before observed, had a mild and pensive expression of countenance, and she would have been positively pretty had the mildness looked a little more alert, and the pensiveness somewhat less lackadaisical. in fact, though miss jemima was constitutionally mild, she was not _de natura_ pensive; she had too much of the hazeldean blood in her veins for that sullen and viscid humor called melancholy, and therefore this assumption of pensiveness really spoiled her character of features, which only wanted to be lighted up by a cheerful smile to be extremely prepossessing. the same remark might apply to the figure, which--thanks to the same pensiveness--lost all the undulating grace which movement and animation bestow on the fluent curves of the feminine form. the figure was a good figure, examined in detail--a little thin, perhaps, but by no means emaciated--with just and elegant proportions, and naturally light and flexible. but that same unfortunate pensiveness gave the whole a character of inertness and languor; and when miss jemima reclined on the sofa, so complete seemed the relaxation of nerve and muscle, that you would have thought she had lost the use of her limbs. over her face and form, thus defrauded of the charms providence had bestowed on them, dr. riccabocca's eye glanced rapidly; and then moving nearer to mrs. dale--"defend me" (he stopped a moment, and added), "from the charge of not being able to appreciate congenial companionship." "oh, i did not say that!" cried miss jemima. "pardon me," said the italian, "if i am so dull as to misunderstand you. one may well lose one's head, at least, in such a neighborhood as this." he rose as he spoke, and bent over frank's shoulder to examine some views of italy, which miss jemima (with what, if wholly unselfish, would have been an attention truly delicate) had extracted from the library in order to gratify the guest. "most interesting creature, indeed," sighed miss jemima, "but too--too flattering!" "tell me," said mrs. dale gravely. "do you think, love, that you could put off the end of the world a little longer, or must we make haste in order to be in time?" "how wicked you are!" said miss jemima, turning aside. some few minutes afterward, mrs. dale contrived it so that dr. riccabocca and herself were in a farther corner of the room, looking at a picture said to be by wouvermans. mrs. dale.--"she is very amiable, jemima, is she not?" riccabocca.--"exceedingly so. very fine battle-piece!" mrs. dale.--"so kind-hearted." riccabocca.--"all ladies are. how naturally that warrior makes his desperate cut at the runaway!" mrs. dale.--"she is not what is called regularly handsome, but she has something very winning." riccabocca, with a smile.--"so winning, that it is strange she is not won. that gray mare in the fore-ground stands out very boldly!" mrs. dale, distrusting the smile of riccabocca, and throwing in a more affective grape charge.--"not won yet; and it _is_ strange!--she will have a very pretty fortune." riccabocca.--"ah!" mrs. dale.--"six thousand pounds. i dare-say--certainly four." riccabocca, suppressing a sigh, and with his wonted address.--"if mrs. dale were still single, she would never need a friend to say what her portion might be; but miss jemima is so good that i am quite sure it is not miss jemima's fault that she is still--miss jemima!" the foreigner slipped away as he spoke, and sate himself down beside the whist-players. mrs. dale was disappointed, but certainly not offended.--"it would be such a good thing for both," muttered she, almost inaudibly. "giacomo," said riccabocca, as he was undressing, that night, in the large, comfortable, well-carpeted english bedroom, with that great english four-posted bed in the recess, which seems made to shame folks out of single-blessedness--"giacomo, i have had this evening the offer of probably six thousand pounds--certainly of four thousand." "_cosa meravigliosa!_" exclaimed jackeymo--"miraculous thing!" and he crossed himself with great fervor. "six thousand pounds english! why, that must be a hundred thousand--blockhead that i am!--more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds milanese!" and jackeymo, who was considerably enlivened by the squire's ale, commenced a series of gesticulations and capers, in the midst of which he stopped and cried, "but not for nothing?" "nothing! no!" "these mercenary english!--the government wants to bribe you." "that's not it." "the priests want you to turn heretic." "worse than that," said the philosopher. "worse than that! o padrone! for shame!" "don't be a fool, but pull off my pantaloons--they want me never to wear _these_ again!" "never to wear what?" exclaimed jackeymo, staring outright at his master's long legs in their linen drawers--"never to wear--" "the breeches," said riccabocca laconically. "the barbarians!" faltered jackeymo. "my nightcap!--and never to have any comfort in this," said riccabocca, drawing on the cotton head-gear; "and never to have any sound sleep in that," pointing to the four-posted bed. "and to be a bondsman and a slave," continued riccabocca, waxing wroth; "and to be wheedled and purred at, and pawed, and clawed, and scolded, and fondled, and blinded, and deafened, and bridled, and saddled--bedeviled and--married." "married!" said jackeymo, more dispassionately--"that's very bad, certainly: but more than a hundred and fifty thousand _lire_, and perhaps a pretty young lady, and--" "pretty young lady!" growled riccabocca, jumping into bed and drawing the clothes fiercely over him. "put out the candle, and get along with you--do, you villainous old incendiary!" chapter ix. it was not many days since the resurrection of those ill-omened stocks, and it was evident already to an ordinary observer, that something wrong had got into the village. the peasant wore a sullen expression of countenance; when the squire passed, they took off their hats with more than ordinary formality, but they did not return the same broad smile to his quick, hearty "good-day, my man." the women peered at him from the threshold or the casement, but did not, as was their wont (at least the wont of the prettiest), take occasion to come out to catch his passing compliment on their own good looks, or their tidy cottages. and the children, who used to play after work on the site of the old stocks, now shunned the place, and, indeed, seemed to cease play altogether. on the other hand, no man likes to build, or rebuild, a great public work for nothing. now that the squire had resuscitated the stocks, and made them so exceedingly handsome, it was natural that he should wish to put somebody into them. moreover, his pride and self-esteem had been wounded by the parson's opposition; and it would be a justification to his own forethought, and a triumph over the parson's understanding, if he could satisfactorily and practically establish a proof that the stocks had not been repaired before they were wanted. therefore, unconsciously to himself, there was something about the squire more burly, and authoritative, and menacing than heretofore. old gaffer solomons observed, "that they had better moind well what they were about, for that the squire had a wicked look in the tail of his eye--just as the dun bull had afore it tossed neighbor barnes's little boy." for two or three days these mute signs of something brewing in the atmosphere had been rather noticeable than noticed, without any positive overt act of tyranny on the one hand, or rebellion on the other. but on the very saturday night in which dr. riccabocca was installed in the four-posted bed in the chintz chamber, the threatened revolution commenced. in the dead of that night, personal outrage was committed on the stocks. and on the sunday morning, mr. stirn, who was the earliest riser in the parish, perceived, in going to the farm-yard, that the knob of the column that flanked the board had been feloniously broken off; that the four holes were bunged up with mud; and that some jacobinical villain had carved, on the very centre of the flourished or scroll work, "dam the stoks!" mr. stirn was much too vigilant a right-hand man, much too zealous a friend of law and order, not to regard such proceedings with horror and alarm. and when the squire came into his dressing-room at half-past seven, his butler (who fulfilled also the duties of valet) informed him with a mysterious air, that mr. stirn had something "very particular to communicate, about a most howdacious midnight 'spiracy and 'sault." the squire stared, and bade mr. stirn be admitted. "well?" cried the squire, suspending the operation of stropping his razor. mr. stirn groaned. "well, man, what now!" "i never knowed such a thing in this here parish afore," began mr. stirn, "and i can only 'count for it by s'posing that them foreign papishers have been semminating"-- "been what?" "semminating--" "disseminating, you blockhead--disseminating what?" "damn the stocks," began mr. stirn, plunging right _in medias res_, and by a fine use of one of the noblest figures in rhetoric. "mr. stirn!" cried the squire, reddening, "did you say 'damn the stocks?"--damn my new handsome pair of stocks!" "lord forbid, sir; that's what _they_ say: that's what they have digged on it with knives and daggers, and they have stuffed mud in its four holes, and broken the capital of the elewation." the squire took the napkin off his shoulder, laid down strop and razor; he seated himself in his arm-chair majestically, crossed his legs, and in a voice that affected tranquillity, said: "compose yourself, stirn; you have a deposition to make, touching an assault upon--can i trust my senses?--upon my new stocks. compose yourself--be calm. now! what the devil is come to the parish?" "ah, sir, what indeed?" replied mr. stirn: and then, laying the fore-finger of the right hand on the palm of the left, he narrated the case. "and, whom do you suspect? be calm now, don't speak in a passion. you are a witness, sir--a dispassionate, unprejudiced witness. zounds and fury! this is the most insolent, unprovoked, diabolical--but whom do you suspect, i say?" stirn twirled his hat, elevated his eyebrows, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and whispered, "i hear as how the two papishers slept at your honor's last night." "what, dolt! do you suppose dr. rickeybockey got out of his warm bed to bung up the holes in my new stocks?" "noa; he's too cunning to do it himself, but he may have been semminating. he's mighty thick with parson dale, and your honor knows as how the parson set his face agin the stocks. wait a bit, sir--don't fly at me yet. there be a boy in this here parish--" "a boy!--ah, fool, now you are nearer the mark. the parson write 'damn the stocks,' indeed! what boy do you mean?" "and that boy be cockered up much by mister dale; and the papisher went and sat with him and his mother a whole hour t'other day; and that boy is as deep as a well; and i seed him lurking about the place, and hiding hisself under the tree the day the stocks was put up--and that ere boy is lenny fairfield." "whew," said the squire, whistling, "you have not your usual senses about you to-day, man. lenny fairfield--pattern boy of the village. hold your tongue. i dare say it is not done by any one in the parish, after all; some good-for-nothing vagrant--that cursed tinker, who goes about with a very vicious donkey--whom, by the way, i caught picking thistles out of the very eyes of the old stocks! shows how the tinker brings up his donkeys! well, keep a sharp look-out. to-day is sunday: worst day of the week, i am sorry and ashamed to say, for rows and depredations. between the services, and after evening church, there are always idle fellows from all the neighboring country about, as you know too well. depend on it, the real culprits will be found gathering round the stocks, and will betray themselves: have your eyes, ears, and wits about you, and i've no doubt we shall come to the rights of the matter before the day's out. and if we do," added the squire, "we'll make an example of the ruffian!" "in course," said stirn; "and if we don't find him, we must make an example all the same. that's where it is, sir. that's why the stock's ben't respected; they has not had an example yet--we wants an example." "on my word, i believe that's very true; and the first idle fellow you catch in any thing wrong we'll clap in, and keep him there for two hours at least." "with the biggest pleasure, your honor--that's what it is." and mr. stirn, having now got what he considered a complete and unconditional authority over all the legs and wrists of hazeldean parish, _quoad_ the stocks, took his departure. chapter x. "randal," said mrs. leslie, on this memorable sunday--"randal, do you think of going to mr. hazeldean's?" "yes, ma'am," answered randal. "mr. egerton does not object to it; and as i do not return to eaton, i may have no other opportunity of seeing frank for some time. i ought not to fail in respect to mr. egerton's natural heir!" "gracious me!" cried mrs. leslie, who, like many women of her cast and kind, had a sort of worldliness in her notions, which she never evinced in her conduct--"gracious me!--natural heir to the old leslie property!" "he is mr. egerton's nephew, and," added randal, ingenuously letting out his thoughts, "i am no relation to mr. egerton at all." "but," said poor mrs. leslie, with tears in her eyes, "it would be a shame in the man, after paying your schooling and sending you to oxford, and having you to stay with him in the holidays, if he did not mean any thing by it." "any thing, mother--yes--but not the thing you suppose. no matter. it is enough that he has armed me for life, and i shall use the weapons as seems to me best." here the dialogue was suspended, by the entrance of the other members of the family, dressed for church. "it can't be time for church! no! it can't!" exclaimed mrs. leslie. she was never in time for any thing. "last bell ringing," said mr. leslie, who, though a slow man, was methodical and punctual. mrs. leslie made a frantic rush at the door, the montfydget blood being now in a blaze--whirled up the stairs--gained her room, tore her best bonnet from the peg, snatched her newest shawl from the drawers, crushed the bonnet on her head, flung the shawl on her shoulders, thrust a desperate pin into its folds, in order to conceal a buttonless yawn in the body of her gown, and then flew back like a whirlwind. meanwhile the family were already out of doors, in waiting; and just as the bell ceased, the procession moved from the shabby house to the dilapidated church. the church was a large one, but the congregation was small, and so was the income of the parson. it was a lay rectory, and the great tithes had belonged to the leslies, but they had been long since sold. the vicarage, still in their gift, might be worth a little more than £ a year. the present incumbent had nothing else to live upon. he was a good man, and not originally a stupid one; but penury and the anxious cares for wife and family, combined with what may be called _solitary confinement_ for the cultivated mind, when, amidst the two legged creatures round, it sees no other cultivated mind with which it can exchange an extra-parochial thought--had lulled him into a lazy mournfulness, which at times was very like imbecility. his income allowed him to do no good to the parish, whether in work, trade, or charity; and thus he had no moral weight with the parishioners beyond the example of his sinless life, and such negative effect as might be produced by his slumberous exhortations. therefore his parishioners troubled him very little; and but for the influence which in hours of montfydget activity, mrs. leslie exercised over the most tractable--that is, the children and the aged--not half-a-dozen persons would have known or cared whether he shut up his church or not. but our family were seated in state in their old seignorial pew, and mr. dumdrum, with a nasal twang, went lugubriously through the prayers; and the old people who could sin no more, and the children who had not yet learned to sin, croaked forth responses that might have come from the choral frogs in aristophanes. and there was a long sermon _apropos_ to nothing which could possibly interest the congregation, being, in fact, some controversial homily, which mr. dumdrum had composed and preached years before. and when this discourse was over, there was a loud universal grunt, as if of release and thanksgiving, and a great clatter of shoes--and the old hobbled, and the young scrambled to the church door. immediately after church, the leslie family dined; and, as soon as dinner was over, randal set out on his foot journey to hazeldean hall. delicate and even feeble though his frame, he had the energy and quickness of movement which belongs to nervous temperaments; and he tasked the slow stride of a peasant, whom he took to serve him as a guide for the first two or three miles. though randal had not the gracious, open manner with the poor which frank inherited from his father, he was still (despite many a secret, hypocritical vice, at war with the character of a gentleman) gentleman enough to have no churlish pride to his inferiors. he talked little, but he suffered his guide to talk; and the boor, who was the same whom frank had accosted, indulged in eulogistic comments on that young gentleman's pony, from which he diverged into some compliments on the young gentleman himself. randal drew his hat over his brows. there is a wonderful tact and fine breeding in your agricultural peasant; and though tom stowell was but a brutish specimen of the class, he suddenly perceived that he was giving pain. he paused, scratched his head, and glancing affectionately toward his companion, exclaimed, "but i shall live to see you on a handsomer beastis than that little pony, master randal; and sure i ought, for you be as good a gentleman as any in the land." "thank you," said randal. "but i like walking better than riding--i am more used to it." "well, and you walk bra'ly--there ben't a better walker in the county. and very pleasant it is walking; and 'tis a pretty country afore you, all the way to the hall." randal strode on, as if impatient of these attempts to flatter or to soothe; and, coming at length into a broader lane, said, "i think i can find my way now. many thanks to you, tom;" and he forced a shilling into tom's horny palm. the man took it reluctantly, and a tear started to his eye. he felt more grateful for that shilling than he had for frank's liberal half-crown; and he thought of the poor fallen family, and forgot his own dire wrestle with the wolf at his door. he staid lingering in the lane till the figure of randal was out of sight, and then returned slowly. young leslie continued to walk on at a quick pace. with all his intellectual culture, and his restless aspirations, his breast afforded him no thought so generous, no sentiment so poetic, as those with which the unlettered clown crept slouchingly homeward. as randal gained a point where several lanes met on a broad piece of waste land, he began to feel tired, and his step slackened. just then a gig emerged from one of these by-roads, and took the same direction as the pedestrian. the road was rough and hilly, and the driver proceeded at a foot's-pace; so that the gig and the pedestrian went pretty well abreast. "you seem tired, sir," said the driver, a stout young farmer of the higher class of tenants, and he looked down compassionately on the boy's pale countenance and weary stride. "perhaps we are going the same way, and i can give you a lift?" it was randal's habitual policy to make use of every advantage proffered to him, and he accepted the proposal frankly enough to please the honest farmer. "a nice day, sir," said the latter, as randal sat by his side. "have you come far?" "from rood hall." "oh, you be young squire leslie," said the farmer, more respectfully, and lifting his hat. "yes, my name is leslie. you know rood, then?" "i was brought up on your father's land, sir. you may have heard of farmer bruce?" randal.--"i remember, when i was a little boy, a mr. bruce, who rented, i believe, the best part of our land, and who used to bring us cakes when he called to see my father. he is a relation of yours?" farmer bruce.--"he was my uncle. he is dead now, poor man." randal.--"dead! i am grieved to hear it. he was very kind to us children. but it is long since he left my father's farm." farmer bruce, apologetically.--"i am sure he was very sorry to go. but, you see, he had an unexpected legacy--" randal.--"and retired from business?" farmer bruce.--"no. but having capital, he could afford to pay a good rent for a real good farm." randal, bitterly.--"all capital seems to fly from the lands of rood. and whose farm did he take?" farmer bruce.--"he took hawleigh, under squire hazeldean. i rent it now. we've laid out a power o' money on it. but i don't complain. it pays well." randal.--"would the money have paid as well, sunk on my father's land?" farmer bruce.--"perhaps it might, in the long run. but then, sir, we wanted new premises--barns, and cattle-sheds, and a deal more--which the landlord should do; but it is not every landlord as can afford that. squire hazeldean's a rich man." randal.--"ay!" the road now became pretty good, and the farmer put his horse into a brisk trot. "but which way be you going, sir? i don't care for a few miles more or less, if i can be of service." "i am going to hazeldean," said randal, rousing himself from a reverie. "don't let me take you out of your way." "oh, hawleigh farm is on the other side of the village, so it be quite my way, sir." the farmer then, who was really a smart young fellow--one of that race which the application of capital to land has produced, and which in point of education and refinement, are at least on a par with the squires of a former generation--began to talk about his handsome horse, about horses in general, about hunting and coursing: he handled all these subjects with spirit, yet with modesty. randal pulled his hat still lower down over his brows, and did not interrupt him till past the casino, when, struck by the classic air of the place, and catching a scent from the orange-trees, the boy asked, abruptly, "whose house is that?" "oh, it belongs to squire hazeldean, but it is let or lent to a foreign mounseer. they say he is quite the gentleman, but uncommonly poor." "poor," said randal, turning back to gaze on the trim garden, the neat terrace, the pretty belvidere, and (the door of the house being open) catching a glimpse of the painted hall within--"poor, the place seems well kept. what do you call poor, mr. bruce?" the farmer laughed. "well, that's a home question, sir. but i believe the mounseer is as poor as a man can be who makes no debts and does not actually starve." "as poor as my father?" asked randal openly and abruptly. "lord, sir! your father be a very rich man compared to him." randal continued to gaze, and his mind's eye conjured up the contrast of his slovenly, shabby home, with all its neglected appurtenances! no trim garden at rood hall, no scent from odorous orange blossoms. here poverty, at least, was elegant--there, how squalid! he did not comprehend at how cheap a rate the luxury of the beautiful can be effected. they now approached the extremity of the squire's park pales; and, randal, seeing a little gate, bade the farmer stop his gig, and descended. the boy plunged amidst the thick oak groves; the farmer went his way blithely, and his mellow, merry whistle came to randal's moody ear, as he glided quick under the shadow of the trees. he arrived at the hall, to find that all the family were at church; and, according to the patriarchal custom, the church-going family embraced nearly all the servants. it was therefore an old invalid housemaid who opened the door to him. she was rather deaf, and seemed so stupid, that randal did not ask leave to enter and wait for frank's return. he therefore said briefly that he would just stroll on the lawn, and call again when church was over. the old woman stared, and strove to hear him; meanwhile randal turned round abruptly, and sauntered toward the garden side of the handsome old house. there was enough to attract any eye in the smooth greensward of the spacious lawn--in the numerous parterres of varying flowers--in the venerable grandeur of the two mighty cedars, which threw their still shadows over the grass--and in the picturesque building, with its projecting mullions and heavy gables; yet i fear that it was with no poet's nor painter's eye that this young old man gazed on the scene before him. he beheld the evidence of wealth--and the envy of wealth jaundiced his soul. folding his arms on his breast, he stood awhile, looking all around him with closed lips and lowering brow; then he walked slowly on, his eyes fixed on the ground, and muttered to himself--"the heir to this property is little better than a dunce; and they tell me i have talents and learning, and i have taken to my heart the maxim, 'knowledge is power.' and yet, with all my struggles, will knowledge ever place me on the same level as that on which this dunce is born? i don't wonder that the poor should hate the rich. but of all the poor, who should hate the rich like the pauper gentleman? i suppose audley egerton means me to come into parliament, and be a tory like himself. what! keep things as they are! no; for me not even democracy, unless there first come revolution. i understand the cry of a marat--'more blood!' marat had lived as a poor man, and cultivated science--in the sight of a prince's palace." he turned sharply round, and glared vindictively on the poor old hall, which, though a very comfortable habitation, was certainly no palace; and, with his arms still folded on his breast, he walked backward, as if not to lose the view, nor the chain of ideas it conjured up. "but," he continued to soliloquize--"but of revolution there is no chance. yet the same wit and will that would thrive in revolutions should thrive in this commonplace life. knowledge is power. well, then shall i have no power to oust this blockhead? oust him--what from? his father's halls? well--but if he were dead, who would be the heir of hazeldean? have i not heard my mother say that i am as near in blood to this squire as any one, if he had no children? oh, but the boy's life is worth ten of mine! oust him from what? at least from the thoughts of his uncle egerton--an uncle who has never even seen him! that, at least, is more feasible. 'make my way in life,' sayest thou, audley egerton. ay, and to the fortune thou hast robbed from my ancestors. simulation--simulation. lord bacon allows simulation. lord bacon practiced it--and--" here the soliloquy came to a sudden end; for as, rapt in his thoughts, the boy had continued to walk backward; he had come to the verge where the lawn slided off into the ditch of the ha-ha--and, just as he was fortifying himself by the precept and practice of my lord bacon, the ground went from under him, and slap into the ditch went randal leslie! it so happened that the squire, whose active genius was always at some repair or improvement, had been but a few days before widening and sloping off the ditch just in that part, so that the earth was fresh and damp, and not yet either turfed or flattened down. thus when randal, recovering his first surprise and shock, rose to his feet, he found his clothes covered with mud; while the rudeness of the fall was evinced by the fantastic and extraordinary appearance of his hat, which, hollowed here, bulging there, and crushed out of all recognition generally, was as little like the hat of a decorous, hard-reading young gentleman--_protégé_ of the dignified mr. audley egerton--as any hat picked out of a kennel after some drunken brawl possibly could be. randal was dizzy, and stunned, and bruised, and it was some moments before he took heed of his raiment. when he did so, his spleen was greatly aggravated. he was still boy enough not to like the idea of presenting himself to the unknown squire, and the dandy frank, in such a trim: he resolved at once to regain the lane and return home, without accomplishing the object of his journey; and seeing the footpath right before him, which led to a gate that he conceived would admit him into the highway sooner than the path by which he had come, he took it at once. it is surprising how little we human creatures heed the warnings of our good genius. i have no doubt that some benignant power had precipitated randal leslie into the ditch, as a significant hint of the fate of all who choose what is, nowadays, by no means an uncommon step in the march of intellect--viz., the walking backward, in order to gratify a vindictive view of one's neighbor's property! i suspect that, before this century is out, many a fine fellow will thus have found his ha-ha, and scrambled out of the ditch with a much shabbier coat than he had on when he fell into it. but randal did not thank his good genius for giving him a premonitory tumble; and i never yet knew a man who did! chapter xi. the squire was greatly ruffled at breakfast that morning. he was too much of an englishman to bear insult patiently, and he considered that he had been personally insulted in the outrage offered to his recent donation to the parish. his feelings, too, were hurt as well as his pride. there was something so ungrateful in the whole thing, just after he had taken so much pains, not only in the resuscitation, but the embellishment of the stocks. it was not, however, so rare an occurrence for the squire to be ruffled, as to create any remark. riccabocca, indeed, as a stranger, and mrs. hazeldean, as a wife, had the quick tact to perceive that the host was glum and the husband snappish; but the one was too discreet and the other too sensible, to chafe the new sore, whatever it might be; and shortly after breakfast the squire retired into his study, and absented himself from morning service. in his delightful _life of oliver goldsmith_, mr. forster takes care to touch our hearts by introducing his hero's excuse for not entering the priesthood. he did not feel himself good enough. thy vicar of wakefield, poor goldsmith, was an excellent substitute for thee; and dr. primrose, at least, will be good enough for the world until miss jemima's fears are realized. now, squire hazeldean had a tenderness of conscience much less reasonable than goldsmith's. there were occasionally days in which he did not feel good enough--i don't say for a priest, but even for one of the congregation--"days in which (said the squire in his own blunt way), as i have never in my life met a worse devil than a devil of a temper, i'll not carry mine into the family pew. he shan't be growling out hypocritical responses from my poor grandmother's prayer-book." so the squire and his demon staid at home. but the demon was generally cast out before the day was over; and, on this occasion, when the bell rang for afternoon service, it may be presumed that the squire had reasoned or fretted himself into a proper state of mind; for he was then seen sallying forth from the porch of his hall, arm-in-arm with his wife, and at the head of his household. the second service was (as is commonly the case, in rural districts) more numerously attended than the first one; and it was our parson's wont to devote to this service his most effective discourse. parson dale, though a very fair scholar, had neither the deep theology nor the archæological learning that distinguish the rising generation of the clergy. i much doubt if he could have passed what would now be called a creditable examination in the fathers; and, as for all the nice formalities in the rubric, he would never have been the man to divide a congregation, or puzzle a bishop. neither was parson dale very erudite in ecclesiastical architecture. he did not much care whether all the details in the church were purely gothic or not: crockets and finials, round arch and pointed arch were matters, i fear, on which he had never troubled his head. but one secret parson dale did possess, which is, perhaps, of equal importance with those subtler mysteries--he knew how to fill his church! even at morning service no pews were empty, and at evening service the church overflowed. parson dale, too, may be considered, nowadays, to hold but a mean idea of the spiritual authority of the church. he had never been known to dispute on its exact bearing with the state--whether it was incorporated with the state, or above the state--whether it was antecedent to the papacy, or formed from the papacy, &c., &c. according to his favorite maxim, _quieta non movere_ (not to disturb things that are quiet), i have no doubt that he would have thought that the less discussion is provoked upon such matters, the better for both church and laity. nor had he ever been known to regret the disuse of the ancient custom of excommunication, nor any other diminution of the powers of the priesthood, whether minatory or militant; yet for all this, parson dale had a great notion of the sacred privilege of a minister of the gospel--to advise--to deter--to persuade--to reprove. and it was for the evening service that he prepared those sermons, which may be called "sermons that preach _at_ you." he preferred the evening for that salutary discipline, not only because the congregation was more numerous, but also because, being a shrewd man in his own innocent way, he knew that people bear better to be preached at after dinner than before; that you arrive more insinuatingly at the heart when the stomach is at peace. there was a genial kindness in parson dale's way of preaching at you. it was done in so imperceptible, fatherly a manner, that you never felt offended. he did it, too, with so much art that nobody but your own guilty self knew that you were the sinner he was exhorting. yet he did not spare rich nor poor: he preached at the squire, and that great fat farmer, mr. bullock the churchwarden, as boldly as at hodge the plowman, and scrub the hedger. as for mr. stirn, he had preached at _him_ more often than at any one in the parish; but stirn, though he had the sense to know it, never had the grace to reform. there was, too, in parson dale's sermons, something of that boldness of illustration which would have been scholarly if he had not made it familiar, and which is found in the discourses of our elder divines. like them, he did not scruple, now and then, to introduce an anecdote from history, or borrow an allusion from some non-scriptural author, in order to enliven the attention of his audience, or render an argument more plain. and the good man had an object in this, a little distinct from, though wholly subordinate to the main purpose of his discourse. he was a friend to knowledge--but to knowledge accompanied by religion; and, sometimes, his references to sources not within the ordinary reading of his congregation, would spirit up some farmer's son, with an evening's leisure on his hands, to ask the parson for farther explanation, and so be lured on to a little solid or graceful instruction under a safe guide. now, on the present occasion, the parson, who had always his eye and heart on his flock, and who had seen with great grief the realization of his fears at the revival of the stocks; seen that a spirit of discontent was already at work among the peasants, and that magisterial and inquisitorial designs were darkening the natural benevolence of the squire; seen, in short, the signs of a breach between classes, and the precursors of the ever inflammable feud between the rich and the poor, meditated nothing less than a great political sermon--a sermon that should extract from the roots of social truths a healing virtue for the wound that lay sore, but latent, in the breast of his parish of hazeldean: and thus ran--_the political sermon of parson dale_. chapter xii. "for every man shall bear his own burden." _galatians_ vi. . "brethren, every man has his burden. if god designed our lives to end at the grave, may we not believe that he would have freed an existence so brief, from the cares and sorrows to which, since the beginning of the world, mankind have been subjected? suppose that i am a kind father, and have a child whom i dearly love, but i know by a divine revelation that he will die at the age of eight years, surely i should not vex his infancy by needless preparations for the duties of life. if i am a rich man, i should not send him from the caresses of his mother to the stern discipline of school. if i am a poor man, i should not take him with me to hedge and dig, to scorch in the sun, to freeze in the winter's cold: why inflict hardships on his childhood, for the purpose of fitting him for manhood, when i know that he is doomed not to grow into man? but if, on the other hand, i believe my child is reserved for a more durable existence, then should i not, out of the very love i bear to him, prepare his childhood for the struggle of life, according to that station in which he is born, giving many a toil, many a pain to the infant, in order to rear and strengthen him for his duties as a man? so is it with our father that is in heaven. viewing this life as our infancy, and the next as our spiritual maturity, where 'in the ages to come, he may show the exceeding riches of his grace,' it is in his tenderness, as in his wisdom, to permit the toil and the pain which, in tasking the powers and developing the virtues of the soul, prepare it for the earnest of our inheritance, the 'redemption of the purchased possession.' hence it is that every man has his burden. brethren, if you believe that god is good, yea, but as tender as a human father, you will know that your troubles in life are a proof that you are reared for an eternity. but each man thinks his own burden the hardest to bear: the poor man groans under his poverty, the rich man under the cares that multiply with wealth. for, so far from wealth freeing us from trouble, all the wise men who have written in all ages, have repeated with one voice the words of the wisest, 'when goods increase, they are increased that eat them; and what good is there to the owners thereof, saving the beholding of them with their eyes?' and this is literally true, my brethren; for, let a man be as rich as was the great king solomon himself, unless he lock up all his gold in a chest, it must go abroad to be divided among others; yea, though, like solomon, he make him great works--though he build houses and plant vineyards, and make him gardens and orchards--still the gold that he spends feeds but the mouths he employs; and solomon himself could not eat with a better relish than the poorest mason who builded the house, or the humblest laborer who planted the vineyard. therefore, 'when goods increase, they are increased that eat them.' and this, my brethren, may teach us toleration and compassion for the rich. we share their riches whether they will or not; we do not share their cares. the profane history of our own country tells us that a princess, destined to be the greatest queen that ever sat on this throne, envied the milk-maid singing; and a profane poet, whose wisdom was only less than that of the inspired writers, represents the man who by force and wit had risen to be a king, sighing for the sleep vouchsafed to the meanest of his subjects--all bearing out the words of the son of david--'the sleep of the laboring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much; but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.' "among my brethren now present, there is, doubtless, some one who has been poor, and by honest industry has made himself comparatively rich. let his heart answer me while i speak: are not the chief cares that now disturb him to be found in the goods he hath acquired?--has he not both vexations to his spirit and trials to his virtue, which he knew not when he went forth to his labor, and took no heed of the morrow? but it is right, my brethren, that to every station there should be its care--to every man his burden; for if the poor did not sometimes so far feel poverty to be a burden as to desire to better their condition, and (to use the language of the world) 'seek to rise in life,' their most valuable energies would never be aroused; and we should not witness that spectacle, which is so common in the land we live in--namely, the successful struggle of manly labor against adverse fortune--a struggle in which the triumph of one gives hope to thousands. it is said that necessity is the mother of invention; and the social blessings which are now as common to us as air and sunshine, have come from that law of our nature which makes us aspire toward indefinite improvement, enriches each successive generation by the labors of the last, and, in free countries, often lifts the child of the laborer to a place among the rulers of the land. nay, if necessity is the mother of invention, poverty is the creator of the arts. if there had been no poverty, and no sense of poverty, where would have been that which we call the wealth of a country? subtract from civilization all that has been produced by the poor, and what remains?--the state of the savage. where you now see laborer and prince, you would see equality indeed--the equality of wild men. no; not even equality there! for there, brute force becomes lordship, and woe to the weak! where you now see some in frieze, some in purple, you would see nakedness in all. where stand the palace and the cot, you would behold but mud huts and caves. as far as the peasant excels the king among savages, so far does the society exalted and enriched by the struggles of labor excel the state in which poverty feels no disparity, and toil sighs for no ease. on the other hand, if the rich were perfectly contented with their wealth, their hearts would become hardened in the sensual enjoyments it procures. it is that feeling, by divine wisdom implanted in the soul, that there is vanity and vexation of spirit in the things of mammon, which still leaves the rich man sensitive to the instincts of heaven, and teaches him to seek for happiness in those elevated virtues to which wealth invites him--namely, protection to the lowly, and beneficence to the distressed. "and this, my brethren, leads me to another view of the vast subject opened to us by the words of the apostle--'every man shall bear his own burden.' the worldly conditions of life are unequal. why are they unequal? o my brethren, do you not perceive? think you that, if it had been better for our spiritual probation that there should be neither great nor lowly, rich nor poor, providence would not so have ordered the dispensations of the world, and so, by its mysterious but merciful agencies, have influenced the framework and foundations of society? but if, from the remotest period of human annals, and in all the numberless experiments of government which the wit of man has devised, still this inequality is ever found to exist, may we not suspect that there is something in the very principles of our nature to which that inequality is necessary and essential? ask why this inequality! why? as well ask why life is the sphere of duty and the nursery of virtues. for if all men were equal, if there were no suffering and no ease, no poverty and no wealth, would you not sweep with one blow the half at least of human virtues from the world? if there were no penury and no pain, what would become of fortitude? what of patience? what of resignation? if there were no greatness and no wealth, what would become of benevolence, of charity, of the blessed human pity, of temperance in the midst of luxury, of justice in the exercise of power? carry the question further; grant all conditions the same--no reverse, no rise and no fall--nothing to hope for, nothing to fear--what a moral death you would at once inflict upon all the energies of the soul, and what a link between the heart of man and the providence of god would be snapped asunder! if we could annihilate evil, we should annihilate hope; and hope, my brethren, is the avenue to faith. if there be 'a time to weep, and a time to laugh,' it is that he who mourns may turn to eternity for comfort, and he who rejoices may bless god for the happy hour. ah! my brethren, were it possible to annihilate the inequalities of human life, it would be the banishment of our worthiest virtues, the torpor of our spiritual nature, the palsy of our mental faculties. the moral world, like the world without us, derives its health and its beauty from diversity and contrast. "'every man shall bear his own burden.' true: but now turn to an earlier verse in the same chapter-- "'bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of christ.' yes; while heaven ordains to each his peculiar suffering, it connects the family of man into one household, by that feeling which, more perhaps than any other, distinguishes us from the brute creation--i mean the feeling to which we give the name of _sympathy_--the feeling for each other! the herd of deer shuns the stag that is marked by the gunner; the flock heedeth not the sheep that creeps into the shade to die; but man has sorrow and joy not in himself alone, but in the joy and sorrow of those around him. he who feels only for himself abjures his very nature as man; for do we not say of one who has no tenderness for mankind that he is _inhuman_? and do we not call him who sorrows with the sorrowful, _humane_? "now, brethren, that which especially marked the divine mission of our lord, is the direct appeal to this sympathy which distinguishes us from the brute. he seizes not upon some faculty of genius given but to few, but upon that ready impulse of heart which is given to us all; and in saying, 'love one another,' 'bear ye one another's burdens,' he elevates the most delightful of our emotions into the most sacred of his laws. the lawyer asks our lord, 'who is my neighbor?' our lord replies by the parable of the good samaritan. the priest and the levite saw the wounded man that fell among the thieves, and passed by on the other side. that priest might have been austere in his doctrine, that levite might have been learned in the law; but neither to the learning of the levite, nor to the doctrine of the priest, does our saviour even deign to allude. he cites but the action of the samaritan, and saith to the lawyer, 'which now of these three, thinkest thou was neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves? and he said, he that showed mercy unto him. then said jesus unto him, 'go, and do thou likewise.' "o shallowness of human judgments! it was enough to be born a samaritan in order to be rejected by the priest, and despised by the levite. yet now, what to us the priest and the levite, of god's chosen race though they were? they passed from the hearts of men when they passed the sufferer by the wayside; while this loathed samaritan, half thrust from the pale of the hebrew, becomes of our family, of our kindred; a brother among the brotherhood of love, so long as mercy and affliction shall meet in the common thoroughfare of life! "'bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of christ!' think not, o my brethren, that this applies only to almsgiving--to that relief of distress which is commonly called charity--to the obvious duty of devoting, from our superfluities, something that we scarcely miss, to the wants of a starving brother. no. i appeal to the poorest among ye, if the worst burdens are those of the body--if the kind word and the tender thought have not often lightened your hearts more than bread bestowed with a grudge, and charity that humbles you by a frown. sympathy is a beneficence at the command of us all--yea, of the pauper as of the king; and sympathy is christ's wealth. sympathy is brotherhood. the rich are told to have charity for the poor, and the poor are enjoined to respect their superiors. good: i say not to the contrary. but i say also to the poor, '_in your turn have charity for the rich_;' and i say to the rich, '_in your turn respect the poor_.' "'bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of christ.' thou, o poor man, envy not nor grudge thy brother his larger portion of worldly goods. believe that he hath his sorrows and crosses like thyself, and perhaps, as more delicately nurtured, he feels them more; nay, hath he not temptations so great that our lord hath exclaimed, 'how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven?' and what are temptations but trials? what are trials but perils and sorrows? think not that you can not bestow your charity on the rich man, even while you take your sustenance from his hands. a heathen writer, often cited by the earliest preachers of the gospel, hath truly said, 'where-ever there is room for a man, there is place for a benefit.' "and i ask any rich brother among you, when he hath gone forth to survey his barns and his granaries, his gardens and orchards, if suddenly, in the vain pride of his heart, he sees the scowl on the brow of the laborer--if he deems himself hated in the midst of his wealth--if he feels that his least faults are treasured up against him with the hardness of malice, and his plainest benefits received with the ingratitude of envy--ask, i say, any rich man, whether straightway all pleasure in his worldly possessions does not fade from his heart, and whether he does not feel what a wealth of gladness it is in the power of the poor man to bestow! for all these things of mammon pass away; but there is in the smile of him whom we have served, a something that we may take with us into heaven. if, then, ye bear one another's burdens, they who are poor will have mercy on the errors, and compassion for the griefs, of the rich. to all men it was said--yes, to the lazarus as to the dives--'judge not that ye be not judged.' but think not, o rich man, that we preach only to the poor. if it be their duty not to grudge thee thy substance, it is thine to do all that may sweeten their labor. remember, that when our lord said, 'how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven,' he replied also to them who asked, 'who then shall be saved?' 'the things which are impossible with men are possible with god:' that is, man left to his own temptations would fail; but strengthened by god, he shall be saved. if thy riches are the tests of thy trial, so may they also be the instruments of thy virtues. prove by thy riches that thou art compassionate and tender temperate and benign; and thy riches themselves may become the evidence at once of thy faith and of thy works. "we have constantly on our lips the simple precept, 'do unto others as ye would be done by.' why do we fail so often in the practice? because we neglect to cultivate that sympathy which nature implants as an instinct, and the saviour exalts as a command. if thou wouldst do unto thy neighbor as thou wouldst be done by, ponder well how thy neighbor will regard the action thou art about to do to him. put thyself into his place. if thou art strong, and he is weak, descend from thy strength, and enter into his weakness; lay aside thy burden for the while, and buckle on his own; let thy sight see as through his eyes--thy heart beat as in his bosom. do this, and thou wilt often confess that what had seemed just to thy power will seem harsh to his weakness. for 'as a zealous man hath not done his duty, when he calls his brother drunkard and beast,'[ ] even so an administrator of the law mistakes his object if he writes on the grand column of society, only warnings that irritate the bold, and terrify the timid; and a man will be no more in love with law than with virtue, 'if he be forced to it with rudeness and incivilities.'[ ] if, then, ye would bear the burden of the lowly, o ye great--feel not only _for_ them, but _with!_ watch that your pride does not chafe them--your power does not wantonly gall. your worldly inferior is of the class from which the apostles were chosen--amidst which the lord of creation descended from a throne above the seraphs." the parson here paused a moment, and his eye glanced toward the pew near the pulpit, where sat the magnate of hazeldean. the squire was leaning his chin thoughtfully on his hand, his brow inclined downward, and the natural glow of his complexion much heightened. "but," resumed the parson softly, without turning to his book, and rather as if prompted by the suggestion of the moment--"but he who has cultivated sympathy commits not these errors, or, if committing them, hastens to retract. so natural is sympathy to the good man, that he obeys it mechanically when he suffers his heart to be the monitor of his conscience. in this sympathy behold the bond between rich and poor! by this sympathy, whatever our varying worldly lots, they become what they were meant to be--exercises for the virtues more peculiar to each; and thus, if in the body each man bear his own burden, yet in the fellowship of the soul all have common relief in bearing the burdens of each other. "this is the law of christ--fulfill it, o my flock!" here the parson closed his sermon, and the congregation bowed their heads. (_to be continued_.) footnotes: [footnote : by the pounds milanese, giacomo means the milanese lira.] [footnote : jeremy taylor--_of christian prudence_. part ii.] [footnote : ibid.] monthly record of current events political and general news. the united states. the principal event of the month has been the opening of the second session of the thirty-first congress, which occurred on the second of december. each house was called to order by its presiding officer. hon. william r. king of alabama in the senate, and hon. howell cobb of georgia in the house. the message of president fillmore was transmitted to congress on the same day. the state of public feeling upon topics connected with slavery, and the fact that president fillmore's views upon the subject had never before been officially communicated to the country, gave to the message even more than an ordinary degree of interest. after alluding to the death of general taylor, the message briefly sets forth the president's political principles and his views as to the proper policy of the government. in its foreign relations he would have the country regard the independent rights of all nations without interference, take no part in their internal strifes, and sympathize with, though it can not aid, the oppressed who are struggling for freedom. to maintain strict neutrality, reciprocate every generous act, and observe treaties, is the extent of our obligations and powers. in regard to our domestic policy, the president says he has no guide but the constitution as interpreted by the courts, and by usage and general acquiescence. all its parts are equally binding, and no necessity can justify the assumption of powers not granted. the powers granted are as clearly expressed as the imperfections of human language will allow, and he deems it his duty not to question its wisdom, add to its provisions, evade its requirements, or multiply its commands. he promises to express his views frankly upon the leading subjects of legislation, and if any act should pass congress, which shall appear to him "unconstitutional, or an encroachment on the just powers of other departments, or with provisions hastily adopted, and likely to produce consequences injurious and unforeseen," he would not hesitate to send it back for further consideration. beyond this he will not attempt to control or influence the proceedings of congress. the government of the united states is limited, and every citizen who truly loves the constitution, will resist its interference in those domestic affairs which the constitution has clearly and unequivocally left to the exclusive authority of the states: and every such citizen will also deprecate useless irritation among the several members of the union, and all reproach and crimination tending to alienate one portion of the country from another. the constitution has made it the duty of the president to take care that the laws be faithfully executed. mr. fillmore says that congress and the country may rest assured that, to the utmost of his ability, and to the extent of the powers vested in him, he will, at all times and in all places, take care that the laws be faithfully executed. the president says he shall endeavor to exercise the appointing power so as to elevate the standard of official employment and advance the prosperity and happiness of the people. no unfavorable change has taken place in our foreign relations. a convention has recently been negotiated with great britain to facilitate and protect the construction of a ship canal between the atlantic and pacific oceans: further provisions are required which shall designate and establish a free port at each end of the canal, and fix the distance from the shore within which belligerent maritime operations shall not be carried on. upon these points there is said to be little doubt that the two nations will come to an understanding. the company of american citizens who have acquired from the state of nicaragua the right of constructing a ship canal between the two oceans, through the territory of that state, have made progress in their preliminary arrangements. it is hoped that the guarantees of the treaty between the united states and great britain will be sufficient to secure the early completion of the work. citizens of the united states have undertaken the construction of a railroad across the isthmus of tehuantepec, under grants of the mexican government to a citizen of that republic. some further stipulations from mexico are still needed, however, to impart a feeling of security to those who may embark in the enterprise. negotiations to secure them are now in progress. a proposition made by the government of portugal to adjust and settle the claims of the united states against that government, has been accepted by the united states; and it is expected that a regular convention will be immediately negotiated for carrying the agreement into effect. the commissioner appointed under an act of congress to carry into effect the convention with brazil, of january , , has entered upon the performance of his duties: an extension of time, however, will be required, in consequence of the failure to receive documents which the government of brazil is to furnish. the collection in ports of the united states, of discriminating duties on the vessels of chili has been suspended. the total receipts into the treasury for the year ending june , , were $ , , : expenditures during the same period $ , , . the public debt has been reduced $ , . part of the public debt amounting to $ , , must be provided for within the next two years. a modification of the tariff is strongly recommended; so as to impose specific duties sufficient to raise the requisite revenue, and making such discrimination in favor of the industrial pursuits of our own country as to encourage home production without excluding foreign competition. under the present _ad valorem_ system extensive frauds have been practiced which show that it is impossible, under any system of _ad valorem_ duties levied upon the foreign cost or value of the article, to secure an honest observance and an effectual administration of the law. the establishment of a mint in california is recommended, and also of an agricultural bureau at washington. the attention of congress is called to the importance of opening a line of communication between the valley of the mississippi and the pacific. the necessity of a commissioner to examine the validity of land titles in california is also urged, as well as the propriety of extending, at an early day, our system of land laws, with such modifications as maybe necessary, over california, new mexico, and utah. further provision is required to protect our frontiers from hostile indians. the navy continues in a high state of efficiency. the report of the postmaster general is referred to for the condition of that department. the president says he has no doubt of the power of congress to make appropriations for works of internal improvement, and he therefore recommends that appropriations be made for completing such works as have been already begun, and for commencing such others as may seem to the wisdom of congress to be of public and general importance. the president also recommends that provision be made by law for the appointment of a commission to settle all private claims against the united states; and the appointment of a solicitor whose duty it shall be to represent the government before such commission, and protect it against all illegal, fraudulent, or unjust claims, which may be presented for their adjudication. the message closes by expressing the president's views in regard to the compromise measures of the last session. he believes those measures to have been required by the circumstances and condition of the country. he regards them as a settlement, in principle and substance a final settlement, of the dangerous and exciting subjects which they embrace. most of these subjects, indeed, are placed by them beyond the reach of legislation. the president recommends an adherence to the adjustment established by those measures, until time and experience shall demonstrate the necessity of further legislation to guard against evasion or abuse. by that adjustment, he adds, "we have been rescued from the wide and boundless agitation that surrounded us, and have a firm, distinct, and legal ground to rest upon. and the occasion, i trust, will justify me in exhorting my countrymen to rally upon and maintain that ground as the best if not the only means, of restoring peace and quiet to the country, and maintain inviolate the integrity of the union." the annual reports from the several departments were transmitted to congress with the message. they state in detail, as usual, the condition of the public service in each department of the government. we can only make room, of course, for a condensed summary of their contents. the report of mr. conrad, secretary of war, is brief and clearly written. the whole number of men at present enrolled in the u. s. army is , , including officers. of these, are under orders for texas, new mexico, california, and oregon, thus leaving but in all the rest of the states and territories. the secretary, in view of the recent alarming incursions of the indians, on the borders of texas and new mexico, urges an addition to the military establishment of the country. a history is given of the operations of infantry in new mexico since last august. mr. conrad expresses the opinion, that the only description of troops to put an end to these savage forays, is cavalry. he says the indians in that part of the country are excellent horsemen, and well skilled in the art of war. to extirpate them, he calls upon congress to raise one or more regiments of mounted men. in this connection, moreover, he thinks that if the inhabitants of new mexico were organized into a kind of protective militia of their own, much would be done to preserve the lives and property of those territories, independently of government relief. at all events the experiment, he says, is worth trying. the operations of that portion of the army employed in oregon are next recapitulated, as are also those engaged in the recent troubles with the indians in florida. the secretary entertains no apprehension of any farther disturbance there. a large portion of the troops are withdrawn from the state, but sufficient are left to meet any emergency which may possibly arise. the number of the indians there, we are told, is very small, probably not more than one hundred, who, however, occasion annoyance to the whites; and these the most efficient measures will be taken to remove. it is recommended that a small force be sent against the sioux tribe of indians, in order to compel obedience to the chippewa treaty, which they have broken, and which the united states is bound to see respected. he also refers to the reports of the officers appointed to examine the pacific coasts of the united states, in order to select suitable sites for fortifications and naval depots there. captain stansbury's expedition to the great salt lake, the secretary says, is understood to be completed, and a report of his operations is supposed to be now on its way home. other expeditions, similar to this, are also referred to. the secretary renews the recommendation of his predecessor for the formation of a retired list of officers of the army. an asylum for disabled and destitute soldiers is also urged upon the attention of congress. the financial estimates for this department, for the ensuing year, do not appear quite so favorable as could be wished. the sum required for the next fiscal year will considerably exceed the aggregate for the current year--an increase caused, among other things, by the act of last congress increasing the rank and file of all the companies serving on the western frontier--paying nearly double all the officers and men in california and oregon--and by increased expenditures in the quartermaster's department. the secretary points out several departments of the service where principles of economy may be introduced to advantage, and to them he calls the earnest and immediate attention of congress. the report of mr. graham, secretary of the navy, is also brief, and gives an account of the six different squadrons into which the naval force in commission is divided. the secretary remarks that occasional instances of british interference with vessels bearing our flag on the african coast have occurred, but that in each case explanations and apologies have been made to our officers on that station, and the reports thereof transmitted to the government. the existing _personnel_ of the navy embraces captains, commanders, lieutenants, surgeons, assistant surgeons, pursers, chaplains, professors of mathematics, masters in the line of promotion, passed and other midshipmen, and petty officers, seamen, landsmen, boys, etc. the secretary says that this system of officers is unshapely and disproportioned, there being great disparity between the head and the subordinate parts, and he recommends a great reduction in the three highest grades. the report discusses other questions respecting the organization and distribution of the service. the secretary notices the improvements going on in the navy yards in new york and other places; states that he has invited proposals for the construction of a dry dock in the pacific; says that the stores on hand in the various yards amount to $ , , . a reduction of the number of yards is discussed. the secretary says that our flag has been respected on every sea, and that the interests of commerce have been secure under its protection. the navy consists of ships of the line, razee, frigates, sloops of war, brigs, schooners, steam frigates, steamers of the first class, steamers of less than first class, and store ships. the ships in commission are one razee, frigates, sloops of war, brigs, schooners (coast survey), steam frigates, steamer of the first class, less than first class, ships of the line as receiving ships, steamer do., and one sloop do. four ships of the line and two frigates are on the stocks in process of construction, but the work suspended. besides these, there are the mail steamships on the new york and liverpool and new york and chagres lines, liable to naval duty in case of necessity. the report of mr. hall, the postmaster general, gives a gratifying picture of the operations of the post office department. the number of mail routes within the united states at the close of the fiscal year in june last, not including california and oregon, was : the aggregate length of such routes was , miles, and the number of contractors employed thereon, , . the annual transportation of the mails on these routes was , , miles, at an annual cost of $ , , , making the average cost about five cents and eight and a half mills per mile. the increase in the number of inland mail routes during the year was ; the increase in the length of mail routes was , miles; and the annual transportation of the year exceeded that of the previous year by , , miles, at an increased cost of $ , . there were, on the th of june last, five foreign mail routes, of the aggregate length of , miles, and the annual price of the transportation thereon, payable by this department, was $ , ; being an increase of $ on the cost of the preceding year. the increase of our mail service for the last fiscal year, over the year preceding, was about . per cent., and the increase in the total cost was about . per cent. the number of postmasters appointed during the year ending june , , was . of that number were appointed to fill vacancies occasioned by resignations; to fill vacancies occasioned by the decease of the previous incumbents; on a change of the sites of the offices for which they were appointed; on the removal of their predecessors, and were appointed on the establishment of new offices. the whole number of post offices in the united states at the end of that year was , . there were post offices established, and discontinued during the year. the gross revenue of the department for the year was as follows: from letter postage, including foreign postage, and stamps sold $ , , from newspapers and pamphlets , from fines from miscellaneous items , from receipts on acc't of dead letters , -------------- $ , , appropriation for franked matter , -------------- total $ , , from this sum should be deducted the amount received during the year for british postages, which are payable to that government, under the postal convention of december, , -------------- leaving for the gross revenue of the year $ , , total expenditures , , -------------- excess of receipts $ , the expenditures of the current year are estimated at $ , , , the increase consisting in the additional service provided for, and in the increased rates sometimes paid on the new contracts. no reliable estimate of receipts from postage for the year can be made. the increase for the year ending june , , was . per cent.; that for the year ending june , , only . per cent.; and that for the year ending june , , . per cent.; being an average, for the three years, of . per cent.; and the increase for the year ending june , , excluding the balance in favor of great britain was . per cent. it is believed that the increase for the current year will be at least per cent. over the receipts of last year: and this will give an aggregate revenue of $ , , , an excess of $ , over the estimated expenditures. the conveyance of foreign correspondence has become an important branch of the service. the means provided are large steamships in actual service, with four more to be added under existing contracts. efforts are in progress to arrange with foreign countries for the interchange of mails and for the uninterrupted transit of our correspondence in the mails of those countries to the countries beyond. the mail service in california and oregon is still in an unsettled state: some suggestions are made for improving its details. the postmaster general recommends a considerable reduction in the rates of postage: he advises that the inland letter postage be reduced to three cents, the single letter, when pre-paid, and be fixed at the uniform rate of five cents when not pre-paid; and also, that the postmaster general be required to reduce this pre-paid rate to two cents the single letter, whenever it shall be ascertained that the revenues of the department, after the reductions now recommended, shall have exceeded its expenditures by more than five per cent. for two consecutive fiscal years. he also recommends that twenty cents the single letter, be charged on all correspondence to and from the pacific coast, south america, the eastern continent and its islands, and points beyond either, and ten cents the single letter on all other sea-going letters, without the superaddition of inland postage; and that the provision which imposes an additional half cent postage upon newspapers, sent more than one hundred miles, and out of the state where they are mailed, be repealed, so as to leave the uniform inland postage on newspapers, sent to subscribers, from the office of publication, at one cent each. the postage upon pamphlets, periodicals, and other printed matter (except newspapers), mr. hall thinks, may be simplified and somewhat reduced, with advantage to the department. two cents for the pamphlet or periodical of the weight of two ounces or less, and one cent for every additional ounce or fraction of an ounce, is recommended as the inland rate upon all pamphlets, periodicals, and other printed matter; instead of the present rate of two and a half cents for the first ounce, and one cent for every additional ounce, or fraction of an ounce. for the sea-going charge on such matters, and on newspapers, twice the inland rate to and from the points to which it is proposed that the letter postage shall be ten cents, and four times the inland rate where the letter rate is twenty cents, is deemed a just and proper rate. the reductions recommended on printed matter are considerably less than those upon letters: and the reason of this is found in the fact that the rates of postage upon printed matter are now exceedingly low, when compared with the letter rates. the average postage on letters is estimated at about three dollars and sixteen cents per pound, and on newspapers or pamphlets at about sixteen cents per pound. after the reductions proposed, the average inland postage on letters will be about $ per pound when not prepaid, and $ per pound when pre-paid. the reduction recommended will probably reduce the revenue of the department for the first three or four years; but at the end of that period its revenues under the reduced rates will probably again equal its expenditures. to meet the temporary deficiency, additional appropriations from the treasury will probably be required unless congress should abolish the franking privilege, which is held to be the privilege of the constituent rather than of the representative. it is recommended, however, that if the franking privilege, and the privilege now accorded to newspaper proprietors of receiving exchange newspapers free of postage, be continued, the expense be paid out of the public treasury. the present laws provide for a semi-monthly mail from new york and new orleans to chagres, and for only a monthly mail from that point to san francisco. the defect has been partially supplied by an arrangement with the mail contractors, but the action of congress on the subject is still required. the report of mr. stuart, secretary of the department of the interior, presents a variety of interesting information concerning the various subjects which come under his supervision. the expenses of the department for the year have been $ , , ; those for the next year are estimated at $ , , . the report enters at some length into an explanation of the various items of this increase. the whole number of persons on the pension rolls of the united states is , ; the whole number who have drawn pensions during the first two quarters of the present year is , . the whole amount expended for pensions during the year is estimated at $ , , . the number of land warrants issued for revolutionary service is , ; and for the war of , , . the number of claims presented for service in the mexican war is , , and for scrip in lieu of land, , making a total of , . the number of claimants under the general bounty land law of the last session of congress is estimated at , . the sales of public lands during the first three quarters of have amounted to , acres; the amount sold in was , , . the amount located by mexican bounty land warrants during three quarters of the present year was , , , against , , , during the whole of last year. the aggregate amount disposed of in three quarters of was , , --in it was , , . the revenue derived from the sale of public lands has averaged about a million and a quarter of dollars per annum, for the last fifty years, above all expenses. the extension of our land system over our possessions on the pacific is strongly urged; and a commission is suggested to adjudicate on all questions of disputed titles to land in california. mr. stuart recommends the sale of the mineral lands, in fee simple to the highest bidder at public auction--in lots small enough to afford persons in moderate circumstances the opportunity of being bidders. the annexation of texas and our treaty with mexico, have added about , indians to our population; many of them are fierce in their disposition and predatory in their habits. further legislation for the protection of our people from them has become necessary. the secretary urges the necessity of a highway to the pacific; whether a railway, a plank road, or a turnpike would be most expedient, he says, can only be determined after a careful survey of the country and its resources shall have been made. he suggests the propriety of authorizing an immediate survey. the establishment of an agricultural bureau is urged, and statements are made of the steps taken in securing the census returns. several of the state legislatures are now in session, or have been during the past month. in several of them action has been taken upon the general question of slavery. in vermont a bill was passed for the protection of persons who may be claimed within that state as fugitive slaves. this bill provides ( .) that it shall be the duty of the state's attorneys within the several counties "to use all lawful means to protect, defend, and cause to be discharged" every person arrested or claimed as a fugitive slave; ( .) the application of any state's attorney in due form shall be sufficient authority for any one of the judges of the supreme court, or any circuit judge, to authorize the issuing a writ of _habeas corpus_, which shall be made returnable to the supreme or county court when in session, and in vacation before any of the judges aforesaid; ( .) that it shall be the duty of all judicial and executive officers in the state, whenever they shall have reason to believe that any inhabitant of the state is about to be arrested as a fugitive slave, to give notice thereof to the state's attorneys in their respective counties; ( .) that whenever the writ of _habeas corpus_ is granted in vacation, if upon the hearing of the same before any of the judges, the person arrested and claimed as a fugitive slave shall not be discharged, he shall be entitled to an appeal to the next stated term of the county court, on furnishing such bail and within such time as the judge granting the writ shall deem reasonable and proper; ( .) that the court to which such appeal is taken, or any other court to which a writ of _habeas corpus_ in behalf of any such alleged fugitive slave is made returnable, shall, on application, allow and direct a trial by jury on all questions of fact in issue between the parties, and the costs thereof shall be chargeable to the state. the bill passed both branches of the legislature with very little discussion, and was approved by the governor, nov. , . the virginia legislature assembled on the d of december. the message of governor floyd closes with some emphatic comments on the compromise measures of congress. the action of the last session on the subject, the governor says, has placed the union in the most momentous and difficult crisis through which it has ever passed. some of its enactments have produced a feeling of deep and bitter dissatisfaction at the south; while the law for the recovery of fugitive slaves has been met with a reception at the north little, if at all, short of open rebellion and utter defiance. this state of things, the governor says, has grown out of an "unwarrantable interference on the part of congress with the subject of slavery, and is another proof of the great danger which must ever follow any attempt on the part of that body to transcend the clear, well-defined limits set by the constitution to govern and control their action." the action of congress, it is held, has been grossly injurious to the south, for of the whole domain acquired from mexico, not a foot is left, worth having, for the occupation of the slaveholder. nothing ought to reconcile the south to this action, but the hope that it may settle forever all agitation of the question of slavery. but if peace and quiet can be thereby restored, if the constitution can be respected and the union maintained, these sacrifices, great as they are, may well be regarded as light in comparison with the objects attained. but should this expectation prove fallacious, and the slavery agitation be renewed, it will furnish, the governor says, "proof, convincing and conclusive, of that fixed and settled hostility to slavery on the part of the north which should and will satisfy every reasonable man that peace between us is impossible; and then a necessity stronger than all law, the necessity of self-preservation, will demand at our hands a separation from those who use the relationship of brotherhood only for the purpose of inflicting upon us the worst acts of malignant hostility." the supineness of the south upon this subject is very warmly censured, and the hostility evinced in the northern states toward the fugitive slave law is referred to as among the indications that peace and harmony have not been restored. virginia, and all the slaveholding states, he thinks, "can and ought, calmly and explicitly to declare that the repeal of the fugitive slave law, or any essential modification of it, is a virtual repeal of the union. the faithful execution of the law is the only means now left by which the union can be preserved with honor to ourselves and peace to the country. such a declaration on the part of the south will give strength and great moral weight to the conservative patriots at the north, now struggling for the constitution and the supremacy of the laws, who are, in truth, fighting the battle of the union, in the bosom of the non-slaveholding states. if, however, no consideration of prudence or patriotism can restrain the majority from the non-slaveholding states in their headlong career of usurpation and wrong, and should they repeal or essentially modify the fugitive slave law, the most prompt and decisive action 'will be required at your hands'. in either event, i would earnestly recommend that a convention of the people be called at once to take into consideration the mode and measure of redress, as well as the means of providing for our future security and peace." the governor of arkansas, in his message to the legislature of that state, objects to the admission of california, but contends that the evil can not be cured, and must be endured. he asks, "what could the south gain by resistance?" he also objects to president fillmore's message concerning texas. but, with regard to the fugitive slave law, he contends, if the north touch it, the "south can no longer, with honor to herself, maintain her present relations with the north." in mississippi the legislature convened in extra session on the th november, under a proclamation issued by governor quitman, to take into consideration the course to be pursued by the state in view of the recent measures of congress. on the first day of the session the governor sent in a message giving a history of the aggressions of the north, and recommending secession from the union. he says, "let the propositions be distinctly put to the non-slaveholding states that the wrongs of the south must be redressed, so far as it is in the power of congress to do so, by obtaining from california a concession of territory south of ° '; otherwise that they (the non-slaveholding states) must consent to such amendments of the constitution as shall hereafter secure the rights of the slaveholding states from further aggression. but, in the event of continued refusal to do so, i hesitate not to express my decided opinion that the only effectual remedy for the evil, which must continue to grow from year to year, is to be found in prompt and peaceable secession from the aggressive states." in georgia, the state convention, summoned to consider the best means of securing southern rights and interests, assembled at milledgeville, on the th of december. at the election of delegates to this convention, the issue made was between those in favor of disunion, and those opposed to it. the result showed a popular majority of about , in favor of the union; in seven counties only of the whole state, had the disunionists popular majorities. the legislature of texas met at austin, november th, and governor bell immediately sent in his message. he states that he anticipated the passage of the boundary bill by congress, but regrets that congress was no more specific in defining the mode of ascertaining and making known at the federal treasury the amount of debt for which the five millions of stock are to be retained. he considers that the creditors of texas must look to her alone, and not to the united states, for the settlement of her claims. in regard to the bonds issued by the late republic for double the amount of the original contracts, he thinks that between private individuals such would be void on account of usury. he, however, recommends that government should certainly pay to its creditors the full amount of benefits received, and interest on the amount from the time when it should have been paid. he also recommends that a law be passed, requiring all creditors holding claims against the late republic of texas, and for which revenues arising from import duties were specially pledged, to file releases in favor of the united states in respect to said claims, with the comptroller of the state within a specified time; and in default thereof, their claims against the united states for the liability of the said debts, growing out of transfer of revenue, under the articles of annexation, shall be considered as waived from mexico. on the d, a bill to accept the propositions of the boundary bill, was passed in both houses, there being in the senate but one, and in the house but five votes against it.--the party engaged in the survey of the upper rio grande have reported that forty miles above laredo is, and will continue to be, the head of steamboat navigation. the legislature of south carolina met in special session on the d of december, and the message of governor seabrook was received on the same day. the governor says that during the year he has purchased largely of muskets and rifles, and caused several thousand musket accoutrements to be manufactured at columbia. he wishes the legislature to authorize him to purchase eighteen brass field-pieces, to establish foundries for cannon and small-arms. he complains of the north on account of the incendiary resolutions of state legislatures; the sweeping denunciations emanating from abolition associations; the bitter and vindictive feelings of the press, the bar, and the pulpit: the inflammatory harangues to popular meetings; the encouragement and aid given to runaway slaves, &c., which unwarrantable proceedings have caused south carolina, for about one-third of her political existence, to present an almost uninterrupted scene of disquietude and excitement. he says that "the time has arrived to resume the exercise of the powers of self-protection, which, in the hour of unsuspecting confidence, we surrendered to foreign hands. we must reorganize our political system on some surer and safer basis. there is no power, moral or physical, that can prevent it. the event is indissolubly linked with its cause, and fixed as destiny." resolutions had been introduced into the legislature upon these subjects, but no action has been had upon them. the legislature of florida met on the th of november, and the governor's message was at once delivered. gov. brown, though a strong friend of the union, expresses serious concern for the perpetuity of the union, in consequence of the manifestations of northern sentiment on their obligations under the federal compact. he asks from the legislature authority to call a convention of the people of the state, in the event of the repeal of the fugitive slave bill, or the consummation of any other aggressive measure. the nashville convention adjourned on the th of november. resolutions were passed expressing attachment to a constitutional union, but declaring the right of any state to secede; expressing also the conviction that "the evils anticipated by the south, in forming this convention had been realized, in the passage of the recent compromise acts of congress. they further recommended to the south, not to go into any national convention for the nomination of president and vice-president of the united states, until the constitutional rights of the south were secured. they also recommended to the slaveholding states to go into convention, with a view to the restraint of further aggression, and if possible, to the restoration of the rights of the south. the tennessee delegation protested against the adoption of the resolutions, declaring the proceeding to be "unhallowed and unworthy of southern men." large public meetings have been held in various sections of the country in favor of the union and of the compromise measures of the last session of congress. one was held at philadelphia on the st of november, attended by six or seven thousand people, and numbering among its officers some of the most respectable citizens of philadelphia. hon. john sargeant presided, and speeches were made by messrs. dallas, j. r. ingersoll, rush, randall, and others. letters were received from the hon. messrs. clay, webster, cass, and other gentlemen of distinction, who were unable to be present. mr. randall, in his remarks, said, that the general impression, that the clause in the constitution requiring the return of fugitive slaves was the result of a compromise, was erroneous: the records of the convention would show that it was adopted unanimously, and without amendment. resolutions expressive of strong attachment to the constitution, of obligation to abide by its provisions, of determination to maintain the supremacy of the laws, of disapprobation of anti-slavery agitation, and of approval of the compromise measures, were adopted with much applause. a very large meeting of a similar character was held at boston, on the th, in faneuil hall. dr. j. c. warren, a descendant of general warren, who fell at bunker's hill, presided, and on taking the chair made an eloquent and patriotic speech. resolutions were adopted, asserting that the preservation of the constitution and union is the paramount duty of all classes; that the blessings flowing from the constitution vastly transcend in importance all other political considerations; that the laws of the land are equally binding on every state, and upon all citizens, and no one can refuse, or seem to refuse to obey them; that the measures of compromise passed by the last congress ought to be carried out by the people; that resistance to law is mischievous, and that all who advise those who may be the subject of any law, to resist, deserve the opprobrium of the community, and the severe penalty of the law; that at all times, and in all places, the citizens of boston will sustain the union, uphold the constitution, and enforce obedience to the law. speeches were made by b. r. curtis, esq., hon. b. f. hallett, and hon. rufus choate, which were received with enthusiastic applause. a union meeting was held at nashville, tennessee, on the d, which was characterized by unanimity and great enthusiasm. the speakers were, hon. andrew ewing, and hon. a. j. donaldson. resolutions were passed declaring that no state has the constitutional right to secede, and that any such attempt would be revolutionary, and its consequences entail civil strife and bloodshed; that the continual agitation of the slavery issue, will, if persisted in, lead to the total alienation of one section of the union from the other; that the people of the states have the right, whenever palpably, intolerably, and unconstitutionally oppressed, to throw off the chains that oppress them, but there is no present necessity for the exercise of this right that an attempt to repeal, or failure to enforce the fugitive slave law, will unite all the south, and most probably end in a total separation of the states; and that the compromise measures of congress meet their approbation, as the best that, under the circumstances, could be adopted, and they pledge themselves to give them hearty support. a union meeting was held at staunton, virginia, on the th of november, over which col. james crawford presided. resolutions were adopted declaring the readiness of those assembled to meet all good citizens of every section, and of every party, on the platform of the constitution, the compromise, and the union; and also expressing the belief that the maintenance of the compromise in all its parts, without modification or amendment, is essential to the preservation of the union. letters were read from a number of distinguished gentlemen who had been invited, but were unable to be present. a large meeting was held at manchester, n. h., on the th of november, at which resolutions were passed expressing devotion to the union, and a determination to stand by the compromise measures, and to resist all further agitation of the subject. a large union meeting was held in cincinnati, on the th of november, at which resolutions were adopted declaring their approval of, and determination to support, the measures of peace and compromise relative to the admission of california as a state; the establishment of the territorial governments of new mexico and utah; the settlement of the boundary question of texas; the abolition of the slave trade in the district of columbia; and the provision the more effectually to secure the observance of the constitutional duty to deliver up fugitives owing service or labor. they also declared that they condemned, and would oppose all forcible resistance to the execution of the law of the general government for the re-capture of fugitives owing service or labor; that they regard such law as constitutional--in accordance with the compromise which formed the union, and that they would sustain and enforce it by all proper and legal means, as a matter of constitutional compromise and obligation. and furthermore they declared that any effort to re-open the delicate and distracting questions settled and compromised by the compromise and peace measures passed during the late session of congress are factious, and should be disapproved and opposed. during the past month letters and speeches, upon the engrossing topic of the day, from some of the most eminent men in the country, have been given to the public, and have attracted a good deal of attention. they have been mainly on the side of the compromise measures of the last session of congress; as the agitation upon the other side, in the northern states at least, has for the present almost wholly ceased. a speech of very marked and characteristic ability was made by the hon. rufus choate, at the faneuil hall union meeting in boston. mr. c. thought that the union of these states was in manifest peril, mainly from a public opinion created by restless and unprincipled men. he traced, with great skill and in very graphic and eloquent language, the manner in which public opinion is moulded by the unceasing efforts of the press and the orator, and that it is only by a prolonged and voluntary educational process that the fine and strong spirit of nationality is made to penetrate the great mass of the people, and the full tide of american feeling to fill the mighty heart. he then depicted the manner in which hostility of sentiment and sympathy between different sections of the country has been created and is kept alive. coming, then, to the means by which danger to the union can be best averted, he said the first and foremost thing to be done was to accept that whole body of measures of compromise, by which the government has sought to compose the country, and then for every man to set himself to suppress the further political agitation of this whole subject. these measures were then referred to, one after the other, and the essential justice and expediency of each were declared. the two great political parties of the north, he said, ought at once to strike this whole subject from their respective issues. he was not for any amalgamation of parties, or for the formation of any new one: the two great parties had united for the settlement of this great question, and they could now revive the old creeds, return to their old positions, and so spare america that last calamity, the formation of parties according to geographical lines. the conscience of the community, moreover, is bound to discourage and modify the further agitation of the subject of slavery, in the spirit in which, thus far, that agitation has been carried on. it is a great error to suppose that conscience or philanthropy requires the constant agitation of this topic. we of the north have nothing whatever to do with slavery in the southern states, for we have solemnly covenanted with them that we will not interfere with it, and that we will perform certain duties growing out of it. those duties are obligatory upon us, and no pretense of a higher law can absolve us from them. these positions were presented by mr. choate with all his accustomed strength, and with even more than the warmth of feeling and profusion of illustration which distinguish all his efforts. mr. webster wrote a letter in reply to an invitation to attend the great union meeting at staunton, va., approving most heartily of the objects of the proposed meeting, and assuring them, of his hearty sympathy and his unchangeable purpose to co-operate with them and other good men in upholding the honor of the states, and the constitution of the government. political martyrdom, he declares, would be preferable to beholding the voluntary dismemberment of this glorious republic. "it is better to die while the honor of the country is untarnished, and the flag of the union still flying over our heads, than to live to behold that honor gone forever, and that flag prostrate in the dust." he assures them, from personal observation at the north, that through the masses of the northern people the general feeling and the great cry is, for the union, and for its preservation: and, "while there prevails a general purpose to maintain the union as it is, that purpose embraces, as its just and necessary means, a firm resolution of supporting the rights of all the states, precisely as they stand guaranteed and secured by the constitution. and you may depend upon it," he adds, "that every provision in that instrument in favor of the rights of virginia and the other southern states, and every constitutional act of congress, passed to uphold and enforce those rights, will be upheld and maintained not only by the power of the law, but also by the prevailing influence of public opinion. accidents may occur to defeat the execution of a law in a particular instance; misguided men may, it is possible, sometimes enable others to elude the claims of justice and the rights founded in solemn constitutional compact, but, on the whole, and in the end, the law will be executed and obeyed; the south will see that there is principle and patriotism, good sense and honesty, in the general minds of the north; and that among the great mass of intelligent citizens in that quarter, the general disposition to ask for justice is not stronger than the disposition to grant it to others." mr. webster closes his letter by urging the people of virginia to teach their young men to study the early history of the country, the feebleness of the confederation--and to trace the steps, the votes, the efforts, and the labor by which the present constitution was formed. he exhorts them to stand by their country, to stand by the work of their fathers, to stand by the union of the states, "and may almighty god prosper all our efforts in the cause of liberty, and in the cause of that united government which renders this people the happiest people upon which the sun ever shone!" hon. a. h. h. stuart, secretary of the interior, wrote a letter also on the same occasion in reply to a similar invitation. he expresses great satisfaction that meetings in behalf of the union are held throughout the country. he says he believes that the integrity of the union, and the peace of the country, will mainly depend on the course which the people of virginia may adopt in the present crisis. there has been a melancholy change in the feelings of the people toward the union, he thinks, within a few years past. then, nothing but his advanced age, the respect felt for his character, and the strongest professions of attachment to the union, prevented john quincy adams from public censure or expulsion for simply presenting a petition to congress for a dissolution of the union. now, dissolution is openly advocated in speeches, pamphlets, and the newspaper press. let the idea go abroad that virginia sanctions such sentiments as these, and our union is but a rope of sand. the only safe reliance, mr. stuart thinks, is for virginia to assume her old position of mediator and pacificator. "let her speak in language that can not be misunderstood. let her blend kindness with firmness. _but let no lingering doubt remain as to her loyalty to the union._" twenty years ago, when the union was in danger, general jackson declared that it must be preserved. general jackson slumbers in his grave, and there are men plotting disunion over his very ashes. but mr. stuart assures those to whom he writes, that we have a man at the head of the government "not less devoted to the union than jackson, and not less determined to use all the powers vested in him by the constitution to maintain it. he justly appreciates his obligations to maintain the integrity of the constitution, and to see that the laws are faithfully executed. he will know no distinction between the north and the south, but will enforce obedience to the laws every where." hon. h. w. hilliard, member of congress from alabama, has written a letter declining a re-nomination, and discussing at some length the present condition of public affairs. the events of the past year, instead of impairing the strength of our political system, have, in his judgment, really served to demonstrate it. there is a growing conviction in the mind of the whole nation that the constitution must be adhered to in its pristine spirit, and that, while it is adhered to, the republic will endure. he had no fear that the extension of our limits would enfeeble us. our progress is the spread of a great family, all bearing with them the law, the traditions, the sympathies, and the religion of those from whom they sprung. the true way of perpetuating our union is by multiplying the means of intercommunication, by making taxes as light as possible, by reducing postage, multiplying railroads, and bringing the pacific coast nearer to us by the early construction of one of those great highways. the scheme of retaliation, lately projected, of discriminating against the products of other states must be abandoned, and our whole legislation, state and national, must be guided by a comprehensive, national, and patriotic spirit. "these states must regard each other as kindred states; the constitution must be recognized in all of them as the supreme law; and the acts of congress, passed in accordance with its provisions, must be obeyed, and we must fix in our minds and in our hearts the idea that, as we have had a common origin, we must have a common destiny." the measures of the last session must be regarded as a final adjustment of the disturbing questions growing out of slavery. mr. h. exhorts to a conciliatory and a patriotic spirit. "let us forbear," he says, "any hostile acts on our own part. i certainly desire to see in the midst of the great agricultural regions of the south a varied industry, which shall rival that of the north, and which shall spread over our fertile plains all the embellishments which wealth and a high civilization can bestow. i desire, too, to see a direct trade with foreign countries carried on through southern ports. but i desire to see all this brought about by the enterprise and the energy of our people, entering into a bold and generous competition with those of the other states. we should seek to make alabama a great and wealthy state; and we can do this by the vigorous development of our resources. our fertile soil, our noble streams, our great cotton crop, our exhaustless mineral wealth, our population intelligent, industrious, enterprising, and religious--these will enable us to advance with a steady and rapid march in civilization, without resorting to legislative expedients to tax the products of other states associated with us in a common government, one of the great objects of which is, to keep open the channels of intercommunication." hon. levi woodbury wrote a letter expressing regret that he could not attend the union meeting held at manchester, n. h., on the th of november. he says that without more forbearance as to agitation of the subject of slavery, it is his solemn conviction, the union will be placed in fearful jeopardy. he mentions as an alarming sign of the times the fact that any portion of our law-abiding community should either recommend forcible resistance to the laws, or actually participate in measures designed to overawe the constituted authorities, and defeat the execution of legal precepts issued by those authorities. this, he says, is in direct hostility to the injunctions of washington in his farewell address to his grateful countrymen; and seems no less hostile and derogatory to every sound principle for sustaining public order and obedience to what the legislative agents of the people and the states have enacted. a letter from mr. webster, written on the same occasion, also alludes to the disposition which is abroad to evade the laws, and to resist them so far as it can be done consistently with personal safety. a "still more extravagant notion," he says, "is sometimes entertained, which is, that individuals may judge of their rights and duties, under the constitution and the laws, by some rule which, according to their idea, is above both the constitution and the laws." both these positions are denounced as at war with all government and with all morality. "it is time," mr. webster adds, "that discord and animosity should cease. it is time that a better understanding and more friendly sentiments were revived between the north and the south. and i am sure that all wise and good men will see the propriety of forbearing from renewing agitation by attempts to repeal the late measures, or any of them. i do not see that they contain unconstitutional or alarming principles, or that they forebode the infliction of wrong or injury. when real and actual evil arises, if it shall arise, the laws ought to be amended or repealed; but in the absence of imminent danger i see no reason at present for renewed controversy or contention." mr. clay, upon formal invitation of that body, visited the legislature of kentucky on the th of november. he was welcomed by the speaker of the house in some brief and appropriate remarks to which he responded at considerable length. he spoke mainly of the measures of the session in which he had borne so conspicuous a part. the session, he said, opened under peculiarly unfavorable auspices. the sentiment of disunion was openly avowed, and a sectional convention of delegates had been assembled, the tendency of which was to break up the confederacy. in common with others, mr. clay said he had foreseen the coming storm, and it was the hope that he might assist in allaying it that led him to return to the senate. the subject had long engaged his most anxious thoughts, and the result of his reflections was the series of propositions which he presented to congress soon after the opening of the session. a committee of thirteen was afterward appointed to which the whole matter was referred and they reported substantially the same measures which he had proposed. at that time he was decidedly in favor of the immediate admission of california into the union as a separate and distinct measure; but subsequent observation of the hostility which it encountered led him to modify his opinions, and unite it with kindred measures in one common bill. in excluding the wilmot proviso, which had previously been the great aim and object of the south, they obtained a complete triumph--and obtained it, too, by the liberal, magnanimous and patriotic aid of the northern members. it is true they may never be able to establish slavery in any of this newly acquired territory; but that is not the fault of congress, which has adhered strictly to the policy of non-intervention, but of the people of the territory themselves to whom the whole subject has been committed. the boundary of texas gave rise to by far the most intricate and perplexing question of the session. various opinions were held in regard to it by various interests, and the matter seemed to him eminently one for compromise and amicable adjustment. we gave what seems a large sum (ten millions of dollars), to texas for relinquishing her claim, but half this amount we owed her creditors for having taken the revenues to which they looked for payment of their debts. mr. clay said he voted the money very cheerfully, because he believed it would be applied to the payment of her public debt; and he wished that we had some legitimate ground for giving to every debtor state in the union money enough to pay all its debts, and restore its credit wherever it has been tarnished. of the fugitive slave bill mr. clay said simply that its object was simply to give fair, full, and efficacious effect to the constitutional provision for the surrender of fugitives. the act abolishing the slave trade in the district of columbia, was of little practical importance to southern interests, while it was demanded by every consideration of humanity and of national self-respect. in looking at the result of the whole, mr. clay thought that neither party, so far as california is concerned, could be said to have lost or gained any thing, while in regard to the territorial bills and the fugitive slave law the south had gained all it could reasonably claim. the effect of these measures, mr. clay thought, would be to allay agitation and pacify and harmonize the country. at all events it will greatly circumscribe the field of agitation: for none of these measures can be opened for renewed action except the fugitive slave bill; and when the dispute is narrowed down to that single ground the slaveholding states have decidedly the advantage. the constitution is with them, the right is with them, and the state which shall oppose the execution of the law will place itself manifestly in the wrong. it was not to be expected that these measures would lead to immediate and general acquiescence on the part of the ultras of either section; but mr. clay did confidently anticipate that all their mad efforts would be put down by the intelligence, the patriotism, and the love of union of the people of the various states. mr. clay went on to draw a picture of the condition of the country, and especially of the slaveholding states, in the event of a dissolution of the union. under the present law the south will not probably recover all their fugitive slaves; but they will recover some of them. but in the event of disunion not one could be demanded. mr. clay said he had often been asked when he would consent to a dissolution of the union. he answered _never_, because he could conceive of no possible contingency that would make it for the interest and happiness of the people to break up this glorious confederacy. he would yield to it, if congress were to usurp a power, which he was sure, it never would, of abolishing slavery within the states, for in the contingency of such a usurpation we should be in a better condition as to slavery out of the union than in it. he believed that the time would come, at some very distant day, when the density of the population of the united states would be so great that free labor would be cheaper than slave labor, and that then the slaves would be set free; and that africa would be competent to receive, by colonization from america, all the descendants of its own race. if the agitation of this subject should be continued, it must lead to the formation of two parties--one for the union and the other against it. if such a division should become necessary, he announced himself a member of the union party what ever might be its elements. he would go further. "i have had," said he, "great hopes and confidence in the principles of the whig party, as being most likely to conduce to the honor, to the prosperity, and the glory of my country. but if it is to be merged into a contemptible abolition party, and if abolitionism is to be engrafted on the whig creed, from that moment i renounce the party, and cease to be a whig. i go yet a step further: if i am alive, i will give my humble support for the presidency to that man, to whatever party he may belong, who is uncontaminated by fanaticism, rather than to one who, crying out all the time and aloud that he is a whig, maintains doctrines utterly subversive of the constitution and the union." mr. clay said that the events of the last few months had thrown together men of opposite parties, and he could say with truth and pleasure that during the late session he was in conference quite as often, if not oftener, with democrats than whigs; and he "found in the democratic party quite as much patriotism, devotion to the union, honor, and probity as in the other party." gen. james hamilton has recently addressed a somewhat remarkable letter to the people of south carolina upon the state of public affairs and the course which he desires his own state to pursue. gen. h. was the governor of south carolina during the nullification crisis, and is fully imbued with the spirit of resistance to the union. but he is also a man of great practical sagacity, and after carefully surveying the whole field, he is convinced that action now on the part of south carolina would be ruinous to her cause. he has been all through the southern states, and says he is satisfied that, in the event of such action, there is not another southern state that would join her in it. he sketches the state of feeling in each of the states he has visited, and represents the union party as decidedly in the ascendant in every one of them. he proceeds to say that although some of the recent measures of congress, and particularly the admission of california, were exceedingly unjust to the south, yet they afford no justification for a disruption of the confederacy. many, he says, believe that in the event of secession a collision will arise with the federal government, and south carolina would have the sympathy and the aid of the other southern states. but he does not believe the federal government would bring on any such collision; he thinks they would only prevent goods from entering their ports, carry the mail directly past them, and transfer all the commerce which they now enjoy to savannah. he thinks south carolina should await the result of the great battle in the north, between those who stand up for the rights of the south and their opponents. if the latter prevail and elect their president two years hence, the fugitive slave law will be repealed, slavery will be abolished in the district of columbia, and a crisis will then occur which will inevitably unite the south. he urges them to await this event. the letter is written with great energy and eloquence, and will have a wide and marked influence upon public sentiment. a complimentary public dinner was given to hon. john m. clayton at wilmington, on the th of november, by his political friends. mr. clayton, in reply to a complimentary toast, made an extended and eloquent speech, mainly in vindication of the administration of gen. taylor from the reproach which political opponents had thrown upon it. he showed that in proposing to admit california as a state, and to organize the territories of new mexico and utah as states, with such constitutions as their inhabitants might see fit to frame, gen. taylor only followed the recommendations which had been made by president polk in , which had been approved by mr. calhoun in , and which had then received the support of the great body of the political friends of both those statesmen. and yet his course was most bitterly opposed by the very persons who had previously approved the same principles. mr. clayton said he did not believe, and he never had believed, that there was any danger of disunion from the adoption of general taylor's recommendations, and he ridiculed the clamor and the apprehension, that had been aroused upon the subject. the greatest obstruction both to the president and the country, arose out of the attempt to embody all the measures on the subject in a single bill; and yet the effort had been made to throw the blame of its failure upon the president and his cabinet. his death showed the groundlessness of the charge, for the omnibus immediately failed. mr. clayton went on at considerable length to review the policy, both foreign and domestic, of the late administration, and to vindicate it from all the slanders and obloquy heaped upon it. he afterward, in response to a remark nominating general scott as the next candidate for the presidency, gave a glowing and eloquent sketch of the life and military career of that eminent soldier. hon. joel r. poinsett has written a letter to his fellow-citizens of south carolina, remonstrating earnestly against the scheme of secession which they seem inclined to adopt. he vindicates each of the compromise measures from the objections urged against it, and insists that there is no such thing under the constitution as a right of secession. such a step could only result in the injury and ruin of south carolina, and he therefore earnestly exhorts them not to venture upon it. a letter from hon. richard rush, formerly u. s. minister in france, has also been published, condemning very severely the anti-slavery agitation of the day, and urging the necessity of concession and harmony in order to the preservation of the union. hon. george thompson, a member of the british parliament somewhat celebrated for his oratorical efforts in england and the united states in behalf of abolition, is now in this country. arrangements had been made by the anti-slavery men in boston to give him a public reception at faneuil hall on his arrival. the meeting on the occasion was very large. edmund quincy presided. w. l. garrison read an address detailing mr. thompson's exertions on behalf of abolition, and mentioning the facts attending his expulsion from this country fifteen years ago. the latter part of the address was interrupted by considerable noise, and several speakers who afterward attempted to address the meeting were not permitted to do so. no violence was attempted, but the meeting was compelled to disperse. mr. thompson has since been lecturing in boston and other towns of massachusetts on various topics not connected with slavery. his audiences have been good and he has been undisturbed. we have received intelligence from california, by the arrival of the regular mail steamers, to the st of november. the cholera had made its appearance at sacramento city, but had not been very virulent or destructive. the steamer sagamore burst her boilers on the th of october, while lying at her wharf at san francisco, killing ten or fifteen persons and seriously injuring a number of others. the admission of california into the union was celebrated on the th of october with great _éclat_ at san francisco. an address was delivered by hon. nathaniel bennett, and a splendid ball was given in the evening. an official statement shows that from nov. , , to sept. , , the total amount of bullion cleared from san francisco was $ , , , and the amount received was $ , , . business in california was very good. the mines continued to yield satisfactory returns. the gold deposits on the upper sacramento are worked with increased industry and success. those on the klamath and its tributaries, which have been discovered during the past year, prove to be exceedingly productive. not less than a thousand persons have been engaged in working them within twenty miles of the mouth of the river, and their returns are said to average fully an ounce per day. the klamath river is about a mile wide at its mouth, which is easy of access, and for forty miles up the stream there is no interruption to steamboat navigation. the junction of the salmon river is ninety miles above. midway between these points the river travel is impeded by rocks, so that boats can not pass; but, after leaving these, there is no obstacle up to the falls at the mouth of salmon river. both here and at the rocks, town sites have been selected. twenty miles above the salmon, the trinity river comes into the klamath. the land around these rivers is, with little exception, favorable to agricultural purposes. from oregon we have intelligence to the th of october. the rainy season had set in, but not with much severity. the oregon spectator states that emigrants from the cascade mountains were arriving every day, though quite a number were still on the way. it is feared that they will suffer severely, especially from falling snow, though the government was doing all in its power for their relief. quite a number of them intend to winter on the columbia, between the cascades and dalles, as they find excellent food for their cattle in that section. the amount of wheat grown in the territory during the past season is estimated at , bushels. mexico. we have intelligence from the city of mexico to november th. the question of the presidency, it is conceded, is definitely settled in favor of arista. the financial condition of the republic still engages the attention of congress, which body is yet occupied in arranging the interior and foreign debt. general thomas reguena died on the th ultimo, at guadalajara, and general manuel romero on the st, at san louis potosi. general joaquin rea, living at a village called minerva, was, about the same time, murdered by one felipe delgado, and a band of scoundrels under his command. the _siglo_ announces positively that the mexican government has concluded two contracts with colonel ramsey, for the transportation of foreign mails through the republic. the mexican government will receive $ for every pounds of correspondence and cents for every pounds of newspapers. by another contract there is to be communication between new orleans and vera cruz twice a month, between new york and vera cruz, by the way of havana, twice a month, and between a mexican port and san francisco, once a month. it appears that at its session of the th of july last, the mexican geographical and statistical society elected daniel webster a corresponding member. the _monitor republicane_ learns by letters from new grenada, that the jesuits have been expelled from that country. the congress of that republic confirmed the decree of the government with great unanimity. great britain. public attention in england continues to be absorbed by the bitter controversies excited by the pope's bull extending his jurisdiction over that kingdom. immense public meetings have been held in several of the principal cities of the kingdom, at which the roman catholic system has been unsparingly denounced. the newspaper press, daily and weekly, teems with articles upon the subject, and pamphlets have been issued by several of the most eminent dignitaries of both the catholic and the established churches. the government has been driven to take part in the war of words, and a letter from the premier, lord john russell, to the bishop of durham, has been published, in which the proceedings of the pope are severely censured, and contemptuous expressions are used concerning the ceremonials of the roman catholic worship. the newly appointed cardinal wiseman, has issued an able, elaborate, and temperate "appeal to the reason and good feeling of the english people," against the violent clamor by which he and his church have been assailed. this paper seeks to vindicate the proceeding of the pope from censure, by showing that there is nothing in it inconsistent, in any way, with loyalty to the english government, as the only authority sought to be exercised is spiritual and voluntary. the letter of the premier is very closely analyzed, and sharp reference is made to the complaints made by the chapter of westminster, of his assuming the archiepiscopal title. he proposes a "fair division" of the two different parts embraced in westminster proper. one comprises the stately abbey, with its adjacent palaces and royal parks: this he does not covet: to it "the duties of the dean and chapter are mainly confined, and they shall range there undisturbed." he looks for his field of labor to another quarter. "close under the abbey of westminster," he says, "there lie concealed labyrinths of lanes and courts, and alleys and slums, nests of ignorance, vice, depravity, and crime, as well as of squalor, wretchedness, and disease; whose atmosphere is typhus, whose ventilation is cholera; in which swarms a huge and almost countless population, in great measure, nominally at least, catholic; haunts of filth, which no sewerage committee can reach--dark corners, which no lighting board can brighten. this is the part of westminster which alone i covet, and which i shall be glad to claim and visit, as a blessed pasture in which sheep of holy church are to be tended, in which a bishop's godly work has to be done, of consoling, converting, and preserving;" and if the wealth of the abbey is to remain stagnant and not diffusive, he trusts there will be no jealousy of one who, by whatever name, is willing to make the latter his care without interfering with the former. the letter is written with great ability, and is well calculated to make a deep impression. the dignitaries of the english church have also written various letters upon the subject, all in the same tone, modified only by the individual temper of the several writers. large and influential public meetings have been held at liverpool, bristol, and other cities. the friends of law reform in england took advantage of the recent visit of d.d. field, esq., of new york, one of the commissioners for revising the code of that state, to revive the general interest felt in the same subject in england. mr. field addressed the law amendment society upon the subject, at its request: his statements were heard with marked attention, and excited a good deal of interest. the chamber of commerce at manchester has taken up the promotion of the growth of cotton in india with much earnestness. the british government could not be induced, last session of parliament, to respond to the wishes of the chamber, and appoint a commissioner to proceed to india to inquire into the obstacles which prevented an increased growth of cotton in that country. the chamber now entertains the idea of sending a private commission to india. the gentleman to whom this important and responsible service will be entrusted is mr. alexander mackay, the author of "the western world," who is well known in the united states, and whose eminent fitness for so responsible a mission is universally conceded. the preparations for the great exhibition of are advancing very rapidly. the building is rapidly going up, some twelve hundred workmen being constantly engaged upon it, and it every day exhibits some new features. as the commissioners anticipated, the demand for space from the various english local committees far exceeds all possible accommodation that can be provided in the building for the english exhibitors. the commissioners have not yet been able to digest the returns, so as to decide upon the necessary reduction of space to be made in each case, or to determine upon any principle by which that reduction is to be regulated. all parties will be accommodated so far as possible. messrs. clowes and spicer, the celebrated printers, have obtained the contract for printing the catalogue of the exhibition. they give a premium of three thousand pounds for the privilege, and are to pay twopence for every catalogue sold, for the benefit of the exhibition. the catalogue will be sold for one shilling. another catalogue will be printed in several languages, and sold at an increased price. a terrible storm swept the coast of ireland during the month of november. great damage was done to shipping, and an emigrant ship, named the edmond, from limerick to new york, was lost, with about a hundred of her passengers. germany. the chief centre of political interest at the present moment is germany;--and as the points out of which the controversy between prussia and austria has grown, are somewhat complicated, a general view of the political character and relations of the german states may be of interest. after the fall of napoleon, the states formerly composing the german empire, entered into a confederation. the parties were austria and prussia for their german territories, denmark for holstein, the netherlands for luxembourg, and independent states and free cities, comprising a territory of , square miles, and containing at present , , inhabitants. the principal points agreed to in this confederation were as follows: that all the members possess equal rights; they bind themselves for the security of each and all from all foreign attacks; they guarantee to each the possession of its german territories; any member to be at liberty to enter into any league or treaty, not endangering the security of the confederation, or any of its members, except in case of war declared by the confederation, when no member can enter into any separate negotiation or treaty; the members not to make war upon each other, but to submit all differences to the decision of the diet, whose final action shall be conclusive. the affairs of the confederation to be managed by a diet, meeting at frankfort on the maine, at which austria presides, and in which the larger states have respectively two, three, and four votes, and the smaller one each, the whole number of votes being ; in ordinary matters the diet to be represented by a committee of plenipotentiaries, each of the larger states having one, and several of the smaller being united in the choice of one. the army of the confederation was fixed, in , at , men, to be furnished by the states in a fixed proportion. the inconveniences of this cumbrous organization are apparent. one member might be at war with any power, while the others were at peace: thus the confederation took no part in the italian and hungarian warfare against austria, for it guaranteed to her only the possession of her german possessions, and in schleswig-holstein, bavarian troops were in the service of denmark, and prussian soldiers in that of the duchies. then, each state being absolutely independent, could and did establish custom-houses, and levy tolls and duties upon its own frontier, to the great disadvantage of commerce. this at last became so intolerable, that a general customs-union (zollverein) was formed, under the auspices of prussia, by which duties are levied only upon the common frontier, and the proceeds distributed among the states, in the ratio of their population. the customs-union embraces more than four-fifths of germany, with the exception of austria. a strong desire has always prevailed throughout germany for the construction of a united government, which should take the place of the petty principalities into which the country is divided. thus alone can the german people, having a common origin, speaking a common language, and possessing common interests, assume that rank in the political world to which their numbers, position, and civilization entitle them. but this desire on the part of the people, has of course, been strenuously opposed by the princes, although circumstances have at times induced the prussian government to favor the movement, in the expectation of becoming the leading power in the new state, or rather of prussianizing all germany. this question is the true origin of the difficulties in schleswig-holstein, and the present threatening aspect of affairs, growing out of the disputes in hesse-cassel. the duchy of holstein is the northernmost state of germany, lying upon the baltic, on which it possesses one or two good seaports. the sovereign is the king of denmark--not, however, as such, but as duke of holstein. the present king of denmark is without male heirs, and upon his demise the crown will pass to the female line. but it is contended that the principle of the salic law, excluding females from the right of succession applies to holstein, in which case the heir of the duchy is the grand-duke of oldenburg, a german prince. in order to avoid the separation of holstein from denmark, the king issued a patent conforming the succession in holstein to that of denmark. the inhabitants of the duchy, whose sympathies are with germany rather than denmark, resisted; appointed a provisional government, and appealed for protection to germany. at that time it seemed that one of the many endeavors to establish a strict german confederation had succeeded; and it became an object to attach holstein to this confederation, in order to gain the command of the baltic. prussia supported the duchy; austria and bavaria opposed it, as favoring the designs of prussia. the other states of europe were opposed to the separation of holstein from denmark, upon the general conservative principle of maintaining things upon their old footing, as well as from an unwillingness to allow the commerce of the baltic to fall wholly under the control of the zollverein. meanwhile "the year of revolutions," , had passed, and, by common consent of all parties, the old frankfort diet was held to be virtually abolished, and delegates were called together to endeavor to construct a new constitution. the hungarian revolt was shaking austria to its centre, and prussia, true to her ancient instinct of aggrandizement, which has raised her from a petty principality to the rank of one of the great powers, took advantage of the compulsory concessions of austria to her non-german subjects, to arouse the jealousy of the german states, and almost succeeded in forming a confederation, with herself at the head. but russia having thrown her sword into the scale, and decided the balance against hungary, austria had leisure to attend to her german affairs. she soon succeeded in detaching state after state from the prussian alliance, and began to insist upon the recognition of the old frankfort diet, which, was supposed to be dead and buried under the ruins of the two last eventful years. at this juncture, occurred the difficulties in the electorate of hesse-cassel. the elector, resisted in his attempt to levy taxes contrary to the constitution he had himself sanctioned, fled, and demanded the protection of the diet, which was granted, for that body was composed of the representatives of the sovereigns, and knew nothing of constitutions. the diet ordered the austrian and bavarian contingents of the federal troops to march into the electorate and reinstate the elector. but prussia, being nearer to the scene of action threw her own troops into the electorate; not, however, avowing an intention of supporting the inhabitants in their opposition, but under the mere pretense of making use of the right of way from one portion of her territory to the other, between which hesse-cassel intervenes. austria, in the name of the diet, demanded that these prussian troops should be withdrawn from the electorate, upon which prussia at once placed her whole army upon the war-footing. thus, at the latest advices, the bodies of troops ready for hostilities, occupy the electorate, and it is a matter of absolute uncertainty whether peace or war will ensue. in the mean while a conference had been held at warsaw, between austria, prussia, and russia, in which an attempt was made to settle the affairs of germany. the decision made by this conference was so decidedly adverse to prussia, that count brandenburg, the prussian minister, was so chagrined at the disgrace of his country, that he fell into a delirious fever, from which he died. austria alone is at the present time altogether unequal to a war with prussia; but it is supposed that russia will support austria in the event of a war. her reasons for so doing are obvious: if prussia succeeds in forming a strong german confederation, a power will be constituted capable of interposing an effectual barrier to her designs; whereas austria is so far subservient to russia, that her supremacy in germany is almost equivalent to russian control over the west of europe. the attitude of austria and prussia during the past month has been exceedingly belligerent and fears have been very generally entertained that war would be the result of the existing contentions. it seems, however, to be conceded that austria is desirous of peace and that the king of prussia really shares these pacific inclinations; but fears are entertained that the spirit of the people may have been so thoroughly aroused as to render nugatory any negotiations for peace which their rulers may conclude. austria demands the right of passage through brunswick of her army, ordered to interfere in the affairs of the duchies; this prussia has positively refused except with guarantees which will not be granted. the prussian chamber met at berlin on the st of november. the speech from the throne was pronounced by the king in person. he alluded to the commencement and vigorous prosecution of a railway system, to the extension of postal accommodations, and to the flourishing condition of commerce and navigation. in reference to his relations with germany, the king declared his firm purpose to maintain the position he had taken, and said that he should soon stand more strongly armed, in its support, than he had been in ancient or modern times. the tone of the speech was considered warlike, and it had a corresponding effect upon the money market. but the public mind recovered from this feeling in the course of a day or two. the public feeling throughout prussia is described by correspondents as being highly excited. all classes are said to be desirous of war, and it is even feared that, if the king should consent to peace, he will not be sustained by his people, but will be driven to abdication and exile. it is understood, meantime, that the russian, english, and french cabinets are using all their legitimate influence to prevent an appeal to arms. some of the minor powers that sought the protection of prussia in the union are by no means satisfied with the turn affairs have taken. baden has separated itself entirely from the connection, and declares "that, since prussia has abandoned the union, a mere alliance for protection and mutual representation in the free conference does not answer its expectations. it returns to the full possession of its independence." the prussian troops are also entirely recalled from the principality. the prussian armament is pressed forward vigorously. the fortresses are being placed in a state of defense; the works begun at erfurth last summer are continued, and the inhabitants have begun to lay in stocks of provisions as if a siege were to be immediately expected. the town contains a strong garrison; the citadel is stored with provisions for two months, besides a number of live cattle. france. the opening of the assembly and the message of the president, have been the principal events of political interest in france during the past month. the message was an able and elaborate presentation of the affairs of france; the president pledges himself in it, to abide by the requirements of the constitution, and says that the great necessity for france is repose and order. the message was received with general favor by the assembly and people. its frankness and its firmness restored confidence and strengthened the government. a decree has been issued for increasing the troops on the rhine frontier by calling into activity , men of the , still to be disposed of out of the contingent of . the minister of war declares the political movements in germany to be the cause of this increase. the _moniteur du soir_ having stated that general cavaignac had declared that, in the event of louis napoleon being re-elected as president of the republic, he (general cavaignac), "would submit with respect to the will of the nation, and place his affections and his sword at the disposal of the country and its executive representative," general cavaignac has published a letter in the journals, in which he denies having ever used language from which it could be inferred "that he had said, either directly or indirectly, that he was ever disposed to place his affections and his sword at the service of the person who, after having sworn the observation of the constitution of the country, would accept a candidature and an election which are forbidden by that constitution." a letter written by the duke de nemours to m. guizot has excited a good deal of remark, though it has not been made public. it is said to be a most luminous _exposé_ of the present state of affairs in france, and that it is calculated to do away in some measure with the favorable effect produced by the message. m. guizot has read it to several of his friends. turkey. we have intelligence of serious collisions between the turks and christians in both asiatic and european turkey. in the former, the religious zeal of the turks prompts them to fanatical excesses against the christian population; in the latter, an obstinate struggle for political supremacy has already commenced between the respective followers of christ and mohammed. the sultan seems fated soon to be no more than the protector of european turkey, for bulgaria has been already made a principality as little dependent on the porte as servia and bosnia; the herzegovina and albania are evidently aiming at the same privilege. indeed the present position of turkey appears any thing but satisfactory. the persecution of the christians in asiatic turkey is terrible. on the th of october an attack was to have been made on the christians at liwno, and one actually did take place on the th at aleppo. a body of turks and arabs fell upon the christians during the night, and a fearful massacre took place. the greek bishop was among those murdered. the pacha locked himself up in the fortress, and the troops did not attempt to interfere. at monasta, a fanatical dervish, who professed to be inspired, killed a christian boy of fourteen years of age, and a certain guiseppe thomaso, an italian emigrant, in the open street. accounts from beyrout of the th of november state that for some years past the turkish government has been desirous of subjecting the syrian population to the recruitment system, but so great was the dissatisfaction the idea caused among the people that it refrained from doing so. at last, in september, it determined to execute the design, and it began operations. the people murmured; and bands of armed men, commanded by the emirs mohamet and hassan, of the family of harfourch, commonly known as the emirs of baalbeck, advanced toward damascus, but were dispersed by the turkish troops. it was believed that, after this, the recruiting would take place quietly, but the two emirs reappeared at the beginning of october in the environs of damascus at the head of between and men. a corps of the regular army, consisting of two battalions of regular infantry, two squadrons of cavalry, four guns, and irregulars, under mustapha pacha, marched to meet them, and succeeded on the th of october in surrounding them in the defiles near maloulah, six hours' distance from damascus. the insurgents were obliged to give battle, and were completely defeated, with a loss of men; the two emirs were captured. the loss of the troops was only thirty men. the village of maloulah is inhabited principally by christians, and the turkish soldiers, exasperated at the resistance they made, pillaged some houses, carried off women, killed a catholic monk, wounded another, and so seriously wounded a schismatic greek bishop that he died afterward. they also completely sacked two convents, pretending that they contained gunpowder, and that insurgents had taken refuge in them. m. de valbezene, the french consul at damascus, exerted himself on behalf of the christians, and, through his intervention, the seraskier of the army of arabia promised assistance to the villages, and ordered the troops forthwith to give up all the articles taken from the churches and convents. the day after the battle, the emirs were made to walk through the streets of damascus in their shirts, with irons on their feet, and street-brooms on their shoulders. they were to have been subjected to the same punishment during five days, but suddenly they were sent off to beyrout, from whence they were forwarded to constantinople. this measure was taken in consequence of the breaking out of the revolt at aleppo. literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. united states. the past month has been more fruitful of events of interest in the world of art than its predecessor. this was to be expected; for the opening of what is called "the season," and the approach of the christmas holidays rarely pass without the production of novelties in most of the various walks of art. booksellers, print-publishers, jewelers, and managers of places of public amusement, all, in fact, who minister to taste and luxury, reserve for december their finest and most elaborate productions; and an examination of their advertisements, even, will afford the means of judging the point of refinement attained by the public mind, whose demands they at once create and supply. a decided improvement, year by year, is to be noticed in the style of books and other articles intended for christmas and new-year gifts. the annuals which, some five or six years ago, began to droop, are now dead, utterly extinct. their exaggerated romantic prose, their diluted della cruscan poetry, their great-eyed, smooth-cheeked, straight-nosed, little-mouthed, small-waisted beauties, have passed from their former world into the happy and congenial state of the ladies' magazines, where they will again have their day, and again disappear before advancing taste and superior education. the place of the annuals is occupied, we will not say supplied, by editions of the great poets and writers of prose fiction, illustrated in the highest style of the steel and wood engraver. some of the first artists of the day are now employed by publishers to furnish designs for such publications, and the eagerness with which they are bought, and the discriminating admiration which they, on the whole, receive, when regarded in connection with the generous support given to art journals, art unions, and public galleries, show in the public mind an increasing healthiness and soundness of taste, as well as a greater interest in matters of art. prominent among events of moment in this department, is the opening to the public, at the düsseldorf gallery, of lessing's great picture, _the martyrdom of huss_. the düsseldorf gallery had contained some of the finest modern paintings in the country, and had done much to keep alive the aroused interest of the public in the arts of design before the arrival of this, the greatest work of the acknowledged head of the düsseldorf school; but now it is without doubt the centre of attraction to all lovers of art on this side the water, for the great picture, whether regarded as to its intrinsic interest or its academic merits, has no rival here, and some enlightened enthusiasts say, none among modern paintings in the world. the picture appeals at once to popular sympathy, by the interest of its subject, the simplicity of its treatment, and by the striking reality and strong individual character of its figures. we gave, in the december number of this magazine, a notice of this great picture, from a german paper, which renders any further description of it here unnecessary. a very interesting series of etchings from the pencil of mr. j. w. ehninger, a young new york artist, has just appeared. they illustrate irving's _dolph heyliger_, and are full of the humor of that charming dutch story. mr. ehninger is a pupil of the düsseldorf school, and has but just left its severe training. his style shows the conscientious faithfulness which is inculcated there, as one of the first requisites of a true artist; he has very happy conceptions of character, and seems to be thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the knickerbocker times. in illustrating them he can not but achieve desirable reputation. an informal meeting of a large number of the members and associates of the academy of design took place early in the last month. its object was to devise measures to make the academy a more efficient means of advancing the art. it was determined, among other things, that lectures should be delivered upon painting, and the various subjects connected with it. we have heard the rev. dr. bethune named as likely to be the first lecturer. he could hardly fail to interest and instruct both the members of the academy, and the public generally, upon the subjects naturally falling within the scope of the first of such a series of lectures. it is gratifying to see that the members of the academy are at last beginning to awake to the consciousness of its inefficiency, and we trust that some benefit may accrue to art from their action. leutze's great picture of _washington crossing the delaware_, a grand subject on which he had been engaged nearly three years, has been destroyed by fire, or rather in consequence of fire, as we learn by a letter from the artist himself, dated düsseldorf, nov. th. it is gratifying, for the artist's sake, to know that the picture was fully insured; but insurance companies, although very good protectors against pecuniary loss, can not reproduce works of genius or make up for their loss. mr. hawthorne, whose _scarlet letter_ showed such rare ability in the portrayal of the hidden workings of the heart, has a new work nearly finished, called _the house of seven gables_; it will be eagerly sought for, and we trust may prove as admirable a performance as the first-named book. the purchase of the _greek slave_ for distribution has brought the western art union three thousand subscribers this year. it is an increase of nearly one hundred per cent upon the subscriptions of last year, but is hardly enough to warrant the addition of many other prizes to the great one. jenny lind continues her triumphant progress through the country, delighting the world and doing good. each place which she visits gets up an excitement, which if it be not equal to that at new york, is at least the result of a conscientious endeavor to accomplish the most which can be achieved with the means at command. her four concerts in baltimore are said to have produced forty thousand dollars, which is even more in proportion to the wealth and size of the place than the average receipts at her concerts in new york. it is stated that the existence of a third ring around the planet saturn was discovered on the night of nov. th, by the astronomers at the cambridge observatory. it is within the two others, and therefore its distance from the body of saturn must be small. it will be remembered that the eighth satellite of this planet was also discovered at cambridge, by mr. bond, about two years since. mr. junius smith, who has been for some years very zealously engaged in introducing the culture of the tea plant into the united states, gives it as the result of his experiments that the heat of summer is far more to be feared for the tea plant, than the cold of winter, and requires more watchful care. in his field at greenville, s. c., he has shaded every young plant put out the first week in june, and so long as he continued to do so, did not lose a single plant by the heat of the sun. the young tea-plants from nuts planted on the th of june last, and those from china set out about the same time, and most of them still very small, do not appear to have sustained the slightest injury, but are as fresh and green without any covering or protection, as they were in september. he thinks it not at all unlikely that the cultivation of the plant will become general in new england before it does in the southern states. mr. darley, whose outlines of _rip van winkle_, and _sleepy hollow_, published by the art union, won him so much reputation in europe as well as here, is about to publish a series of outline illustrations of _margaret_, an american novel, said to be of great interest. we had some time since the pleasure of seeing the drawings for these illustrations, and will venture to say that in truthfulness of expression and accuracy of outline they are beyond any american works of their kind, and surpassed by none we know of which have appeared in europe, we will not even except those of retzsch. the art-union bulletin is our authority for stating that mr. darley has also engaged to furnish, to a print publisher in this city, twelve designs of large size, representing prominent scenes in american history. they are to be sketches in chiaroscuro, which will afterward be engraved in mezzotint. the first of these designs represents _the massacre of wyoming_. the point of time chosen by the artist, is the first demonstration made by the savages against the settlement, on the day preceding the general slaughter. a letter to the _tribune_ states that mr. healy, one of our best portrait painters, is hard at work on the figures of the former two great rivals, mr. webster and mr. calhoun. that of mr. calhoun is simply a full-length portrait, representing him as taking his leave of the senate; it is for the charleston authorities. the accessories of the painting are unimportant. that of mr. webster, however, gives us a large section of the senate chamber, galleries included, and about one hundred and fifty figures or portraits, all after life. it is yet in outline. boston will possess this valuable work of art, and almost living history of the celebrated speech on the constitution. great britain. mr. j. payne collier, the annotator upon shakspeare, has received a pension of £ a year from the royal literary pension fund. another pension, of the same amount, has been granted to mr. james bailey, the translator of facciolati's latin lexicon, and one of the most accomplished scholars of the day. so, entirely, however, had mr. bailey abstracted himself from the great literary world, that when the announcement was made of the pension conferred upon him "in consideration of his literary merits," not one of the literary journals, not even the _athenæum_, was able to tell who the recipient was; but all declared that they knew of no man of letters bearing that name. this fund amounts to £ , and the lion's share of it, the remaining £ , is appropriated in a singular manner. it has been bestowed upon the wife of the new lord chancellor, lord truro, lately mr. solicitor wilde. this lady is the daughter of the late duke of sussex, one of the sons of george iii. the duke contracted a marriage with her mother, which was illegal by the terms of the royal marriage act, and which he afterward repudiated by forming a similar connection with another woman, for whom he succeeded in procuring the title of duchess of inverness, and an allowance from the public treasury, to enable her to support her dignity. on the death of the duke an attempt was made to procure the recognition of his children by the former connection, as members of the royal family, with a pension. this being unsuccessful, the sum of £ a year was first given to the daughter, who bore the name of d'este, from the literary fund; which sum was afterward increased by an additional £ , from the same fund. the chief counsel in prosecuting these claims was mr. wilde, who, immediately on his elevation to the bench, as chief justice of the common pleas, marries this _soi-disant_ princess d'este. though the present chancellor is very wealthy, and receives a large income from his office, his wife still continues to absorb five-sixths of the sum at the disposal of the crown as a reward to "eminent literary merit:" her merit, like that celebrated in figaro, being that she "condescended to be born;" from all of which it appears, that the merit of being a spurious off-shoot of the royal family, is just ten times as great as that of the most earnest and successful prosecution of literary and scientific pursuits. the english papers, and especially the literary journals, express considerable apprehension that the english people are likely to be outdone in the coming exhibition. the _athenæum_ complains of the comparative indifference which pervades the english manufacturers, while every mail from the continent and from america, brings intelligence of an increased activity in their workshops. the prize of victory, in this case, it says, must rest with the strong. a new era in industry and commerce opens with : and for a producer to be out of the catalogue of the exhibition will be equivalent to abandoning the field. the gardens of the zoological society of london are constantly receiving new accessions from the liberal efforts of the english colonial governors, and others in foreign parts. fine presents of rare animals have also been received from several of the royal families of europe. a scheme has been proposed to convert the now abandoned grave-yards of london, into ornamental gardens, by throwing down useless walls, planting elms, mulberries, fig-trees and other plants which flourish in crowded thoroughfares, and laying out the surface with walks and flower-beds. not to interfere with the sanctities of the graves, or permanently to remove any historic marks from their present localities, it is also proposed to collect the grave-stones and form with them the base of a pyramidal or other kind of monument to be erected in each church-yard. the rumor that government intends to impose a mileage tax upon the electric telegraph has elicited very warm and emphatic remonstrances from the english press. the fact is very prominently brought forward that in england the telegraph is used much less than in the united states, because its employment is very greatly restricted by high charges, while in america it is thrown open to the great body of the public and is accordingly used by them. the _athenæum_, speaking of the matter, says that, instead of adding to the expense of working the iron messengers, every effort should be made to reduce it so as to bring its benefits and consolations within the reach of smaller means. in this, as in some other respects, america sets the old continent a good example. a new public park is soon to be opened, on the south side of london. the shooting grounds and premises so well known as the red house, nearly opposite to chelsea hospital, have been purchased by government for, it is said, £ , . of the new bridge to be erected across the thames, in connection with this park, the works are soon to be begun. mr. charles locke eastlake, has been elected president of the royal academy; he has also had the honor of knighthood conferred upon him. mr. macready has been giving readings from shakspeare the proceeds of which he appropriates to the purchase of shakspeare's house for the country. he was one of the most liberal of the original subscribers to this fund, and has by this renewed donation aided still more effectually the accomplishment of the object. professor faraday, at a late meeting of the royal institution, announced his discovery that oxygen is magnetic, that this property of the gas is affected by heat, and that he believes the diurnal variation of the magnetic needle to be due to the action of solar heat on this newly discovered characteristic of oxygen--the important constituent of the atmosphere. it is said that bequerel also has recently directed attention to a somewhat similar conclusion; he communicated to the academy of sciences at paris, that oxygen is magnetic in relation to the other gases, as iron is to the rest of the metals, and inferred that it is probable or possible that diurnal variation may be connected with this property of oxygen. henry fitzmaurice hallam, m.a., the only surviving son of the eminent english historian, died at sienna, after a short illness, on the th of october, and at the early age of twenty-seven years. he had visited rome with his father and others of the family, and they were on their return homeward, when this affliction fell upon them. it will be remembered, that a few years ago his elder brother, full of college honors and of the highest promise, died under equally afflictive circumstances. a pamphlet by sir francis bond head, on the defenseless state of great britain, has excited a good deal of attention, and elicited some pretty sharp criticism from the london journals. still, it is very generally conceded that there is a great deal of truth in his representations. a correspondent of the london _athenæum_, writing from naples, gives an account of a visit paid to the studio of the american sculptor, powers. the figure of "america," upon which he is now engaged, is that of a robust young female, with a noble and dignified expression of countenance, and the head surrounded by a diadem of thirteen stars. the left arm and hand are elevated, as if exhorting the people to trust in heaven; while the right rests on the fasces, which are crowned with bay leaves, enforcing the precept that union is strength and will be crowned with victory. the statue, which is half covered with drapery, will be feet high; and for power, beauty, and dignity combined, the writer says, it is one of the finest that he has ever seen in italy. powers is about to commence working it out in marble, and calculates that in fifteen months it will be ready for sending off. by the side of it stands a half-developed statue of "california." france. a new method of voting, which offers incontestable advantages on the score of accuracy and rapidity, has received an appropriation from the french chambers. each member is provided with a box containing ten ballots; five white (_ayes_), and five blue (_nays_). these consist of oblong squares of steel, having the name of the representative engraved upon each side. the urns are so arranged that the white and blue ballots fall into different compartments, not at random, but arrange themselves against a graduated copper rod, which shows at a glance the number of ballots for or against. these rods are taken from the urns, and placed upon a piece of mechanism upon the tribune, so arranged that one side shows all the ayes, the other all the nays, and the secretaries have only to add up the sums of the rods. then, by touching a lever, the sides are reversed, so that the secretaries who have added the ayes have the nays presented to them; thus mutually checking each other. the result is thus ascertained in a few minutes, with scarcely a possibility of error. lists are prepared beforehand bearing numbers corresponding to those engraved on a corner of the ballots, by which means the copy for the _moniteur_ is speedily furnished, with the utmost accuracy. this which used to take a considerable time, and swarmed with errors, can now be done in ten minutes. this ingenious and beautiful apparatus costs , francs. a new aeronautic machine has been exhibited at paris, which it is claimed solves the long sought problem, at least on a small scale, of directing the course of a balloon through the air. the leading ideas of the machine are drawn from the structure of birds and fishes, the animals that possess the power of traversing a liquid element. the model with which the successful experiments were performed, consists of a balloon of gold-beaters' skin, inflated with hydrogen, some three or four yards long, nearly round in front, and terminating in a horizontal rudder like the tail of a bird; a little before and above which is another rudder placed vertically, like the tail of a fish. the former is to change the course of the vessel up and down, the latter to turn it to the right or left. toward the head of the balloon, in a position corresponding to that of the fins of a fish, are placed light wings, capable of a rapid motion, which constitute the motive power. in the model these are set in motion by machinery; but in the working machine human power is proposed. a framework of hollow iron is placed horizontally around the balloon to which it is attached by cords; this furnishes the fixed point to which are attached the cords which move the rudders; and from it is suspended the car in which the passengers are to be placed. the inventor promises to construct a machine capable of carrying up fifty persons. he acknowledges that the apparatus will be bulky, but consoles himself by the reflection that there is no present danger of the air being crowded. the whole weight of the machine and its burden is to be so proportioned to the amount of hydrogen in the balloon, that it will remain in equilibrium; an anchor is then to be thrown overboard, when the machine will of course rise; when a sufficient height is gained the anchor is to be weighed, and the equilibrium being again restored, the machine will be stationary; and it may then be propelled and guided by the wings and the rudders. such, at least, is the belief of one of the editors of _la siècle_, who was present at the trial of the model, and who indulges in the most glowing anticipations of the future success of the invention. rossini is said to be secretly superintending, at boulogne, the production of a musical work to which he attaches great importance. he passes every evening and a part of each day with the famous tenor donzelli, in revising this work, which has not yet been made known to the public, and which, it is said, will soon be performed at boulogne. armand marrast is engaged in writing some very curious memoirs respecting the events of the years and . it is said that they will contain verbatim extracts from a report made to him and to general cavaignac, by m. carlier, on occasion of the election of louis napoleon to the constituant assembly. m. carlier goes into many details of the habits and customs of louis napoleon, and of other members of his family. it is stated in the french journals that in consequence of the confusion existing between the maritime calculations of different powers, and the unfortunate occurrences to which it sometimes leads, the naval powers of the north--russia, sweden, denmark, and holland--have entered into an agreement to open conferences on the old question of a common meridian for all nations. france, spain, and portugal, it is said, have given in their adhesion to the scheme; and a hope is held out that england will come into the arrangement. the most advanced opinion on the continent seems to be in favor of the selection of an entirely neutral point of intersection--say cape horn--which it is said would have the immense advantage of being agreeable to the americans. m. polain, keeper of the archives at liege, has recently discovered that the famous french historian, froissart, whose chronicles are universally known, copied the first fifty chapters of his work from jehan le bel, an author of his own time, whose manuscripts have been recently discovered in the belgian libraries. this is a discovery of considerable interest to antiquarians. an edition of one hundred and twenty-five copies of jehan le bel's book has been printed for the use of a select number of historical _savans_. a whimsical discovery is announced by m. jules allix, in the _feuilleton_ of the paris _presse_. it seems too absurd to merit repetition, but it is reproduced in some of the london literary papers, and is there treated as if there might be something real in it. it is stated that a method has been discovered of communicating instantly between any two places on the earth, without regard to distance or continuous lines, and through the agency of magnetized _snails_! the inventors of this novel telegraph are said to be m. benoit, of france, and m. biat, of america; and they are further said to have been engaged for several successive years in experimenting upon the subject. they claim to have ascertained that certain descriptions of snails possess peculiar properties or sympathies, which cause them to feel the same sensation, no matter at what distance they may be, when acted on in a particular way by galvanic and magnetic influences. a snail placed in a box, suitably provided with the requisite apparatus, in france, thus responds to the motions of a snail, placed in a similar box, in america; and by providing a snail for each letter, a conversation may thus be carried on. the correspondent of the london literary gazette, says that he saw experiments on the subject in paris, which were attended with complete success. the whole thing is probably an ingenious hoax. a skeptical correspondent of the literary gazette proposes an easy method of testing the new telegraph. he says, "if the _presse_ newspaper will every day for a few weeks give a short abstract of contemporary american news, or indeed mention any points of prominent interest which occur on the other side of the atlantic; thus anticipating by some weeks the ordinary mails; and if, when these arrive, the news given by the snail telegraph is confirmed, doubts will vanish, and snails will be at a premium." louis napoleon, in his message announced that the french government has proposed to the different cabinets international relations for putting an end to the long tolerated abuse of literary and artistic piracy--that these propositions have been favorably received, in principle, by most of the cabinets--and that between france and sardinia a treaty has already been signed for the mutual protection of both these species of property. the announcement has been hailed with great satisfaction by the literary public. a correspondent of the literary gazette says, that the distinguished french poet, beranger, occupies himself a good deal in writing biographies, anecdotes, criticisms, &c., of the public men with whom, in the course of his long career, he came in contact. it is now two years since he announced his intention of giving such a work to the public, and he seems to think that it will possess great historical value. a clever hoax was played off by _la presse_ against the president. the day previous to the one when the president's message was to have appeared, that journal published a document entitled, "message of the president of the republic to the general assembly," bearing the signature l. n. bonaparte. under the various heads which such a document would naturally contain, the most radical and sweeping propositions were laid down; propositions which nobody suspected the president of entertaining in the elysée, whatever his opinions might have been when meditating in the castle of ham. official communications were at once dispatched to the evening papers, declaring the publication a forgery; and stating that the _procureur_ of the republic had caused the paper in question to be seized at the post and in the office of publication. the next day _la presse_ opened with an article stating that the paper of the day before had been seized for publishing such and such an article, copying its message of the previous day, and declaring it to be genuine, for that every word of it was the acknowledged publication of the president. the fact was that it was made up of extracts from various publications which bonaparte had put forth at different epochs; and could hardly be branded as a forgery. thus far the paper seemed to have the advantage. but the court soon turned the scale by sentencing the _gérant_ of the paper, m. nefftzer, to an imprisonment of a year, and a fine of francs. germany, etc. a correspondent of the london literary gazette gives an account of an interesting quarrel between the directors of the theatre royal at brussels and the press. disliking some of the criticisms of the latter, the directors posted placards announcing that they had withdrawn from sundry papers a specified number of free admissions worth a specified sum per annum. the proprietors of the paper had sued them for libels, and the case was before the courts. few of living literary men have enjoyed a wider reputation in the same department than the celebrated german critic heinrich heine. the literary world will, therefore, learn with regret that he is dying. an article in a late number of the london _leader_ says, that "paralysis has killed every part of him but the head and heart; and yet this diseased body--like that of the noble augustia thierry--still owns a lordly intellect. in the brief intervals of suffering heine prepares the second volume of his 'buch der lieder;' and dictates the memoirs of his life--which he will make a picture gallery, where the portraits of all the remarkable persons he has seen and known will be hung up for our inspection. those who know heine's wicked wit and playful sarcasm will feel, perhaps, somewhat uncomfortable at the idea of sitting for their portraits; but the public will be eager 'for the fun.' there is little of stirring interest in the events of his life; but he has known so many remarkable people, and his powers of vivid painting are of an excellence so rare in german authors, that the announcement of his memoirs will create a great sensation." the king of bavaria has formed the gigantic design of causing to be executed a series of pictures on subjects derived from the annals of all times and all nations; the whole being destined to form a sort of pictorial universal chronology. but the expense and vastness of such a project warrant the fear that it will never be realized. the emperor of russia has resolved to have copies, in default of the originals, of all the great paintings of the old masters of all schools; and he is at present causing to be copied in venice two great works of titian. it is to be done by m. schiavone who is quite celebrated for the skill with which he copies. the ex-emperor of austria, it is said, surprised to find, in one of his visits to venice, that no monument had been erected to the memory of titian, ordered, at his own expense, the construction of one worthy of the immortal painter. he left to the academy of venice the choice of the form of the monument, and of the site on which it should be erected. the academy, after a discussion _pro forma_, confided the monument to one of its members, m. zandomeni, professor of sculpture. the monument is to be placed in the church of st. mary of frari, near that of canova. it will be inaugurated in about a year's time with great pomp. shortly after the monument was commenced, zandomeni died, but his son has carried out his design. literary notices. _the reveries of a bachelor_, by ik. marvel (published by baker and scribner), some portions of which have already been presented to the public in the october number of our magazine, and in the _southern literary messenger_, where they originally appeared, is one of the most remarkable and delightful books of the present season. under the artistic disguise of the reveries of a solitary bachelor, yielding to the sweet and pensive fancies that cluster around his contemplative moments, inspired to strange, aerial, and solemn musings by the quiet murmur of his old-fashioned wood-fire, or gathering a swarm of quaint moralities from the fragrant embers of his cigar, the author stamps his heart on these living pages, and informs them with the most beautiful revelations that can be drawn from the depths of a rich experience and a singularly delicate and vivid imagination. perhaps the most striking feature of this volume, is its truthfulness and freshness of feeling. the author has ventured to appropriate the most sacred emotions as the materials for his composition. scenes, over which the vail is reverently drawn in real life, and which are touched lightly by the great masters of passion, are here depicted with the most faithful minuteness of coloring, and fondly dwelt on, as if the artist could not leave the tearful creations of his fancy. nothing but an almost shakspearian fidelity to nature could give success to such an experiment. the slightest tincture of affectation, or false sentiment, would ruin the whole. we always distrust the man who would play upon our emotions, and are glad to take refuge in the ludicrous, to save ourselves from the pathetic. if a single weak spot can be detected in the magic chain which he would throw around our feelings, if every link does not ring with the sound of genuine metal, the charm is at once broken, and we laugh to scorn the writer who would fain have opened the fountain of tears. it is no mean proof of the skill of the "bachelor," that his pathetic scenes are always true to their aim. he has risked more than authors can usually afford, by dealing with the most exquisite elements of feeling, but he always forces you to acknowledge his empire, and yield your sympathies to his bidding. it must not be inferred from these comments that our "bachelor" is always in the lachrymose vein. far from it. we have alluded to his mastery in the pathetic, because this is one of the most unerring tests of the sanity and truth of genius. but his "reveries" also abound in touches of light and graceful humor; they show a quick perception and keen enjoyment of the comic; his sketches of character are pointed with a fine and delicate raillery; and his descriptions of natural beauty breathe the gushing cordiality of one who is equally at home in field and forest. with a rare facility of expression, obtained by dallying with every form of phrase that can be constructed out of the english vocabulary, and a beautiful freedom of spirit that makes him not ashamed to unfold the depths of his better nature, mr. ik. marvel has opened a new vein of gold in the literature of his country. we rejoice that its early working gives such noble promise that its purity and refinement will not be surpassed by its richness. _richard edney and the governor's family_ (published by phillips, sampson, and co., boston), is a new novel by the author of _margaret_, the original and erratic new england story, which established the reputation of the writer as a shrewd delineator of manners, a watchful observer of nature, a satirist of considerable pungency, and a profound thinker on social and religious topics. _richard edney_ is of the same stamp with that unique production. it has all its willful perversity, but with less ability. it is not so fresh and lifesome, but has more method, more natural sequence in the details of the story, and will probably please a more numerous class of readers. we do not think this author has come into the full possession of his powers. he is too conscious to permit their spontaneous and facile use. while he thinks so much of the motion of his wings, he can never soar into the empyrean. he often talks as if the burden of a prophet were on his heart, but he is too introspective for the fullness of inspiration. even his strange and grotesque ways are not redeemed by showing the fatal inevitableness of a natural product. they do not appear to grow out of a tough, knotted, impracticable intellect; in that case we should not hesitate to forgive them; but they seem to be adopted with malice aforethought; and used with the keenness of a native yankee, as the most available capital for the accomplishment of his purposes. with this writer, the story is subordinate to another object. he makes it the vehicle for sundry reflections and speculations, that are often ingenious, and always interesting. in this point of view, his book has considerable value. it is suggestive of more problems than it resolves. it points out many tempting paths of inquiry, which it does not enter. no one can read it without receiving a new impulse to his thoughts, and one usually in the right direction. the author is evidently a man of heart as well as of intellect, and inclines to a generous view of most subjects. his book should be looked at rather in the light of an ethical treatise than of a novel. the plot is less in his mind than the moral. but such hybrid productions are apt to fail of their end. if we desire to study philosophy, commend us to the regular documents. we do not wish for truth, as she emerges dripping from the well, to be clothed in the garments of fiction. such incongruous unions can hardly fail to shock a correct taste, even if the story is managed with tolerable skill. in this instance, we can not highly praise the conduct of the narrative. it is full of improbable combinations. persons and scenes are brought into juxtaposition, in a manner to violate every principle of _vraisemblance_. the effect is so to blunt the interest of the story, that we can hardly plod on to the winding-up. still we find talent enough in _richard edney_ to furnish materials for a dozen better books. it has a number of individual sketches that are admirably drawn. we might quote a variety of isolated passages that impress us deeply with the vigor of the writer, and which, if wrought up with as much plastic skill as is usually connected with such inventive talents, would secure his rank among the _élite_ of american authors. he has not yet done justice to his remarkable gifts, not even in the inimitable _margaret_--the poem _philo_ we regard as a dead failure--and if our frank, though friendly criticism, shall act as a provocative to his better genius, he is welcome to the benefit of it. _the issue of modern philosophic thought_ is the title of an oration by rev. e. a. washburn, delivered on the th of august, before the literary societies of the university of vermont, and published by phillips, sampson, and co., boston. it is an earnest, eloquent, and discriminating defense of the spiritual views of philosophy, set forth by coleridge in england and by the late president marsh in this country, with a vigorous protest against the abuses and errors which the author conceives have sprung up in the train of a false and counterfeit idealism. the oration exhibits an intimate acquaintance with the development of philosophic inquiry, since the reaction against the french sensualism of the last century, and the application of more profound and religious theories to literature, society, and art in recent times. with no effeminate yearnings for the return of the "inexorable past," and with a masculine faith in the designs of providence for the destiny of humanity, mr. washburn is alive to the dangers incident to a condition of progress, and describes them with honest boldness and fidelity. without pretending to accord with all his ideas, we must yield the merit to his discourse of affluent thought, rich learning, and a style of remarkable grace and elegance. _the memorial_, edited by mary e. hewitt, and published by g. p. putnam, is one of the most beautiful gift-books for the present season, and in its peculiar character and design possesses an interest surpassed by none. it is written by friends of the late mrs. osgood, and is an appropriate and tasteful tribute to her memory. the profits are to be devoted for the erection of a monument to her in mount auburn. its literary excellence may be inferred from the fact, that nathaniel hawthorne, the author of "st. leger," john neal, w. g. simms, n. p. willis, bayard taylor, r. h. stoddard, bishop doane, bishop spencer, george h. boker, general morris, george lunt, a. b. street, mrs. sigourney, mrs. oakes smith, mrs. whitman, and, indeed, most of the celebrities of the time, in this country, are contributors. the volume will be welcome, as a choice specimen of american literary talent, and a graceful souvenir of the distinguished poetess in whose honor it has been prepared. _the evening of life_, by jeremiah chaplin (published by lewis colby), is a collection of devotional pieces, original and selected, intended to impart "light and comfort amid the shadows of declining years." the selections are made with excellent taste, being for the most part extracted from the best authors in the religious literature of england and america. among them we observe the names of fenelon, thomas à kempis, jeremy taylor, bunyan, madame guyon, bishop hall, milton, southey, and wordsworth; and of american writers, bryant, longfellow, whittier, willis, and w. r. williams. _a new memoir of hannah more_, by mrs. helen c. knight, has been published by m. w. dodd, giving a condensed and interesting view of the history of the celebrated religious authoress. her connection with the development of practical religious literature, as well as her rare qualities of character, will always give an attraction to every authentic record of the incidents of her life. the present volume is evidently written by one of her warm admirers. it relates the principal facts in her brilliant career with remarkable vivacity. indeed, a more chastened style would have been better suited to the subject of the memoir, whose own manner of writing, though florid and ambitious, in her more elaborate efforts, always displayed an imagination under the control of an active and discriminating judgment. as an instance of the excessive liveliness of description in which mrs. knight not unfrequently indulges, we may allude to her portrait of hannah more's father, the parish schoolmaster, "besides leading a flock of village urchins to nibble in the green pastures of knowledge, his five little girls follow the same friendly crook, and in their training he beholds the buds and blossoms, as he hopes to realize the fruit of his professional skill and parental fidelity." harper and brothers have now ready two important standard works on philology, _a latin-english lexicon_, founded on the larger _latin-german lexicon_ of freund, edited by e. a. andrews, ll.d., and _a new classical dictionary_ of greek and roman biography, mythology, and geography, by william smith, edited by professor charles anthon. these works have been subjected to a strict, laborious, and thorough revision by the american editors; large and valuable additions have been made to their contents; the very latest improvements in the science of philology have been incorporated with the researches of their original authors; and in point of exactness of investigation, clearness of method, and precision and completeness of detail, may be warmly recommended to the classical students of this country, as without a rival in their respective departments. the great work of dr. freund is so well known to the best educated scholars, as one of the most consummate specimens of german intellectual enterprise and persistency, that it is hardly necessary to make more than this passing allusion to its signal merits. its indefatigable author, pursuing the path marked out by gesenius and passow in hebrew and greek lexicography, has opened a new era in the study of the latin language, reduced it to a far more compact and orderly system, and greatly facilitated the labors of those who wish to master the noble treasures of its literature. his lexicon, published at leipsic in four volumes, from to , comprising nearly pages, has been made the basis of the present work, the editor, meantime, making use of the best sources of information to be obtained in other quarters, including the smaller school-lexicon of dr. freund himself, and the dictionaries of gesner, facciolati, scheller, and georges. he has aimed to condense these abundant materials within the limits of a single volume, retaining every thing of practical importance in the works from which they are derived. in pursuance of this method, professor andrews has given all the definitions and philological remarks in freund's larger lexicon, with his references in full to the original latin authors, the grammarians, editors, and commentators, retrenching from the citations whatever parts seemed to be superfluous, and entirely omitting such as were redundant or of comparatively trifling consequence. at the same time, he has preserved the reference to the original latin authorities, thus enabling the student to examine the quotations at pleasure. this lexicon, like the dictionary of freund, on which it is founded, accordingly, contains in its definitions, in its comparison of synonyms, in its general philological apparatus, and in the number and variety of its references to the original classic authors, an amount of information not surpassed by any similar work extant, while in the luminous and philosophical arrangement of its materials, it is without an equal among the most complete productions in this department of study. the learned editor of this work, who has attained such a distinguished reputation, as one of the soundest and most thorough latin philologists in the united states, has been assisted in its preparation by several friends and associates of great literary eminence, among whom are president woolsey, of yale college, professor robbins, of middlebury college, and prof. wm. w. turner, of the union theological seminary, new york. the result of their united labors, as exhibited in the substantial volume before us, is a worthy monument of their high cultivation, their patience of intellectual toil, and their habits of profound, vigilant, and accurate research, and will reflect great credit on the progress of sound learning in this country. _the classical dictionary_, by dr. wm. smith, is one of the excellent series of dictionaries prepared under the direction of that eminent scholar, aided by a number of learned philologists, for the purpose of presenting the results of german historical and archæological research in an english dress. this series has been received with the warmest expressions of approbation by the scholars and teachers of great britain. in preparing the present work, dr. smith has had peculiar reference to the wants of the younger class of students. he has wished to furnish them with a dictionary, on the same plan with that of lempriere, containing in a single volume the most important names, biographical, mythological, and geographical, occurring in the greek and roman writers usually read in the course of a classical education. his work is, accordingly, divided into three distinct parts, biography, mythology, and geography. the biographical portion is divided again into the departments of history, literature, and art--including all the important names which are mentioned in the classical writers, from the earliest times to the extinction of the western empire--a brief account of the works which are extant by the greek and roman writers, with notices of their lives--and a sketch of the principal artists, whose names are of importance in the history of art. the mythological articles have been prepared with great care, and are free from the indelicate allusions which have rendered some former works of this kind unfit to place in the hands of young persons. the geographical portion of this work is entirely new, and exceedingly valuable. the editor has drawn upon the most authentic sources of information, comprising, besides the original authorities, the best modern treatises on the subject, and the copious works of travels in greece, italy, and the east, which have appeared, within the last few years, both in england and germany. the present american edition, which has been superintended by professor anthon, appears nearly simultaneously with the english edition, having been printed from sheets received in advance, and thoroughly revised for circulation in this country. the experienced editor has performed his task with the ability which might be anticipated from his critical learning and accuracy. he has made important additions from the most recent authorities, with a view of adapting the work still more completely to junior students. many errors which had escaped the vigilance of the original editor have been corrected; several valuable tables have been added; and the whole work greatly improved both in substance and form. it is not intended, however, to supersede the _classical dictionary_ of the american editor, as the articles are brief, and without the completeness of detail required by the more advanced class of students; but for those who desire a smaller and less costly work, this volume will no doubt take the place of the obsolete lempriere, whose dictionary, on account of its cheapness, still disgraces some of our seminaries of learning. _american education_, by edward d. mansfield (published by a. s. barnes and co.), is an elaborate discussion of the theory of education, with special reference to its bearing on the wants and character of the american people. the author gives a forcible exposition of his views, with a variety of practical illustrations, of remarkable interest. avoiding a too minute consideration of details, he endeavors to ascend to the region of eternal principles, to elucidate the harmony between the nature of man and the influences of the universe, and thus to shed a clear light on the momentous problem of the destiny of the soul. the tone of his volume is earnest, elevated, and often approaching a thoughtful solemnity, showing the deep religious convictions with which the subject is identified in the mind of the author. no one can peruse his impressive statements without a deeper sense of the importance of "the ideas connected with a republican and christian education in this period of rapid development." a. hart, philadelphia, has republished _the ministry of the beautiful_, by henry james slack, of the middle temple, london, consisting of a series of conversations on the principles of aesthetic culture. a vein of refined and pure sentiment pervades the volume; the style is often of exquisite beauty; but the discussion usually terminates in a dim, purple haze, lulling the mind to repose in a soft, twilight enchantment, without imparting any clear conceptions, or enlarging the boundaries of either knowledge or taste. d. appleton and co. have published a valuable educational work by geo. w. greene of brown university, entitled _history and geography of the middle ages_, intended as the first of a series of historical studies for the american colleges and high schools. it is founded on a work in the french language, which describes, with clearness and brevity, the condition of politics, literature, and society during the middle ages. the high reputation of the author in every thing relating to italian literature, will secure attention to his work. a. s. barnes and co. have issued a selection of hymns and tunes, entitled _christian melodies_, by george b. cheever, and g. e. sweetser. it has been prepared with great care, and will no doubt be found a highly valuable aid in the performance of choral service. crosby and nichols, boston, have reprinted from the english edition, _a sketch of sir thomas fowell buxton_, by rev. thomas binney, being a popular lecture on the character of the great english philanthropist, originally delivered in exeter hall, london, before the "young men's christian association." it relates the most salient incidents in the life of fowell buxton, with a running commentary remarkable for its quaintness and vivacity. for young men in particular, to whom it is expressly dedicated, it must prove an instructive and pleasing volume. j. s. redfield has published _the manhattaner in new orleans_, by a. oakley hall, a collection of agreeably written papers, contributed, in the first place, to a literary journal of this city, and containing a variety of sketches of life in the crescent city. without any high pretensions to force of thought or brilliancy of composition, this little volume shows a lively power of observation, an active curiosity, and an unaffected ease of description, which can not fail to win for it golden opinions, among all classes of readers. the same publisher has issued the second part of an ingenious treatise on physiognomy, entitled _the twelve qualities of mind_, by j. w. redfield, m.d., setting forth a view of the subject which claims to be a complete refutation of the principles of materialism. the author writes with earnestness and ability, and presents many fruitful suggestions, though he does not succeed in elevating his favorite study to the dignity of a science. an interesting volume of travels has been published by william holdredge, entitled _a winter in madeira, and a summer in spain and florence._ the author is understood to be the hon. john a. dix, although his name is not appended to the volume. his description of madeira will be read with interest, as an authentic account of a state of society, concerning which we have little information from modern travelers. his remarks on spain and florence are of a less novel character, but are every where distinguished for good sense, clearness of expression, and correctness of taste. a neat volume adapted to the holiday season, is _gems by the way side_, by mrs. l. g. abel (published by wm. holdredge), consisting of choice selections from favorite authors, with several tasteful embellishments. an excellent service has been done to the cause of good learning by george p. putnam, in the publication of a handsome volume, entitled _the world's progress, a dictionary of dates_, edited by himself. the preparation of a work of this character demands such rare patience of labor, such habits of accurate research, such soundness and delicacy of judgment, and such devotion to the interests of knowledge, without the hope of great fame or profit by the enterprise, that the pioneers of literature who undertake it, are entitled at least to the cordial gratitude of every student and lover of letters. in the present volume, mr. putnam has collected a large amount of information, from distant and various sources, and arranged it in a lucid order, adapted to aid the investigations of the student, and to promote the facility of general reference. it consists of a series of tabular views of ancient and modern history, compiled from a previous manual by the editor, and the full and accurate tables of talboys--an alphabetical dictionary of dates, founded on the well-known work of joseph haydn--a chronological list of authors, from the companion to the british almanac, with additions--a table of the heathen deities--and a general biographical index. the task of the editor has been performed, with diligence and fidelity, although, as he intimates in the preface, it can not be presumed that such a volume can be free from imperfections. we might direct his attention to several obvious errors for correction in a future edition; but we presume they have already been discovered by his vigilant eye. _montaigne: the endless study and other miscellanies_, is a translation from the french of alexander vinet, with an introduction and notes, by robert turnbull (published by m. w. dodd). the principal part of these essays are addressed to the numerous class of cultivated minds, that with a profound sense of the beauty and grandeur of the christian religion, have failed to receive it as a divine revelation, or as the authoritative guide of character and life. with regard to the author, we are informed by dr. turnbull, that "he was distinguished as much for simplicity as dignity of character, for profound humility as for exalted worth. apparently as unconscious of his greatness as a star is of its light, he shed upon all around him a benignant radiance. in a word, he walked with god. this controlled his character, this shaped his manners. steeped in holy love, he could not be otherwise than serene and gentle. he published a volume of philosophical criticisms, in which he discusses with uncommon depth and subtlety, but in language of exquisite clearness and force, some of the highest problems in philosophy and morals, and dissects the maxims and theories of such men as montaigne, voltaire, rochefoucauld, jouffroy, cousin, quinet, and lamartine. his fine genius for philosophical speculation, in connection with his strong, common sense, and his unwavering faith in the gospel are here strikingly developed." among the subjects treated of in this volume, are the character of montaigne, the idea of the infinite, the moral system of jouffroy, the claims of heaven and earth adjusted, and others of a similar bearing. they are discussed in the light of philosophical principles, and with a certain breadth of view, not always found in theological essays. the translator has not confined himself with rigid fidelity to the phraseology of the author, although for the sake of the vivacity and interest which it imparts, he occasionally retains the french idiom--a dangerous precedent to be adopted by unskillful hands. ticknor, reed, and fields, boston, have published a collection of _orations and speeches_, by charles sumner, comprising his anniversary discourses on the true grandeur of nations; the scholar, the jurist, the artist, the philanthropist; fame and glory; the law of human progress; the war system of the commonwealth of nations; a lecture on white slavery in the barbary states; three tributes of friendship to joseph story, john pickering, and henry wheaton; and several political speeches, delivered within the last few years, on various occasions, in massachusetts. they are adapted to sustain the high reputation of the author for extensive classical learning, an uncommon power of graceful and fertile illustration, and a glowing, and often gorgeous eloquence. _the broken bud_ (published by r. carter and brothers), is the title of a small volume of prose and poetry, intended as a tribute to the memory of a beloved child, by a bereaved mother, and containing many passages of touching pathos and genuine beauty. _bardouac, or, the goatherd of mount taurus_, is a charming persian tale, translated from the french, in a style of great neatness and vivacity published by crosby and nichols, boston. g. p. putnam has published _fadette_, a new story by george sand, illustrative of domestic life in france, translated by matilda m. hays. it is a tale of quiet, exquisite beauty, free from the morbid sentiment which abounds in the fictitious works of the modern french school, and rendered into graceful, idiomatic english by the accomplished translator. r. carter and brothers have brought out a new edition of _the memoir of rev. alexander waugh_, the celebrated scottish pastor in london, an admirable piece of religious biography, describing the life of a vigorous and noble-minded man. j. s. redfield has issued a little volume, with an uncommonly attractive exterior, entitled _chanticleer, a thanksgiving story_, consisting of quiet descriptions of american country life and manners, set forth in the framework of a superficial and not very skillfully managed narrative. it contains some passages of considerable beauty, but as a whole, it has hardly sufficient freshness and fervor to produce a wide sensation. a leaf from punch. preparatory schools for young ladies. the female mind has hitherto been considered as a sort of fancy bazaar, in which all kinds of light articles are to be stowed away without regard to order or utility. if we could unlock the stores of female knowledge, such, at least, as the modern boarding-school supplies--we should find an extraordinary conglomeration of miscellaneous goods, bads, and indifferents, which though somehow or other reduced under one head, and that not always a strong one, are brought into a state of "disorder" which is, by us, at least, any thing but "admired." if we might be permitted the privilege of examining phrenologically the interior of a young lady's head, we should find not only what--but how completely--modern education has done for it. we will take any average boarding-school miss, and instead of turning her organs into finger-organs, by merely passing our hands over the exterior bumps, we take the liberty of breaking her head at once, and looking directly into it. we find _constructiveness_ in a state of entanglement with the quantity of crotchet and other fancy work in which it is completely bound up, for want of some more useful matter for the employment of this valuable quality; and on looking to the organ of _imitation_, we see it exercised on a parcel of the most ridiculous airs and affectations, to say nothing of more dangerous qualities, set before it for the purpose of calling into practice its powers of copying. as to _number_, its whole capacity seems to be concentrated on number one: and _comparison_ is clogged up with entire wardrobes, as if the only use of comparison to the female mind was to be its application to the respective bonnets, dresses, and articles of millinery worn by friends, enemies, or acquaintances. _causality_ shows us an instance of something like an appropriate application of the organ; for it is intended to be one of inquiry, and it is exercised certainly in a questionable manner, for it is constantly directed, by the modern system of female education, to the asking, how it is an "establishment" is to be gained? or, why it is that one person has succeeded in getting a husband before another? _eventuality_ is devoted to the cognizance of no more important events than births, deaths, and marriages; while _form_, _size_, and _color_ are exercised respectively on the noses, mustaches, and eyes of the other sex, the organ of _weight_ being brought to bear on the estimating of bankers' balances. _order_ goes wholesale to the dressmaker's; _ideality_ knows nothing of any ideal but a _beau_; and _time_ and _tune_ are clogged with all sorts of airs, calling into operation _destructiveness_, as far as the keys of an instrument are concerned, and _secretiveness_ as far as any meaning is conveyed by the means of so much labor. having brought ourselves to the sad conclusion that the examination of a fashionably-educated female head reveals nothing but faculties mis-employed, and valuable material wasted on what is not material at all, we can not but express a wish that ladies' preparatory schools could be established, in which the pupils might be fitted for the useful, as well as the ornamental parts of life, and where the fact of there being a kitchen as well as a drawing-room to every house would not be altogether lost sight of. if the world could be got through in a polka, to the accompaniment of a _cornet-à-piston_, the boarding-schools of the present day would be well enough; but as there is a sort of every-day walk to be gone through, we should greatly appreciate any system of female education that should fit women to get through the world with us, instead of merely getting through our money. [illustration:] in the first place, we would put into execution the great design of our artist, who has shown us a preparatory school in which cookery should be studied as an art, and in which the dressing of a dinner would be learned as a matter of course--or of one, two, or three courses of lectures. there should be a regular series of instruction, from the shelling of a pea by the smallest class, to the achievement of the most exquisite mayonnaise by the more advanced scholars. the young ladies would be taught not only how to make their _entreé_ into a drawing-room, but how to prepare an _entreé_ worthy of the dinner-table. we would have cookery inculcated in its most elementary form, and although we should shrink from any thing like harshness, we should not hesitate to put the beginners through a vigorous course of basting for the first year or so. the rules of arithmetic could easily be adapted to the culinary art, and such propositions as eggs make one omelette. omelettes make one breakfast. breakfasts _à la fourchette_ make one dinner, and other calculations of a similar kind, would make the young female student familiar with her tables not only in their ordinary sense, but with what her tables ought to furnish samples of. we would suggest, also, periodical examinations in the higher branches of cookery, and translations of english food into french dishes. the rendering of a small slice of beef into a _filet piqué aux légumes printaniers_, would form an exercise quite as difficult, and certainly as useful, as any other conversion of english into french; and the proper _garniture_ of a leg of mutton would be as great a trial to the taste as if it were employed on merely millinery trimmings. we should be glad to see the establishment of a culinary college for young ladies, and though we would not exactly recommend the cramming system to the fairer sex, we think that beef and mutton would furnish quite as valuable food for their minds, as a great deal of that that is now put into them. ladies' arithmetic by a confirmed bachelor. ladies have quite a different system of calculation to what men have. look at the peculiar way in which they calculate ages. why! they are quite an age behind the present generation--at least, the generation of men--for a man is, figuratively, said, as he grows older, to approach into his second childhood, but a woman does so literally, inasmuch as she becomes every year one year younger--a rejuvenating process, by which, if she lived long enough, she would ultimately reach the happy period when she was carried about in long clothes, and took a tenacious delight, peculiar to babies, in pulling gentlemen's whiskers. in fact, i wonder that, carrying out this retrograde movement, a married lady, as she advances in years, does not re-appear on the stage of life as the ball-room girl, and throw off the matronly title of mrs., to put on the more flowery salutation of miss. it would be more consistent with the representation of figures--we mean, arithmetical figures--though it might be a little at variance with the appearance of personal ones. my belief is that the female mind has no correct sense of numbers. it belabors and rolls out figures as cooks do paste, making them as thick or as thin as it pleases to fit the object required. i have noticed a largeness or liberality of measurement in most of their calculations, which redounds greatly, in this calculating age, to the generosity of the sex. it is quite opposite to the self-measurement which they apply to themselves. whereas the latter is distinguished by a narrowness of result which almost makes us suspect that subtraction has been largely at work; the former is crowned with a roundness of figure which leads us strongly to accuse the sum total of having been gained by the corrupt agency of addition. in fact my suspicions are so violent on this head, that i always adopt the following plan when i am at a loss to know: how to correctly ascertain the age of a lady. i first ask the lady accused her own age. i then inquire of her "dearest friends." i next ascertain the difference between the two accounts (which frequently varies from five years to forty), and, dividing that difference by , i add that quotient to the lady's own representation, and the result is the lady's age, as near as a lady's age can be ascertained. example: mrs. wellington seymour gives herself out to be . her friends, mrs. m'cabe, mrs. alfred stevens, madame cornichon, and miss jerkins, indignantly declare that they will eat their respective heads off if she is a day younger than . now the disputed account stands thus: years mrs. seymour's age, as represented by her friends, mrs. seymour's age, as represented by herself ----- difference between the two accounts that difference has to be divided by , which, i believe, will give . if that is added to mrs. seymour's own statement, the result obtained will be the answer required. accordingly mrs. wellington seymour's age is --a fact, which, upon consulting the family bible, i find to be perfectly correct--and i only hope mrs. s. will, some day, forgive me for publishing it. there are many other eccentricities in female arithmetic, such as increasing twofold the amount of a gentleman's fortune, and diminishing fiftyfold the amount of a lady's--and a general proneness, besides, to magnify figures, leading them, at times, into strange errors of exaggeration, which would debar them from following the profession of a penny-a-liner, or writing works of numerical fidelity, like "m'culloch's commercial dictionary." but as i do not love the female mind particularly for its eccentricities, but rather for its beauties, i shall close the door upon this ungallant subject; for, if a woman is good and beautiful, it matters but little how old she is. netting for ladies. netting is now followed with so much ardor, as a female accomplishment, that one would think there is a great deal of net profit to be derived from it. the ladies' periodicals are full of instructions in this new popular art; and we have seen a couple of closely-printed columns devoted to directions for netting a mitten. we had some thoughts of endeavoring to furnish the necessary instructions for netting a gentleman's nightcap, but we found that we should not have room for more than half of it, and that the tassel, at all events, would have to stand over till our next, and perhaps be continued in a still remoter pocket-book. being desirous of furnishing some instruction in netting, to our female readers, we have thought of something within our compass, and beg leave to lay before them, our directions for netting a husband. take as many meshes as are within your reach, and get the softest material you can to work upon. go on with your netting as fast as ever you can work the material about with your meshes until you find you can turn it round your finger and thumb with the utmost facility. let your netting-needles be very sharp; thread them double to prevent them from breaking; and we may observe, that silken ringlets serve exceedingly well as thread, when the work in hand is the netting of a husband. always employ the brightest colors you can, and the final operation will be the joining together, which should be neatly finished off with a marriage knot, and the husband will be completely netted. winter fashions. [illustration: figure .--promenade and morning costume] heavy, rich textures of silk have taken the place of the lighter stuffs used at the beginning of december. _brocards, satin princesse, antique moires, irish poplins_, and heavy _chiné_ silks, such as were worn by the belles who saw washington inaugurated, are now in vogue. the latter material is called by the french _camayeux_. it is made of all colors, such as light violet upon dark violet; or, what is more beautiful, large white roses, hardly visible, and partly concealed by light green leaves upon a ground of dark green, forming an _ensemble_ at once coquettish, brilliant, and extremely elegant. plain _poplins_ are much worn; also _royal pekin_ or black damask, trimmed with two broad flounces of cambray lace. instead of a corsage, a _petite_ corsage of the same material is worn, wide open in front, and closed at the waist with two double buttons, or a large bow of ribbon. figure represents this style of corsage. the edge is trimmed with lace or fullings of ribbon, the sleeves three-quarters long and in pagoda form. the same figure represents a very pretty style of head-dress. the cap is composed of plain _tulle_ of the lightest description; upon one side of the head, partially covering the ear, is a bunch of roses, or other flowers, pendant. [illustration: fig. .--head-dress and corsage] figure represents a promenade and a morning costume. the promenade costume is a high silk dress; the waist and point long; the sleeves three-quarter length and wide at the bottom; the skirt long and exceedingly full; five volants are set on full, each being trimmed at a little distance from the edge by a narrow _guimpe_. _manteau_ of light brown cashmere, trimmed with velvet of the same color; closed up in front by four large _brandebourgs_. bonnet of a very open form, trimmed entirely with plaid ribbon. [illustration: fig. .--bonnet.] the morning costume is a _jupe_ of blue silk, very long and full, trimmed down the front with rows of velvet and small silk tassels, the form of an acorn. a _cain de feu_, a sort of jacket, of blue satin, of a darker shade than the _jupe_, the small skirt of which is of the hungarian form. it is trimmed round with velvet and has tassels up the front to correspond with the skirt; the sleeves come but little below the elbow, wide at the bottom, and cut like the skirt. these are likewise trimmed with velvet. cap of black lace, trimmed with a broad white ribbon, edged with pink. figure shows a new style of plain velvet bonnet, of rich green. it is made very deep; trimmed with velvet. satins are made in the same form, of a dark color, the interior of the fronts lined with white, rose, or any other fresh color. these are ornamented with branches of flowers of velvet, or _noeuds_ of plaid ribbon, half velvet and half satin, the colors harmonizing with the bonnet. there are small bonnets of white or pink plush, having for their sole ornament a single bow of satin ribbon, or a ribbon _velonté_ at the sides. this style is very elegant, and particularly adapted for very young ladies, especially when trimmed with a deep fall of rich lace. those made of pink satin, and trimmed with blonde, forming a bunch upon the side of the exterior, the interior being filled entirely with rows of narrow blonde, are exceedingly graceful. a new style of fringe for ball dresses has lately been introduced. it is extremely light, and composed of a mixture of white and gold, which forms a splendid trimming when placed upon a triple skirt of white _tulle_. it is also made of pink and silver, which has a beautiful effect upon a dress of pink crape; splendid bouquets of beautiful flowers being arranged so as to loop up the skirts on either side. a new and greatly admired style for evening dresses, called _d'adrienne_, has lately been brought out in paris. it is made of the richest materials. the corsage is extremely low, and forms a very deep point, its ornaments being placed _en coeur_ upon the centre of the front. the skirt is open, and is ornamented upon the two sides with streamers of ribbon and _noeuds_ of pearls. the under-skirt of satin is enriched with an _echelle_ of lace or a triple _falbalas_, the two extremities of which are disposed so as to join the _noeuds_ upon the upper dress. an elegant addition to a lady's toilet has been recently brought out, which recalls the _mantillas_ worn by the maltese ladies. it consists of a kind of pelisse, fulled into the narrow band around the throat, which is concealed by a small collar, having for ornament a volant or frill of chantilly lace. the lower part of the pelisse, as well as the sleeves, is encircled with four rows of chantilly lace, surmounted with rows of narrow velvet or watered ribbons, forming a pretty heading. this little garment is extremely elegant for places of amusement, made in pink, blue, or white satin, and trimmed with brussels or english point lace. fringes and cambray lace will be much used this season in the decoration of dresses. feathers will be much worn, some in _touffes_, and others simply the long single feather, passing over the entire front of the bonnet. * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: p. : "abiit aa plures" changed to "abitt ad plures". p. : "female visiters" changed to "female visitors". p. : sultan amu rath, forcing" changed to "sultan amurath, forcing". p. : "some conistency" changed to "some consistency". p. : "triumphal entry i to" changed to "triumphal entry into". p. - : "un less" changed to "unless". p. : "gabe's coat" changed to "gabe's coat". p. : "excleimed" changed to "exclaimed". p. : "slided" changed to "slid". p. : "converstaion" to "conversation". p. : "worsworth's sonnets" changed to "wordsworth's sonnets". p. : "peneroso" changed to "penseroso". p. : "misserable" changed to "miserable". p. : "desire waxed as her life waxed" changed to "desire waxed as her life waned". p. : "to to the world" changed to "to the world". p. : "conscience-striken" changed to "conscience-stricken". p. : "lovelv july" changed to "lovely july". p. - : in dulge" changed to "indulge". p. : "a better without" changed to "a better one without". p. : "rickey bockey" changed to "rickeybockey". p. : "held to be the privvilege" changed to "held to be the privilege". p. : "plenipotentaries" changed to "plenipotentiaries". p. : "damuscus in their shirts" changed to "damascus in their shirts". p. : "cachmere" changed to "cashmere". harper's new monthly magazine. no. xii.--may, --vol. ii. the novelty works, with some description of the machinery and the processes employed in the construction of marine steam-engines of the largest class. by jacob abbott. [illustration: general view of the novelty iron works, new york, (_as seen from the east river._)] perhaps no one of those vast movements which are now going forward among mankind, and which mark so strikingly the industrial power and genius of the present age, is watched with more earnest interest by thinking men, than the successive steps of the progress by which the mechanical power of steam and machinery is gradually advancing, in its contest for the dominion of the seas. there is a double interest in this conflict. in fact, the conflict itself is a double one. there is first a struggle between the mechanical power and ingenuity of man, on the one hand, and the uncontrollable and remorseless violence of ocean storms on the other; and, secondly, there is the rivalry, not unfriendly, though extremely ardent and keen, between the two most powerful commercial nations on the globe, each eager to be the first to conquer the common foe. the armories in which the ordnance and ammunition for this warfare are prepared, consist, so far as this country is concerned, of certain establishments, vast in their extent and capacity, though unpretending in external appearance, which are situated in the upper part of the city of new york, on the shores of the east river. as the city of new york is sustained almost entirely by its commerce, and as this commerce is becoming every year more and more dependent for its prosperity and progress upon the power of the enormous engines by which its most important functions are now performed, the establishments where these engines are invented and made, and fitted into the ships which they are destined to propel, constitute really the heart of the metropolis; though, the visitor, who comes down for the first time by the east river, from the sound, in the morning boat from norwich or fall river, is very prone to pass them carelessly by--his thoughts intent upon what he considers the superior glory and brilliancy which emanate from the hotels and theatres of broadway. in fact, there is very little to attract the eye of the unthinking traveler to these establishments as he glides swiftly by them in the early morning. he is astonished perhaps at the multitude of steamers which he sees lining the shores in this part of the city, some drawn up into the docks for repairs; others new, and moored alongside a pier to receive their machinery; and others still upon the stocks in the capacious ship-yards, in the various stages of that skeleton condition which in the ship marks the commencement, as in animal life it does the end, of existence. beyond and above the masts and spars and smoke-pipes of this mass of shipping, the observer sees here and there a columnar chimney, or the arms of a monstrous derrick or crane, or a steam-pipe ejecting vapor in successive puffs with the regularity of an animal pulsation. he little thinks that these are the beatings which mark the spot where the true heart of the great metropolis really lies. but it is actually so. the splendor and the fashion of the fifth avenue, and of union-square, as well as the brilliancy, and the ceaseless movement and din of broadway, are the mere incidents and ornaments of the structure, while these establishments, and others of kindred character and function, form the foundation on which the whole of the vast edifice reposes. we select, rather by accident than otherwise, the novelty works as a specimen of the establishments to which we have been alluding, for description in this number. a general view of the works as they appear from the river, is presented in the engraving at the head of this article, with the docks and piers belonging to the establishment in the fore-ground. the entrance to the inclosure is by a great gateway, through which the visitor on approaching it, will, very probably see an enormous truck or car issuing, drawn by a long team of horses, and bearing some ponderous piece of machinery suspended beneath it by means of levers and chains. on the right of the entrance gate is the porter's lodge, with entrances from it to the offices, as represented in the plan on the adjoining page beyond the entrance, and just within the inclosure may be seen a great crane used for receiving or delivering the vast masses of metal, the shafts, the cylinders, the boilers, the vacuum pans, and other ponderous formations which are continually coming and going to and from the yard. beyond the crane is seen the bell by which the hours of work are regulated. [illustration: entrance to the novelty works.] the plan upon the adjoining page will give the reader some idea of the extent of the accommodations required for the manufacture of such heavy and massive machinery. on the right of the entrance may be seen the porter's lodge, shown in perspective in the view below. beyond it, in the yard, stands the crane, which is seen likewise in the view. turning to the left, just beyond the crane, the visitor enters the iron foundry, a spacious inclosure, with ovens and furnaces along the sides, and enormous cranes swinging in various directions in the centre. these cranes are for hoisting the heavy castings out of the pits in which they are formed. the parts marked v v v, are ovens for drying the moulds. [illustration] turning to the right from the foundry, and passing down through the yard, the visitor finds himself in the midst of a complicated maze of buildings, which extend in long ranges toward the water, with lanes and passages between them like the streets of a town. in these passages companies of workmen are seen, some going to and fro, drawing heavy masses of machinery upon iron trucks; others employed in hoisting some ponderous cylinder or shaft by a crane, or stacking pigs of iron in great heaps, to be ready for the furnaces which are roaring near as if eager to devour them. and all the time there issues from the open doors of the great boiler-shops and forging-shops below, an incessant clangor, produced by the blows of the sledges upon the rivets of the boilers, or of the trip-hammers at the forges. the relative positions of the various shops where the different operations are performed will be seen by examination of the plan. the motive power by which all the machinery of the establishment is driven, is furnished by a stationary engine in the very centre of the works, represented in the plan. it stands between two of the principal shops. on the right is seen the boiler, and on the left the engine--while the black square below, just within the great boiler-shop, represents the chimney. other similar squares in different parts of the plan represent chimneys also, in the different parts of the establishment. these chimneys may be seen in perspective in the general view, at the head of this article, and may be identified with their several representations in the plan, by a careful comparison. the one belonging to the engine is the central one in the picture as well as in the plan--that is, the one from which the heaviest volume of smoke is issuing. this central engine, since it carries all the machinery of the works, by means of which every thing is formed and fashioned, is the life and soul of the establishment--the _mother_, in fact, of all the monsters which issue from it; and it is impossible to look upon her, as she toils on industriously in her daily duty, and think of her titanic progeny, scattered now over every ocean on the globe, without a certain feeling of respect and even of admiration. a careful inspection of the plan will give the reader some ideas of the nature of the functions performed in these establishments, and of the general arrangements adopted in them. the magnitude and extent of them is shown by this fact, that the number of men employed at the novelty works is from one thousand to twelve hundred. these are all _men_, in the full vigor of life. if now we add to this number a proper estimate for the families of these men, and for the mechanics and artisans who supply their daily wants, all of whom reside in the streets surrounding the works, we shall find that the establishment represents, at a moderate calculation, a population of _ten thousand souls_. the proper regulation of the labors of so large a body of workmen as are employed in such an establishment, requires, of course, much system in the general arrangements, and very constant and careful supervision on the part of those intrusted with the charge of the various divisions of the work. the establishment forms, in fact, a regularly organized community, having, like any state or kingdom, its gradations of rank, its established usages, its written laws, its police, its finance, its records, its rewards, and its penalties. the operation of the principles of system, and of the requirements of law, leads, in such a community as this, to many very curious and striking results, some of which it would be interesting to describe, if we had space for such descriptions. but we must pass to the more immediate subject in this article, which is the structure of the engine itself, and not that of the community which produces it. the engraving on the next page represents the interior of the engine-room of the humboldt--a new steamer, which was lying at the dock at the time of our visit, receiving her machinery; though probably before these pages shall come under the eye of the reader, she will be steadily forcing her way over the foaming surges of the broad atlantic. the machinery, as we saw it, was incomplete, and the parts in disorder--the various masses of which it was ultimately to be composed, resting on temporary supports, in different stages, apparently of their slow journey to the place and the connection in which they respectively belonged. the ingenious artist, however, who made the drawings, succeeded in doing, by means of his imagination, at once, what it will require the workmen several weeks to perform, with all their complicated machinery of derricks, tackles, and cranes. he put every thing in its place, and has given us a view of the whole structure as it will appear when the ship is ready for sea. there are _two_ engines and _four_ boilers; thus the machinery is all double, so that if any fatal accident or damage should accrue to any part, only one half of the moving force on which the ship relies would be suspended. the heads of two of the boilers are to be seen on the left of the view. they are called the _starboard_ and _larboard_ boilers--those words meaning _right_ and _left_. that is, the one on the right to a person standing before them in the engine room, and facing them, is the starboard, and the other the larboard boiler. it is the larboard boiler which is nearest the spectator in the engraving. the boilers, the heads of which only are seen in the engraving, are enormous in magnitude and capacity, extending as they do far forward into the hold of the ship. in marine engines of the largest class they are sometimes thirty-six feet long and over twelve feet in diameter. there is many a farmer's dwelling house among the mountains, which is deemed by its inmates spacious and comfortable, that has less capacity. in fact, placed upon end, one of these boilers would form a tower with a very good sized room on each floor, and four stories high. the manner in which the boilers are made will be presently explained. the steam generated in the boilers is conveyed to the engine, where it is to do its work, by what is called the steam pipe. the steam pipe of the larboard engine, that is, of the one nearest the spectator, is not represented in the engraving, as it would have intercepted too much the view of the other parts. that belonging to the starboard engine, however, may be seen passing across from the boiler to the engine, on the back side of the room. the destination of the steam is the _cylinder_. [illustration: general view of a marine engine.] the cylinder, marked c, is seen on the extreme right, in the view. it may be known, too, by its form, which corresponds with its name. the cylinder is the heart and soul of the engine, being the seat and centre of its power. the steam is generated in the boilers, but while it remains there it remains quiescent and inert. the action in which its mighty power is expended, and by means of which all subsequent effects are produced, is the lifting and bringing down of the enormous piston which plays within the cylinder. this piston is a massive metallic disc or plate, fitting the interior of the cylinder by its edges, and rising or falling by the expansive force of the steam, as it is admitted alternatively above and below it. the round beam which is seen issuing from the centre of the head of the cylinder is called the piston rod. the piston itself is firmly secured to the lower end of this rod within the cylinder. of course, when the piston is forced upward by the pressure of the steam admitted beneath it, the piston rod rises, too, with all the force of the expansion. this is, in the case of the largest marine engines, a force of about a hundred tons. that is to say, if in the place of the cross head--the beam marked h in the engraving which surmounts the piston--there were a mass of rock weighing a hundred tons, which would be, in the case of granite, a block four feet square and eighty feet high, the force of the steam beneath the piston in the cylinder would be competent to lift it. the piston rod, rising with this immense force carries up the cross head, and with the cross head the two _side rods_, one of which is seen in full, in the engraving, and is marked s. there is a side rod on each side of the cylinders. the lower ends of these rods are firmly connected with the back ends of what are called the _side levers_. one of these side levers is seen in full view in the engraving. it is the massive flat beam, marked l, near the fore-ground of the view. it turns upon an enormous pivot which passes through the centre of it, as seen in the drawing, in such a manner that when the cylinder end is drawn up by the lifting of the cross head, the other end is borne down to the same extent, and with the same prodigious force. there is another side beam, on the other side of the cylinder, which moves isochronously with the one in view. the forward end of this other beam may be seen, though the main body of it is concealed from view. these two forward ends of the levers are connected by a heavy bar, called the _cross tail_, which passes across from one to the other. from the centre of this cross tail, a bar called the connecting rod rises to the crank, where the force exerted by the steam in the cylinders is finally expended in turning the great paddle wheels by means of the main shaft, s, which is seen resting in the pillow block, p, above. these are the essential parts of the engine, and we now proceed to consider the mode of manufacturing these several parts, somewhat in detail. [illustration: the cutting engine.] the boilers are formed of wrought iron. the material is previously rolled into plates of the requisite thickness, and then the first part of the process of forming these plates into a boiler is to cut them into proper forms. the monster that fulfills the function of shears for this purpose, bears a very slight resemblance to any ordinary cutting implement it resembles, on the other hand, as represented in the adjoining engraving, an enormous letter u, standing perpendicularly upon one of its edges. through the centre of the upper branch of it there passes a shaft or axle, which is turned by the wheels and machinery behind it, and which itself works the cutter at the outer end of it by means of an eccentric wheel. this cutter may be seen just protruding from its place, upon the plate which the workmen are holding underneath. the iron plates thus presented are sometimes nearly half an inch thick, but the monstrous jaw of the engine, though it glides up and down when there is nothing beneath it in the most gentle and quiet manner possible, cuts them through, as if they were plates of wax, and apparently without feeling the obstruction. [illustration: the bending and punching engines.] the plates, when cut, are to be bent to the proper curvature. the machine by which this bending is effected is seen above, in the back-ground. it consists of three rollers, placed in such a position in relation to each other, that the plate, in being forced through between them, is bent to any required curvature. these rollers are made to revolve by great wheels at the sides, with handles at the circumference of them, which handles act as levers, and are worked by men, as seen in the engraving. the separate plates of which a boiler is composed are fastened together by means of massive rivets, and it is necessary, accordingly, to punch rows of holes along the edges of the plates for the insertion of the rivets. this process may be seen on the _left_ in the above engraving. two men are holding the plate which is to be punched. the punch is driven through the plate by means of the great lever, which forms the upper part of the engine. the upright part in front is driven forward by means of the cam in the large wheel behind, a part of which only is seen in the engraving. this cam raises the long arm of the lever by means of the pulley in the end of it, and so drives the point of the punch through the plate. there is a support for the plate behind it, between the plate and the man, with a small opening in it, into which the punch enters, driving before it the round button of iron which it has cut from the plate. on the right, in the above engraving, is a punching engine worked by men, the other being driven by steam power. these machines are sufficient to make all the ordinary perforations required in boiler-plates. larger holes, when required, have to be bored by a drill, as represented in the following engraving. [illustration: the boring-engine.] the view below represents the interior of one of the great boiler rooms where the boilers are put together by riveting the plates to each other at their edges. some men stand inside, holding heavy sledges against the heads of the rivets, while others on the outside, with other sledges, beat down the part of the iron which protrudes, so as to form another head to each rivet, on the outside. this process can be seen distinctly in the boiler nearest to the observer in the view below. the planks which are seen crossing each other in the open end, are temporary braces, put in to preserve the cylindrical form of the mass, to prevent the iron from bending itself by its own weight, before the iron heads are put in. [illustration: riveting the boilers.] sometimes operations must be performed upon the sides of the boiler requiring the force of machinery. to effect this purpose, shafts carried by the central engine to which we have already alluded, are attached to the walls in various parts of the room, as seen in the engraving. connected with these shafts are various drilling and boring machines, which can at any time be set in motion, or put to rest, by being thrown in or out of gear. one of these machines is seen on the right of the boiler above referred to, and another in the left-hand corner of the room quite in the back-ground. near the fore-ground, on the left, is seen a forge, where any small mass of iron may be heated, as occasion may require. the semi-cylindrical piece which lies in the centre of the room, toward the fore-ground, is part of a locomotive boiler, and is of course much smaller in size than the others, though it is constructed in the same manner with the large boilers used for sea-going ships. the process of riveting, as will be seen by the engraving, is the same. one man holds up against the under side of the plate a support for the rivet, while two men with hammers form a head above--striking alternately upon the iron which protrudes. from the boiler we proceed to the cylinder, which is in fact the _heart_ of the engine,--the seat and centre of its power. it is to the cylinder that the steam, quietly generated in the boiler, comes to exercise its energy, by driving, alternately up and down, the ponderous piston. the cylinder must be strong so as to resist the vast expansive force which is exercised within it. it must be stiff, so as to preserve in all circumstances its exact form. it must be substantial, so as to allow of being turned and polished on its interior surface with mathematical precision, in order that the piston in ascending and descending, may glide smoothly up and down, without looseness, and at the same time without friction. to answer these conditions it is necessary that it should be formed of cast iron. the cylinders are cast, accordingly, in the iron foundry, which, as will be seen by the plan, is on the left, as the visitor enters the works. there is a range of monstrous cranes extending through the interior of the room, as represented in the plan, one of which is exhibited conspicuously in the engraving below. at different places in the ground, beneath this foundry, for it has no floor, there have been excavated deep pits, some of which are twelve feet in diameter and eighteen feet deep, the sides of which are secured by strong inclosures, formed of plates of boiler iron riveted together. these pits are filled with moulding sand--a composition of a damp and tenacious character, used in moulding. the mould is made and lowered into one of these pits, the pit is filled up, the sand being rammed as hard as possible all around it. when all is ready, the top of the mould, with the cross by which it is to be lifted and lowered surmounting it, presents the appearance represented on the right hand lower corner of the engraving below. [illustration: casting a cylinder.] a reservoir to contain the melted metal necessary for the casting is then placed in a convenient position near it, with a channel or conduit leading from it to the mould. this reservoir may be seen in the engraving near the centre of the view, at the foot of the crane. an inclined plane is then laid, as seen in the engraving, to the left of the reservoir, up which the workmen carry the molten metal in ladles, which, though they do not appear very large, it requires _five men_ to carry. a party carrying such a ladle may be seen in the engraving in the back-ground on the left. these ladles are filled from the various furnaces, the iron throwing out an intense heat, and projecting the most brilliant scintillations in every direction, as it flows. in the case of the largest castings it requires sometimes four or five hours to get together, from the furnaces, a sufficient supply of metal. the largest reservoir thus filled will hold about thirty tons of iron. [illustration: filling the ladles.] the flowing of the metal from the reservoir to the mould in a great casting, forms a magnificent spectacle. the vast mass of molten iron in the reservoir, the stream flowing down the conduit, throwing out the most brilliant corruscations, the gaseous flames issuing from the upper portions of the mould, and the currents of melted iron which sometimes overflow and spread, like mimic streams of lava, over the ground, present in their combination quite an imposing pyrotechnic display. in fact there is a chance for the visitor, in the case of castings of a certain kind, that he may be treated to an explosion as a part of the spectacle. the imprisoned vapors and gases which are formed in the mould below, break out sometimes with considerable violence, scattering the burning and scintillating metal in every direction around. [illustration: the explosion.] when the casting is completed it is of course allowed to remain undisturbed until the iron has had time to cool, and then the whole mass is to be dug out of the pit in which it is imbedded. so much heat, however, still remains in the iron and in the sand surrounding it, that the mould itself and the twenty or thirty men engaged in disinterring it, are enveloped in dense clouds of vapor which rise all around them while the operation is proceeding. [illustration: digging out the cylinder.] it is necessary that the sand which surrounds these moulds should be rammed down in the most compact and solid manner to sustain the sides of the mould and enable them to resist the enormous pressure to which it is subject, especially in the lower portions, while the iron continues fluid. in the case of iron, the weight of four inches in height is equivalent to the pressure of a pound upon the square inch. in a pit, therefore, eighteen feet deep, as some of the pits at this foundry are, we should have a pressure at the bottom of fifty-four pounds to the inch. now, in the most powerful sea-going steamers, the pressure of steam at which the engines are worked, is seldom more than _eighteen_ pounds to the inch; that of the cunard line is said to be from twelve to fifteen, and that of the collins line from fifteen to eighteen. in other words there is a pressure to be resisted at the lower ends of these long castings equal to three times that at which the most powerful low pressure engines are worked, and which sometimes results in such terrific explosions. when the cylinder is freed from the pressure of the sand around it, in its bed, the great iron cross by which the mould was lowered into the pit, as seen in the engraving of the casting, is once more brought down to its place, and the stirrups at the tops of the iron rods seen in the engraving below, are brought over the ends of the arms of the cross. the lower ends of these rods take hold of a frame or platform below, upon which the whole mould, together with the cylinder within it, is supported. the arm of the crane is then brought round to the spot. the hook pendant from it is attached to the ring in the centre of the cross, and by means of the wheels and machinery of the crane, the whole is slowly hoisted out, and then swung round to some convenient level, where the ponderous mass is freed from its casing of masonry, and brought out at last to open day. it is then thoroughly examined with a view to the discovery of any latent flaw or imperfection, and, if found complete in every part, is conveyed away to be the subject of a long series of finishing operations in another place,--operations many and complicated, but all essential to enable it finally to fulfill its functions. these cylinders though very massive and ponderous are not the heaviest castings made. they are much exceeded in weight by what is called a bed plate, which is an enormous frame of iron cast in one mass, or else in two or three separate masses and then strongly bolted together, to form a foundation on which the engine is to rest in the hold of the ship. the bed plate can not be seen in the view of the engine room already given, as it lies below the floor, being underneath all the machinery. a bed plate weighs sometimes thirty-five tons--which is the weight of about five hundred men. such a mass as this has to be transported on ways, like those used in the launching of a ship. it is drawn along upon these ways by blocks and pullies, and when brought alongside the ship is hoisted on board by means of an enormous derrick, and let down slowly to the bottom of the hold--the place where it is finally to repose, unless perchance it should at last be liberated by some disaster, from this dungeon, and sent to seek its ultimate destination in the bottom of the sea. the engraving below represents the forges, where all those parts of the machinery are formed and fitted which consist of wrought iron. the room in which these forges are situated is called the smith's shop, in the plan. in the back-ground, a little to the right, is one of the trip hammers, in the act of striking. the trip-hammer is a massive hammer carried by machinery. the machinery which drives it may at any time be thrown in or out of gear, so that the blows of the hammer are always under the control of the workman. the iron bar to be forged is far too heavy to be held by hand. it is accordingly supported as seen in the engraving, by a crane; and only guided to its place upon the anvil by the workmen who have hold of it. the chain to which this bar is suspended comes down from a little truck which rests upon the top of the crane, and which may be made to traverse to and fro, thus carrying whatever is suspended from it further outward, or drawing it in, as may be required. all the cranes, both in the smith's shop and in the foundry, are fitted with the same contrivance. these trucks are moved by means of a wheel at the foot of the crane. [illustration: the forges.] on the extreme right of the picture, and somewhat in the distance, may be seen another trip-hammer with a bar upon the anvil beneath it, this bar being suspended likewise from a crane. when the iron becomes too cold to yield any longer to the percussion, the hammer is stopped, the crane is swung round, and the iron is replaced in the forge to be heated anew; and at length, when heated, it is brought back again under the hammer as before. the forging of shafts requires heavier machinery even than this. the enormous mass of iron that is in this case to be forged, is bricked up in a furnace to be heated, and remains there many hours. the masonry is then broken away and the red hot beam is swung round under the hammer, as seen below. it is suspended from the crane by heavy chains, and is guided by the workmen by means of iron handles clamped to it at a distance from the heated part, as seen in the engraving in the adjoining column. the hammer is lifted by means of the cam below it, as seen in the engraving below. this cam is a projection from an axis revolving beneath the floor, and which, as it revolves, carries the cams successively against a projection upon the under side of the hammer, which is partly concealed in the engraving by the figure of the man. when the point of the cam has passed beyond the projection it allows the hammer to fall. [illustration: heating a shaft.] [illustration: forging a shaft.] while the process of forging such a shaft is going on, one man throws water upon the work, to effect some purpose connected with the scaling of the iron, while another, with an instrument called the callipers, measures the diameter of the shaft, to regulate the size, as the forging proceeds. [illustration: the lathes.] the shafts, when forged, are to be turned in a lathe, and the engine used for this purpose is represented on the left in the engraving below. the shaft itself is seen in the lathe, while the tool which cuts it as it revolves, is fixed firmly in the "rest," which slides along the side. the point of the tool is seen in the engraving, with the spiral shaving which it cuts falling down from it. the shaft is made to revolve by the band seen coming down obliquely from above, at the hither end of the engine. the wheel by which the band turns the lathe has different grooves at different distances from the centre, in order that the workmen may regulate the velocity of the rotation--as different degrees of velocity are required for the different species of work. the _rest_, to which the cutting tool is attached, is brought slowly along the side of the shaft as the shaft revolves, by means of a long screw which is concealed in the frame of the lathe, and which is turned continually by the mechanism of the small wheels which are seen at the hither end of the engine. on the right hand of this view is represented another kind of lathe called a _face lathe_, which is employed for turning wheels, and flat plates, and interiors of cavities, and such other pieces of work as do not furnish two opposite points of support. in the fore-ground are a company of men drawing a massive piece of iron upon a truck, destined apparently to be turned in the left hand lathe. [illustration: finishing.] although thus a great part of the work in respect to all the details of the engine, is performed by machinery, much remains after all to be wrought and fashioned by hand. in passing through the establishment the visitor finds the workmen engaged in these labors, in every conceivable attitude and position. one man is filing a curved surface with a curved file, another is hidden almost wholly from view within a great misshapen box of iron: a third is mounted upon a ladder, and is slowly boring through the wall of some monstrous formation, or cutting away excrescences of iron from some massive casting with a cold chisel. in a word, the details are so endlessly varied as to excite the wonder of the beholder that any human head should have been capable of containing them all, so as to have planned and arranged the fitting of such complicated parts with any hope of their ever coming rightly together. they do come together, however, at last, and then follows the excitement of the trial. there is nothing more striking in the history of the construction of a steam engine than this, that there can be no partial or private tests of the work by the workmen in the course of its progress--but every thing remains in suspense until all is complete, and the ship and the machinery are actually ready for sea. the immense and ponderous masses which constitute the elements of the mighty structure are hoisted slowly on board and let down into their places. multitudes of men are incessantly employed for many weeks in arranging the limbs and members of the monster, and in screwing and bolting every thing into its place. still nothing can be tried. the machinery is too ponderous and massive to be put in action by any power less than that of the mighty mover on which its ultimate performance is to depend; and this mover has not yet been called into being. at length the day of trial arrives. the engineers, the workmen, the owners, and perhaps many spectators, have assembled to watch the result. the boiler is filled; the fires are lighted. hour after hour the process goes on of raising the force and pressure of the steam. all this time, however, the machinery lies inert and lifeless. it is a powerless mass of dead and heavy brass and iron. at length an engineer, standing upon a platform, with a lever in his hand, receives the signal, opens the valve, and breathes into the monstrous body the breath of life. the ponderous piston slowly rises; the beam descends; the crank turns; the vast paddles revolve, and the monster walks away through the water with its enormous burden, having leaped suddenly, at its first breath, into the complete and full possession of its gigantic powers. [illustration: departure of the pacific for europe.] in due time the equipment is complete, and the ship having received on board its burden of costly cargo and valuable lives, moves away from the shore, with a certain expression of calm and quiet dignity in her appearance and demeanor, which almost seems to denote a consciousness on her part of the vast responsibilities which she is assuming, and of the abundant power which she possesses fully to sustain them all. charles wolfe. it is probable that to many of our readers the name which stands at the head of this sketch is unknown, and that those who recognize it will only know it as that of the author of the well-known lines upon the death of sir john moore--a lyric of such surpassing beauty, that so high a judge as lord byron considered it the perfection of english lyrical poetry, preferring it before coleridge's lines on switzerland--campbell's hohenlinden--and the finest of moore's irish melodies, which were instanced by shelley and others. yet, unknown as the rev. charles wolfe is, it is unquestionable that he was a man possessing the highest powers of imagination, and a powerful intellect, cultivated to a very high point of perfection, and fitting him to become one of the brightest stars of the world of literature. why he is unknown is then probably a question which will suggest itself to the minds of many, and the answer must be, because he _did_ so little for the world to remember him by. the whole of his literary remains, including his sermons, and a biographical sketch, which fills one half of the book, is contained in a moderate sized octavo volume, published after his death by the rev. j. a. russell, archdeacon of clogher, whose affection for the memory of mr. wolfe prompted him to edit and give to the world the fragmentary manuscripts, which are the only lasting and appreciable records of the residence of a great spirit among us. but it may be asked why, with such capabilities and powers as we have stated mr. wolfe to possess, he did so little? and to that interrogation many replies may be given. mr. wolfe died at the early age of , just when the powers are in their full vigor--and in the later years of his life he had devoted himself enthusiastically to the duties which devolved upon him as the curate of a large and populous parish in the north of ireland. neither of these reasons, however, is sufficient, for we know that the poetic intellect is precocious, and brings forth fruit early. shelley, who died younger, left productions behind him, which will hand his name down to the latest posterity; and the comparatively voluminous writings of the witty dean, sidney smith, prove that a man may bear the weight of the clerical office, and take an active part in politics in addition, and yet leave enough behind him to keep his name green in the memory of the world. the true reason why mr. wolfe did so little is no doubt to be found in the character of his mind, and this is easily traceable, both in the mild, child-like, almost simple, but intelligent expression of the portrait which forms a frontispiece to the volume to which we have adverted, and in most of the passages of his life. there was a want of strong resolution, and an absence of concentration so marked, that he seldom read completely through even those books which most deeply interested him--there was a nervous susceptibility, and an openness to new impressions, which caused him as it were to dwell upon every passage he did read, to linger over its beauties, to start objections to its theories, to argue them out, and to develop to its fullest every suggestive thought; and there was in him a spirit of good-nature trenching upon weak compliance, which put his time at the service of all who chose to thrust employment upon him. added to this, and arising out of his want of steady resolution and earnest will, there was a habit of putting off till to-morrow what should be done to-day, of which he was himself fully sensible, and which he speaks of in one of his letters, as that "fatal habit of delay and procrastination, for which i am so pre-eminently distinguished." charles wolfe was the youngest son of theobald wolfe, esq., of blackball, in the county of kildare, ireland, and was born in dublin on the th of december, . the family was not unknown to fame, for the celebrated general wolfe, who fell at quebec, was one of its members, and lord kilwarden, an eminent man at the irish bar, and who was afterward elevated to the dignity of a judgeship, was another. at an early age the father of our hero died, and the family removed to england, where charles wolfe was sent to a school at bath. here, however, at the age of ten years, his studies were interrupted by failing health for a period of twelve months. after that, he was in the establishment of dr. evans, of salisbury; and in we find him at winchester school, under the superintendence of mr. richards, senior. here he became conspicuous for his classical knowledge, and his great powers of versification, which gave promise of future excellence. what appears more distinctly, though, than his mental ability at this age, was the amiability of his disposition, and the tractability of his nature. his kindness, cheerfulness, and open sympathy drew to him the love of his fellows; and the esteem in which he was held by his masters may be judged from the fact, that during the whole period of his pupilage his conduct never drew down upon him punishment, or even a reprimand. his tender and affectionate disposition endeared him to his own family, with whom he was an especial favorite; and in connection with this, we may mention one circumstance strongly indicative of his yielding character. in spite of his gentle nature, he, animated no doubt by that desire for glory so common to poetical minds, and which, looking on the brighter side of war, hides its terrors and its horrors from the young and ardent, wished to enter the army; but finding that the idea gave pain to his mother, he immediately abandoned the notion, and appears from thenceforth to have looked upon the clerical office as his destined part in life. strange transition, from the aspiration to carry forth death and destruction to that of being the bearer of the glad tidings of "peace on earth, and good-will toward men." the change, however, is one which we believe to be not unfrequent. the same desire for fame urges men to the bar, the pulpit, and the tented field, and but for maternal love, charles wolfe, carrying with him that martial spirit which now and then breaks out in his poetry, might have been like his namesake, the general, a blood-stained hero, instead of a peaceful, loving irish curate. so powerful are circumstances to mould man's fate--and wolfe was of that mould on which circumstances act with peculiar force. had he been a soldier, it may be that the occupation would have strengthened his _physique_ at the expense of his mentality, and that his bodily powers, unimpaired by sedentary habits, would have carried him on to a good old age. there is food for reflection in that idea, of how every course in life has its mixed good and evil. in the family returned to ireland, and in charles wolfe became a student of dublin university. here his classical learning and poetical attainments soon made him conspicuous, and he carried off prizes from the most distinguished of his competitors. the historical society of the university, the object of which was the cultivation of history, poetry, and oratory, also afforded him scope for the display of his talents, and gave him opportunity to win several medals and prizes. most of the few poetical efforts of mr. wolfe were made at this period, including the death of sir john moore, and a beautiful song, connected with which is an anecdote so strikingly characteristic of the nature of the author's mind, and so indicative of his extreme sensibility, that it is worth notice. he was particularly open to the influence of music, and one of his favorite melodies was the popular irish air "gramachree," to which, at the request of a friend, he wrote the following song: "if i had thought thou could'st have died, i might not weep for thee: but i forgot, when by thy side, that thou could'st mortal be: it never through my mind had pass'd, the time would e'er be o'er, and i on thee should look my last, and thou should'st smile no more! "and still upon that face i look, and think 'twill smile again; and still the thought i will not brook, that i must look in vain! but when i speak thou dost not say, what thou ne'er left'st unsaid; and now i feel, as well i may, sweet mary! thou art dead! "if thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, all cold, and all serene-- i still might press thy silent heart, and where thy smiles have been! while e'en thy chill, bleak corse i have, thou seemest still mine own; but there i lay thee in thy grave-- and i am now alone. "i do not think, where'er thou art, thou hast forgotten me; and i, perhaps, may soothe this heart, in thinking too of thee: yet there was round thee such a dawn of light ne'er seen before, as fancy never could have drawn, and never can restore." his friends asked him whether he had any real incident in his mind which suggested the stanzas; he said, "he had not; but that he had sung the air over and over, till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the words." in the first year of mr. wolfe's attendance at the university, death took his mother, to whom he was most affectionately attached--an event which for some time interrupted his studies, and when he resumed them, he did not manifest much inclination to apply himself to the exact sciences. here, however, that kindness of disposition which made him more useful to others than to himself, and induced him to neglect his own interests, and lend himself to those of his friends with an almost fatal facility, came to his aid, and stood him in good stead. the desire to assist a less gifted acquaintance impelled him to study more strenuously than he would have done, for his own benefit, and had the effect of so drawing out his own talents for scientific pursuits, that at an examination upon the severer sciences he carried away the prize from a host of talented candidates. soon after, when his straitened circumstances induced him to become a college tutor, he found the benefit of his scientific acquirements; but in that capacity his amiability of character was a disadvantage to him, for he was so anxious for the progress of his pupils, and so prodigal of his time and labor upon them, that he had but little opportunity for his own studies, or for relaxation. after the usual period at the university, mr. wolfe took a scholarship, with the highest honors, and went into residence, and in he took the degree of bachelor of arts. his friends, seeing the talents he evinced for scientific pursuits, urged him to read for a fellowship, and for some time he prosecuted his studies with marked effect; but the want of the power of continuous application, and intense concentration, made him the sport of every trifling interruption, and the habit he had of throwing aside books partly read, and dwelling upon striking passages and disputable theories, impeded his progress. it is probable, however, that with his great mental facilities, a less amount of exertion would have sufficed than with less gifted students, and that despite his want of industrial energy, and his unfavorable habits of mind, he would have succeeded, but he was doomed to be disappointed in a manner which must have had a very depressing effect on a mind constituted as his was. he had formed an intimacy with a family in the vicinity of dublin, and while his visits to the beautiful scenery in which their dwelling was situated, stimulated his poetical faculties, the charms of a daughter of the house touched the sensitive heart of the young scholar. the attachment was mutual, and ripened apace, but his want of "prospects" induced the prudent parents to break off the intimacy. the expectant fellowship indeed would have afforded him sufficient means, but a barbarous statute was in force which imposed celibacy upon the fellows, and barred his hopes. if this disappointment had happened to a man of strong resolute will it would, in all likelihood, after the first shock was over, have thrown him back upon his studies more determinedly than ever, but on a nature like that of our hero, it had the contrary effect. it damped his ardor, he lost both his mistress and the chance of preferment; and, turning to religion for consolation, he was ordained in november, , and shortly after was engaged in temporary duty in the north of ireland, and finally settled as curate of donoughmore, where he continued the greater part of the remainder of his life. for the occupation of the ministry, mr. wolfe, notwithstanding his youthful military tendency and love of society, was eminently fitted. his mind was naturally of a devotional cast, and fitted peculiarly for his new position. he was thoroughly in earnest--the strong impulse supplied by intense devotional feeling served to counteract his want of application. the kindness of his heart, and the desire to serve others, which was so prominent a feature of his mind, made him untiring; the dislike of contest which marked him led him to dwell on the vital points common to all religions, and avoid controversial ground. that want of self-esteem, too, which at the university had ever made him distrustful of his own powers, and kept him from claiming the stanzas on sir john moore, when they were claimed by, or attributed to others, induced him to converse familiarly with the peasant, and to submit to contradiction and even insult from those who, both socially and intellectually, were inferior to himself. add to this, that he thoroughly understood the irish character, which had many points in common with his own impulsive versatile nature, and it may be conceived how influential he was in his remote curacy. presbyterian, methodist, catholic, all gathered round him and often filled his little church, listening to his concise, plain-spoken sermons, which far oftener treated of the hopes and mercies than the terrors and punishments of christianity, and in his parish school the children of all denominations were taught together. this, however, was not to last long. he had applied himself too assiduously to his task for his physical strength. oppressed with a sense of the responsibility of his position he had, upon entering upon the ministry, given up all thoughts of literature. he lived in an old, half-furnished house, slept in a damp room, and traversed bog and moor on foot in all weathers to visit his flock. under these labors the latent tendency of his constitution developed itself, his cough became day by day more violent, and in it was evident that consumption had laid its hand upon its prey. still he was unwilling to retire from his ministry, and it was only in compliance with the reiterated entreaties of his friends that he at last proceeded to scotland to consult a celebrated physician. his return to his parish after that short absence proved the estimation in which he was held among the people. as he rode by the cabins of the peasantry, the occupants rushed out, and, with all the impulsive devotion of the irish toward those whom they regard as benefactors, fell upon their knees, and invoked blessings upon him, and pursued the carriage in which he rode, with fervent prayers. his health, however, still continued to fail, and his friends at length persuaded him to remove to dublin, where he continued to preach occasionally, till his physician forbade such effort, and to use his own words, "stripped him of his gown." toward the winter of , it was thought advisable to remove him to bordeaux for a time, but adverse gales twice drove him back to holyhead, and he suffered so much from fatigue and sea-sickness that it appeared best to locate him near exeter, where he staid till the spring of , in the house of a clergyman, whose practice among the poor had qualified him to act the part of a physician to the invalid. in the spring, apparently somewhat improved, he returned to dublin, and in the summer made a short voyage to bordeaux, where he staid about a month. he then again returned to dublin, and from that time steadily declined. in november, , accompanied by a relative and the rev. mr. russell, his biographer, he removed to the cove of cork, but all efforts to recruit his failing strength were unavailing, and he expired there on the st of february, , in the d year of his age. about a twelvemonth previous to his death, he had been preferred to the important curacy of armagh, but he never lived to visit his new parish. all the letters written during his protracted illness prove his amiability, and the patience with which he suffered, as well as the ardor of the christian faith on which he so confidently leaned, and few men were more sincerely mourned by a large number of devoted and admiring friends. charles wolfe was one of those characters eminently fitted to make good men, but destitute of some of the qualities for what the world calls greatness. he was a high type of that class who form the cynosure of their own peculiar circles, where they are admired as much for the kindliness of their nature as the extent of their attainments, and the power and versatility of their talents. but wanting the self-esteem, the unwavering self-confidence, the perseverance and unshaken resolution which go to make up greatness, he possessed in an eminent degree those kindly sympathies, tender feelings, and that earnest devotion to the interests and wishes of his fellows, which among friends and intimates make goodness so much more lovable than greatness. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. (_continued from page ._) chapter xxvi. a remnant of "fontenoy." there was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. the short, dry cough, the little husky "ay," that sounded like any thing rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and, more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd gray eyes, told me that i had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and that he read me through and through. "and so," said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my shipwreck, "and so the flemish sailors wear spurs?" "spurs! of course not; why should they?" asked i, in some astonishment. "well, but don't they?" asked he again. "no such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it." "so i thought," rejoined he; "and when i looked at yer 'honor's' boots (it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference), and saw the marks on the heel for spurs, i soon knew how much of a sailor you were." "and if not a sailor, what am i, then?" asked i; for, in the loneliness of the mountain region where we walked, i could afford to throw off my disguise without risk. "ye'r a french officer of dragoons, and god bless ye; but ye'r young to be at the trade. arn't i right now?" "not very far from it certainly, for i am a lieutenant of hussars," said i, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always feel on the mention of our corps. "i knew it well all along," said he, coolly; "the way you stood in the room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how ye believed me when i spoke of the spring tides, and the moon only in her second quarter, i saw you never was a sailor anyhow. and so i set a-thinking what you were. you were too silent for a peddler, and your hands were too white to be in the smuggling trade; but when i saw your boots, i had the secret at once, and knew ye were one of the french army that landed the other day at killala." "it was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!" said i, laughing. "arrah, what use would it be?" replied he; "sure ye'r too straight in the back, and your walk is too reg'lar, and your toes turns in too much, for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray you!" "so it seems; then i must try some other disguise," said i, "if i'm to keep company with people as shrewd as you are." "you needn't," said he, shaking his head, doubtfully; "any that wants to betray ye, wouldn't find it hard." i was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without speaking. "yez came too late, four months too late," said he, with a sorrowful gesture of the hands. "when the wexford boys was up, and the kildare chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the north, then, indeed, a few thousand french down here in the west would have made a differ; but what's the good in it now? the best men we had are hanged, or in jail; some are frightened; more are traitors! 'tis too late--too late!" "but not too late for a large force, landing in the north, to rouse the island to another effort for liberty." "who would be the gin'ral?" asked he, suddenly. "napper tandy, your own countryman," replied i, proudly. "i wish ye luck of him!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "'tis more like mocking us than any thing else the french does be, with the chaps they sent here to be gin'rals. sure it isn't napper tandy, nor a set of young lawyers, like tone and the rest of them, we wanted. it was men that knew how to drill and manage troops--fellows that was used to fightin'; so that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it, at laste. i'm ould enough to remimber the 'wild geese,' as they used to call them--the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in france; and i remimber, too, the sort of men the french were that came over to inspect them--soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them: and a fine sarvice it was. volle-face!" cried he, holding himself erect, and shouldering his stick like a musket; "marche! ha, ha! ye didn't think _that_ was in me; but i was at the thrade long before you were born." "how is this," said i, in amazement, "you were not in the french army?" "wasn't i, though? maybe i didn't get that stick there." and he bared his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from a highlander's bayonet. "i was at fontenoy!" the last few words he uttered, with a triumphant pride, that i shall never forget. as for me, the mere name was magical. "fontenoy" was like one of those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it almost seemed impossible that i should see before me a soldier of that glorious battle. "ay, faith!" he added, "'tis more than fifty, 'tis nigh sixty years now since that, and i remember it as if it was yesterday. i was in the regiment 'tourville;' i was recruited for the 'wellon,' but they scattered us about among the other corps afterward, because we used now and then to be fighting and quarrelin' among one an' other. well, it was the wellons that gained the battle; for after the english was in the village of fontenoy, and the french was falling back upon the heights near the wood--arrah, what's the name of the wood?--sure i'll forget my own name next. ay, to be sure, verzon--the 'wood of verzon.' major jodillon--that's what the french called him, but his name was joe wellon--turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a farm-house, and, making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire on the english column. it was loaded with grape, and at half-musket range, so you may think what a peppering they got. at last the column halted, and lay down; and joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to bring up artillery to silence our guns. a few minutes more, and it would be all over with us. so joe shouts out as loud as he could, 'cavalry there! tell off by threes, and prepare to charge!' i needn't tell you that the devil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time; but the english didn't know that; and, hearin' the order, up they jumps, and we heerd the word passin', 'prepare to receive cavalry!' they formed square at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a charge as tore a lane right through the middle of them. before they could recover, we opened a platoon fire on their flank; they staggered, broke, and at last fell back in disorder upon aeth, with the whole of the french army after them. such firin'--grape, round-shot, and musketry--i never seed afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it was more like a hunt nor any thing else; for ye see the dutch never came up, but left the english to do all the work themselves, and that's the reason they couldn't form, for they had no supportin' colum'. "it was then i got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin' that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye see, there's nothin' so treacherous as a highlander. i was just behind one, and had my sword-point between his blade-hones, ready to run him through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under the short ribs, and that was all i saw of the battle; for i bled till i fainted, and never knew more of what happened. 'tisn't by way of making little of frenchmen i say it, for i sarved too long wid them for _that_--but sorra taste of that victory ever they'd see if it wasn't for the wellons, and major joe that commanded them! the english knows it well, too! maybe they don't do us many a spite for it to this very day!" "and what became of you after that?" "the same summer i came over to scotland with the young prince charles, and was at the battle of preston-pans afterward; and, what's worse, i was at culloden! oh, that was the terrible day! we were dead bate before we began the battle. we were on the march from one o'clock the night before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! we lost our way twice; and, after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves opposite a mill-dam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides led us all astray! then came ordhers to wheel about face, and go back again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and almost faintin' with hunger. some of us had nothing to eat for two days, and the prince, i seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a wooden measure of whiskey for his own breakfast. well, it's no use talking, we were bate, and we retreated to inverness that night, and next morning we surrendered and laid down our arms--that is, the 'regiment du tournay,' and the 'voltigeurs de metz,' the corps i was in myself." "and did you return to france?" "no; i made my way back to ireland, and after loiterin' about home some time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, i took sarvice with one mister brooke, of castle brooke, in fermanagh, a young man that was just come of age, and as great a devil, god forgive me, as ever was spawned. he was a protestant, but he didn't care much about one side or the other, but only wanted divarsion and his own fun out of the world; and faix he took it, too! he had plenty of money, was a fine man to look at, and had courage to face a lion! "the first place we went to was aix-la-chapelle, for mr. brooke was named something--i forget what--to lord sandwich, that was going there as an embassador. it was a grand life there while it lasted. such liveries, such coaches, such elegant dinners every day, i never saw even in paris. but my master was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he did. there was an ould austrian there--a count riedensegg was his name--and he was always plottin' and schamin' with this, that, and the other; buyin' up the sacrets of others, and gettin' at their sacret papers one way or the other; and at last he begins to thry the same game with us; and as he saw that mr. brooke was very fond of high play, and would bet any thing one offered him, the ould count sends for a great gambler from vienna, the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a card. ye may have heerd of him, tho' 'twas long ago that he lived, for he was well known in them times. he was the baron von breckendorf, and a great friend afterward of the prince ragint and all the other blaguards in london. "well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with dispatches, they said, but sorrow other dispatch he carried nor some packs of marked cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he puts up at the grand hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries, and as much state as a prince. that very day mr. brooke dined with the count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards; and, pretending to be only playin' for silver, they were betting a hundred guineas on every game. "i always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few was equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould nick was playin' he couldn't do the thrick nater nor the baron. he made every thing come up just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades, or the knave of clubs, there it was for you. "most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein' the luck so dead agin' them, and every thing goin' so bad, but my master only smiled, and kept muttering to himself, 'faix, it's beautiful; by my conscience it is elegant; i never saw any body could do it like that.' at last the baron stops and asks, 'what is it he's saying to himself?' 'i'll tell you by-and-by,' says my master, 'when we're done playing;' and so on they went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn't very far from a thousand pounds on a single card. at the end, mr. brooke lost every thing, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says to him, 'double or quit?' and he tuk it. "this time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts; and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one as his own. the baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal, 'wait,' says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper; 'wait,' says he, 'what are ye doin' there wid your thumb?' for sure enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack. "'do you mane to insult me,' says the baron, getting mighty red, and throwing down the cards on the table, 'is that what you're at?' "'go on with the deal,' says mr. brooke, quietly; 'but listen to me,' and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, 'as sure as you turn the king of hearts i'll send a bullet through your skull! go on now, and don't rise from that seat till you've finished the game.' faix, he just did as he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and gettin' up from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there was no more seen of him in aix-la-chapelle. but that wasn't the end of it, for scarce was the baron two posts on his journey, when my master sends in his name, and says he wants to speak to count riedensegg. there was a long time, and a great debatin', i believe, whether they'd let him in or not; for the count couldn't make if it was mischief he was after; but at last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed. "'count,' says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was alone, 'count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a baron--an ould blaguard that's as well known as freney, the robber--but i forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. i know well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our dispatches--there, ye needn't look cross and angry--why wouldn't ye do it, just as the baron always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. well, now, i'm just in the humor to sarve you. they're not trating me as they ought here, and i'm going away, and if you'll give me a few letthers to some of the pretty women in vienna, kateuka batthyani, and amalia gradoffsky, and one or two men in the best set, i'll send you in return something will surprise you.' "it was after a long time and great batin' about the bush, that the ould count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he consented. "'there it is,' says mr. brooke, 'there's the whole key to our correspondence, study it well, and i'll bring you a sacret dispatch in the evening--something that will surprise you.' "'ye will--will ye?' says the count. "'on the honor of an irish gentleman, i will,' says mr. brooke. "the count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the princesses and countesses in vienna, saying that mr. brooke was the elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met; and telling them to treat him with every consideration. "'there will be another account of me,' says the master to me, 'by the post; but i'll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and i ask no more.' "and he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for vienna, without lave or license, and that's the way he got dismissed from his situation." "and did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him any intelligence?" "he kept his word like a gentleman; he promised him something that would surprise him, and so he did. he sent him the weddin' of ballyporeen in cipher. it took a week to make out, and i suppose they've never got to the right understandin' it yet." "i'm curious to hear how he was received in vienna after this," said i. "i suppose you accompanied him to that city." "troth i did, and a short life we led there; but here we are now, at the end of our journey. that's father doogan's down there, that small, low, thatched house in the hollow." "a lonely spot, too. i don't see another near it for miles on any side." "nor is there. his chapel is at murrah, about three miles off. my eyes isn't over good; but i don't think there's any smoke coming out of the chimley." "you are right--there is not." "he's not at home, then, and that's a bad job for us, for there's not another place to stop the night in." "but there will be surely some one in the house." "most likely not; 'tis a brat of a boy from murrah does be with him when he's at home, and i'm sure he's not there now." this reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much brighter. the solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze, intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak forest. a brown, mournful tint was over every thing--sky and landscape alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining course along, took the same color from the gravelly bed it flowed over. not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and still. "there's few would like to pass their lives down there, then!" said my companion, as if speaking to himself. "i suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters." "sometimes he has, though. father doogan might have had the pick of the county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. he's a friar of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he could only spake a little irish, and, i believe, less english; but there wasn't his equal, for other tongues, in all europe. they wanted him to stop and be the head of a college somewhere in spain, but he wouldn't. 'there was work to do in ireland,' he said, and there he'd go, and to the wildest and laste civilized bit of it besides; and ye see that he was not far out in his choice when he took murrah." "is he much liked here by the people?" "they'd worship him, if he'd let them, that's what it is; for if he has more larnin' and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in ireland, there's not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. he that knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the world's going, and what's comin' afther her, hasn't a thought for the wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! he could tell you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment, and i don't think he'd know which end of the spade goes into the ground." while we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the windows, was closely barred and fastened. the great padlock, however, on the former, with characteristic acuteness, was locked without being hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter. a roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall; and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunder storm had already burst, and the rain was swooping along in torrents. while he was thus busied i took a ramble through the little cabin, curious to see something of the "interior" of one whose life had already interested me. there were but two small chambers, one at either side of the kitchen. the first i entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being a common bed, or a tressel like that of an hospital, a little colored print of st. michael adorning the wall overhead. the bed-covering was cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and the black "soutane" of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show long years of service. the few articles of any pretension to comfort were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and a few pencil-drawings, appeared. all seemed as if he had just quitted the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within the leaves of a little book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it, still waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly enough betrayed it to be by his own hands. i inspected every thing with an interest inspired by all i had been hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his humble library to trace, if i might, some clew to his habits in his readings. they were all, however, of one cast and character--religious tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing, by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. it was easy to see that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he permitted himself to indulge. what a strange life of privation, thought i, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and unpromising, i perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk. curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, i drew aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little colored sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry and much-worn uniform of a drummer. i started. something flashed suddenly across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not unknown to me. was i awake, or were my senses misleading me? i took it down and held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands permitted, i spelled out, at the foot of the drawing, the words "le petit maurice, as i saw him last." yes: it was my own portrait, and the words were in the writing of my dearest friend in the world, the père michael. scarce knowing what i did, i ransacked books and papers on every side, to confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found, i had no difficulty in recognizing his hand, now so forcibly recalled to my memory. hastening into the kitchen, i told my guide, that i must set out to murrah at once, that it was above all important that i should see the priest immediately. it was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the fatigue of going further, that the storm was increasing, the mountain torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be discovered after dark; i could not brook the thought of delay, and would not listen to the detail of difficulties. "i must see him and i will," were my answers to every obstacle. if i were resolved on one side, _he_ was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me unconvinced, he boldly declared that i might go alone, if i would, but that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any one. there was nothing in the shape of argument i did not essay. i tried bribery, i tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all--and all with the like result. "wherever he is to-night, he'll not leave it, that's certain," was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and i retired beaten from the contest, and disheartened. twice i left the cottage, resolved to go alone and unaccompanied, but the utter darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me the impracticability of the attempt, and i retraced my steps crest-fallen and discomfited. the most intense curiosity to know how and by what chances he had come to ireland mingled with my ardent desire to meet him. what stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! nor was it without pride that i bethought me of the position i then held--an officer of a hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and high on the list for promotion. if i hoped, too, that many of the good father's prejudices against the career i followed would give way to the records of my own past life, i also felt how, in various respects, i had myself conformed to many of his notions. we should be dearer, closer friends than ever. this i knew and was sure of. i never slept the whole night through; tired and weary as the day's journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and i walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out, and peer for coming dawn! never did hours lag so lazily. the darkness seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an atmosphere loaded with vapor. "this is a day for the chimney corner, and thankful to have it we ought to be," said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which he was preparing our breakfast. "father doogan will be home here afore night, i'm sure, and as we have nothing better to do, i'll tell you some of our old adventures when i lived with mr. brooke. 'twill sarve to pass the time, any way." "i'm off to murrah, as soon as i have eaten something," replied i. "'tis little you know what a road it is," said he, smiling dubiously. "'tis four mountain rivers you'd have to cross, two of them, at least, deeper than your head, and there's the pass of barnascorny, where you'd have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of feet below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four! there's never a man in the barony would venture over the same path, with a storm ragin' from the nor'west." "i never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain," said i, laughing contemptuously. "arrah, didn't ye then? then maybe ye never tried in parts where the heaviest plows and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin are flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn out of the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the spars of a shipwreck." "but so long as a man has hands to grip with." "how ye talk; sure when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by the roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their place; when the very shingle on the mountain side is flyin' about like dust and sand, where would your grip be? it is not only on the mountains either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many's the time a sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea." with many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little meal of potatoes. some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence, but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. he displayed all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on unwilling ears, and when our meal was over i started up and began to prepare for the road. "so you will go, will you?" said he, peevishly. "'tis in your country to be obstinate, so i'll say nothing more; but maybe 'tis only into throubles you'd be running after all!" "i'm determined on it," said i, "and i only ask you to tell me what road to take." "there is only one, so there is no mistakin' it; keep to the sheep path, and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye can, and when ye come to four big rocks in the plain leave them to your left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, 'till ye see the smoke of the village underneath you. murrah is a small place, and ye'll have to look out sharp or maybe ye'll miss it." "that's enough," said i, putting some silver in his hand as i pressed it. "we'll probably meet no more; good-by, and many thanks for your pleasant company." "no, we're not like to meet again," said he, thoughtfully, "and that's the reason i'd like to give you a bit of advice. hear me now," said he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; "you can't go far in this country without being known; 'tisn't your looks alone, but your voice, and your tongue, will show what ye are. get away out of it as fast as you can! there's thraitors in every cause, and there's chaps in ireland would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry! get over to the scotch islands; get to isla or barra; get any where out of this for the time." "thanks for the counsel," said i, somewhat coldly, "i'll have time to think over it as i go along," and with these words i set forth on my journey. chapter xxvii. "the cranagh." i will not weary my reader with a narrative of my mountain walk, nor the dangers and difficulties which beset me on that day of storm and hurricane. few as were the miles to travel, what with accidents, mistakes of the path, and the halts to take shelter, i only reached murrah as the day was declining. the little village, which consisted of some twenty cabins, occupied a narrow gorge between two mountains, and presented an aspect of greater misery than i had ever witnessed before, not affording even the humblest specimen of a house of entertainment. from some peasants that were lounging in the street i learned that "father doogan" had passed through two days before in company with a naval officer, whom they believed to be french. at least, "he came from one of the ships in the lough, and could speak no english." since that the priest had not returned, and many thought that he had gone away forever. this story, varied in a few unimportant particulars, i heard from several; and also learned that a squadron of several sail had, for three or four days, been lying at the entrance of lough swilly, with, it was said, large reinforcements for the "army of independence." there was then no time to be lost: here was the very force which i had been sent to communicate with; there were the troops that should at that moment be disembarking. the success of my mission might all depend now on a little extra exertion, and so i at once engaged a guide to conduct me to the coast, and having fortified myself with a glass of mountain whiskey, i felt ready for the road. my guide could only speak a very little english; so that our way was passed in almost unbroken silence; and, as for security, he followed the least frequented paths, we scarcely met a living creature as we went. it was with a strange sense of half pride, half despondency, that i bethought me of my own position there--a frenchman, alone, and separated from his countrymen--in a wild mountain region of ireland, carrying about him documents that, if detected, might peril his life; involved in a cause that had for its object the independence of a nation; and that against the power of the mightiest kingdom in europe. an hour earlier or later, an accident by the way, a swollen torrent, a chance impediment of any kind that should delay me--and what a change might that produce in the whole destiny of the world. the dispatches i carried conveyed instructions the most precise and accurate--the places for combined action of the two armies--information as to the actual state of parties, and the condition of the native forces, was contained in them. all that could instruct the newly-come generals, or encourage them to decisive measures were there; and, yet, on what narrow contingencies did their safe arrival depend! it was thus, in exaggerating to myself the part i played--in elevating my humble position into all the importance of a high trust--that i sustained my drooping spirits, and acquired energy to carry me through fatigue and exhaustion. during that night, and the greater part of the following day, we walked on, almost without halt, scarcely eating, and, except by an occasional glass of whisky, totally unrefreshed; and i am free to own, that my poor guide--a bare-legged youth of about seventeen, without any of those high-sustaining illusions which stirred within my heart--suffered far less either from hunger or weariness than _i_ did. so much for motives. a shilling or two were sufficient to equalize the balance against all the weight of my heroism and patriotic ardor together! a bright sun, and a sharp wind from the north, had succeeded to the lowering sky and heavy atmosphere of the morning, and we traveled along with light hearts and brisk steps, breasting the side of a deep ascent, from the summit of which my guide told me, i should behold the sea--the sea, not only the great plain on which i expected to see our armament, but the link which bound me to my country! suddenly, just as i turned the angle of a cliff, it burst upon my sight--one vast mirror of golden splendor--appearing almost at my feet! in the yellow gleams of a setting sun, long columns of azure-colored light streaked its calm surface, and tinged the atmosphere with a warm and rosy hue. while i was lost in admiration of the picture, i heard the sound of voices close beneath me, and, on looking down, saw two figures who, with telescopes in hand, were steadily gazing on a little bay that extended toward the west. at first, my attention was more occupied by the strangers than by the object of their curiosity, and i remarked that they were dressed and equipped like sportsmen, their guns and game-bags lying against the rock behind them. "do you still think that they are hovering about the coast, tom?" said the elder of the two, "or are you not convinced, at last, that i am right?" "i believe you are," replied the other; "but it certainly did not look like it yesterday evening, with their boats rowing ashore every half hour, signals flying, and blue lights burning; all seemed to threaten a landing." "if they ever thought of it, they soon changed their minds," said the former. "the defeat of their comrades in the west, and the apathy of the peasantry here, would have cooled down warmer ardor than theirs. there they go, tom. i only hope that they'll fall in with warren's squadron, and french insolence receive at sea the lesson we failed to give them on land." "not so," rejoined the younger; "humbert's capitulation, and the total break-up of the expedition ought to satisfy even your patriotism." "it fell far short of it, then!" cried the other. "i'd never have treated those fellows other than as bandits and freebooters. i'd have hanged them as highwaymen. there was less war than rapine; but what could you expect? i have been assured that humbert's force consisted of little other than liberated felons and galley slaves--the refuse of the worst population of europe!" distracted with the terrible tidings i had overheard--overwhelmed with the sight of the ships, now glistening like bright specks on the verge of the horizon, i forgot my own position--my safety--every thing but the insult thus cast upon my gallant comrades. "whoever said so was a liar, and a base coward, to boot!" cried i, springing down from the height and confronting them both where they stood. they started back, and, seizing their guns, assumed an attitude of defense, and then, quickly perceiving that i was alone--for the boy had taken to flight as fast as he could--they stood regarding me with faces of intense astonishment. "yes," said i, still boiling with passion, "you are two to one, on your own soil besides, the odds you are best used to; and yet i repeat it, that he who asperses the character of general humbert's force is a liar." "he's french." "no, he's irish," muttered the elder. "what signifies my country, sirs," cried i passionately, "if i demand retraction for a falsehood." "it signifies more than you think of, young man," said the elder, calmly, and without evincing even the slightest irritation in his manner. "if you be a frenchman born, the lenity of our government accords you the privilege of a prisoner of war. if you be only french by adoption, and a uniform, a harsher destiny awaits you." "and who says i am a prisoner yet?" asked i, drawing myself up, and staring them steadily in the face. "we should be worse men, and poorer patriots, than you give us credit for, or we should be able to make you so," said he quietly, "but this is no case for ill-temper on either side. the expedition has failed. well, if you will not believe _me_, read that. there, in that paper, you will see the official account of general humbert's surrender at boyle. the news is already over the length and breadth of the island; even if you only landed last night, i can not conceive how you should be ignorant of it!" i covered my face with my hands to hide my emotion; and he went on: "if you be french, you have only to claim and prove your nationality, and you partake the fortunes of your countrymen." "and if he be not," whispered the other, in a voice which, although low, i could still detect, "why should _we_, give him up?" "hush, tom, be quiet," replied the elder, "let him plead for himself." "let me see the newspaper," said i, endeavoring to seem calm and collected; and taking it at the place he pointed out, i read the heading in capitals, "capitulation of general humbert and his whole force." i could see no more. i could not trace the details of so horrible a disaster, nor did i ask to know by what means it occurred. my attitude and air of apparent occupation, however, deceived the other; and the elder, supposing that i was engaged in considering the paragraph, said, "you'll see the government proclamation on the other side, a general amnesty to all under the rank of officers in the rebel army, who give up their arms within six days. the french to be treated as prisoners of war." "is he too late to regain the fleet," whispered the younger. "of course he is. they are already hull down; besides, who's to assist his escape, tom? you forget the position he stands in." "but i do not forget it," answered i, "and you need not be afraid that i will seek to compromise you, gentlemen. tell me where to find the nearest justice of the peace, and i will go and surrender myself." "it is your wisest and best policy," said the elder; "i am not in the commission, but a neighbor of mine is, and lives a few miles off, and if you like we'll accompany you to his house." i accepted the offer, and soon found myself descending the steep path of the mountain in perfect good-fellowship with the two strangers. it is likely enough, that if they had taken any peculiar pains to obliterate the memory of our first meeting, or if they had displayed any extraordinary efforts of conciliation, that i should be on my guard against them; but their manner, on the contrary, was easy and unaffected in every respect. they spoke of the expedition sensibly and dispassionately, and while acknowledging that there were many things they would like to see altered in the english rule of ireland, they were very averse from the desire of a foreign intervention to rectify them. i avowed to them that we had been grossly deceived. that all the representations made us, depicted ireland as a nation of soldiers, wanting only arms and military stores to rise as a vast army. that the peasantry were animated by one spirit, and the majority of the gentry willing to hazard every thing on the issue of a struggle. our killala experiences, of which i detailed some, heartily amused them, and it was in a merry interchange of opinions that we now walked along together. a cluster of houses, too small to be called a village, and known as the "cranagh," stood in a little nook of the bay; and here they lived. they were brothers; and the elder held some small appointment in the revenue, which maintained them as bachelors in this cheap country. in a low conversation that passed between them, it was agreed that they would detain me as their guest for that evening, and on the morrow accompany me to the magistrate's house, about five miles distant. i was not sorry to accept their hospitable offer. i longed for a few hours of rest and respite before embarking on another sea of troubles. the failure of the expedition, and the departure of the fleet, had overwhelmed me with grief, and i was in no mood to confront new perils. if my new acquaintances could have read my inmost thoughts, their manner toward me could not have displayed more kindness or good-breeding. not pressing me with questions on subjects where the greatest curiosity would have been permissible, they suffered me to tell only so much as i wished of our late plans; and as if purposely to withdraw my thoughts from the unhappy theme of our defeat, led me to talk of france, and her career in europe. it was not without surprise that i saw how conversant the newspapers had made them with european politics, nor how widely different did events appear, when viewed from afar off, and by the lights of another and different nationality thus all that we were doing on the continent to propagate liberal notions, and promote the spread of freedom, seemed to their eyes but the efforts of an ambitious power to crush abroad what they had annihilated at home, and extend their own influence in disseminating doctrines, all to revert, one day or other, to some grand despotism, whenever the man arose capable to exercise it. the elder would not even concede to us that we were fit for freedom. "you are glorious fellows at destroying an old edifice," said he; "but sorry architects when comes the question of rebuilding; and as to liberty, your highest notion of it is an occasional anarchy. like school-boys, you will bear any tyranny for ten years, to have ten days of a 'barring out' afterward." i was not much flattered by these opinions; and what was worse, i could not get them out of my head all night afterward. many things i had never doubted about now kept puzzling and confounding me, and i began, for the first time, to know the misery of the struggle between implicit obedience and conviction. chapter xxviii. some new acquaintances. i went to bed at night in all apparent health; save from the flurry and excitement of an anxious mind, i was in no respect different from my usual mood; and yet when i awoke next morning, my head was distracted with a racking pain, cramps were in all my limbs, and i could not turn or even move without intense suffering. the long exposure to rain, while my mind was in a condition of extreme excitement, had brought on an attack of fever, and before evening set in, i was raving in wild delirium. every scene i had passed through, each eventful incident of my life, came flashing in disjointed portions through my poor brain; and i raved away of france, of germany, of the dreadful days of terror, and the fearful orgies of the "revolution." scenes of strife and struggle--the terrible conflicts of the streets--all rose before me; and the names of every blood-stained hero of france now mingled with the obscure titles of irish insurrection. what narratives of my early life i may have given--what stories i may have revealed of my strange career, i can not tell; but the interest my kind hosts took in me grew stronger every day. there was no care nor kindness they did not lavish on me. taking alternate nights to sit up with me, they watched beside my bed, like brothers. all that affection could give they rendered me; and even from their narrow fortunes they paid a physician, who came from a distant town to visit me. when i was sufficiently recovered to leave my bed, and sit at the window, or stroll slowly in the garden, i became aware of the full extent to which their kindness had carried them, and in the precautions for secrecy, i saw the peril to which my presence exposed them. from an excess of delicacy toward me, they did not allude to the subject, nor show the slightest uneasiness about the matter; but day by day some little circumstance would occur, some slight and trivial fact reveal the state of anxiety they lived in. they were averse, too, from all discussion of late events, and either answered my questions vaguely or with a certain reserve; and when i hinted at my hope of being soon able to appear before a magistrate and establish my claim as a french citizen, they replied that the moment was an unfavorable one; the lenity of the government had latterly been abused; their gracious intentions misstated and perverted; that, in fact, a reaction toward severity had occurred, and military law and courts-martial were summarily disposing of cases that a short time back would have received the mildest sentences of civil tribunals. it was clear, from all they said, that if the rebellion was suppressed, the insurrectionary feeling was not extinguished, and that england was the very reverse of tranquil on the subject of ireland. it was to no purpose that i repeated my personal indifference to all these measures of severity; that in my capacity as a frenchman and an officer, i stood exempt from all the consequences they alluded to. their reply was, that in times of trouble and alarm things were done which quieter periods would never have sanctioned, and that indiscreet and over-zealous men would venture on acts that neither law nor justice could substantiate. in fact, they gave me to believe, that such was the excitement of the moment, such the embittered vengeance of those whose families or fortunes had suffered by the rebellion, that no reprisals would be thought too heavy, nor any harshness too great, for those who aided the movement. whatever i might have said against the injustice of this proceeding, in my secret heart i had to confess that it was only what might have been expected, and coming from a country where it was enough to call a man an aristocrat and then cry "a la lanterne," i saw nothing unreasonable in it all. my friends, advised me, therefore, instead of preferring any formal claim to immunity, to take the first occasion of escaping to america, whence i could not fail, later on, of returning to france. at first, the counsel only irritated me, but by degrees, as i came to think more calmly and seriously of the difficulties, i began to regard it in a different light; and at last i fully concurred in the wisdom of the advice, and resolved on adopting it. to sit on the cliffs, and watch the ocean for hours, became now the practice of my life--to gaze from daybreak almost to the falling of night over the wide expanse of sea, straining my eyes at each sail, and conjecturing to what distant shore they were tending. the hopes which at first sustained, at last deserted me, as week after week passed over, and no prospect of escape appeared. the life of inactivity gradually depressed my spirits, and i fell into a low and moping condition, in which my hours rolled over without thought or notice. still, i returned each day to my accustomed spot, a lofty peak of rock that stood over the sea, and from which the view extended for miles on every side. there, half hid in the wild heath, i used to lie for hours long, my eyes bent upon the sea, but my thoughts wandering away to a past that never was to be renewed, and a future i was never destined to experience. although late in the autumn, the season was mild and genial, and the sea calm and waveless, save along the shore, where, even in the stillest weather, the great breakers come tumbling in with a force, independent of storm, and listening to their booming thunder, i have dreamed away hour after hour unconsciously. it was one day, as i lay thus, that my attention was caught by the sight of three large vessels on the very verge of the horizon. habit had now given me a certain acuteness, and i could perceive from their height and size that they were ships of war. for a while they seemed as if steering for the entrance of the "lough," but afterward they changed their course, and headed toward the west. at length they separated, and one of smaller size, and probably a frigate from her speed, shot forward beyond the rest, and, in less than half an hour, disappeared from view. the other two gradually sunk beneath the horizon, and not a sail was to be seen over the wide expanse. while speculating on what errand the squadron might be employed, i thought i could hear the deep and rolling sound of distant cannonading. my ear was too practiced in the thundering crash of the breakers along shore to confound the noises; and as i listened i fancied that i could distinguish the sound of single guns from the louder roar of a whole broadside. this could not mean saluting, nor was it likely to be a mere exercise of the fleet. they were not times when much powder was expended unprofitably. was it then an engagement? but with what or whom? tandy's expedition, as it was called, had long since sailed, and must ere this have been captured or safe in france. i tried a hundred conjectures to explain the mystery, which now, from the long continuance of the sounds, seemed to denote a desperately contested engagement. it was not 'till after three hours that the cannonading ceased, and then i could descry a thick dark canopy of smoke that hung hazily over one spot in the horizon, as if marking out the scene of the struggle. with what aching, torturing anxiety i burned to know what had happened, and with which side rested the victory. well habituated to hear of the english as victors in every naval engagement, i yet went on hoping against hope itself, that fortune might for once have favored us; nor was it till the falling night prevented my being able to trace out distant objects, that i could leave the spot and turn homeward. with wishes so directly opposed to theirs, i did not venture to tell my two friends what i had witnessed, nor trust myself to speak on a subject where my feelings might have betrayed me into unseemly expressions of my hopes. i was glad to find that they knew nothing of the matter, and talked away indifferently of other subjects. by daybreak, the next morning, i was at my post, a sharp nor'wester blowing, and a heavy sea rolling in from the atlantic. instinctively carrying my eyes to the spot where i had heard the cannonnade, i could distinctly see the tops of spars, as if the upper rigging of some vessels, beyond the horizon. gradually they rose higher and higher, till i could detect the yard-arms and cross-trees, and finally the great hulls of five vessels that were bearing toward me. for above an hour i could see their every movement, as with all canvas spread they held on majestically toward the land, when at length a lofty promontory of the bay intervened, and they were lost to my view. i jumped to my legs at once, and set off down the cliff to reach the headland, from whence an uninterrupted prospect extended. the distance was greater than i had supposed, and in my eagerness to take a direct line to it, i got entangled in difficult gorges among the hills, and impeded by mountain torrents which often compelled me to go back a considerable distance; it was already late in the afternoon as i gained the crest of a ridge over the bay of lough swilly. beneath me lay the calm surface of the lough, landlocked and still; but further out, seaward, there was a sight that made my very limbs tremble, and sickened my heart as i beheld it. there was a large frigate, that, with studding-sails set, stood boldly up the bay, followed by a dismasted three-decker, at whose mizen floated the ensign of england over the french "tri-color." several other vessels were grouped about the offing, all of them displaying english colors. the dreadful secret was out. there had been a tremendous sea fight, and the hoche, of seventy-four guns, was the sad spectacle which, with shattered sides and ragged rigging, i now beheld entering the bay. oh, the humiliation of that sight! i can never forget it. and although on all the surrounding hills scarcely fifty country people were assembled, i felt as if the whole of europe were spectators of our defeat. the flag i had always believed triumphant now hung ignominiously beneath the ensign of the enemy, and the decks of our noble ship were crowded with the uniforms of english sailors and marines. the blue water surged and spouted from the shot holes as the great hull loomed heavily from side to side, and broken spars and ropes still hung over the side as she went, a perfect picture of defeat. never was disaster more legibly written. i watched her till the anchor dropped, and then, in a burst of emotion, i turned away, unable to endure more. as i hastened homeward i met the elder of my two hosts coming to meet me, in considerable anxiety. he had heard of the capture of the hoche, but his mind was far more intent on another and less important event. two men had just been at his cottage with a warrant for my arrest. the document bore my name and rank, as well as a description of my appearance, and significantly alleged, that although irish by birth, i affected a foreign accent for the sake of concealment. "there is no chance of escape now," said my friend; "we are surrounded with spies on every hand. my advice is, therefore, to hasten to lord cavan's quarters--he is now at letterkenny--and give yourself up as a prisoner. there is at least the chance of your being treated like the rest of your countrymen. i have already provided you with a horse and a guide, for i must not accompany you myself. go, then, maurice. we shall never see each other again; but we'll not forget you, nor do we fear that you will forget _us_. my brother could not trust himself to take leave of you, but his best wishes and prayers go with you." such were the last words my kind-hearted friend spoke to me; nor do i know what reply i made, as, overcome by emotion, my voice became thick and broken. i wanted to tell all my gratitude, and yet could say nothing. to this hour i know not with what impression of me he went away. i can only assert, that, in all the long career of vicissitudes of a troubled and adventurous life, these brothers have occupied the chosen spot of my affection, for every thing that was disinterested in kindness and generous in good feeling. they have done more, for they have often reconciled me to a world of harsh injustice and illiberality, by remembering that two such exceptions existed, and that others may have experienced what fell to _my_ lot. for a mile or two my way lay through the mountains, but after reaching the high road, i had not proceeded far when i was overtaken by a jaunting-car, on which a gentleman was seated, with his leg supported by a cushion, and bearing all the signs of a severe injury. "keep the near side of the way, sir, i beg of you," cried he; "i have a broken leg, and am excessively uneasy when a horse passes close to me." i touched my cap in salute, and immediately turned my horse's head to comply with his request. "did you see that, george?" cried another gentleman, who sat on the opposite side of the vehicle; "did you remark that fellow's salute? my life on't he's a french soldier." "nonsense, man--he's the steward of a clyde smack, or a clerk in a counting-house," said the first, in a voice which, though purposely low, my quick hearing could catch perfectly. "are we far from letterkenny just now, sir?" said the other, addressing me. "i believe about five miles," said i, with a prodigious effort to make my pronunciation pass muster. "you're a stranger in these parts, i see, sir," rejoined he, with a cunning glance at his friend, while he added, lower, "was i right, hill?" although seeing that all concealment was now hopeless, i was in no wise disposed to plead guilty at once, and therefore, with a cut of my switch, pushed my beast into a sharp canter to get forward. my friends, however, gave chase, and now the jaunting-car, notwithstanding the sufferings of the invalid, was clattering after me at about nine miles an hour. at first i rather enjoyed the malice of the penalty their curiosity was costing, but as i remembered that the invalid was not the chief offender, i began to feel compunction at the severity of the lesson, and drew up to a walk. they at once shortened their pace, and came up beside me. "a clever hack you're riding, sir," said the inquisitive man. "not so bad for an animal of this country," said i, superciliously. "oh, then, what kind of a horse are you accustomed to?" asked he, half insolently. "the limousin," said i, coolly, "what we always mount in our hussar regiments in france." "and you are a french soldier, then?" cried he, in evident astonishment at my frankness. "at your service, sir," said i, saluting; "a lieutenant of hussars; and if you are tormented by any further curiosity concerning me, i may as well relieve you by stating that i am proceeding to lord cavan's head-quarters, to surrender as a prisoner." "frank enough, that!" said he of the broken leg, laughing heartily as he spoke. "well, sir," said the other, "you are, as your countrymen would call it, '_bien venu_,' for we are bound in that direction ourselves, and will be happy to have your company." one piece of tact my worldly experience had profoundly impressed upon me, and that was, the necessity of always assuming an air of easy unconcern in every circumstance of doubtful issue. there was quite enough of difficulty in the present case to excite my anxiety, but i rode along beside the jaunting-car, chatting familiarly with my new acquaintances, and, i believe, without exhibiting the slightest degree of uneasiness regarding my own position. from them i learned so much as they had heard of the late naval engagement. the report was that bompard's fleet had fallen in with sir john warren's squadron, and having given orders for his fastest sailers to make the best of their way to france, had, with the hoche, the loire, and the resolve, given battle to the enemy. these had all been captured, as well as four others which fled, two alone of the whole succeeding in their escape. i think now that, grievous as these tidings were, there was nothing of either boastfulness or insolence in the tone in which they were communicated to me. every praise was accorded to bompard for skill and bravery, and the defense was spoken of in terms of generous eulogy. the only trait of acrimony that showed itself in the recital was, a regret that a number of irish rebels should have escaped in the biche, one of the smaller frigates; and several emissaries of the people, who had been deputed to the admiral, were also alleged to have been on board of that vessel. "you are sorry to have had missed your friend, the priest of murrah," said hill, jocularly. "yes, by george, that fellow should have graced a gallows if i had been lucky enough to have taken him." "what was his crime, sir?" asked i, with seeming unconcern. "nothing more than exciting to rebellion a people with whom he had no tie of blood or kindred! he was a frenchman, and devoted himself to the cause of ireland, as they call it, from pure sympathy--" "and a dash of popery," broke in hill. "it's hard to say even that; my own opinion is, that french jacobinism cares very little for the pope. am i right, young gentleman--you don't go very often to confession?" "i should do so less frequently if i were to be subjected to such a system of interrogatory as yours," said i, tartly. they both took my impertinent speech in good part, and laughed heartily at it; and thus, half amicably, half in earnest, we entered the little town of letterkenny, just as night was falling. "if you'll be our guest for this evening, sir," said hill, "we shall be happy to have your company." i accepted the invitation, and followed them into the inn. (_to be continued._) the unnamed shell. at the corner of the boulevard montmartre, near the angle of the faubourg, is situated a magazine of natural history, that continually draws around its windows groups of curious idlers. open the door, walk in, and, in place of a mere merchant, you will be surprised to encounter an artist and a scholar. the man is still young, yet he has explored a portion of southern africa; and has joined in formidable chases of elephants, lions, and all the wild animals of those barbarous regions. he has sought his treasures of natural history in java, sumatra, borneo, china, and cochin-china; has visited batavia, samarang and madura; and returned to paris rich in knowledge and collections. it is rarely that you will find him alone. the laboratory of the boulevard montmartre is the rendezvous of all the scholars, travelers, naturalists, artists, and authors, who bask in the sunshine of celebrity. temming, the old glory, yet with so much youth about him, of natural history; wilson, collector for his brother in the immense undertaking of completing the museum of philadelphia; philippe rousseau, who bestows life and animation on the animals which he paints; ledieu, léon gozlan, biard; delgorgue, the intrepid chaser of elephants; lagéronière, who was for one instant on the point of becoming the king of a savage tribe, and of whom dumas, in his "thousand and one phantoms," has related in so improbable a manner a fabulous episode of real adventures; gray, whom london cites with pride among its naturalists; mitchell, director of the london zoological gardens; henry monnier, the sparkling reflection of molière; alphonse karr; deshayes, for whom conchology and the labyrinths of its classifications have no further mysteries; de lafresnage, chief of ornithologists; emile blanchard, who spends his life in the dissection of living atoms, or beings almost microscopical; delamarre-piquot, who travels from one world to another, to gather the alimentary substances with which he wishes to endow europe; m. michelin, who consecrates his rare holidays to an unrivaled collection of polypi; there they are to be found, every day, studying, admiring, copying, describing, all the strange animals that come from every quarter of the globe to this little corner of the boulevard montmartre, thence to be distributed among the collections of europe and america. there may one listen to sallies of fancy, scientific discussion, episodes of likely and unlikely adventures, tales that make one burst with laughter, histories that fill the eyes with tears, real dramas that freeze the soul with horror, and of which the historian is almost always the hero. in the midst of all this noise of conversation and going and coming, the master of the establishment loses not a moment. he issues orders, he lends a helping hand; he classes, describes, and attends to strangers: and occasionally sends as presents to other museums unparalleled treasures of natural history. just let us mention, _en passant_, that the museum of paris has been loaded for twenty years back with his precious gifts. at each step you take in the galleries, you may read his name inscribed upon numerous objects, before which the curious in such matters stop with surprise, and the learned with admiration. one evening, he was laboring with his usual feverish activity to form collections of shells, according to their species, and after the method of lamarck; for to popularize science is his fervent desire and constant aim. these collections would not nearly reimburse him for the trouble and cost bestowed upon them; but they would create a few conchologists the more; they would facilitate the studies of those who had already commenced their initiation into the marvels of a science so attractive, by the beautiful objects to which it consecrates itself, and this was what the enthusiastic _savant_ wished above all. "ah!" said one of the visitors, taking up a shell, "i never see a spiral, without calling to mind a drama that was once enacted here, and which i will relate to you: "it was eight or ten years ago, one evening, as it might be to-day. the smoke from five or six cigars filled the laboratory with its fantastic rings. a lamp, vailed under a semi-opaque shade, served only to render more visible the shadows of this strange chamber. here and there, the glow from the hearth illuminated animals from all parts of the world, hung at random upon the walls, which they confusedly burdened. the master of the magazine took up a shell which chance placed under his hand, and presented it to a tall man, hoary with age, who was silently seated, according to his custom, a little on one side. the stranger approached the lamp, looked at the shell, smiled, sighed, and placed it in his pocket. a light crash was heard; he re-seated himself, and revived the fire of his half-extinguished cigar. then, perceiving that every one was looking curiously at him--'i have broken it,' said he; and he threw the fragments of the shell upon the floor, and ground them beneath his heel. "for several instants there was a profound silence, caused by the surprise of the company at this gratuitous destruction. the old man continued, with a melancholy smile, 'i will tell you, gentlemen, wherefore i broke the shell. science, or rather its fanaticism, leads to strange weaknesses. if my folly can any where find indulgence, surely it will be among you, who are all, more or less, collectors. perhaps, i shall even meet with some auditor not only capable of comprehending, but likewise of imitating me. this shell is a spiral that has never been either named or copied. i possess in my collection the only similar one that is known to the scientific world. i procured it, ten years ago, from this magazine. the first time that i saw this unique shell, my heart beat with joy,' continued the old man, with a voice that had regained all the energy of youth. 'i was poor, but i must have it at whatever price. i carried it home with me, and passed entire days in contemplating it, and examining its minutest details. two years were necessary to make up its price--two entire years of privation. each month, i carried the dealer small sums, often spared from my most pressing necessities. what mattered it? i possessed the shell; it was mine alone; no one could show me its like. i would not permit any one to describe it. when, on rare occasions, i displayed it to some initiated ones, it was upon the condition that they would not speak of it in their faunas. a lover madly enamored, is not more jealous than i then was, than i still am, of this treasure. when the two years of which i have spoken had elapsed, and i had paid the price of my dear spiral, i came here one evening as usual. on opening, according to my custom, one of the boxes that contain the shells, i uttered a cry. i had found another spiral similar to that which i possessed! judge of my sorrow, of my despair. my shell was no longer unique. another collection possessed a treasure similar to mine. a cold sweat bathed my forehead. though very poor, though i had resigned the little employment which i had held in an office, and my humble allowance was transformed into a pension more humble still, i hesitated not. i bought the shell, and carried it with me, but this time without joy. i possessed several good pictures, dear and old heirlooms belonging to my family. i sold them to pay for the shell, which i broke as soon as i had made up the price. three years more elapsed, and poverty weighed down my old age more and more. the failure of a bank had deprived me of a little sum of money, the interest of which, added to my pension, had enabled me to live, and to augment, from time to time, my collection of a few good shells. deprived of this enjoyment, the only one that remained to me, i had no consolation but in the possession of the treasure-hoard which i could no longer increase. my precious spiral often detained me before it for hours. one evening (never shall i forget, the sorrow the sight cost me), i beheld here--there--in that box--three spirals like mine! maledictions hovered about my lips. i took the shells in my fingers, i slowly examined them, and returned them to my friend. 'i can not buy them,' i said. he raised his eyes, he saw my palor and my tears--my tears, gentlemen, for i wept! he smiled, took a hammer, and pulverized the three precious shells. you saw what he did just now. god bless him for his disinterestedness, and his devotion to an old friend! i should die of despair, gentlemen, if, during my life, another possessed a spiral like mine.' "speaking thus, the old man rose, and left us, enveloping himself, as well as he could, in his fragmentary cloak." one morning, three or four years ago, god separated the fanatic conchologist from the collection that was his life. they found the aged man seated before his cabinet, opposite to his unique spiral. he had died alone, with his eyes fixed upon that which had possessed his affections during so many years. his collection has now reverted to the friend who showed so much sympathy with his jealousy and insensate passion. by a strange caprice of fortune, no other spiral similar to his has since arrived in europe. it still remains unique and nameless, as when he possessed it. for the rest, this spiral, which occupied so large a place in the existence and affections of a scientific man, has, for a common eye, nothing in its appearance to justify the intense passion that it inspired. its rarity constitutes its value. one of our most learned conchologists is now engaged, in describing, classing, and publishing a drawing of it. we hope that, in memory of its first possessor, he will give it the name of _l'hélice innominata_, the "nameless spiral." the story of giovanni belzoni. one day in the beginning of the year , mr. salt, whose name has since become so celebrated among the discoverers of egyptian antiquities, observed before one of the public rooms of edinburgh, a great crowd assembled. for almost every one there exists a mysterious attraction in the sight of a number of people, and mr. salt, no wiser than his neighbors, pushed his way, when the doors were opened, into the room. there, on a sort of stage, he saw a tall and powerfully-built young man, performing various gymnastic exercises, and feats of strength. while this hercules in tinsel was lifting enormous weights, and jumping from a table over the heads of twelve men, a pretty, delicate-looking young woman, was arranging some hydraulic machines and musical glasses, with which the entertainment was to terminate. as the price of admission was nominal, she occasionally also handed round a small wooden bowl, in order to collect gratuities from the spectators. very few of those who were enjoying the exhibition gave any thing; and when the young woman approached her husband, and showed him the few coins she had received, he hastened to terminate his performance. mr. salt pitied the poor fellow, and as the young woman was passing, said to her: "you forgot to present your bowl for my contribution. here it is." he slipped a silver coin into her hand. both she and her husband thanked him warmly; the latter in broken english, and with an italian accent. mr. salt, who had but just returned from rome, replied in italian; and, perceiving in the stranger's manner of expressing himself a degree of refinement not to be expected from a mountebank, asked him whence he came, and what was his history? "six months ago, sir," replied the man, "if any man had told me that i should be reduced to earn my bread by exhibiting my strength in public, i should have felt greatly inclined to knock him down. i came to england for the purpose of making known some hydraulic machines of my invention; but the spirit of routine, and the love of ignorance, closed every avenue against me. previously, before losing all my hopes of success, i married this young girl. had i been alone in the world, i verily believe that the bitter destruction of my expectations would have rendered me careless of supporting life; but how could i leave _her_ in misery?" "but why not try to display your really extraordinary strength and dexterity under more favorable circumstances? why do you not offer your services to some theatrical manager?" "hungry people, sir, can not wait. i did not think of resorting to this method of earning a piece of bread, until i saw my wife ready to perish for the want of it." the kind mr. salt not only relieved his immediate wants, but offered to recommend him and his wife to the manager of astley's circus, in london. gratefully and eagerly did the wanderers accept this offer; and while, in company with their benefactor, who paid for their places on the coach, they journeyed toward town, the man related his history. born at padua, the son of a poor barber, and one of fourteen children, giovanni battista belzoni felt from his earliest youth a longing desire to visit foreign lands. this "truant disposition" was fostered, if not caused, by the stories of maritime adventures told him by an old sailor; who was strongly suspected of having, during many years, practiced the profession of a pirate. the reading, or rather devouring, of a translated copy of "robinson crusoe" (and it is a most remarkable circumstance that the book which has for its avowed purpose the disheartening of restless adventurers, should have made wanderers and voyagers innumerable), gave form and fixedness to his purpose of rambling; and, in company with his youngest brother, the boy set out one fine morning, without any intention but the somewhat vague one of "traveling to seek their fortune." the young fugitives walked several miles, without knowing, in the least, whither they were going, when a peddler, who was riding slowly by in a cart, accosted them, and asked if they were going to ferrara. belzoni, although he never heard the name before, immediately answered in the affirmative. the good-natured merchant, pleased with the countenances, and pitying the tired looks of the children, not only gave them a place in his vehicle, but shared with them his luncheon of bread, cheese, and fruit. that night they occupied part of their companion's lodging; but next day, as his business required him to stop at the village where they slept, the two boys took leave of him, and pursued their journey. their next adventure was not so fortunate. meeting an empty return carriage, they asked the _vetturino_ to give them a ride; and he consenting, they joyfully got in. arrived at ferrara, the _vetturino_ asked them for money. giovanni, astonished, replied that they had none; and the unfeeling man stripped the poor children of their upper garments, leaving them half-naked and penniless in the streets of an unknown city. giovanni's undaunted spirit would have led him still to persevere in the wild-goose chase which had lured him from his home; but his brother antonio wept, and complained so loudly, that he was fain to console the child by consenting to retrace their steps to padua. that night, clasped in each other's arms, they slept beneath a doorway, and the next morning set out for their native city, begging their food on the journey. the severe chastisement which giovanni, as the instigator of this escapade, received on his return, did not in anywise cure his love of rambling. he submitted, however, to learn his father's trade, and at the age of eighteen, armed with shaving and hair-cutting implements, he set out for rome, and there exercised the occupation of a barber with success. after some time, he became deeply attached to a girl who, after encouraging his addresses, deserted him and married a wealthy rival. this disappointment preyed so deeply on belzoni, that, renouncing at the same time love and the razor, the world and the brazen bowl of suds, he entered a convent, and became a capuchin. the leisure of the cloister was employed by him in the study of hydraulics; and he was busy in constructing an artesian well within the monastic precincts when the french army under napoleon took possession of rome. the monks of every order were expelled and dispersed; and our poor capuchin, obliged to cut his own beard, purchased once more the implements of his despised calling, and traveled into holland, the head-quarters of hydraulics, which were still his passion. the dutch did not encourage him, and he came to this country. here he met his future wife, and consoled himself for his past misfortunes by marrying one who proved, through weal and woe, a fond and faithful partner. the crude hydraulic inventions of a wandering italian were as little heeded here, as on the continent; and we have already seen the expedient to which belzoni was obliged to have recourse when mr. salt met him in edinburgh. having reached london, the kind antiquary introduced his _protégés_ to the manager of astley's. the practiced eye of the renowned equestrian immediately appreciated at their value the beauty and athletic vigor of the paduan goliath; and he engaged both him and his wife at a liberal salary. he caused a piece, entitled "the twelve labors of hercules" to be arranged expressly for his new performers; and mr. salt had soon afterward the satisfaction of seeing giovanni belzoni appear on the stage, carrying twelve men on his arms and shoulders, while madame, in the costume of cupid, stood at the top, as the apex of a pyramid, and waved a tiny crimson flag. after some time, mr. salt went to egypt as consul, and there became acquainted with signor drouetti. the two friends, equally enthusiastic on the subject of egyptian antiquities, set to work to prosecute researches, with an ardor of rivalship which approached somewhat too nearly to jealousy. each aspired to undertake the boldest expeditions, and to attempt the most hazardous excavations. but the great object of their ambition was an enormous bust of memnon, in rose-colored granite, which lay half buried in the sand on the left bank of the nile. signor drouetti had failed in all his attempts to raise it, nor was mr. salt a whit more successful. one day, while the latter was thinking what a pity it was that such a precious monument should be left to perish by decay, a stranger asked to speak with him. mr. salt desired him to be admitted; and immediately, despite his visitor's oriental garb and long beard, he recognized the hercules of astley's. "what has brought you to egypt?" asked the astonished consul. "you shall hear, sir," replied the italian. "after having completed my engagement in london, i set out for lisbon, where i was employed by the manager of the theatre of san carlo to perform the part of samson, in a scriptural piece which had been arranged expressly for me. from thence i went to madrid, where i appeared with applause in the theatre della puerta del sol. after having collected a tolerable sum of money, i resolved to come here. my first object is to induce the pasha to adopt an hydraulic machine for raising the waters of the nile." mr. salt then explained his wishes respecting the antiquities; but belzoni, could not, he said, enter upon that till he had carried out his scheme of water-works. he was accompanied, he said in continuation, by mrs. belzoni, and by an irish lad of the name of james curtain; and had reached alexandria just as the plague was beginning to disappear from that city, as it always does on the approach of st. john's day, when, as almost every body knows, "out of respect for the saint," it entirely ceases. the state of the country was still very alarming, yet mr. belzoni and his little party ventured to land, and performed quarantine in the french quarter; where, though really very unwell, they were wise enough to disguise their situation; "for the plague is so dreadful a scourge," he observed, "and operates so powerfully on human fears and human prejudices, that, during its prevalence, if a man be ill, he must be ill of the plague, and if he die, he must have died of the plague." belzoni went straight to cairo, where he was well received by mr. baghos, interpreter to mohammed ali, to whom mr. salt recommended him. mr. baghos immediately prepared to introduce him to the pasha, that he might come to some arrangement respecting the hydraulic machine, which he proposed to construct for watering the gardens of the seraglio. as they were proceeding toward the palace, through one of the principal streets of cairo, a fanatical mussulman struck mr. belzoni so fiercely on the leg with his staff, that it tore away a large piece of flesh. the blow was severe, and the discharge of blood copious, and he was obliged to be conveyed home, where he remained under cure thirty days before he could support himself on the wounded leg. when able to leave the house, he was presented to the pasha, who received him very civilly; but on being told of the misfortune which had happened to him, contented himself with coolly observing "that such accidents could not be avoided where there were troops." an arrangement was immediately concluded for erecting a machine which was to raise as much water with one ox as the ordinary ones do with four. mr. belzoni soon found, however, that he had many prejudices to encounter, and many obstacles to overcome, on the part of those who were employed in the construction of the work, as well as of those who owned the cattle engaged in drawing water for the pasha's gardens. the fate of a machine which had been sent from england taught him to augur no good for that which he had undertaken to construct. though of the most costly description, and every way equal to perform what it was calculated to do, it had failed to answer the unreasonable expectations of the turks--because "the quantity of water raised by it was not sufficient to inundate the whole country in an hour!--which was their measure of the power of an english water-wheel." when that of belzoni was completed, the pasha proceeded to the gardens of soubra to witness its effect. the machine was set to work, and, although constructed of bad materials, and of unskillful workmanship, its powers were greater than had been contracted for; yet the arabs, from interested motives, declared against it. the pasha, however, though evidently disappointed, admitted that it was equal to four of the ordinary kind, and, consequently, accorded with the agreement. unluckily, he took it into his head to have the oxen removed, and, "by way of frolic," to see what effect could be produced by putting fifteen men into the wheel. the irish lad got in with them; but no sooner had the wheel begun to turn than the arabs jumped out, leaving the lad alone in it. the wheel, relieved from its load, flew back with such velocity, that poor curtain was flung out, and in the fall broke one of his thighs; and, being entangled in the machinery, would, in all probability, have lost his life, had not belzoni applied his prodigious strength to the wheel, and stopped it. the accident, however, was fatal to the project and to the future hopes of the projector. at that time the insolence of the turkish officers of the pashalic was at its height, and the very sight of a "dog of a christian" raised the ire of the more bigoted followers of the prophet. while at soubra, which is close to cairo, belzoni had a narrow escape from assassination. he relates the adventure in his work on egypt: "some particular business calling me to cairo. i was on my ass in one of the narrow streets, where i met a loaded camel. the space that remained between the camel and the wall was so little, that i could scarcely pass; and at that moment i was met by a binbashi, a subaltern officer, at the head of his men. for the instant i was the only obstacle that prevented his proceeding on the road; and i could neither retreat nor turn round, to give him room to pass. seeing it was a frank who stopped his way, he gave me a violent blow on my stomach. not being accustomed to put up with such salutations, i returned the compliment with my whip across his naked shoulders. instantly he took his pistol out of his belt; i jumped off my ass; he retired about two yards, pulled the trigger, fired at my head, singed the hair near my right ear, and killed one of his own soldiers, who, by this time, had come behind me. finding that he had missed his aim, he took a second pistol; but his own soldiers assailed and disarmed him. a great noise arose in the street, and, as it happened to be close to the seraglio in the esbakie, some of the guards ran up; but on seeing what the matter was, they interfered and stopped the binbashi. i thought my company was not wanted, so i mounted my charger, and rode off. i went to mr. baghos, and told him what had happened. we repaired immediately to the citadel, saw the pasha, and related the circumstance to him. he was much concerned, and wished to know where the soldier was, but observed that it was too late that evening to have him taken up. however, he was apprehended the next day, and i never heard or knew any thing more about him. such a lesson on the subject was not lost upon me; and i took good care, in future, not to give the least opportunity of the kind to men of that description, who can murder an european with as much indifference as they would kill an insect." ruined by the loss of all his savings, which he had spent in the construction of his water machines, belzoni once more applied to mr. salt, and undertook the furtherance of his scheme, to convey to england the bust of memnon. so eager was he, that the same day, the italian set out for the ruins of thebes, and hired a hundred natives, whom he made clear away the sand which half covered the stone colossus. with a large staff in his hand, belzoni commanded his army of mussulmans, directed their labors, astonished them with displays of his physical strength, learned to speak their language with marvelous facility, and speedily came to be regarded by them as a superior being, endowed with magical power. one day, however, his money failed; and at the same time the rising of the nile destroyed in two hours, the work of three months. the _fellahs_ rebeled: one of them rushed toward belzoni, intending to strike him with his dagger. the italian coolly waited his approach, disarmed him; and then, seizing him by the feet, lifted him as though he had been a hazel wand, and began to inflict vigorous blows on the other insurgents with this novel and extemporary weapon of defense. the lesson was not thrown away: very speedily the _fellahs_ returned to their duty; and after eighteen days' incessant labor, memnon trembled at his base, and was moved toward the bank of the nile. the embarkation of this enormous statue presented difficulties almost as great as those which attended its disinterment and land transport. nevertheless, the intelligence and perseverance of belzoni surmounted every obstacle; and he brought his wondrous conquest to london, where its arrival produced a sensation similar to that caused more recently in paris by the sight of the obelisk of luxor. loaded with praise, and also with more substantial gifts, belzoni, now become an important personage, returned to egypt and to his friend mr. salt. the latter proposed to him to go up the nile, and attempt the removal of the sand-hills which covered the principal portion of the magnificent temple of ebsamboul. belzoni readily consented, set out for lower nubia, ventured boldly among the savage tribes who wander through the sandy desert; returning to thebes, he was rewarded, not only by the success of his special mission, but also by discovering the temple of luxor. in all his undertakings, however enterprising, belzoni was aided and cheered by the presence of his wife. the expedition to nubia was, however, thought too hazardous for her to undertake. but in the absence of her husband she was not idle; she dug up the statue of jupiter ammon, with the ram's head on his knee; which is now in the british museum. the temple of luxor had been so completely and for so long a period, buried in sand, that even its existence remained unsuspected. it had been dedicated to isis by the queen of rameses the great; and the descriptions which travelers give of it, resemble those of the palaces in the "arabian nights." four colossal figures, sixty-one feet in height, are seated in front. eight others, forty-eight in height, and standing up, support the roof of the principal inner hall, in which gigantic bas-reliefs represent the whole history of rameses. sixteen other halls, scarcely smaller than the first, display, in all their primitive splendor, many gorgeous paintings, and the mysterious forms of myriads of statues. after this discovery, belzoni took up his temporary abode in the valley of _biban el mouloch_ (tombs of the kings). he had already remarked there, among the rocks, a fissure of a peculiar form, and which was evidently the work of man. he caused this opening to be enlarged, and soon discovered the entrance to a long corridor, whose walls were covered with sculptures and hieroglyphical paintings. a deep fosse and a wall barred the further end of the cave; but he broke a passage through, and found a second vault, in which stood an alabaster sarcophagus, covered with hieroglyphics. he took possession of this and sent it safely to europe. his own account of these difficulties is extremely interesting: "of some of these tombs many persons could not withstand the suffocating air, which often causes fainting. a vast quantity of dust rises, so fine that it enters the throat and nostrils, and chokes the nose and mouth to such a degree, that it requires great power of lungs to resist it and the strong effluvia of the mummies. this is not all; the entry or passage where the bodies are is roughly cut in the rocks, and the falling of the sand from the upper part or ceiling of the passage causes it to be nearly filled up. in some places there is not more than the vacancy of a foot left, which you must contrive to pass through in a creeping posture, like a snail, on pointed and keen stones, that cut like glass. after getting through these passages, some of them two or three hundred yards long, you generally find a more commodious place, perhaps high enough to sit. but what a place of rest! surrounded by bodies, by heaps of mummies in all directions; which, previous to my being accustomed to the sight, impressed me with horror. the blackness of the walls, the faint light given by the candles or torches for want of air, the different objects that surrounded me, seeming to converse with each other, and the arabs, with the candles or torches in their hands, naked and covered with dust, themselves resembling living mummies, absolutely formed a scene that can not be described. in such a situation i found myself several times, and often returned exhausted and fainting, till at last i became inured to it, and indifferent to what i suffered, except from the dust which never failed to choke my throat and nose; and though, fortunately, i am destitute of the sense of smelling, i could taste that the mummies were rather unpleasant to swallow. after the exertion of entering into such a place, through a passage of fifty, a hundred, three hundred, or perhaps six hundred yards, nearly overcome, i sought a resting-place, found one, and contrived to sit; but when my weight bore on the body of an egyptian, it crushed it like a band-box. i naturally had recourse to my hands to sustain my weight, but they found no better support; so that i sunk altogether among the broken mummies, with a crash of bones, rags, and wooden cases, which raised such a dust as kept me motionless for a quarter of an hour, waiting till it subsided again. i could not remove from the place, however, without increasing it, and every step i took i crushed a mummy in some part or other. once i was conducted from such a place to another resembling it, through a passage of about twenty feet in length, and no wider than that a body could be forced through. it was choked with mummies, and i could not pass without putting my face in contact with that of some decayed egyptian; but as the passage inclined downward, my own weight helped me on: however, i could not avoid being covered with bones, legs, arms, and heads rolling from above. thus i proceeded from one cave to another, all full of mummies piled up in various ways--some standing, some lying, and some on their heads." afterward, belzoni traveled to the shores of the red sea, inspected the ruins of berenice; then returned to cairo, and directed excavations to be made at the bases of the great pyramids of ghizeh; penetrated into that of chephren--which had hitherto been inaccessible to europeans--and discovered within it the sacred chamber where repose the hallowed bones of the bull apis. the valley of faioum, the lake moeris, the ruins of arsinoë, the sands of libya, all yielded up their secrets to his dauntless spirit of research. he visited the oasis of el-cassar, and the fountain of the sun; strangled in his arms two treacherous guides who tried to assassinate him; and then left egypt, and returned to padua with his wife. the son of the humble barber had now become a rich and celebrated personage. a triumphal entry was prepared for him; and the municipal authorities of his native city met him at the gate, and presented him with an address. manfredini was commissioned to engrave a medal which should commemorate the history of the illustrious traveler. england, however, soon claimed him; and on his arrival in london, he was received with the same honors as in his own country. then he published an account of his travels, under the following title: "narrative of the operations and recent discoveries in the pyramids, temples, tombs, and cities of egypt and nubia, &c." in , belzoni returned to africa, with the intention of penetrating to timbuctoo. passing in the following year from the bight of benin toward houssa, he was attacked with dysentery; was carried back to gato, and thence put on board an english vessel lying off the coast. there, with much firmness and resignation, he prepared to meet his end. he intrusted the captain with a large amethyst to be given to his wife, and also with a letter which he wrote to his companion through good and evil days. soon afterward, he breathed his last. they buried him at gato, at the foot of a large tree, and engraved on his tomb the following epitaph in english-- "_here lies belzoni, who died at this place, on his way to timbuctoo, december d, ._" belzoni was but forty-five years old when he died. a statue of him was erected at padua, on the th of july, . very recently, the government of great britain bestowed on his widow the tardy solace of a small pension. giovanni belzoni, the once starving mountebank, became one of the most illustrious men in europe!--an encouraging example to all those who have not only sound heads to project, but stout hearts to execute. phantoms and realities.--an autobiography. (_continued from page ._) part the second--noon. v. to reason upon the effects of the discovery, or confession of our feelings, was not a process for which either of us was qualified by temperament or inclination. we did not pause to consider whether it was prudent to take our hearts and natures for granted all at once, and risk upon the strange delight of a single moment of luxurious emotion the happiness, perhaps, of a whole lifetime. we did not stop to ask if there were any obstacles in the way, any jarring chords to be attuned, any thing to be known or thought of into which our position demanded a scrutiny. we resigned ourselves at once to our impulses. we believed that we had seen enough of the world, and were strong enough in our self-sustaining power, and clear enough in our penetration, to dispense with ordinary safeguards, and act as if we were superior to them. we made our own world, and so went on as if we could control the planet in which we lived at our own will and pleasure. i soon perceived that my attentions to astræa had become a subject of much remark. the peering coterie about us were so vigilant in matters of that kind, that, as it appeared afterward, they had found out the fact before it had taken place. for my own part, there was nobody half so much surprised at the circumstance as i was myself. i believed that the heart, like that plant which is said to blow once and die, was incapable of a second growth of love; but i now felt the fallacy of that doctrine, and was at first humiliated by the discovery. it struck me like a great heresy against truth and purity; it seemed to lay bare before me the corruptibility and feebleness of poor human nature. to strive against it, however, was idle. the second growth was in full flower, yet with a difference from the first, which i could detect even against the grain of the passion that was subjugating me. i felt that the second growth was less simple and devotional than the first; that it had more exuberance, and was of a wilder character; that it struck not its roots so deeply, but spread its blossoms more widely; that it was less engrossing, but more agitating; that it was cultivated with greater consciousness and premeditation, risked with more caution, fed with more prudence, and tended more constantly--but all with a lesser waste of the imagination; that its delights were more fervid but less appeasing; that it looked not so much into the future with hope and promise, as it filled the present with rapture; that its memories were neither so sad nor so vivid, and that it let in caprice, and vanity, and unreasonableness, and self-love, and the world's esteem, which are all as dust in the balance, or a feather in the whirlwind, to impetuous love. i was amazed to find myself a daily waiter upon beauty. yet so it was. the vision of gertrude was now gone from my path--the spectre had vanished in the broad light of the new passion. still, while i paid my court to astræa, it was not with any intention of publicity, but furtively, as if a private dread hung over us, or as if we thought it pleasanter to vail our feelings from observation. we understood each other in silent looks, which we supposed to be unintelligible to every body else; she seemed to avoid, designedly, all appearance of interest in me, and sometimes played the part to such admiration, as to give me not a few passing pangs of doubt and uneasiness; and i, seeing how scrupulous she was on that point, and not choosing to incur rude jests at her expense, was equally unwilling to betray a feeling which was rendered the more delicious by secrecy. we imagined ourselves secure; but neither of us could have had much worldly sagacity or we must have known that all our caution was fruitless. basilisks' eyes were around us, and we trod a path beset with serpents. fortunately we were both looked up to as persons who could not be approached with familiarity; and that preserved us from the open badinage to which others, in similar circumstances, might have been subjected. alone, and liberated from this vexatious surveillance, we gave free vent to our thoughts. the suddenness of our new confidence, and the rapidity with which we already shaped its issues, bewildered us by the intensity of the emotions that came crowding for speech and explanation. astræa sometimes had misgivings, although she never knew how to give them a definite form. one day she said to me, "we are wrong in giving way to this feeling. it is not a love likely to procure us peace. i say this to you because i feel it--perhaps, because i know it; but i confess myself unable to argue upon a question upon which my reason, my whole being is held in suspense. i say so, simply because i ought to say so, and not because i am prepared of myself to act, or even to advise. i am like a leaf in a tempest, and can not guide myself. i yield to the irresistible power that has swept me from the firm land, and deprived me of the strength to regain it." i fancied that this left me but one course to take, and i replied, "we have pronounced our destiny, astræa, for good or for evil. we ought to have no choice but to abide by it. if you do not fail in your faith, mine is irrevocable." at these words she looked gravely at me, and answered, "my faith dies with me. it is a part of my life. it was not taken up in an hour, to be as lightly thrown aside. without it, life would be insupportable; with it, life in any shape of seclusion, privation, banishment, contains all the blessings i covet upon earth. it was not for that, or of that i spoke. understand me clearly, and put no construction on my words outside their plain and ordinary meaning. all i ask, all that is necessary for me is your society; to hear you speak, to drink in the words of kindness and power that flow from your lips, to be ever near you, to tend, solace, and console you. i should be content to enjoy the privilege of seeing that you were happy, without even aspiring to the higher glory of creating happiness for you. that is my nature--capable of a wider range, and a loftier flight, but happiest in its devotion. in any capacity i will serve you--and feel that the servitude of love is dominion!" so firm and constant was the character of astræa, tinged with a romantic inspiration, that all this homage was serious and real, and issued gravely from her heart through her lips. she meant every syllable she spoke in its true sense; and i felt that she was ready to fulfill it, and sustain it to the end. she believed that all endurances were possible for love's sake, and that she could even enact miracles of stoicism in the strength of her fidelity. for many months our intercourse, always thus sophisticating its aims and interpretations, was carried on in secret. we had become necessary to each other; but being still shut up in our mystery, we had not made as much advance toward any definite result as one single moment of disclosure to the people we were among would have inevitably compelled us to decide upon. we were very prudent in our outward bearing, and hardly aware of the avidity with which the concealed passion was devouring our hearts. the dwarf followed me, and hovered about me more than ever. but i learned to bear with him on account of his being in the house with astræa. any body who was constantly in her society, and admitted to terms of intimacy with her, was welcome to me--as relics from the altar of a saint are welcome to the devotee, or a leaf snatched, from a tree in the haunts of home is welcome to the exile. it was a pleasure when i met him even to ask for astræa, to have an excuse for uttering her name, or to hear him speak of her, or to speak of her myself, or to talk of any thing that we had before talked of together. such are the resources, the feints, the stratagems, the foibles of love! vi. one night my indefatigable mephistophiles took me to a tavern. he was in a vagrant mood, and i indulged him. "come, we shall see life to-night," he said. "with all my heart," i replied. it was not much to my taste, but i fancied there was something unusual in his manner, and my curiosity was awakened to see what it would lead to. we entered a bustling and brilliantly-lighted house. numerous guests were scattered about at different tables, variously engaged in getting rid of time at the smallest possible cost of reflection. the dwarf sauntered through the room, whispered a waiter, and, beckoning me to follow, led the way up-stairs to a lesser apartment, where we found ourselves alone. "you will not see much life here," i observed, rather surprised at his selection of a secluded room in preference to the lively _salon_ through which we had just passed. "we can make our own life," he answered, with a sarcastic twinge of the mouth, "and imagine more things in five minutes than we should see or hear below in a month." i thought this very odd. it looked as if he had some concealed motive; but i acquiesced in his notion, and was secretly pleased, not less at the exchange of the din and riot for ease and quietness, than at the opportunity it opened to him for the free play of the humor, whatever it was, that i could plainly see was working upon him. we drank freely--that was a great resource with him when he was in a mood of extravagance--talked rapidly about a chaos of things, laughed loudly, and in the pauses of the strange revel relapsed every now and then into silence and abstraction. during these brief and sudden intervals, the dwarf would amuse himself by drawing uncouth lines on the table, with his head hanging over them, as if his thoughts were elsewhere engaged, and the unintelligible pastime of his fingers were resorted to only to hide them. i could not tell why it was, but i felt uneasy and restless. my companion appeared to me like a man who was mentally laboring at some revelation, yet did not know how to begin it. he was constantly talking at something that was evidently troubling his mind, yet he still evaded his own purpose, as if he did not like the task to which he had set himself. throughout the whole time he never mentioned astræa's name, and this circumstance gave me additional cause for suspicion. at last, summoning up all his energy, and fixing himself with the points of his elbows on the table, and his long, wiry hands, which looked like talons, stretched up into his elfin hair at each side of his face, while his eyes, shooting out their malignant fires, were riveted upon me to scan the effect of what he was about to say, he suddenly exclaimed, "you have been remarked in your attentions to astræa." the mystery was out. and what was there in it, after all? i was a free agent, and so was astræa. why should he make so much theatrical parade about so very simple a business? "well!" i exclaimed, scarcely able to repress a smile, which the exaggerated earnestness of his manner excited. "well! you acknowledge that it is so?" "acknowledge? why should i either acknowledge or deny it? there is no treason in it; the lady is the best judge--let me add, the only judge--of any attentions i may have paid to her." "but i say you have been remarked--it has been spoken of--it is already a common topic of conversation." "indeed! a common topic of conversation! well, i have no objection, provided my good-natured friends do not say any thing injurious, or wound the lady's feelings by an improper use of my name." he paused for a moment, and lowering his voice, then went on, "you never said any thing of this before." "why should i? the inquiry was never made of me before." "i have made no inquiry," he retorted. "i didn't ask you to confess. you have avowed it all yourself, unconsciously." i felt that the dwarf was getting serious, and that he was likely to make me more in earnest before he was done than i had at first anticipated. i saw the necessity of showing him at once that i would not brook his interference, and i addressed him in a more deliberate tone than i had hitherto adopted. "allow me to ask," i demanded, "what interest you may take in this matter, and by what right you assume the office of interrogating me so authoritatively?" "by what right?" he answered. "my right to do so is rather clearer than your right to refuse an explanation. you met her at my mother's house--you meet her there. she is under our roof, under our guardianship and protection. that gives me the right. it is not pleasant to interfere in this way; but i am called upon to do so by my position, and i delayed it in the hope that you would render it unnecessary." "why should you hope so? why should you desire any explanation on the subject? the lady is her own mistress: she is under your roof, it is true; but not under your control. the same thing might happen under any other roof, and nobody would thereby acquire a right to interfere in a matter that concerns her alone. you will surely see the propriety of not suffering your curiosity to meddle any further in the affair?" "meddle!" he reiterated; "control! are these the phrases with which you taunt me? but," dropping his voice again, he added, "you are right in suggesting that i have discharged my office when i demand, to what end those very marked attentions are paid to astræa?" "you make an unwarrantable demand, and you shall have a fitting answer to it; and my answer is, that to astræa alone will i confide my confession, as you call it. she is old enough and wise enough to think and act for herself; nor will i consent to compromise my respect for her understanding by admitting that she requires an arbitrator--perhaps i ought to say, champion." "have a care," he replied, kindling up all at once into a sort of frenzy--"have a care what you say or do. you move in darkness--you tread on smothered fire." "do you threaten me?" said i. "no; i do not threaten you. look at your arm and mine--compare your muscles with my shrunken and stunted frame," he cried, with an expression of pain and bitterness; "i do not threaten you, but i warn you--mark me, i warn you! heed my warning, i beseech, i implore you--nay, heed it for your life!" i could not but admire the sibyl-like grandeur of his head and outstretched arms as he uttered these strange words. his voice was hoarse with some surging emotion; and if so poor a creature could have been the recipient of a supernatural inspiration, he might have sat at that moment for the portrait of one of the deformed soothsayers in a tale of magic. "do i understand you correctly?" said i; "or are you only playing off some new freak upon me? answer me frankly one question, and i shall be better able to comprehend the meaning of your mysterious menace. are you--but i know it is absurd, i feel that the question is very ridiculous, only that your reply to it will, perhaps, set us both right--do you love astræa? i really can not conceive any thing short of some such feeling to justify this violence." "love her? _i_ love _astræa?_ if there be a mortal i hate in the core of my heart, it is astræa. are you satisfied?" he replied, with an expression of fiendish satisfaction in his face, as if he were glad of the excuse for giving vent to his malignity. "hate her?" said i, calmly; "that is unreasonable: but the whole discussion is unreasonable. i have given you my answer; none other shall you have from me. so, good-night." "one word," he said, leaping out of his chair into the middle of the room. "one word before you go. i am a dwarf--do not delude yourself into any contempt of me on that account. i know as well as you do my disadvantages in the world; i am as conscious as you are of my physical defects and shortcomings, my distorted spine, and the parsimony of nature in all particulars when she made me. but i have passions like other men; and i pursue them like other men, only, as i am shut out from the summary and open process, i am compelled, perchance, to the choice of dark and crooked means. perhaps, too, my passions are all the more turbulent and dangerous because they are pent up in an incapable frame, and denied the vents and appliances which men like you have at their command. mark me! see astræa no more. let your last interview with her be your last forever. enter our house no more; that interdict, at least, i have a right to pronounce. but for myself, and from myself, and apart from the privilege of my own roof, i warn you at your peril, and on my own responsibility, never to see astræa again." "are you mad?" i exclaimed. "never to see astræa again! to forsake her society at your bidding! wherefore do you make this monstrous demand? do you not feel how preposterous it is to thrust yourself into a quarrel with me in a matter which not only does not concern you, but which involves the feelings, perhaps the whole future happiness, of a person whom you have just ostentatiously declared is the object of your hate?" "i make no quarrel with you," he answered; "i will not quarrel with you. i should be mad, indeed, if i did. what! set myself against your thews and sinews? no, no--i break no bones with you--but i tell you, once again, your fate is in my hands. i am your destiny, if you will have it so. you may trample on the oracle; but you can not, with all your show of bravery and your proud pretensions, with the lady, too, in triumph on your side, escape its denunciations." "did you, or did you not," i inquired, bewildered by his language, and not quite satisfied that he was in possession of his senses, "did you, or did you not, observe those attentions some months ago of which you now complain for the first time?" "i did," he answered. "and why did you not then speak to me on the subject?" "because it wasn't ripe!" "ripe? if you have any meaning in these obscure hints, why do you not explain it for your own sake, since you can not believe that i will submit patiently to your insane threats? again i ask you, did you, or did you not, promote these attentions by every artifice and suggestion in your power?" "i did." "did you not watch them anxiously, forward them daily, and exult in their progress, until you became secretly convinced that both astræa's feelings and mine were engaged beyond recall?" "i did--i did--i did!" roared the dwarf. "did you not produce this very result yourself? did you not seek it, urge it, fan it to its height, and even glory in the flame you had nursed so cunningly?" "i did--i did--i did!" he shrieked, his whole body seeming to take part in the frenzy that convulsed him. "fiend!" i cried; "inexplicable devil! what would you have, then? what is your aim in thus coming with your curses between us?" "you shall never know," he replied, "unless to deplore it to the last hour of your life. you can never know unless you outrage my will. i have the power to make you wretched forever, to blight and destroy you. and if you treat my warning with contempt, i will do it without fail, without mercy, without remorse. the jester who has contributed so largely to your entertainment, and furnished such a delectable theme for your secret and cowardly mockery, will shoot a bolt of a graver cast when you least expect it, and think yourself most secure. mark me--note me well. these are not words of rage, or transient passion: remember them, be wise, and look to your safety. see astræa no more. with this i leave you. our next meeting must be of your making." i was alone. overwhelmed and awed by the demoniacal maledictions of the wretched creature whom i had hitherto so intensely despised, i knew not what to think, or how to act. he had assumed a fresh shape, more marvelous than any he had hitherto put on in the whole round of his extraordinary mummery. the raillery and tipsy recklessness which appeared constitutional in him had suddenly passed away, leaving not a solitary trace behind. even his figure, while he had been speaking, seemed to heave with a new life, and to dilate into unnatural dimensions. i was perplexed to the last extremity; not that the malice of the demon could scare me from my resolves, but that his motives were so impenetrable as to suffer no clew to escape by which i could discover the evil purpose that lay at the bottom. it was not the machination or revenge of a disappointed suitor. he never could have aspired to a hope of astræa, and he avowed his aversion to her. she was ignorant of all this bravado about her; and would be even more indignant to hear of it than i was to suffer it. i resolved, therefore, not to insult her by revealing it to her. fortunately, i had made an appointment to meet her alone on the following day. that meeting would decide every thing. she might, perhaps, throw some light upon what was at present a profound mystery to me. at all events, my course was clear. under the circumstances in which i was placed, i felt that there lay but one alternative before me. vii. my resolution was taken, as i thought, very composedly. i tried to persuade myself that i was not in the least ruffled or agitated by the scene i had passed through; but i was secretly conscious, notwithstanding, of a vague dread which i endeavored in vain to stifle. the defiance which the dwarf had so insolently flung at me, the contrast he drew between his shriveled frame and my physical advantages, and the satanic pride with which he rose superior to his wretched deformities, gave me no slight cause for uneasiness, although i could not analyze the nature of the fear that possessed me. all through the night i abandoned myself to the wildest speculations upon the unaccountable conduct and designs of my arch-enemy; but as morning advanced that oppressive train of reflections gave way to more agreeable thoughts, just as the hideous images of the night-mare vanish before the approach of day. the prospect of meeting astræa excluded all other considerations. as impediments to the flow of a current only serve to increase its force, so the opposition which the dwarf had thrown in my way gave an additional impetus to my feelings. the very publicity which our intercourse had attracted altered our relations to each other. it was no longer possible to indulge in the romantic dreams, secret looks, and stolen conversations with which we had hitherto pampered our imagination; it was necessary to act. i felt the responsibility that was thus cast upon me; and i confess that i was rather obliged to my villainous mephistophiles than angry with him for having, as it were, brought all my wayward raptures to so immediate and decisive a conclusion. as to his anathemas and warnings, i treated them as so much buffoonery on the wrong side of the grotesque. in short, i was too much engrossed by the approaching interview, and too much intoxicated by the contemplation of the result to which it inevitably led, to think at all about that imp of darkness and his ludicrous fulminations. astræa occupied brain and heart, and left no room for my tormentor. i fancied she looked unusually happy that morning; but not so happy as i was, not so disturbed and unsettled by happiness. she was perfectly tranquil, and it was evident that nothing had transpired in the interval to awaken a suspicion of what had occurred between me and the dwarf. she observed at once that a change had taken place in my manner. "you are in marvelously high spirits to-day," she said; "but this exuberant gayety is not quite natural to you." "high spirits! i am not conscious of it." "so much the worse," she replied; then, placing her hand upon my arm, and looking earnestly at me, she added, "something has happened since i saw you. what is it? it would be wrong, and useless as well as wrong, to affect to deny it." i had noticed at times in astræa an air of solemnity, which would fall upon her face like a shadow, slowly receding again before its habitual, but always subdued brightness; and occasionally i imagined that i detected a sudden and brief sternness in her eyes, which conveyed an impression that she was interrogating with their concentrated rays, the concealed thoughts of the person upon whom they were directed. these were some of the outward signs of that mystery of her nature which i never could penetrate. upon this occasion a world of latent doubts and suspicions appeared to be condensed in her look. it seemed as if in that single glance she read the whole incident which, to spare her feelings, i was so unwilling to disclose. "what do you suppose, astræa," i inquired, "can have happened since i saw you?" "you are not candid with me," she returned. "i ask you a question, and you answer by asking me another. if nothing has happened, you can easily satisfy me; if it be otherwise, and you are silent, i must draw my own conclusions." "whatever conclusions you draw, astræa, i know you have too firm a reliance on my truth and devotion not to believe that i am actuated by the purest motives. have i not always been sincere and frank with you?" "always." "have you not an implicit confidence in the steadfastness of my love?" "were it otherwise, should i be now standing here questioning you, or should there be need of questions of this kind between us? confidence! why am i so sensitive to the slightest fluctuations of tone and manner i observe in you, and where do i derive the intuitive perception of their meanings? love must have confidence! but it has instincts also. i feel there is something--i am sure of it--but i will urge you no further. it is not, perhaps, for your happiness or mine that i should seek to know." "astræa," i exclaimed, passionately, "there is nothing i would conceal from you that i think you ought to know, or that would make you happier to know; and if i have any reserve from you, it is for your sake, and you must ascribe it to the tenderness of my regard for you." "for _my_ sake?" she repeated, with a slightly terrified and curious expression. "now listen to me; i have something to say to you which is of more importance to us both than these wise, loving conjectures of yours. take my arm, and let us get into the park." we were near one of the inclosures of the regent's park; and when we reached a more secluded place, i resumed: "first of all, i should like to have your own unbiased opinion about your friends with whom you are residing. have you observed any change in their manner toward you?" "change? none whatever." "do you think--i mean from any thing you have yourself noticed--that they have watched our actions or been inquisitive in our affairs?" she looked inquiringly at me, and hesitated. "i think it would be impossible to be much with them and escape their _persiflage_, let us act as we might. but beyond that sort of idle criticism which they deal out indiscriminately to every body, i have observed nothing. why do you ask?" "because i have reason to believe that my attentions to you have attracted more observation than either of us suspected; and that, in fact, they have made such remarks on us as no longer leaves our future course at our own time or option." "you have reason to believe this?" "the best possible reason." "who is your authority?" "will you not accept my own authority, without seeking further?" "no. it is not a time to hold back from any false delicacy to me, or any mistaken respect for the confidence of others. beware of such confidences, if there be any. they are not meant for your peace or mine, but to plunge us both into an abyss in which we shall be left to perish. i must know all. i am entitled to know it. if your love be a hundredth part as strong and devoted, and as prepared for sacrifice as mine, you will place a full and entire trust in me." "and i do. you shall know all; but i must exact a solemn promise from you, before i tell you how, and in what manner, this information was communicated to me. it is impossible for me to foresee how it may affect or wound your feelings; and it is due to me, if i yield to your request against my own judgment, that you should pledge yourself, be the consequences what they may, to give me a public right to protect you against the further malignity--i can not call it by any milder term--of your enemies and mine." she was deeply affected by this request, which was spoken in so low and tremulous a voice, so burdened with a painful earnestness, that she appeared to gather from it the final conviction that upon her answer depended the future happiness or misery of our lives. i confess, for my own part, that the pause which ensued, during which she almost unconsciously repeated to herself, "be the consequences what they may!" was to me harrowing beyond expression. it seemed as if there was some sinister influence at work to destroy us both; and that even the immediate prospect of our union was not sufficient to allay the terror that influence inspired, and into the causes and springs of which i now began to imagine she had a clearer insight than i had previously suspected. but i was steeped in a tumultuous passion, which would not suffer me to investigate intervening difficulties. what the source of her terror was i knew not; mine arose only from the apprehension of losing her; and to have secured her at that moment, looking as she did, in the agitation that gave such a wild lustre to her eyes, more lovely than ever, i would have cheerfully relinquished every thing else in the world. so far from being anxious to have the cause of her fears and hesitation cleared up, i was in the utmost alarm lest she should enter upon an explanation that might delay the consummation of my wishes. i sought only an affirmative reply to my request, which, come what might, would make her mine forever. she loosened herself from my arm, and walked apart from me in silence. this action, and the sort of panic it indicated, filled me with alarm. "astræa, you have not answered my question. what is the reason of your silence?" "be the consequences what they may!" she reiterated. "i did not think of that, but it is right i should. i should have thought of it before--i did think of it; but of what avail, while i suffered myself to indulge in a dream which that thought ought to have dispelled?" "you speak in a language that is unintelligible to me; but there is no time now for explanations. we must decide, astræa, at once, for to-day and forever. i only ask your explicit pledge. let us reserve explanations for hereafter." "you say this in ignorance of what awaits you. i feel that i ought not to make any pledge until--" and she hesitated again. "if i am satisfied to take your pledge, and all consequences with it, and to repay it with the devotion of my life, why, beloved astræa, should you hesitate? let the responsibility fall on me--of that another time. every hour is precious now, and you will understand why i urge you so impatiently when i tell you that i can never again enter the house where you are now residing." "i knew it. i saw it clearly from the first word you uttered. it was revealed to me in the very tone of your voice. now hear me patiently. your peace, your honor, all feelings that contribute to the respect and happiness of life, are at stake upon this moment." the determination of her manner left me no choice but to listen. "are you prepared to risk all other ties, obligations, and prospects, in the consummation of this one object? to hazard friends, opinion, the world--perhaps it may be, to sacrifice them for the love that has grown up between us, and which, for good or evil, must this day bind us together, or sever us for the rest of our lives?" "what a question to put to me! the 'world!' it is ashes without you. i tell you, astræa, that if the choice lay between the grave and the single word that would sunder us, i would die rather than utter it. i don't know what your question implies--i don't seek to know; and would prefer to remain ignorant of it, that i may the more clearly prove to you the depth of my trust and devotion, which will be satisfied with the simple pledge that makes you mine. that, at least, you have in your own power; let me answer for the rest." "consider well what you are saying. is your love strong enough to bear the hazards i have pointed out? search your own nature--look into your pride, your sensitiveness to neglect and censure, your high sense of personal dignity. i have seen how ill you can brook slight affronts--do you believe that your love will enable you to bear great ones--scorn, contumely, perhaps opprobrium? think, think, and weigh well your decision." "astræa, you put me upon the rack. i have no other answer to give. for you, and for your sake, come what may, i am ready to risk all!" "for me and for my sake, if it be necessary, to forsake the world? to relinquish friends and kindred? to dedicate yourself in solitude to her who, in solitude, would be content to find her whole world in you? to do this, without repining, without looking back with anguish and remorse upon the sacrifices you had made, without a regret or a reproach? a woman can do this. is it so sure there lives a man equal to such trials?" "if these sacrifices be imperative upon us, we make them together. there can be nothing for either of us to reproach the other with. and as to the solitude you speak of, my heart yearns for it. it is in that solitude we can the more fully understand and develop the profound devotion that shall have drawn us into it. i am sick of the world--weary and tired of it, and longing for the repose which you alone can consecrate. it will be no sacrifice to abandon the world for you. sacrifice, my astræa? it will be the crowning happiness of my life!" "and you are confident that you can depend upon the firmness of your resolution? i do not ask this for my own sake--for i know myself, what i can suffer and outlive--but for yours." "i solemnly and finally answer, that no earthly influence can shake my resolution." "then," said astræa, placing her hand in mine, and in a grave voice, laden with emotion, "i am yours forever. henceforth, i owe no allegiance elsewhere--here, in the sight of heaven, i pledge my faith to you, and hold the compact as binding as if at this moment it were plighted at the altar." i was transported with the earnestness of these words, and covering her hand with kisses, i exclaimed-- "and i ratify it, astræa, my own astræa, with my whole heart. now, who shall divide us? we are one, and no human power can part us." i then related to her the circumstances that had taken place the preceding evening. she heard me throughout with a calmness that surprised me. i expected that the extraordinary conduct of the dwarf would have excited her indignation; but she seemed to know him better than i did, and although i could perceive a heavy flush sometimes rush into her cheeks, and a sudden pallor succeed it, the narrative of his mysterious menaces did not appear to produce half as much astonishment in her mind as it did in mine. "we will talk of this another time," she observed; "at present we must think of ourselves. i know his character--i know the demoniac revenge he is capable of; and, for our own safety, we must avoid him." "revenge!" i echoed. the phrase coming from astræa fell strangely on my ears. "i will leave the house to-morrow; but, for your sake, i will hold no communication with you till i am beyond his reach. once assured of that, i will write to you, and you will come to me. this is the only act i will ask to take upon my own responsibility, and i do so because it will secure our mutual safety. from that hour i shall be implicitly guided by you." i should have been glad to have adopted a different course, and to have claimed her openly. my pride, wounded by the insolent denunciations of the dwarf, demanded a more public vindication of her independence and mine; and this stolen flight, and the necessity it imposed upon me of observing a similar caution in my own movements, looked so like fear and evasion that i submitted to it very reluctantly. the notion of concealment and secrecy galled me, and even at this moment, when my happiness was on the eve of consummation, it gave me a thrill of uneasiness that cast an oppressive shadow over the future. astræa, however, had evidently a strong reason for insisting on privacy, and i was too anxious about hastening our union to throw any new obstacle in the way of its accomplishment. we separated in the park, astræa being unwilling to suffer me to escort her any further lest we should be seen together. this little incident, trifling as it was, increased the nervous annoyance and sense of humiliation i felt at being required to act as if i had any fear of the results; nor could i comprehend why she should be so much alarmed at being seen walking with me alone, when she knew that in a few days we should be indissolubly united. but i submitted to her wishes. passion is willful and unreasonable, and takes a wayward pleasure in shutting its eyes, and rushing onward in the dare. i stifled my vexation in the anticipation of the joy that lay before me, which would be victory enough over the impotent hatred of mephistophiles. viii. throughout the whole of the next day i waited anxiously in the expectation of hearing from astræa. evening came and passed, and there was no communication. when the last post-hour was gone by, and all hope of a letter was at an end, i ventured into the streets, hoping to gather some signs of her movements from the outside of her house. the blinds were down as usual in the drawing-room windows, and there seemed to be rather an extraordinary flush of lights within, as if some commotion was going forward. i could see huge, shapeless shadows of people moving about the room, in great bustle and excitement; and it appeared to me, from the frequency and confusion of then: motions, that the ordinary family party was augmented by additional numbers. the gathering, whatever it might have been, was not for festivity; and the constant swaying backward and forward, and vehement tossing of long streaks of heads and arms on the blinds, resembled the action of a violent domestic scene, in which the angry passions were strenuously engaged. i hardly knew what to conclude from this incoherent pantomime. either astræa was there, in the midst of a stormy contention; or she had left the house, and they were disputing furiously over the causes of her departure. after i had been some time watching this unintelligible phantasmagoria, and vainly endeavoring to collect a meaning for it, the hall-door opened, and in the momentary gleam of light that shot into the street i saw the dwarf issuing out, muffled to the ears in a cloak. he stood for a moment on the pavement, and adjusting his cloak more carefully about his face, and crushing his hat down over his eyes, he set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction to that part of the street where i was standing. i confess i felt ashamed of the espionage in which i was occupied, and although i followed my mercurial fiend at a safe distance, for the distinct purpose of earthing him wherever he was going, i by no means liked the office which a sort of fatality had forced upon me. but i was somewhat reconciled to it by a secret conviction that the abominable little demon had himself come out upon an equally discreditable expedition, which i soon detected from the infinite pains he took to elude observation. instead of keeping in the public streets, he darted down numerous dark alleys and lanes, and once with considerable difficulty i chased him through the unsavory depths of a straggling mews, where he doubled in an out with such rapidity as to render it no easy matter to keep upon his track without betraying myself. two or three times i nearly lost sight of him; and it was not until he emerged out of a gloomy passage, of the existence of which i was until that moment ignorant, into the street where i lived, that i had the least suspicion of the direction he was taking. it was presently evident that his object had some reference to me, for he had no sooner entered the street than he darted into the deep recess of a hall-door, where he stood for full ten minutes crouched and transfixed, looking up at my windows, which were exactly opposite to him. fortunately i was able to note his movements without being myself perceived, as i lurked in the shadow of the passage from whence he had just issued. the windows of my chambers being dark, i presume he concluded that i was from home; and under that impression, no doubt, he crossed over and knocked stealthily at the door--just as one would knock who did not wish to attract the attention of the inmates, but merely to convey an intimation to the servants. i was seized with a strong impulse to rush upon him suddenly, present myself as the door opened, and confound him on the spot; but i remembered how earnestly astræa had urged upon me the prudence of avoiding him, and i restrained myself. stepping cautiously into a doorway, i continued to watch his further proceedings. the door was opened by a servant, and my dwarf, burying himself up to the eyes in his cloak, so that it was impossible to distinguish his features, appeared to enter into a confidential conversation with her. it seemed to me to last a long time; but my impatience, no doubt, exaggerated its duration. at length it drew to an end, and hastily nodding to the servant, who looked after him, as i thought with much curiosity and astonishment, he dropped down the street at the same flying pace with which he had entered it. that he had come to my house for the purpose of picking up some intelligence about me was clear; upon that point i was satisfied, and the discovery only served to heighten my anxiety to find out what he was going to do next. as he darted along i could not help admiring his wonderful agility. there was a certain sort of confident swagger about his ordinary style of walking, such as you frequently observe in small vivacious men, who strut and swing through the streets as if the great globe itself were their private property; but upon this occasion it resolved itself into the swift and impetuous flight of a meteor. he shot from one angle of a street to another something in the manner of a will-o'-the-wisp, and it was almost as difficult to fix his course and follow him up. thus hanging closely on his footsteps, i was not a little mortified to find, after all, that the trouble i had taken led to nothing. striking out a different, but a much shorter route, the hideous creature went back to his own house. the lights were already extinguished in the drawing-room, and the windows, even to the dormitories, were in darkness. the domestics, apparently, had retired to bed; for the dwarf, hastily opening the door with a latch-key, vanished from my sight almost at the same instant that he ascended the steps. i lingered for a few moments at a distance, and then slowly returned home, congratulating myself on having detected his sinister expedition, and impatient to ascertain the substance of his conversation with the servant. when i interrogated her on the subject, she betrayed a little fear and hesitation, but at last she told me every thing that had transpired. the strange gentleman, whom she had never seen before, and who so completely concealed his features that she should not be able to identify him again, asked her a great number of questions about my movements, and especially if i had been out during the day. he appeared surprised to learn that i had only just left home, and wanted to know whether i was expected back that night, and whether i was going out of town. it happened that i had occupied myself throughout the morning in packing my carpet-bag and portmanteau, so that i might be able to attend astræa's expected summons at a moment's notice; and the servant, whose distrust was awakened by the urgent manner of the questioner, tried to fence off his inquiries about my traveling preparations, but his superior dexterity finally extracted the fact from her. having obtained that significant clew to my intentions, he suddenly wished her good-night, and disappeared. the girl was so frightened by his mysterious air and abrupt interrogations, that i believe she fancied i was going to fight a duel; for about that time there had been a fatal duel, which furnished a topic of general conversation, and which, i suppose, put the sagacious suspicion into her head. "forewarned, forearmed," says the old proverb. i was now fairly apprised that the dwarf was upon my track, and i resolved, as a mere measure of precaution, ignorant as i was of the machinations i had to fear, that whatever course it might become necessary to adopt, should be carried out with the utmost secrecy. the next morning came a letter from astræa. no language can adequately depict the agitation with which i opened the envelope. i felt as if my fate was contained in the inclosure--as it was! it consisted of only a single line, scrawled in haste over a great sheet of paper, at the top of which was an address in the country, in another hand-writing, with the following words beneath, written by astræa: "i am here: come to me _quickly_.--a." the assurance which this brief intimation conveyed that astræa had left london, relieved me of at least one source of anxiety; and all that now remained was to obey her mandate, and join her without loss of time in her retreat. i own that i felt rather like a culprit in the way in which i abandoned my chambers. feeling assured that the dwarf, having once set himself as a spy upon my actions, would stop at no means of tracing me out of town, i determined to leave such an account of myself behind as should effectually put him upon a false scent. i accordingly informed the people of the house that i was going into buckinghamshire for two days; and, as that was nearly the opposite direction to the route i was really about to take--for my destination lay among the sylvan valleys of kent--i hoped to baffle him at the start. my arrangements were speedily completed, and, having made a hasty inspection of the street before i ventured out, i sprang into a cabriolet, and drove off. the imperceptible degrees by which men, in the pursuit of passionate ends, suffer themselves to fall into deceptions, at which their reason and their probity would revolt in calmer moments, might suggest a useful train of reflections at this point of my narrative. but the moral is obvious enough, without requiring to be formally pointed. i shall only remark, that my ruminations in the post-chaise that carried me to astræa ran chiefly upon the self-humiliation i felt in contemplating the mystery in which i had become entangled step by step, and the sort of guiltiness which my studious evasion of the dwarf seemed to argue to my own mind. men who act openly never have any reason to entertain a fear of others, and may look the world boldly in the face. it is only men that commit themselves to actions which will not bear the light who resort to subterfuges and concealments, and are harrowed by apprehensions. my dilemma was a singular one. there was nothing i had done which i had the slightest reason to hide or feel alarm about; yet i was taking as cautious measures to avoid publicity as if i were flying from justice, and was haunted all the time by a thrill of terror which i could not assign to any intelligible cause. in the dusk of the evening, i had the profound happiness of reaching my destination, and all inquietude was lulled into oblivion by the music of those tones which always went direct to my heart. the past and the future were equally absorbed in the luxury of astræa's society, and i felt that if i needed an excuse for the strange circumstances in which i was placed, i had an ample one in the devotion of such a woman. the very danger--if danger it was, with which i was as yet unacquainted--the anxiety, the concealment, the flight we had passed through to secure our union, enhanced the rapture with which we now met never to be sundered again. that evening i related to her what had happened the night before, and she gave me an account of the manner in which she had managed to escape from the dwarf's house; for, in spite of the self-possession with which she described the incident, it more nearly resembled an escape than a departure. in fact, she had left the house in the morning, on foot, and was expected back, as usual, to luncheon after her walk. but luncheon passed, and there were no tidings of her; and, at dinner-time, a brief note by the post announced her leave-taking, excusing its abruptness, on the ground of a sudden and urgent call into the country. this was, no doubt, the subject which the angry shadows on the blinds had been so vehemently discussing the night before. so violent an infraction of etiquette would have pained me seriously had it occurred under any other circumstances, or had it been inflicted upon any other persons than the members of that eccentric family. but we knew them well; how unlike they were to the rest of the world, and how slight an impression the mere breach of courtesy would make upon them, in comparison with the malicious curiosity it would awaken! they were like bohemians in their habits and ways of thinking; and were themselves so accustomed to violate established usages, that the most extravagant irregularities could not very materially surprise them. this consideration reconciled me to a proceeding which must otherwise have been a source of regret to me, on astræa's account; besides, i was by no means unwilling to accept the sacrifice she had thus made of her own independence as an additional proof of her attachment. but what was the cause of all these stratagems and concealments? i should learn that the next day. i saw that astræa was suffering under a despondency natural enough to her novel situation, and i patiently waited her own time for disclosures which i now began to look forward to with nervous apprehensions. the house in which i found her lay buried in the foliage of a secluded valley. it was in the cottage style, covered with creepers that dropped in at the windows, and filled the rooms with scent; and it belonged to people in an humble rank of life, who had known astræa from her infancy, and were devoted to her interest. under the shelter of their roof, she was secure. the place was extremely picturesque on a small scale--a green glen, where the surrounding heights were broken into a variety of forms, and where the eye, on whatever spot it rested, caught some point of beauty. an impetuous little stream rushed from the jaws of a ravine that formed a sort of vista at one extremity, and, brawling away through the wooded depths of the valley, tossed itself into the air over a group of artificial rooks at the foot of the tiny lawn. dark trees filled the openings in the hills, and the sward round their roots was dotted with clusters of wild flowers, like a garden. a rustic bridge spanned the water, and graceful willows dipped their tresses into the spray. aquatic plants clung about the rocks--parasite tendrils climbed the ancient wood; and there was altogether a feeling of solitude and repose in the scene, that rendered it the most fitting seclusion on earth to ripen into a new life of love two ardent hearts like ours. with what anxiety i looked forward to the next day, when astræa and i, liberated from all eyes, should wander about these lonely paths! it came at last, and with it brought my doom! (_to be continued._) story of silver-voice and her sister zoe. the phenomena of memory are singular objects of study. i have often thought that a certain class of ideas and observations could be so arranged as to form an orderly, connected chain, one link of which would bring home all the others, however deeply sunken in the mind. but experience teaches me that this is not the case. during my residence in the east, though i kept a careful journal of every thing that seemed interesting at the time, a thousand circumstances came to my notice which i did not set down; and when i have endeavored to recall them, many have stubbornly refused to appear when wanted. but suddenly, when i at least expect it, i now and then find myself irresistibly carried back to old times. forms that had faded into distance--thoughts that had seemed dissolved into nothing--scenes and impressions which i had in vain sought to revive--obtrude themselves irresistibly on my notice. in general, the unexpected visitants are welcome; the fireside is rendered brighter and more cheerful by them; and their presence sends a glow through this northern atmosphere, which allows autumn to steal on unperceived. i was prevented last night from sleeping by the perpetual recurrence in my reveries of the name of lady silver-voice. i had forgotten her existence, as one is apt to forget a beautiful thing amidst the material cares of this life. let me endeavor to tell her story as simply as it was told to me. but first, how i came to see her--for i have had that privilege. it was one evening in winter-time, that, after a prolonged illness, i was taking a stroll on the roof of a palace-like mansion in cairo. the sun had set _for me_; it had gone down behind the interminable sea of houses. but i could still see it shining on the forest of minarets that rose through the moist, balmy air, and on the vast dome of the mosque that now towers above the citadel. the terrace-roof on which i was, though commanded at a distance by much more lofty buildings, was far raised above the humble dwellings near at hand, so that i could look down and observe the movements of my neighbors, who were most varied in race and costume--turks and maltese, arabs and greeks, armenians and copts--to say nothing of "jews and poultry," which my servant, who brought me a pipe, added to the enumeration. i passed some time in examining the movements of these various personages, who all come out upon their terraces to enjoy the evening air; and though i did not observe any thing very characteristic, any thing which would necessarily go down in my journal, i was sufficiently interested not to notice the flight of time, and to allow complete darkness to gather round me while i still leaned over the parapet. suddenly i was aroused from my contemplations by a snatch of a strange song sung in the most marvelously-sweet voice i had ever heard. i started, not exactly like a guilty thing, but transfixed, as it were, by an almost painful shaft of delight. the voice swelled up on the night air, until, in spite of its divine sweetness, it became almost a cry of sorrow, and then ceased, leaving a thrill running through my frame that gradually seemed to shrink back to my heart, and expire there in a feeling of mingled joy and pain. perhaps the state of my health rendered me peculiarly susceptible of strong emotions: i am afraid i wept. the darkness, however, prevented this weakness from being witnessed by ali, who came to announce that my dinner was ready. i went down the winding staircase to the vast lonely hall, where i usually ate alone--the master of the house being absent on a journey; but though my appetite was that of a convalescent, i am sure i did not enliven the meal for myself by my usual humorous observations: to the officer, for example, that i was doubtful whether the beef was camel, or the mutton was donkey. ali seemed rather surprised, especially when i asked him, abruptly, who it was that sang so sweetly in the neighborhood. he did not know! my curiosity was unsatisfied; but, perhaps, i went to bed that night with a fuller gush of happiness at my heart than if i had heard this prosy fellow's account of the matter. it is a frequent subject of meditation with me, whether or not i am constituted as other men are. are others played upon in this way by some slight occurrence--by meeting with a face seen before only in a dream, by a peculiar smile, by a gesture, by a sigh, by a voice singing in the darkness? if not, who will understand the delicious watchful hours i passed that night, or the dreams, spangled with bright eyes, fairy forms, purple clouds, golden gleams, and buzzing with sweeter warblings than ever rolled in a nightingale's throat, that lured me on until morning? naturally, the first inquiries i made were about the voice; but i did not that day meet with any success. when evening approached, i again went up to the terrace; and, not to lengthen the story, i did see, just as the sun went down upon a low house not very far off, but looking into another street, a little fairy figure walking up and down, and leading a child by the hand. a kind of instinct told me that the voice was embodied before me; and, presently, all doubt was set at rest. the same silver tones rose upon the air; and this time i recognized that the song was in the greek language. i remained looking intently in that direction, until the form faded into a mere shadow; and then, as darkness increased, seemed to multiply before my aching eyes, and assume all sorts of fantastical shapes. every now and then, a couplet, or a stanza, came sweeping up. it was evident the lady, whoever she might be, was not singing merely to amuse the child. the notes were sometimes lively, but, in general, sad and plaintive. i listened long after the last quaver had died away; and was rather sulky when ali came with the persevering joke that "the camel was getting cold!" next day i suddenly remembered that an old greek priest had frequently invited me to go to his house; and reproaching myself with the want of politeness i had hitherto exhibited, i ordered my donkey to be saddled, and started off. the ride was only of a few streets; it seemed to me quite a journey. on arriving, the worthy _papa_ was fortunately at home, and by himself. he was delighted with my visit; and, after a small altercation with his servant, succeeded in getting me some coffee and a pipe. i admired the art with which i wound toward my query. the old gentleman suspected nothing; but when i casually asked if he knew who it was among his countrymen who sang like an angel, he quickly replied, "it must be silver-voice, as she is called among the moslem!" i overturned my pipe on the mat in my eagerness to turn round and listen. excellent old man! instead of clapping his hands for the servant, he went down upon his knees to collect the scattered tobacco, and replace it in the bowl, and silenced my excuse with as mild an "it is no matter, my son!" as ever passed the lips of one of our species. he grew before my eyes in that humble posture; and when he returned to his seat, seemed fifty times as venerable as before. the same spirit would have led him to wash the feet of the poor. he then told me the story of silver-voice and her sister: "many years ago, a greek merchant was walking through the slave-market, when he beheld for sale a little girl, so beautiful, and yet so sad, that though he was on the way to conclude a bargain for fifty thousand ardebs of beans, he could not prevail on himself to pass indifferently on. "'of what country?' he inquired. "'a candiote,' replied the slave-dealer. she was from his own beloved island. "'how much?' "'five thousand piastres.' "'i will pay the price.' the bargain was concluded on the spot. another merchant got the beans; but kariades took home the silver-voice to his house. "the girl followed him silently, hanging down her head, and refusing to answer the questions he put in his kind, bluff way. some great sorrow evidently weighed upon her, and she refused to be comforted. when, however, kariades presented her to his wife, and said, 'this shall be our daughter,' the child opened her mouth and cried, 'wherefore, oh father, didst thou not come to the slave-market one short hour before?' he asked her meaning, and she explained that her sister had been separated from her, and sold to a turk; 'and,' cried she, 'i will not live unless zoë be brought back to my side.' kariades smiled as he replied, 'i went forth, this day to buy beans, and i have come back with a daughter. must i needs go and fetch another?' 'you must!' said the girl, resolutely. "from that hour forth she was the queen in the house. kariades returned to the slave-market, but, strange to say, could find no clew to the fate of zoë, although he offered double her price to the dealer. it was believed that she had been bought by a stranger merely passing through cairo, and making no stay; for the public crier was employed to go about the streets and proclaim that whoever would produce the girl should receive whatever he demanded. all was in vain. time passed on; and the active grief of the silver-voice sobered down into steadfast melancholy. she continued living as the daughter or rather as the mistress of the house, knowing no want but that of her sister, and enchanting every one with the magnificence of her singing, until she reached the age of sixteen years. "one day kariades said to her, 'my child, i must seek a husband for thee among the merchants of my people.' but she firmly refused, declaring that there could be no joy for her unless she knew that her sister was not living in wretched thralldom in the house of some cruel turk. "'but,' said he, 'what if death have overtaken her?' "'we promised, as we lay folded in each other's arms the night before we were parted, to be happy or sorrowful together--to laugh at the same time, to weep at the same time--and if one died, the other was never to cease grieving. i remember that, as they were dragging zoë away, she turned her pale face, all sparkling with tears, toward me, and cried, _forever_!' "'meaning that you were parted forever?' "'no; but that we were to be faithful to our vow forever. i never shall forget the agonizing expression of that face. how can i? i see it every night in my dreams; and painful though it be, i rush into sleep as eagerly to behold it as if i were going into paradise. no: i will never marry while that face threatens to interpose between my husband and me.' "'then this vision torments thee?' "'ah, father!' and she shuddered, and bent her head. "it was evident that her mind was weakened by too much contemplation of one idea. "kariades yielded before a will stronger than his own, and nothing more was said either about marriage or the lost zoë for nearly a year. at the end of this time, silver-voice appeared before the good old man, and said, 'father, give me money; i have thought of a means by which i may find my sister zoë.' he looked sadly at her, but gave her what she required. next day she disappeared, and was not heard of for several weeks. then she returned, consoled her adopted parents by her presence for a while, and again departed without giving the least indication of how she employed her time. nor did they ask her, confident that all she did was prompted by that most powerful of all loves--the love of a sister supplying a mother's place. "the truth was, that she had hired a number of houses in various parts of cairo, and visited them alternately, in order to pass the evenings singing on the terrace. despite the failure of the researches made by kariades, she remained persuaded that zoë was in cairo, and hoped that the echoes of her magnificent voice might at length go as messengers into the depths of every harem, and make known her presence. the whole city was by turns rendered happy by the silver-voice; but as it was heard now in the citadel, now near the bisket-el-fil, anon at the bab zuweileh, men began to think strange things. it was curious, indeed, to hear the speculations of the gossiping turks about this ubiquitous voice. i remember laughing much at the wise arguments by which one of them, who had heard the fable of memnon's statue, demonstrated to me that the sound came from no human organ at all, but was produced by the rays of the setting sun striking in some peculiar way upon the minarets. "a whole year passed in this manner without bringing any thing new; but the beautiful patience of the silver-voice was at length after a fashion rewarded. better had it been, perhaps, for her, had her soul been wafted away in some sad song. she was standing one evening, long after the sun had set, filling the air with her plaintive notes, and calling, as usual, upon her sister; suddenly there rose a cry--a piercing, terrible cry, such as no mortal ever utters but when the sanctuary of life is invaded. at that awful sound the silver-voice was struck dumb. she stood listening like a gazelle when it hears the howl of a wolf afar off upon the desert. the wild accents seemed to hang for a moment over her, and then fell into her ear, moulding, as they fell, into the words, "my sister!" how it came to pass she could not tell: over the parapet, along a crumbling wall, across a ruined house, she passed as if by magic, until she fell like a moonbeam through an open window, and saw upon a rich couch the form of an expiring woman lying. it was her sister zoë. the blow had been too well aimed: it had gone to her heart, and the life-blood bubbled rapidly forth between her white fingers, which she pressed, to her side. one eloquent glance, in which eyes mingled with eyes, while lips hung upon lips, was exchanged. there was not time, neither was there need, to tell their stories in any other way. the dying woman made one effort, pointed to a cradle that stood under a cloud of gauze curtains in a corner, then smiled a long, impassioned smile of recognition, of gratitude, and of love, seemed to wander a little back in memory, murmured some pleasant sounds, and was still. "the silver-voice rose solemnly, and casting her eyes about, beheld a man crouching in a corner weeping. 'it is all over!' she said. 'all over!' he replied, looking up. but i will not weary you with the scene in which the wretched man--a greek renegade--related how he had bought zoë--how he had loved her, and made her his wife--how they had traveled in far countries--how he was jealous, ever, as he acknowledged, without cause--and how, in a fit of madness, he had slain the mother of his child. when he had finished, he led the bewildered silver-voice to the cradle, and thrusting aside the curtains, disclosed the miniature counterpart of zoë, sleeping as if it had been lulled into deeper slumber by its mother's death-cries. then, stealing toward the corpse with the step of one about to commit a new crime, he snatched a hasty kiss, and rushed away. what became of him was never known. silver-voice performed the last duties for poor zoë, and took the child under her care. since that time she has almost always continued to live in the house from the roof of which she heard her sister's cry; and though apparently rational in every thing else, never fails to go up each evening and sing the song she used to sing of old, though in a more plaintive and despairing tone. if asked wherefore she acts in this wise, her reply is, that she is seeking for her sister zoë, and nobody attempts to contradict the harmless delusion. several years have now passed away since this event, and the child has become a handsome boy. you may see them both at the church to-morrow." i thanked the worthy _papa_ for his story more warmly, perhaps, than he expected. he had been as much pleased by narrating as i had been by listening; but he was not very particular about the quality of his facts, and unintentionally made me do penance for the excessive pleasure i had experienced by giving me an account--two hours long, and with equal unction--of a tremendous controversy then raging as to the proper form of electing the sub-patriarch of cairo. it would have been ungrateful to interrupt him, although there seemed no end to his garrulity. fortunately, two or three people at length came in; i compromised my dignity as a heretic by kissing his hand, and escaped, to turn over this curious story in my mind. next day i went to the greek church, and saw a melancholy-looking face through the bars of the cage-like gallery in which the women sit. i am quite certain it was that of lady silver-voice, but no one whom i asked seemed to know her. the boy did not show himself. it was my intention to go another sunday, and observe more accurately, for i really felt a deep interest in this unfortunate lady. but other thoughts and occupations came upon me, and it was only by an accident that, as i have said, these circumstances recurred last night to my mind. the crocodile battery. in the summer of , when every body in england was crazy with railway gambling, i was sojourning on the banks of the rohan, a small stream in one of the northwestern provinces of india. here i first became acquainted, with the mugger, or indian crocodile. i had often before leaving england, seen, in museums, stuffed specimens of the animal, and had read in "voyages and travels," all sorts of horrible and incredible stories concerning them. i had a lively recollection of waterton riding close to the water's edge on the back of an american cayman, and i had a confused notion of sacred crocodiles on the banks of the nile. i always felt more or less inclined to regard the whole race as having affinities with sinbad's "roc," and the wild men of the woods, who only refrained from speaking for fear of being made to work. my ideas respecting the natural history of crocodiles were in this stage of development when, one day, while paddling up the rohan, i saw what appeared to be a half-burned log of wood lying on a sand-bank. i paddled close up to it. to my astonishment, it proved to be a huge reptile. the old stories of dragons, griffins, and monsters, seemed no longer fables; the speculations of geologists concerning, _mososaurians, hylæsaurians,_ and _plesiosaurians_, were no longer dreams. there, in all his scaly magnificence, was a _real_ saurian, nearly eighteen feet long. for a while i stood gazing at this, to me, new fellow-citizen of the world, and speculating on his mental constitution. the monster was, or pretended to be, asleep. i wondered if he dreamt, and what his dreams or reveries might be about; possibly he was dreaming of the same old world with which i associated him--possibly of the fish who were swimming in the waters below: or, he might be thinking of the men and women he had swallowed in the course of his existence. there was a snort; perhaps that was occasioned by the bugles and heavy brass ornaments which had adorned the limbs of some hindoo beauty he had eaten, and which were lying heavy and indigestible on his stomach. but presently the brute lay so still, and seemed so tranquil and placid in his sleep, that it was difficult to imagine him guilty of such atrocities. he did not appear to be disturbed by remorse, or the twitchings of a guilty conscience: it may have been all a slander. i felt so kindly disposed toward him, that i could not imagine it possible that if awake he would feel disposed to eat me. let us see! so making a splash with my paddle, i wakened the sleeping beauty. he instantly started up, and opened, what appeared--what indeed proved to be--an enlarged man-trap; disclosing a red, slimy cavern within, fringed with great conical fangs. he closed it with a snap that made me shudder, and then plunged into the water, his eyes glaring with hate and defiance. some days after i had made this new acquaintance, i was sitting at home talking with my brother, when a native woman came crying and screaming to the bungalow door, tearing her hair out in handfuls; she got down on the veranda floor and struck her head against it, as if she really meant to dash her brains out. a crowd of other women stood at a short distance, crying and lamenting as if they were frantic. what was the matter? half-a-dozen voices made answer in a discordant chorus, that while the poor woman was washing her clothes by the river side, her child--an infant about a year old--had been seized and swallowed by a mugger. although convinced that aid was now impossible, we took our guns and hastened to the spot where the accident happened; but all was still there, not a wavelet disturbed the surface of the stream. a small speckled kingfisher was hovering overhead, as if balanced in the air, with its beak bent down on its breast, watching the fish beneath; presently it darted like an arrow into the water; returned with an empty bill, and then went off, with its clear, sharp, twittering note, as if to console itself for the failure. one day i was sitting on the high bank of the river, taking snap shots with my gun at the large fish who were every now and then leaping out of the water. a favorite spaniel was bringing a fish out of the water that i had hit. it had swam already half way across the stream, when the water about six yards below her became suddenly disturbed; and, to my horror, up started the head and open jaws of an enormous crocodile. the dog gave a loud shriek, and sprang half out of the water. the mugger swam rapidly, and had got within a yard of his intended victim, when i raised my gun, and took aim at the monster's head. a thud, a splash, a bubble, and a dusky red streak in the water, was all that ensued. presently, however, juno's glossy black head emerged from the water; and, to my delight, began to make rapid progress toward me, and landed safely. the poor brute, wet and shivering, coiled herself up at my feet, with her bright hazel eyes fixed on mine with ineffable satisfaction. poor juno subsequently fell a victim to the muggers, when her master was not at hand to succor her. i mention these facts, to show that the diabolical revenge with which i afterward assisted in visiting these monsters, was not groundless. but the strongest occasion of it remains to be told. just as the "rains" were beginning, my neighbor, mr. hall, sent me word that he intended paying me a short visit, and requested me to send a _syce_ (groom), with a saddle-horse, to meet him at a certain place on the road. the syce, sidhoo, was a smart, open-chested, sinewy-limbed little fellow, a perfect model of a biped racer. he could run--as is the custom in the east--alongside his horse at a pace of seven or eight miles an hour, for a length of time that would astonish the best english pedestrian i ever heard of. toward evening, mr. hall rode up to the bungalow, dripping with water, and covered with mud. i saw at once that some accident had happened, and hastened to assist him. as soon as he got inside, he said, in answer to my bantering about his "spill"-- "i am in no humor for jesting. your syce is lost!" "drowned?" "no; eaten!--by an enormous crocodile!" he added that, on arriving at a small nulla about two miles off, he found it so much swollen by rain, that he had to swim his horse across it, holding one end of the cord which sidhoo, in common with most hindoos, wore coiled round his waist, and which was used in pulling water from the deep wells of the country. hall got safely across, and then commenced pulling sidhoo over by means of the cord. the black face, with the white teeth and turban, were bobbing above the muddy water, when all at once the groom threw up his arms, gave a loud shriek, and sank below the surface. mr. hall, who had doubled the cord round his hand, was dragged into the water; where he got a momentary glimpse of the long serrated tail of a mugger, lashing the water a short way ahead of him. in his efforts to save himself, he lost his hold of the string, and with much difficulty clambered up the slippery bank of the nulla. all was now still. only sidhoo's turban was to be seen floating loosely, a considerable way down the stream. hall ran toward it, with the sort of feeling which makes a drowning man catch at a straw; and, by means of a stick he succeeded in fishing it out, and brought it with him, as the only remnant of sidhoo he could give an account of. bad news soon spreads in an indian village, and sidhoo's fate was soon made known to his wife; and in a short time she came crying and sobbing to the bungalow, and laid her youngest child at our friend's feet. the tears glistened in the poor fellow's eyes as he tried to soothe and console her; which he did by promising to provide for her and her children. although hall was generally running over with fun, we smoked our cheroots that evening in silence; except when we proposed schemes for the annihilation of the crocodiles. a great many plans were discussed--but none that offered much chance of success. the next day, after breakfast, i was showing my visitor a galvanic blasting apparatus, lately received from england, for blowing up the snags (stumps of trees) which obstruct the navigation of the river. i was explaining its mode of action to him, when he suddenly interrupted me--"the very thing! instead of snags, why not blow up the muggers?" i confessed that there could be no reason why we should not blast the muggers. the difficulty was only how to manage it; yet the more we talked of it, the more feasible did the scheme appear. the brutes keep pretty constant to the same quarters, when the fish are plentiful; and we soon ascertained that poor sidhoo's murderer was well known in the neighborhood of the nulla. he had on several occasions carried off goats, sheep, pigs, and children; and had once attempted to drag a buffalo, whom he had caught drinking, into the water; but, from all accounts, came off second best in this rencontre. there not being enough of water in the nulla to drown the buffalo, the mugger soon found he had caught a tartar; and after being well mauled by the buffalo's horns, he was fain to scuttle off and hide himself among the mud. i had observed, when blasting the snags, that the concussion produced by the discharge had the effect of killing all the fish within a range of some twenty or thirty yards. after every explosion, they were found in great numbers, floating on the surface of the water with their bellies uppermost. it now occurred to me, that if we could only get within a moderate distance of the mugger, if we did not blow him to pieces, we would at all events give him a shock that would rather astonish him. an explosion of gunpowder under water communicates a much severer shock to the objects in its immediate vicinity, than the same quantity of powder exploded in the air; the greater density of the water enabling it, as it were, to give a harder blow. having made our arrangements, mr. hall, my brother, and myself, got into a small canoe, with the blasting apparatus on board, and dropt down the stream to where the nulla discharged its waters into the rohan. he then got out and proceeded to a village close by, where we obtained for a few annas, the carcass of a young kid. a flask with about six pounds of gunpowder, and having the conducting wires attached, was then sewn into the kid's belly. two strong ropes were also tied to this bait; and, to one of these, the conducting wire was firmly bound with small cord. the ropes were about thirty yards long, and had each attached to its extremities one of the inflated goat-skins used by water-carriers. hall, with his goat-skin under his arm, and a coil of loose rope in his hand, took one side of the nulla, while my brother, similarly provided took the other. my brother's rope contained the wire; so i walked beside him, while two coolies, with the battery ready charged, and slung to a pole which rested on their shoulders, accompanied me. a small float was also attached by a string to the kid, so as to indicate its position. these arrangements being made, we commenced walking up the nulla, dragging the carcass of the kid in the stream, and moving it across, from side to side, so as to leave no part of the bed untried; and, as the nulla was only about twelve yards wide, we felt pretty confident that, if the mugger were in it, we could scarcely fail of coming in contact with him. we had proceeded only about a quarter of a mile, when the float suddenly dipt. my brother and hall threw the loose coil of ropes they carried on the water, along with the inflated skins. these made it soon evident by their motion that the mugger had seized the kid. he was dashing across, in a zig-zag direction, down the stream. i ran after him as fast as i could; and paying out the cord from the reel, when i found it impossible to keep up with him. on reaching a place where the banks were steeper than usual, he came to a stand still. i got on the top of the bank, and commenced hauling in the rope. i did not, however, venture to lift the skin out of the water, for fear of disturbing him, until the coolies with the battery had time to come up. this was a very anxious time; for, if the mugger had shifted his quarters before they came up, a fresh run with him would have ensued, with the chance of his breaking the wires with his teeth. after a while i heard the coolies approaching, and my brother scolding them, and urging them to hasten on. just as their heads appeared above the bank, the foremost coolie tripped his foot and fell--i groaned with disappointment--presently, my brother came along with them, and brought the battery to my feet; a good deal of the acid had been spilt, but, with the aid of a bottle of fresh acid we had brought along with us, we soon got the battery up to the requisite power. every thing being now in order, i commenced pulling up the rope with the wire. i proceeded as cautiously as possible for fear of disturbing the mugger; but, in spite of all my efforts, the inflated skin, in coming up the bank, dislodged some loose pieces of earth, and sent them splashing into the water. fortunately, however, the mugger had made up his mind to digest the kid where he was. i could not help chuckling when i at length got hold of the end of the wires. while my brother was fastening one of them to the battery, i got the other ready for completing the circuit. the mugger all the while lying still at the bottom of the nulla with, most likely, a couple of fathoms of water over his head, unconscious of danger, and little dreaming that the two-legged creatures on the bank had got a nerve communicating with his stomach, through which they were going to send a flash of lightning that would shatter his scaly hulk to pieces. every thing being now ready, i made the fatal contact. our success was complete! we felt a shock, as if something had fallen down the bank--a mound of muddy water rose, with a muffled, rumbling sound, and then burst out to a column of dark smoke. a splashing and bubbling succeeded, and then a great crimson patch floated on the water, like a variegated carpet pattern. strange-looking fragments of scaly skin were picked up by the natives from the water's edge, and brought to us amidst a very general rejoicing. the exploded mugger floated down the stream, and the current soon carried it out of sight. we were not at all sorry, for it looked such a horrible mess that we felt no desire to examine it. our sense of triumphant satisfaction was, however, sadly damped about a week afterward, when we received the mortifying announcement, that sidhoo's mugger was still alive, and on his old beat, apparently uninjured. it was evident that we had blasted the wrong mugger! we consoled ourselves with the reflection, that if he were not sidhoo's murderer, it was very _likely_ he was not wholly innocent of other atrocities, and therefore deserved his fate. of course it was impossible to rest while sidhoo's mugger remained alive, so we were not long in preparing for a second expedition. this time we took the precaution of not charging the battery until we were certain that the bait was swallowed. the acid, diluted to the necessary strength, was, therefore, carried in one of those brown earthenware jars called gray-beards, which had come out to us full of glenlivet whisky. we commenced dragging the kid up the stream, as before; but, having walked more than a mile without getting a bite, we were getting rather disheartened, and sat down to rest, struck a light, and smoked a cheroot. hall laid down, having manufactured an impromptu easy chair out of his coil of rope, with the inflated goat-skin placed above it. my brother was not long in imitating his example, and i laid down under the shade of some reeds, near to the water's edge. the heat was oppressive, and we were discussing the probability of getting a bite that day, and lamenting that we had not brought some pale ale along with us, when, when, all at once, i got a sharp blow on the leg, while my brother came spinning down the bank like a teetotem--a companion picture to hall; who was revolving down the opposite bank. the ropes and skins went rushing down the nulla at a tremendous pace. as soon as we recovered from the laughter into which we were thrown by this droll contretemps, we set off in pursuit, guided by the track which the inflated skins made in the water. on they went, dashing from side to side, as they had done in our first attempt. on coming to a place where the nulla made a sharp turn, they stood still under the high bank, on the inner curve of the bend. it unfortunately happened that the bank, near to which the skins were floating, was too precipitous for us to get near them, without starting the mugger from his present position. with much labor, we detached some loose sods from the top of the bank, and sent them with a loud splash into the water, directly over where we imagined him to have taken up his quarters. this had the desired effect, for the skins began to move slowly down the stream, as if the mugger were crawling leisurely along the bottom. leaving my brother with the coolies in charge of the battery, i ran on to where the bank was more shelving. by good luck, the stream was rushing up, after its sudden sweep, and sent a strong current against this bank. i had not waited many minutes, before the skins came floating round the corner, to where i was standing. i seized the one to which the wire was attached, desiring my brother to charge the battery, and bring it down. this he did much sooner than i could have expected; for, as the battery was now empty, one coolie was able to carry it on his head, while my brother took the jar of acid in his hand. it was evident from the motion of the other skin in the water that the mugger was still moving--so no time was to be lost. i made the connection with the battery with one of the wires; in another instant the circuit was complete, and the mugger's doom sealed. there was a momentary pause--owing, i suppose, to some slight loss of insulation in the wires--then came the premonitory shock, then the rumble, the smoke, and the sparks; and a great bloated mass of flesh and blood rose to the surface of the water. hall called out to us to drag it ashore, and see whether we could get any trace of poor sidhoo. we tried by means of a bamboo pole to pull it to the bank, but the glimpse we got of it as it neared was so unutterably disgusting, that we pushed it off again, and allowed it to float away down with the current. that this was sidhoo's mugger, there could be no doubt; for he was never seen or heard of in the neighborhood again. a chapter on dreams. when we picture to ourselves a person lying in a state of profound sleep--the body slightly curved upon itself; the limbs relaxed; the head reclining on its pillow; and eyelids closed--it is wonderful to think what strange and startling imagery may be passing through the brain of that apparently unconscious being. the events of his whole life may hurry past him in dim obscurity; he may be revisited by the dead; he may be transported into regions he never before beheld; and his ideas visibly assuming phantasmal shapes, may hover round him like shadows reflected from another and more spiritual state of existence. let us draw the curtains gently aside, and study the physiognomy of sleep. the countenance may, occasionally, be observed lighted up, as it were, from within by a passing dream--its expression is frequently one of peculiar mildness and benignity; the breathing may be slow, but it is calm and uniform: the pulse not so rapid as in the waking state, but soft and regular; the composure of the whole body may continue trance-like and perfect. there is, indeed, no sign of innocence more touching than the smile of a sleeping infant. but, suddenly, this state of tranquillity may be disturbed; the dreamer changes his position and become restless; he moans grievously--perhaps sobs--and tears may be observed glimmering underneath his eyelids; his whole body now seems to be shaken by some inward convulsion; but, presently, the strife abates; the storm-cloud gradually passes; he stretches his limbs, opens his eyes, and, as he awakes, daylight, in an instant, dispels the vision, perhaps leaving not behind the faintest trace or recollection of a single incident which occurred in this mysterious state. but what are dreams? whence come they? what do they portend? not man only, but all animals, it is presumed, dream, more or less, when they are asleep. horses neigh, and sometimes kick violently; cows, when suckling their young calves, often utter piteous lowings; dogs bark in suppressed tones, and, from the motions of their paws, appear to fancy themselves in the field of the chase; even frogs, particularly during summer, croak loudly and discordantly until midnight, and then retire, and become silent. birds also dream; and will sometimes, when frightened, fall from their roosting-perch, or flutter about their cage, in evident alarm. a bullfinch, says bechstein, belonging to a lady, was subject to very frightful dreams, which made it drop off its perch; but no sooner did it hear the voice of its affectionate mistress than it became immediately tranquil, and reascended its perch to sleep again. it is pretty certain that parrots dream. it is, indeed, a curious circumstance that the best way of teaching this bird to talk is to cover the cage over so as to darken it, and while he is going to sleep pronounce, audibly and slowly, the word he is to learn; if the winged pupil be a clever one, he will, upon the repetition of the lesson, in a morning or two, begin to repeat it. upon the same principle, school-boys commit their tasks to memory by reading them over the last thing before they go to bed. it is to be remembered that during sleep the mind may not be wholly under eclipse; for, although some of its faculties--such as perception, comparison, judgment, and especially the will, may be suspended--others (for example, memory and imagination), are often more active than in the waking state. but some persons, it is said, never dream. we are assured by locke that he knew a gentleman who had an excellent memory, yet could not recollect ever having dreamed until his twenty-sixth year. dr. reid, for many years before his death, had no recollection of having ever dreamed. dr. eliotson also relates, apparently upon good authority, the case of a man who never dreamed until after he had a fever, in his fortieth year; and we ourselves know several persons who are not conscious of ever dreaming. nevertheless, many contend that in all such cases dreams really occur, but that they escape the recollection; for they contend that it is impossible that the mind can, being an independent principle, ever be in a state of absolute rest. this is arguing within a very narrow circle. we must not forget that the intimate alliance of the mind with the body, subjects it to its general laws; the "heat-oppressed brain" requires rest to renew its energies, and the mind, of which it is the organ, in the mean time, may, as in profound sleep, remain perfectly quiescent. the lids of the outward senses are closed; a vail is drawn over the immaterial principle of our nature; and mind and body alike, for a period, lie in a state of utter unconsciousness. here, however, it may fairly be asked, how happens it that the same person will at one time remember, and, at another, forget his dreams? this circumstance may, we conceive, thus be explained: those dreams which occur in very deep sleep, and in the early part of the night, are not so likely to be remembered as those which happen toward morning, when the sleep is less profound; hence the popular notion that our morning dreams--which are always best remembered--are likely to prove true. then, again, the imagery of some dreams is more striking, and actually makes a deeper impression than the incidents of other dreams. we are told by sir humphrey davy, that, on one occasion, a dream was so strongly impressed upon his eye, that even after he had risen and walked out, he could not be persuaded of its unreal nature, until his friends convinced him of its impossibility. the effect of some dreams upon children is very remarkable; they are, it is believed, more liable to dreams of terror than grown persons, which may be accounted for by their being more subject to a variety of internal complaints, such as teething, convulsions, derangement of the bowels, &c.; added to which, their reasoning faculties are not as yet sufficiently developed to correct such erroneous impressions. hence, sometimes, children appear, when they awake, bewildered and distressed, and remain for a considerable period in a state of agitation almost resembling delirium. the incidents which are conceived in dreams are indeed not unfrequently confounded by adults with real events; hence, we often hear people, in alluding to some doubtful circumstance, exclaim, "well! if it be not true, i certainly must have dreamed it." we confess we have ourselves been puzzled in this way; the spell may be broken; but the impression made by the delusion still clings to us; its shadow is still thrown across our path. the question therefore recurs, what are dreams? whence do they arise? we believe that the ideas and emotions which take place in the dreaming state may be ascribed to a twofold origin. they may arise from certain bodily sensations, which may suggest particular trains of thought and feeling; or they may be derived from the operations or activity of the thinking principle itself; in which case they are purely mental. the celebrated dr. james gregory--whose premature death was a great loss to science--states, that having gone to bed with a vessel of hot water at his feet, he dreamed of walking up the crater of mount etna, and felt the ground warm under him. he likewise, on another occasion, dreamed of spending a winter at hudson's bay, and of suffering much distress from intense frost; and found, when he awoke, that he had thrown off the bed-clothes in his sleep, and exposed himself to cold. he had been reading, a few days before, a very particular account of this colony. the eminent metaphysician, dr. reid, relates of himself that the dressing of a blister, which he had applied to his head, becoming ruffled, so as to produce pain, he dreamed that he had fallen into the hands of a party of north american indians, who were scalping him. these were dreams suggested by sensations which, were conveyed from the surface of the body, through the nerves, until corresponding impression was produced on the mind. upon the same principle, very strong impressions received during the day may modify and very materially influence the character of our dreams at night. dr. beattie states that once, after riding thirty miles in a very high wind, he passed a night of dreams which were so terrible, that he found it expedient to keep himself awake, that he might no longer be tormented with them. "had i been superstitious," he observes, "i should have thought that some disaster was impending; but it occurred to me that the tempestuous weather i had encountered the preceding day might be the cause of all these horrors." other and less obvious causes are in constant operation. a change in the weather--in the electrical state of the atmosphere--and its barometrical pressure--the temperature of the bedroom--arrangements of the bed-furniture--the adjustment of the bed-clothes--nay, the position of the sleeper, particularly if he cramp a foot or benumb an arm, will at once affect the entire concatenation and issue of his dreams. furthermore, impressions may be made on the mind during sleep, by speaking gently to a person, or even whispering in the ear. we ourselves, when in italy, could on one occasion trace the origin of a very remarkable dream to our having heard, in an obscure and half-conscious manner, during sleep, the noise of people in the streets, on all souls'-night, invoking alms for the dead. dr. beattie knew a man in whom any kind of dream could be produced if his friends, gently addressing him, afforded the subject-matter for his ideas. equally curious is the circumstance that dreams may be produced by whispering in the ear. a case of this description is recorded by dr. abercrombie: "an officer, whose susceptibility of having his dreams thus conjured before him, was so remarkable, that his friends could produce any kind of dream they pleased, by softly whispering in his ear, especially if this were done by one with whose voice he was familiar. his companions were in the constant habit of amusing themselves at his expense. on one occasion they conducted him through the whole progress of a quarrel, which ended in a duel; and when the parties were supposed to meet, a pistol was put into his hand, which he fired off in his sleep, and was awakened by the report. on another, they found him asleep on the top of a locker or bunker in the cabin, when, by whispering, they made him believe he had fallen overboard; and they then exhorted him to save himself by swimming. he immediately imitated the motions of swimming. they then suggested to him that he was being pursued by a shark, and entreated him to dive for his life. this he did, or rather attempted, with so much violence, that he threw himself off the locker, by which he was bruised, and, of course, awakened." dr. abercrombie adds, that the most remarkable circumstance connected with this case was, that after these and a variety of other pranks had been played upon him, "he had no distinct recollection of his dreams, but only a confused feeling of oppression or fatigue, and used to tell his friends that he was sure they had been playing some tricks upon him." it appears, also--and the fact is very remarkable--that a similar kind of sensation will produce the same description of dream in a number of individuals at the same time. hence different people will sometimes have the same dream. we read of a whole regiment starting up in alarm, declaring they were dreaming that a black dog had jumped upon their breasts and disappeared, which curious circumstance was explained by the discovery, that they had all been exposed to the influence of a deleterious gas, which was generated in the monastery. the effect of music, also, in exciting delightful dreams, has often been attested. a french philosopher whose experiments are reported by magendie, according to the airs which he had arranged should be played while he was asleep, could have the character of his dreams directed at pleasure. "there is an art," says sir thomas browne--in his usual quaint style--"to make dreams as well as their interpretations; and physicians will tell us that some food makes turbulent, some gives quiet dreams. cato, who doated upon cabbage, might find the crude effects thereof; and pythagoras might have had calmer sleeps if he had totally abstained from beans." the influences of the day's occurrences, and the thoughts which have occupied the mind during the day, have been said to give a corresponding tone and coloring to our dreams at night. thus the lover dreams of his mistress; the miser of his gold; the merchant of his speculations; the man of science of his discoveries. the poets of all ages and nations adopt this view. virgil describes dido forsaken by Ã�neas, wandering alone on a desert shore in pursuit of the tyrians. milton represents eve relating to adam the dreams which were very naturally the repetition of her waking thoughts. petrarch invokes the beauty of laura. eloisa, separated from abelard, is again happy in his company, even amid the "dreary wastes" and "low-browed rocks." there can be no doubt that the dreams of many persons are very greatly influenced by the reflections and emotions they have experienced the preceding day; but this is by no means invariably the case. we have known persons whose dreams refer habitually to events which occurred to them, perhaps, twenty years ago, and upon whom recent events seem to possess no such influence. we have often been told by ladies happily and affectionately married, that while they were engaged, although their thoughts were naturally much set on their engagement, they never dreamed of their lovers. so, also, the father of a family, habitually impressed with a sense of his responsibility and affection toward his offspring, will sometimes dream often enough of his neighbor's children, but seldom or, perhaps, never, of his own. try to dream on a given subject--resolve and fix the attention upon it--going to sleep, and no sooner are our eyelids closed, than fantastic fancy will conjure up the most opposite and incongruous imagery. we have heard this dream-problem explained by referring it to a principle of _antagonism_, which, waking or sleeping, may be observed in the animal economy. if a limb become fatigued by remaining too long in one position, it will be relieved by being thrown into the very opposite condition; if the eye fatigue itself by gazing intently on the disc of any bright color, and the eyelids close, the very opposite, or antagonistic color will be depicted upon the retina: in like manner, when our waking thoughts--in connection with the nerve matter, which is their material instrument--have exhausted their energy, we can easily conceive how the very opposite condition will be produced. hence the most unconnected and preposterous train of imagery may arise from the very earnestness with which we desire a contrary effect. we dream of events which do not concern us, instead of those in which we are most deeply interested; we dream of persons to whom we are indifferent, instead of those to whom we are attached. but, in the midst of all this curious and perplexing contrariety, it is remarkable--and may be esteemed a proof of the immateriality of the mind--that we always preserve the consciousness of our own identity. no man dreams that he is a woman, or any other person than himself; we have heard of persons who have dreamed they were dead, and in a spiritual state; but the spirit was still their own--they maintained their identity. sir thomas lawrence once made an interesting observation on this subject to mrs. butler--then miss fanny kemble: he pointed out, in conversation, that he never heard of any lady who ever dreamed that she was younger than she really was. we retain in our dreams even the identity of our age. it has been said--we think by sir thomas browne--that some persons of virtuous and honorable principles will commit, as they fancy, actions in their dreams which they would shudder at in their waking moments; but we can not believe that the identity of moral goodness can be so perverted in the dreaming state. we can, however, readily conceive that, when the mind is oppressed, or disturbed by the recollection of some event it dreads to dwell upon, it may be disturbed by the most terrific and ghastly images. a guilty conscience, too, will unquestionably produce restlessness, agitation, and awe-inspiring dreams. hence manfred, in pacing restlessly his lonely gothic gallery at midnight, pictures to himself the terrors of sleep: "the lamp must be replenished; even then it will not burn so long as i must watch. my slumbers, if i slumber, are not sleep, _but a continuance of enduring thought, which then i can resist not. in my heart there is a vigil; and these eyes but close to look within._" contrition and remorse oppose his rest. if we remember right, it was bishop newton who remarked, that the sleep of innocence differed essentially from the sleep of guilt. the assistance supposed to be sometimes furnished in sleep toward the solution of problems which puzzled the waking sense, opens up a curious subject of investigation. cases of the kind have been recorded upon undoubted authority. hence some philosophers, like sir thomas browne and addison, have been induced to suppose that the soul in this state is partially disengaged from the encumbrance of the body, and therefore more intelligent, which is a mere fancy--a poetical fiction. surely it is absurd to suppose that the soul, which we invest with such high and perfect attributes, should commit such frivolous and irrational acts as these which take place so constantly in our dreams. "methinks," observed locke, "every drowsy nod shakes this doctrine." all we remark, is, that some of the ordinary mental faculties act in such cases with increased energy. but beyond this we can not go. we are informed by cabains, that franklin on several occasions mentioned to him, that he had been assisted in his dreams on the issue of many affairs in which he was engaged. so, also, condillac, while writing his "cours d'etudes," states that he was frequently obliged to leave a chapter incomplete, and retire to bed: and that on waking, he found it, on more than one occasion, finished in his head. condorcet, upon leaving his deep and complicated calculations unfinished, after having retired to rest, often found their results unfolded to him in his dreams. voltaire assures us that he, like la fontaine, composed verses frequently in his sleep, which he remembered on awaking. doctor johnson states that he once in a dream had a contest of wit with some other person, and that he was very much mortified by imagining that his opponent had the better of him. coleridge, in a dream, composed the wild and beautiful poem of "kubla khan," which was suggested to him by a passage he was reading in "purchas's pilgrimage" when he fell asleep. on awaking he had a distinct recollection of the whole, and, taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines which have been so much admired. one of the most striking circumstances connected with the human mind is the extreme lightning-like rapidity of its thoughts, even in our waking hours; but the transactions which appear to take place in our dreams are accomplished with still more incalculable rapidity; the relations of space, the duration of time, appear to be alike annihilated; we are transported in an instant to the most distant regions of the earth, and the events of ages are condensed into the span of a few seconds. the accidental jarring of a door, or any noise, will, at the same moment, it awakens a person, suggest the incidents of an entire dream. hence some persons--lord brougham in particular--have supposed that all our dreams take place in the transition or interval between sleep and waking. a gentleman dreamt that he had enlisted as a soldier, joined his regiment, deserted, was apprehended, carried back, tried, condemned to be shot, and, at last, led out for execution. after all the usual preparations a gun was fired; he awoke with the report, and found that a noise in an adjoining room had, in the same moment, produced the dream and awakened him. the same want of any notion of the duration of time occurs, more or less, in all dreams; hence our ignorance when we awake of the length of the night. a friend of doctor abercrombie's dreamt that he crossed the atlantic and spent a fortnight in america. in embarking, on his return, he fell into the sea, and, awakening with the fright, discovered he had not been ten minutes asleep. "i lately dreamed," says dr. macnish, "that i made a voyage--remained some days in calcutta--returned home--then took ship for egypt, where i visited the cataracts of the nile, grand cairo, and the pyramids; and to crown the whole, had the honor of an interview with mehemet ali, cleopatra, and alexander the great." all this was the work of a single hour, or even a few minutes. in one of the dreams which mr. de quincey describes--when under the influence of opium--"the sense of space and in the end of time were," he states, "both powerfully affected. buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited in proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. space swelled, and was amplified to a sense of unutterable infinity. this, however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of time; i sometimes seemed to have lived for seventy or one hundred years in one night; nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millenium, passed in that time; or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any human experience." one of the miracles of mohammed appears to be illustrative of the same phenomenon. we read, in the koran, that the angel gabriel took mohammed, one morning, out of his bed to give him a sight of all things in the seven heavens and in paradise; and, after holding ninety thousand spiritual conferences, he was brought back again to his bed; all which was transacted in so small a space of time that mohammed, upon his return, found his bed still warm. are dreams so much varied as is generally supposed? or, taking into consideration our different mental and physical constitutions, is there not rather a remarkable sameness in them? it is certainly a very unusual circumstance to hear of any dream that does violence to the common experience of mankind. one class of dreams, which may be termed retrospective, is of frequent occurrence. these are characterized by the revival of associations long since forgotten. the faculty of memory appears to be preternaturally exalted; the vail is withdrawn which obscured the vista of our past life; and the minutest events of childhood pass in vivid review before us. there can be no doubt that something analogous to this occurs in drowning; when, after the alarm and struggle for life has subsided, sensations and visions supervene with indescribable rapidity. the same very remarkable phenomenon takes place also sometimes in hanging; but is by no means uniformly produced. "of all whom i have seen restored from drowning," observes dr. lettsom, "i never found one who had the smallest recollection of any thing that passed under water until the time they were restored." persons must not, therefore, be deceived by imagining that an elysium is to be found at the bottom of a garden-well, or a canal, or a river. but to return--it is not only the very early incidents of childhood which may thus be recalled by our dreams, but recent events, which in our waking hours had escaped the memory, are sometimes suddenly recalled. in his "notes to waverley," sir walter scott relates the following anecdote: "a gentleman connected with a bank in glasgow, while employed in the occupation of cashier, was annoyed by a person, out of his turn, demanding the payment of a check for six pounds. having paid him, but with reluctance, out of his turn, he thought no more of the transaction. at the end of the year, which was eight or nine months after, a difficulty was experienced in making the books balance, in consequence of a deficiency of six pounds. several days and nights were exhausted in endeavors to discover the source of the error, but without success; and the discomfited and chagrined cashier retired one night to his bed, disappointed and fatigued. he fell asleep and dreamed he was at his bank, and once again the whole scene of the annoying man and his six-pound check arose before him; and, on examination, it was discovered that the sum paid to this person had been neglected to be inserted in the book of interests, and that it exactly accounted for the error in the balance." we read of another gentleman, a solicitor, who, on one occasion, lost a very important document connected with the conveyance of some property; the most anxious search was made for it in vain; and the night preceding the day on which the parties were to meet for the final settlement the son of this gentleman then went to bed, under much anxiety and disappointment, and dreamt that, at the time when the missing paper was delivered to his father, his table was covered with papers connected with the affairs of a particular client; and there found the paper they had been in search of, which had been tied up in a parcel to which it was in no way related. there is another class of dreams which would appear to be much more extraordinary than these of a retrospective character, to wit: those in which the dreamer appears to take cognizance of incidents which are occurring at a distance, which may be designated dreams of coincidence. in the "memoirs of margaret de valois" we read, that her mother, catherine de medicis, when ill of the plague at metz, saw her son, the duc d'anjou, at the victory of jarnac, thrown from his horse, and the prince de condé dead--events which happened exactly at that moment. dr. macnish relates, as the most striking example he ever met with of the co-existence between a dream and a passing event, the following melancholy story: miss m., a young lady, a native of ross-shire, was deeply in love with an officer who accompanied sir john moore in the peninsular war. the constant danger to which he was exposed had an evident effect upon her spirits. she became pale and melancholy in perpetually brooding over his fortunes; and, in spite of all that reason could do, felt a certain conviction that, when she last parted from her lover, she had parted with him forever. in a surprisingly short period her graceful form declined into all the appalling characteristics of a fatal illness, and she seemed rapidly hastening to the grave, when a dream confirmed the horrors she had long anticipated, and gave the finishing stroke to her sorrows. one night, after falling asleep, she imagined she saw her lover, pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. he drew aside the curtains of the bed, and, with a look of the utmost mildness, informed her that he had been slain in battle, desiring her, at the same time, to comfort herself, and not take his death too seriously to heart. it is needless to say what influence this vision had upon a mind so replete with woe. it withered it entirely, and the poor girl died a few days afterward, but, not without desiring her parents to note down the day of the month on which it happened, and see if it would not be confirmed, as she confidently declared it would. her anticipation was correct, for accounts were shortly afterward received that the young man was slain at the battle of corunna, which was fought on the very day of the night of which his betrothed had beheld the vision. it is certainly very natural to suppose that there must be some mysterious connection between such a dream and the event which appears to have simultaneously taken place--but, upon reflecting further upon the subject, we shall find that the co-existence is purely accidental. if, as sir walter scott observed, any event, such as the death of the person dreamt of, chance to take place, so as to correspond with the nature and time of the apparition, the circumstance is conceived to be supernatural, although the coincidence is one which must frequently occur, since our dreams usually refer to the accomplishment of that which haunts our minds when awake, and often presage the most probable events. such a concatenation, therefore, must often take place when it is considered "of what stuff dreams are made," and how naturally they turn upon those who occupy our mind when awake. when a soldier is exposed to death in battle; when a sailor is incurring the dangers of the sea; when a beloved wife or relative is attacked by disease, how readily our sleeping imagination rushes to the very point of alarm which, when waking, it had shuddered to anticipate. considering the many thousands of dreams which must, night after night, pass through the imagination of individuals, the number of coincidences between the vision and the event are fewer and less remarkable than a fair calculation of chance would warrant us to expect. in addition to these, we sometimes hear of dreams which appear to reveal the secrets of futurity; and which may be designated prophetic dreams--unvailing, as they are supposed to do, the destiny which awaits particular individuals. the prophetic dream of cromwell, that he should live to be the greatest man in england, has often been referred to as an example of special revelation; but surely there can be nothing very wonderful in the occurrence--for, after all, if we could only penetrate into the thoughts, hopes, and designs which inflamed the ambition of such men as ireton, lambert, and the like, we should find both their waking and sleeping visions equally suggestive of self-aggrandizement. the protector himself was not the only usurper, in those troubled times, who dreamed of being "every inch a king;" but we want the data to compute the probabilities which the laws of chance would give in favor of such a prophecy or dream being fulfilled. the prophetic dream refers generally to some event which, in the course of nature, is likely to happen: is it, then, wonderful that it should occur? it would be curious to know how often napoleon dreamed that he was the emperor of the civilized world, or confined as a prisoner of war; how many thrones he imagined himself to have ascended or abdicated; how often he accomplished the rebuilding of jerusalem. a few years ago, some very cruel murders were perpetrated in edinburgh, by men named burke and hare, who sold the bodies of their victims to the anatomical schools. we had ourselves an interview with burke, after his condemnation, when he told us that many months before he was apprehended and convicted, he used to dream that the murders he committed had been discovered; then he imagined himself going to be executed, and his chief anxiety was, how he should comport himself on the scaffold before the assembled multitude, whose faces he beheld gazing up and fixed upon him. his dream was, in every respect, verified; but who, for an instant, would suppose there could have been any thing preternatural, or prophetic, in such a vision? for the most part, dreams of this description are supposed to portend the illness, or the time of the death, of particular individuals; and these, too, upon the simple doctrine of chance, turn out, perhaps, to be as often wrong as right. it may be true, that lord lyttleton died at the exact hour which he said had been predicted to him in a dream; but voltaire outlived a similar prophecy for many years. it must, however, be conceded, that persons in ill-health may have their death expedited by believing in such fatal predictions. tell a timorous man that he will die; and the sentence, if pronounced with sufficient solemnity, and the semblance of its fore-knowledge, will, under certain circumstances, execute itself. but, on the other hand, the self-sustaining power of the will, with a corresponding concentration of nervous energy, will sometimes triumph over the presence of disease, and for awhile ward off even the hand of death. the anecdote is told of muley moloch, who, being informed that his army was likely to be defeated, sprang from his sick bed in great excitement, led his men on to victory, and, on returning to his tent, lay down and almost instantly expired. but again it may be asked--what then do dreams portend? do they admit of any rational interpretation? this branch of the art of divination, which was called formerly by the name of "oneiromancy," has been practiced in all ages; and there is, perhaps, not a village in great britain, or on the great continent of europe, india, or america, in which some fortune-telling old woman will not be found who professes to be an oracle in propounding their mystical signification. the magicians of old were supposed to be skillful interpreters of dreams, which, like the wiseacres of christendom, they viewed under very contradictory aspects. from one of the most ancient arabic manuscripts on the subject, we learn that if you see an angel, it is a good sign; but if you dream that you converse with one, it forebodes evil--to dream you bathe in a clear fountain denotes joy--but if it be muddy, an enemy will bring against you some false accusation. to dream of carrying any weight upon the back denotes servitude, if you are rich--honor if you are poor. there is not an object in nature--not an event that can occur in life--that our modern fortune-tellers have not converted, when seen in a dream, into some sign ominous of good or of evil; and many even well-educated persons are in the habit of fostering their credulity by attaching an undue importance to their dreams. it is a curious circumstance, however, which militates against this mystic art, that the same sign in different countries carries with it a very contrary signification. the peasant girl in england thinks, if she dream of a rose, that it is a sure sign of happiness; but the _paysanne_ in normandy believes that it portends vexation and disappointment. the englishman conceives that to dream of an oak-tree is a sign of prosperity; but in switzerland, the same vision is thought to be a forewarning of some dreadful calamity. the domestic superstitions which are connected with dreams, are sometimes favored by, and perhaps dependent upon a certain morbid condition or irritability of the nervous system, which suggests the dread of some impending calamity, a painful and indefinite sense of apprehension for which no ostensible reason can be assigned. strange as it might appear, the influence of our dreams upon our waking state is very remarkable; we may awaken refreshed from a dream which has made us, in our sleep, superlatively happy; or we may rise with melancholic feelings after suffering intense affliction in some dream, and the details of both dreams may alike be forgotten. we can not, after being so much disturbed, at once regain our composure; the billows continue heaving after the tempest has subsided; the troubled nerves continue to vibrate after the causes that disturbed them have ceased to act; the impression still remains, and checkers the happiness of the future day. even men of strong mind, who do not believe in the interpretation of dreams, may be so affected. when henry the fourth of france was once told by an astrologer that he would be assassinated, he smiled at the prediction, and did not believe it; but he confessed that it often haunted him afterward, and although he placed no faith in it, still it sometimes depressed his spirits, and he often expressed a wish that he had never heard it. in like manner, dreams, which persons do not believe in, will unconsciously affect the tenor of their thoughts and feelings. there are many persons who appear to have habitually the most extraordinary dreams, and there is scarcely a family circle that assemble round the domestic hearth, in which some one or other of the party is not able to relate some very wonderful story. we have, ourselves, a _répertoire_, from which we could select a host of such narrations; but we have preferred, at the risk of being thought recapitulative, to dwell upon those which have been recorded upon unimpeachable authority. the dreams which men like locke, reid, gregory, abercrombie, macnish, &c., have attested, come with a weight of evidence before us which the dreams of persons unknown in the scientific or literary world would not possess. the impressions produced by dreams are so fugitive--so easy is it for persons unintentionally to deceive themselves in recalling their dreams' experience--that epictetus, long ago, advised young men not to entertain any company by relating their dreams, as they could only, he affirmed, be interesting to themselves, and perhaps would, after all their pains, be disbelieved by their auditors. nevertheless, it would be well for all persons to study, whether waking or dreaming, the phenomena of their own minds. the ingenious naturalist, doctor fleming, suggests that persons should, in contra-distinction to a "diary," keep a "nocturnal," in which they should register their dreams. doubtless such a journal might turn out to be a very amusing psychological record. a fair in munich. i wonder when there is not a fair in munich. this, however, was _die drei könige dult_, or the fair of the three kings. by way of amusement, i thought i would go to it; but as i could not very well go alone, i invited madame thekla to accompany me, with which she was very well pleased, as i promised to treat her to the shows. as far as buying and selling, and the crowds of peasants, and townspeople, and students, and soldiers, go, it was like any other fair. at a little distance from the long array of booths, stood the shows--and thither we bent our steps. the first thing we came upon was a small ladder-wagon, covered with an arched awning; and, bound to one side of the wagon, were tall poles, from which floated a series of ghastly pictures--hideous raw-head-and-bloody-bone pictures! there were murders, executions, be-headings in german fashion; the criminal extended on a horrid sort of rack, and his head being chopped off by a grim executioner, with a sword, while a priest stood by in his long robes; there were houses on fire; drownings, miraculous escapes; there were tall, smirking hussars, and weeping ladies in white--heroes and heroines in these bloody histories! the subjects, the hideous drawing, the hard outlines, the goggle-eyes, the blood, the knives, the very fire, made you feel sick. a considerable crowd was collected, and listened breathlessly to the sounds of an organ, to which two tyrolians sang their appalling tragedies. they sang in such clear, sweet, mountain tones, that you were strangely fascinated. mournfully sang they, in a monotonous chaunt, of blood, and crime, and terror, till you felt your blood creep; and, by a frightful fascination, your eyes gloated on the disgusting pictures. what a terribly immoral influence must such exhibitions have upon such an uneducated crowd as surrounded these sirens! why should not a _paternal_ government, which guards its people from immoral books and disgusting newspapers, not guard them equally from such a disgusting sight and sound as this tyrolian exhibition? these tyrolians sold printed histories of the fearful crimes and calamities which were depicted on their banners. these histories are very exciting and romantic reading, as you may believe when i give some of their titles:--"the history of the great and terrible monster, who cruelly murdered his beloved, his child, his father, his mother, his two sisters, and his brother, on the th of july, ." "heroic self-sacrifice of a bohemian hussar officer, and the punishment of his murderers." "a true and dreadful history which occurred on the th of march, , in schopka, near milineck, in bohemia." "the might of mutual love: a highly remarkable event, which occurred at thoulon, in the year ." "the cursed mill: a warning from real life." "the temptation; the deed; the consequences!" if you care to know any thing of the style of these remarkable productions, i will give you a specimen. one begins thus:--"in ross-dorf, in hanover, lived the criminal peter natzer. he was by trade a glazier, his father having followed the same calling. peter was five-and-twenty years old, and was, from his earliest youth, addicted to every species of crime. he had a sweetheart, named lucie braun, a poor girl, &c., &c." again:--"silent sat the miller, leverm, in his garden; thoughtfully gazed he into the distant valley. he was scarcely thirty years of age, but heavy cares had bowed him, and robbed him of his fresh, youthful bloom. beside him sat his wife, who cast many an anxious but affectionate glance on her husband. how tender and lovely was this young wife! the inhabitants of the neighborhood called her 'the rose of the valley.'" in this way begins a most awful tragedy. of course we did not read these things in the fair. it was enough for us, there, to listen to the mournful chant of the mountaineers, till our blood was frozen in our veins. i took home with me these printed histories, as many another simple soul did; and now, after i have read them, and been filled with horror and disgust by them, i have put them away from me as unholy things. but think of the effect they will have in many a lonely village, this winter--in many a desolate farm-house or cottage--on the wide plain, or among the mountains! these papers are productive seeds of murder and crime; of that one may be certain. the next wonder that stopped us in the fair, was a little fat man, who was shouting away at the top of his voice, while he briskly sharpened a knife on a long, rough board, which was smeared over with a black ointment. he was a vender of magical strop-salve! something in the fashion of mechi. "ladies and gentlemen;" shouted he, "witness my wonderful invention! the dullest knife, stick-knife, bread-knife, clasp-knife, table-knife, carving-knife, shaving-knife, (_rasier-messer_) pen-knife, pruning-knife, though dull as this knife--_though dull as this knife_!" and here he began hacking away upon the edge of a big knife with a strong piece of broken pitcher. "yes, though dull, dull, dull as this knife!--when subjected to my wonderful salve," and here he smeared it with his black ointment, "will cut a hair, or the most delicate shaving of paper--as it now does!" and with that he severed paper shavings as if they had been nothing. if it was really the _same knife_, his was a wonderful invention, and beat mechi hollow. next, i had my fortune told at three different places, for six kreutzers, or two-pence each, and as i was promised pretty much the same fortune by all, i suppose i ought to believe in the truth of it. they foretold me lots of trouble in the way of love-crosses, false friends, and unkind relations, and such small trifles; but were equally liberal of rich lovers, and plenty of them, plenty of money, and a good husband to crown all, and good children to be the _props_ of my old age; so i think i had, after all, a good sixpenny-worth. next we came upon a little caravan, on the steps of which vociferated a most picturesque tyrolian, in broad-brimmed sugar-loafed hat, adorned with chamois hair, and eagles' feathers; in broad-ribbed stockings, and with a broad, gayly-embroidened band round his waist, which half covered his chest. he assured the crowd below that there was not in the whole of bavaria, any thing half as interesting, half as extraordinary, half as astounding as the singularly gifted, singularly beautiful, singularly intellectual being within; a being from another quarter of the globe, a being adapted to an entirely different mode of existence to ours; a being who could see in the dark, a being who only lived upon raw meat! a wonderful albino who could speak the german tongue! of course we must see the albino; so in we went, and some way or other i felt an unusual shock. there he sat, in a black velvet dress spangled with silver, the light coming in from the top of the caravan, and his transparent complexion, his burning, fiery eyes, like carbuncles, his long waves of white, silky hair, and his long, curling, snow-white, silky beard, gave him the appearance of some enchanted dwarf--some cobold or gnome out of a subterranean palace. but i had not much time to lose myself in dreams about enchanted dwarfs or gnomes, for there was something else burning in the caravan besides the albino's eyes, and that was madame thekla's grand silk cloak! she had come out with me in all her grandeur; and now, while we stood enchanted before the albino, her fine silk cloak was singeing at a little iron stove that stood behind the door. poor madame thekla! out we rushed, and she revenged herself by vociferating to the crowd outside, as the tyrolian had done just before, and by exhibiting her unlucky cloak in a sort of savage despair. an hour afterward, we again passed the caravan, and the tyrolian in the ribbed stockings was again holding forth on the steps, when, at sight of us, he interrupted his oration, and politely invited us to re-enter, and complete, _free of cost_, our inspection of the albino. but madame thekla, pointing with stern dignity to her cloak, declined, and marched on. after this we went to the _wäffeln_-booths, were we ate hot-baked _wäffeln_, a kind of gofre cake; and then, resisting a wonderful elephant show, we hastened to the monkey theatre, the poor elephant's rival exhibition; the "grand monkey theatre from paris," in which forty-two apes and poodles, the property of m. le cerf, would exhibit the most wonderful and artistic feats. we had to wait some time till the four o'clock performance was over, which unfortunately had begun before we arrived; and while madame thekla and i stood impatiently waiting in the cold, up there came a merry-faced lad of about ten, and began, in great glee, to describe to us the glorious things that were performed by those "dear little monkeys and dogs." he was quite eloquent in his delight; and, "oh!" said he, "if i had but another _sechser_ (twopenny-piece), wouldn't i see it again!" "there is another _sechser_, then!" said i, and put one into his fat little hand. what an astonished, bright face looked up into mine; and he seized my hand in both his, and shook it almost off. and away he ran up the steps for his ticket, flying down again to us, and keeping as close to us as possible, talking all the time, and fairly dancing for joy. "you've quite bewitched that little fellow," said madame thekla; and i seemed to have bewitched all the little lads in the fair, for, by a strangely-mysterious power, they were drawn toward us in crowds, from all hands--little fellows in blouses, little fellows in little green and brown surtouts, little fellows in old-fashioned and, in england, almost forgotten, buttoned-up suits--and all crept bashfully toward us! oh, the wonderful magic of a twopenny-piece! heaven only knows how the news of this munificent gift of a _sechser_ had so swiftly spread through the fair! one little lad actually had the bravery to say to me that "children were admitted at half-price!" and was i not a cold-hearted wretch to reply, "oh, indeed!" just as though it were a matter of perfect indifference to me, though, in truth, it was not; but i felt rather appalled at the sight of such a crowd of little eager heads, well knowing that my purse was not full to overflowing, even with twopenny-pieces! at length we were seated in the little theatre; and, after a fearful charivari from the orchestra, the curtain drew up, and we beheld, seated at a long table, a company of monkeys! it was a _table d'hôte_. a dandified young fellow--perhaps monsieur le cerf himself--in the most elegant of cravats, the most elegant white wristbands, the most elegant ring, and the most elegant moustache, performed the part of host; the waiter and waitress were monkeys. the waiter--a most drunken, good-for-nothing waiter he seemed--a fat, big ape--drank behind the backs of the guests the very wine he was serving them with; he seemed so very tipsy, that he could hardly walk; he staggered backward and forward, and leaned against the wall for support, as he emptied the bottle he was bringing for the company. but the little waitress! she was a little darling; the tiniest of little monkeys, and she came skipping on the stage in a little broad-brimmed straw hat, and a bright-colored little dress, with the daintiest of little white muslin aprons on; she looked just like a little fairy. every body was enchanted with her. even monsieur le cerf himself caressed her, and gave her not only, every now and then, a nut, but a kiss. she behaved beautifully. but as to the guests! they quarreled, and even fought--monsieur le cerf said it was about paying the bill. i can't pretend to tell you half the clever things the monkeys did in the way of swinging, dancing, firing off muskets, riding on a pony, &c. wonderful things, too, were performed by the dogs, splendid spaniels and setters. one large black-and-tan creature walked on his fore-legs, in the style of what children call "playing at a wheelbarrow," only he himself, poor wretch, had to wheel the barrow. he walked demurely round and round the stage, carrying his two unlucky hind-legs up in the air; then he walked on three legs, and then, the most difficult task of all for a dog, as we were assured, upon two legs on the same side. another beautiful white spaniel came walking in most grandly on her hind legs, as _madame de pompadour_, in a long-trained dress which was borne by a tiny monkey in livery, bearing a little lantern in his hand. the finale was the besieging of a fortress; and to see some twenty milk-white spaniels rushing up and down the stairs of the burning fortress, illumined by brilliant rose-colored, green, and blue lights, was very curious indeed. if i could have forgotten the terrible training through which these poor creatures must have gone, i should have enjoyed it much more. but i did not wonder, after seeing all their feats, that our little friend had been so enchanted. he sat behind us in the half-price seats, but for all that we continued to exchange many smiling glances during the performance. i only wished i could have seen a whole row of little fellows all equally delighted and surprised by their good fortune. the wife's stratagem. captain marmaduke smith, is--judging from his present mundane, matter-of-fact character, about the last man one would suspect of having been at any time of his life a victim to the "tender passion." a revelation he volunteered to two or three cronies at the club the other evening undeceived us. the captain on this occasion, as was generally the case on the morrow of a too great indulgence, was somewhat dull spirited and lachrymose. the weather, too, was gloomy; a melancholy barrel-organ had been droning dreadfully for some time beneath the windows; and to crown all, mr. tape, who has a quick eye for the sentimental, had discovered, and read aloud, a common, but sad story of madness and suicide in the evening paper. it is not, therefore, so surprising that tender recollections should have revived with unusual force in the veteran's memory. "you would hardly believe it, tape," said captain smith, after a dull pause, and emitting a sound somewhat resembling a sigh, as he re-lighted the cigar which had gone out during mr. tape's reading--"you would hardly believe it, perhaps; but i was woman-witched once myself!" "never!" exclaimed the astonished gentleman whom he addressed. "a man of your strength of mind, captain? i can't believe it; it's impossible!" "it's an extraordinary fact, i admit; and, to own the truth, i have never been able to account exactly for it myself. fortunately, i took the disorder as i did the measles--young; and neither of these complaints is apt to be so fatal then, i'm told, as when they pick a man up later in life. it was, however, a very severe attack while it lasted. a very charming hand at hooking a gudgeon was that delightful coralie dufour, i _must_ say." "any relation to the monsieur and madame dufour we saw some years ago in paris?" asked tape. "the husband, i remember, was remarkably fond of expressing his gratitude to you for having once wonderfully carried him through his difficulties." captain smith looked sharply at mr. tape, as if he suspected some lurking irony beneath the bland innocence of his words. perceiving, as usual, nothing in the speaker's countenance, mr. smith--blowing at the same time a tremendous cloud to conceal a faint blush which, to my extreme astonishment, i observed stealing over his unaccustomed features--said, gravely, almost solemnly: "you, mr. tape are a married man, and the father of a family, and your own experience, therefore, in the female line must be ample for a lifetime; but you, sir," continued the captain, patronizingly, addressing another of his auditors, "are, i believe, as yet 'unattached,' in a legal sense, and may therefore derive profit, as well as instruction, from an example of the way in which ardent and inexperienced youth is sometimes entrapped and bamboozled by womankind. mr. tape, oblige me by touching the bell." the instant the captain's order had been obeyed, he commenced the narrative of his love adventure, and for a time spoke with his accustomed calmness: but toward the close he became so exceeding discursive and excited, and it was with so much difficulty we drew from him many little particulars it was essential to hear, that i have been compelled, from regard to brevity as well as strict decorum, to soften down and render in my own words some of the chief incidents of his mishap. just previous to the winter campaign which witnessed the second siege and fall of badajoz, mr. smith, in the zealous exercise of his perilous vocation, entered that city in his usual disguise of a spanish countryman, with strict orders to keep his eyes and ears wide open, and to report as speedily as possible upon various military details, which it was desirable the british general should be made acquainted with. mr. smith, from the first moment the pleasant proposition was hinted to him, had manifested considerable reluctance to undertake the task; more especially as general phillipon, who commanded the french garrison, had not very long before been much too near catching him, to render a possibly still more intimate acquaintance with so sharp a practitioner at all desirable. nevertheless, as the service was urgent, and no one, it was agreed, so competent as himself to the duty--indeed upon this point mr. smith remarked that the most flattering unanimity of opinion was exhibited by all the gentlemen likely, should he decline the honor, to be selected in his place--he finally consented and in due time found himself fairly within the walls of the devoted city. "it was an uncomfortable business," the captain said, "very much so--and in more ways than one. it took a long time to accomplish; and what was worse than all, rations were miserably short. the french garrison were living upon salted horse-flesh, and you may guess, therefore, at the condition of the civilians' victualing department. wine was, however, to be had in sufficient plenty; and i used frequently to pass a few hours at a place of entertainment kept by an andalusian woman, whose bitter hatred of the french invaders, and favorable disposition toward the british were well known to me, though successfully concealed from napoleon's soldiers, many of whom--sous-officiers chiefly--were her customers. my chief amusement there was playing at dominoes for a few glasses. i played, when i had a choice, with a smart, goodish-looking sous-lieutenant of voltigeurs--a glib-tongued chap, of the sort that tell all they know, and something over, with very little pressing. his comrades addressed him as victor, the only name i then knew him by. he and i became very good friends, the more readily that i was content he should generally win. i soon reckoned master victor up; but there was an old, wiry _gredin_ of a sergeant-major sometimes present, whose suspicious manner caused me frequent twinges. one day especially i caught him looking at me in a way that sent the blood galloping through my veins like wildfire. a look, mr. tape, which may be very likely followed in a few minutes afterward by a halter, or by half-a-dozen bullets through one's body, is apt to excite an unpleasant sensation." "i should think so. i wouldn't be in such a predicament for the creation." "it's a situation that would hardly suit you, mr. tape," replied the veteran, with a grim smile. "well, the gray-headed old fox followed up his look with a number of interesting queries concerning my birth, parentage, and present occupation, my answers to which so operated upon him, that i felt quite certain when he shook hands with me, and expressed himself perfectly satisfied, and sauntered carelessly out of the place,-that he was gone to report his surmises, and would be probably back again in two twos with a file of soldiers and an order for my arrest. he had put me so smartly through my facings, that although it was quite a cold day for spain, i give you my honor i perspired to the very tips of my fingers and toes. the chance of escape was, i felt, almost desperate. the previous evening a rumor had circulated that the british general had stormed ciudad rodrigo, and might therefore be already hastening in his seven-league boots, toward badajoz. the french were consequently more than ever on the alert, and keen eyes watched with sharpened eagerness for indications of sympathy or correspondence between the citizens and the advancing army. i jumped up as soon as the sergeant-major had disappeared, and was about to follow, when the mistress of the place approached, and said, hastily, 'i have heard all, and if not quick, you will be sacrificed by those french dogs: this way.' i followed to an inner apartment, where she drew from a well-concealed recess, a french officer's uniform, complete. 'on with it!' she exclaimed, as she left the room. 'i know the word and countersign.' i did not require twice telling, you may be sure; and in less than no time was togged off beautifully in a lieutenant's uniform, and walking at a smart pace toward one of the gates. i was within twenty yards of the corps-de-garde, when whom should i run against but sous-lieutenant victor! he stared, but either did not for the moment recognize me, or else doubted the evidence of his own senses. i quickened my steps--the guard challenged--i gave the words, 'napoleon, austerlitz!'--passed on; and as soon as a turn of the road hid me from view, increased my pace to a run. my horse, i should have stated, had been left in sure hands at about two miles' distance. could i reach so far, there was, i felt, a chance. unfortunately, i had not gone more than five or six hundred yards, when a hubbub of shouts, and musket-shots in my rear, announced that i was pursued. i glanced round; and i assure you, gentlemen, i have seen in my life many pleasanter prospects than met my view--richmond hill, for instance, on a fine summer day. between twenty and thirty voltigeurs, headed by my friend victor, who had armed himself, like the others, with a musket, were in full pursuit; and once, i was quite satisfied, within gun-shot, my business would be very effectually; and speedily settled. "i ran on with eager desperation: and though gradually neared by my friends, gained the hut where i had left the horse in safety. the voltigeurs were thrown out for a few minutes they knew, however, that i had not passed the thickish clumps of trees which partially concealed the cottage; and they extended themselves in a semi-circle to inclose, and thus make sure of their prey. juan sanchez, luckily for himself, was not at home; but my horse, as i have stated, was safe, and in prime condition for a race. i saddled, bridled, and brought him out, still concealed by the trees and hut from the french, whose exulting shouts, as they gradually closed upon the spot, grew momently louder and fiercer. the sole desperate chance left was to dash right through them; and i don't mind telling you, gentlemen, that i was confoundedly frightened, and that but for the certainty of being instantly sacrificed, without benefit of clergy, i should have surrendered at once. there was, however, no time for shilly-shallying. i took another pull at the saddle-girths, mounted, drove the only spur i had time to strap on sharply into the animal's flank, and in an instant broke cover in full and near view of the expecting and impatient voltigeurs; and a very brilliant reception they gave me--quite a stunner in fact! it's a very grand thing, no doubt, to be the exclusive object of attention to twenty or thirty gallant men, but so little selfish, gentlemen, have i been from my youth up ward in the article of 'glory,' that i assure you i should have been remarkably well-pleased to have had a few companions--the more the merrier--to share the monopoly which i engrossed as i came suddenly in sight. the flashes, reports, bullets, _sacrés_, which in an instant gleamed in my eyes, and roared and sang about my ears were deafening. how they all contrived to miss me i can't imagine, but miss me they did; and i had passed them about sixty paces, when who should start up over a hedge, a few yards in advance, but my domino-player, sous-lieutenant victor! in an instant his musket was raised within two or three feet of my face. flash! bang! i felt a blow as if from a thrust of red-hot steel; and for a moment made sure that my head was off. with difficulty i kept my seat. the horse dashed on, and i was speedily beyond the chance of capture or pursuit. i drew bridle at the first village i reached, and found that victor's bullet had gone clean through both cheeks. the marks, you see, are still plain enough." this was quite true. on slightly separating the gray hairs of the captain's whiskers, the places where the ball had made its entrance and exit were distinctly visible. "a narrow escape," i remarked. "yes, rather; but a miss is as good as a mile. the effusion of blood nearly choked me; and it was astonishing how much wine and spirits it required to wash the taste out of my mouth. i found," continued mr. smith, "on arriving at head-quarters, that ciudad rodrigo had fallen as reported, and that lord wellington was hurrying on to storm badajoz before the echo of his guns should have reached massena or soult in the fool's paradise where they were both slumbering. i was of course for some time on the sick-list, and consequently only assisted at the assault of badajoz as a distant spectator--a part i always preferred when i had a choice. it was an awful, terrible business," added mr. smith, with unusual solemnity. "i am not much of a philosopher that i know of, nor, except in service hours, particularly given to religion, but i remember, when the roar and tumult of the fierce hurricane broke upon the calm and silence of the night, and a storm of hell-fire seemed to burst from and encircle the devoted city, wondering what the stars, which were shining brightly overhead, thought of the strife and dim they looked so calmly down upon. it was gallantly done, however," the veteran added, in a brisker tone, "and read well in the gazette; and that perhaps is the chief thing." "but what," i asked, "has all this to do with the charming coralie and your love-adventure?" "every thing to do with it, as you will immediately find. i remained in badajoz a considerable time after the departure of the army, and was a more frequent visitor than ever at the house of the excellent dame who had so opportunely aided my escape. she was a kind-hearted soul with all her vindictiveness; and now that the french were no longer riding rough-shod over the city, spoke of those who were lurking about in concealment--of whom there were believed to be not a few, with sorrow and compassion. at length the wound i had received at lieutenant victor's hands was thoroughly healed, and i was thinking of departure, when the andalusian dame introduced me in her taciturn, expressive way to a charming young frenchwoman, whose husband, a spaniard, had been slain during the assault or sack of the city. the intimacy thus begun soon kindled on my part, into an intense admiration. coralie was gentle, artless, confiding as she was beautiful, and moreover--as jeannette, her sprightly, black-eyed maid informed me in confidence--extremely rich. here, gentlemen, was a combination of charms to which only a heart of stone could remain insensible, and mine at the time was not only young, but particularly sensitive and tender, owing in some degree, i daresay, to the low diet to which i had been so long confined; for nothing, in my opinion, takes the sense and pluck out of a man so quickly as that. at all events i soon surrendered at discretion, and was coyly accepted by the blushing lady. 'there was only one obstacle,' she timidly observed, 'to our happiness. the relatives of her late husband, by law her guardians, were prejudiced, mercenary wretches, anxious to marry her to an old hunks of a spaniard, so that the property of her late husband, chiefly consisting of precious stones--he had been a lapidary--might not pass into the hands of foreigners.' i can scarcely believe it now," added mr. smith, with great heat; "but if i didn't swallow all this stuff like sack and sugar, i'm a dutchman! the thought of it, old as i am, sets my very blood on fire. "at length," continued mr. marmaduke smith, as soon as he had partially recovered his equanimity--"at length it was agreed, after all sorts of schemes had been canvassed and rejected, that the fair widow should be smuggled out of badajoz as luggage in a large chest, which jeannette and the andalusian landlady--i forget that woman's name--undertook to have properly prepared. the marriage ceremony was to be performed by a priest at a village about twelve english miles off, with whom coralie undertook to communicate. 'i trust,' said that lady, 'to the honor of a british officer'--i had not then received my commission, but no matter--'that he, that you, captain smith, will respect the sanctity of my concealment till we arrive in the presence of the reverend gentleman who,' she added, with a smile like a sunset, 'will, i trust, unite our destinies forever.' she placed, as she spoke, her charming little hand in mine, and i, you will hardly credit it, tumbled down on my knees, and vowed to religiously respect the dear angel's slightest wish! mr. tape, for mercy's sake, pass the wine, or the bare recollection will choke me!" i must now, for the reasons previously stated, continue the narrative in my own words every thing was speedily arranged for flight. mr. smith found no difficulty in procuring from the spanish commandant an order which would enable him to pass his luggage through the barrier unsearched; jeannette was punctual at the rendezvous, and pointed exultingly to a large chest, which she whispered contained the trembling coralie. the chinks were sufficiently wide to admit of the requisite quantity of air; it locked inside, and when a kind of sail-cloth was thrown loosely over it, there was nothing very unusual in its appearance. tenderly, tremulously did the rejoicing lover assist the precious load into the hired bullock-cart, and off they started, mr. smith and jeannette walking by the side of the richly-freighted vehicle. mr. smith trod on air, but the cart, which had to be dragged over some of the worst roads in the world, mocked his impatience by its marvelously slow progress, and when they halted at noon to give the oxen water, they were still three good miles from their destination. "do you think?" said mr. smith, in a whisper to jeannette, holding up a full pint flask, which he had just drawn from his pocket, and pointing toward the chest, "do you think?--brandy and water--eh?" jeannette nodded, and the gallant smith gently approached, tapped at the lid, and in a soft low whisper proffered the cordial. the lid was, with the slightest possible delay, just sufficiently raised to admit the flask, and instantly reclosed and locked. in about ten minutes the flask was returned as silently as it had been received. the enamored soldier raised it to his lips, made a profound inclination toward his concealed fiancée, and said, gently, "a votre santé, charmante coralie!" the benignant and joyous expression of mr. smith's face, as he vainly elevated the angle of the flask in expectation of the anticipated draught, assumed an exceedingly puzzled and bewildered expression. he peered into the opaque tin vessel; pushed his little finger into its neck to remove the loose cork or other substance that impeded the genial flow; then shook it, and listened curiously for a splash or gurgle. not a sound! coralie had drained it to the last drop! mr. smith looked with comical earnestness at jeannette, who burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "madame is thirsty," she said, as soon as she could catch sufficient breath: "it must be so hot in there." "a full pint!" said the captain, still in blank astonishment, "and strong--very!" the approach of the carter interrupted what he further might have had to say, and in a few minutes the journey was resumed. the captain fell into a reverie which was not broken till the cart again stopped. the chest was then glided gently to the ground: the driver, who had been previously paid, turned the heads of his team toward badajoz, and with a brief salutation departed homeward. jeanette was stooping over the chest, conversing in a low tone with her mistress, and captain smith surveyed the position in which he found himself with some astonishment. no house, much less a church or village was visible, and not a human being was to be seen. "captain smith," said jeannette, approaching the puzzled warrior with some hesitation, "a slight contretemps has occurred. the friends who were to have met us here, and helped to convey our precious charge to a place of safety, are not, as you perceive, arrived: perhaps they do not think it prudent to venture quite so far." "it is quite apparent they are not here," observed mr. smith; "but why not have proceeded in the cart?" "what, captain! betray your and madame's secret to yonder spanish boor. how you talk!" "well, but my good girl, what _is_ to be done? will madame get out and walk?" "impossible--impossible!" ejaculated the amiable damsel. "we should be both recognized, dragged back to that hateful badajoz, and madame would be shut up in a convent for life. it is but about a quarter of a mile," added jeannette, in an insinuating, caressing tone, "and madame is not so _very_ heavy." "the devil!" exclaimed mr. smith, taken completely aback by this extraordinary proposal. "you can't mean that i should take that infer--that chest upon my shoulders!" "mon dieu! what else _can_ be done?" replied jeannette, with pathetic earnestness: "unless you are determined to sacrifice my dear mistress--she whom you pretended to so love--you hard-hearted, faithless man!" partially moved by the damsel's tearful vehemence, mr. smith reluctantly approached, and gently lifted one end of the chest, as an experiment. "there are a great many valuables there besides madame," said jeannette, in reply to the captain's look, "and silver coin is, you know, very heavy." "ah!" exclaimed the perplexed lover. "it is deucedly unfortunate--still--don't you think," he added earnestly, after again essaying the weight of the precious burden, "that if madame were to wrap herself well up in this sail-cloth, we might reach your friend the priest's house without detection?" "oh, no--no--no!" rejoined the girl. "mon dieu! how can you think of exposing madame to such hazard?" "how far do you say it is?" asked captain smith, after a rather sullen pause. "only just over the fields yonder--half-a-mile perhaps." mr. smith still hesitated, but finally the tears and entreaties of the attendant, his regard for the lady and her fortune, the necessity of the position, in short, determined him to undertake the task. a belt was passed tightly round the chest, by means of which he could keep it on his back; and after several unsuccessful efforts, the charming load was fairly hoisted, and on the captain manfully staggered, jeannette bringing up the rear. valiantly did mr. smith, though perspiring in every pore of his body, and dry as a cartouch-box--for madame had emptied the only flask he had--toil on under a burden which seemed to grind his shoulder-blades to powder. he declares he must have lost a stone of flesh at least before, after numerous restings, he arrived, at the end of about an hour, at the door of a small house, which jeannette announced to be the private residence of the priest. the door was quickly opened by a smart lad, who seemed to have been expecting them; the chest was deposited on the floor, and jeannette instantly vanished. the lad, with considerate intelligence, handed mr. smith a draught of wine. it was scarcely swallowed when the key turned in the lock, the eager lover, greatly revived by the wine, sprang forward with extended arms, and received in his enthusiastic embrace--whom do you think? "coralie, half-stifled for want of air, and nearly dead with fright," suggested mr. tape. "that rascally sous-lieutenant victor! half-drunk with brandy-and-water," roared captain smith, who had by this time worked himself into a state of great excitement. "at the same moment in ran jeannette, and, i could hardly believe my eyes, that jezebel coralie, followed by half-a-dozen french voltigeurs, screaming with laughter! i saw i was done," continued mr. smith, "but not for the moment precisely how, and but for his comrades, i should have settled old and new scores with master victor very quickly. as it was, they had some difficulty in getting him out of my clutches, for i was, as you may suppose, awfully savage. an hour or so afterward, when philosophy, a pipe, and some very capital wine--they were not bad fellows those voltigeurs--had exercised their soothing influence, i was informed of the exact motives and particulars of the trick which had been played me. coralie was victor dufour's wife. he had been wounded at the assault of badajoz, and successfully concealed in that andalusian woman's house; and as the best, perhaps only mode of saving him from a spanish prison, or worse, the scheme of which i had been the victim, was concocted. had not dufour wounded me, they would, i was assured, have thrown themselves upon my honor and generosity--which honor and generosity, by-the-by, would never have got coralie's husband upon my back, i'll be sworn!" "you will forgive us, mon cher capitaine?" said that lady, with one of her sweetest smiles, as she handed me a cup of wine. "in love and war, you know, every thing is fair." "a soldier, gentlemen, is not made of adamant. i was, i confess, softened; and by the time the party broke up, we were all the best friends in the world." "and so that fat, jolly looking madame dufour we saw in paris, is the beautiful coralie that bewitched captain smith?" said mr. tape thoughtfully--"well!" "she was younger forty years ago, mr. tape, than when you saw her. beautiful coralies are rare, i fancy, at her present age, and very fortunately, too, in my opinion," continued captain smith; "for what, i should like to know, would become of the peace and comfort of society, if a woman of sixty could bewitch a man as easily as she does at sixteen?" the champion. a romantic incident in early spanish history. the clang of arms and the inspiriting sounds of martial music resounded through the court-yard of the palace of navarre. the chivalry of arragon, castile, and navarre had assembled at the summons of their sovereign, to fight under his banner against the infidels, and now waited impatiently for the moment when the monarch should mount his gallant steed, and lead them to battle and to victory. sancho the fourth was at that moment bidding farewell to his queen, the gentle dona nuna, who clung to her lord in an agony of tears. "be comforted, my beloved," he said to her; "i shall return to you with added laurels to my kingly wreath. do not fear for me, nor let your sweet face grow pale by brooding over the dangers and chances of war. for my part, i never felt more exulting anticipations of success, and am persuaded that triumph and victory will crown our undertaking." "alas! it is not so with me," said nuna, sadly. "a presentiment of approaching evil weighs heavily on my heart." "you shudder at the thought if our separation, nuna, more like a timid young bride parting from her newly-wedded lord, than a matron who has shared her husband's joys and sorrows for well-nigh twenty years." "you are now far dearer to me, sancho, than when i gave you my hand: have i not to thank you for the love and tenderness which has made these long years of wedded life so blissful and happy?" "in sooth, i believe, nuna, it is even so: and you love me as warmly as ever. receive my assurances in return, dear wife, that your face is as fair to me, and the gift of your true heart as fondly prized, as when i first led you to these halls, my youthful and beautiful bride. but suffer me to bid you farewell, or my nobles will wax impatient. i leave you to the society of our son, and the guardianship of my trusty pedro sésé, who will attend to your behests. one word more. i intrust to your safe keeping my beautiful steed, ilderim. you know how i value the noble animal, my first capture from the moor. see that he is carefully tended in my absence, i shall accept it as a proof of your regard for my wishes. and now, adieu, dearest wife. think of me, and supplicate heaven that i may be speedily and safely restored to your arms." so saying, sancho the great, tenderly embraced his wife; and mounting his war charger, placed himself at the head of his gallant army. the clatter of horses' hoofs soon died away in the distance, leaving the court-yard of the castle in silence and gloom. three days after the king's departure, the young don garcia entered the court-yard of the palace at navarre. "pedro sésé, pedro sésé!" he cried; "my noble arab el toro lies dead in a cleft of the rocks: i have returned to seek another steed for the chase: such a boar hunt has not been among the forests of navarre since the pyrenees echoed to the horn of roland: give me forth black ilderim, pedro, my friend; saddle me my father's charger, for there is no other steed in the king's stables worthy of the hunt of to-day!" "don garcia," replied the master of the horse, "black ilderim is only for the king's mounting: i dare not saddle him for any other." "but the infante commands it--the king that is to be." "chafe not with a faithful servant, don garcia: it is but yesterday i refused the same request of the bastard of arragon." "what! darest thou compare me with the base-born ramiro? insolent! i shall bear my complaint to the queen." to the queen don garcia bore his complaint and his petition: "oh, my mother, wouldst thou see me dishonored by a menial? am i not thine only son, the rightful heir of arragon, castile, and navarre? who may command here, if i may not? assert my authority, then, and order the false pedro sésé that he give me forth black ilderim." "pedro sésé has faithfully discharged his duty to my lord the king, who enjoined on him and on me the safe keeping of his favorite horse," said dona nuna. "the royal stables are open; take, my son, any other steed, but leave black ilderim till thy father's return." "nay, by heaven and by the saints, i will have ilderim to ride this day, or i will have vengeance!" the headstrong youth returned to the court-yard, and again demanded the steed: again the master of the horse refused. don garcia, pale with concentrated rage, sprang on another of the king's chargers, and galloped from the palace. instead, however, of returning to the hunt, he urged his horse into the _despoblado_, or open plain, lying to the south of the castle, and disappeared on the road to burgos. time passed heavily, in her lord's absence, with the gentle nuna. at first, she received frequent and joyful tidings of the successes which crowned his arms, and the brilliant victories gained by his forces over the moslem army. of late, and since the departure of garcia from the castle, sancho's affectionate dispatches had altogether ceased; and nuna, now thoroughly wretched, from the wayward perversity of her son, and from uncertainty as to her husband's fate, had prepared to rejoin him at any risk, and share the perils to which he might be exposed. her resolution was no sooner formed than it was promptly carried into effect: she summoned to her aid the trusty pedro sésé; and, protected by a small escort under his command, bade adieu to navarre, and commenced her long and perilous journey toward the theatre of war. the little cavalcade had reached najarra, when, to their surprise and joy, they beheld a gallant band of horsemen rapidly approaching: the united banner of arragon, castile, and navarre, floating proudly before them, announced to all beholders that sancho the fourth led his knights in person. nuna's heart beat fast and tumultuously; in a few moments, and the long absent one would clasp her closely to his breast. she looked up to the master of the horse who rode by her side, and urged him to increased speed. they moved briskly forward; and the advancing knights who formed the king's body-guard became more distinctly visible. sancho, as we have said, headed them; but as soon as they had arrived within a short distance of the queen's followers, the monarch advanced a few paces, and in tones of thunder called on them to halt. his brow was darkened with evil passions, his countenance flushed with anger. "on the peril of your allegiance!" he shouted, rather than spoke, "seize the traitress, i command ye! my heart refused to hearken to the tale of her guilt, even when spoken by the lips of her son; but mine eyes have seen it. i have lived--wretched that i am--to witness her infamy. but the adulteress, and the companion of her crime, shall not escape my righteous vengeance. see to it, that the queen and pedro sésé remain your prisoners." if a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the miserable nuna, she could not have been more horror-struck, or more confounded. her life-long dream of happiness was dissipated; the husband of her youth had recoiled from her as from the veriest reptile that crawls on the face of god's earth; and the worker of her woe and ruin was her own child--her own flesh and blood--her son garcia! who would believe her to be pure and innocent when such lips pronounced the tale of her guilt? unhappy wife; still more unhappy mother! in the deepest dungeon of the castle of najarra she was left to mourn over her unparalleled misery. alone, unfriended, and solitary, nuna--who so lately had seen herself a beloved and cherished wife, a fond mother, and a mighty sovereign--struggled with her bitter and mournful reflections. she could not reproach her husband, for she felt that his ear had been poisoned against her by an accuser he could scarcely mistrust, even by the insinuations of her son, confirmed--as he deemed them to be--by the evidence of his senses, when he met her so unexpectedly traveling under the escort of pedro sésé. but short space was left to nuna for these agonizing thoughts. death, a shameful death, was the punishment of the adulteress; but sancho, more merciful than she had dared to hope, had granted her one loop-hole for escape--one slender chance of proving her innocence. the lists were to be open to any champion believing in the lady's guiltlessness, who should adventure his life in her defense. if any such should proffer his services, he might do battle in single combat with her accuser. god--according to the belief of those days--would give victory to him who maintained the truth! the fatal day approached, arrived, and had well-nigh passed. garcia, unopposed, bestrode his war-steed, the redoubtable black ilderim, whose possession he had so eagerly coveted, and purchased at so fearful a price. the discrowned queen, in conformity with custom, was placed within sight of the arena, tied to a stake, surmounting what would prove her funeral pile if no champion appeared on her behalf, or if her defender should suffer defeat. who can paint the agitation of dona nuna, thus placed within view of the lists, when the precious hours passed, one by one, and no champion stood forth in defense of her purity and truth? she was about to resign herself hopelessly to her inexorable fate, when the sound of a horse's tramp was heard, approaching at a rapid pace; and a knight, in complete armor, mounted on a charger, whose foaming mouth and reeking sides told that he had been ridden at a fearful pace, dashed into the lists, flung down his gauntlet of defiance, and announced that he was come to do battle in behalf of the falsely-accused, but stainless and guiltless queen. there was an involuntary movement among the assembled multitude when garcia prepared for the inevitable encounter. none knew, or could guess, who the knight might be. no device nor emblem, by which his identity would be discovered, could be traced on his helmet or on his shield! but the ease with which he surmounted his steed, and his graceful and gallant bearing, evinced that he was an accomplished warrior. in a few seconds, the preliminary arrangements were complete; and, with lances in rest, the opponents approached. in the first encounter, to the amazement of all, garcia was unhorsed, and fell heavily to the ground. "she is innocent! she is innocent!" shouted the multitude. "god be praised! though i have lost a son," was the subdued ejaculation of the king. "i am prepared, in defense of the much-injured lady, to do combat to the death," said the stranger knight. "base and dastardly villain! confess thy unnatural crime, or prepare to meet me once more, when i swear i will not let thee escape so lightly." garcia hesitated; he was evidently torn by conflicting emotions. conscious guilt--fear of the just retribution of heaven, executed by the stranger's avenging sword--urged him to confess his villainy. on the other hand, apprehension of the execrations of the multitude, and the indignation of his injured parents, restrained him from making a frank avowal of his crime. "remount, miscreant! and make ready for another encounter, or confess that you have lied in your throat," exclaimed the stranger, sternly. before garcia could reply, an aged and venerable ecclesiastic threw himself between the opponents. "in the name of heaven! i command ye to withhold from this unnatural strife," he exclaimed, addressing them; "brothers are ye; the blood of a common father flows in your veins. ramiro--forbear. garcia--the combat this day has testified to your guilt; make the only atonement in your power, by a full confession." ejaculations of astonishment and pity burst from all the spectators. "long live the noble bastard! the base-born has made base the well-born! the step-son has proved the true son! praise be to the virgin, the mother of the people has not been left without a godson to fight for her!" and all the matrons, and many even of the hardened warriors among the multitude, wept with tenderness and joy. in a few moments the agitated queen found herself in her husband's arms. he implored her forgiveness for the sorrow she had endured; nor could she withhold it, even for a moment, when she listened to the avowals of the degraded garcia, who confessed how, step by step, he had poisoned his father's mind by tales of her infidelity, in revenge for her refusal, and that of pedro sésé, to intrust him with sancho's favorite charger, black ilderim. nuna turned from her abject son, and motioned her young champion to approach. he knelt at her feet. "ramiro," she softly said, as she unclasped the helmet and visor which concealed the handsome features of sancho's illegitimate son, "child of my affections, for whom i have ever felt a mother's love, though i have not borne for thee a mother's pains; how shall i thank thee? thou hast this day more than repaid the tenderness i lavished on thy infant years. thou hast made clear my fair fame to all men; even at the risk of thy own young life." "i would lay down life itself for such a friend as you have been, and esteem the sacrifice light," rejoined ramiro, with deep emotion. "i remember my childish days--before you came to navarre, a bright, happy, innocent bride--when i wandered through my father's palace an unloved and neglected boy; and i can recall vividly the moment when you first encountered me, and, struck by the resemblance i bore to the king, surmised the truth. instead of hating me with the unjust aversion of an ungenerous nature, you took the despised child to your heart, and, for the love you bore your lord, you loved and cherished his base-born son. for the genial atmosphere you created around me, and in which my affections expanded, and for the care you have bestowed on my education, i owe you a debt of gratitude far deeper than ever child bore his own mother. nature dictates maternal love, in the one instance--but it is to the suggestions of a noble and generous heart that i have been indebted for the happiness of my life. you owe me no thanks--for, for such a friend no sacrifice can be too great." nuna turned to the king; and, taking his hand in hers, placed it on the head of her young champion. "i have brought you kingdoms as my dower," she said, "but i have not, alas! brought you a son so worthy as ramiro of being their ruler. i freely forgive the infante the suffering he has caused me, and hope that, with advancing years, he will cultivate the virtues in which he has shown himself to be deficient. but ramiro has already given evidence of the possession of those exalted qualities which insure the happiness of a people when possessed by their rulers. invest him then, at my entreaty, with the crown of arragon; receive back to your confidence our faithful pedro sésé; and suffer me to forget my past griefs in the anticipation of a love which shall never again be interrupted." the king raised his hand in assent; and the assembled multitude confirmed the investiture with one mighty shout--"ramiro! ramiro! long live ramiro! infante of arragon!" the farm-laborer.--the son. by harriet martineau. it has been told that susan banks found herself well placed, after the death of her insane aunt obliged her to look for a home and a maintenance. as i am not telling her story, i will pass over the account of the efforts she made to be a schoolmistress, and the instruction she had as a dressmaker. she was in poor health (reduced by hunger) and in debt £ to her uncle, and nervous and anxious, when she heard that a lady from the north, then visiting in the neighborhood, wanted just such a maid as susan thought she could become with a little teaching. she obtained the place, took pains to learn to wait at table, &c., and within a year had paid her debt to her uncle, and spared £ besides to her family; and all this, though her box had had but few clothes in it when she went to her new home. at the end of a year, her employer, miss foote, began to think of cultivating the small portion of land about the house which had hitherto been let off for grazing, and which was deteriorating in quality from the mismanagement of the tenant. not approving of the methods of tillage in the neighborhood, and knowing that there were no spare hands there, miss foote wrote to a parish officer in susan's and her own native county, to ask if a laborer of good character and sound qualifications could be sent to her by the parish, on her engaging to pay him twelve shillings a week for a year and a half, while her experiment of cultivation was under trial; and longer, if it should be found to answer. this was all she could undertake, as she could not afford to carry on the scheme at a loss. the answer was some time in coming. when it came, it told that pauper laborers could not be recommended; but a better sort of laborer might be sent, and his place in the parish would be filled, only too easily, by some of the young men from the workhouse. the proposal was to send the very best man of his class known to the parish officers. he and his wife had money enough in the savings' bank to pay their journey, and they were willing to make the venture. the man's name was harry banks. miss foote took the letter into the kitchen, and read it to susan and her fellow-servant. when susan heard the name, she started as if she had been shot, and screamed out, "why, that's my brother!" thus far, far away from home, she was to have a brother and his wife beside her, living in the pretty little cottage which was building behind the oak copse for the new laborer. miss foote inquired about the wife, but could learn little. susan told nothing but that she was a respectable woman, but so old, and otherwise unsuitable, that it was a vexation to the family that harry had made such a marriage. harry never seemed to see a single fault in her; but his father and mother did not like dinah at all. when miss foote afterward came to know the whole, she thought this marriage the most terribly significant part of the whole family history of the bankses. at thirty years of age harry was a pattern of a farm-laborer; yet he had no prospect in life but of earning a precarious nine shillings a week, till he should be too old to earn so much. he worked for a rich, close-fisted dissenting gentleman, who had always pious sayings on his lips and at the point of his pen, but never took off his eye for an instant from his money gains and savings. his wife was like him, and their servants grew like them--even the warm-hearted, impetuous harry, and much more dinah, their worn out maid-of-all-work. dinah always said that the register of her birth was unfortunately lost, and she could not tell precisely how old she was; and she called herself "upwards o' forty." most people supposed her about sixty when she married. she used to tell harry that she was the prettiest girl in the city when she was young, and harry did not ask how long ago that was, nor look too much at the little wizened face, not more marked by small-pox than by signs of over-exhausting toil. whatever might be her age, she was worn out by excessive work. when harry's father heard that she and harry were going before the registrar to be married, he kindly and seriously asked harry if he had considered what he was about; and harry's reply was enough to make any heart ache. "yes, father, i have. i'm not so very much set on it; but i think it will be most comfortable. you see, there's no use in people like us thinking of having children. children would only starve us downright, and bring us to the union. you see, none of us are married, nor likely to be, except me with dinah. she's clean and tidy, you see, and she has some wages laid by, and so have i; and so nobody need find fault. and i shall be more comfortable like, with somebody to do for me at home; and--" and he was going on to tell how dinah would cook his dinner and mend his clothes, but his father could not bear to hear him, and finished off with saying that it was his own affair, and he wished them well. it was within a year after their marriage that harry was engaged, by miss foote. in great glee he made haste to prepare himself for his important new place in every way he could think of. he learned to trim a vine, not knowing that the place he was going to was too far north for vine-growing. he made interest with a butcher to learn how to kill a pig. he made a little collection of superior cabbage and turnip seeds, seed potatoes, &c., thus proving to miss foote at the outset that he had plenty of energy and quickness. she found, too, that he had courage. his employers, vexed to lose two servants whom they had trained to excessive economy, as well as hard work, did every thing that was possible, while there was any chance of success, to frighten them from moving northward. they told dinah, with mournful countenances, that they should certainly die--that it was all the same as being transported--that it was cruelty in the parish officers to let them be tempted. dinah repeated all this to harry; and it staggered him at first; but he presently remembered that susan wrote that her health had improved; and her letters had not only contained post-office orders, but plain signs that she was very happy. harry determined to proceed; and when he had once made up his mind, his employers showed themselves very kind--helping their preparations, and having them to dinner on the last day. by their own account their journey must have been a curious affair. their heads were so full of notions of thieves and sharpers, that they did every thing in the slyest way, and wrapped themselves in mystery, and pretended to despise their boxes, while in one continued agony about them. when met by a kind gentleman who was to see them through london, dinah pretended not to be the right person, lest the gentleman should not be the right; so that it was lucky they did lose his help altogether. miss foote was disagreeably impressed by their account of their great slyness, and not less by the suspicious temper--natural, perhaps, to dinah, but not at all so to harry--in which they began their new mode of life. dinah was no servant of hers; so she had nothing to do with dinah's ways, but to check the jealousy and suspicion she showed of her young sister-in-law and the young cook. on occasion of leaving home for some weeks, the lady took the opportunity of intimating to the people at the cottage that there was a perfect understanding between the girls and herself, as perfect a confidence as there can be between mother and daughters; that their acquaintances came by her permission, and so forth. harry promised to be attentive and sociable with his sister, and not to grow hot with the cook about how to feed the fowls and manage the churn. that was the time when dinah left off peeping through the laurels to see who went to the back door, and looking mysterious and sympathetic when holding forth to miss foote about young people. still it was long before she left off locking her door and hiding the key, if she turned her back for a minute, and taking every body she did not know for a thief. she was left to her own notions; but with harry a serious remonstrance was necessary, more than once, within the first year of his new service. miss foote was as much annoyed as amused with his higgling ways, all in zeal for her interests. she feared that she should have the reputation in the neighborhood of being a perfect miser, so wonderful were harry's stories of the bargains he attempted to drive. she told him she hoped he would never succeed in any one such bargain as the many he told her of; and she laid her positive commands upon him never, in her name, to beat down the seller of any article she sent him to buy. as she supposed, she found he had caught up the trick from example, and had not the knowledge whereby to remedy it. when she told him it was not the way of the place to cheat in making charges he shook his head, and very nearly put his tongue in his cheek; but when she explained to him how prices came to be, and how an article can not properly be bought for less than it took to make or grow it, he was convinced at once, and his higgling method was softened down into a mere excessive strictness and vigilance in buying and selling transactions. there never was any real meanness about the man. in a few months he sent his father ten shillings; in a few months more he sent him £ . a small anecdote will show better than this, that money is not naturally the first object with him. when his employer kills a pig he is allowed to take a quarter at wholesale price, and dinah cures the ham so well that by selling it they get their bacon for next to nothing. one autumn, when two pigs were killed, there was such a scramble for them, and so many neighbors would be "hurt in their feelings" if they could not have a portion, that miss foote found herself left with two gammons, but no ham. harry heard this in the kitchen. he kept silence till his ham was finely cured, and then, touching his hat as if asking a favor, he told his employer that she had done good things for him, and he had never been able to do any for her, and he should be much pleased if she would take the ham for what he gave for it. though not agreeing to this exactly, miss foote found herself obliged to take the ham very cheap. another small incident showed the same gentlemanly spirit. at the time when his whole soul was engrossed with the desire to make "the experiment" answer, he had a request to present, as often during a whole winter as he could edge it in. there was a certain long, ugly hedge, pernicious in every way, which divided the field from a neighbor's. the hedge belonged to the neighbor; and it appeared that he would be heartily glad to give it away to any body who would take it down and put up some fence which would cover less ground and harbor less vermin. harry was so eager to be allowed to remove the hedge, that miss foote at last told him that she should never have dreamed of his undertaking such a job in addition to his regular work; but that he might please himself. she would put up a new fence if he chose to make way for it. he did it with no help but in felling some pollards. one afternoon, when wheeling up hill an enormous load of wood from the hedge, he heard himself laughed at from the next field. now, no man winces more under a laugh than harry; yet he bore it well this time. some men called out mockingly that he was doing horse's work and man's work at once, and they would not do that to please any body. "no," said harry, turning full round toward them, "nor, i neither. miss foote never asked me to do this. i do it to please myself." no man, i have said, winces under a laugh more than harry; and his only suffering worth mentioning, since he came to his new place, has been from this dislike of ridicule. when the cottage was ready, miss foote proposed a house-warming, and invited herself and her two maids there to tea. it was a particularly pleasant evening, with a fine fire, and plenty of light, and good tea and cake, and all the five in capital spirits. harry was made to take the arm-chair by his own fireside; and when he began to crack his jokes it appeared that he had his own notions of the ridiculous. he quizzed his nearest neighbor, an old man, who had married a comparatively young woman, and whose children were forever playing about miss foote's gate. when harry joked about that unequal match, miss foote could not laugh. she thought his own infinitely worse. and the poor fellow soon saw that others were quizzing him, much more severely than he had quizzed the old man. he looks grave about dinah now, and has left off talking of his own prudence in making such a marriage. he has also told his sister that when dinah dies he shall not marry again. it is very painful; and yet dinah is improved beyond all that could have been anticipated. she has put off her false front, and lets her grizzled hair appear. she no longer scans miss foote's face to make out what it would be most acceptable that she should say, but rattles away about her affairs with a sort of youthful glee. she no longer speaks in a whining tone, but lets her voice take its own way. one day she leaned on her rake (when she was trimming her own flower-bed), and told miss foote, without any canting whatever, that she had quite changed her mind about the maids since she came. she was looking too far then, and so did not see what they were; but she found in time that there was no slyness or pretense, but that they were really good faithful girls, working for their employer's good, and with no plots of their own. old as dinah seemed to be, there appears to be a chance of her growing ingenuous and agreeable before she dies. the gentry who come to the house observe that they never saw two people so altered as harry and dinah; that they seem to have got new faces, a new gait--a new mind. harry had other ridicule to wince about. the neighbors laughed at him and his employer about their whole plan; they had never heard of keeping cows on less than three acres per cow, or, at least, five acres for two; they had never seen such deep digging; they had never known any body take the trouble to remove stones, or do any thing but bury them out of sight; they had never seen a currycomb used to a cow; they had never known a hardworking man so poor-spirited as to be a water-drinker. the milk must cost miss foote _d._ a quart; the cow would die; harry would wear himself out; and so forth. one day, the first winter, the cow was very ill. between the fear of the experiment being given up, and love for the creature, and dread of the neighbors, harry was wretched. the tears streamed down his face as he waited on the sick beast. she got well, however; and now harry meets ridicule with a bolder face. a temperance society having been set up in the place, he has joined it, though far above all temptation to drink. he finds it a convenience, when pressed to drink, to cut the matter short by saying that he is a pledged member--and a curious temperance preacher he is. when told lately that his cows would rot under his method of treatment, his answer was: "no, it isn't they that will rot. i'll tell you who 'tis that will rot; 'tis them that put filthy spirits into their stomachs to turn their brains, that will rot, and not my cows, that drink sweet water." there is a grave side to harry's lot now, happy as he is. he looks serious and hurt at times, though his health has much strengthened, his earnings are sure, his wages are raised, his sunday dress is like that of a gentleman, there is meat on his table daily, and he has had the comfort of assisting his parents. notwithstanding all this, a cloud comes over his face at times. as his sister says, "he feels the _injury_ of his want of education." his mind is opening very rapidly. at any spare quarter of an hour he lectures miss foote on industry, temperance, duty to parents, and other good topics. the moral discoveries he has made are wonderful to him. he has attended church all his life; but truths come with new force into his mind when they enter through the spirit of hope and the medium of success. he says "it was wonderful the ideas that come into a man's mind when he sets himself a-thinking over his work, and there is no care to take up his thoughts." hence the brightened countenance which the neighbors remark on: but hence, too, the bitter regret at his wasted years of school life--at "the _injury_ of his want of education." what might he not hope to be and do now, susan says, if he had but the knowledge that every man may be said to have the right to be possessed of? yet, the good fellow has raised his family to a point of comfort. a gentleman who heard of his merits, as a first-rate laborer, wrote to the same parish officers, to inquire if there were any brothers. there was tom; and tom is now in a happy situation, highly esteemed by his employer, and earning _s._ a week. the employer, finding that tom sadly missed intercourse with his family, and knowing that he could neither read nor write letters, sent for the sister, lizzy, to be under-nursemaid in the family. in another way harry has done a deeper and wider good. miss foote's friends tell her that his example is beginning to _tell_ in the neighborhood; his example, not only of strenuous and skillful labor, but by integrity, temperance, and disinterested attachment to his employer. all this is well--very pleasant to contemplate--but a disturbing question arises in the midst of it: what can society say to these excellent young men in excuse for their deprivation of family life? and again, what is at best their prospect for old age? (from bentley's miscellany.) a chapter on wolves. by the author of "lord bacon in adversity," etc. we rustled through the leaves like wind, left shrubs and trees and wolves behind; by night i beard them on the track, their troop came hard upon our back, with their long gallop, which can tire the hounds' deep hate and hunter's fire; where'er we flew, they followed on, nor left us with the morning sun. behind i saw them, scarce a rood at daybreak winding through the wood, and through the night had heard their feet, their stealing, rustling step repeat. oh! how i wished for spear or sword at least to die amidst the horde, and perish--if it must be so-- at bay, destroying many a foe! _mazeppa._ a peculiar interest attaches to the wolf, from the close analogy which in all its essential features it presents to the faithful companion of man. so close indeed is the analogy, that some of the ablest zoologists, the celebrated john hunter included, have entertained the opinion that dogs, in all their varieties, and wolves, have descended from a common stock. with the exception of an obliquity in the position of the eyes, there is no appreciable anatomical difference between these animals. the question is one of difficulty; but we believe we are correct in stating that the majority of the highest authorities agree in the belief that these animals are not derived from a common parent, but were originally distinct, and will ever so continue. there are several species of wild dogs known, quite distinct from the wolf; and although the opportunities have been numerous for dogs resuming their pristine form, by long continuance in a savage state, no instance has ever occurred of their becoming wolves, however much they might degenerate from the domestic breed. the honest and intelligent shepherd-dog was regarded by buffon as the "_fons et origo_," from which all other dogs, great and small, have sprung; and he drew up a kind of genealogical table, showing how climate, food, education, and intermixture of breeds gave rise to the varieties. at katmandoo there are many plants found in a wild state, which man has carried with him in his migrations, and wild animals, which may present the typical forms whence some of our domestic races have been derived; among these is a wild dog, which mr. hodgson considers to be the primitive species of the whole canine race. by professor kretchner, the jackal was regarded as the type of the dogs of ancient egypt, an idea supported by the representations on the walls of the temples. this question, however, of the origin of the canine race, is so thoroughly obscured by the mists of countless ages, as to be incapable of direct proof. philosophers may indulge themselves with speculations; but in the absence of that keystone, proof, the matter must rest on the basis of theory alone. the following are some of the chief differences between wolves, wild dogs, and domestic dogs. the ears of the wild animals are always pricked, the lop or drooping ear being essentially a mark of civilization; with very rare exceptions, their tails hang more or less and are bushy, the honest cock of the tail so characteristic of a respectable dog, being wanting. this is certainly the rule; but, curious enough, the zoological gardens contain at the present moment, a portuguese female wolf which carries her tail as erect and with as bold an air as any dog. wolves and wild dogs growl, howl, yelp, and cry most discordantly, but with one exception, do not bark; that exception being the wild hunting-dog of south africa, which, according to mr. cumming, has three distinct cries; one is peculiarly soft and melodious, but distinguishable at a great distance: this is analogous to the trumpet-call, "halt and rally," of cavalry, serving to collect the scattered pack when broken in hot chase. a second cry, which has been compared to the chattering of monkeys, is emitted at night when the dogs are excited; and the third note is described as a sharp, angry bark, usually uttered when they behold an object they can not make out, but which differs from the true, well-known bark of the domestic dog. the common or european wolf is found from egypt to lapland, and is most probably the variety that formerly haunted these islands. the wolves of russia are large and fierce, and have a peculiarly savage aspect. the swedish and norwegian are similar to the russian in form, but are lighter in color, and in winter, totally white. those of france are browner and smaller than either of these, and the alpine wolves are smaller still. wolves are very numerous in the northern regions of america; "their foot-marks," says sir john richardson, "may be seen by the side of every stream, and a traveler can rarely pass the night in these wilds without hearing them howling around him."[ ] these wolves burrow, and bring forth their young in earths with several outlets, like those of a fox. sir john saw none with the gaunt appearance, the long jaw and tapering nose, long legs and slender feet, of the pyrenean wolves. india, too, is infested with wolves, which are smaller than the european. there is a remarkably fine animal at the zoological gardens, born of a european father and indian mother, which, in size and other respects, so closely partakes of the characteristics of his sire, that he might well pass for pure blood. among the ancients, wolves gave rise to many superstitious fictions. for instance, it was said that they possessed "an evil eye," and that, if they looked on a man before he saw them, he would forthwith lose his voice. again, we find the roman witches, like the weird sisters of macbeth, employing the wolf in their incantations: "utque lupi barbam variæ cum dente colubræ abdiderint furtim terris." hor. _sat._ viii. lib. i. there was a myth prevalent among the ancients, that in arcadia there lived a certain family of the antæi, of which one was ever obliged to be transformed into a wolf. the members of the family cast lots, and all accompanied the luckless wight on whom the lot fell, to a pool of water. this he swam over, and having entered into the wilderness on the other side, was forthwith in form, a wolf, and for nine years kept company with wolves: at the expiration of that period he again swam across the pool, and was restored to his natural shape, only that the addition of nine years was placed upon his features. it was also imagined that the tail of the wolf contained a hair, which acted as a love philtre and excited the tender passion. the myth of romulus and remus having been suckled by a wolf, arose from the simple circumstance of their nurse having been named lupa--an explanation which sadly does away with the garland of romance that so long surrounded the story of the founders of rome. the figure of the wolf at one time formed a standard for the roman legions, as saith pliny, "caius marius, in his second consulship, ordained that the legions of roman soldiers only should have the egle for their standard, and no other signe, for before time the egle marched foremost indeed, but in a ranke of foure others, to wit, wolves, minotaures, horses, and bores."[ ] the dried snout of a wolf held, in the estimation of the ancients, the same rank that a horseshoe does now with the credulous. it was nailed upon the gates of country farms, as a counter-charm against the evil eye, and was supposed to be a powerful antidote to incantations and witchcraft. new-married ladies were wont, upon their wedding-day, to anoint the side-posts of their husbands' houses with wolves' grease, to defeat all demoniac arts. these animals bore, however, but a bad character when alive; for, exclusive of their depredations, it was imagined that if horses chanced to tread in the foot-tracks of wolves, their feet were immediately benumbed; but pliny also says, "verily, the great master teeth and grinders of a wolf being hanged about an horse necke, cause him that he shall never tire and be weary, be he put to never so much running in any race whatsoever." when a territory was much infested with wolves, the following ceremony was performed with much solemnity and deep subsequent carousal: a wolf would be caught alive, and his legs carefully broken. he was then dragged around the confines of the farm, being bled with a knife from time to time, so that the blood might sprinkle the ground. being generally dead when the journey had been completed, he was buried in the very spot whence he had started on his painful race. there was scarcely a filthy thing upon the earth, or under the earth, which the ancients did not in some way use medicinally; and we find paulus Ã�gineta recommends the dry and pounded liver of a wolf, steeped in sweet wine, as a sovereign remedy for diseases of the liver, &c. our english word _wolf_ is derived from the saxon _wulf_ and from the same root, the german _wolf_, the swedish _ulf_, and danish _ulv_ are probably derived. wolves were at one time a great scourge to this country, the dense forests which formerly covered the land favoring their safety and their increase. edgar applied himself seriously to rid his subjects of this pest, by commuting the punishment of certain crimes into the acceptance of a number of wolves' tongues from each criminal; and in wales by commuting a tax of gold and silver imposed on the princes of cambria by ethelstan, into an annual tribute of three hundred wolves' heads, which jenaf, prince of north wales, paid so punctually, that by the fourth year the breed was extinct. not so, however, in england, for like ill weeds, they increased and multiplied here, rendering necessary the appointment, in the reign of the first edward, of a _wolf-hunter_ general, in the person of one peter corbet; and his majesty thought it not beneath his dignity to issue a mandamus, bearing date may th, , to all bailiffs, &c., to aid and assist the said peter in the destruction of wolves in the counties of gloucester, worcester, hereford, shropshire, and stafford; and camden informs us that in derby, lands were held at wormhill by the duty of hunting and taking the wolves that infested that county. in the reign of athelstan, these pests had so abounded in yorkshire, that a retreat was built at flixton in that county, "to defend passengers from the wolves that they should not be devoured by them." our saxon ancestors also called january, when wolves pair, _wolf-moneth_; and an outlaw was termed _wolfshed_, being out of the protection of the law, and as liable to be killed as that destructive beast. a curious notice of the existence of wolves and foxes in scotland is afforded in bellenden's translation of boetius.[ ] "the wolffis are right noisome to tame beastial in all parts of scotland, except one part thereof, named glenmorris, in which the tame beastial gets little damage of wild beastial, especially of tods (foxes); for each house nurses a young tod certain days, and mengis (mixes) the flesh thereof, after it be slain, with such meat as they give to their fowls or other small beasts, and so many as eat of this meat are preserved two months after from any damage of tods; for tods will eat no flesh that gusts of their own kind." the last wolf killed in scotland is said to have fallen by the hand of sir ewen cameron, about ; and singular to say, the skin of this venerable quadruped may yet be in existence: in a catalogue of mr. donnovan's sale of the london museum, in april, , there occurs the following item, "lot . wolf, a noble animal in a large glass case. the last wolf killed in scotland, by sir e. cameron." it would be interesting to know what became of this lot. the pairing time is january, when after many battles with rivals, the strongest males attach themselves to the females. the female wolf prepares a warm nest for her young, of soft moss and her own hair, carefully blended together. the cubs are watched by the parents with tender solicitude, are gradually accustomed to flesh, and when sufficiently strong their education begins, and they are taken to join in the chase; not the least curious part is the discipline by which they are inured to suffering and taught to bear pain without complaint; their parents are said to bite, maltreat, and drag them by the tail, punishing them if they utter a cry, until they have learned to be mute. to this quality macaulay alludes when speaking of a wolf in his "prophecy of capys:" "when all the pack, loud baying, her bloody lair surrounds, she dies in silence, biting hard, amidst the dying hounds." it is curious to observe the cunning acquired by wolves in well inhabited districts, where they are eagerly sought for destruction; they then never quit cover to windward: they trot along just within the edges of the wood until they meet the wind from the open country, and are assured by their keen scent that no danger awaits them in that quarter--then they advance, keeping under cover of hedgerows as much as possible, moving in single file and treading in each other's track; narrow roads they bound across, without leaving a footprint. when a wolf contemplates a visit to a farmyard, he first carefully reconnoitres the ground, listening, snuffing up the air, and smelling the earth; he then springs over the threshold without touching it and seizes on his prey. in retreat his head is low, turned obliquely, with one ear forward the other back, and the eyes glaring. he trots crouching, his brush obliterating the track of his feet till at some distance from the scene of his depredation, then feeling himself secure, he waves his tail erect in triumph, and boldly pushes on to cover. in northern india, wolves together with jackals and pariah dogs, prowl about the dwellings of europeans. colonel hamilton smith relates a curious accident which befell a servant who was sleeping in a verandah with his head near the outer lattice: a wolf thrust his jaws between the bamboo, seized the man by the head, and endeavored to drag him through; the man's shrieks awakened the whole neighborhood, and assistance came, but though the wolf was struck at by many, he escaped. wolves have even been known to attack sentries when single, as in the last campaign of the french armies in the vicinity of vienna, when several of the videttes were carried off by them. during the retreat of napoleon's army from russia, wolves of the siberian race followed the troops to the borders of the rhine; specimens of these wolves shot in the vicinity, and easily distinguishable from the native breed, are still preserved in the museums of neuwied, frankfort, and cassel. captain lyon[ ] relates the following singular instance of the cunning of a wolf which had been caught in a trap, and, being to all appearance dead, was dragged on board ship: "the eyes, however, were observed to wink whenever an object was placed near them, some precautions were, therefore, considered necessary, and the legs being tied the animal was hoisted up with his head downward. he then, to our surprise, made a vigorous spring at those near him, and afterward repeatedly turned himself upward so as to reach the rope by which he was suspended, endeavoring to gnaw it asunder, and making angry snaps at the persons who prevented him. several heavy blows were struck on the back of his neck, and a bayonet was thrust through him, yet above a quarter of an hour elapsed before he died." hearne, in his journey to the northern ocean, says, that the wolves always burrow under ground at the breeding season, and though it is natural to suppose them very fierce at those times, yet he has frequently seen the indians go to their dens, take out the cubs and play with them. these they never hurt, and always scrupulously put them in the den again, although they occasionally painted their faces with vermilion and red ochre, in strange and grotesque patterns. this statement is supported by incidents which have occurred in this metropolis; there was a bitch wolf in the tower menagerie, which, though excessively fond of her cubs, suffered the keepers to handle them, and even remove them from the den, without evincing the slightest symptom either of anger or alarm; and a still more remarkable instance is related from observation, by mr. bell: "there was a wolf at the zoological gardens (says that able naturalist) which would always come to the front bars of the den as soon as i or any other person whom she knew, approached; she had pups, too, and so eager, in fact, was she that her little ones should share with her in the notice of her friends, that she killed all of them in succession by rubbing them against the bars of her den as she brought them forward to be fondled." during the last year, wolves' skins were imported by the hudson's bay company from their settlements; of which came from the york fort and mackenzie river stations; we recently had the opportunity of examining the stock, and found it principally composed of white wolves' skins from the churchill river, with black and gray skins of every shade. the most valuable are from animals killed in the depth of winter, and of these, the white skins, which are beautifully soft and fine, are worth about thirty shillings apiece, and are exported to hungary, where they are in great favor with the nobles as trimming for pelisses and hussar jackets; the gray wolves' skins are worth from three shillings and sixpence upward, and are principally exported to america and the north of europe, to be used as cloak-linings. colonel h. smith mentions a curious instance of the treacherous ferocity of the wolf. a butcher at new york had brought up, and believed he had tamed, a wolf, which he kept for above two years chained up in the slaughterhouse, where it lived in a complete superabundance of blood and offal. one night, having occasion for some implement which he believed was accessible in the dark, he went into this little smithfield without thinking of the wolf. he was clad in a thick frieze coat, and while stooping to grope for what he wanted, he heard the chain rattle, and in a moment was struck down by the animal springing upon him. fortunately, a favorite cattle-dog had accompanied his master, and rushed forward to defend him: the wolf had hold of the man's collar, and being obliged to turn in his own defense, the butcher had time to draw a large knife, with which he ripped his assailant open. the same able writer relates an incident which occurred to an english gentleman, holding a high public situation in the peninsula, during a wolf-hunt in the mountains, near madrid. the sportsmen were placed in ambush, and the country-people drove the game toward them; presently an animal came bounding upward toward this gentleman, so large that he took it, while driving through the high grass and bushes, for a donkey; it was a wolf, however, whose glaring eyes meant mischief, but, scared by the click of the rifle, he turned and made his escape, though a bullet whistled after him; at the close of the hunt seven were found slain, and so large were they that this gentleman, though of uncommon strength, could not lift one entirely from the ground. the wolf of america is at times remarkable for cowardice, though bold enough when pressed by hunger, or with other wolves. mr. r. c. taylor, of philadelphia, states that this animal, when trapped, is silent, subdued, and unresisting. he was present when a fine young wolf, about fifteen months old, was taken by surprise, and suddenly attacked with a club. the animal offered no resistance, but, crouching down in the supplicating manner of a dog, suffered himself to be knocked on the head. an old hunter told mr. taylor that he had frequently taken a wolf out of the trap, and compelled it by a few blows to lie down by his side, while he reset his trap. the esquimaux wolf-trap is made of strong slabs of ice, long and so narrow, that a fox can with difficulty turn himself in it, and a wolf must actually remain in the position in which he is taken. the door is a heavy portcullis of ice, sliding in two well-secured grooves of the same substance, and is kept up by a line which, passing over the top of the trap, is carried through a hole at the farthest extremity. to the end of the line is fastened a small hoop of whale-bone, and to this any kind of flesh bait is attached. from the slab which terminates the trap, a projection of ice, or a peg of bone or wood, points inward near the bottom, and under this the hoop is slightly hooked; the slightest pull at the bait liberates it, the door falls in an instant, and the wolf is speared where he lies. sir john richardson states that, when near the copper mines river in north america, he had more than once an opportunity of seeing a single wolf in pursuit of a reindeer, and especially on point lake, when covered with ice, when a fine buck reindeer was overtaken by a large white wolf, and disabled by a bite in the flank. an indian, who was concealed, ran in and cut the deer's throat with his knife, the wolf at once relinquishing his prey and sneaking off. in the chase the poor deer urged its flight by great bounds, which for a time exceeded the speed of the wolf; but it stopped so frequently to gaze on its relentless enemy, that the latter, toiling on at a long gallop (so admirably described by byron), with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, gradually came up. after each hasty look, the deer redoubled its efforts to escape, but, either exhausted by fatigue or enervated by fear, it became, just before it was overtaken, scarcely able to keep its feet. captain lyon gives some interesting illustrations of the habits of the wolves of melville peninsula, which were sadly destructive to his dogs. "a fine dog was lost in the afternoon. it had strayed to the hummocks ahead, without its master; and mr. elder, who was near the spot, saw five wolves rush at, attack, and devour it, in an incredibly short space of time: before he could reach the place, the carcass was torn in pieces, and he found only the lower part of one leg. the boldness of the wolves was altogether astonishing, as they were almost constantly seen among the hummocks, or lying quietly, at no great distance, in wait for the dogs. from all we observed, i have no reason to suppose that they would attack a single unarmed man, both english and esquimaux frequently passing them, without a stick in their hands. the animals, however, exhibited no symptoms of fear, but rather a kind of tacit agreement not to be the beginners of a quarrel, even though they might have been certain of proving victorious."[ ] another time, when pressed by hunger, the wolves broke into a snow-hut, in which were a couple of newly-purchased esquimaux dogs, and carried the poor animals off, but not without some difficulty; for even the ceiling of the hut was next morning found sprinkled with blood and hair. when the alarm was given, and the wolves were fired at, one of them was observed carrying a dead dog in his mouth, clear of the ground, and going, with ease, at a canter, notwithstanding the animal was of his own weight. it was curious to observe the fear these dogs seemed, at times, to entertain of wolves. during sir john richardson's residence at cumberland-house, in , a wolf, which had been prowling round the fort, was wounded by a musket-ball, and driven off, but returned after dark, while the blood was still flowing from its wound, and carried off a dog from among fifty others, that had not the courage to unite in an attack on their enemy. the same writer says, that he has frequently observed an indian dog, after being worsted in combat with a black wolf, retreat into a corner, and howl, at intervals, for an hour together; these indian dogs, also, howl piteously when apprehensive of punishment, and throw themselves into attitudes strongly resembling those of a wolf when caught in a trap. foxes are frequently taken in the pitfalls set for wolves, and seem to possess more cunning. an odd incident is related by mr. lloyd: a fox was lying at the bottom of a pitfall, apparently helpless, when a very stout peasant, having placed a ladder, began to descend with cautious and creaking steps to destroy the vermin. reynard, however, thought he might benefit by the ladder, as well as his corpulent visitor, and, just as the latter reached the ground, jumped, first, on his stern, then, on his shoulder, skipped out of the pit, and was off in a moment, leaving the man staring and swearing at his impudent escape! captain lyon mentions an instance of the sagacity of the fox: he had caught and tamed one of these animals, which he kept on deck, in a small hutch, with a scope of chain. finding himself repeatedly drawn out of his hutch by this, the sagacious little fellow, whenever he retreated within his castle, took the chain in his mouth, and drew it so completely in after him, that no one, who valued his fingers, would endeavor to take hold of the end attached to the staple. mr. lloyd mentions a curious contest that took place in the vicinity of uddeholm. a peasant had just got into bed, when his ears were assailed by a tremendous uproar in his cattle-shed. on hearing this noise, he jumped up, and, though almost in a state of nudity, rushed into the building to see what was the matter: here he found an immense wolf, which he gallantly seized by the ears, and called out most lustily for assistance. his wife--the gallant trulla--came to his aid, armed with a hatchet, with which she severely wounded the wolf's head; but it was not until she had driven the handle of the hatchet down the animal's throat, that she succeeded in dispatching him. during the conflict, the man's hands and wrists were bitten through and through; and, when seen by mr. lloyd, the wounds were not healed. like dogs, wolves are capable of strong attachment; but such instances are comparatively rare: the most striking, perhaps, was that recorded by m. frederick cuvier, as having come under his notice at the ménagerie du roi at paris. the wolf in question was brought up as a young dog, became familiar with persons he was in the habit of seeing, and, in particular, followed his master every where, evincing chagrin at his absence, obeying his voice, and showing a degree of submission scarcely differing, in any respect, from that of the most thoroughly-domesticated dog. his master, being obliged to be absent for a time, presented his pet to the menagerie, where he was confined in a den. here he became disconsolate, pined, and would scarcely take food; at length, he was reconciled to his new situation, recovered his health, became attached to his keepers, and appeared to have forgotten "auld lang syne," when, after the lapse of eighteen months, his old master returned. at the first sound of his voice--that well-known, much-loved voice--the wolf, which had not perceived him in a crowd of persons, exhibited the most lively joy, and, being set at liberty, lavished upon him the most affectionate caresses, just as the most attached dog would have done. with some difficulty, he was enticed to his den. but a second separation was followed by similar demonstrations of sorrow to the former; which, however, again yielded to time. three years passed away, and the wolf was living happily with a dog which had been placed with him, when his master again appeared--and again the long-lost, but well-remembered voice, was instantly replied to by the most impatient cries, redoubled as soon as the poor fellow was at liberty. rushing to his master, he placed his fore-feet on his shoulders, licking his face with every mark of the most lively joy, and menacing the keepers who offered to remove him. a third separation, however, took place, but it was too much for the poor creature's temper: he became gloomy, refused his food, and, for some time, it was feared he would die. time, however, which blunts the grief of wolves, as well as of men, brought comfort to his wounded heart, and his health gradually returned; but, looking upon mankind as false deceivers, he no longer permitted the caresses of any but his keepers, manifesting to all strangers the savageness and moroseness of his species. another instance of the attachment of wolves is mentioned by mr. lloyd, in his work on the sports of the north. mr. greiff, who had studied the habits of wild animals, for which his position, as _ofüerjäg mästare_, afforded peculiar facilities, says: "i reared up two young wolves until they were full-grown: they were male and female. the latter became so tame, that she played with me, and licked my hands, and i had her often with me in the sledge, in winter. once, when i was absent, she got loose from the chain, and was away three days. when i returned home, i went out on a hill, and called, 'where's my tussa?' as she was named, when she immediately came home, and fondled with me, like the most friendly dog." between the dog and the wolf there is a natural enmity, and those animals seldom encounter each other on at all equal terms without a combat taking place. should the wolf prove victorious, he devours his adversary, but if the contrary be the case, the dog leaves untouched the carcass of his antagonist. the wolf feeds on the rat, hare, fox, badger, roebuck, stag, reindeer and elk; likewise upon blackcock and capercali. he is possessed of great strength, especially in the muscles of the neck and jaws, is said always to seize his prey by the throat, and when it happens to be a large animal, as the elk, he is often dragged for a considerable distance. after a deep fall of snow the wolf is unusually ferocious; if he besmears himself with the blood of a victim, or is so wounded that blood flows, it is positively asserted that his companions will instantly kill and devour him. in the year a peasant at frederickshall in norway was looking out of his cottage window, when he espied a large wolf enter his premises and seize one of his goats. at this time he had a child of eighteen months old in his arms; he incautiously laid her down in a small porch fronting the house, and, catching hold of a stick, the nearest weapon at hand, attacked the wolf, which was in the act of carrying off the goat. the wolf dropped this, and getting sight of the child, in the twinkling of an eye seized it, threw it across his shoulders, and was off like lightning. he made good his escape, and not a vestige was ever seen of the child. wolves are found all over scandinavia, but are most common in the midland and northern provinces of sweden. like "elia," they are very partial to young pig, a failing taken advantage of by sportsmen thus: they sew up in a sack a small porker, leaving only his snout free, and place him in a sledge, to the back of which is fastened by a rope about fifty feet long, a small bundle of straw, covered with black sheep skin; this, when the sledge is in motion, dangles about like a young pig. during a very severe winter a party started in the vicinity of forsbacka, well provided with guns, &c. on reaching a likely spot they pinched the pig, which squealed lustily, and, as they anticipated, soon drew a multitude of famished wolves about the sledge. when these had approached within range the party opened fire on them, and shot several; all that were either killed or wounded were quickly torn to pieces and devoured by their companions, but the blood with which the ravenous beasts had now glutted themselves only served to make them more savage than before, and, in spite of the fire kept up by the party, they advanced close to the sledge, apparently determined on making an instant attack. to preserve the party, therefore, the pig was thrown to the wolves, which had for a moment the effect of diverting their attention. while this was going forward, the horse, driven to desperation by the near approach of the wolves, struggled and plunged so violently that he broke the shafts to pieces, galloped off, and made good his escape. the pig was devoured, and the wolves again threatened to attack the sportsmen. the captain and his friends finding matters had become serious, turned the sledge bottom up and took shelter beneath it, in which position they remained many hours, the wolves making repeated attempts to get at them by tearing the sledge with their teeth, but at length the party were relieved by friends from then perilous position. lieutenant oldenburg once witnessed a curious occurrence. he was standing near the margin of a large lake which at that time was frozen over. at some little distance from the land a small aperture had been made for the purpose of procuring water, and at this hole a pig was drinking. while looking toward the horizon, the lieutenant saw a mere speck or ball, as it were, rapidly moving along the ice: presently this took the form of a large wolf, which was making for the pig at top speed. lieutenant oldenburg now seized his gun, and ran to the assistance of the pig; but before he got up to the spot the wolf had closed with the porker, which, though of large size, he tumbled over and over in a trice. his attention was so much occupied, that lieutenant oldenburg was able to approach within a few paces and dispatch him with a shot. a piece as large as a man's foot had been torn out of the pig's hind quarters; and he was so terribly frightened that he followed the lieutenant home like a dog, and would not quit his heels for a moment. mr. lloyd mentions an incident that befell him, in consequence of swine mistaking his dogs for wolves, to which they bear the most instinctive antipathy. one day, in the depth of winter, accompanied by his irish servant, he struck into the forest, in the vicinity of carlstadt, for the purpose of shooting capercali. toward evening they came to a small hamlet, situated in the recesses of the forest. here an old sow with her litter were feeding; and immediately on seeing the two valuable pointers which accompanied the sportsman, she made a determined and most ferocious dash at them. the servant had a light spear in his hand, similar to that used by our lancers. this mr. lloyd seized, and directing paddy to throw the dogs over a fence, received the charge of the pig with a heavy blow across the snout with the butt end of the spear. nothing daunted, she made her next attack upon him; and, in self-defense, he was obliged to give her a home thrust with the blade of the spear. these attacks she repeated three several times, always getting the spear up to the hilt in her head or neck. then, and not before, did she slowly retreat, bleeding at all points. the peasants, supposing mr. lloyd to be the aggressor, assumed a very hostile aspect, and it was only by showing a bold bearing, and menacing them with his gun, that he escaped in safety. a poor soldier was one day, in the depth of winter, crossing the large lake called storsyön, and was attacked by a drove of wolves. his only weapon was a sword, with which he defended himself so gallantly, that he killed and wounded several wolves, and succeeded in driving off the remainder. after a time, he was again attacked by the same drove, but was now unable to extricate himself from his perilous situation in the same manner as before, for having neglected to wipe the blood from his sword after the former encounter, it had become firmly frozen to the scabbard. the ferocious beasts therefore, quickly closed with him, killed and devoured him. if we remember aright, captain kincaid, the present gallant exon of the yeoman guard, nearly lost his life at waterloo, from a somewhat similar cause. he had been skirmishing all the earlier part of the day with the rifles, when a sudden charge of french cavalry placed him in great danger. he essayed to draw his sabre, tugged and tugged, but the trusty steel had become firmly rusted to the scabbard; and we believe that he owed his life to an accidental diversion of the attention of the attacking troopers. closely resembling in many respects the wolf, the jackal is widely spread over india, asia, and africa. these animals hunt in packs, and there are few sounds more startling to the unaccustomed ear, than a chorus of their cries. "we hardly know," says captain beechey, "a sound which partakes less of harmony than that which is at present in question; and, indeed, the sudden burst of the answering long protracted scream, succeeding immediately to the opening note, is scarcely less impressive than the roll of the thunder clap immediately after a flash of lightning. the effect of this music is very much increased when the first note is heard in the distance, a circumstance which often occurs, and the answering yell bursts out from several points at once, within a few yards or feet of the place where the auditors are sleeping." poultry and the smaller animals, together with dead bodies, are the ordinary food of jackals, but when rendered bold by hanger, they will occasionally attack the larger quadrupeds and even man. a bold, undaunted presence and defiant aspect, generally proves the best protection when an unarmed man is threatened by these or other animals, but artifice is sometimes necessary. a ludicrous instance is related by an old quartermaster (whom we knew some years ago), in a small volume of memoirs. at christmas, , he was sent up the country to a mission, about thirty-two miles from san francisco. he and the others erected a tent; after which they all lay down on the ground. "i slept like a top," says he, "till four the next morning, at which time i was awakened by the man whose duty it was to officiate as cook for the day, who told me if i would go up the village and get a light, he would have a good breakfast ready for the lads by the time they awoke. i must describe my dress, for that very dress saved my life. over the rest of my clothing, as a seaman, i had a huge frock made from the skin of a reindeer. it was long enough, when let down, to cover my feet well, and turned up at foot, buttoning all round the skirt. at the top was a hood, made from the skin, taken off the head of a bear, ears and all. in front was a square lappel, which, in the day, hung loosely over the breast, but at night, buttoned just behind the ears, leaving only the mouth, nose, and eyes free for respiration, so that one, with such a dress, might lie down any where and sleep, warm and comfortable. mr. s---- had given eight dollars for it in kamtschatka, and, on our return to more genial climes, forgot the future, and gave it to me. fancy, then, my figure thus accoutred, issuing from under the canvas tent, with a lantern in my hand. i had not advanced twenty yards, when first only two or three, and then an immense number of jackals surrounded me. i was at first disposed to think but lightly of them: but seeing their numbers increase so rapidly, i grew alarmed, and probably gave way to fear sooner than i ought. a few shots from the tent would probably have sent them away with speed, but no one saw me. every moment they drew closer and closer in a complete round, and seemed to look at me with determined hunger. for some moments i remained in a most dreadful state of alarm. it just then occurred to me that i once heard of a boy who had driven back a bull out of a field by walking backward on his hands and feet. fortunate thought! i caught at the idea; in a moment i was on all fours, with my head as near the earth as i could keep it, and commenced cutting all the capers of which i was capable. the jackals, who no doubt had never seen so strange an animal, first stopped, then retreated, and, as i drew near the tent, flew in all directions. the men awoke just in time to see my danger, and have a hearty laugh at me and the jackals." our old friend was more fortunate than a certain youth who attempted to rob an orchard by deluding a fierce bulldog with this approach _à posteriori,_ but who, to his sorrow, found the dog too knowing, for he carried to his dying day the marks of the guardian's teeth in that spot where honor has its seat. the same quartermaster told us a quaint story of a fright another of the crew received from these jackals. while at san francisco the ship's crew were laying in a store of provisions; a large tent was erected on shore for salting the meat; the cooper lived in it, and hung up his hammock at one end. the beef which had been killed during the day was also hung up all around, in readiness for salting. one night a large pack of jackals came down from the woods, and being attracted by the smell of the meat, soon got into the tent, and pulling at one of the sides of beef, brought it down with a crash, which woke the old cooper, who was a remarkably stout, and rather nervous man. finding himself thus surrounded in the dead of the night by wild beasts, whose forms and size, dimly seen, were magnified by his fears, he fired off his musket, and clasping his arms, in an agony of terror, round a quarter of beef which hung close to his hammock, was found perfectly senseless by an officer who came to see the cause of the alarm. some difficulty was experienced in getting him to relinquish his hold of the beef--which he stuck to like a briton--and it was several days before his nerves recovered from the shock of the fright. the wolf and the jackal tribes are by no means without their use in the economy of nature, though from their predatory habits they are justly regarded as pests in the countries they infest: that they will disturb the dead and rifle the graves is true, but they also clear away offal, and with vultures, are the scavengers of hot countries; they follow on the track of herds, and put a speedy end to the weak, the wounded, and the dying; they are the most useful, though most disgusting of camp followers, and after a battle, when thousands of corpses of men and horses are collected within a limited space, they are of essential service-- i stood in a swampy-field of battle, with bones and skulls i made a rattle to frighten the wolf and carrion crow and the homeless dog--but they would not go; so off i flew--for how could i bear to see them gorge their dainty fare. coleridge. revolting and heart-sickening though such scenes may be, the evil is less than would result from the undisturbed decay of the dead: were that to take place, the air would hang heavy with pestilence, and the winds of heaven laden with noisome exhalations would carry death and desolation far and near, rendering still more terrible the horrors and calamities of war. footnotes: [ ] fauna boreali americana, p. . [ ] holland's plinie's naturall historie, ed. [ ] edit, edin. , quoted from magazine of natural history. [ ] private journal of captain g. f. lyon, . [ ] private journal of captain g. f. lyon, . a specimen of russian justice. among the french prisoners taken at the battle of vitebsk, during napoleon's disastrous retreat in prussia, was a french general, who was accompanied by: his wife and daughter. being badly wounded, he was removed to the military hospital, but the ladies were received into the private house of madame strognof, whose husband held, at that time, a subordinate appointment under the russian government. a certain botwinko was then procureur at vitebsk. without the procureur's sanction nothing can be done in his department; for he represents the emperor himself, and is usually called "the eye of his majesty." his salary is only about twenty-five pounds a year; but he makes, usually, a good income by receiving bribes. among other duties, he had to visit the hospitals daily, and to report upon the condition of the prisoner patients. he paid great attention to the unhappy general, who required every consolation; for, despite his own deplorable condition, it was decreed that he should outlive his wife. that lady caught a contagious fever, which was raging at that time at vitebsk, and died in a few hours. this event so distressed the general that he soon departed this world, with the only consolation, that procureur botwinko, a married but childless man, would adopt his daughter. this promise was actually fulfilled, and the little orphan was taken from madame strognof, and established under the procureur's roof. her parents' property, consisting of a carriage, horses, jewelry, and no small sum of ready money, was also taken possession of by botwinko in quality of guardian to the little orphan. as the girl, whom they called "sophie," grew up, she became very engaging, and was kindly treated by mr. and madame botwinko. she never lost an opportunity, when any visitors were in the procureur's house, of praising her protectors for their kindness to her; and this, connected with other circumstances, contributed to the promotion of mr. botwinko, who obtained the more profitable situation of procureur-general at vilna, the capital of lithuania. removal from their old connections, and from those who knew all the circumstances of little sophie's history, produced a change in the treatment of the new procureur-general and his wife toward the child. their kindness rapidly diminished. sophie was not allowed to appear in the drawing-rooms, in their new residence at vilna. they incessantly found fault with her; and, ultimately, she was not only sent to the kitchen under the control of the cook, but, on the census of the population being taken, in , her name was inscribed on the books as that of a serf. as the poor girl grew up she became used to the duties imposed upon her. associating constantly with the servants, they considered her their equal, and taunted her when, relying on her infantine recollections, she laid claim to noble descent, by calling her in derision "mademoiselle french general." she knew full well that she was entitled to better treatment, and that, in the absence of paternal authority, she had the right of disposing of herself according to her own will. a strong inducement to alter her condition was presented in the person of a young clerk in a government office, whose duty sometimes brought him with papers to the procureur for signature. while botwinko was engaged with his breakfast and the perusal of the papers, this clerk was sometimes kept dangling for hours in the ante-chamber. after a time, these hours were agreeably spent in the society of sophie, to whom he eventually made a proposal of marriage. she consented, but, unwilling to leave her guardian like a fugitive, she apprised him of her determination, and humbly requested an account of the property which she had been informed he had taken charge of at her parents' death. the procureur-general at first excused himself from giving her an immediate answer. the next day he presented himself at the police office, the whole of whose functionaries were under his control. what he said or did is not known, but the result was that sophie was taken into custody by the police, and committed to jail. many months elapsed before her fate was known at home. it was stated that she absconded. the clerk, banished the procureur's house, could not discover the cause of the girl's disappearance; and as all russian criminal proceedings are conducted with great secrecy, he only ascertained by a mere accident that the girl had been sentenced, by a superior court, to receive a certain number of lashes by the knout, and to be sent to siberia. the crime of which they accused her was that of attempting to poison her master and mistress. alarmed at this information, the young man, without waiting for more particulars, addressed a petition to the war governor of vilna--the old general korsakof--whose power in that province was almost omnipotent, and, if not misdirected, was very often beneficial to the inhabitants. the petitioner requested the general's interference, and an investigation of the case, assuring him that the girl was innocent, and that the legal authorities who condemned her had been corrupted. the general was accustomed to decide every case _en militaire_. he had received from the police court an unfavorable opinion of the petitioner's character, which was described as "restless;" and was, moreover, rather offended at his authority having been appealed to by a subordinate. he therefore settled the business summarily, by sending the young petitioner to the military service for life, in virtue of the vagrant act. still the young man's petition produced a good effect: the poor girl was not flogged, lest that might have provoked some disturbance in the town. she was merely dressed in convict's apparel, and sent off to siberia. the transport of russian convicts costs the government but very little. they go on foot, sleep in _étapes_ or barracks, and the daily allowance for their subsistence amounts only to five kopecks--equal to a halfpenny in english money. this they, as well as the poor old soldiers who escort them, have to eke out by charity. for that purpose, the most attractive person among each party of exiles is delegated--box in hand, but with an armed soldier behind--to beg alms of the benevolent; and sophie was appointed to be the suppliant for the rest of her wretched companions. the road from vilna to siberia passes through vitebsk. the convicts had not been long in the town before sophie encountered madame strognof, who recognized the girl from her very great likeness to her mother, who had died in that lady's house. when she learned that sophie had been living with the botwinkos, she had no longer a doubt. the girl asserted her innocence of the pretended crime for which she was on her way to siberia, with tearful energy, and the good madame s. believed her; but her husband, who was at that time the vice-governor of vitebsk, to disabuse his wife's romantic dreams, as he called them, sent for the officer escorting the prisoners, and showed her the list of prisoners, which contained a full record, not only of the crime imputed to the orphan girl, but also of the punishment to which she had been condemned. in the face of an official document which appeared to be regular, and which detailed the girl's presumed offense with circumstantial consistency, madame strognof began to waver in her belief of sophie's protestations; but the unfortunate girl asserted her innocence so strongly and incessantly, that the vice-governor himself was at length induced to look into the facts. the first suspicion that entered his mind was derived from the circumstance of the document stating that the culprit had been punished with the knout, while it was evident from her appearance, that that dreadful torture had not been inflicted. he caused a medical man to examine her, who testified that not a scar appeared; yet the knout always leaves ineffaceable traces for life. in consequence of this discrepancy, sophie was allowed to remain for some time at vitebsk under the plea of illness; which, at the request of the vice-governor, was readily certified by an official surgeon. after some delay, a memorial was forwarded by the unfortunate sufferer to the late emperor alexander, in consequence of which a court-messenger was sent immediately to vilna. this gentleman brought back to st. petersburgh an enormous volume, containing the so-called depositions, taken at the pseudo trial. after careful inspection of them, the emperor decided that they proved the legality of the proceedings. so artfully were these infamous depositions framed; that, among them, appeared the formula of a chemical analysis of the poison which the girl was accused of administering, and a full confession; to which the culprit's signature was forged. the answer, therefore, from the throne was not only unfavorable; but the authorities of vitebsk were reprimanded for allowing the girl to importune his majesty without sufficient grounds. notwithstanding, madame strognof was not discouraged; and, to the great alarm of her husband, had another petition drawn up and forwarded with a suitable memorial to the princess maria fedorowna, the emperor's mother, who was known to all the country as a pious and charitable lady. this petition, presented to his majesty by his own mother, had so great an influence over him, that he ordered the girl to be brought to st. petersburgh. he felt convinced that some unaccountable mystery was involved in the case. in due time sophie arrived at st. petersburgh, and underwent a rigid examination. she asseverated with the most earnest truthfulness, that all the depositions were fictitious; that the chemical analysis was a wicked invention; and that the signature to her fabricated confession was a forgery. she also denied that any trial had taken place, or that she had been examined in any court whatever. upon this, the emperor appointed mr. getzewicz, the governor of minsk--who was known as a most trust-worthy man--to go personally to vilna; to investigate the case; and to report the result. for this purpose the papers and the girl were forwarded back to vilna. the mission of mr. getzewicz was by no means an easy or a pleasant one: he had to contend with a swarm of official insects; which, like canadian musquitoes when disturbed, attack the new comer from every side. however, mr. getzewicz stood his ground firmly. he soon discovered that the secretary of the police court who had drawn up the depositions was a convict, sentenced for life to siberia for having been associated with highway robbers. he had escaped and was retained in his situation by merely changing his christian name, and by being reported "dead" by mr. botwinko. the components of the rest of the court were no less suspicious. in russia, the police and sheriff's courts, and even the provincial senate itself, are the asylums for military veterans; who, during their long service, had never been trained up to the law. the secretaries draw documents for them, which they sign--very often without reading; that task being tiresome, and often incomprehensible to them. the court which had promoted and confirmed sophie's prosecution, consisted of illiterate, worn-out officers, who had no scruple in committing the procureur-general's victim for trial to the first criminal court (sond grodoski). but how was the deception carried on before the higher tribunals? this would puzzle the most ingenious rascality to guess. but botwinko was a genius in his way: he actually brought before that court, as well as before the highest criminal tribunal, another young woman; who represented herself to be the girl in question, and confessed her supposed guilt with all the desired particulars. the extraordinary intrigue was the more easily accomplished from the secrecy with which criminal investigations in russia are conducted. whenever the culprit acknowledges his crime, the sentence follows without further inquiry; and, the jail being under the control of the police-office, and the judges of the criminal courts not knowing the prisoners personally, they were obliged to receive in this instance the confessions of any girl whom the police thought proper to send to them. when the trial was over, the procureur paid his hireling well, dismissed her, and drew forth his victim from her cell; substituted her for the wretch who had stood at the bar, and sent her to siberia. villainy, however, be it ever so cunning, seldom half does its work of deception. if botwinko had had the whole sentence carried into effect, and poor sophie knouted, he would not, perhaps, have been discovered by his colleague at vitebsk; and he might have lived a respected public officer to this day; for of such characters does the russian system admit the prosperous existence. as it was, however, on the report of mr. getzewicz, botwinko, the secretary of police, and many of his superiors, were thrown into prison. the end of this dreadful story is melancholy; for in the end guilt triumphed. the procureur-general, having several partners in his guilty practices, had, if one may so abuse the expression, many friends. at first they tried most ingeniously to bribe mr. getzewicz, and to induce him to give up further proceedings; but, finding him inflexible, they put a stop to all that business by administering poison to the unfortunate sophie. they even threatened the governor of minsk himself, in an anonymous letter, to do the same for him. that threat, it seems, produced the desired effect on the honest but weak-minded man. seeing with what desperate people he had to contend--so much so, that his own life was in danger--he sent his final report to the (at that time) lingering emperor alexander, with request for further instructions. in the mean time he retired to his own residence at minsk, leaving the illustrious vilna officials in their own prison. shortly afterward, the emperor died at taganrog. his second brother, the present emperor, nicholas i.--greeted, on his accession to the throne, with a formidable insurrection at st petersburgh, and with alarming conspiracies and political intrigues in the army--had no time to direct his attention to so trifling an affair as that of our heroine. political prisoners were to be punished first, in order to spread terror among those who were not discovered as yet. the stability of the throne would not allow him to alarm the administrative servants and other criminals who never thought of subverting romanoff's dynasty. hence, with the exception of the political offenders, all others, whose actions were pending in different courts of justice, but not yet adjudicated, were amnestied by the emperor, on the occasion of his coronation, in , at moscow. thus, the procureur and his associates were released from prison, losing nothing but their former situations. the procureur, having scraped together a fortune by his bribes and graspings, did not care much at becoming an independent gentleman. what became of sophie's lover--the unfortunate clerk, who was sent to the army, for his honest but untimely application--could not be learned. he may now think that his punishment was deserved, and that the girl was really guilty; but it is more than probable that he will never again interfere to restrain the grossest injustice. and here ends our melancholy tale, which the censorship of the press in russia prevented from ever before being publicly related. corroboration can, however, be derived from the inhabitants of vilna, who lived there from to ; from the archives of criminal courts of that place, where m. getzewicz's correspondence is preserved; from the list of all the crown servants of russia, sent every year to the state secretary of the home department at st. petersburgh; in which, for and , procureur botwinko was reported to be imprisoned at vilna for the above case, and that the strapchy of oszmiana was acting in his stead as procureur _pro tem._ napoleon and the pope.--a scene at fontainebleau. in the autumn of , the court was at fontainebleau. the consulate had but recently merged in the empire, with the consent of all the orders of the state. the senate by a decree had declared the first consul to be emperor of the french; and the people, to whom the question of succession had been deferred, had, by a majority of three millions to three thousand, decided that the imperial dignity should be hereditary in his family. history, as alison observes when recording the fact, affords no instance of a nation having so unanimously taken refuge from the ills of agitation and anarchy under the cold shade of despotism. a new order of things having commenced, all, as may easily be imagined, was in a state of transformation and change in the composition of the court, as well as in the arrangement of the imperial household. under the republican _régime_, a great degree of simplicity had prevailed in the appointments of the various departments of the state, as well as in the domestic economy of family circles: it could not, however, be called unpretending; there was a certain affectation in it, evidently assumed with a view to contrast, even in minute particulars, the system of the republic with that of the old monarchy--the plainness of the one with the profuseness of the other. but this was not fated to last long: it had already been giving way under the consulate, and was now disappearing altogether in accordance with the views of the new monarch. titles and dignities were to be restored; court formalities and ceremonials were being revived, and new ones instituted. the old nobility, sprung from the feudal system, and dating, as some of them did, from the crusades, having been swept away by the revolutionary storm, their places were to be supplied, as supporters of the throne, by a new race of men. during this period of transition and change, the movement at the château was unceasing. arrivals and departures were taking place almost every hour, to which very different degrees of importance were attached. one arrival, however, was spoken of as having a more than ordinary interest: it was that of the dignitary who, as it was then understood, was to place the imperial crown on the brow of the new sovereign. "to recall," observes alison, "as napoleon was anxious to do on every occasion, the memory of charlemagne, the first french emperor of the west, the pope had been invited, with an urgency which it would not have been prudent to resist, to be present at the consecration, and had accordingly crossed the alps for the purpose." whatever may have been the views which originally prompted the invitation--whether it was to play a mere secondary part in a court pageant, or a leading one, as the public at first supposed--or whether all such notions were swept away by some new deluge of ideas, as châteaubriand somewhere says--"it is now pretty clear that the presence of the pontiff at the ceremony was a minor consideration, and that the real motive was that which came out in their interview, as will appear in the sequel." be this as it may, it was evident to all that the emperor awaited his coming with impatience; and when his approach was announced--though preparations had been carefully made for their first meeting--the arrangements were such as to give it the air of an _imprévu_. it was on the road some distance from fontainebleau that the emperor met the pope: the potentate alighted from his horse, the pontiff from his traveling chaise, and a coach being at hand, as if accidentally, they ascended its steps at the same moment from opposite sides, so that precedence was neither taken nor given. how italian the artifice! they had not ridden long together when bonaparte, quitting the coach, got on horseback, and returned to the château at a gallop, and with scarcely an attendant. the drum beat to arms, the guard turned out, but before they had time to fall in and salute, he had alighted, and was mounting the steps of the vestibule. it was always so with him; he gave such vivacity to all his movements, such energy to all his actions, that speed seemed a necessary condition of his existence. still so natural was it to him, that it did not wear the semblance of hurry. scarcely had the beat of the drum been heard at the gate, before the clatter of his heels resounded in the hall, as the flash of a cannon precedes the report. this time, however, he seemed fitful and even agitated. on entering the saloon, he paced it like one who waited with impatience. having taken a few turns from one end to the other, he moved to a window, and began beating a march with his fingers on the window-frame. the rolling of a carriage was heard in the court, he ceased to beat, and after a short pause stamped on the floor, as if impatient at seeing something done too slowly; then stepping hastily to the door, opened it--it was for the pope. pius vii. entered alone; bonaparte closed the door after him. the pope was tall, but stooped somewhat; his countenance, elongated and sallow, wore an expression of suffering, which seemed to have been induced upon a habitual tone of elevation and courtesy. his eyes were black and large, and on his lips, which were slightly opened, played a smile indicative at once of urbanity and benevolence. he wore on his head a white calotte or headpiece, partially covering his hair, which was naturally black, but now blended with some silver locks; on his shoulders he had a camail, or cape of red velvet, and his long robe reached to his feet. those who have seen his portrait by lawrence, though taken ten or eleven years later, will recognize at once the correctness of this description. as he entered the room he moved slowly, with a calm and measured step like that of an aged female; and having taken his seat in an arm-chair, he turned his eyes toward the floor, and seemed to wait for what the other italian was going to say. bonaparte, as all know, was short in stature, being below the middle height; but in all other respects he was, at the period here referred to, very different in personal appearance from what he became subsequently. far from having that fullness which approached to corpulence--that sallow puffiness of cheek which verged on the unhealthy--or that heaviness of limb, or general obesity, which threatened infirmity--he was slender in frame, but firm and well-proportioned; yet there was something which indicated premature wear, by hardship in the field and toil in the cabinet; he was quick and nervous in every movement, rapid and almost convulsive in his gestures when excited. still he could be at any time graceful in attitude, and elegant in manner. even then he stooped a little, so that his shoulders inclined forward, which gave something of flatness to his chest. his face was thin and elongated; but what a forehead! what eyes! what beauty in the contour of his intellectual visage! in repose, its habitual expression was reflective and concentrated, with a strong tinge of melancholy. bonaparte ceased not to pace the room after the pope had entered. after a while, altering his curve somewhat, and having taken a turn round the chair, as if making a _reconnaissance,_ he stopped short, and resumed the thread of the conversation which had been commenced in the carriage, and abruptly broken off. "i repeat, holy father, i am not an _esprit fort_, nor do i like word-spinners or idea-mongers. i assure you, that in spite of my old republicans i will go to mass." these words he tossed off toward the pope, as if he were giving him a dash of the incense-box; then paused to observe their effect. he seemed to imagine that, after the impieties of the republican _régime_, such an avowal ought to produce a decided effect. pius, however, remained unmoved; he continued as before to look steadily downward, and pressing firmly with his hands the eagle-heads that tipped the arms of his chair, seemed, in thus assuming the fixity of a statue, to say, "i must submit to listen to all the profane things which it may please him to say to me." seeing this, bonaparte took a turn round the room, and another round the chair, which stood in the middle of it, appearing but little satisfied with his adversary, and still less with himself for the tone of levity with which he had resumed the conversation. he at once changed his manner, and began to speak more composedly, still continuing to pace the room. as he passed to and fro, he glanced at the mirrors which ornamented the walls, and reflected the grave visage of the pontiff, eying him now and then in profile, never in front, to avoid appearing anxious as to the impression his words may make. "one thing i must say, holy father, hangs heavily upon me: it is that you seem to consent to the coronation by constraint, as you did formerly to the concordat. as you sit there before me, you have the air of a martyr, and assume an attitude of resignation, as if you were making an offering of your sorrows up to heaven. but surely you are not a prisoner; such is not your position in any sense: grand dieu! you are free as air." pius smiled, and looked him full in the face. he seemed to feel how enormous was the exigence of that despotic character, which requires--and all such natures do the like--not only obedience, but submission, absolute submission, and that, too, wearing the air of devotion to their will. "yes," continued bonaparte with increasing energy, "you are free, perfectly free: you may return to rome; the road is open to you; no one detains you." pius sighed, slightly raised his right hand, and looked upward without uttering a word; then slowly inclining his head downward, seemed to look attentively at a golden cross which hung from his neck. bonaparte continued speaking, but his steps became slow, and at the same time he gave a marked degree of mildness to his tone, and of courtesy to his expression. "holy father," said he, "if the gravity of your character did not forbid me, i would say that you are somewhat ungrateful. you do not seem to retain a sufficient recollection of the services which france has rendered to you. if i am not much mistaken the conclave of venice, which elected you, appeared to have taken its inspiration from my italian campaign, and from some words which i let fall with regard to you. it can not be said that austria behaved well to you; far from it; and i was really sorry for it. if my memory does not deceive me, you were obliged to return to rome by sea, as you could not have ventured to cross the austrian territories." he stopped short, as if waiting for a reply from his silent guest. pius, however, but slightly inclined his head, and then sunk back into a sort of apathy, which seemed inconsistent with even listening; while bonaparte, putting his foot on the rim of a stool, pushed it near the pope's chair, and thus continued, "it was, in good truth, as a catholic that such an incident gave me pain; for though i have never had time to study theology, i have great confidence in the power of the church: it has a prodigious vitality. voltaire did it some damage in his time, but i shall let loose upon him some unfrocked oratorians: you'll be pleased, if i mistake not, at the result. now see, you and i may do many things in common by-and-by, if you wish it." then with an air at once juvenile and careless, he continued, "for my part i do not see--i am weary of conjecturing--what objection you can have to establish your see in paris, as it formerly was in avignon. i will cede to you the palace of the tuilleries: i seldom occupy it. you will find there your apartments prepared for you, as at monte cavallo. do you not see, padre, that paris is the real capital of the world? as for me, i shall do whatever you desire. you will find in me more docility than people give me credit for. provided that war and politics, with their fatigues, be left to me, you may settle the church as you please: i shall be a soldier at your orders. do but consider what effect it would have, and how brilliant it would be, were we to hold our councils as constantine and charlemagne did in their time! i should merely open and close them, leaving the keys of the world in your hands. as with the sword i came, the sword i should retain, and with it the privilege of bringing it back for your benediction after every victory achieved by our arms." and saying these words he slightly bowed. pius, who up to that moment had remained motionless as a statue, slowly raised his head, smiled pensively, and drawing a deep sigh, breathed out one by one the syllables of the word, "_com-me-di-an-te!_" the word was scarcely half out, when bonaparte made a bound on the floor like a wounded leopard. a towering passion seized him; he became yellow with ire. he bit his lips almost to bleeding as he strode to the end of the room. he no longer paced round in circles; he went straight from end to end without uttering a word, stamping with his feet as he swept along, and making the room resound as he struck the floor with his spurred heels. every thing around him seemed to vibrate; the very curtains waved like trees in a storm. at length the pent-up rage found vent, and burst forth like a bombshell which explodes, "comedian, say you? ah, ha! i am he that will play you comedies to make you weep like women and children. comedian, indeed! but you are greatly mistaken if you think you can play off on me, with impunity, your cool-blooded insolence. comedian! where is my theatre, pray, and what? 'tis the world, and the part which i play is that of master and author; while for actors i have the whole of you--popes, kings, and people; and the cord by which i move you all is--_fear!_ comedian, say you? but he who would dare to hiss me or applaud should be made of different stuff from you, signor chiaramonti! know you not well that you would still be merely a poor curé but for me, and that if i did not wear a serious air when i salute you, france would laugh and scorn yourself and your tiara? three or four years ago, who would pronounce aloud the name of the founder of your system? pray, then, who would have spoken of the pope? comedian, eh! sire, ye take footing rather quickly among us. and so, forsooth, you are in ill-humor with me because i am not dolt enough to sign away the liberties of the gallican church, as louis xiv. did. but i am not to be duped in that fashion. in my grasp i hold you; by a nod i make you flit from north to south, from east to west, like so many puppets. and now, when it suits me to make-believe that i count you for something, merely because you represent an antiquated idea which i wish to revive, you have not the wit to see my drift, or affect not to perceive it. seeing, then, that i must speak out my whole mind, and put the matter just under your nose, in order that you may see it--more particularly as you seem to think yourself indispensable to me, and lift up your head in consequence, as you drape yourself in your old dame's robe--i'll have you to know that such airs do not in the least impose on me; and if you persist in that course, i'll deal with your robe as charles xii. did with that of the grand vizier--i'll rend it for you with a dash of my spur!" he ceased. throughout this tirade pius maintained the same immobility of attitude, the same calm on his visage. at its close, however, he just looked up, smiled with something of bitterness, and sighed as he slowly articulated the word, "_tra-je-di-an-te!_" bonaparte at that moment was at the further end of the room, leaning on the chimney-piece. suddenly starting at the word, and turning round, his whole person seemed to dilate, and his features to expand as passion rose within him. his look became fixed, and his eyes flared; then with the swiftness of an arrow he rushed toward the old man, as if with some fell purpose. but he stopped short, snatched from the table a porcelain vase, dashed it to pieces against the andirons, and stamped on its fragments as they flew along the floor! then pausing for an instant, as if to catch breath, he flung himself on a seat in utter exhaustion. it would be difficult to say which was the more awful--his sudden outburst of rage, or his immobility and silence after it. in some minutes the storm seemed gradually to subside, and a calm to succeed. his look and bearing changed; something of depression seemed to steal over him; his voice became deep and melancholy, and the first syllables which he uttered showed this proteus recalled to himself, and tamed by two words. "hapless existence!" he exclaimed; then pausing, seemed to muse, and after a while continued, "'tis but too true; comedian or tragedian, all for me is an affair of acting and costume; so it has been hitherto, and such it is likely to continue. how fatiguing and how petty it is to pose--always to pose, in profile for this party, in full face for that, according to their notions! to guess at the imaginings of drivelers, and seem to be what they think one ought to be. to study how to place them between hope and fear--dazzle them with the prestige of names and distances, of dates and bulletins--be the master of all, and not know what to do with them; and after all this to be as weary as i am--'tis too bad! the moment i sit down"--he crossed his legs, and leaned back in his chair--"ennui seizes me. to be obliged to hunt for three days in yonder forest would throw me into a mortal languor. activity is to me a necessity; i must keep moving myself, and make others move, but i'll be hanged if i know whither. you see, then, i disclose my inmost thoughts to you. plans i have, enough and to spare, for the lives of a score of emperors. i make one every morning, and another every evening; my imagination wearies not; but before some three or four of my plans could be carried out, i should be used up body and mind: our little lamp of life burns not long before it begins to flicker. and now, to speak with entire frankness, am i sure that the world would be happier even if all my plans were put in execution? it would certainly be a somewhat finer thing than it is, for a magnificent uniformity would reign throughout it. i am not a philosopher; and in the affair of common sense, i am bound to own that the florentine secretary was a master to us all. i am no proficient in theories: with me reflection precedes decision, and execution instantly follows: the shortness of life forbids us to stand still. when i shall have passed away, there will be comments enough on my actions to exalt me if i succeed, to disparage me if i fail. paradoxes are already rife--they are never wanting in france--but i shall still them to silence while i live; and when i am gone--no matter. my object is to succeed; for that i have some capacity. my iliad i compose in action; every day adds an episode." as he spoke these latter words he rose from his seat with a light elastic movement, and seemed altogether another person. when relieved from the turmoil of passion, he became gay, cheerful, and at the same time unaffected and natural. he made no effort to pose, nor did he seek to exalt and idealize himself, as he did afterward in the conversations at st. helena, to meet some philosophic conception, or to fill up the portrait of himself which he desired to bequeath to posterity. he was far from any thing of this sort: in simple reality, he was himself, as it were, turned inside out. after a slight pause he advanced a step or two toward the pope, who had not moved, and smiling, with an expression half-serious, half-ironical, proceeded in a new vein, in which were blended something of the elevated and the petty, of the pompous and the trivial, as was often his usage--all the time speaking with the volubility so often exhibited by this most versatile genius. "birth is every thing: those who appear on this world's stage poor and friendless, have a desperate struggle to maintain. according to the quality of their minds they turn to action or to self-destruction. when they have resolution to set to work, as i have done, they often play the winning game. a man must live; he must conquer a position, and make for himself an abiding-place. i have made mine as a cannon-ball does; so much the worse for those who stood in my way. some are content with little, others never have enough: men eat according to their appetites, and i have a large one. mark me, when i was at toulon, i had not the price of a pair of epaulets; but instead of them i had on my shoulders my mother, and i know not how many brothers. all these are now tolerably well provided for; and as to josephine, who, it was said, married me from pity, we are about to crown her in the very teeth of raguedeau, her notary, who once told her that i had lost my commission and my sword, and was not worth a ducat; and faith he was not far wrong! but now, what is it that rises up in perspective before me? an imperial mantle and a crown. to me what are such things? a costume, a mere actor's costume. i shall wear them for the occasion, that's enough: then resuming my military frock, i'll get on horseback. on horseback said i?--yes, and perhaps for life; but scarcely shall i have taken up my new position when i shall run the risk of being pushed off my pedestal. is that a state to be envied? there are but two classes of men--those who have something, and those who have nothing. the first take their rest, the others remain awake. as i perceived this when starting in the race of life, i have reached the goal thus early. i know of but two men who attained it after having set out at the age of forty, and they were cromwell and rousseau. had the one had but a farm, and the other a few hundred francs and a domestic, they would neither have commanded, preached, nor written. there are various sorts of artists--in building, in forms, in colors, in phrases. i am an artist in battles; i had executed eighteen of what are called victories before the age of thirty-five. i have a right to be paid for my work, and if paid with a throne, it can not be called dear. but, after all, a throne, what is it? two or three boards fashioned in this form or in that, and nailed together, with a strip of red velvet to cover them. by itself it is nothing; 'tis the man who sits upon it that makes its force. still, throne or no throne, i shall follow my vocation: you shall see some more of my doings. you shall see all dynasties date from mine, 'parvenu' though i be; and elected, yes, elected like yourself, and chosen from the crowd. on that point, at all events, we may shake hands." so saying, he advanced and held out his hand. the pope did not decline the courtesy; but there was an evident constraint in his manner as he almost tremblingly reached to him the tips of his fingers. he seemed under the influence of a complex tide of emotion. he was moved somewhat, perhaps, by the tone of _bonhomie_ that pervaded the latter remarks, and by the frankness of the advance which concluded them; but the dominant feeling was evidently of a sombre cast, arising from a reflection on his own position, and still more on that of so many christian communities abandoned to the caprices of selfishness and hazard. these movements of the inner man did not escape the scrutinizing glance of bonaparte; a light and shadow passed rapidly across his face. he had carried one point--the coronation was tacitly conceded; the rest may be left to time. it was evident that, though not entirely without alloy, the feeling of satisfaction was uppermost as he strode from the room with all the _brusquerie_ with which he had entered it. [from fraser's magazine.] gabrielle; or, the sisters. those who weep not here, shall weep eternally hereafter. _ecclesiæ græcæ monumenta._ dim voices haunt me from the past--for the dream of life is dreamed, and may now be revealed; the dreamer is loitering on the bier path leading to the green grass mounds, whence mouldering hands seem to point upward and say, "look thy last on the blue skies, and come rest with us." i have no happy childhood to recall; for i began to think so early, that pain and thought are linked together. i had a father, and a sister two years my senior; and our home was a small cottage, surrounded by a flower-garden, on the outskirts of a town, where the chime of church-bells was distinctly heard. these are sweet, romantic associations; but "garden flowers," and "silvery chimes," and "childhood's home," are words which awaken no answering chord in my heart--for reality was stern, and fancy wove no fabric of fairy texture wherewith to cover the naked truth. my mother died when i was born; and my father was a thin, pale man, always wrapped in flannels about the head and throat, and moving slowly with the aid of a stick. he never breakfasted with us--we were kept in the kitchen, to save firing--but he came down late in the forenoon, and when it was warm and sunshiny he would take a gentle stroll into the fields, never townward. we dined at a late hour, and there were always delicacies for my father; and after dinner he sat over his wine, smoking cigars and reading the newspapers, till it was time to go to bed. he took little notice of gabrielle or me, except to command silence, or to send us for any thing he wanted. there were two parlors in the cottage, one at each side of the door; the furniture was scanty and mean, and the parlor on the left-hand side never had a fire in it, for my father always inhabited the other. it was bitter cold for gabrielle and me in this left-hand room during the winter, for we were often turned in there to amuse ourselves; our sole domestic--an ancient irish servitor, retained by my father solely on account of her culinary accomplishments--never admitted us poor shivering girls into the kitchen when she was cooking, for, said nelly, "if i am teased or narvous i shall, maybe, spoil the dinner, and then our lady save us from the masther's growl." no one ever came near us--we seemed utterly neglected, and our very existence unknown. the house was redolent with the fumes of tobacco, and the garden where we played was a wilderness of weeds, among which roses bloomed in summer, and gabrielle and i watched for their coming with delight: those summer roses, on the great tangled bushes, were surely more beautiful to us than to other and more fortunate children--we gathered and preserved each leaf as it fell, and never was fragrance so delicious! now it may naturally be supposed, that from ignorance our impressions were not painful; but from the time when i first began to notice and comprehend, i also began to bitterly feel our condition, and gabrielle felt it far more than i did. we knew that we were half-starved, half-clad, neglected, unloved creatures, and that our parent was a personification of selfishness. we saw other children prettily dressed, walking past with their mothers or nurses--or trotting to school, healthful and happy; and our hearts yearned to be like them--yearned for a mother's kiss! gabrielle was habitually silent and proud, though often passionate when we were at play together; but the outburst was soon over, and she hugged me again directly. i early learned to dislike all ugly things from gazing on her--her beauty was of a kind to dazzle a child--she was so brilliantly fair and colorless, with clustering golden hair falling to her waist, and large soft blue eyes, which always made me think of heaven and the angels; for, thanks to his mercy, i knew of them when i was yet a child. of course we were unacquainted with our father's history as we afterward heard it. he was of a decayed but noble family, and--alas! it is a commonplace tale--he had ruined his fortunes and broken his wife's heart by gambling. worse even than this, he was irretrievably disgraced and lost to society, having been detected as a cheat; and broken down in every sense of the word, with a trifling annuity only to subsist on, he lived, as i remember him, pampered, luxurious, and utterly forgetful of all save self. and, oh! god grant there be none--poor or rich, high or low--who can repeat the sacred name of "father" as i do, without an emotion of tenderness, without the slightest gossamer thread of love or respect twined around the memory to bind the parental benediction thereto. nelly had followed our deceased mother from her native isle, for she too was irish, and clung to our father, ministering to his habits and tastes, a good deal, i believe, for our sakes, and to keep near us. she was a coarse woman; and, unlike her race in general, exhibited but few outward demonstrations of attachment. when her work was done in the evening she sometimes taught us the alphabet and to spell words of three letters; the rest we mastered for ourselves, and taught each other, and so in process of time we were able to read. the like with writing: nelly pointed out the rudiments, and gabrielle, endowed with magical powers of swift perception, speedily wrought out lessons both for herself and me. the only books in the house were a cookery-book; a spelling-book which nelly borrowed; a great huge history of england, which formed her usual footstool; and an ancient, equally large bible, full of quaint pictures. would that i had the latter blessed volume bound in gold now, and set with diamonds! a new epoch opened in my life. i had already thought, now i understood; and the light divine dawned on my soul as nelly, the humble instrument of grace, in simple words explained all that was wanting: for our faith is very simple, notwithstanding the ineffable glories of jesus and redemption. i dreamed by night of jesus and of angels, and of shepherds watching their flocks "all seated on the ground;" and i used to ask nelly if she did not think an angel must be just like gabrielle, with shining wings, certainly? but nelly would say that miss gabrielle was too proud for an angel, and never likely to become one unless she liked her bible better; and it was too true that my darling sister had not the same love for holy things that i had then. she liked to read of queen bess and bluff king hal; but when we found our way to a church, and heard the chanting, her emotions far surpassed mine, and she sobbed outright. at length gabrielle, who had been pondering many days without speaking, confided to me her determination to ask our father to send us to school. "why should i not ask him, ruth?" she said. "i wonder we never thought of it before--only he is always poorly, or smoking, or drinking." i observed her beautiful lip curl as she spoke in a contemptuous tone, and i thought that jesus taught _not so_; but i feared to speak--so i wept, and knelt down alone and prayed for my sister. gabrielle did ask him, and my father laid down his paper, and took the cigar from his mouth, gazing in dull amazement at the speaker, but i saw his gaze become more earnest and observant as he said, "why, girl, how old are you?" "i was thirteen last month," replied gabrielle. "you are a monstrous tall girl of your age, then, i declare: and you have learned to read from nelly, haven't you?" "yes, we have," was the quiet reply; "but we wish to learn something more than that." "then you must go to some charity school, miss, for i have no money to pay for such nonsense; you can read, and write, and sew, and what more would you have? pass the claret nearer, and reach me those cigars; and take yourselves off, for my head is splitting." i must draw a vail over gabrielle's passion when we were alone. "it is not for myself only that i sorrow," she exclaimed, as her sobs subsided; "but you, poor, little, delicate thing, with your lameness, what is to become of you in the big world if you are left alone? you can not be a servant; and what are we to do without education? for nelly has told me our father's income dies with him." her expressions were incoherent; and when i tried to comfort her, by assurances that the blessed saviour cared for the fatherless, she turned away and left me. so ended the first and last application to our parent. when i remember gabrielle's career from that period to her sixteenth year i much marvel at the precocity of intellect she exhibited, and the powers of mind with which she was endowed. we had no money to procure books--no means to purchase even the common necessaries of clothing, which too often made us ashamed to appear in church. but suddenly gabrielle seemed to become a woman, and i her trusting child. she was silent and cold; but not sullen or cold to me, though her mouth became compressed as if from bitter thought, and never lost that expression again, save when she smiled. oh, that sunny smile of radiant beauty! i see it now--i see it now! i tried to win her, by coaxing and fondling, to read the holy book; but gabrielle said we were outcasts, and deserted by god. when i heard that my wan cheeks burned with indignation, and i exclaimed, "you are wicked to say so;" but gabrielle was not angry, for tears stood in her eyes as she fixed them on me, whispering, "poor little cripple--sweet, gentle, loving sister--the angels that whisper these good things to you pass me over. i hear them not, ruth." "sister, sister, they speak and you will not hear: do you think the stupid, lame ruth is favored beyond the clever, the beautiful, the noble gabrielle?" then with an outburst of passionate love she would take me in her arms, and weep long and bitterly. i knew that i could not enter into the depths of her feelings, but i comprehended her haughty bearing and scornful glances; for the neighbors looked at us pitifully, and gabrielle writhed beneath it: child as she was, there was something awful and grand in her lonely majesty of demeanor. her self-denying, constant devotion toward me--often ailing and pining as i was--i repaid by an affection which i am sure is quite different from that entertained by sisters happily placed for each other: gabrielle was as mother and sister, and friend and nurse, and playmate, all in one to me. she and the bright young roses in our neglected garden, were the only two beautiful creations i had ever seen. it was well for me, in my childish simplicity, that i knew not the wreck of mind--the waste of brilliant powers for want of cultivation--of which gabrielle was the victim; but she knew it, brooded over it, and the festering poison of hatred and contempt changed her innocent, affectionate nature, toward all created things, except her own and only sister. we never wearied of listening to nelly's accounts of the former grandeur of our maternal ancestors, intermixed with wild legends of chivalrous love and gallant daring. she told us, too, of our ancient blood on the father's side, and that we were the great-grandchildren of a belted earl. gabrielle's pale cheeks flushed not--her eyes were downcast; but i knew the sufferings of the proud, beautiful girl. i too, humble as i was, felt what we were--what we ought to have been, and the blood of the de courcys and o'briens mounted to my throbbing temples. gabrielle was a lady--a lady in each action, word, and look; poorly and insufficiently clad, her tall, graceful form bore the unmistakable mark of hereditary breeding, which neither poverty nor neglect could eradicate. it was not her exceeding loveliness which alone attracted observation, but it was a refinement and elegance which no education can bestow--it was nature's stamp on one of her most peerless and exquisite productions. one evening, when we had been listening to nelly's discourse by the kitchen fire, a sudden and a new thought took hold of my imagination, nor could i rest until i had imparted it to gabrielle. it was this--that she might marry some great, rich man, and so release us from want and privation; for, of course, my home would always be with her! gabrielle looked gravely on my upturned face an i knelt beside her, and confided this "new plan." "ruth," she said, "you are a wise and a singular child, and you deserve to be trusted. i mean to become a rich man's wife if i have the opportunity; but how it is to be brought about, your good book, perhaps, may tell." "oh, darling," i cried, "do not smile so scornfully when you speak of that blessed, dear book; it would comfort and lead you, indeed it would, if you would but open and read its pages." "well, well, parson ruth," she cried, laughing, "that will do. when the rich man comes down from the clouds to make me his bride, i promise you i'll have a book bound in gold like that; and you shall be educated, my darling ruth, as the daughters of the de courcys ought to be, and you shall forget that we have no father, no mother." "forget our father?" said i. "never, never!" gabrielle was terribly shaken and agitated: little more than a child in years, injustice and sorrow had taught her the emotions of age, yet she was a guileless child in the world's ways, as events soon proved. we used to ramble out into the adjacent meadows, and doubtless our roamings would have extended far and wide, had not my lameness precluded much walking, and gabrielle never had a thought of leaving me. so we were contented to saunter by a shining stream that meandered amid the rich pasture-land near our home; this stream was frequented by those fortunate anglers only who obtained permission from the lady of the manor to fish in it, and this permit was not lavishly bestowed, consequently our favorite haunt was usually a solitary one. but soon after gabrielle had completed her sixteenth year we noted a sickly youth, who patiently pursued his quiet sport by the hour together, and never looked round as we passed and repassed him. some trifling "chance" (as it is called) led to his thanking gabrielle for assisting to disentangle his line, which had caught amid the willow-branches overhanging the water; the same "chance" caused him to observe his beautiful assistant, and i saw his start of surprise and admiration. he was a silly-looking lad, we thought, dressed like a gentleman, and behaving as one; and he was never absent now from the meadows when we were there. he always bowed, and often addressed some passing observation to us, but timidly and respectfully, for gabrielle was a girl to command both homage and respect. she pitied the lonely, pale young man, who seemed so pleased to find any one to speak to, and exhibited such extraordinary patience and perseverance, for he never caught a fish that we saw. through the medium of a gossip of nelly, who was kitchen-maid at the principal inn, we ascertained that our new acquaintance was staying there for his health's benefit, and for the purpose of angling; that his name was erminstoun, only son of the rich mr. erminstoun, banker, of t----. nelly's gossip had a sister who lived at erminstoun hall, so there was no doubt about the correctness of the information, both as regarded mr. thomas erminstoun's identity, and the enormous wealth of which it was said his father was possessed. the informant added, that poor mr. thomas was a _leetle_ soft maybe, but the idol of his parent; and that he squandered "money like nothing," "being a generous, open-handed, good young gentleman." i observed a great change in gabrielle's manner, after hearing this, toward her admirer--for so he must be termed--as admiration was so evident in each word and look: by-and-by gabrielle went out alone--there was no one to question or rebuke her; and in six weeks from the day that mr. thomas erminstoun first saw her she became his wife. yes, startling as it appears, it all seemed very natural and simple of accomplishment then; early one brilliant summer morning, gabrielle woke me, and bade me rise directly, as she wished to confide something of great importance, which was about to take place in a few hours. pale, but composed, she proceeded to array herself and me in plain white robes, and straw bonnets; new and purely white, yet perfectly simple and inexpensive, though far better than the habiliments we had been accustomed to wear. gabrielle took them from a box, which must have come when i was sleeping; and when our toilet was completed, i compared her in my own mind to one of those young maidens whom i had seen in the church, when bands of fair creatures were assembled for confirmation. she looked not like _a bride_--there was no blushing, no trembling; but a calm self-possession, and determination of purpose, which awed me. "my wise little sister ruth," she said, "i am going to be married this morning to mr. thomas erminstoun, at ---- church. you are my bridemaid, and the clerk gives me away. i shall not come back here any more, for a chaise and four waits in yarrow wood to convey us away directly after our marriage. you will come home, darling, and take off your marriage apparel to appear before _him_; and as i do not often dine with him, and he never asks for me, i shall not be missed. so say nothing--nelly's tongue is tied--fear not her. be patient, beloved one, till you hear from me: bright days are coming, ruth, and we do not part for long." here she wept, oh, so bitterly, i thought she would die. amazed and trembling, i ventured to ask if she loved mr. thomas erminstoun better than me, for jealousy rankled, and at fourteen i knew nothing of _love_. "love _him_!" she cried vehemently, clasping her hands wildly; "i love only you on earth, my ruth, my sister. he is a fool; and i marry him to save you and myself from degradation and misery. he buys me with his wealth. i am little more than sixteen"--she hung down her lovely head, poor thing--"but i am old in sorrow; i am hardened in sin, for i am about to commit a great sin. i vow to love, where i despise; to obey, when i mean to rule; and to honor, when i hold the imbecile youth in utter contempt!" vain were supplications and prayers to wait. gabrielle led me away to the meadows, where a fly was in waiting, which conveyed us to the church. i saw her married; i signed something in a great book; i felt her warm tears and embraces, and i knew that mr. thomas erminstoun kissed me too, as he disappeared with gabrielle, and the clerk placed me in the fly alone, which put me down in the same place, in the quiet meadows by the shining water. i sat down and wept till i became exhausted. was this all a dream? had gabrielle really gone? my child-sister married? become rich and great? but i treasured her words, hurried home, and put on my old dark dress; and nelly said not a word. mr. thomas erminstoun's gold had secured her silence; and she was to "know nothing," but to take care of me for the present. ere my father retired to rest that night, a letter was brought addressed to him. i never knew the contents, but it was from gabrielle and gabrielle's husband. i did not see him again for some days, and then he never looked at me; and strange, strange it seemed, gabrielle had disappeared like a snow wreath, in silence, in mystery; and i exclaimed in agony, "was there ever any thing like this in the world before?" my father made himself acquainted with the position of the young man whom his daughter had gone off with, and also of the legality of their marriage; that ascertained satisfactorily, he sank into the same hopeless slothfulness and indolence as heretofore, dozing life away, and considering he had achieved a prodigious labor in making the necessary inquiries. very soon after this i had my first letter--doubly dear and interesting because it was from gabrielle. the inn servant brought it under pretext of visiting nelly, so my father knew nothing about it. ah, that first letter! shall i ever forget how i bathed it my with tears, and covered it with kisses? it was short, and merely said they were in lodgings for the present, because mr. erminstoun had not yet forgiven his son: not a word about her happiness; not a word of her husband; but she concluded by saying, "that very soon she hoped to send for her darling ruth--never to be parted more." i know that my guardian angel whispered the thoughts that now came into my head as i read and pondered; because i had prayed to be led as a sheep by the shepherd, being but a simple, weakly child. i determined on two things--to show the letter i had received from gabrielle to my father, for conscience loudly whispered concealment was wrong; and never to quit him, because the time might come when he, perhaps, would require, or be glad of my attendance. i felt quite happy after forming these resolutions on my knees; and i wrote to gabrielle telling her of them. i know not if my father observed what i said, but he took no notice, for he was half asleep and smoking; so i left the letter beside him, as i ever did afterward, for i often heard from my beloved sister: and oh! but it _was_ hard to resist her entreaties that i would come to her--that it was for my sake as well as her own she had taken so bold a step; and that now she had a pleasant home for me, and i refused. it was hard to refuse; but god was with me, or i never could have had strength of myself to persevere in duty, and "_deny myself_." when gabrielle found arguments and entreaties vain, she gave way to bursts of anguish that nearly overcame me; but when "i was weak, then i was strong," and i clasped my precious bible, and told her i _dared_ not leave my father. then came presents of books, and all kinds of beautiful and useful things, to add to my comfort or improvement. gabrielle told me they were settled in a pretty cottage near the hall, and that mr. erminstoun had forgiven his son. mr. erminstoun was a widower, and had five daughters by a former marriage--gabrielle's husband being the only child of his second union: the misses erminstoun were all flourishing in single blessedness, and were known throughout the country-side as the "proud miss erminstouns." these ladies were tall, and what some folks call "dashing women;" wearing high feathers, bright colors, and riding hither and thither in showy equipages, or going to church on the sabbath with a footman following their solemn and majestic approach to the house of prayer, carrying the richly-emblazoned books of these "miserable sinners." how i pined to hear from gabrielle that she was happy, and cherished by her new connections; that she was humbled also, in some measure--abashed at the bold step she had taken. so young--so fair--so determined. i trembled, girl as i was, when i thought that god's wrath might fall on her dear head, and chasten her rebellious spirit. six months subsequent to gabrielle's departure our father died, after but a few days' severe suffering. dying, he took my hand and murmured, "good child!" and those precious words fell as a blessing on my soul; and i know he listened to the prayers which god put into my heart to make for his departing spirit. i mourned for the dead, because he was my father and i his child.... nelly accompanied me to my sister's home; and fairyland seemed opening to my view when i embraced gabrielle once more. what a pleasant home it was!--a cottage not much larger than the one i had left--but how different! elegance and comfort were combined; and when i saw the rare exotics in the tasteful conservatory i remembered the roses in our wilderness. ah, i doubt if we ever valued flowers as we did those precious dewy buds. wood end cottage stood on the brow of a hill, commanding a fair prospect of sylvan quietude; the old parsonage was adjacent, inhabited by a bachelor curate, "poor and pious," the church tower peeping forth from a clump of trees. the peal of soft bells in that mouldering tower seemed to me like unearthly music: my heart thrilled as i heard their singular, melancholy chime. there were fine monuments within the church, and it had a superb painted window, on which the sun always cast its last gleams during the hours of summer-evening service. my brother-in-law, mr. thomas erminstoun, was paler and thinner than when i had seen him last, and i was shocked and alarmed at his appearance. his love for gabrielle amounted to idolatry; and for her sake he loved and cherished me. she was colder and haughtier in manner than ever, receiving passively all the devoted tenderness lavished by her husband: this pained me sadly; for though he was assuredly simple, there was an earnest truthfulness and kindliness about him, which won on the affections amazingly. he would speak to me of gabrielle by the hour together, with ever-increasing delight; we both marveled at her surpassing beauty, which each week became more angelic and pure in character. on me alone all my sister's caresses were bestowed; all the pent-up love of a passionate nature found vent in my arms, which were twined around her with strange enthusiastic love; therefore it was, her faults occasioned me such agony--for i could not but see them--and i alone, of all the world, knew her noble nature--knew what she "might have been." i told her that i expected to have found her cheerful, now she had a happy home of her own. "happy! cheerful!" she cried, sadly. "a childhood such as mine was, flings dark shadows over all futurity, ruth." "oh, speak not so, beloved," i replied; "have you not a good husband, your error mercifully forgiven? are you not surrounded by blessings?" "and dependent," she answered, bitterly "but dependent on your husband, as the bible says every woman should be." "and my husband is utterly dependent on his father, ruth; he has neither ability nor health to help himself, and on his father he depends for our bread. i have but exchanged one bondage for another; and all my hope is now centred in you, dearest, to educate you--to render you independent of this cold, hard world." "why, gabrielle," i said, "you are not seventeen yet--it is not too late, is it, for you also to be educated?" "too late, too late," answered gabrielle, mournfully. "listen, wise ruth, i shall be a mother soon; and to my child, if it is spared, and to you, i devote myself. you have seen the misses erminstoun--you have seen vulgarity, insolence, and absurd pretension; they have taunted me with my ignorance, and i will not change it now. the blood of the de courcys and o'briens has made me a lady; and all the wealth of the indies can not make them so. no, ruth, i will remain in ignorance, and yet tower above them, high as the clouds above the dull earth, in innate superiority and power of mind!" "oh, my sister," i urged timidly, "it is not well to think highly of one's self--the bible teaches not so." "ruth! ruth!" she exclaimed, impatiently, "it is not that i think highly of myself, as you well know; you well know with what anguish i have deplored our wants; it is pretension i despise, and rise above; talent, and learning, and virtue, and nobleness, that i revere, and could worship!" "but, beloved," i urged, "people may be very kind and good, without being so mighty clever." "the erminstouns female are not kind, are not good," she haughtily replied: "the erminstouns male are fools! ruth, i have changed one bondage for another, and the sins of the father fall on the innocent child. i have changed starvation, and cold, and degradation, for hateful dependence on the vulgar and despised. woe is me, woe is me! if i can but save you, my sister, and make you independent, i can bear my lot." my education commenced, and they called me a "wise child:" every one was kind to the poor cripple, even the "proud miss erminstouns," who cast envious and disdainful glances on my beautiful sister, which she repaid with unutterable scorn--silent, but sure. oh, how i prayed gabrielle to _try_ and win their love; to read her bible, and therein find that "a kind word turneth away wrath;" but gabrielle was proud as lucifer, and liked not to read of humility and forbearance. i found a zealous friend and instructor in mr. dacre, the "poor, pious curate;" he was a college friend of my brother-in-law, and a few years his senior. i felt assured that mr. dacre thought mr. thomas's life a very precarious one, from the way in which he spoke to him on religious subjects, and the anxiety he evinced as to his spiritual welfare. mr. dacre used also to call me his "wise little friend;" and we were wont to speak of passages in the book i loved best. what thought i of him? why, sometimes in my own mind i would compare him to an apostle--st. paul, for instance, sincere, learned, and inspired; but then st. paul haunted my day-dreams as a reverend gentleman with a beard and flowing robes, while mr. dacre was young, handsome, and excessively neat in his ecclesiastical costume and appointments generally. mr. dacre had serious dark eyes--solemn eyes they were, in my estimation, but the very sweetest smile in the world; and one of the misses erminstoun seemed to think so too: but people said that the pious young minister was vowed to celibacy. there was also another frequent visitor at erminstoun hall, who not seldom found his way to wood end cottage; and this was no less a personage than lord treherne, who resided at treherne abbey in princely magnificence, and had lately become a widower. this nobleman was upward of sixty, stately, cold, and reserved in manner, and rarely warmed into a smile, except in contemplation of woman's beauty; of which, indeed, he was an enthusiastic admirer. the late lady treherne had presented her lord with no family; and the disappointment was bitterly felt by lord treherne, who most ardently desired an heir to succeed to his ancient title and immense possessions. it was rumored abroad that the eldest miss erminstoun was likely to become the favored lady on whom his lordship's second choice might fall: she was still a handsome woman, and as cold and haughty as lord treherne himself; but, notwithstanding her smiles and encouragement, the ancient cavalier in search of a bride did not propose. nay, on the contrary, he evinced considerable interest in mr. thomas erminstoun's failing health; he was the poor young gentleman's godfather, and it seemed not improbable that, in the event of his lordship dying childless, his godson might inherit a desirable fortune. rare fruits and flowers arrived in profusion from the abbey; and my lord showed great interest in my progress, while gabrielle treated him with far more freedom than she did any one else, and seemed pleased and gratified by his fatherly attentions. at length the time arrived when gabrielle became the mother of as lovely a babe as ever entered this world of woe; and it was a fair and touching sight to behold the young mother caressing her infant daughter. i have often wondered that i felt no pangs of jealousy, for the beauteous stranger more than divided my sister's love for me--she engaged it nearly all: and there was something fearful and sublime in the exceeding idolatry of gabrielle for her sweet baby. self was immolated altogether; and when she hung over the baby's couch each night, watching its happy, peaceful slumbers, it was difficult to say which of the twain was the more beautiful. repose marked the countenance of each--gabrielle's was imbued with the heavenly repose of parental love. in less than twelve months after its birth, that poor baby was fatherless. i had anticipated and foreseen this calamity; and gabrielle conducted herself, as i believed she would, without hypocrisy, but with serious propriety. sad scenes followed this solemn event; the misses erminstoun wished to take her child from gabrielle, to bring it up at the hall. mr. erminstoun urged her compliance, and recommended my sister to seek "a situation" for me, as "he had already so expensive an establishment to keep up; and now poor thomas was gone, there was really no occasion for wood end cottage to be on his hands. gabrielle must find a home in some farm-house." all this came about in a few months, from one thing to another; and the young widow, who had been ever hated as a wife, was grudged her daily support by her deceased husband's family. "give up her child?" gabrielle only laughed when they spoke of that; but her laugh rings in my ears yet! though it was as soft and musical as the old church bells. we left wood end cottage, and found refuge in a retired farm-house, as mr. erminstoun proposed; but we were together: and there were many who cried "shame" on the rich banker, for thus casting off his daughter-in-law and his grandchild. small was the pittance he allowed for our subsistence; and the misses erminstoun never noticed gabrielle on her refusal to part with the child. "she was not fit," they bruited about, "to bring up their poor brother's daughter. she was ignorant, uneducated, and unamiable, besides being basely ungrateful for kindness lavished; she had a cold heart and repellant manner, which had steeled their sympathies toward her." they thought themselves ill-used at erminstoun hall; and the five misses erminstoun regarded gabrielle and her poor little daughter as mere interlopers, who were robbing them of their father's money. well might gabrielle say--"i have changed one bondage for another!" but i never heard her repeat that now. she was silent, even to me. no murmur escaped her lips; and what she felt or suffered i knew not. little ella was a pale flower, like her mother; but as similar to the parent rose as an opening rosebud. "what could i do?" were the words i was continually repeating to myself. "i must not be an added burden to mr. erminstoun. i have already profited by my sister's union with his son, by having gratefully received instruction in various branches of learning, and can i not do something for myself?" what this _something_ was to be, i could not define. my lameness precluded active employment, and i was too young to become a "companion." i confided my thoughts and wishes to mr. dacre, who often visited us, speaking words of balm and consolation to the afflicted. gabrielle listened to his words, as she never had done to mine; and he could reprove, admonish, exhort, or cheer, when all human hope seemed deserting us. for where were we to look for a shelter, should it please mr. erminstoun to withdraw his allowance, to force gabrielle to abandon her child to have it from want? i verily believe, had it not been for that precious babe, she would have begged her bread, and suffered me to do so, rather than be dependent on the scantily-doled-out bounty of mr. erminstoun. during the twelve months that elapsed after her husband's death there was a "great calm" over gabrielle--a tranquillity, like that exhibited by an individual walking in sleep. i had expected despair and passion when her lofty spirit was thus trampled to the dust; but no, as i have said, she was strangely tranquil--strangely silent. there was no resignation--that is quite another thing; and, except when my sister listened to mr. dacre, she never read her bible, or suffered me to read it to her: but his deep, full, rich voice, inexpressibly touching and sweet in all its modulations, ever won her rapt, undivided attention. she attended the church where he officiated; and though the erminstouns had a sumptuously-decorated pew there, it was not to that the young widow resorted; she sat amid the poor in the aisle, beneath a magnificent monument of the treherne family, where the glorious sunset rays, streaming through the illuminated window, fell full upon her clustering golden hair and downcast eyes. there was pride in this, not humility; and gabrielle deceived herself, as, with a quiet grace peculiarly her own, she glided to her lowly seat, rejecting lord treherne's proffered accommodation, as he courteously stood with his pew door open, bowing to the fair creature as if she had been a queen. the five misses erminstoun knelt on their velvet cushions, arrayed in feathers and finery, and strong in riches and worldly advantages; but my pale sister, in her coarsely-fashioned mourning-garb, seated on a bench, and kneeling on the stone, might have been taken for the regal lady, and they her plebeian attendants. spiteful glances they cast toward gabrielle, many a time and oft, when my lord treherne so pointedly paid his respectful devoirs; and there was as much pride and haughtiness in gabrielle's heart as in theirs. poor thing! she said truly, that "early shadows had darkened her soul," and what had she left but _pride_? not an iota of woman's besetting littleness had my sister--noble, generous, self-denying, devoted where she loved; her sweetness had been poisoned, nor had she sought that fountain of living water which alone can purify such bitterness. gentle in manner, pure in heart, affectionate in disposition, gabrielle's pride wrought her misery. lord treherne never came in person to our humble home--he had but once paid his respects to gabrielle since her widowhood; but the rarest exotics continued to decorate our poor room, constantly replenished from treherne abbey, and sent, with his lordship's card, by a confidential domestic. he was always at church now, and people remarked "how pious my lord had latterly become." i was far too young and inexperienced then to understand or appreciate this delicacy and propriety on lord treherne's part. but mr. dacre understood it; nor would _he_ have intruded on our privacy, save in his ministerial capacity, and for the purpose of aiding and assisting me in the studies i endeavored to pursue. there was a "halo of sanctity" around mr. dacre, which effectually precluded any approach to freedom or frivolous conversation, in any society wherein he might be placed. he gave the tone to that society, and the gay and dashing misses erminstoun became subdued in his presence; while lord treherne, with excellent taste, not only showed the outward respect due to mr. dacre's sacred and high office, but the regard which his personal qualities deserved. i have often looked back on that time immediately after my brother-in-law's decease, with wonder at our serenity--nay, almost contentment and happiness; despite the anguish and humiliation i knew gabrielle must endure, her smile was ever beautiful and sweet, and illumined our poor home with the sunshine of heaven. our baby was, i think i may say, almost equally dear to us both--it had two mothers, gabrielle said; and what with nursing the darling little thing, and learning my lessons, and mr. dacre's visits, time flew rapidly. on the appearance of each fresh token of lord treherne's remembrance, i observed an expression flit across my sister's face which i could not define; it was of triumph and agony combined, and she always flew to her baby, clasping it convulsively to her bosom, and whispering words of strange import. on mr. dacre's expressive, serious countenance, also, i noticed passing clouds, as gabrielle bestowed enthusiastic admiration on the superb exotics. why this was i could by no means satisfactorily decide, as mr. dacre, so kind and generous, must approve the disinterested delicacy exhibited by lord treherne, in his offerings to the fatherless and widow. but the disinterestedness of my lord's attentions was a myth which i soon discarded: for in twelve months subsequent to mr. thomas erminstoun's decease, a letter from treherne abbey was brought to gabrielle, sealed with the armorial bearings of the trehernes, and signed by the present representative of that noble race. we were seated at our fireside, busy with domestic needlework, and i saw gabrielle's hands tremble as she opened it, while that strange, wild expression of triumph and pain, flitted more than once over her face as she perused the missive. she silently gave it to me, and with amazement i read its contents--such an idea had never once entered my simple brain. lord treherne made gabrielle an offer of his hand and heart, signifying that if she would graciously incline her ear to his suit, a brilliant destiny awaited her infant daughter--on whom, and on its lovely mother, the most munificent settlements should be made. i laughed heartily as i read his lordship's rhapsodies, becoming a young lover; and i said, returning the epistle to gabrielle, "what a pity, dearest, that we can not have such a noble father for our little ella!" the possibility of gabrielle's marrying a man of nearly seventy never entered into my calculations for a moment. therefore my astonishment was overwhelming when she seriously answered, "why can not lord treherne be a father to my child, ruth?" "because, dearest, you could not marry him--he is so old." "but i mean to marry him, ruth: could you doubt it? could i have lived on as i have done without prophetic hope to support me? think you, if lord treherne were double the age, i would refuse rank, wealth and power? oh, ruth, were i alone, it might be different." she spoke in a tone of suppressed anguish and passionate regret. "but look on her," pointing to the sleeping cherub, "for her sake i would _immolate myself on any altar of sacrifice_. her fate shall be a brighter one than her mother's--if that mother has power to save and to bless! _she_ must not be doomed to poverty or dependence. no, no! i give her a father who can restore in her the ancient glories of our race; for my ella is a descendant of the chivalrous o'briens and the noble de courcys." "and of the erminstouns of erminstoun hall," i gently suggested, for gabrielle was greatly excited. "name them not, ruth; name them not, if you love me. to change their hated name, what would i not do?" alas! thought i, you are deceiving yourself, my poor sister, in this supposed immolation on an altar of sacrifice; it is not for your child's sake alone, though you fancy so. but blanche erminstoun will be disappointed, revenge obtained, and pride amply gratified, and truly "the heart is deceitful above all things." mr. dacre entered the apartment as gabrielle ceased speaking, for we had not heard his modest signal, and he was unannounced. my sister colored to the very temples on seeing the young pastor, and her hands trembled in the vain endeavor to fold lord treherne's letter, which at length she impatiently crushed together. i heard a half-smothered hysterical sob, as, with a faltering voice, she bade our guest "good-evening." ah! when the heart is aching and throbbing with agony, concealed and suppressed, it requires heroic self-command to descend to the commonplaces of this workaday world; but women early learn to conceal and subdue their feelings, when premature sorrows have divided them from real or pretended sympathies. i read my sister's heart, i knew her secret, and i inwardly murmured, "alas for woman's love, it is cast aside!" * * * * * my sister's marriage with lord treherne was a strictly private one (gabrielle had stipulated for this), his lordship's chaplain performing the ceremony. my thoughts reverted to gabrielle's first marriage, when the clerk gave her away, and she was clad in muslin; now she was arrayed in satin and glittering gems, and a peer of the realm, an old friend of the bridegroom, gave her lily hand at the altar to her noble lover. twice she was forsworn; but the desecration to her soul was not so great on the first as on the present occasion, for then her heart was still her own; while now, alas for woman's love, it was cast aside! in a few weeks after the marriage we all departed for the continent, where we remained for the six following years, gabrielle and myself receiving instructions in every accomplishment suitable to our position. it was charming to witness with what celerity my beautiful sister acquired every thing she undertook, for she was as anxious as her lord to adorn the high station to which she now belonged. wherever we went the fame of lady treherne's beauty went with us, while her fascination of manner and high-bred elegance perfectly satisfied her fastidious husband that he had made a wise and prudent choice. there was one drawback to his lordship's perfect contentment, and this was the absence of the much-wished-for heir, for gabrielle presented no children to her husband; and our little ella, a fairy child, of brilliant gifts and almost superhuman loveliness, became as necessary to lord treherne's happiness as she was to her doting mother's. it was settled ere we returned to england, that ella was to drop the name of erminstoun, and as lord treherne's acknowledged heiress, legal forms were to be immediately adopted in order to ratify the change of name to that of the family appellation of the trehernes. with a murmur of grateful feeling i saw gabrielle kneel beside her aged husband, and thank him fondly for this proof of regard; triumph sparkled in her eyes, and lord treherne laid his hand on her fair head, blessing her as he did so. she had made him a good wife, in every sense of the term: he had never forgot that her blood equaled his own. but gabrielle did, for that very reason; her gratitude made her humble toward him, because he was humble toward her: nor did lord treherne ever cease to think that gabrielle had conferred a favor in marrying him. a succession of _fêtes_ and entertainments were given at treherne abbey after our return, and gabrielle was the star on whom all gazed with delighted admiration. all the country families flocked to pay their homage, but the erminstouns came not until lady treherne extended a hand of welcome to her first husband's family; she was too exalted, both in station and mind, to cherish the pitiful remembrances of their former unkindness. there were but two misses erminstoun now, the others were well married (according to the world's notion, that is); and the youngest, who had not given up hopes of yet becoming mrs. dacre, had transformed herself into a nun-like damsel, something between a sister of charity and a quakeress in exterior: perhaps mr. dacre read the interior too well; and, notwithstanding the lady's assiduous visits to the poor, and attendance on the charity-schools, and regular loud devotions at church, mr. dacre remained obdurate and wedded to celibacy. it might be that he disapproved of the marriage of the clergy, but i think he was at one time vulnerable on that point. how delighted i was to see him once more, to hear him call me his "wise little friend," with his former sweet smile and affectionate manner; six years had changed him--he looked rather careworn, and well he might, for he was a true worker in the lord's vineyard: nor was his mission confined to the poor; the rich and noble also felt his influence. lord and lady treherne greeted him as an old and valued friend; nor could i detect the slightest agitation in gabrielle's manner, and my former suspicions almost faded away. she brought our fair ella to welcome "papa and mamma's friend" to treherne; and ella, with her winning, gentle ways, soon made mr. dacre understand that she loved him very much indeed: she was a holy child, and the principal joy of her innocent life was to hear me tell her those stories in which i used to take delight in my early days--how contrasted to hers! she would sing her pretty hymns, seated on a low footstool at lord treherne's feet; and the stately nobleman, with tears in his eyes, used to exclaim with pathos, "sister ruth, sister ruth, my heart misgives me; the angels surely will take this child to themselves, and leave us desolate." mr. dacre came not frequently to treherne, but he was a quick observer, and he saw we had set up an idol for ourselves in this child, he cautioned us, but gabrielle shivered--yes, _shivered_ with dismay, at the bare suggestion he hinted at--that god was a "jealous god," and permitted no idolatrous worship to pass unreproved. poor young mother, how can i relate the scenes i lived to witness! ella died, aged ten years. the mother sat by her coffin four days and nights, speechless and still; we dared not attempt to remove her, there way an alarming expression in her eyes if we did, that made the medical men uncertain how to act. she had tasted no food since the child died; she was hopeful to the last: it was impossible, she said, that her child could die; her faculties could not comprehend the immensity of the anguish in store for her. so there she sat like stone--cold, and silent, and wan, as the effigy she watched. who dared to awaken the mother? mr. dacre undertook the awful task, but it was almost too much for his tender, sympathizing heart; nerved by strength from above he came to us--for i never left my sister--and we three were alone with the dead. it harrows my soul to dwell on this subject, and it seemed cruel to awaken the benumbed mother to reality and life again, but it was done; and then words were spoken far too solemn and sacred to repeat here, and hearts were opened that otherwise might have remained sealed till the judgment day. gabrielle, for the first time in her life, knew herself as she was; and, prostrate beside her dead child, cried, "i have deserved thy chastening rod, for thou art the lord, and i thy creature; deal with me as thou seest best." pride abased, hope crushed, heart contrite and broken, never, never had gabrielle been so dear to me; and during many weeks that i watched beside her couch, as she fluctuated between life and death, i knew that, she was an altered being, and that this bitter, affliction had not been sent in vain. she came gently home to god, and humbly knelt a suppliant at the mercy-throne, forever crying, "thou art wisest! thou art best! thou, alone knowest what is good for us! thy will be done!" the blow had fallen heavily on lord treherne, but for two years my sister lived to bless and comfort him; then it became evident to all that the mother was about to rejoin her child in the mansions of the blessed. she expressed a wish that mr. dacre should read the funeral service over her, and he administered the last blessed consolations to her departing spirit; no remnants of mortal weakness lurked in his heart as he stood beside the dying, for he knew that in this world they were as pilgrims and strangers, but in that to which gabrielle was hastening they would be reunited in glory--no more partings, no more tears. she died calmly, with her hands clasped in lord treherne's and mine; while mr. dacre knelt absorbed in prayer she passed away, and we looked on each other in speechless sorrow, and then on what had been my young and beautiful sister. of my own deep grief and lacerated heart i will not speak; lord treherne required all my care and attention, nor would he hear of my quitting him--indeed, he could scarcely bear me to be out of his sight; the heavy infirmities of advanced years had suddenly increased since his double bereavement, and i felt very grateful that to my humble efforts he owed any glimpse of sunshine. he was a severe bodily sufferer for many years, but affliction was not sent in vain, for lord treherne became perfectly prepared for the awful change awaiting him, trusting in his merits alone. those were blessed hours when mr. dacre spoke to him of the dear departed, who had only journeyed on before--of god's ways in bringing us to himself, chastening pride and self-reliance, and tolerating no idol worship. lord treherne, with lavish generosity, made an ample provision for his "wise little ruth," as he ever smilingly called me to the last. he died peacefully, and the abbey came into the possession of a distant branch of the treherne family. wood end cottage was vacant, and i purchased it; and assisted by mr. dacre in the labor of love for our blessed master, life has not passed idly, and, i humbly trust, not entirely without being of use in my generation. previous to his decease, lord treherne caused a splendid monument to be erected in wood end church to the memory of gabrielle, and ella his adopted daughter: the spotless marble is exquisitely wrought, the mother and child reposing side-by-side as if asleep, with their hands meekly folded on their breasts, and their eyes closed, as if weary--weary. the last fading hues of sunset, which so often rested on gabrielle's form as she knelt in her widowhood beneath the monumental glories of the trehernes, now illumines the sculptured stone, which mysteriously hints of hidden things--corruption and the worm. i love to kneel in the house of prayer where gabrielle knelt: dim voices haunt me from the past: my place is prepared among the green grass mounds, for no tablet or record shall mark the spot where "ruth the cripple" reposes, sweetly slumbering with the sod on her bosom, "dust to dust." the waste of war. give me the gold that war has cost, before this peace-expanding day; the wasted skill, the labor lost-- the mental treasure thrown away; and i will buy each rood of soil in every yet discovered land; where hunters roam, where peasants toil, where many-peopled cities stand. i'll clothe each shivering wretch on earth. in needful; nay, in brave attire; vesture befitting banquet mirth, which kings might envy and admire. in every vale, on every plain, a school shall glad the gazer's sight; where every poor man's child may gain pure knowledge, free as air and light. i'll build asylums for the poor, by age or ailment made forlorn: and none shall thrust them from the door, or sting with looks and words of scorn. i'll link each alien hemisphere; help honest men to conquer wrong; art, science, labor, nerve and cheer; reward the poet for his song. in every crowded town shall rise halls academic, amply graced; where ignorance may soon be wise, and coarseness learn both art and taste to every province shall belong collegiate structures, and not few-- fill'd with a truth-exploring throng, and teachers of the good and true. in every free and peopled clime a vast walhalla hall shall stand; a marble edifice sublime, for the illustrious of the land; a pantheon for the _truly_ great, the wise, beneficent, and just; a place of wide and lofty state to honor or to hold their dust. a temple to attract and teach shall lift its spire on every hill, where pious men shall feel and preach peace, mercy, tolerance, good-will; music of bells on sabbath days, round the whole earth shall gladly rise; and one great christian song of praise stream sweetly upward to the skies! a night with an earthquake.[ ] the sound had not quite died away, when the feet i stood on seemed suddenly seized with the cramp. cup and coffee-pot dropped as dead from don marzio's hand as the ball from st. francis's palm. there was a rush as if of many waters, and for about ten seconds my head was overwhelmed by awful dizziness, which numbed and paralyzed all sensation. don marzio, in form an athlete, in heart a lion, but a man of sudden, sanguine temperament, bustled up and darted out of the room with the ease of a man never burdened with a wife, with kith or kin. donna betta, a portly matron, also rose instinctively; but i--i never could account for the odd freak--laid hold of her arm, bidding her stay. the roar of eight hundred houses--or how many more can there be in aquila?--all reeling and quaking, the yells of ten thousand voices in sudden agony, had wholly subsided ere i allowed the poor woman calmly and majestically to waddle up to her good man in the garden. that, i suppose, was my notion of an orderly retreat. rosalbina had flown from a window into the lawn, like a bird. thank god, we found ourselves all in the open air under the broad canopy of heaven. we began to count heads. yes, there we all stood--cook, laundry-maid, dairy-maids, stable-boys, all as obedient to the awful summons as the best disciplined troops at the first roll of the drum. it was february, as i have twice observed; and we were in the heart of the highest apennines. the day was rather fine, but pinching cold; and when the fever of the first terror abated, the lady and young lady began to shiver in every limb. no one dared to break silence; but don marzio's eye wandered significantly enough from one to another countenance in that awe-stricken group. there was no mistaking his appeal. yet, one after another, his menials and laborers returned his gaze with well-acted perplexity. no one so dull of apprehension as those who will not understand. my good friends, i was three-and-twenty. i had had my trials, and could boast of pretty narrow escapes. i may have been reckless, perhaps, in my day. i smiled dimly, nodded to the old gentleman, clapped my hands cheerily, and the next moment was once more where no man in aquila would at that moment have liked to be for the world--under a roof. i made a huge armful of cloaks and blankets, snapped up every rag with all the haste of a marauding party, and moved toward the door, tottering under the encumbrance. but now the dreadful crisis was at hand. earthquakes, it is well known, proceed by action and re-action. the second shock, i was aware, must be imminent. i had just touched the threshold, and stood under the porch, when that curious spasmodic sensation once more stiffened every muscle in my limbs. presently i felt myself lifted up from the ground. i was now under the portico, and was hurled against the pillar on my right; the rebound again drove me to the post on the opposite side; and after being thus repeatedly tossed and buffeted from right to left like a shuttlecock, i was thrust down, outward, on the ground on my head, with all that bundle of rags, having tumbled head-long the whole range of the four marble steps of entrance. the harm, however, was not so great as the fright; and, thanks to my gallant devotion, the whole party were wrapped and blanketed, till they looked like a party of wild indians; we stood now on comparatively firm ground, and had leisure to look about us. don marzio's garden was open and spacious, being bounded on three sides by the half-crumbling wall of the town. on the fourth side was the house--a good, substantial fabric, but now miserably shaky and rickety. close by the house was the chapel of the ursuline convent, and above that its slender spire rose chaste and stainless, "pointing the way to heaven." any rational being might have deemed himself sufficiently removed from brick and mortar, and, in so far, out of harm's way. not so don marzio. he pointed to the shadow of that spire, which, in the pale wintry sunset, stretched all the way across his garden, and by a strange perversion of judgment, he contended that so far as the shadow extended, there might also the body that cast it reach in its fall, for fall it obviously must; and as the danger was pressing, he deemed it unwise to discuss which of the four cardinal points the tower might feel a leaning toward, whenever, under the impulse of the subterranean scourge, it would "look around and choose its ground." don marzio was gifted with animal courage, and even nerve, proportionate to the might of his stalwart frame. but then his was merely a combative spirit. thews and sinews were of no avail in the case. the garden was no breathing ground for him, and he resolved upon prompt emigration. the people of aquila, as indeed you may well know, of most towns in southern italy, have the habit of--consequently a peculiar talent for--earthquakes. they know how to deal with them, and are seldom caught unprepared. two hundred yards outside the town gate, there is half a square mile of table-land on the summit of a hill--a market-place in days of ease, a harbor of refuge in the urgency of peril. from the first dropping of the earth-ball from the hand of their guardian saint, the most far-sighted among the inhabitants had been busy pitching their tents. the whole population--those, that is, who had escaped unscathed by flying tiles and chimney-pots--were now swarming there, pulling, pushing, hauling, and hammering away for very life: with women fainting, children screeching, capuchins preaching. it was like a little rehearsal of doomsday. don marzio, a prudent housekeeper, had the latch-key of a private door at the back of the garden. he threw it open--not without a misgiving at the moss-grown wall overhead. that night the very stars did not seem to him sufficiently firm-nailed to the firmament! his family and dependents trooped after him, eager to follow. rosalbina looked back--at one who was left behind. don marzio felt he owed me at least one word of leave-taking. he hemmed twice, came back two steps, and gave me a feverish shake of the hand. "i am heartily sorry for you, my boy," he cried. "a _fuoruscito_, as i may say, a bird-in-the-bush--you dare not show your nose outside the door. you would not compromise yourself alone, you know, but all of us and our friends; we must leave you--safe enough here, i dare say," with a stolen glance at the ursuline spire, "but--you see--imperative duties--head of a family--take care of the females--and so, god bless you!" with this he left me there, under the deadly shade of the steeple--deadlier to him than the upas-tree; ordered his little household band out, and away they filed, one by one, the head of the family manfully closing the rear.... i was alone--alone with the earthquake.... there was a wood-cellar in one of the out-houses, access to which was easy and safe. one of my host's domestics had slipped flint and steel into my hands. in less than half-an-hour's time, a cheerful fire was crackling before me. i drew forth an old lumbering arm-chair from the wood-cellar, together with my provision of fuel. i shrouded myself in the ample folds of one of don marzio's riding-cloaks; i sat with folded arms, my eyes riveted on the rising blaze, summoning all my spirits round my heart, and bidding it to bear up. the sun had long set, and the last gleam of a sickly twilight rapidly faded. a keen, damp, north-east wind swept over the earth; thin, black, ragged clouds flitted before it, like uneasy ghosts. a stray star twinkled here and there in the firmament, and the sickle-shaped moon hung in the west. but the light of those pale luminaries was wan and fitful. they seemed to be aware of the hopelessness of their struggle, and to mourn in anticipation of the moment when they should faint in fight, and unrelieved darkness should lord it over the fields of the heavens. the town of aquila, or the eagle, as the natives name it, is perched, eagle-like, on the brow of an abrupt cliff in the bosom of the loftiest apennines. monte reale, monte velino, and the giant of the whole chain, the "gran sasso d'italia," look down upon it from their exalted thrones. within the shelter of that massive armor, the town might well seem invulnerable to time and man. but now, as i gazed despondingly round, the very hills everlasting seemed rocking from their foundation, and their crests nodding to destruction. which of those mighty peaks was to open the fire of hell's artillery upon us? was not etna once as still and dark as yonder great rock? and yet it now glares by night with its ominous beacon, and cities and kingdoms have been swept away at its base. two hours passed away in gloomy meditation. the whole town was a desert. the camp meeting of the unhoused aquilani was held somewhere in the distance: its confused murmur reached me not. only my neighbors, the ursuline nuns, were up and awake. with shrinking delicacy, dreading the look and touch of the profane even more than the walls of their prison-house, they had stood their ground with the heroism of true faith, and reared their temporary asylum under their vine-canopied bowers, within the shade of the cloisters. a high garden-wall alone separated me from the holy virgins. they were watching and kneeling. every note from their silver voices sank deep in my heart, and impressed me with something of that pious confidence, of that imploring fervor, with which they addressed their guardian angels and saints. two hours had passed. the awfulness of prevailing tranquillity, the genial warmth of my fire, and the sweet monotony of that low, mournful chanting, were by degrees gliding into my troubled senses, and lulling them into a treacherous security. "just so," i reasoned, "shock and countershock. the terrible scourge has by this time exhausted its strength. it was only a farce, after all. much ado about nothing. the people of this town have become so familiar with the earthquake that they make a carnival of it. by this time they are perhaps feasting and rioting under their booths. ho! am i the only craven here? and had i not my desire? am i not now on speaking terms with an earthquake?" again my words conjured up the waking enemy. a low, hollow, rumbling noise, as if from many hundred miles' distance, was heard coming rapidly onward along the whole line of the apennines. it reached us, it seemed to stop underneath our feet, and suddenly changing its horizontal for a vertical direction, it burst upward. the whole earth heaved with a sudden pang; it then gave a backward bound, even as a vessel shipping a sea. the motion then became undulatory, and spread far and wide as the report of a cannon, awakening every echo in the mountain. there was a rattle and clatter in the town, as if of a thousand wagons shooting down paving stones. the ursuline steeple waved in the air like a reed vexed by the blast. the chair i stood on was all but capsized, and the fire at my feet was overthrown. the very vault of heaven swung to and fro, ebbing and heaving with the general convulsion. the doleful psalmody in the neighboring ground broke abruptly. the chorus of many feminine voices sent forth but one rending shriek. the clamor of thousands of the town-folk from their encampment gave its wakeful response. then the dead silence of consternation ensued. i picked up every stick and brand that had been scattered about, steadied myself in my chair, and hung down my head. "these black hounds," i mused, "hunt in couples. now for the repercussion." i had not many minutes to wait. again the iron-hoofed steeds and heavy wheels of the state chariot of the prince of darkness were heard tramping and rattling in their course. once more the subterranean avalanche gathered and burst. once more the ground beneath throbbed and heaved as if with rending travail. once more heaven and earth seemed to yearn to each other; and the embers of my watch-fire were cast upward and strewn asunder. it was an awful long winter night. the same sable clouds rioting in the sky, the same cruel wind moaning angrily through the chinks and crevices of many a shattered edifice. solitude, the chillness of night, and the vagueness, even more than the inevitableness, of the danger, wrought fearfully on my exhausted frame. stupor and lethargy soon followed these brief moments of speechless excitement. bewildered imagination peopled the air with vague, unutterable terrors. legions of phantoms sported on those misshapen clouds. the clash of a thousand swords was borne on the wind. tongues of living flame danced and quivered in every direction. the firmament seemed all burning with them. i saw myself alone, helpless, hopeless, the miserable butt of all the rage of warring elements. it was an uncomfortable night. ten and twelve times was the dreadful visitation reproduced between sunset and sunrise, and every shock found me more utterly unnerved; and the sullen, silent resignation with which i recomposed and trimmed my fire had something in it consummately abject, by the side of the doleful accents with which the poor half-hoarse nuns, my neighbors, called on their blessed virgin for protection. the breaking morn found me utterly prostrated; and when don marzio's servants had so far recovered from their panic as to intrude upon my solitude, and offer their services for the erection of my tent in the garden, i had hardly breath enough left to welcome them. under that tent i passed days and nights during all the remainder of february. the shocks, though diminished in strength, almost nightly roused us from our rest. but the people of aquila soon learned to despise them. by one, by two, by three they sought the threshold of their dismantled homes. last of all, don marzio folded his tent. his fears having, finally, so far given way, as to allow him to think of something beside himself, he exerted himself to free me from confinement. he furnished me with faithful guides, by whose aid i reached the sea-coast. here a maltese vessel was waiting to waft me to a land of freedom and security. i can tell you, my friends, that from that time i was cured forever of all curiosity about earthquakes. footnotes: [ ] from a work entitled "scenes of italian life," by l. mariotti, just published in london. a plea for british reptiles. what the flourishing tradesman writes with pride over his shop, we might in most cases write over our storehouse of antipathies--established in , or . for what good reason we, in , should shudder at the contact of a spider, or loathe toads, it would be hard to say. our forefathers in their ignorance did certainly traduce the characters of many innocent and interesting animals, and many of us now believe some portions of their scandal. to be a reptile, for example, is perhaps the greatest disgrace that can attach to any animal in our eyes. reptile passes for about the worst name you can call a man. this is unjust--at any rate, in england. we have no thought of patting crocodiles under the chin, or of embracing boa constrictors; but for our english reptiles we claim good words and good-will. we beg to introduce here, formally, our unappreciated friends to any of our human friends who may not yet have cultivated their acquaintance. the common lizard--surely you know the common lizard, if not by his name of state--_zootoca vivipara_. he wears a brilliant jacket, and you have made friends with him, as a nimble, graceful fellow; as a bit of midsummer. his very name reminds you of a warm bank in the country, and a sunny day. is he a reptile? certainly; suppose we stop two minutes to remember what a reptile is. the heart of a reptile has three cavities; that is to say, it is not completely double, like our own. it sends only a small part of the blood which comes into it for renovation into the air-chambers--the lungs; while the remainder circulates again unpurified. that change made in the blood by contact with the oxygen of air, is chiefly the cause of heat in animals. aëration, therefore, being in reptiles very partial, the amount of heat evolved is small; reptiles are therefore called cold-blooded. they are unable to raise their heat above the temperature of the surrounding air. fishes are cold-blooded, through deficient aëration in another way; in them, all the blood passes from the heart into the place where air shall come in contact with it; but, then there is a limitation to the store of air supplied, which can be no more than the quantity extracted from the water. the temperature of water is maintained below the surface, and we know how that of the air varies, since a certain quantity of heat is necessary to the vital processes; reptiles, depending upon air for heat, hybernate or become torpid when the temperature falls below a certain point. the rapidity of all their vital actions will depend upon the state of the thermometer; they digest faster in the heat of summer than in the milder warmth of spring. their secretions (as the poison of the adder) are in hot weather more copious, and in winter are not formed at all. the reptiles breathe, in all cases, by lungs; but we must except here those called _batrachians_, as frogs or newts, which breathe, in the first stage, by gills, and afterward by gills and lungs, or by lungs only. the _batrachians_, again, are the only exception to another great characteristic of the reptile class, the hard, dry covering of plates or scales. the reptiles all produce their young from eggs, or are "oviparous"--some hatch their eggs within the body, and produce their young alive, or are "ovo-viviparous." these are the characters belonging to all members of the reptile-class. the class is subdivided into orders somewhat thus: . the _testudinate_ (tortoises and turtles). . _enaliosaurian_ (all fossil, the _ichthyosaurus_ and his like). . _loricate_ (crocodiles and alligators). . _saurian_ (lizards). . _ophidian_ (serpents); and the last order, _batrachian_ (frogs, toads, &c.); which is, by some, parted from the reptiles, and established as another class. now we have in england no tortoises or turtles, and no crocodiles: and the fossil order is, in all places, extinct; so our reptiles can belong only to the three last-named orders, lizards, serpents, and batrachians. thus we come back, then, to our lizards, of which we have among us but two genera, a single species of each. these are the common lizard, well known to us all, and the sand lizard, known only to some of us who happen to live upon the southern coast. the species of lizard so extremely common in this country, has not been found in countries farther south, and is, in fact, peculiar to our latitude. we, therefore, may love him as a sympathetic friend. the sand lizard (_lacerta agilis_) is found as far north as the country of linnæus, and as far south as the northern part of france; in england, however, it seems to be rare, and has been detected only in dorsetshire--chiefly near poole, or in some other southern counties. it frequents sandy heaths, and is of a brown sandy color, marked and dotted; but there is a green variety said to be found among the verdure of marshy places. it is larger than our common lizard, averaging seven inches long, is very timid, and when made a prisoner pines and dies. its female lays eggs, like a turtle, in the sand, covers them over, and leaves them to be hatched by the summer sun. this kind of lizard, therefore, is oviparous. the eggs of our common lizard are hatched also by the sun; for, reptiles having no heat of their own, can not provide that which is necessary to the development of an embryo; but in this case the sun hatches them within the parent's body. the female of this lizard stretches herself out upon a sunny bank, and lets the bright rays fall upon her body while she lies inactive. at this period, she will not move for any thing less than a real cause of alarm. she is not sunning herself lazily, however, but fulfilling an ordinance of god. the eggs break as the young lizards--three to six--are born. this lizard is, therefore, ovo-viviparous. the little ones begin at once to run about, and soon dart after insects, their proper food; but they accompany the mother with some instinct of affection for a little time. these lizards are very various in size and color; difference in these respects does not denote difference in kind. the little scales which cover them are arranged in a peculiar manner on the head, under the neck, &c.; and some differences of arrangement, in such respects, are characteristic. the best distinction between the only two species of lizard known in this country has been pointed out by mr. bell. in the hind legs, under each thigh, there is a row of openings, each opening upon a single scale. in sand lizards, the opening is obviously smaller than the scale; in our common lizards, the opening is so comparatively large that the scale seems to be the mere edge of a tube around it. these are our lizards, then, our saurian reptiles; and they do not merit any hate. suffer an introduction now to english snakes. the first snake, the blindworm, is not a snake, nor yet a worm. it is a half-way animal--between a lizard and a snake. the lizards shade off so insensibly into the snakes, even the boa preserving rudimentary hind legs, that some naturalists counsel their union into a single class of squamate, or scaled reptiles. by a milder process of arrangement, all those animals which dwell upon the frontier ground between lizards or saurians, and ophidians or snakes, are to be called saurophidian. the blindworm then, is saurophidian; it is quite as much a lizard as a snake. snakes have the bones of their head all movable, so that their jaws can be dilated, until, like carpet-bags, they swallow any thing. the lizard has its jaws fixed; so has the blindworm. snakes have a long tongue, split for some distance, and made double-forked; the blindworm's tongue has nothing but a little notch upon the tip. it has a smooth round muzzle, with which it can easily wind its way under dry soil to hybernate; or else it takes a winter nap in any large heap of dead leaves. it comes out early in the spring; for it can bear more cold than reptiles generally like, and it is found all over europe, from sweden to the south of italy. it feeds upon worms, slugs, and insects. like the snakes, it gets a new coat as it grows, and takes the old one off, by hooking it to some fixed point, and crawling from it, so that the cast skin is dragged backward, and turned inside out. the slow-worm is of a dark gray color, silvery, and about a foot long on the average. it is ovo-viviparous. it is extremely gentle; very rarely thinks of biting those who handle it, and, when it does bite, inflicts no wound with its little teeth. of course it has no fangs and is not poisonous. shrinking with fear when taken, it contracts its body and so stiffens it that it will break if we strike or bend it. therefore it bears the name linnæus gave it--_anguis fragilis_. we have found nothing yet to shudder at among our reptiles. "o! but," you say perhaps, "that was not a real snake." well, here is our real snake. _natrix torquata_--our common ringed snake; he is very common. he may be three or four feet long, and brownish-gray above, with a green tinge, yellow marks upon the neck, and rows of black spots down the back and sides, alternating, like london lamp-posts, with each other. you will find him any where in england, almost any where in europe, below the latitude of scotland. you will find him most frequently in a moist place, or near water, for he is rather proud of himself as a swimmer. he has a handsome coat, and gets a new one two, three, four, or five times in a season, if his growth require it. when the new coat is quite hard and fit for use under the old, he strips the old one off among the thorn-bushes. he and his lady hybernate. the lady leaves her sixteen or twenty eggs, all glued together, for the sun to vivify. the snake's tongue, as we have said, is forked, the jaws dilatable; he prefers frogs for his dinner, but is satisfied with mice, or little birds, or lizards. he swallows his prey whole. catching it first, as mrs. glasse would say, between his teeth, which are in double rows upon each jaw, and directed backward that they may act more effectually, he first brings the victim to a suitable position--head first he prefers, then, leaving one set of teeth, say the lower, fixed, he advances the upper jaw, fixes its teeth into the skin, and leaves them there while he moves forward, the lower jaw, and so continues till the bird or frog is worked into his throat; it is then swallowed by the agency of other muscles. this power of moving each jaw freely and in independence of the other, is peculiar to ophidian reptiles. the frog may reach the stomach both alive and active, so that, if afterward, the snake gapes, as he is apt to do, a frog has been seen to leap out again. the processes of life are so slow in reptiles, that one meal will not be digested by the snake for many days. he is unable to digest vegetable matter. our snake is very harmless, and if kept and fed, will quickly learn to recognize its patron, will feed out of his hand, and nestle up his sleeve; but he shows a dread of strangers. we have adders? yes, we have a viper--_pelias berus_ is the name he goes by, and his fangs are undeniable. this is the only native reptile that can, in any degree whatever, hurt a man. it is common in england, and, unlike the snake, prefers a dry place to a moist one. "adder" and "viper" are two words applied to the same thing--adder being derived from the saxon word for "nether," and viper from viviper; because this reptile, like our common lizard, hatches her eggs within the body, or is viviparous. our viper is found all over europe; not in ireland. as for ireland, it is an old boast with the irish that saint patrick banned away all reptiles. the paucity of reptiles in ireland is remarkable, but they are not altogether absent. our common lizard has a large irish connection, and frogs were introduced into ireland years ago. their spawn was taken over, put into water, throve, and thereafter frogs have multiplied. an attempt was also made to introduce our common snake, but the country-people, with great horror, killed the inlopers; a reward even was offered for one that was known to remain uncaptured. ireland is free from adders. the most ready distinction between a common snake and an adder, to unfamiliar eyes, is founded on the difference of marking. while the snake has separate alternate spots, the adder has, down its back, a chain of dark spots, irregularly square, and joined to one another. adders are generally brown, but differ very much in color. they have on their upper jaw, instead of their lower, a row of teeth, the well-known fangs. these are long, curved teeth, fixed into a movable piece of bone, and hollow. the hollow is not made out of the substance of the tooth; it is as if a broad flat tooth had been bent round upon itself to form a tube. the tube is open below and behind, in the curve, by a little slit. above, it is open, and rests upon a tiny bag connected with a gland that corresponds to a gland in man for the secretion of saliva; but which, in the present case, secretes a poison. the fang, when out of use, is bent and hidden in a fleshy case; in feeding, it is rarely used. the viper catches for himself his birds or mice, after the manner of a harmless serpent. but, when hurt or angered, he throws back his neck, drops his fang ready for service, bites, and withdraws his head immediately. the fang in penetrating, of necessity, was pressed upon the little bag of poison at its root, and forced a drop along the tube into the wound. after a few bites, the bag becomes exhausted, and the adder must wait for a fresh secretion. the poison has no taste or smell, and may be swallowed with impunity, if there be no raw surface in the mouth, or sore upon the throat, or in the stomach. it is only through a wound that it can act like poison. the bite of an adder in this country never yet proved fatal; but, according to the health of the person bitten, and according to the greater or less heat of the weather (for in very hot weather a more active poison is secreted), the wound made will be more or less severe. it is advisable to get out of an adder's way. all the remaining reptiles in this country are two species of frog, two species of toad, and four newts. they are not only most absolutely harmless, but, the frogs, at any rate, and toads, are ministers to man; and they belong to a class of animals more interesting than any other, perhaps, in the whole range of natural history. we are all well acquainted with the common frog, whose grander name is _rana temporaria._ we see it--and it is to be feared some of us kill it--in our gardens, among strawberry-beds and damp vegetation. but, whereas frogs feed upon those slugs and insects which are in the habit of pasturing upon our plants, and are themselves indebted to us for not a grain of vegetable matter, we ought by all means to be grateful to them. so industrious are frogs in slug-hunting, that it would be quite worth while to introduce them as sub-gardeners upon our flower-beds. in catching insects, the frog suddenly darts out his tongue, which, at the hinder part, is loose, and covered with a gummy matter. the insect is caught, and the tongue returned with wonderful rapidity. the frog, when it is first hatched, has the constitution of a fish: it is purely aquatic; has a fish's heart, a fish's circulation, and a fish's gills. the tadpole swims as a fish does--by the movement, side-ways, of its tail. for the unassisted eye, and still more for the microscope, what spectacle can be more marvelous than the gradual process of change by which this tiny fish becomes a reptile? legs bud; the fish-like gills dwindle by a vital process of absorption; the fish-like air-bladder becomes transmuted, as by a miracle, into the celled structure of lungs; the tail grows daily shorter, not broken off, but absorbed; the heart adds to its cells; the fish becomes a reptile as the tadpole changes to a frog. the same process we observe in toads; and it is also the same in our newts, excepting that in newts the tail remains. there is no parallel in nature to this marvelous and instructive metamorphosis. the perfectly-formed frog does not live of necessity in water, or near it, but requires damp air occasionally. it breathes by lungs, as we have said; but, as it has no ribs, there is no chest to heave mechanically. the frog's air has to be swallowed, to be gulped down into the lungs. that is not possible unless the mouth is shut; and, therefore, as we might suffocate a man by keeping his mouth shut, so we should suffocate a frog by keeping his mouth open. yet we should not suffocate him instantly; we should disable the lungs; but, in this class of animals the whole skin is a breathing surface. a frog has lived a month after his lungs had been extracted. all respiratory surfaces, like the inside of our own lungs, can act only when they are relaxed and moist. that is the reason why a frog's skin is always moist, and why a frog requires moist air. it does not need this constantly, because, when moisture is abundant, there is a bag in which it stores up superfluity of water, to be used in any day of need. it is this water--pure and clear--which frogs or toads expel when they are alarmed by being handled. is not enough said here, to rescue frogs from our contempt? we may add, that they are capable of understanding kindness--can be tamed. frogs hybernate under the mud of ponds, where they lie close together, in a stratum, till the spring awakens them to a renewal of their lives and loves. they lay a vast number of eggs, at the bottom of the water; and the multitudes of young frogs that swarm upon the shore when their transformation is; complete, has given rise to many legends of a shower of frogs. these multitudes provide food for many animals, serpents, as we have seen, birds, fish. and the survivors are our friends. the other species of frog found in this country is the edible frog (_rana esculenta_). it has for a long time had a colony in foulmire fen, in cambridgeshire, although properly belonging to a continental race. it differs from our common frog in wanting a dark mark that runs from eye to shoulder, and in having, instead of it, a light mark--a streak--from head to tail along the centre of the back. the male is a more portentous croaker than our own familiar musicians, by virtue of an air-bladder on each cheek, into which air is forced, and in which it vibrates powerfully during the act of croaking. this kind of frog is always in or near the water, and being very timid, plunges out of sight if any one approaches. these are our frogs; as for our two toads, they are by no means less innocent. they are the common toad, by style and title _bufo vulgaris,_ and a variety of the natter jack toad, to be found on blackheath, and in many places about london, and elsewhere. the toad undergoes transformations like the frog. it is slower in its movements, and less handsome in appearance: similar in structure. there is a somewhat unpleasant secretion from its skin, a product of respiration. there is nothing about it in the faintest degree poisonous. it is remarkably sensible of kindness; more so than the frog. examples of tame toads are not uncommon. stories are told of the discovery of toads alive, in blocks of marble, where no air could be; but, there has been difficulty, hitherto, in finding one such example free from the possibility of error. it may be found, however, that toads can remain for a series of years torpid. it has been proved that snails, after apparent death of fifteen years, have become active on applying moisture. a proof equally distinct is at present wanting in the case of toads. the toad, like other reptiles, will occasionally cast its skin. the old skin splits along the back, and gradually parts, until it comes off on each side, with a little muscular exertion on the toad's part. then, having rolled his jacket up into a ball, he eats it! no reptiles remain now to be mentioned, but four species of newt. these little creatures are abundant in our ponds and ditches, and some are most falsely accused of being poisonous. they are utterly harmless. their transformations, their habits, their changes of skin, their laying of eggs, can easily be watched by any who will keep them in a miniature pond. a large pan of water, with sand and stones at the bottom, decayed vegetable matter for food, and a few living water-plants, extracted from their native place, will keep a dozen newts in comfort. the water-plants are needed, because a newt prefers to lay her egg upon a leaf. she stands upon it, curls it up with her hind legs, and puts an egg between the fold, where it remains glued. these being our reptiles, are they proper objects of abhorrence? at this season they are all finishing their winter nap. in a few weeks they will come among us, and then, when "the songs, the stirring air, the life re-orient out of dust, cry through the sense to hearten trust in that which made the world so fair"-- may we not permit our hearts to be admonished by the reptiles also? [from leigh hunt's journal.] a dream, and the interpretation thereof. they stood by her bedside--the father and mother of the maiden--and watched her slumbers. for she had returned weary from seville, after a long absence from this her lisbon home. they had not gazed on that fair innocent face for many a month past; and _they_, too, smiled, and pressed each the other's hand as they marked a radiant smile playing round the mouth of the sleeper. it was a smile brimful of happiness--the welling-up of a heart at perfect peace. and it brought gladness to the hearts of the parents, who-would fain have kissed the cheek of their gentle girl, but refrained, lest it should break the spell--lest even a father's and a mother's kiss should dull the blessedness of the dreamer. so sleep on, luise! and smile ever as thou sleepest--though it be the sleep of death. these people were poor in worldly goods, but rich in the things of home and heart. luise, the first-born, had been staying with a spanish relative, who had taken charge of her education, and had now come back to her native lisbon "for good." three younger children there were--blithe, affectionate prattlers--whose glee at the recovery of luise had been so exuberant, so boisterous, that they were now sent to play in the neighboring vineyards, that they might not disturb their tired sister's repose. long played that smile upon her face; and never were the two gazers tired of gazing, and of smiling as they gazed. luise, they thought, had seemed a little sad as well as weary when she alighted at the dear familiar door. but this smile was so full of joy unspeakable, so fraught with beatific meaning, so reflective of beatific vision, that it laughed their fears away, and spoke volumes where the seeming sorrow had not spoken even words. the shrill song of a mule-driver passing by the window aroused the sleeper. the smile vanished, and as she started up and looked hastily and inquiringly around, a shade of mingled disappointment and bewilderment gathered darkly on her brow. "you must turn and go to sleep again, my child," whispered the mother. "i wish pedro were not so proud of his voice, and then you might still be dreaming of pleasant things." "i _was_ dreaming, then?" said luise, somewhat sadly. "i thought it was real, and it made me _so_ happy! ah, if i could dream it again, and again--three times running, you know--till it became true!" "what was it, luise?" asked her father. "we must know what merry thought made you so joyful. it will be a dream worth knowing, and, therefore, worth telling." "not at present," interrupted his wife. "let her get some more rest; and then, when she is thoroughly refreshed after such a tedious journey, she will make us all happy with realities as well as dreams." "and are dreams never realities?" asked the girl, with a sigh. "child! child! if we're going to be philosophical, and all that, we shall never get you to sleep again. don't talk any more, my luise; but close your eyes, and see if _you_ can't realize a dream; that will be the best answer to your question." "i can't go to sleep again," she answered. "see, i'm quite awake, and it's no use trying. and with the sun so high too! no; you shall send me to bed an hour or two earlier to-night, and to-morrow morning will find me as brisk as a bee. i've so much to hear, and so much to tell, that to sleep again before dusk is out of the question." so she arose; and they went all three and sat down in the little garden. luise eyed eagerly every flower and every fruit-tree, and had something to say about every change since she had been there last. but ever and anon she would look earnestly into the faces of her parents--and never without something like a tear in her large lustrous eyes. of course, they questioned her upon this. and she, who had never concealed a thought or a wish from _them_, told them in her own frank, artless way, why she looked sorrowful when she first saw them, after a prolonged separation, and how it was that, in her sleep, thoughts had visited her which were messengers of peace and gladness--whose message it had saddened her to find, on waking, but airy and unreal. at seville she had been as happy as kindness and care could make one so far from and so fond of home. but a childish fancy, she said, had troubled her--childish she knew, and a thing to be ashamed of, but haunting her none the less--visiting her sleeping and waking hours; a feeling it was of dejection at the idea of her parents growing old, and of change and chance breaking up the wonted calm of her little household circle. that the march of time should be so irresistible, that his flight could not be stayed or slackened by pope or kaiser, that his decrees should be so immutable, his destiny so inexorable, and that the youngest must soon cease to be young, and the middle-aged become old--or die! this was the thought that preyed on her very soul. she could not endure the conviction that her own father must one day walk with a less elastic step, and smile on her with eyes ever loving indeed, but more and more dimmed with age--and that her own mother must one day move to and fro with tottering gait, and speak with the tremulous accents of those old people who, it seemed to luise, could never have been children at all. it was a weak, fantastic thought, this; but she could not master it, nor escape its presence. and when she met them on the threshold of the beloved home--ah, the absentee's rapid glance saw a wrinkle on her father's cheek that was new to her, and it saw a clustering of gray hairs on her mother's brow, where all had been raven black when luise departed for seville. poor luise! the sorrows of her young heart were enlarged. time had not been absent with the pensive absentee. true, he had stolen no charm from her little playmates. carlos was a brighter boy than ever; and as for that merry zingara-like isabel, and the yet merrier manuel--they were not a whit changed, unless for the better, in look, and manner, and love. still the too-sensitive luise was hurt at the thought that they could not always be children--that time was bent on effacing her earliest and dearest impressions, removing from her home that ideal of family relationship to which all her affections clung with passionate entreaty. whatever the future might; have to reveal of enjoyment and endearment, the past could never be lived over again; the past could never be identified with things present and things to come; and it was to the past that her heart was betrothed--a past that had gone the way of all living, and left her as it were widowed and not to be comforted. "and now i will tell you my dream," said poor foolish luise; "and you will see why i looked happy in sleeping, and sorry in waking. i thought i was sitting here in the garden--crying over what i have been telling you--and suddenly an angel stood before me, and bade me weep not. strange as was his form, and sunny in its exceeding brightness, i was not frightened; for his words were very, very gentle, and his look too full of kindness to give me one thrill of alarm. and he said that what i had longed for so much should be granted; that my father and mother should _not_ grow old, nor carlos cease to be the boy he now is, nor isabel grow up into a sedate woman, nor manuel lose the gay childishness for which we all pet him, nor i feel myself forsaking the old familiar past, and launching into dim troublous seas of perpetual change. he promised that we should one and all be freed from the great law of time; and that as we are this day parents and children, so we should continue forever--while vicissitude and decay must still have sway in the great world at large. can you wonder that i smiled? or that it pained me when i awoke, and found that the bright angel and the sweet promise were only--a dream?"... there was no lack of conversation that evening in that lisbon cottage. all loved luise; and she, in the midst of so many artless tokens of affection and of triumph at her return, forgot all the morbid fancies that had given rise to her dream, and was as light-hearted, and as light-footed, as in days of yore. all gave themselves up to the reality of present gladness; every voice trembled with the music of joy; every eye looked and reflected love. there was no happier homestead that evening in lisbon, nor in the world. but ere many hours, lisbon itself was tossing and heaving with the throes of dissolution. the sea arose tumultuously against the tottering city; the ground breathed fire, and quaked, and burst asunder; the houses reeled and fell, and thousands of inhabitants perished in the fall. among them, at one dire swoop, the tenants of that happy cottage home. together did these mortals put on immortality. and thus was the dream fulfilled. the household of sir tho's more.[ ] libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelseiÃ� inceptvs. "nulla dies sine linea." this morn, hinting to bess that she was lacing herselfe too straightlie, she brisklie replyed, "one w'd think 'twere as great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of y'e earlie christians!" these humourous retorts are ever at her tongue's end; and, albeit, as jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene teazing him, "bess, thy witt is stupidnesse;" yet, for one who talks soe much at random, no one can be more keene when she chooseth. father sayd of her, half fondly, half apologeticallie to erasmus, "her wit has a fine subtletie that eludes you almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it really is." to which, erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had y'e rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and never on bodilie defects. hum!--i wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. i know, indeede, erasmus calls me a forward girl. alas! that may be taken in two senses. * * * * * grievous work, overnighte, with y'e churning. nought w'd persuade gillian but that y'e creame was bewitched by gammer gurney, who was dissatisfyde last friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and cursing. at alle events, y'e butter w'd not come; but mother was resolute not to have soe much goode creame wasted; soe sent for bess and me, daisy and mercy giggs, and insisted on our churning in turn till y'e butter came, if we sate up all nighte for't. 'twas a hard saying; and mighte have hampered her like as jephtha his rash vow: howbeit, soe soone as she had left us, we turned it into a frolick, and sang chevy chase from end to end, to beguile time; ne'erthelesse, the butter w'd not come; soe then we grew sober, and, at y'e instance of sweete mercy, chaunted y'e th psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to "lucerna pedibus," i hearde y'e buttermilk separating and splashing in righte earneste. 'twas neare midnighte, however; and daisy had fallen asleep on y'e dresser. gillian will ne'er be convinced but that our latin brake the spell. erasmus went to richmond this morning with polus (for so he latinizes reginald pole, after his usual fashion), and some other of his friends. on his return, he made us laugh at y'e following. they had clomb y'e hill, and were admiring y'e prospect, when pole, casting his eyes aloft, and beginning to make sundrie gesticulations, exclaimed, "what is it i beholde? may heaven avert y'e omen!" with such-like exclamations, which raised y'e curiositie of alle. "don't you beholde," cries he, "that enormous dragon flying through y'e sky? his horns of fire? his curly tail?" "no," says erasmus, "nothing like it. the sky is as cleare as unwritten paper." howbeit, he continued to affirme and to stare, untill at lengthe, one after another, by dint of strayning theire eyes and theire imaginations, did admitt, first, that they saw something; nexte, that it mighte be a dragon; and last, that it was. of course, on theire passage homeward, they c'd talk of little else--some made serious reflections; others, philosophical! speculations; and pole waggishly triumphed in having beene y'e firste to discerne the spectacle. "and you trulie believe there was a signe in y'e heavens?" we inquired of erasmus. "what know i?" returned he, smiling; "you know, constantine saw a cross. why shoulde polus not see a dragon? we must judge by the event. perhaps its mission may be to fly away with _him_. he swore to y'e curly tail." how difficulte it is to discerne y'e supernatural from y'e incredible! we laughe at gillian's faith in our latin; erasmus laughs at polus his dragon. have we a righte to believe noughte but what we can see or prove? nay, that will never doe. father says a capacitie for reasoning increaseth a capacitie for believing. he believes there is such a thing as witchcraft, though not that poore olde gammer gurney is a witch; he believes that saints can work miracles, though not in alle y'e marvels reported of y'e canterbury shrine. had i beene justice of y'e peace, like y'e king's grandmother, i w'd have beene very jealous of accusations of witchcraft; and have taken infinite payns to sift out y'e causes of malice, jealousie, &c., which mighte have wroughte with y'e poore olde women's enemies. holie writ sayth, "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live;" but, questionlesse, manie have suffered hurte that were noe witches; and for my part, i have alwaies helde ducking to be a very uncertayn as well as very cruel teste. i cannot helpe smiling, whenever i think of my rencounter with william this morning. mr. gunnell had set me homer's tiresome list of ships; and, because of y'e excessive heate within doors, i took my book into y'e nuttery, to be beyonde y'e wrath of far-darting phoebus apollo, where i clomb into my favourite filbert seat. anon comes william through y'e trees without seeing me; and seats him at the foot of my filbert; then, out with his tablets, and, in a posture i s'd have called studdied, had he known anie one within sighte, falls a poetizing, i question not. having noe mind to be interrupted, i lett him be, thinking he w'd soon exhauste y'e vein; but a caterpillar dropping from y'e leaves on to my page, i was fayn for mirthe sake, to shake it down on his tablets. as ill luck w'd have it, however, y'e little reptile onlie fell among his curls; which soe took me at vantage, that i could not helpe hastilie crying, "i beg your pardon." 'twas worth a world to see his start! "what!" cries he, looking up, "are there indeede hamadryads?" and would have gallanted a little, but i bade him hold down his head, while that with a twig i switched off y'e caterpillar. neither could forbeare laughing; and then he sued me to step downe, but i was minded to abide where i was. howbeit, after a minute's pause, he sayd, in a grave, kind tone, "come, little wife;" and taking mine arm steadilie in his hand, i lost my balance and was faine to come down whether or noe. we walked for some time, _juxta fluvium_; and he talked not badlie of his travels, inasmuch as i founde there was really more in him than one w'd think. * * * * * --was there ever anie-thing soe perverse, unluckie, and downright disagreeable? we hurried our afternoone tasks, to goe on y'e water with my father; and, meaning to give mr. gunnel my latin traduction, which is in a book like unto this, i never knew he had my journalle instead, untill that he burst out a laughing. "soe this is y'e famous _libellus_," quoth he,... i never waited for another word, but snatcht it out of his hand; which he, for soe strict a man, bore well enow. i do not believe he c'd have read a dozen lines, and they were toward y'e beginning; but i s'd hugelie like to know which dozen lines they were. hum! i have a mind never to write another word. that will be punishing myselfe, though, insteade of gunnel. and he bade me not take it to heart like y'e late bishop of durham, to whom a like accident befel, which soe annoyed him that he died of chagrin. i will never again, howbeit, write aniething savouring ever soe little of levitie or absurditie. the saints keepe me to it! and, to know it from my exercise book, i will henceforthe bind a blue ribbon round it. furthermore, i will knit y'e sayd ribbon in soe close a knot, that it shall be worth noe one else's payns to pick it out. lastlie, and for entire securitie, i will carry the same in my pouch, which will hold bigger matters than this. * * * * * this daye, at dinner, mr. clement took y'e pistoller's place at y'e reading-desk; and insteade of continuing y'e subject in hand, read a paraphrase of y'e rde psalm; ye faithfullenesse and elegant turne of which, erasmus highlie commended, though he took exceptions to y'e phrase "renewing thy youth like that of y'e phoenix," whose fabulous story he believed to have been unknown to y'e psalmist, and, therefore, however poeticall, was unfitt to be introduced. a deepe blush on sweet mercy's face ledd to y'e detection of y'e paraphrast, and drew on her some deserved commendations. erasmus, turning to my father, exclaymed with animation, "i woulde call this house the academy of plato, were it not injustice to compare it to a place where the usuall disputations concerning figures and numbers were onlie oocasionallie intersperst with disquisitions concerning y'e moral virtues." then, in a graver mood, he added, "one mighte envie you, but that your precious privileges are bound up with soe paynfulle anxieties. how manie pledges have you given to fortune!" "if my children are to die out of y'e course of nature, before theire parents," father firmly replyed, "i w'd rather they died well-instructed than ignorant." "you remind me," rejoyns erasmus, "of phocion; whose wife, when he was aboute to drink y'e fatal cup, exclaimed, 'ah, my husband! you die innocent.' 'and woulde you, my wife,' he returned, 'have me die guilty?'" awhile after, gonellus askt leave to see erasmus his signet-ring, which he handed down to him. in passing it back, william, who was occupyde in carving a crane, handed it soe negligentlie that it felle to y'e ground. i never saw such a face as erasmus made, when 'twas picked out from y'e rushes! and yet, ours are renewed almoste daylie, which manie think over nice. he took it gingerlie in his faire, womanlike hands, and washed and wiped it before he put it on; which escaped not my step-mother's displeased notice. indeede, these dutchmen are scrupulouslie cleane, though mother calls 'em swinish, because they will eat raw sallets; though, for that matter, father loves cresses and ramps. she alsoe mislikes erasmus for eating cheese and butter together with his manchet; or what he calls _boetram_; and for being, generallie, daintie at his sizes, which she sayth is an ill example to soe manie young people, and becometh not one with soe little money in's purse: howbeit, i think 'tis not nicetie, but a weak stomach, which makes him loathe our salt-meat commons from michaelmasse to easter, and eschew fish of y'e coarser sort. he cannot breakfaste on colde milk like father, but liketh furmity a little spiced. at dinner, he pecks at, rather than eats, ruffs and reeves, lapwings, or anie smalle birds it may chance; but affects sweets and subtilties, and loves a cup of wine or ale, stirred with rosemary. father never toucheth the wine-cup but to grace a guest, and loves water from the spring. we growing girls eat more than either; and father says he loves to see us slice away at the cob-loaf; it does him goode. what a kind father he is! i wish my step-mother were as kind. i hate alle sneaping and snubbing, flowting, fleering, pinching, nipping, and such-like; it onlie creates resentment insteade of penitence, and lowers y'e minde of either partie. gillian throws a rolling-pin at y'e turnspit's head, and we call it low-life; but we looke for such unmannerlinesse in the kitchen. a whip is onlie fit for tisiphone. as we rose from table, i noted argus pearcht on y'e window-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh for as punctuallie as if he c'd tell the diall; and to please the good, patient bird, till the scullion broughte him his mess of garden-stuff, i fetched him some pulse, which he took from mine hand, taking good heede not to hurt me with his sharp beak. while i was feeding him, erasmus came up, and asked me concerning mercy giggs; and i tolde him how that she was a friendlesse orphan, to whom deare father afforded protection and the run of y'e house; and tolde him of her gratitude, her meekness, her patience, her docilitie, her aptitude for alle goode works and alms-deeds; and how, in her little chamber, she improved eache spare moment in y'e way of studdy and prayer. he repeated "friendlesse? she cannot be called friendlesse, who hath more for her protector, and his children for companions;' and then woulde heare more of her parents' sad story. alsoe, would hear somewhat of rupert allington, and how father gained his law-suit. alsoe, of daisy, whose name he tooke to be y'e true abbreviation for margaret, but i tolde him how that my step-sister, and mercy, and i, being all three of a name, and i being alwaies called meg, we had in sport given one the significative of her characteristic virtue, and the other that of y'e french marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either pearl or daisy. and chaucer, speaking of our english daisy, saith "si douce est la marguerite." * * * * * since y'e little wisdom i have capacitie to acquire, soe oft gives me y'e headache to distraction, i marvel not at jupiter's payn in his head, when the goddess of wisdom sprang therefrom full growne. this morn, to quiet y'e payn brought on by too busie application, mr. gunnell would have me close my book and ramble forth with cecy into y'e fields. we strolled towards walham greene; and she was seeking for shepherd's purses and shepherd's needles, when she came running back to me, looking rather pale. i askt what had scared her, and she made answer that gammer gurney was coming along y'e hedge. i bade her set aside her fears; and anon we come up with gammer, who was puling at y'e purple blossoms of y'e deadly night-shade. i sayd, "gammer, to what purpose gather that weed? knowest not 'tis evill?" she sayth, mumbling, "what god hath created, that call not thou evill." "well, but," quo' i, "'tis poison." "aye, and medicine, too," returns gammer, "i wonder what we poor souls might come to, if we tooke nowt for our ails and aches but what we could buy o' the potticary. we've got noe dr. clement, we poor folks, to be our leech o' the household." "but hast no feare," quo' i, "of an overdose?" "there's manie a doctor," sayth she, with an unpleasant leer, "that hath given that at first. in time he gets his hand in; and i've had a plenty o' practice--thanks to self and sister." "i knew not," quoth i, "that thou hadst a sister." "how should ye, mistress," returns she, shortlie, "when ye never comes nigh us? we've grubbed on together this many a year." "'tis soe far," i returned, half ashamed. "why, soe it be," answers gammer; "far from neighbours, far from church, and far from priest; howbeit, my old legs carries me to _your_ house o' fridays; but i know not whether i shall e'er come agayn--the rye bread was soe hard last time; it may serve for young teeth, and for them as has got none; but mine, you see, are onlie on the _goe_;" and she opened her mouth with a ghastly smile. "'tis not," she added, "that i'm ungratefulle; but thou sees, mistress, i really _can't_ eat crusts." after a moment, i asked, "where lies your dwelling?" "out by yonder," quoth she, pointing to a shapeless mass like a huge bird's nest in y'e corner of the field. "there bides poor joan and i. wilt come and looke within, mistress, and see how a christian can die?" i mutelie complyed, in spite of cecy's pulling at my skirts. arrived at y'e wretched abode, which had a hole for its chimney, and another for door at once and window, i found, sitting in a corner, propped on a heap of rushes, dried leaves, and olde rags, an aged sick woman, who seemed to have but a little while to live. a mug of water stoode within her reach; i saw none other sustenance; but, in her visage, oh, such peace!... whispers gammer with an awfulle look, "she sees 'em now!" "sees who?" quoth i. "why, angels in two long rows, afore y'e throne of god, a bending of themselves, this way, with theire faces to th' earth, and arms stretched out afore 'em." "hath she seen a priest?" quoth i. "lord love ye," returns gammer, "what coulde a priest doe for her? she's is in heaven alreadie. i doubte if she can heare me." and then, in a loud, distinct voyce, quite free from her usuall mumping, she beganne to recite in _english_, "blessed is every one that feareth y'e lord, and walketh in his ways," etc.; which y'e dying woman hearde, although alreadie speechlesse; and reaching out her feeble arm unto her sister's neck, she dragged it down till their faces touched; and then, looking up, pointed at somewhat she aimed to make her see ... and we alle looked up, but saw noughte. howbeit, she pointed up three severall times, and lay, as it were, transfigured before us, a gazing at some transporting sighte, and ever and anon turning on her sister looks of love; and, the while we stoode thus agaze, her spiritt passed away without even a thrill or a shudder. cecy and i beganne to weepe; and, after a while, soe did gammer; then, putting us forthe, she sayd, "goe, children, goe; 'tis noe goode crying; and yet i'm thankfulle to ye for your teares." i sayd, "is there aught we can doe for thee?" she made answer, "perhaps you can give me tuppence, mistress, to lay on her poor eyelids and keep 'em down. bless 'ee, bless 'ee! you're like y'e good samaritan--he pulled out two-pence. and maybe, if i come to 'ee to-morrow, you'll give me a lapfulle of rosemarie, to lay on her poor corpse.... i know you've plenty. god be with 'ee, children; and be sure ye mind how a christian can die." soe we left, and came home sober enow. cecy sayth, "to die is not soe fearfulle, meg, as i thoughte, but shoulde _you_ fancy dying without a priest? i shoulde not; and yet gammer sayd she wanted not one. howbeit, for certayn, gammer gurney is noe witch, or she woulde not so prayse god." to conclude, father, on hearing alle, hath given gammer more than enow for her present needes; and cecy and i are y'e almoners of his mercy. * * * * * june . yesternighte, being st. john's eve, we went into town to see y'e mustering of y'e watch. mr. rastall had secured us a window opposite y'e king's head, in chepe, where theire m'ys. went in state to see the show. the streets were a marvell to see, being like unto a continuation of fayr bowres or arbours, garlanded acrosse and over y'e doors with greene birch, long fennel, orpin, st. john's wort, white lilies, and such like; with innumerable candles intersperst, the which, being lit up as soon as 'twas dusk, made the whole look like enchanted land; while at y'e same time, the leaping over bon-fires commenced, and produced shouts of laughter. the youths woulde have father goe downe and joyn 'em; rupert, speciallie, begged him hard, but he put him off with, "sirrah, you goosecap, dost think 'twoulde befitt y'e judge of the sheriffs' court?" at length, to y'e sound of trumpets, came marching up cheapside two thousand of the watch, in white fustian, with the city badge; and seven hundred cressett bearers, eache with his fellow to supplie him with oyl, and making, with theire flaring lights, the night as cleare as daye. after 'em, the morris-dancers and city waites; the lord mayor on horseback, very fine, with his giants and pageants: and the sheriff and his watch, and _his_ giants and pageants. the streets very uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage delicious; the nighte ayre cool; and the stars shining brightly. father and erasmus had some astronomick talk; howbeit, methoughte erasmus less familiar with y'e heavenlie bodies than father is. afterwards, they spake of y'e king, but not over-freelie, by reason of y'e bargemen overhearing. thence, to y'e ever-vext question of martin luther, of whome erasmus spake in terms of earneste, yet qualifyde prayse. "if luther be innocent," quoth he, "i woulde not run him down by a wicked faction; if he be in error, i woulde rather have him reclaymed than destroyed; for this is most agreeable to the doctrine of our deare lord and master, who woulde not bruise y'e broken reede, nor quenche y'e smoaking flax." and much more to same purpose. we younger folks felle to choosing our favourite mottoes and devices, in which y'e elders at length joyned us. mother's was loyal--"cleave to y'e crown though it hang on a bush." erasmus's pithie--"festina lente." william sayd he was indebted for his to st. paul--"i seeke not yours, but you." for me, i quoted one i had seene in an olde countrie church, "mieux être que paroitre," which pleased father and erasmus much. * * * * * poor erasmus caughte colde on y'e water last nighte, and keeps house to-daye, taking warm possets. 'tis my week of housekeeping under mother's guidance, and i never had more pleasure in it: delighting to suit his taste in sweete things, which, methinks, all men like. i have enow of time left for studdy, when alle's done. he hathe beene the best part of the morning in our academia, looking over books and manuscripts, taking notes of some, discoursing with mr. gunnell and others; and, in some sorte, interrupting our morning's work; but how pleasantlie! besides, as father sayth, "varietie is not always interruption. that which occasionallie lets and hinders our accustomed studdies, may prove to y'e ingenious noe less profitable than theire studdies themselves." they beganne with discussing y'e pronunciation of latin and greek, on which erasmus differeth much from us, though he holds to our pronunciation of y'e _theta_. thence, to y'e absurde partie of the ciceronians now in italie, who will admit noe author save tully to be read nor quoted, nor anie word not in his writings to be used. thence, to y'e latinitie of y'e fathers, of whose style he spake slightlie enow, but rated jerome above augustine. at length, to his greek and latin testament, of late issued from y'e presse, and y'e incredible labour it hath cost him to make it as perfect as possible: on this subject he soe warmed, that bess and i listened with suspended breath. "may it please god," sayth he, knitting ferventlie his hands, "to make it a blessing to all christendom! i look for noe other reward. scholars and believers yet unborn, may have reason to thank, and yet may forget erasmus." he then went on to explain to gunnell what he had much felt in want of, and hoped some scholar might yet undertake; to wit, a sort of index bibliorum, showing in how manie passages of holy writ occurreth anie given word, etc.; and he e'en proposed it to gunnell, saying 'twas onlie y'e work of patience and industry, and mighte be layd aside, and resumed as occasion offered, and completed at leisure, to y'e great thankfullenesse of scholars. but gunnell onlie smiled and shooke his head. howbeit, erasmus set forth his scheme soe playnlie, that i, having a pen in hand, did privilie note down alle y'e heads of y'e same, thinking, if none else w'd undertake it, why s'd not i? since leisure and industrie were alone required, and since 'twoulde be soe acceptable to manie, 'speciallie to erasmus. footnotes: [ ] continued from the april number. the stolen fruit.--a story of napoleon's childhood. on the th of august, , two little girls of seven or eight years old were playing in a garden near ajaccio in corsica. after running up and down among the trees and flowers, one of them stopped the other at the entrance to a dark grotto under a rock. "eliza," she said, "don't go any further: it frightens me to look into that black cave." "nonsense! 'tis only napoleon's grotto." "this garden belongs to your uncle fesch: has he given this dark hole to napoleon?" "no, panoria; my great-uncle has not given him this grotto. but as he often comes and spends hours in it by himself, we all call it _napoleon's grotto_." "and what can he be doing there?" "talking to himself." "what about?" "oh, i don't know: a variety of things. but come, help me to gather a large bunch of flowers." "just now, when we were on the lower walk, you told me not to pull any, although there was abundance of sweet ones." "yes; but that was in my uncle the canon's garden. "and are his flowers more sacred than those of uncle fesch?" "they are indeed, panoria." "and why?" "i'm sure i don't know, but when any one wants to prevent our playing, they say, 'that will give your uncle the canon a headache!' when we are not to touch something, 'tis always, 'that belongs to the canon!' if we want to eat some fine fruit, 'don't touch that; 'tis for your uncle the canon!' and even when we are praised or rewarded, 'tis always because the canon is pleased with us!" "is it because he is archdeacon of ajaccio that people are so much afraid of him?" "oh, no, panoria; but because he is our tutor. papa is not rich enough to pay for masters to teach us, and he has not time to look after our education himself; so our uncle the canon teaches us every thing. he is not unkind, but he is very strict. if we don't know our lessons, he slaps us smartly." "and don't you call that unkind, eliza?" "not exactly. do you never get a whipping yourself, panoria?" "no, indeed, eliza. it is the corsican fashion to beat children; but our family is greek, and mamma says greeks must not be beaten." "then i'm sure, panoria, i wish i were a greek; for 'tis very unpleasant to be slapped!" "i dare say your brother napoleon does not like it either." "he is the only one of my brothers who does not cry or complain when he is punished. if you heard what a noise joseph and lucien make, you would fancy that uncle was flaying them alive!" "but about napoleon. what can he be talking about alone in the grotto?" "hush! here he is! let us hide ourselves behind this lilac-tree, and you'll hear." "i see severia coming to call us." "ah! it will take her an hour to gather ripe fruit for uncle the canon. we shall have time enough. come!" and the little girls, gliding between the rock and the overhanging shrubs, took up their position in perfect concealment. the boy who advanced toward the grotto differed from the generality of children of his age in the size of his head, the massive form of his noble brow, and the fixed _examining_ expression of his eyes. he walked slowly--looking at the bright blue sea--and unconscious that his proceedings were closely watched by two pair of little bright black eyes. "here i am my own master!" he said as he entered the grotto. "no one commands me here!" and seating himself royally on a bench within the dark entrance, he continued, "this is my birthday. i am eight years old to-day. i wish i lived among the spartans, then i should be beyond the control of women; but now i have to obey such a number of people--old severia among the rest. ah, if i were the master!" "well, and if you were the master, what would you do?" cried eliza, thrusting forward her pretty little head. "first of all, i'd teach you not to come listening at doors," replied napoleon, disconcerted at being overheard. "but, brother, there's no door that i can see." "no matter, you have been eaves-dropping all the same." "eliza!--panoria!" cried a loud voice. "where can these children have gone to?" the young ladies came out of their leafy lurking-place in time to meet the little bonapartes' nurse, severia--a tall old woman, who carried on her arm a basket filled with the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and figs. "a pear, severia!" cried napoleon, darting forward, and thrusting his hand into the basket. "the saints forbid, child!" exclaimed severia. "they are for your uncle the canon!" "ah!" said napoleon, drawing back his hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung him. panoria burst out laughing. "i never saw such people!" she said, as soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. "my uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the whole family. is severia afraid of him, too?" "not more than i am," said napoleon, boldly. "and yet you were afraid to take a pear?" "because i did not wish to do it, panoria." "did not _dare_ do it, napoleon!" "did not _wish_ to do it, panoria." "and if you wished it, would you do it?" "certainly i would." "i think you are a boaster, napoleon; and in your uncle's presence would be just as great a coward as eliza or pauline?" "come, children, follow me," said severia, walking on. "you think i am a coward?" whispered eliza to her little friend. "come into the house, and see if i don't eat as much of uncle's fruit as i please. mamma is gone out to pay a visit, and will not be home until to-morrow." "then i'll help you," said panoria. and the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the tempting fruit, followed severia to the house. napoleon remained some time longer in his grotto; and when supper-time approached, he went into the house. feeling very thirsty, he entered the dining-room, in which was a large cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept. just as he was going in, he heard a noise: the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappearing through the open window. instead, however, of looking after the fugitive, he went quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard. then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket of fruit half empty! while, forgetting his thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit, considering who could have been the hardy thief, a voice behind him roused him from his reverie. "what are you doing there, napoleon? you know you are not permitted to help yourself to supper." this was uncle the canon himself--a short, stout old man with a bald head, whose otherwise ordinary features were lighted up with the eagle glance which afterward distinguished his grand-nephew. "i was not taking any thing, uncle," replied napoleon. and then suddenly the idea occurring to him that he might be accused of having taken the fruit, the blood rushed hotly to his cheeks. his confusion was so evident, that the canon said, "i hope you are not telling a falsehood, napoleon?" "i never tell falsehoods," said the boy, proudly. "what were you doing?" "i was thirsty; i came to get some water." "no harm in that--and then, my boy?" "that was all, uncle." "have you drunk the water?" "no, uncle; not yet." the archdeacon shook his head. "you came to drink, and you did not drink; that does not hang well together. napoleon, take care. if you frankly confess your fault, whatever it may be, you shall be forgiven; but if you tell a lie, and persist in it, i warn you that i shall punish you severely." the entrance of m. bonaparte, m. fesch, and joseph, napoleon's eldest brother, interrupted the conversation; and for some minutes the elder gentlemen spoke to each other on political subjects; when a sudden exclamation from severia, as she opened the cupboard, attracted the attention of all. "santa madona! who has taken the fruit?" "this is the mystery discovered!" said the canon, turning toward napoleon. "so you stole the fruit?" "i never touched it," replied the boy. "call in the other children," said the archdeacon. in a few minutes five beautiful children, three boys and two girls, formed a group round their father, who, looking at each one in turn, asked, "which of you has taken the fruit that was gathered in your uncle the canon's garden?" "i did not!" "nor i!" "nor i!" cried they all. but eliza's voice was lower and less assured than those of the others. "and you, napoleon?" "i have said, papa, that i did not do it." "that's a falsehood!" exclaimed severia, who, being an old domestic, took great liberties. "if you were not a woman!" said napoleon, shaking his small clenched hand at her. "silence! napoleon," said his father, sternly. "it must have been you, napoleon," said severia; "for after putting the fruit into the cupboard, i never left the ante-room, and not a soul passed through except the archdeacon and yourself. if he has not taken them--" "i wish truly i had," said the old gentleman, "and then i should not have the grief of seeing one of my children persist in a lie." "uncle, i am not guilty," repeated napoleon firmly. "do not be obstinate, but confess," said his father. "yes," added the canon; "'tis the only way to escape punishment." "but i never touched the fruit--indeed, i did not." "napoleon," said his uncle, "i can not believe you. i shall give you five minutes; and if, at the end of that time, you do not confess, and ask for pardon, i shall whip you." "a whip is for horses and dogs, not for children!" said the boy. "a whip is for disobedient, lying children," replied his father. "then 'tis unjust to give it me, for i am neither a liar nor disobedient." so saying, napoleon crossed his arms on his chest, and settled himself in a firm attitude. meantime his brothers and his sister pauline came close to him, and whispered good-natured entreaties that he would confess. "but how can i, when i have not done wrong?" "so you are still obstinate?" said his uncle. and taking him by the arm, he led him into the next room. presently the sound of sharp repeated blows was heard, but not a cry or complaint from the little sufferer. madame bonaparte was away from home, and in the evening her husband went to meet her, accompanied by joseph, lucien, and eliza. m. fesch and the canon were also about to depart, and in passing through the ante-room, they saw napoleon standing, pale and grave, but proud, and firm-looking as before. "well, my child," said his father, "i hope you will now ask your uncle's pardon?" "i did not touch the fruit, papa." "still obstinate! as the rod will not do, i shall try another method. your mother, brothers, eliza, and i, will be away for three days, and during that time you shall have nothing but bread and water, unless you ask your uncle's forgiveness." "but, papa, won't you let him have some cheese with his bread?" whispered little pauline. "yes, but not _broccio_." "ah do, papa, please let him have _broccio_ 'tis the nicest cheese in corsica!" "that's the reason he does not deserve it," said his father, looking at the boy with an anxious expression, as if he hoped to see some sign of penitence on his face. but none such appearing, he proceeded toward the carriage. joseph and lucien took a kind leave of their brother, but eliza seemed unwilling and afraid to go near or look at him. the three days passed on, heavily enough for poor napoleon, who was in disgrace, and living on bread, water, and cheese, which was not _broccio_. at length the party returned, and little panoria, who was watching for her friend eliza, came with them into the house. "good-morning, uncle," said madame bonaparte to the archdeacon, "how are you? and where are napoleon and pauline?" "here i am, mamma," said the latter throwing her arms around her mother's neck. "and napoleon?" "he is here," said the canon. "has he confessed?" asked his father. "no," replied the uncle. "i never before witnessed such obstinacy." "what has he done?" asked his mother. the canon, in reply, related the story of the fruit; but before he could finish it, panoria exclaimed-- "of course, poor fellow, he would not confess what he never did!" "and who did take the fruit?" asked the canon. "i and eliza," replied the little girl without hesitation. there was a universal exclamation. "my poor child," said the archdeacon, embracing napoleon tenderly, "why did you not undeceive us?" "i suspected it was eliza," replied napoleon; "but i was not sure. at all events, i would not have told, for panoria's sake, who is not a liar." the reader may imagine how napoleon was caressed and rewarded to make him amends for the pain he had unjustly suffered. as to eliza, she was severely and rightly punished: first for her gluttony; and then for what was much worse--her cowardice and deceit in allowing her innocent brother to suffer for her fault. wilberforce and chalmers. i have seldom observed a more amusing and pleasing contrast between two great men than between wilberforce and chalmers. chalmers is stout and erect, with a broad countenance--wilberforce minute, and singularly twisted: chalmers, both in body and mind, moves with, a deliberate step--wilberforce, infirm as he is in his advanced years, flies about with astonishing activity, and while, with nimble finger, he seizes on every thing that adorns or diversifies his path, his mind flits from object to object with unceasing versatility. i often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy to particular animals: chalmers is like a good-tempered lion--wilberforce is like a bee: chalmers can say a pleasant thing now and then, and laugh when he has said it, and he has a strong touch of humor in his countenance, but in general he is _grave_, his thoughts grow to a great size before they are uttered--wilberforce sparkles with life and wit, and the characteristic of his mind is "rapid productiveness." a man might be in chalmers's company for an hour, especially in a party, without knowing who or what he was--though in the end he would be sure to be detected by some unexpected display of powerful originality. wilberforce, except when fairly asleep, is never latent. chalmers knows how to vail himself in a decent cloud--wilberforce is always in sunshine. seldom, i believe, has any mind been more strung to a perpetual tune of love and praise. yet these persons, distinguished as they are from the world at large, and from each other, present some admirable points of resemblance. both of them are broad thinkers, and liberal feelers; both of them are arrayed in humility, meekness, and charity: both appear to hold self in little reputation: above all, both love the lord jesus christ, and reverently acknowledge him to be their _only saviour_.--_hanna's memoirs of chalmers._ my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page ._) chapter xiii. mr. dale had been more than a quarter of an hour conversing with mrs. avenel, and had seemingly made little progress in the object of his diplomatic mission, for now, slowly drawing on his gloves, he said, "i grieve to think, mrs. avenel, that you should have so hardened your heart--yes--you must pardon me--it is my vocation to speak stern truths. you can not say that i have not kept faith with you, but i must now invite you to remember that i specially reserved to myself the right of exercising a discretion to act as i judged best, for the child's interests, on any future occasion; and it was upon this understanding that you gave me the promise, which you would now evade, of providing for him when he came into manhood." "i say i will provide for him. i say that you may 'prentice him in any distant town, and by-and-by we will stock a shop for him. what would you have more, sir, from folks like us, who have kept shop ourselves? it ain't reasonable what you ask, sir?" "my dear friend," said the parson, "what i ask of you at present is but to see him--to receive him kindly--to listen to his conversation--to judge for yourselves. we can have but a common object--that your grandson should succeed in life, and do you credit. now, i doubt very much whether we can effect this by making him a small shopkeeper." "and has jane fairfield, who married a common carpenter, brought him up to despise small shopkeepers?" exclaimed mrs. avenel, angrily. "heaven forbid! some of the first men in england have been the sons of small shopkeepers. but is it a crime in them, or their parents, if their talents have lifted them into such rank or renown as the haughtiest duke might envy? england were not england if a man must rest where his father began." "good!" said, or rather grunted, an approving voice, but neither mrs. avenel nor the parson heard it. "all very fine," said mrs. avenel, bluntly. "but to send a boy like that to the university--where's the money to come from?" "my dear mrs. avenel," said the parson, coaxingly, "the cost need not be great at a small college at cambridge; and if you will pay half the expense, i will pay the other half. i have no children of my own, and can afford it." "that's very handsome in you, sir," said mrs. avenel, somewhat touched, yet still not graciously. "but the money is not the only point." "once at cambridge," continued mr. dale, speaking rapidly, "at cambridge, where the studies are mathematical--that is, of a nature for which he has shown so great an aptitude--and i have no doubt he will distinguish himself; if he does, he will obtain, on leaving, what is called a fellowship--that is a collegiate dignity accompanied by an income on which he could maintain himself until he made his way in life. come, mrs. avenel, you are well off; you have no relations nearer to you in want of your aid. your son, i hear, has been very fortunate." "sir," said mrs. avenel, interrupting the parson, "it is not because my son richard is an honor to us, and is a good son, and has made his fortin, that we are to rob him of what we have to leave, and give it to a boy whom we know nothing about, and who, in spite of what you say, can't bring upon us any credit at all." "why? i don' see that." "why?" exclaimed mrs. avenel, fiercely--"why? you know why. no, i don't want him to rise in life: i don't want folks to be speiring and asking about him. i think it is a very wicked thing to have put fine notions in his head, and i am sure my daughter fairfield could not have done it herself. and now, to ask me to rob richard, and bring out a great boy--who's been a gardener, or plowman, or such like--to disgrace a gentleman who keeps his carriage, as my son richard does--i would have you to know, sir, no! i won't do it, and there's an end to the matter." during the last two or three minutes, and just before that approving "good" had responded to the parson's popular sentiment, a door communicating with an inner room had been gently opened, and stood ajar; but this incident neither party had even noticed. but now the door was thrown boldly open, and the traveler whom the parson had met at the inn walked up to mr. dale, and said, "no! that's not the end of the matter. you say the boy's a 'cute clever lad?" "richard, have you been listening?" exclaimed mrs. avenel. "well, i guess, yes--the last few minutes." "and what have you heard?" "why, that this reverend gentleman thinks so highly of my sister fairfield's boy that he offers to pay half of his keep at college. sir, i'm very much obliged to you, and there's my hand, if you'll take it." the parson jumped up, overjoyed, and, with a triumphant glance toward mrs. avenel, shook hands heartily with mr. richard. "now," said the latter, "just put on your hat, sir, and take a stroll with me, and we'll discuss the thing business-like. women don't understand business; never talk to women on business." with these words, mr. richard drew out a cigar-case, selected a cigar, which he applied to the candle, and walked into the hall. mrs. avenel caught hold of the parson. "sir, you'll be on your guard with richard. remember your promise." "he does not know all, then?" "he? no! and you see he did not overhear more than what he says. i'm sure you're a gentleman, and won't go agin your word." "my word was conditional; but i will promise you never to break the silence without more reason than i think there is here for it. indeed, mr. richard avenel seems to save all necessity for that." "are you coming, sir?" cried richard, as he opened the street door. chapter xiv. the parson joined mr. richard avenel on the road. it was a fine night, and the moon clear and shining. "so, then," said mr. richard thoughtfully, "poor jane, who was always the drudge of the family, has contrived to bring up her son well; and the boy is really what you say, eh?--could make a figure at college?" "i am sure of it," said the parson, hooking himself on to the arm which mr. avenel proffered. "i should like to see him," said richard. "has he any manner? is he genteel? or a mere country lout?" "indeed he speaks with so much propriety, and has so much modest dignity, i might say, about him, that there's many a rich gentleman who would be proud of such a son." "it is odd," observed richard, "what difference there is in families. there's jane now--who can't read nor write, and was just fit to be a workman's wife--had not a thought above her station; and when i think of my poor sister nora--you would not believe it, sir, but _she_ was the most elegant creature in the world--yes, even as a child (she was but a child when i went off to america). and often, as i was getting on in life, often i used to say to myself, 'my little nora shall be a lady after all.' poor thing--but she died young." richard's voice grew husky. the parson kindly pressed the arm on which he leaned, and said, after a pause, "nothing refines us like education, sir. i believe your sister nora had received much instruction, and had the talents to profit by it; it is the same with your nephew." "i'll see him," said richard, stamping his foot firmly on the ground, "and if i like him, i'll be as good as a father to him. look you, mr. ---- what's your name, sir?" "dale." "mr. dale, look you, i'm a single man. perhaps i may marry some day; perhaps i shan't. i'm not going to throw myself away. if i can get a lady of quality, why--but that's neither here nor there; meanwhile, i should be glad of a nephew whom i need not be ashamed of. you see, sir, i'm a new man, the builder of my own fortunes; and, though i have picked up a little education--i don't well know how--as i scrambled on, still, now i come back to the old country i'm well aware that i am not exactly a match for those d----d aristocrats; don't show so well in a drawing-room as i could wish. i could be a parliament man if i liked, but i might make a goose of myself; so, all things considered, if i can get a sort of junior partner to do the polite work, and show off the goods, i think the house of avenel & co. might become a pretty considerable honor to the britishers. you understand me, sir?" "oh, very well," answered mr. dale smiling, though rather gravely. "now," continued the new man, "i'm not ashamed to have risen in life by my own merits; and i don't disguise what i've been. and, when i'm in my own grand house, i'm fond of saying, 'i landed at new york with £ in my purse, and here i am!' but it would not do to have the old folks with me. people take you with all your faults, if you're rich; but they won't swallow your family into the bargain. so if i don't have my own father and mother, whom i love dearly, and should like to see sitting at table, with my servants behind their chairs, i could still less have sister jane. i recollect her very well, and she can't have got genteeler as she's grown older. therefore i beg you'll not set her on coming after me; it won't do by any manner of means. don't say a word about me to her. but send the boy down here to his grandfather, and i'll see him quietly, you understand." "yes, but it will be hard to separate her from the boy." "stuff! all boys are separated from their parents when they go into the world. so that's settled! now, just tell me. i know the old folks always snubbed jane--that is, mother did. my poor dear father never snubbed any of us. perhaps mother has not behaved altogether well to jane. but we must not blame her for that; you see this is how it happened. there were a good many of us, while father and mother kept shop in the high-street, so we were all to be provided for anyhow; and jane, being very useful and handy at work, got a place when she was a little girl, and had no time for learning. afterward my father made a lucky hit, in getting my lord lansmere's custom after an election, in which he did a great deal for the blues (for he was a famous electioneerer, my poor father). my lady stood godmother to nora; and then most of my brothers and sisters died off, and father retired from business; and when he took jane from service, she was so common-like that mother could not help contrasting her with nora. you see jane was their child when they were poor little shop-people, with their heads scarce above water; and nora was their child when they were well off, and had retired from trade, and lived genteel: so that makes a great difference. and mother did not quite look on her as her own child. but it was jane's own fault; for mother would have made it up with her if she had married the son of our neighbor the great linendraper, as she might have done; but she would take mark fairfield, a common carpenter. parents like best those of their children who succeed best in life. natural. why, they did not care for me till i came back the man i am. but to return to jane: i'm afraid they've neglected her. how is she off?" "she earns her livelihood, and is poor, but contented." "ah, just be good enough to give her this," (and richard took a bank-note of £ from his pocket-book). "you can say the old folks sent it to her; or that it is a present from dick, without telling her he had come back from america." "my dear sir," said the parson, "i am more and more thankful to have made your acquaintance. this is a very liberal gift of yours; but your best plan will be to send it through your mother. for, though i don't want to betray any confidence you place in me, i should not know what to answer if mrs. fairfield began to question me about her brother. i never had but one secret to keep, and i hope i shall never have another. a secret is very like a lie!" "you had a secret, then," said richard, as he took back the bank-note. he had learned, perhaps, in america, to be a very inquisitive man. he added point-blank, "pray what was it?" "why, what it would not be if i told you," said the parson, with a forced laugh--"a secret!" "well, i guess we're in a land of liberty--do as you like. now, i dare say you think me a very odd fellow to come out of my shell to you in this off-hand way. but i liked the look of you, even when we were at the inn together. and just now i was uncommonly pleased to find that, though you are a parson, you don't want to keep a man's nose down to a shop-board, if he has any thing in him. you're not one of the aristocrats--" "indeed," said the parson, with imprudent warmth, "it is not the character of the aristocracy of this country to keep people down. they make way among themselves for any man, whatever his birth, who has the talent and energy to aspire to their level. that's the especial boast of the british constitution, sir!" "oh, you think so, do you?" said mr. richard, looking sourly at the parson. "i dare say those are the opinions in which you have brought up the lad. just keep him yourself, and let the aristocracy provide for him!" the parson's generous and patriotic warmth evaporated at once, at this sudden inlet of cold air into the conversation. he perceived that he had made a terrible blunder; and, as it was not his business at that moment to vindicate the british constitution, but to serve leonard fairfield, he abandoned the cause of the aristocracy with the most poltroon and scandalous abruptness. catching at the arm which mr. avenel had withdrawn from him, he exclaimed: "indeed, sir, you are mistaken; i have never attempted to influence your nephew's political opinions. on the contrary, if, at his age, he can be said to have formed any opinion, i am greatly afraid--that is, i think his opinions are by no means sound--that is, constitutional. i mean, i mean--" and the poor parson, anxious to select a word that would not offend his listener, stopped short in lamentable confusion of idea. mr. avenel enjoyed his distress for a moment, with a saturnine smile, and then said, "well, i calculate he's a radical. natural enough, if he has not got a sixpence to lose--all come right by-and-by. i'm not a radical--at least not a destructive--much too clever a man for that, i hope. but i wish to see things very different from what they are. don't fancy that i want the common people, who've got nothing, to pretend to dictate to their betters, because i hate to see a parcel of fellows, who are called lords and squires, trying to rule the roast. i think, sir, that it is men like me who ought to be at the top of the tree! and that's the long and short of it. what do you say?" "i've not the least objection," said the crest-fallen parson, basely. but, to do him justice, i must add that he did not the least know what he was saying! chapter xv. unconscious of the change in his fate which the diplomacy of the parson sought to effect, leonard fairfield was enjoying the first virgin sweetness of fame; for the principal town in his neighborhood had followed the then growing fashion of the age, and set up a mechanics' institute; and some worthy persons interested in the formation of that provincial athenæum had offered a prize for the best essay on the diffusion of knowledge--a very trite subject, on which persons seem to think they can never say too much, and on which there is, nevertheless, a great deal yet to be said. this prize leonard fairfield had recently won. his essay had been publicly complimented by a full meeting of the institute; it had been printed at the expense of the society, and had been rewarded by a silver medal--delineative of apollo crowning merit (poor merit had not a rag to his back; but merit, left only to the care of apollo, never is too good a customer to the tailor!) and the county gazette had declared that britain had produced another prodigy in the person of dr. riccabocca's self-educated gardener. attention was now directed to leonard's mechanical contrivances. the squire, ever eagerly bent on improvements, had brought an engineer to inspect the lad's system of irrigation, and the engineer had been greatly struck by the simple means by which a very considerable technical difficulty had been overcome. the neighboring farmers now called leonard "_mr._ fairfield," and invited him on equal terms to their houses. mr. stirn had met him on the high road, touched his hat, and hoped that "he bore no malice." all this, i say, was the first sweetness of fame; and if leonard fairfield comes to be a great man, he will never find such sweets in the after fruit. it was this success which had determined the parson on the step which he had just taken, and which he had long before anxiously meditated. for, during the last year or so, he had renewed his old intimacy with the widow and the boy; and he had noticed, with great hope and great fear, the rapid growth of an intellect, which now stood out from the lowly circumstances that surrounded it in bold and unharmonizing relief. it was the evening after his return home that the parson strolled up to the casino. he put leonard fairfield's prize essay in his pocket. for he felt that he could not let the young man go forth into the world without a preparatory lecture, and he intended to scourge poor merit with the very laurel wreath which it had received from apollo. but in this he wanted riccabocca's assistance: or rather, he feared that, if he did not get the philosopher on his side, the philosopher might undo all the work of the parson. chapter xvi. a sweet sound came through the orange boughs, and floated to the ears of the parson, as he wound slowly up the gentle ascent--so sweet, so silvery, he paused in delight--unaware, wretched man! that he was thereby conniving at papistical errors. soft it came, and sweet: softer and sweeter--"ave maria!" violante was chanting the evening hymn to the virgin mother. the parson at last distinguished the sense of the words, and shook his head with the pious shake of an orthodox protestant. he broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy step. gaining the terrace, he found the little family seated under an awning. mrs. riccabocca knitting; the signor with his arms folded on his breast: the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen on the ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy. violante had finished her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two, pillowing her head on her step-mother's lap, but with her hand resting on her father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face. "good evening," said mr. dale. violante stole up to him, and, pulling him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, "talk to papa, do--and cheerfully; he is sad." she escaped from him, as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. but she kept her swimming, lustrous eyes wistfully on her father. "how fares it with you, my dear friend?"' said the parson, kindly, as he rested his hand on the italian's shoulder. "you must not let him get out of spirits, mrs. riccabocca." "i am very ungrateful to her if i ever am so," said the poor italian, with all his natural gallantry. many a good wife, who thinks it is a reproach to her if her husband is ever "out of spirits," might have turned peevishly from that speech more elegant than sincere, and so have made bad worse. but mrs. riccabocca took her husband's proffered hand affectionately, and said with great _naiveté_-- "you see i am so stupid, mr. dale; i never knew i was so stupid till i married. but i am very glad you are come. you can get on some learned subject together, and then he will not miss so much his--" "his what?" asked riccabocca inquisitively. "his country. do you think that i can not sometimes read your thoughts?" "very often. but you did not read them just then. the tongue touches where the tooth aches, but the best dentist can not guess at the tooth unless one opens one's mouth.--_basta!_ can we offer you some wine of our own making, mr. dale? it is pure." "i'd rather have some tea," quoth the parson hastily. mrs. riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. and the parson, sliding into her chair, said: "but you are dejected, then? fie! if there's a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness." "i don't dispute it," said riccabocca, with a heavy sigh. "but though it is said by some greek, who, i think, is quoted by your favorite seneca, that a wise man carries his country with him at the soles of his feet, he can't carry also the sunshine." "i tell you what it is," said the parson, bluntly. "you would have a much keener sense of happiness if you had much less esteem for philosophy." "_cospetto!_" said the doctor, rousing himself. "just explain, will you?" "does not the search after wisdom induce desires not satisfied in this small circle to which your life is confined? it is not so much your country for which you yearn, as it is for space to your intellect, employment for your thoughts, career for your aspirations." "you have guessed at the tooth which aches," said riccabocca, with admiration. "easy to do that," answered the parson. "our wisdom teeth come last, and give us the most pain. and if you would just starve the mind a little, and nourish the heart more, you would be less of a philosopher, and more of a--" the parson had the word "christian" at the tip of his tongue: he suppressed a word that, so spoken, would have been exceedingly irritating, and substituted, with inelegant antithesis, "and more of a happy man!" "i do all i can with my heart," quoth the doctor. "not you! for a man with such a heart as yours should never feel the want of the sunshine. my friend, we live in an age of over mental cultivation. we neglect too much the simple, healthful outer life, in which there is so much positive joy. in turning to the world within us, we grow blind to this beautiful world without; in studying ourselves as men, we almost forget to look up to heaven, and warm to the smile of god." the philosopher mechanically shrugged his shoulders, as he always did when another man moralized--especially if the moralizer were a priest; but there was no irony in his smile, as he answered thoughtfully; "there is some truth in what you say. i own that we live too much as if we were all brain. knowledge has its penalties and pains, as well as its prizes." "that is just what i want you to say to leonard." "how have you settled the object of your journey?" "i will tell you as we walk down to him after tea. at present, i am rather too much occupied with you." "me? the tree is formed--try only to bend the young twig!" "trees are trees, and twigs twigs," said the parson, dogmatically; "but man is always growing till he falls into the grave. i think i have heard you say that you once had a narrow escape of a prison?" "very narrow." "just suppose that you were now in that prison, and that a fairy conjured up the prospect of this quiet home in a safe land; that you saw the orange-trees in flower, felt the evening breeze on your cheek; beheld your child gay or sad, as you smiled or knit your brow; that within this phantom home was a woman, not, indeed all your young romance might have dreamed of, but faithful and true, every beat of her heart all your own--would you not cry from the depth of the dungeon, 'o fairy! such a change were a paradise.' ungrateful man! you want interchange for your mind, and your heart should suffice for all!" riccabocca was touched and silent. "come hither, my child," said mr. dale, turning round to violante, who still stood among the flowers, out of hearing, but with watchful eyes. "come hither," he said, opening his arms. violante bounded forward, and nestled to the good man's heart. "tell me, violante, when you are alone in the fields or the garden, and have left your father looking pleased and serene, so that you have no care for him at your heart--tell me, violante, though you are all alone, with the flowers below and the birds singing overhead, do you feel that life itself is happiness or sorrow?" "happiness!" answered violante, half shutting her eyes, and in a measured voice. "can you explain what kind of happiness it is?" "oh, no, impossible! and it is never the same. sometimes it is so still--so still--and sometimes so joyous, that i long for wings to fly up to god, and thank him!" "o, friend," said the parson, "this is the true sympathy between life and nature, and thus we should feel ever, did we take more care to preserve the health and innocence of a child. we are told that we must become as children to enter into the kingdom of heaven; methinks we should also become as children to know what delight there is in our heritage of earth!" chapter xvii. the maid-servant (for jackeymo was in the fields) brought the table under the awning, and, with the english luxury of tea, there were other drinks as cheap and as grateful on summer evenings--drinks which jackeymo had retained and taught from the customs of the south--unebriate liquors, pressed from cooling fruits, sweetened with honey, and deliciously iced; ice should cost nothing in a country in which one is frozen up half the year! and jackeymo, too, had added to our good, solid, heavy english bread, preparations of wheat much lighter, and more propitious to digestion--with those crisp _grissins_, which seem to enjoy being eaten, they make so pleasant a noise between one's teeth. the parson esteemed it a little treat to drink tea with the riccaboccas. there was something of elegance and grace in that homely meal, at the poor exile's table, which pleased the eye as well as taste. and the very utensils, plain wedgewood though they were, had a classical simplicity, which made mrs. hazeldean's old india delf, and mrs. dale's best worcester china, look tawdry and barbarous in comparison. for it was flaxman who gave designs to wedgewood, and the most truly refined of all our manufactures in porcelain (if we do not look to the mere material) is in the reach of the most thrifty. the little banquet was at first rather a silent one; but riccabocca threw off his gloom, and became gay and animated. then poor mrs. riccabocca smiled, and pressed the _grissins;_ and violante, forgetting all her stateliness, laughed and played tricks on the parson, stealing away his cup of warm tea when his head was turned, and substituting iced cherry-juice. then the parson got up and ran after violante, making angry faces, and violante dodged beautifully, till the parson, fairly tired out, was too glad to cry "peace," and come back to the cherry-juice. thus time rolled on, till they heard afar the stroke of the distant church-clock, and mr. dale started up and cried, "but we shall be too late for leonard. come, naughty little girl, get your father his hat." "and umbrella!" said riccabocca, looking up at the cloudless moonlit sky. "umbrella against the stars?" asked the parson, laughing. "the stars are no friends of mine," said riccabocca, "and one never knows what may happen!" the philosopher and the parson walked on amicably. "you have done me good," said riccabocca, "but i hope i am not always so unreasonably melancholic as you seem to suspect. the evenings will sometimes appear long, and dull too, to a man whose thoughts on the past are almost his sole companions." "sole companions?--your child?" "she is so young." "your wife?" "she is so--," the bland italian appeared to check some disparaging adjective, and mildly added, "so good, i allow; but you must own that we can not have much in common." "i own nothing of the sort. you have your house and your interests, your happiness and your lives, in common. we men are so exacting, we expect to find ideal nymphs and goddesses when we condescend to marry a mortal; and if we did, our chickens would be boiled to rags, and our mutton come up as cold as a stone." "per bacco, you are an oracle," said riccabocca, laughing. "but i am not so skeptical as you are. i honor the fair sex too much. there are a great many women who realize the ideal of men to be found in--the poets!" "there's my dear mrs. dale," resumed the parson, not heeding this sarcastic compliment to the sex, but sinking his voice into a whisper, and looking round cautiously--"there's my dear mrs. dale, the best woman in the world--an angel i would say, if the word was not profane; but--" "what's the but" asked the doctor demurely. "but i too might say that 'we have not much in common,' if i were only to compare mind to mind, and, when my poor carry says something less profound than madame de stael might have said, smile on her in contempt from the elevation of logic and latin. yet, when i remember all the little sorrows and joys that we have shared together, and feel how solitary i should have been without her--oh, then, i am instantly aware that there is between us in common something infinitely closer and better than if the same course of study had given us the same equality of ideas; and i was forced to brace myself for a combat of intellect, as i am when i fall in with a tiresome sage like yourself. i don't pretend to say that mrs. riccabocca is a mrs. dale," added the parson, with lofty candor--"there is but one mrs. dale in the world; but still, you have drawn a prize in the wheel matrimonial! think of socrates, and yet he was content even with his--xantippe!" dr. riccabocca called to mind mrs. dale's "little tempers," and inly rejoiced that no second mrs. dale had existed to fall to his own lot. his placid jemima gained by the contrast. nevertheless, he had the ill grace to reply, "socrates was a man beyond all imitation!--yet i believe that even he spent very few of his evenings at home. but, _revenons à nos moutons_, we are nearly at mrs. fairfield's cottage, and you have not yet told me what you have settled as to leonard." the parson halted, took riccabocca by the button, and informed him, in very few words, that leonard was to go to lansmere to see some relations there, who had the fortune, if they had the will, to give full career to his abilities. "the great thing, in the mean while," said the parson, "would be to enlighten him a little as to what he calls--enlightenment." "ah!" said riccabocca, diverted, and rubbing his hands, "i shall listen with interest to what you say on that subject." "and must aid me; for the first step in this modern march of enlightenment is to leave the poor parson behind; and if one calls out, 'hold! and look at the sign-post,' the traveler hurries on the faster, saying to himself, 'pooh, pooh!--that is only the cry of the parson!' but my gentleman, when he doubts me, will listen to you--you're a philosopher!" "we philosophers are of some use now and then, even to parsons!" "if you were not so conceited a set of deluded poor creatures already, i would say 'yes,'" replied the parson generously; and, taking hold of riccabocca's umbrella, he applied the brass handle thereof, by way of a knocker, to the cottage door. chapter xviii. certainly it is a glorious fever that desire to know! and there are few sights in the moral world more sublime than that which many a garret might afford, if asmodeus would bare the roofs to our survey--viz., a brave, patient, earnest human being, toiling his own arduous way, athwart the iron walls of penury, into the magnificent infinite, which is luminous with starry souls. so there sits leonard, the self-taught, in the little cottage alone; for, though scarcely past the hour in which great folks dine, it is the hour in which small folks go to bed, and mrs. fairfield has retired to rest, while leonard has settled to his books. he had placed his table under the lattice, and from time to time he looked up and enjoyed the stillness of the moon. well for him that, in reparation for those hours stolen from night, the hardy physical labor commenced with dawn. students would not be the sad dyspeptics they are, if they worked as many hours in the open air as my scholar-peasant. but even in him you could see that the mind had begun a little to affect the frame. they who task the intellect must pay the penalty with the body. ill, believe me, would this work-day world get on if all within it were hard-reading, studious animals, playing the deuce with the ganglionic apparatus. leonard started as he heard the knock at the door; the parson's well-known voice reassured him. in some surprise, he admitted his visitors. "we are come to talk to you, leonard," said mr. dale, "but i fear we shall disturb mrs. fairfield." "oh, no, sir! the door to the staircase is shut, and she sleeps soundly." "why, this is a french book--do you read french, leonard?" asked riccabocca. "i have not found french difficult, sir. once over the grammar, and the language is so clear; it seems the very language for reasoning." "true. voltaire said justly, 'whatever is obscure is not french,'" observed riccabocca. "i wish i could say the same of english," muttered the parson. "but what is this?--latin too?--virgil?" "yes, sir. but i find i make little way there without a master. i fear i must give it up" (and leonard sighed). the two gentlemen exchanged looks and seated themselves. the young peasant remained standing modestly, and in his air and mien there was something that touched the heart while it pleased the eye. he was no longer the timid boy who had sunk from the frown of mr. stirn, nor that rude personation of simple physical strength, roused to undisciplined bravery, which had received its downfall on the village-green of hazeldean. the power of thought was on his brow--somewhat unquiet still, but mild and earnest. the features had attained that refinement which is often attributed to race, but comes, in truth, from elegance of idea, whether caught from our parents or learned from books. in his rich brown hair, thrown carelessly from his temples, and curling almost to the shoulders in his large blue eye, which was deepened to the hue of the violet by the long dark lash--in that firmness of lip which comes from the grapple with difficulties, there was considerable beauty, but no longer the beauty of the mere peasant. and yet there was still about the whole countenance that expression of goodness and purity which a painter would give to his ideal of the peasant lover--such as tasso would have placed in the _aminta_, or fletcher have admitted to the side of the faithful shepherdess. "you must draw a chair here, and sit down between us, leonard," said the parson. "if any one," said riccabocca "has a right to sit, it is the one who is to hear the sermon; and if any one ought to stand, it is the one who is about to preach it." "don't be frightened, leonard," said the parson, graciously; "it is only a criticism, not a sermon," and he pulled out leonard's prize essay. chapter xix. parson.--"you take for your motto this aphorism[ ]--'_knowledge is power._--bacon.'" riccabocca.--"bacon make such an aphorism! the last man in the world to have said any thing so pert and so shallow." leonard (astonished).--"do you mean to say, sir, that that aphorism is not in lord bacon! why, i have seen it quoted as his in almost every newspaper, and in almost every speech in favor of popular education." riccabocca.--"then that should be a warning to you never again to fall into the error of the would-be scholar--viz., quote second-hand. lord bacon wrote a great book to show in what knowledge is power, how that power should be defined, in what it might be mistaken. and, pray, do you think so sensible a man would ever have taken the trouble to write a great book upon the subject, if he could have packed up all he had to say into the portable dogma, 'knowledge is power?' pooh! no such aphorism is to be found in bacon from the first page of his writings to the last." parson (candidly).--"well, i supposed it was lord bacon's, and i am very glad to hear that the aphorism has not the sanction of his authority." leonard (recovering his surprise).--"but why so?" parson.--"because it either says a great deal too much, or just--nothing at all." leonard.--"at least, sir, it seems to me undeniable." parson.--"well, grant that it is undeniable. does it prove much in favor of knowledge? pray, is not ignorance power too?" riccabocca.--"and a power that has had much the best end of the quarter-staff." parson.--"all evil is power, and does its power make it any thing the better?" riccabocca.--"fanaticism is power--and a power that has often swept away knowledge like a whirlwind. the mussulman burns the library of a world--and forces the koran and the sword from the schools of byzantium to the colleges of hindostan." parson (bearing on with a new column of illustration).--"hunger is power. the barbarians, starved out of their energy by their own swarming population, swept into italy and annihilated letters. the romans, however degraded, had more knowledge, at least, than the gaul and the visigoth." riccabocca (bringing up the reserve).--"and even in greece, when greek met greek, the athenians--our masters in all knowledge--were beat by the spartans, who held learning in contempt." parson.--"wherefore you see, leonard, that though knowledge be power, it is only _one_ of the powers of the world; that there are others as strong, and often much stronger; and the assertion either means but a barren truism, not worth so frequent a repetition, or it means something that you would find it very difficult to prove." leonard.--"one nation may be beaten by another that has more physical strength and more military discipline; which last, permit me to say, sir, is a species of knowledge--" riccabocca.--"yes; but your knowledge-mongers at present call upon us to discard military discipline, and the qualities that produce it, from the list of the useful arts. and in your own essay, you insist upon knowledge as the great disbander of armies, and the foe of all military discipline." parson.--"let the young man proceed. nations, you say, may be beaten by other nations less learned and civilized?" leonard.--"but knowledge elevates a class. i invite my own humble order to knowledge, because knowledge will lift them into power." riccabocca.--"what do you say to that, mr. dale?" parson.--"in the first place, is it true that the class which has the most knowledge gets the most power? i suppose philosophers, like my friend dr. riccabocca, think they have the most knowledge. and pray, in what age have philosophers governed the world? are they not always grumbling that nobody attends to them?" "per bacco," said riccabocca, "if people had attended to us, it would have been a droll sort of world by this time!" parson.--"very likely. but, as a general rule, those have the most knowledge who give themselves up to it the most. let us put out of the question philosophers (who are often but ingenious lunatics), and speak only of erudite scholars, men of letters and practical science, professors, tutors, and fellows of colleges. i fancy any member of parliament would tell us that there is no class of men which has less actual influence on public affairs. they have more knowledge than manufacturers and ship-owners, squires and farmers; but, do you find that they have more power over the government and the votes of the house of commons?" "they ought to have," said leonard. "ought they?" said the parson: "we'll consider that later. meanwhile, you must not escape from your own proposition, which is, that knowledge is power--not that it _ought_ to be. now, even granting your corollary, that the power of a class is therefore proportioned to its knowledge--pray, do you suppose that while your order, the operatives, are instructing themselves, all the rest of the community are to be at a stand-still? diffuse knowledge as you may, you will never produce equality of knowledge. those who have most leisure, application, and aptitude for learning, will still know the most. nay, by a very natural law, the more general the appetite for knowledge, the more the increased competition would favor those most adapted to excel by circumstance and nature. at this day, there is a vast increase of knowledge spread over all society, compared with that in the middle ages; but is there not a still greater distinction between the highly-educated gentleman and the intelligent mechanic, than there was then between the baron who could not sign his name and the churl at the plow? between the accomplished statesman, versed in all historical lore, and the voter whose politics are formed by his newspaper, than there was between the legislator who passed laws against witches, and the burgher who defended his guild from some feudal aggression? between the enlightened scholar and the dunce of to-day, than there was between the monkish alchemist and the block head of yesterday? peasant, voter, and dunce of this century are no doubt wiser than the churl, burgher, and blockhead of the twelfth. but the gentleman, statesman, and scholar of the present age are at least quite as favorable a contrast to the alchemist, witch-burner, and baron of old. as the progress of enlightenment has done hitherto, so will it ever do. knowledge is like capital: the more there is in a country, the greater the disparities in wealth between one man and another. therefore, if the working class increase in knowledge, so do the other classes; and if the working class rise peacefully and legitimately into power, it is not in proportion to their own knowledge alone, but rather according as it seems to the knowledge of the other orders of the community, that such augmentation of proportional power is just, and safe, and wise." placed between the parson and the philosopher, leonard felt that his position was not favorable to the display of his forces. insensibly he edged his chair somewhat away, and said mournfully-- "then, according to you, the reign of knowledge would be no great advance in the aggregate freedom and welfare of man?" parson.--"let us define. by knowledge, do you mean intellectual cultivation?--by the reign of knowledge, the ascendency of the most cultivated minds?" leonard, (after a pause.)--"yes." riccabocca.--"oh indiscreet young man, that is an unfortunate concession of yours: for the ascendency of the most cultivated minds would be a terrible oligarchy!" parson.--"perfectly true; and we now reply to your exclamation, that men who, by profession, have most learning ought to have more influence than squires and merchants, farmers and mechanics. observe, all the knowledge that we mortals can acquire, is not knowledge positive and perfect, but knowledge comparative, and subject to all the errors and passions of humanity. and suppose that you could establish, as the sole regulators of affairs, those who had the most mental cultivation, do you think they would not like that power well enough to take all means their superior intelligence could devise to keep it to themselves? the experiment was tried of old by the priests of egypt; and in the empire of china, at this day, the aristocracy are elected from those who have most distinguished themselves in learned colleges. if i may call myself a member of that body, 'the people,' i would rather be an englishman, however much displeased with dull ministers and blundering parliaments, than i would be a chinese under the rule of the picked sages of the celestial empire. happily, therefore, my dear leonard, nations are governed by many things besides what is commonly called knowledge; and the greatest practical ministers, who, like themistocles, have made small states great--and the most dominant races who, like the romans, have stretched their rule from a village half over the universe--have been distinguished by various qualities which a philosopher would sneer at, and a knowledge-monger would call 'sad prejudices,' and 'lamentable errors of reason.'" leonard (bitterly.)--"sir, you make use of knowledge itself to argue against knowledge." parson.--"i make use of the little i know to prove the foolishness of idolatry. i do not argue against knowledge; i argue against knowledge-worship. for here, i see in your essay, that you are not contented with raising human knowledge into something like divine omnipotence, you must also confound her with virtue. according to you, we have only to diffuse the intelligence of the few among the many, and all at which we preachers aim is accomplished.--nay more; for whereas we humble preachers have never presumed to say, with the heathen stoic, that even virtue is sure of happiness be low (though it be the best road to it), you tell us plainly that this knowledge of yours gives not only the virtue of a saint, but bestows the bliss of a god. before the steps of your idol, the evils of life disappear. to hear you, one has but 'to know,' in order to be exempt from the sins and sorrows of the ignorant. has it ever been so? grant that you diffuse among the many all the knowledge ever attained by the few. have the wise few been so unerring and so happy? you supposed that your motto was accurately cited from bacon. what was bacon himself? the poet tells you-- 'the wisest, brightest, _meanest_ of mankind.' can you hope to bestow upon the vast mass of your order the luminous intelligence of this 'lord chancellor of nature?' grant that you do so--and what guarantee have you for the virtue and the happiness which you assume as the concomitants of the gift? see bacon himself; what black ingratitude! what miserable self-seeking! what truckling servility! what abject and pitiful spirit! so far from intellectual knowledge, in its highest form and type, insuring virtue and bliss, it is by no means uncommon to find great mental cultivation combined with great moral corruption." (aside to riccabocca)--"push on, will you?" riccabocca.--"a combination remarkable in eras as in individuals. petronius shows us a state of morals at which a commonplace devil would blush, in the midst of a society more intellectually cultivated than certainly was that which produced regulus or the horatii. and the most learned eras in modern italy were precisely those which brought the vices into the most ghastly refinement." leonard (rising in great agitation, and clasping his hands.)--"i can not contend with you, who produce against information so slender and crude as mine the stores which have been locked from my reach. but i feel that there must be another side to this shield--a shield that you will not even allow to be silver. and oh, if you thus speak of knowledge, why have you encouraged me to know?" chapter xx. "ah, my son!" said the parson, "if i wished to prove the value of religion, would you think i served it much, if i took as my motto, 'religion is power?' would not that be a base and sordid view of its advantages? and would you not say he who regards religion as a power, intends to abuse it as a priestcraft?" "well put!" said riccabocca. "wait a moment--let me think. ah--i see, sir!" said leonard. parson.--"if the cause be holy, do not weigh it in the scales of the market; if its objects be peaceful, do not seek to arm it with the weapons of strife; if it is to be the cement of society, do not vaunt it as the triumph of class against class." leonard (ingenuously.)--"you correct me nobly, sir. knowledge is power, but not in the sense in which i have interpreted the saying." parson.--"knowledge is _one_ of the powers in the moral world, but one that, in its immediate result, is not always of the most worldly advantage to the possessor. it is one of the slowest, because one of the most durable, of agencies. it may take a thousand years for a thought to come into power; and the thinker who originated it might have died in rags or in chains." riccabocca.--"our italian proverb saith that 'the teacher is like the candle, which lights others in consuming itself.'" parson.--"therefore he who has the true ambition of knowledge should entertain it for the power of his idea, not for the power it may bestow on himself; it should be lodged in the conscience, and, like the conscience, look for no certain reward on this side the grave. and since knowledge is compatible with good and with evil, would it not be better to say, 'knowledge is a trust?'" "you are right, sir," said leonard, cheerfully, "pray proceed." parson.--"you ask me why we encourage you to know. first, because (as you say yourself in your essay) knowledge, irrespective of gain, is in itself a delight, and ought to be something far more. like liberty, like religion, it may be abused; but i have no more right to say that the poor shall be ignorant, than i have to say that the rich only shall be free, and that the clergy alone shall learn the truths of redemption. you truly observe in your treatise that knowledge opens to us other excitements than those of the senses, and another life than that of the moment. the difference between us is this, that you forget that the same refinement which brings us new pleasures exposes us to new pains--the horny hand of the peasant feels not the nettles which sting the fine skin of the scholar. you forget also, that whatever widens the sphere of the desires, opens to them also new temptations. vanity, the desire of applause, pride, the sense of superiority--gnawing discontent where that superiority is not recognized--morbid susceptibility, which comes with all new feelings--the underrating of simple pleasures apart from the intellectual--the chase of the imagination, often unduly stimulated, for things unattainable below--all these are surely among the first temptations that beset the entrance into knowledge." leonard shaded his face with his hand. "hence," continued the parson, benignantly--"hence, so far from considering that we do all that is needful to accomplish ourselves as men, when we cultivate only the intellect, we should remember that we thereby continually increase the range of our desires, and, therefore, of our temptations; and we should endeavor, simultaneously, to cultivate both those affections of the heart, which prove the ignorant to be god's children no less than the wise, and those moral qualities which have made men great and good when reading and writing were scarcely known--to wit, patience and fortitude under poverty and distress; humility and beneficence amidst grandeur and wealth: and, in counteraction to that egotism, which all superiority, mental or worldly, is apt to inspire, justice, the father of all the more solid virtues, softened by charity, which is their loving mother. thus accompanied, knowledge, indeed, becomes the magnificent crown of humanity--not the imperious despot, but the checked and tempered sovereign of the soul." the parson paused, and leonard, coming near him, timidly took his hand, with a child's affectionate and grateful impulse. riccabocca.--"and if, leonard, you are not satisfied with our parson's excellent definitions, you have only to read what lord bacon himself has said upon the true ends of knowledge, to comprehend at once how angry the poor great man, whom mr. dale treats so harshly, would have been with those who have stinted his elaborate distinctions and provident cautions, into that, coxcombical little aphorism, and then misconstrued all he designed to prove in favor of the commandant, and authority of learning. for," added the sage, looking up as a man does when he is tasking his memory, "i think it is thus that, after saying the greatest error of all is the mistaking or misplacing the end of knowledge, and denouncing the various objects for which it is vulgarly sought;--i think it is thus that he proceeds.... 'knowledge is not a shop for profit or sale, but a rich storehouse for the glory of the creator, and the relief of men's estate.'"[ ] parson (remorsefully.)--"are those lord bacon's words? i am very sorry i spoke so uncharitably of his life. i must examine it again. i may find excuses for it now, that i could not when i first formed my judgment. i was then a raw lad at oxford. but i see, leonard, there is still something on your mind." leonard.--"it is true, sir. i would but ask whether it is not by knowledge that we arrive at the qualities and virtues you so well describe, but which you seem to consider as coming to us through channels apart from knowledge?" parson.--"if you mean by the word knowledge something very different from what you express in your essay--and which those contending for mental instruction, irrespective of religion and ethics, appear also to convey by the word--you are right;--but, remember, we have already agreed that by the word knowledge we mean culture purely intellectual." leonard.--"that is true--we so understood it." parson.--"thus, when this great lord bacon erred, you may say that he erred from want of knowledge--the knowledge that moralists and preachers would convey. but lord bacon had read all that moralists and preachers could say on such matters; and he certainly did not err from want of intellectual cultivation. let me here, my child, invite you to observe, that he who knew most of our human hearts and our immortal destinies, did not _insist_ on this intellectual culture as essential to the virtues that form our well-being here, and conduce to our salvation hereafter. had it been essential, the all-wise one would not have selected humble fishermen for the teachers of his doctrine, instead of culling his disciples from roman portico, or athenian academy. and this, which distinguishes so remarkably the gospel from the ethics of heathen philosophy, wherein knowledge is declared to be necessary to virtue, is a proof how slight was the heathen sage's insight into the nature of mankind, when compared with the saviour's; for hard, indeed, would it be to men, whether high or low, rich or poor, if science and learning, or contemplative philosophy, were the sole avenues to peace and redemption; since, in this state of ordeal, requiring active duties, very few, in any age, whether they be high or low, rich or poor, ever are or can be devoted to pursuits merely mental. christ does not represent heaven as a college for the learned. therefore the rules of the celestial legislator are rendered clear to the simplest understanding as to the deepest." riccabocca.--"and that which plato and zeno, pythagoras and socrates, could not do, was done by men whose ignorance would have been a by-word in the schools of the greek. the gods of the vulgar were dethroned; the face of the world was changed! this thought may make us allow, indeed, that there are agencies more powerful than mere knowledge, and ask, after all, what is the mission which knowledge should achieve?" parson.--"the sacred book tells us even that; for, after establishing the truth that, for the multitude, knowledge is not essential to happiness and good, it accords still to knowledge its sublime part in the revelation prepared and announced. when an instrument of more than ordinary intelligence was required for a purpose divine--when the gospel, recorded by the simple, was to be explained by the acute, enforced by the energetic, carried home to the doubts of the gentile--the supreme will joined to the zeal of the earlier apostles the learning and genius of st. paul--not holier than the others--calling himself the least, yet laboring more abundantly than them all--making himself all things unto all men, so that some might be saved. the ignorant may be saved no less surely than the wise; but here comes the wise man who helps to save! and how the fullness and animation of this grand presence, of this indomitable energy, seem to vivify the toil, and to speed the work! 'in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils of mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren.' behold, my son! does not heaven here seem to reveal the true type of knowledge--a sleepless activity, a pervading agency, a dauntless heroism, an all-supporting faith?--a power--a power, indeed--a power apart from the aggrandizement of self--a power that brings to him who owns and transmits it but 'weariness and painfulness; in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness'--but a power distinct from the mere circumstance of the man, rushing from him as rays from a sun;--borne through the air, and clothing it with light--piercing under earth, and calling forth the harvest! worship not knowledge--worship not the sun, o my child! let the sun but proclaim the creator; let the knowledge but illumine the worship!" the good man, overcome by his own earnestness, paused; his head drooped on the young student's breast, and all three were long silent. chapter xxi. whatever ridicule may be thrown upon mr. dale's dissertations by the wit of the enlightened, they had a considerable, and i think a beneficial effect upon leonard fairfield--an effect which may perhaps create less surprise, when the reader remembers that leonard was unaccustomed to argument, and still retained many of the prejudices natural to his rustic breeding. nay, he actually thought it possible that, as both riccabocca and mr. dale were more than double his age, and had had opportunities not only of reading twice as many books, but of contracting experience in wider ranges of life--he actually, i say, thought it possible that they might be better acquainted with the properties and distinctions of knowledge than himself. at all events, the parson's words were so far well-timed, that they produced in leonard very much of that state of mind which mr. dale desired to effect, before communicating to him the startling intelligence that he was to visit relations whom he had never seen, of whom he had heard but little, and that it was at least possible that the result of that visit might be to open to him greater facilities for instruction, and a higher degree in life. without some such preparation, i fear that leonard would have gone forth into the world with an exaggerated notion of his own acquirements, and with a notion yet more exaggerated as to the kind of power that such knowledge as he possessed would obtain for itself. as it was, when mr. dale broke to him the news of the experimental journey before him, cautioning him against being over-sanguine, leonard received the intelligence with a serious meekness, and thoughts that were nobly solemn. when the door closed on his visitors, he remained for some moments motionless, and in deep meditation: then he unclosed the door, and stole forth. the night was already far advanced, the heavens were luminous with all the host of stars. "i think," said the student, referring, in later life, to that crisis in his destiny--"i think it was then, when i stood alone, yet surrounded by worlds so numberless, that i first felt the distinction between _mind_ and _soul_." "tell me," said riccabocca, as he parted company with mr. dale, "whether you think we should have given to frank hazeldean, on entering life, the same lecture on the limits and ends of knowledge which we have bestowed on leonard fairfield." "my friend," quoth the parson, with a touch of human conceit; "i have ridden on horseback, and i know that some horses should be guided by the bridle, and some should be urged by the spur." "cospetto!" said riccabocca; "you contrive to put every experience of yours to some use--even your journey on mr. hazeldean's pad. and i see now why, in this little world of a village, you have picked up so general an acquaintance with life." "did you ever read white's _natural history of selborne?_" "no." "do so, and you will find that you need not go far to learn the habits of birds, and know the difference between a swallow and a swift.--learn the difference in a village, and you know the difference wherever swallows and swifts skim the air." "swallows and swifts!--true; but men--" "are with us all the year round--which is more than we can say of swallows and swifts." "mr. dale," said riccabocca, taking off his hat, with great formality, "if ever again i find myself in a dilemma, i will come to you instead of to machiavelli." "ah!" cried the parson, "if i could but have a calm hour's talk with you on the errors of the papal relig--" riccabocca was off like a shot. chapter xxii. the next day, mr. dale had a long conversation with mrs. fairfield. at first, he found some difficulty in getting over her pride, and inducing her to accept overtures from parents who had so long slighted both leonard and herself. and it would have been in vain to have put before the good woman the worldly advantages which such overtures implied. but when mr. dale said, almost sternly, "your parents are old, your father infirm; their least wish should be as binding to you as their command," the widow bowed her head and said, "god bless, them, sir, i was very sinful--'honor your father and mother.' i'm no scollard, but i know the commandments. let lenny go. but he'll soon forget me, and mayhap he'll learn to be ashamed of me." "there i will trust him," said the parson; and he contrived easily to re-assure and soothe her. it was not till all this was settled that mr. dale drew forth an unsealed letter, which mr. richard avenel, taking his hint, had given to him, as from leonard's grandparents, and said, "this is for you, and it contains an inclosure of some value." "will you read it, sir? as i said before, i'm no scollard." "but leonard is, and he will read it to you." when leonard returned home that evening, mrs. fairfield showed him the letter. it ran thus: "dear jane--mr. dale will tell you that we wish leonard to come to us. we are glad to hear you are well. we forward, by mr. dale, a bank-note for £ , which comes from richard, your brother. so no more at present from your affectionate parents, "john and margaret avenel." the letter was in a stiff, female scrawl, and leonard observed that two or three mistakes in spelling had been corrected, either in another pen or in a different hand. "dear brother dick, how good in him!" cried the widow. "when i saw there was money, i thought it must be him. how i should like to see dick again. but i s'pose he's still in amerikay. well, well, this will buy clothes for you." "no; you must keep it all, mother, and put it in the savings' bank." "i'm not quite so silly as that," cried mrs. fairfield with contempt; and she put the fifty pounds into a cracked teapot. "it must not stay there when i'm gone. you may be robbed, mother." "dear me, dear me, that's true. what shall i do with it?--what do i want with it, too? dear me! i wish they hadn't sent it. i shan't sleep in peace. you must e'en put it in your own pouch, and button it up tight, boy." lenny smiled, and took the note; but he took it to mr. dale, and begged him to put it into the savings' bank for his mother. the day following he went to take leave of his master, of jackeymo, of the fountain, the garden. but, after he had gone through the first of these adieus with jackeymo--who, poor man, indulged in all the lively gesticulations of grief which make half the eloquence of his countrymen; and then, absolutely blubbering, hurried away--leonard himself was so affected that he could not proceed at once to the house, but stood beside the fountain, trying hard to keep back his tears. "you, leonard--and you are going!" said a soft voice; and the tears fell faster than ever, for he recognized the voice of violante. "do not cry," continued the child, with a kind of tender gravity. "you are going, but papa says it would be selfish in us to grieve, for it is for your good; and we should be glad. but i am selfish, leonard, and i do grieve. i shall miss you sadly." "you, young lady--you miss me!" "yes. but i do not cry, leonard, for i envy you, and i wish i were a boy: i wish i could do as you." the girl clasped her hands, and reared her slight form, with a kind of passionate dignity. "do as me, and part from all those you love!" "but to serve those you love. one day you will come back to your mother's cottage, and say, 'we have conquered fortune.' oh that i could go forth and return, as you will. but my father has no country, and his only child is a useless girl." as violante spoke, leonard had dried his tears; her emotion distracted him from his own. "oh," continued violante, again raising her head loftily, "what it is to be a man! a woman sighs, 'i wish,' but man should say 'i will.'" occasionally before, leonard had noted fitful flashes of a nature grand and heroic, in the italian child, especially of late--flashes the more remarkable from their contrast to a form most exquisitely feminine, and to a sweetness of temper which made even her pride gentle. but now it seemed as if the child spoke with the command of a queen--almost with the inspiration of a muse. a strange and new sense of courage entered within him. "may i remember these words!" he murmured half audibly. the girl turned and surveyed him with eyes brighter for their moisture. she then extended her hand to him, with a quick movement, and, as he bent over it, with a grace taught to him by genuine emotion, she said,--"and if you do, then, girl and child as i am, i shall think i have aided a brave heart in the great strife for honor!" she lingered a moment, smiled as if to herself, and then, gliding away, was lost among the trees. after a long pause, in which leonard recovered slowly from the surprise and agitation into which violante had thrown his spirits--previously excited as they were--he went, murmuring to himself, toward the house. but riccabocca was from home. leonard turned mechanically to the terrace, and busied himself with the flowers. but the dark eyes of violante shone on his thoughts, and her voice rang in his ear. at length riccabocca appeared, followed up the road by a laborer, who carried something indistinct under his arm. the italian beckoned to leonard to follow him into the parlor, and after conversing with him kindly, and at some length, and packing up, as it were, a considerable provision of wisdom in the portable shape of aphorisms and proverbs, the sage left him alone for a few moments, riccabocca then returned with his wife, and bearing a small knapsack: "it is not much we can do for you, leonard, and money is the worst gift in the world for a keepsake; but my wife and i have put our heads together to furnish you with a little outfit. giacomo, who was in our secret, assures us that the clothes will fit; and stole, i fancy, a coat of yours for the purpose. put them on when you go to your relations; it is astonishing what a difference it makes in the ideas people form of us, according as our coats are cut one way or another. i should not be presentable in london thus; and nothing is more true than that a tailor is often the making of a man." "the shirts, too, are very good holland," said mrs. riccabocca, about to open the knapsack. "never mind details, my dear," cried the wise man; "shirts are comprehended in the general principle of clothes. and, leonard, as a remembrance somewhat more personal, accept this, which i have worn many a year when time was a thing of importance to me, and nobler fates than mine hung on a moment. we missed the moment, or abused it, and here i am, a waif on a foreign shore. methinks i have done with time." the exile, as he thus spoke, placed in leonard's reluctant hands a watch that would have delighted an antiquary, and shocked a dandy it was exceedingly thick, having an outer case of enamel, and an inner one of gold. the hands and the figures of the hours had originally been formed of brilliants; but the brilliants had long since vanished. still, even thus bereft, the watch was much more in character with the giver than the receiver, and was as little suited to leonard as would have been the red silk umbrella. "it is old-fashioned," said mrs. riccabocca, "but it goes better than any clock in the country. i really think it will last to the end of the world." "_carissima mia!_" cried the doctor, "i thought i had convinced you that the world is by no means come to its last legs." "oh, i did not mean any thing, alphonso," said mrs. riccabocca, coloring. "and that is all we do mean when we talk about that of which we can know nothing," said the doctor, less gallantly than usual, for he resented that epithet of "old-fashioned," as applied to the watch. leonard, we see, had been silent all this time; he could not speak--literally and truly, he could not speak. how he got out of his embarrassment, and how he got out of the room, he never explained to my satisfaction. but, a few minutes afterward, he was seen hurrying down the road very briskly. riccabocca and his wife stood at the window gazing after him. "there is a depth in that boy's heart," said the sage, "which might float an argosy." "poor dear boy! i think we have put every thing into the knapsack that he can possibly want," said good mrs. riccabocca musingly. the doctor (continuing his soliloquy.)--"they are strong, but they are not immediately apparent." mrs. riccabocca (resuming hers.)--"they are at the bottom of the knapsack." the doctor.--"they will stand long wear and tear." mrs. riccabocca.--"a year, at least, with proper care at the wash." the doctor (startled.)--"care at the wash! what on earth are you talking of, ma'am!" mrs. riccabocca (mildly.)--"the shirts to be sure, my love! and you?" the doctor (with a heavy sigh.)--"the feelings, ma'am!" then, after a pause, taking his wife's hand affectionately--"but you did quite right to think of the shirts; mr. dale said very truly--" mrs. riccabocca.--"what?" the doctor.--"that there was a great deal in common between us--even when i think of feelings, and you but of--shirts." chapter xxiii. mr. and mrs. avenel sat within the parlor--mr. richard stood on the hearth-rug, whistling yankee doodle. "the parson writes word that the lad will come to-day," said richard suddenly--"let me see the letter--ay, to day. if he took the coach as far as ----, he might walk the rest of the way in two or three hours. he should be pretty nearly here. i have a great mind to go and meet him: it will save his asking questions, and hearing about me. i can clear the town by the back way, and get out at the high road." "you'll not know him from any one else," said mrs. avenel. "well, that is a good one! not know an avenel! we've all the same cut of the jib--have not we, father?" poor john laughed heartily, till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "we were always a well-favored fam'ly," said john, recomposing himself. "there was luke, but he's gone; and harry, but he's dead too, and dick, but he's in amerikay--no, he's here; and my darling nora, but--" "hush!" interrupted mrs. avenel; "hush, john!" the old man stared at her, and then put his tremulous hand to his brow. "and nora's gone too!" said he, in a voice of profound woe. both hands then fell on his knees, and his head drooped on his breast. mrs. avenel rose, kissed her husband on the forehead, and walked away to the window. richard took up his hat, and brushed the nap carefully with his handkerchief; but his lips quivered. "i'm going," said he abruptly. "now mind, mother, not a word about uncle richard yet; we must first see how we like each other, and--(in a whisper) you'll try and get that into my poor father's head?" "ay, richard," said mrs. avenel quietly. richard put on his hat, and went out by the back way. he stole along the fields that skirted the town, and had only once to cross the street before he got into the high road. he walked on till he came to the first milestone. there he seated himself, lighted his cigar, and awaited his nephew. it was now nearly the hour of sunset, and the road before him lay westward. richard from time to time looked along the road, shading his eyes with his hand; and at length, just as the disc of the sun had half sunk down the horizon, a solitary figure came up the way. it emerged suddenly from the turn in the road: the reddening beams colored all the atmosphere around it. solitary and silent it came as from a land of light. chapter xxiv. "you have been walking far, young man," said richard avenel. "no, sir, not very. that is lansmere before me, is it not?" "yes, it is lansmere; you stop there, i guess?" leonard made a sign in the affirmative, and walked on a few paces: then, seeing the stranger who had accosted him still by his side, he said-- "if you know the town, sir, perhaps you will have the goodness to tell me whereabouts mr. avenel lives?" "i can put you in a straight cut across the fields, that will bring you just behind the house." "you are very kind, but it will take you out of your way." "no, it is in my way. so you are going to mr. avenel's?--a good old gentleman." "i've always heard so; and mrs. avenel--" "a particular superior woman," said richard. "any one else to ask after--i know the family well." "no, thank you, sir." "they have a son, i believe; but he's in america, is not he?" "i believe he is, sir." "i see the parson has kept faith with me," muttered richard. "if you can tell me any thing about _him_," said leonard, "i should be very glad." "why so, young man?--perhaps he is hanged by this time." "hanged!" "he was a sad dog, i am told." "then you have been told very falsely," said leonard, coloring. "a sad wild dog--his parents were so glad when he cut and run--went off to the states. they say he made money; but, if so, he neglected his relations shamefully." "sir," said leonard, "you are wholly misinformed. he has been most generous to a relative who had little claim on him; and i never heard his name mentioned but with love and praise." richard instantly fell to whistling yankee doodle, and walked on several paces without saying a word. he then made a slight apology for his impertinence--hoped no offense--and, with his usual bold but astute style of talk, contrived to bring out something of his companion's mind. he was evidently struck with the clearness and propriety with which leonard expressed himself, raised his eyebrows in surprise more than once, and looked him full in the face with an attentive and pleased survey. leonard had put on the new clothes with which riccabocca and wife had provided him. they were those appropriate to a young country tradesman in good circumstances; but as he did not think about the clothes, so he had unconsciously something of the ease of the gentleman. they now came into the fields. leonard paused before a slip of ground sown with rye. "i should have thought grass land would have answered better, so near a town," said he. "no doubt it would," answered richard; "but they are sadly behind-hand in these parts. you see that great park yonder, on the other side of the road? that would answer better for rye than grass; but then, what would become of my lord's deer? the aristocracy eat us up, young man." "but the aristocracy did not sow this piece with rye, i suppose?" said leonard, smiling. "and what do you conclude from that?" "let every man look to his own ground," said leonard, with a cleverness of repartee caught from doctor riccabocca. "'cute lad you are," said richard; "and we'll talk more of these matters another time." they now came within sight of mr. avenel's house. "you can get through the gap in the hedge, by the old pollard oak," said richard; "and come round by the front of the house. why, you're not afraid--are you?" "i am a stranger." "shall i introduce you? i told you that i knew the old couple." "oh no, sir! i would rather meet them alone." "go; and--wait a bit--harkye, young man, mrs. avenel is a cold mannered woman; but don't be abashed by that." leonard thanked the good-natured stranger, crossed the field, passed the gap, and paused a moment under the stinted shade of the old hollow-hearted oak. the ravens were returning to their nests. at the sight of a human form under the tree, they wheeled round, and watched him afar. from the thick of the boughs, the young ravens sent their hoarse low cry. chapter xxv. the young man entered the neat, prim, formal parlor. "you are welcome!" said mrs. avenel, in a firm voice. "the gentleman is heartily welcome," cried poor john. "it is your grandson, leonard fairfield," said mrs. avenel. but john who had risen with knocking knees, gazed hard at leonard, and then fell on his breast, sobbing aloud--"nora's eyes!--he has a blink in his eyes like nora's." mrs. avenel approached with a steady step, and drew away the old man tenderly. "he is a poor creature," she whispered to leonard--"you excite him. come away, i will show you your room." leonard followed her up the stairs, and came into a room--neatly, and even prettily furnished. the carpet and curtains were faded by the sun, and of old-fashioned pattern, but there was a look about the room as if it had long been disused. mrs. avenel sank down on the first chair on entering. leonard drew his arm round her waist affectionately: "i fear that i have put you out sadly--my dear grandmother." mrs. avenel glided hastily from his arm, and her countenance worked much--every nerve in it twitching as it were; then, placing her hand on his locks, she said with passion, "god bless you, my grandson," and left the room. leonard dropped his knapsack on the floor, and looked around him wistfully. the room seemed as if it had once been occupied by a female. there was a work-box on the chest of drawers, and over it hanging shelves for books, suspended by ribbons that had once been blue, with silk and fringe appended to each shelf, and knots and tassels here and there--the taste of a woman, or rather of a girl, who seeks to give a grace to the commonest things around her. with the mechanical habit of a student, leonard took down one or two of the volumes still left on the shelves. he found spenser's _fairy queen_, racine in french, tasso in italian; and on the fly-leaf of each volume, in the exquisite hand-writing familiar to his memory, the name "leonora." he kissed the books, and replaced them with a feeling akin both to tenderness and awe. he had not been alone in his room more than a quarter of an hour, before the maid-servant knocked at his door and summoned him to tea. poor john had recovered his spirits, and his wife sate by his side holding his hand in hers. poor john was even gay. he asked many questions about his daughter jane, and did not wait for the answers. then he spoke about the squire, whom he confounded with audley egerton, and talked of elections, and the blue party, and hoped leonard would always be a good blue; and then he fell to his tea and toast, and said no more. mrs. avenel spoke little, but she eyed leonard askant, as it were, from time to time; and after each glance the nerves of the poor severe face twitched again. a little after nine o'clock mrs. avenel lighted a candle, and placing it in leonard's hand, said, "you must be tired--you know your own room now. good-night." leonard took the light, and, as was his wont with his mother, kissed mrs. avenel on the cheek. then he took john's hand and kissed him too. the old man was half asleep and murmured dreamily, "that's nora." leonard had retired to his room about half-an-hour, when richard avenel entered the house softly, and joined his parents. "well, mother?" said he. "well, richard--you have seen him?" "and like him. do you know he has a great look of poor nora?--more like her than jane?" "yes; he is handsomer than jane ever was, but more like your father than any one. john was so comely. you take to the boy then?" "ay, that i do. just tell him in the morning that he is to go with a gentleman who will be his friend, and don't say more. the chaise shall be at the door after breakfast. let him get into it: i shall wait for him out of the town. what's the room you give him?" "the room you would not take." "the room in which nora slept? oh, no! i could not have slept a wink there. what a charm there was in that girl!--how we all loved her! but she was too beautiful and good for us--too good to live!" "none of us are too good," said mrs. avenel with great austerity, "and i beg you will not talk in that way. good-night--i must get your poor father to bed." when leonard opened his eyes-the next morning, they rested on the face of mrs. avenel, which was bending over his pillow. but it was long before he could recognize that countenance, so changed was its expression--so tender, so motherlike. nay, the face of his own mother had never seemed to him so soft with a mother's passion. "ah!" he murmured, half rising, and flinging his young arms round her neck. mrs. avenel, this time, and for the first, taken by surprise, warmly returned the embrace: she clasped him to her breast, she kissed him again and again. at length with a quick start she escaped, and walked up and down the room, pressing her hands tightly together. when she halted her face had recovered its usual severity and cold precision. "it is time for you to rise, leonard," said she. "you will leave us to-day. a gentleman has promised to take charge of you, and do for you more than we can. a chaise will be at the door soon--make haste." john was absent from the breakfast-table. his wife said that he never rose till late, and must not be disturbed. the meal was scarce over before a chaise and pair came to the door. "you must not keep the chaise waiting--the gentleman is very punctual." "but he is not come." "no, he has walked on before, and will get in after you are out of the town." "what is his name, and why should he care for me, grandmother?" "he will tell you himself. now, come." "but you will bless me again, grandmother. i love you already." "i do bless you," said mrs. avenel firmly. "be honest and good, and beware of the first false step." she pressed his hand with a convulsive grasp, and led him to the outer door. the postboy clanked his whip, the chaise rattled off. leonard put his head out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the old woman. but the boughs of the pollard oak, and its gnarled decaying trunk, hid her from his eye. and look as he would, till the road turned, he saw but the melancholy tree. (_to be continued._) footnotes: [ ] this aphorism has been probably assigned to lord bacon upon the mere authority of the index to his works. it is the aphorism of the index-maker, certainly not of the great master of inductive philosophy. bacon has, it is true, repeatedly dwelt on the power of knowledge, but with so many explanations and distinctions, that nothing could be more unjust to his general meaning than to attempt to cramp into a sentence what it costs him a volume to define. thus, if in one page he appears to confound knowledge with power, in another he sets them in the strongest antithesis to each other; as follows, "adeo, signanter deus opera potentiæ et sapientiæ diseriminavit." but it would be as unfair to bacon to convert into an aphorism the sentence that discriminates between knowledge and power as it is to convert into an aphorism any sentence that confounds them. [ ] "but the greatest error of all the rest is the mistaking or misplacing of the last or farthest end of knowledge:--for men have entered into a desire of learning and knowledge, sometimes upon a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite; sometimes to entertain their minds with variety and delight; sometimes for ornament and reputation; and sometimes to enable them to victory of wit and contradiction; and most times for lucre and profession;"--[that is, for most of those objects which are meant by the ordinary citers of the saying, 'knowledge is power;'] "and seldom, sincerely, to give a true account of these gifts of reason to the benefit and use of men; as if there were sought in knowledge a couch whereupon to rest a searching and restless spirit; or a terrace for a wandering and variable mind to walk up and down, with a fair prospect; or a tower of state for a proud mind to raise itself upon; or a fort or commanding ground for strife and contention; or a shop for profit or sale--and not a rich storehouse for the glory of the creator, and the relief of men's estate."--advancement of learning, book i. uncle john; or, the rough road to riches. england affords, even in these degenerate days of peace, innumerable examples of the class called "lucky fellows;" that is to say, men who have begun life with a charity-school education and a shilling, and are now prosperous in wealth and station. perhaps it is hardly fair to impute to good-luck, what may be mainly owing to industry, frugality, patience, and perseverance. but, after all, one may starve with all these virtues, in spite of all that copy-book maxims may say to the contrary. there is good-luck in success, whatever may have been the qualities by which that good luck has been seized at the right moment and turned to good account. industry, frugality, patience, and perseverance, form a perfect locomotive--good-luck is the engine-driver who turns the handle and sets them in motion at the right moment. men who have been the "architects of their own fortunes," never admit that good luck has had any thing to do with their prosperity. their pardonable vanity at their own success makes them guilty of a species of ingratitude to providence. listen to one of these old gentlemen holding forth to his hopeful son or nephew on his, the said old gentleman's, past life; on his early poverty, his self-denial, his hard work, and his subsequent reward; and the burden of his discourse is ever the same, "_alone_ i did it, boy!" should the listener at any point be tempted rashly to exclaim "how lucky!" the old gentleman will turn on him with a severe frown and say, "luck, sir; nonsense. there's no such thing as luck. live on a crust, sir; that's the only way for a man to get on in the world." the old gentleman quite forgets that if his first venture in the _chutnee_ east indiaman had been a failure; or his first dabble in the stocks had not been followed by the battle of leipsic; or his senior partner, who had nine-tenths of the profits of the business, had not departed this life suddenly in an apoplectic fit, he would have held a very different position in the world, and probably have been now a denizen of the second floor over his counting-house in the city, instead of a resident in hyde park gardens. an excellent specimen of this class of old gentlemen is "uncle john." the obscurity of his early days is so great that even he himself finds it difficult to penetrate it. that he had a father and a mother is incontestable; but these worthy people seem to have left this world of sin at so early a period of "uncle john's" existence, that, for all practical purposes, he might as well have been without them. his first juvenile recollections are connected with yellow stockings, leather shorts, a cutaway coatee with a tin badge on it, and a little round woolen cap with a tuft in the middle of it, resting on a head formed by nature to accommodate a cap of double its dimensions. in a word, "uncle john" was a charity-boy. it must not be imagined that the above fact has ever been communicated by uncle john himself; for the worthy man is weak enough to be ashamed of it, though he will discourse of his early privations in a mystical manner, with the design apparently of inducing you to regard him rather as a counterpart of louis philippe in his days of early exile, than as a commonplace, though equally interesting (to a right-thinking mind) young gentleman in yellow stockings. it _is_ a fact, however, as indisputable as that uncle john is now worth thirty or forty thousand pounds. emerging from the charity-school, and exchanging the leather shorts and yellow stockings for corduroys and gray worsted socks, uncle john obtained the appointment of office-boy to a temple attorney. his duties were multifarious--sweeping the office and serving writs, cleaning boots and copying declarations. his emoluments were not large--seven shillings a week and "find himself," which was less difficult, poor boy, than to find any thing _for_ himself. but uncle john persevered and was not disheartened. he lived literally on a crust, and regaled himself only with the savory smells issuing from the cook's-shop, which was not only an economical luxury, but had the advantage of affording a stimulus to the imagination. he actually saved two shillings a week out of his salary, not to mention an occasional donation of a shilling on high days and holidays from his master. uncle john was never idle. when he had nothing to do for his master, which was rarely the case, he used to take a pen and any loose piece of paper or parchment, and copy, or imitate, the lawyer's engrossing hand--known as court-hand--till he became a good penman in this cramped style of writing. having accomplished this object, uncle john determined to "better himself," by getting a situation as copying clerk instead of office boy. he succeeded in his attempts, and was installed in another attorney's office as engrossing clerk at twelve shillings a week--a salary which appeared to him, at the time, enormous. but riches did not turn his head. the only increase which he made in his previous expenditure, was in wearing a rather cleaner shirt, and discarding corduroys for some more genteel material. uncle john was too wise and too self-denying to be seduced _inside_ the cook's-shop yet. he was now saving at least six shillings a week, which is £ a year! for four years no change took place in his condition. he still lived in his solitary garret; worked hard all day, and borrowed law books from the articled clerks in the office, which he read at home at night. at home! poor fellow--what a name for his miserable little room up in the tiles of a house in a narrow court out of fleet-street! but uncle john was a brave fellow, and worked on without stopping to sentimentalize. a promotion now took place in the office, and uncle john was made chief common-law clerk at one pound a week. he had rendered himself quite competent for the duties by his midnight studies. he was never absent from his post, never forgot any thing, and was never ill; for he had the strength of a horse. it is suspected that about this time, uncle john paid one or two visits to the cook's-shop; but it must not be supposed that the visits were _more_ than one or two. as a rule, uncle john dined on a piece of the cheapest meat he could purchase, boiled by himself in his garret. he was wise enough, however, to be very neat in his dress, and thereby gained the credit of being a very respectable young man in the eyes of his employer; for it is a very remarkable fact that clerks are always expected to dress like gentlemen when their salaries are not even large enough to buy them food. another four years passed away, when one day uncle john, having duly screwed up his courage, walked into his master's private room, and, after a little preliminary hesitation, ventured to hint that he should like to be articled! the master stared--the clerk remained silently awaiting his answer. "are you aware," inquired the former, "that the expense of the stamp, &c., is one hundred and twenty pounds?" uncle john _was_ aware of it, and he was prepared with the money. he had saved it out of his miserable salary. the master stared still more. but, after a short time, he consented to article uncle john, and to continue his salary during the term of his articles. uncle john was in ecstasies, and so far forgot his usual prudence that evening as to indulge in half a pint of bad port wine--a taste, by the way, which he has retained to this day. he was now a happy man. every thing was "en train" now to make him one day a "gentleman by act of parliament"--as attorneys are facetiously termed. it would certainly require something more than even the omnipotence of an act of parliament to confer the character on some of the fraternity. during the first year of his articles the managing clerk died, and uncle john was promoted to that office with a salary of two hundred a year. here was, indeed, a rise in life--from seven shillings a week to two hundred a year! happy uncle john. but you deserved it all; for you had plenty of the courage which is prepared for all ills, and endures those which it can not conquer. long before the five years of his articles had expired, the clerk had made himself so absolutely necessary to the master, that the latter could scarcely have carried on the business for a month without him. therefore, when the time arrived at which he ceased to be a clerk and became himself an attorney, uncle john hinted to his master that he was going to leave him. cunning uncle john! you had no such intention; but you knew that your master would take alarm, beg you to stay, and offer you a partnership. of course--and he did so. uncle john's path in life was from henceforth comparatively smooth. he was the working partner in a business which was both profitable and of good quality. within a few years his partner was foolish enough to quarrel with him, and to demand a dissolution of the partnership. uncle john readily consented, and all the clients knowing well who was the man that understood the business and transacted it, followed him; and he became an attorney with a practice of two thousand a year, and no partner to share the profits. his economical habits never forsook him. he married and kept a decent table; but save in a love of good wine (or at least what his uneducated taste considered so), he had nothing but the ordinary necessaries of life. how much he saved each year who shall say? he had no children, and his practice increasing while his wants stood still, he became what he is now--a prosperous and highly respected old gentleman. it is the fashion of the old to point out such men as models for the imitation of the rising generation. the young, on the contrary, make them the subjects of their ridicule, for their bad grammar and worse manners. let us see if we can find out the truth, unbiased by either party. uncle john is now a rich man, an honorable man, a hardworking man, and in the main a sensible man. he has attained his position in life by patience, perseverance, and industry, favored also by a little of that good luck to which we first referred. but uncle john is deficient in many of the characteristics which adorn human nature. is it not natural that he should be so? where was he to learn the gentler feelings of his kind--affection, sympathy, benevolence? in his garret, alone and unfriended? he is mean and parsimonious. he is worth forty thousand pounds, and his deceased brother's child is starving with his wife in a suburban garret. uncle john will not aid him with a penny. who aided _him_? did _he_ not live in a garret, and save money too? was _he_ such a fool as to marry before he could keep a wife? uncle john was guilty of no weaknesses in those days; he can not forgive them in another. his only brother dies, leaving a large family and a widow--unprovided for: for the children have eaten up all he could ever earn. uncle john does not like the widow (perhaps because she had so many children), but he gives her £ a year. his own income is about four thousand. his only sister is also left a widow without a sixpence. uncle john gives _her_ £ a year. "people should not marry imprudently. he can afford no more; he has a great many calls upon him." perhaps so; but the answer to such calls is always, "not at home." he has many clerks now. he makes them all work twelve hours a day. why not? _he_ worked twelve hours a day. he has articled clerks too. they must work twelve hours a day also. _he_ did it. true, uncle john; but you had your salary for it; while they, on the contrary, pay you for the privilege of working for you. there is an old adage that a slave makes the worst tyrant. uncle john exemplifies it. because he suffered poverty and privation, he thinks that every youth should endure the same. because nature had given him the constitution of a horse, he thinks that every one should have a similar one. such men as uncle john are striking examples of certain qualities; and of those particular qualities which conduce to success in life. their highest praise (perhaps there is no higher praise in the world) is their unflinching integrity. but we can not bring ourselves to think them--on the whole--models for imitation. after all, there is selfishness at the bottom of their first motives, and this quality grows with their growth, and strengthens with their strength, till, in their old age, they are impatient at all the enjoyments of youth. the hardships of their younger days are not only to be pitied for the pain they must have inflicted at the time, but because they have closed up all the avenues through which the gentler, nobler, and more generous sympathies of our nature find their way into the heart. their want of education has not been of the mind alone, but of the affections; and as it is ten thousand times more difficult to learn a language or a science in old age than in youth, so it is infinitely more difficult (if it be not impossible) to teach the science of the affections, and the language of the heart, to the old man whose youth has known nothing of either. affliction and adversity teach oft-times sympathy and benevolence; but to do so they must have followed on happier times, and not have been a birth-portion. you may praise and respect "uncle johns," but you can not love them--neither can they love you. darling dorel. dorothea sibylla, duchess of brieg, was born at cöln, on the river spree, in prussia, on the th of october, . she was the daughter of elizabeth of anhalt, and of john george, margrave and elector of brandenburg, of the old princely ascanian race. at the death of her husband in , the widowed margravine retired to crossen to superintend her daughter's education. in due time, suitors were not wanting for the hand of young dorothea sibylla: among others, the king of denmark; but he sued in vain. dorothea, at length, fixed her affection on john christian, duke of liegnitz and brieg, who enjoyed a great reputation for virtue, ability, and integrity. to him, after a short courtship. dorothea was married on the th of december, , at crossen; and reached brieg--the small capital of her future dominions--on the first of january in the following year. such is the dry sum of a charming court biography, which first appeared in a periodical published in , in silesia, and which has been twice republished in a separate form--once (in ) at brieg, under the title of "passages from the life of dorothea sibylla, duchess of liegnitz and brieg." it purports to consist of extracts from the journal of a certain tanner and furrier of brieg, named valentinus gierth, an occasional guest at the ducal castle, and ardent admirer of the duchess. as a simple, and--if internal evidence be worth any thing--truthful picture of german-court life during the early part of the seventeenth century, it is not to be gainsayed; although suspicions of its authenticity have been cast upon it, similar to those which damaged the charms of the "diary of lady willoughby," by eventually proving it to be a fiction. dorothea is described as a pattern of goodness, common sense, virtue, and piety. in domestic management, she was pre-eminent. for her own immediate attendants, she appointed fourteen maids of honor; and the first families of the land looked upon it as an inestimable privilege to place their daughters at the ducal court; which was a high school of all noble virtues and accomplishments, "whereof the duchess herself was the chief teacher and most perfect model." nothing could be more primitive than the duchess's intercourse with the townspeople. occasionally she walked in the streets of brieg accompanied by her maids of honor, and chatted with such of the townspeople as were sitting on the benches outside their doors. the little children looked forward with the greatest delight to these town walks of the duchess; for the ladies-in-waiting invariably carried about with them in their pockets all sorts of sweetmeats, which the duchess distributed among the little claimants. for this reason, the little children stood peeping round the corners of the streets, when it got wind that the duchess was about to walk out; more especially when it was surmised that the duke would not be with her. so soon, therefore, as dorothea sibylla left the castle gate, the little urchins would run through the town, like wildfire, crying out, "the darling dorel is coming!--the darling dorel is coming!" the manner in which this endearing designation first came to her ears is related with affecting simplicity. "it happened," says master gierth, with true german particularity, "on the th of september (old style) in the year of our lord, ;" that being the feast of st. sibylla--one of the duchess's name-saints--and also the second birth-day of her son george. there was a great feast at the castle; to which the towns-folks and the children of the high and guild schools were invited. "from the terrace," quoth the chronicler, "the whole procession moved along a wide, smooth walk before the orangery; where the quality, as well as the children, were richly treated with strong, spiced wine, orange-water, and confectionery. her ladyship did, likewise, lay certain presents before the young lord, her son; she did, likewise, examine the children's school-books, and the master's report, wherein the conduct of the children was noted, and did put apposite questions to them touching their christian belief, and the like; and, on receiving right proper answers, her face did shine like an angel's. "one little maiden, however, which was weak and ignorant, was not able to answer the questions aright; whereupon her ladyship did ask: "'my child, what is your name?' whereunto she did answer, 'anna pohlin.' "'well,' asked her ladyship, 'and what is my name?' "straightway the little maiden did answer, 'darling dorel!' "hereupon master valentinus gierth was somewhat affronted, but did quickly recover himself and, stepping up to her ladyship, did say: "'most gracious lady! i trust your ladyship will pardon these words, and not take them amiss; inasmuch, as it is true that the women of this town, as well as of the neighboring villages, when they do speak of your ladyship, do commonly call your ladyship the darling dorel.' "then did the duchess fold her hands, and, raising them to heaven, did say: "'god be praised for such a precious title! the which, as long as i am in my senses, i would not exchange against 'your majesty!' "the duke did, thereupon, embrace her ladyship, saying: "'away with the title, 'princely consort!' i will ever henceforth call thee by none other save 'darling dorel!'" we by no means intend to follow the good tanner through his minute records; but merely write thus much, as necessary preface to a quaint little love story. premising that the duchess had sent, after her usual fashion, a marriage present to a certain lady, by two of her maids of honor (by name agnes and mary), we shall transfer the narrative to our pages in master gierth's own manner. after the presentation of the gifts, and when the marriage ceremony was concluded, the two maids of honor were preparing to return to brieg, when the bride's father stopped them, saying: "'how? shall i suffer two such angels of joy to depart, without tasting of my food and my drink? nay, noble damsels, ye must abide here awhile beyond the marriage festivities, and be of good cheer! i will immediately dispatch a trusty messenger on horse to her most gracious ladyship, the duchess, and obtain leave for your sojourn here.' "the two damsels did, therefore, abide there the space of three days, and became acquainted with two gallants of the place; with whom they did exchange love-tokens and rings. but when the two damsels returned to brieg to render an account of their mission, the duchess did note the rings on the fingers of the two damsels, and questioned them how they came thereby. so soon, therefore, as the two damsels did confess the truth, their mistress, half-jestingly, and half in earnest, said unto them: "'how now, ye gad-abouts! ye have scarce chipped the egg-shell, and have, as yet, no means to make the pot boil, seeing that ye are poor orphans, and under age; and ye yet dare to listen to the nonsense of strange gallants, unbeknown to your foster-mother! tell me, foolish young things, ought i not to take the rod to you? take off the rings from your fingers, and give them to me. i will send them back; seeing that the betrothal is null and void, and mere child's play.' "the young damsels did then obey her ladyship, but wept apace the while. this caused her ladyship to have compassion upon them, and she did minister comfort to them thus: "'ah! beloved daughters! ye shed bitter, hot tears that ye do not already wear the curch [the german head dress of married women]. but if ye did but know the heaviness of being wedded wives, even when the cares are lightest, ye would rejoice! meanwhile, the matter hath been carried on against all christian order. i have always heard that the lover first maketh his suit known to the parents or the guardians, and that then the betrothal taketh place. your suitors must needs be in great haste. why stand they in such great necessity of pushing their suit?' "hereupon the damsel agnes plucked up an heart, and said quickly, "'most gracious lady! the gentlemen did come with us; and have already the consent of their own parents to make their suit if they be but encouraged by a sign of approval.' "'ah! heaven have mercy!' cried the duchess, joining her hands. 'have ye, scape-graces indeed, brought your gallants hither? i dare not inquire further. may be, ye have hidden them in your chambers? meggy (the duchess's nurse), beg his lordship to come hither; i must talk the matter over with him.' "'after the duke had come and heard that which had befallen, he straightways asked the names of the gallants; and when the damsels had informed his grace thereof, his lordship did turn unto his consort, saying: "'listen, darling dorel: the parents, on both sides, are most worthy persons, and of unblemished birth. i advise that thou shouldst give thy consent thereunto! remember, dearest, that we twain were of one mind long before i made known my suit unto thy mother.' "whereupon her ladyship did strike her lord upon the mouth with her kerchief, and said, "'well!--well!--but we must first look at these youths, and learn what they are like. tell us now, young damsels, where are your lovers hidden, and what is the signal ye have agreed upon?' "agnes did immediately tell her ladyship that the gallants were housed at the golden pitcher; and, whereas the lion's tower, in the palace, could thence be plainly discerned, they had agreed to tie a white kerchief round the neck of one of the lions as a signal that there was hope for them! the gallants had agreed to abide at the hostel the space of eight days. should the matter, however, turn out ill, the kerchief displayed was to be black. "'well done,' said the duchess to her husband; 'they wish to take two fortresses at once; and would have the white flag wave without firing a shot, and without attempting a storm.' "hereupon the duke christian did take the hand of his beloved wife, and spoke, somewhat in an under tone: "'darling wife! was not the green branch so often stuck in your window at crossen; also a white flag? moreover, thou knowest little of a siege; preparations for storming a citadel are not made during the daylight; but secretly, in the night season, in order that the garrison perceive them not. shots may already have been fired. tell me, young girls, have ye already kissed the gallants? mary, do you speak; ye have not yet opened your mouth: make a clean breast.' "'ah! most gracious liege,' answered mary, 'the gentlemen have, indeed, squeezed hands in secret, while we sat at table; and during the marriage-dance, and at sundry other dances, we kissed each other--seeing that others did the like. but we could not be alone with them at any other time; for the bride's mother was always about us, and we lay in her room. neither, on the way home, had we much liberty; seeing that the old secretary, whom her ladyship did send with us, did observe us most narrowly. but, when the old man did look out of the window of the carriage, then did the gallants look tenderly upon us, and did kiss their hands to us." "'there, now,' said his lordship, turning to his wife, 'you see that the siege was conducted with vigor. the squeezing of hands was the parley; the kisses the cannon-balls, sent so freely; and the tender looks the shells. depend upon it the storm can not long be delayed. listen, darling wife, my heart melts when i bethink me that we also, in our youth, could not brook a long delay.' "'let the drums beat the chamade [parley], and let us show our colors!' said the duchess; while she threw her arms round her husband's neck, and stopped his mouth with a kiss. the duke did then ask her, jestingly, 'but which flag shall it be?' "hereupon the two young damsels did cry aloud, as with one voice: "'the white!--most gracious liege!--the white!' "the duchess could not choose but laugh heartily, and his lordship did immediately order a servant to mount the tower, and to tie a white kerchief round one of the lion's necks. his lordship did then sing an old song the children are wont to sing on may-day: "'a stately house my lord doth keep, two maidens from the windows peep; a kerchief white the one doth wave, because they fain would husbands have.' and then did depart to put on better apparel, wherein to await the coming of the wooers. he did also command that all the court ladies and the courtiers should be present at the wooing. meanwhile, 'darling dorel' did ask the damsels where they had gotten the rings which they had presented to their gallants in return for theirs? thereupon agnes did reply unto her ladyship: "'most gracious lady! we are but poor orphans, and possess nought save poor little gold rings belonging to our departed mothers, and these we could not bear to part with. we have therefore promised to buy rings with our savings, and deliver them to our gallants on some fitting opportunity.' "'in this case,' said her ladyship, 'ye are but half betrothed, and there is yet time to think twice of the matter;' nevertheless, her ladyship did praise the young damsels, inasmuch as they did not part lightly and rashly with their mothers' trinkets. she advised them, moreover, to tarry; as they or their gallants might change their minds. "this speech did much alarm the damsels, who did then believe the whole matter to be postponed; and they did forthwith begin to weep, and to beseech her ladyship, not for this account, to cause their lovers to alter their mind, seeing that they, the damsels, were poor, and were not likely soon to get other suitors. "the duchess did then say unto them: 'the misfortune would not be so great! i would find husbands for you soon enough.' hereupon, she turned to old meggy, and said, "'ah! most worthy nurse, what a life does a wretched princess lead! had i but married an honest burgher, then should i have had nothing but my household duties and my children to attend to; i could have gone quietly to bed, slept without care, and waked with pleasure; but in my position every thing is otherwise. alack, when my other damsels come hither, and learn that these silly girls are already betrothed, they will all run mad, and i shall have to send them to all the marriage feasts throughout the duchy to pick up husbands.' "hereupon, she sent the nurse meggy for her jewel box, opened it, and gave to each of the two damsels a handsome ring, the which they might present to their lovers, and thus return their pledge; but under this condition, that they were not to deliver their rings until the duchess gave them a sign thereunto with her kerchief. "while all this was going on, the duke on his part had entered the duchess's apartment, accompanied by the chamberlain, all the gentlemen of his court, and the maids of honor. the lovers, meanwhile, were on the look out, and were not aware that matters had gone to such a length touching their love affairs. they had joyfully obeyed the white signal, and stood near unto the gates of the castle waiting for some opportunity of seeing their betrothed. the duke perceived this, and hereupon opened the window, and called unto the soldiers on guard, 'arrest me those two fellows, and conduct them to the guard-house, until further orders!' "hereupon the damsels, agnes and mary, were exceedingly afraid. the duke, however, did comfort them with the following words: "'this is on your account; hasten and put on proper attire; ye still have got on your old clothes, and must adorn yourselves.' "the damsels ran gleefully and quickly into their rooms; whither the duchess sent after them two other damsels to aid them in plaiting their hair. they soon returned; and each of the damsels about to be betrothed had put on the bridal wreath belonging to her mother. "the duke now ordered the lovers to be summoned from the guard-house. they were sore abashed when they entered the room; especially when his gracious lordship addressed the following questions to them: "'what are your names? have you passports? and what is your will?' "the young men twirled their caps in their hands; stared first at their loves, and then at their gracious lieges; but could not utter a word, and stood looking very sheepish. "'ah!' said his lordship, 'never in my life did i meet with two such dumb fellows. my dominions will soon touch those of oppeln, and you serve excellent well as landmarks! can neither of ye say 'yea or nay?' answer me straight! have ye got the consent of your parents to propose for those two chits; and are ye ready to affirm the same on your word of honor, as gentlemen?' "then did the young men recover their speech, and they both answered, 'yea.' "'well,' said the duke, 'i will now believe ye, and keep you at my court some few days; but as ye may be rogues and vagabonds for all that i know, i will therefore send a messenger on horseback to your parents to get further intelligence, and ye must have patience the while.' "hereupon the damsel, mary, turned to the duchess, and said to her with great simplicity, "'most gracious lady, the gentlemen have spoken truth! their parents have given them permission to woo us. we have concealed nothing from them, but confessed in the presence of the old lady wentzkin, that we were poor orphan girls, and have no dower. but the mothers of our two lovers said that all was well; if only we brought a blessing from darling dorel, they should value it more than an earldom! this agnes and i can affirm on oath.' "on hearing this, the duchess folded her hands in prayer, looked toward heaven with tears in her eyes, and still praying, and gave the signal with her kerchief. immediately the damsels placed the rings on the fingers of their lovers, knelt down before the duchess, and besought her blessing. the duchess laid her hands upon the heads of the young girls and said, "'god alone, who is in heaven, knows whether this will prove a blessing or a curse; but, if god hear the prayer of a weak woman, it will prove a blessing! bethink ye of your deceased parents; and may their blessing evermore accompany ye! and therefore, let us most fervently utter the lord's prayer.' "hereupon all present fell upon their knees, and prayed in a low voice; but her most gracious ladyship did say the lord's prayer aloud. "after the prayer was finished, the duchess made a sign to the chief lady about the court, who did thereupon bring, on a silver salver, two half wreaths, which were twined in the hair of the two damsels, agnes and mary, after they had taken off their own wreaths; for it was the custom, in brieg, for betrothed maidens to wear only half wreaths until their wedding-day, when they wore whole ones. the chamberlain did hereupon display from the window a red flag; upon which signal the ducal band did strike up a merry tune with trumpets and kettle-drums from the castle tower; whereupon a crowd gathered in the town to know the cause of such rejoicing at the palace. "so soon, therefore, as the betrothed couples had duly thanked his grace and the duchess by kissing the hems of their garments, her gracious ladyship did announce to the betrothed damsels, that they should tarry with her for the space of one year, in order more fully to learn their household duties, and to strengthen them in the practice of the christian virtues; seeing that they were still, as the duchess said, as ignorant as callow geese! moreover, their clothes and furniture had to be provided, and the like. but to the gentlemen, she said: "mind, gentlemen, ye must also make the best of it! ye are scarce out of leading-strings, and must go through some sort of ordeal. i would advise you to travel, if so be your parents can afford it.' "'by all means,' added the duke; 'my darling dorel is perfectly right: you must travel; and, if ye know not whither, go to jericho, and get ye some beards to your faces.' "as it was yet early in the day, his gracious lordship did order dinner to be prepared: to which, besides the town council, and their wives and children, master valentinus gierth and his wife susanna, were invited. "his gracious lordship was exceeding merry, and the duchess was most kind in her manner; nevertheless, the guests did not fail to mark that her gracious ladyship did oftentimes look toward the new brides, and that big tears did sometimes roll down her cheek the while." courtesy of americans. i like the americans more and more: either they have improved wonderfully lately, or else the criticisms on them have been cruelly exaggerated. they are particularly courteous and obliging; and seem, i think, amiably anxious that foreigners should carry away a favorable impression of them. as for me, let other travelers say what they please of them, i am determined not to be prejudiced, but to judge of them exactly as i find them; and i shall most pertinaciously continue to praise them (if i see no good cause to alter my present humble opinion), and most especially for their obliging civility and hospitable attention to strangers, of which i have already seen several instances. i have witnessed but very few isolated cases, as yet, of the unrefined habits so usually ascribed to them; and those cases decidedly were not among the higher orders of people; for there seems just as much difference in america as any where else in some respects. the superior classes here have almost always excellent manners, and a great deal of real and natural, as well as acquired refinement, and are often besides (which perhaps will not be believed in fastidious england) extremely distinguished-looking. by the way, the captains of the steamboats appear a remarkably gentlemanlike race of men in general, particularly courteous in their deportment, and very considerate and obliging to the passengers.--_lady emeline wortley._ _monthly record of current events._ political and general news. the united states. the past month has been remarkable for general quiet and for an absence of excitement of any kind, rather than for events either of political or general interest. it has often been noted as characteristic of the american republic, that, however fierce and menacing popular excitement may appear to be, it disappears with the immediate event which gave it birth. a presidential election, for instance, calls forth the most embittered and apparently dangerous contests between different sections of the union, and an observer, unacquainted with the character of our people, and the practical working of our institutions, would naturally expect that the result, whatever it might be, would excite the defeated party to armed resistance, and plunge the country into civil war. but the whole country is never so quiet--the public mind is never so free from agitation, as immediately after an excited election contest. the adjournment of congress has had a similar effect. stimulants to sectional or party feeling are no longer there applied; the public attention is no longer fastened upon public men, and social and civil life resume their ordinary channels of quiet and harmonious progress. some of the state legislatures are still in session, but their action is too local to excite general interest. a very important act has passed the legislature of the state of new york, re-organizing the common school system of the state, and placing it partially upon the free basis. by the law of all the common schools of the state were made entirely free, their cost being paid by county, town, and district taxation. this was found to be highly obnoxious, chiefly from that provision which gave the _voters_ in any district power to tax the _property_ of the district _ad libitum_ for school purposes. the new law was passed to remedy those objections. by its provisions a state tax of $ , is annually imposed upon the property of the state, and distributed among the schools. the balance, if any should be required, is to be collected by rate-bill from those who send to school, indigent persons being exempt, at the expense of property of the town. the bill has become a law and will go into operation next fall. another very important measure has been introduced into the legislature, concerning the enlargement of the erie canal. the constitution of the state sets apart the surplus revenues of the canals in each year, for the completion of the enlargement; but the rapidly increasing competition of railroads has led the legislature to perceive the necessity of accomplishing this work more rapidly than it can be done in the way hitherto adopted. the bill referred to proposes to borrow money on the credit of the surplus revenues set apart by the constitution; and with the money thus procured, to complete the enlargement forthwith, setting apart the revenues as a fund to redeem the certificates. the measure was very strenuously resisted by the democratic party, chiefly on the ground that it was unconstitutional. this, however, was denied by the friends of the bill. it was argued with great ability and zeal on both sides. in the assembly the bill passed, by a vote of ayes and nays in the senate it is still under consideration. we have already recorded the attempt and failure of the legislature to elect a senator in the congress of the united states. on the th of march the effort was renewed by a joint resolution, and after a session protracted until two hours after midnight, it resulted, through the absence of two democratic senators, in the choice, by separate nomination of each house, of hamilton fish. in the senate there were votes for, and against him. in the house he received votes and there were but against him. he has accepted the office.--the members of the legislature and the state officers paid a visit of three days to the city of new york, on the invitation of the mayor and common council. they visited the different public and charitable institutions, of this city and brooklyn; and were entertained at a public dinner at the astor house, on the evening of march d. this is the first visit of the kind ever made.--a bill for the suppression of gambling, containing some stringent provisions, having been introduced into the senate, and referred to a committee of three, george w. bull, sergeant-at-arms of that body, endeavored to enter into negotiations with the reputed proprietor of a gambling "hell" in new york to delay or defeat the bill, for an adequate compensation. he managed to procure a note from the committee to the effect that the bill would not come up the present session. the attempt was exposed, and the offender forthwith dismissed from his office. an unsuccessful attempt was made to implicate the senatorial committee in this scandalous affair, upon the ground that they could not have been ignorant of the purpose for which their note was procured. nothing of special importance has occurred in any section of the country. in ohio the legislature has adopted a series of resolutions concerning the fugitive slave law, urging a faithful execution of the law, but recommending such modifications as experience may prove to be essential. in view of the act of the legislature of south carolina, providing for the appointment of delegates to a southern congress, the general assembly of virginia has passed a series of resolutions to the following purport: . that while virginia sympathizes in the feelings excited by the interference of the non-slaveholding states with the domestic institutions of the south, yet the people of that state "are unwilling to take any action, in consequence of the same, calculated to destroy the integrity of this union." . that regarding the compromise measures, "taken together, as an adjustment of the exciting questions to which they relate, and cherishing the hope that if fairly executed, they will restore to the country that harmony and confidence, which of late have been so unhappily disturbed, the state of virginia deems it unwise, in the present condition of the country, to send delegates to the proposed southern congress." . virginia appeals to south carolina "to desist from any meditated secession upon her part, which can not but tend to the destruction of the union, and the loss to all the states of the blessings that spring from it." . believing that the constitution provides adequate protection to the rights of all the states, virginia "invokes all who live under it to adhere more strictly to it, and to preserve inviolate the safeguards which it affords to the rights of individual states, and the interests of sectional minorities." . reprobates all legislation or combinations designed to affect the institutions peculiar to the south, as derogatory and offensive to the southern states, and calculated to "defeat the restoration of peaceful and harmonious sentiments in these states." these dignified and temperate resolutions passed with singular unanimity: the d with but three, the st with only one, and the th and th without a single dissenting voice, out of members present and voting. they were directed to be transmitted to the executive of each of the states, with the exception of vermont. in the senate an amendment was passed, omitting this exception of vermont; but the house refusing, by a very close vote, to concur, the senate receded. there is little doubt that these resolutions embody the prevalent sentiment of the south. the _richmond enquirer_, one of the ablest and most influential southern papers, affirms them to be "such an expression of sentiment as will harmonize with the universal sentiment of the south, with rare exceptions. south carolina," it goes on to say, "still wears the front of resistance and war; and in a portion of mississippi we expect to hear of secret pledges of dark import, of maps, drawings, and lines of demarkation for a southern confederacy, of a president in embryo, foreign ministers in expectancy, and, in short, all the paraphernalia of a southern court. we have watched the southern horizon with a steady and keen eye, and with the slight exceptions alluded to above, we can not but regard it as a fixed fact that the south has already acquiesced in the compromise measures." in georgia, alabama, tennessee, and kentucky, all the indications of public sentiment are of the same tendency. in missouri the state convention has adopted an address and resolutions in favor of the course pursued by mr. benton in opposition to those who are regarded as the enemies of the union. in south carolina, the tone of the press and of public men is decidedly hostile to the union. it is, however, a significant fact that the election of delegates to the state convention failed to draw out a third of the vote of the state. col. isaac w. hayne, the attorney-general of the state, and member-elect from charleston, of the state convention, has published a letter in which he laments this apathy on the part of the voters. he affirms that any state has "a right to withdraw from the union, with or without cause;" that he has begun to "loathe the tie which connects us with our miscalled brethren of the north." "not the victims of the tyranny of mezentius," he goes on to say, "could have shrunk in more disgust from the unnatural union of warm and breathing life with the rotting carcass of what had once been a brother man, than i do from this once cherished but now abhorred and forced connection." the policy which he recommends, now that the occasion which the "admission of california and the dismemberment of texas" might have afforded, has passed away unimproved is, "to teach that disunion is a thing certain in the future; to direct, in contemplation of this, all the energies of oar people first to preparation for a physical contest," and then "to develop all our own resources, and cut off, as far as possible, all intercourse with the offending states. this done, to hold ourselves ready to move on the first general ferment in the south, which, my life upon it, will occur full soon, and in the meanwhile, to cultivate the kindest relations, and to keep up, industriously and with system, the closest intercourse with our sister states of the south." a letter from senator phelps of vermont to a member of the virginia legislature, respecting the vermont law in relation to fugitives, appears in the southern papers. it bears date in january, but we believe it is now first published. he gives it as his opinion that the law of vermont, of which a synopsis may be found in our january number, was passed in haste, and without due consideration, and does not embody the deliberate sense of the people or of the legislative body of that state. he affirms that the entire congressional delegation of the state agree with him in deprecating its passage; and expresses the opinion that it will be repealed at the next session of the legislature. chevalier hulsemann, the austrian chargé, in reply to the famous dispatch of mr. webster, says that the opinions of his government remain unaltered with respect to the mission of mr. mann; but that it "declines all ulterior discussion of that annoying incident," from unwillingness to disturb its friendly relations with the united states. austria has not demanded, and will not demand any thing beyond the putting in practice the principles of non-intervention announced by president fillmore; and is "sincerely disposed to remain in friendly relations with the government of the united states so long as the united states shall not deviate from those principles." mr. webster, in reply, states that the president regrets that the dispatch was unsatisfactory, but is gratified to learn that the imperial government desires to continue the present friendly relations; and also that it approves the sentiments expressed in his message, in accordance with which he intends to act. he says that the government of the united states is equally disinclined to prolong the discussion; but declares that the principles and policy avowed by the united states are "fixed and fastened upon them by their character, their history, and their position among the nations of the world; and it may be regarded as certain that these principles and this policy will not be abandoned or departed from until some extraordinary change shall take place in the general current of human affairs." amin bey, the turkish commissioner, in taking leave of the president, preparatory to returning to his own country, read an address expressing his appreciation of the courtesy shown him upon his visit, and his sense of the progress and resources of this country. he carries with him to constantinople many valuable works, presented by government and by private liberality, relating to the agriculture, industry, and commerce of the united states. in ohio the constitutional convention closed its labors on the th of march, having been in session nearly six months. the constitution which they framed is to be voted upon on the third tuesday in june. it embraces articles, divided into sections. it provides for freedom of religion, equality of political rights, trial by jury, the _habeas corpus_, freedom of speech and of the press, and no imprisonment for debt. the right of suffrage is vested in all free white male adult citizens. all patronage is taken from the general assembly; judicial and executive officers are to be elected by the people; and the public printing to be given to the lowest responsible bidder. no new county can be formed without the sanction of the majority of voters in all the counties of which the boundaries would be changed. provision is made for the liquidation of the state debt; and no new debt can be created by the general assembly except in case of war or insurrection, or to a limited amount to meet any temporary deficiency; and funds borrowed for these purposes can be used for no other. no special act of incorporation can be granted; but a general law, subject to alteration or repeal, may be passed, under which associations may be formed. the general assembly is prohibited from assuming the debt of any county, town, or city; from loaning the credit of the state to, or becoming a stockholder on any corporation or association. no divorce can be granted by the legislature. an article prohibiting licenses for the sale of intoxicating liquors is to be separately voted upon. provision is made for law reform, and for amendments to the constitution from time to time. every twenty years the question of a constitutional convention is to be submitted to vote. the details of the legislative, executive, and judicial systems, are not essentially different from those which generally prevail. in virginia a constitutional convention is now in session. it is at present occupied in discussing the question of the basis of representation. the section of the state east of the blue ridge, with about four-ninths of the free population, pays nearly two-thirds of the taxes. they desire that one half of the representatives should be apportioned in the ratio of the voters; and the other half in that of taxation; which would secure the preponderance to the eastern section. the west demand that representation shall be in the ratio of the voters, which would give the political supremacy to their portion of the state. the debates have been protracted and exciting. the frontiers of texas continue to be harassed by marauding parties of indians. an expedition has been fitted out to bring them to terms. the little village of socorro, in new mexico, has been the scene of a fearful tragedy. a band of desperadoes had gradually collected there, who indulged in the most wanton acts of outrage and barbarity, upon the mexican residents, finally ending in more than one deliberate murder. a few members of the boundary commission who had been left there, headed an organization which captured a number of the gang, of whom three were tried and hung on the spot. the ringleader, who had made his escape, was soon after taken, and shared the same fate. from california we have intelligence up to the th of march. the amount of gold received during the month, exclusive of that in the hands of passengers is about $ , , . the production continues abundant; though the profits of agriculture are represented to be quite equal, and more sure, than those of mining. hostilities with the indians still continue. another engagement has taken place, in which of the indians were killed, without loss on the part of the whites. in sacramento city, a gambler engaged in a brawl, shot down a citizen who attempted to prevent outrage. the murderer was seized by the populace, tried by lynch law, found guilty, and in spite of the efforts of some citizens, hung from the branch of a tree, within a few hours of the commission of the murder. in san francisco two men came near sharing a similar fate for an attempt at murder and robbery. they were, however, finally rescued from the populace, and handed over to the civil authority. no senator has been elected. the legislature met in joint convention; but after ballots, finding no probability of succeeding in making an election, adjourned _sine die_. the whole number of votes cast was ; thus making necessary for a choice. the highest number for mr. frémont was . mr. heydenfeldt, formerly of alabama, was for a time the leading democratic candidate. he was opposed by a portion of his party, on the alleged ground of having formerly advocated disunion. this is denied by himself and his friends. mr. weller was subsequently taken up; and at the last ballot received votes. the whig candidate throughout was mr. king, whose highest vote was . mexico. from mexico the general aspect of intelligence is gloomy enough. it would seem doubtful whether there is sufficient vitality left for the re-organization of society, without an infusion of a more fresh and vigorous blood. the administration of arista has not thus far realized the anticipations which had been cherished of it. the country is infested with predatory indians and brigands. on the th of february, a train of wagons was attacked in broad daylight, a few miles from the capital, by a band of robbers who drove off the military escort and carried away a large amount of goods. the minister of war and marine urges the establishment of military colonies upon the frontiers; and recommends the desperate measure of incorporating into these colonies the agricultural indians, such as the seminoles, who are accustomed to the use of arms, and are disposed to settle in fixed habitations, so that they may serve as a barrier against the marauding camanches, lipanes, and apaches. the highroad leading from mazatlan to the mines is held by the indians. in yucatan fears are entertained of the extermination of the whites. the refractory bishop of michoacan has at length consented to take the oath to sustain the constitution and laws. an act of the legislature of queretaro, restoring the jesuits to that state, has been pronounced by congress to be a violation of the constitution. the exclusive right for years to construct a railroad from vera cruz to madellan has been granted to don josé maria estellan. great britain. our last record closed amidst the unsuccessful attempts to find somebody who would undertake to carry on the government of the country. stanley and russell, the representatives of the free-trade and protection parties, felt too weak. gladstone would not help stanley, nor graham help russell; and nobody would help lord aberdeen. at last the advice of the duke of wellington was solicited; in accordance with which the former ministry were invited to resume their places. they left office on the d of february because they were unable to obtain the confidence of the house, and resumed on the d of march, under the pressure of the same inability, every man his old office. at a meeting of the members of the house who usually supported him, summoned by lord john russell, he announced, among other measures, that it was the determination of the government to proceed with the ecclesiastical titles bill, with certain modifications. this aroused vehement remonstrances from a number of catholic whigs, who announced their determination to oppose the ministry at all hazards. when the bill came to be presented, it was found that all that remained was the prohibition for catholic bishops to assume titles derived from the name of any place in the united kingdom. dr. wiseman must not call himself archbishop of westminster, or dr. m'hale sign himself "john of tuam," under penalty of £ , if government should have the folly to prosecute. meanwhile they may address each other by these titles, and all catholics may consider and address them so unharmed. the bill, as modified passed to a second reading on the d of march, by ayes to nays--a majority of more than four to one. such is the _finale_ of the absurd and disproportionate agitation with respect to the "papal agression." nobody is satisfied. the church party, who mourned over the shortcomings of the bill as originally presented, are of course still less pleased with it as emasculated. the catholics who then opposed it as an injury, now resent it as an insult. the ministry has sustained a series of annoying defeats and checks on unimportant measures; and have therefore kept back all the leading business, such as the presentation of the budget. the protection and free-trade parties are mustering their strength throughout the country, preparatory to a general election, which will probably take place at the close of the present session. the prevailing crime at present seems to be poisoning by arsenic. wives poison their husbands, husbands their wives, and servants both. a bill has has been introduced by lord carlisle prohibiting the sale of arsenic except in the presence of a witness, who with the purchaser, are to register their names in a book. it is also proposed to enact that all arsenic sold shall be mixed with substances which by their taste or color will give warning of its presence. an insurrection has broken out among the kaffirs at the cape, which promises to be annoying and expensive. the ultimate cause is the gradual expulsion of the savages, which always follows the colonization of their territories by civilized nations. thousands are driven from their lands, and compressed into a space only sufficient for scores, and begin to think it as well to die fighting as starving. the governor at the cape having formally deposed and outlawed one of the powerful native chiefs, dispatched an expedition to seize his person. this body of troops, consisting of men, was attacked in a narrow defile by the kaffirs, and suffered some loss. attacks were then made upon three of the frontier settlements, and the colonists, to the number of massacred. a levy _en masse_ of all males between the ages of eighteen and fifty was summoned by the governor, "to destroy and exterminate those most barbarous and treacherous savages, who for the moment are formidable." several smart engagements have taken place, in which the savages, though worsted, displayed great daring, and considerable skill and discipline. attention has been called in parliament to the proceedings of the various revolutionary committees composed of foreign refugees, and headed by mazzini, ledru-rollin, and klapka. their proceedings were charged with being a violation of the obligations they incurred when they came to seek the protection of english laws. members of government expressed their decided disapprobation of the course pursued by the refugees in endeavoring to excite insurrection in foreign countries. a miss talbot, heiress to a fortune of £ , , has entered a convent as "postulant" with the intention of taking the vail in a few months, when it is supposed that her fortune will pass to the church. this has occasioned some excitement against convents, and a bill has been introduced intended to prevent the forcible detention of females in houses in which the inmates are bound by religious or monastic vows. it provides that all such establishments shall be registered, and subject to semi-annual visitation by public officers, who shall have power to remove any female who desires it. concealment of any part of the premises, or of any person therein, false lists of the inmates, and any obstruction to the visitors, are to be punished as misdemeanors. measures are also proposed regulating legacies made for religious purposes. at chelmsford a man and woman were hung for murder, attended by the usual disgraceful accompaniments of a public execution. crowds gathered from all the surrounding country; at the moment of execution , or , persons are said to have been present. venders of edibles plied their vocation in the most gross and revolting manner; pickpockets, as usual, were in attendance, and the general deportment of the spectators, men, women, and children, was disgusting and brutal. the man confessed his guilt. the woman, whose crime was poisoning with arsenic, died protesting her innocence. "a monster address" signed by noblemen, members of the house of commons, and , other persons, lay members of the church of england, has been presented by lord ashley to the queen. it beseeches her majesty to resist the papal aggression; and goes on to speak of that act having been occasioned and invited by the conduct of many of the clergy of the church of england, who have shown a desire to assimilate the doctrines of their church to those of rome. after specifying the sacramental system and "histrionic arrangements" in the churches, it says that "by the constitution and existing laws, there is vested in your majesty as the earthly head of our church, a wholesome power of interposition, which power we entreat your majesty now to exercise." charges have been made in the house of commons against lord torrington, late governor of ceylon. he is accused of gross misgovernment, wanton cruelty in suppressing native insurrection, and the production of false evidence. lord john russell announced that he should postpone the budget and the income tax, until this charge, which was in effect one against government, had been disposed of. upon which the mover announced that he should postpone his motion until after the introduction of these measures. lord torrington, in the house of lords, came forward and challenged the prosecution of these charges. a coal-pit disaster occurred near glasgow, involving a terrible loss of life. while men and boys were at work in the mine, an explosion of fire-damp occurred. of those in the mine all but two perished. a searching investigation is going on into the adulterations of articles of food. it is asserted that there is scarcely an article which is in any way susceptible of mixture, that is not mingled with others not merely of inferior value, but in many cases of the most loathsome and disgusting nature. ground coffee is specified as particularly subject to adulteration. a somewhat singular controversy has arisen in reference to a body of refugees from hungary, who have recently arrived at liverpool. they number , of whom the majority are poles, the remnant of the polish legion in hungary. government wishes to send them to america, and offers a bounty of £ , to each man who will go. they wish to remain in england, evidently anticipating an uprising in some part of europe, where their services may be called into requisition. they are entirely destitute of means of support, and in england can only maintain themselves by begging. the frigate st. lawrence, having on board the contributions to the exhibition from the united states, arrived at portsmouth on the th of march. a meeting of the american exhibitors has been held at london, at which great dissatisfaction was expressed with many of the arrangements. they object in particular to the appointment of jurors to decide upon the merits of foreign productions; to bronze medals being awarded as prizes, when more valuable ones had been promised; to the high price of season tickets; to contributors being compelled to pay for admission, and be at the expense of their own fittings; and to the delay in affording protection to the articles which require a patent. some leakage has occurred in the roof of the exhibition building; but it is hoped that it may be obviated. all opinion adverse to the suitability of the painting of the interior has passed away. the theoretical views of the decorator have been abundantly justified by the practical effect. another expedition in search of sir john franklin is to be fitted out this season. the little "prince albert" is to be sent out, it is hoped, under happier auspices than attended her former voyage. it is expected to reach lancaster sound, by the middle of june. the vessel will be laid up for wintering in prince regent's inlet. the party will then proceed in boats as far as practicable. when these can no longer be worked, native "kyacks" will be used, which will enable the explorers to reach a point some one or two hundred miles further than boats could carry them, as the kyacks can be hauled up and dragged over the ice. the expedition will remain out for at least one season; and a very extensive search to the westward of boothia is proposed. it will be under the command of capt. w. kennedy, who has had no small experience in these icy regions. we do not learn whether mr. snow, from whose interesting book we copied so largely last month, is to be attached to this new expedition. france. the most striking incident which has occurred since our last has been a debate on a proposition to repeal the law exiling the bourbon family. m. berryer, acting in the name of the legitimists, opposed the motion on the ground that the count of chambord is not an exiled frenchman, but an extruded king, who could not stoop to accept a permission to re-enter his own hereditary dominions. m. thiers, as the organ of the orleanists, advocated the proposition. the minister of justice, in the name of government, was favorable to the principle of the bill, but was opposed to pressing it at present. the assembly was thrown into violent agitation by a speech from m. dufraisse, one of the most able and earnest of the montagnards, who delivered a speech which would not have been misplaced in the mouth of robespierre or danton. "the pale head, compressed lips, and intense expression of the young lawyer of the mountain," says an eyewitness, "reminded the auditors, not without a shudder, of such a thoroughbred jacobin as st. just." he declared that the laws of proscription were just, and ought to be maintained. "the revolution can not ask pardon of the dynasties it has justly upset. have the family of orleans laid aside the claims of their birth? have they rendered homage to the sovereignty of the nation? do not the descendants of st. louis continually dispute the independence and the conquests of the people? you tell us that royalty never dies; we reply, nor does its punishment. if the principle of sovereignty is eternal, so shall its punishment be eternal. the law ought to chastise the voluntary representatives, the willing heirs of a principle which the people have abolished." he went on to vindicate the execution of louis xvi., and declared that those who voted against the death of that monarch, meditated a return to royalty, and reminded the assembly that among those who voted for the execution, was the grandfather of the princes whose banishment was sought to be repealed. the speech caused a perfect storm of passion in the assembly. members rushed to the tribune, and shook their fists in the speaker's face. m. berryer proposed the adjournment of the question for six months, as he could not vote on the same side with those who advocated such doctrines. this, which is looked upon as equivalent to a rejection of the proposition, was carried by acclamation. rumors have for some time been rife of an intended fusion between the bourbon and orleans interests, with a view to a speedy restoration of the monarchy. these would seem to be put to rest by a letter from the orleans princes in england to the orleans committee in paris, in which they declare that they will negotiate only on the soil of france, and while out of their country will take no part in political questions. the prolongation of the term of the president is urged in many quarters as the only practicable safeguard against socialism and anarchy. the present aspect of affairs seems to indicate that he will be continued in office in some shape or other. the bishop of chartres, in a pastoral letter, attacks a late circular of the archbishop of paris, recommending the clergy to abstain from politics, and to yield obedience to the laws of their country. the bishop considers that when destructive principles are advanced, the clergy should be found ready to oppose their progress; and he sees no reason why the ecclesiastical body should be enjoined to take no part in public affairs. the archbishop, in reply, denounces the conduct of the bishop, as an unwarrantable interference with his jurisdiction, and as a breach of the respect due to him as metropolitan: and refers the bishop's letter to the provincial council to be held during the present year at paris. the professors of the college of france held a meeting at the sorbonne to take into consideration the tendency of the lectures of m. michelet, which were considered prejudicial, in a moral and political point of view to the students. he himself declined to attend, but defended himself in a letter stating that his lectures were blamed only by the jesuits and the enemies of french nationality. his colleagues, by a vote of out of decided upon a vote of censure against him, and that the minutes of their proceedings should be transmitted to the minister for approval. it is said that m. michelet his resigned his chair. germany. the german mists grow thicker. all that can now be affirmed with certainty is, that the dresden conference has been no more able to improvise a german empire than was the frankfort parliament. a month ago, and it seemed that austria had outgeneraled prussia, and made herself absolute mistress of germany, and was in a fair way to become ruler from the rhine to the alps. the petty states of germany were in alarm; the kingdoms of the second rank began to see themselves in danger, and to talk of a central power, from which the constitutional element was not altogether excluded. it is now said that the king of prussia is again ambitious of playing the first part on the german stage, and has refused to sanction the concessions made by his minister. it seems probable that germany will fall back upon the old frankfort confederation. in the mean time, we present the following, as what seems to us the condition and designs of the principal parties; premising that the very next intelligence may present them under an altogether new aspect:--austria wishes to enter the germanic confederation with all her vast and heterogeneous population; thus binding all germany to assist her, in the event of any new hungarian or italian outbreak. she also wishes to secure the federal executive. if she succeeds in these projects, the weight of her foreign possessions gives her the preponderance in germany, while germany secures to her the control of her foreign territories. the interests of the people and princes of germany for once coincide in opposing this claim. the vacillating policy of prussia has arisen from doubt, whether more could be made out of austria by putting herself at the head of the german states, or out of these states, by joining with austria. the ultimate decision of this question is more likely to be effected by accident than by settled policy. italy. the feelings of uneasiness, and vague apprehension of insurrection throughout the italian peninsula are nowise abated. austrian troops are concentrating within her italian territories. the railroad across the milan alps, from cilly to trieste, is advancing with great rapidity. the completion of this road will enable austrian troops to be sent from vienna to milan in twenty-four hours. the austrian government has issued an ordonnance directing that in those parts of italy which are still considered in a state of siege, no journal shall mention in any way, directly or indirectly, the titles of the prohibited revolutionary books and pamphlets which are in circulation among the people. radetzky has issued a proclamation, under date of feb. , from verona, directed against revolutionary proclamations and pamphlets, threatening death against all who are engaged in circulating them. every one into whose hands such a pamphlet may fall is directed to deliver it to the nearest person in office, though but a gendarme, and at the same time to declare how it came into his possession; the punishment for failure to do this is imprisonment in irons for a period of from one to five years. washington's birthday was celebrated at rome with great enthusiasm. at a public dinner, mr. cass, our chargé, presided and made a speech. two odes, by mrs. stephens, were sung. among the guests were archbishop hughes, and mr. hastings, the american protestant chaplain. the report that the american protestant chapel at rome had been closed is authoritatively contradicted by mr. hastings, who speaks in terms of high praise of the liberality which has been manifested toward him by the papal authorities. literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. united states. the exhibition of the national academy of design is now open. it is universally admitted that the paintings surpass those of any previous year the opening of the exhibition was celebrated, according to custom, by a dinner, attended by artists, amateurs, and men of letters. admirable speeches were made by rev. doctors bellows and bethune, who, though pole-wide apart in the sphere of theology, spanning the distance between arius and calvin, find common grounds of sympathy in their love for, and appreciation of art. mr. durand, the president, in a very felicitous speech, narrated his experience as an artist and as one of the founders of the academy. mr. greenough, at florence, has nearly completed his group of the _pioneer_, for the capitol at washington. it represents a backwoodsman rescuing his wife and child from an indian who is in the act of smothering them in the folds of his blanket. the action of the group symbolizes the one unvarying story of the contest between civilized and uncivilized man. the pioneer, standing almost erect, in the pride of conscious superiority, has dashed upon one knee the indian, whose relaxed form, and cowering face upturned despairingly, express premonitions of the inevitable doom awaiting him, against which all his efforts would be unavailing. the heavy brow, compressed lip, and firm chin of the white man announce him one of a race born to conquer and rule, not so much by mere physical strength as by undaunted courage and indomitable will. those who have seen the group pronounce it to be a sublime conception grandly executed. a portrait of mr. calhoun, painted at paris by mr. healey for the common council of charleston, was exhibited at the exposition in paris, where it was pronounced one of the best portraits of the season. the size is seven feet ten inches, by four feet seven. the sum paid for it is one thousand dollars. we believe it has been forwarded to charleston. among the pictures by our artists, completed or in progress, we notice one by mr. wright, representing the well-known story of washington and the damaged cherry-tree, which is executed with decided cleverness.--mr. duggan is engaged upon a david and goliath, one of those massy subjects affording ample scope for the bent of the artist's genius.--mr. stearns has upon his easel a painting of the interview between tecumseh and general harrison, at vincennes, in . by some oversight no seat had been provided for the indian chief. the unintentional discourtesy was corrected by general harrison, with the words, "warrior, your father, general harrison, offers you a seat." tecumseh drew up his stately form to its full height, and raising his hand to heaven, exclaimed proudly, "my father! the great spirit is my father, and the earth my mother; she feeds me and clothes me, and i recline upon her bosom!"--mr. t. a. richards has recently completed a painting which might appropriately enough be named "recollections of lake winnipiseogee," portraying rather the general characteristics of that lake, than depicting the particular features of any one portion. the scene is an autumn morning, with the sun bursting forth from the train of a passing shower which has sprinkled diamonds over foliage and flower. jenny lind is verging new york-ward. her next concert here is announced for may . the new york firemen have procured a testimonial to be presented to her in acknowledgment of her munificent donation of $ to the funds of the department. it consists of a complete copy of audubon's birds and quadrupeds of america, in a beautiful case; and a gold box, appropriately ornamented, containing a copy of their vote of thanks to her. the following ratherish pretty and altogether german lines were contributed by her to the album of a gentleman in washington; "in vain i seek for rest in all created good. it leaves me still unblest, and makes me cry for god. and sure, at rest i can not be until my heart finds rest in thee." the renowned tupper is undergoing the process of lionization. he has introduced a new feature into his representation of the part, by the recitation in public of his own verses. he has produced for the great london exhibition a "hymn for all nations," which is to be translated into thirty different languages, set to music, and printed. this polyglott will be a philological curiosity, if no more. mr. cralle, the intimate friend and confidential secretary of mr. calhoun, is engaged in preparing for publication the works of the great southern statesman, to be accompanied by a biography. the whole will be comprised, probably, in six octavo volumes. the first volume, which is now printed, and will soon be ready for publication, is occupied by an elaborate disquisition on government, and a discourse on the constitution and government of the united states. these treatises have always been spoken of as the "great work" of mr. calhoun's life, setting forth in a systematic manner his views upon the philosophy of civil government. the treatises were commenced many years since, but never received the final revision and correction which the author intended to bestow upon them. the complete works of alexander hamilton are now in course of publication by c. s. francis & co. they are mainly printed from the manuscripts purchased by congress, under the direction of the library committee. the collection will extend to seven octavo volumes. it has long been suspected that colors were depicted on daguerreotype plates, if they could only be developed. mr. hill, of this state, announces that he has succeeded in producing pictures in which every tint and shade is accurately represented. we are assured by one of our most eminent operators, one of the very few who have seen the pictures, that there is no doubt of the fact. the inventor as yet keeps his process a secret, though we understand that he is preparing a memoir in relation to it. bayard taylor's el-dorado has been translated into german by c. hartman, author of a geographical and historical description of california. mr. samuel maverick, of pendleton, s. c., who is still living, assisted in packing the first bale of cotton ever sent from the united states to liverpool. it was sent in the seed, and the consignee informed his south carolina correspondent that the article was useless, could not be sold, and advised him to send no more. dr. goadby, who has recently delivered in this city a very interesting course of lectures upon insects, has a most valuable series of dissections, prepared at a cost of labor which would seem almost incredible. the anatomy of a caterpillar, comprising three distinct preparations--its nervous system, its organs of respiration, and its organs of nutrition--occupied the undivided labor of thirteen weeks, at the rate of fourteen hours a day. gen. henderson, who was on trial at new orleans on the charge of being implicated in the cuban invasion, has been discharged, the jury being unable to agree. the district attorney therefore entered a _nolle prosequi_ in the case of governor quitman and all others under indictment. european. the new leipzig _deutsches museum_ (westermann brothers, new york,) promises to meet the want which we have for some time found it impossible to supply, of a german literary magazine. in the recent revolutionary storms this class of periodicals generally went down, so that for information as to the working of the german mind we have been forced to rely upon chance notices in the political journals, or trust to foreign sources. it is published semi-monthly. its cost in leipzig is _thalers_; and is furnished here for the same number of dollars. under the title of _causeries du lundi_ m. st. beauve has just put forth a volume of sketches of contemporary french authors, which almost forces us to envy the happy land blessed with such a number of men, the worst of whom exceeds our ideas of any attainable height of perfection. a word or two of criticism is awarded to lamartine, but too bland to wound even the vanity of the gentle alphonse. but girardin and villemain, cousin and george sand, thiers and montalembert receive a most unqualified apotheosis. the title of "monday chat" simply indicates that the book is made up of articles which appeared on mondays in the _constitutionnel_ newspaper. pictures by the "old masters," as all the world knows, are manufactured as readily, and almost as extensively, as calico. it is not, however, so well known that "old and rare editions" of books are produced nowadays. the passion of book-collectors has given a new impulse to this business. within a few months the beautiful editions of the classics of the elzevirs and the stephens have been reproduced with wonderful skill. in paper, type, ink, and binding there is no perceptible difference; while the precise air of antiquity desired is produced by chemical means. m. feuillet de conches, a parisian virtuoso, and great admirer of la fontaine, has spent a vast sum in having printed for his own sole use a single copy of the works of the famous fabulist. it is illustrated in the most gorgeous style, by the first artists of the day; and is accompanied with notes and prefaces by the most eminent writers, and is a very miracle of expensive typography and binding. victor hugo has published nothing for some years, having been paid by a publisher not to print. report says that he will, at the close of his term, which soon expires, make amends for his long silence by issuing poems to the amount of three volumes, and romances to that of twelve. a work by origen, the celebrated father in the church, hitherto unknown, has been discovered and published by the librarian of the national assembly--so m. villemain announced at a recent meeting of the _académie des belles lettres_ at paris. the work traces the heresies of the third century to the writings of the pagan philosophers, and throws new light upon ancient manners, literature, and philosophy. in the album presented to the king of bavaria by the artists of münich, is an admirable composition by hübner. it is an expression of the feelings of a large portion of upper germany. it represents a female prostrate upon the ground, with the arms crossed, the face entirely hidden, in an attitude of the deepest despair. the long hair floats over the arms, and trails along the ground. the whole figure is a mixture of majesty and utter abandonment. the simple title of the piece is--"germania, ." _yeast: a problem_, is the sartor-resartorish title of a collection of papers reprinted from fraser's magazine, where they have excited no little attention. it purports to be a sample of what is fermenting in the minds of large classes of young men of the present day, and leavening the whole mass of society. though published anonymously, it is known to be written by the author of "alton locke," and partakes largely of the merits and defects of that remarkable work. it is to be republished by the harpers. in walter savage landor the material for an admirable newspaper writer has been thrown away. witness the following double-handed hitting in a letter to lord duncan, who lately won a victory over the ministers, "... a quarrel about hats, caps, and stockings, and the titles they confer, is too ridiculous. is a hunchback to be treated with gravity, with severity, because an ignorant rabble calls him _my lord_. if i chose to call myself lord duncan, i should only be laughed at. people would stare; some would ask, 'is this the great lord duncan who won the battle of camperdown?' others would answer, 'no; nor is it he who won as great a one in westminster the other day. he is an impostor: haul him out; but don't hurt him:' i have the honor to be, etc." _dahomey and the dahomans_, by frederick e. forbes, gives an interesting account, drawn from personal observation, made during the last two years, of the manners and customs of this savage people. among the most revolting is the _ek-que-noo-ah-toh-meh_ or "throwing of presents," in which the king occupies himself for many hours in throwing gifts from a raised platform, to the people below. the last of these gifts consists of a number of live prisoners, who have been exhibited bound upon the platform; they are flung down to be cut and torn in pieces by the savages. on the occasion when the author was present there were fourteen of these victims, of whom he succeeded in saving the lives of three. the object of the expedition was to induce the king to abandon the slave-trade, and was altogether unsuccessful. _the dynamical theory of the formation of the earth,_ two mighty octavo volumes, elicits the following complimentary remarks from the _athenæum._ "this work is saved from being mischievous only by the circumstance of the excessive dullness diffused over these twelve hundred pages--which will in all probability prevent their being much read.... of no one department of science does the author appear to have a correct conception. his views are all distorted. he is false alike in his mechanics, in his geology, in his natural history, in his chemistry, in his electricity--in every other consideration of the physical agencies, and still more false in that which we suppose we must bring ourselves to call his logic." _memoirs of a literary veteran_, by r. p. gillies is a book almost worth reading, quite worth looking at. the author, nephew to the celebrated historian of greece, born to a fair estate, and with a propensity to make verses, spent the one without turning the other to any special account. amidst much idle matter, whose only purpose is to swell the bulk of the volumes, are some rather interesting anecdotes of literary celebrities. some over-laudatory epistles from sir egerton brydges, and a characteristic letter or two from wordsworth, containing among other matters, a criticism upon scott's guy mannering, in which considerable praise is awarded to the management of "this lady," as he solemnly denominates meg merrilies, are perhaps the best things in the book. it reminds one, but at a wide interval, of leigh hunt's autobiography. _a life of hartley coleridge_ prefixed to a volume of his poems, tells a sad story of powers neutralized and a life thrown away. he was the eldest son of _the_ coleridge, and with a portion of his father's genius combined a large share of his infirmity of purpose and feebleness of will. he gained a college fellowship, and forfeited it within a year, by intemperance; after which he maintained himself by his pen. the life is by his brother, derwent coleridge. the poems are of decided merit. they are to be followed by a collection of his prose writings. obituaries. isaac hill, formerly governor of new hampshire, and senator in congress, died at washington, march d, aged about . he was born at charlestown, n. h., the son of a farmer, and at an early age learned the trade of a printer. he established the first democratic paper at concord. to his able conduct is in a great measure to be ascribed the ascendency which his party acquired in the state, about the year . though possessing few of the external qualifications for a popular leader, being feeble in person, and altogether destitute of oratorical power, his unrivaled tact and untiring industry gave him an uncontrolled influence in the state. he was chosen state senator; and subsequently united states senator, which office he held from to , when he resigned, in consequence of having been elected governor of new hampshire. he filled the executive chair for two or three terms, and then retired to private life. in he was appointed sub-treasurer at boston; but the repeal of the sub-treasury act the following year vacated his office. he then returned to new hampshire; but his star had waned. he disagreed with his party on the subject of corporations and other radical questions, lost his political influence, and fell into comparative insignificance, as a politician, though he always adhered to his party. for a number of years he edited an agricultural paper of considerable merit. he suffered much from impaired health during the last years of his life; and died in moderate pecuniary circumstances. mordecai manasseh noah, long known as an able editor and active politician, died in new york, march . he was born at philadelphia, july , , and has thus attained to within three years of three score and ten. he was apprenticed to a carver and gilder; but early abandoned that trade and devoted himself to literature and politics. he removed to charleston, s. c., in the early part of the present century, where he took an active and influential part in public affairs. having declined the offer of the consulship at riga, he was appointed, in , consul at tunis, and was charged with a mission to algiers. this latter he accomplished, after some adventures, and repaired to tunis. at the expiration of ten months he was recalled, under charge, we believe, of some pecuniary defalcations. upon his return to this country, he became connected with the political press. in , he was elected sheriff of the city and county of new york, which office he held but a single year. in , he was appointed commissioner of the supreme court of the united states, and surveyor of the port of new york. in the mean while, he had formed the project of collecting his brethren the jews, and rebuilding the city of jerusalem. he issued a singular proclamation, appointing grand island, near niagara falls, as the place of rendezvous, and summoned the scattered tribes to transmit their contributions. we have no means of knowing how far he was in earnest in this scheme. at all events, it came to nothing. in , he was elected judge of the court of general sessions, which he held till the law constituting the court was changed. mr. noah was, however, more known as an editor than as a politician. though without any very lofty aims, or high qualifications, he was an agreeable and sprightly paragraphist, possessed of an unfailing good-humor, and a large fund of general information. he was connected successively with a number of papers, and at the time of his death was editor of a sunday paper, _the messenger and times_. he also published at different times a number of works of a miscellaneous character, chiefly essays and plays, some of which met with great success at the time of publication; but none of them possessed sufficient vitality to take a permanent place in the literature of the country. his death was the consequence of a paralytic stroke. he lived and died a believer in the faith of his fathers, the hebrew religion; and was buried with the solemn ceremonies practiced by the ancient chosen people. he was of a most generous and genial nature, and enjoyed the warmest good-will of all with whom he was brought into personal relations. george m. brooke, brevet major-general in the united states army, died at san antonio, texas, on the th of march. he was a native of virginia, and entered the army in . he was brevetted lieutenant-colonel in , for "gallant conduct in the defense of fort erie." a month later he received the rank of brevet colonel, for "distinguished and meritorious services in the sortie from fort erie." in , he was made brevet brigadier-general for "ten years' faithful service as colonel." in , he was brevetted as major-general for "meritorious conduct, particularly in the performance of his duties in the prosecution of the war with mexico." alexander s. wadsworth, commodore in the united states navy, died at washington, april , in the st year of his age. he was a native of maine. he entered the service in , and for many years served with distinction. his commission of post-captain, bears date from . his name stood the seventh on the naval list. severe and protracted illness had for many years disabled him from active duty. samuel farmar jarvis, d.d., died at middletown, conn., march th. he was born in january, . he had the reputation of being one of the ripest scholars in the episcopal church, and was a member of the principal literary and historical societies in this country. his extensive acquirements, and fondness for accurate investigation procured for him the appointment of "historigrapher of the church," which was conferred upon him in , with a view to his preparing a faithful "ecclesiastical history, reaching from the apostles' time, to the formation of the protestant episcopal church in the united states." the first volume, forming a chronological introduction, was published in . it is understood that a continuation of the work was nearly ready for press at the time of his death. john s. skinner, editor of the "_plough, the loom, and the anvil_," and well known for his agricultural writings, died at baltimore, march , aged about years. he was universally esteemed for his social qualities, unassuming demeanor, and generous impulses. his death was occasioned by a fall into the basement in the post office at baltimore. literary notices ticknor, reed, and fields have issued _the house of the seven gables_, a romance, by nathaniel hawthorne, which is strongly marked with the bold and unique characteristics that have given its author such a brilliant position among american novelists. the scene, which is laid in the old puritanic town of salem, extends from the period of the witchcraft excitement to the present time, connecting the legends of the ancient superstition with the recent marvels of animal magnetism, and affording full scope for the indulgence of the most weird and sombre fancies. destitute of the high-wrought manifestations of passion which distinguished the "scarlet letter," it is more terrific in its conception, and not less intense in its execution, but exquisitely relieved by charming portraitures of character, and quaint and comic descriptions of social eccentricities. a deep vein of reflection underlies the whole narrative, often rising naturally to the surface, and revealing the strength of the foundation on which the subtle, aerial inventions of the author are erected. his frequent dashes of humor gracefully blend with the monotone of the story, and soften the harsher colors in which he delights to clothe his portentous conceptions. in no former production of his pen, are his unrivalled powers of description displayed to better advantage. the rusty wooden house in pyncheon-street, with its seven sharp-pointed gables, and its huge clustered chimney--the old elm tree before the door--the grassy yard seen through the lattice-fence, with its enormous fertility of burdocks--and the green moss on the slopes of the roof, with the flowers growing aloft in the air in the nook between two of the gables--present a picture to the eye as distinct as if our childhood had been passed in the shadow of the old weather-beaten edifice. nor are the characters of the story drawn with less sharp and vigorous perspective. they stand out from the canvas as living realities. in spite of the supernatural drapery in which they are enveloped, they have such a genuine expression of flesh and blood, that we can not doubt we have known them all our days. they have the air of old acquaintance--only we wonder how the artist got them to sit for their likenesses. the grouping of these persons is managed with admirable artistic skill. old maid pyncheon, concealing under her verjuice scowl the unutterable tenderness of a sister--her woman-hearted brother, on whose sensitive nature had fallen such a strange blight--sweet and beautiful phebe, the noble village-maiden, whose presence is always like that of some shining angel--the dreamy, romantic descendant of the legendary wizard--the bold, bad man of the world, reproduced at intervals in the bloody colonel, and the unscrupulous judge--wise old uncle venner--and inappeasable ned higgins--are all made to occupy the place on the canvas which shows the lights and shades of their character in the most impressive contrast, and contributes to the wonderful vividness and harmony of the grand historical picture. on the whole, we regard "the house of the seven gables," though it exhibits no single scenes that may not be matched in depth and pathos by some of mr. hawthorne's previous creations, as unsurpassed by any thing he has yet written, in exquisite beauty of finish, in the skillful blending of the tragic and comic, and in the singular life-like reality with which the wildest traditions of the puritanic age are combined with the every-day incidents of modern society. harper and brothers have published a translation of _buttmann's greek grammar_, by professor edward robinson, from the eighteenth german edition, containing additions and improvements by alexander buttmann, the son of the original author. since the publication of the thirteenth edition in , which was the last that the author lived to complete, gradual changes have been introduced into the grammar, especially in the department of syntax, which has been expanded and re-written, with the aid of the extensive investigations of the last twenty years. the translation bears the same impress of diligence, accuracy, and philological tact, which is never looked for in vain in the productions of the indefatigable and distinguished author. _ecclesiastical manual_, by luther lee (published at the wesleyan methodist book room), is a brief treatise on the nature of church government, defending the right of visible church organization against prevailing latitudinarian and transcendental views on the one hand, and maintaining liberal principles of polity against the high claims of episcopacy and the assumptions of the clergy on the other. the argument is conducted with candor and moderation, though not without spirit, and may be studied to advantage by all who would understand the points at issue. _william penn, an historical biography_, by william hepworth dixon (published by blanchard and lea), is a new and complete life of the founder of pennsylvania, derived from contemporary papers that have been brought to light within a recent period, and from original and unpublished documents. the view given by the author, of the religious system of fox and penn, as coinciding with the principles of republican freedom, is a reproduction of the admirable exhibition of quakerism presented by bancroft in his history of the united states. in the appendix, the charges against william penn by macaulay are submitted to a rigid examination; the evidence on the subject is skillfully and thoroughly sifted; and the strongest case made out for the accused against the insinuations of the ingenious and eloquent historian. with his warm sympathies in favor of the subject of his narrative, and the familiar knowledge of his career gained by the researches of several years, mr. dixon has produced a genial and instructive piece of biography, sustaining the claims of the illustrious quaker to the noble and elevated rank in which he has been placed by the general voice of tradition. _physico-physiological researches on the dynamics of magnetism, &c._, by baron charles von reichenbach, translated from the german, by john ashburner, m.d., is a scientific treatise, showing the relations of magnetism, electricity, heat, light, crystallization, and chemism to the vital forces of the human body. it is founded on an extensive series of experiments, which tend to bring the mysterious phenomena of mesmerism within the domain of physics, and in fact to reduce the whole subject of physiology to a department of chemical science. the papers, of which it is composed, were originally intended as contributions to the "annals of chemistry," conducted by the celebrated professor liebig, in which periodical they appeared in the year . in the present collected form, they have received some necessary corrections, but their spirit and substance are presented without alteration. the investigations, of which the results are here described, are of a singularly curious character, exhibiting the most astonishing developments, with a philosophical calmness that is rare even among german savants. _the rangers; or, the tory's daughter_, is the title of a novel illustrative of the revolutionary history of vermont, by the author of "the green mountain boys," published by b. b. mussy and co., boston. it gives many agreeable descriptions of vermont scenery, with sketches of its social life during the war of the revolution, and shows considerable skill in combining the prominent historical facts of that day with the fictitious incidents of a lively and exciting plot. _the ballads and songs_ of william pembroke mulchinoch (published by t. w. strong), is a collection of fugitive poetry, inspired with the genuine breathings of irish patriotism, frequently displaying great facility and sweetness of versification, and pervaded throughout with a winning sentiment of tenderness and human sympathy. harper and brothers have published a neat volume, entitled _nature and blessedness of christian purity,_ by rev. r. s. foster, with an introduction by edmund s. janes, d.d., one of the bishops of the methodist episcopal church. without aiming at any rivalry with other writers on the subject, the author devotes his work to the maintenance of the views which are set forth by the standard wesleyan authorities. avoiding all considerations of a purely speculative character, he presents the practical aspects of his theme, with discrimination, earnestness, and force. his style, which is always animated and effective, betrays the influence of profound and accurate thought, and is equally adapted to make a favorable impression on the understanding and on the heart of the attentive reader. the well-written preface by bishop janes, gives a lucid summary of the contents of the volume, with a warm commendation of the manner in which it is executed. _lyra catholica_ (published by e. dunigan and brother), is a collection of the hymns of the roman breviary and missal, with others adapted for every day in the week, and the festivals and saints' days throughout the year. the translation of the breviary, by mr. caswell, is adopted without change, and forms the first part of the present work, while the second part consists of hymns and anthems from various sources, especially from the contributions of rev. f. w. faber, matthew brydges, esq., and rev. william young. the third part is devoted to sacred poetry of a less strictly devotional cast. in addition to a few pieces from modern poets, it contains a selection from the compositions of catholic writers belonging to an earlier age of english literature, including "the simple and earnest strains of southwell, a poet, priest, and martyr, whose unshaken soul passed away in song from the fires of persecution; crashaw, whose tender fancy and graceful zeal have extorted the highest praises of unfriendly judges; the manly virtue of habington, pure in an age of license; the later compositions of dryden, the atonements laid by his repentant muse on the altar of religion." _the soldier of the cross_, by the rev. john leyburn, d.d. (published by carter and brothers), is a popular and attractive exposition of ephesians vi. - , consisting of a series of discourses delivered from the pulpit, but recast into the form of plain and practical essays, written with considerable force. the talents of the author and the taste of the publishers have made an addition to our religious literature, of which the public estimation is indicated by the early call for a second edition. _the irish confederates, and the rebellion of _, by henry m. field (published by harper and brothers), is a lively historical sketch of the movements of the irish patriots in behalf of the freedom of their nation toward the close of the last century. the volume opens with a rapid survey of irish history, traces the love of liberty among the people, describes the causes of their national characteristics, and minutely portrays the events of the fruitless struggle, which terminated in the complete subjection of their beautiful island to the british crown. among the biographical sketches, those of curran, tone, lord edward fitzgerald, the emmets, mcnevin, and sampson of course occupy a prominent place, and are drawn with an affectionate sympathy, which delights to linger around every memorial of their noble and chivalrous characters. mr. field has enjoyed peculiar facilities for the composition of this volume. a visit to ireland some four years since awakened a strong interest in the fortunes of her people. at a subsequent period, he formed an intimate acquaintance with several of the families of the irish exiles in new york, and from the narratives thus obtained, was furnished with some of the most valuable materials for his story. nor has he neglected the study of the different historians of the time. his work, accordingly, combines the vivacity of a personal narrative, with the accuracy of thorough research. it is deeply imbued with a love of ireland, with a sense of indignation at the outrages which she has endured, and with admiration of the valor and devotion of her gallant sons; though in no case, do the evident partialities of the writer appear to have interfered with his strict historical fidelity, or to have tempted him to an uncritical use of the facts at his command. his style is simple and unaffected, warmed with a persuasive earnestness, and animated with a chaste enthusiasm, but owing none of its interest to the allurements of rhetoric. indeed, a more elaborate construction would often have been in better keeping with the dignity of the subject, while the almost exclusive use of short sentences at length overcomes the reader with a painful feeling of monotony. there are also occasional instances of careless and unauthorized expression, which, in a writer of such real ability and cultivation as mr. field, excite the surprise of the fastidious reader. harper and brothers have issued an edition of the _history of greece_, by dr. leonhard schmitz, which forms an appropriate companion to the _history of rome_, published by the accomplished author four years since. the purpose of dr. schmitz in each of these histories is to give, in a popular form, the result of the researches by modern scholars which have placed the subject in a new light. in the composition of this volume, the author has availed himself of the erudite labors of bishop thirlwall, abridging his great work in some portions, and interweaving his masterly views into the texture of his narrative, where a free style was more suitable to the subject. as a manual for young students in grecian history, and a work for general and family reading, this volume is not surpassed by any production of the present day. the experience of the author as a practical educator, his admirable classical attainments, and the caution and soundness of his historical judgments, give him peculiar qualifications for the task he has undertaken. his style is simple and condensed; his illustrations are singularly apposite; and his grouping of topics is picturesque and forcible. for popular use, we have no doubt, that both the grecian and roman histories of dr. schmitz will speedily take the precedence of all others in this country, as they have done, to a very considerable degree, in great britain. the popular series of _franconia stories_, by jacob abbott (published by harper and brothers), is completed by the publication of _mary bell_ and _beechnut_. the excellent author has placed the whole juvenile community under new obligations by the issue of these delightful stories. he is so perfectly at home in every phase of country life, and so ingenious in working up its daily occurrences into a charming narrative, that he can never fail of a listening audience. few american authors have the power of so impressing themselves on the memory and the heart of their readers. the present series will doubtless add to his beautiful influence and to his fame. the third number of _london labor and the london poor_, by henry mayhew, is issued by harper and brothers, and will be found to increase the interest with which that remarkable series has been received by the public. his pictures of the condition of the laboring classes in london have a minuteness and vividness of detail which would not disgrace a dutch painting. _the roman republic of_ , by theodore dwight (published by r. van dien), is a brief historical view of the recent revolutionary movements in italy, with biographical sketches of mazzini, garibaldi, avezzana, filopanti, foresti, and other leading italian republicans. ticknor, reed, and fields have issued the fourth volume of their beautiful edition of the _collective writings_ of thomas de quincy, containing _the cæsars_, a work characterized by the subtilty of reflection, curious learning, and original felicities of expression, for which the author is pre-eminent. _life on the plains of the pacific_, by rev. gustavus hine (published by geo. h. derby and co., buffalo), is the title of a work devoted to the history, condition, and prospects of oregon, with a description of its geography, climate, and productions, and of personal adventures among the indians. it contains a detailed history of the oregon mission, drawn from the most authentic sources, including the notes and journals of the first missionaries on that station. the journal of the author, commencing with the departure of the missionaries from new york in , presents an interesting narrative of the largest expedition of this kind that ever sailed from an american port, and is enriched with a great variety of facts and incidents that occurred in the wide field of observation that forms the subject of the volume. without pretending to the graces of literary composition, the writer has produced a work of sterling value. his authority will no doubt be appealed to with confidence on all matters pertaining to the important scene of his labors. _hints to sportsmen_, by e. j. lewis (published by blanchard and lea, philadelphia), is a regular-built treatise on all the mysteries of the sporting craft. the author writes like an experienced shot. his book is not only a valuable manual for the sportsman, but a tempting volume for the lovers of spirited description. _curran and his contemporaries_, by charles phillips (published by harper and brothers), is a reproduction of the celebrated work of counselor phillips, having been subjected by the author to a thorough revision and amendment. it describes the interesting period of irish history during which curran was the leading member of the bar, with great vivacity and force. touching lightly on the politics of the times, it presents a series of personal delineations, which are drawn to the life by the enthusiastic and genial author. the freshness of his recollections affords an abundance of piquant anecdote, which, with his warm sympathies with the irish character, gives a perpetual liveliness and glow to the narrative, redeeming it from every approach to dullness, and sustaining the interest of the reader to the close of the volume. _louisiana: its colonial history and romance,_ by charles gayarre (published by harper and brothers), is a republication of the lectures of the author on "the poetry, or the romance of the history of louisiana," with the addition of seven new lectures, bringing the subject down to the departure of bienville, the founder of the colony, in . among the interesting topics discussed in the second series of lectures, are the formation of the mississippi company, the history of law's financial career, the foundation of new orleans, the manners and customs of the natchez tribe, the wars between the indians and the colonists, and others, which bring the romantic incidents connected with the colonization of louisiana into prominent view. the period was fertile in singular adventures, presenting abundant materials for the poet or novelist. mr. gayarre has made a felicitous selection of topics, which, under the brilliant coloring of a lively imagination, are presented in a picturesque and attractive form. the substance of his work is founded on the conclusions of exact historical research, while the drapery in which its scenes and characters are arrayed form a graceful accompaniment to the severity of truth. with a perpetual vivacity of style, and a profusion of glowing imagery, mr. gayarre never becomes tedious or insipid. his volume is always delightful as a poem, if it is not complete as a record, and will hold a high place among the popular contributions to the "romance of history." e. c. and j. biddle have published _an elementary treatise on statics_, by gaspard monge, translated by woods baker, a work which has obtained a distinguished reputation in the scientific literature of france, by its clear and correct style, its rigorous demonstrations, and its well-connected propositions. it is adapted to fill a place, for which no adequate provision has been made by the usual treatises on the subject in the english language. most of these are voluminous, and suited only to the more advanced classes of students, or else composed chiefly of practical and descriptive details. the present volume treats the subject in the synthetic method, and can be understood without difficulty by those who are familiar with euclid's elements. _warreniana._--ticknor, reed, and fields have issued a reprint of this celebrated _jeu d'esprit,_ which still retains its popularity, together with the _rejected addresses,_ to which it forms an appropriate companion. the peculiarities of wordsworth, coleridge, southey, christopher north, washington irving, scott, moore, brougham, wilberforce, and other names of sufficient eminence to provoke a quiz, are hit off with capital success. the most astringent features are always relaxed in the perusal of these amusing pages. j. s. redfield has issued an edition of jung stilling's _theory of pneumatology_, and of cahagnet's _celestial telegraph_, which are filled with the latest information on the whole subject of ghosts, presentiments, visions, and the world of spirits, obtained professedly from the most authentic sources. stilling's work is introduced with a preface by rev. dr. bush, highly commending its purposes and character. the "celestial telegraph" beats jackson davis and the rochester knockings all hollow. whoever is curious in the literature of the supernatural will find enough here to satisfy the most craving love of the marvelous. ticknor, reed, and fields have published a volume of _poems_, by henry t. tuckerman, distinguished for the sweet and graceful fancies, the fluent aptness of expression, the joyous sympathy with nature, and the refined delicacy of taste by which most of the writings of the author are characterized. the vein of tranquil reflection which pervades them, and the chastened utterance of feeling which vails rather than embodies strong emotion, though not among the elements of popular poetry, will recommend them to the congenial reader. j. w. moore, philadelphia, has published a useful little volume for students in design, entitled _the theory of effect_, by an artist. it is intended not only for the use of beginners, but of those who have attained a proficiency in the art, while they are unacquainted with the principles on which the correctness of their pictures depends. the rules of effect are laid down with great precision and minuteness, and illustrated with several neat engravings by hinckley. _the volcano diggings_ is the title of a lively story, by a member of the bar, illustrating the administration of the law in california. several scenes, which are evidently taken from the life, are described with a good deal of spirit, and throw a strong, but not altogether flattering light on the condition of society at the placers. (published by j. s. redfield). george p. putnam has issued _the wing-and-wing_, forming another volume of the collected works of j. fenimore cooper. in the preface to this edition, the author remarks, that "he acknowledges a strong paternal feeling in behalf of this book, placing it very high in the estimate of its merits, as compared with other books from the same pen; a species of commendation that need wound no man." the same publisher has issued a new and revised edition of _the conquest of florida_, by theodore irving. the author expresses his gratification in finding his account of de soto's expedition confirmed by the most recent investigations. his work is justly entitled to the reputation which it has obtained, as a classic authority, on an interesting period of american history. phillips, sampson, and co. have published a valuable collection of financial essays, entitled _the banker's commonplace book_, containing mr. a. b. johnson's pithy treatise on the principles of banking and the duties of a banker, gilbart's ten minutes' advice on keeping a bank, with several articles on bills of exchange, and a summary of the banking laws of massachusetts. it will prove a useful manual on the subject to which it is devoted. two leaves from punch. [illustration: encouragement to book-lenders. "if you please, sir, master's sent back the first volume, and he says will you be so good as to let him 'ave the second?"] diplomacy and gastronomy. it is a very generally received opinion that _gammon_ is the basis of diplomacy; but the fact is, that it is impossible to conduct international negotiations on the foundation of that humble and economical fare, even when rendered more palatable by the addition of spinach. mr. rives, it is said, has written a letter to mr. webster, complaining that the american embassadorship can not be done at paris under £ a year, and adds that "_according to_ mr. pakenham, _good dinners are half the battle of diplomacy, and the most favorable treaties are gained by liberal feeding._" this aphorism suggests important reflections. a main point to be attended to in the formation of a diplomatic corps is the commissariat; and the force must be well armed with knives and forks, in addition to being supplied with plate armor. the trenches in diplomatic warfare must be manned by regular trenchermen. rivals in diplomacy must be cut out by actual carving; and in order to dish them, recourse must be had to real dishes. if one diplomatist wishes to turn the tables on another, it is requisite that he and his suite should keep the better tables. the politeness of diplomatic intercourse should be qualified, in some measure, with sauce, and its gravity tempered with gravy. treating, in diplomacy, is best managed by giving "a spread." bold diplomatists are those "who greatly daring, dine." the most liberal foreign policy is that of giving grand banquets. a plenipotentiary should have unlimited powers of cramming. an embassador has been defined to be, "a man sent abroad to lie for the sake of the commonwealth;" but the definition must be enlarged to express the fact, that he is also a person deputed to a foreign country to eat and drink for the interest of his native land. the most important diplomatic functions are those of digestion. [illustration: supper at a juvenile party. _alfred._ "i say, frank, arn't you going to have some supper?" _frank._ "a--not at present. i shall wait till the women leave the room."] [illustration: one of the juveniles after the party. _doctor._ "ahem! well! and what's the matter with my young friend, adolphus?" _mother._ "why, doctor, he was at a juvenile party last night, and i'm afraid he's eaten something that does'n't agree with him, poor dear!"] conversation-books for . it is said that publishers are getting up a series of conversation-books for the use of foreigners, visiting the great exhibition. but the spoken and written language of london are so different that it is feared these books will be of little use. mr. punch furnishes the following corrections of the two most important chapters, by the diligent study of which it is hoped that visitors may be enabled to ride and dine. to converse with a cabman. _what the book said._ _what the man said._ do you wish, sir, to ride in c'b? (_from every driver on my cabriolet? the rank, and as many fingers held up as there are cabmen._) where do you wish, sir, that vere to? (_and a look._) i should drive you? i wish to go to the exposition. thank you, sir. i will drive vere? (_not understanding you thither without delay. the foreigner's english._) what is your fare? i have driven you two miles. two bob and a tanner. my legal fare for driving you that distance is one shilling and four-pence. as you have driven fast, there is one shilling and sixpence. thank you, sir, i am very much obliged vot's this? (_and a look of to you. contemptuous curiosity at the coin presented._) i shall be happy to drive you in future. vel, if hever i drives a scaly furrinrr again, i'm blessed! good morning to you, sir. ollo! you ain't a-goin' hoff in this 'ere way. you have paid me handsomely. oh--you calls yourself a gentleman! to converse with a waiter. waiter, what have you for dinner? you can have what you choose to order, sir. din'r, sir!--yezzir! here is the bill of fare, sir. s'p, f'sh, ch'ps, st'ks, cutl't, sir! r'nd o' b'f, sir!--nice cut, sir!--sad'l mt'n, sir!--yezzir! --john, att'nd to the gnl'm.--yezzir!--jem, mon'y--com'n, sir!--'ere, sir!--yezzir! waiter, how much have i to pay? here, sir, is your bill. money! (_calling._) permit me to ask you what you now, sir? (_and an have had to eat, sir? interrogative look._) st'k, sir? yezzir! shill'n, sir! 'taters, sir? i have had a beef-steak, with boiled yezzir! twop'nce, that's one-and-three, and potatoes; i have also had a fried sole, bread a penny, one-and-three and some bread, and two is one-and-five, with cheshire cheese, and sole, you said, sir? yezzir! and a pint of porter. that's one shilling: one-and-eight and five, thirteen, sir, the price of all that is two that's two-and-six; and cheese? shillings. yezzir! two-and-eight and four, that's three shill'n; and porter is four; three, four, eight, ten, fifteen--four-and-two. thank you, sir! waiter, sir? thank you, sir. good afternoon, sir. to find room in a crowded omnibus. _conductor._--would any gentleman mind going outside, to oblige a lady? _unfortunate gentleman (tightly wedged in at the back_).--i should be very happy, but i only came, yesterday, out of the fever hospital. [_omnibus clears in a minute!_ a file to smooth asperities. the _sheffield times_ describes an extraordinary file, which is to be sent from sheffield to the great exhibition. this remarkable file is adorned with designs as numerous as those on the original shield of achilles, all cut and beaten out with hammer and chisel. how much more sensible and friendly to show distinguished foreigners files of this sort, than to exhibit to them files of soldiers! the lowest depth of meanness. a farce, founded on fact. mr. _and_ mrs. skinflint _are discovered in a parlor in a fashionable square. the wife is busy sewing. the husband is occupied running his eye, well drilled in all matters of domestic economy, over the housekeeping account of the previous week._ _mr. skinflint._--you've been very extravagant in my absence, my dear. _mrs. skinflint._--it's the same story every week, john. _mr. skinflint._--but, nonsense, madam, i tell you, you have. for instance, you had a crab for supper last night. _mrs. skinflint (startled)._--how do you know that? it's not down in the book. _mr. skinflint (triumphantly)._--no--but i found the shell in the dust-bin!!!! [illustration: a little bit of humbug. _shoemaker._ "i think, mum, we had better make you a pair. you see, mum, yours is such a remarkable long and narrer foot!"] fashions for may. [illustration: fig. i.--promenade costumes.] this is the season when fashion is more perplexed than at any other, in her endeavors to give humanity a _seasonable_ garb. boreas and zephyrus often bear rule on the same day, one reigning with mildness in the morning, the other despotically at evening. those votaries of fashion are the wiser, who pay court to the former; for, generally, it is almost june, in our northern states, before we may be certain that the chilling breath of early spring will be no more felt. this being the season for rides and promenades, our illustrations for this month are devoted chiefly to the representation of appropriate costume for those healthful exercises in the open air. the large figure in our first plate, represents an elegant style of promenade dress. _pardessus_ are much worn at this season, made in a lighter manner than those used earlier. velvet _pardessus_ with silk or satin linings, but not padded, are used. our illustration represents one of black velvet, trimmed with several narrow rows of satin of the same color. the dress is amber-colored figured silk, with a very full plain skirt. _capotes_ or bonnets of satin are also worn. an elegant style is made of violet velvet and satin, ornamented with heart's-ease almost hidden within _coques_ of satin and velvet, which are arranged in a tasteful manner upon the exterior of the _capote_, the interior being decorated with heart's-ease to match, which may or may not be intermixed with lace or _tulle_, according to the taste of the wearer. costumes for young misses are also represented in our first illustration. the larger one has a dress of a pale chocolate cachmere, trimmed with narrow silk fringe; the double robings on each side of the front as well as the cape, on the half-high corsage, ornamented with a double row of narrow silk fringe. this trimming is also repeated round the lower part of the loose sleeve. chemisette of plaited cambric, headed with a broad frill of embroidery; full under-sleeves of cambric, with a row of embroidery round the wrist. open bonnet of pink satin, a row of white lace encircling the interior next the face. boots of pale violet cachmere and morocco. trowsers of worked cambric. the smaller figure has a frock of plaided cachmere. _paletot_ of purple velvet, or dark cachmere; a round hat of white satin, the low crown adorned with a long white ostrich feather. trowsers and under-sleeves of white embroidered cambric. button gaiter boots of chocolate cachmere. [illustration: fig. .--evening costume.] figure represents a most elegant costume for an evening party, or a ball. it is composed of a beautifully embroidered white satin dress, the skirt looped up on the right side, and decorated with a bunch of the pink honey-plant, heading three pink and white _marabout_ tips, from which depend three ends of deep silk fringe, pink and white. low pointed corsage, the top of which is encircled with a small embroidered pointed cape, edged as well as the short sleeves with a deep pink and white fringe, and confined upon the centre with a cluster of feathers and flowers, decorated in the centre with a butterfly composed of precious stones. the hair is simply arranged with a narrow wreath of pink and white velvet leaves, finished on the right side with two small _marabout_ feathers, and two ends of fringe drooping low. [illustration: fig. .--morning promenade costume.] figure is a morning promenade costume. a high dress of black satin, the body fitting perfectly tight; a small jacket cut on the bias, with two rows of black velvet laid on a little distance from the edge. the sleeves are rather large, and have abroad cuff turned back, which is trimmed to correspond with the jacket. the skirt is long and full; the dress ornamented up the front in its whole length by rich fancy silk trimmings, graduating in size from the bottom of the skirt to the waist, and again increasing to the throat. bonnet of plum-colored satin; a bunch of heart's-ease, intermixed with ribbon, placed low on the left side; the same flowers, but somewhat smaller, ornament the interior. [illustration: fig. and .--head-dresses.] figures and represent different styles of head-dresses for balls or evening parties. figure is a combination of flowers and splendid ribbons, with a fall on each side, of the richest lace. figure is very brilliant. it is a wreath of ceres form, composed of small flowers in rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, perfectly resembling natural flowers, with ears of wheat freely intermingled. at this season the head-dresses are chiefly of the floral description. feathers and flowers intermixed, form a very beautiful _coiffure_. harper's new monthly magazine. no. ii.--july, .--vol. i. [from the london eclectic review.] thomas de quincey. when "gilfillan's gallery" first appeared, a copy of it was sent to an eminent lay-divine, the first sentence of whose reply was, "you have sent me a _list of shipwrecks_." it was but too true, for that "gallery" contains the name of a godwin, shipwrecked on a false system, and a shelley, shipwrecked on an extravagant version of that false system--and a hazlitt, shipwrecked on no system at all--and a hall, driven upon the rugged reef of madness--and a foster, cast high and dry upon the dark shore of misanthropy--and an edward irving, inflated into sublime idiocy by the breath of popular favor, and in the subsidence of that breath, left to roll at the mercy of the waves, a mere log--and lastly, a coleridge and a de quincy, stranded on the same poppy-covered coast, the land of the "lotos-eaters," where it is never morning, nor midnight, nor full day, but always afternoon. wrecks all these are, but all splendid and instructive withal. and we propose now--repairing to the shore, where the last great argosy, thomas de quincey, lies half bedded in mud--to pick up whatever of noble and rare, of pure and permanent, we can find floating around. we would speak of de quincey's history, of his faults, of his genius, of his works, and of his future place in the history of literature. and when we reflect on what a _mare magnum_ we are about to show to many of our readers, we feel for the moment as if it were new to us also, as if _we_ stood-- "like stout cortea, when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific, ----and all his men gathered round him with a wild surmise, silent, upon a peak of darien." we can not construct a regular biography of this remarkable man; neither the time for this has come, nor have the materials been, as yet, placed within reach of us, or of any one else. but we may sketch the outlines of what we know, which is indeed but little. thomas de quincey is the son of a liverpool merchant. he is one of several children, the premature loss of one of whom he has, in his "suspiria de profundis" (published in "blackwood") most plaintively and eloquently deplored. his father seems to have died early. guardians were appointed over him, with whom he contrived to quarrel, and from whose wing (while studying at oxford) he fled to london. there he underwent a series of surprising adventures and severe sufferings, which he has recounted in the first part of his "opium confessions." on one occasion, while on the point of death by starvation, his life was saved by the intervention of a poor street-stroller, of whom he afterward lost sight, but whom, in the strong gratitude of his heart, he would pursue into the central darkness of a london brothel, or into the deeper darkness of the grave. part of the same dark period of his life was spent in wales, where he subsisted now on the hospitality of the country people, and now, poor fellow, on hips and haws. he was at last found out by some of his friends, and remanded to oxford. there he formed a friendship with christopher north, which has continued unimpaired to this hour. both--besides the band of kindred genius--had that of profound admiration, then a rare feeling, for the poetry of wordsworth. in the course of this part of his life he visited ireland, and was introduced soon afterward to opium--fatal friend, treacherous ally--root of that tree called wormwood, which has overshadowed all his after life. a blank here occurs in his history. we find him next in a small white cottage in cumberland--married--studying kant, drinking laudanum, and dreaming the most wild and wondrous dreams which ever crossed the brain of mortal. these dreams he recorded in the "london magazine," then a powerful periodical, conducted by john scott, and supported by such men as hazlitt, reynolds, and allan cunningham. the "confessions," when published separately, ran like wildfire, although from their anonymous form they added nothing at the time to the author's fame. not long after their publication, mr. de quincey came down to scotland, where he has continued to reside, wandering from place to place, contributing to periodicals of all sorts and sizes--to "blackwood," "tait," "north british review," "hogg's weekly instructor," as well as writing for the "encyclopædia britannica," and publishing one or two independent works, such as "klosterheim," a tale, and the "logic of political economy." his wife has been long dead. three of his daughters, amiable and excellent persons, live in the sweet village of lasswade, in the neighborhood of edinburgh; and there he is, we believe, at present himself. from his very imperfect sketch of de quincey's history, there rush into our minds some rather painful reflections. it is painful to see a "giant mind broken by sorrows unspoken, and woes." it is painful to see a glorious being transfigured into a rolling thing before the whirlwind. it is painful to be compelled to inscribe upon such a shield the word "desdichado." it is painful to remember how much misery must have passed through that heart, and how many sweat drops of agony must have stood, in desolate state, upon that brow. and it is most painful of all to feel that guilt, as well as misery, has been here, and that the sowing of the wind preceded the reaping of the whirlwind. such reflections were mere sentimentalism, unless attended by such corollaries as these: st. self-control ought to be more than at present a part of education, sedulously and sternly taught, for is it not the geometry of life? dly. society should feel more that she is responsible for the wayward children of genius, and ought to seek more than she does to soothe their sorrows, to relieve their wants, to reclaim their wanderings, and to search, as with lighted candles, into the causes of their incommunicable misery. had the public, twenty years ago, feeling mr. de quincey to be one of the master spirits of the age, and, therefore, potentially, one of its greatest benefactors, inquired deliberately into his case, sought him out, put him beyond the reach of want, encouraged thus his heart, and strengthened his hand, rescued him from the mean miseries into which he was plunged, smiled approvingly upon the struggles he was making to conquer an evil habit--in one word, _recognized_ him, what a different man had he been now, and over what magnificent wholes had we been rejoicing, in the shape of his works, instead of deploring powers and acquirements thrown away, in rearing towers of babel, tantalizing in proportion to the magnitude of their design, and the beauty of their execution. neglected and left alone as a corpse in the shroud of his own genius, a fugitive, though not a vagabond, compelled day after day to fight absolute starvation at the point of his pen, the marvel is, that he has written so much which the world may not willingly let die. _but_, it is the world's fault that the writings it now recognizes, and may henceforth preserve on a high shelf, are rather the sublime ravings of de quincey drunk, than the calm, profound cogitations of de quincey sober. the theory of capital punishments is much more subtle and widely ramified than we might at first suppose. on what else are many of our summary critical and moral judgments founded? men find a man guilty of a crime--they vote him for that one act a purely pernicious member of society, and they turn him off. so a byron quarrels with his wife--a coleridge loses his balance, and begins to reel and totter like etna in an earthquake--a burns, made an exciseman, gradually descends toward the low level of his trade--or a de quincey takes to living on laudanum, and the public, instead of seeking to reform and re-edify each brilliant begun ruin, shouts out, "raze, raze it to its foundation." because the sun is eclipsed, they would howl him away! because one blot has lighted on an imperishable page, they would burn it up! let us hope, that as our age is fast becoming ashamed of those infernal sacrifices called executions, so it shall also soon forbear to make its most gifted sons pass through the fire to moloch, till it has tested their _thorough_ and _ineradicable_ vileness. mr. de quincey's faults we have spoken of in the plural--we ought, perhaps, rather to have used the singular number. in the one word excitement, assuming the special form of opium--the "insane root"--lies the _gravamen_ of his guilt, as, also, of coleridge's. now, we are far from wishing to underrate the evil of this craving. but we ought to estimate mr. de quincey's criminality with precision and justice; and, while granting that he used opium to excess--an excess seldom paralleled--we must take his own explanation of the circumstances which led him to begin its use, and of the effects it produced on him. he did not begin it to multiply or intensify his pleasures, still less to lash himself with its fiery thongs into a counterfeit inspiration, but to alleviate bodily pain. it became, gradually and reluctantly, a necessity of his life. like the serpents around laocoon, it confirmed its grasp, notwithstanding the wild tossings of his arms, the spasmodic resistance of every muscle, the loud shouts of protesting agony; and, when conquered, he lay like the overpowered hatteraick in the cave, sullen, still in despair, breathing hard, but perfectly powerless. its effects on him, too, were of a peculiar kind. they were not brutifying or blackguardizing. he was never intoxicated with the drug in his life; nay, he denies its power to intoxicate. nor did it at all weaken his intellectual faculties any more than it strengthened them. we have heard poor creatures consoling themselves for their inferiority by saying, "coleridge would not have written so well but for opium." "no thanks to de quincey for his subtlety--he owes it to opium." let such persons swallow the drug, and try to write the "suspiria," or the "aids to reflection." coleridge and de quincey were great in spite of their habits. nay, we believe that on truly great intellects stimulus produces little inspiration at all. can opium think? can beer imagine? it is de quincey in opium--not opium in de quincey--that ponders and that writes. the stimulus is only the _occasional cause_ which brings the internal power into play; it may sometimes dwarf the giant, but it can never really elevate the dwarf. the evil influences of opium on de quincey were of a different, but a very pernicious sort: they weakened his will; they made him a colossal slave to a tiny tyrant; they shut him up (like the genii in the "arabian tales") in a phial filled with dusky fire; they spread a torpor over the energies of his body; they closed up or poisoned the natural sources of enjoyment; the air, the light, the sunshine, the breeze, the influences of spring, lost all charm and power over him. instead of these, snow was welcomed with an unnatural joy; storm embraced as a brother; and the stern scenery of night arose like a desolate temple round his ruined spirit. if his heart was not utterly hardened, it was owing to its peculiar breadth and warmth. at last his studies were interrupted, his peace broken, his health impaired, and then came the noon of his night; a form of gigantic gloom, swaying an "ebon sceptre," stood over him in triumph, and it seemed as if nothing less than a miraculous intervention could rescue the victim from his power. but the victim was not an ordinary one. feeling that hell had come, and that death was at hand, he determined, by a mighty effort, to arise from his degradation. for a season his struggles were great and impotent, as those of the giants cast down by jove under etna. the mountain shook, the burden tottered, but the light did not at first appear. nor has he ever, we suspect, completely emancipated himself from his bondage; but he has struggled manfully against it, and has cast off such a large portion of the burden that it were injustice not to say of him that he is now free. it were ungracious to have dwelt, even so long, upon the errors of de quincey, were it not that, first, his own frankness of disclosures frees us from all delicacy; and that, secondly, the errors of such a man, like the cloud of the pillar, have two sides--his darkness may become our light--his sin our salvation. it may somewhat counteract that craving cry for excitement, that everlasting give, give, so much the mistake of the age, to point strongly to this conspicuous and transcendent victim, and say to his admirers, "go ye and do _otherwise_." we pass gladly to the subject of his genius. that is certainly one of the most singular in its power, variety, culture, and eccentricity, our age has witnessed. his intellect is at once solid and subtle, reminding you of veined and figured marble, so beautiful and evasive in aspect, that you must touch ere you are certain of its firmness. the motion of his mind is like that of dancing, but it is the dance of an elephant, or of a polyphemus, with his heavy steps, thundering down the music to which he moves. hence his humor often seems forced in motion, while always fine in spirit. the contrast between the slow march of his sentences, the frequent gravity of his spirit, the recondite masses of his lore, the logical severity of his diction, and his determination, at times, to be desperately witty, produces a ludicrous effect, but somewhat different from what he had intended. it is "laughter" lame, and only able to hold one of his sides, so that you laugh at, as well as with him. but few, we think, would have been hypercritical in judging of columbus' first attitudes as he stepped down upon his new world. and thus, let a great intellectual explorer be permitted to occupy his own region, in whatever way, and with whatever ceremonies, may seem best to himself. should he even, like cæsar, stumble upon the shore, no matter if he stumble _forward_, and by accepting, make the omen change its nature and meaning. genius and logical perception are de quincey's principal powers. there are some writers whose power, like the locusts in the revelation, is "in their tails"--they have stings, and there lies their scorpion power. de quincey's vigor is evenly and equally diffused through his whole being. it is not a partial palpitation, but a deep, steady glow. his insight hangs over us and the world like a nebulous star, seeing us, but, in part, remaining unseen. in fact, his deepest thoughts have never been disclosed. like burke, he has not "hung his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at." he has profound _reticence_ as well as power, and he has modesty as well as reticence. on subjects with which he is acquainted, such as logic, literature, or political economy, no man can speak with more positive and perfect assurance. but on all topics where the conscience--the inner most moral nature--must be the umpire, "the english opium eater" is silent. his "silence" indeed, "answers very loud," his dumbness has a tongue, but it requires a "fine ear" to hear its accents; and to interpret them what but his own exquisitely subtle and musical style, like written sculpture, could suffice? indeed, de quincey's style is one of the most wondrous of his gifts. as professor wilson once said to us about him, "the _best_ word always comes up." it comes up easily, as a bubble on the wave; and is yet fixed, solid, and permanent as marble. it is at once warm as genius, and cool as logic. frost and fire fulfill the paradox of "embracing each other." his faculties never disturb or distract each other's movements--they are inseparable, as substance and shadow. each thought is twin-born with poetry. his sentences are generally very long, and as full of life and of joints as a serpent. it is told of coleridge, that no shorthand-writer could do justice to his lectures; because, although he spoke deliberately, yet it was impossible, from the first part of his sentences, to have the slightest notion how they were to end--each clause was a new surprise, and the close often unexpected as a thunderbolt. in this, as in many other respects. de quincey resembles the "noticeable man with large gray eyes." each of his periods, begin where it may, accomplishes a cometary sweep ere it closes. to use an expression of his own, applied to bishop berkeley, "he passes, with the utmost ease and speed, from tar-water to the trinity, from a mole-heap to the thrones of the godhead." his sentences are microcosms--real, though imperfect wholes. it is as if he dreaded that earth would end, and chaos come again, ere each prodigious period were done. this practice, so far from being ashamed of, he often and elaborately defends--contrasting it with the "short-winded and asthmatic" style of writing which abounds in modern times, and particularly among french authors. we humbly think that the truth on this question lies in the middle. if an author is anxious for fullness, let him use long sentences; if he aims at clearness, let them be short. if he is beating about for truth, his sentences will be long; if he deems he has found, and wishes to communicate it to others, they will be short. in long sentences you see processes; in short, results. eloquence delights in long sentences, wit in short. long sentences impress more at the time; short sentences, if nervous, cling more to the memory. from long sentences you must, in general, deduct a considerable quantum of verbiage; short have often a meagre and skeleton air. the reading of long sentences is more painful at first, less so afterward; a volume composed entirely of short sentences becomes soon as wearisome as a jest-book. the mind which employs long sentences has often a broad, but dim vision--that which delights in short, sees a great number of small points clearly, but seldom a rounded whole. de quincey is a good specimen of the first class. the late dr. hamilton, of leeds, was the most egregious instance of the second. with all his learning, and talent, and fancy, the writings of that distinguished divine are rendered exceedingly tedious by the broken and gasping character of their style--reading which has been compared to walking on stepping-stones instead of a firm road. every thing is so clear, sharp, and short, that you get irritated and provoked, and cry out for an intricate or lengthy sentence, both as a trial to your wind, and as a relief to your weariness. the best style of writing, in point of effect, is that which combines both forms of sentence in proper proportions. just as a well-armed warrior of old, while he held the broadsword in his right hand, had the dagger of mercy suspended by his side, the effective writer, who can at one time wave the flaming brand of eloquence, can at another use the pointed poignard of direct statement, of close logic, or of keen and caustic wit. thus did burke, hall, horsley, and chalmers. akin to de quincey's length of sentence, is his ungovernable habit of digression. you can as soon calculate on the motions of a stream of the aurora, as on those of his mind. from the title of any one of his papers, you can never infer whether he is to treat the subject announced, or a hundred others--whether the subjects he is to treat are to be cognate, or contradictory, to the projected theme--whether, should he begin the subject, he shall ever finish it--or into how many foot-notes he is to draw away, as if into subterranean pipes, its pith and substance. at every possible angle of his road he contrives to break off, and hence he has never yet reached the end of a day's journey. unlike christian in the "pilgrim," _he_ welcomes every temptation to go astray--and, not content with shaking hands with old worldly wiseman, he must, before climbing mount difficulty, explore both the way of danger and that of destruction. it may be inquired, if this arise from the fertility or from the frailty of his genius--from his knowledge of, and dominion over every province of thought, or from his natural or acquired inability to resist "right-hand or left-hand defections," provided they promise to interest himself and to amuse his readers. judging from coleridge's similar practice, we are forced to conclude that it is in de quincey too--a weakness fostered, if not produced, by long habits of self-indulgence. and yet, notwithstanding such defects (and we might have added to them his use of logical formulæ at times when they appear simply ridiculous, his unnecessary scholasticism, and display of learning, the undue self-complacence with which he parades his peculiar views, and explodes his adversary's, however reputed and venerable, and a certain air of exaggeration which swathes all his written speech), what splendid powers this strange being, at all times and on all subjects, exerts! with what razor-like sharpness does he cut the most difficult distinctions! what learning is his--here compelling wonder, from its variety and minute accuracy; and there, from the philosophical grasp with which he holds it, in compressed masses! and, above all, what grand, sombre, miltonic gleams his imagination casts around him on his way; and in what deep swells of organ-like music do his thoughts often, harmoniously and irrepressibly, move! the three prose-writers of this century, who, as it appears to us, approach most nearly to the giants of the era of charles i., in spirit of genius and munificence of language, are, edward irving, in his preface to "ben ezra," thomas aird, in parts of his "religious characteristics," and thomas de quincey, in his "confessions," and his "suspiria de profundis." in coming down from an author to his works we have often a feeling of humiliation and disappointment. it is like comparing the great ben nevis with the streamlets which flow from his base, and asking, "is this all the mighty mountain can give the world?" so, "what has de quincey done?" is a question we are now sure to hear, and feel rather afraid to answer. in a late number of that very excellent periodical, "hogg's instructor," mr. de quincey, as if anticipating some such objection, argues (referring to professor wilson), that it is ridiculous to expect a writer now to write a large separate work, as some had demanded from the professor. he is here, however, guilty of a fallacy, which we wonder he allowed to escape from his pen: there is a difference between a large and a great work. no one wishes either de quincey or john wilson to write a folio; what we wish from each of them is, an _artistic_ whole, large or comparatively small, fully reflecting the image of his mind, and bearing the relation to his other works which the "paradise lost" does to milton's "lycidas," "arcades," and "hymn on the nativity." and this, precisely, is what neither of those illustrious men has as yet effected. de quincey's works, if collected, would certainly possess sufficient bulk; they lie scattered, in prodigal profusion, through the thousand and one volumes of our periodical literature; and we are certain, that a selection of their better portions would fill ten admirable octavos. mr. de quincey himself was lately urged to collect them. his reply was, "sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever impossible. not the archangel gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary, durst attempt any such thing!" we suspect, at least, that death must seal the lips of the "old man eloquent," ere such a selection shall be made. and yet, in those unsounded abysses, what treasures might be found--of criticism, of logic, of wit, of metaphysical acumen, of research, of burning eloquence, and essential poetry! we should meet there with admirable specimens of translation from jean paul richter and lessing; with a criticism on the former, quite equal to that more famous one of carlyle's; with historical chapters, such as those in "blackwood" on the cæsars, worthy of gibbon; with searching criticisms, such as one on the knocking in macbeth, and two series on landor and schlosser; with the elephantine humor of his lectures on "murder, considered as one of the fine arts;" and with the deep theological insight of his papers on christianity, considered as a means of social progress, and on the essenes. in fact, de quincey's knowledge of theology is equal to that of two bishops--in metaphysics, he could puzzle any german professor--in astronomy, he has outshone professor nichol--in chemistry, he can outdive samuel brown--and in greek, excite to jealousy the shades of porson and parr. there is another department in which he stands first, second, and third--we mean, the serious hoax. do our readers remember the german romance of walladmor, passed off at the leipsic fair as one of sir walter scott's, and afterward translated into english? the translation, which was, in fact, a new work, was executed by de quincey, who, finding the original dull, thought proper to re-write it; and thus, to charge trick upon trick. or have they ever read his chapter in "blackwood" for july, , on the "retreat of a tartar tribe?" a chapter certainly containing the most powerful historical painting we ever read, and recording a section of adventurous and romantic story not equaled, he says, "since the retreat of the fallen angels." this chapter, we have good reason for knowing, originated principally in his own inventive brain. add to all this, the fiery eloquence of his "confessions"--the labored speculation of his "political economy"--the curiously-perverted ingenuity of his "klosterheim"--and the solemn, sustained, linked, and lyrical raptures of his "suspiria," and we have answered the question, what has he done? but another question is less easy to answer, what can he, or should he, or shall he yet do? and here we venture to express a long-cherished opinion. pure history, or that species of biography which merges into history, is his forte, and ought to have been his selected province. he never could have written a first-rate fiction or poem, or elaborated a complete or original system of philosophy, although both his imagination and his intellect are of a very high order. but he has every quality of the great historian, except compression; he has learning, insight, the power of reproducing the past, fancy to color, and wit to enliven his writing, and a style which, while it is unwieldy upon small subjects, rises to meet all great occasions, like a senator to salute a king. the only danger is, that if he were writing the history of the crusades or cæsars, for instance, his work would expand to the dimensions of the "universal history." a great history we do not now expect from de quincey; but he might, produce some, as yet, unwritten life, such as the life of dante, or of milton. such a work would at once concentrate his purpose, task his powers, and perpetuate his name. as it is, his place in the future gallery of ages is somewhat uncertain. for all he has hitherto done, or for all the impression he has made upon the world, his course may be marked as that of a brilliant but timid meteor, shooting athwart the midnight, watched but by few eyes, but accompanied by the keenest interest and admiration of those who did watch it. passages of his writings may be preserved in collections; and, among natural curiosities in the museum of man, his memory must assuredly be included as the greatest consumer of laudanum and learning--as possessing the most potent of brains, and the weakest of wills, of almost all men who ever lived. we have other two remarks to offer ere we close. our first is, that, with all his errors, de quincey has never ceased to believe in christianity. in an age when most men of letters have gone over to the skeptical side, and too often treat with insolent scorn, as sciolistic and shallow, those who still cling to the gospel, it is refreshing to find one who stands confessedly at the head of them all, in point of talent and learning, so intimately acquainted with the tenets, so profoundly impressed by the evidences, and so ready to do battle for the cause, of the blessed faith of jesus. from those awful depths of sorrow in which he was long plunged, he never ceased to look up to the countenance and the cross of the saviour; and now, recovered from his evils, and sins, and degradations, we seem to see him sitting, "clothed and in his right mind, at the feet of jesus." would to god that others of his class were to go, and to sit down beside him! we may state, in fine, that efforts are at present being made to procure for mr. de quincey a pension. a memorial on the subject has been presented to lord john russell. we need hardly say, that we cordially wish this effort all success. a pension would be to him a delicate sunset ray--soon, possibly, to shine on his bed of death--but, at all events, sure to minister a joy and a feeling of security, which, during all his long life, he has never for an hour experienced. it were but a proper reward for his eminent abilities, hard toils, and the uniform support which he has given, by his talents, to a healthy literature, and a spiritual faith. we trust, too, that government may be induced to couple with his name, in the same generous bestowal, another--inferior, indeed, in brilliance, but which represents a more consistent and a more useful life. we allude to dr. dick, of broughty ferry, a gentleman who has done more than any living author to popularize science--to accomplish the socratic design of bringing down philosophy to earth--who has never ceased, at the same time, to exhale moral and religious feeling, as a fine incense, from the researches and experiments of science to the eternal throne--and who, for his laborious exertions, of nearly thirty years' duration, has been rewarded by poverty, and neglect, the "proud man's contumely," and, as yet, by the silence of a government which professes to be the patron of literature and the succorer of every species of merit in distress. to quote a newspaper-writer, who is well acquainted with the case: "i know that dr. dick has lived a long and a laborious life, writing books which have done much good to man. i know that he has often had occasion to sell these books to publishers, at prices to which his poverty, and not his will consented. i know, too, that throughout his life he has lived with the moderation and the meekness of a saint, as he has written with the wisdom of a sage; and, knowing these things, i would fain save him from the death of a martyr." [from household words.] the miner's daughters--a tale of the peak. in three chapters. chapter i--the child's tragedy. there is no really beautiful part of this kingdom so little known as the peak of derbyshire. matlock, with its tea-garden trumpery and mock-heroic wonders; buxton, with its bleak hills and fashionable bathers; the truly noble chatsworth and the venerable haddon, engross almost all that the public generally have seen of the peak. it is talked of as a land of mountains, which in reality are only hills; but its true beauty lies in valleys that have been created by the rending of the earth in some primeval convulsion, and which present a thousand charms to the eyes of the lover of nature. how deliciously do the crystal waters of the wye and the dove rush along such valleys, or dales, as they there are called. with what a wild variety do the gray rocks soar up amid their woods and copses. how airily stand in the clear heavens the lofty limestone precipices, and the gray edges of rock gleam cut from the bare green downs--there _never_ called downs. what a genuine saxon air is there cast over the population--what a saxon bluntness salutes you in their speech! it is into the heart of this region that we propose now to carry the reader. let him suppose himself with us now on the road from ashford-in-the-water to tideswell. we are at the bull's head, a little inn on that road. there is nothing to create wonder, or a suspicion of a hidden arcadia in any thing you see, but another step forward, and--there! there sinks a world of valleys at your feet. to your left lies the delicious monsal dale. old finn hill lifts his gray head grandly over it. hobthrush's castle stands bravely forth in the hollow of his side--gray, and desolate, and mysterious. the sweet wye goes winding and sounding at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, green as the emerald, and its dark glossy alders. before us stretches on, equally beautiful, cressbrook dale; little edale shows its cottages from amidst its trees; and as we advance, the mousselin-de-laine mills stretch across the mouth of miller's dale, and startle with the aspect of so much life amid so much solitude. but our way is still onward. we resist the attraction of cressbrook village on its lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into wardlow dale. here we are buried deep in woods, and yet behold still deeper the valley descend below us. there is an alpine feeling upon us. we are carried once more, as in a dream, into the saxon switzerland. above us stretch the boldest ranges of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods are heard the voices of children. these come from a few workmen's houses, couched at the foot of a cliff that rises high and bright amid the sun. that is wardlow cop; and there we mean to halt for a moment. forward lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, and lead-mines, but forward goes no road, except such as you can make yourself through the tangled woods. at the foot of wardlow cop, before this little hamlet of bellamy wick was built, or the glen was dignified with the name of raven dale, there lived a miner who had no term for his place of abode. he lived, he said, under wardlow cop, and that contented him. his house was one of those little, solid, gray limestone cottages, with gray flagstone roofs, which abound in the peak. it had stood under that lofty precipice when the woods which now so densely fill the valley were but newly planted. there had been a mine near it, which had no doubt been the occasion of its erection in so solitary a place; but that mine was now worked out and david dunster, the miner, now worked at a mine right over the hills in miller's dale. he was seldom at home, except at night, and on sundays. his wife, besides keeping her little house, and digging and weeding in the strip of garden that lay on the steep slope above the house, hemmed in with a stone wall, also seamed stockings for a framework-knitter in ashford, whither she went once or twice in the week. they had three children, a boy and two girls. the boy was about eight years of age; the girls were about five and six. these children were taught their lessons of spelling and reading by the mother, among her other multifarious tasks; for she was one of those who are called regular plodders. she was quiet, patient, and always doing, though never in a bustle. she was not one of those who acquire a character for vast industry by doing every thing in a mighty flurry, though they contrive to find time for a tolerable deal of gossip under the plea of resting a bit, and which "resting a bit" they always terminate by an exclamation that "they must be off, though, for they have a world of work to do." betty dunster, on the contrary, was looked on as rather "a slow coach." if you remarked that she was a hard-working woman, the reply was, "well, she's always doing--betty's work's never done; but then she does na hurry hersen." the fact was, betty was a thin, spare woman, of no very strong constitution, but of an untiring spirit. her pleasure and rest were, when david came home at night, to have his supper ready, and to sit down opposite to him at the little round table, and help him, giving a bit now and then to the children, that came and stood round, though they had had their suppers, and were ready for bed as soon as they had seen something of their "dad." david dunster was one of those remarkably tall fellows that you see about these hills, who seem of all things the very worst made men to creep into the little mole holes on the hill sides that they call lead-mines. but david did manage to burrow under and through the hard limestone rooks as well as any of them. he was a hard-working man, though he liked a sup of beer, as most derbyshire men do, and sometimes came home none of the soberest. he was naturally of a very hasty temper, and would fly into great rages; and if he were put out by any thing in the working of the mines, or the conduct of his fellow-workmen, he would stay away from home for days, drinking at tideswell, or the bull's head, at the top of monsal dale, or down at the miners' arms at ashford-in-the-water. betty dunster bore all this patiently. she looked on these things somewhat as matters of course. at that time, and even now, how few miners do not drink and "rol a bit," as they call it. she was, therefore, tolerant, and let the storms blow over, ready always to persuade her husband to go home and sleep off his drink and anger, but if he were too violent, leaving him till another attempt might succeed better. she was very fond of her children, and not only taught them on week-days their lessons, and to help her to seam, but also took them to the methodist chapel in "tidser," as they called tideswell, whither, whenever she could, she enticed david. david, too, in his way, was fond of the children, especially of the boy, who was called david after him. he was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use the phrase of the people in that part; in fact, he was foolishly and mischievously fond of him. he would give him beer to drink, "to make a true briton on him," as he said, spite of betty's earnest endeavor to prevent it--telling him that he was laying the foundation in the lad of the same faults that he had himself. but david dunster did not look on drinking as a fault at all. it was what he had been used to all his life. it was what all the miners had been used to for generations. a man was looked on as a milk-sop and a molly coddle, that would not take his mug of ale, and be merry with his comrades. it required the light of education, and the efforts that have been made by the temperance societies, to break in on this ancient custom of drinking, which, no doubt, has flourished in these hills since the danes and other scandinavians bored and perforated them of old for the ores of lead and copper. to betty dunster's remonstrances, and commendations of tea, david would reply, "botheration, betty, wench! dunna tell me about thy tea and such-like pig's-wesh. it's all very well for women; but a man, betty, a man mun ha' a sup of real stingo, lass. he mun ha' summut to prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves through th' chert and tood-stone. when tha weylds th' maundrel (the pick), and i wesh th' dishes, tha shall ha' th' drink, my wench, and i'll ha' th' tea. till then, prithee let me aloon, and dunna bother me, for it's no use. it only kicks my monkey up." and betty found that it was of no use; that it did only kick his monkey up, and so she let him alone, except when she could drop in a persuasive word or two. the mill-owners at cress brook and miller's dale had forbidden any public-house nearer than edale, and they had more than once called the people together to point out to them the mischiefs of drinking, and the advantages to be derived from the very savings of temperance. but all these measures, though they had some effect on the mill people, had very little on the miners. they either sent to tideswell or edale for kegs of beer to peddle at the mines, or they went thither themselves on receiving their wages. and let no one suppose that david dunster was worse than his fellows, or that betty dunster thought her case a particularly hard one. david was "pretty much of a muchness," according to the country phrase, with the rest of his hard-working tribe, which was, and always had been, a hard-drinking tribe; and betty, though she wished it different, did not complain just because it was of no use, and because she was no worse off than her neighbors. often when she went to "carry in her hose" to ashford, she left the children at home by themselves. she had no alternative. they were there in that solitary valley for many hours playing alone. and to them it was not solitary. it was all that they knew of life, and that all was very pleasant to them. in spring, they hunted for birds'-nests in the copses, and among the rocks and gray stones that had fallen from them. in the copses built the blackbirds and thrushes; in the rocks the firetails; and the gray wagtails in the stones, which were so exactly of their own color, as to make it difficult to see them. in summer, they gathered flowers and berries, and in the winter they played at horses, kings, and shops, and sundry other things in the house. on one of these occasions, a bright afternoon in autumn, the three children had rambled down the glen, and found a world of amusement in being teams of horses, in making a little mine at the foot of a tall cliff; and in marching for soldiers, for they had one day--the only time in their lives--seen some soldiers go through the village of ashford, when they had gone there with their mother, for she now and then took them with her when she had something from the shop to carry besides her bundle of hose. at length they came to the foot of an open hill, which swelled to a considerable height, with a round and climbable side, on which grew a wilderness of bushes, amid which lay scattered masses of gray crag. a small winding path went up this, and they followed it. it was not long, however, before they saw some things which excited their eager attention. little david, who was the guide, and assumed to himself much importance as the protector of his sisters, exclaimed, "see here!" and springing forward, plucked a fine crimson cluster of the mountain bramble. his sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with like eagerness. they soon forsook the little winding and craggy footpath, and hurried through sinking masses of moss and dry grass, from bush to bush, and place to place. they were soon far up above the valley, and almost every step revealed to them some delightful prize. the clusters of the mountain-bramble, resembling mulberries, and known only to the inhabitants of the hills, were abundant, and were rapidly devoured. the dewberry was as eagerly gathered--its large, purple fruit passing with them for blackberries. in their hands were soon seen posies of the lovely grass of parnassus, the mountain cistus, and the bright blue geranium. higher and higher the little group ascended in this quest, till the sight of the wide, naked hills, and the hawks circling round the lofty, tower-like crags over their heads, made them feel serious and somewhat afraid. "where are we?" asked jane, the elder sister. "arn't we a long way from hom?" "let us go hom," said little nancy. "i'm afreed here;" clutching hold of jane's frock. "pho, nonsense!" said david; "what are you afreed on? i'll tak care on you, niver fear." and with this he assumed a bold and defying aspect, and said, "come along; there are nests in th' hazzles up yonder." he began to mount again, but the two girls hung back and said, "nay, david, dunna go higher; we are both afreed;" and jane added, "it's a long wee from hom, i'm sure." "and those birds screechin' so up there; i darna go up," added little nancy. they were the hawks that she meant, which hovered whimpering and screaming about the highest cliffs. david called them little cowards, but began to descend, and, presently, seeking for berries and flowers as they descended, they regained the little winding, craggy road, and, while they were calling to each other, discovered a remarkable echo on the opposite hill side. on this, they shouted to it, and laughed, and were half frightened when it laughed and shouted again. little nancy said it must be an old man in the inside of the mountain; at which they were all really afraid, though david put on a big look, and said, "nonsense! it was nothing at all." but jane asked how nothing at all could shout and laugh as it did? and on this little nancy plucked her again by the frock, and said in turn, "oh, dear, let's go hom!" but at this david gave a wild whoop to frighten them, and when the hill whooped again, and the sisters began to run, he burst into laughter, and the strange spectral ha! ha! ha! that ran along the inside of the hill, as it were, completed their fear, and they stopped their ears with their hands, and scuttled away down the hill. but now david seized them, and pulling their hands down from their heads, he said, "see here! what a nice place with the stones sticking out like seats. why, it's like a little house; let us stay and play a bit here." it was a little hollow in the hill side surrounded by projecting stones like an amphitheatre. the sisters were still afraid, but the sight of this little hollow with its seats of crag had such a charm for them that they promised david they would stop awhile, if he would promise not to shout and awake the echo. david readily promised this, and so they sat down. david proposed to keep a school, and cut a hazel wand from a bush, and began to lord it over his two scholars in a very pompous manner. the two sisters pretended to be much afraid, and to read very diligently on pieces of flat stone which they had picked up. and then david became a sergeant, and was drilling them for soldiers, and stuck pieces of fern into their hair for cockades. and then, soon after, they were sheep, and he was the shepherd; and he was catching his flock and going to shear them, and made so much noise that jane cried, "hold! there's the echo mocking us." at this they all were still. but david said, "pho! never mind the echo; i must shear my sheep:" but just as he was seizing little nancy to pretend to shear her with a piece of stick, jane cried out, "look! look! how black it is coming down the valley there! there's going to be a dreadful starm. let us hurry hom!" david and nancy both looked up, and agreed to run as fast down the hill as they could. but the next moment the driving storm swept over the hill, and the whole valley was hid in it. the three children still hurried on, but it became quite dark, and they soon lost the track, and were tossed about by the wind, so that they had difficulty to keep on their legs. little nancy began to cry, and the three taking hold of each other, endeavored in silence to make their way homeward. but presently they all stumbled over a large stone, and fell some distance down the hill. they were not hurt, but much frightened, for they now remembered the precipices, and were afraid every minute of going over them. they now strove to find the track by going up again, but they could not find it any where. sometimes they went upward till they thought they were quite too far, and then they went downward till they were completely bewildered; and then, like the babes in the wood, "they sate them down and cried." but ere they had sate long, they heard footsteps, and listened. they certainly heard them and shouted, but there was no answer. david shouted, "help! fayther! mother! help!" but there was no answer. the wind swept fiercely by; the hawks whimpered from the high crags, lost in the darkness of the storm; and the rain fell, driving along icy cold. presently there was a gleam of light through the clouds; the hill side became visible, and through the haze they saw a tall figure as of an old man ascending the hill. he appeared to carry two loads slung from his shoulders by a strap; a box hanging before, and a bag hanging at his back. he wound up the hill slowly and wearily, and presently he stopped, and relieving himself of his load, seated himself on a piece of crag to rest. again david shouted, but there still was no answer. the old man sate as if no shout had been heard--immovable. "it _is_ a man," said david, "and i _will_ mak him hear;" and with that he shouted once more with all his might. but the old man made no sign of recognition. he did not even turn his head, but he took off his hat and began to wipe his brow as if warm with the ascent. "what can it be?" said david in astonishment. "it _is_ a man, that's sartain. i'll run and see." "nay, nay!" shrieked the sisters. "don't, david, don't! it's perhaps the old man out of the mountain that's been mocking us. perhaps," added jane, "he only comes out in starms and darkness." "stuff!" said david, "an echo isn't a man; it's only our own voices. i'll see who it is;" and away he darted, spite of the poor girls' crying in terror, "don't; don't, david; oh, don't!" but david was gone. he was not long in reaching the old man, who sate on his stone breathing hard, as if out of breath with his ascent, but not appearing to perceive david's approach. the rain and the wind drove fiercely upon him, but he did not seem to mind it. david was half afraid to approach close to him, but he called out, "help! help, mester!" the old man remained as unconscious of his presence. "hillo!" cried david again. "can you tell us the way down, mester?" there was no answer, and david was beginning to feel a shudder of terror run through every limb, when the clouds cleared considerably, and he suddenly exclaimed, "why, it's old tobias turton of top of edale, and he's as deaf as a door nail!" in an instant david was at his side; seized his coat to make him aware of his presence, and, on the old man perceiving him, shouted in his ear, "which is the way down here, mester turton? where's the track?" "down? weighs o' the back?" said the old man; "ay, my lad, i was fain to sit down; it does weigh o' th' back, sure enough." "where's the foot-track?" shouted david, again. "th' foot-track? why, what art ta doing here, my lad, in such a starm? isn't it david dunster's lad?" david nodded. "why, the track's here--see!" and the old man stamped his foot. "get down hom, my lad, as fast as thou can. what dun they do letting thee be upon th' hills in such a dee as this?" david nodded his thanks, and turned to descend the track, while the old man, adjusting his burden again, silently and wearily recommenced his way upward. david shouted to his sisters as he descended, and they quickly replied. he called to them to come toward him, as he was on the track, and was afraid to quit it again. they endeavored to do this; but the darkness was now redoubled, and the wind and rain became more furious than ever. the two sisters were soon bewildered among the bushes; and david, who kept calling to them at intervals to direct their course toward him, soon heard them crying bitterly. at this, he forgot the necessity of keeping the track, and darting toward them, soon found them, by continuing to call to them, and took their hands to lead them to the track. but they were now drenched through with the rain, and shivered with cold and fear. david, with a stout heart, endeavored to cheer them. he told them the track was close by, and that they would soon be at home. but though the track was not ten yards off, somehow they did not find it. bushes and projecting rocks turned them out of their course; and, owing to the confusion caused by the wind, the darkness, and their terror, they searched in vain for the track. sometimes they thought they had found it, and went on a few paces, only to stumble over loose stones, or get entangled in the bushes. it was now absolutely becoming night. their terrors increased greatly. they shouted and cried aloud, in the hope of making their parents hear them. they felt sure that both father and mother must be come home; and as sure that they would be hunting for them. but they did not reflect that their parents could not tell in what direction they had gone. both father and mother were come home, and the mother had instantly rushed out to try to find them, on perceiving that they were not in the house. she had hurried to and fro, and called--not at first supposing they would be far. but when she heard nothing of them, she ran in, and begged of her husband to join in the search. but at first david dunster would do nothing. he was angry at them for going away from the house, and said he was too tired to go on a wild-goose chase through the plantations after them. "they are i' th' plantations," said he; "they are sheltering there somewhere. let them alone, and they'l come home, with a good long tail behind them." with this piece of a child's song of sheep, david sat down to his supper, and betty dunster hurried up the valley, shouting, "children, where are you? david! jane! nancy! where are you?" when she heard nothing of them, she hurried still more wildly up the hill toward the village. when she arrived there--the distance of a mile --she inquired from house to house, but no one had seen any thing of them. it was clear they had not been in that direction. an alarm was thus created in the village; and several young men set out to join mrs. dunster in the quest. they again descended the valley toward dunster's house, shouting every now and then, and listening. the night was pitch dark, and the rain fell heavily; but the wind had considerably abated, and once they thought they heard a faint cry in answer to their call, far down the valley. they were right: the children had heard the shouting, and had replied to it. but they were far off. the young men shouted again, but there was no answer; and after shouting once more without success, they hastened on. when they reached david dunster's house, they found the door open, and no one within. they knew that david had set off in quest of the children himself, and they determined to descend the valley. the distracted mother went with them, crying silently to herself, and praying inwardly, and every now and then trying to shout. but the young men raised their strong voices above hers, and made the cliffs echo with their appeals. anon a voice answered them down the valley. they ran on as well as the darkness would let them, and soon found that it was david dunster, who had been in the plantations on the other side of the valley; but hearing nothing of the lost children, now joined them. he said he had heard the cry from the hill side farther down, that answered to their shouts; and he was sure that it was his boy david's voice. but he had shouted again, and there had been no answer but a wild scream as of terror, that made his blood run cold. "o god!" exclaimed the distracted mother, "what can it be! david! david! jane nancy!" there was no answer. the young men bade betty dunster to contain herself, and they would find the children before they went home again. all held on down the valley, and in the direction whence the voice came. many times did the young men and the now strongly agitated father shout and listen. at length they seemed to hear voices of weeping and moaning. they listened--they were sure they heard a lamenting--it could only be the children. but why then did they not answer? on struggled the men, and mrs. dunster followed wildly after. now, again, they stood and shouted, and a kind of terrified scream followed the shout. "god in heaven!" exclaimed the mother; "what is it? there is something dreadful. my children! my children! where are you?" "be silent, pray do, mrs. dunster," said one of the young men, "or we can not catch the sounds so as to follow them." they again listened, and the wailings of the children were plainly heard. the whole party pushed forward over stock and stone up the hill. they called again, and there was a cry of "here! here! fayther! mother! where are you?" in a few moments more the whole party had reached the children, who stood drenched with rain, and trembling violently, under a cliff that gave no shelter, but was exposed especially to the wind and rain. "o christ! my children!" cried the mother, wildly, struggling forward and clasping one in her arms. "nancy! jane! but where is david? david! david! oh, where is david? where is your brother?" the whole party was startled at not seeing the boy, and joined in a simultaneous "where is he? where is your brother?" the two children only wept and trembled more violently, and burst into loud crying. "silence!" shouted the father. "where is david? i tell ye? is he lost? david, lad, where ar ta?" all listened, but there was no answer but the renewed crying of the two girls. "where is the lad, then?" thundered forth the father with a terrible oath. the two terrified children cried, "oh, down there! down there!" "down where? oh, god!" exclaimed one of the young men; "why it's a precipice! down there!" at this dreadful intelligence the mother gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless on the ground. the young men caught her, and dragged her back from the edge of the precipice. the father in the same moment, furious at what he heard, seized the younger child, that happened to be near him, and shaking it violently, swore he would fling it down after the lad. he was angry with the poor children, as if they had caused the destruction of his boy. the young men seized him, and bade him think what he was about; but the man believing his boy had fallen down the precipice, was like a madman. he kicked at his wife as she lay on the ground, as if she were guilty of this calamity by leaving the children at home. he was furious against the poor girls, as if they had led their brother into danger. in his violent rage he was a perfect maniac, and the young men pushing him away, cried shame on him. in a while, the desperate man, torn by a hurricane of passion, sate himself down on a crag, and burst into a tempest of tears, and struck his head violently with his clenched fists, and cursed himself and every body. it was a dreadful scene. meantime, some of the young men had gone down below the precipice on which the children had stood, and, feeling among the loose stones, had found the body of poor little david. he was truly dead! when he had heard the shout of his father, or of the young men, he had given one loud shout in answer, and saying, "come on! never fear now!" sprang forward, and was over the precipice in the dark, and flew down, and was dashed to pieces. his sisters heard a rush, a faint shriek, and suddenly stopping, escaped the destruction that poor david had found. chapter ii.--mill life. we must pass over the painful and dreadful particulars of that night, and of a long time to come; the maniacal rage of the father, the shattered heart and feelings of the mother, the dreadful state of the two remaining children, to whom their brother was one of the most precious objects in a world which, like theirs, contained so few. one moment to have seen him full of life, and fun, and bravado, and almost the next a lifeless and battered corpse, was something too strange and terrible to be soon surmounted. but this was woefully aggravated by the cruel anger of their father, who continued to regard them as guilty of the death of his favorite boy. he seemed to take no pleasure in them. he never spoke to them but to scold them. he drank more deeply than ever, and came home later; and when there, was sullen and morose. when their mother, who suffered severely, but still plodded on with all her duties, said, "david, they are thy children too," he would reply, savagely, "hod thy tongue! what's a pack o' wenches to my lad?" what tended to render the miner more hard toward the two girls was a circumstance which would have awakened a better feeling in a softer father's heart. nancy, the younger girl, since the dreadful catastrophe, had seemed to grow gradually dull and defective in her intellect, she had a slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. her mother perceived it, and was struck with consternation by it. she tried to rouse her, but in vain. she could not perform her ordinary reading and spelling lessons. she seemed to have forgotten what was already learned. she appeared to have a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her hands as if she had suffered a partial paralysis. jane, her sister, was dreadfully distressed at it, and she and her mother wept many bitter tears over her. one day, in the following spring, they took her with them to ashford, and consulted the doctor there. on examining her, and hearing fully what had taken place at the time of the brother's death--the fact of which he well knew, for it, of course, was known to the whole country round--he shook his head, and said he was afraid they must make up their minds to a sad case; that the terrors of that night had affected her brain, and that, through it, the whole nervous system had suffered, and was continuing to suffer the most melancholy effects. the only thing, he thought, in her favor was her youth; and added, that it might have a good effect, if they could leave the place where she had undergone such a terrible shock. but whether they did or not, kindness and soothing attentions to her would do more than any thing else. mrs. dunster and little jane returned home with heavy hearts. the doctor's opinion had only confirmed their fears; for jane, though but a child, had quickness and affection for her sister enough to make her comprehend the awful nature of poor nancy's condition. mrs. dunster told her husband the doctor's words, for she thought they would awaken some tenderness in him toward the unfortunate child. but he said, "that's just what i expected. hou'll grow soft, and then who's to maintain her? hou mun goo to th' workhouse." with that he took his maundrel and went off to his work. instead of softening his nature, this intelligence seemed only to harden and brutalize it. he drank now more and more. but all that summer the mother and jane did all that they could think of to restore the health and mind of poor nancy. every morning, when the father was gone to work, jane went to a spring up in the opposite wood, famed for the coldness and sweetness of its waters. on this account the proprietors of the mills at cressbrook had put down a large trough there under the spreading trees, and the people fetched the water even from the village. hence jane brought, at many journeys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her sister in; they then rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new milk for her breakfast. her lessons were not left off, lest the mind should sink into fatuity, but were made as easy as possible. jane continued to talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was amiss, though she did it with a heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in their little garden. she did not dare to lead her far out into the valley, lest it might excite her memory of the past fearful time, but she gathered her flowers, and continued to play with her at all their accustomed sports, of building houses with pieces of pots and stones, and imagining gardens and parks. the anxious mother, when some weeks were gone by, fancied that there was really some improvement. the cold-bathing seemed to have strengthened the system: the poor child walked, and bore herself with more freedom and firmness. she became ardently fond of being with her sister, and attentive to her directions. but there was a dull cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes and features. she was quiet, easily pleased, but seemed to have little volition of her own. mrs. dunster thought if they could but get her away from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its sleep. but, perhaps, the sleep was better than the awaking might be; however, the removal came, though in a more awful way than was looked for. the miner, who had continued to drink more and more, and seemed to have almost estranged himself from his home, staying away in his drinking bouts for a week or more together, was one day blasting a rock in the mine, and being half-stupefied with beer, did not take care to get out of the way of the explosion, was struck with a piece of the flying stone, and killed on the spot. the poor widow and her children were now obliged to remove from under wardlow-cop. the place had been a sad one to her; the death of her husband, though he had been latterly far from a good one, and had left her with the children in deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe grief to her. her religious mind was struck down with a weight of melancholy by the reflection of the life he had led, and the sudden way in which he had been summoned into eternity. when she looked forward, what a prospect was there for her children! it was impossible for her to maintain them from her small earnings, and as to nancy, would she ever be able to earn her own bread, and protect herself in the world? it was amid such reflections that mrs. dunster quitted this deep, solitary, and, to her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in the village of cressbrook. here she had one small room, and by her own labors, and some aid from the parish, she managed to support herself and the children. for seven years she continued her laborious life, assisted by the labor of the two daughters, who also seamed stockings, and in the evenings were instructed by her. her girls were now thirteen and fifteen years of age: jane was a tall and very pretty girl of her years; she was active, industrious, and sweet-tempered: her constant affection for poor nancy was something as admirable as it was singular. nancy had now confirmed good health, but it had affected her mother to perceive that, since the catastrophe of her brother's death, and the cruel treatment of her father at that time, she had never grown in any degree as she ought; she was short, stout, and of a pale and very plain countenance. it could not be now said that she was deficient in mind, but she was slow in its operations. she displayed, indeed, a more than ordinary depth of reflection, and a shrewdness of observation, but the evidences of-this came forth in a very quiet way, and were observable only to her mother and sister. to all besides she was extremely reserved: she was timid to excess, and shrunk from public notice into the society of her mother and sister. there was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood that she was "not quite right," but the few who were more discerning, shook their heads, and observed, "right, she was not, poor thing, but it was not want of sense; she had more of that than most." and such was the opinion of her mother and sister. they perceived that nancy had received a shock of which she must bear the effects through life. circumstances might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves much misery. she required to be guarded and sheltered from the rudenesses of the world, and the mother trembled to think how much she might be exposed to them. but in every thing that related to sound judgment, they knew that she surpassed not only them, but any of their acquaintance. if any difficulty had to be decided, it was nancy who pondered on it, and, perhaps, at some moment when least expected, pronounced an opinion that might be taken as confidently as an oracle. the affection of the two sisters was something beyond the ties of this world. jane had watched and attended to her from the time of her constitutional injury with a love that never seemed to know a moment's weariness or change; and the affection which nancy evinced for her was equally intense and affecting. she seemed to hang on her society for her very life. jane felt this, and vowed that they would never quit one another. the mother sighed. how many things, she thought, might tear asunder that beautiful resolve. but now they were of an age to obtain work in the mill. indeed, jane could have had employment there long before, but she would not quit her sister till she could go with her--and now there they went. the proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, so ordered it that the two sisters should work near each other; and that poor nancy should be as little exposed to the rudeness of the work-people as possible. but at first so slow and awkward were nancy's endeavors, and such an effect had it on her frame, that it was feared she must give it up. this would have been a terrible calamity; and the tears of the two sisters and the benevolence of the employer enabled nancy to pass through this severe ordeal. in a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward went through her work with great accuracy and perseverance. as far as any intercourse with the workpeople was concerned, she might be said to be dumb. scarcely ever did she exchange a word with any one, but she returned kind nods and smiles; and every morning and evening, and at dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to and fro, side by side--jane often talking with some of them; the little, odd-looking sister walking silent and listening. five more years, and jane was a young woman. amid her companions, who were few of them above the middle size, she had a tall and striking appearance. her father had been a remarkably tall and strong man, and she possessed something of his stature, though none of his irritable disposition. she was extremely pretty, of a blooming, fresh complexion, and graceful form. she was remarkable for the sweetness of her expression, which was the index of her disposition. by her side still went that odd, broad-built, but still pale and little sister. jane was extremely admired by the young men of the neighborhood, and had already many offers, but she listened to none. "where i go must nancy go," she said to herself, "and of whom can i be sure?" of nancy no one took notice. her pale, somewhat large features, her thoughtful, silent look, and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea of a dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one. no one would think of nancy as a wife--where jane went she must go; the two clung together with one heart and soul. the blow which deprived them of their brother seemed to bind them inseparably together. mrs. dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in truth, she earned a miserable sum, had now for some years been the post-woman from the village to the bull's head, where the mail, going on to tideswell, left the letter-bag. thither and back, wet or dry, summer or winter, she went every day, the year round. with her earnings, and those of the girls, the world went as well with them as the world goes on the average with the poor; and she kept a small, neat cottage. cramps and rheumatisms she began to feel sensibly from so much exposure to rain and cold; but the never-varying and firm affection of her two children was a balm in her cup which made her contented with every thing else. when jane was about two-and-twenty, poor mrs. dunster, seized with rheumatic fever, died. on her death-bed, she said to jane, "thou will never desert poor nancy; and that's my comfort. god has been good to me. after all my trouble, he has given me this faith, that, come weal, come woe, so long as thou has a home, nancy will never want one. god bless thee for it! god bless you both; and he will bless you!" so saying, betty dunster breathed her last. the events immediately following her death did not seem to bear out her dying faith; for the two poor girls were obliged to give up their cottage. there was a want of cottages. not half of the work-people could be entertained in this village; they went to and fro for many miles. jane and nancy were now obliged to do the same. their cottage was wanted for an overlooker--and they removed to tideswell, three miles off. they had thus six miles a day to walk, besides standing at their work; but they were young, and had companions. in tideswell they were more cheerful. they had a snug little cottage; were near a meeting; and found friends. they did not complain. here, again jane dunster attracted great attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his addresses to her. it was an offer that made jane take time to reflect. every one said it was an opportunity not to be neglected: but jane weighed in her mind, "will he keep faith in my compact with nancy?" though her admirer made every vow on the subject, jane paused and determined to take the opinion of nancy. nancy thought for a day, and then said, "dearest sister, i don't feel easy; i fear that from some cause it would not do in the end." jane, from that moment, gave up the idea of the connection. there might be those who would suspect nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she gave; but jane knew that no such feeling influenced her pure soul. for one long year the two sisters traversed the hills between cressbrook and tideswell. but they had companions, and it was pleasant in the summer months. but winter came, and then it was a severe trial. to rise in the dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills; to go through snow and drizzle, and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling matter. before winter was over, the two young women began seriously to revolve the chances of a nearer residence, or a change of employ. there were not few who blamed jane excessively for the folly of refusing the last good offer. there were even more than one who, in the hearing of nancy, blamed her. nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. "if i can, dear sister," she said, "have advised you to your injury, how shall i forgive myself? what _shall_ become of me?" but jane clasped her sister to her heart, and said, "no! no! dearest sister, you are not to blame. i feel you are right; let us wait, and we shall see!" chapter iii.--the courtship and another ship. one evening, as the two sisters were hastening along the road through the woods on their way homeward, a young farmer drove up in his spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said, "young women, if you are going my way. i shall be glad of your company. you are quite welcome to ride." the sisters looked at each other. "dunna be afreed," said the young farmer; "my name's james cheshire. i'm well known in these parts; you may trust yersens wi' me, if it's agreeable." to jane's surprise, nancy said, "no, sir, we are not afraid; we are much obliged to you." the young farmer helped them up into the cart, and away they drove. "i'm afraid we shall crowd you," said jane. "not a bit of it," replied the young farmer. "there's room for three bigger nor us on this seat, and i'm no ways tedious." the sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the word "tedious," as strangers would have done they knew it merely meant "not at all particular." they were soon in active talk. as he had told them who he was, he asked them in their turn if they worked at the mills there. they replied in the affirmative, and the young man said, "i thought so. i've seen you sometimes going along together. i noticed you because you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sisters, i reckon." they said "yes." "i've a good spanking horse, you seen," said james cheshire. "i shall get over th' ground rayther faster nor you done a-foot, eh? my word, though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i' winter." the sisters assented, and thanked the young farmer for taking them up. "we are rather late," said they, "for we looked in on a friend, and the rest of the mill-hands were gone on." "well," said the young farmer, "never mind that. i fancy bess, my mare here, can go a little faster nor they can. we shall very likely be at tidser as soon as they are." "but you are not going to tidser," said jane, "your farm is just before us there." "yay, i'm going to tidser though. i've a bit of business to do there before i go hom." on drove the farmer at what he called a spanking rate; presently they saw the young mill-people on the road before them. "there are your companions," said james cheshire; "we shall cut past them like a flash of lightning." "oh," exclaimed jane dunster, "what will they say at seeing us riding here?" and she blushed brightly. "say?" said the young farmer, smiling, "never mind what they'll say; depend upon it, they'd like to be here theirsens." james cheshire cracked his whip. the horse flew along. the party of the young mill-hands turned round, and on seeing jane and nancy in the cart, uttered exclamations of surprise. "my word, though!" said mary smedley, a fresh buxom lass, somewhat inclined to stoutness. "well, if ever!" cried smart little hannah bowyer. "nay, then, what next?" said tetty wilton, a tall, thin girl of very good looks. the two sisters nodded and smiled to their companions; jane still blushing rosily, but nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as if they were going on some solemn business. the only notice the farmer took was to turn with a broad, smiling face, and shout to them, "wouldn't you like to be here too?" "ay, take us up," shouted a number of voices together; but the farmer cracked his whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said, "i can't stay. ask the next farmer that comes up." with this they drove on; the young farmer very merry and full of talk. they were soon by the side of his farm. "there's a flock of sheep on the turnips there," he said, proudly, "they're not to be beaten on this side ashbourne. and there are some black oxen, going for the night to the straw-yard. jolly fellows, those, eh? but i reckon you don't understand much of farming stock?" "no," said jane, and was again surprised at nancy adding, "i wish we did. i think a farmer's life must be the very happiest of any." "you think so?" said the farmer, turning and looking at her earnestly, and evidently with some wonder. "you are right," said he. "you little ones are knowing ones. you are right: it's the life for a king." they were at the village. "pray stop," said jane, "and let us get down. i would not for the world go up the village thus. it would make such a talk!" "talk! who cares for talk?" said the farmer; "won't the youngsters we left on the road talk?" "quite enough," said jane. "and are _you_ afraid of talk?" said the farmer to nancy. "i'm not afraid of it when i don't provoke it willfully," said nancy; "but we are poor girls, and can't afford to lose even the good word of our acquaintance. you've been very kind in taking us up on the road; but to drive us to our door would cause such wonder as would perhaps make us wish we had not been obliged to you." "blame me, if you arn't right again!" said the young farmer, thoughtfully. "these are scandal-loving times, and th' neebors might plague you. that's a deep head of yourn, though--nancy, i think your sister caw'd you. well, here i stop then." he jumped down, and helped them out. "if you will drive on first," said jane, "we will walk on after, and we are greatly obliged to you." "nay," said the young man, "i shall turn again here." "but you've business." "oh! my business was to drive you here--that's all." james cheshire was mounting his cart, when nancy stepped up, and said, "excuse me, sir, but you'll meet the mill-people on your return, and it will make them talk all the more, as you have driven us past your farm. have you no business that you can do in tidser, sir?" "gad! but thou'rt right again! ay, i'll go on!" and with a crack of his whip, and a "good night!" he whirled into the village before them. no sooner was he gone than nancy, pressing her sister's arm to her side, said, "there's the right man at last, dear jane." "what!" said jane, yet blushing deeply at the same time, and her heart beating quicker against her side. "whatever are you talking of, nancy? that young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl?" "he's done it," said nancy; "i see it in him--i feel it in him. and i feel, too, that he is true and stanch as steel." jane was silent. they walked on in silence. jane's own heart responded to what nancy had said; she thought again and again on what he said. "i have seen you sometimes;" "i noticed you because you seemed so sisterly." "he must have a good heart," thought jane; "but then he can never think of a poor mill-girl like me." the next morning they had to undergo plenty of raillery from their companions. we will pass that over. for several days, as they passed to and fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. but one evening, as they were again alone, having staid at the same acquaintance's as before, the young farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and said, "good evening to you, young women." he was soon over the wall, and walked on with them to the end of the town. on the sunday at the chapel jane saw nancy's grave face fixed on some object steadily, and, looking in the same direction, was startled to see james cheshire. again her heart beat pit-a-pat, and she thought, "can he really be thinking of me?" the moment chapel was over, james cheshire was gone, stopping to speak to no one. nancy again pressed the arm of jane to her side, as they walked home, and said, "i was not wrong." jane only replied by returning her affectionate pressure. some days after, as nancy dunster was coming out of a shop in the evening, after their return home from the mill, james cheshire suddenly put his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning, shook her hand cordially, and said, "come along with me a bit. i must have a little talk with you." nancy consented without remark or hesitation. james cheshire walked on quickly till they came near the fine old church which strikes travelers as so superior to the place in which it is located, when he slackened his pace, and taking nancy's hand, began in a most friendly manner to tell her how much he liked her and her sister. that, to make a short matter of it, as was his way, he had made up his mind that the woman of all others in the world that would suit him for a wife was her sister. "but before i said so to her, i thought i would say so to you, nancy, for you are so sensible, i'm sure you will say what is best for us all." nancy manifested no surprise, but said calmly, "you are a well-to-do farmer, mr. cheshire. you have friends of property; my sister, and--" "ay, and a mill-girl; i know all that. i've thought it all over, and so far you are right again, my little one. but just hear what i've got to say. i'm no fool, though i say it. i've an eye in my head and a head on my shoulders, eh?" nancy smiled "well now, it s not _any_ mill-girl--mind you, it's not _any_ mill-girl; no, nor perhaps another in the kingdom, that would do for me. i don't think mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers' wives, any more than farmers' wives are fit for mill-girls; but, you see, i've got a notion that your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but that she's one that has particular good sense, though not so deep as you, nancy, neither. well, i've a notion she can turn her hand to any thing, and that she's a heart to do it when it's a duty. isn't that so, eh? and if it is so, then jane dunster's the lass for me; that is, if it's quite agreeable." nancy pressed james cheshire's hand, and said. "you are very kind." "not a bit of it," said james. "well," continued nancy; "but i would have you to consider what your friends will say, and whether you will not be made unhappy by them." "why, as to that," said james cheshire, interrupting her, "mark me, miss dunster. i don't ask my friends for any thing. i can farm my own farm; buy my own cattle; drive my spring-cart, without any advice or assistance of theirs; and therefore i don't think i shall ask their advice in the matter of a wife, eh? no, no, on that score i'm made up. my name's independent, and, at a word, the only living thing i mean to ask advice of is yourself. if you, miss dunster, approve of the match, it's settled, as far as i'm concerned." "then so far," said nancy, "as you and my sister are concerned, without reference to worldly circumstances, i approve it with all my heart. i believe you to be as good and honest as i know my sister to be. oh, mr. cheshire! she is one of ten thousand." "well, i was sure of it," said the young farmer; "and so now you must tell your sister all about it; and if all's right, chalk me a white chalk inside of my gate as you go past i' th' morning, and to-morrow evening i'll come up and see you." here the two parted with a cordial shake of the hand. the novel signal of an accepted love was duly discovered by james cheshire on his gate-post, when he issued forth at day-break, and that evening he was sitting at tea with jane and nancy in the little cottage, having brought in his cart a basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of the richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets, very different to town-made ones, for tea. we need not follow out the courtship of james cheshire and jane dunster. it was cordial and happy. james insisted that both the sisters should give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves the cold and severe walks which the winter now occasioned them. the sisters had improved their education in their evenings. they were far better read and informed than most farmers' daughters. they had been, since they came to tideswell, teachers in the sunday-school. there was comparatively little to be learned in a farm-house for the wife in winter, and james cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for three months to manchester into a wholesale house, to learn as much as they could of the plain sewing and cutting out of household linen. the person in question made up all sorts of household linen, sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and other things; in fact, a great variety of articles. through an old acquaintance he got them introduced there, avowedly to prepare them for housekeeping. it was a sensible step, and answered well. at spring, to cut short opposition from his own relatives, which began to show itself, for these things did not fail to be talked of, james cheshire got a license, and proceeding to manchester, was then and there married, and came home with his wife and sister. the talk and gossip which this wedding made all round the country, was no little; but the parties themselves were well satisfied with their mutual choice, and were happy. as the spring advanced, the duties of the household grew upon mrs. cheshire. she had to learn the art of cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates to poultry, calves, and household management. but in these matters she had the aid of an old servant, who had done all this for mr. cheshire, since he began farming. she took a great liking to her mistress, and showed her with hearty good-will how every thing was done; and as jane took a deep interest in it, she rapidly made herself mistress of the management of the house, as well as of the house itself. she did not disdain, herself, to take a hand at the churn, that she might be familiar with the whole process of butter-making, and all the signs by which the process is conducted to a successful issue. it was soon seen that no farmer's wife could produce a firmer, fresher, sweeter pound of butter. it was neither _swelted_ by too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is too often the case, by the buttermilk or by water being left in it, for want of well kneading and pressing. it was deliciously sweet, because the cream was carefully put in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. mrs. cheshire, too, might daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, separating the curd, taking off the whey, filling the cheese-vat with the curd, and putting the cheese herself into press. her cheese-chamber displayed as fine a set of well-salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular cheeses as ever issued from that or any other farm-house. james cheshire was proud of his wife: and jane herself found a most excellent helper in nancy. nancy took particularly to housekeeping; saw that all the rooms were exquisitely clean; that every thing was in nice repair; that not only the master and mistress, but the servants had their food prepared in a wholesome and attractive manner. the eggs she stored up; and as fruit came into season, had it collected for market, and for a judicious household use. she made the tea and coffee morning and evening, and did every thing but preside at the table. there was not a farm-house for twenty miles round that wore an air of so much brightness and evident good management as that of james cheshire. for nancy, from the first moment of their acquaintance, he had conceived a most profound respect. in all cases that required counsel, though he consulted freely with his wife, he would never decide till they had had nancy's opinion and sanction. and james cheshire prospered. but, spite of this, he did not escape the persecution from his relations that nancy had foreseen. on all hands he found coldness. none of them called on him. they felt scandalized at his _evening_ himself, as they called it, to a mill-girl. he was taunted, when they met at market, with having been caught with a pretty face; and told that they thought he had had more sense than to marry a dressed doll with a witch by her side. at first james cheshire replied with a careless waggery, "the pretty face makes capital butter though, eh? the dressed doll turns out a tolerable dairy, eh? better," added james, "than a good many can, that i know, who have neither pretty faces, nor have much taste in dressing to crack of." the allusion to nancy's dwarfish plainness was what peculiarly provoked james cheshire. he might have laughed at the criticisms on his wife, though the envious neighbors' wives did say that it was the old servant and not mrs. cheshire who produced such fine butter and cheese; for wherever she appeared, spite of envy and detraction, her lovely person and quiet good sense, and the growing rumor of her good management, did not fail to produce a due impression. and james had prepared to laugh it off; but it would not do. he found himself getting every now and then angry and unsettled by it. a coarse jest on nancy at any time threw him into a desperate fit of indignation. the more the superior merit of his wife was known, the more seemed to increase the envy and venom of some of his relatives. he saw, too, that it had an effect on his wife. she was often sad, and sometimes in tears. one day when this occurred, james cheshire said, as they sat at tea, "i've made up my mind. peace in this life is a jewel. better is a dinner of herbs with peace, than a stalled ox with strife. well now, i'm determined to have peace. peace and luv," said he, looking affectionately at his wife and nancy, "peace and luv, by god's blessing, have settled down on this house; but there are stings here and stings there, when we go out of doors. we must not only have peace and luv in the house, but peace all round it. so i've made up my mind. i'm for america!" "for america!" exclaimed jane. "surely you can not be in earnest." "i never was more in earnest in my life," said james cheshire. "it is true i do very well on this farm here, though it's a cowdish situation; but from all i can learn i can do much better in america. i can there farm a much better farm of my own. we can have a much finer climate than this peak country, and our countrymen still about us. now, i want to know what makes a man's native land pleasant to him?--the kindness of his relations and friends. but then, if a man's relation are not kind?--if they get a conceit into them, that because they are relations, they are to choose a man's wife for him, and sting him and snort at him because he has a will of his own?--why, then, i say, god send a good big herring-pool between me and such relations! my relations, by way of showing their natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. you, dear wife and sister, have none of yourn to spite you. in the house we have peace and luv. let us take the peace and luv, and leave the bitterness behind." there was a deep silence. "it is a serious proposal," at length said jane, with tears in her eyes. "what says nancy?" asked james. "it is a serious proposal," said nancy, "but it is good. i feel it so." there was another deep silence; and james cheshire said, "then it is decided." "think of it," said jane, earnestly--"think well of it." "i have thought of it long and well, my dear. there are some of these chaps that call me relation that i shall not keep my hands off, if i stay among them--and i fain would. but for the present i will say no more; but," added he, rising and bringing a book from his desk, "here is a book by one morris birkbeck--read it, both of you, and then let me know your minds." the sisters read. on the following lady-day james cheshire had turned over his farm advantageously to another, and he, his wife, nancy, and the old servant, mary spendlove, all embarked at liverpool, and transferred themselves to the united states, and then to the state of illinois. five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that day. we could tell a long and curious story of the fortunes of james cheshire and his family--from the days when, half repenting of his emigration and his purchase, he found himself in a rough country, amid rough and spiteful squatters, and lay for months with a brace of pistols under his pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for fear of robbery and murder. but enough, that at this moment, james cheshire, in a fine cultivated country, sees his ample estate cultivated by his sons, while as colonel and magistrate he dispenses the law and receives the respectful homage of the neighborhood. nancy dunster, now styled mrs. dunster, the mother in israel--the promoter of schools and the counselor of old and young--still lives. years have improved rather than deteriorated her short and stout exterior. the long exercise of wise thoughts and the play of benevolent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to her homely features. the dwarf has disappeared, and there remains instead, a grave but venerable matron--honored like a queen. moorish domestic life. at the threshold of the door, leading from the court-yard to the house, the daughters of sidi mahmoud received us with cordial welcome. they are two very beautiful girls. the eldest, who is about fourteen years of age, particularly interested me. there is an expression in her soft, intelligent, eyes which shows that she feels the oppression of captivity. her features are not those of a regular beauty; but the grace which marks all her movements, the soul breathing animation which lights up her countenance, and the alternate blush and pallor which overspread her delicate cheek, seem to mark the fair zuleica for a heroine of romance. while i gazed on her, i thought she looked like a personification of her lovely namesake, the glorious creation of byron's muse. her beautiful chestnut hair was unfortunately (in compliance with the custom of the country) tinged with a reddish dye. it was combed to the nape of the neck, and a red woolen band was closely twisted round it, so that the most beautiful adornment of a female head was converted into a long, stiff rouleau, which either dangled down her back, or was hidden in the folds of her dress. on her head she wore a small, closely-fitting fez. her sister, a pretty, smiling girl of ten years of age, had her hair arranged in the same manner, and she wore the same sort of fez. she was wrapped in a shawl of a clear sea-green hue, which was draped round her figure very gracefully, but entirely concealed her arms. her full trowsers of rose-colored calico descended nearly to her ankles. the costume of the elder sister was marked by greater elegance. her shawl was dark red, but of less size and thinner texture than that worn by her sister. after we had been a few minutes together, we became quite familiar friends, and the young ladies permitted me to have a minute inspection of their dresses. they conducted us to their drawing-room, or, as they called it, their _salon_. this apartment, like all the rooms in the house, is exceedingly small; and on my expressing some surprise at its limited dimensions, the elder sister replied in her broken french, "mauresques pas tener salons pas jolies comme toi français;" by which she meant to say that their houses or saloons are not so fine as those of the europeans; for they call all europeans, indiscriminately, french. there was but little furniture in the drawing-room. over the middle part of the floor was spread a very handsome turkey carpet; and along the sides of the apartment were laid several carpets of various kinds and patterns. in one corner of the room there was a looking-lass in a miserable-looking frame, and beside it a loaded musket. whether this weapon be destined for the defense of the elegant mirror or of the lovely zuleica, i pretend not to say. having observed a telescope fixed at the window, i expressed some surprise. zuleica, who converses very intelligibly in what she calls _lingua franca_ (a jargon principally composed of french words), informed me that this telescope constitutes her principal source of amusement, and that she is almost continually occupied in looking through it, to watch the arrival of her friends, and the movements of the steamers in the harbor. the walls of the apartment were simply whitewashed, and the window and doors were arched as a precaution against accidents in the earthquakes so frequent in this country. the only decorations on the walls were two little frames, containing passages from the koran. among the other articles of furniture contained in this apartment, i must not omit to mention a small table, on which lay some sheets of paper (having arabic characters inscribed on them) a book, and an inkstand. when i entered the room, the young ladies brought a straw stool, and requested me to sit down on it, while they themselves squatted on the floor. a white muslin curtain hung over a doorway, which led to the sleeping apartment of the father and mother. nothing could be more plain than the furniture of this apartment. two small french iron bedsteads indicated, it is true, great advancement in civilization; and between these bedsteads a piece of carpet covered the rough red tiles with which the floor was paved. there was neither washing-stand nor toilet-table; but, indeed, the apartment was so small that there was no room for them. i was next conducted to the boudoir, where coffee, pomegranates, melons, and sweetmeats were served. to decline taking any thing that is offered is regarded as an affront by the mohammedans, so i was compelled to receive in my bare hand an immensely large slice of some kind of sweet cake, spread over with a thick jelly. the collation being ended, the young ladies conducted me to their own sleeping-room. here we found a slave at work. she was a negress, for whom i was told sidi mahmoud had paid francs. i suppose this negress saw something irresistibly droll in my appearance, for as soon as i appeared she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, and it was some time ere she recovered her composure. little zuleica very good-naturedly opened several trunks to gratify me with the sight of some of her best dresses. she drew forth a number of garments of various descriptions, all composed of rich and beautiful materials. when i say that she had at least twenty elegant tunics of silk or gauze, and several others richly embroidered with gold, i do not overrate the number. i expressed my astonishment at the number and variety of the garments, of which i imagined i had seen the last; but zuleica turned to me with an arch smile, which seemed to say she had a still greater surprise in store for me. then diving into the lowest depths of one of the trunks, she drew forth a complete bridal costume. it consisted of a robe or tunic of rich red damask silk, embroidered with gold, a gold girdle, a splendid caftan, loose trowsers of silk, and a vail of white gauze, several yards in length, and sprigged with gold. i was also shown several valuable jeweled ornaments, destined to be worn with this splendid costume. seeing the bridal dress thus ready prepared i conjectured that zuleica was betrothed, and i ventured to ask her when she was to be married. at this question she blushed and looked confused; then, after a little hesitation, she replied, "quand trouver mari."... among zuleica's ornaments were several set with splendid diamonds and pearls. my hostess, after having examined and admired them, asked whether the jewels were all real. zuleica looked a little offended at this question, and answered proudly, "mauresques jamais tenir ce que n'est pas vrai." we were greatly amused by the interest and curiosity with which these moorish girls examined every thing we wore, and even asked the price of any article which particularly pleased them. no part of my dress escaped the scrutinizing eyes of zuleica. she was particularly charmed with a small handkerchief i wore round my throat. i took it off and, requested her to accept it as a token of my remembrance. the eldest sister had so engaged my attention that the younger one appeared to think i had neglected her, and she timidly requested that, as i had seen all zuleica's beautiful things, i would look at some of hers also. accordingly, she began showing me her dolls, meanwhile relating to me in her _lingua franca_ the history of each. these dolls were attired in the costumes of moorish ladies, and little gumara assured me that the dresses were all her own making. after i had admired them, and complimented gumara on her taste, she told me with an air of mystery that she had yet one thing more to show. so saying, she produced a doll with a huge black beard and fierce countenance, and dressed completely in imitation of the sultan. while i was engaged in admiring it, sidi mahmoud entered. he had heard that i could speak italian, and he came to have a little conversation with me about italy, a country with which he is acquainted, and in which he has himself traveled much. the father's unexpected appearance dismayed the young ladies, who colored deeply while they endeavored to hide the miniature effigy of the sultan. i afterward learned that zuleica and her sister are brought up under such rigorous restraint, that even the possession of a doll in male attire is a thing prohibited.--_leaves from a lady's diary._ * * * * * the works of men of genius alone, where great faults are united with great beauties, afford proper matter for criticism. genius is always executive, bold, and daring; which at the same time that it commands attention, is sure to provoke criticism. it is the regular, cold, and timid composer who escapes censure and deserves praise.--_sir joshua reynolds._ [from household words.] the railway station. they judge not well, who deem that once among us a spirit moved that now from earth has fled; who say that at the busy sounds which throng us, its shining wings forevermore have sped. not all the turmoil of the age of iron can scare that spirit hence; like some sweet bird that loud harsh voices in its cage environ, it sings above them all, and will be heard! not, for the noise of axes or of hammers, will that sweet bird forsake her chosen nest; her warblings pierce through all those deafening clamors but surer to their echoes in the breast. and not the past alone, with all its guerdon of twilight sounds and shadows, bids them rise; but soft, above the noontide heat and burden of the stern present, float those melodies. not with the baron bold, the minstrel tender, not with the ringing sound of shield and lance, not with the field of gold in all its splendor, died out the generous flame of old romance. still, on a nobler strife than tilt or tourney, rides forth the errant knight, with brow elate; still patient pilgrims take, in hope, their journey; still meek and cloistered spirits "stand and wait." still hath the living, moving world around us, its legends, fair with honor, bright with truth; still, as in tales that in our childhood bound us, love holds the fond traditions of its youth. we need not linger o'er the fading traces of lost divinities; or seek to hold their serious converse 'mid earth's green waste-places, or by her lonely fountains, as of old: for, far remote from nature's fair creations, within the busy mart, the crowded street, with sudden, sweet, unlooked-for revelations of a bright presence we may chance to meet; e'en _now_, beside a restless tide's commotion, i stand and hear, in broken music, swell above the ebb and flow of life's great ocean, an under-song of greeting and farewell. for here are meetings: moments that inherit the hopes and wishes, that through months and years have held such anxious converse with the spirit, that now its joy can only speak in tears; and here are partings: hands that soon must sever, yet clasp the firmer; heart, that unto heart, was ne'er so closely bound before, nor ever so near the other as when now they part; and here time holds his steady pace unbroken, for all that crowds within his narrow scope; for all the language, uttered and unspoken, that will return when memory comforts hope! one short and hurried moment, and forever flies, like a dream, its sweetness and its pain, and, for the hearts that love, the hands that sever, who knows what meetings are in store again? they who are left, unto their homes returning, with musing step, trace o'er each by-gone scene; and they upon their journey--doth no yearning, no backward glance, revert to what hath been? yes! for awhile, perchance, a tear-drop starting, dims the bright scenes that greet the eye and mind; but here--as ever in life's cup of parting-- theirs is the bitterness who stay behind! so in life's sternest, last farewell, may waken a yearning thought, a backward glance be thrown by them who leave: but oh! how blest the token, to those who stay behind when they are gone! the sick man's prayer come, soft sleep! bid thy balm my hot eyes meet-- of the long night's heavy stillness, of the loud clock's ceaseless beat, of the weary thought of illness, of the room's oppressive heat-- steep me in oblivion deep, that my weary, weary brain, may have rest from all its pain; come, oh blessedness again,-- come, soft sleep! come, soft sleep! let this weary tossing end, let my anguished watch be ceasing, yet no dreams thy steps attend, when thou bring'st from pain releasing. fancies wild to rest may lend sense of waking misery deep, calm as death, oh, on me sink, that my brain may quiet drink, and neither feel, nor know, nor think. come, soft sleep! w. c. bennett. [from the autobiography of leigh hunt, unpublished.] sophistry of anglers.--izaak walton. many brave and good men have been anglers, as well as many men of a different description; but their goodness would have been complete, and their bravery of a more generous sort, had they possessed self-denial enough to look the argument in the face, and abstained from procuring themselves pleasure at the expense of a needless infliction. the charge is not answered by the favorite retorts about effeminacy, god's providence, neighbors' faults, and doing "no worse." they are simple beggings of the question. i am not aware that anglers, or sportsmen in general, are braver than the ordinary run of mankind. sure i am that a great fuss is made if they hurt their fingers; much more if they lie gasping, like fish, on the ground. i am equally sure that many a man who would not hurt a fly is as brave as they are; and as to the reference to god's providence, it is an edge-tool that might have been turned against themselves by any body who chose to pitch them into the river, or knock out their brains. they may lament, if they please, that they should be forced to think of pain and evil at all; but the lamentation would not be very magnanimous under any circumstances; and it is idle, considering that the manifest ordination and progress of things demand that such thoughts be encountered. the question still returns: why do they seek amusement in sufferings which are unnecessary and avoidable? and till they honestly and thoroughly answer this question, they must be content to be looked upon as disingenuous reasoners, who are determined to retain a selfish pleasure. as to old izaak walton, who is put forward as a substitute for argument on this question, and whose sole merits consisted in his having a taste for nature and his being a respectable citizen, the trumping him up into an authority and a kind of saint is a burlesque. he was a writer of conventionalities; who, having comfortably feathered his nest, as he thought, both in this world and in the world to come, concluded he had nothing more to do than to amuse himself by putting worms on a hook, and fish into his stomach, and so go to heaven, chuckling and singing psalms. there would be something in such a man and in his book, offensive to a real piety, if that piety did not regard whatever has happened in the world, great and small, with an eye that makes the best of what is perplexing, and trusts to eventual good out of the worst. walton was not the hearty and thorough advocate of nature he is supposed to have been. there would have been something to say for him on that score, had he looked upon the sum of evil as a thing not to be diminished. but he shared the opinions of the most commonplace believers in sin and trouble, and only congratulated himself on being exempt from their consequences. the overweening old man found himself comfortably off somehow; and it is good that he did. it is a comfort to all of us, wise or foolish. but to reverence him is a jest. you might as well make a god of an otter. mr. wordsworth, because of the servitor manners of walton and his biographies of divines (all _anglers_), wrote an idle line about his "meekness" and his "heavenly memory." when this is quoted by the gentle brethren, it will be as well if they add to it another passage from the same poet, which returns to the only point at issue, and upsets the old gentleman altogether mr. wordsworth's admonition to us is, "never to link our pastime, or our pride, with suffering to the meanest thing that lives." it was formerly thought effeminate not to hunt jews; then not to roast heretics; then not to bait bears and bulls; then not to fight cocks, and to throw sticks at them. all these evidences of manhood became gradually looked upon as no such evidences at all, but things fit only for manhood to renounce; yet the battles of waterloo and of sobraon have been won, and englishmen are not a jot the less brave all over the world. probably they are braver, that is to say, more deliberately brave, more serenely valiant; also more merciful to the helpless, and that is the crown of valor. it was during my infancy, if i am not mistaken, that there lived at hampstead (a very unfit place for such a resident), a man whose name i suppress lest there should be possessors of it surviving, and who was a famous cock-fighter. he was rich and idle, and therefore had no bounds to set to the unhappy passions that raged within him. it is related of this man, that, having lost a bet on a favorite bird, he tied the noble animal to a spit in his kitchen before the fire, and notwithstanding the screams of the sufferer and the indignant cries of the beholders, whose interference he wildly resisted with the poker, actually persisted in keeping it there burning, till he fell down in his fury and died. let us hope he was mad. what, indeed, is more probable? it is always a great good, when the crimes of a fellow-creature can be traced to madness; to some fault of the temperament or organization; some "jangle of the sweet bells;" some overbalance in the desired equipoise of the faculties, originating, perhaps in accident or misfortune. it does not subject us the more to their results. on the contrary, it sets us on our guard against them. and, meantime, it diminishes one of the saddest, most injurious, and most preposterous notions of human ignorance--the belief in the wickedness of our kind. but i have said enough of these barbarous customs. [from household words.] globes, and how they are made. one of the most remarkable of self-educated men, james ferguson, when a poor agricultural laborer, constructed a globe. a friend had made him a present of "gordon's geographical grammar," which, he says, "at that time was to me a great treasure. there is no figure of a globe in it, although it contains a tolerable description of the globes and their use. from this description i made a globe in three weeks, at my father's, having turned the ball thereof out of a piece of wood; which ball i covered with paper, and delineated a map of the world upon it, made the meridian ring and horizon of wood, covered them with paper, and graduated them; and was happy to find that by my globe (which was the first i ever saw) i could solve the problems." "but," he adds, "this was not likely to afford me bread." in a few years this ingenious man discovered the conditions upon which he could earn his bread, by a skill which did not suffer under the competition of united labor. he had made also a wooden clock. he carried about his globe and his clock, and "began to pick up some money about the country" by cleaning clocks. he became a skilled clock-cleaner. for six-and-twenty years afterward he earned his bread as an artist. he then became a scientific lecturer, and in connection with his pursuits, was also a globe maker. his name may be seen upon old globes, associated with that of senex. the demand for globes must have been then very small, but ferguson had learned that cheapness is produced by labor-saving contrivances. a pretty instrument for graduating lines upon the meridian ring, once belonging to ferguson, is in use at this hour in the manufactory of messrs. malby and son. the poor lad "who made a globe in three weeks" finally won the honors and riches that were due to his genius and industry. but he would never have earned a living in the continuance of his first attempt to turn a ball out of a piece of wood, cover it with paper, and draw a map of the world upon it. the nicest application of his individual skill, and the most careful employment of his scientific knowledge, would have been wasted upon those portions of the work in which the continued application of common routine labor is the most efficient instrument of production. let us contrast the successive steps of ferguson's first experiment in globe-making with the processes of a globe manufactory. a globe is not made of "a ball turned out of a piece of wood." if a solid ball of large dimensions were so turned, it would be too heavy for ordinary use. erasmus said of one of the books of thomas aquinas, "no man can carry it about, much less get it into his head;" and so would it be said of a solid globe. if it were made of hollow wood, it would warp and split at the junction of its parts. a globe is made of paper and plaster. it is a beautiful combination of solidity and lightness. it is perfectly balanced upon its axis. it retains its form under every variety of temperature. time affects it less than most other works of art. it is as durable as a scagliola column. a globe may not, at first sight, appear a cheap production. it is not, of necessity, a low-priced production, and yet it is essentially cheap; for nearly all the principles of manufacture that are conditions of cheapness are exhibited in the various stages of its construction. there are only four globe-makers in england, and one in scotland. the annual sale of globes is only about a thousand pair. the price of a pair of globes varies from six shillings to fifty pounds. but from the smallest -inch, to the largest -inch globe, a systematic process is carried on at every step of its formation. we select this illustration of cheapness as a contrast, in relation to price and extent of demand, to the lucifer match. but it is, at the same time, a parallel in principle. if a globe were not made upon a principle involving the scientific combination of skilled labor, it would be a mere article of luxury from its excessive costliness. it is now a most useful instrument in education. for educational purposes the most inexpensive globe is as valuable as that of the highest price. all that properly belongs to the excellence of the instrument is found in combination with the commonest stained wood frame, as perfectly as with the most highly-finished frame of rose-wood or mahogany. the mould, if we may so express it, of a globe is turned out of a piece of wood. this sphere need not be mathematically accurate. it is for rough work, and flaws and cracks are of little consequence. this wooden ball has an axis, a piece of iron wire at each pole. and here we may remark, that, at every stage of the process, the revolution of a sphere upon its axis, under the hands of the workman, is the one great principle which renders every operation one of comparative ease and simplicity. the labor would be enormously multiplied if the same class of operations had to be performed upon a cube. the solid mould, then, of the embryo globe is placed on its axis in a wooden frame. in a very short time a boy will form a pasteboard globe upon its surface. he first covers it entirely with strips of strong paper, thoroughly wet, which are in a tub of water at his side. the slight inequalities produced by the overlapping of the strips are immaterial. the saturated paper is not suffered to dry; but is immediately covered over with a layer of pasted paper, also cut in long narrow slips. a third layer of similarly pasted paper--brown paper and white being used alternately--is applied, and then, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth. here the pasting process ends for globes of moderate size. for the large ones it is carried farther. this wet pasteboard ball has now to be dried--placed upon its axis in a rack. if we were determined to follow the progress of this individual ball through all its stages, we should have to wait a fortnight before it advanced another step. but as the large factory of messrs. malby and son has many scores of globes all rolling onward to perfection, we shall be quite satisfied to witness the next operation performed upon a pasteboard sphere that began to exist some weeks earlier, and is now hard to the core. the wooden ball, with its solid paper covering, is placed on its axis. a sharp cutting instrument, fixed on a bench, is brought into contact with the surface of the sphere, which is made to revolve. in less time than we write, the pasteboard ball is cut in half. there is no adhesion to the wooden mould, for the first coating of paper was simply _wetted_. two bowls of thick card now lie before us, with a small hole in each, made by the axis of the wooden ball. but a junction is very soon effected. within every globe there is a piece of wood--we may liken it to a round ruler--of the exact length of the inner surface of the sphere from pole to pole. a thick wire runs through this wood, and originally projected some two or three inches at each end. this stick is placed upright in a vice. the semi-globe is nailed to one end of the stick, upon which it rests, when the wire is passed through its center. it is now reversed, and the edges of the card rapidly covered with glue. the edges of the other semi-globe are instantly brought into contact, the other end of the wire passing through its center in the same way, and a similar nailing to the stick taking place. we have now a paper globe, with its own axis, which will be its companion for the whole term of its existence. the paper globe is next placed on its axis in a frame, of which one side is a semi-circular piece of metal; the horizon of a globe cut in half would show its form. a tub of white composition--a compound of whiting, glue, and oil is on the bench. the workman dips his hand into this "gruel thick and slab," and rapidly applies it to the paper sphere with tolerable evenness: but, as it revolves, the semi-circle of metal clears off the superfluous portions. the ball of paper is now a ball of plaster externally. time again enters largely into the manufacture. the first coating must thoroughly dry before the next is applied; and so again till the process has been repeated four or five times. thus, when we visit a globe workshop, we are at first surprised at the number of white balls, from three inches' diameter to three feet, which occupy a large space. they are all steadily advancing toward completion. they can not be hurriedly dried. the duration of their quiescent state must depend upon the degrees of the thermometer in the ordinary atmosphere. they cost little. they consume nothing beyond a small amount of rent. as they advance to the dignity of perfect spheres, increased pains are taken in the application of the plaster. at last they are polished. their surface is as hard and as fine as ivory. but, beautiful as they are, they may, like many other beautiful things, want a due equipoise. they must be perfectly balanced. they must move upon their poles with the utmost exactness. a few shot, let in here and there, correct all irregularities. and now the paper and plaster sphere is to be endued with intelligence. what may be called the artistical portion of globe-making here commences. in the manufactory we are describing there are two skilled workers, who may take their rank as artists, but whose skill is limited, and at the same time perfected, by the uniformity of their operations. one of these artists, a young woman, who has been familiar with the business from her earliest years, takes the polished globe in her lap, for the purpose of marking it with lines of direction for covering it with engraved strips, which will ultimately form a perfect map. the inspection of a finished globe will show that the larger divisions of longitude are expressed by lines drawn from pole to pole, and those of latitude by a series of concentric rings. the polished plaster has to be covered with similar lines. these lines are struck with great rapidity, and with mathematical truth, by an instrument called a "beam compass," in the use of which this workwoman is most expert. the sphere is now ready for receiving the map, which is engraved in fourteen distinct pieces. the arctic and antarctic poles form two circular pieces, from which the lines of longitude radiate. these having been fitted and pasted, one of the remaining twelve pieces, containing degrees, is also pasted on the sphere, in the precise space where the lines of longitude have been previously marked its lines of latitude corresponding in a similar manner. the paper upon which these portions of the earth's surface are engraved is thin and extremely tough. it is rubbed down with the greatest care, through all the stages of this pasting process. we have at length a globe covered with a plain map, so perfectly joined that every line and every letter fit together as if they had been engraved in one piece--which, of course, would be absolutely impossible for the purpose of covering a ball. the artist who thus covers the globe, called a paster, is also a colorer. this is, of necessity, a work which can not be carried on with any division of labor. it is not so with the coloring of an atlas. a map passes under many hands in the coloring. a series of children, each using one color, produce in combination a map colored in all its parts, with the rapidity and precision of a machine. but a globe must be colored by one hand. it is curious to observe the colorer working without a pattern. by long experience the artist knows how the various boundaries are to be defined, with pink continents, and blue islands, and the green oceans, connecting the most distant regions. to a contemplative mind, how many thoughts must go along with the work, as he covers europe with indications of populous cities, and has little to do with africa and australia but to mark the coast lines; as year after year he has to make some variation in the features of the great american continent, which indicates the march of the human family over once trackless deserts, while the memorable places of the ancient world undergo few changes but those of name. and then, as he is finishing a globe for the cabin of some "great ammirall," may he not think that, in some frozen nook of the arctic sea, the friendly esquimaux may come to gaze upon his work, and seeing how petty a spot england is upon the ball, wonder what illimitable riches nature spontaneously produces in that favored region, some of which is periodically scattered by her ships through those dreary climes in the search for some unknown road amidst everlasting icebergs, while he would gladly find a short track to the sunny south. and then, perhaps, higher thoughts may come into his mind; and as this toy of a world grows under his fingers, and as he twists it around upon its material axis, he may think of the great artificer of the universe, having the feeling, if not knowing the words of the poet: "in ambient air this ponderous ball he hung." contemplative, or not, the colorer steadily pursues his uniform labor, and the sphere is at length fully colored. the globe has now to be varnished with a preparation technically known as "white hard," to which some softening matter is added to prevent the varnish cracking. this is a secret which globe-makers preserve. four coats of varnish complete the work. and next the ball has to be mounted. we have already mentioned an instrument by which the brass meridian ring is accurately graduated; that is, marked with lines representing degrees, with corresponding numerals. of whatever size the ring is, an index-hand, connected with the graduating instrument, shows the exact spot where the degree is to be marked with a graver. the operation is comparatively rapid; but for the largest globes it involves considerable expense. after great trouble, the ingenious men whose manufactory we are describing, have succeeded in producing cast-iron rings, with the degrees and figures perfectly distinct; and these applied to -inch globes, instead of the engraved meridians, make a difference of ten guineas in their price. for furniture they are not so beautiful; for use they are quite as valuable. there is only one other process which requires great nicety. the axis of the globe revolves on the meridian ring, and of course it is absolutely necessary that the poles should be exactly parallel. this is effected by a little machine which drills each extremity at one and the same instant; and the operation is termed poleing the meridian. the mounting of the globe--the completion of a pair of globes--is now handed over to the cabinet-maker. the cost of the material and the elaboration of its workmanship determine the price. before we conclude, we would say a few words as to the limited nature of the demand for globes. our imperfect description of this manufacture will have shown that experience, and constant application of ingenuity, have succeeded in reducing to the lowest amount the labor employed in the production of globes. the whole population of english globe-makers does not exceed thirty or forty men, women, and boys. globes are thus produced at the lowest rate of cheapness, as regards the number of laborers, and with very moderate profits to the manufacturer, on account of the smallness of his returns. the _durability_ of globes is one great cause of the limitation of the demand. changes of fashion, or caprices of taste, as to the mounting, new geographical discoveries, and modern information as to the position and nomenclature of the stars, may displace a few old globes annually, which then find their way from brokers' shops into a class somewhat below that of their original purchasers. but the pair of globes generally maintain for years their original position in the school-room or the library. they are rarely injured, and suffer very slight decay. the new purchasers represent that portion of society which is seeking after knowledge, or desires to manifest some pretension to intellectual tastes. the number of globes annually sold represents to a certain extent the advance of education. but if the labor-saving expedients did not exist in the manufacture the cost would be much higher, and the purchasers greatly reduced in number. the contrivances by which comparative cheapness is produced arise out of the necessity of contending against the durability of the article by encouraging a new demand. if these did not exist, the supply would outrun the demand; the price of the article would less and less repay the labor expended in its production; the manufacture of globes would cease till the old globes were worn out, and the few rich and scientific purchasers had again raised up a market. * * * * * the body.--among the strange compliments which superstition pays to the creator, is a scorn and contempt for the fleshy investiture which he has bestowed on us, at least among christians; for the pagans were far more pious in this respect; and mohammed agreed with them in doing justice to the beauty and dignity of the human frame. it is quite edifying, in the arabian nights, to read the thanks that are so often and so rapturously given to the supreme being for his bestowal of such charms on his creatures. nor was a greater than mahomet of a nature to undervalue the earthly temples of gentle and loving spirits. ascetic mistakes have ever originated in want of heartiness or of heart; in consciousness of defect, or vulgarity of nature, or in spiritual pride. a well-balanced body and soul never, we may be sure, gave way to it. what an extraordinary flattery of the deity to say, "lord! i thank thee for this jewel of a soul which i possess; but what a miserable casket thou hast given me to put it in!"--_leigh hunt._ [from the ladies' companion] lettice arnold. by the author of "two old men's tales," "emilia wyndham," &c. [_continued from page ._] chapter v. since trifles make the sum of human things.... oh! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence, a small unkindness is a great offense: large favors to bestow we strive in vain, but all may shun the guilt of giving pain. hannah more. if lettice had made her reflections, and had started upon her new undertaking with a heart yearning with the desire to perform its duties well, mrs. melwyn had not been without undergoing a somewhat similar process upon her side, and this was her course of thought: "she had at first felt the utmost dislike to the plan. "she had, in the course of her life, seen so much discomfort and dissatisfaction arise upon both sides from this sort of connection, that she had taken up quite a prejudice against any thing of the sort. "it was a very great pity," she often said to herself, "that so it should be, but the case was almost universal. if it could be otherwise, what desirable connections might be formed in a world such as the present! such numbers of women of all ages, and all degrees of mental qualifications, find themselves suddenly without resource, through the accident of early death in the case of the professions, or of disaster in commercial life; and so many others, through disease or advanced age, or the still more cruel stroke of death, find themselves stranded, lonely, and deserted, and languishing for a fireside friend. what comfortable, beneficial unions might be brought about in such cases, one should think; and yet why did they never or seldom turn out well? "faults there must be. where did they lie?--on both sides," answered her understanding. "not surely alone upon the side of the new comer--the paid one, consequently the obliged one, consequently the only one of the parties who had duties that she was pledged to perform, and which, it is true, she too often very imperfectly performed--but also upon the other. she, it is true, is pledged to nothing but the providing meat, lodging, and salary; but that will not dispense her from obligations as a christian, and as a member of the universal sisterhood, which are not quite so easily discharged. "it must double the difficulty to the new comer," thought mrs. melwyn, "the being treated so carelessly as she too often is. how hard it must be to perform duties such as hers, if they are not performed in love! and how impossible it must be to love in such a case--unless we meet with love. even to be treated with consideration and kindness will not suffice upon the one side, nor the most scrupulous endeavor to discharge duty upon the other--people must try to _love_. "how soothing to a poor, deserted orphan to be taken to the heart! how sweet to forlorn old age to find a fresh object of affection! ah, but then these sort of people seem often so disagreeable, do one's best, one can not love or like them! but why do they seem so disagreeable? partly because people will overlook nothing--have no mutual indulgence in relations which require so much. if one's child has little ways one does not quite like, who thinks of hating her for it? if one's mother is a little provoking and tedious under the oppressive weight of years or sickness, who thinks of making a great hardship of it? but if the poor, humble friend is only a little awkward or ungainly, she is odious; and if the poor, deserted mother, or widow, wife, or aged suffering creature is a little irritable or tedious, she is _such_ a tyrant! "oh how i wish!... "well, catherine is a sensible, well-judging creature, and she assures me this miss arnold is a remarkably sweet-tempered, affectionate, modest, judicious girl. why should i not try to make such a being love me? why should we not be very happy together? there is randall, to be sure, sets herself extremely against it; but, as catherine says, 'is randall to be mistress in this family, or am i?' it is come quite to that point. and then it will be a great thing to have somebody between me and randall. she will not be so necessary to me then, whatever she may be to the general; and when she makes herself so disagreeable, if this young lady is as comfortable to me as catherine says she will be, i really shall not so much care. "then," continuing her meditations, which, though i put down in black and white, were _thought_, not spoken, "then catherine says she is so greatly to be pitied, and is so exemplary; and she said, in her darling, coaxing way, 'dear mamma, it will give you so much pleasure to make the poor thing a little amends for all her hardships, and if poor papa is a little cross at times, it will be quite an interest to you to contrive to make up for it. she will be quite a daughter to you, and, in one respect, you will have more pleasure in making her happy than even in your own loving daughter, because one is dear from our natural affections, and the other will be so from generous beneficence; and though natural affection is such a sweet, precious, inestimable thing, generous beneficence is yet nobler, and brings us still nearer to god.' "if i could make her love me!--and with such an affectionate temper why should i not? she wants a parent, i want a child. if i study her happiness disinterestedly, kindly, truly, she can not help loving me; but i will not even think of myself, i will try to study _her_ good, _her_ well-being; and i will let the love for me come or not as it may, and god will help me. he always does help me--when i have the courage to dare to forget myself, and leave the issues of things to his providence." such were the dispositions upon both sides with which the two met. but the best resolutions win no battle. they are part, and a very serious part of every undertaking, but they are far from being all. we are so imperfect ourselves, and we have to do with such imperfect beings, that evils and difficulties, unexpected, are sure to arise in our communication with others, even when both sides meet with the very best intentions; therefore, whoever intends to carry out such good intentions, and make a right piece of work of it, must calculate upon these things, just as the mechanic is obliged to make a large allowance for unavoidable obstructions in carrying out any of his theories into action and reality--into useful, every-day working order. in due time, a fly from the railway--one of those dirty, hired carriages which are the disgrace of england--deposited miss arnold and her luggage at the door of general melwyn's handsome mansion of the hazels, and in all due form and order she was introduced into the dining-room. it was between six and seven o'clock in the evening when she entered the very handsomely furnished apartment, where, over a half-and-half sort of fire--it having been rather a warm february day--sat the general and his lady. lettice was tired, heated, and red with the jumbling of the railway, the bother at the station, and the knocking about in the very uneasy carriage in which she had come up; and she felt in that disagreeable sort of journey disorder of toilet, which makes people feel and look so awkward. but she put the best face upon the matter, and entering, made a very respectful courtesy to mrs. melwyn, who met her, holding out her hand; and with her face and appearance lettice felt charmed in a moment. mrs. melwyn, who did not want penetration, saw that in lettice, spite of present disadvantages, which she was sure she should like very much. not so the general. he was a perfect fool of the eye, as military men are too apt to be. whatever was awkward or ill-dressed, was perfectly abhorrent to him; and he took a dislike to "the creature" the moment he cast his eyes upon her. * * * * * it seemed but an unpromising beginning. the heart of poor lettice sunk within her in a way she was little accustomed to, as the general, in a very pettish mood, stirred the fire, and said. "when _are_ we to have dinner, mrs. melwyn? what _are_ we waiting for? will you never teach that cook of yours to be punctual?" "it is not her fault, indeed," was the answer, in a low, timid voice; "i ventured to order dinner to be put off half an hour, to suit the railway time." the general was too well bred to utter what he very plainly looked--that to have been thus kept waiting for miss arnold he thought a very unwarrantable proceeding indeed. he stirred up the fire with additional vigor--made it blaze fiercely--then complained of these abominable coals, which burned like touchwood, and had no heat in them, and wondered whether mrs. melwyn would ever have the energy to order sea-borne coal, as he had desired; and then, casting a most ungracious look at the new comer, who stood during this scene, feeling shocked and uncomfortable to a degree, he asked mrs. melwyn "how long she intended to keep the young lady standing there before she dressed for dinner?" and suggested that the housemaid should be sent for, to show her to her room. "i will take that office upon myself," said mrs. melwyn. "come, miss arnold, will you follow me?" and lighting a candle, for it was now dark, she proceeded toward the door. "for heaven's sake, don't be long!" said her husband, in an irritable tone; "it's striking six and three quarters. _is_ dinner to be upon the table at seven o'clock, or is it not?" "punctually." "then, miss--miss--i beg your pardon--and mrs. melwyn, i _hope_ you will be ready to take your usual place at table." they heard no more; for mrs. melwyn closed the door, with the air of one escaping--and, looking uncomfortable and half frightened, led the way up-stairs. it was a pretty, cheerful little room, of which she opened the door; and a pleasant fire was blazing in the grate. the bed was of white dimity, trimmed with a border of colored chintz, as were the window-curtains; the carpet quite new, and uncommonly pretty; chairs, dressing-table, writing-table, all very neat and elegant; and the tables comfortably covered each with its proper appendages. it was quite a pretty little den. mrs. melwyn had taken much pleasure in the fitting up of this small room, which was next to her own dressing-room. she had fancied herself going to receive into it a second catherine: and though the very moderate amount of money of which she had the power of disposing as she pleased, and the noisy remonstrances and objections of randall, had prevented her indulging in many petty fancies which would have amused and occupied her pleasantly since the dismal day of catherine's wedding, still she had persisted, contrary to her wont, in having in some degree her own way. so, in spite of all randall could do, she had discarded the ugly old things--which the lady's maid, excessively jealous of this new comer, declared were more than too good for such as her--and had substituted this cheerful simplicity; and the air of freshness and newness cast over every thing rendered it particularly pleasing. "what a beautiful little room!" lettice could not help exclaiming, looking excessively delighted. she liked pretty things, and elegant little comforts as well as any body, did lettice, though they seldom fell to her share, because she was always for giving them up to other people. "do you like it, my dear?" said mrs. melwyn, in what lettice thought the sweetest, softest voice she had ever heard. "i have taken great pleasure in getting it ready for you; i shall be glad, indeed, if you can make yourself happy in it." "happy! who could help being happy in such a paradise?" "and with such a sweet, gentle, charming person as mrs. melwyn," mentally added lettice. "what matters it how cross the poor old general is," thought she. "but, my dear, i don't see your trunks. will you ring the bell for them? the general must not be kept waiting for his dinner, and he can not endure those who sit down at his table, either to be too late, or not to be in an evening dress. military men, you know, are so used to this sort of precision, that they expect it from all around them. you will remember another day, my dear, and--" then the under housemaid opened the door. "tell them to bring up miss arnold's trunks directly." _them._ she did not at that moment exactly know which was the proper servant whose office it ought to be to carry miss arnold's trunks. miss arnold was an anomaly. there was no precedent. not a servant in this family would stir without a precedent. the trunk was probably too heavy for the under-housemaid to carry up--that under-housemaid, one of the fags of an establishment like this, kept merely to do what the upper-servants are too fine to do. in households like the one before us, you must have two in every department--there is a chance, then, if you want any thing done, you may get it done. the under-servant is always, as i said, a sort of fag or slave in the eyes of the upper ones. they will _allow_ her to make herself useful, though it should not be exactly _her place_. mrs. melwyn had provided for the attendance upon miss arnold by having recourse to this said under-housemaid, and adding a couple of sovereigns to her wages unknown to randall, but she had forgotten the carrying up of her trunk. had it been catherine, this would have been done as a matter of course by the two footmen, and she had a sort of faint hope they would do it of course now. but, she did not like to ask such a thing, so she said "_them_;" hoping somebody would answer to it some way or other, but-- "who?" asked bridget bringing the matter to a point. "why, i am sure i don't exactly know. who is there below? i suppose you could not carry them up yourself, bridget?" "i am afraid not, ma'am; there's only one trunk, and it looks heavy." "oh!" cried lettice, "i can come and help you. we can carry it up together, for myra and i carried it down together." and she was quitting the room. but mrs. melwyn laid her hand upon her shoulder. "no, my dear, upon no account; bridget, fetch up the gardener's boy, he'll help you to carry the trunk up." mrs. melwyn looked excessively annoyed and distressed: lettice could not imagine what could be the matter. the gentle, kind lady seemed nervous and embarrassed. at last, evidently making a very great effort with herself, she got out, "excuse me, my dear, but there is a little thing.... i would rather not, if you please ... servants are so insolent, you know they are ill brought up; if you please, my dear, it will be better _not_ to offer to do things for yourself, which young ladies don't usually undertake to do; such as carrying up trunks. and then, i think, it will be better not to allude to past circumstances, servants are apt to have such a contempt for people that have not been very rich. it's very strange and wrong, but so it is. you will be more comfortable, i think, if you maintain your own dignity. i hope you will not be hurt at me for giving you this little hint, miss arnold." "hurt! oh, madam!" and lettice could not forbear taking up the beautiful white hand of this most fair and delicate woman, and kissing it with the most respectful reverence. "whatever you will be so very kind as to suggest to me i will so carefully attend to, and i shall be so much obliged to you." how sweet was this gentle manner to poor mrs. melwyn! she began to feel lightened from quite a load of anxiety. she began to believe, that happen what would, she should never be _afraid_ of lettice. "catherine was quite right; oh, what a comfort it would be!" "well then," she continued, with more cheerfulness, "i will go away and see that your things are sent up to you, for there is no time to be lost. bless me! it's striking seven. you never _can_ be ready. oh! here it comes! i forgot to tell you that bridget is to answer your bell and wait upon you. i have settled all that--you will find her quite good natured and attentive; she's really an obliging girl." and so she was. the upper housemaid took care to preserve strict discipline, and exact prompt obedience in her own department, whatever the mistress of the mansion might do in hers. "well, then, i will leave you and make your excuses to the general, and you will follow me to the dining-room as soon as you can. we must not keep dinner waiting any longer. you will excuse that ceremony, i am sure. the general is an invalid, you know, and these matters are important to his health." and so saying, she glided away, leaving lettice almost too much astonished to be delighted with all this consideration and kindness--things to which she had been little accustomed. but the impression she received, upon the whole, was very sweet. the face and manner of mrs. melwyn were so excessively soft; her very dress, the color of her hair, her step, her voice; every thing spoke so much gentleness. lettice thought her the loveliest being she had ever met with. more charming even than catherine--more attaching even than mrs. danvers. she felt very much inclined to adore her. she was but a very few hours longer in the house before pity added to this rising feeling of attachment; and i believe there is nothing attachés the inferior to the superior like pity. dressed in one of her best new dresses, and with her hair done up as neatly as she possibly could in that hurry, lettice made her way to the dining-room. it was a large, lofty, very handsome, and rather awfully _resounding_ room, with old family pictures upon every side. there was a sideboard set out sparkling with glass and plate; a small table in the middle of the apartment with silver covers and dishes shining in the light of four wax candles; a blazing fire, a splendid indian screen before the door; two footmen in liveries of pink and white, and a gentleman in a black suit, waiting. the general and mrs. melwyn were seated opposite to each other at table. the soup had been already discussed, and the first course was set upon the table when miss arnold entered. had she been a young lady born, an obsequious footman would have been ready to attend her to her seat, and present her with a chair: as it was, she would have been spared this piece of etiquette, and she was making her way to her chair without missing the attention, when the general, who observed his saucy footmen standing lounging about, without offering to move forward, frowned in what lettice thought a most alarming way, and said in a stern voice, and significant manner, "what are you about?" to the two footmen. this piece of attention was bestowed upon her to her surprise and to mrs. melwyn's great satisfaction. "we thought you would excuse us. the soup has been set aside for you," said the lady of the house. "oh, thank you, ma'am, pray don't trouble yourself." "give miss arnold soup." again in a stern, authoritative voice from the general. mrs. melwyn was used to the sternness, and most agreeably surprised at the politeness, and quite grateful for it. lettice thought the voice and look too terrible to take pleasure in any thing connected with it. she had no need to feel gratitude either--it was not done out of consideration for her. the general, who, with the exception of randall, kept, as far as he was concerned, every servant in the utmost subservience, did not choose that any one who had the honor of a seat at his table should be neglected by those "rascals," as he usually styled his footmen. * * * * * it being the first evening, mrs. melwyn had too much politeness to require miss arnold to enter upon those after-dinner duties, the performance of which had been expressly stipulated for by catherine; stipulated for, not only with lettice, but with the general himself. she has made her father promise that he would suffer this young lady to undertake the place of reader--which catherine had herself filled for some time, to the inexpressible relief of her mother--and that miss arnold should be permitted to try whether she could play well enough at backgammon to make an adversary worth vanquishing. he had grumbled and objected, as a matter of course, to this arrangement, but had finally consented. however, he was not particularly impatient to begin; and besides, he was habitually a well-bred man, so that any duty which came under his category of good manners he punctually performed. people are too apt to misprize this sort of politeness of mere habit; yet, as far as it goes, it is an excellent thing. it enhances the value of a really kind temper in all the domestic relations, to an incalculable degree--a degree little appreciated by some worthy people, who think roughness a proof of sincerity, and that rudeness marks the honest truth of their affections. and where there is little kindness of nature, and a great deal of selfishness and ill-tempered indulgence, as in this cross, old man before us, still the habit of politeness was not without avail; it kept him in a certain check, and certainly rendered him more tolerable. he was not quite such a brute bear as he would have been, left to his uncorrected nature. politeness is, and ought to be, a habit so confirmed, that we exercise it instinctively--without consideration, without attention, without effort, as it were; this is the very essence of the sort of politeness i am thinking of. it takes it out of the category of the virtues, it is true, but it places it in that of the qualities; and, in some matters, good qualities are almost as valuable, almost more valuable, than if they still continued among the virtues--and this of politeness, in my opinion, is one. by virtues, i mean acts which are performed with a certain difficulty, under the sense of responsibility to duty, under the self-discipline of right principle; by qualities, i mean what is spontaneous. constitutional good qualities are spontaneous. such as natural sweetness of temper--natural delicacy of feeling--natural intrepidity; others are the result of habit, and end by being spontaneous--by being a second nature: justly are habits called so. gentleness of tone and manner--attention to conventional proprieties--to people's little wants and feelings--are of these. this same politeness being a sort of summary of such, i will end this little didactic digression by advising all those who have the rearing of the young in their hands, carefully to form them in matters of this description, so that they shall attain _habits_--so that the delicacy of their perceptions, the gentleness of their tones and gestures, the propriety of their dress, the politeness of their manners, shall become spontaneous acts, done without reference to self, as things of course. by which means, not only much that is disagreeable to their is avoided, and much that is amiable attained, but a great deal of reference to self is in after life escaped; and temptations to the faults of vanity--pride--envious comparisons with our neighbors, and the feebleness of self-distrust very considerably diminished. and so, to return, the politeness of the general and mrs. melwyn led to this result, the leaving miss arnold undisturbed to make her reflections and her observations, before commencing the task which mrs. melwyn, for the last time, undertook for her, of reading the newspaper and playing the hit. lettice could not help feeling rejoiced to be spared this sort of public exhibition of her powers, till she was in a slight degree better acquainted with her ground; and she was glad to know, without being directly told, what it was customary to do in these respects. but in every other point of view, she had better, perhaps, have been reader than listener. for, if she gained a lesson as to the routine to be followed, she paid for it by receiving at the same time, a considerably alarming impression of the general's ways of proceeding. "shall i read the newspaper this evening?" began mrs. melwyn, timidly. "i don't care if you do," roughly. polite men, be it observed, _en passant_, do not at all make it a rule to exercise that habit to their wives. the wife is a thing apart from the rest of the world, out of the category of such proprieties. to be rude to his wife is no impeachment of a man's gentleman-like manners at all. "is there any thing worth reading in it?" "i am sure i don't know what you will think worth reading. shall i begin with the leading article?" "what is it all about?" "i am sure i can't say." "can't you look?" "the sugar question, i think." "well, what has the fool to say about that?" "the speech of lord **** last night upon the much discussed subject of the sugar question, has no doubt been read and commented upon, in their various ways, and according to their different impressions--shall we say prejudices?--by our readers. the performance, it is upon all hands agreed, was masterly, and, as far as eloquence is concerned, that the accomplished statesman who uttered this remarkable speech did only justice to..." "well--well--well--_well_," in a sneering tone--"i really do wonder how long you could go on droning and dinning, and dinning and droning such palpably empty editorial nonsense as that into a man's ears. now, i would be glad to ask you--merely to ask you, as a rational woman, mrs. melwyn--what possible amusement or profit can be drawn from a long exordium which says absolutely nothing--tells one absolutely nothing but what every one knew before--stuff with which all editors of newspapers seem to think it necessary to preface their remarks. what in the name of--is the use of wasting your breath and my patience--can't you skip? are you a mere reading machine, madam?" "shall i pass on to the next subject?" "no, that's not my meaning--if you could take a meaning. what i want is only what every rational person expects when these confounded lucubrations of a stupid newspaper editor are read up--that the reader will have the sense to leave all these useless phrases and useless syllables out, and give the pith and marrow to the listener. well--well, never mind--if you can't, you can't: get on, at all events." mrs. melwyn colored faintly, looked nervous and uneasy--glanced down the columns of the newspaper, and hesitated. "well--can't you go on? what's the use of sitting there looking like a child of six years old, who's afraid of being whipped? if you can't, you can't--if you haven't the sense you haven't, but for ---- sake get on." "'mr. **** rose, and in a manner upon which we can not exactly bestow our approbation, but which, nevertheless, seemed to us in an unaccountable manner to obtain the ear and the attention of a very crowded house, &c., &c.'" "there you are again! why the deuce can't you pass over all that, and tell us what the confounded blockheads on that side did really say?" "i read this debate to you yesterday, you know. these are only the editor's remarks upon it. shall i give you the summary of last night's debate?" "no, let's hear what the fool says upon this cursed sugar question. he's against the measure, that's one comfort." "he does not seem to be so exactly," glancing down the page. "i'll take the liberty of judging that matter myself, mrs. melwyn, if you'll only be so particularly obliging as to read on." which she did. now reproached for reading in such a low, cluttering manner, with that d----d soft voice of hers, that it was impossible to hear; and when she raised it, asked, "what the deuce was the use of shouting so as to be heard by the fellows in the servants' hall?" in this style the newspaper was at last, for better for worse, blundered through, in the most uncomfortable manner possible, by the terrified reader. lettice sat by, deeply attentive. she was a brave, high-spirited girl, and she did not feel dismayed; her predominant sentiment was self-congratulation that she should be able to spare that sweet, soft, kind mrs. melwyn the ungrateful task. she sat observing, and laying down her own plans of proceeding. it was not the first time in her life she had been exposed to what is called scolding; a thing every day, i verily believe--and am most happy to do so--going more and more out of fashion, though still retained, as a _habit_, by many people otherwise well-meaning enough. it was retained in its full vigor by the general, who was not well-meaning at all; he usually meant nothing on earth by what he did, but the indulgence of the present humor, good, bad, or indifferent. lettice had lived in a sphere of life where this sort of domestic violence used to be very common; and she had learned to bear it, even from the lips of those she loved, with patience. she knew this very well, and she thought to herself, "if i could get into the habit of hardly caring for it from those very near and dear to me, surely it will be easy enough to meet it with indifference from a poor, cross, peevish, suffering old man, whom i don't care for in the least. the way must be, to get into the habit of it from the first, to let the words "pass by me as the idle wind which i regard not." i must put all my vanity, all my spirit, all my own little tempers, quietly out of the way; and never trouble myself with what he says, but go reading on in the best way i can, to please him, but with the most unruffled outward appearance of tranquillity; and the utmost secret indifference as to whether i succeed or not. he shall be sooner tired of scolding, than i of looking as if i never heard it. he'll give over if i can persevere, instead of looking all colors and all ways, as that dear, gentle mrs. melwyn does." the trial at backgammon was, if such a thing could be, worse. it seemed as if it was impossible to give satisfaction here. the general not only played his own game, but insisted upon playing that of his adversary; and was by turns angry at her stupidity in missing an advantage through want of skill, asking, "what could be the possible interest or pleasure of playing with such a mere child?" and vexed, if the plan he pointed out ended in his own discomfiture, for he could not bear to lose. backgammon, too, was an unlucky game to be played with one of a temper such as his. every favorable throw of the dice, it is true, filled him with a disagreeable sarcastic exultation; but a positively bad one, and still more, a succession of bad ones, drove him furious. after a long course of provoking throws, such as sometimes happen, he would seem half mad, storm, curse, and swear, in the most ridiculous, if it had not been blasphemous, manner; and sometimes end by banging the tables together, and vowing he would never play at this confounded game again as long as he lived. there was an exhibition of this sort that very evening. mrs. melwyn looked much distressed, and almost ashamed, as she glanced at lettice to see how she took it; but lettice appeared to be too much engaged with a knot in her netting to seem to take it at all, which evidently relieved mrs. melwyn. the scene had not, however, been lost upon our friend, who had observed it with a smile of secret contempt. mentally, however, congratulating herself upon her good, robust nerves; such things, she well knew, being perilous to those cursed with delicacy of that sort. the best endeavors, the best intentions, would be without avail in such cases, such sufferers would find their powers of endurance destroyed by these successive acts of violence, till it would be impossible to meet them tolerably. again she looked at mrs. melwyn, and with great pity. again she rejoiced in the idea of saving her from what she perceived was indeed, to such a frame and temper as hers, a source of very great suffering; and again she resolved to keep up her own spirits, and maintain the only true defense, courage and indifference. she felt sure, if she could only, by a little effort, do this for a short time, the effort would terminate in a habit; after which it would cost her little or nothing more. the general, though polite to lettice in their first communications, held her in far too little esteem to care one doit what he did or said before her. he was an excessively proud man; and the idea that a girl, so greatly his inferior in every way, should keep him in check, or venture even to make a remark upon him, far less presume to judge his conduct, never entered his head. i wonder what he would have felt, if he could have been made aware of that secret smile. now a tray with wine, spirits, and water, was introduced. the general took his accustomed glass of whisky and water, then opened his cigar-box, and began to smoke. this process invariably made mrs. melwyn feel rather sick, and she rose this evening to go away; but being asked what she was moving for, she resumed her seat, and sat till two cigars had been smoked, and the clock told half-past ten; when, as the general loved early hours, she was suffered to take her departure. the servant entered with lighted candles. mrs. melwyn took one, and bade him give miss arnold another; and they went up stairs together. "good night, my dear," said the lady of the house, with a wearied, worn air, and a tone in which there was a good deal of sadness. she never could get used to these scenes, poor thing; every time the general was cross she felt it acutely; he had grown dreadfully cross since catherine married. mrs. melwyn hardly knew what to do with him, or how to bear it. "good night, my dear, i hope you will sleep comfortably." "can i be of any further use to you, madam, to-night." "oh, no, thank you; don't come into my dressing-room--randall is very particular: she considers _that_ her own territory. she does not like any one to come in, especially at night; but just let me look whether your fire burns," she added, entering lettice's room. the fire was blazing merrily; mrs. melwyn put her candle down upon the chimney-piece, and stood there a little while before it, looking again irresolute. it seemed as if she wished, and did not know how, to say something. lettice stood at a short distance, respectfully expectant. "i declare it's very cold to-night," with a little shiver. "i did not feel it cold, but then this is so thoroughly comfortable a house." "do you think so? shall you find it so? the wind comes sharply down the passages sometimes, but i wish, i hope, you won't care much for that ... or ... or ... or ... any little painful things; they can't be helped, you know, in this world." "ah, madam! if i may venture to say so, there is one good thing one gets out of great hardships--little things do seem so _very_ little afterward." "ay, if they are really little, but--" "things that are ... that don't seem little to people of more gentle nurture, who have lived in a different way, seem, and are, little to those who have roughed it till they are themselves roughened. that was what i intended to say. one is so very happy to escape dreadful, real, positive distress, that all the rest is like mere play." mrs. melwyn looked at her in a pensive, anxious, inquiring manner. she wanted to see if she was understood; she saw that she was. she saw something truly heartening and encouraging in the young girl's countenance. she shook hands with her and bade her good night very affectionately, and went to her own dressing-room. randall was as cross that night as it was possible for the most tyrannical servant to be, but some way or other, mrs. melwyn did not feel as if she cared for it _quite_ so much as usual; she had her mind filled with the image of lettice. something so very nice about her--she thought to herself--in one respect even better than catherine. she should not be so afraid of her being distressed by disagreeable things; she should venture to tell her about randall, and other vexations which she had carefully concealed from catherine, lest they should make her unhappy. thus she represented it to herself: the truth was, lest catherine should make a point of randall being parted with, an effort she knew herself quite incompetent to make. she should be able to complain of randall, without feeling that she should be urged to conquer her weakness, and part with her. there was something very comfortable in this; so randall pouted away, and mrs. melwyn heeded it not very much, not nearly so much as usual; and when randall perceived this, she was excessively offended, and more and more cross and disagreeable. she had quite quickness enough to perceive how much her despotism must be weakened by the rule being thus divided, and she saw even so early something of the effects she deprecated. the observation, however, did not tend to soften her or to render her more obliging, it was not the least in her plan to contend with the new comer in this way; she meant to meet her, and her mistress, with open defiance, and bear both down by main force. chapter vi. "cowards die many times before their death." shakspeare. the courage of lettice, as i have told you, was strong, and her nerves good, but in spite of this, assisted by the best resolutions in the world, she _did_ find it a hard matter to stand the general. she was very hopeful the first day or two--the habitual politeness, of which i have spoken, came in aid. it exercised a sort of instinctive and involuntary check upon the old man's rude intemperance of language when irritated. lettice did her very best to read the newspaper to his satisfaction; skipping every unnecessary word, just as catherine had been accustomed to do, without hurting the sense in the least; and getting over the ground with all the rapidity the old veteran desired. this was a plan poor mrs. melwyn was far too nervous to adopt. if she missed a word it was sure to be the wrong one to miss--one necessary to, instead of encumbering the meaning. it was quite indispensable that she should read simply and straightforwardly what was put before her, or she was certain to get into confusion, and have herself scolded. even the dreaded and dreadful backgammon did tolerably well, while the general's politeness to the stranger lasted. lettice was surprised herself, to find how easily the task, which had appeared so awful, was discharged; but she had not long to congratulate herself. gradually, at first by slow degrees, but afterward like the accelerated descent of a stone down the hill, acquired habit gave way to constitutional ill-humor. alas, they tell us nature expelled with a pitchfork will make her way back again; most true of the unregenerated nature--most true of the poor blind heathen--or the poor untutored christian, to all intents and purposes a heathen--too true even of those assisted by better considerations, higher principles, and higher aids. first it was a little low grumbling; then a few impatient gestures; then a few impatient words--words became sentences; sentences of invective--soon it was with her, just as it had been with others. this graduated progression assisted, however, gradually to harden and prepare her. she was resolved not to look frightened, though her very knees would knock together at times. she was determined never to allow herself to feel provoked or hurt, or ill-used, let the general be ever so rude; and to soften her heart by any such ideas she never allowed herself. steadily she kept in mind that he was a suffering, ill-disciplined, irritable old man; and by keeping these considerations in view, she actually achieved the most difficult--almost heroic effort. she managed to attain a frame of mind in which she could pity his sufferings, feel indulgence for his faults, and remain quite placid under their effects as regarded herself. this conduct before a very long time had elapsed produced an effect far more agreeable than she had ever ventured to anticipate. the general began to like her. like many other cross people, he was excessively difficult to be pleased in one article--the way people took his scoldings. he was offended if they were received with cheerfulness--in the way edgar had tried to laugh them off--he was still more vexed if people seemed hurt or suffering under them: if they cried, it was bad, indeed. like many others not absolutely wicked and cruel, though he could not control his temper, he really did feel vexed at seeing the pain he had produced. his conscience would cry out a little at such times. now, nothing made him so uncomfortable and irritable, as having a quarrel with his conscience; a thing that did not very often happen, to be sure--the said conscience being in his case not a very watchful guardian, but it was all the more disagreeable when it spoke. the genuine good temper and habitual self-possession--the calmness without disrespect--the cheerfulness without carelessness--the respectful attention stripped of all meanness or subservience which lettice managed to preserve in her relations with him--at last made its way quite to his heart, that is to say, to his taste or fancy, for i don't think he had much of a heart. he began to grow quite fond of her, and one day delighted, as much as he surprised mrs. melwyn, by saying, that miss arnold really was a very pretty sort of young woman, and he thought suited them very well. and so the grand difficulty of managing with the general's faults was got over, but there remained mrs. melwyn's and the servants'. lettice had never laid her account at finding any faults in mrs. melwyn. that lady from the first moment she beheld her, had quite won her heart. her elegance of appearance, the jove-like softness of her countenance, the gentle sweetness of her voice, all conspired to make the most charming impression. could there lie any thing under that sweet outside, but the gentlest and most indulgent of temper? no, she was right there, nothing could be more gentle, more indulgent than was mrs. melwyn's temper; and lettice had seen so much of the rough, the harsh, the captious, and the unamiable during her life, that grant her the existence of those two qualities, and she could scarcely desire any thing more. she had yet to learn what are the evils which attend the timid and the weak. she had yet to know that there may be much concealed self-indulgence, where there is a most yielding disposition; and that they who are too cowardly to resist wrong and violence courageously, from a weak and culpable indulgence of their own shyness and timidity, will afford a poor defense to those they ought to protect, and expose them to innumerable evils. lettice had managed to become easy with the general; she could have been perfectly happy with mrs. melwyn, but nothing could get over the difficulties with the servants. conscious of the misrule they exercised; jealous of the newcomer--who soon showed herself to be a clever and spirited girl--a sort of league was immediately instituted among them; its declared object being either to break her spirit, or get rid of her out of the house. the persecutions she endured; the daily minute troubles and vexations; the difficulties cast in her path by these dangerous yet contemptible foes, it would be endless to describe. whatever she wanted she could not get done. even bridget, under the influence of the upper-housemaid, proved a broken reed to lean upon. her fire would never be lighted; nor her room done at the proper time; and when she came down with red hands, purple cheeks, and, worst of all, a red nose, looking this cold spring the very picture of chill and misery, the general would look cross, and mrs. melwyn not pleased, and would wonder, "how she could get so starved, and why she did not make them light her fire." she could make no reply but that she would ask bridget to be more punctual. it was worse, when do what she would--ring as she would--nobody would come to fasten her dress for dinner till the last bell was sounding, and when it was impossible for her to pay all those nice attentions to her appearance which the general's critical eye demanded. though he said nothing he would upon such occasions look as if he thought her a sloven; and mrs. melwyn, on her side, seemed excessively fretted and uneasy, that her favorite would do herself so little justice, and run the risk of forfeiting the general's favor; and this last piece of injustice, lettice did feel it hard to bear. it was the same in all the other minutiæ of domestic life. every trifling circumstance, like a midge's sting, though insignificant in itself, was rendered in the sum total most troublesome. if they were going out walking, miss arnold's shoes were never cleaned. she provided herself with several pairs, that one at least might always be ready, and she not keep the general and mrs. melwyn waiting. it was of no use. the shoes were never ready. if there were several pairs, they were lost, or odd shoes brought up. she did not care for labor. she had no foolish pride about serving herself, she had been used to that sort of thing; she had not the slightest wish on earth to be a fine lady; but that was forbidden. it was one of the things mrs. melwyn had made a point of, and continued to make a point of; but then, why did she not take care she should be better served? she, the mistress in her own house! was it indifference to her guest's comforts? no, her unremitting personal kindness forbade that idea. what was it then, that left her helpless guest thus exposed to want and insult? yes, _want!_ i may use the word; for in her new sphere of action, the things she required were absolute necessaries. the want in its way was as great as she had ever known. yes, insult--for every little negligence was felt as an insult--lettice knew too well that as an insult it was intended. what made this kind mrs. melwyn permit such things? weakness, nothing but weakness--culpable weakness--horror of that which would give her feeble spirit pain. lettice found it extremely difficult to be candid in this instance. she who had never experienced what this weakness of the spirit was, found it almost impossible to be indulgent to it. she felt quite vexed and sore. but when she looked so, poor mrs. melwyn would put on such a sad, anxious, weary face, that it was impossible not to feel concerned for her, and to forgive her at once. and so this good, generous, kind-hearted being's temper achieved another victory. she was able to love mrs. melwyn in spite of all her weakness, and the evils she in consequence suffered; and this indulgent affection made every thing easy. there were times, however, when she found it almost too difficult to get on; but upon one occasion after another occurring of this nature, and still more when she discovered that mrs. melwyn was a yet greater sufferer from this servile tyranny than herself, she at last determined to speak out, and see whether things could not be established upon a more reasonable and proper footing. there was one day a terrible quarrel with randall. it happened that randall was from home, drinking tea with a friend. she had either bound up the general's ailing arm too tight, or the arm had swelled; however, for some reason or other the injured part became extremely painful. the general fidgeted and swore, but bore it for some time with the sort of resolute determination, with which, to do him justice, he was accustomed to meet pain. at last the aching became so intolerable that it was scarcely to be endured; and after ringing twenty times to inquire whether randall was come home, and uttering a heavy imprecation each time he was answered in the negative; what between pain and impatience he became so fevered that he really seemed quite ill, and his sufferings were evidently more than he could well endure. poor mrs. melwyn, helpless and feeble, dared not propose to do any thing for him, though she suffered--soft, kind creature that she was--almost more in witnessing his distress than he did in the midst of it. at last lettice ventured to say, that she thought it a great pity the general should continue to suffer this agony, which she felt assured must be positively dangerous, and modestly ventured to suggest that she should be allowed to undo the bandage and relieve the pressure. "dear me," said mrs. melwyn, in a harried, frightened way, "could you venture? suppose you should do mischief; better wait, perhaps." "easily said, ma'am," cried the general. "it's not your arm that's aching as if it would drop from your body, that's plain. what's that you're saying, miss arnold?" "if you could trust me to do it, i was saying; if you would give me leave, i would undo the bandage and endeavor to make it more comfortable. i am afraid that this pain and tight binding may bring on positive inflammation. i really should not be afraid to try; i have seen mrs. randall do it hundreds of times. there is no difficulty in it." "dear lettice, how you talk!" said mrs. melwyn, as if she were afraid randall was behind the door. "no difficulty! how could randall bear to hear you say so?" "i don't know, ma'am; perhaps she would contradict me. but i think at all events there is no difficulty that i could not manage." "well, then, for heaven's sake, try, child!" cried the general; "for really the pain is as if all the dogs in hockley were gnawing at it. come along; do something, for the love of--" he suffered lettice to help him off with his coat, and to undo the bandage, which she accomplished very handily; and then observed that mrs. randall, in her haste to depart upon her visit, had bound up the wound in a most careless manner; and the irritation had already produced so serious an inflammation that she was quite alarmed, and suggested that the doctor should be sent for. the general swore at the idea of the doctor, and yet more violently at that old hag randall's confounded carelessness. mrs. melwyn looked miserable; she saw the case was bad, and yet she knew that to send for the doctor, and take it out of randall's hands, would be an insult never to be forgiven. but lettice was steady. she was not quite ignorant in these matters, and she felt it her duty to be firm. she expostulated and remonstrated, and was just carrying her point when mrs. randall came home; and, having heard below how things were going on, hurried, uncalled for, into the dining-room. she came in in a mighty pucker, as she would herself have called it, and began asking who had dared to open the wound and expose it to the air: and, seeing miss arnold preparing to apply a bread-and-water poultice, which she had made, fell into such a passion of rage and jealousy that she forgot herself so far as to snatch it from lettice's hand, vowing, if any body was to be allowed to meddle with _her_ arm, she would never touch it again so long as she lived. mrs. melwyn turned pale, and began in her softest way, "now, really, randall. don't be angry, randall--do listen, randall. the bandage was too tight; i assure you, it was. we should not have thought of touching it else." "what the devil, randall, are you about to do now?" cried the general, as she took possession of the arm, in no gentle fashion. "bind it up again, to be sure, and keep that air out of it." "but you hurt me confoundedly. ah! it's more than i can bear. don't touch it--it's as if it were on fire!" "but it must be bound up, i say," going on without the least regard to the torture she was evidently putting him to. but lettice interfered. "indeed, mrs. randall," she said, "i do not think that you seem to be aware of the state of inflammation that the arm is in. i assure you, you had better apply the bread-and-water poultice, and send for mr. lysons." "you assure _me_. much you know about the matter, i should fancy." "i think i know this much. dear mrs. melwyn! dear general! it is more serious than you think. pray, let me write for mr. lysons!" "i do believe she's right, randall, for the infernal torture you put me to is more than i can bear. ach! let it go, will you? undo it! undo it!" but mrs. randall, unrelentingly, bound on. "have done, i say! undo it! will nobody undo it? lettice arnold, for heaven's sake!" his face was bathed with the sweat of agony. randall persisted; mrs. melwyn stood pale, helpless, and aghast; but lettice hastened forward, scissors in hand, cut the bandage, and liberated the tortured arm in a minute. mrs. randall was in an awful rage. she forgot herself entirely; she had often forgotten herself before; but there was something in this, being done in the presence of a third person, of one so right-minded and spirited as lettice, which made both the general and his wife view it in a new light. a sort of vail seemed to fall from before their eyes; and for the first time, they both seemed--and simultaneously--aware of the impropriety and the degradation of submitting to it. "randall! randall!" remonstrated mrs. melwyn, still very gently, however; but it was a great step to remonstrate at all--but randall was abusing lettice most violently, and her master and mistress into the bargain, for being governed by such as _her_! "randall! randall! don't--you forget yourself!" but the general, who had been silent a second or two, at last broke forth, and roared, "have done with your infernal noise! won't you, you beldam! here, lettice, give me the poultice; put it on, and then write for lysons, will you?" in matters such as this, the first step is every thing. mrs. melwyn and her fiery partner had both been passive as a poor bewitched hen, we are told, is with a straw over her neck. once shift her position and the incubus is gone. the arrival of mr. lysons completed the victory. mortification was upon the eve of setting in. the relief from the bandage, and the emollient poultice applied by lettice, had in all probability saved the general's life. little mrs. randall cared for this demonstration of her mistaken treatment; she had been too long accustomed to triumph, to yield the field undisputed to a rival. she took refuge in sulky silence, and when mr. lysons was gone, desired to speak with mrs. melwyn. the usual harangue was made. "as she could no longer give satisfaction--would mrs. melwyn please to provide herself in a month." the blood run cold to mrs. melwyn's heart. what! randall! impossible! what should she do! what would the general do? what would become of the servants? who would look after them? what could be done without the faithful randall? "oh, randall! you don't think of leaving me," she began. i am not going to repeat the dialogue, which was much the same as that which usually ensues when the mistress entreats the maid to stay, thus putting herself into an irremediably false position. the result of such entreaties was the usual one. randall, assured of victory, took the matter with a high hand, and, most luckily for all parties, refused to be mollified. then poor mrs. melwyn, in dismay and despair, returned to the drawing-room. she looked quite ill; she dared not tell the general what had happened--positively dared not. she resolved to make one other appeal to randall first; to bribe her, as she had often done before, to bribe high--higher than ever. any thing, rather than part with her. but she was so nervous, so restless, so miserable, that lettice observed it with much compassion, and came and sat by her, which was her way of comforting her friend when she saw she wanted comfort. mrs. melwyn took her hand, and held it between both hers, and looked as if she greatly wanted comfort, indeed. the general, soon after this, rose to go to bed. it was earlier than his usual hour, for he was quite worn out with what he had suffered. so he left the two ladies sitting over the fire, and then mrs. melwyn at last opened her heart, and disclosed to her friend the dismal tidings--the cause of her present misery--and related in detail the dreadful occurrence of randall's resignation. it was time, lettice thought, to speak out, and she determined to venture upon it. she had long anxiously desired to emancipate the woman she loved with all the intensity of a child, from the fearful yoke under which she suffered: to dissolve the pernicious enchantment which surrounded her. she spoke, and she did so with so much gentleness, reason, firmness, good-nature; that mrs. melwyn yielded to the blessed influence. in short, it was that night determined that randall's resignation, so far as mrs. melwyn was concerned, should be accepted. if that potentate chose to communicate her resolution herself to the general, it was well, and he must decide; otherwise lettice would take upon herself to do this, and, unless he opposed the measure, randall should go. with little difficulty lettice persuaded mrs. melwyn not to ring for randall that night, saying that now she had resigned her position, her mistress had better allow herself to be put to bed by her friend. this was not a difficult task. that she should not meet randall again was what mrs. melwyn in her terror as much desired as lettice did in her prudence. in short, the general, under the influence of lettice's representations--she was beginning to gain great influence with him--consented to part with the maid; and lettice had the inconceivable satisfaction of herself carrying to that personage her wages, and a handsome gratuity, and of seeing her that very morning quit the house, which was done with abundance of tears, and bitter lamentations over the ingratitude of mankind. how the house felt after she was gone, those who have been visited with a domestic plague of this nature will understand. to those who have not, so great a result from so apparently insignificant a cause would be utterly unimaginable. "and so they lived very happy ever afterward." well--don't stare--they really _did_. a good genius was substituted for an evil one. under her benign influence it is astonishing how smoothly and merrily things went on. the general was so comfortable that he very often forgot to be cross; mrs. melwyn, content with every thing, but her power of showing her love for lettice--though she did this in every way she could think of. and so i will leave this good, sensible, god-fearing girl for the present, "blessing and blest in all she does," and tell you how myra went to mrs. fisher, and something about that lady. (_to be continued._) [from guizot's discourse on the english revolution.] the american revolution. by guizot. george iii. had been seated on the throne sixteen years, when, at fourteen hundred leagues from his capital, more than two millions of his subjects broke the ties which bound them to his throne, declared their independence, and undertook the foundation of the republic of the united states of america. after a contest of seven years, england was brought to recognize that independence, and to treat upon equal terms with the new state. since that time sixty-seven years have elapsed, and, without any violent effort, without extraordinary events, by the mere development of their institutions and of the prosperity which is the natural attendant on peace, the united states have taken an honorable place among great nations. never was so rapid an elevation, so little costly at its origin, nor so little troubled in its progress. it is not merely to the absence of any powerful rival, or to the boundless space open to their population, that the united states of america have owed this singular good fortune. the rapidity and the serenity of their rise to greatness are not the result of such fortunate accidents alone, but are to be attributed in a great degree to moral causes. they rose into existence as a state under the banner of right and justice. in their case, too, the revolution from which their history dates was an act of defense. they claimed guarantees and asserted principles which were inscribed in their charters, and which the english parliament itself, though it now refused them to its subjects, had formerly triumphantly claimed and asserted in the mother-country, with far greater violence and disorder than were occasioned by their resistance. they did not, to speak strictly, attempt a revolution. their enterprise was, no doubt, great and perilous. to achieve the conquest of their independence, they had to go through a war with a powerful enemy, and the construction of a central government in the place of the distant power whose yoke they threw off: but in their local institutions, and those which regarded the daily affairs of life, they had no revolution to make. each of the colonies already enjoyed a free government as to its internal affairs, and when it became a state found little change necessary or desirable in the maxims and organization of power. there was no ancient order of things to fear, to hate, to destroy; the attachment to the ancient laws and manners, the affectionate reverence for the past, were, on the contrary, the general sentiments of the people. the colonial government under the patronage of a distant monarchy, was easily transformed into a republican government under a federation of states. of all the forms or modes of government, the republican is unquestionably that to which the general and spontaneous assent of the country is the most indispensable. it is possible to conceive of an absolute monarchy founded by violence, and indeed such have existed; but a republic forced upon a nation, popular government established contrary to the instinct and the wishes of a people--this is a spectacle revolting equally to common sense and to justice. the anglo-american colonies, in their transition, into the republic of the united states, had no such difficulty to surmount; the republic was the full and free choice of the people; and in adopting that form of government they did but accomplish the national wish, and develop instead of overturning their existing institutions. nor was the perturbation greater in social than in political order. there were no conflicts between different classes, no violent transfer of influence from one order of men to another. though the crown of england had still partisans in the colonies, their attachment had nothing to do with their position in the scale of society; indeed the wealthy and important families were in general the most firmly resolved on the conquest of their independence and the foundation of a new system. under their direction the people acted, and the event was accomplished. and if society underwent no revolution, so neither did men's minds. the philosophical ideas of the eighteenth century, its moral skepticism and its religious unbelief, had no doubt penetrated into the united states, and had obtained some circulation there; but the minds to which they found entrance were not entirely carried away by them; they did not take root there with their fundamental principles and their ultimate consequences: the moral gravity and the practical good sense of the old puritans survived in most of the admirers of the french philosophers in america. the mass of the population remained profoundly christian, as warmly attached to its creed as to its liberties. while they rebelled against the authority of the king and the parliament of england, they were submissive to the will of god and the precepts of the gospel, and while struggling for independence, they were governed by the same faith which had conducted their ancestors to this land, where they laid the foundations of what was now rising into a state. the ideas and passions which now convulse and disorganize society under the name of democracy, have an extensive and powerful sway in the united states, and ferment there with all the contagious errors and destructive vices which they involve. but they have hitherto been controlled and purified by christianity, by the excellent political traditions, and the strong habits of obedience to law, which, in the midst of liberty, govern the population. though anarchical principles are boldly proclaimed on this vast theatre, principles of order and conservation maintain their ground, and exercise a solid and energetic influence both over society and over individual minds; their presence and their power are every where felt, even in the party which especially claims the name of democratic. they moderate its actions, and often save it, unknown to itself, from its own intemperance. it is to these tutelary principles, which presided over the origin of the american revolution, that it owes it success. may heaven grant that in the formidable struggle which they have now to sustain on every side, they may continue to guide this powerful people, and may be always at hand to warn them in time of the abysses which lie so near their path! three great men, cromwell, william iii., and washington, stand forth in history as the heads and representatives of those supreme crises which have determined the fate of two great nations. for extent and energy of natural talents, cromwell is perhaps the most remarkable of the three. his mind was wonderfully prompt, firm, just, supple, and inventive, and he possessed a vigor of character which no obstacle could daunt, no conflict weary; he pursued his designs with an ardor as exhaustless as his patience, whether through the slowest and most tortuous ways, or the most abrupt and daring. he excelled equally in winning men, and in ruling them by personal and familiar intercourse; he displayed equal ability in leading an army or a party. he had the instinct of popularity and the gift of authority, and he let loose factions with as much audacity as he subdued them. but born in the midst of a revolution, and raised to sovereign power by a succession of violent shocks, his genius was, from first to last, essentially revolutionary; and though he was taught by experience the necessity of order and government, he was incapable of either respecting or practicing the moral and permanent laws on which alone government can rest. whether it was the fault of his nature, or the vice of his position, he wanted regularity and calmness in the exercise of power; had instant recourse to extreme measures, like a man constantly in dread of mortal dangers, and, by the violence of his remedies, perpetuated or even aggravated the evils which he sought to cure. the establishment of a government is a work which requires a more regular course, and one more conformable to the eternal laws of moral order. cromwell was able to subjugate the revolution he had so largely contributed to make, but he did not succeed in establishing any thing in the place of what he had destroyed. though less powerful than cromwell by nature, william iii., and washington succeeded in the undertaking in which he failed; they fixed the destiny and founded the government of their country. even in the midst of a revolution they never accepted nor practiced a revolutionary policy; they never placed themselves in that fatal situation in which a man first uses anarchical violence as a stepping-stone to power, and then despotic violence as a necessity entailed upon him by its possession. they were naturally placed, or they placed themselves, in the regular ways and under the permanent conditions of government. william was an ambitious prince. it is puerile to believe that, up to the moment of the appeal sent to him from london in , he had been insensible to the desire of ascending the throne of england, or ignorant of the schemes long going on to raise him to it. william followed the progress of these schemes step by step; he accepted no share in the means, but he did not repel the end, and, without directly encouraging, he protected its authors. his ambition was ennobled by the greatness and justice of the cause to which it was attached--the cause of religious liberty and of the balance of power in europe. never did man make a vast political design more exclusively the thought and purpose of his life than william did. the work which he accomplished on the field or in the cabinet was his passion; his own aggrandizement was but the means to that end. whatever were his views on the crown of england, he never attempted to realize them by violence and disorder. his mind was too well regulated not to know the incurable vice of such means, and too lofty to accept the yoke they impose. but when the career was opened to him by england herself, he did not suffer himself to be deterred from entering on it by the scruples of a private man; he wished his cause to triumph, and he wished to reap the honor of the triumph. rare and glorious mixture of worldly ability and christian faith, of personal ambition and devotion to public ends! washington had no ambition; his country wanted him to serve her, and he became great rather from a sense of duty than from taste; sometimes even with a painful effort. the trials of his public life were bitter to him; he preferred independence and repose to the exercise of power. but he accepted, without hesitation, the task which his country imposed on him, and in fulfilling it did nothing to diminish its burden. born to govern, though he had no delight in governing, he told the american people what he believed to be true, and persisted in doing what he thought wise, with a firmness as unshaken as it was simple, and a sacrifice of popularity the more meritorious as it was not compensated by the pleasures of domination. the servant of an infant republic, in which the democratic spirit prevailed, he won the confidence of the people by maintaining its interests in opposition to its inclinations. while founding a new government, he practiced that policy, at once modest and severe, measured and independent, which seems to belong only to the head of an aristocratic senate ruling over an ancient state. his success does equal honor to washington and to his country. whether we consider the general destiny of nations, or the lives of the great men whom they have produced; whether we are treating of a monarchy or a republic, an aristocratic or a democratic society, we gather the same light from facts; we see that the same laws determine the ultimate success or failure of governments. the policy which preserves and maintains a state in its ancient security and customary order is also the only policy that can bring a revolution to a successful close, and give stability to the institutions whose lasting excellence may justify it to succeeding ages. fifty years ago. my father, whose manners were at once highbred and lively, had some great acquaintances; but i recollect none of them personally, except an old lady of quality, who (if memory does not strangely deceive me, and give me a personal share in what i only heard talked of; for old autobiographers of childhood must own themselves liable to such confusions) astounded me one day by letting her false teeth slip out, and clapping them in again. i had no idea of the existence of such phenomena, and could almost as soon have expected her to take off her head and readjust it. she lived in red lion-square, a quarter in different estimation from what it is now. it was at her house, i believe, that my father one evening met wilkes. he did not know him by sight, and happening to fall into conversation with him, while the latter sat looking down, he said something in wilkes's disparagement, on which the jovial demagogue looked up in his face, and burst out a laughing. i do not exactly know how people dressed at that time; but i believe that sacks, and negligées, and toupees were going out, and the pigtail and the simpler modern style of dress coming in. i recollect hearing my mother describe the misery of having her hair dressed two or three stories high, and of lying in it all night ready for some visit or spectacle next day. i think i also recollect seeing wilkes himself in an old-fashioned flap-waistcoated suit of scarlet and gold; and i am sure i have seen murphy, the dramatist, a good deal later, in a suit of a like fashion, though soberer, and a large cocked-hat. the cocked-hat in general survived till nearly the present century. it was superseded by the round one during the french revolution. i remember our steward at school, a very solemn personage, making his appearance in one, to our astonishment, and not a little to the diminution of his dignity. some years later, i saw mr. pitt in a blue coat, buckskin breeches and boots, and a round hat, with powder and pigtail. he was thin and gaunt, with his hat off his forehead, and his nose in the air. much about the same time i saw his friend, the first lord liverpool, a respectable looking old gentleman, in a brown wig. later still, i saw mr. fox, fat and jovial, though he was then declining. he, who had been a "beau" in his youth, then looked something quaker-like as to dress, with plain colored clothes, a broad round hat, white waistcoat, and, if i am not mistaken, white stockings. he was standing in parliament-street, just where the street commences as you leave whitehall; and was making two young gentlemen laugh heartily at something which he seemed to be relating. my father once took me--but i can not say at what period of my juvenility--into both houses of parliament. in the commons, i saw mr. pitt sawing the air, and occasionally turning to appeal to those about him, while he spoke in a loud, important, and hollow voice. when the persons he appealed to, said "hear! hear!" i thought they said "dear! dear!" in objection; and i wondered that he did not seem in the least degree disconcerted. the house of lords, i must say (without meaning disrespect to an assembly which must always have contained some of the most accomplished men in the country), surprised me with the personally insignificant look of its members. i had, to be sure, conceived exaggerated notions of the magnates of all countries; and perhaps might have expected to behold a set of conscript fathers; but in no respect, real or ideal, did they appear to me in their corporate aspect, like any thing which is understood by the word "noble." the commons seemed to me to have the advantage; though they surprised me with lounging on the benches, and retaining their hats. i was not then informed enough to know the difference between apparent and substantial importance; much less aware of the positive exaltation, which that very simplicity, and that absence of pretension, gave to the most potent assembly in europe.--_leigh hunt's autobiography._ [from household words.] a paris newspaper. within the precincts of that resort for foreigners and provincials in paris, the palais royal, is situate the rue du fevrier. this revolutionary name, given after the last outbreak, is still pronounced with difficulty by those who, of old, were wont to call it the rue de valois. people are becoming accustomed to call the royally named street by its revolutionary title, although it is probable that no one will ever succeed in calling the palais royal palais national; the force of habit being in this instance too great to efface old recollections. few foreigners have ever penetrated into the rue de fevrier, though it forms one of the external galleries of the palais royal, and one may see there the smoky kitchens, dirty cooks, the night-side in fact, of the splendid restaurants, whose gilt fronts attract attention inside. rubicund apples, splendid game, truffles, and ortolans, deck the one side; smoke, dirty plates, rags, and smutty saucepans may be seen on the other. it is from an office in the rue de fevrier, almost opposite the dark side of a gorgeous palais royal restaurant, that issue , copies of a daily print, entitled the "constitutionnel." newspaper offices, be it remarked, are always to be found in odd holes and corners. to the mass in london, printing-house square, or lombard-street, whitefriars, are mystical localities; yet they are the daily birth-places of that fourth estate which fulminates anathemas on all the follies and weaknesses of governments; and, without which, no one can feel free or independent. the "constitutionnel" office is about as little known to the mass of its subscribers as either printing-house square or whitefriars. there is always an old and respectable look about the interior of newspaper establishments, in whatever country you may find them. for rusty dinginess, perhaps, there is nothing to equal a london office, with its floors strewed with newspapers from all parts of the world, parliamentary reports, and its shelves creaking under books of all sorts, thumbed to the last extremity. notwithstanding these appearances, however, there is discipline--there is real order in the apparent disorder of things. those newspapers that are lying in heaps have to be accurately filed; those books of reference can be pounced upon when wanted, on the instant; and as to reports, the place of each is as well known as if all labeled and ticketed with the elaborate accuracy of a public library. not less rusty and not less disorderly is the appearance of a french newspaper office; but how different the aspect of things from what you see in england! over the office of the "constitutionnel" is a dingy tricolor flag. a few broken steps lead to a pair of folding-doors. inside is the sanctuary of the office, guarded by that flag as if by the honor of the country: for tricolor represents all frenchmen, be he prince or proletarian. you enter through a narrow passage flanked with wire cages, in which are confined for the day the clerks who take account of advertisements and subscriptions. melancholy objects seem these caged birds, whose hands alone emerge at intervals through the pigeon-holes made for the purpose of taking in money and advertisements. the universal beard and mustache that ornament their chins, look, however, more unbusiness-like than are the men really. they are shrewd and knowing birds that are inclosed in these wire cages. at publishing time, boys rushing in for papers, as in london offices, are not here to be seen. the reason of this is simple: french newspaper proprietors prefer doing their work themselves--they will have no middle men. they serve all their customers by quarterly, yearly, or half-yearly subscriptions. in every town in france there are subscription offices for this journal, as well, indeed, as for all great organs of the press generally. there are regular forms set up like registers at the post-office, and all of these are gathered at the periodical renewal of subscriptions to the central office. the period of renewal is every fortnight. passing still further up the narrow and dim passage, one sees a pigeon-hole, over which is written the word "advertisements." this superscription is now supererogatory, for there no advertisements are received; that branch of the journal having been farmed out to a company at , fr. a year. this is a system which evidently saves a vast deal of trouble. the advertising company of paris has secured almost a monopoly of announcements and puffs. it has bought up the last page of nearly every paris journal which owns the patronage and confidence of the advertising public of the french capital. at the end of the same dark passages are the rooms specially used for the editors and writers. in france, journals are bought for their polemics, and not for their news: many of them have fallen considerably, however, from the high estate which they held in public opinion previous to the last revolution. there are men who wrote in them to advocate and enforce principles, but in the chopping and changing times that france lives in, it is not unusual to find the same men with different principles, interest, or gain, being the object of each change. this result of revolution might have been expected; and though it would be unfair to involve the whole press in a sweeping accusation, cases in point have been sufficiently numerous to cause a want of confidence in many quarters against the entire press. the doings of newspaper editors are not catalogued in print at paris, as in america; but their influence being more occult, is not the less powerful, and it is this feeling that leads people to pay more attention to this or that leading article than to mere news. the announcement of a treaty having been concluded between certain powers of europe, may not lower the funds; but if an influential journal expresses an opinion that certain dangers are to be apprehended from the treaty in question, the exchanges will be instantly affected. this is an instance among many that the french people are to be led in masses. singly they have generally no ideas, either politically or commercially. the importance of a journal being chiefly centered in that portion specially devoted to politics, the writers of which are supposed, right or wrong, to possess certain influences, it is not astonishing the editorial offices have few occupants. the editorial department of the "constitutionnel" wears a homely appearance, but borrows importance from the influence that is wielded in it--writers decorated with the red ribbon are not unfrequently seen at work in it. in others, and especially in the editorial offices of some journals, may be seen, besides the pen, more offensive weapons, such as swords and pistols. this is another result of the personal system of journalism. as in america, the editor may find himself in the necessity of defending his arguments by arms. he is too notorious to be able to resort to the stratagem of a well-known wit, who kept a noted boxer in his front office to represent the editor in hostile encounters. he goes out, therefore, to fight a duel, on which sometimes depends not only his own fate, but that of his journal. with regard to the personal power of a newspaper name, it is only necessary in order to show how frequently it still exists, to state that the provisional government of february, , was concocted in a newspaper office, and the revolution of was carried on by the editors of a popular journal--that among the lower orders in france, at the present time, the names that are looked up to as those of chiefs, belong to newspaper editors, whose leading articles are read and listened to in cheap newspaper clubs, and whose "orders" are followed as punctually and as certainly as those of a general by his troops. a certain class of french politicians may be likened to sheep: they follow their "leaders." the smallness of the number of officials in a french newspaper office is to be accounted for from the fact that parliamentary debates are transcribed on the spot where the speeches are made; and the reporting staff never stirs from the legislative assembly. the divers corps of reporters for paris journals form a corporation, with its aldermen, or syndici, and other minor officers. each reporter is relieved every two minutes; and while his colleagues are succeeding each other with the same rapidity, he transcribes the notes taken during his two minutes' "turn." the result of this revolving system is collated and arranged by a gentleman selected for the purpose. this mode of proceeding insures, if necessary, the most verbatim transmission of an important speech, and more equably divides the work, than does the english system, where each reporter takes notes for half or three quarters of an hour, and spends two or three hours, and sometimes four or five, to transcribe his notes. the french parliamentary reporter is not the dispassionate auditor which the english one is. he applauds or condemns the orators, cheers or hoots with all the vehemence of an excited partisan. "penny-a-liners" are unknown in paris; the foreign and home intelligence being elaborated in general news' offices, independent of the newspapers. it is there that all the provincial journals are received, the news of the day gathered up, digested, and multiplied by means of lithography; which is found more efficacious than the stylet and oiled "flimsy" paper of our penny-a-liners. it is from these latter places too, that the country journals, as well as many of the foreign press, the german, the belgium, and the spanish, are supplied with paris news. england is a good market, as most of our newspapers are wealthy enough to have correspondents of their own. my first visit to the "constitutionnel" was in the day-time, and i caught the editor as he was looking over some of his proofs. their curious appearance led me to ask how they were struck off, and, in order to satisfy me, he led the way up a dark stair, from which we entered upon the composing-rooms of the premises. these, in appearance, were like all other composing-rooms that i had seen; the forms, and cases for the type, were similar to those in london; the men themselves had that worn and pale look which characterizes the class to which they belong, and their pallor was not diminished by their wearing of the long beard and mustache. their unbuttoned shirts and bare breasts, the short clay pipe, reminded me of the heroes of the barricades; indeed, i have every reason to know that these very compositors are generally foremost in revolutions; and though they often print ministerial articles, they are not sharers in the opinions which they help to spread. the head printer contracts for the printing, and chooses his men where he can find them best. as a body, these men were provident, i was told, and all subscribed to a fund for their poor, their orphans and widows; they form a sort of trade union, and have very strict regulations. i found a most remarkable want of convenience in the working of the types. for instance, there were no galleys, or longtitudinal trays, on which to place the type when it was set up; but when a small quantity had been put together in column on a broad copper table, a string was passed round it to keep it together. nor was there any hand-press for taking proofs; and here i found the explanation of the extraordinary appearance of the proofs i had seen below. for when i asked to have one struck off, the head printer placed a sheet of paper over the type, and with a great brush beat it in, giving the proof a sunken and embossed appearance, which it seemed to me would render correction exceedingly difficult. the french, it seems, care not for improvement in this respect, any more than the chinese, whom the brush has served in place of a printing-press for some three thousand years. this journal has, as i have said, from , to , subscribers, in order to serve whom it was necessary that the presses should be at work as early as eleven o'clock at night. but there is no difficulty in doing this, where news not being the _sine quà non_ of journalism, provincial and foreign intelligence is give as fresh, which in england would be considered much behind in time. but even when commencing business at the early hour above mentioned, i found that it had been necessary for the paper to be composed twice over, in order to save time; and thus two printers' establishments were required to bring out each number of the journal in sufficient time for the country circulation by early morning trains. the necessity for this double composition is still existing in most of the french newspaper offices, but had been obviated here lately, by the erection of a new printing-machine, which sufficed by the speed of its working to print the given number of copies necessary for satisfying the wants of each day. having seen through the premises, and witnessed all that was interesting in the day-time, i was politely requested to return in the evening, and see the remaining process of printing the paper and getting it ready to send out from the office. punctually at eleven o'clock i was in the rue du fevrier. passing through the offices which i had seen in the morning, i was led by a sort of guide down to some passages dimly lighted with lamps. to the right and to the left we turned, descending stone steps into the bowels of the earth as it seemed to me; the walls oozing with slimy damp in some parts; dry and saltpetry in others. a bundle of keys, which were jingling in my guide's hand, made noises which reminded me of the description of prisoners going down into the bastile or tower. at another moment a sound of voices in the distance, reminded me of a scene of desperate coiners in a cellar. these sounds grew louder, as we soon entered a vast stone cellar, in which rudely dressed men, half-naked as to their breasts and arms, were to be seen flitting to and fro at the command of a superior; their long beards and grimy faces, their short pipes and dirty appearance, made them look more like devils than men, and i bethought me that here, at last, i had found that real animal--the printer's devil. there were two or three printing-presses in the room, only one of which was going. its rolling sound was like thunder in the cave, in which we stood. as paper after paper flew out from the sides of this creaking press, they were carried to a long table and piled up in heaps. presently some of the stoutest men shouldered a mass of those, and my conducter and myself following them, we entered a passage which led to another cellar, contiguous to that in which the papers were printed. there, sitting round a number of tables, were several young women. these women seized upon a portion of the papers brought in, and with an amazing rapidity folded them into a small compass. in a few minutes all the papers i had seen printed were folded and numbered off by dozens. then comes another operation: a man came round and deposited before each woman a bundle of little paper slips, which i found to be the addresses of the subscribers. the women placed the labels and the paste on one side, and commenced operations. a bundle of papers, folded, was placed before each; the forefinger, dipped in the paste, immediately touched the paper and the label simultaneously, and the "constitutionnel" flew out with a speed perfectly astonishing from the hands of these women, ready to be distributed in down or country. they were then finishing the labeling of the papers for paris circulation; , copies scarcely sufficing for the supply. this was the concluding sight in my visit to a paris newspaper-office. on the death of an infant. to a mother. by the authoress of "the discipline of life". his languid eyes are closing, on the pale, placid cheek, the lashes dark reposing, so wearily, so weak. he gasps with failing breath, a faint and feeble strife with death; fainter and fainter still--'tis past. that one soft sigh--the last. thy watching and thy fearing, mother, is over now; the seal of death is bearing that pale but angel brow, and now in the deep calm that follows days of wild alarm, thy heart sinks down, and weeps, and weeps, o'er him who silent sleeps. oh, mother, hush thy crying, the ill of life is o'er, e'en now his wings are flying unto a happy shore; those wings of stainless white unfolded ne'er to earthly sight, he spreads them now, they bear him high unto the angel company. from sight of evil shrinking, from thought of grief like thine at the first summons sinking into the arms divine. oh! thou who knowest life, temptation, trial, toil and strife, wilt thou not still thine aching breast to bless his early rest? [from the autobiography of leigh hunt.] recollections of eminent men. by leigh hunt. just after this period i fell in with a new set of acquaintances, accounts of whom may not be uninteresting. i forget what it was that introduced me to mr. hill, proprietor of the _monthly mirror_; but at his house at sydenham i used to meet his editor, du bois; thomas campbell, who was his neighbor; and the two smiths, authors of _the rejected addresses_. i saw also theodore hook, and mathews, the comedian. our host was a jovial bachelor, plump and rosy as an abbot; and no abbot could have presided over a more festive sunday. the wine flowed merrily and long; the discourse kept pace with it; and next morning, in returning to town, we felt ourselves very thirsty. a pump by the road-side, with a plash round it, was a bewitching sight. they who knew mr. campbell only as the author of _gertrude of wyoming_, and the _pleasures of hope_, would not have suspected him to be a merry companion, overflowing with humor and anecdote, and any thing but fastidious. these scotch poets have always something in reserve. it is the only point in which the major part of them resemble their countrymen. the mistaken character which the lady formed of thomson from his _seasons_ is well known. he let part of the secret out in his _castle of indolence_; and the more he let out, the more honor it did to the simplicity and cordiality of the poet's nature, though not always to the elegance of it. allan ramsay knew his friends gay and somerville as well in their writings, as he did when he came to be personally acquainted with them; but allan, who had bustled up from a barber's shop into a bookseller's, was "a cunning shaver;" and nobody would have guessed the author of the _gentle shepherd_ to be penurious. let none suppose that any insinuation to that effect is intended against campbell. he was one of the few men whom i could at any time have walked half a dozen miles through the snow to spend an evening with; and i could no more do this with a penurious man than i could with a sulky one. i know but of one fault he had, besides an extreme cautiousness in his writings, and that one was national, a matter of words, and amply overpaid by a stream of conversation, lively, piquant, and liberal, not the less interesting for occasionally betraying an intimacy with pain, and for a high and somewhat strained tone of voice, like a man speaking with suspended breath, and in the habit of subduing his feelings. no man felt more kindly toward his fellow-creatures, or took less credit for it. when he indulged in doubt and sarcasm, and spoke contemptuously of things in general, he did it, partly, no doubt, out of actual dissatisfaction, but more perhaps than he suspected, out of a fear of being thought weak and sensitive; which is a blind that the best men very commonly practice. he professed to be hopeless and sarcastic, and took pains all the while to set up a university (the london). when i first saw this eminent person, he gave me the idea of a french virgil. not that he was like a frenchman, much less the french translator of virgil. i found him as handsome, as the abbé delille is said to have been ugly. but he seemed to me to embody a frenchman's ideal notion of the latin poet; something a little more cut and dry than i had looked for; compact and elegant, critical and acute, with a consciousness of authorship upon him; a taste over-anxious not to commit itself, and refining and diminishing nature as in a drawing-room mirror. this fancy was strengthened in the course of conversation, by his expatiating on the greatness of racine. i think he had a volume of the french poet in his hand. his skull was sharply cut and fine; with plenty, according to the phrenologists, both of the reflective and amative organs: and his poetry will bear them out. for a lettered solitude, and a bridal properly got up, both according to law and luxury, commend us to the lovely _gertrude of wyoming_. his face and person were rather on a small scale; his features regular; his eye lively and penetrating; and when he spoke, dimples played about his mouth; which, nevertheless, had something restrained and close in it. some gentle puritan seemed to have crossed the breed, and to have left a stamp on his face, such as we often see in the female scotch face rather than the male. but he appeared not at all grateful for this; and when his critics and his virgilianism were over, very unlike a puritan he talked! he seemed to spite his restrictions; and, out of the natural largeness of his sympathy with things high and low, to break at once out of delille's virgil into cotton's, like a boy let loose from school. when i had the pleasure of hearing him afterward, i forgot his virgilianisms, and thought only of the delightful companion, the unaffected philanthropist, and the creator of a beauty worth all the heroines in racine. campbell tasted pretty sharply of the good and ill of the present state of society, and, for a bookman, had beheld strange sights. he witnessed a battle in germany from the top of a convent (on which battle he has left us a noble ode); and he saw the french cavalry enter a town, wiping their bloody swords on the horses' manes. he was in germany a second time--i believe to purchase books; for in addition to his classical scholarship, and his other languages, he was a reader of german. the readers there, among whom he is popular, both for his poetry and his love of freedom, crowded about him with affectionate zeal; and they gave him, what he did not dislike, a good dinner. like many of the great men in germany, schiller, wieland, and others, he did not scruple to become editor of a magazine; and his name alone gave it a recommendation of the greatest value, and such as made it a grace to write under him. i remember, one day at sydenham, mr. theodore hook coming in unexpectedly to dinner, and amusing us very much with his talent at extempore verse. he was then a youth, tall, dark, and of a good person, with small eyes, and features more round than weak; a face that had character and humor, but no refinement. his extempore verses were really surprising. it is easy enough to extemporize in italian--one only wonders how, in a language in which every thing conspires to render verse-making easy, and it is difficult to avoid rhyming, this talent should be so much cried up--but in english it is another matter. i have known but one other person besides hook, who could extemporize in english; and he wanted the confidence to do it in public. of course, i speak of rhyming. extempore blank verse, with a little practice, would be found as easy in english as rhyming is in italian. in hook the faculty was very unequivocal. he could not have been aware of all the visitors, still less of the subject of conversation when he came in, and he talked his full share till called upon; yet he ran his jokes and his verses upon us all in the easiest manner, saying something characteristic of every body, or avoiding it with a pun; and he introduced so agreeably a piece of village scandal upon which the party had been rallying campbell, that the poet, though not unjealous of his dignity, was, perhaps, the most pleased of us all. theodore afterward sat down to the pianoforte, and enlarging upon this subject, made an extempore parody of a modern opera, introducing sailors and their clap-traps, rustics, &c., and making the poet and his supposed flame, the hero and heroine. he parodied music as well as words, giving us the most received cadences and flourishes, and calling to mind (not without some hazard to his filial duties) the commonplaces of the pastoral songs and duets of the last half century; so that if mr. dignum, the damon of vauxhall, had been present, he would have doubted whether to take it as an affront or a compliment. campbell certainly took the theme of the parody as a compliment; for having drank a little more wine than usual that evening, and happening to wear a wig on account of having lost his hair by a fever, he suddenly took off the wig, and dashed it at the head of the performer, exclaiming, "you dog! i'll throw my laurels at you." mathews, the comedian, i had the pleasure of seeing at mr. hill's several times, and of witnessing his imitations, which, admirable as they were on the stage, were still more so in private. his wife occasionally came with him, with her handsome eyes, and charitably made tea for us. many years afterward i had the pleasure of seeing them at their own table; and i thought that while time, with unusual courtesy, had spared the sweet countenance of the lady, he had given more force and interest to that of the husband in the very plowing of it up. strong lines had been cut, and the face stood them well. i had seldom been more surprised than on coming close to mathews on that occasion, and seeing the bust which he possessed in his gallery of his friend liston. some of these comic actors, like comic writers, are as unfarcical as can be imagined in their interior. the taste for humor comes to them by the force of contrast. the last time i had seen mathews, his face appeared to me insignificant to what it was then. on the former occasion he looked like an irritable in-door pet: on the latter, he seemed to have been grappling with the world, and to have got vigor by it. his face had looked out upon the atlantic, and said to the old waves, "buffet on; i have seen trouble as well as you." the paralytic affection, or whatever it was, that twisted his mouth when young, had formerly appeared to be master of his face, and given it a character of indecision and alarm. it now seemed a minor thing; a twist in a piece of old oak. and what a bust was liston's! the mouth and chin, with the throat under it, hung like an old bag; but the upper part of the head was as fine as possible. there was a speculation, a lookout, and even an elevation of character in it, as unlike the liston on the stage, as lear is to king pippin. one might imagine laberius to have had such a face. the reasons why mathews's imitations were still better in private than in public were, that he was more at his ease personally, more secure of his audience ("fit though few"), and able to interest them with traits of private character, which could not have been introduced on the stage. he gave, for instance, to persons who he thought could take it rightly, a picture of the manners and conversation of sir walter scott, highly creditable to that celebrated person, and calculated to add regard to admiration. his commonest imitations were not superficial. something of the mind and character of the individual was always insinuated, often with a dramatic dressing, and plenty of sauce piquante. at sydenham he used to give us a dialogue among the actors, each of whom found fault with another for some defect or excess of his own. kemble objecting to stiffness, munden to grimace, and so on. his representation of incledon was extraordinary: his nose seemed actually to become aquiline. it is a pity i can not put upon paper, as represented by mr. mathews, the singular gabblings of that actor, the lax and sailor-like twist of mind, with which every thing hung upon him; and his profane pieties in quoting the bible; for which, and swearing, he seemed to have an equal reverence. one morning, after stopping all night at this pleasant house, i was getting up to breakfast, when i heard the noise of a little boy having his face washed. our host was a merry bachelor, and to the rosiness of a priest might, for aught i knew, have added the paternity; but i had never heard of it, and still less expected to find a child in his house. more obvious and obstreperous proofs, however, of the existence of a boy with a dirty face, could not have been met with. you heard the child crying and objecting; then the woman remonstrating; then the cries of the child snubbed and swallowed up in the hard towel; and at intervals out came his voice bubbling and deploring, and was again swallowed up. at breakfast, the child being pitied, i ventured to speak about it, and was laughing and sympathizing in perfect good faith, when mathews came in, and i found that the little urchin was he. of james smith, a fair, stout, fresh-colored man, with round features, i recollect little, except that he used to read to us trim verses, with rhymes as pat as butter. the best of his verses are in the _rejected addresses_; and they are excellent. isaac hawkins browne with his _pipe of tobacco_, and all the rhyming _jeux-d'esprit_ in all the tracts, are extinguished in the comparison; not excepting the _probationary odes_. mr. fitzgerald found himself bankrupt in _non sequiturs_; crabbe could hardly have known which was which, himself or his parodist; and lord byron confessed to me, that the summing up of his philosophy, to wit, that "naught is every thing, and every thing is naught," was very posing. mr. smith would sometimes repeat after dinner, with his brother horace, an imaginary dialogue, stuffed full of incongruities, that made us roll with laughter. his ordinary verse and prose were too full of the ridicule of city pretensions. to be superior to any thing, it should not always be running in one's head. his brother horace was delicious. lord byron used to say, that this epithet should be applied only to eatables; and that he wondered a friend of his (i forget who) that was critical in matters of eating, should use it in any other sense. i know not what the present usage may be in the circles, but classical authority is against his lordship, from cicero downward; and i am content with the modern warrant of another noble wit, the famous lord peterborough, who, in his fine, open way, said of fenelon, that he was such a "delicious creature, he was forced to get away from him, else he would have made him pious!" i grant there is something in the word delicious which may be said to comprise a reference to every species of pleasant taste. it is at once a quintessence and a compound; and a friend, to deserve the epithet, ought, perhaps, to be capable of delighting us as much over our wine, as on graver occasions. fenelon himself could do this, with all his piety; or rather he could do it because his piety was of the true sort, and relished of every thing that was sweet and affectionate. a finer nature than horace smith's, except in the single instance of shelley, i never met with in man; nor even in that instance, all circumstances considered, have i a right to say that those who knew him as intimately as i did the other, would not have had the same reasons to love him. shelley himself had the highest regard for horace smith, as may be seen by the following verses, the initials in which the reader has here the pleasure of filling up: "wit and sense, virtue and human knowledge, all that might make this dull world a business of delight, are all combined in h. s." horace smith differed with shelley on some points; but on others, which all the world agree to praise highly, and to practice very little, he agreed so entirely, and showed unequivocally that he did agree, that, with the exception of one person (vincent novello), too diffident to gain such an honor from his friends, they were the only two men i had then met with, from whom i could have received and did receive advice or remonstrance with perfect comfort, because i could be sure of the unmixed motives and entire absence of self-reflection, with which it would come from them. shelley said to me once, "i know not what horace smith must take me for sometimes: i am afraid he must think me a strange fellow: but is it not odd, that the only truly generous person i ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker! and he writes poetry, too," continued shelley, his voice rising in a fervor of astonishment; "he writes poetry and pastoral dramas, and yet knows how to make money, and does make it, and is still generous!" shelley had reason to like him. horace smith was one of the few men, who, through a cloud of detraction, and through all that difference of conduct from the rest of the world, which naturally excites obloquy, discerned the greatness of my friend's character. indeed, he became a witness to a very unequivocal proof of it, which i shall mention by-and-by. the mutual esteem was accordingly very great, and arose from circumstances most honorable to both parties. "i believe," said shelley on another occasion, "that i have only to say to horace smith that i want a hundred pounds or two, and he would send it me without any eye to its being returned; such faith has he that i have something within me, beyond what the world supposes, and that i could only ask his money for a good purpose." and shelley would have sent for it accordingly, if the person for whom it was intended had not said nay. i will now mention the circumstance which first gave my friend a regard for horace smith. it concerns the person just mentioned, who is a man of letters. it came to mr. smith's knowledge, many years ago, that this person was suffering under a pecuniary trouble. he knew little of him at the time, but had met him occasionally; and he availed himself of this circumstance to write him a letter as full of delicacy and cordiality as it could hold, making it a matter of grace to accept a bank-note of £ which he inclosed. i speak on the best authority, that of the obliged person himself; who adds that he not only did accept the money, but felt as light and happy under the obligation, as he has felt miserable under the very report of being obliged to some; and he says, that nothing could induce him to withhold his name, but a reason, which the generous, during his lifetime, would think becoming. i have said that horace smith was a stockbroker. he left business with a fortune, and went to live in france, where, if he did not increase, he did not seriously diminish it; and france added to the pleasant stock of his knowledge. on returning to england, he set about exerting himself in a manner equally creditable to his talents and interesting to the public. i would not insult either the modesty or the understanding of my friend while he was alive, by comparing him with the author of _old mortality_ and _guy mannering_: but i ventured to say, and i repeat, that the earliest of his novels, _brambletye house_, ran a hard race with the novel of _woodstock_, and that it contained more than one character not unworthy of the best volumes of sir walter. i allude to the ghastly troubles of the regicide in his lone house; the outward phlegm and merry inward malice of winky boss (a happy name), who gravely smoked a pipe with his mouth, and laughed with his eyes; and, above all, to the character of the princely dutch merchant, who would cry out that he should be ruined, at seeing a few nutmegs dropped from a bag, and then go and give a thousand ducats for an antique. this is hitting the high mercantile character to a niceity--minute and careful in its means, princely in its ends. if the ultimate effect of commerce (_permulti transibunt_, &c.) were not something very different from what its pursuers imagine, the character would be a dangerous one to society at large, because it throws a gloss over the spirit of money-getting; but, meanwhile, nobody could paint it better, or has a greater right to recommend it, than he who has been the first to make it a handsome portrait. the personal appearance of horace smith, like that of most of the individuals i have met with, was highly indicative of his character. his figure was good and manly, inclining to the robust; and his countenance extremely frank and cordial; sweet without weakness. i have been told he was irascible. if so, it must have been no common offense that could have irritated him. he had not a jot of it in his appearance. another set of acquaintances which i made at this time used to assemble at the hospitable table of mr. hunter, the bookseller, in st. paul's church-yard. they were the survivors of the literary party that were accustomed to dine with his predecessor, mr. johnson. they came, as of old, on the friday. the most regular were fuseli and bonnycastle. now and then, godwin was present: oftener mr. kinnaird the magistrate, a great lover of horace. fuseli was a small man, with energetic features, and a white head of hair. our host's daughter, then a little girl, used to call him the white-headed lion. he combed his hair up from the forehead; and, as his whiskers were large, his face was set in a kind of hairy frame, which, in addition to the fierceness of his look, really gave him an aspect of that sort. otherwise, his features were rather sharp than round. he would have looked much like an old military officer, if his face, besides its real energy, had not affected more. there was the same defect in it as in his pictures. conscious of not having all the strength he wished, he endeavored to make out for it by violence and pretension. he carried this so far, as to look fiercer than usual when he sat for his picture. his friend and engraver, mr. houghton, drew an admirable likeness of him in this state of dignified extravagance. he is sitting back in his chair, leaning on his hand, but looking ready to pounce withal. his notion of repose was like that of pistol: "now, pistol, lay thy head in furies' lap." agreeably to this over-wrought manner, he was reckoned, i believe, not quite so bold as he might have been. he painted horrible pictures, as children tell horrible stories; and was frightened at his own lay-figures. yet he would hardly have talked as he did about his terrors, had he been as timid as some supposed him. with the affected, impression is the main thing, let it be produced how it may. a student of the academy told me, that mr. fuseli coming in one night, when a solitary candle had been put on the floor in a corner of the room, to produce some effect or other, he said it looked "like a damned soul." this was by way of being dantesque, as michael angelo was. fuseli was an ingenious caricaturist of that master, making great bodily displays of mental energy, and being ostentatious with his limbs and muscles, in proportion as he could not draw them. a leg or an arm was to be thrust down one's throat, because he knew we should dispute the truth of it. in the indulgence of this willfulness of purpose, generated partly by impatience of study, partly by want of sufficient genius, and, no doubt, also by a sense of superiority to artists who could do nothing but draw correctly, he cared for no time, place, or circumstance, in his pictures. a set of prints, after his designs, for shakspeare and cowper, exhibit a chaos of mingled genius and absurdity, such as, perhaps, was never before seen. he endeavored to bring michael angelo's apostles and prophets, with their superhuman ponderousness of intention, into the common-places of modern life. a student reading in a garden, is all over intensity of muscle; and the quiet tea-table scene in cowper, he has turned into a preposterous conspiracy of huge men and women, all bent on showing their thews and postures, with dresses as fantastical as their minds. one gentleman, of the existence of whose trowsers you are not aware till you see the terminating line at the ankle, is sitting and looking grim on a sofa, with his hat on and no waistcoat. yet there is real genius in his designs for milton, though disturbed, as usual, by strainings after the energetic. his most extraordinary mistake, after all, is said to have been on the subject of his coloring. it was a sort of livid green, like brass diseased. yet they say, that when praised for one of his pictures, he would modestly observe, "it is a pretty color." this might have been thought a jest on his part, if remarkable stories were not told of the mistakes made by other people with regard to color. sight seems the least agreed upon, of all the senses. fuseli was lively and interesting in conversation, but not without his usual faults of violence and pretension. nor was he always as decorous as an old man ought to be; especially one whose turn of mind is not of the lighter and more pleasurable cast. the licenses he took were coarse, and had not sufficient regard to his company. certainly they went a great deal beyond his friend armstrong; to whose account, i believe, fuseli's passion for swearing was laid. the poet condescended to be a great swearer, and fuseli thought it energetic to swear like him. his friendship with bonnycastle had something child-like and agreeable in it. they came and went away together, for years, like a couple of old schoolboys. they, also, like boys, rallied one another, and sometimes made a singular display of it--fuseli, at least, for it was he that was the aggressor. bonnycastle was a good fellow. he was a tall, gaunt, long-headed man, with large features and spectacles, and a deep, internal voice, with a twang of rusticity in it; and he goggled over his plate, like a horse. i often thought that a bag of corn would have hung well on him. his laugh was equine, and showed his teeth upward at the sides. wordsworth, who notices similar mysterious manifestations on the part of donkeys, would have thought it ominous. bonnycastle was passionately fond of quoting shakspeare, and telling stories; and if the _edinburgh review_ had just come out, would give us all the jokes in it. he had once an hypochondriacal disorder of long duration; and he told us, that he should never forget the comfortable sensation given him one night during this disorder, by his knocking a landlord, that was insolent to him, down the man's staircase. on the strength of this piece of energy (having first ascertained that the offender was not killed) he went to bed, and had a sleep of unusual soundness. perhaps bonnycastle thought more highly of his talents than the amount of them strictly warranted; a mistake to which scientific men appear to be more liable than others, the universe they work in being so large, and their universality (in bacon's sense of the word) being often so small. but the delusion was not only pardonable, but desirable, in a man so zealous in the performance of his duties, and so much of a human being to all about him, as bonnycastle was. it was delightful one day to hear him speak with complacency of a translation which had appeared of one of his books in arabic, and which began by saying, on the part of the translator, that "it had pleased god, for the advancement of human knowledge, to raise us up a bonnycastle." some of his stories were a little romantic, and no less authentic. he had an anecdote of a scotchman, who boasted of being descended from the admirable crichton; in proof of which, the scotchman said he had "a grit quantity of table-leenen in his possassion, marked a. c., admirable creechton." kinnaird, the magistrate, was a stout, sanguine man, under the middle height, with a fine, lamping black eye, lively to the last, and a person that "had increased, was increasing, and ought to have been diminished;" which is by no means what he thought of the prerogative. next to his bottle he was fond of his horace; and, in the intervals of business at the police-office, would enjoy both in his arm-chair. between the vulgar calls of this kind of magistracy, and the perusal of the urbane horace, there must have been a gusto of contradiction, which the bottle, perhaps, was required to render quite palatable. fielding did not love his bottle the less for being obliged to lecture the drunken. nor did his son, who succeeded him in taste and office. i know not how a former poet-laureat, mr. pye, managed; another man of letters who was fain to accept a situation of this kind. having been a man of fortune and a member of parliament, and loving his horace to boot, he could hardly have done without his wine. i saw him once in a state of scornful indignation at being interrupted in the perusal of a manuscript by the monitions of his police-officers, who were obliged to remind him, over and over again, that he was a magistrate, and that the criminal multitude were in waiting. every time the door opened, he threatened and he implored "otium divos rogat in patenti prensus." had you quoted this to mr. kinnaird, his eyes would have sparkled with good-fellowship: he would have finished the verse and the bottle with you, and proceeded to as many more as your head could stand. poor fellow, the last time i saw him, he was an apparition formidably substantial. the door of our host's dining-room opened without my hearing it, and, happening to turn round, i saw a figure in a great coat literally almost as broad as it was long, and scarcely able to articulate. he was dying of a dropsy, and was obliged to revive himself, before he was fit to converse, by the wine that was killing him. but he had cares besides, and cares of no ordinary description; and, for my part, i will not blame even his wine for killing him, unless his cares could have done it more agreeably. after dinner that day, he was comparatively himself again, quoted his horace as usual, talked of lords and courts with a relish, and begged that _god save the king_ might be played to him on the piano-forte; to which he listened, as if his soul had taken its hat off. i believe he would have liked to die to _god save the king_, and to have "waked and found those visions true." [from colburn's new monthly magazine.] ode to the sun. by leigh hunt. the main object of this poem is to impress the beautiful and animating fact, that the greatest visible agent in our universe, the sun, is also one of the most beneficent; and thus to lead to the inference, that spiritual greatness and goodness are in like proportion, and its maker beneficence itself, through whatever apparent inconsistencies he may work. the sun is at once the greatest might and right that we behold. a secondary intention of the poem is to admonish the carelessness with which people in general regard the divinest wonders of the creation, in consequence of being used to their society--this great and glorious mystery, the sun, not excepted. "familiarity," it is said, "breeds contempt." to which somebody emphatically added, "with the contemptible." i am far from meaning to say that all who behold the sun with too little thought are contemptible. habit does strange things, even with the most reflecting. but of this i am sure, that in proportion as any body wishes to prove himself worthy of his familiarity with great objects, he will not be sorry to be reminded of their greatness, especially as reverence need not diminish delight; for a heavenly "father" can no more desire the admiration of him to be oppressive to us, than an earthly one; else fatherliness would be unfatherly, and sunshine itself a gloom. when the florentines crowded to some lectures of galileo, because they were on a comet which had just made its appearance, the philosopher was bold enough to rebuke them for showing such a childish desire to hear him on this particular subject, when they were in the habit of neglecting the marvels of creation which daily presented themselves to their eyes. ode to the sun. presence divine! great lord of this our sphere! bringer of light, and life, and joy, and beauty-- god midst a million gods, that far and near hold each his orbs in rounds of rapturous duty;[a] oh, never may i, while i lift this brow, believe in any god _less_ like a god than thou. thou art the mightiest of all things we see, and thou, the mightiest, art among the kindest; the planets, dreadfully and easily, about thee, as in sacred sport, thou windest; and thine illustrious hands, for all that power, light soft on the babe's cheek, and nurse the budding flower. they say that in thine orb is movement dire, tempest and flame, as on a million oceans: well may it be, thou heart of heavenly fire; such looks and smiles befit a god's emotions, we know thee gentle in the midst of all, by those smooth orbs in heaven, this sweet fruit on the wall. i feel thee, here, myself, soft on my hand; around me is thy mute, celestial presence, reverence and awe would make me fear to stand within thy beam, were not all good its essence: were not all good its essence, and from thence all good, glad heart deriv'd, and child-like confidence. i know that there is fear, and grief, and pain, strange foes, though stranger guardian friends of pleasure: i know that poor men lose, and rich men gain, though oft th' unseen adjusts the seeming measure; i know that guile may teach, while truth must bow, or bear contempt and shame on his benignant brow. but while thou sit'st, mightier than all, o sun, and e'en when sharpest felt, still throned in kindness. i see that greatest and that best are one, and that all else works tow'rd it, though in blindness evil i see, and fear, and grief, and pain, work under good, their lord, embodied in thy reign. i see the molten gold darkly refine o'er the great sea of human joy and sorrow, i bear the deep voice of a grief divine calling sweet notes to some diviner morrow, and though i know not how the two may part, i feel thy rays, o sun, write it upon my heart. upon my heart thou writest it, as thou, heart of these worlds, art writ on by a greater: beam'd on with love from some still mightier brow, perhaps by that which waits some new relater; some amaz'd man, who sees new splendors driven thick round a sun of suns, and fears he looks at heaven.[b] 'tis easy for vain man, time's growing child, to dare pronounce on thy material seeming: heav'n, for its own good ends, is mute and mild to many a wrong of man's presumptuous dreaming. matter, or mind, of either, what knows he? or how with more than both thine orb divine may be! art thou a god, indeed? or thyself heaven? and do we taste thee here in light and flowers? art thou the first sweet place, where hearts, made even, sing tender songs in earth-remembering bowers? enough, my soul. enough through thee, o sun, to learn the sure good song--greatest and best are one. enough for man to work, to hope, to love, copying thy zeal untir'd, thy smile unscorning: glad to see gods thick as the stars above, bright with the god of gods' eternal morning; round about whom perchance endless they go, ripening their earths to heavens, as love and wisdom grow. footnotes: [a] _rapturous_--transporting, carrying away. the reader can take the word either in its spiritual or material sense, or both; according as he agrees or disagrees with keppler and others respecting the nature of the planetary bodies. [b] alluding to a central sun; that is to say, a sun governing other suns, which is supposed to exist in the constellation hercules. [from household words.] two-handed dick the stockman. an adventure in the bush. traveling in the bush one rainy season, i put up for the night at a small, weather-bound inn, perched half way up a mountain range, where several bush servants on the tramp had also taken refuge from the down-pouring torrents. i had had a long and fatiguing ride over a very bad country, so, after supper, retired into the furthest corner of the one room, that served for "kitchen, and parlor, and all," and there, curled up in my blanket, in preference to the bed offered by our host, which was none of the cleanest; with half shut eyes, i glumly puffed at my pipe in silence, allowing the hubble-bubble of the bushmen's gossip to flow through my unnoting ears. fortunately for my peace, the publican's stock of rum had been some time exhausted, and as i was the latest comer, all the broiling and frying had ceased, but a party sat round the fire, evidently set in for a spell at "yarning." at first the conversation ran in ordinary channels, such as short reminiscences of old world rascality, perils in the bush. till at length a topic arose which seemed to have a paramount interest for all. this was the prowess of a certain two-handed dick the stockman. "yes, yes; i'll tell you what it is, mates," said one; "this confounded reading and writing, that don't give plain fellows like you and me a chance; now if it were to come to fighting for a living, i don't care whether it was half-minute time and london rules, rough and tumble, or single stick, or swords and bayonets, or tomahawks--i'm dashed if you and me, and two-handed dick, wouldn't take the whole legislative council, the governor and judges--one down t'other come on. though, to be sure, dick could thrash any two of us." i was too tired to keep awake, and dozed off, to be again and again disturbed with cries of "bravo, dick!" "that's your sort!" "houray, dick!" all signifying approval of that individual's conduct in some desperate encounter, which formed the subject of a stirring narrative. for months after that night this idea of two-handed dick haunted me, but the bustle of establishing a new station at length drove it out of my head. i suppose a year had elapsed from the night when the fame of the double-fisted stockman first reached me. i had to take a three days' journey to buy a score of fine-wooled rams, through a country quite new to me, which i chose because it was a short-cut recently discovered. i got over, the first day, forty-five miles comfortably. the second day, in the evening, i met an ill-looking fellow walking with a broken musket, and his arm in a sling. he seemed sulky, and i kept my hand on my double-barreled pistol all the time i was talking to him; he begged a little tea and sugar, which i could not spare, but i threw him a fig of tobacco. in answer to my questions about his arm, he told me, with a string of oaths, that a bull, down in some mimosa flats, a day's journey ahead, had charged him, flung him into a water-hole, broken his arm, and made him lose his sugar and tea bag. bulls in australia are generally quiet, but this reminded me that some of the highland black cattle imported by the australian company, after being driven off by a party of gully rakees (cattle stealers), had escaped into the mountains and turned quite wild. out of this herd, which was of a breed quite unsuited to the country, a bull sometimes, when driven off by a stronger rival, would descend to the mimosa flats, and wander about, solitary and dangerously fierce. it struck me, as i rode off, that it was quite as well my friend's arm and musket had been disabled, for he did not look the sort of man it would be pleasant to meet in a thicket of scrub, if he fancied the horse you rode. so, keeping one eye over my shoulder, and a sharp look-out for any other traveler of the same breed, i rode off at a brisk pace. i made out afterward that my foot friend was jerry johnson, hung for shooting a bullock-driver the following year. at sun-down, when i reached the hut where i had intended to sleep, i found it deserted, and so full of fleas, i thought it better to camp out; so i hobbled out old gray-tail on the best piece of grass i could find, which was very poor indeed. the next morning, when i went to look for my horse, he was nowhere to be found. i put the saddle on my head and tracked him for hours; it was evident the poor beast had been traveling away in search of grass. i walked until my feet were one mass of blisters; at length, when about to give up the search in despair, having quite lost the track on stony ground, i came upon the marks quite fresh in a bit of swampy ground, and a few hundred yards further found master gray-tail rolling in the mud of a nearly dry water-hole as comfortably as possible. i put down the saddle and called him; at that moment i heard a loud roar and crash in a scrub behind me, and out rushed, at a terrific pace, a black highland bull charging straight at me. i had only just time to throw myself on one side flat on the ground as he thundered by me. my next move was to scramble among a small clump of trees, one of great size, the rest were mere saplings. the bull having missed his mark, turned again, and first revenged himself by tossing my saddle up in the air, until, fortunately, it lodged in some bushes; then, having smelt me out, he commenced a circuit round the trees, stamping, pawing, and bellowing frightfully. with his red eyes, and long, sharp horns, he looked like a demon; i was quite unarmed, having broken my knife the day before; my pistols were in my holsters, and i was wearied to death. my only chance consisted in dodging him round the trees until he should be tired out. deeply did i regret having left my faithful dogs boomer and bounder behind. the bull charged again and again, sometimes coming with such force against the tree that he fell on his knees, sometimes bending the saplings behind which i stood until his horns almost touched me. there was not a branch i could lay hold of to climb up. how long this awful game of "_touchwood_" lasted, i know not; it seemed hours; after the first excitement of self-preservation passed off, weariness again took possession of me, and it required all the instinct of self-preservation to keep me on my feet; several times the bull left me for a few seconds, pacing suddenly away, bellowing his malignant discontent; but before i could cross over to a better position he always came back at full speed. my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, my eyes grew hot and misty, my knees trembled under me, i felt it impossible to hold out until dark. at length i grew desperate, and determined to make a run for the opposite covert the moment the bull turned toward the water-hole again. i felt sure i was doomed, and thought of it until i grew indifferent. the bull seemed to know i was worn out, and grew more fierce and rapid in his charges, but just when i was going to sit down under the great tree, and let him do his worst, i heard the rattle of a horse among the rocks above, and a shout that sounded like the voice of an angel. then came the barking of a dog, and the loud reports of a stockwhip, but the bull, with his devilish eyes fixed on me, never moved. up came a horseman at full speed; crack fell the lash on the black bull's hide; out spirted the blood in a long streak. the bull turned savagely--charged the horseman. the horse wheeled round just enough to baffle him--no more--again the lash descended, cutting like a long, flexible razor, but the mad bull was not to be beaten off by a whip: he charged again and again; but he had met his match; right and left, as needed, the horse turned, sometimes pivoting on his hind, sometime on his fore-legs. the stockman shouted something, leapt from his horse, and strode forward to meet the bull with an open knife between his teeth. as the beast lowered his head to charge, he seemed to catch him by the horns. there was a struggle, a cloud of dust, a stamping like two strong men wrestling--i could not see clearly; but the next moment the bull was on his back, the blood welling from his throat, his limbs quivering in death. the stranger, covered with mud and dust, came to me, saying as unconcernedly as if he had been killing a calf in a slaughter-house, "he's dead enough, young man; he won't trouble any body any more." i walked two or three paces toward the dead beast; my senses left me--i fainted. when i came to myself, my horse was saddled, bridled, and tied up to a bush. my stranger friend was busy flaying the bull. "i would like to have a pair of boots out of the old devil," he observed, in answer to my inquiring look, "before the dingoes and the eagle hawks dig into his carcase." we rode out of the flats up a gentle ascent, as night was closing in. i was not in talking humor; but i said, "you have saved my life." "well, i rather think i have," but this was muttered in an under tone; "it's not the first i have saved, or taken either, for that matter." i was too much worn out for thanking much, but i pulled out a silver hunting-watch and put it into his hand. he pushed it back, almost roughly, saying, "no, sir, not now; i shalln't take money or money's worth for that, though i may ask something some time. it's nothing, after all. i owed the old black devil a grudge for spoiling a blood filly of mine; besides, though i didn't know it when i rode up first, and went at the beast to take the devil out of myself as much as any thing--i rather think that you are the young gentleman that ran through the bush at night to manchester dan's hut, when his wife was bailed up by the blacks, and shot one-eyed jackey, in spite of the governor's proclamation." "you seem to know me," i answered; "pray, may i ask who you are, if it is a fair question, for i can not remember ever having seen you before." "oh, they call me 'two-handed dick,' in this country." the scene in the roadside inn flashed on my recollection. before i could say another word, a sharp turn round the shoulder of the range we were traversing, brought us in sight of the fire of a shepherd's hut. the dogs ran out barking; we hallooed and cracked our whips, and the hut-keeper came to meet us with a fire-stick in his hand. "lord bless my heart and soul! dick, is that thee at last? well, i thought thee were't never coming;" cried the hut-keeper, a little man, who came limping forward very fast with the help of a crutch-handled stick. "i say, missis, missis, here's dick, here's two-handed dick." this was uttered in a shrill, hysterical sort of scream. out came "missis" at the top of her speed, and began hugging dick as he was getting off his horse, her arms reached a little above his waist, laughing and crying, both at the same time, while her husband kept fast hold of the stockman's hand, muttering, "lord, dick i'm so glad to see thee." meanwhile, the dogs barking, and a flock of weaned lambs just penned, ba'aing, made such a riot, that i was fairly bewildered. so, feeling myself one too many, i slipped away, leading off both the horses to the other side of the hut, where i found a shepherd, who showed me a grass paddock to feed the nags a bit before turning them out for the night. i said to him, "what _is_ the meaning of all this going on between your mate and his wife, and the big stockman?" "the meaning, stranger: why, that's two-handed dick, and my mate is little jemmy that he saved, and charley anvils at the same time, when the blacks slaughtered the rest of the party, near on a dozen of them." on returning, i found supper smoking on the table, and we had made a regular "bush" meal. the stockman then told my adventure, and, when they had exchanged all the news, i had little difficulty in getting the hut-keeper to the point i wanted; the great difficulty lay in preventing man and wife from telling the same story at the same time. however, by judicious management, i was able to gather the following account of _two-handed dick's fight and ride_. "when first i met dick he was second stockman to mr. ronalds, and i took a shepherd's place there; it was my second place in this country, for you see i left the old country in a bad year for the weaving trade, and was one of the first batch of free emigrants that came out, the rest were chiefly irish. i found shepherding suit me very well, and my missis was hut-keeper. well, dick and i got very thick; i used to write his letters for him, and read in an evening, and so on. well, though i undertook a shepherd's place, i soon found i could handle an ax pretty well. throwing the shuttle gives the use of the arms, you see, and dick put into my head that i could make more money if i took to making fences; i sharpening the rails, and making the mortice-holes, and a stranger man setting them. i did several jobs at odd times, and was thought very handy. well, mr. ronalds, during the time of the great drought, five years ago, determined to send up a lot of cattle to the north, where he had heard there was plenty of water and grass, and form a station there. dick was picked out as stockman; a young gentleman, a relative of mr. ronalds, went as head of the party, a very foolish, conceited young man, who knew very little of bush life, and would not be taught. there were eight splitters and fencers, besides charley anvils, the blacksmith, and two bullock drivers. "i got leave to go because i wanted to see the country, and dick asked. my missis was sorely against my going. i was to be storekeeper, as well as do any farming and work, if wanted. "we had two drays, and were well armed. we were fifteen days going up before we got into the new country, and then we traveled five days; sometimes twenty-four hours without water, and sometimes had to unload the drays two or three times a day, to get over creeks. the fifth day we came to very fine land; the grass met over our horses' necks, and the river was a chain of water-holes, all full, and as clear as crystal. the kangaroos were hopping about as plentiful as rabbits in a warren; and the grass by the river side had regular tracks of the emus, where they went down to drink. "we had been among signs of the blacks, too, for five days, but had not seen any thing of them, although we could hear the devils cooing at nightfall, calling to each other. we kept regular watch and watch at first--four sentinels, and every man sleeping with his gun at hand. "now, as it was dick's business to tail (follow) the cattle, five hundred head, i advised him to have his musket sawed off in the barrel, so as to be a more handy size for using on horseback. he took my advice; and charley anvils made a very good job of it, so that he could bring it under his arm when hanging at his back from a rope sling, and fire with one hand. it was lucky i thought of it, as it turned out. "at length the overseer fixed on a spot for the station. it was very well for water and grass, and a very pretty view, as he said, but it was too near a thicket where the blacks would lie in ambush, for safety. the old bushmen wanted it planted on a neck of land, where the waters protected it all but one side, and there a row of fence would have made it secure. "well, we set to work, and soon had a lot of tall trees down. charley put up his forge and his grindstone, to keep the ax sharp, and i staid with him. dick went tailing the cattle, and the overseer sat on a log, and looked on. the second day a mob of blacks came down on the opposite side of the river. they were quite wild, regular _myals_, but some of our men with green branches, went and made peace with them. they liked our bread and sugar; and after a short time we had a lot of them helping to draw rails, fishing for us, bringing wild honey, kangaroos, rats, and firewood, in return for butter and food, so we began to be less careful about our arms. we gave them iron tomahawks, and they soon found out that they could cut out an opossum from a hollow in half-an-hour with one of our tomahawks, while it took a day with one of their own stone ones. "and so the time passed very pleasantly. we worked away. the young men and gins worked for us. the chiefs adorned themselves with the trinkets and clothes we gave them, and fished and hunted, and admired themselves in the river. "dick never trusted them; he stuck to his cattle; he warned us not to trust them, and the overseer called him a blood-thirsty, murdering blackguard for his pains. "one day, the whole party were at work, chopping and trimming weather-boards for the hut; the blacks helping as usual. i was turning the grindstone for charley anvils, and dick was coming up to the dray to get some tea, but there was a brow of a hill between him and us: the muskets were all piled in one corner. i heard a howl, and then a scream--our camp was full of armed blacks. when i raised my head, i saw the chief, captain jack, we called him, with a broad ax in his hand, and the next minute he had chopped the overseer's head clean off; in two minutes all my mates were on the ground. three or four came running up to us; one threw a spear at me, which i half parried with a pannikin i was using to wet the grindstone, but it fixed deep in my hip, and part of it i believe is there still. charley anvils had an ax in his hand, and cut down the first two fellows that came up to him, but he was floored in a minute with twenty wounds. they were so eager to kill me, that one of them, luckily, or i should not have been alive now, cut the spear in my hip short off. another, a young lad i had sharpened a tomahawk for a few days before, chopped me across the head; you can see the white hair. down i fell, and nothing could have saved us, but the other savages had got the tarpaulin off, and were screaming with delight, plundering the drays, which called my enemies off. just then, dick came in sight. he saw what was the matter; but although there were more than a hundred black devils, all armed, painted, bloody, and yelling, he never stopped or hesitated, but rode slap through the camp, fired bang among them, killing two, and knocking out the brains of another. as he passed by a top rail, where an ax was sticking, he caught it up. the men in the camp were dead enough; the chief warriors had made the rush there, and every one was pierced with several spears, or cut down from close behind by axes in the hands of the chiefs. we, being further off, had been attacked by the boys only. dick turned toward us, and shouted my name, i could not answer, but i managed to sit up an instant; he turned toward me, leaned down, caught me by the jacket, and dragged me on before him like a log. just then charley, who had crept under the grindstone, cried, 'oh, dick, don't leave me!' as he said that, a lot of them came running down, for they had seen enough to know that, unless they killed us all, their job would not be half done. as dick turned to face them, they gave way, and flung spears, but they could not hurt him: they managed to get between us and poor charley. dick rode back a circuit, and dropped me among some bushes on a hill, where i could see all. four times he charged through and through a whole mob, with an ax in one hand, and his short musket in the other. he cut them down right and left, as if he had been mowing; he scared the wretches, although the old women kept screeching and urging them on, as they always do. at length, by help of his stirrup leather, he managed to get charley up behind him. he never could have done it, but his mare fought, and bit, and turned when he bid her, so he threw the bridle on her neck, and could use that terrible left arm of his. well, he came up to the hill, and lifted me on, and away we went for three or four miles, but we knew the mare could not stand it long, so dick got off, and walked. when the blacks had pulled the drays' loads to pieces, they began to follow us, but dick never lost heart--" "nay, mate," interrupted dick, "once i did; shall never forget it, when i came to put my last bullet in, it was too big." "good heavens!" i exclaimed, "what did you do?" "why, i put the bullet in my mouth, and kept chawing and chawing it, and threatening the black devils all the while, until at last it was small enough, and then i rammed it down, and dropped on my knee, and waited until they came within twenty yards, and then i picked off captain jack, the biggest villain of them all." here dick, being warmed, continued the story: "we could not stop; we marched all evening and all night, and when the two poor creturs cried for water, as they did most of the night, as often as i could i filled my boots, and gave them to drink. i led the horse, and traveled seventy miles without halting for more than a minute or two. toward the last they were as helpless as worn-out sheep. i tied them on. we had the luck to fall in with a party traveling just when the old mare was about giving in, and then we must all have died for want of water. charley anvils had eighteen wounds, but, except losing two fingers, is none the worse. poor jemmy, there, will never be fit for any thing but a hut-keeper; as for me, i had some scratches--nothing to hurt; and the old mare lost an ear. i went back afterward with the police, and squared accounts with the blacks. "and so, you see, stranger, the old woman thinks i saved her old man's life, although i would have done as much for any one; but i believe there are some gentlemen in sydney think i ought to have been hung for what i did. any how, since that scrimmage in the bush, they always call me 'two-handed dick.'" [from household words.] the uses of sorrow. oh, grieve not for the early dead, whom god himself hath taken; but deck with flowers each holy bed-- nor deem thyself forsaken, when one by one, they fall away, who were to thee as summer day. weep for the babes of guilt, who sleep with scanty rags stretch'd o'er them, on the dark road, the downward steep of misery; while before them looms out afar the dreadful tree, and solemn, sad eternity! nor weep alone; but when to heaven the cords of sorrow bind thee, let kindest help to such be given as god shall teach to find thee; and, for the sake of those above, do deeds of wisdom, mercy, love. the child that sicken'd on thy knee, thou weeping christian mother, had learn'd in this world, lispingly, words suited for another. oh, dost thou think, with pitying mind, on untaught infants left behind? benjamin west. by leigh hunt. the two principal houses at which i visited, till the arrival of our relations from the west indies, were mr. west's (late president of the royal academy), in newman-street, and mr. godfrey thornton's (of the distinguished city family), in austin-friars. how i loved the graces in one, and every thing in the other! mr. west (who, as i have already mentioned, had married one of my relations) had bought his house, i believe, not long after he came to england; and he had added a gallery at the back of it, terminating in a couple of lofty rooms. the gallery was a continuation of the house-passage, and, together with one of those rooms and the parlor, formed three sides of a garden, very small but elegant, with a grass-plot in the middle, and busts upon stands under an arcade. the gallery, as you went up it, formed an angle at a little distance to the left, then another to the right and then took a longer stretch into the two rooms; and it was hung with the artist's sketches all the way. in a corner between the two angles was a study-door, with casts of venus and apollo, on each side of it. the two rooms contained the largest of his pictures; and in the farther one, after stepping softly down the gallery, as if reverencing the dumb life on the walls, you generally found the mild and quiet artist at his work; happy, for he thought himself immortal. i need not enter into the merits of an artist who is so well known, and has been so often criticised. he was a man with regular, mild features; and, though of quaker origin, had the look of what he was, a painter to a court. his appearance was so gentlemanly, that, the moment he changed his gown for a coat, he seemed to be full-dressed. the simplicity and self-possession of the young quaker, not having time enough to grow stiff (for he went early to study at rome), took up, i suppose, with more ease than most would have done, the urbanities of his new position. and what simplicity helped him to, favor would retain. yet this man, so well bred, and so indisputably clever in his art (whatever might be the amount of his genius), had received so careless, or so homely an education when a boy, that he could hardly read. he pronounced also some of his words, in reading, with a puritanical barbarism, such as _haive_ for _have_, as some people pronounce when they sing psalms. but this was perhaps an american custom. my mother, who both read and spoke remarkably well, would say _haive_, and _shaul_ (for _shall_), when she sung her hymns. but it was not so well in reading lectures at the academy. mr. west would talk of his art all day long, painting all the while. on other subjects he was not so fluent; and on political and religious matters he tried hard to maintain the reserve common with those about a court. he succeeded ill in both. there were always strong suspicions of his leaning to his native side in politics; and daring bonaparte's triumph, he could not contain his enthusiasm for the republican chief, going even to paris to pay him his homage, when first consul. the admiration of high colors and powerful effects, natural to a painter, was too strong for him. how he managed this matter with the higher powers in england, i can not say. probably he was the less heedful, inasmuch as he was not very carefully paid. i believe he did a great deal for george the third with little profit. mr. west certainly kept his love for bonaparte no secret; and it was no wonder, for the latter expressed admiration of his pictures. the artist thought the conqueror's smile enchanting, and that he had the handsomest leg he had ever seen. he was present when the "venus de medicis" was talked of, the french having just taken possession of her. bonaparte, mr. west said, turned round to those about him, and said, with his eyes lit up, "she's coming!" as if he had been talking of a living person. i believe he retained for the emperor the love that he had had for the first consul, a wedded love, "for better, for worse." however, i believe also that he retained it after the emperor's downfall; which is not what every painter did. peace peace has a dwelling near a river where the darkened waters quiver. where the ripple we can hear bursting on the pebbly shore, making music soft and clear for evermore, for evermore. peace has a dwelling near a wood where the cooing pigeons brood, where the sweet-voiced nightingale unto the moon her song doth pour, and songsters swell the echoing vale for evermore, for evermore. peace has a dwelling in the soul that can its hopes and fears control; in silent wood or city's din alike it may be found to dwell; its dearest home is that within the chastened heart's profoundest cell. peace has a dwelling where no more the ear can hear the torrent roar, or lists the rippling of the river, as softly it turns up its wave, where never more the moon-beams quiver within the silent grave. peace--oh, thou white-garmented maiden, with the flower-decked head, come, make thy mansion in my heart! a tenant thou shalt freely rest, and thou shalt soothe each bitter smart that racks the chambers of my breast charles dryden. [from household words.] alchemy and gunpowder. the day-dream of mankind has ever been the unattainable. to sigh for what is beyond our reach is, from infancy to age, a fixed condition of our nature. to it we owe all the improvement that distinguishes civilized from savage life--to it we are indebted for all the great discoveries which, at long intervals, have rewarded thought. though the motives which stimulated the earliest inquiries were frequently undefined, and, if curiously examined, would be found to be sometimes questionable, it has rarely happened that the world has not benefited by them in the end. thus astrology, which ascribed to the stars an influence over the actions and destinies of man; magic, which attempted to reverse the laws of nature, and alchemy, which aimed at securing unlimited powers of self-reward; all tended to the final establishment of useful science. of none of the sciences whose laws are fully understood, is this description truer than of that now called chemistry, which once was alchemy. that "knowledge of the substance or composition of bodies," which the arabic root of both words implies, establishes a fact in place of a chimera. experimental philosophy has made alchemy an impossible belief, but the faith in it was natural in an age when reason was seldom appealed to. the credulity which accepted witchcraft for a truth, was not likely to reject the theory of the transmutation of metals, nor strain at the dogma of perpetual youth and health; the concomitants of the philosopher's stone. the alchemists claim for their science the remotest antiquity possible, but it was not until three or four centuries after the christian era that the doctrine of transmutation began to spread. it was among the arabian physicians that it took root. those learned men, through whom was transmitted so much that was useful in astronomy, in mathematics, and in medicine, were deeply tinctured with the belief in an universal elixir, whose properties gave the power of multiplying gold, of prolonging life indefinitely, and of making youth perpetual. the discoveries which they made of the successful application of mercury in many diseases, led them to suppose that this agent contained within itself the germ of all curative influences, and was the basis of all other metals. an eastern imagination, ever prone to heighten the effects of nature, was not slow to ascribe a preternatural force to this medicine, but not finding it in its simple state, the practitioners of the new science had recourse to combination, in the hope, by that means, of attaining their object. to fix mercury became their first endeavor, and this fixation they described as "catching the flying bird of hermes." once embarked in the illusory experiment, it is easy to perceive how far the alchemists might be led; nor need it excite any wonder that in pursuit of the ideal, they accidentally hit upon a good deal that was real. the labors, therefore, of the arabian physicians were not thrown away, though they entangled the feet of science in mazes, from which escape was only effected, after the lapse of centuries of misdirected efforts. from the period we have last spoken of, until the commencement of the eleventh century, the only alchemist of note is the arabian geber, who, though he wrote on the perfections of metals, of the new-found art of making gold, in a word, on the philosopher's stone, has only descended to our times as the founder of that jargon which passes under the name of "gibberish." he was, however, a great authority in the middle ages, and allusions to "geber's cooks," and "geber's kitchen," are frequent among those who at length saw the error of their ways, after wasting their substance in the vain search for the elixir. a longer interval might have elapsed but for the voice of peter the hermit, whose fanatical scheme for the recovery of the holy sepulchre was the cause of that gradual absorption, by the nations of the west, of the learning which had so long been buried in the east. the crusaders, or those, rather, who visited the shores of syria under their protection--the men whose skill in medicine and letters rendered them useful to the invading armies--acquired a knowledge of the arabian languages, and of the sciences cultivated by arabian philosophers, and this knowledge they disseminated through europe. some part of it, it is true, was derived from the moors in spain, but it was all conveyed in a common tongue which began now to be understood. to this era belong the names of alfonso the wise, king of castile; of isaac beimiram, the son of solomon the physician; of hali abbas, the scholar of abimeher moyses, the son of sejar; of aben sina, better known as avicenna, and sometimes called abohali; of averroes of cordova, surnamed the commentator; of rasis, who is also called almanzor and albumasar; and of john of damascus, whose name has been latinized into johannes damascenus. all these, physicians by profession, were more or less professors of alchemy; and besides these were such as artephius, who wrote alchemical tracts about the year , but who deserves rather to be remembered for the cool assertion which he makes in his "wisdom of secrets" that, at the time he wrote he had reached the patriarchal--or fabulous--age of one thousand and twenty-five years! the thirteenth century came, and with it came two men who stand first, as they then stood alone, in literary and scientific knowledge. one was a german, the other an englishman; the first was albertus magnus, the last roger bacon. of the former, many wonderful stories are told: such, for instance, as his having given a banquet to the king of the romans, in the gardens of his cloister at cologne, when he converted the intensity of winter into a season of summer, full of flowers and fruits, which disappeared when the banquet was over; and his having constructed a marvelous automaton, called "androïs," which, like the invention of his contemporary, roger bacon, was said to be capable of auguring all questions, past, present, and to come. to know more than the rest of the world in any respect, but particularly in natural philosophy, was a certain method by which to earn the name of a necromancer in the middle ages, and there are few whose occult fame has stood higher than that of roger bacon. he was afraid, therefore, to speak plainly--indeed, it was the custom of the early philosophers to couch their knowledge in what bacon himself calls the "tricks of obscurity;" and in his celebrated "_epistola de secretis_," he adverts to the possibility of his being obliged to do the same thing, through "_the greatness of the secrets_ which he shall handle." with regard to the invention of his greatest secret, we shall give the words in which he speaks of the properties of gunpowder, and afterward show in what terms he concealed his knowledge. _"noyses_," he says, "_may be made in the aire like thunders_, yea, with greater horror than those that come of nature; _for a little matter fitted to the quantity of a thimble, maketh a horrible noise and wonderful lightning_. and this is done after sundry fashions, _whereby any citie or armie may be destroyed_." a more accurate description of the explosion of gunpowder could scarcely be given, and it is not to be supposed that bacon simply confined himself to the theory of his art, when he knew so well the consequences arising from a practical application of it. on this head there is a legend extant, which has not, to our knowledge, been printed before, from which we may clearly see why he contented himself with the cabalistic form in which he conveyed his knowledge of what he deemed a fatal secret. attached to roger bacon's laboratory, and a zealous assistant in the manifold occupations with which the learned franciscan occupied himself, was a youthful student, whose name is stated to have been hubert de dreux. he was a norman, and many of the attributes of that people were conspicuous in his character. he was of a quick intelligence, and hasty courage, fertile in invention, and prompt in action, eloquent of discourse, and ready of hand; all excellent qualities, to which was superadded an insatiable curiosity. docile to receive instruction, and apt to profit by it, hubert became a great favorite with the philosopher, and to him bacon expounded many of the secrets--or supposed secrets--of the art which he strove to, bring to perfection. he instructed him also in the composition of certain medicines, which bacon himself believed might be the means of prolonging life, though not to the indefinite extent dreamed of by those who put their whole faith in the great elixir. but there never yet was an adept in any art or science who freely communicated to his pupil the full amount of his own knowledge; something for experience to gather, or for ingenuity to discover, is always kept in reserve, and the instructions of roger bacon stopped short at one point. he was himself engaged in the prosecution of that chemical secret which he rightly judged to be a dangerous one, and, while he experimented with the compound of sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal, he kept himself apart from his general laboratory, and wrought in a separate cell, to which not even hubert had access. to know that the friar had a mysterious occupation, which, more than the making of gold or the universal medicine, engrossed him, was enough of itself to rouse the young man's curiosity; but when to this was added the fact, that, from time to time, strange and mysterious noises were heard, accompanied by bright corruscations and a new and singular odor, penetrating through the chinks close to which his eyes were stealthily riveted, hubert's eagerness to know all that his master concealed had no limit. he resolved to discover the secret, even though he should perish in the attempt; he feared that there was good reason for the accusation of dealing in the black art, which, more than all others, the monks of bacon's own convent countenanced, but this apprehension only stimulated him the more. for some time hubert waited without an opportunity occurring for gratifying the secret longing of his heart; at last it presented itself. to afford medical assistance to the sick, was, perhaps, the most useful practice of conventual life, and the monks had always among them practitioners of the healing art, more or less skillful. of this number, roger bacon was the most eminent, not only in the monastery to which he belonged, but in all oxford. it was about the hour of noon on a gloomy day toward the end of november, in the year , while the friar and his pupil were severally employed, the former in his secret cell, and the latter in the general laboratory, that there arrived at the gate of the franciscan convent a messenger on horseback, the bearer of news from abingdon, that walter de losely, the sheriff of berkshire, had that morning met with a serious accident by a hurt from a lance, and was then lying dangerously wounded at the hostelry of the checkers in abingdon, whither he had been hastily conveyed. the messenger added, that the leech who had been called in was most anxious for the assistance of the skillful friar, roger bacon, and urgently prayed that he would lose no time in coming to the aid of the wounded knight. great excitement prevailed among the monks on the receipt of this intelligence, for walter de losely was not only a man of power and influence, but moreover, a great benefactor to their order. friar bacon was immediately sought and speedily made his appearance, the urgency of the message admitting of no delay. he hastily enjoined hubert to continue the preparation of an amalgam which he was desirous of getting into a forward state, and taking with him his case of instruments with the bandages and salves which he thought needful, was soon mounted on an easy, ambling palfrey on his way toward abingdon, the impatient messenger riding before him to announce his approach. when he was gone, quiet again reigned in the convent, and hubert de dreux resumed his occupation. but it did not attract him long. suddenly he raised his head from the work and his eyes were lit up with a gleam in which joy and fear seemed equally blended. for the first time, for months, he was quite alone. what if he could obtain access to his master's cell and penetrate the mystery in which his labors had been so long enveloped! he cautiously stole to the door of the laboratory, and peeped out into a long passage, at the further extremity of which a door opened into a small court where, detached from the main edifice and screened from all observation, was a small building which the friar had recently caused to be constructed. he looked about him timorously, fearing lest he might be observed; but there was no cause for apprehension, scarcely any inducement could have prevailed with the superstitious franciscans to turn their steps willingly in the direction of roger bacon's solitary cell. reassured by the silence, hubert stole noiselessly onward, and tremblingly approached the forbidden spot. his quick eye saw at a glance that the key was not in the door, and his countenance fell. the friar's treasure was locked up! he might see something, however, if he could not enter the chamber. he knelt down, therefore, at the door, and peered through the keyhole. as he pressed against the door, in doing so, it yielded to his touch. in the haste with which friar bacon had closed the entrance, the bolt had not been shot. herbert rose hastily to his feet, and the next moment he was in the cell, looking eagerly round upon the crucibles and alembics, which bore witness to his master's labors. but beyond a general impression of work in hand, there was nothing to be gleaned from this survey. an open parchment volume, in which the friar had recently been writing, next caught his attention. if the secret should be there in any known language. hubert knew something of the hebrew, but nothing yet of arabic. he was reassured; the characters were familiar to him; the language latin. he seized the volume, and read the few lines which the friar had just traced on the last page. they ran thus: "videas tamen utrum loquar in ænigmate vel secundum veritatem." and, further (which we translate): "he that would see these things shall have the key that openeth and no man shutteth, and when he shall shut no man is able to open again." "but the secret--the secret!" cried hubert, impatiently, "let me know what 'these things' are!" he hastily turned the leaf back and read again. the passage was that one in the "_epistola de secretis_" which spoke of the artificial thunder and lightning, and beneath it was the full and precise receipt for its composition. this at once explained the strange noises and the flashes of light which he had so anxiously noticed. surprising and gratifying as this discovery might be, there was, hubert thought, something beyond. roger bacon, he reasoned, was not one to practice an experiment like this for mere amusement. it was, he felt certain, a new form of invocation, more potent, doubtless, over the beings of another world, than any charm yet recorded. be it as it might, he would try whether, from the materials around him, it were not in his power to produce the same result. "here are all the necessary ingredients," he exclaimed; "this yellowish powder is the well known sulphur, in which i daily bathe the argent-vive; this bitter, glistening substance is the salt of the rock, the _salis petræ_; and this black calcination, the third agent. but the proportions are given, and here stands a glass cucurbit in which they should be mingled. it is of the form my master mostly uses--round, with a small neck and a narrow mouth, to be luted closely, without doubt. he has often told me that the sole regenerating power of the universe is heat; yonder furnace shall supply it, and then hubert de dreux is his master's equal!" * * * * * the short november day was drawing to a close, when, after carefully tending the wounded sheriff, and leaving such instructions with the abingdon leech as he judged sufficient for his patient's well-doing, roger bacon again mounted his palfrey, and turned its head in the direction of oxford. he was unwilling to be a loiterer after dark, and his beast was equally desirous to be once more comfortably housed, so that his homeward journey was accomplished even more rapidly than his morning excursion; and barely an hour had elapsed when the friar drew the rein at the foot of the last gentle eminence, close to which lay the walls of the cloistered city. to give the animal breathing-space, he rode quietly up the ascent, and then paused for a few moments before he proceeded, his mind intent on subjects foreign to the speculations of all his daily associations. suddenly, as he mused on his latest discovery and calculated to what principal object it might be devoted, a stream of fiery light shot rapidly athwart the dark, drear sky, and before he had space to think what the meteor might portend, a roar as of thunder shook the air, and simultaneous with it, a shrill, piercing scream, mingled with the fearful sound; then burst forth a volume of flame, and on the wind came floating a sulphurous vapor which, to him alone, revealed the nature of the explosion he had just witnessed. "gracious god!" he exclaimed, while the cold sweat poured like rain-drops down his forehead, "the fire has caught the fulminating powder! but what meant that dreadful cry? surely nothing of human life has suffered! the boy hubert--but, no--he was at work at the further extremity of the building. but this is no time for vain, conjecture--let me learn the worst at once!" and with these words he urged his affrighted steed to its best pace, and rode rapidly into the city. all was consternation there: the tremendous noise had roused every inhabitant, and people were hurrying to and fro, some hastening toward the place from whence the sound had proceeded, others rushing wildly from it. it was but too evident that a dreadful catastrophe, worse even than bacon dreaded, had happened. it was with difficulty he made his way through the crowd, and came upon the ruin which still blazed fiercely, appalling the stoutest of heart. there was a tumult of voices, but above the outcries of the affrighted monks, and of the scared multitude, rose the loud voice of the friar, calling upon them to extinguish the flames. this appeal turned all eyes toward him, and then associating him with an evil, the cause of which they were unable to comprehend, the maledictions of the monks broke forth. "seize the accursed magician," they shouted; "he has made a fiery compact with the demon! already one victim is sacrificed--our turn will come next! see, here are the mangled limbs of his pupil, hubert de dreux! the fiend has claimed his reward, and borne away his soul. seize on the wicked sorcerer, and take him to a dungeon!" roger bacon sate stupefied by the unexpected blow; he had no power, if he had possessed the will, to offer the slightest resistance to the fury of the enraged franciscans, who, in the true spirit of ignorance, had ever hated him for his acquirements. with a deep sigh for the fate of the young man, whose imprudence he now saw had been the cause of this dreadful event, he yielded himself up to his enemies; they tore him from his palfrey, and with many a curse, and many a buffet, dragged him to the castle, and lodged him in one of its deepest dungeons. the flames from the ruined cell died out of themselves; but those which the envy and dread of bacon's genius had kindled, were never extinguished, but with his life. in the long years of imprisonment which followed--the doom of the stake being averted only by powerful intercession with the pope--bacon had leisure to meditate on the value of all he had done to enlarge the understanding and extend the knowledge of his species. "the prelates and friars," he wrote in a letter which still remains, "have kept me starving in close prison, nor will they suffer any one to come to me, fearing lest my writings should come to any other than the pope and themselves." he reflected that of all living men he stood well-nigh alone in the consciousness that in the greatest of his inventions he had produced a discovery of incalculable value, but one for which on every account the time was not ripe. "i will not die," he said, "without leaving to the world the evidence that the secret was known to me whose marvelous power future ages shall acknowledge. but not yet shall it be revealed. generations must pass away and the minds of men become better able to endure the light of science, before they can profit by my discovery. let him who already possesses knowledge, guess the truth these words convey." and in place of the directions by which hubert de dreux had been guided, he altered the sentence as follows: "sed tamen salis petre, luru mone cap ubre et sulphuris." the learned have found that these mystical words conceal the anagram of _carbonum pulvere_, the third ingredient in the composition of gunpowder. [from a month at constantinople.] glimpses of the east. by albert smith. a turkish bath.--the second day i was at constantinople i had a bath, in the proper turkish fashion; and this was quite as novel in its way as every thing else had been. the establishment patronized was the head one in stamboul; and we went from the street into a very large hall, entirety of marble, with a gallery round the walls, in which were couches, as well as down below. on these different visitors were reposing: some covered up and lying quite still, others smoking narghilés, and drinking coffee. towels and cloths were drying on lines, and in the corner was a little shed, serving as a câfé. we went up-stairs and undressed, giving our watches and money to the attendant, who tied our clothes up in a bundle. he then tucked a colored wrapper round our waists, and threw a towel over our shoulders, after which we walked down stairs, and put on some wooden clogs at the door of the next apartment. the first thing these did was to send me head over heels, to the great discomfiture of my temporary costume, and equal delight of the bathers there assembled. we remained in this room, which was of an increased temperature, idling upon other couches, until we were pronounced ready to go into the second chamber. i contrived, with great care and anxiety, to totter into it upon my clogs, and found another apartment of marble, very warm indeed, and lighted from the top by a dome of glass "bull's-eyes." in the middle of this chamber was a hot, raised octagon platform, also of marble, and in the recesses of the sides were marble vases, and tanks, with taps for hot and cold water, and channels in the floor to carry off the suds. two savage, unearthly boys, their heads all shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the top, and in their scant costume of a towel only, looking more like wild indians than turks, now seized hold of me, and forcing me back upon the hot marble floor commenced a dreadful series of tortures, such as i had only read of as pertaining to the dark ages. it was of no use to resist. they clutched hold of the back of my neck, and i thought they were going to strangle me; then they pulled at my arms and legs, and i thought again they were going to put me on the rack; and lastly, when they both began to roll backward and forward on my chest, doubling my cracking elbows underneath them, i thought, finally, that my last minute was come, and that death by suffocation would finish me. they were fiends, and evidently delighted in my agony; not allowing me to look to the right or left after my companions, and throwing themselves on me again, whenever they conceived i was going to call the dragoman to my assistance. i do not know that i ever passed such a frightful five minutes, connected with bathing, nervous as are some of the feelings which that pastime gives rise to. it is very terrible to take the first summer plunge into a deep, dark river and when you are at the bottom, and the water is roaring in your ears, to think of dead bodies and crocodiles; it is almost worse to make that frightful journey down a steep beach, in a bathing machine, with a vague incertitude as to where you will find yourself when the doors open again: but nothing can come up to what i suffered in my last extremity, in this constantinople bath. thoughts of turkish cruelty and the sacks of the bosphorus; of home, and friends, and my childhood's bowers--of the sadness of being murdered in a foreign bath--and the probability of my giaour body being eaten by the wild dogs, crowded rapidly on me, as these demons increased their tortures; until, collecting all my strength for one last effort, i contrived to throw them off, one to the right and the other to the left, some half dozen feet--and regained my legs. the worst was now over, certainly; but the persecution still continued sufficiently exciting. they seized on me again, and led me to the tanks, where they almost flayed me with horse-hair gloves, and drowned me with bowls of warm water, poured continuously on my head. i could not see, and if i again tried to cry out, they thrust a large soapy swab, made of the fibres that grow at the foot of the date palm, into my mouth, accompanying each renewed act of cruelty with a demand for _baksheesh_. at last, being fairly exhausted, themselves, they swathed me in a great many towels; and i was then half carried, half pushed, up stairs again, where i took my place upon my couch with feelings of great joy and thankfulness. i now began to think that all the horrors i had undergone were balanced by the delicious feeling of repose that stole over me. i felt that i could have stopped there forever, with the fragrant coffee steaming at my side, and the soothing bubble of the _narghilés_ sounding in every direction. i went off into a day dream--my last clear vision being that of a man having his head shaved all but a top knot, which was long enough to twist round and round, under his fez--and could scarcely believe that an hour had elapsed, when the dragoman suggested our return to the bustling world without. * * * * * the slave market at constantinople.--no european goes to the east with a clear idea of a slave-market. he has seen fanciful french lithographs, and attractive scenes in eastern ballets, where the pretty girls appeared ready, on the shortest notice, and in the most bewitching costumes, to dance the gitana, romaika, tarantella, redowa, or any other characteristic _pas_ that might be required of them. or if not schooled into these impressions, he takes the indignant view of the subject, and thinks of nothing but chains and lashes, and finds, at last, that one is just as false as the other. there is now no regular slave-market at constantinople. the fair circassians and georgians reside in the houses of the merchants, to whom many of them are regularly consigned by their friends, and of these it is impossible for a frank to obtain a glimpse, for the usual privacy of the harem is granted to them. the chief dépôt of the blacks is in a large court-yard attached to the mosque of suleyman. in a street immediately outside the wall was a row of coffee-houses, where opium, was also to be procured for smoking, which is by no means so general a practice as is imagined; and over and behind these were buildings in which the slaves were kept. it is true that these were grated, but the lattices through which only the turkish women can look abroad, gave a far greater notion of imprisonment. there were a great many women and children grouped about in the court-yard, and all those who appeared to possess any degree of intelligence were chatting and laughing. some were wrapped up in blankets and crouching about in corners: but in these, sense and feeling seemed to be at the lowest ebb. i should be very sorry to run against any proper feelings on the subject, but i do honestly believe that if any person of average propriety and right-mindedness were shown these creatures, and told that their lot was to become the property of others, and work in return for food and lodging, he would come to the conclusion that it was all they were fit for--indeed, he might think that they had gained in exchanging their wretched savage life for one of comparative civilization. i would not pretend, upon the strength of a hurried visit to a city, to offer the slightest opinion upon the native domestic and social economy; but i can say, that whenever i have seen the black slaves abroad, they have been neatly dressed, and apparently well kept; and that, if shopping with their mistresses in the bazaars, the conversation and laughing that passed between them was like that between two companions. the truth is that the "virtuous indignation" side of the question holds out grander opportunities to an author for fine writing than the practical fact. but this style of composition should not always be implicitly relied upon; i knew a man who was said by certain reviews and literary _cliques_ to be "a creature of large sympathies for the poor and oppressed," because he wrote touching things about them; but who would abuse his wife, and brutally treat his children, and harass his family, and then go and drink until his large heart was sufficiently full to take up the "man-and-brother" line of literary business, and suggest that a tipsy chartist was as good as a quiet gentleman. of this class are the writers who even call livery "a badge of slavery," and yet, in truth, if the real slave felt as proud of his costume and calves as john feels, he might be considerably envied for his content by many of us. as we entered the court-yard, a girl rose and asked demetri if i wanted to buy her. i told him to say that i did, and would take her to england. she asked demetri where that was, and on being told that it was so many days' journey, she ran away, declaring that she would never go so far with any body. we next went up to a circle of black females, who had clustered under the shade of a tree. a turkish woman in her vail was talking to them. i made demetri tell them that we had no slaves in england, as our queen did not allow it, but that every one was free as soon as they touched the land. this statement excited a laugh of the loudest derision from all the party, and they ran to tell it to their companions, who screamed with laughter as well; so that i unwittingly started a fine joke that day in the slave-market. * * * * * dogs in constantinople.--after an hour's doze i woke up again, and went and sat by the window. the noise i then heard i shall never forget. to say that if all the sheep-dogs going to smithfield on a market-day had been kept on the constant bark, and pitted against the yelping curs upon all the carts in london, they could have given any idea of the canine uproar that now first astonished me, would be to make the feeblest of images. the whole city rang with one vast riot. down below me at tophané--over at stamboul--far away at scutari--the whole eighty thousand dogs that are said to overrun constantinople, appeared engaged in the most active extermination of each other, without a moment's cessation. the yelping, howling, barking, growling, and snarling, were all merged into one uniform and continuous, even sound, as the noise of frogs becomes when heard at a distance. for hours there was no lull. i went to sleep, and woke again, and still, with my windows open, i heard the same tumult going on: nor was it until daybreak that any thing like tranquillity was restored. in spite of my early instruction, the dogs delight to bark and bite, and should be allowed to do so, it being their nature, i could not help wishing that, for a short season, the power was vested in me to carry out the most palpable service for which brickbats and the bosphorus could be made conjointly available. going out in the day-time, it is not difficult to find traces of the fights of the night, about the limbs of all the street-dogs. there is not one, among their vast number, in the enjoyment of a perfect skin. some have their ears gnawed away or pulled off; others have had their eyes taken out; from the backs and haunches of others, perfect steaks of flesh have been torn away; and all bear the scars of desperate combats. wild and desperate as is their nature, these poor animals are susceptible of kindness. if a scrap of bread is thrown to one of them now and then, he does not forget it; for they have, at times, a hard matter to live--not the dogs among the shops of galata or stamboul, but those whose "parish" lies in the large burying-grounds and desert-places without the city; for each keeps, or rather is kept, to his district; and if he chanced to venture into a strange one, the odds against his return would be very large. one battered old animal, to whom i used occasionally to toss a scrap of food, always followed me from the hotel to the cross-street at pera, where the two soldiers stand on guard, but would never come beyond this point. he knew the fate that awaited him had he done so; and therefore, when i left him, he would lie down in the road and go to sleep until i came back. when a horse or camel dies, and is left about the roads near the city, the bones are soon picked very clean by these dogs, and they will carry the skulls or pelves to great distances. i was told that they will eat their dead fellows--a curious fact, i believe, in canine economy. they are always troublesome--not to say dangerous--at night; and are especially irritated by europeans, whom they will single out among a crowd of levantines. [from the autobiography of leigh hunt.] christ-hospital worthies. christ-hospital is a nursery of tradesmen, of merchants, of naval officers, of scholars; it has produced some of the greatest ornaments of their time; and the feeling among the boys themselves is, that it is a medium, between the patrician pretension of such schools as eton the westminster, and the plebeian submission of and charity schools. in point of university honors, it claims to be equal with the best; and though other schools can show a greater abundance of eminent names, i know not where many will be found who are a greater host in themselves. one original author is worth a hundred transmitters of elegance; and such a one is to be found in richardson, who here received what education he possessed. here camden also received the rudiments of his. bishop stillingfleet, according to the memoirs of pepys, lately published, was brought up in the school. we have had many eminent scholars, two of them greek professors, to wit, barnes, and the present mr. scholefield, the latter of whom attained an extraordinary succession of university honors. the rest are markland; middleton, late bishop of calcutta; and mitchell, the translator of "aristophanes." christ-hospital, i believe, toward the close of the last century, and the beginning of the present, sent out more living writers, in its proportion, than any other school. there was dr. richards, author of the "aboriginal britons;" dyer, whose life was one unbroken dream of learning and goodness, and who used to make us wonder with passing through the school-room (where no other person in "town-clothes" ever appeared) to consult books in the library; le grice, the translator of "longus;" horne, author of some well-known productions in controversial divinity; surr, the novelist (not in the grammar school); james white, the friend of charles lamb, and not unworthy of him, author of "falstaff's letters" (this was he who used to give an anniversary dinner to the chimney-sweepers, merrier than, though not so magnificent as mrs. montague's); pitman, a celebrated preacher, editor of some school-books, and religious classics; mitchell, before mentioned; myself, who stood next him; barnes, who came next, the editor of the "times," than whom no man (if he had cared for it) could have been more certain of obtaining celebrity for wit and literature; townsend, a prebendary of durham, author of "armageddon," and several theological works; gilly, another of the durham prebendaries, who wrote the "narrative of the waldenses;" seargill, a unitarian minister, author of some tracts on peace and war, &c.; and lastly, whom i have kept by way of climax, coleridge and charles lamb, two of the most original geniuses, not only of the day, but of the country. we have had an embassador among us; but as he, i understand, is ashamed of us, we are hereby more ashamed of him, and accordingly omit him. coleridge i never saw till he was old. lamb i recollect coming to see the boys, with a pensive, brown, handsome, and kindly face, and a gait advancing with a motion from side to side, between involuntary consciousness and attempted ease. his brown complexion may have been owing to a visit in the country; his air of uneasiness to a great burden of sorrow. he dressed with a quaker-like plainness. i did not know him as lamb: i took him for a mr. "guy," having heard somebody address him by that appellative, i suppose in jest. every upper boy at school appears a giant to a little one. "big boy" and senior are synonymous. now and then, however, extreme smallness in a senior scholar gives a new kind of dignity, by reason of the testimony it bears to the ascendency of the intellect. it was the custom for the monitors at christ-hospital, during prayers before meat, to stand fronting the tenants of their respective wards, while the objects of their attention were kneeling. looking up, on one of these occasions, toward a new monitor who was thus standing, and whose face was unknown to me (for there were six hundred of us, and his ward was not mine), i thought him the smallest boy that could ever have attained to so distinguished an eminence. he was little in person, little in face, and he had a singularly juvenile cast of features, even for one so _petite_. it was mitchell, the translator of aristophanes. he had really attained his position prematurely. i rose afterward to be next to him in the school; and from a grudge that existed between us, owing probably to a reserve, which i thought pride, on his part, and to an ardency which he may have considered frivolous on mine, we became friends. circumstances parted us in after life: i became a reformist, and he a quarterly reviewer; but he sent me kindly remembrances not long before he died. i did not know he was declining; and it will ever be a pain to me to reflect, that delay conspired with accident to hinder my sense of it from being known to him, especially as i learned that he had not been so prosperous as i supposed. he had his weaknesses as well as myself, but they were mixed with conscientious and noble qualities. zealous as he was for aristocratical government, he was no indiscriminate admirer of persons in high places; and, though it would have bettered his views in life, he had declined taking orders, from nicety of religious scruple. of his admirable scholarship i need say nothing. equally good scholar, but of a less zealous temperament was barnes, who stood next me on the deputy-grecian form, and who was afterward identified with the sudden and striking increase of the _times_ newspaper in fame and influence. he was very handsome when young, with a profile of grecian regularity; and was famous among us for a certain dispassionate humor, for his admiration of the works of fielding, and for his delight, nevertheless, in pushing a narrative to its utmost, and drawing upon his stores of fancy for intensifying it; an amusement for which he possessed an understood privilege. it was painful in after life to see his good looks swallowed up in corpulency, and his once handsome mouth thrusting its under lip out, and panting with asthma. i believe he was originally so well constituted, in point of health and bodily feeling, that he fancied he could go on all his life without taking any of the usual methods to preserve his comfort. the editorship of the _times_, which turned his night into day, and would have been a trying burden to any man, completed the bad consequences of his negligence, and he died painfully before he was old. barnes wrote elegant latin verse, a classical english style, and might assuredly have made himself a name in wit and literature, had he cared much for any thing beyond his glass of wine and his fielding. what pleasant days have i not passed with him, and other schoolfellows, bathing in the new river, and boating on the thames. he and i began to learn italian together; and any body not within the pale of the enthusiastic, might have thought us mad, as we went shouting the beginning of metastasio's ode to venus, as loud as we could bawl, over the hornsey-fields. leigh hunt drowning. at oxford, my love of boating had nearly cost me my life. i had already had a bit of a taste of drowning in the river thames, in consequence of running a boat too hastily on shore; but it was nothing to what i experienced on this occasion. the schoolfellow whom i was visiting was the friend whose family lived in spring gardens. we had gone out in a little decked skiff, and not expecting disasters in the gentle isis, i had fastened the sail-line, of which i had the direction, in order that i might read a volume which i had with me, of mr. cumberland's novel called "henry." my friend was at the helm. the wind grew a little strong, and we had just got into iffley reach, when i heard him exclaim, "hunt, we are over!" the next moment i was under the water, gulping it, and giving myself up for lost. the boat had a small opening in the middle of the deck, under which i had thrust my feet; this circumstance had carried me over with the boat, and the worst of it was, i found i had got the sail-line round my neck. my friend, who sat on the deck itself, had been swept off, and got comfortably to shore, which was at a little distance. my bodily sensations were not so painful as i should have fancied they would have been. my mental reflections were very different, though one of them, by a singular meeting of extremes, was of a comic nature. i thought that i should never see the sky again, that i had parted with all my friends, and that i was about to contradict the proverb which said that a man who was born to be hung would never be drowned; for the sail-line, in which i felt entangled, seemed destined to perform for me both the offices. on a sudden, i found an oar in my hand, and the next minute i was climbing, with assistance, into a wherry, in which there sat two oxonians, one of them helping me, and loudly and laughingly differing with the other, who did not at all like the rocking of the boat, and who assured me, to the manifest contradiction of such senses as i had left, that there was no room. this gentleman is now no more, and i shall not mention his name, because i might do injustice to the memory of a brave man struck with a panic. the name of his companion, if i mistake not, was russell. i hope he was related to an illustrious person of the same name, to whom i have lately been indebted for what may have been another prolongation of my life. on returning to town, which i did on the top of an oxford coach, i was relating this story to the singular person who then drove it (bobart, who had been a collegian), when a man who was sitting behind surprised us with the excess of his laughter. on asking him the reason, he touched his hat, and said, "sir, i'm his footman." such were the delicacies of the livery, and the glorifications of their masters with which they entertain the kitchen.--_from the autobiography of leigh hunt._ william pitt. by s. t. coleridge. the following very graphic and very severe critical estimate of william pitt, the great prime minister of england during the stormy era of the french revolution, was written by coleridge for the london morning post, with which he was then connected. it appeared in the number of that paper, dated wednesday, march , . we copy it from coleridge's "essays on his own times," just published in london. * * * * * plutarch, in his comparative biography of rome and greece, has generally chosen for each pair of lives the two contemporaries who most nearly resemble each other. his work would, perhaps have been more interesting, if he had adopted the contrary arrangement and selected those rather, who had attained to the possession of similar influence or similar fame, by means, actions, and talents, the most dissimilar. for power is the sole object of philosophical attention in man, as in inanimate nature: and in the one equally as in the other, we understand it more intimately, the more diverse the circumstances are with which we have observed it co-exist. in our days the two persons, who appear to have influenced the interests and actions of men the most deeply and the most diffusively are beyond doubt the chief consul of france, and the prime minister of great britain; and in these two are presented to us similar situations with the greatest dissimilitude of characters. william pitt was the younger son of lord chatham; a fact of no ordinary importance in the solution of his character, of no mean significance in the heraldry of morals and intellect. his father's rank, fame, political connections, and parental ambition were his mould; he was cast, rather than grew. a palpable election, a conscious predestination controlled the free agency, and transfigured the individuality of his mind; and that, which he _might have been_, was compelled into that, which he _was to be_. from his early childhood it was his father's custom to make him stand up on a chair, and declaim before a large company; by which exercise, practiced so frequently, and continued for so many years, he acquired a premature and unnatural dexterity in the combination of words, which must of necessity have diverted his attention from present objects, obscured his impressions, and deadened his genuine feelings. not the _thing_ on which he was speaking, but the praises to be gained by the speech, were present to his intuition; hence he associated all the operations of his faculties with words, and his pleasures with the surprise excited by them. but an inconceivably large portion of human knowledge and human power is involved in the science and management of _words_; and an education of words, though it destroys genius, will often create, and always foster, talent. the young pitt was conspicuous far beyond his fellows, both at school and at college. he was always full grown: he had neither the promise nor the awkwardness of a growing intellect. vanity, early satiated, formed and elevated itself into a love of power; and in losing this colloquial vanity he lost one of the prime links that connect the individual with the species, too early for the affections, though not too early for the understanding. at college he was a severe student; his mind was founded and elemented in words and generalities, and these too formed all the superstructure. that revelry and that debauchery, which are so often fatal to the powers of intellect, would probably have been serviceable to him; they would have given him a closer communion with realities, they would have induced a greater presentness to present objects. but mr. pitt's conduct was correct, unimpressibly correct. his after-discipline in the special pleader's office, and at the bar, carried on the scheme of his education with unbroken uniformity. his first political connections were with the reformers, but those who accuse him of sympathizing or coalescing with their intemperate or visionary plans, misunderstand his character, and are ignorant of the historical facts. imaginary situations in an imaginary state of things rise up in minds that possess a power and facility in combining images. mr. pitt's ambition was conversant with old situations in the old state of things, which furnish nothing to the imagination, though much to the wishes. in his endeavors to realize his father's plan of reform, he was probably as sincere as a being, who had derived so little knowledge from actual impressions, could be. but his sincerity had no living root of affection; while it was propped up by his love of praise and immediate power, so long it stood erect and no longer. he became a member of the parliament--supported the popular opinions, and in a few years, by the influence of the popular party, was placed in that high and awful rank in which he now is. the fortunes of his country, we had almost said, the fates of the world, were placed in his wardship--we sink in prostration before the inscrutable dispensations of providence, when we reflect in whose wardship the fates of the world were placed! the influencer of his country and of his species was a young man, the creature of another's predetermination, sheltered and weather-fended from all the elements of experience; a young man, whose feet had never wandered; whose very eye had never turned to the right or to the left; whose whole track had been as curveless as the motion of a fascinated reptile! it was a young man, whose heart was solitary, because he had existed always amidst objects of futurity, and whose imagination, too, was unpopulous, because those objects of hope, to which his habitual wishes had transferred, and as it were _projected_, his existence, were all familiar and long established objects! a plant sown and reared in a hot-house, for whom the very air that surrounded him, had been regulated by the thermometer of previous purpose; to whom the light of nature had penetrated only through glasses and covers; who had had the sun without the breeze; whom no storm had shaken; on whom no rain had pattered; on whom the dews of heaven had not fallen! a being, who had had no feelings connected with man or nature, no spontaneous impulses, no unbiased and desultory studies, no genuine science, nothing that constitutes individuality in intellect, nothing that teaches brotherhood in affection! such was the man--such, and so denaturalized the spirit--on whose wisdom and philanthropy the lives and living enjoyments of so many millions of human beings were made unavoidably dependent. from this time a real enlargement of mind became almost impossible. pre-occupations, intrigue, the undue passion and anxiety with which all facts must be surveyed; the crowd and confusion of those facts, none of them seen, but all communicated, and by that very circumstance, and by the necessity of perpetually classifying them, transmuted into words and generalities; pride, flattery, irritation, artificial power; these, and circumstances resembling these, necessarily render the heights of office barren heights, which command, indeed, a vast and extensive prospect, but attract so many clouds and vapors, that most often all prospect is precluded. still, however, mr. pitt's situation, however inauspicious for his real being, was favorable to his fame. he heaped period on period; persuaded himself and the nation, that extemporaneous arrangement of sentences was eloquence; and that eloquence implied wisdom. his father's struggles for freedom, and his own attempts, gave him an almost unexampled popularity; and his office necessarily associated with his name all the great events, that happened during his administration. there were not, however, wanting men, who saw through this delusion; and refusing to attribute the industry, integrity, and enterprising spirit of our merchants, the agricultural improvements of our land-holders, the great inventions of our manufacturers, or the valor and skillfulness of our sailors to the merits of a minister, they have continued to decide on his character from those acts and those merits, which belong to him and to him alone. judging him by this standard, they have been able to discover in him no one proof or symptom of a commanding genius. they have discovered him never controlling, never creating events, but always yielding to them with rapid change, and sheltering himself from inconsistency by perpetual indefiniteness. in the russian war, they saw him abandoning meanly what he had planned weakly, and threatened insolently. in the debates on the regency, they detected the laxity of his constitutional principles, and received proofs that his eloquence consisted not in the ready application of a general system to particular questions, but in the facility of arguing for or against any question by specious generalities, without reference to any system. in these debates, he combined what is most dangerous in democracy, with all that is most degrading in the old superstitions of monarchy; and taught an inherency of the office in the person, in order to make the office itself a nullity, and the premiership, with its accompanying majority, the sole and permanent power of the state. and now came the french revolution. this was a new event; the old routine of reasoning, the common trade of politics were to become obsolete. he appeared wholly unprepared for it: half favoring, half condemning, ignorant of what he favored, and why he condemned, he neither displayed the honest enthusiasm and fixed principle of mr. fox, nor the intimate acquaintance with the general nature of man, and the consequent. _prescience_ of mr. burke. after the declaration of war, long did he continue in the common cant of office, in declamation about the scheldt and holland, and all the vulgar causes of common contests! and when at last the immense genius of his new supporter had beat him out of these _words_ (words signifying _places_ and _dead objects_, and signifying nothing more), he adopted other words in their places, other generalities--atheism and jacobinism--phrases, which he learned from mr. burke, but without learning the philosophical definitions and involved consequences, with which that great man accompanied those words. since the death of mr. burke, the forms and the sentiments, and the tone of the french have undergone many and important changes: how, indeed, is it possible that it should be otherwise, while man is the creature of experience! but still mr. pitt proceeds in an endless repetition of the same _general phrases_. this is his element; deprive him of general and abstract phrases, and you reduce him to silence. but you can not deprive him of them. press him to specify an _individual_ fact of advantage to be derived from a war, and he answers, security! call upon him to particularize a crime, and he exclaims, jacobinism! abstractions defined by abstractions! generalities defined by generalities! as a minister of finance, he is still, as ever, the man of words and abstractions! figures, custom-house reports, imports and exports, commerce and revenue--all flourishing, all splendid! never was such a prosperous country, as england, under his administration! let it be objected, that the agriculture of the country is, by the overbalance of commerce, and by various and complex causes, in such a state, that the country hangs as a pensioner for bread on its neighbors, and a bad season uniformly threatens us with famine. this (it is replied) is owing to our prosperity--all _prosperous_ nations are in great distress for food!--still prosperity, still general phrases, uninforced by one _single image_, one _single fact_ of real national amelioration; of any one comfort enjoyed, where it was not before enjoyed; of any one class of society becoming healthier, wiser, or happier. these are _things_, these are realities; and these mr. pitt has neither the imagination to body forth, nor the sensibility to feel for. once, indeed, in an evil hour, intriguing for popularity, he suffered himself to be persuaded to evince a talent for the real, the individual; and he brought in his poor bill!! when we hear the minister's talent for finance so loudly trumpeted, we turn involuntarily to his poor bill--to that acknowledged abortion--that unanswerable evidence of his ignorance respecting all the fundamental relations and actions of property, and of the social union! as his reasonings, even so is his eloquence. one character pervades his whole being. words on words, finely arranged, and so dexterously consequent, that the whole bears the semblance of argument, and still keeps awake a sense of surprise; but when all is done, nothing rememberable has been said; no one philosophical remark, no one image, not even a pointed aphorism. not a sentence of mr. pitt's has ever been quoted, or formed the favorite phrase of the day--a thing unexampled in any man of equal reputation. but while he speaks, the effect varies according to the character of his auditor. the man of no talent is swallowed up in surprise; and when the speech is ended, he remembers his feelings, but nothing distinct of that which produced them--(how opposite an effect to that of nature and genius, from whose works the idea still remains, when the feeling is passed away--remains to connect itself with the other feelings, and combine with new impressions!) the mere man of talent hears him with admiration--the mere man of genius with contempt--the philosopher neither admires nor contemns, but listens to him with a deep and solemn interest, tracing in the effects of his eloquence the power of words and phrases, and that peculiar constitution of human affairs in their present state, which so eminently favors this power. such appears to us to be the prime minister of great britain, whether we consider him as a statesman or as an orator. the same character betrays itself in his private life; the same coldness to realities, and to all whose excellence relates to reality. he has patronized no science, he has raised no man of genius from obscurity; he counts no one prime work of god among his friends. from the same source he has no attachment to female society, no fondness for children, no perceptions of beauty in natural scenery; but he is fond of convivial indulgences, of that stimulation, which, keeping up the glow of self-importance and the sense of internal power, gives feelings without the mediation of ideas. these are the elements of his mind; the accidents of his fortune, the circumstances that enabled such a mind to acquire and retain such a power, would form a subject of a philosophical history, and that, too, of no scanty size. we can scarcely furnish the chapter of contents to a work, which would comprise subjects so important and delicate, as the causes of the diffusion and intensity of secret influence; the machinery and state intrigue of marriages; the overbalance of the commercial interest; the panic of property struck by the late revolution; the short-sightedness of the careful; the carelessness of the fat-sighted; and all those many and various events which have given to a decorous profession of religion, and a seemliness of private morals, such an unwonted weight in the attainment and preservation of public power. we are unable to determine whether it be more consolatary or humiliating to human nature, that so many complexities of event, situation, character, age, and country, should be necessary in order to the production of a mr. pitt. [from household words.] ignorance of the english. the lamentable deficiency of the commonest rudiments of education, which still exists among the humbler classes of the nation, is never so darkly apparent as when we compare their condition with that of people of similar rank in other countries. when we do so, we find that england stands the lowest in the scale of what truly must be looked upon as _civilization_; for she provides fewer means for promoting it than any of her neighbors. with us, education is a commodity to be trafficked in: abroad, it is a duty. here, schoolmasters are perfectly irresponsible except to their paymasters; in other countries, teachers are appointed by the state, and a rigid supervision is maintained over the trainers of youth, both as regards competency and moral conduct. in england, whoever is too poor to buy the article education, can get none of it for himself or his offspring; in other parts of europe, either the government (as in germany), or public opinion (as in america), enforces it upon the youthful population. what are the consequences? one is revealed by a comparison between the proportion of scholars in elementary schools to the entire population of other countries, and that in our own. taking the whole of northern europe--including scotland, and france, and belgium (where education is at a low ebb), we find that to every - / of the population, there is one child acquiring the rudiments of knowledge; while in england there is only one such pupil to every _fourteen_ inhabitants. it has been calculated that there are, at the present day in england and wales, nearly , , persons who can neither read nor write--that is to say, nearly one quarter of the population. also, that of all the children between five and fourteen, more than one half attend no place of instruction. these statements--compiled by mr. kay, from official and other authentic sources, for his work on the social condition and education of the poor in england and europe, would be hard to believe, if we had not to encounter in our every-day life degrees of illiteracy which would be startling, if we were not thoroughly used to it. wherever we turn, ignorance, not always allied to poverty, stares us in the face. if we look in the gazette, at the list of partnerships dissolved, not a month passes but some unhappy man, rolling perhaps in wealth, but wallowing in ignorance, is put to the _experimentum crucis_ of "his mark." the number of petty jurors--in rural districts especially--who can only sign with a cross is enormous. it is not unusual to see parish documents of great local importance defaced with the same humiliating symbol by persons whose office shows them to be not only "men of mark," but men of substance. we have printed already specimens of the partial ignorance which passes under the ken of the post office authorities, and we may venture to assert, that such specimens of penmanship and orthography are not to be matched in any other country in europe. a housewife in humble life need only turn to the file of her tradesmen's bills to discover hieroglyphics which render them so many arithmetical puzzles. in short, the practical evidences of the low ebb to which the plainest rudiments of education in this country has fallen, are too common to bear repetition. we can not pass through the streets, we can not enter a place of public assembly, or ramble in the fields, without the gloomy shadow of ignorance sweeping over us. the rural population is indeed in a worse plight than the other classes. we quote--with the attestation of our own experience--the following passage from one of a series of articles which have recently appeared in a morning newspaper: "taking the adult class of agricultural laborers, it is almost impossible to exaggerate the ignorance in which they live and move and have their being. as they work in the fields, the external world has some hold upon them through the medium of their senses; but to all the higher exercises of intellect, they are perfect strangers. you can not address one of them without being at once painfully struck with the intellectual darkness which enshrouds him. there is in general neither speculation in his eyes, nor intelligence in his countenance. the whole expression is more that of an animal than of a man. he is wanting, too, in the erect and independent bearing of a man. when you, accost him, if he is not insolent--which he seldom is--he is timid and shrinking, his whole manner showing that he feels himself at a distance from you, greater than should separate any two classes of men. he is often doubtful when you address, and suspicious when you question him; he is seemingly oppressed with the interview, while it lasts, and obviously relieved when it is over. these are the traits which i can affirm them to possess as a class, after having come in contact with many hundreds of farm laborers. they belong to a generation for whose intellectual culture little or nothing was done. as a class, they have no amusements beyond the indulgence of sense. in nine cases out of ten, recreation is associated in their minds with nothing higher than sensuality. i have frequently asked clergymen and others, if they often find the adult peasant reading for his own or others' amusement? the invariable answer is, that such a sight is seldom or never witnessed. in the first place, _the great bulk of them can not read_. in the next, a large proportion of those who can do so with too much difficulty to admit of the exercise being an amusement to them. again, few of those who can read with comparative ease, have the taste for doing so. it is but justice to them to say, that many of those who can not read, have bitterly regretted, in my hearing, their inability to do so. i shall never forget the tone in which an old woman in cornwall intimated to me what a comfort it would now be to her, could she only read her bible in her lonely hours." we now turn to the high lights of the picture as presented abroad, and which, from their very brightness, throw our own intellectual gloom into deeper shade. mr. kay observes in the work we have already cited: "it is a great fact, however much, we may be inclined to doubt it, that throughout prussia, saxony, bavaria, bohemia, wirtemberg, baden, hesse darmstadt, hesse cassel, gotha, nassau, hanover, denmark, switzerland, norway, and the austrian empire, all the children are actually at this present time attending school, and are receiving a careful, religious, moral, and intellectual education, from highly educated and efficient teachers. over the vast tract of country which i have mentioned, as well as in holland, and the greater part of france, _all_ the children above six years of age are daily acquiring useful knowledge and good habits under the _influence_ of moral, religious, and learned teachers. all the youth of the greater part of these countries, below the age of twenty-one years, can read, write, and cipher, and know the bible history, and the history of their own country. no children are left idle and dirty in the streets of the towns--there is no class of children to be compared in any respect to the children who frequent our "ragged schools"--all the children, even of the poorest parents, are, in a great part of these countries, in dress, appearance, cleanliness, and manners, as polished and civilized as the children of our middle classes; the children of the poor in germany are so civilized that the rich often send their children to the schools intended for the poor; and, lastly, in a great part of germany and switzerland, the children of the poor are receiving a _better_ education than that given in england to the children of the greater part of our middle classes." "i remember one day," says mr. kay in another page, "when walking near berlin in the company of herr hintz, a professor in dr. diesterweg's normal college, and of another teacher, we saw a poor woman cutting up, in the road, logs of wood for winter use. my companions pointed her out to me, and said, 'perhaps you will scarcely believe it, but in the neighborhood of berlin, poor women, like that one, read translations of sir walter scott's novels, and many of the interesting works of your language, besides those of the principal writers of germany.' this account was afterward confirmed by the testimony of several other persons. often and often have i seen the poor cab-drivers of berlin, while waiting for a fare, amusing themselves by reading german books, which they had brought with them in the morning, expressly for the purpose of supplying amusement and occupation for their leisure hours. in many parts of these countries, the peasants and the workmen of the towns attend regular weekly lectures or weekly classes, where they practice singing or chanting, or learn mechanical drawing, history, or science. the intelligence of the poorer classes of these countries is shown by their manners. the whole appearance of a german peasant who has been brought up under this system, _i. e._, of any of the poor who have not attained the age of thirty-five years, is very different to that of our own peasantry. the german, swiss, or dutch peasant, who has grown up to manhood under the new system, and since the old feudal system was overthrown, is not nearly so often, as with us, distinguished by an uncouth dialect. on the contrary, they speak as their teachers speak, clearly, without hesitation, and grammatically. they answer questions politely, readily, and with the ease which shows they have been accustomed to mingle with men of greater wealth and of better education than themselves. they do not appear embarrased, still less do they appear gawkish or stupid, when addressed. if, in asking a peasant a question, a stranger, according to the polite custom of the country, raises his hat, the first words of reply are the quietly uttered ones, 'i pray you, sir, be covered.' a prussian peasant is always polite and respectful to a stranger, but quite as much at his ease as when speaking to one of his own fellows." surely the contrast presented between the efforts of the schoolmaster abroad and his inactivity at home--refuting, as it does, our hourly boastings of "intellectual progress"--should arouse us, energetically and practically, to the work of educational extension. lines by robert southey. (from an unpublished autograph.) the days of infancy are all a dream, how fair, but oh! how short they seem-- 'tis life's sweet opening spring! the days of youth advance: the bounding limb, the ardent glance. the kindling soul they bring-- it is life's burning summer time. manhood--matured with wisdom's fruit, reward of learning's deep pursuit-- succeeds, as autumn follows summer's prime. and that, and that, alas! goes by; and what ensues? the languid eye, the failing frame, the soul o'ercast; 'tis winter's sickening, withering blast, life's blessed season--for it is the last. [from the autobiography of leigh hunt.] the schoolmaster of coleridge and lamb. by leigh hunt. boyer, the upper master of christ-hospital--famous for the mention of him by coleridge and lamb--was a short, stout man, inclining to punchiness, with large face and hands, an aquiline nose, long upper lip, and a sharp mouth. his eye was close and cruel. the spectacles which he wore threw a balm over it. being a clergyman, he dressed in black, with a powdered wig. his clothes were cut short; his hands hung out of the sleeves, with tight wristbands, as if ready for execution; and as he generally wore gray worsted stockings, very tight, with a little balustrade leg, his whole appearance presented something formidably succinct, hard, and mechanical. in fact, his weak side, and undoubtedly his natural destination, lay in carpentry; and he accordingly carried, in a side-pocket made on purpose, a carpenter's rule. the merits of boyer consisted in his being a good verbal scholar, and conscientiously acting up to the letter of time and attention. i have seen him nod at the close of the long summer school-hours, wearied out; and i should have pitied him, if he had taught us any thing but to fear. though a clergyman, very orthodox, and of rigid morals, he indulged himself in an oath, which was "god's-my-life!" when you were out in your lesson, he turned upon you a round, staring eye like a fish; and he had a trick of pinching you under the chin, and by the lobes of the ears, till he would make the blood come. he has many times lifted a boy off the ground in this way. he was, indeed, a proper tyrant, passionate and capricious; would take violent likes and dislikes to the same boys; fondle some without any apparent reason, though he had a leaning to the servile, and, perhaps, to the sons of rich people; and he would persecute others in a manner truly frightful. i have seen him beat a sickly-looking, melancholy boy (c----n) about the head and ears, till the poor fellow, hot, dry-eyed, and confused, seemed lost in bewilderment. c----n, not long after he took orders, died out of his senses. i do not attribute that catastrophe to the master; and of course he could not wish to do him any lasting mischief. he had no imagination of any sort. but there is no saying how far his treatment of the boy might have contributed to prevent a cure. tyrannical schoolmasters nowadays are to be found, perhaps, exclusively in such inferior schools as those described with such masterly and indignant edification by my friend charles dickens; but they formerly seemed to have abounded in all; and masters, as well as boys, have escaped the chance of many bitter reflections, since a wiser and more generous intercourse has come up between them. i have some stories of boyer, that will completely show his character, and at the same time relieve the reader's indignation by something ludicrous in their excess. we had a few boarders at the school; boys, whose parents were too rich to let them go on the foundation. among them, in my time, was carlton, a son of lord dorchester; macdonald, one of the lord chief baron's sons; and r----, the son of a rich merchant. carlton, who was a fine fellow, manly, and fall of good sense, took his new master and his caresses very coolly, and did not want them. little macdonald also could dispense with them, and would put on his delicate gloves after lesson, with an air as if he resumed his patrician plumage. r---- was meeker, and willing to be encouraged; and there would the master sit, with his arm round his tall waist, helping him to his greek verbs, as a nurse does bread and milk to an infant; and repeating them, when he missed, with a fond patience, that astonished us criminals in drugget. very different was the treatment of a boy on the foundation, whose friends, by some means or other, had prevailed on the master to pay him an extra attention, and try to get him on. he had come into the school at an age later than usual, and could hardly read. there was a book used by the learners in reading, called "dialogues between a missionary and an indian." it was a poor performance, full of inconclusive arguments and other commonplaces. the boy in question used to appear with this book in his hand in the middle of the school, the master standing behind him. the lesson was to begin. poor ----, whose great fault lay in a deep-toned drawl of his syllables and the omission of his stops, stood half-looking at the book, and half-casting his eye toward the right of him, whence the blows were to proceed. the master looked over him; and his hand was ready. i am not exact in my quotation at this distance of time; but the _spirit_ of one of the passages that i recollect was to the following purport, and thus did the teacher and his pupil proceed: _master._ "now, young man, have a care; or i'll set you a _swinging_ task." (a common phrase of his.) _pupil._ (making a sort of heavy bolt at his calamity, and never remembering his stop at the word missionary.) "_missionary_ can you see the wind?" (master gives him a slap on the cheek.) _pupil._ (raising his voice to a cry, and still forgetting his stop.) "_indian_ no!" _master._ "god's-my-life, young man! have a care how you provoke me." _pupil._ (always forgetting the stop.) "_missionary_ how then do you know that there is such a thing?" (here a terrible thump.) _pupil._ (with a shout of agony.) "_indian_ because i feel it." one anecdote of his injustice will suffice for all. it is of ludicrous enormity; nor do i believe any thing more flagrantly willful was ever done by himself. i heard mr. c----, the sufferer, now a most respectable person in a government office, relate it with a due relish, long after quitting the school. the master was in the habit of "spiting" c----; that is to say, of taking every opportunity to be severe with him, nobody knew why. one day he comes into the school, and finds him placed in the middle of it with three other boys. he was not in one of his worst humors, and did not teem inclined to punish them, till he saw his antagonist. "oh, oh, sir!" said he; "what! you are among them, are you?" and gave him an exclusive thump on the face. he then turned to one of the grecians, and said, "i have not time to flog all these boys; make them draw lots, and i'll punish one." the lots were drawn, and c----'s was favorable. "oh, oh!" returned the master, when he saw them, "you have escaped, have you, sir?" and pulling out his watch, and turning again to the grecian, observed, that he found he _had_ time to punish the whole three; "and, sir," added he to c----, with another slap, "i'll begin with _you_." he then took the boy into the library and flogged him; and, on issuing forth again, had the face to say, with an air of indifference, "i have not time, after all, to punish these two other boys; let them take care how they provoke me another time." often did i wish that i was a fairy, in order to play him tricks like a caliban. we used to sit and fancy what we should do with his wig; how we would hamper and vex him; "put knives in his pillow, and halters in his pew." to venture on a joke in our own mortal persons, was like playing with polyphemus. one afternoon, when he was nodding with sleep over a lesson, a boy of the name of meaer, who stood behind him, ventured to take a pin, and begin advancing with it up his wig. the hollow, exhibited between the wig and the nape of the neck, invited him. the boys encouraged this daring act of gallantry. nods and becks, and then whispers of "go it, m.!" gave more and more valor to his hand. on a sudden, the master's head falls back; he starts, with eyes like a shark; and seizing the unfortunate culprit, who stood helpless in the act of holding the pin, caught hold of him, fiery with passion. a "swinging task" ensued, which kept him at home all the holidays. one of these tasks would consist of an impossible quantity of virgil, which the learner, unable to retain it at once, wasted his heart and soul out "to get up," till it was too late. sometimes, however, our despot got into a dilemma, and then he did not know how to get out of it. a boy, now and then, would be roused into open and fierce remonstrance. i recollect s., afterward one of the mildest of preachers, starting up in his place, and pouring forth on his astonished hearer a torrent of invectives and threats, which the other could only answer by looking pale, and uttering a few threats in return. nothing came of it. he did not like such matters to go before the governors. another time, favell, a grecian, a youth of high spirit, whom he had struck, went to the school-door, opened it, and, turning round with the handle in his grasp, told him he would never set foot again in the place, unless he promised to treat him with more delicacy. "come back, child--come back!" said the other, pale, and in a faint voice. there was a dead silence. favell came back, and nothing mere was done. a sentiment, unaccompanied with something practical, would have been lost upon him d----, who went afterward to the military college at woolwich, played him a trick, apparently between jest and earnest, which amused us exceedingly. he was to be flogged; and the dreadful door of the library was approached. (they did not invest the books with flowers, as montaigne recommends.) down falls the criminal, and, twisting himself about the master's legs, which he does the more when the other attempts to move, repeats without ceasing, "oh, good god! consider my father, sir; my father, sir; you know my father!" the point was felt to be getting ludicrous, and was given up. p----, now a popular preacher, was in the habit of entertaining the boys that way. he was a regular wag; and would snatch his jokes out of the very flame and fury of the master, like snap-dragon. whenever the other struck him, p. would get up; and, half to avoid the blows, and half render them ridiculous, begin moving about the school-room, making all sorts of antics. when he was struck in the face, he would clap his hand with affected vehemence to the place, and cry as rapidly, "_oh_, lord!" if the blow came on the arm, he would grasp his arm, with a similar exclamation. the master would then go, driving and kicking him; while the patient accompanied every blow with the same comments and illustrations, making faces to us by way of index. what a bit of a golden age was it, when the rev. mr. steevens, one of the under grammar-masters, took his place, on some occasion, for a short time! steevens was short and fat, with a handsome, cordial face. you loved him as you looked at him; and seemed as if you should love him the more, the fatter he became. i stammered when i was at that time of life; which was an infirmity that used to get me into terrible trouble with the master. steevens used to say, on the other hand, "here comes our little black-haired friend, who stammers so. now, let us see what we can do for him." the consequence was, i did not hesitate half so much as with the other. when i did, it was out of impatience to please him. such of us were not liked the better by the master, as were in favor with his wife. she was a sprightly, good-looking woman, with black eyes, and was beheld with transport by the boys, whenever she appeared at the school-door. her husband's name, uttered in a mingled tone of good-nature and imperativeness, brought him down from his seat with smiling haste. sometimes he did not return. on entering the school one day, he found a boy eating cherries. "where did you get those cherries?" exclaimed he, thinking the boy had nothing to say for himself. "mrs. boyer gave them me, sir." he turned away, scowling with disappointment. speaking of fruit, reminds me of a pleasant trait on the part of a grecian of the name of le grice. he was the maddest of all the great boys in my time; clever, full of address, and not hampered with modesty. remote rumors, not lightly to be heard, fell on our ears, respecting pranks of his among the nurses' daughters. he had a fair, handsome face, with delicate, aquiline nose, and twinkling eyes. i remember his astonishing me, when i was "a new boy," with sending me for a bottle of water, which he proceeded to pour down the back of g., a grave deputy grecian. on the master asking him one day, why he, of all the boys, had given up no exercise (it was a particular exercise that they were bound to do in the course of a long set of holidays), he said he had had "a lethargy." the extreme impudence of this puzzled the master; and i believe nothing came of it. but what i alluded to about the fruit was this: le grice was in the habit of eating apples in school-time, for which he had been often rebuked. one day, having particularly pleased the master, the latter, who was eating apples himself, and who would now and then with great ostentation present a boy with some half-penny token of his mansuetude, called out to his favorite of the moment: "le grice, here is an apple for you." le grice, who felt his dignity hurt as a grecian, but was more pleased at having this opportunity of mortifying his reprover, replied, with an exquisite tranquillity of assurance, "sir, i never eat apples." for this, among other things, the boy's adored him. poor fellow! he and favell (who, though very generous, was said to be a little too sensible of an humble origin) wrote to the duke of york, when they were at college, for commissions in the army. the duke good-naturedly sent them. le grice died in the west indies. favell was killed in one of the battles in spain, but not before he had distinguished himself as an officer and a gentleman. education in america what is the enterprise and general prosperity of the americans to be attributed to (their country is not naturally so rich or fruitful as mexico), except to their general enlightenment? the oldest manufacturers of cotton in the world are the hindoos; labor with them is cheaper than it is in any other part of the world: yet we take the cotton that grows at the doors of their factories, bring it , miles to this country, manufacture it here where labor is so expensive, take it back , miles, and undersell the native manufacturer. labor is dearer in america than in any part of the world, and yet we dread and fear their competition more than that of any other nation. the reason of all this is obvious. all the advantages which the hindoo possesses are far more than counterbalanced by his intellectual inferiority to ourselves; while we dread the american, with reason, because he is, intellectually at least, our equal, and, considering the general intelligence and good conduct of the hands he employs, our superior. to what cause, except that of a decided superiority in captains and crews, can we attribute the fact that the americans have deprived us of so large a portion of the whale fishery, as in a measure to have monopolized it? american clocks, which we now see in almost every hall and cottage, ought to set us thinking. we may be sure of this, the commerce of the world will fall into the hands of those who are most deserving of it. if political or philanthropic considerations should fail to show us the necessity of educating our people, commercial considerations will one day remind us of what we ought to have done. we can only hope that the reminder may not come too late. enlightenment is the great necessity and the great glory of our age; ignorance is the most expensive, and most dangerous, and most pressing of all our evils. among ourselves we find a variety of motives converging upon this conclusion. the statesman has become aware that an enlightened population is more orderly, more submissive, in times of public distress, to the necessity of their circumstances; not so easily led away by agitators; in short, more easily and more cheaply governed. the political economist is well aware of the close connection between general intelligence and successful enterprise and industry. the greater the number of enlightened and intelligent persons, the greater is the number of those whose thoughts are at work in subduing nature, improving arts, and increasing national wealth. the benevolent man is anxious that all should share those enjoyments and advantages which he himself finds to be the greatest. both churchman and dissenter know well enough that they are under the necessity of educating. and the manufacturer, too, who is employing, perhaps, many more hands than the colonel of a regiment commands, is now becoming well aware how much to his advantage it is that his men should prefer a book or a reading-room to the parlor of a public house; should understand what they are about, instead of being merely able to go through their allotted task as so many beasts of burden; and that they should have the strong motive of making their homes decent and respectable, and of bettering their condition. all these motives are now working--strongly, too--in the public mind, and have begun to bear fruit.--_frazer's magazine._ [from bartlett's "nile boat."] scenes in egypt. the egyptian pyramids.--how many illustrious travelers in all ages have sat and gazed upon the scene around! and how endless are the speculations in which they have indulged! "the epochs, the builders, and the objects of the pyramids," says gliddon, "had, for two thousand years, been dreams, fallacies, or mysteries." to begin at the beginning, some have supposed them to be antediluvian; others, that they were built by the children of noah to escape from a second flood--by nimrod, by the pali of hindostan, and even the ancient irish. it was a favorite theory until very lately, that they were the work of the captive israelites. the arabians attributed them to the jins or genii; others to a race of titans. some have supposed them to have been the granaries built by joseph; others, intended for his tomb, or those of the pharaoh drowned in the red sea, or of the bull apis. yeates thinks they soon followed the tower of babel, and both had the same common design; while, according to others, they were built with the spoils of solomon's temple and the riches of the queen of sheba. they have been regarded as temples of venus, as reservoirs for purifying the waters of the nile, as erected for astronomical or mathematical purposes, or intended to protect the valley of the nile from the encroachments of the sands of the desert (this notable theory, too, is quite recent); in short, for every conceivable and inconceivable purpose that could be imagined by superstitious awe, by erudition groping without data in the dark, or reasoning upon the scanty and suspicious evidence of grecian writers. at length, after a silence of thousands of years, the discoveries of champollion have enabled the monuments to tell their own tale; their mystery has been, in great measure, unraveled, and the names of their founders ascertained. the explorations of colonel vyse, perring, and recently of lepsius, have brought to light the remains of no less than _sixty-nine_ pyramids, extending in a line from abouroash to dashoor. these, by the discovery of the names of their founders, are proved to have been a succession of royal mausolea, forming the most sublime necropolis in the world. the size of each different pyramid is supposed to bear relation to the length of the reign of its builder, being commenced with the delving of a tomb in the rock for him at his accession, over which a fresh layer of stones was added every year until his decease, when the monument was finished and closed up. taking the number of these memiphite sovereigns and the average length of their reigns, the gradual construction of the pyramids would, therefore, it is presumed, extend over a period, in round numbers, of some _sixteen hundred years!_ imagination is left to conceive the antecedent period required for the slow formation of the alluvial valley of the nile until it became fit for human habitation, whether it was first peopled by an indigenous race, or by an asiatic immigration, already bringing with them from their asiatic birth-place the elements of civilization, or whether they grew up on the spot, and the long, long ages that might have elapsed, and the progress that must have been made, before monuments so wonderful could have been erected. [illustration: the pyramids.] such is the latest theory, we believe, of the construction and import of the pyramids. the entrance to the great pyramid is about forty feet from the ground. at the entrance, the stones follow the inclination of the passage: there are a few foot-holes to aid you in descending the slippery blocks. stooping down at the entrance of the low passage, four feet high, we began the sloping descent into the interior. this first passage continues on a slope, down to a subterranean room; but at the distance of feet, a block of granite closes it; and an upper passage ascends from this point at an angle of °. climbing by a few steps into the second passage, you ascend to the entrance of the great gallery. from this point a horizontal passage leads into what is called the queen's chamber, which is small, and roofed by long blocks, resting against each other, and forming an angle: its height to this point is about twenty feet. there is a niche in the east end, where the arabs have broken the stones in search for treasure; and sir g. wilkinson thinks, that "if the pit where the king's body was deposited does exist in any of these rooms, it should be looked for beneath this niche." he remarks besides, that this chamber stands under the apex of the pyramid. at the base of the great gallery, to which we now return, is the mouth of what is called the well, a narrow funnel-shaped passage, leading down to the chamber at the base of the edifice, hollowed in the rock, and if the theory of dr. lepsius is correct, originally containing the body of the founder. the long ascending slope of the great gallery, six feet wide, is formed by successive courses of masonry overlaying each other, and thus narrowing the passage toward the top. [illustration] advancing feet up this impressive avenue, we come to a horizontal passage, where four granite portcullises, descending through grooves, once opposed additional obstacles to the rash curiosity or avarice which might tempt any to invade the eternal silence of the sepulchral chamber, which they besides concealed, but the cunning of the spoiler has been there of old, the device was vain, and you are now enabled to enter this, the principal apartment in the pyramid, and called the king's chamber, entirely constructed of red granite, as is also the sarcophagus, the lid and contents of which had been removed. this is entirely plain, and without hieroglyphics; the more singular, as it seems to be ascertained that they were then in use. the sarcophagus rests upon an enormous granite block, which may, as suggested by mrs. poole, in her minute account of the interior, have been placed to mark the entrance to a deep vault or pit beneath. there are some small holes in the walls of the chamber, the purpose of which was for ventilation, as at length discovered by col. howard vyse. above the king's chamber, and only to be reached by a narrow passage, ascending at the south-east corner of the great gallery, having notches in which pieces of wood were formerly inserted, and from the top of that, along another passage, is the small chamber discovered by mr. davison; its height is only three feet six inches; above it are four other similar niches, discovered by colonel howard vyse, the topmost of which is angular. wilkinson supposes that the sole purpose of these chambers is to relieve the pressure on the king's chamber, and here was discovered the cartouche containing the name of the founder, suphis, identical with that found upon the tablets in wady maghara, in the desert of mount sinai. the second pyramid, generally attributed, though without hieroglyphical confirmation, to cephrenes, is more ancient and ruder in its masonry than that of cheops. standing on higher ground, it has from some points an appearance of greater height than that of the great pyramid, and its dimensions are hardly less stupendous. it is distinguished by having a portion of the smooth casing yet remaining, with which all the pyramids were once covered, and it is a great feat to climb up this dangerous, slippery surface to the summit. yet there are plenty of arabs who for a trifling beckshish will dash "down cheops and up cephrenes" with incredible celerity. its interior arrangements differ from those of the great pyramid, in that in accordance with lepsius's theory, the sarcophagus of the builder is sunk in the floor, and not placed in the centre of the edifice. the glory of opening this pyramid is due to the enterprising belzoni. the third pyramid is of much smaller dimensions than the two others, but beautifully constructed. it was the work, as is proved by the discovery of his name, of mycerinus or mencheres, whose wooden coffin in the british museum, very simple, and unornamented, as well as the desiccated body, supposed to be that of the monarch himself, has probably attracted the notice of our readers. this pyramid is double, _i. e._, eased over with a distinct covering. besides these principal ones, there are still standing other and smaller pyramids, more or less entire, grouped about these larger ones, and forming a portion of this stupendous necropolis of memphis. * * * * * the great hall at karnak.--we had spent so much time in the examination of luxor, and of the other portions of karnak, that the evening was advanced when we arrived at the great hall. the shadows were creeping solemnly through the intricate recesses of its forest of columns, but the red light rested for a while upon their beautiful flower-shaped capitals, the paintings upon which, scarred and worn as they are by the accidents of years, still display, under a strong light, much of their original vividness. it is a perfect wilderness of ruin, almost outrunning the wildest imagination or the most fantastic dream. we paced slowly down the central avenue. the bases of the columns are buried among the fallen fragments of the roof and a mass of superincumbent earth; from his hiding-place, amidst which the jackal began to steal forth, and wake the echoes of the ruins with his blood-curdling shriek; while the shadowy bat flitted, spirit-like, from dusky pillar to pillar. from the centre of the hall, whichever way we looked through the deepening gloom, there seemed no end to the labyrinthine ruins. obelisks and columns, some erect in their pristine beauty, others fallen across, and hurled together in hideous confusion, forming wild arcades of ruin; enormous masses of prostrate walls and propylæa, seemed to have required either to construct or to destroy them the power of a fabled race of giants. pillars, obelisks, and walls of this immense hall, were covered with the forms of monarchs who reigned, and of the gods who were once worshiped within it. involuntarily the mind goes back, in gazing on them, to the period of its original splendor, when rameses in triumph returned from his oriental conquests--pictures the pile in all its completeness, the hall of a hundred and thirty columns with its superb roof, glittering in all the vivid beauty of its paintings, thronged with monarchs, and priests, and worshipers, and devoted to splendid and gorgeous ceremonies. [illustration: great hall at karnak.] next morning, after an early breakfast, i was again among the ruins of the great hall, which i had but imperfectly surveyed the previous evening. i give its dimensions from wilkinson, with a description of the rest of the temple. "it measures feet by , supported by a central avenue of twelve massive columns, feet high (without the pedestal and abacus) and in diameter, besides a hundred and twenty-two of smaller, or rather less gigantic dimensions, feet inches in height, and feet inches in circumference, distributed in seven lines on either side of the former. the twelve central columns were originally fourteen, but the two northernmost have been inclosed within the front towers or popylæa, apparently in the time of osirei himself, the founder of the hall. the two at the other end were also partly built into the projecting wall of the doorway, as appears from their rough sides, which were left uneven for that purpose. attached to this are two other towers, closing the inner extremity of the hall, beyond which are two obelisks, one still standing on its original site, the other having been thrown down and broken by human violence. similar but smaller propylæa succeed to this court, of which they form the inner side." this is the spot which i have selected for a retrospective view of the great hall, the obelisk still standing, but the propylæa in the fore-ground a mass of utter ruin. still following the intricate plan of the great temple through the ruined propylæa in the fore-ground, we reach another court with two obelisks of larger dimensions, the one now standing being feet high and square, surrounded by a peristyle, if i may be allowed the expression, of osiride figures. passing between two dilapidated propylæa, you enter another smaller area, ornamented in a similar manner, and succeeded by a vestibule, in front of the granite gateways that form the façade of the court before the sanctuary. this last is also of red granite, divided into two apartments, and surrounded by numerous chambers of small dimensions, varying from feet by , to feet by . the walls of this small sanctuary, standing on the site of a more ancient one, are highly polished, sculptured, and painted, and the ceiling of stars on a blue ground, the whole exquisitely finished. the entire height of the hall, _i. e._, the central portion, is not less than feet, the propylæa still higher. the imagination is no doubt bewildered in following these numerous details, and yet much is left undescribed and even unnoticed, and the eye, even of the visitor, more than satisfied with seeing, will return to the prominent objects, those alone, of which he can expect to retain a vivid recollection. the great hall will attract his attention above every thing else. scenery on the erie railroad. [illustration: view from piermont, looking north.] the construction of the erie railroad through the hitherto secluded valleys of the delaware and susquehanna rivers, and reaching now almost to the allegany, has opened to access new fields for the tourist, abounding with the loveliest and the grandest works of nature. from the hudson to the lakes, the scenery is constantly changing from the romantic and beautiful to the bold and rugged; and again from the sublime and fearfully grand to the sweetest pictures of gentle beauty. there is probably no road in the world that passes through such a variety of scenery as does the erie, and there is certainly none that can present to the traveler such a succession of triumphs of art over the formidable obstacles which nature has, at almost every step, raised against the iron-clad intruders into her loveliest recesses. the enchanting magnificence of the scenery keeps the attention alive, while its varying character at every turn, continually opens new sources of enjoyment. immense rocky excavations salute you upon every side. miles of mountain acclivities of solid rock have been borne away by the herculean arm of persevering industry. you see where the lofty cliff has been beaten down; the huge mountain-barrier leveled; rough and rugged precipices overcome; chasms spanned, and wide valleys and rivers crossed. the scenery in the valley of the delaware is grand beyond description; and in the valley of the susquehanna, after passing out of a wilderness, where every portion is stamped with the impress of grandeur, a truly agricultural region, in a high state of cultivation, and smiling with abundance, meets the eye. at the point where the road first strikes the susquehanna, that noble river is seen in the plenitude of its magnificent beauty. [illustration: valley of the neversink. from the slate rock cutting. port jervis in the distance.] it is not our purpose to point out the particular objects most worthy of examination, or to describe any one of the numerous landscapes which lie all along the track; but we will venture to assert, that nowhere between sun and sun can such a combination and variety of the wonderful in nature and art, with the beautiful be seen, as in a day's ride on the erie railroad. sketches of some of these views accompany this article, and we may, from time to time, give such others as we think will prove interesting to our readers. the reader is familiar with the geography of the road: commencing at piermont, on the hudson, twenty-four miles from new york, on the long pier that projects a mile into the river, it winds its way westward among the hills along the course of the sparkill. just before leaving the pier, looking north, the view on the preceding page is presented. from the sparkill the road leads over to the ramapo, where the first lovely scenery commences, in a wild and broken, but picturesque region; thence through orange county, beautiful mostly from its fertility and high cultivation. passing on, the road approaches the shawangunk mountains, which are seen stretching away to the northeast, where the eye catches a misty glimpse of the distant catskills. the appearance of these mountains from the east is truly sublime; and ascending toward the summit the country is as rugged as the wildest steeps of the appenines or styrian alps. after passing the summit of the mountain through a rock-cutting, half a mile in length, the road winds by a gentle slope of a dozen miles along the mountain side to the valley below. about half way down, another deep cutting through the rock is passed, on emerging from which, a view of remarkable loveliness meets the eye. at this point the traveler has an unbroken view of the enchanting valley of the neversink in all its cultivated beauty. the accompanying view represents the scene from the spot where the road boldly sweeps toward the south, and shows the western verge of the valley bordered by a chain of mountains, at the foot of which gleams the village of port jervis and its level fields, losing themselves far in the south where rolls the delaware, beyond which again the distant town of milford may be seen in the misty light. running south through this beautiful area is a winding grove of trees, marking the course of the neversink to where it unites with the delaware. [illustration: starrucca viaduct.] we will present only one other view, which represents one of the imposing structures which characterize the erie road. this is the viaduct over the valley of the starrucca, built of stone. it is elevated one hundred feet above the valley, is over twelve hundred feet long, and twenty-five wide, and is composed of eighteen heavy piers, with arches of fifty feet span. it is simple in its design, but symmetrical and beautiful, and is altogether the noblest piece of work upon the whole line of the road. it is one of the most interesting objects which invite the notice of the traveler, and gives dignity and grandeur, as well as a picturesque character to the work. in this immediate neighborhood is some of the finest scenery to be found on the whole line of the road, and will tempt many a traveler to repeat his visit, and linger to explore new beauties, which the eye in the rolling car does not detect. [from dr. moore's new work on "health, disease, and remedy."] bathing--its utility. the effects of cold and heat recall to my mind the words that i heard in my youth from the lips of abernethy, "cold is bracing, heat relaxing--that is the notion, but only consider its absurdity. heat excites, how then can it relax? there is a difference between heat and moisture and mere heat. they say a cold bath is bracing. ah! a man jumps into a cold bath, and he feels chilled; he jumps out again, and rubs himself with a coarse cloth; he is invigorated, refreshed, and cheery; he feels as if he could jump over the moon. so, if a man takes a glass of brandy, he feels vigorous enough for a little while, but the brandy is any thing but bracing. keep the man in the cold water, and see what a poor, shivering mortal he would be; you might almost knock him down with a feather; and add more brandy to the man, and he becomes a lump." heat and cold, in fact, both operate in the same manner, by exciting the vital powers into action, but to use either to excess as surely debilitates, disorders, and overpowers the system as an abuse of brandy would do. all things that cause action of course must act as stimuli, and whatever rouses the heart and nerves must be proportioned to the degree of power existing in the patient, or it can not be safe; it is spurring the jaded horse that kills him. moderation is the course prescribed in the law of nature and of god, and it needs no exquisite discernment to distinguish right from wrong in a general way, or to see when the system needs rest, and when rousing. _sea-bathing_ is serviceable only as a stimulus to all the functions by rousing the nerves, and hence the heart and arteries, to greater activity. in this manner, i have seen vast benefit in a multitude of cases, more particularly those in which the lymphatic system and the glands were diseased, as in scrofula, tumid abdomen, and harsh skin, with deficient appetite, and indisposition to take exercise. it does mischief if it does not at once improve power. in such cases, however, great care is required to avoid too long a chill, which always aggravates the glandular congestion. salt stimulates the skin, but a certain degree of cold, and, perhaps, of shock, is necessary for the beneficial effects, a warm bath very often increasing the malady. i speak from my experience of the effects of sea-bathing, and would strongly urge the propriety of preparing children for plunging in the sea, by getting them accustomed to cold sponging at home, as this plan will often supersede the need of visiting the sea for their benefit, and enable them to bear the sea the better when advisable. sea-air and sea-water exert a very decided influence upon children, and, indeed, upon all who are not accustomed to it, whether in health or disease. young persons coming from inland situations are very apt to become somewhat fevered by the change, and bilious disorder is a common consequence of their approaching the sea; and in almost all persons sea-bathing begets after a while a slight intermittent disorder, which seldom goes quite off in less than a fortnight from the last bath. if the bath be resorted to daily, this disorder usually comes on in about a week; if only twice or thrice a week, it may not appear for a month, and those who bathe only now and then, without regularity, do not seem to be subject to it. i am disposed to think that this new action of the system promotes the cure of glandular disease, but it may, if neglected, conduce to internal disorder of a worse kind, and i have frequently seen a dangerous remittent fever supervene upon it in delicate and excitable children. these results prove the stimulating operation of sea-water, and sufficiently show the necessity of caution in its use. instead of improving the powers of the body, it may produce debility by over-exciting them; hence it is prudent in most cases not to bathe oftener than every other day, and to use milder measures if, after the second or third occasion, there is not a visible increase of vigor. where exercise can not be taken immediately after the bath, friction of the body, especially over the back and stomach, is desirable. the best time for cold bathing, where there is any debility, is about two hours after breakfast. early bathing is best for the robust. let it be remembered that cold acts always as a stimulant; whenever it does good, it rouses the nervous system; it makes a greater demand for oxygen; it enables the body to absorb more of the vital air, and thus it facilitates the changes on which the energy of life depends. in this respect it acts like all other stimulants proper to the body, and not like alcoholic stimuli, which excite the brain, while they diminish the influence of the vital air upon the blood, and favor capillary obstructions and inflammations. the influence of cold on the nervous system is no new discovery, for ever since man has felt and inferred from his feeling, he must have known that influence alike from experience and observation. used as a bath, we have seen that it may produce very contrary effects; like any other powerful agent, it both excites and depresses. the first action of nearly all remedies is to excite; from fire to frost, from aqua fortis to aqua fontis, the influence is always more or less stimulating, and it is capable of depressing the vital powers in proportion to its power of exciting them. thus the hydropathists have in their hands the power of producing all the stages of the most vehement fever, from the rigor of the severest cold fit to the fiercest excitement which the heart and brain will bear, succeeded by a perspiration proportionately violent; and hence sometimes inadvertently they lose a patient by the production of a sudden sinking like the collapse of cholera. some tact and skill, therefore, are requisite for the safe employment of such an agency as cold water. paracelsus treated that form of st. vitus' dance which prevailed in his day, and which he called _chorea lasciva_, by cooling his patients in tubs of cold water; and priesnitz brings his patients also to the right point by baths that allow no idleness to whatever function of nature may remain capable of action within them, and thus he often removes partial complaints by a general diversion. aubrey, in his account of the great harvey, informs us of a bold piece of practice with cold water. he says, that when harvey had a fit of the gout that interfered with his studies, "he would sitt with his legges bare, though it were frosty, on the leads of cockayne-house, put them into a payle of water till he was almost dead with cold, and betake himself to his stove, and so 'twas gone." harvey doubtless knew how to balance matters in his own mind between the risk and the remedy, and he might feel justified in treating himself with less gentleness than his patients; but, perhaps, physicians should try such extreme remedies only on themselves. since harvey's day, the virtues of cold water in fever and inflammation have been abundantly tested, and we find it is capable of producing contrary effects, according to the condition of the body at the time. thus, if it be long applied, or applied when the vital action is low, it dangerously depresses the vascular system, to be followed by a more or less dangerous and obstinate reaction; but if the system be tolerably strong, without being very excitable, the use of cold in a moderate degree always safely increases vigor. it is therefore always safe so far to employ cold, as will help to maintain the ordinary temperature of the body. thus, in fever, when the skin is hot, sponging it with cold water is both most refreshing and curative; while a free use of cold water as drink is almost always in such cases highly advantageous. it has been well shown by dr. r. b. todd, in his lumleian lectures at the college of physicians, on what principle cold may be employed to modify and control a great number of diseases, especially those of a convulsive character. but these things are of course known, or ought to be known, by professional men; and as they are not of a character to admit of practical application, except by those accustomed to treat disease, it will answer no good purpose to enlarge on the subject in this place. the _warm-bath_ is among the most useful of remedial measures. one who has experienced the delicious refreshment of a warm-bath at about the temperature of the blood ( °), after exhausting fatigue and want of sleep, whether from disease or exertion, will need no arguments in its favor. it is exactly under such conditions that it is most useful. from time immemorial, thermal springs of tepid warmth have been lauded for their virtues in relieving nervous disorders, and diseases dependent on insufficiency of blood, and exhaustion of the brain, such as the dyspepsy of anxious persons, and individuals debilitated by excitement, bad habits, and hot climates. the mode in which it acts seems evident--it checks waste of warmth from the skin, invigorates its vessels without producing perspiration, admits a little pure water into the blood by absorption, and by its tranquillizing influence on the nerves, favors the action of any function that may have been checked or disturbed. the body becomes highly electric in warm water, and probably all the conditions of increased power are present for the time at least; and of course, so far as warm bathing promotes appetite, digestion, assimilation, and sound sleep, it contributes to the establishment of increased vigor. thus we find, that hypochondriacal patients have often found new hopes in the genial lymph as it embraced and laved their naked limbs; they have felt the elements were still in their favor; they have rejoiced in the sunny air, and taken their homely meals as if they were ambrosia, with hearts grateful to the hand that helped them. the blessing may, however, be abused--the remedy may be made a luxury, the means of health a cause of weakness. when continually resorted to by persons well nourished, but inactive, it is apt to produce a flaccidity of the system, and to encourage that relaxation of the veins which predisposes to excessive formation of fat. for the same reason, it is generally injurious where there is a tendency to dropsy, and in some such cases i have known it immediately followed by great lymphatic effusion in the cellular tissue, which has been quickly removed, however, by saline aperients and tonics. as it is the combination of heat and moisture that renders the thermal bath so efficacious, it frequently happens that a thoroughly hot bath most effectually facilitates the cure, and we are not astonished that the parboiling waters of emmaus, at °, on the shores of tiberias, are as famous for their cures as any of the german baths. the semi-barbarians about the sea of galilee, the inhabitants of iceland, and the savages of america, know how to employ the hot bath skillfully; and if we were equally accustomed with them to exercise our natural instinct and common sense, we also might bathe in hot water without consulting the doctor; but as it is, we had better take advantage of a better opinion than our own. i the more earnestly urge this course, because i know the danger of all hot baths, wherever there is acute disease of an inflammatory kind affecting internal organs, more especially of the lungs, heart, and bowels. even _acute_ rheumatism is more likely to attack the heart when the hot bath is employed; and where there is any considerable structural disorder of that organ, the use of the bath in any form is at all times attended with risk. warm baths are useful in all nervous disorders attended with debility, in all cases in which there is dryness of the skin and a tendency to feverish less, in mental fidgetiness, in irregular circulation, as when a person can not take due exercise, and is subject to coldness of the feet or hands, and in many forms of congestion and dyspepsia, with tenderness over the stomach. it is serviceable in the convulsive diseases of children, and in painful diseases, especially of a spasmodic kind, but more particularly in cases of chronic irritation from local causes, whether of the skin or of internal parts. it is injurious to plethoric persons, to persons subject to hæmorrhage of any kind, and in the active stage of fever. but whether it would be good or bad in any individual case, can be determined only by one who has ability to examine and judge of that case. as a general rule, mineral and salt-water warm baths are less relaxing than those of pure water. the vapor bath, when the vapor is not breathed, acts more powerfully, though much in the same manner as the warm bath, but it is more useful in common cold and rheumatism. the warm-air bath, at from ° to °, is highly convenient and useful, where it is desirable to excite perspiration, as in rheumatism, scaly eruptions, and certain stages of fever and cholera. the plan most readily adopted is that of dr. gower: a lamp is placed under the end of a metallic tube, which is introduced under the bed-clothes, which are raised from the body by a wicker frame-work, and the degree of heat regulated by moving the lamp. the _cold bath_ is unsafe in infancy and old age, in plethoric habits, in spitting of blood, in eruptive diseases, in great debility, during pregnancy, and in case of weakness from any existing local disease of an acute nature; but in nearly all other states of the body, cold water is the best stimulant of the nerves, the finest quickener of every function, the most delightful invigorator of the whole frame, qualifying both brain and muscles for their utmost activity, and clearing alike the features and the fancy from clouds and gloom. cold may always be safely applied when the surface is heated by warmth from without, as from hot water or the vapor bath, and, indeed, whenever the body is hot without previous exercise of an exhausting kind. probably, the method adopted by the romans, in their palmiest days, of plunging into the _baptisterium_, or cold bath, immediately after the vapor or hot bath, or, as a substitute, the pouring of cold water over the head, was well calculated to invigorate the system, and give a high enjoyment of existence. the russian practice of plunging into a cold stream, or rolling in the snow, after the vapor-bath, is said to be favorable to longevity. the finlanders are accustomed to leave their bathing-houses, heated to °, and to pass into the open air without any covering whatever, even when the thermometer indicates a temperature ° below zero, and that without any ill effect, but, on the contrary, it is said that by this habit they are quite exempted from rheumatism. would that the luxury of bathing, so cheaply enjoyed by all classes of old rome, were equally available among ourselves. the conquerors of the world introduced their baths wherever they established their power; but we have repudiated the blessings of water in such a form, and now the russian boor and the finnish peasant, the turk, the egyptian, the basest of people, and the barbarians of africa, shame even the inhabitants of england's metropolis; for every where but in our land, though the duty of cleanliness may not be enjoined as next to godliness, as with us, yet the benefit and the luxury of the bath are freely enjoyed, as the natural means of ablution and of health. "with us the man of no complaint demands the warm ablution, just enough to clear the sluices of the skin, enough to keep the body sacred from indecent soil. still to be pure, even did it not conduce (as much it does) to health, were greatly worth your daily pains."--armstrong. poverty of the english bar. with the exception, perhaps, of the lower order of the working clergy, there is no class of the community, as a body, so desperately poor as the bar. if it were not for extrinsic aids, one-half, at least, of its members must necessarily starve. of course a considerable number of them have private property or income, and in point of fact, as a general rule, he who goes to the bar without some such assistance and resource is a fool--and probably a vanity-stricken fool--a fond dreamer about the eloquium ac famam demosthenis aut ciceronis; forgetting that at the outset these worthies had the leisure to acquire, and the ample means to pay for the best education that the world could afford. the aspirant for forensic fame who can not do this is dreadfully overweighted for the race, and can scarcely hope to come in a winner; for the want of all facilities of tuition and of one's own library, which is a thing of great cost, must be severely felt, and the necessity of working in some extraneous occupation for his daily bread must engross much of that time which should be devoted to study, and the furtherance otherwise of the cardinal object he has in view. we have read of many cases in which men have struggled triumphantly against all such obstacles, and no doubt some there were--but for the most part, as in lord eldon's instance, they were grossly exaggerated. next, of those who have no patrimony or private allowance from friends, the press, in its various departments, supports a very large number. some are editors or contributors to magazines or reviews--daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly; some are parliamentary reporters; some shorthand writers; some reporters of the proceedings in the courts of law for the daily journals and the now almost innumerous legal publications, from the recognized reports down to the two-penny pamphlet; then some are secretaries to public boards or bodies, some to private individuals. all these are comparatively well off in the world, and may "bide their time," though that time very rarely comes in any prolific shape, and meanwhile devote their _tempora subseciva_ to the profession without the physical necessity of doing any thing ungentlemanly. but there are hundreds of others hanging on to the profession in a most precarious position from day to day, who would do any thing for business, and who taint the whole mass with the disgrace of their proceedings. these are the persons who resort to the arts of the lowest tradesmen, such as under-working, touting for employment, sneaking, cringing, lying, and the like. these are the persons who, in such shabby or fraudulent cases as may succeed, share the fees with low attorneys, and who sign habitually, for the same pettifogging practitioners, half-guinea motions in the batch, for half-a-crown or eighteenpence apiece; and, in short, do any thing and every thing that is mean and infamous. alas for the _dignity_ of the bar! the common mechanic, who earns his regular thirty shillings a week, the scene-shifter, the paltry play actor, enjoys more of the comforts and real respectability of human life than one of those miserable aspirants to the wool-sack, who spends his day in the desperate quest for a brief, and sits at night in his garret shivering over a shovel-full of coals and an old edition of coke upon littleton.--_frazer's magazine._ sonnet on the death of wordsworth. _ d april, ._ beneath the solemn shadow he doth sleep of his own mountains! closed the poet's eyes to all earth's beauty--wood, and lake, and skies, and golden mists that up the valleys creep. sweet duddon's stream and rydal's grassy steep, the "snow-white lamb," his cottage-maiden's prize, the cuckoo's note, and flowers, in which his wise and gentle mind found "thoughts for tears too deep"-- these, wordsworth! thou hast left; but oh, on these, and the deep human sympathies that flow link'd with their beauty, an immortal train, thy benediction rests; and as the breeze sweeping the cloud-capp'd hills is heard below. descends to us a rich undying strain! h. m. r. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. [_continued from page ._] chapter ii. the restaurant "au scÉlÉrat." as i gained the street, at a considerable distance from the "place," i was able to increase my speed; and i did so with an eagerness as if the world depended on my haste. at any other time i would have bethought me of my disobedience to the père's commands, and looked forward to meeting him with shame and sorrow, but now i felt a kind of importance in the charge intrusted to me. i regarded my mission as something superior to any petty consideration of self, while the very proximity in which i had stood to peril and death made me seem a hero in my own eyes. at last i reached the street where we lived, and, almost breathless with exertion, gained the door. what was my amazement, however, to find it guarded by a sentry, a large, solemn-looking fellow, with a tattered cocked hat on his head, and a pair of worn striped trowsers on his legs, who cried out, as i appeared, "_halte là!_" in a voice that at once arrested my steps. "where to, youngster?" said he, in a somewhat melted tone, seeing the shock his first words had caused me. "i am going home, sir," said i, submissively. "i live at the third story, in the apartment of the père michel." "the père michel will live there no longer, my boy; his apartment is now in the temple," said he, slowly. "in the temple!" said i, whose memory at once recalled my father's fate; and then, unable to control my feelings, i sat down upon the steps, and burst into tears. "there, there, child, you must not cry thus," said he; "these are not days when one should weep over misfortunes; they come too fast and too thick on all of us for that. the père was your tutor, i suppose?" i nodded. "and your father--where is he?" "dead." he made a sign to imitate the guillotine, and i assented by another nod. "was he a royalist, boy?" "he was an officer in the _gardes du corps_," said i, proudly. the soldier shook his head mournfully, but with what meaning i know not. "and your mother, boy?" "i do not know where she is," said i, again relapsing into tears at the thought of my utter desolation. the old soldier leaned upon his musket in profound thought, and for some time did not utter a word. at last he said, "there is nothing but the hotel de ville for you, my child. they say that the republic adopts all the orphans of france. what she does with them i can not tell." "but i can, though," replied i, fiercely: "the noyades or the seine are a quick and sure provision; i saw eighty drowned one morning below the pont neuf myself." "that tongue of yours will bring you into trouble, youngster," said he, reprovingly: "mind that you say not such things as these." "what worse fortune can betide me, than to see my father die at the guillotine, and my last, my only friend, carried away to prison." "you have no care for your own neck, then?" "why should i--what value has life for me?" "then it will be spared to you," said he, sententiously; "mark my words, lad. you need never fear death till you begin to love life. get up, my poor boy, you must not be found there when the relief comes, and that will be soon. this is all that i have," said he, placing three sous in my palm, "which will buy a loaf; to-morrow there may be better luck in store for you." i shook the rough hand he offered, with cordial gratitude, and resolved to bear myself as like a man as i could. i drew myself up, touched my cap in soldier-like fashion, and cried out. "adieu;" and then, descending into the street, hurried away to hide the tears that were almost suffocating me. hour after hour i walked the streets; the mere act of motion seemed to divert my grief, and it was only when foot-sore and weary, that i could march no longer, and my sorrows came back in full force, and overwhelmed me in their flow. it was less pride or shame than a sense of my utter helplessness, that prevented me addressing any one of the hundreds who passed me. i bethought me of my inability to do any thing for my own support, and it was this consciousness that served to weigh me down more than all else; and yet i felt with what devotion i could serve him who would but treat me with the kindness he might bestow upon his dog; i fancied with what zeal i could descend to very slavery for one word of affection. the streets were crowded with people; groups were gathered here and there, either listening to some mob orator of the day, or hearing the newspapers read aloud. i tried, by forcing my way into the crowd, to feel myself "one of them," and to think that i had my share of interest in what was going forward, but in vain. of the topics discussed i knew nothing, and of the bystanders none even noticed me. high-swelling phrases met the ear at every moment, that sounded strangely enough to me. they spoke of fraternity--of that brotherhood which linked man to man in close affection; of equality--that made all sharers in this world's goods; of liberty--that gave freedom to every noble aspiration and generous thought; and, for an instant, carried away by the glorious illusion, i even forgot my solitary condition, and felt proud of my heritage as a youth of france i looked around me, however, and what faces met my gaze! the same fearful countenances i had seen around the scaffold: the wretches, blood-stained, and influenced by passion, their bloated cheeks and strained eye-balls glowing with intemperance; their oaths, their gestures, their very voices having something terrible in them. the mockery soon disgusted me, and i moved away, again to wander about without object or direction through the weary streets. it was past midnight when i found myself, without knowing where i was, in a large open space, in the midst of which a solitary lamp was burning. i approached it, and, to my horror, saw that it was the guillotine, over which, in mournful cadence, a lantern swung, creaking its chain as the night-wind stirred it. the dim outline of the fearful scaffold, the fitful light that fell upon the platform, and the silence, all conspired to strike terror into my heart; all i had so lately witnessed seemed to rise up again before me, and the victims seemed to stand up again, pale, and livid, and shuddering as last i saw them. i knelt down, and tried to pray, but terror was too powerful to suffer my thoughts to take this direction, and, half-fainting with fear and exhaustion, i lay down upon the ground and slept--slept beneath the platform of the guillotine. not a dream crossed my slumber, nor did i awake till dawn of day, when the low rumbling of the peasants' carts aroused me, as they were proceeding to the market. i know not why or whence, but i arose from the damp earth, and looked about me with a more daring and courageous spirit than i had hitherto felt. it was may; the first bright rays of sunshine were slanting along the "place," and the fresh, brisk air felt invigorating and cheering. whither to? asked i of myself, and my eyes turned from the dense streets and thoroughfares of the great city to the far-off hills beyond the barrier, and for a moment i hesitated which road to take. i almost seemed to feel as if the decision involved my whole future fortune--whether i should live and die in the humble condition of a peasant, or play for a great stake in life. "yes," said i, after a short hesitation, "i will remain here; in the terrible conflict going forward many must be new adventurers, and never was any one more greedy to learn the trade than myself. i will throw sorrow behind me. yesterday's tears are the last i shall shed. now for a bold heart and a ready will, and here goes for the world!" with these stout words i placed my cap jauntily on one side of my head, and, with a fearless air marched off for the very centre of the city. for some hours i amused myself gazing at the splendid shops, or staring in at the richly-decorated cafés, where the young celebrities of the day were assembled at breakfast, in all the extravagance of the new-fangled costume. then i followed the guard to the parade at the "carousel," and listened to the band; quitting which, i wandered along the quays, watching the boats, as they dragged the river, in search of murdered bodies or suicides. thence i returned to the palais royal, and listened to the news of the day, as read out by some elected enlightener of his countrymen. by what chance i know not, but at last my rambling steps brought me opposite to the great, solemn-looking towers of the "temple." the gloomy prison, within whose walls hundreds were then awaiting the fate which already their friends had suffered; little groups, gathered here and there in the open place, were communicating to the prisoners by signs and gestures, and from many a small-grated window, at an immense height, handkerchiefs were seen to wave in recognition of those below. these signals seemed to excite neither watchfulness nor prevention; indeed, they needed none, and perhaps the very suspense they excited was a torture that pleased the inhuman jailers. whatever the reason, the custom was tolerated, and was apparently enjoyed at that moment by several of the turnkeys, who sat at the windows, much amused at the efforts made to communicate. interested by the sight, i sat down upon a stone bench to watch the scene, and fancied that i could read something of the rank and condition of those who signalled from below their messages of hope or fear. at last a deep bell within the prison tolled the hour of noon, and now every window was suddenly deserted. it was the hour for the muster of the prisoners, which always took place before the dinner at one o'clock. the curious groups soon after broke up. a few lingered round the gate, with, perhaps some hope of admission to visit their friends but the greater number departed. my hunger was now such, that i could no longer deny myself the long-promised meal, and i looked about me for a shop where i might buy a loaf of bread. in my search, i suddenly found myself opposite an immense shop, where viands of every tempting description were ranged with all that artistic skill so purely parisian, making up a picture whose composition snyders would not have despised. over the door was a painting of a miserable wretch, with hands bound behind him, and his hair cut close in the well-known crop for the scaffold, and underneath was written, "au scélérat;" while on a larger board, in gilt letters, ran the inscription: "boivin père et fils, traiteurs pour m. lea condammées." i could scarcely credit my eyes as i read and re-read this infamous announcement; but there it stood, and in the crowd that poured incessantly to and from the door, i saw the success that attended the traffic. a ragged knot were gathered around the window, eagerly gazing at something, which, by their exclamations, seemed to claim all their admiration. i pressed forward to see what it was, and beheld a miniature guillotine, which, turned by a wheel, was employed to chop the meat for sausages. this it was that formed the great object of attraction, even to those to whom the prototype had grown flat and uninteresting. disgusted as i was by this shocking sight, i stood watching all that went forward within with a strange interest. it was a scene of incessant bustle and movement, for now, as one o'clock drew nigh, various dinners were getting ready for the prisoners, while parties of their friends were assembling inside. of these latter, there seemed persons of every rank and condition: some, dressed in all the brilliancy of the _mode_; others, whose garments bespoke direst poverty. there were women, too, whose costume emulated the classic drapery of the ancients, and who displayed, in their looped togas, no niggard share of their forms; while others, in shabby mourning, sat in obscure corners, not noticing the scene before them, nor noticed themselves. a strange equipage, with two horses extravagantly bedizened with rosettes and bouquets, stood at the door; and as i looked, a pale, haggard-looking man, whose foppery in dress contrasted oddly with his care-worn expression, hurried from the shop, and sprung into the carriage. in doing so, a pocket-book fell from his pocket. i took it up, but as i did so, the carriage was already away, and far beyond my power to overtake it. without stopping to examine my prize, or hesitating for a second, i entered the _restaurant_, and asked for m. boivin. "give your orders to me, boy," said a man busily at work behind the counter. "my business is with himself," said i, stoutly. "then you'll have to wait with some patience," said he, sneeringly. "i can do so," was my answer, and i sat down in the shop. i might have been half-an-hour thus seated, when an enormously fat man, with a huge "_bonnet rouge_" on his head, entered from an inner room, and, passing close to where i was, caught sight of me. "who are you, sirrah--what brings you here?" "i want to speak with m. boivin." "then speak," said he, placing his hand upon his immense chest. "it must be alone," said i. "how so, alone, sirrah?" said he, growing suddenly pale; "i have no secrets--i know of nothing that may not be told before all the world." though he said this in a kind of appeal to all around, the dubious looks and glances interchanged seemed to make him far from comfortable. "so you refuse me, then," said i, taking up my cap, and preparing to depart. "come hither," said he, leading the way into the room from which he had emerged. it was a very small chamber; the most conspicuous ornaments of which were busts and pictures of the various celebrities of the revolution. some of these latter were framed ostentatiously, and one, occupying the post of honor above the chimney, at once attracted me, for in a glance i saw that it was a portrait of him who owned the pocket-book, and bore beneath it the name "robespierre." "now, sir, for your communication," said boivin; "and take care that it is of sufficient importance to warrant the interview you have asked for." "i have no fears on that score," said i, calmly, still scanning the features of the portrait, and satisfying myself of their identity. "look at me, sir, and not at that picture," said boivin. "and yet it is of m. robespierre i have to speak," said i, coolly. "how so--of m. robespierre, boy? what is the meaning of this? if it be a snare--if this be a trick, you never leave this spot living," cried he, as he placed a massive hand on each of my shoulders, and shook me violently. "i am not so easily to be terrified, citoyen," said i; "nor have i any secret cause for fear--whatever you may have. my business is of another kind. this morning, in passing out to his carriage, he dropped his pocket-book, which i picked up. its contents may well be of a kind that should not be read by other eyes than his own. my request is, then, that you will seal it up before me, and then send some one along with me, while i restore it to its owner." "is this a snare--what secret mischief have we here?" said boivin, half aloud, as he wiped the cold drops of perspiration from his forehead. "any mishap that follows will depend upon your refusal to do what i ask." "how so--i never refused it; you dare not tell m. robespierre that i refused, sirrah?" "i will tell him nothing that is untrue," said i, calmly; for already a sense of power had gifted me with composure. "if m. robespierre--" "who speaks of me here?" cried that identical personage, as he dashed hurriedly into the room, and then, not waiting for the reply, went on, "you must send out your scouts on every side--i lost my pocket-book as i left this a while ago." "it is here, sir," said i, presenting it at once. "how--where was it found--in whose keeping has it been, boy?" "in mine only; i took it from the ground the same moment that you dropped it, and then came here to place it in m. boivin's hands." "who has taken care of it since that time," continued robespierre, with a slow and sneering accentuation on every word. "the pocket-book has never left my possession since it quitted yours," was my reply. "just so," broke in boivin, now slowly recovering from his terror. "of its contents i know nothing; nor have i sought to know any thing." robespierre looked at me, as if to corroborate this statement, and i nodded my head in acquiescence. "who is your father, boy?" "i have none--he was guillotined." "his name?" "tiernay." "ah, i remember; he was called l'irlandais." "the same." "a famous royalist was that same tiernay, and, doubtless, contrived to leave a heritage of his opinions to his son." "he left me nothing--i have neither house, nor home, nor even bread to eat." "but you have a head to plan, and a heart to feel, youngster; and it is better that fellows like you should not want a dinner. boivin, look to it that he is taken care of. in a few days i will relieve you of the charge. you will remain here, boy; there are worse resting-places, i promise you. there are men who call themselves teachers of the people, who would ask no better life than free quarters on boivin. and so saying, he hurriedly withdrew, leaving me face to face with my host. "so then, youngster," said boivin, as he scratched his ear thoughtfully, "i have gained a pensioner! _parbleu!_ if life were not an uncertain thing in these times, there's no saying how long we might not be blessed with your amiable company." "you shall not be burthened heavily, _citoyen_" said i; "let me have my dinner--i have not eaten since yesterday morning, and i will go my ways peacefully." "which means straight to robespierre's dwelling, to tell him that i have turned you out of doors--eh, sirrah?" "you mistake me much," said i; "this would be sorry gratitude for eaten bread; i meant what i said--that i will not be an unwelcome guest, even though the alternative be, as it is, something very nigh starvation." boivin did not seem clearly to comprehend the meaning of what i said; or perhaps my whole conduct and bearing puzzled him, for he made no reply for several seconds. at last, with a kind of sigh, he said, "well well, it can not be helped; it must be even as he wished, though the odds are, he'll never think more about him come, lad, you shall have your dinner." i followed him through a narrow, unlighted passage, which opened into a room, where, at a long table, were seated a number of men and boys at dinner. some were dressed as cooks--others wore a kind of gray blouse, with a badge upon the arm bearing the name "boivin" in large letters, and were, as i afterward learned, the messengers employed to carry refreshments into the prison, and who, by virtue of this sign, were freely admitted within the gates. taking my place at the board, i proceeded to eat with a voracity that only a long fast could have excused; and thus took but little heed of my companions, whose solecisms in table etiquette might otherwise have amused me. "art a _marmiton_, thou?" asked an elderly man in a cook's cap, as he stared fixedly at me for some seconds. "no," said i, helping myself, and eating away as before. "thou can'st never be a commissionaire, friend, with an appetite like that," cried another; "i wouldn't trust thee to carry a casserole to the fire." "nor shall i be," said i, coolly. "what trade, then, has the good fortune to possess your shining abilities?" "a trade that thrives well just now, friend-pass me the flask." "indeed, and what may it be?" "can you not guess, _citoyen_," said i, "if i tell you that it was never more in vogue; and, if there be some who will not follow it, they'll wear their heads just as safely by holding their peace." _"parbleu!_ thou hast puzzled me," said the chief cook; "and if thou hast not a coffin-maker--." a roar of merriment cut short his speech, in which i myself could not but join heartily. "that is, i know," said i, "a thriving business; but mine is even better; and, not to mystify you longer, i'll just tell you what i am--which is, simply, a friend of the _citoyen_ robespierre." the blow told with full force; and i saw, in the terrified looks that were interchanged around the table, that my sojourn among them, whether destined to be of short or long duration, would not be disturbed by further liberties. it was truly a reign of terror that same period! the great agent of every thing was the vague and shadowy dread of some terrible vengeance, against which precautions were all in vain. men met each other with secret misgivings, and parted with the same dreadful distrust. the ties of kindred were all broken; brotherly affection died out. existence was become like the struggle for life upon some shipwrecked raft, where each sought safety by his neighbor's doom! at such a time--with such terrible teachings--children became men in all the sterner features of character: cruelty is a lesson so easily learned. as for myself, energetic and ambitious by nature, the ascendency my first assumption of power suggested was too grateful a passion to be relinquished. the name--whose spell was like a talisman, because now the secret engine by which i determined to work out my fortune--robespierre had become to my imagination like the slave of aladdin's lamp; and to conjure him up was to be all-powerful. even to boivin himself this influence extended; and it was easy to perceive that he regarded the whole narrative of the pocket-book as a mere fable, invented to obtain a position as a spy over his household. i was not unwilling to encourage the belief--it added to my importance, by increasing the fear i inspired; and thus i walked indolently about, giving myself those airs of "mouchard" that i deemed most fitting, and taking a mischievous delight in the tenor i was inspiring. the indolence of my life, however, soon wearied me, and i began to long for some occupation, or some pursuit. teeming with excitement as the world was--every day, every hour, brimful of events--it was impossible to sit calmly on the beach, and watch the great, foaming current of human passions, without longing to be in the stream. had i been a man at that time, i should have become a furious orator of the mountain--an impassioned leader of the people. the impulse to stand foremost, to take a bold and prominent position, would have carried me to any lengths. i had caught up enough of the horrid fanaticism of the time, to think that there was something grand and heroic in contempt for human suffering; that a man rose proudly above all the weakness of his nature, when, in the pursuit of some great object, he stifled within his breast every throb of affection--every sentiment of kindness and mercy. such were the teachings rife at the time--such the first lessons that boyhood learned; and oh! what a terrible hour had that been for humanity if the generation then born had grown up to manhood, unchastened and unconverted! but to return to my daily life. as i perceived that a week had now elapsed, and the citizen robespierre had not revisited the "restaurant," nor taken any interest in my fate or fortunes, i began to fear lest boivin should master his terror regarding me, and take heart to put me out of doors--an event which, in my present incertitude, would have been sorely inconvenient. i resolved, therefore, to practice a petty deception on my host, to sustain the influence of terror over him. this was, to absent myself every day at a certain hour, under the pretense of visiting my patron--letting fall, from time to time, certain indications to show in what part of the city i had been, and occasionally, as if in an unguarded moment, condescending to relate some piece of popular gossip. none ventured to inquire the source of my information--not one dared to impugn its veracity. whatever their misgivings in secret, to myself they displayed the most credulous faith. nor was their trust so much misplaced, for i had, in reality, become a perfect chronicle of all that went forward in paris--never missing a debate in the convention, where my retentive memory could carry away almost verbally all that i heard--ever present at every public fête or procession, whether the occasions were some insulting desecration of their former faith, or some tasteless mockery of heathen ceremonial. my powers of mimicry, too, enabled me to imitate all the famous characters of the period; and in my assumed inviolability, i used to exhibit the uncouth gestures and spluttering utterance of marat--the wild and terrible ravings of danton--and even the reedy treble of my own patron, robespierre, as he screamed denunciations against the enemies of the people. it is true these exhibitions of mine were only given in secret to certain parties, who, by a kind of instinct, i felt could be trusted. such was my life, as one day, returning from the convention, i beheld a man affixing to a wall a great placard, to which the passing crowd seemed to pay deep attention. it was a decree of the committee of public safety, containing the names of above seven hundred royalists, who were condemned to death, and who were to be executed in three "tournées," on three successive days. for some time back the mob had not been gratified with a spectacle of this nature. in the ribald language of the day, the "holy guillotine had grown thirsty from long drought;" and they read the announcement with greedy eyes, commenting as they went upon those whose names were familiar to them. there were many of noble birth among the proscribed, but by far the greater number were priests, the whole sum of whose offending seemed written in the simple and touching words, "_ancien curé_," of such a parish! it was strange to mark the bitterness of invective with which the people loaded these poor and innocent men, as though they were the source of all their misfortunes. the lazy indolence with which they reproached them, seemed ten times more offensive in their eyes than the lives of ease and affluence led by the nobility. the fact was, they could not forgive men of their own rank and condition what they pardoned in the well-born and the noble! an inconsistency that has characterized democracy in other situations besides this. as i ran my eyes down the list of those confined in the temple, i came to a name which smote my heart with a pang of ingratitude as well as sorrow--the "père michel delannois, soi disant curé de st. blois"--my poor friend and protector was there among the doomed! if up to that moment, i had made no effort to see him, i must own the reason lay in my own selfish feeling of shame--the dread that he should mark the change that had taken place in me--a change that i felt extended to all about me, and showed itself in my manner, as it influenced my every action. it was not alone that i lost the obedient air and quiet submissiveness of the child, but i had assumed the very extravagance of that democratic insolence which was the mode among the leading characters of the time. how should i present myself before him, the very impersonation of all the vices against which he used to warn me--how exhibit the utter failure of all his teachings and his hopes? what would this be but to imbitter his reflections needlessly. such were the specious reasons with which i fed my self-love, and satisfied my conscience; but now, as i read his name in that terrible catalogue, their plausibility served me no longer, and at last i forgot myself to remember only him. "i will see him at once," thought i, "whatever it may cost me--i will stay beside him for his last few hours of life; and when he carries with him from this world many an evil memory of shame and treachery, ingratitude from me shall not increase the burden." and with this resolve i turned my steps homeward. chapter iii. the "temple." at the time of which i write, there was but one motive-principle throughout france--"terror." by the agency of terror and the threat of denunciation was every thing carried on, not only in the public departments of the state, but in all the common occurrences of every-day life. fathers used it toward their children--children toward their parents; mothers coerced their daughters--daughters, in turn, braved the authority of their mothers. the tribunal of public opinion, open to all, scattered its decrees with a reckless cruelty--denying to-day what it had decreed but yesterday, and at last obliterating every trace of "right" or "principle," in a people who now only lived for the passing hour, and who had no faith in the future, even of this world. among the very children at play, this horrible doctrine had gained a footing; the tyrant urchin, whose ingenuity enabled him to terrorize, became the master of his playfellows. i was not slow in acquiring the popular education of the period, and soon learned that fear was a "bank" on which one might draw at will. already the domineering habit had given to my air and manner all the insolence of seeming power; and, while a mere boy in years, i was a man in all the easy assumption of a certain importance. it was with a bold and resolute air i entered the restaurant, and calling boivin aside, said, "i have business in the temple this morning, boivin; see to it that i shall not be denied admittance." "i am not governor of the jail," grunted boivin, sulkily, "nor have i the privilege to pass any one." "but your boys have the entree; the 'rats' (so were they called) are free to pass in and out." "ay, and i'm responsible for the young rascals, too, and for any thing that may be laid to their charge." "and you shall extend this same protection to _me_, master boivin, for one day, at least. nay, my good friend, there's no use in sulking about it. a certain friend of ours, whose name i need not speak aloud, is little in the habit of being denied any thing: are you prepared for the consequence of disobeying his orders?" "let me see that they are his orders," said he, sturdily; "who tells me that such is his will?" "i do," was my brief reply, as, with a look of consummate effrontery, i drew myself up, and stared him insolently in the face. "suppose, then, that i have my doubts on the matter; suppose--" "i will suppose all you wish, boivin," said i, interrupting, "and even something more; for i will suppose myself returning to the quarter whence i have just come, and within one hour--ay, within one hour, boivin--bringing back with me a written order, not to pass me into the temple, but to receive the charge of the citizen jean baptiste boivin, and be accountable for the same to the committee of public safety." he trembled from head to foot as i said these words, and in his shaking cheeks and fallen jaw i saw that my spell was working. "and now, i ask for the last time, do you consent or not?" "how is it to be done?" cried he, in a voice of downright wretchedness. "you are not 'inscribed' at the sécretaries' office as one of the 'rats.'" "i should hope not," said i, cutting him short; "but i may take the place of one for an hour or so. tristan is about my own size; his blouse and badge will just suit me." "ay, leave me to a fine of a thousand francs, if you should be found out," muttered boivin, "not to speak of a worse mayhap." "exactly so--far worse in case of your refusing: but there sounds the bell for mustering the prisoners; it is now too late." "not so--not so," cried boivin, eagerly, as he saw me prepared to leave the house. "you shall go in tristan's place. send him here, that he may tell you every thing about the 'service,' and give you his blouse and badge." i was not slow in availing myself of the permission; nor was tristan sorry to find a substitute. he was a dull, depressed-looking boy, not over communicative as to his functions, merely telling me that i was to follow the others--that i came fourth in the line--to answer when my name was called "tristan," and to put the money i received in my leathern pocket, without uttering a word, lest the jailers should notice it. to accoutre myself in the white cotton night-cap and the blouse of the craft, was the work of a few seconds, and then, with a great knife in my girdle, and a capacious pocket slung at my side, i looked every inch a "_marmiton_." in the kitchen, the bustle had already begun; and half a dozen cooks, with as many under-cooks, were dealing out "portions" with all the speed of a well-practiced performance. nothing short of great habit could have prevented the confusion degenerating into downright anarchy. the "service" was, indeed, effected with a wonderful rapidity, and certain phrases, uttered with speed, showed how it progressed. "_maigre des curés_"--"finished." "bouillon for the 'expectants'"--"ready here." "canards aux olives des condamnés"--"all served." "red partridges for the reprieved at the upper table"--"dispatched." such were the quick demands, and no less quick replies, that rung out, amidst the crash of plates, knifes, and glasses, and the incessant movement of feet, until, at last, we were all marshaled in a long line, and, preceded by a drum, set out for the prison. as we drew near, the heavy gates opened to receive, and closed behind us with a loud bang, that i could not help feeling must have smote heavily on many a heart that had passed there. we were now in a large court-yard, where several doors led off, each guarded by a sentinel, whose ragged clothes and rusty accoutrements proclaimed a true soldier of the republic. one of the large hurdles used for carrying the prisoners to the "place" stood in one corner, and two or three workmen were busied in repairing it for the coming occasion. so much i had time to observe, as we passed along; and now we entered a dimly-lighted corridor, of great extent, passing down which, we emerged into a second "cour," traversed by a species of canal or river, over which a bridge led. in the middle of this was a strongly-barred iron gate, guarded by two sentries. as we arrived here, our names were called aloud by a species of turnkey, and at the call "tristan" i advanced, and, removing the covers from the different dishes, submitted them for inspection to an old, savage-looking fellow, who, with a long steel fork, prodded the pieces of meat, as though any thing could have been concealed within them. meanwhile another fellow examined my cotton cap and pocket, and passed his hands along my arms and body. the whole did not last more than a few minutes, and the word "forward" was given to pass on. the gloom of the place--the silence, only broken by the heavy bang of an iron-barred door, or the clank of chains--the sad thoughts of the many who trod these corridors on their way to death, depressed me greatly, and equally unprepared me for what was to come; for as we drew near the great hall, the busy hum of voices, the sound of laughter, and the noises of a large assembly in full converse, suddenly burst upon the ear, and as the wide doors were thrown open, i beheld above a hundred people, who, either gathered in single groups, or walking up and down in parties, seemed all in the fullest enjoyment of social intercourse. a great table, with here and there a large flagon of water, or a huge loaf of the coarse bread used by the peasantry, ran from end to end of the chamber. a few had already taken their places at this; but some were satisfied with laying a cap or a kerchief on the bench opposite their accustomed seat; while others again had retired into windows and corners, as if to escape the general gaze, and partake of their humble meal in solitude. whatever restrictions prison discipline might have exercised elsewhere, here the widest liberty seemed to prevail. the talk was loud, and even boisterous; the manner to the turnkeys exhibited nothing of fear: the whole assemblage presented rather the aspect of a gathering of riotous republicans, than of a band of prisoners under sentence. and yet such were the greater number; and the terrible slip of paper attached to the back of each, with a date, told the day on which he was to die. as i lingered to gaze on this strange gathering, i was admonished to move on, and now perceived that my companion had advanced to the end of the hall, by which a small flight of stone steps led out upon a terrace, at the end of which we entered another, and not less spacious chamber, equally crowded and noisy. here the company were of both sexes, and of every grade and condition of rank, from the highest noble of the once court, to the humblest peasant of la vendée. if the sounds of mirth and levity were less frequent, the buzz of conversation was, to the full, as loud as in the lower hall, where, from difference of condition in life, the scenes passing presented stranger and more curious contrasts. in one corner a group of peasants were gathered around a white-haired priest, who, in a low but earnest voice, was uttering his last exhortation to them; in another, some young and fashionably-dressed men were exhibiting to a party of ladies the very airs and graces by which they would have adorned a saloon; here, was a party at piquet; there, a little group arranging, for the last time, their household cares, and settling, with a few small coins, the account of mutual expenditure. of the ladies, several were engaged at needlework, some little preparation for the morrow--the last demand that ever vanity was to make of them! although there was matter of curiosity in all around me, my eyes sought for but one object, the curé of st. blois. twice or thrice, from the similarity of dress, i was deceived, and at last, when i really did behold him, as he sat alone in a window, reading, i could scarcely satisfy myself of the reality. he was lividly pale; his eyes deep sunk, and surrounded with two dark circles, while along his worn cheek the tears had marked two channels of purple color. what need of the guillotine there; the lamp of life was in its last flicker without it. our names were called, and the meats placed upon the table. just as the head turnkey was about to give the order to be seated, a loud commotion, and a terrible uproar in the court beneath, drew every one to the window. it was a hurdle which, emerging from an archway, broke down from overcrowding; and now the confusion of prisoners, jailors, and sentries, with plunging horses and screaming sufferers, made a scene of the wildest uproar. chained two by two, the prisoners were almost helpless, and in their efforts to escape injury made the most terrific struggles. such were the instincts of life in those on the very road to death! resolving to profit by the moment of confusion, i hastened to the window, where alone, unmoved by the general commotion, sat the père michel. he lifted his glassy eyes as i came near, and, in a low, mild voice, said, "thanks, my good boy, but i have no money to pay thee; nor does it matter much now, it is but another day." i could have cried as i heard these sad words, but mastering emotions which would have lost time so precious, i drew close, and whispered, "père michel, it is i, your own maurice!" he started, and a deep flush suffused his cheek, and then stretching out his hand, he pushed back my cap, and parted the hair off my forehead, as if doubting the reality of what he saw, when, with a weak voice, he said, "no, no, thou art not my own maurice. _his_ eyes shone not with that worldly lustre thine do; _his_ brow was calm and fair as children's should be--_thine_ is marked with manhood's craft and subtlety; and yet thou art like him." a low sob broke from me as i listened to his words, and the tears gushed forth, and rolled in torrents down my cheeks. "yes," cried he, clasping me in his arms, "thou art my own dear boy. i know thee now: but how art thou here, and thus?" and he touched my "blouse" as he spoke. "i came to see and to save you, père," said i. "nay, do not try to discourage me, but rather give me all your aid. i saw _her_--i was with her in her last moments at the guillotine; she gave me a message for you, but this you shall never hear till we are without these walls." "it can not be, it can not be," said he, sorrowfully. "it can, and shall be," said i, resolutely. "i have merely assumed this dress for the occasion; i have friends, powerful and willing to protect me. let us change robes; give me that 'soutane,' and put on the blouse. when you leave this, hasten to the old garden of the chapel, and wait for my coming; i will join you there before night." "it can not be," replied he, again. "again i say, it shall, and must be. nay, if you still refuse, there shall be two victims, for i will tear off the dress here where i stand, and openly declare myself the son of the royalist tiernay." already the commotion in the court beneath was beginning to subside, and even now the turnkeys' voices were heard in the refectory, recalling the prisoners to table, another moment and it would have been too late; it was, then, less by persuasion than by actual force i compelled him to yield, and pulling off his black serge gown, drew over his shoulders my yellow blouse, and placed upon his head the white cap of the "marmiton." the look of shame and sorrow of the poor curé would have betrayed him at once, if any had given themselves the trouble to look at him. "and thou, my poor child," said he, as he saw me array myself in his priestly dress, "what is to be thy fate." "all will depend upon you, père michel," said i, holding him by the arm, and trying to fix his wandering attention. "once out of the prison, write to boivin, the _restaurateur_ of the '_scélérat_,' and tell him that an escaped convict has scruples for the danger into which he has brought a poor boy, one of his 'marmitons,' and whom, by a noxious drug, he has lulled into insensibility, while having exchanged clothes, he has managed his escape. boivin will comprehend the danger he himself runs by leaving me here. all will go well--and now there's not a moment to lose. take up your basket, and follow the others." "but the falsehood of all this," cried the père. "but, your life and mine, too, lost, if you refuse," said i, pushing him away. "oh, maurice, how changed have you become!" cried he, sorrowfully. "you will see a greater change in me yet, as i lie in the sawdust beneath the scaffold," said i, hastily. "go, go." there was, indeed, no more time to lose. the muster of the prisoners was forming at one end of the chamber, while the "marmitons" were gathering up their plates and dishes, previous to departure, at the other; and it was only by the decisive step of laying myself down within the recesses of the window, in the attitude of one overcome by sleep, that i could force him to obey my direction. i could feel his presence as he bent over me, and muttered something that must have been a prayer. i could know, without seeing, that he still lingered near me, but as i never stirred, he seemed to feel that my resolve was not to be shaken, and at last he moved slowly away. at first the noise and clamor sounded like the crash of some desperate conflict, but by degrees this subsided, and i could hear the names called aloud, and the responses of the prisoners, as they were "told off" in parties from the different parts of the prison. tender leave-takings and affectionate farewells from many who never expected to meet again accompanied these, and the low sobs of anguish were mingled with the terrible chaos of voices; and at last i heard the name of "michel delannois:" i felt as if my death-summons was in the words "michel delannois." "that crazy priest can neither hear nor see, i believe," said the jailor, savagely. "will no one answer for him?" "he is asleep yonder in the window," replied a voice from the crowd. "let him sleep, then," said the turnkey "when awake he gives us no peace with his prayers and exhortations." "he has eaten nothing for three days," observed another; "he is, perhaps, overcome by weakness more than by sleep." "be it so! if he only lie quiet, i care not," rejoined the jailor, and proceeded to the next name on the list. the monotonous roll-call, the heat, the attitude in which i was lying, all conspired to make me drowsy; even the very press of sensations that crowded to my brain lent their aid, and at last i slept as soundly as ever i had done in my bed at night. i was dreaming of the dark alleys in the wood of belleville, where so often i had strolled of an evening with père michel; i was fancying that we were gathering the fresh violets beneath the old trees, when a rude hand shook my shoulder, and i awoke. one of the turnkeys and boivin stood over me, and i saw at once that my plan had worked well. "is this the fellow?" said the turnkey, pushing me rudely with his foot. "yes," replied boivin, white with fear; "this is the boy; his name is tristan." the latter words were accompanied with a look of great significance toward me. "what care we how he is called; let us hear in what manner he came here." "i can tell you little," said i, staring and looking wildly around; "i must have been asleep and dreaming, too." "the letter," whispered boivin to the turnkey--"the letter says that he was made to inhale some poisonous drug, and that while insensible--" "bah!" said the other, derisively, "this will not gain credit here; there has been complicity in the affair, master boivin. the _commissaire_ is not the man to believe a trumped-up tale of the sort; besides, you are well aware that you are responsible for these 'rats' of yours. it is a private arrangement between you and the _commissaire_, and it is not very probable that he'll get himself into a scrape for you." "then what are we to do?" cried boivin, passionately, as he wrung his hands in despair. "i know what i should, in a like case," was the dry reply. "and that is--?" "laisser aller!" was the curt rejoinder. "the young rogue has passed for a curé for the last afternoon; i'd even let him keep up the disguise a little longer, and it will be all the same by this time to-morrow." "you'd send me to the guillotine for another?" said i, boldly; "thanks for the good intention my friend; but boivin knows better than to follow your counsel. hear me one moment," said i, addressing the latter, and drawing him to one side--"if you don't liberate me within a quarter of an hour, i'll denounce you and yours to the commissary. i know well enough what goes on at the scélérat--you understand me well. if a priest has really made his escape from the prison, you are not clean-handed enough to meet the accusation; see to it then, boivin, that i may be free at once." "imp of satan," exclaimed boivin, grinding his teeth, "i have never enjoyed ease or quietness since the first hour i saw you." "it may cost a couple of thousand francs, boivin," said i, calmly; "but what then? better that than take your seat along with us to-morrow in the 'charrette rouge.'" "maybe he's right, after all," muttered the turnkey in a half whisper; "speak to the commissary." "yes," said i, affecting an air of great innocence and simplicity--"tell him that a poor orphan boy, without friends or home, claims his pity." "_scélérat infame_!" cried boivin, as he shook his fist at me, and then followed the turnkey to the commissary's apartment. in less time than i could have believed possible, boivin returned with one of the upper jailors, and told me in a few dry words that i was free. "but, mark me," added he, "we part here--come what may, you never shall plant foot within my doors again." "agreed," said i, gayly; "the world has other dupes as easy to play upon, and i was getting well nigh weary of you." "listen to the scoundrel!" muttered boivin; "what will he say next?" "simply this," rejoined i--"that as these are not becoming garments for me to wear--for i'm neither 'père' nor 'frère'--i must have others ere i quit this." if the insolence of my demand occasioned some surprise at first, a little cool persistence on my part showed that compliance would be the better policy; and, after conferring together for a few minutes, during which i heard the sound of money, the turnkey retired, and came back speedily with a jacket and cap belonging to one of the drummers of the "republican guard"--a gaudy, tasteless affair enough, but, as a disguise, nothing could have been more perfect. "have you not a drum to give him?" said boivin, with a most malignant sneer at my equipment. "he'll make a noise in the world without that!" muttered the jailor, half soliloquizing; and the words fell upon my heart with a strange significance. "your blessing, boivin," said i, "and we part." "_te te--_" "no, no; don't curse the boy," interposed the jailor, good humoredly. "then, move off, youngster; i've lost too much time with you already." the next moment i was in the "place"--a light, misty rain was falling, and the night was dark and starless; the "_scélérat_" was brilliant with lamps and candles, and crowds were passing in and out, but it was no longer a home for me--so i passed on, and continued my way toward the boulevard. chapter iv. "the night of the ninth thermidor." i had agreed with the père michel to rendezvous at the garden of the little chapel of st. blois, and thitherward i now turned my steps. the success which followed this my first enterprise in life had already worked a wondrous change in all my feelings. instead of looking up to the poor curé for advice and guidance, i felt as though our parts were exchanged, and that it was _i_ who was now the protector of the other. the oft-repeated sneers at "les bons prêtres," who were good for nothing, must have had a share in this new estimate of my friend; but a certain self-reliance just then springing up in my heart, effectually completed the change. the period was essentially one of action and not of reflection. events seemed to fashion themselves at the will of him who had daring and courage to confront them, and they alone appeared weak and poor-spirited who would not stem the tide of fortune. sentiments like these were not, as may be supposed, best calculated to elevate the worthy père in my esteem, and i already began to feel how unsuited was such companionship for me, whose secret promptings whispered ever, "go forward." the very vagueness of my hopes served but to extend the horizon of futurity before me, and i fancied a thousand situations of distinction that might yet be mine. fame--or its poor counterfeit, notoriety--seemed the most enviable of all possessions. it mattered little by what merits it were won, for, in that fickle mood of popular opinion, great vices were as highly prized as transcendent abilities, and one might be as illustrious by crime as by genius. such were not the teachings of the père; but they were the lessons that paris dinned into my ears unceasingly. reputation, character, was of no avail, in a social condition where all was change and vacillation. what was idolized one day, was execrated the next. the hero of yesterday, was the object of popular vengeance to-day. the success of the passing hour was every thing. the streets were crowded as i passed along; although a drizzling rain was falling, groups and knots of people were gathered together at every corner, and, by their eager looks and gestures, showed that some event of great moment had occurred. i stopped to ask what it meant, and learned that robespierre had been denounced in the assembly, and that his followers were hastening, in arms, to the place de grêve. as yet, men spoke in whispers, or broken phrases. many were seen affectionately embracing and clasping each other's hands in passionate emotion, but few dared to trust themselves to words, for none knew if the peril were really passed, or if the power of the tyrant might not become greater than ever. while i yet listened to the tidings which, in half sentences and broken words, reached my ears, the roll of drums, beating the "générale," was heard, and suddenly the head of a column appeared, carrying torches, and seated upon ammunition-wagons and caissons, and chanting in wild chorus the words of the "marseillaise." on they came, a terrible host of half-naked wretches, their heads bound in handkerchiefs, and their brawny arms bare to the shoulders. the artillery of the municipale followed, many of the magistrates riding among them dressed in the tricolored scarfs of officers. as the procession advanced, the crowds receded, and gradually the streets were left free to the armed force. while, terror-struck, i continued to gaze at the countenances over which the lurid torchlight cast a horrid glare, a strong hand grasped my collar, and by a jerk swung me up to a seat on one of the caissons; and at the same time a deep voice said, "come, youngster, this is more in thy way than mine," and a black-bearded "sapeur" pushed a drum before me, and ordered me to beat the générale. such was the din and uproar that my performance did not belie my uniform, and i beat away manfully, scarcely sorry, amid all my fears, at the elevated position from which i now surveyed the exciting scene around me. as we passed, the shops were closed on either side in haste, and across the windows of the upper stories beds and mattresses were speedily drawn, in preparation for the state of siege now so imminent. lights flickered from room to room, and all betokened a degree of alarm and terror. louder and louder pealed the "marseillaise," as the columns deployed into the open place, from which every street and lane now poured its _tributaires_ of armed men. the line was now formed by the artillery, which, to the number of sixteen pieces, ranged from end to end of the square, the dense crowd of horse and foot forming behind, the mass dimly lighted by the waving torches that here and there marked the presence of an officer. gradually the sounds of the "marseillaise" grew fainter and fainter, and soon a dreary silence pervaded that varied host, more terrible now, as they stood speechless, than in all the tumultuous din of the wildest uproar. meanwhile, from the streets which opened into the place at the furthest end, the columns of the national guard began to move up, the leading files carrying torches; behind them came ten pieces of artillery, which, as they issued, were speedily placed in battery, and flanked by the heavy dragoons of the guard; and now, in breathless silence, the two forces stood regarding each other, the cannoniers with lighted matches in their hands, the dragoons firmly clasping their sabres--all but waiting for the word to plunge into the deadliest strife. it was a terrible moment--the slightest stir in the ranks--the rattling of a horse's panoply--the clank of a sabre--fell upon the heart like the toll of a death-bell. it was then that two or three horsemen were seen to advance from the troops of the convention, and approaching the others, were speedily lost among their ranks. a low and indistinct murmur ran along the lines, which each moment grew louder, till at last it burst forth into a cry of "vive la convention." quitting their ranks, the men gathered around a general of the national guard, who addressed them in words of passionate eloquence, but of which i was too distant to hear any thing. suddenly the ranks began to thin; some were seen to pile their arms, and move away in silence; others marched across the place, and took up their position beside the troops of the national guard: of the cannoniers many threw down their matches, and extinguished the flame with their feet, while others again, limbering up their guns, slowly retired to the barracks. as for myself, too much interested in the scene to remember that i was, in some sort, an actor in it, i sat upon the caisson, watching all that went forward so eagerly, that i never noticed the departure of my companions, nor perceived that i was left by myself. i know not how much later this discovery might have been deferred to me, had not an officer of the "guard" ridden up to where i was, and said "move up, move up, my lad; keep close to the battery." he pointed at the same time with his sabre in the direction where a number of guns and carriages were already proceeding. not a little flattered by the order, i gathered up reins and whip, and, thanks to the good drilling of the beasts, who readily took their proper places, soon found myself in the line, which now drew up in the rear of the artillery of the guard, separated from the front by a great mass of horse and foot. i knew nothing of what went forward in the place; from what i gathered, however, i could learn that the artillery was in position, the matches burning, and every thing in readiness for a cannonade. thus we remained for above an hour, when the order was given to march. little knew i that, in that brief interval, the whole fortunes of france--ay, of humanity itself--had undergone a mighty change--that the terrible reign of blood, the tyranny of robespierre had closed, and that he who had sent so many to the scaffold, now lay bleeding and mutilated upon the very table where he had signed the death-warrants. the day was just beginning to dawn as we entered the barracks of the conciergerie, and drew up in a double line along its spacious square. the men dismounted, and stood "at ease," awaiting the arrival of the staff of the national guard, which, it was said, was coming; and now the thought occurred to me, of what i should best do, whether make my escape while it was yet time, or remain to see by what accident i had come there. if a sense of duty to the père michel urged me on one side, the glimmering hope of some opening to fortune swayed me on the other. i tried to persuade myself that my fate was bound up with his, and that he should be my guide through the wild waste before me; but these convictions could not stand against the very scene in which i stood. the glorious panoply of war--the harnessed team--the helmeted dragoon--the proud steed in all the trappings of battle! how faint were the pleadings of duty against such arguments. the père, too, designed me for a priest. the life of a "seminarist" in a convent was to be mine! i was to wear the red gown and the white cape of an "acolyte!"--to be taught how to swing a censer, or snuff the candles of the high altar--to be a train-bearer in a procession, or carry a relic in a glass-case! the hoarse bray of a trumpet that then rung through the court routed these ignoble fancies, and as the staff rode proudly in, my resolve was taken. i was determined to be a soldier. the day, i have said, was just breaking, and the officers wore their dark gray capotes over their uniforms. one, however, had his coat partly open, and i could see the blue and silver beneath, which, tarnished and worn as it was, had to my eyes all the brilliancy of a splendid uniform. he was an old man, and by his position in advance of the others, showed that he was the chief of the staff. this was general lacoste, at that time "en mission" from the army of the rhine, and now sent by the convention to report upon the state of events among the troops. slowly passing along the line, the old general halted before each gun, pointing, out to his staff certain minutiæ, which, from his gestures and manner, it was easy to see were not the subject of eulogy. many of the pieces were ill slung, and badly balanced on the trucks; the wheels, in some cases, were carelessly put on, their tires worn, and the iron shoeing defective. the harnessing, too, was patched and mended in a slovenly fashion; the horses lean and out of condition; the drivers awkward and inexperienced. "this is all bad, gentlemen," said he, addressing the officers, but in a tone to be easily heard all around him; "and reflects but little credit upon the state of your discipline in the capital. we have been now seventeen months in the field before the enemy, and not idle either; and yet i would take shame to myself if the worst battery in our artillery were not better equipped, better horsed, better driven, and better served, than any i see here." one, who seemed a superior officer, here appeared to interpose some explanation or excuse, but the general would not listen to him, and continued his way along the line, passing around which he now entered the space between the guns and the caissons. at last he stopped directly in front of where i was, and fixed his dark and penetrating eyes steadily on me. such was their fascination, that i could not look from him, but continued to stare as fixedly at him. "look here, for instance," cried he, as he pointed to me with his sword, "is that 'gamin' yonder like an artillery-driver? or is it to a drummer-boy you intrust the caisson of an eight-pounder gun? dismount, sirrah, and come hither," cried he to me, in a voice that sounded like an order for instant execution. "this popinjay dress of yours must have been the fancy of some worthy shop-keeper of the 'quai lepelletier;' it never could belong to any regular corps. who are you?" "maurice tiernay, sir," said i, bringing my hand to my cap in military salute. "maurice tiernay," repeated he, slowly, after me. "and have you no more to say for yourself than your name?" "very little, sir," said i, taking courage from the difficulty in which i found myself. "what of your father, boy?--is he a soldier?" "he was, sir," replied i, with firmness. "then he is dead? in what corps did he serve?" "in the garde du corps," said i, proudly. the old general gave a short cough, and seemed to search for his snuff-box, to cover his confusion; the next moment, however, he had regained his self-possession, and continued: "and since that event--i mean, since you lost your father--what have you been doing? how have you supported yourself?" "in various ways, sir," said i, with a shrug of the shoulders, to imply that the answer might be too tedious to listen to. "i have studied to be a priest, and i have served as a 'rat' in the prison du temple." "you have certainly tried the extremes of life," said he, laughing; "and now you wish, probably, to hit the 'juste milieu,' by becoming a soldier?" "even so, sir," said i, easily. "it was a mere accident that mounted me upon this caisson; but i am quite ready to believe that fortune intended me kindly when she did so." "these 'gredins' fancy that they are all born to be generals of france," said the old man, laughing; "but, after all, it is a harmless delusion, and easily curable by a campaign or two. come, sirrah, i'll find out a place for you, where, if you can not serve the republic better, you will, at least, do her less injury, than as a driver in her artillery. bertholet, let him be enrolled in your detachment of the gendarme, and give him my address: i wish to speak to him to-morrow." "at what hour, general?" said i, promptly. "at eight, or half-past--after breakfast," replied he. "it may easily be before mine," muttered i to myself. "what says he?" cried the general, sharply. the aid-de-camp whispered a few words in answer, at which the other smiled, and said, "let him come somewhat earlier--say eight o'clock." "you hear that, boy?" said the aid-de-camp to me, while, with a slight gesture, he intimated that i might retire. then, as if suddenly remembering that he had not given me the address of the general, he took a scrap of crumpled paper from his pocket-book, and wrote a few words hastily on it with his pencil. "there," cried he, throwing it toward me, "there is your billet for this day at least." i caught the scrap of paper, and after deciphering the words, perceived that they were written on the back of an "assignat" for forty sous. it was a large sum to one who had not wherewithal to buy a morsel of bread; and as i looked at it over and over, i fancied there would be no end to the pleasures such wealth could purchase. i can breakfast on the quai voltaire, thought i, ay, and sumptuously too, with coffee, and chestnuts, and a slice of melon, and another of cheese, and a "petite goutte" to finish, for five sous. the panther, at the corner of the pont neuf, costs but a sou; and for three one can see the brown bear of america, the hyena, and another beast whose name i forget, but whose image, as he is represented outside, carrying off a man in his teeth, i shall retain to my last hour. then, there is the panorama of dunkirk, at the rue chopart, with the duke of york begging his life from a terrible-looking soldier in a red cap and a tri-colored scarf. after that, there's the parade at the "carousel," and mayhaps something more solemn still at the "grève;" but there was no limit to the throng of enjoyments which came rushing to my imagination, and it was in a kind of ecstasy of delight i set forth on my voyage of pleasure. chapter v. the choice of a life. in looking back, after a long lapse of years, i can not refrain from a feeling of astonishment, to think how little remembrance i possess of the occurrences of that day--one of the most memorable that ever dawned for france--the eventful th of july, that closed the reign of terror by the death of the tyrant! it is true that all paris was astir at daybreak; that a sense of national vengeance seemed to pervade the vast masses that filled the streets, which now were scenes of the most exciting emotion. i can only account for the strange indifference that i felt about these stirring themes, by the frequency with which similar, or what, to me, at least, appeared similar scenes had already passed before my eyes. one of the most remarkable phases of the revolution was, the change it produced in all the social relations, by substituting an assumed nationality for the closer and dearer ties of kindred and affection. france was every thing--the family nothing; every generous wish, every proud thought, every high ambition or noble endeavor belonged to the country. in this way, whatever patriotism may have gained, certainly all the home affections were utterly wrecked; the humble and unobtrusive virtues of domestic life seemed mean and insignificant beside the grand displays of patriotic devotion which each day exhibited. hence grew the taste for that "life of the streets," then so popular; every thing should be "en évidence." all the emotions which delicacy would render sacred to the seclusion of home, were now to be paraded to the noonday. fathers were reconciled to rebellious children before the eyes of multitudes; wives received forgiveness from their husbands in the midst of approving crowds; leave-takings, the most affecting, partings, for those never to meet again, the last utterings of the death-bed, the faint whispers of expiring affection, the imprecations of undying hate, all, all were exhibited in public, and the gaze of the low, the vulgar, and the debauched, associated with the most agonizing griefs that ever the heart endured. the scenes, which now are shrouded in all the secrecy of domestic privacy, were then the daily life of paris; and to this cause alone can i attribute the hardened indifference with which events the most terrible and heart-rending were witnessed. bred up amidst such examples, i saw little matter for emotion in scenes of harrowing interest. an air of mockery was on every thing, and a bastard classicality destroyed every semblance of truth in whatever would have been touching and affecting. the commotion of paris on that memorable morning was, then, to my thinking, little more than usual. if the crowds who pressed their way to "the place de la révolution" were greater; if the cries of vengeance were in louder utterance; if the imprecations were deeper and more terrible, the ready answer, that satisfied all curiosity, was--it was robespierre, who was on his way to be executed. little knew i what hung upon that life! and now the fate of millions depended upon the blood that morning was to shed. too full of myself and my own projects, i disengaged myself from the crowds that pressed eagerly toward the tuileries, and took my way by less frequented streets in the direction of the boulevard mont parnasse. i wished, if possible, to see the père once more, to take a last farewell of him, and ask his blessing, too; for still a lingering faith in the lessons he had taught me, continued to haunt my mind, amidst all the evil influences with which my wayward life surrounded me. the further i went from the quarter of the tuileries, the more deserted and solitary grew the streets. not a carriage or horseman was to be seen; scarcely a foot-passenger. all paris had, apparently, assembled on the "place de la révolution;" and the very beggars had quitted their accustomed haunts to repair thither. even the distant hum of the vast multitude faded away, and it was only as the wind bore them, that i could catch the sounds of the hoarse cries that bespoke a people's vengeance; and now i found myself in the little silent street which once had been my home. i stood opposite the house where we used to live, afraid to enter it, lest i might compromise the safety of her i wished to save, and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we once sat together--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of winter, i nestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that every plash of the falling hail against the windows routed; to lie down once more in the little bed, where so often i had passed whole nights of happy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future, that were never to be realized! half-choking with my emotion, i passed on, and soon saw the green fields, and the windmill-covered hill of montmartre, rising above the embankment of the boulevards; and now the ivy-clothed wall of the garden, within which stood the chapel of st. blois. the gate lay ajar, as of old, and pushing it open, i entered. every thing was exactly as i had left it--the same desolation and desertion every where--so much so, that i almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts since last i was there. on drawing nigh to the chapel, i found the door fast barred and barricaded, as before; but a window lay open, and on examining it closer, i discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on the ground and the window-sill. could the père michel have been there? was the question that at once occurred to my mind. had the poor priest come to take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? it could scarcely have been any other. there was nothing to tempt cupidity in that humble little church; an image of the "virgin and child" in wax was the only ornament of the altar. no, no; pillage had never been the motive of him who entered here. thus reasoning, i climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. as my footsteps echoed through the silent building, i felt that sense of awe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship, and which is ever more impressive still, as we stand in it alone. the present, however, was less before me than the past, of which every thing reminded me. there was the seat the marquise used to sit in; there the footstool i had so often placed at her feet. how different was the last service i had rendered her! there the pillar, beside which i have stood spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty arrested the thoughts that should have wended heavenward, and made my muttered prayers like offerings to herself. the very bouquet of flowers--some peri's hand had placed beneath the shrine--withered and faded, was there still. but where were they whose beating hearts had throbbed with deep devotion? how many had died upon the scaffold!--how many were still lingering in imprisonment, some in exile, some in concealment, dragging out lives of misery and anxiety. what was the sustaining spirit of such martyrdom? i asked myself again and again. was it the zeal of true religion, or was it the energy of loyalty, that bore them up against every danger, and enabled them to brave death itself with firmness?--and if this faith of theirs was thus ennobling, why could not france be of one mind and heart? there came no answer to these doubts of mine, and i slowly advanced toward the altar, still deeply buried in thought. what was my surprise to see that two candles stood there, which bore signs of having been recently lighted. at once the whole truth flashed across me--the père had been there; he had come to celebrate a mass--the last, perhaps, he was ever to offer up at that altar. i knew with what warm affection he loved every object and every spot endeared to him by long time, and i fancied to myself the overflowing of his heart, as he entered once more, and for the last time, the little temple, associated with all the joys and sorrows of his existence. doubtless, too, he had waited anxiously for my coming; mayhap, in the prayers he offered, i was not forgotten. i thought of him kneeling there, in the silence of the night, alone, as he was, his gentle voice the only sound in the stillness of the hour; his pure heart throbbing with gratitude for his deliverance, and prayerful hopes for those who had been his persecutors. i thought over all this, and, in a torrent of emotions, i knelt down before the altar to pray. i know not what words i uttered, but his name must some how have escaped my lips; for suddenly a door opened beside the altar, and the père michel, dressed in his full vestments, stood before me. his features, wan and wasted as they were, had regained their wonted expression of calm dignity; and by his look i saw that he would not suffer the sacred spot to be profaned by any outburst of feeling on either side. "those dreadful shouts tell of another massacre," said he, solemnly, as the wind bore toward us the deafening cries of the angry multitude. "let us pray for the souls' rest of the departed." "then will your prayers be offered for robespierre, for couthon, and st. just," said i, boldly. "and who are they who need more the saints' intercession--who have ever been called to judgment with such crimes to expiate--who have ever so widowed france, and so desecrated her altars? happily a few yet remain where piety may kneel to implore pardon for their iniquity. let us recite the litany for the dead," said he, solemnly, and at once began the impressive service. as i knelt beside the rails of the altar, and heard the prayers which, with deep devotion, he uttered. i could not help feeling the contrast between that touching evidence of christian charity, and the tumultuous joy of the populace, whose frantic bursts of triumph were borne on the air. "and now come with me, maurice," said he, as the mass was concluded. "here, in this little sacristy, we are safe from all molestation; none will think of us on such a day as this." and as he spoke, he drew his arm around me, and led me into the little chamber where once the precious vessels and the decorations of the church were kept. "here we are safe," said he, as he drew me to his side on the oaken bench, which formed all the furniture of the room. "to-morrow, maurice, we must leave this, and seek an asylum in another land; but we are not friendless, my child--the brothers of the 'sacred heart' will receive us. their convent is in the wilds of the ardennes, beyond the frontiers of france, and there, beloved by the faithful peasantry, they live in security and peace. we need not take the vows of their order, which is one of the strictest of all religious houses; but we may claim their hospitality and protection, and neither will be denied us. think what a blessed existence will that be, maurice, my son, to dwell under the same roof with these holy men, and to imbibe from them the peace of mind that holiness alone bestows; to awake at the solemn notes of the pealing organ, and to sink to rest with the solemn liturgies still chanting around you; to feel an atmosphere of devotion on every side, and to see the sacred relics whose miracles have attested the true faith in ages long past. does it not stir thy heart, my child, to know that such blessed privileges may be thine?" i hung my head in silence, for in truth, i felt nothing of the enthusiasm with which he sought to inspire me. the père quickly saw what passed in my mind, and endeavored to depict the life of the monastery as a delicious existence, embellished by all the graces of literature, and adorned by the pleasures of intellectual converse. poetry, romance, scenery, all were pressed into the service of his persuasions; but how weak were such arguments to one like me, the boy whose only education had been what the streets of paris afforded--whose notions of eloquence were formed on the insane ravings of "the mountain," and whose idea of greatness were centred in mere notoriety. my dreamy look of inattention showed him again that he had failed; and i could see in the increased pallor of his face, the quivering motion of his lip, the agitation the defeat was costing him. "alas! alas!" cried he, passionately, "the work of ruin is perfect; the mind of youth is corrupted, and the fountain of virtue defiled at the very source. oh! maurice, i had never thought this possible of thee, the child of my heart!" a burst of grief here overcame him; for some minutes he could not speak. at last he arose from his seat, and wiping off the tears that covered his cheeks, with his robe, spoke, but in a voice whose full round tones contrasted strongly with his former weak accents. "the life i have pictured seems to thee ignoble and unworthy, boy. so did it not appear to chrysostom, to origen, and to augustin, to the blessed saints of our church, the eldest born of christianity. be it so. thine, mayhap is not the age, nor this the era in which to hope for better things. thy heart yearns for heroic actions--thy spirit is set upon high ambitions--be it so. i say, never was the time more fitting for thee. the enemy is up; his armies are in the field; thousands and tens of thousands swell the ranks, already flushed with victory. be a soldier, then. ay, maurice, buckle on the sword--the battle-field is before thee. thou hast made choice to seek the enemy in the far-away countries of heathen darkness, or here in our own native france, where his camp is already spread. if danger be the lure that tempts thee--if to confront peril be thy wish--there is enough of it. be a soldier, then, and gird thee for the great battle that is at hand. ay! boy, if thou feelest within thee the proud darings that foreshadow success, speak the word, and thou shalt be a standard-bearer in the very van." i waited not for more; but springing up, i clasped my arms around his neck, and cried, in ecstasy, "yes! père michel, you have guessed aright; my heart's ambition is to be a soldier and i want but your blessing to be a brave one." "and thou shalt have it. a thousand blessings follow those who go forth to the good fight. but thou art yet young, maurice--too young for this. thou needest time and much teaching, too. he who would brave the enemy before us, must be skillful as well as courageous. thou art as yet but a child." "the general said he liked boy-soldiers," said i, promptly; "he told me so himself." "what general--who told thee?" cried the père in trembling eagerness. "general lacoste, the chef-d'-etat, major of the army of the rhine; the same who gave me a rendezvous for to-morrow at his quarters." it was not till i had repeated my explanation again and again, nor, indeed, until i had recounted all the circumstances of my last night's adventure, that the poor père could be brought to see his way through a mystery that had almost become equally embarrassing to myself. when he did, however, detect the clew, and when he had perceived the different tracks on which our minds were traveling, his grief burst all bounds. he inveighed against the armies of the republic as hordes of pillagers and bandits, the sworn enemies of the church, the desecrators of her altars. their patriotism he called a mere pretense to shroud their infidelity. their heroism was the bloodthirstiness of democratic cruelty. seeing me still unmoved by all this passionate declamation, he adopted another tactic, and suddenly asked me if it were for such a cause as this my father had been a soldier? "no!" replied i, firmly; "for when my father was alive, the soil of france had not been desecrated by the foot of the invader. the austrian, the prussian, the englishman had not yet dared to dictate the laws under which we were to live." he appeared thunderstruck at my reply, repealing, as it seemed to him, the extent of those teachings, whose corruptions he trembled at. "i knew it, i knew it," cried he, bitterly, as he wrung his hands. "the seed of the iniquity is sown--the harvest-time will not be long in coming! and so, boy, thou hast spoken with one of these men--these generals, as they call themselves, of that republican horde?" "the officer who commands the artillery of the army of the rhine may write himself general with little presumption," said i, almost angrily. "they who once led our armies to battle were the nobles of france--men whose proud station was the pledge for their chivalrous devotion. but why do i discuss the question with thee? he who deserts his faith may well forget that his birth was noble. go, boy, join those with whom your heart is already linked. your lesson will be an easy one--you have nothing to unlearn. the songs of the girondins are already more grateful to your ear than our sacred canticles. go, i say, since between us, henceforth, there can be no companionship. "will you not bless me, père," said i, approaching him in deep humility; "will you not let me carry with me thy benediction?" "how shall i bless the arm that is lifted to wound the holy church? how shall i pray for one whose place is in the ranks of the infidel? hadst thou faith in my blessing, boy, thou hadst never implored it in such a cause. renounce thy treason--and not alone my blessing, but thou shalt have a 'novena' to celebrate thy fidelity. be of us, maurice, and thy name shall be honored, where honor is immortality." the look of beaming affection with which he uttered this, more than the words themselves, now shook my courage, and, in a conflict of doubt and indecision, i held down my head without speaking. what might have been my ultimate resolve, if left completely to myself, i know not; but at that very moment a detachment of soldiers marched past in the street without. they were setting off to join the army of the rhine, and were singing in joyous chorus the celebrated song of the day, "le chant du depart." the tramp of their feet--the clank of their weapons--their mellow voices--but, more than all, the associations that thronged to my mind, routed every other thought, and i darted from the spot, and never stopped till i reached the street. a great crowd followed the detachment, composed partly of friends of the soldiers, partly of the idle loungers of the capital. mixing with these, i moved onward, and speedily passed the outer boulevard, and gained the open country. (_to be continued._) [from household words.] the planet-watchers of greenwich. there is a morsel of greenwich park, which has, for now nearly two centuries, been held sacred from intrusion. it is the portion inclosed by the walls of the observatory. certainly a hundred thousand visitors must ramble over the surrounding lawns, and look with curious eye upon the towers and outer boundaries of that little citadel of science, for one who finds admission to the interior of the building. its brick towers, with flanking turrets and picturesque roofs, perched on the side of the gravelly hill, and sheltered round about by groups of fine old trees, are as well known as greenwich hospital itself. but what work goes on inside its carefully preserved boundary, and under those movable, black-domed roofs, is a popular mystery. many a holiday-maker's wonder has been excited by the fall, at one o'clock, of the huge, black ball, high up there, by the weather vane on the topmost point of the eastern turret. he knows, or is told if he asks a loitering pensioner, that the descent of the ball tells the time as truly as the sun; and that all the ships in the river watch it to set their chronometers by, before they sail; and, that, all the railway clocks, and all the railway trains over the kingdom are arranged punctually by its indications. but how the heavens are watched to secure this punctual definition of the flight of time, and what other curious labors are going on inside the observatory, is a sealed book. the public have always been, of necessity, excluded from the observatory walls, for the place is devoted to the prosecution of a science whose operations are inconsistent with the bustle, the interruptions, the talk, and the anxieties of popular curiosity and examination. but when public information and instruction are the objects, the doors are widely opened, and the press and its _attachés_ find a way into this, as into many other sacred and forbidden spots. only last week one of "our own contributors" was seen in a carriage on the greenwich railway, poring over the paper in the last edinburgh review that describes our national astronomical establishment, and was known afterward to have climbed the observatory hill, and to have rung and gained admission at the little, black, mysterious gate in the observatory wall. let us see what is told in his report of what he saw within that sacred portal. in the park on a fine day all seems life and gayety--once within the observatory boundary, the first feeling is that of isolation. there is a curious stillness about the place, and the foot-step of the old pensioner, who closes the gate upon a visitor, echoes again on the pavement as he goes away to wake up from his astronomical or meteorological trance one of the officers of this sanctum. soon, under the guidance of the good genius so invoked, the secrets of the place begin to reveal themselves. the part of the observatory so conspicuous from without is the portion least used within. when it was designed by christopher wren, the general belief was that such buildings should be lofty, that the observer might be raised toward the heavenly bodies whose motions he was to watch. more modern science has taught its disciples better; and in greenwich--which is an eminently practical observatory--the working part of the building is found crouching behind the loftier towers. these are now occupied as subsidiary to the modern practical building. the ground floor is used as a residence by the chief astronomer; above is the large hall originally built to contain huge moveable telescopes and quadrants--such as are not now employed. nowadays, this hall occasionally becomes a sort of scientific counting-house--irreverent but descriptive term--in which, from time to time, a band of scientific clerks are congregated to post up the books, in which the daily business of the planets has been jotted down by the astronomers who watch those marvelous bodies. another portion is a kind of museum of astronomical curiosities. flamstead and halley, and their immediate successors, worked in these towers, and here still rest some of the old, rude tools with which their discoveries were completed, and their reputation, and the reputation of greenwich, were established. as time has gone on, astronomers and opticians have invented new, and more perfect, and more luxurious instruments. greater accuracy is thus obtainable, at a less expenditure of human patience and labor; and so the old tools are cast aside. one of them belonged to halley, and was put up by him a hundred and thirty years ago; another is an old brazen quadrant, with which many valuable observations were made in by-gone times; and another, an old iron quadrant, still fixed in the stone pier to which it was first attached. some of the huge telescopes that once found place in this old observatory, have been sent away. one went to the cape of good hope, and has been useful there. another of the unsatisfactory, and now unused instruments, had a tube twenty-five feet long, whose cool and dark interior was so pleasant to the spiders that, do what they would, the astronomers could not altogether banish the persevering insects from it. spin they would; and, spite of dusting and cleaning, and spider-killing, spin they did; and, at length, the savans got more instruments and less patience, and the spiders were left in quiet possession. this has been pleasantly spoken of as an instance of poetical justice. it is but fair that spiders should, at times, have the best of astronomers, for astronomers rob spiders for the completion of their choicest instruments. no fabric of human construction is fine enough to strain across the eyepiece of an important telescope, and opticians preserve a particular race of spiders, that their webs may be taken for that purpose. the spider lines are strained across the best instruments at greenwich and elsewhere; and when the spinners of these beautifully fine threads disturbed the accuracy of the tube in the western wing of the old observatory, it was said to be but fair retaliation for the robberies the industrious insects had endured. a narrow stair leads from the unused rooms of the old observatory to its leaded roof, whence a magnificent view is obtained; the park, the hospital, the town of greenwich, and the windings of the thames, and, gazing further, london itself comes grandly into the prospect. the most inveterate astronomer could scarcely fail to turn for a moment from the wonders of the heavens to admire these glories of the earth. from the leads, two turrets are reached, where the first constantly active operations in this portion of the building, are in progress. at the present time, indeed, these turrets are the most useful portions of the old building. in one is placed the well-known contrivance for registering, hour after hour, and day after day, the force and direction of the wind. to keep such a watch by human vigilance, and to make such a register by human labor, would be a tedious, expensive, and irksome task; and human ingenuity taxed itself to make a machine for perfecting such work. the wind turns a weather-cock, and, by aid of cog-wheels the motion is transferred to a lead pencil fixed over a sheet of paper, and thus the wind is made to write down the direction which itself is blowing. not far distant is a piece of metal, the flat side of which is ever turned by the weather-cock to meet the full force of the wind, which, blowing upon it, drives it back against a spring. to this spring is affixed a chain passing over, pullies toward another pencil, fixed above a sheet of paper, and moving faithfully, more or less, as the wind blows harder or softer. and thus the "gentle zephyr" and the fresh breeze, and the heavy gale, and, when it comes, the furious hurricane, are made to note down their character and force. the sheet of paper on which the uncertain element, the wind, is bearing witness against itself, is fixed upon a frame moved by clock-work. steady as the progress of time, this ingenious mechanism draws the paper under the suspended pencils. thus each minute and each hour has its written record, without human help or inspection. once a day only, an assistant comes to put a new blank sheet in the place of that which has been covered by the moving pencils, and the latter is taken away to be bound up in a volume. the book might with truth be lettered, "the history of the wind; written by itself"--an Æolian autobiography. close by is another contrivance for registering in decimals of an inch the quantity of rain that falls. the drops are caught, and passing down a tube, a permanent mark is made by which the quantity is determined. the eastern turret is devoted to the time ball and its mechanism. far out at sea--away from all sources of information but those to be asked of the planets, his compass, his quadrant, his chronometer, and his almanack, the mariner feels the value of _time_ in a way which the landsman can scarcely conceive. if his chronometer is right, he may feel safe; let him have reason to doubt its accuracy, and he knows how the perils surrounding him are increased. an error of a few seconds in his time may place him in danger--an error of a few minutes may lead him to steer blindly to his certain wreck. hence his desire when he is leaving port to have his time-pieces right to a second; and hence the expenditure of thought, and labor, and money, at the greenwich observatory, to afford the shipping of the great port of london, and the english navy, the exact time--true to the tenth of a second, or six hundredth of a minute--and to afford them also a book, the nautical almanack, containing a mass of astronomical facts, on which they may base their calculations, with full reliance as to their accuracy. every day for the last seventeen years, at five minutes before one o'clock, the black ball five feet across and stuffed with cork, is raised halfway up its shaft above the eastern turret of the observatory--at two-and-a-half minutes before that hour, it rises to the top. telescopes from many a point, both up and down the river, are now pointed to this dark spot above the greenwich trees, and many an anxious mariner has his time-pieces beside him, that their indications may be made true. watch the ball as you stand in the park. it is now just raised. you must wait two minutes and a half, and as you do so, you feel what a minute may be. it seems a long, palpable, appreciable time, indeed. in the turret below, stands a clock telling the true time, gained by a laborious watching of the _clock-stars_; and beside the clock, is a man with a practiced hand upon a trigger, and a practiced eye upon the face of the dial. one minute--two minutes pass. thirty seconds more, and the trigger has released the ball. as it leaves the top of the shaft, it is one o'clock to the tenth of a second by the time it has reached the bottom it is some five seconds later. leaving the ball turret, and the old building which it surmounts, the new observatory, where the chief work of the establishment is done, claims our notice. this attention would scarcely be given to its outward appearance for it is a long, low building, scarcely seen beyond its own boundaries. the greenwich observatory is not a _show_ place, but an eminently practical establishment. st. petersburg and other cities have much more gorgeous buildings devoted to astronomical purposes, and russia and other countries spend much more money on astronomy than england does, yet the greenwich tables have a world-wide reputation, and some of them are used as the groundwork for calculations in all observatories at home and abroad. the astronomer does not want marble halls or grand saloons for his work. galileo used a bell-tower at venice, and kepler stood on the bridge at prague to watch the stars. the men, not the buildings, do the work. no disappointment, need be felt, then, to find the modern observatory a range of unadorned buildings running east and west, with slits in the roof and in some of the walls. within these simple buildings are the instruments now used, displaying almost the perfection of mechanical skill in their construction and finish--beautifully adapted to the object they have to fulfill, and in perfect order. they are fixed on solid piers of masonry, deeply imbedded in the earth, to secure freedom from vibration--a quality better obtained when the foundations are on sand or gravel than when on rock. to describe the instruments by their technical names, and to go into any particulars of the instruments they have superseded, would take space, only to do the work of a scientific treatise. enough, therefore, to say, that there are the telescopes best adapted to the chief duty of the place, which is, watching the moon whenever she is visible; watching the _clock-stars_, by which the true time is calculated more exactly than it could be from observations of the sun alone; and watching other planetary bodies as they pass the meridian. eclipses, occultations, and other phenomena, of course, have their share of attention, and add to the burden of the observer's duties. the staff of the observatory includes a chief astronomer, mr. airy, with a salary of £ a year; and six assistants who are paid, £ , £ , £ , £ , £ , and £ , respectively. this does not include the officers of the meteorological branch of the establishment, to be spoken of hereafter; and which consists of mr. glaisher, with £ a year, one assistant at £ , and two additional computers. at times, when these scientific laborers have collected more observations than they are able to work out; additional help is summoned, in shape of the body of scientific clerks before spoken of; who, seated at desks, cast up the accounts the planetary bodies, including such regular old friends as the moon and fixed stars, but not forgetting those wandering celestial existences that rush, from time to time, over the meridian, and may be fairly called the chance customers of the astronomer. though the interior of the observatory seems so still, the life of those employed there has its excitements. looking through telescopes forms a small part only of their duty--and that duty can not be done when the weather is unfavorable. on cloudy days the observer is idle; in bright weather he is busy; and a long continuance of clear days and nights gives him more employment than he can well complete. summer, therefore, is his time of labor; winter his time of rest. it appears that in our climate the nights, on the whole, are clearer than the days, and evenings less cloudy than mornings. every assistant takes his turn as an observer, and a chain of duty is kept up night and day; at other periods, the busiest portion of the twenty-four hours at the observatory, is between nine in the morning and two in the afternoon. during this time they work in silence, the task being to complete the records of the observations made, by filling in the requisite columns of figures upon printed forms, and then adding and subtracting them as the case requires. while thus engaged, the assistant who has charge of an instrument looks, from time to time, at his star regulated clock, and when it warns him that his expected planet is nearly due, he leaves his companions, and quietly repairs to the room where the telescope is ready. the adjustment of this has previously been arranged with the greatest nicety. the shutter is moved from the slit in the roof, the astronomer sits upon an easy chair with a movable back. if the object he seeks is high in the heavens, this chair-back is lowered till its occupant almost lies down; if the star is lower, the chair-back is raised in proportion. he has his note-book and metallic pencil in hand. across the eye-piece of the telescope are stretched seven lines of spider-web, dividing the field of view. if his seat requires change, the least motion arranges it to his satisfaction, for it rests upon a railway of its own. beside him is one of the star-clocks, and as the moment approaches for the appearance of the planet, the excitement of the moment increases. "the tremble of impatience for the entrance of the star on the field of view," says an edinburgh reviewer, "is like that of a sportsman whose dog has just made a full point, and who awaits the rising of the game. when a star appears, the observer, in technical language, _takes a second from the clock face_; that is, he reads the second with his eye, and counts on by the ear the succeeding beats of the clock, naming the seconds mentally. as the star passes each wire of the transit, he marks down in his jotting-book with a metallic pencil the second, _and the second only_, of his observation, with such a fraction of a second as corresponds, in his judgment, to the interval of time between the passage of the star, and the beat of the clock which preceded such passage." an experienced observer will never commit an error in this mental calculation, exceeding the tenth of a second, or six hundredth of a minute. when the star has been thus watched over the seven cobweb lines (or wires), the observer jots down the hour and minute, in addition to the second, and the task is done. stars, not very near the sun, may be seen in broad daylight, but, at night, it is requisite to direct a ray of light from a lamp, so far to enlighten the field of the telescope, as to permit the spider lines to be seen running across the brighter ground on which the expected star is to be visible. the adjustment of the instruments is a task of great nicety. if they are out of trim only a shadow of a shade of a hair's-breadth, the desired accuracy is interfered with, and they have to be re-adjusted. temperature is of course an important element in their condition, and a slight sensibility may do mischief. the warmth of the observer's body, when approaching the instruments, has been known to affect their accuracy; and to avoid such sources of error, instruments have at times been cased in flannel, that the non-conducting powers of that homely fabric might screen the too-sensitive metal. sunday is a comparative holiday at the observatory, for then, except when any extraordinary phenomena are expected, the only duty done is to drop the time ball, and observe the moon's place. the moon is never neglected, and her motions have been here watched, during the last hundred and seventy years, with the most pertinacious care--to the great service of astronomy, and the great benefit of navigation. the library should not pass unnoticed. it is small; but being devoted to works upon astronomy, and the kindred sciences, there is ample room for all that has hitherto been written on the subject, or that can, for many generations, be produced. the observations of a lifetime spent in watching the stars may be printed in marvelously few pages. a glance through the greenwich astronomical library gives a rough general idea of what the world has done and is doing for the promotion of this science. russia contributes large, imperial-looking tomes, that tell of extended observations made under the munificent patronage of a despot; germany sends from different points a variety of smaller, cheaper-looking, yet valuable contributions; france gives proofs of her genius and her discoveries; but _her_ forte is not in observation. the french are bad observers. they have no such proofs of unremitting, patient toil in search of facts, as those afforded in the records of the greenwich tables of the moon. indeed, greenwich, as we have already said, is a working observatory; and those who go into its library, and its fire-proof manuscript-room, and see how its volumes of observations have been growing from the small beginnings of the days of flamstead and halley, to those of our later and more, liberal times, will have good reason to acknowledge that the money devoted to this establishment has been well employed. one other spot must be noticed as among the notable things in this astronomical sanctum. it is the chronometer-room, to which, during the first three mondays in the year, the chief watch-makers of london send in their choicest instruments for examination and trial. the watches remain for a good portion of a year; their rates being noted, day by day, by two persons; and then the makers of the best receive prizes, and their instruments are purchased for the navy. other competitors obtain certificates of excellence, which bring customers from the merchant service; while others pass unrewarded. to enter the room where these admirable instruments are kept, suggests the idea of going into a brobdingnag watch-factory. round the place are ranged shelves, on which the large watches are placed, all ticking in the most distinct and formidable way one against another. when they first arrive, in january, they are left to the ordinary atmospheric temperature for some months. their rates being taken under these circumstances, a large stove in the center of the apartment is lighted, and heat got up to a sort of artificial east india or gold coast point. tried under these influences, they are placed in an iron tray over the stove, like so many watch-pies in a baker's dish, and the fire being encouraged, they are literally kept baking, to see how their metal will stand that style of treatment. while thus hot, their rates are once more taken; and then, after this fiery ordeal, such of them as their owners like to trust to an opposite test, are put into freezing mixtures! yet, so beautifully made are these triumphs of human ingenuity--so well is their mechanism 'corrected' for compensating the expansion caused by the heat, and the contraction induced by the cold--that an even rate of going is established, so nearly, that its variation under opposite circumstances becomes a matter of close and certain estimate. the rates of chronometers on trial for purchase by the board of admirality, at the observatory, are posted up and printed in an official form. upon looking to the document for last year, we find a statement of their performances during six months of , with memoranda of the exact weeks during which the chronometers were exposed to the open air at a north window; the weeks the chronometer-room was heated by a stove, the chronometers being dispersed on the surrounding shelves; and the weeks during which they were placed in the tray above the stove. the rate given during the first week of trial is in every case omitted; like newly entered schoolboys their early vagaries are not taken into account; but after that, every merit and every fault is watched with jealous care, and, when the day of judgment comes, the order of the arrangement of the chronometers in the list is determined solely by consideration of their irregularities of rate as expressed in the columns, "difference between greatest and least," and, "greatest difference between one week and the next." the royal observatory, according to a superstition not wholly extinct, is the head-quarters, not only of astronomy, but of astrology. the structure is awfully regarded, by a small section of the community which ignorance has still left among us, as a manufactory of horoscopes, and a repository for magic mirrors and divining-rods. not long ago a well-dressed woman called at the observatory gate to request a hint as to the means of recovering a lost sum of money; and recently, somebody at brighton dispatched the liberal sum of five shillings in a post-office order to the same place, with a request to have his nativity cast in return! another, only last year, wrote as follows: "i have been informed that there are persons at the observatory who will, by my inclosing a remittance and the hour of my birth, give me to understand _who is to be my wife_? an early answer, stating all particulars, will oblige," &c. this sketch descriptive of its real duties and uses are not necessary to relieve the greenwich observatory from the charge of being an abode of sorcerers and astrologers. a few only of the most ignorant can yet entertain such notions of its character; but they are not wholly unfounded. magicians, whose symbols are the arabic numerals, and whose _arcana_ are mathematical computations, daily foretell events in that building with unerring certainty. they pre-discover the future of the stars down to their minutest evolution and eccentricity. from data furnished from the royal observatory, is compiled an extraordinary prophetic almanack from which all other almanacks are copied. it foretells to a second when and where each of the planets may be seen in the heavens at any minute for the next three years. the current number of the nautical almanack is for the year of grace . in this quiet sanctuary, then, the winds are made to register their own course and force, and the rain to gauge its own quantity as it falls; the planets are watched to help the mariner to steer more safely over the seas; and the heavens themselves are investigated for materials from which their future as well as their past history may be written. rapid growth of america. every one who visits america has something to say of the rapidity with which towns spring up in the west. sir charles lyell, however, mentions some facts which remind us very forcibly how close to our own times was the settlement of the first english colony upon the continent. at plymouth he sees the tombs of the first pilgrims, who came out in the mayflower. some of the houses which they built of brick brought from holland, are still remaining, with their low rooms and paneled walls. in some private houses he saw many venerated heir-looms, kept as relics of the first settlers; among others, an antique chair of carved wood, which came over in the mayflower, and which still retains the marks of the staples which fixed it to the floor of the cabin. he also saw a chest, or cabinet, which had belonged to peregrine white, the first child born in the colony. part of the rock upon which the pilgrim fathers landed has been removed to the centre of the town, and, with the names of forty-two of their number inscribed upon it, inclosed within an iron railing. this is the american _roll of battle abbey_. but to return to peregrine white, the first child born in the colony: colonel perkins, the munificent founder of the asylum for the blind, where we found our friend laura bridgman, informed sir charles lyell, in , "that there was but one link wanting in the chain of personal communication between himself and peregrine white." white was known to a man of the name of cobb, whom colonel perkins visited, in , with some friends, who still survive. this cobb remembered when there were many indians near plymouth; the inhabitants of the town frequently firing a cannon to frighten them, to which cannon the indians gave the name of "old speakum." so that, in this case, one link is sufficient to connect men now alive with the first whites born in new england, and with the time when indians were in the neighborhood of the first town that was settled. as a pendant to this, we may mention something connected with the originals of that other continent which our race is peopling at the antipodes. a few weeks ago, we were dining at the table of a naval officer, well known in the scientific and literary world, upon which occasion he mentioned, that being off the infant town of sydney, in new south wales, in the year , he ate some of the first home-bred bullock which was killed in the colony. the son of the first governor having just returned from the colony, which he had now made his home, happening to be of our party, added, that "since that time their progress had been so rapid, that this year they were to melt down two million sheep for their tallow." there are three events in the history of the world which will bear comparison with this rapid extension of the english race. the first--and this has always appeared to us to be the most striking occurrence in history--is the marvelous manner in which a handful of greeks, under alexander and his successors, overran and held for a long period the whole of the east. the wonder is increased when we consider the difficulty of maintaining communications in that part of the world. they, in a great measure, changed the language and ideas of the east. the gospel was written in greek; and the law of moses, the writings of the hebrew prophets, were translated into greek on the banks of the nile. a greek kingdom was ever able to maintain itself for a long period of time on the very confines of tartary; and specimens of the græco-bactrian coinage are even to this day abundant in that part of the world. all this, however, passed away, and has not left any very obvious traces on the present state of things. the second event was the establishment of the roman empire. strongly as we are disposed to maintain that, on a general view of human affairs, every thing happens for the best, yet we may say of the roman empire that it was in many respects a giant evil. no man of great original genius ever spoke the roman language; in the sense in which many greeks, and among ourselves bacon, shakspeare, and newton, were men of original genius. there was a time when there were men of spirit and ability in every greek city: there was a time when the roman empire governed the world and there was not one great man from britain to the euphrates. having fulfilled its destiny--which seems to have been the introduction into the western world of the ideas of unity, law, and order, though unintentionally on its part, for it was nothing but a military despotism--it perished as it deserved, and its language is now nowhere spoken. the third event was the irruption of the barbarians. that a higher civilization followed this every body knows; but how many centuries did it take to civilize the barbarians? now these, the three great events of past history, are all dwarfed very much when compared with what we are now, doing. we are sending out every year, literally, hundreds of thousands of civilized men to people two continents in opposite hemispheres, and on opposite sides of the globe. in north america there are already twenty millions of our race. this population doubles every twenty-two years. australia will inevitably become "the queen of the south." now that literature has given permanency to language, no other tongue than ours will ever be spoken upon these continents. we can see no limit to the spread of our laws, literature, and language. greek and roman greatness are really, in comparison, nothing to this. and, compared with the millions of civilized men which we have sent and are sending to occupy so large a portion of the earth's surface, how insignificant becomes the irruption of some savage, or half-savage hordes, into italy, france, spain, and england! at a time when civilization is at a standstill, if not retrograding, upon the continent of europe, it is very delightful, particularly to an englishman, to have such a picture to contemplate.--_frazer's magazine._ [from the london times.] lord coke and lord bacon. lord campbell has devoted a considerable portion of his first volume of the lives of the chief justices of england to the biography of sir edward coke. the theme is worthy of the space afforded it. independently of the professional renown of this great man, there are circumstances connected with his career that render it, perhaps, more deeply interesting than that of any other legal functionary. he began the world with the immortal bacon; the two were rivals during life; they fought together for distinction, and were even competitors in love. both were devoured by a raging desire for wealth and honors, both gained the objects of their fiery ambition, and neither found happiness when they were acquired. if bacon was more unscrupulous than coke in the ignoble race, his fall also was more fatal and ignominious. both represent to our minds distinct forms of undoubted greatness. _the body of the common law of england_ is the type that speaks for coke. the glory of human wisdom shines forever around the drooping head of bacon. both teach posterity how much intellectual grandeur may co-exist with the most glaring moral turpitude; both pay homage to virtue by seeking refuge in disgrace in the tranquil pursuits that have since immortalized them. bacon, with a genius only less than angelic, condescends to paltry crime, and dies branded. coke, with a profound contempt for the arts that bacon loved, enraged by disappointment, takes revenge for neglect, and dies a patriot. in the days of coke there would seem to have been a general understanding on the part of royal sycophants to mislead the monarch, and all became his sycophants who received his favors. coke is no exception to the rule. it is true enough that to him we are mainly indebted for the movement which, beginning on the th of january, , ended that very day eight-and-twenty years with the decapitation of the king; but it is likewise undeniable that the nation's difficulties would have waited some time longer for solution had not the defender of the people's rights been inoculated with a love of liberty by the sudden application of the royal lancet, whose sharp edge his judicious self-love would never have provoked. coke was born in what a royalist of the days of charles the first might well have called "the good old times," when queens were gentle despots and parliaments the most devoted of self-constituted slaves; when mr. speaker "upon his allegiance was commanded, if a certain bill be exhibited, not to read it," and when "mr. vice-chamberlain, to the great comfort of the speaker and the house, brought answer of her majesty's acceptance of the submission" of legislators who had presumed to speak of matters "not proper and pertinent for the house to deal in." elizabeth was on her splendid throne when coke, having quitted the university of cambridge without a degree, was working like a horse at clifford's-inn. stony-hearted and stony-minded, he loved neither poetry nor pleasure. from the moment he began the appointed task of his life, he dreamed of nothing but fame, and of that only for the sake of the sterling recompense it brings. friendships not convertible to cash, coke resolutely foreswore at the commencement of his career, and he was blessed with none at the close of it. spenser yielded him no delight, shakespeare no seduction. the study of law began at three in the morning, and, with short intervals of rest, ceased at nine in the evening, at which hour the indefatigable student at last took repose. fortified by such discipline, and brim full of law, coke was called to the bar in the year , being then twenty-seven years of age, and he rose in his profession as rapidly as he had all along resolved to rise. in pursuance of his design coke married well in ; the lady was young, beautiful, and accomplished; virtues thrown, as it were, into the bargain, since the lawyer had been well satisfied with the ample fortune by which they were accompanied. before he was thirty years old the desperate money-seeker had made himself master of manor upon manor, and laid the foundation of the enormous possessions which at length alarmed the crown, lest they should prove too magnificent for a subject. in he was elected recorder of coventry, in of norwich, and in of london itself. in the last-named year he was also appointed reader in the inner temple by the benchers, and in , being in his forty-first year, by the influence of burleigh, he was made solicitor-general to the queen. the solicitorship secured the speakership of the house of commons, according to custom. coke in his address to the queen upon his appointment compared himself to a star in the heavens, "which is but _opacum corpus_ until it receiveth light from the sun." her majesty in answer graciously condescended to accept the metaphor, for she informed her humble speaker that liberty of speech was granted him, "but you must know what privilege you have; not to speak every one what he listeth, or what cometh in his brain to utter, but your privilege is ay or no; wherefore, mr. speaker, her majesty's pleasure is, that if you perceive any idle heads which will meddle with reforming the church and transforming the commonwealth, and do exhibit bills to such purpose, you receive them not until they be viewed and considered by those who it is fitter should consider of such things, and can better judge of them." the times were sweetly arcadian. elizabeth should be painted a shepherdess, and her faithful parliament a meek and timid flock about her. the obsequiousness of coke to his royal mistress was in perfect keeping with his character. nothing exceeds his abject servility while in the sunshine, save his fixed malignity when dismissed to the shade. in the office of attorney-general became vacant; coke regarded the prize as his own until he found one ready to dispute it with him. bacon, eager to outstrip his rival, had made interest at court, and, had his age been as ripe as his genius, coke might have been thrust aside in the encounter. intrigues failed, because "one precedent of so raw a youth being promoted to so great a place" it was impossible to find. coke was left master of the field, but neither combatant forgot the result of the contest. the new attorney-general declined his marvelous opponent for solicitor-general, and bacon resolved to take unmeasured revenge both for the disappointment and the insult. a fitter tool for its melancholy work prerogative never found than in attorney-general coke, who, for his punishment, lived to destroy the foul abuses he had been paid to nourish. the liberty of the subject is identified with the name of the individual who, as much as any of his time, sought to crush it. the perversions of criminal law to which this man condescended, as prosecutor for the crown, are familiar to the readers of history. his cruel arrogance and atrocious bearing toward the unfortunate (we do not speak of the guilty) can never be forgotten. lord campbell tells us that coke, in his age, "made noble amends" for the licentious and unscrupulous dealings of his earlier life. we can not admit the term; for repentance to be noble, the motive must be pure. the gain to society by the stand made by coke, in the name of the people, against the encroachments of the crown is not to be overestimated; but respect does not attach to the soiled instrument by which our blessings were secured. a singular instance of the brutality of the attorney-general, and of his overstrained duty to the crown, occurred at the trial of the unfortunate and gallant essex. well may the present biographer exclaim, "this was a humiliating day for our _order_!" essex had striven hard to obtain for bacon the office then held by his accuser. the insurrection in the city might sooner be pardoned than that offense, which, indeed, received no mercy. for once, bacon and coke ceased to be rivals, but only that they might be co-partners in inexpiable guilt. divines may preach even to the infidel of the inherent rottenness of our fallen nature, when they can point to bacon, the pride of humanity, the wonder of the civilized world, imploring to be counsel _against_ his best friend and benefactor, and leaving no base means untried to bring that high and chivalrous spirit to the scaffold. prerogative never boasted so rare a sacrifice; the might of kings never extorted so signal an acknowledgment. on the th of june, , coke lost his wife, who had borne him ten children. his memorandum-book feelingly describes the virtues of the departed; but within four months of her burial the disconsolate widower had taken unto himself a second mate, whose beauty, though extraordinary, was still surpassed, as before, by the brilliancy of the marriage portion. lady hatton, daughter of thomas cecil, was the widow of the nephew of lord chancellor hatton, and but years of age when she agreed to become the wife of a man whom she disliked on her wedding-day and hated ever afterward. bacon, her cousin, had preferred his suit to be rejected, although lord essex, then powerful enough, had declared to the lady that "if he had a daughter of his own he would rather match her with the accomplished lawyer than with a man of far greater titles." to spite bacon, and to add to his heaps, coke consented to a private marriage, to break the law, and to listen complacently to the openly declared aversion of his bride. he enjoyed all the happiness he had earned. the lady refused to adopt her husband's name, spurned his company and dry pursuits, took her pleasure abroad, and, giving birth to a daughter, flatly refused to live with him any longer; and greater punishment came hereafter. upon the death of elizabeth, james i. conferred upon coke the dignity of knighthood, and continued him in his office. the first appearance of the attorney-general as public prosecutor in the new reign was at the trial of the adventurous raleigh, the judge upon the occasion being the reformed highway-robber, popham, who made amends for the delinquencies of his youth by hanging every criminal within his reach. raleigh laid down the law as coke himself years afterward knew how to define it; but the legal tools of the court were neither to be shamed nor argued from their purpose. coke disgracefully bullied the high-souled prisoner. popham shrunk from his calm and unanswerable defense; but both contrived to prove him guilty. the instance is one of a hundred. so long as coke could find payment for unclean work, he betrayed no uneasy desire to wash his fingers. it was not until all hope of turning sycophancy to further account was gone that he took up with patriotism. coke's last prosecution as attorney-general was a famous one; for the objects of his malevolence were no other than guy faux and his accomplices. it would have been sufficient to dismiss in silence to the scaffold men upon whom the brand of guilt was so deeply fixed. justice required no more than their death; much more readily satisfied the officious love of the king's devoted servant. while the attorney-general was hurling insult at the heads of the culprits, one of them, sir everard digby, interrupted him, confessing "that he deserved the vilest death, and the most severe punishment that might be," but humbly petitioned "for mercy and some moderation of justice." coke, overflowing with mercy, promised him such moderation as he might discover in the psalms, where it is written, "let his wife be a widow and his children vagabonds--let his posterity be destroyed, and in the next generation let his name be quite put out." digby's pathetic appeal upon the rising of the court may well stand side by side with this brutality. "if i may but hear any of your lordships," exclaimed the doomed man, "say you forgive me, i shall go more cheerfully to the gallows." the lords answered in coke's presence, "the lord forgive you, and we do." the gunpowder plot disposed of, coke, in the year , became chief justice of the court of common pleas, "fatigued," as lord campbell has it, "if not satiated, with amassing money at the bar." the new judge was as fully alive to the rights of his office as he had been before to the prerogatives of the king. the pedantic presumption of james was safe till it rubbed against the more stubborn pride of coke. the monarch was of opinion that the constitution and the law allowed him personally to try causes between his loyal subjects. "by my soul," he said pettishly to coke, who begged leave to differ, "i have often heard the boast that your english law was founded upon reason. if that be so, why have not i and others reason as well as you, the judges?" coke explained why and by the manner of his explanation compelled the king to think no more of his folly. unfortunately for all parties his majesty at the same time remembered the affront. had he been disposed to forget it there was one at his side eager enough to jog his memory. bacon's advancement depended upon the downfall of coke, and the sublimest yet meanest of men gave his whole heart to the accomplishment of either work. by the elevation of the attorney-general, bacon had become solicitor-general, and a more servile spirit never filled the office. the first triumph of coke over the king encouraged him to more open war against despotism and abuse. the monarchs before the revolution loved to repair laws by royal proclamation, and none were busier at that trade than the silly james. coke asserted his authority again, and again defeated him. to console his majesty and to help himself, bacon recommended the _promotion_ of the incorrigable assailant. coke was made, accordingly, chief justice of the king's bench. the profits of the office were much less than those of the justice of the common pleas, although the rank was higher. hence coke's disgust at the bettering of his condition, which also helped bacon on a step, by furnishing attorney-general hobart with the chiefship of the common pleas. coke continued to display his independence during the three years that he presided in the court of king's bench, but he had stopped short of committing an act that might deprive him of the reversion of the chancellorship, to which his great acquirements and reputation well entitled him. bacon, always alive to his master's interests, urged upon the king the danger of elevating the chief justice to the woolsack, long before the vacancy occurred. "if you take my lord coke," said he, "this will follow: first, your majesty shall put an overruling nature into an overruling place, which may breed an extreme; next, you shall blunt his industries in the matter of your finances, which seemeth to aim at another place (the office of lord treasurer); and, lastly, popular men are no sure mounters for your majesty's saddle." his majesty, easily frightened, cherished the warning, while coke took no pains to disarm suspicion. his triumphs gave him courage, and he went from bad to worse. a question arose as to the power of the king to grant ecclesiastical preferments to be held along with a bishopric. a learned counsel at the bar denied the power. bacon, the attorney-general, not caring to defend it, mentioned another power of the king's--viz., his right to prohibit the hearing of any cause in which his prerogative is concerned until he should intimate his pleasure on the matter to his judges; and advised such a prohibition to be issued in the case in question. coke treated the advice with disdain, proceeded as with an ordinary cause, heard it, and judicially determined it. bacon could have wished for nothing more suicidal. coke was summoned before the privy council. it was suddenly discovered that he had been guilty of a breach of duty while attorney-general, in concealing a bond given to the crown by sir christopher hatton. he had also misconducted himself in a dispute with the lord chancellor respecting injunctions; moreover, he had insulted the king when called before him in the case of _commendams_. in addition, many extravagant and exorbitant opinions had been set down and published in his reports for positive and good law. so heinous an offender could not go unpunished. by royal mandate the delinquent was suspended from his office of chief justice. simple suspension, however, brought no consolation to bacon, who goaded the king to downright persecution. on the th of november, , the chief justice received his dismissal. lord campbell pleads for the fallen man, who heard his sentence with "dejection and tears." we must, nevertheless, not forget the weakness when we reflect upon his abject submission to royalty during his days of dependence, and as we approach the more stormy times when the spirit of vengeance incited him to grapple with royalty in the temper of a rebel. magnanimity is wanting throughout. as coke tumbled down bacon rose to his zenith. while the former was shedding tears for his dismissal, the latter was intoxicated with joy by his elevation to the chancellorship. the defeated judge, however, was not the man to submit without a struggle to his fate. by his second wife he had a daughter: she had reached a marriageable age and was heiress to a princely fortune. coke resolved that she should marry sir john villiers, the duke of buckingham's eldest brother. sir john was very poor, and the duke of buckingham all powerful. the union effected, what should hinder his return to favor? bacon, terrified at the plot, encouraged mother and daughter to resist the will of the father; but sir john and the duke were more than a match for the counter-conspirators. after a gallant opposition the ladies yielded, and the marriage was celebrated at hampton court, "in the presence of the king and queen and all the chief nobility of england." sir john was old enough to be his wife's father, but that was a trifle. the results of the match were such as might be expected. coke was restored to the privy council, but received no judicial promotion. sir john villiers and his wife never passed a happy day together, and before long the lady eloped with sir john howard. "after traveling abroad in man's attire she died young, leaving a son, who, on the ground of illegitimacy, was not allowed to inherit the estate and honors of her husband." the last blow decided the ex-chief justice. rejected as a friend, he gave himself up to the warfare of relentless enmity. the fame and glory acquired at this juncture by his rival in consequence of the publication of the _novum organum_ gave venom to his hate. a parliament was called in . coke then in his th year, was elected for the borough of liskeard. just after his election the office of lord treasurer fell vacant. coke had looked for it, but it was given elsewhere. all things served to fan the fire of his indignation. the puritans were returned to the house in great numbers. coke, hitherto a high churchman, placed himself at their head, and prepared for deadly opposition. opportunities came to him as thick as summer leaves upon a tree. the nation had rare cause for discontent, and no man knew better than he how to turn popular grievances to personal account. he set to work at once. a motion was made by mr. secretary calvert for a supply. sir edward coke moved as an amendment, "that supply and _grievances_ should be referred together to a committee of the whole house." the amendment was carried, and business forthwith commenced with an attack upon the monopolists. a report was drawn up directed against the king's prerogative, in virtue of which monopolies flourished, and coke himself carried it to the bar of the upper house, where bacon, as chancellor received him. the second effort must have been a labor of love indeed. the lord chancellor himself had been accused of a king bribes. a committee of the house was appointed to investigate the charges, and coke, with a willing heart, guided its proceedings. the king sent a message to the commons with the view of saving bacon from the odium of an inquiry thus vindictively pursued, but coke had fastened on his prey and was not to be cajoled or frightened off. he besought the commons not to stand between justice and a huge delinquent, and he procured bacon's impeachment. the impeachment being voted, coke, to his intense delight, was ordered to conduct it. bacon, conscious of the spirit with which his rival would settle to his task, disappointed his vengence by pleading guilty to the charge; but it was the deep humiliation of the chancellor, in the presence of his foe, to hear in one breath both judgement and destruction pronounced. the battle was over. bacon made restitution to society by withdrawing from public life and devoting himself to the dignified occupations which have since induced his countrymen to forget the failings that compelled the fortunate seclusion. coke having brought his victim to the dust left him there to linger. he never visited his fallen enemy. the two never met again. revenge called for further sacrifice. coke's fierceness against the court increased rather than abated with bacon's removal. the chancellorship which might have made him a royalist and high churchman again was bestowed upon another. the shortsightedness of monarchs is even more unpardonable than their crimes. after a struggle against adjournment, led on by coke, parliament was adjourned in may to meet again in november. in a letter to the speaker the king desired it to be made known in his name unto the house, "that none therein shall presume henceforth to meddle with any thing concerning our government or deep matters of state." coke, leading the opposition, moved "a protestation," which was carried and entered on the journals. the king, with his own hand, tore the protestation out of the journal book, and declaring it "an usurpation which the majesty of a king can by no means endure" at once dissolved the parliament. coke for his pains was committed to the tower, but after a few months' imprisonment was released at the intercession of the prince of wales. before the popular leader was fairly in harness again, that prince was on the throne. charles's first parliament was called in , and coke was returned for coventry. a motion for supply being submitted, coke moved as an amendment for a committee to inquire into the expenditure of the crown. the amendment was carried, and his majesty, according to custom in such cases, dissolved the parliament. supply being, however, indispensable to monarchs as to meaner men, a new parliament was summoned, and coke, now years old, was returned without solicitation for norfolk. this parliament fared no better than its predecessor, and upon another attempt being made the king suffered the extreme mortification of seeing his unappeasable pursuer returned for two counties. his majesty opened the session with a stern rebuke. he did not call it a threatening, "for he scorned to threaten any but his equals, but an admonition from him who by nature and duty has most care of his people's preservation and prosperity." whatever it might be, whether menace or reproof, it had no effect upon the sturdy veteran. "what a word," exclaimed coke in his speech upon the usual motion for supply "is that _franchise_! the lord may tax his villein, high or low; but it is against the franchise of the land for freemen to be taxed but by their consent in parliament;" and the speaker implored his listeners to withhold that consent while there remained one legitimate grievance for the king to remedy. having made his speech he brought forward and carried resolutions that are memorable in the annals of our constitutional history, and which, indeed, were made the foundation of the habeas corpus act fifty years afterward. his next step was his greatest. he formed the famous _petition of right_, the second _magna charta_, as it has been aptly called, of the nation's liberties. the petition enumerated all the abuses of prerogative under which the country groaned, and after declaring them all to be contrary to law "assumed the form of an act of the legislature, and in the most express and stringent terms protected the people in all time to come from similar oppressions." the king attempted to evade the obligation about to be forced upon him, but his adversary was as inflexible as iron, "not that he distrusted the king, but that he could not take his trust save in a parliamentary way." the lords passed the bill, but loyally introduced a proviso that completely nullified its operation. "this," exclaimed coke, "turns all about again," and at his instigation the accommodating proviso was at once rejected. the lords agreed "not to insist upon it," and nothing was left for his majesty but to resort, under the direction of buckingham, to fraudulent dealing. the trick did not answer. buckingham was denounced, the petition of right, in spite of the king, received the royal assent in due form, and bonfires throughout london testified to the happiness of the people at the restoration of their liberty. king charles would never have died on the scaffold had he not violated in later years the solemn pledge he gave on this occasion to his trusting subjects. with this achievement ended coke's political career. the _petition of right_ was carried in . he was absent from parliament during the short and violent session of , and before another parliament was called he had quitted life. he died in , in the eighty-third year of his age and in the full possession of his faculties. what he performed for public liberty is seen; his claims to esteem as a lawyer were recognized in his own time, and are still acknowledged. his publications are the hand-books of our legal men. his general character may be gathered from our short record. it is further to be noted that he had a sublime contempt for science and literature of every kind. upon the title-page of his copy of the _novum organum_, presented to him by the author, he wrote, "it deserves not to be read in schooles, but to be freighted in the _ship of fools_." shakspeare and ben jonson were _vagrants_, deserving of the stocks; poetry was foolishness; law, politics, and money-making the sole occupations worthy of a masculine and vigorous mind. "for a profound knowledge of the common law of england," says the biographer, "he stands unrivaled. as a judge he was above all suspicion of corruption; yet most men," adds lord campbell, "i am afraid, would rather have been bacon than coke." we participate in his lordship's fear. aware of the lax period in which both flourished, we are willing to attribute many of the faults of both to the age in which their lot was cast. their virtues and intellectual prowess were all then own; and let us once enter upon a comparison of these, and the lofty, universal genius of bacon will shine as the noonday sun in the firmament where the duller orb of coke shall cease to be visible. [from household words.] father and son. one evening in the month of march, --that dark time in ireland's annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _émeutes_) is still preserved among us, as "the year of the rebellion"--a lady and gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned dining-room of a large, lonely mansion. they had just dined; wine and fruit were on the table, both untouched, while mr. hewson and his wife sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming gradually more vivid as the short spring twilight faded into darkness. at length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, by saying, "well, well, charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken up to-day for burning cotter's house at knockane; and tom dycer says that every magistrate in the country is a marked man." mrs. hewson cast a frightened glance toward the windows, which opened nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide, tree-besprinkled lawn, through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. there was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route. "listen, james!" she said, after a pause, "what noise is that?" "nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. come, wife, you must not give way to imaginary fears." "but really i heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the gable-end--i wish--" a knock at the parlor door interrupted her. "come in." the door opened, and tim gahan, mr. hewson's confidential steward and right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired, delicate-looking boy of six years' old, dressed in deep mourning. "well, gahan, what do you want?" "i ask your honor's pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but i thought it right to come and tell you the bad news i heard." "something about the rebels, i suppose?" "yes, sir; i got a whisper just now that there's going to be a great rising entirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at kilcrean bog, where i'm told they've a power of pikes hiding; and then they're to march on and sack every house in the country. i'll engage, when i heard it, i didn't let grass grow under my feet, but came off straight to your honor, thinking maybe you'd like to walk over this fine evening to mr. warren's, and settle with him what's best to be done." "oh, james! i beseech you, don't think of going." "make your mind easy, charlotte; i don't intend it: not that i suppose there would be much risk; but, all things considered, i think i'm just as comfortable at home." the steward's brow darkened, as he glanced nervously toward the end window, which jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer wall. "of course, 'tis just as your honor plases, but i'll warrant you there would be no harm in going. come, billy," he added, addressing the child, who by this time was standing close to mrs. hewson, "make your bow, and bid good-night to master and mistress." the boy did not stir, and mrs. hewson taking his little hand in hers, said, "you need not go home for half-an-hour, gahan; stay and have a chat with the servants in the kitchen, and leave little billy with me--and with the apples and nuts," she added, smiling as she filled the child's hands with fruit. "thank you, ma'am," said the steward, hastily. "i can't stop--i'm in a hurry home, where i wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_ follow me. come, billy; come this minute, you young rogue." still the child looked reluctant, and mr. hewson said, peremptorily, "don't go yet, gahan: i want to speak to you by-and-by; and you know the mistress always likes to pet little billy." without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to the offices. "there's something strange about gahan, since his wife died," remarked mrs. hewson. "i suppose 'tis grief for her that makes him look so darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. poor little billy! your mother was a sore loss to you." the child's blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the lady's side, he said, "old peggy doesn't wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used." "but your father is good to you?" "oh, yes, ma'am, but he's out all day busy, and i've no one to talk to me as mammy used; for peggy is quite deaf, and besides she's always busy with the pigs and chickens." "i wish i had you, billy, to take care of and to teach, for your poor mother's sake." "and so you may, charlotte," said her husband. "i'm sure gahan, with all his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be for his child's benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. i'll speak to him about it before he goes home. billy, my fine fellow, come here," he continued, "jump up on my knee, and tell me if you'd like to live here always and learn to read and write." "i would, sir, if i could be with father, too." "so you shall; and what about old peggy?" the child paused. "i like to give her a pen'north of snuff and a piece of tobacco every week, for she said the other day that _that_ would make her quite happy." mr. hewson laughed, and billy prattled on, still seated on his knee; when a noise of footsteps on the ground, mingled with low suppressed talking, was heard outside. "james, listen! there's the noise again." it was now nearly dark, but mr. hewson, still holding the boy in his arms, walked toward the window and looked out. "i can see nothing," he said; "stay, there are figures moving off among the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house--very like gahan he is, too." seizing the bell-rope, he rang it loudly, and said to the servant who answered his summons, "fasten the shutters and put up the bars, connell; and then tell gahan i want to see him." the man obeyed; candles were brought, and gahan entered the room. mr. hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were very white, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground. "what took you round the house just now, tim?" asked his master, in a careless manner. "what took me round the house, is it? why, then, nothing in life, sir, but that just as i went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, i saw the pigs, that shaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for the mistress's flower-garden; so i just put my _dudheen_, lighted as it was, into my pocket, and ran after them. i caught them on the grand walk under the end window, and, indeed, ma'am, i had my own share of work turning them back to their proper spear." gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but without raising his eyes from the ground. "who were the people," asked his master, "whom i saw moving through the western grove?" "people! your honor--not a sign of any people moving there, i'll be bound, barring the pigs." "then," said mr. hewson, smiling, to his wife, "the miracle of circe must have been reversed, and swine turned into men; for, undoubtedly, the dark figures i saw were human beings." "come, billy," said gahan, anxious to turn the conversation, "will you come home with me now? i am sure 'twas very good of the mistress to give you all them fine apples." mrs. hewson was going to propose billy's remaining, but her husband whispered, "wait till to-morrow." so gahan and his child were allowed to depart. next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and several suspicious-looking men found lurking about, were taken up. a hat which fitted one of them was picked up in mr. hewson's grove; the gravel under the end window bore many signs of trampling feet; and there were marks on the wall as if guns had rested against it. gahan's information touching the intended meeting at kilerean bog proved to be totally without foundation; and after a careful search, not a single pike or weapon of any description could be found there. all these circumstances combined certainly looked suspicious; but, after a prolonged investigation, as no guilt could be actually brought home to gahan, he was dismissed. one of his examiners, however, said privately, "i advise you take care of that fellow, hewson. if i were in your place, i'd just trust him as far as i could throw him, and not an inch beyond." an indolent, hospitable irish country gentleman, such as mr. hewson, is never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and manages every thing that is to be done in both the home and foreign departments--from putting a new door on the pig-stye, to letting a farm of an hundred acres on lease. now in this, or rather these capacities, gahan had long served mr. hewson; and some seven years previous to the evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and increased his influence considerably by marrying mrs. hewson's favorite and faithful maid. one child was the result of this union; and mrs. hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little billy--more especially after the death of his mother, who, poor thing! the neighbors said, was not very happy, and would gladly, if she dared, have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy service of her former mistress. thus, though for a time mr. and mrs. hewson regarded gahan with some doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the steward regained his former influence. after the lapse of a few stormy months, the rebellion was quelled: all the prisoners taken up were severally disposed of by hanging, transportation, or acquittal, according to the nature and amount of the evidence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it is in the volcanic nature of our irish soil ever to be. the hewsons' kindness toward gahan's child was steady and unchanged. they took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid education; so that william, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his confidence. * * * * * another evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this narrative commenced, came round. mr. and mrs. hewson were still hale and active, dwelling in their hospitable home. about eight o'clock at night, tim gahan, now a stooping, gray-haired man, entered mr. hewson's kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle next the fire. the cook, directing a silent, significant glance of compassion toward her fellow-servants, said, "would you like a drink of cider, tim, or will you wait and take a cup of tay with myself and kitty?" the old man's eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling. "i'll not drink any thing this night, thank you kindly, nelly," he said, in a slow, musing manner, dwelling long on each word. "where's billy?" he asked, after a pause, in a quick, hurried tone, looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes which, as she afterward said, took away her breath. "oh, never heed billy! i suppose he's busy with the master." "where's the use, nelly," said the coachman, "in hiding it from him? sure, sooner or later, he must know it. tim," he continued, "god knows 'tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore--but the truth is, that william has done what he oughtn't to do to the man that was all one as a father to him." "what has he done? what will you _dar_ say again my boy?" "taken money, then," replied the coachman, "that the master had marked and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold was missing. this morning 'twas gone; a search was made, and the marked guineas were found with your son william." the old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and fro. "where is he now?" at length he asked, in a hoarse voice. "locked up safe in the inner store-room; the master intends sending him to jail early to-morrow morning." "he will not," said gahan, slowly. "kill the boy that saved his life!--no, no." "poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind astray--and sure no wonder!" said the cook, compassionately. "i'm not astray!" cried the old man, fiercely. "where's the master?--take me to him." "come with me," said the butler, "and i'll ask him will he see you." with faltering steps the father complied: and when they reached the parlor, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for support, while the butler opened the door, and said, "gahan is here, sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for a minute." "tell him to come in," said mr. hewson, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very different from his ordinary cheerful voice. "sir," said the steward, advancing, "they tell me you are going to send my boy to prison--is it true?" "too true, indeed, gahan. the lad who was reared in my house, whom my wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness--whom we loved almost as if he were our own, has _robbed_ us, and that not once or twice, but many times. he is silent and sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he wanted it. i can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to justice in the morning." "no, sir, no. the boy saved your life; you can't take his." "you're raving, gahan." "listen to me, sir, and you won't say so. you remember this, night twenty years? i came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. well for us all you did so! that night--little you thought it!--i was banded with them that were sworn to take your life. they were watching you outside the window, and i was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. a faint heart i had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good master to me; but i was under an oath to them that i darn't break, supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. well! the hand of god was over you, and you wouldn't come with me. i ran out to them, and i said, 'boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the window,' thinking they'd be afeard of that; but they weren't--they were daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window, took deadly aim at you. that very moment you took billy on your knee, and i saw his fair head in a line with the musket. i don't know exactly then what i said or did, but i remember i caught the man's band, threw it up, and pointed to the child. knowing i was a determined man. i believe they didn't wish to provoke me; so they watched you for a while, and when you didn't put him down, they got daunted, hearing the sound of soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. most of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this morning quietly in his bed. up to yesterday he used to make me give him money--sums of money to buy his silence--and it was for that i made my boy a thief. it was wearing out his very life. often he went down on his knees to me, and said, 'father, i'd die myself sooner than rob my master, but i can't see _you_ disgraced. oh, let us fly the country!' now, sir, i have told you all--do what you like with me--send me to jail, i deserve it, but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy!" it would be difficult to describe mr. hewson's feelings, but his wife's first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. with a few incoherent words of explanation, she led him into the presence of his master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said, "william, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as i supposed. your father has told me every thing. i forgive him freely, and you also." the young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he followed his mother to the grave. he could say little, but he knelt on the ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him that mother's place, he murmured, "will _you_ tell him i would rather die than sin again?" old gahan died two years afterward, truly penitent, invoking blessings on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man's conduct, now no longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in william gahan, they had indeed a son. [from fraser's magazine.] diplomacy--lord chesterfield. the qualifications required for the diplomatic career, we need hardly say, are many and various. to a perfect knowledge of history and the law of nations should be united a knowledge of the privileges and duties of diplomatic agents, an acquaintance with the conduct and management of negotiations, the physical and moral statistics, the political, military, and social history of the powers with which the embasssador's nation comes into most frequent intercommunication. to this varied knowledge, it is needless to state, the negotiator should join moderation, dexterity, temper, and tact. an embassador should be a man of learning and a man of the world; a man of books and a man of men, a man of the drawing-room and a man of the counting-house; a _preux chevalieur_, and a man of labor and of business. he should possess quick faculties, active powers of observation, and that which military men call the _coup d'oeil_. he should be of urbane, pleasant, and affable manners; of cheerful temper, of good humor, and of good sense. he should know when and where to yield, to retreat, or to advance; when to press his suit strongly, or when merely gently to insinuate it indirectly, and, as it were, by inuendo. he should know how to unbend and how to uphold his dignity, or rather the dignity of his sovereign; for it his business, in whatever quarter of the world he may be placed, to maintain the rights and dignities of his sovereign with vigor and effect. it is the union of these diverse, and yet not repugnant qualities, that gives to an embassador _prestige_, ascendency, and power over the minds of others, that acquires for him that reputation of wisdom, straightforwardness, and sagacity, which is the rarest and most valuable gift of a statesman. one part of the science of diplomacy may be, by even a dull man, mastered without any wonderful difficulties. it is that positive, fundamental, and juridical portion of the study which may be found in books, in treatises; in the history of treaties and of wars; in treatises on international law; in memoirs, letters, and negotiations of embassadors; in historical and statistical works concerning the states of europe, the balance of power, and the science of politics generally. but the abstract, hypothetical, and variable portions of the craft--or, if you will, of the science--depending on ten thousand varying and variable circumstances--depending on persons, passions, fancies, whims; caprices royal, national, parliamentary, and personal, is above theory, and beyond the reach of books; and can only be learned by experience, by practice, and by the most perfect and intuitive tact. the traditional political maxims, the character of the loading sovereigns, statesmen, and public men in any given court, as well as the conduct of negotiations, may be acquired by study, by observation, by a residence as secretary, as _attaché_; but who, unless a man of real genius for his art--who, unless a man of real ability and talent, shall seize on, fix, and turn to his purpose, the ever-mobile, the ever-varying phases of courts, of camps, of councils, of senators, of parliaments, and of public bodies? no doubt there are certain great cardinal and leading principles with which the mind of every aspirant should be stored. but the mere knowledge of principles, and of the history of the science can never alone make a great embassador, any more than the reading of treatises on the art of war can make a great commander. an embassador at a first-rate court should, indeed, be the minister of foreign affairs for his country on a small scale; and we know well enough that the duties devolving on a minister for foreign affairs are grave, are delicate, are all important. the functions appertaining to the ministry for foreign affairs have been in england during the last two years, and certainly also were from to , the most important and the most difficult connected with the public administration. a man to fill such a post properly, requires not merely elevation and uprightness of character, but experience, tried discretion, the highest capacity, the most extensive and varied knowledge and accomplishments. yet how few embassadors (we can scarcely name one) have been in our day, or, indeed, for the last century, elevated into principal secretaries of state for foreign affairs! such promotions in france have been matters of every-day occurrence since and previous to . dumouriez, talleyrand, reinhard, champagny, maret, bignon, montmorency, chauteaubriand, polignac, sebastiani, de broglie, guizot, soult, had all been embassadors before they were elevated into the higher, the more responsible, and the more onerous office. in england, since the accession of george i., we can scarcely cite, speaking off-hand, above four instances. in there was paul methuen, who had been embassador to portugal in the reign of queen anne, named secretary of state, for a short time, in the absence of earl stanhope; there was philip dormer, earl of chesterfield, in ; there was john, duke of bedford, who succeeded lord chesterfield in , and who had previously been embassador to paris; and there was sir thomas robinson in , who had been an embassador to vienna. in our own day there is scarcely an instance. for though george canning was embassador for a short time to lisbon, and the marquis of wellesley to spain; though the duke of wellington was embassador to paris, was charged with a special mission to russia, was plenipotentiary at verona, yet none of these noblemen and gentlemen ever regularly belonged to the diplomatic corps. the most illustrious and striking instance of an embassador raised into a secretary of state is the case of philip dormer stanhope, earl of chesterfield the character of no man within a century and a half has been so misrepresented and misunderstood. lord john russell, in the _bedford correspondence_, which he edited, charges this nobleman with conducting the french nobility to the guillotine and to emigration. but lord chesterfield died on the th march, , sixteen years before , and nineteen years before . to any man of reading and research--to any man of a decent acquaintance with literature, it is unnecessary now to vindicate the character of the earl of chesterfield. he was unequaled in his time for the solidity and variety of his attainments; for the brilliancy of his wit; for the graces of his conversation, and the polish of his style. his embassy to holland marks his skill, his dexterity, and his address, as an able negotiator; and his administration of ireland indicates his integrity, his vigilance, and his sound policy as a statesman and as a politician. he was at once the most accomplished, the most learned, and the most far-seeing of the men of his day; and in our own, these is not one public man to compare with him. he foresaw and foretold, in , that french revolution whose outbreak he did not live to witness. in he was admitted into the cabinet, on his own terms, and was soon after intrusted with a second embassy to holland, in which his skill and dexterity were universally admitted. he was not more remarkable for a quick insight into the temper of others, than for a command of his own. in history, in literature, in foreign languages, he was equally a proficient. with classical literature he had been from his boyhood familiar. he wrote latin prose with correctness, ease, and purity; and spoke that tongue with a fluency and facility of the rarest among englishmen, and not very common even among foreigners. in the house of lords his speeches were more admired and extolled than any others of the day. horace walpole had heard his own father, had heard pitt, had heard pulteney, had heard wyndham, had heard carteret; yet he in declared, as is recorded by lord mahon, that the finest speech he had ever listened to was one from chesterfield. for the diplomatic career, chesterfield prepared himself in a manner not often practiced in his own, and never practiced by englishmen in our day. not content, as an undergraduate of cambridge, with assiduously attending a course of lectures on civil law at trinity hall, he applied--as the laws and customs of other countries, and the general law of europe, were not comprehended in that course--to vitriarius, a celebrated professor of the university of leyden and, at the recommendation of the professor, took into his house a gentleman qualified to instruct him. instead of pirouetting it in the _coulisses_ of the opera, or in the redouten saal of vienna, instead of graduating at the jardin mabille, or the salle ventadour, instead of breakfasting at the café anglais, instead of dining at the café de paris, or swallowing his ices, after the italiens or académie royale, at tortoni's, instead of attending a _funcion_ or bull-fight at madrid, or spending his mornings and evenings at jägers's unter den linden at berlin, instead of swallowing beaune for a bet against russian boyars at petersburgh or moscow, at andrieux's french restaurant, or spending his nights at the san carlos at naples, or the scala at milan, chesterfield, eschewing _prima donnas_, and the delights of french cookery, and the charms of french vaudevilles, set himself down in the town, and in the university in which joseph scaliger was a professor, and from whence those famous elzevir editions of classical works issued, to learn the public law of europe. these are the arts by which to attain the eminence of a walsingham and a burghley, of a d'ossat and a jeannin, of a temple and a de witt. qui cupit optatam cursu contingere metam, multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit. [from the dublin university magazine.] thomas moore. how many associations rise to the mind at the name of moore! the brilliant wit, the elegant scholar, the most charming poet of _sentiment_ our literature possesses! his vivacity and versatility were quite as remarkable as his fancy and command of melody. he has been admitted, by rare judges of personal merit, to have been, with the single exception of the late chief justice bushe, the most attractive of companions. an attempt has, in some quarters, we have heard, been made to represent moore as sacrificing to society talents meant for graver pursuits than convivial enjoyments; and it has been insinuated that he wanted that manly sternness of character, without which there can be no personal dignity or political consistency. the facts of moore's life overthrow, of themselves, such insinuations. it would be difficult, indeed, to point to any literary character who has, during the vicissitudes of an eventful age, more honorably and steadfastly adhered to the same standard of opinion--_qualis ab incepto_. his honorable conduct, when compelled to pay several thousand pounds, incurred by the error of his deputy at bermuda (for whose acts he was _legally_ responsible), exhibits the manliness of his nature. he determined, by honest labor, to pay off the vast demand upon him, even though it made him a beggar! several of the whig party came forward and offered in a manner most creditable to them, to effect a subscription for the purpose of paying off the poet's debt. foremost among them was a delicate young nobleman, with sunken cheek and intellectual aspect, who, while traveling for his health on the continent, had met moore, with whom he journeyed for a considerable time, and from whom he parted with an intense admiration of the poet's genius and manly character. the young nobleman--then far from being a rich man--headed the list with eleven hundred pounds. the fact deserves to be recorded to the honor of that young nobleman, who, by slow and sure degrees, has risen to be prime minister of england--lord john russell. of the fact of moore's steadfastly refusing to accept the subscription offered to be raised for him by his aristocratic whig friends, there can be no doubt whatever; and the matter is more creditable to him when the fact is remembered that it was not he himself who committed the error by which he was rendered liable to the judgment given against him. he might also have sheltered himself under the example of charles james fox, who consented to accept a provision made for him by the leaders of his party. but moore detested all eleemosynary aid. he speaks in one of his most vigorous poems with contempt of that class of "_patriots_" (to what vile uses can language be profaned!), "who hawk their country's wrongs as beggars do their sores." while sojourning at paris upon that occasion moore received a very remarkable offer. barnes, the editor of the _times_, became severely ill, and was obliged to recruit his health by a year's rest, and the editorship of the _times_ was actually offered to moore, who, in telling the story to a brilliant living irishman, said, "i had great difficulty in refusing. the offer was so tempting--_to be the times for a twelvemonth!_" the offering him the editorship of "the daily miracle" (as mr. justice talfourd called it) might, however, have been only a _ruse de guerre_ of his aristocratic and political friends to bring him back to london, where, for a variety of reasons social and political, his company was then very desirable. there is a very interesting circumstance connected with the birth of moore, which deserves record. the fact of the birth, as every one knows, took place at aungier-street, and its occasion was at a moment singularly appropriate for the lyric poet being ushered into the world. jerry keller, the wit and humorist, rented apartments in the house of moore's brother, in aungier-street, and had a dinner-party on the very day of the poet's birth. just as the guests were assembled, and the dinner on the table, it was announced to them that mrs. moore's _accouchement_ had taken place, and that she was in a precarious state, the physicians particularly enjoining that no noise should be made in the house: a difficult matter, when keller, lysaght, and other convivial spirits were assembled. what was to be done? one of the company, who lodged near him, solved the difficulty by proposing that the feast should be adjourned to his house close by, and that the viands and wine should be transferred thither. "ay!" cried jerry keller, "be it so; let us adjourn _pro re nata."_ thus, in the hour of feasting, just as keller dropped one of his best witticisms, was moore's birth registered by a classic pun. moore had few friends whom he loved more than mr. corry, and he has left upon record an exquisite proof of his friendship in the following lines, which are very affecting to read at the present time. on one occasion, moore and corry were ordered, by medical advice, to drink port wine, while they were sojourning for their health at brighton. the _idem velle atque idem nolle_ was perfectly applicable to their friendship, and they detested port wine with perfect antipathy. however, they were under advice which required obedience. moore got the port-wine from his wine-merchant, ewart; but in traveling from london it had been shaken about so much, and was so muddy, that it required a strainer. mr. corry bought a very handsome wine-strainer, prettily ornamented with bacchanalian emblems, and presented it, with a friendly inscription, to moore, who wrote in reply, the following lines, never, we believe, before printed: to james corry, esq., on his making me a present of a wine-strainer. this life, dear corry, who can doubt, resembles much friend ewart's wine-- when first the rosy drops come out, how beautiful, how clear they shine! and thus, a while they keep their tint so free from even a shade with some, that they would smile, did you but hint, that darker drops would ever come. but soon the ruby tide runs short, each moment makes the sad truth plainer-- till life, like old and crusty port, when near its close, requires a strainer. _this_ friendship can alone confer, alone can teach the drops to pass-- if not as bright as once they were, at least unclouded through the glass. nor, corry, could a boon be mine, of which my heart were fonder, vainer, than thus, if life grew like old wine, to have _thy_ friendship for its strainer! thomas moore. brighton, june, . [from household words.] the appetite for news. the last great work of that great philosopher and friend of the modern housewife, monsieur alexis soyer, is remarkable for a curious omission. although the author--a foreigner--has abundantly proved his extensive knowledge of the weakness of his adopted nation; yet there is one of our peculiarities which he has not probed. had he left out all mention of cold punch in connection with turtle; had his receipt for curry contained no cayenne; had he forgotten to send up tongues with asparagus, or to order a service of artichokes without napkins, he would have been thought forgetful; but when--with the unction of a gastronome, and the thoughtful skill of an artist--he marshals forth all the luxuries of the british breakfast-table, and forgets to mention its first necessity, he shows a sort of ignorance. we put it to his already extensive knowledge of english character, whether he thinks it possible for any english subject whose means bring him under the screw of the income-tax, to break his fast without--a newspaper. the city clerk emerging through folding doors from bed to sitting-room, though thirsting for tea, and hungering for toast, darts upon that morning's journal with an eagerness, and unfolds it with a satisfaction, which show that all his wants are gratified at once. exactly at the same hour, his master, the m.p., crosses the hall of his mansion. as he enters the breakfast parlor, he fixes his eye on the fender, where he knows his favorite damp sheet will be hung up to dry. when the noble lord first rings his bell, does not his valet know that, however tardy the still-room-maid may be with the early coffee, he dares not appear before his lordship without the "morning post?" would the minister of state presume to commence the day in town till he has opened the "times," or in the country till he has perused the "globe?" could the oppressed farmer handle the massive spoon for his first sip out of his sèvres cup till he has read of ruin in the "herald" or "standard?" might the juvenile conservative open his lips to imbibe old english fare or to utter young england opinions, till he has glanced over the "chronicle?" can the financial reformer know breakfast-table happiness till he has digested the "daily news," or skimmed the "express?" and how would it be possible for mine host to commence the day without keeping his customers waiting till he has perused the "advertiser" or the "sun?" in like manner the provinces can not--once a week at least--satisfy their digestive organs till their local organ has satisfied their minds. else, what became of the , , newspaper stamps which were issued in (the latest year of which a return has been made) to the london and the provincial english journals: of the , , stamps impressed on the corners of the scottish, and of the , , which adorned the irish newspapers? a professor of the new science of literary mensuration has applied his foot-rule to this mass of print, and publishes the result in "bentley's miscellany." according to him, the press sent forth, in daily papers alone, a printed surface amounting in twelve months to , , superficial feet. if to these are added all the papers printed weekly and fortnightly in london and the provinces the whole amounts to , , , square feet of printed surface, which was, in , placed before the comprehensive vision of john bull. the area of a single morning paper--the times say--is more than nineteen and a half square feet, or nearly five feet by four, compared with an ordinary octavo volume, the quantity of matter daily issued is equal to three hundred pages. there are four morning papers whose superficies are nearly as great, without supplements, which they seldom publish. a fifth is only half the size. we may reckon, therefore, that the constant craving of londoners for news is supplied every morning with as much as would fill about twelve hundred pages of an ordinary novel; or not less than five volumes. these acres of print sown broad-cast, produce a daily crop to suit every appetite and every taste. it has winged its way from every spot on the earth's surface, and at last settled down and arranged itself into intelligible meaning, made instinct with ink. now it tells of a next-door neighbor; then of dwellers in the utter-most corners of the earth. the black side of this black and white daily history, consists of battle, murder, and sudden death; of lightning and tempest; of plague, pestilence, and famine; of sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion; of false doctrine, heresy, and schism; of all other crimes, casualities, and falsities, which we are enjoined to pray to be defended from. the white side chronicles heroism, charitableness, high purpose, and lofty deeds; it advocates the truest doctrines, and the practice of the most exalted virtue: it records the spread of commerce, religion, and science; it expresses the wisdom of the few sages and shows the ignorance of the neglected many--in fine, good and evil, as broadly defined or as inextricably mixed in the newspapers, as they are over the great globe itself. with this variety of temptation for all tastes, it is no wonder that those who have the power have also the will to read newspapers. the former are not very many in this country where, among the great bulk of the population, reading still remains an accomplishment. it was so in addison's time. "there is no humor of my countrymen," says the spectator, "which i am more inclined to wonder at, than their great thirst for news." this was written at the time of imposition of the tax on newspapers, when the indulgence in the appetite received a check from increased costliness. from that date ( ) the statistical history of the public appetite for news is written in the stamp office. for half a century from the days of the spectator, the number of british and irish newspapers was few. in there were only seventy-nine, but in the succeeding eight years they increased rapidly. there was "great news" stirring in the world in that interval--the american war, the french revolution; beside which, the practice had sprung up of giving domestic occurrences in fuller detail than heretofore, and journals became more interesting from that cause. in they had nearly doubled in number, having reached one hundred and forty six. this augmentation took place partly in consequence of the establishment of weekly papers--which originated in that year--and of which thirty-two had been commenced before the end of it. in , twenty-nine and a half millions of stamps were issued to newspapers in great britain. the circulation of journals naturally depends upon the materials existing to fill them. while wars and rumors of wars were rife they were extensively read, but with the peace their sale fell off. hence we find, that in no more than twenty-four millions of newspapers were disposed of. since then the spread of education--slow as it has been--has increased the productiveness of journalism. during the succeeding eight-and-twenty years, the increase may be judged of by reference to the figures we have already jotted down; the sum of which is, that during the year there were issued, for english, irish, and scotch newspapers, eighty-two millions of stamps--more than thrice as many as were paid for in . the cause of this increase was chiefly the reduction of the duty from an average of three-pence to one penny per stamp. a curious comparison of the quantity of news devoured by an englishman and a frenchman, was made in , in the _edinburgh review_--"thirty-four thousand papers," says the writer, are "dispatched daily from paris to the departments, among a population of about twenty-six millions, making one journal among persons. by this, the number of newspaper readers in england would be to those in france as twenty to one. but the number and circulation of country papers in england are so much greater than in france, that they raise the proportion of english readers to about twenty-five to one, and our papers contain about three times as much letter-press as a french paper. the result of all this is that an englishman reads about seventy-five times as much of the newspapers of his country in a given time, as a frenchman does of his. but in the towns of england, most of the papers are distributed by means of porters, not by post; on the other hand, on account of the number of coffee-houses, public gardens, and other modes of communication, less usual in england, it is possible that each french paper may be read, or listened to, by a greater number of persons, and thus the english mode of distribution may be compensated. to be quite within bounds, however, the final result is, that every englishman reads daily fifty times as much as the frenchman does, of the newspapers of his country." from this it might be inferred that the craving for news is peculiarly english. but the above comparison is chiefly affected by the restrictions put upon the french press, which, in , were very great. in this country, the only restrictions were of a fiscal character; for opinion and news there was, as now, perfect liberty. it is proved, at the present day, that frenchmen love news as much as the english; for now that all restriction is nominally taken off, there are as many newspapers circulated in france in proportion to its population, as there are in england. the appetite for news is, in truth, universal; but is naturally disappointed, rather than bounded, by the ability to read. hence it is that the circulation of newspapers is proportioned in various countries to the spread of letters; and if their sale is proportionately less in this empire, than it is among better taught populations, it is because there exist among us fewer persons who are able to read them;--either at all, or so imperfectly, that attempts to spell them give the tyro more pain than pleasure. in america, where a system of national education has made a nation of readers (whose taste is perhaps susceptible of vast improvement, but who are readers still) the sale of newspapers greatly exceeds that of great britain. all over the continent there are also more newspaper _readers_, in proportion to the number of people, though perhaps, fewer buyers, from the facilities afforded by coffee-houses and reading-rooms, which all frequent. in support of this fact, we need go no farther than the three kingdoms. scotland--where national education has largely given the ability to read--a population of three millions demands yearly from the stamp office seven and a half millions of stamps; while in ireland, where national education has had no time for development, eight millions of people take half a million of stamps _less_ than scotland. although it can not be said that the appetite for mere news is one of an elevated character; yet as we have before hinted, the dissemination of news takes place side by side with some of the most sound, practical, and ennobling sentiments and precepts that issue from any other channels of the press. as an engine of public liberty, the newspaper press is more effectual than the magna charta, because its powers are wielded with more ease, and exercised with more promptitude and adaptiveness to each particular case. mr. f. k. hunt in his "fourth estate" remarks, "the moral of the history of the press seems to be, that when any large proportion of a people have been taught to read, and when upon this possession of the tools of knowledge, there has grown up a habit of perusing public prints, the state is virtually powerless if it attempts to check the press. james the second in old times, and charles the tenth, and louis philippe, more recently, tried to trample down the newspapers, and everybody knows how the attempt resulted. the prevalence or scarcity of newspapers in a country affords a sort of index to its social state. where journals are numerous, the people have power, intelligence, and wealth; where journals are few, the many are in reality mere slaves. in the united states every village has its newspaper, and every city a dozen of these organs of popular sentiment. in england we know how numerous and how influential for good the papers are; while in france they have perhaps still greater power. turn to russia, where newspapers are comparatively unknown, and we see the people sold with the earth they are compelled to till. austria, italy, spain, occupy positions between the extremes--the rule holding good in all, that in proportion to the freedom of the press is the freedom and prosperity of the people." [from sharpe's magazine] a few words on corals. it is the object of the following papers to illustrate the natural history of the ocean, and to introduce to the reader a few of the forms of life which the naturalist meets with in the deep sea. the sea that bathes the globe contains as countless multitudes of living beings as does the land we tread, and each possesses an organization as interesting and as peculiar to itself, as any of the higher forms of the animal creation. but the interest does not cease here, for these marine invertebrata play an important part in the vast economy of nature, some living but to afford food for the larger kinds, others devouring all matter devoid of vitality, and so removing all putrescent materials, with which the sea would otherwise be surcharged; while others, again, living in large communities, surely and slowly, by their gradual growth, so alter the physical construction of the globe as to render seas and harbors unnavigable, and in many eases even to give rise in course of ages to those islands, apparently of spontaneous growth, which are so common in the southern seas. corals and madrepores first claim our attention, because they occupy the lowest place, with the exception of sponges, in the animal scale! indeed, so low is their organization, that former naturalists denied their animal character, and from superficial examination of their external appearance, placed them among the wonders of the vegetable world. and from the arborescent and plant-like form assumed by many kinds, in the flustra and others, in which the resemblance to sea-weeds is so strong as generally to cause them to be confounded together under the same group, and being fixed to submarine rocks, or marine shells, observers might easily have been led to the mistake, had not modern research rectified the error. corals and madrepores, as they are known to us, consist but of the stony skeletons of the animals themselves, for in the living state, while dwelling in the ocean, each portion of the stony framework was covered with an animal coating of gelatinous matter, which, closely investing it, was the living portion of the animal. but the structure of the animal is not simply this, for attached to different portions of it in the living state are to be found a countless number of little cells, which, armed with tentacles of great prehensile and tactile powers, are the apertures through which the particles of food are conveyed for the sustenance of the animal these bodies as they may be called, are the analogues of that simple polyp, the common hydra, which, abounding in almost every pond, has been long known to naturalists. it consists of a single dilated gelatinous vesicle, which is terminated at one extremity by a sucker, and at the other by a number of contractile filaments, which serve as the tentaculæ, by which it seizes its prey. this is all that represents the animal, the dilated portion of the tube being the part in which the process of digestion is carried on, and where the food is assimilated to the wants of the little creature. these hydrae live singly, each animal being independent of another, and each possesses the power of self-reparation; so that, should it happen that a tentacle is lost, another sprouts to supply its place, or should the naturalist by way of experiment divide it in half, each portion immediately reproduces the wanting section. such, then, is briefly the structure of the simple fresh-water hydra, a polyp of common occurrence, and from this description the reader will gain some idea of the polyps of the coral family before us; but he must remember that in the case now under discussion, the polyps are aggregated together, a number on one common stem, each possessing independent life, but all ministering to the support of the compound animal. the hydra, then, of the coral and madrepore, thus explained, would appear to be the parts through which food is absorbed for the general nourishment of the body, which, as before observed, consists simply of a gelatinous film of animal matter, possessing but little evidence of vitality. here, then, is a community of nourishment, and with it also a community of sensation, for if one portion be irritated, contiguous portions of the animal are apt to sympathize. when the coral polyps are not in an active state, or in other words, when they are not in want of food, these hydra-form polyps may not be visible, but being retracted into cells found as depressions in the skeletons of the madrepores, they are lost to observation, and it is only when in quest of food and nourishment that their contractile tentacles are expanded, and distinctly prominent. the physiology of the growth of the skeleton, both in the madrepores and the coral, is the same. the entire skeleton, however ramified it may be, or whatever form it may assume, is secreted by the living matter with which it is invested, the materials for its formation being derived from the element in which it lives; and as its deposition takes place at different times, the central stem of some corals is apt to assume a beautiful concentric arrangement of laminæ. but the material deposited or secreted need not necessarily be hard or calcareous, but even may partake of the character of horn or other flexible materials, as is the case with some of the coral family. in other cases there is an alternation of each material; and the necessity of this change in the character of the skeleton will now demand our attention. the common coral of the mediterranean, possessing a stony skeleton, is found in situations where its stunted form and its extreme hardness sufficiently preserve it from the violence of the waves; but place a coral under other circumstances, and expose it to the storms of the indian ocean, where the waves rage with fury, dashing on and uprooting all things within their power, and the structure of the simple coralium would fail to withstand their violence. here, then, under such circumstances, in the case of the gorgonia, nature has provided a horny and flexible skeleton, which, spreading majestically in the sea, shall be capable of bending beneath the weight of the superincumbent waves, and so yielding to the storms. nature has thus adapted herself to each contingent circumstance. the next point to which we shall advert will be coral formations, which form so interesting a study to the naturalist and geologist. when we consider that we have at hand only a soft, gelatinous covering, stretched on a hard, stony frame-work--that the material on which this animal substance exists is furnished by the sea in which it lives--we can not but be surprised at the smallness of the means which nature uses for the execution of her great designs. but time compensates for the insignificance of the means employed, and the continued activity of nature's architects, during continuous ages, accomplishes these stupendous results, which have at various times excited the wonder of the navigator, and aroused the attention of the naturalist. many examples of these are to be found in the pacific archipelago. seas and shallows, once navigable, become in the process of time so filled by these living animals, as to become impassable, their stony skeletons forming hard, massy rocks and impenetrable barriers, which, rising from the bottom of the sea and shallows, constitute solid masonry of living stones. but besides thus aggregating in the neighborhood of land and continents, formations similarly produced are constantly met with during the circumnavigation of the globe. not only barriers and reefs owe their origin to these humble means, but large lands, stretching for miles in the centre of the ocean, rise gradually from beneath the surface of the sea, and, becoming clothed with verdure and vegetation, at last offer a resting-place for the daring seafarer. but now occurs the interesting question, how happens it that these islands are found in situations where the sea is too deep to allow of any animal life to exist? and yet these corals must have grown upward from some resting-place. the researches of darwin have shown that the greatest depth in which corals live, is between thirty and forty fathoms beneath the surface of the sea; hence it is absolutely certain that for every island some foundation must exist in the sea for these reef-building animals to attach themselves to. such foundation, from the observation of darwin, would appear to be provided by submarine mountains which have gradually subsided into the sea, having originally existed above its surface. upon these foundations the reef-building saxigenous corals have become attached, and slowly accumulating in large numbers, and gradually depositing their carbonate of lime, during the lapse of ages, by degrees construct these large piles, which, at last emerging from the ocean's bosom, appear as newly-formed continents and islands. once above the surface, the work of the corals is at an end; no longer exposed to the salt water, the emerged portion dies, and then new agencies are called into play, before its surface can be clothed with vegetable life. the storms of the ocean and the rising waves gradually deposit on its surface the sand and mud torn up from the bottom of the sea, and the sea-weed, too, that is cast upon its tenantless shores soon crumbles into mould, and unites with the debris of the former polyps. at last, some seeds from the neighboring lands are driven to its strand, and there finding a soil united for their growth, soon sprout, under the influence of a tropical sun, into fresh life, and clothe the ocean isle with verdure and vegetation. then, _last_, man comes, and taking possession of the land, erects him a house to dwell in, and cultivating the soil he finds, soon converts the ocean-rescued land into cultivated plains. islands thus formed are constantly increased in circumference by the same means as those that gave them birth; the same agency is ever at work, adding particle on particle to the rising land. but is it not strange that such simple means can resist the ever-flowing and roaring ocean--that such simple animals can uprear a masonry which shall resist the violence of the waves and defy the power of the breakers? is it not strange that a single polyp can form a structure in the bosom of the ocean, which shall stand, a victorious antagonist to the storm when works of man and other "inanimate works of nature" would have crumbled into nothing before the relentless fury of a disturbed ocean? "let the hurricane tear up its thousand huge fragments, yet what will that tell against the accumulated labor of myriads of architects at work day and night, month after month?" for here organic force is opposed to the raging elements, and opposing, is victorious. [from the dublin university magazine] a night in the bell inn. though few men are themselves on visiting terms with their ancestors, most are furnished with one or two decently-authenticated ghost stories. i myself am a firm believer in spectral phenomena, for reasons which i may, perhaps, be tempted to give to the public whenever the custom of printing in folio shall have been happily revived; meanwhile, as they will not bear compression, i keep them by me, and content myself with now and then stating a fact saving the theory to suggest itself. now it has always appeared to me that the apostles of spectres (if the phrase will be allowed me) have, like other men with a mission, been, perhaps, a little precipitate in assuming their facts, and sometimes find "true ghosts" upon evidence much too slender to satisfy the hard-hearted and unbelieving generation we live in. they have thus brought scandal not only upon the useful class to which they belong, but upon the world of spirits itself--causing ghosts to be so generally discredited, that fifty visits made in their usual private and confidential way, will now hardly make a single convert beyond the individual favored with the interview; and, in order to reinstate themselves in their former position, they will be obliged henceforward to appear at noon-day, and in places of public resort. the reader will perceive, then, that i am convinced of the equal impolicy and impropriety of resting the claims of my clients (ghosts in general) upon facts which will not stand the test of an impartial, and even a skeptical scrutiny. and, perhaps, i can not give a happier illustration of the temper of my philosophy, at once candid and cautious, than is afforded by the following relation, for every tittle of which i solemnly pledge my character at once as a gentleman and as a metaphysician. there is a very agreeable book by mrs. crowe, entitled "the night side of nature," and which among a _dubia cæna_ of authentic tales of terror, contains several which go to show the very trivial causes which have from time to time caused the reappearance of departed spirits in this grosser world. a certain german professor, who, for instance, actually _persecuted_ an old college friend with preternatural visitations for no other purpose, as it turned out, than to procure a settlement of some small six-and-eightpenny accounts, which he owed among his trades-people at the time of his death. i could multiply, from my own notes, cases still odder, in which sensible and rather indolent men, too, have been at the trouble to re-cross the awful interval between us and the invisible, for purposes apparently still less important--so trivial, indeed, that for the present i had rather not mention them, lest i should expose their memories to the ridicule of the unreflecting. i shall now proceed to my narrative, with the repeated assurance, that the reader will no where find in it a single syllable that is not most accurately and positively true. about four-and-thirty years ago i was traveling through denbighshire upon a mission which needed dispatch. i had, in fact, in my charge, some papers which were required for the legal preliminaries to a marriage, which was about to take place in a family of consideration, upon the borders of that county. the season was winter, but the weather delightful--that is to say, clear and frosty; and, even without foliage, the country through which i posted was beautiful. the subject of my journey was a pleasant one. i anticipated an agreeable visit, and a cordial welcome; and the weather and scenery were precisely of the sort to second the cheerful associations with which my excursion had been undertaken. let no one, therefore, suggest that i was predisposed for the reception of gloomy or horrible impressions. when the sun set we had a splendid moon, at once soft and brilliant; and i pleased myself with watching the altered, and, if possible, more beautiful effects of the scenery through which we were smoothly rolling. i was to put up for the night at the little town of ----; and on reaching the hill--over which the approach to it is conducted, about a short mile from its quaint little street--i dismounted, and directing the postillion to walk his jaded horses leisurely up the winding road, i trod on before him in the pleasant moonlight, and sharp, bracing air. a little by-path led directly up the steep acclivity, while the carriage-road more gradually ascended by a wide sweep--this little path, leading through fields and hedgerows, i followed, intending to anticipate the arrival of my conveyance at the summit of the hill. i had not proceeded very far when i found myself close to a pretty old church, whose ivied tower, and countless diamond window panes, were glittering in the moonbeams--a high, irregular hedge, overtopped by tall and ancient trees inclosed it; and rows of funereal yews showed black and mournful among the wan array of headstones that kept watch over the village dead. i was so struck with the glimpse i had caught of the old church-yard, that i could not forbear mounting the little stile that commanded it--no scene could be imagined more still and solitary. not a human habitation was near--every sign and sound of life was reverently remote; and this old church, with its silent congregation of the dead marshaled under its walls, seemed to have spread round it a circle of stillness and desertion that pleased, while it thrilled me. no sound was here audible but the softened rush of waters, and that sweet note of home and safety, the distant baying of the watch-dog, now and then broken by the sharper rattle of the carriage-wheels upon the dry road. but while i looked upon the sad and solemn scene before me, these sounds were interrupted by one which startled, and, indeed, for a moment, froze me with horror. the sound was a cry, or rather a howl of despairing terror, such as i have never heard before or since uttered by human voice. it broke from the stillness of the church-yard; but i saw no figure from which it proceeded--though this circumstance, indeed, was scarcely wonderful, as the broken ground, the trees, tall weeds, and tomb-stones afforded abundant cover for any person who might have sought concealment. this cry of unspeakable agony was succeeded by a silence; and, i confess, my heart throbbed strangely, when the same voice articulated, in the same tone of agony, "why will you trouble the dead? who can torment us before the time? i will come to you in my flesh, though after my skin worms destroy this body--and you shall speak to me, lace to face." this strange address was followed by another cry of despair, which died away as suddenly as it was raised. i never could tell why it was i was not more horror-stricken than i really was by this mysterious, and, all things considered, even terrible interpellation. it was not until the silence had again returned, and the faint rustling of the frosty breeze among the crisp weeds crept toward me like the stealthy approach of some unearthly influence, that i felt a superstitious terror gradually inspire me, which hurried me at an accelerated pace from the place. a few minutes, and i heard the friendly voice of my charioteer hallooing to me from the summit of the hill. reassured, as i approached him, i abated my speed. "i saw you standing on the stile, sir, by the church-yard," he said, as i drew near, "and i ask your pardon for not giving you the hint before, but they say it is not lucky; and i called to you loud and lusty to come away, sir; but i see you are nothing the worse of it." "why, what is there to be afraid of there, my good fellow?" i asked, affecting as much indifference as i was able. "why, sir," said the man, throwing an uneasy look in the direction, "they do say there's a bad spirit haunts it; and nobody in these parts would go near it after dark for love or money." "haunted!" i repeated; "and how does the spirit show himself?" i asked. "oh! lawk, sir, in all sorts of shapes--sometimes like an old woman almost doubled in two with years," he answered, "sometimes like a little child agoing along a full foot high above the grass of the graves; and sometimes like a big black ram, strutting on his hind legs, and with a pair of eyes like live coals; and some have seen him in the shape of a man, with his arm raised up toward the sky, and his head hanging down, as if his neck was broke. i can't think of half the shapes he has took at different times; but they're all bad: the very child, they say, when he comes in that shape, has the face of satan--god bless us! and nobody's ever the same again that sees him once." by this time i was again seated in my vehicle, and some six or eight minutes' quick driving whirled us into the old-fashioned street, and brought the chaise to a full stop before the open door and well-lighted hall of the bell inn. to me there has always been an air of indescribable cheer and comfort about a substantial country hostelrie, especially when one arrives, as i did, upon a keen winter's night, with an appetite as sharp, and something of that sense of adventure and excitement which, before the days of down-trains and tickets, always in a greater or less degree, gave a zest to traveling. greeted with that warmest of welcomes for which inns, alas! are celebrated, i had soon satisfied the importunities of a keen appetite; and having for some hours taken mine ease in a comfortable parlor before a blazing fire, i began to feel sleepy, and betook myself to my no less comfortable bed-chamber. it is not to be supposed that the adventure of the church-yard had been obliterated from my recollection by the suppressed bustle and good cheer of the "bell." on the contrary, it had occupied me almost incessantly during my solitary ruminations; and as the night advanced, and the stillness of repose and desertion stole over the old mansion, the sensations with which this train of remembrance and speculation was accompanied became any thing but purely pleasant. i felt, i confess, fidgety and queer--i searched the corners and recesses of the oddly-shaped and roomy old apartment--i turned the face of the looking-glass to the wall--i poked the fire into a roaring blaze--i looked behind the window-curtains, with a vague anxiety, to assure myself that nothing could be lurking there. the shutter was a little open, and the ivied tower of the little church, and the tufted tops of the trees that surrounded it, were visible over the slope of the intervening hill. i hastily shut out the unwelcome object, and in a mood of mind, i must confess, favorable enough to any freak my nerves might please to play me, i hurried through my dispositions for the night, humming a gay air all the time, to re-assure myself, and plunged into bed, extinguishing the candle, and--shall i acknowledge the weakness? nearly burying my head under the blankets. i lay awake some time, as men will do under such circumstances, but at length fatigue overcame me, and i fell into a profound sleep. from this repose i was, however, aroused in the manner i am about to describe. a very considerable interval must have intervened. there was a cold air in the room very unlike the comfortable atmosphere in which i had composed myself to sleep. the fire, though much lower than when i had gone to bed, was still emitting flame enough to throw a flickering light over the chamber. my curtains were, however, closely drawn, and i could not see beyond the narrow tent in which i lay. there had been as i awaked a clanking among the fire-irons, as if a palsied hand was striving to arrange the fire, and this rather unaccountable noise continued for some seconds after i had become completely awake. under the impression that i was subjected to an accidental intrusion, i called out, first in a gentle and afterward in a sharper tone, "who's there?" at the second summons the sound ceased, and i heard instead the tread of naked feet, as it seemed to me, upon the floor, pacing to and fro, between the hearth and the bed in which i lay. a superstitious terror, which i could not combat, stole over me; with an effort i repeated my question, and drawing myself upright in the bed, expected the answer with a strange sort of trepidation. it came in terms and accompanied with accessories which i shall not soon forget. the very same tones which had so startled me in the church-yard the evening before, the very sounds which i had heard then and there, were now filling my ears, and spoken in the chamber where i lay. "why will you trouble the dead? who can torment us before the time? i will come to you in my flesh, 'though after my skin worms destroy this body,' and you shall speak with me face to face." as i live. i can swear the words and the voice were the very same i had heard on the occasion i have mentioned, but (and mark this) repeated to _no one_. with feelings which i shall not attempt to describe, i heard the speaker approach the bed--a hand parted the bed-curtains and drew them open, revealing a form more horrible than my fancy had ever seen--an almost gigantic figure--naked, except for what might well have been the rotten remnant of a shroud--stood close beside my bed--livid and cadaverous--grimed as it seemed with the dust of the grave, and staring on me with a gaze of despair, malignity, and fury, too intense almost for human endurance. i can not say whether i spoke or not, but this infernal spectre answered me as if i had. "i am dead and yet alive," it said, "the child of perdition--in the grave i am a murderer, but here i am apollyon. fall down and worship me." having thus spoken, it stood for a moment at the bedside, and then turned away with a shuddering moan, and i lost sight of it, but after a few seconds it came again to the bedside as before. "when i died they put me under mervyn's tombstone, and they did not bury me. my feet lie toward the _west_--turn them to the east and i will rest--maybe i will rest--i will rest--rest--rest." again the figure was gone, and once again it returned, and said, "i am your master--i am your resurrection and your life, and therefore, fall down and worship me." it made a motion to mount upon the bed, but what further passed i know not, for i fainted. i must have lain in this state for a long time, for when i became conscious the fire was almost extinct. for hours that seemed interminable i lay, scarcely daring to breathe, and afraid to get up lest i should encounter the hideous apparition, for aught i knew, lurking close beside me. i lay, therefore, in an agony of expectation such as i will not attempt to describe, awaiting the appearance of the daylight. gradually it came, and with it the cheerful and reassuring sounds of life and occupation. at length i mustered courage to reach the bell-rope, and having rung lustily, i plunged again into bed. "draw the window-curtains--open the shutters," i exclaimed as the man entered, and, these orders executed, "look about the room," i added, "and see whether a cat or any other animal has got in." there was nothing of the sort; and satisfied that my visitant was no longer in the chamber, i dismissed the man, and hurried through my toilet with breathless precipitation. hastening from the hated scene of my terrors, i escaped to the parlor, whither i instantly summoned the proprietor of "the bell" in _propria persona_. i suppose i looked scared and haggard enough, for mine host looked upon me with an expression of surprise and inquiry. "shut the door," said i. it was done. "i have had an uneasy night in the room you assigned me, sir; i may say indeed, a _miserable_ night," i said. "pray," resumed i, interrupting his apologetic expressions of surprise, "has any person but myself ever complained of--of being _disturbed_ in that room?" "never," he assured me. i had suspected the ghastly old practical joke, so often played off by landlords in story-books, and fancied i might have been deliberately exposed to the chances of a "haunted chamber." but there was no acting in the frank look and honest denial of mine host. "it is a very strange thing," said i hesitating; and "i do not see why i should not tell you what has occurred. and as i could swear, if necessary, to the perfect reality of the entire scene, it behoves you, i think, to sift the matter carefully. for myself, i can not entertain a doubt as to the nature of the truly terrible visitation to which i have been subjected; and, were i in your position, i should transfer my establishment at once to some other house as well suited to the purpose, and free from the dreadful liabilities of this." i proceeded to detail the particulars of the occurence of the past night, to which he listened with nearly as much horror as i recited them with. "mervyn's tomb!" he repeated after me; "why that's down there in l----r: the churchyard you can see from the window of the room you slept in." "let us go there instantly," i exclaimed, with an almost feverish anxiety to ascertain whether we should discover in the place indicated any thing corroborative of the authenticity of my vision. "well, i shan't say no," said he, obviously bracing himself for an effort of courage; "but we'll take faukes, and james the helper, with us; and please, sir, you'll not mention the circumstance as has occurred to either on 'em." i gave him the assurance he asked for, and in a few minutes our little party were in full march upon the point of interest. there had been an intense black frost, and the ground, reverberating to our tread with the hollow sound of a vault, emitted the only noise that accompanied our rapid advance. i and my host were too much preoccupied for conversation, and our attendants maintained a respectful silence. a few minutes brought us to the low, gray walls and bleak hedgerows that surrounded the pretty old church, and all its melancholy and picturesque memorials. "mervyn's tomb lies there, i think, sir," he said, pointing to a corner of the church-yard, in which piles of rubbish, withered weeds, and brambles were thickly accumulated under the solemn, though imperfect shelter of the wintry trees. he exchanged some sentences with our attendants in welsh. "yes, sir, that's the place," he added, turning to me. and as we all approached it, i bethought me that the direction in which, as i stood upon the stile, i had heard the voice on the night preceding, corresponded accurately with that indicated by my guides. the tomb in question was a huge slab of black marble, supported, as was made apparent when the surrounding brambles were removed, upon six pillars, little more than two feet high each. there was ample room for a human body to lie inside this funeral penthouse; and, on stooping to look beneath, i was unspeakably shocked to see that something like a human figure was actually extended there. it was, indeed, a corpse, and, what is more, corresponded in every trait with the infernal phantom which, on the preceding night, had visited and appalled me. the body, though miserably emaciated, was that of a large-boned, athletic man, of fully six feet four in height; and it was, therefore, no easy task to withdraw it from the receptacle where it had been deposited, and lay it, as our assistants did, upon the tombstone which had covered it. strange to say, moreover, the feet of the body, as we found it, had been placed toward the west. as i looked upon this corpse, and recognized, but too surely, in its proportions and lineaments, every trait of the apparition that had stood at my bed-side, with a countenance animated by the despair and malignity of the damned, my heart fluttered and sank within me, and i recoiled from the effigy of the demon with terror; second only to that which had thrilled me on the night preceding. * * * * * now, reader--_honest_ reader--i appeal to your own appreciation of testimony, and ask you, having these facts in evidence, and upon the deposition of an eye and ear witness, whose veracity, through a long life, has never once been compromised or questioned, have you, or have you not, in the foregoing story, a well-authenticated ghost story? before you answer the above question, however, it may be convenient to let you know certain other facts which were clearly established upon the inquest that was very properly held upon the body which in so strange a manner we had discovered. i purposely avoid details, and without assigning the depositions respectively to the witnesses who made them, shall restrict myself to a naked outline of the evidence as it appeared. the body i have described was identified as that of abraham smith, an unfortunate lunatic, who had, upon the day but one preceding, made his escape from the neighboring parish workhouse, where he had been for many years confined. his hallucination was a strange, but not by any means an unprecedented one. he fancied that he had died, and was condemned; and, as these ideas alternately predominated, sometimes spoke of himself as an "evil spirit," and sometimes importuned his keepers to "bury him;" using habitually certain phrases, which i had no difficulty in recognizing as among those which he had addressed to me. he had been traced to the neighborhood where his body was found, and had been seen and relieved scarcely half a mile from it, about two hours before my visit to the church-yard! there were, further, unmistakable evidences of some person's having climbed up the trellis-work to my window on the previous night, the shutter of which had been left unbarred, and, as the window might have been easily opened with a push, the cold which i experienced, as an accompaniment of the nocturnal visit, was easily accounted for. there was a mark of blood upon the window-stool, and a scrape upon the knee of the body corresponded with it. a multiplicity of other slight circumstances, and the positive assertion of the chamber-maid that the window had been opened, and was but imperfectly closed again, came in support of the conclusion, which was to my mind satisfactorily settled by the concurrent evidence of the medical men, to the effect that the unhappy man could not have been many hours dead when the body was found. taken in the mass, the evidence convinced me; and though i might still have clung to the preternatural theory, which, in the opinion of some persons, the facts of the case might still have sustained, i candidly decided with the weight of evidence, "gave up the ghost," and accepted the natural, but still somewhat horrible explanation of the occurrence. for this candor i take credit to myself. i might have stopped short at the discovery of the corpse, but i am no friend to "spurious gospels;" let our faith, whatever it is, be founded in honest fact. for my part, i steadfastly believe in ghosts, and have dozens of stories to support that belief; but this is not among them. should i ever come, therefore, to tell you one, pray remember that you have to deal with a candid narrator. death of cromwell. the flowers of autumn, withering fast. before the bitter northern blast; the earth with hoary frost o'erspread, and nature's leafy mantle shed, proclaimed abroad through earth and sky that winter's gloomy reign drew nigh. and he, whose hand, with mighty stroke, oppression's chains had often broke, whose patriot heart and fearless voice had made oppression's slaves rejoice, like autumn's beauty, day by day, was passing rapidly away. life's spring had brought him hopes and fears, its summer many toils and cares; autumn had brought him power and fame, but autumn passed--life's winter came; and then, like nature, seeking rest, his head a dying pillow pressed. a furious storm, with dreadful roar, shook britain's isle from shore to shore, the raging sea, with thundering sound, spread ruin, fear, and death around; and seem'd to tell throughout the land some dire event was near at hand. surrounded by the howling blast, his tide of life was ebbing fast; but he was calm as evening air, and raised on high a voice of prayer, for neither storm nor death's fierce dart could shake the faith that nerv'd his heart. he knew the hand that kept his life throughout a long, protracted strife, could never fail or know decay, though earth itself should pass away; and as the stormy night rolled on, his spirit hasted to be gone. but morning dawn'd at length, and brought that day's[c] return on which he fought so often--till the evening sun set o'er the mighty victories won: and darkness, like the warrior's shield, spread o'er the bloody battle-field. that day brought victory no more; his earthly triumphs then were o'er: the battle of his life had pass'd, and death claim'd victory at last; for when the evening shades came down his wearied spirit thence had flown. william ilott. footnotes: [c] d september, the anniversary of his greatest victories. [from household words.] my wonderful adventures in skitzland. chapter the first. the beginning is a bore--i fall into misfortune. i am fond of gardening. i like to dig. if among the operations of the garden any need for such a work can be at any time discovered or invented, i like to dig a hole. on the third of march, , i began a hole behind the kitchen wall, whereinto it was originally intended to transplant a plum-tree. the exercise was so much to my taste, that a strange humor impelled me to dig on. a fascination held me to the task. i neglected my business. i disappeared from the earth's surface. a boy who worked a basket by means of a rope and pulley, aided me; so aided, i confined my whole attention to spade labor. the centripetal force seemed to have made me its especial victim. i dug on until autumn. in the beginning of november i observed that, upon percussion, the sound given by the floor of my pit was resonant. i did not intermit my labor, urged as i was by a mysterious instinct downward. on applying my ear, i occasionally heard a subdued sort of rattle, which caused me to form a theory that the centre of the earth might be composed of mucus. in november, the ground broke beneath me into a hollow and i fell a considerable distance. i alighted on the box-seat of a four-horse coach, which happened to be running at that time immediately underneath. the coachman took no notice whatever of my sudden arrival by his side. he was so completely muffled up, that i could observe only the skillful way in which he manipulated reins and whip. the horses were yellow. i had seen no more than this, when the guard's horn blew, and presently we pulled up at an inn. a waiter came out, and appeared to collect four bags from the passengers inside the coach. he then came round to me. "dine here, sir?" "yes, certainly," said i. i like to dine--not the sole point of resemblance between myself and the great johnson. "trouble you for your stomach, sir." while the waiter was looking up with a polite stare into my puzzled face, my neighbor, the coachman, put one hand within his outer coat, as if to feel for money in his waistcoat-pocket. directly afterward his fingers come again to light, and pulled forth an enormous sack. notwithstanding that is was abnormally enlarged, i knew by observation of its form and texture that this was a stomach, with the oesophagus attached. this, then, the waiter caught as it was thrown down to him, and hung it carelessly over his arm, together with the four smaller bags (which i now knew to be also stomachs) collected from the passengers within the coach. i started up, and as i happened to look round, observed a skeleton face upon the shoulders of a gentleman who sat immediately behind my back. my own features were noticed at the same time by the guard, who now came forward, touching his hat. "beg your pardon, sir, but you've been and done it." "done what?" "why, sir, you should have booked your place, and not come up in this clandestine way. however, you've been and done it!" "my good man, what have i done?" "why, sir, the baron terroro's eyes had the box-seat, and i strongly suspect you've been and sat upon them." i looked involuntarily to see whether i had been sitting upon any thing except the simple cushion. truly enough, there was an eye, which i had crushed and flattened. "only one," i said. "worse for you, and better for him. the other eye had time to escape, and it will know you again, that's certain. well, it's no business of mine. of course you've no appetite now for dinner? better pay your fare, sir. to the green hippopotamus and spectacles, where we put up, it's ten-and-six." "is there room inside?" i inquired. it was advisable to shrink from observation. "yes, sir. the inside passengers are mostly skeleton. there's room for three, sir. inside, one-pound-one." i paid the money, and became an inside passenger. chapter the second. of divisions which occur in skitzland--i am taken up professor essig's lectures on anatomy had so fortified me, that i did not shrink from entering the skitzton coach. it contained living limbs, loose or attached to skeletons in other respects bare, except that they were clothed with broadcloth garments, cut after the english fashion. one passenger only had a complete face of flesh, he had also one living hand; the other hand i guessed was bony, because it was concealed in a glove obviously padded. by observing the fit of his clothes, i came to a conclusion that this gentleman was stuffed throughout; that all his limbs, except the head and hand, were artificial. two pairs of legs, in woolen stockings, and a pair of ears, were in a corner of the coach, and in another corner there were nineteen or twenty scalps. i thought it well to look astonished at nothing, and, having pointed in a careless manner to the scalps, asked what might be their destination? the person with the face and hand replied to me; and although evidently himself a gentleman, he addressed me with a tone of unconcealed respect. "they are going to skitzton, sir, to the hair dresser's." "yes, to be sure," i said. "they are to make natural skin wigs. i might have known." "i beg your pardon, sir. there is a ball to-morrow night at culmsey. but the gentry do not like to employ village barbers, and therefore many of the better class of people send their hair to skitzton, and receive it back by the return coach, properly cut and curled." "oh," said i. "ah! oh, indeed!" "dinners, gentlemen!" said a voice at the window, and the waiter handed in four stomachs, now tolerably well filled. each passenger received his property, and pulling open his chest with as much composure as if he were unbuttoning his waistcoat, restored his stomach, with a dinner in it, to the right position. then the reckonings were paid, and the coach started. i thought of my garden, and much wished that somebody could throw professor essig down the hole that i had dug. a few things were to be met with in skitzland which would rather puzzle him. they puzzled me; but i took refuge in silence, and so fortified, protected my ignorance from an exposure. "you are going to court, sir, i presume?" said my face and hand friend, after a short pause. his was the only mouth in the coach, excepting mine, so that he was the only passenger able to enter into conversation. "my dear sir," i replied, "let me be frank with you. i have arrived here unexpectedly out of another world. of the manners and customs, nay, of the very nature of the people who inhabit this country, i know nothing. for any information you can give me, i shall be very grateful." my friend smiled incredulity, and said, "whatever you are pleased to profess, i will believe. what you are pleased to feign a wish for, i am proud to furnish. in skitzland, the inhabitants, until they come of age, retain that illustrious appearance which you have been so fortunate as never to have lost. during the night of his twenty-first birthday, each skitzlander loses the limbs which up to that period have received from him no care, no education. of those neglected parts the skeletons alone remain, but all those organs which he has employed sufficiently continue unimpaired. i, for example, devoted to the study of the law, forgot all occupation but to think, to use my senses, and to write. i rarely used my legs, and therefore nature has deprived me of them." "but," i observed, "it seems that in skitzland you are able to take yourselves to pieces." "no one has that power, sir, more largely than yourself. what organs we have we can detach on any service. when dispersed, a simple force of nature directs all corresponding members whither to fly that they may re-assemble." "if they can fly," i asked, "why are they sent in coaches? there were a pair of eyes on the box seat." "simply for safety against accidents. eyes flying alone are likely to be seized by birds, and incur many dangers. they are sent, therefore, usually under protection, like any other valuable parcel." "do many accidents occur?" "very few. for mutual protection, and also because a single member is often all that has been left existing of a fellow skitzlander, our laws, as you, sir, know much better than myself, estimate the destruction of any part absent on duty from its skeleton as a crime equivalent to murder--" after this i held my tongue. presently my friend again inquired whether i was going up to court? "why should i go to court?" "oh, sir, it pleases you to be facetious. you must be aware that any skitzlander who has been left by nature in possession of every limb, sits in the assembly of the perfect, or the upper house, and receives many state emoluments and dignities." "are there many members of that upper assembly?" "sir, there were forty-two. but if you are now traveling to claim your seat, the number will be raised to forty-three." "the baron terroro--" i hinted. "my brother, sir. his eyes are on the box-seat under my care. undoubtedly he is a member of the upper house." i was now anxious to get out of the coach as soon as possible. my wish was fulfilled after the next pause. one eye, followed by six pairs of arms, with strong hard hands belonging to them, flew in at the window. i was collared; the door was opened, and all hands were at work to drag me out and away. the twelve hands wisked me through the air, while the one eye sailed before us, like an old bird, leader of the flight. chapter the third. my imprisonment and trial for murder. what sort of sky have they in skitzland? our earth overarches them, and, as the sunlight filters through, it causes a subdued illumination with very pure rays. skitzland is situated nearly in the centre of our globe, it hangs there like a shrunken kernel in the middle of a nutshell. the height from skitzland to the over-arching canopy is great; so great, that if i had not fallen personally from above the firmament, i should have considered it to be a blue sky similar to ours. at night it is quite dark; but during the day there is an appearance in the heaven of white spots; their glistening reminded me of stars. i noticed them as i was being conveyed to prison by the strong arms of justice, for it was by a detachment of members from the skitzton police that i was now hurried along. the air was very warm, and corroborated the common observation of an increase of heat as you get into the pith of our planet. the theory of central fire, however, is, you perceive, quite overturned by my experience. we alighted near the outskirts of a large and busy town. through its streets i was dragged publicly, much stared at and much staring. the street life was one busy nightmare of disjointed limbs. professor essig, could he have been dragged through skitzton, would have delivered his farewell lecture upon his return. "gentlemen--fuit ilium, fuit ischium, fuit sacrum, anatomy has lost her seat among the sciences. my occupation's gone." professor owen's book "on the nature of limbs," must contain, in the next edition, an appendix "upon limbs in skitzland." i was dragged through the streets, and all that i saw there, in the present age of little faith, i dare not tell you. i was dragged through the streets to prison, and there duly chained, after having been subjected to the scrutiny of about fifty couples of eyes drawn up in a line within the prison door. i was chained in a dark cell, a cell so dark that i could very faintly perceive the figure of some being who was my companion. whether this individual had ears wherewith to hear, and mouth wherewith to answer me, i could not see, but at a venture i addressed him. my thirst for information was unconquerable; i began, therefore, immediately with a question: "friend, what are those stars which we see shining in the sky at mid-day?" an awful groan being an unsatisfactory reply, i asked again. "man, do not mock at misery. you will yourself be one of them." "the teachers shall shine like stars in the firmament." i had a propensity for teaching, but was puzzled to discover how i could give so practical an illustration of the text of fichte. "believe me," i said, "i am strangely ignorant. explain yourself." he answered with a hollow voice: "murderers are shot up out of mortars into the sky, and stick there. those white, glistening specks, they are their skeletons." justice is prompt in skitland. i was tried incredibly fast by a jury of twelve men, who had absolutely heads. the judges had nothing but brain, mouth, and ear. three powerful tongues defended me, but as they were not suffered to talk nonsense, they had little to say. the whole case was too clear to be talked into cloudiness. baron terroro, in person, deposed that he had sent his eyes to see a friend at culmsey, and that they were returning on the skitzton coach, when i, illegally, came with my whole bulk upon the box-seat, which he occupied. that one of his eyes was, in that manner, totally destroyed, but that the other eye, having escaped, identified me, and brought to his brain intelligence of the calamity which had befallen. he deposed further, that having received this information, he dispatched his uncrushed eye with arms from the police-office, and accompanied with several members of the detective force to capture the offender, and to procure the full proofs of my crime. a sub-inspector of skitzton police then deposed that he sent three of his faculties, with his mouth, eye, and ear, to meet the coach. that the driver, consisting only of a stomach and hands, had been unable to observe what passed. that the guard, on the contrary, had taxed me with my deed, that he had seen me rise from my seat upon the murdered eye, and that he had heard me make confession of my guilt. the guard was brought next into court, and told his tale. then i was called upon for my defense. if a man wearing a cloth coat and trowsers, and talking excellent english, were to plead at the old bailey that he had broken into some citizen's premises accidentally by falling from the moon, his tale would be received in london as mine was in skitzton. i was severely reprimanded for my levity, and ordered to be silent. the judge summed up, and the jury found me guilty. the judge, who had put on the black cap before the verdict was pronounced, held out no hope of mercy, and straightway sentenced me to death, according to the laws and usage of the realm. chapter the fourth. the last hours of the condemned in skitzland--i am executed. the period which intervenes between the sentence and execution of a criminal in skitzland, is not longer than three hours. in order to increase the terror of death by contrast, the condemned man is suffered to taste at the table of life from which he is banished, the most luscious viands. all the attainable enjoyment that his wit can ask for, he is allowed to have, during the three hours before he is shot like rubbish off the fields of skitzland. under guard, of course, i was now to be led whithersoever i desired. several churches were open. they never are all shut in skitzton. i was taken into one. a man with heart and life was preaching. people with hearts were in some pews; people with brains, in others; people with ears only, in some. in a neighboring church, there was a popular preacher, a skeleton with life. his congregation was a crowd of ears, and nothing more. there was a day-performance at the opera i went to that. fine lungs and mouths possessed the stage, and afterward there was a great bewilderment with legs. i was surprised to notice that many of the most beautiful ladies were carried in and out, and lifted about like dolls. my guides sneered at my pretense of ignorance, when i asked why this was. but they were bound to please me in all practicable ways, so they informed me, although somewhat pettishly. it seems that in skitzland, ladies who possess and have cultivated only their good looks, lose at the age of twenty-one all other endowments. so they become literally dolls, but dolls of a superior kind; for they can not only open and shut their eyes, but also sigh; wag slowly with their heads, and sometimes take a pocket handkerchief out of a bag, and drop it. but as their limbs are powerless, they have to be lifted and dragged about after the fashion that excited my astonishment. i said then, "let me see the poor." they took me to a workhouse. the men, there, were all yellow; and they wore a dress which looked as though it were composed of asphalte; it also had a smell like that of pitch. i asked for explanation of these things. a superintendent of police remarked that i was losing opportunities of real enjoyment for the idle purpose of persisting in my fable of having dropped down from the sky. however, i compelled him to explain to me what was the reason of these things. the information i obtained was briefly this: that nature, in skitzland, never removes the stomach. every man has to feed himself; and the necessity for finding food, joined to the necessity for buying clothes, is a mainspring whereby the whole clockwork of civilized life is kept in motion. now, if a man positively can not feed and clothe himself, he becomes a pauper. he then goes to the workhouse, where he has his stomach filled with a cement. that stopping lasts a life-time, and he thereafter needs no food. his body, however, becomes yellow by the superfluity of bile. the yellow-boy, which is the skitzland epithet for pauper, is at the same time provided with a suit of clothes. the clothes are of a material so tough that they can be worn unrepaired for more than eighty years. the pauper is now freed from care, but were he in this state cast loose upon society, since he has not that stimulus to labor which excites industry in other men, he would become an element of danger in the state. nature no longer compelling him to work, the law compels him. the remainder of his life is forfeit to the uses of his country. he labors at the workhouse, costing nothing more than the expense of lodging, after the first inconsiderable outlay for cement wherewith to plug his stomach, and for the one suit of apparel. when we came out of the workhouse, all the bells in the town were tolling. the superintendent told me that i had sadly frittered away time, for i had now no more than half an hour to live. upon that i leaned my back against a post, and asked him to prepare me for my part in the impending ceremony by giving me a little information on the subject of executions. i found that it was usual for a man to be executed with great ceremony upon the spot whereon his crime had been committed. that in case of rebellions or tumults in the provinces, when large numbers were not unfrequently condemned to death, the sentence of the law was carried out in the chief towns of the disturbed districts. that large numbers of people were thus sometimes discharged from a single market-place, and that the repeated strokes appeared to shake, or crack, or pierce in some degree that portion of the sky toward which the artillery had been directed. i here at once saw that i had discovered the true cause of earthquakes and volcanoes; and this shows how great light may be thrown upon theories concerning the hidden constitution of this earth, by going more deeply into the matter of it than had been done by any one before i dug my hole. our volcanoes, it is now proved, are situated over the market-places of various provincial towns in skitzland. when a revolution happens, the rebels are shot up--discharged from mortars by means of an explosive material evidently far more powerful than our gun-powder or gun-cotton; and they are pulverized by the friction in grinding their way through the earth. how simple and easy truth appears, when we have once arrived at it. the sound of muffled drums approached us, and a long procession turned the corner of a street. i was placed in the middle of it--baron terroro by my side. all then began to float so rapidly away, that i was nearly left alone, when forty arms came back and collared me. it was considered to be a proof of my refractory disposition, that i would make no use of my innate power, of flight. i was therefore dragged in this procession swiftly through the air, drums playing, fifes lamenting. we alighted on the spot where i had fallen, and the hole through which i had come i saw above me. it was very small, but the light from above shining more vividly through it made it look, with its rough edges, like a crumpled moon. a quantity of some explosive liquid was poured into a large mortar, which had been erected (under the eye of baron terroro) exactly where my misfortune happened. i was then thrust in, the baron ramming me down, and pounding with a long stock or pestle upon my head in a noticeably vicious manner. the baron then cried "fire!" and as i shot out, in the midst of a blaze, i saw him looking upward. chapter the fifth. my revenge on the skitzlanders. by great good fortune, they had planted their artillery so well, that i was fired up through my hole again, and alighted in my own garden, just a little singed. my first thought was to run to an adjoining bed of vegetable marrows. thirty vegetable marrows and two pumpkins i rained down to astonish the skitzlanders, and i fervently hope that one of them may have knocked out the remaining eye of my vindictive enemy, the baron. i then went into the pantry, and obtained a basket full of eggs, and having rained these down upon the skitzlanders, i left them. it was after breakfast when i went down to skitzland, and i came back while the dinner bell was ringing. [from the people's journal.] charlotte corday. perhaps the event that lingers longest in the memory, among all the appalling episodes and startling passages of the french revolution, is the assassination of the tyrant marat, by charlotte corday. with the blood of old corneille running in her veins, and possessing something of his stern and masculine love of liberty, this simple child of nature hears in her distant home that her friends, the girondists, are proscribed, and that a hated triumvirate in paris, tramples on the feelings and liberties of the people. full of one idea, she purchases a knife, and, without a single confidant, sets out for the metropolis, where, procuring an interview with marat, she stabs him to the heart, and with one blow accomplishes her revenge, and what she vainly supposed to be the people's redemption. in miss julia kavanagh's charming volumes she gives us a pretty faithful memoir of this extraordinary woman. among the women of the french revolution, there is one, says the gifted authoress, who stands essentially apart: a solitary episode of the eventful story. she appears for a moment, performs a deed--heroic as to the intention, criminal as to the means--and disappears forever; lost in the shadow of time--an unfathomed mystery. the greatest portion of the youth of charlotte corday--to give her the name by which she is generally known--was spent in the calm obscurity of her convent solitude. many high visions, many burning dreams and lofty aspirations, already haunted her imaginative and enthusiastic mind, as she slowly paced the silent cloisters, or rested, lost in thought, beneath the shadow of the ancient elms. it is said that, like madame roland, she contemplated secluding herself for ever from the world in her monastic retreat; but, affected by the skepticism of the age, which penetrated even beyond convent walls, she gave up the project.... all the austerity and republican enthusiasm of her illustrious ancestor, pierre corneille, seemed to have come down to his young descendant. even rousseau and raynal, the apostles of democracy, had no pages that could absorb her so deeply as those of ancient history, with its stirring deeds and immortal recollections. often, like manon philipon in the recess of her father's workshop, might charlotte corday be seen in her convent cell, thoughtfully bending over an open volume of plutarch, that powerful and eloquent historian of all heroic sacrifices. when the abbaye aux dames was closed, in consequence of the revolution, charlotte was in her twentieth year, in the prime of life, and of wonderful beauty; and never, perhaps, did a vision of more dazzling loveliness step forth from beneath the dark convent portal into the light of the free and open world. she was rather tall, but admirably proportioned, with a figure full of native grace and dignity: her hands, arms, and shoulders were models of pure sculptural beauty. an expression of singular gentleness and serenity characterized her fair, oval countenance and regular features. her open forehead, dark and well-arched eyebrows, and eyes of a gray so deep that it was often mistaken for blue, added to her natural grave and meditative appearance; her nose was straight and well formed, her mouth serious but exquisitely beautiful. on leaving the convent in which she had been educated, charlotte corday went to reside with her aunt, madame coutellier de bretteville gouville, an old royalist lady, who inhabited an ancient-looking house in one of the principal streets of caën. there the young girl, who had inherited a little property, spent several years, chiefly engaged in watching the progress of the revolution. a silent reserve characterized this epoch of charlotte corday's life; her enthusiasm was not external but inward; she listened to the discussions which were carried on around her without taking a part in them herself. she seemed to feel instinctively that great thoughts are always better nursed in the heart's solitude: that they can only lose their native depth and intensity by being revealed too freely before the indifferent gaze of the world. those with whom she then occasionally conversed took little heed of the substance of her discourse, and could remember nothing of it when she afterward became celebrated; but all recollected well her voice, and spoke with strange enthusiasm of its pure, silvery sound. the fall of the girondists, on the st of may, first suggested to charlotte corday the possibility of giving an active shape to her hitherto passive feelings. she watched with intense, though still silent interest, the progress of events, concealing her secret indignation and thoughts of vengeance under her habitually calm aspect. those feelings were heightened in her soul by the presence of the fugitive girondists, who had found a refuge in caën, and were urging the normans to raise an army to march on paris. she found a pretense to call upon barbaroux, then with his friends at the intendance. she came twice, accompanied by an old servant, and protected by her own modest dignity. péthion saw her in the hall, where she was waiting for the handsome girondist, and observed with a smile, "so the beautiful aristocrat is come to see republicans." "citizen péthion," she replied, "you now judge me without knowing me, but a time will come when you shall learn who i am." with barbaroux, charlotte chiefly conversed of the imprisoned girondists; of madame roland and marat. the name of this man had long haunted her with a mingled feeling of dread and horror. to marat she ascribed the proscription of the girondists, the woes of the republic, and on him she resolved to avenge her ill-fated country. charlotte was not aware that marat was but the tool of danton and robespierre. "if such actions could be counseled," afterward said barbaroux, "it is not marat whom we would have advised her to strike." while this deadly thought was daily strengthening itself in charlotte's mind, she received several offers of marriage. she declined them, on the plea of wishing to remain free: but strange indeed must have seemed to her, at that moment, those proposals of earthly love. one of those whom her beauty had enamored, m. de franquelin, a young volunteer in the cause of the girondists, died of grief on learning her fate; his last request was, that her portrait, and a few letters he had formerly received from her, might be buried with him in his grave. for several days after her last interview with barbaroux, charlotte brooded silently over her great thought; often meditating on the history of judith. her aunt subsequently remembered that, on entering her room one morning, she found an old bible open on her bed: the verse in which it is recorded that "the lord had gifted judith with a special beauty and fairness," for the deliverance of israel, was underlined with a pencil. on another occasion madame de bretteville found her niece weeping alone; she inquired into the cause of her tears. "they flow," replied charlotte, "for the misfortunes of my country." heroic and devoted as she was, she then also wept, perchance, over her own youth and beauty, so soon to be sacrificed forever. no personal considerations altered her resolve: she procured a passport, provided herself with money, and paid a farewell visit to her father, to inform him that, considering the unsettled condition of france, she thought it best to retire to england. he approved of her intention, and bade her adieu. on returning to caën, charlotte told the same tale to madame de bretteville, left a secret provision for an old nurse, and distributed the little property she possessed among her friends. it was on the morning of the th of july, , that she left the house of her aunt, without trusting herself with a last farewell. her most earnest wish was, when her deed should have been accomplished, to perish, wholly unknown, by the hands of an infuriated multitude. the woman who could contemplate such a fate, and calmly devote herself to it, without one selfish thought of future renown, had indeed the heroic soul of a martyr. her journey to paris was marked by no other event than the unwelcome attentions of some jacobins with whom she traveled. one of them, struck by her modest and gentle beauty, made her a very serious proposal of marriage: she playfully evaded his request, but promised that he should learn who and what she was at some future period. on entering paris, she proceeded immediately to the hotel de la providence, rue ties vieux augustins, not far from marat's dwelling. here she rested for two days before calling on her intended victim. nothing can mark more forcibly the singular calmness of her mind: she felt no hurry to accomplish the deed for which she had journeyed so far, and over which she had meditated so deeply: her soul remained serene and undaunted to the last. the room which she occupied, and which has often been pointed out to inquiring strangers, was a dark and wretched attic, into which light scarcely ever penetrated. there she read again the volume of plutarch she had brought with her--unwilling to part from her favorite author, even in her last hours--and probably composed that energetic address to the people which was found upon her after her apprehension. charlotte perceived that to call on marat was the only means by which she might accomplish her purpose. she did so on the morning of the th of july, having first purchased a knife in the palais royal, and written him a note, in which she requested an interview. she was refused admittance. she then wrote him a second note, more pressing than the first, and in which she represented herself as persecuted for the cause of freedom. without waiting to see what effect this note might produce, she called again at half-past seven the same evening. marat then resided in the rue des cordeliers, in a gloomy-looking house, which has since been demolished. his constant fears of assassination were shared by those around him; the porter seeing a strange woman pass by his lodge, without pausing to make any inquiry, ran out and called her back. she did not heed his remonstrance, but swiftly ascended the old stone staircase, until she had reached the door of marat's apartment. it was cautiously opened by albertine, a woman with whom marat cohabited, and who passed for his wife. recognizing the same young and handsome girl who had already called on her husband, and animated, perhaps by a feeling of jealous mistrust, albertine refused to admit her; charlotte insisted with great earnestness. the sound of their altercation reached marat: he immediately ordered his wife to admit the stranger, whom he recognized as the author of the two letters he had received in the course of the day. albertine obeyed reluctantly; she allowed charlotte to enter; and after crossing with her an ante chamber, where she had been occupied with a man named laurent basse in folding some numbers of the "ami du peuple," she ushered her through two other rooms, until they came to a narrow closet where marat was then in a bath. he gave a look at charlotte, and ordered his wife to leave them alone: she complied, but allowed the door of the closet to remain half open, and kept within call. according to his usual custom, marat wore a soiled handkerchief bound round his head, increasing his natural hideousness. a coarse covering was thrown across the bath; a board, likewise, placed transversely, supported his papers. laying down his pen, he asked charlotte the purport of her visit. the closet was so narrow that she touched the bath near which she stood. she gazed on him with ill-disguised horror and disgust, but answered as composedly as she could, that she had come from caën, in order to give him correct intelligence concerning the proceedings of the girondists there. he listened, questioned her eagerly, wrote down the names of the girondists, then added, with a smile of triumph: "before a week they shall have perished on the guillotine." "these words," afterward said charlotte, "sealed his fate." drawing from beneath the handkerchief which covered her bosom the knife she had kept there all along, she plunged it to the hilt in marat's heart. he gave one loud, expiring cry for help, and sank back dead, in the bath. by an instinctive impulse, charlotte had instantly drawn out the knife from the breast of her victim, but she did not strike again; casting it down at his feet, she left the closet, and sat down in the neighboring room, thoughtfully passing her hand across her brow: her task was done. the wife of marat had rushed to his aid on hearing his cry for help. laurent basse, seeing that all was over, turned round toward charlotte, and, with a blow of a chair, felled her to the floor; while the infuriated albertine trampled her under her feet. the tumult aroused the other tenants of the house; the alarm spread, and a crowd gathered in the apartment, who learned with stupor that marat, the friend of the people, had been murdered. deeper still was their wonder when they gazed on the murderess. she stood there before them with still disordered garments, and her disheveled hair, loosely bound by a broad green ribbon falling around her; but so calm, so serenely lovely, that those who most abhorred her crime gazed on her with involuntary admiration. "was she then so beautiful?" was the question addressed, many years afterward, to an old man, one of the few remaining witnesses of this scene. "beautiful!" he echoed, enthusiastically; adding, with the eternal regrets of old age: "ay, there are none such now!" on the morning of the th, she was led before her judges. she was dressed with care, and had never looked more lovely. her bearing was so imposing and dignified, that the spectators and the judges seemed to stand arraigned before her. she interrupted the first witness, by declaring that it was she who had killed marat. "who inspired you with so much hatred against him?" asked the president. "i needed not the hatred of others, i had enough of my own," she energetically replied; "besides, we do not execute well that which we have not ourselves conceived." "what, then, did you hate in marat?" "his crimes." "do you think that you have assassinated all the marats?" "no; but now that he is dead, the rest may fear." she answered other questions with equal firmness and laconism. her project, she declared, had been formed since the st of may. "she had killed one man to save a hundred thousand she was a republican long before the revolution, and had never failed in energy." "what do you understand by energy?" asked the president. "that feeling," she replied, "which induces us to east aside selfish considerations, and sacrifice ourselves for our country." fouquier tinville here observed, alluding to the sure blow she had given, that she must be well practiced in crime. "the monster takes me for an assassin!" she exclaimed, in a tone thrilling with indignation. this closed the debates, and her defender rose. it was not doulcet de pontécoulant--who had not received her letter--but chauveau de la garde, chosen by the president. charlotte gave him an anxious look, as though she feared he might seek to save her at the expense of honor. he spoke, and she perceived that her apprehensions were unfounded. without excusing her crime, or attributing it to insanity, he pleaded for the fervor of her conviction; which he had the courage to call sublime. the appeal proved unavailing. charlotte corday was condemned. without deigning to answer the president, who asked her if she had aught to object to the penalty of death being carried out against her, she rose, and walking up to her defender, thanked him gracefully. "these gentlemen," said she, pointing to the judges, "have just informed me that the whole of my property is confiscated. i owe something in the prison: as a proof of my friendship and esteem, i request you to pay this little debt." on returning to the conciergerie, she found an artist, named hauër, waiting for her, to finish her portrait, which he had begun at the tribunal. they conversed freely together, until the executioner, carrying the red chemise destined for assassins, and the scissors with which he was to cut her hair off, made his appearance. "what, so soon!" exclaimed charlotte corday, slightly turning pale; but rallying her courage, she resumed her composure, and presented a look of her hair to m. hauër, as the only reward in her power to offer. a priest came to offer her his ministry. she thanked him and the persons by whom he had been sent, but declined his spiritual aid. the executioner cut her hair, bound her hands, and threw the red chemise over her. m. hauër was struck with the almost unearthly loveliness which the crimson hue of this garment imparted to the ill-fated maiden. "this toilet of death, though performed by rude hands, leads to immortality," said charlotte, with a smile. a heavy storm broke forth as the car of the condemned left the conciergerie for the place de la revolution. an immense crowd lined every street through which charlotte corday passed. hootings and execrations at first rose on her path; but as her pure and serene beauty dawned on the multitude, as the exquisite loveliness of her countenance and the sculptural beauty of her figure became more fully revealed, pity and admiration superseded every other feeling. her bearing was so admirably calm and dignified, as to rouse sympathy in the breasts of those who detested not only her crime, but the cause for which it had been committed. many men of every party took off their hats and bowed as the cart passed before them. among those who waited its approach, was a young german, normed adam luz, who stood at the entrance of the rue saint honoré, and followed charlotte to the scaffold. he gazed on the lovely and heroic maiden with all the enthusiasm of his imaginative race. a love, unexampled perhaps in the history of the human heart, took possession of his soul. unconscious of the passionate love she had awakened, charlotte now stood near the guillotine. she turned pale on first beholding it, but soon resumed her serenity. a deep blush suffused her face when the executioner removed the handkerchief that covered her neck and shoulders, but she calmly laid her head upon the block. the executioner touched a spring and the ax came down. one of samson's assistants immediately stepped forward, and holding up the lifeless head to the gaze of the crowd, struck it on either cheek. the brutal act only excited a feeling of horror; and it is said that--as though even in death her indignant spirit protested against this outrage--an angry and crimson flush passed over the features of charlotte corday. [from household words.] greenwich weather-wisdom. in england every body notices the weather, and talks about the weather, and suffers by the weather, yet very few of us _know_ any thing about it. the changes of our climate have given us a constant and an insatiable national disease--consumption; the density of our winter fog has gained an european celebrity; while the general haziness of our atmosphere induces an italian or an american to doubt whether we are ever indulged with a real blue sky. "good day" has become the national salutation; umbrellas, water-proof clothes, and cough mixtures are almost necessities of english life; yet, despite these daily and hourly proofs of the importance of the weather to each and all of us, it is only within the last ten years that any effectual steps have been taken in england to watch the weather and the proximate elements which regulate its course and variations. yet, in those ten years positive wonders have been done, and good hope established that a continuance of patient inquiry will be rewarded by still further discoveries. to take a single result, it may be mentioned, that a careful study of the thermometer has shown that a descent of the temperature of london from forty-five to thirty-two degrees, generally kills about persons. they may not all die in the very week when the loss of warmth takes place, but the number of deaths is found to increase to that extent over the previous average within a short period after the change. the fall of temperature, in truth, kills them as certainly as a well-aimed cannon-shot. our changing climate, or deficient food and shelter, has prepared them for the final stroke, but they actually die at last of the weather. before , several european states, less apt than ourselves to talk about the weather, had taken it up as a study, and had made various contributions to the general knowledge of the subject; but in that year england began to act. the officials who now and then emerge from the admiralty under the title of the "board of visitors," to see what is in progress at the greenwich observatory, were reminded by mr. airy, the astronomer royal, that much good might be done by pursuing a course of magnetic and meteorological observations. the officials "listened and believed." the following year saw a wooden fence pushed out behind the observatory walls, in the direction of blackheath, and soon afterward a few low-roofed, unpainted, wooden buildings were dotted over the inclosure. these structures are small enough and humble enough to outward view, yet they contain some most beautifully-constructed instruments, and have been the scene of a series of observations and discoveries of the greatest interest and value. the stray holiday visitor to greenwich park, who feels tempted to look over the wooden paling, sees only a series of deal sheds, upon a rough grass-plat; a mast some eighty feet high, steadied by ropes, and having a lantern at the top, and a windlass below; and if he looks closer, he perceives a small inner inclosure, surrounded by a dwarf fence; an upright stand, with a movable top, sheltering a collection of thermometers; and here and there a pile of planks and unused partitioning, that helps to give the place an appearance of temporary expediency, an aspect something between a collection of emigrants' cottages and the yard of a dealer in second-hand building materials. but--as was said when speaking of the astronomical observatory--greenwich is a practical place, and not one prepared for show. science, like virtue, does not require a palace for a dwelling-place. in this collection of deal houses, during the last ten years, nature has been constantly watched, and interrogated with the zeal and patience which alone can glean a knowledge of her secrets. and the results of those watches, kept at all hours, and in all weathers, are curious in the extreme; but before we ask what they are, let us cross the barrier, and see with what tools the weather-students work. the main building is built in the form of a cross, with its chief front to the magnetic north. it is formed of wood, all iron and other metals being carefully excluded; for its purpose is to contain three large magnets, which have to be isolated from all influence likely to interfere with their truthful action. in three arms of the cross these magnets are suspended by bands of unwrought, untwisted silk. in the fourth arm is a sort of double window, filled with apparatus for receiving the electricity collected at the top of the mast which stands close by. thus, in this wooden shed, we find one portion devoted to; electricity--to the detection and registry of the stray lightning of the atmosphere--and the other three to a set of instruments that feel the influence and register the variations of the magnetic changes in the conditions of the air. "true as the needle to the pole," is the burden of an old song, which now shows how little our forefathers knew about this same needle, which, in truth, has a much steadier character than it deserves. let all who still have faith in the legend go to the magnet-house, and when they have seen the vagaries there displayed, they will have but a poor idea of mr. charles dibdin's sea-heroes, whose constancy is declared to have been as true as their compasses were to the north. upon entering the magnet-house, the first object that attracts attention are the jars to which the electricity is brought down. the fluid is collected, as just stated, by a conductor running from the top of the mast outside. in order that not the slightest portion may be lost in its progress down, a lamp is kept constantly burning near the top of the pole, the light of which keeps warm and dry a body of glass that cuts off all communication between the conductor and the machinery which supports it. another light, for the purpose of collecting the electricity by its flame, is placed above the top of the pole. this light, burning at night, has given rise to many a strange supposition in the neighborhood. it is too high up to be serviceable as a lantern to those below. besides, who walks in greenwich park after the gates are closed? it can light only the birds or the deer. "then, surely," says another popular legend, "it is to guide the ships on the river, when on their way up at night; a sort of landmark to tell where-abouts the observatory is when the moon and stars are clouded, and refuse to show where their watchers are." all these speculations are idle, for the lights burn when the sun is shining, as well as at night; and the object of the lower one is that no trace of moisture, and no approach of cold, shall give the electricity a chance of slipping down the mast, or the ropes, to the earth, but shall leave it no way of escape from the wise men below, who want it, and will have it, whether it likes or no, in their jars, that they may measure its quantity and its quality, and write both down in their journals. it is thus that electricity comes down the wires into those jars on our right as we enter. if very slight, its presence there is indicated by tiny morsels of pendent gold-leaf; if stronger, the divergence of two straws show it; if stronger still, the third jar holds its greater force, while neighboring instruments measure the length of the electric sparks, or mark the amount of the electric force. at the desk, close by, sits the observer, who jots down the successive indications. in his book he registers from day to day, throughout the year, how much electricity has been in the air, and what was its character, even to such particulars as to whether its sparks were blue, violet, or purple in color. at times, however, he has to exercise great care, and it is not always that he even then escapes receiving severe shocks. passing on, we approach the magnets. they are three in number; of large size, and differently suspended, to show the various ways in which such bodies are acted upon. all hang by bands of unwrought silk. if the silk were twisted, it would twist the magnets, and the accuracy of their position would be disturbed. magnets, like telescopes, must be true in their adjustment to the hundredth part of a hair's breadth. one magnet hangs north and south; another east and west; and a third, like a scale-beam, is balanced on knife-edges and agate planes, so beautifully, that when once adjusted and inclosed in its case, it is opened only once a year, lest one grain of dust, or one small spider, should destroy its truth; for spiders are as troublesome to the weather-student as to the astronomer. these insects like the perfect quiet that reigns about the instruments of the philosopher, and with heroic perseverance persist in spinning their fine threads among his machines. indeed, spiders occasionally betray the magnetic observer into very odd behavior at times he may be seen bowing in the sunshine, like a persian fire-worshiper; now stooping in this direction, now dodging in that, but always gazing through the sun's rays up toward that luminary. he seems demented, staring at nothing. at last he lifts his hand; he snatches apparently at vacancy to pull nothing down in truth his eye had at last caught the gleam of light reflected from an almost invisible spider line running from the electrical wire to the neighboring planks. the spider who had ventured on the charged wire paid the penalty of such daring with his life long ago, but he had left his web behind him, and that beautifully minute thread has been carrying off to the earth a portion of the electric fluid, before it had been received, and tested, and registered by the mechanism below. such facts show the exceeding delicacy of the observations. for seven years, the magnets suspended in this building were constantly watched every two hours--every even hour--day and night, except on sundays, the object being that some light might be thrown upon the laws regulating the movements of the mariner's compass; hence, that while men became wiser, navigation might be rendered safer. the chief observer--the _genius loci_--is mr. glaisher, whose name figures in the reports of the register-general. he, with two assistants, from year to year, went on making these tedious examinations of the variations of the magnets, by means of small telescopes, fixed with great precision upon pedestals of masonry or wood fixed on the earth, and unconnected with the floor of the building, occupying a position exactly between the three magnets. this mode of proceeding had continued for some years with almost unerring regularity, and certain large quarto volumes full of figures were the results, when an ingenious medical man, mr. brooke, hit upon a photographic plan for removing the necessity for this perpetual watchfulness. now, in the magnet-house, we see light and chemistry doing the tasks before performed by human labor; and doing them more faithfully than even the most vigilant of human eyes and hands. around the magnets are cases of zinc, so perfect that they exclude all light from without. inside those cases, in one place, is a lamp giving a single ray of prepared light, which, falling upon a mirror soldered to the magnet, moves with its motions. this wandering ray, directed toward a sheet of sensitive photographic paper, records the magnet's slightest motion! the paper moves on by clock-work, and once in four-and-twenty hours an assistant, having closed the shutters of the building, lights a lantern of _yellow glass_, opens the magnet-boxes, removes the paper on which the magnets have been enabled to record their own motions, and then, having put in a fresh sheet of sensitive paper, he shuts it securely in, winds up the clock-work, puts out his yellow light, and lets in the sunshine. his lantern glass is yellow, because the yellow rays are the only ones which can be safely allowed to fall upon the photographic paper during its removal from the instrument, to the dish in which its magnetic picture is to be _fixed_ by a further chemical process. it is the blue ray of the light that gives the daguerrotypic likeness--as most persons who have had their heads off, under the hands of m. claudet, or mr. beard, or any of their numerous competitors in the art of preparing sun-pictures, well know. since the apparatus of mr. brooke for the self-registration of the magnetic changes has been in operation at greenwich, the time of mr. glaisher and his assistants has been more at liberty for other branches of their duties. these are numerous enough. thermometers and barometers have to be watched as well as magnets. to these instruments the same ingenious photographic contrivance is applied. the wooden building next to the magnet-house on the southwest contains a modification of mr. brooke's ingenious plan, by which the rise and fall of the temperature of the air is self-registered. outside the building are the bulbs of thermometers freely exposed to the weather. their shafts run through a zinc case, and as the mercury rises or falls, it moves a float having a projecting arm. across this arm is thrown the ray of prepared light which falls then upon the sensitive paper. thus we see the variations of the needle and the variations in heat and cold both recording their own story, within these humble-looking wooden sheds, as completely as the wind and the rain are made to do the same thing, on the top of the towers of the observatory. the reward given to the inventor of this ingenious mode of self-registration has been recently revealed in a parliamentary paper, thus: "to mr. charles brooke for his invention and establishment at the royal observatory, of the apparatus for the self-registration of magnetical and meteorological phenomena, £ ." every year the invention will save fully £ worth of human toil; and the reward seems small when we see every year millions voted for warlike, sinecure, and other worse than useless purposes. photography, however, can not do all the work. its records have to be cheeked by independent observations every day, and then both have to be brought to their practical value by comparison with certain tables which test their accuracy, and make them available for disclosing certain scientific results. the preparation of such tables is one of the practical triumphs of greenwich. many a quiet country gentleman amuses his leisure by noting day by day the variations of his thermometer and barometer. heretofore such observations were isolated and of no general value, but now, by the tables completed by mr. glaisher, and published by the royal society, they may all be converted into scientific values, and be made available for the increase of our weather-wisdom. for nearly seventy years the royal society had observations made at somerset house, but they were a dead letter--mere long columns of figures--till these tables gave them significance. and the same tables now knit into one scientific whole, the observations taken by forty scientific volunteers, who, from day to day, record for the registrar-general of births and deaths, the temperature, moisture, &c., of their different localities, which vary from glasgow to guernsey, and from cornwall to norwich. what the rosetta stone is to the history of the pharaohs, these greenwich tables have been to the weather-hieroglyphics. they have afforded something like a key to the language in which the secrets are written; and it remains for industrious observation and scientific zeal to complete the modern victory over ancient ignorance. already the results of the greenwich studies of the weather have given us a number of curious morsels of knowledge. the wholesale destruction of human life induced by a fall in the temperature of london has just been noticed. besides the manifestation of that fact, we are shown, that instead of a warm summer being followed by a cold winter, the tendency of the law of the weather is to group warm seasons together, and cold seasons together. mr. glaisher has made out, that the character of the weather seems to follow certain curves, so to speak, each extending over periods of fifteen years. during the first half of each of these periods, the seasons become warmer and warmer, till they reach their warmest point, and then they sink again, becoming colder and colder, till they reach the lowest point, whence they rise again. his tables range over the last seventy-nine years--from to . periods shown to be the coldest, were years memorable for high-priced food, increased mortality, popular discontent, and political changes. in his diagrams, the warm years are tinted brown, and the cold years gray, and as the sheets are turned over and the dates scanned, the fact suggest itself that a gray period saw lord george gordon's riots; a gray period was marked by the reform bill excitement; and a gray period saw the corn laws repealed. a few more morsels culled from the experience of these weather-seers, and we have done. those seasons have been best which have enjoyed an average temperature--not too hot nor too cold. the indications are that the climate of england is becoming warmer, and, consequently, healthier; a fact to be partly accounted for by the improved drainage and the removal of an excess of timber from the land. the intensity of cholera was found greatest in those places where the air was stagnant; and, therefore, any means for causing its motion, as lighting fires and improving ventilation, are thus proved to be of the utmost consequence. some day near the th of january--the lucky guess, in , of murphy's weather almanac--will, upon the average of years, be found to be the coldest of the whole year. in the middle of may there are generally some days of cold, so severe as to be unexplainable. humboldt mentions this fact in his cosmos; and various authors have tried to account for it--at present in vain. the favorite notion, perhaps, is that which attributes this period of cold to the loosening of the icebergs of the north. another weather eccentricity is the usual advent of some warm days at the beginning of november. certain experiments in progress to test the difference between the temperature of the thames, and of the surrounding atmosphere, are expected to show the cause of the famous london fog. during the night the thames is often from ten to seventeen degrees warmer, and in the day time from eight to ten degrees colder than the air above it. if the theory of weather-cycles holds good, we are to have seasons colder than the average from this time till , when warmth will begin again to predominate over cold. a chilly prophecy this to close with, and therefore, rather let an anecdote complete this chapter on the weather-watchers of greenwich. among other experiments going on some time ago in the observatory inclosure, were some by which mr. glaisher sought to discover how much warmth the earth lost during the hours of night, and how much moisture the air would take up in a day from a given surface. upon the long grass, within the dwarf fence already mentioned were placed all sorts of odd substances, in little distinct qualities. ashes wood, leather, linen, cotton, glass, lead, copper and stone, among other things, were there to show how each affected the question of radiation. close by upon a post was a dish six inches across, in which every day there was punctually poured one ounce of water, and at the same hour next day, as punctually was this fluid remeasured to see what had been lost by evaporation. for three years this latter experiment had been going on, and the results were posted up in a book; but the figures gave most contradictory results. there was either something very irregular in the air, or something very wrong in the apparatus. it was watched for leakage, but none was found, when one day mr. glaisher stepped out of the magnet-house, and looking toward the stand, the mystery was revealed. the evaporating dish of the philosopher was being used as a bath by an irreverent bird! a sparrow was scattering from his wings the water left to be drunk by the winds of heaven. only one thing remained to be done; and the next minute saw a pen run through the tables that had taken three years to compile. the labor was lost--the work had to be begun again. doing. oh, friend, whoe'er thou art, who dost rejoice in the sweet tones of thy melodious voice; which to thy fancy are so rich and clear, falling like music, on the list'ning ear, of thee i ask, what hast thou done of that thou hast to do? art silent? then i say, until thy deeds are many let thy words be few. oh, man, whoe'er thou art, within whose breast the glowing thoughts disdain ignoble rest; whose soul is laboring with a monstrous birth of winged words, to scatter through the earth of thee i ask, what hast thou done of that thou hast to do? art silent? then i say, until thy deeds are many let thy words be few. oh, brother mine, who would'st reform mankind purging the dross, and leaving all refined; preaching of sinless love, sobriety, of goodness, endless peace, and charity, of thee i ask, what hast thou done of that thou hast to do? art silent? then i say, until thy deeds are many let thy words be few. speech without action is a moral dearth, and to advance the world is little worth: let us think much, say little, and much do, if to ourselves and god we will be true; and ask within, what have i done of that i have to do? is conscience silent--say, oh! let my deeds be many and my words be few. j. g. l. bulleid. [from household words.] young russia. certain social theorists have, of late years, proclaimed themselves to the puzzled public under the name and signification of "young." young france, young germany, and young england have had their day, and having now grown older, and by consequence wiser, are comparatively mute. in accordance with what seems a natural law, it is only when a fashion is being forgotten where it originated--in the west--that is reaches russia, which rigidly keeps a century or so behind the rest of the continent. it is only recently, therefore, that we hear of "young russia." the main principles of all these national youths are alike. they are pleasingly picturesque--simperingly amiable; with a pretty and piquant dash of paradox. what they propose is not new birth, or dashing out into new systems, and taking advantage of new ideas; but reverting to old systems, and furbishing them up so as to look as good as new. re-juvenescence is their aim; the middle ages their motto. young england, to wit, desires to replace things as they were in the days of the pack-horse, the thumb-screw, the monastery, the ducking-stool, the knight errant, trial by battle, and the donjon-keep. to these he wishes to apply all possible modern improvements, to adapt them to present ideas, and to present events. though he would have no objection to his mailed knight traveling per first-class railway, he would abolish luggage-trains to encourage intestine trade and the breed of that noble animal the pack-horse. he has, indeed, done something in this monastic line; but his efforts for the dissemination of superstition, and his denunciations of a certain sort of witchcraft, have signally failed. in truth, the task he has set himself--that of re-constructing society anew out of old materials--though highly archæological, historical, and poetic, has the fatal disadvantage of being simply impossible. it is telling the people of the nineteenth century to carry their minds, habits, and sentiments back, so as to become people of the thirteenth century; it is trying to make new muslin out of mummy cloth, or razors out of rusty nails. "young russia" is an equal absurdity, but from a precisely opposite cause; for, indeed, this sort of youth out of age is a series of paradoxes. the russian of the present day _is_ the russian of past ages. he exists by rule--the rule of despotism--which is as old as the medes and persians; and which forces him into an iron mould that shapes his appearance, his mind, and his actions to one pattern, from one generation to another hence every thing that lives and breathes in russia being antique, there is no appreciable antiquity. the new school, therefore--even if amateur politics were allowable in russia, which they are not, as a large population of exiles in siberia can testify--has no materials to work upon. stagnation is the political law, and "young russia" dies in its babyhood for want of sustenance. what goes by the name of civilization, is no advance in wealth, morals, or social happiness. it is merely a tinsel coating over the rottenness and rust with which russian life is "sicklied o'er." it has nothing to do with a single soul below the rank of a noble; and with him it means champagne, bad pictures, parisian tailors, operas, gaming, and other expenses and elegancies imported from the west. hundreds of provincial noblemen are ruined every year in st. petersburg, in undergoing this process of civilization. the fortunes thus wasted are enormous; yet there is only one railroad now in operation throughout the whole empire, and that belongs to the emperor, and leads to one of his palaces a few miles from the capital. such is russian civilization. what then is "young russia" to do? ask one of its youngest apostles, ivan vassilievitsch. this young gentleman--for an introduction to whom we are indebted to count sollogub--was, not long ago, parading the iverskoy boulevard--one of the thirteen which half encircle moscow--when he met a neighbor from the province of kazan. ivan had lately returned from abroad. he was a perfect specimen of the new school, inside and out. within, he had imbibed all the ideas of the juvenile or verdant schools of germany, france, and england. without, he displayed a london macintosh; his coat and trowsers had been designed and executed by parisian artists; his hair was cut in the style of the middle ages; and his chin showed the remnants of a vandyke beard. he also resembled the new school in another respect: he had spent all his money, yet he was separated from home by the distance of a long--a russian--journey. to meet with a neighbor--which he did--who traveled in his own carriage, in which he offered a seat, was the height of good fortune. the more so, as ivan wished to see as much of russian life on the road as possible, and to note down his _impressions_ in a journal, whose white leaves were as yet unsullied with ink. from the information he intended to collect, he intended to commence helping to re-construct russian society after the order of the new russiaites. the vehicle in which this great mission was to be performed, was a humble family affair called a _tarantas_. after a series of adventures--but which did not furnish ivan a single _impression_ for his note-book--they arrive at vladimir, the capital of a province or "government." here the younger traveler meets with a friend, to whom he confides his intention of visiting all the other government towns for "young russia" purposes. his friend's reply is dispiriting to the last degree. "there is no difference between our government towns. see one, and you'll know them all!" "is it possible?" "it is so, i assure you. every one has a high-street one principal shop, where the country gentlemen buy silks for their wives, and champagne for themselves; then there are the courts of justice, the assembly-rooms, an apothecary's shop, a river, a square, a bazaar, two or three street-lamps, sentry-boxes for the watchmen, and the governor's house." "the society, however, in the government towns must be different?" "on the contrary. the society is still more uniform than the buildings." "you astonish me: how is that?" "listen. there is, of course, in every government town a governor. these do not always resemble each other; but as soon as any one of them appears, police and secretaries immediately become active, merchants and tradesmen bow, and the gentry draw themselves up, with, however, some little awe. wherever the governor goes, he is sure to find champagne, the wine so much patronized in the province, and every body drinks a bumper to the health of the '_father of the province_.' governors generally are well-bred, and sometimes very proud. they like to give dinner-parties, and benevolently condescend to play a game of whist with rich brandy-contractors and landowners." "that's a common thing," remarked ivan vassilievitsch. "do not interrupt me. besides the governor, there is in nearly every government town the governor's lady. she is rather a peculiar personage; generally brought up in one of the two capitals, and spoiled with the cringing attentions of her company. on her husband's first entry into office, she is polite and affable; later, she begins to feel weary of the ordinary provincial intrigues and gossips; she gets accustomed to the slavish attentions she receives, and lays claim to them. at this period she surrounds herself with a parasitical suite; she quarrels with the lady of the vice-governor; she brags of st. petersburg; speaks with disdain of her provincial circle, and finally draws upon herself the utmost universal ill-feeling, which is kept up till the day of her departure, when all goes into oblivion, every thing is pardoned, and every body bids her farewell with tears." "two persons do not form the whole society of a town," interrupted again ivan vassilievitsch. "patience, brother, patience! certainly there are other persons besides the two i have just spoken of: there is the vice-governor and his lady; several presidents, with their respective ladies, and an innumerable crowd of functionaries serving under their leadership. the ladies are ever quarreling in words, while their husbands do the same thing upon foolscap. the presidents, for the most part, are men of advanced age and business-like habits, with great crosses hanging from their necks, and are, during the day time, to be seen out of their courts only on holidays. the government attorney is generally a single man, and an enviable match. the superior officer of the _gens-d'armes_ is a 'good fellow.' the nobility-marshal a great sportsman. besides the government and the local officers, there live in a government town stingy landowners, or those who have squandered away their property; they gamble from evening to morning, nay, from morning to evening too, without getting the least bit tired of their exercise." "now, about their mode of living?" asked ivan vassilievitsch. "the mode of living is a very dull one. at exchange of ceremonious visits. intrigues, cards--cards, intrigues. now and then, perchance, you may meet with a kind, hospitable family, but such a case is very rare; you much oftener find a ludicrous affectation to imitate the manners of an imaginary high life. there are no public amusements in a government town. during winter a series of balls are announced to take place at the assembly-rooms; however from an absurd primness, these balls are little frequented, because no one wants to be the first in the room. the '_bon genre_' remains at home and plays whist. in general, i have remarked, that on arriving in a government town, it seems as if you were too early or too late for some extraordinary event. you are ever welcomed: 'what a pity you were not here yesterday!' or, 'you should stay here till to-morrow.'" in process of time ivan vassilievitsch and his good-natured fat companion, vassily ivanovitsch, reach a borough town, where the tarantas breaks down. there is a tavern, and here is a description of it. "the tavern was like any other tavern--a large wooden hut, with the usual out-buildings. at the entrance stood an empty cart. the staircase was crooked and shaky, and at the top of it, like a moving candelabrum, stood a waiter with a tallow candle in his hand. to the right was the tap-room, painted from time immemorial to imitate a grove. tumblers, tea-pots, decanters, three silver and a great number of pewter spoons, adorned the shelves of a cup-board; a couple of lads in chintz shirts, with dirty napkins over their shoulders, busied themselves at the bar. through an open door you saw in the next room a billiard-table, and a hen gravely promenading upon it. "our travelers were conducted into the principal room of this elegant establishment, where they found, seated round a boiling tea-urn, three merchants--one gray-haired, one red-haired, and one dark-haired. each of these was armed with a steaming tumbler; each of them sipped, smacked his lips, stroked his beard, and sipped again the fragrant beverage. "the red-haired man was saying, "'i made, last summer, a splendid bargain. i had bought from a company of samara-tartars, some five hundred bags of prime quality, which i purchased from a nobleman who was in want of money, but such dreadful stuff it was, that if it had not been for the very low price, i would never have thought of looking at it. what did i do? i mixed these two cargoes and sold the whole lot to a brandy-contractor at ribna, for prime quality.' "'it was a clever speculation,' remarked the dark-haired. "'a commercial trick!' added the gray-haired. "while this conversation was proceeding, vassily ivanovitsch and ivan vassilievitsch had taken seats at a separate little table; they had ordered their tea, and were listening to what the three merchants were saying. "a poor-looking fellow came in, and took from his breast-pocket an incredibly dirty sheet of paper, in which were wrapped up bank-notes and some gold, and handed it over to the gray-haired merchant, who, having counted them over, said, "'five thousand two hundred and seventeen roubles. is it right?' "'quite right, sir.' "'it shall be delivered according to your wish.' "'ivan asked why the sender had not taken a receipt?' "the red and dark-haired merchants burst out laughing; the gray-haired got into a passion. "'a receipt!' he cried out, furiously, 'a receipt! i would have broken his jaw with his own money, had he dared to ask me for a receipt. i have been a merchant now more than fifty years, and i have never yet been insulted by being asked to give a receipt.' "'you see, sir,' said the red-haired merchant, it is only with noblemen that such things as receipts and bills of exchange exist. we commercial people do not make use of them. our simple word suffices. we have no time to spare for writing. for instance, sir: here is sidor avdeivitsch, who has millions of roubles in his trade, and his whole writing consists of a few scraps of paper, for memory's sake, sir.' "'i don't understand that,' interrupted ivan vassilievitsch. "'how could you, sir? it is mere commercial business, without plan or _façade_. we ourselves learn it from our childhood: first as errand boys, then as clerks, till we become partners in the business. i confess it is hard work.'" upon this text ivan preaches a "young russia discourse." "'allow me a few words,' he said with fervor. 'it appears to me that we have in russia a great number of persons buying and selling, but yet, i must say, we have no systematic commerce. for commerce, science, and learning, are indispensable; a conflux of civilized men, clever mathematical calculations--but not, as seems to be the case with you, dependence upon mere chance. you earn millions, because you convert the consumer into a victim, against whom every kind of cheat is pardonable, and then you lay by farthing by farthing, refusing yourselves not only all the enjoyments of life, but even the most necessary comforts.... you brag of your threadbare clothes; but surely this extreme parsimony is a thousand times more blamable than the opposite prodigality of those of your comrades who spend their time among gipsies, and their money in feasting. you boast of your ignorance, because you do not know what civilization is. civilization, according to your notions, consists in shorter laps of a coat, foreign furniture, bronzes, and champagne--in a word, in outward trifles and silly customs. trust me, not such is civilization.... unite yourselves! be it your vocation to lay open all the hidden riches of our great country; to diffuse life and vigor into all its veins; to take the whole management of its material interests into your hands. unite your endeavors in this beautiful deed, and you may be certain of success! why should russia be worse than england? comprehend only your calling; let the beam of civilization fall upon you, and your love for your fatherland will strengthen such a union; and you will see that not only the whole of russia, but even the whole world will be in your hands.' "at this eloquent conclusion, the red and the dark-haired merchants opened wide their eyes. they, of course, did not understand a single word of ivan vassilievitsch's speech. "'alas, for young russia!' ivan dolefully remarks in another place: "i thought to study life in the provinces: there is no life in the provinces; every one there is said to be of the same cut. life in the capitals is not a russian life, but a weak imitation of the petty perfections and gross vices of modern civilization. where am i then to find russia? in the lower classes, perhaps, in the every-day life of the russian peasant? but have i not been now for five days chiefly among this class? i prick up my ears and listen; i open wide my eyes and look, and do what i may, i find not the least trifle worth noting in my '_impressions_.' the country is dead; there is nothing but land, land, land; so much land, indeed, that my eyes get tired of looking at it: a dreadful road, wagons of goods, swearing carriers, drunken stage inspectors; beetles creeping on every wall; soups with the smell of tallow candles! how is it possible for any respectable person to occupy himself with such nasty stuff? and what is yet more provoking, is the doleful uniformity which tires you so much, and affords you no rest whatever. nothing new, nothing unexpected! to-morrow what has been to-day; to-day what has been yesterday. here, a post-stage, there a post-stage, and further the same post-stage again; here, a village elder asking for drink-money, and again to infinity village elders all asking for drink-money. what can i write? i begin to agree with vassily ivanovitsch; he is right in saying that we do not travel, and that there is no traveling in russia. we simply are going to mordassy. alas! for my '_impressions_.'" whoever wants to know more of this amusing young russian, must consult "the _tarantas_." we can assure the reader that the book is fraught with a store of amusement--chiefly descriptions of town and country life in russia--not often compressed into the modest and inexpensive compass of a thin duodecimo. [from household words.] the orphan's voyage home. the men could hardly keep the deck, so bitter was the night; keen northeast winds sang through the shrouds, the deck was frosty white; while overhead the glistening stars put forth their points of light. on deck, behind a bale of goods, two orphans crouch'd, to sleep; but 'twas so cold, the youngest boy in vain tried not to weep: they were so poor, they had no right near cabin doors to creep. the elder round the younger wrapt his little ragged cloak, to shield him from the freezing sleet, and surf that o'er them broke; then drew him closer to his side, and softly to him spoke: "the night will not be long"--he said, "and if the cold winds blow, we shall the sooner reach our home, and see the peat-fire glow; but now the stars are beautiful-- oh, do not tremble so! "come closer!--sleep--forget the frost-- think of the morning red-- our father and our mother soon will take us to their bed; and in their warm arms we shall sleep." he knew not they were dead. for them no father to the ship shall with the morning come; for them no mother's loving arms are spread to take them home: meanwhile the cabin passengers in dreams of pleasure roam. at length the orphans sank to sleep all on the freezing deck; close huddled side to side--each arm clasp'd round the other's neck. with heads bent down, they dream'd the earth was fading to a speck. the steerage passengers have all been taken down below, and round the stove they warm their limbs into a drowsy glow; and soon within their berths forget the icy wind and snow. now morning dawns: the land in sight smiles beam on every face! the pale and qualmy passengers begin the deck to pace, seeking along the sun-lit cliffs some well known spot to trace. only the orphans do not stir, of all this bustling train: they reached their _home_ this starry night! they will not stir again! the winter's breath proved kind to them, and ended all their pain. but in their deep and freezing sleep, clasp'd rigid to each other, in dreams they cried, "the bright morn breaks, home! home! is here, my brother! the angel death has been our friend-- we come! dear father! mother!" [from the autobiography of leigh hunt.] lord byron, wordsworth, and charles lamb. in this house, lord byron continued the visits which he made me in prison. unfortunately, i was too ill to return them. he pressed me very much to go to the theatre with him; but illness, and the dread of committing my critical independence, alike prevented me. his lordship was one of a management that governed drury-lane theatre at that time, and that were not successful. he got nothing by it, but petty vexations and a good deal of scandal. lord byron's appearance at that time was the finest i ever saw it. he was fatter than before his marriage, but only just enough so to complete the elegance of his person; and the turn of his head and countenance had a spirit and elevation in it, which, though not unmixed with disquiet, gave him altogether a very noble look. his dress, which was black, with white trowsers, and which he wore buttoned close over the body, completed the succinctness and gentlemanliness of his appearance. i remember one day, as he stood looking out of the window, he resembled in a lively manner the portrait of him by phillips, by far the best that has appeared; i mean the best of him at his best time of life, and the most like him in features as well as expression. he sat one morning so long, that lady byron sent up twice to let him know she was waiting. her ladyship used to go on in the carriage to henderson's nursery ground, to get flowers. i had not the honor of knowing her, nor ever saw her but once, when i caught a glimpse of her at the door. i thought she had a pretty, earnest look, with her "pippin" face; an epithet by which she playfully designated herself. * * * * * it was here also i had the honor of a visit from mr. wordsworth. he came to thank me for the zeal i had shown in advocating the cause of his genius. i had the pleasure of showing him his book on my shelves by the side of milton; a sight which must have been the more agreeable, inasmuch as the visit was unexpected. he favored me, in return, with giving his opinion of some of the poets his contemporaries, who would assuredly not have paid him a visit on the same grounds on which he was pleased to honor myself. nor do i believe, that from that day to this, he thought it becoming in him to reciprocate the least part of any benefit which a word in good season may have done for him. lord byron, in resentment for my having called him the "prince of the bards of his time," would not allow him to be even the "one-eyed monarch of the blind." he said he was the "blind monarch of the one-eyed." i must still differ with his lordship on that point; but i must own, that, after all which i have seen and read, posterity, in my opinion, will differ not a little with one person respecting the amount of merit to be ascribed to mr. wordsworth; though who that one person is, i shall leave the reader to discover. mr. wordsworth, whom mr. hazlitt designated as one who would have had the wide circle of his humanities made still wider, and a good deal more pleasant, by dividing a little more of his time between his lakes in westmoreland and the hotels of the metropolis, had a dignified manner, with a deep and roughish, but not unpleasing voice, and an exalted mode of speaking. he had a habit of keeping his left hand in the bosom of his waistcoat; and in this attitude, except when he turned round to take one of the subjects of his criticism from the shelves (for his contemporaries were there also), he sat dealing forth his eloquent but hardly catholic judgments. in his "fathers house," there were not "many mansions." he was as skeptical on the merits of all kinds of poetry but one, as richardson was on those of the novels of fielding. under the study in which my visitor and i were sitting was an archway, leading to a nursery-ground; a cart happened to go through it while i was inquiring whether he would take any refreshment; and he uttered, in so lofty a voice, the words, "any thing which is _going forward_," that i felt inclined to ask him whether he would take a piece of the cart. lamb would certainly have done it. but this was a levity which would neither have been so proper on my part, after so short an acquaintance, nor very intelligible perhaps, in any sense of the word, to the serious poet. there are good-humored warrants for smiling, which lie deeper even than mr. wordsworth's thoughts for tears. i did not see this distinguished person again till thirty years afterward; when, i should venture to say, his manner was greatly superior to what it was in the former instance; indeed, quite natural and noble, with a cheerful air of animal as well as spiritual confidence; a gallant bearing, curiously reminding one of a certain illustrious duke, as i have seen him walking some dozen years ago by a lady's side, with no unbecoming oblivion of his time of life. i observed, also, that he no longer committed himself in scornful criticisms, or, indeed, in any criticisms whatever, at least as far as i knew. he had found out that he could, at least, afford to be silent. indeed, he spoke very little of any thing. walter scott said, that the eyes of burns were the finest he ever saw. i can not say the same of mr. wordsworth; that is, not in the sense of the beautiful, or even of the profound. but certainly i never beheld eyes that looked so inspired or supernatural. they were like fires half burning, half smouldering, with a sort of acrid fixture of regard, and seated at the further end of two caverns. one might imagine ezekiel or isaiah to have had such eyes. * * * * * charles lamb had a head worthy of aristotle, with as fine a heart as ever beat in human bosom, and limbs very fragile to sustain it. there was a caricature of him sold in the shops, which pretended to be a likeness. procter went into the shop in a passion, and asked the man what he meant by putting forth such a libel. the man apologized, and said that the artist meant no offense. there never was a true portrait of lamb. his features were strongly yet delicately cut: he had a fine eye as well as forehead; and no face carried in it greater marks of thought and feeling. it resembled that of bacon, with less worldly vigor and more sensibility. as his frame, so was his genius. it was as fit for thought as could be, and equally as unfit for action; and this rendered him melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, and willing to make the best of every thing as it was, both from tenderness of heart and abhorrence of alteration. his understanding was too great to admit an absurdity; his frame was not strong enough to deliver it from a fear. his sensibility to strong contrasts was the foundation of his humor, which was that of a wit at once melancholy and willing to be pleased. he would beard a superstition, and shudder at the old phantasm while he did it. one could have imagined him cracking a jest in the teeth of a ghost, and then melting into thin air himself, out of a sympathy with the awful. his humor and his knowledge both, were those of hamlet, of molière, of carlin, who shook a city with laughter, and, in order to divert his melancholy, was recommended to go and hear himself. yet he extracted a real pleasure out of his jokes, because good-heartedness retains that privilege when it fails in every thing else. i should say he condescended to be a punster, if condescension had been a word befitting wisdom like his. being told that somebody had lampooned him, he said, "very well, i'll lamb-pun him." his puns were admirable, and often contained as deep things as the wisdom of some who have greater names; such a man, for instance, as nicole the frenchman, who was a baby to him. he would have cracked a score of jokes at him, worth his whole book of sentences; pelted his head with pearls. nicole would not have understood him, but rochefoucault would, and pascal, too; and some of our old englishmen would have understood him still better. he would have been worthy of hearing shakspeare read one of his scenes to him, hot from the brain. commonplace found a great comforter in him as long as it was good-natured; it was to the ill-natured or the dictatorial only that he was startling. willing to see society go on as it did, because he despaired of seeing it otherwise, but not at all agreeing in his interior with the common notions of crime and punishment, he "_dumb-founded_" a long tirade one evening, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, and asking the speaker, "whether he meant to say that a thief was not a good man?" to a person abusing voltaire, and indiscreetly opposing his character to that of jesus christ, he said admirably well (though he by no means overrated voltaire, nor wanted reverence in the other quarter), that "voltaire was a very good jesus christ _for the french_." he liked to see the church-goers continue to go to church, and wrote a tale in his sister's admirable little book (_mrs. leicester's school_) to encourage the rising generation to do so; but to a conscientious deist he had nothing to object; and if an atheist had found every other door shut against him, he would assuredly not have found his. i believe he would have had the world remain precisely as it was, provided it innovated no farther; but this spirit in him was any thing but a worldly one, or for his own interest. he hardly contemplated with patience the new buildings in the regent's park: and, privately speaking, he had a grudge against _official_ heaven-expounders, or clergymen. he would rather, however, have been with a crowd that he disliked, than felt himself alone. he said to me one day, with a face of great solemnity, "what must have been that man's feelings, who thought himself _the first deist_?" finding no footing in certainty, he delighted to confound the borders of theoretical truth and falsehood. he was fond of telling wild stories to children, engrafted on things about them; wrote letters to people abroad, telling them that a friend of theirs had come out in genteel comedy; and persuaded george dyer that _lord castlereagh_ was the author of waverley! the same excellent person walking one evening out of his friend's house into the new river, lamb (who was from home at the time) wrote a paper under his signature of elia, stating, that common friends would have stood dallying on the bank, have sent for neighbors, &c., but that _he_, in his magnanimity, jumped in, and rescued his friend after the old noble fashion. he wrote in the same magazine two lives of liston and munden, which the public took for serious, and which exhibit an extraordinary jumble of imaginary facts and truth of by-painting. munden he made born at "stoke pogeis:" the very sound of which was like the actor speaking and digging his words. he knew how many false conclusions and pretensions are made by men who profess to be guided by facts only, as if facts could not be misconceived, or figments taken for them; and, therefore, one day, when somebody was speaking of a person who valued himself on being a matter-of-fact man, "now," said he, "i value myself on being a matter-of-lie man." this did not hinder his being a man of the greatest veracity, in the ordinary sense of the word; but "truth," he said, "was precious, and not to be wasted on every body." lamb had seen strange faces of calamity; but they did not make him love those of his fellow-creatures the less. few persons guessed what he had suffered in the course of his life, till his friend talfourd wrote an account of it, and showed the hapless warping that disease had given to the fine brain of his sister. american vanity. we are not at all surprised at what in this country is most foolishly called the conceit and vanity of the americans. what people in the world have so fine, so magnificent a country? besides that, they have some reason to be proud of themselves. we have given the chief features of their eastern and inland territory; if the reader has any imagination for ideas of this kind, let him picture to himself what will be the aspect of things when the tide of population has crossed the long range of the rocky mountains, and, occupying the valleys of the western coast, has built other bostons and new yorks in the harbors of oregon and california. this tide of population is now advancing along a line of more than a thousand miles, at the rate of eighteen miles a year; and each year, as the population behind becomes larger, the number of new settlers is increased, and the rate of advance is accelerated. this vast crowd of ever-onward-pressing settlers is not formed of the same materials as the inhabitants of an european province: that is, there are not at its head a few intelligent, but delicately-brought-up men of capital, while all the rest are ignorant laborers; but every one of these pioneers of civilization can handle the ax and the rifle, and can "calculate." if ever these magnificent dreams of the american people are realized--and all that is wanted for their realization is that things should only go on as they have been going on for the last two centuries--there will be seated upon that vast continent a population greater than that of all europe, all speaking the same language, all active-minded, intelligent, and well off. they will stand, as it were, the centre of the world, between the two great oceans, with europe on one hand and asia on the other. with such a future before him, we must pardon the yankee if we find a little dash of self-complacency in his composition; and bear with the surprise and annoyance which he expresses at finding that we know so little of himself or of his country. our humble opinion is that we ought to know better. great as is the influence which america has already had upon europe, we conceive that this is a mere intimation of the influence which it is destined to have upon the world.--_frazer's mag._ monthly record of current events. the domestic events of the month (which, in accordance with requests from many quarters, this magazine will hereafter regularly record) have not been numerous or very important. the _invasion of cuba_, by a force collected, organized, armed, officered, and disciplined within the united states, and the successful repulse of that invasion, have been the leading topic of comment. the expedition, in number, left new orleans, under command of general lopez, on the th of april and the d of may, and landed at cardenas on the morning of the th of may. a brief struggle ensued between the invaders and the troops, in which the latter were repulsed, the governor captured, his palace plundered, and a large quantity of public money seized. the invaders had counted upon accessions to their ranks from the spanish army, and from the disaffected inhabitants. in this, however, they were entirely disappointed, and lopez accordingly re-embarked on the steamer which had taken him thither, and with a few of his followers, made his escape to the united states, leaving the great body of his adherents to the tender mercies of the authorities of cuba. lopez has been arrested at new orleans, and awaits trial on charge of having violated the united states neutrality act of : and a good deal of interest is felt in the disposition which the cuban authorities will make of the prisoners who have fallen into their hands. it seems that a spanish steamer captured two vessels in the mexican waters, laden with men whom they suspected of having intended to join the invading expedition, and took them into havana. the president of the united states has made a peremptory demand for the release of these prisoners, and declares that a clear distinction must be made between those proved guilty of actual participation, and those suspected of an intention to join, in the invasion. the result of this demand is not yet known. it is not believed, however, that the cuban authorities will pursue a course of unnecessary or unjust rigor, as it could scarcely fail to involve them in serious difficulties with the united states. both houses of congress are still engaged in debating the various questions growing out of slavery. in the house a bill for the immediate admission of california is pending, and debate upon it has been closed; but a decisive vote is evaded from day to day. whenever that can be reached, there will probably be found to be a majority in favor of the bill. in the senate a bill is pending which provides: . for the admission of california; . for organizing territorial governments for new mexico and utah, without any provision on the subject of slavery; and . for paying texas a sum not specified, for relinquishing her claim to a part of new mexico. the bill has been very fully and very ably discussed, and votes have been taken upon a great number of amendments to it, the most important of which was one prohibiting slavery forever from these territories. this was offered by senator seward of new york, and rejected, to . it is believed that the final vote will be taken upon the hill before many days: the chances are in favor of its passage. the attention of congress has been so thoroughly occupied with these bills, that no other business of any importance has been transacted or even entertained. the general subject of slavery, which gives to them all their interest, has entered largely into the public discussions of the month. mr. webster has written a letter to the citizens of newburyport, mass., upon the wrong done to the south by refusing to surrender their fugitive slaves, urging the necessity for a more stringent law, and expressing the opinion, that there is nothing, either in the spirit or the letter of the constitution, requiring a jury trial to determine the question of slavery, when an alleged fugitive is seized. this letter has elicited a reply from hon. horace mann, of the house, also from massachusetts, which enforces the contrary opinion, with abundant and vehement rhetoric and cogent argument. prof. stuart, of andover, has also published a pamphlet in support of mr. webster's views on the general subject.--the convention of delegates intended to represent the slave-holding states, called some months since, met at nashville, tenn., on the d of june, and adjourned after a session of ten days. judge sharkey, of mississippi, presided. the attendance was thin, delegates being present from less than half the districts interested, and they having been elected by less than a tenth of the popular vote. resolutions were adopted, affirming the claims of the slave-holding states, and the convention adjourned to meet again six weeks after the adjournment of congress, then to take such action as the legislation of the present session may render necessary.--a new paper called "the southern press" has been established at washington, for the express purpose of advocating the interests of slavery. it is under the patronage of southern members of congress, and is intended to abstain from partisan discussions.--the subject of slavery also influences the action of the state legislatures, which are in session, to a great extent. in the connecticut senate, resolutions approving of the bill pending in the u.s. senate were rejected, to . the legislature has made two unsuccessful efforts to elect a u. s. senator, in place of mr. baldwin, whose term expires with this session.--senator dickinson, of new york, received from his political friends the compliment of a public dinner in the city of new york, on the th ult.--hon. edward gilbert, member of congress elect from california, attended a public dinner at albany, the place of his early residence, on the th. in an eloquent speech which he made upon that occasion, he expressed the ardent attachment of california to the union, and the determination of her people not to permit slavery to be introduced within her limits.--a convention in ohio, to revise the constitution of that state, is now in session. the tendency of its action, so far as it is developed, has been toward greater equality and democratic freedom.--a similar convention is also in session in michigan.--gov. crittenden of kentucky, recently visited indiana by special invitation of gov. wright, of that state. the two being political opponents, and the visit being in some sense of an official character, the circumstance has attracted a good deal of attention. the reception of gov. crittenden was public, and very happy greetings were exchanged on both sides. gov. c. made a very eloquent speech, expressing the value of the american union and the devotion of the american people to its preservation.--the anniversary of the battle of bunker hill was celebrated with great _éclat_ at boston, on the th. the oration was delivered by the hon. edward everett, and was one of his most finished and eloquent efforts.--the treaty between great britain and the united states, negotiated at washington, has been ratified by the senate. it is highly honorable to both countries, and advantageous to the interests of commerce throughout the world. the neutrality of the isthmus, in case of war, is mutually guaranteed.--the war between faustin and the dominicans is still continued: a vessel fitted out at new york, and laden with cannon and munitions of war, for the emperor, has been seized by the u. s. authorities, and detained for violation of the neutrality act of . * * * * * our intelligence from california is to the st of may. trade was dull but was receiving an impulse from the reopening of the season for mining. the legislature had adjourned after passing a large number of bills. one of its most important acts was one imposing a tax of $ per month upon every foreigner who should dig for gold in the mines. the measure was vindicated on grounds of justice as well as from the necessities of the state treasury: difficulty was apprehended in some quarters in attempting to carry it out.--public meetings had been held in regard to the unjust delay to which the application of the state for admission into the union, is subjected by congress. intimations were thrown out that the state would withdraw her application and maintain her independence, unless action should be had: but they do not express any thing like the general sentiment of the people.--new veins of gold had been discovered--new towns commenced, and emigrants continued to arrive. several heavy failures had occurred, but business generally was good. from the isthmus of panama we have news to the st of june. a serious riot had occurred there between the emigrants and the natives in which two or three were killed on each side. it grew out of the arrest of a negro boy on charge of theft, and a supposition on the part of the natives that the americans intended to hang him. such an incident, however, indicates an unpleasant state of feeling between the parties. quiet, however, had been restored. * * * * * of literary and scientific intelligence there is not much. notices of the most important books published during the month will be found in another department of this magazine. the question of the _unity of the human race_ has been recently revived by some incidental remarks made at charleston, s. c., by prof. agassiz of harvard, which were opposed to that theory. dr. smyth, a learned divine of that city, wrote a book in refutation of the professor; and we observe that the latter has pursued the matter still farther in a lecture subsequently delivered at boston. he does not enter, however, into any full discussion of the subject, but takes occasion to disavow the intention imputed to him, of designing to question the authenticity or authority of the mosaic record. prof. lewis, of union college, has published an address delivered there some months since, in which he reviews with great ability the theories and schemes so abundant at the present day, of which nature, progress, and ideas are the common watchwords. he treats them all as branches of _naturalism_ and as in direct hostility to the scriptural doctrine of the divine government. the discourse is marked by the scholarship, vigor, and clear analysis which characterize all the productions of this distinguished writer.--bishop hughes has also entered the lists against the prevalent socialism of the day; not, however, in an original work but by causing to be reprinted the french work of the abbé martinet, entitled "religion in society," and by writing an introduction to it.--a new book on _california_, by rev. walter colton, is soon to be issued. even in the multiplicity of books upon this subject that have recently been given to the public, one from mr. colton's pen can hardly fail to attract and reward attention.--a work on the _logic and utility of mathematics_, by prof. davies, is announced by barnes & co. prof. d. is singularly happy in presenting mathematical truth clearly and attractively to the mind, and we anticipate, in this new work upon the characteristic advantages of his favorite studies, a production that will be widely useful, in promoting juster views of education and better modes for its successful prosecution.--prof. bartlett of the west point academy, announces a new work on _natural philosophy_, for the use of colleges, which will be of value.--mr. e. d. mansfield of cincinnati, a clear, strong and judicious writer, has also in press, a treatise on _american education_, which will be pretty certain to contain a good many practical suggestions worthy of attention.--the reader of the opening article in this number of the new monthly magazine, will be glad to learn that an edition of the writings of de quincey is soon to be issued from the boston press of ticknor, reed and fields. no living english writer equals de quincey in his peculiar department; in acute analytical power, and in the precision with which he uses language. he does not write for the masses--but to literary men, persons of cultivated taste and a critical habit, an edition of his essays and multifarious sketches will be exceedingly acceptable. we presume, however, that nothing like a complete collection of his writings can be made.--an illustrated edition of longfellow's _evangeline_ is also announced, and a new volume of poems by john g. whittier, one of the most vigorous and masculine of living poets. like other poets of the day, mr. whittier addicts himself somewhat overmuch to hobbies, and his present volume is to be mainly made up of poems upon labor.--lowell, also, has a new poem in press, called _the nooning_.--a new volume by rev. henry giles, entitled _christian thoughts on life_, is announced. mr. giles is an exceedingly fluent, vigorous and brilliant writer.--a spicy controversy has grown out of a needless fling at the memory of john jacob astor, in a lecture delivered some months since by the hon. horace mann. mr. c. a. bristed, grandson of the deceased mr. astor, has replied to it in a pungent letter, vindicating his kinsman's character and assailing with a good degree of vigor and success some of the radical theories propounded by mr. mann.--a new play, entitled _the very age_, by e. s. gould, is in press, and will soon be issued by the appletons. it is said to be a sharp and successful hit at sundry follies which have too mush currency in society.--a good deal of public interest has been excited by the announcement of an alleged scientific discovery made by mr. henry m. paine, of massachusetts. he claims to have established the positions that water is a simple substance: that hydrogen gas is produced by the combination of positive electricity, and oxygen by the combination of negative electricity, with water; and that by passing the hydrogen thus obtained through spirits of turpentine in its natural state, it becomes carbonized and will support combustion. the practical result claimed from the discovery is the ability to furnish _light_ and _heat_ indefinitely at a merely nominal expense. the importance of it, if it prove to be real, can not well be overrated. the possibility of the thing, however, is peremptorily denied by scientific men, and it must be evident to all that it directly contradicts scientific principles that have been regarded as fundamental. practical experiment alone, made under proper restrictions and scientific supervision, can determine its reality. if established the revolution it would produce in the economy of life would not be greater than that which would result from it in the received theories of science. * * * * * the foreign events of the past month have not been of striking interest or importance. a diplomatic quarrel between england and france is the only incident which has attracted any general attention. this misunderstanding has grown out of the demands of british subjects, supported by their government, against the government of greece, for losses sustained through its agency; but it is so entirely a matter of form that no serious result can well be apprehended. for some years past the english government has been pressing king otho to an adjustment of these claims. one of the most important of them is that of mr. george finlay, who, when the turks were leaving greece on the formation of the hellenic kingdom, purchased certain portions of land from some of these emigrants. this was as long ago as in , and his right to the property thus purchased and paid for was never disputed. but six years afterward king otho seized upon these lands in order to inclose them in the royal gardens, and he has never paid for the property to this day. another claim is that of mr. pacifico, a british subject, born at gibraltar, and occupying at athens the office of portuguese consul. it has been the custom for some years at athens, on easter-day, to burn an effigy of judas iscariot; but, in , in consequence of the presence of baron rothschild, the government prevented the ceremony. the idle and reckless portion of the people, to whom such public spectacles are always matters of most interest, spread the report that mr. pacifico, being a jew, had occasioned the discontinuance of this custom. a mob was soon raised by this report, which went to the house of the obnoxious consul, beat in the door, plundered the house of money to the amount of drachmas, and destroyed papers proving claims upon the portuguese government to the amount of £ , . for these losses mr. pacifico claimed restitution, and invoked the protection and aid of the british government in securing it. these are the leading claims which have given occasion to the pending difficulties. the british government took up the subject and pressed the greek authorities for payment of the claims. this was refused, and force was resorted to. the ports of greece were blockaded and a bombardment threatened. this led france to offer her mediation, and baron gros was dispatched by the french government to athens to arrange the dispute with mr. wyse, the british agent. the british government, for a long time, refused to allow the intervention of france, as the question in controversy was one which did not require or allow such interference but m. drouyn de lhuys being sent to london, a negotiation was prosecuted for three or four months, which resulted in an agreement between the two governments. meantime baron gros at athens, having interrupted proceedings there, mr. wyse resumes his demands upon the government of greece, and, by strenuous coercion, secures all he had demanded. and lord palmerston decided that his proceedings must hold good. the french government was, of course, indignant at this disregard of the london convention, and withdrew her minister from london. the dispute, at the latest dates, had not been settled, but it is not likely to lead to any thing more serious than a temporary estrangement between the two nations. it is generally believed that the quarrel is kept open by the french government, because it serves to divert public attention somewhat from the unpopular and unconstitutional abridgment of the suffrage, and because it has created an excitement favorable to the views and purposes of louis napoleon. not the least important result of this controversy has been the new position which it has induced russia and austria to take, in regard to the rights of british subjects residing within their dominions. the sympathies of these two nations, as well as of france, are, of course, with greece: and the attempt of england to extend full protection to its subjects residing at athens, has led the emperor of russia to address a note to lord palmerston, stating that he utterly rejects the principle on which british subjects or any other foreign residents in his own states, or those of any other government, had a right to be treated more favorably than the native subjects of such state; and he added, that for his part, he should expect such strangers, the moment they came to reside in his dominions, to conform themselves to the laws and usages practiced by russians. an old law or custom had existed in russia to this effect; it had long fallen into desuetude; but on the present occasion it has been revived by the emperor, and is now in force. the note of the emperor of austria is to the same effect; and though separate from that of russia, runs concurrently with it. lord palmerston replied to this note, and received an answer couched in still stronger language and concluding in the following emphatic clause: "as the manner in which lord palmerston understands the protection due to english subjects in foreign countries carries with it such serious inconvenience, russia and austria will not henceforth grant the liberty of residence to english subjects, except on condition of their renouncing the protection of their government." these documents have not been published, but their substance is given, on the authority of the london times. the doings of the british parliament have not been of special importance, though they have involved the discussion of important measures. the misunderstanding with france gave rise to repeated demands on the part of lord brougham and others, and explanations by the ministers, in which the latter have been vehemently, and with apparent justice, charged with prevarication and concealment.--the subject of university reform has been incidentally discussed in the house of lords but without decisive results. in the house of commons attention was called to the case of the black steward of a british vessel who had been taken out of the ship at charleston, s. c. and imprisoned for two months simply because he was _a man of color_.--lord palmerston said that the case was not new; that such a law as that mentioned existed in the state of carolina; and that the british government had remonstrated against it as a violation of the principles of international law, as well as of the treaty of : but the reply had been that the federal government was unable to revoke the law, and that, if england insisted, the american government would be compelled to terminate the treaty of . the english government, therefore, had not thought it expedient to press the matter further; but it should be remembered that the law is known, and that those who go there expose themselves to it voluntarily. this acquiescence of the british government in a law and practice of one of the united states, directly in violation of the rights of british subjects, has not escaped severe animadversion. the subject of a sinecure office in the archdiocese of canterbury has attracted some attention. it seems that the emoluments of the office of register of the prerogative court of canterbury, have been from £ to £ , per annum, and that the office itself is a sinecure. the usage has been, that the archbishop for the time being should nominate the incumbent of the office and two successors. archbishop moore appointed his two sons, and they in succession held the office. dr. manners sutton appointed his grandson, the present lord canterbury, to the reversion of the office--that grandson being then ten or twelve years old. the late dr. howley made a communication to the government, that, in the conscientious fulfillment of his duty he could not fill up the reversion of this sinecure when it became vacant in ; and it remained vacant at his death. when dr. sumner, the present archbishop, succeeded, he found the reversion of the office vacant, and immediately filled it up, by appointing his son, a young gentleman studying in the temple. lord john russell stated that the matter was under inquiry and that the office would either be abolished or greatly altered.--the general subject of reducing the salaries and wages paid in every department of the public service, has also been discussed. the general sentiment seemed to be that the servants of government were not overpaid, and the motion for an address upon the subject was negatived. while the bill for the government of the australian colonies was up, an amendment was submitted to deprive the colonial office of all interference with the local administration of the colonies, and to give them the uncontrolled management of their own affairs. sir w. molesworth, who moved the amendment, closed a speech in support of it by saying that there was a striking analogy between the government of the united states and that which ought to be the system of government in their colonial empire. "for," he said, "the united states form a system of states clustered round a central republic; our colonial empire ought to be a system of colonies clustered round the hereditary monarchy of england. the hereditary monarchy should possess the powers of government, with the exception of that of taxation, which the central republic possesses. if it possessed less, the empire would cease to be one body politic; if it continue to possess more, the colonies will be discontented at the want of self-government, and on the first occasion will imitate their brethren in america." the motion was negatived by to . this vote is important as an indication of the sentiment of parliament in regard to colonial government.--a motion to form an ecclesiastical constitution for the australian colonies was defeated. the bill reducing the franchise required to constitute a parliamentary voter in ireland to £ , has been passed. the discussion of this bill, and the action upon it, is important as showing the tendency of public sentiment in england toward a greater infusion of the democratic element into the government. the bill was opposed expressly upon the ground of its democratic tendencies by lord bernard, mr. napier, lord jocelyn, mr. disraeli, and others, and its principal supporters were mr. shell, sir james graham, and lord john russell. sir james graham's speech was remarkable for the broad ground on which he supported the measure; alluding to the objection that the bill would unduly enlarge the constituent body, he said, "i do not object to it on that ground. i must say, considering the increase of the democratic element in our institutions, that i see the greatest danger in erecting an immense superstructure upon a narrow electoral basis. sir, if that superstructure can not stand upon an extended electoral basis, i am sure that a narrow basis can not long sustain it. on principle, therefore, i can not object to this bill as it extends that basis. allusion has been made to what has lately been witnessed elsewhere, and i think it is not good policy to neglect examples which are patent and before our eyes. if i were to mention what in my humble judgment was the immediate cause of the fall of the kingly power of louis philippe, it would be, that he attempted to maintain the semblance of representative government with a constituent body, which, as compared with the great bulk of the population, was dangerously narrow, and utterly inadequate. what was the consequence? a tumult arose in the metropolis, and the government was overthrown without a struggle. his power was buried in this ruin; and the consequence has been, that for the last two years the nation has been plunged into anarchy, and property and life have been rendered insecure. but what is the return of the wave, and the reaction from that state of things following the universal extension of the suffrage in france? the return is a desire to base the suffrage, restricted as compared with universal suffrage, on household suffrage, on permanent residence, and the payment of local taxation. and, i am sure that that is a safe basis on which to rest the franchise." these remarks were loudly cheered throughout. the result of the division was that the third reading was carried by to , and the bill passed. other questions not directly political, but involving interests of importance, have been brought in various ways into discussion, of which we find a summary notice in the "household narrative." the metropolitan interments bill has made no further progress in the house of commons. lord ashley has withdrawn his opposition to the government proposal for giving practical efficacy to the ten hours act; and all the more rational of the ten hours champions have signified acquiescence in the compromise. when the bill shall have passed, factories will be worked from six to six on five days in the week, and between six and two on saturdays, with perfect leisure after two on the latter day, and with an hour and a half for meals and leisure on each of the former. a measure not less interesting to masses of the most industrious part of the population, is the scheme for securing more direct responsibility in the management of savings banks, and for extending the power of government to grant annuities and life assurances of small amounts through the medium of those institutions, which is now before the house of commons for discussion. various projects of law reform have been started. a commission has been issued, preparatory to a reform of the system of special pleading. lord campbell has introduced a bill to simplify criminal pleadings, and prevent the lamentable and too notorious defects of justice on small technical points; the same dignitary has declared, in judgment on a case in the queen's bench, that the intervention of an attorney is not essential in the employment of a barrister, but that the latter may receive his instructions directly from the party to the suit. a spirited attempt is in progress, by mr. keogh, to reform the ecclesiastical courts in ireland; and the lord high chancellor cottenham has issued a series of orders which will have the effect of dispensing, in a large class of suits, with the formality of bill and answer, and of providing for the reference to the master, on a mere observance of certain very simple forms. a motion to repeal the advertisement duty was lost, to . a motion to inquire into the sanitary condition of the journeymen bakers was negatived, to . a bill, the principal object of which was to place in the hands of the board of commissioners the regulation of all the irish fisheries, was lost by a majority of to . a bill proposing to allow railway companies to buy waste lands on the margins of their railways and establish cemeteries on them, was thrown out by to . lord john russell has introduced a bill to abolish the _viceregal office in ireland_. the bill gives power to the queen to abolish the office by order in council; to appoint a fourth secretary of state, chargeable, like the others, with any of the functions of a secretary of state, but in practice with irish affairs: some of the functions of the lord lieutenant will be transferred to the secretary for the home department, others be given to her majesty in council. the lord chancellor of ireland will be president of the privy council in ireland. the bill was opposed by several irish members, but leave was given to bring it in by to . an official correspondence on the intention of ministers to issue a royal commission of inquiry into the state and revenues of the universities of oxford and cambridge has appeared in the newspapers. lord john russell, after announcing the ministerial intention in his place in parliament, wrote to the chancellor of the two universities "to explain the views of her majesty's confidential servants in recommending this measure to her majesty's approbation." his letter is now published; and the other portion of the correspondence given to the public, is the letter of the duke of wellington to the authorities of the university of oxford, requesting them to take the premier's letter into consideration, and give him the assistance of their opinions in a report; and the report of the university authorities rendered in compliance with that request. lord john russell, in his letter, after alluding briefly to the legality of the commission, puts forward the following general considerations: "no one will now deny, that in the course of three centuries the increase of general knowledge, the growth of modern literature, the discoveries of physical and chemical science, have rendered changes in the course of study at our national universities highly expedient. the universities themselves have acknowledged this expediency, and very large reforms of this nature have been adopted both at oxford and at cambridge. these improvements, so wisely conceived, reflect the highest credit on those learned bodies." he then proceeds to state the general line of the limitations of the proposed action of the government, saying that it is not to obstruct, but only to facilitate the changes and improvements already in progress. both the universities have warmly protested against the commission. preparations for the industrial exhibition of continue to be made. it is stated that about £ , has been subscribed toward the grand industrial exhibition, and nearly local committees formed to promote. a project has been started to connect with it a religious congress of the christians of all nations. to questioning in parliament, it has been answered by the minister that no government supply was contemplated beyond the expenses of the royal commission. the various german powers have united, and the commission in london has apportioned , square feet of space to the service of the german exhibitors generally, , square feet being reserved for the states of the zoll-verein , for austria, and , for the north german states and the hanse towns. * * * * * the transactions of the london scientific societies for the month present nothing worthy of record. the zoological society has received a new and valuable collection of animals, and among them the first live hippopotamus ever brought to europe.--letters from mr. layard, who is prosecuting his researches in the east, have been received to the th of march, in which he mentions the arab reports of remarkable antiquities in the desert of khabour, which have never been visited by european footsteps, and toward the exploration of which he was just setting out, with an escort of arab sheiks and their followers, in all, to the number of seventy or eighty in company. during his absence on this new track, the excavations at nimrood are to be continued by the parties employed on that work, which has recently furnished interesting acquisitions to mr. layard's collection. one important inscription is mentioned, and more winged-lions and bulls. the times has an account of a new invention for extinguishing fires, the work of mr. phillips--the agent used being a mixture of gas and vapor. a public experiment was made with it, at which a compartment of a large open building, quite twenty feet high inside, was fitted up with partitions and temporary joisting of light wood, well soaked with pitch and turpentine, and overhung besides with rags and shavings soaked in the like manner. the torch was applied to this erection, and the flames, which ascended immediately, at length roared with a vehemence which drove the spectators back to a distance of forty feet, and were already beyond the power of water. the inventor then brought forward one of his hand machines, and threw out a volume of gaseous vapor, which in half a minute entirely suppressed all flame and combustion; and to show that the vapor which now filled the space was quite innoxious, mr. phillips mounted into the loft, and passed and repassed through the midst of it with a lighted candle in his hand. the machine with which this effect was accomplished, was rather larger than a good sized coffee-pot, and consisted of three tin cases, one within another, and mutually communicating. there was a small quantity of water in the bottom of the machine, and in the centre case was a composite cake, of the size and color of peat, containing in the middle of it a phial of sulphuric acid and chlorate of potash. in order to put the machine into action this phial is broken, and a gaseous vapor is generated so rapidly and in such quantity that it immediately rushes out from a lateral spout with great impetuosity mr. phillips explained that a machine of any size could be made according to the purpose for which it was intended. some recent experiments on light, in paris, have attracted a good deal of attention in the scientific circles. m. foucault is said to have practically demonstrated that light travels less rapidly through water than through air, though he made his experiments with instruments devised by m. arago, and mainly under his direction. the importance of the discovery may be judged of from the fact that for the last twelve years m. arago has been pondering over it, and on the means of effecting it. experiments have been made on the means of protecting the hands against molten metal. m. corne, in a paper submitted to the academy of sciences, thus details them: "having determined on investigating the question, whether the employment of liquid sulphurous acid for moistening the hands would produce a sensation of coldness, when they are immersed in the melted metal, i immersed my hands, previously moistened with sulphurous acid, in the melted lead, and experienced a sensation of decided cold. i repeated the experiment of immersing the hand in melted lead and in fused cast-iron. before experimenting with the melted iron, i placed a stick, previously moistened with water, in the stream of liquid metal, and on withdrawing it found it to be almost as wet as it was before, scarcely any of the moisture was evaporated. the moment a dry piece of wood was placed in contact with the heated metal, combustion took place. m. covlet and i then dipped our hands into vessels of the liquid metal, and passed our fingers several times backward and forward through a stream of metal flowing from the furnace, the heat from the radiation of the fused metal being at the same time almost unbearable. we varied these experiments for upward of two hours; and madame covlet, who assisted at these experiments, permitted her child, a girl of nine years of age, to dip her hand in a crucible of red hot metal with impunity. we experimented on the melted iron, both with our hands quite dry, and also when moistened with water, alcohol, and ether. the same results were obtained as with melted lead, and each of us experienced a sensation of cold when employing sulphurous acid." a circular from prof. schumacher has brought an announcement of the discovery of a new telescopic comet, by dr. peterson, at the royal observatory of altona, on the st of may. "unfavorable weather," says mr. hind, writing to the _times_, "prevented any accurate observation that evening, but on the following morning at o'clock, mean time, the position was in right ascension h m s, and north declination ° ' ". the comet is therefore situate in the constellation draco. the right ascension diminishes about " and the declination increases about ' in the space of one day. the literary intelligence of the month comprises the issue of no books of very great pretensions. the _autobiography of leigh hunt_ was just ready for publication, and from the extracts given in the preceding pages of this magazine, our readers will readily judge it to be a book of more than ordinary interest. it is full of anecdote and incident, often trivial in themselves, but sketched with that _naiveté_ and warmth of manner which constitute the charm of whatever hunt writes. it will be a favorite with summer readers. two octavo volumes of selections from _modern state trials_, by mr. townsend, have been published: they comprise only five state trials properly so called, the rest being trials for murder, forgery, dueling, &c. the book is interesting and eminently readable. general klapka's _memoirs of the war in hungary_ have been published, and attract the attention of the critical pen. the author was one of the leading generals in that gallant but unsuccessful struggle; and his opinions of the men engaged in it, and the causes of its failure, are therefore entitled to notice and respect. he regards the raising of the siege of komorn as the turning point in the campaign. he speaks of kossuth and gÖrgey as the two great spirits of the war--the one a civilian, the other a soldier. the athenæum condenses his views concerning them very successfully. kossuth, according to him was a great and generous man, of noble heart and fervid patriotism, at once an enthusiast and a statesman, gifted with "a mysterious power" over "the hearts of his countrymen;" possibly, however, of too melancholic and spiritual a temperament for the crisis, and unfortunately a civilian, so that notwithstanding his "marvelous influence to rouse and bring into action the hidden energies of the masses," he could not "give them a military organization;" görgey, on the other hand, an able, hard-headed soldier, believing only in battalions, and capable of using them well, but wanting enthusiasm, without great principle, without even patriotism, taciturn and suspicious, chafing against authority, and aiming throughout chiefly at his own ends in the struggle, wanting that breadth of intellect or strength of courage that might have made his selfishness splendid in its achievement. had kossuth had the military training of görgey, or had görgey had the heart of kossuth; or, finally, had there been a perfect co-operation between the two men and the parties which they represented, hungary might have been saved. nor, so far as kossuth was concerned, was there any obstacle to such co-operation. his disinterestedness, as it led him at last to resign all into the hands of görgey, would have led him to do so, had it been necessary, at first. but perezel and the other generals, who were friends of kossuth, disliked görgey; never had full trust in him, and even accused him from the first of treachery. görgey is alive and rich; the earth covers the dead bodies of many of his former comrades, pierced by the bullet or strangled by the ignominious rope, others live exiles in various lands. of these last is kossuth. there is something striking in the unanimity with which all testimonies combine as to the nobility of this man. even görgey, his foe, once wrote to general klapka--"kossuth alone is a classical and generous character. it is a pity he is not a soldier." general klapka's own book is an involuntary commentary on this one text--"o that kossuth had been a soldier!" a volume of selections from papers contributed to the _edinburgh review_, by mr. henry rogers, has been published. they relate chiefly to questions of religious interest, or have an indirect bearing upon religious philosophy. comparing them with the similar papers of sir james stephen, a critical journal says, the author is less wide and comprehensive in his range, in expression less eloquent and original, but more practical in his views. he attacks the two extremes of tractarianism and skepticism; gives large and sound expositions of dr. whately's views of criminal jurisprudence; and attempts special biographical sketches, such as fuller's, luther's, pascal's, and plato's. the fourth volume of southey's _life and correspondence_ has been issued, and sustains the interest of this very attractive work. southey's letters are among the best in the language, easy, unaffected, full of genial, intelligent criticisms upon men, books, and things; and abounding in attractive glimpses of the lives and characters of the eminent literary men who were his contemporaries. the new volume mentions that after southey's acrimonious letters to mr. william smith, m.p. for norwich, appeared, he was offered the editorship of the london times, with a salary of £ , and a share of the paper, but declined it. the readers of the _excursion_ will remember that it was announced as the second part of a poem in three parts, called the _recluse_. the first part was biographical, "conducting the history of the author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labor which he had proposed to himself;" and the third part consisted mainly of meditations in the author's own person. it is now stated that the poem has been left in the hands of the author's nephew, rev. dr. christopher wordsworth, with directions that it should be published after his decease, together with such biographical notices as may be requisite to illustrate his writings. it is in fourteen cantos. a meeting of the personal friends and admirers of wordsworth has been held, to take steps to erect a monument to his memory. there have been published a large number of books of travel, among which the following are mentioned:--lord chesney has issued the first portion of his narrative of the government _expedition to the euphrates_; and a certain count sollogub has recorded his traveling impressions of young russia, in a lively little book called _the tarantas_. an english artist, lately resident in america, has described his _adventures in california_; and mr. robert baird, a scotch invalid traveling for health, with strong party prepossessions, but shrewd observant habits, has published two volumes on the _west indies and north america in _. also, pictures of travel in the canadas, in a book called the _shoe and canoe_, by the secretary to the boundary commissioners, dr. bagley; a very curious and complete revelation of eastern life, in a _two years' residence in a levantine family_, described by mr. bayle st. john; a peep into _nuremberg and franconia_, by mr. whiting; a summer ramble through _auvergne and piedmont_, by the intelligent secretary of the royal society, mr. weld; the record of a brief holiday in spain, _gazpacho_, by a fellow of trinity college, cambridge; _notes from nineveh_, by a clergyman who has lately had religious duties in the east; and a satisfactory and compendious compilation called _nineveh, and persepolis_, by one of the officials of the british museum. an article in the quarterly review, on the _flight of louis philippe and his family_, in the revolution, has attracted a good deal of attention in paris. it was written by mr. croker, from materials supplied by the ex-king himself, and denounces lamartine and the leading actors of the revolution, with the utmost bitterness. lamartine has written a reply to it, the chief object of which is to refute one of the principal assertions of mr. croker, by proving that he, lamartine, not only did not take measures to prevent the flight of louis philippe and the members of his family, but that he actually exerted himself actively to have them placed out of the reach of danger. ledru rollin has occupied his leisure, during his exile in london, by writing a book on the _decadence of england_, which abounds in the most extravagant statements and predictions. it is denounced, in the strongest terms, as a worthless compound of malice and credulity. * * * * * the obituary for the month embraces the name of m. gay-lussac, one of the great scientific men of paris. the _presse_ says that few men have led a life so useful, and marked by so many labors. there is no branch of the physical and chemical sciences which is not indebted to him for some important discovery. alone, or in conjunction with other eminent men, particularly with m. thénard and m. de humboldt, he carried his spirit of investigation into them all. at a very early age he was elected a member of the academy of sciences. in , says m. pouillet, speaking in the name of that academy, when the university opened, at length, its public courses of high teaching, it sought to associate in that object the most eminent scientific men of france, and m. gay-lussac, though very young, recommended himself to it by the double title of chemist and natural philosopher. "m. gay-lussac was already famous by his discovery of the fundamental laws of the expansion of gas and vapors; by a balloon ascent the most important and almost the only one of which the history of science has any record to keep; and for many works on chemistry which tended to lay the bases on which that science was soon afterward to be established." m. gay-lussac was a peer of france. the brussels papers mention the premature death of m. p. souyet, the eminent chemist, at the early age of thirty-two. m. souyet was professor of chemistry at the _musée de l'industrie_, and at the royal veterinary school at brussels. his funeral, on the th inst., was attended by the most eminent scientific men in brussels; and m. quetelet delivered an address, in which he briefly enumerated the important discoveries and chemical investigations that have rendered the name of m. souyet so well known. m. souyet had written several valuable chemical works. the emperor of china, tau-kwang (the lustre of reason), "departed upon the great journey, and mounted upward on the dragon, to be a guest on high"--in other words died, on the th of february, in the sixty-ninth year of his age, and thirtieth of his reign. his death is said to have been caused by the fatigue he underwent at the funeral ceremonies of the late empress-dowager, his mother-in-law. the nomination of a successor in china rests always with the emperor, and before his death tau-kwang decreed that his fourth and only surviving son should succeed him. he ascended the throne the day of the emperor's death, and is to reign under the title of sze-hing. he is only nineteen years of age. keying, the former viceroy at canton, is appointed his principal guardian, and will no doubt hold a high and an influential position in the cabinet. it is not likely that any material change in the policy of the government will take place, but from the enlightened character of keying and his knowledge of foreigners, the tendency of any new measures will probably be toward a more liberal course. the earl of roscommon died on the th inst. at blackrock, near dublin, in the fifty-second year of his age. major-general sir james sutherland, of the east india company's service, died suddenly on the th, at his house. he had enjoyed perfect health up to the day of his death, when he invited a large number of friends to dinner. he was giving instructions to his butler with respect to the wines in his drawing-room, and lady sutherland was standing near him. he suddenly grasped her shoulder, fell to the ground, and died in a few minutes. he was in the sixty-sixth year of his age, and had seen a great deal of service in india. the "scottish press" records the demise of mrs. jeffrey, the widow of one whose death was so recently the cause of an almost universal sorrow. shortly after lord jeffrey's decease, his widow, affected in a more than ordinary degree by the sad event, broke up her establishment, and took up her abode with mr. and mrs. empson, her son-in-law and daughter. though naturally cheerful, her spirits never recovered the shock she sustained by the death of her distinguished partner, whom she has not survived four months. mrs. jeffrey was born in america, and was the grandniece of the celebrated john wilkes, and second wife of the late lord jeffrey, to whom she was married in . * * * * * affairs in france are without change. the assembly was proceeding with the bill for restricting the suffrage, and some of its sections had been adopted. no doubt was entertained of its final passage. it meets, however, with stern opposition, and will lay the foundation for a settled popular discontent, highly unfavorable to the permanence of the government or the tranquillity of the republic. no immediate outbreak is apprehended, as the preparations of the government are too formidable to allow it the least chance of success. the government has adopted very stringent measures against the opposition press. on the th, m. boulé, the great printer of the rue de coq-heron, was deprived of his license as a printer. he was the printer of the "voix du peuple," the "république," the "estafette," and several other papers. the authorities seized all the presses, and placed seals on them. in consequence of this step, the editors issued a joint letter explaining how their papers were prevented from appearing. the editor of the "voix du peuple" was brought again before the tribunals on the same day for attacks on the government. in the one case the sentence previously pronounced against him of a year's imprisonment and a fine of f. for an attack on m. fould's budget was confirmed, and for the other he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment and a fine of f. courtois and the abbé chatel have been convicted by juries, of inflammatory speeches at electoral meetings. the former was condemned to a year's imprisonment and f. fine, and two years' more imprisonment if the fine be not paid. the abbé chatel has a year's imprisonment and f. fine. it seems rather surprising that the government should obtain verdicts against the socialists, considering how socialism has spread in paris. the french embassador having been recalled from st. james's, general la hitte, the minister of war, read to the national assembly on the th, a letter he had written to the french embassador at london, in consequence of infraction, by england, of the conditions on which france had agreed to act as mediator in the affairs of greece. the letter, after a summary of the circumstances of the misunderstanding, and the demand that it should be set to rights, proceeded to say: "this demand not having been listened to, it has appeared to us that the prolongation of your sojourn at london is not compatible with the dignity of the republic. the president has ordered me to invite you to return to france, after having accredited m. marescalchi in quality of chargé d'affaires," and concludes, "you will have the goodness to read this present dispatch to lord palmerston." this announcement was received by the right with loud acclamations, the left, or mountain party remaining silent. * * * * * in germany the erfurt parliament, having finished the revisal of its proposed constitution for the german union, dissolved itself, and has been succeeded by two separate convocations. the one is held in frankfort, and consists of the representatives of the old germanic confederation, convoked by the emperor of austria, with the object of re-organizing that confederation. this conference includes all the secondary states of the old confederation except oldenburg and frankfort itself, though the assembly is held within its own walls. the other, held at berlin, was assembled by the king of prussia, and consisted of twenty-one heads of sovereign houses, with representatives of the three hanse towns, hamburg, bremen, and lubeck. this last convention has finished its sittings, and the members, previous to separating, were entertained by the king at a banquet on the th, when his majesty addressed them in a speech expressive of his satisfaction with their proceedings. on the d _an attempt was made on the life_ of the king of prussia, by a serjeant of artillery named sesseloge, who fired a pistol at him as he was setting out for potsdam, and wounded him slightly in the arm. the assassin was immediately apprehended. * * * * * the only political news from spain during the month, related to some palace intrigues, in which the queen, king-consort, and general narvaez were concerned. one evening in the last week of april the king suddenly notified to general narvaez and the rest of the cabinet his intention of quitting madrid in order not to be present at the accouchement of the queen. after exhausting all means of persuasion to induce him to change his purpose, but which were of no avail, a council of ministers was held, in which it was decided to oppose by force the king's departure. his majesty was placed under arrest. sentries were stationed at the door of his apartment, and the king remained a prisoner during four hours, at the end of which time his majesty capitulated, and even consented to accompany the queen in an open carriage in her usual evening drive on the prado. after a _drought of five years_, the province of murcia has been visited by a copious rain. it was curious to observe the young children who had never seen rain in their lives, evince as much alarm as if some frightful accident had happened. rain also has fallen in the vast "huerta," or garden-land of valencia: the simple inhabitants of the villages, in the height of their joy, have carried their tutelary saints about the streets with bands of rustic music. at about a league from saragossa a _powder-mill exploded_ and many lives were lost. parts of human bodies, remnants of clothing, and the remains of beasts of burden, were found scattered in every direction. the edifice was shattered to pieces. * * * * * since the pope has established himself in rome, that capital has been very quiet. the french commandant, general baraguay d'hilliers, has returned to paris, but the french troops remain. the pope adheres to his high-handed measures of reaction. rome is full of mysterious rumors, not entitled, however, to much credit. the pope is accused of an attempt to escape from that city, and his continuance there is only attributed to the vigilance with which his movements are watched by the french. tuscany is about to be occupied by , austrian troops, the time of occupation to be determined by the will and convenience of the cabinet of vienna. there is a rumor that, as a counterbalance. savoy is to be occupied by a french army. it is feared that plans are in agitation for the political enthrallment of all italy. literary notices. the unity of the human races proved to be the doctrine of scripture, reason, and science. by the rev. thomas smyth, d.d. new york: george p. putnam. mo, pp. . the question discussed in the present volume, is one that has excited great attention among modern savans, and more recently, has obtained a fresh interest from the speculations concerning it by the popular scientific lecturer professor agassiz of harvard university. in many respects, dr. smyth has shown himself admirably qualified for the task he has undertaken. he brings to the discussion of the subject, the resources of great and various learning, the mature results of elaborate investigation, a familiarity with the labors of previous writers, and a lively and attractive style of composition. the argument from scripture is dwelt upon at considerable length, and though presented in a forcible manner, betrays the presence of a certain tincture of professional zeal, which will tend to vitiate the effect on the mind of the scientific reader. under the head of the former civilization of black races of men, a great variety of curious facts are adduced, showing the original sagacity and advancement in all worldly knowledge and science, by which the family of ham was distinguished. the testimony of a southern divine of such high eminence as dr. smyth, to the primitive equality in the intellectual faculties of the negro and european races, is not a little remarkable, and speaks well for his candor and breadth of comprehension. the discussion of the origin of the varieties in the human race is conducted with great ingenuity and copious erudition, but it must be admitted, hardly succeeds in making out a case to the satisfaction of the inquirer, who regards the subject only in the light of history and philosophy. the influence of the theory which he opposes, on the relations of the southern states, is considered by dr. smyth to be of a different character from that set forth by many writers. he believes that it would be suicidal to the south in the maintenance of her true position toward her colored population. the diversity of the black and white races was never admitted by the fathers of the country. they always recognized the colored race which had been providentially among them for two centuries and a half as fellow-beings with the same original attributes, the same essential character, and the same immortal destiny. the introduction of a novel theory on the subject, dr. smyth maintains, would be in the highest degree impolitic and dangerous, removing from both master and servant the strongest bonds which now unite them, and by which they are restrained from licentious, immoral, and cruel purposes. without reference to many statements, which will produce the widest latitude of opinion in regard both to their soundness and their accuracy, the work of dr. smyth may be commended as a treatise of the highest importance in the scientific discussion to which it is devoted, abounding in materials of inestimable value to the student, filled with the proofs of rare cultivation and scholar-like refinement, and every way creditable to the attainments and the ability of the author and to the literature of the south. historical view of the languages and literature of the slavic nations; with a sketch of their popular poetry. by talvi. with a preface by edward robinson, d.d., ll.d. new york: george p. putnam. mo., pp. . it is rarely that a subject is treated with the profound investigation, vigorous analysis, and intelligent comprehensiveness which are exhibited in the discussion of the interesting literary topics to which the present work is devoted. the authoress, whose name is concealed in the mystic word talvi, is understood to be the lady of rev. professor robinson, and her rare accomplishments in various departments of learning have long since established her intellectual reputation in the most cultivated european circles. usually written in her native german language, her productions are perhaps not so extensively known in this country, although few of our educated scholars are ignorant of her researches in a province of literature with which her name has become, to a great degree, identified. the volume now published is characterized by the extent and thoroughness of its investigations, its acute and judicious criticisms, its warm-hearted recognition of true poetry, even in an humble garb, and the force and facility of its style. the last trait is quite remarkable, considering the writer is using a foreign language. there is little, either in the translations or the original portion of the work, to remind us that it is the production of one to whom the language is not native. after describing the old, ecclesiastical slavic literature, the authoress proceeds to the literary monuments of the eastern and western slavi, giving an elaborate account of the russian, servian, bohemian, and polish literatures, with glances at the achievements of several less important branches of the great slavic race. in the course of this discussion, a great variety of rare and curious information is presented, of high importance to the student of ethnography and history, and accompanied with complete and lucid references to the original sources. the most attractive feature of the work to the general reader will doubtless be the sketch of the popular poetry of the slavic nations, illustrated with abundant specimens of songs and ballads, many of which are marked with a strong natural pathos and tenderness, and all of them possessing a certain rustic simplicity, which is usually of a very pleasing character, and seldom offensive. hints toward reforms, in lectures, addresses, and other writings. by horace greeley. new york: harper and brothers. mo pp. . a handsome volume, consisting principally of lectures delivered before popular lyceums and young men's associations, with several brief essays on subjects of popular interest. the distinguished author presents his views on the various topics which come under discussion with inimitable frankness and good humor, and in the fresh, flowing, unaffected style, which gives such a charm to the productions of his pen, even with readers who most strongly dissent from his conclusions. among the questions considered in this volume are the emancipation of labor, the ideal and the actual of life, the formation of character, the social architects, alcoholic liquors, tobacco, the trade reform, the church and the age, humanity, and several others of perhaps still more general interest. the admirers of the author, as well as all who are interested in the question of social reform, whether ranking themselves among the conservatives or progressives, will welcome this work as the only compact and systematic expression of his peculiar theories, now before the public, and as a valuable manual for reference on many points which engage a large share of attention at the present day. antonina; or, the fall of rome. a romance of the fifth century. by w. wilkie collins. new york: harper and brothers. vo, pp. . it is long since the english press has sent forth a more truly classical and magnificent romance, than the present narrative of some of the thrilling scenes which attended the downfall of the roman empire. the author has been known heretofore by the biography of his father, the celebrated historical and landscape painter, the friend of coleridge and allston; but that work gives no promise of the splendor of imagination, and the rare constructive power which are shown in the composition of antonina. it is one of those rich and gorgeous portraitures, glowing with life and radiant with beauty, which make a profound impression on their first exhibition, and long continue to haunt the memory with their images of mingled loveliness and terror. * * * * * d. and j. sadlier have issued a translation of the abbé martinet's celebrated _solution of great problems placed within the reach of every mind_, with a preface by the rt. rev. bishop of new york, dr. hughes. this work holds a high rank in modern catholic literature, and is brought before the american public by bishop hughes in a warm introductory encomium. it discusses many of the leading religious questions of the day in a racy and pointed style, and while opposing what the author deems the errors of protestantism in general, reserves its hottest fire for modern pantheism, socialism, rationalism, and other kindred innovations, which he regards as gaseous exhalations from the bottomless pit, taking a visible form in these latter days. from the well-known ability of the author, and the spicy relish of his pen, the work is adapted to make a sensation beyond the pale of the catholic church, without taking in account the high-toned sarcasm of the preface, in which department of composition the talents of bishop hughes are unquestionable. harper and brothers have issued the second number of lossing's _field book of the revolution_, a work, which from the novelty of its plan and the ability of its execution, has already proved a general favorite with the reading public. it combines the authenticity of history with the freshness of personal narrative, and in the richness and beauty of its embellishments is hardly surpassed by any of the serials of the day. the same house have published an original translation of lamartine's _past, present, and future of the french republic_, which will be read with interest on account of the character of the author, and the light it throws on the practical workings of democracy in france, though it has little of the fiery rhetoric of most of his former writings. harper and brothers have issued a reprint of dr. lardner's _railway economy in europe and america_, a work overflowing with scientific, statistical, and practical details, and which will be considered as essential to all who wish to comprehend the subject, in its various bearings whether engineers, stockholders, or travelers, as fire and water to the locomotive. dr. lardner has brought together the results of long and laborious research, and many portions of his descriptive narrative are as entertaining as a novel, and more so. d. appleton & co. have published _the lone dove_, an indian story of the revolutionary period, redolent of sentimentality and romance run wild, betraying a great waste of power on the part of the anonymous writer, who has evidently more talent than is made use of to advantage in the present work. _mezzofanti's method applied to the study of the french language_, by j. romer, published by the same house, is a work of great philological interest, on account of the curious analogies which it describes, and contains an excellent collection of specimens from french poets and prose writers, but its value as a practical manual for the teacher can be determined only by use. the _ojibway conquest_, by kah-ge-gah-gah-bowh, or george copway, issued by g. putnam, will find a place among the curiosities of literature as the production of a native indian chief, whose muse has been inspired by the forest and stream of his original haunts, without having incurred a large debt to the influence of civilization. copway is an exemplary christian and an intelligent man, but he will get less fame from his poetry than from his descent. _six months in the gold mines_, by e. gould buffum, from the press of lea and blanchard, is one of the most readable books which have sprung up under the california excitement, the author having been familiar with the country before the gold fever had broken out. his style is straight-forward and pleasant, showing more of the soldier and adventurer than the scholar, but none the worse for that. his information appears to have been collected with great care, when it was not gained by personal observation, and has the outward and inward signs of authenticity, to a very satisfactory degree. the book can not fail to be acceptable to all who have one foot in california, as well as to the few readers who are not in that condition. crocker and brewster, boston, have published an admirable treatise, entitled _astronomy, or the world as it is and as it appears_, understood to be from the pen of a highly intelligent lady of that city. it is equally excellent for the chaste beauty of its style, the clearness of its scientific expositions, and the completeness and accuracy of the information which it presents. w. b. smith and co., cincinnati, have published a large _treatise on the principal diseases of the interior valley of north america_, by daniel drake, m.d., which discusses the subject with great learning, and in a popular style. it can hardly fail to take the rank of a standard authority in the important department which it treats. summer fashions. [illustration: fig. ] fig. . carriage costume.--dress of bright apple-green silk; the skirt with three deep flounces pinked at the edges. the corsage high and plain. mantelet of very pale lilac silk, trimmed with two rows of lace de laine of the same color, and each row of lace surmounted by passementerie. the lace extends merely round the back part of the mantelet, and the fronts are trimmed with passementerie only. bonnet of white crinoline, with rows of lilac ribbon set on in bouillonnées. the bonnet is lined with white crape, and the under-trimming consists of bouquets of lilac and white flowers. straw-colored kid gloves. white silk parasol. fig. . bridal dress for the marriage ceremony.--robe of white poult de soie. the skirt very full, and ornamented in front with five rows of lace, finished at each end with bows of white satin. the rows of lace are of graduated lengths, the lower row being about a quarter and a half long, and the upper one not more than five or six inches. the corsage is high at the back, but open in front nearly as low as the waist, and edged round with a fall of lace, narrowing to a point in front. within the corsage is worn a chemisette, composed of rows of lace falling downward, and finished at the throat by a band of insertion and an edging standing up. the sleeves are demi-long and loose at the lower part, and the under-sleeves are composed of three broad rows of lace. the hair in waved bandeaux on the forehead, and the back hair partly plaited and partly curled, two long ringlets dropping on each side of the neck. wreath of orange blossom, jasmine, and white roses. long bridal vail of brussels net. fig. .--the revival of an old fashion has recently excited the attention of the _haut ton_ abroad. a specimen of the style is given in the engraving, _fig._ . it is designed chiefly for a rich riding-dress, it being too long in the skirt for the promenade, and not convenient for the drawing-room. it is called the moldavian style; a _petite veste_ of dark green cloth entirely covered with an embroidery of lace imitating _guipure_ royal, and displaying the shape to the greatest perfection. the skirt is very ample and cut in a novel manner so as to fall in long folds like an antique drapery. the front is ornamented with an apron-trimming of deep lace. the sleeves are demi-long; the hands and wrists covered by long white gloves. when in full dress for the saddle, a gray beaver hat is worn, the brim low in front, and turned up at the sides, and ornamented with a long, twisted ostrich feather; cambric collar and _manchettes_ (ruffles) each closed by a double button of rubies or other precious stones. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] none none harper's new monthly magazine. volume iv. december, , to may, . new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. . advertisement. the fourth volume of harper's new monthly magazine is completed by the issue of the present number. the publishers embrace the opportunity of renewing the expression of their thanks to the public and the press, for the extraordinary degree of favor with which its successive numbers have been received. although it has but just reached the close of its second year, its regular circulation is believed to be at least twice as great as that of any similar work ever issued in any part of the world. the magazine will be continued in the same general style, and upon the same plan, as heretofore. its leading purpose is to furnish, at the lowest price, and in the best form, the greatest possible amount of the useful and entertaining literary productions of the present age. while it is by no means indifferent to the highest departments of culture, it seeks primarily to place before the great masses of the people, in every section of the country, and in every walk of life, the most attractive and instructive selections from the current literature of the day. no degree of labor or expense will be spared upon any department. the most gifted and popular authors of the country write constantly for its pages; the pictorial illustrations by which every number is embellished are of the best style, and by the most distinguished artists; the selections for its pages are made from the widest range and with the greatest care; and nothing will be left undone, either in providing material, or in its outward dress, which will tend in any degree to make it more worthy the remarkable favor with which it has been received. the magazine will contain regularly as hitherto: _first._--one or more original articles upon some topic of general interest, written by some popular writer, and illustrated by from fifteen to thirty wood engravings, executed in the highest style of art: _second._--copious selections from the current periodical literature of the day, with tales of the most distinguished authors, such as dickens, bulwer, lever, and others--chosen always for their literary merit, popular interest, and general utility: _third._--a monthly record of the events of the day, foreign and domestic, prepared with care, and with entire freedom from prejudice and partiality of every kind: _fourth._--critical notices of the books of the day, written with ability, candor, and spirit, and designed to give the public a clear and reliable estimate of the important works constantly issuing from the press: _fifth._--a monthly summary of european intelligence concerning books, authors, and whatever else has interest and importance for the cultivated reader: _sixth._--an editor's table, in which some of the leading topics of the day will be discussed with ability and independence: _seventh._--an editor's easy chair, or drawer, which will be devoted to literary and general gossip, memoranda of the topics talked about in social circles, graphic sketches of the most interesting minor matters of the day, anecdotes of literary men, sentences of interest from papers not worth reprinting at length, and generally an agreeable and entertaining collection of literary miscellany. the publishers trust that it is not necessary for them to reiterate their assurances that nothing shall ever be admitted to the pages of the magazine in the slightest degree offensive to delicacy or to any moral sentiment. they will seek steadily to exert upon the public a healthy moral influence, and to improve the character, as well as please the taste, of their readers. they will aim to make their magazine the most complete repertory of whatever is both useful and agreeable in the current literary productions of the day. contents of volume iv. amalie de bourblanc, the lost child american arctic expedition anecdotes and aphorisms anecdotes of leopards and jaguars anecdotes of monkeys artist's sacrifice ass of la marca benjamin franklin. by jacob abbott , bird-hunting spider black eagle in a bad way bleak house. by charles dickens , blighted flowers boston tea-party. by b. j. lossing bow window brace of blunders chewing the buyo child's toy christmas as we grow older. by charles dickens christmas in company of john doe. by charles dickens christmas in germany clara corsini--a tale of naples conspiracy of the clocks crime detected curious page of family history curse of gold--a dream czar of russia at a ball difficulty diligence in doing good dream of the weary heart editor's drawer. tailing on; the john jones party; how many times did the hedge-pig mew? touching the tin, . the deformed's hope; looking out for number one--abroad and at home; leaves and coats; the mathematical monomaniac, . a puzzled doctor, . a text for a sermon; the entombed racer; cause and effect; vagaries of the insane, . munchausenism; love and mammon; professional enthusiasm, . mind your p's and q's; sympathy thrown away; winter duties, . experiments in flying; affair of honor--almost, . takin' notes; having one's faculties; great talkers, . witnesses and counsel--with an example; physiognomy at fault; mercantile drummers, . on discontentment; omnipresence of the deity; to snuffers and chewers; the french and death, . rat and owl fight; moralizing on climbing a greased pole; inquisitiveness, with an instance thereof, . street thoughts by a surgeon; the millionaire without a sou; the deaf-and-dumb boy; workers in worsted, . subscribing something; bad spelling; lending umbrellas, . something about music; the workhouse clock, . sweets in paris; something about china, . difference of opinion; a tale of other times, . stealing sermons; about snuff; laughter; looking-glass reflections; something from sam slick, . turning the tables: youthful age; fools and madmen; under canvas, . joking in letters; welsh card of invitation; chiffoniers in paris, . harrowing lines, . eating cooked rain; patent medicine toast; new language of flowers, . song of the turkey; marks of affection; tired of nothing to do; lame and impotent conclusion, . orders is orders; the sleeping child; dickens's denouements; statistical fellows, . keep your receipts; giving a look; about dandies; chawls yellowplush on lit'ry men; deep-blue stockings, . a climax; some love-verses; a criminal curiosity-hunter; a skate-vender on thaws, . editor's easy chair. kossuth; louis napoleon; a workingman for president, . musical chit-chat; lumley and rossini; america in the exhibition, . a very french story of love and devotion; another of devotion and smuggling, . kossuth and our enthusiasm for him, . on lola montez; dumas and the french censorship; signor braschi; female stock-brokers; the consoled disconsolates, . an italian romance, . louis napoleon's coup d'état; kossuth talk, . paris gossip; cavaignac and his bride elect; the lottery of gold, . home gossip; how mr. coper sold a horse, . the hard winter; the forrest trial, . the french usurpation; president-making and morals in the metropolis; a bit of paris life; legacies to litterateurs, . now; close of the carnival; the cooper testimonial; lectures; exemplary damages, . congressional manners; the maine liquor law; reminiscence of maffit; french writers, . the chevalier's stroke for a wife, . more about the weather, . sir john franklin; free speech; lola in boston; jenny goldschmidt, . marriage associations; about punch; magisterial beards; an equine passport, . matrimonial confidence; dancing in the beau monde; major m'gowd's story, . editor's table. time and space, . testimony of geology to the supernatural, . the year, . the pulpit and the press, . the value of the union, . the seventh census, . the immensity of the universe, . the spiritual telegraph, . history the world's memory, . mental alchemy:--credulity and skepticism, . episode of the italian revolution esther hammond's wedding day eyes made to order fashionable forger fashions for december fashions for january fashions for february fashions for march fashions for april fashions for may forgotten celebrity french flower girl gold--what, and where from good old times in paris great objects attained by little things habits and character of the dog-rib indians helen corrie high life in the olden time how gunpowder is made how men rise in the world hunting the alligator impressions of england in . by fredrika bremer indian pet insane philosopher introduction of the potato into france keep him out knights of the cross. by caroline chesebro' kossuth--a biographical sketch leaves from punch. better luck next time; doing one a special favor; etymological inventions, . off point judith; singular phenomenon; a slight mistake; new biographies, . arrant extortion; mr. booby in the new costume, . a bloomer in leap year; strong-minded bloomer, . a horrible business; rather too much of a good thing, . mrs. baker's pet, . signs of the times; france is tranquil, . the road to ruin; new street-sweeping machines, . going to cover, . revolution on bayonets; thoughts on french affairs; early publication in paris, . scene from the president's progress, . touching sympathy; sound advice, . effects of a strike, . perfect identification; calling the police; the seven wonders of a young lady, . butcher boys of the upper ten, . the inquisitive omnibus driver; the flunky's idea of beauty, . a competent adviser; scrupulous regard for truth, . awful effects of an eye-glass; penalties; rather severe, . what i heard about myself in the exhibition; the peer on the press, . the interior of a french court of justice in , . legend of the lost well legend of the weeping chamber life and death. by the author of _alton locke_ literary notices. books noticed. melville's moby dick; putnam's hand-books; rural homes; hawthorne's wonder-book, . greeley's glances at europe; stoddard's poems; neander on philippians; heavenly recognition; lindsay and blackiston's gift-books; bishop mcilvaine's charge, . taylor's wesley and methodism, . boyd's young's night thoughts; mrs. lee's florence; words in earnest; herbert's captains of the old world; ida pfeiffer's voyage round the world, . reveries of a bachelor; james's aims and obstacles; simm's norman maurice; richard's claims of science; greenwood leaves; winter in spitzbergen; dream-land by daylight, . memoir of mary lyon; woods's sixteen months at the gold diggings; wainwright's land of bondage; mrs. kirkland's evening book; the tutor's ward; thompson's hints to employers, . layard's nineveh; saunders's great metropolis; ik. marvel's dream-life; florence sackville; clovernook, . salander and the dragon; spring's first woman; edwards's select poetry; sovereigns of the bible; hawthorne's snow image; summerfield; the podesta's daughter; ross's what i saw in new york; curtis's western portraiture; stephen's lectures on the history of france, . chambers's life and works of burns, . abbott's corner stone; browne's history of classical literature; dickson's life, sleep, and pain; head's faggot of french sticks; hudson's shakspeare; simmon's greek girl; house on the rock; companions of my solitude; wright's sorcery and magic; ravenscliffe; mitford's recollections of a literary life, . memoirs of margaret fuller ossoli; edwards's charity and its fruits, . richardson's arctic searching expedition; bonynge's future wealth of america; copland's dictionary of medicine; cheever's reel in the bottle; the head of the family; neander's exposition of james; men and women of the eighteenth century; bon gaultier's book of ballads; walker's rhyming dictionary, . stiles's austria in - , . forester's field sports; simms's golden christmas; falkenburg; isa; the howadji in syria, . stuart's commentary on proverbs; parker's story of a soul; arthur and carpenter's cabinet histories; mosheim's christianity before constantine; pulszky's tales and traditions of hungary; aytoun's lays of the scottish cavaliers; barnes's notes on revelation, . kirwan's romanism at home, . personal and literary intelligence. hawthorne; _literary gazette_ on hitchcock; the _news_ on vestiges of civilization; westminster review; new works announced; assyrian sculptures; pension to reid; christopher north; map of france; manuscripts of lalande; dumas's memoirs, . documents on the thirty years' war; douglas jerrold's works, . lady bulwer; rise of bunsen; new college, edinburgh; madame pfeiffer; richardson's arctic expedition, . plays by jerrold and marston; stephen's lectures; critique on hildreth; on moby dick; shakspeare for kossuth; landor on kossuth; critique on springer's forest life; on layard's nineveh, . alison; works denounced; brougham; translations of scott; new works in france, . m. vattemare; the elzevirs; daguerre; heine; leipzig easter fair; papers in germany; japanese dictionary; excavations at athens; ximenes; spanish classics; ida hahn-hahn; professor nuylz; oriental mss.; proscription in italy; discovery of old paintings in münster; jeffrey; mr. jerdan; brougham; gutzlaff, . carlyle's sterling; yeast; blake; dickens in danish; delta; stephen: m'cosh; hahn-hahn; junius; kossuth's eloquence; beresford, . guizot; revolutionary walls; migne's book establishment; french works; bonaparte and literature; silvio pellico; german novels; oersted; oehlenschläger; menzel; heine, . schiller festival; zahn; kosmos; servian poetry; shakspeare in swedish; italian book on america; chinese geography; turkish grammar and dictionary; ticknor in spanish, . westminster review; new books; benedict; macaulay, . browning's shelley; junius; budhist monuments; freund's german-english lexicon; bulwer's works; the head of the family; lossing's field-book; hawthorne; eliot warburton, . french literary exiles; lamartine; count ficquelmont; works on the coup d'etat; louis philippe and letters; george sand; humboldt; schiller's library; hagberg; translations into spanish, . theological translations; bohn's new publications; greek professorship in edinburgh; dr. robinson; talvi, . moby dick; tests in scottish universities; montalembert; cavaignac; the press in paris; posthumous work by meinhold, ; lamartine's civilisateur; eugene sue; neuman's english empire in asia; english literature in germany; nitzsch on hahn-hahn; gutzkow; the rhenish times; hebrew books; literature of hungary; monument to oken, . cockburn's life of jeffrey; grote's history of greece; farini's history of the roman state; the shelley forgeries; james r. lowell; papers of margaret fuller, . life of fox; sale of rare books; greek professor at edinburgh; bleak house in german; macaulay in german; barante's histoire de la convention nationale; pierre leroux; chamfort; george sand; stuart of dunleath in french; epistolary forgeries; anselm feuerbach; bust of schelling; goethe and schiller literature; count platen-hallermünde; lives of the sovereigns of russia, . obituaries. archibald alexander, d. d.; j. kearney rodgers, m. d.; granville sharp pattison, m. d.; gardner g. howland, . dr. wingard; byron's sister; h. p. borrell; dr. gutzlaff; mrs. sherwood, . king of hanover, . professors wolff and humbert, . joel r. poinsett; moses stuart, . marshal soult, . william wyon; rev. j. h. caunter; chevalier lavy; m. de st. priest; paul erman; professor dunbar; dr. sadleir; basil montague, . t. h. turner, . baron d'ohsen; robert blackwood; serangelli, . hon. jeremiah morrow, . thomas moore; archbishop murray; sir herbert jenner fust, . marshal marmont; armand marrast, . louis napoleon and his nose love affair at cranford masked ball at vienna maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. by charles lever , , mazzini, the italian liberal miracle of life monthly record of current events. united states. the november elections: success of the union party in georgia, south carolina, mississippi, and alabama, . adoption of the new constitution in virginia, . election in pennsylvania, . return of the arctic expedition, . dinner to mr. grinnell, . imprisonment of john s. thrasher in havana, , , . appeal of mr. tyler in behalf of the cuban prisoners, . inauguration of gov. campbell of tennessee, . convention of cotton-planters in macon, . decision in favor of morse's telegraph, . decision of the methodist book-fund case, . letter of mr. clay on the compromise, . elections in california, . general intelligence from california, , , , , , . general intelligence from oregon, , , . volcanic eruption in the sandwich islands, . general intelligence from new mexico, , , , , , . arrival of kossuth, and reception in new york, . speech of kossuth at the corporation banquet in new york, . at the press dinner, . opening of the thirty-second congress, . abstract of the president's message, . correspondence with foreign powers respecting cuba, . official vote in new york, . speech of kossuth at the bar dinner in new york, . kossuth at brooklyn, philadelphia, baltimore, and washington, . opening of the new york legislature and message of governor hunt, . opening of the pennsylvania legislature, . mr. clay resigns his seat in the senate, . destruction of the congressional library, . american expedition to the sandwich islands, . kossuth at the west, . esterhazy, batthyanyi, pulszky, and szemere on kossuth, . speeches in congress on intervention, . outrage at greytown disavowed by the english government, . legislative nominations for the presidency, . message of gov. farwell of wisconsin, . the u.s. indemnity in texas, . letter of mr. buchanan, . of mr. benton, . general proceedings in congress, . correspondence respecting kossuth, . mr. webster's discourse before the historical society, . commemorative meeting to j. fenimore cooper. . archbishop hughes's lecture on catholicism in the united states, . whig state convention in kentucky, . in indiana, . webster meeting in new york, . washington's birthday at the capital, . mormon disturbances in utah, . debates in the senate on intervention; speech of mr. soulé, . abstraction of public papers, . mr. cass on the wilmot proviso, . presidential speeches in the house, . political conventions in various states, and nominations for the presidency, . proceedings in the legislature of mississippi, . state debt of pennsylvania, . mr. webster at trenton, . accident at hell-gate, . return of cuban prisoners, . letter of mr. clay on the presidency, . expedition to japan, . loss of steamer north america, . col. berzenczey's expedition to tartary, . southern america. election of montt as president of chili, . attempt at insurrection, , . contest against rosas in buenos ayres, , , . difficulties growing out of the tehuantepec right of way in mexico, . insurrection in the northern departments under caravajal, , , , , . letters to the governors of the departments, . general intelligence from mexico, , , , . message of the president of venezuela, . disturbance in chili penal settlements, , . mexican claims for indian depredations, . defeat and flight of rosas, . peruvian expedition against ecuador, . gold in new grenada, . great britain. arrival of kossuth at southampton, . speech of kossuth at winchester, . close of the great exhibition, . disturbances in ireland, . war at the cape of good hope, , , . opposition of the sultan of turkey to the suez railway, . kossuth at birmingham, manchester, london, and southampton, . embarkation for america, . resignation of lord palmerston and appointment of earl granville as foreign secretary, . deputation of merchants to lord john russell, . dinner to mr. walker, . from ireland, . petitions from scotland against the maynooth grant, . burning of the steamer amazon, . the national defenses, . controversy between workmen and employers, . movements of the reformers, . gold in australia, . destruction of lagos in africa by the british, , . meeting of parliament and the queen's speech, . explanations as to the retirement of lord palmerston, . defeat and resignation of the russell ministry, . appointment of a protectionist ministry, . correspondence with austria respecting political refugees, . disaster from water, . new expedition in search of sir john franklin, . attitude of the derby ministry, . position of lord john russell, . mr. disraeli's address to his constituents, . revival of the anti corn-law league, . mr. layard declines to continue in office, . france. the president demands the repeal of the election law of may ; the ministers refuse their assent and resign, . formation of a new ministry, . insults to the republican members of assembly, . meeting of the assembly, message of the president, demanding the restoration of universal suffrage, and its rejection by the assembly, . progress of the struggle between the president and assembly, . president's speech on distributing prizes to exhibitors, . the president dissolves the assembly and assumes the sole powers of government, . his decree, . arrest of members of assembly, . unsuccessful attempts at resistance, . great majorities returned in favor of the president, , . correspondence between the english and french governments, . celebration at the result of the election, . speech of m. baroche, . proceedings of the president, . the new constitution decreed by the president, . formation of a ministry of police and of state, . seizure of the property of the orleans family, . measures limiting discussion, . new legislative law, . letter of the orleans princes, . the ministry of police, . dinner by the president to english residents, . decree regulating the press, . correspondence between the government and the emperor of russia, . proceedings in relation to belgium, . success of the government in the elections, . presidential decree for mortgage banks, . decree respecting the college of france, . judges superannuated at seventy years, . prize for adaptation of voltaic pile, . donation to m. foucauld, . new military medal and pension, . french demands upon belgium refused, . correspondence between austria, prussia, and russia respecting france, . french demands upon switzerland, . southern europe. neapolitan answer to mr. gladstone's letter, . new colonial council in spain for cuba, . austrian rigor in italy, . pardon of the american prisoners in spain, . attempt to assassinate the queen of spain, . change in the government of the spanish colonies, . central and eastern europe. preparations in prussia, . telegraphic arrangements in germany, . the polish provinces of prussia excluded from the confederation, . the emperor of austria declares himself absolute, . elections in switzerland, . critical state of affairs in austria, , . austria and france, . annulling of the constitution of in austria, . general intelligence, . attitude assumed by the european powers toward france, . demands of france upon switzerland in relation to political refugees, . transferrence of holstein to denmark, . switzerland menaced by a commercial blockade, . the east. general intelligence, . negotiations in turkey respecting the holy sepulchre, . hostilities in india, . changes of ministry in greece and turkey, . generosity of the porte toward rebels, . high interest forbidden in turkey, . death of the persian vizier, . hostilities between the english and burmese, . mr. potts's new years adventures my first place my novel; or, varieties in english life. by sir edward bulwer lytton , , , , , mysteries my traveling companion napoleon bonaparte. by john s. c. abbott , , , , new discoveries in ghosts old maid's first love orphan's dream of christmas our school. by charles dickens paradise lost personal sketches and reminiscences. by mary russell mitford pipe clay and clay pipes pleasures and perils of ballooning poison eaters potter of tours promise unfulfilled public executions in england recollections of st. petersburg rising generationism rodolphus.--a franconia story. by jacob abbott , , short chapter on frogs sicilian vespers sleep to startle us stolen bank notes story of a bear story of oriental love story of rembrandt street scenes of the french usurpation suwarrow--sketch of talk about the spider taste of french dungeons taste of austrian jails the bedoueen, mahomad alee, and the bazaars. by george william curtis the brothers the expectant--a tale of life the game of chess the german emigrants. by john doggett, jr. the little sisters the lost ages the mighty magician the moor's revenge. by epes sargent the mountain torrent the night train the opera. by thomas carlyle the ornithologist the point of honor the sublime porte the tub school thiers--sketch of his life thy will be done. by george p. morris tiger roche.--an irish character to be read at dusk. by charles dickens true courage two kinds of honesty vagaries of the imagination vatteville ruby vision of charles xi. what becomes of the rind? what to do in the mean time who knew best wives of great lawyers wonderful toys you're another zoological stories list of illustrations. page . casting the tea over in boston harbor . boston in - . faneuil hall . portrait of governor hutchinson . portrait of the earl of dartmouth . house of john hancock . province house . the old south church, boston . portrait of david kinnison . portrait of george r. t. hewes . pouring tea down the throat of america . route of the arctic expedition (map) . vessels beating to windward of iceberg . perilous situation of the advance and rescue . discovery ships near the devil's thumb . the advance leading the prince albert . the advance stranded at cape riley . anvil-block, and guide-board . three graves at beechy . the advance and rescue at barlow's inlet . the advance in barrow's straits . the advance and rescue drifting . the advance and rescue in the winter . the advance in davis's straits . the advance among hummocks . stern of the rescue in the ice . the passage of the tagliamento . the gorge of neumarkt . the venetian envoys . the conference dissolved . the court at milan . the triumphal journey . the delivery of the treaty . portrait of kossuth . better luck next time . doing one a special favor . off point judith . singular phenomenon . a slight mistake . costumes for december . parisian, frileuse, and camara cloaks . child's costume . portrait of franklin . the franklin smithy . franklin at ten years of age . building the pier at the mill-pond . franklin reading in his chamber . the franklin family . franklin studying in the printing-office . franklin's first literary essay . franklin ill-used by his brother . franklin plans to escape . the sloop at sea . franklin traveling through the storm . the old woman's hospitality . franklin with his penny rolls . franklin gives the bread to a poor woman . franklin asleep in the meeting-house . franklin with bradford and keimer . the quakeress's counsel . franklin showing his money . franklin and the governor of new york . collins flung overboard . reading on the banks of the river . franklin's courtship . franklin takes leave of miss read . franklin delivers his letter . franklin at the book-store . franklin carrying type forms . the widow lady of duke-street . the recluse lodger . franklin looking out of the window . the copper-plate press . franklin's first job . the junto club . meredith on a spree . grief of miss read . franklin with the wheelbarrow . the library . industry of mrs. franklin . the china bowl and silver spoon . the gardener at work . grinding the ax . the widow carrying on business . franklin playing chess . franklin takes charge of his nephew . portrait of whitefield . the expedition to egypt . napoleon embarking for egypt . napoleon looking at the distant alps . the disembarkation in egypt . the march through the desert . the battle of the pyramids . the egyptian ruins . mr. potts makes his toilet . mr. potts suffers--inexpressibly . mr. potts is discomposed . mr. potts in the wrong apartment . mr. potts enchanted . mr. potts assumes a striking attitude . mr. potts makes a sensation . mr. potts tears himself away . mr. potts receives a lecture . arrant extortion . mr. booby in the new costume . a bloomer in leap year . the strong-minded bloomer . winter costumes . walking dress . hood and head-dress . preparing the regimental colors . franklin on military duty . franklin's colloquy with the quaker . the indian pow-wow . the female street-sweeper . the horse and packages for camp . the precipitous flight . march to gnadenhütten . franklin's military escort . portrait of buffon . franklin and the new governor . sign of st. george and the dragon . the ship in peril of the rocks . franklin writing to his wife . the old man from the desert . portrait of mrs. franklin . franklin on his tour of inspection . bees swarming . franklin's departure from chester . reception of the satin . franklin transformed by his new dress . franklin repulsed from lord hillsborough's . the boston riot . portrait of lord chatham . portrait of lord camden . franklin at chess with the lady . drafting the declaration of independence . old age . feeling toward franklin in paris . portrait of lafayette . franklin's amusement in age . napoleon's escape from the red sea . the dromedary regiment . the plague hospital at acre . the bomb-shell exploding . arrival of the courier . napoleon and kleber . the return from egypt . a horrible business . mrs. baker's pet . costumes for february . evening dress . full dress for home . the rabbit house . the pursuit . the raft . up the ladder . the yard at mr. randon's . plan of mr. randon's house . the great room . inundation at st. petersburg . russian ice mountains . punishment for drunkenness . russian isvoshtshiks . the easter kiss--agreeable . the easter kiss--as matter of duty . the easter kiss--under difficulties . the easter kiss--disagreeable . france is tranquil . the president's road to ruin . new parisian street-sweeping machine . costumes for march . young lady's toilet . morning toilet . ellen asleep . the snow-shoes . the funeral . the boys and the boat . the evasion . raising the hasp . the corn-barn . napoleon's return from egypt . napoleon and the atheists . napoleon's landing at frejus . napoleon's reconciliation with josephine . napoleon on the way to st. cloud . napoleon in the council of five hundred . the little old lady . miss jellyby . going to cover . revolutionary inquiries . early publication of a paper in paris . scene from the president's progress . touching sympathy . sound advice . effects of a strike . perfect identification . calling the police . fashions for april . dress toilet . child's fancy costume . the drag ride . the well . the conflagration . the barred window . antonio's picture . the court room . the arrest . the governor . the consuls and the gold . napoleon in the temple . napoleon's entrance into the tuileries . napoleon and the vendeean chief . napoleon and the duchess of guiche . napoleon and bourrienne . unavailing intercession of josephine . the lord chancellor copies from memory . coavinses . butcher-boys of the upper ten . the inquiring omnibus driver . flunky's idea of beauty . a competent adviser . regard for the truth . awful effect of eye-glasses . rather severe . portrait of a gentleman . the peer on the press . interior of a french court of justice . fashions for may . visiting dress . home toilet harper's new monthly magazine. no. xix.--december, .--vol. iv. [illustration: casting tea overboard in boston harbor.] the boston tea party.[ ] by benson j. lossing. revolutions which dismember and overturn empires, disrupt political systems, and change not only the forms of civil government, but frequently the entire character of society, are often incited by causes so remote, and apparently inconsiderable and inadequate, that the superficial observer would never detect them, or would laugh incredulously if presented to his consideration as things of moment. yet, like the little spring of a watch, coiled unseen within the dark recess of its chamber, the influences of such remote causes operating upon certain combinations, give motion, power, and value to latent energies, and form the _primum mobile_ of the whole machinery of wonderful events which produce revolutions. as a general rule, revolutions in states are the results of isolated rebellions; and rebellions have their birth in desires to cast off evils inflicted by actual oppressions. these evils generally consist of the interferences of rulers with the physical well-being of the governed; and very few of the political changes in empires which so prominently mark the course of human history, have had a higher incentive to resistance than the maintenance of creature comforts. abridgment of personal liberty in the exercise of natural rights, excessive taxation, and extortion of public officers, whereby individual competence and consequent ease have not been attainable, these have generally been the chief counts in the indictment, when the people have arisen in their might and arraigned their rulers at the bar of the world's judgment. the american revolution, which succeeded local rebellions in the various provinces, was an exception to a general rule. history furnishes no parallel example of a people free, prosperous, and happy, rising from the couch of ease to gird on the panoply of war, with a certainty of encountering perhaps years of privation and distress, to combat the intangible _principle_ of despotism. the taxes of which the english colonies in america complained, and which were the ostensible cause of dissatisfaction, were almost nominal, and only in the smallest degree affected the general prosperity of the people. but the method employed in levying those slight taxes, and the prerogatives assumed by the king and his ministers, plainly revealed the _principles_ of tyranny, and were the causes which produced the quarrel. in these assumptions the kernel of despotism was very apparent, and the sagacious americans, accustomed to vigorous and independent thought, and a free interchange of opinions, foresaw the speedy springing of that germ into the bulk and vigor of an umbrageous tree, that would overshadow the land and bear the bitter fruit of tyrannous misrule. foreseeing this, they resolved neither to water it kindly, nor generously dig about its roots and open them to the genial influences of the blessed sun and the dews; but, on the contrary, to eradicate it. tyranny had no abiding-place in america when the quarrel with the imperial government began, and the war of the revolution, in its inception and progress, was eminently a war of principle. how little could the wisest political seer have perceived of an elemental cause of a revolution in america, and the dismemberment of the british empire, in two pounds and two ounces of tea, which, a little less than two centuries ago, the east india company sent as a present to charles the second of england! little did the "merrie monarch" think, while sitting with nell gwynn, the earl of rochester, and a few other favorites, in his private parlor at whitehall, and that new beverage gave pleasure to his sated taste, that events connected with the use of the herb would shake the throne of england, albeit a guelph, a wiser and more virtuous monarch than any stuart, should sit thereon. yet it was even so; and tea, within a hundred years after that viceregal corporation made its gift to royalty, became one of the causes which led to rebellion and revolution, resulting in the independence of the anglo-american colonies, and the founding of our republic. when the first exuberant feelings of joy, which filled the hearts of the americans when intelligence of the repeal of the stamp act reached them, had subsided, and sober judgment analyzed the declaratory act of william pitt which accompanied the repeal bill, they perceived small cause for congratulation. they knew pitt to be a friend--an earnest and sincere friend of the colonists. he had labored shoulder to shoulder with barrè, conway, burke, and others, to effect the repeal, and had recently declared boldly in the house of commons, "i rejoice that america has resisted. three millions of people, so dead to all the feelings of liberty as voluntarily to submit to be slaves, would have been fit instruments to make slaves of the rest." yet he saw hesitation; he saw _pride_ standing in the place of _righteousness_, and he allowed _expediency_ to usurp the place of _principle_, in order to accomplish a great good. he introduced the declaratory act, which was a sort of salvo to the national honor, that a majority of votes might be secured for the repeal bill. that act affirmed that parliament possessed the power _to bind the colonies in all cases whatsoever_; clearly implying the right to impose taxes to any extent, and in any manner that ministers might think proper. that temporizing measure was unworthy of the great statesman, and had not the colonists possessed too many proofs of his friendship to doubt his constancy, they would now have placed him in the category of the enemies of america. they plainly perceived that no actual concession had been made, and that the passage of the repeal bill was only a truce in the systematic endeavors of ministers to hold absolute control over the americans. the loud acclamations of joy and the glad expressions of loyalty to the king, which rung throughout america in the spring and early summer of , died away into low whispers before autumn, and as winter approached, and other schemes for taxation, such as a new clause in the mutiny act developed, were evolved from the ministerial laboratory, loud murmurings went over the sea from every english colony in the new world. much good was anticipated by the exercise of the enlightened policy of the rockingham ministry, under whose auspices the stamp act had been repealed, when it was suddenly dissolved, and william pitt, who was now elevated to the peerage, became prime minister. had not physical infirmities borne heavily upon lord chatham, all would have been well; but while he was tortured by gout, and lay swathed in flannels at his country-seat at hayes, weaker heads controlled the affairs of state. charles townshend, pitt's chancellor of the exchequer, a vain, truckling statesman, coalesced with grenville, the father of the stamp act, in the production of another scheme for deriving a revenue from america. too honest to be governed by expediency, grenville had already proposed levying a direct tax upon the americans of two millions of dollars per annum, allowing them to raise that sum in their own way. townshend had the sagacity to perceive that such a measure would meet with no favor; but in may, , he attempted to accomplish the same result by introducing a bill providing for the imposition of a duty upon glass, paper, painters' colors, and tea imported from great britain into america. this was only another form of taxation, and judicious men in parliament viewed the proposition with deep concern. burke and others denounced it in the commons; and shelburne in the house of lords warned ministers to have a care how they proceeded in the matter, for he clearly foresaw insurrection, perhaps a revolution as a consequence. but the voice of prudence, uttering words of prophecy, was disregarded; townshend's bill was passed, and became a law at the close of june, by receiving the royal signature. other acts, equally obnoxious to the americans, soon became laws by the sanction of the king, and the principles of despotism, concealed behind the honest-featured declaratory act, were displayed in all their deformity. during the summer and autumn, john dickenson sent forth his powerful _letters of a pennsylvania farmer_. written in a simple manner, they were easily understood. they laid bare the evident designs of the ministry; proved the unconstitutionality of the late acts of parliament, and taught the people the necessity of united resistance to the slow but certain approaches of oppression. [illustration: boston in - .] boston, "the ringleader in rebellion," soon took the initiative step in revolutionary movements, and during , tumults occurred, which caused governor bernard to call for troops to awe the people. general thomas gage, then commander-in-chief of the british forces in america, ordered two regiments from halifax. borne by a fleet which blockaded the harbor in september, they landed upon long wharf, in boston, on sunday morning, and while the people were desirous of worshiping quietly in their meeting-houses, these soldiers marched to the common with charged muskets, fixed bayonets, drums beating, and colors flying, with all the pomp and insolence of victorious troops entering a vanquished city. it was a great blunder, and governor bernard soon perceived it. a convention of delegates from every town but one in massachusetts was in session, when the fleet arrived in nantasket roads. they were not alarmed by the approach of cannon and bayonets, but deliberated coolly, and denounced firmly the current measures of government. guided by their advice, the select-men of boston refused to furnish quarters for the troops, and they were obliged to encamp on the open common, where insults were daily bandied between the military hirelings and the people. the inhabitants of boston, and of the whole province felt insulted--ay, degraded--and every feeling of patriotism and manhood rebelled. the alternative was plain before them--_submission or the bayonet!_ great indignation prevailed from the penobscot to the st. mary's, and the cause of boston became the common cause of all the colonists. they resented the insult as if offered to themselves; and hatred of royal rule became a fixed emotion in the hearts of thousands. legislative assemblies spoke out freely, and for the crime of being thus independent, royal governors dissolved them. delegates returned to their constituents, each an eloquent crusader against oppression; and in every village and hamlet men congregated to consult upon the public good, and to determine upon a remedy for the monster evil now sitting like an incubus upon the peace and prosperity of the land. as a countervailing measure, merchants in the various coast towns entered into an agreement to cease importing from great britain, every thing but a few articles of common necessity (and especially those things enumerated in the impost bill), from the first of january, , to the first of january, , unless the obnoxious act should be sooner repealed. the people every where seconded this movement by earnest co-operation, and provincial legislatures commended the scheme. an agreement, presented in the virginia house of burgesses by washington, was signed by every member; and in all the colonies the people entered at once upon a course of self-denial. for more than a year this powerful engine of retaliation waged war upon british commerce in a constitutional way, before ministers would listen to petitions and remonstrances; and it was not until virtual rebellion in the british capital, born of commercial distress, menaced the ministry, that the expostulations of the americans were noticed, except with sneers. in america meetings were frequently held, and men thus encouraged each other by mutual conference. nor did _men_, alone, preach and practice self-denial; american _women_, the wives and daughters of patriots, cast their influence into the scale of patriotism, and by cheering voices and noble examples, became efficient co-workers. and when, in boston, cupidity overcame patriotism, and the defection of a few merchants who loved gold more than liberty, aroused the friends of the non-importation leagues, and assembled them in general council in faneuil hall, there to declare that they would "totally abstain from the use of tea," and other proscribed articles, the women of that city, fired with zeal for the general good, spoke out publicly and decidedly upon the subject. early in february, , the mistresses of three hundred families subscribed their names to a league, binding themselves not to use any more tea until the impost clause in the revenue act should be repealed. their daughters speedily followed their patriotic example, and three days afterward, a multitude of young ladies in boston and vicinity, signed the following pledge: "we, the daughters of those patriots who have, and do now appear for the public interest, and in that principally regard their posterity--as such, do with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea, in hopes to frustrate a plan which tends to deprive a whole community of all that is valuable in life." [illustration: faneuil hall.] from that time, tea was a proscribed article in boston, and opposition to the form of oppression was strongly manifested by the unanimity with which the pleasant beverage was discarded. nor did the ladies of boston bear this honor alone, but in salem, newport, norwich, new york, philadelphia, annapolis, williamsburg, wilmington, charleston, and savannah, the women sipped "the balsamic hyperion," made from the dried leaves of the raspberry plant, and discarded "the poisonous bohea." the newspapers of the day abound with notices of social gatherings where foreign tea was entirely discarded. about this time lord north succeeded townshend as chancellor of the exchequer. he was an honest man, a statesman of good parts, and a sincere friend to english liberty. he doubtless desired to discharge his duty faithfully, yet in dealing with the americans, he utterly misunderstood their character and temper, and could not perceive the justice of their demands. this was the minister who mismanaged the affairs of great britain throughout the whole of our war for independence, and by his pertinacity in attempts to tax the colonies, and in opposing them in their efforts to maintain their rights, he finally drove them to rebellion, and protracted the war until reconciliation was out of the question. early in , the british merchants, the most influential class in the realm, were driven by the non-importation agreements to become the friends of the colonists, and to join with them in petitions and remonstrances. the london merchants suffered more from the operations of the new revenue laws, than the americans. they had early foreseen the consequences of an attempt to tax the colonists; and when townshend's scheme was first proposed, they offered to pay an equivalent sum into the treasury, rather than risk the loss of the rapidly-increasing american trade. now, that anticipated loss was actual, and was bearing heavily upon them. it also affected the national exchequer. in one year, exports to america had decreased in amount to the value of almost four millions of dollars; and within three years ( to ), the government revenue from america decreased from five hundred and fifty thousand dollars per annum, to one hundred and fifty thousand. these facts awakened the people; these figures alarmed the government; and early in march, lord north asked leave to bring in a bill, in the house of commons, for repealing the duties upon glass, paper, and painters' colors, but retaining the duty of three-pence upon tea. this impost was very small--avowedly a "pepper-corn rent," retained to save the national honor, about which ministers prated so loudly. the friends of america--the _true_ friends of english liberty and "national honor"--asked for a repeal of the whole act; the stubborn king, and the short-sighted ministry would not consent to make the concession. north's bill became a law in april, and he fondly imagined that the insignificant three-pence a pound, upon a single article of luxury, would now be overlooked by the colonists. how egregiously he misapprehended their character! when intelligence of this act reached america, the scheme found no admirers. the people had never complained of the _amount_ of the taxes levied by impost; it was trifling. they asserted that great britain had _no right to tax them at all_, without their consent. it was for a great _principle_ they were contending; and they regarded the retention of the duty of three-pence upon the single article of tea, as much a violation of the constitutional rights of the colonists, as if there had been laid an impost a hundred-fold greater, upon a score of articles. this was the issue, and no partial concessions would be considered. the non-importation agreements began to be disregarded by many merchants, and six months before this repeal bill became a law, they had agreed, in several places, to import every thing but tea, and that powerful lever of opposition had now almost ceased to work. tea being an article of luxury, the resolutions to discard that were generally adhered to, and concerning tea, alone, the quarrel was continued. [illustration: portrait of governor hutchinson] for two years very little occurred to disturb the tranquillity of new england. thomas hutchinson, a man of fair abilities, but possessed of very little prudence or sound judgment, succeeded bernard as governor of massachusetts. new men, zealous and capable, were coming forth from among the people, to do battle for right and freedom. poor otis, whose eloquent voice had often stirred up the fires of rebellion in the hearts of the bostonians, when _writs of assistance_, and the _stamp act_, elicited his denunciations, and who, with prophetic voice, had told his brethren in great britain, "our fathers were a _good_ people, we have been a _free_ people, and if you will not let us be so any longer, we shall be a _great_ people," was now under a cloud. but his colleagues, some of them very young, were growing strong and experienced. john adams, then six-and-thirty, and rapidly rising in public estimation, occupied the seat of otis in the general assembly. john hancock, one of the wealthiest merchants of boston; samuel adams, a puritan of great experience and tried integrity; joseph warren, a young physician, full of energy and hope, who afterward fell on breed's hill; josiah quincy, a polished orator, though almost a stripling; thomas cushing, james warren, dr. samuel church, robert treat paine--these became the popular leaders, and fostered "the child independence," which john adams said, was born when otis denounced the writs of assistance, and the populace sympathized. these were the men who, at private meetings, concerted plans for public action; and with them, hutchinson soon quarreled. they issued a circular, declaring the rights of the colonies, and enumerating their grievances. hutchinson denounced it as seditious and traitorous; and while the public mind was excited by the quarrel, dr. franklin, who was agent for the colony in england, transmitted to the speaker of the assembly several private letters, written by the governor to members of parliament, in which he spoke disrespectfully of the americans, and recommended the adoption of coercive measures to abridge "what are called english liberties." these revelations raised a furious storm, and the people were with difficulty restrained from inflicting personal violence upon the governor. all classes, from the men in legislative council to the plainest citizen, felt a disgust that could not be concealed, and a breach was opened between ruler and people that grew wider every day. [illustration: earl of dartmouth.] the earl of hillsborough, who had been secretary of state for the colonies during the past few years of excitement, was now succeeded by lord dartmouth, a personal friend to dr. franklin, a sagacious statesman, and a man sincerely disposed to do justice to the colonies. had his councils prevailed, the duty upon tea would have been taken off, and all cause for discontent on the part of the colonies, removed. but north's blindness, countenanced by ignorant or wicked advisers, prevailed in the cabinet, and the olive-branch of peace and reconciliation, constantly held out by the americans while declaring their rights, was spurned. at the beginning of , the east india company, feeling the effects of the non-importation agreements and the colonial contraband trade, opened the way for reconciliation, while endeavoring to benefit themselves. already seventeen millions of pounds of tea had accumulated in their warehouses in england, and the demand for it in america was daily diminishing. to open anew an extensive market so suddenly closed, the company offered to allow government to retain six-pence upon the pound as an exportation tariff, if they would take off the duty of three-pence. ministers had now a fair opportunity, not only to conciliate the colonies in an honorable way, but to procure, without expense, double the amount of revenue. but the ministry, deluded by false views of national honor, would not listen to the proposition, but stupidly favored the east india company, while persisting in unrighteousness toward the americans. a bill was passed in may, to allow the company to export tea to america on their own account, without paying export duty, while the impost of three-pence was continued. the mother country thus taught the colonists to regard her as a voluntary oppressor. while the bill for allowing the east india company to export tea to america on their own account, was under consideration in parliament, dr. franklin, arthur lee, and others, apprised the colonists of the movement; and when, a few weeks afterward, several large vessels laden with the plant, were out upon the atlantic, bound for american ports, the people here were actively preparing to prevent the landing of the cargoes. the company had appointed consignees in various seaport towns, and these being generally known to the people, were warned to resign their commissions, or hold them at their peril. [illustration: hancock's house.] in boston the most active measures were taken to prevent the landing of the tea. the consignees were all friends of government; two of them were governor hutchinson's sons, and a third (richard clarke, father-in-law of john singleton copley, the eminent painter), was his nephew. their neighbors expostulated with them, but in vain; and as the time for the expected arrival of two or three tea-ships approached, the public mind became feverish. on the first of november several of the leading "sons of liberty," as the patriots were called, met at the house of john hancock, on beacon-street, facing the common, to consult upon the public good, touching the expected tea ships. a public meeting was decided upon, and on the morning of the third the following placard was posted in many places within the city: "to the freemen of this and the neighboring towns. "_gentlemen._--you are desired to meet at the liberty tree this day at twelve o'clock at noon, then and there to hear the persons to whom the tea shipped by the east india company is consigned, make a public resignation of their offices as consignees, upon oath; and also swear that they will reship any teas that may be consigned to them by the said company, by the first vessel sailing to london. o. c. sec'y. "boston, nov. , . "[illustration: a pointing finger] show me the man that dare take this down!" the consignees were summoned at an early hour in the morning, to appear under liberty tree (a huge elm, which stood at the present junction of washington and essex streets), and resign their commissions. they treated the summons with contempt, and refused to comply. at the appointed hour the town-crier proclaimed the meeting, and the church-bells of the city also gave the annunciation. timid men remained at home, but about five hundred people assembled near the tree, from the top of which floated the new england flag. no definite action was taken, and at three o'clock the meeting had dispersed. on the th, another meeting was held, over which john hancock presided. several short but vehement speeches were made, in which were uttered many seditious sentiments; eight resistance resolutions adopted by the philadelphians were agreed too; and a committee was appointed to wait upon the consignees, who, it was known, were then at clarke's store, on king-street, and request them to resign. again those gentlemen refused compliance, and when the committee reported to the meeting, it was voted that the answer of the consignees was "unsatisfactory and highly affrontive." this meeting also adjourned without deciding upon any definite course for future action. the excitement in boston now hourly increased. grave citizens congregated at the corners of the streets to interchange sentiments, and all seemed to have a presentiment that the sanguinary scenes of the th of march, , when blood flowed in the streets of boston, were about to be reproduced. the troops introduced by bernard had been removed from the city, and there was no legal power but that of the civil authorities, to suppress disorder. on the th, the captain-general of the province issued an order for the governor's guards, of which john hancock was colonel, to stand in readiness to assist the civil magistrate in preserving order. this corps, being strongly imbued with the sentiments of their commander, utterly disregarded the requisition. business was, in a measure, suspended, and general uneasiness prevailed. [illustration: province house.] on the th, another meeting was held in faneuil hall, and a committee was again appointed to wait upon the consignees and request them to resign. again they refused, and that evening the house of richard clarke, on school-street, was surrounded by an unruly crowd. a pistol was fired from the house, but without serious effect other than exciting the mob to deeds of violence; the windows were demolished, and the family menaced with personal injury. better counsels than those of anger soon prevailed, and at midnight the town was quiet. the meeting, in the mean while, had received the report of the committee in silence, and adjourned without uttering a word. this silence was ominous of evil to the friends of government. the consignees were alarmed, for it was evident that the people were determined to _talk_ only, no more, but henceforth to _act_. the governor, also, properly interpreted their silence as a calm before a storm, and he called his council together at the province house, to consult upon measures for preserving the peace of the city. during their session the frightened consignees presented a petition to the council, asking leave to resign their commissions into the hands of the governor and his advisers, and praying them to adopt measures for the safe landing of the teas. the council, equally fearful of the popular vengeance, refused the prayer of their petition, and the consignees withdrew, for safety, to castle william, a strong fortress at the entrance of the harbor, then garrisoned by a portion of the troops who had been encamped on boston common. the flight of the consignees allayed the excitement for a few days. on sunday evening, the th of november, the _dartmouth_, captain hall, one of the east india company's ships, arrived in the harbor. the next morning the following handbill was posted in every part of the city: "_friends! brethren! countrymen!_--that worst of plagues, the detested tea shipped for this port, by the east india company, is now arrived in the harbor. the hour of destruction, or manly opposition to the machinations of tyranny, stares you in the face; every friend to his country, to himself, and to posterity, is now called upon to meet at _faneuil hall_, at nine o'clock this day (at which time the bells will ring), to make united and successful resistance to this last, worst, and most destructive measure of administration. "boston, nov. th, ." [illustration: the "old south."] a large concourse assembled in and around faneuil hall at the appointed hour, too large to be admitted within its walls, and they adjourned to the old south meeting house, on the corner of the present washington and milk streets. hancock, the adamses, warren, quincy, and other popular leaders and influential citizens were there. firmness marked all the proceedings, and within that sanctuary of religion they made resolves of gravest import. it was agreed that no tea should be landed within the precincts of boston; that no duty should be paid; and that it should be sent back in the same bottom. they also voted that mr. roch, the owner of the _dartmouth_, "be directed not to enter the tea at his peril; and that captain hall be informed, and at his peril, not to suffer any of the tea to be landed." they ordered the ship to be moored at griffin's wharf, near the present liverpool dock, and appointed a guard of twenty-five men to watch her. when the meeting was about to adjourn, a letter was received from the consignees, offering to store the tea until they could write to england and obtain instructions from the owners. the people had resolved that not a chest should be landed, and the offer was at once rejected. the sheriff, who was present, then stepped upon the back of a pew, and read a proclamation by the governor, ordering the assembly to disperse. it was received with hisses. another resolution was then adopted, ordering two other tea vessels, then hourly expected, to be moored at griffin's wharf; and, after solemnly pledging themselves to carry their several resolutions into effect at all hazards, and thanking the people in attendance from the neighboring towns for their sympathy, they adjourned. every thing relating to the tea movement was now in the hands of the boston committee of correspondence. a large volunteer guard was enrolled, and every necessary preparation was made to support the resistance resolutions of the th. a fortnight elapsed without any special public occurrence, when, on the afternoon of the th of december, intelligence went through the town that the _eleanor_, captain james bruce, and the _beaver_, captain hezekiah coffin, ships of the east india company, laden with tea, had entered the harbor. they were moored at griffin's wharf by the volunteer guard, and that night there were many sleepless eyes in boston. the sons of liberty convened at an early hour in the evening, and expresses were sent to the neighboring towns with the intelligence. early the next morning the following placard appeared: "_friends! brethren! countrymen!_--the perfidious arts of your restless enemies to render ineffectual the resolutions of the body of the people, demand your assembling at the old south meeting house precisely at two o'clock this day, at which time the bells will ring." the "old south" was crowded at the appointed hour, yet perfect order prevailed. it was resolved to order mr. roch to apply immediately for a clearance for his ship, and send her to sea. the owner was in a dilemma, for the governor had taken measures, since the arrival of the dartmouth, to prevent her sailing out of the harbor. admiral montague, who happened to be in boston, was directed to fit out two armed vessels, and station them at the entrance to the harbor, to act in concert with colonel leslie, the commander of the garrison at the castle. leslie had already received written orders from the governor not to allow any vessel to pass the guns of the fort, outward, without a permit, signed by himself. of course mr. roch could do nothing. as no effort had yet been made to land the tea, the meeting adjourned, to assemble again on the th, at the same place. these several popular assemblies attracted great attention in the other colonies; and from new york and philadelphia in particular, letters, expressive of the strongest sympathy and encouragement, were received by the committee of correspondence. at the appointed hour on the th, the "old south" was again crowded, and the streets near were filled with a multitude, eager to participate in the proceedings. they had flocked in from the neighboring towns by hundreds. so great a gathering of people had never before occurred in boston. samuel phillips savage, of weston, was chosen moderator, or chairman, and around him sat many men who, two years afterward, were the recognized leaders of the revolution in massachusetts. when the preliminary business was closed, and the meeting was about to appoint committees for more vigorous action than had hitherto been directed, the youthful josiah quincy arose, and with words almost of prophecy, uttered with impassioned cadence, he harangued the multitude. "it is not, mr. moderator," he said, "the spirit that vapors within these walls that must stand us in stead. the exertions of this day will call forth events which will make a very different spirit necessary for our salvation. whoever supposes that shouts and hosannas will terminate the trials of this day, entertains a childish fancy. we must be grossly ignorant of the importance and the value of the prize for which we contend: we must be equally ignorant of the power of those who have combined against us; we must be blind to that malice, inveteracy, and insatiable revenge, which actuates our enemies, public and private, abroad and in our bosoms, to hope that we shall end this controversy without the sharpest conflicts--to flatter ourselves that popular resolves, popular harangues, popular acclamations, and popular vapor will vanquish our foes. let us consider the issue. let us look to the end. let us weigh and consider before we advance to those measures which must bring on the most trying and terrible struggle this country ever saw." this gifted young patriot did not live to see the struggle he so confidently anticipated; for, when blood was flowing, in the first conflicts at lexington and concord, eighteen month's afterward, he was dying with consumption, on ship-board, almost within sight of his native land. the people, in the "old south," were greatly agitated when quincy closed his harangue. it was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. the question was immediately proposed to the meeting, "will you abide by your former resolutions with respect to not suffering the tea to be landed?" the vast assembly within, as with one voice, replied affirmatively, and when the purport was known without, the multitude there responded in accordance. the meeting now awaited the return of mr. roch, who had been to the governor to request a permit for his vessel to leave the harbor. hutchinson, alarmed at the stormy aspect of affairs, had taken counsel of his fears, and withdrawn from the city to his country-house at milton, a few miles from boston. it was sunset when roch returned and informed the meeting that the governor refused to grant a permit, until a clearance should be exhibited. as a clearance had already been refused by the collector of the port, until the cargo should be landed, it was evident that government officers had concerted to resist the demands of the people. like a sea lashed by a storm, that meeting swayed with excitement, and eagerly demanded from the leaders some indication for immediate action. night was fast approaching, and as the twilight deepened, a call was made for candles. at that moment, a person in the gallery, disguised in the garb of a mohawk indian, gave a war-whoop, which was answered from without. that signal, like the notes of a trumpet before the battle-charge, fired the assemblage, and as another voice in the gallery shouted, "boston harbor a tea-pot to-night! hurrah for griffin's wharf!" a motion to adjourn was carried, and the multitude rushed to the street. "to griffin's wharf! to griffin's wharf!" again shouted several voices, while a dozen men, disguised as indians, were seen speeding over fort hill, in that direction. the populace followed, and in a few minutes the scene of excitement was transferred from the "old south" to the water side. no doubt the vigilant patriots had arranged this movement, in anticipation of the refusal of the governor to allow the _dartmouth_ to depart; for concert of action marked all the operations at the wharf. the number of persons disguised as indians, was fifteen or twenty, and these, with others who joined them, appeared to recognize lendall pitts, a mechanic of boston, as their leader. under his directions, about sixty persons boarded the three tea-ships, brought the chests upon deck, broke them open, and cast their contents into the water. the _dartmouth_ was boarded first; the _eleanor_ and _beaver_ were next entered; and within the space of two hours, the contents of three hundred and forty-two chests of tea were cast into the waters of the harbor. during the occurrence very little excitement was manifested among the multitude upon the wharf; and as soon as the work of destruction was completed, the active party marched in perfect order back into the town, preceded by a drum and fife, dispersed to their homes, and boston, untarnished by actual mob or riot, was never more tranquil than on that bright and frosty december night. a british squadron was not more than a quarter of a mile from griffin's wharf, where this event occurred, and british troops were near, yet the whole proceeding was uninterrupted. the newspapers of the day doubtless gave the correct interpretation to this apathy. something far more serious had been anticipated, if an attempt should be made to land the tea; and the owners of the vessels, as well as the public authorities, civil and military, doubtless thanked the _rioters_, in their secret thoughts, for thus extricating them from a serious dilemma. they would doubtless have been worsted in an attempt forcibly to land the tea; now, the vessels were saved from destruction; no blood was spilt; the courage of the civil and military officers remained unimpeached; the "_national honor_" was not compromised, and the bostonians, having carried their resolutions into effect, were satisfied. the east india company alone, which was the actual loser, had cause for complaint. [illustration: portrait of david kinnison] it may be asked, who were the men actively engaged in this high-handed measure? were they an ignorant rabble, with no higher motives than the gratification of a mobocratic spirit? by no means. while some of them were doubtless governed, in a measure, by such a motive, the greater portion were young men and lads who belonged to the respectable part of the community, and of the fifty-nine participators whose names have been preserved, some of them held honorable stations in after life; some battled nobly in defense of liberty in the continental army of the revolution which speedily followed, and almost all of them, according to traditionary testimony, were entitled to the respect due to good citizens. only one, of all that band, as far as is known, is yet among the living, and he has survived almost a half century beyond the allotted period of human life. when the present century dawned, he had almost reached the goal of three score and ten years; and now, at the age of _one hundred and fifteen years_, david kinnison, of chicago, illinois, holds the eminent position of the _last survivor of the boston tea party_! when the writer, in , procured the portrait and autograph of the aged patriot, he was living among strangers and ignorant of the earthly existence of one of all his twenty-two children. a daughter survives, and having been made acquainted of the existence of her father, by the publication of this portrait in the "field-book," she hastened to him, and is now smoothing the pillow of the patriarch as he is gradually passing into the long and peaceful slumber of the grave. [illustration: george robert twelves hewes.] the life of another actor was spared, until within ten years, and his portrait, also, is preserved. george robert twelves hewes, was supposed to be the latest survivor, until the name of david kinnison was made public. soon not one of all that party will be among the living. before closing this article let us advert to the _effect_ produced by the destruction of the tea in boston harbor, for to effects alone are causes indebted for importance. the events of the th of december produced a deep sensation throughout the british realm. they struck a sympathetic chord in every colony which afterward rebeled; and even canada, halifax, and the west indies, had no serious voice of censure for the bostonians. but the ministerial party here, and the public in england, amazed at the audacity of the americans in opposing royal authority, and in destroying private property, called loudly for punishment; and even the friends of the colonists in parliament were, for a moment, silent, for they could not fully excuse the lawless act. another and a powerful party was now made a principal in the quarrel; the east india company whose property had been destroyed, was now directly interested in the question of taxation. that huge monopoly which had controlled the commerce of the indies for more than a century and a half, was then almost at the zenith of its power. already it had laid the foundation, broad and deep, of that british-indian empire which now comprises the whole of hindostan, from the himalaya mountains to cape comorin, with a population of more than one hundred and twenty millions, and its power in the government affairs of great britain, was almost vice-regal. unawed by the fleets and armies of the imperial government, and by the wealth and power of this corporation, the bostonians justified their acts by the rules of justice and the guarantees of the british constitution; and the next vessel to england, after the event was known there, carried out an honest proposition to the east india company, from the people of boston, to pay for the tea destroyed. the whole matter rested at once upon its original basis--the right of great britain to tax the colonies--and this fair proposition of the bostonians disarmed ministers of half their weapons of vituperation. the american party in england saw nothing whereof to be ashamed, and the presses, opposed to the ministry, teemed with grave disquisitions, satires, and lampoons, all favorable to the colonists, while art lent its aid in the production of several caricatures similar to the one here given, in which lord north is represented as pouring tea down the throat of unwilling america, who is held fast by lord mansfield (then employed by government in drawing up the various acts so obnoxious to the colonists), while britannia stands by, weeping at the distress of her daughter. in america, almost every newspaper of the few printed, was filled with arguments, epigrams, parables, sonnets, dialogues, and every form of expression favorable to the resistance made in boston to the arbitrary acts of government; and a voice of approval went forth from pulpits, courts of law, and the provincial legislatures. [illustration: pouring tea down the throat of america] great was the exasperation of the king and his ministers when intelligence of the proceedings in boston reached them. according to burke, the "house of lords was like a seething caldron"--the house of commons was "as hot as faneuil hall or the old south meeting house at boston." ministers and their supporters charged the colonies with open rebellion, while the opposition denounced, in the strongest language which common courtesy would allow, the foolish, unjust, and wicked course of government. in cabinet council, the king and his ministers deliberately considered the matter, and the result was a determination to use coercive measures against the colonies. the first of these schemes was a bill brought forward in march, , which provided for the closing of the port of boston, and the removal of customs, courts of justice, and government offices of every kind from boston to salem. this was avowedly a retaliatory measure; and the famous _boston port bill_, which, more than any other act of the british government, was instrumental in driving the colonies to rebellion, became a law within a hundred days after the destruction of the tea. in the debate upon this bill, the most violent language was used toward the americans. lord north justified the measure by asserting that boston was "the centre of rebellious commotion in america; the ring-leader in every riot." mr. herbert declared that the americans deserved no consideration; that they were "never actuated by decency or reason, and that they always chose tarring and feathering as an argument;" while mr. van, another ministerial supporter, denounced the people of boston as totally unworthy of civilized forbearance--declared that "they ought to have their town knocked about their ears, and destroyed;" and concluded his tirade of abuse by quoting the factious cry of the old roman orators, "delenda est carthago!"--carthage must be destroyed. edmund burke, who now commenced his series of splendid orations in favor of america, denounced the whole scheme as essentially wicked and unjust, because it punished the innocent with the guilty. "you will thus irrevocably alienate the hearts of the colonies from the mother country," he exclaimed. "the bill is unjust, since it bears only upon the city of boston, while it is notorious that all america is in flames; that the cities of philadelphia, of new york, and all the maritime towns of the continent, have exhibited the same disobedience. you are contending for a matter which the bostonians will not give up quietly. they can not, by such means, be made to bow to the authority of ministers; on the contrary, you will find their obstinacy confirmed and their fury exasperated. the acts of resistance in their city have not been confined to the populace alone, but men of the first rank and opulent fortune in the place have openly countenanced them. one city in proscription and the rest in rebellion, can never be a remedial measure for disturbances. have you considered whether you have troops and ships sufficient to reduce the people of the whole american continent to your devotion?" from denunciation he passed to appeal, and besought ministers to pause ere they should strike a blow that would forever separate the colonies from great britain. but the pleadings of burke and others, were in vain, and "deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity," this, and other rigorous measures, were put in operation by ministers. the industry and enterprise of boston was crushed when, on the first of june, the _port bill_ went into operation; but her voice of wail, as it went over the land, awakened the noblest expressions and acts of sympathy, and the blow inflicted upon her was resented by all the colonies. they all felt that forbearance was no longer a virtue. ten years they had pleaded, petitioned, remonstrated; they were uniformly answered by insult. there seemed no other alternative but abject submission, or open, armed resistance. they chose the latter, and thirteen months after the boston _port bill_ became a law, the battle at lexington and concord had been fought, and boston was beleaguered by an army of patriots. the battle of bunker hill soon followed; a continental army was organized with washington at its head, and the war of the revolution began. eight long years it continued, when the oppressors, exhausted, gave up the contest. peace came, and with it, independence; and the republic of the united states took its place among the nations of the earth. how conspicuous the feeble chinese plant should appear among these important events let the voice of history determine. the american arctic expedition. the safe return of the expedition sent out by mr. henry grinnell, an opulent merchant of new york city, in search of sir john franklin and his companions, is an event of much interest; and the voyage, though not resulting in the discovery of the long-absent mariners, presents many considerations satisfactory to the parties immediately concerned, and to the american public in general. in the second volume of the magazine, on pages to inclusive, we printed some interesting extracts from the journal of mr. w. parker snow, of the _prince albert_, a vessel which sailed from aberdeen with a crew of scotchmen, upon the same errand of mercy. that account is illustrated by engravings; and in his narrative, mr. snow makes favorable mention of mr. grinnell's enterprise, and the character of the officers, crew, and vessels. we now present a more detailed account of the american expedition, its adventures and results, together with several graphic illustrations, engraved from drawings made in the polar seas during the voyage, by mr. charles berry, a seaman of the _advance_, the largest of the two vessels. these drawings, though made with a pencil in hands covered with thick mittens, while the thermometer indicated from ° to ° below zero, exhibit much artistic skill in correctness of outline and beauty of finish. mr. berry is a native of hamburg, germany, and was properly educated for the duties of the counting-room and the accomplishments of social life. attracted by the romance of "the sea, the sea, the deep blue sea," he abandoned home for the perilous and exciting life of a sailor. although only thirty years of age, he has been fifteen years upon the ocean. five years he was in the english service, much of the time in the waters near the arctic circle; the remainder has been spent in the service of the united states. he was with the _germantown_ in the gulf, during the war with mexico, and accompanied her marines at the siege of vera cruz. he was in the _north carolina_ when lieutenant de haven went on board seeking volunteers for the arctic expedition. he offered his services; they were accepted, and a more skillful and faithful seaman never went aloft. and it is pleasant to hear with what enthusiasm he speaks of commander de haven, as a skillful navigator and kind-hearted man. "he was as kind to me as a brother," he said, "and i would go with him to the ends of the earth, if he wanted me." although he speaks english somewhat imperfectly, yet we have listened with great pleasure to his intelligent narrative of the perils, occupations, sports, and duties of the voyage. since his return he has met an uncle, the commander of a merchant vessel, and, for the first time in fifteen years, he received intelligence from his family. "my mother is dead," said he to us, while the tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes; "i have no one to go home to now--i shall stay here." [illustration: map showing the route of the expedition. (the solid black line shows the outward course of the vessels; the dotted line denotes the drift of the vessels, their baffled attempt to reach lancaster sound a second time, and their return home.)] we shall not attempt to give a detailed narrative of the events of the expedition; we shall relate only some of the most noteworthy circumstances, especially those which the pencil of the sailor-artist has illustrated. by reference to the small map on the preceding page, the relative position of the places named; the track of the vessels in their outward voyage; their ice-drift of more than a thousand miles, and their abortive attempt to penetrate the ice of baffin's bay a second time, will be more clearly understood. [illustration: advance and rescue beating to windward of an iceberg three miles in circumference.] mr. grinnell's expedition consisted of only two small brigs, the _advance_ of tons; the _rescue_ of only tons. the former had been engaged in the havana trade; the latter was a new vessel, built for the merchant service. both were strengthened for the arctic voyage at a heavy cost. they were then placed under the directions of our navy board, and subject to naval regulations as if in permanent service. the command was given to lieutenant e. de haven, a young naval officer who accompanied the united states exploring expedition. the result has proved that a better choice could not have been made. his officers consisted of mr. murdoch, sailing-master; dr. e. k. kane, surgeon and naturalist; and mr. lovell, midshipman. the _advance_ had a crew of twelve men when she sailed; two of them complaining of sickness, and expressing a desire to return home, were left at the danish settlement at disko island, on the coast of greenland. the expedition left new york on the d of may, , and was absent a little more than sixteen months. they passed the eastern extremity of newfoundland ten days after leaving sandy hook, and then sailed east-northeast, directly for cape comfort, on the coast of greenland. the weather was generally fine, and only a single accident occurred on the voyage to that country of frost and snow. off the coast of labrador, they met an iceberg making its way toward the tropics. the night was very dark, and as the huge voyager had no "light out" the _advance_ could not be censured for running foul. she was punished, however, by the loss of her jib-boom, as she ran against the iceberg at the rate of seven or eight knots an hour. the voyagers did not land at cape comfort, but turning northward, sailed along the southwest coast of greenland, sometimes in an open sea, and sometimes in the midst of broad acres of broken ice (particularly in davis's straits), as far as whale island. on the way the anniversary of our national independence occurred; it was observed by the seamen by "splicing the main-brace"--in other words, they were allowed an extra glass of grog on that day. from whale island, a boat, with two officers and four seamen, was sent to disko island, a distance of about miles, to a danish settlement there, to procure skin clothing and other articles necessary for use during the rigors of a polar winter. the officers were entertained at the government house; the seamen were comfortably lodged with the esquimaux, sleeping in fur bags at night. they returned to the ship the following day, and the expedition proceeded on its voyage. when passing the little danish settlement of upernavick, they were boarded by natives for the first time. they were out in government whale-boats, hunting for ducks and seals. these hardy children of the arctic circle were not shy, for through the danes, the english whalers, and government expeditions, they had become acquainted with men of other latitudes. [illustration: perilous situation of the advance and rescue in melville bay.] when the expedition reached melville bay, which, on account of its fearful character, is also called the _devil's nip_, the voyagers began to witness more of the grandeur and perils of arctic scenes. icebergs of all dimensions came bearing down from the polar seas like vast squadrons, and the roar of their rending came over the waters like the booming of the heavy broadsides of contending navies. they also encountered immense _floes_, with only narrow channels between, and at times their situation was exceedingly perilous. on one occasion, after heaving through fields of ice for five consecutive weeks, two immense _floes_, between which they were making their way, gradually approached each other, and for several hours they expected their tiny vessels--tiny when compared with the mighty objects around them--would be crushed. an immense _calf_ of ice six or eight feet thick slid under the _rescue_, lifting her almost "high and dry," and careening her partially upon her beam's end. by means of ice-anchors (large iron hooks), they kept her from capsizing. in this position they remained about sixty hours, when, with saws and axes, they succeeded in relieving her. the ice now opened a little, and they finally warped through into clear water. while they were thus confined, polar bears came around them in abundance, greedy for prey, and the seamen indulged a little in the perilous sports of the chase. [illustration: the advance, rescue, and prince albert near the devil's thumb.] the open sea continued but a short time, when they again became entangled among _bergs_, _floes_, and _hummocks_, and encountered the most fearful perils. sometimes they anchored their vessels to icebergs, and sometimes to _floes_ or masses of _hummock_. on one of these occasions, while the cook, an active frenchman, was upon a _berg_, making a place for an anchor, the mass of ice split beneath him, and he was dropped through the yawning fissure into the water, a distance of almost thirty feet. fortunately the masses, as is often the case, did not close up again, but floated apart, and the poor cook was hauled on board more dead than alive, from excessive fright. it was in this fearful region that they first encountered _pack-ice_, and there they were locked in from the th to the d of july. during that time they were joined by the yacht _prince albert_, commanded by captain forsyth, of the royal navy, and together the three vessels were anchored, for a while, to an immense field of ice, in sight of the _devil's thumb_. that high, rocky peak, situated in latitude ° ' was about thirty miles distant, and with the dark hills adjacent, presented a strange aspect where all was white and glittering. the peak and the hills are masses of rock, with occasionally a lichen or a moss growing upon their otherwise naked surfaces. in the midst of the vast ice-field loomed up many lofty _bergs_, all of them in motion--slow and majestic motion. from the _devil's thumb_ the american vessels passed onward through the _pack_ toward sabine's islands, while the _prince albert_ essayed to make a more westerly course. they reached cape york at the beginning of august. far across the ice, landward, they discovered, through their glasses, several men, apparently making signals; and for a while they rejoiced in the belief that they saw a portion of sir john franklin's companions. four men (among whom was our sailor-artist) were dispatched with a whale-boat to reconnoitre. they soon discovered the men to be esquimaux, who, by signs, professed great friendship, and endeavored to get the voyagers to accompany them to their homes beyond the hills. they declined: and as soon as they returned to the vessel, the expedition again pushed forward, and made its way to cape dudley digges, which they reached on the th of august. at cape dudley digges they were charmed by the sight of the _crimson cliffs_, spoken of by captain parry and other arctic navigators. these are lofty cliffs of dark brown stone, covered with snow of a rich crimson color. it was a magnificent sight in that cold region, to see such an apparently warm object standing out in bold relief against the dark blue back-ground of a polar sky. this was the most northern point to which the expedition penetrated. the whole coast which they had passed from disko to this cape is high, rugged, and barren, only some of the low points, stretching into the sea, bearing a species of dwarf fir. northeast from the cape rise the arctic highlands, to an unknown altitude; and stretching away northward is the unexplored smith's sound, filled with impenetrable ice. [illustration: the advance leading the prince albert, near leopold island.] from cape dudley digges, the _advance_ and _rescue_, beating against wind and tide in the midst of the ice-fields, made wolstenholme sound, and then changing their course to the southwest, emerged from the fields into the open waters of lancaster sound. here, on the th of august, they encountered a tremendous gale, which lasted about twenty-four hours. the two vessels parted company during the storm, and remained separate several days. across lancaster sound, the _advance_ made her way to barrow's straits, and on the d discovered the _prince albert_ on the southern shore of the straits, near leopold island, a mass of lofty, precipitous rocks, dark and barren, and hooded and draped with snow. the weather was fine, and soon the officers and crews of the two vessels met in friendly greeting. those of the _prince albert_ were much astonished, for they (being towed by a steamer) left the americans in melville bay on the th, pressing northward through the _pack_, and could not conceive how they so soon and safely penetrated it. captain forsyth had attempted to reach a particular point, where he intended to remain through the winter, but finding the passage thereto completely blocked up with ice, he had resolved, on the very day when the americans appeared, to "'bout ship," and return home. this fact, and the disappointment felt by mr. snow, are mentioned in our former article. the two vessels remained together a day or two, when they parted company, the _prince albert_ to return home, and the _advance_ to make further explorations. it was off leopold island, on the d of august, that the "mad yankee" took the lead through the vast masses of floating ice, so vividly described by mr. snow, and so graphically portrayed by the sailor-artist. "the way was before them," says mr. snow, who stood upon the deck of the _advance_; "the stream of ice had to be either gone through boldly, or a long _detour_ made; and, despite the heaviness of the stream, _they pushed the vessel through in her proper course_. two or three shocks, as she came in contact with some large pieces, were unheeded; and the moment the last block was past the bow, the officer sung out,'so: steady as she goes on her course;' and came aft as if nothing more than ordinary sailing had been going on. i observed our own little bark nobly following in the american's wake; and as i afterward learned, she got through it pretty well, though not without much doubt of the propriety of keeping on in such procedure after the 'mad yankee,' as he was called by our mate." from leopold island the _advance_ proceeded to the northwest, and on the th reached cape riley, another amorphous mass, not so regular and precipitate as leopold island, but more lofty. here a strong tide, setting in to the shore, drifted the _advance_ toward the beach, where she stranded. around her were small bergs and large masses of floating ice, all under the influence of the strong current. it was about two o'clock in the afternoon when she struck. by diligent labor in removing every thing from her deck to a small _floe_, she was so lightened, that at four o'clock the next morning she floated, and soon every thing was properly replaced. [illustration: the advance stranded at cape riley.] near cape riley the americans fell in with a portion of an english expedition, and there also the _rescue_, left behind in the gale in lancaster sound, overtook the _advance_. there was captain penny with the _sophia_ and _lady franklin_; the veteran sir john ross, with the _felix_, and commodore austin, with the _resolute_ steamer. together the navigators of both nations explored the coast at and near cape riley, and on the th they saw in a cove on the shore of beechy island, or beechy cape, on the east side of the entrance to wellington channel, unmistakable evidence that sir john franklin and his companions were there in april, . there they found many articles known to belong to the british navy, and some that were the property of the _erebus_ and _terror_, the ships under the command of sir john. there lay, bleached to the whiteness of the surrounding snow, a piece of _canvas_, with the name of the _terror_, marked upon it with indestructible charcoal. it was very faint, yet perfectly legible. near it was a _guide board_, lying flat upon its face, having been prostrated by the wind. it had evidently been used to direct exploring parties to the vessels, or, rather, to the encampment on shore. the board was pine, thirteen inches in length and six and a half in breadth, and nailed to a boarding pike eight feet in length. it is supposed that the sudden opening of the ice, caused sir john to depart hastily, and that in so doing, this pike and its board were left behind. they also found a large number of _tin canisters_, such as are used for packing meats for a sea voyage; an _anvil block_; remnants of clothing, which evinced, by numerous patches and their threadbare character, that they had been worn as long as the owners could keep them on; the remains of an _india rubber glove_, lined with wool; some old _sacks_; a _cask_, or tub, partly filled with charcoal, and an unfinished _rope-mat_, which, like other fibrous fabrics, was bleached white. [illustration: anvil block. guide board.] but the most interesting, and at the same time most melancholy traces of the navigators, were _three graves_, in a little sheltered cove, each with a board at the head, bearing the name of the sleeper below. these inscriptions testify positively when sir john and his companions were there. the board at the head of the grave on the left has the following inscription: "sacred to the memory of john torrington, who departed this life, january st, a. d., , on board her majesty's ship _terror_, aged years." on the centre one--"sacred to the memory of john hartnell, a. b., of her majesty's ship _erebus_; died, january th, , aged years. 'thus saith the lord of hosts, consider your ways:' haggai, chap. i. v. ." on the right--"sacred to the memory of w. braine, r. m., of her majesty's ship _erebus_, who died april d, , aged years. 'choose you this day whom you will serve:' joshua, chap. xxiv., part of the th verse." [illustration: three graves at beechy.[ ]] how much later than april d (the date upon the last-named head-board), sir john remained at beechy, can not be determined. they saw evidences of his having gone northward, for sledge tracks in that direction were very visible. it is the opinion of dr. kane that, on the breaking up of the ice, in the spring, sir john passed northward with his ships through wellington channel, into the great polar basin, and that he did not return. this, too, is the opinion of captain penny, and he zealously urges the british government to send a powerful screw steamer to pass through that channel, and explore the _theoretically_ more hospitable coasts beyond. this will doubtless be undertaken another season, it being the opinions of captains parry, beechy, sir john ross, and others, expressed at a conference with the board of admiralty, in september, that the season was too far advanced to attempt it the present year. dr. kane, in a letter to mr. grinnell, since the return of the expedition, thus expresses his opinion concerning the safety of sir john and his companions. after saying, "i should think that he is now to be sought for north and west of cornwallis island," he adds, "as to the chance of the destruction of his party by the casualties of ice, the return of our own party after something more than the usual share of them, is the only _fact_ that i can add to what we knew when we set out. the hazards from cold and privation of food may be almost looked upon as subordinate. the snow-hut, the fire and light from the moss-lamp fed with blubber, the seal, the narwhal, the white whale, and occasionally abundant stores of migratory birds, would sustain vigorous life. the scurvy, the worst visitation of explorers deprived of permanent quarters, is more rare in the depths of a polar winter, than in the milder weather of the moist summer; and our two little vessels encountered both seasons without losing a man." [illustration: the advance and rescue at barlow's inlet.] leaving beechy cape, our expedition forced its way through the ice to barlow's inlet, where they narrowly escaped being frozen in for the winter. they endeavored to enter the inlet, for the purpose of making it their winter quarters, but were prevented by the mass of _pack-ice_ at its entrance. it was on the th of september, , when they arrived there, and after remaining seven or eight days, they abandoned the attempt to enter. on the right and left of the above picture, are seen the dark rocks at the entrance of the inlet, and in the centre the frozen waters and the range of hills beyond. there was much smooth ice within the inlet, and while the vessels lay anchored to the "field," officers and crew exercised and amused themselves by skating. on the left of the inlet, (indicated by the dark conical object,) they discovered a _cairn_ (a heap of stones with a cavity) eight or ten feet in height, which was erected by captain ommanny of the english expedition then in the polar waters. within it he had placed two letters, for "whom it might concern." commander de haven also deposited a letter there. it is believed to be the only post-office in the world, free for the use of all nations. the rocks, here, presented vast fissures made by the frost; and at the foot of the cliff on the right, that powerful agent had cast down vast heaps of _debris_. from barlow's inlet, our expedition moved slowly westward, battling with the ice every rood of the way, until they reached griffin's island, at about ° west longitude from greenwich. this was attained on the th, and was the extreme westing made by the expedition. all beyond seemed impenetrable ice; and, despairing of making any further discoveries before the winter should set in, they resolved to return home. turning eastward, they hoped to reach davis's straits by the southern route, before the cold and darkness came on, but they were doomed to disappointment. near the entrance to wellington channel they became completely locked in by _hummock-ice_, and soon found themselves drifting with an irresistible tide up that channel toward the pole. now began the most perilous adventures of the navigators. the summer day was drawing to a close; the diurnal visits of the pale sun were rapidly shortening, and soon the long polar night, with all its darkness and horrors, would fall upon them. slowly they drifted in those vast fields of ice, whither, or to what result, they knew not. locked in the moving yet compact mass; liable every moment to be crushed; far away from land; the mercury sinking daily lower and lower from the zero figure, toward the point where that metal freezes, they felt small hope of ever reaching home again. yet they prepared for winter comforts and winter sports, as cheerfully as if lying safe in barlow's inlet. as the winter advanced, the crews of both vessels went on board the larger one. they unshipped the rudders of each to prevent their being injured by the ice, covered the deck of the _advance_ with felt, prepared their stores, and made arrangements for enduring the long winter, now upon them. physical and mental activity being necessary for the preservation of health, they daily exercised in the open air for several hours. they built ice huts, hunted the huge white bears and the little polar foxes, and when the darkness of the winter night had spread over them, they arranged in-door amusements and employments. [illustration: situation of the advance in barrow's straits] before the end of october, the sun made its appearance for the last time, and the awful polar night closed in. early in november they wholly abandoned the _rescue_, and both crews made the _advance_ their permanent winter home. the cold soon became intense; the mercury congealed, and the spirit thermometer indicated ° below zero! its average range was ° to °. they had drifted helplessly up wellington channel as high as the point . on the map, almost to the latitude from whence captain penny saw an open sea, and which all believe to be the great polar basin, where there is a more genial clime than that which intervenes between the arctic circle and the th degree. here, when almost in sight of the open ocean, that mighty polar tide, with its vast masses of ice, suddenly ebbed, and our little vessels were carried back as resistlessly as before, through barrow's straits into lancaster sound! all this while the immense fields of _hummock-ice_ were moving, and the vessels were in hourly danger of being crushed and destroyed. at length, while drifting through barrow's straits, the congealed mass, as if crushed together by the opposite shores, became more compact, and the _advance_ was elevated almost seven feet by the stern, and keeled two feet eight inches, starboard, as seen in the engraving. in this position she remained, with very little alteration, for five consecutive months; for, soon after entering baffin's bay in the midst of the winter, the ice became frozen in one immense tract, covering millions of acres. thus frozen in, sometimes more than a hundred miles from land, they drifted slowly along the southwest coast of baffin's bay, a distance of more than a thousand miles from wellington channel. for eleven weeks that dreary night continued, and during that time the disc of the sun was never seen above the horizon. yet nature was not wholly forbidding in aspect. sometimes the aurora borealis would flash up still further northward; and sometimes aurora parhelia--mock suns and mock moons--would appear in varied beauty in the starry sky. brilliant, too, were the northern constellations; and when the real moon was at its full, it made its stately circuit in the heavens without descending below the horizon, and lighted up the vast piles of ice with a pale lustre, almost as great as the morning twilights of more genial skies. [illustration: advance and rescue drifting in wellington sound.] around the vessels the crews built a wall of ice; and in ice huts they stowed away their cordage and stores to make room for exercise on the decks. they organized a theatrical company, and amused themselves and the officers with comedy well performed. behind the pieces of _hummock_ each actor learned his part, and by means of calico they transformed themselves into female characters, as occasion required. these dramas were acted upon the deck of the _advance_, sometimes while the thermometer indicated ° below zero, and actors and audience highly enjoyed the fun. they also went out in parties during that long night, fully armed, to hunt the polar bear, the grim monarch of the frozen north, on which occasions they often encountered perilous adventures. they played at foot-ball, and exercised themselves in drawing sledges, heavily laden with provisions. five hours of each twenty-four, they thus exercised in the open air, and once a week each man washed his whole body in cold snow water. serious sickness was consequently avoided, and the scurvy which attacked them soon yielded to remedies. [illustration: advance and rescue during the winter of - .] often during that fearful night, they expected the disaster of having their vessels crushed. all through november and december, before the ice became fast, they slept in their clothes, with knapsacks on their backs, and sledges upon the ice, laden with stores, not knowing at what moment the vessels might be demolished, and themselves forced to leave them and make their way toward land. on the th of december, and the d of january, they actually lowered their boats and stood upon the ice, for the crushing masses were making the timbers of the gallant vessel creak and its decks to rise in the centre. they were then ninety miles from land, and hope hardly whispered an encouraging idea of life being sustained. on the latter occasion, when officers and crew stood upon the ice, with the ropes of their provision sledges in their hands, a terrible snow-drift came from the northeast, and intense darkness shrouded them. had the vessel then been crushed, all must have perished. but god, who ruled the storm, also put forth his protecting arm and saved them. early in february the northern horizon began to be streaked with gorgeous twilight, the herald of the approaching king of day; and on the th the disc of the sun first appeared above the horizon. as its golden rim rose above the glittering snow-drifts and piles of ice, three hearty cheers went up from those hardy mariners, and they welcomed their deliverer from the chains of frost as cordially as those of old who chanted, "see! the conquering hero comes! sound the trumpet, beat the drums." [illustration: the advance in davis's straits, june , .] [illustration: stern of the rescue in the ice.] day after day it rose higher and higher, and while the pallid faces of the voyagers, bleached during that long night, darkened by its beams, the vast masses of ice began to yield to its fervid influences. the scurvy disappeared, and from that time, until their arrival home, not a man suffered from sickness. as they slowly drifted through davis's straits, and the ice gave indications of breaking up, the voyagers made preparations for sailing. the _rescue_ was re-occupied, (may th ), and her stern-post, which had been broken by the ice in barrow's straits, was repaired. to accomplish this, they were obliged to dig away the ice which was from to feet thick around her, as represented in the engraving. they re-shipped their rudders; removed the felt covering; placed their stores on deck, and then patiently awaited the disruption of the ice. this event was very sudden and appalling. it began to give way on the th of june, and in the space of twenty minutes the whole mass, as far as the eye could reach became one vast field of moving _floes_. on the th of june they emerged into open water ( , on the map) a little south of the arctic circle, in latitude ° '. they immediately repaired to godhaven, on the coast of greenland, where they re-fitted, and, unappalled by the perils through which they had just passed, they once more turned their prows northward to encounter anew the ice squadrons of baffin's bay. again they traversed the coast of greenland to about the d degree, when they bore to the westward, and on the th and th of july passed the english whaling fleet near the dutch islands. onward they pressed through the accumulating ice to baffin's island, where, on the th, they were joined by the _prince albert_, then out upon another cruise. they continued in company until the d of august, when the _albert_ departed for the westward, determined to try the more southern passage. here again ( ,) our expedition encountered vast fields of _hummock-ice_, and were subjected to the most imminent perils. the floating ice, as if moved by adverse currents, tumbled in huge masses, and reared upon the sides of the sturdy little vessels like monsters of the deep intent upon destruction. these masses broke in the bulwarks, and sometimes fell over upon the decks with terrible force, like rocks rolled over a plain by mountain torrents. the noise was fearful; so deafening that the mariners could scarcely hear each other's voices. the sounds of these rolling masses, together with the rending of the icebergs floating near, and the vast _floes_, produced a din like the discharge of a thousand pieces of ordnance upon a field of battle. [illustration: the advance among hummocks] finding the north and west closed against further progress, by impenetrable ice, the brave de haven was balked, and turning his vessels homeward, they came out into an open sea, somewhat crippled, but not a plank seriously started. during a storm off the banks of newfoundland, a thousand miles from new york, the vessels parted company. the _advance_ arrived safely at the navy yard at brooklyn on the th of september, and the _rescue_ joined her there a few days afterward. toward the close of october the government resigned the vessels into the hands of mr. grinnell, to be used in other service, but with the stipulation that they are to be subject to the order of the secretary of the navy in the spring, if required for another expedition in search of sir john franklin. we have thus given a very brief account of the principal events of interest connected with the american arctic expedition; the officers of which will doubtless publish a more detailed narrative. aside from the success which attended our little vessels in encountering the perils of the polar seas, there are associations which must forever hallow the effort as one of the noblest exhibitions of the true glory of nations. the navies of america and england have before met upon the ocean, but they met for deadly strife. now, too, they met for strife, equally determined, but not with each other. they met in the holy cause of benevolence and human sympathy, to battle with the elements beneath the arctic circle; and the chivalric heroism which the few stout hearts of the two nations displayed in that terrible conflict, redounds a thousand-fold more to the glory of the actors, their governments, and the race, than if four-score ships, with ten thousand armed men had fought for the mastery of each other upon the broad ocean, and battered hulks and marred corpses had gone down to the coral caves of the sea, a dreadful offering to the demon of discord. in the latter event, troops of widows and orphan children would have sent up a cry of wail; now, the heroes _advanced_ manfully to _rescue_ husbands and fathers to restore them to their wives and children. how glorious the thought! and how suggestive of the beauty of that fast approaching day, when the nations shall sit down in peace as united children of one household. napoleon bonaparte.[ ] by john s. c. abbott. conclusion of the first italian campaign. mantua had now fallen. the austrians were driven from italy. the pope, with the humility of a child, had implored the clemency of the conqueror. still austria refused to make peace with republican france, and with indomitable perseverance gathered her resources for another conflict. napoleon resolved to march directly upon vienna. his object was peace, not conquest. in no other possible way could peace be attained. it was a bold enterprise. leaving the whole breadth of italy between his armies and france, he prepared to cross the rugged summits of the carnic alps, and to plunge, with an army of but fifty thousand men, into the very heart of one of the most proud and powerful empires upon the globe, numbering twenty millions of inhabitants. napoleon wished to make an ally of venice. to her government he said, "your whole territory is imbued with revolutionary principles. one single word from me will excite a blaze of insurrection through all your provinces. ally yourself with france, make a few modifications in your government such as are indispensable for the welfare of the people, and we will pacify public opinion and will sustain your authority." advice more prudent and humane could not have been given. the haughty aristocracy of venice refused the alliance, raised an army of sixty thousand men, ready at any moment to fall upon napoleon's rear, and demanded neutrality. "be neutral, then," said napoleon, "but remember, if you violate your neutrality, if you harass my troops, if you cut off my supplies, i will take ample vengeance. i march upon vienna. conduct which could be forgiven were i in italy, will be unpardonable when i am in austria. the hour that witnesses the treachery of venice, shall terminate her independence." mantua was the birth-place of virgil. during centuries of wealth and luxurious ease neither italy nor austria had found time to rear any monument in honor of the illustrious mantuan bard. but hardly had the cannon of napoleon ceased to resound around the beleaguered city, and the smoke of the conflict had hardly passed away, ere the young conqueror, ever more interested in the refinements of peace than in the desolations of war, in the midst of the din of arms, and contending against the intrigues of hostile nations, reared a mausoleum and arranged a gorgeous festival in honor of the immortal poet. thus he endeavored to shed renown upon intellectual greatness, and to rouse the degenerate italians to appreciate and to emulate the glory of their fathers. from these congenial pursuits of peace he again turned, with undiminished energy, to pursue the unrelenting assailants of his country. leaving ten thousand men in garrison to watch the neutrality of the italian governments, napoleon, early in march, removed his head-quarters to bassano. he then issued to his troops the following martial proclamation, which, like bugle notes of defiance, reverberated over the hostile and astonished monarchies of europe. "soldiers! the campaign just ended has given you imperishable renown. you have been victorious in fourteen pitched battles and seventy actions. you have taken more than a hundred thousand prisoners, five hundred field-pieces, two thousand heavy guns, and four pontoon trains. you have maintained the army during the whole campaign. in addition to this you have sent six millions of dollars to the public treasury, and have enriched the national museum with three hundred masterpieces of the arts of ancient and modern italy, which it has required thirty centuries to produce. you have conquered the finest countries in europe. the french flag waves for the first time upon the adriatic opposite to macedon, the native country of alexander. still higher destinies await you. i know that you will not prove unworthy of them. of all the foes that conspired to stifle the republic in its birth, the austrian emperor alone remains before you. to obtain peace we must seek it in the heart of his hereditary state. you will there find a brave people, whose religion and customs you will respect, and whose property you will hold sacred. remember that it is liberty you carry to the brave hungarian nation." the archduke charles, brother of the king, was now intrusted with the command of the austrian army. his character can not be better described than in the language of his magnanimous antagonist. "prince charles," said napoleon, "is a man whose conduct can never attract blame. his soul belongs to the heroic age, but his heart to that of gold. more than all he is a good man, and that includes every thing, when said of a prince." early in march, charles, a young man of about napoleon's age, who had already obtained renown upon the rhine, was in command of an army of , men stationed upon the banks of the piave. from different parts of the empire , men were on the march to join him. this would give him , troops to array against the french. napoleon, with the recruits which he had obtained from france and italy, had now a force of fifty thousand men with which to undertake this apparently desperate enterprise. the eyes of all europe were upon the two combatants. it was the almost universal sentiment, that, intoxicated with success, napoleon was rushing to irretrievable ruin. but napoleon never allowed enthusiasm to run away with his judgment. his plans were deeply laid, and all the combinations of chance carefully calculated. the storms of winter were still howling around the snow-clad summits of the alps, and it was not thought possible that thus early in the season he would attempt the passage of so formidable a barrier. a dreadful tempest of wind and rain swept earth and sky when napoleon gave the order to march. the troops, with their accustomed celerity, reached the banks of the piave. the austrians, astonished at the sudden apparition of the french in the midst of the elemental warfare, and unprepared to resist them, hastily retired some forty miles to the eastern banks of the tagliamento. napoleon closely followed the retreating foe. at nine o'clock in the morning of the th of march, the french army arrived upon the banks of the river. here they found a wide stream, rippling over a gravelly bed, with difficulty fordable. the imperial troops, in most magnificent array, were drawn up upon an extended plain on the opposite shore. parks of artillery were arranged to sweep with grape-shot the whole surface of the water. in long lines the infantry, with bristling bayonets and prepared to rain down upon their foes a storm of bullets, presented apparently an invincible front. upon the two wings of this imposing army vast squadrons of cavalry awaited the moment, with restless steeds, when they might charge upon the foe, should he effect a landing. the french army had been marching all night over miry roads, and through mountain defiles. with the gloom of the night the storm had passed away, and the cloudless sun of a warm spring morning dawned upon the valley, as the french troops arrived upon the banks of the river. their clothes were torn, and drenched with rain, and soiled with mud. and yet it was an imposing array as forty thousand men, with plumes and banners and proud steeds, and the music of a hundred bands, marched down, in that bright sunshine, upon the verdant meadows which skirted the tagliamento. but it was a fearful barrier which presented itself before them. the rapid river, the vast masses of the enemy in their strong intrenchments, the frowning batteries, loaded to the muzzle with grape-shot, to sweep the advancing ranks, the well fed war-horses in countless numbers, prancing for the charge, apparently presented an obstacle which no human energy could surmount. napoleon, seeing the ample preparations made to oppose him, ordered his troops to withdraw beyond the reach of the enemies' fire, and to prepare for breakfast. as by magic the martial array was at once transformed into a peaceful picnic scene. arms were laid aside. the soldiers threw themselves upon the green grass, just sprouting in the valley, beneath the rays of the sun of early spring. fires were kindled, kettles boiling, knapsacks opened, and groups, in carelessness and joviality, gathered around fragments of bread and meat. [illustration: the passage of the tagliamento.] the archduke charles, seeing that napoleon declined the attempt to pass the river until he had refreshed his exhausted troops, withdrew his forces also into the rear to their encampments. when all was quiet, and the austrians were thrown completely off their guard, suddenly the trumpets sounded the preconcerted signal. the french troops, disciplined to prompt movements, sprang to their arms, instantly formed in battle array, plunged into the stream, and, before the austrians had recovered from their astonishment, were half across the river. this movement was executed with such inconceivable rapidity, as to excite the admiration as well as the consternation of their enemies. with the precision and beauty of the parade ground, the several divisions of the army gained the opposite shore. the austrians rallied as speedily as possible. but it was too late. a terrible battle ensued. napoleon was victor at every point. the imperial army, with their ranks sadly thinned, and leaving the ground gory with the blood of the slain, retreated in confusion to await the arrival of the reinforcements coming to their aid. napoleon pressed upon their rear, every hour attacking them, and not allowing them one moment to recover from their panic. the austrian troops, thus suddenly and unexpectedly defeated, were thrown into the extreme of dejection. the exultant french, convinced of the absolute invincibility of their beloved chief, ambitiously sought out points of peril and adventures of desperation, and with shouts of laughter, and jokes, and making the welkin ring with songs of liberty, plunged into the densest masses of their foes. the different divisions of the army vied with each other in their endeavor to perform feats of the most romantic valor, and in the display of the most perfect contempt of life. in every fortress, at every mountain pass, upon every rapid stream, the austrians made a stand to arrest the march of the conqueror. but with the footsteps of a giant, napoleon crowded upon them, pouring an incessant storm of destruction upon their fugitive ranks. he drove the austrians to the foot of the mountains. he pursued them up the steep acclivities. he charged the tempests of wind and smothering snow with the sound of the trumpet, and his troops exulted in waging war with combined man and the elements. soon both pursuers and pursued stood upon the summit of the carnic alps. they were in the region of almost perpetual snow. the vast glaciers, which seemed memorials of eternity, spread bleak and cold around them. the clouds floated beneath their feet. the eagle wheeled and screamed as he soared over the sombre firs and pines far below on the mountain sides. here the austrians made a desperate stand. on the storm-washed crags of granite, behind fields of ice and drifts of snow which the french cavalry could not traverse, they sought to intrench themselves against their tireless pursuer. to retreat down the long and narrow defiles of the mountains, with the french in hot pursuit behind, hurling upon them every missile of destruction, bullets, and balls, and craggy fragments of the cliffs, was a calamity to be avoided at every hazard. upon the summit of mount tarwis, the battle, decisive of this fearful question, was to be fought. it was an appropriate arena for the fell deeds of war. wintry winds swept the bleak and icy eminence, and a clear, cold, cloudless sky canopied the two armies as, with fiend-like ferocity, they hurled themselves upon each other. the thunder of artillery reverberated above the clouds. the shout of onset and the shrieks of the wounded were heard upon eminences which even the wing of the eagle had rarely attained. squadrons of cavalry fell upon fields of ice, and men and horses were precipitated into fathomless depths below. the snow drifts of mount tarwis were soon crimsoned with blood, and the warm current from human hearts congealed with the eternal glacier, and there, embalmed in ice, it long and mournfully testified of man's inhumanity to man. the archduke charles, having exhausted his last reserve, was compelled to retreat. many of the soldiers threw away their arms, and escaped over the crags of the mountains; thousands were taken prisoners; multitudes were left dead upon the ice, and half-buried in the drifts of snow. but charles, brave and energetic, still kept the mass of his army together, and with great skill conducted his precipitate retreat. with merciless vigor the french troops pursued, pouring down upon the retreating masses a perfect storm of bullets, and rolling over the precipitous sides of the mountains huge rocks, which swept away whole companies at once. the bleeding, breathless fugitives at last arrived in the valley below. napoleon followed close in their rear. the alps were now passed. the french were in austria. they heard a new language. the scenery, the houses, the customs of the inhabitants, all testified that they were no longer in italy. they had with unparalleled audacity entered the very heart of the austrian empire, and with unflinching resolution were marching upon the capital of twenty millions of people, behind whose ramparts, strengthened by the labor of ages, maria theresa had bidden defiance to the invading turks. twenty days had now passed since the opening of the campaign, and the austrians were already driven over the alps, and having lost a fourth of their numbers in the various conflicts which had occurred, dispirited by disaster, were retreating to intrench themselves for a final struggle within the walls of vienna. napoleon, with , men, flushed with victory, was rapidly descending the fertile steams which flow into the danube. under these triumphant circumstances napoleon showed his humanity, and his earnest desire for peace, in dictating the following most noble letter, so characteristic of his strong and glowing intellect. it was addressed to his illustrious adversary, the archduke charles. "general-in-chief. brave soldiers, while they make war, desire peace. has not this war already continued six years? have we not slain enough of our fellow-men? have we not inflicted a sufficiency of woes upon suffering humanity? it demands repose upon all sides. europe, which took up arms against the french republic, has laid them aside. your nation alone remains hostile, and blood is about to flow more copiously than ever. this sixth campaign has commenced with sinister omens. whatever may be its issue, many thousand men, on the one side and the other, must perish. and after all we must come to an accommodation, for every thing has an end, not even excepting the passion of hatred. you, general, who by birth approach so near the throne, and are above all the little passions which too often influence ministers and governments, are you resolved to deserve the title of benefactor of humanity, and of the real saviour of austria. do not imagine that i deny the possibility of saving austria by the force of arms. but even in such an event your country will not be the less ravaged. as for myself, if the overture which i have the honor to make, shall be the means of saving a single life, i shall be more proud of the civic crown which i shall be conscious of having deserved, than of all the melancholy glory which military success can confer." to these magnanimous overtures the archduke replied: "in the duty assigned to me there is no power either to scrutinize the causes or to terminate the duration of the war, i am not invested with any authority in that respect, and therefore can not enter into any negotiation for peace." in this most interesting correspondence, napoleon, the plebeian general, speaks with the dignity and the authority of a sovereign; with a natural, unaffected tone of command, as if accustomed from infancy to homage and empire. the brother of the king is compelled to look upward to the pinnacle upon which transcendent abilities have placed his antagonist. the conquering napoleon pleads for peace; but austria hates republican liberty even more than war. upon the rejection of these proposals the thunders of napoleon's artillery were again heard, and over the hills and through the valleys, onward he rushed with his impetuous troops, allowing his foe no repose. at every mountain gorge, at every rapid river, the austrians stood, and were slain. each walled town was the scene of a sanguinary conflict, and the austrians were often driven in the wildest confusion pell-mell with the victors through the streets. at last they approached another mountain range called the stipian alps. here, at the frightful gorge of neumarkt, a defile so gloomy and terrific that even the peaceful tourist can not pass through it unawed, charles again made a desperate effort to arrest his pursuers. it was of no avail. blood flowed in torrents, thousands were slain. the austrians, encumbered with baggage-wagons and artillery, choked the narrow passages, and a scene of indescribable horror ensued. the french cavalry made most destructive charges upon the dense masses. cannon balls plowed their way through the confused ranks, and the austrian rear and the french van struggled, hand to hand, in the blood-red gorge. but the austrians were swept along like withered leaves before the mountain gales. napoleon was now at leoben. from the eminences around the city, with the telescope, the distant spires of vienna could be discerned. here the victorious general halted for a day, to collect his scattered forces. charles hurried along the great road to the capital, with the fragments of his army, striving to concentrate all the strength of the empire within those venerable and hitherto impregnable fortifications. [illustration: the gorge of neumarkt.] all was consternation in vienna. the king, dukes, nobles, fled like deer before approaching hounds, seeking refuge in the distant wilds of hungary. the danube was covered with boats conveying the riches of the city and the terrified families out of the reach of danger. among the illustrious fugitives was maria louisa, then a child but six years of age, flying from that dreaded napoleon whose bride she afterward became. all the military resources of austria were immediately called into requisition; the fortifications were repaired; the militia organized and drilled; and in the extremity of mortification and despair all the energies of the empire were roused for final resistance. charles, to gain time, sent a flag of truce requesting a suspension of arms for twenty-four hours. napoleon, too wary to be caught in a trap which he had recently sprung upon his foes, replied that moments were precious, and that they might fight and negotiate at the same time. napoleon also issued to the austrian people one of his glowing proclamations which was scattered all over the region he had overrun. he assured the _people_ that he was their friend, that he was fighting not for conquest but for peace; that the austrian government, bribed by british gold, was waging an unjust war against france: that the _people_ of austria should find in him a protector, who would respect their religion and defend them in all their rights. his deeds were in accordance with his words. the french soldiers, inspired by the example of their beloved chief, treated the unarmed austrians as friends, and nothing was taken from them without ample remuneration. the people of austria now began to clamor loudly for peace. charles, seeing the desperate posture of affairs, earnestly urged it upon his brother, the emperor, declaring that the empire could no longer be saved by arms. embassadors were immediately dispatched from the imperial court authorized to settle the basis of peace. they implored a suspension of arms for five days, to settle the preliminaries. napoleon nobly replied, "in the present posture of our military affairs, a suspension of hostilities must be very seriously adverse to the interests of the french army. but if by such a sacrifice, that peace, which is so desirable and so essential to the happiness of the people, can be secured, i shall not regret consenting to your desires." a garden in the vicinity of leoben was declared neutral ground, and here, in the midst of the bivouacs of the french army, the negotiations were conducted. the austrian commissioners, in the treaty which they proposed, had set down as the first article, that the emperor recognized the french republic. "strike that out," said napoleon, proudly. "the republic is like the sun; none but the blind can fail to see it. we are our own masters, and shall establish any government we prefer." this exclamation was not merely a burst of romantic enthusiasm, but it was dictated by a deep insight into the possibilities of the future. "if one day the french people," he afterward remarked, "should wish to create a monarchy, the emperor might object that he had recognized a republic." both parties being now desirous of terminating the war, the preliminaries were soon settled. napoleon, as if he were already the emperor of france, waited not for the plenipotentiaries from paris, but signed the treaty in his own name. he thus placed himself upon an equal footing with the emperor of austria. the equality was unhesitatingly recognized by the imperial government. in the settlement of the difficulties between these two majestic powers, neither of them manifested much regard for the minor states. napoleon allowed austria to take under her protection many of the states of venice, for venice had proved treacherous to her professed neutrality, and merited no protection from his hands. [illustration: the venetian envoys.] napoleon, having thus conquered peace, turned to lay the rod upon trembling venice. richly did venice deserve his chastising blows. in those days, when railroads and telegraphs were unknown, the transmission of intelligence was slow. the little army of napoleon had traversed weary leagues of mountains and vales, and having passed beyond the snow-clad summits of the alps, were lost to italian observation, far away upon the tributaries of the danube. rumor, with her thousand voices filled the air. it was reported that napoleon was defeated--that he was a captive--that his army was destroyed. the venetian oligarchy, proud, cowardly, and revengeful, now raised the cry, "death to the french." the priests incited the peasants to frenzy. they attacked unarmed frenchmen in the streets and murdered them. they assailed the troops in garrison with overwhelming numbers. the infuriated populace even burst into the hospitals, and poniarded the wounded and the dying in their beds. napoleon, who was by no means distinguished for meekness and long-suffering, turned sternly to inflict upon them punishment which should long be remembered. the haughty oligarchy was thrown into a paroxysm of terror, when it was announced, that napoleon was victor instead of vanquished, and that, having humbled the pride of austria, he was now returning with an indignant and triumphant army burning for vengeance. the venetian senate, bewildered with fright, dispatched agents to deprecate his wrath. napoleon, with a pale and marble face, received them. without uttering a word he listened to their awkward attempts at an apology, heard their humble submission, and even endured in silence their offer of millions of gold to purchase his pardon. then in tones of firmness which sent paleness to their cheeks and palpitation to their hearts, he exclaimed, "if you could proffer me the treasures of peru, could you strew your whole country with gold, it would not atone for the blood which has been treacherously spilt. you have murdered my children. the lion of st. mark[ ] must lick the dust. go." the venetians in their terror sent enormous sums to paris, and succeeded in bribing the directory, ever open to such appeals. orders were accordingly transmitted to napoleon, to spare the ancient senate and aristocracy of venice. but napoleon, who despised the directory, and who was probably already dreaming of its overthrow, conscious that he possessed powers which they could not shake, paid no attention to their orders. he marched resistlessly into the dominions of the doge. the thunders of napoleon's cannon were reverberating across the lagoons which surround the queen of the adriatic. the doge, pallid with consternation, assembled the grand council, and proposed the surrender of their institutions to napoleon, to be remodeled according to his pleasure. while they were deliberating, the uproar of insurrection was heard in the streets. the aristocrats and the republicans fell furiously upon each other. the discharge of fire-arms was heard under the very windows of the council-house. opposing shouts of "liberty forever," and "long live st. mark," resounded through the streets. the city was threatened with fire and pillage. amid this horrible confusion three thousand french soldiers crossed the lagoons in boats and entered the city. they were received with long shouts of welcome by the populace, hungering for republican liberty. resistance was hopeless. an unconditional surrender was made to napoleon, and thus fell one of the most execrable tyrannies this world has ever known. the course napoleon then pursued was so magnanimous as to extort praise from his bitterest foes. he immediately threw open the prison doors to all who were suffering for political opinions. he pardoned all offenses against himself. he abolished aristocracy, and established a popular government, which should fairly represent all classes of the community. the public debt was regarded as sacred, and even the pensions continued to the poor nobles. it was a glorious reform for the venetian nation. it was a terrible downfall for the venetian aristocracy. the banner of the new republic now floated from the windows of the palace, and as it waved exultingly in the breeze, it was greeted with the most enthusiastic acclamations, by the people who had been trampled under the foot of oppression for fifteen hundred years. all italy was now virtually at the feet of napoleon. not a year had yet elapsed since he, a nameless young man of twenty-five years of age, with thirty thousand ragged and half starved troops, had crept along the shores of the mediterranean, hoping to surprise his powerful foes. he had now traversed the whole extent of italy, compelled all its hostile states to respect republican france, and had humbled the emperor of austria as emperor had rarely been humbled before. the italians, recognizing him as a countryman, and proud of his world-wide renown, regarded him, not as a conqueror, but as a liberator. his popularity was boundless. wherever he appeared the most enthusiastic acclamations welcomed him. bonfires blazed upon every hill in honor of his movements. the bells rang their merriest peals, wherever he appeared. long lines of maidens strewed roses in his path. the reverberations of artillery and the huzzas of the populace saluted his footsteps. europe was at peace; and napoleon was the great pacificator. for this object he had contended against the most formidable coalitions. he had sheathed his victorious sword, the very moment his enemies were willing to retire from the strife. still the position of napoleon required the most consummate firmness and wisdom. all the states of italy, piedmont, genoa, naples, the states of the church, parma, tuscany, were agitated with the intense desire for liberty. napoleon was unwilling to encourage insurrection. he could not lend his arms to oppose those who were struggling for popular rights. in genoa, the patriots rose. the haughty aristocracy fell in revenge upon the french, who chanced to be in the territory. napoleon was thus compelled to interfere. the genoese aristocracy were forced to abdicate, and the patriot party, as in venice, assumed the government. but the genoese democracy began now in their turn, to trample upon the rights of their former oppressors. the revolutionary scenes which had disgraced paris, began to be re-enacted in the streets of genoa. they excluded the priests and the nobles from participating in the government, as the nobles and priests had formerly excluded them. acts of lawless violence passed unpunished. the religion of the catholic priests was treated with derision. napoleon, earnestly and eloquently, thus urged upon them a more humane policy. "i will respond, citizens, to the confidence you have reposed in me. it is not enough that you refrain from hostility to religion. you should do nothing which can cause inquietude to tender consciences. to exclude the nobles from any public office, is an act of extreme injustice. you thus repeat the wrong which you condemn in them. why are the people of genoa so changed? their first impulses of fraternal kindness have been succeeded by fear and terror. remember that the priests were the first who rallied around the tree of liberty. they first told you that the morality of the gospel is democratic. men have taken advantage of the faults, perhaps of the crimes of individual priests, to unite against christianity. you have proscribed without discrimination. when a state becomes accustomed to condemn without hearing, to applaud a discourse because it impassioned; when exaggeration and madness are called virtue, moderation and equity designated as crimes, that state is near its ruin. believe me, i shall consider _that_ one of the happiest moments of my life in which i hear that the people of genoa are united among themselves and live happily." this advice, thus given to genoa, was intended to re-act upon france, for the directory then had under discussion a motion for banishing all the nobles from the republic. the voice of napoleon was thus delicately and efficiently introduced into the debate, and the extreme and terrible measure was at once abandoned. napoleon performed another act at this time, which drew down upon him a very heavy load of obloquy from the despotic governments of europe, but which must secure the approval of every generous mind. there was a small state in italy called the valteline, eighteen miles wide, and fifty-four miles long, containing one hundred and sixty thousand inhabitants. these unfortunate people had become subjects to a german state called the grisons, and, deprived of all political privileges, were ground down by the most humiliating oppression. the inhabitants of the valteline, catching the spirit of liberty, revolted and addressed a manifesto to all europe, setting forth their wrongs, and declaring their determination to recover those rights, of which they had been defrauded. both parties sent deputies to napoleon, soliciting his interference, virtually agreeing to abide by his decision. napoleon, to promote conciliation and peace, proposed that the valtelines should remain with the grisons as one people, and that the grisons should confer upon them equal political privileges with themselves. counsel more moderate and judicious could not have been given. but the proud grisons, accustomed to trample upon their victims, with scorn refused to share with them the rights of humanity. napoleon then issued a decree, saying, "_it is not just that one people should be subject to another people._ since the grisons have refused equal rights to the inhabitants of the valteline, the latter are at liberty to unite themselves with the cisalpine republic." this decision was received with bursts of enthusiastic joy by the liberated people, and they were immediately embraced within the borders of the new republic. the great results we have thus far narrated in this chapter were accomplished in six weeks. in the face of powerful armies, napoleon had traversed hundreds of miles of territory. he had forded rivers, with the storm of lead and iron falling pitilessly around him. he had crossed the alps, dragging his artillery through snow three feet in depth, scattered the armies of austria to the winds, imposed peace upon that proud and powerful empire, recrossed the alps, laid low the haughty despotism of venice, established a popular government in the emancipated provinces, and revolutionized genoa. josephine was now with him in the palace of milan. from every state in italy couriers were coming and going, deprecating his anger, soliciting his counsel, imploring his protection. the destiny of europe seemed to be suspended upon his decisions. his power transcended that of all the potentates in europe. a brilliant court of beautiful ladies surrounded josephine, and all vied to do homage to the illustrious conqueror. the enthusiastic italians thronged his gates, and waited for hours to catch a glance of the youthful hero. the feminine delicacy of his physical frame, so disproportionate with his mighty renown, did but add to the enthusiasm which his presence ever inspired. his strong arm had won for france peace with all the world, england alone excepted. the indomitable islanders, protected by the ocean from the march of invading armies, still continued the unrelenting warfare. wherever her navy could penetrate she assailed the french, and as the horrors of war could not reach her shores, she refused to live on any terms of peace with republican france. napoleon now established his residence, or rather his court, at montebello, a beautiful palace in the vicinity of milan. his frame was emaciate in the extreme from the prodigious toils which he had endured. yet he scarcely allowed himself an hour of relaxation. questions of vast moment, relative to the settlement of political affairs in italy, were yet to be adjusted, and napoleon, exhausted as he was in body, devoted the tireless energies of his mind to the work. his labors were now numerous. he was treating with the plenipotentiaries of austria, organizing the italian republic, creating a navy in the adriatic, and forming the most magnificent projects relative to the mediterranean. these were the works in which he delighted, constructing canals, and roads, improving harbors, erecting bridges, churches, naval and military dépôts, calling cities and navies into existence, awaking every where the hum of prosperous industry. all the states of italy were imbued with local prejudices and petty jealousies of each other. to break down these jealousies, he endeavored to consolidate the republicans into one single state, with milan for the capital. he strove in multiplied ways to rouse martial energy among the effeminate italians. conscious that the new republic could not long stand alive in the midst of the surrounding monarchies so hostile to its existence, that it could only be strong by the alliance of france, he conceived the design of a high road, broad, safe, and magnificent, from paris to geneva, thence across the simplon through the plains of lombardy to milan. he was in treaty with the government of switzerland, for the construction of the road through its territories; and had sent engineers to explore the route and make an estimate of the expense. he himself arranged all the details with the greatest precision. he contemplated also, at the same time, with the deepest interest and solicitude, the empire which england had gained on the seas. to cripple the power of this formidable foe, he formed the design of taking possession of the islands of the mediterranean. "from these different posts," he wrote to the directory, "we shall command the mediterranean, we shall keep an eye upon the ottoman empire, which is crumbling to pieces, and we shall have it in our power to render the dominion of the ocean almost useless to the english. they have possession of the cape of good hope. we can do without it. _let us occupy egypt._ we shall be in the direct road for india. it will be easy for us to found there one of the finest colonies in the world. _it is in egypt that we must attack england._" it was in this way that napoleon _rested_ after the toils of the most arduous campaigns mortal man had ever passed through. the austrians were rapidly recruiting their forces from their vast empire, and now began to throw many difficulties in the way of a final adjustment. the last conference between the negotiating parties was held at campo formio, a small village about ten miles east of the tagliamento. the commissioners were seated at an oblong table, the four austrian negotiators upon one side, napoleon by himself upon the other. the austrians demanded terms to which napoleon could not accede, threatening at the same time that if napoleon did not accept these terms, the armies of russia would be united with those of austria, and france should be compelled to adopt those less favorable. one of the austrian commissioners concluded an insulting apostrophe, by saying, "austria desires peace, and she will severely condemn the negotiator who sacrifices the interest and repose of his country to military ambition." napoleon, cool and collected, sat in silence while these sentiments were uttered. then rising from the table he took from the sideboard a beautiful porcelain vase. "gentlemen," said he, "the truce is broken; war is declared. but remember, in three months i will demolish your monarchy as i now shatter this porcelain." with these words he dashed the vase into fragments upon the floor, and bowing to the astounded negotiators, abruptly withdrew. with his accustomed promptness of action he instantly dispatched an officer to the archduke, to inform him that hostilities would be re-commenced in twenty-four hours; and entering his carriage, urged his horses with the speed of the wind, toward the head-quarters of the army. one of the conditions of this treaty upon which napoleon insisted, was the release of la fayette, then imprisoned for his republican sentiments, in the dungeons of olmutz. the austrian plenipotentiaries were thunderstruck by this decision, and immediately agreed to the terms which napoleon demanded. the next day at five o'clock the treaty of campo formio was signed. [illustration: the conference dissolved.] the terms which napoleon offered the austrians in this treaty, though highly advantageous to france, were far more lenient to austria, than that government had any right to expect. the directory in paris, anxious to strengthen itself against the monarchical governments of europe by revolutionizing the whole of italy and founding there republican governments, positively forbade napoleon to make peace with austria, unless the freedom of the republic of venice was recognized. napoleon wrote to the directory that if they insisted upon that ultimatum, the renewal of the war would be inevitable. the directory replied, "austria has long desired to swallow up italy, and to acquire maritime power. it is the interest of france to prevent both of these designs. it is evident that if the emperor acquires venice, with its territorial possessions, he will secure an entrance into the whole of lombardy. we should be treating as if we had been conquered. what would posterity say of us if we surrender that great city with its naval arsenals to the emperor. the whole question comes to this: shall we give up italy to the austrians? the french government neither can nor will do so. it would prefer all the hazards of war." napoleon wished for peace. he could only obtain it by disobeying the orders of his government. the middle of october had now arrived. one morning, at daybreak, he was informed that the mountains were covered with snow. leaping from his bed, he ran to the window, and saw that the storms of winter had really commenced on the bleak heights. "what! before the middle of october!" he exclaimed: "what a country is this! well, we must make peace." he shut himself up in his cabinet for an hour, and carefully reviewed the returns of the army. "i can not have," said he to bourrienne, "more than sixty thousand men in the field. even if victorious i must lose twenty thousand in killed and wounded. and how, with forty thousand, can i withstand the whole force of the austrian monarchy, who will hasten to the relief of vienna? the armies of the rhine could not advance to my succor before the middle of november, and before that time arrives the alps will be impassable from snow. it is all over. i will sign the peace. the government and the lawyers may say what they choose." this treaty, extended france to the rhine, recognized the cisalpine republic, composed of the cispadane republic and lombardy, and allowed the emperor of austria to extend his sway over several of the states of venice. napoleon was very desirous of securing republican liberty in venice. most illustriously did he exhibit his anxiety for peace in consenting to sacrifice that desire, and to disobey the positive commands of his government, rather than renew the horrors of battle. he did not think it his duty to keep europe involved in war, that he might secure republican liberty for venice, when it was very doubtful whether the venetians were sufficiently enlightened to govern themselves, and when, perhaps, one half of the nation were so ignorant as to prefer despotism. the whole glory of this peace redounds to his honor. his persistence in that demand which the directory enjoined, would but have kindled anew the flames of war. during these discussions at campo formio, every possible endeavor was made which the most delicate ingenuity could devise, to influence napoleon in his decisions by personal considerations. the wealth of europe was literally laid at his feet. millions upon millions in gold were proffered him. but his proud spirit could not be thus tarnished. when some one alluded to the different course pursued by the directors, he replied, "you are not then aware, citizen, that there is not one of those directors whom i could not bring, for four thousand dollars, to kiss my boot." the venetians offered him a present of one million five hundred thousand dollars. he smiled, and declined the offer. the emperor of austria, professing the most profound admiration of his heroic character, entreated him to accept a principality, to consist of at least two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, for himself and his heirs. this was indeed an alluring offer to a young man but twenty-five years of age, and who had but just emerged from obscurity and poverty. the young general transmitted his thanks to the emperor for this proof of his good-will, but added, that he could accept of no honors but such as were conferred upon him by the french people, and that he should always be satisfied with whatever they might be disposed to offer. [illustration: the court at milan.] while at montebello, transacting the affairs of his victorious army, josephine presided with most admirable propriety and grace, over the gay circle of milan. napoleon, who well understood the imposing influence of courtly pomp and splendor, while extremely simple in his personal habiliments, dazzled the eyes of the milanese with all the pageantry of a court. the destinies of europe were even then suspended upon his nod. he was tracing out the lines of empire, and dukes, and princes, and kings were soliciting his friendship. josephine, by her surpassing loveliness of person and of character, won universal admiration. her wonderful tact, her genius, and her amiability vastly strengthened the influence of her husband. "i conquer provinces," said napoleon, "but josephine wins hearts." she frequently, in after years, reverted to this as the happiest period of her life. to them both it must have been as a bewildering dream. but a few months before, josephine was in prison, awaiting her execution; and her children were literally begging bread in the streets. hardly a year had elapsed since napoleon, a penniless corsican soldier, was studying in a garret in paris, hardly knowing where to obtain a single franc. now the name of napoleon was emblazoned through europe. he had become more powerful than the government of his own country. he was overthrowing and uprearing dynasties. the question of peace or war was suspended upon his lips. the proudest potentates of europe were ready, at any price, to purchase his favor. josephine reveled in the exuberance of her dreamlike prosperity and exaltation. her benevolent heart was gratified with the vast power she now possessed of conferring happiness. she was beloved, adored. she had long cherished the desire of visiting this land, so illustrious in the most lofty reminiscences. even italy can hardly present a more delightful excursion than the ride from milan to the romantic, mountain-embowered lakes of como and maggiore. it was a bright and sunny italian morning when napoleon, with his blissful bride, drove along the luxuriant valleys and the vine-clad hill-sides to lake maggiore. they were accompanied by a numerous and glittering retinue. here they embarked upon this beautiful sheet of water, in a boat with silken awnings and gay banners, and the rowers beat time to the most voluptuous music. they landed upon beautiful island, which, like another eden, emerges from the bosom of the lake. this became the favorite retreat of napoleon. its monastic palace, so sombre in its antique architecture, was in peculiar accordance with that strange melancholy which, with but now and then a ray of sunshine, ever overshadowed his spirit. on one of these occasions josephine was standing upon a terrace with several ladies, under a large orange-tree, profusely laden with its golden treasures. as their attention was all absorbed in admiring the beautiful landscape, napoleon slipped up unperceived, and, by a sudden shake, brought down a shower of the rich fruit upon their heads. josephine's companions screamed with fright and ran; but she remained unmoved. napoleon laughed heartily and said: "why, josephine, you stand fire like one of my veterans." "and why should i not?" she promptly replied, "am i not the wife of their general?" every conceivable temptation was at this time presented to entice napoleon into habits of licentiousness. purity was a virtue then and there almost unknown. some one speaking of napoleon's universal talents, compared him with solomon. "poh," exclaimed another, "what do you mean by calling him wiser than solomon. the jewish king had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines, while napoleon is contented with one wife, and she older than himself." the corruption of those days of infidelity was such, that the ladies were jealous of josephine's exclusive influence over her illustrious spouse, and they exerted all their powers of fascination to lead him astray. the loftiness of napoleon's ambition, and those principles instilled so early by a mother's lips as to be almost instincts, were his safeguard. josephine was exceedingly gratified, some of the ladies said, "insufferably vain," that napoleon clung so faithfully and confidingly to her. "truly," he said, "i have something else to think of than love. no man wins triumphs in that way, without forfeiting some palms of glory. i have traced out my plan, and the finest eyes in the world, and there are some very fine eyes here, shall not make me deviate a hair's breadth from it." a lady of rank, after wearying him one day with a string of the most fulsome compliments, exclaimed, among other things, "what is life worth, if one can not be general bonaparte," napoleon fixed his eyes coldly upon her, and said, "madame! one may be a dutiful wife, and the good mother of a family." the jealousy which the directory entertained of napoleon's vast accession of power induced them to fill his court with spies, who watched all his movements and reported his words. josephine, frank and candid and a stranger to all artifice, could not easily conceal her knowledge or her thoughts. napoleon consequently seldom intrusted to her any plans which he was unwilling to have made known. "a secret," he once observed, "is burdensome to josephine." he was careful that she should not be thus encumbered. he would be indeed a shrewd man who could extort any secret from the bosom of napoleon. he could impress a marble-like immovableness upon his features, which no scrutiny could penetrate. said josephine in subsequent years, "i never once beheld napoleon for a moment perfectly at ease--not even with myself. he is constantly on the alert. if at any time he appears to show a little confidence, it is merely a feint to throw the person with whom he converses, off his guard, and to draw forth his sentiments; but never does he himself disclose his real thoughts." the french government remonstrated bitterly against the surrender of venice to austria. napoleon replied. "it costs nothing for a handful of declaimers to rave about the establishment of _republics_ every where. i wish these gentlemen would make a winter campaign. you little know the people of italy. you are laboring under a great delusion. you suppose that liberty can do great things to a base, cowardly, and superstitious people. you wish me to perform miracles. i have not the art of doing so. since coming into italy i have derived little, if any, support from the love of the italian people for liberty and equality." the treaty of peace signed at campo formio, napoleon immediately sent to paris. though he had disobeyed the positive commands of the directory, in thus making peace, the directors did not dare to refuse its ratification. the victorious young general was greatly applauded by the people, for refusing the glory of a new campaign, in which they doubted not that he would have obtained fresh laurels, that he might secure peace for bleeding europe. on the th of november napoleon left milan for the congress at rastadt, to which he was appointed, with plenipotentiary powers. at the moment of leaving he addressed the following proclamation to the cisalpine republic: "we have given you liberty. take care to preserve it. to be worthy of your destiny make only discreet and honorable laws, and cause them to be executed with energy. favor the diffusion of knowledge, and respect religion. compose your battalions not of disreputable men, but of citizens imbued with the principles of the republic, and closely linked with its prosperity. you have need to impress yourselves with the feeling of your strength, and with the dignity which befits the free man. divided and bowed down by ages of tyranny, you could not alone have achieved your independence. in a few years, if true to yourselves, no nation will be strong enough to wrest liberty from you. till then the great nation will protect you." napoleon, leaving josephine at milan, traveled rapidly through piedmont, intending to proceed by the way of switzerland to rastadt. his journey was an uninterrupted scene of triumph. illuminations, processions, bonfires, the ringing of bells, the explosions of artillery, the huzzas of the populace, and above all the most cordial and warm-hearted acclamations of ladies, accompanied him all the way. the enthusiasm was indescribable. napoleon had no fondness for such displays. he but slightly regarded the applause of the populace. [illustration: the triumphal journey.] "it must be delightful," said bourrienne, "to be greeted with such demonstrations of enthusiastic admiration." "bah!" napoleon replied; "this same unthinking crowd, under a slight change of circumstances, would follow me just as eagerly to the scaffold." traveling with great rapidity, he appeared and vanished like a meteor, ever retaining the same calm, pensive, thoughtful aspect. a person, who saw him upon this occasion, thus described his appearance: "i beheld with deep interest and extreme attention that extraordinary man, who has performed such great deeds, and about whom there is something which seems to indicate that his career is not yet terminated. i found him much like his portraits, small in stature, thin, pale, with an air of fatigue, but not as has been reported in ill-health. he appeared to me to listen with more abstraction than interest, as if occupied rather with what he was thinking of, than with what was said to him. there is great intelligence in his countenance, along with an expression of habitual meditation, which reveals nothing of what is passing within. in that thinking head, in that daring mind, it is impossible not to suppose that some designs are engendering, which will have their influence on the destinies of europe." napoleon did not remain long at rastadt, for all the questions of great political importance were already settled, and he had no liking for those discussions of minor points which engrossed the attention of the petty german princes, who were assembled at that congress. he accordingly prepared for his departure. in taking leave of the army he thus bade adieu to his troops. "soldiers! i leave you to-morrow. in separating myself from the army i am consoled with the thought that i shall soon meet you again, and engage with you in new enterprises. soldiers! when conversing among yourselves of the kings you have vanquished, of the people upon whom you have conferred liberty, of the victories you have won in two campaigns, say, '_in the next two we will accomplish still more._'" napoleon's attention was already eagerly directed to the gorgeous east. these vast kingdoms, enveloped in mystery, presented just the realm for his exuberant imagination to range. it was the theatre, as he eloquently said, "of mighty empires, where all the great revolutions of the earth have arisen, where mind had its birth, and all religions their cradle, and where six hundred millions of men still have their dwelling-place." napoleon left rastadt, and traveling incognito through france, arrived in paris the th of december, , having been absent but about eighteen months. his arrival had been awaited with the most intense impatience. the enthusiasm of that most enthusiastic capital had been excited to the highest pitch. the whole population were burning with the desire to see the youthful hero whose achievements seemed to surpass the fictions of romance. but napoleon was nowhere visible. a strange mystery seemed to envelop him. he studiously avoided observation; very seldom made his appearance at any place of public amusement; dressed like the most unobtrusive private citizen, and glided unknown through the crowd, whose enthusiasm was roused to the highest pitch to get a sight of the hero. he took a small house in the rue chanteraine, which street immediately received the name of rue de la victoire, in honor of napoleon. he sought only the society of men of high intellectual and scientific attainments. in this course he displayed a profound knowledge of human nature, and vastly enhanced public curiosity by avoiding its gratification. [illustration: the delivery of the treaty.] the directory, very jealous of napoleon's popularity, yet impelled by the voice of the people, now prepared a triumphal festival for the delivery of the treaty of campo formio. the magnificent court of the luxembourg was arranged and decorated for this gorgeous show. at the further end of the court a large platform was raised, where the five directors were seated, dressed in the costume of the roman senate, at the foot of the altar of their country. embassadors, ministers, magistrates, and the members of the two councils were assembled on seats ranged amphitheatrically around. vast galleries were crowded with all that was illustrious in rank, beauty, and character in the metropolis. magnificent trophies, composed of the banners taken from the enemy, embellished the court, while the surrounding walls were draped with festoons of tri-colored tapestry. bands of music filled the air with martial sounds, while the very walls of paris were shaken by the thunders of exploding artillery and by the acclamations of the countless thousands who thronged the court. it was the th of december, . a bright sun shone through cloudless skies upon the resplendent scene. napoleon had been in paris but five days. few of the citizens had as yet been favored with a sight of the hero, whom all were impatient to behold. at last a great flourish of trumpets announced his approach. he ascended the platform dressed in the utmost simplicity of a civilian's costume, accompanied by talleyrand, and his aids-de-camp, all gorgeously dressed, and much taller men than himself, but evidently regarding him with the most profound homage. the contrast was most striking. every eye was riveted upon napoleon. the thunder of the cannon was drowned in the still louder thunder of enthusiastic acclamations which simultaneously arose from the whole assemblage. the fountains of human emotion were never more deeply moved. the graceful delicacy of his fragile figure, his remarkably youthful appearance, his pale and wasted cheeks, the classic outline of his finely moulded features, the indescribable air of pensiveness and self-forgetfulness which he ever carried with him, and all associated with his most extraordinary achievements, aroused an intensity of enthusiastic emotion which has perhaps never been surpassed. no one who witnessed the scenes of that day ever forgot them. talleyrand introduced the hero in a brief and eloquent speech. "for a moment," said he, in conclusion, "i did feel on his account that disquietude which, in an infant republic, arises from every thing which seems to destroy the equality of the citizens. but i was wrong. individual grandeur, far from being dangerous to equality, is its highest triumph. and on this occasion every frenchman must feel himself elevated by the hero of his country. and when i reflect upon all which he has done to shroud from envy that light of glory; on that ancient love of simplicity which distinguishes him in his favorite studies; his love for the abstract sciences; his admiration for that sublime ossian which seems to detach him from the world; on his well known contempt for luxury, for pomp, for all that constitutes the pride of ignoble minds, i am convinced that, far from dreading his ambition, we shall one day have occasion to rouse it anew to allure him from the sweets of studious retirement." napoleon, apparently quite unmoved by this unbounded applause, and as calm and unembarrassed as if speaking to an under-officer in his tent, thus briefly replied: "citizens! the french people, in order to be free, had kings to combat. to obtain a constitution founded on reason it had the prejudices of eighteen centuries to overcome. priestcraft, feudalism, despotism, have successively, for two thousand years, governed europe. from the peace you have just concluded dates the era of representative governments. you have succeeded in organizing the great nation, whose vast territory is circumscribed only because nature herself has fixed its limits. you have done more. the two finest countries in europe, formerly so renowned for the arts, the sciences, and the illustrious men whose cradle they were, see with the greatest hopes genius and freedom issuing from the tomb of their ancestors. i have the honor to deliver to you the treaty signed at campo formio, and ratified by the emperor. peace secures the liberty, the prosperity, and the glory of the republic. as soon as the happiness of france is secured by the best organic laws, the whole of europe will be free." the moment napoleon began to speak the most profound silence reigned throughout the assembly. the desire to hear his voice was so intense, that hardly did the audience venture to move a limb or to breathe, while in tones, calm and clear, he addressed them. the moment he ceased speaking, a wild burst of enthusiasm filled the air. the most unimpassioned lost their self-control. shouts of "live napoleon the conqueror of italy, the pacificator of europe, the saviour of france," resounded loud and long. barras, in the name of the directory, replied, "nature," exclaimed the orator in his enthusiasm, "has exhausted her energies in the production of a bonaparte. go," said he turning to napoleon, "crown a life, so illustrious, by a conquest which the great nation owes to its outraged dignity. go, and by the punishment of the cabinet of london, strike terror into the hearts of all who would miscalculate the powers of a free people. let the conquerors of the po, the rhine, and the tiber, march under your banners. the ocean will be proud to bear them. it is a slave still indignant who blushes for his fetters. hardly will the tri-colored standard wave on the blood-stained shores of the thames, ere an unanimous cry will bless your arrival, and that generous nation will receive you as its liberator." chenier's famous hymn to liberty was then sung in full chorus, accompanied by a magnificent orchestra. in the ungovernable enthusiasm of the moment the five directors arose and encircled napoleon in their arms. the blast of trumpets, the peal of martial bands, the thunder of cannon, and the acclamations of the countless multitude rent the air. says thiers, "all heads were overcome with the intoxication. thus it was that france threw herself into the hands of an extraordinary man. let us not censure the weakness of our fathers. that glory reaches us only through the clouds of time and adversity, and yet it transports us! let us say with Æschylus, 'how would it have been had we seen the monster himself!'" napoleon's powers of conversation were inimitable. there was a peculiarity in every phrase he uttered which bore the impress of originality and genius. he fascinated every one who approached him. he never spoke of his own achievements, but in most lucid and dramatic recitals often portrayed the bravery of the army and the heroic exploits of his generals. he was now elected a member of the celebrated institute, a society composed of the most illustrious literary and scientific men in france. he eagerly accepted the invitation, and returned the following answer. "the suffrages of the distinguished men who compose the institute honor me. i feel sensibly that before i can become their equal i must long be their pupil. the only true conquests--those which awaken no regret--are those obtained over ignorance. the most honorable, as the most useful pursuit of nations, is that which contributes to the extension of human intellect. the real greatness of the french republic ought henceforth to consist in the acquisition of the whole sum of human knowledge, and in not allowing a single new idea to exist, which does not owe its birth to their exertions." he laid aside entirely the dress of a soldier, and, constantly attending the meetings of the institute, as a philosopher and a scholar became one of its brightest ornaments. his comprehensive mind enabled him at once to grasp any subject to which he turned his attention. in one hour he would make himself master of the accumulated learning to which others had devoted the labor of years. he immediately, as a literary man, assumed almost as marked a pre-eminence among these distinguished scholars, as he had already acquired as a general on fields of blood. apparently forgetting the renown he had already attained, with boundless ambition he pressed on to still greater achievements, deeming nothing accomplished while any thing remained to be done. subsequently he referred to his course at this time and remarked, "mankind are in the end always governed by superiority of intellectual qualities, and none are more sensible of this than the military profession. when, on my return from italy, i assumed the dress of the institute, and associated with men of science, i knew what i was doing, i was sure of not being misunderstood by the lowest drummer in the army." a strong effort was made at this time, by the royalists, for the restoration of the bourbons. napoleon, while he despised the inefficient government of the directory, was by no means willing that the despotic bourbons should crush the spirit of liberty in france. napoleon was not adverse to a monarchy. but he wished for a monarch who would consult the interests of the _people_, and not merely pamper the luxury and pride of the nobles. he formed the plan and guided the energies which discomfited the royalists, and sustained the directors. thus twice had the strong arm of this young man protected the government. the directors, in their multiplied perplexities, often urged his presence in their councils, to advise with them on difficult questions. quiet and reserved he would take his seat at their table, and by that superiority of tact which ever distinguished him, and by that intellectual pre-eminence which could not be questioned, he assumed a moral position far above them all, and guided those gray-haired diplomatists, as a father guides his children. whenever he entered their presence, he instinctively assumed the supremacy, and it was instinctively recognized. the altars of religion, overthrown by revolutionary violence, still remained prostrate. the churches were closed, the sabbath abolished, the sacraments were unknown, the priests were in exile. a whole generation had grown up in france without any knowledge of christianity. corruption was universal. a new sect sprang up called theophilanthropists, who gleaned, as the basis of their system, some of the moral precepts of the gospel, divested of the sublime sanctions of christianity. they soon, however, found that it is not by flowers of rhetoric, and smooth-flowing verses, and poetic rhapsodies upon the beauty of love and charity, of rivulets and skies, that the stern heart of man can be controlled. leviathan is not so tamed. man, exposed to temptations which rive his soul, trembling upon the brink of fearful calamities, and glowing with irrepressible desires, can only be allured and overawed when the voice of love and mercy, blends with sinai's thunders. "there was frequently," says the duchess of abrantes, "so much truth in the moral virtues which this new sect inculcated, that if the evangelists had not said the same things much better, eighteen hundred years before them, one might have been tempted to embrace their opinions." napoleon took a correct view of these enthusiasts. "they can accomplish nothing," said he, "they are merely actors." "how!" it was replied, "do you thus stigmatize those whose tenets inculcate universal benevolence and the moral virtues?" "all systems of morality," napoleon rejoined, "are fine. the gospel alone has exhibited a complete assemblage of the principles of morality, divested of all absurdity. it is not composed, like your creed, of a few common-place sentences put into bad verse. do you wish to see that which is really sublime? repeat the lord's prayer. such enthusiasts are only to be encountered by the weapons of ridicule. all their efforts will prove ineffectual." republican france was now at peace with all the world, england alone excepted. the english government still waged unrelenting war against the republic, and strained every nerve to rouse the monarchies of europe again to combine to force a detested dynasty upon the french people. the british navy, in its invincibility, had almost annihilated the commerce of france. in their ocean-guarded isle, safe from the ravages of war themselves, their fleet could extend those ravages to all shores. the directory raised an army for the invasion of england, and gave to napoleon the command. drawing the sword, not of aggression but of defense, he immediately proceeded to a survey of the french coast, opposite to england, and to form his judgment respecting the feasibility of the majestic enterprise. taking three of his generals in his carriage, he passed eight days in this tour of observation. with great energy and tact he immediately made himself familiar with every thing which could aid him in coming to a decision. he surveyed the coast, examined the ships and the fortifications, selected the best points for embarkation, and examined until midnight sailors, pilots, smugglers, and fishermen. he made objections, and carefully weighed their answers. upon his return to paris his friend bourrienne said to him, "well, general! what do you think of the enterprise? is it feasible?" "no!" he promptly replied, shaking his head. "it is too hazardous. i will not undertake it. i will not risk on such a stake the fate of our beautiful france." at the same time that he was making this survey of the coast, with his accustomed energy of mind, he was also studying another plan for resisting the assaults of the british government. the idea of attacking england, by the way of egypt in her east indian acquisitions, had taken full possession of his imagination. he filled his carriage with all the books he could find in the libraries of paris, relating to egypt. with almost miraculous rapidity he explored the pages, treasuring up, in his capacious and retentive memory, every idea of importance. interlineations and comments on the margin of these books, in his own hand-writing, testify to the indefatigable energy of his mind. napoleon was now almost adored by the republicans all over europe, as the great champion of popular rights. the people looked to him as their friend and advocate. in england, in particular, there was a large, influential, and increasing party, dissatisfied with the prerogatives of the crown, and with the exclusive privileges of the nobility, who were never weary of proclaiming the praises of this champion of liberty and equality. the brilliance of his intellect, the purity of his morals, the stoical firmness of his self-endurance, his untiring energy, the glowing eloquence of every sentence which fell from his lips, his youth and feminine stature, and his wondrous achievements, all combined to invest him with a fascination such as no mortal man ever exerted before. the command of the army for the invasion of england was now assigned to napoleon. he became the prominent and dreaded foe of that great empire. and yet the common people who were to fight the battles almost to a man loved him. the throne trembled. the nobles were in consternation. "if we deal fairly and justly with france," lord chatham is reported frankly to have avowed, "the english government will not exist for four-and-twenty hours." it was necessary to change public sentiment and to rouse feelings of personal animosity against this powerful antagonist. to render napoleon unpopular, all the wealth and energies of the government were called into requisition, opening upon him the batteries of ceaseless invective. the english press teemed with the most atrocious and absurd abuse. it is truly amusing, in glancing over the pamphlets of that day, to contemplate the enormity of the vices attributed to him, and their contradictory nature. he was represented as a perfect demon in human form. he was a robber and a miser, plundering the treasuries of nations that he might hoard his countless millions, and he was also a profligate and a spendthrift, squandering upon his lusts the wealth of empires. he was wallowing in licentiousness, his camp a harem of pollution, ridding himself by poison of his concubines as his vagrant desires wandered from them; at the same time he was _physically an imbecile_--a monster--whom god in his displeasure had deprived of the passions and the powers of healthy manhood. he was an idol whom the entranced people bowed down before and worshiped, with more than oriental servility. he was also a sanguinary heartless, merciless butcher, exulting in carnage, grinding the bones of his own wounded soldiers into the dust beneath his chariot wheels, and finding congenial music for his depraved and malignant spirit in the shrieks of the mangled and the groans of the dying. to catholic ireland he was represented as seizing the venerable pope by his gray hairs, and thus dragging him over the marble floor of his palace. to protestant england, on the contrary, he was exhibited as in league with the pope, whom he treated with the utmost adulation, endeavoring to strengthen the despotism of the sword with the energies of superstition. the philosophical composure with which napoleon regarded this incessant flow of invective was strikingly grand. "of all the libels and pamphlets," said napoleon subsequently, "with which the english ministers have inundated europe, there is not one which will reach posterity. when i have been asked to cause answers to be written to them, i have uniformly replied, 'my victories and my works of public improvement are the only response which it becomes me to make.' when there shall not be a trace of these libels to be found, the great monuments of utility which i have reared, and the code of laws that i have formed, will descend to the most remote ages, and future historians will avenge the wrongs done me by my contemporaries. there was a time," said he again, "when all crimes seemed to belong to me of right; thus i poisoned hoche,[ ] i strangled pichegru[ ] in his cell, i caused kleber[ ] to be assassinated in egypt, i blew out desaix's[ ] brains at marengo, i cut the throats of persons who were confined in prison, i dragged the pope by the hair of his head, and a hundred similar absurdities. as yet," he again said, "i have not seen one of those libels which is worthy of an answer. would you have me sit down and reply to goldsmith, pichon, or the quarterly review? they are so contemptible and so absurdly false, that they do not merit any other notice, than to write _false_, _false_, on every page. the only truth i have seen in them is, that i one day met an officer, general rapp, i believe, on the field of battle, with his face begrimed with smoke and covered with blood, and that i exclaimed, 'oh, comme il est beau! _o, how beautiful the sight!_' this is true enough. and of it they have made a crime. my commendation of the gallantry of a brave soldier, is construed into a proof of my delighting in blood." the revolutionary government were in the habit of celebrating the st of january with great public rejoicing, as the anniversary of the execution of the king. they urged napoleon to honor the festival by his presence, and to take a conspicuous part in the festivities. he peremptorily declined. "this fête," said he, "commemorates a melancholy event, a tragedy; and can be agreeable to but few people. it is proper to celebrate victories; but victims left upon the field of battle are to be lamented. to celebrate the anniversary of a man's death is an act unworthy of a government; it creates more enemies than friends--it estranges instead of conciliating; it irritates instead of calming; it shakes the foundations of government instead of adding to their strength." the ministry urged that it was the custom with all nations to celebrate the downfall of tyrants; and that napoleon's influence over the public mind was so powerful, that his absence would be regarded as indicative of hostility to the government, and would be highly prejudicial to the interests of the republic. at last napoleon consented to attend, as a private member of the institute, taking no active part in the ceremonies, but merely walking with the members of the class to which he belonged. as soon as the procession entered the church of st. sulpice, all eyes were searching for napoleon. he was soon descried, and every one else was immediately eclipsed. at the close of the ceremony, the air was rent with the shouts, "long live napoleon!" the directory were made exceedingly uneasy by ominous exclamations in the streets, "we will drive away these lawyers, and make the _little corporal_ king." these cries wonderfully accelerated the zeal of the directors, in sending napoleon to egypt. and most devoutly did they hope that from that distant land he would never return. an indian pet. the ichneumon, called in india the neulah, benjee, or mungoos, is known all over that country. i have seen it on the banks of the ganges, and among the old walls of jaunpore, sirhind, and at loodianah; for, like others of the weasel kind, this little animal delights in places where it can lurk and peep--such as heaps of stones and ruins; and there is no lack of these in old indian cities. that the neulah is a fierce, terrible, blood-thirsty, destructive little creature, i experienced to my cost; but notwithstanding all the provocation i received, i was led to become his friend and protector, and so finding him out to be the most charming and amiable pet in the world. in my military career (for i was for a long time attached to the army) i was stationed at jaunpore, and having a house with many conveniences, i took pleasure in rearing poultry; but scarcely a single chicken could be magnified to a hen: the rapacious neulahs, fond of tender meat, waylaying all my young broods, sucking their blood, and feasting on their brains. but such devastations could not be allowed to pass with impunity; so we watched the enemy, and succeeded in shooting several of the offenders, prowling among the hennah or mehendy hedges, where the clucking-hens used to repose in the shade, surrounded by their progeny. after one of these _battues_, my little daughter happened to go to the fowl-house in the evening in search of eggs, and was greatly startled by a melancholy squeaking which seemed to proceed from an old rat-hole in one corner. upon proper investigation this was suspected to be the nest of one of the neulahs which had suffered the last sentence of the law; but how to get at the young we did not know, unless by digging up the floor, and of this i did not approve. so the little young ones would have perished but for a childish freak of my young daughter. she seated herself before the nest, and imitated the cry of the famished little animals so well, that three wee, hairless, blind creatures crept out, like newly-born rabbits, but with long tails, in the hope of meeting with their lost mamma. our hearts immediately warmed toward the little helpless ones, and no one wished to wreak the sins of the parents upon the orphans; and knowing that neulahs were reared as pets, i proposed to my daughter that she should select one for herself, and give the others to two of my servants. my daughter's protégée, however, was the only one that survived under its new _régime_; and jumnie, as she called her nursling, throve well, and soon attained its full size, knowing its name, and endearing itself to every body by its gambols and tricks. she was like the most blithesome of little kittens, and played with our fingers, and frolicked on the sofas, sleeping occasionally behind one of the cushions, and at other times coiling herself up in her own little flannel bed. in the course of time, however, jumnie grew up to maturity, being one year old, and formed an attachment for one of her own race--a wild, roving bandit of a neulah, who committed such deeds of atrocity in the fowl-house as to compel us to take up arms again. if she had only made her mistress the confidante of her love!--but, alas! little did we suspect _our_ neulah of a companionship with thieves and assassins; and so leaving her, we thought, to her customary frolics, we marched upon the stronghold of the enemy. two neulahs appeared, we fired, and one fell, the other running off unscathed. we all hastened to the wounded and bleeding victim, and my little daughter first of all; but how shall i describe her grief when she saw her little jumnie writhing at her feet in the agonies of death! if i had had the least idea of jumnie's having formed such an attachment, i should have spared the guilty for the sake of the innocent, and jumnie might long have lived a favorite pet; but the deed was done. the neulahs, like other of the weasel kind--and like some animals i know of a loftier species--are very rapacious, slaying without reference to their wants; and jumnie, although fond of milk, used to delight in livers and brains of fowls, which she relished even after they were dressed for our table. the natives of india never molest the neulah. they like to see it about their dwellings, on account of its snake and rat-killing propensities; and on a similar account it must have been that this creature was deified by the egyptians, whose country abounded with reptiles, and would have been absolutely alive with crocodiles but for the havoc it made among the numerous eggs, which it delighted to suck. for this reason the ichneumons were embalmed as public benefactors, and their bodies are still found lying in state in some of the pyramids. among the hindoos, however, the neulah does not obtain quite such high honors, although the elephant, monkey, lion, snake, rat, goose, &c., play a prominent part in the religious myths, and are styled the bâhons, or vehicles of the gods. in hindoostan the ichneumon is not supposed to kill the crocodile, though it is in the mouth of every old woman that it possesses the knowledge of a remedy against the bite of a poisonous snake, which its instinct leads it to dig out of the ground; but this _on dit_ has never been ascertained to be true, and my belief is that it is only based on the great agility and dexterity of the neulah. eye-witnesses say that his battles with man's greatest enemy end generally in the death of the snake, which the neulah seizes by the back of the neck, and after frequent onsets at last kills and eats, rejecting nothing but the head. the color of the indian neulah is a grayish-brown; but its chief beauty lies in its splendid squirrel-like tail, and lively, prominent, dark-brown eyes. like most of the weasel kind, however, it has rather a disagreeable odor; and if it were not for this there would not be a sweeter pet in existence. * * * * * so far the experience of an old indian; and we now turn to another authority on the highly-curious subject just glanced at--the knowledge of the ichneumon of a specific against the poison of the snake. calder campbell, in his recent series of tales, "winter nights"--and capital amusement for such nights they are--describes in almost a painfully truthful manner the adventure of an officer in india, who was an eye-witness, under very extraordinary circumstances, to the feat of the ichneumon. the officer, through some accident, was wandering on foot, and at night, through a desolate part of the country, and at length, overcome with fatigue, threw himself down on the dry, crisp spear-grass, and just as the faint edge of the dawn appeared, fell asleep. "no doubt of it! i slept soundly, sweetly--no doubt of it! i have never _since then_ slept in the open air either soundly or sweetly, for my awaking was full of horror! before i was fully awake, however, i had a strange perception of danger, which tied me down to the earth, warning me against all motion. i knew that there was a shadow creeping over me, beneath which to lie in dumb inaction was the wisest resource. i felt that my lower extremities were being invaded by the heavy coils of a living chain; but as if a providential opiate had been infused into my system, preventing all movement of thew or sinew, i knew not till i was wide awake that an enormous serpent covered the whole of my nether limbs, up to the knees! "'my god! i am lost!' was the mental exclamation i made, as every drop of blood in my veins seemed turned to ice; and anon i shook like an aspen leaf, until the very fear that my sudden palsy might rouse the reptile, occasioned a revulsion of feeling, and i again lay paralyzed. "it slept, or at all events remained stirless; and how long it so remained i know not, for time to the fear-struck is as the ring of eternity. all at once the sky cleared up--the moon shone out--the stars glanced over me; i could see them all, as i lay stretched on my side, one hand under my head, whence i dared not remove it; neither dared i looked downward at the loathsome bed-fellow which my evil stars had sent me. "unexpectedly, a new object of terror supervened: a curious purring sound behind me, followed by two smart taps on the ground, put the snake on the alert, for it moved, and i felt that it was crawling upward to my breast. at that moment, when i was almost maddened by insupportable apprehension into starting up to meet, perhaps, certain destruction, something sprang upon my shoulder--upon the reptile! there was a shrill cry from the new assailant, a loud, appalling hiss from the serpent. for an instant i could feel them wrestling, as it were, on my body; in the next, they were beside me on the turf; in another, a few paces off, struggling, twisting round each other, fighting furiously, i beheld them--a _mungoos_ or ichneumon and a _cobra di capello_! "i started up; i watched that most singular combat, for all was now clear as day. i saw them stand aloof for a moment--the deep, venomous fascination of the snaky glance powerless against the keen, quick, restless orbs of its opponent: i saw this duel of the eye exchange once more for closer conflict: i saw that the mungoos was bitten; that it darted away, doubtless in search of that still unknown plant whose juices are its alleged antidote against snake-bite; that it returned with fresh vigor to the attack; and then, glad sight! i saw the cobra di capello, maimed from hooded head to scaly tail, fall lifeless from its hitherto demi-erect position with a baffled hiss; while the wonderful victor, indulging itself in a series of leaps upon the body of its antagonist, danced and bounded about, purring and spitting like an enraged cat! "little graceful creature! i have ever since kept a pet mungoos--the most attached, the most playful, and the most frog-devouring of all animals." * * * * * many other authors refer to the alleged antidote against a snake-bite, known only to the ichneumon, and there are about as many different opinions as there are authors; but, on the whole, our old indian appears to us to be on the strongest side. kossuth--a biographical sketch. [illustration: kossuth, as governor of hungary in .] louis kossuth[ ] was born at monok, in zemplin, one of the northern counties of hungary, on the th of april, . his family was ancient, but impoverished; his father served in the austrian army during the wars against napoleon; his mother, who still survives to exult in the glory of her son, is represented to be a woman of extraordinary force of mind and character. kossuth thus adds another to the long list of great men who seem to have inherited their genius from their mothers. as a boy he was remarkable for the winning gentleness of his disposition, and for an earnest enthusiasm, which gave promise of future eminence, could he but break the bonds imposed by low birth and iron fortune. a young clergyman was attracted by the character of the boy, and voluntarily took upon himself the office of his tutor, and thus first opened before his mind visions of a broader world than that of the miserable village of his residence. but these serene days of powers expanding under genial guidance soon passed away. his father died, his tutor was translated to another post, and the walls of his prison-house seemed again to close upon the boy. but by the aid of members of his family, themselves in humble circumstances, he was enabled to attend such schools as the district furnished. little worth knowing was taught there; but among that little was the latin language; and through that door the young dreamer was introduced into the broad domains of history, where, abandoning the mean present, he could range at will through the immortal past. history relates nothing so spirit-stirring as the struggles of some bold patriot to overthrow or resist arbitrary power. hence the young student of history is always a republican; but, unlike many others, kossuth never changed from that faith. the annals of hungary contain nothing so brilliant as the series of desperate conflicts which were waged at intervals for more than two centuries to maintain the elective character of the hungarian monarchy, in opposition to the attempts of the house of austria to make the crown hereditary in the hapsburg line. in these wars, from to , seventeen of the family of kossuth had been attainted for high treason against austria. the last, most desperate, and decisively unsuccessful struggle was that waged by rakozky, at the beginning of the last century. kossuth pored over the chronicles and annals which narrate the incidents of this contest, till he was master of all the minutest details. it might then have been predicted that he would one day write the history of that fruitless struggle, and the biography of its hero; but no one would have dared to prophesy that he would so closely reproduce it in deeds. in times of peace, the law offers to an aspiring youth the readiest means of ascent from a low degree to lofty stations. kossuth, therefore, when just entering upon manhood, made his way to pesth, the capital, to study the legal profession. here he entered the office of a notary, and began gradually to make himself known by his liberal opinions, and the fervid eloquence with which he set forth and maintained them; and men began to see in him the promise of a powerful public writer, orator, and debater. the man and the hour were alike preparing. in , the year before kossuth arrived at pesth, the critical state of her italian possessions compelled austria to provide extraordinary revenues. the hungarian diet was then assembled, after an interval of thirteen years. this diet at once demanded certain measures of reform before they would make the desired pecuniary grants. the court was obliged to concede these demands. kossuth, having completed his legal studies, and finding no favorable opening in the capital, returned, in , to his native district, and commenced the practice of the law, with marked success. he also began to make his way toward public life by his assiduous attendance and intelligent action in the local assemblies. a new diet was assembled in , and he received a commission as the representative, in the diet, of a magnate who was absent. as proxy for an absentee, he was only charged, by the hungarian constitution, with a very subordinate part, his functions being more those of a counsel than of a delegate. this, however, was a post much sought for by young and aspiring lawyers, as giving them an opportunity of mastering legal forms, displaying their abilities, and forming advantageous connections. this diet renewed the liberal struggle with increased vigor. by far the best talent of hungary was ranged upon the liberal side. kossuth early made himself known as a debater, and gradually won his way upward, and became associated with the leading men of the liberal party, many of whom were among the proudest and richest of the hungarian magnates. he soon undertook to publish a report of the debates and proceedings of the diet. this attempt was opposed by the palatine, and a law hunted up which forbade the "printing and publishing" of these reports. he for a while evaded the law by having his sheet lithographed. it increased in its development of democratic tendencies, and in popularity, until finally the lithographic press was seized by government. kossuth, determined not to be baffled, still issued his journal, every copy being written out by scribes, of whom he employed a large number. to avoid seizure at the post-office, they were circulated through the local authorities, who were almost invariably on the liberal side. this was a period of intense activity on the part of kossuth. he attended the meetings of the diet, and the conferences of the deputies, edited his paper, read almost all new works on politics and political economy, and studied french and english for the sake of reading the debates in the french chambers and the british parliament; allowing himself, we are told, but three hours' sleep in the twenty-four. his periodical penetrated into every part of the kingdom, and men saw with wonder a young and almost unknown public writer boldly pitting himself against metternich and the whole austrian cabinet. kossuth might well, at this period declare that he "felt within himself something nameless." in the succeeding diets the opposition grew still more determined. kossuth, though twice admonished by government, still continued his journal; and no longer confined himself to simple reports of the proceedings of the diet, but added political remarks of the keenest satire and most bitter denunciation. he was aware that his course was a perilous one. he was once found by a friend walking in deep reverie in the fortress of buda, and in reply to a question as to the subject of his meditations, he said, "i was looking at the casemates, for i fear that i shall soon be quartered there." government finally determined to use arguments more cogent than discussion could furnish. baron wesselenyi, the leader of the liberal party, and the most prominent advocate of the removal of urbarial burdens, was arrested, together with a number of his adherents. kossuth was of course a person of too much note to be overlooked, and on the th of may, , to use the words of an austrian partisan, "it happened that as he was promenading in the vicinity of buda, he was seized by the myrmidons of the law, and confined in the lower walls of the fortress, there to consider, in darkness and solitude, how dangerous it is to defy a powerful government, and to swerve from the path of law and of prudence." kossuth became at once sanctified in the popular mind as a martyr. liberal subscriptions were raised through the country for the benefit of his mother and sisters, whom he had supported by his exertions, and who were now left without protection. wesselenyi became blind in prison; lovassi, an intimate friend of kossuth, lost his reason; and kossuth himself, as was certified by his physicians, was in imminent risk of falling a victim to a serious disease. the rigor of his confinement was mitigated; he was allowed books, newspapers, and writing materials, and suffered to walk daily upon the bastions of the fortress, in charge of an officer. among those who were inspired with admiration for his political efforts, and with sympathy for his fate, was teresa mezlenyi, the young daughter of a nobleman. she sent him books, and corresponded with him during his imprisonment; and they were married in , soon after his liberation. the action of the drama went on, though kossuth was for a while withdrawn from the stage. his connection with wesselenyi procured for him a degree of influence among the higher magnates which he could probably in no other way have attained. their aid was as essential to the early success of the liberals, as was the support of essex and manchester to the parliament of england at the commencement of the contest with charles i. in the second year of kossuth's imprisonment, austria again needed hungarian assistance. the threatening aspect of affairs in the east, growing out of the relations between turkey and egypt, determined all the great powers to increase their armaments. a demand was made upon the hungarian diet for an additional levy of , troops. a large body of delegates was chosen pledged to oppose this grant except upon condition of certain concessions, among which was a general amnesty, with a special reference to the cases of wesselenyi and kossuth. the most sagacious of the conservative party advised government to liberate all the prisoners, with the exception of kossuth; and to do this before the meeting of the diet, in order that their liberation might not be made a condition of granting the levy; which must be the occasion of great excitement. the cabinet temporized, and did nothing. the diet was opened, and the contest was waged during six months. the opposition had a majority of two in the chamber of deputies, but were in a meagre minority in the chamber of magnates. but metternich and the cabinet grew alarmed at the struggle, and were eager to obtain the grant of men, and to close the refractory diet. in a royal rescript suddenly made its appearance, granting the amnesty, accompanied also with conciliatory remarks, and the demands of the government for men and money were at once complied with. this action of government weakened the ranks of its supporters among the hungarian magnates, who thus found themselves exposed to the charge of being more despotic than the cabinet of metternich itself. kossuth issued from prison in , after an imprisonment of three years, bearing in his debilitated frame, his pallid face, and glassy eyes, traces of severe sufferings, both of mind and body. he repaired for a time to a watering-place among the mountains to recruit his shattered health. his imprisonment had done more for his influence than he could have effected if at liberty. the visitors at the watering-place treated with silent respect the man who moved about among them in dressing-gown and slippers, and whose slow steps, and languid features disfigured with yellow spots, proclaimed him an invalid. abundant subscriptions had been made for his benefit and that of his family, and he now stood on an equality with the proudest magnates. these had so often used the name of the "martyr of the liberty of the press" in pointing their speeches, that they now had no choice but to accept the popular verdict as their own. kossuth, in the meanwhile mingled little with the society at the watering-place; but preferred, as his health improved, to wander among the forest-clad hills and lonely valleys, where, says one who there became acquainted with him, and was his frequent companion, "the song of birds, a group of trees, and even the most insignificant phenomena of nature furnished occasions for conversation." but now and then flashes would burst forth which showed that he was revolving other things in his mind. sometimes a chord would be casually struck which awoke deeper feelings, then his rare eloquence would burst forth with the fearful earnestness of conviction, and he hurled forth sentences instinct with life and passion. the wife of the lord-lieutenant, the daughter of a great magnate, was attracted by his appearance, and desired this companion of kossuth to introduce him to her house. when this desire was made known to kossuth, the mysterious and nervous expression passed over his face, which characterizes it when excited. "no," he exclaimed, "i will not go to that woman's house; her father subscribed four-pence to buy a rope to hang me with!" soon after his liberation, he came forward as the principal editor of the "pesth gazette" (_pesthi hirlap_), which a bookseller, who enjoyed the protection of the government, had received permission to establish. the name of the editor was now sufficient to electrify the country; and kossuth at once stood forth as the advocate of the rights of the lower and middle classes against the inordinate privileges and immunities enjoyed by the magnates. but when he went to the extent of demanding that the house-tax should be paid by all classes in the community, not even excepting the highest nobility, a party was raised up against him among the nobles, who established a paper to combat so disorganizing a doctrine. this party, backed by the influence of government, succeeded in defeating the election of kossuth as member from pesth for the diet of . he was, however, very active in the local assembly of the capital. kossuth was not altogether without support among the higher nobles. the blind old wesselenyi traversed the country, advocating rural freedom and the abolition of the urbarial burdens. among his supporters at this period also, was count louis batthyanyi, one of the most considerable of the magyar magnates, subsequently president of the hungarian ministry, and the most illustrious martyr of the hungarian cause. aided by his powerful support, kossuth was again brought forward, in , as one of the two candidates from pesth. the government party, aware that they were in a decided minority, limited their efforts to an attempt to defeat the election of kossuth. this they endeavored to effect by stratagem. the liberal party nominated szentkiraly and kossuth. the government party also named the former. the royal administrator, who presided at the election, decided that szentkiraly was chosen by acclamation; but that a poll must be held for the other member. before the intention of kossuth to present himself as a candidate was known, the liberals had proposed m. balla as second delegate. he at once resigned in favor of kossuth. the government party cast their votes for him, in hopes of drawing off a portion of the liberal party from the support of kossuth. m. balla loudly but unavailingly protested against this stratagem; and when after a scrutiny of twelve hours, kossuth was declared elected, balla was the first to applaud. that night kossuth, balla, and szentkiraly were serenaded by the citizens of pesth; they descended together to the street, and walked arm-in-arm among the crowd. the royal administrator was severely reprimanded for not having found means to prevent the election of kossuth. kossuth no sooner took his seat in the diet than the foremost place was at once conceded to him. at the opening of the session he moved an address to the king, concluding with the petition that "liberal institutions, similar to those of the hungarian constitution, might be accorded to all the hereditary states, that thus might be created a united austrian monarchy, based upon broad and constitutional principles." during the early months of the session kossuth showed himself a most accomplished parliamentary orator and debater; and carried on a series of attacks upon the policy of the austrian cabinet, which for skill and power have few parallels in the annals of parliamentary warfare. those form a very inadequate conception of its scope and power, whose ideas of the eloquence of kossuth are derived solely from the impassioned and exclamatory harangues which he flung out during the war. these were addressed to men wrought up to the utmost tension, and can be judged fairly only by men in a state of high excitement. he adapted his matter and manner to the occasion and the audience. some of his speeches are marked by a stringency of logic worthy of webster or calhoun:--but it was what all eloquence of a high order must ever be--"logic red-hot." now came the french revolution of february, . the news of it reached vienna on the st of march, and was received at pressburg on the d. on the following day kossuth delivered his famous speech on the finances and the state of the monarchy generally, concluding with a proposed "address to the throne," urging a series of reformatory measures. among the foremost of these was the emancipation of the country from feudal burdens--the proprietors of the soil to be indemnified by the state; equalizing taxation; a faithful administration of the revenue to be satisfactorily guaranteed; the further development of the representative system; and the establishment of a government representing the voice of, and responsible to the nation.[ ] the speech produced an effect almost without parallel in the annals of debate. not a word was uttered in reply, and the motion was unanimously carried. on the th of march took place the revolution in vienna which overthrew the metternich cabinet. on the th, the constitution granted by the emperor to all the nations within the empire was solemnly proclaimed, amidst the wildest transports of joy. henceforth there were to be no more germans or sclavonians, magyars or italians; strangers embraced and kissed each other in the streets, for all the heterogeneous races of the empire were now brothers:--as likewise were all the nations of the earth at anacharsis klootz's "feast of pikes" in paris, on that th day of july in the year of grace --and yet, notwithstanding, came the "reign of terror." among the demands made by the hungarian diet was that of a separate and responsible ministry for hungary. the palatine, archduke stephen, to whom the conduct of affairs in hungary had been intrusted, persuaded the emperor to accede to this demand, and on the following day batthyanyi, who with kossuth and a deputation of delegates of the diet was in vienna, was named president of the hungarian ministry. it was, however, understood that kossuth was the life and soul of the new ministry. kossuth assumed the department of finance, then, as long before and now, the post of difficulty under austrian administration. the diet meanwhile went on to consummate the series of reforms which kossuth had so long and steadfastly advocated. the remnants of feudalism were swept away--the landed proprietors being indemnified by the state for the loss they sustained. the civil and political rights which had heretofore been in the exclusive possession of the nobles, were extended to the burghers and the peasants. a new electoral law was framed, according the right of suffrage to every possessor of property to the amount of about one hundred and fifty dollars. the whole series of bills received the royal signature on the th of april; the diet having previously adjourned to meet on the d of july. up to this time there had been indeed a vigorous and decided opposition, but no insurrection. the true cause of the hungarian war was the hostility of the austrian government to the whole series of reformatory measures which had been effected through the instrumentality of kossuth; but its immediate occasion was the jealousy which sprung up among the serbian and croatian dependencies of hungary against the hungarian ministry. this soon broke out into an open revolt, headed by baron jellachich, who had just been appointed ban or lord of croatia. how far the serbs and croats had occasion for jealousy, is of little consequence to our present purpose to inquire; though we may say, in passing, that the proceedings of the magyars toward the other hungarian races was marked by a far more just and generous feeling and conduct than could have been possibly expected; and that the whole ground of hostility was sheer misrepresentation; and this, if we may credit the latest and best authorities, is now admitted by the sclavic races themselves. but however the case may have been as between the magyars and croats, as between the hungarians and austria, the hostile course of the latter is without excuse or palliation. the emperor had solemnly sanctioned the action of the diet, and did as solemnly denounce the proceedings of jellachich. on the th of may the ban was summoned to present himself at innspruck, to answer for his conduct; and as he did not make his appearance, an imperial manifesto was issued on the th of june, depriving him of all his dignities, and commanding the authorities at once to break off all intercourse with him. he, however, still continued his operations, and levied an army for the invasion of hungary, and a fierce and bloody war of races broke out, marked on both sides by the most fearful atrocities. the hungarian diet was opened on the th of july, when the palatine, archduke stephen, in the name of the king, solemnly denounced the conduct of the insurgent croats. a few days after, kossuth, in a speech in the diet, set forth the perilous state of affairs, and concluded by asking for authority to raise an army of , men, and a large amount of money. these proposals were adopted by acclamation, the enthusiasm in the diet rendering any debate impossible and superfluous. the imperial forces having been victorious in italy, and one pressing danger being thus averted from the empire, the austrian cabinet began openly to display its hostility to the hungarian movement. jellachich repaired to innspruck, and was openly acknowledged by the court, and the decree of deposition was revoked. early in september hungary and austria stood in an attitude of undisguised hostility. on the th of that month, kossuth, though enfeebled by illness, was carried to the hall of the diet where he delivered a speech, declaring that so formidable were the dangers that surrounded the nation, that the ministers might soon be forced to call upon the diet to name a dictator, clothed with unlimited powers, to save the country; but before taking this final step they would recommend a last appeal to the imperial government. a large deputation was thereupon dispatched to the emperor, to lay before him the demands of the hungarian nation. no satisfactory answer was returned, and the deputation left the imperial presence in silence. on their return, they plucked from their caps the plumes of the united colors of austria and hungary, and replaced them with red feathers, and hoisted a flag of the same color on the steamer which conveyed them to pesth. their report produced the most intense agitation in the diet, and at the capital, but it was finally resolved to make one more attempt for a pacific settlement of the question. in order that no obstacle might be interposed by their presence, kossuth and his colleagues resigned, and a new ministry was appointed. a deputation was sent to the national assembly at vienna, which refused to receive it. jellachich had in the mean time entered hungary with a large army, not as yet, however, openly sanctioned by imperial authority. the diet seeing the imminent peril of the country, conferred dictatorial powers upon kossuth. the palatine resigned his post, and left the kingdom. the emperor appointed count lemberg to take the entire command of the hungarian army. the diet declared the appointment illegal, and the count, arriving at pesth without escort, was slain in the streets of the capital by the populace, in a sudden outbreak. the emperor forthwith placed the kingdom under martial law, giving the supreme civil and military power to jellachich. the diet at once revolted; declared itself permanent, and appointed kossuth governor, and president of the committee of safety. there was now but one course left for the hungarians: to maintain by force of arms the position they had assumed. we can not detail the events of the war which followed, but merely touch upon the most salient points. jellachich was speedily driven out of hungary, toward vienna. in october, the austrian forces were concentrated under command of windischgrätz, to the number of , veterans, and were put on the march for hungary. to oppose them, the only forces under the command of the new government of hungary, were , regular infantry, cavalry, and , recruits, who received the name of honveds, or "protectors of home." of all the movements that followed, kossuth was the soul and chief. his burning and passionate appeals stirred up the souls of the peasants, and sent them by thousands to the camp. he kindled enthusiasm, he organized that enthusiasm, and transformed those raw recruits into soldiers more than a match for the veteran troops of austria. though himself not a soldier, he discovered and drew about him soldiers and generals of a high order. the result was that windischgrätz was driven back from hungary, and of the , troops which he led into that kingdom in october, one half were killed, disabled, or taken prisoners at the end of april. the state of the war on the st of may, may be gathered from the imperial manifesto of that date, which announced that "the insurrection in hungary had grown to such an extent," that the imperial government "had been induced to appeal to the assistance of his majesty the czar of all the russias, who generously and readily granted it to a most satisfactory extent." the issue of the contest could no longer be doubtful, when the immense weight of russia was thrown into the scale. had all power, civil and military been concentrated in one person, and had he displayed the brilliant generalship and desperate courage which napoleon manifested in , when the overwhelming forces of the allies were marching upon paris, the fall of hungary might have been delayed for a few weeks, perhaps to another campaign; but it could not have been averted. in modern warfare there is a limit beyond which devotion and enthusiasm can not supply the place of numbers and material force. and that limit was overpassed when russia and austria were pitted against hungary. the chronology of the hungarian struggle may be thus stated: on the th of september, , jellachich crossed the drave and invaded hungary; and was driven back at the close of that month toward vienna. in october, windischgrätz advanced into hungary, and took possession of pesth, the capital. on the th of april, , the declaration of hungarian independence was promulgated. at the close of that month, the austrians were driven out at every point, and the issue of the contest, as between hungary and austria, was settled. on the st of may the russian intervention was announced. on the th of august kossuth resigned his dictatorship into the hands of görgey who, two days after, in effect closed the war by surrendering to the russians. the hungarian war thus lasted a little more than eleven months; during which time there was but one ruling and directing spirit; and that was kossuth, to whose immediate career we now return. early in january it was found advisable to remove the seat of government from pesth to the town of debreczin, situated in the interior. pesth was altogether indefensible, and the austrian army were close upon it; but here the hungarians had collected a vast amount of stores and ammunition, the preservation of which was of the utmost importance. in saving these the administrative power of kossuth was strikingly manifested. for three days and three nights he labored uninterruptedly in superintending the removal, which was successfully effected. from the heaviest locomotive engine down to a shot-belt, all the stores were packed up and carried away, so that when the austrians took possession of pesth, they only gained the eclat of occupying the hungarian capital, without acquiring the least solid advantage. debreczin was the scene where kossuth displayed his transcendent abilities as an administrator, a statesman, and an orator. the population of the town was about , , which was at once almost doubled, so that every one was forced to put up with such accommodations as he could find, and occupy the least possible amount of space. kossuth himself occupied the town hall. on the first floor was a spacious ante-room, constantly filled with persons waiting for an interview, which was, necessarily, a matter of delay, as each one was admitted in his turn; the only exception being in cases where public business required an immediate audience. this ante-room opened into two spacious apartments, in one of which the secretaries of the governor were always at work. here kossuth received strangers. at these audiences he spoke but little, but listened attentively, occasionally taking notes of any thing that seemed of importance. his secretaries were continually coming to him to receive directions, to present a report, or some document to receive his signature. these he never omitted to examine carefully, before affixing his signature, even amidst the greatest pressure of business; at the same time listening to the speaker. "be brief," he used to say, "but for that very reason forget nothing." these hours of audience were also his hours of work, and here it was that he wrote those stirring appeals which aroused and kept alive the spirit of his countrymen. it was only when he had some document of extraordinary importance to prepare, that he retired to his closet. these audiences usually continued until far into the night, the ante-room being often as full at midnight as in the morning. although of a delicate constitution, broken also by his imprisonment, the excitement bore him up under the immense mental and bodily exertion, and while there was work to do he was never ill. he usually allowed himself an hour for rest or relaxation, from two till three o'clock, when he was accustomed to take a drive with his wife and children to a little wood at a short distance, where he would seek out some retired spot, and play upon the grass with his children, and for a moment forget the pressing cares of state. at three o'clock he dined; and at the conclusion of his simple meal, was again at his post. this round of audiences was frequently interrupted by a council of war, a conference of ministers, or the review of a regiment just on the point of setting out for the seat of hostilities. new battalions seemed to spring from the earth at his command, and he made a point of reviewing each, and delivering to them a brief address, which was always received with a burst of "_eljens_." at debreczin the sittings of the house of assembly were held in what had been the chapel of the protestant college. kossuth attended these sittings only when he had some important communications to make. then he always walked over from the town hall. entering the assembly, he ascended the rostrum, if it was not occupied; if it was, he took his place in any vacant seat, none being specially set apart for the governor. he was a monarch, but with an invisible throne, the hearts of his subjects. when the rostrum was vacant, he would ascend it, and lay before the assembly his propositions, or sway all hearts by his burning and fervent eloquence. such was the daily life of kossuth at the temporary seat of government, bearing upon his shoulders the affairs of state, calling up, as if by magic, regiment after regiment, providing for their arming, equipment, and maintenance, while the hungarian generals were contending on the field, with various fortunes; triumphantly against the austrians, desperately and hopelessly when russia was added to the enemy. the defeat of bem at temesvar, on the th of august gave the death-blow to the cause. two days afterward, kossuth and görgey stood alone in the bow-window of a small chamber in the fortress of arad. what passed between them no man knows; but from that room görgey went forth dictator of hungary; and kossuth followed him to set out on his journey of exile. on the same day the new dictator announced to the russians his intention to surrender the forces under his command. the following day he marched to the place designated, where the russian general rudiger arrived on the th, and görgey's army, numbering , men, with pieces of artillery, laid down their arms. nothing remained for kossuth and his companions but flight. they gained the turkish frontier, and threw themselves on the hospitality of the sultan, who promised them a safe asylum. russia and austria demanded that the fugitives should be given up; and for some months it was uncertain whether the turkish government would dare to refuse. at first a decided negative was returned; then the porte wavered; and it was officially announced to kossuth and his companions that the only means for them to avoid surrendry would be to abjure the faith of their fathers; and thus take advantage of the fundamental moslem law, that any fugitive embracing the mohammedan faith can claim the protection of the government. kossuth refused to purchase his life at such a price. and finally austria and russia were induced to modify their demand, and merely to insist upon the detention of the fugitives. on the other hand, the turkish government was urged to allow them to depart. early in the present year, mr. webster, as secretary of state, directed our minister at constantinople to urge the porte to suffer the exiles to come to the united states. a similar course was pursued by the british government. it was promised that these representations should be complied with; but so late as in march of the present year, kossuth addressed a letter to our chargé at constantinople, despairing of his release being granted. but happily his fears were groundless; and our government was notified that on the st of september, the day on which terminated the period of detention agreed upon by the sultan, kossuth and his companions would be free to depart to any part of the world. the united states steam-frigate mississippi, was at once placed at his disposal. the offer was accepted. on the th of september the steamer reached smyrna, with the illustrious exile and his family and suite on board, bound to our shores, after a short visit in england. the government of france, in the meanwhile, denied him the privilege of passing through their territory. while this sheet is passing through the press, we are in daily expectation of the arrival of kossuth in our country, where a welcome awaits him warmer and more enthusiastic than has greeted any man who has ever approached our shores, saving only the time when la fayette was our nation's honored guest. it is right and fitting that it should be so. when a monarch is dethroned it is appropriate that neighboring monarchies should accord a hearty and hospitable reception to him, as the representative of the monarchical principle, even though his own personal character should present no claims upon esteem or regard. kossuth comes to us as the exiled representative of those fundamental principles upon which our political institutions are based. he is the representative of these principles, not by the accident of birth, but by deliberate choice. he has maintained them at a fearful hazard. it is therefore our duty and our privilege to greet him with a hearty, "well done!" kossuth occupies a position peculiarly his own, whether we regard the circumstances of his rise, or the feelings which have followed him in his fall. born in the middle ranks of life, he raised himself by sheer force of intellect to the loftiest place among the proudest nobles on earth, without ever deserting or being deserted by the class from which he sprung. he effected a sweeping reform without appealing to any sordid or sanguinary motive. no soldier himself, he transformed a country into a camp, and a nation into an army. he transmuted his words into batteries, and his thoughts into soldiers. without ever having looked upon a stricken field, he organized the most complete system of resistance to despotism that the history of revolutions has furnished. it failed, but only failed where nothing could have succeeded. not less peculiar are the feelings which have followed him in his fall. men who have saved a state have received the unbounded love and gratitude of their countrymen. those who have fallen in the lost battle for popular rights, or who have sealed their devotion on the scaffold or in the dungeon, are reverenced as martyrs forevermore. but kossuth's endeavors have been sanctified and hallowed neither by success nor by martyrdom. he is the living leader of a lost cause. his country is ruined, its nationality destroyed, and through his efforts. yet no hungarian lays this ruin to his charge; and the first lesson taught the infant magyar is a blessing upon his name. yet whatever the future may have in store, his efforts have not been lost efforts. the tree which he planted in blood and agony and tears, though its tender shoots have been trampled down by the russian bear, will yet spring up again to gladden, if not his heart, yet those of his children or his children's children. the man may perish, but the cause endures. the legend of the lost well. in ancient times there existed in the desert that lies to the west of egypt--somewhere between the sun at its setting and the city of siout--a tribe of arabs that called themselves waled allah, or the children of god. they professed mohammedanism, but were in every other respect different from their neighbors to the north and south, and from the inhabitants of the land of egypt. it was their custom during the months of summer to draw near to the confines of the cultivated country and hold intercourse with its people, selling camels and wool, and other desert productions; but when winter came they drew off toward the interior of the wilderness, and it was not known where they abode. they were by no means great in numbers; but such was their skill in arms, and their reputation for courage, that no tribe ever ventured to trespass on their limits, and all caravans eagerly paid to them the tribute of safe-conduct. such was the case for many years; but at length it came to pass that the waled allah, after departing as usual for the winter, returned in great disorder and distress toward the neighborhood of the nile. those who saw them on that occasion reported that their sufferings must have been tremendous. more than two-thirds of their cattle, a great number of the women and children, and several of the less hardy men, were missing; but they would not at first confess what had happened to them. when, however, they asked permission to settle temporarily on some unoccupied lands, the curious and inquisitive went among them, and by degrees the truth came out. it appeared that many centuries ago one of their tribe, following the track of some camels that had strayed, had ventured to a great distance in the desert, and had discovered a pass in the mountains leading into a spacious valley, in the midst of which was a well of the purest water, that overflowed and fertilized the land around. as the man at once understood the importance of his discovery, he devoted himself for his tribe, and returned slowly, piling up stones here and there that the way might not again be lost. when he arrived at the station he had only sufficient strength to relate what he had seen before he died of fatigue and thirst. so they called the well after him--bir hassan. it was found that the valley was only habitable during the winter; for being surrounded with perpendicular rocks it became like a furnace in the hot season--the vegetation withered into dust, and the waters hid themselves within the bowels of the earth. they resolved, therefore, to spend one half of their time in that spot, where they built a city; and during the other half of their time they dwelt, as i have said, on the confines of the land of egypt. but it was found that only by a miracle had the well of hassan been discovered. those who tried without the aid of the road-marks to make their way to it invariably failed. so it became an institution of the tribe that two men should be left, with a sufficient supply of water and food, in a large cave overlooking the desert near the entrance of the valley; and that they should watch for the coming of the tribe, and when a great fire was lighted on a certain hill, should answer by another fire, and thus guide their people. this being settled, the piles of stones were dispersed, lest the greedy egyptians, hearing by chance of this valley, should make their way to it. how long matters continued in this state is not recorded, but at length, when the tribe set out to return to their winter quarters, and reached the accustomed station and lighted the fire, no answering fire appeared. they passed the first night in expectation, and the next day, and the next night, saying: "probably the men are negligent;" but at length they began to despair. they had brought but just sufficient water with them for the journey, and death began to menace them. in vain they endeavored to find the road. a retreat became necessary; and, as i have said, they returned and settled on the borders of the land of egypt. many men, however, went back many times year after year to endeavor to find the lost well; but some were never heard of more, and some returned, saying that the search was in vain. nearly a hundred years passed away, and the well became forgotten, and the condition of the tribe had undergone a sad change. it never recovered its great disaster: wealth and courage disappeared; and the governors of egypt, seeing the people dependent and humble-spirited, began, as is their wont, to oppress them, and lay on taxes and insults. many times a bold man of their number would propose that they should go and join some of the other tribes of arabs, and solicit to be incorporated with them; but the idea was laughed at as extravagant, and they continued to live on in misery and degradation. it happened that the chief of the tribe at the time of which i now speak was a man of gentle character and meek disposition, named abdallah the good, and that he had a son, like one of the olden time, stout, and brave as a lion, named ali. this youth could not brook the subjection in which his people were kept, nor the wrongs daily heaped upon them, and was constantly revolving in his mind the means of escape and revenge. when he gave utterance to these sentiments, however, his father, abdallah, severely rebuked him; for he feared the power of the lords of egypt, and dreaded lest mischief might befall his family or his tribe. now contemporary with abdallah the good there was a governor of siout named omar the evil. he had gained a great reputation in the country by his cruelties and oppressions, and was feared by high and low. several times had he treated the waled allah with violence and indignity, bestowing upon them the name of waled sheitan, or children of the devil, and otherwise vexing and annoying them, besides levying heavy tribute, and punishing with extreme severity the slightest offense. one day he happened to be riding along in the neighborhood of their encampment when he observed ali trying the paces of a handsome horse which he had purchased. covetousness entered his mind, and calling to the youth, he said, "what is the price of thy horse?" "it is not for sale," was the reply. no sooner were the words uttered than omar made a signal to his men, who rushed forward, threw the young man to the ground in spite of his resistance, and leaving him there, returned leading the horse. omar commanded them to bring it with them, and rode away, laughing heartily at his exploit. but ali was not the man to submit tamely to such injustice. he endeavored at first to rouse the passions of his tribe, but not succeeding, resolved to revenge himself or die in the attempt. one night, therefore, he took a sharp dagger, disguised himself, and lurking about the governor's palace, contrived to introduce himself without being seen, and to reach the garden, where he had heard it was the custom of omar to repose awhile as he waited for his supper. a light guided him to the kiosque where the tyrant slept alone, not knowing that vengeance was nigh. ali paused a moment, doubting whether it was just to strike an unprepared foe; but he remembered all his tribe had suffered as well as himself, and raising his dagger, advanced stealthily toward the couch where the huge form of the governor lay. a slight figure suddenly interposed between him and the sleeping man. it was that of a young girl, who, with terror in her looks, waved him back. "what wouldst thou, youth?" she inquired. "i come to slay that enemy," replied ali, endeavoring to pass her and effect his purpose while there was yet time. "it is my father," said she, still standing in the way and awing him by the power of her beauty. "thy father is a tyrant, and deserves to die." "if he be a tyrant he is still my father; and thou, why shouldst thou condemn him?" "he has injured me and my tribe." "let injuries be forgiven, as we are commanded. i will speak for thee and thy tribe. is not thy life valuable to thee? retire ere it be too late; and by my mother, who is dead, i swear to thee that i will cause justice to be done." "not from any hopes of justice, but as a homage to god for having created such marvelous beauty, do i retire and spare the life of that man which i hold in my hands." so saying ali sprang away, and effected his escape. no sooner was he out of sight than omar, who had been awakened by the sound of voices, but who had feigned sleep when he heard what turn affairs were taking, arose and laughed, saying: "well done, amina! thou art worthy of thy father. how thou didst cajole that son of a dog by false promises?" "nay, father; what i have promised must be performed." "ay, ay. thou didst promise justice, and, by the beards of my ancestors, justice shall assuredly be done!" next day ali was seized and conducted to the prison adjoining the governor's palace. amina, when she heard of this, in vain sought to obtain his release. her father laughed at her scruples, and avowed his intention of putting the young man to death in the cruelest possible manner. he had him brought before him, bound and manacled, and amused himself by reviling and taunting him--calling him a fool for having yielded to the persuasions of a foolish girl! ali, in spite of all, did not reply; for he now thought more of amina than of the indignities to which he was subjected; and instead of replying with imprudent courage, as under other circumstances he might have done, he took care not to exasperate the tyrant, and meanwhile revolved in his mind the means of escape. if he expected that his mildness would disarm the fury of omar, never was mistake greater; for almost in the same breath with the order for his being conducted back to prison was given that for public proclamation of his execution to take place on the next day. there came, however, a saviour during the night: it was the young amina, who, partly moved by generous indignation that her word should have been given in vain, partly by another feeling, bribed the jailers, and leading forth the young man, placed him by the side of his trusty steed which had been stolen from him, and bade him fly for his life. he lingered to thank her and enjoy her society. they talked long and more and more confidentially. at length the first streaks of dawn began to show themselves; and amina, as she urged him to begone, clung to the skirts of his garments. he hesitated a moment, a few hurried words passed, and presently she was behind him on the horse, clasping his waist, and away they went toward the mountains, into the midst of which they soon penetrated by a rugged defile. amina had been prudent enough to prepare a small supply of provisions, and ali knew where at that season water was to be found in small quantities. his intention was to penetrate to a certain distance in the desert, and then turning south, to seek the encampment of a tribe with some of whose members he was acquainted. their prospects were not very discouraging; for even if pursuit were attempted, ali justly confided in his superior knowledge of the desert: he expected in five days to reach the tents toward which he directed his course, and he calculated that the small bag of flour which amina had provided would prevent them at least from dying of hunger during that time. the first stage was a long one. for seven hours he proceeded in a direct line from the rising sun, the uncomplaining amina clinging still to him; but at length the horse began to exhibit symptoms of fatigue, and its male rider of anxiety. they had traversed an almost uninterrupted succession of rocky valleys, but now reached an elevated undulating plain covered with huge black boulders that seemed to stretch like a petrified sea to the distant horizon. now and then they had seen during their morning's ride, in certain little sheltered nooks, small patches of a stunted vegetation; but now all was bleak and barren, and grim like the crater of a volcano. and yet it was here that ali expected evidently to find water--most necessary to them; for all three were feeling the symptoms of burning thirst. he paused every now and then, checking his steed, and rising in his stirrups to gaze ahead or on one side; but each time his search was in vain. at length he said: "possibly i have, in the hurry of my thoughts, taken the wrong defile, in which case nothing but death awaits us. we shall not have strength to retrace our footsteps, and must die here in this horrible place. stand upon the saddlebow, amina, while i support thee: if thou seest any thing like a white shining cloud upon the ground, we are saved." amina did as she was told, and gazed for a few moments around. suddenly she cried: "i see, as it were a mist of silver far, far away to the left." "it is the first well," replied ali; and he urged his stumbling steed in that direction. it soon appeared that they were approaching a mound of dazzling whiteness. close by was a little hollow, apparently dry. but ali soon scraped away a quantity of the clayey earth, and presently the water began to collect, trickling in from the sides. in a couple of hours they procured enough for themselves and for the horse, and ate some flour diluted in a wooden bowl; after which they lay down to rest beneath a ledge of rock that threw a little shade. toward evening, after ali had carefully choked up the well, lest it might be dried by the sun, they resumed their journey, and arrived about midnight at a lofty rock in the midst of the plain, visible at a distance of many hours in the moonlight. in a crevice near the summit of this they found a fair supply of water, and having refreshed themselves, reposed until dawn. then amina prepared their simple meal, and soon afterward off they went again over the burning plain. this time, as ali knew beforehand, there was no prospect of well or water for twenty-four hours; and unfortunately they had not been able to procure a skin. however, they carried some flour well moistened in their wooden bowl, which they covered with a large piece of wet linen, and studied to keep from the sun. they traveled almost without intermission the whole of that day and a great part of the night. ali now saw that it was necessary to rest, and they remained where they were until near morning. "dearest amina," said he, returning to the young girl after having climbed to the top of a lofty rock and gazed anxiously ahead, "i think i see the mountain where the next water is to be found. if thou art strong enough, we will push on at once." though faint and weary, amina said: "let us be going;" and now it was necessary for ali to walk, the horse refusing to carry any longer a double burden. they advanced, however, rapidly; and at length reached the foot of a lofty range of mountains, all white, and shining in the sun like silver. in one of the gorges near the summit ali knew there was usually a small reservoir of water; but he had only been there once in his boyhood, when on his way to visit the tribe with which he now expected to find a shelter. however, he thought he recognized various landmarks, and began to ascend with confidence. the sun beat furiously down on the barren and glistering ground; and the horse exhausted, more than once refused to proceed. he had not eaten once since their departure, and ali knew that he must perish ere the journey was concluded. as they neared the summit of the ridge, the young man recognized with joy a rock in the shape of a crouching camel that had formerly been pointed out to him as indicating the neighborhood of the reservoir, and pressed on with renewed confidence. what was his horror, however, on reaching the place he sought, at beholding it quite dry! dry, and hot as an oven! the water had all escaped by a crevice recently formed. ali now believed that death was inevitable; and folding the fainting amina in his arms, sat down and bewailed his lot in a loud voice. suddenly a strange sight presented itself. a small caravan appeared coming down the ravine--not of camels, nor of horses, nor asses, but of goats and a species of wild antelope. they moved slowly, and behind them walked with tottering steps a man of great age with a vast white beard, supporting himself with a long stick. ali rushed forward to a goat which bore a water-skin, seized it, and without asking permission carried it to amina. both drank with eagerness; and it was not until they were well satisfied that they noticed the strange old man looking at them with interest and curiosity. then they told their story; and the owner of the caravan in his turn told his, which was equally wonderful. "and what was the old man's story?" inquired the listeners in one breath. "it shall be related to-morrow. the time for sleep has come." i was not fortunate enough to hear the conclusion of this legend, told in the simple matter-of-fact words of wahsa; but one of our attendants gave me the substance. the old man of the caravan was stated to be the younger of the two watchers left behind more than a hundred years before at bir hassan. his companion had been killed, and he himself wounded by some wild beast, which had prevented the necessary signals from being made. he understood that some terrible disaster had occurred, and dared not brave the vengeance which he thought menaced him from the survivors. so he resolved to stay in the valley, and had accordingly remained for a hundred years, at the expiration of which period he had resolved to set out on a pilgrimage to the nile, in order to ascertain if any members of the tribes still remained, that he might communicate the secret of the valley before he perished. like the first discoverer, he had marked the way by heaps of stones, and died when his narrative was concluded. ali and amina made their way to the valley, where, according to the narrative, they found a large city, scarcely if at all ruined, and took up their abode in one of the palaces. shortly afterward ali returned to egypt, and led off his father, abdallah the good, and the remnants of his tribe in secret. omar was furious, and following them, endeavored to discover the valley, of which the tradition was well known. not succeeding, he resolved to wait for the summer; but the tribe never reappeared in egypt, and is said to have passed the hot months in the oasis of farafreh, to which they subsequently removed on the destruction of their favorite valley by an earthquake. this tradition, though containing some improbable incidents, may nevertheless be founded on fact, and may contain, under a legendary form, the history of the peopling of the oases of the desert. it is, however, chiefly interesting from the manner in which it illustrates the important influence which the discovery or destruction of a copious well of pure water may exercise on the fortunes of a people. it may sometimes, in fact, as represented in this instance, be a matter of life and death; and no doubt the waled allah are not the only tribe who have been raised to an enviable prosperity, or sunk into the depths of misery, by the fluctuating supply of water in the desert. the bow-window. an english tale. there is something so english, so redolent of home, of flowers in large antique stands, about a bow-window, that we are always pleased when we catch a glimpse of one, even if it be when but forming the front of an inn. it gives a picturesque look too, to a home, that is quite refreshing to gaze on, and when journeying in foreign lands, fond recollections of dear england come flooding o'er us, if we happen, in some out-of-the-way village, on such a memory of the land from whence we came. i have not, from absence from my country, seen such a thing for some few years; but there is one fresh in my memory, with its green short venetian blinds, its large chintz curtains, its comfortable view up and down the terrace where we lived, to say nothing of its associations in connection with my childhood. but it is not of this bow-window that i would speak, it is of one connected with the fortunes of my friend maria walker, and which had a considerable influence on her happiness. maria walker was usually allowed to be the beauty of one of the small towns round london in the direction of greenwich, of which ancient place she was a native. her father had originally practiced as a physician in that place, but circumstances had caused his removal to another locality, which promised more profitable returns. the house they occupied was an ancient red brick mansion in the centre of the town, with a large bow-window, always celebrated for its geraniums, myrtles, and roses that, with a couple of small orange-trees, were the admiration of the neighborhood. not that thomas walker, esq. had any horticultural tastes--on the contrary, he was very severe on our sex for devoting their minds to such trifles as music, flowers, and fancy work; but then blue-eyed maria walker differed with him in opinion, and plainly told him so--saucy, pert girl, as even i thought her, though several years my senior. not that she neglected any more serious duties for those lighter amusements; the poorer patients of her father ever found in her a friend. mr. walker strongly objected to giving any thing away, it was a bad example, he said, and people never valued what they got for nothing; but many was the box of pills and vial of medicine which maria smuggled under her father's very nose, to poor people who could not afford to pay; of course he knew nothing about it, good, easy man, though it would have puzzled a philosopher to have told how the girl could have prepared them. she was an active member, too, of a charitable coal club, made flannel for the poor, and even distributed tracts upon occasion. when this was done, then she would turn to her pleasures, which were her little world. she was twenty, and i was not sixteen at the time of which i speak, but yet we were the best friends in the world. i used to go and sit in the bow-window; while she would play the piano for hours together, i had some fancy-work on my lap; but my chief amusement was to watch the passers-by. i don't think that i am changed by half-a-dozen more years of experience, for i still like a lively street, and dislike nothing more than a look out upon a square french court in this great city of paris, where houses are more like prisons than pleasant residences. but to return to my bow-window. in front of the house of the walkers, had been, a few years before, an open space, but which now, thanks to the rapid march of improvement, was being changed into a row of very good houses. there were a dozen of them, and they were dignified with the name of beauchamp terrace. they were, about the time i speak of, all to let; the last finishing touch had been put to them, the railings had been painted, the rubbish all removed, and they wanted nothing, save furniture and human beings to make them assume a civilized and respectable appearance. i called one morning on maria walker, her father was out, she had been playing the piano till she was tired, so we sat down in the bow-window and talked. "so the houses are letting?" said i, who took an interest in the terrace which i had seen grow under my eyes. "two are let," replied she, "and both to private families; papa is pleased, he looks upon these twelve houses as twelve new patients." "but," said i, laughing, "have you not read the advertisement: 'healthy and airy situation, rising neighborhood, and yet only one medical man.'" "oh! yes," smiled maria; "but sickness, i am sorry to say, is very apt to run about at some time or other, even in airy situations." "but, maria, you are mistaken, there are three houses let," said i, suddenly, "the bill is taken down opposite, it has been let since yesterday." "oh, yes, i recollect a very nice young man driving up there yesterday, and looking over the house for an hour; i suppose he has taken it." "a nice young man," said i, "that is very interesting--i suppose a young couple just married." "very likely," replied maria walker, laughing; but whether at the fact of my making up my mind to its being an interesting case of matrimony, or what else, i know not. it was a week before i saw maria again, and when i did, she caught me by the hand, drew me rapidly to the window, and with a semi-tragic expression, pointed to the house over the way. i looked. what was my astonishment when, on the door in large letters, i read these words, "mr. edward radstock, m. d." "a rival," cried i, clapping my hands, thoughtless girl that i was; "another feud of montague and capulet. maria, could not a romeo and juliet be found to terminate it?" "don't laugh," replied maria, gravely; "papa is quite ill with vexation; imagine, in a small town like this, two doctors! it's all the fault of that advertisement. some scheming young man has seen it, and finding no hope of practice elsewhere, has come here. i suppose he is as poor as a rat." at this instant the sound of horses' footsteps was heard, and then three vans full of furniture appeared in sight. they were coming our way. we looked anxiously to see before which house they stopped. i must confess that what maria said interested me in the young doctor, and i really hoped all this was for him. maria said nothing, but, with a frown on her brow, she waited the progress of events. as i expected, the vans stopped before the young doctor's house, and in a few minutes the men began to unload. my friend turned pale as she saw that the vehicles were full of elegant furniture. "the wretch has got a young wife, too," she exclaimed, as a piano and harp came to view, and then she added, rising, "this will never do; they must be put down at once; _they_ are strangers in the neighborhood, _we_ are well known. sit down at that desk, my dear girl, and help me to make out a list of all the persons _we_ can invite to a ball and evening party. i look upon them as impertinent interlopers, and they must be crushed." i laughingly acquiesced, and aided by her, soon wrote out a list of invitations to be given. "but now," said miss walker, after a few moments of deep reflection, "one name more must be added, _they_ must be invited." "who?" exclaimed i, in a tone of genuine surprise. "mr. and mrs. edward radstock," replied maria, triumphantly, while i could scarcely speak from astonishment. the rest of my narrative i collected from the lips of my friend, a little more than a year later. the ball took place to the admiration of all c----. it was a splendid affair: a select band came down from london, in which two foreigners, with dreadfully un-euphonic names, played upon two unknown instruments, that deafened nearly every sensitive person in the room, and would have driven every body away, had not they been removed into the drawing-room balcony; then there was a noble italian, reduced to a tenor-singer, who astonished the company, equally by the extraordinary number of strange songs that he sang, and the number of ices and jellies which he ate; then there were one or two literary men, who wrote anonymously, but might have been celebrated, only they scorned to put their names forward among the common herd, the [greek: hoi polloi] already known to the public; there was a young poet too, who thought alfred tennyson infinitely superior to shakspeare, and by the air with which he read a poem, seemed to insinuate that he himself was greater than either; and then there was a funny gentleman, who could imitate henry russell, john parry, buckstone, or any body, only he had a cold and could not get beyond a negro recitation, which might have been chinese poetry for all the company understood of it. in fact it was the greatest affair of the kind which c---- had seen for many a long day. mr. and _miss_ radstock came, and were received with cold politeness by both father and daughter. the young man was good-looking, with an intelligent eye, a pleasing address, and none of that pertness of manner which usually belongs to those who have just thrown off the medical student to become the doctor. miss radstock, his sister, who kept house for him, until he found a wife, was a charming girl of about twenty. she smiled at the manner of both mr. and miss walker, but said nothing. young radstock's only revenge for the lady of the house's coldness and stateliness of tone, was asking her to dance at the first opportunity, which certainly was vexatious, for his tone was so pleasing, his manner so courteous, that my friend maria could not but feel pleased--when she wanted to be irate, distant, and haughty. they danced together several times, and to the astonishment of many friends of the young lady, of myself in particular, they went down to supper the best friends in the world, laughing and joking like old acquaintances. next day, however, she resumed her original coldness of manner when the brother and sister called to pay their respects. she was simply polite, and no more, and after two or three words they retired, emily radstock becoming as stiff and formal as her new acquaintance. from that day maria became very miserable. she was not avaricious, and did not fear her father losing his practice from any pecuniary motives, but it was pride that influenced her. her father had for some years monopolized the parish, as his predecessor had for forty years before him; and now to behold a young unfledged physician setting up exactly opposite, and threatening to divide in time the business of the town, was dreadful. _the_ physician of the town, sounded better, too, than one of the doctors, and altogether it was a most unpleasant affair. maria's place was now always the bow-window. she had no amusement but to watch the opposite house, to see if patients came, or if edward radstock made any attempt to call about and introduce himself. but for some time she had the satisfaction of remarking, that not a soul called at the house, save the butcher, the baker, and other contributors to the interior comforts of man, and maria began to feel the hope that edward radstock would totally fail in his endeavors to introduce himself. she remarked, however, that the young man took it very quietly; he sat by his sister's side while she played the piano, or with a book and a cigar at the open window, or took emily a drive in his gig; always, when he remarked maria at the open window, bowing with provoking courtesy, nothing daunted by her coldness of manner, or her pretense of not noticing his politeness. one day mr. walker was out, he had been called to a distance to see a patient, who was very seriously ill, when maria sat at the bow-window looking up the street. suddenly she saw a boy come running down on their side of the way; she knew him by his bright buttons, light jacket, and gold lace. it was the page of the perkinses, a family with a host of little children, who, from constant colds, indigestions, and fits of illness, caused by too great a liking for the pleasures of the table, which a fond mother had not the heart to restrain, were continually on mr. walker's books. the boy rang violently at the bell, and maria opened the parlor-door and listened. "is mr. walker at home?" said the boy, scarcely able to speak from want of breath. "no," replied the maid who had opened the door. "he will be home directly," said maria, advancing. "oh! but missus can't wait, there's little peter been and swallowed a marble, and the baby's took with fits," and away rushed the boy across the road to the hated rival's house. maria retreated into her room and sank down upon a sofa. the enemy had gained an entrance into the camp, it was quite clear. in a moment more she rose, just in time to see mr. edward radstock hurrying down the street beside the little page, without waiting to order his gig. this was a severe blow to the doctor's daughter. the perkinses were a leading family in the town, and one to whom her father was called almost every day in the year. they had a large circle of acquaintances, and if young radstock became their medical adviser, others would surely follow. in about an hour, the young man returned and joined his sister in the drawing-room, as if nothing had happened. this was more provoking than his success. if he had assumed an air of importance and bustle, and had hurried up to inform his sister with an air of joy and triumph of what had happened, she might have been tempted to pity him, but he did every thing in such a quiet, gentlemanly way, that she felt considerable alarm for the future. maria was in the habit of spending most of her evenings from home, her father being generally out, and that large house in consequence lonely. the town of c---- was famous for its tea and whist-parties, and though maria was not of an age to play cards, except to please others, she, however, sometimes condescended to do so. one evening she was invited to the house of a mrs. brunton, who announced her intention of receiving company every thursday. she went, and found the circle very pleasant and agreeable, but, horror of horrors--there was mr. edward radstock and his sister emily; and worse than that, when a lady present volunteered to play a quadrille, and the ladies accepted eagerly, up he came, of all others, to invite her to dance! mrs. brunton the instant before had asked her to play at whist, to oblige three regular players, who could not find a fourth. "i am afraid," she said, quietly, but in rather distant tones, "i am engaged"--the young man looked surprised, even hurt, for no gentleman had spoken to her since she had entered the room--"to make a fourth at the whist-table, but--" "oh, go and dance, miss walker," exclaimed mrs. brunton, "i did not know dancing was going to begin, when i asked you to make up a rubber." maria offered her hand to the young man, and walked away to the dancing-room. despite herself, that evening she was very much pleased with him. he was well informed, had traveled, was full of taste and feeling, and conversed with animation and originality; he sought every opportunity of addressing himself to her, and found these opportunities without much difficulty. for several thursdays the same thing occurred. the young man began to find a little practice. he was popular wherever he went, and whenever he was called in was quite sure of keeping up the connection. he was asked out to all the principal parties in the town; and had mr. walker been not very much liked, would have proved a very serious rival. one morning the father and daughter were at breakfast. maria, who began to like her bow-window better than ever, sat near it to scent the fragrance of her flowers. when the young doctor came out, she always now returned his bow, and a young lady opposite declared in confidence to her dressmaker that she had even kissed her hand to him once. however this may be, maria sat at the bow-window, pouring out tea for her father in a very abstracted mood. mr. walker had been called out at an early hour, and returned late. he was not in the best of humors, having waited four hours beyond his time for his tea. "i shall die in the workhouse," said he, as he buttered his toast with an irritability of manner quite alarming. "this radstock is getting all the practice. i heard of two new patients yesterday." "oh, papa," replied maria, gently. "i don't think he has got a dozen altogether." "a dozen--but that's a dozen lost to me, miss. it's a proof that people think me old--worn out--useless." "nonsense, papa; c---- is increasing in population every day, and for every one he gets, you get two." "my dear," replied mr. walker, with considerable animation, "i think you are beginning to side with my rival." a loud knocking came this instant to the door, and the man-servant immediately after announced "dr. radstock." mr. walker had no time to make any remark, ere the young man entered the room, bowing most politely to the old gentleman and his daughter; both looked confused, and the father much surprised. he was in elegant morning costume, and looked both handsome and happy--the old doctor thought, triumphant. "pardon me, sir," said he, "for disturbing you at this early hour; but your numerous calls take you so much out, that one must take you when one can find you. my errand will doubtless surprise you, but i am very frank and open; my object in visiting you is to ask permission to pay my addresses to your daughter." "to do what, sir?" thundered the old doctor in a towering passion. "are you not satisfied with trying to take from me my practice, but you must ask me for my child? i tell you, sir, nothing on earth would make me consent to your marriage with my daughter." "but, sir," said edward radstock, turning to maria, "i have your daughter's permission to make this request. i told her of my intentions last night, and she authorized me to say that she approved of them." "maria," exclaimed the father, almost choking with rage, "is this true?" "my dear papa, i am in no hurry to get married, but if i did, i must say, that i should never think of marrying any one but edward radstock. i will not get married against your will, but i will never marry any one else; nothing will make me." "ungrateful girl," muttered mr. thomas walker, and next minute he sank back in his chair in a fit of apoplexy. "open the window, raise the blinds," said the young man, preparing with promptitude and earnestness to take the necessary remedies, "be not alarmed. it is not a dangerous attack." maria quietly obeyed her lover, quite aware of the necessity of self-possession and presence of mind in a case like the present. in half an hour mr. walker was lying in a large, airy bedroom, and the young man had left, at the request of maria, to attend a patient of her father's. it was late at night before edward was able to take a moment's rest. what with his own patients, and those of his rival, he was overwhelmed with business; but at eleven o'clock he approached the bedside of the father of maria, who, with her dear emily now by her side, sat watching. "he sleeps soundly," said maria in a low tone, as edward entered. "yes, and is doing well," replied radstock. "i answer for his being up and stirring to-morrow, if he desires it." "but it will be better for him to rest some days," said maria. "but, my dear miss walker," continued the young doctor, "what will his patients do?" "you can attend to them as you have done to-day," replied maria. "my dear miss walker, you, who know me, could trust me with your father's patients; you know, that when he was able to go about, i would hand them all back to him without hesitation. but you must be aware, that for your father to discover me attending to his patients, would retard his recovery. if i do as you ask me, i must retire from c---- immediately on his convalescence." "no, sir," said dr. walker, in a faint voice, "i shall not be about for a month; after making me take to my bed, the least you can do is to attend to my patients." "if you wish it, sir--?" "i insist upon it; and to prevent any opposition, you can say we are going into partnership." "but--" said edward. "if you want my daughter," continued dr. walker, gruffly, "you must do as i tell you. if you wish to be my son-in-law, you must be my partner, work like a horse, slave day and night, while i smoke my pipe and drink my grog." "my dear sir," exclaimed the young man, "you overwhelm me." "dear papa!" said maria. "yes, dear papa!" muttered old walker; "pretty girl you are; give a party to crush the interloper; faint when he gets his first patient; watch him from your bow-window like a cat watches a mouse, and then--marry him." "but, my dear papa, is not this the surest way to destroy the opposition?" said happy maria. "yes! because we can not crush him, we take him as a partner," grumbled old walker; "never heard of such a thing; nice thing it is to have children who take part with your enemies." nobody made any reply, and after a little more faint attempts at fault-finding, the old doctor fell asleep. about six months later, after a journey to scotland, which made me lose sight of maria, i drove up the streets of c----, after my return to my native greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its blackheath, its splendid and glorious monument of english greatness, its historic associations, i dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never stopped until i was in her arms. "how you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile. "grown! indeed; do you take me for a child?" cried i, laughing. "and you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; i saw you as i came up." "i am very seldom there now," said she, with a strange smile. "why?" "because i live over the way," replied she, still smiling. "over the way?" said i. "yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things--maria walker is now mrs. radstock." i could not help it; i laughed heartily. i was very glad. i had been interested in the young man, and the _dénoûement_ was delightful. the firm of walker and radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry, despite a great increase in the neighborhood; but the experience of the old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all opposition. they proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength. young radstock was a very good husband. he told me privately that he had fallen in love with maria the very first day he saw her; and every time i hear from them i am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a visit, shows himself first at the bow-window. the french flower girl. i was lingering listlessly over a cup of coffee on the boulevard des italiens, in june. at that moment i had neither profound nor useful resources of thought. i sate simply conscious of the cool air, the blue sky, the white houses, the lights, and the lions, which combine to render that universally pleasant period known as "after dinner," so peculiarly agreeable in paris. in this mood my eyes fell upon a pair of orbs fixed intently upon me. whether the process was effected by the eyes, or by some pretty little fingers, simply, i can not say; but, at the same moment, a rose was insinuated into my button-hole, a gentle voice addressed me, and i beheld, in connection with the eyes, the fingers, and the voice, a girl. she carried on her arm a basket of flowers, and was, literally, nothing more nor less than one of the _bouquetières_ who fly along the boulevards like butterflies, with the difference that they turn their favorite flowers to a more practical account. following the example of some other distracted _décorés_, who i found were sharing my honors, i placed a piece of money--i believe, in my case, it was silver--in the hand of the girl; and, receiving about five hundred times its value, in the shape of a smile and a "_merci bien, monsieur!_" was again left alone--("desolate," a frenchman would have said)--in the crowded and carousing boulevard. to meet a perambulating and persuasive _bouquetière_, who places a flower in your coat and waits for a pecuniary acknowledgment, is scarcely a rare adventure in paris; but i was interested--unaccountably so--in this young girl: her whole manner and bearing was so different and distinct from all others of her calling. without any of that appearance which, in england, we are accustomed to call "theatrical," she was such a being as we can scarcely believe in out of a ballet. not, however, that her attire departed--except, perhaps, in a certain coquetish simplicity--from the conventional mode: its only decorations seemed to be ribbons, which also gave a character to the little cap that perched itself with such apparent insecurity upon her head. living a life that seemed one long summer's day--one floral _fête_--with a means of existence that seemed so frail and immaterial--she conveyed an impression of _unreality_. she might be likened to a nymph, or a naiad, but for the certain something that brought you back to the theatre, intoxicating the senses, at once, with the strange, indescribable fascinations of hot chandeliers--close and perfumed air--foot-lights, and fiddlers. evening after evening i saw the same girl--generally at the same place--and, it may be readily imagined, became one of the most constant of her _clientelle_. i learned, too, as many facts relating to her as could be learned where most was mystery. her peculiar and persuasive mode of disposing of her flowers (a mode which has since become worse than vulgarized by bad imitators) was originally her own graceful instinct--or whim, if you will. it was something new and natural, and amused many, while it displeased none. the sternest of stockbrokers, even, could not choose but be decorated. accordingly, this new nydia of thessaly went out with her basket one day, awoke next morning, and found herself famous. meantime there was much discussion, and more mystification, as to who this queen of flowers could be--where she lived--and so forth. nothing was known of her except her name--hermance. more than one adventurous student--you may guess i am stating the number within bounds--traced her steps for hour after hour, till night set in--in vain. her flowers disposed of, she was generally joined by an old man, respectably clad, whose arm she took with a certain confidence, that sufficiently marked him as a parent or protector; and the two always contrived sooner or later, in some mysterious manner, to disappear. after all stratagems have failed, it generally occurs to people to ask a direct question. but this in the present case was impossible. hermance was never seen except in very public places--often in crowds--and to exchange twenty consecutive words with her, was considered a most fortunate feat. notwithstanding, too, her strange, wild way of gaining her livelihood, there was a certain dignity in her manner which sufficed to cool the too curious. as for the directors of the theatres, they exhibited a most appropriate amount of madness on her account; and i believe that at several of the theatres, hermance might have commanded her own terms. but only one of these miserable men succeeded in making a tangible proposal, and he was treated with most glorious contempt. there was, indeed, something doubly dramatic in the _bouquetière's_ disdain of the drama. she who _lived_ a romance could never descend to act one. she would rather be rosalind than rachel. she refused the part of cerito, and chose to be an alma on her own account. it may be supposed that where there was so much mystery, imagination would not be idle. to have believed all the conflicting stories about hermance, would be to come to the conclusion that she was the stolen child of noble parents, brought up by an _ouvrier_: but that somehow her father was a tailor of dissolute habits, who lived a contented life of continual drunkenness, on the profits of his daughter's industry;--that her mother was a deceased duchess--but, on the other hand, was alive, and carried on the flourishing business of a _blanchisseuse_. as for the private life of the young lady herself, it was reflected in such a magic mirror of such contradictory impossibilities, in the delicate discussions held upon the subject, that one had no choice but to disbelieve every thing. one day a new impulse was given to this gossip by the appearance of the _bouquetière_ in a startling hat of some expensive straw, and of a make bordering on the ostentatious. it could not be doubted that the profits of her light labors were sufficient to enable her to multiply such finery to almost any extent, had she chosen; but in paris the adoption of a bonnet or a hat, in contradistinction to the little cap of the _grisette_, is considered an assumption of a superior grade, and unless warranted by the "position" of the wearer, is resented as an impertinence. in paris, indeed, there are only two classes of women--those with bonnets, and those without; and these stand in the same relation to one another, as the two great classes into which the world may be divided--the powers that be, and the powers that want to be. under these circumstances, it may be supposed that the surmises were many and marvelous. the little _bouquetière_ was becoming proud--becoming a lady;--but how? why? and above all--where? curiosity was never more rampant, and scandal never more inventive. for my part, i saw nothing in any of these appearances worthy, in themselves, of a second thought; nothing could have destroyed the strong and strange interest which i had taken in the girl; and it would have required something more potent than a straw hat--however coquettish in crown, and audacious in brim--to have shaken my belief in her truth and goodness. her presence, for the accustomed few minutes, in the afternoon or evening, became to me--i will not say a necessity, but certainly a habit;--and a habit is sufficiently despotic when "a fair face and a tender voice have made me--" i will not say "mad and blind," as the remainder of the line would insinuate--but most deliciously in my senses, and most luxuriously wide awake! but to come to the catastrophe-- "one morn we missed _her_ in the accustomed spot--" not only, indeed, from "accustomed" and probable spots, but from unaccustomed, improbable, and even impossible spots--all of which were duly searched--was she missed. in short, she was not to be found at all. all was amazement on the boulevards. hardened old _flaneurs_ turned pale under their rouge, and some of the younger ones went about with drooping mustaches, which, for want of the _cire_, had fallen into the "yellow leaf." a few days sufficed, however, for the cure of these sentimentalities. a clever little monkey at the hippodrome, and a gentleman who stood on his head while he ate his dinner, became the immediate objects of interest, and hermance seemed to be forgotten. i was one of the few who retained any hope of finding her, and my wanderings for that purpose, without any guide, clew, information, or indication, seem to me now something absurd. in the course of my walks, i met an old man, who was pointed out to me as her father--met him frequently, alone. the expression of his face was quite sufficient to assure me that he was on the same mission--and with about as much chance of success as myself. once i tried to speak to him; but he turned aside, and avoided me with a manner that there could be no mistaking. this surprised me, for i had no reason to suppose that he had ever seen my face before. a paragraph in one of the newspapers at last threw some light on the matter. the _bouquetière_ had never been so friendless or unprotected as people had supposed. in all her wanderings she was accompanied, or rather followed, by her father; whenever she stopped, then he stopped also; and never was he distant more than a dozen yards, i wonder that he was not recognized by hundreds, but i conclude he made some change in his attire or appearance, from time to time. one morning this strange pair were proceeding on their ramble as usual, when, passing through a rather secluded street, the _bouquetière_ made a sudden bound from the pavement, sprung into a post-chaise, the door of which stood open, and was immediately whirled away, as fast as four horses could tear--leaving the old man alone with his despair, and the basket of flowers. three months have passed away since the disappearance of the _bouquetière_; but only a few days since i found myself one evening very dull at one of those "brilliant receptions," for which paris is so famous. i was making for the door, with a view to an early departure, when my hostess detained me, for the purpose of presenting me to a lady who was monopolizing all the admiration of the evening--she was the newly-married bride of a young german baron of great wealth, and noted for a certain wild kind of genius, and utter scorn of conventionalities. the next instant i found myself introduced to a pair of eyes that could never be mistaken. i dropped into a vacant chair by their side, and entered into conversation. the baronne observed that she had met me before, but could not remember where, and in the same breath asked me if i was a lover of flowers. i muttered something about loving beauty in any shape, and admired a bouquet which she held in her hand. the baronne selected a flower, and asked me if it was not a peculiarly fine specimen. i assented; and the flower, not being re-demanded, i did not return it. the conversation changed to other subjects, and, shortly afterward the baronne took her leave with her husband. they left paris next day for the baron's family estate, and i have never seen them since. i learned subsequently that some strange stories had obtained circulation respecting the previous life of the baronne. whatever they were, it is very certain that this or some other reason has made the profession of _bouquetière_ most inconveniently popular in paris. young ladies of all ages that can, with any degree of courtesy, be included in that category, and of all degrees of beauty short of the hunch-back, may be seen in all directions intruding their flowers with fatal pertinacity upon inoffensive loungers, and making war upon button-holes that never did them any harm. the youngest of young girls, i find, are being trained to the calling, who are all destined, i suppose, to marry distinguished foreigners from some distant and facetious country. i should have mentioned before, that a friend calling upon me the morning after my meeting with the baronne, saw the flower which she had placed in my hand standing in a glass of water on the table. an idea struck me: "do you know any thing of the language of flowers?" i asked. "something," was the reply. "what, then, is the meaning of this?" "secrecy." difficulty. there is an aim which all nature seeks; the flower that opens from the bud--the light that breaks the cloud into a thousand forms of beauty--is calmly striving to assume the perfect glory of its power; and the child, whose proud laugh heralds the mastery of a new lesson, unconsciously develops the same life-impulse seeking to prove the power it has felt its own. this is the real goal of life shining dimly from afar; for as our fullest power was never yet attained, it is a treasure which must be sought, its extent and distance being unknown. no man can tell what he can do, or suffer, until tried; his path of action broadens out before him; and, while a path appears, there is power to traverse it. it is like the fabled hill of genius, that ever presented a loftier elevation above the one attained. it is like the glory of the stars, which shine by borrowed light, each seeming source of which is tributary to one more distant, until the view is lost to us; yet we only know there must be a life-giving centre, and, to the steady mind, though the goal of life be dim and distant, its light is fixed and certain, while all lesser aims are but reflections of this glory in myriad-descending shades, which must be passed, one by one, as the steps of the ladder on which he mounts to heaven. man has an unfortunate predilection to pervert whatever god throws in his way to aid him, and thus turn good to evil. the minor hopes which spur to action are mistaken for the final one; and we often look no higher than some mean wish, allowing that to rule us which should have been our servant. from this false view rises little exertion, for it is impossible for man to believe in something better and be content with worse. we all aim at self-control and independence while in the shadow of a power which controls us, whispering innerly, "thus far shalt thou go, and no farther;" but how apt is self-indulgence to suit this limit to its own measure, and suffer veneration and doubt to overgrow and suppress the rising hope of independent thought. "i am not permitted to know this, or to do this," is the excuse of the weak and trivial; but the question should be, "_can_ i know or do this?" for what is not permitted we can not do. we may not know the events of the future, or the period of a thought, or the great first cause, but we may hope to see and combine the atoms of things--pierce the realms of space--make the wilderness a garden--attain perfection of soul and body; and for this our end we may master all things needful. there is nothing possible that faith and striving can not do; take the road, and it must lead you to the goal, though strewn with difficulties, and cast through pain and shade. if each would strain his energies to gain what he has dared to hope for, he would succeed, for since that which we love and honor is in our nature, it is to be drawn forth, and what is not there we can not wish. our greatest drawback is, not that we expect too much, but that we do too little; we set our worship low, and let our higher powers lie dormant; thus are we never masters, but blind men stumbling in each other's way. as maturity means self-controlling power, so he who gains not this is childish, and must submit, infant-like, to be controlled by others. this guidance we must feel in our upward course, and be grateful for the check; but as we have each a work to do, we must look beyond help to independence. the school-boy receives aid in learning that he may one day strive with his own power, for if he always depends on help he can never be a useful man. he who seeks for himself no path, but merely follows where others have been before, covering his own want with another's industry, may find the road not long or thickly set, but he does and gains nothing. he who bows to difficulty, settling at the foot of the hill instead of struggling to its top, may get a sheltered place--a snug retreat, but the world in its glory he can never see, and the pestilence from the low ground he must imbibe. we may rest in perfect comfort, but the health that comes of labor will fade away. the trees of the forest were not planted that man might pass round and live between them, but that he might cut them down and use them. the savage has little toil before him, but the civilized man has greater power of happiness. would a man be powerful, and bid his genius rule his fellow-men? he must toil to gain means; while his thought reads the hearts that he would sway, he must be led into temptation, and pass through pain and danger, ere he can know what another may endure. would he pour golden truth upon the page of life? he must seek it from every source, weigh the relations of life, and concede to its taste, that he may best apply it, for the proverb must be written in fair round hand, that common men may read it. would he picture the life of man or nature? he must go forth with heart and eye alive, nor turn from the sorest notes of human woe, or the coarsest tones of vice; he must watch the finest ray of light, and mark the falling of the last withered leaf. would he be actively benevolent? winter cold, nor summer lassitude must not appall him; in season and out of season he must be ready; injured pride, wounded feeling must not unstring his energy, while stooping to learn from the simplest lips the nature of those wants to which he would minister. in all accomplishment there is difficulty; the greater the work, the greater the pains. there is no such thing as sudden inspiration or grace, for the steps of life are slow, and what is not thus attained is nothing worth. in darkness the eyes must be accustomed to the gloom when objects appear, one by one, until the most distant is perceived; but, in a sudden light the eyes are pained, and blinded, and left weak. at school, we found that when one difficulty was surmounted another was presented; mastering "addition" would not do--we must learn "subtraction;" so it is in life. a finished work is a glory won, but a mind content with one accomplishment is childish, and its weakness renders it incapable of applying that--"from him that hath not shall be taken away even that he hath;" his one talent shall rise up to him as a shame. a little sphere insures but little happiness. there is a time of youth for all; but youth has a sphere of hope that, embracing the whole aim which man must work for, gives unbounded happiness. thus god would equalize the lot of all where necessity would create difference; it is only when states are forced unnaturally that misery ensues. when those who would seem to be men are children in endeavor, we see that god's will is not done, but a falsehood. the greatest of us have asked and taken guidance in their rising course, and owned inferiority without shame; but his is a poor heart that looks to be inferior ever; and shameful indeed it is, when those who are thus poor imagine or assume a right to respect as self-supporting men. how painfully ridiculous it is to see the lazy man look down on his struggling wife as the "weaker vessel," or the idle sinecurist hold contempt for the tradesman who is working his way to higher wealth by honest toil. were the aims of living truly seen, no man would be dishonored because useful. but wait awhile; the world is drawing near the real point, and we shall find that the self-denying, fearless energy, that works its will in spite of pettiness, must gain its end, and become richest; that the man who begins with a penny in the hope of thousands will grow wealthier than his aimless brother of the snug annuity; for while the largest wealth that is not earned is limited, the result of ceaseless toil is incalculable, since the progress of the soul is infinite! maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune.[ ] chapter xlvi. a glance at the "prefecture de police." poor mahon's melancholy story made a deep impression upon me, and i returned to paris execrating the whole race of spies and "mouchards," and despising, with a most hearty contempt, a government compelled to use such agencies for its existence. it seemed to me so utterly impossible to escape the snares of a system so artfully interwoven, and so vain to rely on innocence as a protection, that i felt a kind of reckless hardihood as to whatever might betide me, and rode into the cour of the prefecture with a bold indifference as to my fate that i have often wondered at since. the horse on which i was mounted was immediately recognized as i entered; and the obsequious salutations that met me showed that i was regarded as one of the trusty followers of the minister; and in this capacity was i ushered into a large waiting-room, where a considerable number of persons were assembled, whose air and appearance, now that necessity for disguise was over, unmistakably pronounced them to be spies of the police. some, indeed, were occupied in taking off their false whiskers and mustaches; others were removing shades from their eyes; and one was carefully opening what had been the hump on his back, in search of a paper he was anxious to discover. i had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the very lowest order of "mouchards," whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond the fauxbourg or the battyriolles, and indeed soon saw that my own appearance among them led to no little surprise and astonishment. "you are looking for nicquard, monsieur?" said one, "but he has not come yet." "no; monsieur wants to see boule-de-fer," said another. "here's josé can fetch him," cried a third. "he'll have to carry him, then," growled out another, "for i saw him in the morgue this morning!" "what! dead?" exclaimed several together. "as dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! he must have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a lace ruffle found in his fingers." "ah, voila!" cried another, "that comes of mixing in high society." i did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away, as the disputants were waxing warm. instead of turning into the cour again, however, i passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a door of green cloth. pushing open this, i found myself in a chamber, where a single clerk was writing at a table. "you're late to-day, and he's not in a good humor," said he, scarcely looking up from his paper, "go in!" resolving to see my adventure to the end, i asked no further questions, but passed on to the room beyond. a person who stood within the door-way withdrew as i entered, and i found myself standing face to face with the marquis de maurepas, or, to speak more properly, the minister fouché. he was standing at the fire-place as i came in, reading a newspaper, but no sooner had he caught sight of me than he laid it down, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, continued steadily staring at me. "diable!" exclaimed he, at last, "how came you here?" "nothing more naturally, sir, than from the wish to restore what you were so good as to lend me, and express my sincere gratitude for a most hospitable reception." "but who admitted you?" "i fancy your saddle-cloth was my introduction, sir, for it was speedily recognized. gesler's cap was never held in greater honor." "you are a very courageous young gentleman, i must say--very courageous, indeed," said he, with a sardonic grin that was any thing but encouraging. "the better chance that i may find favor with monsieur de fouché," replied i. "that remains to be seen, sir," said he, seating himself in his chair, and motioning me to a spot in front of it. "who are you?" "a lieutenant of the th hussars, sir; by name maurice tiernay." "i don't care for that," said he, impatiently; "what's your occupation?--how do you live?--with whom do you associate?" "i have neither means nor associates. i have been liberated from the temple but a few days back; and what is to be my future, and where, are facts of which i know as little as does monsieur de fouché of my past history." "it would seem that every adventurer, every fellow destitute of home, family, fortune, and position, thinks that his natural refuge lies in this ministry, and that i must be his guardian." "i never thought so, sir." "then why are you here? what other than personal reasons procures me the honor of this visit?" "as monsieur de fouché will not believe in my sense of gratitude, perhaps he may put some faith in my curiosity, and excuse the natural anxiety i feel to know if monsieur de maurepas has really benefited by the pleasure of my society." "hardi, monsieur, bien hardi," said the minister, with a peculiar expression of irony about the mouth that made me almost shudder. he rang a little hand-bell as he spoke, and a servant made his appearance. "you have forgotten to leave me my snuff-box, geoffroy," said he, mildly, to the valet, who at once left the room, and speedily returned with a magnificently-chased gold box, on which the initials of the first consul were embossed in diamonds. "arrange those papers, and place those books on the shelves," said the minister. and then turning to me, as if resuming a previous conversation, went on-- "as to that memoir of which we were speaking t'other night, monsieur, it would be exceedingly interesting just now; and i have no doubt that you will see the propriety of confiding to me what you already promised to monsieur de maurepas. that will do, geoffroy; leave us." the servant retired, and we were once more alone. "i possess no secrets, sir, worthy the notice of the minister of police," said i boldly. "of that i may presume to be the better judge," said fouché calmly. "but waiving this question, there is another of some importance. you have, partly by accident, partly by a boldness not devoid of peril, obtained some little insight into the habits and details of this ministry; at least, you have seen enough to suspect more, and misrepresent what you can not comprehend. now, sir, there is an almost universal custom in all secret societies, of making those who intrude surreptitiously within their limits, to take every oath and pledge of that society, and to assume every responsibility that attaches to its voluntary members--" "excuse my interrupting you, sir; but my intrusion was purely involuntary; i was made the dupe of a police spy." "having ascertained which," resumed he, coldly, "your wisest policy would have been to have kept the whole incident for yourself alone, and neither have uttered one syllable about it, nor ventured to come here, as you have done, to display what you fancy to be your power over the minister of police. you are a very young man, and the lesson may possibly be of service to you; and never forget that to attempt a contest of address with those whose habits have taught them every wile and subtlety of their fellow-men, will always be a failure. this ministry would be a sorry engine of government if men of your stamp could out-wit it." i stood abashed and confused under a rebuke which, at the same time, i felt to be but half deserved. "do you understand spanish?" asked he suddenly. "no, sir, not a word." "i'm sorry for it; you should learn that language without loss of time. leave your address with my secretary, and call here by monday or tuesday next." "if i may presume so far, sir," said i, with a great effort to seem collected, "i would infer that your intention is to employ me in some capacity or other. it is, therefore, better i should say at once, i have neither the ability nor the desire for such occupation. i have always been a soldier. whatever reverses of fortune i may meet with, i would wish still to continue in the same career. at all events, i could never become a--a--" "spy. say the word out; its meaning conveys nothing offensive to my ears, young man. i may grieve over the corruption that requires such a system; but i do not confound the remedy with the disease." "my sentiments are different, sir," said i resolutely, as i moved toward the door. "i have the honor to wish you a good morning." "stay a moment, tiernay," said he, looking for something among his papers; "there are, probably, situations where all your scruples could find accommodation, and even be serviceable, too." "i would rather not place them in peril, mons. le ministre." "there are people in this city of paris who would not despise my protection, young man; some of them to the full as well supplied with the gifts of fortune as mons. tiernay." "and, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it!" said i, sarcastically; for every moment now rendered me more courageous. "and, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it," repeated he after me, with a wave of the hand in token of adieu. i bowed respectfully, and was retiring, when he called out in a low and gentle voice-- "before you go, mons. de tiernay, i will thank you to restore my snuff-box." "your snuff-box, sir!" cried i, indignantly, "what do i know of it?" "in a moment of inadvertence, you may, probably, have placed it in your pocket," said he, smiling; "do me the favor to search there." "this is unnecessary insult, sir," said i fiercely; "and you forget that i am a french officer!" "it is of more consequence that you should remember it," said he calmly; "and now, sir, do as i have told you." "it is well, sir, that this scene has no witness," said i, boiling over with passion, "or, by heaven, all the dignity of your station should not save you." "your observation is most just," said he, with the same coolness. "it is as well that we are quite alone; and for this reason i beg to repeat my request. if you persist in a refusal, and force me to ring that bell--" "you would not dare to offer me such an indignity," said i, trembling with rage. "you leave me no alternative, sir," said he, rising, and taking the bell in his hand. "my honor is also engaged in this question. i have preferred a charge--" "you have," cried i, interrupting, "and for whose falsehood i am resolved to hold you responsible." "to prove which, you must show your innocence." "there, then--there are my pockets; here are the few things i possess. this is my pocket-book--my purse. oh, heavens, what is this?" cried i, as i drew forth the gold box, along with the other contents of my pocket; and then staggering back, i fell, overwhelmed with shame and sickness, against the wall. for some seconds i neither saw nor heard any thing; a vague sense of ineffable disgrace--of some ignominy that made life a misery, was over me, and i closed my eyes with the wish never to open them more. "the box has a peculiar value in my eyes, sir," said he; "it was a present from the first consul, otherwise i might have hesitated--" "oh, sir, you can not, you dare not, suppose me guilty of a theft. you seem bent on being my ruin; but, for mercy's sake, let your hatred of me take some other shape than this. involve me in what snares, what conspiracies you will, give me what share you please in any guilt, but spare me the degradation of such a shame." he seemed to enjoy the torments i was suffering, and actually revel in the contemplation of my misery; for he never spoke a word, but continued steadily to stare me in the face. "sit down here, monsieur," said he, at length, while he pointed to a chair near him; "i wish to say a few words to you, in all seriousness, and in good faith, also." i seated myself, and he went on. "the events of the last two days must have made such an impression on your mind that even the most remarkable incidents of your life could not compete with. you fancied yourself a great discoverer, and that, by the happy conjuncture of intelligence and accident, you had actually fathomed the depths of that wonderful system of police, which, more powerful than armies or councils, is the real government of france! i will not stop now to convince you that you have not wandered out of the very shallowest channels of this system. it is enough that you have been admitted to an audience with me, to suggest an opposite conviction, and give to your recital, when you repeat the tale, a species of importance. now, sir, my counsel to you is, never to repeat it, and for this reason; nobody possessed of common powers of judgment will ever believe you! not one, sir! no one would ever believe that monsieur fouché had made so grave a mistake, no more than he would believe that a man of good name and birth, a french officer, could have stolen a snuff-box. you see, monsieur de tiernay, that i acquit you of this shameful act. imitate my generosity, sir, and forget all that you have witnessed since tuesday last. i have given you good advice, sir; if i find that you profit by it, we may see more of each other." scarcely appreciating the force of his parable, and thinking of nothing save the vindication of my honor, i muttered a few unmeaning words, and withdrew, glad to escape a presence which had assumed, to my terrified senses, all the diabolical subtlety of satanic influence. trusting that no future accident of my life should ever bring me within such precincts, i hurried from the place as though it were contaminated and plague-stricken. chapter xlvii. "the village of schwartz-ach." i was destitute enough when i quitted the "temple," a few days back; but my condition now was sadder still, for in addition to my poverty and friendlessness, i had imbibed a degree of distrust and suspicion that made me shun my fellow-men, and actually shrink from the contact of a stranger. the commonest show of courtesy, the most ordinary exercise of politeness, struck me as the secret wiles of that police, whose machinations, i fancied, were still spread around me. i had conceived a most intense hatred of civilization, or, at least, of what i rashly supposed to be the inherent vices of civilized life. i longed for what i deemed must be the glorious independence of a savage. if i could but discover this paradise beyond seas, of which the marquise raved so much; if i only could find out that glorious land which neither knew secret intrigues nor conspiracies, i should leave france forever, taking any condition, or braving any mischances fate might have in store for me. there was something peculiarly offensive in the treatment i had met with. imprisoned on suspicion, i was liberated without any "amende;" neither punished like a guilty man, nor absolved as an innocent one. i was sent out upon the world as though the state would not own nor acknowledge me; a dangerous practice, as i often thought, if only adopted on a large scale. it was some days before i could summon resolution to ascertain exactly my position: at last i did muster up courage, and under pretense of wishing to address a letter to myself, i applied at the ministry of war for the address of lieutenant tiernay, of the th hussars. i was one of a large crowd similarly engaged, some inquiring for sons that had fallen in battle, or husbands or fathers in far away countries. the office was only open each morning for two hours, and consequently, as the expiration of the time drew nigh, the eagerness of the inquirers became far greater, and the contrast with the cold apathy of the clerks the more strongly marked. i had given way to many, who were weaker than myself, and less able to buffet with the crowd about them; and at last, when, wearied by waiting, i was drawing nigh the table, my attention was struck by an old, a very old man, who, with a beard white as snow, and long mustaches of the same color, was making great efforts to gain the front rank. i stretched out my hand, and caught his, and by considerable exertion, at last succeeded in placing him in front of me. he thanked me fervently, in a strange kind of german, a _patois_ i had never heard before, and kissed my hand three or four times over in his gratitude; indeed, so absorbed was he for the time in his desire to thank me, that i had to recall him to the more pressing reason of his presence, and warn him that but a few minutes more of the hour remained free. "speak up," cried the clerk, as the old man muttered something in a low and very indistinct voice; "speak up; and remember, my friend, that we do not profess to give information further back than the times of 'louis quatorze.'" this allusion to the years of the old man was loudly applauded by his colleagues, who drew nigh to stare at the cause of it. "sacre bleu! he is talking hebrew," said another, "and asking for a friend who fell at ramoth gilead." "he is speaking german," said i, peremptorily, "and asking for a relative whom he believes to have embarked with the expedition to egypt." "are you a sworn interpreter, young man?" asked an older and more consequential-looking personage. i was about to return a hasty reply to this impertinence, but i thought of the old man, and the few seconds that still remained for his inquiry, and i smothered my anger, and was silent. "what rank did he hold?" inquired one of the clerks, who had listened with rather more patience to the old man. i translated the question for the peasant, who, in reply, confessed that he could not tell. the youth was his only son, and had left home many years before, and never written. a neighbor, however, who had traveled in foreign parts, had brought tidings that he had gone with the expedition to egypt, and was already high in the french army. "you are not quite certain that he did not command the army of egypt?" said one of the clerks in mockery of the old man's story. "it is not unlikely," said the peasant gravely, "he was a brave and bold youth, and could have lifted two such as you with one hand and hurled you out of that window." "let us hear his name once more," said the elder clerk; "it is worth remembering." "i have told you already. it was karl kleber." "the general--general kleber!" cried three or four in a breath. "mayhap," was all the reply. "and are you the father of the great general of egypt?" asked the elder, with an air of deep respect. "kleber is my son; and so that he is alive and well, i care little if a general or simple soldier." not a word was said in answer to this speech, and each seemed to feel reluctant to tell the sad tidings. at last the elder clerk said, "you have lost a good son, and france one of her greatest captains. the general kleber is dead." "dead!" said the old man, slowly. "in the very moment of his greatest glory, too, when he had won the country of the pyramids, and made egypt a colony of france." "when did he die? said the peasant. "the last accounts from the east brought the news; and this very day the council of state has accorded a pension to his family of ten thousand livres." "they may keep their money. i am all that remains, and have no want of it; and i should be poorer still before i'd take it." these words he uttered in a low, harsh tone, and pushed his way back though the crowd. one moment more was enough for _my_ inquiry. "maurice tiernay, of the th--_destitué_," was the short and stunning answer i received. "is there any reason alleged--is there any charge imputed to him?" asked i, timidly. "ma foi! you must go to the minister of war with that question. perhaps he was pay-master, and embezzled the funds of the regiment; perhaps he liked royalist gold better than republican silver; or perhaps he preferred the company of the baggage-train and the 'ambulances,' when he should have been at the head of his squadron." i did not care to listen longer to this impertinence, and making my way out i gained the street. the old peasant was still standing there, like one stunned and overwhelmed by some great shock, and neither heeding the crowd that passed, nor the groups that halted occasionally to stare at him. "come along with _me_," said i, taking his hand in mine. "_your_ calamity is a heavy one, but _mine_ is harder to bear up against." he suffered himself to be led away like a child, and never spoke a word as we walked along toward the "barriere," beyond which, at a short distance, was a little ordinary, where i used to dine. there we had our dinner together, and as the evening wore on the old man rallied enough to tell me of his son's early life, and his departure for the army. of his great career _i_ could speak freely, for kleber's name was, in soldier esteem, scarcely second to that of bonaparte himself. not all the praises i could bestow, however, were sufficient to turn the old man from his stern conviction, that a peasant in the "lech thal" was a more noble and independent man than the greatest general that ever marched to victory. "we have been some centuries there," said he, "and none of our name has incurred a shadow of disgrace. why should not karl have lived like his ancestors?" it was useless to appeal to the glory his son had gained--the noble reputation he had left behind him. the peasant saw in the soldier but one who hired out his courage and his blood, and deemed the calling a low and unworthy one. i suppose i was not the first who, in the effort to convince another, found himself shaken in his own convictions; for i own before i lay down that night many of the old man's arguments assumed a force and power that i could not resist, and held possession of my mind even after i fell asleep. in my dreams i was once more beside the american lake, and that little colony of simple people, where i had seen all that was best of my life, and learned the few lessons i had ever received of charity and good-nature. from what the peasant said, the primitive habits of the lech thal must be almost like those of that little colony, and i willingly assented to his offer to accompany him in his journey homeward. he seemed to feel a kind of satisfaction in turning my thoughts away from a career that he held so cheaply, and talked enthusiastically of the tranquil life of the bregenzer-wald. we left paris the following morning, and, partly by diligence, partly on foot, reached strassburg in a few days; thence we proceeded by kehel to freyburg, and, crossing the lake of constance at rorsbach, we entered the bregenzer-wald on the twelfth morning of our journey. i suppose that most men preserve fresher memory of the stirring and turbulent scenes of their lives than of the more peaceful and tranquil ones, and i shall not be deemed singular when i say, that some years passed over me in this quiet spot and seemed as but a few weeks. the old peasant was the "vorsteher," or ruler of the village, by whom all disputes were settled, and all litigation of an humble kind decided--a species of voluntary jurisdiction maintained to this very day in that primitive region. my occupation there was as a species of secretary to the court, an office quite new to the villagers, but which served to impress them more reverentially than ever in favor of this rude justice. my legal duties over, i became a vine-dresser, a wood-cutter, or a deer-stalker, as season and weather dictated. my evenings being always devoted to the task of a schoolmaster. a curious seminary was it, too, embracing every class from childhood to advanced age, all eager for knowledge, and all submitting to the most patient discipline to attain it. there was much to make me happy in that humble lot. i had the love and esteem of all around me; there was neither a harassing doubt for the future, nor the rich man's contumely to oppress me; my life was made up of occupations which alternately engaged mind and body, and, above all and worth all besides, i had a sense of duty, a feeling that i was doing that which was useful to my fellow-men; and however great may be a man's station in life, if it want this element, the humblest peasant that rises to his daily toil has a nobler and a better part. as i trace these lines how many memories of the spot are rising before me! scenes i had long forgotten--faces i had ceased to remember! and now i see the little wooden bridge--a giant tree, guarded by a single rail, that crossed the torrent in front of our cottage; and i behold once more the little waxen image of the virgin over the door, in whose glass shrine at nightfall a candle ever burned! and i hear the low hum of the villagers' prayer as the angelus is singing, and see on every crag or cliff the homebound hunter kneeling in his deep devotion! happy people, and not less good than happy! your bold and barren mountains have been the safeguard of your virtue and your innocence! long may they prove so, and long may the waves of the world's ambition be staid at their rocky feet! i was beginning to forget all that i had seen of life, or, if not forget, at least to regard it as a wild and troubled dream, when an accident, one of those things we always regard as the merest chances, once more opened the flood-gates of memory, and sent the whole past in a strong current through my brain. in this mountain region the transition from winter to summer is effected in a few days. some hours of a scorching sun and south wind swell the torrents with melted snow; the icebergs fall thundering from cliff and crag, and the sporting waterfall once more dashes over the precipice. the trees burst into leaf, and the grass springs up green and fresh from its wintry covering; and from the dreary aspect of snow-capped hills and leaden clouds, nature changes to fertile plains and hills, and a sky of almost unbroken blue. it was on a glorious evening in april, when all these changes were passing, that i was descending the mountain above our village after a hard day's chamois hunting. anxious to reach the plain before nightfall, i could not, however, help stopping from time to time to watch the golden and ruby tints of the sun upon the snow, or see the turquoise blue which occasionally marked the course of a rivulet through the glaciers. the alp-horn was sounding from every cliff and height, and the lowing of the cattle swelled into a rich and mellow chorus. it was a beautiful picture, realizing in every tint and hue, in every sound and cadence, all that one can fancy of romantic simplicity, and i surveyed it with a swelling and a grateful heart. as i turned to resume my way, i was struck by the sound of voices speaking, as i fancied, in french, and before i could settle the doubt with myself, i saw in front of me a party of some six or seven soldiers, who, with their muskets slung behind them, were descending the steep path by the aid of sticks. weary-looking and foot-sore as they were, their dress, their bearing, and their soldier-like air, struck me forcibly, and sent into my heart a thrill i had not known for many a day before. i came up quickly behind them, and could overhear their complaints at having mistaken the road, and their maledictions, muttered in no gentle spirit, on the stupid mountaineers who could not understand french. "here comes another fellow, let us try _him_," said one, as he turned and saw me near. "schwartz-ach, schwartz-ach," added he, addressing me, and reading the name from a slip of paper in his hand. "i am going to the village," said i, in french, "and will show the way with pleasure." "how! what! are you a frenchman, then?" cried the corporal, in amazement. "even so," said i. "then by what chance are you living in this wild spot? how, in the name of wonder, can you exist here?" "with venison like this," said i, pointing to a chamois buck on my shoulder, "and the red wine of the lech thal, a man may manage to forget veray's and the "dragon vert," particularly as they are not associated with a bill and a waiter!" "and perhaps you are a royalist," cried another, "and don't like how matters are going on at home?" "i have not that excuse for my exile," said i, coldly. "have you served, then?" i nodded. "ah, i see," said the corporal, "you grew weary of parade and guard mounting." "if you mean that i deserted," said i, "you are wrong there also; and now let it be my turn to ask a few questions. what is france about? is the republic still as great and victorious as ever?" "sacre bleu, man, what are you thinking of? we are an empire some years back, and napoleon has made as many kings as he has got brothers and cousins to crown." "and the army, where is it?" "ask for some half dozen armies, and you'll still be short of the mark. we have one in hamburg, and another in the far north, holding the russians in check; we have garrisons in every fortress of prussia and the rhine land; we have some eighty thousand fellows in poland and gallicia; double as many more in spain; italy is our own, and so will be austria ere many days go over." boastfully as all this was spoken, i found it to be not far from truth, and learned, as we walked along, that the emperor was, at that very moment, on the march to meet the archduke charles, who, with a numerous army, was advancing on ratisbon, the little party of soldiers being portion of a force dispatched to explore the passes of the "voralberg," and report on how far they might be practicable for the transmission of troops to act on the left flank and rear of the austrian army. their success had up to this time been very slight, and the corporal was making for schwartz-ach, as a spot where he hoped to rendezvous with some of his comrades. they were much disappointed on my telling them that i had quitted the village that morning, and that not a soldier had been seen there. there was, however, no other spot to pass the night in, and they willingly accepted the offer i made them of a shelter and a supper in our cottage. (to be continued.) vagaries of the imagination. "fancy it burgundy," said boniface of his ale, "only fancy it, and it is worth a guinea a quart!" boniface was a philosopher: fancy can do much more than that. those who fancy themselves laboring under an affection of the heart are not slow in verifying the apprehension: the uneasy and constant watching of its pulsations soon disturbs the circulation, and malady may ensue beyond the power of medicine. some physicians believe that inflammation can be induced in any part of the body by a fearful attention being continually directed toward it; indeed it has been a question with some whether the stigmata (the marks of the wounds of our saviour) may not have been produced on the devotee by the influences of an excited imagination. the hypochondriac has been known to expire when forced to pass through a door which he fancied too narrow to admit his person. the story of the criminal who, unconscious of the arrival of the reprieve, died under the stroke of a wet handkerchief, believing it to be the ax, is well known. paracelsus held, "that there is in man an imagination which really effects and brings to pass the things that did not before exist; for a man by imagination willing to move his body moves it in fact, and by his imagination and the commerce of invisible powers he may also move another body." paracelsus would not have been surprised at the feats of electro-biology. he exhorts his patients to have "a good faith, a strong imagination, and they shall find the effects. all doubt," he says, "destroys work, and leaves it imperfect in the wise designs of nature; it is from faith that imagination draws its strength, it is by faith it becomes complete and realized; he who believeth in nature will obtain from nature to the extent of his faith, and let the object of this faith be real or imaginary, he nevertheless reaps similar results--and hence the cause of superstition." so early as , pomponatus of mantua came to the conclusion, in his work on incantation, that all the arts of sorcery and witchcraft were the result of natural operations. he conceived that it was not improbable that external means, called into action by the soul, might relieve our sufferings, and that there did, moreover, exist individuals endowed with salutary properties; so it might, therefore, be easily conceived that marvelous effects should be produced by the imagination and by confidence, more especially when these are reciprocal between the patient and the person who assists his recovery. two years after, the same opinion was advanced by agrippa in cologne. "the soul," he said, "if inflamed by a fervent imagination, could dispense health and disease, not only in the individual himself, but in other bodies." however absurd these opinions may have been considered, or looked on as enthusiastic, the time has come when they will be gravely examined. that medical professors have at all times believed the imagination to possess a strange and powerful influence over mind and body is proved by their writings, by some of their prescriptions, and by their oft-repeated direction in the sick-chamber to divert the patient's mind from dwelling on his own state and from attending to the symptoms of his complaint. they consider the reading of medical books which accurately describe the symptoms of various complaints as likely to have an injurious effect, not only on the delicate but on persons in full health; and they are conscious how many died during the time of the plague and cholera, not only of these diseases but from the dread of them, which brought on all the fatal symptoms. so evident was the effect produced by the detailed accounts of the cholera in the public papers in the year , that it was found absolutely necessary to restrain the publications on the subject. the illusions under which vast numbers acted and suffered have gone, indeed, to the most extravagant extent: individuals, not merely singly but in communities, have actually believed in their own transformation. a nobleman of the court of louis xiv. fancied himself a dog, and would pop his head out of the window to bark at the passengers; while the barking disease at the camp-meetings of the methodists of north america has been described as "extravagant beyond belief." rollin and hecquet have recorded a malady by which the inmates of an extensive convent near paris were attacked simultaneously every day at the same hour, when they believed themselves transformed into cats, and a universal mewing was kept up throughout the convent for some hours. but of all dreadful forms which this strange hallucination took, none was so terrible as that of the lycanthropy, which at one period spread through europe; in which the unhappy sufferers, believing themselves wolves, went prowling about the forests, uttering the most terrific howlings, carrying off lambs from the flocks, and gnawing dead bodies in their graves. while every day's experience adds some new proof of the influence possessed by the imagination over the body, the supposed effect of contagion has become a question of doubt. lately, at a meeting in edinburgh, professor dick gave it as his opinion that there was no such thing as hydrophobia in the lower animals: "what went properly by that name was simply an inflammation of the brain; and the disease, in the case of human beings, was caused by an over-excited imagination, worked upon by the popular delusion on the effects of a bite by rabid animals." the following paragraph from the "curiosities of medicine" appears to justify this now common enough opinion:--"several persons had been bitten by a rabid dog in the faubourg st. antoine, and three of them had died in our hospital. a report, however, was prevalent that we kept a mixture which would effectually prevent the fatal termination; and no less than six applicants who had been bitten were served with a draught of colored water, and in no one instance did hydrophobia ensue." a remarkable cure through a similar aid of the imagination took place in a patient of dr. beddoes, who was at the time very sanguine about the effect of nitrous acid gas in paralytic cases. anxious that it should be imbibed by one of his patients, he sent an invalid to sir humphry davy, with a request that he would administer the gas. sir humphry put the bulb of the thermometer under the tongue of the paralytic, to ascertain the temperature of the body, that he might be sure whether it would be affected at all by the inhalation of the gas. the patient, full of faith from what the enthusiastic physician had assured him would be the result, and believing that the thermometer was what was to effect the cure, exclaimed at once that he felt better. sir humphry, anxious to see what imagination would do in such a case, did not attempt to undeceive the man, but saying that he had done enough for him that day, desired him to be with him the next morning. the thermometer was then applied as it had been the day before, and for every day during a fortnight--at the end of which time the patient was perfectly cured. perhaps there is nothing on record more curious of this kind than the cures unwittingly performed by chief-justice holt. it seems that for a youthful frolic he and his companions had put up at a country inn; they, however, found themselves without the means of defraying their expenses, and were at a loss to know what they should do in such an emergency. holt, however, perceived that the innkeeper's daughter looked very ill, and on inquiring what was the matter, learned that she had the ague; when, passing himself off for a medical student, he said that he had an infallible cure for the complaint. he then collected a number of plants, mixed them up with various ceremonies, and inclosed them in parchment, on which he scrawled divers cabalistic characters. when all was completed, he suspended the amulet round the neck of the young woman, and, strange to say, the ague left her and never returned. the landlord, grateful for the restoration of his daughter, not only declined receiving any payment from the youths, but pressed them to remain as long as they pleased. many years after, when holt was on the bench, a woman was brought before him, charged with witchcraft: she was accused of curing the ague by charms. all she said in defense was, that she did possess a ball which was a sovereign remedy in the complaint. the charm was produced and handed to the judge, who recognized the very ball which he had himself compounded in his boyish days, when out of mere fun he had assumed the character of a medical practitioner. many distinguished physicians have candidly confessed that they preferred confidence to art. faith in the remedy is often not only half the cure, but the whole cure. madame de genlis tells of a girl who had lost the use of her leg for five years, and could only move with the help of crutches, while her back had to be supported: she was in such a pitiable state of weakness, the physicians had pronounced her case incurable. she, however, took it into her head that if she was taken to notre dame de liesse she would certainly recover. it was fifteen leagues from carlepont where she lived. she was placed in a cart which her father drove, while her sister sat by her supporting her back. the moment the steeple of notre dame de liesse was in sight she uttered an exclamation, and said that her leg was getting well. she alighted from the car without assistance, and no longer requiring the help of her crutches, she ran into the church. when she returned home the villagers gathered about her, scarcely believing that it was indeed the girl who had left them in such a wretched state, now they saw her running and bounding along, no longer a cripple, but as active as any among them. not less extraordinary are the cures which are effected by some sudden agitation. an alarm of fire has been known to restore a patient entirely or for a time, from a tedious illness: it is no uncommon thing to hear of the victim of a severe fit of the gout, whose feet have been utterly powerless, running nimbly away from some approaching danger. poor grimaldi in his declining years had almost quite lost the use of his limbs owing to the most hopeless debility. as he sat one day by the bed side of his wife, who was ill, word was brought to him that a friend waited below to see him. he got down to the parlor with extreme difficulty. his friend was the bearer of heavy news which he dreaded to communicate: it was the death of grimaldi's son, who, though reckless and worthless, was fondly loved by the poor father. the intelligence was broken as gently as such a sad event could be: but in an instant grimaldi sprung from his chair--his lassitude and debility were gone, his breathing, which had for a long time been difficult, became perfectly easy--he was hardly a moment in bounding up the stairs which but a quarter of an hour before he had passed with extreme difficulty in ten minutes; he reached the bed-side, and told his wife that their son was dead; and as she burst into an agony of grief he flung himself into a chair, and became again instantaneously, as it has been touchingly described, "an enfeebled and crippled old man." the imagination, which is remarkable for its ungovernable influence, comes into action on some occasions periodically with the most precise regularity. a friend once told us of a young relation who was subject to nervous attacks: she was spending some time at the sea-side for change of air, but the evening-gun, fired from the vessel in the bay at eight o'clock, was always the signal for a nervous attack: the instant the report was heard she fell back insensible, as if she had been shot. those about her endeavored if possible to withdraw her thoughts from the expected moment: at length one evening they succeeded, and while she was engaged in an interesting conversation the evening-gun was unnoticed. by-and-by she asked the hour, and appeared uneasy when she found the time had passed. the next evening it was evident that she would not let her attention be withdrawn: the gun fired, and she swooned away: and when revived, another fainting fit succeeded, as if it were to make up for the omission of the preceding evening! it is told of the great tragic actress clairon, who had been the innocent cause of the suicide of a man who destroyed himself by a pistol-shot, that ever after, at the exact moment when the fatal deed had been perpetrated--one o'clock in the morning--she heard the shot. if asleep, it awakened her; if engaged in conversation, it interrupted her; in solitude or in company, at home or traveling, in the midst of revelry or at her devotions, she was sure to hear it to the very moment. the same indelible impression has been made in hundreds of cases, and on persons of every variety of temperament and every pursuit, whether engaged in business, science, or art, or rapt in holy contemplation. on one occasion pascal had been thrown down on a bridge which had no parapet, and his imagination was so haunted forever after by the danger, that he always fancied himself on the brink of a steep precipice overhanging an abyss ready to engulf him. this illusion had taken such possession of his mind that the friends who came to converse with him were obliged to place the chairs on which they seated themselves between him and the fancied danger. but the effects of terror are the best known of all the vagaries of imagination. a very remarkable case of the influence of imagination occurred between sixty and seventy years since in dublin, connected with the celebrated frolics of dalkey island. it is said curran and his gay companions delighted to spend a day there, and that with them originated the frolic of electing "a king of dalkey and the adjacent islands," and appointing his chancellor and all the officers of state. a man in the middle rank of life, universally respected, and remarkable alike for kindly and generous feelings and a convivial spirit, was unanimously elected to fill the throne. he entered with his whole heart into all the humors of the pastime, in which the citizens of dublin so long delighted. a journal was kept, called the "dalkey gazette," in which all public proceedings were inserted, and it afforded great amusement to its conductors. but the mock pageantry, the affected loyalty, and the pretended homage of his subjects, at length began to excite the imagination of "king john," as he was called. fiction at length became with him reality, and he fancied himself "every inch a king." his family and friends perceived with dismay and deep sorrow the strange delusion which nothing could shake: he would speak on no subject save the kingdom of dalkey and its government, and he loved to dwell on the various projects he had in contemplation for the benefit of his people, and boasted of his high prerogative: he never could conceive himself divested for one moment of his royal powers, and exacted the most profound deference to his kingly authority. the last year and a half of his life were spent in swift's hospital for lunatics. he felt his last hours approaching, but no gleam of returning reason marked the parting scene: to the very last instant he believed himself a king, and all his cares and anxieties were for his people. he spoke in high terms of his chancellor, his attorney-general, and all his officers of state, and of the dignitaries of the church: he recommended them to his kingdom, and trusted they might all retain the high offices which they now held. he spoke on the subject with a dignified calmness well becoming the solemn leave-taking of a monarch; but when he came to speak of the crown he was about to relinquish forever his feelings were quite overcome, and the tears rolled down his cheeks: "i leave it," said he, "to my people, and to him whom they may elect as my successor!" this remarkable scene is recorded in some of the notices of deaths for the year . the delusion, though most painful to his friends, was far from an unhappy one to its victim: his feelings were gratified to the last while thinking he was occupied with the good of his fellow-creatures--an occupation best suited to his benevolent disposition. mysteries! "i believe nothing that i do not understand," is the favorite saying of mr. pettipo dapperling, a gentleman who very much prides himself on his intellectual perspicacity. yet ask mr. pettipo if he understands how it is that he wags his little finger, and he can give you no reasonable account of it. he will tell you (for he has read books and "studied" anatomy), that the little finger consists of so many jointed bones, that there are tendons attached to them before and behind, which belong to certain muscles, and that when these muscles are made to contract, the finger wags. and this is nearly all that mr. pettipo knows about it! how it is that the volition acts on the muscles, what volition is, what the will is--mr. pettipo knows not. he knows quite as little about the sensation which resides in the skin of that little finger--how it is that it feels and appreciates forms and surfaces--why it detects heat and cold--in what way its papillæ erect themselves, and its pores open and close--about all this he is entirely in the dark. and yet mr. pettipo is under the necessity of believing that his little finger wags, and that it is endowed with the gift of sensation, though he in fact knows nothing whatever of the why or the wherefore. we must believe a thousand things that we can not understand. matter and its combinations are a grand mystery--how much more so, life and its manifestations. look at those far-off worlds majestically wheeling in their appointed orbits, millions of miles off: or, look at this earth on which we live, performing its diurnal motion upon its own axis, and its annual circle round the sun! what do we understand of the causes of such motions? what can we ever know about them, beyond the facts that such things are so? to discover and apprehend facts is much, and it is nearly our limit. to ultimate causes we can never ascend. but to have an eye open to receive facts and apprehend their relative value--that is a great deal--that is our duty; and not to reject, suspect, or refuse to accept them, because they happen to clash with our preconceived notions, or, like mr. pettipo dapperling, because we "can not understand" them. "o, my dear kepler!" writes galileo to his friend, "how i wish that we could have one hearty laugh together! here at padua is the principal professor of philosophy, whom i have repeatedly and urgently requested to look at the moon and planets through my glass, which he pertinaciously refuses to do. why are you not here? what shouts of laughter we should have at this glorious folly! and to hear the professor of philosophy at pisa lecturing before the grand duke with logical arguments, as if with magical incantations to charm the new planets out of the sky!" rub a stick of wax against your coat-sleeve, and it emits sparks: hold it near to light, fleecy particles of wool or cotton, and it first attracts, then it repels them. what do you understand about that, mr. pettipo, except merely that it is so? stroke the cat's back before the fire, and you will observe the same phenomena. your own body will, in like manner, emit sparks in certain states, but you know nothing about why it is so. pour a solution of muriate of lime into one of sulphate of potash--both clear fluids; but no sooner are they mixed together than they become nearly solid. how is that? you tell me that an ingredient of the one solution combines with an ingredient of the other, and an insoluble sulphate of lime is produced. well! you tell me a fact; but you do not account for it by saying that the lime has a greater attraction for the sulphuric acid than the potash has: you do not _understand_ how it is--you merely see that it is so. you must believe it. but when you come to life, and its wonderful manifestations, you are more in the dark than ever. you understand less about this than you do even of dead matter. take an ordinary every-day fact: you drop two seeds, whose component parts are the same, into the same soil. they grow up so close together that their roots mingle and their stalks intertwine. the one plant produces a long slender leaf, the other a short flat leaf--the one brings forth a beautiful flower, the other an ugly scruff--the one sheds abroad a delicious fragrance, the other is entirely inodorous. the hemlock, the wheatstalk, and the rose-tree, out of the same chemical ingredients contained in the soil, educe, the one deadly poison, the other wholesome food, the third a bright consummate flower. can you tell me, mr. pettipo, how is this? do you understand the secret by which the roots of these plants accomplish so much more than all your science can do, and so infinitely excel the most skillful combinations of the philosopher? you can only recognize the fact--but you can not unravel the mystery. your saying that it is the "nature" of the plants, does not in the slightest degree clear up the difficulty. you can not get at the ultimate fact--only the proximate one is seen by you. but lo! here is a wonderful little plant--touch it, and the leaves shrink on the instant: one leaf seeming to be in intimate sympathy with the rest, and the whole leaves in its neighborhood shrinking up at the touch of a foreign object. or, take the simple pimpernel, which closes its eye as the sun goes down, and opens as he rises again--shrinks at the approach of rain, and expands in fair weather. the hop twines round the pole in the direction of the sun, and-- "the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, the same look that she turned when he rose." do we know any thing about these things, further than they are so? a partridge chick breaks its shell and steps forth into its new world. instantly it runs about and picks up the seeds lying about on the ground. it had never learned to run, or to see, or to select its food; but it does all these on the instant. the lamb of a few hours' old frisks about full of life, and sucks its dam's teat with as much accuracy as if it had studied the principle of the air-pump. instinct comes full-grown into the world at once, and we know nothing about it, neither does the mr. dapperling above named. when we ascend to the higher orders of animated being--to man himself--we are as much in the dark as before--perhaps more so. here we have matter arranged in its most highly-organized forms--moving, feeling, and thinking. in man the animal powers are concentrated; and the thinking powers are brought to their highest point. how, by the various arrangements of matter in man's body, one portion of the nervous system should convey volitions from the brain to the limbs and the outer organs--how another part should convey sensations with the suddenness of lightning--and how, finally, a third portion should collect these sensations, react upon them, store them up by a process called memory, reproduce them in thought, compare them, philosophize upon them, embody them in books--is a great and unfathomable mystery! life itself! how wonderful it is! who can understand it, or unravel its secret! from a tiny vesicle, at first almost imperceptible to the eye, but gradually growing and accumulating about it fresh materials, which are in turns organized and laid down, each in their set places, at length a body is formed, becomes developed--passing through various inferior stages of being--those of polype, fish, frog, and animal--until, at length, the human being rises above all these forms, and the law of the human animal life is fulfilled. first, he is merely instinctive, then sensitive, then reflective--the last the greatest, the crowning work of man's development. but what do we _know_ of it all? do we not merely see that it is so, and turn aside from the great mystery in despair of ever unraveling it? the body sleeps? volition, sensation, and thought, become suspended for a time, while the animal powers live on; capillary arteries working, heart beating, lungs playing, all without an effort--voluntarily and spontaneously. the shadow of some recent thought agitates the brain, and the sleeper dreams. or, his volition may awake, while sensation is still profoundly asleep, and then we have the somnambule, walking in his sleep. or, volition may be profoundly asleep, while the senses are preternaturally excited, as in the abnormal mesmeric state. here we have a new class of phenomena, more wonderful because less usual, but not a whit more mysterious than the most ordinary manifestations of life. we are astonished to hear men refusing to credit the evidence of their senses as to mesmeric phenomena, on the ground that they can not "understand" them. when they can not understand the commonest manifestations of life--the causation of volition, sensation, or thought--why should they refuse belief on such a ground? are the facts real? are these things so? this should be the chief consideration with us. mysteries they may be; but all life, all matter, all that is, are mysteries too. do we refuse to believe in the electric telegraph, because the instantaneous transmission of intelligence between points a thousand miles apart seems at first sight fabulous, and, to the uninitiated, profoundly mysterious? why should not thought--the most wonderful and subtle of known agencies--manifest itself in equally extraordinary ways? we do not know that what the mesmerists call _clairvoyance_ is yet to be held as established by sufficient evidence. numerous strongly authenticated cases have certainly been adduced by persons whose evidence is above suspicion--as, for instance, by swedenborg (attested by many impartial witnesses), by goethe, by zschokke, by townshend, by martineau, and others; but the evidence seems still to want confirmation. only, we say, let us not prejudge the case--let us wait patiently for all sorts of evidence. we can not argue _à priori_ that _clairvoyance_ is not true, any more than the professor at padua could argue, with justice, that the worlds which galileo's telescope revealed in the depths of space, were all a sham. that truth was established by extended observation. let us wait and see whether this may not yet be established, too, by similar means. some of the things which the mesmerists, who go the length of _clairvoyance_, tell us, certainly have a very mysterious look; and were not sensation, thought, and all the manifestations of life (not yet half investigated) all alike mysterious, we might be disposed to shut our eyes with the rest, and say we refused to believe, because we "did not understand." but equally extraordinary relations to the same effect have been made by men who were neither mesmerists nor clairvoyantes. for instance, kant, the german writer, relates that swedenborg once, when living at gottenburg, some three hundred miles from stockholm, suddenly rose up and went out, when at the house of one kostel, in the company of fifteen persons. after a few minutes he returned, pale and alarmed, and informed the party that a dangerous fire had just broken out in stockholm, in sudermalm, and that the fire was spreading fast. he was restless, and went out often; he said that the house of one of his friends, whom he named, was already in ashes, and that his own was in danger. at eight o'clock, after he had been out again, he joyfully exclaimed, "thank god, the fire is extinguished the third door from my house." this statement of swedenborg's spread through the town, and occasioned consternation and wonder. the governor heard of it, and sent for swedenborg, who described the particulars of the fire--where and how it had begun, in what manner it had ceased, and how long it had continued. on the monday evening, two days after the fire, a messenger arrived from gottenburg, who had been dispatched during the time of the fire, and the intelligence he brought confirmed all that swedenborg had said as to its commencement: and on the following morning the royal courier arrived at the governor's with full intelligence of the calamity, which did not differ in the least from the relation which swedenborg had given immediately after the fire had ceased on the saturday evening. a circumstance has occurred while the writer was engaged in the preparation of this paper, which is of an equally curious character, to say the least of it. the lady who is the subject of it is a relation of the writer, and is no believer in the "mysteries of mesmerism." it may be remarked, however, that she is of a very sensitive and excitable nervous temperament. it happened, that on the night of the th of april, a frightful accident occurred on the birkenhead, lancashire, and cheshire railway, in consequence of first one train, and then another, running into the trains preceding. a frightful scene of tumult, mutilation, and death ensued. it happened that the husband of the lady in question was a passenger in the first train; though she did not know that he intended to go to the chester races, having been in liverpool that day on other business. but she had scarcely fallen asleep, ere, half-dozing, half-awake, she _saw_ the accident occur--the terror, the alarm, and the death. she walked up and down her chamber in terror and alarm the whole night, and imparted her fears to others in the morning. her husband was not injured, though greatly shaken by the collision, and much alarmed; and when he returned home in the course of the following day, he could scarcely believe his wife when she informed him of the circumstances which had been so mysteriously revealed to her in connection with his journey of the preceding day! zschokke, an estimable man, well known as a philosopher, statesman, and author, possessed, according to his own and contemporary accounts, the most extraordinary power of divination of the characters and lives of other men with whom he came in contact. he called it his "inward sight," and at first he was himself quite as much astonished at it as others were. writing of this feature himself, he says: "it has happened to me, sometimes, on my first meeting with strangers, as i listened silently to their discourse, that their former life, with many trifling circumstances therewith connected, or frequently some particular scene in that life, has passed quite involuntarily, and, as it were, dream-like, yet perfectly distinct, before me. during this time, i usually feel so entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the stranger life, that at last i no longer see clearly the face of the unknown, wherein i undesignedly read, nor distinctly hear the voices of the speakers, which before served in some measure as a commentary to the text of their features. for a long time i held such visions as delusions of the fancy, and the more so as they showed me even the dress and motions of the actors, rooms, furniture, and other accessories. by way of jest, i once, in a family circle at kirchberg, related the secret history of a seamstress who had just left the room and the house. i had never seen her before in my life; people were astonished and laughed, but were not to be persuaded that i did not previously know the relations of which i spoke, for what i had uttered was the _literal_ truth; i, on my part, was no less astonished that my dream-pictures were confirmed by the reality. i became more attentive to the subject, and when propriety admitted it, i would relate to those whose life thus passed before me, the subject of my vision, that i might thereby obtain confirmation or refutation of it. it was invariably ratified, not without consideration on their part. i myself had less confidence than any one in this mental jugglery. so often as i revealed my visionary gifts to any new person, i regularly expected to hear the answer: 'it was not so.' i felt a secret shudder when my auditors replied that it was _true_, or when their astonishment betrayed my accuracy before they spoke."[ ] zschokke gives numerous instances of this extraordinary power of divination or waking clairvoyance, and mentions other persons whom he met, who possessed the same marvelous power. the "posthumous memoirs of la harpe" contain equally extraordinary revelations, looking _forward_, instead of backward, as in zschokke's case, into the frightful events of the great french revolution, the sightseer being cazove, a well-known novel writer, who lived previous to the frightful outbreak. mary howitt, in her account of the extraordinary "preaching epidemic of sweden," recites circumstances of the same kind, equally wonderful; and the rev. mr. sandy and mr. townshend's books on mesmerism are full of similar marvels. among the various statements, the grand point is, how much of them is true? what are the _facts_ of mesmerism? to quote the great bacon: "he who hath not first, and before all, intimately explained the movements of the human mind, and therein most accurately distinguished the course of knowledge and the seats of error, shall find all things masked, and, as it were, enchanted; and, until he undo the charm, shall be unable to interpret." how few of us have yet arrived at this enviable position. clara corsini.--a tale of naples. a young french traveler, named ernest leroy, on arriving at naples, found himself during the first few days quite confused by the multitude of his impressions. now as it was in search of impressions that he had left his beloved paris, there was nothing, it should seem, very grievous in this; and yet in the midst of his excitement there occurred intervals of intolerable weariness of spirit--moments when he looked upon the strada toledo with disgust, wished himself any where but in san carlos, sneered at posilippo, pooh-poohed vesuvius, and was generally skeptical as to the superiority of _the bay_ over the bosphorus, which he had not seen. all this came to pass because he had set out on the principle of traveling in a hurry, or, as he expressed it, making the most of his time. every night before going to bed he made out and wrote down a programme of next day's duties--assigning so many hours to each sight, and so many minutes to each meal, but forgetting altogether to allow himself any opportunity for repose or digestion. thus he had come from paris _viâ_ milan, florence, and rome, to naples--the whole in the space of three weeks, during which, as will be easily imagined, he had visited an incredible number of churches, galleries, temples, and ruins of every description. in order to profit as much as possible by his travels he had arranged beforehand five or six series of ideas, or meditations as he called them: one on the assistance afforded by the fine arts to the progress of civilization, another consisting of a string of sublime commonplaces on the fall of empires and the moral value of monumental history; and so on. each of these meditations he endeavored to recall on appropriate occasions; and he never had leisure to reflect, that for any instruction he was deriving from what he saw he might as well have stopped at home. however, having some imagination and talent, he frequently found himself carried away by thoughts born of the occasion, and so irresistibly, that once or twice he went through a whole gallery or church before he had done with the train of ideas suggested by some previous sight, and was only made aware that he had seen some unique painting or celebrated windows of stained-glass by the guide claiming payment for his trouble, and asking him to sign a testimonial doing justice to his civility and great store of valuable information. it is only just to state that m. ernest never failed to comply with either of these demands. when, however, as we have said, he had been two or three days in naples, and had rushed over the ground generally traversed by tourists, our young traveler began to feel weary and disgusted. for some time he did not understand what was the matter, and upbraided himself with the lack of industry and decline of enthusiasm, which made him look forward with horror to the summons of giacomo, his guide, to be up and doing. at length, however, during one sleepless night the truth flashed upon him, and in the morning, to his own surprise and delight, he mustered up courage to dismiss giacomo with a handsome present, and to declare that that day at least he was resolved to see nothing. what a delightful stroll he took along the seashore that morning with his eyes half-closed lest he might be tempted to look around for information! he went toward portici, but he saw nothing except the sand and pebbles at his feet, and the white-headed surf that broke near at hand. for the first time since his departure from paris he felt light-minded and at ease; and the only incident that occurred to disturb his equanimity was, when his eyes rested for half a second on a broken pillar in a vine-garden, and he was obliged to make an effort to pass by without ascertaining whether it was of roman date. but this feat once accomplished, he threw up his cap for joy, shouted "_victoire!_" and really felt independent. he was much mistaken, however, if he supposed it to be possible to remain long in the enjoyment of that _dolce far niente_, the first savor of which so captivated him. one day, two days passed, at the end of which he found that while he had supposed himself to be doing nothing, he had in reality made the great and only discovery of his travels--namely, that the new country in which he found himself was inhabited, and that, too, by people who, though not quite so different from his countrymen as the savages of the south sea islands, possessed yet a very marked character of their own, worthy of study and observation. thenceforward his journal began to be filled with notes on costume, manners, &c.; and in three weeks, with wonderful modesty, after combining the results of all his researches, he came to the conclusion that he understood nothing at all of the character of the italians. in this humble state of mind he wandered forth one morning in the direction of the castle of st. elmo, to enjoy the cool breeze that came wafting from the sea, and mingled with and tempered the early sunbeams as they streamed over the eastern hills. having reached a broad, silent street, bordered only by a few houses and gardens, he resolved not to extend his walk further, but sat down on an old wooden bench under the shade of a platane-tree that drooped over a lofty wall. here he remained some time watching the few passengers that occasionally turned a distant corner and advanced toward him. he noticed that they all stopped at some one of the houses further down the street, and that none reached as far as where he sat; which led him first to observe that beyond his position were only two large houses, both apparently uninhabited. one, indeed, was quite ruined--many of the windows were built up or covered with old boards; but the other showed fewer symptoms of decay, and might be imagined to belong to some family at that time absent in the country. he had just come to this very important conclusion when his attention was diverted by the near approach of two ladies elegantly dressed, followed by an elderly serving-man in plain livery, carrying a couple of mass-books. they passed him rather hurriedly, but not before he had time to set them down as mother and daughter, and to be struck with the great beauty and grace of the latter. indeed, so susceptible in that idle mood was he of new impressions, that before the young lady had gone on more than twenty paces he determined that he was in love with her, and by an instinctive impulse rose to follow. at this moment the serving-man turned round, and threw a calm but inquisitive glance toward him. he checked himself, and affected to look the other way for a while, then prepared to carry out his original intention. to his great surprise, however, both ladies and follower had disappeared. an ordinary man would have guessed at once that they had gone into one of the houses previously supposed to be uninhabited, but m. ernest leroy must needs fancy, first, that he had seen a vision, and then that the objects of his interest had been snatched away by some evil spirit. mechanically, however, he hurried to the end of the street, which he found terminated in an open piece of ground, which there had not been time for any one to traverse. at length the rational explanation of the matter occurred to him, and he felt for a moment inclined to knock at the door of the house that was in best preservation, and complain of what he persisted in considering a mysterious disappearance. however, not being quite mad, he checked himself, and returning to his wooden bench, sat down, and endeavored to be very miserable. but this would have been out of character. instead thereof he began to feel a new interest in life, and to look back with some contempt on the two previous phases of his travels. with youthful romance and french confidence he resolved to follow up this adventure, never doubting for a moment of the possibility of ultimate success, nor of the excellence of the object of his hopes. what means to adopt did not, it is true, immediately suggest themselves; and he remained sitting for more than an hour gazing at the great silent house opposite, until the unpleasant consciousness that he had not breakfasted forced him to beat a retreat. we have not space to develop--luckily it is not necessary--all the wild imaginings that fluttered through the brain of our susceptible traveler on his return to his lodgings, and especially after a nourishing breakfast had imparted to him new strength and vivacity. under their influence he repaired again to his post on the old wooden bench under the platane-tree, and even had the perseverance to make a third visit in the evening; for--probably, because he expected the adventure to draw out to a considerable length--he did not imitate the foolish fantasy of some lovers, and deprive himself of his regular meals. he saw nothing that day; but next morning he had the inexpressible satisfaction of again beholding the two ladies approach, followed by their respectable-looking servant. they passed without casting a glance toward him; but their attendant this time not only turned round, but stopped, and gazed at him in a manner he would have thought impertinent on another occasion. for the moment, however, this was precisely what he wanted, and without thinking much of the consequences that might ensue, he hastily made a sign requesting an interview. the man only stared the more, and then turning on his heel, gravely followed the two ladies, who had just arrived at the gateway of their house. "i do not know what to make of that rascally valet," thought ernest. "he seems at once respectable and hypocritical. probably my appearance does not strike him as representing sufficient wealth, otherwise the hopes of a fair bribe would have induced him at any rate to come out and ask me what i meant." he was, of course, once more at his post in the afternoon; and this time he had the satisfaction of seeing the door open, and the elderly serving-man saunter slowly out, as if disposed to enjoy the air. first he stopped on the steps, cracking pistachio-nuts, and jerking the shells into the road with his thumb; then took two or three steps gently toward the other end of the street; and at last, just as ernest was about to follow him, veered round and began to stroll quietly across the road, still cracking his nuts, in the direction of the old wooden bench. "the villain has at length made up his mind," soliloquized our lover. "he pretends to come out quite by accident, and will express great surprise when i accost him in the way i intend." the elderly serving-man still came on, seemingly not at all in a hurry to arrive, and gave ample time for an examination of his person. his face was handsome, though lined by age and care, and was adorned by a short grizzled beard. there was something very remarkable in the keenness of his large gray eyes, as there was indeed about his whole demeanor. his dress was a plain suit of black, that might have suited a gentleman; and if ernest had been less occupied with one idea he would not have failed to see in this respectable domestic a prince reduced by misfortune to live on wages, or a hero who had never had an opportunity of exhibiting his worth. when this interesting person had reached the corner of the bench he set himself down with a slight nod of apology or recognition--it was difficult to say which--and went on eating his nuts quite unconcernedly. as often happens in such cases, ernest felt rather puzzled how to enter upon business, and was trying to muster up an appearance of condescending familiarity--suitable, he thought, to the occasion--when the old man, very affably holding out his paper-bag that he might take some nuts, saved him the trouble by observing: "you are a stranger, sir, i believe?" "yes, my good fellow," was the reply of ernest, in academical italian; "and i have come to this county--" "i thought so," interrupted the serving-man, persisting in his offer of nuts, but showing very little interest about ernest's views in visiting italy--"by your behavior." "my behavior!" exclaimed the young man, a little nettled. "precisely. but your quality of stranger has hitherto protected you from any disagreeable consequences." this was said so quietly, so amiably, that the warning or menace wrapped up in the words lost much of its bitter savor; yet our traveler could not refrain from a haughty glance toward this audacious domestic, on whom, however, it was lost, for he was deeply intent on his pistachios. after a moment ernest recovered his self-possession, remembered his schemes, and drawing a little nearer the serving-man, laid his hand confidentially on the sleeve of his coat, and said: "my good man, i have a word or two for your private ear." not expressing the least surprise or interest, the other replied: "i am ready to hear what you have to say, provided you will not call me any more your good man. i am not a good man, nor am i your man, without offense be it spoken. my name is alfonso." "well, alfonso, you are an original person, and i will not call you a good man, though honesty and candor be written on your countenance. (alfonso smiled, but said nothing). but listen to me attentively, remembering that though neither am i a good man, yet am i a generous one. i passionately love your mistress." "ah!" said alfonso, with any thing but a benevolent expression of countenance. ernest, who was no physiognomist, noticed nothing; and being mounted on his new hobby-horse, proceeded at once to give a history of his impressions since the previous morning. when he had concluded, the old man, who seemed all benevolence again, simply observed: "then it is the younger of the two ladies that captivated your affections in this unaccountable manner!" "of course," cried ernest; "and i beseech you, my amiable alfonso, to put me in the way of declaring what i experience." "you are an extraordinary young man," was the grave reply; "an extraordinary, an imprudent, and, i will add, a reckless person. you fall in love with a person of whom you know nothing--not even the name. this, however, is, i believe, according to rule among a certain class of minds. not satisfied with this, you can find no better way of introducing yourself to her notice than endeavoring to corrupt one whom you must have divined to be a confidential servant. others would have sought an introduction to the family; you dream at once of a clandestine intercourse--" "i assure you--" interrupted ernest, feeling both ashamed and indignant at these remarks proceeding from one so inferior in station. "assure me nothing, sir, as to your intentions, for you do not know them yourself. i understand you perfectly, because i was once young and thoughtless like you. now listen to me: in that house dwells the contessa corsini, with her daughter clara; and if these two persons had no one to protect them but themselves and a foolish old servitor, whom the first comer judges capable of corruption, they would ere this have been much molested; but it happens that the count corsini is not dead, and inhabiteth with them, although seldom coming forth into the public streets. what say you, young man, does not this a little disturb your plans?" "in the first place," replied ernest, "i am offended that you will persist in implying--more, it is true, by your manner than your words--that my views are not perfectly avowable." "then why, in the name of heaven, do you not make yourself known to the count, stating your object, and asking formally for his daughter's hand?" "not so fast, alfonso. it was necessary for me to learn, as a beginning, that there was a count in the case." "and what do you know now? perhaps those women are two adventurers, and i a rascal playing a virtuous part, in order the better to deceive you." "you do not look like a rascal," said ernest, quite innocently. at which observation the old man condescended to laugh heartily, and seemed from that moment to take quite a liking to his new acquaintance. after a little while, indeed, he began to give some information about the young clara, who, he said, was only sixteen years of age, though quite a woman in appearance, and not unaccomplished. as to her dowry--ernest interrupted him by saying, that he wished for no information on that point, being himself rich. the old man smiled amiably, and ended the conversation by requesting another interview next day at the same hour, by which time, he said, he might have some news to tell. ernest returned home in high spirits, which sank by degrees, however, when he reflected that as alfonso declined favoring any clandestine correspondence, there was little in reality to be expected from him. true, he had given him some information, and he might now, by means of his letters of introduction, contrive to make acquaintance with the count. but though he spent the whole evening and next morning in making inquiries, he could not meet with any one who had ever even heard of such a person. "possibly," he thought, "the old sinner may have been laughing at me all the time, and entered into conversation simply with the object of getting up a story to divert the other domestics of the house. if such be the case, he may be sure i shall wreak vengeance upon him." in spite of these reflections, he was at his post at the hour appointed, and felt quite overjoyed when alfonso made his appearance. the old man said that a plan had suggested itself by which he might be introduced into the house--namely, that he should pretend to be a professor of drawing, and offer his services. ernest did not inquire how alfonso came to know that he was an amateur artist, but eagerly complied with the plan, and was instructed to call on the following morning, and to say that he had heard that a drawing-master was wanted. he went accordingly, not very boldly, it is true, and looking very much in reality like a poor professor anxious to obtain employment. the contessa, who was yet young and beautiful, received him politely, listened to his proposals, and made no difficulty in accepting them. the preliminaries arranged, clara was called, and, to ernest's astonishment, came bouncing into the room like a great school-girl, looked him very hard in the face, and among the first things she said, asked him if he was not the man she had seen two mornings following sitting opposite the house on the bench under the platane tree. now ernest had imagined to himself something so refined, so delicate, so fairy-like, instead of this plain reality, that he all at once began to feel disgusted, and to wish he had acted more prudently. and yet there was clara, exactly as he had seen her, except that she had exchanged the demure, conventional step adopted by ladies in the street for the free motions of youth; and except that, instead of casting her eyes to the earth, or glancing at him sideways, she now looked toward him with a frank and free gaze, and spoke what came uppermost in her mind. certes, most men would have chosen that moment to fall in love with so charming a creature; for charming she was beyond all doubt, with large, rich, black eyes, pouting ruby lips, fine oval cheeks, and a mass of ebony hair; but ernest's first impression was disappointment, and he began to criticise both her and every thing by which she was surrounded. he saw at once that there was poverty in the house. the furniture was neat, but scanty; and the door had been opened by a female servant, who had evidently been disturbed from some domestic avocations. the contessa and her daughter were dressed very plainly--far differently from what they had been in the street; and it was an easy matter to see that this plainness was not adopted from choice but from necessity. had clara come into the room with a slow, creeping step, keeping her eyes modestly fixed on the chipped marble floor, not one of these observations would have been made: the large, dreary house would have been a palace in ernest's eyes; but his taste was a morbid one, and in five minutes after he had begun to give his lesson, he began to fear that the conquest he had so ardently desired would be only too easy. there was something, however, so cheerful and fascinating in clara's manner that he could not but soon learn to feel pleasure in her society: and when he went away he determined, instead of starting off for sicily, as he had at first thought of doing, to pay at least one more visit to the house in the character of drawing master. alfonso joined him as he walked slowly homeward, and asked him how things had passed. he related frankly his first impressions, to which the old man listened very attentively without making any remark. at parting, however, he shook his head, saying that young men were of all animals the most difficult to content. next day, when ernest went to give his lesson, he was told by alfonso that the contessa, being indisposed, had remained in bed, but that he should find clara in the garden. there was something romantic in the sound of this, so he hurried to the spot indicated, impatient to have the commonplace impressions of the previous day effaced. this time his disgust was complete. he found clara engaged in assisting the servant maid to wring and hang out some clothes they had just finished washing. she seemed not at all put out by being caught thus humbly employed; but begging him to wait a little, finished her work, ran away, dressed somewhat carefully, and returning begged he would return to the house. he followed with cheeks burning with shame: he felt the utmost contempt for himself because he had fallen in love with this little housewife, and the greatest indignation against her for having presumed, very innocently, to excite so poetical a sentiment; and, in the stupidity of his offended self-love, resolved to avenge himself by making some spiteful remark ere he escaped from a house into which he considered that he had been regularly entrapped. accordingly, when she took the pencil in hand, he observed that probably she imagined that contact with soap-suds would improve the delicacy of her touch. clara did not reply, but began to sketch in a manner that proved she had listened to the pedantic rules he had laid down on occasion of the previous lesson more from modesty than because she was in want of them. then suddenly rising without attending to some cavil he thought it his duty to make, she went to the piano, and beginning to play, drew forth such ravishing notes, that ernest, who was himself no contemptible musician, could not refrain from applauding enthusiastically. she received his compliments with a slight shrug of the shoulders, and commenced a song that enabled her to display with full effect the capabilities of her magnificent voice. the soap-suds were forgotten; and ernest's romance was coming back upon him: he began to chide himself for his foolish prejudices; and thought that, after all, with a little training, clara might be made quite a lady. suddenly, however, she broke off her song, and turning toward him with an ironical smile, said: "not bad for a housemaid, mr. professor--is it?" he attempted to excuse himself, but he was evidently judged; and, what was more--not as an obscure drawing-master, but as m. ernest leroy. his identity was evidently no secret; and she even called him by his name. he endeavored in vain to make a fine speech to apologize for his ill-behavior; but she interrupted him keenly, though good-humoredly, and the entrance of alfonso was fatal to a fine scene of despair he was about to enact. clara upon this retired with a profound salute; and alfonso spoke with more of dignity than usual in his manner, and said: "my young friend, you must excuse a little deception which has been practiced on you, or rather which you have practiced upon yourself. i am going to be very free and frank with you to-day. i am not what you take me for. i am the count corsini, a roman; and because i have not the means of keeping a man-servant, when the women of my family go to church i follow them, as you saw. this is not unusual among my countrymen. it is a foolish pride i know; but so it is. however, the matter interests you not. you saw my daughter clara, and thought you loved her. i was willing, as on inquiry i found you to be a respectable person, to see how you could agree together; but your pride--i managed and overheard all--has destroyed your chance. my daughter will seek another husband." there was a cold friendliness in alfonso's tone which roused the pride of ernest. he affected to laugh, called himself a foolish madcap, but hinted that a splendid marriage awaited him, if he chose, on his return to paris; and went away endeavoring to look unconcerned. the following morning he was on board a vessel bound for palermo, very sea-sick it is true, but thinking at the same time a great deal more of clara than he could have thought possible had it been predicted. some few years afterward ernest leroy was in one of the _salons_ of the fauxbourg st. germain. still a bachelor, he no longer felt those sudden emotions to which he had been subject in his earlier youth. he was beginning to talk less of sentiments present and more of sentiments passed. in confidential moods he would lay his hand upon his waistcoat--curved out at its lower extremity, by the by, by a notable increase of substance--and allude to a certain divine clara who had illuminated a moment of his existence. but he was too discreet to enter into details. well, being in that _salon_, as we have said, pretending to amuse himself, his attention was suddenly drawn by the announcement of lady d----. he turned round, probably to quiz _la belle anglaise_ he expected to behold. what was his astonishment on recognizing in the superb woman who leaned on the arm of a tall, military-looking englishman, the identical clara corsini of his youthful memories. he felt at first sick at heart; but, taking courage, soon went up and spoke to her. she remembered him with some little difficulty, smiled, and holding out her alabaster hand, said gently: "do you see any trace of the soap-suds?" she never imagined he had any feeling in him, and only knew the truth when a large, round tear fell on the diamond of her ring. "charles," said ernest awhile afterward to a friend, "it is stifling hot and dreadfully stupid here. let us go and have a game of billiards." our school. by charles dickens. we went to look at it, only this last midsummer, and found that the railway had cut it up root and branch. a great trunk-line had swallowed the play-ground, sliced away the school-room, and pared off the corner of the house: which, thus curtailed of its proportions, presented itself, in a green stage of stucco, profile-wise toward the road, like a forlorn flat-iron without a handle, standing on end. it seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. we have faint recollections of a preparatory day-school, which we have sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new street, ages ago. we have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer's shop. we know that you went up steps to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off a very unsteady little shoe. the mistress of the establishment holds no place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal entry, long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity toward us, who triumphs over time. the bark of that baleful pug, a certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and the insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and flourish. from an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a fiddle, we conclude that he was of french extraction, and his name _fidèle_. he belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back-parlor, whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. for her, he would sit up and balance cake upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted. to the best of our belief, we were once called in to witness this performance; when, unable, even in his milder moments, to endure our presence, he instantly made at us, cake and all. why a something in mourning, called "miss frost," should still connect itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. we retain no impression of the beauty of miss frost--if she were beautiful; or of the mental fascinations of miss frost--if she were accomplished; yet her name and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance. an equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself unalterably into "master mawls," is not to be dislodged from our brain. retaining no vindictive feeling toward mawls--no feeling whatever, indeed--we infer that neither he nor we can have loved miss frost. our first impression of death and burial is associated with this formless pair. we all three nestled awfully in a corner one wintry day, when the wind was blowing shrill, with miss frost's pinafore over our heads; and miss frost told us in a whisper about somebody being "screwed down." it is the only distinct recollection we preserve of these impalpable creatures, except a suspicion that the manners of master mawls were susceptible of much improvement. generally speaking, we may observe that whenever we see a child intently occupied with its nose, to the exclusion of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts in a flash to master mawls. but, the school that was our school before the railroad came and overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. we were old enough to be put into virgil when we went there, and to get prizes for a variety of polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. it was a school of some celebrity in its neighborhood--nobody could have said why--and we had the honor to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. the master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was supposed to know every thing. we are still inclined to think the first-named supposition perfectly correct. we have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade, and had bought us--meaning our school--of another proprietor, who was immensely learned. whether this belief had any real foundation, we are not likely ever to know now. the only branches of education with which he showed the least acquaintance, were, ruling, and corporally punishing. he was always ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument, or viciously drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large hands, and caning the wearer with the other. we have no doubt whatever that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence. a profound respect for money pervaded our school, which was, of course, derived from its chief. we remember an idiotic, goggle-eyed boy, with a big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared as a parlor-boarder, and was rumored to have come by sea from some mysterious part of the earth where his parents rolled in gold. he was usually called "mr." by the chief, and was said to feed in the parlor on steaks and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. and he openly stated that if rolls and coffee were ever denied him at breakfast, he would write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. he was put into no form or class, but learnt alone, as little as he liked--and he liked very little--and there was a belief among us that this was because he was too wealthy to be "taken down." his special treatment, and our vague association of him with the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and coral reefs, occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. a tragedy in blank verse was written on the subject--if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that now chronicles these recollections--in which his father figured as a pirate, and was shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities: first imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth was stored, and from which his only son's half-crowns now issued. dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented as "yet unborn," when his brave father met his fate; and the despair and grief of mrs. dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth as having weakened the parlor-boarder's mind. this production was received with great favor, and was twice performed with closed doors in the dining-room. but, it got wind, and was seized as libelous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. some two years afterward, all of a sudden one day, dumbledon vanished. it was whispered that the chief himself had taken him down to the docks, and reshipped him for the spanish main; but nothing certain was ever known about his disappearance. at this hour, we can not thoroughly disconnect him from california. our school was rather famous for mysterious pupils. there was another--a heavy young man, with a large double-cased silver watch, and a fat knife, the handle of which was a perfect tool-box--who unaccountably appeared one day at a special desk of his own, erected close to that of the chief, with whom he held familiar converse. he lived in the parlor, and went out for walks, and never took the least notice of us--even of us, the first boy--unless to give us a depreciatory kick, or grimly to take our hat off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors: which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed--not even condescending to stop for the purpose. some of us believed that the classical attainments of this phenomenon were terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend them; others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the chief "twenty-five pound down," for leave to see our school at work. the gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy _us_; against which contingency conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and running away. however, he never did that. after staying for a quarter, during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to do any thing but make pens out of quills, write small-hand in a secret portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his knife into his desk, all over it, he, too, disappeared, and his place knew him no more. there was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and rich curling hair, who, we found out, or thought we found out (we have no idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a viscount who had deserted his lovely mother. it was understood that if he had his rights, he would be worth twenty thousand a year. and that if his mother ever met his father, she would shoot him with a silver pistol which she carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. he was a very suggestive topic. so was a young mulatto, who was always believed (though very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. but, we think they were both outshone, upon the whole, by another boy who claimed to have been born on the twenty-ninth of february, and to have only one birthday in five years. we suspect this to have been a fiction--but he lived upon it all the time he was at our school. the principal currency of our school was slate-pencil. it had some inexplicable value, that was never ascertained, never reduced to a standard. to have a great hoard of it, was somehow to be rich. we used to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our chosen friends. when the holidays were coming, contributions were solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in india, and who were appealed for under the generic name of "holiday-stoppers"--appropriate marks of remembrance that should enliven and cheer them in their homeless state. personally, we always contributed these tokens of sympathy in the form of slate-pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure to them. our school was remarkable for white mice. red-polls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other strange refuges for birds; but white mice were the favorite stock. the boys trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the boys. we recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a latin dictionary, who ran up ladders, drew roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned wheels, and even made a very creditable appearance on the stage as the dog of montargis. he might have achieved greater things, but for having the misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal procession to the capitol, when he fell into a deep inkstand, and was dyed black, and drowned. the mice were the occasion of some most ingenious engineering, in the construction of their houses and instruments of performance. the famous one belonged to a company of proprietors, some of whom have since made railroads, engines, and telegraphs; the chairman has erected mills and bridges in new zealand. the usher at our school, who was considered to know every thing as opposed to the chief who was considered to know nothing, was a bony, gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man in rusty black. it was whispered that he was sweet upon one of maxby's sisters (maxby lived close by, and was a day pupil), and further that he "favored maxby." as we remember, he taught italian to maxby's sisters on half-holidays. he once went to the play with them, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose: which was considered among us equivalent to a declaration. we were of opinion on that occasion that to the last moment he expected maxby's father to ask him to dinner at five o'clock, and therefore neglected his own dinner at half-past one, and finally got none. we exaggerated in our imaginations the extent to which he punished maxby's father's cold meat at supper; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and water when he came home. but, we all liked him; for he had a good knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if he had had more power. he was writing-master, mathematical-master, english master, made out the bills, mended the pens, and did all sorts of things. he divided the little boys with the latin master (they were smuggled through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there was nothing else to do), and he always called at parents' houses to inquire after sick boys, because he had gentlemanly manners. he was rather musical, and on some remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone; but a bit of it was lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he sometimes tried to play it of an evening. his holidays never began (on account of the bills) until long after ours; but in the summer-vacations he used to take pedestrian excursions with a knapsack; and at christmas-time he went to see his father at chipping norton, who we all said (on no authority) was a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. poor fellow! he was very low all day on maxby's sister's wedding-day, and afterward was thought to favor maxby more than ever, though he had been expected to spite him. he has been dead these twenty years. poor fellow! our remembrance of our school, presents the latin master as a colorless, doubled-up, near-sighted man with a crutch, who was always cold, and always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always disclosing ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a ball of pocket-handkerchief to some part of his face with a screwing action round and round. he was a very good scholar, and took great pains where he saw intelligence and a desire to learn; otherwise, perhaps not. our memory presents him (unless teased into a passion) with as little energy as color--as having been worried and tormented into monotonous feebleness--as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in a mill of boys. we remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not when the footstep of the chief fell heavy on the floor; how the chief aroused him, in the midst of a dread silence, and said, "mr. blinkins, are you ill, sir?" how he blushingly replied, "sir, rather so;" how the chief retorted with severity, "mr. blinkins, this is no place to be ill in" (which was very, very true), and walked back, solemn as the ghost in hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he caned that boy for inattention, and happily expressed his feelings toward the latin master through the medium of a substitute. there was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in a gig, and taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as an accomplishment in great social demand in after-life); and there was a brisk little french master who used to come in the sunniest weather with a handleless umbrella, and to whom the chief was always polite, because (as we believed), if the chief offended him, he would instantly address the chief in french, and forever confound him before the boys with his inability to understand or reply. there was, besides, a serving man, whose name was phil. our retrospective glance presents phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast away upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an ingenious inkling of many trades. he mended whatever was broken, and made whatever was wanted. he was general glazier, among other things, and mended all the broken windows--at the prime cost (as was darkly rumored among us) of ninepence for every square charged three-and-six to parents. we had a high opinion of his mechanical genius, and generally held that the chief "knew something bad of him," and on pain of divulgence enforced phil to be his bondsman. we particularly remember that phil had a sovereign contempt for learning; which engenders in us a respect for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation of the relative positions of the chief and the ushers. he was an impenetrable man, who waited at table between whiles, and, throughout "the half" kept the boxes in severe custody. he was morose, even to the chief, and never smiled, except at breaking-up, when, in acknowledgment of the toast, "success to phil! hooray!" he would slowly carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it would remain until we were all gone. nevertheless, one time when we had the scarlet fever in the school, phil nursed all the sick boys of his own accord, and was like a mother to them. there was another school not far off, and of course our school could have nothing to say to that school. it is mostly the way with schools, whether of boys or men. well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the locomotives now run smoothly over its ashes. so fades and languishes, grows dim and dies, all that this world is proud of, and is not proud of, too. it had little reason to be proud of our school, and has done much better since in that way, and will do far better yet. a story of oriental love. poets have complained in all countries and in all ages, that true love ever meets with obstacles and hindrances, and the highest efforts of their art have been exhausted in commemorating the sufferings or the triumphs of affection. will the theme ever cease to interest? will the hopes, the fears, the joys, the vows of lovers, ever be deemed matters of light moment, unworthy to be embalmed and preserved in those immortal caskets which genius knows how to frame out of words? if that dreary time be destined to come--if victory decide in favor of those mechanical philosophers who would drive sentiment out of the world--sad will be the lot of mortals; for it is better to die with a heart full of love, than live for an age without feeling one vibration of that divine passion. i am almost ashamed to translate into this level english, the sublime rhapsody with which the worthy sheikh ibrahim introduced the simple story about to be repeated. the truth is, i do not remember much of what he said, and at times he left me far behind, as he soared up through the cloudy heaven of his enthusiasm. i could only occasionally discern his meaning as it flashed along; but a solemn, rapturous murmur of inarticulate sounds swept over my soul, and prepared it to receive with devout faith and respect, what else might have appeared to me a silly tale of truth and constancy and passionate devotion. i forgot the thousand musquitoes that were whirling with threatening buzz around; the bubbling of the water-pipe grew gradually less frequent, and at length died away; and the sides of the kiosque overlooking the river, with its flitting sails and palm-fringed shores dimming in the twilight, seemed to open and throw back a long vista into the past. i listened, and the sheikh continued to speak: i will relate the story of gadallah, the son of the sword-maker, and of hosneh, the daughter of the merchant. it is handed down to us by tradition, and the fathers of some yet living, remember to have heard it told by eye-witnesses. not that any great weight of testimony is required to exact belief. no extraordinary incident befell the lovers; and the pure-hearted, when they hear these things, will say within themselves, "this must be so; we would have done likewise." gadallah was a youth of wonderful beauty; his like is only to be seen once in a long summer's day, by the favor of god. all cairo spoke of him, and mothers envied his mother, and fathers his father; and maidens who beheld him grew faint with admiration, and loved as hopelessly as if he had been the brightest star of heaven. for he did not incline to such thoughts, and had been taught to despise women, and to believe that they were all wicked and designing--full of craft and falsehood. such instructions had his mother given him, for she knew the snares that would beset so beautiful a youth, and feared for him, lest he might be led into danger and misfortune. gadallah worked with his father in the shop, and being a cunning artificer, assisted to support the family. he had many brothers and sisters, all younger than he; but there were times when money was scarce with them, and they were compelled to borrow for their daily expenses of their neighbors, and to trust to providence for the means of repayment. thus time passed, and they became neither richer nor poorer, as is the common lot of men who labor for their bread; but neither gadallah nor his father repined. when allah gave good fortune they blessed him, and when no good fortune was bestowed, they blessed him for not taking away that which they had. they who spend their lives in industry and in praise of god, can not be unhappy. it came to pass one day, that a man richly dressed, riding on a mule, and followed by servants, stopped opposite the shop, and calling to the father of gadallah, said to him: "o sheikh, i have a sword, the hilt of which is broken, and i desire thee to come to my house and mend it; for it is of much value, and there is a word of power written on it, and i can not allow it to leave the shelter of my roof." the sword-maker answered: "o master, it will be better that my son should accompany thee; for he is young, and his eyes are sharp, and his hand is clever, while i am growing old, and not fit for the finer work." the customer replied that it was well, and having given gadallah time to take his tools, rode slowly away, the youth following him at a modest distance. they proceeded to a distant quarter, where the streets were silent and the houses large and lofty, surrounded by gardens with tall trees that trembled overhead in the sun-light. at length they stopped before a mansion fit for a prince, and gadallah entered along with the owner. a spacious court, with fountains playing in the shade of two large sycamores, and surrounded by light colonnades, so struck the young sword-maker with astonishment, that he exclaimed: "blessed be god, whose creatures are permitted to rear palaces so beautiful!" these words caused the master to smile with benignity, for who is insensible to the praise of his own house? and he said: "young man, thou seest only a portion of that which has been bestowed upon me--extolled be the lord and his prophet; follow me." so they passed through halls of surprising magnificence, until they came to a lofty door, over which swept long crimson curtains, and which was guarded by a black slave with a sword in his hand. he looked at gadallah with surprise when the master said "open," but obeying, admitted them to a spacious saloon--more splendid than any that had preceded. now gadallah having never seen the interior of any house better than that of his neighbor the barber, who was a relation by the mother's side, and highly respected as a man of wealth and condition, was lost in amazement and wonder at all he beheld, not knowing that he was the most beautiful thing in that saloon, and scarcely ventured to walk, lest he might stain the polished marble or the costly carpets. his conductor, who was evidently a good man, from the delight he honestly showed at this artless tribute to his magnificence, took him to a small cabinet containing a chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. this he opened, and producing a sword, the like of which never came from damascus, bade him observe where the hilt was broken, and ordered him to mend it carefully. then he left him, saying he would return in an hour. gadallah began his work with the intention of being very industrious; but he soon paused to admire at leisure the splendor of the saloon; when he had fed his eyes with this, he turned to a window that looked upon a garden, and saw that it was adorned with lovely trees, bright flowers, elegant kiosques, and running fountains. an aviary hard by was filled with singing-birds, which warbled the praises of the creator. his mind soon became a wilderness of delight, in which leaf-laden branches waved, and roses, and anemones, and pinks, and fifty more of the bright daughters of spring, blushed and glittered; and melody wandered with hesitating steps, like a spirit seeking the coolest and sweetest place of rest. this was like an exquisite dream; but presently, straying in a path nigh at hand, he beheld an unvailed maiden and her attendant. it was but for a moment she appeared, yet her image was so brightly thrown in upon his heart, that he loved her ever afterward with a love as unchangeable as the purity of the heavens. when she was gone, he sat himself down beside the broken sword and wept. the master of the house came back, and gently chid him for his idleness. "go," said he, "and return to-morrow at the same hour. thou hast now sufficiently fed thine eyes--go; but remember, envy me not the wealth which god hath bestowed." gadallah went his way, having first ascertained from the servants, that his employer was the arabian merchant zen-ed-din, whose daughter hosneh was said to surpass in beauty all the maidens of the land of egypt. on reaching the house, he repaired to his mother's side, and sitting down, told her of all he had seen and all he felt, beseeching her to advise him and predict good fortune to him. fatoumeh, the mother of gadallah, was a wise woman, and understood that his case was hopeless, unless his desires received accomplishment. but it seemed to her impossible that the son of the poor sword-maker should ever be acceptable to the daughter of the wealthy merchant. she wept plentifully at the prospect of misery that unfolded itself, and when her husband came in, he also wept; and all three mingled their tears together until a late hour of the night. next day gadallah went at the appointed hour to the merchant's house, and being kindly received, finished the work set to him; but saw no more of the maiden who had disturbed his mind. zen-ed-din paid him handsomely for his trouble, and added some words of good advice. this done, he gently dismissed him, promising he would recall him shortly for other work; and the youth returned home despairing of all future happiness. the strength of his love was so great, that it shook him like a mighty fever, and he remained ill upon his couch that day, and the next, and the next, until he approached the margin of the grave; but his hour was not yet come, and he recovered. in the mean time, the angel of death received permission from the almighty to smite thirty thousand of the inhabitants of cairo; and he sent a great plague, that introduced sorrow into every house. it flew rapidly from quarter to quarter, and from street to street, smiting the chosen of the tomb--the young, the old, the bad, the good, the rich, the poor--here, there, every where; in the palace, the hovel, the shop, the market-place, the deewan. all day and all night the shriek of sorrow resounded in the air; and the thoroughfares were filled with people following corpses to the cemetery. many fled into other cities and other lands; but the plague followed those who were doomed, and struck them down by the wayside, or in the midst of their new friends. it happened that the merchant zen-ed-din had gone upon a journey, and had left his house, and his harem, and his lovely daughter, under the care of providence, so that when gadallah recovered, before the pestilence reached its height, he waited in vain in the shop, expecting that the merchant would pass, and invite him again to his house. at length the affliction of the city reached so great a degree of intensity, that all business was put a stop to, the bazaars were deserted, and men waited beneath their own roofs the inevitable decrees of fate. gadallah, who had confidence in god, spent part of his time walking in the streets; but every day went and sat on a stone bench opposite to zen-ed-din's house, expecting to see some one come forth who might tell him that all were well within. but the doors remained closed, and not a sound ever proceeded from the interior of the vast mansion. at length, however, when he came at the usual hour, he perceived that the great entrance-gate was left half-open, and he mustered up courage to enter. he found the bawab dead on his bench, and two black slaves by the side of the fountain. his heart smote him with a presentiment of evil. he advanced into the inner halls without seeing a sign of life. behind the great crimson curtains that swept over the doorway of the saloon where he had worked, lay the guardian with his sword still in his hand. he pressed forward, finding every place deserted. raising his voice at length, he called aloud, and asked if any living thing remained within those walls. no reply came but the echo that sounded dismally along the roof; with a heart oppressed by fear, he entered what he knew to be the ladies' private apartments; and here he found the attendant of hosneh dying. she looked amazed at beholding a stranger, and, at first, refused to reply to his questions. but, at length, in a faint voice, she said that the plague had entered the house the day before like a raging lion, that many fell victims almost instantly, and that the women of the harem in a state of wild alarm had fled. "and hosneh?" inquired gadallah. "she is laid out in the kiosque, in the garden," replied the girl, who almost immediately afterward breathed her last. gadallah remained for some time gazing at her, and still listening, as if to ascertain that he had heard correctly. then he made his way to the garden, and searched the kiosques, without finding what he sought, until he came to one raised on a light terrace, amid a grove of waving trees. here beneath a canopy of white silk, on pillows of white silk, and all clothed in white silk, lay the form that had so long dwelt in his heart. without fear of the infection, having first asked pardon of god, he stooped over her, and kissed those lips that had never even spoken to a man except her father; and he wished that death might come to him likewise; and he ventured to lie down by her side, that the two whom life could never have brought together, might be found united at least under one shroud. a rustling close by attracted his attention. it was a dove fluttering down to her accustomed place on a bough, which once gained, she rolled forth from her swelling throat a cooing challenge to her partner in a distant tree. on reverting his look to the face of hosneh, gadallah thought he saw a faint red tint upon the lips he had pressed, like the first blush of the dawn in a cold sky. he gazed with wonder and delight, and became convinced he was not mistaken. he ran to a fountain and brought water in a large hollow leaf, partly poured it between the pearly teeth, which he parted timidly with his little finger, and partly sprinkled it over the maiden's face and bosom. at length a sigh shook her frame--so soft, so gentle that a lover's senses alone could have discerned it; and then, after an interval of perfect tranquillity, her eyes opened, gazed for a moment at the youth, and closed not in weakness, but as if dazzled by his beauty. gadallah bent over her, watching for the least motion, the least indication of returning consciousness; listening for the first word, the first murmur that might break from those lips which he had tasted without warrant. he waited long, but not in vain; for at last there came a sweet smile, and a small, low voice cried, "sabrea! where is sabrea?" gadallah now cast more water, and succeeded in restoring hosneh to perfect consciousness, and to modest fear. he sat at her feet and told her what had happened, omitting no one thing--not even the love which he had conceived for her; and he promised, in the absence of her friends, to attend upon her with respect and devotion, until her strength and health should return. she was but a child in years, and innocent as are the angels; and hearing the frankness of his speech, consented to what he proposed. and he attended her that day and the next, until she was able to rise upon her couch, and sit and talk in a low voice with him of love. he found every thing that was required in the way of food amply stored in the house, the gates of which he closed, lest robbers might enter; but he did not often go into it, for fear of the infection, and this was his excuse for not returning once to his parents' house, lest he might carry death with him. on the fourth day hosneh was well enough to walk a little in the garden, supported by the arms of gadallah, who now wished that he might spend his life in this manner. but the decrees of fate were not yet accomplished. on the fifth day the young man became ill; he had sucked the disease from the lips of hosneh in that only kiss which he had ventured; and before the sun went down, hosneh was attending on him in despair, as he had attended on her in hope. she, too, brought water to bathe his forehead and his lips; she, too, watched for the signs of returning life, and as she passed the night by his side, gazing on his face, often mistook the sickly play of the moonbeams, as they fell between the trees, for the smile which she would have given her life to purchase. praise be to god, it was not written that either of them should die; and not many days afterward, toward the hour of evening, they were sitting in another kiosque beside a fountain, pale and wan it is true, looking more like pensive angels than mortal beings, but still with hearts full of happiness that broke out from time to time in bright smiles, which were reflected from one to the other as surely as were their forms in the clear water by which they reclined. gadallah held the hand of hosneh in his, and listened as she told how her mother had long ago been dead, how her father loved her, and how he would surely have died had any harm befallen her. she praised the courage, and the modesty, and the gentleness of gadallah--for he had spoken despondingly about the chances of their future union, and said that when zen-ed-din returned, she would relate all that had happened, and fall at his knees and say, "father, give me to gadallah." the sun had just set, the golden streams that had been pouring into the garden seemed now sporting with the clouds overhead; solid shadows were thickening around; the flowers and the blossoms breathed forth their most fragrant perfumes; the last cooing of the drowsy doves was trembling on all sides; the nightingale was trying her voice in a few short, melancholy snatches: it was an hour for delight and joy; and the two lovers bent their heads closer together; closer, until their ringlets mingled, and their sighs, and the glances of their eyes. then gadallah suddenly arose, and said, "daughter of my master, let there be a sword placed betwixt me and thee." and as he spoke, a bright blade gleamed betwixt him and the abashed maiden; and they were both seized with strong hands and hurried away. zen-ed-din had returned from his journey, and finding the great gate closed, had come round with his followers to the garden entrance, which he easily opened. struck by the silence of the whole place, he advanced cautiously until he heard voices talking in the kiosque. then he drew near, and overheard the whole of what had passed, and admired the modesty and virtue of gadallah. he caused him to be seized and thrown that night into a dark room, that he might show his power; and he spoke harshly to his daughter, because of her too great trustfulness, and her unpermitted love. but when he understood all that had happened, and had sufficiently admired the wonderful workings of god's providence, he said to himself, "surely this youth and this maiden were created one for the other, and the decrees of fate must be accomplished." so he took gadallah forth from his prison, and embraced him, calling him his son, and sent for his parents, and told them what had happened, and they all rejoiced; and in due time the marriage took place, and it was blessed, and the children's children of hosneh and gadallah still live among us. while the excellent sheikh was rapidly running over the concluding statements of his narrative, i remember having read the chief incident in some european tradition--possibly borrowed, as so many of our traditions are, from the east--and then a single line of one of our poets, who has versified the story, came unbidden to my memory; but i could not recollect the poet's name, nor understand how the train of association could be so abruptly broken. the line doubtless describes the first interview of the lover with the plague-stricken maiden--it is as follows: "and folds the bright infection to his breast." a bird-hunting spider. when the veracity of any person has been impugned, it is a duty which we owe to society, if it lies in our power, to endeavor to establish it; and when that person is a lady gallantry redoubles the obligation. our chivalry is, on the present occasion, excited in favor of madame merian, who, toward the latter end of the seventeenth century, and during a two years' residence in surinam, employed her leisure in studying the many interesting forms of winged and vegetable life indigenous to that prolific country. after her return to holland, her native land, she published the results of her researches. her writings, although abounding in many inaccuracies and seeming fables, contained much curious and new information; all the more valuable from the objects of her study having been, at that period, either entirely unknown to the naturalists of europe, or vaguely reported by stray seafaring visitants; who, with the usual license of travelers, were more anxious to strike their hearers with astonishment than to extend their knowledge. these works were rendered still more attractive by numerous plates--the result of madame merian's artistic skill--with which they were profusely embellished. it is one of these which, with the description accompanying it, has caused her truth to be called into question by subsequent writers; who, we must conclude, had either not the good fortune or the good eyesight to verify her statements by their own experience. the illustration to which i allude represents a large spider carrying off in its jaws a humming-bird, whose nest appears close at hand, and who had apparently been seized while sitting on its eggs. linnæus, however, did not doubt the lady, and called the spider (which belongs to the genus _mygale_), "avicularia" (bird-eating). whether this ferocious-looking hunter does occasionally capture small birds; or whether he subsists entirely on the wasps, bees, ants, and beetles which every where abound, what i chanced myself to see in the forest will help to determine. shortly after daybreak, one morning in , while staying at a wood-cutting establishment on the essequibo, a short distance above the confluence of that river and the magaruni, we--a tall yorkshireman and myself--started in our "wood-skin" to examine some spring hooks which we had set during the previous evening, in the embouchure of a neighboring creek. our breakfast that morning depended on our success. our chagrin may be imagined on finding all the baits untouched save one; and from that, some lurking cayman had snapped the body of the captured fish, leaving nothing but the useless head dangling in the air. after mentally dispatching our spoiler--who had not tricked us for the first time--to a place very far distant, we paddled further up the creek in search of a maam, or maroudi; or, indeed, of any thing eatable--bird, beast, or reptile. we had not proceeded far, when my companion, blottle, who was sitting, gun in hand, prepared to deal destruction on the first living creature we might chance to encounter--suddenly fired at some object moving rapidly along the topmost branch of a tree which overhung the sluggish stream a short way in advance. for a moment or two the success of his aim seemed doubtful; then something came tumbling through the intervening foliage, and i guided the canoe beneath, lest the prey should be lost in the water. our surprise was not unmingled, i must confess, with vexation at first, on finding that the strange character of our game removed our morning's repast as far off as ever. a huge spider and a half-fledged bird lay in the bottom of our canoe--the one with disjointed limbs and mutilated carcass; the other uninjured by the shot, but nearly dead, though still faintly palpitating. the remains of the spider showed him larger than any i had previously seen--smaller, however, than one from brazil, before me while i write--and may have measured some two-and-half inches in the body, with limbs about twice that length. he was rough and shaggy, with a thick covering of hair or bristles; which, besides giving him an additional appearance of strength, considerably increased the fierceness of his aspect. the hairs were in some parts fully an inch long, of a dark brown color, inclining to black. his powerful jaws and sturdy arms seemed never adapted for the death-struggle of prey less noble than this small member of the feathered race, for whom our succor had unhappily arrived too late. the victim had been snatched from the nest while the mother was probably assisting to collect a morning's meal for her offspring. it had been clutched by the neck immediately above the shoulders: the marks of the murderer's talons still remained; and, although no blood had escaped from the wounds, they were much inflamed and swollen. the few greenish-brown feathers sparingly scattered among the down in the wings, were insufficient to furnish me with a clew toward a knowledge of its species. that it was a humming-bird, however, or one of an allied genus, seemed apparent from the length of its bill. the king of the humming-birds, as the creoles call the topaz-throat (_trochilus pella_ of naturalists), is the almost exclusive frequenter of marabella creek, where the overspreading foliage--here and there admitting stray gleams of sunshine--forms a cool and shady, though sombre retreat, peculiarly adapted to his disposition; and i strongly suspect that it was the nest of this species which the spider had favored with a visit. after making a minute inspection of the two bodies, we consigned them to a watery grave; both of us convinced that, whatever the detractors of madame merian may urge, that lady was correct in assigning to the bush-spider an ambition which often soars above the insect, and occasionally tempts him to make a meal of some stray feathered denizen of the forest. this conclusion, i may add, was fully confirmed some few weeks after, by my witnessing a still more interesting rencontre between members of the several races. "eat the eater," is one of nature's laws; and, after preventing its accomplishment by depriving the spider of his food, strict justice would probably have balked us of ours. fortunately not--one of the heartiest breakfasts i ever made, and one of the tenderest and most succulent of meat, was that very morning. well i remember exclaiming, at that time, "_hæc olim meminisse juvabit!_"--it was my first dish of stewed monkey and yams. promise unfulfilled.--a tale of the coast-guard. the _rose_ had been becalmed for several days in cowes harbor, and utterly at a loss how else to cheat the time, i employed myself one afternoon in sauntering up and down the quay, whistling for a breeze, and listlessly watching the slow approach of a row-boat, bringing the mail and a few passengers from southampton, the packet-cutter to which the boat belonged being as hopelessly immovable, except for such drift as the tide gave her, as the _rose_. the slowness of its approach--for i expected a messenger with letters--added to my impatient weariness; and as, according to my reckoning, it would be at least an hour before the boat reached the landing-steps, i returned to the fountain inn in the high-street, called for a glass of negus, and as i lazily sipped it, once more turned over the newspapers lying on the table, though with scarcely a hope of coming athwart a line that i had not read half a dozen times before. i was mistaken. there was a "cornwall gazette" among them which i had not before seen, and in one corner of it i lit upon this, to me in all respects new and extremely interesting paragraph: "we copy the following statement from a contemporary, solely for the purpose of contradicting it: 'it is said that the leader of the smugglers in the late desperate affray with the coast guard in st. michael's bay, was no other than mr. george polwhele hendrick, of lostwithiel, formerly, as our readers are aware, a lieutenant in the royal navy, and dismissed the king's service by sentence of court-martial at the close of the war.' there is no foundation for this imputation. mrs. hendrick, of lostwithiel, requests us to state that her son, from whom she heard but about ten days since, commands a first-class ship in the merchant navy of the united states." i was exceedingly astonished. the court-martial i had not heard of, and having never overhauled the navy list for such a purpose, the absence of the name of g. p. hendrick had escaped my notice. what could have been his offense? some hasty, passionate act, no doubt; for of misbehavior before the enemy, or of the commission of deliberate wrong, it was impossible to suspect him. he was, i personally knew, as eager as flame in combat; and his frank, perhaps heedless generosity of temperament, was abundantly apparent to every one acquainted with him. i had known him for a short time only; but the few days of our acquaintance were passed under circumstances which bring out the true nature of a man more prominently and unmistakably than might twenty years of humdrum, every-day life. the varnish of pretension falls quickly off in presence of sudden and extreme peril--peril especially requiring presence of mind and energy to beat it back. it was in such a position that i recognized some of the high qualities of lieutenant hendrick. the two sloops of war in which we respectively served, were consorts for awhile on the south african coast, during which time we fell in with a franco-italian privateer or pirate--for the distinction between the two is much more technical than real. she was to leeward when we sighted her, and not very distant from the shore, and so quickly did she shoal her water, that pursuit by either of the sloops was out of the question. being a stout vessel of her class, and full of men, four boats--three of the _scorpion's_ and one of her consort's--were detached in pursuit. the breeze gradually failed, and we were fast coming up with our friend when he vanished behind a head-land, on rounding which we found he had disappeared up a narrow, winding river, of no great depth of water. we of course followed, and, after about a quarter of an hour's hard pull, found, on suddenly turning a sharp elbow of the stream, that we had caught a tartar. we had, in fact, come upon a complete nest of privateers--a rendezvous or dépôt they termed it. the vessel was already anchored across the channel, and we were flanked on each shore by a crowd of desperadoes, well provided with small arms, and with two or three pieces of light ordnance among them. the shouts of defiance with which they greeted us as we swept into the deadly trap were instantly followed by a general and murderous discharge of both musketry and artillery; and as the smoke cleared away i saw that the leading pinnace, commanded by hendrick, had been literally knocked to pieces, and that the little living portion of the crew were splashing about in the river. there was time but for one look, for if we allowed the rascals time to reload their guns our own fate would inevitably be a similar one. the men understood this, and with a loud cheer swept eagerly on toward the privateer, while the two remaining boats engaged the flanking shore forces, and i was soon involved in about the fiercest _mêlée_ i ever had the honor to assist at. the furious struggle on the deck of the privateer lasted but about five minutes only, at the end of which all that remained of us were thrust over the side. some tumbled into the boat, others, like myself, were pitched into the river. as soon as i came to the surface, and had time to shake my ears and look about me, i saw lieutenant hendrick, who, the instant the pinnace he commanded was destroyed, had, with equal daring and presence of mind, swam toward a boat at the privateer's stern, cut the rope that held her, with the sword he carried between his teeth, and forthwith began picking up his half-drowned boat's crew. this was already accomplished, and he now performed the same service for me and mine. this done, we again sprang at our ugly customer, he at the bow, and i about midships. hendrick was the first to leap on the enemy's deck; and so fierce and well-sustained was the assault this time, that in less than ten minutes we were undisputed victors so far as the vessel was concerned. the fight on the shore continued obstinate and bloody, and it was not till we had twice discharged the privateer's guns among the desperate rascals that they broke and fled. the dashing, yet cool and skillful bravery evinced by lieutenant hendrick in this brief but tumultuous and sanguinary affair was admiringly remarked upon by all who witnessed it, few of whom while gazing at the sinewy, active form, the fine, pale, flashing countenance, and the dark, thunderous eyes of the young officer--if i may use such a term, for in their calmest aspect a latent volcano appeared to slumber in their gleaming depths--could refuse to subscribe to the opinion of a distinguished admiral, who more than once observed that there was no more promising officer in the british naval service than lieutenant hendrick. well, all this, which has taken me so many words to relate, flashed before me like a scene in a theatre, as i read the paragraph in the cornish paper. the _scorpion_ and her consort parted company a few days after this fight, and i had not since then seen or heard of hendrick till now. i was losing myself in conjecture as to the probable or possible cause of so disgraceful a termination to a career that promised so brilliantly, when the striking of the bar-clock warned me that the mail-boat was by this time arrived. i sallied forth and reached the pier-steps just a minute or so before the boat arrived there. the messenger i expected was in her, and i was turning away with the parcel he handed me, when my attention was arrested by a stout, unwieldy fellow, who stumbled awkwardly out of the boat, and hurriedly came up the steps. the face of the man was pale, thin, hatchet-shaped, and anxious, and the gray, ferrety eyes were restless and perturbed; while the stout round body was that of a yeoman of the bulkiest class, but so awkwardly made up that it did not require any very lengthened scrutiny to perceive that the shrunken carcass appropriate to such a lanky and dismal visage occupied but a small space within the thick casing of padding and extra garments in which it was swathed. his light-brown wig, too, surmounted by a broad-brimmer, had got a little awry, dangerously revealing the scanty locks of iron-gray beneath. it was not difficult to run up these little items to a pretty accurate sum total, and i had little doubt that the hasting and nervous traveler was fleeing either from a constable or a sheriff's officer. it was, however, no affair of mine, and i was soon busy with the letters just brought me. the most important tidings they contained was that captain pickard--the master of a smuggling craft of some celebrity, called _les trois frères_, in which for the last twelve months or more he had been carrying on a daring and successful trade throughout the whole line of the southern and western coasts--was likely to be found at this particular time near a particular spot in the back of the wight. this information was from a sure source in the enemy's camp, and it was consequently with great satisfaction that i observed indications of the coming on of a breeze, and in all probability a stiff one. i was not disappointed; and in less than an hour the _rose_ was stretching her white wings beneath a brisk northwester over to portsmouth, where i had some slight official business to transact previous to looking after friend pickard. this was speedily dispatched, and i was stepping into the boat on my return to the cutter, when a panting messenger informed me that the port-admiral desired to see me instantly. "the telegraph has just announced," said the admiral, "that sparkes, the defaulter, who has for some time successfully avoided capture, will attempt to leave the kingdom from the wight, as he is known to have been in communication with some of the smuggling gentry there. he is supposed to have a large amount of government moneys in his possession; you will therefore, lieutenant warneford, exert yourself vigilantly to secure him." "what is his description?" "mr. james," replied the admiral, addressing one of the telegraph clerks, "give lieutenant warneford the description transmitted." mr. james did so, and i read: "is said to have disguised himself as a stout countryman; wears a blue coat with bright buttons, buff waistcoat, a brown wig, and a quaker's hat. he is of a slight, lanky figure, five feet nine inches in height. he has two pock-marks on his forehead, and lisps in his speech." "by jove, sir," i exclaimed, "i saw this fellow only about two hours ago!" i then briefly related what had occurred, and was directed not to lose a moment in hastening to secure the fugitive. the wind had considerably increased by this time, and the _rose_ was soon again off cowes, where mr. roberts, the first mate, and six men, were sent on shore with orders to make the best of his way to bonchurch--about which spot i knew, if any where, the brown-wigged gentleman would endeavor to embark--while the _rose_ went round to intercept him seaward; which she did at a spanking rate, for it was now blowing half a gale of wind. evening had fallen before we reached our destination, but so clear and bright with moon and stars that distant objects were as visible as by day. i had rightly guessed how it would be, for we had no sooner opened up bonchurch shore or beach than roberts signaled us that our man was on board the cutter running off at about a league from us in the direction of cape la hogue. i knew, too, from the cutter's build, and the cut and set of her sails, that she was no other than captain pickard's boasted craft, so that there was a chance of killing two birds with one stone. we evidently gained, though slowly, upon _les trois frères_; and this, after about a quarter of an hour's run, appeared to be her captain's own opinion, for he suddenly changed his course, and stood toward the channel islands, in the hope, i doubted not, that i should not follow him in such weather as was likely to come on through the dangerous intricacies of the iron-bound coast about guernsey and the adjacent islets. master pickard was mistaken; for knowing the extreme probability of being led such a dance, i had brought a pilot with me from cowes, as well acquainted with channel navigation as the smuggler himself could be. _les trois frères_, it was soon evident, was now upon her best point of sailing, and it was all that we could do to hold our own with her. this was vexatious; but the aspect of the heavens forbade me showing more canvas, greatly as i was tempted to do so. it was lucky i did not. the stars were still shining over our heads from an expanse of blue without a cloud, and the full moon also as yet held her course unobscured, but there had gathered round her a glittering halo-like ring, and away to windward huge masses of black cloud, piled confusedly on each other, were fast spreading over the heavens. the thick darkness had spread over about half the visible sky, presenting a singular contrast to the silver brightness of the other portion, when suddenly a sheet of vivid flame broke out of the blackness, instantly followed by deafening explosions, as if a thousand cannons were bursting immediately over our heads. at the same moment the tempest came leaping and hissing along the white-crested waves, and struck the _rose_ abeam with such terrible force, that for one startling moment i doubted if she would right again. it was a vain fear; and in a second or two she was tearing through the water at a tremendous rate. _les trois frères_ had not been so lucky: she had carried away her topmast, and sustained other damage; but so well and boldly was she handled, and so perfectly under command appeared her crew, that these accidents were, so far as it was possible to do so, promptly repaired; and so little was she crippled in comparative speed, that, although it was clear enough after a time, that the _rose_ gained something on her, it was so slowly that the issue of the chase continued extremely doubtful. the race was an exciting one: the caskets, alderney, were swiftly past, and at about two o'clock in the morning we made the guernsey lights. we were, by this time, within a mile of _les trois frères_; and she, determined at all risks to get rid of her pursuer, ventured upon passing through a narrow opening between the small islets of herm and jethon, abreast of guernsey--the same passage, i believe, by which captain, afterward admiral lord saumarez, escaped with his frigate from a french squadron in the early days of the last war. fine and light as the night had again become, the attempt, blowing as it did, was a perilous, and proved to be a fatal one. _les trois frères_ struck upon a reef on the side of jethon--a rock with then but one poor habitation upon it, which one might throw a biscuit over; and by the time the _rose_ had brought up in the guernsey roads, the smuggler, as far as could be ascertained by our night-glasses, had entirely disappeared. what had become of the crew and the important passenger was the next point to be ascertained; but although the wind had by this time somewhat abated, it was not, under the pilot's advice, till near eight o'clock that the _rose's_ boat, with myself and a stout crew, pulled off for the scene of the catastrophe. we needed not to have hurried ourselves. the half-drowned smugglers, all but three of whom had escaped with life, were in a truly sorry plight, every one of them being more or less maimed, bruised, and bleeding. _les trois frères_ had gone entirely to pieces, and as there was no possible means of escape from the desolate place, our arrival, with the supplies we brought, was looked upon rather as a deliverance than otherwise. to my inquiries respecting their passenger, the men answered by saying he was in the house with the captain. i immediately proceeded thither, and found one of the two rooms on the ground-floor occupied by four or five of the worst injured of the contrabandists, and the gentleman i was chiefly in pursuit of, mr. samuel sparkes. there was no mistaking mr. sparkes, notwithstanding he had substituted the disguise of a sailor for that of a jolly agriculturist. "you are, i believe, sir, the mr. samuel sparkes for whose presence certain personages in london are just now rather anxious?" his deathy face grew more corpse-like as i spoke, but he nevertheless managed to stammer out, "no; jamth edward, thir." "at all events, that pretty lisp, and those two marks on the forehead, belong to samuel sparkes, esquire, and you must be detained till you satisfactorily explain how you came by them. stevens, take this person into close custody, and have him searched at once. and now, gentlemen smugglers," i continued, "pray, inform me where i may see your renowned captain?" "he is in the next room," replied a decent-tongued chap sitting near the fire; "and he desired me to give his compliments to lieutenant warneford, and say he wished to see him _alone_." "very civil and considerate, upon my word! in this room, do you say?" "yes, sir; in that room." i pushed open a rickety door, and found myself in a dingy hole of a room, little more than about a couple of yards square, at the further side of which stood a lithe, sinewy man in a blue pea-jacket, and with a fur-cap on his head. his back was toward me; and as my entrance did not cause him to change his position, i said, "you are captain pickard, i am informed?" he swung sharply round as i spoke, threw off his cap, and said, briefly and sternly, "yes, warneford, i _am_ captain pickard." the sudden unmasking of a loaded battery immediately in my front could not have so confounded and startled me as these words did, as they issued from the lips of the man before me. the curling black hair, the dark flashing eyes, the marble features, were those of lieutenant hendrick--of the gallant seaman whose vigorous arm i had seen turn the tide of battle against desperate odds on the deck of a privateer! "hendrick!" i at length exclaimed, for the sudden inrush of painful emotion choked my speech for a time--"can it indeed be you?" "ay, truly, warneford. the hendrick of whom collingwood prophesied high things is fallen thus low; and worse remains behind. there is a price set upon my capture, as you know; and escape is, i take it, out of the question." i comprehended the slow, meaning tone in which the last sentence was spoken, and the keen glance that accompanied it. hendrick, too, instantly read the decisive though unspoken reply. "of course it is out of the question," he went on. "i was but a fool to even seem to doubt that it was. you must do your duty, warneford, i know; and since this fatal mishap was to occur, i am glad for many reasons that i have fallen into your hands." "so am not i; and i wish with all my soul you had successfully threaded the passage you essayed." "the fellow who undertook to pilot us failed in nerve at the critical moment. had he not done so, _les trois frères_ would have been long since beyond your reach. but the past is past, and the future of dark and bitter time will be swift and brief." "what have you especially to dread? i know a reward has been offered for your apprehension, but not for what precise offense." "the unfortunate business in st. michael's bay." "good god! the newspaper was right, then! but neither of the wounded men have died, i hear, so that--that--" "the _mercy_ of transportation may, you think, be substituted for the capital penalty." he laughed bitterly. "or--or," i hesitatingly suggested, "you may not be identified--that is, legally so." "easily, easily, warneford. i must not trust to that rotten cable. neither the coast-guard nor the fellows with me know me indeed as hendrick, ex-lieutenant of the royal navy; and that is a secret you will, i know, religiously respect." i promised to do so: the painful interview terminated; and in about two hours the captain and surviving crew of _les trois frères_, and mr. samuel sparkes, were safely on board the _rose_. hendrick had papers to arrange; and as the security of his person was all i was responsible for, he was accommodated in my cabin, where i left him to confer with the guernsey authorities, in whose bailiwick jethon is situated. the matter of jurisdiction--the offenses with which the prisoners were charged having been committed in england--was soon arranged; and by five o'clock in the evening the _rose_ was on her way to england, under an eight-knot breeze from the southwest. as soon as we were fairly underweigh, i went below to have a last conference with unfortunate hendrick. there was a parcel on the table directed to "mrs. hendrick, lostwithiel, cornwall, care of lieutenant warneford." placing it in my hands, he entreated me to see it securely conveyed to its address unexamined and unopened. i assured him that i would do so; and tears, roughly dashed away, sprang to his eyes as he grasped and shook my hand. i felt half-choked; and when he again solemnly adjured me, under no circumstances, to disclose the identity of captain pickard and lieutenant hendrick, i could only reply by a seaman's hand-grip, requiring no additional pledge of words. we sat silently down, and i ordered some wine to be brought in. "you promised to tell me," i said, "how all this unhappy business came about." "i am about to do so," he answered. "it is an old tale, of which the last black chapter owes its color, let me frankly own, to my own hot and impatient temper as much as to a complication of adverse circumstances." he poured out a glass of wine, and proceeded at first slowly and calmly, but gradually, as passion gathered strength and way upon him, with flushed and impetuous eagerness to the close: "i was born near lostwithiel, cornwall. my father, a younger and needy son of no profession, died when i was eight years of age. my mother has about eighty pounds a year in her own right, and with that pittance, helped by self-privation, unfelt because endured for her darling boy, she gave me a sufficient education, and fitted me out respectably; when, thanks to pellew, i obtained a midshipman's warrant in the british service. this occurred in my sixteenth year. dr. redstone, at whose 'high school' i acquired what slight classical learning, long since forgotten, i once possessed, was married in second nuptials to a virago of a wife, who brought him, besides her precious self, a red-headed cub by a former marriage. his, the son's, name was kershaw. the doctor had one child about my own age, a daughter, ellen redstone. i am not about to prate to you of the bread-and-butter sentiment of mere children, nor of ellen's wonderful graces of mind and person: i doubt, indeed, if i thought her very pretty at the time; but she was meekness itself, and my boy's heart used, i well remember, to leap as if it would burst my bosom at witnessing her patient submission to the tyranny of her mother-in-law; and one of the greatest pleasures i ever experienced was giving young kershaw, a much bigger fellow than myself, a good thrashing for some brutality toward her--an exploit that of course rendered me a remarkable favorite with the great bumpkin's mother. "well, i went to sea, and did not again see ellen till seven years afterward, when, during absence on sick leave, i met her at penzance, in the neighborhood of which place the doctor had for some time resided. she was vastly improved in person, but was still meek, dove-eyed, gentle ellen, and pretty nearly as much dominated by her mother-in-law as formerly. our child-acquaintance was renewed; and, suffice it to say, that i soon came to love her with a fervency surprising even to myself. my affection was reciprocated: we pledged faith with each other; and it was agreed that at the close of the war, whenever that should be, we were to marry, and dwell together like turtle-doves in the pretty hermitage that ellen's fancy loved to conjure up, and with her voice of music untiringly dilate upon. i was again at sea, and the answer to my first letter brought the surprising intelligence that mrs. redstone had become quite reconciled to our future union, and that i might consequently send my letters direct to the high school. ellen's letter was prettily expressed enough, but somehow i did not like its tone. it did not read like her spoken language, at all events. this, however, must, i concluded, be mere fancy; and our correspondence continued for a couple of years--till the peace, in fact--when the frigate, of which i was now second-lieutenant, arrived at plymouth to be paid off. we were awaiting the admiral's inspection, which for some reason or other was unusually delayed, when a bag of letters was brought on board, with one for me bearing the penzance postmark. i tore it open, and found that it was subscribed by an old and intimate friend. he had accidentally met with ellen redstone for the first time since i left. she looked thin and ill, and in answer to his persistent questioning, had told him she had only heard once from me since i went to sea, and that was to renounce our engagement; and she added that she was going to be married in a day or two to the rev. mr. williams, a dissenting minister of fair means and respectable character. my friend assured her there must be some mistake, but she shook her head incredulously; and with eyes brimful of tears, and shaking voice, bade him, when he saw me, say that she freely forgave me, but that her heart was broken. this was the substance, and as i read, a hurricane of dismay and rage possessed me. there was not, i felt, a moment to be lost. unfortunately the captain was absent, and the frigate temporarily under the command of the first-lieutenant. you knew lieutenant ----?" "i did, for one of the most cold-blooded martinets that ever trod a quarter-deck." "well, him i sought, and asked temporary leave of absence. he refused. i explained, hurriedly, imploringly explained the circumstances in which i was placed. he sneeringly replied, that sentimental nonsense of that kind could not be permitted to interfere with the king's service. you know, warneford, how naturally hot and impetuous is my temper, and at that moment my brain seemed literally aflame: high words followed, and in a transport of rage i struck the taunting coward a violent blow in the face--following up the outrage by drawing my sword, and challenging him to instant combat. you may guess the sequel. i was immediately arrested by the guard, and tried a few days afterward by court-martial. exmouth stood my friend, or i know not what sentence might have been passed, and i was dismissed the service." "i was laid up for several weeks by fever about that time," i remarked; "and it thus happened, doubtless, that i did not see any report of the trial." "the moment i was liberated i hastened, literally almost in a state of madness, to penzance. it was all true, and i was too late! ellen had been married something more than a week. it was kershaw and his mother's doings. him i half-killed; but it is needless to go into details of the frantic violence with which i conducted myself. i broke madly into the presence of the newly-married couple: ellen swooned with terror, and her husband, white with consternation, and trembling in every limb, had barely, i remember, sufficient power to stammer out, 'that he would pray for me.' the next six months is a blank. i went to london; fell into evil courses, drank, gambled; heard after a while that ellen was dead--the shock of which partially checked my downward progress--partially only. i left off drinking, but not gambling, and ultimately i became connected with a number of disreputable persons, among whom was your prisoner sparkes. he found part of the capital with which i have been carrying on the contraband trade for the last two years. i had, however, fully determined to withdraw myself from the dangerous though exciting pursuit. this was to have been my last trip; but you know," he added, bitterly, "it is always upon the last turn of the dice that the devil wins his victim." he ceased speaking, and we both remained silent for several minutes. what on my part _could_ be said or suggested? "you hinted just now," i remarked, after a while, "that all your remaining property was in this parcel. you have, however, of course, reserved sufficient for your defense?" a strange smile curled his lip, and a wild, brief flash of light broke from his dark eyes, as he answered, "o yes; more than enough--more, much more than will be required." "i am glad of that." we were again silent, and i presently exclaimed, "suppose we take a turn on deck--the heat here stifles one." "with all my heart," he answered; and we both left the cabin. we continued to pace the deck side by side for some time without interchanging a syllable. the night was beautifully clear and fine, and the cool breeze that swept over the star and moon-lit waters gradually allayed the feverish nervousness which the unfortunate lieutenant's narrative had excited. "a beautiful, however illusive world," he by-and-by sadly resumed; "this death--now so close at my heels--wrenches us from. and yet you and i, warneford, have seen men rush to encounter the king of terrors, as he is called, as readily as if summoned to a bridal." "a sense of duty and a habit of discipline will always overpower, in men of our race and profession, the vulgar fear of death." "is it not also, think you, the greater fear of disgrace, dishonor in the eyes of the world, which outweighs the lesser dread?" "no doubt that has an immense influence. what would our sweethearts, sisters, mothers, say if they heard we had turned craven? what would they say in england? nelson well understood this feeling, and appealed to it in his last great signal." "ay, to be sure," he musingly replied; "what would our mothers say--feel rather--at witnessing their sons' dishonor? that is the master-chord." we once more relapsed into silence; and after another dozen or so turns on the deck, hendrick seated himself on the combings of the main hatchway. his countenance, i observed, was still pale as marble, but a livelier, more resolute expression had gradually kindled in his brilliant eyes. he was, i concluded, nerving himself to meet the chances of his position with constancy and fortitude. "i shall go below again," i said. "come; it may be some weeks before we have another glass of wine together." "i will be with you directly," he answered, and i went down. he did not, however, follow, and i was about calling him, when i heard his step on the stairs. he stopped at the threshold of the cabin, and there was a flushing intensity of expression about his face which quite startled me. as if moved by second thoughts, he stepped in. "one last glass with you, warneford: god bless you!" he drained and set the glass on the table. "the lights at the corner of the wight are just made," he hurriedly went on. "it is not likely i shall have an opportunity of again speaking with you; and let me again hear you say that you will under any circumstances keep secret from all the world--my mother especially--that captain pickard and lieutenant hendrick were one person." "i will; but why--" "god bless you!" he broke in. "i must go on deck again." he vanished as he spoke, and a dim suspicion of his purpose arose in my mind; but before i could act upon it, a loud, confused outcry arose on the deck, and as i rushed up the cabin stairs, i heard amid the hurrying to and fro of feet, the cries of "man overboard!"--"bout ship!"--"down with the helm!" the cause of the commotion was soon explained: hendrick had sprung overboard; and looking in the direction pointed out by the man at the wheel, i plainly discerned him already considerably astern of the cutter. his face was turned toward us, and the instant i appeared he waved one arm wildly in the air: i could hear the words, "your promise!" distinctly, and the next instant the moonlight played upon the spot where he had vanished. boats were lowered, and we passed and repassed over and near the place for nearly half an hour. vainly: he did not reappear. i have only further to add, that the parcel intrusted to me was safely delivered, and that i have reason to believe mrs. hendrick remained to her last hour ignorant of the sad fate of her son. it was her impression, induced by his last letter, that he was about to enter the south-american service under cochrane, and she ultimately resigned herself to a belief that he had there met a brave man's death. my promise was scrupulously kept, nor is it by this publication in the slightest degree broken; for both the names of hendrick and pickard are fictitious, and so is the place assigned as that of the lieutenant's birth. that rascal sparkes, i am glad to be able to say--chasing whom made me an actor in the melancholy affair--was sent over the herring pond for life. the tub school. speaking without passion, we are bound to state, in broad terms, that the founder of the diogenic philosophy was emphatically a humbug. some people might call him by a harsher name; we content ourselves with the popular vernacular. formidable as he was--this unwashed dog-baptized--with a kind of savage grandeur, too, about his independence and his fearlessness--still was he a humbug; setting forth fancies for facts, and judging all men by the measure of one. manifestly afflicted with a liver complaint, his physical disorders wore the mask of mental power, and a state of body that required a course of calomel or a dose of purifying powders, passed current in the world for intellectual superiority; not a rare case in times when madness was accounted potent inspiration, and when the exhibition of mesmeric phenomena formed the title of the pythoness to her mystic tripod. diogenes is not the only man whose disturbed digestion has led multitudes, like an _ignis fatuus_, into the bogs and marshes of falsehood. abundance of sects are about, which their respective followers class under one generic head of inspiration, but which have sprung from the same hepatic inaction, or epigrastic inflammation, as that which made the cynic believe in the divinity of dirt, and see in a tub the fittest temple to virtue. all that narrows the sympathies--all that makes a man think better of himself than of his "neighbors"--all that compresses the illimitable mercy of god into a small talisman which you and your followers alone possess--all that creates condemnation--is of the diogenic tub school; corrupt in the core, and rotten in the root--fruit, leaves, and flowers, the heritage of death. a superstitious reverence for a bilious condition of body, and an abhorrence of soap and water, as savoring of idolatry or of luxury--according to the dress and nation of the cynic--made up the fundamental ideas of his school; and to this day they are the cabala of one division of the sect. we confess not to be able to see much beauty in either of these conditions, and are rather proud than otherwise of our state of disbelief; holding health and cleanliness in high honor, and hoping much of moral improvement from their better preservation. but to the tub school, good digestive powers, and their consequence, good temper, were evidences of lax principles, and cleanliness was ungodliness or effeminacy; as the unpurified denouncer prayed to st. giles, or sacrificed to venus cloacina. take the old monks as an example. not that we are about to condemn the whole catholic church under a cowled mask. she has valuable men among her sons; but, in such a large body, there must of necessity be some members weaker than the rest; and the mendicant friars, and do-nothing monks, were about the weakest and the worst that ever appeared by the catholic altar. they were essentially of the tub school, as false to the best purposes of mankind as the famous old savage of alexander's time. dirt and vanity, bile and condemnation, were the paternosters of their litany; and what else lay in the tub which the king over-shadowed from the sun? all the accounts of which we read, of pious horror of baths and washhouses--all the frantic renunciation of laundresses, and the belief in hair shirts, to the prejudice of honest linen--all the religious zeal against small-tooth combs, and the sin which lay in razors and nail-brushes--all the holy preference given to coarse cobbling of skins of beasts, over civilized tailoring of seemly garments--all the superiority of bare feet, which never knew the meaning of a pediluvium, over those which shoes and hose kept warm, and foot-baths rendered clean--all the hatred of madness against the refinements of life, and the cultivation of the beautiful: these were the evidences of the diogenic philosophy; and of monachism too; and of other forms of faith, which we could name in the same breath. and how much good was in them? what natural divinity lies in fur, which the cotton plant does not possess? wherein consists the holiness of mud, and the ungodliness of alkali? wherein the purity of a matted beard, and the impiety of metcalfe's brushes, and mechi's magic strop? it may be so; and we all the while may be mentally blind; and yet, if we lived in a charnel-house, whose horrors the stony core of a cataract concealed, we could not wish to be couched, that seeing, we might understand the frightful conditions of which blindness kept us ignorant. but bating the baths and wash-houses, hempen girdles, and hairy garments, we quarrel still with the _animus_ of diogenes and his train. its social savageness was bad enough--its spiritual insolence was worse. the separatism--the "stand off, for i am holier than thou"--the condemnation of a whole world, if walking apart from _his_ way--the substitution of solitary exaltation for the activity of charity--the proud judgment of god's world, and the presumptuous division into good and evil of the eternal; all this was and is of the cynic's philosophy; and all this is what we abjure with heart and soul, as the main link of the chain which binds men to cruelty, to ignorance, and to sin; for the unloosing of which we must wait before we see them fairly in the way of progress. how false the religion of condemnation!--how hardening to the heart!--how narrowing to the sympathies! we take a section for the whole, and swear that the illimitable all must be according to the form of the unit i; we make ourselves gods, and judge of the infinite universe by the teaching of our finite senses. they who do this most are they whom men call "zealous for god's glory," "stern sticklers for the truth," and "haters of latitudinarianism." and if all the social charities are swept down in their course, they are mourned over gently; but only so much as if they were sparrows lying dead beneath the blast that slew the enemy. "'tis a pity," say they, "that men must be firm to the truth, yet cruel to their fellows; but if it must be so, why, let them fall fast as snow-flakes. what is human life, compared to the preservation of the truth?" ah! friends and brothers--is not the necessity of cruelty the warrantry of falsehood? the truth of life is love, and all which negatives love is false; and every drop of blood that ever flowed in the preservation of any dogma, bore in its necessity the condemnation of that dogma. turn where we will, and as far backward as we will, we ever find the spirit of the diogenic philosophy; and clothed, too, in much the same garb and unseemly disorder as that in vogue among the dog-baptized. ancient east gives us many parallels; and to this day, dirty, lazy fakirs of hindostan assault the olfactories, and call for curses on the effeminacy of the cleanly and the sane. sometimes, though, the diogenites assume the scrupulosity of the pharisee, and then they retain only the crimes of the inquisition, not the habits and apparel of the bosjesmen. take the sincere pharisee, for instance; regard his holy horror of the samaritan (the independent of his day) for failing in the strict letter of the law; hear his stern denunciations against all sinners, be they moral or be they doctrinal, mark the unpitying "crucify him! crucify him!" against him who taught novel doctrines of equality and brotherhood, and the nullity of form; see the purity of his own pharisaic life, and grant him his proud curse on all that are not like unto him. he is a cynic in his heart, one who judges of universal humanity by the individualism of one. then, the hoary, hairy, dog-baptized, who scoffed at all the decencies of life, not to speak of its amenities, and had no gentle plato's pride of refinement, with all the brutal pride of coarseness--did diogenes worthily represent the best functions of manhood? again, the monks and friars of the dark ages, and the hermits of old, they who left the world of man "made in the image of god," because they were holier than their brethren, and might have naught in common with the likeness of the elohim; they who gave up the deeds of charity for the endless repetition of masses and vespers, and who thought to do god better service by mumbling masses in a cowl, than by living among their fellows, loving, aiding, and improving--were not all these followers in the train of diogenes?--if not in the dirt, then in the bile; if not in the garb, then in the heart. denouncers, condemners; narrowing, not enlarging; hating, not loving; they were traitors to the virtue of life, while dreaming that they alone held it sacred. and now, have we no snarling cynics, no pharisee, no inquisitor? have we taken to good heart the divine record of love, of faith, which an æsthetic age has sublimated into credos, and left actions as a _caput mortuum_? have we looked into the meaning of the practical lesson which the master taught when he forgave the adulteress, and sat at meat with the sinners? or have we not rather cherished the spiritual pride which shapes out bitter words of censure for our fellows, and lays such stress on likeness that it overlooks unity? the question is worthy of an answer. the world is wide. beasts and fishes, birds and reptiles, weeds and flowers--which _here_ are weeds, and _there_ are flowers, according to local fancy--the dwarfed shrub of the alpine steeps, and the monster palm of the tropical plains; the world is wide enough to contain them all, and man is wise enough to love them all, each in its sphere, and its degree. but what we do for nature, we refuse to humanity. to her we allow diversity; to him we prescribe sameness; in her we see the loveliness of unlikeness, the symmetry of variation; in him we must have multitudes shaped by one universal rule; and what we do not look for in the senseless tree, we attempt on the immortal soul. religion, philosophy, and social politics, must be of the same form with all men, else woe to the wight who thinks out of the straight line! diagonal minds are never popular, and the hand which draws one radius smites him who lines another equal to it in all its parts, and from the same centre-point. the catholic denies the protestant; the episcopalian contemns the presbyterian; the free kirk is shed like a branching horn; the independent denounces the swedenborgian; the mormonite is persecuted by the unitarian. it is one unvarying round; the same thing called by different names. now all this is the very soul of diogenism. cowl, mitre, or band--distinctive signs to each party--all are lost in the shadow of the tub, and jumbled up into a strange form, which hath the name of him of sinope engraved on its forehead. separatism and denunciation against him who is not with thee in all matters of faith, make thee, my friend, a cynic in thy heart; and, though thou mayst wear nicoll's paletots and medwin's boots, and mayst prank thyself in all imaginable coxcombries, thou art still but a diogenite, a cynic, and a pharisee; washing the outside of the platter, but leaving the inside encrusted still, believing falsely, that thou hast naught to do with a cause, because thou hast not worn its cockade. yet, are we going past the tub school, though it lingers still in high places. we see it in party squabbles, not so much of politics to-day, as of the most esoteric doctrines of faith. we hear great men discussing the question of "prevenient grace," as they would discuss the composition of milk punch, and we hear them mutually anathematize each other on this plain and demonstrable proposition. we call this diogenism, and of a virulent sort, too. we know that certain men are tabooed by certain other men; that a churchman refuses communion with him who is of no church, or of a different church; and that one arian thinks dreadful things of another arian. we call these men pharisees, who deny kindred with the samaritans--but we remember who it was that befriended the samaritans. we know that monks still exist, whose duty to man consists in endless prayers to god (in using vain repetitions as the heathens do); who open their mouths wide, and expect that heaven will fill them; who hold the active duties of life in no esteem; and separate themselves from their fellows in all the grandeur of religious superiority. we can not see much difference between these men, the hindoo fakirs, and the unsavory gentlemen of the grecian tub. they are all of the same genus; but, heaven be praised! they are dying out from the world of man, as leprosy, and the black plague, and other evils are dying out. true enlightenment will extirpate them, as well as other malaria. if sanitary commissions sweep out the cholera, acknowledged love will sweep out all this idleness and solitary hatred, and make men at last confess that love and recognition are grander things than contempt and intolerance; in a word, that real christianity is better than any form whatsoever of the diogenic philosophy of hatred. gold--what it is and where it comes from. road-mending is pretty general at this time of the year, and upon roads now being newly macadamized we may pick up a good many differing specimens of granite. on the newly-broken surface of one of them, four substances of which it is composed can be perceived with great distinctness. the more earthy-looking rock, in which the others seem to be embedded, is called felspar; the little hard white stones are bits of quartz; the dark specks are specks of hornblende, and the shining scales are mica. felspar, quartz, hornblende, and mica are the four constituents of granite. these are among the rocks of the most ancient times, which form a complete barrier to the power of the geologist in turning back the pages which relate the story of our globe. layer under layer--leaf behind leaf--we find printed the characters of life in all past ages, till at last we come to rocks--greenstone, porphyry, quartz, granite, and others--which contain no trace of life; which do not show, as rocks above them do, that they have been deposited by water; but which have a crystalline form, and set our minds to think of heat and pressure. these lowest rocks are frequently called "igneous," in contradistinction to the stratified rocks nearer the surface, which have been obviously deposited under water. between the two there is not an abrupt transition; for above the igneous, and below the aqueous, are rocks which belong to the set above them, insomuch as they are stratified; while they belong to the set below them--insomuch as they are crystalline, contain no traces of life, and lead us by their characters to think of heat and pressure. these rocks, on account of their equivocal position, are called metamorphic. under the influence of air, combined with that of water--water potent in streams, lakes, and seas, but not less potent as a vapor in our atmosphere, when aided by alternations in the temperature--granite decomposes. we noticed that one of the constituents of granite--felspar--was a comparatively earthy-looking mass, in which the other matters seemed to be embedded. in the decomposition of granite, this felspar is the first thing to give way; it becomes friable, and rains or rivers wash it down. capital soil it makes. when the constituents of granite part in this way, quartz is the heaviest, and settles. felspar and the others may run with the stream, more or less; quartz is not moved so easily. now, as our neighbors in america would put it, "that's a fact;" and it concerns our gossip about gold. below the oldest rocks there lie hidden the sources of that volcanic action which is not yet very correctly understood. fortunately, we are not now called upon for any explanation of it: it is enough for us that such a force exists; and thrusting below, forces granite and such rocks (which ought to lie quite at the bottom), through a rent made in the upper layers, and still up into the air, until, in some places, they form the summit of considerable mountains. such changes are not often, if ever, the results of a single, mighty heave, which generates a great catastrophe upon the surface of the earth; they are the products of a force constantly applied through ages in a given manner. in all geologic reasoning we are apt to err grossly when we leave out of our calculation the important element of time. these lower rocks, then--these greenstones, porphyries and granites, sienites and serpentines--thrust themselves in many places through the upper strata of the earth's crust, in such a way as to form mountain ranges. now, it is a fact, that wherever the oldest of the aqueous deposits--such as those called clay-slates, limestones, and greywacke sandstones--happen to be superficial, so as to be broken through by pressure from below, and intruded upon by the igneous rocks (especially if the said igneous rocks form ranges tending at all from north to south), there gold may be looked for. gold, it is true, may be found combined with much newer formations; but it is under the peculiar circumstances just now mentioned that gold may be expected to be found in any great and valuable store. in australia, the gold discoveries, so new and surprising to the public, are not new to the scientific world. more than two years ago, in an "essay on the distribution of gold ore," read before the british association, to which our readers will be indebted for some of the facts contained in the present gossip, sir roderick murchison "reminded his geological auditors that, in considering the composition of the chief, or eastern ridge of australia, and its direction from north to south, he had foretold (as well as colonel helmersen, of the russian imperial mines) that gold would be found in it; and he stated that, in the last year, one gentleman resident in sydney, who had read what he had written and spoken on this point, had sent him specimens of gold ore found in the blue mountains; while, from another source, he had learnt that the parallel north and south ridge in the adelaide region, which had yielded so much copper, had also given undoubted signs of gold ore. the operation of english laws, by which noble metals lapse to the crown, had induced sir roderick murchison to represent to her majesty's secretary of state that no colonists would bestir themselves in gold-mining, if some clear declaration on the subject were not made; but, as no measures on this head seemed to be in contemplation, he inferred that the government may be of opinion, that the discovery of any notable quantity of gold might derange the stability and regular industry of a great colony, which eventually must depend upon its agricultural products." that was the language used by sir roderick murchison in september, ; and in september, , we are all startled by the fact which brings emphatic confirmation of his prophecy. but it is not only about the blue mountains, and in other districts, where the gold is now sought, that the geologic conditions under which gold may be sought reasonably are fulfilled. take, for example, the ural mountains. in very ancient times the scythian natives supplied gold from thence; and gold was supplied also by european tribes in germany and elsewhere. most of those sources were worked out, or forgotten. russia for centuries possessed the ural, and forgot its gold. many of us were boys when that was rediscovered. the mountains had been worked for their iron and copper by german miners, who accidentally hit upon a vein of gold. the solid vein was worked near ekatrinburg--a process expensive and, comparatively, unproductive, as we shall presently explain. then gold being discovered accidentally in the superficial drift, the more profitable work commenced. it is only within the last very few years that russia has discovered gold in another portion of her soil, among the spurs of the altai mountains, between the jena and the lenisei, and along the shores of lake baikal. this district has been enormously productive, and, for about four years before the discovery of gold in california, had been adding largely to the gross amount of that metal annually supplied for the uses of society. the extent of this new district now worked is equal to the whole area of france; but all the gold-bearing land in russia is not yet by any means discovered. the whole area of country in russia which fulfills the conditions of a gold-bearing district is immense. eastward of the ural chain it includes a large part of siberia; and also in russian america there is nearly equal reason for believing that hereafter gold will be discovered. before we quit asia, we may observe, that the chinese produce gold out of their soil; and although many of the mountain ranges in that country tend from east to west, yet the conditions of the surface, and the meridional directions of the mountains too, would indicate in china some extensive districts over which gold would probably be found in tolerable abundance. gold exists also in lydia and hindostan. now to pass over to america, where, as we have already said, the russians have a district in which gold may some day be discovered. in many districts along the line of the rocky mountains, especially in that part of them which is included in the british territory, gold may be looked for. the gold region of california has been recently discovered. gold in mexico, where the conditions are again fulfilled, is not a new discovery. gold in central america lies neglected, on account of the sad political condition of the little states there. there is gold to be found, perhaps, in the united states, some distance eastward of the rocky mountains. certainly gold districts will be found about the alleghanies. gold has been found in georgia, north and south carolina, and virginia; it exists also in canada, and may, probably, be found not very far north, on the british side of the st. lawrence. in the frozen regions, which shut in those straits and bays of the north pole, to which early adventurers were sent from england on the search for gold, gold districts most probably exist, although the shining matter was not gold which first excited the cupidity of our forefathers. passing now to south america, new granada, peru, brazil, la plata, chili, even patagonia, contain districts which say, "look for gold." there are one or two districts in africa where gold exists; certainly in more districts than that which is called the gold coast, between the niger and cape verd; also between darfur and abyssinia; and on the mozambique coast, opposite madagascar. in australia, the full extent of our gold treasure is not yet discovered. in europe, out of russia, hungary supplies yearly one or two hundred thousand pounds worth; there is gold in transylvania and bohemia; the rhine washes gold down into its sands from the crystalline rocks of the high alps. the danube, rhone, and tagus, yield gold also in small quantities. there are neglected mines of gold in spain. to come nearer home. in the mining fields of leadhills, in scotland, gold was washed for busily in the time of queen elizabeth. it is found also in glen turret, in perthshire, and at cumberhead, in lanarkshire. attempts have been made to turn to account the gold existing in north wales and cornwall. about sixty years ago, gold was found accidentally in the bed of streams which run from a mountain on the confines of wicklow and wexford, by name, croghan kinshela. a good deal of gold was collected by the people, who, having the first pick, had soon earned about ten thousand pounds among them by their findings. government then established works, and having realized in two years three thousand six hundred and seventy-five pounds by the sale of gold, which it cost them more than that amount to get, they let the matter drop, judiciously. let nobody be dazzled, however, by this enumeration of gold districts, which is not by any means complete. it is quite true that there is no metal diffused so widely over the world's surface as gold is, with a single exception, that of iron. but with regard to gold, there is this important fact to be taken into account, that it is not often to be obtained from veins, but is found sprinkled--in many cases sprinkled very sparingly; it is found mixed with quartz and broken rock, or sand and alluvial deposit, often in quantities extremely small, so that the time lost in its separation--even though it be the time of slaves--is of more value than the gold; and so the gold does not repay the labor of extraction. it is only where a gold district does not fall below a certain limit in its richness, that it yields a profit to the laborer. pure gold in lumps, or grains, or flakes, is to be found only at the surface. where, as is here and there the case, a vein of it is found deep in connection with the quartz, it is combined with other minerals, from which it can be separated only by an expensive process; so that a gold vein, when found, generally yields less profit than a field. as for gold-hunting in general, the history of every gold district unites to prove that the trade is bad. it is a lottery in which, to be sure, there are some prizes, but there is quite the usual preponderance of blanks. the villages of gold-seekers about accra and elsewhere, on the gold coast, are the villages of negroes more squalid and wretched than free negroes usually are. the wretchedness of gold-hunters in the rich field of california is by this time a hackneyed theme. take, now, the picture of a tolerably prosperous gold-seeker in brazil. he goes into the river with a leathern jacket on, having a leathern bag fastened before him. in his hand he carries a round bowl, of fig-tree wood, about four or five feet in circumference, and one foot deep. he goes into the river at a part where it is not rapid, where it makes a bend, and where it has deep holes. be pleased to remember that, and do not yet lose sight of what was before said about the heaviness of quartz. the gold-seeker, then, standing in the water, scrapes away with his feet the large stones and the upper layers of sand, and fishes up a bowlful of the older gravel. this he shakes and washes, and removes the upper layer; the gold being the heaviest thing in the bowl, sinks, and when he has got rid of all the other matter, which is after a quarter of an hour's work, or more, he puts into his pouch the residual treasure, which is worth twopence farthing, on an average. he may earn in this way about sevenpence an hour--not bad wages, but, taken in connection with the nature of the work, they do not look exceedingly attractive. here is a safe income, at any rate--no lottery. a lump of gold, combined with quartz, like that which has been dragged from california by its lucky finder--a lump worth more than three thousand pounds--is not a prize attainable in river washing. that lump, its owner says, he got out of a vein, which vein he comes to europe to seek aid in working. veins of quartz containing gold, when they occur, directly they cease to be superficial, cease generally to be very profitable to their owners. but of that we shall have to say more presently. by this time we have had occasion to observe more than once that gold and quartz are very friendly neighbors. now, we will make use of the fact which we have been saving up so long, that when granite decomposes, quartz, the heaviest material is least easily carried away, and when carried away is first to be deposited by currents. gold also, is very heavy; in its lightest compound, it is twelve times heavier than water, and pure gold is nineteen times heavier; gold, therefore, when stirred out of its place by water, will soon settle to the bottom. very often gold will not be moved at all, nor even quartz; so gold and quartz remain, while substances which formerly existed in their neighborhood are washed away. or when the whole is swept away together, after the gold has begun sinking, quartz will soon be sinking too; and so, even in shingle or alluvial deposits, gold and quartz are apt to occur as exceedingly close neighbors to each other. how the gold forms in those old rocks, we have no right to say. be it remembered, that in newer formations it occurs, although more sparingly. how the gold forms, we do not know. in fact, we have no right to say of gold that it is formed at all. in the present state of chemistry, gold is considered as an element, a simple substance, of which other things are formed, not being itself compounded out of others. in the present state of our knowledge, therefore--and the metals _may_ really be elements--we have nothing to trouble ourselves about. gold being one of the elements (there are somewhere about forty in all) of which the earth is built, of course existed from the beginning, and will be found in the oldest rocks. it exists, like other elements, in combination. it is combined with iron, antimony, manganese, copper, arsenic, and other things. but it is one great peculiarity of gold that it is not easily oxydized or rusted; rust being caused in metals by the action of oxygen contained in our air. when, therefore, gold, in a compound state, comes to be superficial, the air acting on the mass will generally oxydize the other metals, and so act upon them, more especially where water helps, that in the lapse of time this superficial gold will have been purified in the laboratory of nature, and may be finally picked up in the pure, or nearly pure, state; or else it may be washed, equally pure, from the superficial earth, as is now done in the majority of gold districts. but deep below the surface, in quartz veins contained within the bowels of a mountain--though, to be sure, it is not often found in such positions--gold exists generally in a condition far from pure; the chemistry of the artisan must do what the chemistry of nature had effected in the other case; and this involves rather an expensive process. surface gold is found, comparatively pure, in lumps of very various sizes, or in rounded grains, or in small scales. in this state it is found in the ural district, contained in a mass of coarse gravel, like that found in the neighborhood of london; elsewhere, it is contained in a rough shingle, with much quartz; and elsewhere, in a more mud-like alluvial deposit. the water that has washed it out of its first bed has not been always a mere mountain torrent, or a river, or a succession of rains. gold shingle and sand have been accumulated in many districts, by the same causes which produced our local drifts, in which the bones of the mammoth, the rhinoceros, and other extinct quadrupeds occur. the nearly pure gold thus deposited in very superficial layers, may be readily distinguished from all other things that have external resemblance to it. gold in this state has always, more or less, its well-known color, and the little action of the air upon it causes its particles to glitter, though they be distributed only in minute scales through a bed of sand. but there are other things that glitter. scales of mica, to the eye only, very much resemble gold. but gold is extremely heavy; twelve or nineteen times heavier than that same bulk of water; mica is very light: sand itself being but three times heavier than water. let, therefore, sand, with glittering scales in it, be shaken with water, and let us watch the order of the settling. if the scales be gold they will sink first, and quickly, to the bottom; if they be mica, they will take their time, and be among the last to sink. it is this property of gold--its weight--which enables us to obtain it by the process called gold-washing. earth containing gold, being agitated in water, the gold falls to the bottom. turbid water containing gold, being poured over a skin, the gold falls and becomes entangled in the hairs; or such water being poured over a board with transverse grooves, the gold is caught in the depressions. this is the reason why the brazilian searcher looks for a depression in the bottom of the river, and this is also the origin of those peculiar rich bits occasionally found in the alluvium of a large gold-field. where there has been a hollow, as the water passed it, gold continually was arrested there, forming those valuable deposits which the brazilians call caldeiraos. sometimes, where the waters have been arrested in the hollow of a mountain, they have, in the same way, dropped an excessive store of gold. this quality of weight, therefore, is of prime importance in the history of gold; it determined the character of its deposits in the first instance; it enables us now to extract it easily from its surrounding matter, and enables us to detect it in a piece of rock, where it may not be distinctly visible. there are two substances which look exceedingly like gold;--copper and iron pyrites, substances familiar to most of us. we need never be puzzled to distinguish them. gold is a soft metal, softer than iron, copper, and silver, although harder than tin or lead. it will scratch tin or lead; but it will be scratched with the other metals. that is to say, you can scratch gold with a common knife. now, iron pyrites is harder than steel, and therefore a knife will fail to scratch it. gold and iron pyrites, therefore, need never be mistaken for each other by any man who has a piece of steel about him. copper pyrites can be scratched with steel. but then there is another very familiar property of gold, by which, in this case, it can be distinguished. gold is very malleable; beat on it with a stone, and it will flatten, but not break; and when it breaks, it shows that it is torn asunder, by the thready, fibrous nature of its fracture. beat with a stone on copper pyrites, and it immediately begins to crumble. no acid, by itself, can affect gold; but a mixture of one part nitric, and four parts muriatic acid, is called aqua regia, because in this mixture gold does dissolve. a common test for gold, in commerce, is to put nitric acid over it, which has no action if the gold be true. there is, also, a hard smooth stone, called lydian stone, or flinty jasper, by the mineralogists, and _touchstone_ by the jewelers, on which gold makes a certain mark; and the character of the streak made on such a stone will indicate pretty well the purity or value of the gold that makes it. we have said that when the gold occurs in a deep-seated vein, combined with other minerals, its extraction becomes no longer a simple process. let us now point out generally what the nature of this process is, and then we shall conclude our brief discussion; for what else we might say, either lies beyond our present purpose, or has been made, by the talking and writing of the last two years, sufficiently familiar to all listeners or readers. mr. gardner, superintendent of the royal botanic garden of ceylon, thus describes the process of extracting gold out of the mine of morro velho. this mine, when st. hilaire visited it, was considered as exhausted; it is now one of the richest in brazil. thus mr. gardner writes of it: "the ore is first removed from its bed by blasting, and it is afterward broken, by female slaves, into small pieces; after which it is conveyed to the stamping-machine, to be reduced to powder. a small stream of water, constantly made to run through them, carries away the pulverized matter to what is called the strakes--a wooden platform, slightly inclined, and divided into a number of very shallow compartments, of fourteen inches in width, the length being about twenty-six feet. the floor of each of these compartments is covered with pieces of tanned hide, about three feet long, and sixteen inches wide, which have the hair on. the particles of gold are deposited among the hairs, while the earthy matter, being lighter, is washed away. the greater part of the gold dust is collected on the three upper, or head skins, which are changed every four hours, while the lower skins are changed every six or eight hours, according to the richness of the ore. the sand which is washed from the head skins is collected together, and amalgamated with quicksilver, in barrels; while that from the lower skins is conveyed to the washing-house, and concentrated over strakes of similar construction to those of the stamping-mill, till it be rich enough to be amalgamated with that from the head-skins. the barrels into which this rich sand is put, together with the quicksilver, are turned by water; and the process of amalgamation is generally completed in the course of forty-eight hours. when taken out, the amalgam is separated from the sand by washing. it is then pressed on chamois skins, and the quicksilver is separated from the gold by sublimation." let us explain those latter processes in more detail. if you dip a gold ring or a sovereign into quicksilver, it will be silvered by it, and the silvering will not come off. this union of theirs is called an amalgam. on a ring or sovereign it is mere silvering; but when the gold is in a state of powder, and the amalgamation takes place on a complete scale, it forms a white, doughy mass, in which there is included much loose quicksilver. this doughy mass is presently washed clear of all impurities, and is then squeezed in skins or cloths, through the pores of which loose quicksilver is forced, and saved for future operations. the rest of the quicksilver is burnt out. under a moderately strong heat, quicksilver evaporates, or--to speak more scientifically--sublimes; and gold does not. the amalgam, therefore, being subjected to heat, the quicksilver escapes by sublimation, leaving the gold pure. the quicksilver escapes by sublimation; but its owner does not wish it quite to escape out of his premises, because it is an expensive article. chambers are therefore made over the ovens, in which the mercury may once again condense, and whence it may be collected again afterward. but, with all precaution, a considerable waste always takes place. other processes are also in use for the separation of gold from its various alloys. we have described that which is of most universal application. let us not omit noting the significance of the fact, that a quicksilver mine exists in california. eyes made to order. contradictory opinions prevail as to the limits that should be assigned to the privilege of calling art to the aid of nature. to some persons a wig is the type of a false and hollow age; an emblem of deceit; a device of ingenious vanity, covering the wearer with gross and unpardonable deceit. in like manner, a crusade has been waged against the skill of the dentist--against certain artificial "extents in aid" of symmetry effected by the milliner. the other side argues, in favor of the wig, that, in the social intercourse of men, it is a laudable object for any individual to propose to himself, by making an agreeable appearance, to please, rather than repel his associates. on the simple ground that he would rather please than offend, an individual, not having the proper complement of hair and countenance, places a cunningly-fashioned wig upon his head, artificial teeth in his mouth, and an artificial nose upon his face. a certain money-lender, it is urged, acknowledged the elevating power of beauty when he drew a vail before the portrait of his favorite picture, that he might not see the semblance of a noble countenance, while he extorted his crushing interest from desperate customers. it is late in the age, say the pro-wig party, to be called upon to urge the refining power that dwells in the beautiful; and, on the other hand, the depression and the coarseness which often attend the constant contemplation of things unsightly. the consciousness of giving unpleasant sensations to spectators, haunts all people who are visibly disfigured. the bald man of five-and-twenty is an unpleasant object; because premature baldness is unnatural and ugly. argue the question according to the strictest rules of formal logic, and you will arrive at nothing more than that the thing is undoubtedly unpleasant to behold, and that therefore some reason exists that should urge men to remove it, or hide it. undoubtedly, a wig is a counterfeit of natural hair; but is it not a counterfeit worn in deference to the sense of the world, and with the view of presenting an agreeable, instead of a disagreeable object? certainly. a pinch of philosophy is therefore sprinkled about a wig, and the wearer is not necessarily a coxcomb. as regards artificial teeth, stronger pleas--even than those which support wigs--may be entered. digestion demands that food should be masticated. shall, then, a toothless person be forced to live upon spoon-meat, because artificial ivories are denounced as sinful? these questions are fast coming to issue, for science has so far come to the aid of human nature, that according to an enthusiastic professor, it will be difficult, in the course of another century, to tell how or where any man or woman is deficient. a millennium for deformity is, it seems, not far distant. m. boissonneau of paris, constructs eyes with such extraordinary precision, that the artificial eye, we are told, is not distinguishable from the natural eye. the report of his pretensions will, it is to be feared, spread consternation among those who hold in abhorrence, and consider artificial teeth incompatible with christianity; yet the fact must be honestly declared, that it is no longer safe for poets to write sonnets about the eyes of their mistresses, since those eyes may be m. boissonneau's. the old, rude, artificial eyes are simply oval shells, all made from one pattern, and differing only in size and in color. no pretension to artistic or scientific skill has been claimed by the artificial-eye manufacturer--he has made a certain number of deep blues, light blues, hazels, and others, according to the state of the eye-market. these rude shells were constructed mainly with the view of giving the wearer an almond-shaped eye, and with little regard to its matching the eye in sound and active service. artificial eyes were not made to order: but the patient was left to pick out the eye he would prefer to wear, as he would pick out a glove. the manufacture was kept a profound mystery, and few medical men had access to its secrets. the manufacturers sold eyes by the gross, to retail-dealers, at a low price; and these supplied patients. under this system, artificial eyes were only applicable in the very rare cases of atrophy of the globe; and the effect produced was even more repulsive than that of the diseased eye. the disease was hidden by an unnatural and repulsive expression, which it is difficult to describe. while one eye was gazing intently in your face, the other was fixed in another direction--immovable, the more hideous because at first you mistook it for a natural eye. a smile may over spread the face, animate the lip, and lighten up the natural eye; but there was the glass eye--fixed, lustreless, and dead. it had other disadvantages: it interfered with the lachrymal functions, and sometimes caused a tear to drop in the happiest moments. the new artificial eye is nothing more than a plastic skullcap, set accurately upon the bulb of the diseased eye, so that it moves with the bulb as freely as the sound eye. the lids play freely over it; the lachrymal functions continue their healthy action; and the bulb is effectually protected from currents of cold air and particles of dust. but these effects can be gained only by modeling each artificial eye upon the particular bulb it is destined to cover; thus removing the manufacture of artificial eyes from the hands of clumsy mechanics, to the superintendence of the scientific artist. every individual case, according to the condition of the bulb, requires an artificial eye of a different model from all previously made. in no two cases are the bulbs found in precisely the same condition; and, therefore, only the scientific workman, proceeding on well-grounded principles, can pretend to practice ocular prothesis with success. the newly-invented shell is of metallic enamel, which may be fitted like an outer cuticle to the bulb--the cornea of which is destroyed--and restores to the patient his natural appearance. the invention, however, will, we fear, increase our skepticism. we shall begin to look in people's eyes, as we have been accustomed to examine a luxuriant head of hair, when it suddenly shoots upon a surface hitherto remarkable only for a very straggling crop. yet, it would be well to abate the spirit of sarcasm with which wigs and artificial teeth have been treated. undoubtedly, it is more pleasant to owe one's hair to nature than to truefit; to be indebted to natural causes for pearly teeth; and to have sparkling eyes with light in them. every man and woman would rather have an aquiline nose than the most playful pug; no one would exchange eyes agreeing to turn in one direction, for the pertest squint; or legs observing something approaching to a straight line, for undecided legs, with contradictory bends. hence dumb-bells, shoulder-boards, gymnastic exercises, the consumption of sugar steeped in eau-de-cologne (a french recipe for imparting brightness to the eyes), ingenious padding, kalydors, odontos, columbian balms, bandolines, and a thousand other ingenious devices. devices with an object, surely--that object, the production of a pleasing _personnel_. it is a wise policy to remove from sight the calamities which horrify or sadden; and, as far as possible, to cultivate all that pleases from its beauty or its grace. therefore, let us shake our friend with the cork-leg by the hand, and, acknowledging that the imitation is worn in deference to our senses, receive it as a veritable flesh-and-blood limb; let us accept the wig of our unfortunate young companion, as the hair which he has lost; let us shut our eyes to the gold work that fastens the brilliantly white teeth of a young lady, whose natural dentition has been replaced; and, above all, let us never show, by sign or word, that the appearance of our friend (who has suffered tortures, and lost the sight of one eye) is changed after the treatment invented by m. boissonneau. the expectant.--a tale of life. when a boy i was sent to school in a country village in one of the midland counties. midvale lay on a gentle slope at the foot of a lofty hill, round which the turnpike-road wound scientifically to diminish the steepness of the declivity; and the london coach, as it smoked along the white road regularly at half-past four o'clock, with one wheel dragged, might be tracked for two good miles before it crossed the bridge over the brook below and disappeared from sight. we generally rushed out of the afternoon school as the twanging horn of the guard woke up our quiet one street; and a fortunate fellow i always thought was griffith maclean, our only day-boarder, who on such occasions would often chase the flying mail, and seizing the hand of the guard, an old servant of his uncle's, mount on the roof, and ride as far as he chose for the mere trouble of walking back again. our school consisted of between twenty and thirty boys, under the care of a master who knew little and taught still less; for having three sermons to preach every sunday, besides two on week-days, he had but little leisure to spare for the duties of the school; and the only usher he could afford to keep was a needy, hard-working lad, whose poverty and time-worn habiliments deprived him of any moral control over the boys. this state of things, coupled with the nervous and irascible temper of the pedagogue, naturally produced a good deal of delinquency, which was duly scored off on the backs of the offenders every morning before breakfast. thus what we wanted in tuition was made up in flogging; and if the master was rarely in the school, he made amends for his absence by a vigorous use of his prerogative while he was there. griffith maclean, who was never present on these occasions, coming only at nine o'clock, was yet our common benefactor. one by one he had taken all our jackets to a cobbling tailor in the village, and got them for a trifling cost so well lined with old remnants of a kind of felt or serge, for the manufacture of which the place was famous, that we could afford to stand up without wincing, and even to laugh through our wry faces under the matutinal ceremony of caning. further, griffith was the sole means of communication with the shopkeepers, and bought our cakes, fruit, and playthings, when we had money to spend, and would generally contrive to convey a hunch of bread and cheese from home, to any starving victim who was condemned to fasting for his transgressions. in return for all this sympathy we could do no less than relieve griffith, as far as possible, from the trouble and 'bother,' as he called it, of study. we worked his sums regularly for days beforehand, translated his latin, and read over his lessons with our fingers as he stood up to repeat them before the master. griffith's mother was the daughter of a gentleman residing in the neighborhood of midvale. fifteen years ago she had eloped with a young irish officer--an unprincipled fortune-hunter--who, finding himself mistaken in his venture, the offended father having refused any portion, had at first neglected and finally deserted his wife, who had returned home with griffith, her only child, to seek a reconciliation with her parents. this had never been cordially granted. the old man had other children who had not disobeyed him, and to them, at his death, he bequeathed the bulk of his property, allotting to griffith's mother only a life-interest in a small estate which brought her something less than a hundred pounds a year. but the family were wealthy, and the fond mother hoped, indeed fully expected, that they would make a gentlemanly provision for her only child. in this expectation griffith was nurtured and bred; and being reminded every day that he was born a gentleman, grew up with the notion that application and labor of any sort were unbecoming the character he would have to sustain. he was a boy of average natural abilities, and with industry might have cultivated them to advantage: but industry was a plebeian virtue, which his silly mother altogether discountenanced, and withstood the attempts, not very vigorous, of the schoolmaster to enforce. thus he was never punished, seldom reproved; and the fact that he was the sole individual so privileged in a school where both reproof and punishment were so plentiful, could not fail of impressing him with a great idea of his own importance. schoolboys are fond of speculating on their future prospects, and of dilating on the fancied pleasures of manhood and independence, and the delights of some particular trade or profession upon which they have set their hearts; the farm, the forge, the loom, the counter, the press, the desk, have as eager partisans among the knucklers at _taw_ as among older children; and while crouching round the dim spark of fire on a wet winter day, we were wont to chalk out for ourselves a future course of life when released from the drudgery, as we thought it, of school. some declared for building, carpentering, farming, milling, or cattle-breeding; some were panting for life in the great city; some longed for the sea and travel to foreign countries; and some for a quiet life at home amid rural sports and the old family faces. above all, griffith maclean towered in unapproachable greatness. "i shall be a gentleman," said he; "if i don't have a commission in the army--which i am not sure i should like, because it's a bore to be ordered off where you don't want to go--i shall have an official situation under government, with next to nothing to do but to see life and enjoy myself." poor griffith! time wore on. one fine morning i was packed, along with a couple of boxes, on the top of the london coach; and before forty-eight hours had elapsed, found myself bound apprentice to a hard-working master and a laborious profession in the heart of london. seven years i served and wrought in acquiring the art and mystery, as my indentures termed it, of my trade. seven times in the course of this period it was my pleasant privilege to visit midvale, where some of my relations dwelt, and at each visit i renewed the intimacy with my old school-fellow, griffith. he was qualifying himself for the life of a gentleman by leading one of idleness; and i envied him not a little his proficiency in the use of the angle and the gun, and the opportunity he occasionally enjoyed of following the hounds upon a borrowed horse. at my last visit, at the end of my term of apprenticeship, i felt rather hurt at the cold reception his mother gave me, and at the very haughty, off-hand bearing of griffith himself; and i resolved to be as independent as he by giving him an opportunity of dropping the acquaintance if he chose. i understood, however, that both he and his mother were still feeding upon expectation, and that they hoped every thing from general ----, to whom application had been made on griffith's behalf, as the son of an officer, and that they confidently expected a cadetship that would open up the road to promotion and fortune. the wished-for appointment did not arrive. poor griffith's father had died without leaving that reputation behind him which might have paved the way for his son's advancement, and the application was not complied with. this was a mortifying blow to the mother, whose pride it painfully crushed. griffith, now of age, proposed that they should remove to london, where, living in the very source and centre of official appointments, they might bring their influence to bear upon any suitable berth that might be vacant. they accordingly left midvale and came to town, where they lived in complete retirement upon a very limited income. i met griffith accidentally after he had been in london about a year. he shook me heartily by the hand, was in high spirits, and informed me that he had at length secured the promise of an appointment to a situation in s----house, in case t----, the sitting member, should be again returned for the county. his mother had three tenants, each with a vote, at her command; and he was going down to midvale, as the election was shortly coming off, and would bag a hundred votes, at least, he felt sure, before polling-day. i could not help thinking as he rattled away, that this was just the one thing he was fit for. with much of the air, gait, and manners of a gentleman, he combined a perfection in the details of fiddle-faddle and small talk rarely to be met with; and from having no independent opinion of his own upon any subject whatever, was so much the better qualified to secure the voices of those who had. he went down to midvale, canvassed the whole district with astonishing success, and had the honor of dining with his patron, the triumphant candidate, at the conclusion of the poll. on his return to town, in the overflowings of his joy, he wrote a note to me expressive of his improved prospects, and glorying in the certainty of at length obtaining an official appointment. i was very glad to hear the good news, but still more surprised at the terms in which it was conveyed; the little that griffith had learned at school he had almost contrived to lose altogether in the eight or nine years that had elapsed since he had left it. he seemed to ignore the very existence of such contrivances as syntax and orthography; and i really had grave doubts as to whether he was competent to undertake even an official situation in s---- house. these doubts were not immediately resolved. members of parliament, secure in their seats, are not precisely so anxious to perform as they sometimes are ready to promise when their seats seem sliding from under them. it was very nearly two years before griffith received any fruit from his electioneering labors, during which time he had been leading a life of lounging, do-nothing, dreamy semi-consciousness, occasionally varied by a suddenly-conceived and indignant remonstrance, hurled in foolscap at the head of the defalcating member for the county. during all this time fortune used him but scurvily: his mother's tenants at midvale clamored for a reduction of rent; one decamped without payment of arrears; repairs were necessary, and had to be done and paid for. these drawbacks reduced the small income upon which they lived, and sensibly affected the outward man of the gentlemanly griffith: he began to look seedy, and occasionally borrowed a few shillings of me when we casually met, which he forgot to pay. i must do him the credit to say that he never avoided me on account of these trifling debts, but with an innate frankness characteristic of his boyhood, continued his friendship and his confidences. at length the happy day arrived. he received his appointment, bearing the remuneration of £ a year, which he devoutly believed was to lead to something infinitely greater, and called on me on his way to the office where he was to be installed and indoctrinated into his function. the grand object of her life--the settlement of her son--thus accomplished, the mother returned to midvale, where she shortly after died, in the full conviction that griffith was on the road to preferment and fortune. the little estate--upon the proceeds of which she had frugally maintained herself and son--passed, at her death, into the hands of one of her brothers, none of whom took any further notice of griffith, who had mortally offended them by his instrumentality in returning the old member for the county, whom it was their endeavor to unseat. there is a mystery connected with griffith's tenure of office which i could never succeed in fathoming. he held it but for six months, when, probably not being competent to keep it, he sold it to an advertising applicant, who offered a douceur of £ for such a berth. how the transfer was arranged i can not tell, not knowing the recondite formula in use upon these occasions. suffice it to say that griffith had his £ , paid his little debts, renewed his wardrobe and his expectations, and began to cast about for a new patron. he was now a gentleman about town, and exceedingly well he both looked and acted the character: he had prudence enough to do it upon an economical scale, and though living upon his capital, doled it out with a sparing hand. as long as his money lasted he did very well; but before the end of the third year the bloom of his gentility had worn off, and it was plain that he was painfully economizing the remnant of his funds. about this time i happened to remove to a different quarter of the metropolis, and lost sight of him for more than a year. one morning, expecting a letter of some importance, i waited for the postman before walking to business. what was my astonishment on responding personally to his convulsive "b'bang," to recognize under the gold-banded hat and red-collared coat of that peripatetic official the gentlemanly figure and features of my old schoolfellow griffith maclean! "what! griff?" i exclaimed: "is it possible?--can this be you?" "well," said he, "i am inclined to think it is. you see, old fellow, a man must do something or starve. this is all i could get out of that shabby fellow t---- and i should not have got this had i not well worried him. he knows i have no longer a vote for the county. however, i shan't wear this livery long: there are good berths enough in the post-office. if they don't pretty soon give me something fit for a gentleman to do, i shall take myself off as soon as any thing better offers. but, by george? there is not much time allowed for talking: i must be off--farewell!" soon after this meeting the fourpenny deliveries commenced; and these were before long followed by the establishment of the universal penny-post. this was too much for griffith. he swore he was walked off his legs; that people did nothing upon earth but write letters; that he was jaded to death by lugging them about; that he had no intention of walking into his coffin for the charge of one penny; and, finally, that he would have no more of it. accordingly he made application for promotion on the strength of his recommendation, was refused as a matter of course, and vacated his post for the pleasure of a week's rest, which he declared was more than it was honestly worth. by this time destiny had made me a housekeeper in "merry islington;" and poor griff, now reduced to his shifts, waited on me one morning with a document to which he wanted my signature, the object of which was to get him into the police force. though doubting his perseverance in any thing, i could not but comply with his desire, especially as many of my neighbors had done the same. the paper testified only as to character; and as griff was sobriety itself, and as it would have required considerable ingenuity to fasten any vice upon him, i might have been hardly justified in refusing. i represented to him as i wrote my name, that should he be successful, he would really have an opportunity of rising by perseverance in good conduct to an upper grade. "of course," said he, "that is my object; it would never do for a gentleman to sit down contented as a policeman. i intend to rise from the ranks, and i trust you will live to see me one day at the head of the force." he succeeded in his application; and not long after signing his paper i saw him indued with the long coat, oil-cape, and glazed hat of the brotherhood, marching off in indian file for night-duty to his beat in the h---- road. whether the night air disagreed with his stomach, or whether his previous duty as a postman had made him doubly drowsy, i can not say, but he was found by the inspector on going his rounds in a position too near the horizontal for the regulations of the force, and suspended, after repeated trangression, for sleeping upon a bench under a covered doorway while a robbery was going on in the neighborhood. he soon found that the profession was not at all adapted to his habits, and had not power enough over them to subdue them to his vocation. he lingered on for a few weeks under the suspicious eye of authority, and at length took the advice of the inspector, and withdrew from the force. he did not make his appearance before me as i expected, and i lost sight of him for a long while. what new shifts and contrivances he had recourse to--what various phases of poverty and deprivation he became acquainted with during the two years that he was absent from my sight, are secrets which no man can fathom. i was standing at the foot of blackfriar's bridge one morning waiting for a clear passage to cross the road, and began mechanically reading a printed board, offering to all the sons of adam--whom, for the especial profit of the slopsellers, heaven sends naked into the world--garments of the choicest broadcloth for next to nothing, and had just mastered the whole of the large-printed lie, when my eye fell full upon the bearer of the board, whose haggard but still gentlemanly face revealed to me the lineaments of my old friend griff. he laughed in spite of his rags as our eyes met, and seized my proffered hand. "and what," said i, not daring to be silent, "do they pay you for this?" "six shillings a week," said griff, "and that's better than nothing." "six shillings and your board of course?" "yes, this board" (tapping the placarded timber); "and a confounded heavy board it is. sometimes when the wind takes it, though, i'm thinking it will fly away with me into the river, heavy as it is." "and do you stand here all day?" "no, not when it rains: the wet spoils the print, and we have orders to run under cover. after one o'clock i walk about with it wherever i like, and stretch my legs a bit. there's no great hardship in it if the pay was better." i left my old playmate better resigned to his lowly lot than i thought to have found him. it was clear that he had at length found a function for which he was at least qualified; that he knew the fact; and that the knowledge imparted some small spice of satisfaction to his mind. i am happy to have to state that this was the deepest depth to which he has fallen. he has never been a _sandwich_--i am sure indeed he would never have borne it. with his heavy board mounted on a stout staff, he could imagine himself, as no doubt he often did, a standard-bearer on the battle-field, determined to defend his colors with his last breath; and his tall, gentlemanly, and somewhat officer-like figure, might well suggest the comparison to a casual spectator. but to encase his genteel proportions in a surtout of papered planks, or hang a huge wooden extinguisher over his shoulders labeled with colored stripes--it would never have done: it would have blotted out the gentleman, and therefore have worn away the heart of one whose shapely gentility was all that was left to him. one might have thought, after all the vicissitudes he had passed through, that the soul of griffith maclean was dead to the voice of ambition. not so, however. on the first establishment of the street-orderlies, that chord in his nature spontaneously vibrated once again. if he could only get an appointment it would be a rise in the social scale--leading by degrees--who can tell?--to the resumption of his original status, or even something beyond.... i hear a gentle knock, a modest, low-toned single dab, at the street-door as i am sitting down to supper on my return home after the fatigues of business. betty is in no hurry to go to the door, as she is poaching a couple of eggs, and prides herself upon performing that delicate operation in irreproachable style. "squilsh!" they go one after another into the saucepan--i hear it as plainly as though i were in the kitchen. now the plates clatter; the tray is loading; and now the eggs are walking up stairs, steaming under betty's face, when "dab" again--a thought, only a thought louder than before--at the street-door. the spirit of patience is outside; and now betty runs with an apology for keeping him waiting. "here's a man wants to speak to master; says he'll wait if you are engaged, sir; he ain't in no hurry." "show him in;" and in walks griff, again armed with a document--a petition for employment as a street-orderly, with testimonials of good character, honesty, and all that. of course i again append my signature, without any allusion to the police force. i wish him all success, and have a long talk over past fun and follies, and present hopes and future prospects, and the philosophy of poverty and the deceitfulness of wealth. we part at midnight, and griff next day gets the desiderated appointment. it is raining hard while i write, and by the same token i know that at this precise moment griffith in his glazed hat, and short blouse, and ponderous mud-shoes, is clearing a channel for the diluted muck of c---- street, city, and directing the black, oozy current by the shortest cut to the open grating connected with the common sewer. i am as sure as though i were superintending the operation, that he handles his peculiar instrument--a sort of hybrid between a hoe and a rake--with the grace and air of a gentleman--a grace and an air proclaiming to the world that though _in_ the profession, whatever it may be called, which he has assumed, he is not _of_ it, and vindicating the workmanship of nature, who, whatever circumstances may have compelled him to become, cast him in the mould of a gentleman. it is said that in london every man finds his level. whether griffith maclean, after all his vicissitudes, has found his, i do not pretend to say. happily for him, he thinks that fortune has done her worst, and that he is bound to rise on her revolving wheel as high at least as he has fallen low. may the hope stick by him, and give birth to energies productive of its realization! the pleasures and perils of ballooning. it would appear that, in almost every age, from time immemorial, there has been a strong feeling in certain ambitious mortals to ascend among the clouds. they have felt with hecate-- "oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis to sail in the air!" so many, besides those who have actually indulged in it, have felt desirous of tasting the "dainty pleasure" of a perilous flight, that we are compelled to believe that the attraction is not only much greater than the inducement held out would leave one to expect, but that it is far more extensive than generally supposed. eccentric ambition, daring, vanity, and the love of excitement and novelty, have been quite as strong impulses as the love of science, and of making new discoveries in man's mastery over physical nature. nevertheless, the latter feeling has, no doubt, been the main-stay, if not the forerunner and father of these attempts, and has held it in public respect, notwithstanding the many follies that have been committed. to master the physical elements, has always been the great aim of man. he commenced with earth, his own natural, obvious, and immediate element, and he has succeeded to a prodigious extent, being able to do (so far as he knows) almost whatever he wills with the surface; and, though reminded every now and then by some terrible disaster that he is getting "out of bounds" has effected great conquests amidst the dark depths beneath the surface. water and fire came next in requisition; and by the process of ages, man may fairly congratulate himself on the extraordinary extent, both in kind and degree, to which he has subjected them to his designs--designs which have become complicated and stupendous in the means by which they are carried out, and having commensurate results both of abstract knowledge and practical utility. but the element of air has hitherto been too subtle for all his projects, and defied his attempts at conquest. that element which permeates all earthly bodies, and without breathing which the animal machine can not continue its vital functions--into that grand natural reservoir of breath, there is every physical indication that it is not intended man should ascend as its lord. traveling and voyaging man must be content with earth and ocean;--the sublime highways of air, are, to all appearance, denied to his wanderings. wild and daring as was the act, it is no less true that men's first attempts at a flight through the air were literally with wings. they conjectured that by elongating their arms with a broad mechanical covering, they could convert them into wings; and forgetting that birds possess air-cells, which they can inflate, that their bones are full of air instead of marrow, and, also, that they possess enormous strength of sinews expressly for this purpose, these desperate half-theorists have launched themselves from towers and other high places, and floundered down to the demolition of their necks, or limbs, according to the obvious laws and penalties of nature. we do not allude to the icarus of old, or any fabulous or remote aspirants, but to modern times. wonderful as it may seem, there are some instances in which they escaped with only a few broken bones. milton tells a story of this kind in his "history of britain;" the flying man being a monk of malmsbury, "in his youth." he lived to be impudent and jocose on the subject, and attributed his failure entirely to his having forgotten to wear a broad tail of feathers. in the marquis de bacqueville announced that he would fly with wings from the top of his own house on the _quai des theatins_ to the garden of the _tuileries_. he actually accomplished half the distance, when, being exhausted with his efforts, the wings no longer beat the air, and he came down into the seine, and would have escaped unhurt, but that he fell against one of the floating machines of the parisian laundresses, and thereby fractured his leg. but the most successful of all these instances of the extraordinary, however misapplied, force of human energies and daring, was that of a certain citizen of bologna, in the thirteenth century, who actually managed, with some kind of wing contrivance, to fly from the mountain of bologna to the river reno, without injury. "wonderful! admirable!" cried all the citizens of bologna. "stop a little!" said the officers of the holy inquisition; "this must be looked into." they sat in sacred conclave. if the man had been killed, said they, or even mutilated shockingly, our religious scruples would have been satisfied; but, as he has escaped unhurt, it is clear that he must be in league with the devil. the poor "successful" man was therefore condemned to be burnt alive; and the sentence of the holy catholic church was carried into christian execution. that flying, however, could be effected by the assistance of some more elaborate sort of machinery, or with the aid of chemistry, was believed at an early period. friar bacon suggested it; so did bishop wilkins, and the marquis of worcester; it was likewise projected by fleyder, by the jesuit lana, and many other speculative men of ability. so far, however, as we can see, the first real discoverer of the balloon was dr. black, who, in , proposed to inflate a large skin with hydrogen gas; and the first who brought theory into practice were the brothers montgolfier. but their theory was that of the "fire-balloon," or the formation of an artificial cloud, of smoke, by means of heat from a lighted brazier placed beneath an enormous bag, or balloon, and fed with fuel while up in the air. the academy of sciences immediately gave the invention every encouragement, and two gentlemen volunteered to risk an ascent in this alarming machine. the first of these was pilâtre de rosier, a gentleman of scientific attainments, who was to conduct the machine, and he was accompanied by the marquis d'arlandes, an officer in the guards. they ascended in the presence of the court of france, and all the scientific men in paris. they had several narrow escapes of the whole machine taking fire, but eventually returned to the ground in safety. both these courageous men came to untimely ends subsequently. pilâtre de rosier, admiring the success of the balloon afterward made by professor charles, and others, (_viz._, a balloon filled with hydrogen gas), conceived the idea of uniting the two systems, and accordingly ascended with a large balloon of that kind, having a small fire-balloon beneath it--the upper one to sustain the greater portion of the weight, the lower one to enable him to alter his specific gravity as occasion might require, and thus to avoid the usual expenditure of gas and ballast. right in theory--but he had forgotten one thing. ascending too high, confident in his theory, the upper balloon became distended too much, and poured down a stream of hydrogen gas, in self-relief, which reached the little furnace of the fire-balloon, and the whole machine became presently one mass of flame. it was consumed in the air, as it descended, and with it of course, the unfortunate pilâtre de rosier. the untimely fate of the marquis d'arlandes, his companion in the first ascent ever made in a balloon, was hastened by one of those circumstances which display the curious anomalies in human nature;--he was broken for cowardice in the execution of his military duties, and is supposed to have committed suicide. if we consider the shape, structure, appurtenances, and capabilities of a ship of early ages, and one of the present time, we must be struck with admiration at the great improvement that has been made, and the advantages that have been obtained; but balloons are very nearly what they were from the first, and are as much at the mercy of the wind for the direction they will take. neither is there at present any certain prospect of an alteration in this condition. their so-called "voyage" is little more than "drifting," and can be no more, except by certain manoeuvres which obtain precarious exceptions, such as rising to take the chance of different currents, or lowering a long and weighty rope upon the earth (an ingenious invention of mr. green's, called the "guide rope"), to be trailed along the ground. if, however, man is ever to be a flying animal, and to travel in the air whither he listeth, it must be by other means than wings, balloons, paddle-machines, and aerial ships--several of which are now building in america, in paris, and in london. we do not doubt the mechanical genius of inventors--but the motive power. we will offer a few remarks on these projects before we conclude. but let us, at all events, ascend into the sky! taking balloons as they are, "for better, for worse," as mr. green would say--let us for once have a flight in the air. the first thing you naturally expect is some extraordinary sensation in springing high up into the air, which takes away your breath for a time. but no such matter occurs. the extraordinary thing is, that you experience no sensation at all, so far as motion is concerned. so true is this, that on one occasion, when mr. green wished to rise a little above a dense crowd, in order to get out of the extreme heat and pressure that surrounded his balloon, those who held the ropes, misunderstanding his direction, let go entirely, and the balloon instantly rose, while the aeronaut remained calmly seated, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, after the exertions he had undergone in preparing for the flight, and totally unconscious of what had happened. he declares that he only became aware of the circumstance, when, on reaching a considerable elevation (a few seconds are often quite enough for that), he heard the shouts of the multitude becoming fainter and fainter, which caused him to start up, and look over the edge of the car. a similar unconsciousness of the time of their departure from earth has often happened to "passengers." a very amusing illustration of this is given in a letter published by mr. poole, the well-known author, shortly after his ascent. "i do not despise you," says he, "for talking about a balloon going up, for it is an error which you share in common with some millions of our fellow-creatures; and i, in the days of my ignorance, thought with the rest of you. i know better now. the fact is, we do not _go up_ at all; but at about five minutes past six on the evening of friday, the th of september, --at about that time, vauxhall gardens, with all the people in them, _went down_!" what follows is excellent. "i can not have been deceived," says he; "i speak from the evidence of my senses, founded upon repetition of the fact. upon each of the three or four experimental trials of the powers of the balloon to enable the people to glide away from us with safety to themselves--down they all went about thirty feet?--then, up they came again, and so on. there we sat quietly all the while, in our wicker buck-basket, utterly unconscious of motion; till, at length, mr. green snapping a little iron, and thus letting loose the rope by which _the earth was suspended to us_--like atropos, cutting the connection between us with a pair of shears--down it went, with every thing on it; and your poor, paltry, little dutch toy of a town, (your great metropolis, as you insolently call it), having been placed on casters for the occasion--i am satisfied of _that_--was gently rolled away from under us."[ ] feeling nothing of the ascending motion, the first impression that takes possession of you in "going up" in a balloon, is the quietude--the silence, that grows more and more entire. the restless heaving to and fro of the huge inflated sphere above your head (to say nothing of the noise of the crowd), the flapping of ropes, the rustling of silk, and the creaking of the basketwork of the car--all has ceased. there is a total cessation of all atmospheric resistance. you sit in a silence which becomes more perfect every second. after the bustle of many moving objects, you stare before you into blank air. we make no observations on other sensations--to wit, the very natural one of a certain increased pulse, at being so high up, with a chance of coming down so suddenly, if any little matter went wrong. as all this will differ with different individuals, according to their nervous systems and imaginations, we will leave each person to his own impressions. so much for what you first feel; and now what is the first thing you do? in this case every body is alike. we all do the same thing. we look over the side of the car. we do this very cautiously--keeping a firm seat, as though we clung to our seat by a certain attraction of cohesion--and then, holding on by the edge, we carefully protrude the peak of our traveling-cap, and then the tip of the nose, over the edge of the car, upon which we rest our mouth. every thing below is seen in so new a form, so flat, compressed and simultaneously--so much too-much-at-a-time--that the first look is hardly so satisfactory as could be desired. but soon we thrust the chin fairly over the edge, and take a good stare downward; and this repays us much better. objects appear under very novel circumstances from this vertical position, and ascending retreat from them (though it is _they_ that appear to sink and retreat from us). they are stunted and foreshortened, and rapidly flattened to a map-like appearance; they get smaller and smaller, and clearer and clearer. "an idea," says monck mason, "involuntarily seizes upon the mind, that the earth with all its inhabitants had, by some unaccountable effort of nature, been suddenly precipitated from its hold, and was in the act of slipping away from beneath the aeronaut's feet into the murky recesses of some unfathomable abyss below. every thing, in fact, but himself, seems to have been suddenly endowed with motion." away goes the earth, with all its objects--sinking lower and lower, and every thing becoming less and less, but getting more and more distinct and defined as they diminish in size. but, besides the retreat toward minuteness, the phantasmagoria flattens as it lessens--men and women are of five inches high, then of four, three, two, one inch--and now a speck; the great western is a narrow strip of parchment, and upon it you see a number of little trunks "running away with each other," while the great metropolis itself is a board set out with toys; its public edifices turned into "baby-houses, and pepper-casters, and extinguishers, and chess-men, with here and there a dish-cover--things which are called domes, and spires, and steeples!" as for the father of rivers, he becomes a dusky-gray, winding streamlet, and his largest ships are no more than flat pale decks, all the masts and rigging being foreshortened to nothing. we soon come now to the shadowy, the indistinct--and then all is lost in air. floating clouds fill up all the space beneath. lovely colors outspread themselves, ever-varying in tone, and in their forms or outlines--now sweeping in broad lines--now rolling and heaving in huge, richly, yet softly-tinted billows--while sometimes, through a great opening, rift, or break, you see a level expanse of gray or blue fields at an indefinite depth below. and all this time there is a noiseless cataract of snowy cloud-rocks falling around you--falling swiftly on all sides of the car, in great fleecy masses--in small snow-white and glistening fragments--and immense compound masses--all white, and soft, and swiftly rushing past you, giddily, and incessantly down, down, and all with the silence of a dream--strange, lustrous, majestic, incomprehensible. aeronauts, of late years, have become, in many instances, respectable and business-like, and not given to extravagant fictions about their voyages, which now, more generally, take the form of a not very lively log. but it used to be very different when the art was in its infancy, some thirty or forty years ago, and young balloonists indulged in romantic fancies. we do not believe that there was a direct intention to tell falsehoods, but that they often deceived themselves very amusingly. thus, it has been asserted, that when you attained a great elevation, the air became so rarefied that you could not breathe, and that small objects, being thrown out of the balloon, could not fall, and stuck against the side of the car. also, that wild birds, being taken up and suddenly let loose, could not fly properly, but returned immediately to the car for an explanation. one aeronaut declared that his head became so contracted by his great elevation, that his hat tumbled over his eyes, and persisted in resting on the bridge of his nose. this assertion was indignantly rebutted by another aeronaut of the same period, who declared that, on the contrary, the head expanded in proportion to the elevation; in proof of which he stated, that on his last ascent he went so high that his hat burst. another of these romantic personages described a wonderful feat of skill and daring which he had performed up in the air. at an elevation of two miles, his balloon burst several degrees above "the equator" (meaning, above the middle region of the balloon), whereupon he crept up the lines that attached the car, until he reached the netting that inclosed the balloon; and up this netting he clambered, until he reached the aperture, into which he thrust--not his head--but his pocket handkerchief! mr. monck mason, to whose "aeronautica" we are indebted for the anecdote, gives eight different reasons to show the impossibility of any such feat having ever been performed in the air. one of these is highly graphic. the "performer" would change the line of gravitation by such an attempt: he would never be able to mount the sides, and would only be like the squirrel in its revolving cage. he would, however, pull the netting round--the spot where he clung to, ever remaining the lowest--until having reversed the machine, the balloon would probably make its _escape_, in an elongated shape, through the large interstices of that portion of the net-work which is just above the car, when the balloon is in its proper position! but the richest of all these romances is the following brief statement:--a scientific gentleman, well advanced in years (who had "probably witnessed the experiment of the restoration of a withered pear beneath the exhausted receiver of a pneumatic machine") was impressed with a conviction, on ascending to a considerable height in a balloon, that every line and wrinkle of his face had totally disappeared, owing, as he said, to the preternatural distension of his skin; and that, to the astonishment of his companion, he rapidly began to assume the delicate aspect and blooming appearance of his early youth! these things are all self-delusions. a bit of paper or a handkerchief might cling to the outside of the car, but a penny-piece would, undoubtedly, fall direct to the earth. wild birds do not return to the car, but descend in circles, till, passing through the clouds, they see whereabouts to go, and then they fly downward as usual. we have no difficulty in breathing; on the contrary, being "called upon," we sing a song. our head does not contract, so as to cause our hat to extinguish our eyes and nose; neither does it expand to the size of a prize pumpkin. we see that it is impossible to climb up the netting of the balloon over-head, and so do not think of attempting it; neither do we find all the lines in our face getting filled up, and the loveliness of our "blushing morning" taking the place of a marked maturity. these fancies are not less ingenious and comical than that of the sailor who hit upon the means of using a balloon to make a rapid voyage to any part of the earth. "the earth spins round," said he, "at a great rate, don't it? well, i'd go up two or three miles high in my balloon, and then 'lay to,' and when any place on the globe i wished to touch at, passed underneath me, down i'd drop upon it." but we are still floating high in air. how do we feel all this time? "calm, sir--calm and resigned." yes, and more than this. after a little while, when you find nothing happens, and see nothing likely to happen (and you will more especially feel this under the careful conduct of the veteran green), a delightful serenity takes the place of all other sensations--to which the extraordinary silence, as well as the pale beauty and floating hues that surround you, is chiefly attributable. the silence is perfect--a wonder and a rapture. we hear the ticking of our watches. tick! tick!--or is it the beat of our own hearts? we are sure of the watch; and now we think we can hear both. two other sensations must, by no means, be forgotten. you become very cold, and desperately hungry. but you have got a warm outer coat, and traveling boots, and other valuable things, and you have not left behind you the pigeon-pie, the ham, cold beef, bottled ale and brandy. of the increased coldness which you feel on passing from a bright cloud into a dark one, the balloon is quite as sensitive as you can be; and, probably, much more so, for it produces an immediate change of altitude. the expansion and contraction which romantic gentlemen fancied took place in the size of their heads, does really take place in the balloon, according as it passes from a cloud of one temperature into that of another. we are now nearly three miles high. nothing is to be seen but pale air above--around--on all sides, with floating clouds beneath. how should you like to descend in a parachute?--to be dangled by a long line from the bottom of the car, and suddenly to be "let go," and to dip at once clean down through those gray-blue and softly rose-tinted clouds, skimming so gently beneath us? not at all: oh, by no manner of means--thank you! ah, you are thinking of the fate of poor cocking, the enthusiast in parachutes, concerning whom, and his fatal "improvement," the public is satisfied that it knows every thing, from the one final fact--that he was killed. but there is something more than that in it, as we fancy. two words against parachutes. in the first place, there is no use to which, at present, they can be applied; and, in the second, they are so unsafe as to be likely, in all cases, to cost a life for each descent. in the concise words of mr. green, we should say--"the best parachute is a balloon; the others are bad things to have to deal with." mr. cocking, as we have said, was an enthusiast in parachutes. he felt sure he had discovered a new, and the true, principle. all parachutes, before his day, had been constructed to descend in a concave form, like that of an open umbrella; the consequence of which was, that the parachute descended with a violent swinging from side to side, which sometimes threw the man in the basket in almost a horizontal position. mr. cocking conceived that the converse form; viz., an inverted cone (of large dimensions), would remedy this evil; and becoming convinced, we suppose, by some private experiments with models, he agreed to descend on a certain day. the time was barely adequate to his construction of the parachute, and did not admit of such actual experiments with a sheep, or pig, or other animal, as prudence would naturally have suggested. besides the want of time, however, cocking equally wanted prudence; he felt sure of his new principle; this new form of parachute was the hobby of his life, and up he went on the appointed day (for what aeronaut shall dare to "disappoint the public?")--dangling by a rope, fifty feet long, from the bottom of the car of mr. green's great nassau balloon. the large upper rim of the parachute, in imitation, we suppose, of the hollow bones of a bird, was made of hollow tin--a most inapplicable and brittle material; and besides this, it had two fractures. but mr. cocking was not to be deterred; convinced of the truth of his discovery, up he would go. mr. green was not equally at ease, and positively refused to touch the latch of the "liberating iron," which was to detach the parachute from the balloon. mr. cocking arranged to do this himself, for which means he procured a piece of new cord of upward of fifty feet in length, which was fastened to the latch above in the car, and led down to his hand in the basket of the parachute. up they went to a great height, and disappeared among the clouds. mr. green had taken up one friend with him in the car; and, knowing well what would happen the instant so great a weight as the parachute and man were detached, he had provided a small balloon inside the car, filled with atmospheric air, with two mouth-pieces. they were now upward of a mile high. "how do you feel, mr. cocking?" called out green. "never better, or more delighted in my life," answered cocking. though hanging at fifty feet distance, in the utter silence of that region, every accent was easily heard. "but, perhaps you will alter your mind?" suggested green. "by no means," cried cocking; "but, how high are we?"--"upward of a mile."--"i must go higher, mr. green--i must be taken up two miles before i liberate the parachute." now, mr. green, having some regard for himself and his friend, as well as for poor cocking, was determined not to do any such thing. after some further colloquy, therefore, during which mr. green threw out a little more ballast, and gained a little more elevation, he finally announced that he could go no higher, as he now needed all the ballast he had for their own safety in the balloon. "very well," said cocking, "if you really will not take me any higher, i shall say good-by." at this juncture green called out, "now, mr. cocking, if your mind at all misgives you about your parachute, i have provided a tackle up here, which i can lower down to you, and then wind you up into the car by my little grapnel-iron windlass, and nobody need be the wiser."--"certainly not," cried cocking; "thank you all the same. i shall now make ready to pull the latch-cord." finding he was determined, green and his friend both crouched down in the car, and took hold of the mouth-pieces of their little air-balloon. "all ready?" called out cocking. "all ready!" answered the veteran aeronaut above. "good-night, mr. green!"--"good-night, mr. cocking!"--"a pleasant voyage to you, mr. green--good-night!" there was a perfect silence--a few seconds of intense suspense--and then the aeronauts in the car felt a jerk upon the latch. it had not been forcible enough to open the liberating iron. cocking had failed to detach the parachute. another pause of horrid silence ensued. then came a strong jerk upon the latch, and in an instant, the great balloon shot upward with a side-long swirl, like a wounded serpent. they saw their flag clinging flat down against the flag-staff, while a torrent of gas rushed down upon them through the aperture in the balloon above their heads, and continued to pour down into the car for a length of time that would have suffocated them but for the judgmatic provision of the little balloon of atmospheric air, to the mouth-pieces of which their own mouths were fixed, as they crouched down at the bottom of the car. of mr. cocking's fate, or the result of his experiment, they had not the remotest knowledge. they only knew the parachute was gone! the termination of mr. cocking's experiment is well known. for a few seconds he descended quickly, but steadily, and without swinging--as he had designed, and insisted would be the result--when, suddenly, those who were watching with glasses below, saw the parachute lean on one side--then give a lurch to the other--then the large upper circle collapsed (the disastrous hollow tin-tubing having evidently broken up), and the machine entered the upper part of a cloud: in a few more seconds it was seen to emerge from the lower part of the cloud--the whole thing turned over--and then, like a closed-up broken umbrella, it shot straight down to the earth. the unfortunate, and, as most people regard him, the foolish enthusiast, was found still in the basket in which he reached the earth. he was quite insensible, but uttered a moan; and in ten minutes he was dead. half a word in favor of parachutes. true, they are of no use "at present;" but who knows of what use such things may one day be? as to mr. cocking's invention, the disaster seems to be attributable to errors of detail, rather than of principle. mr. green is of opinion, from an examination of the _broken_ latch-cord, combined with other circumstances, which would require diagrams to describe satisfactorily, that after mr. cocking had failed to liberate himself the first time, he twisted the cord round his hand to give a good jerk, forgetting that in doing so, he united himself to the balloon above, as it would be impossible to disengage his hand in time. by this means he was violently jerked into his parachute, which broke the latch-cord; but the tin tube was not able to bear such a shock, and this caused so serious a fracture, in addition to its previous unsound condition, that it soon afterward collapsed. this leads one to conjecture that had the outer rim been made of strong wicker-work, or whale-bone, so as to be somewhat pliable, and that mr. green had liberated the parachute, instead of mr. cocking, it would have descended to the earth with perfect safety--skimming the air, instead of the violent oscillations of the old form of this machine. we conclude, however, with mr. green's laconic--that the safest parachute is a balloon. but here we are--still above the clouds! we may assume that you would not like to be "let off" in a parachute, even on the improved principle; we will therefore prepare for descending with the balloon. this is a work requiring great skill and care to effect safely, so as to alight on a suitable piece of ground, and without any detriment to the voyagers, the balloon, gardens, crops, &c. the valve-line is pulled!--out rushes the gas from the top of the balloon--you see the flag fly upward--down through the clouds you sink faster and faster--lower and lower. now you begin to see dark masses below--there's the old earth again!--the dark masses now discover themselves to be little forests, little towns, tree-tops, house-tops--out goes a shower of sand from the ballast-bags, and our descent becomes slower--another shower, and up we mount again, in search of a better spot to alight upon. our guardian aeronaut gives each of us a bag of ballast, and directs us to throw out its contents when he calls each of us by name, and in such quantities only as he specifies. moreover, no one is suddenly to leap out of the balloon, when it touches the earth; partly because it may cost him his own life or limbs, and partly because it would cause the balloon to shoot up again with those who remained, and so make them lose the advantage of the good descent already gained, if nothing worse happened. meantime, the grapnel-iron has been lowered, and dangling down at the end of a strong rope of a hundred and fifty feet long. it is now trailing over the ground. three bricklayers' laborers are in chase of it. it catches upon a bank--it tears its way through. now the three bricklayers are joined by a couple of fellows in smock-frocks, a policeman, five boys, followed by three little girls, and, last of all, a woman with a child in her arms, all running, shouting, screaming, and yelling, as the grapnel-iron and rope go trailing and bobbing over the ground before them. at last the iron catches upon a hedge--grapples with its roots; the balloon is arrested, but struggles hard; three or four men seize the rope, and down we are hauled, and held fast till the aerial monster, with many a gigantic heave and pant, surrenders at discretion, and begins to resign its inflated robust proportions. it subsides in irregular waves--sinks, puffs, flattens--dies to a mere shriveled skin; and being folded up, like peter schlemil's shadow, is put into a bag, and stowed away at the bottom of the little car it so recently overshadowed with its buoyant enormity. we are glad it is all over; delighted, and edified as we have been, we are very glad to take our supper at the solid, firmly-fixed oak table of a country inn, with a brick wall and a barn-door for our only prospect, as the evening closes in. of etherial currents, and the scenery of infinite space, we have had enough for the present. touching the accidents which occur to balloons, we feel persuaded that in the great majority of cases they are caused by inexperience, ignorance, rashness, folly, or--more commonly than all--the necessities attending a "show." once "announced" for a certain day, or _night_ (an abominable practice, which ought to be prevented)--and, whatever the state of the wind and weather, and whatever science and the good sense of an experienced aeronaut may know and suggest of imprudence--up the poor man must go, simply because the public have paid their money to see him do it. he must go, or he will be ruined. but nothing can more strikingly display the comparative safety which is attained by great knowledge, foresight, and care, than the fact of the veteran, charles green, being now in the four hundred and eighty-ninth year of his balloonical age; having made that number of ascents, and taken up one thousand four hundred and thirteen persons, with no fatal accident to himself, or to them, and seldom with any damage to his balloons. nevertheless, from causes over which he had no control, our veteran has had two or three "close shaves." on one occasion he was blown out to sea with the great nassau balloon. observing some vessels, from which he knew he should obtain assistance, he commenced a rapid descent in the direction of the nore. the valve was opened, and the car first struck the water some two miles north of sheerness. but the wind was blowing fresh, and, by reason of the buoyancy of the balloon, added to the enormous surface it presented to the wind, they were drawn through the water at a speed which set defiance to all the vessels and boats that were now out on the chase. it should be mentioned, that the speed was so vehement, and the car so un-boat-like, that the aeronauts (mr. green and mr. rush, of elsenham hall, essex) were dragged through, that is _under_, every wave they encountered, and had a good prospect of being drowned upon the surface. seeing that the balloon could not be overtaken, mr. green managed to let go his large grapnel-iron, which shortly afterward took effect at the bottom, where, by a fortunate circumstance (for them) there was a sunken wreck, in which the iron took hold. the progress of the balloon being thus arrested, a boat soon came up, and relieved the aeronauts; but no boat could venture to approach the monster balloon, which still continued to struggle, and toss, and bound from side to side. it would have capsized any boat that came near it, in an instant. it was impossible to do any thing with it till mr. green obtained assistance from a revenue cutter, from which he solicited the services of an armed boat, and the crew fired muskets with ball-cartridge into the rolling monster, until she gradually sank down flat upon the waves, but not until she had been riddled with sixty-two bullet holes. so much for perils by sea; but the greatest of all the veteran's dangers was caused by a diabolical trick, the perpetrator of which was never discovered. it was as follows: in the year , on ascending from cheltenham, one of those malicious wretches who may be regarded as half fool and half devil, contrived partially to sever the ropes of the car, in such a manner as not to be perceived before the balloon had quited the ground; when receiving, for the first time, the whole weight of the contents, they suddenly gave way. every thing fell out of the car, the aeronauts just having time to secure a painful and precarious attachment to the hoop. lightened of its load, the balloon, with frightful velocity, immediately commenced its upward course, and ere mr. green could obtain possession of the valve-string, which the first violence of the accident had placed beyond his reach, attained an altitude of upward of ten thousand feet. their situation was terrific. clinging to the hoop with desperate retention, not daring to trust any portion of their weight upon the margin of the car, that still remained suspended by a single cord beneath their feet, lest that also might give way, and they should be deprived of their only remaining counterpoise, all they could do was to resign themselves to chance, and endeavor to retain their hold until the exhaustion of the gas should have determined the career of the balloon. to complete the horrors of their situation, the net-work, drawn awry by the awkward and unequal disposition of the weight, began to break about the upper part of the machine--mesh after mesh giving way, with a succession of reports like those of a pistol; while, through the opening thus created, the balloon began rapidly to ooze out, and swelling as it escaped beyond the fissure, presented the singular appearance of a huge hour-glass floating in the upper regions of the sky. after having continued for a considerable length of time in this condition, every moment expecting to be precipitated to the earth by the final detachment of the balloon, at length they began slowly to descend. when they had arrived within about a hundred feet from the ground, the event they had anticipated at length occurred; the balloon, rushing through the opening in the net-work with a tremendous explosion, suddenly made its escape, and they fell to the earth in a state of insensibility, from which with great difficulty, they were eventually recovered. apart from the question of dangers, which science, as we have seen, can reduce to a minimum--and apart also from the question of practical utility, of which we do not see much at present, yet of which we know not what may be derived in future--what are the probabilities of improvement in the art of ballooning, aerostation, or the means of traveling through the air in a given direction? the conditions seem to be these. in order to fly in the air, and steer in a given direction during a given period, it is requisite to take up a buoyancy and a power which shall be greater (and continuously so during the voyage) than needful to sustain its own mechanical weight, together with that of the aeronauts and their various appurtenances; and as much also in excess of these requisitions as shall overcome the adverse action of the wind upon the resisting surface presented by the machine. at present no such power is known which can be used in combination with a balloon, or other gas machine. if we could condense electricity, then the thing might be done; other subtle powers may also be discovered with the progress of science, but we must wait for them before we can fairly make definite voyages in the air, and reduce human flying to a practical utility, or a safe and rational pleasure. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] book viii.--initial chapter. the abuse of intellect. there is at present so vehement a flourish of trumpets, and so prodigious a roll of the drum, whenever we are called upon to throw up our hats, and cry "huzza" to the "march of enlightenment," that, out of that very spirit of contradiction natural to all rational animals, one is tempted to stop one's ears, and say, "gently, gently; light is noiseless; how comes 'enlightenment' to make such a clatter? meanwhile, if it be not impertinent, pray, where is enlightenment marching to?" ask that question of any six of the loudest bawlers in the procession, and i'll wager ten-pence to california that you get six very unsatisfactory answers. one respectable gentleman, who, to our great astonishment, insists upon calling himself a "slave," but has a remarkably free way of expressing his opinions, will reply--"enlightenment is marching toward the nine points of the charter." another, with his hair _à la jeune france_, who has taken a fancy to his friend's wife, and is rather embarrassed with his own, asserts that enlightenment is proceeding toward the rights of women, the reign of social love, and the annihilation of tyrannical prejudice. a third, who has the air of a man well to do in the middle class, more modest in his hopes, because he neither wishes to have his head broken by his errand-boy, nor his wife carried off to an agapemoné by his apprentice, does not take enlightenment a step further than a siege on debrett, and a cannonade on the budget. illiberal man! the march that he swells will soon trample _him_ under foot. no one fares so ill in a crowd as the man who is wedged in the middle. a fourth, looking wild and dreamy, as if he had come out of the cave of trophonius, and who is a mesmeriser and a mystic, thinks enlightenment is in full career toward the good old days of alchemists and necromancers. a fifth, whom one might take for a quaker, asserts that the march of enlightenment is a crusade for universal philanthropy, vegetable diet, and the perpetuation of peace, by means of speeches, which certainly do produce a very contrary effect from the philippics of demosthenes! the sixth--(good fellow, without a rag on his back)--does not care a straw where the march goes. he can't be worse off than he is; and it is quite immaterial to him whether he goes to the dogstar above, or the bottomless pit below. i say nothing, however, against the march, while we take it all together. whatever happens, one is in good company; and though i am somewhat indolent by nature, and would rather stay at home with locke and burke (dull dogs though they were), than have my thoughts set off helter-skelter with those cursed trumpets and drums, blown and dub-a-dubbed by fellows that i vow to heaven i would not trust with a five-pound note--still, if i must march, i must; and so deuce take the hindmost. but when it comes to individual marchers upon their own account--privateers and condottieri of enlightenment--who have filled their pockets with lucifer-matches, and have a sublime contempt for their neighbors' barns and hay-ricks, i don't see why i should throw myself into the seventh heaven of admiration and ecstasy. if those who are eternally rhapsodizing on the celestial blessings that are to follow enlightenment, universal knowledge, and so forth, would just take their eyes out of their pockets, and look about them, i would respectfully inquire if they have never met any very knowing and enlightened gentleman, whose acquaintance is by no means desirable. if not, they are monstrous lucky. every man must judge by his own experience; and the worst rogues i have ever encountered were amazingly well-informed, clever fellows! from dunderheads and dunces we can protect ourselves; but from your sharp-witted gentleman, all enlightenment and no prejudice, we have but to cry, "heaven defend us!" it is true, that the rogue (let him be ever so enlightened) usually comes to no good himself (though not before he has done harm enough to his neighbors). but that only shows that the world wants something else in those it rewards, besides intelligence _per se_ and in the abstract; and is much too old a world to allow any jack horner to pick out its plums for his own personal gratification. hence a man of very moderate intelligence, who believes in god, suffers his heart to beat with human sympathies, and keeps his eyes off your strong-box, will perhaps gain a vast deal more power than knowledge ever gives to a rogue. wherefore, though i anticipate an outcry against me on the part of the blockheads, who, strange to say, are the most credulous idolators of enlightenment, and, if knowledge were power, would rot on a dunghill; yet, nevertheless, i think all really enlightened men will agree with me, that when one falls in with detached sharpshooters from the general march of enlightenment, it is no reason that we should make ourselves a target, because enlightenment has furnished them with a gun. it has, doubtless, been already remarked by the judicious reader, that of the numerous characters introduced into this work, the larger portion belong to that species which we call the intellectual--that through them are analyzed and developed human intellect, in various forms and directions. so that this history, rightly considered, is a kind of humble, familiar epic, or, if you prefer it, a long serio-comedy, upon the varieties of english life in this our century, set in movement by the intelligences most prevalent. and where more ordinary and less refined types of the species round and complete the survey of our passing generation, they will often suggest, by contrast, the deficiencies which mere intellectual culture leaves in the human being. certainly i have no spite against intellect and enlightenment. heaven forbid i should be such a goth. i am only the advocate for common sense and fair play. i don't think an able man necessarily an angel; but i think if his heart match his head, and both proceed in the great march under a divine oriflamme, he goes as near to the angel as humanity will permit: if not, if he has but a penn'orth of heart to a pound of brains, i say, "_bonjour, mon ange?_ i see not the starry upward wings, but the groveling cloven-hoof." i'd rather be offuscated by the squire of hazeldean, than enlightened by randal leslie. every man to his taste. but intellect itself (not in the philosophical, but the ordinary sense of the term) is rarely, if ever, one completed harmonious agency; it is not one faculty, but a compound of many, some of which are often at war with each other, and mar the concord of the whole. few of us but have some predominant faculty, in itself a strength; but which (usurping unseasonably dominion over the rest), shares the lot of all tyranny, however brilliant, and leaves the empire weak against disaffection within, and invasion from without. hence intellect may be perverted in a man of evil disposition, and sometimes merely wasted in a man of excellent impulses, for want of the necessary discipline, or of a strong ruling motive. i doubt if there be one person in the world, who has obtained a high reputation for talent, who has not met somebody much cleverer than himself, which said somebody has never obtained any reputation at all! men like audley egerton are constantly seen in the great positions of life; while men like harley l'estrange, who could have beaten them hollow in any thing equally striven for by both, float away down the stream, and, unless some sudden stimulant arouse the dreamy energies, vanish out of sight into silent graves. if hamlet and polonius were living now, polonius would have a much better chance of being chancellor of the exchequer, though hamlet would unquestionably be a much more intellectual character. what would become of hamlet? heaven knows! dr. arnold said, from his experience of a school, that the difference between one man and another was not mere ability--it was energy. there is a great deal of truth in that saying. submitting these hints to the judgment and penetration of the sagacious, i enter on the fresh division of this work, and see already randal leslie gnawing his lip on the back ground. the german poet observes, that the cow of isis is to some the divine symbol of knowledge, to others but the milch cow, only regarded for the pounds of butter she will yield. o, tendency of our age, to look on isis as the milch cow! o, prostitution of the grandest desires to the basest uses! gaze on the goddess, randal leslie, and get ready thy churn and thy scales. let us see what the butter will fetch in the market. chapter ii. a new reign has commenced. there has been a general election; the unpopularity of the administration has been apparent at the hustings. audley egerton, hitherto returned by vast majorities, has barely escaped defeat--thanks to a majority of five. the expenses of his election are said to have been prodigious. "but who can stand against such wealth as egerton's--no doubt, backed, too, by the treasury purse?" said the defeated candidate. it is toward the close of october; london is already full; parliament will meet in less than a fortnight. in one of the principal apartments of that hotel in which foreigners may discover what is meant by english comfort, and the price which foreigners must pay for it, there sat two persons, side by side, engaged in close conversation. the one was a female, in whose pale, clear complexion and raven hair--in whose eyes, vivid with a power of expression rarely bestowed on the beauties of the north, we recognize beatrice, marchesa di negra. undeniably handsome as was the italian lady, her companion, though a man, and far advanced into middle age, was yet more remarkable for personal advantages. there was a strong family likeness between the two; but there was also a striking contrast in air, manner, and all that stamps on the physiognomy the idiosyncrasies of character. there was something of gravity, of earnestness and passion, in beatrice's countenance when carefully examined; her smile at times might be false, but it was rarely ironical, never cynical. her gestures, though graceful, were unrestrained and frequent. you could see she was a daughter of the south. her companion, on the contrary, preserved on the fair smooth face, to which years had given scarcely a line or wrinkle, something that might have passed, at first glance, for the levity and thoughtlessness of a gay and youthful nature; but the smile, though exquisitely polished, took at times the derision of a sneer. in his manners he was as composed and as free from gesture as an englishman. his hair was of that red brown with which the italian painters produce such marvelous effects of color; and, if here and there a silver thread gleamed through the locks, it was lost at once amid their luxuriance. his eyes were light, and his complexion, though without much color, was singularly transparent. his beauty, indeed, would have been rather womanly than masculine, but for the height and sinewy spareness of a frame in which muscular strength was rather adorned than concealed by an admirable elegance of proportion. you would never have guessed this man to be an italian: more likely you would have supposed him a parisian. he conversed in french, his dress was of french fashion, his mode of thought seemed french. not that he was like the frenchman of the present day--an animal, either rude or reserved; but your ideal of the _marquis_ of the old _régime_--the _roué_ of the regency. italian, however, he was, and of a race renowned in italian history. but, as if ashamed of his country and his birth, he affected to be a citizen of the world. heaven help the world if it hold only such citizens! "but, giulio," said beatrice di negra, speaking in italian, "even granting that you discover this girl, can you suppose that her father will ever consent to your alliance? surely you know too well the nature of your kinsman?" "_tu te trompes, ma soeur_," replied giulio franzini, count di peschiera, in french as usual--"_tu te trompes_; i knew it before he had gone through exile and penury. how can i know it now? but comfort yourself, my too anxious beatrice; i shall not care for his consent till i have made sure of his daughter's." "but how win that in despite of the father?" "_eh, mordieu!_" interrupted the count, with true french gayety; "what would become of all the comedies ever written, if marriages were not made in despite of the father? look you," he resumed, with a very slight compression of his lip, and a still slighter movement in his chair--"look you, this is no question of ifs and buts; it is a question of must and shall--a question of existence to you and to me. when danton was condemned to the guillotine, he said, flinging a pellet of bread at the nose of his respectable judge--'_mon individu sera bientôt dans le néant_'--_my_ patrimony is there already! i am loaded with debts. i see before me, on the one side, ruin or suicide; on the other side, wedlock and wealth." "but from those vast possessions which you have been permitted to enjoy so long, have you really saved nothing against the time when they might be reclaimed at your hands?" "my sister," replied the count, "do i look like a man who saved? besides, when the austrian emperor, unwilling to raze from his lombard domains a name and a house so illustrious as our kinsman's, and desirous, while punishing that kinsman's rebellion, to reward my adherence, forbore the peremptory confiscation of those vast possessions, at which my mouth waters while we speak, but, annexing them to the crown during pleasure, allowed me, as the next of male kin, to retain the revenues of one half for the same very indefinite period--had i not every reason to suppose, that, before long, i could so influence his majesty or his minister, as to obtain a decree that might transfer the whole, unconditionally and absolutely, to myself? and, methinks, i should have done so, but for this accursed, intermeddling english milord, who has never ceased to besiege the court or the minister with alleged extenuations of our cousin's rebellion, and proofless assertions that i shared it in order to entangle my kinsman, and betrayed it in order to profit by his spoils. so that, at last, in return for all my services, and in answer to all my claims, i received from the minister himself this cold reply--'count of peschiera, your aid was important, and your reward has been large. that reward, it would not be for your honor to extend, and justify the ill-opinion of your italian countrymen, by formally appropriating to yourself all that was forfeited by the treason you denounced. a name so noble as yours should be dearer to you than fortune itself.'" "ah, giulio!" cried beatrice, her face lighting up, changed in its whole character--"those were words that might make the demon that tempts to avarice, fly from your breast in shame." the count opened his eyes in great amaze; then he glanced round the room, and said, quietly: "nobody else hears you, my dear beatrice; talk common sense. heroics sound well in mixed society; but there is nothing less suited to the tone of a family conversation." madame di negra bent down her head abashed, and that sudden change in the expression of her countenance, which had seemed to betray susceptibility to generous emotion, faded as suddenly away. "but still," she said, coldly, "you enjoy one half of those ample revenues--why talk, then, of suicide and ruin?" "i enjoy them at the pleasure of the crown; and what if it be the pleasure of the crown to recall our cousin, and reinstate him in his possessions?" "there is a _probability_, then, of that pardon? when you first employed me in your researches, you only thought there was a _possibility_." "there is a great probability of it, and therefore i am here. i learned some little time since that the question of such recall had been suggested by the emperor, and discussed in council. the danger to the state, which might arise from our cousin's wealth, his alleged abilities--(abilities! bah!)--and his popular name, deferred any decision on the point; and, indeed, the difficulty of dealing with myself must have embarrassed the ministry. but it is a mere question of time. he can not long remain excluded from the general amnesty, already extended to the other refugees. the person who gave me this information is high in power, and friendly to myself; and he added a piece of advice, on which i acted. 'it was intimated,' said he, 'by one of the partisans of your kinsman, that the exile could give a hostage for his loyalty in the person of his daughter and heiress; that she had arrived at marriageable age; that if she were to wed, with the emperor's consent, some one whose attachment to the austrian crown was unquestionable, there would be a guarantee both for the faith of the father, and for the transmission of so important a heritage to safe and loyal hands. why not' (continued my friend) 'apply to the emperor for his consent to that alliance for yourself? you, on whom he can depend; you who, if the daughter should die, would be the legal heir to those lands?' on that hint i spoke." "you saw the emperor?" "and after combating the unjust prepossessions against me, i stated, that so far from my cousin having any fair cause of resentment against me, when all was duly explained to him, i did not doubt that he would willingly give me the hand of his child." "you did!" cried the marchesa, amazed. "and," continued the count, imperturbably, as he smoothed, with careless hand, the snowy plaits of his shirt front--"and that i should thus have the happiness of becoming myself the guarantee of my kinsman's loyalty--the agent for the restoration of his honors, while, in the eyes of the envious and malignant, i should clear up my own name from all suspicion that i had wronged him." "and the emperor consented?" "_pardieu_, my dear sister. what else could his majesty do? my proposition smoothed every obstacle, and reconciled policy with mercy. it remains, therefore, only to find out, what has hitherto baffled all our researches, the retreat of our dear kinsfolk, and to make myself a welcome lover to the demoiselle. there is some disparity of years, i own; but--unless your sex and my glass flatter me overmuch--i am still a match for many a gallant of five-and-twenty." the count said this with so charming a smile, and looked so pre-eminently handsome, that he carried off the coxcombry of the words as gracefully as if they had been spoken by some dazzling hero of the grand old comedy of parisian life. then interlacing his fingers, and lightly leaning his hands, thus clasped, upon his sister's shoulder, he looked into her face, and said slowly--"and now, my sister, for some gentle but deserved reproach. have you not sadly failed me in the task i imposed on your regard for my interests? is it not some years since you first came to england on the mission of discovering these worthy relatives of ours? did i not entreat you to seduce into your toils the man whom i knew to be my enemy, and who was indubitably acquainted with our cousin's retreat--a secret he has hitherto locked within his bosom? did you not tell me, that though he was then in england, you could find no occasion even to meet him, but that you had obtained the friendship of the statesman to whom i directed your attention as his most intimate associate? and yet you, whose charms are usually so irresistible, learn nothing from the statesman, as you see nothing of _milord_. nay, baffled and misled, you actually supposed that the quarry has taken refuge in france. you go thither--you pretend to search the capital--the provinces, switzerland, _que sais-je?_ all in vain--though--_-foi de gentilhomme_--your police cost me dearly--you return to england--the same chase and the same result. _palsambleu, ma soeur_, i do too much credit to your talents not to question your zeal. in a word have you been in earnest--or have you not had some womanly pleasure in amusing yourself and abusing my trust?" "giulio," answered beatrice, sadly, "you know the influence you have exercised over my character and my fate. your reproaches are not just. i made such inquiries as were in my power, and i have now cause to believe that i know one who is possessed of this secret, and can guide us to it." "ah, you do!" exclaimed the count. beatrice did not heed the exclamation, but hurried on. "but grant that my heart shrunk from the task you imposed on me, would it not have been natural? when i first came to england, you informed me that your object in discovering the exiles was one which i could honestly aid. you naturally desired first to know if the daughter lived; if not, you were the heir. if she did, you assured me you desired to effect, through my mediation, some liberal compromise with alphonso, by which you would have sought to obtain his restoration, provided he would leave you for life in possession of the grant you hold from the crown. while these were your objects, i did my best, ineffectual as it was, to obtain the information required." "and what made me lose so important though so ineffectual an ally?" asked the count, still smiling; but a gleam that belied the smile shot from his eye. "what! when you bade me receive and co-operate with the miserable spies--the false italians--whom you sent over, and seek to entangle this poor exile, when found, in some rash correspondence, to be revealed to the court; when you sought to seduce the daughter of the counts of peschiera, the descendant of those who had ruled in italy, into the informer, the corrupter, and the traitress! no, giulio--then i recoiled; and then, fearful of your own sway over me, i retreated into france. i have answered you frankly." the count removed his hands from the shoulders on which they had reclined so cordially. "and this," said he, "is your wisdom, and this your gratitude. you, whose fortunes are bound up in mine--you, who subsist on my bounty--you, who--" "hold," cried the marchesa, rising, and with a burst of emotion, as if stung to the utmost, and breaking into revolt from the tyranny of years--"hold--gratitude! bounty! brother, brother--what, indeed, do i owe to you? the shame and the misery of a life. while yet a child, you condemned me to marry against my will--against my heart--against my prayers--and laughed at my tears when i knelt to you for mercy. i was pure then, giulio--pure and innocent as the flowers in my virgin crown. and now--now--" beatrice stopped abruptly, and clasped her hands before her face. "now you upbraid me," said the count, unruffled by her sudden passion, "because i gave you in marriage to a man young and noble?" "old in vices and mean of soul! the marriage i forgave you. you had the right, according to the customs of our country, to dispose of my hand. but i forgave you not the consolations that you whispered in the ear of a wretched and insulted wife." "pardon me the remark," replied the count, with a courtly bend of his head, "but those consolations were also conformable to the customs of our country, and i was not aware till now that you had wholly disdained them. and," continued the count, "you were not so long a wife that the gall of the chain should smart still. you were soon left a widow--free, childless, young, beautiful." "and penniless." "true, di negra was a gambler, and very unlucky; no fault of mine. i could neither keep the cards from his hands, nor advise him how to play them." "and my own portion? oh, giulio, i knew but at his death why you had condemned me to that renegade genoese. he owed you money, and, against honor, and, i believe, against law, you had accepted my fortune in discharge of the debt." "he had no other way to discharge it--a debt of honor must be paid--old stories these. what matters? since then my purse has been open to you?" "yes, not as your sister, but your instrument--your spy! yes, your purse has been open--with a niggard hand." "_un peu de conscience, ma chère_, you are so extravagant. but come, be plain. what would you?" "i would be free from you." "that is, you would form some second marriage with one of these rich island lords. _ma foi_, i respect your ambition." "it is not so high. i aim but to escape from slavery--to be placed beyond dishonorable temptation. i desire," cried beatrice with increased emotion, "i desire to re-enter the life of woman." "eno'!" said the count with a visible impatience, "is there any thing in the attainment of your object that should render you indifferent to mine? you desire to marry, if i comprehend you right. and to marry, as becomes you, you should bring to your husband not debts, but a dowry. be it so. i will restore the portion that i saved from the spendthrift clutch of the genoese--the moment that it is mine to bestow--the moment that i am husband to my kinsman's heiress. and now, beatrice, you imply that my former notions revolted your conscience; my present plan should content it; for by this marriage shall our kinsman regain his country, and repossess, at least, half his lands. and if i am not an excellent husband to the demoiselle, it will be her own fault. i have sown my wild oats. _je suis bon prince_, when i have things a little my own way. it is my hope and my intention, and certainly it will be my interest, to become _digne époux et irréproachable père de famille_. i speak lightly--'tis my way. i mean seriously. the little girl will be very happy with me, and i shall succeed in soothing all resentment her father may retain. will you aid me then--yes or no? aid me, and you shall indeed be free. the magician will release the fair spirit he has bound to his will. aid me not, _ma chère_, and mark, i do not threaten--i do but warn--aid me not; grant that i become a beggar, and ask yourself what is to become of you--still young, still beautiful, and still penniless? nay, worse than penniless; you have done me the honor" (and here the count, looking on the table, drew a letter from a portfolio, emblazoned with his arms and coronet), "you have done me the honor to consult me as to your debts." "you will restore my fortune?" said the marchesa, irresolutely--and averting her head from an odious schedule of figures. "when my own, with your aid, is secured." "but do you not overate the value of my aid?" "possibly," said the count, with a caressing suavity--and he kissed his sister's forehead. "possibly; but by my honor, i wish to repair to you any wrong, real or supposed, i may have done you in past times. i wish to find again my own dear sister. i may overvalue your aid, but not the affection from which it comes. let us be friends, _cara beatrice mia_," added the count, for the first time employing italian words. the marchesa laid her head on his shoulder, and her tears flowed softly. evidently this man had great influence over her--and evidently, whatever her cause for complaint, her affection for him was still sisterly and strong. a nature with fine flashes of generosity, spirit, honor, and passion, was hers--but uncultured, unguided--spoilt by the worst social examples--easily led into wrong--not always aware where the wrong was--letting affections good or bad whisper away her conscience, or blind her reason. such women are often far more dangerous when induced to wrong, than those who are thoroughly abandoned--such women are the accomplices men like the count of peschiera most desire to obtain. "ah, giulio," said beatrice, after a pause, and looking up at him through her tears, "when you speak to me thus, you know you can do with me what you will. fatherless and motherless, whom had my childhood to love and obey but you?" "dear beatrice," murmured the count tenderly--and he again kissed her forehead. "so," he continued more carelessly--"so the reconciliation is effected, and our interests and our hearts re-allied. now, alas, to descend to business. you say that you know some one whom you believe to be acquainted with the lurking-place of my father-in-law--that is to be!" "i think so. you remind me that i have an appointment with him this day; it is near the hour--i must leave you." "to learn the secret?--quick--quick. i have no fear of your success, if it is by his heart that you lead him?" "you mistake; on his heart i have no hold. but he has a friend who loves me, and honorably, and whose cause he pleads. i think here that i have some means to control or persuade him. if not--ah, he is of a character that perplexes me in all but his worldly ambition; and how can we foreigners influence him through _that_?" "is he poor, or is he extravagant?" "not extravagant, and not positively poor, but dependent." "then we have him," said the count composedly. "if his assistance be worth buying, we can bid high for it. _sur mon âme_, i never yet knew money fail with any man who was both worldly and dependent. i put him and myself in your hands." thus saying, the count opened the door, and conducted his sister with formal politeness to her carriage. he then returned, reseated himself, and mused in silence. as he did so, the muscles of his countenance relaxed. the levity of the frenchman fled from his visage, and in his eye, as it gazed abstractedly into space, there was that steady depth so remarkable in the old portraits of florentine diplomatist, or venetian oligarch. thus seen, there was in that face, despite all its beauty, something that would have awed back even the fond gaze of love; something hard, collected, inscrutable, remorseless, but this change of countenance did not last long. evidently, thought, though intense for the moment, was not habitual to the man. evidently, he had lived the life which takes all things lightly--so he rose with a look of fatigue, shook and stretched himself, as if to cast off, or grow out of an unwelcome and irksome mood. an hour afterward, the count of peschiera was charming all eyes, and pleasing all ears, in the saloon of a high-born beauty, whose acquaintance he had made at vienna, and whose charms, according to that old and never truth-speaking oracle, polite scandal, were now said to have attracted to london the brilliant foreigner. chapter iii. the marchesa regained her house, which was in curzon-street, and withdrew to her own room, to re-adjust her dress, and remove from her countenance all trace of the tears she had shed. half-an-hour afterward she was seated in her drawing-room, composed and calm; nor, seeing her then, could you have guessed that she was capable of so much emotion and so much weakness. in that stately exterior, in that quiet attitude, in that elaborate and finished elegance which comes alike from the arts of the toilet and the conventional repose of rank, you could see but the woman of the world and the great lady. a knock at the door was heard, and in a few moments there entered a visitor, with the easy familiarity of intimate acquaintance--a young man, but with none of the bloom of youth. his hair, fine as a woman's, was thin and scanty, but it fell low over the forehead, and concealed that noblest of our human features. "a gentleman," says apuleius, "ought, if he can, to wear his whole mind on his forehead."[ ] the young visitor would never have committed so frank an imprudence. his cheek was pale, and in his step and his movements there was a languor that spoke of fatigued nerves or delicate health. but the light of the eye and the tone of the voice were those of a mental temperament controlling the bodily--vigorous and energetic. for the rest his general appearance was distinguished by a refinement alike intellectual and social. once seen, you would not easily forget him. and the reader no doubt already recognizes randal leslie. his salutation, as i before said, was that of intimate familiarity; yet it was given and replied to with that unreserved openness which denotes the absence of a more tender sentiment. seating himself by the marchesa's side, randal began first to converse on the fashionable topics and gossip of the day; but it was observable, that, while he extracted from her the current anecdote and scandal of the great world, neither anecdote nor scandal did he communicate in return. randal leslie had already learned the art not to commit himself, not to have quoted against him one ill-natured remark upon the eminent. nothing more injures the man who would rise beyond the fame of the _salons_, than to be considered a backbiter and gossip; "yet it is always useful," thought randal leslie, "to know the foibles--the small social and private springs by which the great are moved. critical occasions may arise in which such knowledge may be power." and hence, perhaps (besides a more private motive, soon to be perceived), randal did not consider his time thrown away in cultivating madame di negra's friendship. for despite much that was whispered against her, she had succeeded in dispelling the coldness with which she had at first been received in the london circles. her beauty, her grace, and her high birth, had raised her into fashion, and the homage of men of the first station, while it perhaps injured her reputation as woman, added to her celebrity as fine lady. so much do we cold english, prudes though we be, forgive to the foreigner what we avenge on the native. sliding at last from these general topics into very well-bred and elegant personal compliment, and reciting various eulogies, which lord this the duke of that had passed on the marchesa's charms, randal laid his hand on hers, with the license of admitted friendship, and said-- "but since you have deigned to confide in me, since when (happily for me, and with a generosity of which no coquette could have been capable) you, in good time, repressed into friendship feelings that might else have ripened into those you are formed to inspire and disdain to return, you told me with your charming smile, 'let no one speak to me of love who does not offer me his hand, and with it the means to supply tastes that i fear are terribly extravagant;' since thus you allowed me to divine your natural objects, and upon that understanding our intimacy has been founded, you will pardon me for saying that the admiration you excite among the _grands seigneurs_ i have named, only serves to defeat your own purpose, and scare away admirers less brilliant, but more in earnest. most of these gentlemen are unfortunately married; and they who are not belong to those members of our aristocracy who, in marriage, seek more than beauty and wit--namely, connections to strengthen their political station, or wealth to redeem a mortgage and sustain a title." "my dear mr. leslie," replied the marchesa--and a certain sadness might be detected in the tone of the voice and the droop of the eye--"i have lived long enough in the real world to appreciate the baseness and the falsehood of most of those sentiments which take the noblest names. i see through the hearts of the admirers you parade before me, and know that not one of them would shelter with his ermine the woman to whom he talks of his heart. ah," continued beatrice, with a softness of which she was unconscious, but which might have been extremely dangerous to youth less steeled and self-guarded than was randal leslie's--"ah, i am less ambitious than you suppose. i have dreamed of a friend, a companion, a protector, with feelings still fresh, undebased by the low round of vulgar dissipation and mean pleasures--of a heart so new, that it might restore my own to what it was in its happy spring. i have seen in your country some marriages, the mere contemplation of which has filled my eyes with delicious tears. i have learned in england to know the value of home. and with such a heart as i describe, and such a home, i could forget that i ever knew a less pure ambition." "this language does not surprise me," said randal; "yet it does not harmonize with your former answer to me." "to you," repeated beatrice, smiling, and regaining her lighter manner; "to you--true. but i never had the vanity to think that your affection for me could bear the sacrifices it would cost you in marriage; that you, with your ambition, could bound your dreams of happiness to home. and then, too," said she, raising her head, and with a certain grave pride in her air--"and _then_, i could not have consented to share my fate with one whom my poverty would cripple. i could not listen to my heart, if it had beat for a lover without fortune, for to him i could then have brought but a burden, and betrayed him into a union with poverty and debt. _now_, it may be different. now i may have the dowry that befits my birth. and now i may be free to choose according to my heart as woman, not according to my necessities, as one poor, harassed, and despairing." "ah," said randal, interested, and drawing still closer toward his fair companion--"ah, i congratulate you sincerely; you have cause, then, to think that you shall be--rich?" the marchesa paused before she answered, and during that pause randal relaxed the web of the scheme which he had been secretly weaving, and rapidly considered whether, if beatrice di negra would indeed be rich, she might answer to himself as a wife; and in what way, if so, he had best change his tone from that of friendship into that of love. while thus reflecting, beatrice answered: "not rich for an englishwoman; for an italian, yes. my fortune should be half a million--" "half a million!" cried randal, and with difficulty he restrained himself from falling at her feet in adoration. "of francs!" continued the marchesa. "francs! ah," said randal, with a long-drawn breath, and recovering from his sudden enthusiasm, "about twenty thousand pounds!--eight hundred a year at four per cent. a very handsome portion, certainly--(genteel poverty! he murmured to himself. what an escape i have had! but i see--i see. this will smooth all difficulties in the way of my better and earlier project. i see)--a very handsome portion," he repeated aloud--"not for a _grand seigneur_, indeed, but still for a gentleman of birth and expectations worthy of your choice, if ambition be not your first object. ah, while you spoke with such endearing eloquence of feelings that were fresh, of a heart that was new, of the happy english home, you might guess that my thoughts ran to my friend who loves you so devotedly, and who so realizes your ideal. providentially, with us, happy marriages and happy homes are found not in the gay circles of london fashion, but at the hearths of our rural nobility--our untitled country gentlemen. and who, among all your adorers, can offer you a lot so really enviable as the one whom, i see by your blush, you already guess that i refer to?" "did i blush?" said the marchesa, with a silvery laugh. "nay, i think that your zeal for your friend misled you. but i will own frankly, i have been touched by his honest, ingenuous love--so evident, yet rather looked than spoken. i have contrasted the love that honors me, with the suitors that seek to degrade; more i can not say. for though i grant that your friend is handsome, high-spirited, and generous, still he is not what--" "you mistake, believe me," interrupted randal. "you shall not finish your sentence. he _is_ all that you do not yet suppose him; for his shyness, and his very love, his very respect for your superiority, do not allow his mind and his nature to appear to advantage. you, it is true, have a taste for letters and poetry rare among your countrywomen. he has not at present--few men have. but what cimon would not be refined by so fair an iphigenia? such frivolities as he now shows belong but to youth and inexperience of life. happy the brother who could see his sister the wife of frank hazeldean." the marchesa bent her cheek on her hand in silence. to her, marriage was more than it usually seems to dreaming maiden or to disconsolate widow. so had the strong desire to escape from the control of her unprincipled and remorseless brother grown a part of her very soul--so had whatever was best and highest in her very mixed and complex character been galled and outraged by her friendless and exposed position, the equivocal worship rendered to her beauty, the various debasements to which pecuniary embarrassments had subjected her--not without design on the part of the count, who though grasping, was not miserly, and who by precarious and seemingly capricious gifts at one time, and refusals of all aid at another, had involved her in debt in order to retain his hold on her--so utterly painful and humiliating to a woman of her pride and her birth was the station that she held in the world--that in marriage she saw liberty, life, honor, self-redemption; and these thoughts while they compelled her to co-operate with the schemes by which the count, on securing to himself a bride, was to bestow on herself a dower, also disposed her now to receive with favor randal leslie's pleadings on behalf of his friend. the advocate saw that he had made an impression, and with the marvelous skill which his knowledge of those natures that engaged his study bestowed on his intelligence, he continued to improve his cause by such representations as were likely to be most effective. with what admirable tact he avoided panegyric of frank as the mere individual, and drew him rather as the type, the ideal of what a woman in beatrice's position might desire in the safety, peace, and honor of a home, in the trust and constancy, and honest confiding love of its partner! he did not paint an elysium; he described a haven; he did not glowingly delineate a hero of romance--he soberly portrayed that representative of the respectable and the real which a woman turns to when romance begins to seem to her but delusion. verily, if you could have looked into the heart of the person he addressed, and heard him speak, you would have cried admiringly, "knowledge _is_ power; and this man, if as able on a larger field of action, should play no mean part in the history of his time." slowly beatrice roused herself from the reveries which crept over her as he spoke--slowly, and with a deep sigh, and said, "well, well, grant all you say; at least before i can listen to so honorable a love, i must be relieved from the base and sordid pressure that weighs on me. i can not say to the man who wooes me, 'will you pay the debts of the daughter of franzini, and the widow of di negra?'" "nay, your debts, surely, make so slight a portion of your dowry." "but the dowry has to be secured;" and here, turning the tables upon her companion, as the apt proverb expresses it, madame di negra extended her hand to randal, and said in her most winning accents, "you are, then, truly and sincerely my friend?" "can you doubt it?" "i prove that i do not, for i ask your assistance." "mine? how?" "listen; my brother has arrived in london--" "i see that arrival announced in the papers." "and he comes, empowered by the consent of the emperor, to ask the hand of a relation and countrywoman of his; an alliance that will heal long family dissensions, and add to his own fortunes those of an heiress. my brother, like myself, has been extravagant. the dowry which by law he still owes me it would distress him to pay till this marriage be assured." "i understand," said randal. "but how can i aid this marriage?" "by assisting us to discover the bride. she, with her father, sought refuge and concealment in england." "the father had, then, taken part in some political disaffections, and was proscribed?" "exactly so; and so well has he concealed himself that he has baffled all our efforts to discover his retreat. my brother can obtain him his pardon in cementing this alliance--" "proceed." "ah, randal, randal, is this the frankness of friendship? you know that i have before sought to obtain the secret of our relation's retreat--sought in vain to obtain it from mr. egerton who assuredly knows it--" "but who communicates no secrets to living man," said randal, almost bitterly; "who, close and compact as iron, is as little malleable to me as to you." "pardon me. i know you so well that i believe you could attain to any secret you sought earnestly to acquire. nay, more, i believe that you know already that secret which i ask you to share with me." "what on earth makes you think so?" "when, some weeks ago, you asked me to describe the personal appearance and manners of the exile, which i did partly from the recollections of my childhood, partly from the description given to me by others, i could not but notice your countenance, and remark its change; in spite," said the marchesa, smiling and watching randal while she spoke--"in spite of your habitual self-command. and when i pressed you to own that you had actually seen some one who tallied with that description, your denial did not deceive me. still more, when returning recently, of your own accord, to the subject, you questioned me so shrewdly as to my motives in seeking the clew to our refugees, and i did not then answer you satisfactorily, i could detect--" "ha, ha," interrupted randal, with the low soft laugh by which occasionally he infringed upon lord chesterfield's recommendation to shun a merriment so natural as to be ill-bred--"ha, ha, you have the fault of all observers too minute and refined. but even granting that i may have seen some italian exiles (which is likely enough), what could be more simple than my seeking to compare your description with their appearance; and granting that i might suspect some one among them to be the man you search for, what more simple, also, than that i should desire to know if you meant him harm or good in discovering his 'whereabout?' for ill," added randal, with an air of prudery, "ill would it become me to betray, even to friendship, the retreat of one who would hide from persecution; and even if i did so--for honor itself is a weak safeguard against your fascinations--such indiscretion might be fatal to my future career." "how?" "do you not say that egerton knows the secret, yet will not communicate?--and is he a man who would ever forgive in me an imprudence that committed himself? my dear friend, i will tell you more. when audley egerton first noticed my growing intimacy with you, he said, with his usual dryness of counsel, 'randal, i do not ask you to discontinue acquaintance with madame di negra--for an acquaintance with women like her, forms the manners and refines the intellect; but charming women are dangerous, and madame di negra is--a charming woman.'" the marchesa's face flushed. randal resumed: "'your fair acquaintance' (i am still quoting egerton) 'seeks to discover the home of a countryman of hers. she suspects that i know it. she may try to learn it through you. accident may possibly give you the information she requires. beware how you betray it. by one such weakness i should judge of your general character. he from whom a woman can extract a secret will never be fit for public life.' therefore, my dear marchesa, even supposing i possess this secret, you would be no true friend of mine to ask me to reveal what would emperil all my prospects. for as yet," added randal, with a gloomy shade on his brow--"as yet i do not stand alone and erect--i _lean_; i am dependent." "there may be a way," replied madame di negra, persisting, "to communicate this intelligence, without the possibility of mr. egerton's tracing our discovery to yourself; and, though i will not press you further, i add this--you urge me to accept your friend's hand; you seem interested in the success of his suit, and you plead it with a warmth that shows how much you regard what you suppose is his happiness; i will never accept his hand till i can do so without blush for my penury--till my dowry is secured, and that can only be by my brother's union with the exile's daughter. for your friend's sake, therefore, think well how you can aid me in the first step to that alliance. the young lady once discovered, and my brother has no fear for the success of his suit." "and you would marry frank, if the dower was secured?" "your arguments in his favor seem irresistible," replied beatrice, looking down. a flash went from randal's eyes, and he mused a few moments. then slowly rising, and drawing on his gloves, he said, "well, at least you so far reconcile my honor toward aiding your research, that you now inform me you mean no ill to the exile." "ill!--the restoration to fortune, honors, his native land." "and you so far enlist my heart on your side, that you inspire me with the hope to contribute to the happiness of two friends whom i dearly love. i will, therefore, diligently seek to ascertain if, among the refugees i have met with, lurk those whom you seek; and if so, i will thoughtfully consider how to give you the clew. meanwhile, not one incautious word to egerton." "trust me--i am a woman of the world." randal now had gained the door. he paused, and renewed carelessly, "this young lady must be heiress to great wealth, to induce a man of your brother's rank to take so much pains to discover her." "her wealth _will_ be vast," replied the marchesa; "and if any thing from wealth or influence in a foreign state could be permitted to prove my brother's gratitude--" "ah, fie," interrupted randal, and approaching madame di negra, he lifted her hand to his lips, and said gallantly, "this is reward enough to your _preux chevalier_." with those words he took his leave. chapter iv. with his hands behind him, and his head drooping on his breast--slow, stealthy, noiseless, randal leslie glided along the streets on leaving the italian's house. across the scheme he had before revolved, there glanced another yet more glittering, for its gain might be more sure and immediate. if the exile's daughter were heiress to such wealth, might he himself hope--. he stopped short even in his own soliloquy, and his breath came quick. now, in his last visit to hazeldean, he had come in contact with riccabocca, and been struck by the beauty of violante. a vague suspicion had crossed him that these might be the persons of whom the marchesa was in search, and the suspicion had been confirmed by beatrice's description of the refugee she desired to discover. but as he had not then learned the reason for her inquiries, nor conceived the possibility that he could have any personal interest in ascertaining the truth, he had only classed the secret in question among those the further research into which might be left to time and occasion. certainly the reader will not do the unscrupulous intellect of randal leslie the injustice to suppose that he was deterred from confiding to his fair friend all that he knew of riccabocca, by the refinement of honor to which he had so chivalrously alluded. he had correctly stated audley egerton's warning against any indiscreet confidence, though he had forborne to mention a more recent and direct renewal of the same caution. his first visit to hazeldean had been paid without consulting egerton. he had been passing some days at his father's house and had gone over thence to the squire's. on his return to london, he had, however, mentioned this visit to audley, who had seemed annoyed and even displeased at it, though randal well knew sufficient of egerton's character to know that such feeling could scarce be occasioned merely by his estrangement from his half brother. this dissatisfaction had, therefore, puzzled the young man. but as it was necessary to his views to establish intimacy with the squire, he did not yield the point with his customary deference to his patron's whims. he, therefore, observed that he should be very sorry to do any thing displeasing to his benefactor, but that his father had been naturally anxious that he should not appear positively to slight the friendly overtures of mr. hazeldean. "why naturally?" asked egerton. "because you know that mr. hazeldean is a relation of mine--that my grandmother was a hazeldean." "ah!" said egerton, who, as it has been before said, knew little, and cared less, about the hazeldean pedigree, "i was either not aware of that circumstance, or had forgotten it. and your father thinks that the squire may leave you a legacy?" "oh, sir, my father is not so mercenary--such an idea never entered his head. but the squire himself has indeed said, 'why, if any thing happened to frank, you would be next heir to my lands, and therefore we ought to know each other.' but--" "enough," interrupted egerton, "i am the last man to pretend to the right of standing between you and a single chance of fortune, or of aid to it. and whom did you meet at hazeldean?" "there was no one there, sir; not even frank." "hum. is the squire not on good terms with his parson? any quarrel about tithes?" "oh, no quarrel. i forgot mr. dale; i saw him pretty often. he admires and praises you very much, sir." "me--and why? what did he say of me?" "that your heart was as sound as your head; that he had once seen you about some old parishioners of his; and that he had been much impressed with a depth of feeling he could not have anticipated in a man of the world, and a statesman." "oh, that was all; some affair when i was member for lansmere?" "i suppose so." here the conversation was broken off; but the next time randal was led to visit the squire he had formally asked egerton's consent, who, after a moment's hesitation, had as formally replied, "i have no objection." on returning from this visit, randal mentioned that he had seen riccabocca; and egerton, a little startled at first, said composedly, "doubtless one of the political refugees; take care not to set madame di negra on his track. remember, she is suspected of being a spy of the austrian government." "rely on me, sir," said randal; "but i should think this poor doctor can scarcely be the person she seeks to discover?" "that is no affair of ours," answered egerton; "we are english gentlemen, and make not a step toward the secrets of another." now, when randal revolved this rather ambiguous answer, and recalled the uneasiness with which egerton had first heard of his visit to hazeldean, he thought that he was indeed near the secret which egerton desired to conceal from him and from all--viz., the incognito of the italian whom lord l'estrange had taken under his protection. "my cards," said randal to himself, as, with a deep-drawn sigh, he resumed his soliloquy, "are becoming difficult to play. on the one hand, to entangle frank into marriage with this foreigner, the squire would never forgive him. on the other hand, if she will not marry him without the dowry--and that depends on her brother's wedding this countrywoman--and that countrywoman be, as i surmise, violante--and violante be this heiress, and to be won by me! tush, tush. such delicate scruples in a woman so placed and so constituted as beatrice di negra, must be easily talked away. nay, the loss itself of this alliance to her brother, the loss of her own dowry--the very pressure of poverty and debt--would compel her into the sole escape left to her option. i will then follow up the old plan; i will go down to hazeldean, and see if there be any substance in the new one; and then to reconcile both--aha--the house of leslie shall rise yet from its ruin--and--" here he was startled from his reverie by a friendly slap on the shoulder, and an exclamation--"why, randal, you are more absent than when you used to steal away from the cricket-ground, muttering greek verses at eton." "my dear frank," said randal, "you--you are so _brusque_, and i was just thinking of you." "were you? and kindly, then, i am sure," said frank hazeldean, his honest, handsome face lighted up with the unsuspecting genial trust of friendship; "and heaven knows," he added, with a sadder voice, and a graver expression on his eye and lip--"heaven knows i want all the kindness you can give me!" "i thought," said randal, "that your father's last supply, of which i was fortunate enough to be the bearer, would clear off your more pressing debts. i don't pretend to preach, but really i must say once more, you should not be so extravagant." frank (seriously).--"i have done my best to reform. i have sold off my horses, and i have not touched dice nor card these six months; i would not even put into the raffle for the last derby." this last was said with the air of a man who doubted the possibility of obtaining belief to some assertion of preternatural abstinence and virtue. randal.--"is it possible? but, with such self-conquest, how is it that you can not contrive to live within the bounds of a very liberal allowance?" frank (despondingly).--"why, when a man once gets his head under water, it is so hard to float back again on the surface. you see, i attribute all my embarrassments to that first concealment of my debts from my father, when they could have been so easily met, and when he came up to town so kindly." "i am sorry, then, that i gave you that advice." "oh, you meant it so kindly, i don't reproach you; it was all my own fault." "why, indeed, i did urge you to pay off that moiety of your debts left unpaid, with your allowance. had you done so, all had been well." "yes, but poor borrowwell got into such a scrape at goodwood; i could not resist him--a debt of honor, _that_ must be paid; so when i signed another bill for him, he could not pay it, poor fellow: really he would have shot himself, if i had not renewed it; and now it is swelled to such an amount with that cursed interest, that _he_ never can pay it; and one bill, of course, begets another, and to be renewed every three months; 'tis the devil and all! so little as i ever got for all i have borrowed," added frank with a kind of rueful amaze. "not £ ready money; and it would cost me almost as much yearly--if i had it." "only £ ." "well, besides seven large chests of the worst cigars you ever smoked; three pipes of wine that no one would drink, and a great bear, that had been imported from greenland for the sake of its grease." "that should at least have saved you a bill with your hairdresser." "i paid his bill with it," said frank, "and very good-natured he was to take the monster off my hands; it had already hugged two soldiers and one groom into the shape of a flounder. i tell you what," resumed frank, after a short pause, "i have a great mind even now to tell my father honestly all my embarrassments." randal (solemnly).--"hum!" frank.--"what? don't you think it would be the best way? i never can save enough--never can pay off what i owe; and it rolls like a snowball." randal.--"judging by the squire's talk, i think that with the first sight of your affairs you would forfeit his favor forever; and your mother would be so shocked, especially after supposing that the sum i brought you so lately sufficed to pay off every claim on you. if you had not assured her of that, it might be different; but she who so hates an untruth, and who said to the squire, 'frank says this will clear him; and with all his faults, frank never yet told a lie.'" "oh my dear mother!--i fancy i hear her!" cried frank with deep emotion. "but i did not tell a lie, randal; i did not say that that sum would clear me." "you empowered and begged me to say so," replied randal, with grave coldness; "and don't blame me if i believed you." "no, no! i only said it would clear me for the moment." "i misunderstood you, then, sadly; and such mistakes involve my own honor. pardon me, frank; don't ask my aid in future. you see, with the best intentions i only compromise myself." "if you forsake me, i may as well go and throw myself into the river," said frank in a tone of despair; "and sooner or later my father must know my necessities. the jews threaten to go to him already; and the longer the delay, the more terrible the explanation." "i don't see why your father should ever learn the state of your affairs; and it seems to me that you could pay off these usurers, and get rid of these bills, by raising money on comparatively easy terms--" "how?" cried frank eagerly. "why, the casino property is entailed on you, and you might obtain a sum upon that, not to be paid till the property becomes yours." "at my poor father's death? oh, no--no! i can not bear the idea of this cold-blooded calculation on a father's death. i know it is not uncommon; i know other fellows who have done it, but they never had parents so kind as mine; and even in them it shocked and revolted me. the contemplating a father's death and profiting by the contemplation--it seems a kind of parricide--it is not natural, randal. besides, don't you remember what the governor said--he actually wept while he said it, 'never calculate on my death; i could not bear that.' oh, randal, don't speak of it!" "i respect your sentiments; but still all the post-obits you could raise could not shorten mr. hazeldean's life by a day. however, dismiss that idea; we must think of some other device. ha, frank! you are a handsome fellow, and your expectations are great--why don't you marry some woman with money?" "pooh!" exclaimed frank, coloring. "you know, randal, that there is but one woman in the world i can ever think of, and i love her so devotedly, that, though i was as gay as most men before, i really feel as if the rest of her sex had lost every charm. i was passing through the street now--merely to look up at her windows--" "you speak of madame di negra? i have just left her. certainly she is two or three years older than you; but if you can get over that misfortune, why not marry her?" "marry her!" cried frank in amaze, and all his color fled from his cheeks. "marry her!--are you serious?" "why not?" "but even if she, who is so accomplished, so admired--even if she would accept me, she is, you know, poorer than myself. she has told me so frankly. that woman has such a noble heart, and--and--my father would never consent, nor my mother either. i know they would not." "because she is a foreigner?" "yes--partly." "yet the squire suffered his cousin to marry a foreigner." "that was different. he had no control over jemima; and a daughter-in-law is so different; and my father is so english in his notions; and madame di negra, you see, is altogether so foreign. her very graces would be against her in his eyes." "i think you do both your parents injustice. a foreigner of low birth--an actress or singer, for instance--of course would be highly objectionable; but a woman, like madame di negra, of such high birth and connections--" frank shook his head. "i don't think the governor would care a straw about her connections, if she were a king's daughter. he considers all foreigners pretty much alike. and then, you know"--frank's voice sank into a whisper--"you know that one of the very reasons why she is so dear to me would be an insuperable objection to the old-fashioned folks at home." "i don't understand you, frank." "i love her the more," said young hazeldean, raising his front with a noble pride, that seemed to speak of his descent from a race of cavaliers and gentlemen--"i love her the more because the world has slandered her name--because i believe her to be pure and wronged. but would they at the hall--they who do not see with a lover's eyes--they who have all the stubborn english notions about the indecorum and license of continental manners, and will so readily credit the worst? o, no--i love--i can not help it--but i have no hope." "it is very possible that you may be right," exclaimed randal, as if struck and half-convinced by his companion's argument--"very possible; and certainly i think that the homely folks at the hall would fret and fume at first, if they heard you were married to madame di negra. yet still, when your father learned that you had done so, not from passion alone, but to save him from all pecuniary sacrifice--to clear yourself of debt--to--" "what do you mean?" exclaimed frank impatiently. "i have reason to know that madame di negra will have as large a portion as your father could reasonably expect you to receive with any english wife. and when this is properly stated to the squire, and the high position and rank of your wife fully established and brought home to him--for i must think that these would tell, despite your exaggerated notions of his prejudices--and then, when he really sees madame di negra, and can judge of her beauty and rare gifts, upon my word, i think, frank, that there would be no cause for fear. after all, too, you are his only son. he will have no option but to forgive you; and i know how anxiously both your parents wish to see you settled in life." frank's whole countenance became illuminated. "there is no one who understands the squire like you, certainly," said he, with lively joy. "he has the highest opinion of your judgment. and you really believe you could smooth matters?" "i believe so, but i should be sorry to induce you to run any risk; and if, on cool consideration, you think that risk is incurred, i strongly advise you to avoid all occasion of seeing the poor marchesa. ah, you wince; but i say it for her sake as well as your own. first, you must be aware, that, unless you have serious thoughts of marriage, your attentions can but add to the very rumors that, equally groundless, you so feelingly resent; and, secondly, because i don't think any man has a right to win the affections of a woman--especially a woman who seems likely to love with her whole heart and soul--merely to gratify his own vanity." "vanity! good heavens, can you think so poorly of me? but as to the marchesa's affections," continued frank, with a faltering voice, "do you really and honestly believe that they are to be won by me?" "i fear lest they may be half won already," said randal, with a smile and a shake of the head; "but she is too proud to let you see any effect you may produce on her, especially when, as i take it for granted, you have never hinted at the hope of obtaining her hand." "i never till now conceived such a hope. my dear randal, all my cares have vanished--i tread upon air--i have a great mind to call on her at once." "stay, stay," said randal. "let me give you a caution. i have just informed you that madame di negra will have, what you suspected not before, a fortune suitable to her birth; any abrupt change in your manner at present might induce her to believe that you were influenced by that intelligence." "ah!" exclaimed frank, stopping short, as if wounded to the quick. "and i feel guilty--feel as if i _was_ influenced by that intelligence. so i am, too, when i reflect," he continued, with a _naïveté_ that was half pathetic; "but i hope she will not be so _very_ rich--if so, i'll not call." "make your mind easy, it is but a portion of some twenty or thirty thousand pounds, that would just suffice to discharge all your debts, clear away all obstacles to your union, and in return for which you could secure a more than adequate jointure and settlement on the casino property. now i am on that head, i will be yet more communicative. madame di negra has a noble heart, as you say, and told me herself, that, until her brother on his arrival had assured her of this dowry, she would never have consented to marry you--never cripple with her own embarrassments the man she loves. ah! with what delight she will hail the thought of assisting you to win back your father's heart! but be guarded, meanwhile. and now, frank, what say you--would it not be well if i run down to hazeldean to sound your parents? it is rather inconvenient to me, to be sure, to leave town just at present; but i would do more than that to render you a smaller service. yes, i'll go to rood hall to-morrow, and thence to hazeldean. i am sure your father will press me to stay, and i shall have ample opportunities to judge of the manner in which he would be likely to regard your marriage with madame di negra--supposing always it were properly put to him. we can then act accordingly." "my dear, dear randal. how can i thank you? if ever a poor fellow like me can serve you in return--but that's impossible." "why, certainly, i will never ask you to be security to a bill of mine," said randal, laughing. "i practice the economy i preach." "ah!" said frank with a groan, "that is because your mind is cultivated--you have so many resources; and all my faults have come from idleness. if i had any thing to do on a rainy day, i should never have got into these scrapes." "oh! you will have enough to do some day managing your property. we who have no property must find one in knowledge. adieu, my dear frank; i must go home now. by the way, you have never, by chance, spoken of the riccaboccas to madame di negra?" "the riccaboccas? no. that's well thought of. it may interest her to know that a relation of mine has married her countryman. very odd that i never did mention it; but, to say truth, i really do talk so little to her; she is so superior, and i feel positively shy with her." "do me the favor, frank," said randal, waiting patiently till this reply ended--for he was devising all the time what reason to give for his request--"never to allude to the riccaboccas either to her or to her brother, to whom you are sure to be presented." "why not allude to them?" randal hesitated a moment. his invention was still at fault, and, for a wonder, he thought it the best policy to go pretty near the truth. "why, i will tell you. the marchesa conceals nothing from her brother, and he is one of the few italians who are in high favor with the austrian court." "well!" "and i suspect that poor dr. riccabocca fled his country from some mad experiment at revolution, and is still hiding from the austrian police." "but they can't hurt him here," said frank, with an englishman's dogged inborn conviction of the sanctity of his native island. "i should like to see an austrian pretend to dictate to us whom to receive and whom to reject." "hum--that's true and constitutional, no doubt; but riccabocca may have excellent reasons--and, to speak plainly, i know he has, (perhaps as affecting the safety of friends in italy)--for preserving his incognito, and we are bound to respect those reasons without inquiring further." "still, i can not think so meanly of madame di negra," persisted frank (shrewd here, though credulous elsewhere, and both from his sense of honor), "as to suppose that she would descend to be a spy, and injure a poor countryman of her own, who trusts to the same hospitality she receives herself at our english hands. oh, if i thought that, i could not love her!" added frank, with energy. "certainly you are right. but see in what a false position you would place both her brother and herself. if they knew riccabocca's secret, and proclaimed it to the austrian government, as you say, it would be cruel and mean; but if they knew it and concealed it, it might involve them both in the most serious consequences. you know the austrian policy is proverbially so jealous and tyrannical?" "well, the newspapers say so, certainly." "and, in short, your discretion can do no harm, and your indiscretion may. therefore, give me your word, frank. i can't stay to argue now." "i'll not allude to the riccaboccas, upon my honor," answered frank; "still i am sure they would be as safe with the marchesa as with--" "i rely on your honor," interrupted randal, hastily, and hurried off. chapter v. toward the evening of the following day, randal leslie walked slowly from a village on the main road (about two miles from rood hall), at which he had got out of the coach. he passed through meads and corn-fields, and by the skirts of woods which had formerly belonged to his ancestors, but had long since been alienated. he was alone amidst the haunts of his boyhood, the scenes in which he had first invoked the grand spirit of knowledge, to bid the celestial still one minister to the commands of an earthly and turbulent ambition. he paused often in his path, especially when the undulations of the ground gave a glimpse of the gray church tower, or the gloomy firs that rose above the desolate wastes of rood. "here," thought randal, with a softening eye--"here, how often, comparing the fertility of the lands passed away from the inheritance of my fathers, with the forlorn wilds that are left to their mouldering hall--here, how often have i said to myself--'i will rebuild the fortunes of my house.' and straightway toil lost its aspect of drudge, and grew kingly, and books became as living armies to serve my thought. again--again--o thou haughty past, brace and strengthen me in the battle with the future." his pale lips writhed as he soliloquized, for his conscience spoke to him while he thus addressed his will, and its voice was heard more audibly in the quiet of the rural landscape, than amid the turmoil and din of that armed and sleepless camp which we call a city. doubtless, though ambition have objects more vast and beneficent than the restoration of a name--_that_ in itself is high and chivalrous, and appeals to a strong interest in the human heart. but all emotions, and all ends, of a nobler character, had seemed to filter themselves free from every golden grain in passing through the mechanism of randal's intellect, and came forth at last into egotism clear and unalloyed. nevertheless, it is a strange truth that, to a man of cultivated mind, however perverted and vicious, there are vouchsafed gleams of brighter sentiments, irregular perceptions of moral beauty, denied to the brutal unreasoning wickedness of uneducated villainy--which perhaps ultimately serve as his punishment--according to the old thought of the satirist, that there is no greater curse than to perceive virtue, yet adopt vice. and as the solitary schemer walked slowly on, and his childhood--innocent at least of deed--came distinct before him through the halo of bygone dreams--dreams far purer than those from which he now rose each morning to the active world of man--a profound melancholy crept over him, and suddenly he exclaimed aloud, "_then_ i aspired to be renowned and great--_now_, how is it that, so advanced in my career, all that seemed lofty in the means has vanished from me, and the only means that i contemplate are those which my childhood would have called poor and vile? ah! is it that i then read but books, and now my knowledge has passed onward, and men contaminate more than books? but," he continued in a lower voice, as if arguing with himself, "if power is only so to be won--and of what use is knowledge if it be not power--does not success in life justify all things? and who prizes the wise man if he fails?" he continued his way, but still the soft tranquillity around rebuked him, and still his reason was dissatisfied, as well as his conscience. there are times when nature, like a bath of youth, seems to restore to the jaded soul its freshness--times from which some men have emerged, as if reborn. the crises of life are very silent. suddenly the scene opened on randal leslie's eyes. the bare desert common--the dilapidated church--the old house, partially seen in the dank dreary hollow, into which it seemed to randal to have sunken deeper and lowlier than when he saw it last. and on the common were some young men playing at hockey. that old-fashioned game, now very uncommon in england, except at schools, was still preserved in the primitive simplicity of rood by the young yeomen and farmers. randal stood by the stile and looked on, for among the players he recognized his brother oliver. presently the ball was struck toward oliver, and the group instantly gathered round that young gentleman, and snatched him from randal's eye; but the elder brother heard a displeasing din, a derisive laughter. oliver had shrunk from the danger of the thick clubbed sticks that plied around him, and received some strokes across the legs, for his voice rose whining, and was drowned by shouts of, "go to your mammy. that's noll leslie--all over. butter shins." randal's sallow face became scarlet. "the jest of boors--a leslie!" he muttered, and ground his teeth. he sprang over the stile, and walked erect and haughtily across the ground. the players cried out indignantly. randal raised his hat, and they recognized him, and stopped the game. for him at least a certain respect was felt. oliver turned round quickly, and ran up to him. randal caught his arm firmly, and, without saying a word to the rest, drew him away toward the house. oliver cast a regretful, lingering look behind him, rubbed his shins, and then stole a timid glance toward randal's severe and moody countenance. "you are not angry that i was playing at hockey with our neighbors," said he deprecatingly, observing that randal would not break the silence. "no," replied the elder brother; "but, in associating with his inferiors, a gentleman still knows how to maintain his dignity. there is no harm in playing with inferiors, but it is necessary to a gentleman to play so that he is not the laughing-stock of clowns." oliver hung his head, and made no answer. they came into the slovenly precincts of the court, and the pigs stared at them from the palings as they had stared years before, at frank hazeldean. mr. leslie senior, in a shabby straw hat, was engaged in feeding the chickens before the threshold, and he performed even that occupation with a maundering lackadaisical slothfulness, dropping down the grains almost one by one from his inert dreamy fingers. randal's sister, her hair still and forever hanging about her ears, was seated on a rush-bottom chair, reading a tattered novel; and from the parlor window was heard the querulous voice of mrs. leslie, in high fidget and complaint. somehow or other, as the young heir to all this helpless poverty stood in the court-yard, with his sharp, refined, intelligent features, and his strange elegance of dress and aspect, one better comprehended how, left solely to the egotism of his knowledge and his ambition, in such a family, and without any of the sweet nameless lessons of home, he had grown up into such close and secret solitude of soul--how the mind had taken so little nutriment from the heart, and how that affection and respect which the warm circle of the hearth usually calls forth had passed with him to the graves of dead fathers, growing, as it were, bloodless and ghoul-like amid the charnels on which they fed. "ha, randal, boy," said mr. leslie, looking up lazily, "how d'ye do? who could have expected you? my dear--my dear," he cried, in a broken voice, and as if in helpless dismay, "here's randal, and he'll be wanting dinner, or supper, or something." but in the mean while, randal's sister juliet had sprung up and thrown her arms round her brother's neck, and he had drawn her aside caressingly, for randal's strongest human affection was for this sister. "you are growing very pretty, juliet," said he, smoothing back her hair; "why do yourself such injustice--why not pay more attention to your appearance, as i have so often begged you to do?" "i did not expect you, dear randal; you always come so suddenly, and catch us _en dish-a-bill_." "dish-a-bill!" echoed randal, with a groan.--"_dishabille!_--you ought never to be so caught!" "no one else does so catch us--nobody else ever comes! heigho," and the young lady sighed very heartily. "patience, patience; my day is coming, and then yours, my sister," replied randal with genuine pity, as he gazed upon what a little care could have trained into so fair a flower, and what now looked so like a weed. here mrs. leslie, in a state of intense excitement--having rushed through the parlor--leaving a fragment of her gown between the yawning brass of the never-mended brummagem work-table--tore across the hall--whirled out of the door, scattering the chickens to the right and left, and clutched hold of randal in her motherly embrace. "la, how you do shake my nerves," she cried, after giving him a most hearty and uncomfortable kiss. "and you are hungry, too, and nothing in the house but cold mutton! jenny, jenny, i say jenny! juliet, have you seen jenny? where's jenny? out with the old man, i'll be bound." "i am not hungry, mother," said randal; "i wish for nothing but tea." juliet, scrambling up her hair, darted into the house to prepare the tea, and also to "tidy herself." she dearly loved her fine brother, but she was greatly in awe of him. randal seated himself on the broken pales. "take care they don't come down," said mr. leslie, with some anxiety. "oh, sir, i am very light; nothing comes down with me." the pigs stared up, and grunted in amaze at the stranger. "mother," said the young man, detaining mrs. leslie, who wanted to set off in chase of jenny--"mother, you should not let oliver associate with those village boors. it is time to think of a profession for him." "oh, he eats us out of house and home--such an appetite! but as to a profession--what is he fit for! he will never be a scholar." randal nodded a moody assent; for, indeed, oliver had been sent to cambridge, and supported there out of randal's income from his official pay;--and oliver had been plucked for his little go. "there is the army," said the elder brother--"a gentleman's calling. how handsome juliet ought to be--but--i left money for masters--and she pronounces french like a chambermaid." "yet she is fond of her book too. she's always reading, and good for nothing else." "reading!--those trashy novels!" "so like you--you always come to scold, and make things unpleasant," said mrs. leslie, peevishly. "you are grown too fine for us, and i am sure we suffer affronts enough from others, not to want a little respect from our own children." "i did not mean to affront you," said randal, sadly. "pardon me. but who else has done so?" then mrs. leslie went into a minute and most irritating catalogue of all the mortifications and insults she had received; the grievances of a petty provincial family, with much pretension and small power; of all people, indeed, without the disposition to please--without the ability to serve--who exaggerate every offense, and are thankful for no kindness. farmer jones had insolently refused to send his wagon twenty miles for coals. mr. giles, the butcher, requesting the payment of his bill, had stated that the custom at rood was too small for him to allow credit. squire thornhill, who was the present owner of the fairest slice of the old leslie domains, had taken the liberty to ask permission to shoot over mr. leslie's land, since mr. leslie did not preserve. lady spratt (new people from the city, who hired a neighboring country seat) had taken a discharged servant of mrs. leslie's without applying for the character. the lord lieutenant had given a ball, and had not invited the leslies. mr. leslie's tenants had voted against their landlord's wish at the recent election. more than all, squire hazeldean and his harry had called at rood, and though mrs. leslie had screamed out to jenny, "not at home," she had been seen at the window, and the squire had actually forced his way in, and caught the whole family "in a state not fit to be seen." that was a trifle, but the squire had presumed to instruct mr. leslie how to manage his property, and mrs. hazeldean had actually told juliet to hold up her head and tie up her hair, "as if we were her cottagers!" said mrs. leslie, with the pride of a montfydget. all these and various other annoyances, though randal was too sensible not to perceive their insignificance, still galled and mortified the listening heir of rood. they showed, at least, even to the well-meant officiousness of the hazeldeans, the small account in which the fallen family was held. as he sat still on the moss-grown pale, gloomy and taciturn, his mother standing beside him, with her cap awry, mr. leslie shamblingly sauntered up and said, in a pensive, dolorous whine-- "i wish we had a good sum of money, randal, boy!" to do mr. leslie justice, he seldom gave vent to any wish that savored of avarice. his mind must be singularly aroused, to wander out of its normal limits of sluggish, dull content. so randal looked at him in surprise, and said, "do you, sir?--why?" "the manors of rood and dulmansberry, and all the lands therein, which my great-grandfather sold away, are to be sold again when squire thornhill's eldest son comes of age, to cut off the entail. sir john spratt talks of buying them. i should like to have them back again! 'tis a shame to see the leslie estates hawked about, and bought by spratts and people. i wish i had a great--great sum of ready money." the poor gentleman extended his helpless fingers as he spoke, and fell into a dejected reverie. randal sprang from the paling, a movement which frightened the contemplative pigs, and set them off squalling and scampering. "when does young thornhill come of age?" "he was nineteen last august. i know it, because the day he was born i picked up my fossil of the sea-horse, just by dulmansberry church, when the joy-bells were ringing. my fossil sea-horse? it will be an heirloom, randal--" "two years--nearly two years--yet--ah, ah!" said randal; and his sister now appearing to announce that tea was ready, he threw his arm round her neck and kissed her. juliet had arranged her hair and trimmed up her dress. she looked very pretty, and she had now the air of a gentlewoman--something of randal's own refinement in her slender proportions and well-shaped head. "be patient, patient still, my dear sister," whispered randal, "and keep your heart whole for two years longer." the young man was gay and good-humored over his simple meal, while his family grouped round him. when it was over, mr. leslie lighted his pipe, and called for his brandy-and-water. mrs. leslie began to question about london and court, and the new king and the new queen, and mr. audley egerton, and hoped mr. egerton would leave randal all his money, and that randal would marry a rich woman, and that the king would make him a prime-minister one of these days; and then she would like to see if farmer jones would refuse to send his wagon for coals! and every now and then, as the word "riches" or "money" caught mr. leslie's ear, he shook his head, drew his pipe from his mouth, and muttered, "a spratt should not have what belonged to my great-great-grandfather, if i had a good sum of ready money!--the old family estates!" oliver and juliet sate silent, and on their good-behavior; and randal, indulging his own reveries, dreamily heard the words "money," "spratt," "great-great-grandfather," "rich wife," "family estates;" and they sounded to him vague and afar off, like whispers from the world of romance and legend--weird prophecies of things to be. such was the hearth which warmed the viper that nestled and gnawed at the heart of randal, poisoned all the aspirations that youth should have rendered pure, ambition lofty, and knowledge beneficent and divine. chapter vi. when the rest of the household were in deep sleep, randal stood long at his open window, looking over the dreary, comfortless scene--the moon gleaming from skies half-autumnal, half-wintry, upon squalid decay, through the ragged fissures of the firs; and when he lay down to rest, his sleep was feverish, and troubled by turbulent dreams. however, he was up early, and with an unwonted color in his cheeks, which his sister ascribed to the country air. after breakfast, he took his way toward hazeldean, mounted upon a tolerable horse, which he hired of a neighboring farmer who occasionally hunted. before noon, the garden and terrace of the casino came in sight. he reined in his horse, and by the little fountain at which leonard had been wont to eat his radishes and con his book, he saw riccabocca seated under the shade of the red umbrella. and by the italian's side stood a form that a greek of old might have deemed the naiad of the fount; for in its youthful beauty there was something so full of poetry--something at once so sweet and so stately--that it spoke to the imagination while it charmed the sense. randal dismounted, tied his horse to the gate, and, walking down a trellised alley, came suddenly to the spot. his dark shadow fell over the clear mirror of the fountain just as riccabocca had said, "all here is so secure from evil!--the waves of the fountain are never troubled like those of the river!" and violante had answered in her soft native tongue, and lifting her dark, spiritual eyes--"but the fountain would be but a lifeless pool, oh, my father, if the spray did not mount toward the skies!" (to be continued.) you're another! "you're another!" it's a vulgar retort, but a common one--though not much in use among well-bred people. but there are many ways of saying it--various modes of conveying the same meaning. "_et tu brute_," observed some one, on reading a debate in the house of commons; "i often see these words quoted; what can they mean?" "i should say," was the answer, "they mean, 'oh, you brute!'" "well, i rather think they mean '_you're another!_'" let the classicist determine which interpretation is the right one. "you're another!" may be conveyed in a mild tone and manner. for instance:--"the right honorable gentleman seems not to apprehend the points of the argument: he says he does not understand how so and so is so and so. we can only supply him with arguments level to the meanest capacity, not with brains. nature having been sparing in her endowments to the honorable gentleman, must be matter of deep regret to those who are under the painful necessity of listening to the oft-times-refuted assertions and so-called arguments which he has advanced upon this very question." the honorable gentleman, thus delicately alluded to, replies, "my honorable and learned friend (if he will permit me to call him so) complains that his arguments are not understood; the simple reason being that they are unintelligible. he calls them arguments level to the meanest capacity, and let me assure him they are level to the meanest capacity only, for they are his own. let me hasten to relieve his anxiety as to the remarks which i have felt it my duty to make upon the question under discussion, by assuring him that they have been understood by those who have intelligence to appreciate them, though i am not prepared to vouch as much for my honorable and learned friend on the other side of the house." thus, each lolls the tongue out at the other, and shakes his empty noddle at his brother. one honorable member accuses another of stating that which is the "reverse of true"--the other responds by a charge of "gross misrepresentation of the facts of the case." coalheavers would use a shorter and more emphatic word to express the same thing, though it would neither be classical nor conformable to the rules of the house. the frenchman delicately defined a white lie to be "valking round about de trooth." we know what honorable members mean when they talk in the above guise. it is, "you're another!" dr. whiston accuses the chapter of rochester with applying for their own purposes the funds bequeathed by pious men of former times for the education of the poor. the reply of the chapter is--"you atheist!" and they deprive the doctor of his living. sir samuel romilly once proposed to alter the law of bankruptcy, and to make freehold estates assets appropriable for debts, like personal property. the existing law he held to be pregnant with dishonesty and fraud against creditors. mr. canning immediately was down upon him with the "you're another" argument. "dishonesty!" he said, "why, this proposal is neither more nor less than a dangerous and most dishonest attack upon the aristocracy, and the beginning of something which may end, if carried, like the french revolution." worthy men are often found differing about some speculative point, respecting which neither can have any more certain knowledge than the other, and they wax fierce and bitter, each devoting the other to a fate which we dare not venture to describe. one calls the other "bigot," who retorts by calling out "idolater," or perhaps "fanatic;" and the phrases are bandied about with the gusto and fervor of billingsgate--the meaning of the whole is, "you're another!" literary men have frequently ventured into this bandying about of strange talk. rival country editors have sometimes been great adepts in it; though the fashion is gradually going out of date. there is nothing like the bitterness of criticism now, which used to prevail some fifty years ago. godwin mildly assailed southey as a renegade, in return for which southey abused godwin's abominably ugly nose. moore spoke slightingly of leigh hunt's cockney poetry, and leigh hunt in reply ridiculed moore's diminutive figure. southey cut up byron in the reviews, and byron cut up southey in the vision of judgment. scott did not appreciate coleridge, and coleridge spoke of ivanhoe and the bride of lammermoor as "those wretched abortions." you often hear of talkers who are "good at a retort." it means they can say "you're another!" in a biting, clever way. the wit of many men is of this kind--cutting and sarcastic. nicknames grow out of it--the christian calls the turk an infidel--as the turk calls the christian a dog of an unbeliever. whig and tory retort on each other the charge of oppressor. "the priest calls the lawyer a cheat, the lawyer beknaves the divine." it all means "you're another!" phrenologists say the propensity arises in the organ of combativeness. however that may be, there is need of an abatement. retort, even the most delicately put, is indignation, and indignation is the handsome brother of hatred. it breeds bitterness between man and man, and produces nothing but evil. the practice is only a modification of billingsgate, cover it with what elegant device we may. in any guise the "you're another" style of speech ought to be deprecated and discountenanced. thy will be done. by gen. george p. morris. i. searcher of hearts!--from mine erase all thoughts that should not be, and in its deep recesses trace my gratitude to thee! ii. hearer of prayer!--oh guide aright each word and deed of mine; life's battle teach me how to fight, and be the victory thine. iii. giver of all!--for every good in the redeemer came:-- for raiment, shelter, and for food, i thank thee in his name. iv. father and son and holy ghost! thou glorious three in one! thou knowest best what i need most, and let thy will be done. monthly record of current events. united states. the political events of the month just closed have been of considerable interest. november is the month for elections in several of the most important states: the interest which usually belongs to these events is enhanced in this instance by the fact that they precede a presidential contest, which occurs next year, and they are scanned, therefore, with the more care as indicative of its results. in several of the states, however, the elections of this year do not afford any substantial ground for predicting their votes in the presidential election, as questions were at issue now which may not greatly influence them then. in georgia, for example the old political parties were wholly broken up, and the divisions which they occasion did not prevail. both the candidates for governor were prominent members of the democratic party; but hon. howell cobb, speaker of the last house of representatives in congress, was put forward as the union candidate, while mr. mcdonald, his opponent, was the candidate of those who were in favor of seceding from the union, on account of the compromise measures of . the same division prevailed in the congressional contest, the nominees being unionists and secessionists, without regard to other distinctions. the general result was announced in our november record. the union party elected _six_ out of the _eight_ members of congress, and mr. cobb was elected governor by a very large majority. the following is a statement of the vote in each of the congressional districts, upon both tickets; and gives an accurate view of the sentiments of the people of the state upon that subject: governor. congress. _cong. districts._ _cobb._ _mcdonald._ _union._ _secession._ first district , , , , second ditto , , , , third ditto , , , , fourth ditto , , , , fifth ditto , , , , sixth ditto , , , , seventh ditto , , , , eighth ditto , , , , ------- ------- ------ ------ total , , , , cobb's majority , union cong. ditto , this shows a popular majority of over eighteen thousand in favor of the union. the election of members of the legislature took place at the same time, and resulted in the choice to the senate of _thirty-nine_ union and _eight_ secession senators, and to the house of _one hundred and one_ union, and _twenty-six_ southern-rights men. upon the legislature thus chosen will devolve the duty of electing a senator in the congress of the united states, in place of mr. berrien, whose term expires next spring. in south carolina an election has taken place for members of congress and delegates to a state convention, in which the same issue superseded all others. one party avowed itself in favor of the immediate and separate secession of the state from the union, while the other was in favor of awaiting the co-operation of other southern states. both held that the action of the federal government had been hostile to southern interests and rights, and both professed to be in favor of taking measures of redress. they differed, however, as to the means and time of action, and the following table shows the relative strength of each party in the state--those in favor of the union as it is, of course, voting with the co-operationists: _cong. districts._ _secession._ _co-operation._ first district , , second ditto , , third ditto , , fourth ditto , , fifth ditto , , sixth ditto , , seventh ditto , , ------ ------ total , , co-operation majority , elections in mississippi and in alabama, involving the same issue, have been already noticed. the results of the canvass in these four southern states are of interest as showing the relative strength of the two parties in that section of the union. the following table shows the vote upon each side, in each state, in round numbers: _total vote._ _union._ _secession._ _maj._ mississippi , , , , alabama , , , , georgia , , , , s. carolina , , , , ------- ------- ------- ------ total , , , , in virginia the election was for members of congress, and upon the adoption of the new constitution. the result has been that the congressional delegation stands as before, and the new constitution was adopted by a very large majority. among the whig members defeated was hon. john minor botts, who has since written a letter attributing his defeat to the stand which he took in convention in favor of a mixed basis of representation. the new constitution adopts the principle of universal suffrage in all elections, limited, however, to white male citizens who are twenty-one years of age, and who have resided two years in the state and one year in the county in which they vote. persons in the naval or military service of the united states are not to be deemed residents in the state by reason of being stationed therein. no person will have the right to vote who is of unsound mind, or a pauper, or a non-commissioned officer, soldier, seaman, or marine in the service of the united states, or who has been convicted of bribery in an election, or of any infamous offense. in all elections votes are required to be given openly _viva voce_, and not by ballot, except that dumb persons entitled to suffrage may vote by ballot. under the new constitution, the governor, lieutenant governor, and attorney general are to be elected by the people. these officers for the ensuing term, as well as members of the senate and house of representatives, are to be chosen on the th day of december next. the seats of all members of the general assembly already elected will be from that date vacated by the effect of the new constitution. in pennsylvania the election for governor, canal commissioner, and five judges of the supreme court, occurred on the last monday in october, and resulted as follows: _governor._ bigler (dem.) , , _maj._ johnston (whig) , _canal com._ clover (dem.) , , _maj._ strohm (whig) , _judges._ campbell (dem.) , lowrie " , elected. lewis " , " black " , " gibson " , " coulter (whig) , " comley " , chambers " , meredith " , jessup " , in the legislature there are, senators democrats, whigs, and one native american; in the house of representatives, democrats and whigs. elections have also been held in ohio, new york, wisconsin, maryland, and massachusetts; but up to the time of closing this record, official returns have not been received. we have already mentioned the return of the expedition sent out by mr. henry grinnell in search of the great english navigator, sir john franklin, and the general result of their arctic explorations. surgeon e. k. kane, who accompanied the expedition, has since published a letter, in which he expresses the opinion that sir john, while wintering in the cove near beechy's island, where unmistakable signs of his presence were discovered, found a path-way made by the opening of the ice, toward the north, and that he passed northward by wellington channel and did not return. the american expedition was caught in an ice drift nearly opposite the spot of franklin's first sojourn, and borne northward in the ice for fifteen days. into the region north and west of cornwallis island, which is open sometimes and may be always, a continuance of the drift a few days longer would have borne the american squadron: and in that region mr. kane thinks sir john franklin must now be sought. the chances of his destruction by ice, or by want of food, he thinks, are not great. the british residents of new york gave mr. grinnell a public dinner on the th of november at the astor house, at which a large company sat down, mr. anthony barclay presiding. great interest continues to be felt in the search for sir john franklin, and it is probable that it will be renewed in the early spring. in the preceding pages of this number will be found an exceedingly interesting history of the expedition, from the journal of one of its members--accompanied by numerous illustrations of the scenes and incidents encountered during the voyage. the case of mr. john s. thrasher, an american gentleman resident at havana, has excited a good deal of public interest. mr. t. has resided there for a number of years. he was the editor and proprietor of the _faro industrial_, a paper devoted entirely to commercial matters, and which he had conducted with energy, ability, and success. while the american prisoners were in havana, mr. thrasher took a marked interest in them, and did all in his power to alleviate the discomforts of their position. for some reason, which has never yet been assigned, he incurred the distrust of the authorities, and on the st of september he was prohibited from issuing his paper which was seized. feeling confident that his property would soon be restored, he devoted himself to procure comforts for his countrymen who had been condemned to transportation. the police, however, were ordered strictly to watch his movements. his letters were stopped, seized, and examined; but they contained nothing to warrant proceedings against him. on the arrival of the steamer _georgia_ from the united states, two policemen followed him and saw him receive letters from the clerk. they arrested him on landing and searched his papers, but found nothing but a business letter. for two or three days he continued under arrest, when a letter was brought to him sealed, directed to him, and said to have been found upon his desk. it proved to be written in cipher, but mr. thrasher declared himself ignorant alike of its contents and its author. this, however, was of no avail. he was immediately committed to prison, and on the th of september was thrust into a damp, dark dungeon, cut from the rock and level with the sea, with a bare board for furniture, and where death will be the inevitable consequence of a few weeks' confinement. at the latest dates no charges had been publicly made against him, his trial had not taken place, and no one was admitted to see him. the result of the affair is looked for with great anxiety. the late president tyler has written a letter to the spanish minister in the united states, appealing for the pardon and release of the americans taken prisoners in cuba. he ventures to make the application in view of the friendly relations which existed between him and m. calderon de la barca during his administration, and ventures to hope that his request will be laid before the queen of spain. he concedes the flagrancy of their offense, but urges that sufficient punishment has already been inflicted, and that their pardon will do much toward softening the feelings of the people of this country toward the spanish government, and preventing future attempts upon the peace of its colonies. gen. wm. b. campbell was inaugurated governor of tennessee on the th of october. his inaugural address referred briefly to national affairs. he spoke in the highest terms of commendation of those who secured the passage of the compromise bills, in the congress of , and of the firm manner in which they have been maintained by the president. the disastrous results of secession were strongly depicted. he urged that it must inevitably lead to bloody civil wars, alike melancholy and deplorable for the victors and the vanquished. he pledged himself to maintain the compromise measures, because he believed their continuance on the statute book will promote prosperity and happiness, while an interference with them will inevitably produce agitation, mischief, and misery. a convention of cotton planters was held at macon, georgia, on the th of october. about three hundred delegates were in attendance, of whom two hundred came from half the counties in georgia, sixty-eight from one quarter of those of alabama, nineteen from five counties of florida, and one or two from each of several other southern states. ex-governor moseley, of florida, was chosen president. the object of the convention was to render the planters of cotton more independent of the ordinary vicissitudes of trade, and to enable them to obtain more uniformly high prices for their great staple. a great variety of opinions prevailed upon the subject. various modes were suggested, but as none seemed acceptable, the whole subject was referred to a committee of twenty-one, but even this committee could not agree. a proposition was then _rejected_, by a vote of to , which provided that planters should make returns to a central committee to be established of the cotton housed by the middle of january; and further, that not more than two-thirds of the crop should be sold before the st of may, and for not less than eight cents a pound; and that the remaining third should be sold at a time to be recommended by the central committee. a minority report was presented in favor of the florida scheme for a cotton planters' association, with a capital of twenty millions of dollars, and a warehouse for the storage of cotton, whereby prices might be contracted. this met the violent opposition of the convention. resolutions were finally adopted recommending central, state, and county associations to collect statistical and general information respecting the production and consumption of cotton. a committee was also appointed to procure such legislative acts as may be for the interest of planters. resolutions were also passed to encourage southern manufacturers to employ slave labor in their factories. having urged another cotton planters' convention, and exhorted delegates to arouse the public on the subject, by lectures and otherwise, the assembly adjourned _sine die_, after a session of several days, in which it will be observed that very little business was transacted. the magnetic telegraph has become so common an agent of transmitting intelligence in this country, as to render all news of its progress interesting and important. prof. morse has been for some time prosecuting other persons for infringing his patent. a rival line, using the machinery of mr. bain, has been for some years in operation between new york and philadelphia. a suit was commenced against the company and has been for some years pending in the united states circuit court. it has just been decided by judge kane, in favor of the claimants under prof. morse's patents. the several points ruled by the court in this case, are: . that an _art_ is the subject of a patent, as well as an implement or a machine. . that an inventor may surrender and obtain a re-issue of his patent more than once if necessary. . that prof. morse was the first inventor of the art of recording signs at a distance by means of electro-magnetism, or the magnetic telegraph. . that the several parts or elements of the morse telegraph are covered and protected by his patent, as new inventions, and are really new, either as single, independent inventions, or as parts of a new combination for the purpose specified. . that the patent granted to prof. morse for his "local circuit" is valid, and that the "branch circuit" of the bain line is an infringement of it. . that the subject and principles of the chemical telegraph are clearly embraced in morse's patents. these are the chief questions in dispute. the counsel for the complainants were directed to draw up a decree to be made by the court, in accordance with the prayer of the bill and the decision just given. the case will of course now be carried to the supreme court of the united states. in the new monthly magazine for july last (no. , vol. iii. p. ) we gave a detailed statement of the legal controversy between the methodist episcopal church south and the methodist episcopal church, brought by the former to recover a portion of the "book fund." the suit came on may , in the united states circuit court, and was elaborately argued by distinguished counsel. the decision, which was then deferred, was given by judge nelson on the th of november. it was long and elaborate, going over the whole ground involved, sketching the history of the case, and stating the legal principles applicable to it. he decided that the separation was legal, and that the methodist episcopal church south is entitled to a portion of the fund. this must end the controversy unless an appeal should be taken to the supreme court of the united states. a large number of the citizens of new york recently addressed a letter to hon. henry clay, requesting him to address a meeting in that city in favor of the compromise measures of , expressing a belief that additional exertions were needed to prevent propositions for the repeal or modification of some of the laws. mr. clay's reply, dated oct. , is long and elaborate. declining the invitation, he expresses great interest in the subject, and says he believes that the great majority of the people in every section of the union, are satisfied with, or acquiesce in, the compromise. the only law which encounters any hostility, is that relating to the surrender of fugitive slaves; and this is now almost universally obeyed. mr. clay proceeds to urge the necessity of such a law and its rigid execution; and he then examines the principle of secession from the union, as it is presented and advocated in some of the southern states. rev. archibald alexander, d. d., distinguished as one of the oldest and ablest theologians in the country, died at princeton, n. j. on the d of october, aged . he was a native of virginia, and became a minister in the presbyterian church at the age of . he was early appointed president of hampton sidney college. he afterward was called to the third presbyterian church in philadelphia, and was stationed, there, when in , the theological seminary was established at princeton. he was appointed the first professor in that seminary. dr. j. kearney rodgers, distinguished in new york as a surgeon, and of eminently useful and estimable character, died on the th of november. dr. granville sharp pattison, also celebrated in this country as well as in england for medical science and practical skill, died on the th. he was distinguished as an anatomist, and was the author of several works upon medical subjects which enjoyed a wide celebrity and are still used as standard treatises.--gardner g. howland, well-known as one of the oldest, most enterprising, and wealthiest merchants of new york, and one of the most beneficent and public spirited inhabitants of that city, died suddenly on the th. from california our intelligence is to the st of october. the state election had resulted in a democratic victory. mr. bigler, the democratic candidate, was elected governor by about majority; messrs. marshall and mccorkle, democrats, are elected to congress; and the legislature, upon which will devolve the duty of electing a u. s. senator, is strongly democratic also.----the capital of the state has been removed back from vallejo to san josé.----the intelligence from the mines is highly encouraging; new veins of gold are constantly discovered, and the old placers have never been known to yield more plentifully.----the indians in all the northern sections of the country are represented as being highly troublesome, and traveling there has become dangerous.----a large party of mormons have purchased the rancho of san bernardino, near los angelos; they gave $ , for it, and are to take possession of it very soon.----a railroad from san francisco to san josé, the first in california, has been commenced.----the vigilance committee at san francisco, has come to an end. order and quiet are completely restored, and a feeling of security is rapidly gaining ground. the city is increasing very fast both in population and in extent.----disastrous news has been received from the american whaling fleet in the north pacific. ten or twelve of the ships have been lost: the season has been very unprofitable for all. from oregon, we learn that emigrants were coming in rapidly, though a late heavy snow-storm had seriously retarded the progress of emigrants through the mountains. the suffering from cold, and in some instances from lack of provisions, has been very severe.----the snake indians are becoming hostile and troublesome. mr. hudson clark, from illinois, with his family, having got ahead of the train with which he was traveling, was attacked by about thirty indians, near raft river, and his mother and brother were killed. others had been killed a few days previously. outrages in different sections led to the belief that the indians were about to assume their former attitude of hostility toward the inhabitants.----steps have been taken by a convention of delegates from the country north of the columbia river, to form a new territorial government, or failing in that, to organize a new state, and ask admission into the union. the reasons for this step are the great extent of country, its distance from the capital, and the total absence of all municipal law and civil officers. in the sandwich islands, the volcanic mountain maunaloa, had given tokens of an eruption early in august. a letter in the _polynesian_ of the th says: "the great crater of maunaloa, that was generally thought to be quite extinct, is now in action. for a few days a heavy cloud, having the appearance of smoke, has been observed to hover over the summit of the mountain. last night the mountain stood out in bold relief, unobstructed by clouds or mist, and presented a sublime and awfully grand appearance, belching forth flames and cinders that again fell in showers at a distance. the heavy bank of smoke that lowered over its top, presented the appearance of the mountain itself poised upon its apex. it is possible that another eruption may take place like that of , and liquid lava be seen flowing down its sides." from new mexico we have intelligence to the last of october. serious difficulties had occurred, which excited deep hostility between the american and mexican portions of the population, and threatened to inflict lasting injury upon the country. the election for a delegate to congress, was held on the st of september. a number of americans went to the polls at los ranchos, for the purpose of voting, but were refused by the mexican authorities. insisting upon their right a general quarrel ensued. the county judge, a mexican named ambrosio armijo, ordered out a number of armed men, who killed an american named edward burtnett, stripping and mangling his body. an investigation was held, but without any important result. on the d, mr. w. c. skinner, who had taken an active part in the effort to bring the authors of this outrage to punishment, was at los ranchos, and became involved in a dispute with a mexican, named juan c. armijo. as he left him a number of armijo's peons fell upon him with clubs, and killed him on the spot. mr. skinner was from connecticut, and an active opponent of the governor in the legislature of which he was a member. meetings of the americans were held, at which the conduct of the mexicans was denounced, and the attention of the general government at washington, called to the condition of the territory.----major weightman has been elected delegate to congress: loud complaints are made of frauds at the election.----the new military post in the navajo country, is at cañon bonito: col. summer and his command were in pursuit of the indians. two soldiers who had left santa fé with the mail, for the navajo country, had not been heard from, and were supposed to have been killed.----business was dull, and the season very wet. south america. from chili, we have news of another insurrection. the term of office of the late president, gen. bulnes, expired on the th of september. in august the new election had taken place, and resulted in the choice of don manuel montt over his opponent, gen. cruz. montt was a successful lawyer of santiago, and had held a post in the cabinet of the former administration. he was brought forward as the candidate of the government, which rendered him exceedingly obnoxious to the people. his opponent, gen. cruz, had been one of the heroes of the revolution and enjoyed great popularity with the army and a large portion of the people, especially of the province of conception, of which he was the chief officer. fearing his influence then upon the election, the government removed him, and this created great disaffection among the people. loud threats were heard, that montt, who had received a very large majority, should not be inaugurated: the government, nevertheless, steadily went on with their preparations for that event. the revolt first broke out at coquimbo, on the th of september, where the disaffected party deposed and banished the government officers, seized the custom-house with about $ , , and levied forced loans from many of the wealthy inhabitants. they then seized the steamer "fire-fly," belonging to an english gentleman, and sent her to conception, the stronghold of gen. cruz, to arouse his friends to a similar movement there. an outbreak had already taken place in that department; the insurgents had been very successful--banished all the old officers, and appointed new ones, and seized the chilian mail steamer, with $ , belonging to the government. up to this time, gen. cruz had kept himself aloof from the movement, and had counseled his friends against it. feeling satisfied with their success, they determined to await the action of the other provinces. meanwhile, the government having heard of the revolt, and seeing that it was confined to these two departments, took active measures for its suppression. a detachment of infantry, consisting of or men, was sent to valparaiso, but was induced to march to join the insurgents in coquimbo. intelligence of this defection created the most intense excitement at the capital, and the city was at once put under martial-law, and a company of artillery was sent against the deserters, who were all brought back without bloodshed, within forty-eight hours. their leaders were thrown into prison, and would probably be shot. other troops were sent to the disaffected region, and the few ships belonging to the chilian navy were sent to blockade the ports of coquimbo and talcahuano. meantime, the inauguration of president montt took place on the th of september, the anniversary of chilian independence, and that day as well as the th, and th, were devoted to magnificent festivities at santiago. gen. bulnes had left for conception, to raise troops for the government on the road, and put himself at their head. there were rumors that he had been compelled to fall back, and that gen. cruz had put himself at the head of the movement in conception. he had issued a proclamation to the army, and authorized a steamer to cruise in his service. at coquimbo, gen. correa was in command of the insurgent forces, and it was reported that he had forced the government troops under gen. guzman, to fall back. the british admiral, on hearing of the seizure of the "fire-fly" steamer, had sent two steam-frigates to recover her and demand indemnity. one of them, the _gorgon_, captured her at coquimbo, and the commander had entered into a convention with the party in power there, agreeing to raise the blockade of that port, on their agreeing to pay $ , indemnity to mr. lambert, and $ , as ransom for the steamer, which he had seized as a pirate, "provided the british admiral should decide that he had a right to seize her." great dissatisfaction has been felt among the foreign residents at the terms of this convention. both the british and american squadrons were watchfully protecting the commerce of their respective countries. the issue of the contest between the government and the insurgents has not yet reached us, but the latest advices state that the government felt confident in its ability to repress the insurrection; its strength and resources are shown by the fact that it had remitted $ , to england, to meet dividends and canal bonds. we have further news of interest from buenos ayres. our intelligence of last month left oribe, with a large force, on the th of july, in daily expectation of having a battle with the brazilian troops under urquiza and garzon--each contending for dominion over uruguay. the contest seems to have been ended without a fight. as oribe advanced against the allied troops, he lost his men by desertion in great numbers, and by the end of august six thousand of his cavalry had joined the standard of urquiza, whose strength was rapidly increased. finding the force against him to be such as to forbid all hope of a successful battle, oribe seems to have abandoned all hope. he had made up his mind to evacuate the oriental territory, and for that purpose had requested the french admiral to convey him, with the argentine troops, to buenos ayres. this request had been refused: and this refusal led to new desertions from oribe's force. rosas was still in the field, but would be compelled to surrender. mexico. we have intelligence from mexico to the th of october. the political condition of the country was one of great embarrassment and peril. dangers seem to threaten the country from every quarter. on the southern border is the danger growing out of the grant to the united states of right of way across the isthmus of tehuantepec. if the railroad is built there, it is feared that the energy and business enterprise which the americans will infuse into that section of the country, will gradually americanize it, and thus lead inevitably to its separation from mexico. on the other hand, if the grant is revoked, there is great danger of war with the united states, which could end only in renewed loss of territory. upon the northwest again, there is a prospect of invasion from california. thousands of the adventurous inhabitants of that state are settling in the western section of mexico and preparing the way for its separation from the central government. a still more serious danger menaces them from the northern departments, in which, as was mentioned in our last number, a revolution has broken out which promises to be entirely successful. later advices confirm this prospect. after taking reynosa, gen. caravajal, the leader of the revolution, marched to matamoras, which he reached on the th of october, and forthwith attacked the place, which had been prepared for an obstinate defense, under gen. avalos. several engagements between the opposing forces had taken place, and the besieged army is said to have lost two hundred men. the inhabitants of matamoras had been forced to leave, part of the town had been twice on fire, and a great amount of property was destroyed. but the city still held out. the general government had addressed a note, through the minister of war, under date of september , to the governors of the northern states, expressing confidence in their fidelity and urging them to spare no effort to crush the revolt. the governors had replied to the requisitions upon them for troops, that their departments were not injured by the revolution and that they would not aid its suppression. this fact shows that the movement has decided strength among the mexicans themselves. the legislature of the state of vera cruz has passed a resolution requesting congress to charter a railroad from vera cruz to acapulco, by way of mexico. a good deal of hostility is evinced to a reported design of the pope to send a nuncio to the capital.--the british minister has demanded from mexico a judicial decree in favor of british creditors, and has menaced the government with a blockade of their ports as the alternative.--there had been a military revolt of part of the troops in yucatan, which had been suppressed, and six of the soldiers shot. great britain. the arrival of kossuth and the closing of the great exhibition, are the two events by which the month in england has been distinguished. the great hungarian received a very cordial welcome. he came to gibraltar from constantinople by the united states steam frigate mississippi, which had been sent out by the american government to convey him to the united states. on reaching marseilles he proposed to go through france to england, for the purpose of leaving his children there; and then to meet the mississippi again at gibraltar. the french government refused him permission to pass through france. the receipt of this refusal excited a good deal of feeling among the people of marseilles, who gathered in immense numbers to testify their regard for the illustrious exile, and their regret at the action of their government. in reply to their manifestations, kossuth addressed them a letter of thanks, which was published in _le peuple_ at marseilles. in this he merely alluded to the action of the government and assured them that he did not hold the french people responsible for it. he then proceeded in the frigate to gibraltar, where, after staying two or three days, and receiving the utmost civilities of the british officers there, he embarked on board the british steamer madrid, in which he reached southampton on the d of october. a large concourse of people met him on the wharf and escorted him, with great enthusiasm and hearty cheering, to the residence of the mayor. in answer to the loud cheers with which he was greeted, he came out upon the balcony and briefly addressed the crowd, warmly thanking them for their welcome and expressing the profoundest gratitude to england for the aid she had given to his deliverance from prison.--the same day an address from the people of southampton was presented to him in the town hall, to which he replied at some length. he spoke of the feeling with which he had always studied the character and institutions of england, and said that it was her municipal institutions which had preserved to hungary some spirit of public life and constitutional liberty, against the hostile acts of austria. the doctrine of centralization had been fatal to france and other european nations. it was the foe of liberty--the sure agent of absolute power. he attributed much of england's freedom to her municipal institutions. for himself, he regarded these demonstrations of respect as paid to the political principles he represented, rather than his person. he believed that england would not allow russia to control the destinies of europe--that her people would not assist the ambition of a few families, but the moral welfare and dignity of humanity. he hoped to see some of those powerful associations of english people, by which so much is done for political rights, directing their attention, and extending their powerful aid to hungary. for himself life was of no value, except as he could make use of it for the liberty of his own country and the benefit of humanity. he took the expression of respect by which he had been met, as an encouragement to go on in that way which he had taken for the aim of his life, and which he hoped the blessings of the almighty, and the sympathy of the people of england and of generous hearts all over the world, might help to carry to a happy issue. it was a much greater merit to acknowledge a principle in adversity than to pay a tribute to its success. he thanked them for their sympathy and assured them of the profound admiration he had always entertained for the free institutions of england. on the th, kossuth went to the country house of the mayor, and on the th attended a _déjeûner_ at winchester, where he made a long speech, being mainly an historical outline of the hungarian revolution. he explained the original character of hungary, as a constitutional monarchy, and its position between russia, austria, and turkey. its constitution was aristocratic, but its aristocracy was not rich, nor was it opposed to the constitutional rights of the people. hungary had a parliament and county municipal institutions, and to the latter he attributed the preservation of the people's rights. all the orders of the government to any municipal magistrate, must be forwarded through county meetings, where they were discussed, and sometimes withheld. they thus formed a strong barrier against the encroachments of the government; and no county needed such a barrier more, for during more than three centuries, the house of hapsburg had not at its head a man who was a friend to political freedom. the house of hapsburg ruled hungary, but only according to treaties--one of the conditions of which was, that they were to rule the people of hungary only through hungarian institutions, and according to its own laws. austria had succeeded in absorbing all the other provinces connected with her--but her attempts upon hungary had proved unsuccessful. her constant efforts to subdue hungary had convinced her rulers that to the nobles alone her defense ought not to be intrusted, but that all the people should have an equal interest in their constitutional rights. this was the direction of public opinion in hungary in . the first effort of the patriotic party, therefore, was to emancipate the people--to relieve the peasantry from their obligation to give days out of every year to their landlords, one-ninth of their produce to their seigneur, and one-tenth to the bishop. this was only effected by slow degrees. in the long parliament, from to , a measure was carried giving the peasant the right to purchase exemption from the duties with the consent of his landlord. this, however, was vetoed by the regent. the government then set itself to work to corrupt the county constituencies, by which members of the commons were chosen. they appointed officers to be present at every meeting, and to control every act. this system the liberal party resisted, because they wished the county meetings to be free. and this struggle went on until , just before the breaking out of the french revolution. the revolution in vienna followed that event, and this threw all power into the hands of kossuth and his party. he at once proposed to emancipate the peasantry, and to indemnify the landlords from the land. the measure was carried at once, through both houses; and kossuth and his friends then went on, to give to every inhabitant a right to vote, and to establish representative institutions, including a responsible ministry. the emperor gave his sanction to all these laws. yet very soon after a rebellion was incited by austria among the serbs, who resisted the new hungarian government, and declared their independence. the palatine, representing the king, called for an army to put down the rebellion, and jellachich, who was its leader, was proclaimed a traitor. but soon successes in italy enabled the emperor to act more openly, and he recognized jellachich as his friend, and commissioned him to march with an army against hungary. he did so, but was driven back. the emperor then appointed him governor; but the hungarians would not receive him. then came an open war with austria, in which the hungarians were successful. reliable information was then received that russia was about to join austria in the war, and that hungary had nowhere to look for aid. it was then proposed that, if hungary was forced to contend against two mighty nations, the reward of success should be its independence. what followed, all know. he declared his belief that, but for the treason of görgey, the hungarians could have defeated the united armies of their foes. but the house of hapsburg, as a dynasty, exists no more. it merely vegetates at the whim of the mighty czar, to whom it has become the obedient servant. but if england would only say that russia should not thus set her foot on the neck of hungary, all might yet be well. hungary would have knowledge, patriotism, loyalty, and courage enough to dispose of its own domestic matters, as it is the sovereign right of every nation to do. this was the cause for which he asked the generous sympathy of the english people; and he thanked them cordially for the attention they had given to his remarks. on the same occasion mr. cobden spoke in favor of the intervention of england to prevent russia from crushing hungary, and obtaining control of europe, and mr. j. r. croskey, the american consul at southampton, expressed the opinion that the time would come, if it had not already come, when the united states would be forced into taking more than an interest in european politics. kossuth again addressed the company, thanking them for the interest taken in the welfare of his unhappy country, and expressing the hope that, supported by this sympathy, the hopes expressed might be realized at no distant day. he spoke also of the different ways in which nations may promote the happiness and welfare of their people. england, he said, wants no change, because she is governed by a constitutional monarchy, under which all classes in the country enjoy the full benefits of free institutions. the consequence is, the people of england are masters of their own fates--defenders of her institutions--obedient to the laws, and vigilant in their behavior--and the country has become, and must forever continue, under such institutions, to be great, glorious, and free. then the united states is a republic--and though governed in a different way from england, the people of the united states have no motive for desiring a change--they have got liberty, freedom, and every means for the full development of their social condition and position. under their government, the people of the united states have, in sixty years, arrived at a position of which they may well be proud--and the english people, too, have good reason to be proud of their descendants and the share which she has had in the planting of so great a nation on the other side of the atlantic. it was most gratifying to see so great and glorious a nation thriving under a constitution but little more than sixty years old. it is not every republic in which freedom is found to exist, and he said he could cite examples in proof of his assertion--and he deeply lamented that there is among them one great and glorious nation where the people do not yet enjoy that liberty which their noble minds so well fit them for. it is not every monarchy that is good because under it you enjoy full liberty and freedom. therefore he felt that it is not the living under a government called a republic, that will secure the liberties of the people, but that quite as just and honest laws may exist under a monarchy as under a republic. if he wanted an illustration, he need only examine the institutions of england and the united states, to show that under different forms of government equal liberty can and does exist. it was to increase the liberties of the people that they had endeavored to widen the basis on which their constitution rested, so as to include the whole population, and thus give them an interest in the maintenance of social order. m. kossuth had visited london privately, mainly to consult a physician concerning his health, which is delicate. he intended to remain in england until the th of november, and then sail for new york in one of the american steamers. the great exhibition was closed oct. with public ceremonies. the building was densely filled with spectators, and there was a general attendance of all who had been officially connected with the exhibition in any way. viscount canning read the report of the council of the chairmen of juries, rehearsing the manner in which they had endeavored to discharge the duties devolved upon them. there had been thirty-four acting juries, composed equally of british subjects and foreigners. the chairmen of these juries were formed into a council, to determine the conditions upon which prizes should be awarded, and to secure, so far as possible, uniformity in the action of the juries. it was ultimately decided that only two kinds of medals should be awarded, one the _prize_ medal, to be conferred wherever a certain standard of excellence in production or workmanship had been attained, and to be awarded by the juries: the other the _council_ medal, to be awarded by the council, upon the recommendation of a jury, for some important novelty of invention or application, either in material or processes of manufacture, or originality combined with great beauty of design. the number of prize medals awarded was : of council medals . honorable mention was made of other exhibitors whose works did not entitle them to medals. the whole number of exhibitors was about , . prince albert responded to this report, on behalf of the royal commissioners, thanking the jurors and others for the care and assiduity with which they had performed their duties, and closing with the expression of the hope that the exhibition might prove to be a happy means of promoting unity among nations, and peace and good will among the various races of mankind. the honor of knighthood has been conferred upon mr. paxton, the designer of the building, mr. cubitt, the engineer, and mr. fox, the contractor. the total number of visits to the exhibition has been , , : schools and twenty-three parties of agricultural laborers have visited it. the entire sum received from the exhibition has been £ , _s._ _d._ of which £ , _s._ was taken at the doors. about £ of bad silver was taken--nearly all on the half-crown and five shilling days. of the council medals distributed went to the united kingdom, to france, to prussia, to the united states, to austria, to bavaria, each to belgium, switzerland, and tuscany, each to holland, russia, rome, egypt, the east india company, spain, tunis, and turkey, and one each to prince albert, mr. paxton, mr. fox, and mr. cubitt. the sum of £ , from the british revenue for the quarter ending october , is available toward the payment of the national debt. the sum of £ , , has been appropriated to that object during the year. the queen returned on the th of october from a protracted tour in scotland. she visited liverpool and manchester on her return, and in both cities was received with great enthusiasm. serious difficulties have arisen in ireland out of the loans made by government to the various unions for the relief. as the time for repaying these advances comes round, the country is found to be unable to pay the taxes levied for that purpose. these rates run from five to ten shillings in the pound. in some of the unions a disposition to repudiate the debt has been shown--but this has generally proved to be only a desire to postpone it until it can be done without oppressively taxing the property. the question has excited a great deal of feeling, and the difficulty is not yet surmounted. the public is anxiously awaiting the details of lord john russell's promised reform bill. it is of course understood that its leading object will be to extend the elective franchise, and the bare thought of this has stimulated the organs of toryism to prophetic lamentations over the ruin which so radical a movement will certainly bring upon the british empire. english colonial affairs engage a good deal of attention. at the cape of good hope the government is engaged in a war with the native kaffirs, which does not make satisfactory progress. at the latest accounts, coming down to september th, the hostile natives continued to vex the frontiers, and sir harry smith, the military commandant, had found it necessary to lead new forces against them. a severe battle was fought on the st of september, and repeated engagements had been had subsequently, in all which great injury had been inflicted upon the english troops. it was supposed that ten thousand men would be required, in addition to the force already there, to restore peace to the disaffected district. the construction of a railway through egypt, by english capitalists, has met with serious obstacles in the refusal of the turkish sultan to allow his subject, the pacha of egypt, to treat with foreigners for the purpose of allowing the work to go on. he has, however, given the english to understand, that he is not hostile to the railway, but is only unwilling that it should become a pretext for making the pacha independent of him. lord palmerston acquiesces in the justice of this view; and there will probably be no difficulty in arranging the whole matter. france. political affairs in france have taken a remarkable turn within the past month. the president persisted in his determination to be a candidate for re-election, and finding that he could not receive the support of the majority as the government was constituted, resolved upon a bold return to universal suffrage. having been elected to the presidency by universal suffrage, and finding that the restricted suffrage would ruin him, he determined to repeal the law of may, which disfranchised three millions of voters, and throw himself again upon the whole people of france. he accordingly demanded from his ministers their consent to the abrogation of that law. they refused, and on the th of october all tendered their resignation. they were at once accepted by the president, but the ministry were to retain their places until a new one could be formed. this proved to be a task of great difficulty. it was officially announced that the president was preparing his message for the approaching session of the assembly, and that in this document he would, first, lay down in very distinct terms, the abrogation of the law of may ; secondly, that he will express his irrevocable resolution to maintain the policy of order, of conservation, and authority, and that he would make no concession to anarchical ideas, under whatever flag or name they may shelter themselves. a new ministry was definitively formed on the th of october, constituted as follows: _justice_ m. corbin. _foreign affairs_ m. turgot. _public instruction_ m. c. giraud. _interior_ m. de thorogny. _agriculture and commerce_ m. de casiabiauca. _public works_ m. lacrosse. _war_ gen. leroy de st. arnaud. _marine_ m. hippolyte fourtoul. _finance_ m. blondel. _prefect of police_ m. de maupas. in several instances, within a few weeks past, the republican representatives in the various departments of france, have been subjected to gross insults from the police and other agents of the government. m. sartin, the representative for allier, has submitted a statement to the assembly, saying that while dining with a friend at montlucon, two brigadiers of gendarmerie entered and told the company that, as the company exceeded fifteen, it was a political meeting within the prohibition of the government. m. sartin produced his medal of representative of the people, and claimed immunity. he was told that no such immunity existed, except during the session of the assembly. quite a scuffle ensued, in which one or two persons were wounded. these proceedings soon collected a crowd, and the people declared that no more arrests should be made. several squadrons of cavalry soon arrived, and as the result, thirteen persons were sent to prison.--in saucerre also, the magistrates having arrested three persons, one of whom was the former mayor, the inhabitants rose and attempted a rescue. the military in the neighborhood collected and dispersed the crowd, twenty-six of whom were arrested and committed to prison. southern europe. there is no news of special interest from southern europe. we have already noticed the letters of mr. gladstone to lord aberdeen, exposing the abominations of the neapolitan government, in its persecution of state prisoners--together with the official reply which the king of naples has caused to be made to it. lord palmerston sent a copy of mr. gladstone's letters to the british representatives at each european court, with instructions to lay them before the court to which he was accredited. the neapolitan minister in london sent to lord palmerston a book written in reply to mr. gladstone's letters, by an english gentleman named m'farlane, and requested him to send this also to those british representatives who had been furnished with the other. lord p. replied to this request in a spirited letter, declaring his object to have been to arouse the public sentiment of europe against the cruelties and outrageous violations of law and justice of which the government of naples is constantly guilty, and saying that the king of naples was very much mistaken, if he believed public opinion could be controlled or changed by such a pitiful diatribe as that of mr. m'farlane. the only way of conciliating the sentiment of europe upon this subject, was by remedying the evils which had excited its indignation. the courts of germany, austria, and russia, to which mr. gladstone's letters were sent, have complained of this act as an unwarrantable interference, on the part of lord palmerston, with the internal administration of naples. in the german diet, at frankfort, count thun protested against the course pursued by the british minister, and maintained that to criticise the criminal justice of other countries is a most flagrant breach of the rights of nations. if english statesmen could interfere with the conduct of the king of naples, for imprisoning men for supporting the constitution which he had sworn to maintain, they might also interfere with the violations of their oaths, as well as of justice, of which the governments of austria, saxony, baden, and other countries had been guilty; and then, said he, what was to become of kingly freedom and independence? the diet, on his motion, resolved to express to the british minister their astonishment at the course the british government had pursued. in prussia vigorous preparations are made for anticipated difficulties in france in the spring of , after the presidential election. the troops of all the german states are to be put on a full war establishment, and to be ready for immediate action early in the spring. the western fortresses have received orders to be in readiness for war. a general congress has been held of representatives from the several german states, to make some common arrangement for the management of the electric telegraph. they have agreed that all messages shall be forwarded without interruption, that a common scale of charges shall be adopted, and that the receipts shall go into a common fund, to be distributed among the several states in proportion to the number of miles of telegraphic communication running through them. the german diet has resolved that the annexation of the prussian polish provinces to the confederation two years ago, was illegal and void. it has also determined to take into consideration the claims of the ritter party in hanover, to have the abolition of their nobility privileges revoked. this abolition was effected during the recent revolutions, but it was done in a perfectly legal manner. the emperor of austria, not long since, wrote a letter to prince schwartzenberg, stating that the ministry would henceforth be responsible to him alone, and that he would answer for the government. this declaration, that the government was hereafter to be absolute, excited deep feeling throughout the country, and it was supposed that it might lead to a political crisis. on the th of october, however, the ministers took the oath of obedience to the emperor, under this new definition of their powers and responsibilities. the emperor recently visited lombardy, where he had a very cold reception. in spain changes have been made in the administration of the island of cuba. a colonial council has been created, which is to have charge of all affairs relating to the colonial possessions, except such as are specially directed by other ministers. the captain-general of each colony is to conduct its affairs under the direction of the council. it is said that the spanish government intends to relax its customs regulations in favor of england. from india and the east late intelligence has been received. the indian frontier continued undisturbed: the troops suffered greatly from sickness. there had been an outbreak in malabar, which caused great loss of life. the rebellion in china still goes on, but details of its progress are lacking. editor's table. time and space--what are they? do they belong to the world without, or to the world within, or to some mysterious and inseparable union of both departments of being? we hope the reader will be under no alarm from such a beginning, or entertain any fear of being treated to a dish of indigestible metaphysics. the terms we have placed at the head of our editor's table, as suggestive of appropriate thoughts for the closing month of the year, are, indeed, the deepest in philosophy. in all ages have they been the watchwords of the schools. aristotle failed in the attempt to measure them. kant acknowledged his inability to fathom the profundity of their significance. and yet there are none, perhaps, that enter more into the musings of that common philosophy which is for all minds, for all ages, and for all conditions in life. who has not thought on the enigma of time and space, each baffling every effort the mind may make for its pure and perfect conception without some aid from the notion of its inseparable correlative? where is the man, or child even, who has not been drawn to some contemplation of that wondrous stream on whose bosom we are sailing, but of which we can conceive neither origin nor outlet; that mysterious river ever sweeping us along as by some irresistible _outward_ force, and yet seeming to be so strangely affected by the internal condition of each soul that is voyaging upon its current--at one time the scenery upon its banks gliding by with a placid swiftness that arrests the attention even of the least reflective--at another, the mind recalled from a reverie which has seemingly carried us onward many a league from the last remembered observation of our mental longitude, but only to discover, with surprise, that the objects on either shore have hardly receded a perceptible distance in the perspective of our spiritual panorama. we have passed the equinoctial line, and are under fair sail for the enchanted kingdom of candaya, when, like don quixotte and sancho on the smooth-flowing ebro, we start up to find the rocks and trees, and all the familiar features of the same old "real world" yet full in sight, and that we have scarcely drifted a stone's throw from the point of our departure. it is astonishing to what a distance the mental wanderings may extend in the briefest periods. the idea was never better expressed than by a pious old deacon, who used most feelingly to lament this sin of wandering thoughts in the midst of holy services. between the first and fourth lines of a hymn, he would say, the soul may rove to the very ends of the earth. the fixed outward measure arresting the attention by its marked commencement and its closing cadence, presented the extent of such subjective excursions in their most startling light. childhood, too, furnishes vivid illustrations of the same psychological phenomena--childhood, that musing introspective period, which, on some accounts, may be regarded as the most metaphysical portion of human life. who has not some reminiscences of this kind belonging to his boyish existence? how in health the morning has seemed to burst upon him in apparent simultaneousness with the moment when his head first dropped upon the pillow, and he has wondered to think how mysteriously he had leaped the interval which unerring outward indications had compelled him to assign to the measured continuity of his existence! how has he, on the other hand, in sickness, marked the unvaried ticking of the clock through the long dark night, and fancied that the slow-pacing hours would never flee away. his one sense and thought of pain, had arrested the current of his being, and even the outer world seemed to stand still, as though in sympathy with the suspended movement of his own inner life. in experiences such as these, the mind of the child has been brought directly upon the deepest problem in psychology. he has been on the shore of the great mystery, and kant, and fichte, and coleridge could go no farther, except, it may be, to show how utterly unfathomable for our present faculties, the mystery is. philosophy comes back ever to the same unexplained position. she can not conceive of mind as existing out of time and space, and she can not well conceive of time and space as wholly separate from the idea of successive thought, or, in other words, a perceiving and measuring mind. such phenomena present themselves in our most ordinary existence. let a man be in the habit of tracing back his roving thoughts, until he connects them with the last remembered link from which the wandering reverie commenced, and he will be amazed to find how long a time may in a few moments have passed through the mind. the minute hand has barely changed its position, and not only images and thoughts, but hopes, and fears, and moral states have been called out, which, under other circumstances, might have occupied an outward period extending it in almost any assignable ratio. indeed it is impossible to assign any limit here. as far as our moral life is measured by actual spiritual exercise, a man may sin as much in a minute as, at another time, in a day. he may have had, in the same brief interval, a heaven of love and joy, which, in a different inward condition of the spirit, months and years would hardly have sufficed to realize. such cases are familiar to all reflective minds. even as they take place in ordinary health, they may well produce the conviction, that there are mysteries enough for our study in our most common experience, without resorting to mesmerism or spiritual rappings. it is, however, in sickness, that such phenomena assume their most startling aspect, and furnish subjects of the most serious thought. the apparent decay of the mind in connection with that of the body--the apparent injuries the one sustains from the maladies of the other, have furnished arguments for the infidel, and painful doubts for the unwilling skeptic. but there is another aspect to facts of this kind. they sometimes show themselves in a way which must be more startling to the materialist than to the believer. they furnish evidence that the present body, instead of being essential to the spirit's highest exercises, is only its temporary regulator, intended for a period to _limit_ its powers, by keeping them in enchained harmony with that outer world of nature in which the human spirit is to receive its first intellectual and moral training. if it does not originate the _law_ of successive thought, it governs and measures its _movement_. through the dark closet to which it confines the soul, images and ideas are made to pass, one by one, in orderly march; and while the body is in health, and does not sleep, and holds steady intercourse with the world around us, it performs this restraining and regulative office with some good degree of uniformity. viewed merely in reference to its own inner machinery, the clock may have any kind or degree of movement. it may perform the apparent revolutions of days and years, in seconds and fragments of seconds. but attach to it a pendulum of a proper length, and its rates are immediately adjusted to the steady course of external nature. the new regulative power is determined by the mass and gravity of the earth. it is what the diurnal rotation causes it to be. the latter, again, is linked with the annual revolution, and this, again, with some far-off millennial, or millio-millennial, cycle of the sun, and so on, until the little time-piece on our editor's table, is in harmony with the _magnus annus_, the great cosmical year, the _one_ all-embracing time of the universe. the regulative action of the body upon the soul, although far less uniform, presents a fair analogy. in ordinary health, the measured flow of thought and feeling will bear some relation to the circulation of the blood, the course of respiration, and those general cycles of the body, or human _micro-cosmos_, which have acquired and preserved a steady rate of movement. it is true that there are times, even in health, when the thoughts burst from this regulative control, imparting their own impetus to the nervous fluid, giving a hurried agitation to the quick-panting breath, and sending the blood in maddened velocity through the heart and veins. but it is in sickness that such a breaking away from the ordinary check becomes most striking. the pendulum removed, or the spring broken, how rapidly spin round the whizzing wheels by which objective time is measured. and so of our spiritual state. in that harmony between the inward and the outward, in which health consists, we are insensible to the presence of the regulative power. in the slightest sicknesses we feel the dragging chain, and time moves slow, and sometimes almost stops. it is in this crisis of severe disease that a deeper change takes place. some link is snapped; and then how inconceivably rapid may be, and sometimes is, the course of thought. now the long-buried past comes up, and moves before us, not in slow succession, but in that swift array which would seem to place it altogether upon the canvas. at other times, the soul goes out into a self-created future; a dream it may be called, but having, as far as the spirit is concerned, no less of authentic moral and intellectual interest on that account. suppose even the whole physical world to be all a dream. what then? no article of moral truth would be in the least changed; joy and suffering, right and wrong, would be no less real. might they not be regarded as even the more tremendously real, from the very fact that they would be, in that case, the only realities in the universe? nothing here is really gained by any play upon that most indefinable of all terms--reality. if that is _real_ which most deeply affects us, and enters most intimately into our conscious being, then in a most _real_ sense may it be affirmed, that years sometimes pass in the crisis of a fever, and that a life-time--an intellectual and a moral life-time--may be lived in what, to spectators, may have seemed to have been but a moment of syncope, or of returning sensibility to outward things. such facts should startle us. they give us a glimpse of those fearful energies which even now the spirit possesses, and which may exhibit themselves with a thousand-fold more power, when all the balance-wheels and regulating pendulums shall have been taken off, and the soul left to develop that higher law of its being which now remains, in a great degree, suspended and inert, like the chemist's latent heat and light. in illustration of such a view, we might refer to recorded facts having every mark of authenticity. they come to as from all ages. there is the strange story which plutarch gives us of the trance of thespesius, and of the immense series of wonders he witnessed during the short period of apparent death. strikingly similar to this is that remarkable account of rev. william tennent which must be familiar to most of our readers. something analogous is reported of that strange inner life to which we lately called attention in the account of rachel baker. to the same effect the story, told by addison, we think, of the dervise and his magic water, possessed of such wondrous properties, that the moment between the plunging and the withdrawing of the head, became, subjectively, a life-time filled with events of most absorbing interest. but that may be called an oriental romance. another instance we would relate from our own personal acquaintance with the one who was himself the subject of a similar supercorporeal and supersensual action of the spirit. he was a man bearing a high reputation for piety and integrity. it was at the close of a day devoted to sacred services of an unusually solemn kind that he related to us what, in the familiar language of certain denominations of christians, might be called his religious experience. it was, indeed, of no ordinary nature, and there was one part, especially, which made no ordinary impression on our memory. we can only, in the most rapid manner, touch upon the main facts, as they bear upon the thoughts we have been presenting. in the crisis of a violent typhus fever, during a period which could not have occupied, at the utmost, more than half an hour, a subjective life was lived, extending not merely to hours and days, but through long years of varied and most thrilling experience. he had traveled to foreign lands, and encountered every species of adventure. he had amassed wealth and lost it. he had formed new social bonds with their natural accompaniments of joy and grief. he had committed crimes and suffered for them. he had been in exile, cast out, and homeless. he had been in battle and in shipwreck. he had been sick and recovered. and, finally, he had died, and gone to judgment, and received the condemnation of the lost. ages had passed in outer darkness, during all which the exercises of the soul were as active, and as distinct, and as coherently arranged, as at any period of his existence. at length a fairly perceptible beam of light, coming seemingly from an immense distance, steals faintly into his prison-house. nearer, and nearer still, it comes, although years and years are occupied with its slow, yet steady approach. but it does increase. fuller, and clearer, and higher, grows the light of hope, until all around him, and above him, is filled with the benign glory of its presence. he dares once more look upward, and as he does so, he beholds beaming upon him the countenance of his watching friend, bending over him with the announcement that the crisis is past, and that coolness is once more returning to his burning frame. only a prolonged dream, it might perhaps be said. but dreams in general run parallel with the movement of outward time, or if they do go beyond it, it is never by any such enormously magnified excess. but besides the apparent length of such a trance, there was also this striking and essential difference. dreams may be more or less vivid; but all possess this common character, that in the waking state we immediately recognize them as dreams; and this not merely by way of inference from our changed condition, but because, in themselves, they possess that unmistakably subjective, or dream-like aspect, we can never separate from their outward contemplation. they almost immediately put on the dress of dreams. the air of reality, so fresh on our first awakening, begins straightway to gather a shade about it. as they grow dimmer and dimmer, the very effort at recalling only drives them farther off, and renders them more indistinct, just as certain optical delusions ever melt away from the gaze that is directed most steadily toward them. thus the phantoms of our sleep dissolve rapidly "into thin air." as we strive to hold fast their features in the memory, they vanish farther and farther from the view, until we can just discern their pale, ghostly forms receding, in the distance, through the "gate of horn" into the land of irrecoverable oblivion. this characteristic of ordinary dreaming has ever furnished the ground of a favorite comparison both in sacred and classical poetry--"like a vision of the night"--"as a dream when one awaketh"--"like a morning dream"-- tenuesque recessit in auras-- par levibus ventis, volucrique simillima somno. but these visions of the trance, are, in this respect, of a different, as well as deeper, nature. the subject of our narrative most solemnly averred that the scenes and feelings of this strange experience were ever after not only real in appearance, but the most vividly real of any part of his remembered existence. they never passed away into the place and form of dreams. he knew they were subjective, but only from outward testimony, and for some time even this was hardly sufficient to prevent the deep impression exhibiting itself in his speech and intercourse with the world to which he had returned. to his deeper consciousness they ever seemed realities, ever to form a part of his most veritable being. our common dreams are more closely connected with the outer world, and the nearest sphere of sensation. they are generally suggested by obscurely felt bodily impressions. they belong to a state semi-conscious of the presence of things around us. but the others come from a deeper source. they are not such stuff as dreams are made of-- but belong to the more interior workings of the spirit, when disease has released it, either wholly or partially, from the restrictive outward influence. still, whatever may be our theory of explanation, the thought we would set forth remains equally impressive. such facts as these show the amazing power of the soul in respect to time. they teach us that in respect to our spiritual, as well as our material organization, we are indeed "most fearfully and wonderfully made." they startle us with the supposition that, in another state of existence, time may be mainly, if not wholly what the spiritual action causes it to appear. we have heard of well-attested cases, in which the whole past, even to its most minute events, has flashed before the soul, in the dying moments, or during some brief period of imminent danger arousing the spirit to a preternatural energy. if there be truth in such experiences, then no former exercise or emotion of the soul is ever lost. they belong to us still, just as much as our present thought, or our present sensation, and at some period may start up again to sleep no more, causing us actually to realize that conception of boethius which now appears only a scholastic subtlety--_a whole life ever in one_, carrying with it a consciousness of its whole abiding presence in every moment of its existence--_tota simul et interminabilis vitæ possessio_. but we may give the thought a more plain and practical turn. even now, it may be said, what we have lived forms still a part of our being. however it may stand in respect to outward time, _it is never past to us_. we are too much in the habit of regarding ourselves only in reference to what may _seem_ our present moral state. we need the corrective power of the idea that we are, not simply what we may now _appear_ to be, but all we ever have been, and that such we must forever be, unless in the psychology and theology of a higher dispensation there is some mode of separating us from our former selves. now the soul is broken and dispersed. then will it come together, and as in the poetic imagination of the resurrection of the body, bone meets its fellow-bone, and dust hastens to join once more in living organization with its kindred dust, so in the soul's _anastasis_ will all the lost and scattered thoughts come home again to their spiritual abode, and from the chaos of the past will stand forth forever one fixed and changeless being, the discordant and deformed result of a false and evil life, or a glorious organization in harmony with all that is fair and good in the universe. * * * * * geology has created difficulties in the interpretation of certain parts of the scriptures; but these are more than balanced by a most important aid, which in another respect, it is rendering to the cause of faith. the former are fast giving way before that sound interpretation of the primeval record which was maintained by some of the most learned and pious in the church, centuries before the new science was ever dreamed of. the latter is gathering strength from every fresh discovery. we refer to the proof geology is furnishing of the late origin of the human race, and of the absolute necessity of ascribing it to a supernatural cause. while there has been an ascending scale of orders, every new order has commenced with the most mature specimens. the subsequent history has been ever one of degeneracy, until a higher power came to the aid of exhausted nature, and made another step of real progress in the supernatural organization of a superior type. the largest fishes, the most powerful reptiles, were first in the periods of their respective families. and thus it went on until the introduction of the human species. an attenuating series of physical and hyper-physical powers forms the only theory which, on the fair baconian induction, will account for the phenomena presented. there are scientific as well as theological bigots, and both are equally puzzled to explain the facts on either set of principles to the exclusion of the other. it is chiefly, however, in regard to man that the argument acquires its great importance; as bearing directly on that first article, and fundamental support of all faith--the veritable existence of the supernatural. this is not the same with faith in the scriptures, and yet is most intimately connected with it. with the utter rejection of the latter, must soon go all available belief in a personal deity or a personal future state; and so, on the contrary, whatever in science shuts up the soul to a clear belief in the supernatural, even in its most remote aspect, is so much gained, ultimately, for the cause of the written oracles. and this is just what geology is now doing. she proves, beyond doubt, the late introduction of man upon the earth, and thus compels us to admit the most supernatural of all known events within a period comparatively very near to our own. the fact that, after a very few thousand years, the light of history is quenched in total darkness, presenting no farther trace of man or human things, goes far to prove his prior non-existence. but it might, perhaps, be maintained, that of former generations, only the merest fragments had, from time to time, survived the wreck of physical convulsions, in which all outward memoranda of their older existence had wholly perished. such memorials, it is true, might have departed from the surface, but then geology must have found them. she has dug up abundant remains of types and orders, which, from their position in the strata, she is compelled to assign to a period anterior to that of man. there would have been no lack of zeal on the part of some of her votaries. more than once, on the supposed discovery of some old bone in a wrong place (to which it had been carried by some ordinary disturbance of the deposits), have they rejoiced thereat, "like one who findeth great spoil." but the evidence is now beyond all impeachment. remains of every other type have been discovered. the relative periods of their different deposits have been ascertained. no stone, we may literally say it, has been left unturned; and yet, not a single joint or splinter of a human bone has been found to reward the search. the argument from this is of immense importance. the essence of all skepticism will be found, on analysis, to consist in a secret distrust of the very existence of any thing supernatural--a latent doubt whether, after all, every thing may not be nature, and nature every thing. _unnatural_ as it may seem, there are those who actually take delight in such a view. it hides from the consciousness a secret, yet real antipathy to the thought of a personal god, and the moral power of such an idea. whatever disturbs this feeling excites alarm, lest all the foundations of unbelief (if we may use the word of a thing which has no foundations) should be rendered insecure by the bare possibility of such _direct_ interference. hence the moral power of well attested miracles, although it has been denied, even by religious writers, that there is any such moral power. it is the felt presence of a near personal deity. it is the startling thought of the great _life_ of the universe coming very nigh to us, and revealing the latent skepticism of men's souls. although greatly transcending, it is like the effect produced by those operations of nature that startle us by their instantaneous exhibition of resistless power, and which no amount of science can prevent our regarding with reverence, or religious awe. with all our knowledge of physical laws, no man, we venture to say it, is wholly an atheist, or even a consistent naturalist, when the earth is heaving, or the lightning bolts are striking thick and fast around him. be it, then, near or remote, one unanswerable evidence of supernatural intervention gives a foundation for all faith. and this geology does. only a few centuries back, on any chronology--a mere yesterday we may say--she brings us face to face with the most stupendous of personal, miraculous interventions. no mediate stages--no transitional developments have been, or can be discovered--no links of half human, half beastly monsters, such as the old epicureans loved to imagine, and some modern savans would have been glad to find. nothing of this kind, but all at once, after ages of fishes, and reptiles, and every kind of lower animation, "a new thing upon the earth"--the wondrous human body united to that surpassingly wondrous entity, the human soul, and both new born, in all their maturity, from a previous state of non-existence. so the rocks tell us; and the rocks, we are assured, on good scientific authority, "can not deceive us" like the "poetical myths of man's unreasoning infancy." now what difficulties are there for faith after this? what is there in any of the earlier narrations of the bible that should stumble us--such as the account of the flood, or the burning of sodom, or the transactions at sinai? the supernatural once established, and in such an astounding way as this, what more natural than that the new created race should receive their earliest moral nurture directly from the source of their so recent existence? what more credible than such an early intercourse as the bible reveals--when god walked with men, and spake to them from his supernatural abode, and angels came and went on messages of reproof or mercy. how _irrational_ the skepticism, which, when compelled to admit the one will still stumble at the other, as being in itself, and aside from outward testimony, too marvelous for belief. there are those who are yet disposed to assail with desperation the doctrine of man's late supernatural origin. but the danger from that source is past. geology and the scriptures speak the same language here. there is no need of any forced exegesis to bring them into harmony. it is only of yesterday that the eternal deity has been upon the earth. his footsteps are more recent than many of those natural changes science has taken such pains to trace. geology has proved, beyond all doubt, the fact of man's _creation_; what then is there hard for faith in the revealed facts of his _redemption_? is the supernatural origin of a soul an event more easy to be believed than a series of supernatural interventions for its deliverance from moral evil, and its exaltation to a destiny worthy of its heavenly origin? editor's easy chair. next to the winter weather, which is just now beguiling the town ladies to as pretty a show of velvets and of martens, as the importers could desire--talk is centering upon that redoubtable hero, louis kossuth. we are an impulsive people, and take off our hats, one moment, with a hearty good-will and devotion; and thrust them over our ears, the next, with the most dogged contempt; and it would not be strange, therefore, if we sometimes made mistakes in our practice of civilities. we fell, naturally enough, into a momentary counter current--started by anonymous and ill-natured letter writers from the other side of the sea--in regard to kossuth. while he was riding the very topmost wave of popular admiration, a rumor that he had been uncivil and unduly exacting in his intercourse with the officers of the mississippi frigate, struck his gallant craft and threatened to whelm her under the sea she was so triumphantly riding. the opportune arrival of the mississippi, and the unanimous testimony of her officers to the respectful and altogether proper demeanor of the hungarian hero, restored him to favor and even swelled the tide which sweeps him to a higher point of popularity than any other foreigner, la fayette excepted, has ever reached in our republican country. how he has earned their respect, a biographical sketch in another part of our magazine will enable each reader to judge for himself. linked to kossuth is the new talk about the new and strange action of that gone-by hero louis napoleon. curiosity-mongers can not but be gratified at such spectacle of a republic as france just now presents; where a man is not only afraid to express his opinions, but is afraid to entertain them! it must be a gratifying scene for such old hankerers after the lusts of despotism, and the energy of emperors, as metternich, to see the loving fraternity of our sister republic, called france, running over into such heart-felt action of benevolence and liberality as characterize the diplomacy of faucher! stout emile de girardin, working away at his giant _presse_, with the same indomitable courage, and the same incongruity of impulse, which belonged to his battle for louis napoleon, now raises the war cry of a _working-man_ for president! and his reasoning is worth quoting; for it offers an honest, though sad picture of the heart of political france. "the choice lies," says he, "between louis napoleon and another. louis napoleon has the eclat of his name to work upon the ignorant millions of country voters: unless that _other_ shall have similar eclat, there is no hope. no name in france can start a cry, even now, like the name of napoleon. therefore," says girardin, "abandon the name of a man, and take the name of a _class_. choose your workingman, no matter who, and let the rally be--'the laborer, or the prince!'" there is not a little good sense in this, viewed as a matter of political strategy; but as a promise of national weal, it is fearfully vain. heaven help our good estate of the union, when we must resort to such chicanery, to guard our seat of honor, and to secure the guaranty of our freedom! * * * * * the cool air--nothing else--has quickened our pen-stroke to a side-dash at political action: we will loiter back now, in our old, gossiping way, to the pleasant current of the dinner chat. the winter-music has its share of regard; and between biscaccianti--whose american birth does not seem to lend any patriotic fervor to her triumphs--and the new opera, conversation is again set off with its rounding italian expletives, and our ladies--very many of them--show proof of their enthusiasm, by their bouquets, and their _bravos_. it would seem that we are becoming, with all our practical cast, almost as music-loving a people as the finest of foreign _dillettanti_: we defy a stranger to work his way easily and deftly into the habit of our salon talk, without meeting with such surfeit of musical _critique_, as he would hardly find at any _soirée_ of the chausée d'antin, or of grosvenor place. there is bruited just now, with fresh force, the old design of music for the million; and an opera house with five thousand seats, will be--if carried into effect--a wonder to ourselves, and to the world. * * * * * as our pen runs just now to music, it may be worth while to sketch--from parisian chronicle--an interview of the famous composer rossini, with the great musical purveyor of the old world--mr. lumley. rossini, it is well known, has lately lived in a quiet and indolent seclusion; and however much he may enjoy his honors, has felt little disposition to renew them. the english director, anxious to secure some crowning triumph for his winter campaign, and knowing well that a new composition of the great italian would be a novelty sure of success, determined to try, at the cost of an italian voyage, a personal interview. rossini lives at bologna--a gloomy old town, under the thrall and shadow of the modern gallic papacy. he inhabits an obscure house, in a dark and narrow street. mr. lumley rings his bell, and is informed by the _padrona_ that the great master has just finished his siesta, and will perhaps see him. he enters his little parlor unannounced. it is comfortably furnished--as comfort is counted in the flea-swarming houses of italy; the furniture is rich and old; the piano is covered with dust. the old master of sweet sounds is seated in a high-backed chair, with a gray cat upon his knees, and another cat dextrously poising on his lank shoulder, playing with the tassel of his velvet cap. he rises to meet the stranger with an air of _ennui_, and a look of annoyance, that seems to say, "please sir, your face is strange, and your business is unknown." "my name is lumley," says the imperturbable director. "lumley--lumley," says the master, "i do not know the name." it is a hard thing for the most enterprising musical director of europe to believe that he is utterly unknown to the first composer of southern europe. "you should be an englishman," continues the host. "yet the english are good fellows, though something indiscreet. they are capital sailors, for example; and good fishermen. pray, do you fish, monsieur? if your visit looks that way, you are welcome." "precisely," says the smiling director; "i bring you a new style of bait, which will be, i am sure, quite to your fancy." and with this he unrolls his "fly-book," and lays upon the table bank-bills to the amount of one hundred thousand francs. he knows the master's reputed avarice, and watches his eye gloating on the treasure as he goes on. "i am, may it please you, director of the opera at london and at paris. i wish a new opera three months from now. i offer you these notes as advance premium for its completion. will you accept the terms, and gratify europe?" the old man's eye dwelt on the notes: he ceased fondling the gray cat. "a hundred thousand francs in bank-notes," said he, speaking to himself. "you prefer gold, perhaps," said the englishman. "not at all." "you accept, then?" the old man's brow grew flushed. a thought of indignity crossed his mind. "there is then a dearth of composers, that you come to trouble an old man's peace?" "not at all: the world is full of them--gaining honors every season," and the wily director talked in a phrase to stir the old master's pride; and again the brow grew flushed, as a thought of the electric notes came over him, that had flashed through europe and the world, and made his name immortal. the director waited hopefully. but the paroxysm of pride went by; "i _can not_:" said the old man, plaintively. "my life is done; my brain is dry!" and the director left him, with his tasseled cap lying against the high chair back and the gray cat playing upon his knee. * * * * * in english papers, the ending of the great exhibition has not yet ceased to give point to paragraphs. observers say that the despoiling of the palace of its wonders, reduces sadly the effect of the building; and it is to be feared that the reaction may lead to its entire demolition. every country represented is finding some ground for self-gratulation in its peculiar awards; and the opinion is universal, that they have been honestly and fairly made. for ourselves, whatever our later boasts may be, it is quite certain that on the score of _taste_, we made a bad show in the palace. it was in bad taste to claim more room than we could fill; it was in bad taste, to decorate our comparatively small show, with insignia and lettering so glaring and pretentious; it was in bad taste, not to wear a little more of that modesty, which conscious strength ought certainly to give. but, on the other hand, now that the occasion is over, we may congratulate ourselves on having made signal triumphs in just _those arts which most distinguish civilized man from the savage_; and in having lost honor only _in those arts, which most distinguish a luxurious nation from the hardy energy of practical workers._ * * * * * it is an odd indication of national characteristic, that a little episode of love rarely finds a narrator in either english or american journalism; whereas, nothing is more common than to find the most habile of french _feuilletonists_ turning their pen to a deft exposition of some little garret story of affection; which, if it be only well told, is sure to have the range of all the journals in france. our eye just now falls upon something of the sort, with the taking caption of "love and devotion;" and in order to give our seventy odd thousand readers an idea of the graceful way in which such french story is told, we shall render the half-story into english: in , a young girl of high family, who had been reared in luxury, and who had previously lost her mother, found herself in a single day fatherless and penniless. the friends to whom she would have naturally looked for protection and consolation, were either ruined or away. nothing remained but personal effort to secure a livelihood. she rented a small garret-room, and sought to secure such comforts as she required by embroidering. but employers were few and suspicious. want and care wore upon her feeble frame, and she fell sick. with none to watch over or provide for her, she would soon have passed off (as thousands do in that gay world) to a quick and a lonely death. but there happened to be living in the same pile of building, and upon the same landing, a young piedmontese street-porter, who had seen often, with admiring eyes, the frail and beautiful figure of his neighbor. he devised a plan for her support, and for proper attendance. he professed to be the agent of some third party of wealth, who furnished the means regularly for whatever she might require. his earnings were small; but by dint of early and hard working, he succeeded in furnishing all that her necessities required. after some weeks, mlle. sophie (such is the name our paragraphist gives the heroine) recovered; and was, of course, anxious to learn from the poor piedmontese the name of her benefactor. the poor fellow, however, was true to the trust of his own devotion, and told nothing. times grew better, and sophie had a hope of interesting the old friends of her family. she had no acquaintance to employ as mediator but the poor piedmontese. he accepted readily the task, and, armed with her authority, he plead so modestly, and yet so earnestly for the unfortunate girl, that she recovered again her position, and with it no small portion of her lost estate. again she endeavored to find the name of her generous benefactor, but no promises could wrest the secret from the faithful giacomo. at least, thought the grateful sophie, the messenger of his bounties shall not go unrewarded; and she inclosed a large sum to her neighbor of the garret. poor giacomo was overcome!--the sight of the money, and of the delicate note of thanks, opened his eyes to the wide difference of estate that lay between him and the adored object of his long devotion. to gain her heart was impossible; to live without it, was even more impossible. he determined--in the paris way--to put an end to his cankerous hope, and to his life--together. upon a ledge of the deserted chamber he found a vial of medicine, which his own hard-earned money had purchased, and with this he determined to slip away from the world, and from his grief. he penned a letter, in his rude way, full of his love, and of his desolation, and having left it where it would reach sophie, when all should be over, he swallowed the poison. happily--(french story is always happy in these interventions)--a friend had need of his services shortly after! and hearing sad groans at his door, he burst it open, and finding the dangerous state of the piedmontese, ran for a physician. prompt effort brought giacomo to life again. but his story had been told; and before this, the gay sophie had grown sad over the history of his griefs. we should like well to finish up our tale of devotions, with mention of the graceful recognition of the love of the infatuated piedmontese, by the blooming mademoiselle sophie. but, alas! truth--as represented by the ingenious journalist--forbids such sequel. and we can only write, in view of the vain devotion of the sardinian lover--_le pauvre giacomo!_ * * * * * yet again, these graceful columns of french newsmakers, lend us an episode--of quite another sort of devotion. the other showed that the persuasion of love is often vain; and this will show, that the persuasion of a wife is--vainer still. --a grave magistrate of france--no matter who--was voyaging through belgium with his wife. they had spun out a month of summer with that graceful mingling of idlesse and wonder, that a frenchwoman can so well graft upon the habit of a husband's travel: they had bidden adieu to brussels, and to liege, and were fast nearing the border-town, beyond which lay their own sunny realm of france. the wife suddenly cuts short her smiles, and whispers her husband--"_mon cher_, i have been guilty of an imprudence." "it is not possible." "_si_: a great one. i have my satchel full of laces, they are contraband; pray, take them and hide them until the frontier is past." the husband was thunderstruck: "but, my dear, i--a magistrate, conceal contraband goods?" "pray, consider, _mon cher_, they are worth fifteen hundred francs; there is not a moment to lose." "but, my dear!" "quick--in your hat--the whistle is sounding--" there seemed no alternative, and the poor man bestowed the contraband laces in his _chapeau_. the officials at the frontier, on recognizing the dignity of the traveler, abstained from any examination of his luggage, and offered him every facility. thus far his good fortune was unexpected. but some unlucky attendant had communicated to the town authorities the presence of so distinguished a personage. the town authorities were zealous to show respect; and posted at once to the station to make token of their regard. the magistrate was charmed with such attention--so unexpected, and so heart-felt. he could not refrain from the most gracious expression of his _reconnaissance_; he tenders them his thanks in set terms;--he bids them adieu;--and, in final acknowledgment of their kindness--he lifts his hat, with enthusiastic flourish. --a shower of mechlin lace covers the poor man, like a bridal vail! the french government winks at the vices, and short-comings of representatives and president; but with a humble magistrate, the matter is different. the poor man, _bon-grè_--_mal-grè_, was stopped upon the frontier--was shorn of his bridal covering; and in company with his desponding wife, still (so guinot says) pays the forfeit of his yielding disposition, in a dusky, and grated chamber of the old border town of ----. editor's drawer. well, "_election is over_," for one thing, and we breathe again. the freemen of the "empire state" have walked up to the polls, the "captain's office" of the boat on which we are all embarked, and "settled" the whole matter. the little slips of paper have done the deed, without revolution and without bloodshed. some are rejoiced, because they have succeeded; others lament that when they were all ready at any moment to die for their country and a fat office, their offers were not accepted by the sovereigns. some, with not much character to spare of their own, are grieved to find that "tailing-on" upon individual eminence won't always "do" with the people. and, by-the-by, speaking of "tailing-on," there "hangs a tale," which is worth recording. it may be old, but we heard it for the first time the other evening, and it made us "laugh consumedly." this it is:--at the time of the first election of general washington to the presidency, there was a party in one of the southern states, called the "_john jones' party_." the said jones, after whom the party took its name, was a man of talent; a plotting, shrewd fellow, with a good deal of a kind of "yankee cunning;" in short, possessing all the requisites of a successful politician, except personal popularity. to overcome this latter deficiency, of which he was well aware, especially in a contest with a popular candidate for congress, john jones early avowed himself as the peculiar and devoted friend of general washington, and on this safe ground, as he thought, he endeavored to place his rival in opposition. in order to carry out this object more effectually, he called a meeting of his county, of "all those friendly to the election of general george washington!" on the day appointed, mr. john jones appeared, and was, on the cut-and-dried motion of a friendly adherent, made chairman of the meeting. he opened the proceedings by a high and carefully-studied eulogium upon the life and services of washington, but taking care only to speak of himself as his early patron, and most devoted friend. he concluded his remarks by a proposition to form a party, to be called "_the true and only sons of the father of his country_:" and for that object, he submitted to the meeting a resolution something like the following: "_resolved_, that we are the friends of general george washington, and will sustain him in the coming election against all other competitors." "gentlemen," said mr. jones, after reading the resolution, "the chair is now about to put the question. the chairman hopes that every man will declare his sentiments, either for or against the resolution. all those in favor of the resolution will please to say 'ay.'" a thundering "_ay_!" shook the very walls of the building. the united voices were like the "sound of many waters." "now, gentlemen, for the opposition," said john jones. "all those who are contrary-minded, will please to say '_no_!'" not a solitary voice was heard. the dead silence seemed to confuse mr. jones very much. after some hesitation and fidgeting, he said: "gentlemen, _do vote_. the chair can not decide a disputed question when nobody votes on the other side. we want a direct vote, so that the country may know who are the real and true friends of general washington." upon this appeal, one of the audience arose, and said: "i perceive the unpleasant dilemma in which the chair is placed; and in order to relieve the presiding officer from his quandary, i now propose to amend the resolution, by adding, after the name of general washington--'_and john jones for congress_.'" "the amendment is in order--i accept the amendment," said the chairman, speaking very quickly; "and the chair will now put the question as amended: "all those who are in favor of general washington for president, and john jones for congress, will please to say, 'ay.'" "ay--ay!" said john jones and his brother, with loud voices, which they had supposed would be drowned in the unanimous thunder of the affirmative vote. the "chair" squirmed and hesitated. "put the contrary!" said a hundred voices, at the same moment: "all those op--po--po--sed," said the chair, "will please to say, 'no!'" "no--o--o--o!!" thundered every voice but two in the whole assembly, and these were jones' and his brother's. then followed a roar of laughter, as carlyle says, "like the neighing of all tattersall's." "gentlemen," said mr. jones, "the chair perceives that there are people in this meeting who don't belong to _our_ party: they have evidently come here to agitate, and make mischief. i, therefore, do now adjourn this meeting!" whereupon, he left the chair; and amid shouts and huzzahs for washington, and groans for john jones, he "departed the premises." * * * * * we find in the "drawer" a rich specimen of logic-chopping, at which there was a hearty laugh more years ago than we care to remember. it is an admirable satire upon half the labored criticisms of shakspeare with which the world has been deluged: "thrice the brinded cat hath mewed; thrice, and once the hedge-pig whined!" macbeth "i never was more puzzled in my life than in deciding upon the right reading of this passage. the important inquiry is, did the hedge-pig _whine once_, or _thrice and once_? without stopping to inquire whether hedge-pigs exist in scotland, that is, pigs with quills in their backs, the great question occurs, _how many times did he whine_? it appears from the text that the cat mewed three times. now would not a virtuous emulation induce the hedge-pig to endeavor to get the last word in the controversy; and how was this to be obtained, save by whining thrice _and_ once? the most learned commentators upon shakspeare have given the passage thus: "thrice the brinded cat hath mewed; thrice; and once the hedge-pig whined." "thereby awarding the palm to the brinded cat. the fact is, they probably entertained reasonable doubts whether the hedge-pig was a native of scotland, and a sense of national pride induced them to lean on the side of the productions of their country. i think a heedful examination of the two lines, will satisfy the unbiased examiner that the hedge-pig whined, at least, four times. it becomes me, however, as a candid critic, to say, that reasonable doubts exist in both cases!" * * * * * doesn't the impressive inquiry embodied in the ensuing touching lines, somewhat enter into the matrimonial thoughts of _some_ of our city "offerers?" "oh! do not paint her charms to me, i know that she is fair! i know her lips might tempt the bee, her eyes with stars compare: such transient gifts i ne'er could prize, my heart they could not win: i do not scorn my mary's eyes, but--has she any '_tin_?' "the fairest cheek, alas! may fade, beneath the touch of years; the eyes where light and gladness played, may soon grow dim with tears: i would love's fires should to the last still burn, as they begin; but beauty's reign too soon is past; so--has she any '_tin_?'" * * * * * there is something very touching and pathetic in a circumstance mentioned to us a night or two ago, in the sick-room of a friend. a poor little girl, a cripple, and deformed from her birth, was seized with a disorder which threatened to remove her from a world where she had suffered so much. she was a very affectionate child, and no word of complaining had ever passed her lips. sometimes the tears would come in her eyes, when she saw, in the presence of children more physically blessed than herself, the severity of her deprivation, but that was all. she was so gentle, so considerate of giving pain, and so desirous to please all around her, that she had endeared herself to every member of her family, and to all who knew her. at length it was seen, so rapid had been the progress of her disease, that she could not long survive. she grew worse and worse, until one night, in an interval of pain, she called her mother to her bed-side, and said, "mother, i am dying now. i hope i shall see you, and my brother and sisters in heaven. won't i be _straight_, and not a cripple, mother, when i _do_ get to heaven?" and so the poor little sorrowing child passed forever away. * * * * * "i heard something a moment ago," writes a correspondent in a southern city, "which i will give you the skeleton of. it made me laugh not a little; for it struck me, that it disclosed a transfer of 'yankee tricks' to the other side of the atlantic. it would appear, that a traveler stopped at brussels, in a post-chaise, and being a little sharp-set, he was anxious to buy a piece of cherry-pie, before his vehicle should set out; but he was afraid to leave the public conveyance, lest it might drive off and leave _him_. so, calling a lad to him from the other side of the street, he gave him a piece of money, and requested him to go to a restaurant or confectionery, in the near vicinity, and purchase the pastry; and then, to 'make assurance doubly sure,' he gave him _another_ piece of money, and told him to buy some for himself at the same time. the lad went off on a run, and in a little while came back, eating a piece of pie, and looking very complacent and happy. walking up to the window of the post-chaise, he said, with the most perfect _nonchalance_, returning at the same time one of the pieces of money which had been given him by the gentleman, 'the restaurateur had only _one_ piece of pie left, and that _i_ bought with my money, that you gave me!'" this anecdote, which we are assured is strictly true, is not unlike one, equally authentic, which had its origin in an eastern city. a mechanic, who had sent a bill for some article to a not very conscientious pay-master in the neighborhood, finding no returns, at length "gave it up as a bad job." a lucky thought, however, struck him one day, as he sat in the door of his shop, and saw a debt-collector going by, who was notorious for sticking to a delinquent until _some_ result was obtained. the creditor called the collector in, told him the circumstances, handed him the account, and added: "now, if you will collect that debt, i'll give you half of it; or, if you don't collect but _half_ of the bill, i'll divide _that_ with you." the collector took the bill, and said, "i guess, i can get half of it, _any_ how. at any rate, if i don't, it shan't be for want of _trying_ hard enough." nothing more was seen of the collector for some five or six months; until one day the creditor thought he saw "the indefatigable" trying to avoid him by turning suddenly down a by-street of the town. "halloo! mr. ----!" said he; "how about that bill against mr. slowpay? have you collected it yet?" "not the _hull_ on it, i hain't," said the imperturbable collector; "but i c'lected _my_ half within four weeks a'ter you gin' me the account, and he hain't paid me nothin' since. i tell him, every time i see him, that you want the money _very_ bad; but he don't seem to mind it a bit. he is dreadful 'slow pay,' as you said, when you give me the bill! good-morning!" and off went the collector, "staying no further question!" * * * * * there is a comical blending of the "sentimental" and the "matter-of-fact" in the ensuing lines, which will find a way to the heart of every poor fellow, who, at this inclement season of the year, is in want of a new coat: by winter's chill the fragrant flower is nipped, to be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring the blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripped, a fresher foliage on each branch to bring. the aerial songster moults his plumerie, to vie in sleekness with each feathered brother. a twelvemonth's wear hath ta'en thy nap from thee, my seedy coat!--_when_ shall i get another? * * * * * "my name," said a tall, good-looking man, with a decidedly _distingué_ air, as he entered the office of a daily newspaper in a sister city, "my name, sir, is page--ed-w-a-rd pos-th-el-wa-ite pa-ge! you have heard of me no doubt. in fact, sir, i was sent to you, by mr. c----r, of the '---- gazette.' i spent some time with him--an hour perhaps--conversing with him. but as i was about explaining to him a little problem which i had had in my mind for some time, i _thought_ i saw that he was busy, and couldn't hear me. in fact, he _said_, 'i wish you would do me the kindness to go _now_ and come _again_; and always send up your _name_, so that i may know that it is _you_; otherwise,' said he, 'i _shouldn't_ know that it was _you_, and might _refuse_ you without knowing it.' now, sir, that was kind--that was kind, and gentlemanly, and i shall remember it. then he told me to come to see _you_; he said yours was an afternoon paper, and that _your_ paper for to-day was out, while he was engaged in getting his ready for the morning. he rose, sir, and saw me to the door; and downstairs; in fact, sir, he came with me to the corner, and showed me your office; and for fear i should miss my way, he gave a lad a sixpence, to _show_ me here, sir. "they call me crazy, sir, _some_ people do--_crazy_! the reason is simple--i'm above their comprehension. do i _seem_ crazy? i am an educated man, my conduct has been unexceptionable. i've wronged no man--never did a man an injury. i wouldn't do it. "i came to america in ^_m_ which being multiplied by cæsar's co-sine, which is c b to q equal x' ^_m_." yes, reader; this was page, the monomaniac: a man perfectly sound on any subject, and capable of conversing upon any topic, intelligently and rationally, until it so happened, in the course of conversation, that he _mentioned any numerical figure_, when his wild imagination was off at a tangent, and he became suddenly as "mad as a march hare" on _one subject_. _here_ his monomania was complete. in every thing else, there was no incoherency; nothing in his speech or manner that any gentleman might not either say or do. so much for the man: now for a condensed exhibition of his peculiar idiosyncrasy, as exhibited in a paper which he published, devoted to an elaborate illustration of the great extent to which he carried the science of mathematics. the _fragments_ of various knowledge, like the tumbling objects in a kaleidoscope, are so jumbled together, that we defy any philosopher, astronomer, or mathematician, to read it without roaring with laughter; for the feeling of the ridiculous will overcome the sensations of sympathy and pity. but listen: "here's '_wisdom_' for you," as captain cuttle would say: _intense_ wisdom: "squares are to circles as miss sarai when she did wed her abram on procrustes' bed, and parted between each head; so sarah when to abraham when , and so squared in , a square to circle × = , a square to circle , a square to circle , or half _jesous_ in half the yankee era ; which is sustained by the early fathers and blondel on the sibyls. it is a square to triangle sherwood's no-variation circle in the sequel. but squared is between and , each of which multiply by the sun's magic compass , franklin's magic circle of circles × considered. "squares are to circles as to , or squared in to × = . but more exactly as to , or to × , or half . as to , so square to circle . positives. means. negatives. ) ------- ----- ----- a. m. this year . "squares are to circles as to , or to . the sequel's and are quadrants of and . " cubed is , the world's age in , its age in the halley comet year , its age the next transit of venus in , but is its age in the prophet's year . positives. means. negatives. { over x. } { under x. } a.d. now! over x. a.d. now! under x. " times the saros = - / = in last year's , for new moons. "if degrees, each , in guy's , evidently × - / in the adorable , or ten no-variation circles, each × - / = , like ten chaldee solar cycles, each in our great theme, , the second advent date of messiah, as explained by barnabas, chap. xiii in the apocryphal new testament, and being square and circle, like and . therefore sum the arabic , or persic , or turkish letters. "but as to , so square of the latin ivxlcdm = to circle last year's -- such signs are as much and , whose quadrants are and , as signs, each the halley comet year , are olympiads, the greek church claiming this era for christ. "but though the ecliptic angle has decreased only × in during × = , say from the birth of christ, and double that since the creation; yet and yankee era being square and circle like and --place for a round of the seasons in a compass of points, or shrine them in chessmen, like and in each of pieces; then shall times sherwood's no-variation circle , meaning rounds of the seasons, each , be signs, each , or degrees in the ecliptic angle, each _jesous_ , in circle to square , or signs each , that the quadrants of square and circle may be the cherubim of glory and ; which explains ten great paschal cycles each , a square to circle of the beast's number . because, like , , , in my urim and thummim's jewels, are triangles. squares. circles. "because of the latin church's era for christ, is doubled in the julian period . "every knight of the queen of night may know that each of columns in the moon's magic compass for squared in , sums , and that are between it and , while times - / approach , when squared are in positives. means. negatives. "the saros times in of the above ; but × = , or times - / . " and proemptosis are half this seraphim and cherubim : but × × × = in . ---- ---- "all that homer's iliad ever meant, was this: years as degrees on ahaz's dial between the positive , mean , negative : if the septuagints' times in × = , equally times and degrees in cubed and ." now it is about enough to make one crazy to read this over; and yet it is impossible not to _see_, as it is impossible not to _laugh at_ the transient glimpses of scattered knowledge which the singular ollapodrida contains. * * * * * "if you regard, mr. editor, the following," says a city friend, "as worthy a place in your 'drawer,' you are perfectly welcome to it. it was an actual occurrence, and its authenticity is beyond a question: "many years ago, when sloops were substituted for steamboats on the hudson river, a celebrated divine was on his way to hold forth to the inhabitants of a certain village, not many miles from new york. one of his fellow-passengers who was an unsophisticated countryman, to make himself appear 'large' in the eyes of the passengers, entered into a conversation with the learned doctor of divinity. after several ordinary remarks, and introducing himself as one of the congregation, to whom he (the doctor) would expound the word on the morrow, the following conversation took place: "'wal, doctor, i reckon you know the scripters pooty good,' remarked the countryman. "'really, my friend,' said the clergyman, 'i leave that for _other_ persons to determine. you know it does not become a person of any delicacy to utter praise in his own behalf.' "'so it doesn't,' replied the querist; 'but i've heerd folks say, you know rather more than _we_ do. they say you're pooty good in larning folks the bible: but i guess i can give you a poser.' "'i am pleased to answer questions, and feel gratified to tender information at any time, always considering it my _duty_ to impart instruction, as far as it lies in my power,' replied the clergyman. "'wall,' says the countryman, with all the imperturbable gravity in the world, 'i spose you've heerd tell on, in the big book, 'bout aaron and the golden calf: now, in your opinion, do you think the calf aaron worshiped, was a heifer or a bull?' "the doctor of divinity, as may be imagined, immediately '_vamosed_,' and left the countryman bragging to the by-standers, that he had completely nonplussed the clergyman!" literary notices. a new work by herman melville, entitled _moby dick; or, the whale_, has just been issued by harper and brothers, which, in point of richness and variety of incident, originality of conception, and splendor of description, surpasses any of the former productions of this highly successful author. _moby dick_ is the name of an old white whale; half fish and half devil; the terror of the nantucket cruisers; the scourge of distant oceans; leading an invulnerable, charmed life; the subject of many grim and ghostly traditions. this huge sea monster has a conflict with one captain ahab; the veteran nantucket salt comes off second best; not only loses a leg in the affray, but receives a twist in the brain; becomes the victim of a deep, cunning monomania; believes himself predestined to take a bloody revenge on his fearful enemy; pursues him with fierce demoniac energy of purpose; and at last perishes in the dreadful fight, just as he deems that he has reached the goal of his frantic passion. on this slight framework, the author has constructed a romance, a tragedy, and a natural history, not without numerous gratuitous suggestions on psychology, ethics, and theology. beneath the whole story, the subtle, imaginative reader may perhaps find a pregnant allegory, intended to illustrate the mystery of human life. certain it is that the rapid, pointed hints which are often thrown out, with the keenness and velocity of a harpoon, penetrate deep into the heart of things, showing that the genius of the author for moral analysis is scarcely surpassed by his wizard power of description. in the course of the narrative the habits of the whale are fully and ably described. frequent graphic and instructive sketches of the fishery, of sea-life in a whaling vessel, and of the manners and customs of strange nations are interspersed with excellent artistic effect among the thrilling scenes of the story. the various processes of procuring oil are explained with the minute, painstaking fidelity of a statistical record, contrasting strangely with the weird, phantom-like character of the plot, and of some of the leading personages, who present a no less unearthly appearance than the witches in macbeth. these sudden and decided transitions form a striking feature of the volume. difficult of management, in the highest degree, they are wrought with consummate skill. to a less gifted author, they would inevitably have proved fatal. he has not only deftly avoided their dangers, but made them an element of great power. they constantly pique the attention of the reader, keeping curiosity alive, and presenting the combined charm of surprise and alternation. the introductory chapters of the volume, containing sketches of life in the great marts of whalingdom, new bedford and nantucket, are pervaded with a fine vein of comic humor, and reveal a succession of portraitures, in which the lineaments of nature shine forth, through a good deal of perverse, intentional exaggeration. to many readers, these will prove the most interesting portions of the work. nothing can be better than the description of the owners of the vessel, captain peleg and captain bildad, whose acquaintance we make before the commencement of the voyage. the character of captain ahab also opens upon us with wonderful power. he exercises a wild, bewildering fascination by his dark and mysterious nature, which is not at all diminished when we obtain a clearer insight into his strange history. indeed, all the members of the ship's company, the three mates, starbuck, stubbs, and flash, the wild, savage gayheader, the case-hardened old blacksmith, to say nothing of the pearl of a new zealand harpooner, the bosom friend of the narrator--all stand before us in the strongest individual relief, presenting a unique picture gallery, which every artist must despair of rivaling. the plot becomes more intense and tragic, as it approaches toward the denouement. the malicious old moby dick, after long cruisings in pursuit of him, is at length discovered. he comes up to the battle, like an army with banners. he seems inspired with the same fierce, inveterate cunning with which captain ahab has followed the traces of his mortal foe. the fight is described in letters of blood. it is easy to foresee which will be the victor in such a contest. we need not say that the ill-omened ship is broken in fragments by the wrath of the weltering fiend. captain ahab becomes the prey of his intended victim. the crew perish. one alone escapes to tell the tale. moby dick disappears unscathed, and for aught we know, is the same "delicate monster," whose power in destroying another ship is just announced from panama. g. p. putnam announces the _home cyclopedia_, a series of works in the various branches of knowledge, including history, literature, and the fine arts, biography, geography, science, and the useful arts, to be comprised in six large duodecimos. of this series have recently appeared _the hand-book of literature and the fine arts_, edited by george ripley and bayard taylor, and _the hand-book of universal biography_, by parke godwin. the plan of the encyclopedia is excellent, adapted to the wants of the american people, and suited to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. as a collateral aid in a methodical course of study, and a work of reference in the daily reading, which enters so largely into the habits of our countrymen, it will, no doubt, prove of great utility. _rural homes_, by gervasse wheeler (published by charles scribner), is intended to aid persons proposing to build, in the construction of houses suited to american country life. the author writes like a man of sense, culture, and taste. he is evidently an ardent admirer of john ruskin, and has caught something of his æsthetic spirit. not that he deals in mere theories. his book is eminently practical. he is familiar with the details of his subject, and sets them forth with great simplicity and directness. no one about to establish a rural homestead should neglect consulting its instructive pages. ticknor, reed, and fields have published a new work, by nathaniel hawthorne, for juvenile readers, entitled _a wonder-book for boys and girls_ with engravings by barker from designs by billings. it is founded on various old classical legends, but they are so ingeniously wrought over and stamped with the individuality of the author, as to exercise the effect of original productions. mr. hawthorne never writes more genially and agreeably than when attempting to amuse children. he seems to find a welcome relief in their inartificial ways from his own weird and sombre fancies. watching their frisky gambols and odd humors, he half forgets the saturnine moods from which he draws the materials of his most effective fictions, and becomes himself a child. a vein of airy gayety runs through the present volume, revealing a sunny and beautiful side of the author's nature, and forming a delightful contrast to the stern, though irresistibly fascinating horrors, which he wields with such terrific mastery in his recent productions. child and man will love this work equally well. its character may be compared to the honey with which the author crowns the miraculous hoard of baucis and philemon. "but oh the honey! i may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. the perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that had you closed your eyes you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it." _glances at europe_, by horace greeley (published by dewitt and davenport), has passed rapidly to a second edition, being eagerly called for by the numerous admirers of the author in his capacity as public journalist. composed in the excitement of a hurried european tour, aiming at accuracy of detail rather than at nicety of language, intended for the mass of intelligent readers rather than for the denizens of libraries, these letters make no claim to profound speculation or to a high degree of literary finish. they are plain, straight-forward, matter-of-fact statements of what the writer saw and heard in the course of his travels, recording at night the impressions made in the day, without reference to the opinions or descriptions of previous travelers. the information concerning various european countries, with which they abound, is substantial and instructive; often connected with topics seldom noticed by tourists; and conveyed in a fresh and lively style. with the reputation of the author for acute observation and forcible expression, this volume is bound to circulate widely among the people. ticknor, reed, and fields, have issued a new volume of _poems_, by richard henry stoddard, consisting of a collection of pieces which have been before published, and several which here make their appearance for the first time. it will serve to elevate the already brilliant reputation of the youthful author. his vocation to poetry is clearly stamped on his productions. combining great spontaneity of feeling, with careful and elaborate composition, he not only shows a native instinct of verse, but a lofty ideal of poetry as an art. he has entered the path which will lead to genuine and lofty fame. the success of his early effusions has not elated him with a vain conceit of his own genius. hence, we look for still more admirable productions than any contained in the present volume. he is evidently destined to grow, and we have full faith in the fulfillment of his destiny. his fancy is rich in images of gorgeous and delicate beauty; a deep vein of reflection underlies his boldest excursions; and on themes of tender and pathetic interest, his words murmur with a plaintive melody that reaches the hidden source of tears. his style, no doubt, betrays the influence of frequent communings with his favorite poets. he is eminently susceptible and receptive. he does not wander in the spicy groves of poetical enchantment, without bearing away sweet odors. but this is no impeachment of his own individuality. he is not only drawn by the subtle affinities of genius to the study of the best models, but all the impressions which he receives, take a new form from his own plastic nature. the longest poem in the volume is entitled, "the castle in the air"--a production of rare magnificence. "the hymn to flora," is full of exquisite beauties, showing a masterly skill in the poetical application of classical legends. "harley river," "the blacksmith's shop," "the old elm," are sweet rural pictures, soft and glowing as a june meadow in sunset. "the household dirge," and several of the "songs and sonnets," are marked by a depth of tenderness which is too earnest for any language but that of the most severe simplicity. we have a translation of neander _on the philippians_, by mrs. h. c. conant, which renders that admirable practical commentary into sound and vigorous english. a difficult task accomplished with uncommon skill. (published by lewis colby). _the heavenly recognition_, by rev. h. harbaugh, is the title of an interesting religious work on the question, "shall we know our friends in heaven?" this is treated by the author with great copiousness of detail, and in a spirit of profound reverence and sincere christian faith. his book will be welcome to all readers who delight in speculations on the mysteries of the unseen world. relying mainly on the testimony of scripture, the author seeks for evidence on the subject in a variety of collateral sources, which he sets forth in a tone of strong and delightful confidence. (published by lindsay and blackiston). lindsay and blackiston have issued several richly ornamented gift books, which will prove attractive during the season of festivity and friendship. among them are, "_the star of bethlehem_," by rev. h. hastings weld, a collection of christmas stories, with elegant engravings. "_the woodbine_," edited by caroline may, containing original pieces and selections, among the latter, "several racy stories of old england," and a tempting series of _tales_ for _boys_ and _girls_, by mrs. hughes, a justly celebrated writer of juvenile works. bishop mcilvaine's _charge_ on the subject of _spiritual regeneration_ has been issued in a neat pamphlet by harper and brothers. it forms an able and appropriate contribution to doctrinal theology, at a time when the topic discussed has gained a peculiar interest from the present position of catholicism both in england and america. the theme is handled by bishop mcilvaine with his accustomed vigor and earnestness, and is illustrated by the fruits of extensive research. * * * * * speaking of the decease of our illustrious countryman, fenimore cooper, the _london athenæum_ has the following discriminating remarks: "mr. cooper was at home on the sea or in his own backwoods. his happiest tales are those of 'painted chiefs with pointed spears'--to use a happy description of mr. longfellow; and so felicitous has he been in setting them bodily, as it were, before the reader, that hereafter he will be referred to by ethnological and antiquarian writers as historical authority on the character and condition of the lost tribes of america. in his later works mr. cooper wandered too often and too much from the field of romance into that of polemics--and into the latter he imported a querulous spirit, and an extraordinarily loose logical method. all his more recent fictions have the taint of this temper, and the drawback of this controversial weakness. his political creed it would be very difficult to extract entire from the body of his writings; and he has been so singularly infelicitous in its partial expositions, that even of the discordant features which make up the whole, we generally find ourselves disagreeing in some measure with all. but throughout the whole course of his writing, whenever he turned back into his own domain of narrative fiction, the genius of his youth continued to do him service, and something of his old power over the minds of readers continued to the last. his faults as a writer are far outbalanced by his great qualities--and altogether, he is the most original writer that america has yet produced--and one of whom she may well be proud." * * * * * "hawthorne," says a london critic, "has few equals among the writers of fiction in the english language. there is a freshness, an originality of thought, a quiet humor, a power of description, a quaintness of expression in his tales, which recommend them to readers wearied of the dull commonplaces of all but a select few of the english novelists of our own time. he is beyond measure the best writer of fiction yet produced by america, somewhat resembling dickens in many of his excellencies, yet without imitating him. his style is his own entirely." * * * * * in a notice of hitchcock's "religion of geology," the london _literary gazette_ remarks: "dr. hitchcock is a veteran american clergyman, of high reputation and unaffected piety. officially, he is president of amherst college, and professor of natural theology and geology in that institution. as a geologist, he holds a very distinguished position, and is universally reputed an original observer and philosophical inquirer. his fame is european as well as american. no author has ever entered upon his subject better fitted for his task. the work consists of a series of lectures, which may be characterized as so many scientific sermons. they are clear in style, logical in argument, always earnest, and often eloquent. the author of the valuable and most interesting work before us combines in an eminent degree the qualifications of theologian and geologist." * * * * * the _london news_ briefly hits off an american work which has attracted little attention in this country: "a fast-sailing american clipper has appeared in the seas of philosophy. the author of 'vestiges of civilization; or the etiology of history, religious, Æsthetical, political, and philosophical,' advertised as written within two months, has puzzled the scientific public as much as did the original ms. of 'pepys' diary.' the reader, however, may be comforted in his bewilderment by finding that the author himself is but little better off. in a note there is a confession which should certainly have been extended to the whole production: "i freely own that, touching these extreme terms of the complication in life and mind, or rather the precise combinations of polarities that should produce them, _my meaning is at present very far from clear, even to myself_. and yet i know that i _have_ a meaning; that it is logically involved in my statement; and is such as (perhaps within half a century) will set the name of some distinct enunciator side by side with, if not superior to that of newton." * * * * * the _westminster review_ has passed into the hands of john chapman, the well-known publisher of works on rationalistic theology. _the leader_ rather naïvely remarks, "we rely too much on his sagacity to entertain the fear, not unfrequently expressed, of his making the review over theological, which would be its ruin." * * * * * among the prominent forthcoming works announced by the english publishers, are the following:--"a lady's voyage round the world;" from the german of ida pfeiffer, from which some interesting extracts have already appeared in blackwood.--"wesley and methodism," by isaac taylor--"lectures on the history of france," by professor sir james stephens--a condensed edition of dr. layard's "discoveries at nineveh," prepared by the author for popular reading--a second volume of lamartine's "history of the restoration of the monarchy in france"--an improved edition of the "life and works of robert burns"--richardson's "boat voyage," or a history of the expedition in search of sir john franklin. * * * * * it is said that the recent discoveries of colonel rawlinson in relation to the inscriptions on the assyrian sculptures have awakened the british government to the great historical value of those monuments--and that a sum of £ has been placed at his disposal to assist toward the prosecution of excavations and inquiries in assyria. colonel rawlinson will, it is understood, proceed immediately to bagdad; and from thence direct his explorations toward any quarter which may appear to him likely to yield important results. * * * * * mr. william weir, a literary veteran of ability and accomplishment, is about to publish, from the papers of one who mixed much with it, another view of english literary society in the days of johnson. * * * * * a pension of £ a year on the civil list has been granted to the family of the late rev. james seaton reid, d. d., professor of church history in glasgow, and author of the _history of presbyterianism in ireland_, besides other works on theology. * * * * * in consequence of the present delicate state of health of professor wilson, the renowned "christopher north," he has been obliged to make arrangements for dispensing with the delivery of his lectures on moral philosophy in the university of edinburgh, at the ensuing session. principal lee is to undertake the duty for the learned professor. * * * * * the map of france, which was begun in , is not yet finished. it is to contain sheets, of which are already published. there yet remains five years' work in surveying, and nine years' work in engraving, to be done. the total cost will exceed £ , sterling. up to this time staff-officers have been employed in the work. * * * * * when the celebrated astronomer lalande died, nearly fifty years ago, his manuscripts were divided among his heirs--a partition which was agreeable to law, but very injurious to science. m. lefrançais de lalande, a staff-officer, impressed with the importance of re-collecting these papers, has, after much trouble, succeeded in getting together the astronomical memoranda of his ancestor to the extent of not less than thirty-six volumes. these he presented to m. arago; and the latter, to obviate the chances of a future similar dispersion, has made a gift of them to the library of the paris observatory. * * * * * in announcing the "memoirs of his own life," by alexandre dumas, the correspondent of the _literary gazette_ indulges in a lively, exaggerated portraiture of the great _feuilletonist_: "another addition to that class of french literature, called 'memoirs,' is about to appear, and from the hand of no less a personage than alexandre dumas. the great romancer is to tell the world the history of his own eventful life, and his extraordinary literary career. the chances are that the work will be one of the most brilliant of the kind that has yet been published--and that is saying a great deal, when we call to mind the immense host of memoir writers which france possesses, and that among them are an antony hamilton and a duke de saint simon. having mixed familiarly with all descriptions of society, from that of crowned heads and princes of the blood, down to strolling players--having been behind the scenes of the political, the literary, the theatrical, the artistic, the financial, and the trading worlds--having risen unaided from the humble position of subordinate clerk in the office of louis philippe's accountant, to that of the most popular of living romancers in all europe--having found an immense fortune in his inkstand, and squandered it like a genius (or a fool)--having rioted in more than princely luxury, and been reduced to the sore strait of wondering where he could get credit for a dinner--having wandered far and wide, taking life as it came--now dining with a king, anon sleeping with a brigand--one day killing lions in the sahara, and the next (according to his own account) being devoured by a bear in the pyrenees--having edited a daily newspaper and managed a theatre, and failed in both--having built a magnificent chateau, and had it sold by auction--having commanded in the national guard, and done fierce battle with bailiffs and duns--having been decorated by almost every potentate in europe, so that the breast of his coat is more variegated with ribbons than the rainbow with colors--having published more than any man living, and perhaps as much as any man dead--having fought duels innumerable--and having been more quizzed, and caricatured, and lampooned, and satirized, and abused, and slandered, and admired, and envied, than any human being now alive--alexandre must have an immensity to tell, and none of his contemporaries, we may be sure, could tell it better--few so well. only we may fear that it will be mixed up with a vast deal of--imagination. but _n'importe_!" * * * * * in the course of a revision of the archives of celli, a box has been found containing a collection of important documents from the thirty years' war, viz., part of the private correspondence of duke george of brunswick-lüneburg, with drafts of his own epistles, and original letters from pappenheim, gustavus adolphus, and piccolomini. * * * * * the stockholm papers announce the death, in his seventy-first year, of dr. thomas wingard, archbishop of upsal and primate of the kingdom of sweden. dr. wingard had long occupied the chair of sacred philology at the university of lund. he has left to the university of upsal his library, consisting of upward of , volumes--and his rich collections of coins and medals, and of scandinavian antiquities. this is the fourth library bequeathed to the university of upsal within the space of a year--adding to its book-shelves no fewer than , volumes. the entire number of volumes possessed by the university is now said to be , -- , of these being in manuscript. * * * * * the _london athenæum_ announces the death of the hon. mrs. lee--sister to the late lord byron, and whose name will ever be dear to the lovers of that poet's verse for the affecting manner in which it is therein enshrined. few readers of byron will forget his affectionate recurrences to his sister--made more touching from the bitterness of his memories toward all those whom he accused of contributing to the desolation of his home and the shattering of his household gods. the once familiar name met with in the common obituary of the journals will have recalled to many a one that burst of grateful tenderness with which the bard twines a laurel for his sister's forehead, which will be laid now upon her grave--and of which the following is a leaf: from the wreck of the past which hath perished this much i at least may recall, that what i most tenderly cherished deserved to be dearest of all. in the desert a fountain is springing in the wide waste there still is a tree, and a bird in my solitude singing which speaks to my spirit of thee. * * * * * numismatic science has to lament the loss of a long known, learned, and distinguished cultivator, mr. h. p. borrell, who died on the d inst. at smyrna. his numerous excellent memoirs on greek coins, and his clever work on the coins of cyprus, form permanent memorials of his erudition, research, and correct judgment. * * * * * the last mail from china informs us of the death of dr. gutzlaff, at one of the british ports in that country, on the th of august last, in his forty-eighth year. the decease of this distinguished eastern scholar will be learnt with regret by those who take an interest in the progress of european civilization in china. dr. gutzlaff was one of the most ardent and indefatigable of the laborers in that cause: and it will be very difficult to fill up the void which his death has occasioned. he was a pomeranian by birth; and was originally sent to batavia, singapore, and siam by the netherlands missionary society in . he first reached china in ; and he appears to have spent the next two years in visiting and exploring certain portions of the chinese coast, which, previously to that time, had not been visited by any european--or of which, at least, no authentic knowledge was possessed. on the death of the elder morrison, in , dr. gutzlaff was employed as an interpreter by the british superintendency; and at a subsequent period he was promoted to the office of chinese secretary to the british plenipotentiary and superintendent of trade. that employment he held to the time of his death. dr. gutzlaff had ceased to consider himself as a missionary for some years past; but he never relinquished his practice of teaching and exhorting among the chinese communities in the midst of whom he was placed. * * * * * the death of mrs. mary sherwood, the celebrated english authoress, took place at twickenham about the middle of september. she had attained the ripe old age of seventy-six years, but her mind preserved its usual vigor and serenity, unimpaired by the influence of time. she died in the exercise of a tranquil spirit, and firm religious faith. it is said that a biography, prepared from materials left by the deceased, will soon make its appearance from the pen of her youngest daughter, a lady who inherits a portion of her mother's genius and character. a complete edition of mrs. sherwood's works, published by harper and brothers, has found numerous readers in this country, by whom the name of the writer will long be held in affectionate remembrance. a leaf not from punch. [illustration: first sportsman.--"my dear sir, i am very sorry that i hit you in the leg. pray excuse me this time. i'll aim higher next time!" second sportsman.--"aim higher next time! no, i thank you. i'd rather you wouldn't."] etymological inventions. we perceive, with great alarm, the increasing number of abstruse names given to various simple articles of clothing and commerce. rather to keep a head of the world than even to run with it, we intend to register--or dispose of for a consideration--the sole right of producing the following articles: the _protean crononhotontologos_, or changeable surtout, the tails of which button under to form a dress coat; can be reefed to make a shooting-coat; folded into a cut-a-way; or taken away altogether to turn into a sailing jacket. it is black outside and green within, with sets of shifting buttons, so that it may be used either for dress or sporting, evening or morning, with equal propriety. the _oddrotistone_, or pumice beard-leveler, for shaving without water, soap, brush, or razor, and removing all pimples and freckles by pure mechanical action. strongly recommended to travelers with delicate skins. the _hicockolorum_, or patent fuel, warranted never to smoke, smell, decrease in bulk, or throw out dangerous gases, and equally adapted for calorific, church, vesta, air-tight, registering, cooking, and all manner of stoves. by simply recollecting never to light it, all these conditions will be fulfilled, or we forfeit fifty thousand dollars. the _antilavetorium_, or perpetual shirt-collar, which, being formed of enameled tin, never requires to be washed, is not likely to droop or turn down. the _thoraxolicon_, or everlasting shirt-front, comes under the same patent, which may be had also, perforated in patterns, after the fashionable style. the _silicobroma_, a preparation of pure flint-stone, which makes a very excellent soup, by boiling in a pot, with the requisite quantity of meat and vegetables. [illustration: seedy individual.--"i've dropped in to do you a very great favor, sir." man of business.--"well, what is it?" seedy individual.--"i'm going to allow you the pleasure of lending me five dollars."] [illustration: off point judith. old lady.--"now, my good man, i hope you are sure it will really do me good, because i can not touch it but as medicine."] [illustration: a slight mistake. we have been much grieved of late to observe the growing tendency among ladies to _shave their foreheads_, in the hope of intellectualizing their countenances, and this occurs more especially among the literary portion of the fair sex. we subjoin a portrait, but mention no names. the mistake is this. the height of a forehead depends upon the height of the frontal bone--not upon the growth of the hair; and, therefore, when the forehead retreats, it is absurd to suppose that height can be given by shaving the head, even to the crown. added to this, it is impossible to conceal the blue mark which the shorn stumps of hair still _will_ leave; and, therefore, we hope soon to see the practice abolished.] [illustration: old lady--(_holding a very small cabbage_).--"what! _d._ for such a small cabbage? why, i never heerd o' such a thing!" greengrocer.--"werry sorry, marm; but it's all along o' that exhibition! what with them foreigners, and the gents as smokes, cabbages has riz."] new biographies. mr. smith.--this celebrated personage has filled many important public and private situations: in fact, we find his name connected with all the great events of the time. he was a divine, an actor, an officer, and an author. but afterward getting into bad company, he was sentenced to the state prison, and subsequently hanged. his family branches, which are very extensive, are fully treated of in the directory. warren.--the discoverer of the famous jet blacking. upon the backs of the bottle labels he wrote his celebrated tale of _ten thousand a year_, thus shining in two lines. he lost his life at bunker hill. fashions for december. [illustration: figs. , .--ball and evening dresses.] the figure on the left, in the above illustration, shows a very rich ball costume, with jewels. hair in raised bands, forming a point in front, leaving the forehead open, and spreading elegantly at the sides. a large cord of pearls is rolled in the hair, and forms, in two rows, a _marie stuart_, over the forehead, then mixed with the back hair, falls to the right and left in interlaced rings. body low, square in front, but rather high on the shoulder. the dress is plain silk, the ornaments silk-net and lace. the whole of the front of the body is ornamented with rows of lace and silk-net _bouillons_. each row of lace covers a _bouillon_, and leaves one uncovered. there are five or six rows of lace. they are gathered, and it will be seen they are raised by the row of puffs they cover. two rows of lace are put on as trimming on each side of the stomacher. they start from the same point, spreading wider as they rise, as far as the back, where they form a _berthe_. the skirt is trimmed with three rows, one over the other, composed of silk-net puffs; one at bottom, another one-third of the height up, and the other two-thirds up. three lace flounces decorate this skirt, and each falls on the edge of the puffs. the figure on the right exhibits a beautiful evening dress. hair in puffed bands, waved, rather short, wreath of variegated geraniums, placed at the sides. plain silk dress, with silk-net _ruchés_ about three inches apart, from the bottom upward. sleeves, tight and short, edged with a _ruché_ at bottom. the body is covered with silk-net, opening heart-shape. it is trimmed with two silk-net _berthes_, gathered a little, with a hem about half an inch wide, marked by a small gold cord. a row of variegated flowers runs along the top of the body. the upper skirt, of silk-net, is raised cross-wise, from the front toward the back, up to the side bouquet. the hem of each skirt is two inches deep, and is also marked by a gold cord. the side bouquet, of flowers like those in the hair, is fixed to the body, and hangs in branches on the skirt. the outer sleeves are silk-net, with a hem at the end, and raised cross-wise like the skirt, so as to show the under-sleeves. in the picture, upon the next page, we give illustrations of three styles of cloaks, the most fashionable for the present winter. they are called by the parisian modists respectively, parisian, frileuse, and camara. the parisian is a walking cloak of satin or _gros_ d'ecosse, trimmed with velvet of different widths sewed on flat; velvet buttons. the frileuse is a wadded pelisse of satin _à la reine_ or common. trimming _à la vieille_ of the same, with velvet bands. the pelerine may form a hood. the sleeves are wide and straight. the camara is a cloak of plain cloth, forming a _talma_ behind, and open cross-wise in front to prevent draping. wide flat collar. ornaments consist of velvet fretwork with braid round it. [illustration: figs. , , .--parisian, frileuse, and camara cloaks.] figure represents an elegant costume for a little girl, three or four years of age--a pretty, fair haired creature. frock of white silk, embroidered sky blue, body low and square in front, with two silk lapels, embroidered and festooned; a frill along the top of front, with an embroidered insertion below it. the sleeves are embroidered; a broad blue ribbon passes between the shoulder and the sleeve, and is fastened at top by a _rosette_ with loose ends. this manner of tying the ribbon raises the sleeve and leaves the arm uncovered at top. the skirt is composed of two insertions and two embroidered flounces. an embroidered petticoat reaches below the skirt. the sash is of blue silk and very wide. [illustration: fig. .--child's costume.] velvet, as a trimming, was never more fashionable than at present. there are at this season few articles included in the category of ladies' costume to which a trimming of velvet may not be applied. velvet is now employed to ornament plain dresses, as well as those of the most elegant description. one of the new dresses we have seen, is composed of maroon-color silk. the skirt has three flounces, each edged with two rows of black velvet ribbon, of the width of half an inch. the corsage and sleeves are ornamented with the same trimming. another dress, composed of deep violet or puce-color silk, has the flounces edged also with rows of black velvet. the majority of the dresses, made at the present season, have high corsages, though composed of silk of very rich and thick texture. footnotes: [ ] the engravings which illustrate this article (except the frontispiece) are from lossing's _pictorial field-book of the revolution_, now in course of publication by harper and brothers. [ ] this and the picture of the _guide-board_ and _anvil block_ are copied from sketches made by captain austin of the english expedition. [ ] entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. [ ] the armorial bearing of venice [ ] lazare hoche, a very distinguished young general, who died very suddenly in the army. "hoche," said bonaparte, "was one of the first generals that ever france produced. he was brave, intelligent, abounding in talent, decisive, and penetrating." [ ] charles pichegru, a celebrated french general, who entered into a conspiracy to overthrow the consular government and restore the bourbons. he was arrested and conducted to the temple, where he was one morning found dead in his bed. the physicians, who met on the occasion, asserted that he had strangled himself with his cravat. "pichegru," said napoleon, "instructed me in mathematics at brienne when i was about ten years old. as a general he was a man of no ordinary talent. after he had united himself with the bourbons, he sacrificed the lives of upward of twenty thousand of his soldiers by throwing them purposely in the enemies' hands, whom he had informed beforehand of his intentions." [ ] general kleber fell beneath the poinard of an assassin in egypt, when napoleon was in paris. [ ] general desaix fell, pierced by a bullet, on the field of marengo. napoleon deeply deplored his loss, as that of one of his most faithful and devoted friends. [ ] pronounced as though written _kos-shoot_, with the accent on the last syllable. the magyar equivalent for the french louis and the german ludwig is lajos. we have given the date of his birth, which seems best authenticated. the notice of the austrian police, quoted below, makes him to have been born in ; still another account gives as the year of his birth. the portrait which we furnish is from a picture taken a little more than two years since in hungary, for messrs. goupil, the well-known picture-dealers of paris and new york, and is undoubtedly an authentic likeness of him at that time. the following is a pen-and-ink portrait of kossuth, drawn by those capital artists, the police authorities of vienna:--"_louis kossuth_, an ex-advocate, journalist, minister of finance, president of the committee of defense, governor of the hungarian republic, born in hungary, catholic [this is an error, kossuth is of the lutheran faith], married. he is of middle height, strong, thin; the face oval, complexion pale, the forehead high and open, hair chestnut, eyes blue, eyebrows dark and very thick, mouth very small and well-formed, teeth fine, chin round. he wears a mustache and imperial, and his curled hair does not entirely cover the upper part of the head. he has a white and delicate hand, the fingers long. he speaks german, hungarian, latin, slovack, a little french and italian. his bearing when calm, is solemn, full of a certain dignity; his movements elegant, his voice agreeable, softly penetrating, and very distinct, even when he speaks low. he produces, in general, the effect of an enthusiast; his looks often fixed on the heavens; and the expression of his eyes, which are fine, contributes to give him the air of a dreamer. his exterior does not announce the energy of his character." photography could hardly produce a picture more minutely accurate. [ ] we have not space to present any portion of this admirable speech. it is given at length in pulszky's introduction to schlessinger's "_war in hungary_," which has been republished in this country; in a different, and somewhat indifferent translation, in the anonymous "_louis kossuth and hungary_," published in london, written strongly in the austrian interest. in this latter, however, the "address to the throne," by far the most important and weighty portion of the speech, is omitted. a portion of the speech, taken from this latter source, and of course not embracing the address, is given in dr. tefft's recent valuable work, "_hungary and kossuth_." the whole speech constitutes a historical document of great importance. [ ] continued from the november number. [ ] autobiography of zschokke, p. - . [ ] "crotchets in the air, or an un-scientific account of a balloon trip," by john poole, esq. colburn, . [ ] continued from the november number. [ ] i must be pardoned for annexing the original, since it loses much by translation:--"hominem liberum et magnificum debere, si queat, in primori fronte, animum gestare." * * * * * transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "chess-men" and "chessmen"); - accents (e.g. "denouement" and "dénoûement"); - place names (e.g. "hindostan" and "hindoostan"). in the table of contents, following names have been corrected to match the text they refer to: - "batthyani" corrected to be "batthyanyi" ( . esterhazy, batthyanyi); - "blackistone" corrected to be "blackinston" (lindsay and blackiston's). pg , caption added to illustration (pouring tea down the throat of america). pg , word "of" added (unworthy of civilized forbearance). pg , title added to article (kossuth--a biographical sketch). pg , word "few" added (only a few days). pg , word "go" added (i must go on deck). pg , name "cliff" corrected to be "griffith" (griffith in his). pg , name "pfeifer" corrected to be "pfeiffer" (ida pfeiffer). * * * * * transcriber's note: the original publication has been replicated faithfully except as listed near the end of this ebook. italic characters are indicated _like this_. superscripts are indicated like this: y^e. * * * * * harper's new monthly magazine. no. xv.--august, .--vol. iii. table of contents napoleon bonaparte. the somnambule. the household of sir tho^s. more. reminiscences of an attorney. village life in germany. a peep at the "peraharra." a tobacco factory in spain. infirmities of genius. race horses and horse races. hartley coleridge. the oriental saloons in madrid. phantoms and realities.--an autobiography. the feet-washing on good friday in munich. a pedestrian in holland. the last priestess of pele. a spanish bull fight. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. french cottage cookery. student life in paris. a faquir's curse. love and smuggling.--a story of the english coast. american notabilities. the hunter's wife. the warnings of the past. the pie shops of london. my novel; or, varieties in english life. monthly record of current events. literary notices. editor's drawer. woman's emancipation. three leaves from punch. fashions for august. napoleon bonaparte. by john s. c. abbott i. childhood and youth. the island of corsica, sublimely picturesque with its wild ravines and rugged mountains, emerges from the bosom of the mediterranean sea, about one hundred miles from the coast of france. it was formerly a province of italy, and was italian in its language, sympathies, and customs. in the year it was invaded by a french army, and after several most sanguinary conflicts, the inhabitants were compelled to yield to superior power, and corsica was annexed to the empire of the bourbons. at the time of this invasion there was a young lawyer, of italian extraction, residing upon the island, whose name was charles bonaparte. he was endowed with commanding beauty of person, great vigor of mind, and his remote lineage was illustrious, but the opulence of the noble house had passed away, and the descendant of a family, whose line could be traced far back into the twilight of the dark ages, was under the fortunate necessity of being dependent for his support upon the energies of his own mind. he had married letitia raniolini, one of the most beautiful and accomplished of the young ladies of corsica. of thirteen children born to them eight survived to attain maturity. as a successful lawyer the father of this large family was able to provide them with an ample competence. his illustrious descent gave him an elevated position in society, and the energies of his mind, ever in vigorous action, invested him with powerful influence. the family occupied a town house, an ample stone mansion, in ajaccio, the principal city of the island. they also enjoyed a very delightful country retreat near the sea-shore, a few miles from ajaccio. this rural home was the favorite resort of the children during the heats of summer. when the french invaded corsica, charles bonaparte, then quite a young man, having been married but a few years, abandoned the peaceful profession of the law, and grasping his sword, united with his countrymen, under the banner of general paoli, to resist the invaders. his wife, letitia, had then but one child, joseph. she was expecting soon to give birth to another. civil war was desolating the little island. paoli and his band of patriots, defeated again and again, were retreating before their victorious foes into the fastnesses of the mountains. letitia followed the fortunes of her husband, and, notwithstanding the embarrassment of her condition, accompanied him on horseback in these perilous and fatiguing expeditions. the conflict, however, was short, and, by the energies of the sword, corsica became a province of france, and the italians who inhabited the island became the unwilling subjects of the bourbon throne. on the th of august, , in anticipation of her confinement, letitia had taken refuge in her town house at ajaccio. on the morning of that day she attended church, but, during the service, admonished by approaching pains, she was obliged suddenly to return home, and throwing herself upon a couch, covered with an ancient piece of tapestry, upon which was embroidered the battles and the heroes of the illiad, she gave birth to her second son, napoleon bonaparte. had the young napoleon seen the light two months earlier he would have been by birth an italian, not a frenchman, for but eight weeks had then elapsed since the island had been transferred to the dominion of france. the father of napoleon died not many years after the birth of that child whose subsequent renown has filled the world. he is said to have appreciated the remarkable powers of his son, and, in the delirium which preceded his death, he was calling upon napoleon to help him. madame bonaparte, by this event, was left a widow with eight children, joseph, napoleon, lucien, jerome, eliza, pauline, and caroline. her means were limited, but her mental endowments were commensurate with the weighty responsibilities which devolved upon her. her children all appreciated the superiority of her character, and yielded, with perfect and unquestioning submission, to her authority. napoleon in particular ever regarded his mother with the most profound respect and affection. he repeatedly declared that the family were entirely indebted to her for that physical, intellectual, and moral training, which prepared them to ascend the lofty summits of power to which they finally attained. he was so deeply impressed with the sense of these obligations that he often said, "my opinion is that the future good or bad conduct of a child, depends entirely upon its mother." one of his first acts, on attaining power, was to surround his mother with every luxury which wealth could furnish. and when placed at the head of the government of france, he immediately and energetically established schools for female education, remarking that france needed nothing so much to promote its regeneration as good mothers. madame bonaparte after the death of her husband, resided with her children in their country house. it was a retired residence, approached by an avenue overarched by lofty trees and bordered by flowering shrubs. a smooth, sunny lawn, which extended in front of the house, lured these children, so unconscious of the high destinies which awaited them, to their infantile sports. they chased the butterfly; they played in the little pools of water with their naked feet; in childish gambols they rode upon the back of the faithful dog, as happy as if their brows were never to ache beneath the burden of a crown. how mysterious the designs of that inscrutable providence, which, in the island of corsica, under the sunny skies of the mediterranean, was thus rearing a napoleon, and far away, beneath the burning sun of the tropics, under the shade of the cocoa groves and orange-trees of the west indies, was moulding the person and ennobling the affections of the beautiful and lovely josephine. it was by a guidance, which neither of these children sought, that they were conducted from their widely separated and obscure homes to the metropolis of france. there, by their united energies, which had been fostered in solitary studies and deepest musings they won for themselves the proudest throne upon which the sun has ever risen; a throne which in power and splendor eclipsed all that had been told of roman, or persian, or egyptian greatness. [illustration: the birth-house of napoleon.] the dilapidated villa in corsica, where napoleon passed his infantile years, still exists, and the thoughtful tourist loses himself in pensive reverie as he wanders over the lawn where those children have played--as he passes through the vegetable garden in the rear of the house, which enticed them to toil with their tiny hoes and spades, and as he struggles through the wilderness of shrubbery, now running to wild waste, in the midst of which once could have been heard the merry shouts of these infantile kings and queens. their voices are now hushed in death. but the records of earth can not show a more eventful drama than that enacted by these young bonapartes between the cradle and the grave. there is, in a sequestered and romantic spot upon the ground, an isolated granite rock, of wild and rugged form, in the fissures of which there is something resembling a cave, which still retains the name of "napoleon's grotto." this solitary rock was the favorite resort of the pensive and meditative child, even in his earliest years. when his brothers and sisters were in most happy companionship in the garden, or on the lawn, and the air resounded with their mirthful voices, napoleon would steal away alone to his loved retreat. there, in the long and sunny afternoons, with a book in his hand, he would repose, in a recumbent posture, for hours, gazing upon the broad expanse of the mediterranean, spread out before him, and upon the blue sky, which overarched his head. who can imagine the visions which in those hours arose before the expanding energies of that wonderful mind? napoleon could not be called an amiable child. he was silent and retiring in his disposition, melancholy and irritable in his temperament, and impatient of restraint. he was not fond of companionship nor of play. he had no natural joyousness or buoyancy of spirit, no frankness of disposition. his brothers and sisters were not fond of him, though they admitted his superiority. "joseph," said an uncle at that time, "is the eldest of the family, but napoleon is its head." his passionate energy and decision of character were such that his brother joseph, who was a mild, amiable, and unassuming boy, was quite in subjection to his will. it was observed that his proud spirit was unrelenting under any severity of punishment. with stoical firmness, and without the shedding of a tear, he would endure any inflictions. at one time he was unjustly accused of a fault which another had committed. he silently endured the punishment and submitted to the disgrace, and to the subsistence for three days on the coarsest fare, rather than betray his companion; and he did this, not from any special friendship for the one in the wrong, but from an innate pride and firmness of spirit. impulsive in his disposition, his anger was easily and violently aroused, and as rapidly passed away. there were no tendencies to cruelty in his nature, and no malignant passion could long hold him in subjection. there is still preserved upon the island of corsica, as an interesting relic, a small brass cannon, weighing about thirty pounds, which was the early and favorite plaything of napoleon. its loud report was music to his childish ears. in imaginary battle he saw whole squadrons mown down by the discharges of his formidable piece of artillery. napoleon was the favorite child of his father, and had often sat upon his knee; and, with a throbbing heart, a heaving bosom, and a tearful eye, listened to his recital of those bloody battles in which the patriots of corsica had been compelled to yield to the victorious french. napoleon hated the french. he fought those battles over again. he delighted, in fancy, to sweep away the embattled host with his discharges of grape-shot; to see the routed foe, flying over the plain, and to witness the dying and the dead covering the ground. he left the bat and the ball, the kite and the hoop for others, and in this strange divertisement found exhilarating joy. he loved to hear, from his mother's lips, the story of her hardships and sufferings, as, with her husband and the vanquished corsicans, she fled from village to village, and from fastness to fastness before their conquering enemies. the mother was probably but little aware of the warlike spirit she was thus nurturing in the bosom of her son, but with her own high mental endowments, she could not be insensible of the extraordinary capacities which had been conferred upon the silent, thoughtful, pensive listener. there were no mirthful tendencies in the character of napoleon; no tendencies in childhood, youth, or manhood to frivolous amusements or fashionable dissipation. "my mother," said napoleon, at st. helena, "loves me. she is capable of selling every thing for me, even to her last article of clothing." this distinguished lady died at marseilles in the year , about a year after the death of her illustrious son upon the island of st. helena. seven of her children were still living, to each of whom she bequeathed nearly two millions of dollars; while to her brother, cardinal fesch, she left a superb palace, embellished with the most magnificent decorations of furniture, paintings, and sculpture which europe could furnish. the son, who had conferred all this wealth--to whom the family was indebted for all this greatness, and who had filled the world with his renown, died a prisoner in a dilapidated stable, upon the most bleak and barren isle of the ocean. the dignified character of this exalted lady is illustrated by the following anecdote: soon after napoleon's assumption of the imperial purple, he happened to meet his mother in the gardens of st. cloud. the emperor was surrounded with his courtiers, and half playfully extended his hand for her to kiss. "not so, my son," she gravely replied, at the same time presenting her hand in return, "it is your duty to kiss the hand of her who gave you life." "left without guide, without support," says napoleon, "my mother was obliged to take the direction of affairs upon herself. but the task was not above her strength. she managed every thing, provided for every thing with a prudence which could neither have been expected from her sex nor from her age. ah, what a woman! where shall we look for her equal? she watched over us with a solicitude unexampled. every low sentiment, every ungenerous affection was discouraged and discarded. she suffered nothing but that which was grand and elevated to take root in our youthful understandings. she abhorred falsehood, and would not tolerate the slightest act of disobedience. none of our faults were overlooked. losses, privations, fatigue had no effect upon her. she endured all, braved all. she had the energy of a man, combined with the gentleness and delicacy of a woman." a bachelor uncle owned the rural retreat where the family resided. he was very wealthy, but very parsimonious. the young bonapartes, though living in the abundant enjoyment of all the necessaries of life, could obtain but little money for the purchase of those thousand little conveniences and luxuries which every boy covets. whenever they ventured to ask their uncle for coppers, he invariably pleaded poverty, assuring them that though he had lands and vineyards, goats and poultry, he had no money. at last the boys discovered a bag of doubloons secreted upon a shelf. they formed a conspiracy, and, by the aid of pauline, who was too young to understand the share which she had in the mischief, they contrived, on a certain occasion, when the uncle was pleading poverty, to draw down the bag, and the glittering gold rolled over the floor. the boys burst into shouts of laughter, while the good old man was almost choked with indignation. just at that moment madame bonaparte came in. her presence immediately silenced the merriment. she severely reprimanded her sons for their improper behavior, and ordered them to collect again the scattered doubloons. when the island of corsica was surrendered to the french, count marboeuf was appointed, by the court at paris, as its governor. the beauty of madame bonaparte, and her rich intellectual endowments, attracted his admiration, and they frequently met in the small but aristocratic circle of society, which the island afforded. he became a warm friend of the family, and manifested much interest in the welfare of the little napoleon. the gravity of the child, his air of pensive thoughtfulness, the oracular style of his remarks, which characterized even that early period of life, strongly attracted the attention of the governor, and he predicted that napoleon would create for himself a path through life of more than ordinary splendor. [illustration: the home of napoleon's childhood.] when napoleon was but five or six years of age, he was placed in a school with a number of other children. there a fair-haired little maiden won his youthful heart. it was napoleon's first love. his impetuous nature was all engrossed by this new passion, and he inspired as ardent an affection in the bosom of his loved companion as that which she had enkindled in his own. he walked to and from school, holding the hand of giacominetta. he abandoned all the plays and companionship of the other children to talk and muse with her. the older boys and girls made themselves very merry with the display of affection which the loving couple exhibited. their mirth, however, exerted not the slightest influence to abash napoleon, though often his anger would be so aroused by their insulting ridicule, that, regardless of the number or the size of his adversaries, with sticks, stones, and every other implement which came in his way, he would rush into their midst and attack them with such a recklessness of consequences, that they were generally put to flight. then, with the pride of a conqueror, he would take the hand of his infantile friend. the little napoleon was, at this period of his life, very careless in his dress, and almost invariably appeared with his stockings slipped down about his heels. some witty boy formed a couplet, which was often shouted upon the play-ground, not a little to the annoyance of the young lover. napoleone di mezza calzetta fa l'amore à giacominetta. napoleon with his stockings half off makes love to giacominetta. when napoleon was about ten years of age, count marboeuf obtained for him admission to the military school at brienne, near paris. forty years afterward napoleon remarked that he never could forget the pangs which he then felt, when parting from his mother. stoic as he was, his stoicism then forsook him, and he wept like any other child. his journey led him through italy, and crossing france, he entered paris. little did the young corsican then imagine as he gazed awe-stricken upon the splendors of the metropolis, that all those thronged streets were yet to resound with his name, and that in those gorgeous palaces the proudest kings and queens of europe were to bow obsequiously before his unrivaled power. the ardent and studious boy was soon established in school. his companions regarded him as a foreigner, as he spoke the italian language, and the french was to him almost an unknown tongue. he found that his associates were composed mostly of the sons of the proud and wealthy nobility of france. their pockets were filled with money, and they indulged in the most extravagant expenditures. the haughtiness with which these worthless sons of imperious but debauched and enervated sires, affected to look down upon the solitary and unfriended alien, produced an impression upon his mind which was never effaced. the revolutionary struggle, that long and lurid day of storms and desolation was just beginning darkly to dawn; the portentous rumblings of that approaching earthquake, which soon uphove both altar and throne, and overthrew all of the most sacred institutions of france in chaotic ruin, fell heavily upon the ear. the young noblemen at brienne taunted napoleon with being the son of a corsican lawyer; for in that day of aristocratic domination the nobility regarded all with contempt who were dependent upon any exertions of their own for support. they sneered at the plainness of napoleon's dress, and at the emptiness of his purse. his proud spirit was stung to the quick by these indignities, and his temper was roused by that disdain to which he was compelled to submit, and from which he could find no refuge. then it was that there was implanted in his mind that hostility which he ever afterward so signally manifested to rank founded not upon merit but upon the accident of birth. he thus early espoused this prominent principle of republicanism: "i hate those french," said he, in an hour of bitterness, "and i will do them all the mischief in my power." thirty years after this napoleon said, "called to the throne by the voice of the people, my maxim has always been, '_a career open to talent_,' without distinction of birth." [illustration: napoleon at brienne.] in consequence of this state of feeling, he secluded himself almost entirely from his fellow-students, and buried himself in the midst of his books and his maps. while they were wasting their time in dissipation and in frivolous amusements, he consecrated his days and his nights with untiring assiduity to study. he almost immediately elevated himself above his companions, and, by his superiority, commanded their respect. soon he was regarded as the brightest ornament of the institution, and napoleon exulted in his conscious strength and his undisputed exaltation. in all mathematical studies he became highly distinguished. all books upon history, upon government, upon the practical sciences he devoured with the utmost avidity. the poetry of homer and of ossian he read and re-read with great delight. his mind combined the poetical and the practical in most harmonious blending. in a letter written to his mother at this time, he says, "with my sword by my side, and homer in my pocket, i hope to carve my way through the world." many of his companions regarded him as morose and moody, and though they could not but respect him, they still disliked his recluse habits and his refusal to participate in their amusements. he was seldom seen upon the play-ground, but every leisure hour found him in the library. the lives of plutarch he studied so thoroughly, and with such profound admiration, that his whole soul became imbued with the spirit of these illustrious men. all the thrilling scenes of grecian and roman story, the rise and fall of empires, and deeds of heroic daring absorbed his contemplation. even at this early period of his life, and in all subsequent years, he expressed utter contempt for those enervating tales of fiction, with which so many of the readers of the present day are squandering their time and enfeebling their energies. it may be doubted whether he ever wasted an hour upon such worthless reading. when afterward seated upon the throne of france, he would not allow a novel to be brought into the palace; and has been known to take such a book from the hands of a maid of honor, and after giving her a severe reprimand to throw it into the fire. so great was his ardor for intellectual improvement, that he considered every day as lost in which he had not made perceptible progress in knowledge. by this rigid mental discipline he acquired that wonderful power of concentration by which he was ever enabled to simplify subjects the most difficult and complicated. he made no efforts to conciliate the good-will of his fellow-students; and he was so stern in his morals and so unceremonious in his manners that he was familiarly called the spartan. at this time he was distinguished by his italian complexion, a piercing eagle eye, and by that energy of conversational expression which, through life, gave such an oracular import to all his utterances. his unremitting application to study, probably impaired his growth, for his fine head was developed disproportionately with his small stature. though stubborn and self-willed in his intercourse with his equals, he was a firm friend of strict discipline, and gave his support to established authority. this trait of character, added to his diligence and brilliant attainments, made him a great favorite with the professors. there was, however, one exception. napoleon took no interest in the study of the german language. the german teacher, consequently, entertained a very contemptible opinion of the talents of his pupil. it chanced that upon one occasion napoleon was absent from the class. m. bouer, upon inquiring, ascertained that he was employed that hour in the class of engineers. "oh! he does learn something, then," said the teacher, ironically. "why, sir!" a pupil rejoined; "he is esteemed the very first mathematician in the school." "truly," the irritated german replied, "i have always heard it remarked, and have uniformly believed, that any fool, and none but a fool, could learn mathematics." napoleon afterward relating this anecdote, laughingly said, "it would be curious to ascertain whether m. bouer lived long enough to learn my real character, and enjoy the fruits of his own judgment." each student at brienne had a small portion of land allotted to him, which he might cultivate, or not, as he pleased. napoleon converted his little field into a garden. to prevent intrusion, he surrounded it with palisades, and planted it thickly with trees. in the centre of this, his fortified camp, he constructed a pleasant bower, which became to him a substitute for the beloved grotto he had left in corsica. to this grotto he was wont to repair to study and to meditate, where he was exposed to no annoyances from his frivolous fellow-students. in those trumpet-toned proclamations which subsequently so often electrified europe, one can see the influence of these hours of unremitting mental application. at that time he had few thoughts of any glory but military glory. young men were taught that the only path to renown was to be found through fields of blood. all the peaceful arts of life, which tend to embellish the world with competence and refinement, were despised. he only was the chivalric gentleman, whose career was marked by conflagrations and smouldering ruins, by the despair of the maiden, the tears and woe of widows and orphans, and by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying. such was the school in which napoleon was trained. the writings of voltaire and rousseau had taught france, that the religion of jesus christ was but a fable; that the idea of accountability at the bar of god was a foolish superstition; that death was a sleep from which there was no awaking; that life itself, aimless and objectless, was so worthless a thing that it was a matter of most trivial importance how soon its vapor should pass away. these peculiarities in the education of napoleon must be taken into account in forming a correct estimate of his character. it could hardly be said that he was educated in a christian land. france renounced christianity and plunged into the blackest of pagan darkness, without any religion, and without a god. though the altars of religion were not, at this time, entirely swept away, they were thoroughly undermined by that torrent of infidelity which, in crested billows, was surging over the land. napoleon had but little regard for the lives of others and still less for his own. he never commanded the meanest soldier to go where he was not willing to lead him. having never been taught any correct ideas of probation or retribution, the question whether a few thousand illiterate peasants, should eat, drink, and sleep for a few years more or less, was in his view of little importance compared with those great measures of political wisdom which should meliorate the condition of europe for ages. it is christianity alone which stamps importance upon each individual life, and which invests the apparent trivialities of time with the sublimities of eternity. it is, indeed, strange that napoleon, graduating at the schools of infidelity and of war, should have cherished so much of the spirit of humanity, and should have formed so many just conceptions of right and wrong. it is, indeed, strange that surrounded by so many allurements to entice him to voluptuous indulgence and self-abandonment, he should have retained a character, so immeasurably superior in all moral worth, to that of nearly all the crowned heads who occupied the thrones around him. the winter of was one of unusual severity. large quantities of snow fell, which so completely blocked up the walks, that the students at brienne could find but little amusement without doors. napoleon proposed, that to beguile the weary hours, they should erect an extensive fortification of snow, with intrenchments and bastions, parapets, ravelins, and horn-works. he had studied the science of fortification with the utmost diligence, and, under his superintendence the works were conceived and executed according to the strictest rules of art. the power of his mind now displayed itself. no one thought of questioning the authority of napoleon. he planned and directed while a hundred busy hands, with unquestioning alacrity, obeyed his will. the works rapidly rose, and in such perfection of science, as to attract crowds of the inhabitants of brienne for their inspection. napoleon divided the school into two armies, one being intrusted with the defense of the works, while the other composed the host of the besiegers. he took upon himself the command of both bodies, now heading the besiegers in the desperate assault, and now animating the besieged to an equally vigorous defense. for several weeks this mimic warfare continued, during which time many severe wounds were received on each side. in the heat of the battle, when the bullets of snow were flying thick and fast, one of the subordinate officers, venturing to disobey the commands of his general, napoleon felled him to the earth, inflicting a wound which left a scar for life. [illustration: the snow fort.] in justice to napoleon it must be related that when he had attained the highest pitch of grandeur, this unfortunate school-boy, who had thus experienced the rigor of napoleon's military discipline, sought to obtain an audience with the emperor. calamities had darkened the path of the unfortunate man, and he was in poverty and obscurity. napoleon, not immediately recalling his name to mind, inquired if the applicant could designate some incident of boyhood which would bring him to his recollection. "sire!" replied the courtier; "he has a deep scar upon his forehead which he says was inflicted by your hand." "ah!" rejoined napoleon, smiling; "i know the meaning of that scar perfectly well. it was caused by an ice bullet which i hurled at his head. bid him enter." the poor man made his appearance, and immediately obtained from napoleon every thing that he requested. at one time the students at brienne got up a private theatre for their entertainment. the wife of the porter of the school, who sold the boys cakes and apples, presented herself at the door of the theatre to obtain admission to see the play, of the death of cæsar, which was to be performed that evening. napoleon's sense of decorum was shocked at the idea of the presence of a female among such a host of young men, and he indignantly exclaimed, in characteristic language, "remove that woman, who brings here the license of camps." napoleon remained in the school at brienne for five years, from till . his vacations were usually spent in corsica. he was enthusiastically attached to his native island, and enjoyed exceedingly rambling over its mountains, and through its valleys, and listening at humble firesides to those traditions of violence and crime with which every peasant was familiar. he was a great admirer of paoli, the friend of his father and the hero of corsica. at brienne the students were invited to dine, by turns, with the principal of the school. one day when napoleon was at the table, one of the professors, knowing his young pupil's admiration for paoli, spoke disrespectfully of the distinguished general, that he might tease the sensitive lad. napoleon promptly and energetically replied, "paoli, sir, was a great man! he loved his country; and i never shall forgive my father, for consenting to the union of corsica with france. he ought to have followed paoli's fortunes and to have fallen with him." paoli, who upon the conquest of corsica had fled to england, was afterward permitted to return to his native island. napoleon, though in years but a boy, was, in mind a full-grown man. he sought the acquaintance of paoli, and they became intimate friends. the veteran general and the manly boy took many excursions together over the island; and paoli pointed out to his intensely-interested companion, the fields where sanguinary battles had been fought, and the positions which the little army of corsicans had occupied in the struggle for independence. the energy and decision of character displayed by napoleon produced such an impression upon the mind of this illustrious man, that he at one time exclaimed, "oh, napoleon! you do not at all resemble the moderns. you belong only to the heroes of plutarch." pichegru, who afterward became so celebrated as the conqueror of holland and who came to so melancholy a death, was a member of the school at brienne at the same time with napoleon. being several years older than the young corsican, he instructed him in mathematics. the commanding talents and firm character of his pupil deeply impressed the mind of pichegru. many years after, when napoleon was rising rapidly to power, the bourbons proposed to pichegru, who had espoused the royalist cause, to sound napoleon and ascertain if he could be purchased to advocate their claims. "it will be but lost time to attempt it," said pichegru: "i knew him in his youth. his character is inflexible. he has taken his side, and he will not change it." one of the ladies of brienne, occasionally invited some of the school-boys to sup with her at her chateau. napoleon was once passing the evening with this lady, and, in the course of conversation, she remarked, "turenne was certainly a very great man; but i should have liked him better had he not burned the palatinate." "what signifies that," was napoleon's characteristic remark, "if the burning was necessary to the object he had in view?"[ ] this sentiment, uttered in childhood, is a key to the character of napoleon. it was his great moral defect. to attain an end which he deemed important, he would ride over every obstacle. he was not a cruel man. he was not a malignant man. it was his great ambition to make himself illustrious by making france the most powerful, enlightened, and happy empire upon the surface of the globe. if, to attain this end, it was necessary to sacrifice a million of lives, he would not shrink from the sacrifice. had he been educated in the school of christianity, he might have learned that the end will not sanctify the means. napoleon was not a christian. [ ] turenne was a marshal of france, and a distinguished military leader in the reign of louis xiv. he marched an invading army into the palatinate, a province of germany, on the rhine, and spread devastation every where around him. from the top of his castle at manheim, the elector of the palatinate, at one time saw two of his cities and twenty five of his villages in flames. his character for integrity and honor ever stood very high. at brienne he was a great favorite with the younger boys, whose rights he defended against the invasions of the older. the indignation which napoleon felt at this time, in view of the arrogance of the young nobility, produced an impression upon his character, the traces of which never passed away. when his alliance with the royal house of austria was proposed, the emperor francis, whom napoleon very irreverently called "an old granny,"[ ] was extremely anxious to prove the illustrious descent of his prospective son-in-law. [ ] some one repeated, to maria louisa, this remark of napoleon. she did not understand its meaning, and went to talleyrand, inquiring, "what does that mean, monsieur, _an old granny_, what does it mean?" "it means," the accomplished courtier replied, with one of his most profound bows, "it means a venerable sage." he accordingly employed many persons to make researches among the records of genealogy, to trace out the grandeur of his ancestral line. napoleon refused to have the account published, remarking, "i had rather be the descendant of an honest man than of any petty tyrant of italy. i wish my nobility to commence with myself, and to derive all my titles from the french people. i am the rodolph of hapsburg of my family. my patent of nobility dates from the battle of montenotte."[ ] [ ] rodolph of hapsburg, was a gentleman, who by his own energies had elevated himself to the imperial throne of germany; and became the founder of the house of hapsburg. he was _the ancestor_ to whom the austrian kings looked back with the loftiest pride. upon the occasion of this marriage, the pope, in order to render the pedigree of napoleon more illustrious, proposed the canonization of a poor monk, by the name of bonaparte, who for centuries had been quietly reposing in his grave. "_holy father!_" exclaimed napoleon, "_i beseech you, spare me the ridicule of that step. you being in my power, all the world will say that i forced you to create a saint out of my family._" to some remonstrances which were made against this marriage napoleon coolly replied, "i certainly should not enter into this alliance, if i were not aware of the origin of maria louise being equally as noble as my own." still napoleon was by no means regardless of that mysterious influence which illustrious descent invariably exerts over the human mind. through his life one can trace the struggles of those conflicting sentiments. the marshals of france, and the distinguished generals who surrounded his throne, were raised from the rank and file of the army, by their own merit; but he divorced his faithful josephine, and married a daughter of the cæsars, that by an illustrious alliance he might avail himself of this universal and innate prejudice. no power of reasoning can induce one to look with the same interest upon the child of cæsar and the child of the beggar. near the close of napoleon's career, while europe in arms was crowding upon him, the emperor found himself in desperate and hopeless conflict on that very plain at brienne, where in childhood he had reared his fortification of snow. he sought an interview with the old woman, whom he had ejected from the theatre, and from whom he had often purchased milk and fruit. "do you remember a boy by the name of bonaparte," inquired napoleon, "who formerly attended this school?" "yes! very well," was the answer. "did he always pay you for what he bought?" "yes;" replied the old woman, "and he often compelled the other boys to pay, when they wished to defraud me." "perhaps he may have forgotten a few sous," said napoleon, "and here is a purse of gold to discharge any outstanding debt which may remain between us." at this same time he pointed out to his companion a tree, under which, with unbounded delight, he read, when a boy, jerusalem delivered, and where, in the warm summer evenings, with indescribable luxury of emotion, he listened to the tolling of the bells on the distant village-church spires. to such impressions his sensibilities were peculiarly alive. the monarch then turned away sadly from these reminiscenses of childhood, to plunge, seeking death, into the smoke and the carnage of his last and despairing conflicts. it was a noble trait in the character of napoleon, that in his day of power he so generously remembered even the casual acquaintances of his early years. he ever wrote an exceedingly illegible hand, as his impetuous and restless spirit was such that he could not drive his pen with sufficient rapidity over his paper. the poor writing-master at brienne was in utter despair, and could do nothing with his pupil. years after, napoleon was sitting one day with josephine, in his cabinet at st. cloud, when a poor man, with threadbare coat, was ushered into his presence. trembling before his former pupil, he announced himself as the writing-master of brienne, and solicited a pension from the emperor. napoleon affected anger, and said, "yes, you were my writing-master, were you? and a pretty chirographist you made of me, too. ask josephine, there, what she thinks of my handwriting!" the empress, with that amiable tact, which made her the most lovely of women, smilingly replied, "i assure you, sir, his letters are perfectly delightful." the emperor laughed cordially at the well-timed compliment, and made the poor old man comfortable for the rest of his days. in the days of his prosperity, amidst all the cares of empire, napoleon remembered the poor corsican woman, who was the kind nurse of his infancy, and settled upon her a pension of two hundred dollars a year. though far advanced in life, the good woman was determined to see her little nursling, in the glory of whose exaltation her heart so abundantly shared. with this object in view she made a journey to paris. the emperor received her most kindly, and transported the happy woman home again with her pension doubled. in one of napoleon's composition exercises at brienne, he gave rather free utterance to his republican sentiments, and condemned the conduct of the royal family. the professor of rhetoric rebuked the young republican severely for the offensive passage, and to add to the severity of the rebuke, compelled him to throw the paper into the fire. long afterward, the professor was commanded to attend a levee of the first consul to receive napoleon's younger brother jerome as a pupil. napoleon received him with great kindness, but at the close of the business, very good-humoredly reminded him that times were very considerably changed since the burning of that paper. napoleon remained in the school of brienne for five years, from till . he had just entered his fifteenth year, when he was promoted to the military school at paris. annually, three of the best scholars, from each of the twelve provincial military schools of france, were promoted to the military school at paris. this promotion, at the earliest possible period in which his age would allow his admission, shows the high rank, as a scholar, which napoleon sustained. the records of the minister of war contain the following interesting entry: "state of the king's scholars eligible to enter into service, or to pass to the school at paris. monsieur de bonaparte (napoleon), born th august, ; in height five feet six and a half inches; has finished his fourth season; of a good constitution, health excellent, character mild, honest, and grateful; conduct exemplary; has always distinguished himself by application to mathematics; understands history and geography tolerably well; is indifferently skilled in merely ornamental studies, and in latin, in which he has only finished his fourth course; would make an excellent sailor; deserves to be passed to the school at paris." the military school at paris, which napoleon now entered, was furnished with all the appliances of aristocratic luxury. it had been founded for the sons of the nobility, who had been accustomed to every indulgence. each of the three hundred young men assembled in this school had a servant to groom his horse, to polish his weapons, to brush his boots, and to perform all other necessary menial services. the cadet reposed on a luxurious bed, and was fed with sumptuous viands. there are few lads of fifteen who would not have been delighted with the dignity, the ease, and the independence of this style of living. napoleon, however, immediately saw that this was by no means the training requisite to prepare officers for the toils and the hardships of war. he addressed an energetic memorial to the governor, urging the banishment of this effeminacy and voluptuousness from the military school. he argued that the students should learn to groom their own horses, to clean their armor, and to perform all those services, and to inure themselves to those privations which would prepare them for the exposure and the toils of actual service. no incident in the childhood or in the life of napoleon shows more decisively than this his energetic, self-reliant, commanding character. the wisdom, the fortitude, and the foresight, not only of mature years, but of the mature years of the most powerful intellect, were here exhibited. the military school which he afterward established at fontainebleau, and which obtained such world-wide celebrity, was founded upon the model of this youthful memorial. and one distinguishing cause of the extraordinary popularity which napoleon afterward secured, was to be found in the fact, that through life he called upon no one to encounter perils, or to endure hardships which he was not perfectly ready himself to encounter or to endure. at paris the elevation of his character, his untiring devotion to study, his peculiar conversational energy, and the almost boundless information he had acquired, attracted much attention. his solitary and recluse habits, and his total want of sympathy with most of his fellow students in their idleness, and in their frivolous amusements, rendered him far from popular with the multitude. his great superiority was, however, universally recognized. he pressed on in his studies with as much vehemence as if he had been forewarned of the extraordinary career before him, and that but a few months were left in which to garner up those stores of knowledge with which he was to remodel the institutions of europe, and almost change the face of the world. about this time he was at marseilles on some day of public festivity. a large party of young gentlemen and ladies were amusing themselves with dancing. napoleon was rallied upon his want of gallantry in declining to participate in the amusements of the evening. he replied, "it is not by playing and dancing that a _man_ is to be formed." indeed he never, from childhood, took any pleasure in fashionable dissipation. he had not a very high opinion of men or women in general. he was perfectly willing to provide amusements which he thought adapted to the capacities of the masculine and feminine minions flitting about the court; but his own expanded mind was so engrossed with vast projects of utility and renown, that he found no moments to spare in cards and billiards, and he was at the furthest possible remove from what may be called a lady's man. on one occasion a mathematical problem of great difficulty having been proposed to the class, napoleon, in order to solve it, secluded himself in his room for seventy-two hours; and he solved the problem. this extraordinary faculty of intense and continuous exertion both of mind and body, was his distinguishing characteristic through life. napoleon did not blunder into renown. his triumphs were not casualties; his achievements were not accidents; his grand conceptions were not the brilliant flashes of unthinking and unpremeditated genius. never did man prepare the way for greatness by more untiring devotion to the acquisition of all useful knowledge, and to the attainment of the highest possible degree of mental discipline. that he possessed native powers of mind, of extraordinary vigor it is true; but those powers were expanded and energized by herculean study. his mighty genius impelled to the sacrifice of every indulgence, and to sleepless toil. the vigor of napoleon's mind, so conspicuous in conversation, was equally remarkable in his exercises in composition. his professor of belles-lettres remarked that napoleon's amplifications ever reminded him of "flaming missiles ejected from a volcano." while in the military school at paris the abbé raynal became so forcibly impressed with his astonishing mental acquirements, and the extent of his capacities, that he frequently invited him, though napoleon was then but a lad of sixteen, to breakfast at his table with other illustrious guests. his mind was at that time characterized by great logical accuracy, united with the most brilliant powers of masculine imagination. his conversation, laconic, graphic, oracular, arrested every mind. had the vicissitudes of life so ordered his lot, he would undoubtedly have been as distinguished in the walks of literature and in the halls of science, as he became in the field and in the cabinet. that he was one of the profoundest of thinkers all admit; and his trumpet-toned proclamations resounded through europe, rousing the army to almost a frenzy of enthusiasm, and electrifying alike the peasant and the prince. napoleon had that comprehensive genius which would have been pre-eminent in any pursuit to which he had devoted the energies of his mind. great as were his military victories, they were by no means the greatest of his achievements. in september, , napoleon, then but sixteen years of age, was examined to receive an appointment in the army. the mathematical branch of the examination was conducted by the celebrated la place. napoleon passed the ordeal triumphantly. in history he had made very extensive attainments. his proclamations, his public addresses, his private conferences with his ministers in his cabinet, all attest the philosophical discrimination with which he had pondered the records of the past, and had studied the causes of the rise and fall of empires. at the close of his examination in history, the historical professor, monsieur keruglion, wrote opposite to the signature of napoleon, "a corsican by character and by birth. this young man will distinguish himself in the world if favored by fortune." this professor was very strongly attached to his brilliant pupil. he often invited him to dinner, and cultivated his confidence. napoleon in after years did not forget this kindness, and many years after, upon the death of the professor, settled a very handsome pension upon his widow. napoleon, as the result of this examination, was appointed second lieutenant in a regiment of artillery. he was exceedingly gratified in becoming thus early in life an officer in the army. to a boy of sixteen it must have appeared the attainment of a very high degree of human grandeur. that evening, arrayed in his new uniform, with epaulets and the enormous boots which at that time were worn by the artillery, in an exuberant glow of spirits, he called upon a female friend, mademoiselle permon, who afterward became duchess of abrantes, and who was regarded as one of the most brilliant wits of the imperial court. a younger sister of this lady, who had just returned from a boarding-school, was so much struck with the comical appearance of napoleon, whose feminine proportions so little accorded with this military costume, that she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, declaring that he resembled nothing so much as "puss in boots." the raillery was too just not to be felt. napoleon struggled against his sense of mortification, and soon regained his accustomed equanimity. a few days after, to prove that he cherished no rancorous recollection of the occurrence, he presented the mirthful maiden with an elegantly bound copy of puss in boots. [illustration: lieutenant bonaparte.] napoleon soon, exulting in his new commission, repaired to valence to join his regiment. his excessive devotion to study had impeded the full development of his physical frame. though exceedingly thin and fragile in figure, there was a girlish gracefulness and beauty in his form; and his noble brow and piercing eye attracted attention and commanded respect. one of the most distinguished ladies of the place, madame du colombier, became much interested in the young lieutenant, and he was frequently invited to her house. he was there introduced to much intelligent and genteel society. in after life he frequently spoke with gratitude of the advantages he derived from this early introduction to refined and polished associates. napoleon formed a strong attachment for a daughter of madame du colombier, a young lady of about his own age and possessed of many accomplishments. they frequently enjoyed morning and evening rambles through the pleasant walks in the environs of valence. napoleon subsequently speaking of this youthful attachment said, "we were the most innocent creatures imaginable. we contrived short interviews together. i well remember one which took place, on a midsummer's morning, just as the light began to dawn. it will scarcely be credited that all our felicity consisted in eating cherries together." the vicissitudes of life soon separated these young friends from each other, and they met not again for ten years. napoleon, then emperor of france, was, with a magnificent retinue, passing through lyons, when this young lady, who had since been married, and who had encountered many misfortunes, with some difficulty gained access to him, environed as he was with all the etiquette of royalty. napoleon instantly recognized his former friend and inquired minutely respecting all her joys and griefs. he immediately assigned to her husband a post which secured for him an ample competence, and conferred upon her the situation of a maid of honor to one of his sisters. from valence napoleon went to lyons, having been ordered, with his regiment, to that place in consequence of some disturbances which had broken out there. his pay as lieutenant was quite inadequate to support him in the rank of a gentleman. his widowed mother, with six children younger than napoleon, who was then but seventeen years of age, was quite unable to supply him with funds. this pecuniary embarrassment often exposed the high-spirited young officer to the keenest mortification. it did not, however, in the slightest degree, impair his energies or weaken his confidence in that peculiar consciousness, which from childhood he had cherished, that he was endowed with extraordinary powers, and that he was born to an exalted destiny. he secluded himself from his brother officers, and, keeping aloof from all the haunts of amusement and dissipation, cloistered himself in his study, and with indefatigable energy devoted himself anew to the acquisition of knowledge, laying up those inexhaustible stores of information and gaining that mental discipline which proved of such incalculable advantage to him in the brilliant career upon which he subsequently entered. while at lyons, napoleon, friendless and poor, was taken sick. he had a small room in the attic of an hotel, where, alone, he lingered through the weary hours of hunger and pain. a lady from geneva, visiting some friends at lyons, happened to learn that a young officer was sick in the hotel. she could only ascertain, respecting him, that he was quite young--that his name was bonaparte--then an unknown name; and that his purse was very scantily provided. her benevolent feelings impelled her to his bedside. she immediately felt the fascination with which napoleon could ever charm those who approached him. with unremitting kindness she nursed him, and had the gratification of seeing him so far restored as to be able to rejoin his regiment. napoleon took his leave of the benevolent lady with many expressions of gratitude for the kindness he had experienced. after the lapse of years when napoleon had been crowned emperor, he received a letter from this lady, congratulating him upon the eminence he had attained, and informing him that disastrous days had darkened around her. napoleon immediately returned an answer, containing two thousand dollars, and expressing the most friendly assurances of his immediate attention to any favors she might in future solicit. the academy at lyons offered a prize for the best dissertation upon the question: "what are the institutions most likely to contribute to human happiness?" napoleon wrote upon the subject, and though there were many competitors, the prize was awarded to him. many years afterward, when seated upon the throne, his minister talleyrand sent a courier to lyons and obtained the manuscript. thinking it would please the emperor, he, one day, when they were alone, put the essay into napoleon's hands, asking him if he knew the author. napoleon immediately recognizing the writing, threw it into the flames, saying at the same time, that it was a boyish production full of visionary and impracticable schemes. he also, in these hours of unceasing study, wrote a history of corsica, which he was preparing to publish, when the rising storms of the times led him to lay aside his pen for the sword. two great parties, the royalists and the republicans, were now throughout france contending for the supremacy. napoleon joined the republican side. most of the officers in the army being sons of the old nobility, were of the opposite party; and this made him very unpopular with them. he, however, with great firmness, openly avowed his sentiments, and eagerly watched the progress of those events, which he thought would open to him a career of fame and fortune. he still continued to prosecute his studies with untiring diligence. he was, at this period of his life, considered proud, haughty, and irascible, though he was loved with great enthusiasm by the few whose friendship he chose to cultivate. his friends appreciated his distinguished character and attainments, and predicted his future eminence. his remarkable logical accuracy of mind, his lucid and energetic expressions, his immense information upon all points of history and upon every subject of practical importance, his extensive scientific attainments, and his thorough accomplishments as an officer, rendered him an object of general observation, and secured for him the respect even of the idlers who disliked his unsocial habits. about this time, in consequence of some popular tumults at auxonne, napoleon, with his regiment, was ordered to that place. he, with some subaltern officers, was quartered at the house of a barber. napoleon, as usual, immediately, when off of duty, cloistered himself in his room with his law books, his scientific treatises, his histories, and his mathematics. his associate officers loitered through the listless days, coquetting with the pretty wife of the barber, smoking cigars in the shop, and listening to the petty gossip of the place. the barber's wife was quite annoyed at receiving no attentions from the handsome, distinguished, but ungallant young lieutenant. she accordingly disliked him exceedingly. a few years after as napoleon, then commander of the army of italy, was on his way to marengo, he passed through auxonne. he stopped at the door of the barber's shop and asked his former hostess, if she remembered a young officer by the name of bonaparte, who was once quartered in her family. "indeed, i do," was the pettish reply, "and a very disagreeable inmate he was. he was always either shut up in his room or, if he walked out, he never condescended to speak to any one." "ah! my good woman," napoleon rejoined; "had i passed my time as you wished to have me, i should not now have been in command of the army of italy." the higher nobility and most of the officers in the army were in favor of royalty. the common soldiers and the great mass of the people were advocates of republicanism. napoleon's fearless avowal, under all circumstances, of his hostility to monarchy and his approval of popular liberty, often exposed him to serious embarrassments. he has himself given a very glowing account of an interview at one of the fashionable residences at auxonne, where he had been invited to meet an aristocratic circle. the revolution was just breaking out in all its terror, and the excitement was intense throughout france. in the course of conversation napoleon gave free utterance to his sentiments. they all instantly assailed him, gentlemen and ladies, pell-mell. napoleon was not a man to retreat. his condensed sentences fell like hot shot among the crowd of antagonists who surrounded him. the battle waxed warmer and warmer. there was no one to utter a word in favor of napoleon. he was a young man of nineteen, surrounded by veteran generals and distinguished nobles. like wellington at waterloo he was wishing that some "blucher or night were come." suddenly the door was opened, and the mayor of the city was announced. napoleon began to flatter himself that a rescue was at hand, when the little great man in pompous dignity joined the assailants and belabored the young officer at bay, more mercilessly than all the rest. at last the lady of the house took compassion upon her defenseless guest, and interposed to shield him from the blows which he was receiving in the unequal contest. one evening, in the year , there was a very brilliant party in the drawing-rooms of m. neckar, the celebrated financier. the bastile had just been demolished. the people, exulting in newly found power, and dimly discerning long-defrauded rights, were trampling beneath their feet, indiscriminately, all institutions, good and bad, upon which ages had left their sanction. the gay and fickle parisians, notwithstanding the portentous approachings of a storm, the most fearful earth has ever witnessed, were pleased with change, and with reckless curiosity awaited the result of the appalling phenomenon exhibited around them. many of the higher nobility, terrified at the violence, daily growing more resistless and extended, had sought personal safety in emigration. the tone of society in the metropolis had, however, become decidedly improved by the greater commingling, in all the large parties, of men eminent in talents and in public services, as well as of those illustrious in rank. the entertainments given by m. neckar, embellished by the presence, as the presiding genius, of his distinguished daughter, madame de staël,[ ] were brilliant in the extreme, assembling all the noted gentlemen and ladies of the metropolis. on the occasion to which we refer, the magnificent saloon was filled with men who had attained the highest eminence in literature and science, or who, in those troubled times, had ascended to posts of influence and honor in the state. mirabeau was there,[ ] with his lofty brow and thunder tones, proud of his very ugliness. talleyrand[ ] moved majestically through the halls, conspicuous for his gigantic proportions and courtly bearing. la fayette, rendered glorious as the friend of washington and his companion in arms, had gathered around him a group of congenial spirits. in the embrasure of a window sat madame de staël. by the brilliance of her conversational powers she had attracted to her side st. just, who afterward obtained such sanguinary notoriety; malesherbes, the eloquent and intrepid advocate of royalty; lalande, the venerable astronomer; marmontel and lagrange, illustrious mathematicians, and others, whose fame was circulating through europe. [ ] napoleon, at st. helena, gave the following graphic and most discriminating sketch of the character of madame de staël. "she was a woman of considerable talent and great ambition; but so extremely intriguing and restless, as to give rise to the observation, that she would throw her friends into the sea, that, at the moment of drowning, she might have an opportunity of saving them. shortly after my return from the conquest of italy, i was accosted by her in a large company, though at that time i avoided going out much in public. she followed me every where, and stuck so close that i could not shake her off. at last she asked me, 'who is at this moment the first woman in the world?' intending to pay a compliment to me, and thinking that i would return it. i looked at her, and replied, 'she, madame, who has borne the greatest number of children,' an answer which greatly confused her." from this hour she became the unrelenting enemy of napoleon. [ ] "few persons," said mirabeau, "comprehend the power of my ugliness." "if you would form an idea of my looks," he wrote to a lady who had never seen him, "you must imagine a tiger who has had the small-pox." "the life of mirabeau," says sydney smith, "should embrace all the talents and all the vices, every merit and every defect, every glory and every disgrace. he was student, voluptuary, soldier, prisoner, author, diplomatist, exile, pauper, courtier, democrat, orator, statesman, traitor. he has seen more, suffered more, learned more, felt more, done more, than any man of his own or any other age." [ ] talleyrand, one of the most distinguished diplomatists, was afterward elevated by the emperor napoleon to be grand chamberlain of the empire. he was celebrated for his witticisms. one day mirabeau was recounting the qualities which, in those difficult times, one should possess to be minister of state. he was evidently describing his own character, when, to the great mirth of all present, talleyrand archly interrupted him with the inquiry, "_he should also be pitted with the small-pox, should he not?_" in one corner stood the celebrated alfieri, reciting with almost maniacal gesticulation his own poetry to a group of ladies. the grave and philosophical neckar was the centre of another group of careworn statesmen, discussing the rising perils of the times. it was an assemblage of all which paris could afford of brilliance in rank, talent, or station. about the middle of the evening, josephine, the beautiful, but then neglected wife of m. beauharnais, was announced, accompanied by her little son eugène. madame de genlis, soon made her appearance, attended by the brother of the king; and, conscious of her intellectual dignity, floated through that sea of brilliance, recognized wherever she approached, by the abundance of perfumery which her dress exhaled. madame campan, the friend and companion of maria antoinette, and other ladies and gentlemen of the court were introduced, and the party now consisted of a truly remarkable assemblage of distinguished men and women. parisian gayety seemed to banish all thoughts of the troubles of the times, and the hours were surrendered to unrestrained hilarity. servants were gliding through the throng, bearing a profusion of refreshments consisting of delicacies gathered from all quarters of the globe. as the hour of midnight approached there was a lull in the buzz of conversation, and the guests gathered in silent groups to listen to a musical entertainment. madame de staël took her seat at the piano, while josephine prepared to accompany her with the harp. they both were performers of singular excellence, and the whole assembly was hushed in expectation. just as they had commenced the first notes of a charming duet the door of the saloon was thrown open, and two new guests entered the apartment. the one was an elderly gentleman, of very venerable aspect, and dressed in the extreme of simplicity. the other was a young man, very small, pale, and slender. the elderly gentleman was immediately recognized by all as the abbé raynal, one of the most distinguished philosophers of france; but no one knew the pale, slender, fragile youth who accompanied him. they both, that they might not interrupt the music, silently took seats near the door. as soon as the performance was ended, and the ladies had received those compliments which their skill and taste elicited, the abbé approached madame de staël, accompanied by his young protégé, and introduced him as monsieur napoleon bonaparte. bonaparte! that name which has since filled the world, was then plebeian and unknown, and upon its utterance many of the proud aristocrats in that assembly shrugged their shoulders, and turned contemptuously away to their conversation and amusement. madame de staël had almost an instinctive perception of the presence of genius. her attention was instantly arrested by the few remarks with which napoleon addressed her. they were soon engaged in very animated conversation. josephine and several other ladies joined them. the group grew larger and larger as the gentlemen began to gather around the increasing circle. "who is that young man who thus suddenly has gathered such a group around him?" the proud alfieri condescended to ask of the abbé raynal. "he is," replied the abbé, "a protégé of mine, and a young man of very extraordinary talent. he is very industrious, well read, and has made remarkable attainments in history, mathematics, and all military science." mirabeau came stalking across the room, lured by curiosity to see what could be the source of the general attraction. "come here! come here!" said madame de staël, with a smile, and in an under tone. "we have found a little great man. i will introduce him to you, for i know that you are fond of men of genius." mirabeau very graciously shook hands with napoleon, and entered into conversation with the untitled young man, without assuming any airs of superiority. a group of distinguished men now gathered round them, and the conversation became in some degree general. the bishop of autun commended fox and sheridan for having asserted that the french army, by refusing to obey the orders of their superiors to fire upon the populace, had set a glorious example to all the armies of europe; because, by so doing, they had shown that men by becoming soldiers did not cease to be citizens. "excuse me, my lord," exclaimed napoleon, in tones of earnestness which arrested general attention, "if i venture to interrupt you; but as i am an officer i must claim the privilege of expressing my sentiments. it is true that i am very young, and it may appear presumptuous in me to address so many distinguished men; but during the last three years i have paid intense attention to our political troubles. i see with sorrow the state of our country, and i will incur censure rather than pass unnoticed principles which are not only unsound but which are subversive of all government. as much as any one i desire to see all abuses, antiquated privileges, and usurped rights annulled. nay! as i am at the commencement of my career, it will be my best policy as well as my duty to support the progress of popular institutions, and to promote reform in every branch of the public administration. but as in the last twelve months i have witnessed repeated alarming popular disturbances, and have seen our best men divided into factions which threaten to be irreconcilable, i sincerely believe that now _more than ever_, a strict discipline in the army is absolutely necessary for the safety of our constitutional government and for the maintenance of order. nay! if our troops are not compelled unhesitatingly to obey the commands of the executive, we shall be exposed to the blind fury of democratic passions, which will render france the most miserable country on the globe. the ministry may be assured that if the daily increasing arrogance of the parisian mob is not repressed by a strong arm, and social order rigidly maintained, we shall see not only this capital, but every other city in france, thrown into a state of indescribable anarchy, while the real friends of liberty, the enlightened patriots, now working for the best good of our country, will sink beneath a set of demagogues, who, with louder outcries for freedom on their tongues, will be in reality but a horde of savages worse than the neros of old." these emphatic sentences uttered by napoleon, with an air of authority which seemed natural to the youthful speaker, caused a profound sensation. for a moment there was perfect silence in the group, and every eye was riveted upon the pale and marble cheek of napoleon. neckar and la fayette listened with evident uneasiness to his bold and weighty sentiments, as if conscious of the perils which his words so forcibly portrayed. mirabeau nodded once or twice significantly to tallyrand, seeming thus to say "that is exactly the truth." some turned upon their heels, exasperated at this fearless avowal of hostility to democratic progress. alfieri, one of the proudest of aristocrats, could hardly restrain his delight, and gazed with amazement upon the intrepid young man. "condorcet," says an eye witness, "nearly made me cry out, by the squeezes which he gave my hand at every sentence uttered by the pale, slender, youthful speaker." as soon as napoleon had concluded, madame de staël, turning to the abbé raynal, cordially thanked him for having introduced her to the acquaintance of one, cherishing views as a statesman so profound, and so essential to present emergencies. then turning to her father and his colleagues, she said, with her accustomed air of dignity and authority, "gentlemen, i hope that you will heed the important truths which you have now heard uttered." the young napoleon, then but nineteen years of age, thus suddenly became the most prominent individual in that whole assembly. wherever he moved many eyes followed him. he had none of the airs of a man of fashion. he made no attempts at displays of gallantry. a peaceful melancholy seemed to overshadow him, as, with an abstracted air, he moved through the glittering throng, without being in the slightest degree dazzled by its brilliance. the good old abbé raynal appeared quite enraptured in witnessing this triumph of his young protégé. soon after this, in september, , napoleon, then twenty years of age, on furlough, visited his native island. he had recently been promoted to a first-lieutenancy. upon returning to the home of his childhood, to spend a few months in rural leisure, the first object of his attention was to prepare for himself a study, where he could be secluded from all interruption. for this purpose he selected a room in the attic of the house, where he would be removed from all the noise of the family. here, with his books spread out before him, he passed days and nights of the most incessant mental toil. he sought no recreation; he seldom went out; he seldom saw any company. had some guardian angel informed him of the immense drafts which, in the future, were to be made upon his mind, he could not have consecrated himself with more sleepless energy, to prepare for the emergency. the life of napoleon presents the most striking illustration of the truth of the sentiment, "the heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight; but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night." [illustration: the water-excursion.] one cloudless morning, just after the sun had risen, he was sauntering along by the sea-shore, in solitary musings, when he chanced to meet a brother officer, who reproached him with his unsocial habits, and urged him to indulge, for once, in a pleasure excursion. napoleon, who had, for some time, been desirous of taking a survey of the harbor, and of examining some heights, upon the opposite side of the gulf, which, in his view, commanded the town of ajaccio, consented to the proposal, upon the condition that his friend should accompany him upon the water. they made a signal to some sailors on board a vessel riding at anchor, at some distance from the shore, and were soon in a boat propelled by vigorous rowers. napoleon seated himself at the stern, and taking from his pocket a ball of pack-thread, one end of which he had fastened upon the shore, commenced the accurate measurement of the width of the gulf. his companion, feeling no interest in the survey, and seeking only listless pleasure, was not a little annoyed in having his amusement thus converted into a study for which he had no relish. when they arrived at the opposite side of the bay, napoleon insisted upon climbing the heights. regardless of the remonstrances of his associate, who complained of hunger, and of absence from the warm breakfast which was in readiness for him, napoleon persisted in exploring the ground. napoleon in describing the scene says: "my companion, quite uninterested in researches of this kind, begged me to desist. i strove to divert him, and to gain time to accomplish my purpose, but appetite made him deaf. if i spoke to him of the width of the bay, he replied that he was hungry, and that his warm breakfast was cooling. if i pointed out to him a church steeple or a house, which i could reach with my bomb-shells, he replied, "yes, but i have not breakfasted." at length, late in the morning, we returned, but the friends with whom he was expecting to breakfast, tired of the delay, had finished their repast, so that, on his arrival he found neither guests nor banquet. he resolved to be more cautious in future as to the companion he would choose, and the hour in which he would set out, on an excursion of pleasure." subsequently the english surmounted these very heights by a redoubt, and then napoleon had occasion to avail himself very efficiently of the information acquired upon this occasion. the somnambule. about twelve months ago andrè folitton, horticulturist and herbalist of st. cloud, a young man of worth and respectability, was united in marriage to julienne, daughter of an apothecary of the same place. andrè and julienne had long loved each other, and congeniality of disposition, parity of years, and health and strength, as well as a tolerably comfortable setout in the world, seemed to promise for them many years of happiness. supremely contented, and equally disposed to render life as pleasant and blithe as possible, the future seemed spread before them, a long vista of peace and pleasantness, and bright were the auguries which rose around them during the early days of their espousal. though he loved mirth and fun as much as any one, andrè was extremely regular in his habits, and every engagement he made was pretty sure of being punctually attended to. julienne quickly discovered that thrice every week, precisely at seven o'clock in the evening, her husband left his home, to which he returned generally after the lapse of two hours. whither he went she did not know, nor could she find out. andrè always parried her little inquisitions with jokes and laughter. she perceived, however, that his excursions might be connected with business in some way or other, for he never expended money, as he would had he gone to a café or estaminet. julienne's speculations went no further than this. as to the husband and wife, had they been left to themselves, not the slightest interruption of mutual good-feeling would ever have arisen out of this matter. but it is a long lane which has no turning, and a very slight circumstance gave an unhappy twist to the path which had promised such a direct and pleasant voyage through life. julienne had almost ceased to puzzle herself about her husband's periodical absences, indeed had ceased to joke when he returned from them, having easily learned--the good-tempered little woman--to consider them as nothing more than some engagement connected with the ordinary course of business. one night, however, a neighbor, madame margot, stepped into the bowery cottage of the young pair to have a chat and a cup of coffee with madame folitton. madame margot, though she had more words than julienne, and could keep the conversation going at a more rattling pace, had by no means so sweet and gracious a presence. her sharp eye and thin lips were true indices to a prying and somewhat ill-natured disposition; and the fact is, that madame margot, having several times seen andrè pass her house alone in the evening, as if taking a walk by himself, had been seized with a strong desire to know "how things were going on" between him and his wife. madame margot had never joined other folks in their profuse prophesies of future happiness when andrè and julienne were wedded. she was not the woman to do it; her temper had spread her own bed, and her husband's too, with thorns and briars, and so she declared that the happiness of wedded life was something worse than a _mauvaise plaisanterie_. "eh, bien!" she exclaimed, when folks spoke of andrè and his wife. "i wish them well, but i have lived too long to suppose that such a beginning as theirs can hold on long! we shall hear different tales by and by!" so madame margot, with her sharp eye and thin lips, eager to verify her prognostications, had visited andrè's house to reconnoitre. "m. folitton? he is not here?" said she, in the course of conversation. "he is from home," answered julienne; and as she saw the peering expression of madame margot's face, she answered in such a manner as to check further inquiry. "i knew it!" thought madame margot. "i was sure there was something wrong!" "andrè will be in presently," added julienne. "ah, well," exclaimed her companion, with the look of one resigned to the inconveniences of life, "it is well that he is so attentive to business; and very glad i am to see how much he has upon his hands: early in the morning till late at night. fortune and leisure await those who work like him." "you are kind," said julienne. "it is true that andrè works very hard. let me fill your cup." "ah, julienne! on your wedding-day, my dear, all the songs were hosannas and jubilates, and it really does seem that you are very happy and comfortable. is it not so?" "you are right, madame margot. andrè and i are very happy, and we have many blessings to be thankful for." "there is one thing," rejoined the wily lady, "which, allow me to say, people who have businesses to look after feel rather strongly. ay, well do i and margot know that business interferes terribly with domestic happiness." "in what manner?" asked julienne, in some surprise, for madame margot's experience did not "come home" to her. "i have never thought so, nor andrè either, i believe." "why, my dear, when people are abroad they can't be at home," continued the inquisitress. "and as i and margot feel that it is hard we can be so very little together, i naturally think that other people must feel the same. but, however, we _can_ enjoy our little walk in the evening. i am sure, my dear, you would like it all the better if you could do the same." "i should," said julienne; "but as andrè's time is occupied, there is no use thinking about it. i can't think where he goes," added she, unguardedly and pensively. madame margot pricked up her ears. "why, my dear!" exclaimed she, lowering her voice, as if about to say something of momentous importance, "do you mean to say that you don't know where he goes so many evenings in the week?" the good lady had always exercised a sharp scrutiny over the movements of her lord, and the bare idea of julienne being ignorant of andrè's proceedings excited her indignation and pity. "i don't know, nor have i ever taken any trouble to know," answered julienne, frankly and carelessly. "well, it's very good of you, i daresay," returned her visitor, with something like contemptuous commiseration in her tone. "but, my friend, you should think how necessary it is that husband and wife should be as one person. it vexes me to find that andrè does not acquaint you with all his doings--especially with that to which he seems to pay such unfailing attention. you shouldn't let it go on any longer, my dear, for you don't know what may happen. it never smokes but there is fire. no one can tell what might have happened between me and margot had i not always kept my eyes open: a little watchfulness has saved us worlds of annoyance and trouble." observing that julienne looked offended, and was about to say something, madame margot dextrously handed her cup with a most gracious and winning bow, and launched into another topic, resolving by all means not to spoil the effect of the stimulants and hints she had let fall. when andrè returned this night, julienne, to his surprise, asked him where he had been, and implored him to tell her. with a serious look he answered that it was impossible, and begged her not to inquire into a matter which in nowise concerned her, and which would cause her no sort of surprise if she knew all. as usual, the two bantered each other over the mystery, and the subject was dropped. but madame margot, though she had not succeeded in setting the young folks by the ears, had nevertheless implanted in a woman's breast an ardent desire to probe a secret. julienne, good as she was, could not vanquish nature, and a curiosity possessed her as strong as fatima's. one day as she was glancing over the columns of a newspaper of which andrè was a constant reader, an advertisement of a peculiar description met her eye. it was headed _la somnambule_, and announced that mademoiselle trompere, whose _prodigieuses facultés_ and _lucidité extrême_ had caused the greatest astonishment and excitement, continued to give mesmeric _séances_ on such and such days. julienne then turned the paper and read other matters, but now and then she looked back at this advertisement, read it again and again, and presently laid it down with a merry little laugh. there was a promise of inviolable secrecy at the end of the announcement: that she regarded particularly. she had heard stories of the wonders of clairvoyance, she was artless, and knew little or nothing of the world, and thought it would be a capital joke to try the power of mademoiselle trompere's _lucidité_. she was going into paris on business the very next day, and she resolved to put her project into execution. she laughed gayly as she anticipated the astonishment her husband would evince while she might let fall, some of these days, when they were alone, that she knew his secret. behold the young wife, with sparkling eyes, and a smile upon her fresh lips, wending her way up the long and narrow rue st. nicholas in paris! arrived at the house of the clairvoyante, she asked at the concierge for mademoiselle trompere. "_quatrième à gauche!_" cried the porter, and julienne hurried up the narrow staircase. arrived at the fourth story, she rang the bell at the door on the left, and awaited the issue of the summons in something like trepidation. the door was opened, and there came forth an old man of really venerable and imposing appearance. thick locks of curling silver hair were combed back off a high and well-formed forehead; and beneath this appeared a countenance pale, but clear, and of serious and benign expression. thin, and of middle height, a long dark-green robe-de-chambre made him appear tall, and the little julienne thought she had never seen so grand an old man before. from his slightly-abstracted air, and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles still resting on his visage, one would have fancied he had just risen from profound study. julienne felt quite abashed that she should have interrupted the labors of one who looked so much like a good seer, especially as she thought what a trumpery and childish errand she had come upon. it was with a faltering voice and a deprecating smile that she asked for mademoiselle trompere. "ah!" exclaimed the old man, as if just awakened to full presence of mind; "you wish to see her? wait one moment, my child." he spoke softly and tenderly, conveying the idea that he was good and wise as well as aged. julienne waited in the lobby of the suite of apartments while he entered the salon. he returned after the lapse of a few minutes, which seemed hours to the visitor, who began to grow nervous, and to feel, to use a common phrase "ashamed of herself." "i am sorry," said the old man as he returned, "mademoiselle is fully engaged to-day. i might have told you so before, but i am forgetful. can your business be postponed, my child?" "oh, indeed, yes!" answered julienne, readily. "it is well," continued he. "to-day is friday: can you return on monday? mademoiselle will be most happy to assist in any investigation you may wish to make." "really"--commenced julienne, intending, as haply mademoiselle trompere was engaged at present, to have postponed her contemplated interview _sine die_. "i will tell her to expect you on monday," said the old man, gently shaking julienne's unresisting hand. "pray, what may be your name?" "folitton." "married, i see," added he, looking at the ring upon her finger. "it is well! of the folittons of the rue st. lazare?" "no," said julienne; "i live at st. cloud, where m. folitton is a florist and botanist." "ah, i know him: a worthy and clever young man!" answered the seer. and thus, holding her hand, they enjoyed a pleasing and confidential chat. julienne, wishing she had never undertaken her adventure, or that, being commenced, it were well over, kept her appointment on the monday--it being a very common thing for her in the summer-time to start off to paris. something was continually being wanted from the vast storehouses of the metropolis. thus her journey attracted no attention. when she rang mademoiselle trompere's bell this second time, the summons was answered by a little girl, who conducted her into the salon. on entering, she perceived the old man whom she had before seen, writing at a table covered with papers and large books, many of the latter being open. a young woman, dressed in black, and of genteel appearance, but the expression of whose features julienne did not altogether like, was sitting by the window busied with her crotchet-needles. the latter personage rose from her seat, and inclined her head to julienne. "madame folitton?" "yes." "my father has prepared me to expect you. i was much engaged when you came the other day, but now i am at your service." she touched the old man whom she called father upon the shoulder, but she had to repeat the operation twice or thrice ere he turned his eyes from his manuscript, so profoundly was his attention engaged thereon. he shifted his position slowly, raised his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes like one awakened from a dream. "he studies much," said mademoiselle trompere to julienne, as if by way of apology for the old man's abstraction. "do you see?--here is madame folitton." "ah, it is well!" exclaimed he, as, with half sigh half smile, he advanced to the young visitor and shook her hand. "she comes to consult you, my child, as i have told you; and i half suspect the little lady is not so anxious for the mere solving of what seems a riddle to her, as she is to test the truth of clairvoyance; so we must be upon our metal. saucy little bird! she is not the only one who doubts the wondrous insight into the mysteries of nature which science has in our day obtained." mademoiselle trompere, the somnambule, then deposited herself in a large and handsome armchair, softly cushioned in crimson velvet. she sat upright for a while, and the old man and his daughter looked fixedly at each other, while the former passed his right hand slowly up and down before her face. after eight or ten "passes," her eyes suddenly closed, her face grew white as death, and she sank back in an attitude of complete repose. the old man continued making the "passes" for a minute or two longer, and then going softly round to the back of the somnambule, laid his hand lightly upon her head. "mademoiselle is now ready for your interrogations," said he to julienne. poor julienne was frightened, and had she known beforehand that such a mysterious operation as she had just witnessed would have been necessary to the gratification of her whim, she would rather a thousand times have let it remain unsatisfied. so flurried was she, that she knew not what to ask, and would have been very glad to have paid her fee at once and gone home again without testing the _lucidité extrême_. as if divining her thoughts, the old man turned them into a different channel by himself asking the question which julienne had intended. "can you give your visitor any information respecting m. folitton at st. cloud?" "at st. cloud say you?" said the somnambule, in a low, dreamy voice. "wait one moment ah! now i see him. he is in a large garden. there are workmen round him who ask him questions respecting the labor next to be taken in hand. now they leave him, each proceeding to his appointed task. m. folitton goes into his house. he takes a billet from his breast and reads it. i can see the signature: it is _marie colonne_." julienne started. the old man looked toward her wistfully, and then, as if interpreting her thoughts, asked the somnambule, "can you read the contents of the billet?" "it is not very distinct," was the reply; "apparently written in haste. the words are--_'your fears, andrè, are needless. what matters it that fate would seem to demand our eternal separation? can we not be superior to fate? have we not proved it? do not fail to-night; but this i need not tell you, for since you first discovered the grand mistake of your life, you have not wavered.'_ monsieur folitton reads it again and again, and replaces it in his breast. he opens his desk and examines something. i see it now: it is the miniature of a lady. she is young: her hair is very long, her eyes dark and bright." "it is enough," said julienne, rising quickly. "be it true or false, i will hear no more." she moved hurriedly toward the door, as if to escape as quickly as possible from a cruel torment. the old man followed her. "i forgot," exclaimed the agitated girl, as she paused and drew from her little glove the stipulated fee. that very evening madame margot repeated her visit, and requested to see julienne alone. she found her alone, but, as if she had something too weighty to be said in the salle-à-manger, she insisted that they should shut themselves up in julienne's bedroom, while she relieved her loaded mind. "ah, poor julienne!" said she, "i never come to see her of an evening but i find her alone! poor child! so innocent and unsuspecting too! well, we all have our trials; but to see one whom i love as if she were my own child so treated, is enough to drive me mad!" "what do you mean?" asked julienne, nervously, for her adventure with the clairvoyante had given her a shock. "my dear, do you mean still to say that you don't know where your husband spends his evenings?" "it is true; i do not know," said julienne, blushing deeply; then adding, in a tone which, though meant to be firm and resolute, was painfully faint and timid--"nor do i wish to--" "well, my child, _i_ happen to know!" exclaimed madame margot, her sharp eyes flashing with eager excitement. "by the merest chance in the world i have made the discovery, and i considered it my duty to speak to you directly, in the hope of saving you and your husband, if possible, from much future misery. my love, prepare yourself for what i have to tell:--your husband repairs to m. colonne's nearly every evening, and is always admitted and let out by mademoiselle marie! she is the one who gives him welcome, and bids him _adieu_! oh, it is enough to drive one crazy! my tears flowed for you last night, poor julienne!" "oh, restez tranquille!" said julienne, coldly. she had started and trembled upon hearing a tale which coincided so completely with the revelations of the somnambule, but madame margot's acrid and triumphant manner roused her indignation, and whether the story she told and the inference she so readily founded upon it were true or false, julienne heartily wished her away--never to see her malignant eyes or hear her bitter voice again. she was too proud to ask any questions for the sake of proving what foundation her sympathizing companion had for her suspicions. she loved andrè warmly, and sincerely believed him to be worthy of her love; but there was something in his own secrecy and in the similarity of the different reports which had reached her ears this day which staggered her earnest faith. a dreary feeling overcame her: the radiance of her life was clouded over. the anchor which had held her safely in a tranquil and beautiful bay seemed to have lost its hold suddenly, and now she was tossing upon a strange and restless sea. and madame marmot watched the quivering of her lip and the fevered flushing of her face, and gloated upon the agony she had caused. "i have done my errand," said she, "and now my mind is a little more at ease. take what steps you think proper, my poor child; the sooner the matter is settled the better for all parties; and if you should have any difficulty, pray do not hesitate to apply to me. it might not yet be too late to prevent mischief." andrè came home that night as hearty and good-tempered as ever. he saw that his little wife looked but poorly, and he affectionately inquired what ailed her; caressed her, and tried to comfort and revive her. indescribably oppressed, she burst into tears. this relieved her, but she was silent and _triste_ the rest of the evening. she could not bear to think of telling him what she had heard, and what she felt. indeed a deep feeling of reproach rose up in her heart as she looked in his frank and sympathetic face; but she could not comprehend the mystery, and felt miserable and crushed. the days passed on, and andrè grieved to find his young wife grow no better. at length, satisfied, from the peculiarity of her malady, from her silent behavior, and the strange brooding manner in which he sometimes found her regarding him--feeling assured that the change owed its existence to something relating to himself--he gravely asked her what had brought it about, and solemnly conjured her to conceal nothing from him. so repugnant to her, however, was the idea of exhibiting a feeling so gross, and so unjust to her husband, as she determined to think, was her jealousy, that she still withheld the secret. she seemed to be pining day by day. andrè's pain and vexation were as deep as her own sadness. a mutual dissatisfaction was fast springing up between them. while matters were at this pass, madame margot, who, like the bats, rarely moved out before the evening, paid her third visit to the house of the botanist. andrè coming home earlier than usual this night, she spent some time with the husband as well as the wife. eagerly she watched the behavior of the two, and acutely she judged how things stood. supper passed, however, without any allusion thereto, and andrè led madame to the door. "poor julienne!" said she when they were alone. "you do not take care of her; she is looking very so-so." "it is true," said andrè, sadly; "i can not understand it. she says she is well, but there is something the matter i am sure." "ah! don't tell me!" exclaimed madame margot, lifting her right arm, protruding her head, and shaking her forefinger at him. "you can not understand, eh? ah, i'm too old a bird for that, and i haven't forgotten how _i_ was treated once by margot!" "what do you mean?" inquired andrè, seriously. "mean! ah, ah! it is very good, m. folitton! you should have been made an actor!" "madame margot, i can not joke with you, nor read your riddles. julienne's ailment is a serious matter to me." "well, well! it is amusing to hear him! but one word in your ear, my good andrè. how can you expect your poor wife to look happy and pleased when it is known all over st. cloud that you are forever with marie colonne? there!" "what--what!" cried andrè; but madame margot was off, muttering and tittering as she walked rapidly home. andrè was thunderstruck. the conversation between him and his young wife when he returned to the room was any thing but satisfactory. he wished to draw from her all she knew; but julienne was cold and mysterious; and at length the husband became angry, or else feigned to do so, as she half-suspected, by way of a cloak for his misdeeds. "it seems we did not know much of each other after all," said andrè, ruefully one day. "after being together so many years too! had any one told me that so shortly after our marriage my house would be filled with gloom and grief, i should have laughed finely, or taken offense." "oh, andrè, andrè, andrè!" cried poor julienne, laying her face upon his breast, while her tears flowed fast and thick--all the inward pride, which, though creditable to her heart, was capable of effecting so much misunderstanding, completely vanquished. "why have there been secrets between us? why have we sought to conceal any thing from each other? i am sure that our love is not dried up, and that there is something mysterious to each of us in the bitterness of these days! we have both had secrets: let me have what blame i may for mine--i can keep it no longer." and then, with some shame and humiliation, she recounted to andrè the little history of her own feelings and doings--how at first she cared nothing whither he went, or what he did, satisfied that he was good, and that he loved her truly; how madame margot had paid her a visit, and had stimulated her curiosity by sarcasm and pity; how she came, after seeing an advertisement in the newspaper, to think of visiting the somnambule, more by way of a joke than any thing else; the revelations that were made to her, and the apparent confirmation they received from what madame margot afterward told her. she was in too much fear of making him angry to tell him before; but how could her little head be expected to see through all this, and how withstand the inevitable influences of such a trial? andrè was aghast. trembling with excitement, and muttering imprecations against the clairvoyante and madame margot, he bade julienne quickly prepare to accompany him to paris. he got his horse and gig ready, and in a few minutes himself and his wife, the latter greatly agitated and alarmed, were proceeding at a rapid pace along the road to paris. andrè drove his good horse as he had never been driven before, and the five miles betwixt st. cloud and the capital were quickly passed. the rue st. nicholas was presently gained, and the bell of the somnambule's apartment sharply rung. the old man appeared, looking sage and benevolent as ever. his attitude and aspect, imposing and tranquil, somewhat checked the impetuosity of the angry husband. the latter even bowed, and took off his hat as he asked to see mademoiselle trompere, but his voice and quick breathing still betrayed his excitement. his eagerness appeared to take the old man by surprise; he looked at julienne; but her head being turned away, he did not recognize her; and after an instant of consideration, bade them enter. mademoiselle the clairvoyante was discovered sitting in the same place, and occupied in the same manner, as she had before been found by julienne. she looked up from her employment, and scanned both husband and wife with a quick, penetrating glance as they advanced toward her. her features for an instant betrayed some excitement as she noted the flushed cheek and wrathful eye of the former. it was but for an instant, however: almost immediately they were resolved into an expression of perfect nonchalance. "woman, your second-sight has cost us dear!" cried andrè. "monsieur!" interrupted mademoiselle trompere, sternly. "your impositions will bring you into trouble, as they do other people," continued andrè. "your lies bear seed--do you know it?--and grow into poison, blighting and working mischief wherever you spread them. if you do not fully contradict the tale you told my silly wife the other day, i will let you know that you carry on a dangerous trade." "your wife! my good man, you are mad!" returned the somnambule. "i am nearly so," said andrè; "so take care what you say. my wife--look at her--you have seen her before; you need not attempt to deny _that_. she, in a foolish whim, came to you the other day, and you told her certain falsehoods respecting me, which i now demand that you own to be such. acknowledge your trick, and i will have no more to say; but refuse, and i go instantly to the préfet of police." the old man stood by with a wandering look, as if stricken with sudden imbecility; but his bolder companion regarded the furious visitor with absolute _sang-froid_, fixing upon him a glance that never wavered. "my profession, my good man," said she, coldly, leaning back in her cushioned chair, "is to discover truth, not to deny it. people consult me when they find the course of their lives disturbed by secret causes, and when the clearing up of such little mysteries is desirable. your wife, prompted by a very justifiable and proper curiosity, has availed herself of the grand discovery of which i am an exponent. m. folitton, you accuse me of falsehood, and ask me to deny what i know to be true. of course i refuse to do any thing of the sort. doubtless you think to make yourself appear guiltless in the eyes of the wife whom you have wronged, by frightening a woman, and forcing her to declare that you are perfectly faithful and true. impostor as you style me, i am neither weak nor wicked enough for that!" "then i must consult the préfet," said andrè. "and i also," said the clairvoyante. "if necessary, i will not scruple to make manifest to the whole world the truth of the revelations your wife heard from me." "you are bold, woman!" "yes, in common with the meanest living thing, i am bold when attacked. you will not find it easy to turn me to your own account. try, if you are so disposed, by all means; but as surely as i know the truth, you had better not!" this was uttered with such complete assurance, so firmly and hardily, and her whole demeanor exhibited such supreme defiance of him and reliance upon herself, that andrè's indignation was turned into bewilderment and perplexity. he abruptly seized the arm of his agitated wife, and drawing it within his own, strode out of the room, telling his contemptuous opponent that she should soon hear what step he would take next. as yet, not a word of reconciliation or explanation had passed between himself and julienne. he was too proud to make his peace with her before he had fully justified himself, do it how he could. but the same evening he brought mademoiselle marie colonne and her father and mother to his house, and to them, in the presence of his wife, related the story of his troubles, up to the passage between himself and the lady of vaunted _lucidité_ that morning. the worthy family were highly indignant, but displayed much good-feeling toward julienne, who, sick at heart, was really deserving of commiseration. she in her turn warmly denied that she had been actuated by any feeling of suspicion or jealousy in consulting mademoiselle trompere: she had done a very silly thing, and should repent it as long as she lived; but it was merely a careless whim, and indeed was contemplated more as a joke than any thing else, for being sure that andrè was faithful to her, she never had an idea that misunderstanding and misery to herself, induced by remarkable coincidences, would result from what she did. she was now perfectly satisfied, and trusted that marie and her husband would forgive her. "that all may be made perfectly clear," said andrè, "let me now say that, in thinking over it, as i never happened to do before, i can hardly wonder julienne took my frequent absences and my secrecy concerning them amiss. i never dreamed that misery would happen from a husband concealing so small a matter from his wife; but i now see how very possible it is, and in future am resolved never to refuse to answer when she inquires where i have been." he then explained to his wife that he had been a member of one of those secret clubs which sprang up in such numbers all over france, but especially in the neighborhood of paris, immediately after the revolution of . m. colonne was the president of that club, and at his house its meetings were held. all society was one great vortex of antagonistic parties; and this club, consisting of several of the substantial inhabitants of st. cloud, owed its birth to the anxiety so very commonly felt by the lovers of order and quiet to lay down for themselves some unanimous and practical course of conduct in the event of another outbreak. the continuance of tranquillity had for the present, however, caused its dissolution, until, mayhap, another season of disorder and violence should occur; "so in future," said andrè, "i shall spend my evenings at home!" julienne heard this explanation with mingled feelings of pleasure and regret. she humbly asked marie to forgive her, and was quickly in the embrace of the sympathizing young girl. m. colonne, exceedingly wounded by the imputations which had been cast upon the character of his daughter, of whom he was at once fond and proud, paid madame margot a visit on his way home, and talked to the old lady in a manner which caused her considerable trepidation, and no doubt went far to check the propensity so strongly developed in the composition of her character for picking holes in her neighbors' jackets. he also resolved to prosecute mademoiselle trompere and her confederate. this andrè was hardly ready to do, being perfectly satisfied, now the misunderstanding was cleared up; but m. colonne declared that no member of his family should be aspersed with impunity; and even if it were solely on public grounds, to protect the unguarded and the credulous from imposition and misery, he would spend a thousand francs to make an example of the pair. andrè was very reluctant, however, to carry the affair before the public, and persuaded m. colonne, in the first place, to visit mademoiselle trompere with marie, and force her to contradict her tale; "indeed," said he, "they had better all go together, and then the woman would have no possible room for subterfuge or persistence in her calumnies." they were off to paris the next day. as it happened, m. colonne and his daughter preceded andrè and julienne at the house of the somnambule. m. colonne was a man of warm and quick temperament. "my name is colonne," said he abruptly, the moment he stood before the somnambule and her father; "this is my daughter marie. we have made a journey from st. cloud purposely to inform you that your clairvoyance is defective, and to warn you that, not being overskilled in the profession you now follow, you had better choose another--a more honest and safe one; for when people deal in slanders and lies, they risk intimate acquaintance with police-officers and jails." "ah, my father, did i not say so?" exclaimed mademoiselle trompere, turning tranquilly to the old man. "i told you we should shortly have a little sequel to the romance of the poor folittons." "there will be another little sequel, mademoiselle, unless you quickly apologize to my daughter!" said m. colonne, warmly. "m. colonne," returned the somnambule, coolly, and even dictatorially, "you have no doubt been induced to come here by a parental and honorable feeling; but perhaps you are not aware that you yourself have been duped." "no, indeed!" said m. colonne, with a smile; "i am not so easily duped." "you think so, no doubt," continued mademoiselle trompere, smiling in her turn. "still, it is true: you are a dupe all the time. your daughter and m. folitton know it well. they seek to escape suspicion of intrigue--the one from her father, the other from his wife--by boldly facing it out, and seeking to compel me, who happen to know all concerning it, to declare that their virtue and honor are unimpeachable. that i do not choose to do. they might content themselves, if they were wise, with the satisfaction of knowing that such matters as i am engaged to discover, do not go forth to the world, but remain solely betwixt myself and them." "admirable!" cried m. colonne, amazed at this immense impudence. "yes," said mademoiselle trompere, smiling ironically, "the case is so. poor m. folitton the other day was going to turn the world upside down because i would not contradict what i revealed to his wife. he threatened me with the police, and i know not what more. let him do it: the result will be, that i shall be obliged to prove to the world the truth of all i have said, and in doing that i should not have much difficulty." "well, well!" cried m. colonne, fairly overcome. "talking is of no use here, i perceive!" and as he and his daughter hurried down the stairs, the triumphant and derisive laughter of the somnambule tended by no means to the restoration of their good temper. andrè and his wife were just about to ascend as they arrived at the bottom of the staircase, and to them they related the result of their visit. proceedings were now immediately commenced against mademoiselle trompere and her alleged father, and the latter shortly found themselves before the tribunal of correctional police. the case was made out so very clearly--julienne, marie, and andrè, the sole parties whom the revelations of the sibyl concerned, being arrayed against her--that she was immediately convicted of imposture, and the old man as a confederate. in the course of the trial the wig of silver hair was unceremoniously lifted from the head of the male prisoner by an officer of police. the change effected in his appearance by this simple operation was remarkable, and greatly to his disadvantage. the officer then read from his police record a list of no fewer than nine convictions for imposition and misconduct against the aged sinner. the female was truly, it appeared, his daughter. they had visited many parts of france and belgium under different names, and the diligent inquiries of the police had been successful in establishing against them a long course of guilt--one scheme of imposture having been tried after another, and each terminated by disgrace and punishment. they were now sentenced to two years' imprisonment and a thousand francs' fine. all has gone brightly and pleasantly at andrè's house since this unpleasant affair, and so will continue, it is my belief. husband and wife seem on better terms with each other than ever. madame margot sedulously keeps herself out of the way of the folittons and the colonnes, nor do i suppose she will ever take coffee with julienne any more. the household of sir tho^s. more.[ ] libellus a margareta more. quindecim annos nata, chelseiÃ� inceptvs. "nulla dies sine linea." soe my fate is settled. who knoweth at sunrise what will chance before sunsett? no; the greeks and romans mighte speake of chance and of fate, but we must not. ruth's _hap_ was to light on y^e field of boaz: but what she thought casual, y^e lord had contrived. [ ] continued from the july number. firste, he gives me y^e marmot. then, the marmot dies. then, i, having kept y^e creature soe long, and being naturallie tender, must cry a little over it. then will must come in and find me drying mine eyes. then he must, most unreasonablie, suppose that i c^d not have loved the poor animal for its owne sake soe much as for his; and thereupon, falle a love-making in such downrighte earneste, that i, being alreadie somewhat upset, and knowing 'twoulde please father ... and hating to be perverse ... and thinking much better of will since he hath studdied soe hard, and given soe largelie to y^e poor, and left off broaching his heteroclite opinions.... i say, i supposed it must be soe, some time or another, soe 'twas noe use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there's an end, and i pray god give us a quiet life. noe one w^d suppose me reckoning on a quiet life if they knew how i've cried alle this forenoon, ever since i got quit of will, by father's carrying him off to westminster. he'll tell father, i know, as they goe along in the barge, or else coming back, which will be soone now, though i've ta'en no heed of the hour. i wish 'twere cold weather, and that i had a sore throat or stiff neck, or somewhat that might reasonablie send me a-bed, and keep me there till to-morrow morning. but i'm quite well, and 'tis the dog-days, and cook is thumping the rolling-pin on the dresser, and dinner is being served, and here comes father. * * * * * father hath had some words with the cardinall. 'twas touching the draught of some forayn treaty which y^e cardinall offered for his criticism, or rather, for his commendation, which father c^d not give. this nettled his grace, who exclaimed,--"by the mass, thou art the veriest fool of all the council." father, smiling, rejoined, "god be thanked, the king our master hath but one fool therein." the cardinall may rage, but he can't rob him of the royal favour. the king was here yesterday, and walked for an hour or soe about the garden, with his arm round father's neck. will coulde not help felicitating father upon it afterwards; to which father made answer, "i thank god i find his grace my very good lord indeed, and i believe he doth as singularly favour me as any subject within this realm. howbeit, son roper, i may tell thee between ourselves, i feel no cause to be proud thereof, for if my head would win him a castle in france, it shoulde not fail to fly off." --father is graver than he used to be. no wonder. he hath much on his mind; the calls on his time and thoughts are beyond belief: but god is very good to him. his favour at home and abroad is immense: he hath good health, soe have we alle; and his family are established to his mind and settled alle about him, still under y^e same fostering roof. considering that i am the most ordinarie of his daughters, 'tis singular i s^d have secured the best husband. daisy lives peaceablie with rupert allington, and is as indifferent, me seemeth, to him as to all y^e world beside. he, on his part, loves her and theire children with devotion, and woulde pass half his time in y^e nurserie. dancey always had a hot temper, and now and then plagues bess; but she lets noe one know it but me. sometimes she comes into my chamber and cries a little, but the next kind word brightens her up, and i verilie believe her pleasures far exceed her payns. giles heron lost her through his own fault, and might have regained her good opinion after all, had he taken half the pains for her sake he now takes for her younger sister: i cannot think how cecy can favour him; yet i suspect he will win her, sooner or later. as to mine own deare will, 'tis the kindest, purest nature, the finest soul, the ... and yet how i was senselesse enow once to undervalue him. yes, i am a happy wife; a happy daughter; a happy mother. when my little bill stroaked dear father's face just now, and murmured "pretty!" he burst out a-laughing, and cried,-- "you are like the young cyrus, who exclaimed,--'oh! mother, how pretty is my grandfather!' and yet, according to xenophon, the old gentleman was soe rouged and made up, as that none but a child woulde have admired him!" "that's not the case," i observed, "with bill's grandfather." "he's a more all over," says father, fondly. "make a pun, meg, if thou canst, about amor, amore, or amores. 'twill onlie be the thousand and first on our name. here, little knave, see these cherries: tell me who thou art, and thou shalt have one. 'more! more!' i knew it, sweet villain. take them all." i oft sitt for an hour or more, watching hans holbein at his brush. he hath a rare gift of limning; and has, besides, the advantage of deare erasmus his recommendation, for whom he hath alreddie painted our likenesses, but i think he has made us very ugly. his portraiture of my grandfather is marvellous; ne'erthelesse. i look in vayn for y^e spirituallitie which our lucchese friend, antonio bonvisi, tells us is to be found in the productions of y^e italian schools. holbein loves to paint with the lighte coming in upon his work from above. he says a lighte from above puts objects in theire proper lighte, and shews theire just proportions; a lighte from beneath reverses alle y^e naturall shadows. surelie, this hath some truth if we spirituallize it? * * * * * rupert's cousin, rosamond allington, is our guest. she is as beautiful as ... not as an angel, for she lacks the look of goodness, but very beautiful indeed. she cometh hither from hever castle, her account of y^e affairs whereof i like not. mistress anne is not there at present; indeed, she is now always hanging about court, and followeth somewhat too literallie the scripturall injunction to solomon's spouse--to forget her father's house. the king likes well enow to be compared with solomon, but mistress anne is not his spouse yet, nor ever will be, i hope. flattery and frenchified habitts have spoilt her, i trow. rosamond says there is not a good chamber in the castle; even y^e ball-room, which is on y^e upper floor of alle, being narrow and low. on a rainy day, long ago, she and mistress anne were playing at shuttlecock therein, when rosamond's foot tripped at some unevennesse in y^e floor, and mistress anne, with a laugh, cried out, "mind you goe not down into y^e dungeon"--then pulled up a trap-door in the ball-room floor, by an iron ring, and made rosamond look down into the unknown depth; alle in y^e blacknesse of darkness. 'tis an awfulle thing to have onlie a step from a ball-room to a dungeon. i'm glad we live in a modern house, we have noe such fearsome sights here. rosamond is sociable with alle, and mightilie taken with my husband, who, in his grave way, jests with her pleasantlie enough. daisy, who seldom thinks anything worth giving an opinion on, said yestereven, when they were bantering eache other in robin hood's walk, "i'm glad, meg, she fancies your husband insteade of mine." 'twas a foolish speech, and had better have beene left unsaid. what a pity that folks who say soe little shoulde say aught amiss. i have noe jealousy in my composition. * * * * * father, hearing little tom allington hammering over y^e th psalm this morning,-- "child," says he, "don't say o! as unemphaticallie as if 'twere a, e, i, or u. david is labouring to expresse a thoughte too big for utterance.... '_oh_,--_taste_ and _see_ that the lord is good.' try it agayn. that's better, my little man. yet once more." i'm glad rosamond is going. that tiresome saying of daisy's rankles. a poisoned shaft will infect the soundest flesh. what a pity we ever use such. i never will. * * * * * yes, she's gone, but will is not happy. oh, god, that i should ever know this feeling! we can never be sure of ourselves; we can never be sure of one another; we can never be sure of any but thee. for thou art love itself, without a shadowe of turning; and dost even condescend, in thine exquisite tendernesse, to call thyself a _jealous_ god ... for of whom are we jealous but of those whom we passionately love? and such is the love, not the sternnesse, wherewith thou sayest unto our souls, "thou _shalt_ not love any god but me! thou _shalt_ not make to thyself anie earthlie idol! for i the lord _thy_ god am ... a _jealous_ god,"--i cannot bear a rival on my throne, which is your heart. love me firste, him next, even as much as you love yourself; and then i will bless you both. fecisti nos, etc. * * * * * sancta mater, ora pro nobis, ora, ora. alas! am i awake, or dreaming still? he beganne to talk indistinctlie in his sleep last night, and as i cannot beare to heare people speak when they sleep but their heart waketh, i gently shooke him, and made him turn about; but not until that he had distinctlie exclaimed, "tu, jesu, es justicia mea." thereon, a suddain light broke in on me, and i felt, i know not how to expresse what sense of relief, at the apprehension that his disquietation was not for rosamond, but on y^e old count of justification by faith. waking up, he says,--"oh, sweet meg, i am soe unhappy," and gives way to tears; but i try to relieve him. but the matter is too hard for me; we cannot unravel it, soe he holds his peace, and sleeps, or affects to sleep, the while i pray to every saint in y^e calendar. i am glad i did him injustice; which is a strange thing for a wife to say. * * * * * how many, many tears have i shed! poor, imprudent will! to think of his escape from y^e cardinall's fangs, and yet that he will probablie repeat y^e offence. this morning father and he had a long, and, i fear me, fruitless debate in the garden; on returning from which, father took me aside and sayd,-- "meg, i have borne a long time with thine husband; i have reasoned and argued with him, and still given him my poor, fatherly counsel; but i perceive none of alle this can call him home agayn. and therefore, meg, i will no longer dispute with him.".... "oh, father!".... "nor yet will i give him over; but i will set another way to work, and get me to god and pray for him." and have i not done so alreadie? * * * * * i feare me they parted unfriendlie; i hearde father say, "thus much i have a right to bind thee to, that thou indoctrinate not her in thine own heresies. thou shalt not imperill the salvation of my child." since this there has beene an irresistible gloom on our spiritts, a cloud between my husband's soul and mine, without a word spoken. i pray but my prayers seem dead. ... last night, after seeking unto this saint and that, methought "why not applie unto y^e fountain head? maybe these holy spiritts may have limitations sett to y^e power of theire intercessions--at anie rate, the ears of mary-mother are open to alle." soe i beganne, "pia mater, fons amoris...." then, methoughte, "but i am onlie asking _her_ to intercede--i'll mount a step higher still...." then i turned to y^e great intercessor of alle. but methought, "still he intercedes with another, although the same. and his owne saying was, 'in that day ye shall ask _me nothing_. whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, _he_ will give it you.'" soe i did. i fancy i fell asleep with y^e tears on my cheek. will had not come up stairs. then came a heavie, heavie sleep, not such as giveth rest; and a dark, wild dream. methought i was tired of waiting for will, and became alarmed. the night seemed a month long, and at last i grew soe weary of it, that i arose, put on some clothing, and went in search of him whom my soul loveth. soon i founde him, sitting in a muse; and said, "will, deare will?" but he hearde me not; and, going up to touch him, i was amazed to be broughte short up or ever i reached him, by something invisible betwixt us, hard, and cleare, and colde, ... in short, a wall of ice! soe it seemed, in my strange dreame. i pushed at it, but could not move it; called to him, but coulde not make him hear: and all y^e while my breath, i suppose, raised a vapor on the glassy substance, that grew thicker and thicker, soe as slowlie to hide him from me. i coulde discerne his head and shoulders, but not see down to his heart. then i shut mine eyes in despair, and when i opened 'em, he was hidden altogether. then i prayed. i put my hot brow agaynst y^e ice, and i kept a weeping hot tears, and y^e warm breath of prayer kept issuing from my lips; and still i was persisting, when, or ever i knew how, y^e ice beganne to melt! i felt it giving way! and, looking up, coulde in joyfulle surprize, just discerne the lineaments of a figure close at t'other side; y^e face turned away, but yet in the guise of listening. and, images being apt to seem magnified and distorted through vapours, methought 'twas altogether bigger than will, yet himself, nothingthelesse; and, y^e barrier between us having sunk away to breast-height, i layd mine hand on's shoulder, and he turned his head, smiling, though in silence; and ... oh, heaven! 'twas not will, but ----. what coulde i doe, even in my dreame, but fall at his feet? what coulde i doe, waking, but the same? 'twas grey of morn; i was feverish and unrefreshed, but i wanted noe more lying-a-bed. will had arisen and gone forthe; and i, as quicklie as i could make myself readie, sped after him. i know not what i expected, nor what i meant to say. the moment i opened the door of his closett, i stopt short. there he stoode, in the centre of the chamber; his hand resting flat on an open book, his head raised somewhat up, his eyes fixed on something or some one, as though in speaking communion with 'em; his whole visage lightened up and glorifide with an unspeakable calm and grandeur that seemed to transfigure him before me; and, when he hearde my step, he turned about, and 'steade of histing me away, helde out his arms.... we parted without neede to utter a word. * * * * * events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. firste, father's embassade to cambray, which i shoulde have grieved at more on our owne accounts, had it not broken off alle further collision with will. thoroughlie home-sick, while abroad, poor father was; then, on his return, he noe sooner sett his foot a-land, than y^e king summoned him to woodstock. 'twas a couple o' nights after he left us, that will and i were roused by patteson's shouting beneath our window, "fire, fire, quoth jeremiah!" and the house was a-fire sure enow. greate part of y^e men's quarter, together with alle y^e outhouses and barns, consumed without remedie, and alle through y^e carelessness of john holt. howbeit, noe lives were lost, nor any one much hurt; and we thankfullie obeyed deare father's behest, soe soone as we received y^e same, that we woulde get us to church, and there, upon our knees, return humble and harty thanks to almighty god for our late deliverance from a fearfulle death. alsoe, at fathers desire, we made up to y^e poor people on our premises theire various losses, which he bade us doe, even if it left him without soe much as a spoon. but then came an equallie unlookt for, and more appalling event: y^e fall of my lord cardinall, whereby my father was shortlie raised to y^e highest pinnacle of professional greatnesse, being made lord chancellor, to y^e content, in some sort, of wolsey himself, who sayd he was y^e onlie man fit to be his successor. the unheard-of splendour of his installation dazzled the vulgar; while the wisdom that marked y^e admirable discharge of his daylie duties, won y^e respect of alle thinking men, but surprized none who alreadie knew father. on y^e day succeeding his being sworn in, patteson marched hither and thither bearing a huge placard, inscribed, "partnership dissolved;" and apparelled himself in an old suit, on which he had bestowed a coating of black paint, with weepers of white paper; assigning for't that "his brother was dead." "for now," quoth he, "that they've made him lord chancellor, we shall ne'er see sir thomas more." now, although y^e poor cardinal was commonlie helde to shew much judgment in his decisions, owing to y^e naturall soundness of his understanding, yet, being noe lawyer, abuses had multiplied during his chancellorship, more especiallie in y^e way of enormous fees and gratuities. father, not content with shunning base lucre in his proper person, will not let anie one under him, to his knowledge, touch a bribe; whereat dancey, after his funny fashion, complains, saying: "the fingers of my lord cardinall's veriest door-keepers were tipt with gold, but i, since i married your daughter, have got noe pickings; which in your case may be commendable, but in mine is nothing profitable." father, laughing, makes answer: "your case is hard, son dancey, but i can onlie say for your comfort, that, soe far as honesty and justice are concerned, if mine owne father, whom i reverence dearly, stoode before me on y^e one hand, and the devil, whom i hate extremely, on y^e other, yet, the cause of y^e latter being just, i shoulde give the devil his due." giles heron hath found this to his cost. presuming on his near connexion with my father, he refused an equitable accommodation of a suit, which, thereon, coming into court, father's decision was given flat against him. his decision against mother was equallie impartiall, and had something comique in it. thus it befelle. a beggar-woman's little dog, which had beene stolen from her, was offered my mother for sale, and she bought it for a jewel of no greate value. after a week or soe, the owner finds where her dog is, and cometh to make complaynt of y^e theft to father, then sitting in his hall. sayth father, "let's have a faire hearing in open court; thou, mistress, stand there where you be, to have impartiall justice; and thou, dame alice, come up hither, because thou art of y^e higher degree. now, then, call each of you the puppy, and see which he will follow." soe sweetheart, in spite of mother, springs off to y^e old beggar-woman, who, unable to keep from laughing, and yet moved at mother's losse, sayth: "tell'ee what, mistress ... thee shalt have 'un for a groat." "nay," saith mother, "i won't mind giving thee a piece of gold;" soe the bargain was satisfactorily concluded. father's despatch of business is such, that, one morning before the end of term, he was tolde there was no other cause nor petition to be sett before him; the which, being a case unparallelled, he desired mighte be formally recorded. he ne'er commences businesse in his owne court without first stepping into y^e court of king's bench, and there kneeling down to receive my grandfather's blessing. will sayth 'tis worth a world to see y^e unction with which the deare old man bestows it on him. in rogation-week, following the rood as usuall, round y^e parish, heron counselled him to go a horseback for y^e greater seemlinesse, but he made answer that 'twoulde be unseemlie indeede for y^e servant to ride after his master going a-foot. his grace of norfolk, coming yesterday to dine with him, finds him in the church-choir, singing, with a surplice on. "what!" cries y^e duke, as they walk home together, "my lord chancellor playing the parish clerk? sure, you dishonor the king and his office." "nay," says father, smiling, "your grace must not deem that the king, your master and mine, will be offended at my honoring _his_ master." sure, 'tis pleasant to heare father taking y^e upper hand of these great folks: and to have 'em coming and going, and waiting his pleasure, because he is y^e man whom y^e king delighteth to honor. true, indeede, with wolsey 'twas once y^e same; but father neede not feare y^e same ruin; because he hath him for his friend, whom wolsey said woulde not have forsaken him had he served him as he served his earthly master. 'twas a misproud priest; and there's the truth on't. and father is not misproud; and i don't believe we are; though proud of him we cannot fail to be. and i know not why we may not be pleased with prosperitie, as well as patient under adversitie; as long as we say, "thou, lord, hast made our hill soe strong." 'tis more difficult to bear with comelinesse, doubtlesse; and envious folks there will be; and we know alle things have an end, and everie sweet hath its sour, and everie fountain its fall; but ... 'tis very pleasant for all that. (to be continued.) reminiscences of an attorney. the chest of drawers. i am about to relate a rather curious piece of domestic history, some of the incidents of which, revealed at the time of their occurrence in contemporary law reports, may be in the remembrance of many readers. it took place in one of the midland counties, and at a place which i shall call watley; the names of the chief actors who figured in it must also, to spare their modesty or their blushes, as the case may be, be changed; and should one of those persons, spite of these precautions, apprehend unpleasant recognition, he will be able to console himself with the reflection, that all i state beyond that which may be gathered from the records of the law courts will be generally ascribed to the fancy or invention of the writer. and it is as well, perhaps, that it should be so. caleb jennings, a shoemender, cobbler, snob--using the last word in its genuine classical sense, and by no means according to the modern interpretation by which it is held to signify a genteel sneak or pretender--he was any thing but that--occupied, some twelve or thirteen years ago, a stall at watley, which, according to the traditions of the place, had been hereditary in his family for several generations. he may also be said to have flourished there, after the manner of cobblers; for this, it must be remembered, was in the good old times, before the gutta-percha revolution had carried ruin and dismay into the stalls--those of cobblers--which in considerable numbers existed throughout the kingdom. like all his fraternity whom i have ever fallen in with or heard of, caleb was a sturdy radical of the major cartwright and henry hunt school; and being withal industrious, tolerably skillful, not inordinately prone to the observance of saint mondays, possessed, moreover, of a neatly-furnished sleeping and eating apartment in the house of which the projecting first floor, supported on stone pillars, overshadowed his humble workplace, he vaunted himself to be as really rich as an estated squire, and far more independent. there was some truth in this boast, as the case which procured us the honor of mr. jennings's acquaintance sufficiently proved. we were employed to bring an action against a wealthy gentleman of the vicinity of watley for a brutal and unprovoked assault he had committed, when in a state of partial inebriety, upon a respectable london tradesman who had visited the place on business. on the day of trial our witnesses appeared to have become suddenly afflicted with an almost total loss of memory; and we were only saved from an adverse verdict by the plain, straightforward evidence of caleb, upon whose sturdy nature the various arts which soften or neutralize hostile evidence had been tried in vain. mr. flint, who personally superintended the case, took quite a liking to the man; and it thus happened that we were called upon some time afterward to aid the said caleb in extricating himself from the extraordinary and perplexing difficulty in which he suddenly and unwittingly found himself involved. the projecting first floor of the house beneath which the humble work-shop of caleb jennings modestly disclosed itself, had been occupied for many years by an ailing and somewhat aged gentleman of the name of lisle. this mr. ambrose lisle was a native of watley, and had been a prosperous merchant of the city of london. since his return, after about twenty years' absence, he had shut himself up in almost total seclusion, nourishing a cynical bitterness and acrimony of temper which gradually withered up the sources of health and life, till at length it became as visible to himself as it had for some time been to others, that the oil of existence was expended, burnt up, and that but a few weak flickers more, and the ailing man's plaints and griefs would be hushed in the dark silence of the grave. mr. lisle had no relatives at watley, and the only individual with whom he was on terms of personal intimacy was mr. peter sowerby, an attorney of the place, who had for many years transacted all his business. this man visited mr. lisle most evenings, played at chess with him, and gradually acquired an influence over his client which that weak gentleman had once or twice feebly but vainly endeavored to shake off. to this clever attorney, it was rumored, mr. lisle had bequeathed all his wealth. this piece of information had been put in circulation by caleb jennings, who was a sort of humble favorite of mr. lisle's, or, at all events, was regarded by the misanthrope with less dislike than he manifested toward others. caleb cultivated a few flowers in a little plot of ground at the back of the house, and mr. lisle would sometimes accept a rose or a bunch of violets from him. other slight services--especially since the recent death of his old and garrulous woman-servant, esther may, who had accompanied him from london, and with whom mr. jennings had always been upon terms of gossiping intimacy--had led to certain familiarities of intercourse; and it thus happened that the inquisitive shoe-mender became partially acquainted with the history of the wrongs and griefs which preyed upon, and shortened the life of the prematurely-aged man. the substance of this every-day, commonplace story, as related to us by jennings, and subsequently enlarged and colored from other sources, may be very briefly told. ambrose lisle, in consequence of an accident which occurred in his infancy, was slightly deformed. his right shoulder--as i understood, for i never saw him--grew out, giving an ungraceful and somewhat comical twist to his figure, which, in female eyes--youthful ones at least--sadly marred the effect of his intelligent and handsome countenance. this personal defect rendered him shy and awkward in the presence of women of his own class of society; and he had attained the ripe age of thirty-seven years, and was a rich and prosperous man, before he gave the slightest token of an inclination toward matrimony. about a twelvemonth previous to that period of his life, the deaths--quickly following each other--of a mr. and mrs. stevens threw their eldest daughter, lucy, upon mr. lisle's hands. mr. lisle had been left an orphan at a very early age, and mrs. stevens--his aunt, and then a maiden lady--had, in accordance with his father's will, taken charge of himself and brother till they severally attained their majority. long, however, before she married mr. stevens, by whom she had two children--lucy and emily. her husband, whom she survived but two months, died insolvent; and in obedience to the dying wishes of his aunt, for whom he appears to have felt the tenderest esteem, he took the eldest of her orphan children to his home, intending to regard and provide for her as his own adopted child and heiress. emily, the other sister, found refuge in the house of a still more distant relative than himself. the stevenses had gone to live at a remote part of england--yorkshire, i believe--and it thus fell out, that till his cousin lucy arrived at her new home he had not seen her for more than ten years. the pale, and somewhat plain child, as he had esteemed her, he was startled to find had become a charming woman; and her naturally gay and joyous temperament, quick talents, and fresh young beauty, rapidly acquired an overwhelming influence over him. strenuously but vainly he struggled against the growing infatuation--argued, reasoned with himself--passed in review the insurmountable objections to such a union, the difference of age--he leading toward thirty-seven, she barely twenty-one; he crooked, deformed, of reserved, taciturn temper--she full of young life, and grace, and beauty. it was useless; and nearly a year had passed in the bootless struggle when lucy stevens, who had vainly striven to blind herself to the nature of the emotions by which her cousin and guardian was animated toward her, intimated a wish to accept her sister emily's invitation to pass two or three months with her. this brought the affair to a crisis. buoying himself up with the illusions which people in such an unreasonable frame of mind create for themselves, he suddenly entered the sitting-room set apart for her private use, with the desperate purpose of making his beautiful cousin a formal offer of his hand. she was not in the apartment, but her opened writing-desk, and a partly-finished letter lying on it, showed that she had been recently there, and would probably soon return. mr. lisle took two or three agitated turns about the room, one of which brought him close to the writing-desk, and his glance involuntarily fell upon the unfinished letter. had a deadly serpent leaped suddenly at his throat, the shock could not have been greater. at the head of the sheet of paper was a clever pen-and-ink sketch of lucy stevens and himself; he, kneeling to her in a lovelorn ludicrous attitude, and she laughing immoderately at his lachrymose and pitiful aspect and speech. the letter was addressed to her sister emily; and the engaged lover saw not only that his supposed secret was fully known, but that he himself was mocked, laughed at for his doting folly. at least this was his interpretation of the words which swam before his eyes. at the instant lucy returned, and a torrent of imprecation burst from the furious man, in which wounded self-love, rageful pride, and long pent-up passion, found utterance in wild and bitter words. half an hour afterward lucy stevens had left the merchant's house--forever, as it proved. she, indeed, on arriving at her sister's, sent a letter supplicating forgiveness for the thoughtless, and, as he deemed it, insulting sketch, intended only for emily's eye; but he replied merely by a note written by one of his clerks, informing miss stevens that mr. lisle declined any further correspondence with her. the ire of the angered and vindictive man had, however, begun sensibly to abate, and old thoughts, memories, duties, suggested partly by the blank which lucy's absence made in his house, partly by remembrance of the solemn promise he had made her mother, were strongly reviving in his mind, when he read the announcement of her marriage in a provincial journal, directed to him, as he believed, in the bride's hand-writing; but this was an error, her sister having sent the newspaper. mr. lisle also construed this into a deliberate mockery and insult, and from that hour strove to banish all images and thoughts connected with his cousin from his heart and memory. he unfortunately adopted the very worst course possible for effecting this object. had he remained amid the buzz and tumult of active life, a mere sentimental disappointment, such as thousands of us have sustained and afterward forgotten, would, there can be little doubt, have soon ceased to afflict him. he chose to retire from business, visited watley, and habits of miserliness growing rapidly upon his cankered mind, never afterward removed from the lodgings he had hired on first arriving there. thus madly hugging to himself sharp-pointed memories which a sensible man would have speedily cast off and forgotten, the sour misanthrope passed a useless, cheerless, weary existence, to which death must have been a welcome relief. matters were in this state with the morose and aged man--aged mentally and corporeally, although his years were but fifty-eight--when mr. flint made mr. jennings's acquaintance. another month or so had passed away when caleb's attention was one day about noon claimed by a young man dressed in mourning, accompanied by a female similarly attired, and from their resemblance to each other, he conjectured, brother and sister. the stranger wished to know if that was the house in which mr. ambrose lisle resided. jennings said it was; and with civil alacrity left his stall and rang the front-door bell. the summons was answered by the landlady's servant, who, since esther may's death, had waited on the first-floor lodger: and the visitors were invited to go up-stairs. caleb, much wondering who they might be, returned to his stall, and from thence passed into his eating and sleeping room just below mr. lisle's apartments. he was in the act of taking a pipe from the mantle-shelf, in order to the more deliberate and satisfactory cogitation on such an unusual event, when he was startled by a loud shout, or scream rather, from above. the quivering and excited voice was that of mr. lisle, and the outcry was immediately followed by an explosion of unintelligible exclamations from several persons. caleb was up-stairs in an instant, and found himself in the midst of a strangely-perplexing and distracted scene. mr. lisle, pale as his shirt, shaking in every limb, and his eyes on fire with passion, was hurling forth a torrent of vituperation and reproach at the young woman, whom he evidently mistook for some one else; while she, extremely terrified, and unable to stand but for the assistance of her companion, was tendering a letter in her outstretched hand, and uttering broken sentences, which her own agitation and the fury of mr. lisle's invectives rendered totally incomprehensible. at last the fierce old man struck the letter from her hand, and with frantic rage ordered both the strangers to leave the room. caleb urged them to comply, and accompanied them down stairs. when they reached the street, he observed a woman on the other side of the way, dressed in mourning, and much older apparently, though he could not well see her face through the thick vail she wore, than she who had thrown mr. lisle into such an agony of rage, apparently waiting for them. to her the young people immediately hastened, and after a brief conference the three turned away up the street and mr. jennings saw no more of them. a quarter of an hour afterward the house-servant informed caleb that mr. lisle had retired to bed, and although still in great agitation, and, as she feared, seriously indisposed, would not permit dr. clarke to be sent for. so sudden and violent a hurricane in the usually dull and drowsy atmosphere in which jennings lived, excited and disturbed him greatly: the hours, however, flew past without bringing any relief to his curiosity, and evening was falling, when a peculiar knocking on the floor overhead announced that mr. lisle desired his presence. that gentleman was sitting up in bed, and in the growing darkness his face could not be very distinctly seen; but caleb instantly observed a vivid and unusual light in the old man's eyes. the letter so strangely delivered was lying open before him; and unless the shoemender was greatly mistaken, there were stains of recent tears upon mr. lisle's furrowed and hollow cheeks. the voice, too, it struck caleb, though eager, was gentle and wavering. "it was a mistake, jennings," he said; "i was mad for the moment. are they gone?" he added in a yet more subdued and gentle tone. caleb informed him of what he had seen; and as he did so, the strange light in the old man's eyes seemed to quiver and sparkle with a yet intenser emotion than before. presently he shaded them with his hand, and remained several minutes silent. he then said with a firmer voice: "i shall be glad if you will step to mr. sowerby, and tell him i am too unwell to see him this evening. but be sure to say nothing else," he eagerly added, as caleb turned away in compliance with his request; "and when you come back, let me see you again." when jennings returned, he found to his great surprise mr. lisle up and nearly dressed; and his astonishment increased a hundredfold upon hearing that gentleman say, in a quick but perfectly collected and decided manner, that he should set off for london by the mail-train. "for london--and by night!" exclaimed caleb, scarcely sure that he heard aright. "yes--yes, i shall not be observed in the dark," sharply rejoined mr. lisle; "and you, caleb, must keep my secret from every body, especially from sowerby. i shall be here in time to see him to-morrow night, and he will be none the wiser." this was said with a slight chuckle; and as soon as his simple preparations were complete, mr. lisle, well wrapped up, and his face almost hidden by shawls, locked his door, and assisted by jennings, stole furtively down stairs, and reached unrecognized the rail way station just in time for the train. it was quite dark the next evening when mr. lisle returned; and so well had he managed that mr. sowerby, who paid his usual visit about half an hour afterward, had evidently heard nothing of the suspicious absence of his esteemed client from watley. the old man exulted over the success of his deception to caleb the next morning, but dropped no hint as to the object of his sudden journey. three days passed without the occurrence of any incident tending to the enlightenment of mr. jennings upon these mysterious events, which, however, he plainly saw had lamentably shaken the long-since failing man. on the afternoon of the fourth day, mr. lisle walked, or rather tottered, into caleb's stall, and seated himself on the only vacant stool it contained. his manner was confused, and frequently purposeless, and there was an anxious, flurried expression in his face which jennings did not at all like. he remained silent for some time, with the exception of partially inaudible snatches of comment or questionings, apparently addressed to himself. at last he said: "i shall take a longer journey to-morrow, caleb--much longer: let me see--where did i say? ah, yes! to glasgow; to be sure, to glasgow!" "to glasgow, and to-morrow!" exclaimed the astounded cobbler. "no, no--not glasgow; they have removed," feebly rejoined mr. lisle. "but lucy has written it down for me. true--true; and to-morrow i shall set out." the strange expression of mr. lisle's face became momentarily more strongly marked, and jennings, greatly alarmed, said: "you are ill, mr. lisle; let me run for dr. clarke." "no--no," he murmured, at the same time striving to rise from his seat, which he could only accomplish by caleb's assistance, and so supported, he staggered indoors. "i shall be better to morrow," he said faintly, and then slowly added: "to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow! ah, me! yes, as i said, to-morrow, i--" he paused abruptly, and they gained his apartment. he seated himself, and then jennings, at his mute solicitation, assisted him to bed. he lay some time with his eyes closed; and caleb could feel--for mr. lisle held him firmly by the hand, as if to prevent his going away--a convulsive shudder pass over his frame. at last he slowly opened his eyes, and caleb saw that he was indeed about to depart upon the long journey from which there is no return. the lips of the dying man worked inarticulately for some moments; and then with a mighty effort, as it seemed, he said, while his trembling hand pointed feebly to a bureau chest of drawers that stood in the room: "there--there, for lucy; there, the secret place is--" some inaudible words followed, and then after a still mightier struggle than before, he gasped out: "no word--no word--to--to sowerby--for her--lucy." more was said, but undistinguishable by mortal ear; and after gazing with an expression of indescribable anxiety in the scared face of his awestruck listener, the wearied eyes slowly reclosed--the deep silence flowed past; then the convulsive shudder came again, and he was dead! caleb jennings tremblingly summoned the house-servant and the landlady, and was still confusedly pondering the broken sentences uttered by the dying man, when mr. sowerby hurriedly arrived. the attorney's first care was to assume the direction of affairs, and to place seals upon every article containing or likely to contain any thing of value belonging to the deceased. this done, he went away to give directions for the funeral, which took place a few days afterward; and it was then formally announced that mr. sowerby succeeded by will to the large property of ambrose lisle; under trust, however, for the family, if any, of robert lisle, the deceased's brother, who had gone when very young to india, and had not been heard of for many years--a condition which did not at all mar the joy of the crafty lawyer, he having long since instituted private inquiries, which perfectly satisfied him that the said robert lisle had died, unmarried, at calcutta. mr. jennings was in a state of great dubiety and consternation. sowerby had emptied the chest of drawers of every valuable it contained; and unless he had missed the secret receptacle mr. lisle had spoken of, the deceased's intentions, whatever they might have been, were clearly defeated. and if he had _not_ discovered it, how could he, jennings, get at the drawers to examine them? a fortunate chance brought some relief to his perplexities. ambrose lisle's furniture was advertised to be sold by auction, and caleb resolved to purchase the bureau chest of drawers at almost any price, although to do so would oblige him to break into his rent-money, then nearly due. the day of sale came, and the important lot in its turn was put up. in one of the drawers there were a number of loose newspapers, and other valueless scraps; and caleb, with a sly grin, asked the auctioneer if he sold the article with all its contents. "oh yes," said sowerby, who was watching the sale; "the buyer may have all it contains over his bargain, and much good may it do him." a laugh followed the attorney's sneering remark, and the biddings went on. "i want it," observed caleb, "because it just fits a recess like this one in my room underneath." this he said to quiet a suspicion he thought he saw gathering upon the attorney's brow. it was finally knocked down to caleb at £ , s., a sum considerably beyond its real value; and he had to borrow a sovereign in order to clear his speculative purchase. this done, he carried off his prize, and as soon as the closing of the house for the night secured him from interruption, he set eagerly to work in search of the secret drawer. a long and patient examination was richly rewarded. behind one of the small drawers of the _secrétaire_ portion of the piece of furniture was another small one, curiously concealed, which contained bank-of-england notes to the amount of £ , tied up with a letter, upon the back of which was written, in the deceased's handwriting, "to take with me." the letter which caleb, although he read print with facility, had much difficulty in making out, was that which mr. lisle had struck from the young woman's hand a few weeks before and proved to be a very affecting appeal from lucy stevens, now lucy warner, and a widow, with two grown-up children. her husband had died in insolvent circumstances, and she and her sister emily, who was still single, were endeavoring to carry on a school at bristol, which promised to be sufficiently prosperous if the sum of about £ could be raised, to save the furniture from her deceased husband's creditors. the claim was pressing, for mr. warner had been dead nearly a year, and mr. lisle being the only relative mrs. warner had in the world, she had ventured to entreat his assistance for her mother's sake. there could be no moral doubt, therefore, that this money was intended for mrs. warner's relief; and early in the morning mr. caleb jennings dressed himself in his sunday's suit, and with a brief announcement to his landlady that he was about to leave watley for a day or two on a visit to a friend, set off for the railway station. he had not proceeded far when a difficulty struck him: the bank-notes were all twenties; and were he to change a twenty-pound note at the station, where he was well known, great would be the tattle and wonderment, if nothing worse, that would ensue. so caleb tried his credit again, borrowed sufficient for his journey to london, and there changed one of the notes. he soon reached bristol, and blessed was the relief which the sum of money he brought afforded mrs. warner. she expressed much sorrow for the death of mr. lisle, and great gratitude to caleb. the worthy man accepted with some reluctance one of the notes, or at least as much as remained of that which he had changed; and after exchanging promises with the widow and her relatives to keep the matter secret, departed homeward. the young woman, mrs. warner's daughter, who had brought the letter to watley, was, caleb noticed, the very image of her mother, or rather of what her mother must have been when young. this remarkable resemblance it was, no doubt, which had for the moment so confounded and agitated mr. lisle. nothing occurred for about a fortnight after caleb's return to disquiet him, and he had begun to feel tolerably sure that his discovery of the notes would remain unsuspected, when, one afternoon, the sudden and impetuous entrance of mr. sowerby into his stall caused him to jump up from his seat with surprise and alarm. the attorney's face was deathly white, his eyes glared like a wild beast's, and his whole appearance exhibited uncontrollable agitation. "a word with you, mr. jennings," he gasped--"a word in private, and at once!" caleb, in scarcely less consternation than his visitor, led the way into his inner room, and closed the door. "restore--give back," screamed the attorney, vainly struggling to dissemble the agitation which convulsed him--"that--that--which you have purloined from the chest of drawers!" the hot blood rushed to caleb's face and temples; the wild vehemence and suddeness of the demand confounded him; and certain previous dim suspicions that the law might not only pronounce what he had done illegal, but possibly felonious, returned upon him with terrible force, and he quite lost his presence of mind. "i can't--i can't," he stammered. "it's gone--given away--" "gone!" shouted, or more correctly howled, sowerby, at the same time flying at caleb's throat as if he would throttle him. "gone--given away! you lie--you want to drive a bargain with me--dog!--liar!--rascal!--thief!" this was a species of attack which jennings was at no loss how to meet. he shook the attorney roughly off, and hurled him, in the midst of his vituperation, to the further end of the room. they then stood glaring at each other in silence, till the attorney, mastering himself as well as he could, essayed another and more rational mode of attaining his purpose. "come, come, jennings," he said, "don't be a fool. let us understand each other. i have just discovered a paper, a memorandum of what you have found in the drawers, and to obtain which you bought them. i don't care for the money--keep it; only give me the papers--documents." "papers--documents!" ejaculated caleb in unfeigned surprise. "yes--yes; of use to me only. you, i remember, can not read writing; but they are of great consequence to me--to me only, i tell you." "you can't mean mrs. warner's letter?" "no--no; curse the letter! you are playing with a tiger! keep the money, i tell you; but give up the papers--documents--or i'll transport you!" shouted sowerby with reviving fury. caleb, thoroughly bewildered, could only mechanically ejaculate that he had no papers or documents. the rage of the attorney when he found he could extract nothing from jennings was frightful. he literally foamed with passion, uttered the wildest threats; and then suddenly changing his key, offered the astounded cobbler one--two--three thousand pounds: any sum he chose to name, for the papers--documents! this scene of alternate violence and cajolery lasted nearly an hour; and then sowerby rushed from the house, as if pursued by the furies, and leaving his auditor in a state of thorough bewilderment and dismay. it occurred to caleb, as soon as his mind had settled into something like order, that there might be another secret drawer; and the recollection of mr. lisle's journey to london recurred suggestively to him. another long and eager search, however, proved fruitless; and the suspicion was given up, or, more correctly, weakened. as soon as it was light the next morning, mr. sowerby was again with him. he was more guarded now, and was at length convinced that jennings had no paper or document to give up. "it was only some important memoranda," observed the attorney carelessly, "that would save me a world of trouble in a lawsuit i shall have to bring against some heavy debtors to mr. lisle's estate; but i must do as well as i can without them. good-morning." just as he reached the door, a sudden thought appeared to strike him. he stopped, and said: "by the way, jennings, in the hurry of business i forgot that mr. lisle had told me the chest of drawers you bought, and a few other articles, were family relics which he wished to be given to certain parties he named. the other things i have got; and you, i suppose, will let me have the drawers for--say a pound profit on your bargain?" caleb was not the acutest man in the world; but this sudden proposition, carelessly as it was made, suggested curious thoughts. "no," he answered; "i shall not part with it. i shall keep it as a memorial of mr. lisle." sowerby's face assumed, as caleb spoke, a ferocious expression. "shall you?" said he. "then be sure, my fine fellow, that you shall also have something to remember me by as long as you live!" he then went away, and a few days afterward caleb was served with a writ for the recovery of the two hundred pounds. the affair made a great noise in the place; and caleb's conduct being very generally approved, a subscription was set on foot to defray the cost of defending the action--one hayling, a rival attorney to sowerby, having asserted that the words used by the proprietor of the chest of drawers at the sale barred his claim to the money found in them. this wise gentleman was intrusted with the defense; and, strange to say, the jury--a common one--spite of the direction of the judge, returned a verdict for the defendant, upon the ground that sowerby's jocular or sneering remark amounted to a serious, valid leave and license to sell two hundred pounds for five pounds ten shillings! sowerby obtained, as a matter of course, a rule for a new trial; and a fresh action was brought. all at once hayling refused to go on, alleging deficiency of funds. he told jennings that in his opinion it would be better that he should give in to sowerby's whim, who only wanted the drawers in order to comply with the testator's wishes. "besides," remarked hayling in conclusion, "he is sure to get the article, you know, when it comes to be sold under a writ of _fi fa_." a few days after this conversation, it was ascertained that hayling was to succeed to sowerby's business, the latter gentleman being about to retire upon the fortune bequeathed him by mr. lisle. at last caleb, driven nearly out of his senses, though still doggedly obstinate, by the harassing perplexities in which he found himself, thought of applying to us. "a very curious affair, upon my word," remarked mr. flint, as soon as caleb had unburdened himself of the story of his woes and cares; "and in my opinion by no means explainable by sowerby's anxiety to fulfill the testator's wishes. he can not expect to get two hundred pence out of you; and mrs. warner, you say, is equally unable to pay. very odd indeed. perhaps if we could get time, something might turn up." with this view flint looked over the papers caleb had brought, and found the declaration was in _trover_--a manifest error--the notes never admittedly having been in sowerby's actual possession. we accordingly demurred to the form of action, and the proceedings were set aside. this, however, proved of no ultimate benefit. sowerby persevered, and a fresh action was instituted against the unhappy shoemender. so utterly overcrowed and disconsolate was poor caleb, that he determined to give up the drawers, which was all sowerby even now required, and so wash his hands of the unfortunate business. previous, however, to this being done, it was determined that another thorough and scientific examination of the mysterious piece of furniture should be made; and for this purpose mr. flint obtained a workman skilled in the mysteries of secret contrivances, from the desk and dressing-case establishment in king-street, holborn, and proceeded with him to watley. the man performed his task with great care and skill: every depth and width was gauged and measured, in order to ascertain if there were any false bottoms or backs; and the workman finally pronounced that there was no concealed receptacle in the article. "i am sure there is," persisted flint, whom disappointment as usual rendered but the more obstinate; "and so is sowerby: and he knows, too, that it is so cunningly contrived as to be undiscoverable, except by a person in the secret, which he no doubt at first imagined caleb to be. i'll tell you what we'll do: you have the necessary tools with you. split the confounded chest of drawers into shreds: i'll be answerable for the consequences." this was done carefully and methodically, but for some time without result. at length the large drawer next the floor had to be knocked to pieces; and as it fell apart, one section of the bottom, which, like all the others, was divided into two compartments, dropped asunder, and discovered a parchment laid flat between the two thin leaves, which, when pressed together in the grooves of the drawer, presented precisely the same appearance as the rest. flint snatched up the parchment, and his eager eye had scarcely rested an instant on the writing, when a shout of triumph burst from him. it was the last will and testament of ambrose lisle, dated august , --the day of his last hurried visit to london. it revoked the former will, and bequeathed the whole of his property, in equal portions, to his cousins lucy warner and emily stevens, with succession to their children; but with reservation of one-half to his brother robert or children, should he be alive, or have left offspring. great, it may be supposed, was the jubilation of caleb jennings at this discovery; and all watley, by his agency, was in a marvelously short space of time in a very similar state of excitement. it was very late that night when he reached his bed; and how he got there at all, and what precisely had happened, except, indeed, that he had somewhere picked up a splitting headache, was, for some time after he awoke the next morning, very confusedly remembered. mr. flint, upon reflection, was by no means so exultant as the worthy shoemender. the odd mode of packing away a deed of such importance, with no assignable motive for doing so, except the needless awe with which sowerby was said to have inspired his feeble-spirited client, together with what caleb had said of the shattered state of the deceased's mind after the interview with mrs. warner's daughter, suggested fears that sowerby might dispute, and perhaps successfully, the validity of this last will. my excellent partner, however, determined, as was his wont, to put a bold face on the matter; and first clearly settling in his own mind what he should and what he should _not_ say, waited upon mr. sowerby. the news had preceded him, and he was at once surprised and delighted to find that the nervous, crest-fallen attorney was quite unaware of the advantages of his position. on condition of not being called to account for the moneys he had received and expended, about £ , he destroyed the former will in mr. flint's presence, and gave up at once all the deceased's papers. from these we learned that mr. lisle had written a letter to mrs. warner, stating what he had done, and where the will would be found, and that only herself and jennings would know the secret. from infirmity of purpose, or from having subsequently determined on a personal interview, the letter was not posted; and sowerby subsequently discovered it, together with a memorandum of the numbers of the bank notes found by caleb in the secret drawer--the eccentric gentleman appears to have had quite a mania for such hiding-places--of a writing-desk. the affair was thus happily terminated: mrs. warner, her children, and sister, were enriched, and caleb jennings was set up in a good way of business in his native place, where he still flourishes. over the centre of his shop there is a large nondescript sign, surmounted by a golden boot, which, upon close inspection, is found to bear some resemblance to a huge bureau chest of drawers, all the circumstances connected with which may be heard, for the asking, and in much fuller detail than i have given, from the lips of the owner of the establishment, by any lady or gentleman who will take the trouble of a journey to watley for that purpose. village life in germany. the club. lesmona possesses a club. its meetings are suspended during summer, but are resumed as autumn wanes. professedly, it is a whist club; but card-playing is in reality the least of its objects, its chief intention being to cultivate a kindly feeling among the inhabitants of the village and the neighborhood, by bringing them periodically together. i was duly balloted for and admitted. on the friday evening after this honor was conferred on me, i was introduced. the meetings were held in meyerholz's inn, and in the same apartment which had served as a ball-room. here i found a dozen or fifteen of the notabilities of the place assembled. in a short time they assorted themselves, and sat down, some to whist, some to chess, while others contented themselves with looking on. the points at whist were fixed at a grote, about equivalent to a halfpenny--any higher play would have been considered gambling, and would have been regarded with extreme disfavor. doctor w----'s phrase, "to be, or not to be," was, i now found, the usual signal for the end as well as the beginning of the game. wine, and still more commonly beer, were imbibed during the course of it. the wine usually drank in that part of the world is french wine--st. julian or some other bordeaux wine is the commonest. rhenish wine is very rare. some indulged in what they called "grogs"--a "grog" is a small tumbler of brandy-punch. almost all smoked; indeed the pastor of the village was the only person in it who never did. the pipe was much preferred to the cigar, the smoke from the latter being apt to be troublesome when the hands are engaged. of course the pipe was the long german one, consisting of mouth-piece, flexible tube, polished or cherry-tree stem, schwammdose or receiver, and the more or less ornamented head or bowl. since i am speaking of pipes, i may mention that in germany every smoker possesses several--and these, of course, vary much in length, calibre, and value. there is abundant opportunity of displaying the owner's taste. some have their armorial bearings painted on the bowl. among students, again, it is common to present a friend with a bowl bearing one's likeness, the said likeness being a _silhouette_ or shade in profile. there are, of course, all the other varieties of bowl; some have female figures, others landscapes or public buildings, others the likenesses of well-known characters--john ronge was rather a favorite at the time i speak of. as to the stem, the most esteemed are those of the cherry-tree, brought from the vistula. these stems disengage a pleasant odor. but to return. "to be, or not to be," says dr. w---- as he rises. the rest of the party finish their games, and think of supper. it is a slight repast; each orders what he chooses, and there is no set table. a beefsteak or a sandwich are the most common viands. the german expression for sandwich, by the way, is rather circumlocutory--the literal translation of it is, "a butter-bread-with-meat;" it is like some of the other composite terms in that language which strike a beginner as being so odd--_hand-shoes_, for instance, or _finger-hat_, for gloves and a thimble. the club used to meet every friday. each alternate week, however, we had what was called a ladies' club. on these occasions, the female portions of the families of members were entitled to be present. the only other difference was, that, when ladies came, the gentlemen abstained from smoking pipes, and confined themselves to cigars. but it is time to break up. cloaks and great-coats are donned. there is a lighting of lanterns, for the roads are dark, and some of us have a considerable way to go. we separate with a simultaneous "good-night--may you sleep well." a temperance meeting. a temperance meeting was announced as being about to be held at a village called blumenthal, situated a few miles from lesmona. on the appointed day, i proceeded thither with some friends. on our arrival at the place, we found a large canvas-covered booth erected on the border of an extensive wood; this booth was open on every side, being meant as a protection only against the rays of the sun. adjacent was an inn, a solitary house, the village being at some little distance. entering here, i was not a little surprised to find the majority of the promoters of temperance drinking wine. it was just ten o'clock of the forenoon. the fact, however, was, first, that many had come from a considerable distance, and stood in need of some refreshment, and secondly, that the pledge given on entering the society went no further than a promise to abstain from ardent spirits. total abstinence seems not to find much favor in germany, and the efforts of the mässigkeit-verein are directed almost entirely against the use of the deadly branntwein of the country. this branntwein is made from the potato, and is not merely intoxicating, but, even in small quantities, is of a most pernicious effect on the human system, destroying the stomach, and affecting the nerves, even when far from being indulged in to any thing like excess. at last the meeting began. a clergyman opened it with a short prayer, and then the assembly sang a temperance hymn. the air to which it was adapted was no other than our national anthem--which, by the way, the germans fondly but erroneously claim as a german composition. then came the usual succession of speeches, then another hymn, and then the meeting, it being past noon, adjourned for dinner. the meal was served in the inn, and also in booths similar to that constructed for the meeting; but many had brought their provisions with them, and stretched themselves on the turf under the shade of the forest. altogether--and especially as a large number of women had attended, and these of all classes, from the peasant in gaudy colors to the more simply-dressed lady--the scene was most picturesque: it looked like a pic-nic on a great scale. after dinner, there were more speeches and more music. the speeches tired me, and i wandered into the wood, where i found the music much improved by being heard at a distance. the fact is, that the country people in this part of germany are any thing but the proficients in music, which, according to the idea commonly entertained on the subject in britain, all germans are. they, on the contrary, know scarcely any thing whatever of the art; even in the churches, part-singing is unknown. while i was at lesmona, the pastor of that place had indeed begun to instruct the children of his parish in psalmody, and, as he is perfectly competent to do so, a change may ultimately be effected; but in my time the church music was absolutely painful to listen to; the vocal was deafening and discordant, and, as for the instrumental, i shall not to my dying day forget the inhuman turn which old mr. müller the organist introduced, and with evident complacency, too, at the end of every two or three bars. even among the upper classes in the country, music is but scantily cultivated. in lesmona, for instance, one family, and one alone, paid any attention to the art. that family, however--all its members included--had attained to a very high degree of excellence in it. in the large towns, on the other hand, the case is very different. in bremen, for example, i heard the paulus of mendelssohn given entirely by amateurs, and both in the choruses, and in the solos, the finish of the performance was perfect. in the neighborhood of hamburg, too, i have met small companies of workmen from the town enjoying a short walk into the country, and singing in parts with admirable precision and _ensemble_. but to return to blumenthal. the meeting at last broke up. as soon as it did, a fire balloon was sent up. what connection, however, this had with the objects of the assembly, i never was able to ascertain. since i have introduced the word verein--union, or society--i may notice one of another kind, a branch of which had its head-quarters at lesmona. i mean the gustavus-adolphus society. its object is to unite by a common bond the common protestantism of germany. i have not heard lately of its progress and success, but i always greatly doubted of its possibility, and am convinced it can not endure, on its original footing at least. on what common ground (unless it be a negative one, and that is worth nothing), can the evangelical party and the rationalists take their stand? even while i was in lesmona, the elements of discord had begun to show themselves; for in that remote nook were found keen partisans; and it was only by a compromise effected with the greatest difficulty that the lesmona branch of the union did not fall to pieces before it was completely established. and, as for the compromise, such things never last long. evening parties. i found the inhabitants of lesmona exceedingly hospitable. it is the custom in that part of the world for any new-comer to pay a visit to those people of the place, to whom he desires to make himself known. it is in their option to return the visit or not. if the visit is not returned, it is understood that the honor and pleasure and so forth of your visit is declined; if, on the contrary, even a card is left for you within a few days, you may count on the friendship of the family. one of the first visits i made was to dr. w----. as is usual, i was offered coffee and a cigar. when they were finished, and my small-talk exhausted, i took my leave, after what i thought a somewhat stiff interview. indeed i almost regretted i had gone. so much for first impressions. i changed my mind, when within a very few days i received a kind invitation to an evening party at the worthy doctor's house. doctor w----, as i found out when i came to know him, was quite a _character_. bred to the bar, he was soon found totally unqualified for his profession, from the extraordinary benevolence of his nature. instead of seeking for practice, he did all he could to prevent his clients from going to law. the consequence was, that, whatever may have been the rewards of his conscience, his profession gave him but few. finding, therefore, that he had mistaken his vocation, and that his purse remonstrated strongly against his continuing in the pursuit of forensic distinction, he wisely abandoned the line he had at first chosen, and accepted the post of chief custom-house-officer on the frontier of hanover and bremen. here, modestly but comfortably settled, he gave his leisure hours to the study of history, and, in a congenial retirement, soon found himself quite happy. he soon became remarkable for the accuracy of his information, and more especially for his acquaintance with minute points and details. thus, for example, when on his return from his journey to marienbad, to which i have already alluded, he visited the town and field of battle of leipsic, he found himself as much at home, with regard to the topography, as did the very guide he had engaged to point out the places rendered famous by the great fight. on the evening appointed, i duly made my appearance in madame w----'s saloon or drawing-room. it was the handsomest i saw in the country, and possessed a carpet. in general, this article, so indispensable to english comfort, is represented, and that indeed but barely, by a few straw mats scattered about. tea was handed round. this the germans drink with cream, or wine, or neither. it is esteemed a great luxury, as it costs dear, but they make it so weak, that there is not an old woman in england who would not regard it with contempt. after tea, we began to play at what they call company-games. many of these are identical with our own inn-door amusements. thus, they have hide-the-handkerchief, blind-man's-buff (which they call _the blind cow_), and many others. one, however, seems to me quite peculiar, not merely to germany, but to this part of it. it is called _luitye lebt noch_--literally, _the little fellow is still alive_. _luitye_ is plattdeutsch, or low german, the dialect, as i have already said, of this district. the game is played thus: the party form a circle. some splints of wood, three or four inches long, have been provided. one of these is lighted, and blown out again in a few seconds. this is _luitye_. there is, of course, for some little time, a part of the charcoal which remains red. the stick is passed from hand to hand, each player, as he gives it to his neighbor, exclaiming, "luitye lebt noch!" he or she in whose hands it is finally extinguished has to pay a forfeit. no one can refuse it when offered; and one of the most amusing parts of the matter is to hold luitye--the little fellow--till he is on the very point of expiring, and then to force him on the person next you, so that he goes out before he can get him further. it is, however, more amusing still, when he who would thus victimize his friend delays too long, and is himself caught. after this, and some other german games, which i did not much enjoy, as they consisted chiefly in the repetition of certain formal phrases, without much meaning, we acted charades--not very successfully, i must admit. then we seated ourselves round a table, in the middle of which a piece of light cotton was placed. at this we all began to blow fiercely, and a tempest arose, on which the cotton was tossed about in all directions. when it finally found refuge on the person of any of us, the recipient was condemned to a forfeit. this game is entertaining enough, and was carried on amidst much boisterous puffing and laughing, till suddenly the cotton mysteriously disappeared. it appeared it had actually been carried into the open mouth of a gentleman, whose powers had been so severely taxed that he had lost his wind. this put an end to the amusement, and we proceeded to draw the forfeits. then we had supper. it was a less substantial and more judicious meal than i had generally seen in the neighborhood. it was also a more ambitious one; not a few of the dishes were disguised with the artistic skill which is the pride of modern cookery. in particular, i remember that i accepted a spoonful of what i thought was a composition of raspberries, strawberries, and red currant jelly. it turned out to be a sort of hashed lobster pickle. shortly after supper we broke up. in such parties, i should remark that all present took part in them, from the oldest to the youngest. what distinguished them most, besides this, was a kind of homely cheerfulness that was quite delightful. every one came in good humor, and resolved to enjoy himself. and in this it was very evident all succeeded. i never saw any dancing at any of these soirées, and rarely was there any music. when, however, there was any of the latter, it was excellent. i shall not soon forget the way in which the music of schiller's "founding of the bell" was performed by some of my lesmona and ritterhude friends. a peep at the "peraharra." of the religious festivals of the buddhists of ceylon, that known as the peraharra is the most important. it is observed at kandy, the capital of the ancient kings of ceylon, and at ratnapoora, the chief town of the saffragam district. few good buddhists will be absent from these religious observances; and whole families may be seen journeying on foot for many miles, over mountains, through dense jungles and unwholesome swamps, across rapid and dangerous streams, along hot sandy pathways, loaded with their pittance of food and the more bulky presents of fruit, rice, oil, and flowers, to lay at the foot of the holy shrine of buddha, to be eventually devoured by the insatiable priests. in the month of july, , i had a peep at the celebrated peraharra of ratnapoora, where the shrine sacred to the memory of _saman_ rivals in attraction the great _dalada maligawa_ of kandy. like its mountain competitor, it has its relic of buddha enshrined in a richly-jeweled casket, which is made an object of especial veneration to the votaries of that god. _saman_ was the brother of the famed rama, the malabar conqueror who invaded ceylon in ages long past, and extirpated from its flowery shores the race of mighty giants who had held its people in subjection for many centuries--a sort of oriental king arthur. to saman was given the district of saffragam; and the people of that country at his death, promoted him to the dignity of a deity, as a slight token of their regard. the ratnapoora festival is the more attractive by reason of its being made the occasion of a large traffic in precious stones, with which the neighborhood abounds. in this way the great part of the buddhists manage to combine commerce with devotion. the road to the saffragam district was, in the time at which i traveled it, a very barbarous and dangerous affair, differing widely from the excellent traces which existed through most of the maritime provinces of ceylon. it was then, in fact, little more than a mere bullock-track, or bridle-path, with no bridges to aid in crossing the streams which intersect it. the journey from colombo to ratnapoora may now be easily performed in one day: at that time it required a good nag and careful diligence to accomplish it in two. day dawned as i got clear of the pettah, or black town of colombo, and crossed a small stream which led me to the jungle, or village road, i was to follow. in england, we should call such a muddy lane; but here one knows little between the good high roads and the bullock-track. strange as it may sound to home travelers, one is often glad to see the sun rise, and feel it warm the heavy, damp air in the tropics. before me lay a long straggling line of low jungle, indicating the road: far away in the distance rose the high, bluff hill and rocks towering over the once royal domain of _avishawella_. around, on every side, was water, completely hiding the fields from view, and only allowing a bush, or a tree, or a hut-top, to be seen peeping up through the aqueous vail, dotting the wide expanse like daisies in a field. the rains had flooded the whole of the low country, which, inundated by many mountain torrents, could not discharge the mass of streams nearly so fast as it received them. over and across all this watery wilderness huge masses of misty vapor came rolling and tumbling along, as though shrouding some titanic water-sprites who had been keeping it up rather late the night before, and were not quite sure of the way home. one might have imagined, indeed, that it was some universal washing-day, and that the great lid of the national copper had just been lifted up. as the sun rose above the line of black rocks in the distance, its rays lit up those misty monsters of the flood, imparting to them life-like tints, which gave them beauty, and forms they had not known before. as these sun-lit fogs rolled on, a thousand shapes moved fitfully among them: troops of wild horsemen; crystal palaces with gilded gates; grim figures playing at bopeep; hills, towns, and castles; with many a ship at sea, and lovely cottages in quiet, sunny glades; all these, and more, seemed there. with the sea-breeze, all that array of cloudy creatures departed, leaving the air hot and stifling from the reflection of the sun's rays in the endless flood above me. but where were the poor singalese villagers, their families, and their goods, amidst all this wreck? as i jogged along, the cry of a child, the crowing of a cock, the bark of a dog, floated across the ocean of mist, but whence came they? i looked to the right and to the left. i strained my eyes straightforward, but not a soul, or a feather, or a snout was to be seen. presently the fog cleared away, and i could see overhead into the trees. there, chairs, tables, chatties, paddy-pounders, boxes of clothes, children in cots, men, women, cats, dogs, all were there in one strange medley, curiously ensconced among the wide-spreading branches of the trees. over their heads, and on each side, mats and cocoa-nut leaves were hung to keep off rain and damp fogs, while against each side of the tree was placed a thick notched stick, which served as a ladder for the whole party. here and there canoes were to be seen paddled across the fields to keep up communication between the different villages. it was a strange but desolate spectacle, and i was glad to find myself, at last, free from the watery neighborhood, and once more riding on _terra firma_. during the heat of the next day i turned aside to a shady green lane. a mile along this quiet pathway i was tempted to rest myself at the mouth of a dark-looking cave, by the side of a running stream of beautiful water. tying my pony to a bush, i entered at the low archway, and found myself at once in utter darkness; but after a short time i began to distinguish objects, and then saw, close to me, one whom i should have least looked for in that strange, desolate spot. it was a chinese, tail and all. my first idea was, as i looked at the figure through the dim light of the cave, that it was nothing more than a large china jar, or, perhaps a huge tea-chest, left there by some traveler; but, when the great, round face relaxed into a grin, and the little pea-like eyes winked, and the tail moved, and the thick lips uttered broken english, i took a proper view of the matter, and wished my cavern acquaintance "good-morning." i soon gathered the occupation of see chee in this strange place; the cave we were then in was one of the many in that neighborhood, in which a particular kind of swallow builds the edible nests so highly prized by the chinese and japanese for conversion into soups, stews, and, for aught we know, into tarts. the chinaman told me, what i was scarcely prepared to learn, that he rented from the ceylon government the privilege to seek these birds' nests in this district, for which he paid the yearly sum of one hundred dollars, or seven pounds, ten shillings. procuring a _chule_, or native torch, the chinese nest-hunter showed me long ledges of shelving rock at the top of the cavern, whereon whole legions of curious little gummy-like excrescences were suspended; some were perfect nests, others were in course of formation, and these latter i learned were the most valued; those which had had the young birds reared in them being indifferently thought of, and were only bought by the lower orders of soup-makers. having rested myself and pony, i once more pushed on for ratnapoora, where i arrived, heated, jaded, and dusty, by high noon. a chattie bath seldom fails to refresh the indian traveler, and fit him for the enjoyment of his meal. in the cool of the evening i strolled out to watch the preparations for the nightly festivities. these continue for about a fortnight, chiefly after sunset, though devotees may be seen laying their simple offerings at the foot of the shrine, during most part of the afternoon. the little bazaar of the town was alive with business; all vestiges of its wonted filth and wretchedness were hidden beneath long strips of white linen, and garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and flowers hung round by bands of bright red cloth. piles of tempting wares were there; beads, bangles, and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and sweetmeats to eat, and innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in profuse array. the streets and lanes poured forth long strings of human beings, heated with the sun, flushed with drink, and bedizened with trumpery jewelry and mock finery. poor tillers of the soil; beggarly fishermen; mendicant cinnamon peelers; half-starved coolies; lean, sickly women, and poor, immature children, passed onward in the motley throng, burying their every-day misery beneath the savage mirth of a night or two at the peraharra. following the living, dark stream, as closely as the heat, dust, and strange odors would allow me, i arrived, at length, near to the temple of saman. the edifice, of which i caught a distant glimpse, was half concealed beneath the heavy, luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes, arekas, plantains, and banyan trees. an ocean of human heads filled up the space around the building, from which proceeded the well-known sounds of the reed and the tom-tom. gay flags fluttered from the four corners, and the lofty pinnacle in the centre; wreaths of flowers, plaited leaves and ribbons of many colors, waved jauntily from roof to door; while round the pillars of the walls and door posts clustered rich bunches of most tempting fruit. close by this busy scene, another group was forming under a large and lofty _pandahl_, or open bungalow. forcing my way to one corner of the shed, i found a company of indian jugglers consisting of two men, a girl, and a child of perhaps three years. the men were habited in strange uncouth dresses, with large strings of heavy black beads round their necks; the girl was simply and neatly clad in white, with silver bangles and anklets, and a necklace of native diamonds. it would be impossible to detail all their extraordinary performances, which far exceeded any thing i had ever read of their art. the quantity of iron and brass ware which they contrived to swallow was truly marvelous; ten-penny nails, clasp-knives, gimlets, were all treated as so many items of pastry or confectionary, and i could but picture to myself the havoc a dozen of these cormorants would commit in an ironmonger's shop. not the least remarkable of their feats was that of producing a sheet of water upon the sand close at our feet; and, after conjuring upon its clear surface half-a-dozen young ducks and geese, suddenly causing it to freeze in such a solid mass as to allow of our walking across it without causing so much as a crack in its crystal body. one more feat i must relate; which was that of suspending the girl while seated on a sort of ottoman, to the ridge-pole of the shed; and, at a given signal, removing the rope by which she hung, leaving her still suspended in the air--not with a regular apparatus, such as is used by the performers of a similar trick in london and paris, but apparently with no apparatus at all! for, to my exceeding amazement, a sword was given to me, as the only european of the company, and i was told to cut and slash as much as i pleased above and around the girl. after some hesitation, i hacked and hewed the air in every direction, around and close to the suspended maiden with a vigor which would inevitably cut asunder any means of support; yet there she swung unmoved, without any sort of apparent agent of suspension except the air itself! snake-charming and dancing completed the entertainment. when i left the place it was night. near the temple, all was noise and confusion, and it was with some difficulty that i forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached the steps of the venerated shrine. the priest stationed at the entrance made a way in for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was intense. hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach the flight of huge stone stairs which led up to the sacred depositary. it was as bad as a crush to get into the crystal palace. my passage was so slow that i had time to examine and admire the fine antique carved work on the pillars and ceiling of the entrance-hall, as well as on the tall pilasters which lined the ample staircase. there was a beauty of style and a high degree of finish about this work that could not be attained in ceylon in the present day. arrived, at length, at the inner temple or sacred shrine above, i passed with the rest, between a richly brocaded curtain which hung in folds across the entrance at the top of the stairs, and stood before the famed relic of buddha, or rather the jeweled casket which contained it. i felt disappointed at the spectacle here, arising, perhaps, from my taking no interest in the exhibition as a religious ceremony, and looking at it merely as an empty show, not far removed from the status of bartholemew fair. the strong glare of a hundred lights, the heat and crowd of so many in so small a place, the sickly perfume of the piles of buddha flowers heaped before the shrine by the pilgrims, the deafening, discordant din of a score of tom-toms, and vile screeching pipes, made me glad enough to descend the stairs, and, flinging a rupee into the poor-box of the god, to escape once more into the fresh air. from the votaries of saman i entered another crowd, assembled round a gayly decorated building, which i at once perceived was a hindoo temple. here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many lamps, a group of young dancing-girls were delighting the motley crowd. there were but three of them, one a finely-made, tall, sylph-like creature, with really graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, and far less pleasing. a good deal of pains had evidently been taken with their dress, which sparkled at all points with what i was assured were precious stones. i have heard that it is not uncommon for these nautch girls to have jewelry about their dress to the value of twenty thousand pounds. the graceful little jacket which the chief dancer wore over her flowing white robes sparkled and glistened with something which was quite new to me as articles of ornament: along the edge of her pure white garment, shone a whole host of fire-flies, which by some ingenious arrangement had been secured to the dress, and gave a strange and pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire, as she swept gracefully round in slow and measured steps. the music to which these people dance is any thing but pleasing to an english ear: indeed, there is scarcely a trace of rhythm in it; yet they contrive to measure their mazy and difficult dance by its notes with admirable precision. long custom has so attached them to their empty meaningless music that they can appreciate no other. i am certain that m. julien's band would scarcely be listened to by the singalese if there were a few tom-toms within hearing. it is a curious fact that in the districts in which these nautch girls are brought up, education is so rare, that these dancers are generally the only lay persons within many days' journey who can either read or write. the priests can all read, if not write, and they take care to instruct the temple-girls in order to enable them to learn the various songs and legends for recital at their periodic festivals. the rest of the population they keep in the densest ignorance. leaving the dancers and priests, i strolled toward the river kaloo-ganga, whose quiet, palm-shaded banks stood out in sweetest contrast to the noisy revelry i had just beheld. the moon was near the full, and rising high above the many rich green topes of palms, and gorgeous plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with radiance not of earth. it is hardly possible to conceive the magic beauty of moonlight in the tropics; those who have witnessed it, can never forget their feelings under its influence. the master hand of our finest painters might attempt to depict it, but the affair would be a dead failure; and did it succeed, strangers to these climes would pronounce it an unnatural painting. even in its reality, it bears the impress of something half unearthly, and it requires the testimony of the huge fingery leaves, as they wave to the breeze, to assure one that the whole scene is not imaginary. fully as bright and radiating, though softer in its hue, than the broad sunshine, the moon poured down in living streams its gifts of ether-light. the monster palms, the slender arekas, the feathery bamboos and tamarinds, reveled in the harmony and glow of radiant moonlight, which leaping down in phosphorescent waves, sprang on from leaf to flower, from bud to herb, and streaming through the waving seas of giant, emerald grass, died sparkling at its feet. some of the topes along this gentle river grew so thickly that not the faintest ray of light found its soft way among them; the deepest shade was there, and only in one of these could i trace any vestiges of living beings. a little hut was buried far away in the inmost recesses of a tope--all bright above, all gloom below. the door was open, and from it shone a faintly glimmering light; so tiny was the ray amidst that heavy shade, so distant did it seem, that it defied all conception of space, and made my eyes ache to gaze at it. i, at length, distinguished faint sounds proceeding from it. they were those of a regular harmony. strolling nearer, i heard that they proceeded from cultivated voices. what a sensation! the music was that of the "evening hymn!" and it came upon me with the echoes of the uncouth babel of heathenism i had just left still ringing in my ears, like the sunlight on a surging sea. when i recovered from the delightful surprise, i found that the singers were the family of a native missionary who had embraced christianity. the next day the bazaar was crowded with dealers in and diggers for precious stones. hundreds of moormen, chitties, arabs, parsees, and singalese were busily employed in barter; and a most noisy operation it was. in the neighborhood of ratnapoora exist many tracts of clayey and gravelly land, rich in rubies, sapphires, garnets, turquoise, and cat's-eyes. for the privilege of digging for these, or of sifting them from the sands of some of the rivers, the natives pay heavy rents to government; often sub-letting the ground, at large profits, to needy speculators. their harvest is usually offered for sale during the peraharra; and, be their gains what they may, they are generally rid of the whole amount before the end of the festival. the existence of this source of wealth is, unfortunately, a bane, rather than a blessing, to the district; for whole villages flock to the ruby-grounds, delving and sifting for weeks together, utterly neglecting their rice-fields and gardens. arrack taverns have multiplied, intemperance has increased, long tracts of fertile land have ceased to be sown with paddy, and the country-people now buy their food from strangers, in place of growing it, as formerly. it will be a happy time for saffragam when its stores of precious stones shall be exhausted; for not till then will peaceful industry be once more sought. struggling and forcing a way through the busy crowd were to be seen one or two hindoo fakeers, most repulsive objects, depending for subsistence on the alms of pilgrims and others. one of these wretched creatures, in the fulfillment of a vow, or as an act of fancied righteousness, had held his left arm for so many years erect above his head, that it could not now be moved--and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. it seemed more like a dry, withered stick tied to the body than a part of itself. the other fakeer had closed his hands so long that the finger-nails had grown quite through the palms, and projected at the back of them; these miserable-looking objects appeared to reap a tolerable harvest, and seemed to be then in no pain. under the shade of a banyan tree, a grave-looking moorman was amusing a crowd of boys and women with the recital of some wonderful or silly legend. the trade of story-telling, in the east, is still a profitable one, if i might judge from the comfortable appearance of this well-clad talker. when i left ratnapoora, crowds were still flocking into the town, for on the morrow the huge temple elephants were expected to march in procession through the place, decked out in all sorts of finery, and bearing the casket and relic; but it was a wearisome spectacle, and i was heartily glad to find myself once more on my pony, quietly winding through green paddyfields and under shady topes. a tobacco factory in spain. this is the most immense establishment of the kind in spain, and is devoted exclusively to the manufacture of snuff and cigars. "chewing" is a habit to which the spaniards are not addicted. tobacco, being a government monopoly, yields an enormous revenue to the crown; the factories being the most extensive in the world, and the demand for the weed even greater than the supply. the fabrica of seville, though utterly devoid of architectural merit, is only surpassed in size by the famous monastery of the escurial. it is six hundred and sixty-two feet in length, by five hundred and twenty-four in width: having been erected by a fat dutchman about the middle of the last century, its slight claims to symmetry and elegance are in no degree to be wondered at. its substantiality, however, and excellent adaptation to the purposes for which it was intended, render it well worthy of a careful examination, either by the fastidious cigar-smoker or indefatigable snuff-taker. for the edification of such in particular have we undertaken this brief description of the edifice. within its walls it has twenty-eight courts, while externally the building is encompassed by a deep moat, in order to guard against the possibility of smuggling on the part of the operatives. the number of persons usually employed, ranges from five to six thousand, though several thousand additional hands are sometimes called into requisition in years of extraordinary demand. by far the greater proportion of these are females, perhaps even four-fifths. our application for admission was readily granted, and such was the politeness of the managers, that they put us immediately under the charge of a young spaniard connected with the building, with instructions to him to show us every part of the establishment which we might desire to see. this mission he performed to our entire satisfaction. we soon dispatched the snuff department which occupies the ground floor, and which gave us such a terrible fit of sneezing, that we were somewhat fearful our nasal organs would never recover from the severe shock they had experienced. none but males were employed in the snuff rooms, and more wretched-looking objects i think i never saw. they were frightfully cadaverous and pale, showing distinctly in their countenances the pernicious influence of such a poisoned and tobacco impregnated atmosphere upon their constitutions. their appearance was more like that of demons than human beings, and it was with a sense of the deepest aversion, that we left their dark and dismal quarters. ascending to the upper story, we entered an immense hall, running nearly the whole length of the building, in which between three and four thousand females, seated at tables, were busily engaged in the manufacture of cigars. it was indeed a strange spectacle. not a man was to be seen among the enormous concourse, and even had there been half a dozen, well might we have exclaimed, "what are these among so many?" the females were of every age, from childhood upward, and, as a general rule, their complexions were characterized by a sallow and unhealthy look. the animation which prevailed among them on our sudden advent, was perfectly overwhelming: such a din and clattering of voices were absolutely deafening. every mouth was in rapid motion, and quite rivaled in its vibrations the meteoric movements of their hands. _we_ were evidently the engrossing subject of conversation, and our vanity was consequently on the alert to overhear some of the remarks that were made, and thus discover what impression our appearance had caused upon the thickly-clustered damsels around us. but to our great dismay, we heard but little of a complimentary nature, which aroused our indignation to such a height, that we were half inclined to make a terrific charge amid the mighty throng, and seek revenge by kissing in turn each beautiful culprit upon whom we could lay our hands. but seriously, we saw very little beauty among them, which we attributed in a great measure to the unwholesome nature of their occupation. certainly i never saw such a striking want of good looks among any other class in spain. in seville these girls are termed _cigarreras_, and they have a not very enviable reputation. infirmities of genius. we must, in the first place, deny that there is any _necessary_ connection between genius and vice, or madness, or eccentricity. genius is a ray from heaven; and is naturally akin to all those things on earth "which are lovely and pure, and of a good report." its very name shows its connection with the _genial_ nature; its main moral element is love. men are now in their hearts so conscious of this, that when they hear of instances of disconnection between genius and virtue, it is with a start of surprise and horror; and we believe that though all the men of genius who ever lived had been tainted with vice, still the _thoughtful_ would have been slow of drawing the horrible inference, that the brightest and most divine-seeming power in the human mind was a fiend in the garb of a radiant angel, and would have sought elsewhere for the real solution of the problem. but when we remember that so many of this gifted order _have_ been true to themselves and to their mission, the belief is strengthened, that the instances of a contrary kind can be accounted for upon principles or facts which leave intact alike the sanity, the health, and the morality, of genius _per se_. such principles and facts there do exist; and we now proceed to enumerate some of them. and first, some of the most flagrantly bad of literary men have had no real pretensions to genius. savage, for example, boyce, and dermody, were men of tolerable talent, and intolerable impudence, conceit, and profligacy. churchill was of a higher order, but has been ridiculously overrated by whoever it was that wrote a paper on him, not long since, in the "edinburgh review"--a disgraceful apology for a disgraceful and disgusting life. swift and chatterton, with all their vast talents, wanted, we think, the fine differentia, and the genial element of real poetic genius. and time would fail us to enumerate the hundreds of lesser spirits who have employed their small modica of light, which they mistook for genius, as lamps allowing them to see their way more clearly down to the chambers of death. talent, however great, is not genius. wit, however refined, is not genius. learning, however profound, is not genius. but genius has been confounded not only with these respectable and valuable powers, but with glibness of speech, a knack of rhyming, the faculty of echoing others, elegance of language, fury of excitation, and a hundred other qualities, either mechanical or morbid, and then the faults of such feeble or diseased pretenders have been gravely laid down at the door of the insulted genius of poetry. secondly, real genius has not always received its due meed from the world. like real religion, it has found itself in an enemy's land. resisted, as it has often been, at every step, it has not been able uniformly to maintain the dignity, or to enjoy the repose, to which it was entitled. men of genius have occasionally soured in temper, and this has bred now the savage satisfaction with which dr. johnson wrote and printed, in large capitals, the line in his "london"-- "slow rises worth by poverty depressed;" and now feelings still fiercer, more aggressive, and more destructive to the moral balance of the soul. it is a painful predicament in which the man of genius has often felt himself. willing to give to all men a portion of the bread of life, and unable to obtain the bread that perisheth--balked in completing the unequal bargain of light from heaven with earthly pelf--carrying about fragments of god's great general book of truth from reluctant or contemptuous bookseller to bookseller--subject even after his generous and noble thoughts are issued to the world, to the faint praise, or chilly silence, or abusive fury of oracular dunces--to the spurn of any mean slave who can find an assassin's cloak in the "anonymous," and who does not even, it may be, take the trouble of looking at the divine thing he stabs, but strikes in blind and brutal fury; such has been and is the experience of many of whom the world is not worthy; and can it be wondered at, that some of them sink in the strife, and that others, even while triumphing, do so at the expense of much of the bloom, the expansive generosity, the all-embracing sympathy which were their original inheritance? think of byron's first volume, trampled like a weed in the dust--of shelley's magnificent "revolt of islam," insulted and chased out of public view--of keats's first volume and its judicial murder--of other attempts, less successful, such as the treatment of carlyle's "french revolution," at its first appearance, by a weekly journal (the "athenæum"), which _now_ follows his proud path with its feeble and unaccepted adulation, and then speak with more pity of the aberrations into which the weaker sons of the muse have been hurried, and with more respect of the stern insulation and growing indifference to opinion and firmness of antagonistic determination which characterize her stronger children. thirdly, the aberrations of genius are often unduly magnified. the spots in a star are invisible--those in a sun are marked by every telescope. no man is a hero to his _valet de chambre_. and the reason often is, the valet is an observant but malicious and near-sighted fool. he sees the spots without seeing their small proportion to the magnitude of the orb. nay, he creates spots if he can not see them. the servants of mrs. siddons, while she was giving her famous private readings from milton and shakspeare, thought their mistress mad, and used to say, "there's the old lady making as much noise as ever." many and microscopic are the eyes which follow the steps of genius; and, too often, while they mark the mistakes, they are blind to the motives; to the palliations, to the resistance, and to the remorse. the world first idolizes genius--rates it even beyond its true worth--calls it perfect--remembers its divine derivation, but forgets that it must shine on us through earthly vessels, and then avenges on the earthly vessels the disappointment of its own exaggerated expectations. hence each careless look, or word, or action of the hapless son of publicity, is noted, and, if possible, misinterpreted; his occasional high spirits are traced to physical excitement; his occasional stupidity voted a sin; his rapture and the reaction from it are both called in to witness against him: nay, an entire class of creatures arises, whose instinct it is to discover, and whose trade it is to tell his faults as a writer, and his failings as a man. it is under such a broad and searching glare, like that of a stage, that many men of warm temperament, strong passions, and sensitive feelings, have been obliged to play their part. and can we wonder that--sometimes sickened at the excessive and unnatural heat, sometimes dazzled by the overbearing and insolent light, and often disgusted at the falsehood of their position, and the cruelty or incompetence of their self-constituted judges--they have played it ludicrously or woefully ill? but again, till of late, the moral nature, and moral culture of genius, were things ignored by general opinion, by critics, and even by men of genius themselves. milton and a few others were thought lucky and strange exceptions to the general rule. the general rule was understood to be that the gifted were most apt to go astray--that the very light that was in them was darkness--that aberration, in a word, was the law of their goings. one of their own number said that "the light that led astray, was light from heaven." critics, such as hazlitt, _too_ well qualified to speak of the errors of the genius which they criticised, were not content to palliate those by circumstances, but defended them on the dangerous principle of necessary connection. the powers of high intellect were magnified--its errors excused--and its solemn duties and responsibilities passed over in silence. the text, "where much is given, much also shall be required," was seldom quoted. genius was regarded as a chartered libertine--not as a child of divine law--guided, indeed, rather by the spirit than the letter, but still in accordance with law, as well as with liberty--as a capricious comet, not a planet, brighter and swifter than its fellows. now, we think all this is changing, and that the true judges and friends of the poet, while admitting his fallibility, condemning his faults, and forewarning him of his dangers, are ever ready to contend that his gift is moral, that his power is conferred for holy purposes, that he is a missionary of god, in a lower yet lofty sense--and that if he desecrate his powers, he is a traitor to their original purposes, and shall share in the condemnation of that servant who "was beaten with many stripes." but must not the long--the written--the sung, the enacted prevalence of a contrary opinion--of a false and low idea of genius, as a mere minister of enjoyment, or child of impulse, irresponsible as the wind, have tended to perpetuate the evils it extenuated, and to render the gifted an easier prey to the temptations by which they were begirt, and infinitely less sensible to the mischiefs which their careless or vicious neglect of their high stewardship was certain to produce? must they bear the whole blame? must not a large portion of it accrue to the age in which they lived, and to that public opinion which they breathed like an atmosphere? we attribute the higher and purer efforts which genius is _beginning_ to make, both in art and in life, to the growing prevalence of a purer opinion, and of a more severe, yet charitable criticism. the _public_, indeed, has, as we have intimated above, much to learn yet, in its treatment of its gifted children; but the wiser and better among the critics have certainly been taught a lesson by the past. into the judgment of literary works the consideration of their moral purpose has now entered as an irresistible element. and the same measure is also fast being applied, mercifully, yet sternly, to our literary men. finally, it follows from these remarks, that we expect every year to hear less and less of the aberrations of genius. and that for various reasons. first, fewer and fewer will, under our present state of culture, claim to be considered as men of genius, and the public is less likely to be troubled with the affected oddities of pretenders, and the _niaiseries_ of monkeys run desperate. then, again, the profession of letters is now less likely to be chosen by men of gifts, it is so completely overdone; and need we say, that as a profession, its exceeding precariousness and the indefinite position it gives to the literary man have been very pernicious to his morals and his peace. then "the old world _is_ coming right," and as it rights, is learning more to respect the literary character, to understand its peculiar claims, and to allow for its sinless infirmities. lastly--and chief of all, men of letters are _beginning_ to awaken--are feeling the strong inspiration of common sense--are using literature less as a cripple's crutch and more as a man's staff--are becoming more charitable to each other, and are sensible with a profounder conviction that literature, as well as life, is a serious thing, and that for all its "idle words" they must give an account at the day of judgment. may this process be perfected in due time. and may all, however humble, who write, feel that they have each his special part to play in this work of perfectionment! we are very far from being blind worshipers of thomas carlyle. we disapprove of much that he has written. we think, that unintentionally, he has done deep damage to the realities of faith, as well as to the "shams" of hypocrisy. he has gone out from the one ark and has not returned like the dove with the olive leaf--but rather, like the raven, strayed and croaked hopelessly over the carcasses of this weltering age. and our grief, at reading one or two of his recent pamphlets (which posterity will rank with such sins of power, as the wilder works of swift and byron), resembled that of a son whose father had disgraced his gray hairs by a crime or outrage. but even in the depth of this undiminished feeling of sorrow, we must acknowledge that no writer, save milton and wordsworth, has done so much in our country to restore the genuine respectability, and to proclaim the true mission of literature. in his hands and on his eloquent tongue it appears no idle toy for the amusement of the lovesick or the trifling--no mere excitement--but a profound, as well as beautiful reality--to be attested, if necessary, by a martyr's tears and blood, and at all events by the life and conversation of an honest and virtuous man. and he has himself so attested it. with scott, literature was a great money-making machine. with byron it was the trunk of a mad elephant, through which he squirted out his spite at man, his enmity at god, and his rage at even his own shadow. carlyle has held his genius as a trust--has sought to unite it to his religion (whatever _that_ may be)--has expressed it in the language of a determined life--and has made, by the power of his example, many to go and do likewise. if he has not produced a yet broader and more permanent effect--if carlyleism, as a system, is fast weakening and dying away--if the young minds of the age are beginning to crave something better than a creed with no articles, a gospel of negations, a faith with no forms, a hope with no foundations, a christianity without facts (like a man with life and blood, but without limbs)! the fault lies in the system, and not in the author of it. although, to this also we are tempted to attribute his well-known disgust _latterly_ at literature. he has tried to form his own sincere love and prosecution of it into a religion, and has failed. and why? literature is only a subjective, and not an objective reality. it is made to adorn and explain religion--but no sincerity of prosecution, or depth of insight can change it into a religion itself. _that_ must have not only an inward significance, but an outward sign, more vital and lasting than the nature of the poet. this the christian finds in jesus, and the glorious facts connected with him. but carlyle, with all his deep earnestness, and purity of life, has become, we fear, a worshiper without a god, a devotee with the object of the devotion extinct--a strong swimmer in a dead sea, where no arm can cleave the salt and sluggish waters--and although he seems to despise the mere adorer of beauty, yet nothing else does he adore, and nothing else has he hitherto taught, but this, that one may worship no distinctly objective deity, and be, nevertheless, a sincere, worthy, and high-minded man. but he has left the questions unanswered: will such a faith produce results on the generality of men--will it _stand_? and, although it may so far satisfy the conscience as to produce in one man, or a few like unto him, the satisfaction of sincerity, can it produce the perseverance of action, the patience of hope, and the energy of faith, which have worked, and are working, in thousands and millions of christian men--alike high and humble, rich and poor, ignorant and refined? still, great should be the praise of a man who has redeemed literature from degradation, and changed it into a noble, if not a thoroughly religious thing, by the sheer force of genius, and rugged sincerity. race horses and horse races. it is monday--the monday before the derby day, and a railway takes us, in less than an hour, from london bridge to the capital of the racing world, close to the abode of its great man, who is--need we add! the clerk of the epsom course. it is, necessarily, one of the best houses in the place; being--honor to literature--a flourishing bookseller's shop. we are presented to the official. he kindly conducts us to the downs, to show how the horses are temporarily stabled; to initiate us into some of the mysteries of the "field;" to reveal to us, in fact, the private life of the race-horse. we arrive at a neat farm-house, with more outbuildings than are usually seen appended to so modest a homestead. a sturdy, well-dressed, well-mannered, purpose-like, sensible-looking man, presents himself. he has a yorkshire accent. a few words pass between him and the clerk of the course, in which we hear the latter asseverate with much emphasis that we are, in a sporting sense, quite artless--we rather think "green," was the exact expression--that we never bet a shilling, and are quite incapable, if even willing, to take advantage of any information, or of any inspection vouchsafed to us. mr. filbert (the trainer) hesitates no longer. he moves his hat with honest politeness; bids us follow him, and lays his finger on the latch of a stable. the trainer opens the door with one hand; and, with a gentleman-like wave of the other, would give us the precedence. we hesitate. we would rather not go in first. we acknowledge an enthusiastic admiration for the race-horse; but at the very mention of a race-horse, the stumpy animal whose portrait headed our earliest lesson of equine history, in the chapters of the "universal spelling book," vanishes from our view, and the animal described in the book of job prances into our mind's eye: "the glory of his nostril is terrible. he mocketh at fear and is not affrighted. he swalloweth the ground with the fierceness of his rage." to enjoy, therefore, a fine racer--not as one does a work of art--we like the point of sight to be the point of distance. the safest point, in case of accident (say, for instance, a sudden striking-out of the hinder hoofs), we hold to be the vanishing point--a point by no means attainable on the inside of that contracted kind of stable known as a "loose-box." the trainer evidently mistakes our fears for modesty. we boldly step forward to the outer edge of the threshold, but uncomfortably close to the hind-quarters of pollybus, a "favorite" for the derby. when we perceive that he has neither bit nor curb; nor bridle, nor halter, that he is being "rubbed down" by a small boy, after having taken his gallops; that there is nothing on earth--except the small boy--to prevent his kicking, or plunging, or biting, or butting his visitors to death; we breathe rather thickly. when the trainer exclaims, "shut the door, sam!" and the little groom does his master's bidding, and boxes us up, we desire to be breathing the fresh air of the downs again. "bless you, sir!" says our good-tempered informant, when he sees us shrink away from pollybus, changing sides at a signal from his cleaner; "these horses" (we look round, and for the first time perceive, with a tremor, the heels of another high-mettled racer protruding from an adjoining stall) "these horses are as quiet as you are; and--i say it without offense--just as well-behaved. it is quite laughable to hear the notions of people who are not used to them. they are the gentlest and most tractable creeturs in creation. then, as to shape and symmetry, is there any thing like them?" we acknowledge that pretty perth--the mare in the adjoining box--could hardly be surpassed for beauty. "ah, _can_ you wonder at noblemen and gentlemen laying out their twenty and thirty thousand a year on them?" "so much?" "why, my gov'nor's stud costs us five-and-twenty thousand a-year, one year with another. there's an eye, sir!" the large, prominent, but mild optics of pretty perth are at this moment turned full upon us. nothing, certainly, can be gentler than the expression that beams from them. she is "taking," as mr. filbert is pleased to say, "measure of us." she does not stare vulgarly, or peer upon us a half-bred indifference; but, having duly and deliberately satisfied her mind respecting our external appearance, allows her attention to be leisurely diverted to some oats with which the boy had just supplied the manger. "it is all a mistake," continues mr. filbert, commenting on certain vulgar errors respecting race-horses; "thorough-breds are not nearly so rampagious as mongrels and half-breds. the two horses in this stall are gentlefolks, with as good blood in their veins as the best nobleman in the land. they would be just as back'ard in doing any thing unworthy of a lady or gentleman, as any lord or lady in st. james's--such as kicking, or rearing, or shying, or biting. the pedigree of every horse that starts in any great race, is to be traced as regularly up to james the first's arabian, or to cromwell's white turk, or to the darley or godolphin barbs, as your great english families are to the conqueror. the worst thing they will do, is running away now and then with their jockeys. and what's that? why, only the animal's animal-spirit running away with _him_. they are not," adds mr. filbert, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "the only young bloods that are fond of going too fast." to our question whether he considers that a race-horse _could_ go too fast, mr. filbert gives a jolly negative, and remarks that it is all owing to high feeding and fine air; "for, mind you, horses get much better air to breathe than men do, and more of it." all this while the two boys are sibillating lustily while rubbing and polishing the coats of their horses; which are as soft as velvet, and much smoother. when the little grooms come to the fetlock and pastern, the chamois-leather they have been using is discarded as too coarse and rough, and they rub away down to the hoofs with their sleek and their plump hands. every wish they express, either in words or by signs, is cheerfully obeyed by the horse. the terms the quadruped seems to be on with the small biped, are those of the most easy and intimate friendship. they thoroughly understand one another. we feel a little ashamed of our mistrust of so much docility, and leave the stable with much less awe of a race-horse than we entered it. "and now, mr. filbert, one delicate question--what security is there against these horses being drugged, so that they may lose a race?" mr. filbert halts, places his legs apart, and his arms akimbo, and throws into his reply a severe significance, mildly tinged with indignation. he commences with saying, "i'll tell you where it is: there is a deal more said about foul play and horses going amiss, than there need be." "then the boys are never heavily bribed?" "heavily bribed, sir!" mr. filbert contracts his eyes, but sharpens up their expression, to look the suspicion down. "bribed! it may not be hard to bribe a man, but it's not so easy to bribe a boy. what's the use of a hundred-pound note to a child of ten or twelve years old? try him with a pen'north of apples, or a slice of pudding, and you have a better chance; though i would not give you the price of a sugar-stick for it. nine out of ten of these lads would not have a hair of their horse's tails ruffled if they could help it; much more any such harm as drugs or downright poison. the boy and the horse are so fond of one another, that a racing stable is a regular happy family of boys and horses. when the foal is first born, it is turned loose into the paddock; and if his mother don't give him enough milk, the cow makes up the deficiency. he scampers about in this way for about a year: then he is 'taken up;' that is, bitted, and backed by a 'dumb-jockey'--a cross of wood made for the purpose. when he has got a little used to that, we try him with a speaking jockey--a child some seven or eight years old, who has been born, like the colt, in the stables. from that time till the horse retires from the turf, the two are inseparable. they eat, drink, sleep, go out and come in together. under the directions of the trainer, the boy tells the horse what to do, and he does it; for he knows that he is indebted to the boy for every thing he gets. when he is hungry, it is the boy that gives him his corn; when he is thirsty, the boy hands him his water; if he gets a stone in his foot, the boy picks it out. by the time the colt is old enough to run, he and the boy have got to like one another so well that they fret to be away from one another. as for bribing! why, you may as well try to bribe the horse to poison the boy, as the boy to let the horse be injured." "but the thing _has_ happened, mr. filbert?" "not so much as is talked about. sometimes a likely foal is sent to a training stable, and cracked up as something wonderful. he is entered to run. on trial, he turns out to be next to nothing; and the backers, to save their reputation, put it about that the horse was played tricks with. there is hardly a great race, but you hear something about horses going amiss by foul play." "do many of these boys become jockeys?" "mostly. some of them are jockeys already, and ride 'their own' horses as they call them. here comes one." a miniature man, with a horsewhip neatly twisted round the crop or handle, opens the gate. "well, tommy, how are you, tommy?" "well, sir, bobbish. fine day, mr. filbert." although mr. filbert tells us in a whisper that tommy is only twelve next birth-day, tommy looks as if he had entered far into his teens. his dress is deceptive. light trowsers terminating in buttons, laced shoes, long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a colored cravat, a collar to which juveniles aspire under the name of "stick-ups," and a paris silk hat, form his equipment. "let's see, tommy; what stakes did you win last?" tommy flicks, with the end of his whip-crop, a speck of dirt from the toe of his "off" shoe, and replies carelessly, "the great northamptonshire upon valentine. but then, i have won a many smaller stakes, you know, mr. filbert." "are there many jockeys so young as tommy?" "not many so young," says tommy, tying a knot in his whip thong, "but a good many smaller." tommy then walks across the straw-yard to speak to some stable friend he has come to see. tommy has not only the appearance, but the manners of a man. "that boy will be worth money," says mr. filbert. "it is no uncommon thing for a master to give a lad like that a hundred pound when he wins a race. as he can't spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or marbles (the young rogue _does_, occasionally, get rid of a pound or two in cigars), he saves it. i have known a racing-stable lad begin the world at twenty, with from three to four thousand pound." tommy is hopping back over the straw, as if he had forgotten something. "o, i beg your pardon for not asking before," he says, "but--how does mrs. filbert find herself?" "quite well, thank you, tommy." tommy says he is glad to hear it, and walks off like a family-man. our interview with mr. filbert is finished, and we pace toward the race-course with its indefatigable clerk. presently, he points to a huge white object that rears its leaden roof on the apex of the highest of the "downs." it is the grand stand. it is so extensive, so strong, and so complete, that it seems built for eternity, instead of for busy use during one day in the year, and for smaller requisitions during three others. its stability is equal to st. paul's, or the memnonian temple. our astonishment, already excited, is increased when our cicerone tells us that he pays as rent and in subscriptions to stakes to be run for, nearly two thousand pounds per annum for that stand. expecting an unusually great concourse of visitors this year, he has erected a new wing, extended the betting inclosure, and fitted up two apartments for the exclusive use of ladies. here we are! let us go into the basement. first into the weighing-house, where the jockeys "come to scale" after each race. we then inspect the offices for the clerk of the course himself; wine-cellars, beer-cellars, larders, sculleries, and kitchens, all as gigantically appointed, and as copiously furnished as if they formed part of an ogre's castle. to furnish the refreshment-saloon, the grand stand has in store two thousand four hundred tumblers, one thousand two hundred wine-glasses, three thousand plates and dishes, and several of the most elegant vases we have seen out of the glass palace, decorated with artificial flowers. an exciting odor of cookery meets us in our descent. rows of spits are turning rows of joints before blazing walls of fire. cooks are trussing fowls; confectioners are making jellies; kitchen-maids are plucking pigeons; huge crates of boiled tongues are being garnished on dishes. one hundred and thirty legs of lamb, sixty-five saddles of lamb, and one hundred and thirty shoulders of lamb; in short, a whole flock of sixty-five lambs have to be roasted, and dished, and garnished, by the derby day. twenty rounds of beef, four hundred lobsters, one hundred and fifty tongues, twenty fillets of veal, one hundred sirloins of beef, five hundred spring chickens, three hundred and fifty pigeon-pies; a countless number of quartern loaves, and an incredible quantity of ham have to be cut up into sandwiches; eight hundred eggs have got to be boiled for the pigeon-pies and salads. the forests of lettuces, the acres of cress, and beds of radishes, which will have to be chopped up; the gallons of "dressings" that will have to be poured out and converted into salads for the insatiable derby day, will be best understood by a memorandum from the chief of that department to the _chef de-cuisine_, which happened, accidentally, to fall under our notice: "pray don't forget a large tub and a birch-broom for mixing the salad!" we are preparing to ascend, when we hear the familiar sound of a printing machine. are we deceived? o, no! the grand stand is like the kingdom of china--self-supporting, self-sustaining. it scorns foreign aid; even to the printing of the racing lists. this is the source of the innumerable cards with which hawkers persecute the sporting world on its way to the derby, from the elephant and castle to the grand stand. "dorling's list! dorling's correct list! with the names of the horses, and colors of the riders!" we are now in the hall. on our left, are the parlors--refreshment rooms specially devoted to the jockey club; on our right, a set of seats, reserved, from the days of flying childers, for the members of white's clubhouse. we step out upon the lawn; in the midst is the betting-ring, where sums of money of fabulous amounts change hands. the first floor is entirely occupied with a refreshment-room and a police court. summary justice is the law of the grand stand. two magistrates sit during the races. is a pick-pocket detected, a thimble-rigger caught, a policeman assaulted? the delinquent is brought round to the grand stand, to be convicted, sentenced, and imprisoned in as short a time as it takes to run a mile race. the sloping roof is covered with lead, in steps; the spectator from that point has a bird's-eye view of the entire proceedings, and of the surrounding country, which is beautifully picturesque. when the foreground of the picture is brightened and broken by the vast multitude that assembles here upon the derby day, it presents a whole which has no parallel in the world. on that great occasion, an unused spectator might imagine that all london turned out. there is little perceptible difference in the bustle of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading to epsom downs are so thronged and blocked by every description of carriage, that it is marvelous to consider how, when, and where they were all made--out of what possible wealth they are all maintained--and by what laws the supply of horses is kept equal to the demand. near the favorite bridges, and at various leading points of the leading roads, clusters of people post themselves by nine o'clock to see the derby people pass. then come flitting by, barouches, phaetons, broughams, gigs, four-wheeled chaises, four-in-hands, hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note, chaise-carts, donkey-carts, tilted vans made arborescent with green boughs, and carrying no end of people, and a cask of beer--equestrians, pedestrians, horse-dealers, gentlemen, notabilities, and swindlers, by tens of thousands--gradually thickening and accumulating, until, at last a mile short of the turnpike, they become wedged together, and are very slowly filtered through layers of policemen, mounted and a-foot, until, one by one, they pass the gate, and skurry down the hill beyond. the most singular combinations occur in these turnpike stoppages and presses. four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over the shoulders of ladies, in bright shawls, perched in gigs; poles of carriages appear, uninvited, in the midst of social parties in phaetons; little, fast, short-stepping ponies run up carriage-wheels before they can be stopped and hold on behind like footmen. now, the gentleman who is unaccustomed to public driving, gets into astonishing perplexities. now, the hansom cab whisks craftily in and out, and seems occasionally to fly over a wagon or so. now the post-boy, on a jibbing or a shying horse, curses the evil hour of his birth, and is ingloriously assisted by the shabby hostler out of place, who is walking down with seven shabby companions, more or less equine, open to the various chances of the road. now, the air is fresh, and the dust flies thick and fast. now, the canvas booths upon the course are seen to glisten and flutter in the distance. now, the adventurous vehicles make cuts across, and get into ruts and gravel-pits. now, the heather in bloom is like a field of gold, and the roar of voices is like a wind. now, we leave the hard road and go smoothly rolling over the soft green turf, attended by an army of importunate worshipers in red jackets and stable jackets, who make a very juggernaut car of our equipage, and now breathlessly call us my lord, and now, your honor. now, we pass the outer settlements of tents, where pots and kettles are--where gipsy children are--where airy stabling is--where tares for horses may be bought--where water, water, water, is proclaimed--where the tumbler in an old pea-coat, with a spangled fillet round his head, eats oysters, while his wife takes care of the golden globes, and the knives, and also of the starry little boy, their son, who lives principally upside-down. now, we pay our one pound at the barrier, and go faster on, still juggernautwise, attended by our devotees, until at last we are drawn, and rounded, and backed, and sidled, and cursed, and complimented, and vociferated, into a station on the hill opposite the grand stand, where we presently find ourselves on foot, much bewildered, waited on by five respectful persons, who _will_ brush us all at once. well, to be sure, there never was such a derby day, as this present derby day! never, to be sure, were there so many carriages, so many fours, so many twos, so many ones, so many horsemen, so many people who have come down by "rail," so many fine ladies in so many broughams, so many of fortnum and mason's hampers, so much ice and champagne! if i were on the turf, and had a horse to enter for the derby, i would call that horse fortnum and mason, convinced that with that name he would beat the field. public opinion would bring him in somehow. look where i will--in some connection with the carriages--made fast upon the top, or occupying the box, or tied up behind, or dangling below, or peeping out of window--i see fortnum and mason. and now, heavens! all the hampers fly wide open, and the green downs burst into a blossom of lobster-salad! as if the great trafalgar signal had been suddenly displayed from the top of the grand stand, every man proceeds to do his duty. the weaker spirits, who were ashamed to set the great example, follow it instantly, and all around me there are table-cloths, pies, chickens, hams, tongues, rolls, lettuces, radishes, shell-fish, broad-bottomed bottles, clinking glasses, and carriages turned inside out. amid the hum of voices a bell rings. what's that? what's the matter? they are clearing the course. never mind. try the pigeon-pie. a roar. what's the matter? it's only the dog upon the course. is that all? glass of wine. another roar. what's that? it's only the man who wants to cross the course, and is intercepted, and brought back. is that all? i wonder whether it is always the same dog and the same man, year after year! a great roar. what's the matter? by jupiter, they are going to start. a deeper hum and a louder roar. every body standing on fortnum and mason. now they're off! no. _now_ they're off! no. _now_ they're off! no. _now_ they are! yes! there they go! here they come! where? keep your eye on tattenham corner, and you'll see 'em coming round in half a minute. good gracious, look at the grand stand, piled up with human beings to the top, and at the wonderful effect of changing light as all their faces and uncovered heads turn suddenly this way! here they are! who is? the horses! where? here they come! green first. no: red first. no: blue first. no: the favorite first! who says so? look! hurrah! hurrah! all over. glorious race. favorite wins! two hundred thousand pounds lost and won. you don't say so? pass the pie! now, the pigeons fly away with the news. now, every one dismounts from the top of fortnum and mason, and falls to work with greater earnestness than before, on carriage boxes, sides, tops, wheels, steps, roofs, and rumbles. now, the living stream upon the course, dammed for a little while at one point, is released, and spreads like parti-colored grain. now, the roof of the grand stand is deserted. now, rings are formed upon the course, where strong men stand in pyramids on one another's heads; where the highland lady dances; where the devonshire lad sets-to with the bantam; where the tumbler throws the golden globes about, with the starry little boy tied round him in a knot. now, all the variety of human riddles who propound themselves on race-courses, come about the carriages, to be guessed. now, the gipsy woman, with the flashing red or yellow handkerchief about her head, and the strange silvery-hoarse voice, appears, my pretty gentleman, to tell your fortin, sir; for you have a merry eye, my gentleman, and surprises is in store for you, connected with a dark lady as loves you better than you love a kiss in a dark corner when the moon's a-shining; for you have a lively 'art, my gentleman, and you shall know her secret thoughts, and the first and last letters of her name, my pretty gentleman, if you will cross your poor gipsy's hand with a little bit of silver, for the luck of the fortin as the gipsy will read true, from the lines of your hand, my gentleman, both as to what is past, and present, and to come. now, the ethiopians, looking unutterably hideous in the sunlight, play old banjoes and bones, on which no man could perform ten years ago, but which, it seems, any man may play now, if he will only blacken his face, put on a crisp wig, a white waistcoat and wristbands, a large white tie, and give his mind to it. now, the sickly-looking ventriloquist, with an anxious face (and always with a wife in a shawl) teaches the alphabet to the puppet pupil, whom he takes out of his pocket. now, my sporting gentlemen, you may ring the bull, the bull, the bull; you may ring the bull! now, try your luck at the knock-em-downs, my noble swells--twelve heaves for sixpence, and a pincushion in the centre, worth ten times the money! now, the noble swells take five shillings' worth of "heaves," and carry off a halfpenny wooden pear in triumph. now, it hails, as it always does hail, formidable wooden truncheons round the heads, bodies and shins of the proprietors of the said knock-em-downs, whom nothing hurts. now, inscrutable creatures in smock frocks, beg for bottles. now, a coarse vagabond, or idiot, or a compound of the two, never beheld by mortal off a race-course, minces about, with ample skirts and a tattered parasol, counterfeiting a woman. now, a shabby man, with an overhanging forehead, and a slinking eye, produces a small board, and invites your attention to something novel and curious--three thimbles and one little pea--with a one, two, three--and a two, three, one--and a one--and a two--in the middle--right hand, left hand--go you any bet from a crown to five sovereigns you don't lift the thimble the pea's under! now, another gentleman (with a stick) much interested in the experiment, will "go" two sovereigns that he does lift the thimble, provided strictly that the shabby man holds his hand still, and don't touch 'em again. now, the bet's made, and the gentleman with the stick, lifts obviously the wrong thimble, and loses. now, it is as clear as day to an innocent bystander, that the loser must have won if he had not blindly lifted the wrong thimble--in which he is strongly confirmed by another gentleman with a stick, also much interested, who proposes to "go him" halves--a friendly sovereign to _his_ sovereign--against the bank. now, the innocent agrees, and loses; and so the world turns round bringing innocents with it in abundance, though the three confederates are wretched actors, and could live by no other trade if they couldn't do it better. now, there is another bell, and another clearing of the course, and another dog, and another man, and another race. now, there are all these things all over again. now, down among the carriage-wheels and poles, a scrubby growth of drunken post-boys and the like has sprung into existence, like weeds among the many-colored flowers of fine ladies in broughams, and so forth. now, the drinking-booths are all full, and tobacco-smoke is abroad, and an extremely civil gentleman confidentially proposes roulette. and now, faces begin to be jaded, and horses are harnessed, and wherever the old gray-headed beggarman goes, he gets among traces and splinter-bars, and is roared at. so, now, we are on the road again, going home. now, there are longer stoppages than in the morning; for we are a dense mass of men and women, wheels, horses, and dust. now, all the houses on the road seem to be turned inside out, like the carriages on the course, and the people belonging to the houses, like the people belonging to the carriages, occupy stations which they never occupy at another time--on leads, on housetops, on out-buildings, at windows, in balconies, in doorways, in gardens. schools are drawn out to see the company go by. the academies for young gentlemen favor us with dried peas; the establishments for young ladies (into which sanctuaries many wooden pears are pitched), with bright eyes. we become sentimental, and wish we could marry clapham. the crowd thickens on both sides of the road. all london appears to have come out to see us. it is like a triumphant entry--except that, on the whole, we rather amuse than impress the populace. there are little love-scenes among the chestnut trees by the roadside--young gentlemen in gardens resentful of glances at young ladies from coach-tops--other young gentlemen in other gardens, whose arms, encircling young ladies, seem to be trained like the vines. there are good family pictures--stout fathers and jolly mothers--rosy cheeks squeezed in between the rails--and infinitesimal jockeys winning in canters on walking-sticks. there are smart maid-servants among the grooms at stable-doors, where cook looms large and glowing. there is plenty of smoking and drinking among the tilted vans and at the public-houses, and some singing, but general order and good-humor. so, we leave the gardens and come into the streets, and if we there encounter a few ruffians throwing flour and chalk about, we know them for the dregs and refuse of a fine, trustworthy people, deserving of all confidence and honor. and now we are at home again--far from absolutely certain of the name of the winner of the derby--knowing nothing whatever about any other race of the day--still tenderly affected by the beauty of clapham--and thoughtful over the ashes of fortnum and mason. hartley coleridge. while reading hartley coleridge's life, we have been often grieved, but never for a moment have been tempted to anger. there is so much bonhomie, so much unaffected oddity, he is such a queer being, such a _character_, in short, that you laugh more than you cry, and wonder more than you laugh. the judge would be a severe one who could keep his gravity while trying him. one mischief, too, which often attends faulty men of genius is wanting in him. he has not turned his "diseases into commodities"--paraded his vices as if they were virtues, nor sought to circulate their virus. he is, as the old divines were wont to say, a "_sensible_ sinner," and lies so prostrate that none will have the heart to trample on him. his vices, too, were so peculiarly interwoven with his idiosyncrasy, which was to the last degree peculiar, that they can find no imitators. when vice seems ludicrous and contemptible, few follow it; it is only when covered with the gauzy vail of sentimentalism, or when deliberately used as a foil to set off brilliant powers, that it exerts an attraction dangerously compounded of its native charm, and the splendors which shine beside it. men who are disposed to copy the sins of a gifted, popular, and noble poet like byron, and who, gazing at his sun-like beams, absorb his spots into their darkened and swimming eyes, can only look with mockery, pity, and avoidance upon the slips of an odd little man, driveling amid the hedgerows and ditches of the lake country, even although his accomplishments were great, his genius undoubted, and his name coleridge. his nature was, indeed, intensely singular. one might fancy him extracted from his father's side, while he slept, and _dreamed_. he was like an embodied dream of that mighty wizard. he had not the breadth, the length, or the height of s. t. coleridge's mind, but he had much of his subtlety, his learning, his occasional sweetness, and his tremulous tenderness. he was never, and yet always a child. the precocity he displayed was amazing--and precocious, and nothing more, he continued to the end. his life was a perpetual promise to _be_--a rich unexpanded bud--while his father's was a perpetual promise to _do_--a flower without adequate fruit. it was no wonder that when the father first saw his child his far-stretching eye was clouded with sorrow as he thought, "if i--a whole, such as has seldom been created, have had difficulty in standing alone, how can this be part of myself? if a frail tendency, running across my being, has damaged me, what is to become of one whose name is frailty?" some such thought was apparently in his prophetic mind when he wrote the sonnet beginning with "charles, my slow heart was only sad," &c. nor did the future history of the child belie the augury of this poetic sigh of a fond, yet fearing parent, over the extracted, embodied frailty and fineness of his own being. indeed, a circle of evil auguries surrounded the childhood of little hartley. the calm, quiet eye of wordsworth surveyed the sports of the child, and finding them those of no common infant, he wrote the poem to "h. c., six years old," where he says-- "thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth, ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, or to be trailed along the soiling earth." his power of youthful fancy and language was wonderful. not even scott's story-telling faculty was equal to his. he delighted in recounting to his brother and companions, not a series of tales, but "one continuous tale, regularly evolved, and possessing a real unity, enchaining the attention of his auditors for a space of years." "this enormous romance, far exceeding in length the compositions of calprenede, scudery, or richardson, though delivered without premeditation, had a progressive story with many turns and complications, with salient points recurring at intervals, with a suspended interest varying in intensity, and occasionally wrought up to a very high pitch, and at length a final catastrophe and conclusion." while constructing this he was little more than twelve years of age. a _curiosity_, hartley coleridge commenced life by being--and a curiosity, somewhat battered and soiled, he continued to the end. his peculiarity lay in such a combination of wonderful powers and wonderful weaknesses, of the mind of a man, the heart of a child, and the body of a dwarf, of purposes proud and high, and habits mean and low--as has seldom been witnessed. the wild disorganization produced by such a medley of contradictory qualities, no discipline, no fortunate conjuncture of circumstances, nothing, perhaps, but death or miracle could have reconciled. he was not _deranged_--but he was _disarranged_ in the most extraordinary degree. and such dark disarrangements are sometimes more hopeless than madness itself. there is nothing for them but that they be taken down, and cast into the new mould of the grave. this original tendency and formation are thus described by his brother: "he had a certain infirmity of will--the specific evil of his life. his sensibility was intense, and he had not wherewithal to control it. he could not open a letter without trembling. he shrank from mental pain--he was beyond measure impatient of constraint. he was liable to paroxysms of rage, often the disguise of pity, self-accusation, or other painful emotion--anger it could hardly be called--during which he bit his arm or finger violently. he yielded, as it were unconsciously, to slight temptations, slight in themselves, and slight to him, as if swayed by a mechanical impulse apart from his own volition. it looked like an organic defect--a congenital imperfection." "of such materials wretched men are made." and so it fared with poor hartley coleridge. up, indeed, to the time ( ) when he left school, he seems to have been as happy as most schoolboys are--nay, happier than most, in constant intercourse with mr. wordsworth, carrying on his english studies in his library at allanbank, in the vale of grasmere, and having become acquainted with john wilson, then residing at his beautiful seat, elleray, on the banks of windermere, who became from that time, and continued to the last, one of his kindest friends. through mr. southey's active intervention, he was sent to merton college, oxford. his curriculum there was at first distinguished. if inferior in scholarship to many, he yielded to none in general knowledge, in genius, and, above all, in conversation. ultimately he gained a fellowship in oriel, with high distinction. but his powers of table-talk became snares to him, and at the close of his probationary year he "was judged to have forfeited his fellowship on the ground mainly of intemperance." great efforts were made by his father and others to reverse the sentence--but in vain. his ruin was now only a question of time. he repaired to london, but the precarious life of a man of letters was fitted to nurse instead of checking his morbid tendencies and unhappy habits. he next returned to the lake country, commenced a school in conjunction with another gentleman, and even talked of entering into holy orders. but nothing would prosper with him. his school dwindled away, and he was reduced to make a scrambling livelihood by contributing to periodicals; domesticated the while at grasmere, in the house of a farmer's widow. various attempts were made, ever and anon, to make him useful--by taking him to leeds to edit a biographical work, assisting a friend in teaching school at ledbergh, &c; but all in vain. to grasmere he as uniformly found his way back, to resume his erratic existence. in , his mother's death brought him an annuity, which placed him on a footing of complete independence. during all this time he was employed fitfully in literary effort, wrote poems, contributed papers to "blackwood's magazine," and delivered occasional addresses to literary societies. he was gentle, amiable, frank; and, notwithstanding his oddities and errors, was a great favorite with all classes in cumberland. he was, as a churchman and politician, liberal, almost radical, in his opinions. he was a daily reader of his bible. to the last, he struggled sore to unloose the accursed bands of indolence and sensualism which bound him; but to little purpose. at length, in the beginning of , he departed this life, after giving various evidences of a penitent spirit. he lies now in a spot, beside which, in little more than a year, the dust of one--alike, but oh, how different!--wordsworth, was to be consigned. he was in his fifty-second year. "his coffin, at the funeral, was light as that of a child." "it was," says his brother, "a winter's day when he was carried to his last earthly home, cold, but fine, with a few slight scuds of sleet and gleams of sunshine, one of which greeted us as we entered grasmere, and another smiled brightly through the church-window. may it rest upon his memory!" the oriental saloons in madrid. "come," said don philippe to us one evening, "come with me to a ball at the salon de oriente, where you will see a picture of madrilenian life, too characteristic to be overlooked--a miniature of its beauty, its taste, and its profligacy combined, which no stranger who visits the metropolis should fail to note, and studiously observe." having nothing of greater importance before us, we assented forthwith to the proposal of our entertaining teacher, who escorted us thither, as soon as we could put ourselves in proper trim for the occasion. the first glimpse of the ball-room was like a fairy scene. it was built in imitation of an oriental palace, tastefully painted and illuminated with glittering chandeliers, in the most brilliant manner. the hall was quite thronged with persons of both sexes, a large proportion of whom were engaged in dancing the "polka mazurka," to the inspiring music of a full and splendid band. so exciting was the spectacle, that it was with the greatest difficulty we restrained ourselves for a few moments from rushing into the midst of the throng, and finally we broke from all restraint, and bade defiance to the counsels of don philippe, who evidently regarded us in the light of a couple of hot headed youths, whose harvest of wild oats had not yet been fully gathered. away we dashed into the very midst of the merry sport as if, with military ardor, we intended to carry the place by storm; having secured a pair of female prizes, whose brilliant eyes, like lodestones, had drawn us toward them, while under our sudden spell of excitement we mingled with the concourse of laughing dancers, and became ourselves the gayest of the gay. the bright glances which gleamed around us, from every female eye, were softer than the blushes of the moonbeams! every cheek was flushed with pleasure; every lip was red with joy! the men were wild with frolic, and the youthful damsels intoxicated with delight. among the former, whom should i recognize, to my infinite surprise and astonishment, but my faithful guide to segovia and the escurial. in his dress he was completely metamorphosed into a fashionable gentleman, with white waistcoat and gloves, and the remainder of his suit of fine black broadcloth. in manners, he had not a superior in the room. approaching me with respect, but with the polished ease of a man well acquainted with the world, he saluted us with unaffected cordiality, and then invited us to partake of some refreshments with him in an adjoining apartment, expressly intended and adapted for this purpose. we did not wish to offend him by a refusal, and therefore assented to his desire. seating ourselves at a table together, we called for a favorite beverage among the spaniards, composed of small-beer and lemon, mixed in proportions to suit the taste of those desiring it. an immense bowl, supplied with a certain quantity of iced lemonade, was first brought and placed in the centre of the table before us. two or three bottles of beer were then opened and poured into this general receptacle, the contents of which were stirred up briskly with a kind of ladle or large spoon. each of us then helped himself to the frothy compound, which, at the same time that it is very agreeable to the palate, does not produce the slightest inebriating effect. turning to me, my quondam guide asked if i had passed a pleasant evening. i replied in the affirmative, and told him i had been much struck with his skillful performance upon "the light fantastic toe." he seemed delighted with the compliment, and praised us highly in return, for the manner in which we had conducted ourselves throughout the entertainment. "these saloons," said he, "are resorted to by all classes of gentlemen in the metropolis, without distinction of rank or station, though they do not sustain so high a public reputation now as they possessed in former years. this is owing to the fact, that ladies of station no longer honor them with their presence, save during the period of the 'masquerades,' when it is said that even the queen herself has mingled among the general throng, confident that her disguise would secure her from either scrutiny or recognition. the females whom you have seen here to-night," continued my guide, "notwithstanding their modest appearance and genteel manners, are most of them either kept-mistresses or public courtesans, while the younger ones, apparently under the protection of their mothers and aunts, by whom they are accompanied, have been brought hither as to a market, in order to secure an '_amante_' or lover, and make the most profitable sale of their charms! this may sound very horrible to your ears, yet i assure you that it is truth. you can scarcely have any conception of the extent of vice which prevails in madrid, nor of the lightness and indifference with which it is regarded by the community. she who would be called by an evil name in any other country, is only regarded as a gay and lively girl in spain, so low is the general standard of women. absolute penury, and the want of respectable employment, have tended to produce this deplorable result, which must necessarily ensue, wherever the poverty and mismanagement of a government, and the consequent inactivity of industry and commerce, does not create sufficient occupation for the poorer classes, to keep them above starvation, without having recourse to vice. it really offends me," continued my guide, with considerable warmth, "to hear a noble people abused for the existence of faults which do not properly belong to them." "bravo," cried don philippe, "good, good, good! down with the government! send the cursed ministers to the infernals, and we'll have a grand spanish republic. then you'll see if the spaniards are not as industrious and brave, and the women as virtuous and chaste, as those of any other land under the sun. give the people a fair chance, and they will rise, like the bird you call a phoenix, and become a great and powerful nation. success, i say, to the glorious cause of liberty and republicanism in spain!" phantoms and realities.--an autobiography.[ ] part the third--night. iv. the interval of suspense to which we were doomed before we received any tidings of forrester seemed to us interminable; and our speculations on the cause of his silence did not contribute to make our solitude the more endurable. we clung together, it is true; but it was like people on a raft, with our heads stretched out, looking apart into the distance for succor. [ ] concluded from the july number. at last, at the end of a fortnight, there came a note in forrester's handwriting (which i well remembered), signed only with an initial letter, requiring to see me alone in a roadside hostelrie about half a mile inland. the note was cautiously worded, so that if it fell into other hands, its purport would be unintelligible. i thought this strange; but forrester was always fond of a little mystery, and on the present occasion there might be a necessity for it. i am ashamed to say, that after i had read this note two or three times, i felt some hesitation about giving him the meeting. the doubt was unworthy of us both; yet i could not help asking myself, over and over again, why he wished me to go alone?--why he appointed to meet me at night?--why he should act under a mask in an affair which demanded the utmost candor on all sides?--and a hundred other uncomfortable questions. circumstances had made me anxious and distrustful; and i was so conscious of the irritable state of my nerves, that, even while these suspicions were passing through my brain, i made an effort to do justice to my friend by recalling to mind the incidents of our former intercourse, throughout which he had displayed a fidelity and steadfastness that entitled him to my most implicit confidence. even if it had been otherwise, i had no choice but to trust to him; it was indispensable that we should know the determination of our implacable enemy, and it was through forrester alone we could obtain that information. the night was dark and stormy. the solitary walk to the little inn afforded me time to collect myself for an interview which i approached with no slight uneasiness. i had left astræa behind me in a depressed and fretful mood. she could not comprehend why she was excluded from our councils, and seemed to regard it as a sort of conspiracy to dishonor and humiliate her. every trifling circumstance that affected her personally was viewed in the same light, with jealousy and suspicion. poor astræa! her life was already beginning to jar with mental discords, and the shadows of the future were falling thickly upon her, and darkening her path. the hostelrie at which i had the appointment with forrester stood on the edge of a bleak common. in that part of the country there are many similar wastes, stretching a half mile or more into the interior, covered with a scant and sickly herbage, and presenting on the surface an arid picture of sand, stones, and shells, as if these great, unprofitable pastures had been redeemed from the sea without being converted into available land. there is a salt flavor in the air over these wild inland stretches; the sea seems to pursue you with its saline weeds, its keen winds, and measured murmurs; and the absolute solitude of a scene in which you very rarely meet a house or a tree, is calculated to make a dismal impression on a person otherwise out of humor with the world. i felt it forcibly that night. i thought the northeast wind that swept diagonally across the common was more wintry and biting than usual; and the red light in the distant window of the "jolly gardeners" (of all conceivable signs for such a spot!) looked as if it were dancing away further and further from me as i advanced across the heath. at last i reached the inn--a low tiled house, with a tattered portico jutting out upon the road some ten or twelve feet, a few latticed windows, and a narrow passage, lighted by a single candle in a sconce on the wall, leading into a sanded parlor beyond a little square "bar" that looked like the inside of a cupboard, decorated with a variety of jugs, teacups, saucers, and other ware hung up in rows all round. the house was altogether a very tolerable specimen of what used to be called an ale-house in remote country districts; a place suggestive of the strictest caution about liquors, but where you might repose with confidence on an impromptu entertainment of rashers and eggs. it was exactly the sort of house that forrester would have preferred to a well-appointed hostel in the days of our summer vagrancy, when we used to wander toward hampstead and highgate, avoiding beaten tracks and crowded localities, and seeking out for ourselves, whenever we could find it, a secluded "barley mow" shut up in a nest of orchards. he had not lost his early tastes--nor had i! that little "bar," with its innumerable samples of delft, threw me back sundry years of my life, to the time when i was free to dream or idle, to go into the haunts of men, or to desert them at will. the incident was a trifling one in itself; but it shot through my heart like a bolt of fire. it was the first time i had gone out and left astræa alone behind me. i thought of her, seated in her lonely room, brooding over her desolation, and torturing herself with speculations upon the business in which i was engaged: while i?--i was out again on the high road, exulting in a man's privilege to act for myself, with her destiny, for good or evil, at my disposal, and possessing the power of returning into the world from whence i had drawn her, and in which she could never again appear! i?--i was at large once more, with the memories of the freedom and tranquillity i had relinquished tempting my thoughts into rebellion. and she?--alas! she never seemed in my eyes so forlorn and lost as at that moment! a single glance at the boxed-up "bar," and the honest round face, with a skin-cap over it, that gaped at me behind a complete breastwork of pewter and glass, awakened me from the state of reverie in which i had entered the house. i dare say i looked rather bewildered, like a man just shaking off a fit of abstraction, for the honest round face immediately started out of the chair which served as a socket for the body to which it belonged, and without waiting to hear me ask any questions, instantly proposed to conduct me to the gentleman up-stairs, who had been for some time expecting my arrival. i found forrester in a small room which was reached by a flight of stairs, so sharp and precipitate, that they looked as if they were inserted on the face of the wall. having lighted me into the room, the honest face disappeared, and left us alone together. forrester stretched out his hand, as i thought, somewhat formally; then motioning me to a seat opposite to him, waited in silence till the landlord had left the room. "you are surprised i should have asked you to come here," he said. "no," i replied, interrupting him, hastily; "but i am surprised we did not hear from you sooner. in the name of heaven, what can have been the cause of your silence?" "how long is it since i saw you?" "how long? upward of a fortnight, and we expected a letter every day. but the world forgets us when we forget ourselves." "it might be well with some people, if the world _did_ forget them," he rejoined; "but that is no affair of mine. i have not forgotten you, whatever you may have deserved from others." this was uttered in a tone of asperity unusual with forrester. but i felt that i had provoked it by the unacknowledging spirit in which i had met him after all the trouble he had taken on my account, and i was proceeding to make the best apology i could, when he cut me short with a wave of his hand, and entered upon the business that brought us together. "you were aware when i undertook to negotiate between you and the husband of astræa, that i was his friend as well as yours. he had even stronger claims upon my friendship; i had known him in our boyhood; and when i returned, after an interval of years, and found him bereaved, as i had been myself--and by the same person--you can not be astonished that i should feel some interest in his situation." "i do not blame you for that," i returned, hardly knowing what i said, i was so amazed by the tone and substance of this unexpected opening. "blame me?" reiterated forrester. "blame me for sympathizing with an early friend, whose life, like my own, had been blasted to the root? you must suppose my nature to be something different from that of other men, if you imagine i could witness his sufferings unmoved." "to what is this intended to lead?" i demanded. "when i saw you last, your sympathies were not so exclusive. you were then, forrester, the friend of both?" "am i not so still? what brings me here? it is not exactly the sort of weather a man would select for a trip of pleasure into the country. what brings me here? your business. does this look like a failure of friendship? you are soured--isolation and self-reproaches, which pride will not suffer you to acknowledge, have turned your blood to acid. you are ready to quarrel for straws, and your whole care is how to escape the responsibility which passion and selfishness have brought upon you." i leaped from my chair at these words, and looked fiercely at forrester. he was perfectly calm, and continued to speak in a voice of freezing quietness. "pray, resume your seat. it is sheer waste of time to lose your temper with me. either i must speak candidly to you, or there is an end to our intercourse." "yes--candidly, but not insultingly," i replied, seizing my chair, and, after giving it a very ill-tempered fling upon the ground, throwing myself into it. "how foolish it is in you to exhibit this humor to me," he resumed after a short pause. "i imagine i have a right to speak to you exactly what i think, and that the interest i have taken in your concerns ought to protect me from the suspicion of desiring to insult you. were it my cue to insult you, it is not in this affair i should look for the grounds of quarrel. but let that pass. i have seen the man whom you have made your mortal enemy, and have endeavored to prevail upon him to break the marriage. i have failed." "failed? how? why? what does he say? he is a fiend!" "strange that he should have just the same opinion of you. beelzebub is rather a respectable and virtuous person in his estimation compared with you. just possible both may be right!" i never saw forrester in this sort of vein before. it was as if he were determined to lacerate my feelings and lay them bare; and yet there was a certain eccentric kindness under this rough treatment, which helped to reconcile me to it. at all events, i was bound to endure it; i knew that if i outraged him by any show of distrust or violence, his lips would be closed forever. i felt, too, that i had given him some provocation in the first instance by the temper i had betrayed; and that the fault was at least as much mine as his. "well," i cried, "you must forgive me, forrester, if i am a little chafed and galled, and, as you say, soured. circumstances have pressed hardly upon me. remember how long i have been shut out from communication with society--and the state of anxiety and suspense in which i have lived. you must make allowances for me." "exactly. _i_ must make allowances for _you_. but when i ask _you_ to make allowances for _him_, who has gone through sufferings a hundred-fold more acute, which you have inflicted upon him, what kind of response do i receive? no matter. i _do_ make allowances for you. if you are not entirely absorbed by selfish considerations, you will endeavor to comprehend the wrong you have committed, and do what you can to avoid making it worse." "wrong? premeditated wrong i never will admit. my conscience is clear of that. but i will not argue with you. what would you have me do?" "leave the country. you have no other alternative." "what? fly from this demon, who first tempted me, and who now wants to triumph over my ruin?" "you say your conscience is clear of wrong. you have a happy conscience. but it deceives you. it is true, that when you first knew astræa, you were ignorant of his rights; but you were not ignorant of them when he found you together and claimed her. up to that moment, you might have had some excuse. there was yet time to save her, yourself, and him. how did you act, then? if we are to discuss this matter with any hope of arriving at a rational conclusion, you must rid yourself of the flattering deception that you have been doing no wrong. we are not children, but grown-up men and responsible agents." "well, i put myself in your hands. but that i should become an exile because this man chooses to pursue me with vindictive feelings, _does_ seem something monstrous." "from your point of sight, i dare say it does. just change places with him. a man who desires to decide justly will always endeavor to look at both sides of a question. put yourself in his position. he loves this woman. i am satisfied he loves her more truly and tenderly, and less selfishly now than he ever loved her from the beginning. you sneer at that. you do not credit the possibility of such a thing. it is a constitutional fallacy of yours to believe that no man loves as you do--that there is a leaven of earth in other men which mixes with their devotion and corrupts it. you have nursed this creed all your life, and it has grown with your growth. you alone are pure and spiritual. i remember you had that notion once before. i remember how you exalted yourself on the intensity and endurance of your passion. surely by this time you should have outlived that delusion; for even then you might have seen men with hearts as--but i am wandering from the subject." "i understand you. i was young, superstitious, ignorant--" "i will speak plainly. you are not capable of a great devotion. your character is not strong enough. you have none of the elements of power necessary to the maintenance of the martyrdom of love. in a nature constituted like yours, passion burns up fiercely, and goes out suddenly. i have heard you say--some years gone by!--that you were consumed by a love which would end only with your life. i was silent. i loved, too; but i vailed my eyes, and spoke not, as the coffin which contained all i cherished in the world was lowered into the grave. hope--affection--the desire of life, were buried with it. you see me now wasted, haggard, solitary, a wreck upon the waters. and you? i find you plunged into the ecstasies of a new passion. and what of the old one? where are the traces of it now? some men can not live except in this condition of excitement. you are one of them. but do not deceive yourself into the belief that others have not hearts, because they do not show them in spasms such as these. do not despise the faithful agonies even of the dwarf!" i felt the severe justice of the reproach less in forrester's words than in his pallid face, and the pangs he struggled to conceal. i was even secretly compelled to admit that there was a miserable truth in what he said about mephistophiles; yet it was difficult for me to give utterance to the expression of any sympathy in the sufferings of a man who seemed to have directed his whole energies to the pursuit of an insane and unprofitable vengeance. "the portrait is not flattering," i observed. "but why do you thus put me on the rack? what has all this to do with the matter that has brought us together?" "it has every thing to do with it. the instability of your character--the certainty of remorse and disappointment, passion sated and exhausted, romance broken up, and nothing left but mutual reproaches, which will not be the less bitter because they may not find expression in words--the certainty that such is the fate to which astræa is doomed under your protection, justifies me in laying before you those secrets of your nature which, without the help of some friendly monitor like me, you would never be able to discover." this was said in a tone of sarcasm. no man knows himself. with much modesty and humility in some things (springing, perhaps, from weakness rather than discretion or reserve), i had always overrated myself in others. i had a strong faith in my own constancy of purpose--in the steadfastness of my principles and feelings. but it was true that i was self-deceived, if forrester and astræa had read my character accurately. their agreement was something wonderful. they used almost the very same words in describing the points on which my strength was likely to break down. i was beginning to fear that they were right; but i owed a grave responsibility to astræa, and could not yet be brought to admit, even to myself, that it was possible i should fail in it. "you judge from the rest of the world, and not from me, forrester," i replied. "but granted that it is as you say, how can that mend the business? believe me, you are ignorant of astræa's character and mine. no matter--let that pass. suppose we should hereafter find our lives wearisome and joyless, may we not justly trace the cause to the malice that will not suffer us to redeem ourselves." "is your redemption, by the strength of your own efforts, so sure, then? neither he whom you have wronged, nor i, have any faith in your fortitude. we believe that if you were free to marry astræa, a certain sense of justice would induce you at once to make her your wife; but we believe also, that the enchantment would perish at the altar. attachments that begin in one form of selfishness generally end in another--even with people of the most amiable intentions." there was a scoff in his voice that made my blood tingle; but i subdued myself. "pray, come to the point," i exclaimed, impatiently. "the point is simple enough," he returned. "my mission has failed. he will make no terms, take no steps for a divorce, listen to no expostulations until a separation shall have taken place between you and astræa." "a separation?" "it is clear to me that, in looking forward to such a contingency, it is not because he hopes or desires, under such circumstances, to see her again; but because it would enable him, without pain or humiliation, to become the guardian of her future life. it is the passion of his soul to dedicate himself, unseen, to the sacred duty of watching over her." "preposterous. he watch over her? the recollection of his former guardianship is not so agreeable as to induce her to trust herself under it again. as to separation, her devotion to me would make her spurn such a proposition." "h--m! it is because i believed her pride would make her spurn it that i recommended you to go abroad." "and why should we go abroad on that account?" "because his revenge, sleepless and insatiable, will render it impossible for you to remain in england." "his revenge! pshaw! i am sick of hearing of it. believe me, the word has lost its terrors--if it ever had any." "you are wrong. my advice is prudent, and is given honestly, for both your sakes. in england there is danger; abroad, you will be beyond his reach." "why," answered i, with a forced smile, "one would suppose that you were speaking of the grand inquisition, or the council of ten, and that we lived in a country where there was neither law nor social civilization. what do you imagine i can possibly have to fear from him?" "a vengeance that you can not evade, so subtle and unrelenting as to leave no hour of your existence free from dread and misery. can you not understand how a man whose life you have laid waste may haunt you with his curse? can you not comprehend the workings of a mortal hate, ever waiting for its opportunity, patient, silent, untiring, never for an instant losing sight of its object, and making all things and all seasons subservient to its deadly purpose? _i_ can understand this in the most commonplace natures, when they are strongly acted upon; but in him, fiery, self-willed, and vindictive, it is inevitable." "is this an inference of your own, drawn from your knowledge of his character, or has he confided his intentions to you?" "even if he had not confided his intentions to me, i know him too well not to foresee the course he will take; but he has concealed nothing of his designs from me, except the mode in which he intends to work them out. of that i know nothing. but it is enough, surely, that such a man should swear an oath of vengeance in my presence, to justify me in the warning i have given you." "i thank you. and this warning--upon which we seem to put very different valuations--is the result of your friendly interference?" "you are at liberty to doubt my friendship; but i will not leave my motives open to misconstruction. i repeat to you that i give you this warning, for _his_ sake as much as for yours." "and why for his sake?" "because if you avoid him you may save him from the perpetration of a crime. the whole energies of his mind are directed to one end. he lives for nothing else, and will pursue it at any cost or peril to himself. i know him. if you are wise, you will heed my warning. if not, take your own course. i have discharged my conscience, and have done." as he spoke these words, he drew his chair toward the fire, and sat musing as if he had dropped out of the conversation. "forrester," i exclaimed, "one question more! why did you not communicate this to astræa yourself? why did you leave to me the pain of carrying home such ill news?" "home!" repeated forrester, involuntarily; then, raising his voice, he went on: "why did i not go to her, and tell her that she ought to separate from you, if she had any regard for her own future security? what should you have thought of my friendship if i had done that? why, you distrust me as it is." "no--i have no distrusts. it is evident on which side your sympathies are engaged." "with whom should i sympathize--the wronged, or the wrong-doer?" "when we parted last, i believed that you felt otherwise." "when we parted last, you had made impressions upon me which i have since found to be deceptive. i do not blame you for that. you told your story in your own way, from your own point of sight: i believed it to be true. nor had i then looked into this man's heart--this suffering man in his agony, whom you painted as a monster: i did not then know how capable he was of loving and of suffering for love's sake--the noblest and the most sorrowful of all suffering! nor how gently that heart, crushed and struck to the core, had risen again to life, strengthened and sweetened by the injuries it had learned to forgive! you can not judge of that tenderness of soul, out of which a happier fortune and a prosperous love might have drawn a life of kindliness and charity. you--who, having accomplished your desires, are now reposing in the lull of your sated passions--you can see nothing in him but the evil which you have helped to nourish; his sacrifices and magnanimity are all darkness to you." "i will listen no longer," i said, starting up from my chair. "i see distinctly what is before me. old friends fall from us in our adversities. well! new ones must be made. it is some comfort that the world is wide enough for us all, and that the loss, even of such a friend as you, is not irreparable." "h--m! a successful epitome of your creed and character! you can cast old affections and memories from you with as little emotion as a bird moults its feathers; and having got rid of one set of sensations, you can begin again, and so go on, destroying and renewing, and still thinking yourself misunderstood and injured, and taking your revenge in fresh indulgences." "i will endure no more of this," i exclaimed, seizing my hat and going toward the door; "let us part, before i forget the ties that once bound us together." "forget them?" he echoed, and his face grew ghastly pale; but, forcibly controlling his agitation, he went on, in a low voice: "have you not forgotten them already? have you not shaken them off like dust from your feet? ay, let us part; i am unfit to be your friend or companion. leave me to mate with him you have bereaved, and whose heart is desolate like mine! there, at least, i shall find a community of feeling on one point--the blight which we both owe to you. go! leave me--no words--no words!" had i spoken it would have been angrily. but although my pride was wounded, and i was bitterly mortified and disappointed at the result of a meeting, which, instead of alleviating my anxiety, had only loaded me with miseries, i felt that it would have been barbarous at that moment, had i given way to my own feelings. i stood and gazed upon him in silence while i held the half-opened door in my hand. the old feeling was all at once revived, and as he buried his head in his broad, shapeless hands, and bent over the table, the night when he related to me the singular history with which he prefaced the introduction to gertrude, came back upon me with all its agonies and terrors as freshly as if but a few weeks, instead of long and checkered years, had elapsed in the interval. his great anguish on that occasion, and the grandeur of the sacrifice he made to what he hoped would have been the foundation of the life-long happiness of her he loved, returned with painful distinctness. he was changed in nothing since, except in the haggard expression of his face and figure. his heart--his strong, manly heart--was still the same. his affections were in the grave with gertrude; he had traversed half the world, had been thrown into trying circumstances, and doubtless, like other men, had been exposed to many temptations, yet he had never swerved from his early attachment, and had brought back with him from his wanderings the same truthfulness and the same sorrow he had carried with him into exile. how strange it was that he, of all men, should be cast by the force of accidental occurrences into close communion with the dwarf! that the only men on earth who in the depths of their hearts could--whether justly or unjustly, mattered little--find a cause for hating and denouncing me, should be drawn together, not by any sympathy of their own, but by a common resentment against me! these two men, so utterly unlike each other in every thing else, whose natures were as widely different and opposed as night and day! and then in the midst of this rose up the memory of gertrude, of whom i could recollect nothing but a macilent figure, stretched upon a sofa and scarcely breathing. the lineaments were gone, but there were the spirit and the reproach, and the gloom that had settled on the opening of my life, making all the rest wayward, fantastical, and unreasoning. i paused at the door, looked for the last time on forrester, and noiselessly leaving the room, descended the stairs. in the next moment i was out again on the bleak heath. v. on my return, i found astræa pacing up and down the room in a state of nervous irritation at my long absence. her usual self-command was broken down. the grace and dignity that once imparted to her an aspect of calmness and power, were gone. isolation was doing its work upon her! isolation and the feeling of banishment and disgrace which we struggled with darkly in our minds, but which were slowly and surely destroying our confidence in ourselves, and our trust in the future. she was impatient to hear what i had to relate to her, yet was so ruffled by it, that she constantly interrupted me by exclamations of scorn and anger. the suggestion of our separation, and the subsequent guardianship of the dwarf, which i stated simply, without coloring or comment, affected her differently. she looked at me in silence, as i slowly repeated the words of forrester, her lips trembled slightly, and a faint flush spread over her face and forehead. there was a great conflict going on, and i could see that her strength was unequal to it. gradually the flush deepened, and tears sprang into her eyes. i shall never forget it! a sob broke from her, and crushing up her face in her outspread hands with a wildness that almost terrified me, she exclaimed: "i never was humiliated till now! never till now! till now! o god! what have i done that this bitterness should come upon me?" "astræa! for heaven's sake do not give way to these violent emotions. after all, what does it come to?" she threw back her head with an expression of fierce reproach in her eyes, and replied: "disgrace! _you_ do not feel it. _you_ are safe, free, unscathed; but _i_--_i_--and this is what women suffer who sacrifice themselves as i have done!" "come, you are nervous and desponding, astræa. why do you talk of suffering? no body has the power to inflict suffering upon you now." "it is idle--idle--idle!" she answered, moving to and fro; "you can not comprehend it. men have no sense of these things. happy for them it is so. i believe you mean all in kindness--i believe your manhood, your pride would not allow you to see me unprotected, lost, degraded so early! no! don't speak! let me go on. he makes a condition that i should leave you--that i should violate the most solemn obligation of my life, and proclaim myself that which my soul recoils from, and my lips dare not utter; then, when i shall have damned myself, he will protect me! with a forbearance, for which i ought to be thankful he will watch over me unseen--provide for my wants--take care that i am fed and housed; and having secured my dependence on him, and broken my rebellious heart, he will take infinite credit to himself for the delicacy and magnanimity with which he has treated me. oh man--man! how little you know our natures, and how superior we are to you, even in our degradation! i ask you, in what light must he regard me who could presume to make such a proposition? and in what light should i deserve to be regarded if i accepted it?" "it is quite true, astræa. i feel the whole force of your observations. the proposition is an insult." "thank you--thank you, for that word!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into my arms, and bursting into a flood of tears. "there is something yet left to cling to. thank god, i am not yet so lost but that you should feel it to be an insult to me. it is something not to be yet quite beyond the reach of insult." "astræa," i said, folding her tenderly in my arms, "compose yourself, and trust to me. we must trust to each other. there--there--dear astræa!" "what a wretch should i be," she replied, "if _this_ were all--if it were for _this_ i forfeited every thing; no, no, _you_ don't think so. it is my last hold--self-respect!--and it is in your keeping. for you i gave up all--and would have given up life itself--it would be hard if i should perish in my sin by his hands for whom i sinned!" then releasing herself from me, she grasped my arm, and looking earnestly into my face, she demanded, "and what answer did you give to this proposal?" "why, what answer should i give, but that i knew you would spurn it?" "that was right!" she cried; "right--manly--honest. we must let him know that i am not the defenseless outcast he supposes; he must see and feel that we can walk abroad as proudly in the open day as he or his. _his_ vengeance? what have we to fear? let us cast the shame from us and show ourselves to the world. we make our own disgrace by hiding and flying from our friends. you see how our forbearance has been appreciated, and what a charitable construction has been put upon our conduct. we owe it to ourselves to vindicate ourselves. i will endure those dismal whispers that carry a blight in every word no longer. i would rather die! come--let us decide once and forever our future course!" these were brave words, and bravely uttered. toward the close, astræa had regained much of her original power; the strength of purpose and towering will, which i remembered so well in former days, and which gave so elevated a character to her beauty, came back once more, and lighted up her fine features. it was late; but what were hours to us? day or night made little difference. we had no objects to call us up early--we had no occupations for the next day--it was immaterial whether we retired or sat up; and so in this listless mode of life we always followed the immediate impulse, whatever it might be. when we found ourselves weary, we betook ourselves to repose; when we felt inclined to talk and maunder over the fire, we never troubled ourselves to ask what o'clock it was. in short, time had no place in our calendar, which was governed, not by the revolutions of the earth, but by our own moods and sensations. we discussed a great question that night. no theme before a debating club--such as the choice between peace and war, between society or solitude, or any of those grand abstract antitheses that agitate nations--was ever more completely exhausted in all its details than the question--whether we should leave england, or remain at home, and go boldly into public, with the determination to live down the persecutions of the dwarf. it was a question of life or death with us. we both felt that any fate would be more welcome than the life to which we were then condemned. we pined for human faces and human voices. we were sick at heart of eternal loneliness. we longed for free intercourse with educated people like ourselves, who would sympathize with our intellectual wants, and talk to us in our own language. we had arrived at the discovery that the solitude we had colored so brightly in those happy hours of romance which love takes such pains in filling up with delusions, would be rendered much more agreeable by an occasional variety, or an incidental shock from without--any thing that would stir the pulses and awaken the life-blood that was growing stagnant in our veins. we were not weary of each other; on the contrary, anxiety had brought our hearts more closely together; but we had drunk all the light out each other's eyes, and our aspects were becoming wan and passionless from lack of change and movement; we yearned for the presence even of strangers, to break up the dullness and uniformity, and make us feel that we had an interest in the living world, and that our love, sweet as it was in seclusion, was sweeter still as a bond that linked us to the great family, from which in our desolate retreat we felt ourselves entirely cut off. i need not detail the arguments by which our final resolution was determined. to go abroad, and embrace a voluntary banishment, would have looked like an admission of guilt, which astræa persisted in repudiating. whatever verdict society might choose to pronounce, astræa would be governed only by her own. her justice adapted itself expressly to the occasion, setting aside the larger views which laws designed for the general security must include. but such is woman's logic ever!--circumstantially sensitive, clear, and narrow! her voice was for war. i had no motive for opposing her; my pride agreed with her--my reason took the other side; but, in reality, i saw no great choice either way. i knew, or felt, that society would never be reconciled to us. men have instincts on such points; but women, with their wild sense of what may be called natural law, never can see these things in the same light. this was a matter i could not argue with astræa. i merely told her that in our anomalous situation, we must not look for much sympathy or consideration; that, in fact, i had known similar cases (perhaps not quite so peculiar, but that made no difference in the eyes of society), and that the issue of the struggle to get back always ended in increased humiliation; yet i was, nevertheless, ready to adopt any plan of life that would satisfy her feelings. i was bound to think of that first, and perfectly willing to take chance for the rest. it was settled at last, at the close of our long council, that we should adopt a sort of middle course; and before we returned to london, which we now fully resolved to do at the opening of the season, we projected a visit to brighton, and one or two other places on the coast. vi. talk of the sagacity of the lower animals, and the reasoning faculties of man! we are the most inconsistent of all creatures; we are perpetually contradicting ourselves, perpetually involved in anomalies of our own making. it is impossible to reconcile half the things we do with the exercise of that reason which we boast of as the grand distinction that elevates us above the horse, the dog, the elephant. we never find any of these animals doing unaccountable things, or practically compromising their sagacity. for my part, looking back on my life, i feel that it is full of contradictions, which, although apparent to me now, were not so in the whirl of agitation out of which they surged. here, for example, after a flight from the world, and nearly six months' burial in the severest solitude, behold us on a sudden in the midst of the gay crowds of brighton. the transition is something startling. it was so to us at the time; and i confess that at this distance from the excitement which led to it, i can not help regarding it as an act of signal temerity, considering the circumstances in which we were placed. astræa's spirits grew lighter; she cast off her gloom and reserve, and surrendered herself to the full tide of human enjoyment in which we were now floating. whatever might have been the terror or misgiving at either of our hearts, we did not show it in our looks. we wore a mask to each other--a mask of kindness, each desiring to conceal the secret pang, and to convey to the other a notion that all was at peace within! we were mutually conscious of the well-meant deception, but thought it wiser and more generous on both sides to affect entire confidence in the gayety we assumed! upon this hollow foundation we set about building the superstructure of our future lives. we had a cheerful lodging facing the sea--rather a handsome and extravagant lodging; for being intent upon our project of asserting ourselves in the eyes of the world, we resolved to test any friends we might happen to meet, by inviting them to our house. the landlady, a respectable widow, was one of the most civil and obliging persons in the world. her whole establishment was at our disposal, and she never could do too much to make us feel perfectly at our ease. emerging as we had just done from utter loneliness, with a strong fear that the hand of the world was against us, all this attention and kindness touched us deeply. slight an incident as it was, it made us think better of our species, and look forward more hopefully for ourselves. there was yet something to live for! there always is, if we will only suffer our hearts to explore for us, and find it out. any person who has moved much in the london circles is sure to find a numerous acquaintance at brighton. we met several people we had known in the great maelstrom of the west end. it was pleasant to us to exchange salutes with them. it was like coming back after a long voyage, and finding one's self at home again among old faces and household scenes. we were intimate with none of these people; and as our knowledge of them did not justify more than a passing recognition, which was generally very cordial on both sides, we used to return from our drive every day, exulting in the success of our experiment upon society. the world, after all, was not so bad as we supposed. one day, sauntering on the sands, astræa saw a lady at a distance whose figure seemed to be familiar to her. she was an old schoolfellow of hers, who had been recently married. they flew into each other's arms. the meeting, indeed, was marked by such affectionate interest on the part of the lady, who was a stranger to me, that i apprehended she was entirely ignorant of our story. almost the first question that passed between them determined that fact; and as they had a great deal of news to communicate to each other, it was arranged between them that they should meet the next morning for a long gossip. astræa went alone, and staid away half the day. she returned to me full of glee. her friend had listened to her history with the deepest interest, and entirely agreed with her that she could not have acted otherwise, adopting, at the same time, without hesitation, astræa's opinion of the sanctity of our union. it was not our fault that we had not been married in a church and this generous lady, seeing the embarrassment of our situation, enthusiastically declared that the world might take its own course, but that _she_, at least, would never abandon a friend under such circumstances. this was very cheering. i must remark, however, that this lady was several years younger than astræa, under whose protection she had been taken at school, where astræa had been a resident for convenience, rather than a pupil, when she entered it. in this way their attachment originated. it would have been difficult for any young person to have been placed in such close and endearing intimacy with astræa, and not to have acquired an enthusiastic regard for her. she always inspired that sort of feeling--a deep and passionate love, great admiration of her intellect, implicit respect for her judgment. in the eyes of her schoolfellow she was the model of all human excellence. as easily would she have believed in an error of the planetary system, as that astræa could commit an aberration of any kind. whatever astræa did, appeared to her unimpeachable. a feeling of veneration like this carried away from school will stand many severe shocks in the mind of a true-hearted girl before it will give way. this was all very well so far as the lady herself was concerned; but how could we answer for the view her husband might take of the matter? she volunteered in the most courageous way to take all that upon herself. she could answer for her husband. she was very young, and very pretty, and very giddy, and only just married, and her husband never denied her any thing, and she ruled him with as queenly an influence as the heart of the most imperious little beauty could desire. nor did she reckon without her host, as the event proved. her husband, in the most good-humored way, fell into her view of the case. he was one of those easy-natured souls who, when they marry school-girls, feel themselves called upon to marry the whole school, and to take its romps, and its vows, and its bridesmaid pledges, to heart and home along with their wives. he had heard her speak of astræa a thousand times, and professed to be very curious to see her; and so it was arranged that we should all meet, and make the merriest double-bridal party in the universe. the reunion was curious between these open-hearted, innocent young people, with their track of bright flowers before them, and those who sat opposite to them, with a terrible conviction that the path which lay before _them_ was covered with ashes. our new friends had a large acquaintance at brighton, and saw a great deal of company; yet they were always glad to get away when they could, and make a little holyday with us. her husband entered into our meetings with an ease and friendliness that were quite charming. he was an indolent man, taking no trouble to look after pleasure, but ready to be pleased in a passive way with any thing that other people enjoyed. as for his wife, she was always in the highest spirits with astræa. the chatter they made together was quite an ecstasy. it seemed as if there was no end to the things they had to talk about. poor astræa had been shut up from her own sex so long, that the delight with which the companionship of this young creature inspired her appeared to me extremely pathetic and affecting. one morning we were walking on the parade as usual. among the carriages that were flying about, we recognized the open phaeton of our friends. it passed quite close to us--so close that we could have shaken hands with them as they swept by. we expected that they would have stopped as usual, and we stood and put out our hands--but the carriage went on. there was a hasty bow from the lady, and then her head was quickly turned aside, as if something had suddenly attracted her attention. astræa looked at me, and asked me what i thought of it? i evaded her question, by saying that they had other friends, and that we must not be too _exigeant_. astræa made no remark, but merely shook her head and walked on. in the afternoon we met them again. there was a gay crowd of people walking, and our friends, in the midst of a group, were coming up toward us. there was no possibility, at either side, of avoiding the meeting, for the place was narrow, and we were compelled to pass each other slowly. i could perceive, from the way in which astræa's cheeks kindled, that she was resolved to put her schoolfellow's friendship to the proof at once. i anticipated the result, but thought it best not to interfere, lest astræa might suppose i shrank from the ordeal. we met face to face. the lady grew very white, and then red, and then white again, and caught her husband by the arm, and moved her lips as if she wished to appear to be speaking to him, although she did not utter a word. astræa looked full into her eyes. had the young wife seen a spectre from the grave, she could not have been more effectually paralyzed. that look seemed to turn her to stone. not a single expression of greeting took place between them. upon the husband's part, the feeling was even less equivocal. there was a dark, scowling frown upon his face as we came up; he looked straight at us--and walked on. these _insouciant_ men, who take the world so indifferently on ordinary occasions, are always the most fierce when roused. they hate the trouble of being obliged to act with decision, and when compelled to do so, they cut it short by an energetic demonstration, that they may fall back the sooner upon their habitual lassitude. we returned to our lodging with a clear sense of our position. galled as i was on my own account, i felt it a hundred times more acutely on account of astræa. here was her young friend and enthusiastic disciple, who had always looked up to her with confidence and admiration, who had heard her story, and clung all the more lovingly and protectingly to her in pity for the unhappy circumstances in which she was placed, and this friend had now abandoned and disowned her!--a blow under which some women would have sunk at once, and which would have made others reckless and desperate. upon astræa it acted slowly and painfully. externally it did not seem to affect her much; but i could perceive from that time a tendency to lapse into fits of silence, and a desire to be alone, which i had not noticed before. whenever she alluded to her friend, she spoke of her as a weak person, who had never been remarkable for much character, with a kind heart and no understanding, and always carried away by the last speaker. ascribing her inconsistency on this occasion to the influence of her husband, we agreed to dismiss the subject--not from our thoughts, that was impossible--but from our conversation. astræa was bruised and hurt; and through all her efforts to conceal it, i saw that she suffered severely. it was the first touch she had directly experienced of the ice of the world's contumely, and it had struck in upon her heart. a few days passed away, and we were reconciling ourselves by daily practice to the personal humiliation of passing and being passed in the streets by the friends with whom we had been recently on terms of absolutely hilarious alliance; when, on one occasion, on returning to our solitary lodging, we were received at the door by our obliging landlady in a manner which plainly showed that her opinion of us had undergone a most singular change during our absence. her quiet, sleepy eyes scintillated with anger; her face was hot with excitement, and instead of the civility she had hitherto invariably shown us, she all at once broke out into a tirade which i will spare the reader the unpleasantness of hearing: there can be no difficulty in guessing what it was all about. this worthy woman had heard our history--falsified in detail, and blackened by the most venomous exaggeration; and being a very pure lodging-house keeper, standing upon the whiteness of her morals and her caps, and trusting much to the patronage of the rector, who allowed her to refer to him for the proprieties and respectabilities of her establishment, she thought that the best way to vindicate her own reputation was to assail ours in the most open and public manner. accordingly, she took care that every word she said should be overheard by every body within reach, so that the whole neighborhood should know of her indignation, and report it to her friend the rector. there never was such a change in a woman; it was a saint turned into a demon. i demanded her authority for the injurious aspersions she cast upon us, and threatened her with a variety of tremendous, though exceedingly vague, legal consequences--but to no effect. she desired us to leave the house, and take our remedy; she would give us no satisfaction; she had good grounds for what she said; that was enough for her; she knew what "kind" we were; and a great deal more to the same purpose. we were deeply aggrieved at discovering that our private affairs were talked of in this scandalous way. as to the vulgar violence of this woman, we thought no more of it after the immediate irritation of her assault on us was over. it was one of those coarse incidents, which, like striking against an awkward person in the streets, happen to us all in life, and are forgotten with the momentary annoyance. but these reports of our situation being afloat, rendered it impossible to remain in brighton; so that very night we moved down the coast to worthing. in this dull little watering-place, where the people always seem bent on avoiding each other, we thought we should be secure from evil tongues. it was late when we arrived, and we put up at the hotel, which, like every thing else in worthing, has an air of languor and idleness about it. we liked the tone of the house. an eternal twilight brooded over the rooms and passages. every chamber was occupied, yet the place was as still as a church. if you heard a footstep, it went stealthily as if it were muffled, or "shod with felt;" and the only signs of life you caught from the adjoining apartments, were when some noiseless lady in a morning dress glided into the balcony, and after a side-long look at the sea, glided back again. out of doors, the order of the day was vigorous promenading, but even this was conducted almost speechlessly, except when a friendly group happened to collect and stop short, and then you could hear an occasional joke and burst of laughter. the promenade was the grand thing. it was not sauntering for relaxation, but brisk exercise, that threw the blood into activity and exhilarated the spirits. in the course of a week, we came to know every face in worthing by the introduction which this lusty amusement afforded us, and every body in worthing knew our faces. we were all out at a given hour, tramping up and down at a swinging pace, and passing and repassing each other so often, that we were as familiar with the whole guest population of the place, and the whole guest population with us, as if we had known each other all our lives. every body had acquaintances there except ourselves. we could see them making up little parties for excursions, soirées, and other amusements; trifles that amused us as lookers-on, but, nevertheless, made us feel our loneliness. we were _in_ the crowd, but not _of_ it. yet it was better to be in the open air among strangers than to dwell in the desert. but it was not to be. our story followed us. we began to perceive, after a little time, that we were observed and noticed, and that people used to turn and look after us. this was the first hint we received of what was now becoming rather an alarming fact to us--that we were known. to be known with us, was to be shunned, or impertinently gazed at, as if we were either great criminals, or notorieties of no very respectable order. at last, it became difficult for us to walk about, from the universality of the notice we attracted; and at the hotel there was no possibility of mistaking the nature of the curiosity, not of the most respectful kind, which tracked us up the stairs and down the stairs, and penetrated even to our rooms, in the person of a sinister-looking waiter, who had the oddest conceivable way of looking at us out of the corner of one eye, which he pursed up and concentrated into a focus expressly for the purpose. this sort of persecution was wearing us out. it was like water dropped, drop by drop, upon a stone. the whisper of shame came after us wherever we went. there was no escaping it; and i began to suspect that there must be some mark upon us by which we were known and detected. i believe there is more truth in this than most people imagine. the habit of evasion and reserve, the apprehension of being watched, and the secret consciousness of having something to conceal, doubtless give an expression to one's entire action and physiognomy which is likely to suggest unfavorable speculations. the world is apt to think ill of the man who does not look it straight in the face; and, upon the whole, perhaps the world is right. this doom pursued us wherever we went. we tried two or three other places on the coast with the same result. within a week we were sure to be found out, and avoided or gazed at. the sight of human beings enjoying themselves, and the right of looking on at them, were dearly purchased at such a price as this. our spirits were beginning to give way under it; our nerves were so affected by the minute persecution which we daily endured, that when we got into strange quarters, where we were as yet unknown, we fancied that all eyes were upon us. a little more of this sort of racking suspicion, mixed with fear and rage, and i think i should have gone mad. astræa bore it more heroically. she was tolerably calm, and used to smile while i was glowing over with anger. i frequently felt inclined to rush upon some of the people who stared at us, and demand of them what they meant; but astræa always checked me, and reminded me, that in these small watering-places scandal was the entire occupation--that the visitors had, in fact, nothing else to do all day long; and that if every person who was tormented by their vicious curiosity were to indulge in resentment, three-fourths of the time of the community would be wasted in endeavoring to patch up the reputations that had been torn to bits in the remaining fourth. notwithstanding the courage with which she set herself against the waters that were visibly closing round us on all sides, and the light, yet earnest and fearful way she talked about it, her health was rapidly declining. her color was gone. she was growing thin; there was a slight cough hovering upon her nerves; and she had become so fanciful, that she could not bear to go out in the dusk of the evenings, although that was the only time when we could walk out at our ease. these changes brought others. her temper was altered; she tried to subjugate herself, but could not; a notion seemed to have taken possession of her that she was a weight upon me, and that the necessity of sharing disgrace and exclusion with her was preying upon my mind. in the first few months she was jealous of every hour i was absent from her, and used to consider it a slight, and a proof that i was becoming weary of her. then all was new, and the gloss of novelty and enthusiasm was yet upon her feelings. now it was totally different; she had no longer any care about herself; it was all for me. the dream of love had been dreamed out, and she had ceased to regard herself as the object of a devotion which was ready to incur shame and suffering for her sake. she had seen that delusion to an end; and, having a real fear that, being pent up continually with her, contracting the man's activity within the sphere of the woman's limited range, would make our way of life hateful to me at last, she now used to urge me to go out for long walks in the country, or to visit the reading-rooms, and keep myself _au courant_ with the events of the day. exercise, mental and physical, was healthful for me, and she would not have me moped to death in the house. for her own part, she would say to me, she rather liked having a little time to herself; a woman has always something to do, and is never at a loss for occupation; and while i was out, she hardly missed me till i came back--she was so busy! these professions and entreaties were kindly and judiciously meant, but the difficulty was to act upon them. she could not endure solitude. she always dreaded to be left alone, and, only that it was a greater dread to her to make a prisoner of me at the risk of rendering my existence wretched, nothing could have induced her to go through the hours of misery she suffered in my absence. this conflict made her temper unequal and sometimes unreasonable; but in such a situation, what else could be expected? we were haunted by shadows that were forever falling about our path; move where we would, these dark phantoms pursued us. our lives were not like the lives of other people: we had no kindred, no associations, no stir in the sad stagnation of day and night. time seemed to be mantling over us, and the breath of heaven to be becoming less and less perceptible in our dreariness. astræa was like a person who was dying from the heart; and with all the fortitude i could bring to my help, i felt it no easy task to lift myself out of the dismal depression which occasionally seized upon me. at last we agreed that our scheme of traveling about had disappointed our expectations, and that, after all, london was the best of all places for people who sought either of the extremes of society or seclusion. and so to london we forthwith repaired. vii. the heart of the town, or the suburbs? the question was speedily decided in favor of a small detached house, not very far from the regent's park. we had the whole park for a pleasure-ground, a little scrap of verdure of our own, and an open space and airy situation to regale our lungs in. we entered upon our new locality with sensations of security we had felt nowhere else. we seemed to have left behind us the gloom and terror that had been so long dogging our footsteps. even astræa brightened, and grew better; her fretfulness was disappearing, and a tone of contentment and cheerfulness supervening upon it. we were each of us more free in our movements, and the dread of observation which had so long kept us in a state of perpetual alarm, was gradually passing away. but what had become all this time of the vengeance of the dwarf? had he abandoned his great plan of revenge? had he thought better of it, and, finding that astræa was immovable, addressed himself to some more sensible pursuit than that of plaguing us? i sometimes touched upon the subject to astræa, but could not extract from her what her suspicions were. she did not like to talk about him. she seemed to be ruled by a superstitious fear of reviving the topic. it was like the old wives' adage, "talk of the devil, and he'll appear!" i can not exactly remember how long this lasted, or when it was that i first detected in astræa the return of the nervousness which had in some degree abated upon our arrival in town. it could not, however, have been more than two or three months after we had taken this house, that i observed a striking change in her. haggard lines seemed all of a sudden to have been plowed round her eyes and cheeks, and her look had become wild and unsettled. i never saw any body so completely shattered in so short a time, and the transition from comparative tranquillity to a state of excessive nervous excitement was so alarming, that i thought there must have been some cause for it beyond that of mere physical illness. i questioned her upon it, but always got the same unsatisfactory answers, ending by entreating of me not to notice her, but to let her go on in her own way. i can not recall what there was about her manner--some strangeness in the way she looked at me or spoke to me--that aroused the most painful suspicions. i confess i did not know what to suspect; but there was a mental reservation of some kind, and i was resolved to ascertain what it was. i had the utmost confidence in astræa; love with her was the most sacred of all obligations; and she loved me sincerely--at least, she had loved me enthusiastically in the beginning. what revolutions had since taken place in her heart, i could not answer for. she had passed through a chaos in the interval that might have destroyed the capacity of loving. that there was something more in her thoughts than she had revealed, i felt sure; and the first shape my suspicions took--natural enough in our circumstances, although not the more just on that account--was a shape of jealousy. my alarm immediately flew to the defense of my pride, or, as forrester in his cauterizing way would have called it, my selfishness; i resolved to observe her closely, and i did so some time without being able to glean any thing further. at last the secret of her wasting frame and pallid face was suddenly divulged. one evening, toward the close of the summer, she remained out longer and later than usual. her walk, sometimes alone and sometimes with me, was through the more secluded parts of the park. on this occasion, the twilight was setting in, and she had not returned. with a dark and sulky apprehension brooding in my mind, i resolved to go out in search of her. we had not been confidential with each other of late; the old dreariness had come back upon us, embittered with a captiousness and acerbity which extracted all the sweets from our intercourse. a new element had found its way between us: we had thoughts which we concealed from each other: my distrust--her secret, whatever it was. this was a great evil; it filled every hour of the day with lurking jealousies on both sides, which one word would have dispelled forever. i seized my hat, and was about to leave the house, when i heard a sudden noise at the street-door, and a flurry of agitated steps up the stairs. immediately afterward, the door of the room was thrown violently open, and astræa rushed in, pale and disheveled. she was evidently in a state of great alarm and consternation, and turning wildly round, beckoned me to see that the door was made fast. she could not speak, drawing her breath hysterically, like a person laboring under the effects of a serious fright. "tranquilize yourself, astræa," i cried; "there is nothing to fear here. what is it? what has alarmed you?" "it is _he_," she replied, fixing her eyes wildly upon me--"_he_ is coming." "who?" "he who has been upon our track ever and ever--who has never quitted us--who never will leave us till we are dead." i did not dare to ask in words, but i asked with my eyes if it was the dwarf she meant. "ay, it is he. be calm. it is your turn now to show your strength of mind--to show whether you value the life i have devoted to you. i hoped to have concealed this from you. we have suffered enough, and i hoped to have hidden from you what i have suffered. but it is too late now. hush! o god!--that was his voice. you do not hear it--i do! it rings through and through my brain. he is here--he has followed me. if you ever loved me--and i know you did once!--prove it to me now. go into the next room, and promise me to stay there whatever happens. listen; but speak not--stir not. he is on the stairs!--will you not give me your promise? trust all to me--rely on me--be sure of me. let go the door--he is here!" i made no answer, but conveying to astræa by a searching look that it was my purpose to watch the issue, i withdrew by one door, while the dwarf entered by the other. his voice, as he approached her, sounded in my ears like the hiss of a serpent. "i have found you, then, at last--and alone, astræa!" "why do you follow me thus?" exclaimed astræa, who stood motionless in the centre of the room, making a great effort to appear bold and calm, but shuddering in every fibre beneath. "why do i follow you? what should i do else?" "live like other men. seek occupation--any thing, rather than plunge your own life and mine into this eternal horror." "have i not occupation? am i not attending you every where? have i not enough to do in waiting upon you from place to place?" "abandon that fiendish mockery, and speak like a human being. what is it you want?" the dwarf coiled himself up at this question, as if he were distilling all the venom out of his black heart into the answer. "revenge! it was for my revenge i hung upon your track, showed myself to you at all times and in all places, letting you know that the destroyer was at hand, so that you might go home and blast _his_ happiness by your broken spirits and shattered nerves. i have seen it work; i see it now, in your quivering lip and emaciated hands. where are the holiday roses now--the exulting lover--the secret blisses?" here, then, was poor astræa's secret! the monster had been upon her steps wherever we went; and, as i afterward learned, used to start up suddenly before her in her solitary walks, to terrify her with threats of sleepless vengeance, knowing that her fear of consequences would prevent her from revealing to me the persecution under which she was sinking. this ghastly pursuit of us (to which we were also indebted for the scorn and obloquy we suffered) had gradually broken up astræa's health, and made the strong mind almost weak and superstitious. but i must hasten on. "and this," cried astræa, "is the generosity i was to have received at your hands--this the magnanimity your friend gave you credit for!" "there was a condition to my magnanimity which you have forgotten. had you fulfilled that condition, i would have poured out my heart's blood at your feet, could it have made you more secure and happy. why did you not forsake him, and trust to my generosity? no; you clung to him. you maddened me, and left me nothing but--revenge. did you suppose he could escape me? i have no other life but this--to follow you as the executioner follows the condemned to the scaffold, and make _his_ life a curse to _him_, as he has made _mine_ to _me_. there's justice in that--call it cruel, if you please; 'tis just--just--just!" "'tis monstrous, and will draw down the punishment of heaven on your head." "heaven will judge strictly between us. what am i? what have i to live for? you have poisoned the earth for me. every spot where we have been together is accursed to me. i dare not look on the old haunts. i dare not seek new scenes, for my soul is lonely, and no pleasure or delight of nature can reach it. i should go mad were i not near you; it supplies me with work--something to employ me--to keep my hands from self-destruction. i weave stratagems all night, and watch my time all day, day after day, patiently, to execute them. i have but one purpose to fulfill, and when that is done, life is over. if i live long enough to drive him mad, as he has maddened me, i shall be content, and go to my grave happy. and i will do it; every hour gives me more strength. i see the end nearer and nearer--it grows upon me. i awaken to my business early; it is my first thought--my last; it never leaves me. day after day i have watched you, and have tracked you home at last. and here it is you live--you, astræa, whom i loved--whom i still--no, not that! you live here with him--his wife! you call yourself his wife? ha! ha! that is good--his wife! i wonder to see you living, astræa. i should have looked for your corpse in this room rather than the living astræa--the proud, soaring, ambitious astræa! why do you not die? it would be happier for you?" during the latter part of this speech, astræa, who had made a great struggle throughout to sustain the attitude she had "taken" in the first instance, grew weak from terror and exhaustion, and sunk or tottered upon a chair. the inflections of voice with which these inhuman taunts were delivered, ending in a tone that came apparently, if i may so express it, laden with tears from the heart of the speaker, were so ingeniously varied and so skillfully employed, that it would have been impossible, even for an indifferent listener, to have heard them without being alternately agitated and enraged. for my part, a kind of frenzy possessed me. i restrained myself as long as i could. i tried to obey poor astræa's injunction, for, seeing how much i had wronged her in my thoughts, and what misery she must have suffered and concealed on my account, i felt that i ought to spare her any further alarm my forbearance could avert. but the harrowing scoffs of the fiend were beyond my endurance--my self-control gave way at last, and bursting open the door of the room in which i was concealed, i rushed out upon the malignant wretch, who, to do him justice, courageously turned upon me, and met me with his eyes glaring fiercely as of old. "devil!" i exclaimed, "what do you do here? what do you want? revenge? take it--in any shape you will. only rid me of your presence, lest i spurn you with my foot, and trample upon you." "you should have told me," he said, turning with an air of mockery to astræa, "that he was listening in the next room. i would have dressed my phrases accordingly." "again, i ask you why you come here? answer me, or leave the room at once." "why do i come here? to gladden myself by looking at your wretchedness. you are worse than i am--sunk below me a thousand fathoms deep in degradation--every finger is pointed at you--you are steeped in scorn--despised and loathed. i came to see this. it makes me supremely happy." "go--there is the door," i cried, the blood tingling in my ears, and in the tips of my fingers. astræa saw that the excitement was rising, and looked at me imploringly; but it was too late to attend to her scruples. the dwarf looked at the door superciliously, and almost smiled when i repeated my warning. "you will not leave the room? be advised. i am not responsible for what may happen after this. i am not master of myself. go--it is the last time i will utter the word. go--or i will kill you on the spot!" he did not move, but looked at me wonderingly and incredulously. i rushed upon him and grappled him by the neck. astræa sprang up, and begged of me to desist, for i was hanging over him, with my hand upon his throat. "let him go--let him go!" she exclaimed; "for my sake do not commit a murder. loosen your hold--there--there--have mercy on him, for my sake--for the love of god, spare him--remember, we have injured him enough already--remember that!" i would not loosen my hold; passion had given me the power and the cruelty of a demon. there was a brief struggle, in which i flung him heavily to the ground. i had seized his handkerchief, and twisted my hand in it--he was nearly choked--his face was growing black; but i was hardly conscious of all this, for the room was swimming round me as i knelt over him. astræa saw the change in his color, and with a shriek of horror fell upon my arm. this action made me relax my hold. she had fainted on his body. conclusion. why should i dwell any longer on these painful events? had i known then, as i afterward discovered, that the unhappy object of my wrath and hatred had, ever since the flight of astræa, betrayed symptoms of aberration, and that the scheme of vengeance he nurtured so relentlessly, was the stratagem of a disordered brain, i should have treated him with mercy and compassion. but i was ignorant of the real condition of his mind, and dealt with him as i should have dealt with a responsible being. the violent excitement of that scene brought on a crisis, which ended in a seizure of insanity. he still lives; if that may be called living in which all memory of the past is extinguished, and the present is a mere tangled skein of day-dreams. astræa's health was utterly broken. it was not her physique that died, but her heart, her spirits, her self-reliance, and her hope of the future. she felt that there was nothing for her in this world but remorse. the desolation that was round her killed her. she braved it earnestly at first. her noble heart and her true love she thought were proof against the world and its hollow scorn. alas! for true love and noble hearts! they can not stand up alone in ice and storms. they must be out in the sun with their allies round them, like frailer loves and meaner hearts, or they will perish in their strength! the feet-washing on good friday in munich. i have just witnessed the ceremony of the feet-washing, which has been announced for this month past as one of the great sights of the season. my good friend at the _kreigs ministerium_ kept his word faithfully about procuring tickets for us. accordingly, myra f. and i have seen the whole ceremony. at nine o'clock myra was with me, and, early as it was, madame thekla advised us to set off to the palace, as people were always wild about places, and if we came late, spite of our tickets, we should see nothing. the good old soul also accompanied us, on the plea that, as she was big and strong, she could push a way for us through the crowd, and keep our places by main force. she stood guard over us--the good creature!--for two mortal hours, and when the door at length was opened by a grand lacquey, had the satisfaction of seeing us step through the very first. but before this happy moment arrived, we had to wait, as i said, two hours; and leaving, therefore, the patient old lady as our representative before the little door which led into the gallery of the hercules hall, whither our tickets admitted us, and before which door no one but ourselves had yet presented themselves, myra and i ranged along the queer whitewashed galleries of the old portion of the palace in which we were. can not you see these vistas of whitewashed wall, with grim old portraits of powdered ladies and gentlemen, in hoops, ruffles, gold lace, and ermine, and framed in black frames, interspersed amid heavy wreaths and arabesques of stucco?--dazzlingly white walls, dazzlingly white arched ceilings, diminishing in long perspective! now we came upon a strange sort of a little kitchen in the thick wall, where a quaint copper kettle, standing on the now cold hearth, told of coffee made for some royal servant some hours before; we were now before the door of some _kammer-jungfer_; now in the gallery with the whitewash, but without the portraits, where, opposite to every door, stood a large, white cupboard; a goodly row of them. once we found ourselves below stairs and in one of the courts. there, on passing through the door-way, you stood on a sort of terrace, above your head a ceiling rich with ponderous wreaths of fruit and flowers, and other stucco ornaments of the same style, which probably had once been gilt, and with fading frescoes of gods, goddesses, and cupids! this old part of the royal palace of munich is quite a little town. we discovered also a little tiny chapel, now quite forgotten in the glory of hess's frescoes, and the beauty of the new _hof-kapelle_. to-day this old chapel was open, hung with black cloth, and illuminated with numberless waxen tapers, and the altar verdant with shrubs and plants, placed upon the altar steps. there was, however, a remarkably mouldy, cold smell in the place; but i suppose the royal procession visited this old chapel as well as the new one, on its way to the hercules hall. this _cortège_, with the king and his brother walking beneath a splendid canopy, and attended priests and courtiers, went, i believe, wandering about a considerable time, to the edification of the populace, out of all this, excepting from hearsay, i can not speak, having considered it as the wiser thing for us to return to madame thekla and our door, rather than await it. the hercules hall is rather small; and certainly more ugly than beautiful, with numbers of old-fashioned chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; a gallery at each end supported by marble pillars, with a row of tall windows on either side; a dark, inlaid floor of some brown wood; but with no sign whatever of hercules to be seen. suffice it to say, that having noticed all this at a glance, we observed, in the centre of the hall, a small altar covered with white linen, and bearing upon it golden candlesticks, a missal bound in crimson velvet, a vailed crucifix, and a golden ewer standing in a golden dish. on one side of the altar rose a tall reading-desk, draped with sulphur-colored cloth, upon which lay a large open book: a row of low, crimson stools stood along the hall, opposite the altar; on the other side, across the windows, ran a white and very long ottoman, raised upon a high step covered with crimson cloth, and chairs of state were arranged at either end of the hall below the galleries. the arrival of people below was gradual, although our gallery and the gallery opposite had been crowded for hours. we at length had the pleasure of seeing something commence. the door at the further end opened, and in streamed a crowd. then tottered in ancient representations of the twelve "apostles," clothed in long violet robes, bound round the waist with white bands striped with red, and with violet caps on their heads: on they tottered, supported on either side by some poor relative, an old peasant-woman, a stalwart man in a black velvet jacket, and bright black boots reaching to the knee, or by a young, buxom girl in her holiday costume of bright apron and gay bodice. on they come, feeble, wrinkled, with white locks falling on their violet apparel, with palsied hands resting on the strong arms that supported them--the oldest being a hundred and one, the youngest eighty-seven years old! my eyes swam with sudden tears. there was a deal of trouble in mounting them upon their long snowy throne; that crimson step was a great mountain for their feeble feet and stiff knees to climb. but at last they were all seated, their poor friends standing behind them. a man in black marshaled them like little school-children; he saw that all sat properly, and then began pulling off a black shoe and stocking from the right foot of each. there, with drooped heads and folded withered hands, they sat meekly expectant. a group of twelve little girls, in lilac print frocks and silver swallow-tailed caps, headed by an old woman in similar lilac and silver costume, took its place to the right of the old men in a little knot; they were twelve orphans who are clothed and educated by the queen, and who receive a present on this day. the hall at the further end was by this time filled with bright uniforms--blue, scarlet, white, and green. in front were seen king max and his brothers, also in their uniforms; numbers of ladies and children; and choristers in white robes, who flitted, cloud-like, into a small raised seat, set apart for them in a dark corner behind the uniforms. a bevy of priests in gold, violet, blue, and black robes, with burning tapers and swinging censers, enter; prostrate themselves before the king of bavaria, and before the king of hosts, as typified to them on the altar; they chant, murmur, and prostrate themselves again and again. incense fills the hall with its warm, odorous breath. they present open books to the king and princes. and now the king, ungirding his sword, which is received by an attendant gentleman, approaches the oldest "apostle;" he receives the golden ewer, as it is handed from one brother to another; he bends himself over the old foot; he drops a few drops of water upon it; he receives a snowy napkin from the princes, and lays it daintily over the honored foot; he again bows over the second, and so on, through the whole twelve; a priest, with a cloth bound round his loins, finishing the drying of the feet. a different scene must that have been in jerusalem, some eighteen hundred years ago! and now the king, with a gracious smile, hangs round the patient neck of each old man a blue and white purse, containing a small sum of money. the priests retire; the altar and reading-desk are removed. six tables, covered with snowy cloths, upon each two napkins, two small metal drinking-cups, and two sets of knives, forks, and spoons, are carried in, and joined into one long table, placed before the crimson step. in the mean time the man in black has put on the twelve stockings and the twelve shoes, and, with much ado, has helped down the twelve "apostles," who now sit upon the step as a seat. enter twelve footmen, in blue and white liveries, each bearing a tray, covered with a white cloth, upon which smoke six different meats, in white wooden bowls; a green soup--remember it is _green thursday_--two baked fish; two brown somethings; a delicious-looking pudding; bright green spinach, upon which repose a couple of tempting eggs, and a heap of stewed prunes. each footman, with his tray, is followed by a fellow-footman, carrying a large bottle of golden-hued wine, and a huge, dark, rich looking roll on silver waiters. the twelve footmen, with the trays, suddenly veer round, and stand in a line opposite to the table, and each opposite to an "apostle;" the twelve trays held before them, with their seventy-two bowls, all forming a kind of pattern--soup, fishes, spinach; soup, fishes, spinach; pudding, prunes, brown meats; puddings, prunes, brown meats--all down the room. behind stand the other footmen, with their twelve bottles of wine and their twelve rolls. i can assure you that, seen from the gallery above, the effect was considerably comic. a priest, attended by two court-pages, who carry tall burning tapers, steps forth in front of the trays and footmen, and chants a blessing. the king and his brothers again approach the "apostles;" the choristers burst forth into a glorious chant, till the whole hall is filled with melody, and the king receives the dishes from his brothers, and places them before the old men. again i felt a thrill rush through me; it is so graceful--though it be but a mere form, a mere shadow of the true sentiment of love--any gentle act of kindness from the strong to the weak, from the powerful to the very poor. as the king bowed himself before the feeble old man of a hundred--though i knew it to be but a mere ceremony--it was impossible not to recognize a poetical idea. it took a long time before the seventy and two meats were all placed on the table, and then it took a very long time before the palsied old hands could convey the soup to the old lips; some were too feeble, and were fed by the man in black. it was curious to notice the different ways in which the poor old fellows received the food from the king; some slightly bowed their heads; others sat stolidly; others seemed sunk in stupor. the court soon retired, and twelve new baskets were brought by servants, into which the five bowls of untasted food were placed; these, together with the napkin, knife, fork, spoon and mug, bottle of wine, and bread, are carried away by the old men; or, more properly speaking, are carried away for them by their attendant relatives. many of the poor old fellows--i see by a printed paper which was distributed about, and which contains a list of their names and ages--come from great distances; they are chosen as being the oldest poor men in bavaria. one only is out of munich, and he is ninety-three. we went down into the hall to have a nearer view of the "apostles;" but, so very decrepit did the greater number appear, on a close inspection; their faces so sad and vacant; there was such a trembling eagerness after the food in the baskets, now hidden from their sight; such a shouting into their deaf ears; such a guiding of feeble steps and blinded, blear eyes; that i wished we had avoided this painful part of the spectacle. a pedestrian in holland. while pacing along to meppel, i made up my mind at all events to visit ommerschans; instead, therefore, of halting on reaching the town about sunset, i left the main thoroughfare for a by-road, which, as usual, formed the towing-path of a canal. with the aid of a countryman going in the same direction, i passed for several miles through by-ways, and soon after dusk arrived at de wyk. almost the first house in the village was a _herbergje_; but there being no room, i went further, and presently came to another--one of the long, low edifices which appear to be peculiar to the rural districts in the northern provinces, the same roof sheltering quadrupeds and bipeds. on opening the door, i found myself in a large kitchen, dimly lighted by a single candle standing on a table, round which sat a dozen rustics finishing their supper. each one laid down his spoon, and stared at me vigorously, and for some time my question--"kan ik hier overnachten?" ("can i pass the night here?") remained unanswered: sundry ejaculations alone were uttered. by and by, both a mistress and maid appeared to minister to my needs, and tea and eggs were quickly in preparation. meanwhile, the men at the table were making me the subject of discussion among themselves, and eying me with curious looks. at length one of them asked me whence i came, and why i was there; which queries were answered to their satisfaction, when another rejoined, "and so mynheer comes from fredericksoord, and is going to ommerschans?"--an observation which elicited a grunt of approval from the whole company. "but how does mynheer find his way?" inquired the first speaker. "that is not very difficult. with a map in his pocket, and a tongue in his head, a man may go all over the world." "ja, that is good; but it is not easy sometimes to know which turning to take. what does mynheer do then?" "i generally get to know the direction of the place i want to go to before starting, and then steer my way by the sun or wind; and seldom fail to arrive, as you may see by my being here." this explanation sufficed them for a time as a topic for further discussion, and left me free to attend to my personal wants, which were in the imperative mood. before long, however, one of them began again by asking, "what has mynheer to sell?" "nothing: my knapsack contains only articles for my own use." here a brief confabulation followed, and i began to fancy the dutchmen not less expert in gathering information than the new englanders, when the question came. "mynheer travels, then, for his own pleasure?" "why not?" "ah, mynheer says why not; but when one travels for pleasure, he must have so much money in hand;" and, as he said this, the speaker tapped significantly the palm of one of his hands with the fingers of the other. whether it was that they voted such journeyings an unwholesome extravagance, or that their ideas were all exhausted, the group said no more; and shortly afterward kicking off their stained and clumsy sabots, they retired, without any further process of undressing, to their sleeping-lairs. some crept into a loft, others into beds contrived, as berths in a ship, in recesses in the walls of the kitchen, two into each; and before i had finished my tea, a concert of snores was going on, where the bass certainly had the best of it. i have often found that a fatiguing walk on a hot day takes away all relish for ordinary food: the appetite seems to demand some novelty--and it was with no small pleasure that i accepted the landlady's offer to add a plate of _framboose_ (raspberries) to my repast; their cool and agreeable flavor rendered them even more refreshing than the tea. in the intervals of talking and eating i had taken a survey of the apartment, as far as it was illuminated by the solitary candle: it was one that carried you back a century or two. the large hearth projected several feet into the room, overhung by a canopy near the ceiling of equal dimensions; and the top and back being lined with glazed white, blue, and brown tiles, glistened as the light fell upon them from the turf fire, and presented a cheerful aspect. a wooden screen fixed at one side kept off draughts of air, and formed a snug corner for cold evenings. the tables and chairs had been fabricated in the days when timber was cheap, and strength was more considered than elegance. they had little to fear from contact with the uneven paved floor. a goodly array of bright polished cooking utensils hung upon the walls, and in racks overhead a store of bacon and salt provisions, and bags and bundles of dried herbs. although rude in its appointments, and coarse in its accommodations, the dwelling betrayed no marks of poverty; it was perhaps up to the standard of the neighborhood, and in accordance with the thrift that considers saving better than spending. the greatest discomfort--to me at least--was the close, overpowering smell of cattle which pervaded the whole place, and made you long for an inspiration of purer air. from my seat i could see into an adjoining apartment, similar, but better in character to the one described: this was to be my _slaap-kamer_. i requested to have the window left partly open all night, and immediately a look of suspicion came over the old woman's face as she answered, "neen, mynheer, neen; best not to have the window open; thieves will come in." "surely," i replied, "there are no thieves in this little village?" "ah, but there were some thieves at meppel last week." the landlady's apprehensions seemed so painful to her, that i ceased to press the question, and followed her into the room, where she assured me i should find the air sufficiently respirable, and bade me _goede nacht_. in this room there were several wall-recesses, as in the other, but cleaner and better fitted up. a bedstead at one corner, behind a narrow screen extending a few feet from the door, was intended for me; the sheets and coverlids, though coarse, were clean. three wardrobes or presses stood against the walls, so richly dark and antique in appearance, and of such tasteful workmanship, that you at once knew the date to be assigned to their manufacture, probably about the time that the prince of orange fell beneath geraart's pistol-shot; at all events, when, instead of working by contract, artificers interfused a portion of their own spirit into the productions of their skill. the chairs, by their dimensions, had been clearly intended for the past generations, who wore the broad skirts at which we so often smile in prints of old costumes. the projection of the largest articles of furniture produced sundry picturesque effects of light and shade, relieved and diversified by the rows of polished pewter dishes ranged on racks against the wall alternately with dishes of rare old china, that would have gladdened the eyes of a virtuoso. there were rows of spoons, also, of shining, solid pewter, all betokening resources of substantial comfort, and assisting to give effect to a picture which fully occupied my attention while undressing. the hostess, when she went out, had not closed the door; this i cared little about, as it afforded some facility for circulation of air; but her remark touching the thieves made me take the precaution to place my watch and purse under the pillow, leaving such loose florins as were in my pocket for any prowler who might think it worth while to pay me a visit, that, finding some booty, he might there cease his search for more. i left the candle burning on the table, and soon afterward the girl came in and wished me a _goede nacht_ as she carried it away. presently all became still in the house, and as weariness softens the hardest bed, i was soon asleep, notwithstanding the annoyance from certain insects, which were neither bugs nor fleas, that came crawling over me. i had lain thus in quiet repose for two or three hours, when i was disturbed by a light shining in the room, and half-raising my eyelids, i saw a tall figure clothed in white, holding a candle in its hand, and gazing stealthily at me from behind the screen at the foot of the bed. i did not start up or cry out, for a sufficient reason--i was too drowsy. the figure withdrew; the room again became dark; i turned round, and slept soundly until morning. i was up soon after five, being desirous to recommence my walk before the heat came on, and, it need scarcely be said, found all my property as i had left it. the old presses looked not less imposing than in the faintly-illuminated gloom some hours previously; and i could see in the daylight several articles which had then escaped my notice. among them was the _groote bijbel_, a portly folio in black letter, and in good condition. how many suffering hearts had found support and consolation in those ancient pages! when i went into the next room, the laborers had taken their breakfast, and gone to their work, and the old lady sat near the window mending stockings. she saluted me by inquiring if i had _wel geslaapt_, and what i would take for breakfast. i chose raspberries with milk and bread, and highly enjoyed the fresh-gathered fruit that looked so tempting, coated with its early bloom. it was the most acceptable breakfast of any which i ate in holland. the hostess chatted on various topics: in one of my replies, i chanced to mention the large bible which i had seen in the other room--"ah," she said, "it is the best of books: what should we do without it?" i then told her that a little bible was part of the contents of my knapsack, and on hearing this her manner at once changed; the suspicion disappeared, and the benevolent demeanor resumed its place. my request of the night before concerning the window had made her very anxious; she had, it seemed, been led to regard me as a suspicious character--as one likely to let in a confederate, or to decamp myself surreptitiously. from this i at once understood it was she who, clad in white, and holding a candle, had come into my room during the night; perhaps to see whether her guest were lying still as an honest traveler ought. we became, however, very excellent friends, and i regretted not having time to stay two or three days, to get a little further insight into village life, and the pursuits and resources of its inhabitants: but that could not be. i was somewhat surprised on asking, "_hoe veel betalen?_" (how much to pay?) at the cheapness of my lodging and entertainment: the charge was only eighteen stivers. i handed a florin to the old lady, with an intimation that the two stivers' change might go to the maid for her alacrity in raspberry plucking, on which she replied, "_dank voor haar_," with much emphasis. then holding out her hand, after assisting to place my knapsack in position, she bade me good-by, with many wishes for a prosperous journey. it was a pleasant morning, with a bright sky and a hot sun, and a feeling of exhilaration came over me as i left the close, sickening smell of the house for the free and fresh air outside. the aspect of the country was again different from that which i had already traversed. willows, so plentiful in the southern provinces, are rare on the dry heath-lands of the north, while small plantations, and woods of birch, beech, and oak are frequently met with. at times the route led along narrow, winding lanes, between tangled hedges and overhanging trees, where the shade and coolness made you feel the contrast the greater on emerging upon the unsheltered and unfenced fields. before long, i came to another village, where the houses were built at random around a real village green, such as you may see in some parts of berkshire or hampshire, with tall umbrageous trees springing from the soft turf, and old folk lounging, and children playing in their shadow. the post, which visits the towns of holland every day throughout the year, comes to such villages as this two or three times a week, and thus keeps up its communications with the great social world around. in another particular they are well provided for--the means of instruction. here, at one end of the green, stood the schoolhouse, built of brick, well lighted, and in good condition, decidedly the best building in the place. indeed i do not remember to have seen a shabby schoolhouse in holland. it was too early to see the scholars at their duties, but i looked in at the windows, and saw that the interior was perfectly clean and well-ordered; fitted with desks, closets, and shelves, with piles of books placed ready for use on the latter, and maps hanging on the walls. how i wished for a six months' holiday, to be able to linger at will among these out-of-the-world communities, or wherever any thing more particularly engaged my attention! something to inform the mind or instruct the heart is to be given or received wherever there are human beings. soon after passing the village, the road terminated suddenly on a part of the wild heath, where the sand for nearly a mile on all sides lay bare, gleaming palely in the sun, and no sign of a track visible in any direction. for a few minutes i stood completely at fault, but at last bent my steps toward some scattered trees in the distance. the deserts of africa can hardly be more dreary or trying to the wayfarer than that mile of sand was to me. on reaching the trees, i again found a lane leading through cultivated grounds; now a patch of grass, then barley, or wheat, or potatoes, or buckwheat--the delicate blossoms of the latter scenting the whole atmosphere, and alive with "innumerable bees." while standing still to listen to their labor-inspired hum, i heard the cuckoo telling his cheerful name to the neighborhood, although past the middle of july. then followed homely farms, standing a little off the road, the homestead surrounded by rows of trees, somewhat after the fashion of normandy; and in one corner of the inclosure the never-failing structure--four tall poles, erected in a parallelogram, with a square thatched roof fitted upon them, sloping down on each side to form a central point. the poles pass through the corners of this roof, which thus can be made to slide up and down, according as the produce stored beneath it is increased or diminished. such a contrivance would perhaps be useful to small farmers in england, when straitened for room in their barns. now and then i caught glimpses of haymakers working far off on a meadow patch, and more than once the signs of tillage disappeared, and there was the broad black heath under my feet, and stretching away to the horizon, here and there intersected by a series of drains, cut smooth and deep in the sandy soil, inclosing some acres of the barren expanse--the preliminaries of cultivation. then would come a mile or so of woodland, with the thinnings and loppings of the trees cut into lengths, and piled in stacks ready for the market, as i had seen on the wharfs at rotterdam, where firewood sells at eleven cents the bundle. a party of woodcutters, with their wives and children, were encamped at the entrance of a cross-road, disturbing the general stillness by the sound of their voices and implements. the men and women were alike tall and stout--remarkable specimens of the well-developed population of the province, and reminding you of the peasantry in westmoreland. the stacks which they had set up were so long and high as to resemble a street with little alleys between, where the children played while their fathers chopped and sawed, and their mothers tied the bundles, or tended the fire over which the round pot swung with the breakfast. they called out a friendly "good-day, mynheer," as i passed. as the day advanced, it became oppressively hot; not a drop of drinkable water was any where to be seen. i went to a cottage near the road to ask for a draught, when a pitcherful was given to me that looked like pale coffee, and was vapid and unrefreshing. the occupants of the cottage told me that they were always obliged to strain it before drinking, to free it from the fibres of turf held in suspension. these people, their child, and their house were positively dirty, and looked comfortless: the pigs lay in one corner of the kitchen, and the domestic utensils stood about in apparently habitual disorder. they, however, were kind in their manner, and wished me to sit down for a time and rest. besides these and the woodcutters, i scarcely met a soul during the walk, which lasted nearly four hours, by which time i came to the outskirts of ommerschans. i went into the tavern that stood at the extremity of the long straight road leading through the centre of the colony, where, after half-an-hour's rest, ten minutes' sleep, and a cup of tea, i felt able to go and present myself to the director. the last priestess of pele. my erratic habits have led me through a variety of climes and scenes, and, on two occasions, to the distant regions of polynesia, even to the shores of hawaii, memorable as the death-scene of our famous navigator, cook. hawaii is the principal of the sandwich islands, a group not exceeded in interest by any which stud the broad bosom of the pacific. their local situation, advantageous for purposes of commerce, is highly important; but these remote shores present various subjects of interest besides geographical position. the primitive race who inhabit them, so long and totally isolated from the rest of the world, the enchanting beauty of their scenery, the luxurious productions of their salubrious climate, indicative of peace and plenty, furnish subjects worthy of investigation; while, strangely contrasted with these bounties of nature, is the awful sublimity of their volcanic mountains, that too often burst forth into eruptions which spread frightful devastation over scenes glowing with beauty, particularly the volcano of kiranea, probably the largest in the world. even the first view of this island struck me as remarkable, for it looks like congeries of mountains on one common base, heaving their huge cones to the height of fourteen or sixteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, while the lower grounds, every where irregular, were covered with trees and with the richest verdure. we were hospitably received by a native chief. an englishman who had long resided on the island acted as interpreter, and by this means, as well as some knowledge which we had acquired of the polynesian language during a visit to tahiti, my brother officers and i made arrangements for a visit to the great volcano. it is well i should here remind the reader of an event which proved to be an influential epoch in the history of the people we were now among--the abolition of their ancient and cruel system of idolatry, which was effected in the year , by a king whose natural good sense had enabled him to perceive its absurdity and ill-consequences; so that when, some months after, a few missionaries arrived from america with the philanthropic intention of introducing the blessings of christianity among them, they found, by what was unquestionably a providential interposition, the nation without any religion, released from the trammels of their ancient superstitions, and, so far, prepared to receive the truths which they were come to proclaim. these missionaries had been settled in the islands a few years when my visit took place, and had many converts. the volcano we were desirous of seeing was thirty miles from the place of our landing, and we set out for it on the following day, attended by some of the natives, and also by the english settler, to act as interpreter. the commencement of our journey seemed auspicious, leading through a wood, where trees afforded a grateful shade from the heat of a tropical sun, while gorgeous birds fluttered among their boughs, or regaled us with the melody of their songs. the fragrant gardenia, and other beautiful flowers, so highly prized in our own country as hot-house plants, profusely adorned our path. but too soon the scene began to change. by degrees, trees, shrubs, and flowers disappeared--all traces of vegetation, except an occasional oasis. we were traversing a tract of lava that looked like an inland sea, over which the wand of an enchanter had suddenly waved while it was agitated by violent undulations, and turned it into stone. not only were the swells and hollows distinctly marked, but the surface of the billows seemed covered by a smaller ripple. our passage over this petrified ocean was most laborious, owing to the heat of the sun, the reflection of its light from the lava, and also the unevenness of the way, which was as slippery as glass. just as day declined, we hailed with pleasure the residence of a chief, where we were to pass the night, our friend at the harbor having commissioned our attendants to introduce us as strangers in need of the owner's hospitality, which was readily accorded. our host and his establishment evinced that advancement toward civilization was not limited to the coast. his dwelling was divided into separate apartments by screens of native cloth, and we were ushered into a large, airy, reception-room, where we reposed our weary limbs on a divan covered with mats, which extended the whole length of the apartment. a feast was prepared for our entertainment; but i refrain from an account of the baked dogs, hogs, and other dainties which adorned the board. during the repast, a native bard sang, in a monotonous but sweet voice, "the deeds of the days of other years," accompanying himself by beating a little drum formed of a beautifully stained calabash; and then a group of dancers were introduced for our amusement. but nothing interested me so much as our host, who sat next to me at supper, performing the duties of hospitality with an intuitive good-breeding and tact which i thought quite a sufficient substitute for the conventional usages of european society. he was, in common with all the aristocratic race of hawaii, tall, well-formed, with fine, muscular limbs, and a commanding air; his complexion clear olive, and his handsome features wore an open and intelligent expression. to my surprise, he spoke very tolerable english; this was accounted for by long intimacy with our friend the interpreter, and with the missionaries, who, since their settlement in the island, had taught him to read. i was glad when he announced his intention of accompanying us to the volcano, our journey to which we recommenced the following morning. a toilsome one it proved, but toleho, the young chief, stuck close to me, and from such snatches of conversation as i could hold with him, while we scrambled over masses of vitrified lava and basaltic blocks jumbled together in wild confusion, the interest i had felt in him at first sight was considerably increased. at length we reached the great plain of the volcano, and the mountain of mauna loa burst upon our view in all its magnificence, like an immense dome, of a bronze color, rising from a plain twenty miles in breadth; its head was covered with snow, the effect of which is peculiar when beheld under a tropical sun. nearly overcome with heat and fatigue, we sat down to rest. through the fissures of the rocks, there grew an abundance of small bushes bearing fruit of a pleasant flavor, which we eagerly gathered to allay our thirst. to this some of the natives objected, asserting that the berries belonged to pele, the goddess of the volcano, who would be much incensed by our eating them, until some had been thrown into the crater as a propitiatory oblation. the english settler who accompanied us, set about proving the absurdity of their fears, and, while the point was being discussed, i observed that toleho, who was seated with me apart from the others, was quietly refreshing himself with the forbidden fruit. i inquired why he also did not fear the wrath of the formidable goddess? "toleho knows better," he replied. "toleho knows that there is but one god; without his leave, the volcano can not hurt us. he looketh on the earth, and it trembleth; he toucheth the hills, and they smoke." i now learned from him that, under the instruction of the missionaries, he had been led to embrace the truths of christianity. "i have lately avowed this conviction," he said; "and were i to remain in this country, would do my utmost to promote a knowledge of the bible among my friends and people." "and have you any idea of leaving this country?" i inquired, with surprise. "alas! yes, i _must_ leave it," he replied, in a voice and with a look of such deep dejection, that i understood it to be a subject of too distressing a nature for further interrogatories, and we spoke about other matters until the party was sufficiently rested to proceed to the crater of kiranea. i expected that we were for this purpose to ascend the mountain which stood before us in such majestic beauty, and, undaunted by the magnitude of the task, i longed to climb its stupendous sides, and to inhale the pure atmosphere at its summit, so that it was with a feeling of disappointment i heard myself called upon to behold the crater upon the very plain to which we had already attained. at first view, it seemed to be nothing but a huge black pit, totally different from all we had imagined. there were no jets of fire, nothing but a body of black smoke, rising high to the clear blue heavens, and then spreading widely over the hemisphere. we journeyed onward, till we found ourselves on the edge of a steep precipice inclosing a sunken plain, in the middle of which was the crater. our guides led to a part of the precipice where descent was practicable, and, with some falls and bruises, we all reached the basin beneath, which sounded hollow under our tread, giving evidence, by smoking fissures here and there, of subterranean burnings. as we advanced, the impression of vastness and grandeur increased at every step; but, when we stopped at the edge of the great crater, the sight was appalling. there we stood, mute with astonishment and awe, transfixed like statues, our eyes riveted on the abyss below, a vast flood of burning matter rolling to and fro in a state of frightful ebullition. i know not how long we thus gazed, in speechless wonder; but the natives had, meanwhile, employed themselves in constructing, of branches of trees, ferns, and rushes, which, nourished by the moisture of vapors, grew in chasms of lava, huts to shelter us during the night, now fast approaching, and to them we were glad to repair, when our emotion had somewhat subsided. the attendants now cooked our supper in a crevice from which steam issued, and, after doing ample justice to their labors in this volcanic _cuisine_, i again walked to the edge of the crater, accompanied by toleho. it was now quite dark, and truly it has been said, that what is wonderful in the day becomes ten times more so at night. now was the time for viewing the volcano in all its magnificence. we seated ourselves at a height of four or five hundred feet, directly over that lake of fire: its cherry-colored waves were rolling below, with billows crested and broken into sheets and spray of fire, like waters when the hurricane sweeps them over a reef of rocks. there was a low murmuring noise, and occasionally masses of red-hot matter were ejected seventy feet into the air, which fell back into the lake with a hissing sound. my companion, though accustomed from childhood to these wonders, seemed fully to participate in my feelings. he evidently possessed a soul susceptible of the sublime and beautiful and the scene on which we gazed was associated in his mind, as i afterward learned, with early and endearing recollections. he was gratified by my admiration of it, and this congeniality of taste soon led him to treat me with the confidence of an old friend. presuming upon this, i ventured to recur to the hint he had dropped that morning of an intention to quit his native island, inquiring whether his profession of christianity had subjected him to any kind of persecution? he told me in reply, that hawaiian converts were nearly exempted from this ordeal of sincerity by the edict which had abolished idolatry before the missionaries' arrival. "but," he added, with intense feeling, "toleho found the change hard, notwithstanding. no fear of pele; even were there any such, what could that cruel goddess do to one who trusted in jesus? but pele's priestess--the last she will ever have, but the loveliest, the dearest of women--it was _that_ toleho found so hard." my expression of sympathy elicited his full confidence, and, in a conversation which followed, interrupted as our colloquial intercourse necessarily was by our imperfect acquaintance with each other's language, i became possessed of an outline of toleho's previous history, which subsequent information enabled me to fill up, as i shall now give it in detail. the young hawaiian chief had, when a child, been betrothed to the hereditary priestess of pele, the goddess of fire, supposed to inhabit the volcano of kiranea. whether this redoubtable deity be in any way related to bel, the oriental god of the same terrible element, greater scholars and antiquarians than i am must determine; but it seems to me that the similarity of the names is a curious coincidence, which would be not an uninteresting subject of investigation. the young priestess was the only child of the khan, or steward of pele, an office of honor and emolument, his duty being to provide materials for the sacrifices, such as cloth, hogs, fowls, and fruit, with which he was abundantly furnished by her worshipers. the young lovers were constant companions during their childhood, and were linked together by the endearing bonds of early affection, which grew with their growth, and strengthened with their strength. it appeared that the devotion of toleho had never been so ardently rendered to the imaginary goddess as to her beautiful young priestess, for his natural acuteness often led him to skeptical conclusions when he considered the national system of theology; nor had his superior mind long dwelt upon such subjects, when, in the words of a poet who has well described a somewhat similar case,[ ] [ ] j. montgomery, in the "pelican island." "the gods whom his deluded countrymen acknowledged, were no gods to him; he scorn'd the impotence of skill that carved such figures, and pitied the fatuity of those who saw not in the abortions of their hands, the abortions of their minds." it was, in truth, interesting to trace the history of "this dark, endungeon'd spirit roused, and struggling into glorious liberty." emancipated from the trammels of superstition, you will not wonder to hear that his mind joyfully received the truths which god has revealed to mankind, when, after the arrival of the missionaries, he had an opportunity of hearing them: and i had reason to believe, that not only was his understanding enlightened, but his heart deeply imbued with the spirit of the gospel. toleho's first wish was, to lead her he loved to the joy and peace in believing which he now experienced. after a rumor of the young chief's apostasy from the religion of his fathers had gone forth, on returning one day from a visit to the missionary station, he hastened to the dwelling of the khan. oani was seated under the shade of a large eugenia tree, where she had often before awaited his arrival, but she did not now spring forward to meet him; her eyes were no longer lit up with joy when she beheld his approach, and, after one look, expressive of deep sorrow, were turned away. toleho eagerly inquired if any misfortune had occurred? was her father ill? she burst into tears, and replied, "no--i weep because oani must not love toleho any longer." he soon discovered that his change had awakened in the breast of the khan feelings of opposition beyond any he had anticipated. ancestral pride--the office of khan being hereditary--early prejudices, strengthened by time and self-interest, often too influential over the actions of those who possess a better faith, exercised combined power on the old man's mind. perhaps he was also stimulated by the more generous and romantic sentiment with which we are inclined to regard the decay of what has been hallowed by antiquity; and he stigmatized those who forsook the ancient idolatries as meanly subservient to the will of the great, endeavoring to imbue the mind of his daughter with similar feelings. poor oani had neither ability nor inclination for controversial disquisitions. when her lover tried to lay before her the truths which had influenced him to the change she deplored, a knowledge of which would enable her to appreciate his motives, she would only weep, and say, "toleho, i am sad--sleep has gone from me, and my food has lost its sweetness. if you do not worship pele, her priestess must try not to love you. no more may i sing for you when you are weary; no more gather summer fruits to refresh you; nor bind sweet flowers in a chaplet for your brow." when the chief remarked, that by her embracing christianity these objections to their union would be obviated, her only answer was, "could i leave my father? _he_ never will forsake pele. could i--the only light of his eyes--the last flower left to gladden the winter of his life--could i leave his old age desolate?" the separation of these polynesian lovers was now inevitable, and it was a sore trial, for they were fondly attached. it was at this era of their story that i became acquainted with the young chief, and great was the interest with which i listened to his simple narration, heightened, probably, by the extraordinary circumstances under which i heard it, seated together as we were, at midnight, upon the brink of the fiery abyss, contemplating a scene so stupendous, so "horribly beautiful," that probably no other in this world can compete with it. i could now understand the cause of poor toleho's intended expatriation. oani would probably be given to another. could he bear to witness it? to see her miserable? no; he would quit the scenes of his happy days, and, far away from objects which might agitate his mind, and interfere with duty, would spend his life in the service of him who had graciously "called him from darkness to light." his friends at the mission-house had already arranged the matter with a captain, who would give him a passage in his ship to the american states, where he was to use every exertion in his power for the purpose of awakening an interest in the cause of the polynesian mission. toleho then informed me, that on the following morning would take place a great annual feast in honor of pele, designed to deprecate the wrath of the volcanic goddess, and secure the country from earthquakes or inundations of lava, at which, of course, the khan and the young priestess would preside. this would afford him an opportunity of once more beholding the latter before he left the islands--the last time he could ever hope to do so; and, for the purpose of enjoying this melancholy pleasure, he had joined our party to the volcano. we now returned to the hut, and i went to repose, rejoicing that i should have an occasion of witnessing some of the idolatrous rites of the natives before their final abolition. next morning, while my companions prepared to examine the various natural phenomena of the place, i put myself under the guidance of my new friend, who took me across the lava plain to the heiau, or temple, dedicated to pele, an inclosure, with several stone idols standing in the midst of it. votaries had already assembled around the shrine, adorning these frightful images with wreaths of flowers; and innumerable offerings were laid before them. as the devotees continued to arrive, my companion stood, watching every new comer, with an expression of anxiety and agitation. at length the sound of music was heard, and a procession approached, for which the crowd opened an avenue to the temple. at its head was an old man, attired in what i supposed were the pontifical robes, leading by the hand a young female. over their heads was borne a canopy, and they were followed by a train of attendants, each carrying a staff of state, ornamented with polished tortoise-shell, the upper ends being of feathers. the sage was the khan, and his companion the priestess of pele, whose beauty, i soon perceived had not been exaggerated in her lover's glowing description. never had i beheld a form of more exquisite symmetry, set off by the simple elegance of the native costume--a robe of white cloth confined round the waist with a cincture of flowers; her head-dress was only "an od'rous chaplet of sweet summer buds," binding her dark tresses; while round her neck, arms, and slender ankles, were wreaths of the snowy and fragrant gardenia. the features of this young creature were faultless, but wore an expression of thoughtful abstraction, strikingly contrasted with those of the persons who surrounded and gazed upon her, all, even the old khan's, evincing a state of excitement. after some ceremonies had been performed in the temple, the various contributions of the people were taken to the volcano, to be presented to the goddess. thither the procession moved, and toleho and i followed in the crowd. arrived at the crater, the khan made an oration in praise of pele, deploring the national apostasy from her worship, until wrought up to a state of great excitement, in which his auditors seemed to participate, except the beautiful priestess, who, standing on the verge of the gulf, still wore her look of calm dejection, while she received small specimens of the various offerings from the votaries, and threw them into the volcano, saying, in a voice of peculiar sweetness, "accept these offerings, pele. restrain thy wrath, and pour not the floods of vengeance over our land. save us, o pele?" toleho darted from the crowd, and stood beside her. his stately form was drawn up to its full height; from his shoulders hung a splendid mantle of green and scarlet feathers; his right arm was extended, and in it he held a small book. "oani! beloved oani!" he exclaimed; "call not upon pele to save you. there is but one saviour, and to know him is life." "recreant," cried the khan, "you have forsaken the great goddess yourself, and you would now draw away her priestess." "khan, and thou beloved oani, listen," the chief replied, in a solemn tone. "if there be such a deity as pele, is she worthy of your adoration? is she not ever busy in works of mischief--destroying the people, devastating our hills, and filling up our fruitful valleys with floods of lava? are they not cruel gods, who even require human sacrifices? could such beings have created that bright pure sky over our heads, or that glorious sun which sends light and heat to ripen our corn and our fruit? no! the creator of all must be good, as well as great--an object of love as well as of fear. friends, countrymen, this book can tell you of him." this seemed to make some impression on the people, but the khan was even more exasperated than before. "traitor," he cried, "would you persuade us to disown our gods, while we stand gazing on their terrible abode? they dwell in yonder fiery lake; behold their houses!" pointing to the black conical craters which rose here and there above the waves. "do you not hear the roaring and crackling of the flames? that is the music to which they dance; and in yonder red surge they often play, sporting in its rolling billows. pele is a great goddess; acknowledge her power, toleho, and oani--her priestess, the playmate of your childhood, the betrothed of your youth--shall be yours, for she pines in secret for her loved one. reject pele, and part with oani forever." as he said this, a bright smile lit up the countenance of the young priestess, as if hope had suddenly revived in her bosom. she turned toward her lover with a look of imploring affection, laying her small hands on his arm, and said, "toleho will not leave me; we may love one another still." he made a movement as if instinctively about to clasp her to his breast, but seemed, with a strong effort, to resist the impulse; a convulsive motion passed over his manly features; his strong frame trembled; and, in a voice half-choked by contending feelings, he said, "oani, i must--i must leave you. there is but one god, and him only will i serve. beloved maiden, trust to him--not to senseless idols." she withdrew her hands, and clasped them together in mute despair. her father exclaimed, "heed him not. great is the power of pele. my daughter, you are her priestess; and, though you flung yourself from that shelving rock on which you stand, into the gulf below, pele could save you." he was now in a state of frenzy. "she could and she _would_ save you; _prove_ to them her power." "i will, i will," cried the unfortunate girl. "and i want her not to save me if she can. toleho forsakes me, and i wish not for life." ere the outstretched hand of her lover could prevent it, she had turned and sprung down the precipice. a yell of horror burst from the crowd, and there was a general rush toward the spot, so great, that for several minutes i could not approach it. minutes of intense anxiety they were. i heard one voice exclaim, "he will perish--toleho--the pride of hawaiian chiefs." "no," cried another, "he has almost reached the spot where she lies." an interval of silence followed. the people evidently watched some critical event in breathless suspense. then there was a shout of joy--toleho and his loved one were both in safety. there was, as i afterward learned, a crag projecting from the wall-faced cliff over which the young priestess had flung herself; on that spot she had fallen, the elasticity of some shrubs and herbs with which it was covered preserving her from any serious injury. toleho, with wonderful presence of mind and activity, had succeeded in descending to that place, and, by means of a kind of ropes flung to him from the summit, re-ascended, and, pale as death, but still firm and composed, had laid his almost senseless burden in the arms of her father. the scene which followed would be difficult to describe. when, after some time, a flood of tears had relieved the old khan, and enabled him to speak, he tried to express gratitude to the deliverer of his daughter, but could not say much. "toleho," he cried, "you have saved her life. we can not forsake the gods to whom our ancestors have been priests for hundreds of years, to learn the religion of strangers who come from distant lands whence originate the winds, but can not oani minister to pele, and still be your wife?" here was a trying offer to my poor friend. again oani turned on him that bright smile, that beseeching look, which were hard to be withstood; but, though there were symptoms of yielding, of a violent internal struggle, he soon regained composure, and said, "it must not, can not be--it is forbidden here," holding up the book. "farewell, oani. never will i forget you. i go to distant lands, but i will love you still. keep this book: in it are the words of life. in our happy days, i was teaching you to read. get some other teacher, and, for toleho's sake, learn all this book teaches, and we may yet meet where there is no sorrow." one embrace, and he darted away. i followed with difficulty, keeping by his side, as rapidly and silently he walked to the place where we had agreed to meet our companions. in a few days, we sailed from hawaii, but not before we had seen the young hawaiian chief bid adieu to his native land, and sail for america. years passed away. constant change of scene and variety of events had nearly obliterated from my memory the story of the priestess and her lover, when my wanderings once more brought me among the polynesian islands, and again to the shores of hawaii. we were to remain but for a few days, and, having visited the great volcano before, i now directed my steps to the next object of interest in the neighborhood, what my informant called "the cascade of the rainbow." this is a waterfall in the river wairuku, and surpassed in beauty all my anticipations. the water, projected from a rock over a hundred feet in height, falls into a circular basin, as smooth as a mirror, except where the stream plunges in, and from its bright bosom reflects the enchanting scenery which surrounds it; while trees and shrubs, laden with blossoms of various hues, adorn its banks. nor was the poetical appellation of this romantic valley inappropriate, for, on the silver spray flung up by the fall of waters, "an iris sat" in its variegated beauty. "what a spot to spend the evening of one's days in after a life of turmoil," i exclaimed. "but probably, i have been anticipated in this idea, as there is, i see, a cottage beyond that green lawn, and a tasteful, picturesque edifice it appears." i walked toward it, and the neatness and comfort of every thing were a new proof of the wonderful improvement which i had already observed among the islanders, arising from the spread of christianity and civilization. the lady of the mansion, holding by one hand a child who walked at her side, while with the other she supported a baby in her arms, advanced to meet and invite me in. she had, to a high degree, the air of dignity, i had almost said of graceful elegance, which characterizes the aristocracy of the island; and, when she bade me welcome, the tones of her voice and the contour of her features seemed familiar. "oani!" thought i; "oani, a wife and a mother. poor toleho! so much for woman's constancy." but i wronged her--i wronged that sex who, if inferior in other things, surpass us in depth and unchangeableness of affection. we entered the sitting-room; her husband rose to receive me--it was toleho. after the departure of the chief, oani had found no comfort in any thing but in trying to fulfill his last request. one of the missionaries assisted her, and she was soon able to read the testament, which had been his parting gift. conviction of its truth, and a profession of christianity followed, in which she was uninfluenced by interested motives, as she had not the most remote hope of ever seeing toleho again, but the missionaries, who held communication with him through the american society, informed him of the change, and he returned to hawaii, and claimed her as his own. i found them a loving and happy pair, and left them so. a spanish bull fight. one day don philippe insisted upon taking us to witness a bull-fight, which was about to take place, and which it was reported, the queen herself was expected to attend. this was a spectacle we had never yet beheld, and our curiosity was therefore aroused to the highest possible pitch of excitement. visions of blood floated before our fancy, and flashing steel gleamed across our sight. anxiety stood on tip-toe, and the moments flew slowly by, until the wished-for hour arrived. we left the business of securing seats in the arena to philippe, who, by early application, succeeded in obtaining for us as eligible positions for witnessing the spectacle as we could reasonably desire. the critical moment was now at hand, our hearts almost leaped from our mouths, so deeply were we excited in contemplation of the sanguinary event. at length the trumpets sounded, and forthwith entered, in martial array, the entire body of combatants, gayly dressed, and presenting together a most striking and brilliant effect. marching to the opposite side of the ring, they respectfully bowed to the appointed authorities, and then took their places, in complete readiness for action. at a given signal, a small iron gate was suddenly opened, and in an instant a furious bull bounded frantically into the arena; and then, as if petrified with astonishment at the wonderful scene around him, he stood motionless for a few seconds, staring wildly at the immense assembly, and pawing vehemently the ground beneath his feet. it was a solemn and critical moment, and i can truly say that i never before experienced such an intense degree of curiosity and interest. my feelings were wound up to the highest pitch of excitement, and i can scarcely believe that even that terrible human tragedy, a bloody gladiatorial scene, could have affected me more deeply. the compressed fury of the bull lasted but an instant: suddenly his glaring eye caught the sight of a red flag, which one of the _chulos_, or foot combatants, had waved before him, and immediately he rushed after his nimble adversary, who evaded his pursuit by jumping skillfully over the lower inclosure of the ring. the herculean animal, thus balked in his rage, next plunged desperately toward one of the _picadores_, or mounted horsemen, who calmly and fearlessly awaited his approach, and then turned off his attack by the masterly management of his long and steel-capped pike. thwarted once more in his purpose, he became still more frantic than before, while his low and suppressed roar, expressive of the concentrated passion and rage which burned within him, sounded like distant thunder to my ears. half closing his eyes, and lowering his formidable horns, he darted again at one of the picadores, and with such tremendous power, that he completely unhorsed him. then shouts of applause from the spectators filled the arena: "bravo toro!" "viva toro!" and other exclamations of encouragement for the bull broke from every mouth. the picador lost no time in springing to his feet and re-mounting his horse, which, however, could scarcely stand, so weak was the poor creature from the stream of blood issuing from the deep wound in his breast. as soon as the enraged bull, whose attention had been purposely withdrawn by the chulos, beheld his former adversary now crimsoned with gore, he rushed at him with the most terrific fury, and, thrusting his horns savagely into the lower part of the tottering animal, he almost raised him from his feet, and so lacerated and tore open his abdomen, that his bowels gushed out upon the ground. unable any longer to sustain himself, the pitiable animal fell down in the awful agonies of death, and in a few moments expired. two other horses shortly shared the same miserable fate, and their mangled bodies were lying covered with blood, in the centre of the arena. the bull himself was now becoming perceptibly exhausted, and his own end was drawing nigh. for the purpose of stimulating and arousing into momentary action his rapidly-waning strength, the assailants on foot attacked him with barbed darts, called _banderillos_, which they thrust with skill into each side of his brawny neck. sometimes these little javelins are charged with a prepared powder, which explodes the instant that the sharp steel sinks into the flesh. the torture thus produced drives the wretched animal to the extreme of madness, who bellows and bounds in his agony, as if endued with the energy of a new life. on the present occasion, the arrows used were not of an explosive character, yet they served scarcely less effectually to enrage the furious monster. but hark! the last trumpet is sounding the awful death-knell of the warrior-beast. the ring becomes instantly cleared, and the foaming animal stands motionless and alone, sole monarch of the arena. but the fiat has gone forth, and the doom of death is impending over him. the _matador_ enters the ring by a secret door, and after bowing to the president, and throwing down his cap in token of respect, slowly and deliberately approaches his terrific adversary, who stands as if enchained to the spot by a consciousness of the fearful destiny that awaits him. the matador, undismayed by the ferocious aspect of the bull, cautiously advances, with his eyes fixed firmly and magnetically upon him; a bright toledo blade glistens in his right hand, while in his left he carries the _muleta_, or crimson flag, with which to exasperate the declining spirit of his foe. an intense stillness reigns throughout the vast assemblage, the most critical point of the tragedy is at hand, and every glance is riveted upon the person and movements of the matador. a single fatal thrust may launch him into eternity, yet no expression of fear escapes him; cool, and self-possessed, he stands before his victim, studious of every motion, and ready to take advantage of any chance. it is this wonderful display of skill and bravery that fascinates the attention of a spanish audience, and not the shedding of blood or the sufferings of the animal, which are as much lost sight of in the excitement of the moment as the gasping of a fish or the quivering of a worm upon the hook is disregarded by the humane disciple of izaak walton. the bull and matador, as motionless as if carved in marble, present a fearfully artistic effect. at length, like an electric flash, the polished steel of the matador flies in the air, and descends with tremendous force into the neck of the doomed animal, burying itself in the flesh, even up to the hilt. the blow is well made, and from the mouth of the bull a torrent of blood gushes forth in a crimson stream; he staggers, drops on his knees, recovers himself for an instant, and then falls dead at the feet of his conqueror, amid the tumultuous plaudits of the excited throng of spectators. such is a slight sketch of a spanish bull-fight. the impression made upon our minds by the first representation was so deeply tinctured with horror that we resolved never to attend another, though it is but fair to state that this good resolution, like many others we have made in our lives, was eventually overcome by temptations. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune.[ ] chapter xxxv. a novel council of war. i had scarcely finished my breakfast, when a group of officers rode up to our quarters to visit me. my arrival had already created an immense sensation in the city, and all kinds of rumors were afloat as to the tidings i had brought. the meagreness of the information would, indeed, have seemed in strong contrast to the enterprise and hazard of the escape, had i not had the craft to eke it out by that process of suggestion and speculation in which i was rather an adept. [ ] continued from the july number. little in substance as my information was, all the younger officers were in favor of acting upon it. the english are no bad judges of our position and chances, was the constant argument. _they_ see exactly how we stand; they know the relative forces of our army, and the enemy's; and if the "cautious islanders"--such was the phrase--advised a _coup de main_, it surely must have much in its favor. i lay stress upon the remark, trifling as it may seem; but it is curious to know, that with all the immense successes of england on sea, her reputation, at that time, among frenchmen, was rather for prudent and well-matured undertakings, than for those daring enterprises which are as much the character of her courage. my visitors continued to pour in during the morning, officers of every arm and rank, some from mere idle curiosity, some to question and interrogate, and not a few to solve doubts in their minds as to my being really french, and a soldier, and not an agent of that _perfide albion_, whose treachery was become a proverb among us. many were disappointed at my knowing so little. i neither could tell the date of napoleon's passing st. gothard, nor the amount of his force; neither knew i whether he meant to turn eastward toward the plains of lombardy, or march direct to the relief of genoa. of moreau's success in germany, too, i had only heard vaguely; and, of course, could recount nothing. i could overhear, occasionally, around and about me, the murmurs of dissatisfaction my ignorance called forth, and was not a little grateful to an old artillery captain for saying "that's the very best thing about the lad; a spy would have had his whole lesson by heart." "you are right, sir," cried i, catching at the words; "i may know but little, and that little, perhaps, valueless and insignificant; but my truth no man shall gainsay." the boldness of this speech from one wasted and miserable as i was, with tattered shoes and ragged clothes, caused a hearty laugh, in which, as much from policy as feeling, i joined myself. "come here, mon cher," said an infantry colonel, as, walking to the door of the room, he drew his telescope from his pocket, "you tell us of a _coup de main_--on the monte faccio, is it not?" "yes," replied i, promptly, "so i understand the name." "well, have you ever seen the place?" "never." "well, there it is yonder," and he handed me his glass as he spoke; "you see that large beetling cliff, with the olives at the foot. there, on the summit stands the monte faccio. the road--the pathway rather, and a steep one it is--leads up where you see those goats feeding, and crosses in front of the crag, directly beneath the fire of the batteries. there's not a spot on the whole ascent where three men could march abreast, and wherever there is any shelter from fire, the guns of the 'sprona,' that small fort to the right, take the whole position. what do you think of your counsel now?" "you forget, sir, it is not my counsel. i merely repeat what i overheard." "and do you mean to say, that the men who gave that advice were serious, or capable of adopting it themselves?" "most assuredly; they would never recommend to others what they felt unequal to themselves. i know these english well, and so much will i say of them." "bah!" cried he, with an insolent gesture of his hand, and turned away; and i could plainly see that my praises of the enemy were very ill-taken. in fact, my unlucky burst of generosity had done more to damage my credit, than all the dangerous or impracticable features of my scheme. every eye was turned to the bold precipice, and the stern fortress that crowned it, and all agreed that an attack must be hopeless. i saw, too late, the great fault i had committed, and that nothing could be more wanting in tact than to suggest to frenchmen an enterprise which englishmen deemed practicable, and which yet, to the former, seemed beyond all reach of success. the insult was too palpable and too direct, but to retract was impossible, and i had now to sustain a proposition which gave offense on every side. it was very mortifying to me to see how soon all my personal credit was merged in this unhappy theory. no one thought more of my hazardous escape, the perils i encountered, or the sufferings i had undergone. all that was remembered of me was the affront i had offered to the national courage, and the preference i had implied to english bravery. never did i pass a more tormenting day; new arrivals continually refreshed the discussion, and always with the same results; and although some were satisfied to convey their opinions by a shake of the head or a dubious smile, others, more candid than civil, plainly intimated that if i had nothing of more consequence to tell, i might as well have staid where i was, and not added one more to a garrison so closely pressed by hunger. very little more of such reasoning would have persuaded myself of its truth, and i almost began to wish that i was once more back in "the sick bay" of the frigate. toward evening i was left alone; my host went down to the town on duty; and after the visit of a tailor, who came to try on me a staff uniform--a distinction, i afterward learned, owing to the abundance of this class of costume, and not to any claims i could prefer to the rank--i was perfectly free to stroll about where i pleased unmolested, and, no small blessing, unquestioned. on following along the walls for some distance, i came to a part where a succession of deep ravines opened at the foot of the bastions, conducting by many a tortuous and rocky glen to the apennines. the sides of these gorges were dotted here and there with wild hollies and fig trees; stunted and ill-thriven as the nature of the soil might imply. still, for the sake of the few berries, or the sapless fruit they bore, the soldiers of the garrison were accustomed to creep from the embrasures, and descend the steep cliffs, a peril great enough in itself, but terribly increased by the risk of exposure to the enemy's "tirailleurs," as well as the consequences such indiscipline would bring down on them. so frequent, however, had been these infractions, that little footpaths were worn bare along the face of the cliff, traversing in many a zigzag a surface that seemed like a wall. it was almost incredible that men would brave such peril for so little; but famine had rendered them indifferent to death; and although debility exhibited itself in every motion and gesture, the men would stand unshrinking and undismayed beneath the fire of a battery. at one spot, near the angle of a bastion, and where some shelter from the north winds protected the place, a little clump of orange trees stood, and toward these, though fully a mile off, many a foot-track led, showing how strong had been the temptation in that quarter. to reach it, the precipice should be traversed, the gorge beneath and a considerable ascent of the opposite mountain accomplished, and yet all these dangers had been successfully encountered, merely instigated by hunger! high above this very spot, at a distance of perhaps eight hundred feet, stood the monte faccio--the large black and yellow banner of austria floating from its walls, as if amid the clouds. i could see the muzzles of the great guns protruding from the embrasures; and i could even catch glances of a tall bearskin, as some soldier passed, or repassed behind the parapet, and i thought how terrible would be the attempt to storm such a position. it was, indeed, true, that if i had the least conception of the strength of the fort, i never should have dared to talk of a _coup de main_. still i was in a manner pledged to the suggestion. i had periled my life for it, and few men do as much for an opinion; for this reason i resolved, come what would, to maintain my ground, and hold fast to my conviction. i never could be called upon to plan the expedition, nor could it by any possibility be confided to my guidance; responsibility could not, therefore, attach to me. all these were strong arguments, at least quite strong enough to decide a wavering judgment. meditating on these things, i strolled back to my quarters. as i entered the garden, i found that several officers were assembled, among whom was colonel de barre, the brother of the general of that name, who afterward fell at the borodino. he was _chef d'etat major_ to massena, and a most distinguished, and brave soldier. unlike the fashion of the day, which made the military man affect the rough coarseness of a savage, seasoning his talk with oaths, and curses, and low expressions, de barre had something of the _petit maître_ in his address, which nothing short of his well-proved courage would have saved from ridicule. his voice was low and soft, his smile perpetual; and although well-bred enough to have been dignified and easy, a certain fidgety impulse to be pleasing made him always appear affected and unnatural. never was there such a contrast to his chief; but indeed it was said, that to this very disparity of temperament he owed all the influence he possessed over massena's mind. i might have been a general of division at the very least, to judge from the courteous deference of the salute with which he approached me--a politeness the more striking, as all the others immediately fell back, to leave us to converse together. i was actually overcome with the flattering terms in which he addressed me on the subject of my escape. "i could scarcely at first credit the story," said he, "but when they told me that you were a 'ninth man,' one of the old tapageurs, i never doubted it more. you see what a bad character is, monsieur de tiernay!" it was the first time i had ever heard the prefix to my name, and i own the sound was pleasurable. "i served a few months with your corps myself, but i soon saw there was no chance of promotion among fellows all more eager than myself for distinction. well, sir, it is precisely to this reputation i have yielded my credit, and to which general massena is kind enough to concede his own confidence. your advice is about to be acted on, mons. de tiernay." "the _coup de main_--" "a little lower, if you please, my dear sir. the expedition is to be conducted with every secrecy, even from the officers of every rank below a command. have the goodness to walk along with me this way. if i understand general massena aright, your information conveys no details, nor any particular suggestions as to the attack." "none whatever, sir. it was the mere talk of a gun-room--the popular opinion among a set of young officers." "i understand," said he, with a bow and a smile; "the suggestion of a number of high-minded and daring soldiers, as to what they deemed practicable." "precisely, sir." "neither could you collect from their conversation any thing which bore upon the number of the austrian advance guard, or their state of preparation?" "nothing, sir. the opinion of the english was, i suspect, mainly founded on the great superiority of our forces to the enemy's in all attacks of this kind." "our 'esprit tapageur,' eh?" said he, laughing, and pinching my arm familiarly, and i joined in the laugh with pleasure. "well, monsieur de tiernay, let us endeavor to sustain this good impression. the attempt is to be made to-night." "to-night!" exclaimed i, in amazement: for every thing within the city seemed tranquil and still. "to-night, sir; and, by the kind favor of general massena, i am to lead the attack; the reserve, if we are ever to want it, being under his own command. it is to be at your own option on which staff you will serve." "on yours, of course, sir," cried i, hastily. "a man who stands unknown and unvouched for among his comrades, as i do, has but one way to vindicate his claim to credit, by partaking the peril he counsels." "there could be no doubt either of your judgment, or the sound reasons for it," replied the colonel; "the only question was, whether you might be unequal to the fatigue." "trust me, sir, you'll not have to send me to the rear," said i, laughing. "then you are extra on my staff, mons. de tiernay." as we walked along, he proceeded to give me the details of our expedition, which was to be on a far stronger scale than i anticipated. three battalions of infantry, with four light batteries, and as many squadrons of dragoons, were to form the advance. "we shall neither want the artillery, nor cavalry, except to cover a retreat," said he; "i trust, if it came to _that_, there will not be many of us to protect; but such are the general's orders, and we have but to obey them." with the great events of that night on my memory, it is strange that i should retain so accurately in my mind, the trivial and slight circumstances, which are as fresh before me as if they had occurred but yesterday. it was about eleven o'clock, of a dark but starry night, not a breath of wind blowing, that passing through a number of gloomy, narrow streets, i suddenly found myself in the court yard of the balbé palace. a large marble fountain was playing in the centre, around which several lamps were lighted; by these i could see that the place was crowded with officers, some seated at tables drinking, some smoking, and others lounging up and down in conversation. huge loaves of black bread, and wicker-covered flasks of country wine formed the entertainment; but even these, to judge from the zest of the guests, were no common delicacies. at the foot of a little marble group, and before a small table, with a map on it, sat general massena himself, in his gray over-coat, cutting his bread with a case knife, while he talked away to his staff. "these maps are good for nothing, bressi," cried he. "to look at them, you'd say that every road was practicable for artillery, and every river passable, and you find afterward that all these fine chaussees are by-paths, and the rivulets downright torrents. who knows the chiavari road?" "giorgio knows it well, sir," said the officer addressed, and who was a young piedmontese from massena's own village. "ah, birbante!" cried the general, "are you here again?" and he turned laughingly toward a little bandy-legged monster, of less than three feet high, who, with a cap stuck jauntily on one side of his head, and a wooden sword at his side, stepped forward with all the confidence of an equal. "ay, here i am," said he, raising his hand to his cap, soldier fashion; "there was nothing else for it but this trade," and he placed his hand on the hilt of his wooden weapon; "you cut down all the mulberries, and left us no silkworms; you burned all the olives, and left us no oil; you trampled down our maize-crops and our vines. per baccho! the only thing left was to turn brigand like yourself, and see what would come of it." "is he not cool to talk thus to a general at the head of his staff?" said massena, with an assumed gravity. "i knew you when you wore a different-looking epaulet than that there," said giorgio, "and when you carried one of your father's meal-sacks on your shoulder, instead of all that bravery." "parbleu! so he did," cried massena, laughing heartily. "that scoundrel was always about our mill, and, i believe, lived by thieving!" added he, pointing to the dwarf. "every one did a little that way in our village," said the dwarf; "but none ever profited by his education like yourself." if the general and some of the younger officers seemed highly amused at the fellow's impudence and effrontery, some of the others looked angry and indignant. a few were really well-born, and could afford to smile at these recognitions; but many who sprung from an origin even more humble than the general's, could not conceal their angry indignation at the scene. "i see that these gentlemen are impatient of our vulgar recollections," said massena, with a sardonic grin; "so now to business, giorgio. you know the chiavari road--what is't like?" "good enough to look at, but mined in four places." the general gave a significant glance at the staff, and bade him go on. "the white coats are strong in that quarter, and have eight guns to bear upon the road, where it passes beneath monte rattè." "why, i was told that the pass was undefended!" cried massena, angrily; "that a few skirmishers were all that could be seen near it." "all that could be seen!--so they are; but there are eight twelve-pounder guns in the brushwood, with shot and shell enough to be seen, and felt too." massena now turned to the officers near him, and conversed with them eagerly for some time. the debated point, i subsequently heard, was how to make a feint attack on the chiavari road, to mask the _coup de main_ intended for the monte faccio. to give the false attack any color of reality required a larger force and greater preparation than they could afford, and this was now the great difficulty. at last it was resolved that this should be a mere demonstration, not to push far beyond the walls, but, by all the semblance of a serious advance, to attract as much attention as possible from the enemy. another and a greater embarrassment lay in the fact, that the troops intended for the _coup de main_ had no other exit than the gate which led to chiavari; so that the two lines of march would intersect and interfere with each other. could we even have passed out our tirailleurs in advance, the support could easily follow; but the enemy would, of course, notice the direction our advance would take, and our object be immediately detected. "why not pass the skirmishers out by the embrasures, to the left yonder?" said i; "i see many a track where men have gone already." "it is steep as a wall," cried one. "and there's a breast of rock in front that no foot could scale." "you have at least a thousand feet of precipice above you, when you reach the glen, if ever you do reach it alive." "and this to be done in the darkness of a night!" such were the discouraging comments which rattled, quick as musketry, around me. "the lieutenant's right, nevertheless," said giorgio. "half the voltigeurs of the garrison know the path well already; and as to darkness--if there were a moon you dared not attempt it." "there's some truth in that," observed an old major. "could you promise to guide them, giorgio," said massena. "yes, every step of the way; up to the very wall of the fort." "there, then," cried the general, "one great difficulty is got over already." "not so fast, general mio," said the dwarf; "i said i could, but i never said that i would." "not for a liberal present, giorgio: not if i filled that leather pouch of yours with five-franc pieces, man?" "i might not live to spend it, and i care little for my next of kin," said the dwarf, dryly. "i don't think that we need his services, general," said i: "i saw the place this evening, and however steep it seems from the walls, the descent is practicable enough--at least i am certain that our tirailleurs, in the black forest, would never have hesitated about it." i little knew that when i uttered this speech i had sent a shot into the very heart of the magazine, the ruling passion of massena's mind being an almost insane jealousy of moreau's military fame; his famous campaign of southern germany, and his wonderful retreat upon the rhine, being regarded as achievements of the highest order. "i've got some of those regiments you speak of in my brigade here, sir," said he, addressing himself directly to me, "and i must own that their discipline reflects but little credit upon the skill of so great an officer as general moreau; and as to light-troops, i fancy colonel de vallence yonder would scarcely feel it a flattery, were you to tell him to take a lesson from them." "i have just been speaking to colonel de vallence, general," said colonel de barre. "he confirms every thing mons. de tiernay tells us of the practicable nature of these paths; his fellows have tracked them at all hours, and neither want guidance nor direction to go." "in that case i may as well offer my services," said giorgio, tightening his belt; "but i must tell you that it is too late to begin to-night--we must start immediately after nightfall. it will take from forty to fifty minutes to descend the cliff, a good two hours to climb the ascent, so that you'll not have much time to spare before daybreak." giorgio's opinion was backed by several others, and it was finally resolved upon that the attempt should be made on the following evening. meanwhile, the dwarf was committed to the safe custody of a sergeant, affectedly to look to his proper care and treatment, but really to guard against any imprudent revelations that he might make respecting the intended attack. chapter xxxvi. genoa during the siege. if the natural perils of the expedition were sufficient to suggest grave thoughts, the sight of the troops that were to form it was even a stronger incentive to fear. i could not believe my eyes, as i watched the battalions which now deployed before me. always accustomed, whatever the hardships they were opposed to, to see french soldiers light-hearted, gay, and agile, performing their duties in a spirit of sportive pleasure, as if soldiering were but fun, what was the shock i received at sight of these care-worn, downcast, hollow-cheeked fellows, dragging their legs wearily along, and scarcely seeming to hear the words of command; their clothes patched and mended, sometimes too big, sometimes too little, showing that they had changed wearers without being altered; their tattered shoes, tied on with strings round their ankles; their very weapons dirty and uncared for; they resembled rather a horde of bandits than the troops of the first army of europe. there was, besides, an expression of stealthy, treacherous ferocity in their faces, such as i never saw before. to this pitiable condition had they been brought by starvation. not alone the horses had been eaten, but dogs and cats; even the vermin of the cellars and sewers was consumed as food. leather and skins were all eagerly devoured; and there is but too terrible reason to believe that human flesh itself was used to prolong for a few hours this existence of misery. as they defiled into the "piazza," there seemed a kind of effort to assume the port and bearing of their craft; and although many stumbled, and some actually fell, from weakness, there was an evident attempt to put on a military appearance. the manner of the adjutant, as he passed down the line, revealed at once the exact position of affairs. no longer inspecting every little detail of equipment, criticising this, or remarking on that, his whole attention was given to the condition of the musket, whose lock he closely scrutinized, and then turned to the cartouch-box. the ragged uniforms, the uncouth shakos, the belts dirty and awry, never called forth a word of rebuke. too glad, as it seemed, to recognize even the remnants of discipline, he came back from his inspection apparently well satisfied and content. "these fellows turn out well," said colonel de barre, as he looked along the line; and i started to see if the speech were an unfeeling jest. far from it; he spoke in all seriousness! the terrible scenes he had for months been witnessing; the men dropping from hunger at their posts; the sentries fainting as they carried arms, and borne away to the hospital to die; the bursts of madness that would now and then break forth from men whose agony became unendurable, had so steeled him to horrors, that even this poor shadow of military display seemed orderly and imposing. "they are the d, colonel," replied the adjutant, proudly, "a corps that always have maintained their character, whether on parade or under fire!" "ah! the d, are they? they have come up from ronco, then?" "yes, sir; they were all that general soult could spare us." "fine-looking fellows they are," said de barre, scanning them through his glass. "the third company is a little, a very little to the rear--don't you perceive it?--and the flank is a thought or so restless and unsteady." "a sergeant has just been carried to the rear ill, sir," said a young officer, in a low voice. "the heat, i have no doubt; a '_colpo di sole_,' as they tell us everything is," said de barre. "by the way, is not this the regiment that boasts the pretty vivandiere? what's this her name is?" "lela, sir." "yes, to be sure, lela. i'm sure i've heard her toasted often enough at cafés and restaurants." "there she is, sir, yonder, sitting on the steps of the fountain;" and the officer made a sign with his sword for the girl to come over. she made an effort to arise at the order; but tottered back, and would have fallen if a soldier had not caught her. then suddenly collecting her strength, she arranged the folds of her short scarlet jupe, and smoothing down the braids of her fair hair, came forward, at that sliding, half-skipping pace that is the wont of her craft. the exertion, and possibly the excitement had flushed her cheek; so that as she came forward her look was brilliantly handsome; but as the color died away, and a livid pallor spread over her jaws, lank and drawn in by famine, her expression was dreadful. the large eyes, lustrous and wild-looking, gleamed with the fire of fever, while her thin nostrils quivered at each respiration. poor girl, even then, with famine and fever eating within her, the traits of womanly vanity still survived, and as she carried her hand to her cap in salute, she made a faint attempt at a smile. "the d may indeed be proud of their vivandiere," said de barre, gallantly. "what hast in the 'tonnelet,' lela?" continued he, tapping the little silver-hooped barrel she carried at her back. "ah, _que voulez vous_?" cried she, laughing, with a low, husky sound, the laugh of famine. "i must have a glass of it to your health, ma belle lela, if it cost me a crown piece," and he drew forth the coin as he spoke. "for such a toast, the liquor is quite good enough," said lela, drawing back at the offer of money; while slinging the little cask in front, she unhooked a small silver cup, and filled it with water. "no brandy, lela?" "none, colonel," said she, shaking her head, "and if i had, those poor fellows yonder would not like it so well." "i understand," said he, significantly, "theirs is the thirst of fever." a short, dry cough, and a barely perceptible nod of the head, was all her reply; but their eyes met, and any so sad an expression as they interchanged i never beheld! it was a confession in full of all each had seen of sorrow, of suffering, and of death. the terrible events three months of famine had revealed, and all the agonies of pestilence and madness. "that is delicious water, tiernay," said the colonel, as he passed me the cup, and thus trying to get away from the sad theme of his thoughts. "i fetch it from a well outside the walls every morning," said lela, "ay, and within gun-shot of the austrian sentries too." "there's coolness for you, tiernay," said the colonel; "think what the d are made of when their vivandiere dares to do this." "they'll not astonish _him_," said lela, looking steadily at me. "and why not, ma belle?" cried de barre. "he was a tapageur, one of the 'naughty ninth,' as they called them." "how do you know that, lela? have we ever met before?" cried i eagerly. "i've seen _you_, sir," said she, slily. "they used to call you the corporal that won the battle of kehl. i know my father always said so." i would have given worlds to have interrogated her further; so fascinating is selfishness, that already at least a hundred questions were presenting themselves to my mind. who could lela be? and who was her father? and what were these reports about me? had i really won fame without knowing it? and did my comrades indeed speak of me with honor? all these, and many more inquiries, were pressing for utterance, as general massena walked up with his staff. the general fully corroborated de barre's opinion of the " d." they were, as he expressed, a "magnificent body." "it was a perfect pleasure to see such troops under arms." "those fellows certainly exhibited few traces of a starved-out garrison." such and such like were the jesting observations bandied from one to the other, in all the earnest seriousness of truth! what more terrible evidence of the scenes they had passed through, than these convictions! what more stunning proof of the condition to which long suffering had reduced them! "where is our pleasant friend, who talked to us of the black forest last night?" "ah, there he is; well, monsieur tiernay, do you think general moreau's people turned out better than that after the retreat from donaueschingen?" there was no need for any reply, since the scornful burst of laughter of the staff already gave the answer he wanted; and now he walked forward to the centre of the piazza, while the troops proceeded to march past. the band, a miserable group, reduced from fifty to thirteen in number, struck up a quick step, and the troops, animated by the sounds, and more still, perhaps, by massena's presence, made an effort to step out in quick time; but the rocking, wavering motion, the clinking muskets, and uncertain gait, were indescribably painful to a soldier's eye. their colonel, de vallence, however, evidently did not regard them thus, for as he joined the staff, he received the general's compliments with all the good faith and composure in the world. the battalions were marched off to barracks, and the group of officers broke up to repair to their several quarters. it was the hour of dinner, but it was many a day since that meal had been heard of among them. a stray café here and there was open in the city, but a cup of coffee, without milk, and a small roll of black bread, a horrid compound of rye and cocoa, was all the refreshment obtainable; and yet, i am bold to say, that a murmur or a complaint was unheard against the general or the government. the heaviest reverses, the gloomiest hours of ill-fortune never extinguished the hope that genoa was to be relieved at last, and that all we had to do was to hold out for the arrival of bonaparte. to the extent of this conviction is to be attributed the wide disparity between the feeling displayed by the military and the townsfolk. the latter, unsustained by hope, without one spark of speculation to cheer their gloomy destiny, starved, and sickened, and died in masses. the very requirements of discipline were useful in averting the despondent vacuity which comes of hunger. of the sanguine confidence of the soldiery in the coming of their comrades, i was to witness a strong illustration on the very day of which i have been speaking. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon, the weather had been heavy and overcast, and the heat excessive, so that all who were free from duty had either lain down to sleep, or were quietly resting within doors, when a certain stir and movement in the streets, a rare event during the hours of the siesta, drew many a head to the windows. the report ran, and like wildfire it spread through the city, that the advanced guard of bonaparte had reached ronco that morning, and were already in march on genoa! although nobody could trace this story to any direct source, each believed and repeated it; the tale growing more consistent and fuller at every repetition. i need not weary my reader with all the additions and corrections the narrative received, nor recount how now it was moreau with the right wing of the army of the rhine; now it was kellermann's brigade; now it was macdonald, who had passed the ticino, and last of all bonaparte. the controversy was often even an angry one, when, finally, all speculation was met by the official report, that all that was known lay in the simple fact, that heavy guns had been heard that morning, near ronco, and as the austrians held no position with artillery there, the firing must needs be french. this very bare announcement was, of course, a great "come down" for all the circumstantial detail with which we had been amusing ourselves and each other, but yet it nourished hope, and the hope that was nearest to all our hearts, too! the streets were soon filled; officers and soldiers hastily dressed, and with many a fault of costume, were all commingled, exchanging opinions, resolving doubts, and even bandying congratulations. the starved and hungry faces were lighted up with an expression of savage glee. it was like the last flickering gleam of passion in men, whose whole vitality was the energy of fever! the heavy debt they owed their enemy was at last to be paid, and all the insulting injury of a besieged and famine-stricken garrison to be avenged. a surging movement in the crowd told that some event had occurred; it was massena and his staff, who were proceeding to a watch-tower in the bastion, from whence a wide range of country could be seen. this was reassuring. the general himself entertained the story, and here was proof that there was "something in it." all the population now made for the walls; every spot from which the view toward ronco could be obtained was speedily crowded, every window filled, and all the house-tops crammed. a dark mass of inky cloud covered the tops of the apennines, and even descended to some distance down the sides. with what shapes and forms of military splendor did our imaginations people the space behind that sombre curtain! what columns of stern warriors, what prancing squadrons, what earth-shaking masses of heavy artillery! how longingly each eye grew weary watching--waiting for the vail to be rent, and the glancing steel to be seen glistening bright in the sun-rays! as if to torture our anxieties, the lowering mass grew darker and heavier, and rolling lazily down the mountain, it filled up the valley, wrapping earth and sky in one murky mantle. "there, did you hear that?" cried one, "that was artillery." a pause followed, each ear was bent to listen, and not a word was uttered, for full a minute or more; the immense host, as if swayed by the one impulse, strained to catch the sounds, when suddenly, from the direction of the mountain top, there came a rattling, crashing noise, followed by the dull, deep booming that every soldier's heart responds to. what a cheer then burst forth! never did i hear--never may i hear such a cry as that was--it was like the wild yell of a shipwrecked crew, as some distant sail hove in sight; and yet, through its cadence, there rang the mad lust for vengeance! yes, in all the agonies of sinking strength, with fever in their hearts, and the death sweat on their cheeks, their cry was, blood! the puny shout, for such it seemed now, was drowned in the deafening crash that now was heard; peal after peal shook the air, the same rattling, peppering noise of musketry continuing through all. that the french were in strong force, as well as the enemy, there could now be no doubt. nothing but a serious affair and a stubborn resistance could warrant such a fire. it had every semblance of an attack with all arms. the roar of the heavy guns made the air vibrate, and the clatter of small arms was incessant. how each of us filled up the picture from the impulses of his own fancy! some said that the french were still behind the mountain, and storming the heights of the borghetto; others thought that they had gained the summit, but not "en force," and were only contesting their position there; and a few more sanguine, of whom i was one myself, imagined that they were driving the austrians down the apennines, cleaving their ranks as they went, with their artillery. each new crash, every momentary change of direction of the sounds, favored this opinion or that, and the excitement of partisanship rose to an immense height. what added indescribably to the interest of the scene, was a group of austrian officers on horseback, who, in their eagerness to obtain tidings, had ridden beyond their lines, and were now standing almost within musket range of us. we could see that their telescopes were turned to the eventful spot, and we gloried to think of the effect the scene must be producing on them. "they've seen enough!" cried one of our fellows, laughing, while he pointed to the horsemen, who suddenly wheeling about, galloped back to their camp at full speed. "you'll have the drums beat to arms now; there's little time to lose. our cuirassiers will soon be upon them," cried another, in ecstasy. "no, but the rain will, and upon us, too," said giorgio, who had now come up; "don't you see that it's not a battle yonder, it's a 'borasco.' there it comes." and as if the outstretched finger of the dwarf had been the wand of a magician, the great cloud was suddenly torn open with a crash, and the rain descended like a deluge, swept along by a hurricane wind, and came in vast sheets of water, while high over our heads, and moving onward toward the sea growled the distant thunder. the great mountain was now visible from base to summit, but not a soldier, not a gun to be seen! swollen and yellow, the gushing torrents leaped madly from crag to crag, and crashing trees, and falling rocks, added their wild sounds to the tumult. there we stood, mute and sorrowstruck, regardless of the seething rain, unconscious of any thing save our disappointment. the hope we built upon had left us, and the dreary scene of storm around seemed but a type of our own future! and yet we could not turn away, but with eyes strained and aching, gazed at the spot from where our succor should have come. i looked up at the watch-tower, and there was massena still, his arms folded on a battlement; he seemed to be deep in thought. at last he arose, and drawing his cloak across his face, descended the winding-stair outside the tower. his step was slow, and more than once he halted, as if to think. when he reached the walls, he walked rapidly on, his suite following him. "ah, mons. tiernay," said he, as he passed me, "you know what an apennine storm is now; but it will cool the air, and give us delicious weather;" and so he passed on with an easy smile. chapter xxxvii. monte di faccio. the disappointment we had suffered was not the only circumstance adverse to our expedition. the rain had now swollen the smallest rivulets to the size of torrents; in many places the paths would be torn away and obliterated, and every where the difficulty of a night march enormously increased. giorgio, however, who was, perhaps, afraid of forfeiting his reward, assured the general that these mountain streams subside even more rapidly than they rise; that such was the dryness of the soil, no trace of rain would be seen by sunset, and that we should have a calm, starry night; the very thing we wanted for our enterprise. we did not need persuasion to believe all he said, the opinion chimed in with our own wishes, and better still, was verified to the very letter by a glorious afternoon. landward, the spectacle was perfectly enchanting; the varied foliage of the apennines, refreshed by the rain, glittered and shone in the sun's rays, while in the bay, the fleet, with sails hung out to dry, presented a grand and an imposing sight. better than all, monte faccio now appeared quite near us; we could, even with the naked eye, perceive all the defenses, and were able to detect a party of soldiers at work outside the walls, clearing, as it seemed, some water-course that had been impeded by the storm. unimportant as the labor was, we watched it anxiously, for we thought that perhaps before another sunset many a brave fellow's blood might dye that earth. during the whole of that day, from some cause or other, not a shot had been fired either from the land-batteries or the fleet, and as though a truce had been agreed to, we sat watching each other's movements peacefully and calmly. "the austrians would seem to have been as much deceived as ourselves, sir," said an old artillery sergeant to me, as i strolled along the walls at nightfall. "the pickets last night were close to the glacis, but see now they have fallen back a gun-shot or more." "but they had time enough since to have resumed their old position," said i, half-doubting the accuracy of the surmise. "time enough, parbleu; i should think so, too! but when the whitecoats manoeuvre, they write to vienna to ask, 'what's to be done next?'" this passing remark, in which, with all its exaggeration, there lay a germ of truth, was the universal judgment of our soldiers on those of the imperial army; and to the prevalence of the notion may be ascribed much of that fearless indifference with which small divisions of ours attacked whole army corps of the enemy. bonaparte was the first to point out this slowness, and to turn it to the best advantage. "if our general ever intended a sortie, this would be the night for it, sir," resumed he; "the noise of those mountain streams would mask the sounds of a march, and even cavalry, if led with caution, might be in upon them before they were aware." this speech pleased me, not only for the judgment it conveyed, but as an assurance that our expedition was still a secret in the garrison. on questioning the sergeant further, i was struck to find that he had abandoned utterly all hope of ever seeing france again; such he told me was the universal feeling of the soldiery. "we know well, sir, that massena is not the man to capitulate, and we can not expect to be relieved." and yet with this stern, comfortless conviction on their minds--with hunger, and famine, and pestilence on every side--they never uttered one word of complaint, not even a murmur of remonstrance. what would moreau's fellows say of us? what would the army of the meuse think? these were the ever present arguments against surrender; and the judgment of their comrades was far more terrible to them than the grape-shot of the enemy. "but do you not think when bonaparte crosses the alps he will hasten to our relief?" "not he, sir! i know him well. i was in the same troop with him, a bombardier at the same gun. bonaparte will never go after small game where there's a nobler prey before him. if he does cross the alps he'll be for a great battle under milan; or, mayhap, march on venice. _he's_ not thinking of our starved battalions here: he's planning some great campaign, depend on it. he never faced the alps to succor genoa." how true was this appreciation of the great general's ambition, i need scarcely repeat; but so it was at the time; many were able to guess the bold aspirings of one who, to the nation, seemed merely one among the numerous candidates for fame and honors. it was about an hour after my conversation with the sergeant, that an orderly came to summon me to colonel de barre's quarters; and with all my haste to obey, i only arrived as the column was formed. the plan of attack was simple enough. three voltigeur companies were to attempt the assault of the monte faccio, under de barre; while to engage attention, and draw off the enemy's force, a strong body of infantry and cavalry was to debouch on the chiavari road, as though to force a passage in that direction. in all that regarded secrecy and dispatch our expedition was perfect: and as we moved silently through the streets, the sleeping citizens never knew of our march. arrived at the gate, the column halted, to give us time to pass along the walls and descend the glen, an operation which, it was estimated, would take forty-five minutes; at the expiration of this they were to issue forth to the feint attack. at a quick step we now pressed forward toward the angle of the bastion, whence many a path led down the cliff in all directions. half-a-dozen of our men well-acquainted with the spot, volunteered as guides, and the muskets being slung on the back, the word was given to "move on," the rallying-place being the plateau of the orange trees i have already mentioned. "steep enough, this," said de barre to me, as, holding on by briars and brambles, we slowly descended the gorge; "but few of us will ever climb it again." "you think so?" asked i, in some surprise. "of course, i know it;" said he. "vallence, who commands the battalions below, always condemned the scheme; rely on it, he's not the man to make himself out a false prophet. i don't pretend to tell you that in our days of monarchy there were neither jealousies nor party grudges, and that men were above all small and ungenerous rivalry; but, assuredly, we had less of them than now. if the field of competition is more open to every one, so are the arts by which success is won; a pre-eminence in a republic means always the rain of a rival. if we fail, as fail we must, he'll be a general." "but why must we fail?" "for every reason; we are not in force: we know nothing of what we are about to attack; and, if repulsed, have no retreat behind us." "then, why--?" i stopped, for already i saw the impropriety of my question. "why did i advise the attack?" said he, mildly, taking up my half-uttered question. "simply because death outside these walls is quicker and more glorious than within them. there's scarcely a man who follows us has not the same sentiment in his heart. the terrible scenes of the last five weeks have driven our fellows to all but mutiny. nothing, indeed, maintained discipline but a kind of tigerish thirst for vengeance--a hope that the day of reckoning would come round, and in one fearful lesson teach these same whitecoats how dangerous it is to drive a brave enemy to despair." de barre continued to talk in this strain as we descended, every remark he made being uttered with all the coolness of one who talked of a matter indifferent to him. at length the way became too steep for much converse, and slipping and scrambling, we now only interchanged a chance word as we went. although two hundred and fifty men were around and about us, not a voice was heard; and, except the occasional breaking of a branch, or the occasional fall of some heavy stone into the valley, not a sound was heard. at length a long, shrill whistle announced that the first man had reached the bottom, which, to judge from the faintness of the sound, appeared yet a considerable distance off. the excessive darkness increased the difficulty of the way, and de barre continued to repeat, "that we had certainly been misinformed, and that even in daylight the descent would take an hour." it was full half an hour after this when we came to a small rivulet, the little boundary line between the two steep cliffs. here our men were all assembled, refreshing themselves with the water, still muddy from recent rain, and endeavoring to arrange equipments and arms, damaged and displaced by many a fall. "we've taken an hour and twenty-eight minutes," said de barre, as he placed a fire-fly on the glass of his watch to see the hour. "now, men, let us make up for lost time. _en avant!_" "en avant!" was quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and never was a word more spirit-stirring to frenchmen! with all the alacrity of men fresh and "eager for the fray," they began the ascent, and, such was the emulous ardor to be first, that it assumed all the features of a race. a close pine wood greatly aided us now, and in less time than we could believe it possible, we reached the plateau appointed for our rendezvous. this being the last spot of meeting before our attack on the fort, the final dispositions were here settled on, and the orders for the assault arranged. with daylight the view from this terrace, for such it was in reality, would have been magnificent, for even now, in the darkness, we could track out the great thoroughfares of the city, follow the windings of the bay and harbor, and, by the lights on board, detect the fleet as it lay at anchor. to the left, and for many a mile, as it seemed, were seen twinkling the bivouac fires of the austrian army; while, directly above our heads, glittering like a red star, shone the solitary gleam that marked out the "monte faccio." i was standing silently at de barre's side, looking on this sombre scene, so full of terrible interest, when he clutched my arm violently, and whispered-- "look yonder; see, the attack has begun." the fire of the artillery had flashed as he spoke, and now, with his very words, the deafening roar of the guns was heard from below. "i told you he'd not wait for us, tiernay. i told you how it would happen!" cried he; then, suddenly recovering his habitual composure of voice and manner, he said, "now for our part, men, forward." and away went the brave fellows, tearing up the steep mountain side, like an assault party at a breach. though hidden from our view by the darkness and the dense wood, we could hear the incessant din of large and small arms; the roll of the drums summoning men to their quarters, and what we thought were the cheers of charging squadrons. such was the mad feeling of excitement these sounds produced, that i can not guess what time elapsed before we found ourselves on the crest of the mountain, and not above three hundred paces from the outworks of the fort. the trees had been cut away on either side, so as to offer a species of "glacis," and this must be crossed under the fire of the batteries, before an attack could be commenced. fortunately for us, however, the garrison was too confident of its security to dread a _coup de main_ from the side of the town, and had placed all their guns along the bastion, toward borghetto, and this de barre immediately detected. a certain "alert" on the walls, however, and a quick movement of lights here and there, showed that they had become aware of the sortie from the town, and gradually we could see figure after figure ascending the walls, as if to peer down into the valley beneath. "you see what vallance has done for us," said de barre, bitterly; "but for _him_ we should have taken these fellows, _en flagrant delit_, and carried their walls before they could turn out a captain's guard." as he spoke, a heavy, crashing sound was heard, and a wild cheer. already our pioneers had gained the gate, and were battering away at it; another party had reached the walls, and thrown up their rope ladders, and the attack was opened! in fact, giorgio had led one division by a path somewhat shorter than ours, and they had begun the assault before we issued from the pine wood. we now came up at a run, but under a smart fire from the walls, already fast crowding with men. defiling close beneath the wall, we gained the gate, just as it had fallen beneath the assaults of our men; a steep covered way led up from it, and along this our fellows rushed madly, but suddenly from the gloom a red glare flashed out, and a terrible discharge of grape swept all before it. "lie down!" was now shouted from front to rear, but even before the order could be obeyed, another and more fatal volley followed. twice we attempted to storm the ascent; but, wearied by the labor of the mountain pass--worn out by fatigue--and, worse still, weak from actual starvation, our men faltered! it was not fear, nor was there any thing akin to it; for even as they fell under the thick fire, their shrill cheers breathed stern defiance. they were utterly exhausted, and failing strength could do no more! de barre took the lead, sword in hand, and with one of those wild appeals, that soldiers never hear in vain, addressed them; but the next moment his shattered corpse was carried to the rear. the scaling party, alike repulsed, had now defiled to our support; but the death-dealing artillery swept through us without ceasing. never was there a spectacle so terrible, as to see men, animated by courageous devotion, burning with glorious zeal, and yet powerless from very debility--actually dropping from the weakness of famine! the staggering step--the faint shout--the powerless charge--all showing the ravages of pestilence and want! some sentiment of compassion must have engaged our enemies' sympathy, for twice they relaxed their fire, and only resumed it as we returned to the attack. one fearful discharge of grape, at pistol range, now seemed to have closed the struggle; and as the smoke cleared away, the earth was seen crowded with dead and dying. the broken ranks no longer showed discipline--men gathered in groups around their wounded comrades, and, to all seeming, indifferent to the death that menaced them. scarcely an officer survived, and, among the dead beside me, i recognized giorgio, who still knelt in the attitude in which he had received his death-wound. i was like one in some terrible dream, powerless and terror-stricken, as i stood thus amid the slaughtered and the wounded. "you are my prisoner," said a gruff-looking old croat grenadier, as he snatched my sword from my hand, by a smart blow on the wrist, and i yielded without a word. "is it over?" said i; "is it over?" "yes, parbleu, i think it is," said a comrade, whose cheek was hanging down from a bayonet wound. "there are not twenty of us remaining, and _they_ will do very little for the service of the 'great republic.'" (to be continued.) french cottage cookery. i had frequently remarked a neat little old woman, in a clean, stiff-starched, quilted cap, going to and from a neighboring chapel, without however its ever coming into my head to ask who she was; until one day a drove of oxen alarmed her so visibly, that i opened the gate of my little garden, and begged her to remain there in safety till the cattle had passed by. "madame is very polite; she has no doubt been in france?" "yes," answered i in her native language, "i resided there many years, and perceive i have the pleasure of addressing a frenchwoman." "i was born in england, madame; but at eight years of age went with my father to honfleur, where i married, and continued to reside until four years ago, when my poor husband followed the remains of his last remaining child to the grave, and in less than a fortnight after died of the _grippe_ himself. i had no means of living then, being too old to go out as a _femme de journée_, my only means of gaining a livelihood; so i returned to the place where i was born, and my mother's youngest brother allows me thirty-five pounds a year, upon condition that i am never more than a month out of england again." we soon became great friends, and by degrees i learned her history. this uncle of hers was a year younger than herself--a thorough john bull, who hated the french, and ridiculed every thing that was foreign. his heart, however, was kind and generous, and he no sooner heard of the destitute condition in which his aunt was left, than he hastened across the channel for her, bought in her clothes and furniture, which she was forced to sell to enable her to satisfy her creditors, and then made her a present of them all again, offering to convey her to her native country, and settle upon her enough to enable her to live there decently; which allowance, however, was to cease if she was ever known to be more than a month out of england. "time enough for her to pray over her french friends' graves, poor benighted catholic that she be! but i won't have more of my money spent among them foreign frog-eaters nor i can help." the poor woman had no other choice; but it was several years before she reconciled herself to habits so different from those to which she had been so long accustomed; and to the last she preserved the french mode in dressing, eating, and manner. at the topmost story of a high house she took two unfurnished rooms; the largest contained her bed, _secrétaire_, _commode_, _pendule_, _prie-dieu_, and whatever was best and gayest of her possessions. the room behind was _consacrée_, as she called it, to pots and pans, basins and baskets, her night-quilt and pillow, and whatever else was not "convenable" to display to "le monde;" but the front apartment was where she lived, slept, cooked, ate, and prayed; and a nice, clean, cheerful, well-furnished room it was, and many a pleasant hour have i spent in it with the old lady, conversing upon cookery and politeness--two requisites she found the english quite deficient in, she said. i confess i am somewhat inclined to agree with her, especially as to the former; and those who agree with me in opinion will perhaps be glad to have her recipes for the inexpensive french dishes which fine cooks despise too much to print in cookery-books. we shall begin with the pot au feu, in madame miau's own words:--"get from the butcher a nice, smooth, pretty piece of beef, with as little skin, fat, strings, and bones, as possible: one pound does for me, but for a family we shall say three pounds. put this into--not an iron pot, not a brass pot, not a tin pot--but an earthen pan with a close-fitting lid, and three quarts of filtered water, and some salt. this you must put, not on the fire, but on the top of the oven, which is heated from the fire, and which will do just the same as a hot hearth: let it boil up; skim and deprive it of all grease. when this is accomplished, take three large carrots, cut in three pieces--three, remember!--one large parsnip cut in two, two turnips, as many leeks as possible--you can't have too many; two cloves ground, and the least little idea of pepper, and onions if you like--i only put a burnt one to color. now cover up, and let it stay, going tic-tic-tic! for seven hours; not to _boil_, pray. when i hear my bouillon bubble, the tears are in my eyes, for i know it is a _plat manqué_. when ready, put the beef--what we country people call bouillie--which word, they say, is vulgar--never mind!--put it on a dish, and with tasteful elegance dispose around the carrots, parsnip, and turnip. then on slices of bread at the bottom of a bowl pour your soup, and thank god for your good dinner. "i sometimes tie the white part of my leeks in bundles, like asparagus, and serve on roasted (she never would say toasted) bread. next day i warm the soup again, introducing rue, vermicelli, or fresh carrots cut in shapes, as my fancy may lead me, and eat the beef cold with tarragon vinegar. madame fouache, my sister-in-law, puts in celery, parsley, and a hundred other things; but that is modern--mine is the old, respectable pot au feu; and i never have nonplus, what all the fouaches are so fond of, which is properly a spanish, not a french dish, called _olla podrida_--very extravagant. not only have they beef, but a fowl, a ham, or piece of one; a bologna or spanish sausage; all the vegetables named above; _pois chiches_ (large hard peas), which must be soaked a night; a cabbage, a hard pear, and whatever they can gather, in the usual proportion of a small quart to a large pound of meat; and not liking oil, as the spaniards do, madame fouache adds butter and flour to some of the soup, to make sauce. the fowl is browned before the fire, and served with pear, peas, celery, and the ham with the cabbage, the beef with the carrots, leeks, and parsnips, the sausage by itself; and the soup in a tureen over a _croûton_. this takes nine hours of slow cooking; but mine, the veritable pot au feu français, is much better, as well as simpler and cheaper." "thank you, madame miau," said i; "here it is all written down. is that batter-pudding you have arranged for frying?" "no, madame; it is _sarrasin_. it was my dinner yesterday, _en bouillie_; to-day i fry it, and with a gurnet besides, am well dined." "how do you cook it?" "in france i take half a pint of water and a pint and a half of milk; but here the milkman saves me the trouble: so i take two pints of his milk, and by degrees mix in a good half pint of buckwheat flour, salt, an egg if you have it, but if not, half an hour's additional boiling will do as well. this mess must boil long, till it is quite, quite thick: you eat some warm with milk, and put the remainder into a deep plate, where, when cold, it has the appearance you see, and is very nice fried." "and the gurnet?" "i boil it, skin it, and bone it, and pour over it the following sauce: a dessert-spoonful of flour rubbed smooth into a half tumbler of water; this you boil till it is thick, and looks clear; then take it off the fire, and pray don't put it on again, to spoil the taste, and pop in a good lump of dutch butter, if you can't afford fresh, which is much better, and a small tea-spoonful of vinegar; pour this over your fish: an egg is a great improvement. i can't afford that, but i sometimes add a little drop of milk, if i have it." "i am sure it must be very good: and, by-the-by, can you tell me what to do with a miserable, half-starved chicken that the dogs killed, to make it eatable?" "truss it neatly, stuff it with sausage and bread-crumbs; mix some flour and butter, taking care it does not color in the pan, for it must be a white rout; plump your chicken in this, and add a little water, or soup if you have it; take four little onions, two small carrots cut in half; tie in a bundle the tops of celery, some chives, a bay-leaf, and some parsley; salt to taste, with a bit of mace--will be all you require more; cover close, so that the air is excluded, and keep it simmering two hours and a quarter: it will turn out white and plump; place the vegetables round it; stir in an egg to thicken the sauce, off the fire, and your dish will not make you blush." i did as she directed, and found it very good. i went very often to madame miau's, and invariably found her reading her prayer-book, and she as invariably put it down unaffectedly without remark, and entered at once into conversation upon the subject i introduced, never alluding to her occupation. "i fear," said i, one day, "i interrupt your devotions." "_du tout_, madame, they are finished; i am so far from chapel i can only get there upon sundays, or on the very great saints' days; but i have my _good corner_ here," pointing to the _prie-dieu_, which stood before what i had always imagined shelves, protected from the dust by a green baize curtain; "and you see i have my little remembrances behind this," added she, pulling the curtain aside, and displaying a crucifix, "the virgin mild and sweet st. john" standing by, her string of beads, the crowns of everlastings from her parents', husband's, and children's graves, several prints of sacred subjects, and a shell containing holy water. her simple piety was so sincere that i felt no desire to cavil at the little harmless superstitions mixed with it, but said, "you must have many sad and solitary hours; but you know where to look for consolation, i find." "yes, indeed, madame. without religion how could i have lived through my many sorrows! but god sustains me, and i am not unhappy, although wearing out my age in poverty and in a strange land, without one of those i loved left to comfort me; for if the longest life be short, the few years i have before _me_ are shorter still, and i thank him daily for the comfort i derive from my christian education." she was too delicate-minded to say catholic, which i knew she meant, and i changed the subject, lest our ideas might not agree so well if we pursued it much further. "pray, madame miau, what is the use of that odd-looking iron stand?" "it is for stewing or boiling: the baker sells me the burnt wood out of his oven (we call it _braise_ in france), which i mix with a little charcoal; this makes a capital fire, and in summer i dress my dinner. you see there are three pots, one above the other; this saves me the heat, and dirt, and expense of a fire in the grate, for it stands in the passage quite well, and stewed beefsteak is never so good as when dressed by it." "how do you manage?" "i make a rout, and put to it a quantity of onions minced small, and a bit of garlic, when they are quite soft; i add salt, a little pepper, and some flour and water, if i have no gravy or soup. into this i put slices of beef, and let it stew slowly till quite done, and then thicken the sauce with polder starch. the neighbors down stairs like this so much, that we often go halves in both the food and firing, which greatly reduces the cost to both; and it keeps _so_ well, and heats up _so_ nicely! they eat it with boiled rice, which i never before saw done, and like very much; but i boil my rice more than they do, and beat it into a paste, with salt and an egg, and either brown it before the fire or fry it, which i think an improvement; but neighbor green likes it all natural." "oh, do tell me about _soupe à la graisse_; it sounds very uninviting." "i seldom take it in this country, where vegetables are so dear, and you must prepare your _graisse_ yourself." "how do you prepare it?" "by boiling dripping with onions, garlic, and spices; a good table-spoonful of this gives a nice taste to water, and you add every kind of vegetable you can obtain, and eat it with brown bread steeped in it. the very poor abroad almost live on it, and those who are better off take a sou from those who have no fire, _pour tremper leur soupe_; and surely on a cold day this hot mess is more acceptable to the stomach than cold bread and cheese." "you seem very fond of onions with every thing." "yes; they make every thing taste well: now _crevettes_, what you call shrimps, how good they are with onions!" "how! onions with shrimps!--what an odd combination! tell me how to dress this curious dish." "when the shrimps are boiled, shell them, take a pint or a quart, according to your family; make a rout, adding pepper; jump (_sautez_) them in it, adding, as they warm, minced parsley; when quite hot, take them off the fire, and stir round among them a good spoonful of sour cream. _pois de prud'homme_ and _pois mange-tout_ are dressed the same, leaving out the flour and pepper." "i don't know what _pois_ you mean." "the _prud'hommes_, when they first come in, are like lupin-pods, and contain little square white beans. you do not shell them till they are quite old, and then they are good also, but not nearly so good or so wholesome as in the green pods. the _pois tirer_ or _mange-touts_ are just like every other pea--only as you can eat the pods, you have them full three weeks before the others are ready, and a few handfuls make a good dish: you must take the string off both, as you do with kidney-beans, unless when young." "i suppose you eat the white dry beans which are to be bought at the french shop here." "no, never: they don't agree with me, nor indeed are they very digestible for any but strong workers." "how should they be dressed?" "steeped from five to twelve hours; boiled till tender; then jumped with butter and parsley in a pan after draining well; and milk and an egg stirred in them off the fire, or what is much better, a little sour cream or thick buttermilk. they eat well with roast mutton, and are much more delicate than the red beans, which, however, i have never seen sold in this country." "do you drink tea?" "i would do so were i confined to the wishy-washy stuff people of my rank in england call coffee--bad in itself, and worse prepared." "how do _you_ manage?" "i buy coffee-beans, ready roasted or not: a coffee-mill costs me _s._ _d._, and i grind it every now and then myself; but i always freshen my beans by jumping them in a clean frying-pan, with a little new butter, till quite dry and crisp--very easy to do, and the way to have good coffee. i do a little at a time, and use that small coffee-biggen, which is now common even in this country: two well-heaped tea-spoonfuls serve me; but were i richer, i should put three. upon these two spoonfuls i pour a cup of boiling water, and while it is draining through, heat the same quantity of milk, which i mix with the clear coffee, and i have my two cups. chiccory i don't like, spite of the doctor, who says it is wholesome. all french doctors preach against coffee; but i, who have drunk it all my life, am of opinion they talk nonsense. you may take it stronger or weaker; but i advise you always to make it this way, and never try the foolish english practices of boiling, simmering, clearing, and such like absurdities and fussings. i generally, however, breakfast upon _soupe à la citronille_, which is very nice." "tell me how to make it." "you cut your citronille (pumpkin, i believe you call it) in slices, which you boil in water till soft enough to press through a cullender into hot milk; add salt and pepper, stir smooth, and give one boil, and it is ready to pour upon your bread as a _purée_. a little white wine improves it, or you may make it _au gras_, mixing a little white meat gravy; but to my mind the simple soup is the best, although i like a bit of butter in it, i confess. turnips and even carrots eat very well prepared this way, many think; but i prefer the latter prepared _à la crécy_, which you do very well in england." "you use a great deal of butter, which at one time of the year is very dear in england." "and in france, also; therefore i buy it at the cheap seasons, put it on the fire, and give it a boil, skimming it well; then i let it settle, and pour off all that is clear into bottles and pots, and it keeps until the dear time is past, quite well for cooking." "and eggs." "nothing so simple, when quite new laid; butter them well with fresh butter; remember if a pin's point is passed over, the egg spoils--rub it well into them, and place in jars, shaking over them bran or dry sand; wash when about to use them, and you would say they had been laid two days back only." "do you eat your prepared butter upon bread?" "i never do any thing so extravagant as to eat butter upon bread: i prefer to use it in my cookery; but i don't think boiled butter would taste well so, though it fries beautifully on maigre days; and on others i use lard to my potato." "does one satisfy you?" asked i, laughing. "oh yes, if it is of a tolerable size. i cut it in pieces the size of a hazel-nut, dry, and put them into a common saucepan, with the least bit of butter, shaking them about every few minutes; less than half an hour does them; they are eaten hot, with some salt sifted over." "i suppose you often have an omelet?" "not often; but let me offer you one now." i had scarcely assented, when the frying-pan was on the fire to heat three eggs broken, some chives and parsley minced, and mixed with a little pepper and salt all together--madame miau throwing in a drop of milk, because she happened to have it, in order to increase the size of the omelet, although in general she seldom used it--and flour _never_. it was thrown upon the boiling fat, and as it hardened, lifted up with two wooden forks round and round, and then rolled over, _never_ turned--the upper part, which was still slightly liquid, serving for sauce, as it were. this was all, and very good i found it. another time she put in grated cheese, which was also excellent. "i can't comprehend how you contrive to make every thing so good at so little expense," said i. "there is no merit in making good things if you are extravagant: any one can do that." "no, indeed, not every one." "cookery, in a little way," continued madame miau, "appears to me _so_ simple. to fry well, the fat must _boil_ before putting what you wish fried into it; and this you ascertain by throwing in a piece of bread, which should gild immediately: the color should be yellow or light-brown--never darker. to _stew_, the only rule is to let your meat simmer gently for a long time, and keep in the steam, and all sorts should be previously sautéd in a rout, which keeps in the juice: the look, also, is important, and a burnt onion helps the color." madame miau, however, could cook more elaborate dishes than those she treated herself to, and i shall subjoin some of her recipes, all of which i have tried myself; and if the preceding very economical but thoroughly french dishes please as a foundation, i may give in a future number _plats_ of a rather higher description. student life in paris. the first impression of the student of students in paris is one of curiosity. "when do the students find time to study?" is the natural inquiry. the next impression solves the mystery, by leading to the satisfactory conclusion, that the students do _not_ find time to study. to be sure, eminent physicians, great painters, and acute lawyers, do occasionally throw sufficient light upon society to render its intellectual darkness visible. and the probabilities are that these physicians are not born with diplomas, as children are, occasionally, with cauls; nor the painters sent into the world with their pencils at their fingers' ends; nor the lawyers launched into existence sitting upon innate woolsacks. the inference, then, is, that education has done something toward their advancement, and that they, necessarily, have done something toward their education. but the lives of great men are the lives of individuals, not of masses. and with these i have nothing now to do. it is possible that the quartier latin contains at the present moment more than one "mute inglorious" moliere, or paul de kock, guiltless, as yet, of his readers' demoralization. many a young man who now astonishes the hôtel corneille, less by his brains than his billiards, may one day work hard at a barricade, and harder still, subsequently, at the galleys! but how are we to know that these young fellows, with their long legs, short coats, and faces patched over with undecided beards, are geniuses, unless, as our excellent friend, the english plebeian has it, they "behave as such?" let us hope, at any rate, that, like glow-worms, they appear mean and contemptible in the glare of society, only to exhibit their shining qualities in the gloom of their working hours. it is only, then, with the outward life of the students that i have to deal. with this, one may become acquainted without a very long residence in the quartier latin--that happy quarter where every thing is subservient to the student's taste, and accommodated to the student's pocket--where amusement is even cheaper than knowledge--where braces are unrespected, and blushes unknown--where gloves are not enforced, and respectability has no representative. if the student be opulent--that is to say, if he have two hundred francs a month (a magnificent sum in the quarter) he lives where he pleases--probably in the hôtel corneille; if he be poor, and is compelled to vegetate, as many are, upon little more than a quarter of that amount, he lives where he can--no one knows where, and very few know how. it is principally from among this class, who are generally the sons of peasants or _ouvriers_, that france derives her great painters, lawyers, and physicians. they study more than their richer comrades; not only because they have no money to spend upon amusement, but because they have, commonly, greater energy and higher talents. indeed, without these qualities they would not have been able to emancipate themselves from the ignoble occupations to which they were probably born; unlike the other class of students, with whom the choice of a profession is guided by very different considerations. it is a curious sight to a man fresh from oxford or cambridge to observe these poor students sunning themselves, at mid-day, in the gardens of the luxembourg--with their sallow, bearded faces, bright eyes, and long hooded cloaks, which, notwithstanding the heat of the weather, "circumstances" have not yet enabled them to discard. without stopping to inquire whether there really be any thing "new under the sun," it may be certainly assumed that the garments in question could not be included in the category. if, however, they are heavy, their owners' hearts are light, and their laughter merry enough--even to their last pipe of tobacco. after the last pipe of tobacco, but not till then, comes despair. the more opulent students resemble their poorer brethren in one respect: they are early risers. some breakfast as early as seven o'clock; others betake themselves by six to their _ateliers_, or lectures--or pretend to do so--returning, in two or three hours, to a later meal. this is of a substantial character, consisting of two or three courses, with the eternal _vin ordinaire_. when living in a hôtel, the student breakfasts in the midst of those congenial delights; the buzz of conversation, the fumes of tobacco, and the click of the billiard-balls. by means of these amusements, and sundry _semi tasses_ and _petits verres_, he contrives to kill the first two or three hours after breakfast. cards and dominoes are also in great request from an early hour, and present to an englishman a curious contrast with his own national customs. in england, he is accustomed to find card-playing in the morning patronized only by the most reckless; in france it is the commonest thing in the world to see a pair of gentlemen with gray hairs and every attribute of respectability, employed, at nine o'clock, upon a game of _écarte_, enlivened by little glasses of brandy and the never-failing pipe. if a young englishman in london, instead of an old frenchman in paris, was to addict himself to such untimely recreations, he would probably be cut off with a shilling. when the heat and smoke of the _café_ become too much even for french students, they drop off by twos and threes, and seek the fresh air. the luxembourg gardens are close by, and here they principally congregate. amusing figures they look, too, in their present style of costume, which is a burlesque upon that of the champs elysées, which is a burlesque upon that of hyde park. the favorite covering for the head is a very large white hat, with very long nap; which i believe it is proper to brush the wrong way. the coat, is of the paletôt description, perfectly straight, without shape or make, and reaching as little below the hips as the wearer can persuade himself is not utterly absurd. the remainder of the costume is of various shades of eccentricity, according to the degree of madness employed upon its manufacture. as for the beard and mustaches, their arrangement is quite a matter of fancy: there are not two persons alike in this respect in the whole quarter: it may be remarked, however, that shaving is decidedly on the increase. the luxembourg garden is principally remarkable for its statues without fingers, almond trees without almonds, and _grisettes_ without number. its groves of horse-chestnuts would be very beautiful if, in their cropped condition, they did not remind the unprejudiced observer--who is of course english--of the poodle dogs, who in their turn are cropped, it would seem, to imitate the trees. the queens of france, too, who look down upon you from pedestals at every turn, were evidently the work of some secret republican; and the lions that flank the terraces on either side, are apparently intended as a satire upon britain. however, if one could wish these animals somewhat less sweet and smiling, one could scarcely wish the surrounding scene more so than it is, with its blooming shrubs and scarcely less blooming damsels, gayly decorated parterres, and gayly attired loungers, the occasional crash of a military band, and the continual recurrence of military manoeuvres. just outside the gates, near the groves of tall trees leading to the barrière d'enfer, there is always something "going on"--more soldiers, of course, whom it is impossible to avoid in paris, besides various public exhibitions, all cheap, and some gratuitous. on one side, you are attracted by that most irresistible of attractions--a crowd. edging your way through it, as a late arrival always does, you find yourself, with the body of students whom you followed from the hôtel, "assisting" at the exhibition of a wonderful dog, who is doing nothing, under the direction of his master, in general a most repulsive-looking rascal, bearded and bloused as if hot for a barricade. the dog, by doing nothing, is not obeying orders; on the contrary, he is proving himself a most sagacious animal by having his own way in defiance of all authority. this the master attributes, not to the stupidity of the dog, but to the absence of contributions from the spectators. a few sous are showered down upon this hint; which proceeding, perhaps, brings out the dog's talents to a slight extent; that is to say, he is induced to lie down and pretend to be asleep; but it is doubtful, at the same time, whether his compliance is attributable to the coppers of his audience, or the kicks of his spirited proprietor. this is probably the only performance of the wonderful animal; for it is remarkable that whatever the sum thrown into the circle, it is never sufficient, according to the exhibitor, to induce him to show off his grand tricks, so high a value does he place upon his own talents. who, among a different class of the animal creation, does not know what is called a "genius," who sets even a higher value upon his talents, who is equally capricious, and who certainly has never yet been persuaded to show off his "grand trick?" you are probably next attracted by a crowd at a short distance, surrounding an exhibition, dear to every english heart--that of "punch." the same familiar sentry-box, hung with the same green baize, hides the same mysteries which are known to every body. but the part of "hamlet"--that is to say, "punch"--though not exactly omitted, is certainly not "first business." his hunch has lost its fullness; his nose, its rubicundity; and his profligacy, its point. he is a feeble wag when translated into french, and has a successful rival in the person of one nicolet--who, by the way, gives its name to the theatre--and who is chiefly remarkable for a wonderful white hat, and a head wooden enough, even for a low comedian. nicolet is supposed to be a fast man. his enemies are not policemen and magistrates, as in the case of "punch," but husbands--for the reason that his friends are among the wives. this seems to be the "leading idea" of the drama of nicolet, in common, indeed, with that of every other french piece on record. if it were not considered impertinent in the present day to draw morals, i might suggest that something more than amusement is to be gained by contemplating the young children among the crowd, who enjoy the delinquencies of this _faublas_ for the million, with most precocious sagacity. it is delightful, in fact, to see the gusto with which they anticipate innuendoes, and meet improprieties half way, with all the well-bred composure of the most fashionable audience. it is not customary among the students to wait for the end of nicolet's performances. the fashionable hour for departure varies; but it is generally about the period when the manager's wife begins to take round the hat. any one who accompanies a party of students in their morning rambles, will most probably find himself, before long, in the "closerie des lilacs," which is close by the same spot. the "closerie" is associated in name with lilacs, probably from the fact that it contains fewer flowers of that description than any other place in the neighborhood. it is a garden somewhat resembling vauxhall; and at dusk there is an attempt made at lighting it up, especially on certain evenings in the week which are devoted to balls. these balls do not vary materially from any other twopenny dances, either in london or paris; but as a morning lounge, the place is not without attractions. one of them, is the fact that there is no charge for admission, the proprietor merely expecting his guests to _convenue_ something--a regulation which is generally obeyed without much objection. throughout the whole day may here be seen numerous specimens of the two great clashes of the quarter--students and grisettes, some smoking, and drinking beer and brandy in pretty little bosquets, others disporting themselves on a very high swing, which would seem to have been expressly constructed for the purpose of breaking somebody's neck, and to have failed in its object, somehow, like many other great inventions. _ecarte_ is also very popular; but the fact that its practice requires some little exertion of the intelligence, so very inconvenient to some persons, will always prevent it from attaining entire supremacy in a place so polite as paris. to meet this objection, however, some ingenious person has invented an entirely different style of game; an alteration for which the parisians appear deeply grateful. a small toad, constructed of bronze, is placed upon a stand, and into its open mouth the player throws little leaden dumps, with the privilege of scoring some high number if he succeeds, and of hitting the legs of the spectators if he fails. at this exciting game a party of embryo doctors and lawyers will amuse themselves at the "closerie" for hours, and moreover exhibit indications of a most lively interest. the great recommendation of the amusement, i believe, is, that the players _might_ be doing something worse; a philosophical system of reasoning which will apply to most diversions--from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. a few hours of this amusement is scarcely necessary to give the student that sometimes inconvenient instinct--an appetite. accordingly, at about five, he begins to think about dining; or rather, he begins to perform that operation, for he has been thinking about it for some time. dining, in the weak imagination of conventional persons, usually induces visions of vefour, and is suggestive of provençal fraternity. but the student of the quartier latin, if he indulges in any such visions, or is visited by any such suggestions, finds their end about as substantial as their beginning. his dreamy dinners have, alas! no possibility of realization. truffles to him are tasteless, and his "trifles" are literally "light as air." provence provides him, unfortunately, with more songs than suppers, and the fraternal associations with which he is best acquainted are those of the cuisiniers in the rue racine or rue des mathurins. it is, very probably, with one of these "fraternal associations of cooks" that the student proceeds to dine. these societies, which are fast multiplying in every quarter of paris, are patronized principally by republicans who are red, and by monarchists who are poor. the former are attracted by sympathy, the latter are driven by necessity. indeed, a _plat_ at six sous, which is the usual price at these establishments, is a very appropriate reward for the one, or refuge for the other. at these establishments--which had no existence before the last revolution--every body is equal; there are no masters, and there are no servants. the _garçons_ who wait upon the guests are the proprietors, and the guests themselves are not recognized as having any superior social position. the guest who addresses the waiter as "_garçon_" is very probably insulted, and the _garçon_ who addresses a guest as "_monsieur_" is liable to be expelled from the society. in each case, "_citoyen_" is the current form of courtesy, and any person who objects to the term is free to dine elsewhere. even the dishes have a republican savor. "_macaroni à la république_," "_fricandeau à la robespierre_," or "_filet à la charrier_," are as dear to republican hearts as they are cheap to republican pockets. a dinner of this kind costs the student little more than a franc. if he is more ostentatious, or epicurean, he dines at risbec's, in the place de l'odeon. here, for one franc, sixty centimes, he has an entertainment consisting of four courses and a dessert, inclusive of half a bottle of _vin ordinaire_. if he is a sensible man, he prefers this to the associated cooks, who, it must be confessed, even by republicans of taste, are not quite what might be expected, considering the advancing principles they profess. after dinner, the student, if the prado or some equally congenial establishment is not open, usually addicts himself to the theatre. his favorite resort is, not the odeon, as might be supposed, from its superior importance and equal cheapness, but the "théatre du luxembourg," familiarly called by its frequenters--why, is a mystery--"bobineau's." here the student is in his element. he talks to his acquaintance across the house; indulges in comic demonstrations of ecstasy whenever mademoiselle hermance appears on the scene, and, in short, makes himself as ridiculous and contented as can be. mademoiselle hermance, it is necessary to add, is the goddess of the quarter, and has nightly no end of worshipers. the theatre itself is every thing that could be desired by any gentleman of advanced principles, who spurns propriety, and inclines himself toward oranges. after the theatre the student probably goes home, and there i will leave him safely. my object has been merely to indicate the general characteristics of his ordinary life, from which he seldom deviates, unless tempted by an unexpected remittance to indulge in more costly recreations, afforded by the bal mobile or the château rouge. a faquir's curse. among the many strange objects which an englishman meets with in india, there are few which tend so much to upset his equanimity as a visit from a wandering faquir. the advent of one of these gentry in an english settlement is regarded with much the same sort of feeling as a vagrant cockroach, when he makes his appearance unannounced in a modern drawing-room. if we could imagine the aforesaid cockroach brandishing his horns in the face of the horrified inmates, exulting in the disgust which his presence creates, and intimating, with a conceited swagger, that, in virtue of his ugliness, he considered himself entitled to some cake and wine, perhaps the analogy would be more complete. the faquir is the mendicant friar of india. he owns no superior; wears no clothing; performs no work; despises every body and every thing; sometimes pretends to perpetual fasting; and lives on the fat of the land. there is this much, however, to be said for him, that when he does mortify himself for the good of the community, he does it to some purpose. a lenten fast, or a penance of parched peas in his shoes, would be a mere bagatelle to him. we have seen a faquir who was never "known" to eat at all. he carried a small black stone about with him, which had been presented to his mother by a holy man. he pretended that by sucking this stone, and without the aid of any sort of nutriment, he had arrived at the mature age of forty; yet he had a nest of supplementary chins, and a protuberant paunch, which certainly did great credit to the fattening powers of the black stone. oddly enough, his business was to collect eatables and drinkables; but, like the scottish gentleman who was continually begging brimstone, they were "no for hissel, but for a neebor." when i saw him he was soliciting offerings of rice, milk, fish, and ghee, for the benefit of his patron devi. these offerings were nightly laid upon the altar before the devi, who was supposed to _absorb_ them during the night, considerately leaving the fragments to be distributed among the poor of the parish. his godship was very discriminating in the goodness and freshness of these offerings; for he rejected such as were stale, to be returned next morning, with his maledictions, to the fraudulent donors. sometimes a faquir will take it into his head that the community will be benefited by his trundling himself along, like a cart-wheel, for a couple of hundred miles or so. he ties his wrists to his ankles, gets a _tire_, composed of chopped straw, mud, and cow-dung, laid along the ridge of his backbone; a bamboo-staff passed through the angle formed by his knees and his elbows, by way of an axle, and off he goes; a brazen cup, with a bag, and a _hubble-bubble_, hang like tassels at the two extremities of the axle. thus accoutred, he often starts on a journey which will occupy him for several years, like milton's fiend, "o'er bog, or steep, through straight, rough, dense, or rare, with head, hands, feet, or wings, pursues his way." on arriving in the vicinity of a village, the whole population turn out to meet and escort him with due honors to the public well or tank; the men beating drums, and the women singing through their noses. here his holiness unbends, washes off the dust and dirt acquired by perambulating several miles of dusty road; and, after partaking of a slight refreshment, enters into conversation with the assembled villagers just as if he were an ordinary mortal; making very particular inquiries concerning the state of their larders, and slight investigations as to their morals. of course every one is anxious to have the honor of entertaining a man so holy as to roll to their presence doubled up into a hoop; and disputes get warm as to who is to have the preference. whereupon the faquir makes a speech, in which he returns thanks for the attentions shown him and intimates that he intends taking up his quarters with the man who is most capable of testifying his appreciation of the honor. after some higgling, he knocks himself down, a decided bargain, to be the guest of the highest bidder, in whose house he remains, giving good advice to the community, and diffusing an odor of sanctity throughout the whole village. when the supplies begin to fail, he ties his hands to his heels again, gets a fresh tire put on, and is escorted out of the village with the same formalities as accompanied his entrance. like other vermin of his class, he is most apt to attach himself to the "weaker vessels" of humanity, with whom he is generally a prodigious favorite. he is not, certainly, indebted to his personal advantages for this favor, for a more hideously ugly race of men is seldom met with. as if nature had not made him sufficiently repulsive, he heightens his hideousness by encircling his eyes with bands of white paint; daubing his cheeks a rich mustard yellow: a white streak runs along the ridge of his nose, and another forms a circle round his mouth: his ribs are indicated by corresponding bars of white paint, which give a highly venerable cross-bones effect to his breast. when i add, that he wears no clothes, and that the use of soap is no part of his religion, some idea may be gained of the effect the first view of him occasions in the mind of a european. on the afternoon of a very sultry day in june, i had got a table out in the veranda of my bungalow, and was amusing myself with a galvanic apparatus, giving such of my servants as had the courage, a taste of what they called _wulatee boiujee_ (english lightning), when a long gaunt figure, with his hair hanging in disordered masses over his face, was observed to cross the lawn. on arriving within a few paces of where i stood, he drew himself up in an imposing attitude--one of his arms akimbo, while the other held out toward me what appeared to be a pair of tongs, with a brass dish at the extremity of it. "who are you?" i called out. "faquir," was the guttural response. "what do you want?" "bheek" (alms). "bheek!" i exclaimed, "surely you are joking--a great stout fellow like you can't be wanting bheek?" the faquir paid not the slightest attention, but continued holding out his tongs with the dish at the end of it. "you had better be off," i said; "i never give bheek to people who are able to work." "we do khooda's work," replied the faquir, with a swagger. "oh! you do--then," i answered, "you had better ask khooda for bheek." so saying, i turned to the table, and began arranging the apparatus for making some experiments. happening to look up about five minutes after, i observed that the faquir was standing upon one leg, and struggling to assume as much majesty as was consistent with his equilibrium. the tongs and dish were still extended--while his left hand sustained his right foot across his abdomen. i turned to the table, and tried to go on with my work; but i blundered awfully, broke a glass jar, cut my fingers, and made a mess on the table. i had a consciousness of the faquir's staring at me with his extended dish, and could not get the fellow out of my head. i looked up at him again. there he was as grand as ever, on his one leg, and with his eyes riveted on mine. he continued this performance for nearly an hour, yet there did not seem to be the faintest indication of his unfolding himself--rather a picturesque ornament to the lawn, if he should take it into his head--as these fellows sometimes do--to remain in the same position for a twelvemonth. "if," i said, "you stand there much longer, i'll give you such a taste of boinjee (lightning) as will soon make you glad to go." the only answer to this threat was a smile of derision that sent his mustache bristling up against his nose. "lightning!" he sneered--"your lightning can't touch a faquir--the gods take care of him." without more ado, i charged the battery and connected it with a coil machine, which, as those who have tried it are aware, is capable of racking the nerves in such a way as few people care to try, and which none are capable of voluntarily enduring beyond a few seconds. the faquir seemed rather amused at the queer-looking implements on the table, but otherwise maintained a look of lofty stoicism; nor did he seem in any way alarmed when i approached with the conductors. some of my servants who had already experienced the process, now came clustering about with looks of ill-suppressed merriment, to witness the faquir's ordeal. i fastened one wire to his still extended tongs, and the other to the foot on the ground. as the coil machine was not yet in action, beyond disconcerting him a little, the attachment of the wires did not otherwise affect him. but when i pushed the magnet into the coil, and gave him the full strength of the battery, he howled like a demon; the tongs--to which his hand was now fastened by a force beyond his will--quivered in his unwilling grasp as if it were burning the flesh from his bones. he threw himself on the ground, yelling and gnashing his teeth, the tongs clanging an irregular accompaniment. never was human pride so abruptly cast down. he was rolling about in such a frantic way that i began to fear he would do himself mischief; and, thinking he had now had as much as was good for him, i stopped the machine and released him. for some minutes he lay quivering on the ground, as if not quite sure that the horrible spell was broken; then gathering himself up, he flung the tongs from him, bounded across the lawn, and over the fence like an antelope. when he had got to what he reckoned cursing distance, he turned round, shook his fists at me, and fell to work--pouring out a torrent of imprecations--shouting, screeching, and tossing his arms about in a manner fearful to behold. there is this peculiarity in the abuse of an oriental, that, beyond wishing the object of it a liberal endowment of blisters, boils, and ulcers (no inefficient curses in a hot country), he does not otherwise allude to him personally; but directs the main burden of his wrath against his female relatives--from his grandmother to his grand-daughter--wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, and grand-aunts inclusive. these he imprecates individually and collectively through every clause of a prescribed formulary, which has been handed down by his ancestors, and which, in searchingness of detail, and comprehensiveness of malediction, leaves small scope to additions or improvements. leaving me, then, to rot and wither from the face of the earth, and consigning all my female kindred to utter and inevitable death and destruction, he walked off to a neighboring village to give vent to his feelings and compose his ruffled dignity. it so happened, that a short time after the faquir had gone, i incautiously held my head, while watching the result of some experiments, over a dish of fuming acid, and consequently became so ill as to be obliged to retire to my bedroom and lie down. in about an hour, i called to my bearer to fetch me a glass of water; but, although i heard him and some of the other servants whispering together behind the purda, or door-curtain, no attention was paid to my summons. after repeating the call two or three times with the same result, i got up to see what was the matter. on drawing aside the purda, i beheld the whole establishment seated in full conclave on their haunches round the door. on seeing me, they all got up and took to their heels, like a covey of frightened partridges. the old kidmudgar was too fat to run far; so i seized him just as he was making his exit by a gap in the garden fence. he was, at first, quite incapable of giving any account of himself; so i made him sit a minute among the long grass to recover his wind, when he broke out with, "oh! _re-bab-re-bab_!" and began to blubber, as only a fat kidmudgar can, imploring me to send instantly for the faquir, and make him a present; if i did not, i would certainly be a dead man before to-morrow's sun; "for," said he, "a faquir's curse is good as _kismut-ke-bat_" (a matter of fate). some of his fellows now seeing that the murder was out, ventured to come back, and joined in requesting me to save my life while there was yet time. a laugh was the only answer i could make. this somewhat reassured them, but it was easy to see that i was regarded by all as a doomed man. it was to no purpose that i told them i was now quite well, and endeavored to explain the cause of my sickness. they would have it that i was in a dying state, and that my only salvation lay in sending off a messenger with a kid and a bag of rupees to the faquir. the durdzee (tailor), who had just come from the village where the faquir had taken refuge, told me, that as soon as the faquir heard that i was ill, he performed a _pas seul_ of a most impressive character, shouting and threatening to curse every body in the village as he had cursed me and mine. the consequence was that pice, cowries, rice, and ghee were showered upon him with overwhelming liberality. without saying a word, i armed myself with a horsewhip, set out for the village, and found the faquir surrounded by a dense crowd of men and women; to whom he was jabbering with tremendous volubility; telling them how he had withered me up root and branch, and expressing a hope that i would serve as a lesson to the other children of sheitan who ventured to take liberties with a faquir. the crowd hid me from him till i broke in upon his dreams with a slight taste of my whip across his shoulders. his eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets when he turned round and saw me. another intimation from my thong sent him off with a yell, leaving the rich spoil he had collected from the simple villagers behind. what became of him i can not tell. i heard no more of him. a few such adventures as these would tend to lessen the gross, and, to them, expensive superstitions under which the natives of india at present labor. love and smuggling.--a story of the english coast. my name is warneford--at least it is not very unlike that--and i was born at itchen, a village distant in those days about a mile and a half, by land and ferry, from southampton. how much nearer the, as i hear and read, rapidly-increasing town has since approached i can not say, as it will be twenty-nine years next july since i finally quitted the neighborhood. the village, at that time, chiefly inhabited by ferry and fishermen, crept in a straggling sort of way up a declivity from the margin of the itchen river, which there reaches and joins the southampton estuary, till it arrives at pear-tree green, an eminence commanding one of the finest and most varied land-and-water views the eye of man has, i think, ever rested upon. my father, a retired lieutenant of the royal navy, was not a native of the place, as his name alone would sufficiently indicate to a person acquainted with the then itchen people--almost every one of whom was either a dible or a diaper--but he had been many years settled there, and pear-tree church-yard contained the dust of his wife and five children--i and my sister jane, who was a year older than myself, being all of his numerous family who survived their childhood. we were in fair circumstances, as my father, in addition to his half-pay, possessed an income of something above a hundred pounds a year. jane and i were carefully, though of course not highly or expensively educated; and as soon as i had attained the warrior-age of fifteen, i was dispatched to sea to fight my country's battles--sir joseph yorke having, at my father's request, kindly obtained a midshipman's warrant for me; and not many weeks after joining the ship to which i was appointed, i found myself, to my great astonishment, doubling the french line at the nile--an exploit which i have since read of with far more satisfaction than i remember to have experienced during its performance. four years passed before i had an opportunity of revisiting home; and it was with a beating as well as joyful heart, and light, elastic step, that i set off to walk the distance from gosport to itchen. i need hardly say that i was welcomed by jane with tears of love and happiness. it was not long, however, before certain circumstances occurred which induced my worthy but peremptory father to cut my leave of absence suddenly and unmercifully short. i have before noticed that the aborigines of my native place were for the most part dibles or diapers. well, it happened that among the former was one ellen dible, the daughter of a fisherman somewhat more prosperous than many of his fellows. this young lady was a slim, active, blue-eyed, bright-haired gipsy, about two years younger than myself, but somewhat tall and womanly for her age, of a light, charming figure, and rather genteel manners; which latter quality, by-the-by, must have come by nature, for but little education of any kind had fallen to her share. she was, it may be supposed, the _belle_ of the place, and very numerous were her rustic admirers; but they all vanished in a twinkling, awestruck by my uniform, and especially by the dangling dirk which i occasionally handled in a very alarming manner; and i, sentimental moon-calf that i was, fell, as it is termed, deeply and earnestly in love with the village beauty! it must have been her personal graces alone--her conversation it could not be--which thus entangled me; for she seldom spoke, and then in reply only, and in monosyllables; but she listened divinely, and as we strolled in the evening through the fields and woods between itchen and netley abbey, gazed with such enchanting eloquence in my face, as i poured forth the popular love and nonsense poetry of the time, that it is very possible i might have been sooner or later entrapped into a ruinous marriage--not by her, poor girl! she was, i am sure, as guileless as infancy, but by her parents, who were scheming, artful people--had not my father discovered what was going on, and in his rough way dispelled my silly day-dreams at once and forever. the church-yard at the summit of pear-tree green, it used to be commonly said, was that in which gray composed his famous "elegy," or at all events which partially inspired it. i know not if this be correct; but i remember thinking, as i sat one fine september evening by the side of ellen dible upon the flat wooden railing which then inclosed it, that the tradition had great likelihood. the broad and tranquil waters of the southampton and itchen rivers--bounded in the far distance by the new forest, with its wavy masses of varying light and shade, and on the left by the leafy woods, from out of which i often think the gray ruins of the old abbey must in these days look grimly and spectre-like forth upon the teeming, restless life which mocks its hoary solitude--were at the full of a spring tide. it was just, too, the hour of "parting day;" and as the sun-tipped spires of the southampton churches faded gradually into indistinctness, and the earlier stars looked out, the curfew, mellowed by distance into music, came to us upon the light air which gently stirred fair ellen's glossy ringlets, as she, with her bonnet in her hand--for our walk had tired her--looked with her dove-innocent, transparent eyes in mine, while i repeated gray's melodious lines. the elegy was concluded, and i was rapturizing even more vehemently than was my wont, when, whack! i received a blow on my shoulder, which sent us both off the rail; for ellen held me by the arm, and it was quite as much as i could do to keep my feet when i reached them. i turned fiercely round, only to encounter the angry and sardonic countenance of my father. "i'll have no more of this nonsense, bob," he gruffly exclaimed. "be off home with you, and to-morrow i'll see you safe on board your ship, depend upon it. as for this pretty minx," he continued, addressing ellen, who so trembled with confusion and dismay that she could scarcely tie her bonnet-strings, "i should think she would be better employed in mending her father's shirts, or darning her brother's stockings, than in gossiping her time away with a brainless young lubber like you." i was, of course, awfully incensed, but present resistance, i knew, was useless; and after contriving to exchange a mute gesture with ellen of eternal love, constancy, and despair, we took our several ways homeward. before twelve o'clock the next day i was posting to gosport, accompanied by my father, but not till after i had obtained, through the agency of my soft-hearted sister, a farewell interview with ellen, when we of course made fervent vows of mutual fidelity--affirmed and consecrated, at ellen's suggestion, by the mystical ceremony of breaking a crooked sixpence in halves--a moiety to be worn by each of us about our necks, as an eternal memorial and pendant protest against the flinty hearts of fathers. this boyish fancy faded but slowly and lingeringly away with the busy and tumultuous years which passed over my head, till the peace of cast me an almost useless sea-waif upon the land, to take root and vegetate there as i best might upon a lieutenant's half-pay. my father had died about two years before, and the hundred a year he left us was scarcely more than sufficient for the support of my sister, whose chances of an eligible marriage had vanished with her comeliness, which a virulent attack of small-pox had utterly destroyed, though it had in nothing changed the patient sweetness of her disposition, and the gentle loving spirit that shone through all its disfiguring scars and seams. i had never heard directly from ellen dible, although, during the first months of separation, i had written to her many times; the reason of which was partially explained by a few lines in one of jane's letters, announcing ellen dible's marriage--it seemed under some kind of moral compulsion--to a person of their own grade, and their removal from itchen. this happened about six months after my last interview with her. i made no further inquiries, and, jane thinking the subject might be a painful one, it happened that, by a kind of tacit understanding, it was never afterward alluded to between us. the utter weariness of an idle shore life soon became insupportable, and i determined to solicit the good offices of sir joseph yorke with the admiralty. the gallant admiral had now taken up his permanent residence near hamble, a village on the river of that name, which issues into the southampton water not very far from opposite calshot castle. sir joseph was drowned there about eight or nine years after i left the station. a more perfect gentleman, let me pause a moment to say, or a better seaman, than sir joseph, never, i believe, existed; and of a handsome, commanding presence too--"half-way up a hatchway" at least, to use his own humorous self-description, his legs scarcely corresponding in vigorous outline to the rest of his person. he received me with his usual frank urbanity, and i left him provided with a letter to the secretary of the admiralty--the ultimate and not long-delayed result of which was my appointment to the command of the _rose_ revenue-cutter, the duties attached to which consisted in carefully watching, in the interest of his majesty's customs, the shores of the southampton river, the solent sea, the wight, and other contiguous portions of the seaboard of hants and dorset. the ways of smugglers were of course new to me; but we had several experienced hands on board, and as i zealously applied myself to the study of the art of contraband, i was not long in acquiring a competent knowledge of the traditional contrivances employed to defraud the revenue. little of interest occurred during the first three or four weeks of my novel command, except that by the sharpened vigilance of our look-out, certain circumstances came to light, strongly indicating that barnaby diaper, the owner of a cutter-rigged fishing-vessel of rather large burden, living near hamble creek, was extensively engaged in the then profitable practice of running moonshine, demurely and industriously as, when ashore, he appeared to be ever-lastingly mending his nets, or cobbling the bottom of the smack's boat. he was a hale, wiry fellow this barnaby--old barnaby, as he was familiarly called, surnames in those localities being seldom used--with a wooden stolidity of countenance which utterly defied scrutiny, if it did not silence suspicion. his son, who was a partner in the cutter, lived at weston, a beautifully-situated hamlet between itchen and netley. a vigilant watch was consequently kept upon the movements of the barnabys, father, son, and grandson--this last a smart, precocious youngster, i understood, of about sixteen years of age, by which family trio the suspicious _blue-eyed maid_ was, with occasional assistance, manned, sailed, and worked. very rarely, indeed, was the _blue-eyed maid_ observed to be engaged in her ostensible occupation. she would suddenly disappear, and as suddenly return, and always, we soon came to notice, on the nights when the _rose_ happened to be absent from the southampton waters. we had missed her for upward of a week, when information reached us that a large lugger we had chased without success a few nights previously would attempt to run a cargo at a spot not far from lymington, soon after midnight. i accordingly, as soon as darkness had fallen, ran down, and stood off and on, within signal-distance of the shore-men with whom i had communicated, till dawn, in vain expectation of the promised prize. i strongly suspected that we had been deceived; and on rounding calshot castle on our return, i had no doubt of it, for there, sure enough, was the _blue-eyed maid_ riding lightly at anchor off hamble creek, and from her slight draught of water it was quite evident that her cargo, whatever it might have consisted of, had been landed, or otherwise disposed of. they had been smart with their work, for the summer night and our absence had lasted but a few hours only. i boarded her, and found old barnaby, whom i knew by sight, and his two descendants, whom i had not before seen, busily engaged swabbing the cutter's deck, and getting matters generally into order and ship-shape. the son a good deal resembled the old man, except that his features wore a much more intelligent and good-humored expression; and the boy was an active, bold-eyed, curly-headed youngster, whose countenance, but for a provoking sauciness of expression apparently habitual to him, would have been quite handsome. i thought i had seen his face somewhere before, and he, i noticed, suddenly stopped from his work on hearing my name, and looked at me with a smiling but earnest curiosity. the morning's work had, i saw, been thoroughly performed, and as i was in no humor for a profitless game of cross questions and crooked answers, i, after exchanging one or two colloquial courtesies, in which i had by no means the advantage, returned to the _rose_ more than ever satisfied that the interesting family i had left required and would probably repay the closest watchfulness and care. on the evening of the same day the _blue-eyed maid_ again vanished: a fortnight slipped by, and she had not re-appeared; when the _rose_, having slightly grazed her bottom in going over the shifting shingle at the northwest of the wight, went into portsmouth harbor to be examined. some of her copper was found to be stripped off; there were other trifling damages; and two or three days would elapse before she could be got ready for service. this interval i spent with my sister. the evening after i arrived at itchen, jane and i visited southampton, and accompanied an ancient female acquaintance residing in bugle-street--a dull, grass-grown place in those days, whatever it may be now--to the theatre in, i believe, the same street. the performances were not over till near twelve o'clock, and after escorting the ladies home, i wended my way toward the sun inn on the quay, where i was to sleep--my sister remaining for the night with our friend. the weather, which had been dark and squally an hour or two before, was now remarkably fine and calm; and the porter of the inn telling me they should not close the house for some time longer, i strolled toward the platform battery, mounted by a single piece of brass ordnance overlooking the river, and pointing menacingly toward the village of hythe. the tide was at the full, and a faint breeze slightly rippled the magnificent expanse of water which glanced and sparkled in the bright moon and starlight of a cloudless autumn sky. my attention was not long absorbed by the beauty of the scene, peerless as i deemed it; for unless my eyes strangely deceived me, the _blue-eyed maid_ had returned, and quietly anchored off weston. she appeared to have but just brought up; for the mainsail, three new patches in which chiefly enabled me to recognize her, was still flapping in the wind, and it appeared to me--though from the distance, and the shadow of the dark back-ground of woods in which she lay, it was difficult to speak with certainty--that she was deeply laden. there was not a moment to be lost; and fortunately, just in the nick of time, a boat with two watermen approached the platform steps. i tendered them a guinea to put me on board the smack off weston--an offer which they eagerly accepted; and i was soon speeding over the waters to her. my uniform must have apprised the barnabys of the nature of the visit about to be paid them; for when we were within about a quarter of a mile of their vessel, two figures, which i easily recognized to be old barnaby and his grandson, jumped into a boat that had been loading alongside, and rowed desperately for the shore, but at a point considerably further up the river, toward itchen. there appeared to be no one left on board the _blue-eyed maid_, and the shore-confederates of the smugglers did not show themselves, conjecturing, doubtless, as i had calculated they would, upon my having plenty of help within signal call. i therefore determined to capture the boat first, and return with her to the cutter. the watermen, excited by the chase, pulled with a will; and in about ten minutes we ran alongside the barnaby's boat, jumped in, and found her loaded to the gunwale with brandy kegs. "fairly caught at last, old fellow!" i exclaimed exultingly, in reply to the maledictions he showered on us. "and now pull the boat's head round, and make for the _blue-eyed maid_, or i'll run you through the body." "pull her head round yourself," he sullenly rejoined, as he rose from the thwart and unshipped his oar. "it's bad enough to be robbed of one's hard arnings athout helping the thieves to do it." his refusal was of no consequence: the watermen's light skiff was made fast astern, and in a few minutes we were pulling steadily toward the still motionless cutter. old barnaby was fumbling among the tubs in search, as he growled out, of his pea-jacket; his hopeful grandson was seated at the stern whistling the then popular air of the "woodpecker" with great energy and perfect coolness; and i was standing with my back toward them in the bow of the boat, when the stroke-oarsman suddenly exclaimed: "what are you at with the boat's painter, you young devil's cub?" the quick mocking laugh of the boy, and the words, "now, grandfer, now!" replied to him. old barnaby sprang into the boat which the lad had brought close up to the stern, pushing her off as he did so with all his strength; and then the boy, holding the painter or boat-rope, which he had detached from the ring it had been fastened to, in his hand, jumped over the side; in another instant he was hauled out of the water by old barnaby, and both were seated and pulling lustily, and with exulting shouts, round in the direction of the _blue-eyed maid_, before we had recovered from the surprise which the suddenness and completeness of the trick we had been played excited. we were, however, very speedily in vigorous chase; and as the wind, though favorable, and evidently rising, was still light, we had little doubt of success, especially as some precious minutes must be lost to the smuggler in getting under weigh, neither jib nor foresail being as yet set. the watermen bent fiercely to their oars; and heavily laden as the boat was, we were beginning to slip freely through the water, when an exclamation from one of the men announced another and more perilous trick that the barnabys had played us. old barnaby, in pretending to fumble about for his jacket, had contrived to unship a large plug expressly contrived for the purpose of sinking the boat whenever the exigences of their vocation might render such an operation advisable; and the water was coming in like a sluice. there was no help for it, and the boat's head was immediately turned toward the shore. another vociferous shout rang in our ears as the full success of their scheme was observed by the barnabys, replied to of course by the furious but impotent execrations of the watermen. the boat sank rapidly; and we were still about a hundred yards from the shore when we found ourselves splashing about in the water, which fortunately was not more than up to the armpits of the shortest of us, but so full of strong and tangled seaweed, that swimming was out of the question; and we had to wade slowly and painfully through it, a step on a spot of more than usually soft mud plumping us down every now and then over head and ears. after reaching the shore and shaking ourselves, we found leisure to look in the direction of the _blue-eyed maid_, and had the exquisite pleasure of seeing her glide gracefully through the water as she stood down the river, impelled by the fast-freshening breeze, and towing the watermen's boat securely at her stern. there were no means of pursuit; and after indulging in sundry energetic vocables hardly worth repeating, we retreated in savage discomfiture toward weston, plentifully sprinkling the grass and gravel as we slowly passed along; knocked up the landlord of a public house, and turning in as soon as possible, happily exchanged our dripping attire for warm blankets and clean sheets, beneath the soothing influence of which i, for one, was soon sound asleep. day had hardly dawned when we were all three up, and overhauling the mud and weeds--the tide was quite gone out--for the captured boat and tubs. they had vanished utterly: the fairies about weston had spirited them away while we slept, leaving no vestige whatever of the spoil to which we had naturally looked as some trifling compensation for the night's mishap, and the loss of the watermen's boat, to say nothing of the sousing we had got. it was a bad business certainly, and my promise to provide my helpmates with another boat, should their own not be recovered, soothed but very slightly their sadly-ruffled tempers. but lamentations were useless, and, after the lugubrious expression of a dismal hope for better luck next time, we separated. this pleasant incident did not in the least abate my anxiety to get once more within hailing distance of the barnabys; but for a long time my efforts were entirely fruitless, and i had begun to think that the _blue-eyed maid_ had been permanently transferred to another and less vigilantly watched station, when a slight inkling of intelligence dispelled that fear. my plan was soon formed. i caused it to be carelessly given out on shore that the _rose_ had sprung her bowsprit in the gale a day or two before, and was going the next afternoon into portsmouth to get another. in pursuance of this intention, the _rose_ soon after noon slipped her moorings, and sailed for that port; remained quietly there till about nine o'clock in the evening, and then came out under close-reefed storm canvas, for it was blowing great guns from the northward, and steered for the southampton river. the night was as black as pitch; and but for the continuous and vivid flashes of lightning, no object more than a hundred yards distant from the vessel could have been discerned. we ran up abeam of hythe without perceiving the object of our search, then tacked, stood across to the other side, and then retraced our course. we were within a short distance of hamble river, when a prolonged flash threw a ghastly light upon the raging waters, and plainly revealed the _blue-eyed maid_, lying-to under the lee of the north shore, and it may be about half a mile ahead of us. unfortunately she saw us at the same moment, and as soon as way could be got upon her she luffed sharply up, and a minute afterward was flying through the water in the hope of yet escaping her unexpected enemy. by edging away to leeward i contrived to cut her off effectually from running into the channel by the needles passage; but nothing daunted, she held boldly on without attempting to reduce an inch of canvas, although, from the press she carried, fairly buried in the sea. right in the course she was steering, the _donegal_, a huge eighty-gun ship, was riding at anchor off spithead. old barnaby, who, i could discern by his streaming white hairs, was at the helm, in his anxiety to keep as well to windward of us as possible, determined, i suppose, to pass as closely as he prudently could under the stern of the line-of-battle ship. unfortunately, just as the little cutter was in the act of doing so, a furious blast of wind tore away her jib as if it had been cobweb; and, pressed by her large mainsail, the slight vessel flew up into the wind, meeting the _donegal_ as the huge ship drove back from a strain which had brought her half way to her anchors. the crash was decisive, and caused the instant disappearance of the unfortunate smuggler. the cry of the drowning men, if they had time to utter one, was lost amid the raging of the tempest; and although we threw overboard every loose spar we could lay hands on, it was with scarcely the slightest hope that such aid could avail them in that wild sea. i tacked as speedily as possible, and repassed the spot; but the white foam of the waves, as they leaped and dashed about the leviathan bulk of the _donegal_, was all that could be perceived, eagerly as we peered over the surface of the angry waters. the _rose_ then stood on, and a little more than an hour afterward was safely anchored off hythe. the boy barnaby, i was glad to hear a day or two afterward, had not accompanied his father and grandfather in the last trip made by the _blue-eyed maid_, and had consequently escaped the fate which had so suddenly overtaken them, and for which it appeared that the smuggling community held me morally accountable. this was to be expected; but i had too often and too lately been familiar with death at sea in every shape, by the rage of man as well as that of the elements, to be more than slightly and temporarily affected by such an incident; so that all remembrance of it would probably have soon passed away but for an occurrence which took place about a month subsequently. one of the officers of the shore-force received information that two large luggers, laden with brandy and tobacco from guernsey, were expected the following night on some point of the coast between hamble and weston; and that as the cargoes were very valuable, a desperate resistance to the coast-guard, in the event of detection, had been organized. our plan was soon arranged. the _rose_ was sent away with barely enough men to handle her, and with the remainder of the crew, i, as soon as night fell, took up a position a little above netley abbey. two other detachments of the coast-guard were posted along the shore at intervals of about a mile, all of course connected by signal-men not more than a hundred yards apart. there was a faint starlight, but the moon would not rise till near midnight; and from this circumstance, as well as from the state of the tides, we could pretty well calculate when to expect our friends, should they come at all. it was not long before we were quite satisfied, from the stealthy movements of a number of persons about the spot, that the information we had received was correct. just after eleven o'clock a low, peculiar whistle, taken up from distance to distance, was heard; and by placing our ears to the ground, the quick jerk of oars in the rullocks was quite apparent. after about five minutes of eager restlessness, i gave the impatiently-expected order; we all emerged from our places of concealment, and with cautious but rapid steps advanced upon the by this time busy smugglers. the two luggers were beached upon the soft sand or mud, and between forty and fifty men were each receiving two three-gallon kegs, with which they speeded off to the carts in waiting at a little distance. there were also about twenty fellows ranged as a guard, all armed as efficiently as ourselves. i gave the word; but before we could close with the astonished desperadoes, they fired a pistol volley, by which one seaman, john batley, a fine, athletic young man, was killed, and two others seriously wounded. this done, the scoundrels fled in all directions, hotly pursued, of course. i was getting near one of them, when a lad, who was running by his side, suddenly turned, and raising a pistol, discharged it at my head. he fortunately missed his mark, though the whistle of the bullet was unpleasantly close. i closed with and caught the young rascal, who struggled desperately, and to my extreme surprise, i had almost written dismay, discovered that he was young barnaby! it was not a time for words, and hastily consigning the boy to the custody of the nearest seaman, with a brief order to take care of him, i resumed the pursuit. a bootless one it proved. favored by their numbers, their perfect acquaintance with the hedge-and-ditch neighborhood, the contrabandists all contrived to escape. the carts also got off, and our only captures were the boy, the luggers, which there had been no time to get off, and their cargoes, with the exception of the few kegs that had reached the carts. the hunt after the dispersed smugglers was continued by the different parties who came in subsequently to our brush with them, so that after the two wounded seamen had been carried off on litters, and a sufficient guard left in the captured boats, only two men remained with me. the body of john batley was deposited for the present in one of the luggers, and then the two sailors and myself moved forward to itchen with the prisoner, where i intended to place him in custody for the night. the face of the lad was deadly pale, and i noticed that he had been painfully affected by the sight of the corpse; but when i addressed him, his expressive features assumed a scornful, defying expression. first ordering the two men to drop astern out of hearing, i said: "you will be hanged for your share in this night's work, young man, depend upon it." "hanged!" he exclaimed in a quick, nervous tone; "hanged! you say that to frighten me! it was not i who shot the man! you know that; or perhaps," he added with a kind of hysterical cry, "perhaps you want to kill me as you did father." "i have no more inclination, my poor boy," i answered, "to injure you than i had to harm your father. why, indeed, should i have borne him any ill-will?" "why should you? oh, i know very well!" "you know more than i do then; but enough of this folly. i wish, i hardly know why, to save you. it was not you, i am quite aware, that fired the fatal shot, but that makes no difference as to your legal guilt. but i think if you could put us on the track of your associates, you might yourself escape." the lad's fine eyes perfectly lightened with scorn and indignation: "turn informer!" he exclaimed. "betray them that loved and trusted me! never--if they could hang me a thousand times over!" i made no answer, and nothing more was said till we had reached and were passing the abbey ruins. the boy then abruptly stopped, and with quivering voice, while his eyes filled with tears, said: "i should like to see my mother." "see your mother! there can be no particular objection to that; but she lives further on at weston, does she not?" "no, we have sold off, and moved to aunt diaper's, at netley, up yonder. in a day or two we should have started for hull, where mother's father's brother lives, and i was to have been 'prenticed to the captain of a greenlander; but now," he continued with an irrepressible outburst of grief and terror, "jack ketch will, you say, be my master, and i shall be only 'prenticed to the gallows." "why, if this be so, did your mother permit you to join the lawless desperadoes to whom you owe your present unhappy and degraded position?" "mother did not know of it; she thinks i am gone to southampton to inquire about the day the vessel sails for hull. mother will die if i am hanged!" exclaimed the lad with a renewed burst of passionate grief; "and surely you would not kill _her_?" "it is not very likely i should wish to do so, considering that i have never seen her." "oh yes--yes, you have!" he sharply rejoined. "then perhaps you do not know! untie or cut these cords," he added, approaching close to me and speaking in a low, quick whisper; "give me a chance: mother's girl's name was ellen dible!" had the lad's fettered arm been free, and he had suddenly dealt me a blow with a knife or dagger, the stroke could not have been more sharp or terrible than these words conveyed. "god of mercy!" i exclaimed, as the momently-arrested blood again shot through my heart with reactive violence, "can this be true?" "yes, yes--true, quite true!" continued the boy, with the same earnest look and low, hurried speech. "i saw, when your waistcoat flew open in the struggle just now, what was at the end of the black ribbon. you will give me a chance for mother's sake, won't you?" a storm of grief, regret, remorse, was sweeping through my brain, and i could not for a while make any answer, though the lad's burning eyes continued fixed with fevered anxiety upon my face. at last i said--gasped rather: "i can not release you--it is impossible; but all that can be done--all that can--can legally be done, shall be--" the boy's countenance fell, and he was again deadly pale. "you shall see your mother," i added. "tell johnson where to seek her; he is acquainted with netley." this was done, and the man walked briskly off upon his errand. "come this way," i said, after a few minutes' reflection, and directing my steps toward the old ruined fort by the shore, built, i suppose, as a defense to the abbey against pirates. there was but one flight of steps to the summit, and no mode of egress save by the entrance from whence they led. "i will relieve you of these cords while your mother is with you. go up to the top of the fort. you will be unobserved, and we can watch here against any foolish attempt at escape." ten minutes had not elapsed when the mother, accompanied by johnson, and sobbing convulsively, appeared. roberts hailed her, and after a brief explanation, she ascended the steps with tottering but hasty feet, to embrace her son. a quarter of an hour, she had been told, would be allowed for the interview. the allotted time had passed, and i was getting impatient, when a cry from the summit of the fort or tower, as if for help to some one at a distance, roused and startled us. as we stepped out of the gateway, and looked upward to ascertain the meaning of the sudden cry, the lad darted out and sped off with surprising speed. one of the men instantly snatched a pistol from his waist-belt, but at a gesture from me put it back. "he can not escape," i said. "follow me, but use no unnecessary violence." finding that we gained rapidly upon him, the lad darted through a low, narrow gateway, into the interior of the abbey ruins, trusting, i imagined, to baffle us in the darkness and intricacy of the place. i just caught sight of him as he disappeared up a long flight of crumbling, winding steps, from which he issued through a narrow aperture upon a lofty wall, some five or six feet wide, and overgrown with grass and weeds. i followed in terrible anxiety, for i feared that in his desperation he would spring off and destroy himself. i shouted loudly to him for god's sake to stop. he did so within a few feet of the end of the wall. i ran quickly toward him, and as i neared him he fell on his knees, threw away his hat, and revealed the face of--ellen dible! i stopped, bewildered, dizzy, paralyzed. doubtless the mellowing radiance of the night softened or concealed the ravages which time must have imprinted on her features; for as i gazed upon the spirit-beauty of her upturned, beseeching countenance, the old time came back upon me with a power and intensity which an hour before i could not have believed possible. the men hailed repeatedly from below, but i was too bewildered, too excited, to answer: their shouts, and the young mother's supplicating sobs--she seemed scarcely older than when i parted from her--sounded in my ears like the far-off cries and murmurs of a bewildering, chaotic dream. she must have gathered hope and confidence from the emotion i doubtless exhibited, for as soon as the confusion and ringing in my brain had partially subsided, i could hear her say: "you will save my boy--my only son: for my sake, you will save him?" another shout from the men below demanded if i had got the prisoner. "ay, ay," i mechanically replied, and they immediately hastened to join us. "which way--which way is he gone?" i asked as the seamen approached. she instinctively caught my meaning: "by the shore to weston," she hurriedly answered; "he will find a boat there." the men now came up: "the chase has led us astray," i said: "look there." "his mother, by jingo!" cried johnson. "they must have changed clothes!" "yes: the boy is off--to--to hamble, i have no doubt. you both follow in that direction: i'll pursue by the weston and itchen road." the men started off to obey this order, and as they did so, i heard her broken murmur of "bless you, robert--bless you!" i turned away, faint, reeling with excitement, muttered a hasty farewell, and with disordered steps and flaming pulse hurried homeward. the mother i never saw again: the son at whose escape from justice i thus weakly, it may be criminally, connived, i met a few years ago in london. he is the captain of a first-class ship in the australian trade, and a smarter sailor i think i never beheld. his mother is still alive, and lives with her daughter-in-law at chelsea. american notabilities.[ ] professor agassiz. this very distinguished man--one of the great contributors to the world's stores of science and knowledge--is an extremely agreeable member of society, and a very popular one. his manners are particularly frank, pleasing, cordial, and simple; and though deeply absorbed, and intensely interested in his laborious scientific researches, and a most thorough enthusiast in his study of natural philosophy, yet he rattled merrily away on many of the various light topics of the day with the utmost gayety, good-humor, and spirit. [ ] from travels in the united states, etc. by lady emmeline stuart wortley. just published by harper and brothers. he has succeeded, after great trouble and persevering indefatigable care, in preserving alive some coral insects, the first that have ever been so preserved, and he kindly promised me an introduction to these distinguished architects. we accordingly went, accompanied by mr. everett, the following day. m. agassiz was up-stairs very much occupied by some scientific investigation of importance, and he could not come down, but he allowed us to enter the all but hallowed precincts devoted to the much-cherished coral insects. m. agassiz had been away a little while previously, and left these treasures of his heart under the charge and superintendence of his assistant. this poor care-worn attendant, we were told, almost lost his own life in preserving the valuable existence of these little moving threads, so much did he feel the weighty responsibility that devolved upon him, and with such intense anxiety did he watch the complexions, the contortions, all the twistings and twirlings, and twitchings, and flingings and writhings of the wondrous little creatures, most assiduously marking any indications of _petite santé_ among them. they were kept in water carefully and frequently changed, and various precautions were indispensably necessary to be taken in order to guard their exquisitely delicate demi-semi existences. glad enough was the temporary gentleman-in-waiting, and squire-of-the-body to these interesting zoophytes to see m. agassiz return, and to resign his charge into his hands. with him this exceeding care and watchfulness was indeed nothing but a labor of love, and probably no nurse or mother ever fondled a weakly infant with more devoted tenderness and anxious attention than m. agassiz displayed toward his dearly-beloved coral insects. as to me, i hardly dared breathe while looking at them for fear i should blow their precious lives away, or some catastrophe should happen while we were there, and we should be suspected of _coralicide_! however, the sight was most interesting. we watched them as they flung about what seemed their fire-like white arms, like microscopic opera dancers or windmills; but these apparent arms are, i believe, all they possess of bodies. how wonderful to think of the mighty works that have been performed by the fellow-insects of these little restless laborers. what are the builders of the pyramids to them? what did the writers of the "arabian nights" imagine equal to their more magical achievements? will men ever keep coral insects by them to lay the foundations of a few islands and continents when the population grows too large for the earthy portion of earth? people keep silkworms to spin that beautiful fabric for them; and m. agassiz has shown there is no impracticability. i looked at the large bowl containing the weird workers with unflagging interest, till i could almost fancy minute reefs of rocks were rising up in the basin. what a world of marvels we live in, and alas that the splendid wonders of science should be shut out from so many myriads of mankind; for that the marvelous is inalienably dear to human nature, witness all the fairy tales, ghost stories, and superstitions of all kinds that have abounded and been popular from age to age. penny magazines and such works have done much, but much there remains to be done to bring the subjects not only within reach, but to make them more universally popular and attractive, and less technical. at last we took leave of those marine curiosities, and wended our way back, sorry not to have seen m. agassiz (who was still absorbed in dissecting or pickling for immortality some extraordinary fish that he had discovered), but delighted to have had the opportunity of seeing his _protégés_. "m. agassiz ought indeed to have an extensive museum," said ----, "for i believe every body in the states makes a point of sending off to him, post haste, every imaginable reptile, and monster, and nondescript that they happen to find." i should assuredly not like to have the opening of his letters and parcels if that is the case. mr. and mrs. prescott at nahant. to-day we went and dined early with mr. and mrs. prescott at nahant, where they are staying for the summer. they have a charming country villa on the beautiful peninsula of nahant. the town of nahant is a very pleasant watering-place, about twelve miles from boston by water, and sixteen by land. near mr. prescott's house is a magnificent-looking hotel with numerous piazzas; the sea-coast view from his villa is boundless, and the perpetually high and dashing waves fling their fantastic foam, without ceasing, against the wild jagged rocks, which abound in every direction. we started by railroad to go there, and very near us in the car was a respectable looking negro. mr. c. s----, who was in the same car with us (also going to dine at mr. prescott's), pointed this man out to me, at the same time saying, that this could not by possibility have happened two years ago in this state, so strong then were the prejudices against any approach to, or appearance of amalgamation with the black race. no one could certainly appear more humble and quiet, less presuming or forward in his new position, than did this colored individual. on our way to mr. prescott's, we stopped to pay a visit to mrs. page, the sister of mrs. f. webster. she has a very pretty little country house at nahant: she made many inquiries, with much kind feeling, after those friends whom she remembers at belvoir castle, where she was staying with mr. and mrs. webster. i have already mentioned that mr. prescott is one of the most agreeable people i ever met with--as delightful as his own most delightful books: he talks of going to europe next year. he tells me he has never visited either mexico or peru. i am surprised that the interest he must have felt in his own matchless works did not impel him to go to both. mrs. prescott is very delicate, with most gentle and pleasing manners. one of the guests was a niece of lord lyndhurst, her mother being lord lyndhurst's sister. after a most interesting and agreeable visit, we returned by water to boston. the sea was blue as a plain of sparkling sapphire--quite mediterraneanic! nahant is certainly a delightful place of summer residence, though it wants shade; trees in general most positively refuse to grow there, and there are but a few, which are taken as much care of as if they were the most precious exotics; but nahant and they do not agree. they have quite a pouting sulky look; and it is almost as sad to look at them as it is to see the _girdled_ trees, which look like skeletons of malefactors bleaching in the wind. at dessert, at mr. prescott's, there was a huge magnificent water-melon, that almost might have taken the place of the cochituate pond, and supplied boston with the crystal element for a day. in returning through the harbor of boston from nahant, we were full of admiration of its scenery: the many lovely islands with which it is beautifully studded, and the superb view of boston itself, so nobly surmounted by its crown-like state house, enchanted us. mr. and mrs. j. grinnell.--new bedford and naushon. since i wrote this, we have had a very agreeable little tour. we have received, through mrs. w----, a kind invitation from mr. and mrs. j. grinnell to visit them at new bedford. that town is called "the city of palaces," from the beautiful buildings it contains: it is also the great whaling metropolis of the north. it is about fifty-six miles from hence. the americans give their cities most poetical and significant designations, and sometimes one town will have a variety of these. for instance, this, i believe, is not only called the granite city, but the trimountain city. philadelphia is the city of brotherly love, or the iron city. buffalo, the queen city of the lakes; new haven, the city of elms, &c. i think the american imagination is more florid than ours. i am afraid matter-of-fact john bull, if he attempted such a fanciful classification, would make sad work of it. perhaps we should have birmingham, the city of buttons or warming-pans; nottingham, the city of stockings; sheffield, the city of knives and forks, and so forth. mr. and mrs. willis, and mr. willis's musical brother, were at mr. and mrs. j. grinnell's beautiful mansion. we paid a visit to an immense whale-ship that is in the course of busy preparation for her voyage--to the south seas, i believe. the whale-fishery is very extensively carried on at new bedford. the population is about fifteen thousand, almost all engaged directly or indirectly in this trade. there are about two hundred and twenty-nine vessels engaged in the fishery, which is said to be continually increasing. the system on which they conduct their whaling operations, seems to be a very judicious one. every one of the crew has a share in the profits or losses of the expedition; it becomes, therefore, his interest to do all he possibly can to render the voyage a prosperous one. all are eager, all on the look-out, all are quite sure to exert their energies to the utmost, and perhaps this is one secret of the success that attends the american whaling-ships. mrs. grinnell had a little _conversazione_ the other evening, and among the visitors was a beautiful young quaker lady, a descendant of william penn. she was an extremely pleasing person, and her conversation was very animated and interesting. imagining that perhaps i had never been in the society of quakers before, she cleverly contrived to converse in the most pleasant and delightful manner, without once bringing in either "thee," or "thou," or "you," though she was talking to me almost all the evening. i remarked this omission, and was afterward certain of it when mrs. willis told me the lady informed her of the fact before going away, and gave her that reason for her delicate, scrupulous abstinence. she would not say "_you_," in short; and "thee" and "thou" she thought would appear strange to me. i was told her family are in possession of a splendid silver tea-service which belonged to their celebrated ancestor, william penn. we went from new bedford to martha's vineyard, an island in the atlantic not far from new bedford. there we staid a few days at an unpretending, neat hotel, of small dimensions--not the chief hotel, where the mistress, we found, was unaccommodating and disobliging--_a very rare thing_ in america. on taking refuge at the other hotel, we found we had reason to congratulate ourselves, for a more kind-hearted, attentive person i never found than our new hostess. she, poor soul, was in affliction at the time; for her son was about to go off to california--indeed his departure took place for that distant region the morning after our arrival. what misery has this californian emigration brought on thousands of families--unknown, incalculable wretchedness! there was, as may be supposed, a melancholy chorus of wailing and sobs when the dreaded moment actually arrived; but her domestic sorrows did not make the excellent mother of the family neglect her guests. nothing was omitted that could conduce to our comfort; and her daughter's attention and her own were unremitting. her daughter was a smart intelligent lassie. one day, when she was in the room, her mother hurried in to ask some question relative to dinner, or something of the kind. she had previously been baking, and her hands, and arms too, i believe, were white with flour. this very much annoyed her neat, particular, and precise daughter, who kept dusting her daintily, and trying to wipe it off, and drawing her mother's attention to it with great pertinacity. at last the mother said she hadn't had time to get rid of it--hoped the lady would excuse it, with other apologies, and the daughter was a little pacified. one should hardly have expected so much susceptibility in such matters in a little out-of-the-way town on an island like martha's vineyard. when we came away i felt it was quite a friend i was taking leave of, though we had been there so short a time, so good and kind did we find her. on the table in her little parlor, instead of the horrid novels so commonly to be seen in america, were the "penny magazine," and other works of that species. from martha's vineyard we went to woodsville, a quiet little village by the sea. i had promised to pay a visit to mrs. j. grinnell, at the residence of a friend of hers, situated on an island very near this place (to which mr. and mrs. j. grinnell had lately gone from new bedford). we were at a very nice little hotel, indeed, at woodsville, the master of which was a mr. webster, who had called one of his sons daniel, after the famous statesman, the pride of old massachusetts. at this hotel there was an admirable specimen of an american female waiter and housemaid: in short, a domestic factotum. she was excessively civil, obliging, active, and attentive, not in the slightest degree forward or intrusive, always willing to do whatever one required of her. altogether a very prepossessing personage is mademoiselle caroline--not the famous female equestrian of paris, but the excellent and accomplished waitress and chambermaid at woodsville, whom i beg to introduce to the reader, and to immortality. the mistress of the hotel cooked for us herself, and she was quite a _cordon-bleu_, i assure you. her chicken pies and her puddings were of the sublimest description. the morning was lovely, the sea sparkling with a myriad lustres, the air of ausonian clearness and purity, when we went to naushon, an exquisite little island (one of a cluster of the islands called the elizabeth group). we started in a small boat manned by the two sons of our host, and before very long we entered a little creek, and soon landed on the beautiful shore of fairy-like naushon. (this is of course its old indian name, and long may it retain it). we found mr. grinnell kindly waiting to receive us and drive us to the island palace of the proprietor of naushon, for to mr. s----, the whole beauteous island belongs.--what an enviable possession! though not given to pilfering propensities, i should like to pick mr. s----'s pocket of this gem! we started in a somewhat sledge-like vehicle _à la flêche_ (as our old belgian courier marcotte used to say), for the house, and soon found ourselves seated in a large cool apartment with mrs. grinnell, and the kindly, cordial lord and lady of the isle, whose welcome had much of unworldly heartiness about it. i longed to explore the beautiful island, and when i did so, my anticipations were not disappointed. naushon is a little america in itself. there are miniatures of her wild, illimitable, awful old forests--a beautiful little diamond edition of her wonderful lakes, a fairy representation of her variety of scenery, a page torn from her ancient indian associations and remains. there too are her customs, her manners, her spirit, and character; in short, it is a little pocket america (and enough to make the chief superintendent of any police himself a pick-pocket), a liliputian western world, a compressed columbia. but its trees are not liliputian, they are magnificent. we drove under a varied shade for a long time, and saw lovely views through openings in the woods. at last after tearing and crackling along through a thick growth of timber and underwood, we emerged upon a truly magnificent prospect. we were on a height, and on either side were lovely woods, valleys, and gentle eminences; and in front the glorious atlantic. after enjoying this beauteous view for some time, the lord of naushon took us to see a still, secluded part of the forest, where in the midst of a sunny clearing, surrounded by partly overshadowing trees in the heart of a sequestered island, embosomed in the mighty ocean, was a single grave, that of the only and adored son of our amiable hosts; indeed, their only child. almost close to this simple grave was a semi-circular seat. "there often," said mr. s----, "we come in the summer time and spend the evening, and frequently bring our friends, too, with us, and it is a melancholy happiness to feel _he_ is near--almost, as it were, with us." here we all remained for some time: the birds were singing, the sea so calm you could scarcely just then at that distance hear its everlasting resounding voice. you might look through the opening in the woods, up and up, and the clear cloudless sky would seem almost receding from your gaze (like the horizon when you are advancing toward it), yet bluer and bluer, brighter and brighter. all was beauty and enchantment! and there lay the lonely dead--who could dare to say in unconsecrated ground? where nature was so wild and beautiful, and nature's creator seemed so nigh--and where that grand untrodden ground with nothing to desecrate it, was ever bathed by the tears of hallowed parental affection? how blessed and sacred it appeared! to think, in contrast with this grave, of our dead in crowded city church-yards! but i trust that unutterably detestable system will soon be done away with. if what i have related seems strange to you, you must recollect that in america it is often the case; at least, i have frequently heard so before i came here. in the quiet garden, or in the wood near the house, often sleep in their last slumber the beloved members of the family, not banished from the every-day associations of the survivors, and almost seeming to have still some participation in their feelings, in their woes, and their pleasures. i could almost fancy, after seeing that eden for the dead, mount auburn, and remembering this affectionate custom, that is one reason why death does not seem a thing to be dreaded or deplored in america, as with us. if i recollect correctly, the only words on the modest head-stone were, "to our beloved son." after willingly remaining some time here, beside this simple christian tomb, we went to see an ancient place of indian sepulture. the corpses, i believe, had mostly been dug up--poor indians; hardly allowed to rest in their graves! mrs. s---- told me that the first time naushon had passed into white men's hands from those of the red chief's, this exquisite island, with all its lovely and splendid woods, its herds of wild deer, and all its fair lands, it had been sold for an old coat. (i think a little fire-water must have entered into the bargain). after hearing this, i began to think _feu_ squire and squaw naushon of the olden time and their clan hardly deserved to rest in their graves. our excellent hosts most kindly pressed us to stay at naushon, but my plans did not admit of this; so, enchanted with their delectable island, and full of gratitude for all their cordial friendliness and truly american hospitality toward us, we took leave of them and mrs. grinnell, in the evening, and returned to the main land. the weather became very unpropitious, and it blew and rained heavily. however, we arrived in damp safety at our hotel. general taylor. general taylor received us most kindly. he had had two councils to preside over that morning, and when we first arrived at the white house, he was actually engaged in an extra session of council--in short, overwhelmed with business, which rendered it doubly kind and amiable of him to receive us. mrs. bliss, the charming daughter of the president, was in the drawing-room when we first went in. mrs. taylor has delicate health, and does not do the honors of the presidential mansion. mrs. bliss received us most cordially and courteously, saying her father would come as soon as his presence could be dispensed with. presently after the president made his appearance: his manners are winningly frank, simple, and kind, and though characteristically distinguished by much straight-forwardness, there is not the slightest roughness in his address. there was a quick, keen, eagle-like expression in the eye which reminded me a little of the duke of wellington's. he commenced an animated conversation with madame c. de la b---- and us: among other things, speaking of the routes, he recommended me to follow, steam navigation, mexico, and the rio grande, &c. he was so exceedingly good-natured as to talk a great deal to my little girl about roses and lilies, as if he had been quite a botanist all his life. this species of light, daffydown-dilly talk was so particularly and amiably considerate and kind to her, that it overcame her shyness at once, and the dread she had entertained of not understanding what he might say to her. i was quite sorry when the time came for us to leave the white house. general taylor strongly advised me not to leave america without seeing st. louis: he said he considered it altogether perhaps the most interesting town in the united states: he said he recollected the greater part of it a deep dense forest. he spoke very kindly of england, and adverting to the approaching acceleration and extension of steam communication between her and america (the contemplated competition about to be established by "collins's line") he exclaimed, "the voyage will be made shorter and shorter, and i expect england and america will soon be quite alongside of each other, ma'am." "the sooner the better, sir," i most heartily responded, at which he bowed and smiled. "we are the same people," he continued, "and it is good for both to see more of each other." "yes," i replied, "and thus all detestable old prejudices will die away." "i hope so," he said, "it will be for the advantage of both." he continued in this strain, and spoke so nobly of england, that it made one's heart bound to hear him. and he evidently felt what he said; indeed, i am sure that honest, high-hearted, true-as-steel, old hero could not say any thing he did not feel or think. a little while before we took leave he said, "i hope you will visit my farm near natchez: cypress grove is the name--a sad name," he said, with a smile, "but i think you will find it interesting." i thanked him, and promised so to do. a short time previously, after talking about the beauties of nature in the south, general taylor had said to v----, that he longed to return to that farm, and to his quiet home near the banks of the mississippi, and added, that he was sorely tired of public life, and the harassing responsibilities of his high office. the president insisted most courteously on conducting us to our carriage, and bareheaded he handed us in, standing on the steps till we drove off, and cordially reiterating many kind and friendly wishes for our prosperous journey, and health, and safety. the hunter's wife. tom cooper was a fine specimen of the north american trapper. slightly but powerfully made, with a hardy, weather-beaten, yet handsome face, strong, indefatigable, and a crack shot, he was admirably adapted for a hunter's life. for many years he knew not what it was to have a home, but lived like the beasts he hunted--wandering from one part of the country to another in pursuit of game. all who knew tom were much surprised when he came, with a pretty young wife, to settle within three miles of a planter's farm. many pitied the poor young creature, who would have to lead such a solitary life; while others said: "if she was fool enough to marry him, it was her own look out." for nearly four months tom remained at home, and employed his time in making the old hut he had fixed on for their residence more comfortable. he cleared and tilled a small spot of land around it, and susan began to hope that for her sake he would settle down quietly as a squatter. but these visions of happiness were soon dispelled, for as soon as this work was finished he recommenced his old erratic mode of life, and was often absent for weeks together, leaving his wife alone, yet not unprotected, for since his marriage old nero, a favorite hound, was always left at home as her guardian. he was a noble dog--a cross between the old scottish deerhound and the bloodhound, and would hunt an indian as well as a deer or bear, which tom said, "was a proof they ingins was a sort o' warmint, or why should the brute beast take to hunt 'em, nat'ral like--him that took no notice o' white men?" one clear, cold morning, about two years after their marriage, susan was awakened by a loud crash, immediately succeeded by nero's deep baying. she recollected that she had shut him in the house as usual the night before. supposing he had winded some solitary wolf or bear prowling around the hut, and effected his escape, she took little notice of the circumstance; but a few moments after came a shrill wild cry, which made her blood run cold. to spring from her bed, throw on her clothes, and rush from the hut, was the work of a minute. she no longer doubted what the hound was in pursuit of. fearful thoughts shot through her brain: she called wildly on nero, and to her joy he came dashing through the thick underwood. as the dog drew nearer she saw that he galloped heavily, and carried in his mouth some large dark creature. her brain reeled; she felt a cold and sickly shudder dart through her limbs. but susan was a hunter's daughter, and all her life had been accustomed to witness scenes of danger and of horror, and in this school had learned to subdue the natural timidity of her character. with a powerful effort she recovered herself, just as nero dropped at her feet a little indian child, apparently between three and four years old. she bent down over him, but there was no sound or motion; she placed her hand on his little naked chest; the heart within had ceased to beat--he was dead! the deep marks of the dog's fangs were visible on the neck, but the body was untorn. old nero stood with his large bright eyes fixed on the face of his mistress, fawning on her, as if he expected to be praised for what he had done, and seemed to wonder why she looked so terrified. but susan spurned him from her; and the fierce animal, who would have pulled down an indian as he would a deer, crouched humbly at the young woman's feet. susan carried the little body gently in her arms to the hut, and laid it on her own bed. her first impulse was to seize a loaded rifle that hung over the fireplace, and shoot the hound; and yet she felt she could not do it, for in the lone life she led the faithful animal seemed like a dear and valued friend, who loved and watched over her, as if aware of the precious charge intrusted to him. she thought also of what her husband would say, when on his return he should find his old companion dead. susan had never seen tom roused. to her he had ever shown nothing but kindness; yet she feared as well as loved him, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep, wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a whole tribe of indians would be light in the balance against that of his favorite hound. having securely fastened up nero, susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded to examine the ground around the hut. in several places she observed the impression of a small moccasined foot, but not a child's. the tracks were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an indian. from this circumstance susan easily inferred that the woman had been carrying her child when attacked by the dog. there was nothing to show why she had come so near the hut: most probably the hopes of some petty plunder had been the inducement. susan did not dare to wander far from home, fearing a band of indians might be in the neighborhood. she returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the powerful hound had in his leap dashed out the entire frame, and shattered it to pieces. when this was finished, susan dug a grave, and in it laid the little indian boy. she made it close to the hut, for she could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she knew that there it would be safe. the next day tom returned. he had been very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again in a few days in a different direction. "susan," he said, when he had heard her sad story, "i wish you'd lef' the child where the dog killed him. the squaw's high sartain to come back a-seekin' for the body, and 'tis a pity the poor crittur should be disapinted. besides, the ingins will be high sartain to put it down to us; whereas if so be as they'd found the body 'pon the spot, maybe they'd understand as 'twas an accident like, for they're unkimmon cunning warmint, though they an't got sense like christians." "why do you think the poor woman came here?" said susan. "i never knew an indian squaw so near the hut before." she fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband's brow. he made no reply; and on her repeating the question, said angrily--how should he know? 'twas as well to ask for a bear's reasons as an ingin's. tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant a small spot of indian corn, and then again set out, telling susan not to expect him home in less than a month. "if that squaw comes this way agin," he said, "as maybe she will, jist put out any broken victuals you've a-got for the poor crittur; though maybe she won't come, for they ingins be onkimmon skeary." susan wondered at his taking an interest in the woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of tom's unwillingness to speak on the subject. she never knew that on his last hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on his return, he had observed an indian watching him, and had shot him with as little mercy as he would have shown a wolf. on tom's return to the spot the body was gone; and in the soft damp soil was the mark of an indian squaw's foot, and by its side a little child's. he was sorry then for the deed he had done: he thought of the grief of the poor widow, and how it would be possible for her to live until she could reach her tribe, who were far, far distant at the foot of the rocky mountains; and now to feel that through his means, too, she had lost her child, put thoughts into his mind that had never before found a place there. he thought that one god had formed the red man as well as the white--of the souls of the many indians hurried into eternity by his unerring rifle; and they perhaps were more fitted for their "happy hunting-grounds" than he for the white man's heaven. in this state of mind, every word his wife had said to him seemed a reproach, and he was glad again to be alone in the forest with his rifle and his hounds. the afternoon of the third day after tom's departure, as susan was sitting at work, she heard something scratching and whining at the door. nero, who was by her side, evinced no signs of anger, but ran to the door, showing his white teeth, as was his custom when pleased. susan unbarred it, when to her astonishment the two deerhounds her husband had taken with him walked into the hut, looking weary and soiled. at first she thought tom might have killed a deer not far from home, and had brought her a fresh supply of venison; but no one was there. she rushed from the hut, and soon, breathless and terrified, reached the squatter's cabin. john wilton and his three sons were just returned from the clearings, when susan ran into their comfortable kitchen; her long black hair streaming on her shoulders, and her wild and bloodshot eyes, gave her the appearance of a maniac. in a few unconnected words she explained to them the cause of her terror, and implored them to set off immediately in search of her husband. it was in vain they told her of the uselessness of going at that time--of the impossibility of following a trail in the dark. she said she would go herself; she felt sure of finding him; and at last they were obliged to use force to prevent her leaving the house. the next morning at daybreak wilton and his two sons were mounted, and ready to set out, intending to take nero with them; but nothing could induce him to leave his mistress: he resisted passively for some time, until one of the young men attempted to pass a rope round his neck, to drag him away: then his forbearance vanished; he sprung on his tormentor, threw him down, and would have strangled him if susan had not been present. finding it impossible to make nero accompany them, they left without him, but had not proceeded many miles before he and his mistress were at their side. they begged susan to return, told her of the hardships she must endure, and of the inconvenience she would be to them. it was of no avail; she had but one answer: "i am a hunter's daughter, and a hunter's wife." she told them that knowing how useful nero would be to them in their search, she had secretly taken a horse and followed them. the party rode first to tom cooper's hut, and there having dismounted, leading their horses through the forest, followed the trail, as only men long accustomed to a savage life can do. at night they lay on the ground, covered with their thick bear-skin cloaks: for susan only they heaped up a bed of dried leaves; but she refused to occupy it, saying it was her duty to bear the same hardships they did. ever since their departure she had shown no sign of sorrow. although slight and delicately formed, she never appeared fatigued: her whole soul was absorbed in one longing desire--to find her husband's body; for from the first she had abandoned the hope of ever again seeing him in life. this desire supported her through every thing. early the next morning they were again on the trail. about noon, as they were crossing a small brook, the hound suddenly dashed away from them, and was lost in the thicket. at first they fancied they might have crossed the track of a deer or wolf; but a long mournful howl soon told the sad truth, for not far from the brook lay the faithful dog on the dead body of his master, which was pierced to the heart by an indian arrow. the murderer had apparently been afraid to approach on account of the dogs, for the body was left as it had fallen--not even the rifle was gone. no sign of indians could be discovered save one small footprint, which was instantly pronounced to be that of a squaw. susan showed no grief at the sight of the body; she maintained the same forced calmness, and seemed comforted that it was found. old wilton staid with her to remove all that now remained of her darling husband, and his two sons again set out on the trail, which soon led them into the open prairie, where it was easily traced through the tall thick grass. they continued riding all that afternoon, and the next morning by daybreak were again on the track, which they followed to the banks of a wide but shallow stream. there they saw the remains of a fire. one of the brothers thrust his hand among the ashes, which were still warm. they crossed the river, and in the soft sand on the opposite bank saw again the print of small moccasined footsteps. here they were at a loss; for the rank prairie grass had been consumed by one of those fearful fires so common in the prairies, and in its stead grew short sweet herbage, where even an indian's eye could observe no trace. they were on the point of abandoning the pursuit, when richard, the younger of the two, called his brother's attention to nero, who had of his own accord left his mistress to accompany them, as if he now understood what they were about. the hound was trotting to and fro, with his nose to the ground, as if endeavoring to pick out a cold scent. edward laughed at his brother, and pointed to the track of a deer that had come to drink at the river. at last he agreed to follow nero, who was now cantering slowly across the prairie. the pace gradually increased, until, on a spot where the grass had grown more luxuriantly than elsewhere, nero threw up his nose, gave a deep bay, and started off at so furious a pace, that although well mounted, they had great difficulty in keeping up with him. he soon brought them to the borders of another forest, where, finding it impossible to take their horses further, they tethered them to a tree, and set off again on foot. they lost sight of the hound, but still from time to time heard his loud baying far away. at last they fancied it sounded nearer instead of becoming less distinct; and of this they were soon convinced. they still went on in the direction whence the sound proceeded, until they saw nero sitting with his fore-paws against the trunk of a tree, no longer mouthing like a well-trained hound, but yelling like a fury. they looked up in the tree, but could see nothing; until at last edward espied a large hollow about half way up the trunk. "i was right, you see," he said. "after all, it's nothing but a bear; but we may as well shoot the brute that has given us so much trouble." they set to work immediately with their axes to fell the tree. it began to totter, when a dark object, they could not tell what in the dim twilight, crawled from its place of concealment to the extremity of a branch, and from thence sprung into the next tree. snatching up their rifles, they both fired together; when, to their astonishment, instead of a bear, a young indian squaw, with a wild yell, fell to the ground. they ran to the spot where she lay motionless, and carried her to the borders of the wood where they had that morning dismounted. richard lifted her on his horse, and springing himself into the saddle, carried the almost lifeless body before him. the poor creature never spoke. several times they stopped, thinking she was dead: her pulse only told the spirit had not flown from its earthly tenement. when they reached the river which had been crossed by them before, they washed the wounds, and sprinkled water on her face. this appeared to revive her: and when richard again lifted her in his arms to place her on his horse, he fancied he heard her mutter in iroquois one word--"revenged!" it was a strange sight, these two powerful men tending so carefully the being they had a few hours before sought to slay, and endeavoring to stanch the blood that flowed from wounds which they had made! yet so it was. it would have appeared to them a sin to leave the indian woman to die; yet they felt no remorse at having inflicted the wound, and doubtless would have been better pleased had it been mortal; but they would not have murdered a wounded enemy, even an indian warrior, still less a squaw. the party continued their journey until midnight, when they stopped to rest their jaded horses. having wrapped the squaw in their bear-skins, they lay down themselves with no covering save the clothes they wore. they were in no want of provisions, as not knowing when they might return, they had taken a good supply of bread and dried venison, not wishing to lose any precious time in seeking food while on the trail. the brandy still remaining in their flasks they preserved for the use of their captive. the evening of the following day they reached the trapper's hut, where they were not a little surprised to find susan. she told them that although john wilton had begged her to live with them, she could not bear to leave the spot where every thing reminded her of one to think of whom was now her only consolation, and that while she had nero, she feared nothing. they needed not to tell their mournful tale--susan already understood it but too clearly. she begged them to leave the indian woman with her. "you have no one," she said, "to tend and watch her as i can do; besides, it is not right that i should lay such a burden on you." although unwilling to impose on her the painful task of nursing her husband's murderess, they could not but allow that she was right; and seeing how earnestly she desired it, at last consented to leave the indian woman with her. for many long weeks susan nursed her charge as tenderly as if she had been her sister. at first she lay almost motionless, and rarely spoke; then she grew delirious, and raved wildly. susan fortunately could not understand what she said, but often turned shudderingly away when the indian woman would strive to rise from her bed, and move her arms as if drawing a bow; or yell wildly, and cower in terror beneath the clothes, reacting in her delirium the fearful scenes through which she had passed. by degrees reason returned; she gradually got better, but seemed restless and unhappy, and could not bear the sight of nero. the first proof of returning reason she had shown was to shriek in terror when he once accidentally followed his mistress into the room where she lay. one morning susan missed her; she searched around the hut, but she was gone, without having taken farewell of her kind benefactress. a few years after susan cooper (no longer "pretty susan," for time and grief had done their work) heard late one night a hurried knock, which was repeated several times before she could unfasten the door, each time more loudly than before. she called to ask who it was at that hour of the night. a few hurried words in iroquois were the reply, and susan congratulated herself on having spoken before unbarring the door. but on listening again, she distinctly heard the same voice say, "quick--quick!" and recognized it as the indian woman's whom she had nursed. the door was instantly opened, when the squaw rushed into the hut, seized susan by the arm, and made signs to her to come away. she was too much excited to remember then the few words of english she had picked up when living with the white woman. expressing her meaning by gestures with a clearness peculiar to the indians she dragged rather than led susan from the hut. they had just reached the edge of the forest when the wild yells of the indians sounded in their ears. having gone with susan a little way into the forest her guide left her. for nearly four hours she lay there half-dead with cold and terror, not daring to move from her place of concealment. she saw the flames of the dwelling where so many lonely hours had been passed rising above the trees, and heard the shrill "whoops" of the retiring indians. nero, who was lying by her side, suddenly rose and gave a low growl. silently a dark figure came gliding among the trees directly to the spot where she lay. she gave herself up for lost; but it was the indian woman who came to her, and dropped at her feet a bag of money, the remains of her late husband's savings. the grateful creature knew where it was kept; and while the indians were busied examining the rifles and other objects more interesting to them, had carried it off unobserved. waving her arm around to show that all was now quiet, she pointed in the direction of wilton's house, and was again lost among the trees. day was just breaking when susan reached the squatter's cabin. having heard the sad story, wilton and two of his sons started immediately for the spot. nothing was to be seen save a heap of ashes. the party had apparently consisted of only three or four indians; but a powerful tribe being in the neighborhood, they saw it would be too hazardous to follow them. from this time susan lived with the wiltons. she was as a daughter to the old man, and a sister to his sons, who often said: "that as far as they were concerned, the indians had never done a kindlier action than in burning down susan cooper's hut." the warnings of the past. faint dream-like voices of the spectral past whisper the lessons of departed ages; each gathering treasured wisdom from the last, a long succession of experienced sages they steal upon the statesman as he sleeps, and chant in fancy's ear their warning numbers; when restless thought unceasing vigil keeps, trimming her taper while the body slumbers. they bid him listen to the tales they tell of nations perish'd and embalm'd in story; how inly rotting they were sapp'd and fell, like some proud oak whilome the forest's glory. sepulchral ruins crumble where a maze of busy streets once rang with life's commotion; where sculptured palaces in bygone days were gorged with spoils of conquer'd earth and ocean. for faction rent the seamless robe of peace, and, parting children of a common mother, bade fealty and loving concord cease to link the hearts he sever'd from each other. such is the burden of those solemn notes that issue from the haunted graves of nations; where, spread by time, a vailing shadow floats o'er spirits preaching from their ruin'd stations. the pie shops of london. from time immemorial the wandering pieman was a prominent character in the highways and byways of london. he was generally a merry dog, and was always found where merriment was going on. furnished with a tray about a yard square, either carried upon his head or suspended by a strap in front of his breast, he scrupled not to force his way through the thickest crowd, knowing that the very centre of action was the best market for his wares. he was a gambler, both from inclination and principle, and would toss with his customers, either by the dallying shilli-shally process of "best five in nine," the tricksy manoeuvre of "best two in three," or the desperate dash of "sudden death!" in which latter case the first toss was destiny--a pie for a halfpenny, or your halfpenny gone for nothing; but he invariably declined the mysterious process of "the odd man;" not being altogether free from suspicion on the subject of collusion between a couple of hungry customers. we meet with him frequently in old prints; and in hogarth's "march to finchley," there he stands in the very centre of the crowd, grinning with delight at the adroitness of one robbery, while he is himself the victim of another. we learn from this admirable figure by the greatest painter of english life, that the pieman of the last century perambulated the streets in professional costume; and we gather further, from the burly dimensions of his wares, that he kept his trade alive by the laudable practice of giving "a good pennyworth for a penny." justice compels us to observe, that his successors of a later generation have not been very conscientious observers of this maxim. the varying price of flour, alternating with a sliding-scale, probably drove some of them to their wit's end; and perhaps this cause more than any other operated in imparting that complexion to their productions which made them resemble the dead body of a penny pie, and which in due time lost them favor with the discerning portion of their customers. certain it is that the perambulating pie business in london fell very much into disrepute and contempt for several years before the abolition of the corn-laws and the advent of free trade. opprobrious epithets were hurled at the wandering merchant as he paraded the streets and alleys--epithets which were in no small degree justified by the clammy and clay-like appearance of his goods. by degrees the profession got into disfavor, and the pieman either altogether disappeared, or merged in a dealer in foreign nuts, fruits, and other edibles which barred the suspicion of sophistication. still the relish for pies survived in the public taste, and the willing penny was as ready as ever to guerdon the man who, on fair grounds, would meet the general desire. no sooner, therefore, was the sliding-scale gone to the dogs, and a fair prospect of permanence offered to the speculator, in the guarantee of something like a fixed cost in the chief ingredient used, than up sprung almost simultaneously in every district of the metropolis a new description of pie-shops, which rushed at once into popularity and prosperity. capital had recognized the leading want of the age, and brought the appliances of wealth and energy to supply it. avoiding, on the one hand, the glitter and pretension of the confectioner, and on the other the employment of adulterated or inferior materials, they produced an article which the populace devoured with universal commendation, to the gradual but certain profit of the projectors. the peripatetic merchant was pretty generally driven out of the field by the superiority of the article with which he had to compete. he could not manufacture on a small scale in a style to rival his new antagonists, and he could not purchase of them to sell again, because they would not allow him a living margin--boasting, as it would appear with perfect truth, that they sold at a small and infinitesimal profit, which would not bear division. these penny-pie shops now form one of the characteristic features of the london trade in comestibles. that they are an immense convenience as well as a luxury to a very large section of the population, there can be no doubt. it might be imagined, at first view, that they would naturally seek a cheap locality and a low rental. this, however, is by no means the universal practice. in some of the chief lines of route they are to be found in full operation; and it is rare indeed, unless at seasons when the weather is very unfavorable, that they are not seen well filled with customers. they abound especially in the immediate neighborhood of omnibus and cab stations, and very much in the thoroughfares and short-cuts most frequented by the middle and lower classes. but though the window may be of plate-glass, behind which piles of the finest fruit, joints and quarters of the best meat, a large dish of silver eels, and a portly china bowl charged with a liberal heap of minced-meat, with here and there a few pies, lie temptingly arranged upon napkins of snowy whiteness, yet there is not a chair, stool, or seat of any kind to be found within. no dallying is looked for, nor would it probably be allowed. "pay for your pie, and go," seems the order of the day. true, you may eat it there, as thousands do; but you must eat it standing, and clear of the counter. we have more than once witnessed this interesting operation with mingled mirth and satisfaction; nay, what do we care?--take the confession for what it is worth--_pars ipsi fuimus_--we have eaten our pies (and paid for them too, no credit being given)--_in loco_, and are therefore in a condition to guarantee the truth of what we record. with few exceptions (we include ourselves among the number), there are no theoretical philosophers among the frequenters of the penny-pie shop. the philosophy of bun-eating may be very profound, and may present, as we think it does, some difficult points; but the philosophy of penny-pie eating is absolutely next to _nil_. the customer of the pie-shop is a man (if he is not a boy) with whom a penny is a penny, and a pie is a pie, who, when he has the former to spend or the latter to eat, goes through the ceremony like one impressed with the settled conviction that he has business in hand which it behoves him to attend to. look at him as he stands in the centre of the floor, erect as a grenadier, turning his busy mouth full upon the living tide that rushes along holborn! of shame or confusion of face in connection with the enviable position in which he stands he has not the remotest conception, and could as soon be brought to comprehend the _differential calculus_ as to entertain a thought of it. what, we ask, would philosophy do for him? still every customer is not so happily organized, and so blissfully insensible to the attacks of false shame; and for such as are unprepared for the public gaze, or constitutionally averse from it, a benevolent provision is made by a score of old play-bills stuck against the adverse wall, or swathing the sacks of flour which stand ready for use, and which they may peruse, or affect to peruse, in silence, munching their pennyworths the while. the main body of the pie-eaters are, however, perfectly at their ease, and pass the very few minutes necessary for the discussion of their purchases in bandying compliments with three or four good-looking lasses, the very incarnations of good-temper and cleanly tidiness, who from morn to night are as busy as bees in extricating the pies from their metallic moulds, as they are demanded by the customers. these assistants lead no lazy life, but they are without exception plump and healthy-looking, and would seem (if we are to believe the report of an employer) to have an astonishing tendency to the parish church of the district in which they officiate, our informant having been bereaved of three by marriage in the short space of six months. relays are necessary in most establishments on the main routes, as the shops are open all night long, seldom closing much before three in the morning when situated in the neighborhood of a theatre or a cab-stand. of the amount of business done in the course of a year it is not easy to form an estimate. some pie-houses are known to consume as much flour as a neighboring baker standing in the same track. the baker makes ninety quartern loaves from the sack of flour, and could hardly make a living upon less than a dozen sacks a week; but as the proportion borne by the crust of a penny-pie to a quartern loaf is a mystery which we have not yet succeeded in penetrating, we are wanting in the elements of an exact calculation. the establishment of these shops has by degrees prodigiously increased the number of pie-eaters and the consumption of pies. thousands and tens of thousands who would decline the handling of a scalding hot morsel in the public street, will yet steal to the corner of a shop, and in front of an old play-bill, delicately dandling the tit-bit on their finger-tips till it cools to the precise temperature at which it is so delicious to swallow--"snatch a fearful joy." the trades man, too, in the immediate vicinity, soon learns to appreciate the propinquity of the pie-shop, in the addition it furnishes to a cold dinner, and for half the sum it would have cost him if prepared in his own kitchen. many a time and oft have we dropped in, upon the strength of a general invitation, at the dinner-table of an indulgent bibliopole, and recognized the undeniable _patés_ of "over the way" following upon the heels of the cold sirloin. with artisans out of work, and with town-travelers of small trade, the pie-shop is a halting-place, its productions presenting a cheap substitute for a dinner. few purchases are made before twelve o'clock in the day; in fact the shutters are rarely pulled down much before eleven; yet even then business is carried on for nearly twenty hours out of the twenty-four. about noon the current of custom sets in, and all hands are busy till four or five o'clock; after which there is a pause, or rather a relaxation, until evening, when the various bands of operatives, as they are successively released from work, again renew the tide. as these disappear, the numberless nightly exhibitions, lecture-rooms, mechanics' institutes, concerts, theatres, and casinos, pour forth their motley hordes, of whom a large and hungry section find their way to the pie-house as the only available resource--the public-houses being shut up for the night, and the lobster-rooms, oyster saloons, "shades," "coal-holes," and "cider-cellars," too expensive for the multitude. after these come the cab-drivers who, having conveyed to their homes the more moneyed classes of sight-seers and play-goers, return to their stands in the vicinity of the shop, and now consider that they may conscientiously indulge in a refreshment of eel-pies, winding up with a couple of "fruiters," to the amount at least of the sum of which they may have been able to cheat their fares. throughout the summer months the pie trade flourishes with unabated vigor. each successive fruit, as it ripens and comes to market, adds a fresh impetus to the traffic. as autumn waxes every week supplies a new attraction and a delicious variety; as it wanes into winter, a good store of apples are laid up for future use; and so soon as jack frost sets his cold toes upon the pavement, the delicate odor of mince-meat assails the passer-by, and reminds him that christmas is coming, and that the pieman is ready for him. it is only in the early spring that the pie-shop is under a temporary cloud. the apples of the past year are well-nigh gone, and the few that remain have lost their succulence, and are dry and flavorless. this is the precise season when, as the pieman in "pickwick" too candidly observed, "fruits is out, and cats is in." now there is an unaccountable prejudice against cats among the pie-devouring population of the metropolis: we are superior to it ourselves, and can therefore afford to mention it dispassionately, and to express our regret that any species of commerce, much more one so grateful to the palate, and so convenient to the purse, should periodically suffer declension through the prevalence of an unfounded prejudice. certain it is that penny-pie eating does materially decline about the early spring season; and it is certain too, that of late years, about the same season, a succession of fine tabbies of our own have mysteriously disappeared. attempts are made with rhubarb to combat the depression of business; but success in this matter is very partial--the generality of consumers being impressed with the popular notion that rhubarb is physic, and that physic is not fruit. but relief is at hand; the showers and sunshine of may bring the gooseberry to market; pies resume their importance; and the pieman backed by an inexhaustible store of a fruit grateful to every english palate, commences the campaign with renewed energy, and bids defiance for the rest of the year to the mutations of fortune. we shall close this sketch with a legend of the day, for the truth of which, however, we do not personally vouch. it was related and received with much gusto at an annual supper lately given by a large pie proprietor to his assembled hands. some time since, so runs the current narrative, the owner of a thriving mutton-pie concern, which, after much difficulty, he had succeeded in establishing with borrowed capital, died before he had well extricated himself from the responsibilities of debt. the widow carried on the business after his decease, and throve so well, that a speculating baker on the opposite side of the way made her the offer of his hand. the lady refused, and the enraged suitor, determined on revenge, immediately converted his baking into an opposition pie-shop; and acting on the principle universal among london bakers, of doing business for the first month or two at a loss, made his pies twice as big as he could honestly afford to make them. the consequence was that the widow lost her custom, and was hastening fast to ruin, when a friend of her late husband, who was also a small creditor, paid her a visit. she detailed her grievance to him, and lamented her lost trade and fearful prospects. "ho, ho!" said her friend, "that 'ere's the move, is it? never you mind, my dear. if i don't git your trade agin, there aint no snakes, mark me--that's all!" so saying, he took his leave. about eight o'clock the same evening, when the baker's new pie-shop was crammed to overflowing, and the principal was below superintending the production of a new batch, in walks the widow's friend in the costume of a kennel-raker, and elbowing his way to the counter dabs down upon it a brace of huge dead cats, vociferating at the same time to the astonished damsel in attendance, "tell your master, my dear, as how them two makes six-and-thirty this week, and say i'll bring t'other four to-morrer arternoon!" with that he swaggered out and went his way. so powerful was the prejudice against cat-mutton among the population of that neighborhood, that the shop was clear in an instant, and the floor was seen covered with hastily-abandoned specimens of every variety of segments of a circle. the spirit-shop at the corner of the street experienced an unusually large demand for "gees" of brandy, and interjectional ejaculations not purely grammatical were not merely audible, but visible, too, in the district. it is averred that the ingenious expedient of the widow's friend, founded as it was upon a profound knowledge of human prejudices, had the desired effect of restoring "the balance of trade." the widow recovered her commerce; the resentful baker was done as brown as if he had been shut up in his own oven; and the friend who brought about this measure of justice received the hand of the lady as a reward for his interference. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] book vi.--initial chapter. "life," said my father, in his most dogmatical tone, "is a certain quantity in time, which may be regarded in two ways-- st, as life _integral_; d, as life _fractional_. life integral is that complete whole, expressive of a certain value, large or small, which each man possesses in himself. life fractional is that same whole seized upon and invaded by other people, and subdivided among them. they who get a large slice of it say, 'a very valuable life this!' those who get but a small handful say, 'so, so, nothing very great!' those who get none of it in the scramble exclaim, 'good for nothing!'" [ ] continued from the july number. "i don't understand a word you are saying," growled captain roland. my father surveyed his brother with compassion--"i will make it all clear even to your understanding. when i sit down by myself in my study, having carefully locked the door on all of you, alone with my books and thoughts, i am in full possession of my integral life. i am _totus, teres, atque rotundus_--a whole human being--equivalent in value we will say, for the sake of illustration, to a fixed round sum--£ , for example. but when i come forth into the common apartment, each of those to whom i am of any worth whatsoever, puts his fingers into the bag that contains me, and takes out of me what he wants. kitty requires me to pay a bill; pisistratus to save him the time and trouble of looking into a score or two of books; the children to tell them stories, or play at hide and seek; the carp for bread-crumbs; and so on throughout the circle to which i have incautiously given myself up for plunder and subdivision. the £ which i represented in my study is now parceled out; i am worth £ or £ to kitty, £ to pisistratus, and perhaps _s._ to the carp. this is life fractional. and i cease to be an integral till once more returning to my study, and again closing the door on all existence but my own. meanwhile, it is perfectly clear that, to those who, whether i am in the study, or whether i am in the common sitting-room, get nothing at all out of me, i am not worth a farthing. it must be wholly indifferent to a native of kamtschatka whether austin caxton be or be not rased out of the great account-book of human beings. "hence," continued my father--"hence, it follows that the more fractional a life be--_id est_, the greater the number of persons among whom it can be subdivided--why, the more there are to say, 'a very valuable life that!' thus, the leader of a political party, a conqueror, a king, an author who is amusing hundreds or thousands, or millions, has a greater number of persons whom his worth interests and affects than a saint simon stylites could have when he perched himself at the top of a column; although, regarded each in himself, saint simon, in his grand mortification of flesh, in the idea that he thereby pleased his divine benefactor, might represent a larger sum of moral value _per se_ than bonaparte or voltaire." pisistratus.--"perfectly clear, sir, but i don't see what it has to do with my novel." mr. caxton.--"every thing. your novel, if it is to be a full and comprehensive survey of the '_quicquid agunt homines_' (which it ought to be, considering the length and breadth to which i foresee, from the slow development of your story, you meditate extending and expanding it), will embrace the two views of existence, the integral and the fractional. you have shown us the former in leonard, when he is sitting in his mother's cottage, or resting from his work by the little fount in riccabocca's garden. and in harmony with that view of his life, you have surrounded him with comparative integrals, only subdivided by the tender hands of their immediate families and neighbors--your squires and parsons, your italian exile and his jemima. with all these, life is more or less the life natural, and this is always more or less the life integral. then comes the life artificial, which is always more or less the life fractional. in the life natural wherein we are swayed but by our own native impulses and desires, subservient only to the great silent law of virtue (which has pervaded the universe since it swung out of chaos), a man is of worth from what he is in himself--newton was as worthy before the apple fell from the tree as when all europe applauded the discoverer of the principle of gravity. but in the life artificial we are only of worth inasmuch as we affect others. and, relative to that life, newton rose in value, more than a million per cent. when down fell the apple from which ultimately sprang up his discovery. in order to keep civilization going, and spread over the world the light of human intellect, we have certain desires within us, ever swelling beyond the ease and independence which belong to us as integrals. cold man as newton might be (he once took a lady's hand in his own, kitty, and used her fore-finger for his tobacco-stopper; great philosopher!)--cold as he might be, he was yet moved into giving his discoveries to the world, and that from motives very little differing in their quality from the motives that make dr. squills communicate articles to the phrenological journal upon the skulls of bushmen and wombats. for it is the _property of light to travel_. when a man has light in him, forth it must go. but the first passage of genius from its integral state (in which it has been reposing on its own wealth) into the fractional, is usually through a hard and vulgar pathway. it leaves behind it the reveries of solitude, that self-contemplating rest which may be called the visionary, and enters suddenly into the state that may be called the positive and actual. there, it sees the operations of money on the outer life--sees all the ruder and commoner springs of action--sees ambition without nobleness--love without romance--is bustled about, and ordered, and trampled, and cowed--in short, it passes an apprenticeship with some richard avenel, and does not yet detect what good and what grandeur, what addition even to the true poetry of the social universe, fractional existences like richard avenel's bestow; for the pillars that support society are like those of the court of the hebrew tabernacle--they are of brass it is true, but they are filleted with silver. from such intermediate state genius is expelled and driven on in its way, and would have been so in this ease had mrs. fairfield (who is but the representative of the homely natural affections, strongest ever in true genius--for light is warm) never crushed mr. avenel's moss-rose on her sisterly bosom. now, forth from this passage and defile of transition into the larger world, must genius go on, working out its natural destiny amidst things and forms the most artificial. passions that move and influence the world are at work around it. often lost sight of itself, its very absence is a silent contrast to the agencies present. merged and vanished for a while amidst the practical world, yet we ourselves feel all the while that it is _there_; is at work amidst the workings around it. this practical world that effaces it, rose out of some genius that has gone before; and so each man of genius, though we never come across him, as his operations proceed in places remote from our thoroughfares, is yet influencing the practical world that ignores him, forever and ever. that is genius! we can't describe it in books--we can only hint and suggest it, by the accessaries which we artfully heap about it. the entrance of a true probationer into the terrible ordeal of practical life is like that into the miraculous cavern by which, legend informs us, st. patrick converted ireland." blanche.--"what is that legend? i never heard of it." mr. caxton.--"my dear, you will find it in a thin folio at the right on entering my study, written by thomas messingham, and called 'florilegium insulæ sanctorum,' &c. the account therein is confirmed by the relation of an honest soldier, one louis ennius, who had actually entered the cavern. in short, the truth of the legend is undeniable, unless you mean to say, which i can't for a moment suppose, that louis ennius was a liar. thus it runs: 'st. patrick, finding that the irish pagans were incredulous as to his pathetic assurances of the pains and torments destined to those who did not expiate their sins in this world, prayed for a miracle to convince them. his prayer was heard; and a certain cavern, so small that a man could not stand up therein at his ease, was suddenly converted into a purgatory, comprehending tortures sufficient to convince the most incredulous. one unacquainted with human nature might conjecture that few would be disposed to venture voluntarily into such a place;--on the contrary, pilgrims came in crowds. now, all who entered from vain curiosity, or with souls unprepared, perished miserably; but those who entered with deep and earnest faith, conscious of their faults, and if bold, yet humble, not only came out safe and sound, but purified, as if from the waters of a second baptism.' see savage and johnson, at night in fleet-street;--and who shall doubt the truth of st. patrick's purgatory!" therewith my father sighed--closed his lucian, which had lain open on the table, and would read nothing but "good books" for the rest of the evening. chapter ii. on their escape from the prison to which mr. avenel had condemned them, leonard and his mother found their way to a small public-house that lay at a little distance from the town, and on the outskirts of the high-road. with his arm round his mother's waist, leonard supported her steps, and soothed her excitement. in fact, the poor woman's nerves were greatly shaken, and she felt an uneasy remorse at the injury her intrusion had inflicted on the young man's worldly prospects. as the shrewd reader has guessed already, that infamous tinker was the prime agent of evil in this critical turn in the affairs of his quondam customer. for, on his return to his haunts around hazeldean and the casino, the tinker had hastened to apprise mrs. fairfield of his interview with leonard, and on finding that she was not aware that the boy was under the roof of his uncle, the pestilent vagabond (perhaps from spite against mr. avenel, or perhaps from that pure love of mischief by which metaphysical critics explain the character of iago, and which certainly formed a main element in the idiosyncrasy of mr. sprott) had so impressed on the widow's mind the haughty demeanor of the uncle and the refined costume of the nephew, that mrs. fairfield had been seized with a bitter and insupportable jealousy. there was an intention to rob her of her boy!--he was to be made too fine for her. his silence was now accounted for. this sort of jealousy, always more or less a feminine quality, is often very strong among the poor; and it was the more strong in mrs. fairfield, because, lone woman that she was, the boy was all in all to her. and though she was reconciled to the loss of his presence, nothing could reconcile her to the thought that his affections should be weaned from her. moreover, there were in her mind certain impressions, of the justice of which the reader may better judge hereafter, as to the gratitude--more than ordinarily filial--which leonard owed to her. in short, she did not like, as she phrased it, "to be shaken off;" and after a sleepless night she resolved to judge for herself, much moved thereto by the malicious suggestions to that effect made by mr. sprott, who mightily enjoyed the idea of mortifying the gentleman by whom he had been so disrespectfully threatened with the treadmill. the widow felt angry with parson dale, and with the riccaboccas: she thought they were in the plot against her; she communicated, therefore, her intention to none--and off she set, performing the journey partly on the top of the coach, partly on foot. no wonder that she was dusty, poor woman. "and, oh! boy!" said she, half-sobbing; "when i got through the lodge-gates, came on the lawn, and saw all that power o' fine folk--i said to myself, says i--(for i felt fritted)--i'll just have a look at him and go back. but, ah, lenny, when i saw thee, looking so handsome--and when thee turned and cried 'mother,' my heart was just ready to leap out o' my mouth--and so i could not help hugging thee, if i had died for it. and thou wert so kind, that i forgot all mr. sprott had said about dick's pride, or thought he had just told a fib about that, as he had wanted me to believe a fib about thee. then dick came up--and i had not seen him for so many years--and we come o' the same father and mother; and so--and so--" the widow's sobs here fairly choked her. "ah," she said, after giving vent to her passion, and throwing her arms round leonard's neck, as they sate in the little sanded parlor of the public-house--"ah, and i've brought thee to this. go back, go back, boy, and never mind me." with some difficulty leonard pacified poor mrs. fairfield, and got her to retire to bed; for she was, indeed, thoroughly exhausted. he then stepped forth into the road, musingly. all the stars were out; and youth, in its troubles, instinctively looks up to the stars. folding his arms, leonard gazed on the heavens, and his lips murmured. from this trance, for so it might be called, he was awakened by a voice in a decidedly london accent; and, turning hastily round, saw mr. avenel's very gentlemanlike butler. leonard's first idea was that his uncle had repented, and sent in search of him. but the butler seemed as much surprised at the rencounter as himself: that personage, indeed, the fatigues of the day being over, was accompanying one of mr. gunter's waiters to the public-house (at which the latter had secured his lodging), having discovered an old friend in the waiter, and proposing to regale himself with a cheerful glass, and--(_that_ of course)--abuse of his present situation. "mr. fairfield!" exclaimed the butler, while the waiter walked discreetly on. leonard looked, and said nothing. the butler began to think that some apology was due for leaving his plate and his pantry, and that he might as well secure leonard's propitiatory influence with his master-- "please, sir," said he, touching his hat, "i was just a-showing mr. giles the way to the blue bells, where he puts up for the night. i hope my master will not be offended. if you are a-going back, sir, would you kindly mention it?" "i am not going back, jarvis," answered leonard, after a pause; "i am leaving mr. avenel's house, to accompany my mother; rather suddenly. i should be very much obliged to you if you would bring some things of mine to me at the blue bells. i will give you the list, if you will step back with me to the inn." without waiting for a reply, leonard then turned toward the inn, and made his humble inventory; item, the clothes he had brought with him from the casino; item, the knapsack that had contained them; item, a few books ditto; item, dr. riccabocca's watch; item, sundry mss., on which the young student now built all his hopes of fame and fortune. this list he put into mr. jarvis's hand. "sir," said the butler, twirling the paper between his finger and thumb, "you are not a-going for long, i hope;" and as he thought of the scene on the lawn, the report of which had vaguely reached his ears, he looked on the face of the young man, who had always been "civil spoken to him," with as much curiosity and as much compassion as so apathetic and princely a personage could experience in matters affecting a family less aristocratic than he had hitherto condescended to serve. "yes," said leonard, simply and briefly; "and your master will no doubt excuse you for rendering me this service." mr. jarvis postponed for the present his glass and chat with the waiter, and went back at once to mr. avenel. that gentleman, still seated in his library, had not been aware of the butler's absence; and when mr. jarvis entered and told him that he had met mr. fairfield, and, communicating the commission with which he was intrusted, asked leave to execute it, mr. avenel felt the man's inquisitive eye was on him, and conceived new wrath against leonard for a new humiliation to his pride. it was awkward to give no explanation of his nephew's departure, still more awkward to explain. after a short pause, mr. avenel said sullenly, "my nephew is going away on business for some time--do what he tells you;" and then turned his back, and lighted his cigar. "that beast of a boy," said he, soliloquizing, "either means this as an affront, or an overture; if an affront, he is, indeed, well got rid of; if an overture, he will soon make a more respectful and proper one. after all, i can't have too little of relations till i have fairly secured mrs. m'catchly. an honorable! i wonder if that makes me an honorable too? this cursed debrett contains no practical information on these points." the next morning, the clothes and the watch with which mr. avenel had presented leonard were returned, with a note meant to express gratitude, but certainly written with very little knowledge of the world, and so full of that somewhat over-resentful pride which had in earlier life made leonard fly from hazeldean, and refuse all apology to randal, that it is not to be wondered at that mr. avenel's last remorseful feelings evaporated in ire. "i hope he will starve!" said the uncle, vindictively. chapter iii. "listen to me, my dear mother," said leonard the next morning, as with his knapsack on his shoulder and mrs. fairfield on his arm, he walked along the high road; "i do assure you, from my heart, that i do not regret the loss of favors which i see plainly would have crushed out of me the very sense of independence. but do not fear for me; i have education and energy--i shall do well for myself, trust me. no; i can not, it is true, go back to our cottage--i can not be a gardener again. don't ask me--i should be discontented, miserable. but i will go up to london! that's the place to make a fortune and a name: i will make both. o yes, trust me, i will. you shall soon be proud of your leonard; and then we will always live together--always! don't cry." "but what can you do in lunnon--such a big place, lenny?" "what! every year does not some lad leave our village, and go and seek his fortune, taking with him but health and strong hands? i have these, and i have more: i have brains, and thoughts, and hopes, that--again i say, no, no--never fear for me!" the boy threw back his head proudly; there was something sublime in his young trust in the future. "well--but you will write to mr. dale, or to me? i will get mr. dale, or the good mounseer (now i know they were not agin me) to read your letters." "i will, indeed!" "and, boy, you have nothing in your pockets. we have paid dick; these, at least, are my own, after paying the coach fare." and she would thrust a sovereign and some shillings into leonard's waistcoat pocket. after some resistance, he was forced to consent. "and there's a sixpence with a hole in it. don't part with that, lenny; it will bring thee good luck." thus talking, they gained the inn where the three roads met, and from which a coach went direct to the casino. and here, without entering the inn, they sate on the green sward by the hedge-row, waiting the arrival of the coach. mrs. fairfield was much subdued in spirits, and there was evidently on her mind something uneasy--some struggle with her conscience. she not only upbraided herself for her rash visit; but she kept talking of her dead mark. and what would he say of her, if he could see her in heaven? "it was so selfish in me, lenny." "pooh, pooh! has not a mother a right to her child?" "ay, ay, ay!" cried mrs. fairfield. "i do love you as a child--my own child. but if i was not your mother after all, lenny, and cost you all this--oh, what would you say of me then?" "not my own mother!" said leonard, laughing, as he kissed her. "well, i don't know what i should say then differently from what i say now--that you who brought me up, and nursed and cherished me, had a right to my home and my heart, wherever i was." "bless thee!" cried mrs. fairfield, as she pressed him to her heart. "but it weighs here--it weighs"--she said, starting up. at that instant the coach appeared, and leonard ran forward to inquire if there was an outside place. then there was a short bustle while the horses were being changed; and mrs. fairfield was lifted up to the roof of the vehicle. so all further private conversation between her and leonard ceased. but as the coach whirled away, and she waved her hand to the boy, who stood on the road-side gazing after her, she still murmured--"it weighs here--it weighs--!" chapter iv. leonard walked sturdily on in the high-road to the great city. the day was calm and sunlit, but with a gentle breeze from gray hills at the distance; and with each mile that he passed, his step seemed to grow more firm, and his front more elate. oh! it is such joy in youth to be alone with one's day-dreams. and youth feels so glorious a vigor in the sense of its own strength, though the world be before and--against it! removed from that chilling counting-house--from the imperious will of a patron and master--all friendless, but all independent--the young adventurer felt a new being--felt his grand nature as man. and on the man rushed the genius long interdicted--and thrust aside--rushing back, with the first breath of adversity to console--no! the man needed not consolation--to kindle, to animate, to rejoice! if there is a being in the world worthy of our envy, after we have grown wise philosophers of the fireside, it is not the palled voluptuary, nor the care-worn statesman, nor even the great prince of arts and letters, already crowned with the laurel, whose leaves are as fit for poison as for garlands; it is the young child of adventure and hope. ay, and the emptier his purse, ten to one but the richer his heart, and the wider the domains which his fancy enjoys as he goes on with kingly step to the future. not till toward the evening did our adventurer slacken his pace, and think of rest and refreshment. there, then, lay before him, on either side the road, those wide patches of uninclosed land, which in england often denote the entrance to a village. presently one or two neat cottages came in sight--then a small farm-house, with its yard and barns. and some way further yet, he saw the sign swinging before an inn of some pretensions--the sort of inn often found on a long stage between two great towns, commonly called "the half-way house." but the inn stood back from the road, having its own separate sward in front, whereon were a great beech tree (from which the sign extended) and a rustic arbor--so that, to gain the inn, the coaches that stopped there took a sweep from the main thoroughfare. between our pedestrian and the inn there stood naked and alone, on the common land, a church; our ancestors never would have chosen that site for it; therefore it was a modern church--modern gothic--handsome to an eye not versed in the attributes of ecclesiastical architecture--very barbarous to an eye that was. somehow or other the church looked cold, and raw, and uninviting. it looked a church for show--much too big for the scattered hamlet--and void of all the venerable associations which give their peculiar and unspeakable atmosphere of piety to the churches in which succeeding generations have knelt and worshiped. leonard paused and surveyed the edifice with an unlearned but poetical gaze--it dissatisfied him. and he was yet pondering why, when a young girl passed slowly before him, her eyes fixed on the ground, opened the little gate that led into the church-yard, and vanished. he did not see the child's face; but there was something in her movements so utterly listless, forlorn, and sad, that his heart was touched. what did she there? he approached the low wall with a noiseless step, and looked over it wistfully. there by a grave evidently quite recent, with no wooden tomb nor tombstone like the rest, the little girl had thrown herself, and she was sobbing loud and passionately. leonard opened the gate, and approached her with a soft step. mingled with her sobs, he heard broken sentences, wild and vain, as all human sorrowings over graves must be. "father! oh, father! do you not really hear me? i am so lone--so lone! take me to you--take me!" and she buried her face in the deep grass. "poor child!" said leonard, in a half whisper--"he is not there. look above!" the girl did not heed him--he put his arm round her waist gently--she made a gesture of impatience and anger, but she would not turn her face--and she clung to the grave with her hands. after clear sunny days the dews fall more heavily; and now, as the sun set, the herbage was bathed in a vaporous haze--a dim mist rose around. the young man seated himself beside her, and tried to draw the child to his breast. then she turned eagerly, indignantly, and pushed him aside with jealous arms. he profaned the grave! he understood her with his deep poet-heart, and rose. there was a pause. leonard was the first to break it. "come to your home with me, my child, and we will talk of _him_ by the way." "him! who are you? you did not know him!" said the girl, still with anger. "go away--why do you disturb me? i do no one harm. go--go!" "you do yourself harm, and that will grieve him if he sees you yonder! come!" the child looked at him through her blinding tears, and his face softened and soothed her. "go!" she said very plaintively, and in subdued accents. "i will but stay a minute more. i--i have so much to say yet." leonard left the church-yard, and waited without; and in a short time the child came forth, waved him aside as he approached her, and hurried away. he followed her at a distance, and saw her disappear within the inn. chapter v. "hip--hip--hurrah!" such was the sound that greeted our young traveler as he reached the inn-door--a sound joyous in itself, but sadly out of harmony with the feelings which the child sobbing on the tombless grave had left at his heart. the sound came from within, and was followed by thumps and stamps, and the jingle of glasses. a strong odor of tobacco was wafted to his olfactory sense. he hesitated a moment at the threshold. before him on benches under the beech-tree and within the arbor, were grouped sundry athletic forms with "pipes in the liberal air." the landlady, as she passed across the passage to the tap-room, caught sight of his form at the doorway, and came forward. leonard still stood irresolute. he would have gone on his way, but for the child; she had interested him strongly. "you seem full, ma'am," said he. "can i have accommodation for the night?" "why, indeed, sir," said the landlady, civilly, "i can give you a bed-room, but i don't know where to put you meanwhile. the two parlors and the tap-room and the kitchen are all choke-ful. there has been a great cattle-fair in the neighborhood, and i suppose we have as many as fifty farmers and drovers stopping here." "as to that, ma'am, i can sit in the bed-room you are kind enough to give me; and if it does not cause you much trouble to let me have some tea there, i should be glad; but i can wait your leisure. do not put yourself out of the way for me." the landlady was touched by a consideration she was not much habituated to receive from her bluff customers. "you speak very handsome, sir, and we will do our best to serve you, if you will excuse all faults. this way, sir." leonard lowered his knapsack, stepped into the passage, with some difficulty forced his way through a knot of sturdy giants in top-boots or leathern gaiters, who were swarming in and out the tap-room, and followed his hostess up-stairs to a little bed-room at the top of the house. "it is small, sir, and high," said the hostess, apologetically. "but there be four gentlemen-farmers that have come a great distance, and all the first floor is engaged; you will be more out of the noise here." "nothing can suit me better. but, stay--pardon me;" and leonard, glancing at the garb of the hostess, observed she was not in mourning. "a little girl whom i saw in the church-yard yonder, weeping very bitterly--is she a relation of yours? poor child, she seems to have deeper feelings than are common at her age." "ah, sir," said the landlady, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes, "it is a very sad story--i don't know what to do. her father was taken ill on his way to lunnun, and stopped here, and has been buried four days. and the poor little girl seems to have no relations--and where is she to go? laryer jones says we must pass her to marybone parish, where her father lived last; and what's to become of her then? my heart bleeds to think on it." here then rose such an uproar from below, that it was evident some quarrel had broken out; and the hostess, recalled to her duties, hastened to carry thither her propitiatory influences. leonard seated himself pensively by the little lattice. here was some one more alone in the world than he. and she, poor orphan, had no stout man's heart to grapple with fate, and no golden manuscripts that were to be as the "open sesame" to the treasures of aladdin. by-and-by, the hostess brought him up a tray with tea and other refreshments, and leonard resumed his inquiries. "no relatives?" said he; "surely the child must have some kinsfolk in london? did her father leave no directions, or was he in possession of his faculties?" "yes, sir; he was quite reasonablelike to the last. and i asked him if he had not any thing on his mind, and he said, 'i have.' and i said, 'your little girl, sir?' and he answered me, 'yes, ma'am;' and laying his head on his pillow, he wept very quietly. i could not say more myself, for it set me off to see him cry so meekly; but my husband is harder than i, and he said, 'cheer up, mr. digby; had not you better write to your friends?'" "'friends!' said the gentleman, in such a voice! 'friends, i have but one, and i am going to him! i can not take her there!' then he seemed suddenly to recollect hisself, and called for his clothes, and rummaged in the pockets as if looking for some address, and could not find it. he seemed a forgetful kind of gentleman, and his hands were what i call _helpless_ hands, sir! and then he gasped out, 'stop--stop! i never had the address. write to lord les--' something like lord lester--but we could not make out the name. indeed, he did not finish it, for there was a rush of blood to his lips; and though he seemed sensible when he recovered (and knew us and his little girl too, till he went off smiling), he never spoke word more." "poor man," said leonard, wiping his eyes. "but his little girl surely remembers the name that he did not finish?" "no. she says, he must have meant a gentleman whom they had met in the park not long ago, who was very kind to her father, and was lord something; but she don't remember the name, for she never saw him before or since, and her father talked very little about any one lately, but thought he should find some kind friends at screwstown, and traveled down there with her from lunnon. but she supposes he was disappointed, for he went out, came back, and merely told her to put up the things, as they must go back to lunnon. and on his way there he--died. hush, what's that? i hope she did not overhear us. no, we were talking low. she has the next room to your'n, sir. i thought i heard her sobbing. hush!" "in the next room? i hear nothing. well, with your leave, i will speak to her before i quit you. and had her father no money with him?" "yes, a few sovereigns, sir; they paid for his funeral, and there is a little left still, enough to take her to town; for my husband said, says he, 'hannah, the widow _gave_ her mite, and we must not _take_ the orphan's,' and my husband is a hard man, too, sir. bless him?" "let me take your hand, ma'am. god reward you both." "la, sir!--why, even dr. dosewell said, rather grumpily though, 'never mind my bill; but don't call me up at six o'clock in the morning again, without knowing a little more about people.' and i never afore knew dr. dosewell go without his bill being paid. he said it was a trick o' the other doctor to spite him." "what other doctor?" "oh, a very good gentleman, who got out with mr. digby when he was taken ill, and staid till the next morning; and our doctor says his name is morgan, and he lives in--lunnon, and is a homy--something." "homicide," suggested leonard ignorantly. "ah--homicide; something like that, only a deal longer and worse. but he left some of the tiniest little balls you ever see, sir, to give the child; but, bless you, they did her no good--how should they?" "tiny balls, oh--homeopathist--i understand. and the doctor was kind to her; perhaps he may help her. have you written to him?" "but we don't know his address, and lunnon is a vast place, sir." "i am going to london, and will find it out." "ah, sir, you seem very kind; and sin' she must go to lunnon (for what can we do with her here?--she's too genteel for service), i wish she was going with you." "with me!" said leonard, startled; "with me! well, why not?" "i am sure she comes of good blood, sir. you would have known her father was quite the gentleman, only to see him die, sir. he went off so kind and civil like, as if he was ashamed to give so much trouble--quite a gentleman, if ever there was one. and so are you, sir, i'm sure," said the landlady, courtesying; "i know what gentlefolk be. i've been a housekeeper in the first of families in this very shire, sir, though i can't say i've served in lunnon; and so, as gentlefolks know each other, i've no doubt you could find out her relations. dear--dear! coming, coming!" here there were loud cries for the hostess, and she hurried away. the farmers and drovers were beginning to depart, and their bills were to be made out and paid. leonard saw his hostess no more that night. the last hip--hip--hurrah, was heard; some toast, perhaps, to the health of the county members;--and the chamber of woe, beside leonard's, rattled with the shout. by-and-by silence gradually succeeded the various dissonant sounds below. the carts and gigs rolled away; the clatter of hoofs on the road ceased; there was then a dumb dull sound as of locking-up, and low humming of voices below, and footsteps mounting the stairs to bed, with now and then a drunken hiccup or maudlin laugh, as some conquered votary of bacchus was fairly carried up to his domicile. all, then, at last, was silent, just as the clock from the church sounded the stroke of eleven. leonard, meanwhile, had been looking over his mss. there was first a project for an improvement on the steam-engine--a project that had long lain in his mind, begun with the first knowledge of mechanics that he had gleaned from his purchases of the tinker. he put that aside now--it required too great an effort of the reasoning faculty to re-examine. he glanced less hastily over a collection of essays on various subjects, some that he thought indifferent, some that he thought good. he then lingered over a collection of verses, written in his best hand with loving care--verses first inspired by his perusal of nora's melancholy memorials. these verses were as a diary of his heart and his fancy--those deep unwitnessed struggles which the boyhood of all more thoughtful natures has passed in its bright yet murky storm of the cloud and the lightning flash; though but few boys paused to record the crisis from which slowly emerges man. and these first desultory grapplings with the fugitive airy images that flit through the dim chambers of the brain, had become with each effort more sustained and vigorous, till the phantoms were spelled, the flying ones arrested, the immaterial seized, and clothed with form. gazing on his last effort, leonard felt that there at length spoke forth the poet. it was a work which, though as yet but half completed, came from a strong hand; not that shadow trembling on unsteady waters, which is but the pale reflex and imitation of some bright mind, sphered out of reach and afar; but an original substance--a life--a thing of the _creative_ faculty--breathing back already the breath it had received. this work had paused during leonard's residence with mr. avenel, or had only now and then, in stealth, and at night, received a rare touch. now, as with a fresh eye, he re-perused it; and with that strange, innocent admiration, not of self--(for a man's work is not, alas! himself--it is the beatified and idealized essence, extracted he knows not how from his own human elements of clay)--admiration known but to poets--their purest delight, often their sole reward. and then, with a warmer and more earthly beat of his full heart, he rushed in fancy to the great city, where all rivers of fame meet, but not to be merged and lost--sallying forth again, individualized and separate, to flow through that one vast thought of god which we call the world. he put up his papers; and opened his window, as was his ordinary custom, before he retired to rest--for he had many odd habits; and he loved to look out into the night when he prayed. his soul seemed to escape from the body--to mount on the air--to gain more rapid access to the far throne in the infinite--when his breath went forth among the winds, and his eyes rested fixed on the stars of heaven. so the boy prayed silently; and after his prayer he was about lingeringly to close the lattice, when he heard distinctly sobs close at hand. he paused, and held his breath; then looked gently out; the casement next his own was also open. some one was also at watch by that casement--perhaps also praying. he listened yet more intently, and caught, soft and low, the words, "father--father--do you hear me _now_?" chapter vi. leonard opened his door and stole toward that of the room adjoining; for his first natural impulse had been to enter and console. but when his touch was on the handle, he drew back. child though the mourner was, her sorrows were rendered yet more sacred from intrusion by her sex. something, he knew not what, in his young ignorance, withheld him from the threshold. to have crossed it then would have seemed to him profanation. so he returned, and for hours yet he occasionally heard the sobs, till they died away, and childhood wept itself to sleep. but the next morning, when he heard his neighbor astir, he knocked gently at her door; there was no answer. he entered softly, and saw her seated very listlessly in the centre of the room--as if it had no familiar nook or corner as the rooms of home have--her hands drooping on her lap, and her eyes gazing desolately on the floor. then he approached and spoke to her. helen was very subdued, and very silent. her tears seemed dried up: and it was long before she gave sign or token that she heeded him. at length, however, he gradually succeeded in rousing her interest; and the first symptom of his success was in the quiver of her lip, and the overflow of the downcast eyes. by little and little he wormed himself into her confidence; and she told him, in broken whispers, her simple story. but what moved him the most was, that, beyond her sense of loneliness, she did not seem to feel her own unprotected state. she mourned the object she had nursed, and heeded, and cherished; for she had been rather the protectress than the protected to the helpless dead. he could not gain from her any more satisfactory information than the landlady had already imparted, as to her friends and prospects; but she permitted him passively to look among the effects her father had left--save only that if his hand touched something that seemed to her associations especially holy, she waved him back, or drew it quickly away. there were many bills receipted in the name of captain digby--old yellow faded music-scores for the flute--extracts of parts from prompt books--gay parts of lively comedies, in which heroes have so noble a contempt for money--fit heroes for a sheridan and a farquhar; close by these were several pawnbroker's tickets; and, not arranged smoothly, but crumpled up, as if with an indignant nervous clutch of the old helpless hands, some two or three letters. he asked helen's permission to glance at these, for they might give a clew to friends. helen gave the permission by a silent bend of the head. the letters, however, were but short and freezing answers from what appeared to be distant connections or former friends, or persons to whom the deceased had applied for some situation. they were all very disheartening in their tone. leonard next endeavored to refresh helen's memory as to the name of the nobleman which had been last on her father's lips; but there he failed wholly. for it may be remembered that lord l'estrange, when he pressed his loan on mr. digby, and subsequently told that gentleman to address to him at mr. egerton's, had, from a natural delicacy, sent the child on, that she might not hear the charity bestowed on the father; and helen said truly, that mr. digby had sunk into a habitual silence on all his affairs latterly. she might have heard her father mention the name, but she had not treasured it up; all she could say was, that she should know the stranger again if she met him, and his dog too. seeing that the child had grown calm, leonard was then going to leave the room, in order to confer with the hostess: when she rose suddenly, though noiselessly, and put her little hand in his, as if to detain him. she did not say a word--the action said all--said "do not desert me." and leonardo heart rushed to his lips, and he answered to the action, as he bent down and kissed her cheek, "orphan, will you go with me? we have one father yet to both of us, and he will guide us on earth. i am fatherless like you." she raised her eyes to his--looked at him long--and then leant her head confidingly on his strong young shoulder. chapter vii. at noon that same day, the young man and the child were on their road to london. the host had at first a little demurred at trusting helen to so young a companion; but leonard, in his happy ignorance, had talked so sanguinely of finding out this lord, or some adequate protection for the child; and in so grand a strain, though with all sincerity--had spoken of his own great prospects in the metropolis (he did not say what they were!)--that had it been the craftiest impostor he could not more have taken in the rustic host. and while the landlady still cherished the illusive fancy, that all gentlefolks must know each other in london, as they did in a county, the landlord believed, at least, that a young man so respectably dressed, although but a foot-traveler--who talked in so confident a tone, and who was so willing to undertake what might be rather a burdensome charge, unless he saw how to rid himself of it--would be sure to have friends, older and wiser than himself, who would judge what could best be done for the orphan. and what was the host to do with her? better this volunteered escort, at least, than vaguely passing her on from parish to parish, and leaving her friendless at last in the streets of london. helen, too, smiled for the first time on being asked her wishes, and again put her hand in leonard's. in short, so it was settled. the little girl made up a bundle of the things she most prized or needed. leonard did not feel the additional load, as he slung it to his knapsack: the rest of the luggage was to be sent to london as soon as leonard wrote (which he promised to do soon), and gave an address. helen paid her last visit to the church-yard; and she joined her companion as he stood on the road, without the solemn precincts. and now they had gone on some hours; and when he asked if she were tired, she still answered, "no." but leonard was merciful, and made their day's journey short; and it took them some days to reach london. by the long lonely way, they grew so intimate; at the end of the second day, they called each other brother and sister; and leonard, to his delight, found that as her grief, with the bodily movement and the change of scene, subsided from its first intenseness and its insensibility to other impressions, she developed a quickness of comprehension far beyond her years. poor child! _that_ had been forced upon her by necessity. and she understood him in his spiritual consolations--half-poetical, half-religious; and she listened to his own tale, and the story of his self-education and solitary struggles--those, too, she understood. but when he burst out with his enthusiasm, his glorious hopes, his confidence in the fate before them, then she would shake her head very quietly and very sadly. did she comprehend _them_? alas! perhaps too well. she knew more as to real life than he did. leonard was at first their joint treasurer; but before the second day was over, helen seemed to discover that he was too lavish; and she told him so, with a prudent, grave look, putting her hand on his arm as he was about to enter an inn to dine; and the gravity would have been comic, but that the eyes through their moisture were so meek and grateful. she felt he was about to incur that ruinous extravagance on her account. somehow or other, the purse found its way into her keeping, and then she looked proud and in her natural element. ah! what happy meals under her care were provided: so much more enjoyable than in dull, sanded inn-parlors, swarming with flies and reeking with stale tobacco. she would leave him at the entrance of a village, bound forward, and cater, and return with a little basket and a pretty blue jug--which she had bought on the road--the last filled with new milk; the first with new bread and some special dainty in radishes or water-cresses. and she had such a talent for finding out the prettiest spot whereon to halt and dine: sometimes in the heart of a wood--so still, it was like a forest in fairy tales, the hare stealing through the alleys, or the squirrel peeping at them from the boughs; sometimes by a little brawling stream, with the fishes seen under the clear wave, and shooting round the crumbs thrown to them. they made an arcadia of the dull road up to their dread thermopylæ--the war against the million that waited them on the other side of their pass through tempe. "shall we be as happy when we are _great_?" said leonard, in his grand simplicity. helen sighed, and the wise little head was shaken. chapter viii. at last they came within easy reach of london; but leonard had resolved not to enter the metropolis fatigued and exhausted, as a wanderer needing refuge, but fresh and elate, as a conqueror coming in triumph to take possession of the capital. therefore they halted early in the evening of the day preceding this imperial entry, about six miles from the metropolis, in the neighborhood of ealing (for by that route lay their way). they were not tired on arriving at their inn. the weather was singularly lovely, with that combination of softness and brilliancy which is only known to the rare true summer days of england: all below so green, above so blue--days of which we have about six in the year, and recall vaguely when we read of robin hood and maid marian, of damsel and knight, in spenser's golden summer song, or of jacques, dropped under the oak tree, watching the deer amidst the dells of ardennes. so, after a little pause in their inn, they strolled forth, not for travel, but pleasure, toward the cool of sunset, passing by the grounds that once belonged to the duke of kent, and catching a glimpse of the shrubs and lawns of that beautiful domain through the lodge-gates; then they crossed into some fields, and came to a little rivulet called the brent. helen had been more sad that day than on any during their journey. perhaps, because, on approaching london, the memory of her father became more vivid; perhaps from her precocious knowledge of life, and her foreboding of what was to befall them, children that they both were. but leonard was selfish that day; he could not be influenced by his companion's sorrow, he was so full of his own sense of being, and he already caught from the atmosphere the fever that belongs to anxious capitals. "sit here, sister," said he imperiously throwing himself under the shade of a pollard tree that overhung the winding brook, "sit here and talk." he flung off his hat, tossed back his rich curls, and sprinkled his brow from the stream that eddied round the roots of the tree that bulged out, bald and gnarled, from the bank, and delved into the waves below. helen quietly obeyed him, and nestled close to his side. "and so this london is really very vast?--very?" he repeated inquisitively. "very," answered helen, as abstractedly she plucked the cowslips near her, and let them fall into the running waters. "see how the flowers are carried down the stream! they are lost now. london is to us what the river is to the flowers--very vast--very strong;" and she added, after a pause, "very cruel?" "cruel! ah, it _has_ been so to you; but _now_!--now i will take care of you!" he smiled triumphantly; and his smile was beautiful both in its pride and its kindness. it is astonishing how leonard had altered since he had left his uncle's. he was both younger and older; for the sense of genius, when it snaps its shackles, makes us both older and wiser as to the world it soars to--younger and blinder as to the world it springs from. "and it is not a very handsome city either, you say?" "very ugly, indeed," said helen, with some fervor; "at least all i have seen of it." "but there must be parts that are prettier than others? you say there are parks; why should not we lodge near them, and look upon the green trees?" "that would be nice," said helen, almost joyously; "but--" and here the head was shaken--"there are no lodgings for us except in courts and alleys." "why?" "why?" echoed helen, with a smile, and she held up the purse. "pooh! always that horrid purse; as if, too, we were not going to fill it. did i not tell you the story of fortunio? well, at all events, we will go first to the neighborhood where you last lived, and learn there all we can; and then the day after to-morrow, i will see this dr. morgan, and find out the lord--" the tears started to helen's soft eyes. "you want to get rid of me soon, brother." "i! ah, i feel so happy to have you with me, it seems to me as if i had pined for you all my life, and you had come at last; for i never had brother, nor sister, nor any one to love, that was not older than myself, except--" "except the young lady you told me of," said helen, turning away her face; for children are very jealous. "yes, i loved her, love her still. but that was different," said leonard, with a heightened color. "i could never have talked to her as to you; to you i open my whole heart; you are my little muse, helen. i confess to you my wild whims and fancies as frankly as if i were writing poetry." as he said this, a step was heard, and a shadow fell over the stream. a belated angler appeared on the margin, drawing his line impatiently across the water, as if to worry some dozing fish into a bite before it finally settled itself for the night. absorbed in his occupation, the angler did not observe the young persons on the sward under the tree, and he halted there, close upon them. "curse that perch!" said he aloud. "take care, sir," cried leonard; for the man in stepping back, nearly trod upon helen. the angler turned. "what's the matter? hist! you have frightened my perch. keep still, can't you?" helen drew herself out of the way, and leonard remained motionless. he remembered jackeymo, and felt a sympathy for the angler. "it is the most extraordinary perch, that!" muttered the stranger, soliloquizing. "it has the devil's own luck. it must have been born with a silver spoon in its mouth, that damned perch! i shall never catch it--never! ha!--no--only a weed. i give it up." with this, he indignantly jerked his rod from the water, and began to disjoint it. while leisurely engaged in this occupation, he turned to leonard. "humph! are you intimately acquainted with this stream, sir?" "no," answered leonard. "i never saw it before." angler (solemnly).--"then, young man, take my advice, and do not give way to its fascinations. sir, i am a martyr to this stream; it has been the dalilah of my existence." leonard (interested, the last sentence seemed to him poetical).--"the dalilah! sir--the dalilah!" angler.--"the dalilah. young man, listen, and be warned by example. when i was about your age, i first came to this stream to fish. sir, on that fatal day, about , p.m., i hooked up a fish--such a big one, it must have weighed a pound and a half. sir, it was that length;" and the angler put finger to wrist. "and just when i had got it nearly ashore, by the very place where you are sitting, on that shelving bank, young man, the line broke, and the perch twisted himself among those roots, and--caco-dæmon that he was--ran off, hook and all. well, that fish haunted me; never before had i seen such a fish. minnows i had caught in the thames and elsewhere, also gudgeons, and occasionally a dace. but a fish like that--a perch--all his fins up like the sails of a man-of-war--a monster perch--a whale of a perch!--no, never till then had i known what leviathans lie hid within the deeps. i could not sleep till i had returned; and again, sir--i caught that perch. and this time i pulled him fairly out of the water. he escaped; and how did he escape? sir, he left his eye behind him on the hook. years, long years, have passed since then; but never shall i forget the agony of that moment." leonard.--"to the perch, sir?" angler.--"perch! agony to him! he enjoyed it:--agony to me. i gazed on that eye, and the eye looked as sly and as wicked as if it was laughing in my face. well, sir, i had heard that there is no better bait for a perch than a perch's eye. i adjusted that eye on the hook, and dropped in the line gently. the water was unusually clear; in two minutes i saw that perch return. he approached the hook; he recognized his eye--frisked his tail--made a plunge--and, as i live, carried off the eye, safe and sound; and i saw him digesting it by the side of that water lily. the mocking fiend! seven times since that day, in the course of a varied and eventful life, have i caught that perch, and seven times has that perch escaped." leonard (astonished):--"it can't be the same perch; perches are very tender fish--a hook inside of it, and an eye hooked out of it--no perch could withstand such havoc in its constitution." angler (with an appearance of awe).--"it does seem supernatural. but it _is_ that perch; for harkye, sir, there is only one perch in the whole brook! all the years i have fished here, i have never caught another perch here; and this solitary inmate of the watery element i know by sight better than i know my own lost father. for each time that i have raised it out of the water, its profile has been turned to me, and i have seen, with a shudder, that it has had only--one eye! it is a most mysterious and a most diabolical phenomenon, that perch! it has been the ruin of my prospects in life. i was offered a situation in jamaica; i could not go, with that perch left here in triumph. i might afterward have had an appointment in india, but i could not put the ocean between myself and that perch: thus have i frittered away my existence in the fatal metropolis of my native land. and once a-week, from february to december, i come hither--good heavens! if i should catch the perch at last, the occupation of my existence will be gone." leonard gazed curiously at the angler, as the last thus mournfully concluded. the ornate turn of his periods did not suit with his costume. he looked woefully threadbare and shabby--a genteel sort of shabbiness too--shabbiness in black. there was humor in the corners of his lip; and his hands, though they did not seem very clean--indeed his occupation was not friendly to such niceties--were those of a man who had not known manual labor. his face was pale and puffed, but the tip of his nose was red. he did not seem as if the watery element was as familiar to himself as to his dalilah--the perch. "such is life!" recommenced the angler in a moralizing tone, as he slid his rod into its canvas case. "if a man knew what it was to fish all one's life in a stream that has only one perch!--to catch that one perch nine times in all, and nine times to see it fall back into the water, plump;--if a man knew what it was--why, then"--here the angler looked over his shoulder full at leonard--"why then, young sir, he would know what human life is to vain ambition. good evening." away he went, treading over the daisies and king cups. helen's eyes followed him wistfully. "what a strange person!" said leonard, laughing. "i think he is a very wise one," murmured helen; and she came close up to leonard, and took his hand in both hers, as if she felt already that he was in need of the comforter--the line broke, and the perch lost! chapter ix. at noon the next day, london stole upon them, through a gloomy, thick, oppressive atmosphere. for where is it that we can say london _bursts_ on the sight? it stole on them through one of its fairest and most gracious avenues of approach--by the stately gardens of kensington--along the side of hyde park, and so on toward cumberland gate. leonard was not the least struck. and yet, with a very little money, and a very little taste, it would be easy to render this entrance to london as grand and imposing as that to paris from the _champs elysées_. as they came near the edgeware road, helen took her new brother by the hand and guided him. for she knew all that neighborhood, and she was acquainted with a lodging near that occupied by her father (to _that_ lodging itself she could not have gone for the world), where they might be housed cheaply. but just then the sky, so dull and overcast since morning, seemed one mass of black cloud. there suddenly came on a violent storm of rain. the boy and girl took refuge in a covered mews, in a street running out of the edgeware road. this shelter soon became crowded; the two young pilgrims crept close to the wall, apart from the rest; leonard's arm round helen's waist, sheltering her from the rain that the strong wind contending with it beat in through the passage. presently a young gentleman, of better mien and dress than the other refugees, entered, not hastily, but rather with a slow and proud step, as if, though he deigned to take shelter, he scorned to run to it. he glanced somewhat haughtily at the assembled group--passed on through the midst of it--came near leonard--took off his hat, and shook the rain from its brim. his head thus uncovered, left all his features exposed; and the village youth recognized, at the first glance, his old victorious assailant on the green at hazeldean. yet randal leslie was altered. his dark cheek was as thin as in boyhood, and even yet more wasted by intense study and night vigils; but the expression of his face was at once more refined and manly, and there was a steady concentrated light in his large eye, like that of one who has been in the habit of bringing all his thoughts to one point. he looked older than he was. he was dressed simply in black, a color which became him; and altogether his aspect and figure were not showy indeed, but distinguished. he looked, to the common eye, a gentleman; and to the more observant, a scholar. helter-skelter!--pell-mell! the group in the passage--now pressed each on each--now scattered on all sides--making way--rushing down the mews--against the walls--as a fiery horse darted under shelter; the rider, a young man, with a very handsome face, and dressed with that peculiar care which we commonly call dandyism, cried out, good-humoredly, "don't be afraid; the horse shan't hurt any of you--a thousand pardons--so ho! so ho!" he patted the horse, and it stood as still as a statue, filling up the centre of the passage. the groups resettled--randal approached the rider. "frank hazeldean!" "ah--is it indeed randal leslie!" frank was off his horse in a moment, and the bridle was consigned to the care of a slim prentice-boy holding a bundle. "my dear fellow, how glad i am to see you. how lucky it was that i should turn in here. not like me either, for i don't much care for a ducking. staying in town, randal?" "yes, at your uncle's, mr. egerton. i have left oxford." "for good?" "for good." "but you have not taken your degree, i think? we etonians all considered you booked for a double first. oh! we have been so proud of your fame--you carried off all the prizes." "not all; but some, certainly. mr. egerton offered me my choice--to stay for my degree, or to enter at once into the foreign office. i preferred the end to the means. for, after all, what good are academical honors but as the entrance to life? to enter now, is to save a step in a long way, frank." "ah! you were always ambitious, and you will make a great figure, i am sure." "perhaps so--if i work for it. knowledge is power!" leonard started. "and you," resumed randal, looking with some curious attention at his old school-fellow. "you never came to oxford. i did hear you were going into the army." "i am in the guards," said frank, trying hard not to look too conceited as he made that acknowledgment. "the governor pished a little, and would rather i had come to live with him in the old hall, and take to farming. time enough for that--eh? by jove, randal, how pleasant a thing is life in london? do you go to almack's to-night?" "no; wednesday is a holiday in the house! there is a great parliamentary dinner at mr. egerton's. he is in the cabinet now, you know; but you don't see much of your uncle, i think." "our sets are different," said the young gentleman, in a tone of voice worthy of brummel. "all those parliamentary fellows are devilish dull. the rain's over. i don't know whether the governor would like me to call at grosvenor-square; but pray come and see me; here's my card to remind you; you must dine at our mess. such nice fellows. what day will you fix?" "i will call and let you know. don't you find it rather expensive in the guards? i remember that you thought the governor, as you call him, used to chafe a little when you wrote for more pocket-money; and the only time i ever remember to have seen you with tears in your eyes, was when mr. hazeldean, in sending you £ , reminded you that his estates were not entailed--were at his own disposal, and they should never go to an extravagant spendthrift. it was not a pleasant threat, that, frank." "oh!" cried the young man coloring deeply, "it was not the threat that pained me, it was that my father could think so meanly of me as to fancy that--well--well, but those were school-boy days. and my father was always more generous than i deserved. we must see a good deal of each other, randal. how good-natured you were at eton, making my longs and shorts for me; i shall never forget it. do call soon." frank swung himself into his saddle, and rewarded the slim youth with half-a-crown; a largess four times more ample than his father would have deemed sufficient. a jerk of the rein and a touch of the heel--off bounded the fiery horse and the gay young rider. randal mused; and as the rain had now ceased, the passengers under shelter dispersed and went their way. only randal, leonard, and helen remained behind. then, as randal, still musing, lifted his eyes, they fell full upon leonard's face. he started, passed his hand quickly over his brow--looked again, hard and piercingly; and the change in his pale cheek to a shade still paler--a quick compression and nervous gnawing of his lip--showed that he too recognized an old foe. then his glance ran over leonard's dress, which was somewhat dust-stained, but far above the class among which the peasant was born. randal raised his brows in surprise, and with a smile slightly supercilious--the smile stung leonard; and with a slow step randal left the passage, and took his way toward grosvenor-square. the entrance of ambition was clear to _him_. then the little girl once more took leonard by the hand, and led him through rows of humble, obscure, dreary streets. it seemed almost like an allegory personified, as the sad, silent child led on the penniless and low-born adventurer of genius by the squalid shops, and through the winding lanes, which grew meaner and meaner, till both their forms vanished from the view. chapter x. "but do come; change your dress, return and dine with me; you will have just time, harley. you will meet the most eminent men of our party; surely they are worth your study, philosopher that you affect to be." thus said audley egerton to lord l'estrange, with whom he had been riding (after the toils of his office). the two gentlemen were in audley's library. mr. egerton, as usual, buttoned up, seated in his chair, in the erect posture of a man who scorns "inglorious ease." harley, as usual, thrown at length on a sofa, his long hair in careless curls, his neckcloth loose, his habiliments flowing--_simplex munditiis_, indeed--his grace all his own; seemingly negligent, never slovenly; at ease every where and with every one, even with mr. audley egerton, who chilled or awed the ease out of most people. "nay, my dear audley, forgive me. but your eminent men are all men of one idea, and that not a diverting one--politics! politics! politics! the storm in the saucer." "but, what is your life, harley?--the saucer without the storm?" "do you know, that's very well said, audley; i did not think you had so much liveliness of repartee. life--life! it is insipid, it is shallow. no launching argosies in the saucer. audley, i have the oddest fancy--" "_that_ of course," said audley drily; "you never have any other. what is the new one?" harley (with great gravity).--"do you believe in mesmerism?" audley.--"certainly not." harley.--"if it were in the power of an animal magnetizer to get me out of my own skin into somebody else's! _that's_ my fancy! i am so tired of myself--so tired! i have run through all my ideas--know every one of them by heart; when some pretentious impostor of an idea perks itself up and says, 'look at me, i'm a new acquaintance'--i just give it a nod, and say, 'not at all, you have only got a new coat on; you are the same old wretch that has bored me these last twenty years; get away.' but if one could be in a new skin! if i could be for half-an-hour your tall porter, or one of your eminent matter-of-fact men, i should then really travel into a new world.[ ] every man's brain must be a world in itself, eh? if i could but make a parochial settlement even in yours, audley--run over all your thoughts and sensations. upon my life, i'll go and talk to that french mesmerizer about it." [ ] if, at the date in which lord l'estrange held this conversation with mr. egerton, alfred de musset had written his comedies, we should suspect that his lordship had plagiarized from one of them the whimsical idea that he here vents upon audley. in repeating it, the author at least can not escape from the charge of obligation to a writer whose humor, at least, is sufficiently opulent to justify the loan. audley (who does not seem to like the notion of having his thoughts and sensations rummaged, even by his friend, and even in fancy).--"pooh, pooh, pooh! do talk like a man of sense." harley--"man of sense! where shall i find a model? i don't know a man of sense!--never met such a creature. don't believe it ever existed. at one time i thought socrates must have been a man of sense;--a delusion; he would stand gazing into the air, and talking to his genius from sunrise to sunset. is that like a man of sense? poor audley, how puzzled he looks! well, i'll try and talk sense to oblige you. and first--(here harley raised himself on his elbow)--first, is it true, as i have heard vaguely, that you are paying court to the sister of that infamous italian traitor?" "madame di negra? no; i am not paying _court_ to her," answered audley with a cold smile. "but she is very handsome; she is very clever; she is useful to me--i need not say how nor why; that belongs to my _métier_ as politician. but, i think, if you will take my advice, or get your friend to take it, i could obtain from her brother, through my influence with her, some liberal concessions to your exile. she is very anxious to know where he is." "you have not told her?" "no; i promised you i would keep that secret." "be sure you do; it is only for some mischief, some snare, that she could desire such information. concessions! pooh! this is no question of concessions, but of rights." "i think you should leave your friend to judge of that." "well, i will write to him. meanwhile, beware of this woman, i have heard much of her abroad, and she has the character of her brother for duplicity and--" "beauty," interrupted audley, turning the conversation with practiced adroitness. "i am told that the count is one of the handsomest men in europe, much handsomer than his sister still, though nearly twice her age. tut--tut--harley! fear not for me. i am proof against all feminine attractions. this heart is dead." "nay, nay; it is not for you to speak thus--leave that to me. but even _i_ will not say it. the heart never dies. and you; what have you lost?--a wife; true: an excellent noble-hearted woman. but was it love that you felt for her? enviable man, have you ever loved?" "perhaps not, harley," said audley, with a sombre aspect, and in dejected accents; "very few men ever have loved, at least as you mean by the word. but there are other passions than love that kill the heart, and reduce us to mechanism." while egerton spoke, harley turned side, and his breast heaved. there was a short silence; audley was the first to break it. "speaking of my lost wife, i am sorry that you do not approve what i have done for her young kinsman, randal leslie." harley (recovering himself with an effort).--"is it true kindness to bid him exchange manly independence, for the protection of an official patron?" audley.--"i did not bid him. i gave him his choice. at his age i should have chosen as he has done." harley.--"i trust not; i think better of you. but answer me one question frankly, and then i will ask another. do you mean to make this young man your heir?" audley (with a slight embarrassment).--"heir, pooh! i am young still. i may live as long as he--time enough to think of that." harley.--"then now to my second question. have you told this youth plainly that he may look to you for influence, but not for wealth?" audley (firmly).--"i think i have; but i shall repeat it more emphatically." harley.--"then i am satisfied as to your conduct, but not as to his. for he has too acute an intellect not to know what it is to forfeit independence; and, depend upon it, he has made his calculations, and would throw you into the bargain in any balance that he could strike in his favor. you go by your experience in judging men; i by my instincts. nature warns us as it does the inferior animals--only we are too conceited, we bipeds, to heed her. my instincts of soldier and gentleman recoil from that old young man. he has the soul of the jesuit. i see it in his eye--i hear it in the tread of his foot; _volto sciolto_, he has not; _i pensieri stretti_ he has. hist! i hear now his step in the hall. i should know it from a thousand. that's his very touch on the handle of the door." randal leslie entered. harley--who, despite his disregard for forms, and his dislike to randal, was too high-bred not to be polite to his junior in age or inferior in rank--rose and bowed. but his bright piercing eyes did not soften as they caught and bore down the deeper and more latent fire in randal's. harley then did not resume his seat, but moved to the mantlepiece, and leant against it. randal.--"i have fulfilled, your commissions, mr. egerton. i went first to maida-hill, and saw mr. burley. i gave him the check, but he said 'it was too much, and he should return half to the banker;' he will write the article as you suggested. i then--" audley.--"enough, randal! we will not fatigue lord l'estrange with these little details of a life that displeases him--the life political." harley.--"but _these_ details do not displease me; they reconcile me to my own life. go on, pray, mr. leslie." randal had too much tact to need the cautioning glance of mr. egerton. he did not continue, but said, with a soft voice, "do you think, lord l'estrange, that the contemplation of the mode of life pursued by others _can_ reconcile a man to his own, if he had before thought it needed a reconciler?" harley looked pleased, for the question was ironical; and, if there was a thing in the world he abhorred, it was flattery. "recollect your lucretius, mr. leslie, _suave mare_, &c., 'pleasant from the cliff to see the mariners tossed on the ocean.' faith, i think that sight reconciles one to the cliff--though, before, one might have been teased by the splash from the spray, and deafened by the scream of the sea-gulls. but i leave you, audley. strange that i have heard no more of my soldier. remember i have your promise when i come to claim it. good-by, mr. leslie, i hope that mr. burley's article will be worth the--check." lord l'estrange mounted his horse, which was still at the door, and rode through the park. but he was no longer now unknown by sight. bows and nods saluted him on every side. "alas, i am found out then," said he to himself. "that terrible duchess of knaresborough, too--i must fly my country." he pushed his horse into a canter, and was soon out of the park. as he dismounted at his father's sequestered house, you would have hardly supposed him the same whimsical, fantastic, but deep and subtle humorist that delighted in perplexing the material audley. for his expressive face was unutterably serious. but the moment he came into the presence of his parents the countenance was again lighted and cheerful. it brightened the whole room like sunshine. chapter xi. "mr. leslie," said egerton, when harley had left the library, "you did not act with your usual discretion in touching upon matters connected with politics in the presence of a third party." "i feel that already, sir; my excuse is that i held lord l'estrange to be your most intimate friend." "a public man, mr. leslie, would ill serve his country if he were not especially reserved toward his private friends--when they do not belong to his party." "but, pardon me my ignorance, lord lansmere is so well known to be one of your supporters, that i fancied his son must share his sentiments, and be in your confidence." egerton's brows slightly contracted, and gave a stern expression to a countenance always firm and decided. he, however, answered in a mild tone. "at the entrance into political life, mr. leslie, there is nothing in which a young man of your talents should be more on his guard than thinking for himself; he will nearly always think wrong. and i believe that is one reason why young men of talent disappoint their friends, and--remain so long out of office." a haughty flush passed over randal's brow, and faded away quickly; he bowed in silence. egerton resumed, as if in explanation, and even in kindly apology-- "look at lord l'estrange himself. what young man could come into life with brighter auspices? rank, wealth, high animal spirits (a great advantage those same spirits, mr. leslie), courage, self-possession, scholarship as brilliant perhaps as your own; and now see how his life is wasted! why? he always thought fit to think for himself. he could never be broken in to harness, and never will be. the state coach, mr. leslie, requires that all the horses should pull together." "with submission, sir," answered randal, "i should think that there were other reasons why lord l'estrange, whatever be his talents--and indeed of these you must be an adequate judge--would never do any thing in public life." "ay, and what?" said egerton, quickly. "first," said randal, shrewdly, "private life has done too much for him. what could public life give to one who needs nothing? born at the top of the social ladder, why should he put himself voluntarily at the last step, for the sake of climbing up again? and secondly, lord l'estrange seems to me a man in whose organization _sentiment_ usurps too large a share for practical existence." "you have a keen eye," said audley, with some admiration; "keen for one so young.--poor harley!" mr. egerton's last words were said to himself. he resumed quickly-- "there is something on my mind, my young friend. let us be frank with each other. i placed before you fairly the advantages and disadvantages of the choice i gave you. to take your degree with such honors as no doubt you would have won, to obtain your fellowship, to go to the bar, with those credentials in favor of your talents;--this was one career. to come at once into public life, to profit by my experience, avail yourself of my interest, to take the chances of rise or fall with a party: this was another. you chose the last. but in so doing, there was a consideration which might weigh with you; and on which, in stating your reasons for your option, you were silent." "what's that, sir?" "you might have counted on my fortune should the chances of party fail you;--speak--and without shame if so; it would be natural in a young man, who comes from the elder branch of the house whose heiress was my wife." "you wound me, mr. egerton," said randal, turning away. mr. egerton's cold glance followed randal's movement; the face was hid from the glance--it rested on the figure, which is often as self-betraying as the countenance itself. randal baffled mr. egerton's penetration--the young man's emotion might be honest pride, and pained and generous feeling; or it might be something else. egerton continued slowly. "once for all then, distinctly and emphatically, i say--never count upon that; count upon all else that i can do for you, and forgive me, when i advise harshly or censure coldly; ascribe this to my interest in your career. moreover, before decision becomes irrevocable, i wish you to know practically all that is disagreeable or even humiliating in the first subordinate steps of him who, without wealth or station, would rise in public life. i will not consider your choice settled, till the end of a year at least--your name will be kept on the college books till then; if, on experience, you should prefer to return to oxford, and pursue the slower but surer path to independence and distinction, you can. and now give me your hand, mr. leslie, in sign that you forgive my bluntness;--it is time to dress." randal, with his face still averted, extended his hand. mr. egerton held it a moment, then dropping it left the room. randal turned as the door closed. and there was in his dark face a power of sinister passion, that justified all harley's warnings. his lips moved, but not audibly; then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he followed egerton into the hall. "sir," said he, "i forgot to say that on returning from maida-hill, i took shelter from the rain under a covered passage, and there i met unexpectedly with your nephew, frank hazeldean." "ah!" said egerton indifferently, "a fine young man; in the guards. it is a pity that my brother has such antiquated political notions; he should put his son into parliament, and under my guidance; i could push him. well, and what said frank?" "he invited me to call on him. i remember that you once rather cautioned me against too intimate an acquaintance with those who have not got their fortune to make." "because they are idle, and idleness is contagious. right--better not be intimate with a young guardsman." "then you would not have me call on him, sir? we were rather friends at eton; and if i wholly reject his overtures, might he not think that you--" "i!" interrupted egerton. "ah, true: my brother might think i bore him a grudge; absurd; call then, and ask the young man here. yet still, i do not advise intimacy." egerton turned into his dressing, room. "sir," said his valet, who was in waiting, "mr. levy is here--he says, by appointment; and mr. grinders is also just come from the country." "tell mr. grinders to come in first," said egerton, seating himself. "you need not wait; i can dress without you. tell mr. levy i will see him in five minutes." mr. grinders was steward to audley egerton. mr. levy was a handsome man, who wore a camelia in his button-hole--drove, in his cabriolet, a high-stepping horse that had cost £ : was well known to young men of fashion, and considered by their fathers a very dangerous acquaintance. chapter xii. as the company assembled in the drawing-rooms, mr. egerton introduced randal leslie to his eminent friends in a way that greatly contrasted the distant and admonitory manner which he had exhibited to him in private. the presentation was made with that cordiality, and that gracious respect by which those who are in station command notice for those who have their station yet to win. "my dear lord, let me introduce to you a kinsman of my late wife's (in a whisper)--the heir to the elder branch of her family. stranmore, this is mr. leslie of whom i spoke to you. you, who were so distinguished at oxford, will not like him the worse for the prizes he gained there. duke, let me present to you mr. leslie. the duchess is angry with me for deserting her balls; i shall hope to make my peace, by providing myself with a younger and livelier substitute. ah, mr. howard, here is a young gentleman just fresh from oxford, who will tell us all about the new sect springing up there. he has not wasted his time on billiards and horses." leslie was received with all that charming courtesy which is the _to kalon_ of an aristocracy. after dinner, conversation settled on politics. randal listened with attention, and in silence, till egerton drew him gently out; just enough, and no more--just enough to make his intelligence evident, without subjecting him to the charge of laying down the law. egerton knew how to draw out young men--a difficult art. it was one reason why he was so peculiarly popular with the more rising members of his party. the party broke up early. "we are in time for almack's," said egerton, glancing at the clock, "and i have a voucher for you; come." randal followed his patron into the carriage. by the way, egerton thus addressed him-- "i shall introduce you to the principal leaders of society; know them and study them; i do not advise you to attempt to do more--that is, to attempt to become the fashion. it is a very expensive ambition; some men it helps, most men it ruins. on the whole, you have better cards in your hands. dance or not as it pleases you--don't flirt. if you flirt, people will inquire into your fortune--an inquiry that will do you little good; and flirting entangles a young man into marrying. that would never do. here we are." in two minutes more they were in the great ball-room, and randal's eyes were dazzled with the lights, the diamonds, the blaze of beauty. audley presented him in quick succession to some dozen ladies, and then disappeared amidst the crowd. randal was not at a loss; he was without shyness; or if he had that disabling infirmity, he concealed it. he answered the languid questions put to him, with a certain spirit that kept up talk, and left a favorable impression of his agreeable qualities. but the lady with whom he got on the best, was one who had no daughters out, a handsome and witty woman of the world--lady frederick coniers. "it is your first ball at almack's, then, mr. leslie?" "my first." "and you have not secured a partner? shall i find you one? what do you think of that pretty girl in pink?" "i see her--but i can not _think_ of her." "you are rather, perhaps, like a diplomatist in a new court, and your first object is to know who is who." "i confess that on beginning to study the history of my own day, i should like to distinguish the portraits that illustrate the memoir." "give me your arm then, and we will come into the next room. we shall see the different _notabilités_ enter one by one, and observe without being observed. this is the least i can do for a friend of mr. egerton's." "mr. egerton, then," said randal--(as they threaded their way through the space without the rope that protected the dancers)--"mr. egerton has had the good fortune to win your esteem, even for his friends, however obscure?" "why, to say truth, i think no one whom mr. egerton calls his friend need long remain obscure, if he has the ambition to be otherwise. for mr. egerton holds it a maxim never to forget a friend, nor a service." "ah, indeed!" said randal, surprised. "and, therefore," continued lady frederick, "as he passes through life, friends gather round him. he will rise even higher yet. gratitude, mr. leslie, is a very good policy." "hem," muttered mr. leslie. they had now gained the room where tea and bread-and-butter were the homely refreshments to the _habitués_ of what at that day was the most exclusive assembly in london. they ensconced themselves in a corner by a window, and lady frederick performed her task of cicerone with lively ease, accompanying each notice of the various persons who passed panoramically before them with sketch and anecdote, sometimes good-natured, generally satirical, always graphic and amusing. by-and-by, frank hazeldean, having on his arm a young lady of haughty air, and with high though delicate features, came to the tea-table. "the last new guardsman," said lady frederick; "very handsome, and not yet quite spoiled. but he has got into a dangerous set." randal.--"the young lady with him is handsome enough to be dangerous." lady frederick (laughing).--"no danger for him there--as yet at least. lady mary (the duke of knaresborough's daughter) is only in her second year. the first year, nothing under an earl; the second, nothing under a baron. it will be full four years before she comes down to a commoner. mr. hazeldean's danger is of another kind. he lives much with men who are not exactly _mauvais ton_, but certainly not of the best taste. yet he is very young; he may extricate himself--leaving half his fortune behind him. what, he nods to you! you know him?" "very well; he is nephew to mr. egerton." "indeed. i did not know that. hazeldean is a new name in london. i heard his father was a plain country gentleman, of good fortune, but not that he was related to mr. egerton." "half-brother." "will mr. egerton pay the young gentleman's debts? he has no sons himself." randal.--"mr. egerton's fortune comes from his wife, from my family--from a leslie, not from a hazeldean." lady frederick turned sharply, looked at randal's countenance with more attention than she had yet vouchsafed to it, and tried to talk of the leslies. randal was very short there. an hour afterward, randal, who had not danced, was still in the refreshment room, but lady frederick had long quitted him. he was talking with some old etonians who had recognized him, when there entered a lady of very remarkable appearance, and a murmur passed through the room as she appeared. she might be three or four-and-twenty. she was dressed in black velvet, which contrasted with the alabaster whiteness of her throat and the clear paleness of her complexion, while it set off the diamonds with which she was profusely covered. her hair was of the deepest jet, and worn simply braided. her eyes, too, were dark and brilliant, her features regular and striking; but their expression, when in repose, was not prepossessing to such as love modesty and softness in the looks of woman. but when she spoke and smiled, there was so much spirit and vivacity in the countenance, so much fascination in the smile, that all which might before have marred the effect of her beauty, strangely and suddenly disappeared. "who is that very handsome woman?" asked randal. "an italian--a marchesa something," said one of the etonians. "di negra," suggested another who had been abroad; "she is a widow; her husband was of the genoese family of negra--a younger branch of it." several men now gathered thickly around the fair italian. a few ladies of the highest rank spoke to her, but with a more distant courtesy than ladies of high rank usually show to foreigners of such quality as madame di negra. ladies of a rank less elevated seemed rather shy of her;--that might be from jealousy. as randal gazed at the marchesa with more admiration than any woman, perhaps, had before excited in him, he heard a voice near him say-- "oh, madame di negra is resolved to settle among us, and marry an englishman." "if she can find one sufficiently courageous," returned a female voice. "well, she is trying hard for egerton, and he has courage enough for any thing." the female voice replied with a laugh, "mr. egerton knows the world too well, and has resisted too many temptations, to be--" "hush!--there he is." egerton came into the room with his usual firm step and erect mien. randal observed that a quick glance was exchanged between him and the marchesa; but the minister passed her by with a bow. still randal watched, and ten minutes afterward, egerton and the marchesa were seated apart in the very same convenient nook that randal and lady frederick had occupied an hour or so before. "is this the reason why mr. egerton so insultingly warns me against counting on his fortune?" muttered randal. "does he mean to marry again?" unjust suspicion!--for at that moment these were the words that audley egerton was dropping forth from his lips of bronze-- "nay, dear madam, do not ascribe to my frank admiration more gallantry than it merits. your conversation charms me, your beauty delights me; your society is as a holiday that i look forward to in the fatigues of my life. but i have done with love, and i shall never marry again." "you almost pique me into trying to win, in order to reject you," said the italian, with a flash from her bright eyes. "i defy even you," answered audley, with his cold, hard smile. "but to return to the point: you have more influence at least over this subtle embassador; and the secret we speak of i rely on you to obtain me. ah, madam, let us rest as friends. you see i have conquered the unjust prejudices against you; you are received and _fetée_ every where, as becomes your birth and your attractions. rely on me ever, as i on you. but i shall excite too much envy if i stay here longer, and am vain enough to think that i may injure you if i provoke the gossip of the ill-natured. as the avowed friend i can serve you--as the supposed lover, no----" audley rose as he said this, and, standing by the chair, added carelessly, "apropos, the sum you do me the honor to borrow will be paid to your bankers to-morrow." "a thousand thanks!--my brother will hasten to repay you." audley bowed. "your brother, i hope, will repay me in person, not before. when does he come?" "oh, he has again postponed his visit to london; he is so much needed in vienna. but while we are talking of him, allow me to ask if your friend, lord l'estrange, is indeed still so bitter against that poor brother of mine?" "still the same." "it is shameful," cried the italian, with warmth; "what has my brother done to him, that he should actually intrigue against the count in his own court?" "intrigue! i think you wrong lord l'estrange; he but represented what he believed to be the truth, in defense of a ruined exile." "and you will not tell me where that exile is, or if his daughter still lives?" "my dear marchesa, i have called you friend, therefore, i will not aid l'estrange to injure you or yours. but i call l'estrange a friend also; and i can not violate the trust that--" audley stopped short, and bit his lip. "you understand me," he resumed, with a more genial smile than usual; and he took his leave. the italian's brows met as her eye followed him; then, as she too rose, that eye encountered randal's. each surveyed the other--each felt a certain strange fascination--a sympathy--not of affection, but of intellect. "that young man has the eye of an italian," said the marchesa to herself; and as she passed by him into the ball-room, she turned and smiled. (to be continued.) monthly record of current events. united states. the political intelligence for the last few weeks is of remote and secondary, rather than of immediate and primary interest. the political parties have begun to hold state conventions, the proceedings and resolutions of which are of some importance, as indicating the temper and policy which may be expected to characterize the ensuing elections. in _vermont_ the whig state convention convened at bellows falls, june th. resolutions were passed expressive of continued adherence to the principles by which the party has been heretofore guided, among which are specified a tariff of specific duties--so levied as to afford protection to american industry; appropriations by the federal government for the improvement of harbors and rivers, and a liberal policy toward actual settlers in the disposition of the public lands. slavery is represented as a "moral and political evil," for the existence of which in the slaveholding states, the people of vermont are nowise responsible, but to the extension or continuation of which under the authority of the federal government, they are opposed. the fugitive slave law is declared to be "a matter of ordinary legislation, open at all times and on all occasions for discussion, and liable to be modified or repealed at the pleasure of the people as expressed through their representatives;" that it is "objectionable in some of its provisions, and while they cheerfully admit their obligations to obey it as a law of the land designed to fulfill a requirement of the constitution," they insist upon the right of making modifications of it, as time and experience shall show to be proper. other resolutions were passed expressive of attachment to the union, and of hostility to all doctrines of secession or disunion, in whatever quarter manifested; and of concurrence in the "moderate, and discreet, and practicable measures recommended to congress in the present national administration." hon. charles k. williams was nominated for re-election as governor. the free soil state convention was held at burlington, may th. resolutions were passed denying the power of the general government to make appropriations for purposes of internal improvement, unless of a strictly national character; in opposition to a national bank; recommending an equality of protection to all interests; in favor of free grants to actual settlers of the public lands; denying the power of congress over the subject of slavery in the states, which, it is affirmed, can not claim to be legalized beyond the limits of state lines; in favor of the wilmot proviso, and adverse to the admission of any new slave states into the union; declaring the unconstitutionality of the fugitive slave law; approving of the law of the state, enacted at the late session of the legislature, granting the privilege of _habeas corpus_ to alleged fugitives from labor; and, finally, professing devotion to the union, until perverted to an engine of oppression to the states. a speech, arguing strenuously against the constitutionality of the fugitive slave law, was made by john van buren, esq. hon. lucius b. peck was nominated for governor; he has declined to accept the nomination on the ground that he can not assent to the resolutions passed by the convention, inasmuch as he believes the fugitive slave law to be constitutional, and does not consider the act passed by the late legislature, authorizing the state courts to take, by _habeas corpus_, a slave out of the hands of the united states officers, to be a just exercise of the power of the state. the democratic state convention, held in may, passed resolutions decidedly approving of the compromise measures, which were declared to be a pledge of the fidelity of the states to each other, and recommending the observance of them with the utmost fidelity and good faith. hon. john s. robinson was nominated for governor. in _new hampshire_ the democratic state convention met at concord on the th of june. resolutions were passed expressive of firm attachment to the union; of acquiescence in the compromise measures; and affirming the duty, on the part of all citizens, of unconditional submission to the laws. hon. levi woodbury was unanimously presented as a candidate for the presidency, subject to the decision of the national convention to be held at baltimore. in _pennsylvania_ the state convention for the nomination of executive officers was held at reading, june th. resolutions were adopted in favor of a strict construction of the constitution; affirming the obligation of congress to refrain from all exercise of doubtful powers; declaring that the rights of the individual states ought to be scrupulously regarded, and that the citizens of one state ought not to interfere with the domestic institutions of any other; that all appropriations made by the general government should be strictly confined to national objects. resolutions were passed, fully endorsing the compromise measures of the last session; and condemning the state law of march , , withholding the use of the state jails for the detention of alleged fugitives from service, as interposing obstacles on the part of the state to the execution of a provision of the constitution, and as an infringement of the principles of the compromise. it was likewise declared that the convention was in favor "in levying duties upon foreign imports, of a reciprocal interchange of our products with other nations," while "recognizing clearly the practice of the government to maintain and preserve in full vigor and safety all the great industrial pursuits of the country." hon. william bigler was nominated for governor. no candidate was formally presented for nomination as president at the ensuing election, although it was universally understood that the preferences of the convention were almost unanimously in favor of mr. buchanan. the convention for the nomination of judicial officers met at harrisburg on the th of june. on the th of that month a ratification meeting was held at lancaster, at which mr. buchanan made a speech, forcibly advocating the principles of the resolutions proposed. they embraced a recommendation of a tariff based upon the _ad valorem_ system, and expressed a cordial adherence to the principles adopted at the democratic convention held at baltimore in . a strict adherence to the compromise measures was recommended; the constitutionality of the fugitive slave law, and the duty of its enforcement on the part of the north, were affirmed. the course of governor johnston in neglecting to sign the bill for the repeal of the law of march , , was declared to be in violation of the wishes of a large majority of the people of the state. the whig state convention met at lancaster on the th of june. the series of resolutions presented and adopted, advocate the principle of protection to american industry, and declare the tariff of to be unequal in its tendencies, and ruinous to the interests of pennsylvania. the attachment of the citizens of that state to the constitution is warmly insisted upon; and a faithful adherence to the compromise measures is promised. the general policy of the state and national administrations is fully endorsed. a special resolution, offered by way of amendment, in favor of the fugitive slave law, was cut off by the previous question, and the series of resolutions, as presented, was adopted. a resolution was carried, "that general winfield scott is beyond question the choice of the whigs of pennsylvania as their candidate for the presidency of , and that we earnestly recommend him to the whigs of the union as the most deserving and available man for that high office." gov. johnston was re-nominated. in _ohio_ the whig state convention assembled at columbus, on the d of july. the resolutions passed affirm that the conventions of and "declare the position of the whigs of ohio on state and national policy: that protection to american industry, a sound currency, the improvement of our rivers and harbors, an unyielding opposition to all encroachment by the executive power, and a paramount regard to the constitution and the union," are the cardinal principles of the policy of the party. all the provisions of the constitution are declared to be equally binding. the course of the present national administration is unqualifiedly sanctioned. in respect to the compromise measures, and the next presidency, the following resolutions were adopted: "that as the compromise measures were not recommended by a whig administration, and were not passed as party measures by congress, perfect toleration of opinion respecting those measures should be accorded to whigs everywhere." "that it is the desire of the whigs of ohio that gen. winfield scott should be the candidate of the whig party for president of the united states at the election of a. d. : and we cordially recommend him to the whigs of the union as the most deserving and suitable candidate for that office." hon. samuel f. vinton was nominated as candidate for governor. in _mississippi_ the state rights convention was held june th, at jackson. resolutions were passed reaffirming the policy indicated by the convention of october, , which was in the main as follows: a devoted and cherished attachment to the constitution, "as it was formed and not as an engine of oppression," was expressed. the institution of slavery was declared to be exclusively under the control of the states in which it exists; and "all attempts on the part of congress or others to interfere with this subject, either directly or indirectly, are in violation of the constitution, dangerous to the rights and safety of the south, and ought to be promptly resisted." the right of congress to abolish slavery in the district of columbia, to prohibit the slave-trade between the several states, or to prohibit the introduction of slavery into the territories of the united states is denied. the wilmot proviso is declared to be "an unjust and insulting discrimination, to which these states can not without degradation submit." the legislature is requested to pass laws to encourage emigration of citizens of the slave-holding states into the new territories. the resolutions of the nashville convention of are sanctioned and approved. the convention declare the admission of california into the union to be the "enactment of the wilmot proviso in another form," as set forth in a letter from the congressional delegation of the state, under date of june , . the compromise measures are disavowed, particularly the admission of california, the division of texas, the action on the subject of the slave-trade in the district of columbia; and the course of the southern members of congress who voted for those measures is most warmly condemned. while the "right of a state peaceably to withdraw from the union, without denial or obstruction," is affirmed, the convention "consider it the last remedy, the final alternative, and also declare that the exercise of it by the state of mississippi, under existing circumstances, would be inexpedient, and is a proposition which does not meet the approbation of this convention." the platform of the union party, as adopted by common consent, declares "the american union secondary in importance only to the rights and principles it was designed to perpetuate." it is represented that in the spirit of compromise which enabled the original thirteen states to found the union, and which the present thirty-one must exercise to perpetuate it, they have considered the whole series of the compromise measures, "and while they do not wholly approve, they will abide by it as a permanent adjustment of this sectional controversy." it is declared that, as a last resort, mississippi ought to resist to the disruption of the union any action by congress upon the subject of slavery in the district of columbia or in places subject to the jurisdiction of congress which should be inconsistent with the safety or honor of the slaveholding states; or the prohibition of the inter-state slave-trade; or the refusal to admit a new state on account of the existence of slavery; or the prohibition of the introduction of slavery into utah or new mexico; or any act repealing or materially modifying the fugitive slave law; upon the faithful execution of which depends the preservation of the union. in _california_ the whig state convention recommend the extension of the pre-emption laws over all except the mineral lands of the state; the donation to each head of a family actually settled upon it, of acres; liberal grants for educational purposes; appropriations for public improvements; the adoption of measures to construct a railroad to connect that state with the valley of the mississippi; the establishment of steam communication with the sandwich islands and with china. the compromise measures are also cordially commended. the fourth of july was celebrated with more than usual enthusiasm in almost every section of the country. in washington, upon the occasion of laying, by the president, the corner stone of the extension of the capitol, mr. webster delivered an oration which will rank with his most eloquent speeches. he gave a rapid sketch of the growth and progress of the republic, from the time when berkeley prophesied that the star of empire was about to take its westward way. he then portrayed the distinctive nature of american liberty, as distinguished from that of greece and rome, or of modern europe, and altogether peculiar in its character. its prominent and distinguishing characteristic he stated to consist in the capacity for self-government, developing itself in the establishment of popular governments by an equal representation; and in giving to the will of the majority, fairly expressed through its representatives, the binding force of law; and in the formation of written constitutions, founded upon the will of the people, regulating and restraining the powers of government; added to the strong and deep-settled conviction of all intelligent persons among us that in order to support a useful and wise government upon these popular principles, the general education of the people, and the wide diffusion of pure morality and true virtue are indispensable. mr. webster then proceeded to deposit under the corner stone a document written by his own hand, which, after reciting the circumstances of the ceremony, thus concludes: "if, therefore, it shall be hereafter the will of god, that this structure shall fall from its base, that its foundations be upturned, and the deposit beneath this stone brought to the eyes of men, be it then known that, on this day, the union of the united states of america stands firm--that their constitution still exists unimpaired, and with all its original usefulness and glory, growing every day stronger and stronger in the affections of the great body of the american people, and attracting more and more the admiration of the world. and all here assembled, whether belonging to public life or to private life, with hearts devoutly thankful to almighty god for the preservation of the liberty and happiness of the country, unite in sincere and fervent prayers that this deposit, and the walls and arches, the domes and towers, the columns and entablatures, now to be erected over it, may endure forever.--god save the united states of america." after which he presented some statements setting forth in several aspects the comparative state of the country upon that day, and upon the same day, fifty-eight years before, when the corner stone of the original capitol was laid by the hand of washington. the legislature of _new york_ closed its extra session on the th of july. the skirmishing upon the passage of the canal enlargement bill was sharp and protracted; but the large majority in its favor in both houses pressed it steadily on. previous to the final passage, a protest was presented, signed by representatives. in the house the vote stood for and against the bill. in the senate the numbers are to . the majority in the senate was augmented by awarding the seat in the district in which a tie was returned, to mr. gilbert, the candidate in favor of enlargement, on the ground of illegal votes cast for his opponent; and by the death of hon. william h. brown, senator from the first district, who died a few days before the close of the session. as under the next appropriation new york loses a representative in congress, it became necessary to make a new division of the state into congressional districts. of the members to which the state will be entitled, taking the vote for governor at the late election as a criterion, the whigs will elect , the democrats . the whig majority for governor was but . in the present congress the members are equally divided between the parties. the gain to the whigs has been effected by classing together, in several cases, into one district, counties in which the democratic majority is large. at the annual meeting of the society of the cincinnati, on the th of july, a speech was made by hon. hamilton fish, senator-elect, in which he defined his position with respect to the leading political question of the day. it will be borne in mind that his refusal to do so while he was a candidate for the united states senate, was the ground of the determined opposition made to his election. he said that while the compromise measures were under consideration, they did not meet his approval; one in particular he thought open to exception as well on the ground of omission as enactment. but they had been enacted, as he believed, constitutionally; and from the moment that they became laws, he had avowed his acquiescence in them; and though he hoped for a modification of some of their provisions, he thought that the present was not the time for wise and prudent action. in a word, while he did not approve, he fully and unreservedly acquiesced. he offered, as a toast, these fundamental principles: "an incessant attention to preserve inviolate those exalted rights and liberties of human nature for which they have fought and bled, and without which the high rank of a rational being is a curse instead of a blessing."--"an unalterable determination to promote and cherish, between the respective states, that union and national honor so essentially necessary to their happiness, and the future dignity of the american empire." the legislature of _rhode island_ adjourned on the st of june, after a session of four and a half days. among the acts passed was one for re-organizing the common school system of the state; and one providing for secret ballots at elections. in _ohio_ the new constitution, a synopsis of which we gave in our number for may, has been accepted by the popular vote, by a decided majority. the article prohibiting licenses for the sale of ardent spirits, which was separately submitted to the people, was also adopted, though by a majority less than that in favor of the other articles. by a recent law of _kentucky_, widows having children of an age suitable for attending common schools, are entitled to vote in the election of school trustees. the governor of _south carolina_ has issued his proclamation for the election of representatives to the southern congress. he recommends the choice of two delegates from each congressional district. the anniversary of the battle of fort moultrie was celebrated at and near charleston, on the th of june. an address to the moultrie guards was delivered by thomas m. hanckel, esq., in the course of which he declared that the only remedy for the grievances of the south "was to be found in an inflexible determination to dissolve this union--a determination which would accept of no indemnity for the past, listen to no concessions for the present, and rely on no guarantee for the future; but which would ask and accept nothing but the sovereign right of self-government and southern independence." among the toasts given were the following: "the compromise--a breach of faith, and a violation of the constitution. resistance is all that is left to freemen."--"separate state action--the test of patriotism."--"our sister state, georgia--we will take all the corn she can raise, but beg of her to keep the cobb at home."--"federal threats and federal guns--the first none of us fear, the last, if pointed at us, we will take." in _alabama_ senator clemens is vigorously canvassing the state in support of the union party and in defense of the compromise measures. on the d of june, he made a speech at florence, in which he commended the entire series of measures, and defended his own course in relation to them from attacks made by members of his party. senator king has published a letter in which he announces his decided hostility to the compromise measures. he pronounces the admission of california into the union an act of injustice. under no contingency could he have sanctioned the bill abolishing slavery in the district of columbia under certain circumstances; and he should feel himself bound to vote for the repeal of the emancipation clause, whenever proposed. he would vote again, as he did at the last congress, for the repeal of the mexican law prohibiting slavery in utah and new mexico. the legislature of _connecticut_ adjourned on the d of july, without having made any choice of united states senator. in the house, a series of resolutions was passed by a vote of to , declaring the duty of a cheerful submission to law, endorsing the compromise measures as constituting a fair and equitable adjustment of the whole vexed questions at issue, and meeting the full approbation of the assembly; pronouncing the fugitive slave law to be in accordance with the constitution, containing merely enactments to carry into effect the provisions of that instrument, and calling upon all good citizens to sustain the requirements of the law. the resolutions were sent to the senate at a late period of the session, where various motions of amendment were made, all of which were lost. before they could be finally acted upon, the hour fixed upon for adjournment arrived, when a motion was made and carried for their indefinite postponement. the resolutions were returned to the house, and entered upon the journal. the legislature of _michigan_, at its late session, divided the state into four congressional districts, as rendered necessary by the results of the late census. these districts are so arranged that it is supposed the democrats will secure the entire delegation in congress. a number of mormons, who had settled on beaver island, in lake michigan, have been arrested on charge of various crimes. among the number was james j. strang, who claims and is believed by his followers to be endowed with special divine inspiration. they have been tried on an indictment for obstructing the united states mail, and acquitted by the jury after a very brief consultation. in _virginia_ the convention is laboriously engaged in framing the new constitution. in our last record, by a clerical error, we reversed the terms of the compromise on the suffrage question. in the house the west are to have members and the east . in the senate members are to be chosen from the east and from the west, giving the west a majority of four on joint ballot. this settlement has been adopted by the convention, who have stricken out the clause reported by the committee prohibiting the legislature from passing laws for the emancipation of slaves, and inserted a provision that an emancipated slave remaining in the state more than twelve months shall be sold. a public dinner was given to mr. webster on the th of june, at capon springs, in western virginia, at which he made a speech, which was most enthusiastically received. in the course of it he said: "i make no argument against resolutions, conventions, secession speeches, or proclamations. let these things go on. the whole matter, it is to be hoped, will blow over, and men will return to a sounder mode of thinking. but one thing, gentlemen, be assured of--the first step taken in the programme of secession, which shall be an actual infringement of the constitution or the laws, will be promptly met. and i would not remain an hour in any administration that should not immediately meet any such violation of the constitution and the law effectually and at once; and i can assure you, gentlemen, that all with whom i am at present associated in the government, entertain the same decided purpose." he concluded with the following sentiment: "the union of the states--may those ancient friends, virginia and massachusetts, continue to uphold it as long as the waves of the atlantic shall beat on the shores of the one, or the alleghanies remain firm on their basis in the territories of the other." the british embassador, sir henry lytton bulwer, made an eloquent speech, which was received with warm cheers, and elicited the following toast: "england and the united states--one language--one creed--one mission." from _california_ our dates are to may . on the night of the d of may, the anniversary of a great fire of last year, a destructive conflagration took place in san francisco, by which a large portion of the business part of the city was destroyed. the number of buildings burned is set down at ; the loss was at first stated at from ten to twelve millions, which is probably three or four times the actual amount. a number of lives were also lost. in one case six persons undertook the care of a store supposed to be fire-proof; the iron doors and window-shutters became expanded by the heat to such a degree that it was impossible to open them, and the inmates were all burned to death. the work of rebuilding was commenced and carried forward with such characteristic rapidity, that within ten days after the fire buildings were in process of erection, of which the greater part were already occupied. at the close of the month it is stated on reliable authority, that the number of buildings actually tenantable was greater than before the conflagration. the city of stockton suffered severely by a fire on the th of may. the amount of gold produced continues to be very great. the gold bluffs of the trinity river, the reported discovery of which caused such an excitement a few months since, prove to be of little or no value; but the extraction of gold from the auriferous quartz is rapidly developing itself as experience points out new and improved methods of procedure. this promises to become the most productive of all the mining operations in california. it is evident that the market is altogether overglutted with goods, the large amount destroyed at the fires, apparently producing no effect upon prices in general. political excitement runs high: party lines beginning to be strictly drawn. the nominations for state officers of both parties have been made. the depredations and outrages of the indians have not altogether ceased. the severe code of lynch law still continues in practical force, though instances of its execution are somewhat less frequently given. large numbers of emigrants from china are arriving; a british vessel from hong kong lately brought celestials to san francisco. they promise to out-number the emigrants from any other foreign people, and manifest a most unexpected facility in acquiring the language, manners, and modes of thought and life of their new homes. an expedition raised in the southern part of the state, for the purpose of invading the mexican province of lower california, appears to have miscarried. in _oregon_ a treaty has recently been concluded with portions of the callapooya and twallaty tribes of indians, who cede to the united states a large tract of the most valuable lands in the valley of the willamette. these indians refuse to leave that portion of the country, and will probably continue to reside within the limits of the reservations. unlike the tribes to the east of the rocky mountains, they are desirous of adopting the habits of civilized life, many of them being now in the service of the whites as laborers. in illinois, missouri, iowa, and along the whole course of the upper mississippi, great damage has been done by an unusual and long-continued flood of that river. many towns of considerable size have been quite overflowed. at st. louis, during the greater part of the month of june, the levee was entirely submerged, and all the stores upon front-street filled with water to the depth of several feet. for a vast extent along the mississippi, missouri, and their tributaries the bottom lands have been submerged for so long a time as to destroy the growing crops. it is the most disastrous inundation which has occurred for several years. three distinct shocks of an earthquake were felt at st. louis on the d of july. the morning was somewhat cool and cloudy, followed not long after by a slight rain, with thunder. in the afternoon the weather cleared up, and so remained for the remainder of the day. the cholera has appeared at several places in the west, more especially on the line of the mississippi. it does not appear, however, to have assumed a decidedly epidemic character. the troops under the command of col. sumner, on their way to new mexico, have suffered severely; as well as the trains of traders. the small pox has committed terrible ravages among the sioux and other indian tribes on the plains of the northwest. in january the weather was extremely cold, and some or of the indians in exposed situations were frozen to death. affrays have taken place among various tribes of indians in iowa, wisconsin, and minnesota. a steamer has recently set out from st. louis, with about voyagers bound for the rocky mountains. the steamer is destined for the mouth of the yellowstone, about two thousand miles up the missouri, the head of steamboat navigation. from this point the passengers will proceed in mackinaw boats to the falls of the missouri. most of the passengers are employees of the american fur company. dr. evans, u. s. geologist, is of the number; and two jesuit missionaries, fathers de smedt and hæken, take the opportunity to visit the wild tribes of indians near the mountains, among whom they intend to remain for two or three years. brevet general george talcott, of the ordnance department has been tried by a court martial for violation of the regulations of the department, for disobedience of orders and instructions; and for conduct unbecoming a gentleman. he was found guilty of all the charges, and upon all the specifications with two exceptions, and by sentence of the court, with the approval of the president of the united states, has been dismissed from the service. mr. charles l. brace, the "pedestrian correspondent" of the _independent_ newspaper has been arrested at grosswardein, in transylvania, upon a charge of complicity in some democratic plots. the only evidence against him seems to be his having letters of introduction which were thought suspicious, and being in possession of a copy of pulzky's "rights of hungary." mr. brace is a young man of decided literary talent, who has been for many months performing a pedestrian tour through europe for the purpose of learning by personal inspection the condition of the people. his letters from europe are among the most valuable that have been published in this country. he is the writer of an appreciative and thoughtful critique upon emerson which appeared some months since in the _knickerbocker_ magazine. the london _economist_, in noticing the translation of the "history of the colonization of america" by _talvi_ (mrs. robinson), gives some information in respect to the author which will be new upon this side of the atlantic. it says that "mr. talvi gives a succinct and carefully compiled history of the event, which will be acceptable to many readers. he is a german, probably settled in the states, and his book displays the pains-taking character of his countrymen." mr. b. a. gould, of cambridge, mass., has received a tender of the appointment of professor of astronomy at the university of göttingen, vacated by the recent death of dr. goldschmidt. during the past month have been celebrated the annual commencements of a number of the colleges of the country. apart from the exercises of the candidates for collegiate honors, much of the best talent of the country is usually enlisted in the service of the literary societies connected with the institutions. first in order of time, this year, we believe, stands the one hundred and fourth anniversary of _nassau hall college_, in new jersey. the address before the literary societies by hon. a. w. venable, of north carolina, on "the claims of our common country on the citizen scholar," is characterized as an able and eloquent performance. the graduating class numbered fifty-four. _the university of new york_ held its commencement on wednesday, july . on the monday evening previous, a characteristically brilliant oration was delivered before the literary societies by rev. dr. bethune, of brooklyn. john g. saxe, esq., of vermont, pronounced a poem, which elicited great admiration. the annual oration before the alumni was delivered by howard crosby, esq. the number of graduates was twenty-two. the commencement of _dickinson college_, at carlisle, penn., was held june th. rev. dr. peck, the president, tendered his resignation, to take effect at the close of the next academic year. rev. o. h. tiffany, of baltimore, was elected professor of mathematics. the graduates numbered sixteen. _miami university_, at oxford, ohio, held its commencement june th, when eleven students graduated. the different societies were addressed by rev. w. b. spence, of sidney; rev. dr. rice, of cincinnati, on the topic of "revelation the source of all true philosophy;" and by rev. s. w. fisher, of cincinnati, in a very able manner. the oration before the alumni was delivered by wm. dennison, esq., of columbus. the eighty-third annual commencement of _brown university_, at providence, r. i., took place on the th of july. the graduating class numbered thirty-two. n. w. greene, esq., of cincinnati, delivered before the phi beta kappa society an oration of great power and vigor, discussing in an earnest and vigorous manner some of the great social and political problems of the day. the address before the literary societies was by abraham payne, esq., of providence. his subject was "common sense." a very interesting discourse was delivered before the society for missionary inquiry, by rev. r. turnbull, of hartford, upon the subject of the "unity of the human race." the unity advocated was not so much that arising from a common origin as the deeper unity of a common nature, capacities, requirements, and destiny. the newly-founded _university of rochester_ held its first commencement exercises on the th of july. the graduating class numbered thirteen. rev. henry ward beecher, of brooklyn, delivered before the literary societies his often-repeated and brilliant discourse on "character." park benjamin, esq., recited a sparkling poem, keenly satirizing the all-prevailing passion of the love of money. on the th the anniversary of the theological department of the university was held. the graduating class was addressed by prof. j. s. maginnis; and rev. t. j. conant, d.d., delivered an inaugural address as professor of hebrew, biblical criticism, and interpretation. the subject of his address was "the claims of sacred learning." it was amply worthy of the subject and of the reputation of the distinguished professor. southern america. in _mexico_ the extra session of congress was opened on the st of june. señor lacunza was chosen president of the senate, and señor alcosta of the chamber. on the second day, several financial projects were broached. among the means proposed for the support of government, was the application to immediate use of the remainder of the indemnity, if there should be any; a general duty on consumption; a tax upon cotton manufactures; an increase of the duty on the circulation and export of coin. the chambers have agreed to allow the government to use the $ , , , said to remain of the american indemnity, at the rate of $ , a month, although this money had been specially appropriated to the interior creditors. an order has been issued for the discharge of any official who shall speak against the government. the number of police in the capital has been augmented, and they are allowed to arm themselves with pistols. brigandage does not appear to be diminished. one of the engineers of the tehuantepec survey states that a line for a railroad from the coatzocoalcos river to the pacific has been examined, in no part of which will there be an ascent of more than sixty feet to the mile. the prosecution of the survey has been prohibited by the government, and all americans engaged in it ordered to leave the country. some disturbances have arisen in consequence of this order, which it is said the company intend to disregard. subsequently to the issuing of the order they advertised at new orleans for additional laborers, and two steamboats which they wished to dispatch immediately. the mexican consul at new orleans refused a clearance to a steamer which the company wished to send. the disturbances in _chili_ and _peru_ seem to have been effectually suppressed, though in the latter republic some uneasiness yet prevails, owing to the attitude assumed by the partisans of vivanca. in the argentine republic, and the small states in its neighborhood, the same singular state of affairs prevails that has existed for some years. rosas, though nominally only governor of buenos ayres, is in reality supreme dictator of the whole argentine republic. the elements of discontent against his administration have, however, so far increased that there is a probability that his overthrow may be effected. general urquiza, governor of the province of entrerios, has taken up arms against rosas, and calls upon the other provinces for aid. he, however, does not ask for military assistance, affirming that his own troops are amply sufficient to overthrow the "fictitious power" of rosas, which he affirms to be based solely upon "terror," although he acknowledges that it has been maintained with "execrable ability." it is quite probable that lopez, the successor of francia, in paraguay, may be induced to join urquiza; for rosas has always avowed that paraguay was an integral portion of the argentine republic, and has ever cherished the design of its invasion, although more urgent occupations have never allowed him the opportunity to catty the purpose into execution. it has long been the wish of lopez to secure the recognition by other nations of the independence of paraguay, and it is said that he has lately addressed a communication to the president of france, designed to effect this object. brazil has also a pretext for engaging against rosas, owing to his having assumed the responsibility of certain aggressions upon the brazilian provinces, committed by general oribe. if all these separate interests can be combined at the same moment against rosas, it is difficult to see how he can maintain himself, notwithstanding his undoubted ability. _uruguay_ still maintains its singular position. the nominal government is without power beyond the walls of montevideo, the capital, which, as for the last dozen years, is held in a state of siege by general oribe, supported by aid from buenos ayres. in _bolivia_ government has issued the programme of a new constitution, based upon the following articles: " st. the government will defend and uphold the sovereignty and independence of the republic abroad, and peace and tranquillity at home. d. the catholic religion shall be that of the state. d. the best relations shall be maintained with other american and european states, and all treaties strictly observed, as well as neutrality in discussions arising between them. th. the civil liberty of citizens, and the rights of all shall be respected in conformity with the laws. th. the crimes of conspiracy and sedition shall be judged by verbal courts martial. th. the liberty of the press shall be guaranteed. th. foreigners shall be respected and protected in the exercise of their trade and commercial pursuits. th. a national convention shall be convoked. th. the independence of the judicial authority shall be respected. th. official appointments are conferments. th. the political opinions of all citizens shall be respected. th. the ministers of state shall be responsible for the acts of their administration." a convention, consisting of fifty-three delegates, is summoned to meet on the th of july. in the republics to the north there are discontents. in _new granada_ there has been an insurrection in the southern provinces, aided by forces from equador. the insurgents were defeated in two battles, but in a third gained some success. a law has been passed for the abolition of slavery, to take effect on the st of january, . a plot has been brought to light in _venezuela_, the design of which was to make way with the president and chief officers of government. a portion of the conspirators belong to the principal families in caraccas. some have been arrested; others have fled. the president has been clothed with extraordinary powers to meet the crisis. in central america there is reason to hope that a federal confederacy is about to be established between several states upon a model not unlike our own government, and under auspices which give hope of its maintaining a permanent existence. the basis of a confederation between nicaragua, san salvador, and honduras was formed in november, , and agreed to by representatives from those states, in december, . a general congress, called to meet in december next, is to complete the details of the confederacy. these three states embrace a territory of , square miles, with a population of a little more than a million. guatemala and costa rica, who have hitherto stood aloof, are invited to become members of the confederacy. these states have a territory of , square miles, and a population of somewhat more than a million. if all these states can be united, they will possess an area of territory somewhat greater than that of france. if the town of san juan de nicaragua be given up by great britain to the state of nicaragua, as there is reason to anticipate, the new state will have the control of the most important commercial port in the world. and even if surrendered with the guarantee of its being a free port, according to the bulwer and clayton treaty, the state must derive great advantage from it. in _jamaica_ the cholera has broken out with a fresh access of violence. a vessel from sierra leone has recently brought africans, who had been captured from a french slaver; they were distributed among the planters of the interior. in _cuba_ the alarm excited by the proposed invasion has passed away. the number of negroes brought to the island from africa within the last fourteen months, is stated to be , . count villanueva, for twenty-five years the able intendant, or chief fiscal officer of the island, has resigned his post, much to the regret of the spanish government. the reasons assigned are his own advanced age, and the delicate state of the health of his wife. but the real cause is supposed to be the absolute impossibility of making the revenue of the island adequate to meet the constantly increasing demands of the mother country. he is said to have opposed the sending out the last re-enforcement of troops, on the ground that if the people were loyal no more were needed; if they were not loyal, five times as many would be of no avail. the expense arising from this last addition of troops is stated at $ , , , which has totally exhausted the treasury. in _santa cruz_ the new danish governor was daily expected from copenhagen. it was supposed that upon his arrival some important changes would be made in the laws relating to the colored population. a partial emancipation of the blacks, after the st of october has been provided for by law. in _hayti_ hostilities between the haytians and dominicans have taken place. the former advanced beyond the advanced posts of the latter on the th of may, but were repulsed with some loss; the dominicans not losing a man, if we are to believe the bulletin of the president, baez. great britain. beyond the continued and triumphant success of the great exhibition, there is little of interest to record. the daily number of visitors upon the shilling days fluctuates from , to , , depending much upon the state of the weather. in very warm days, when the building is crowded, the heat is almost insupportable. the queen continues her almost daily visits, and the absurd apprehension of violence to the royal person has passed away. the russian department, the opening of which was delayed by the detention by ice of the contributions, is now opened, and astonishes every one by its splendor, giving an idea of the state of art and manufactures in that empire much higher than had before been entertained. there is now no talk of removing the crystal palace at the close of the exhibition; the disposition most likely to be made of it being to convert it into a winter garden and conservatory. the kaffir war proves even more serious than was anticipated. a number of chiefs, upon whose fidelity to the english reliance had been placed, and whose followers are at least partially supplied with fire-arms, have joined their countrymen. in parliament nothing of more than local interest has transpired, except a motion made by mr. cobden, praying the queen "to enter into communication with the government of france to endeavor to prevent in future the rivalry of warlike preparations, in time of peace, which has hitherto been the policy of the two governments, and to promote, if possible, a mutual reduction of armaments." lord palmerston, in behalf of the ministers, expressed a general concurrence in the object aimed at by the motion; but wished mr. cobden would not press it to a division, as those who might vote against it would be liable to be misunderstood to be opposed to the object of the motion, rather than to the means proposed to accomplish it. the mover withdrew the motion, at the request of his friends. an abstract of the census has been published, showing that the population of great britain, including the islands in the british seas, not including ireland, is , , , being an increase in ten years of , , , or . per cent. the rate of increase has regularly diminished, with a single exception, during each successive decennial period within the century. the returns from ireland have not been made up; but there is no doubt that they will indicate a marked decrease of population. london has increased from , , to , , , or . per cent, almost double the rate of the country generally. it is worthy of notice that the number of houses has not increased in a ratio equal to the population, showing that the population is continually crowding into closer quarters. great exertions have been put forth in ireland to have some port in that island selected as one of the places of departure for the transatlantic steamers. the steamer north america, which had been announced to sail from new york to galway, was expected with great anxiety, under the impression that her passage would prove the precursor of a regular communication between the two ports. every effort was made to complete the railway, so that the passengers might be forwarded without loss of time. the steamer, it will be recollected, did not sail as advertised, having been sold at the very moment when her departure was announced. the commissioners to whom was referred the question of the selection of an irish port for a transatlantic packet station, presented a report strongly adverse to the project. at the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts, prince albert made a speech which must have sounded somewhat strangely, coming from such an individual, in the ears of high-churchmen and ultra-monarchists. he characterized william iii. as the "greatest sovereign the country had to boast of;" and said that "by his sagacity and energy were secured the inestimable advantages of the constitution and the protestant faith." the american colonies, he said, were "originally peopled chiefly by british subjects, who had left their homes to escape the yoke of religious intolerance and oppression, and who threw off their allegiance to the mother country in defense of civil and religious rights." an opinion which hardly accords with the views of judge haliburton ("sam slick"), in his forthcoming work, "the english in america." lord john russell and earl grey were also speakers at the anniversary of this society. a disastrous balloon ascent has been made from london by a mr. and mrs. graham. owing to a violent wind the balloon became unmanageable, and narrowly escaped being dashed against the crystal palace. it finally struck against a chimney; the aeronauts were flung out insensible, and the balloon destroyed. france. the question of the revision of the constitution overshadows every other. apart from its mere partisan aspects, it is of grave and vital moment to the cause of tranquillity and public order. by what would seem almost an oversight, the functions of the executive and legislative branches of the government expire so nearly at the same time, that at the period of the election there is practically an interregnum. the election of the new assembly must take place between the th and the th day preceding the expiration of the term of the present legislative body. the term of the present assembly expires on the th of may, , so that the new election must occur between the th and the th of april. the term of the president ceases on the second sunday in may, so that within a month at furthest, possibly within a fortnight, both branches of the government have to be renewed. it is this which renders the coming election so critical. the peculiar state of the suffrage question furnishes another element of discord. the present government was elected by universal suffrage, every frenchmen, of the age of years, being entitled to vote at the place of his residence. but last year, by the law of may , it was enacted that a legal residence could only be obtained by a continuous habitation of three years. by this law the number of voters was reduced from , , to , , , disfranchising , , electors who had the right of voting for the present government. the validity of this law is warmly contested; and in particular it is affirmed that at most it can only apply to the election of representatives, which, in certain aspects, is a local affair; but can not refer to the choice of president. it is said that at the election these , , disfranchised voters will present themselves, and the responsibility of deciding as to the admissibility of their votes will fall upon the officials of a government whose term of office is about to expire; and the duty of enforcing the law will devolve upon an executive who is supposed to be hostile to it. add to these the different factions among the people, each seeking to carry out its own plans, and it will be seen how pressing is the necessity of some strong and permanent authority in the government. this is the ground upon which the bonapartists press the absolute necessity of prolonging the tenure of the president; and with this view they have urged to the utmost the presentation of petitions for a revision of the constitution, desiring simply that the article which renders him ineligible for immediate re-election should be annulled. these petitions have not been as numerously signed as was anticipated; from present appearances, the number of signatures will not exceed a million, of which not more than one half are in favor of the re-eligibility of the president. these have all been referred to a committee of fifteen, of whom nine are for and six against a revision. of this committee m. de tocqueville has been appointed to draw up the report. he has announced himself in favor of a revision accomplished in the manner pointed out by the constitution; provided that the law of may be repealed, and the elections be by universal suffrage. this, however, from the constitution of the assembly, is manifestly impossible. at dijon, on occasion of the opening of a section of the paris and lyons railway, the president made a speech reflecting severely upon the assembly which he charged with a failure to support him in carrying out the popular improvements which he desired to effect. though considerably moderated as published, the speech caused great excitement in the assembly. general changarnier evidently assumed it to be a declaration on the part of the president of an intention to disregard the prerogatives of the assembly, should that body prove adverse to his plans. he assured the members that in any case they might rely upon the army, who would implicitly obey their officers. the debates in the assembly continue to be very bitter and acrimonious, sometimes hardly stopping short of personal violence. germany, etc. from the remaining portion of europe there is little of special interest. the frankfort diet has resumed its regular sittings, but nothing of importance has been proposed. at hamburg, an affray occurred between the populace and a party of austrian troops, in which lives were lost. in portugal, the ministry of the marquis of saldanha seems likely to maintain its place. in italy there is the same hostility to the austrian rulers, manifesting itself as it best may. in milan, not only is tobacco proscribed by the people, as a government monopoly, but the purchase of tickets in the state lotteries is looked upon as an act of treason to the popular cause. at pavia, the count gyulay, the military governor of lombardy, appearing in the theatre, almost all the audience rose and left the house; and the few who remained were received with hisses by the crowd when they finally came out. at florence, the count guicciardini, and five others have been sentenced to six months' banishment for being found, to quote the words of the _procès verbal_, "sitting round a small table," upon which "occasion count piero guicciardini read and commented upon a chapter in the gospel of st. john," in the italian translation of diodati, under circumstances that "offer valid and sufficient proof that this reading and comment had no other purpose than mutually to insinuate into the parties religious sentiments and principles contrary to those prescribed by the roman catholic apostolic religion." literary notices. _the parthenon_ is the title of a serial work on a new plan, published by loomis, griswold, and co., the first number of which has just been issued in a style of uncommon typographical elegance, and containing original articles from several distinguished american writers. it is intended to present, in this publication, a collection of specimens of the literary talent and cultivation of the united states, as exhibited in the productions of our most eminent living authors. among the contributors, whose pens are enlisted in the proposed enterprise, we find the most celebrated names in the field of american letters, together with a host of lesser lights, who have yet distinction to achieve. the contents of this number are of a high order, and give a rich promise of the future excellence of the work. it opens with an indian legend, by cooper, called "the lake gun," which is followed by poetical contributions from mrs. sigourney, miss gould, duganne, and ross wallace. _narrative of travels in america_, by lady emmeline stuart wortley (published by harper and brothers), is a perpetual effusion of astonishment and admiration at the natural resources and the social developments of the western continent. lady wortley is not a traveler of the regular english stamp, judging every thing american by the standard of the old world, and giving vent to the disappointment of absurd anticipations by ridiculous comparisons. she has no doubt gone to the contrary extreme, and presented a too rose-colored picture of her impressions of america. with the quickness of observation, and gayety of temperament with which she mingled in all classes of american society, she could not fail to catch its most important features; but we think she often mistakes the courtesy and deference which her own frankness and intelligence called forth for a more decidedly national characteristic than is warranted by facts. on questions at issue between her own country and the united states, she uniformly takes sides with the latter. she shows a warm american heart every where, without the slightest disposition to flatter english prejudices. evidently her nature is strongly magnetic; she wears her foreign habits like a glove, and throws them off at pleasure; adapting herself with cordial facility to the domestic life of new england, or the brilliant _far niente_ of mexico. this disposition gives her book a highly personal and often gossiping character. she talks of the acquaintances she forms with the delight of a joyous child, who has found a new amusement, and generally with as little reserve. no one can complain of her fastidiousness, or of her unwillingness to be pleased. indeed, the whole volume gives you the idea of a frank, impulsive, high-hearted englishwoman, rejoicing to escape for a while from the restraints of conventional etiquette, and expressing herself with the careless ease of a perfectly natural character, among scenes of constant novelty and excitement. so completely does she throw herself into the mood of the passing moment, that she adopts all sorts of american colloquialisms, with as much readiness as if she had been to "the manner born," embroidering her pages with a profusion of familiar expressions, caught from the rebellious volubility of brother jonathan, and which most shock the "ears polite" in every drawing-room in england. it will be seen that her work belongs to the amusing order of travels, and makes no pretensions to intense gravity or profound wisdom. you read it as you would listen to the rattling talk of the author, pleased with its vivacity and unstarched grace, with its off-hand descriptions of comical adventures, and its glowing pictures of natural scenes, while you forgive a good deal of superfluous loquacity to her irrepressible good-humor and evident kindness of heart. james munroe and co. have issued the first volume of a new edition of _the works of shakspeare_, edited by rev. h. n. hudson. in its external appearance, this edition is intended, as nearly as possible, to be a fac-simile of the celebrated chiswick edition, while the numerous errors and corruptions, with which that edition abounds, have been removed by the diligence and sagacity of the present editor. every line, every word, every letter, and every point has been thoroughly revised, with the determination to present nothing but the genuine text of shakspeare. this volume contains the tempest, the merry wives of windsor, two gentlemen of verona, and the twelfth night, with introductions by the editor, written with his usual acuteness, and more than his usual modesty. his shakspearian learning, and enthusiastic reverence of the author, admirably qualify him to superintend an edition of his works, and we shall look with confidence to these successive volumes as an important aid to the enlightened appreciation of the immortal poet. _the history of josephine_, by john s. c. abbott (published by harper and brothers), is a lively and beautiful portraiture of the romantic career of the fascinating and unfortunate empress. without presenting any new incidents in her extraordinary life, mr. abbott has related her well-known history with such dramatic effect, that his work has all the charm of novelty. it will be read with great interest, even by those who are familiar with the subject. a new edition of _fresh gleanings_, by ik. marvel, has been issued by charles scribner. it will be read with a new zest of delight by those whose hearts have vibrated to the rich touches of feeling in the _reveries of a bachelor_, or who have rejoiced in the refined, delicious humor of the _lorgnette_, now acknowledged as the production of the same versatile pen. the author, donald mitchell, under all his amusing disguises, can not quite conceal the exquisite refinement of his imagination, nor his manly sympathy with the many-colored phases of life, which will make his name a "household word" among the lovers of a chaste and elevated literature. this edition is introduced with a dainty preface. lossing's _pictorial field-book of the revolution_, now publishing by harper and brothers, has reached the fifteenth number, and fully sustains the character which has won for it such a welcome reception in all parts of the union. the historical narrative is agreeably diversified by a copious and well-authenticated collection of anecdotes, and the illustrations taken from drawings on the spot, give a vivid impression of many of the most important localities which have now become classical by their association with the revolution. _the daughter of night_, by s. w. fullom (published by harper and brothers), is a recent english novel, which in spite of a good deal of exaggeration, leaves a deep impression on the mind of the reader. the scene is laid in the present day, and the principal materials are drawn from the state of the population in the mining districts of england. among other incidents, the ravages of the cholera among the laboring classes are described with frightful effect, showing a rare power of tragic representation. editor's drawer. we have forgotten (or never knew) who it is that speaks of the "small sweet courtesies of life," but the term is as true as it is felicitous. there _are_ such courtesies, and the habitual employment of them is the surest evidence of a good heart as well as refined manners. "i never look," said a benevolent lady to a friend walking down broadway one morning, "at a deformed person in the street, except directly in the face. how many a pang has been caused to the physically unfortunate by a lingering glance at a deformed limb, a "marked" face, or other physical defect, to a scrutiny of which the afflicted are so painfully sensitive!" there was a tenderness, a humanity in this remark, and therefore it was recorded at the time, as being worthy, not only of remembrance, but of heedful regard and emulation. yes; and that woman would leave the arm of her husband in the street, and push from off the side-walk with her little foot a piece of orange-peel, a peach-skin, or other the like slippery obstruction, lest _somebody_ should step upon it, slide, fall, and break or dislocate a limb. "these are little things to speak of," the reader may say, and they are; but still, they are "close devotements, working _from the heart_" that with such an one, a too common selfishness, or indifference to the good of others, "does not _rule_." * * * * * one of our "bold peasantry, a nations pride," disdaining california and its temptations, thus signifies his contentment with his little mountain-farm in "dear old new england:" "let others, dazzled by the shining ore, delve in the soil to gather golden store; let, others, patient of the menial toil, and daily suffering, seek the precious spoil; i'll work instead, exempt from fear or harm, the fruitful "placers" of my mountain farm; where the bright plow-share opens richest veins, from whence shall issue countless golden grains, which in the fullness of the year shall come, in bounteous sheaves to bless my harvest-home." * * * * * it was well said by an eminent man, that, during the prevalence, or expected prevalence, of any unusual epidemic, "cheerful-minded persons and cheerful looks, are more to be valued than all the drugs of the city." his further remarks are worthy of heed just now, in an anticipated or predicted "cholera-time:" "a great portion of mankind have a wonderful proclivity to groan, repine, whine, snarl, and find fault with every body and every thing, making other people miserable, and rendering themselves intolerable nuisances. at a time when all excitement, alarm, and panic are to be studiously avoided, as promotive or incitive of diseases, these groaners, these incessant predicters of more trouble, more sickness, and more deaths; these persons with rueful countenances, should be shut up, kept out of sight. they fret, annoy, and disgust all healthy, sensible people, and are 'sure death' to persons of diseased body and mind; while on the other hand, the cheerful-minded man or woman, with pleasant aspect, rejuvenates and fortifies the minds of all; filling the soul of the sick and desponding with hope, confidence, and courage. a cheerful-minded physician, who can inspire his patients with a firm faith and hope of recovery, is to be preferred, in nine cases out of ten, to the physician of gloomy misgivings and lugubrious countenance." this is good advice. we know an old weather-croaker who at all times "never expects any more really pleasant weather." if it happens to _be_ pleasant, he says: "ah! my young friend, we shall _pay for this_--a mere weather-breeder--a weather-breeder, sir." if it is _not_ pleasant, he reverses his grumbling. "ah, sir, just as i told you--just as i expected!" * * * * * when the development of what are termed "spiritual rappings" was first made in this city, we were of a party who visited the exhibitors of the phenomena, or whatever else it may be called. surprised, amazed, yet not satisfied, we returned home. in the evening, at a friend's house, the conversation turned upon the scene we had witnessed. some importing deception, collusion, &c.; while others avowed, almost with "fear and trembling" their full belief in the operation of a spiritual agency in producing the sounds. "i know nothing whatever," said a gentleman who chanced to be present, and who had remained entirely silent during the discussion, which however he seemed to be regarding very attentively, "i know nothing whatever about these 'spiritual rappings,' for i have not heard them, nor had an opportunity of testing the various ways in which it is alleged they may be produced; but if you will permit me, and i shall not be considered as inflicting a story upon your company, i will tell you what i _have_ seen, and which i think partook somewhat of the nature of those mysterious spiritual communications of which you have been speaking. "i presume that many of you remember the case of rachel baker, the somnambulist-preacher, who, some twenty-eight or thirty years ago, in one of the interior counties of this state, attracted so much the wonder and curiosity of the public. she was an ignorant, unlettered girl, of some nineteen or twenty years of age. her parents were poor, and were unable to give her any education. she could read the bible only with great difficulty, and even that little with apparently but small understanding of the force and extent of its moral and religious teachings. although indigent and ignorant, her character, however humble and undeveloped, was unblemished. she was of a religious turn of mind, and was a regular attendant of the methodist meetings, which were only occasionally held in the sparsely-populated neighborhood where she resided. "such was the young girl who subsequently became the theme of almost every journal in the united states, and whose fame, or perhaps more properly notoriety, extended to england and france; awakening in each country elaborate psychological and physiological discussions concerning the nature of the peculiar case of 'rachel baker, _the american somnambulist_.' but i am getting a little before my story. "one hot evening, about midsummer, somewhat earlier than was usual with her, rachel took a candle and ascended the ladder which served as stairs to lead to the open chamber or garret which contained her humble bed. a short time after midnight, her mother, being accidentally awake, and talking with her father, heard her, as she expressed, 'gabbling to herself in a dream.' she called aloud to her daughter, but received no answer; but her talk, in a low tone of voice, continued as before. the mother now awoke her husband, and lighting a candle, they ascended together to rachel's apartment. "she lay upon her bed on her back, her face turned to the rafters and shingled roof of the rude dwelling. her eyes were wide open; her hands clasped convulsively over her bosom; and she was pronouncing a prayer. after finishing her prayer, she lay silent for a few moments, and then awakening with a start, and gazing wildly around her, she demanded to know of her wonder-stricken and agitated parents, why they were there, and 'what that _light_ was for?' "'you waked your father and me, by talking in your sleep, rachel; when we called to you, you did not answer, and we came up to see what was the matter. you've been dreaming, haven't you, rachel?' "'no, mother, i've had no dream; you have wakened me from a sound and sweet sleep.' "the parents retired, went down the ladder to their own apartment, and rachel fell into a sound sleep, and slept until morning. all the following day, however, she was indisposed; her eyes were heavy, her step faltering, and her whole manner indolent and _ennuyée_. the same somnambulism occurred every night for a week; until at length the rumor of the phenomena was noised about the country, and excited a wide and general curiosity. and when inquiry was made of the mother as to the character of rachel's 'talk in her sleep,' she said, 'it was first-rate preaching--as good as any minister's; and her prayers,' she added, '_was_ beautiful to hear.' "about this time mr. w---- g----, a man of rare self-attainments in practical science and philosophy, and of the highest reputation for general intelligence--(an ornament, moreover, to the agriculturists of new york, toward whose interests no man in the state subsequently more efficiently contributed)--invited rachel to pass a short time at the house of his father, an opulent farmer in the little town of o----, in the county of onondaga. "she came after some considerable persuasion; and here it was, being at that time on a tour in the western part of the state, that i first saw the remarkable spiritual development of which i spoke a while ago. rachel had already spoken three nights, utterly unconscious to herself, although surrounded by gradually-increasing numbers, who had been attracted by a natural curiosity to hear her. up to this time she had not herself been made aware of the continuance of her 'sleep-talking.' during the day she would assist the family in various domestic matters; and she was given to understand by mr. g----, that it was intended to assist her to attain such proficiency in a common education as would enable her to read the bible freely, to understand its plainest precepts, to write and to speak with grammatical correctness. she seemed anxious to avail herself of such an opportunity, and was thus entirely deceived as to the real purpose of the visit which she was induced to make. "the house of mr. g---- contained upon the ground-floor four apartments; an 'east' and 'west room,' the first of which contained the library of the younger mr. g----, an organ, &c.; and the second was the 'spare room,' _par excellence_, in other words, the best parlor: these were connected by an 'entry' or passage-way; and opening into this parlor was another large room, where the family took their meals, held family worship, &c. adjoining this room was a large kitchen. but let me describe the scene on the first night in which i saw rachel baker. "it was on the evening of a hot day in summer. i had been permitted to come into the dining-room with the family, and was seated accidentally near the unconscious somnambulist. conversation turned upon various matters, as it was intended purposely to prevent the least suspicion of there being any curiosity concerning her. the 'men-folks' talked of harvesting and other agricultural matters, and the 'women-kind' of their domestic affairs. meanwhile twilight was deepening; the 'east room' was filling with the neighbors, who approached in a direction whence they could not be seen by any of us who were in the sitting-room. i was saying something to rachel of an indifferent nature, when i thought i saw a slight twitching about the eyelids, and an unwonted heaviness in the expression of her eyes. the conversation was now vigorously renewed, but she seemed to be gradually losing all interest in it; and presently she observed, 'i am tired and sleepy, and i guess i'll go to bed.' 'certainly, rachel, if you wish,' said mrs. g----; 'take a candle with you.' "she left the chair in which she had been sitting by my side, took up a candle, bade us 'good-night,' left the room, and closed the door behind her. "all was now expectation. we heard the subdued rustling of the crowd in the 'east room,' while we in the sitting-room were awaiting the involuntary signal which would render it proper to enter the parlor where the bed of the somnambulist was placed. presently a subdued groan was heard. we seized the candles which had been lighted after she had retired, and entered her apartment, into which also was pouring a crowd of persons from the 'east room.' "i shall never forget the scene that was now presented. the face of the somnambulist, which, without being handsome, was extremely interesting, was turned toward the ceiling; her large blue eyes were wide open, and their pupils seemed to fill the entire eye-balls, giving her what the germans call an "interior" or soul-look. her hands were crossed upon her bosom over the bed-clothes; nor did she once move them, or her eyes, so much even as to wink, during the whole evening. and so tightly did she press them, that the blood settled for the time under her nails, and at length grew black like the fingers of a corpse. she lay for the space of a few minutes motionless and silent. she then began a short prayer in a voice calm and solemn, which, although, not at all loud, could be heard plainly in all the apartments, while the hushed attention of the hearers kept the house as still as the grave. i remember that the prayer was fervent, brief, and beautiful, and in language simple and pure. "after the prayer, she lay for some time silent and motionless; affording space, as some supposed, for the singing of a hymn, as in the regular exercises of the sanctuary. then she began her discourse, which usually continued about half an hour. it was not a discourse from any particular text, although it was connected, regular, and nobly illustrated by the most apposite quotations from the bible. if interrupted by any questions, she would pause, make answer, and immediately resume the broken chain of her remarks. the evening i was present, a distinguished clergyman of this city, who had come expressly to visit her, interrupted her with: "'rachel, why do you consider yourself called upon to address your fellow-sinners, and by what authority do you speak.' "'i even i,' she answered, 'a woman of the dust, am moved by the spirit which liveth and moveth all things. necessity is laid upon me; for i speak through him who hath said, "upon my young men and maidens will i pour out my spirit, and the young men shall see visions and the young maidens dream dreams."' the passage quoted was to this purport. although the somnambulist was utterly ignorant of correct language, never speaking, when awake, without the grossest blunders in grammar, yet in all passages and discourses which she delivered in her somnambulent state, in all the answers to questions which were propounded to her she never committed the slightest error. i wish i could remember a passage of her discourse the second night i heard her. it was replete with the most admirable imagery, and its pathos was infinitely touching. she was visited at the house of mr. g---- by some of the most eminent clergymen and _savans_ of new york, and other cities; among others, if i remember rightly, by the celebrated dr. samuel l. mitchell. after her discourse was finished, she would be silent and motionless, as before she began it, then pronounce a prayer; and at last relapse into a disturbed slumber, from which she would gradually arouse, groaning as if in pain, her hands relaxing and falling by her side, and her frame trembling as if 'rent with mortal agony.' "her somnambulism continued for some two or three months afterward; all physical remedies were tried, but without avail. she died in about a year afterward, her case baffling to the last all attempts at explanation of the mysterious agency by which it was produced." * * * * * dr. oliver wendell holmes tells us how the members of the medical profession feel when the "poison-chalice" of their prescriptions is commended to their own lips; in other words, when the visitor becomes the visitee: "just change the time, the person, and the place and be yourself the 'interesting case;' you'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn; in future practice it may serve your turn. leeches, for instance--pleasing creatures quite; try them, and, bless you! don't you think they bite? you raise a blister for the smallest cause, and be yourself the great sublime it draws; and, trust my statement, you will not deny the worst of draughtsmen is your spanish fly. it's mighty easy ordering when you please, '_infusi sennæ, capiat uncias tres_'; it's mighty different when you quackle down your own three ounces of the liquid brown. '_pilula pulvis_'--pleasant words enough, when _other_ jaws receive the shocking stuff; but oh! what flattery can disguise the groan, that meets the gulp which sends it through your own!" * * * * * "ah! they are very busy and bustling here _now_, but they will all be still enough by-and-by," said a clergyman from the country, as he passed with his friend, for the first time, through cortlandt-street into crowded broadway, at its most peopled hour. "and," said our informant (the friend alluded to, who had lived in the great metropolis all his life), "i never before felt so forcibly, so sudden was the observation, and so fervent the expression of the speaker, the truth of his remark. to _me_, the scene before us was an every-day one; to _him_, spending his days in the calm retirement of the country, the crowd, the roaring of the wheels, the sumptuous vehicles of wealth, and the bedizened trappings of pride, presented a contrast so strong, that the exclamation which he made was forced from him by the overpowering thought: "ye busy, hurrying throng, ye rich men, ye vain and proud men, where will all these things be, where will _you_ be seventy years from now?" "after all," says sydney smith, "take some thoughtful moment of life, and add together two ideas of pride and of man: behold him, creature of a span high, stalking through infinite space, in all the grandeur of littleness. perched on a speck of the universe, every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the coldness of death; his soul floats from his body like melody from the string. day and night, as dust on the wheel, he is rolled along the heavens, through a labyrinth of worlds, and all the creations of god are flaming above and beneath. is _this_ a creature to make himself a crown of glory? to mock at his fellows, sprung from the dust to which they must alike return? does the proud man not err? does he not suffer? does he not die? when he reasons, is he never stopped by difficulties? when he acts, is he never tempted by pleasures? when he lives, is he free from pain? when he dies can he escape the common grave? pride is not the heritage of man. humility should dwell with frailty, and atone for ignorance, error, and imperfection." * * * * * that sort of curiosity which invests murderers and their secret motives with so much interest, instances of which may be seen any week almost in our very midst, was finely satirized many years ago by a writer in one of the english or scottish periodicals. the criminal was arrested for the murder of an old woman, who had no money to tempt his avarice, and he resisted all inquiries touching the motives which induced him to commit the horrid deed. he "couldn't tell," he said; "it was a sudden impulse--a sort of a whisper; satan put it into his head." he had no reason for doing it; didn't know _why_ he did it. ladies brought tracts and cakes to his prison, and begged him to "make a clean breast of it." why did he do it? "lord knows," said he, "_i_ don't." at his trial the jury brought him in guilty, but recommended him to mercy, provided he gave his reasons. he said he "hadn't any; he killed the old 'oman off-hand; it was a sudden start--the same as a frisk: he couldn't account for it; it was done in a dream, like." finally the day appointed for his execution arrived; and the sheriff, under-sheriffs, clergy, reporters, etc., all implored him to make a full confession, now that his time had come. a phrenologist, knowing that although "murder had no tongue, it could speak with most miraculous _organ_," felt the devoted head, but was none the wiser. the interest in the murderer was now increased tenfold; and such was the demand for locks of the culprit's hair, that when he was led forth to the scaffold, there remained upon his head but a few carroty clippings; "and all this while," says the writer in parenthesis, "there was poor old honesty toiling for a shilling a day, wet or shine, and not one christian man or woman to ask him for so much as one white hair of his head!" well, the murderer, unyielding to the end, stands at last upon the scaffold, the focus of the gaze of ten thousand sons and daughters of curiosity, in the street, at the windows, on the house-tops. the hangman is adjusting the rope; the clergyman is reading the death-service; the fatal bolt is about to be withdrawn; when a desperate individual, in a straw-hat, a light blue jacket, striped trowsers, and hessian boots, with an umbrella under his arm, dashes in before the clergyman, and in hurried accents puts the old question, "why did you do it?" "why, then," said the convict, with an impatient motion of his cropped head, "i did it--_to get my hair cut!_" and he had not miscalculated the sympathy with crime which was to denude his guilty head for "keep sakes!" * * * * * those who have risen early on a sabbath morning in the country, and experienced the solemn stillness and holy calm of the hour, will read the following lines with something of the religious fervor with which they came warm from the heart of the author: "how calm comes on this holy day! morning unfolds the eastern sky, and upward takes his lofty way triumphant to her throne on high. earth glorious wakes as o'er her breast the morning flings her rosy ray, and blushing from her dreamless rest unvails her to the gaze of day: so still the scene each wakeful sound seems hallowed music breathing round. "the night-winds to their mountain caves, the morning mist to heaven's blue steep and to their ocean depths the waves are gone, their holy rest to keep, 'tis tranquil all, around, above, the forests far which bound the scene are peaceful as their maker's love, like hills of everlasting green. and clouds like earthly barriers stand, or bulwarks of some viewless land." now those lines came to our recollection on one occasion many months since, simply by way of direct contrast, which is one of the curious, if not unexplainable operations of the human mind. we had been reading a long description, in a letter from a traveler, of life in the english coal-mines and of the "sabbath privileges" of the thirty-five thousand men and boys who labor in the vast coal-fields of durham and northumberland, in england. there they are, and there they spend their long nights of labor, for day is not for them, hundreds of fathoms down in subterranean depths; never breathing pure air, but often stagnant and exhausted, when the stream of ventilation does not permeate the ever-lengthening gallery, and are almost always inhaling noxious gases. not only is the atmospheric medium rarefied by a perpetual summer heat, without one glimpse of summer day, but every now and then occur terrific explosions of the "fire-damp," instantaneously thundering through a vulcanian region, with more certain death to all within its range than there was ever dealt by artillery on the surface of the earth: or a gush of poisonous vapor in one moment extinguishes the candles and the lives of the workmen, and changes the scene of unceasing toil into a catacomb inconceivably more awful than any of the great receptacles of death that bear that name: or the ill-propped vault gives way, and bodies, never to be seen until the resurrection, are buried under the ruins of a pestilential cavern: often, too, life is sacrificed to carelessness or parsimony, and a few "indulgences" are perhaps given to the widow and orphans, to hush up the "casualty" within the neighborhood of the pit. seldom does a visitor venture to plunge into the hades-like profound. no attraction in the scenery of the miserable villages above ground brings a stranger to meddle with a population that never come to the surface except to eat or sleep. yes, there is one exception. on that thrice happy day of rest, when even the burden of the beast is unloosed, the sober, humbly-clad colliers, as clean as they can make themselves, emerge from darkness into light, and hear from the lips of some brother "pitman," in their own familiar _patois_, the "glad tidings of salvation." * * * * * there are numerous pictures of napoleon: napoleon in scenes of triumph in peace, and of sublime grandeur in war. he has been depicted crossing the alps; at marengo, at austerlitz, at the bridge of lodi, at jena, at moscow, by the nile; gazing at the everlasting pyramids; entering sacked cities, bivouacked at night, and the like. but of all the pictures that we have ever seen of the great captain, one which has pleased us most, and which seems to represent him in the most gratifying light, is a picture which depicts him sitting upon a sofa in his library, a book in his hand, which he is perusing attentively; while his little son, reclining on one end of the sofa, lies asleep with his head resting on his father's lap--pillowed on those adipose limbs, that look as if they had been melted and run into the close-fitting breeches which they inhabit. this is a picture which, unlike the others, represents the great original as "one of us"--a man and a father, and not as a successful warrior or a triumphant victor. * * * * * speaking nearly a century ago, an old english worthy laments the "good old times" when a book was bequeathed as an invaluable legacy, and if given to a religious house, was offered on the altar, and deemed a gift worthy of salvation; and when a prelate borrowed a bible, his cathedral gave a bond for its return. libraries then consisted of a few tracts, chained or kept in chests. the famous library of oxford, celebrated by humphrey, duke of gloucester, contained only six hundred volumes! what would _then_ have been thought of the "making of many books," of which "there is no end" in these our days? * * * * * there is a striking example of the style of "sir pertinax mac sycophant," in a character of marston's "_what you will_." here is a slight specimen of his "booing and booing:" "sir, i protest i not only take distinct notice of your dear rarities of exterior presence, but also i protest i am most vehemently enamored, and very passionately dote on your inward adornments and habilities of spirit. i protest i shall be proud to do you most obsequious vassalage." * * * * * we find upon a scrap in the "drawer" these two stanzas taken from a german hymn, entitled, "_kindliches gemüthe_," or childlike temper: "his mother's arms his chief enjoyment; to be there is his loved employment; early and late to see her face, and tenderly her neck embrace. "o innocence! sweet child's existence! this have i learnt, through god's assistance, he who possesses thee is wise, and valued in the almighty's eyes." "valued" is doubtless a stronger word in the original german, but it may have been difficult to render into our vernacular. * * * * * it would be a curious question whether, supposing the sun could be inhabited, its citizens would be as large, in proportion to the size of that luminary as we mundanes are in proportion to the earth. this, it strikes us, is one of those questions which it would be difficult to answer to general satisfaction. we remember some old philosopher who once complained that a flea had a good deal more proportional force than, from his size, he was entitled to. although weighing only a single grain, it is endowed with the ability to jump an inch and a half at a spring. now a man weighing an hundred and fifty pounds, ought, "by the same rule," to be able to make a spring over a space of twelve thousand eight hundred miles, which would be equivalent to jumping from gotham to cochin china, or round the world in two jumps. a man capable of doing that, might be set down "pretty spry." woman's emancipation. (being a letter addressed to mr. punch, with a drawing, by a strong-minded american woman.) [illustration] it is quite easy to realize the considerable difficulty that the natives of this old country are like to have in estimating the rapid progress of ideas on all subjects among us, the anglo-saxons of the western world. mind travels with us on a rail-car, or a high-pressure river-boat. the snags and sawyers of prejudice, which render so dangerous the navigation of time's almighty river, whose water-power has toppled over these giant-growths of the world, without being able to detach them from the congenial mud from which they draw their nutriment, are dashed aside or run down in the headlong career of the united states mind. we laugh to scorn the dangers of popular effervescence. our almighty-browed and cavernous-eyed statesmen sit, heroically, on the safety-valve, and the mighty ark of our vast empire of the west moves on at a pressure on the square inch which would rend into shivers the rotten boiler-plates of your outworn states of the old world. to use a phrase which the refined manners of our ladies have banished from the drawing-room, and the saloon of the boarding-house, _we_ go ahead. and our progress is the progress of all--not of high and low, for we have abolished the odious distinction--but of man, woman, and child, each in his or her several sphere. our babies are preternaturally sharp, and highly independent from the cradle. the high-souled american boy will not submit to be whipped at school. that punishment is confined to the lower animals. but it is among _our_ sex--among women (for i am a woman, and my name is theodosia eudoxia bang, of boston, u.s., principal of the homeopathic and collegiate thomsonian institute for developing the female mind in that intellectual city) that the stranger may realize, in the most convincing manner, the progressional influences of the democratic institutions it is our privilege to live under. an american female--for i do not like the term lady, which suggests the outworn distinctions of feudalism--can travel alone from one end of the states to the other; from the majestic waters of niagara to the mystic banks of the yellowstone, or the rolling prairies of texas. the american female delivers lectures, edits newspapers, and similar organs of opinion, which exert so mighty a leverage on the national mind of our great people, is privileged to become a martyr to her principles, and to utter her soul from the platform, by the side of the gifted poe or the immortal peabody. all this in these old countries is the peculiar privilege of man, as opposed to woman. the female is consigned to the slavish duties of the house. in america the degrading cares of the household are comparatively unknown to our sex. the american wife resides in a boarding-house, and, consigning the petty cares of daily life to the helps of the establishment, enjoys leisure for higher pursuits, and can follow her vast aspirations upward, or in any other direction. we are emancipating ourselves, among other badges of the slavery of feudalism, from the inconvenient dress of the european female. with man's functions, we have asserted our right to his garb, and especially to that part of it which invests the lower extremities. with this great symbol, we have adopted others--the hat, the cigar, the paletot or round jacket. and it is generally calculated that the dress of the emancipated american female is quite pretty--as becoming in all points as it is manly and independent. i inclose a drawing made by my gifted fellow-citizen, increasen tarbox, of boston, u.s., for the _free woman's banner_, a periodical under my conduct, aided by several gifted women of acknowledged progressive opinions. i appeal to my sisters of the old world, with confidence, for their sympathy and their countenance in the struggle in which _we_ are engaged, and which will soon be found among them also. for i feel that i have a mission across the broad atlantic, and the steamers are now running at reduced fares. i hope to rear the standard of female emancipation on the roof of the crystal palace, in london hyde park. empty wit may sneer at its form, which is bifurcate. and why not? mohammed warred under the petticoat of his wife kadiga. the american female emancipist marches on her holy war under the distinguishing garment of her husband. in the compartment devoted to the united states in your exposition, my sisters of the old country may see this banner by the side of a uniform of female freedom--such as my drawing represents--the garb of martyrdom for a month; the trappings of triumph for all ages of the future! theodosia e. bang, m.a., m.c.p., [greek: ph.d.k.], k.l.m., &c., &c. (of boston, u.s.) three leaves from punch. [illustration: "there, now;--that's a cigar i can confidently recommend!" "well; put me up a dozen to try!"] [illustration: the interesting story. _first ticket-porter._--"and so, you know, that's all i knows about it." _second ticket-porter._--"well! i don't know as ever i knowed a man as knows as much as you knows!"] [illustration: elegant and rational dinner costume for this close weather.] [illustration: a wet day at a country inn. _guest_--"is that your notion of something amusing?"] [illustration: _bathing-woman_--"master franky wouldn't cry! no! not he!--he'll come to his martha, and bathe like a man!"] [illustration: affecting--rather! _alfred._--"tell me, my own one. is there any thing else you have to say, before i go?" _emma._--"yes, dearest--do not--oh do not forget to bring the--th--th--brunswick sausage from f-f-f-fort--num and mason's."] [illustration: real enjoyment. _annie._--"good-by, dear. you must come again soon, and spend a good long day, and then i can show you all my new things." _clara._--"oh! that will be nice! good-by, dear." (_kiss and exit._)] [illustration: "see, dear, what a sweet doll ma-a has made for me."] [illustration: singular optical delusion. _gentleman._--"there, love; do you see that steamer?" _lady._--"oh, distinctly! there are two!"] [illustration: a most alarming swelling!] [illustration: sunbeams from cucumbers; or, gems from advertisements scholastic! _mother._--"and--pray, doctor, what are your terms for heducating little boys?" _the principal._--"why, my dear madam, my usual terms are seventy guineas _per annum_ (to use the language of the ancient romans), but to effect my object (?) quickly, i would take a few for what i could get; provided they be gentlemen, like your dear little boy there; but (again to use the latin tongue), it is a _sine qua non_ that they should be gentlemen!!!"] [illustration: _first old foozle._--"would you like to see the paper, sir? there's nothing in it." _second old foozle._--"then what the deuce did you keep it so long for?"] [illustration: little lessons for little ladies. fan-ny fal-lal, al-though she was not rich, nor a per-son of rank, was a ve-ry fine la-dy. she would pass all her time read-ing nov-els and work-ing cro-chet, but would neg-lect her house-hold du-ties; so her hus-band, who was a ve-ry nice man, and fond of a nice din-ner, be-came a mem-ber of a club, and used to stop out ve-ry late at night, which led to ma-ny quar-rels. how fool-ish it was of fan-ny to neg-lect her house-hold du-ties, and not to make her al-bert hap-py at home!] fashions for august. [illustration: fig. .--promenade and young lady's morning costume.] we have very little change to note in the forms of dress, since our last; and while "the dog-star rages," materials suitable for the heat of july will be appropriate. for out-of-door costume, silks of light texture, and hues accordant with those of surrounding nature, such as peach, lilac, violet, buff, green, pink, &c., are in vogue. mantelets are much worn, and are of two different forms--the scarf mantelet, and the little round shawl mantelet. these, particularly the shawl mantelet, are beautifully embroidered and deeply fringed, giving them an exceedingly rich appearance. they have mostly a double collar attached. promenade costume.--the figure on the right, in our first illustration, represents a beautiful style of walking costume. the dress is of light-textured silk. body high, open in front, and having at the edge, as a lapel, two vandyked and goffered trimmings, with very little fullness. the under one meets the upper about two-thirds down the front. the body has a rounded point in front, and the trimming goes to the bottom. the sleeves are almost tight for about two-thirds of the arm, and end in a frill, on which are set two smaller frills, vandyked and goffered at the edges. the skirt has three flounces; the first, six inches below the waist, is ten inches deep; the second is twelve, and the third fourteen inches. each of these flounces, already a little drawn, is trimmed at bottom with two vandyked frills of two inches in width. they are held in, when sewed on, so as to be full on the large ones. the habit shirt is composed of two valenciennes at the collar, and of muslin puffs; the under-sleeve, trimmed with a narrow valenciennes, is formed of muslin _bouillonnés_, diminishing toward the bottom. the bonnet is an elegant style. it is drawn, of net, blond, and silk; the edge of the poke has a roll of silk; above and below there is a transparent width of net, about two inches deep, and two blond frills drawn shell-shape. all the inside of the poke and crown is composed of a kind of _carapace_ made of silk, with small folds lapping over each other. on one side there are two large moss-roses with buds and leaves. a blond, about an inch and a half wide, goes over the roses, and is continued in waves all along the piping. on the other side there are no flowers, but instead of them are a net _bouillonné_ and three blond frills. the curtain is of puffed net, with blonds and no frills. young lady's morning costume.--the figure on the left represents an elegant morning costume for a young lady. hair in bandeaux, forming a puff which spreads well at the bottom. the points are carried back to meet under the knot. the back hair is done up in a torsade with black velvet ribbons, the two ends of which float behind. frock of plaid silk, skirt very full. _canezou_, or jacket, of embroidered muslin, trimmed with embroidered and festooned bands. it is open and square in front, with five bands for trimming. the sleeves are demi-length, and trimmed in a similar manner. the under-chemisette is of plaited net, with a narrow lace at the edge. [illustration: fig. .--jackets.] jackets are now much worn, not only as a part of a morning costume, but as an elegant addition to a visiting dress. figure represents two of these. the first, held in the hand, is of light blue silk, and intended as an accompaniment to a visiting dress of the same material. it is trimmed round the lower part, as well as the sleeves and lapels or facings, with a narrow frilling of the same, fastened down the front with three large rosettes of silk, the corsage being sufficiently open to show the habit-shirt, decorated with a frilling of white lace. the large white under-sleeves are decorated with a double fall of white lace. on the half-length figure is represented the jacket of a morning costume. it is of white jaconet muslin, trimmed with lace and rows of pink ribbon of different widths. long sleeves made rather loose, and encircled with lace and ribbon, finished with a noeud of the latter, on the top of the wrist. under close sleeve trimmed with rows of lace placed close together. this figure also shows a pretty style of cap, made of white lace, trimmed round the back part with four rows of narrow white lace, finished on each side with a bow and ends of pink ribbon, with loops on each side of the face. a beautiful style of evening dress is a robe of white cachmere, trimmed with very deep flounces, each finished with stripes of silk woven in the material. the body open, square in the front; made very high and open, across the chest, terminating below the waist with basquines, which give it some what the appearance of a little vest, or jacket. [illustration: fig. .--boy's dress.] figure represents a pleasing style of dress for a little boy. a charles-the-ninth cap of black velvet, with a well-rolled feather on one side, and proceeding from a cabbage-rose of black satin ribbon. coat of black velvet, without any seam at the waist. it is hollowed out at the side and back seams, like a lady's paletot, tight over the breast, and fastened with little jet buttons. sleeves half short, also with buttons. under the coat is a tunic of plaid poplin, black and red. this tunic is full of gathers like a scotch kilt. plaid stockings, stripes sloping; small black gaiters with jet buttons. collar sewed on to a band; the trimmings of the under-sleeves and trowsers are of the older style of english embroidery. the taste for flowers, those gems which give exquisite beauty to nature's pictures, is becoming more and more prevalent. nearly every bonnet is decorated with flowers, particularly those of rice straw. heaths, lilies, violets, roses, &c., with straw, oats, asparagus, butter-cups, and fancy trifles are used in giving grace and beauty to bonnets. end changes made to the text transcriber's note: a table of contents has been added. blank pages have been deleted. the publisher's inadvertent omissions of important punctuation have been corrected. 'oe' ligatures have been converted to just 'oe'. other detected publisher's errors were corrected as follows: p. : on which they conduc[conduct] their whaling p. : with an ancient piece of tapesty[tapestry] p. : thousand little conveniencies[conveniences] p. : rancorous recollection of the occurence[occurrence], p. : by the brillance[brilliance] of her conversational p. : when folks spok[spoke] of andrè and his wife p. : revelations of the sybil[sibyl] concerned p. : how can this [be] part of myself? p. : to literary socities[societies] p. : country disstricts[districts] p. : and gay boddice[bodice] p. : the general fully corrobarated[corroborated] p. : and rolling lazily adown[down] the p. : round, and [in] one fearful lesson teach these same whitecoats p. : drive a brave enemy to depair[despair] p. : two unfurnished rooms; the lagest[largest] contained her p. : they anticipate inuendoes[innuendoes], and meet p. : accordingly went, accompaniod[accompanied] by p. : but my husband is harder nor[than] i, and he said p. : why should be[he] put himself * * * * * harper's new monthly magazine. no. xviii.--november, .--vol. iii. [entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york.] napoleon bonaparte. by john s.c. abbott. iv. the siege of mantua. early in july, , the eyes of all europe were turned to mantua. around its walls these decisive battles were to be fought which were to establish the fate of italy. this bulwark of lombardy was considered almost impregnable. it was situated upon an island, formed by lakes and by the expansion of the river mincio. it was approached only by five long and narrow causeways, which were guarded by frowning batteries. to take the place by assault was impossible. its reduction could only be accomplished by the slow, tedious, and enormously expensive progress of a siege. [illustration: the encampment.] napoleon, in his rapid advances, had not allowed his troops to encumber themselves with tents of any kind. after marching all day, drenched with rain, they threw themselves down at night upon the wet ground, with no protection whatever from the pitiless storm which beat upon them. "tents are always unhealthy," said napoleon at st. helena. "it is much better for the soldier to bivouac in the open air, for then he can build a fire and sleep with warm feet. tents are necessary only for the general officers who are obliged to read and consult their maps." all the nations of europe, following the example which napoleon thus established, have now abandoned entirely the use of tents. the sick, the wounded, the exhausted, to the number of fifteen thousand, filled the hospitals. death, from such exposures, and from the bullet and sword of the enemy, had made fearful ravages among his troops. though napoleon had received occasional reinforcements from france, his losses had kept pace with his supplies, and he had now an army of but thirty thousand men with which to retain the vast extent of country he had overrun, to keep down the aristocratic party, ever upon the eve of an outbreak, and to encounter the formidable legions which austria was marshaling for his destruction. immediately upon his return from the south of italy, he was compelled to turn his eyes from the siege of mantua, which he was pressing with all possible energy, to the black and threatening cloud gathering in the north. an army of sixty thousand veteran soldiers under general wurmser, an officer of high renown, was accumulating its energies in the wild fastnesses of the northern alps, to sweep down upon the french through the gorges of the tyrol, like a whirlwind. about sixty miles north of mantua, at the northern extremity of lake garda, embosomed among the tyrolean hills, lies the walled town of trent. here wurmser had assembled sixty thousand men, most abundantly provided with all the munitions of war, to march down to mantua, and co-operate with the twenty thousand within its walls in the annihilation of the audacious foe. the fate of napoleon was now considered as sealed. the republicans in italy were in deep dismay. "how is it possible," said they, "that napoleon, with thirty thousand men, can resist the combined onset of eighty thousand veteran soldiers?" the aristocratic party were in great exultation, and were making preparations to fall upon the french the moment they should see the troops of napoleon experiencing the slightest reverse. rome, venice, naples began to incite revolt, and secretly to assist the austrians. the pope, in direct violation of his plighted faith, refused any further fulfillment of the conditions of the armistice, and sent cardinal mattei to negotiate with the enemy. this sudden development of treachery, which napoleon aptly designated as a "revelation," impressed the young conqueror deeply with a sense of his hazardous situation. between mantua and trent there lies, extended among the mountains, the beautiful lake of garda. this sheet of water, almost fathomless, and clear as crystal, is about thirty miles in length, and from four to twelve in breadth. wurmser was about fifteen miles north of the head of this lake at trent; napoleon was at mantua, fifteen miles south of its foot. the austrian general, eighty years of age, a brave and generous soldier, as he contemplated his mighty host, complacently rubbed his hands, exclaiming, "we shall soon have the boy now." he was very fearful, however, that napoleon, conscious of the utter impossibility of resisting such numbers, might, by a precipitate flight, escape. to prevent this, he disposed his army at trent in three divisions of twenty thousand each. one division, under general quasdanovich, was directed to march down the western bank of the lake, to cut off the retreat of the french by the way of milan. general wurmser, with another division of twenty thousand, marched down the eastern shore of the lake, to relieve mantua. general melas, with another division, followed down the valley of the adige, which ran parallel with the shores of the lake, and was separated from it by a mountain ridge, but about two miles in width. a march of a little more than a day would reunite those vast forces, thus for the moment separated. having prevented the escape of their anticipated victims, they could fall upon the french in a resistless attack. the sleepless vigilance and the eagle eye of napoleon, instantly detected the advantage thus presented to him. it was in the evening of the st of july, that he first received the intimation from his scouts of the movements of the enemy. instantly he formed his plan of operations, and in an hour the whole camp was in commotion. he gave orders for the immediate abandonment of the siege of mantua, and for the whole army to arrange itself in marching order. it was an enormous sacrifice. he had been prosecuting the works of the siege with great vigor for two months. he had collected there, at vast labor and expense, a magnificent battering train and immense stores of ammunition. the city was on the very point of surrender. by abandoning his works all would be lost, the city would be revictualed, and it would be necessary to commence the whole arduous enterprise of the siege anew. the promptness with which napoleon decided to make the sacrifice, and the unflinching relentlessness with which the decision was executed, indicated the energetic action of a genius of no ordinary mould. the sun had now gone down, and gloomy night brooded over the agitated camp. but not an eye was closed. under cover of the darkness every one was on the alert. the platforms and gun carriages were thrown upon the campfires. tons of powder were cast into the lake. the cannon were spiked and the shot and shells buried in the trenches. before midnight the whole army was in motion. rapidly they directed their steps to the western shore of lake garda, to fall like an avalanche upon the division of quasdanovich, who dreamed not of their danger. when the morning sun arose over the marshes of mantua, the whole embattled host, whose warlike array had reflected back the beams of the setting sun, had disappeared. the besieged, who were half famished, and who were upon the eve of surrender, as they gazed, from the steeples of the city, upon the scene of solitude, desolation, and abandonment, could hardly credit their eyes. at ten o'clock in the morning, quasdanovich was marching quietly along, not dreaming that any foe was within thirty miles of him, when suddenly the whole french army burst like a whirlwind upon his astonished troops. had the austrians stood their ground they must have been entirely destroyed. but after a short and most sanguinary conflict they broke in wild confusion, and fled. large numbers were slain, and many prisoners were left in the hands of the french. the discomfited austrians retreated to find refuge among the fastnesses of the tyrol, from whence they had emerged. napoleon had not one moment to lose in pursuit. the two divisions which were marching down the eastern side of the lake, heard across the water the deep booming of the guns, like the roar of continuous thunder, but they were entirely unable to render any assistance to their friends. they could not even imagine from whence the foe had come, whom quasdanovich had encountered. that napoleon would abandon all his accumulated stores and costly works at mantua, was to them inconceivable. they hastened along with the utmost speed to reunite their forces, still forty thousand strong, at the foot of the lake. napoleon also turned upon his track, and urged his troops almost to the full run. the salvation of his army depended upon the rapidity of his march, enabling him to attack the separated divisions of the enemy before they should reunite at the foot of the mountain range which separated them. "soldiers?" he exclaimed, in hurried accents, "it is with your legs alone that victory can now be secured. fear nothing. in three days the austrian army shall be destroyed. rely only on me. you know whether or not i am in the habit of keeping my word." regardless of hunger, sleeplessness, and fatigue, unincumbered by baggage or provisions, with a celerity, which to the astonished austrians seemed miraculous, he pressed on, with his exhausted, bleeding troops, all the afternoon and deep into the darkness of the ensuing night. he allowed his men at midnight to throw themselves upon the ground an hour for sleep, but he did not indulge himself in one moment of repose. early in the morning of the d of august, melas, who but a few hours before had heard the thunder of napoleon's guns, over the mountains and upon the opposite shore of the lake, was astonished to see the solid columns of the whole french army marching majestically upon him. five thousand of wurmser's division had succeeded in joining him, and he consequently had twenty-five thousand fresh troops drawn up in battle array. wurmser himself was at but a few hours' distance, and was hastening with all possible speed to his aid, with fifteen thousand additional men. napoleon had but twenty-two thousand with whom to meet the forty thousand whom his foes would thus combine. exhausted as his troops were with the herculean toil they had already endured, not one moment could be allowed for rest. it was at lonato, in a few glowing words he announced to his men their peril, the necessity for their utmost efforts, and his perfect confidence in their success. they now regarded their young leader as invincible, and wherever he led they were prompt to follow. with delirious energy, they rushed upon the foe. the pride of the austrians was roused and they fought with desperation. the battle was long and bloody. napoleon, as cool and unperturbed as if making the movements in a game of chess, watched the ebb and the flow of the conflict. his eagle eye instantly detected the point of weakness and exposure. the austrians were routed and in wild disorder took to flight over the plains, leaving the ground covered with the dead, and five thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of cannon in the hands of the victors. junot, with a regiment of cavalry, dashed at full gallop into the midst of the fugitives rushing over the plain, and the wretched victims of war were sabred by thousands and trampled under iron hoofs. the battle raged until the sun disappeared behind the mountains of the tyrol, and another night, dark and gloomy, came on. the groans of the wounded and of the dying, and the fearful shrieks of dismembered and mangled horses, struggling in their agony, filled the night air for leagues around. the french soldiers, utterly exhausted, threw themselves upon the gory ground by the side of the mutilated dead, the victor and the bloody corpse of the foe reposing side by side, and forgot the horrid butchery in leaden sleep. but napoleon slept not. he knew that before the dawn of another morning, a still more formidable host would be arrayed against him, and that the victory of to-day might be followed by a dreadful defeat upon the morrow. the vanquished army were falling back to be supported by the division of wurmser, coming to their rescue. all night long napoleon was on horseback, galloping from post to post, making arrangements for the desperate battle to which he knew that the morning sun must guide him. four or five miles from lonato, lies the small walled town of castiglione. here wurmser met the retreating troops of melas, and rallied them for a decisive conflict. with thirty thousand austrians, drawn up in line of battle, he awaited the approach of his indefatigable foe. long before the morning dawned, the french army was again in motion. napoleon, urging his horse to the very utmost of his speed, rode in every direction to accelerate the movements of his troops. the peril was too imminent to allow him to intrust any one else with the execution of his all-important orders. five horses successively sank dead beneath him from utter exhaustion. napoleon was every where, observing all things, directing all things, animating all things. the whole army was inspired with the indomitable energy and ardor of their young leader. soon the two hostile hosts were facing each other, in the dim and misty haze of the early dawn, ere the sun had arisen to look down upon the awful scene of man's depravity about to ensue. a sanguinary and decisive conflict, renowned in history as the battle of castiglione, inflicted the final blow upon the austrians. they were routed with terrible slaughter. the french pursued them, with merciless massacre, through the whole day, in their headlong flight, and rested not until the darkness of night shut out the panting, bleeding fugitives from their view. less than one week had elapsed since that proud army, sixty thousand strong, had marched from the walls of trent, with gleaming banners and triumphant music, flushed with anticipated victory. in six days it had lost in killed, wounded, and prisoners forty thousand men, ten thousand more than the whole army which napoleon had at his command. but twenty thousand tattered, exhausted, war-worn fugitives effected their escape. in the extreme of mortification and dejection they returned to trent, to bear themselves the tidings of their swift and utter discomfiture. napoleon, in these conflicts, lost but seven thousand men. these amazing victories were to be attributed entirely to the genius of the conqueror. such achievements history had never before recorded. the victorious soldiers called it, "_the six days' campaign_." their admiration of their invincible chief now passed all bounds. the veterans who had honored napoleon with the title of _corporal_, after "the terrible passage of the bridge of lodi," now enthusiastically promoted him to the rank of _sergeant_, as his reward for the signal victories of this campaign. the aristocratic governments which, upon the marching of wurmser from trent, had perfidiously violated their faith, and turned against napoleon, supposing that he was ruined, were now terror-stricken, anticipating the most appalling vengeance. but the conqueror treated them with the greatest clemency, simply informing them that he was fully acquainted with their conduct, and that he should hereafter regard them with a watchful eye. he, however, summoned cardinal mattei, the legate of the perjured pope, to his head-quarters. the cardinal, conscious that not a word could be uttered in extenuation of his guilt, attempted no defense. the old man, high in authority and venerable in years, bowed with the humility of a child before the young victor, and exclaimed "peccavi! peccavi!"--_i have sinned! i have sinned!_ this apparent contrition disarmed napoleon, and in jocose and contemptuous indignation he sentenced him to do penance for three months, by fasting and prayer, in a convent. during these turmoils, the inhabitants of lombardy remained faithful in their adherence to the french interests. in a delicate and noble letter which he addressed to them, he said, "when the french army retreated, and the partisans of austria considered that the cause of liberty was crushed, you, though you knew not that this retreat was merely a stratagem, still proved constant in your attachment to france and your love of freedom. you have thus deserved the esteem of the french nation. your people daily become more worthy of liberty, and will shortly appear with glory on the theatre of the world. accept the assurance of my satisfaction, and of the sincere wishes of the french people to see you free and happy." in the midst of the tumultuous scenes of these days of incessant battle, when the broken divisions of the enemy were in bewilderment, wandering in every direction, attempting to escape from the terrible energy with which they were pursued, napoleon, by mere accident, came very near being taken a prisoner. he escaped by that intuitive tact and promptness of decision which never deserted him. in conducting the operations of the pursuit, he had entered a small village, upon the full gallop, accompanied only by his staff and guards. a division of four thousand of the austrian army, separated from the main body, had been wandering all night among the mountains. they came suddenly and unexpectedly upon this little band of a thousand men, and immediately sent an officer with a flag of truce, demanding their surrender. napoleon, with wonderful presence of mind, commanded his numerous staff immediately to mount on horseback, and gathering his guard around him, ordered the flag of truce to be brought into his presence. the officer was introduced, as is customary, blindfolded. when the bandage was removed, to his utter amazement he found himself before the commander-in-chief of the french army, surrounded by his whole brilliant staff. "what means this insult?" exclaimed napoleon in tones of affected indignation. "have you the insolence to bring a summons of surrender to the french commander-in-chief, in the middle of his army! say to those who sent you, that unless in five minutes they lay down their arms, every man shall be put to death." the bewildered officer stammered out an apology. "go!" napoleon sternly rejoined, "unless you immediately surrender at discretion, i will, for this insult, cause every man of you to be shot." the austrians, deceived by this air of confidence, and disheartened by fatigue and disaster, threw down their arms. they soon had the mortification of learning that they had capitulated to one-fourth of their own number, and that they had missed making prisoner the conqueror, before whose blows the very throne of their empire was trembling. it was during this campaign that one night napoleon, in disguise, was going the rounds of the sentinels, to ascertain if, in their peculiar peril, proper vigilance was exercised. a soldier, stationed at the junction of two roads, had received orders not to let any one pass either of those routes. when napoleon made his appearance, the soldier, unconscious of his rank, presented his bayonet and ordered him back. "i am a general officer," said napoleon, "going the rounds to ascertain if all is safe." "i care not," the soldier replied, "my commands are to let no one go by; and if you were the little corporal himself you should not pass." the general was consequently under the necessity of retracing his steps. the next day he made inquiries respecting the character of the soldier, and hearing a good report of him, he summoned him to his presence, and extolling his fidelity, raised him to the rank of an officer. [illustration: the little corporal and the sentinel] napoleon and his victorious army again returned to mantua. the besieged, during his absence, had emerged from the walls and destroyed all his works. they had also drawn all his heavy battering train, consisting of one hundred and forty pieces, into the city, obtained large supplies of provisions, over sixty thousand shot and shells, and had received a reinforcement of fifteen thousand men. there was no suitable siege equipage which napoleon could command, and he was liable at any moment to be again summoned to encounter the formidable legions which the austrian empire could again raise to crowd down upon him. he therefore simply invested the place by blockade. after the terrible struggle through which they had just passed, the troops, on both sides, indulged themselves in repose for three weeks. the austrian government, with inflexible resolution, still refused to make peace with france. it had virtually inserted upon its banners, "gallia delenda est"--"the french republic shall be destroyed." napoleon had now cut up two of their most formidable armies, each of them nearly three times as numerous as his own. the pride and the energy of the whole empire were aroused in organizing a third army to crush republicanism. in the course of three weeks wurmser found himself again in command of fifty-five thousand men at trent. there were twenty thousand troops in mantua, giving him a force of seventy-five thousand combatants. napoleon had received reinforcements only sufficient to repair his losses, and was again in the field with but thirty thousand men. he was surrounded by more than double that number of foes. early in september the austrian army was again in motion, passing down from the tyrol for the relief of mantua. wurmser left davidovich at roveredo, a very strong position, about ten miles south of trent, with twenty-five thousand men to prevent the incursions of the french into the tyrol. with thirty thousand men he then passed over to the valley of the brenta, to follow down its narrow defile, and convey relief to the besieged fortress. there were twenty thousand austrians in mantua. these, co-operating with the thirty thousand under wurmser, would make an effective force of fifty thousand men to attack napoleon in front and rear. napoleon contemplated with lively satisfaction this renewed division of the austrian force. he quietly collected all his resources, and prepared for a deadly spring upon the doomed division left behind. as soon as wurmser had arrived at bassano, following down the valley of the brenta, about sixty miles from roveredo, where it was impossible for him to render any assistance to the victims upon whom napoleon was about to pounce, the whole french army was put in motion. they rushed, at double quick step, up the parallel valley of the adige, delaying hardly one moment either for food or repose. early on the morning of the th of september, just as the first gray of dawn appeared in the east, he burst like a tempest upon the astounded foe. the battle was short, bloody, decisive. the austrians were routed with dreadful slaughter. as they fled in consternation, a rabble-rout, the french cavalry rushed in among them, with dripping sabres, and for leagues the ground was covered with the bodies of the slain. seven thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of cannon graced the triumph of the victor. the discomfited remains of this unfortunate corps retired far back into the gorges of the mountains. such was the battle of roveredo, which napoleon ever regarded as one of his most brilliant victories. next morning napoleon, in triumph, entered trent. he immediately issued one of his glowing proclamations to the inhabitants of the tyrol, assuring them that he was fighting, not for conquest, but for peace; that he was not the enemy of the _people_ of the tyrol; that the emperor of austria, incited and aided by british gold, was waging relentless warfare against the french republic; and that, if the inhabitants of the tyrol would not take up arms against him, they should be protected in their persons, their property, and in all their political rights. he invited the people, in the emergence, to arrange for themselves the internal government of the country, and intrusted them with the administration of their own laws. before the darkness of the ensuing night had passed away napoleon was again at the head of his troops, and the whole french army was rushing down the defiles of the brenta, to surprise wurmser in his straggling march. the austrian general had thirty thousand men. napoleon could take with him but twenty thousand. he, however, was intent upon gaining a corresponding advantage in falling upon the enemy by surprise. the march of sixty miles was accomplished with a rapidity such as no army had ever attempted before. on the evening of the th, wurmser heard with consternation that the corps of davidovich was annihilated. he was awoke from his slumbers before the dawn of the next morning by the thunders of napoleon's cannon in his rear. the brave old veteran, bewildered by tactics so strange and unheard of, accumulated his army as rapidly as possible in battle array at bassano. napoleon allowed him but a few moments for preparation. the troops on both sides now began to feel that napoleon was invincible. the french were elated by constant victory. the austrians were disheartened by uniform and uninterrupted defeat. the battle at bassano was but a renewal of the sanguinary scene at roveredo. the sun went down as the horrid carnage continued, and darkness vailed the awful spectacle from human eyes. horses and men, the mangled, the dying, the dead, in indiscriminate confusion were piled upon each other. the groans of the wounded swelled upon the night air; while in the distance the deep booming of the cannon of the pursuers and the pursued echoed along the mountains. there was no time to attend to the claims of humanity. the dead were left unburied, and not a combatant could be spared from the ranks to give a cup of water to the wounded and the dying. destruction, not salvation was the business of the hour. wurmser, with but sixteen thousand men remaining to him of the proud array of fifty-five thousand with which, but a few days before, he had marched from trent, retreated to find shelter within the walls of mantua. napoleon pursued him with the most terrible energy, from every eminence plunging cannon-balls into his retreating ranks. when wurmser arrived at mantua the garrison sallied out to aid him. unitedly they fell upon napoleon. the battle of st. george was fought, desperate and most bloody. the austrians, routed at every point, were driven within the walls. napoleon resumed the siege. wurmser, with the bleeding fragment of his army, was held a close prisoner. thus terminated this campaign of _ten days_. in this short time napoleon had destroyed a third austrian army, more than twice as numerous as his own. the field was swept clean of his enemies. not a man was left to oppose him. victories so amazing excited astonishment throughout all europe. such results had never before been recorded in the annals of ancient or modern warfare. while engaged in the rapid march from roveredo, a discontented soldier, emerging from the ranks, addressed napoleon, pointing to his tattered garments, and said, "we soldiers, notwithstanding all our victories, are clothed in rags." napoleon, anxious to arrest the progress of discontent among his troops, with that peculiar tact which he had ever at command, looked kindly upon him and said, "you forget, my brave friend, that with a new coat, your honorable scars would no longer be visible." this well timed compliment was received with shouts of applause from the ranks. the anecdote spread like lightning among the troops, and endeared napoleon still more to every soldier in the army. [illustration: the solitary bivouac] the night before the battle of bassano, in the eagerness of the march, napoleon had advanced far beyond the main column of the army. he had received no food during the day, and had enjoyed no sleep for several nights. a poor soldier had a crust of bread in his knapsack. he broke it in two, and gave his exhausted and half famished general one half. after this frugal supper, the commander-in-chief of the french army wrapt himself in his cloak, and threw himself unprotected upon the ground, by the side of the soldier, for an hour's slumber. after ten years had passed away, and napoleon, then emperor of france, was making a triumphal tour through belgium, this same soldier stepped out from the ranks of a regiment, which the emperor was reviewing, and said, "sire! on the eve of the battle of bassano, i shared with you my crust of bread, when you were hungry. i now ask from you bread for my father, who is worn down with age and poverty." napoleon immediately settled a pension upon the old man, and promoted the soldier to a lieutenancy. after the battle of bassano, in the impetuosity of the pursuit, napoleon, spurring his horse to his utmost speed, accompanied but by a few followers, entered a small village quite in advance of the main body of his army. suddenly wurmser, with a strong division of the austrians, debouched upon the plain. a peasant woman informed him that but a moment before napoleon had passed her cottage. wurmser, overjoyed at the prospect of obtaining a prize which would remunerate him for all his losses, instantly dispatched parties of cavalry in every direction for his capture. so sure was he of success, that he strictly enjoined it upon them to bring him in alive. the fleetness of napoleon's horse saved him. in the midst of these terrible conflicts, when the army needed every possible stimulus to exertion, napoleon exposed himself like a common soldier, at every point where danger appeared most imminent. on one of these occasions a pioneer, perceiving the imminent peril in which the commander-in-chief had placed himself, abruptly and authoritively exclaimed to him, "stand aside." napoleon fixed his keen glance upon him, when the veteran with a strong arm thrust him away, saying, "if thou art killed who is to rescue us from this jeopardy?" and placed his own body before him. napoleon appreciated the sterling value of the action, and uttered no reproof. after the battle he ordered the pioneer to be sent to his presence. placing his hand kindly upon his shoulder he said, "my friend! your noble boldness claims my esteem. your bravery demands a recompense. from this hour an epaulet instead of a hatchet shall grace your shoulder." he was immediately raised to the rank of an officer. the generals in the army were overawed by the genius and the magnanimity of their young commander. they fully appreciated his vast superiority, and approached him with restraint and reverence. the common soldiers, however, loved him as a father, and went to him freely, with the familiarity of children. in one of those terrific battles, when the result had been long in suspense, just as the searching glance of napoleon had detected a fault in the movements of the enemy, of which he was upon the point of taking the most prompt advantage, a private soldier, covered with the dust and the smoke of the battle, sprung from the ranks and exclaimed, "general! send a squadron _there_, and the victory is ours." "you rogue!" rejoined napoleon, "where did you get my secret?" in a few moments the austrians were flying in dismay before the impetuous charges of the french cavalry. immediately after the battle napoleon sent for the soldier who had displayed such military genius. he was found dead upon the field. a bullet had pierced his brain. had he lived he would but have added another star to that brilliant galaxy, with which the throne of napoleon was embellished. "perhaps in that neglected spot is laid, a heart once pregnant with celestial fire, hands which the rod of empire might have swayed. or waked to ecstasy the living lyre." the night after the battle of bassano, the moon rose cloudless and brilliant over the sanguinary scene. napoleon, who seldom exhibited any hilarity or even exhilaration of spirits in the hour of victory, rode, as was his custom, over the plain, covered with the bodies of the dying and the dead, and, silent and thoughtful, seemed lost in painful reverie. it was midnight. the confusion and the uproar of the battle had passed away, and the deep silence of the calm starlight night was only disturbed by the moans of the wounded and the dying. suddenly a dog sprung from beneath the cloak of his dead master, and rushed to napoleon, as if frantically imploring his aid, and then rushed back again to the mangled corpse, licking the blood from the face and the hands, and howling most piteously. napoleon was deeply moved by the affecting scene, and involuntarily stopped his horse to contemplate it. in relating the event, many years afterward, he remarked, "i know not how it was, but no incident upon any field of battle ever produced so deep an impression upon my feelings. this man, thought i, must have had among his comrades friends; and yet here he lies forsaken by all except his faithful dog. what a strange being is man! how mysterious are his impressions! i had, without emotion, ordered battles which had decided the fate of armies. i had, with tearless eyes, beheld the execution of those orders, in which thousands of my countrymen were slain. and yet here my sympathies were most deeply and resistlessly moved by the mournful howling of a dog. certainly in that moment i should have been unable to refuse any request to a suppliant enemy." [illustration: the dead soldier and his dog.] austria was still unsubdued. with a perseverance worthy of all admiration, had it been exercised in a better cause, the austrian government still refused to make peace with republican france. the energies of the empire were aroused anew to raise a fourth army. england, contending against france wherever her navy or her troops could penetrate, was the soul of this warfare. she animated the cabinet of vienna, and aided the austrian armies with her strong co-operation and her gold. the _people_ of england, republican in their tendencies, and hating the utter despotism of the old monarchy of france, were clamorous for peace. but the royal family and the aristocracy in general, were extremely unwilling to come to any amicable terms with a nation which had been guilty of the crime of renouncing monarchy. all the resources of the austrian government were now devoted to recruiting and equipping a new army. with the wrecks of wurmser's troops, with detachments from the rhine, and fresh levies from the bold peasants of the tyrol, in less than a month an army of nearly one hundred thousand men was assembled. the enthusiasm throughout austria, in raising and animating these recruits, was so great that the city of vienna alone contributed four battalions. the empress, with her own hand, embroidered their colors and presented them to the troops. all the noble ladies of the realm devoted their smiles and their aid to inspire the enterprise. about seventy-five thousand men were rendezvoused in the gorges of the northern tyrol, ready to press down upon napoleon from the north, while the determined garrison of twenty-five thousand men, under the brave wurmser, cooped up in mantua, were ready to emerge at a moment's warning. thus in about three weeks another army of one hundred thousand men was ready to fall upon napoleon. his situation now seemed absolutely desperate. the reinforcements he had received from france had been barely sufficient to repair the losses sustained by disease and the sword. he had but thirty thousand men. his funds were all exhausted. his troops, notwithstanding they were in the midst of the most brilliant blaze of victories, had been compelled to strain every nerve of exertion. they were also suffering the severest privations, and began loudly to murmur. "why," they exclaimed, "do we not receive succor from france? we can not alone contend against all europe. we have already destroyed three armies, and now a fourth, still more numerous, is rising against us. is there to be no end to these interminable battles?" napoleon was fully sensible of the peril of his position, and while he allowed his troops a few weeks of repose, his energies were strained to their very utmost tension in preparing for the all but desperate encounter now before him. the friends and the enemies of napoleon alike regarded his case as nearly hopeless. the austrians had by this time learned that it was not safe to divide their forces in the presence of so vigilant a foe. marching down upon his exhausted band with seventy-five thousand men to attack him in front, and with twenty-five thousand veteran troops, under the brave wurmser, to sally from the ramparts of mantua and assail him in the rear, it seemed to all reasonable calculation that the doom of the french army was sealed. napoleon in the presence of his army assumed an air of most perfect confidence, but he was fearfully apprehensive that, by the power of overwhelming numbers, his army would be destroyed. the appeal which, under the circumstances, he wrote to the directory for reinforcements, is sublime in its dignity and its eloquence. "all of our superior officers, all of our best generals, are either dead or wounded. the army of italy, reduced to a handful of men, is exhausted. the heroes of millesimo, of lodi, of castiglione, of bassano, have died for their country, or are in the hospitals. nothing is left to the army but its glory and its courage. we are abandoned at the extremity of italy. the brave men who are left me have no prospect but inevitable death amidst changes so continual and with forces so inferior. perhaps the hour of the brave augereau, of the intrepid massena is about to strike. this consideration renders me cautious. i dare not brave death when it would so certainly be the ruin of those who have so long been the object of my solicitude. the army has done its duty. i do mine. my conscience is at ease, but my soul is lacerated. i never have received a fourth part of the succors which the minister of war has announced in his dispatches. my health is so broken that i can with difficulty sit upon horseback. the enemy can now count our diminished ranks. nothing is left me but courage. but that alone is not sufficient for the post which i occupy. troops, or italy is lost." napoleon addressed his soldiers in a very different strain, endeavoring to animate their courage by concealing from them his anxieties. "we have but one more effort to make," said he, "and italy is our own. true, the enemy is more numerous than we; but half his troops are recruits, who can never stand before the veterans of france. when alvinzi is beaten mantua must fall, and our labors are at an end. not only italy, but a general peace is to be gained by the capture of mantua." during the three weeks in which the austrians were recruiting their army and the french were reposing around the walls of mantua, napoleon made the most herculean exertions to strengthen his position in italy, and to disarm those states which were manifesting hostility against him. during this period his labors as a statesman and a diplomatist were even more severe than his toils as a general. he allowed himself no stated time for food or repose, but day and night devoted himself incessantly to his work. horse after horse sunk beneath him, in the impetuous speed with which he passed from place to place. he dictated innumerable communications to the directory, respecting treaties of peace with rome, naples, venice, genoa. he despised the feeble directory, with its shallow views, conscious that unless wiser counsels than they proposed should prevail, the republic would be ruined. "so long," said he, "as your general shall not be the centre of all influence in italy, every thing will go wrong. it would be easy to accuse me of ambition, but i am satiated with honor and worn down with care. peace with naples is indispensable. you must conciliate venice and genoa. the influence of rome is incalculable. you did wrong to break with that power. we must secure friends for the italian army, both among kings and people. the general in italy must be the fountain-head of negotiation as well as of military operations." these were bold assumptions for a young man of twenty-five. but napoleon was conscious of his power. he now listened to the earnest entreaties of the people of the duchy of modena and of the papal states of bologna and ferrara, and, in consequence of treachery on the part of the duke of modena and the pope, emancipated those states and constituted them into a united and independent republic. as the whole territory included under this new government extended south of the po, napoleon named it the cispadane republic, that is the _this side of the po_ republic. it contained about a million and a half of inhabitants, compactly gathered in one of the most rich, and fertile, and beautiful regions of the globe. the joy and the enthusiasm of the people, thus blessed with a free government, surpassed all bounds. wherever napoleon appeared he was greeted with every demonstration of affection. he assembled at modena a convention, composed of lawyers, landed proprietors, and merchants to organize the government. all leaned upon the mind of napoleon, and he guided their counsels with the most consummate wisdom. napoleon's abhorrence of the anarchy which had disgraced the jacobin reign in france, and his reverence for law were made very prominent on this occasion. "never forget," said he in an address to the assembly, "that laws are mere nullities without the necessary force to sustain them. attend to your military organization, which you have the means of placing upon a respectable footing. you will then be more fortunate than the people of france. you will attain liberty without passing through the ordeal of revolution." the italians were an effeminate people and quite unable to cope in arms with the french or the austrians. yet the new republic manifested its zeal and attachment for its youthful founder so strongly, that a detachment of austrians having made a sally from mantua, they immediately sprang to arms, took it prisoner, and conducted it in triumph to napoleon. when the austrians saw that napoleon was endeavoring to make soldiers of the italians, they ridiculed the idea, saying that they had tried the experiment in vain, and that it was not possible for an italian to make a good soldier. "notwithstanding this," said napoleon, "i raised many thousands of italians, who fought with a bravery equal to that of the french, and who did not desert me even in my adversity. what was the cause? i abolished flogging. instead of the lash i introduced the stimulus of honor. whatever debases a man can not be serviceable. what honor can a man possibly have who is flogged before his comrades. when a soldier has been debased by stripes he cares little for his own reputation or for the honor of his country. after an action i assembled the officers and soldiers and inquired who had proved themselves heroes. such of them as were able to read and write i promoted. those who were not i ordered to study five hours a day, until they had learned a sufficiency, and then promoted them. thus i substituted honor and emulation for terror and the lash." he bound the duke of parma and the duke of tuscany to him by ties of friendship. he cheered the inhabitants of lombardy with the hope, that as soon as extricated from his present embarrassments, he would do something for the promotion of their independence. thus with the skill of a veteran diplomatist he raised around him friendly governments, and availed himself of all the resources of politics to make amends for the inefficiency of the directory. never was a man placed in a situation where more delicacy of tact was necessary. the republican party in all the italian states were clamorous for the support of napoleon, and waited but his permission to raise the standard of revolt. had the slightest encouragement been given the whole peninsula would have plunged into the horrors of civil war; and the awful scenes which had been enacted in paris would have been re-enacted in every city in italy. the aristocratic party would have been roused to perfect desperation, and the situation of napoleon would have been still more precarious. it required consummate genius as a statesman, and moral courage of the highest order, to wield such opposing influences. but the greatness of napoleon shone forth even more brilliantly in the cabinet than in the field. the course which he had pursued had made him extremely popular with the italians. they regarded him as their countryman. they were proud of his fame. he was driving from their territory the haughty austrians whom they hated. he was the enemy of despots, the friend of the people. their own beautiful language was his mother tongue. he was familiar with their manners and customs, and they felt flattered by his high appreciation of their literature and arts. napoleon, in the midst of these stormy scenes, also dispatched an armament from leghorn, to wrest his native island of corsica from the dominion of the english. scott, in allusion to the fact that napoleon never manifested any special attachment for the obscure island of his birth, beautifully says, "he was like the young lion, who, while he is scattering the herds and destroying the hunters, thinks little of the forest cave in which he first saw the light." but at st. helena napoleon said, and few will read his remarks without emotion, "what recollections of childhood crowd upon my memory, when my thoughts are no longer occupied with political subjects, or with the insults of my jailer upon this rock. i am carried back to my first impressions of the life of man. it seems to me always in these moments of calm, that i should have been the happiest man in the world, with an income of twenty-five hundred dollars a year, living as the father of a family, with my wife and son, in our old house at ajaccio. you, montholon, remember its beautiful situation. you have often despoiled it of its finest bunches of grapes, when you ran off with pauline to satisfy your childish appetite. happy hours! the natal soil has infinite charms. memory embellishes it with all its attractions, even to the very odor of the ground, which one can so realize to the senses, as to be able with the eyes shut, to tell the spot first trodden by the foot of childhood. i still remember with emotion the most minute details of a journey in which i accompanied paoli. more than five hundred of us, young persons of the first families in the island, formed his guard of honor. i felt proud of walking by his side, and he appeared to take pleasure in pointing out to me, with paternal affection, the passes of our mountains which had been witnesses of the heroic struggle of our countrymen for independence. the impression made upon me still vibrates in my heart. come, place your hand," said he to montholon, "upon my bosom! see how it beats!" "and it was true," montholon remarks, "his heart did beat with such rapidity as would have excited my astonishment, had i not been acquainted with his organization, and with the kind of electric commotion which his thoughts communicated to his whole being." "it is like the sound of a church bell," continued napoleon. "there is none upon this rock. i am no longer accustomed to hear it. but the tones of a bell never fall upon my ear without awakening within me the emotions of childhood. the angelus bell transported me back to pensive yet pleasant memories, when in the midst of earnest thoughts and burdened with the weight of an imperial crown, i heard its first sounds under the shady woods of st. cloud. and often have i been supposed to have been revolving the plan of a campaign or digesting an imperial law, when my thoughts were wholly absorbed in dwelling upon the first impressions of my youth. religion is in fact the dominion of the soul. it is the hope of life, the anchor of safety, the deliverance from evil. what a service has christianity rendered to humanity! what a power would it still have, did its ministers comprehend their mission." early in november the austrians commenced their march. the cold winds of winter were sweeping through the defiles of the tyrol, and the summits of the mountains were white with snow. but it was impossible to postpone operations; for unless wurmser were immediately relieved mantua must fall, and with it would fall all hopes of austrian dominion in italy. the hardy old soldier had killed all his horses, and salted them down for provisions; but even that coarse fare was nearly exhausted, and he had succeeded in sending word to alvinzi that he could not possibly hold out more than six weeks longer. napoleon, the moment he heard that the austrians were on the move, hastened to the head-quarters of the army at verona. he had stationed general vaubois, with twelve thousand men, a few miles north of trent, in a narrow defile among the mountains to watch the austrians, and to arrest their first advances. vaubois and his division, overwhelmed by numbers, retreated, and thus vastly magnified the peril of the army. the moment napoleon received the disastrous intelligence, he hastened, with such troops as he could collect, like the sweep of the wind, to rally the retreating forces and check the progress of the enemy. and here he singularly displayed that thorough knowledge of human nature which enabled him so effectually to control and to inspire his army. deeming it necessary, in his present peril, that every man should be a hero, and that every regiment should be nerved by the determination to conquer or to die, he resolved to make a severe example of those whose panic had proved so nearly fatal to the army. like a whirlwind, surrounded by his staff, he swept into the camp, and ordered immediately the troops to be collected in a circle around him. he sat upon his horse, and every eye was fixed upon the pale and wan, and wasted features of their young and adored general. with a stern and saddened voice he exclaimed, "soldiers! i am displeased with you. you have evinced neither discipline nor valor. you have allowed yourselves to be driven from positions where a handful of resolute men might have arrested an army. you are no longer french soldiers! chief of the staff, cause it to be written on their standards, _they are no longer of the army of italy_." the influence of these words upon those impassioned men, proud of their renown and proud of their leader, was almost inconceivable. the terrible rebuke fell upon them like a thunderbolt. tears trickled down the cheeks of these battered veterans. many of them actually groaned aloud in their anguish. the laws of discipline could not restrain the grief which burst from their ranks. they broke their array, crowded around the general, exclaiming, "we have been misrepresented; the enemy were three to our one; try us once more; place us in the post of danger, and see if we do not belong to the army of italy!" napoleon relented, and spoke kindly to them, promising to afford them an early opportunity to retrieve their reputation. in the next battle he placed them in the van. contending against fearful odds they accomplished all that mortal valor could accomplish, rolling back upon the austrians the tide of victory. such was the discipline of napoleon. he needed no blood-stained lash to scar the naked backs of his men. he ruled over mind. his empire was in the soul. "my soldiers," said he "are my children." the effect of this rebuke was incalculable. there was not an officer or a soldier in the army who was not moved by it. it came exactly at the right moment, when it was necessary that every man in the army should be inspired with absolute desperation of valor. alvinzi sent a peasant across the country to carry dispatches to wurmser in the beleaguered city. the information of approaching relief was written upon very thin paper, in a minute hand, and inclosed in a ball of wax, not much larger than a pea. the spy was intercepted. he was seen to swallow the ball. the stomach was compelled to surrender its trust, and napoleon became acquainted with alvinzi's plan of operation. he left ten thousand men around the walls of mantua, to continue the blockade, and assembled the rest of his army, consisting only of fifteen thousand, in the vicinity of verona. the whole valley of the adige was now swarming with the austrian battalions. at night the wide horizon seemed illuminated with the blaze of their camp fires. the austrians, conscious of their vast superiority in numbers, were hastening to envelop the french. already forty thousand men were circling around the little band of fifteen thousand who were rallied under the eagles of france. the austrians, wary in consequence of their past defeats, moved with the utmost caution, taking possession of the most commanding positions. napoleon, with sleepless vigilance, watched for some exposed point, but in vain. the soldiers understood the true posture of affairs, and began to feel disheartened, for their situation was apparently desperate. the peril of the army was so great, that even the sick and the wounded in the hospitals at milan, pavia, and lodi, voluntarily left their beds and hastened, emaciate with suffering, and many of them with their wounds still bleeding, to resume their station in the ranks. the soldiers were deeply moved by this affecting spectacle, so indicative of their fearful peril and of the devotion of their comrades to the interests of the army. napoleon resolved to give battle immediately, before the austrians should accumulate in still greater numbers. a dark, cold winter's storm was deluging the ground with rain, as napoleon roused his troops from the drenched sods upon which they were slumbering. the morning had not yet dawned through the surcharged clouds, and the freezing wind, like a tornado, swept the bleak hills. it was an awful hour in which to go forth to encounter mutilation and death. the enterprise was desperate. fifteen thousand frenchmen, with frenzied violence, were to hurl themselves upon the serried ranks of forty thousand foes. the horrid carnage soon began. the roar of the battle, the shout of onset, and the shriek of the dying, mingled in midnight gloom, with the appalling rush and wail of the tempest. the ground was so saturated with rain that it was almost impossible for the french to drag their cannon through the miry ruts. as the darkness of night passed and the dismal light of a stormy day was spread around them, the rain changed to snow, and the struggling french were smothered and blinded by the storm of sleet whirled furiously into their faces. through the live-long day this terrific battle of man and of the elements raged unabated. when night came the exhausted soldiers, drenched with rain and benumbed with cold, threw themselves upon the blood-stained snow, in the midst of the dying and of the dead. neither party claimed the victory, and neither acknowledged defeat. no pen can describe, nor can imagination conceive, the horrors of the dark and wailing night of storm and sleet which ensued. through the long hours the groans of the wounded, scattered over many miles swept by the battle, blended in mournful unison with the wailings of the tempest. two thousand of napoleon's little band were left dead upon the field, and a still larger number of austrian corpses were covered with the winding-sheet of snow. many a blood-stained drift indicated the long and agonizing struggle of the wounded ere the motionlessness of death consummated the dreadful tragedy. it is hard to die even in the curtained chambers of our ceiled houses, with sympathizing friends administering every possible alleviation. cold must have been those pillows of snow, and unspeakably dreadful the solitude of those death scenes, on the bleak hill sides and in the muddy ravines, where thousands of the young, the hopeful, the sanguine, in horrid mutilation, struggled through the long hours of the tempestuous night in the agonies of dissolution. many of these young men were from the first families in austria and in france, and had been accustomed to every indulgence. far from mother, sister, brother, drenched with rain, covered with the drifting snow, alone--all alone with the midnight darkness and the storm--they writhed and moaned through lingering hours of agony. the austrian forces still were accumulating, and the next day napoleon retired within the walls of verona. it was the first time he had seemed to retreat before his foes. his star began to wane. the soldiers were silent and dejected. an ignominious retreat after all their victories, or a still more ignominious surrender to the austrians appeared their only alternative. night again came. the storm had passed away. the moon rose clear and cold over the frozen hills. suddenly the order was proclaimed, in the early darkness, for the whole army, in silence and celerity, to be upon the march. grief sat upon every countenance. the western gates of the city, looking toward france were thrown open. the rumbling of the artillery wheels, and the sullen tramp of the dejected soldiers fell heavily upon the night air. not a word was spoken. rapidly the army emerged from the gates, crossed the river, and pressed along the road toward france, leaving their foes slumbering behind them, unconscious of their flight. the depression of the soldiers thus compelled at last, as they supposed, to retreat, was extreme. suddenly, and to the perplexity of all, napoleon wheeled his columns into another road, which followed down the valley of the adige. no one could imagine whither he was leading them. he hastened along the banks of the river, in most rapid march, about fourteen miles, and, just at midnight, recrossed the stream, and came upon the rear of the austrian army. here the soldiers found a vast morass, many miles in extent, traversed by several narrow causeways, in these immense marshes superiority in number was of little avail, as the heads of the column only could meet. the plan of napoleon instantly flashed upon the minds of the intelligent french soldiers. they appreciated at once the advantage he had thus skillfully secured for them. shouts of joy ran through the ranks. their previous dejection was succeeded by corresponding elation. it was midnight. far and wide along the horizon blazed the fires of the austrian camps, while the french were in perfect darkness. napoleon, emaciate with care and toil, and silent in intensity of thought, as calm and unperturbed as the clear, cold, serene winter's night, stood upon an eminence observing the position, and estimating the strength of his foes. he had but thirteen thousand troops. forty thousand austrians, crowding the hill sides with their vast array, were manoeuvring to envelop and to crush him. but now indescribable enthusiasm animated the french army. they no longer doubted of success. every man felt confident that the _little corporal_ was leading them again to a glorious victory. in the centre of these wide spreading morasses was the village of arcola, approached only by narrow dykes and protected by a stream, crossed by a small wooden bridge. a strong division of the austrian army was stationed here. it was of the first importance that this position should be taken from the enemy. before the break of day the solid columns of napoleon were moving along the narrow passages, and the fierce strife commenced. the soldiers, with loud shouts, rushed upon the bridge. in an instant the whole head of the column was swept away by a volcanic burst of fire. napoleon sprung from his horse, seized a standard, and shouted, "conquerors of lodi, follow your general!" he rushed at the head of the column, leading his impetuous troops through a perfect hurricane of balls and bullets, till he arrived at the centre of the bridge. here the tempest of fire was so dreadful that all were thrown into confusion. clouds of smoke enveloped the bridge in almost midnight darkness. the soldiers recoiled, and trampling over the dead and dying, in wild disorder retreated. the tall grenadiers seized the fragile and wasted form of napoleon in their arms as if he had been a child, and regardless of their own danger, dragged him from the mouth of this terrible battery. but in the tumult they were forced over the dyke, and napoleon was plunged into the morass and was left almost smothered in the mire. the austrians were already between napoleon and his column, when the anxious soldiers perceived, in the midst of the darkness and the tumult, that their beloved chief was missing. the wild cry arose, "forward to save your general." every heart thrilled at this cry. the whole column instantly turned, and regardless of death, inspired by love for their general, rushed impetuously, irresistibly upon the bridge. napoleon was extricated and arcola was taken. [illustration: the marshes of arcola.] as soon as the morning dawned, alvinzi perceived that verona was evacuated, and in astonishment he heard the thunder of napoleon's guns reverberating over the marshes which surrounded arcola. he feared the genius of his adversary, and his whole army was immediately in motion. all day long the battle raged on those narrow causeways, the heads of the columns rushing against each other with indescribable fury, and the dead and the dying filling the morass. the terrible rebuke which had been inflicted upon the division of vaubois still rung in the ears of the french troops, and every officer and every man resolved to prove that _he_ belonged to the army of italy. said augereau, as he rushed into the mouth of a perfect volcano of flame and fire, "napoleon may break my sword over my dead body, but he shall never cashier _me_ in the presence of my troops." napoleon was every where, exposed to every danger, now struggling through the dead and the dying on foot, heading the impetuous charge; now galloping over the dykes, with the balls from the austrian batteries plowing the ground around him. wherever his voice was heard, and his eye fell, tenfold enthusiasm inspired his men. lannes, though severely wounded, had hastened from the hospital at milan, to aid the army in this terrible emergence. he received three wounds in endeavoring to protect napoleon, and never left his side till the battle was closed. muiron, another of those gallant spirits, bound to napoleon by those mysterious ties of affection which this strange man inspired, seeing a bomb shell about to explode, threw himself between it and napoleon, saving the life of his beloved general by the sacrifice of his own. the darkness of night separated the combatants for a few hours, but before the dawn of the morning the murderous assault was renewed, and continued with unabated violence through the whole ensuing day. the french veterans charged with the bayonet, and hurled the austrians with prodigious slaughter into the marsh. another night came and went. the gray light of another cold winter's morning appeared faintly in the east, when the soldiers sprang again from their freezing, marshy beds, and in the dense clouds of vapor and of smoke which had settled down over the morass, with the fury of blood-hounds rushed again to the assault. in the midst of this terrible conflict a cannon-ball fearfully mangled the horse upon which napoleon was riding. the powerful animal, frantic with pain and terror, became perfectly unmanageable. seizing the bit in his teeth, he rushed through the storm of bullets directly into the midst of the austrian ranks. he then, in the agonies of death, plunged into the morass and expired. napoleon was left struggling in the swamp up to his neck in the mire. being perfectly helpless, he was expecting every moment either to sink and disappear in that inglorious grave, or that some austrian dragoon would sabre his head from his body or with a bullet pierce his brain. enveloped in clouds of smoke, in the midst of the dismay and the uproar of the terrific scene, he chanced to evade observation, until his own troops, regardless of every peril, forced their way to his rescue. napoleon escaped with but a few slight wounds. through the long day, the tide of war continued to ebb and to flow upon these narrow dykes. napoleon now carefully counted the number of prisoners taken and estimated the amount of the slain. computing thus that the enemy did not outnumber him by more than a third, he resolved to march out into the open plain for a decisive conflict. he relied upon the enthusiasm and the confidence of his own troops and the dejection with which he knew that the austrians were oppressed. in these impassable morasses it was impossible to operate with the cavalry. three days of this terrible conflict had now passed. in the horrible carnage of these days napoleon had lost men, and he estimated that the austrians could not have lost less, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, than , . both armies were utterly exhausted, and those hours of dejection and lassitude had ensued in which every one wished that the battle was at an end. it was midnight. napoleon, sleepless and fasting, seemed insensible to exhaustion either of body or of mind. he galloped along the dykes from post to post, with his whole soul engrossed with preparations for the renewal of the conflict. now he checked his horse to speak in tones of consolation to a wounded soldier, and again by a few words of kind encouragement animated an exhausted sentinel. at two o'clock in the morning the whole army, with the ranks sadly thinned, was again roused and ranged in battle array. it was a cold, damp morning, and the weary and half-famished soldiers shivered in their lines. a dense, oppressive fog covered the flooded marsh and added to the gloom of the night. napoleon ordered fifty of the guards to struggle with their horses through the swamp, and conceal themselves in the rear of the enemy. with incredible difficulty most of them succeeded in accomplishing this object. each dragoon had a trumpet. napoleon commenced a furious attack along the whole austrian front. when the fire was the hottest, at an appointed signal, the mounted guards sounded with their trumpets loudly the charge, and with perfect desperation plunged into the ranks of the enemy. the austrians, in the darkness and confusion of the night, supposing that murat,[ ] with his whole body of cavalry, was thundering down upon their rear, in dismay broke and fled. with demoniacal energy the french troops pursued the victory, and before that day's sun went down, the proud army of alvinzi, now utterly routed, and having lost nearly thirty thousand men, marking its path with a trail of blood, was retreating into the mountains of austria. napoleon, with streaming banners and exultant music, marched triumphantly back into verona, by the eastern gates, directly opposite those from which, three days before, he had emerged. he was received by the inhabitants with the utmost enthusiasm and astonishment. even the enemies of napoleon so greatly admired the heroism and the genius of this wonderful achievement, that they added their applause to that of his friends. this was the fourth austrian army which napoleon had overthrown in less than eight months, and each of them more than twice as numerous as his own. in napoleon's dispatches to the directory, as usual, silent concerning himself, and magnanimously attributing the victory to the heroism of the troops, he says, "never was a field of battle more valiantly disputed than the conflict at arcola. i have scarcely any generals left. their bravery and their patriotic enthusiasm are without example." in the midst of all these cares he found time to write a letter of sympathy to the widow of the brave muiron. "you," he writes, "have lost a husband who was dear to you; and i am bereft of a friend to whom i have been long and sincerely attached. but our country has suffered more than us both, in being deprived of an officer so pre-eminently distinguished for his talents and his dauntless bravery. if it lies within the scope of my ability to yield assistance to yourself, or your infant, i beseech you to reckon upon my utmost exertions." it is affecting to record that in a few weeks the woe-stricken widow gave birth to a lifeless babe, and she and her little one sank into an untimely grave together. the woes of war extend far and wide beyond the blood-stained field of battle. twenty thousand men perished around the marshes of arcola. and after the thunders of the strife had ceased, and the groans of the dying were hushed in death, in twenty thousand distant homes, far away on the plains of france, or in the peaceful glens of austria, the agony of that field of blood was renewed, as the tidings reached them, and a wail burst forth from crushed and lacerated hearts, which might almost have drowned the roar of that deadly strife. how napoleon could have found time in the midst of such terrific scenes for the delicate attentions of friendship, it is difficult to conceive. yet to a stranger he wrote, announcing the death of a nephew, in the following affecting terms: "he fell with glory and in the face of the enemy, without suffering a moment of pain. where is the man who would not envy such a death? who would not gladly accept the choice of thus escaping from the vicissitudes of an unsatisfying world. who has not often regretted that he has not been thus withdrawn from the calumny, the envy, and all the odious passions which seem the almost exclusive directors of the conduct of mankind." it was in this pensive strain that napoleon wrote, when a young man of twenty-six, and in the midst of a series of the most brilliant victories which mortal man had ever achieved. the moment the austrians broke and fled, while the thunders of the pursuing cannonade were reverberating over the plains, napoleon seized a pen and wrote to his faithful josephine, with that impetuous energy, in which "sentences were crowded into words, and words into letters." the courier was dispatched, at the top of his speed, with the following lines, which josephine with no little difficulty deciphered. she deemed them worth the study. "my adored josephine! at length i live again. death is no longer before me, and glory and honor are still in my breast. the enemy is beaten. soon mantua will be ours. then thy husband will fold thee in his arms, and give thee a thousand proofs of his ardent affection. i am a little fatigued. i have received letters from eugene and hortense. i am delighted with the children. adieu, my adorable josephine. think of me often. should your heart grow cold toward me, you will be indeed cruel and unjust. but i am sure that you will always continue my faithful friend as i shall ever continue your fond lover. death alone can break the union which love, sentiment, and sympathy have formed. let me have news of your health. a thousand and a thousand kisses." a vein of superstition pervaded the mind of this extraordinary man. he felt that he was the child of destiny--that he was led by an arm more powerful than his own, and that an unseen guide was conducting him along his perilous and bewildering pathway. he regarded life as of little value, and contemplated death without any dread. "i am," said he, "the creature of circumstances. i do but go where events point out the way. i do not give myself any uneasiness about death. when a man's time is come, he must go." "are you a predestinarian?" inquired o'meara. "as much so," napoleon replied, "as the turks are. i have been always so. when destiny wills, it must be obeyed. i will relate an example. at the siege of toulon i observed an officer very careful of himself, instead of exhibiting an example of courage to animate his men. 'mr. officer,' said i, 'come out and observe the effect of your shot. you know not whether your guns are well pointed or not.' very reluctantly he came outside of the parapet, to the place where i was standing. wishing to expose as little of his body as possible, he stooped down, and partially sheltered himself behind the parapet, and looked under my arm. just then a shot came close to me, and low down, which knocked him to pieces. now, if this man had stood upright, he would have been safe as the ball would have passed between us without hurting either." maria louisa, upon her marriage with napoleon, was greatly surprised to find that no sentinels slept at the door of his chamber; that the doors even were not locked; and that there were no guns or pistols in the room where they slept. "why," said she, "you do not take half so many precautions as my father does." "i am too much of a fatalist," he replied, "to take any precautions against assassination." o'meara, at st. helena, at one time urged him to take some medicine. he declined, and calmly raising his eyes to heaven, said, "that which is written is written. our days are numbered." strange and inconsistent as it may seem, there is a form which the doctrine of predestination assumes in the human mind, which arouses one to an intensity of exertion which nothing else could inspire. napoleon felt that he was destined to the most exalted achievements. therefore he consecrated himself through days of toil and nights of sleeplessness to the most herculean exertions that he might work out his destiny. this sentiment which inspired napoleon as a philosopher, animated calvin as a christian. instead of cutting the sinews of exertion, as many persons would suppose it must, it did but strain those sinews to their utmost tension. napoleon had obtained, at the time of his marriage, an exquisite miniature of josephine. this, in his romantic attachment, he had suspended by a ribbon about his neck, and the cheek of josephine ever rested upon the pulsations of his heart. though living in the midst of the most exciting tumults earth has ever witnessed, his pensive and reflective mind was solitary and alone. the miniature of josephine was his companion, and often during the march, and in the midnight bivouac, he gazed upon it most fondly. "by what art is it," he once passionately wrote, "that you, my sweet love, have been able to captivate all my faculties, and to concentrate in yourself my moral existence? it is a magic influence which will terminate only with my life. my adorable wife! i know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from you, it will be insupportable. there was a time when i was proud of my courage. when contemplating the various evils to which we are exposed, i could fix my eyes steadfastly upon every conceivable calamity, without alarm or dread. but now the idea that josephine may be ill, and, above all, the cruel thought that she may love me less, withers my soul, and leaves me not even the courage of despair. formerly i said to myself, man can not hurt him who can die without regret. but now to die without being loved by josephine is torment. my incomparable companion! thou whom fate has destined to make, along with me, the painful journey of life, the day on which i shall cease to possess thy heart will be to me the day of utter desolation." on one occasion the glass covering the miniature was found to be broken. napoleon considered the accident a fearful omen of calamity to the beloved original. he was so oppressed with this presentiment, that a courier was immediately dispatched to bring him tidings from josephine. it is not surprising that napoleon should thus have won, in the heart of josephine the most enthusiastic love. "he is," said she, "the most fascinating of men." said the duchess of abrantes, "it is impossible to describe the charm of napoleon's countenance when he smiled. his soul was upon his lips and in his eyes." "i never," said the emperor alexander, "loved any man as i did that man." says the duke of vicenza, "i have known nearly all the crowned heads of the present day--all our illustrious contemporaries. i have lived with several of those great historical characters on a footing quite distinct from my diplomatic duties. i have had every opportunity of comparing and judging. but it is impossible to institute any comparison between napoleon and any other man. they who say otherwise did not know him." says duroc, "napoleon is endowed with a variety of faculties, any one of which would suffice to distinguish a man from the multitude. he is the greatest captain of the age. he is a statesman who directs the whole business of the country, and superintends every branch of the service. he is a sovereign whose ministers are merely his clerks. and yet this colossus of gigantic proportions can descend to the most trivial details of private life. he can regulate the expenditure of his household as he regulates the finances of the empire." notwithstanding napoleon had now destroyed four austrian armies, the imperial court was still unsubdued, and still pertinaciously refused to make peace with republican france. herculean efforts were immediately made to organize a fifth army to march again upon napoleon. these exciting scenes kept all italy in a state of extreme fermentation. every day the separation between the aristocratic and the republican party became more marked and rancorous. austria and england exerted all their arts of diplomacy to rouse the aristocratic governments of rome, venice, and naples to assail napoleon in the rear, and thus to crush that spirit of republican liberty so rapidly spreading through italy, and which threatened the speedy overthrow of all their thrones. napoleon, in self-defense, was compelled to call to his aid the sympathies of the republican party, and to encourage their ardent aspirations for free government. and here again the candid mind is compelled to pause, and almost to yield its assent to that doctrine of destiny which had obtained so strong a hold upon the mind of napoleon. how could it be expected that those monarchs, with their thrones, their wealth, their pride, their power, their education, their habits, should have submissively relinquished their exalted inheritance, and have made an unconditional surrender to triumphant democracy. kings, nobles, priests, and all the millions whose rank and property were suspended upon the perpetuity of those old monarchies, could, by no possibility have been led to such a measure. unquestionably many were convinced that the interests of humanity demanded the support of the established governments. they had witnessed the accomplishments of democracy in france--a frenzied mob sacking the palace, dragging the royal family, through every conceivable insult, to dungeons and a bloody death, burning the chateaus of the nobles, bruising with gory clubs upon the pavements, the most venerable in rank and the most austere in virtue, dancing in brutal orgies around the dissevered heads of the most illustrious and lovely ladies of the realm, and dragging their dismembered limbs in derision through the streets. priests crowded the churches, praying to god to save them from the horrors of democracy. matrons and maidens trembled in their chambers as they wrought with their own hands the banners of royalty, and with moistened eyes and palpitating hearts they presented them to their defenders. on the other hand, how could republican france tamely succumb to her proud and aristocratic enemies. "kings," said a princess of the house of austria, "should no more regard the murmurs of the people than does the moon the barking of dogs." how could the triumphant millions of france, who had just overthrown this intolerable despotism, and whose hearts were glowing with aspirations for liberty and equal rights, yield without a struggle all they had attained at such an enormous expense of blood and misery. they turned their eyes hopefully to the united states, where our own washington and their own la fayette had fought, side by side, and had established liberty gloriously; and they could not again voluntarily place their necks beneath the yoke of kingly domination. despotism engenders ignorance and cruelty; and despotism did but reap the awful harvest of blood and woe, of which, during countless ages of oppression, it had been scattering broadcast the seed. the enfranchised people could not allow the allied monarchs of europe to rear again, upon the soil of republican france, and in the midst of thirty millions of freemen, an execrated and banished dynasty. this was not a warfare of republican angels against aristocratic fiends, or of refined, benevolent, intellectual loyalists against rancorous, reckless, vulgar jacobins. it was a warfare of frail and erring man against his fellow--many, both monarchists and republicans, perhaps animated by motives as corrupt as can influence the human heart. but it can not be doubted that there were others on each side, who were influenced by considerations as pure as can glow in the bosom of humanity. napoleon recognized and respected these verities. while he had no scruples respecting his own duty to defend his country from the assaults of the allied kings, he candidly respected his opponents. candidly he said, "had i been surrounded by the influences which have surrounded these gentlemen, i should doubtless have been fighting beneath their banners." there is probably not a reader of these pages, who, had he been an english or an austrian noble, would not have fought those battles of the monarchy, upon which his fortune, his power, and his rank were suspended. and there probably is not a noble upon the banks of the danube or the thames, who, had he been a young lawyer, merchant, or artisan, with all his prospects in life depending upon his own merit and exertions, would not have strained every nerve to hew down these bulwarks of exclusive privilege, which the pride and oppression of ages had reared. such is man; and such his melancholy lot. we would not detract from the wickedness of these wars, deluging europe with blood and woe. but god alone can award the guilt. we would not conceal that all our sympathies are with the republicans struggling for their unquestionable rights. but we may also refrain from casting unmerited obloquy upon those, who were likewise struggling for every thing dear to them in life. the directory, trembling in view of the vast renown napoleon was acquiring, and not at all relishing the idea of having the direction of affairs thus unceremoniously taken from their hands, sent gen. clarke, as an envoy, to napoleon's head-quarters, to conduct negotiations with the austrians. napoleon received him with great external courtesy, but that there might be no embarrassing misunderstanding between them, informed him in so many words, "if you come here to obey me, i shall always see you with pleasure; if not, the sooner you return to those who sent you the better." the proud envoy yielded at once to the master-mind, and so completely was he brought under the influence of its strange fascination, that he became a most enthusiastic admirer of napoleon, and wrote to the directory, "it is indispensable that the general-in-chief should conduct all the diplomatic operations in italy." while alvinzi had been preparing his overwhelming host to crush napoleon, the pope also, in secret alliance, had been collecting his resources to attack the common foe. it was an act of treachery. napoleon called mattei from his fastings and penance in the convent, and commissioned him to go and say to the pope: "rome desires war. it shall have war. but first i owe it to humanity to make a final effort to recall the pope to reason. my army is strong. i have but to will it and the temporal power of the pope is destroyed. still france permits me to listen to words of peace. war, so cruel for all, has terrible results for the vanquished. i am anxious to close this struggle by peace. war has for me now neither danger nor glory." the pope, however, believing that austria would still crush napoleon, met these menaces with defiance. napoleon, conscious that he could not then march upon rome, devoted all his energies to prepare for the onset of the austrians, while he kept a vigilant eye upon his enemies in the south. some he overawed. others, by a change of government, he transformed into fast friends. four weeks passed rapidly away, and another vast austrian army was crowding down from the north with gigantic steps to relieve mantua, now in the last stage of starvation. wurmser had succeeded in sending a spy through the french lines, conveying the message to alvinzi, that unless relieved he could not possibly hold out many days longer. josephine had now come, at napoleon's request, to reside at the head-quarters of the army, that she might be near her husband. napoleon had received her with the most tender affection, and his exhausted frame was re-invigorated by her soothing cares. he had no tendencies to gallantry, which provoked madame de staël once to remark to him, "it is reported that you are not very partial to the ladies." "i am very fond of my wife, madame," was his laconic reply. napoleon had not a high appreciation of the female character in general, and yet he highly valued the humanizing and refining influence of polished female society. "the english," said he, "appear to prefer the bottle to the society of their ladies; as is exemplified by dismissing the ladies from the table, and remaining for hours to drink and intoxicate themselves. were i in england i should certainly leave the table with the ladies. you do not treat them with sufficient regard. if your object is to converse instead of to drink, why not allow them to be present. surely conversation is never so lively or so witty as when ladies take a part in it. were i an englishwoman i should feel very discontented at being turned out by the men, to wait for two or three hours while they were guzzling their wine. in france society is nothing unless ladies are present. they are the life of conversation." at one time josephine was defending her sex from some remarks which he had made respecting their frivolity and insincerity. "ah! my dear josephine," he replied, "they are all nothing compared with you." notwithstanding the boundless wealth at napoleon's disposal, when josephine arrived at the head-quarters of the army, he lived in a very simple and frugal manner. though many of his generals were rolling in voluptuousness, he indulged himself in no ostentation in dress or equipage. the only relaxation he sought was to spend an occasional hour in the society of josephine. in the midst of the movements of these formidable armies, and just before a decisive battle, it was necessary that she should take her departure to a place of greater safety. as she was bidding her husband adieu, a cart passed by, loaded with the mutilated forms of the wounded. the awful spectacle, and the consciousness of the terrible peril of her husband moved her tender feelings. she threw herself upon his neck and wept most bitterly. napoleon fondly encircled her in his arms, and said, "wurmser shall pay dearly for those tears which he causes thee to shed." napoleon's appearance at this time was deplorable in the extreme. his cheeks were pallid and wan. he was as thin as a skeleton. his bright and burning eye alone indicated that the fire of his soul was unextinguished. the glowing energies of his mind sustained his emaciated and exhausted body. the soldiers took pleasure in contrasting his mighty genius and his world-wide renown, with his effeminate stature and his wasted and enfeebled frame. in allusion to the wonderful tranquillity of mind which napoleon retained in the midst of all harassments, disasters, and perils, he remarked. "nature seems to have calculated that i should endure great reverses. she has given me a mind of marble. thunder can not ruffle it. the shaft merely glides along." early in january alvinzi descended toward mantua, from the mountains of austria. it was the fifth army which the imperial court had sent for the destruction of the republicans. the tyrol was in the hands of the french. napoleon, to prevent the peasants from rising in guerrilla bands, issued a decree that every tyrolese taken in arms should be shot as a brigand. alvinzi replied, that for every peasant shot he would hang a french prisoner of war. napoleon rejoined, that for every french prisoner thus slain he would gibbet an austrian officer, commencing with alvinzi's own nephew, who was in his hands. a little reflection taught both generals that it was not best to add to the inevitable horrors of war by the execution of these sanguinary threats. with the utmost vigilance napoleon, with his army gathered around him in the vicinity of mantua, was watching the movements of his formidable enemy, uncertain respecting his line of march, or upon what points the terrible onset was to fall. the th of january, , was a dark, stormy winter's day. the sleet, swept by the gale over the bleak mountains, covered the earth with an icy mantle. the swollen streams, clogged with ice, roared through the ravines. as the sun went down a clear belt of cloudless sky appeared brilliant in the west. the storm passed away. the cold north wind blew furiously, and the stars with unwonted lustre, adorned the wintry night. as the twilight was fading a courier galloped into the camp with the intelligence that the austrians had made their appearance in vast numbers upon the plains of rivoli, and that they were attacking with great fury the advanced post of the french stationed there. at the same time another courier arrived informing him that a powerful division of the austrian army was moving in another direction to carry relief to mantua. it was a fearful dilemma. should napoleon wait for the junction of these two armies to assail him in front, while the garrison in mantua, emerging from the walls should attack him in the rear, his situation would be hopeless. should he march to attack one army, he must leave the road open for the other to enter mantua with reinforcements and relief. but napoleon lost not one moment in deliberation. instinctively he decided upon the only course to be pursued. "the french," said the austrians, "do not march; they fly." with a rapidity of movement which seems almost miraculous, before two o'clock in the morning, napoleon, with thirty thousand men, stood upon the snow-clad heights overlooking the encampment of his sleeping foes. it was a sublime and an appalling spectacle which burst upon his view. for miles and miles the watch-fires of the mighty host filled the extended plain. the night was clear, cold, and beautiful. gloomy firs and pines frowned along the sides of the mountains, silvered by the rays of an unclouded moon. the keen eye of napoleon instantly detected that there were fifty thousand men, in five divisions of ten thousand each, whom he, with thirty thousand was to encounter upon that plain. he also correctly judged, from the position of the divisions, that the artillery had not arrived, and resolved upon an immediate attack. at four o'clock in the morning, the austrians were roused from their slumbers by the rush of napoleon's battalions and by the thunders of his artillery. the day of rivoli! it was a long, long day of blood and woe. the tide of victory ebbed and flowed. again and again napoleon seemed ruined. night came, and the genius of napoleon had again triumphed. the whole plain was covered with the dead and the dying. the austrians, in wild terror, were flying before the impetuous charges of the french cavalry; while from every eminence cannon-balls were plunged into the dense ranks of the fugitives. the genius of this stern warrior never appeared more terrible than in the unsparing energy with which he rained down his blows upon a defeated army. napoleon had three horses shot under him during the day. "the austrians," said he, "manoeuvred admirably, and failed only because they are incapable of calculating the value of minutes." an event occurred in the very hottest of the battle which singularly illustrates napoleon's wonderful presence of mind. the austrians had completely enveloped him, cutting off his retreat, and attacking him in front, flanks, and rear; the destruction of the army seemed inevitable. napoleon, to gain time, instantly sent a flag of truce to alvinzi, proposing a suspension of arms for half an hour, to attend to some propositions to be made in consequence of dispatches just received from paris. the austrian general fell into the snare. the roar of battle ceased, and the blood-stained combatants rested upon their guns. junot repaired to the austrian head-quarters, and kept alvinzi busy for half an hour in discussing the terms of accommodation. in the mean time napoleon had re-arranged his army to repel these numerous attacks. as was to be expected, no terms could be agreed upon, and immediately the murderous onset was renewed. the scene displayed at the close of this battle was awful in the extreme. the fugitive army, horse, foot, cannon, baggage-wagons, and ammunition-carts struggled along in inextricable confusion through the narrow passes, while a plunging fire from the french batteries produced frightful havoc in the crowd. the occasional explosion of an ammunition-wagon under this terrific fire, opened in the dense mass a gap like the crater of a volcano, scattering far and wide over the field the mangled limbs of the dead. the battle of rivoli napoleon ever regarded as one of the most dreadful battles he ever fought, and one of the most signal victories he ever won. leaving a few troops to pursue and harass the fugitives, napoleon, that very night, with the mass of his army, turned to arrest the austrian division of twenty thousand men under provera, hastening to the reinforcement of mantua. he had already marched all of one night, and fought all of the ensuing day. he allowed his utterly exhausted troops a few hours for sleep, but closed not his own eyes. he still considered the peril of his army so great as to demand the utmost vigilance. so intense was his solicitude, that he passed the hours of the night, while the rest were sleeping, in walking about the outposts. at one of them he found a sentinel, utterly worn down by fatigue, asleep at the root of a tree. without awaking him, napoleon took his gun and performed a sentinel's duty in his place for half an hour. at last the poor man, starting from his slumbers, overwhelmed with consternation, perceived the countenance and the occupation of his general. he knew that death was the penalty for such a crime, and he fell speechless upon his knees. "my brave friend," said napoleon kindly, "here is your musket. you have marched long and fought hard, and your sleep is excusable. but a moment's inattention at the present time might ruin the army. i happened to be awake, and have held your post for you. you will be more careful another time." it is not surprising that such deeds as these, continually repeated at the campfires of the soldiers, should have inspired them with the most enthusiastic admiration of their commander-in-chief. [illustration: the exhausted sentinel.] the hour of midnight had hardly passed before the whole army was again in motion. the dawn of the morning found them pressing on with all possible speed, hoping to arrive at mantua before the austrian force should have effected an entrance into the beleaguered city. all the day long they hurried on their way, and just as the sun was setting, they heard the roar of the conflict around the ramparts of mantua. provera was attacking the french in their intrenchments upon one side. the brave old wurmser was marching from the city to attack them upon the other. an hour might have settled the unequal conflict. suddenly napoleon, like a thunderbolt, plunged into the midst of the foe. provera's band was scattered like chaff before the whirlwind. wurmser and his half-starved men were driven back to their fortress and their prison. thus terminated this signal campaign of _three days_, during which the austrians lost twenty-five thousand prisoners, twenty-five standards, sixty pieces of cannon, and six thousand men in killed and wounded. the austrian army was again destroyed, and the french remained in undisputed possession of italy. such achievements filled the world with astonishment. military men of all lands have regarded these brilliant operations of napoleon as the most extraordinary which history has recorded. wurmser's situation was now hopeless, and no resource was left him but to capitulate. one half of his once numerous garrison were in the hospital. the horses which had been killed and salted down were all consumed. famine was now staring the garrison in the face. wurmser sent an aid-de-camp to the tent of serrurier to propose terms of capitulation. napoleon was sitting in a corner of the tent unobserved, wrapped in his cloak. the aid, with the artifice usual on such occasions, expatiated on the powerful means of resistance wurmser still enjoyed, and the large stores of provisions still in the magazines. napoleon, without making himself known, listened to the conversation, taking no part in it. at last he approached the table, silently took the paper containing wurmser's propositions, and, to the astonishment of the aid, wrote upon the margin his answer to all the terms suggested. "there," said he, "are the conditions which i grant to your marshal. if he had provisions but for a fortnight and could talk of surrender, he would not deserve an honorable capitulation. as he sends you, he must be reduced to extremity. i respect his age, his valor, his misfortunes. carry to him the terms which i grant. whether he leaves the place to-morrow, in a month, or in six months he shall have neither better nor worse conditions. he may stay as long as his sense of honor demands." the aid now perceived that he was in the presence of napoleon. glancing his eye over the terms of capitulation, he was surprised at the liberality of the victor, and seeing that dissimulation was of no further avail, he confessed that wurmser had provisions but for three days. the brave old marshal was deeply moved with gratitude in acknowledging the generosity with which he was treated by his young adversary. wurmser was entirely in his power, and must have surrendered at discretion. yet napoleon, to spare the feelings of his foe, allowed him to march out of the place with all his staff, and to retire unmolested to austria. he even granted him two hundred horse and five hundred men, to be chosen by himself, and six pieces of cannon, to render his departure less humiliating. wurmser most gratefully accepted this magnanimous offer, and to prove his gratitude informed napoleon of a plan laid in the papal states for poisoning him, and this undoubtedly saved his life. the remainder of the garrison, twenty thousand strong, surrendered their arms, and were retained as prisoners of war. fifteen standards, a bridge equipage, and above five hundred pieces of artillery fell into the hands of the victor. on the following morning the austrian army, emaciate, humiliated, and dejected, defiled from the gates of mantua to throw down their arms at the feet of the triumphant republicans. but on this occasion also, napoleon displayed that magnanimity and delicacy of mind, which accorded so well with the heroism of his character and the grandeur of his achievements. few young men, twenty-six years of age, at the termination of so terrific a campaign, would have deprived themselves of the pleasure of seeing the veteran austrian marshal and his proud array pass vanquished before him. but on the morning of that day napoleon mounted his horse, and heading a division of his army, disappeared from the ground, and marched for the papal states. he left serrurier to receive the sword of wurmser. he would not add to the mortification of the vanquished general, by being present in the hour of his humiliation. delicacy so rare and so noble attracted the attention of all europe. this magnanimous and dignified conduct extorted reluctant admiration even from the bitterest enemies of the young republican general. the directory, unable to appreciate such nobility of spirit, were dissatisfied with the liberal terms which had been granted wurmser. napoleon treated their remonstrances with scorn, and simply replied, "i have granted the austrian general such terms as, in my judgment, were due to a brave and honorable enemy, and to the dignity of the french republic." the austrians were now driven out of italy. napoleon commenced the campaign with thirty thousand men. he received, during the progress of these destructive battles, twenty thousand recruits. thus, in ten months, napoleon, with fifty-five thousand men, had conquered five armies, under veteran generals, and composed of more than two hundred thousand highly disciplined austrian troops. he had taken one hundred thousand prisoners, and killed and wounded thirty-five thousand men. these were great victories, and "a great victory," said the duke of wellington, "is the most awful thing in the world excepting a great defeat." napoleon now prepared to march boldly upon vienna itself, and to compel the emperor, in his own palace, to make peace with insulted france. such an idea he had not conceived at the commencement of the campaign; circumstances, however, or as napoleon would say, _his destiny_ led him on. but first it was necessary to turn aside to humble the pope, who had been threatening napoleon's rear with an army of , men, but who was now in utter consternation in view of the hopeless defeat of the austrians. napoleon issued the following proclamation: "the french army is about to enter the pope's territories. it will protect religion and the people. the french soldier carries in one hand the bayonet, as the guarantee of victory; in the other the olive branch, a symbol of peace, and a pledge of protection. woe to those who shall provoke the vengeance of this army. to the inhabitants of every town and village peace, protection, and security are offered." all the spiritual machinery of the papal church had been put into requisition to rouse the people to frenzy. the tocsin had been tolled in every village, forty hours' prayers offered, indulgences promised, and even miracles employed to inspire the populace with delirious energy. napoleon took with him but four thousand five hundred french soldiers, aided by four thousand italian recruits. he first encountered the enemy, seven thousand strong, under cardinal busca, intrenched upon the banks of the senio. it was in the evening twilight of a pleasant spring day, when the french approached the river. the ecclesiastic, but little accustomed to the weapons of secular warfare, sent a flag of truce, who very pompously presented himself before napoleon, and declared, in the name of the cardinal-in-chief, that if the french continued to advance he should certainly fire upon them. the terrible menace was reported through the french lines, and was received with perfect peals of merriment. napoleon replied that he should be extremely sorry to expose himself to the cardinal's fire, and that therefore, as the army was very much fatigued, with the cardinal's leave it would take up its quarters for the night. in the darkness a division of the french army was sent across the stream, by a ford, to cut off the retreat of the papal troops, and in the morning the bloody conflict of an hour left nearly every man dead upon the field, or a prisoner in the hands of napoleon. pressing rapidly on, the french arrived the same day at faenza. the gates were shut, the ramparts manned with cannon, and the multitude, in fanatical enthusiasm, exasperated the french soldiers with every species of insulting defiance. the gates were instantly battered down, and the french rushed into the city. they loudly clamored for permission to pillage. "the case," said they, "is the same as that of pavia." "no!" replied napoleon, "at pavia the people, after having taken an oath of obedience, revolted, and attempted to murder our soldiers who were their guests. these people are deceived, and must be subdued by kindness." all the prisoners taken here, and in the battle of the senio, were assembled in a large garden of one of the convents of faenza. napoleon had been represented to them as a monster of atheism, cruelty, and crime. they were in a perfect paroxysm of terror, not doubting that they were gathered there to be shot. upon the approach of napoleon they fell upon their knees, with loud cries for mercy. he addressed them in italian, and in those tones of kindness which seemed to have a magic power over the human heart. "i am the friend," said he, "of all the people of italy. i come among you for your good. you are all free. return to the bosom of your families, and tell them that the french are the friends of religion and of order, and of all the poor and the oppressed." from the garden he went to the refectory of the convent, where the captured officers were assembled. familiarly he conversed with them a long time, as with friends and equals. he explained to them his motives and his wishes; spoke of the liberty of italy, of the abuses of the pontifical government, of its gross violation of the spirit of the gospel, and of the blood which must be vainly expended in the attempt to resist such a victorious and well-disciplined army as he had at his disposal. he gave them all permission to return to their homes, and simply requested them, as the price of his clemency, to make known to the community the sentiments with which he was animated. these men now became as enthusiastic in their admiration of napoleon as they had previously been exasperated against him. they dispersed through the cities and villages of italy, never weary in eulogizing the magnanimity of their conqueror. he soon met another army of the romans at ancona. he cautiously surrounded them, and took them all prisoners without hurting a man, and then, by a few of his convincing words, sent them through the country as missionaries proclaiming his clemency, and the benevolence of the commander-in-chief of the republican army. ancona was so situated as to be one of the most important ports of the adriatic. its harbor, however, was in such a neglected condition, that not even a frigate could enter. he immediately decided what ought to be done to fortify the place and to improve the port. the great works which he consequently afterward executed at ancona, will remain a perpetual memorial of his foresight and genius. the largest three-decker can now ride in its harbor with perfect safety. at loretto there was an image of the virgin, which the church represented as of celestial origin, and which, to the great edification of the populace, seemed miraculously to shed tears in view of the perils of the papacy. napoleon sent for the sacred image, exposed the deception by which, through the instrumentality of a string of glass beads, tears appeared to flow, and imprisoned the priests for deluding the people with trickery which tended to bring all religion into contempt. the papal states were full of the exiled french priests. the directory enjoined it upon napoleon to drive them out of the country. these unhappy men were in a state of despair. long inured to jacobin fury they supposed that death was now their inevitable doom. one of the fraternity, weary of years of exile and frantic in view of his supposed impending fate, presented himself to napoleon, announced himself as an emigrant priest, and implored that his doom of death might be immediately executed. the bewildered man thought it the delirium of a dream when napoleon, addressing him in terms of courtesy and of heartfelt sympathy, assured him that he and all his friends should be protected from harm. he issued a proclamation enjoining it upon the army to regard these unfortunate men as countrymen and as brothers, and to treat them with all possible kindness. the versatile troops instantly imbibed the humane spirit of their beloved chief. this led to a number of very affecting scenes. many of the soldiers recognized their former pastors, and these unhappy exiles, long accustomed to scorn and insult, wept with gratitude in being again addressed in terms of respect and affection. napoleon was censured for this clemency. "how is it possible," he wrote to the directory, "not to pity these unhappy men? they weep on seeing us." the french emigrant priests were quite a burden upon the convents in italy, where they had taken refuge, and the italian priests were quite ready, upon the arrival of the french army, to drive them away, on the pretext that by harboring the emigrants they should draw down upon themselves the vengeance of the republican army. napoleon issued a decree commanding the convents to receive them, and to furnish them with every thing necessary for their support and comfort. in that most singular vein of latent humor which pervaded his nature, he enjoined that the french priests should make remuneration for this hospitality in prayers and masses, at the regular market price. he found the jews in ancona suffering under the most intolerable oppression, and immediately relieved them from all their disabilities. the court of naples, hoping to intimidate napoleon from advancing upon the holy city, and not venturing openly to draw the sword against him, sent a minister to his camp, to act in the capacity of a spy. this envoy, prince pignatelli, assuming an air of great mystery and confidential kindness, showed napoleon a letter from the queen of naples, proposing to send an army of thirty thousand men to protect the pontiff. "i thank you," said napoleon, "for this proof of your confidence, and will repay you in the same way." opening the portfolio of papers relating to naples, he exhibited to him a copy of a dispatch, in which the contemplated movement was not only anticipated, but provision made, in case it should be attempted, for marching an army of twenty-five thousand men to take possession of the capital, and compel the royal family to seek refuge in sicily. an extraordinary courier was dispatched in the night to inform the queen of the manner in which the insinuation had been received. nothing more was heard of the neapolitan interference. napoleon was now within three days' march of rome. consternation reigned in the vatican. embassadors were hastily sent to napoleon's head-quarters at tolentino, to implore the clemency of the conqueror. the horses were already harnessed to the state carriages, and pope pius the sixth was just descending the stairs for flight, when a messenger arrived from napoleon informing the pope that he need apprehend no personal violence, that napoleon was contending only for peace. the directory, exasperated by the unrelenting hostility and the treachery of the pope, enjoined it upon napoleon to enter into no negotiations with him, but immediately to deprive him of all temporal power. napoleon, however, understood fanatical human nature too well to attempt such a revolution. disregarding the wishes of the government at home, he treated the pope with that gentlemanly deference and respect which was due to his exalted rank, as a temporal and a spiritual prince. the treaty of tolentino was soon concluded. its simple terms were peace with france, the acknowledgment of the cispadane republic, and a renewed promise that the stipulations of the preceding armistice should be faithfully performed. even the pope could not refrain from expressions of gratitude in view of the moderation of his victor. napoleon insisted for a long time upon the suppression of the inquisition. but out of complaisance to the pope, who most earnestly entreated that it might not be suppressed, assuring napoleon that it no longer was what it had been, but that it was now rather a tribunal of police than of religious opinion, napoleon desisted from pressing the article. all this was achieved in nine days. napoleon now returned to mantua, and prepared for his bold march upon vienna. notwithstanding the singular moderation displayed by napoleon in these victories, the most atrocious libels respecting his conduct were circulated by his foes throughout europe. to exasperate the catholics he was reported to have seized the venerable pope by his gray hairs, and thus to have dragged him about the room. one day napoleon was reading one of these virulent libels, describing him as a perfect monster of licentiousness, blood-thirstiness, and crime. at times he shrugged his shoulders, and again laughed heartily, but did not betray the least sign of anger. to one who expressed surprise at this, he said, "it is the truth only which gives offense. every body knows that i was not by nature inclined to debauchery, and moreover the multiplicity of my affairs allowed me no time for such vices. still persons will be found who will believe these things. but how can that be helped? if it should enter any one's head to put in print that i had grown hairy and walked on four paws, there are people who would believe it, and who would say that god had punished me as he did nebuchadnezzar. and what could i do? there is no remedy in such cases." [footnote : joachim murat, subsequently married caroline, the youngest sister of napoleon, and became marshal of france, and finally king of sicily. after the fall of napoleon he lost his throne, and was shot, by command of the king of naples. "murat," said napoleon, "was one of the most brilliant men i ever saw upon a field of battle. it was really a magnificent spectacle to see him heading the cavalry in a charge."] the story of reynard the fox. [the story of reynard the fox, in prose and in rhyme, has for centuries been the favorite popular tale in europe. we can not go back to the time when it was not told in every dialect spoken by the teutonic race. "among the people," says carlyle, "it was long a house-book, and universal best-companion; it has been lectured on in universities, quoted in imperial council-halls; it lay on the toilets of princesses, and was thumbed to pieces on the work-bench of the artisan; we hear of grave men ranking it next to the bible.... it comes before us with a character such as can belong only to a very few; that of being a true world's book, which through centuries was every where at home, and the spirit of which diffused itself through all languages and all minds." the translation which we present is from the old low-german version, which, by superseding all previous ones, has come to be considered the recognized form of the tale. goethe has expanded it into a long poem, for which kaulbach designed some forty illustrations, forming the finest series of pictures ever produced for the illustration of a single book. hermann plouquet of stuttgart, has contributed to the great exhibition in london a display of animals stuffed in the most comic attitudes. a portion of these are in illustration of reynard the fox, the designs of kaulbach serving as models. the illustrations which we furnish are taken from daguerreotype pictures of these animals, and afford a striking example of the expression which the animal face and figure are capable of conveying.] about the feast of whitsuntide, when the woods were in their lustyhood and gallantry, when every tree was clothed in the green and white livery of glorious leaves and sweet-smelling blossoms, when the earth was covered with her fairest mantle of flowers, and the sweet birds entertained the groves with the delight of their harmonious songs, the lion, the royal king of beasts, made solemn proclamation that all quadrupeds whatsoever should attend his court, and celebrate this great festival. now when the king had assembled all his subjects together, there was no one absent save reynard the fox, against whom many grievous accusations were laid. first came isegrim the wolf, with all his family and kindred, who, standing before the king, complained loudly how that reynard had ill-treated his wife and children. then there came a little hound named curtsie, who accused the fox of having stolen his pudding in the extreme cold winter-time, when he was nigh dying of starvation. but scarcely had the hound finished his tale, when, with a fiery countenance, in sprang tibert the cat, and accused curtsie of having stolen this pudding from himself, and declared that reynard had righteously taken it away. then rose the panther: "do you imagine, tibert," quoth he, "that reynard ought not to be complained of? the whole world knows that he is a murderer, a vagabond, and a thief." then quoth grimbard the badger, reynard's nephew: "it is a common proverb, _malice never spake well_: what can you say against my kinsman the fox? all these complaints seem to me to be either absurd or false. mine uncle is a gentleman, and can not endure falsehood. i affirm that he liveth as a recluse; he chastiseth his body, and weareth a shirt of hair-cloth. it is above a year since he hath eaten any flesh; he hath forsaken his castle malepardus, and abandoned all his wealth; he lives only upon alms and good men's charities, doing infinite penance for his sins; so that he has become pale and lean with praying and fasting." while grimbard was still speaking, there came down the hill chanticleer the cock, and with him two hens, who brought with them on a bier their dead sister copple, who had just been murdered by reynard. chanticleer smote piteously his feathers, and, kneeling before the king, spake in this manner: [illustration: reynard at home (page .)] "most merciful and my great lord the king, vouchsafe, i beseech you, to hear our complaint, and redress the injuries which reynard the fox has done to me and my children. not longer ago than last april, when the weather was fair, and i was in the height of my pride and glory, because of my eight valiant sons and seven fair daughters, who were strong and fat, and who walked in safety in a yard well-fenced round, wherein also were several large dogs for their protection, reynard, that false and dissembling traitor, came to me in the likeness of a hermit, and brought me a letter to read, sealed with your majesty's seal, in which i found written, that your highness had made peace throughout all your realm, and that no manner of beast or fowl should do injury one to another; affirming unto me, that, for his own part, he was become a monk, vowing to perform a daily penance for his sins; showing unto me his beads, his books, and the hair shirt next to his skin; saying, in humble wise, unto me, 'sir chanticleer, never henceforth be afraid of me, for i have vowed never more to eat flesh. i am now waxed old, and would only remember my soul; therefore i take my leave, for i have yet my noon and my evensong to say.' which spake, he departed, saying his _credo_ as he went, and laid him down under a hawthorn. at this i was exceeding glad, that i took no heed, but went and clucked my children together, and walked without the wall, which i shall ever rue; for false reynard, lying under a bush, came creeping betwixt us and the gate, and suddenly surprised one of my children, which he trussed up and bore away, to my great sorrow; for, having tasted the sweetness of our flesh, neither hunter nor hound can protect or keep him from us. night and day he waits upon us, with that greediness, that of fifteen of my children, he hath left me but four unslaughtered; and yesterday, copple, my daughter, which here lieth dead on this bier, was, after her murder, rescued from him. this is my complaint, and this i leave to your highness's mercy to take pity on me, and the loss of my fair children." then spake the king; "sir grimbard, hear you this of your uncle the recluse? he hath fasted and prayed well: believe me, if i live a year, he shall dearly abide it. as for you, chanticleer, your complaint is heard, and shall be cured; to your daughter that is dead we will give the rites of burial, and with solemn dirges bring her to the earth, with worship." after this the king sent for his lords and wisest counselors, to consult how this foul murder of reynard's might be punished. and in the end, it was concluded that reynard should be sent for, and without all excuse, he should be commanded to appear before the king, to answer whatever trespasses should be objected against him; and that this message should be delivered by bruin the bear. to all this the king gave consent, and calling the bear before him, he said, "sir bruin, it is our pleasure that you deliver this message, yet in the delivery thereof have great regard to yourself; for reynard is full of policy, and knoweth how to dissemble, flatter, and betray; he hath a world of snares to entangle you withal, and without great exercise of judgment, will make a scorn and mock of the best wisdom breathing." [illustration] "my lord," answered sir bruin, "let me alone with reynard; i am not such a truant in discretion to become a mock to his knavery;" and thus, full of jollity, the bear departed. [illustration: sir tibert delivering the king's message. (page .)] the next morning bruin set out in quest of the fox; and after passing through a dark forest and over a high mountain, he came to malepartus, reynard's chiefest and most ancient castle. reynard was at home, and pretended to be ill with eating too much honey. when the bear heard this, he was extremely desirous of knowing where such excellent food could be obtained; and reynard promised to take him to a garden where he should find more honey-combs than ten bears could eat at a meal. but the treacherous rascal took him to a carpenter's yard, where lay the trunk of a huge oak-tree, half-riven asunder, with two great wedges in it, so that the cleft stood a great way open. "behold now, dear uncle," said the fox, "within this tree is so much honey that it is unmeasurable." the bear, in great haste, thrust his nose and fore-paws into the tree; and immediately reynard pulled out the two great wedges, and caught bruin in so sharp a trap, that the poor beast howled with pain. this noise quickly brought out the carpenter, who, perceiving how matters stood, alarmed the whole village, who came and belabored the bear's sides with sticks and hoes and pitchforks, until, mad with rage, he tore his bleeding face and paws from the tree, and rushed blindly into a river that ran close by, knocking into the water with him many of the villagers, and among them, dame julock, the parson's wife, for whose sake every one bestirred himself; and so poor bruin got safe away. after some delay, the bear returned to the court, where, in dismal accents, he recounted the sad trick that reynard had played him. then said the king, "now, by my crown, i will take such revenge as shall make that traitor tremble;" and sending for his counselors, they decided that reynard should be again summoned to court, and that tibert the cat should be the bearer of the message. "it is your wisdom, sir tibert, i employ," said the great king, "and not your strength: many prevail with art, when violence returns with lost labor." so tibert made ready, and set out with the king's letter to malepardus, where he found the fox standing before his castle-gates; to whom tibert said, "health to my fair cousin reynard; the king, by me, summons you to the court, in which if you fail, there is nothing more assured unto you than a cruel and a sudden death." the fox answered, "welcome, dear cousin tibert; i obey your command, and wish my lord the king infinite days of happiness; only let me entreat you to rest with me to-night, and take such cheer as my simple house affordeth, and to-morrow, as early as you will, we will go toward the court, for i have no kinsman i trust so dearly as yourself." tibert replied, "you speak like a noble gentleman; and methinks it is best now to go forward, for the moon shines as bright as day." "nay, dear cousin," said the fox, "let us take the day before us, so may we encounter with our friends; the night is full of danger." "well," said the cat, "if it be your pleasure, i am content; what shall we eat?" reynard said, "truly my store is small; the best i have is a honey-comb, pleasant and sweet; what think you of it?" to which tibert replieth, "it is meat i little respect, and seldom eat; i had rather have one mouse than all the honey in europe." [illustration: reynard brings forward the hare as his witness. (page .)] [illustration: reynard on his pilgrimage to rome. (page .)] "a mouse!" said reynard; "why, my dear cousin, here dwelleth a priest hard by, who hath a barn by his house so full of mice, that i think half the wagons in the parish are not able to bear them." "oh, dear reynard," quoth the cat, "do but lead me thither, and make me your servant forever." "why," said the fox, "love you mice so exceedingly?" "beyond expression," quoth the cat. then away they went with all speed to the priest's barn, which was well walled about with a mud wall, where, but the night before, the fox had broken in and stolen an exceeding fat hen, at which the priest was so angry, that he had set a snare before the hole to catch him at his next coming, which the false fox knew of; and therefore said to the cat, "sir tibert, creep in at this hole, and believe it, you shall not tarry a minute's space but you shall have more mice than you are able to devour; hark, you may hear how they peep. when you have eaten your fill, come again, and i will stay and await for you here at this hole, that to-morrow we may go together to the court; but, good cousin, stay not too long, for i know my wife will hourly expect us." then tibert sprang quickly in at the hole, but was presently caught fast by the neck in the snare, which as soon as the cat felt, he quickly leaped back again; and the snare running close together, he was half-strangled, so that he began to struggle and cry out and exclaim most piteously. then the priest, hearing the outcry, alarmed all his servants, crying out, "the fox is taken!" and away they all ran to where poor tibert was caught in the snare, and, without finding out their mistake, they beat him most unmercifully, and cruelly wounded one of his eyes. the cat, mad with pain, suddenly gnawed the cord, and seizing the priest by the legs, bit him and tore him in such a way that he fell down in a swoon, and then, as every one ran to help his master, tibert leaped out of the hole, and limped as fast as his wounded legs would carry him to the court where the king was infinitely angry at the treatment he had received. then grimbard the badger, reynard's nephew fearing it was likely to go hard with his uncle, offered to go to malepardus and take the king's message to his most subtle kinsman; to which his majesty graciously consented. so grimbard set forth; and when he came to malepardus, he found reynard with dame ermelin his wife, sporting with their children. when grimbard had delivered the king's letter, reynard found that it would be better for him to show himself at court at once; so bidding an affectionate farewell to his dear wife and children, he immediately set out with the badger to go with him before the king. on his way, reynard, remembering the heavy crimes he had committed, and fearing that his end was at hand, desired of the holy grimbard, who had always led a hermit's life, that he would hear him confess, and set him a penance for his sins. grimbard bade him proceed. and the fox confessed how shamefully he had ill-used the bear, and the cat, and the wolf, and chanticleer's children, and many other ill-doings during his life; and when he had finished, he knelt before grimbard, and said, "thus have i told you my wickedness; now order my penance, as shall seem fit in your discretion." grimbard was both learned and wise; and therefore brake a rod from a tree, and said, "uncle, you shall three times strike your body with this rod, and then lay it down upon the ground, and spring three times over it without bowing your legs or stumbling; then shall you take it up and kiss it gently, in sign of meekness and obedience to your penance; which done, you are absolved of your sins committed up to this day, for i pronounce unto you clear remission." [illustration: reynard attacketh laprell the rabbit. (page .)] at this the fox was exceeding glad; and immediately he performed the penance to grimbard's satisfaction. but as they went journeying on, it happened that they passed by the poultry-yard of a convent; and as one young cock strayed far from the rest, reynard leaped at him, and caught him by the feathers, but the cock escaped. "villain that you are," said grimbard, "will you, for a silly pullet, fall again into your sins?" to which reynard answered, "pardon me, dear nephew, i had forgotten myself; but i will ask forgiveness, and mine eye shall no more wander." however, grimbard noted that he turned many times to look at the poultry. but soon afterward they arrived at the court. as soon as it was bruited in the court that reynard the fox and grimbard his kinsman were arrived there, every one, from the highest to the lowest, prepared himself to complain of the fox; at which reynard's heart quaked, but his countenance kept the old look, and he went as proudly as ever he was wont with his nephew through the high street, and came as gallantly into the court as if he had been the king's son, and as clear from trespass as the most innocent whosoever; and when he came before the chair of state in which the king sat, he said, "heaven give your majesty glory and renown above all the princes of the earth." but the king cut him short at these words, and said, "peace, traitorous reynard; think you i can be caught with the music of your words? no, it hath too oft deceived me; the peace which i commanded and swore unto, that have you broken." then bellin the ram, and oleway his wife, and bruin the bear, and tibert the cat, and isegrim the wolf, and kyward the hare, and bruel the goose, and baldwin the ass, and bortle the bull, and hamel the ox, and chanticleer the cock, and partlett the hen, and many others, came forward; and all these with one entire noise cried out against the fox, and so moved the king with their complaints, that the fox was taken and arrested. upon this arrest a parliament was called; and notwithstanding that he answered every objection severally, and with great art, reynard was condemned, and judgment was given that he should be hanged till his body was dead; at which sentence the fox cast down his head, for all his jollity was lost, and no flattery nor no words now prevailed. then isegrim on the one side and bruin on the other led the poor fox to the gallows, tibert running before with the halter. and when they were come to the place of execution, the king and the queen, and all the rest of the nobility, took their places to see the fox die. when all things were prepared, the fox said, "now my heart is heavy, for death stands in all his horror before me, and i can not escape. my dread lord the king, and you my sovereign lady the queen, and you my lords that stand to behold me die, i beseech you grant me this charitable boon, that i may unlock my heart before you, and clear my soul of her burdens, so that hereafter no man may be blamed for me; which done, my death will be easy." every creature now took compassion on the fox, and said his request was small, beseeching the king to grant it, which was done; and then the fox thus spake, "help me, heaven, for i see no man here whom i have not offended; yet was this evil no natural inclination in me, for in my youth i was accounted as virtuous as any breathing. this know, i have played with the lambs all the day long, and taken delight in their pretty bleating; yet at last in my play i bit one, and the taste of its blood was so sweet unto me, that i approved the flesh, and both were so good, that since i could never forbear it. this liquorish humor drew me into the woods among the goats, where hearing the bleating of the little kids, i slew one of them, and afterward two more, which slaughter made me so hardy, that then i fell to murder hens, geese, and other poultry. and thus my crimes increased by custom, and fury so possessed me, that all was fish which came to my net. after this, in the winter season, i met with isegrim, where, as he lay hid under a hollow tree, he unfolded unto me how he was my uncle, and laid the pedigree down so plain, that from that day forth we became fellows and companions; which knot of friendship i may ever curse, for then began the flood of our thefts and slaughters. he stole the great things, i the small; he murdered nobles, i the mean subjects; and in all our actions his share was still ever the greatest: when he got a ram or a calf, his fury would hardly afford me the horns to pick on; nay, when he had an ox or a cow, after himself, his wife, and his seven children were served, nothing remained to me but the bare bones to pick. this i speak not in that i wanted (for it is well known i have more plate, jewels, and coin than twenty carts are able to carry), but only to show his ingratitude." when the king heard him speak of this infinite treasure and riches, his heart grew inflamed with a desire thereof; and he said, "reynard, where is that treasure you speak of?" the fox answered: "my lord, i shall willingly tell you, for it is true the wealth was stolen; and had it not been stolen in that manner which it was, it had cost your highness your life (which heaven, i beseech, keep ever in protection)." when the queen heard that dangerous speech, she started, and said: "what dangers are these you speak of, reynard? i do command you, upon your soul's health, to unfold these doubtful speeches, and to keep nothing concealed which concerns the life of my dread lord." then the fox in these words unfolded to the king and queen this most foul treason: "know, then, my dread sovereign lord the king, that my father, by a strange accident, digging in the ground, found out king ermerick's great treasure--a mass of jewels infinite and innumerable; of which being possessed, he grew so proud and haughty, that he held in scorn all the beasts of the wilderness, which before had been his kinsmen and companions. at last he caused tibert the cat to go into the vast forest of arden to bruin the bear, and to tender to him his homage and fealty; and to say that if it would please him to be king, he should come into flanders, where he would show him means how to set the crown upon his head. bruin was glad of this embassage (for he was exceeding ambitious, and had long thirsted for sovereignty), and thereupon came into flanders, where my father received him nobly. then presently he sent for the wise grimbard, my nephew, and for isegrim the wolf, and for tibert the cat; then these five coming between gaunt and the village called elfe, they held a solemn council for the space of a whole night, in which, by the assistance of the evil one, and the strong confidence of my father's riches, it was there concluded that your majesty should be forthwith murdered; which to effect, they took a solemn oath in this manner: the bear, my father, the badger, and the cat, laying their hands on isegrim's crown, swore, first to make bruin their king, and to place him in the chair of estate at aeon, and to set the imperial diadem on his head; and if by any of your majesty's blood and alliance they should be gainsaid, that then my father with his treasure should hire those which should utterly chase and root them out of the forest. now after this determination held and finished, it happened that my nephew grimbard being on a time high flown with wine, he discovered this dread plot to dame slopecade, his wife, commanding her upon her life to keep secret the same; but she, forgetful of her charge, disclosed it in confession to my wife, as they went a pilgrimage over an heath, with like conjuration of secrecy. but she, woman-like, contained it no longer than till she met with me, and gave me a full knowledge of all that had passed, yet so as by all means that i must keep it secret too, for she had sworn by the three kings of cologne never to disclose it: and withal she gave me such assurance by certain tokens, that i right well found all was true which she had spoken; insomuch that the very affright thereof made my hair stand upright, and my heart become like lead, cold and heavy in my bosom. "but to proceed from this sorrow, i began to meditate how i might undo my father's false and wicked conspiracies, who sought to bring a base traitor and a slave into the throne imperial; for i well perceived as long as he held the treasure, there was a possibility of deposing your majesty. and this troubled my thought exceedingly, so that i labored how i might find out where my father's treasure was hid; and to that end i watched and attended night and day in the woods, in the bushes, and in the open fields; nay in all places wheresoever my father laid his eyes, there was i ever watching and attending. now it happened on a time, as i was laid down flat on the ground, i saw my father come running out of a hole, and as soon as he was come out, he gazed round about him, to see if any discovered him; then seeing the coast clear, he stopped the hole with sand, and made it so even, smooth, and plain, that no curious eye could discern a difference betwixt it and the other earth; and where the print of his foot remained, that with his tail he stroked over, and with his mouth so smoothed, that no man might perceive it: and indeed that and many other subtleties i learned of him there at that instant. when he had thus finished, away he went toward the village about his private affairs. then i went presently toward the hole, and notwithstanding all his subtlety, i quickly found it; then i entered the cave, where i found that innumerable quantity of treasure, which can not be expressed; which found, i took ermelin my wife to help me; and we ceased not, day nor night, with infinite great toil and labor, to carry and convey away this treasure to another place, much more convenient for us, where we laid it safe from the search of any creature. "thus by my art only was the treason of bruin defeated, for which i now suffer. from hence sprang all my misfortune, as thus: these foul traitors, bruin and isegrim, being of the king's privatest council, and sitting in high and great authority, tread upon me, poor reynard, and work my disgrace; notwithstanding, for your majesty's sake, i have lost my natural father. o my dread lord, what is he, or who can tender you a better affection, thus to lose himself to save you?" then the king and queen, having great hope to get this inestimable treasure from reynard, took him from the gibbet; and the king, taking a straw from the ground, pardoned the fox of all his trespasses which either he or his father had ever committed. if the fox now began to smile, it was no wonder; the sweetness of life required it: yet he fell down before the king and queen, and humbly thanked them for mercy, protesting that for that favor he would make them the richest princes in the world. then the king began to inquire where all these treasures were hid, and reynard told that he had hid them in a wood called hustreloe, near a river named crekinpit. but when the king said that he had never heard of such a place, reynard called forth kyward the hare from among the rest of the beasts, and commanded him to come before the king, charging him, upon his faith and allegiance which he bore to the king and queen, to answer truly to such questions as he should ask him. the hare answered, "i will speak truth in all things, though i were sure to die for the same." then the fox said, "know you not where crekinpit floweth?" "yes," said the hare, "i have known it any time these dozen years; it runneth in a wood called hustreloe, upon a vast and wide wilderness." "well," said the fox, "you have spoken sufficiently; go to your place again;" so away went the hare. then said the fox, "my sovereign lord the king, what say you now to my relation; am i worthy your belief or no?" the king said, "yes, reynard, and i beseech thee excuse my jealousies; it was my ignorance which did the evil; therefore forthwith make preparation that we may go to this pit where the treasure lieth." but the fox answered that he could not go with his majesty without dishonor; for that at present he was under excommunication, and that it was necessary that he should go to rome to be absolved, and that from thence he intended to travel in the holy land. "the course you propose is good," said the king; "go on and prosper in your intent." then the king mounted on a rock, and addressing his subjects, told them how that, for divers reasons best known to himself, he had freely given pardon to reynard, who had cast his wickedness behind him, and would no more be guilty of wrong-doing; and furthermore, he commanded them all to reverence and honor not only reynard, but also his wife and children. at this, isegrim the wolf and bruin the bear inveighed against the fox in such an unseemly way, that his majesty caused them both to be arrested for high treason. now when the fox saw this, he begged of the queen that he might have so much of the bear's skin as would make him a large scrip for his journey; and also the skin of the wolf's feet for a pair of shoes, because of the stony ways he would have to pass over. to this the queen consented, and reynard saw his orders executed. the next morning reynard caused his new shoes to be well oiled, and made them fit his feet as tightly as they had fitted the wolf's. and the king commanded bellin the ram to say mass before the fox; and when he had sung mass and used many ceremonies over the fox, he hung about reynard's neck his rosary of beads, and gave him into his hands a palmer's staff. then the king took leave of him, and commanded all that were about him, except the bear and the wolf, to attend reynard some part of his journey. oh! he that had seen how gallant and personable reynard was, and how well his staff and his mail became him, as also how fit his shoes were for his feet, it could not have chosen but have stirred in him very much laughter. but when they had got onward on their way, the fox entreated all the beasts to return and pray for him, and only begged of bellin the ram and kyward the hare that they would accompany him as far as malepardus. thus marched these three together; and when reynard was come to the gates of his own house, he said to bellin, "cousin, i will entreat you to stay here without a little, while i and kyward go in." bellin was well content; and so the fox and the hare went into malepardus, where they found dame ermelin lying on the ground with her younglings about her, who had sorrowed exceedingly for the loss and danger of her husband; but when she saw his return, her joy was ten times doubled. but beholding his mail, his staff, and his shoes, she grew into great admiration, and said, "dear husband, how have you fared?" so he told all that had passed with him at the king's court, as well his danger as his release, and that now he was to go a pilgrimage. as for kyward, he said the king had bestowed him upon them, to do with him what they pleased, affirming that kyward was the first that had complained of him, for which, questionless, he vowed to be sharply revenged. when kyward heard these words, he was much appalled, and would fain have fled away, but he could not, for the fox had got between him and the gate; who presently seized the hare by the neck, at which the hare cried unto bellin for help, but could not be heard, for the fox in a trice had torn out his throat; which done, he, his wife, and young ones feasted therewith merrily, eating the flesh, and drinking to the king's health. all this while stood bellin the ram at the gate, and grew exceedingly angry both against the fox and the hare, that they made him wait so long; and therefore called out aloud for reynard to come away, which when reynard heard, he went forth, and said softly to the ram, "good bellin, be not offended, for kyward is in earnest conference with his dearest aunt, and entreated me to say unto you, that if you would please to walk before he would speedily overtake you, for he is light of foot and speedier than you: nor will his aunt part with him thus suddenly, for she and her children are much perplexed at my departure." "ay, but," quoth bellin, "methought i heard kyward cry for help." "how! cry for help! can you imagine he shall receive hurt in my house? far be such a thought from you; but i will tell you the reason. as soon as we were come into my house, and that ermelin my wife understood of my pilgrimage, presently she fell down in a swoon, which, when kyward saw, he cried aloud, 'o bellin, come, help my aunt, she dies, she dies!'" then said the ram: "in sadness, i mistook the cry, and thought the hare had been in danger." "it was your too much care of him," said the fox. "but, letting this discourse pass, you remember, bellin, that yesterday the king and his council commanded me that, before i departed from the land, i should send unto him two letters, which i have made ready, and will entreat you, my dearest cousin, to bear them to his majesty." the ram answered: "i would willingly do you the service if there be nothing but honorable matter contained in your letters; but i am unprovided of any thing to carry them in." the fox said: "that is provided for you already, for you shall have my mail, which you may conveniently hang about your neck; i know they will be thankfully received of his majesty, for they contain matter of great importance." then bellin promised to carry them. so the fox returned into his house, and took the mail, and put therein the head of kyward, and brought it to the ram, and gave him a great charge not to look therein till it was presented to the king, as he did expect the king's favor; and that he might further endear himself with his majesty, he bade the ram take upon him the inditing of the letters, "which will be so pleasing to the king, that questionless he will pour upon you many favors." this said, bellin took leave of the fox and went toward the court, in which journey he made such speed, that he came thither before noon, where he found the king in his palace sitting among the nobility. the king wondered when he saw the ram come in with the mail, which was made of the bear's skin, and said: "whence comest thou, bellin, and where is the fox, that you have that mail about you?" bellin answered: "my dread lord, i attended the noble fox to his house, where, after some repose, he desired me to bear certain letters to your majesty of infinite great importance, to which i easily consented. wherefore he delivered me the letters inclosed in this mail, which letters i myself indited, and i doubt not but they are such as will give your highness both contentment and satisfaction." presently the king commanded the letters to be delivered to bocart, his secretary, who was an excellent linguist and understood all languages, that he might read them publicly; so that he and tibert the cat took the mail from bellin's neck, and opening the same instead of letters they drew out the head of kyward the hare, at which being amazed, they said: "wo and alas, what letters call you these? believe it, my dread lord, here is nothing but the head of poor murdered kyward." which the king seeing, he said, "alas, how unfortunate was i to believe the traitorous fox!" and with that, being oppressed with anger, grief, and shame, he held down his head for a good space, and so did the queen also. but in the end, shaking his curled locks, he groaned out such a dreadful noise, that all the beasts of the forest did tremble to hear it. then the king, full of wrath, commanded the bear and the wolf to be released from prison, and gave to them and to their heirs forever bellin and all his generation. thus was peace made between the king and these nobles, and bellin the ram was forthwith slain by them; and all these privileges doth the wolf hold to this hour, nor could ever any reconcilement be made between the wolf's and the ram's kindred. when this peace was thus finished, the king, for joy thereof, proclaimed a feast to be held for twelve days after, which was done with all solemnity. to this feast came all manner of wild beasts, for it was known through the whole kingdom, nor was there wanting any pleasure that could be imagined. also to this feast resorted abundance of feathered fowl, and all other creatures that held peace with his majesty, and no one missing but the fox only. now after this feast had thus continued in all pomp the space of eight days, about high noon came laprell the rabbit before the king and queen, as they sat at dinner, and with a heavy and lamentable voice said, "my gracious and great lord, have pity upon my misery and attend to my complaint, which is of great violence which reynard the fox would yesterday have committed against me. as i passed by the castle of malepardus, supposing to go peaceably toward my nest, i saw the fox, standing without his gates, attired like a pilgrim and telling his beads so devoutly, that i saluted him; but he, returning no answer, stretched forth his right foot, and with his pilgrim's staff gave me such a blow on the neck between the head and shoulders, that i imagined my head had been stricken from my body; but yet so much memory was left me that i leaped from his claws, though most grievously hurt and wounded. at this he was wrathful extremely, because i escaped; only of one of my ears he utterly deprived me, which i beseech your majesty in your royal nature to pity, and that this bloody murderer may not live thus to afflict your poor subjects." the royal king was much moved with anger when he heard this complaint, so that his eyes darted out fire among the beams of majesty; his countenance was dreadful and cruel to look on, and the whole court trembled to behold him. in the end he said, "by my crown, i will so revenge these outrages committed against my dignity, that goodness shall adore me, and the wicked shall die with the remembrance; his falsehood and flattery shall no more get belief in me. is this his journey to rome and to the holy land? are these the fruits of his mail, his staff, and other ornaments becoming a devout pilgrim? well, he shall find the reward of his treason. i will besiege malepardus instantly, and destroy reynard and his generation from the earth forever." when grimbard heard this, he grew exceedingly sorry, and stealing from the rest, he made all haste to malepardus, and told to his uncle all that had happened. reynard received him with great courtesy, and the next morning accompanied him back to court, confessing on his way many heinous sins, and obtaining absolution from the badger. the king received him with a severe and stately countenance, and immediately asked him touching the complaint of laprell the rabbit. to which reynard made answer, "indeed, sire, what laprell received he most richly deserved. i gave him a cake when he was hungry; and when my little son rossel wanted to share a bit, the rabbit struck him on the mouth and made his teeth bleed; whereupon my eldest son reynardine forthwith leaped upon him, and would have slain him had i not gone to the rescue." then the rabbit, fearing reynard, stole away out of court. "but," quoth the king, "i must charge you with another foul treason. when i had pardoned all your great transgressions, and you had promised me to go a pilgrimage to the holy land; when i had furnished you with mail, scrip, and all things fitting that holy order; then, in the greatest despite, you sent me back in the mail, by bellin the ram, the head of kyward the hare; a thing so notoriously to my disgrace and dishonor, that no treason can be fouler." then spake reynard to the king, and said, "alas, my sovereign lord, what is that you have said? is good kyward the hare dead? oh, where is then bellin the ram, or what did he bring to your majesty at his return? for it is certain i delivered him three rich and inestimable jewels, i would not for the wealth of india they should be detained from you; the chief of them i determined for you my lord the king, and the other two for my sovereign lady the queen." "but," said the king, "i received nothing but the head of poor murdered kyward, for which i executed the ram, he having confessed the deed to be done by his advice and counsel." "is this true?" said the fox; "then woe is me that ever i was born, for there are lost the goodliest jewels that ever were in the possession of any prince living; would i had died when you were thus defrauded, for i know it will be the death of my wife, nor will she ever henceforth esteem me." then reynard told the king and queen of the great value of these inestimable jewels. one was a gold ring, another a comb polished like unto fine silver, and the third was a glass mirror; and so great were the virtues of this rare glass that reynard shed tears to think of the loss of it. when the fox had told all this, he thus concluded, "if any one can charge me with crime and prove it by witness, here i stand to endure the uttermost the law can inflict upon me; but if malice only slander me without witness, i crave the combat, according to the law and instance of the court." then said the king, "reynard, you say well, nor know i any thing more of kyward's death than the bringing of his head unto me by bellin the ram; therefore of it i here acquit you." "my dear lord," said the fox, "i humbly thank you; yet is his death grievous unto me." but isegrim the wolf was not content with this conclusion, and defied the fox to mortal combat. this challenge the fox accepted; and the next day was appointed for the meeting. when all the ceremonies were done, and none but the combatants were in the lists, the wolf went toward the fox with infinite rage and fury, thinking to take him in his fore-feet; but the fox leaped nimbly from him, and the wolf pursued him, so that there began a tedious chase between them, on which their friends gazed. the wolf taking larger strides than the fox, often overtook him, and lifted up his feet to strike him; but the fox avoided the blow, and smote him on the face with his tail, so that the wolf was stricken almost blind, and was forced to rest while he cleared his eyes; which advantage when reynard saw, he scratched up the dust with his feet, and threw it in the eyes of the wolf. this grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow him no longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so sore, that of force he must rub and wash it away; which reynard seeing, with all the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him three sore wounds on his head. then the wolf being enraged, said, "i will make an end of this combat, for i know my very weight is able to crush him to pieces; and i lose much of my reputation to suffer him thus long to contend against me." and this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with his foot, that he fell down to the ground; and ere he could recover himself and arise, the wolf caught him in his feet and threw him under him, lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to death. then the fox bethought himself how he might best get free: and thrusting his hand down, he caught the wolf fast by the belly, and he wrung him so extremely hard thereby, that he made him shriek and howl out with the anguish, and in the end the wolf fell over and over in a swoon; then presently reynard leaped upon him, and drew him about the lists and dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him in many places, so that the whole field might take notice thereof. then a great shout was raised, the trumpets were sounded, and every one cried, "honor to the fox for this glorious conquest." reynard thanked them all kindly, and received their congratulations with great joy and gladness. and, the marshals going before, they went all to the king, guarding the fox on every side, all the trumpets, pipes, and minstrelsy sounding before him. when reynard came before the king he fell on his knees, but the king bade him stand up, and said to him, "reynard, you may well rejoice, for you have won much honor this day; therefore here i discharge you, and set you free to go whither your own will leads you." so the court broke up, and every beast returned to his own home. with reynard, all his friends and kinsfolk, to the number of forty, took their leave also of the king, and went away with the fox, who was no little glad that he had sped so well, and stood so far in the king's favor; for now he had power enough to advance whom he pleased, and pull down any that envied his fortune. after some travel the fox and his friends came to his borough or castle of malepardus, where they all, in noble and courteous manner, took leave of each other, and reynard did to every one of them great reverence, and thanked them for the love and honor he had received from them, protesting evermore to remain their faithful servant, and to send them in all things wherein his life or goods might be available unto them; and so they shook hands and departed. then the fox went to dame ermelin his wife, who welcomed him with great tenderness; and to her and her children he related at large all the wonders which had befallen him at court, and missed no tittle or circumstance therein. then grew they proud that his fortune was so excellent; and the fox spent his days from thenceforth, with his wife and children, in great joy and content. a story of an organ. "it is haunted with an evil thing, believe me, sir. never till the plowshare has passed over the place will men dwell there in peace." the gray-headed speaker turned away, and left me alone to gaze on the mansion he had thus banned. i had heard the same when i was a child; the nurse had been chidden for talking of it in my presence, and my own questions on the subject had always been evaded. strange that now, after thirty years' sojourning in a far-off land, i should come back to hear the same mystery alluded to, the same destiny foretold! the impressions were more than half effaced; but now, like the colors of a picture brought to light after long obscurity, they returned vividly to my mind. i gazed on the mansion; it was the only thing in the village of my birth that i found greatly changed; but in looking at this once stately tudor hall i was reminded painfully how long i had been absent. when i last saw it, the sunshine had glowed upon the gables and mullions of a goodly mansion; the clear starlight now only showed a moss-grown ruin. the balustrades and urns were cracked and thrown down; there were no peacocks on the sloping lawn, and its once trim grass was overgrown with nettles and coltsfoot. the quaint-patterned beds of the garden, too, had lost the shapes of diamonds and stars, and, no longer glittering with flowers, were scarcely to be distinguished from the walks save by more luxuriant crops of weeds. the roof of the private chapel had recently fallen in, and little remained of the building but an exquisitely-sculptured window, amidst the tracery of which the wall-flower and the ivy had long taken the place of the herald's blazon. the shadow of all this ruined beauty was on my spirit; so being just in the humor for a ghostly legend, i determined, on my return, to ask my friend l., with whom i was spending a few days, for an explanation of the mystery. thus much was readily told. briarhurst had been suffered to fall into decay ever since old sir lambert's death; another branch of the family had become the possessors; and as no tenant staid there, the present owner intended very shortly to have it pulled down. "well, but what is the difficulty of living there?" said i. "it is quite possible, with the aid of a yearly run up to town in the season, and plenty of books, to exist even in that 'lonesome lodge' without hanging one's self. do any lords spiritual interfere with one's repose?" "ring for edward and hetty, my dear," said l. to his wife. then, turning to me, "please don't allude to that subject before the children, or we shall have them both afraid to stir after dark." my curiosity was balked again; so, after a more constrained evening than we had yet passed, i wished the family good night. my friend followed me out of the room. "look at that picture for five minutes, while i fetch something," said he, pointing to a portrait, evidently just rescued from damp and destruction, that leant against the wall. i obeyed. it represented a lady in a white morning dress of the fashion of a century ago. she was young and beautiful, with bright hair, and blue eyes of infinite depth and lustre. in her bosom she wore a curiously-shaped ruby brooch; a bracelet, set with the same stones, was clasped round the white arm that supported her head; and on her knee was an open book. inscribed on its page was the name "cicely clayton," and the initials "l.e." she was apparently seated in some church or chapel, for over her head was a grotesque gothic corbel, and the polished oak of a sombre-looking organ was visible in the back-ground. my eyes had wandered from the mild face, and i was pondering on the significance of the cain and abel on the carving, when l. returned. "i see you are bent on hearing the legend. professionally connected as i am with the evrards and their affairs, it is not my place to encourage such tales; but you are nobody; and," he added, smiling, "i rather want to know your opinion of my style: i may turn author one of these days." so saying, he handed me a few sheets of exceedingly legal-looking paper, and, wishing me pleasant dreams, left me to the perusal of the following story. from the time of the fourth henry to the beginning of the present century, briarhurst was in the possession of the evrard family. the last baronet was a sir lambert evrard; at the time i speak of, a gallant, hearty gentleman, who, after a youth spent amidst the brilliance and gayety of the court, the acquaintance of walpole, and the worshiper of lady montague had, in the evening of his days, settled down at his country seat, a quiet country gentleman. he was not rich, for his father's extravagance had mortgaged and wasted every thing available. worldly wisdom, undoubtedly, would have had sir lambert marry an heiress, but, most perversely, he chose the daphne of his early love sonnets--a lady whose sweet voice and sparkling eyes had captivated him on his italian travels. his wife had no fortune, so he could not afford to keep up a town house, and, soon after the birth of his first son, came to reside permanently at briarhurst. they had two sons, whom the father, before they were three years old, had respectively destined for the bar and the army, and his time was principally occupied in their education. it was natural, in the then state of his affairs, that he should look forward to his sons distinguishing themselves, as the only means of restoring the family to its former position. circumstances, however, pointed out another way by which the desired wealth might be more easily secured. on the death of a distant relative, sir lambert became the guardian of an orphan heiress; he earnestly hoped his eldest son would marry her, and thus fulfill the wish of his life. contrary to the custom of the heroes and heroines of romance, who always wantonly thwart the desires of their parents and guardians in affairs of matrimony, young lambert evrard and his beautiful cousin, cicely clayton, glided imperceptibly from childhood's pretty playing at man and wife to the more serious kind of love-making, and by the time they had reached respectively the ages of twenty and seventeen, their union was fixed on. the young man was of a strangely meditative turn of mind; he was very studious, too, and had imbued his ladye love with a taste for the sombre musings and sage books he loved himself. there is one spot in the old garden--a knot of lindens shading a broken figure of niobe--where i have often fancied those two lovers might have sat. it seems just the place for such an earnest, thoughtful love as theirs was, to hold communion in. lambert inherited from his mother a rare skill in music; and he and cicely would spend hours at the organ in the chapel, his fingers seeming unconsciously to wander over the keys, and his spirit apparently floating heavenward in the tide of glorious anthem and solemn symphony his art awakened. he was a painter, too; and many an hour would she sit before him as he sketched her lovely face, sometimes in the simple dress she wore at her books or work, at other times as the garlanded pastorella, or the green-robed laura of their favorite poets. his brother maurice was seldom their companion in these pursuits. in disposition, and even in person, he was the very opposite of lambert. when a child, his temper had been morose and reserved; and, as he grew up, all the unamiable points of his character became more conspicuous. in fact, he was galled perpetually by the manifest superiority of his brother, by his success in all he undertook, by his popularity with the tenantry, by cicely's preference for him. he had great command of temper, however, and contrived to prevent any outbreaks of passion before his father or cicely; but when alone with lambert he would vent his ill-humor in sarcasms and taunts that would have bred innumerable quarrels, had the temper of the elder brother been a whit less equable than it was. but no human being is less prone to seek offense or contention than a gentle scholar whose poet-mind is just awakened by the spirit of love; and such was lambert evrard. it was settled that the wedding should take place on cicely's eighteenth birthday; and preparations had long been making for the ceremony and its attendant festival, when the destined bridegroom was suddenly taken ill. his physician never assigned a name to his complaint, and its origin appeared unaccountable. he was in danger for weeks; and on his being sufficiently recovered was immediately ordered abroad for change of air. the marriage was, of course, deferred till his health was re-established. maurice, whose attention to his sick brother had been as exemplary as it was unexpected, accompanied him to the continent. they had not been abroad three months before letters brought tidings of his brother's rapid convalescence. the soft italian air was doing wonders for his enfeebled constitution; he was comparatively well, and they purposed to prolong their absence, and convert the quest of health into a tour of pleasure. we may be sure that with the announcement of their intention came many a line of kind regret and wistful longing (lines destined to be read alone and often), many a leaf plucked from the haunts of song, and many a plaintive verse inscribed to cicely. there were tears, perhaps, when the news of lengthened separation came; but the lady consoled herself with the reflection that it would prevent lambert leaving her after their marriage, and give them both many happy hours of converse in the sunny days to come. all the hopes and promises of future happiness, however, were fated to be disappointed. the next letter that arrived brought news of a fearful calamity. lambert evrard was dead! the particulars of the accident were thus given in a letter written by a friend of maurice's, for he himself was too much afflicted by the event to give any detailed account. it appeared that the brothers had set out with the intention of ascending one of the loftiest peaks in the tyrol, and had started overnight, that they might reach the summit in time to see the glories of an alpine sunrise. the guide left them for a moment to see whether a stream was fordable, when lambert, attempting, against his brother's advice, to pass a ledge of rock unassisted by the mountaineer's pole, fell into a chasm between the glaciers. the body was never found. it was said that for days maurice remained in the neighborhood, offering immense rewards to any peasant who would even commence a search for the remains; but the men knew too well the hopelessness and peril of the task to attempt it. finding this unavailing, he left the place. his return was delayed by severe illness; but at length, in one gray autumn twilight, a traveling-carriage dashed up the shadowy avenue of briarhurst, and maurice was received in his father's hall--a mourner amid mourners. he was much altered. the demure severity of his old manner was changed to at least an appearance of candor and trustfulness. grief for his brother _seemed_ to have bettered his whole nature, to have opened his heart to the influences of kindness and gentleness--to have made him, in short, more lovable. such appeared the best interpretation of the change that was wrought in him, and which showed itself conspicuously in his conduct to the afflicted ones around him. kindly and thoughtfully did he console the anguish of his parents, and with innumerable offices of delicate care and thoughtful consideration did he show his respect and sympathy for cicely's affliction. by no intrusive efforts at comforting, but silently and gently did he seek to wean his cousin from the remembrance of her bereavement. by sparing her feelings in every possible way, by avoiding the mention of lambert's name, save in a manner calculated to awaken those tender memories which are the softeners of grief, he strove to divert cicely's mind from dwelling too constantly on her dead betrothed; and thus, without appearing to drive away the impression, he gradually supplied her with other objects and pursuits; and though at first her walks were always to the scenes he had loved, and her mornings spent over the books he had read, their beauties were soon explored with other interests than those which arose merely from the pleasures of remembrance. the chapel which had been wont to recall lambert most painfully to her mind was now unentered. the dell of lindens, through the bright leaves of which the sunbeams had so often poured upon his open book, was now unfrequented. with none of the ardor of first love, but with a regard originating in their mutual sharing of the same grief, and nurtured by gratitude for his constant sympathy, cicely accepted maurice for her lover; then, in obedience to the earnest wish of those whom she had always reverenced as parents, consented to be his wife. it had ever been the fervent hope of sir lambert that he might live to see the wealth of his family restored before he died. the plan for the accomplishment of this wish of a life had been once fatally disappointed. it was natural, then, that he should rejoice in this new prospect of its realization. lady evrard also was desirous that the stain the baronet had brought on the family escutcheon by his marriage with her should be blotted out. sir lambert was a kind husband in the main, but his wife's penetration could not help perceiving that he often inwardly sighed for the society of his aristocratic neighbors, when his inability to return their hospitality made him refuse their invitations. she had another inducement. her mother's eye had observed with pleasure what seemed to her the beneficial influence of adversity upon her wayward son's character, and she hoped the gentleness of his cousin would complete his reformation. all seemed to favor the alliance. the day was fixed; and cicely clayton, in a strange mood of alternating doubt and hope, arrayed herself for her bridal. the hour had come. the wedding party were assembled in the chapel. few had been invited, for it had been the express wish of the bride that the rite should be celebrated as privately as possible. two bridemaids, daughters of a neighboring gentleman, lord r., a friend of the late lambert, and the family lawyer were the only bidden guests. they approached the communion rails. the ruby-tinged sunbeams streamed through the graceful trefoil on the white-robed cicely and on the trembling maurice. there was need of something to lend a glow to his haggard face, for he was ghastly pale. no artist's tint was half so radiant as the rising blush upon her cheek. the minister had commenced the service; the address had been read; the irrevocable "i will" had been uttered in a stifled whisper by the bridegroom, had been murmured in accents of gentlest music by the bride, when, as maurice received the ring from the priest, a strange unearthly sound rang through the chapel--a strange interruption stayed every hand, hushed every voice. from the organ (untouched since lambert in his happy youth awoke its melody) burst forth a wailing, plaintive sound, more like a restless spirit's cry, than any mortal note--so loud, so long, so wild, that it seemed to rack the senses that it held in horrible uncertainty till it was done. such a strain that nameless minstrel might have used to kindle prophet-fire in elisha. then it stopped. but only for an instant; and a dirge, sad as the contrite's weeping, clear as the accents of forgiveness, came from that wondrous organ. such a strain the shepherd-harper might have woke who calmed the demon rage in saul. but the second solemn threne was more terrible than the first crashing peal, for it called up an awful memory and a dark suspicion. it was the very same air that lambert had composed and played the night before he left. with a cry as of recognition the mother stood expectant. with clasped hands and broken voice the father prayed. cicely and maurice thought only of that strain as they had heard it first. the bride remembered how on that sad night lambert had sought to smile away her tears, and called them dearest tributes to his music. it seemed like listening to his voice to hear again that unforgotten melody; she listened then unfearing, in very delight of spirit; but when the dirge was done, the influence that had upheld her in such ecstasy gave way too, and she fell fainting on the steps. the bridegroom remembered the purpose that was in his heart that night, and which had made the music jarring discord. in his ears the sound was but the voice of retribution, and, in an agony of passion, he hurried down the aisle to see who woke a strain so dreadful to him. but no human hand had touched the keys. maurice was taken to bed in a state of delirium, and expired the next morning. those who watched beside him remembered long, that through the live-long night he raved of nothing but a deep abyss that he was falling down, and that he prayed them to stretch a hand and help him, for that down there rotted a ghastly corpse, whose stare was death to him. the vault in briarhurst church was next opened to receive the remains of lady evrard. cicely survived for some years, the good genius of the village poor, a ministering angel to the sorrowing and the helpless; then, full of that glorious confidence which faith engenders, entered into her rest. sir lambert lived to a great age; but happily he had sunk into perfect childishness before cicely was taken from him. it was a sad sight to watch that desolate old man as he would sometimes wander about the neglected shrubbery, or sometimes stand pondering before the pictures of his sons and of their betrothed bride, apparently quite forgetful of the features of lambert and maurice, but often asking anxiously why the beautiful lady that was once so kind to him sat always silent now. the household of sir thos. more. [concluded from the october number.] libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelsei� inceptvs. "nulla dies sine linea." september. seeing ye woodman fell a noble tree, which, as it went to the ground, did uptear several small plants by ye roots, methoughte such woulde be the fall of dear father, herein more sad than that of the abbot of sion and the charterhouse monks, inasmuch as, being celibate, they involve noe others in theire ruin. brave, holie martyrs! how cheerfully they went to theire death. i'm glad to have seene how pious men may turn e'en an ignominious sentence into a kind of euthanasy. dear father bade me note how they bore themselves as bridegrooms going to theire marriage, and converted what mighte have beene a shock to my surcharged spiritts, into a lesson of deep and high comfort. one thing hath grieved me sorelie. he mistooke somewhat i sayd at parting for an implication of my wish that he shoulde yield up his conscience. oh, no, dearest father, that be far from me! it seems to have cut him to the heart, for he hath writ that "none of the terrible things that may befall him touch him soe nearlie as that his dearly beloved child, whose opinion he soe much values, shoulde desire him to overrule his conscience." that be far from me, father! i have writ to explayn the matter, but his reproach, undeserved though it be, hath troubled my heart. november. parliament will meet to-morrow. 'tis expected father and ye good bishop of rochester will be attainted for misprison of treason by ye slavish members thereof, and though not given hithertoe unto much heede of omens and bodements while our hearts were light and our courage high, yet now ye coming evil seemeth foreshadowed unto alle by i know not how many melancholick presages, sent, for aught we know, in mercy. now that the days are dark and short, and the nights stormy, we shun to linger much after dusk in lone chambers and passages, and what was sayd of the enemies of israel may be nigh sayd of us, "that a falling leaf shall chase them." i'm sure "a going in the tops of the mulberry-trees" on a blusterous evening, is enow to draw us alle, men, mothers, and maids, together in an heap.... we goe about ye house in twos and threes, and care not much to leave the fireside. last sunday we had closed about ye the hearth, and little bill was a reading by the fire-light how herodias' daughter danced off the head of st. john the baptist, when down comes an emptie swallow's nest tumbling adown the chimnie, bringing with it enow of soot, smoke, and rubbish to half smother us alle; but the dust was nothing to the dismay thereby occasioned, and i noted one or two of our bravest turn as pale as death. then, the rats have skirmished and galloped behind the wainscoat more like a troop of horse than a herd of such smaller deer, to ye infinite annoyance of mother, who coulde not be more firmly persuaded they were about to leave a falling house, if, like the sacred priests in the temple of jerusalem, she had heard a voyce utter, "let us depart hence." the round upper half of the cob-loaf rolled off the table this morning, and rupert, as he picked it up, gave a kind of shudder, and muttered somewhat about a head rolling from the scaffold. worse than this was o' tuesday night.... 'twas bedtime, and yet none were liking to goe, when, o' suddain, we hearde a screech that made every body's heart thrill, followed by one or two hollow groans. will snatches up the lamp and runs forth, i close following, and alle the others at our heels, and after looking into sundrie deserted cupboards and corners, we descend the broad stone steps of the cellars, halfway down which will, stumbling over something he sees not, takes a flying leap to clear himself down to the bottom, luckily without extinguishing the lamp. we find gillian on the steps in a swoon; on bringing her to, she exclayms about a ghost without a head, wrapped in a winding-sheet, that confronted her and then sank to the ground as she entered the vaults. we cast a fearfulle look about, and descry a tall white sack of flour, recently overturned by the rats, which clears up the mystery, and procures gillian a little jeering, but we alle return to the hall with fluttered spiritts. another time i, going up to the nurserie in the dark, on hearing baby cry, am passed on the stairs by i know not what breathing heavilie. i reach forthe my arm, but pass cleare through the spirituall nature, whatever it is, yet distinctlie feel my cheek and neck fanned by its breath. i turn very faint, and get nurse to goe with me when i return, bearing a light, yet think it as well to say naught to distress the rest. but worst of alle was last night ... after i had been in bed awhile, i minded me that deare will had not returned me father's letter. i awoke him and asked if he had broughte it upstairs; he sleepily replied he had not, soe i hastily arose, threw on a cloke, took a light, and entered the gallery, when, halfway along it, between me and the pale moonshine, i was scared to behold a slender figure alle in white, with naked feet and arms extended. i stoode agaze, speechlesse, and to my terror made out the features of bess ... her eyes open, but vacant; then saw john dancey softly stealing after her, and signing to me with his finger on his lips. she passed without noting me, on to father's door, there knelt as if in prayer, making a low sort of wail, while dancey, with tears running down his cheeks, whispered, "'tis the third time of her thus sleep-walking ... the token of how troubled a mind!" we disturbed her not, dreading that a suddain waking might bring on madness; soe, after making moan awhile, she kisses the senseless door, rises up, moves toward her own chamber, followed by dancey and me, wrings her hands a little, then lies down, and graduallie falls into what seems a dreamless sleep, we watching her in silence till she's quiet, and then squeezing each other's hands ere we part. ... will was wide awake when i got back; he sayd, "why, meg, how long you have beene! coulde you not lighte on the letter?" ... when i tolde him what had hindered me by the way, he turned his face to the wall and wept. midnight. the wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. sure, how it rages through our empty courts! in such a season, men, beasts, and fowls cower beneath ye shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to trust them. lord, i know that thou canst give the tempest double force, but do not, i beseech thee! oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the ship at sea. dear little bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. i watch beside him while his nurse sleeps. earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee, that had golden housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying "mammy, dear!" and softlie murmured "oh" when he saw i was by. at length i gave him my forefinger to hold, which kept him ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard toward ye foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, "mother, why hangs yon hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned toward us?" i rise, move the lamp, and say, "do you see it now?" he sayth, "no, not now," and closes his eyes. after a good space, during the which i hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music, "there's a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he's soe pretty, he is just like dear gaffer, and seems to know me ... and he'll have a body agayn, too, i believe, by and by ... mother, mother, tell hobbinol there's such a gentle lamb in heaven!" and soe, slept. * * * * * he's gone, my pretty ...! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled to his own native skies, and yet whenas i think on him, i can not choose but weepe.... such a guileless little lamb!... my billy-bird! his mother's owne heart. they are alle wondrous kind to' me.... * * * * * how strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! but 'tis onlie transient, whereas a mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn. one lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall death is not, necessarilie, the most easie. we must alle die.... as poor patteson was used to say, "the greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last with shovel and spade," ... and i'd sooner have my billy's baby deathbed than king harry's, or nan boleyn's either, however manie years they may yet carry matters with a high hand. oh, you ministers of evill, whoever you be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a wall between my god and me.... i've something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as times grow more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but methinketh 'tis faith. meantime, father's foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such! are aiming by fayr seemings of friendlie conference, to draw from him admissions they can come at after noe other fashion. the new solicitor general hath gone to ye tower to deprive him of ye few books i have taken him from time to time.... ah, master rich, you must deprive him of his brains afore you can rob him of their contents!... and, while having 'em packt up, he falls into easie dialogue with him, as thus ... "why now, sure, mr. more, were there an act of parliament made that all ye realm shoulde take me for king, you woulde take me for such with the rest." "aye, that would i, sir," returns father. "forsooth, then," pursues rich, "we'll suppose another act that should make me the pope. would you not take me for pope?" "or suppose another case, mr. rich," returns father, "that another act shoulde pass, that god shoulde not be god, would you say well and good?" "no, truly," returns the other hastily, "for no parliament coulde make such act lawful." "true, as you say," repeats father, "they coulde not" ... soe eluded the net of the fowler; but how miserable and unhandsome a device to lay wait for him thus, to catch him in his talk. ... i stole forthe, ere 'twas lighte, this damp, chill morning, to pray beside the little grave, but found dear daisy there before me. how christians love one another! will's loss is as heavie as mine, yet he bears with me tenderlie. yesternighte, he sayth to me half reproachfullie, "am not i better unto thee than ten sons?" march, . spring comes, that brings rejuvenescence to ye land, and joy to the heart, but it brings none to us, for where hope dieth, joy dieth. but patience, soul; god's yet in the aumry! * * * * * may . father arraigned. * * * * * july . by reason of will's minding to be present at ye triall, which, for the concourse of spectators, demanded his earlie attendance, he committed the care of me, with bess, to dancey, who got us places to see father on his way from the tower to westminster hall. we coulde not come at him for the press, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very hearts away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, gray-haired, yet in mien not a whit cast down. wrapt in a coarse woollen gown, and leaning on a staff, which unwonted support when bess markt, she hid her eyes on my shoulder and wept sore, but soon lookt up agayn, though her eyes were soe blinded, i think she coulde not see him. his face was calm, but grave, as he came up, but just as he passed he caughte the eye of some one in the crowd, and smiled in his old, frank way; then glanced up toward the windows with the bright look he hath soe oft cast to me at my casement, but saw us not. i coulde not help crying "father," but he heard me not; perchance 'twas soe best.... i woulde not have had his face cloud at ye sighte of poor bessy's tears. ... will tells me the indictment was ye longest ever hearde; on four counts. first, his opinion on the king's marriage. second, his writing sundrie letters to the bishop of rochester, counselling him to hold out. third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. fourth, his positive deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of his dignity and title. when the reading of this was over, the lord chancellor sayth, "you see how grievouslie you have offended the king his grace, but and yet he is soe mercifulle, as that if ye will lay aside your obstinacie, and change your opinion, we hope ye may yet obtayn pardon." father makes answer ... and at sounde of his deare voyce alle men hold their breaths.... "most noble lords, i have great cause to thank your honors for this your courtesie ... but i pray almighty god i may continue in the mind i'm in, through his grace, until death." they coulde not make good their accusation agaynst him. 'twas onlie on the last count he could be made out a traitor, and proof of 't had they none; how coulde they have? he shoulde have beene acquitted out of hand, 'steade of which, his bitter enemy, my lord chancellor, called on him for his defense. will sayth there was a general murmur or sigh ran through ye court. father, however, answered the bidding by beginning to express his hope that the effect of long imprisonment mighte not have beene such upon his mind and body, as to impair his power of rightlie meeting alle ye charges agaynst him ... when, turning faint with long standing, he staggered and loosed hold of his staff, whereon he was accorded a seat. 'twas but a moment's weakness of the body, and he then proceeded frankly to avow his having always opposed the king's marriage to his grace himself, which he was soe far from thinking high treason, that he shoulde rather have deemed it treachery to have withholden his opinion from his sovereign king when solicited by him for his counsell. his letters to ye good bishop he proved to have beene harmlesse. touching his declining to give his opinion, when askt, concerning the supremacy, he alleged there coulde be noe transgression in holding his peace thereon, god only being cognizant of our thoughts. "nay," interposeth the attorney generall, "your silence was the token of a malicious mind." "i had always understoode," answers father, "that silence stoode for consent. qui tacet, consentire videtur;" which made sundrie smile. on the last charge, he protested he had never spoken word against ye law unto anie man. the jury are about to acquit him, when up starts the solicitor generall, offers himself as witness for the crown, is sworn, and gives evidence of his dialogue with father in the tower, falselie adding, like a liar as he is, that on his saying "no parliament coulde make a law that god shoulde not be god," father had rejoined, "no more coulde they make the king supreme head of the church." i marvell the ground opened not at his feet. father brisklie made answer, "if i were a man, my lords, who regarded not an oath, ye know well i needed not stand now at this bar. and if the oath which you, mr. rich, have just taken, be true, then i pray i may never see god in the face. in good truth, mr. rich, i am more sorry for your perjurie than my perill. you and i once dwelt long together in one parish; your manner of life and conversation from your youth up were familiar to me, and it paineth me to tell ye were ever held very light of your tongue, a great dicer and gamester, and not of anie commendable fame either there or in the temple, the inn to which ye have belonged. is it credible, therefore, to your lordships, that the secrets of my conscience touching the oath, which i never woulde reveal, after the statute once made, either to the king's grace himself, nor to anie of you, my honorable lords, i should have thus lightly blurted out in private parley with mr. rich?" in short, the villain made not goode his poynt; ne'erthelesse, the issue of this black day was aforehand fixed; my lord audley was primed with a virulent and venomous speech; the jury retired, and presentlie returned with a verdict of guilty; for they knew what the king's grace would have 'em doe in that case. up starts my lord audley--commences pronouncing judgment, when-- "my lord," says father, "in my time, the custom in these cases was ever to ask the prisoner before sentence, whether he could give anie reason why judgment shoulde not proceed agaynst him." my lord, in some confusion, puts the question. and then came ye frightfulle sentence. yes, yes, my soul, i know; there were saints of old sawn asunder. men of whom the world was not worthy. ... then he spake unto 'em his mind, how that after lifelong studdy, he could never find that a layman mighte be head of the church. and bade his judges and accusers farewell; hoping that like as st. paul was present and consenting unto st. stephen's death, and yet both were now holy saints in heaven, soe he and they might speedilie meet there, joint heirs of e'erlasting salvation. meantime, poor bess and cecilie, spent with grief and long waiting, were forct to be carried home by heron, or ever father returned to his prison. was't less feeling, or more strength of body, enabled me to bide at the tower wharf with dancey? god knoweth. they brought him back by water; my poor sisters must have passed him.... the first thing i saw was the ax, _turned with its edge toward him_--my first note of his sentence. i forct my way through the crowd ... some one laid a cold hand on mine arm; 'twas poor patteson, soe changed i scarce knew him, with a rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. he sayth, bide your time, mistress meg; when he comes past, i'll make a passage for ye.... oh, brother, brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath? _i've_ taken it! in another moment, "now, mistress, now!" and flinging his arms right and left, made a breach through which i darted, fearlesse of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father's neck. he cries, "my meg!" and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde grow together. he sayth, "bless thee, bless thee! enough, enough, my child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine heart? remember, though i die innocent, 'tis not without the will of god, who coulde send 's angels to rescue me if 'twere best; therefore possess your soul in patience. kiss them alle for me, thus and thus" ... soe gave me back into dancey's arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but i coulde not thus lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute's pause, did make a second rush, brake away from dancey, clave to father agayn, and agayn they had pitie on me, and made pause while i hung upon his neck. this time there were large drops standing on his dear brow; and the big tears were swelling into his eyes. he whispered, "meg, for christ's sake don't unman me; thou'lt not deny my last request?" i sayd, "oh! no;" and at once loosened mine arms. "god's blessing be with you," he sayth with a last kiss. i could not help crying, "my father! my father!" "the chariot of israel, and the horsemen thereof!" he vehementlie whispers, pointing upward with soe passionate a regard, that i look up, almost expecting a beatific vision; and when i turn about agayn, he's gone, and i have noe more sense nor life till i find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my sisters chafing my hands. * * * * * alle's over now ... they've done theire worst, and yet i live. there were women coulde stand aneath ye cross. the maccabees' mother-- ... yes, my soul, yes; i know--naught but unpardoned sin.... the chariot of israel. * * * * * dr. clement hath beene with us. sayth he went up as blythe as a bridegroom to be clothed upon with immortality. rupert stoode it alle out. perfect love casteth out feare. soe did his. * * * * * ... my most precious treasure is this deare billet, writ with a coal; the last thing he sett his hand to, wherein he sayth, "i never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last." they have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but, as sure as there's a sun in heaven, i'll have his head!--before another sun hath risen, too. if wise men won't speed me, i'll e'en content me with a fool. i doe think men, for ye most part, be cowards in theire hearts ... moral cowards. here and there, we find one like father, and like socrates, and like ... this and that one, i mind not theire names just now; but in ye main, methinketh they lack the moral courage of women. maybe, i'm unjust to 'em just now, being crost. * * * * * ... i lay down, but my heart was waking. soon after the first cock crew, i hearde a pebble cast agaynst my lattice, knew ye signall, rose, dressed, stole softlie down and let myself out. i knew the touch of ye poor fool's fingers; his teeth were chattering, 'twixt cold and fear, yet he laught aneath his breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after him, whispering, "fool and fayr lady will cheat 'em yet." at the stairs lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen, and one of 'em stepping up to me, cries, "alas for ruth, mistress meg, what is 't ye do? art mad to go on this errand?" i sayd, "i shall be mad if i go not, and succeed too--put me in, and push off." we went down the river quietlie enow--at length reach london bridge stairs. patteson, starting up, says, "bide ye all as ye are," and springs aland and runneth up to the bridge. anon, returns, and sayth, "now, mistress, alle's readie ... readier than ye wist ... come up quickly, for the coast's clear." hobson (for 'twas he) helps me forth, saying, "god speed ye, mistress.... gin i dared, i woulde goe with ye." ... thought i, there be others in that case. nor lookt i up, till aneath the bridge-gate, when casting upward a fearsome look, i beheld ye dark outline of the ghastly yet precious relic; and, falling into a tremour, did wring my hands and exclaym, "alas, alas, that head hath lain full manie a time in my lap, woulde god, woulde god it lay there now!" when, o' suddain, i saw the pole tremble and sway toward me; and stretching forth my apron, i did in an extasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell. patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, "managed i not well, mistress? let's speed away with our theft, for fools and their treasures are soon parted; but i think not they'll follow hard after us, neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the bridge. i'll put ye into the boat, and then say, god speed ye, lady, with your burthen." * * * * * rizpah, daughter of aiah, did watch her dead from the beginning of harvest until the latter rain, and suffered neither the birds of the air to light on them by day, nor the wild beasts of the the field by night. and it was told the king, but he intermeddled not with her. argia stole polynices' body by night and buried it, for the which, she with her life did willingly pay forfeit. antigone, for aiding in the pious theft, was adjudged to be buried alive. artemisia did make herself her loved one's shrine, by drinking his ashes. such is the love of woman; many waters can not quench it, neither can the floods drown it. i've hearde bonvisi tell of a poor italian girl, whose brothers did slay her lover; and in spite of them, she got his heart, and buried it in a pot of basil, which she watered day and night with her tears, just as i do my coffer. will has promised it shall be buried with me; layd upon my heart; and since then, i've beene easier. he thinks he shall write father's life, when he gets more composed, and we are settled in a new home. we are to be cleared out o' this in alle haste; the king grutches at our lingering over father's footsteps, and gazing on the dear familiar scenes associate with his image; and yet, when the news of the bloody deed was taken to him, as he sate playing at tables with queen anne, he started up and scowled at her, saying, "thou art the cause of this man's death!" father might well say, during our last precious meeting in the tower, "'tis i, meg, not the king, that love women. they bely him; he onlie loves himself." adding, with his own sweet smile, "your gaffer used to say that women were a bag of snakes, and that the man who put his hand therein woulde be lucky if he founde one eel among them alle; but 'twas onlie in sport, meg, and he owned that i had enough eels to my share to make a goodly pie, and called my house the eel-pie house to the day of his death. 'twas our lord jesus raised up women and shewed kindnesse unto 'em, and they've kept theire level, in the main, ever since." i wish will may sett down everie thing of father's saying he can remember; how precious will his book then be to us! but i fear me, these matters adhere not to a man's memory ... he'll be telling of his doings as speaker and chancellor, and his saying this and that in parliament. those are the matters men like to write and to read; he won't write it after my fashion. i had a misgiving of will's wrath, that night, 'speciallie if i failed; but he called me his brave judith. indeed i was a woman bearing a head, but one that had oft lain on my shoulder. my thoughts beginne to have connexion now; but till last night, i slept not. 'twas scarce sunsett. mercy had been praying beside me, and i lay outside my bed, inclining rather to stupor than sleep. o' suddain, i have an impression that some one is leaning over me, though i hear 'em not nor feel theire breath. i start up, cry "mercy!" but she's not there nor anie one else. i turn on my side and become heavie to sleep; but or ere i drop quite off, agayn i'm sensible or apprehensive of some living consciousness between my closed eyelids and the setting sunlight; agayn start up and stare about, but there's nothing. then i feel like ... like eli, maybe, when the child samuel came to him twice; and tears well into mine eyes, and i close 'em agayn, and say in mine heart, "if he's at hand, oh, let me see him next time ... the third time's lucky." but 'steade of this, i fall into quiet, balmy, dreamlesse sleep. since then, i've had an abiding, assuring sense of help, of a hand upholding me, and smoothing and glibbing the way before me. we must yield to ye powers that be. at this present, we are weak, but they are strong; they are honourable, but we are despised. they have made us a spectacle unto the world, and, i think, europe will ring with it; but at this present hour, they will have us forth of our home, though we have as yet no certayn dwelling-place, and must flee as scared pigeons from their dove-cot. no matter, our men are willing to labour, and our women to endure; being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we suffer it. onlie i marvell how anie honest man, coming after us, will be able to eat a mouthful of bread with a relish within these walls. and, methinketh, a dishonest man will have sundrie frights from the lares and lemures. there 'ill be dearth o' black beans in ye market. flow on, bright shining thames. a good brave man hath walked aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as be you, sweet river. and like you, he never murmured; like you, he upbore the weary, and gave drink to the thirsty, and reflected heaven in his face. i'll not swell your full current with any more fruitless tears. there's a river whose streams make glad the city of our god. he now rests beside it. good christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot, upborne on thy gentle tide, will, maybe, point this way, and say--"there dwelt sir thomas more;" but whether they doe or not, _vox populi_ is a very inconsiderable matter, for the majority are evil, and "_the people_ sayd, let him be crucified!" who would live on theire breath? they hailed st. paul as jupiter, and then stoned him and cast him out of the city, supposing him to be dead. theire favourite of to-day may, for what they care, goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. thus it must be while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal its power of exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance. _interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium anglorum optimum._ the flying artist. karl herwitz is a german. he is about fifty years of age, and one of the most original of characters. since i have known him, i have passed whole nights in listening to his adventures, which are in general as instructive as they are amusing. married at a very early age, he left the military career for that of inventions. he had a most marvelous talent for conceiving novel machines, often of practical utility; but his soul was set upon perfecting a flying machine. to this he had devoted nearly his whole life. he made models, he tried experiments, he brought to bear all his prodigious knowledge of mathematics on the subject of traveling in air, with an enthusiasm, a childish earnestness, which is not uncharacteristic of genius. he studied every natural law which was likely to advance him toward the consummation of all his hopes and desires, namely, the ability to fly. at one time his little garden was turned into an aviary. he filled it with birds of various kinds, to study the mechanism of their powers of flight. there was the eagle and the dove, the vulture and the sparrow, all of which were made subservient to his darling object. he has often explained all this to me. "the golden eagle," he once said, "can cleave the air at the rate of forty miles an hour. now, if i can succeed in imitating the mechanism by which he travels in space, exactly and efficiently, of course, my machine will move in the air at the same pace." what could i say? no argument, no warning availed. still he went on, hoping and working, and buying expensive tools and materials. he completed aerial ships one after another; and although none of them answered, he was never discouraged. at one time, however, he thought he had succeeded. his contrivance was a curious affair, shot out of a bomb; but it was about as buoyant as a shot, fell, and failed, disheartening every body but the persevering projector. still he did not wholly neglect useful productions, and several times made improvements in mechanism, and sold them for very good prices. but the money went as fast as it came. his winged pegasus was a merciless ogre, which swallowed up all the money the old german earned. last christmas-eve, in paris, five of us were collected, after dinner, round a roaring fire, half wood, half charcoal. for some time the conversation was general enough. we spoke of england and of an english christmas. the magic spell of the fireside was felt, and the word "home" hung on the trembling lip of all; for we were in a foreign land; we were all english, save one. there was a lawyer, the most unlawyer-like man i ever knew, a noble-hearted fellow, whom to know is to like; there was a poet, of an eccentric order of merit, whose love of invective, bitter satire, and intense propensity to hate--whose fantastic and germanic cast of philosophy will ever prevent his succeeding among rational beings; then there was an artist, a young man well known in the world, not half so much as he deserves, if kindness of soul could ever make a man famous; there was citizen karl herwitz, as he loved to be called; lastly myself. i had been speaking of some far-off land, relating some personal adventure; and, with commendable modesty, feeling that i had held possession of the chair quite long enough, paused for a reply. "tell us your adventures at the court of konningen," said the poet, standing up to see that his hair hung tastefully around his shoulders, addressing at the same time karl, and mentioning the name of one of the smaller german states. "i have heard it before, but it will be new to the rest, and i promise them a rich treat." "ah!" sighed the german, with a huge puff at his long pipe; "that _was_ an adventure--or, rather, a whole string of adventures. i have told it several times; but, if you like, i will tell it again." all warmly called on the german to keep his promise. after freshly loading his pipe, and taking a drain at his glass, he drew his armchair closer to the fire, settled his feet on the _chenets_, and began his narrative in a quaint and strange english, which i shall not seek to copy: i had spent all my money. i had sold all my property. there remained nothing but a little furniture in my house, which was in a quiet retired quarter of the town; but then i had completed a machine, and sent it for the approval of the minister of the interior, who promised to purchase it for the government. i now looked forward with delight to a long career of success, and saw the completion of my flying machine in prospect. on this i depended, and still depend, for fame, reputation, and fortune. i had then a good wife and four children; she is dead now.--the german paused, puffed away vigorously at his pipe, and tried to hide his emotion from our view by enveloping himself in smoke.-- i was naturally impatient for some result,--he continued, when his face became once more visible.--i used to go every day to the minister, and wait in the ante-chamber, with other suitors, for my turn. weeks passed, and then months, and yet it never came. but we must all eat, and six mouths are not fed for nothing. we had no resources, save our clothes and our furniture. my clothes were needed to go out with, so the furniture went first. one article was sold, and the produce applied by my careful wife to the wants of the family. we had come to that point when food is the only thing which must be looked on as a necessity. we lived hardly, indeed. bread, and a little soup, was all we ever attempted to indulge in. six months passed without any change for the better. i went to the minister's every day; sometimes i saw him, and sometimes i did not. he was always very polite, bowed to me affably, said my machine was under consideration, should be reported on immediately, and passed on his way. it was the dead of winter. every article of furniture was now gone, my wife and children having not gone out for two months for want of clothes. we huddled together, for warmth, on two straw mattresses, in the corner of an empty room, without table, without chairs, without fire. catherine had nothing to wear but an old cotton gown and one under-garment. we had not eaten food for a day and a night, when i rose in the morning to go to the minister's. i felt savage, irate, furious. i thought of my starving and perishing family, of the long delay which had taken place in the consideration of my machine. i compared the luxurious ease of the minister with my own position, and was inclined to do some desperate act. i think i could have turned conspirator, and have overthrown the government. i was already half a misanthrope. when i entered the minister's ante-chamber, i placed myself, as usual, near the stove. i kept away from the well-dressed mob as much as possible. they were solicitors, it is true, and humble enough, some of them; but then they had good coats on, smart uniforms, polite boots, and came, perhaps, in carriages. i came on foot, clad in a long frock reaching almost to my heels, patched in several places; with trowsers so darned about the calves as to be almost falling to pieces; with boots which were absolutely only worn for look, for they had no soles to them. my hat, too, was a dreadful-looking thing. this day, being faint with hunger, and pinched by the cold, the heat of the room overcame me, and i grew dizzy. i am sure i knew nothing of what passed around. i saw my wife and children, through a misty haze, starving with hunger and cold. a basket full of logs of wood lay beside my knee. reckless, wild, not caring who saw me, i took a thick log, huddled it under my frock, and went away. i passed the porter's lodge unseen; i was in the open air; i was proud, i was happy. _i had stolen a log of wood_; but my children would have fire for one day. when i got home i went to bed. i was feverish and ill; wild shapes floated round me; i saw the officers of justice after me; i beheld a furious mob chasing me along interminable fields; and on every hedge, and every tree, and every house, and every post, i read, in large letters, the word 'thief.' it was evening when i awoke. i looked around for some minutes without moving or speaking; a delicious fragrance seemed to fill the air, a fire blazed on the hearth, and round it huddled my wife and children, sitting on logs of wood. i rubbed my eyes: the presence of these logs of wood seemed to convince me that i still dreamed. but there was an odor of mutton-broth which was too real to be mistaken. "catherine," said i, "why, you seem to have some food." all came rushing to my bedside, mother and children. they scarcely spoke; but one brought a basin of broth, another a hunch of bread, another a plate of meat and potatoes, which had been kept hot before the fire. i was too faint and sick to talk. i took my broth slowly. never did food prove a greater blessing. life, reason, courage, hope, all seemed to return, as mouthful by mouthful i swallowed the nourishing liquid. it spread warmth and comfort through every fibre of my frame. when i had taken this, i ate the meat, and vegetables, and bread without fear. while i did so, my wife, sending the children back to the fire-place, told me, in a whisper, how she had procured such unexpected subsistence. it seems that scarcely had i got home, and, after flinging my log on the ground, rushed to bed, when a knock came to the door. catherine went to answer it. a man of middle age entered. he gave a hurried glance around, seemed to shudder at its emptiness, looked at the next room through the open door, saw that it was as bare as the other, turned his eyes away from the crouching form of my half-dressed wife, and spoke: "have you any children?" "four," said catherine, tremblingly; but, still, answering at once, so peremptory was the tone of the stranger. "how long have you been in this state?" "six months." "your husband is karl herwitz, the mechanist?" "he is, sir." "well, madam, please to tell him that i recognized him as he came out of the minister's of the interior, and, noticing what he clutched with such wild energy, followed him here. tell him, i am not rich, but i can pay my debts; i owe him the sum contained in this purse. i am happy to pay it." "and did he owe it you?" said i, anxiously. no, replied karl; he had never seen me or heard of me before. generous englishman, i shall never forget him. i found out afterward that he was a commercial traveler, with a large family and a moderate income. on what he left we lived a month, by exercising strict economy. i did not go to the minister's for several days. i feared some one might have seen me, and i was bowed by shame. but, at last, i mustered courage, and presented myself at the audience. i was, as usual, totally unnoticed, and i resumed my wretched dangling in the ante-chamber, as usual. the result was always the same. generally i caught a glimpse of the minister; but, when i did, it was eternally the same words. meanwhile time swept rapidly by, and soon my misery was as great as ever. my children, who, during the past month, had recovered a little their health and looks, looked pale and wan again. i was more shabby, more dirty, more haggard and starved-looking than ever. once again i went out, after our all being without food for some twenty-four hours. i knew not what to do. i walked along the street, turning over every possible expedient in my mind. suddenly i saw, on the opposite side of the way, a lieutenant belonging to the regiment i had quitted. he had been my intimate friend, but so shabby was i, that i sought to avoid him. he saw me, however, and, to my surprise, hurried across and shook me heartily by the hand. i could scarce restrain tears; so sure was i, in my present state, to be cut by even old friends. but, in my worst troubles, something has always turned up to make me love and cherish the human heart. "my poor karl," said he, "the world uses you badly." "very," said i: and in a few words i told my story. "my dear karl!" he exclaimed, when i had concluded, "i was going to ask you to dine with me on what i have left. i am come up to claim a year's arrears of pay, and i have been sent back with a free passage and promises. but i have a little silver; and, as i said, meant to ask you to devour it. but after what you have told me, will you share my purse with me for your wife and children's sake?" and he pulled out a purse containing about the value of five shillings english, forced me to take half, shook me heartily by the hand, and hurried away to escape my thanks. home i rushed with mad eagerness, a loaf in one hand, the rest of the money in the other. my poor wife once more could give food to her little ones. on the morning of the third day after i had obtained this little help, i lay in bed, ruminating. i was turning over in my mind every possible expedient by which to raise enough money to go on with, a brief time, until my machine was really decided on by the government. suddenly i sat up in my bed and addressed my wife. "how much money have you got left, catherine?" she had threepence of your money. "can you manage with the loaf of bread then, and three-halfpence for to-day?" "i have often managed on less," said she. "then give me three-halfpence to take out with me." "but what are you going to do? we may have nothing to-morrow, and then the three-halfpence will be missed." "give!" said i, rather sternly, reflecting as i was on my scheme; "be assured, it is for our good." my poor wife gave me the money with a very ill-grace, but without another word; and, rising, i went out. when in the street, i directed my footsteps toward the outskirts. they were soon reached. i halted before a tavern frequented wholly by workmen, and going into the public room, called for a _choppe_ of beer. i had purposely chosen my position. before me was a handsome, neatly-dressed young workman, who, like all his companions, was smoking and drinking beer. quietly, without saying a word, i drew out a small note-book and a drawing-pencil. i was then considered a very good artist; but had only used my pencil to sketch models. but i now sketched the human face with care and anxiety. presently, as my pencil was laid down, a man sitting next to me peeped over my shoulder. "why!" he cried, "that's alexis to the life." "how so?" said the man i had been sketching, holding out his hand, into which i put my note-book. "good!" cried he, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. "will you sell this? i should like to keep it." "i will sell it if you like," replied i, as quietly as i could, though my heart was nigh bursting with excitement. "how much?" i knew my man, and asked but six sous, threepence, which the workman gladly paid, while five others followed his example at the same price. i went home a proud and happy man with my thirty-six pence of copper. would you believe it? that was the commencement of a long and prosperous career, which lasted until the revolution of threw me back again. six months after, i received a thousand florins for a portrait in oil of the grand duchess of b----; and about the end of the same year i drove up to the hotel of the minister of the interior in a splendid carriage, a gentleman by my side; it was the english commercial traveler. we had a letter of audience, and were admitted at once. the minister rose, and after a very warm greeting, requested us to be seated. we took chairs. "my dear herwitz," said the minister, a little, bowing, smirking man, "what can i do for you? glad to see you doing so well. the grand duchess says wonders of you. i will have the committee on your machine." "i beg your pardon," said i, "but i have come to request your written order for its removal. i have sold it to the english house represented by this gentleman." "its removal!" cried the astonished minister; "but it is impossible. so excellent an invention should not pass into the hands of foreigners." "so i thought," replied i, coldly, "when for nine months i waited daily in your ante-chamber, with my family starving at home. but it is now sold. my word is my bond." the minister bit his lip, but made no reply. he took up a sheet of paper, and wrote the order for removal. i took it, bowed stiffly, and came away.-- we all heartily thanked the old german for his narrative. since the revolution, and the consequent impossibility of selling his machines in germany, he has come to paris, and taken to portrait-painting once more. his perseverance and endurance are untiring. his wife died long since, and he is like a mother to his four girls--all of whom are most industrious and devoted. he still believes in his flying machine; but, for the sake of his parental love, his hard-working head and fingers--for the sake of his goodness of soul, his eccentricities, he must be forgiven for this invincible credulity. none can fail to admire the original dreamer, when he is also a practical worker; while few will be willing to patronize the mere visionary, who is always thinking and never doing. seals and whales. except, perhaps, to naturalists, the seal will be known to many readers only through the medium of sir walter scott's "_antiquary_." "'what is that yonder!' says hector m'intyre to his uncle, jonathan oldbuck. 'one of the herd of proteus,' replied the antiquary--'a _phoca_, or seal, lying asleep on the beach.' upon which m'intyre, with the eagerness of a young sportsman, exclaiming, 'i shall have him! i shall have him!' snatched the walking-stick out of the hand of the astonished antiquary, at some risk of throwing him down, and set off at full speed to get between the animal and the sea, to which element, having caught the alarm, she was rapidly retreating.... the seal finding her retreat intercepted by the light-footed soldier, confronted him manfully, and having sustained a heavy blow without injury, she knitted her brows, as is the fashion of the animal, and making use at once of her fore-paws and her unwieldy strength, wrenched the weapon out of the assailant's hand, overturned him on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea without doing him any further injury." we shall not dwell on the mortification of the gallant captain, or the gibes of his uncle, as these will readily occur to the readers of scott's magic pages. turning, then, from the romancer, we shall trace the records of the _phoca_ through the denser chapters of the scientific compiler, and the arctic voyagers. the literature of the seal, which is very limited, would lead us to suppose that, like the owl of _terra firma_, it maintains--to quote from one authority--an "ancient, solitary reign, threading an unfurrowed track along the dark waters of the atlantic, and skimming in peace and security along the margins of ice-bound shores, where all is dumb." but how stands the actual fact? in the year , no fewer than one hundred thousand seals were captured by british vessels, and in the present year a greater number will probably be slain. what will be the commercial value of those animals? reckoning the whole to be even young seals, and estimating one ton of oil to be produce of one hundred seals, the oil will yield, in round numbers, thirty-five thousand pounds, and the skins, calculated at three shillings each, would bring fifteen thousand pounds--in all, fifty thousand pounds. so that we have an interesting branch of commerce represented in our literature as all but extinct, while in reality it is flourishing in a high degree, adding extensively to national wealth, and giving employment to a large portion of the seafaring community. whale-fishery in the arctics has been in a declining state for a number of years; a result which, so far as mere purposes of illumination are concerned, might have been of minor consequence, seeing that the substitution of gas for oil-lamps has rendered us comparatively independent of oil as a lighting agent; but, concurrently with the introduction of gas, there has been an increased demand for oil for lubricating machinery, and for other manufacturing purposes; hence fish-oil has maintained its price remarkably well, notwithstanding an opposition that at first seemed fatal to it. greenland was, at the beginning of the whale-fishing, the resort of the whale, and thither its pursuers went, and captured it in large numbers; but in process of time, the animal finding the peace of its ancient home ruthlessly invaded; retreated to the more northern latitude of davis straits. the distance, although greater, being still practicable, the chase was still continued, and the slaughter went on as before. again, the leviathan, as if conscious that its track was followed, beat another retreat, which has turned out more successful than the first. each spring witnessed the departure of arctic fleets from every port of note in britain, and the regions of the north were instinct with life, in search of the monster of the deep. captains would stand, telescope in hand, in the "crow's nest," perched on the summit of the main-mast, and peer through the instrument till eye became dim and hand was frozen--boats' crews would be dispatched, and pull for weary miles in the sea, or drag their skiffs for still more weary miles on the surface of the ice--men on deck would gaze wistfully across the main, and mutter charms, or invoke omens; but all in vain. the ice would close in like iron mountains around them, and the time would come that they must bend their sails homeward. then stray fish would be seen far off, or very shy fish would dart off in their immediate vicinity, and the disappointed mariners would return for the season, either with _clean_ vessels, or at best with small cargoes of oil. some accounted for the change by asserting that the whale had been hunted from davis straits just as it had been pursued from greenland, and that it had betaken itself to still higher and now inaccessible latitudes;--some held that the animal had diminished in numbers, and as gestation takes place only once in two years, there was some ground for this conjecture;--while a third section, who were principally composed of superannuated blowhards, and who harpooned only by the fireside, held pertinaciously to the notion that the failure arose from the inefficiency of modern fishermen. but, arise from what cause it might, whales were either not brought home at all, or else they were brought home in woefully diminished numbers. owners became discouraged, and captains sank in despair; harpoons and flinching gear were flung aside, and whalers were dispatched to the baltic for timber, or wherever else a freight could be procured, and others departed to strange ports, and returned no more; for they were sold. the whaling fleet became, therefore, small by degrees. yet two ports struggled on against the receding tide; hull in england, and peterhead in scotland, always hoped against hope, and persevered amid every disadvantage. they still sent vessels out; if not to catch whales, to be contented with seals. peterhead reaped the reward of perseverance. we observe from a recent return, that out of the hundred thousand seals captured in , sixty-three thousand four hundred and twenty-six fell to the share of ten peterhead vessels. there was something romantic about whale-fishing. when the captain, with his assisted eye, descried the far-off parabolic _spout_ of his victim, the cry of "_fall! fall!_" would resound from stem to stern, and from hold to cross-trees. down went the boats, sharp and graceful as regatta skiffs, and yet as strong and compact as herring yawls; the steerer took his oar, for rudders are too slow for this kind of navigation; the line-coiler, stood by his ropes; while last, and most important of all, the harpooner descended with his glittering instruments. muffled oars dip in the waters, and the skiff nears the sleeping leviathan. a single awkward splash would rouse him; but all is silent as death, and the harpooner, poising himself, takes his deadly aim, and buries his javelin in the huge carcase. smarting with pain, the enormous black mass lurches, and then with lightning speed darts underneath the wave; the boiling surge raised by its descent lifts the boat like a feather; the line attached to the harpoon disappears fathom after fathom, hissing around the rolling-pin, with a force and velocity that, but for copious libations, would cause ignition; a long and still extending streak of gore marks the route of the wounded animal; the rope at last goes less rapidly off, and as its rapidity decreases, they pull up to the victim, and insert more instruments, and then after a few deadly slaps with his tail, the monarch of the ocean yields up the contest. what has the russian, the dutch or the hanseatic man, or the esquimaux, been doing all this time? they have been following the pastime of captain hector m'intyre, and endeavoring to slay the _phoca_. most of the britons pursuing whales, and the foreigners and natives peddling with seals; just as if captain gordon cumming had been hunting a lion, while some other sportsmen would stand by shooting sparrows or mice. no glory in capturing a seal, and as little pay. thirty large seals are needed to make up one ton of oil, while an average whale would produce twenty tons of the oleaginous fluid. the whale-fishers despised such small game, and regarded mere seal-fishers with contempt;--we say mere seal-fishers, because if seals did come in the way, they were shot or knocked down by the whale-fisher; but his main vocation consisted in waging war with the colossal member of the finny tribe. and apart from the larger quantity of oil yielded by the one animal, the bone of the whale was singularly valuable. twenty tons of oil would indicate one ton of bone, and that was worth some two hundred and fifty pounds sterling. the seal, too, had its extrinsic value, for its skin was worth _seven-pence_--dust in the balance compared with the bone of its huge contemporary. whales, then, undoubtedly were the superior subjects for capture; but as whales could not be had, and seals became plentiful, the whalers lowered their plumes, and raised their arms against their amphibious prey. old seals had wont to be pursued, but although their capture was more profitable than young ones, still the old seals are so excessively shy that they can only be shot in detail, and hence a preference is given to the destruction of the young. the seal propagates twice a year--the first pups of the season lie upon the ice early in the spring, and being unable to run to the water and swim off, they fall ready prey to the spoiler. a smart blow with a club stuns them, and a wound does the rest. their numbers are very large. during the present season of , a flock of them extending to about fifteen miles was discovered, not far from the scottish coast; a dozen animals at least occupying every hundred square yards. of course, with such opportunities, a ship is readily filled, and bearing homeward with her valuable cargo, there is still time to undertake a second and more northern voyage, in search of whales or larger seals. the dutch have been in the habit of prosecuting the trade with small vessels, but the british although occasionally using tiny craft, prefer employing large and stout vessels, as with such they can penetrate into fissures of the ice, instead of timidly sailing by the margin; and their success in this respect is gradually inducing their foreign competitors to follow their example. the size of ships generally preferred for seal or whale fishing, is three hundred and fifty tons burden, or upward, although this year some vessels have gone out so small as eighty tons. a ship of the larger size carries sixty-five men, of the latter dimensions, twenty. the average outfit of a large vessel costs about one thousand four hundred pounds, and the original cost of such varies from two thousand to ten thousand pounds, according to age and quality of vessel, and also whether a used ship has been purchased, or one expressly built for the trade. the loss when a vessel is unsuccessful, is greater than in any other maritime speculation, there being no return whatever to stand against outlay; but, on the other hand, if fortunate, no other kind of shipping adventure yields so large profits. one vessel this year brought home a cargo of the gross value of six thousand pounds, leaving (it being her first fishing voyage) a net profit to her owners of three thousand pounds. the vessels sailing from the small northern port of peterhead have, as before stated, been remarkably successful. the following is a statement of the produce of the ten vessels which sailed from thence in : , tons of oil. , seal-skins. tons of whalebone. the aggregate commercial value of the whole would amount to about fifty thousand pounds. seal-skins have lately risen in value--the former rate of seven-pence having been augmented to three shillings; and they are used principally for the purpose of being manufactured into patent-leather. each skin is split into two or three layers, and each layer is turned to separate account. no other leather possesses the same closeness of texture, smoothness of surface, and elasticity. from being employed as rough waist-coats for seamen, and hairy coverings for trunks, it is now in its _stratified_ state applied to the most delicate artistic purposes. the seal belongs to the four-limbed mammiliferous animals. it is half quadruped, half fish. the head and general physiognomy, especially when seen in the water, resemble those of a dog. the limbs, which in the sea act as excellent paddles, are indifferent instruments of locomotion on land--the fore-paws are almost the only motive powers, the posterior portion of the body having to be dragged over the ground. the young are very obedient to the parent seals, and are obedient to, and recognize the voices of their dams amid the loudest tumult. they are decidedly gregarious in their habits, and hunt and herd together in common; and, in those cases, when surprised by an enemy, they have great facilities in expressing, both by tone and gesture, the approach of a dreaded enemy. there are four different species of the animal; the one to which we have been referring is called the _phoca greenlandica_, and is about six feet in length, and has the peculiar property of often changing the color of its skin as it approaches maturity. the seal visiting the british shores (_phoca vitulina_) is seldom more than four or five feet in length. we have now given our contribution to the literature of the seal, and submit, that it has the merit of being up to what mr. carlyle calls the "present hour." maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. [continued from the october number.] chapter xliii. a forest ride. while i was dressing, a note was handed to me from the curé, apologizing for his departure without seeing me, and begging, as a great favor, that i would not leave the chateau till his return. he said that the count's spirits had benefited greatly by our agreeable converse, and that he requested me to be his guest for some time to come. the postscript added a suggestion, that i should write down some of the particulars of my visit to ettenheim, but particularly of my conversation alluding to the meditated assassination of bonaparte. there were many points in the arrangement which i did not like. to begin, i had no fancy whatever for the condition of a dependent, and such my poverty would at once stamp me. secondly, i was averse to this frequent intercourse with men of the royalist party, whose restless character and unceasing schemes were opposed to all the principles of those i had served under; and finally, i was growing impatient under the listless vacuity of a life that gave no occupation, nor opened any view for the future. i sat down to breakfast in a mood very little in unison with the material enjoyments around me. the meal was all that could tempt appetite; and the view from the open window displayed a beautiful flower-garden, imperceptibly fading away into a maze of ornamental planting, which was backed again by a deep forest, the well-known wood of belleville. still i ate on sullenly, scarce noticing any of the objects around me. i will see the count, and take leave of him, thought i, suddenly; i can not be his guest without sacrificing feeling in a dozen ways. "at what hour does monsieur rise?" asked i, of the obsequious valet who waited behind my chair. "usually at three or four in the afternoon, sir; but to-day he has desired me to make his excuses to you. there will be a consultation of doctors here; and the likelihood is, that he may not leave his chamber." "will you convey my respectful compliments, then, to him, and my regrets that i had not seen him before leaving the chateau?" "the count charged me, sir, to entreat your remaining here till he had seen you. he said you had done him infinite service already, and indeed it is long since he has passed a night in such tranquillity." there are few slight circumstances which impress a stranger more favorably, than any semblance of devotion on the part of a servant to his master. the friendship of those above one in life is easier to acquire than the attachment of those beneath. love is a plant whose tendrils strive ever upward. i could not help feeling struck at the man's manner, as he spoke these few words; and insensibly my mind reverted to the master who had inspired such sentiments. "my master gave orders, sir," continued he, "that we should do every thing possible to contribute to your wishes; that the carriage, or, if you prefer them, saddle-horses, should be ready at any hour you ordered. the wood has a variety of beautiful excursions; there is a lake, too, about two leagues away; and the ruins of monterraye are also worth seeing." "if i had not engagements in paris," muttered i, while i affected to mumble over the conclusion of the sentence to myself. "monsieur has seldom done a greater kindness than this will be," added he, respectfully; "but if monsieur's business could be deferred for a day or two without inconvenience--" "perhaps that might be managed," said i, starting up, and walking to the window, when, for the first time, the glorious prospect revealed itself before me. how delicious, after all, would be a few hours of such a retreat!--a morning loitered away in that beautiful garden; and then, a long ramble through the dark wood till sunset. oh, if laura were but here; if she could be my companion along those leafy alleys! if not _with_, i can at least think _of_ her, thought i; seek out spots she would love to linger in, and points of view she would enjoy with all a painter's zest. and this poor count, with all his riches, could not derive in a whole lifetime the enjoyment that a few brief hours would yield to us! so is it almost ever in this world; to one man the appliances, to another the faculties for enjoyment. "i am so glad monsieur has consented," said the valet, joyously. "did i say so? i don't know that i said any thing." "the count will be so gratified," added he; and hurried away to convey the tidings. well, be it so. heaven knows my business in paris will scarcely suffer by my absence; my chief occupation there being to cheat away the hours till meal-time. it is an occupation i can easily resume a few days hence. i took a book, and strolled out into the garden; but i could not read. there is a gush of pleasure felt at times from the most familiar objects, which the most complicated machinery of enjoyment often fails to equal; and now the odor of moss-roses and geraniums, the rich perfume of orange flowers, the plash of fountains and the hum of the summer insects, steeped my mind in delight; and i lay there in a dream of bliss that was like enchantment. i suppose i must have fallen asleep; for my thoughts took every form of wildness and incoherency. ireland; the campaign; the bay of genoa; the rugged height of kuffstein, all passed before my mind, peopled with images foreign to all their incidents. it was late in the afternoon that i aroused myself, and remembered where i was, the shadows of the dark forest were stretching over the plain; and i determined on a ride beneath their mellow shade. as if in anticipation of my wishes, the horses were already saddled, and a groom stood awaiting my orders. oh, what a glorious thing it is to be rich! thought i, as i mounted; from what an eminence does the wealthy man view life. no petty cares nor calculations mar the conceptions of his fancy. his will, like his imagination, wanders free and unfettered. and so thinking, i dashed spurs into my horse, and plunged into the dense wood. perhaps i was better mounted than the groom, or perhaps the man was scarcely accustomed to such impetuosity. whatever the reason, i was soon out of sight of him. the trackless grass of the alley, and its noiseless turf, made pursuit difficult in a spot where the paths crossed and recrossed in a hundred different directions; and so i rode on for miles and miles without seeing more of my follower. forest riding is particularly seductive; you are insensibly led on to see where this alley will open, or how that path will terminate. some of the spirit of discovery seems to seal its attractions to the wild and devious track, untrodden as it looks; and you feel all the charm of adventure as you advance. the silence, too, is most striking; the noiseless footfalls of the horse, and the unbroken stillness, add indescribable charm to the scene, and the least imaginative can not fail to weave fancies and fictions as he goes. near as it was to a great city, not a single rider crossed my path; not even a peasant did i meet. a stray bundle of fagots, bound and ready to be carried away, showed that the ax of the woodman had been heard within the solitude; but not another trace told that human footstep had ever pressed the sward. although still a couple of hours from sunset, the shade of the wood was dense enough to make the path appear uncertain, and i was obliged to ride more cautiously than before. i had thought that by steadily pursuing one straight track, i should at last gain the open country, and easily find some road that would reconduct me to the chateau; but now i saw no signs of this. "the alley" was, to all appearance, exactly as i found it--miles before. a long aisle of beech-trees stretched away in front and behind me; a short, grassy turf was beneath my feet; and not an object to tell me how far i had come, or whither i was tending. if now and then another road crossed the path, it was in all respects like this one. this was puzzling; and to add to my difficulty, i suddenly remembered that i had never thought of learning the name of the chateau, and well knew that to ask for it as the residence of the count de maurepas would be a perfect absurdity. there was something so ludicrous in the situation, that i could not refrain from laughing at first; but a moment's re-consideration made me regard the incident more gravely. in what a position should i stand, if unable to discover the chateau. the curé might have left paris before i could reach it; all clew to the count might thus be lost; and although these were but improbable circumstances, they came now very forcibly before me, and gave me serious uneasiness. i have been so often in false positions in life, so frequently implicated where no real blame could attach to me, that i shall not be in the least surprised if i be arrested as a horse-stealer! the night now began to fall rapidly, so that i was obliged to proceed at a slow pace; and at length, as the wood seemed to thicken, i was forced to get off, and walk beside my horse. i have often found myself in situations of real peril, with far less anxiety than i now felt; my position seemed at the time inexplicable and absurd. i suppose, thought i, that no man was ever lost in the wood of belleville; he must find his way out of it sooner or later; and then, there can be no great difficulty in returning to paris. this was about the extent of the comfort i could afford myself; for, once back in the capital, i could not speculate on a single step further. i was at last so weary with the slow and cautious progression i was condemned to, that i half determined to picket my horse to a tree, and lie down to sleep till daylight. while i sought out a convenient spot for my bivouac, a bright twinkling light, like a small star, caught my eye. twice it appeared, and vanished again so that i was well assured of its being real, and no phantom of my now over-excited brain. it appeared to proceed from the very densest part of the wood, and whither, so far as i could see, no path conducted. as i listened to catch any sounds, i again caught sight of the faint star, which now seemed at a short distance from the road where i stood. fastening my horse to a branch, i advanced directly through the brushwood for about a hundred yards, when i came to a small open space, in which stood one of those modest cottages, of rough timber, wherein, at certain seasons, the game-keepers take refuge. a low, square, log hut, with a single door, and an unglazed window, comprised the whole edifice, being one of the humblest, even of its humble kind, i had ever seen. stealing cautiously to the window, i peeped in. on a stone, in the middle of the earthen floor, a small iron lamp stood, which threw a faint and fickle light around. there was no furniture of any kind; nothing that bespoke the place as inhabited; and it was only as i continued to gaze that i detected the figure of a man, who seemed to be sleeping on a heap of dried leaves, in one corner of the hovel. i own that, with all my anxiety to find a guide, i began to feel some scruples about obtruding on the sleeper's privacy. he was evidently no "garde de chasse," who are a well-to-do sort of folk, being usually retired sous-officiers of the army. he might be a poacher, a robber, or perhaps a dash of both together--a trade i had often heard of as being resorted to by the most reckless and abandoned of the population of paris, when their crimes and their haunts became too well known in the capital. i peered eagerly through the chamber, to see if he were armed; but not a weapon of any kind was to be seen. i next sought to discover if he were quite alone; and although one side of the hovel was hidden from my view, i was well assured that he had no comrade. come, said i to myself, man to man, if it should come to a struggle, is fair enough; and the chances are i shall be able to defend myself. his sleep was sound and heavy, like that after fatigue; so that i thought it would be easy for me to enter the hovel, and secure his arms, if he had such, before he should awake. i may seem to my reader, all this time, to have been inspired with an undue amount of caution and prudence, considering how evenly we were matched; but i would remind him, that it was a period when the most dreadful crimes were of daily occurrence. not a night went over without some terrible assassination; and a number of escaped galley slaves were known to be at large in the suburbs and outskirts of the capital. these men, under the slightest provocation, never hesitated at murder; for their lives were already forfeited, and they scrupled at nothing which offered a chance of escape. to add to the terror their atrocities excited, there was a rumor current at the time, that the government itself made use of these wretches for its own secret acts of vengeance; and many implicitly believed that the dark assassinations of the "temple" had no other agency. i do not mean to say that these fears were well founded, or that i myself partook of them; but such were the reports commonly circulated, and the impunity of crime certainly favored the impression. i know not if this will serve as an apology for the circumspection of my proceeding, as, cautiously, pushing the door, inch by inch, i at length threw it wide open. not the slightest sound escaped as i did so; and yet, certainly before my hand quitted the latch, the sleeper had sprung to his knees; and with his dark eyes glaring wildly at me, crouched like a beast about to rush upon an enemy. his attitude and his whole appearance at that moment are yet before me. long black hair fell in heavy masses at either side of his head; his face was pale, haggard, and hunger-stricken; a deep, drooping mustache descended from below his chin, and almost touched his collar-bones which were starting from beneath the skin; a ragged cloak, that covered him as he lay, had fallen off, and showed that a worn shirt and a pair of coarse linen trowsers were all his clothing. such a picture of privation and misery i never looked upon before nor since! "qui va là?" cried he, sternly, and with the voice of one not unused to command; and although the summons showed his soldier training, his condition of wretchedness suggested deep misgivings. "qui va là?" shouted he again, louder and more determinedly. "a friend--perhaps a comrade," said i, boldly. "advance, comrade, and give the counter-sign," replied he, rapidly, and like one repeating a phrase of routine; and then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he added with a low sigh, "there is none!" his arms dropped heavily as he spoke, and he fell back against the wall with his head drooping on his chest. there was something so unutterably forlorn in his looks, as he sat thus, that all apprehension of personal danger from him left me at the moment, and advancing frankly, i told him how i had lost my way in the wood, and by mere accident chanced to descry his light as i wandered along in the gloom. i do not know if he understood me at first, for he gazed half vacantly at my face while i was speaking, and often stealthily peered round to see if others were coming; so that i had to repeat more than once that i was perfectly alone. that the poor fellow was insane seemed but too probable; the restless activity of his wild eye, the suspicious watchfulness of his glances, all looked like madness, and i thought that he had probably made his escape from some military hospital, and concealed himself within the recesses of the forest. but even these signs of over-wrought excitement began to subside soon; and as though the momentary effort at vigilance had been too much for his strength, he now drew his cloak about him, and lay down once more. i handed him my brandy flask, which still contained a little, and he touched it to his lips with a slight nod of recognition. invigorated by the stimulant, he supped again and again, but always cautiously, and with prudent reserve. "you have been a soldier," said i, taking my seat at his side. "i _am_ a soldier," said he, with a strong emphasis on the verb. "i, too, have served," said i; "although, probably, neither as long nor as creditably as you have." he looked at me fixedly for a second or two and then dropped his eyes without a reply. "you were probably with the army of the meuse?" said i, hazarding the guess, from remembering how many of that army had been invalided by the terrible attacks of ague contracted in north holland. "i served on the rhine," said he, briefly, "but i made the campaign of jemappes, too. i served the king also--king louis," cried he, sternly. "is that avowal candid enough; or do you want more!" another royalist, thought i, with a sigh. whichever way i turn they meet me--the very ground seems to give them up. "and could _you_ find no better trade than that of a mouchard?" asked he, sneeringly. "i am not a mouchard--i never was one. i am a soldier like yourself; and, mayhap, if all were to be told, scarcely a more fortunate one." "dismissed the service--and for what?" asked he, bluntly. "if not broke, at least not employed;" said i, bitterly. "a royalist?" "not the least of one, but suspected." "just so. your letters--your private papers ransacked, and brought in evidence against you. your conversations with your intimates noted down and attested--every word you dropped in a moment of disappointment or anger; every chance phrase you uttered when provoked, all quoted; wasn't that it?" as he spoke this, with a rapid and almost impetuous utterance, i for the first time, noticed that both the expressions and the accent implied breeding and education. not all his vehemence could hide the evidences of former cultivation. "how comes it," asked i, eagerly, "that such a man as you are, is to be found thus? you certainly did not always serve in the ranks?" "i had my grade," was his short, dry reply. "you were a quarter-master; perhaps a sous-lieutenant?" said i, hoping by the flattery of the surmise to lead him to talk further. "i was the colonel of a dragoon regiment," said he; sternly; "and that neither the least brave nor the least distinguished in the french army." ah! thought i, my good fellow, you have shot your bolt too high this time; and in a careless, easy way, i asked, "what might have been the number of the corps?" "how can it concern you?" said he, with a savage vehemence. "you say that you are not a spy. to what end these questions? as it is, you have made this hovel, which has been my shelter for some weeks back, no longer of any service to me. i will not be tracked. i will not suffer espionage, by heaven!" cried he, as he dashed his clenched fist against the ground beside him. his eyes, as he spoke, glared with all the wildness of insanity, and great drops of sweat hung upon his damp forehead. "is it too much," continued he, with all the vehemence of passion, "is it too much that i was master here? are these walls too luxurious? is there the sign of foreign gold in this tasteful furniture and the splendor of these hangings? or is this"--and he stretched out his lean and naked arms as he spoke--"is this the garb?--is this the garb of a man who can draw at will on the coffers of royalty? ay!" cried he, with a wild laugh, "if this is the price of my treachery, the treason might well be pardoned." i did all i could to assuage the violence of his manner. i talked to him calmly and soberly of myself and of him, repeating over and over the assurance that i had neither the will nor the way to injure him. "you may be poor," said i, "and yet scarcely poorer than i am--friendless, and have as many to care for you as i have. believe me, comrade, save in the matter of a few years the less on one side, and some services the more on the other, there is little to choose between us." these few words, wrung from me in sorrowful sincerity, seemed to do more than all i had said previously, and he moved the lamp a little to one side that he might have a better view of me as i sat; and thus we remained for several minutes staring steadfastly at each other without a word spoken on either side. it was in vain that i sought in that face, livid and shrunk by famine--in that straggling matted hair, and that figure enveloped in rags, for any traces of former condition. whatever might once have been his place in society, now he seemed the very lowest of that miserable tribe whose lives are at once the miracle and shame of our century. "except that my senses are always playing me false," said he, as he passed his hand across his eyes, "i could say that i have seen your face before. what was your corps?" "the ninth hussars, 'the tapageurs,' as they called them." "when did you join--and where?" said he, with an eagerness that surprised me. "at nancy," said i, calmly. "you were there with the advanced guard of moreau's corps," said he, hastily; "you followed the regiment to the moselle." "how do you know all this?" asked i, in amazement. "now for your name; tell me your name," cried he, grasping my hand in both of his--"and i charge you by all you care for here or hereafter, no deception with me. it is not a head that has been tried like mine can bear a cheat." "i have no object in deceiving you; nor am i ashamed to say who i am," replied i. "my name is tiernay--maurice tiernay." the word was but out, when the poor fellow threw himself forward, and grasping my hands, fell upon and kissed them. "so, then," cried he, passionately, "i am not friendless--i am not utterly deserted in life--_you_ are yet left to me, my dear boy." this burst of feeling convinced me that he was deranged; and i was speculating in my mind how best to make my escape from him, when he pushed back the long and tangled hair from his face, and staring wildly at me, said, "you know me now--don't you? oh, look again, maurice, and do not let me think that i am forgotten by all the world." "good heavens!" cried i; "it is colonel mahon!" "ay, 'le beau mahon,'" said he, with a burst of wild laughter; "le beau mahon, as they used to call me long ago. is this a reverse of fortune, i ask you?" and he held out the ragged remnants of his miserable clothes. "i have not worn shoes for nigh a month. i have tasted food but once in the last thirty hours! i, that have led french soldiers to the charge full fifty times, up to the very batteries of the enemy, am reduced to hide and skulk from place to place like a felon, trembling at the clank of a gendarme's boot, as never the thunder of an enemy's squadron made me. think of the persecution that has brought me to this, and made me a beggar and a coward together!" a gush of tears burst from him at these words, and he sobbed for several minutes like a child. whatever might have been the original source of his misfortunes, i had very little doubt that now his mind had been shaken by their influence, and that calamity had deranged him. the flighty uncertainty of his manner, the incoherent rapidity with which he passed from one topic to another, increased with his excitement, and he passed alternately from the wildest expressions of delight at our meeting, to the most heart-rending descriptions of his own sufferings. by great patience and some ingenuity, i learned that he had taken refuge in the wood of belleville, where the kindness of an old soldier of his own brigade--now a garde de chasse--had saved him from starvation. jacques caillon was continually alluded to in his narrative. it was jacques sheltered him when he came first to belleville. jacques had afforded him a refuge in the different huts of the forest, supplying him with food--acts not alone of benevolence, but of daring courage, as mahon continually asserted. if it were but known, "they'd give him a peleton and eight paces." the theme of jacques's heroism was so engrossing, that he could not turn from it; every little incident of his kindness, every stratagem of his inventive good-nature, he dwelt upon with eager delight, and seemed half to forget his own sorrows in recounting the services of his benefactor. i saw that it would be fruitless to ask for any account of his past calamity, or by what series of mischances he had fallen so low. i saw--i will own with some chagrin--that, with the mere selfishness of misfortune, he could not speak of any thing save what bore upon his own daily life, and totally forgot _me_ and all about me. the most relentless persecution seemed to follow him from place to place. wherever he went, fresh spies started on his track, and the history of his escapes was unending. the very fagot-cutters of the forest were in league against him, and the high price offered for his capture had drawn many into the pursuit. it was curious to mark the degree of self-importance all these recitals imparted, and how the poor fellow, starving and almost naked as he was, rose into all the imagined dignity of martyrdom, as he told of his sorrows. if he ever asked a question about paris, it was to know what people said of _himself_ and of _his_ fortunes. he was thoroughly convinced that bonaparte's thoughts were far more occupied about him than on that empire now so nearly in his grasp, and he continued to repeat with a proud delight, "he has caught them all but _me_! _i_ am the only one who has escaped him!" these few words suggested to me the impression that mahon had been engaged in some plot or conspiracy; but of what nature, how composed, or how discovered, it was impossible to arrive at. "there!" said he, at last, "there is the dawn breaking! i must be off. i must now make for the thickest part of the wood till nightfall. there are hiding-places there known to none save _myself_. the blood-hounds can not track me where _i_ go." his impatience became now extreme. every instant seemed full of peril to him now; every rustling leaf and every waving branch a warning. i was unable to satisfy myself how far this might be well-founded terror, or a vague and causeless fear. at one moment i inclined to this--at another, to the opposite impression. assuredly nothing could be more complete than the precautions he took against discovery. his lamp was concealed in the hollow of a tree; the leaves that formed his bed he scattered and strewed carelessly on every side; he erased even the foot-tracks on the clay; and then gathering up his tattered cloak, prepared to set out. "when are we to meet again, and where?" said i, grasping his hand. he stopped suddenly, and passed his hand over his brow, as if reflecting. "you must see caillon; jacques will tell you all," said he, solemnly. "good-by. do not follow me. i will not be tracked;" and with a proud gesture of his hand he motioned me back. poor fellow! i saw that any attempt to reason with him would be in vain at such a moment; and determining to seek out the garde de chasse, i turned away slowly and sorrowfully. "what have been _my_ vicissitudes of fortune compared to _his_?" thought i. "the proud colonel of a cavalry regiment, a beggar and an outcast!" the great puzzle to me was, whether insanity had been the cause or the consequence of his misfortunes. caillon will, perhaps, be able to tell me his story, said i to myself; and thus ruminating, i returned to where i had picketed my horse three hours before. my old dragoon experiences had taught me how to "hobble" a horse, as it is called, by passing the bridle beneath the counter before tying it, and so i found him just as i left him. the sun was now up, and i could see that a wide track led off through the forest straight before me. i accordingly mounted, and struck into a sharp canter. about an hour's riding brought me to a small clearing, in the midst of which stood a neat and picturesque cottage, over the door of which was painted the words "station de chasse--no. ." in a little garden in front, a man was working in his shirt sleeves, but his military trowsers at once proclaimed him the "garde." he stopped as i came up, and eyed me sharply. "is this the road to belleville?" said i. "you can go this way, but it takes you two miles of a round," replied he, coming closer, and scanning me keenly. "you can tell me, perhaps, where jacques caillon, garde de chasse, is to be found?" "i am jacques caillon, sir," was the answer, as he saluted in soldier fashion, while a look of anxiety stole over his face. "i have something to speak to you about," said i, dismounting, and giving him the bridle of my horse. "throw him some corn, if you have got it, and then let us talk together;" and with this i walked into the garden, and seated myself on a bench. if jacques be an old soldier, thought i, the only way is to come the officer over him; discipline and obedience are never forgotten, and whatever chances i may have of his confidence will depend on how much i seem his superior. it appeared as if this conjecture was well founded, for as jacques came back, his manner betrayed every sign of respect and deference. there was an expression of almost fear in his face, as, with his hand to his cap, he asked, "what were my orders?" the very deference of his air was disconcerting, and so, assuming a look of easy cordiality, i said, "first, i will ask you to give me something to eat; and, secondly, to give me your company for half an hour." jacques promised both, and learning that i preferred my breakfast in the open air, proceeded to arrange the table under a blossoming chestnut-tree. "are you quite alone here?" asked i, as he passed back and forward. "quite alone, sir; and except a stray fagot-cutter or a chance traveler who may have lost his way, i never see a human face from year's end to year's end. it's a lonely thing for an old soldier, too," said he, with a sigh. "i know more than one who would envy you, jacques," said i, and the words made him almost start as i spoke them. the coffee was now ready, and i proceeded to make my breakfast with all the appetite of a long fast. there was indeed but little to inspire awe, or even deference in my personal appearance--a threadbare undress frock and a worn-out old foraging cap were all the marks of my soldier-like estate; and yet, from jacques's manner, one might have guessed me to be a general at the least. he attended me with the stiff propriety of the parade, and when, at last, induced to take a seat, he did so full two yards off from the table, and arose almost every time he was spoken to. now it was quite clear that the honest soldier did not know me either as the hero of kehl, of ireland, or of genoa. great achievements as they were, they were wonderfully little noised about the world, and a man might frequent mixed companies every day of the week, and never hear of one of them. so far, then, was certain it could not be my fame had imposed on him, and, as i have already hinted, it could scarcely be my general appearance. who knows, thought i, but i owe all this obsequious deference to my horse. if jacques be an old cavalry-man, he will have remarked that the beast is of great value, and doubtless argue to the worth of the rider from the merits of his "mount." if this explanation was not the most flattering, it was, at all events, the best i could hit on; and with a natural reference to what was passing in my own mind, i asked him if he had looked to my horse? "oh, yes, sir," said he, reddening suddenly, "i have taken off the saddle, and thrown him his corn." what the deuce does his confusion mean, thought i; the fellow looks as if he had half a mind to run away, merely because i asked him a simple question. "i've had a sharp ride," said i, rather by way of saying something, "and i shouldn't wonder if he was a little fatigued." "scarcely so, sir," said he, with a faint smile; "he's old now, but it's not a little will tire him." "you know him, then," said i, quickly. "ay, sir, and have known him for eighteen years. he was in the second squadron of our regiment; the major rode him two entire campaigns!" the reader may guess that his history was interesting to me, from perceiving the impression the reminiscence made on the relator, and i inquired what became of him after that. "he was wounded by a shot at neuwied, and sold into the train, where they couldn't manage him; and after three years, when horses grew scarce, he came back into the cavalry. a sergeant-major of lancers was killed on him at 'zwei brucken.' that was the fourth rider he brought mishap to, not to say a farrier whom he dashed to pieces in his stable." ah, jack, thought i, i have it; it is a piece of old-soldier superstition about this mischievous horse has inspired all the man's respect and reverence; and, if a little disappointed in the mystery, i was so far pleased at having discovered the clew. "but i have found him quiet enough," said i; "i never backed him till yesterday, and he has carried me well and peaceably." "ah, that he will now, i warrant him; since the day a shell burst under him at waitzen, he never showed any vice. the wound nearly left the ribs bare, and he was for months and months invalided; after that he was sold out of the cavalry, i don't know where or to whom. the next time i saw him was in his present service." "then you are acquainted with the present owner?" asked i, eagerly. "as every frenchman is?" was the curt rejoinder. "parbleu! it will seem a droll confession, then, when i tell you, that i myself do not even know his name." the look of contempt these words brought to my companion's face could not, it seemed, be either repressed or concealed; and although my conscience acquitted me of deserving such a glance, i own that i felt insulted by it. "you are pleased to disbelieve me, master caillon," said i, sternly, "which makes me suppose that you are neither so old nor so good a soldier as i fancied; at least, in the corps i had the honor to serve with, the word of an officer was respected like an 'order of the day.'" he stood erect as if on parade, under this rebuke, but made no answer. "had you simply expressed surprise at what i said, i would have given you the explanation frankly and freely; as it is, i shall content myself with repeating what i said--i do not even know his name." the same imperturbable look and the same silence met me as before. "now, sir, i ask you how this gentleman is called, whom i alone, of all france, am ignorant of?" "monsieur fouché," said he, calmly. "what! fouché, the minister of police?" this time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he replied, quietly: "the same, sir. the horse has the brand of the 'ministere' on his haunch." "and where is the ministere?" cried i, eagerly. "in the rue des victoires, monsieur." "but he lives in the country, in a chateau near this very forest." "where does he not live, monsieur? at versailles, at st. germain, in the luxembourg, in the marais, at neuilly, the battignolles. i have carried dispatches to him in every quarter of paris. ah, monsieur, what secret are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a trap to catch you?" this question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought, immediately revealed every thing before me. "is it not as i have said?" resumed he, still looking at my agitated face; "is it not as i have said--monsieur is in the web of the mouchards?" "good heavens! is such baseness possible?" was all that i could utter. "i'll wager a piece of five francs i can read the mystery," said jacques. "you served on moreau's staff, or with pichegru in holland; you either have some of the general's letters, or you can be supposed to have them, at all events; you remember many private conversations held with him on politics; you can charge your memory with a number of strong facts; and you can, if needed, draw up a memoir of all your intercourse. i know the system well, for i was a mouchard myself." "you a police spy, jacques?" "ay, sir; i was appointed without knowing what services were expected from me, or the duties of my station. two months' trial, however, showed that i was 'incapable,' and proved that a smart sous-officier is not necessarily a scoundrel. they dismissed me as impracticable, and made me garde de chasse; and they were right, too. whether i was dressed up in a snuff-brown suit, like a bourgeois of the rue st. denis; whether they attired me as a farmer from the provinces, a retired maitre-de-poste, an old officer, or the conducteur of a diligence, i was always jacques caillon. through every thing, wigs and beards, lace or rags, jack-boots or sabots, it was all alike; and while others could pass weeks in the pays latin as students, country doctors, or 'notaires de village,' i was certain to be detected by every brat that walked the streets." "what a system! and so these fellows assume every disguise?" asked i, my mind full of my late rencontre. "that they do, monsieur. there is one fellow, a provençal by birth, has played more characters than ever did brunet himself. i have known him as a laquais de place, a cook to an english nobleman, a letter-carrier, a flower-girl, a cornet-à-piston in the opera, and a curé from the ardëche." "a curé from the ardëche!" exclaimed i. "then i am a ruined man." "what! has monsieur fallen in with paul?" cried he, laughing. "was he begging for a small contribution to repair the roof of his little chapel, or was it a fire that had devastated his poor village? did the altar want a new covering, or the curé a vestment? was it a canopy for the fête of the virgin, or a few sous toward the 'orphelines de st. jude'?" "none of these," said i, half angrily, for the theme was no jesting one to me. "it was a poor girl that had been carried away." "lisette, the miller's daughter, or the schoolmaster's niece?" broke he in, laughing. "he must have known you were new to paris, monsieur, that he took so little trouble about a deception. and you met him at the 'charette rouge' in the marais?" "no; at a little ordinary in the quai voltaire!" "better again. why half the company there are mouchards. it is one of their rallying-points, where they exchange tokens and information. the laborers, the beggars, the fishermen of the seine, the hawkers of old books, the venders of gilt ornaments, are all spies; the most miserable creature that implored charity behind your chair as you sat at dinner, has, perhaps, his ten francs a day on the roll of the prefecture! ah, monsieur! if i had not been a poor pupil of that school, i'd have at once seen that you were a victim and not a follower; but i soon detected my error--my education taught me at least so much!" i had no relish for the self-gratulation of honest jacques, uttered, as it was, at my own expense. indeed i had no thought for any thing but the entanglement into which i had so stupidly involved myself; and i could not endure the recollection of my foolish credulity, now that all the paltry machinery of the deceit was brought before me. all my regard, dashed as it was with pity for the poor curé; all my compassionate interest for the dear lisette; all my benevolent solicitude for the sick count, who was neither more nor less than mons. fouché himself, were any thing but pleasant reminiscences now, and i cursed my own stupidity with an honest sincerity that greatly amused my companion. "and is france come to this?" cried i, passionately, and trying to console myself by inveighing against the government. "even so, sir," said jacques. "i heard monsieur de talleyrand say as much the other day, as i waited behind his chair. it is only 'dans les bonnes maisons,' said he, 'that servants ever listen at the doors; depend upon it, then, that a secret police is a strong symptom that we are returning to a monarchy.'" it was plain that even in his short career in the police service, caillon had acquired certain shrewd habits of thought, and some power of judgment, and so i freely communicated to him the whole of my late adventure from the moment of my leaving the temple to the time of my setting out for the chateau. "you have told me every thing but one, monsieur," said he, as i finished. "how came you ever to have heard the name of so humble a person as jacques caillon, for you remember you asked for me as you rode up?" "i was just coming to that point, jacques; and, as you will see, it was not an omission in my narrative, only that i had not reached so far." i then proceeded to recount my night in the forest, and my singular meeting with poor mahon, which he listened to with great attention and some anxiety. "the poor colonel!" said he, breaking in, "i suppose he is a hopeless case; his mind can never come right again." "but if the persecution were to cease; if he were at liberty to appear once more in the world--" "what if there was no persecution, sir?" broke in jacques. "what if the whole were a mere dream, or fancy? he is neither tracked nor followed. it is not such harmless game the blood-hounds of the rue des victoires scent out." "was it, then, some mere delusion drove him from the service?" said i, surprised. "i never said so much as that," replied jacques; "colonel mahon has foul injury to complain of, but his present sufferings are the inflictions of his own terror; he fancies that the whole power of france is at war with him; that every engine of the government is directed against him; with a restless fear he flies from village to village, fancying pursuit every where; even kindness now he is distrustful of, and the chances are, that he will quit the forest this very day, merely because he met you there." from being of all men the most open-hearted and frank, he had become the most suspicious; he trusted nothing nor any one; and if for a moment a burst of his old generous nature would return, it was sure to be followed by some excess of distrust that made him miserable almost to despair. jacques was obliged to fall in with this humor, and only assist him by stealth and by stratagem; he was even compelled to chime in with all his notions about pursuit and danger, to suggest frequent change of place, and endless precautions against discovery. "were i for once to treat him frankly, and ask him to share my home with me," said jacques, "i should never see him more." "what could have poisoned so noble a nature?" cried i; "when i saw him last he was the very type of generous confidence." "where was that, and when?" asked jacques. "it was at nancy, on the march for the rhine." "his calamities had not fallen on him then. he was a proud man in those days, but it was a pride that well became him; he was the colonel of a great regiment, and for bravery had a reputation second to none." "he was married, i think?" "no, sir; he was never married!" as jacques said this, he arose, and moved slowly away as though he would not be questioned further. his mind, too, seemed full of its own crowding memories, for he looked completely absorbed in thought, and never noticed my presence for a considerable time. at last he appeared to have decided some doubtful issue within himself, and said, "come, sir, let us stroll into the shade of the wood, and i'll tell you in a few words the cause of the poor colonel's ruin--for ruin it is! even were all the injustice to be revoked to-morrow, the wreck of _his_ heart could never be repaired." we walked along, side by side, for some time, before jacques spoke again, when he gave me, in brief and simple words, the following sorrowful story. it was such a type of the age, so pregnant with the terrible lessons of the time, that, although not without some misgivings, i repeat it here as it was told to myself, premising that however scant may be the reader's faith in many of the incidents of my own narrative--and i neither beg for his trust in me, nor seek to entrap it--i implore him to believe that what i am now about to tell was a plain matter of fact, and, save in the change of one name, not a single circumstance is owing to imagination. chapter xliv. an episode of ' . when the french army fell back across the sambre, after the battle of mons, a considerable portion of the rear, who covered the retreat, were cut off by the enemy, for it became their onerous duty to keep the allied forces in check, while the republicans took measures to secure and hold fast the three bridges over the river. in this service many distinguished french officers fell, and many more were left badly wounded on the field; among the latter was a young captain of dragoons, who, with his hand nearly severed by a sabre cut, yet found strength enough to crawl under cover of a hedge, and there lie down in the fierce resolve to die where he was, rather than surrender himself as a prisoner. although the allied forces had gained the battle, they quickly foresaw that the ground they had won was untenable; and scarcely had night closed in when they began their preparations to fall back. with strong pickets of observation to watch the bridges, they slowly withdrew their columns toward mons, posting the artillery on the heights around grandrengs. from these movements the ground of the late struggle became comparatively deserted, and before day began to dawn, not a sound was heard over its wide expanse, save the faint moan of a dying soldier, or the low rumble of a cart, as some spoiler of the dead stole stealthily along. among the demoralizing effects of war, none was more striking than the number of the peasantry who betook themselves to this infamous trade; and who, neglecting all thoughts of honest industry, devoted themselves to robbery and plunder. the lust of gain did not stop with the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of every thing, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the iniquity of these wretches. in part, from motives of pure humanity, in part, from feelings of a more interested nature--for terror to what this demoralization would tend, was now great and wide spread--the nobles and gentry of the land instituted a species of society to reward those who might succor the wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zeal in their care for the sufferers after a battle. this generous philanthropy was irrespective of country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army: of course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but it is fair to say, that the cases were few where the wounded man could detect the political leanings of his benefactor. the immense granaries, so universal in the low countries, were usually fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the chateau itself were often devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household, from the "seigneur" to the lowest menial, assuming some office in the great work of charity; and it was a curious thing to see how the luxurious indolence of chateau life become converted into the zealous activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity. it was a little before daybreak that a small cart, drawn by a mule, drew up by the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered arm bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking strength told could not be far distant. as the peasant approached him, he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of plunder, while, in the few words of bad french he could muster, he explained his purpose. "no, no, my kind friend," said the officer, "your labor would only be lost on me. it is nearly all over already! a little further on in the field, yonder, where that copse stands, you'll find some poor fellow or other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. adieu!" but neither the farewell, nor the abrupt gesture that accompanied it, could turn the honest peasant from his purpose. there was something that interested him in this very disregard of life, as well as in the personal appearance of the sufferer, and, without further colloquy, he lifted the half-fainting form into the cart, and, disposing the straw comfortably on either side of him, set out homeward. the wounded man was almost indifferent to what happened, and never spoke a word nor raised his head as they went along. about three hours' journey brought them to a large old-fashioned chateau beside the sambre, an immense straggling edifice which, with a façade of nearly a hundred windows, looked out upon the river. although now in disrepair and neglect, with ill-trimmed alleys and grass-grown terraces, it had been once a place of great pretensions, and associated with some of the palmiest days of flemish hospitality. the chateau d'overbecque was the property of a certain rich merchant of antwerp, named d'aerschot, one of the oldest families of the land, and was, at the time we speak of, the temporary abode of his only son, who had gone there to pass the honeymoon. except that they were both young, neither of them yet twenty, two people could not easily be found so discrepant in every circumstance and every quality. he the true descendant of a flemish house, plodding, commonplace, and methodical, hating show and detesting expense. she a lively, volatile girl, bursting with desire to see and be seen, fresh from the restraint of a convent at bruges, and anxious to mix in all the pleasures and dissipations of the world. like all marriages in their condition, it had been arranged without their knowledge or consent; circumstances of fortune made the alliance suitable; so many hundred thousands florins on one side were wedded to an equivalent on the other, and the young people were married to facilitate the "transaction." that he was not a little shocked at the gay frivolity of his beautiful bride, and she as much disappointed at the staid demureness of her stolid-looking husband, is not to be wondered at; but their friends knew well that time would smooth down greater discrepancies than even these; and if ever there was a country, the monotony of whose life could subdue all to its own leaden tone, it was holland in old days. whether engaged in the active pursuit of gain in the great cities, or enjoying the luxurious repose of chateau life, a dull, dreary uniformity pervaded every thing--the same topics, the same people, the same landscape, recurred day after day; and save what the season induced, there was nothing of change in the whole round of their existence. and what a dull honeymoon was it for that young bride at the old chateau of overbecque! to toil along the deep sandy roads in a lumbering old coach, with two long-tailed black horses--to halt at some little eminence, and strain the eyes over a long unbroken flat, where a wind-ill, miles off, was an object of interest--to loiter beside the bank of a sluggish canal, and gaze on some tasteless excrescence of a summerhouse, whose owner could not be distinguished from the wooden effigy that sat, pipe in mouth, beside him--to dine in the unbroken silence of a funeral feast, and doze away the afternoon over the "handelsblatt," while her husband smoked himself into the seventh heaven of a dutch elysium--poor caroline! this was a sorry realization of all her bright dreamings! it ought to be borne in mind, that many descendants of high french families, who were either too proud or too poor to emigrate to england or america, had sought refuge from the revolution in the convents of the low countries; where, without entering an order, they lived in all the discipline of a religious community. these ladies, many of whom had themselves mixed in all the elegant dissipations of the court, carried with them the most fascinating reminiscences of a life of pleasure, and could not readily forget the voluptuous enjoyments of versailles, and the graceful caprices of "la petit trianon." from such sources as these the young pupils drew all their ideas of the world, and assuredly it could have scarcely worn colors more likely to fascinate such imaginations. what a shortcoming was the wearisome routine of overbecque to a mind full of the refined follies of marie antoinette's court! even war and its chances offered a pleasurable contrast to such dull monotony, and the young bride hailed with eagerness the excitement and bustle of the moving armies--the long columns which poured along the high road, and the clanking artillery, heard for miles off! monsieur d'aerschot, like all his countrymen who held property near the frontier, was too prudent to have any political bias. madame was, however, violently french. the people who had such admirable taste in "toilet," could scarcely be wrong in the theories of government; and a nation so invariably correct in dress, could hardly be astray in morals. besides this, all their notions of morality were as pliant and as easy to wear as their own well-fitting garments. nothing was wrong but what _looked_ ungracefully; every thing was right that sat becomingly on her who did it. a short code, and wonderfully easy to learn. if i have dwelt somewhat tediously on these tendencies of the time, it is that i may pass the more glibly over the consequences, and not pause upon the details by which the young french captain's residence at overbecque gradually grew, from the intercourse of kindness and good offices, to be a close friendship with his host, and as much of regard and respectful devotion as consisted with the position of his young and charming hostess. he thought her, as she certainly was, very beautiful; she rode to perfection, she sung delightfully; she had all the volatile gayety of a happy child with the graceful ease of coming womanhood. her very passion for excitement gave a kind of life and energy to the dull old chateau, and made her momentary absence felt as a dreary blank. it is not my wish to speak of the feelings suggested by the contrast between her husband and the gay and chivalrous young soldier, nor how little such comparisons tended to allay the repinings at her lot. their first effect, was, however, to estrange her more and more from d'aerschot, a change which he accepted with most dutch indifference. possibly, piqued by this, or desirous of awakening his jealousy, she made more advances toward the other, selecting him as the companion of her walks, and passing the greater part of each day in his society. nothing could be more honorable than the young soldier's conduct in this trying position. the qualities of agreeability which he had previously displayed to requite, in some sort, the hospitality of his hosts, he now gradually restrained, avoiding as far as he could, without remark, the society of the young countess, and even feigning indisposition, to escape from the peril of her intimacy. he did more--he exerted himself to draw d'aerschot more out, to make him exhibit the shrewd intelligence which lay buried beneath his native apathy, and display powers of thought and reflection of no mean order. alas! these very efforts on his part only increased the mischief, by adding generosity to his other virtues! he now saw all the danger in which he was standing, and, although still weak and suffering, resolved to take his departure. there was none of the concealed vanity of a coxcomb in this knowledge. he heartily deplored the injury he had unwittingly done, and the sorry return he had made for all their generous hospitality. there was not a moment to be lost; but the very evening before, as they walked together in the garden, she had confessed to him the misery in which she lived by recounting the story of her ill-sorted marriage. what it cost him to listen to that sad tale with seeming coldness--to hear her afflictions without offering one word of kindness; nay, to proffer merely some dry, harsh counsels of patience and submission, while he added something very like rebuke for her want of that assiduous affection which should have been given to her husband! unaccustomed to even the slightest censure, she could scarcely trust her ears as she heard him. had she humiliated herself, by such a confession, to be met by advice like this! and was it _he_ that should reproach her for the very faults his own intimacy had engendered! she could not endure the thought, and she felt that she could hate, just at the very moment when she knew she loved him! they parted in anger--reproaches, the most cutting and bitter, on her part; coldness, far more wounding, on his! sarcastic compliments upon his generosity, replied to by as sincere expressions of respectful friendship. what hypocrisy and self-deceit together! and yet deep beneath all lay the firm resolve for future victory. her wounded self-love was irritated, and she was not one to turn from an unfinished purpose. as for him, he waited till all was still and silent in the house, and then seeking out d'aerschot's chamber, thanked him most sincerely for all his kindness, and, affecting a hurried order to join his service, departed. while in her morning dreams she was fancying conquest, he was already miles away on the road to france. * * * * * it was about three years after this, that a number of french officers were seated one evening in front of a little café in freyburg. the town was then crammed with troops moving down to occupy the passes of the rhine, near the lake of constance, and every hour saw fresh arrivals pouring in, dusty and wayworn from the march. the necessity for a sudden massing of the troops in a particular spot compelled the generals to employ every possible means of conveyance to forward the men to their destination, and from the lumbering old diligence with ten horses, to the light charette with one, all were engaged in this pressing service. when men were weary, and unable to march forward, they were taken up for twelve or fourteen miles, after which they proceeded on their way, making room for others, and thus forty, and even fifty miles were frequently accomplished in the same day. the group before the café were amusing themselves criticising the strange appearance of the new arrivals, many of whom certainly made their entry in the least military fashion possible. here came a great country wagon, with forty infantry soldiers all sleeping on the straw. here followed a staff-officer trying to look quite at his ease in a donkey-cart. unwieldy old bullock-carts were filled with men, and a half-starved mule tottered along with a drummer-boy in one pannier, and camp-kettles in the other. he who was fortunate enough to secure a horse for himself, was obliged to carry the swords and weapons of his companions, which were all hung around and about him on every side, together with helmets and shakos of all shapes and sizes, whose owners were fain to cover their heads with the less soldier-like appendages of a nightcap or a handkerchief. nearly all who marched carried their caps on their muskets, for in such times as these all discipline is relaxed, save such as is indispensable to the maintenance of order; and so far was freedom conceded, that some were to be seen walking barefoot in the ranks, while their shoes were suspended by a string on their backs. the rule seemed to be "get forward--it matters not how--only get forward!" and with french troops, such relaxation of strict discipline is always practicable; the instincts of obedience return at the first call of the bugle or the first roll of the drum; and at the word to "fall in!" every symptom of disorder vanishes, and the mass of seeming confusion becomes the steady and silent phalanx. many were the strange sights that passed before the eyes of the party at the café, who, having arrived early in the day, gave themselves all the airs of ease and indolence before their wayworn comrades. now laughing heartily at the absurdity of this one, now exchanging some good-humored jest with that, they were in the very full current of their criticism, when the sharp, shrill crack of a postillion's whip informed them that a traveler of some note was approaching. a mounted courier, all slashed with gold lace, came riding up the street at the same moment, and a short distance behind followed a handsome equipage, drawn by six horses, after which came a heavy "fourgon" with four. one glance showed that the whole equipage betokened a wealthy owner. there was all that cumbrous machinery of comfort about it that tells of people who will not trust to the chances of the road for their daily wants. every appliance of ease was there; and even in the self-satisfied air of the servants who lounged in the "rumble" might be read habits of affluent prosperity. a few short years back, and none would have dared to use such an equipage. the sight of so much indulgence would have awakened the fiercest rage of popular fury; but already the high fever of democracy was gradually subsiding, and bit by bit men were found reverting to old habits and old usages. still each new indication of these tastes met a certain amount of reprobation. some blamed openly, some condemned in secret; but all felt that there was at least impolicy in a display which would serve as a pretext for the terrible excesses that were committed under the banner of "equality." "if we lived in the days of princes," said one of the officers, "i should say there goes one now. just look at all the dust they are kicking up yonder; while, as if to point a moral upon greatness, they are actually stuck fast in the narrow street, and unable from their own unwieldiness to get further." "just so," cried another; "they want to turn down toward the 'swan,' and there isn't space enough to wheel the leaders." "who or what are they?" asked a third. "some commissary-general, i'll be sworn," said the first. "they are the most shameless thieves going; for they are never satisfied with robbery, if they do not exhibit the spoils in public." "i see a bonnet and a lace vail," said another, rising suddenly and pushing through the crowd. "i'll wager it's a 'danseuse' of the grand opera." "look at merode!" remarked the former, as he pointed to the last speaker. "see how he thrusts himself forward there. watch, and you'll see him bow and smile to her, as if they had been old acquaintances." the guess was so far unlucky, that merode had no sooner come within sight of the carriage-window, than he was seen to bring his hand to the salute, and remain in an attitude of respectful attention till the equipage moved on. "well, merode, who is it?--who are they?" cried several together, as he fell back among his comrades. "it's our new adjutant-general, parbleu!" said he, "and he caught me staring at his pretty wife." "colonel mahon!" said another, laughing; "i wish you joy of your gallantry, merode." "and worse, still," broke in a third, "she is not his wife. she never could obtain the divorce to allow her to marry again. some said it was the husband--a dutchman, i believe--refused it; but the simple truth is, she never wished it herself." "how, not wish it?" remarked three or four in a breath. "why should she? has she not every advantage the position could give her, and her liberty into the bargain? if we were back again in the old days of the monarchy, i agree with you, she could not go to court; she would receive no invitations to the 'petits soupers' of the trianon, nor be asked to join the discreet hunting-parties at fontainebleu; but we live in less polished days; and if we have little virtue, we have less hypocrisy." "voila!" cried another, "only i, for one, would never believe that we are a jot more wicked or more dissolute than those powdered and perfumed scoundrels that played courtier in the king's bed-chamber." "there, they are getting out, at the 'tour d'argent!'" cried another. "she _is_ a splendid figure, and what magnificence in her dress!" "mahon waits on her like a laquais," muttered a grim old lieutenant of infantry. "rather like a well-born cavalier, i should say," interposed a young hussar. "his manner is all that it ought to be--full of devotion and respect." "bah!" said the former; "a soldier's wife, or a soldier's mistress--for it's all one--should know how to climb up to her place on the baggage-wagon, without three lazy rascals to catch her sleeve or her petticoats for her." "mahon is as gallant a soldier as any in this army," said the hussar; "and i'd not be in the man's coat who disparaged him in any thing." "by st. denis!" broke in another, "he's not more brave than he is fortunate. let me tell you, it's no slight luck to chance upon so lovely a woman as that, with such an immense fortune, too." "is she rich?" "enormously rich. _he_ has nothing. an emigré of good family, i believe, but without a sous; and see how he travels yonder." while this conversation was going forward, the new arrivals had alighted at the chief inn of the town, and were being installed in the principal suite of rooms, which opened on a balcony over the "place." the active preparations of the host to receive such distinguished guests--the hurrying of servants here and there--the blaze of wax-lights that shone half way across the street beneath--and, lastly, the appearance of a regimental band to play under the windows--were all circumstances well calculated to sustain and stimulate that spirit of sharp criticism which the group around the café were engaged in. the discussion was, however, suddenly interrupted by the entrance of an officer, at whose appearance every one arose and stood in attitudes of respectful attention. scarcely above the middle size, and more remarkable for the calm and intellectual cast of his features, than for that air of military pride then so much in vogue among the french troops--he took his place at a small table near the door, and called for his coffee. it was only when he was seated, and that by a slight gesture he intimated his wishes to that effect, that the others resumed their places, and continued the conversation, but in a lower, more subdued tone. "what distinguished company have we got yonder?" said he, after about half an hour's quiet contemplation of the crowd before the inn, and the glaring illumination from the windows. "colonel mahon, of the fifth cuirassiers, general," replied an officer. "our republican simplicity is not so self-denying a system, after all, gentlemen," said the general, smiling half sarcastically. "is he very rich?" "his mistress is, general," was the prompt reply. "bah!" said the general, as he threw his cigar away, and, with a contemptuous expression of looks, arose and walked away. "parbleu! he's going to the inn," cried an officer, who peered out after him; "i'll be sworn mahon will get a heavy reprimand for all this display and ostentation." "and why not?" said another. "is it when men are arriving half dead with fatigue, without rations, without billets, glad to snatch a few hours' rest on the stones of the place, that the colonel of a regiment should travel with all the state of an eastern despot." "we might as well have the monarchy back again," said an old weather-beaten captain; "i say far better, for their vices sat gracefully and becomingly on those essenced scoundrels, whereas they but disfigure the plainness of our daily habits." "all this is sheer envy, comrades," broke in a young major of hussars, "sheer envy; or, what is worse, downright hypocrisy. not one of us is a whit better or more moral than if he wore the livery of a king, and carried a crown on his shako instead of that naked damsel that represents french liberty. mahon is the luckiest fellow going, and, i heartily believe, the most deserving of his fortune! and see if general moreau be not of my opinion. there he is on the balcony, and she is leaning on his arm." "parbleu! the major is right!" said another; "but, for certain, it was not in that humor he left us just now; his lips were closely puckered up, and his fingers were twisted into his sword-knot, two signs of anger and displeasure, there's no mistaking." "if he's in a better temper, then," said another, "it was never the smiles of a pretty woman worked the change. there's not a man in france so thoroughly indifferent to such blandishments." "tant pis pour lui," said the major; "but they're closing the window-shutters, and we may as well go home." chapter xlv. the cabinet of a chef-de-police. whatever opinion may be formed of the character of the celebrated conspiracy of georges and pichegru, the mode of its discovery, and the secret rules by which its plans were detected, are among the great triumphs of police skill. from the hour when the conspirators first met together in london, to that last fatal moment when they expired in the temple, the agents of fouché never ceased to track them. their individual tastes and ambitions were studied; their habits carefully investigated; every thing that could give a clew to their turn of thought or mind well weighed; so that the consular government was not only in possession of all their names and rank, but knew thoroughly the exact amount of complicity attaching to each, and could distinguish between the reckless violence of georges and the more tempered, but higher ambition of moreau. it was a long while doubtful whether the great general would be implicated in the scheme. his habitual reserve--a habit less of caution than of constitutional delicacy--had led him to few intimacies, and nothing like even one close friendship; he moved little in society; he corresponded with none, save on the duties of the service. fouché's well-known boast of, "give me two words of a man's writing and i'll hang him," were then scarcely applicable here. to attack such a man unsuccessfully, to arraign him on a weak indictment, would have been ruin; and yet bonaparte's jealousy of his great rival pushed him even to this peril, rather than risk the growing popularity of his name with the army. fouché, and, it is said also, talleyrand, did all they could to dissuade the first consul from this attempt, but he was fixed and immutable in his resolve, and the police minister at once addressed himself to his task with all his accustomed cleverness. high play was one of the great vices of the day. it was a time of wild and varied excitement, and men sought, even in their dissipations, the whirlwind passions that stirred them in active life. moreau, however, was no gambler; it was said that he never could succeed in learning a game. he, whose mind could comprehend the most complicated question of strategy, was obliged to confess himself conquered by écarte! so much for the vaunted intellectuality of the play-table! neither was he addicted to wine. all his habits were temperate, even to the extent of unsociality. a man who spoke little, and wrote less, who indulged in no dissipations, nor seemed to have taste for any, was a difficult subject to treat; and so fouché found, as, day after day, his spies reported to him the utter failure of all their schemes to entrap him. lajolais, the friend of pichegru, and the man who betrayed him, was the chief instrument the police minister used to obtain secret information. being well born, and possessed of singularly pleasing manners, he had the _entrée_ of the best society of paris, where his gay, easy humor made him a great favorite. lajolais, however, could never penetrate into the quiet domesticity of moreau's life, nor make any greater inroad on his intimacy than a courteous salutation as they passed each other in the garden of the luxembourg. at the humble restaurant where he dined each day for two francs, the "general," as he was distinctively called, never spoke to any one. unobtrusive and quiet, he occupied a little table in a recess of the window, and arose the moment he finished his humble meal. after this he was to be seen in the garden of the luxembourg, with a cigar and a book, or sometimes, without either, seated pensively under a tree for hours together. if he had been conscious of the "espionage" established all over his actions, he could scarcely have adopted a more guarded or more tantalizing policy. to the verbal communications of pichegru and armand polignac, he returned vague replies; their letters he never answered at all, and lajolais had to confess that, after two months of close pursuit, the game was as far from him as ever! "you have come to repeat the old song to me, monsieur lajolais," said fouché, one evening, as his wily subordinate entered the room; "you have nothing to tell me, eh?" "very little, monsieur le ministre, but still something. i have at last found out where moreau spends all his evenings. i told you that about half-past nine o'clock every night all lights were extinguished in his quarters, and, from the unbroken stillness, it was conjectured that he had retired to bed. now, it seems that, about an hour later, he is accustomed to leave his house, and crossing the place de l'odeon, to enter the little street called the 'allée de caire,' where, in a small house next but one to the corner, resides a certain officer, 'en retraite'--a colonel mahon, of the cuirassiers." "a royalist?" "this is suspected, but not known. his politics, however, are not in question here; the attraction is of a different order." "ha! i perceive; he has a wife or a daughter." "better still, a mistress. you may have heard of the famous caroline de stassart, that married a dutchman named d'aerschot." "madame laure, as they called her," said fouché, laughing. "the same. she has lived as mahon's wife for some years, and was as such introduced into society; in fact, there is no reason, seeing what society is in these days, that she should not participate in all its pleasures." "no matter for that," broke in fouché; "bonaparte will not have it so. he wishes that matters should go back to the old footing, and wisely remarks, that it is only in savage life that people or vices go without clothing." "be it so, monsieur. in the present case no such step is necessary. i know her maid, and from her i have heard that her mistress is heartily tired of her protector. it was originally a sudden fancy, taken when she knew nothing of life--had neither seen any thing, nor been herself seen. by the most wasteful habits she has dissipated all, or nearly all, her own large fortune, and involved mahon heavily in debt; and they are thus reduced to a life of obscurity and poverty--the very things the least endurable to her notions." "well, does she care for moreau?" asked fouché, quickly; for all stories to his ear only resolved themselves into some question of utility or gain. "no, but he does for her. about a year back she did take a liking to him. he was returning from his great german campaign, covered with honors and rich in fame; but as her imagination is captivated by splendor, while her heart remains perfectly cold and intact, moreau's simple, unpretending habits quickly effaced the memory of his hard-won glory, and now she is quite indifferent to him." "and who is her idol now, for, of course, she has one?" asked fouché. "you would scarcely guess," said lajolais. "parbleu! i hope it is not myself," said fouché, laughing. "no, monsieur le ministre, her admiration is not so well placed. the man who has captivated her present fancy is neither good-looking nor well-mannered; he is short and abrupt of speech, careless in dress, utterly indifferent to women's society, and almost rude to them." "you have drawn the very picture of a man to be adored by them," said fouché, with a dry laugh. "i suppose so," said the other with a sigh; "or general ney would not have made this conquest." "ah! it is ney, then. and he, what of him?" "it is hard to say. as long as she lived in a grand house of the rue st. georges, where he could dine four days a week, and, in his dirty boots and unbrushed frock, mix with all the fashion and elegance of the capital; while he could stretch full length on a persian ottoman, and brush the cinders from his cigar against a statuette by canova, or a gold embroidered hanging; while in the midst of the most voluptuous decorations he alone could be dirty and uncared for, i really believe that he did care for her, at least, so far as ministering to his own enjoyments; but in a miserable lodging of the 'allée de caire,' without equipage, lackeys, liveried footmen--" "to be sure," interrupted fouché, "one might as well pretend to be fascinated by the beauty of a landscape the day after it has been desolated by an earthquake. ney is right! well, now, monsieur lajolais, where does all this bring us to?" "very near to the end of our journey, monsieur le ministre. madame, or mademoiselle, is most anxious to regain her former position; she longs for all the luxurious splendor she used to live in. let us but show her this rich reward, and she will be our own!" "in _my_ trade, monsieur lajolais, generalities are worth nothing. give me details; let me know how you would proceed." "easily enough, sir; mahon must first of all be disposed of, and perhaps the best way will be to have him arrested for debt. this will not be difficult, for his bills are every where. once in the temple, she will never think more of him. it must then be her task to obtain the most complete influence over moreau. she must affect the deepest interest in the royalist cause: i'll furnish her with all the watch-words of the party, and moreau, who never trusts a man, will open all his confidence to a woman." "very good, go on!" cried fouché, gathering fresh interest as the plot began to reveal itself before him. "he hates writing; she will be his secretary, embodying all his thoughts and suggestions; and now and then, for _her own guidance_, obtaining little scraps in _his_ hand. if he be too cautious here, i will advise her to remove to geneva, for change of air; he likes switzerland, and will follow her immediately." "this will do; at least it looks practicable," said fouché, thoughtfully; "is she equal to the part you would assign her?" "ay, sir, and to a higher one, too! she has considerable ability, and great ambition; her present narrow fortune has irritated and disgusted her; the moment is most favorable for us." "if she should play us false," said fouché, half aloud. "from all i can learn, there is no risk of this; there is a headlong determination in her, when once she has conceived a plan, from which nothing turns her; overlooking all but her object, she will brave any thing, do any thing to attain it." "bonaparte was right in what he said of necker's daughter," said fouché, musingly, "and there is no doubt it adds wonderfully to a woman's _head_, that she has no _heart_. and now, the price, master lajolais; remember that our treasury received some deadly wounds lately--what is to be the price?" "it may be a smart one; she is not likely to be a cheap purchase." "in the event of success--i mean of such proof as may enable us to arrest moreau, and commit him to prison--" he stopped as he got thus far, and paused for some seconds--"bethink you, then, lajolais," said he, "what a grand step this would be, and how terrible the consequences if undertaken on rash or insufficient grounds. moreau's popularity with the army is only second to one man's! his unambitious character has made him many friends; he has few, very few enemies." "but you need not push matters to the last--an implied, but not a proven guilt would be enough; and you can pardon him!" "ay, lajolais, but who would pardon _us_?" cried fouché, carried beyond all the bounds of his prudence, by the thought of a danger so imminent. "well, well, let us come back; the price--will that do?" and taking up a pen he scratched some figures on a piece of paper. lajolais smiled dubiously, and added a unit to the left of the sum. "what! a hundred and fifty thousand francs!" cried fouché. "and a cheap bargain, too," said the other; "for, after all, it is only the price of a ticket in the lottery, of which the great prize is general ney!" "you say truly," said the minister; "be it so." "write your name there, then," said lajolais, "beneath those figures; that will be warranty sufficient for my negotiation, and leave the rest to me." "nature evidently meant you for a _chef-de-police_, master lajolais." "or a cardinal! monsieur le ministre," said the other, as he folded up the paper, a little insignificant slip, scrawled over with a few figures, and an almost illegible word; and yet pregnant with infamy to one, banishment to another, ruin and insanity to a third. this sad record need not be carried further. it is far from a pleasant task to tell of baseness unredeemed by one trait of virtue--of treachery, unrepented even by regret. history records moreau's unhappy destiny--the pages of private memoir tell of ney's disastrous connection; our own humble reminiscences speak of poor mahon's fate, the least known of all, but the most sorrowful victim of a woman's treachery! (to be continued.) the floating island. a legend of loch dochart. one night in midsummer, a long, long time ago--so long ago that i may not venture to assign the date--the moon shone down, as it might have done last night, over the wild, lone shore of loch dochart. upon a little promontory on its southern margin stood a girl, meanly clad, wasted, and wayworn. in her arms she bore a little babe, wrapped up in the folds of a plaid; and as she bent her thin, pallid face over that of the child, her rich, long, yellow hair fell in a shower around her, unconfined either by _snood_ or _curch_. one might have taken her for magdalene, in her withered beauty, her penitence, and her grief; but other than magdalene, in her passionate despair. she looked around her, and a shudder shook her feeble frame. was it the chill of the night mist?--it might be; for as her eye wandered away toward the hills beyond, northward, the mists were creeping along their sides, and she saw the moonlight gleaming on a lowly cot, amid a fir grove. 'twas the home of her parents, the home of her happy childhood, her innocent youth. she looked again at the little one in her bosom; it slept, but a spasm of pain wrung its pale, pinched, sharp features. it appeared to be feeble and pining, for sleepless nights and days of grief and tears had turned the milk of the mother to gall and poison, and the little innocent drank in death--death, the fruit of sin in all climes and ages. gently she laid the little one by the margent of the water, amid the green rushes; and the breeze of night sweeping by murmured plaintively to them, and caused them to sigh, and rock to and fro around the infant. then the poor mother withdrew a space from the babe, and sat her down upon a white stone, and covered her face with her long, thin, bloodless hands. she said in her heart, as hagar said, "let me not see the death of the child." and she wept sore, for the poor girl loved the babe, as a mother, like her, only can love her babe, with a wild, passionate, absorbing love, for it is her all, her pearl of great price, which she has bought with name and fame, with home and friends, with health and happiness, with earth, and, it may be, with heaven. and she thought bitterly over that happy home, where, a few months since, in the gloaming of the autumn's eve, she sat on the heathery braes, and tripped along the brink of the warbling burn, or milked the kine in the byre, or sang to her spinning-wheel beside her mother, near the ingle. next came the recollection of one who sat beside her in the braes, and strayed with her down the burn; who won her heart with his false words, and drew her from the holy shelter of her father's roof, to leave her in her desolation among the southern strangers. and now, with the faithfulness--though not with the purity or trustfulness--of the dove, she was returning over the waste of the world's dark waters to that ark which had sheltered her early years--from which no father had sent her forth. the ark is in sight; but the poor bird is weary from her flight, and she would even now willingly fold her wings and sink down amid the waters, for she is full of shame, and fear, and sorrow. ah! will her father "put forth his hand and take her in, and pull her in unto him into the ark," with the glory of her whiteness defiled, her plumage ruffled and drooping? ah! will her mother draw her again to nestle within her bosom, when she sees the dark stain upon her breast, once so pure and spotless? the poor girl wept as she thought these things--at first wild and bitterly, but at length her sorrow became gentler, and her soul more calm, for her heavy heart was relieved by the tears that seemed to have gushed straight up from it, as the dark clouds are lightened when the rain pours from them. and so she sobbed and mused in the cold, dreary night, till her thoughts wandered and her vision grew dim, and she sank down in slumber--a slumber like that of childhood, sweet and deep. and she dreamed that angels, pure and white, stood around: and, oh! strange and charming, they looked not on her as the unfallen ones of the world--the pure and the sinless in their own sight--looked upon her through the weary days of her humiliation--scornfully, loathingly, pitilessly; but their sweet eyes were bent upon her full of ruth, and gentleness, and love; and tears like dew-pearls fell from those mild and lustrous orbs upon her brow and bosom, as those beautiful beings hung over her, and those tears calmed her poor wild brain, and each, where it fell upon her bosom, washed away a stain. then the angels took the little one from her breast, and spread their wings as if for flight; but she put forth her arms to regain her child, and one of the bright beings repressed her gently, and said, "it may not be--the babe goes with us." then said she to the angel, "suffer me also to go with my child, that i may be with it and tend it ever." but the angel said, in a voice of sweet and solemn earnestness, "not yet--not yet. thou mayest not come with us now, but in a little while shalt thou rejoin us, and this our little sister." and the dreamer thought that they rose slowly on the moonlit air, as the light clouds float before a gentle breeze at evening; then the child stretched forth its arms toward her with a plaintive cry, and she awoke and sprang forward to where her child lay. the waters of the lake rippled over the feet of the mother, but the babe lay beyond in the rushes at the point of the promontory where she had laid it. the bewildered mother essayed to spring across the stream that now flowed between her and the island, but in vain; her strength failed her, and as she sank to the earth she beheld the island floating slowly away upon the waveless bosom of the lake, while eldritch laughter rang from out the rushes, mingled with sweet tiny voices soothing with a fairy lullaby the cries of the babe that came fainter and fainter on the ears of the bereaved mother, as the little hands of the elfin crew impelled the floating island over the surface of loch dochart. some herdsmen going forth in the early morning found a girl apparently lifeless lying on the edge of the lake. she was recognized and brought to her early home. when she opened her eyes her parents stood before her. no word of anger passed from the lips of her father, though his eye was clouded and his head was bowed down with sorrow and humiliation. her mother took the girl's head and laid it on her bosom--as she had done when she was a little guileless child--and wept, and kissed her, and prayed over her. then after a time she came to know those around her and where she was, and she started up and looked restlessly around, and cried out with a loud and wild cry, "my child! where is my child!" near the spot where she had been discovered was found a portion of a baby's garment. the people feared the child had been drowned, and searched the loch along its shores. nothing, however, was found which could justify their suspicions; but, to the astonishment of the searchers, they discovered in the midst of the lake a small island, about fifty feet in length, and more than half that in width, covered with rushes and water-plants. no one had ever seen it before, and when they returned with others to show the wonder, they found that it had sensibly changed its position. the home-returned wanderer whispered into her mother's ear all her sin and all her sorrow. then she pined away day by day. and when the moon was again full in the heavens, she stole forth in the gloaming. she was missed in the morning, and searched for during many days, but no trace could be found of her. at length some fishermen passing by the floating island, scared a large kite from the rushes, and discovered the decaying body of the hapless girl. how she had reached the island none could say--whether it drifted sufficiently near the land to enable her to wade to it in her search for her babe, and then floated out again from the shore; or whether beings of whom peasants fear to speak had brought her there. the latter conjecture was, of course, the one more generally adopted by the people, and there are those who say that at midnight, when the moon shines down at the full upon loch dochart, he who has sharp ears may hear the cry of a baby mingling with elfish laughter and sweet low songs from amidst the plants and rushes of the floating island. siberia, as a land of political exile. from the reign of peter the great to the present moment, exile to siberia as a punishment for political offenses, has been of constant recurrence, and most of the romance of russian history is connected with the frozen steppes of that country. to enumerate all the illustrious names that have swelled the list of exiles up to the reign of alexander, would be to write the history of the innumerable conspiracies which at various periods have shaken the throne of russia, of the cruel caprices of a race of absolute and unscrupulous despots, and of the various individual passions which, under governments such as that of russia, can always find means of making the public authorities the avengers of private hatreds. from the reign of alexander up to the present time, sentence of exile to siberia for political offenses has perhaps been more frequently pronounced than before; and as within this period the victims have mostly suffered for opinions, not for criminal deeds, and in many instances for opinions which, judged from the point of view of absolute right, must be pronounced to be noble and generous, though, in opposition to the reigning system in the country, the fate of these exiles has elicited the sympathy of europe in a far higher degree than was ever called forth by the fall of court favorites, whose change of fortune was generally caused by an inordinate and selfish ambition. that to the latter, life in siberia was but a succession of hardships, privations, and humiliations, history affirms; but what may be the fate of the exiles in the present day, there are no more authentic means of ascertaining than the narratives of the few west europeans who have visited siberia, and the inferences which may be drawn from the general system of convict colonization followed in the country, and from the spirit which pervades society there. a regular system of convict colonization was commenced in , during the reign of the empress elizabeth, who was too tender-hearted to sign the death-warrant even of the most atrocious criminal, though she tolerated and countenanced the most barbarous cruelties; but it was carried on without any attention to the necessities of the various localities, and was found not to work as favorably as might be desired. the existing irregularities having been brought to light, by the census taken in siberia in , new regulations were issued in ; and these were further improved upon in , and brought into harmony with the improved penal code of the country. notwithstanding the energetic endeavors of peter the great to force european civilization upon his people, he took little pains with regard to the necessary preliminary process of humanizing the penal laws of the country, and the most barbarous and degrading punishments continued, during his and several subsequent reigns, to be inflicted on persons of all ranks and both sexes. torture in its most cruel forms was frequently applied, and the bodies of the criminals mutilated in the most inhuman manner, their noses and ears being cut off, and their tongues torn out by the root. under the reign of catharine ii., mitigations were, however, introduced: torture was abolished, and the nobles, as also the burghers of the two first guilds, were exempted from corporeal punishment. the cruel and capricious paul i., however, again gave to the world the sad and degrading spectacle of individuals of high social position and refined education wincing under the lash of the executioner; and to this day the knout and the cat-o'-nine-tails are reckoned among the instruments of correction in russia. the punishments, as regulated by law at present, consist, according to the nature of the offense committed, in money fines, restitution, church penitence, loss of office, forfeiture of privileges and of honor, and in corporeal punishments of various kinds and degrees--regarding which it is, however, expressly stipulated that the sentence must not contain a recommendation "to flog without mercy," as was formerly the case--and in banishment to siberia, which, in case of heinous offenses, is further sharpened by forced labor in the mines and manufactories. capital punishment is reintroduced, but for crimes of high treason only, and is even in such cases but very rarely applied. from the execution of the cossack rebel pugatscher, which took place in moscow, in , fifty years elapsed before sentence of death was again pronounced in russia, when five of the leaders of the insurrection of , which had nearly deprived the emperor nicholas of the throne to which he had just succeeded, were sentenced to lose their lives at the hands of the hangman. the knout, in addition to hard labor for life in the mines of siberia, is the general substitute for capital punishment; and up to , all criminals under this last sentence were branded on the forehead, though the practice of slitting up the ears and nostrils, which continued in force until the reign of alexander, was discontinued. in cases when the criminals are condemned to banishment for life, the sentence may be rendered still more rigorous by condemnation to _civil death_, in which cases alone the families of the convicts are not allowed to follow them into exile, and they are neither allowed to receive nor to write letters. kasan, in which city there is a bureau of dispatch for exiles, is the starting point of the detachments of convicts and exiles which periodically leave russia for siberia--their halting-places being indicated along the line of route by large four-winged wooden buildings, with yellow walls and red roofs, and surrounded by a stout palisade, erected at every post-station opposite the crown post-house. according to the improved regulations of , the convicts condemned to forced labor are not allowed to travel in company with the criminals of lesser degree destined for immediate colonization, as was previously the case, but are sent in separate detachments, care being also taken that several days shall elapse between the departures of the successive detachments, so as to preclude all possibility of contact on the road. as far as can be judged from the very imperfect records which are available, the number of convicts transported to siberia up to the year averaged yearly; but among these it may be presumed were not numbered the political exiles. in the year , persons were transported; in , the number swelled to ; and from that period until , the annual number was from to . in a ukase was issued, ordering that all vagrants who had until then been subjected to forced labor in the fortresses should in future be sent to siberia as colonists. this of course greatly augmented the number transported; and during the period of six years which elapsed from the date of this ukase to , , persons, or , individuals annually, were sent to people these uncultivated wilds. among these, persons convicted of vagrancy only were, however, in a great majority, the number of criminal offenders condemned to hard labor, amounting only to one-seventh of the whole number. the number of women in proportion to that of the men was one to ten. the convicts travel on foot, all being, on starting, supplied with clothing at the public expense. the men walk in pairs; but, except in cases of extreme criminality, are rarely burdened with fetters during the journey. when passing through towns, however, irons are generally attached to their ankles, and every attempt at escape is punished with corporeal chastisement, without any reference to the cause of exile or the former social position of the individual. to each detachment are generally attached some wagons or sledges for the women, the aged, and the infirm; and these usually lead the van, the younger men following, and the whole party, commonly numbering from fifty to sixty individuals, being escorted from station to station by a detachment of the cossacks stationed in the villages. that a journey of several thousand wersts on foot, and through such a country as siberia, must cause much suffering, can not be doubted; but the stations are not at very great distances from each other, and travelers agree in asserting that the ostrogs--that is, fortified places--in which the convicts rest from their fatigues, afford as comfortable accommodation as any post-house throughout siberia; besides which the inhabitants of the towns and villages through which they pass, either from that perverse sympathy which so frequently leads the unthinking masses to look upon a doomed felon as upon a victim of oppression, or from a knowledge of how many sufferers for mere opinion may be mixed up with the really guilty individuals in the troop, contribute in every way in their power to mitigate the hardships of their position. the officer commanding the escort is intrusted with the sum stipulated by law for the daily subsistence of each convict, and this must never, under any pretense, pass into the hands of the latter. many tales are told of the barbarous treatment to which the exiles are subjected during their passage to their various places of destination; but this, it would seem, must be attributed to the general brutality of the men forming the escort, and not to any desire in the government to render in an indirect way the punishment of the condemned more severe than expressed in the terms of the sentence; though in these cases, as in all others, it is of course the despotic character of the government in russia which prevents the complaints of the oppressed from being heard, and thus perpetuates all abuses. the convicts who have committed heinous offenses, such as murder, burglary, highway robbery, or who have been judged guilty of high treason, and are banished for life and condemned to forced labor, are chiefly under the superintendence of the governor of irkutsk, who determines whether they are to be employed in the mines and salt-works, or in the distilleries, or other manufactories of the crown. for each of these convicts government allows thirty-six paper rubles yearly; but the price of the necessaries of life being in siberia so very low that the half of this suffices for the support of the convict, the other half goes to form a fund which, in case, after the lapse of four or six years, he gives proofs of reform, is given to him to begin life with in some part of the wide-spread steppes which admits of cultivation, and where a certain portion of land and materials for building a house are assigned to him. the house must, however, be erected by his own labor, and the money laid by for him be applied to the purchasing of the necessary utensils and implements for commencing house-keeping and agricultural pursuits. from this moment the convicts become _glebæ adscripti_ in the strictest sense of the term, as they are, under no pretense whatsoever, allowed to quit the lands assigned to them, or to change their condition; thenceforward also they pay the capitation tax and other imposts in like manner as the other crown peasants of siberia, and enjoy in return the same rights, such as they are. the children of these convicts, born during the parents' period of punishment, are bound to the soil; but their names are not enrolled among those of the exiles, and the law orders that they shall be treated in the same manner as the overseers of the works. the second class of convicts is subdivided into five classes, namely, . exiles sentenced to labor in the manufactories; . those sentenced to form part of the labor companies engaged on the public works; . those allowed to work at their respective trades; . those hired out as domestic servants; and . those destined to become colonists. the last-mentioned of these are at once established on the waste lands allotted to them, each person obtaining an area of not less than thirty acres, and being besides furnished with materials for building a house, with a cow, some sheep, agricultural implements, and seed corn. during the first three years these settlers are exempted from all imposts; during the next seven years they pay half the usual amount of taxes, and in addition to this, fifteen silver copeks annually toward an economical fund erected for their benefit. after the lapse of these ten years they take their rank among the other crown peasants, and are subjected to the same burdens. except when especially pardoned, these colonists are not either allowed to change their condition, or arbitrarily to quit the lands allotted to them. colonization, according to this system, being found excessively expensive, and at the same time very precarious, on account of the frequent desertion of the colonists, who, living without families, were bound by no ties, was given up in , but has since been resumed. in order to promote the speedy amalgamation of the convict population with the free population, the government bestows on every free woman who marries one of these colonists a donation of fifty silver rubles; while the free man who takes to wife a female convict receives a donation of fifteen rubles. persons enjoying the privilege of collecting gold from the sands of the government of tomsk, and who employ convicts for the washings, are bound to pay, in addition to the daily wages, one ruble and fifteen copeks in silver toward the economical fund. the convicts employed as domestic servants are fed by their employers, and receive in wages one silver ruble and a half per month. after eight years of such compulsory service, these exiles may also become colonists, and be enrolled among the peasants of the crown. convict colonists may, should the authorities deem it expedient, be allowed to work at trades in the towns, but they must not become members of corporations or guilds, and must never be considered as being withdrawn from their condition of colonists. the convicts condemned to forced labor, and employed in the manufactories, are the most leniently dealt with of this class, their position being, indeed, such as to render the sentence a reward rather than a punishment. in the manufactories of telma more than eight hundred convicts are employed, who receive in wages, according to the work executed by them, from six to fifty rubles per month, besides bread flour; and their wives, who dwell in the village, earn from two and a half to five rubles per month by spinning and weaving hemp. the convicts employed in manufactories, and receiving wages, are, however, generally such as have previously been under stricter discipline, and are in a state of transition toward the position of liberated colonists. in several towns of siberia there are establishments for them during the first stage of their punishment. in these establishments, called _remeslenui dom_, or the house of trades, the convicts are employed as joiners, turners, saddlers, wheelwrights, smiths, &c., and are housed, clothed, and fed at the public expense, but do not receive wages, their wives and children finding employment in other ways. all orders must be addressed to the officers intrusted with the superintendence of the establishments; but persons having work executed there are at liberty to enter the workshops, and to communicate directly with the different craftsmen, who are not chained, but are guarded by military. in winter, the hours of labor are eight, in summer, twelve. the proceeds of the labor of the convicts go to pay the expenses of the establishment, and the surplus is applied to charitable purposes, such as the building and maintenance of hospitals. the convict laborers in the mines of the ural, as well as those of nertchynsk, dwell together in large barrack-like buildings, the worst criminals among them being alone chained; but owing to the unhealthy nature of the mines, particularly those of nertchynsk, their existence is a very miserable one. the usual term of compulsory labor in the mines is twenty years, at the expiration of which the convicts are generally established as colonists in the vicinity of the mines, and continue to labor in them, but as free laborers, receiving wages. in case there be at any time a scarcity of mining laborers, the authorities are at liberty to apply to this purpose exiles who have not been especially sentenced to this punishment; but in such cases the exiles are paid for their labor, and are not confined to the mines for more than one year, which counts, besides, for two years of exile. upon the whole, great latitude is allowed the central and local authorities in siberia with regard to the employment and allocation of the convicts and exiles, it being merely laid down as a general rule that agricultural settlements shall always be made in the least populous districts of the localities capable of cultivation. it seems also to be the plan, as far as possible, to put each man to the work which he is most competent to execute; and the exiles belonging to the laboring classes are therefore, in preference, established as agricultural colonists, while those belonging to the higher classes, who are unaccustomed to manual labor, are generally located in the towns, where it is easier for them to find some means of subsistence, which may relieve the government from the burden of their support. even independently of the political exiles, the number of the latter is great, for exile is the punishment which usually follows the detection of those peculations and abuses of power of which the russian officials are so frequently guilty. on their first arrival, it seems, the exiles of this class are made to do penance in the churches, under the guardianship of the police, but after a time they are allowed to go about unguarded; and it is said that, when exiled for life, the russians even of high birth bear the change of fortune with extraordinary equanimity, assimilating in a very short time, and without any apparent struggle, to the cossacks and peasants among whom they are thrown. when, as is frequently the case, they marry siberian women, their children in no way differ from the people among whom they live. in the city of tobolsk, in particular, there are a great many exiles belonging to the class of unfaithful _employés_, the sentence being considered less rigorous the nearer the place of exile to the frontiers of russia proper. political exiles are, on the contrary, sent further north and east, where the nature of the surrounding country is such as to make an attempt at flight impossible, or at least very difficult. the hardships to which these exiles are subjected seem, in by far the greater number of cases, to be exclusively such as are necessarily connected with their being torn away from all they hold dear, and transplanted from the luxurious life of european society (for these exiles mostly belong to the higher classes) to the uncultivated wilds and rigorous climate of a country but very partially redeemed from a state of nature; but the tenderest sympathies of the natives of all races seem, by all accounts, to be readily bestowed upon the exiles, who, whatever be the nature of the offense of which they have been guilty, are never named by a harsher term than that of "unfortunates." in many cases the lot of the political exiles is also mitigated by the kindness of the local authorities, who allow them the use of books and other indulgences, and even receive them as friends in their houses, when this can be done without risk of giving offense at st. petersburg. as in russia nothing with which the government is concerned can be commented on by the press without especial permission, it is difficult to ascertain correctly how far the system followed in siberia works beneficially as regards the moral reformation of the criminals, and their relations to society in general. the accounts of travelers are very conflicting--some extolling the extreme leniency with which even the worst offenders are treated, as the _ne plus ultra_ of social policy, and dwelling with delight on its happy results; while others consider it disastrous in its consequences, and relate instances of the most atrocious crimes committed by the convicts, and of whole tracts of country in which life and property have been rendered insecure by their presence. the statistics of siberia, however, prove the country to be improving; and all travelers agree as to the freedom from molestation which they have experienced while traversing its immeasurable steppes; and it is therefore but fair to conclude, that though the attempt at moral reformation may be unsuccessful in many instances, in general convict colonization has here borne good fruits. that great severity in the chastisement of new transgressions has been found necessary, is on the other side proved by the penal laws bearing exclusively on siberia. according to these laws, drunkenness, fighting, idleness, theft of articles of small value, unallowed absence from the place of detention, are considered venial offenses, and are punished with from ten to forty lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails; while desertion among the colonists is punished, the first time with simple flogging, the second and third time with the cat-o'-nine-tails. if the offense be persisted in after this, sentence is to be pronounced by the local tribunals, and often consists in temporary removement to some distant and thinly-populated district, or incorporation in one of the penal labor companies. convicts condemned to hard labor who attempt to escape are punished with the knout, and are branded on the forehead, in case this mark of ignominy have not previously been inflicted on them. repeated thefts, robberies, and other like offenses are punished in the same way as desertion; but in these cases the value of the object stolen is not so much taken into consideration as the motives by which the criminals are actuated, and the number of times the offense has been repeated. a fourth repetition by an exile of a crime previously punished renders him liable to forty lashes with the knout, and to being placed in the category of the convicts condemned to forced labor. murder, highway robbery, and incendiarism are, if the offender be a simple exile, punished with from thirty-five to fifty lashes with the knout, in addition to branding on the forehead, and forced labor in irons for a period of not less than three years--the term beyond this being left to the judgment of the local tribunals. the convict condemned to forced labor who renders himself guilty of similar crimes receives fifty-five lashes of the knout, is branded on the forehead, and is chained to the wall of a prison for five years, after which period he is allowed to move about, but must continue to wear fetters during his life. criminals of this class are never to be employed beyond the prison walls, and are not even in illness to be taken into the open air beyond the prison-yard, or to be relieved from their chains, except by especial permission of the superior authorities, which can only be granted in consequence of a medical certificate. the river irtysh is the styx of the siberian hades: from the moment they cross the ferry in the neighborhood of the city of tobolsk, the russian _employés_ appointed to offices in siberia are placed in the enjoyment of the higher grade of rank which they so much covet; and from the moment they cross this same ferry commences the extinction of the political life of the exiles. here they exchange the name by which, until then, they have been known in the world, for one bestowed upon them by the authorities, and any change of the latter is punished with five years' compulsory labor over and above the original sentence. at tobolsk sits the board which decides the final destination of each culprit or each martyr. it consists of a president and assessors, having under them a chancellerie divided into two sections, and has offices of dispatch in several of the towns of siberia. before their arrival at tobolsk the convicts are, however, liable to be detained by the authorities of kasan or perm, for the public works, in their respective governments. it is as the land of political exile that siberia is generally known, and that it has gained so unenviable a reputation among the liberty-loving nations of europe, whose imagination pictures it to them as a vast unredeemable desert, whose icy atmosphere chills the breath of life, and petrifies the soul. yet the truly benevolent should rejoice in circumstances which have led a government that punishes a dissentient word as severely as the direst crime, to select exile as the extreme penalty of the law. siberia is, it is true, the great prison-house of russia; but it is a prison-house through which the blessed light of the sun shines, through which the free air of plain and mountain plays, and in which the prisoner, though he may not labor in a self-elected field, may still devote his faculties to the benefit of his fellow-creatures, and continue the great task of moral and intellectual progress. how different his lot from that of the austrian prisoner of state, doomed to drag on long years of a miserable existence in the dungeons of spielberg, or some other fortress, severed from all intercourse with the world beyond his prison-walls, deprived even of the light of day, and left in solitude and forced idleness to brood over his dark and despairing thoughts. application of electro-magnetic power to railway transit. one of the most wonderful characteristics of scientific discovery is the singular way in which every advance connects itself with past phases of progress. each new victory over the stubborn properties of matter not only gives man increase of power on its own account, but also reacts on older conquests, and makes them more productive. thirty years ago, davy and arago observed that iron-filings became magnetic when lying near a wire that was carrying a current of galvanic electricity. since then powerful temporary magnets have been made for various purposes by surrounding bars of soft iron by coils of copper-wire, and transmitting electric currents through these. in fact, it has been ascertained that iron always becomes a magnet when electricity is passed round it. the alarm-bells of the electric telegraphs are set ringing by a simple application of this principle. a conducting wire is made to run for hundreds of miles, and then coils itself round an iron bar. electric currents are sent at will through the hundreds of miles of wire, and the inert iron becomes an active magnet. observe the clerk in the telegraph office at london. when he jerks the handle that is before him, he turns on a stream of electricity that runs to liverpool or edinburgh, as the case may be. in either of those places a piece of iron that is twisted round with the extremity of the wire becomes a magnet for an instant, and attracts to itself a steel armature that is connected with a train of wheel-work. the motion of the armature, as it is drawn up to the magnet, sets free a spring that was before kept quiet; and this gives token of its freedom by making an alarm-bell to ring. the clerk in london awakens the attention of the clerk in edinburgh by turning a piece of soft iron placed near to the latter into a magnet for a few seconds. he is able to do this because currents of electricity induce magnetism in iron. this, and this alone, is the secret principle to which he is indebted for the wonderful power that enables him to annihilate space when he instantaneously attracts the attention of an ear hundreds of miles away. it has recently been announced that this electro-magnetic induction has been made a means for the instantaneous registration of astronomical observations. we have already to draw attention to another practical application of the principle. m. niklès has just invented an arrangement of apparatus that enables him to make the wheels of locomotives bite the rails with any degree of force without increasing the weight that has to be carried to the extent of a single grain. our readers are aware that in wet weather the driving-wheels of locomotives often slip round upon the rail without acquiring the power of moving the weight that is attached behind them. whenever they are asked to ascend inclined planes with a weight that is beyond the adhesive powers of their wheels this result invariably follows; and the only practical escape from the difficulty hitherto has been the adoption of one of two expedients--either to increase their own intrinsic weight, so that the earth's attraction might bind the wheels down more firmly, or to let the railway be level and the load to be dragged proportionally light. in either of these cases a waste of power is experienced. power is either expended in moving a superfluous load, or the same amount of power drags less weight even upon a level rail than it otherwise could upon an ascending one, that would have required less outlay in its construction. it therefore becomes a great desideratum to find some means of making the locomotive wheels bite more tenaciously without increasing the load they have to carry. the important problem of how to do this it is that m. niklès has solved. if our readers will take a common horse-shoe magnet, and slide the connecting slip of steel that rests upon its ends backward and forward, they will feel that the slip sticks to the magnet with a certain degree of force. m. niklès' plan is to convert the wheel of the locomotive into a magnet, and make it stick to the iron rail by a like adhesion. this he does by placing a galvanic battery under the body of the engine. a wire coming from the poles of this battery is then coiled horizontally round the lower part of the wheel, close to the rail, but in such a way that the wheel turns round freely within it, fresh portions of its circumference coming continually into relation with the coil. the part of the wheel in immediate contact with the rail is thus made magnetic, and therefore has a strong adhesion for the surface along which it moves--and the amount of the adhesion may be increased or diminished at any time, by merely augmenting or reducing the intensity of the galvanic current that circulates through the surrounding coil. by means of a handle the electricity may be turned on or off, and an effectual break be thus brought into activity that can make the iron rail smooth or adhesive according to the requirements of the instant, and this without in any way interfering with the free rotation of the wheels as the friction-breaks of necessity do. increased adhesion is effected by augmented pressure, but the pressure results from an attraction that is altogether independent of weight. the lower portion of the wheel for the time being is in exactly the same condition as a bar of soft iron placed within a coil of wire circulating electricity. but as it rises up out of the coil during the rotation of the wheel, it grows less and less magnetic, the descending portions of the opposite side of the circumference acquiring increased magnetic power in the like degree. m. niklès' experiments have been made with large locomotives in full operation; and he states as the result, that the velocity of the wheel's motion does not in any way affect the development of the magnetic force. he finds the condition of the rail, as regards wetness or dryness, to be quite unimportant to the success of his apparatus, and he has already managed by its aid to achieve an ascent as rapid as one in five. the stolen rose. geraldine delisle was the year previous to the late revolution, which in one day shattered one of the great monarchies of the earth, the reigning belle in her circle. lovely in form and face, she wanted but to correct some trifling defects of character to be perfect. but if she had large black eyes and massive brow, and beautiful hair and white teeth--if she had a lily-white hand and tiny feet, she knew it too well, and knew the power of her charms over man. she loved admiration, and never was so happy as when in a ball-room all the men were almost disputing for the honor of her hand. but geraldine had no declared suitor; she never gave the slightest encouragement to any one. many offered themselves, but they were invariably rejected, until at twenty her parents began to be alarmed at the prospect of her never marrying. m. and mme delisle had found so much genuine happiness in marriage--the only natural state for adult human beings--that they had promoted the early marriage of two sons and an elder daughter; and now that geraldine alone remained, they earnestly desired to see her well and happily married before they died. they received numerous offers: but the young girl had such winning ways with her parents, that when she declared that she did not like the proposer, they never had courage to insist. during the season of geraldine never missed a party or ball. she never tired as long as there was music to listen to, and it was generally very nearly morning before she gained her home. about the middle of the season she was sitting by her mother's side in the splendid _salons_ of the princess menzikoff. she had been dancing, and her late partner was saying a few words, to which she scarcely made any reply. her eyes were fixed upon a gentleman, who, after observing her for some time, had turned away in search of some one. he was the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life, and she was curious to know who he was. a little above the middle height, slight, pale, with great eyes, soft in repose like those of a woman, he had at once interested geraldine, who, like most women, could excuse every bad feature in a man save insipid or unmeaning eyes; and she asked her mother who he was. "he's a very bad man," said mme delisle. "of noble family, rich, titled, young, and handsome, he is celebrated only for his follies. he throws away thousands on very questionable pleasures, and has the unpardonable fault, in my eyes of always ridiculing marriage." "i can not forgive him for ridiculing marriage, mamma, but i can excuse him for not wishing to marry." "my dear, a man who dislikes marriage is never a good man. a woman may from caprice or from many motives object to marrying, but a man, except when under the influence of hopeless affection--and men have rarely feeling enough for this--always must be a husband to be a good citizen." "ah, mamma, you have been so happy that you think all must be so; but you see many who are not." "mme delisle," said the princess menzikoff, who unperceived had come round to her, "allow me to introduce you to my friend alfred de rougement. i must not call him count, he being what we call a democrat with a clean face and white kid-gloves." "the princess is always satirical," replied m. de rougement smiling; "and my harmless opposition to the government now in power, and which she honors with her patronage; is all her ground for so terrible an announcement." mme delisle and geraldine both started and colored, and when alfred de rougement proposed for the next dance, was accepted, though next minute the mother would gladly have found any excuse to have prevented her daughter from dancing. alfred de rougement was the very "bad man" whom she had the instant before been denouncing. but it was now too late. from that evening geraldine never went to a ball without meeting alfred. she received many invitations from most unexpected quarters, but as surely as she went she found her new admirer, who invited her to dance as often as he could without breaking the rules of etiquette. and yet he rarely spoke; the dance once over, he brought her back to her mother's side, and left her without saying a word, coming back when his turn came again with clockwork regularity. in their drives mme delisle and geraldine were always sure to meet him. scarcely was the carriage rolling up the champs elysées before he was on horseback within sight. he merely bowed as he passed, however, keeping constantly in sight without endeavoring to join them. one evening, though invited to an early soirée and to a late ball, during dinner they changed their mind, and decided on going to the opera at the very opening, to hear some favorite music which geraldine very much admired. they had not yet risen from dessert when a note came from alfred de rougement, offering them his box, one of the best in the house! "why he is a regular monte christo," cried mme delisle impatiently. "how can he know our movements so well?" "he must have bribed some one of the servants," replied geraldine; "we talked just now of where we were going before they left the room." "but what does he mean?" said mme delisle. "is he going to give up his enmity to marriage, and propose for you!" "i don't know, mamma," exclaimed the daughter, coloring very much; "but he may spare himself the trouble." "geraldine--geraldine! you will always then make me unhappy!" said her mother, shaking her head. "but you can not want me to marry alfred? you told me every thing against him yourself." "but if he is going to marry and be steady, i owe him an apology. but go and dress; you want to hear the overture." they went to alfred's box--father, mother, and daughter. but though in the house, he scarcely came near them. he came in to inquire after their health, claimed geraldine's hand for the opening quadrille at the soirée to which they were going after the opera, and went away. the young girl rather haughtily accepted his offer, and then turned round to attend to the music and singing. next day, to the astonishment of both m. and mme delisle, alfred de rougement proposed for the hand of their daughter, expressing the warmest admiration for her, and declaring with earnestness that the happiness of his whole life depended on her decision. geraldine was referred to. she at once refused him, giving no reason, but expressing regret that she could not share his sentiments. the young man cast one look of reproach at her, rose, and went away without a word. when he was gone she explained to her parents, that though in time she thought she should have liked him, she did not admire his mode of paying his addresses; she thought he ought to have spoken to her first. mme delisle replied, that she now very much admired him, and liked his straightforward manner; but geraldine stopped the conversation by reminding her that he was rejected, and that all discussion was now useless. that evening geraldine danced several times with her cousin edouard delisle, a young man who for a whole year had paid his addresses to her. they were at a house in the faubourg st. germain, where the ball-room opened into a splendid conservatory. geraldine was dressed in white, with one beautiful rose in her hair, its only ornament. edouard had been dancing with her, and now sat down by her side. they had never been so completely alone. they occupied a corner near the end, with a dense mass of trees behind them and a tapestry door. edouard once again spoke of his love and passion, vowed that if she would not consent to be his he should never be happy; all this in a tone which showed how fully he expected to be again refused. "if you can get mamma's consent, edouard," she replied quickly, "i am not unwilling to be your wife." edouard rose from his seat and stood before her the picture of astonishment. geraldine rose at the same time. "but where is your rose?" said the young man, still scarcely able to speak with surprise. "it is gone--cut away with a knife!" replied she thoughtfully; "but never mind; let us look for mamma." edouard took her arm, and in a few minutes the whole family were united. the young man drew his uncle away from a card-table, saying that geraldine wished to go home. after handing his aunt and cousin to their carriage, he got in after them, quite an unusual thing for him. "why, edouard, you are going out of your way," said the father. "i know it. but i can not wait until to-morrow. m. delisle, will you give me your daughter's hand? geraldine has given her consent." "my dear girl," exclaimed her mother, "why did you not tell us this before? you would have saved us so much pain, and your other suitors the humiliation of being rejected." "i did not make up my mind until this evening," replied geraldine. "i do not think i should have accepted him to-morrow. but he was cunning enough to come and propose before i had time for reflection." "you will then authorize me to accept him?" said m. delisle. "i have accepted him, papa," replied geraldine. that evening edouard entered the house with them, and sat talking for some time. when he went away, he had succeeded in having the wedding fixed for that day-month. geraldine looked pale the next day; and when her mamma noticed it, said that she should go to no more parties, as she wished to look well the day she was married, and expressed a wish to go on excursions into the country instead. mme delisle freely acquiesced, edouard came to dinner, looking much pleased, but still under the influence of the astonishment which had not yet been effaced from his plump and rosy face. "why, what do you think?" he said toward the end of the dinner, "alfred de rougement has left paris. all his servants were dismissed this morning, and his steward received orders to meet him at constantinople." "indeed?" replied mme delisle, gravely, while geraldine turned deadly pale. "but this room is too close for you, my child." "no, mamma," said she, quietly; "but we are forgetting all about our excursions. i should like to go to versailles to-morrow, and take all the pretty places round paris in turn." "_bon!_" cried edouard; "that suits me. i shall be with you early, for i suppose you will go in the morning?" "i want to breakfast at versailles," replied geraldine; "so we must go to bed early." "that i vote to be an admirable proposition. at eleven i will go. but you are going to practice the new variations on _pastoris_, are you not?" "yes; and you are going to sing, monsieur," said geraldine, rising from table. "so come along, and ma and papa can play trictrac all the time." that evening the cousins played and sang together until about ten, when they took tea, which edouard, good-natured fellow, pretended to like prodigiously, drinking three cups of milk and water under the serious impression that it was the genuine infusion--a practice very common in france, where tea is looked on as dangerous to the nerves. next day they went to versailles, breakfasted at the hôtel de france, visited the interminable galleries of pictures, and dined in paris at a late hour. the day after they went to montmorency. swiftly passed the hours, and days, and weeks, and soon geraldine saw the last day which was to be her own. in twenty-four hours she was to leave her mother's home forever, to share that of a man to whom it must be supposed she was very much attached, but who was not exactly the companion suited to her. geraldine was very grave that morning. it had been arranged that they were to go to st. germain; and though the sky was a little dark, the young girl insisted on the excursion not being put off. "this is the last day i shall have any will of my own," said she; "so let me exercise it." "my dear geraldine," replied her cousin, kindly, "you will always find me ready to yield to you in every thing. i shall be a model husband, for i am too lazy to oppose any one." "my dear edouard," put in mme delisle, "a man who consults his wife's happiness will always be happy himself. we are very easily pleased when we see you try to please us. the will is every thing to us." "then let us start," said edouard, laughing, "it will pass the time, and i am eager to try." they entered the open carriage which they usually used for their excursions, and started, the sun now shining very brightly. edouard was full of spirits: he seemed bursting with happiness, and was forced to speak incessantly to give it vent. geraldine was very grave, though she smiled at her cousin's sallies, and every now and then answered in her own playful, witty way. the parents, though happy, were serious too. they were about to lose their last child, and though they knew she would be always near them, a feeling of involuntary loneliness came over them. a marriage-day is always for affectionate parents a day of sorrowful pleasure--a link in the chain of sacrifices which makes a parent's love so beautiful and holy, so like what we can faintly trace in thought as the love of the creator for man. they took the road by bongiral, and they were about a mile distant from that place when suddenly they found themselves caught in a heavy shower. the coachman drove hastily for shelter into the midst of a grove of trees, which led up to a villa that appeared totally uninhabited. but it was not so; for the _porte cochère_ flew wide open as they drew up, and two servants advancing, requested them to take shelter in the house. "but we are intruding?" said mme delisle. "no, madame. our master is out, but had he been at home he would insist as we do." edouard leaped out, and set the example of compliance. the whole party followed the servants, who led the way into a splendidly-furnished suite of rooms. the style was that of the _renaissance_, of the richest materials, while the walls were covered with genuine paintings by the first masters. the servants then left them, and they were heard next minute assisting to take the horses from the carriage. the rain fell heavily all the time. "upon my word we are very fortunate," said mme delisle: "in ten minutes we should have been soaked through. the master of the house must be some very noble-minded man; no ordinary person would have such polite and attentive servants." "some eccentric foreigner," said edouard: "all his servants are men; i don't see the sign of a petticoat any where." "some woman-hater, perhaps," said geraldine, laughing, as she took from the table before her a celebrated satire against the sex. "all the more polite of him," said mme delisle, while looking with absolute horror at a book which she knew spoke irreverently of marriage. "if you will pass this way," said a servant entering, "we shall have the honor to offer you breakfast. the rain has set in for some hours, and your servants spoke of your wishing to breakfast at st. germain. but you will not be able to wait so long." the whole party looked unfeignedly surprised; but there was no resisting a servant who spoke so politely, and who threw open a door whence they discovered a table magnificently laid out. several servants were ready to wait. "_ma foi!_" cried edouard, "there is no resisting such temptation. you seem to know your master's character, and we take your word for it that he would make us welcome." with these words he gave geraldine his arm, and led the way, setting the example also of attacking the delicate viands offered to them so unexpectedly. all breakfasted with appetite after their ride, and then returned to the room they had first occupied. the shower was over, and the warm sun was quickly clearing away all sign of the rain. "what a beautiful house and grounds your master has here!" exclaimed edouard: "the garden appears to me even better than the house." "it is very beautiful," said the servant addressed. "can we go over it?" continued the young man. "certainly, monsieur: i was about to offer to show it you." "i shall remain here," said geraldine; "my shoes are very thin; besides i wish to have another look at the pictures." edouard demurred, but the young girl bade him go at once; and, like an obedient lover, he took the mamma's arm, and went into the garden. the instant all were gone geraldine rose from her chair and tottered across the room. she was pale, and looked cautiously round, as if about to do some guilty act. presently she stood before a curtain which had been hastily drawn before a kind of niche in the wall, or rather before a portion of the room. but it had been done very quickly, and through two apartures you could see stained glass, and on a small table something under a glass-case. geraldine could not restrain herself. she pulled away the curtain, and there, under a large glass on a velvet cushion, lay the rose which had been cut from her head-dress on the night she had accepted the hand of her cousin. near it was a pencil-sketch of herself. "my god!" she cried, passionately, "he did love me then: what a fool i have been! wicked pride, to what will you lead me?" "my geraldine," exclaimed alfred, who rose from a chair where he had been seated in a dark corner, "pardon me! but i could not resist the temptation. to see, to hear you once more, for the last time, was my only wish. do you forgive me?" "do you forgive _me_?" said geraldine, hanging down her head, and speaking in a low, soft, sweet voice, that had never been hers before. "my god!--what?" exclaimed alfred, who, pale and trembling, stood by her side. "you will not force me to say, alfred," she continued in a beseeching tone. "do i understand aright? o forgive me, geraldine, if i say too much; but is it possible that you do not hate me?" "hate you, alfred! how can i hate one so generous and good? if you think me not bold to say it, i will say i love you. after behaving as i did, that confession will be my punishment." "my geraldine! then why did you refuse me?" cried alfred, in a tone of passionate delight. "because you did not seem to love me; because you only in my eyes sought to marry me because others did." "geraldine, i seemed cold because i loved you with all my heart and soul. but i was a known satirist on marriage, and i was ashamed to let the world see my deep affection. i wanted them to think that i married merely because it was a triumph to carry off the reigning belle." "you deceived me and all the world together," replied geraldine; "but to own the truth, after you were gone and took my rose with you, i guessed the truth." "the rose! but did you know--" "i guessed--" "my god!" cried edouard, returning alone to fetch geraldine, to whom he wanted to show the garden, "what is the meaning of this?" "my good cousin," said geraldine, advancing toward him, and taking both his hands, "come here; you will forgive geraldine, won't you? i have been very wicked. do excuse your cousin, will you not? but i was only going to marry you because i thought alfred did not love me." "_hein!_" cried edouard, quite bewildered. "don't be angry with me," continued geraldine, gravely: "i should have been a very good wife, and have loved you very much had i married you." "oh, then, you do not mean to marry me now?" said edouard, in a tone of deep sadness. "what am i to do?" cried geraldine. "see, my dear cousin, how he loved me! how can i marry you when my heart is given to another?" "you were going to do so, but for a shower of rain," said edouard, with a vain attempt at gravity. "but take her, m. alfred: i think after all i'm lucky to have escaped her! i don't forgive you a bit, because it's hard to find out that when at last one thinks one's self loved, the lady was only pretending." "you do forgive me!" exclaimed geraldine, shaking her head, and putting his hand into that of alfred, who shook it warmly. "yes, yes!--of course you're pleased! but i must marry now. i shall ask hélène at bordeaux to have me, as nobody there will know any thing about my present mishap." at this moment m. and mme delisle returned; their astonishment was of course very great. edouard gravely introduced the young couple. "you see, madame," he said, "that while you were walking round the garden, i have managed to lose my wife, and you to find a son-in-law." "but, my geraldine," exclaimed her mother, "are you not behaving very badly to edouard?" "not at all!" said the young man: "i could not think of marrying her. look at her! five minutes with alfred has done her more good than all her excursions in search of roses!" "mischievous man to betray me!" said geraldine in her turn, warmly shaking his hand. "but what will the world say?" exclaimed m. delisle. "i will tell the truth," said alfred; and in a few words he explained the cause of the refusal of geraldine to have him. it was now settled that the day should be spent at the villa; that in the evening they should return to paris, without the count, who was to present himself only next day. he agreed to own frankly to all his friends the depth and sincerity of his affection, while edouard good-naturedly volunteered to tell every one that he had been turned off--a promise which he gravely kept, relating his discomfiture in a way that drew tears of laughter from all his hearers. and geraldine and alfred were married, to the surprise of the world. they were both cured of their former errors, and i know no instance of a happier marriage than that of m. and mme de rougement. he is now a member of the legislative assembly, and is remarked for the liberality of his opinions--being one of the many ex-legitimists who have gone over to the moderate republican party. edouard married his country cousin. both young couples have children, and both are happy: the only revenge the young man having taken is to persevere on all occasions, even before his own wife, in calling geraldine "the stolen rose." thomas moore. thomas moore, a man of brilliant gifts and large acquirements, if not an inspired poet, was born on the th of may, , in augier-street, dublin, where his father carried on a respectable business as a grocer and spirit-dealer. both his parents were strict roman catholics, and he, of course, was educated in the same faith; at that time under the ban not only of penal statutes, but of influential opinion both in great britain and ireland. thus humble and unpromising were the birth and early prospects of an author who--thanks to the possession of great popular talent, very industriously cultivated and exercised, together with considerable tact and prudence, and pleasing social accomplishments--won for himself not only the general fame which ordinarily attends the successful display of genius, but the especial sympathy and admiration of his countrymen and fellow-religionists, and the smiles and patronage of a large and powerful section of the english aristocracy, at whose tables and in whose drawing-rooms his sparkling wit and melodious patriotism rendered him an ever-welcome guest. few men, indeed, have passed more pleasantly through the world than thomas moore. his day of life was one continual sunshine, just sufficiently tempered and shaded by passing clouds--"mere crumpling of the rose-leaves"--as to soften and enhance its general gayety and brightness. with its evening thick shadows came--the crushing loss of children--and the gray-haired poet, pressed by his heavy grief, has turned in his latter years from the gay vanities of brilliant society, and sought peace and consolation in seclusion, and the zealous observance of the precepts and discipline of the church to which he is, not only from early training and association, but by temperament and turn of mind, devotedly attached. as a child, moore was, we are told, remarkable for personal beauty, and might have sat, says a writer not over-friendly to him, "as cupid for a picture." this early promise was not fulfilled. sir walter scott, speaking of him in , says: "he is a little, very little man--less, i think, than lewis, whom he resembles: his countenance is plain, but very animated when speaking or singing." the lowness of his stature was a sore subject with moore--almost as much, and as absurdly so, as the malformation of his foot was with lord byron. leigh hunt, in a work published between twenty and thirty years ago, gives the following detailed portrait of the irish poet: "his forehead is bony and full of character, with bumps of wit large and radiant enough to transport a phrenologist; his eyes are as dark and fine as you would wish to see under a set of vine-leaves; his mouth, generous and good-humored, with dimples; 'his nose, sensual and prominent, and at the same time the reverse of aquiline: there is a very peculiar characteristic in it--as if it were looking forward to and scenting a feast or an orchard.' the face, upon the whole, is irish, not unruffled by care and passion, but festivity is the predominant expression." in mr. hunt's autobiography, not long since published, this portrait is repeated, with the exception of the words we have inclosed within single inverted commas--struck out possibly from a lately-awakened sense of their injustice; and it is added that "his (moore's) manner was as bright as his talk was full of the wish to please and be pleased." to these testimonials as to the personal appearance and manners of thomas moore, we can only add that of mr. joseph atkinson, one of the poet's most intimate and attached friends. this gentleman, when speaking to an acquaintance of the author of the "melodies," said that to him "moore always seemed an infant sporting on the bosom of venus." this somewhat perplexing idea of the mature author of the songs under discussion was no doubt suggested by the speaker's recollections of his friend's childhood. whatever the personal graces or defects of mr. moore, it is quite certain, at all events, that he early exhibited considerable mental power and imitative faculty. he was placed when very young with mr. samuel whyte, who kept a respectable school in grafton-street, dublin. this was the mr. whyte who attempted to educate richard brinsley sheridan, and pronounced him to be "an incorrigible dunce;" a verdict in which at the time the mother of the future author of the "school for scandal" fully concurred. mr. whyte, it seems, delighted in private theatricals, and his labors in this mode of diffusing entertaining knowledge were, it appears, a good deal patronized by the dublin aristocracy. master moore was his "show-actor," and played frequently at lady borrowes's private theatre. on one occasion the printed bills announced "an epilogue--_a squeeze at st. paul's_, by master moore," in which he is said to have been very successful. these theatricals were attended by several members of the ducal family of leinster, the latouches of dublin, with many other irish notabilities; and it was probably here that moore contracted the taste for aristocratic society which afterward became a passion with him. the obstinate exclusion of the catholics from the common rights of citizenship naturally excited violent and growing discontent among that body of religionists; and thomas moore's parents, albeit prudent, wary folk, were, like thousands of others naturally sensible and pacific people, carried away for a moment by the tremendous outburst of the french revolution. the meteor-blaze which suddenly leaped forth and dazzled the astonished world, seemed a light from heaven to the oppressed nations of europe; and in ireland, especially, it was hailed as the dawn of a great deliverance by millions whom an unwise legislation had alienated and almost maddened. young moore, when little more than twelve years of age, sat upon his father's knee at a great banquet in dublin, where the toast--"may the breezes from france fan our irish oak into verdure!" was received with a frantic vehemence which, child as he was, left an impression upon him that did not pass away with many years. the day-star of liberty, as it was termed, which arose in france, set in blood and tempest; but the government, alarmed at the ominous aspect of the times, relaxed ( ) the penal laws, and catholics, for the first time, were eligible for admission to the dublin university: eligible--that is, to partake of the instruction conferred at the national seat of learning, but not for its honors or rewards. these were still jealously reserved for the dominant caste. young moore was immediately entered of trinity college; and although he succeeded by his assiduity and ability in extorting an acknowledgment from the authorities that he had earned a classical degree, he was, for religion's sake, as a matter of course, denied it. some english verses, however, which he presented at one of the quarterly examinations in lieu of the usual latin metre, were extolled; and he received a well-bound copy of the "travels of anarchasis" as a reward. the young student's proficiency in the greek and latin languages was also acknowledged, though not officially. for several previous years the thunder-cloud which burst so fatally in , had been slowly gathering in ireland. moore sympathized with the object, if not with the mode of operation contemplated by the opponents of english rule in that country; and he appears to have been only saved from serious if not fatal implication in the rebellion by the wise admonitions of his excellent mother, aided by his own instinctive aversion to the committal of any act which might compromise his present and future position, by placing him among extreme men in the front and forlorn hope of the battle, instead of amid the wiser respectabilities of liberalism, from whose ranks a man of wit and genius may, he knew, shoot his diamond-tipt arrows at the enemy not only without danger, but with almost certain fame and profit to himself. moore was intimate with the two emmets, and an active member of a debating-club, in which the eldest, the unfortunate robert, endeavored to mature his oratorical powers against the time when his dream of political regeneration should be realized. toward the close of the year , the, at the time, celebrated newspaper called "the press," was started by arthur o'connor, the emmets, and other chiefs of the united irishmen. it was published twice a week, and although, mr. moore says, not distinguished at all for talent, had a large circulation among the excited masses. moore first contributed a poetical effusion--anonymously of course--and soon growing bolder with impunity, contributed a fiery letter, which had the questionable honor of being afterward quoted in the house of commons by the minister as one of his proofs that severe repressive measures were required to put down the dangerous spirit manifested in ireland. on the evening this letter appeared, young moore read it after supper to the assembled family--his heart beating violently all the while lest the sentiments it contained, and the style in which they were expressed, should reveal the eloquent author. his fears were groundless; no one suspected him; and the only remark elicited by the violent letter was a quiet one from his sister--"that it was rather strong!" next day his mother, through the indiscretion of a person connected with the newspaper, discovered his secret, and commanded him, as he valued her blessing, to disconnect himself at once from so dangerous a pursuit and companionship. the young man obeyed, and the storm of passed over harmlessly for him. moore was once slightly questioned upon the subject of the apprehended conspiracy by lord chancellor clare, who insisted upon compelling a disclosure, upon oath, of any knowledge the students of the university might possess of the persons and plans of the plotters. moore at first declined being sworn, alleging in excuse that he had never taken an oath, and although perfectly unconscious himself of offense against the government, that he might unwittingly compromise others. this odd excuse lord clare, after consulting with duigenan, famous for his anti-papist polemics, declined to receive, and moore was sworn. three or four questions were asked as to his knowledge of any conspiracy to overthrow the government, by violence; and these briefly answered, the matter ended. this is mr. moore's own version of a scene which has been rendered in various amusing and exaggerated forms. the precocity of moore's rhyming genius had been also exemplified by a sonnet, written when he was only fourteen years of age, and inserted in a dublin magazine called "the anthologia." two or three years later he composed a masque, which was performed by himself, his elder sister, and some young friends, in the little drawing-room over the shop in augier-street, a friend, afterward a celebrated musician, enacting orchestra on the piano-forte. one of the songs of the masque was written to the air of haydn's spirit song, and obtained great applause. master moore belonged, moreover, to a band of gay spirits who occasionally amused themselves by a visit to dalkey, a small island in the bay of dublin, electing one stephen armitage, a respectable pawnbroker, and "very agreeable singer," king of that ilk. on one of these coronation days king stephen conferred the honor of knighthood upon incledon, with the title of sir charles melody; and he created miss battier, a rhyming lady, henrietta, countess of laurel, and his majesty's poetess-laureate. the working laureate was, however, master moore, and in that capacity he first tried his hand at political squibbing, by launching some not very brilliant sarcasms against governments in general. lord clare, we are told, was half alarmed at this dalkey court and its poets, and insisted upon an explanation from one of the mock officials. this is, however, we believe, a fable, though at the time a current one. in , being then only in his twentieth year, thomas moore arrived in london, for the purpose of entering himself of the middle temple, and publishing his translation of the odes of anacreon. he had already obtained the friendship of earl moira, and that nobleman procured him permission to dedicate the work to the prince of wales. his poetical career may now be said to have fairly commenced. it was a long and brilliant one, most of his works having rapidly passed through numerous editions, and been, perhaps, more extensively read than those of any contemporary author, always excepting the romances of scott. there can be no reasonable doubt that moore owed much of this popularity and success to the accident of his position, and the favoring circumstances of the times in which he wrote. the _enfant gaté_ of high and influential circles; as well as the melodious expositor and poet-champion of the wrongs of a nation to whose glorious music he has, happily for himself, married much of his sweetest verse, he dwelt in a peculiar and irradiating atmosphere, which greatly enhanced his real magnitude and brightness. even now, when the deceptive medium has lost its influence, it is somewhat difficult, and may seem ungracious, to assign his true place in the splendid galaxy of british poets to a writer who has contributed so largely to the delight of the reading and musical population of these kingdoms. the odes of anacreon obtained much present popularity at a time when the moralities of respectable literature were not so strictly enforced by public opinion as in the present day. many of them are paraphrases rather than translations, containing, as dr. laurence, burke's friend, remarked at the time, "pretty turns not to be found in anacreon." "thomas little's poems, songs," &c., given to the world by mr. moore in , are a collection of puerile rhapsodies still more objectionable than the anacreontic odes: and the only excuse for them was the extreme youth of the writer. byron thus alluded to the book in his once famous satire: "'tis little, young catullus of his day, as sweet but as immoral in his lay." many years afterward his lordship, in a letter to moore ( ), reverted, half in jest, half in earnest, to the work in these words, "i believe all the mischief i have ever done or sung has been owing to that confounded book of yours." the most objectionable of these songs have been omitted from the recent editions of moore's works, and we believe no one has more deplored their original publication than the author himself. in , thanks to his verses and lord moira's patronage, moore obtained a place under the government--that of registrar to the court of admiralty at bermuda. moore sailed in the _phoenix_ frigate, and took formal possession of his post; but he soon wearied of the social monotony of the "still vexed bermoothes," hastily appointed a deputy to perform all the duties of his office for a share of the income, and betook himself to america. he was as much out of his proper element there as in bermuda. the rugged republicanism of the states disgusted him, and after a brief glance at canada he returned to england, having been absent about fifteen months. soon after his return he favored the world with his impressions of bermuda, the united states, and canada. his sketches of bermudan scenery have been pronounced by captain basil hall and others to be extremely accurate and vivid. on the truthfulness of his american social and political pictures and prophecies, time--a much higher authority--has unmistakably delivered judgment. while in canada, mr. moore composed the popular "boat-song," the words and air of which were, he says, inspired by the scenery and circumstances which the verses portray, and by the measured chant of the canadian rowers. captain hall also testifies to the fidelity of this descriptive song. the republication in of juvenile songs, odes, &c., elicited a fierce and contemptuous denunciation of them from the edinburgh review, and this led to a hostile meeting between the editor of that publication, the late lord jeffrey, and mr. moore. they met at chalk farm, near hampstead; but the progress of the duel was interrupted by police officers, who, on examining the pistols of the baffled combatants, found that they had been charged with powder only. this was probably a sensible device--it was not at all an uncommon one--on the part of the seconds to prevent mischief; or, it might have been, as is usually believed, that the bullets dropped out of one or both of the pistols by the jolting of the carriages in which the combatants reached the field of expected battle; but of course the discovery created a great laugh at the time. moore indignantly denied through the newspapers that he was cognizant of the innocent state of mr. jeffrey's pistol--an assertion there can not be the slightest reason for doubting. this droll incident led to his subsequent acquaintance with lord byron, who, unmindful or regardless of mr. moore's denial of the "calumny," repeated it with variations in his "english bards and scotch reviewers," chiefly with a view to annoy mr. jeffrey. moore was again indignant, and demanded an apology or satisfaction. his letter did not, however, reach the noble lord till many months afterward, when _explanations_ ensued, and the affair terminated by a dinner at the house of mr. rogers, where the four poets, byron, campbell, moore, and rogers, met each other for the first time. the intimacy thus commenced, if we may judge from the biography of byron, ripened into a lasting friendship on the part of moore. this feeling was but faintly reciprocated by byron. indeed, if we are to believe his own statement, made in one of his latest letters, the noble poet was almost incapable of friendship, "never having," he says, "except toward lord clare, whom he had known from infancy, and perhaps little moore," experienced any such emotion. "little tommy dearly loves a lord," was byron's sneering expression more than once; and perhaps he believed moore's loudly-expressed regard for himself to be chiefly based on that predilection. moore had before this married a miss dyke, who is described as a lady of great beauty and amiability, and moreover distinguished for considerable decision of character and strong common sense--qualities which more than once proved of essential service to her husband. they had several children, the loss of whom, as we have before stated, has darkened and embittered the close of the poet's days. in , moore made a first and last appearance before the world as a dramatist, by the production at the lyceum theatre of an operatic piece called "an m.p.; or, the blue stocking." it was emphatically damned, notwithstanding two or three pleasing songs, which somewhat redeemed its dull and vapid impertinence. the very pretty song of "young love lived once in an humble shed," occurs in this piece. moore's acquaintance with leigh hunt dates from the acting of the "blue stocking." mr. hunt was at the time editor of the "examiner" newspaper, in which he had just before paid some compliments to moore's poetry; and the nervous dramatist, naturally anxious to propitiate a critic whose opinion was esteemed oracular in certain circles, wrote him a rather fulsome letter, in which he set forth, as an _ad misericordiam_ plea for lenient judgment, that he had rashly been induced to promise arnold a piece for his theatre, in consequence of the state of attenuation to which the purses of poets are proverbially liable. the "m.p." was, as we have said, condemned, and esop's disappointed fox received another illustration. "writing bad jokes," quoth mr. moore, "for the lyceum to make the galleries laugh is in itself sufficiently degrading; but to try to make them laugh, and fail to do so, is indeed deplorable." in sooth, to make "galleries" either laugh or weep was never mr. moore's aim or vocation. his eye was ever fixed upon the gay company of the "boxes," occasionally only glancing apprehensively aside from its flattering homage to scan the faces of the sour critics of the pit. and yet to make the galleries of the theatre and the world laugh has tasked and evidenced wit and humor, in comparison with which the gayest sallies, the most sparkling of mr. moore's fancies, are vapidity itself. the mortified dramatist gave up play-writing forever, or, as he contemptuously expressed it, "made a hearty abjuration of the stage and all its heresies of pun, equivoque, and clap-trap." he was wise in doing so. the discretion evinced by the hasty retreat was only exceeded by the rashness of the venture. the intimacy of thomas moore and leigh hunt continued for some years. moore, in company with lord byron, dined once or twice with hunt in prison during his confinement for a pretended libel upon the regent. a pertinent anecdote, throwing some light on byron's sneer respecting moore's love of lords, is told of one of these visits. the three friends, byron, moore, and hunt, were walking before dinner in the prison garden, when a shower of rain came on, and moore ran into the house, and upstairs, leaving his companions to follow as they best might. consciousness of the discourtesy of such behavior toward his noble companion quickly flashed upon him, and he was overwhelmed with confusion. mr. hunt tried to console him. "i quite forgot at the moment," said moore, "whom i was walking with; but i was forced to remember it by his not coming up. i could not in decency go on, and to return was awkward." this anxiety--on account of byron's lameness--mr. hunt remarks, appeared to him very amiable. this friendship came to an abrupt and unpleasant close. lord byron agreed with hunt and shelley to start a new periodical, to be called "the liberal," the profits of which were to go to leigh hunt. byron's parody on southey's "vision of judgment" appeared in it, and ultimately william hazlitt became a contributor. moore immediately became alarmed for his noble friend's character, which he thought would be compromised by his connection with hunt and hazlitt, and wrote to entreat him to withdraw himself from a work which had "a taint in it," and from association with men upon whom society "had set a mark." his prayer was complied with, and the two last-named gentlemen were very angry, as well they might be. there has been a good deal of crimination and recrimination between the parties on the subject, not at all worth reproducing. the truth is that both hunt and hazlitt, but especially the latter, were at the time under the ban of influential society and a then powerful tory press; and moore, with his usual prudence, declining to be mad-dog'd in their company and for their sakes, deliberately _cut_ two such extreme radicals, and induced his noble friend to do likewise. how could a prudent man who had given hostages to fortune, which moore by this time had, in a wife and children, act otherwise? moore had long cherished a hope of allying his poetry with the expressive music of ireland; of giving appropriate vocal utterance to the strains which had broken fitfully from out the tumults and tramplings of centuries of unblest rule. a noble task! in which even partial success demands great powers and deserves high praise. the execution of the long-meditated design now commenced; and the "melodies," as they appeared, obtained immense and well-deserved popularity. it is upon these his fame, as a poet, will mainly rest; and no one can deny that, as a whole, they exhibit great felicity of expression, and much graceful tenderness of thought and feeling, frequently relieved by flashes of gay and genial wit and humor. no one could be more keenly aware, or could more gracefully acknowledge than moore the great help to a poet's present reputation of connecting his verse with national or local associations. in moore determined on writing an eastern tale in verse; and his friend mr. perry of the "chronicle" accompanied him to messrs. longman, the publishers, to arrange for the sale of a work of which the proposed author had not yet written a line nor even settled the subject. mr. perry appears to have been an invaluable intermediary. he proposed at once, as the basis of the negotiation, that moore should have the largest sum ever given for such a work. "that," observed the messrs. longman, "was three thousand guineas." and three thousand guineas it was ultimately covenanted the price should be, thanks to moore's reputation, and the business abilities of his friend perry. it was further agreed that the manuscript should be furnished at whatever time might best suit the author's convenience, and that messrs. longman should accept it for better for worse, and have no power or right to suggest alterations or changes of any kind. the bargain was altogether a safe one on moore's side, and luckily it turned out equally profitable for the publishers. in order to obtain the necessary leisure and quiet for the composition of such a work, moore resolved to retire from the gayeties of holland and lansdowne houses, and other mansions of his distinguished patrons and friends, to the seclusion and tranquillity of the country. he made choice of mayfield cottage, near ashbourne in derbyshire, and not far distant from donnington park, lord moira's country-seat, where an excellent library was at his service. it may be as well to mention that when this early and influential friend of moore went out to india as governor-general, he apologized for not being able to present his poetical protégé with any thing worth his acceptance in that country. "but," said lord moira (marquis of hastings), "i can perhaps barter a piece of india patronage against something at home that might suit you." this offer, which would have gravely compromised moore with his whig friends, he with some asperity declined. the governor-general went to india, and moore retired to derbyshire, remaining, with the exception of his bermudan registrarship, placeless. this offer and refusal moore communicated by letter to leigh hunt. mayfield cottage, when the poet and his wife arrived to view it, wore any thing but an inviting aspect. "it was a poor place," moore wrote, "little better than a barn; but we at once took it, and set about making it habitable and comfortable." he now commenced the formidable task of working himself up into a proper oriental state of mind for the accomplishment of his work. the first part of this process consisted in reading every work of authority that treated of the topography, climate, zoology, ornithology, entomology, floriculture, horticulture, agriculture, manners, customs, religion, ceremonies, and languages of the east. asiatic registers, d'herbelot, jones, tavernier, flemming, and a host of other writers were industriously consulted; and so perfect did mr. moore become in these various branches of knowledge, that a great eastern traveler, after reading "lalla rookh," and being assured that the poet had never visited the scenes in which he placed his stories, remarked that if it were so, a man might learn as much of those countries by reading books as by riding on the back of a camel! this, however, was but a part of the requisite preparation. "i am," says mr. moore, "a slow, painstaking workman, and at once very imaginative and very matter-of-fact;" and he goes on to say that the slightest exterior interruption or contradiction to the imaginary state of things he was endeavoring to conjure up in his brain threw all his ideas into confusion and disarray. it was necessary, therefore, to surround himself in some way or other with an eastern atmosphere. how this could be managed in the face of the snows of the derbyshire winters, during which the four stories which compose "lalla rookh" were written, it is difficult to conceive, and perhaps to the fact that it could _not_ be effectually done, must be ascribed the ill success which beset the poet during an entire twelvemonth. vainly did he string together peris and bulbuls, and sunny apples of totkahar: the inspiration would _not_ come. it was all "double, double, toil and trouble," to no purpose. each story, however trippingly it began, soon flagged, drooped, and, less fortunate than that of ----"the bear and fiddle, begun and broke off in the middle," expired of collapse after a brief career of a few score lines only, frequently nothing like so many. some of these fragments have since been published. one of them, "the peri's daughter," ran to some length, and is rather pretty and sparkling. this uninspiring state of things seemed interminable--the three thousand guineas were as far off as ever; and apprehension of the necessity of a bodily journey to the east, in order to get at the genuine "atmosphere," must have suggested itself, when a gleam of light, in the idea of the "fire-worshipers," broke in upon the poet; the multifarious collection of eastern materials deposited in the chambers of his brain arranged themselves in flowing numbers, without encountering any further accident; and at the end of three years "lalla rookh" was ushered before an admiring world. its success was immense, and the work ran rapidly through many editions. "paradise and the peri," the second story, although not so much praised as the first and third, is, we fancy, much the most read of the four; and from its light, ringing tone, its delicate and tender sentiment, its graceful and musical flow, will always be a principal favorite with the admirers of thomas moore's poetry. the bow so long bent required relaxation, and in the first flush of his great success, while his ears were still ringing with the applauses, and his nostrils still titillating with the incense which the press showered upon "lalla rookh," pronounced by general consent--"when they _do_ agree, their unanimity is wonderful"--to be unrivaled as a work of melody, beauty, and power, moore set out on a continental tour with his friend and brother-poet rogers. on his return to england he published the "fudge family"--not a very brilliant performance, and which, with the exception of its political hits, is but an imitation of "les anglaises pour rire." he also worked at the "melodies," and wrote articles for the "edinburgh review." in one of the most pleasing incidents in his life occurred. a public dinner was given in his honor at dublin, the earl of charlemont in the chair--the poet's venerable father, garret moore, being present on the chairman's right hand, the honored and delighted witness of the enthusiastic welcome bestowed upon his son by his warm-hearted fellow-countrymen. moore made a graceful, cleverly-turned speech; but he was no orator: few literary men are. he could not think upon his legs; and you could see by the abstraction of his look that he was not speaking, in the popular sense, but reciting what had previously been carefully composed and committed to memory. such speeches frequently read well, but if long, they are terrible things to sit and hear. the following year moore accompanied lord john russell on a continental tour, taking the road of the simplon to italy. lord john went on to genoa, and moore directed his steps toward venice, for the purpose of seeing byron. it was during this visit the noble lord made moore a present of his personal memoirs, for publication after the writer's death. moore gives the following account of the transaction: "we were conversing together when byron rose and went out. in a minute or two he returned carrying a white leathern bag. 'look here!' he said, holding it up, 'this would be worth something to murray, though you, i daresay, would not give sixpence for it.' 'what is it?' i asked, 'my life and adventures,' he answered. on hearing this i raised my hands in a gesture. 'it is not a thing that can be published during my life, but you may have it if you like: then do whatever you please with it.' in taking the bag, and thanking him most warmly, i added: 'this will make a nice legacy for my little tom, who shall astonish the latter end of the nineteenth century with it.' he then added: 'you may show it to any of your friends you think worthy of it.' this is as nearly as i can recollect all that passed." these memoirs moore sold to murray for two thousand guineas, but at lord byron's death, his executors and family induced moore to repay mr. murray and destroy the manuscript. the precise reasons which decided moore to yield to the solicitations of the deceased lord's friends and family are not known, but there can be little doubt that they were urgent, and in a moral sense irresistible. a man does not usually throw away two thousand guineas for a caprice, even of his own, much less for that of others. it is not likely that the world has lost much by the destruction of these memoirs. lord byron's life is sufficiently written in his published works for all purposes save that of the gratification of a morbid curiosity and vulgar appetite for scandal. during the journey to and from italy, moore sketched the "rhymes on the road," which were soon afterward published. there is nothing remarkable about them except his abuse of rousseau and madame warens, _à propos_ of a visit to les charmettes. moore was violently assailed for this by writers, who held that as he had himself translated anacreon, and written juvenile songs of an immoral tendency, he was thereby incapacitated from fy, fying naughty people in his maturer and better years. this seems hardly a reasonable maxim, and would, if strictly interpreted and enforced, silence much grave and learned eloquence, oral as well as written. his denunciations of the eccentric and fanciful author of the "confessions," which twenty years before he would probably have called the enunciations of "virtue with her zone loosened;" were certainly violent and unmeasured, and not, perhaps, in the very best taste. pecuniary difficulties, arising from the misconduct of his deputy in bermuda, now threatened mr. moore, and flight to france--for process against him had issued from the court of admiralty--became immediately necessary. the deputy-registrar, from whom mr. moore had exacted no securities, had made free with the cargoes of several american vessels, and immediately decamped with the proceeds, leaving his principal liable, it was feared, to the serious amount of six thousand pounds. active and successful efforts were, however, made by moore's friends to compromise the claims, and ultimately they were all adjusted by the payment of one thousand guineas. three hundred pounds toward this sum were contributed by the delinquent's uncle, a london merchant; so that moore's ultimate loss was seven hundred and fifty pounds only. during the progress, and at the close of these negotiations, numerous offers of pecuniary assistance were addressed to mr. moore, all of which he gratefully but firmly declined. while the matter was pending, moore resided near paris at la butte coaslin, on the road to belle vue. this was also the residence of some agreeable spanish friends of the poet. kenny the dramatic writer lived also in the neighborhood. here moore composed his "loves of the angels," passing his days, when they were fine, in walking up and down the park of saint cloud, "polishing verses and making them run easy," and the evenings in singing italian duets with his spanish friends. previous to leaving paris, at the close of , he attended a banquet got up in his honor by many of the most distinguished and wealthy of the english residents in that gay city. his speech on this occasion was a high-flown panegyric upon england and every thing english, and grievously astonished byron, shelley, hunt, and others, when they read it in italy. either they thought the tone of some of the irish melodies was wrong, or the speech was. they did not reflect that a judicious speaker always adapts his speech to his audience. apt words in apt places are the essentials of true eloquence. moore's publishers' account, delivered in the following june, exhibited a very pleasing aspect. he was credited with one thousand pounds for the "loves of the angels," and five hundred pounds for "fables for the holy alliance." these were the halcyon days of poetry. there was truth as well as mirthful jest in sir walter scott's remark a few years afterward, in reply to moore's observation, "that hardly a magazine is now published but contains verses which would once have made a reputation." "ecod!" exclaimed the baronet, "we were very lucky to come before these fellows!" in moore paid a visit to sir walter scott at abbottsford. the meeting was a cordial one, and the baronet, mr. lockhart informs us, pronounced mr. moore "to be the prettiest warbler" he ever knew. what somewhat diminishes the value of this praise is, that, according to the warbler himself, sir walter--but the thing seems incredible--had no genuine love or taste for music, except indeed for the jacobite chorus of "hey tuttie, tattie," now indissolubly united to "scots wha hae wi' wallace bled!" which, when sung after supper by the company, with hands clasped across each other, and waving up and down, he hugely delighted in. scott accompanied moore to edinburgh, and both of them, with mr. lockhart and his lady, went to the theatre on the same evening that it was honored by the presence of the celebrated mrs. coutts, afterward duchess of st. albans. soon after their at first unmarked entrance, the attention of the audience which had till then been engrossed by the lady millionaire, was directed toward the new-comers, and according to a newspaper report, copied and published by mr. moore, in one of his last prefaces, considerable excitement immediately prevailed. "eh!" exclaimed a man in the pit--"eh! yon's sir walter, wi' lockhart and his wife: and wha's the wee body wi' the pawkie een? wow, but it's tam moore just!" "scott--scott! moore--moore!" immediately resounded through the house. scott would not rise: moore did, and bowed several times with his hand on his heart. scott afterward acknowledged the plaudits of his countrymen, and the orchestra, during the rest of the evening, played alternately scotch and irish airs. at the request of the marquis of lansdowne, who was desirous that he should reside near him, moore at this period took a journey into wiltshire, to look at a house in the village of bromham, near bowood, the seat of the noble marquis, which it was thought might suit him. he, however, pronounced it to be too large, and declined taking it. on his return he told his wife there was a cottage in a thickly-wooded lane in the neighborhood to let, which he thought might be made to do. mrs. moore immediately left town, secured it, and there they shortly afterward took up their permanent abode. they have greatly improved and enlarged sloperton cottage; and covered almost as its front and two porches are with roses and clematis, with the trim miniature lawn and garden in front, along which runs a raised walk inclosed with evergreens, from which a fine view is obtained, it presents an entirely satisfactory aspect of well-ordered neatness, prettiness, and comfort. it is situated within about two miles of devizes, and is within easy reach of the country residence of lord lansdowne. it was here he wrote the biographies of lord edward fitzgerald, lord byron, and richard brinsley sheridan, of which we need only remark that they are industriously compiled and pleasantly written. in , five years before the passing of the catholic relief act, moore published "the memoirs of captain rock, written by himself." it is a bitter, rhapsodical, and of course one-sided commentary upon the government of ireland by england, not only since the reformation, but from the time of pope adrian's famous bull, which is twisted into an exclusively english grievance and insult. the next considerable work of moore's--for his light parthian warfare in the politics of the hour continued as usual, and with about the same success, as in his younger days--was "the travels of an irish gentleman in search of a religion"--a perfectly serious and earnest book in defense of the roman catholic faith. there is a vast amount of erudition displayed in its pages; and remembering how slow and painstaking a workman moore declared himself to be, it must, one would suppose, have been the work of years. the author's object is to prove, from the writings of the early fathers and other evidence, that the peculiar dogmas, and discipline, and practice of the church of rome, date from the apostolic age, or at least from the first centuries of the christian era, and are consequently true. this the writer does entirely, at least, to his own satisfaction, which is the case, we believe, with controversial writers generally. the book concludes with the following words, addressed to the catholic church, which his after-life proves to have been earnest and sincere: "in the shadow of thy sacred mysteries let my soul henceforth repose, remote alike from the infidel who scoffs at their darkness, and the rash believer who would pry into its recesses." these imaginary travels were published anonymously, but the book was always known to be moore's. apart from any other evidence, the poetic translations of portions of the writings of ancient bishops would have amply sufficed to determine the authorship. the last, and, according to moore's own authority, one of the most successful of his works, as far as a great sale constitutes success, was the prose romance of "the epicurean." there is much learning displayed in this book, and it contains some striking descriptions. we also meet occasionally with passages of simple and natural beauty and eloquence, the more striking and effective from the contrast they afford to the cumbrous and ambitious rhetoric through which they are sparsely scattered. it was commenced in verse, and gradually reached to a considerable length in that form, but ultimately, like the "peri's daughter," broke down irretrievably. no one who respects mr. moore's poetical fame will regret this after reading the fragment which has been published. "the epicurean" is a moral and religious story; and it has this great merit, that it has very little of the merely sensuous imagery in which mr. moore generally indulged. the plot is of the most commonplace kind, and the conduct of the story so entirely languid and lulling, that it may be freely indulged in without the slightest fear of ill-consequences by the most nervous and impressionable lady-reader in the three kingdoms. on the th of june, , the day after the publication of "the epicurean," moore was one of the gay and distinguished assemblage at a magnificent fête at boyle farm, in the environs of london, the cost of which had been clubbed by five or six rich young lords. it appears by mr. moore's description to have been a very brilliant affair. there were crowds of the _élite_ of society present of both sexes; well-dressed men and groups of fair women, "all looking their best;" together with dancing, music, the tyrolese minstrels, and madame vestris and fanny ayton, rowing up and down the river, singing moore's "oh, come to me when daylight sets!" and so on. the author of "the epicurean" relates all this for the purpose of introducing an anecdote concerning his book, and we notice it for the same reason. during one of the pauses of the music, the marquis of palmella--moore _disguises_ the name of the portuguese embassador in this impenetrable mode, the marquis of p-lm---a, approaching the poet, remarked upon the magnificence of the fête. moore agreed. "the tents," he remarked, "had a fine effect." "nay," said the marquis, "i was thinking of your fête at athens. i read it this morning in the newspaper." "confound the newspaper!" moore had a great aversion to having his best _morceaux_ served up without context in that manner; but worse remained behind. a mr. d---- accosted him a few minutes afterward, and mentioning the book, added these flattering words, "i never read any thing so touching as the death of your heroine." "what!" exclaimed the delighted author, "have you got so far as that already?" "oh, dear, no, i have not seen the book--i read what i mentioned in the literary gazette." "shameful!" says mr. moore, "to anticipate my catastrophe in that manner!" perhaps so; but that which we should like especially to know is whether mr. b----m, who is mentioned as being present at the enunciation of these courtesies, was mr. brougham. if so, the flash of the keen gray eyes that followed the compliment on the touching death of alethe, must, to an observant looker-on, have been one of the most entertaining incidents of the fête. the smart political squibs, scattered like fire-flies through the dreary waste of journalism during the last active years of moore's life, are not obnoxious to criticism. squire corn, famished cotton, weeping chancellors, salmagundian kings, and knavish benthamites, as penciled by moore, have passed from the domain of wit and verse into that of the historian and the antiquary, into the hands of the collector of forgotten trifles; and there we very willingly leave them, pleasant, piquant, and welcome, as we fully admit them in their day to have been. moore has also written several pieces of religious verse, which, although not of very high merit as poetry, finely at times bring out and illustrate the christian spirit in its most engaging aspect--unalloyed, unclouded by the mists of fanatic sectarianism. that moore was not an inspired creative poet like shakspeare, milton, burns, and a few others, is true; but beneath those heaven-reaching heights there are many still lofty eminences upon which gifted spirits sit enthroned, their brows encircled with coronets bright with gems of purest ray, serene, though pale, indeed, and dim in presence of the radiant crowns of the kings of poetry and song, between whom also there are degrees of glory; for immeasurably above all, far beyond even the constellated splendor of "the blind old man of scio's rocky isle," soars shakspeare, palm-wreathed and diademed with stars. one of these lesser heights and circlets must unquestionably be awarded to thomas moore. his wing, it must be admitted, is feeble, requiring artificial stimulants and help to lift him above the ground a sufficient time for warbling a brief melody. he did not sing as a flower exhales--from the law and necessity of its nature; still there is at times a grace, and tenderness, and music, about his carefully-polished snatches of song, which the world is not sufficiently rich in to willingly let die. turning from moore the poet to moore the politician, there is not much to remark upon; neither certainly is there place for two opinions. moore wrote politics at times--pointed, bitter, rankling politics--but he was really at heart no politician. there was no earnestness in what he did in this way, and it was early and abundantly evident from his alternate eulogies and vituperation of democratic institutions, that he had no firmly-based convictions. his love for ireland was a sentiment only: it never rose to the dignity of a passion. not one of his patriotic songs breathes the fiery energy, the martyr zeal, the heroic hate and love, which pulsate in the veins of men who ardently sympathize with a people really oppressed, or presumed to be so. but let us hasten to say, that if there was little of the hero or martyr, there was nothing of the renegade or traitor about thomas moore. the pension of three hundred a year obtained for him of the crown by his influential friends was not the reward of baseness or of political tergiversation. it was the prize and reward of his eminence as a writer, and his varied social accomplishments. if he did not feel strongly, he at all events felt honestly; and although he had no mission to evoke the lightning of the national spirit, and hurl its consuming fire at the men who, had they possessed the power, would have riveted the bondage of his people, he could and did soothe their angry paroxysms with lulling words of praise and hope, and, transforming their terribly real, physical, and moral griefs and ills into picturesque and sentimental sorrows, awakened a languid admiration, and a passing sympathy for a nation which could boast such beautiful music, and whose woes were so agreeably, so charmingly sung. liberal opinions moore supported by tongue and pen, but then they were fashionable within a sufficiently extensive circle of notabilities, and had nothing of the coarseness and downrightness of vulgar radicalism about them. the political idiosyncrasy of moore is developed in the same essential aspect in his memoir of lord edward fitzgerald as in his national songs. there is nothing impassioned, nothing which hurries the pulse or kindles the eye--but a graceful regret, a carefully guarded appreciation of the acts and motives of that unfortunate and misguided nobleman, run throughout. moore was what men call a fair weather politician--which means, not that storms do not frequently surround them, but that by a prudent forethought, a happy avoidance of prematurely committing themselves, they contrive to make fair weather for themselves, however dark and tempestuous may be the time to other and less sagacious men, and who, when their sun does at last shine, come out with extreme effulgence and brilliancy. moore, therefore, as a politician, was quite unexceptionable, though not eminent. he was at once a pensioned and unpurchased, and, we verily believe, unpurchasable partisan; an honest, sincere, and very mild patriot; a faithful, and at the same time prudent and circumspect lover of his country, its people, and its faith. there are very high-sounding names in the list of political celebrities, of whom it would be well if such real though not highly-flattering praise could be truly spoken. moore's prose works require but little notice at our hands beyond that incidentally bestowed upon them in our passage through his works. none of them that we are acquainted with add at all to the reputation for genius acquired by his poetry. the flow and rhyme of verse are indispensable to carry the reader through stories without probability or interest, and to render men and women, not only without originality--that frequently happens--but destitute of individualism, decently tolerable. we are ignorant of the contributions to the "edinburgh review;" but they could scarcely have much enhanced the power and attractiveness of a periodical which in his time numbered among its contributors such names as jeffrey, brougham, sidney smith, hallam, macaulay, and others of that mint and standard. moore is assigned by his friends a high rank among the defenders or apologists of the church of rome; and we believe his "travels," like cobbett's "reformation," have been translated by papal authority and command into most of the languages of europe. of his merits in this department of literature, which is quite out of our way, we do not presume to offer an opinion. his book unquestionably displays a vast deal of research and learning; but whether it is so entirely perverse as its adversaries contend, or so pre-eminently irrefragable and convincing as its admirers assert, we really can not say. it is, after all, in the home-life of individuals that their true character must be read and studied. the poet and the politician--the latter more especially--dwell, as regards their vocations, apart from the household tests which really measure the worth, the truth, the kindliness of individual men and women. moore, we are pleased to be able to repeat, as a son, a husband, a father, a friend, and neighbor, bore, and deservedly, the highest character. his domestic affections were ardent, tender, and sincere; and the brilliant accomplishments which caused his society to be courted by the great ones of the world, shed their genial charm over the quiet fireside at which sat his wife, and in whose light and warmth the children whose loss has bowed him to the grave, grew up only to bloom and perish. there have been much greater poets, more self-sacrificing, though perhaps no more sincere lovers of their country; but in the intimate relations of domestic life, and the discharge of its common, every-day, but sacred obligations, there are few men who have borne a more unspotted and deservedly-high reputation than thomas moore. the fairy's choice. many, many years ago, before fairies were exploded, and when every noble family had a guardian spirit attached to it, the fairy aquarella, my heroine, existed. the date is so far back, that it belongs to those good old days known as "once upon a time." now, aquarella was the spirit of a pretty, sparkling streamlet, which strayed through the grounds of a mighty lord, in whose welfare she had always been interested. she was but a tiny little thing--one of the progeny of isis and thames; but people said she inherited the beauties of both her parents. her little stream was of the purest water, and in her way she carefully avoided all ugly spots, while her banks were always studded with the choicest flowers. here, the narcissus found a fitting mirror for his waxen leaves; here, the water-lilies spread their broad petals, and formed cups fit for a fairy's board; and here, the humble forget-me-not crept under the foliage, nestling close to its birth-place, and looking so innocent, you could scarcely believe it had once lured a gay knight to a melancholy death. aquarella, however, could never become an accessary to so sad a crime--her waters could never injure any one, save in one place, where the young lord albert loved to come and bathe. the lord's bath, as it was called, was in a sweet, shady spot--the weeping willow and gentle aspen shielded it from the sun's rays, and the bright smooth pebbles that lined it seemed quite to form a pavement. this was aquarella's favorite retreat, and hither she would calmly repose after her capricious wanderings. sometimes she would almost hide herself under a sedgy canopy, when you could only trace her course by the deeper verdure on either side of her; and this was the chosen lurking-place of the speckled trout, the rosy dace, and other dandy fish, for she would only allow her waters to be inhabited by the choicest of their kind; slimy eels, vulgar tittlebats, or the voracious pike, were forbidden to approach her court. sometimes she would tire of this quiet life, and suddenly making a prodigious fuss in the world, would splash around a few great stones that lay in her path, spreading herself out as wide as she could, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight, till each tiny ripple seemed to wear a crown of diamonds, and you could hardly fancy the noisy, smiling waters, belonged to the tranquil stream that had been creeping along so gently. few mortals were acquainted with aquarella; but she was well-known to the gallant kingfisher, to the lordly heron, who would pursue their sport by her banks. it was when the lord albert was a baby, that aquarella first saw and loved him; his nurses had brought him to bask in her waters. the fairy was resting in her chosen retreat, and never before having noticed a mortal infant, was greatly struck with his beauty. she tempered her natural delicious coolness to receive him, and the child crowed, and clapped his pretty pink fingers, as the clear stream closed around him; he laughed as he emerged from his bath, and struggled for another dip; his women could scarcely tear him away. from that day the bath was his favorite amusement; invisibly supported by aquarella, he sported in her waters, and each day imbibed new virtues from them. health, strength, good temper, and good looks--these were the fairy's gifts to her protégé, and wherever her wanderings led her, she heard him cited as the kindest, the bravest, the wisest, and the best of young noblemen. albert knew not of the beneficent being who protected him, and when he occasionally saw a vapory wreath arising from the brook, he little suspected whom it concealed; and yet if he could have seen aquarella, her loveliness would have charmed him. she was fair--as all english maidens are--and was attired in the highest fashion of her father's court. her dress was of that changing blue-green--known to aquatic beauties as mackerel-back--spangled with scales from the gold and silver fish. some of her father's marine friends had brought her pearls and coral, from the great ocean itself, and with them she looped up her drapery, and braided her long tresses, while over all she threw a rich vail of mist which concealed her from the common gaze; and thus she would float along, hearing the praises of her beloved mortal, or busily occupied in increasing his wealth, ornamenting his ground, and shielding him from evil. so passed aquarella's days. she was now seldom seen in her father's court; her whole happiness was centred in albert. she cared not to join in her sisters' gambols, as each brought their tribute to their august parents--she was pining away for love, and only lived when in albert's domain; elsewhere she dwindled away till her fond mother feared she would lose all her beauty and animation, and become a mere rillet. it was proposed to unite her waters with those of a neighboring river, who wished to marry, but she would not hear of such a thing, and threatened if it were mentioned again to hide herself underground for the rest of her life. "but, good gracious! what is to be done?" asked isis; "we can not let the poor child, our youngest and prettiest, incur the unhappy fate of the unfortunate little fleet river." "no, no," replied father thames, "that must not be; i will take her to-morrow to london bridge; he is older, and has seen more of the world than any one we know. i dare say he can give us some good advice." "very well," said isis, "you may speak to the bridge, as you go to meet those nauseous salt rivers; i hate them, they are so rough and roar so when they are angry. i will see what i can learn nearer home, at the universities; there are plenty of doctors there." "you had better call at sion house, too, and richmond." "to be sure, that i will; there--where fair queens have fretted and have mourned, where noble ladies have dwelt and wept--they must know something of this strange disease, called love, for i really fear that is aquarella's disorder." "nonsense! where could she get that complaint?" "on earth, to be sure. it is very prevalent there, and i am told it is infectious; we can but ask, you know." the two anxious parents now separated, isis remaining impatiently till old thames's return from his sea visit allowed her to proceed on her inland course. they gained but little information at any of the places they had mentioned, as, though such things had occasionally happened in greece, the case was quite new to all the sages here. aquarella was the first english fairy who had been known to die of love for a mortal. this low attachment of hers made her friends very unhappy, and at last they summoned her godfather aquarius. as he was the god of all the rivers, and a very high personage, there was a great deal of ceremony in his reception, and he came to the bed of thames in a special train of thunder, lightning, and rain, accompanied by his friend boreas. this high honor made the old couple so proud, that they spread out their waters to make room for him, till they even covered their banks, and frightened all who lived near them. aquarius, from his long experience and intimate acquaintance with lady-rivers of all nations, was quite the most proper person to treat with the poor fairy. he did not scold, rough as he was, for he knew scolding was of no good in her complaint; he reasoned with her, but that was scarce more efficient. "do you know, child, that to marry this mortal, you must take his religion?" "and is not that better than ours, your mightiness?" "give up your immortality?" "and gain his. ours must cease with this world; his can never end." "but it may be an immortality of grief?" "not unless we deserve it, and we will not. i learned much, your mightiness, while washing the walls of a little chapel, by whose side i flow." "you must relinquish your high privileges." "what are they, without love?" "aquarella, you are mad! do you know what the life of a mortal woman is?" "oh, yes. have i not watched albert's mother? i know how she spends her days; in providing comforts for son and husband, in instructing the ignorant, in relieving the poor, in doing good to all. hers is indeed a happy and useful life." "and suppose albert should not love you?" "i could still watch over him." "suppose he should become poor--should fall from his high estate?" "i would work for, and comfort him." "if he live, he will lose his youthful beauty." "but he will preserve his virtues." "he will become old and decrepit." "i will nurse him." "she has an answer for every thing; there must be a woman's soul in her. after all--listen to me seriously, daughter--you may indeed do all you say, and become the blessing of albert's life; but to do this, you must leave your parents, your sisters--leave them, and forever." "must i, indeed?" "you must. albert is of another class; he may be as good as you, still he is not your equal, nor can you enjoy his love and that of your family. now choose between them." "my sisters--my father--albert." "choose--weigh them well in the balance; or one, or the other--both you can not have." "does my father disapprove?" "you can not expect he wishes you to leave him for one of another sort. your separation must be eternal." "will albert be happy?" "why not? even if he knew you, he could not think much of a wife who could sever herself from her earliest ties." "my mother, too! no, no, you are right; i should never be happy. what! to feel i had offended those who have the best claim to my love and affection! i must not think of it. still, are they not a little prejudiced?" "perhaps they are; but if you do your duty, their prejudices may eventually give way." "i am afraid all you say is true; i can not leave them. oh! i am very miserable. what shall i do?" "do good to every one, make yourself useful--that is the only cure for a broken heart." "can i help albert?" "to be sure you can. and now you have shown yourself to be a dutiful daughter, and a fairy of proper sense, i will teach you how to assist him, and all his fellow-men." i can not tell all the advice the old god gave to the disconsolate aquarella, but its consequences were of great benefit to the young lord, and ultimately to all the world, for she consented to restrain her vagaries, and become a useful member of society, a working river. the same lively energy that helped her to quarrel with the stones, now enabled her to turn a mill; there is no saying what amount of water power is within her. like all really benevolent, sensible persons, she considers no good work a degradation; and her activity is boundless. she has turned from her course to assist a paper manufacturer, her waters are invaluable to a calico printer also, and she may be seen in a bleaching ground. she is not so wildly beautiful as in her early days, but her banks are still charming, and, like a kind old maiden aunt, she is ever indulgent to youth. she has famous bays, where rosy boys can launch their tiny vessels; deep recesses, where sober anglers enjoy their silent sport; and sweet nooks, where albert's posterity have often mused on pleasant thoughts, have pledged the faith, and vowed the love denied to the poor fairy, and here her course flows placidly and serenely along, as if she still took an interest in human happiness, and the trifles that compose it. it is even said that for the greater benefit of mankind, and of the loved one's descendents in particular, she has consented to be united with a sluggish, but wealthy canal, who wishes to get some pure water. this report at present wants good authority; however, we shall see. at all events the fairy's fate may teach us that all--even those who have known great troubles--may be happy if they do their duty; that no lot is without its trials and its reward, and that there is no cure to sorrow so potent as a good conscience. a gallop for life. about twenty years ago, after a fatiguing london season, i was stopping at the decayed port and bathing village of parkgate, on the dee, opposite the equally decayed town and castle of flint. it was a curious place to choose for amusement, for it had, and has, no recommendation except brackish water, pleasant scenery at high water, and excessive dullness. but, to own the truth, i was in love, desperately in love, with one of the most charming, provoking little sylphs in the world, who, after driving me half crazy in london, was staying on a visit with an uncle, a welsh parson, at dreary parkgate. not that it was dreary to me when laura was amiable; on the contrary, i wrote to my friends and described it as one of the most delightful watering-places in england, and, by so doing, lost forever the good graces and legacy of my aunt grumph, who traveled all the way from brighton on my description, and only staid long enough to change horses. one sight of the one street of tumble-down houses, in face of a couple of miles of sand and shingle at low water, was enough. she never spoke to me again, except to express her extreme contempt for my opinion. our chief amusement was riding on the sand, and sometimes crossing to flint at low water. you know, of course, that formerly the dee was a great commercial river, with important ports at chester, parkgate, and flint; but, in the course of time, the banks have fallen in, increasing the breadth at the expense of the depth; so that at parkgate, whence formerly the irish packets sailed, the fisher-girls can walk over at low water, merely tucking up their petticoats in crossing the channel, down which the main stream of fresh water flows. but although this broad expanse of sand affords a firm footing, at low water, for the whole way across, except just round flint, where there are several quicksands, when the tide turns, in certain states of the wind, the whole estuary is covered with wonderful rapidity; for the tide seems to creep up subterranean channels, and you may find yourself surrounded by salt-water when you least expect it. this was of no consequence to us, as we were never tied for time. i was teaching laura to ride on a little welsh pony, and the sands made a famous riding-school. i laugh now when i think of the little rat of a pony she used to gallop about, for she now struggles into a brougham of ordinary dimensions with great difficulty, and weighs nearly as much as her late husband, mr. alderman mallard. in a short time, laura made so much progress in horsemanship that she insisted on mounting my hackney, a full-sized well-bred animal, and putting me on the rat-pony. when i indulged her in this fancy--for of course she had her own way--i had the satisfaction of being rewarded by her roars of laughter at the ridiculous figure i cut, ambling beside her respectable uncle, on his cart-horse cob, with my legs close to the ground, and my nose peering over the little welshman's shaggy ears, while my fairy galloped round us, drawing all sorts of ridiculous comparisons. this was bad enough, but when captain egret, the nephew of my charmer's aunt's husband, a handsome fellow, with "a lovely gray horse, with such a tail," as laura described it, came up from chester to stay a few days, i could stand my rat-pony no longer, and felt much too ill to ride out; so stood at the window of my lodgings with my shirt-collar turned down, and byron in my hand open at one of the most murderous passages, watching laura on my chestnut, and captain egret on his gray, cantering over the deserted bed of the dee. they were an aggravatingly handsome couple, and the existing state of the law on manslaughter enabled me to derive no satisfaction from the hints contained in the "giaour" or the "corsair." these were our favorite books of reference for young england in those days. indeed, we were all amateur pirates, and felons in theory; but when i had been cast down in disgust at the debased state of civilization, which prevented me from challenging captain egert to single combat, with laura for the prize of the victor, instead of a cell in chester castle, my eyes fell on an advertisement in a local paper, which turned my thoughts into a new channel, of "_sale of blood stock, hunters, and hackneys_, at plas * * *, near holywell." i determined to give up murder, and buy another horse, for i could ride as well as the captain; and then what glorious _tête-à-têtes_ i could have, with my hand on the pommel of laura's side-saddle. the idea put me in good-humor. regimental duties having suddenly recalled captain egret, i spent a delightful evening with laura; she quite approved of my project, and begged that i would choose a horse "with a long tail, of a pretty color," which is every young lady's idea of what a horse should be. accordingly i mounted my chestnut on a bright morning of july, and rode across to flint, accompanied by a man to bring back my intended purchase. it was dead low water; when, full of happy thoughts, in the still warm silence of the summer morning, holding my eager horse hard in, i rode at a foot-pace across the smooth, hard, wave-marked bed of the river. there was not a cloud in the sky. the sun, rising slowly, cast a golden glow over the sparkling sand. pat-pat-pit-pat, went my horse's feet, not loud enough to disturb the busy crows and gulls seeking their breakfast; they were not afraid of me; they knew i had no gun. i remember it; i see it all before me, as if it were yesterday, for it was one of the most delicious moments of my life. but the screaming gulls and whistling curlews were put to flight, before i had half crossed the river's bed, by the cheerful chatter, laughter, and fragments of welsh airs sung in chorus by a hearty crowd of cockle and mussel gatherers, fishermen, and farmers' wives, on their way to the market on the cheshire side--men, women (they were the majority), and children, on foot, on ponies, and donkeys, and in little carts. exchanging good-humored jokes, i passed on until i came to the ford of the channel, where the river runs between banks of deep soft sand. at low water, at certain points, in summer, it is but a few inches deep; but after heavy rains, and soon after the turning of the tide, the depth increases rapidly. at the ford i met a second detachment of welsh peasantry preparing to cross, by making bundles of shoes and stockings, and tucking up petticoats very deftly. great was the fun and the splashing, and plenty of jokes on the _saxon_ and his red horse going the wrong way. the welsh girls in this part of the country are very pretty, with beautiful complexions, a gleam of gold in their dark hair, and an easy, graceful walk, from the habit of carrying the water-pitchers from the wells on their heads. the scene made me feel any thing but melancholy or ill-natured. i could not help turning back to help a couple of little damsels across, pillion-wise, who seemed terribly afraid of wetting their finery at the foot ford. having passed the channels, the wheels and footmarks formed a plain direction for a safe route, which, leaving flint castle on my right, brought me into the centre of flint, without any need of a guide. the rest of my road was straightforward and commonplace. i reached the farm where the sale was to take place, in time for breakfast, and was soon lost in a crowd of country squires, welsh parsons, farmers, horse-dealers, and grooms. late in the day i purchased a brown stallion, with a strain of arab blood, rather undersized, but compact, and one of the handsomest horses i ever saw before or since, very powerful, nearly thorough-bred. when the auctioneer had knocked him down to me, i said to one of the grooms of the establishment who was helping my man--handing him a crown-piece at the same time: "as the little brown horse is mine, with all faults, just have the goodness to tell me what is his fault?" "why, sir," he answered, "he can walk, trot, gallop, and jump, first rate, surely; but he's very awkward to mount; and when you are on, he'll try uncommon hard to get you off, for two minutes; if you stick fast, he will be quiet enough all day." "thank you, my man," i replied; "i'll try him directly." just before starting i found the chestnut had a shoe loose, and had to send him to the nearest village, two miles off. i had promised laura to return by eight o'clock, to finish a delightful book we were reading aloud together, until the tiff about captain egret had interrupted us. you may judge if i was not impatient; and yet, with fifteen miles to ride to flint, i had no time to spare. my friend, the groom, saddled the brown horse, and brought him down to the open road to me. he trotted along, with shining coat and arched neck, snorting and waving his great tail like a lion. as he piaffed and paraded sideways along, casting back his full eye most wickedly, every motion spoke mischief; but there was no time for consideration; i had barely an hour to do fifteen miles of rough roads before crossing the river, and must get to the river-side, cool. i had intended to have ridden the chestnut, who was experienced in water, but the loose shoe upset that arrangement. without giving him any time to see what i was about, i caught him by the mane and the reins, threw myself from a sloping bank into the saddle, and, although he dragged the groom across the road, i had both feet in the stirrups before he burst from his hold. snorting fiercely, he bucked and plunged until i thought the girths would surely crack; but other horsemen galloping past, enabled me to bustle him into full speed, and in five minutes he settled down into a long, luxurious stride, with his legs under his haunches, that felt like a common canter, but really devoured the way, and swept me past every thing on the road. up hill and down, it was all the same, he bounded, like a machine full of power on the softest of steel-springs. ten miles were soon past, and we reached holywell; up the steep hill and through the town, and down the steep narrow lanes, we went, and reached the level road along the shore leading to flint, without halt, until within two miles of that town; then i drew bridle, to walk in cool. by this time the weather, which had been bright all day, had changed; a few heat drops of rain fell, thunder was heard rolling in the distance, and a wind seemed rising and murmuring from the sea. i looked at my watch as we entered the town; it was an hour past the time when i intended to have crossed--but laura must not be disappointed; so i only halted at the inn long enough to let the brown wash his mouth out, and, without dismounting, rode on to the guide's house. as i passed the castle, i heard a band playing; it was a party of officers, with their friends, who had come up on a pic-nic from chester. when i reached the cottage of old david, the guide, he was sitting on the bench at the door, putting on his shoes and stockings; and part of the party i had met in the morning, as they passed, cried, "you're late, master; you must hurry on to cross to-night." david was beginning to dissuade me; but when i threw him a shilling, and trotted on, he followed me, pattering down the beach. "you must make haste, master, for the wind's getting up, and will bring the tide like a roaring lion--it will. but i suppose the pretty lady with the rosy face expects you. but where's the red horse? i wish you had him. i do not like strange horses on such a time as this--indeed, and i do not," he added. but i had no time for explanations, although david was a great ally of ours. i knew i was expected; it was getting dusk, and laura would be anxious, _i hoped_. pushing briskly along, we soon reached the ford of the channel, so calm and shallow in the morning, but now filling fast with the tide; dark clouds were covering the sky, and the wind brought up a hollow murmuring sound. "now get across, young gentleman, as fast as you can, and keep your eye on the wind-mill, and don't spare your spurs, and you will have plenty of time; so, good-evening, god bless you! young gentleman, and the pretty lady, too," cried david, honestest of welsh guides. i tried to walk the brown horse through the ford where it was not more than three or four feet deep; but he first refused; then, when pressed, plunged fiercely in, and was out of his depth in a moment. he swam boldly enough, but obstinately kept his head down the stream, so that, instead of landing on an easy, shelving shore, he came out where all but a perpendicular bank of soft sand had to be leaped and climbed over. after several unsuccessful efforts, i was obliged to slip off, and climb up on foot, side by side with my horse, holding on by the flap of the saddle. if i had not dismounted, we should probably have rolled back together. when i reached the top of the bank, rather out of breath, i looked back, and saw david making piteous signs, as he moved off rapidly, for me to push along. but this was easier said than done; the brown horse would not let me come near him. round and round he went, rearing and plunging, until i was quite exhausted. coaxing and threatening were alike useless; every moment it was getting darker. once i thought of letting the brute go, and swimming back to david. but when i looked at the stream, and thought of laura, that idea was dismissed. another tussle, in which we plowed up the sand in a circle, was equally fruitless, and i began to think he would keep me there to be drowned, for to cross the parkgate on foot before the tide came up strong, seemed hopeless. at length, finding i could not get to touch his shoulder, i seized the opportunity, when he was close to the bank of the stream, and catching the curb sharply in both hands, backed him half way down almost into the water. before he had quite struggled up to the top, i threw myself into the saddle, and was carried off at the rate of thirty miles an hour toward the sea. but i soon gathered up the reins, and, firm in my seat, turned my tartar's head toward the point where i could see the white wind-mill gleaming through the twilight on the cheshire shore. i felt that i had not a moment to spare. the sand, so firm in the morning, sounded damp under my horse's stride; the little stagnant pools filled visibly, and joining formed shallow lakes, through which we dashed in a shower of spray; and every now and then we leaped over, or plunged into deep holes. at first i tried to choose a path, but as it rapidly grew darker, i sat back in my saddle, and with my eyes fixed on the tower of the wind-mill, held my horse firmly into a hand gallop, and kept a straight line. he was a famous deep-chested, long-striding, little fellow, and bounded along as fresh as when i started. by degrees my spirits began to rise; i thought the danger past; i felt confidence in myself and horse, and shouted to him in encouraging triumph. already i was, in imagination, landed and relating my day's adventures to laura, when with a heavy plunge down on his head, right over went the brown stallion, and away i flew as far as the reins, fortunately fast grasped, would let me. blinded with wet sand, startled, shaken, confused, by a sort of instinct, i scrambled to my feet almost as soon as my horse, who had fallen over a set of salmon-net stakes. even in the instant of my fall, all the honor of my situation was mentally visible to me. in a moment i lived years. i felt that i was a dead man; i wondered if my body would be found; i thought of what my friends would say; i thought of letters in my desk i wished burned. i thought of relatives to whom my journey to parkgate was unknown, of debts i wished paid, of parties with whom i had quarreled, and wished i had been reconciled. i wondered whether laura would mourn for me, whether she really loved me. in fact, the most serious and ridiculous thoughts were jumbled altogether, while i muttered, once or twice, a hasty prayer; and yet i did not lose a moment in remounting. this time my horse made no resistance, but stood over his hocks in a pool of salt water, and trembled and snorted--not fiercely, but in fear. there was no time to lose. i looked round for the dark line of the shore; it had sunk in the twilight. i looked again for the white tower; it had disappeared. the fall and the rolling, and turning of the horse in rising, had confused all my notions of the points of the compass. i could not tell whether it was the dark clouds from the sea, or the dizzy whirling of my brain; but it seemed to have become black night in a moment. the water seemed to flow in all directions round and round. i tried, but could not tell which was the sea, and which the river side. the wind, too, seemed to shift and blow from all points of the compass. then, "softly," i said to myself, "be calm; you are confused by terror; be a man;" and pride came to my rescue. i closed my eyes for a moment, and whispered, "oh lord, save me." then with an effort, calmer, as though i had gulped down something, i opened my eyes, stood up in my stirrups, and peered into the darkness. as far as i could see, were patches of water eating up the dry bits of sand; as far as i could hear, a rushing tide was on all sides. four times, in different directions, i pushed on, and stopped when i found the water rising over the shoulders of my horse. i drew up on a sort of island of sand, which was every minute growing less, and gathering all the strength of my lungs, shouted again and again, and then listened; but there came no answering shout. suddenly, a sound of music came floating past me. i could distinguish the air; it was the military band playing "home, sweet home." i tried to gather from what quarter the sound came; but each time the wind instruments brayed out loudly, the sounds seemed to come to me from every direction at once. "ah!" i thought, "i shall see home no more." i could have wept, but i had no time; my eyes were staring through the darkness, and my horse plunging and rearing, gave me no rest for weeping. i gave him his head once, having heard that horses, from ships sunk at sea, have reached land distant ten miles, by instinct; but the alternation of land, and shallow and deep water confused his senses, and destroyed the calm power which might have been developed in the mere act of swimming. at length, after a series of vain efforts, i grew calm and resigned. i made up my mind to die. i took my handkerchief from my neck, and tied my pocket-book to the d's of the saddle. i pulled my rings off my fingers, and put them in my pocket--i had heard of wreckers cutting off the fingers of drowned men--and then was on the point of dashing forward at random, when some inner feeling made me cast another steady glance all round. at that moment, just behind me, something sparkled twice, and disappeared, and then reappearing, shone faintly, but so steadily, that there could be no doubt it was a light on the cheshire shore. in an instant my horse's head was turned round. i had gathered him together, dug in the spurs, and crying from the bottom of my heart, "thank god!" in the same moment, not profanely, but with a horseman's instinct, shouting encouragingly, and dashed away toward the light. it was a hard fight; the ground seemed melting from under us--now struggling through soft sand, now splashing over hard, now swimming (that was easy), and now and again leaping and half falling, but never losing hold of my horse or sight of the beacon; we forced through every obstacle, until at length the water grew shallower and shallower; we reached the sand, and, passing the sand, rattled over the shingle at high-water mark--and i was saved! but i did not, could not stop; up the loose shingles i pressed on to the light that had saved me. i could not rest one instant, even for thanksgiving, until i knew to what providential circumstance i owed my safety. i drew up at a fisherman's hut of the humblest kind, built on the highest part of the shore, full two miles from parkgate; a light, which seemed faint when close to it, twinkled from a small latticed window. i threw myself from my horse, and knocked loudly at the door, and as i knocked, fumbled with one hand in my soaked pocket for my purse. twice i knocked again, and the door, which was unhasped, flew open. a woman, weeping bitterly, rose at this rude summons; and at the same moment i saw on the table the small coffin of a young child, with a rushlight burning at either end. i owed my life to death! sketches of oriental life. by f.a. neale, esq. life of a turkish gentleman. the life of the turkish effendi, or gentleman, at antioch, is rather of a monotonous character. he lives in his own, or rather in two houses--for the harem, though part of the same house, is entirely partitioned off, and no one but himself and his slaves know where it is, or how to get in or out of it. he always keeps the door-key in his pocket, and when the ladies want any thing, they rap, like so many woodpeckers, at a kind of revolving cupboard, which is securely fastened into the wall. through this cupboard at which neither party can see the other, the lady speaks to the servant, and tells him what to fetch or buy for her at the bazaars; and the article is brought and placed in the cupboard, which is wheeled round by the lady inside, so that she may take it out. when they are desirous of walking in the garden, or going to the bath, the key is delivered into the charge of some old duenna, and the effendi sees nothing more of it till the party has returned, and the ladies are safely locked up again. the effendi is, generally speaking, an early riser, and seldom sits up till a late hour at night. on issuing from his harem, he is waited upon by half a dozen slaves, who assist in his ablutions: one holds the ewer, another the soap, a third the towel, and a fourth and fifth assist him with his clean apparel. having washed and dressed, he goes through his morning devotions at the nearest mosque. returning home, his servants serve him with his cup of bitter coffee and pipe of real gibili, by which time it is about seven a.m., the fashionable hour for a turkish gentleman to call and receive visits. acquaintances and friends saunter in, and salute the host, who salutes them. beyond this, there is little conversation; for turks hate talking; and still less joking, for they detest laughing. they inquire like a parcel of anxious doctors, very kindly after each other's health, and after the general salubrity of their respective houses, for no one ever dreams of asking how his friend's wife is; that would be considered the grossest breach of decorum. draft-boards, and pipes, and coffee are introduced. some play, others look on; and, save the rattling of the dice, very little is heard to interrupt the silence of the room. the effendi's clerk comes in occasionally, with a batch of unanswered letters in his hands, and whispers mysteriously to the effendi, who either goes off into a violent fit of rage, or nods his consent in approval of what has been done, just as the contents of the letter are pleasing or the reverse. most of these letters are from the overseers, or the laborers in the effendi's silk-gardens, or olive-plantations; some few from people craving his assistance; others demanding repayment of loans of money; for there are but few of the effendis of antioch, though all rolling in riches, that are not indebted to some person or other for cash loans, as, such is their strange avarice, that though they possess (to use an oriental expression) rooms full of money, they are loth to extract one farthing from their treasures for their daily expenditure. about ten a.m., the effendi orders his horse, and followed by his pipe-bearer, who is equally well-mounted, takes a sedate ride in the environs of the town. on saturdays, in lieu of riding, he goes to the bath, but in either case he is pretty punctual as to the hour of his return. on reaching home, more pipes and coffee are produced, and he affixes his seal (for a turk never signs his name) to the various business letters that his secretary has prepared, ready for dispatching. the cry from the minaret now warns him that it is the hour for mid-day prayer. washing his hands, face, and feet, he proceeds to the sami (mosque), where he remains till it is time to breakfast; and when the breakfast is served, he goes through the forms of ablution again. after his meals, he is required to wash once more. i may here remark, for the guidance of strangers, that there is nothing a turk considers more degrading than the want of this scrupulous cleanliness in europeans; and considering the climate, and the wisdom of doing in rome as rome does (apart from all other arguments), travelers, although seldom obliged to use their fingers as turks do at their meals, ought strictly to adhere to this custom while among orientals. the effendi, after his breakfast, which is generally a very good one, and is prepared by the careful hands of the fair ladies of the harem, retires into his seraglio for a couple of hours' siesta, during the heat of the day. in this interval, if a pasha, or a bosom-friend, or the devil himself were to appear, and ask of the servants to see their master immediately, they would reply that he was asleep in the harem, and that it was as much as their heads were worth to disturb him. at about two, p.m., the effendi is again visible. he then occupies his time in playing drafts, or reading a turkish newspaper. at four, he goes once more to the mosque, and thence proceeds to the secluded garden, on the banks of the orontes. here several other effendis are sure to meet him, for it is their usual evening rendezvous. carpets are spread; baskets of cucumbers and bottles of spirit produced; and they drink brandy, and nibble cucumbers, till nigh upon sundown. sometimes cachouks, or dancing boys, dressed up in gaudy tinsel-work, and musicians, are introduced, for the entertainment of the party. by nightfall, every individual has finished his two--some more--bottles of strong _aqua vitæ_, and they return homeward, and dine--and dine heartily. coffee is then introduced, but nothing stronger--as they never drink spirit or wine after their evening meals. the nine o'clock summons to prayer, resounds from the minaret, and nine minutes after that, the effendi is fast asleep, and nothing under an earthquake would bring him forth from the harem again, till he rises simultanously with the sun next day. living in antioch. antioch is, beyond dispute, the cheapest place in the world, as well as one of the healthiest; and if it were not for the ragged little boys, who hoot at every stranger, and throw stones at his door, annoying you in every possible way, i should prefer it, as a place of residence, to any spot i have visited in europe, asia, africa, or america. my house was of perfectly new construction, well planted, and well situated, and proof against water, as well as wind. i had four rooms--a sitting-room, a dining-room, a bed-room, and a dressing-room. i had a walled inclosure of about eighty feet square, where roses and geraniums vied in beauty with jessamines and lilies. there was also a poultry-yard, a pigeon-house, stables for three horses, a store-house, a kitchen, and a servants' room. i had in the garden a grape-vine (muscatel), a pomegranate-tree, a peach-tree, a plum-tree, an apricot, and a china quince; and, in addition to all these, a fountain perpetually jetting up water, and a well, and a bathing-room. for all this accommodation, i paid three hundred and fifty piastres--about three pounds sterling--and this was a higher rent than would be paid by any native. of course, the house was unfurnished, but furniture in the east is seldom on a grand scale: a divan, half a dozen chairs, a bedstead, a mattress, a looking-glass, a table or two, and half a dozen pipes, and narghilies are all one requires. servants cost about three pounds a head per annum. seven and a half pounds of good mutton may be had for a shilling. fowls--and fat ones, too--twopence each. fish is sold by the weight--thirteen rotolos for a beshlik, or about seventy pounds weight for a shilling. eels--the very best flavored in the world--three halfpence each. as for vegetables, whether cabbages, lettuces, _des asperges_, celery, watercresses, parsley, beans, peas, radishes, turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and onions, a pennyworth would last a man a week. fruit is sold at the same rates; and grapes cost about five shillings the horse-load. game is also abundant. dried fruits and nuts can be obtained in winter. in fact, living as well as one could wish, i found it impossible--house-rent, servants, horses, board, washing, and wine included--to exceed the expenditure of forty pounds per annum. under these circumstances, it may appear marvelous that many europeans, possessed of limited means, have not made antioch their temporary home; but every question has two sides, and every thing its _pros_ and _cons_. the cons, in this instance, are the barbarous character of the people among whom you live; the perpetual liability of becoming, at one instant's warning, the victim of some fanatical _émeute_; the small hopes you have of redress for the grossest insults offered; the continual intrigues entered into by the ayans to disturb your peace and comfort; the absence of many of the luxuries enjoyed in europe; the want of society and books, and the total absence of all places of worship, which gradually creates in the mind a morbid indifference to religion, and which feeling frequently degenerates into absolute infidelity. it is better to choose with david in such a case, and say, "i would rather be a door-keeper in the house of the lord than dwell in the tents of iniquity." an english philanthropist in the east. two hours and a half ride from antioch, through a country that is a perfect paradise upon earth, but over the most execrable and detestable: road, brought me to the ancient seleucia. famed in the olden history as the emporium of eastern commerce and as a port unequaled for safe harborage, suedia is celebrated in our own days as having been the residence and favorite retreat of the late john barker, esq., formerly her majesty's consul-general in egypt, equally eminent as a philanthropist and a christian gentleman. suedia, or, as it is termed by the syrians, zectoonli, embraces a wide range of mulberry gardens, extending over a space of ten miles by three, and containing a scattered and mixed population, equal, if not exceeding in number, to that of antioch. the village is spread chiefly upon the banks of the orontes, and running parallel with the beach, which forms a boundary to the waves of the seleucian gulf where the orontes ends her course, and nature has scattered around her choicest gifts. it would require the pen of an inspired writer to describe in adequate colors this garden of eden. mulberry, lemon, and orange-trees form an uninterrupted succession of gardens, surrounding picturesque little cottages, each one eclipsing the other in neatness and beauty of situation. the peasants themselves are hale, robust, and sturdy-looking men; the children are rosy and healthy; and the women beautiful, innocent, and happy. each stops, as a stranger passes, to make a bashful salute, and bid him welcome to their country. this is what i never met elsewhere; and it was very pleasing to find uncivilized and untaught arabs so polite and courteous. there is, in fact, nothing that a native of suedia will not do to render a sojourn among them agreeable and pleasant. they are a simple people, and as simple in their habits as in their character. the sun teaches them when to rise, and darkness when to seek their beds. they labor for subsistence; they sleep for refreshment; they laugh with the merry, and weep with the afflicted. their simple old pastor, in their venerable rustic church, has pointed out to them from childhood how heinous is sin--how amiable virtue; and they are taught ever to remember that an all-seeing eye will detect and punish sins hidden to men, as surely as public offenses will entail flagellation from the pasha and governors of the district. thus they live happy in their innocence, and in each other, and almost void of offense toward god and man; a meet people to inhabit a country like that they dwell in. to this quiet retreat, mr. barker, after zealously serving his king and country for a long period of years, retired, on quitting egypt, to enjoy in seclusion the pension awarded him by the government, and devote the remainder of his days to the peaceful pursuit of agriculture. few men could better appreciate the rich gifts nature had lavished on this spot. a perfect botanist, and skilled in agriculture, his time and income during a period of nearly twenty years, were spent in promoting every improvement in the cultivation of the soil; and many have grown rich, directly or indirectly, from the methods of tillage introduced into the country by mr. barker. on taking possession of his wife's landed inheritance, mr. barker's first steps were to erect an edifice becoming his means and station, and one that would render his sojourn in the country agreeable to himself and his family, and the many friends and strangers, who delighted in visiting him, remaining his guests for days, weeks, and, in some instances, months. there was no mistake as to the genuine hospitality of the worthy host. his word of welcome was truth itself; and the warm cordiality of his excellent heart was felt in the firm grasp of his hand. "sir," he has said to me on more than one occasion, "it is the traveler who confers a favor upon me by remaining, and giving me the benefit of his society, provided he be a man that is at all sufferable. some few, i must own, have staid longer than myself or my family could have wished, but they have been very few." a perfect gentleman, an accomplished scholar, a sagacious thinker, a philosopher, and philanthropist, people wondered how so great a heart could content itself to remain in a place like suedia. i had the honor to be on intimate terms with him during my two years' residence in suedia, and i learned to love and respect him so much, that when he died, full of years and honor, i felt a void in my heart, to which i still recur with the deepest regret. mr. barker's main object in life was to confer benefits upon his suffering neighbors. he knew how much misery and wretchedness was to be every day met with in england, and how incompetent were his means, all-sufficient though they were for his own wants, to relieve such distress; but in syria a more available field for benevolence presented itself. how far and how well his charitable disposition exerted itself may be imagined, when i say that out of more than six thousand inhabitants, there is not one who does not to this day bless the memory of the good man, who through so many years was the friend of all. i ought to add that through fifty years of uninterrupted intercourse with as many thousand people, he never made one enemy, but was universally respected and beloved. the gardens of mr. barker have been long celebrated for the quantity, variety, and excellent quality of their fruit. in the piece of ground attached to his own private residence, i have plucked from the tree the guava, the sweet-kerneled apricot, the stanwick nectarine (for which the duke of northumberland obtained for him a silver medal), the sweet-kerneled peach, the shucapara, the celebrated apricot of damascus, the plaqueminia kaki, the loquot or nepolis japonica, the mandarin, and the malta blood-orange; in short, the fruit of every country in the world. at mr. barker's request, i wrote to penang and china for seeds of some rare fruits and spices, which colonel butterworth and sir george bonham had the kindness to send me; and though previously produced solely in those climes, they have since sprung up in these charming gardens. but, alas! they did not thus display themselves till the excellent old man had passed away. on the demise of mr. barker, the whole of his landed property reverted to his amiable and kind-hearted widow. besides introducing the finest fruit-trees in the world, and many rare ornamental trees, from the cuttings and graftings of which the whole of the gardens of suedia have been supplied, mr. barker greatly ameliorated the conditions of the natives by obtaining from italy regular supplies of the best silk worm seed, which was then divided among them. originally, the silk produced was of a very inferior quality; it has now become the finest in any part of the east. as for flowers, it was a perfect sight to see the garden attached to mr. barker's house at any season of the year, even in the depth of winter, when the surrounding mountains were covered with snow, and every where else vegetation had disappeared, thousands of bengal roses and other rare and beautiful flowers here presented the appearance of perpetual summer. a romance of cyprus. every traveler who has ever visited cyprus has heard of signor baldo matteo, the ebenezer scrooge of the east. while i was at larnaca, a sad adventure, furnishing ample materials for a melodrama, nearly terminated old baldo's life, and all his speculations. his only daughter, and heiress, lost her heart to a needy austrian, who had come to cyprus expressly to make his fortune by marriage. hearing of the wealth of old baldo, and of his daughter, he fixed upon him at once; but baldo was not to be easily caught, and totally repulsed every advance. the austrian grew desperate, and, as a final resource, became fanatically religious, attending the catholic chapel morning, noon, and night. nothing could exceed his devotion to a certain old priest troubled with the cramp, on whose leg he sat, whenever it was attacked, till the pain passed off. when, after this, he whispered to him the sin that preyed most heavily upon his mind, which was a wish to possess riches, that he might bestow them on mother church, and hinted at a passion for miss baldo, he received immediate absolution, and was next day dining at old baldo's table, in company with the padre presidenti, and seated next to the object in whom all his hopes were concentrated. miss baldo was luckily placed on his right, and heard with unspeakable rapture all his protestations of love and devotion. had she been on his left, these would all have been lost, as she had been perfectly deaf on that side from her birth. to be brief, the austrian proposed, and was accepted, and all that he had now to obtain was old baldo's consent. baldo, however, as a man of the world, saw clearly through his designs, and knew him to be a knave, though he had too much reverence for the priestly clique, who had introduced the austrian, to give a decided negative. all he asked was time--a year--to consider so important a measure. this was accorded, and baldo devoutly prayed that the true character of his daughter's suitor might before that time be unmasked. his prayer was granted, but in a way the least expected, and certainly the least agreeable to himself. the lover of the signorina baldo, finding his exchequer rather low, and being sorrowfully conscious of his inability to increase his wealth, so as to enable him to keep up necessary appearances, came to the desperate resolution of grasping, without further delay, his intended wife's fortune, by sending poor old baldo out of the world. accordingly, armed with a loaded double-barreled pistol, which he concealed about his person, he proceeded to matteo's house at an hour when he knew he would find him alone, the daughter and servants being in the habit of attending high mass on sunday mornings; and he knocked at the door, which, after a little hesitation, was opened to him. old baldo, though believed to be an honorable man, and fair and just in his transactions with others, was a confirmed miser. he had accumulated great sums in hard cash, which, unseen by human eye, he had buried in his garden, and hidden in various parts of his house. the house was going to ruin, and wanted whitewashing and repairing in many parts. the garden was a perfect wilderness of weeds and thistles; but these he set fire to regularly once a year, and by this means, to a certain extent, kept them under. as for gardeners armed with a spade, which might dig up and bring to light all kinds of secret hoards, if there was one trade baldo detested, it was this. he kept the key of his walled-in garden, and on sundays, when all his family were absent, he strolled about in it till their return. he was thus occupied when he admitted his would-be son-in-law; and the first thing this promising youth did, was to draw forth his pistol and take deliberate aim, discharging it at the breast of the feeble old man, who, tottering backward a few paces, fell to the earth apparently a corpse. for such the murderer took him; and depositing the pistol close by his side, to make it appear he had died by his own hand, he rushed into the street, closing the door after him. running with the haste of a man charged with some important news, he came suddenly on a gentleman attached to the austrian consulate, whom he breathlessly informed that passing near baldo's house, he had heard the report of a pistol, followed by a sound like that of some heavy body falling to the earth, that he had in vain knocked at the door for admission, and that he had no doubt in his own mind that some sad catastrophe had occurred. in a few seconds a perfect mob was collected at baldo's door, which they broke open, and rushing in, beheld old baldo stretched upon the ground, his clothes literally saturated with blood, and a pistol lying close by his side. the assassin, who never dreamt that the old man was still alive, witnessed this spectacle with fiendish triumph, though loudly lamenting the loss of him, whom he called the best friend on earth. but it happened that the ball, though it struck against a part where a wound would have been mortal, had come in contact with the sharp edge of a bone, which turned it in another direction, and it was now safely lodged between the skin and the spine. baldo, who had fainted from fright and loss of blood, now, to the amazement of all, recovered his senses, and hearing the voice of his late assailant, slowly raised himself up, and denounced him on the spot. having done this, he fell back, and again became unconscious. the wretch was immediately seized and handcuffed, and safely borne away to the austrian consulate, where he was placed in confinement. doctors were now assembled from all parts of cyprus, and all examined the wound, and declared it fatal, expressing the greatest surprise that the patient should have lingered so long. the blood being stanched, and baldo suffering from no real injury, but laboring under a sense of approaching dissolution, begged that a confessor might be sent for. to this confessor, he acknowledged, among other offenses, the commission of one sin which weighed heavier than all the rest upon his guilty conscience. it appeared that his niece, who was then married to a french merchant at larnaca, had been left at a very early age an orphan, and had become his ward. she had, however, been well provided for by her parents, and a large sum of money had been deposited in his hands, which, after covering the expenses of her education and board, &c., would still leave a considerable surplus as a marriage portion. now old baldo, never forgetting his thrift, had more than twice turned this capital over before the date of the niece's marriage, but he had retained the proceeds of his own, handing over the principal to the bridegroom on the nuptial day. but on the approach of death, as it seemed, he felt considerable qualms of conscience, and confessed his unworthy stewardship, and indicated the spots where these savings were concealed. the husband of the niece quickly dug them up, and came into possession. scarcely was this done, when baldo recovered, and would almost have forgiven the attempt upon his life, had it not involved such serious results. the austrian was by the turkish authorities handed over to his own consulate, and was eventually removed to trieste, but i believe, for lack of sufficient testimony, escaped punishment. this affair, as it may be imagined, created a great sensation in cyprus, which was once the scene of the memorable tragedy which terminated the life of desdemona. anecdotes of a priest. it was in nicosia, about the year , that dame fortune once more played off one of her eccentric frolics on the person of a poor greek priest, who had little to depend upon in this world, save such meagre offerings as the more charitable of his parishioners bestowed upon him. as the story goes, he was a devout and holy man, but beyond being able to go through the regular routine of his priestly office, possessed but scant learning, and was equally ignorant of the world's ways and manners. at the commencement of a fast, fearing he should, from his defective memory, forget its exact duration, he carefully filled his pockets with so many dried peas as there were fast days, and each day extracting one from his pockets, as the peas diminished, he was warned of the proximity of a feast, and prepared accordingly. on one occasion, his wife happening to find a few peas in her husband's pockets, and imagining the devout man was fond of this eastern luxury, very affectionately replenished his pockets from her own store of cadamies, or roasted peas. great was the consternation of his congregation, when on the eve of the feast day, instead of proclaiming its advent from the pulpit, as is usual, he informed them that eight or ten days yet remained for the approaching festival. a discussion on this point immediately ensued, when the priest, in confirmation of what he asserted, produced from his pocket the remaining peas, making known at the same time his method of calculating. upon this, his wife stepped forward, and acknowledged what she had done, and great merriment ensued, in which the priest joined. to this poor man, fortune now brought one of those rare windfalls which are more frequently heard of than experienced. one summer's evening he was seated in the courtyard of his humble house, watching with satisfaction and delight the gambols of his little children, who were amusing themselves with throwing stones at a hole in the wall. at length he remarked, that whenever a stone chanced to go near the crevice, he heard a ringing sound, and to convince himself that he was not deceived, he stepped nearer, and hit it repeatedly with a stone, each time hearing the sound distinctly. it now occurred to him that there was some concealed treasure within, and the thought made him tremble with expectation. he went to bed early, but not to sleep, having formed the determination that he would that night make a rigorous search. when all was still, he rose from his sleepless couch, and going out stealthily and noiselessly, commenced, by aid of a small pickax, breaking into the wall, removing stone by stone. he had hardly worked an hour, when out fell a bag of doubloons, followed by a second and a third. this was indeed a treasure, sufficient to satisfy a more covetous man; but he felt there would be no safety with it in cyprus. that very night, he carefully stowed his riches in two saddle-bags, and before daybreak, awoke his wife and acquainted her with their good fortune, when horses were hired at a neighboring khan, and priest, wife, and children turned their backs upon nicosia, and arriving early at larnaca, embarked that very day on board a vessel sailing for italy. the priest became the head of one of the wealthiest mercantile firms now established at leghorn, and is, i believe, still living. the shadow of ben jonson's mother. in hartshorn lane, near charing cross, about the year , dwells mr. thomas fowler, a master bricklayer. he had married, in , mrs. margaret jonson, a widow; and had become the protector of her little boy, benjamin, then about a year and a half old. benjamin is now in his sixth year. he duly attends the parish school in st. martin's church; for his father was "a grave minister of the gospel," and his mother is anxious that her only child, poor although he must be, shall lack no advantages of education. we see the sturdy boy daily pacing to school, through the rough and miry way of that half-rural district. in his play-hours he is soon in the fields, picking blackberries in hedge-lane, or flying his kite by the windmill in saint giles's. his father-in-law is a plain, industrious, trusty man--not rich enough to undertake any of the large works which the luxurious wants of the town present; and oft-times interfered with, in the due course of his labor, by royal proclamations against the increase of houses, which are rigidly enforced when a humble man desires to build a cottage. but young ben has found friends. to the parish school sometimes comes master camden; and he observes the bold boy, always at the head of his class, and not unfrequently having his "clear and fair skin" disfigured by combats with his dirty companions, who litter about the alleys of saint martin's-lane. the boy has won good master camden's heart; and so, in due time, he proposes to remove him to westminster school. let us look at the shadow of his mother, as she debates this question with her husband, at their frugal supper. "the boy must earn his living," says the bricklayer. "he is strong enough to be of help to me. he can mix the mortar; he will soon be able to carry the hod. learning! stuff! he has learning enow, for all the good it will do him."--"thomas fowler," responds the mother, "if i wear my fingers to the bone, my boy shall never carry the hod. master camden, a good man, and a learned, will pay for his schooling. shall we not give him his poor meals and his pallet-bed? master camden says he will make his way. i owe it to the memory of him who is gone, that benjamin shall be a scholar, and perhaps a minister."--"yes; and be persecuted for his opinions, as his father was. these are ticklish times, margaret--the lowest are the safest. ben is passionate, and obstinate, and will quarrel for a straw. make him a scholar, and he becomes papist or puritan--the quiet way is not for the like of him. he shall be apprenticed to me, wife, and earn his daily bread safely and honestly." night after night is the debate renewed. but the mother triumphs. ben does go to westminster school. he has hard fare at home; he has to endure many a taunt as he sits apart in the abbey cloisters, intent upon his task. but camden is his instructor and his friend. the bricklayer's boy fights his way to distinction. look again at the shadow of that proud mother as, after three or four anxious years, she hears of his advancement. he has an exhibition. he is to remove to cambridge. her benjamin must be a bishop. thomas fowler is incredulous--and he is not generous: "when benjamin leaves this roof he must shift for himself, wife." the mother drops one tear when her boy departs; the leathern purse which holds her painful savings is in benjamin's pocket. it is a summer night of , when benjamin jonson walks into the poor house of hartshorn-lane. he is travel-stained and weary. his jerkin is half hidden beneath a dirty cloak. that jerkin, which looked so smart in a mother's eyes when last they parted, is strangely shrunk--or, rather, has not the spare boy grown into a burly youth, although the boy's jerkin must still do service? the bricklayer demands his business; the wife falls upon his neck. and well may the bricklayer know him not. his face is "pimpled;" hard work and irregular living have left their marks upon him. the exhibition has been insufficient for his maintenance. his spirit has been sorely wounded. the scholar of sixteen thinks he should prefer the daily bread which is to be won by the labor of his hands, to the hunger for which pride has no present solace. benjamin jonson becomes a bricklayer. and now, for two years, has the mother--her hopes wholly gone, her love only the same--to bear up under the burden of conflicting duties. the young man duly works at the most menial tasks of his business. he has won his way to handle a trowel; but he is not conformable in all things. "wife," says thomas fowler, "that son of yours will never prosper. can not he work--and can not he eat his meals--without a greek book in his vest? this very noon must he seat himself, at dinner-hour, in the shade of the wall in chancery-lane, on which he had been laboring; and then comes a reverend bencher and begins discourse with him; and ben shows him his book--and they talk as if they were equal. margaret, he is too grand for me; he is above his trade."--"shame on ye, husband! does he not work, honestly and deftly? and will you grudge him his books?"--"he haunts the play-houses; he sits in the pit--and cracks nuts--and hisses or claps hands, in a way quite unbeseeming a bricklayer's apprentice. margaret, i fear he will come to no good." one night there is a fearful quarrel. it is late when benjamin returns home. in silence and darkness, the son and mother meet. she is resolved. "benjamin, my son, my dear son, we will endure this life no longer. there is a sword; it was your grandfather's. a gentleman wore it; a gentleman shall still wear it. go to the low-countries. volunteers are called for. there is an expedition to ostend. take with you these few crowns, and god prosper you." another year, and benjamin's campaign is ended. at the hearth in hartshorn-lane sits margaret fowler--in solitude. there will be no more strife about her son. death has settled the controversy. margaret is very poor. her trade is unprosperous; for the widow is defrauded by her servants. "mother, there is my grandfather's sword--it has done service; and now, i will work for you."--"how, my son?"--"i will be a bricklayer again." we see the shadow of the mother, as she strives to make her son content. he has no longer the "lime and mortar" hands with which it was his after-fate to be reproached; but he bestows the master's eye upon his mother's workmen. yet he has hours of leisure. there is a chamber in the old house now filled with learned books. he reads, and he writes, as his own pleasure dictates. "mother," he one day says, "i wish to marry."--"do so, my son; bring your wife home; we will dwell together." so a few years roll on. he and his wife weep "mary, the daughter of their youth." but there is an event approaching which sets aside sorrow. "daughter," says the ancient lady, "we must to the rose playhouse to-night. there is a new play to be acted, and that play is benjamin's."--"yes, mother, he has had divers moneys already. not much, i wot, seeing the labor he has given to this 'comedy of humors'--five shillings, and ten shillings, and, once, a pound."--"no matter, daughter, he will be famous; i always knew he would be famous." a calamity clouds that fame. the play-writer has quarrels on every side. in the autumn of , philip henslowe, the manager of "the lord admiral's men," writes thus to his son-in-law, alleyn; "since you were with me, i have lost one of my company, which hurteth me greatly--that is, gabriel; for he is slain in hogsden fields, by the hands of benjamin jonson, bricklayer." twenty years after, the great dramatist, the laureat, thus relates the story to drummond: "being appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary, which had hurt him in the arm, and whose sword was ten inches longer than his; for the which he was imprisoned and almost at the gallows." there is the proud shadow of a roman matron hovering about his cell, in those hours when the gallows loomed darkly in the future. the scholar and the poet has won his fame. bricklayer no longer, ben is the companion of the illustrious. shakspeare hath "wit-combats" with him; camden and selden try his metal, in learned controversies; raleigh, and beaumont, and donne, and fletcher, exchange with him "words of subtle flame" at "the mermaid." but a new trouble arises--james is come to the throne. hear jonson's account of a remarkable transaction: "he was delated by sir james murray to the king, for writing something against the scots, in a play, 'eastward ho,' and voluntarily imprisoned himself, with chapman and marston, who had written it among them. the report was, that they should then have had their ears cut, and noses." they are at length released. we see the shadow of a banquet, which the poet gave to his friends in commemoration of his deliverance. there is a joyous company of immortals at that feast. there, too, is that loving and faithful mother. the wine-cups are flowing; there are song and jest, eloquence, and the passionate earnestness with which such friends speak when the heart is opened. but there is one, whose shadow we now see, more passionate and more earnest than any of that company. she rises, with a full goblet in her hand: "son, i drink to thee. benjamin, my beloved son, thrice i drink to thee. see ye this paper; one grain of the subtle drug which it holds is death. even as we now pledge each other in rich canary, would i have pledged thee in lusty strong poison, had thy sentence taken execution. thy shame would have been my shame, and neither of us should have lived after it." "she was no churl," says benjamin. light and air. light and air are two good things: two necessaries of existence to us animals, possessing eyes and lungs: two of the things prayed for by sanitary philosophers in the back streets of london; where, we fear, they might as well be crying for the moon. light and air, then, being two good things, what happens when they come together? spirit and water combined, says the toper, are two good things spoiled; and how do light and air mix? pick out of cheapside the busiest of men, and he will tell you that he loves the sky-blue in its proper place, making a sickly joke about his milk-jug. there is not a scrub in the whole world who would not think it necessary to show pleasure--yes, and feel some indication of it--over sunset colors, when, by chance, he treads the fields upon a summer evening. we all look up at the stars, and feel that they would seem much less the confidential friends they really are, if they were shining down upon us with a rigid light. there is a beating human pulse which answers to our hearts in their incessant twinkling. and then the rainbow! light that might pass down to us, and give us sight, but nothing more, gives sight and blesses it at once. its touch converts the air into a region of delightful visions, ever changing, ever new. to reach us it must penetrate our atmosphere, and it is a fact that he who made the universe, so made it that, in the whole range of nature there is not one barren combination. light must pass through the air; and, from a knowledge of the other laws of nature, it might confidently be proclaimed, that, in addition to the useful purposes of each, and their most necessary action on each other, beauty and pleasure would be generated also by their union, to delight the creatures of this world. it is not our design just now to talk about the nature of the atmosphere; to attempt any analysis of light, or even to mention its recondite mysteries. but in a plain way we propose to look into the reason of those changes made by light in the appearance of the sky, those every-day sights with which we are the most familiar. blue sky itself, for example. why is the sky blue? to explain that, we must state a few preliminary facts concerning light, and beg pardon of any one whose wisdom may be outraged by the elementary character of our information. there are some among our readers, no doubt, who may find it useful. in the first place, then, we will begin with the erection of a pole upon a play-ground, and, like boys and girls, we will go out to play about it with an india-rubber ball. the pole being planted upright, is said to be planted at right angles to the surface of the ground. now, if we climb the pole, and throw our ball down in the same line with it, it will run down the pole and strike the ground, and then jump back again by the same road into our fingers. the bouncing back is called in scientific phrase, reflection; and so we may declare about our ball, that if it strike a plane surface at right angles, it is reflected immediately back upon the line it went by, or, as scientific people say, "the line of incidence." now, let us walk off, and mount a wall at a short distance from the pole. we throw our ball so that it strikes the ground quite close to the spot at which the pole is planted in the earth, and we observe that the said ball no longer returns into our hand, but flies up without deviating to the right or left (in the same plane, says science) beyond the pole, with exactly the same inclination toward the pole on one side, and the surface of the ground on the other, as we gave it when we sent it down. so if there were a wall on the other side of our pole, exactly as distant and as high as our own, and somebody should sit thereon directly opposite to us, the ball would shoot down from our fingers to the root of the pole, and then up from the pole into his hand. spread a string on each side along the course the ball has taken, from wall to pole, and from pole to wall. the string on each side will make with the pole an equal angle: the angle to the pole, by which the ball went, is called, we said, the angle of incidence; the angle from the pole, by which it bounced off, is called the angle of reflection. now, it is true not only of balls, but of all things that are reflected; of light, for example, reflected from a looking-glass, or a sheet of water, that "the angle of reflection is equal to the angle of incidence." the light that shines back to us from a sheet of water, has not penetrated through its substance, certainly. but now, let us be tritons, or sea-nymphs, and let us live in a cool crystal grot under the waves. we don't live in the dark, unless we be unmitigated deep-sea tritons. the deeper we go, the darker we find it. why? now, let us be absurd, and suppose that it is possible for light to be measured by the bushel. ten bushels of light are poured down from the sun upon a certain bit of water; six of these, we will say, reflected from its surface, cause the glittering appearance, which is nothing to us tritons down below. but light can pass through water; that is to say, water is a transparent substance; so the other four bushels soak down to illuminate the fishes. but this light, so soaking down, is by the water (and would be by any other transparent substance) absorbed, altered, partly converted into heat--when we understand exactly what mr. grove calls the correlation of physical forces, we shall understand the why and how--we only know just now the fact, that all transparent bodies do absorb and use up light; so that the quantity of light which entered at the surface of our water suffers robbery, becoming less and less as if sinks lower down toward our coral caves. furthermore, beside reflection and absorption, there is one more thing that light suffers; and that we must understand before we can know properly why skies are blue, and stars are twinkling. that one thing more is called refraction. a horse trots fairly over the stones, but slips the moment stones end, and he comes upon wood pavement. a ray of light travels straight as a dancing-master's back, so long as it is in air, or water, or glass, or any other "medium," as the books say, of a certain unvarying thinness or thickness, fineness or coarseness, or according to the school-word "density." but if a ray that has been traveling through warm and light air, suddenly plunges into air cold and heavy, it is put out of the way by such a circumstance, and in the moment of making such a change, it alters its direction. still more, a ray of light that has been traveling in a straight line through air, is put out of its course on entering the denser medium of water; it is dislocated, refracted very much, alters its course, and then continues in a straight line on the new course, so long as the new medium continues. in the same way, a ray of light which travels through a medium that becomes denser and denser very gradually would be perpetually swerving from its straight path, and would travel on a curve. our atmosphere is heaviest upon the surface of the earth, and becomes lighter and thinner as we rise; the ray, therefore, from a star comes to us after traveling in such a curve. but we see all objects in the direction of a perfectly straight line continued in the direction which the rays sent from them took at the moment of falling upon our sense of sight. therefore we see all stars in a part of the heavens where they really are not; we see the sun before it really rises. light entering a denser medium is refracted from, entering a lighter medium is refracted toward, a line drawn at right angles to its surface. light entering a new medium at right angles--that is to say, not aslant--continues its own course unaltered. there is but one more fact necessary to fill up the small measure of preliminary knowledge necessary for a general understanding of the phenomena produced by the mixing of light with air. light in its perfect state is white, but the white light is a compound of other rays in due proportion, each ray being different in color and different in quality. so it takes place, because their qualities are different, that grass reflects the green ray and absorbs the rest, and therefore grass is green; while orange-peel reflects another ray, and swallows up the green and all the rest. these colors being in the light, not in the substance colored; in a dark room it is not merely a fact that we can not see red curtains and pictures; but the curtains really are not red, the paintings have no color in them, till the morning come, and artfully constructed surfaces once more in a fixed manner decompose the light. beside the color of these rays, from which light is compounded, there are combined with them other subtle principles which act mysteriously upon matter. upon the hard surface of a pebble there are changes that take place whenever a cloud floats before the sun. never mind that now. the colored rays of which pure white light is compounded are usually said to be seven--violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red; and they may be technically remembered in their proper order by combining their initials into the barbarous word vibgyor. these are called prismatic colors, because they were first separated by the passing of a ray of pure light through a prism. in that passage light is much refracted, and it happens that the contained rays all disagree with one another as to the extent to which they suffer themselves to be put out by a change of medium. violet refracts most, and red least; the others stand between in the order in which they have just been named, the order in which you see them in the rainbow. so the rays after refraction come out in a state of dissension; all the rays--made refractory--having agreed to separate, because they are not of one mind, but of seven minds, about the degree to which they should be put out by the trouble they have gone through. now we have settled our preliminaries, we have got our principles; the next thing is to put them into practice. let us first note what has been said of the absorption of light by transparent bodies. the air is one of the most transparent bodies known. on a clear day--when vapor (that is not air) does not mingle with our atmosphere--mechanical obstacles and the earth's figure form the only limits to our vision. you may see cologne cathedral from a mountain distant nearly sixty miles. nevertheless, if the atmosphere had no absorbing power, only direct rays of the sun, or rays reflected from the substances about us, would be visible; the sky would be black, not blue; and sunset would abruptly pitch us into perfect night. the air, however, absorbs light, which becomes intermixed with its whole substance. hold up your head, open your eyes widely, and stare at the noonday sun. you will soon shut your eyes and turn your head away; look at him in the evening or in the morning, and he will not blind you. why? remembering the earth to be a globe surrounded by an atmosphere, you will perceive that the sun's rays at noonday have to penetrate the simple thickness of the atmosphere, measured in a straight line upward from the earth; but in the evening or morning its beams fall aslant, and have to slip through a great deal of air before they reach us; suffering, therefore, a great deal of robbery; that is to say, having much light absorbed. now, why is the sky blue? not only does the air absorb light; it reflects it also. the particles of air reflect, however, most especially the blue ray, while they let the red and his companions slip by. this constant reflection of the blue ray causes the whole air to appear blue; but what else does it cause? let us consider. if air reflects or turns aside, or hustles out of its place the blue ray, suffering the rest to pass, it follows as a consequence that the more air a ray of light encounters, the more blue will it lose. the sun's rays in the morning and the evening falling aslant, as we have said, across a great breadth of our atmosphere, must lose their blue light to a terrible extent, and very likely reach us with the blue all gone, and red lord paramount. but so, in truth, the case is; and the same fact which explains the blueness of the atmosphere, explains the redness of the sunrise and the sunset. it will now easily be understood, also, why the blue color of the sky is deepest in the zenith, faintest when we look over the horizon; why the blue is at noon deeper than after mid-day; why it grows more intense as we ascend to higher elevations. from what we have already said, the reason of these things will come out with a very little thought. again, in the example of our london fogs, &c., when in the upper portion of the dense mass the blue rays have been all refracted, there can penetrate only those other rays which make the lurid sky, with which we are familiar, or the genuine old yellow fog. fog in moderation, the thin vapor on the open sea, and so forth, simply gives a lightness to the blue tint, or more plentiful, an absolute whiteness to the atmosphere. now let us see whether we are yet able to make out the philosophy of a fine autumn sunset. as the sun comes near the horizon, he and the air about him become red, because the light from that direction has been robbed of the blue rays in traversing horizontally so large a portion of the atmosphere. the sky in the zenith pales, for it has little but the absorbed or diffused light to exist upon. presently, we see a redness in the east, quite opposite to the sun, and this redness increases till the sun sinks from our sight. in this case, the last rays of the sun that traverse the whole breadth of the atmosphere, reflected from the east, from vapors there, and more especially from clouds, come red to our eyes; no blue can be remaining in them. from the west, where the sun is setting, the rays come from the surrounding air, and from the clouds, variously colored; they lose their blue, but there remain the red, green, orange, yellow, and the purple rays; and some or all of these may make the tints that come to us, according to the state and nature of the clouds, the atmosphere, and other circumstances that may modify the process of refraction. the sun has set; it is immediately below the horizon, and its rays still dart through all our atmosphere, except that portion which is shielded from them by the intervening shadow of the earth. that shadow appears in the east, soon after sunset, in the shape of a calm blue arch, which rises gradually in the sky, immediately opposite to the part glorified by sunset colors. over this arch the sky is red, with the rays not shut out by the round shadow of our ball. as the sun sinks, our shadow of course rises; and within it there can be only the diffused twilight, always blue. when this arch--this shadow of the earth--has risen almost to the zenith, and the sun is at some distance below the horizon, then the red color in the west becomes much more distinct and vivid; for the sun then shoots up thither its rays through a still larger quantity of intervening atmosphere; so that the redness grows as the sun sinks, until the shadow of the earth has covered all, and the stars--of which the brightest soon were visible--grow numerous upon the vault of heaven. when stars of the sixth magnitude are visible, then, astronomically speaking, twilight ends. the length of twilight will depend upon the number of rays of light that are reflected and dispersed, and that, again, will depend entirely on the atmosphere. where there is much vapor, and the days are dull by reason of the quantity of kidnapped light, there compensation is made by the consequent increase of twilight. in the interior of africa night follows immediately upon sunset. in summer the vapor rises to a great height, and pervades the atmosphere; the twilight then is longer than in winter, when the colder air contains less vapor, and the vapor it contains lies low. now, since the appearances at twilight depend on the condition of the sky, it follows that our weather-wisdom, drawn from such appearances, is based upon a philosophical foundation. when there is a blue sky, and after sunset a slight purple in the west, we have reason for expecting fine weather. after rain, detached clouds, colored red and tolerably bright, may rejoice those who anticipate a pic-nic party. if the twilight show a partiality for whitish yellow in its dress, we say that very likely there will be some rain next day; the more that whitish yellow spreads over the sky, the more the chance of water out of it. when the sun is brilliantly white, and sets in a white light, we think of storms; especially so when light high clouds that dull the whole sky become deeper near the horizon. when the color of the twilight is a grayish red, with portions of deep red passing into gray that hide the sun, then be prepared, we say, for wind and rain. the morning signs are different. when it is very red, we expect rain; a gray dawn means fine weather. the difference between a gray dawn and a gray twilight is this--in the morning, grayness depends usually upon low clouds, which melt before the rising sun; but in the evening grayness is caused by high clouds, which continue to grow denser through the night. but if in the morning there be so much vapor as to make a red dawn, it is most probable that thick clouds will be formed out of it in the course of the operations of the coming day. refraction of light has a good deal to do also with the twinkling of the stars; though there may go to the explanation of the phenomenon other principles which do not concern our present purpose. the air contains layers of different density, shifting over each other in currents. the fixed stars are, to our eyes, brilliant points of light; their rays broken in passing through these currents, exhibit an agitation which is not shown by the planets. the planets are not points to our sight, nor points to our telescopes; being much nearer, although really smaller, they are to our eyes of a decided, measurable size; so being in greater body, we at most could only see their edges scintillate; and this we can do sometimes through a telescope, but scarcely with the naked eye. in rainbows, light is both refracted and reflected. you can only see a rainbow when the sun is low, your own position being between the rainbow and the sun. the rays of light refracted by the shower into their prismatic colors, are then reflected by the shower back into your eye, and so, from the principles we started with, it will be clear that while a thousand people may see under the same circumstances a rainbow of the same intensity, no two people see precisely the same object, but each man enjoys a rainbow to himself. of halos, and of lunar rainbows, of double suns, of the mirage, or any other extraordinary things developed by the play of light and air together, we did not intend to speak. our discussion was confined to such an explanation of some every-day sights as may lend aid to contemplation sometimes of an autumnal evening, when ----"the soft hour of walking comes: for him who lonely loves to seek the distant hills, and there converse with nature." do you not think the man impenetrably deaf who, professing to converse with nature, can not hear the tale which nature is forever telling? the widow of cologne. in the year , there lived in a narrow, obscure street of cologne a poor woman named marie marianni. with an old female servant for her sole companion, she inhabited a small, tumble-down, two-storied house, which had but two windows in front. nothing could well be more miserable than the furniture of this dark dwelling. two worm-eaten four-post bedsteads, a large deal-press, two rickety tables, three or four old wooden chairs, and a few rusty kitchen utensils, formed the whole of its domestic inventory. marie marianni, despite of the wrinkles which nearly seventy years had left on her face, still preserved the trace of former beauty. there was a grace in her appearance, and a dignity in her manner, which prepossessed strangers in her favor whenever they happened to meet her; but this was rarely. living in the strictest retirement, and avoiding as much as possible all intercourse with her neighbors, she seldom went out except for the purpose of buying provisions. her income consisted of a small pension, which she received every six months. in the street where she lived she was known by the name of "the old nun," and was regarded with considerable respect. marie marianni usually lived in the room on the ground-floor, where she spent her time in needlework; and her old servant bridget occupied the upper room, which served as a kitchen, and employed herself in spinning. thus lived these two old women in a state of complete isolation. in winter, however, in order to avoid the expense of keeping up two fires, marie marianni used to call down her domestic, and cause her to place her wheel in the chimney-corner, while she herself occupied a large old easy-chair at the opposite side. they would sometimes sit thus evening after evening without exchanging a single word. one night, however, the mistress happened to be in a more communicative temper than usual, and addressing her servant, she said: "well, bridget, have you heard from your son?" "no, madame, although the frankfort post has come in." "you see, bridget, it is folly to reckon on the affection of one's children; you are not the only mother who has to complain of their ingratitude." "but, madame, my joseph is not ungrateful: he loves me, and if he has not written now, i am certain it is only because he has nothing to say. one must not be too hard upon young people." "not too hard, certainly; but we have a right to their submission and respect." "for my part, dear lady, i am satisfied with possessing, as i do, my son's affection." "i congratulate you, bridget," said her mistress, with a deep sigh. "alas! i am also a mother, and i ought to be a happy one. three sons, possessing rank, fortune, glory; yet here i am, forgotten by them, in poverty, and considered importunate if i appeal to them for help. you are happy, bridget, in having an obedient son--mine are hard and thankless!" "poor, dear lady, my joseph loves me so fondly!" "you cut me to the heart, bridget: you little know what i have suffered. an unhappy mother, i have also been a wretched wife. after having lived unhappily together during several years, my husband died, the victim of an assassin. and whom, think you, did they accuse of instigating his murder? me! in the presence of my children--ay, at the instance of my eldest son--i was prosecuted for this crime!" "but doubtless, madame, you were acquitted?" "yes; and had i been a poor woman, without power, rank, or influence, my innocence would have been publicly declared. but having all these advantages, it suited my enemies' purpose to deprive me of them, so they banished me, and left me in the state in which i am!" "dear mistress!" said the old woman. marie marianni hid her face in her handkerchief, and spoke no more during the remainder of the evening. as the servant continued silently to turn her wheel, she revolved in her mind several circumstances connected with the "old nun." she had often surprised her reading parchments covered with seals of red wax, which, on bridget's entrance, her mistress always hurriedly replaced in a small iron box. one night marie marianni, while suffering from an attack of fever, cried out in a tone of unutterable horror: "no: i will not see him! take away yon red robe--that man of blood and murder!" these things troubled the simple mind of poor bridget, yet she dared not speak of them to her usually haughty and reserved mistress. on the next evening, as they were sitting silently at work, a knock was heard at the door. "who can it be at this hour?" said marie marianni. "i can not think," replied her servant; "'tis now nine o'clock." "another knock! go, bridget, and see who it is, but open the door with precaution." the servant took their solitary lamp in her hand, went to the door. she presently returned, ushering into the room father francis, a priest who lived in the city. he was a man of about fifty years old, whose hollow cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes wore a sinister and far from hallowed expression. "to what, father, am i indebted for this late visit?" asked the old lady. "to important tidings," replied the priest, "which i am come to communicate." "leave us, bridget," said her mistress. the servant took an old iron lamp, and went upstairs to her fireless chamber. "what have you to tell me?" asked marie marianni of her visitor. "i have had news from france." "good news?" "some which may eventually prove so." "the stars, then, have not deceived me!" "what, madam!" said the priest, in a reproving tone; "do you attach any credit to this lying astrology? believe me, it is a temptation of satan which you ought to resist. have you not enough of real misfortune without subjecting yourself to imaginary terrors?" "if it be a weakness, father, it is one which i share in common with many great minds. who can doubt the influence which the celestial bodies have on things terrestrial?" "all vanity and error, daughter. how can an enlightened mind like yours persuade itself that events happen by aught save the will of god?" "i will not now argue the point, father; tell me rather what are the news from france?" "the nobles' discontent at the prime minister has reached its height. henri d'effiat, grand-equerry of france, and the king's favorite, has joined them, and drawn into the plot the duke de bouillon, and monsieur, his majesty's brother. a treaty, which is upon the point of being secretly concluded with the king of spain, has for its object peace, on condition of the cardinal's removal." "thank god!" "however, madame, let us not be too confident; continue to act with prudence, and assume the appearance of perfect resignation. frequent the church in which i minister, place yourself near the lower corner of the right-hand aisle, and i will forewarn you of my next visit." "i will do so, father." resuming his large cloak, the priest departed, bridget being summoned by her mistress to open the door. from that time, during several months, the old lady repaired regularly each day to the church; she often saw father francis, but he never spoke, or gave her the desired signal. the unaccustomed daily exercise of walking to and from church, together with the "sickness of hope deferred," began to tell unfavorably on her health; she became subject to attacks of intermitting fever, and her large, bright eyes seemed each day to grow larger and brighter. one morning, in passing down the aisle, father francis for a moment bent his head toward her, and whispered, "all is lost!" with a powerful effort marie marianni subdued all outward signs of the terrible emotion which these words caused her, and returned to her cheerless dwelling. in the evening father francis came to her. when they were alone, she asked, "father, what has happened?" "monsieur de cinq-mars is arrested." "and the duke de bouillon?" "fled." "the treaty with the king of spain?" "at the moment it was signed at madrid, the cunning cardinal received a copy of it." "by whom was the plot discovered?" "by a secret agent, who had wormed himself into it." "my enemies, then, still triumph?" "richelieu is more powerful, and the king more subject to him than ever." that same night the poor old woman was seized with a burning fever. in her delirium the phantom-man in red still pursued her, and her ravings were terrible to hear. bridget, seated at her bedside, prayed for her; and at the end of a month she began slowly to recover. borne down, however, by years, poverty, and misfortune, marie marianni felt that her end was approaching. despite father francis's dissuasion, she again had recourse to the astrological tablets, on which were drawn, in black and red figures, the various houses of the sun, and of the star which presided over her nativity. on this occasion their omens were unfavorable; and rejecting all spiritual consolation--miserable in the present, and hopeless for the future--marie marianni expired in the beginning of july, . as soon as her death was known a magistrate of cologne came to her house, in order to make an official entry of the names of the defunct and her heirs. bridget could not tell either, she merely knew that her late mistress was a stranger. father francis arrived. "i can tell you the names of her heirs," he said. "write--the king of france; monsieur the duke of orleans; henrietta of france, queen of england." "and what," asked the astounded magistrate, "was the name of the deceased?" "the high and mighty princess marie de medicis, widow of henri iv., and mother of the reigning king!" my novel; or, varieties in english life. [continued from the october number.] chapter xvi. before a table in the apartments appropriated to him in his father's house at knightsbridge, sate lord l'estrange, sorting or destroying letters and papers--an ordinary symptom of change of residence. there are certain trifles by which a shrewd observer may judge of a man's disposition. thus, ranged on the table, with some elegance, but with soldier-like precision, were sundry little relics of former days, hallowed by some sentiment of memory, or perhaps endeared solely by custom; which, whether he was in egypt, italy, or england, always made part of the furniture of harley's room. even the small, old-fashioned, and somewhat inconvenient inkstand in which he dipped the pen as he labeled the letters he put aside, belonged to the writing-desk which had been his pride as a schoolboy. even the books that lay scattered round were not new works, not those to which we turn to satisfy the curiosity of an hour, or to distract our graver thoughts: they were chiefly either latin or italian poets, with many a pencil-mark on the margin; or books which, making severe demand on thought, require slow and frequent perusal, and become companions. somehow or other, in remarking that even in dumb inanimate things the man was averse to change, and had the habit of attaching himself to whatever was connected with old associations, you might guess that he clung with pertinacity to affections more important, and you could better comprehend the freshness of his friendship for one so dissimilar in pursuits and character as audley egerton. an affection once admitted into the heart of harley l'estrange, seemed never to be questioned or reasoned with: it became tacitly fixed, as it were, into his own nature; and little less than a revolution of his whole system could dislodge or disturb it. lord l'estrange's hand rested now upon a letter in a stiff legible italian character; and instead of disposing of it at once, as he had done with the rest, he spread it before him, and reread the contents. it was a letter from riccabocca, received a few weeks since, and ran thus: _letter from signor riccabocca to lord l'estrange_. "i thank you, my noble friend, for judging of me with faith in my honor, and respect for my reverses. "no, and thrice no, to all concessions, all overtures, all treaty with giulio franzini. i write the name, and my emotions choke me. i must pause and cool back into disdain. it is over. pass from that subject. but you have alarmed me. this sister! i have not seen her since her childhood; and she was brought under his influence--she can but work as his agent. she wish to learn my residence! it can be but for some hostile and malignant purpose. i may trust in you. i know that. you say i may trust equally in the discretion of your friend. pardon me--my confidence is not so elastic. a word may give the clew to my retreat. but, if discovered, what harm can ensue? an english roof protects me from austrian despotism, true; but not the brazen tower of danaë could protect me from italian craft. and were there nothing worse, it would be intolerable to me to live under the eyes of a relentless spy. truly saith our proverb, 'he sleeps ill for whom the enemy wakes.' look you, my friend, i have done with my old life--i wish to cast it from me as a snake its skin. i have denied myself all that exiles deem consolation. no pity for misfortune, no messages from sympathizing friendship, no news from a lost and bereaved country follow me to my hearth under the skies of the stranger. from all these i have voluntarily cut myself off. i am as dead to the life i once lived as if the styx rolled between _it_ and me. with that sternness which is admissible only to the afflicted, i have denied myself even the consolation of your visits. i have told you fairly and simply that your presence would unsettle all my enforced and infirm philosophy, and remind me only of the past, which i seek to blot from remembrance. you have complied, on the one condition, that whenever i really want your aid i will ask it; and, meanwhile, you have generously sought to obtain me justice from the cabinets of ministers and in the courts of kings. i did not refuse your heart this luxury; for i have a child--(ah! i have taught that child already to revere your name, and in her prayers it is not forgotten). but now that you are convinced that even your zeal is unavailing, i ask you to discontinue attempts that may but bring the spy upon my track, and involve me in new misfortunes. believe me, o brilliant englishman, that i am satisfied and contented with my lot. i am sure it would not be for my happiness to change it. 'chi non ha provato il male non conosce il bene.' ('one does not know when one is well off till one has known misfortune.') you ask me how i live--i answer, _alla giornata_--to the day--not for the morrow, as i did once. i have accustomed myself to the calm existence of a village. i take interest in its details. there is my wife, good creature, sitting opposite to me, never asking what i write, or to whom, but ready to throw aside her work and talk the moment the pen is out of my hand. talk--and what about? heaven knows! but i would rather hear that talk, though on the affairs of a hamlet, than babble again with recreant nobles and blundering professors about commonwealths and constitutions. when i want to see how little those last influence the happiness of wise men, have i not machiavel and thucydides? then, by-and-by, the parson will drop in, and we argue. he never knows when he is beaten, so the argument is everlasting. on fine days i ramble out by a winding rill with my violante, or stroll to my friend the squire's, and see how healthful a thing is true pleasure; and on wet days i shut myself up, and mope, perhaps, till, hark! a gentle tap at the door, and in comes violante, with her dark eyes that shine out through reproachful tears--reproachful that i should mourn alone, while she is under my roof--so she puts her arms round me, and in five minutes all is sunshine within. what care we for your english gray clouds without? "leave me, my dear lord--leave me to this quiet happy passage toward old age, serener than the youth that i wasted so wildly; and guard well the secret on which my happiness depends. "now to yourself, before i close. of that same _yourself_ you speak too little, as of me too much. but i so well comprehend the profound melancholy that lies underneath the wild and fanciful humor with which you but suggest, as in sport, what you feel so in earnest. the laborious solitude of cities weighs on you. you are flying back to the _dolce far niente_--to friends few, but intimate; to life monotonous, but unrestrained; and even there the sense of loneliness will again seize upon you; and you do not seek, as i do, the annihilation of memory; your dead passions are turned to ghosts that haunt you, and unfit you for the living world. i see it all--i see it still, in your hurried fantastic lines, as i saw it when we two sat amidst the pines and beheld the blue lake stretched below. i troubled by the shadow of the future, you disturbed by that of the past. "well, but you say, half-seriously, half in jest, 'i _will_ escape from this prison-house of memory; i will form new ties, like other men, and before it be too late; i _will_ marry--ay, but i must love--there is the difficulty'--difficulty--yes, and heaven be thanked for it! recall all the unhappy marriages that have come to your knowledge--pray, have not eighteen out of twenty been marriages for love? it always has been so, and it always will. because, whenever we love deeply, we exact so much and forgive so little. be content to find some one with whom your hearth and your honor are safe. you will grow to love what never wounds your heart--you will soon grow out of love with what must always disappoint your imagination. _cospetto!_ i wish my jemima had a younger sister for you. yet it was with a deep groan that i settled myself to a--jemima. "now, i have written you a long letter, to prove how little i need of your compassion or your zeal. once more let there be long silence between us. it is not easy for me to correspond with a man of your rank, and not incur the curious gossip of my still little pool of a world which the splash of a pebble can break into circles. i must take this over to a post-town some ten miles off, and drop it into the box by stealth. "adieu, dear and noble friend, gentlest heart and subtlest fancy that i have met in my walk through life. adieu--write me word when you have abandoned a day-dream and found a jemima. alphonso. "_p.s._--for heaven's sake, caution and recaution your friend the minister, not to drop a word to this woman that may betray my hiding-place." "is he really happy?" murmured harley, as he closed the letter; and he sunk for a few moments into a reverie. "this life in a village--this wife in a lady who puts down her work to talk about villagers--what a contrast to audley's full existence. and i can never envy nor comprehend either--yet my own--what is it?" he rose, and moved toward the window, from which a rustic stair descended to a green lawn--studded with larger trees than are often found in the grounds of a suburban residence. there were calm and coolness in the sight, and one could scarcely have supposed that london lay so near. the door opened softly, and a lady, past middle age, entered; and, approaching harley, as he still stood musing by the window, laid her hand on his shoulder. what character there is in a hand! hers was a hand that titian would have painted with elaborate care! thin, white, and delicate--with the blue veins raised from the surface. yet there was something more than mere patrician elegance in the form and texture. a true physiologist would have said at once, "there are intellect and pride in that hand, which seems to fix a hold where it rests; and, lying so lightly, yet will not be as lightly shaken off." "harley," said the lady--and harley turned--"you do not deceive me by that smile," she continued, sadly; "you were not smiling when i entered." "it is rarely that we smile to ourselves, my dear mother; and i have done nothing lately so foolish as to cause me to smile _at_ myself." "my son," said lady lansmere, somewhat abruptly, but with great earnestness, "you come from a line of illustrious ancestors; and methinks they ask from their tombs why the last of their race has no aim and no object--no interest--no home in the land which they served, and which rewarded them with its honors." "mother," said the soldier, simply, "when the land was in danger i served it as my fore-fathers served--and my answer would be the scars on my breast." "is it only in danger that a country is served--only in war that duty is fulfilled? do you think that your father, in his plain, manly life of country gentleman, does not fulfill, though obscurely, the objects for which aristocracy is created and wealth is bestowed?" "doubtless he does, ma'am--and better than his vagrant son ever can." "yet his vagrant son has received such gifts from nature--his youth was so rich in promise--his boyhood so glowed at the dream of glory?" "ay," said harley, very softly, "it is possible--and all to be buried in a single grave!" the countess started, and withdrew her hand from harley's shoulder. lady lansmere's countenance was not one that much varied in expression. she had in this, as in her cast of feature, little resemblance to her son. her features were slightly aquiline--the eyebrows of that arch which gives a certain majesty to the aspect: the lines round the mouth were habitually rigid and compressed. her face was that of one who had gone through great emotion, and subdued it. there was something formal, and even ascetic, in the character of her beauty, which was still considerable;--in her air and in her dress. she might have suggested to you the idea of some gothic baroness of old, half chatelaine, half abbess; you would see at a glance that she did not live in the light world round her, and disdained its fashions and its mode of thought; yet with all this rigidity it was still the face of the woman who has known human ties and human affections. and now, as she gazed long on harley's quiet, saddened brow, it was the face of a mother. "a single grave," she said, after a long pause. "and you were then but a boy, harley! can such a memory influence you even to this day? it is scarcely possible; it does not seem to me within the realities of man's life--though it might be of woman's." "i believe," said harley, half soliloquizing, "that i have a great deal of the woman in me. perhaps men who live much alone; and care not for men's objects, do grow tenacious of impressions, as your sex does. but oh," he cried aloud, and with a sudden change of countenance, "oh, the hardest and the coldest man would have felt as i do, had he known _her_--had he loved _her_. she was like no other woman i have ever met. bright and glorious creature of another sphere! she descended on this earth, and darkened it when she passed away. it was no use striving. mother, i have as much courage as our steel-clad fathers ever had. i have dared in battle and in deserts--against man and the wild beast--against the storm and the ocean--against the rude powers of nature--dangers as dread as ever pilgrim or crusader rejoiced to brave. but courage against that one memory! no, i have none!" "harley, harley, you break my heart," cried the countess, clasping her hands. "it is astonishing," continued her son, so wrapped in his own thoughts that he did not, perhaps, hear her outcry--"yea, verily, it is astonishing, that considering the thousands of women i have seen and spoken with, i never see a face like hers--never hear a voice so sweet. and all this universe of life can not afford me one look and one tone that can restore me to man's privilege--love. well, well, well, life has other things yet--poetry and art live still--still smiles the heaven, and still wave the trees. leave me to happiness in my own way." the countess was about to reply, when the door was thrown hastily open, and lord lansmere walked in. the earl was some years older than the countess, but his placid face showed less wear and tear; a benevolent, kindly face--without any evidence of commanding intellect, but with no lack of sense in its pleasant lines. his form not tall, but upright, and with an air of consequence--a little pompous, but good-humoredly so. the pomposity of the _grand seigneur_, who has lived much in provinces--whose will has been rarely disputed, and whose importance has been so felt and acknowledged as to react insensibly on himself; an excellent man; but when you glanced toward the high brow and dark eye of the countess, you marveled a little how the two had come together, and, according to common report, lived so happily in the union. "ho, ho! my dear harley," cried lord lansmere, rubbing his hands with an appearance of much satisfaction. "i have just been paying a visit to the duchess." "what duchess, my dear father?" "why, your mother's first cousin, to be sure--the duchess of knaresborough, whom, to oblige me, you condescended to call upon; and delighted i am to hear that you admire lady mary--" "she is very high-bred, and rather--high-nosed," answered harley. then observing that his mother looked pained, and his father disconcerted, he added seriously, "but handsome, certainly." "well, harley," said the earl, recovering himself, "the duchess, taking advantage of our connection to speak freely, has intimated to me that lady mary has been no less struck with yourself; and to come to the point, since you allow that it is time you should think of marrying, i do not know a more desirable alliance. what do you say, catherine?" "the duke is of a family that ranks in history before the wars of the roses," said lady lansmere, with an air of deference to her husband; "and there has never been one scandal in its annals, or one blot in its scutcheon. but i am sure my dear lord must think that the duchess should not have made the first overture--even to a friend and a kinsman?" "why, we are old-fashioned people," said the earl, rather embarrassed, "and the duchess is a woman of the world." "let us hope," said the countess mildly, "that her daughter is not." "i would not marry lady mary, if all the rest of the female sex were turned into apes," said lord l'estrange, with deliberate fervor. "good heavens!" cried the earl, "what extraordinary language is this! and pray why, sir?" harley.--"i can't say--there is no why in these cases. but, my dear father, you are not keeping faith with me." lord lansmere.--"how?" harley.--"you, and my lady here, entreat me to marry--i promise to do my best to obey you; but on one condition--that i choose for myself, and take my time about it. agreed on both sides. whereon, off goes your lordship--actually before noon, at an hour when no lady without a shudder could think of cold blonde and damp orange flowers--off goes your lordship, i say, and commits poor lady mary and your unworthy son to a mutual admiration--which neither of us ever felt. pardon me, my father--but this is grave. again let me claim your promise--full choice for myself, and no reference to the wars of the roses. what war of the roses like that between modesty and love upon the cheek of the virgin!" lady lansmere.--"full choice for yourself, harley--so be it. but we, too, named a condition--did we not, lansmere?" the earl (puzzled).--"eh--did we? certainly we did." harley.--"what was it?" lady lansmere.--"the son of lord lansmere can only marry the daughter of a gentleman." the earl.--"of course--of course." the blood rushed over harley's fair face, and then as suddenly left it pale. he walked away to the window--his mother followed him, and again laid her hand on his shoulder. "you were cruel," said he, gently, and in a whisper, as he winced under the touch of the hand. then turning to the earl, who was gazing at him in blank surprise--(it never occurred to lord lansmere that there could be a doubt of his son's marrying beneath the rank modestly stated by the countess)--harley stretched forth his hand, and said, in his soft, winning tone, "you have ever been most gracious to me, and most forbearing; it is but just that i should sacrifice the habits of an egotist, to gratify a wish which you so warmly entertain. i agree with you, too, that our race should not close in me--_noblesse oblige_. but you know i was ever romantic; and i must love where i marry--or, if not love, i must feel that my wife is worthy of all the love i could once have bestowed. now, as to the vague word 'gentleman' that my mother employs--word that means so differently on different lips--i confess that i have a prejudice against young ladies brought up in the 'excellent foppery of the world,' as the daughters of gentlemen of our rank mostly are. i crave, therefore, the most liberal interpretation of this word 'gentleman.' and so long as there be nothing mean or sordid in the birth, habits, and education of the father of this bride to be, i trust you will both agree to demand nothing more--neither titles nor pedigree." "titles, no--assuredly," said lady lansmere; "they do not make gentlemen." "certainly not," said the earl. "many of our best families are untitled." "titles--no," repeated lady lansmere; "but ancestors--yes." "ah, my mother," said harley, with his most sad and quiet smile, "it is fated that we shall never agree. the first of our race is ever the one we are most proud of; and pray what ancestors had he? beauty, virtue, modesty, intellect--if these are not nobility enough for a man, he is a slave to the dead." with these words harley took up his hat and made toward the door. "you said yourself, '_noblesse oblige_,'" said the countess, following him to the threshold; "we have nothing more to add." harley slightly shrugged his shoulders, kissed his mother's hand, whistled to nero, who started up from a doze by the window, and went his way. "does he really go abroad next week?" said the earl. "so he says." "i am afraid there is no chance for lady mary," resumed lord lansmere, with a slight but melancholy smile. "she has not intellect enough to charm him. she is not worthy of harley," said the proud mother. "between you and me," rejoined the earl, rather timidly, "i don't see what good his intellect does him. he could not be more unsettled and useless if he were the merest dunce in the three kingdoms. and so ambitious as he was when a boy! catherine, i sometimes fancy that you know what changed him." "i! nay, my dear lord, it is a common change enough with the young, when of such fortunes; who find, when they enter life, that there is really little left for them to strive for. had harley been a poor man's son, it might have been different." "i was born to the same fortunes as harley," said the earl, shrewdly, "and yet i flatter myself i am of some use to old england." the countess seized upon the occasion, complimented her lord, and turned the subject. chapter xvii. harley spent his day in his usual desultory, lounging manner--dined in his quiet corner at his favorite club--nero, not admitted into the club, patiently waited for him outside the door. the dinner over, dog and man, equally indifferent to the crowd, sauntered down that thoroughfare which, to the few who can comprehend the poetry of london, has associations of glory and of woe sublime as any that the ruins of the dead elder world can furnish--thoroughfare that traverses what was once the courtyard of whitehall, having to its left the site of the palace that lodged the royalty of scotland--gains, through a narrow strait, that old isle of thorney, in which edward the confessor received the ominous visit of the conqueror--and, widening once more by the abbey and the hall of westminster, then loses itself, like all memories of earthly grandeur amidst humble passages and mean defiles. thus thought harley l'estrange--ever less amidst the actual world around him, than the images invoked by his own solitary soul--as he gained the bridge, and saw the dull lifeless craft sleeping on the "silent way," once loud and glittering with the gilded barks of the antique seignorie of england. it was on that bridge that audley egerton had appointed to meet l'estrange, at an hour when he calculated he could best steal a respite from debate. for harley, with his fastidious dislike to all the resorts of his equals, had declined to seek his friend in the crowded regions of bellamy's. harley's eye, as he passed along the bridge, was attracted by a still form, seated on the stones in one of the nooks, with its face covered by its hands. "if i were a sculptor," said he to himself, "i should remember that image whenever i wished to convey the idea of _despondency_!" he lifted his looks and saw, a little before him in the midst of the causeway, the firm erect figure of audley egerton. the moonlight was full on the bronzed countenance of the strong public man--with its lines of thought and care, and its vigorous but cold expression of intense self-control. "and looking yonder," continued harley's soliloquy, "i should remember that form when i wished to hew out from the granite the idea of _endurance_." "so you are come, and punctually," said egerton, linking his arm in harley's. harley.--"punctually, of course, for i respect your time, and i will not detain you long. i presume you will speak to-night." egerton.--"i have spoken." harley (with interest).--"and well, i hope." egerton.--"with effect, i suppose, for i have been loudly cheered, which does not always happen to me." harley.--"and that gave you pleasure?" egerton (after a moment's thought).--"no, not the least." harley.--"what, then, attaches you so much to this life--constant drudgery, constant warfare--the more pleasurable faculties dormant, all the harsher ones aroused, if even its rewards (and i take the best of those to be applause) do not please you?" egerton.--"what?--custom." harley.--"martyr!" egerton.--"you say it. but turn to yourself; you have decided, then, to leave england next week." harley (moodily).--"yes. this life in a capital, where all are so active, myself so objectless, preys on me like a low fever. nothing here amuses me, nothing interests, nothing comforts and consoles. but i am resolved, before it be too late, to make one great struggle out of the past, and into the natural world of men. in a word, i have resolved to marry." egerton.--"whom?" harley (seriously).--"upon my life, my dear fellow, you are a great philosopher. you have hit the exact question. you see i can not marry a dream; and where, out of dreams, shall i find this 'whom?'" egerton.--"you do not search for her." harley.--"do we ever search for love? does it not flash upon us when we least expect it? is it not like the inspiration to the muse? what poet sits down and says, 'i will write a poem?' what man looks out and says, 'i will fall in love?' no! happiness, as the great german tells us, 'falls suddenly from the bosom of the gods;' so does love." egerton.--"you remember the old line in horace: 'life's tide flows away, while the boor sits on the margin and waits for the ford.'" harley.--"an idea which incidentally dropped from you some weeks ago, and which i had before half meditated, has since haunted me. if i could but find some child with sweet dispositions and fair intellect not yet formed, and train her up, according to my ideal. i am still young enough to wait a few years, and meanwhile i shall have gained what i so sadly want--an object in life." egerton.--"you are ever the child of romance. but what--" here the minister was interrupted by a messenger from the house of commons, whom audley had instructed to seek him on the bridge should his presence be required-- "sir, the opposition are taking advantage of the thinness of the house to call for a division. mr.---- is put up to speak for time, but they won't hear him." egerton turned hastily to lord l'estrange, "you see you must excuse me now. to-morrow i must go to windsor for two days; but we shall meet on my return." "it does not matter," answered harley; "i stand out of the pale of your advice, o practical man of sense. and if," added harley, with affectionate and mournful sweetness--"if i worry you with complaints which you can not understand, it is only because of old schoolboy habits. i can have no trouble that i do not confide in you." egerton's hand trembled as it pressed his friend's; and, without a word, he hurried away abruptly. harley remained motionless for some seconds, in deep and quiet reverie; then he called to his dog, and turned back toward westminster. he passed the nook in which had sate the still figure of despondency. but the figure had now risen, and was leaning against the balustrade. the dog who preceded his master paused by the solitary form, and sniffed it suspiciously. "nero, sir, come here," said harley. "nero," that was the name by which helen had said that her father's friend had called his dog. and the sound startled leonard as he leaned, sick at heart, against the stone. he lifted his head and looked wistfully, eagerly into harley's face. those eyes, bright, clear, yet so strangely deep and absent, which helen had described, met his own, and chained them. for l'estrange halted also; the boy's countenance was not unfamiliar to him. he returned the inquiring look fixed on his own, and recognized the student by the book-stall. "the dog is quite harmless, sir," said l'estrange, with a smile. "and you call him nero?" said leonard, still gazing on the stranger. harley mistook the drift of the question. "nero, sir; but he is free from the sanguinary propensities of his roman namesake." harley was about to pass on, when leonard said, falteringly, "pardon me, but can it be possible that you are one whom i have sought in vain, on behalf of the child of captain digby?" harley stopped short. "digby!" he exclaimed, "where is he? he should have found me easily. i gave him an address." "ah, heaven be thanked," cried leonard. "helen is saved; she will not die;" and he burst into tears. a very few moments, and a very few words sufficed to explain to harley the state of his old fellow-soldier's orphan. and harley himself soon stood in the young sufferer's room, supporting her burning temples on his breast, and whispering into ears that heard him, as in a happy dream, "comfort, comfort; your father yet lives in me." and then helen, raising her eyes, said, "but leonard is my brother--more than brother--and he needs a father's care more than i do." "hush, hush, helen. i need no one--nothing now!" cried leonard; and his tears gushed over the little hand that clasped his own. chapter xviii. harley l'estrange was a man whom all things that belong to the romantic and poetic side of our human life deeply impressed. when he came to learn the ties between these two children of nature, standing side by side, alone amidst the storms of fate, his heart was more deeply moved than it had been for many years. in those dreary attics, overshadowed by the smoke and reek of the humble suburb--the workday world in its harshest and tritest forms below and around them--he recognized that divine poem which comes out from all union between the mind and the heart. here, on the rough deal table (the ink scarcely dry), lay the writings of the young wrestler for fame and bread; there, on the other side the partition, on that mean pallet, lay the boy's sole comforter--the all that warmed his heart with living mortal affection. on one side the wall, the world of imagination; on the other this world of grief and of love. and in both, a spirit equally sublime--unselfish devotion--"the something afar from the sphere of our sorrow." he looked round the room into which he had followed leonard, on quitting helen's bedside. he noted the mss. on the table, and, pointing to them, said gently, "and these are the labors by which you supported the soldier's orphan?--soldier yourself, in a hard battle!" "the battle was lost--i could not support her," replied leonard, mournfully. "but you did not desert her. when pandora's box was opened, they say hope lingered last--" "false, false," said leonard; "a heathen's notion. there are deities that linger behind hope: gratitude, love, and duty." "yours is no common nature," exclaimed harley, admiringly, "but i must sound it more deeply hereafter; at present i hasten for the physician; i shall return with him. we must move that poor child from this low, close air as soon as possible. meanwhile, let me qualify your rejection of the old fable. wherever gratitude, love, and duty remain to man, believe me that hope is there too, though she may be oft invisible, hidden behind the sheltering wings of the nobler deities." harley said this with that wondrous smile of his, which cast a brightness over the whole room--and went away. leonard stole softly toward the grimy window; and looking up toward the stars that shone pale over the roof-tops, he murmured, "o thou, the all-seeing and all-merciful!--how it comforts me now to think that though my dreams of knowledge may have sometimes obscured the heaven, i never doubted that thou wert there--as luminous and everlasting, though behind the cloud!" so, for a few minutes, he prayed silently--then passed into helen's room, and sate beside her motionless, for she slept. she woke just as harley returned with a physician, and then leonard, returning to his own room, saw among his papers the letter he had written to mr. dale; and muttering, "i need not disgrace my calling--i need not be the mendicant now," held the letter to the flame of the candle. and while he said this, and as the burning tinder dropped on the floor, the sharp hunger, unfelt during his late anxious emotions, gnawed at his entrails. still even hunger could not reach that noble pride which had yielded to a sentiment nobler than itself--and he smiled as he repeated, "no mendicant! the life that i was sworn to guard is saved. i can raise against fate the front of the man once more." chapter xix. a few days afterward, and helen, removed to a pure air, and under the advice of the first physician, was out of all danger. it was a pretty, detached cottage, with its windows looking over the wild heaths of norwood, to which harley rode daily to watch the convalescence of his young charge--an object in life was already found. as she grew better and stronger, he coaxed her easily into talking, and listened to her with pleased surprise. the heart so infantine, and the sense so womanly, struck him much by its rare contrast and combination. leonard, whom he had insisted on placing also in the cottage, had staid there willingly till helen's recovery was beyond question. then he came to lord l'estrange, as the latter was about one day to leave the cottage, and said, quietly, "now, my lord, that helen is safe, and now that she will need me no more, i can no longer be a pensioner on your bounty. i return to london." "you are my visitor--not my pensioner, foolish boy," said harley, who had already noticed the pride which spoke in that farewell; "come into the garden, and let us talk." harley seated himself on a bench on the little lawn; nero crouched at his feet; leonard stood beside him. "so," said lord l'estrange, "you would return to london! what to do?" "fulfill my fate." "and that?" "i can not guess. fate is the isis whose vail no mortal can ever raise." "you should be born for great things," said harley, abruptly. "i am sure that you write well. i have seen that you study with passion. better than writing and better than study, you have a noble heart, and the proud desire of independence. let me see your mss., or any copies of what you have already printed. do not hesitate--i ask but to be a reader. i don't pretend to be a patron; it is a word i hate." leonard's eyes sparkled through their sudden moisture. he brought out his portfolio, placed it on the bench beside harley, and then went softly to the farther part of the garden. nero looked after him, and then rose and followed him slowly. the boy seated himself on the turf, and nero rested his dull head on the loud heart of the poet. harley took up the various papers before him and read them through leisurely. certainly he was no critic. he was not accustomed to analyze what pleased or displeased him; but his perceptions were quick, and his taste exquisite. as he read, his countenance, always so genuinely expressive, exhibited now doubt, and now admiration. he was soon struck by the contrast in the boy's writings; between the pieces that sported with fancy, and those that grappled with thought. in the first, the young poet seemed so unconscious of his own individuality. his imagination, afar and aloft from the scenes of his suffering, ran riot amidst a paradise of happy golden creations. but in the last, the thinker stood out alone and mournful, questioning, in troubled sorrow, the hard world on which he gazed. all in the thought was unsettled, tumultuous; all in the fancy serene and peaceful. the genius seemed divided into twain shapes; the one bathing its wings amidst the starry dews of heaven; the other wandering "melancholy, slow," amidst desolate and boundless sands. harley gently laid down the paper and mused a little while. then he rose and walked to leonard, gazing on his countenance as he neared the boy, with a new and deeper interest. "i have read your papers," he said, "and recognize in them two men, belonging to two worlds, essentially distinct." leonard started, and murmured, "true, true!" "i apprehend," resumed harley, "that one of these men must either destroy the other, or that the two must become fused and harmonized into a single existence. get your hat, mount my groom's horse, and come with me to london; we will converse by the way. look you, i believe you and i agree in this, that the first object of every noble spirit is independence. it is toward this independence that i alone presume to assist you; and this is a service which the proudest man can receive without a blush." leonard lifted his eyes toward harley's, and those eyes swam with grateful tears; but his heart was too full to answer. "i am not one of those," said harley, when they were on the road, "who think that because a young man writes poetry he is fit for nothing else, and that he must be a poet or a pauper. i have said that in you there seems to me to be two men, the man of the ideal world, the man of the actual. to each of these men i can offer a separate career. the first is, perhaps, the more tempting. it is the interest of the state to draw into its service all the talent and industry it can obtain; and under his native state every citizen of a free country should be proud to take service. i have a friend who is a minister, and who is known to encourage talent--audley egerton. i have but to say to him, 'there is a young man who will well repay to the government whatever the government bestows on him;' and you will rise to-morrow independent in means, and with fair occasions to attain to fortune and distinction. this is one offer, what say you to it?" leonard thought bitterly of his interview with audley egerton, and the minister's proffered crown-piece. he shook his head, and replied: "oh, my lord, how have i deserved such kindness? do with me what you will; but if i have the option, i would rather follow my own calling. this is not the ambition that inflames me." "hear, then, the other offer. i have a friend with whom i am less intimate than egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. i speak of a man of letters--henry norreys--of whom you have doubtless heard, who, i should say, conceived an interest in you when he observed you reading at the book-stall. i have often heard him say, that literature, as a profession, is misunderstood, and that rightly followed, with the same pains and the same prudence which are brought to bear on other professions, a competence, at least, can be always ultimately obtained. but the way may be long and tedious--and it leads to no power but over thought; it rarely attains to wealth; and, though _reputation_ may be certain, _fame_, such as poets dream of, is the lot of few. what say you to this course?" "my lord, i decide," said leonard, firmly; and then his young face lighting up with enthusiasm, he exclaimed, "yes, if, as you say, there be two men within me, i feel, that were i condemned wholly to the mechanical and practical world, one would indeed destroy the other. and the conqueror would be the ruder and the coarser. let me pursue those ideas that, though they have but flitted across me vague and formless--have ever soared toward the sunlight. no matter whether or not they lead to fortune or to fame, at least they will lead me upward! knowledge for itself i desire--what care i, if it be not power!" "enough," said harley, with a pleased smile at his young companion's outburst. "as you decide so shall it be settled. and now permit me, if not impertinent, to ask you a few questions. your name is leonard fairfield?" the boy blushed deeply, and bowed his head as if in assent. "helen says you are self-taught; for the rest she refers me to you--thinking, perhaps, that i should esteem you less--rather than yet more highly--if she said you were, as i presume to conjecture, of humble birth." "my birth," said leonard, slowly, "is very--very--humble." "the name of fairfield is not unknown to me. there was one of that name who married into a family in lansmere--married an avenel--" continued harley--and his voice quivered. "you change countenance. oh, could your mother's name have been avenel?" "yes," said leonard, between his set teeth. harley laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "then, indeed, i have a claim on you--then, indeed, we are friends. i have a right to serve any of that family." leonard looked at him in surprise--"for," continued harley, recovering himself, "they always served my family; and my recollections of lansmere, though boyish, are indelible." he spurred on his horse as the words closed--and again there was a long pause; but from that time harley always spoke to leonard in a soft voice, and often gazed on him with earnest and kindly eyes. they reached a house in a central, though not fashionable street. a man-servant of a singularly grave and awful aspect opened the door; a man who had lived all his life with authors. poor devil, he was indeed prematurely old! the care on his lip, and the pomp on his brow--no mortal's pen can describe! "is mr. norreys at home?" asked harley. "he is at home--to his friends, my lord," answered the man, majestically; and he stalked across the hall with the step of a dangeau ushering some montmorenci to the presence of _louis le grand_. "stay--show this gentleman into another room. i will go first into the library; wait for me, leonard." the man nodded, and ushered leonard into the dining-room. then pausing before the door of the library, and listening an instant, as if fearful to disturb some mood of inspiration, opened it very softly. to his ineffable disgust, harley pushed before, and entered abruptly. it was a large room, lined with books from the floor to the ceiling. books were on all the tables--books were on all the chairs. harley seated himself on a folio of raleigh's history of the world, and cried: "i have brought you a treasure!" "what is it?" said norreys, good-humoredly, looking up from his desk. "a mind!" "a mind!" echoed norreys, vaguely. "your own?" "pooh--i have none--i have only a heart and a fancy. listen: you remember the boy we saw reading at the book-stall. i have caught him for you, and you shall train him into a man. i have the warmest interest in his future--- for i knew some of his family--and one of that family was very dear to me. as for money, he has not a shilling, and not a shilling would he accept, gratis, from you or me either. but he comes with bold heart to work--and work you must find him." harley then rapidly told his friend of the two offers he had made to leonard--and leonard's choice. "this promises very well; for letters a man must have a strong vocation as he should have for law--i will do all that you wish." harley rose with alertness--shook norreys cordially by the hand--hurried out of the room, and returned with leonard. mr. norreys eyed the young man with attention. he was naturally rather severe than cordial in his manner to strangers--contrasting in this, as in most things, the poor vagabond burley. but he was a good judge of the human countenance, and he liked leonard's. after a pause he held out his hand. "sir," said he, "lord l'estrange tells me that you wish to enter literature as a calling, and no doubt to study it as an art. i may help you in this, and you, meanwhile, can help me. i want an amanuensis--i offer you that place. the salary will be proportioned to the services you will render me. i have a room in my house at your disposal. when i first came up to london, i made the same choice that i hear you have done. i have no cause, even in a worldly point of view, to repent my choice. it gave me an income larger than my wants. i trace my success to these maxims, which are applicable to all professions: st. never to trust to genius--for what can be obtained by labor; dly. never to profess to teach what we have not studied to understand; dly. never to engage our word to what we do not do our best to execute. with these rules, literature, provided a man does not mistake his vocation for it, and will, under good advice, go through the preliminary discipline of natural powers, which all vocations require, is as good a calling as any other. without them a shoeblack's is infinitely better." "possible enough," muttered harley; "but there have been great writers who observed none of your maxims." "great writers, probably, but very unenviable men. my lord, my lord, don't corrupt the pupil you bring to me." harley smiled and took his departure, and left genius at school with common sense and experience. chapter xx. while leonard fairfield had been obscurely wrestling against poverty, neglect, hunger, and dread temptations, bright had been the opening day, and smooth the upward path, of randal leslie. certainly no young man, able and ambitious, could enter life under fairer auspices; the connection and avowed favorite of a popular and energetic statesman, the brilliant writer of a political work, that had lifted him at once into a station of his own--received and courted in those highest circles, to which neither rank nor fortune alone suffices for a familiar passport--the circles above fashion itself--the circles of power--with every facility of augmenting information, and learning the world betimes through the talk of its acknowledged masters--randal had but to move straight onward, and success was sure. but his tortuous spirit delighted in scheme and intrigue for their own sake. in scheme and intrigue he saw shorter paths to fortune, if not to fame. his besetting sin was also his besetting weakness. he did not aspire--he _coveted_. though in a far higher social position than frank hazeldean, despite the worldly prospects of his old school-fellow, he coveted the very things that kept frank hazeldean below him--coveted his idle gayeties, his careless pleasures, his very waste of youth. thus, also, randal less aspired to audley egerton's repute than he coveted audley egerton's wealth and pomp, his princely expenditure, and his castle rackrent in grosvenor-square. it was the misfortune of his birth to be so near to both these fortunes--near to that of leslie, as the future head of that fallen house--near even to that of hazeldean, since as we have seen before, if the squire had had no son, randal's descent from the hazeldeans suggested himself as the one on whom these broad lands should devolve. most young men, brought into intimate contact with audley egerton, would have felt for that personage a certain loyal and admiring, if not very affectionate, respect. for there was something grand in egerton--something that commands and fascinates the young. his determined courage, his energetic will, his almost regal liberality, contrasting a simplicity in personal tastes and habits that was almost austere--his rare and seemingly unconscious power of charming even the women most wearied of homage, and persuading even the men most obdurate to counsel--all served to invest the practical man with those spells which are usually confined to the ideal one. but indeed, audley egerton was an ideal--the ideal of the practical. not the mere vulgar, plodding, red-tape machine of petty business, but the man of strong sense, inspired by inflexible energy, and guided to definite earthly objects. in a dissolute and corrupt form of government, under a decrepit monarchy, or a vitiated republic, audley egerton might have been a most dangerous citizen; for his ambition was so resolute, and his sight to its ends was so clear. but there is something in public life in england which compels the really ambitious man to honor, unless his eyes are jaundiced and oblique like randal leslie's. it is so necessary in england to be a gentleman. and thus egerton was emphatically considered a _gentleman_. without the least pride in other matters, with little apparent sensitiveness, touch him on the point of gentleman, and no one so sensitive and so proud. as randal saw more of him, and watched his moods with the lynx eyes of the household spy, he could perceive that this hard mechanical man was subject to fits of melancholy, even of gloom, and though they did not last long, there was even in his habitual coldness an evidence of something compressed, latent, painful, lying deep within his memory. this would have interested the kindly feelings of a grateful heart. but randal detected and watched it only as a clew to some secret it might profit him to gain. for randal leslie hated egerton; and hated him the more because with all his book-knowledge and his conceit in his own talents, he could not despise his patron--because he had not yet succeeded in making his patron the mere tool or stepping-stone--because he thought that egerton's keen eye saw through his wily heart, even while, as if in profound disdain, the minister helped the protégé. but this last suspicion was unsound. egerton had not detected leslie's corrupt and treacherous nature. he might have other reasons for keeping him at a certain distance, but he inquired too little into randal's feelings toward himself to question the attachment, or doubt the sincerity of one who owed to him so much. but that which more than all embittered randal's feelings toward egerton, was the careful and deliberate frankness with which the latter had, more than once, repeated and enforced the odious announcement, that randal had nothing to expect from the minister's--will, nothing to expect from that wealth which glared in the hungry eyes of the pauper heir to the leslies of rood. to whom, then, could egerton mean to devise his fortune? to whom but frank hazeldean. yet audley took so little notice of his nephew--seemed so indifferent to him, that that supposition, however natural, seemed exposed to doubt. the astuteness of randal was perplexed. meanwhile, however, the less he himself could rely upon egerton for fortune, the more he revolved the possible chances of ousting frank from the inheritance of hazeldean--in part, at least, if not wholly. to one less scheming, crafty, and remorseless than randal leslie with every day became more and more, such a project would have seemed the wildest delusion. but there was something fearful in the manner in which this young man sought to turn knowledge into power, and make the study of all weakness in others subservient to his own ends. he wormed himself thoroughly into frank's confidence. he learned through frank all the squire's peculiarities of thought and temper, and thoroughly pondered over each word in the father's letters, which the son gradually got into the habit of showing to the perfidious eyes of his friend. randal saw that the squire had two characteristics which are very common among proprietors, and which might be invoked as antagonists to his warm fatherly love. first, the squire was as fond of his estate as if it were a living thing, and part of his own flesh and blood; and in his lectures to frank upon the sin of extravagance, the squire always let out this foible:--"what was to become of the estate if it fell into the hands of a spendthrift? no man should make ducks and drakes of hazeldean; let frank beware of _that_," &c. secondly, the squire was not only fond of his lands, but he was jealous of them--that jealousy which even the tenderest fathers sometimes entertain toward their natural heirs. he could not bear the notion that frank should count on his death; and he seldom closed an admonitory letter without repeating the information that hazeldean was not entailed; that it was his to do with as he pleased through life and in death. indirect menace of this nature rather wounded and galled than intimidated frank; for the young man was extremely generous and high-spirited by nature, and was always more disposed to some indiscretion after such warnings to his self-interest, as if to show that those were the last kinds of appeal likely to influence him. by the help of such insights into the character of father and son, randal thought he saw gleams of daylight illumining his own chance of the lands of hazeldean. meanwhile it appeared to him obvious that, come what might of it, his own interests could not lose, and might most probably gain, by whatever could alienate the squire from his natural heir. accordingly, though with consummate tact, he instigated frank toward the very excesses most calculated to irritate the squire, all the while appearing rather to give the counter advice, and never sharing in any of the follies to which he conducted his thoughtless friend. in this he worked chiefly through others, introducing frank to every acquaintance most dangerous to youth, either from the wit that laughs at prudence, or the spurious magnificence that subsists so handsomely upon bills endorsed by friends of "great expectations." the minister and his protégé were seated at breakfast, the first reading the newspaper, the last glancing over his letters; for randal had arrived to the dignity of receiving many letters--ay, and notes too, three-cornered, and fantastically embossed. egerton uttered an exclamation, and laid down the paper. randal looked up from his correspondence. the minister had sunk into one of his absent reveries. after a long silence, observing that egerton did not return to the newspaper, randal said, "ehem--sir, i have a note from frank hazeldean, who wants much to see me; his father has arrived in town unexpectedly." "what brings him here?" asked egerton, still abstractedly. "why, it seems that he has heard some vague reports of poor frank's extravagance, and frank is rather afraid or ashamed to meet him." "ay--a very great fault extravagance in the young!--destroys independence; ruins or enslaves the future. great fault--very! and what does youth want that it should be extravagant? has it not every thing in itself, merely because it _is_? youth is youth--what needs it more?" egerton rose as he said this, and retired to his writing-table, and in his turn opened his correspondence. randal took up the newspaper, and endeavored, but in vain, to conjecture what had excited the minister's exclamation, and the reverie that succeeded it. egerton suddenly and sharply turned round in his chair--"if you have done with the _times_, have the goodness to place it here." randal had just obeyed, when a knock at the street-door was heard, and presently lord l'estrange came into the room, with somewhat a quicker step, and somewhat a gayer mien than usual. audley's hand, as if mechanically, fell upon the newspaper--fell upon that part of the columns devoted to births, deaths, and marriages. randal stood by, and noted; then, bowing to l'estrange, left the room. "audley," said l'estrange, "i have had an adventure since i saw you--an adventure that reopened the past, and may influence my future." "how?" "in the first place, i have met with a relation of--of--the avenels." "indeed! whom--richard avenel?" "richard--richard--who is he? oh, i remember; the wild lad who went off to america; but that was when i was a mere child." "that richard avenel is now a rich thriving trader, and his marriage is in this newspaper--married to an honorable mrs. m'catchley. well--in this country--who should plume himself on birth?" "you did not say so always, egerton," replied harley, with a tone of mournful reproach. "and i say so now, pertinently to a mrs. m'catchley, not to the heir of the l'estranges but no more of these--these avenels." "yes, more of them. i tell you i have met a relation of theirs--a nephew of--of--" "of richard avenel's?" interrupted egerton; and then added in the slow, deliberate, argumentative tone in which he was wont to speak in public. "richard avenel the trader! i saw him once--a presuming and intolerable man!" "the nephew has not those sins. he is full of promise, of modesty, yet of pride. and his countenance--oh, egerton, he has _her_ eyes." egerton made no answer. and harley resumed-- "i had thought of placing him under your care. i knew you would provide for him." "i will. bring him hither," cried egerton eagerly. "all that i can do to prove my--regard for a wish of yours." harley pressed his friend's hand warmly. "i thank you from my heart; the audley of my boyhood speaks now. but the young man has decided otherwise; and i do not blame him. nay, i rejoice that he chooses a career in which if he find hardship, he may escape dependence." "and that career is--" "letters?" "letters--literature!" exclaimed the statesman. "beggary! no, no, harley, this is your absurd romance." "it will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy's. leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. he is of _her_ blood, and i said that he had _her_ eyes." "but you are going abroad; let me know where he is; i will watch over him." "and unsettle a right ambition for a wrong one? no--you shall know nothing of him till he can proclaim himself. i think that day will come." audley mused a moment, and then said, "well, perhaps you are right. after all, as you say, independence is a great blessing, and my ambition has not rendered myself the better or the happier." "yet, my poor audley, you ask me to be ambitious." "i only wish you to be consoled," cried egerton with passion. "i will try to be so; and by the help of a milder remedy than yours. i said that my adventure might influence my future; it brought me acquainted not only with the young man i speak of, but the most winning affectionate child--a girl." "is this child an avenel too?" "no, she is of gentle blood--a soldier's daughter; the daughter of that captain digby, on whose behalf i was a petitioner to your patronage. he is dead, and in dying, my name was on his lips. he meant me, doubtless, to be the guardian to his orphan. i shall be so. i have at last an object in life." "but can you seriously mean to take this child with you abroad?" "seriously, i do." "and lodge her in your own house?" "for a year or so while she is yet a child. then, as she approaches youth, i shall place her elsewhere." "you may grow to love her. is it clear that she will love you? not mistake gratitude for love? it is a very hazardous experiment." "so was william the norman's--still he was william the conqueror. thou biddest me move on from the past, and be consoled, yet thou wouldst make me as inapt to progress as the mule in slawkenbergius's tale, with thy cursed interlocutions, 'stumbling, by st. nicholas, every step. why, at this rate, we shall be all night, getting into--' _happiness!_ listen," continued harley, setting off, full pelt, into one of his wild, whimsical humors. "one of the sons of the prophets in israel, felling wood near the river jordan, his hatchet forsook the helve, and fell to the bottom of the river; so he prayed to have it again (it was but a small request, mark you); and having a strong faith, he did not throw the hatchet after the helve, but the helve after the hatchet. presently two great miracles were seen. up springs the hatchet from the bottom of the water, and fixes itself to its old acquaintance, the helve. now, had he wished to coach it to heaven in a fiery chariot like elias, be as rich as job, strong as samson, and beautiful as absalom, would he have obtained it, do you think? in truth, my friend, i question it very much." "i can not comprehend what you mean. sad stuff you are talking." "i can't help that; rabelais is to be blamed for it. i am quoting him, and it is to be found in his prologue to the chapters on the moderation of wishes. and apropos of 'moderate wishes in point of hatchet,' i want you to understand that i ask but little from heaven. i fling but the helve after the hatchet that has sunk into the silent stream. i want the other half of the weapon that is buried fathom deep, and for want of which the thick woods darken round me by the sacred river, and i can catch not a glimpse of the stars." "in plain english," said audley egerton, "you want"--he stopped short, puzzled. "i want my purpose and my will, and my old character, and the nature god gave me. i want the half of my soul which has fallen from me. i want such love as may replace to me the vanished affections. reason not--i throw the helve after the hatchet." chapter xxi. randall leslie, on leaving audley, repaired to frank's lodgings, and after being closeted with the young guardsman an hour or so, took his way to limmer's hotel, and asked for mr. hazeldean. he was shown into the coffee-room, while the waiter went upstairs with his card, to see if the squire was within, and disengaged. the _times_ newspaper lay sprawling on one of the tables, and randal, leaning over it, looked with attention into the column containing births, deaths, and marriages. but in that long and miscellaneous list, he could not conjecture the name which had so excited mr. egerton's interest. "vexatious!" he muttered; "there is no knowledge which has power more useful than that of the secrets of men." he turned as the waiter entered and said that mr. hazeldean would be glad to see him. as randal entered the drawing-room, the squire shaking hands with him, looked toward the door as if expecting some one else, and his honest face assumed a blank expression of disappointment when the door closed, and he found that randal was unaccompanied. "well," said he bluntly, "i thought your old school-fellow, frank, might have been with you." "have not you seen him yet, sir?" "no, i came to town this morning; traveled outside the mail; sent to his barracks, but the young gentleman does not sleep there--has an apartment of his own; he never told me that. we are a plain family, the hazeldeans--young sir; and i hate being kept in the dark, by my own son too." randal made no answer, but looked sorrowful. the squire, who had never before seen his kinsman, had a vague idea that it was not polite to entertain a stranger, though a connection to himself, with his family troubles, and so resumed good-naturedly. "i am very glad to make your acquaintance at last, mr. leslie. you know, i hope, that you have good hazeldean blood in your veins?" randal (smilingly).--"i am not likely to forget that; it is the boast of our pedigree." squire (heartily).--"shake hands again on it, my boy. you don't want a friend, since my grandee of a half-brother has taken you up; but if ever you should, hazeldean is not very far from rood. can't get on with your father at all, my lad--more's the pity, for i think i could have given him a hint or two as to the improvement of his property. if he would plant those ugly commons--larch and fir soon come into profit, sir; and there are some low lands about rood that would take mighty kindly to draining." randal.--"my poor father lives a life so retired, and you can not wonder at it. fallen trees lie still, and so do fallen families." squire.--"fallen families can get up again, which fallen trees can't." randal.--"ah, sir, it often takes the energy of generations to repair the thriftlessness and extravagance of a single owner." squire (his brow lowering).--"that's very true. frank is d----d extravagant; treats me very coolly, too--not coming, near three o'clock. by-the-by, i suppose he told you where i was, otherwise how did you find me out?" randal (reluctantly).--"sir, he did; and, to speak frankly, i am not surprised that he has not yet appeared." squire.--"eh?" randal.--"we have grown very intimate." squire.--"so he writes me word--and i am glad of it. our member, sir john, tells me you are a very clever fellow, and a very steady one. and frank says that he wishes he had your prudence, if he can't have your talents. he has a good heart, frank," added the father, relentingly. "but, zounds, sir, you say you are not surprised he has not come to welcome his own father!" "my dear sir," said randal, "you wrote word to frank that you had heard from sir john and others, of his goings-on, and that you were not satisfied with his replies to your letters." "well." "and then you suddenly come up to town." "well." "well. and frank is ashamed to meet you. for, as you say, he has been extravagant, and he has exceeded his allowance; and, knowing my respect for you, and my great affection for himself, he has asked me to prepare you to receive his confession and forgive him. i know i am taking a great liberty. i have no right to interfere between father and son; but pray--pray think i mean for the best." "humph!" said the squire, recovering himself very slowly, and showing evident pain. "i knew already that frank had spent more than he ought; but i think he should not have employed a third person, to prepare me to forgive him. (excuse me--no offense.) and if he wanted a third person, was not there his own mother? what the devil!--(firing up)--am i a tyrant--a bashaw--that my own son is afraid to speak to me? gad, i'll give it him?" "pardon me, sir," said randal, assuming at once that air of authority which superior intellect so well carries off and excuses. "but i strongly advise you not to express any anger at frank's confidence in me. at present i have influence over him. whatever you may think of his extravagance, i have saved him from many an indiscretion, and many a debt--a young man will listen to one of his own age so much more readily than even to the kindest friend of graver years. indeed, sir, i speak for your sake as well as for frank's. let me keep this influence over him; and don't reproach him for the confidence he placed in me. nay, let him rather think that i have softened any displeasure you might otherwise have felt." there seemed so much good sense in what randal said, and the kindness of it seemed so disinterested, that the squire's native shrewdness was deceived. "you are a fine young fellow," said he, "and i am very much obliged to you. well, i suppose there is no putting old heads upon young shoulders; and i promise you i'll not say an angry word to frank. i dare say, poor boy, he is very much afflicted, and i long to shake hands with him. so, set his mind at ease." "ah, sir," said randal, with much apparent emotion, "your son may well love you; and it seems to be a hard matter for so kind a heart as yours to preserve the proper firmness with him." "oh, i can be firm enough," quoth the squire--"especially when i don't see him--handsome dog that he is--very like his mother--don't you think so?" "i never saw his mother, sir." "gad! not seen my harry? no more you have; you must come and pay us a visit. we have your grandmother's picture, when she was a girl, with a crook in one hand and a bunch of lilies in the other. i suppose my half-brother will let you come?" "to be sure, sir. will you not call on him while you are in town?" "not i. he would think i expected to get something from the government. tell him the ministers must go on a little better, if they want my vote for their member. but go. i see you are impatient to tell frank that all's forgot and forgiven. come and dine with him here at six, and let him bring his bills in his pocket. oh, i shan't scold him." "why, as to that," said randal, smiling, "i think (forgive me still) that you should not take it too easily; just as i think that you had better not blame him for his very natural and praise-worthy shame in approaching you, so i think, also, that you should do nothing that would tend to diminish that shame--it is such a check on him. and therefore, if you can contrive to affect to be angry with him for his extravagance, it will do good." "you speak like a book, and i'll try my best." "if you threaten, for instance, to take him out of the army, and settle him in the country, it would have a very good effect." "what! would he think it so great a punishment to come home and live with his parents?" "i don't say that; but he is naturally so fond of london. at his age, and with his large inheritance, _that_ is natural." "inheritance!" said the squire, moodily--"inheritance! he is not thinking of that, i trust? zounds, sir, i have as good a life as his own. inheritance!--to be sure the casino property is entailed on him; but, as for the rest, sir, i am no tenant for life. i could leave the hazeldean lands to my plowman, if i chose it. inheritance, indeed!" "my dear sir, i did not mean to imply that frank would entertain the unnatural and monstrous idea of calculating on your death; and all we have to do is to get him to sow his wild oats as soon as possible--marry, and settle down into the country. for it would be a thousand pities if his town habits and tastes grew permanent--a bad thing for the hazeldean property, that. and," added randal, laughing, "i feel an interest in the whole place, since my grandmother comes of the stock. so, just force yourself to seem angry, and grumble a little when you pay the bills." "ah, ah, trust me," said the squire, doggedly, and with a very altered air. "i am much obliged to you for these hints, my young kinsman." and his stout hand trembled a little as he extended it to randal. leaving limmers, randal hastened to frank's rooms in st. james's-street. "my dear fellow," said he, when he entered, "it is very fortunate that i persuaded you to let me break matters to your father. you might well say he was rather passionate; but i have contrived to soothe him. you need not fear that he will not pay your debt." "i never feared that," said frank, changing color; "i only feared his anger. but, indeed, i fear his kindness still more. what a reckless hound i have been! however, it shall be a lesson to me. and my debts once paid, i will turn as economical as yourself." "quite right, frank. and, indeed, i am a little afraid that when your father knows the total, he may execute a threat that would be very unpleasant to you." "what's that?" "make you sell out, and give up london." "the devil!" exclaimed frank, with fervent emphasis: "that would be treating me like a child." "why, it _would_ make you seem rather ridiculous to your set, which is not a very rural one. and you, who like london so much, and are so much the fashion." "don't talk of it," cried frank, walking to and fro the room in great disorder. "perhaps, on the whole, it might be well not to say all you owe, at once. if you named half the sum, your father would let you off with a lecture; and really i tremble at the effect of the total." "but how shall i pay the other half?" "oh, you must save from your allowance; it is a very liberal one; and the tradesmen are not pressing." "no--but the cursed bill-brokers--" "always renew to a young man of your expectations. and if i get into an office, i can always help you, my dear frank." "ah, randal, i am not so bad as to take advantage of your friendship," said frank, warmly. "but it seems to me mean, after all, and a sort of a lie, indeed, disguising the real state of my affairs. i should not have listened to the idea from any one else. but you are such a sensible, kind, honorable fellow." "after epithets so flattering, i shrink from the responsibility of advice. but apart from your own interests, i should be glad to save your father the pain he would feel at knowing the whole extent of the scrape you have got into. and if it entailed on you the necessity to lay by--and give up hazard, and not be security for other men--why, it would be the best thing that could happen. really, too, it seems hard on mr. hazeldean, that he should be the only sufferer, and quite just that you should bear half your own burdens." "so it is, randal; that did not strike me before. i will take your counsel; and now i will go at once to limmer's. my dear father? i hope he is looking well?" "oh, very. such a contrast to the sallow londoners! but i think you had better not go till dinner. he has asked me to meet you at six. i will call for you a little before, and we can go together. this will prevent a great deal of gêne and constraint. good-by till then. ha!--by the way, i think if i were you, i would not take the matter too seriously and penitentially. you see the best of fathers like to keep their sons under their thumb, as the saying is. and if you want at your age to preserve your independence, and not be hurried off and buried in the country, like a schoolboy in disgrace, a little manliness of bearing would not be amiss. you can think over it." the dinner at limmer's went off very differently from what it ought to have done. randal's words had sunk deep, and rankled sorely in the squire's mind; and that impression imparted a certain coldness to his manner which belied the hearty, forgiving, generous impulse with which he had come up to london, and which even randal had not yet altogether whispered away. on the other hand, frank, embarrassed both by the sense of disingenuousness, and a desire "not to take the thing too seriously," seemed to the squire ungracious and thankless. after dinner, the squire began to hum and haw, and frank to color up and shrink. both felt discomposed by the presence of a third person; till, with an art and address worthy of a better cause, randal himself broke the ice, and so contrived to remove the restraint he had before imposed, that at length each was heartily glad to have matters made clear and brief by his dexterity and tact. frank's debts were not, in reality, large; and when he named the half of them--looking down in shame--the squire, agreeably surprised, was about to express himself with a liberal heartiness that would have opened his son's excellent heart at once to him. but a warning look from randal checked the impulse; and the squire thought it right, as he had promised, to affect an anger he did not feel, and let fall the unlucky threat, "that it was all very well once in a way to exceed his allowance; but if frank did not, in future, show more sense than to be led away by a set of london sharks and coxcombs, he must cut the army, come home, and take to farming." frank imprudently exclaimed, "oh, sir, i have no taste for farming. and after london, at my age, the country would be so horribly dull." "aha!" said the squire, very grimly--and he thrust back into his pocket-book some extra bank-notes which his fingers had itched to add to those he had already counted out. "the country is terribly dull, is it? money goes there not upon follies and vices, but upon employing honest laborers, and increasing the wealth of the nation. it does not please you to spend money in that way: it is a pity you should ever be plagued with such duties." "my dear father--" "hold your tongue, you puppy. oh, i dare say, if you were in my shoes, you would cut down the oaks, and mortgage the property--sell it, for what i know--all go on a cast of the dice! aha, sir--very well, very well--the country is horribly dull, is it? pray, stay in town." "my dear mr. hazeldean," said randal, blandly, and as if with the wish to turn off into a joke what threatened to be serious, "you must not interpret a hasty expression so literally. why, you would make frank as bad as lord a----, who wrote word to his steward to cut down more timber; and when the steward replied, 'there are only three sign-posts left on the whole estate,' wrote back, '_they've_ done growing, at all events--down with them.' you ought to know lord a----, sir; so witty; and--frank's particular friend." "your particular friend, master frank? pretty friends!"--and the squire buttoned up the pocket, to which he had transferred his note book, with a determined air. "but i'm his friend, too," said randal, kindly; "and i preach to him properly, i can tell you." then, as if delicately anxious to change the subject, he began to ask questions upon crops, and the experiment of bone manure. he spoke earnestly, and with _gusto_, yet with the deference of one listening to a great practical authority. randal had spent the afternoon in cramming the subject from agricultural journals and parliamentary reports; and, like all practiced readers, had really learned in a few hours more than many a man, unaccustomed to study, could gain from books in a year. the squire was surprised and pleased at the young scholar's information and taste for such subjects. "but, to be sure," quoth he, with an angry look at poor frank, "you have good hazeldean blood in you, and know a bean from a turnip." "why, sir," said randal, ingenuously, "i am training myself for public life; and what is a public man worth if he do not study the agriculture of his country?" "right--what is he worth? put that question, with my compliments, to my half-brother. what stuff he did talk, the other night, on the malt-tax, to be sure!" "mr. egerton has had so many other things to think of, that we must excuse his want of information upon one topic, however important. with his strong sense, he must acquire that information, sooner or later; for he is fond of power; and, sir, knowledge is power!" "very true; very fine saying," quoth the poor squire, unsuspiciously, as randal's eye rested upon mr. hazeldean's open face, and then glanced toward frank, who looked sad and bored. "yes," repeated randal, "knowledge is power;" and he shook his head wisely, as he passed the bottle to his host. still, when the squire, who meant to return to the hall next morning, took leave of frank, his heart warmed to his son: and still more for frank's dejected looks. it was not randal's policy to push estrangement too far at first, and in his own presence. "speak to poor frank--kindly now, sir--do," whispered he, observing the squire's watery eyes, as he moved to the window. the squire rejoiced to obey--thrust out his hand to his son, "my dear boy," said he, "there, don't fret--pshaw!--it was but a trifle, after all. think no more of it." frank took the hand, and suddenly threw his arm round his father's broad shoulder. "oh, sir, you are too good--too good." his voice trembled so, that randal took alarm, passed by him, and touched him meaningly. the squire pressed his son to his heart--heart so large, that it seemed to fill the whole width under his broadcloth. "my dear frank," said he, half blubbering, "it is not the money; but, you see, it so vexes your poor mother; you must be careful in future; and, zounds, boy, it will be all yours one day; only don't calculate on it; i could not bear _that_--i could not indeed." "calculate!" cried frank. "oh, sir, can you think it?" "i am so delighted that i had some slight hand in your complete reconciliation with mr. hazeldean," said randal, as the young men walked from the hotel. "i saw that you were disheartened, and i told him to speak to you kindly." "did you? ah, i am sorry he needed telling." "i know his character so well already," said randal, "that i flatter myself i can always keep things between you as they ought to be. what an excellent man!" "the best man in the world!" cried frank, heartily; and then as his accent drooped, "yet i have deceived him. i have a great mind to go back--" "and tell him to give you twice as much money as you had asked for. he would think you had only seemed so affectionate in order to take him in. no, no, frank; save--lay by--economize; and then tell him that you have paid half your own debts. something high-minded in that." "so there is. your heart is as good as your head. good-night." "are you going home so early? have you no engagements?" "none that i shall keep." "good-night, then." they parted, and randal walked into one of the fashionable clubs. he neared a table, where three or four young men (younger sons who lived in the most splendid style, heaven knew how) were still over their wine. leslie had little in common with these gentlemen; but he forced his nature to be agreeable to them, in consequence of a very excellent piece of worldly advice given to him by audley egerton. "never let the dandies call you a prig," said the statesman. "many a clever fellow fails through life, because the silly fellows, whom half a word well spoken could make his _claqueurs_, turn him into ridicule. whatever you are, avoid the fault of most reading men: in a word, don't be a prig!" "i have just left hazeldean," said randal, "what a good fellow he is!" "capital," said the honorable george borrowwell. "where is he?" "why, he is gone to his rooms. he has had a little scene with his father, a thorough, rough country squire. it would be an act of charity if you would go and keep him company, or take him with you to some place a little more lively than his own lodgings." "what! the old gentleman has been teasing him?--a horrid shame! why, frank is not expensive, and he will be very rich--eh?" "an immense property," said randal, "and not a mortgage on it; an only son," he added, turning away. among these young gentlemen there was a kindly and most benevolent whisper, and presently they all rose, and walked away toward frank's lodgings. "the wedge is in the tree," said randal to himself, "and there is a gap already between the bark and the wood." chapter xxii. harley l'estrange is seated beside helen at the lattice-window in the cottage at norwood. the bloom of reviving health is on the child's face, and she is listening with a smile, for harley is speaking of leonard with praise, and of leonard's future with hope. "and thus," he continued, "secure from his former trials, happy in his occupation, and pursuing the career he has chosen, we must be content, my dear child, to leave him." "leave him!" exclaimed helen, and the rose on her cheek faded. harley was not displeased to see her emotion. he would have been disappointed in her heart if it had been less susceptible to affection. "it is hard on you, helen," said he, "to separate you from one who has been to you as a brother. do not hate me for doing so. but i consider myself your guardian, and your home as yet must be mine. we are going from this land of cloud and mist, going as into the world of summer. well, that does not content you. you weep, my child; you mourn your own friend, but do not forget your father's. i am alone, and often sad, helen; will you not comfort me! you press my hand, but you must learn to smile on me also. you are born to be the comforter. comforters are not egotists; they are always cheerful when they console." the voice of harley was so sweet, and his words went so home to the child's heart, that she looked up and smiled in his face as he kissed her ingenuous brow. but then she thought of leonard, and felt so solitary--so bereft--that tears burst forth again. before these were dried, leonard himself entered, and obeying an irresistible impulse, she sprang to his arms, and, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed out, "i am going from you, brother--do not grieve--do not miss me." harley was much moved; he folded his arms, and contemplated them both silently--and his own eyes were moist. "this heart," thought he, "will be worth the winning!" he drew aside leonard, and whispered--"soothe, but encourage and support her. i leave you together; come to me in the garden later." it was nearly an hour before leonard joined harley. "she was not weeping when you left her?" asked l'estrange. "no; she has more fortitude than we might suppose. heaven knows how that fortitude has supported mine. i have promised to write to her often." harley took two strides across the lawn, and then, coming back to leonard, said, "keep your promise, and write often for the first year, i would then ask you to let the correspondence drop gradually." "drop!--ah, my lord!" "look you, my young friend, i wish to lead this fair mind wholly from the sorrows of the past. i wish helen to enter, not abruptly, but step by step, into a new life. you love each other now, as do two children--as brother and sister. but later, if encouraged, would the love be the same? and is it not better for both of you, that youth should open upon the world with youth's natural affections free and unforestalled?" "true! and she is so above me," said leonard mournfully. "no one is above him who succeeds in your ambition, leonard. it is not _that_, believe me!" leonard shook his head. "perhaps," said harley, with a smile, "i rather feel that you are above me. for what vantage-ground is so high as youth? perhaps i may become jealous of you. it is well that she should learn to like one who is to be henceforth her guardian and protector. yet, how can she like me as she ought, if her heart is to be full of you?" the boy bowed his head; and harley hastened to change the subject, and speak of letters and of glory. his words were eloquent, and his voice kindling; for he had been an enthusiast for fame in his boyhood; and in leonard's, his own seemed to him to revive. but the poet's heart gave back no echo--suddenly it seemed void and desolate. yet when leonard walked back by the moonlight, he muttered to himself, "strange--strange--so mere a child, this can not be love! still what else to love is there left to me?" and so he paused upon the bridge where he had so often stood with helen, and on which he had found the protector that had given to her a home--to himself a career. and life seemed very long, and fame but a dreary phantom. courage, still, leonard! these are the sorrows of the heart that teach thee more than all the precepts of sage and critic. another day and helen had left the shores of england, with her fanciful and dreaming guardian. years will pass before our tale reopens. life in all the forms we have seen it travels on. and the squire farms and hunts; and the parson preaches and chides and soothes. and riccabocca reads his machiavelli, and sighs and smiles as he moralizes on men and states. and violante's dark eyes grow deeper and more spiritual in their lustre; and her beauty takes thought from solitary dreams. and mr. richard avenel has his house in london, and the honorable mrs. avenel her opera box; and hard and dire is their struggle into fashion, and hotly does the new man, scorning the aristocracy, pant to become aristocrat. and audley egerton goes from the office to the parliament, and drudges, and debates, and helps to govern the empire on which the sun never sets. poor sun, how tired he must be--but none more tired than the government! and randal leslie has an excellent place in the bureau of a minister, and is looking to the time when he shall resign it to come into parliament, and on that large arena turn knowledge into power. and meanwhile, he is much where he was with audley egerton; but he has established intimacy with the squire, and visited hazeldean twice, and examined the house and the map of the property--and very nearly fallen a second time into the ha-ha; and the squire believes that randal leslie alone can keep frank out of mischief, and has spoken rough words to his harry about frank's continued extravagance. and frank does continue to pursue pleasure; and is very miserable, and horribly in debt. and madame di negra has gone from london to paris, and taken a tour into switzerland, and come back to london again, and has grown very intimate with randal leslie; and randal has introduced frank to her; and frank thinks her the loveliest woman in the world, and grossly slandered by certain evil tongues. and the brother of madame di negra is expected in england at last; and what with his repute for beauty and for wealth, people anticipate a sensation; and leonard, and harley, and helen? patience--they will all re-appear. (to be continued.) a scene from irish life. the moorland was wide, level, and black; black as night, if you could suppose night condensed on the surface of the earth, and that you could tread on solid darkness in the midst of day. the day itself was fast dropping into night, although it was dreary and gloomy at the best; for it was a november day. the moor, for miles around, was treeless and houseless; devoid of vegetation, except heather, which clad with its gloomy frieze coat the shivering landscape. at a distance you could discern, through the misty atmosphere, the outline of mountains apparently as bare and stony as this wilderness, which they bounded. there were no fields, no hedgerows, no marks of the hand of man, except the nakedness itself, which was the work of man in past ages; when, period after period, he had tramped over the scene with fire and sword, and left all that could not fly before him, either ashes to be scattered by the savage winds, or stems of trees, and carcases of men trodden into the swampy earth. as the roman historian said of other destroyers, "they created solitude and called it peace." that all this was the work of man, and not of nature, any one spot of this huge and howling wilderness could testify, if you would only turn up its sable surface. in its bosom lay thousands of ancient oaks and pines, black as ebony; which told, by their gigantic bulk, that forests must have once existed on this spot, as rich as the scene was now bleak. nobler things than trees lay buried there; but were, for the most part, resolved into the substance of the inky earth. the dwellings of men had left few or no traces, for they had been consumed in flames; and the hearts that had loved, and suffered, and perished beneath the hand of violence and insult, were no longer human hearts, but slime. if a man were carried blindfold to that place, and asked when his eyes were unbandaged where he was, he would say--"ireland!" he would want no clew to the identity of the place, but the scene before him. there is no heath like an irish heath. there is no desolation like an irish desolation. where nature herself has spread the expanse of a solitude, it is a cheerful solitude. the air flows over it lovingly; the flowers nod and dance in gladness; the soil breathes up a spirit of wild fragrance, which communicates a buoyant sensation to the heart. you feel that you tread on ground where the peace of god, and not the "peace" of man created in the merciless hurricane of war, has sojourned: where the sun shone on creatures sporting on ground or on tree, as the divine goodness of the universe meant them to sport: where the hunter disturbed alone the enjoyment of the lower animals by his own boisterous joy: where the traveler sung as he went over it, because he felt a spring of inexpressible music in his heart: where the weary wayfarer sat beneath a bush, and blessed god, though his limbs ached with travel, and his goal was far off. in god's deserts dwells gladness; in man's deserts, death. a melancholy smites you as you enter them. there is a darkness from the past that envelops your heart, and the moans and sighs of ten-times perpetrated misery seem still to live in the very winds. one shallow, and widely-spread stream struggled through the moor; sometimes between masses of gray stone. sedges and the white-headed cotton-rush whistled on its margin, and on island-like expanses that here and there rose above the surface of its middle course. i have said that there was no sign of life; but on one of those gray stones stood a heron watching for prey. he had remained straight, rigid, and motionless for hours. probably his appetite was appeased by his day's success among the trout of that dark red-brown stream, which was colored by the peat from which it oozed. when he did move, he sprung up at once, stretched his broad wings, and silent as the scene around him, made a circuit in the air; rising higher as he went, with slow and solemn flight. he had been startled by a sound. there was life in the desert now. two horsemen came galloping along a highway not far distant, and the heron, continuing his grave gyrations, surveyed them as he went. had they been travelers over a plain of india, an australian waste, or the pampas of south america, they could not have been grimmer of aspect, or more thoroughly children of the wild. they were irish from head to foot. they were mounted on two spare but by no means clumsy horses. the creatures had marks of blood and breed that had been introduced by the english to the country. the could claim, if they knew it, lineage of arabia. the one was a pure bay, the other and lesser, was black; but both were lean as death, haggard as famine. they were wet with the speed with which they had been hurried along. the soil of the damp moorland, or of the field in which, during the day, they had probably been drawing the peasant's cart, still smeared their bodies, and their manes flew as wildly and untrimmed as the sedge or the cotton-rush on the wastes through which they careered. their riders, wielding each a heavy stick instead of a riding-whip which they applied ever and anon to the shoulders or flanks of their smoking animals, were mounted on their bare backs, and guided them by halter, instead of bridle. they were a couple of the short frieze-coated, knee-breeches and gray-stocking fellows who are as plentiful on irish soil as potatoes. from beneath their narrow-brimmed, old, weather-beaten hats, streamed hair as unkemped as their horses' manes. the celtic physiognomy was distinctly marked--the small and somewhat upturned nose; the black tint of skin; the eye now looking gray, now black; the freckled cheek, and sandy hair. beard and whiskers covered half the face, and the short square-shouldered bodies were bent forward with eager impatience, as they thumped and kicked along their horses, muttering curses as they went. the heron, sailing on broad and seemingly slow vans, still kept them in view. anon, they reached a part of the moorland where traces of human labor were visible. black piles of peat stood on the solitary ground, ready, after a summers cutting and drying. presently patches of cultivation presented themselves; plots of ground raised on beds, each a few feet wide, with intervening trenches to carry off the boggy water, where potatoes had grown, and small fields where grew more stalks of ragwort than grass, inclosed by banks cast up and tipped here and there with a briar or a stone. it was the husbandry of misery and indigence. the ground had already been freshly manured by sea-weeds, but the village--where was it? blotches of burnt ground; scorched heaps of rubbish, and fragments of blackened walls, alone were visible. garden-plots were trodden down, and their few bushes rent up, or hung with tatters of rags. the two horsemen, as they hurried by with gloomy visages, uttered no more than a single word: "eviction!" further on, the ground heaved itself into a chaotic confusion. stony heaps swelled up here and there, naked, black, and barren: the huge bones of the earth protruded themselves through her skin. shattered rocks arose, sprinkled with bushes, and smoke curled up from what looked like mere heaps of rubbish; but which were in reality human habitations. long dry grass hissed and rustled in the wind on their roofs (which were sunk by-places, as if falling in); and pits of reeking filth seemed placed exactly to prevent access to some of the low doors; while to others, a few stepping-stones made that access only possible. here the two riders stopped, and hurriedly tying their steeds to an elder-bush, disappeared in one of the cabins. the heron slowly sailed on to the place of its regular roost. let us follow it. far different was this scene to those the bird had left. lofty trees darkened the steep slopes of a fine river. rich meadows lay at the feet of woods and stretched down to the stream. herds of cattle lay on them, chewing their cuds after the plentiful grazing of the day. the white walls of a noble house peeped, in the dusk of night, through the fertile timber which stood in proud guardianship of the mansion; and broad winding walks gave evidence of a place where nature and art had combined to form a paradise. there were ample pleasure-grounds. alas! the grounds around the cabins over which the heron had so lately flown, might be truly styled pain-grounds. within that home was assembled a happy family. there was the father, a fine-looking man of forty. proud you would have deemed him, as he sate for a moment abstracted in his cushioned chair; but a moment afterward, as a troop of children came bursting into the room, his manner was instantly changed into one so pleasant, so playful, and so overflowing with enjoyment, that you saw him only as an amiable, glad, domestic man. the mother, a handsome woman, was seated already at the tea-table; and, in another minute, sounds of merry voices and childish laughter were mingled with the jocose tones of the father, and the playful accents of the mother; addressed, now to one, and now to another, of the youthful group. in due time the merriment was hushed, and the household assembled for evening prayer. a numerous train of servants assumed their accustomed places. the father read. he had paused once or twice, and glanced with a stern and surprised expression toward the group of domestics, for he heard sounds that astonished him from one corner of the room near the door. he went on--"remember the children of edom, o lord, in the day of judgment, how they said, down with it, down with it, even to the ground. o daughter of babylon, wasted with misery, yea, happy shall he be who rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us!" there was a burst of smothered sobs from the same corner, and the master's eye flashed with a strange fire as he again darted a glance toward the offender. the lady looked equally surprised, in the same direction; then turned a meaning look on her husband--a warm flush was succeeded by a paleness in her countenance, and she cast down her eyes. the children wondered, but were still. once more the father's sonorous voice continued--"give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." again the stifled sound was repeated. the brow of the master darkened again--the mother looked agitated; the children's wonder increased; the master closed the book, and the servants, with a constrained silence, retired from the room. "what _can_ be the matter with old dennis?" exclaimed the lady, the moment that the door had closed on the household.--"o! what is amiss with poor old dennis!" exclaimed the children. "some stupid folly or other," said the father, morosely. "come! away to bed, children. you can learn dennis's troubles another time." the children would have lingered, but again the words, "away with you!" in a tone which never needed repetition, were decisive: they kissed their parents and withdrew. in a few seconds the father rang the bell. "send dennis croggan here." the old man appeared. he was a little thin man, of not less than seventy years of age, with white hair and a dark spare countenance. he was one of those many nondescript servants in a large irish house, whose duties are curiously miscellaneous. he had, however, shown sufficient zeal and fidelity through a long life, to secure a warm nook in the servants' hall for the remainder of his days. dennis entered with an humble and timid air, as conscious that he had deeply offended; and had to dread at least a severe rebuke. he bowed profoundly to both the master and mistress. "what is the meaning of your interruptions during the prayers, dennis?" demanded the master, abruptly. "has any thing happened to you?" "no, sir." "anything amiss in your son's family?" "no, your honor." the interrogator paused; a storm of passion seemed slowly gathering within him. presently he asked, in a loud tone, "what does this mean? was there no place to vent your nonsense in, but in this room, and at prayers?" dennis was silent. he cast an imploring look at the master, then at the mistress. "what is the matter, good dennis?" asked the lady, in a kind tone. "compose yourself, and tell us. something strange must have happened to you." dennis trembled violently; but he advanced a couple of paces, seized the back of a chair as if to support him, and, after a vain gasp or two, declared, as intelligibly as fear would permit, that the prayer had overcome him. "nonsense, man!" exclaimed the master, with fury in the same face, which was so lately beaming with joy on the children. "nonsense! speak out without more ado, or you shall rue it." dennis looked to the mistress as if he would have implored her intercession; but as she gave no sign of it, he was compelled to speak; but in a brogue that would have been unintelligible to english ears. we therefore translate it: "i could not help thinking of the poor people at rathbeg, when the soldiers and police cried, 'down with them! down with them, even to the ground!' and then the poor bit cabins came down all in fire and smoke, amid the howls and cries of the poor creatures. oh! it was a fearful sight, your honor--it was, indeed--to see the poor women hugging their babies, and the houses where they were born burning in the wind. it was dreadful to see the old bedridden man lie on the wet ground among the few bits of furniture, and groan to his gracious god above. oh, your honor! you never saw such a sight, or--you--sure a--it would never have been done!" dennis seemed to let the last words out, as if they were jerked from him by a sudden shock. the master, whose face had changed during this speech to a livid hue of passion, his eyes blazing with rage, was in the act of rushing on old dennis, when he was held back by his wife, who exclaimed--"oswald! be calm; let us hear what dennis has to say. go on, dennis--go on!" the master stood still, breathing hard to overcome his rage. old dennis, as if seeing only his own thoughts, went on--"o, bless your honor! if you had seen that poor frantic woman when the back of the cabin fell, and buried her infant, where she thought she had laid it safe for a moment, while she flew to part her husband and a soldier, who had struck the other children with the flat of his sword, and bade them to troop off! oh, your honor, but it was a killing sight! it was that came over me in the prayer, and i feared that we might be praying perdition on us all, when we prayed about our trespasses. if the poor creatures of rathbeg should meet us, your honor, at heaven's gate (i was thinking) and say--'these are the heathens that would not let us have a poor hearthstone in poor ould ireland.' and that was all, your honor, that made me misbehave so; i was just thinking of that, and i could not help it." "begone! you old fool!" exclaimed the master; and dennis disappeared, with a bow, and an alertness that would have done credit to his earlier years. there was a moment's silence after his exit. the lady turned to her husband, and clasping his arm with her hands, and looking into his darkened countenance with a look of tenderest anxiety, said: "dearest oswald, let me, as i have so often done, once more entreat that these dreadful evictions may cease. surely there must be some way to avert them, and to set your property right, without such violent measures." the stern, proud man said, "then, why, in the name of heaven, do you not reveal some other remedy? why do you not enlighten all ireland? why don't you instruct government? the unhappy wretches who have been swept away by force are no people, no tenants of mine. they squatted themselves down, as a swarm of locusts fix themselves while a green blade is left. they obstruct all improvement; they will not till the ground themselves; nor will they quit it to allow me to provide more industrious and provident husbandmen to cultivate it. land that teems with fertility, and is shut out from bearing and bringing forth food for man, is accursed. those who have been evicted, not only rob me; but their more industrious fellows." "they will murder us!" said the wife, "some day for these things. they will--" her words were cut short suddenly by her husband starting, and standing in a listening attitude. "wait a moment," he said, with a peculiar calmness, as if he had just got a fresh thought; and his lady, who did not comprehend what was the cause, but hoped that some better influence was touching him, unloosed her hands from his arm. "wait just a moment," he repeated, and stepped from the room, opened the front door, and without his hat, went out. "he is intending to cool down his anger," thought his wife: "he feels a longing for the freshness of the air." but she had not caught the sound which had startled his quicker, because more excited ear: she had been too much engrossed by her own intercession with him: it was a peculiar whine from the mastiff, which was chained near the lodge-gate, that had arrested his attention. he stepped out. the black clouds which overhung the moor had broken, and the moon's light struggled between them. the tall and haughty man stood erect in the breeze and listened. another moment--there was a shot, and he fell headlong upon the broad steps on which he stood. his wife sprang with a piercing shriek from the door, and fell on his corpse. a crowd of servants gathered about them, making wild lamentations, and breathing vows of vengeance. the murdered master and the wife were borne into the house. the heron soared from its lofty perch, and wheeled with terrified wings through the night air. the servants armed themselves; and, rushing furiously from the house, traversed the surrounding masses of trees. fierce dogs were let loose, and dashed frantically through the thickets. all was, however, too late. the soaring heron saw gray figures, with blackened faces, stealing away--often on their hands and knees--down the hollows of the moorlands toward the village; where the two irish horsemen had, in the first dusk of that evening, tied their lean steeds to the old elder bush. near the mansion no lurking assassin was to be found. meanwhile, two servants, pistol in hand, on a couple of their master's horses, scoured hill, and dale. the heron, sailing solemnly on the wind above, saw them halt in a little town. they thundered with the butt-ends of their pistols on a door in the principal street. over it there was a coffin-shaped board, displaying a painted crown, and the big-lettered words, "police station." the mounted servants shouted with might and main. a night-capped head issued from a chamber casement with--"what is the matter?" "out with you, police! out with all your strength, and lose not a moment; mr. fitzgibbon, of sporeen, is shot at his own door." the casement was hastily clapped to, and the two horsemen galloped forward up the long, broad street; now flooded with the moon's light. heads full of terror were thrust from upper windows to inquire the cause of that rapid galloping; but ever too late. the two men held their course up a steep hill outside of the town, where stood a vast building overlooking the whole place. it was the barracks. here the alarm was also given. in less than an hour, a mounted troop of police in olive-green costume, with pistols at holster, sword by side, and carbine on the arm, were trotting briskly out of town, accompanied by the two messengers; whom they plied with eager questions. these answered, and sundry imprecations vented, the whole party increased their speed, and went on, mile after mile, by hedgerow and open moorland, talking as they went. before they reached the house of sporeen, and near the village where the two irish horsemen had stopped the evening before, they halted, and formed themselves into more orderly array. a narrow gully was before them on the road, hemmed in on each side by rocky steeps, here and there overhung with bushes. the commandant bade them be on their guard, for there might be danger there. he was right; for the moment they began to trot through the pass, the flash and rattle of fire-arms from the thickets above saluted them, followed by a wild yell. in a second, several of their number lay dead or dying in the road. the fire was returned promptly by the police; but it was at random, for although another discharge, and another howl, announced that the enemy were still there, no one could be seen. the head of the police commanded his troop to make a dash through the pass; for there was no scaling the heights from this side; the assailants having warily posted themselves there, because at the foot of an eminence were stretched on either hand impassable bogs. the troop dashed forward, firing their pistols as they went; but were met by such deadly discharges of fire-arms as threw them into confusion, killed and wounded several of their horses, and made them hastily retreat. there was nothing for it, but to await the arrival of the cavalry; and it was not long before the clatter of horses' hoofs and the ringing of sabres were heard on the road. on coming up, the troop of cavalry, firing to the right and left on the hill-sides, dashed forward, and, in the same instant, cleared the gully in safety; the police having kept their side of the pass. in fact, not a single shot was returned; the arrival of this strong force having warned the insurgents to decamp. the cavalry in full charge ascended the hills, to their summits. not a foe was to be seen, except one or two dying men, who were discovered by their groans. the moon had been for a time quenched in a dense mass of clouds, which now were blown aside by a keen and cutting wind. the heron, soaring over the desert, could now see gray-coated men flying in different directions to the shelter of the neighboring hills. the next day he was startled from his dreamy reveries near the moorland stream, by the shouts and galloping of mingled police and soldiers, as they gave chase to a couple of haggard, bare-headed, and panting peasants. these were soon captured, and at once recognized as belonging to the evicted inhabitants of the recently deserted village. since then years have rolled on. the heron, who had been startled from his quiet haunts by these things, was still dwelling on the lofty tree with his kindred, by the hall of sporeen. he had reared family after family in that airy lodgment, as spring after spring came round; but no family, after that fatal time, had ever tenanted the mansion. the widow and children had fled from it so soon as mr. fitzgibbon had been laid in the grave. the nettle and dock flourished over the scorched ruins of the village of rathbeg; dank moss and wild grass tangled the proud drives and walks of sporeen. all the woodland rides and pleasure-grounds lay obstructed with briars; and young trees, in time, grew luxuriantly where once the roller in its rounds could not crush a weed; the nimble frolics of the squirrel were now the only merry things where formerly the feet of lovely children had sprung with elastic joy. the curse of ireland was on the place. landlord and tenant, gentleman and peasant, each with the roots and the shoots of many virtues in their hearts, thrown into a false position by the mutual injuries of ages, had wreaked on each other the miseries sown broadcast by their ancestors. beneath this foul spell men who would, in any other circumstances, have been the happiest and the noblest of mankind, became tyrants; and peasants, who would have glowed with grateful affection toward them, exulted in being their assassins. as the traveler rode past the decaying hall, the gloomy woods, and waste black moorlands of sporeen, he read the riddle of ireland's fate, and asked himself when an oedipus would arise to solve it. scottish revenge. a long time ago, when the powerful clan of the cumyns were lords of half the country round, the chief of that clan slew a neighboring chieftain, with whom he had a feud; for feuds in those days were as easily found as blackberries, and quarrels might be had any day in the year for the _picking_. he that was slain had, at the time of his death, an only child, an infant, of the name of hugh. the widow treasured deep within her heart the hope of vengeance, which the daily sight of her son, recalling, by his features, the memory of her slaughtered husband, kept ever awake. with the first opening of his intellect, he was instructed in the deed that made him fatherless, and taught to look forward to avenging his parent as a holy obligation cast upon him; and so, with his strength and his stature, grew his hatred of the cumyns, and his resolution to take the life of him who had slain his father. he spent his days in the woods practicing archery, till at length he became a most expert bowman. none could send a shaft with so strong an arm, or so true an aim, as hugh shenigan; and the eagle or the red deer was sure to fall beneath his arrow, when the one was soaring too high in the air, or the other fleeing too swiftly on the hill, for ordinary woodcraft. but it was not the eagle or the deer that kept hugh in the forest, and upon the mountains, from the dawn of the morning till the setting of the sun. he was watching for other prey, and at length chance brought what he sought within his reach. one day he climbed up the side of benigloe, and took his station upon a spot that commanded a view of the glen between it and the opposite range of hills. he had ascertained that cumyn would return to blair by the glen that evening; and so it happened, that an hour or so before sun-fall he espied the chieftain, with two of his clan, wending onwards toward the base of the hill. a few minutes more, and they would reach a point within the range of his bow. his practiced eye measured the distance, and his heart throbbed with a fierce, dark emotion, as he put the shaft to the thong, and drew it, with a strong arm, to his ear. with a whiz, the arrow sped from the bow, and cleft the air with the speed of light, while a wild shout burst from the lips of the young archer. his anxiety, it would seem, did not suffer him to wait till his foe had come within range of his arrow, for it sank quivering into the earth at the foot of him for whose heart it was aimed. the shout and the shaft alike warned the cumyns that danger was nigh, and not knowing by what numbers they might be assailed, they plunged into the heather on the hill side, and were quickly lost to the sight. but the young man watched with the keenness of an eagle, and his sense seemed intensified with the terrible desire of vengeance that consumed him. at length, just where the little stream falls from the crown of the hill, the form of a man became visible, standing out from the sky, now bright with the last light of the setting sun. with a strong effort, the young man mastered the emotion of his heart, as the gambler becomes calm, ere he throws the cast upon which he has staked his all. the bow is strained to its utmost, the eye ranges along the shaft from feather to barb, it is shot forth as if winged by the very soul of him who impelled it. one moment of breathless suspense, and in the next the chief of the cumyns falls headlong into the stream, pierced through the bowels by the deadly weapon. postal reform--cheap postage. it is now upward of eleven years since the writer of this commenced advocating "postal reform and cheap postage." at first it found but little favor either from the public or the post-office department. many considered the schemes utopian, and if carried into effect would break down the post-office: but neither ridicule or threats prevented him from prosecuting his object until congress was compelled in to reduce the rates of postage to five and ten cents the half-ounce. the success attending even this partial reduction equaled the expectations of its friends, and silenced the opposition of its enemies. the friends of cheap postage, in new york and other places, renewed their efforts to obtain a further reduction, and petitioned for a uniform rate of two cents prepaid. but such was either the indifference or hostility of a majority of the members that no definite action was taken on the subject for six years, nor was it until the last session that any reduction was made from the rates adopted in . notwithstanding this shameful delay in complying with the wishes of the people, the new law adopted _four_ rates instead of one, leaving the prepayment of postage optional. besides this, the new law imposes on newspapers and printed matter a most unreasonable, burdensome, and complicated tax, which has created universal dissatisfaction. the obnoxious features of the present law imperiously demand the immediate attention of congress. neither the rates of postage on letters, nor the tax on newspapers and printed matter, meet the wishes of the friends of cheap postage. they have uniformly insisted upon simplicity, uniformity, and cheapness. but the present law possesses none of these requisites. on letters the rates in the united states are three and five, six and ten cents, according to distance. ocean postage is enormous and too burdensome to be borne any longer. the rates of postage on newspapers are so complicated that few postmasters can tell what they are, and those on transient newspapers and printed matter generally, are so enormous as to amount to a prohibition. a revision of this law is rendered indispensable. other reforms are required, some of which i shall here notice. . letter postage should be reduced to a uniform rate of _two cents prepaid_. this rate has been successfully adopted in great britain. it has increased the letters and the income of the post-office. it is the revenue point, sufficiently low, to encourage the people to write, and to send all their letters through the post-office; and yet high enough to afford ample revenue to pay the expenses of the department. if this rate is adopted, it will defy all competition, for none will attempt to carry letters cheaper than the post-office. . _ocean postage_ is enormous and burdensome, especially upon that class of persons which is least able to bear it. it has been computed by those who are competent to judge, that about three-quarters of the ship letters are written by emigrants, and are letters of friendship and affection. the greater portion of them are from persons in poor circumstances, and to tax them with _twenty-four_ or _twenty-nine_ cents for a single letter is cruel. to send a letter and receive an answer, will cost a servant girl half a week's wages, and a poor man in the country will have to work a day to earn the value of the postage of a letter to and from his friends in europe. were the postage reduced to a low rate, _ten_ letters would be written where one now is, and the revenue, in a short period, would be equal if not greater than under the present high rates. during the last twelve months, the amount received for transatlantic postages was not less than _a million of dollars_, and three-fourths of this sum has been paid by the laboring classes on letters relating to their domestic relations and friendship. . next to the reduction of inland and ocean postage is the _free delivery_ of mail letters in all the large towns and cities. an improvement has been attempted by the postmaster-general in respect of letters to be sent by the mails. they are now conveyed to the post-office free of any charge; and the next step necessary is to cause them to be delivered without any addition to the postage. a letter is carried by the mails _three thousand miles_ for three cents, but if it is sent three hundred yards from the post-office, it is charged _two cents_! this is not only an unreasonable tax, but is attended with much inconvenience both to the carrier and receiver of the letter, in the trouble of making the change, and the delay attending the delivery of letters. if the prepayment of the postage covered the whole expense, a carrier could deliver ten letters where he now delivers _one_, and fewer persons would be able to deliver them. two cents cover the whole expense of postage and delivery of letters in london, and there is no reason why they can not be delivered in new york and other cities as cheaply as they are in the capital of great britain. the expense to the post-office would be comparatively small, as the income from city letters would be nearly equal to what would be paid if an efficient city delivery was adopted. if the free delivery should be adopted, it would be a great relief to the people, and this like every other facility afforded by the post-office, would tend to increase the number of letters sent by the mails. . the _franking privilege_ should be wholly abolished. this has been so much abused, that the people have loudly complained of it, and almost every postmaster-general for the last ten years has recommended its abolition. instead, however, of diminishing or repealing it, it has been increased, so that two sets of members can now exercise it, and the cart-loads of franked matter sent from washington show that it is a dead weight upon the department. at the last session, one member had twenty-eight large canvas bags of franked matter, weighing not less than _five thousand pounds_! to say nothing of the vast expense of printing and binding millions of documents and speeches which are never read, the burden, and labor, and cost to the post-office are incalculable. when newspapers were few in number, there might have been a necessity to send out speeches and documents, but as newspapers are published in all parts of the union, every important report and speech is published and read long before it can be printed and sent from washington. let the members of congress be furnished with a sufficient number of stamps to cover their postage, and these be paid for as the other expenses of congress. the frank was wholly abolished in great britain, when the cheap system was adopted, so that queen victoria herself can not now frank a letter! . but the grievance, which is now felt and most complained of by the people, is the complicated and burdensome tax on newspapers and other printed matter. it has heretofore been the good policy of congress to favor the circulation of newspapers throughout the country, and accordingly one and a half cents was the highest rate charged to regular subscribers for any distance, and two cents, prepaid, for transient papers. these rates were plain and easy to be understood, and few were disposed to complain of them, although they were much higher than they should be. the new bill has some _sixty_ or _seventy_ different rates, and so complicated, depending upon _weight_ and _distance_, that not one postmaster in twenty can tell what postage should be charged upon newspapers. again the rates are enormous. for example, a newspaper in california, weighing one ounce or under, is charged _five cents_ prepaid, and if not prepaid _ten cents_, and the same for every additional ounce; hence the courier and enquirer or journal of commerce, weighing two and one quarter ounces, is charged to san francisco _fifteen cents_ prepaid, and if not prepaid _thirty cents_! what is the effect of this law? it prohibits the circulation of newspapers through the post-office entirely, and all that are now sent go by private expresses. if i understand the subject correctly, it was the object of those who proposed the "substitute" to the bill which passed the house of representatives, to _exclude_ from the mails _newspapers_ and _printed_ matter. _is this right?_ . another reform which should be made by congress, is the payment of postage entirely by _stamps_. if no money was received at the post-office except for stamps, and the postage on every thing passing through the office prepaid, the saving of labor would be immense, both to the general post-office and local offices. but this is not the only advantage. the amount lost, by the destruction of post bills, is incalculable. hundreds of thousands of dollars are unaccounted for and lost every year by the department, by the present loose, inefficient system of accounting for the postages received on letters and newspapers. while this system continues there is not, and can not be any _check_ on the postmasters. let the payment of postage be made by stamps, and it would be an effectual check upon every post-office, and the department would receive the money for every stamp sold, whether it was used by the purchaser or not. this is a subject worthy of the serious consideration of congress and the post-office department. . there is one more improvement which i would recommend before closing this already long article, and that is the establishment of a _money-order office_. this would not only be a great convenience to the people, especially to the poorer class, but it would also prove a source of revenue to the post-office. during the last year, there were sent through the money-order office in great britain upward of _forty millions_ of dollars! when it is recollected that each order is limited to _twenty-five dollars_, the number of letters carrying these orders must be very large, adding to the receipts of the post-office. the same results would follow a similar establishment in the united states. there being no guarantee for the safe delivery of money, transmitted by the mails, such letters are now sent by private expresses, for which they receive a remunerating compensation. i have briefly suggested some of the reforms which i deem necessary for the improvement of the post-office. it was said last winter by some of our senators in congress, in their places, that "ours is the worst managed post-office in the world." i can not agree with them in this assertion. but i regret to say that it is not the _best_ managed, nor so good as it should and _must_ be. the great drawback to its improvement, and, i may add, the curse that rests upon it, is its being made a _political_ machine. it was a great and fatal mistake to make the postmaster-general a member of the cabinet. the great personal worth of mr. mclean induced president monroe to take him into his cabinet, and the practice has been continued ever since. the consequence is, that the postmaster-general is changed under every new administration. in less than two years we had _three_, and two assistants. how can it be expected that men, whatever may be their talents, can make themselves acquainted with the business of the office in the short space of three or four years? before they are warm in their seats they are removed. besides, after a new administration comes in, it takes six or twelve months to turn out political opponents and appoint their friends. if, instead of this, when intelligent and efficient men are in office (no matter what their political affinities may be), they were continued, it would be an inducement to make improvements, and an encouragement to fidelity; but now there is no security to any man that he will be continued one hour, nor any encouragement to excel in the faithful discharge of his duty. these things ought not so to be. there is another practice which greatly retards the improvement of our post-office, and that is the manner in which the post-office committees are appointed in congress. at every session of congress new committees are appointed by the senate and house, a majority of which is composed of the dominant political party, without much regard to their qualifications. for a number of years there has been scarcely a single member selected from any of our large cities, where the principal portion of the revenue is collected, consequently, they are persons who have little or no knowledge of post-office business, or the wants of the people. their principal business is to obtain new post-routes, but any improvement of postal concerns is little thought of. hence the post-office department may be considered a vast political machine, wielded for the benefit of the party in power; and there is not an appointment made, from the postmaster-general down to the postmaster of the smallest office, without a special regard to the politics of the person appointed. the only correction of this evil, under the present system, is to give the appointment of all the postmasters to the people. they are the best qualified to judge of the character and qualifications of the person who will serve them in the most acceptable manner; and the postmasters, knowing that they are dependent upon the people for their offices, will be more obliging and attentive in the discharge of their duties. this will diminish the patronage of the president and the postmaster-general, which i have not a doubt they would gladly part with, as there is nothing more troublesome and perplexing to a conscientious man, than the exercise of this power. in the old world, where monarchy exists, the press is called the "fourth estate;" but with us, where "_vox populi_, _vox dei_," the press and the ballot-box may be considered the sovereign. the press utters the wish of the people, and the ballot-box confirms that wish. hence, if the press speaks out clearly and strongly in favor of postal reform, the people will sanction it by their votes in selecting men to represent their wishes in the councils of the nation. our post-office, instead of being denounced the "worst," should be made the _best_ managed in the world. we have no old prejudices or established customs to abolish, no pensioners or sinecures to support, no jealousy on the part of the government against the diffusion of knowledge through the mails; but we have an intelligent, active, liberal gentleman at the head of the post-office department, who desires to meet the wants and wishes of the people. therefore we have reason to hope that in due time our post-office will be established on such a footing as to secure the patronage and support of the people, defying all competition, and superior to any similar establishment in the world. b.b. syrian superstitions. there are some superstitious observances, which are strictly adhered to by the peasants employed in rearing the silk-worm. thus, when the eggs are first hatched, the peasant's wife rises up very early in the morning, and creeping stealthily to the master's house, flings a piece of wet clay against the door. if the clay adheres, it is a sign that there will be a good mousoum or silk harvest: if it do not stick, then the contrary may be expected. during the whole time the worms are being reared, no one but the peasants themselves are permitted to enter the khook or hut; and, when the worms give notice that they are about to mount and form their cocoons, then the door is locked, and the key handed to the proprietor of the plantation. after a sufficient time has elapsed, and the cocoons are supposed to be well and strongly formed, the proprietor, followed by the peasants, marches in a kind of procession up to the huts, and, first dispensing a few presents among them, and hoping for good, to which they all reply, "inshalla! inshalla!--please god! please god," the key is turned, the doors thrown wide open, and the cocoons are detached from the battours of cane mats, and prepared for reeling the next day. monthly record of current events. united states the past month has not been one of special interest, either at home or abroad. none of the great legislative bodies of the country have been in session, and political action has been confined to one or two of the southern states. the annual agricultural fair of the state of new york was held at rochester on the three days following the th of september, and was attended by a larger number of persons, and with greater interest than usual. hon. stephen a. douglas, united states senator from illinois, delivered the address, which was a clear and interesting sketch of the progress and condition of agriculture in the united states. the number of persons in attendance at the fair is estimated to have exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand. the state agricultural society of new york is gaining strength every year. a very interesting railroad jubilee was held in boston on the th of september, to celebrate the completion of railroad communication between boston and ogdensburg, thus connecting the new england capital with the western lakes by two distinct routes. president fillmore and several members of his cabinet were present, as were also lord elgin and several other distinguished gentlemen from canada. an immense multitude of people was in attendance to celebrate this triumph of business, energy, and enterprise. brief public congratulations were exchanged between the municipal officers of boston and their guests, and a grand aquatic excursion down the bay took place on the th. the celebration lasted three days, and was closed by a grand civic feast under a pavilion on the common. no event of the past month has excited more general interest, than the return of the two vessels sent to the arctic ocean a year and a half ago, by mr. henry grinnell of new york, to aid in the search for sir john franklin. the _advance_ reached new york on the st of october; the _rescue_ was a few days later. although unsuccessful in the main object of their search, the gallant officers and men by whom these vessels were manned, have enjoyed their cruise, and returned without the loss of a single life and in excellent health. they entered wellington sound on the th of august, , and were at once joined by capt penny, who commanded the vessel sent out by lady franklin. on the th, three graves were discovered, known by inscriptions upon them to be those of three of sir john franklin's crew. the presence of sir john at that spot was thus established at as late a date as in april, . on the th of september, the vessels forced their way through the ice, and on the th, reached griffith's island, which proved to be the ultimate limit of their western progress. on the th, they started to return, but were frozen in near the mouth of wellington channel, and for nine months they continued thus, unable to move, threatened with destruction by the crushing of the ice around them, and borne along by the southeast drift until, on the th of june, they emerged into open sea, and found themselves in latitude ° ', and one thousand and sixty miles from the spot at which they became fixed in the ice. the history of arctic navigation records no drift at all to be compared with this, either for extent or duration. the intervening season was full of peril. the ice crushing the sides of the vessels, forced them several feet out of water. the thermometer fell to degrees below zero. the _rescue_ was abandoned, for the sake of saving fuel, and on two occasions, the crews had left their vessels, expecting to see them crushed to atoms between the gigantic masses of ice that threatened them on either side, and with their knapsacks on their backs had prepared to strike off across the ice for land, which was nearly a hundred miles off. the scurvy made its appearance, and was very severe in its ravages, especially among the officers. after refitting his vessels on the coast of greenland, captain de haven, who had the command of the expedition, started again for the north. after passing baffin's bay on the th of august, he became again hopelessly entangled in the vast masses of ice that were floating around, and was compelled to start for the united states. the expedition is likely to contribute essentially to our knowledge of the natural history of that remote region of the earth, as dr. kane, an intelligent naturalist, who went in the vessels as surgeon, has very complete memoranda of every thing of interest especially in this department. although unable to find any distinct traces of him later than , the officers of the expedition think it far from impossible that sir john franklin may be still alive, hemmed in by ice at a point which they were unable to reach. they agree in the opinion that a steamer of some kind should accompany any other expedition that may be sent. a state election took place in georgia, on the th of october, which has a general interest on account of the issues which it involved. the old political distinctions were entirely superseded, both candidates for governor having belonged to the democratic party--one of them, however, hon. howell cobb, late speaker of the u.s. house of representatives, being in favor of abiding by the compromise measures of , and his opponent mr. mcdonald being opposed to them, and in favor of secession from the union. up to the time of closing this record, full returns have not been received; but it is quite certain that mr. cobb, the union candidate, has been elected by a very large majority. full returns of the congressional canvass, which was held at the same time, have not yet reached us; but it is believed that six union, and two state rights members have been elected. the legislature of vermont met at montpelier on the th of october. the house was organized by the election of mr. powers, speaker, and mr. c. t. davey, clerk. the message of gov. williams treats of national topics at considerable length. he insists that the laws must be obeyed, and vindicates the _habeas corpus_ act passed by vermont at the last session of its legislature from many of the censures that have been cast upon it. the month has been distinguished by an unusual number of steamboat explosions, railroad casualties, crimes and accidents of various sorts. the steamer _brilliant_, on her way up the mississippi from new orleans, on the th of september, while near bayou sara, burst her boiler, killing fifteen or twenty persons, wounding as many more, and making a complete wreck of the vessel. a brig on lake erie, having left buffalo for chicago, sprung a leak on the th of september, and sunk within an hour. about twenty persons were drowned, only one of those on board escaping. all but he got into the longboat, which capsized; he fastened himself to the foremast of the brig, which left him, as the vessel touched bottom, about four feet out of water. he remained there two days when he was rescued by a passing steamer. a very severe storm swept over the northeast coast of british america on the th of october, doing immense injury to the fishing vessels, nearly a hundred of them being driven ashore. about three hundred persons are supposed to have perished in the wrecks, and great numbers of dead bodies had been drifted ashore. the steamer _james jackson_, while near shawneetown, in illinois, on the st of september, burst her boiler, killing and wounding thirty-five persons, and tearing the boat to pieces. the scene on board at the time of the explosion is described as having been heart-rending. a duel was fought at vienna, s.c. on the th of september, in which mr. smyth, one of the editors of the augusta constitutionalist, was wounded by a ball through the thigh from the pistol of his antagonist, dr. thomas of augusta. the meeting grew out of a newspaper controversy, smyth taking offense at an article in the chronicle of which thomas avowed himself the author.--another duel, with a still more serious result took place in brownsville, texas, on the th. the parties were mr. w.h. harrison and mr. w.g. clarke, who met in the street with five-barreled pistols. clarke fell at the second fire, receiving his antagonist's ball near the heart.--mr. w. laughlin, an alderman in the city of new orleans, and a very respectable and influential citizen, was killed by william silk, another alderman, on the th of september: the affray grew out of political differences. the great railroad conspiracy trials at detroit terminated on the th of september, by a verdict of guilty against twelve of the prisoners and acquitting the rest. two of them were sentenced to the state prison for ten years, six for eight years, and four for five years. father mathew has returned from his visit to the western states, and has been spending a few weeks in new york. some of the most influential gentlemen of new york city have appealed to the public for contributions to form a fund of twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars for his aid: it is seconded by a very strong letter from mr. clay. father mathew is soon to leave the united states for ireland. a number of the literary gentlemen of new york have taken steps to render some fitting tribute to the memory of the late james fenimore cooper. a preliminary meeting was held at the city hall, at which washington irving presided, and a committee was appointed to consider what measures will be most appropriate. the delivery of a eulogium and the erection of a statue are suggested as likely to be fixed upon. at a meeting of the new york historical society, held on the th of october, resolutions upon the subject were adopted. the episcopal convention of the new york diocese was held on the th of september, and the rev. dr. creighton, of tarrytown, was elected, after a protracted canvass, provisional bishop. he is a native of new york, graduated at columbia college in , and has officiated at grace church and st mark's church, in new york. from california our intelligence is to the th of september. san francisco and sacramento have been the scenes of great excitement. the self-appointed vigilance committee, which was organized to supervise, and, if it should be deemed necessary, to supersede the criminal courts, has given terrible proofs of its energy. two men named whittaker and mckenzie were in prison at san francisco awaiting their trial. fearing that justice might not be done them, the vigilance committee broke in the prison doors, took the men out during divine service on sunday, and hung them both in front of the building. an immense crowd of people was present, approving and encouraging the proceedings. the regular authorities made very slight resistance to the mob. at sacramento three men had been convicted of highway robbery and sentenced to be hung. one of them, named robinson, was respited by the governor, for a month. the day for executing the sentence of the law upon the other two arrived. a large concourse of people was present. the sheriff ordered the two men, gibson and thompson, to the place of execution, and directed robinson to be taken to a prison-ship in which he could be secured. the crowd, however, refused to allow this, but retained him in custody. the two men were then executed by the sheriff, who immediately left the ground. robinson was then brought forward and, after proper religious exercises, was hung. these occurrences created a good deal of excitement in california at the time, but it soon subsided. it seems to have been universally conceded that the men deserved their fate, and that only justice had been attained, although by irregular means. the news from the mines continues to be encouraging. the companies were all doing well, and extensive operations were in progress to work the gold-bearing quartz. the steamer _lafayette_ was burned on the th, at chagres. marysville, in california, was visited on the night of august th, by a very destructive fire. the steamer _fawn_ burst her boiler near sacramento on the th of august; five or six persons were killed. from new mexico we have news to the end of september. colonel sumner's expedition against the navajo indians had reached cyrality, in the very heart of the indian country, and intended to erect a fort there. the indians were swarming on his rear, threatening hostilities. news had reached santa fé that five of colonel sumner's men had perished for want of water, before reaching laguna. the troops were scattered along the road for forty miles, and horses were daily giving out. colonel sumner will establish a post at st. juan, one in the navajo country, and one at don ana. quite an excitement had been raised at santa fé by the demand of the catholic bishop for the church edifice commonly known as the military church. under the mexican government it was used exclusively as the chapel of the army. since the conquest it had been used by the united states army as an ordnance house. after the departure of the troops, chief justice baker obtained from col. brooks permission to occupy the house as a court room. the catholic clergy considered this as a desecration of the house, and consequently objected to its being thus appropriated. the commotion was quelled by the governor's surrendering the key to the bishop, formally putting the possession of the building into the hands of the church.--major weightman is certain to be elected delegate to congress.--much misunderstanding exists between the judges in construing the laws in regard to holding the courts, and some fear a good deal of delay in administering justice in consequence, as the lawyers are refusing to bring suits until there shall be unanimity among the judges.--the difficulty between mr. bartlett and colonel graham, of the boundary commission, is still unsettled. the former was progressing with the survey. rain had fallen to some extent throughout new mexico, and vegetation was consequently beginning to revive. mexico. late advices from the city of mexico state that the cabinet resigned in a body on the d of september, and much disaffection prevailed throughout the country, which was in the most deplorable and abject condition. the convention of the governors of the different states, called for the purpose of devising some means for the relief of the difficulties under which the people are now laboring, had met, and, without taking any decisive action on the subject, adjourned, causing great dissatisfaction. don fernando ramnez has accepted the appointment of minister of foreign affairs, and is charged with the formation of a new cabinet. the tehuantepec question engages public attention to a very great degree. the press represent that if the americans are allowed to construct a railroad across the isthmus, the adjoining country will be colonized, revolutionized, and annexed to the united states, and that another large and valuable department will thus be lost to mexico. it is stated that the government has sent men to defend the isthmus against the americans, but this we are inclined to doubt. a revolution has broken out in northern mexico which, thus far, has proved entirely successful. it commenced at camargo, where the patriots attacked the mexicans. the patriots came off victorious, having taken the town by storm, with a loss on the side of the mexicans of . the government troops were intrenched in a church, with artillery. the people of the town had held a meeting, at which it was resolved to accept the pronunciamiento issued by the revolutionists. the mexican troops stationed there were allowed to march out of the town with the honors of war. the revolutionists were determined to defend the place. the revolutionists are commanded by carabajal, who has also with him two companies of texans. at the last accounts they were marching on matamoras and reynosa. gen. avalos, who is at matamoras, has only troops. he had made a requisition on the city for , but the city refused to raise a single man. the plan of the revolutionists was a pronunciamiento which was widely circulated. the pronunciamiento pronounces "death to tyrants." the reasons given for the revolt are: st. the utter failure of the mexican government to protect the northern mexican states from indian depredations. d. the unjust, unequal, prohibitory system of duties, which operates most destructively on the interests of the people of the frontier. d. the despotic power exerted by the federal government over the rights and representation of several states. beside camargo, mier, tampico, and several other towns were in the hands of the insurgents. a report having reached matamoras that the invaders were preparing to march upon them, a large number of the inhabitants, including all the woman and children, fled, leaving only two hundred and fifty men in the town. central america. this country continues to be in a very disturbed condition. the revolution started by munoz is still in progress, the leader being, at the latest dates, about to march upon granada with the intention of taking that city by force if it would not yield. the government, however, had impressed into its service all the seamen in port, and many of those in the service of the canal company. a military disturbance had occurred at san juan. a company of native soldiers was sent by the local authorities with orders to take as their prisoner a certain american, of the name of m'lean, suspected of being a political spy. the soldiers surrounded the shanty where m'lean and a dozen other americans on their return from california, had halted, and fired into it, killing a negro and severely wounding a white man. the americans returned the fire, killing one man and dispersing the whole company. next day the affair was compromised by an agreement that m'lean should leave the country, which he did. an insurrection has broken out in the states of san salvador and guatemala. general carrera with men had attacked the enemy in san salvador and defeated them, but he did not follow up his advantage. mr. chatfield, the english consul in nicaragua, has become involved in another difficulty with the authorities. his _exequatur_ has been revoked, on account of his refusal to recognize the central government. south america. we have news from buenos ayres to the th of august. the war raging in that country is becoming more and more important, and a brief sketch of its origin and character may be useful in aiding our readers to understand the course of events. the contest is properly between brazil and buenos ayres, and the prize for which the two forces are contending is the province of uruguay. until uruguay was a province of buenos ayres; but pedro i. of brazil, by the lavish use of bribes and other agencies, equally potent and equally corrupt, succeeded in revolutionizing the country and attaching it to brazil. in uruguay declared itself free, and in it was recognized as a free government by the plata confederation, in which recognition brazil was obliged to concur. upon the abdication of pedro, which occurred soon after, brazil was governed by a regency of which louis philippe obtained complete control. france, spain, and portugal formed a design of re-annexing uruguay to brazil, and they found facile allies in this purpose in the brazilian court, which sought to extend the boundaries of the empire to the coasts of the river plata and the uruguay, and to occupy the vast and fertile territory which they include. from that time to this, with occasional intermissions, the war has been going on. rosas, dictator of buenos ayres, struggles with the strength of desperation for the recovery of uruguay, and he is aided by oribe, the president of uruguay, who resists to the utmost the designs of brazil, and prefers annexation to buenos ayres. against them are the brazilian troops, aided by urquiza, formerly a general under rosas, but subsequently a traitor to him and his country. on the th of july urquiza and garzon crossed the uruguay with a large force, which was constantly increased by desertions from the army of oribe: they were to be joined by a brazilian army of , men, and the war was to be carried into the heart of buenos ayres. on the th, oribe issued a proclamation against urquiza, and on the th marched with a large force to meet him. at our latest advices the troops on both sides were preparing for a grand battle, which must be, to a considerable extent, decisive of the question at issue. it is very difficult to acquire accurate and reliable information from the papers which reach us, as they are without exception partisan prints, and far more solicitous to magnify the deeds and strength of their respective parties, than to tell the truth. by the time our next number is issued we shall probably receive decisive intelligence. from valparaiso our dates are to the st of september. of the loan of three hundred thousand dollars asked for by the chilian government, only seventy thousand had been raised. two or three shocks of an earthquake had been felt at conception, but very little injury was sustained. the coinage at the national mint during the first half of this year, up to july th, had amounted to two million dollars and upward, in , gold doubloons. the custom house receipts for the year ending th june, , exceed those of the previous year $ , . . reciprocity has been established with austria, belgium, brazil, bremen, sardinia, denmark, united states, france, great britain, hamburg, oldenburg, prussia, and the sandwich islands. it is reported that peru has entered into a close alliance with brazil against rosas. reciprocity has been established in chilian ports for swedish and norwegian vessels. the rails are laid on the copiaco railroad, a distance of miles. on the th of july, the first locomotive engine ran through from caldera to the valley, and has since been transporting timber and iron for the extension of the track. great britain. we have intelligence from england to the th of september, but there is very little worthy a place in our record. the queen and court were still in scotland, at balmoral, and of course the public eye was turned thither for all news of interest. parliament was not in session, but several of the members had met their constituents at county gatherings. lord palmerston delivered an elaborate speech at tiverton, on the th, which gave material for a good deal of comment. it was a general review of the condition of the kingdom, with a vindicatory sketch of the policy pursued by the government. he dwelt eloquently on the admirable manner in which the great exhibition had been conducted, and the excellent effect it would have upon the various nations whose representatives it had brought together. the catholic question, the corn-laws, and the slave-trade were treated briefly and cogently. the speech was very able, and very well received. sir edward bulwer lytton, after holding himself aloof from politics for several years, has again come forward and avowed his willingness to represent the county of hertford in parliament. he professes a firm belief in protection principles, and expresses the belief that the present free-trade system is ruining the country. mr. disraeli addressed the citizens of buckinghamshire on the th, the occasion being an agricultural dinner. he represented the effect of free-trade upon the leading interests of england as having been exceedingly disastrous, but avowed his conviction that the protective system could not be restored, and urged the importance of reforms in the financial administration of the country. he referred frequently to the history of his own course in parliament, and indicated a suspicion that the new reform bill of the ministry would prove to aim rather at curtailing the influence of the agricultural class, than to effect any desirable change. mr. hume met an assembly of his constituents on the th, at montrose, and addressed them on the necessity of a more economical administration of public affairs, if england desired to compete with the united states. the people ought to insist, he said, upon such a new reform bill as should give every householder a vote in the national representation. this would increase the number of voters from nine hundred thousand to between three and four millions. the vessels sent out by the english government in search of sir john franklin, have returned, without any further discoveries than those already recorded. the officers assert their belief that sir john is still alive and shut up by ice, at a point beyond any which the expedition was able to reach. they have applied to the government for a steam propeller, with which, they are confident, they can reach the region where he is supposed to be confined. no answer to this application has yet been made. the crystal palace continued to be crowded with visitors. the approaching close of the exhibition had caused an increase in the number in attendance. the close is fixed for the middle of october, and notwithstanding the strenuous efforts made for its preservation, the building will probably be taken down soon after. hon. abbott lawrence, the american minister, has been making a tour through ireland. he was received every where with great enthusiasm. public receptions awaited him at galway and limerick, and at both these cities he made brief addresses, expressing the interest taken by himself and his countrymen in the affairs of ireland. the project of a line of steamers between galway and the atlantic coast was pressed upon his attention. emigration from ireland continues rapidly to increase, and many towns have been almost depopulated. every body who can get away seems inclined to leave. the census returns show that the population of ireland has diminished very considerably within the last ten years. the potato crop promises to be generally good, though the disease has made its appearance in several localities. in all other crops the returns will be above the average. an experiment has been made in england with a steam plow, which proved highly successful. another attempt has been made, with a good degree of success, to establish telegraphic communication across the straits of dover. a large cable has been prepared and sunk in the channel from one shore to the other, and so far as could be perceived, it promised to answer the purpose. this will bring london into immediate connection with every part of the continent. france. the government is pushing to the extreme its measures of severity against the press. upon the merest rumor about two hundred foreigners were suddenly arrested by the authorities, on charge of conspiracy, though investigation proved the charge to be utterly groundless, and led to the immediate discharge of most of them. the _constitutionnel_ lavished the most extravagant eulogiums upon the government for its action in this case. one of the sons of victor hugo in a newspaper article ventured to protest against these eulogiums, for which he was condemned to an imprisonment of nine months, and a fine of francs; and m. meurice, the proprietor of the _evenement_, the paper in which the article appeared, to imprisonment for nine months, and a fine of francs. the _presse_ was condemned in a similar penalty for a like offense, and several papers in the country districts have been visited with the utmost severity for reflecting upon the government. meantime the official journals are allowed to indulge in the most direct and emphatic denunciations of the republic. the whole tendency of the government is toward an unbridled despotism. arrests are made on the slightest suspicion. police agents are quartered in cafés. houses are entered and papers searched, in a style befitting the worst despotism in the world rather than a nominal republic. there have been various rumors of conspiracies and intended insurrection, but they seem to have been groundless. the president laid the foundation stone of the great central market hall, which the city is erecting at a cost of over five million dollars, near st. eustache. the ceremony was witnessed by an immense concourse. the president in his speech took occasion to express the hope that he might be able to "lay upon the soil of france some foundations whereupon will be erected a social edifice, sufficiently solid to afford a shelter against the violence and mobility of human passions." eastern and southern europe. an important commercial treaty has been concluded in germany. hanover has joined the prussian zollverein, having heretofore been the head of a separate association, called the steuerverein, which has been by this movement dissolved. the custom-duties of the zollverein have been levied on a protective scale; by this new arrangement, the rates will be lowered. the conclusion of this treaty has created a marked sensation in vienna, as the journals there were loudly predicting the dissolution of the zollverein. the emperor of austria has written to prince schwartzenberg, urging the necessity of increased economy in public affairs. the king of prussia is about to abolish the landwehr, and have none but regular troops in his service. the austrian government has exercised its severity upon the humorist, saphir, who edited a small paper in vienna. he has been sentenced to three months' imprisonment and the suppression of his journal for a similar period, for having printed a humorous article on the recent ordinances, which the court-martial declared to be an attempt to excite popular ill-feeling toward the government. he is over sixty years old, and quite infirm from disease. the authorities, as if to make their acts as ridiculous as possible, lately punished a printer and a hatter, the former for wearing, and the latter for making a klapka hat. the whole system of government is oppressive and tyrannical in the extreme. a writer from vienna to the london _daily news_, says that it hampers, impedes, nay, crushes, every kind of superior talent not of a military cast. lawyers of all kinds are suspected of treason, even those whom the government itself employs; they are watched; their practice is taken away from them; they are not permitted to plead before the courts-martial sitting every where; the universities are all placed under martial law, that of vienna is entirely suppressed; the professors and teachers of all kinds are left to their own resources; literature is closed to them; no one writes books, for a publisher will not publish any thing but of the lightest character; newspapers can not employ men of talent; in fine, nothing but soldiering or police spying seems left to the majority of the educated classes. the austrian government have found it necessary to resort to a loan, of some ten or twelve millions of dollars, of which, at the latest advices, over half had been taken, mainly on the continent. the neapolitan government has published an official reply to the charges against it contained in the letters of mr. gladstone. these charges were of the most serious character, implicating the government in acts of cruelty, which would have disgraced the barbarous tribes of africa. mr. gladstone solemnly arraigned the government, before the public opinion of the civilized world, as being an "incessant, systematic, deliberate violation of law," with the direct object of destroying whole classes of citizens, and those the very classes upon which the health, solidity, and progress of the nation depend. a series of special instances was given to sustain these charges. the reply consists in a denial of the charges, and in specific refutation of many of the facts alleged. it is a carefully prepared paper, and has done something to moderate the very harsh judgment which mr. gladstone's letters induced almost every one to form. a letter from rome, published in the paris _debats_ states that another attempt to murder by means of an explosive contrivance, had occurred there within the last few days. a tube, filled with gunpowder and bits of iron, had been placed in a passage leading to the laboratory of a chemist, at whose shop several persons, well-known for their attachment to the pontifical government, usually meet in the early part of the evening. fortunately the match fell out of the tube, after having been lighted, and the explosion did not take place. the police had not discovered the culprit. the same letter mentions a new difficulty that has lately arisen between the french and papal authorities at civita vecchia. the new french packets of the messageries having superseded the old _bateaux-postes_, it appears that the captain of one of the former, claimed for his ship the privileges of a vessel of war, a claim which the sanitary authorities of civita vecchia would not admit; whereupon colonel de la mare, commandant of the garrison of civita vecchia, had two or three of the _employés_ of the board of health arrested. it was believed, however, that the question will be amicably settled. in spain public attention has been almost entirely absorbed in the cuban question. the spanish papers were very violent against the united states, and clamored loudly for war, though the necessity of european aid in such a contest is very sensibly felt. it is announced with every appearance of truth, that england and france have entered into engagements with spain for the purpose of preventing future attempts upon cuba from the united states. to what extent this guarantee goes we have no precise information; but it is stated in the paris journals that a french steamer has been dispatched to the united states for the express purpose of making representations to our government upon the subject. spain has sent reinforcements to her army in cuba and is taking active steps to increase her naval strength for an anticipated collision with the united states. the usual party struggles agitate the spanish capital. it is said that the government contemplate decided reforms in the tariff regulations of the country, maintaining the protective duties wherever spanish manufactures can be aided thereby, and encouraging competition in all those branches which have been stationary hitherto. turkey. intelligence has been received of the departure of kossuth and his hungarian companions from constantinople, in the steamer mississippi, for the united states. they arrived at smyrna on the th of september, and are daily expected at new york as we close this record of the month. it is understood that austria employed her utmost resources of diplomacy to prevent the release of kossuth, but they were ineffectual. she will probably now seek to punish turkey for disregarding her wishes, by sending the chiefs of the bosnian rebellion again into bosnia, to rekindle the flame. she concentrates her troops on the frontiers of bosnia, servia, and wallachia. she attempts to gain the leading men in servia, and she encourages and patronizes the former princes of servia, who are still pretenders. thus it is tried to kindle a new revolution in that country. russia apparently keeps aloof on the question of the liberation of kossuth, ready to profit by the opportunity to present herself either as protecting the porte, should the revolution succeed, or as mediator, should the difficulties with austria lead to the brink of a rupture. omer pasha, the sultan's great general, remains in bosnia, as long as the difficulties with austria are not settled. in consequence of the austrian movements he had concentrated , men in this province. the servian government has given orders for the armament of the militia, at the same time an explanation has been required from austria as to the concentration of her troops on the frontier. the political condition and prospects of turkey, notwithstanding the representations of her papers, are represented as very far from promising. a correspondent of the london morning chronicle depicts her position in gloomy colors. she is tormented, he says, on every side. on the one hand, france imperiously demands the holy sepulchre; on the other, russia as imperiously forbids her giving it up. if she gives in to france, the whole christian population will rise to a man against her. the pasha of egypt and the bey of tunis both refuse to obey her, and of all the troops with their fine uniforms and arms which parade at constantinople, not one dare go against these audacious subjects. the provinces of the empire are a prey to brigandage on a scale which makes even all that is said of greek brigandage appear as nothing. in the mean time the treasury is empty, nor can all the expedients resorted to succeed in filling it. the national feeling, always against the system of reform, which was quite superficial, has broken out openly, and the people, supported by the clergy, are ready to rise on all sides. even in the capital this state of feeling is very prevalent, and shows itself by the usual barbarous expedient of incendiary fires. there have been several very severe ones, even within the last few days. one time three hundred of the largest houses in constantinople were reduced to ashes; next fifteen hundred houses in scutari fell, including all the markets, magazines, mills, and probably the whole town would have followed, had it not been for a violent fall of rain, which quelled the fire. it is, above all, the position of the christians, which is deplorable and precarious. the scenes of aleppo last year are now acting in magnesia, and threaten to break out again at aleppo, where the government wants to force the inhabitants to pay an indemnity to the christians, which they insolently refuse. the government, in trying to maintain her system of progress, is but showing her weakness. she is obliged to keep an army of observation constantly on foot in bosnia, where the revolt is not by any means entirely quelled, and which is covered with bands of brigands ready to unite and become an insurgent army. bagdad is in a state of siege by the arabs, who fly as soon as pursued, but quickly return, devastating the country wherever they appear. persia. important news has been received from teheran, announcing a serious coolness between russia and persia, and the possibility of a rupture between these governments. several months ago some turcomans are alleged to have set fire to russian vessels in the caspian, near astrabad, and massacred the crews. orders were consequently sent from st. petersburg to the russian embassador at teheran to demand the immediate dismissal of the governor of mazanderan, or to haul down his flag. the dismissal has been finally granted, but only after difficulties which have brought about the coolness above mentioned. the same mail from persia brings intelligence that the governor of herat, yar-mehemed khan, having died, the shah immediately sent troops to occupy that city, notwithstanding the opposition of the english minister. india and the east. news from calcutta has been received to the st of september. we mentioned last month the probable seizure by the english government, of part of the provinces of the nizam as security for a debt. we now learn that he has rescued his territory from seizure by paying part of the money due, and giving, security for the remainder. he had pledged part of the hyderabad jewels. a conspiracy to effect the escape of moolraj had been discovered in calcutta. it was reported that the arsenal had been set on fire and the prisoners liberated in the confusion. twenty villages round about goolburgah had been plundered and burned by the rohillas. it was mentioned, in the way of a report, that the troops of goolab singh had been beaten in a conflict with the people some four days' journey from cashmere. a great many men and a quantity of baggage were said to have been lost. the calcutta railroad progresses, notwithstanding the rainy season; the terminus had been chosen, and the necessary ground for its erection, and that of the requisite office has been purchased at howrah. in china the rebellion continued to extend. the imperial troops had not been able to make any impression upon the rebels. a good deal of alarm was felt at canton in regard to the probable result. in australia the discoveries of gold absorb attention. the reported existence of the mines is not only confirmed, but it is proved that even rumor has under-estimated the extent and value of the gold region. the government itself, satisfied from the official report, has moved in the matter, and has put forth a claim to the precious metal, prohibiting any one from taking gold or metal from any property within the territory of new south wales, and threatening with punishment any person finding gold in the uninhabited parts of the said territory which has not yet been disposed of, or ceded by the crown, or who shall search or dig for gold in and upon such territory. the proclamation adds that "upon receipt of further information upon this matter, such regulations shall be made as may be considered just and decisive, and shall be published as soon as possible, whereby the conditions will be made known on which, by the payment of a reasonable sum, licenses shall be granted." although this proclamation was issued on the publication of the discovery, the government had taken no steps to carry out the licensing system, apparently sensible that the means at their command were insufficient to compel parties to abandon their rich and selected spots. the accounts received from sydney to june th are full of the gold discoveries. there were about , to , persons employed at the diggings, comprising all classes, from the polite professions to handicraftsmen, runaway policemen, and seamen from the shipping. indeed, desertions from the latter were so numerous and frequent, that vessels were quitting for fear of similar desertions and the destruction of shipping as occurred at california, in consequence of whole crews flitting to the mines. at sydney labor had advanced fifty per cent., but up to the above date accounts of the gold-finding had not reached the sister settlements. the gold range of the blue mountains extended nearly miles in length, and about forty miles wide. editor's table. westward--ever westward has been the marching symbol of mankind from the earliest periods to the present. the striking fact is suggested in the well known line of bishop berkeley-- westward the course of empire takes its way. "the progress of the race," says the german psychologist rauch, "has ever been against the rotation of the earth, and toward the setting sun;" as though it were in obedience to some natural law common to all planets that revolve upon their axes. we may reject this as fanciful; and yet there are some reasons why the primitive roaming tendency, or spirit of discovery, should have taken one direction rather than another--reasons grounded, not on any direct physiological magnetism, but upon the effect of certain outward phenomena on the course of human thought. especially may we believe in some such influence as existing in that young and impressible period, when an unchanging direction may be rationally supposed to have been derived from the first faintest impressions, either upon the sense or the intelligence. to the early musing, meditative mind, the setting, rather than the ascending or meridian sun, would most naturally connect itself with the ideas of the vast and the undiscovered--the remote, legendary land, where the light goes down so strangely behind the mountains, or on the other side of the seemingly boundless plain, or beyond the deserts' solitary waste, or away on the ocean wave, as it grows dim in the misty horizon, or presents in its vanishing outline the far-off, shadowy isle. the darkness, too, that follows, would nourish the same feeling of mysterious interest, and thus aid in giving rise to that impulse, which, when once originated, maintains itself afterward by its own onward self-determining energy. but whatever we may think, either of the poetry or the philosophy, there can be no denying the historical fact. _westward_, _ever westward_, has been the course of emigration, of civilization, of learning, and of religion. it was so in the days of the patriarchs, and the process is still going on in the middle of the nineteenth century. the first express mention of such a tendency we find in one of the earliest notices of holy writ. "_and it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, they came to the land of shinar, and they settled there_"--gen. xi. . the language would imply that the process had been going on for some time before. the east there mentioned was the country beyond the great river euphrates, whence, as those learned in the sacred language would inform us, came the name _hebrews_, the _trans-euphratean_ colonists, or those who had come over the great bounding stream that separated the "old countries," or the "cradle of the race," from the then new and unexplored western world. the next migration of which we have a particular account is that of abraham who journeyed from ur of the chaldees to the promised land. previous to this, however, the most extensive movements had taken place. egypt was already settled by the stream, which, taking a southwest deflection, was destined to fill the vast continent of africa. it was after the dispersion at babel that the main current of humanity moved rapidly and steadily onward in the direction of the original impulse. there was indeed a tendency toward the east, but it never had the same impetus from the start; and its movement resembled more the flow of a sluggish backwater, than the natural progress. it sooner came to a stand, such as we find it represented in the civilization of india, thibet, and china, dead and stagnant as it has been for centuries. but the western flood was ever onward, onward--a stream of living water, carrying with it the best life of humanity, and the ultimate destinies of the race. a bare glance at the map of the world will show what were the original courses of emigration. asia must have poured into europe through three principal channels--through asia minor and the isles of greece, across the hellespont by the way of thrace and the lower part of central europe, or between the black and caspian seas, through the regions afterward occupied by gog and magog, and meshek, or the scythian, the gothic, and the muscovite hordes. but light and civilization ever went mainly by the way of the sea. the intercourse from coast to coast, and from isle to isle, was more favorable to cultivation of manners, and elevation of thought, than the laborious passages through the dark forests of the north, or the torrid deserts of the south; and hence the early superiority of the sons of javan, and kittim, and tarshish, or in short, of all whose advance was ever along that great high way of civilization, the mediterranean sea. "by these," to use the language of scripture, "were the isles of the gentiles divided in their lands." the most crowded march, however, must have been that taken up by the sons of tiras, and gomer, and ashkenaz, by way of thrace, and the mid regions of europe. we have one proof of this in the name given to the famous crossing-place between europe and asia. it was called by an oriental word denoting the _passage of flocks and herds_, and hence, to the thousands and tens of thousands who constantly gathered on its banks, it was the _bosphorus_ (bo-os, poros), the _ox-ford_ or ox-ferry--a most notable spot in the world's early emigration, the name of which the greeks afterward translated into their own tongue, and then, according to their usual custom, invented, or accommodated, for its explanation, the mythus of the wandering io. but still, through all these channels, it was _ever westward_, ever from the rising and toward the setting sun. it may be a matter of curious interest to note how the word itself seems to have moved onward with the march of mankind. the far-off, unknown land, for the time being, was ever _the west_--departing farther and farther from the terminus which each succeeding age had placed, and continually receding from the emigrant, like hesperia (the _west_ of the �neid) ever flying before the wearied trojans-- oras hesperiæ semper fugientis. in the very earliest notices of sacred history, canaan was the _west_. when abraham arrived there from ur of the chaldees, he found the pioneers had gone before him. "the canaanites," it is said, "were already in the land," although soon to give way to a more heaven-favored race. next the coast of the philistines becomes the _west_. then the great sea, or the mediterranean, with its stronghold of tyre, as it is called, joshua xix. . tyre, the ancient gibraltar, "the entry of the waters" (ezek. xxvii. ), and which was to be "the merchant of the people for many isles." in this way the language derived its fixed name for this quarter of the horizon. as the north is called by a word meaning the _dark or hidden_ place, so the sea ever denotes the west. hence the psalmist's method of expressing the immensity of the divine presence; "should i take the wings of the morning (or the east) and dwell in the parts beyond the sea," or the uttermost _west_, "even then shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand still shall hold me." in the next period, the _west_ is removed to the land of chittim (gen. x. ), or the modern isle of cyprus, of which there is a city yet remaining with the radicals of the ancient name. among other places it is mentioned, isaiah xxiii. . "news from the land of chittim," or, "from the land of chittim is it revealed unto them," says the prophet in his account of the wide-spread commerce of tyre. it would almost seem like a modern bulletin from san francisco and california. soon, however, the ever retiring terminus is to be found in the country of caphtor (jeremiah xlvii. ), or the island of crete, first settled by the roving cretites, or cherethites, from a more ancient city of the same name on the coast of philistia (deut. ii. ), and not in a reverse direction, as some would suppose. again it recedes rapidly among the "isles of the sea," so often mentioned in the scriptures, and which becomes a general name for the remote--the countries beyond the waters, and, in fact, for all europe. proceeding from what was imperfectly known as cyprus and the �gean archipelago, the early orientals would seem to have regarded all this quarter of the world as one vast collection of islands, in distinction from the main earth, main land, or continent of asia. hence the contrast, ps. xcvii. : the lord is king--let the _earth_ rejoice let the many _isles_ be glad. leaving behind us the jews, and taking homer for our guide, we next find the _west_ in greece as opposed to the eoïan realm of troy, or the land toward the morning dawn. in the interval between the iliad and the odyssey, another transition has taken place. the latter poem is separate from the former in space as well as in time. the odyssey is west of the iliad. it is the "setting sun" in a sense different from that intended by the critic longinus, but no less true and significant. epirus, phaëcia, and the ionian isles (as they have been called), are now the _west_. sicily is just heard of as the _ultima regio_ of the known world. it is the mythical land of the cannibal cyclops, and beyond it dwells the king of the winds. to the trojan followers of �neas, italy is _the west_--the land of promise to the exiles fleeing from the wars of the older eastern world. the imagination pictured it as lying under the far distant hesper, or evening star, and hence it was called _hesperia_: graïo cognomine dicta. but we must travel more rapidly onward. in the noon of the roman empire, spain and gaul were the west, the _terra occidentalis_. soon britain and ireland take the place and name. it was to the same quarters, too, on the breaking up of this immense roman mass, that the main element of its strength moved onward, although the mere shadow of empire remained in the slow decaying east. and now for centuries the march seemed impeded by the great ocean barrier, until the same original impulse, gathering strength by long delay, at length achieved the discovery of what, more emphatically than all other lands, has been called _the western world_. every one knows how rapid has been the same movement since. scarcely had the eastern shores been visited, when hardy adventurers brought news of a _western_ coast, and of a _western ocean_, still beyond. this remoter sea becomes the mythical terminus in the grants and charters of the first english settlements, as though in anticipation of the future greatness of the empire of which they were to form the constituent parts. since then how swift has been the same march across the new discovered continent! rapid as must be our sketch, it is hardly more so than the reality it represents. even within the memory of persons not yet past the meridian of life, a portion of our own state was called the _west_. the name was given to the land of the mohawks and the six nations; but like hesperia of old, it was always flying in the van of advancing cultivation. soon ohio becomes the _west_, along with indiana, illinois, and kentucky. then michigan is the _west_. in a few years wisconsin assumes the appellation; then iowa; then minnesota; while, in another quarter, missouri and arkansas successively carry on the steady march toward the setting sun. it is true, there seemed to be a pause in sight of the obstacles presented by the barren plains of texas and new mexico, but it was only to burst over them with a more powerful impetus. and california is now the _west_--the land of gold and golden hope. it is now, to the present age, what canaan was to the hebrews (we mean, of course, geographically), or as the isles of the sea to the sons of javan and tarshish, or as italy to the trojan exiles. but is the movement there to find its termination? the next step mingles it with the remains of the old eastern civilization. china and india must yet feel its revivifying power, and then the rotation will have been complete. ophir has been already reached, and soon the long journeying of restless humanity will come round again to the plain of shinar, or the region in which commenced the original dispersion of the race. some most serious reflections crowd upon the mind in connection with such a thought. what, during all this period, has been the real progress of humanity? in certain aspects of the question the answer is most prompt and easy. in the supply of physical wants, and in facilities for physical communication, the advance gained has been immense. but are men--the mass of men--really wiser in respect to their truest good? or are they yet infatuated with that old folly of building a tower, whose top should reach unto heaven? in other words, are they still seeking to get above the earth by earthly means, and fancying that through science, or philosophy, or "liberal institutions," or any other magic name, they may obtain a self-elevating power, which shall lift them above _physical_ and moral evil. will the long and toilsome march be followed by that true _gnothi seauton_, that real self-knowledge, which is cheaply obtained even at such a price, or will it be only succeeded by another varied exhibition of the selfish principle, the more malignant in proportion as it is more refined, another babel of opinions, another confusion of speech, another proof of the feebleness and everlasting unrest of humanity while vainly seeking to be independent of heaven? * * * * * marriage has ever been closely allied to religion. it has had its altar, its offering, its rites, its invocation, its shrine, its mysteries, its mystical significance. "it is _honorable_," says the apostle. "_precious_," some commentators tell us, the epithet should be rendered--of _great value_, of _highest price_. in either sense, it would well denote what may be called, by way of eminence, the conservative institution of human society, the channel for the transmission of its purest life, and for this very reason, the object ever of the first and fiercest attacks of every scheme of disorganizing radical philosophy. in harmony with this idea there was a deep significance in some of the greek marriage ceremonies; and among these none possessed a profounder import than the custom of carrying a torch, or torches, in the bridal procession. especially was this the mother's delightful office. it was hers, in a peculiar manner, to bear aloft the blazing symbol before the daughter, or the daughter-in-law, and there was no act of her life to which the heart of a grecian mother looked forward with a more lively interest. it was, on the other hand, a ground of the most passionate grief, when an early death, or some still sadder calamity, cut off the fond anticipation. thus medea-- i go an exile to a foreign land, ere blest in you, or having seen you blessed. that rapturous office never shall be mine, to adorn the bride, and with a mother's hand, lift high the nuptial torch. like many other classical expressions, it has passed into common use, and become a mere conventional phraseology. this is the case with much of our poetical and rhetorical dialect. metaphors, which, in their early usage, presented the most vivid conceptions, and were connected with the profoundest significance, have passed away into dead formulas. they keep the flow of the rhythm, they produce a graceful effect in rounding a period, they have about them a faint odor of classicality, but the life has long since departed. as far as any impressive meaning is concerned, a blank space would have answered almost as well. the "altar of hymen," the "nuptial torch," suggest either nothing at all, or a cold civil engagement, with no higher sanctions than a justice's register, or the business-like dispatch of what, in many cases, is a most unpoetical, as well as a most secular transaction. the nuptial torch was significant of marriage, as the divinely appointed means through which the lamp of life is sent down from generation to generation. it was the symbol of the true vitality of the race, as preserved in the single streams of the "isolated household," instead of being utterly lost in the universal conflagration of unregulated passion. it was the kindling of a new fire from the ever-burning hearth of vesta. it was the institution of a new domestic altar. the torch was carried by the mother in procession before the daughter, or the daughter-in-law, and then given to the latter to perform the same office, with the same charge, to children, and children's children, down through all succeeding generations. such a custom, and such a symbol, never could have originated where polygamy prevailed, nor have been ever preserved in sympathy with such a perversion of the primitive idea. neither could it maintain itself where marriage is mainly regarded as a civil contract, having no other sanction for its commencement, and, of course, no other for its dissolution, than the consent of the parties. have we not reason to suppose that some such conception is already gaining ground among us. it would seem to come from that wretched individualism, the source of so many social errors, which would regard marriage as a transaction for the convenience of the parties, and subject to their spontaneity, rather than in reference to society or the race. the feeling which lends its aid to such a sophism, is promoted by the prevailing philosophy in respect to what are called "woman's rights." we allude not now to its more extravagant forms, but to that less offensive, and more plausible influence, which, in the name of humanity and of protection to the defenseless, is in danger of sapping the foundation of a most vital institution. we can not be too zealous in guarding the person or property of the wife against the intemperate or improvident husband; but it should be done, and it can be done, without marring that sacred oneness which is the vitality of the domestic commonwealth. in applying the sharp knife of reform in this direction, it should be seen to, that we do not cut into the very life of the _idea_--to use a favorite phrase of the modern reformer. no evil against which legislation attempts to guard, can be compared with the damage which might come from such a wound. no hurt might be more incurable than one that would result from families of children growing up every where with the familiar thought of divided legal interests in the joint source whence they derived their birth. there must be something holy in that which the apostle selected as the most fitting comparison of the relation between christ and his church; and there have been far worse superstitions (if it be a superstition) than the belief which would regard marriage as a sacrament. be this, however, as it may, it is the other error of which we have now the most reason to be afraid. there is a process going forward on the pages of the statute book, in judicial proceedings respecting divorce, and in the general tendency of certain opinions, which is insensibly undermining an idea, the most soundly conservative in the best sense of the term, the most sacred in its religious associations, as well as the most important in its bearings upon the highest earthly good of the human race. the opposing philosophy sometimes comes in the most plausible and insidious shape. it, too, has its religionism. it talks loftily of the "holy marriage of hearts," and of the sacredness of the _affection_; but in all this would only depreciate the sacredness of the outward relation. it affects to be conservative, moreover. it would preserve and exalt the essence in distinction from the form. it has much to say of "legalized adulteries." the affection, it affirms, is holier than any outward bond. but let it be remembered that the first is human and changeable, the second is divine and permanent. it is the high consideration, too, of the one that, more than any earthly means, would tend to preserve the purity of the other. the relation is the regulator of the affection, the mould through which it endures, the constraining form in which alone it acquires the unity, and steadiness, and consistency of the idea, in distinction from the capricious spontaneity of the individual passion. let no proud claim, then, of inward freedom, assuming to be holier than the outward bond, pretend to sever what god has joined together. at no time, perhaps, in the history of the world, and of the church, has there been more need of caution against such a sophism than in this age so boastful of its lawless subjectivity, or in other words, its higher rule of action, transcending the outward and positive ordinance. * * * * * charity is love--liberality is often only another name for indifference. the bare presentation of the terms in their true relation, is enough to show the immense opposition between them. _charity_ is _tenderness_. "it suffereth long and is kind." but the same authority tells us, likewise, that "it rejoiceth in the truth." except as connected with a fervent interest in principles we hold most dear, the word loses all significance, and the idea all vitality. even when it assumes the phase of intolerance, it is a nobler and more precious thing than the liberality which often usurps its name. in this aspect, however, it is ever the sign of an unsettled and a doubting faith. he who is well established in his own religious convictions can best afford to be charitable. he has no fear and no hatred of the heretic lest he should take from him his own insecure foundation. his feet upon a rock, he can have no other than feelings of tenderness for the perishing ones whom he regards as struggling in the wild waters below him. how can he be uncharitable, or unkind, to those of his companions in the perilous voyage, who, in their blindness, or their weakness, or it may be in the perverse madness of their depravity, can not, or will not lay hold of the plank which he offers for their escape because it is the one on which he fondly hopes he himself has rode out the storm. they may call his warm zeal bigotry and uncharitableness; but then, what name shall be given to that greater madness, that fiercer intolerance, which would not only reject the offered aid, but exercise vindictive feelings toward the hand that would draw them out of the overwhelming billows? one of the richest illustrations of the view here presented is to be found in the writings of that _durus pater_, saint augustine. we find nothing upon our editorial table more precious--nothing that we would send forth on the wings of our widely circulated magazine, with a more fervent desire that it might, not only meet the eye, but penetrate the heart of every reader "how can i be angry with you," says this noble father, in his controversy with the manichæans, "how can i be angry with you when i remember my own experience? let him be angry with you who knows not with what difficulty error is shunned and truth is gained. let him be angry with you, who knows not with what pain the spiritual light finds admission into the dark and diseased eye. let him be angry with you, who knows not with what tears and groans the true knowledge of god and divine things is received into the bewildered human soul." editor's easy chair. since we last chatted with our readers, a month ago, old autumn has fairly taken the year upon his shoulders, and is bearing him in his parti-colored jacket, toward the ice-pits of winter. the soft advance of indian summer, with its harvest moons round and red, and its sunsets deep-dyed with blood and gold, is stealing smokily across the horizon, and witching us to a last smile of warmth, and to a farewell summer joyousness. the town has changed, too, like the season: and the streets are all of them in the hey-day of the autumn flush. the country merchants are gone home, and the southern loiterers are creeping lazily southward--preaching the best of union discourses--with their geniality and their frankness. the old broadway hours of promenade are coming again; and you can see blithe new-married couples, and wishful lovers, at morning and evening, lighting up the _trottoir_ with their sunshine. the wishful single ones too, are wearing new fronts of hope, as the town-men settle again into their winter beat, and feel, in their bachelor chambers, the lack of that stir of sociality, which enlivens the summer of the springs. old married people too--not so joyous as once--forget all the disputes of the old winter, in the pleasant approaches of a new one; and try hard to counterfeit a content which they esteem and desire. but with all its gayety, theatre-running, concert-going, and shopping, the town wears underneath a look of sad sourness. merchants that were as chatty as the most loquacious magpies only a five-month gone, are suddenly grown as gruff and dumb as the norwegian bears. the tightness of wall-street has an uncommon "effect upon facial muscles;" and men that would have been set down by the "medical examiners" as good for a ten years' lease of life, are now wearing a visage that augurs any thing but healthy action of the liver. even our old friends that we parted from in may, as round and dimpled as country wenches, have met us the week past with a rueful look, and have said us as short a welcome as if we were their creditors. we pity sadly the poor fellow, who, with a firm reliance on the steady friendship of his old companion, goes to him in these times for a loan of a "few thousands." friendship has a hard chance for a livelihood nowadays in wall-street; and the man that would give us an easy shake of the hand when we met him on 'change in the spring, will avoid us now as if he feared contagion from our very look. the fat old gentlemen who used to loll into our office in may-time, to read the journals, and crack stale jokes, and quietly puff out one or two of our choice regalias, have utterly vanished. we find no invitations to dine upon our table--no supper cards for a "sit-down" to fried oysters and burgundy "punctually at nine." wall-street is the bugbear that frights new york men out of all their valor; and, as is natural enough, wall-street, and specie, and heavy imports; and a new tariff, and the coming crop of cotton are just now at the top of the talk of the town. let our good readers then, allow for this incubus, in tracing the jottings down, this month, of our usually gossiping pen. let them remember in all charity that two per cent. a month, for paper good as the bank, makes a very poor stimulant for such pastime as literary gossip. when our men of business replace their burgundy and lafitte of , with merely merchantable medoc, readers surely will be content with a plain boiled dish, trimmed off with a few carrots, in place of the rich _ragouts_, with which, at some future time, we shall surely tickle their appetite. * * * * * the northern expedition under the lead of lieutenant de haven, has given no little current to the chit-chat of the autumn hours; and people have naturally been curious to see some of the brave fellows who wintered it among the crevices of the polar ice, and who braved a night of some three months' darkness. it is just one of those experiences which must be passed through to be realized; nor can we form any very adequate conceptions (and heaven forbid that experience should ever improve our conceptions!) of a night which lasts over weeks of sleeping, and waking, and watching--of a night which knows neither warmth, nor daybreak--a night which counts by cheerless months, and has no sounds to relieve its darkness, but the fearful crashing of ice bergs, and the low growl of stalking bears. what a waste of resolution and of energy has been suffered in those northern seas! and yet it is no waste; energy is never wasted when its action is in the sight of the world. it tells on new development, and quickens impulse for action, wherever the story of it goes. it is, to be sure, sad enough that the poor lady franklin must go on mourning; but she has the satisfaction of knowing that sympathy with her woes has enlisted thousands of brave beating hearts, and has led them fearlessly into the very bosom of those icy perils, which now, and we fear must forever, shroud the fate of her noble husband. nor is that grief and devotion of the lady franklin without its teaching of beneficence. its story adds to the dignity of humanity, and quickens the ardor of a thousand hearts, who watch it as a beacon of that earnest and undying affection, which belongs to a true heart-life, but which rarely shows such brilliant tokens of its strength. * * * * * perhaps it is fortunate that at a time when commerce is shaking with an ague, that makes pallid cheeks about town, there should be such a flush as now in the histrionic life of the city. scarce a theatre or concert-room but has its stars; and if music and comedy have any great work of goodness to do in this world, it may surely be in relieving despondency and lightening the burdens of misfortune. miss catharine hays is a very good chit-chat topic for any breakfast-room of the town; and although she has not excited that excess of furor which was kindled by the swedish singer, she has still gained a reputation whose merits are spoken with enthusiasm, and will be remembered with affection. poor, suffering ireland can not send to such a sympathetic nation as this, a pretty, graceful, pure-minded songstress--whatever might be her qualities--without enlisting a fervor that would shower her path with gold, and testify its strength with flowers and huzzas. madame thillon is pointing much of the after-dinner talk with story of her beauty; and connoiseurs in cheeks and color are having amiable quarrels about her age and eyes. mrs. warner is drawing somewhat of the worn-out shakspearean taste to a new rendering of elizabethan comedy. in short the town is bent on driving away the stupor of dull trade with the cheer of art and song. * * * * * speaking of art, reminds us of the new picture which is just now gracing the halls of the academy of design. it is precisely one of those art-wonders which, with its great stock of portraits to be discussed, makes the easiest imaginable hinge of talk. it is healy's great picture of daniel webster in his place in the senate chamber, replying to general hayne of south carolina. the work has been a long time under mr. healy's thought and hand, and is perfected, if not with elaborateness, at least with an artistic finish and arrangement that will make the picture one of the great western pictures. we could wish indeed--although we hazard the opinion with our _easy_ diffidence--that mr. healy had thrown a little more of the demosthenic _action_ into the figure, and bearing of the orator; yet, with all its quietude, it shows the port of a strong man. indeed, in contrast with the boy-like presentment of general hayne, it almost appears that the fire of the speaker is wasting on trifles; yet, if we may believe contemporaneous history, hayne was by no means a weak man, and if the fates had not thrust him upon such titan conflict too early, there might well have been renowned deeds to record of the polished southron. the initiate lookers-on will see good distance-views of mrs. webster, of mrs. george p. marsh, and of sundry other ladies, who were by no means so matronly at the date of the "union" speech as mr. healy's complimentary anachronism would imply. * * * * * the art union is coming in for its share of the autumn love of warm tints and glowing colors; and if we might trust a hasty look-in on our way to office duties, we should say there was a scalding brightness about some of the coloring which needs an autumn haze to subdue it to a healthy tone. for all this there are gems scattered up and down, which will woo the eye to a repeated study, and, if we may judge from the flocking crowds, educate the public taste to an increasing love of whatever is lovable in art. leutze's great picture of washington, will, before this shall have reached the eye of our readers, have won new honors to the name of the painter of the puritan iconoclasts; and we count it a most healthful augury for american art, that the great painting should have created in advance such glowing expectations. * * * * * we wish to touch with our pen nib--as the observant reader has before this seen--whatever is hanging upon the lip of the town; and with this wish lighting us, we can not of a surety pass by that new burst of exultation, which is just now fanning our clipper vessels, of all rig and build, into an ocean triumph. nine hundred and ninety odd miles of ocean way within three days' time, is not a speed to be passed over with mere newspaper mention; and it promises--if our steam-men do not look to their oars--a return to the old and wholesome service of wind and sail. we are chronicling here no imaginary run of a "flying dutchman," but the actual performance of the a number one, clipper-built, and copper-fastened ship, flying cloud--cressy, commander! and if the clipper-men can give us a line, atlantic-wise, which will bowl us over the ocean toward the lizard, at a fourteen-knot pace, and not too much spray to the quarter deck--they will give even the collins' monsters a scramble for a triumph. there is a quiet exultation after all, in bounding over the heaving blue wave-backs, with no impelling power, but the swift breath of the god of winds, which steam-driven decks can never give. it is taking nature in the fulness of her bounty, and not cramping her gifts into boiling water-pots; it is a trust to the god of storms, that makes the breezes our helpers, and every gale to touch the cheek with the wanton and the welcome of an aiding brother! * * * * * leaving now the matters of gossip around us, we propose to luxuriate in that atmosphere of gossip, which pervades the paris world, and which comes wafted to us on the gauze _feuilletons_ of such as jules janin, and of eugene guinot. they tell us that the city world of france has withdrawn lazily and longingly from the baths of aix-la-chapelle and the beaches of dieppe and boulogne; and that the freshened beauties of the metropolis, are taking their first autumn-ing upon the shaded asphalte of the champs elysées. a little fraction of the _beau monde_ has just now taken its usual turn to the sporting ground of dauphiny and bretagne; but it is only for carrying out in retired quarters the series of flirtations, which the watering places have set on foot. the french have none of that relish for covers and moor shooting, which enters so largely into the english habit; and a french lady in a land-locked chateau--without a lover in the case--would be the sorriest nekayah imaginable. but, says guinot, the country recluses are just now acquiring a taste for the races and for horsemanship; and he signalizes, in his way, a fairly-run match of ladies, well-known in the salons of paris, which came off not long since in the grounds of some old country chateau. among the other whim-whams, which this veteran wonder-teller sets down, is the story of an old hollander, who every year makes his appearance at the springs of ems, and devotes himself to _rouge et noir_ with the greatest assiduity, until he has won from the bank the sum of twenty-five thousand francs, when he gathers up his gold and disappears for another season. no run of good luck will induce him to increase his earnings, and no bad fortune in the early part of his visit will break down his purpose, until he has won his usual quota. the managers have even proposed to buy him off for half his usual earnings in advance, but he accepts of no compromise; and stolidly taking his seat at the table, with a bag of _rouleaux_ at his side, he stakes his money, and records upon a card the run of the colors--nor quits his place, until his bag is exhausted, or the rooms closed for the night. as is usual with these tit-bits of french talk, no name is given to the hollander, and he may live, for aught we know, only in the pestilent brain of the easy paragraphist. * * * * * again, we render grace to french fertility of invention for this _petit histoire_, to which we ourselves venture to add a point or two, for the humor of this-side appetite. borrel, a great man in the kitchen, kept the famous rocher de cancale. who has not heard of the rocher de cancale? who has not dreamed of it when--six hours after a slim breakfast of rolls and coffee--he has tugged at his weary brain--as we do now--for the handle of a dainty period? borrel had a wife, prettier than she was wise--(which can be said of many wives--not borrel's). borrel was undersold by neighbor restaurateurs, and found all the world flocking to the palais royal caterers. borrel's wife spent more than borrel earned (which again is true of other wives). so that, finally, the rocher de cancale was ended: borrel retired to private life with a bare subsistence; and, borrel's wife, playing him false in his disgrace, ran away with a vagrant russian. borrel languished in retirement: but his friends found him; and having fairly put him on his feet, thronged for a season his new salon of frascati. but directly came the upturn of february, and poor borrel was again broken in business, and thrice broken in spirit. he took a miserable house without the boulevard, in the quarter of the batignolles, and only crept back to the neighborhood of his old princely quarters, like the vagrant starveling that he was, at dusk. years hung heavily on him, and his domestic sorrows only aggravated his losses and his weakness. but, in process of time, a russian came to paris, who had known the city in the days of the rocher de cancale. he came with his appetite sharpened for the luxurious dinners of the rue montorgueil. but, alas, for him--the famous restaurant had disappeared, and in its place, was only a paltry show-window of _caleçons_ and of _chemisettes_. he inquired anxiously after the famous borrel: some shook their heads, and had never heard the name: others, who had known the man, believed him dead. in despair he visited all the restaurants of paris, but, for a long time, in vain. at length, an old white-haired garçon of the café de paris, to whom he told his wishes, informed him of the miserable fate of the old prince of suppers. the russian traced him to his humble quarters, supplied him with money and clothes--engaged him as his cook, took him away from his ungrateful city, and installed him, finally, as first restaurateur of st. petersburg. his patron was passably old, but still a wealthy and prosperous merchant of the northern empire; and his influence won a reputation and a fortune for the reviving head of the house of borrel. the strangest part (omitted by lecomte), is yet to come. borrel had often visited his patron, but knew nothing of his history, or family: nor was it until after a year or two of the new life, that the poor restaurateur discovered in the deft-handed housekeeper of his patron, his former wife of the rue montorgueil! the discovery seemed a sad one for all concerned. borrel could not but make a show for his wounded honor. his patron had no wish to lose an old servant; and the lady herself, now that the hey-day of her youth was gone, had learned a wholesome dread of notoriety. wisely enough, each determined to sacrifice a little: borrel was re-married to his wife; his patron found a new mistress of his household; and madame promised to live discreetly, and guard carefully the profits of the russian rocher de cancale. if this is not a good french story, we should like to know what it is? * * * * * again we shift our vision to a _belle maison_ (pretty house) in a back quarter of london--newly furnished--a little cockneyish in taste, and with all the new books of the day, piled helter-skelter upon the library-table. the owner is a tall, laughing-faced, good natured, not over-bred man, who has traveled to constantinople and egypt--to say nothing of an adventurous trip to the top of mont blanc. his history is written by the letter-writers in this way: poor, and clever, he wrote verses, and essays, and sold them for what he could get; and some say filled and extracted teeth, to "make the ends meet." it is certain that he once walked the hospitals of paris, and that he knows the habits of the grisettes of the quarter by the pantheon. a certain lord happening upon him, and fancying his laughter-loving look, and waggish eye, cultivated his acquaintance, and proposed to him a trip to the east as his friend, courier, and what-not. our hero assented--went with him as far as trieste--quarreled with my lord--parted from him--pushed his way by "hook and by crook" as far as cheops--and returned to london with not a penny in his pocket. writing brought dull pay (as it always does), and the traveler thought of _talking_ instead. he advertised to tell his story in a lecture-room, with songs, and mimicry thrown in to enliven it. the people went slowly at first: finally, they talked of the talking traveler, and all the world went; and the adventurer found his purse filling, and his fortune made. he bought the _belle maison_ we spoke of; and this summer past set off for mont blanc, and ascended it--not for the fun of the thing, but for the fun of telling it. we suppose our readers will have recognized the man we have in our eye: to wit--albert smith. and that--says lecomte--is the way they do things in england! editor's drawer. it was thomas hood, if we remember rightly ("poor tom's a-cold" now)! whose "bridge of sighs," and "song of the shirt," both of them the very perfection of pathos, will be remembered when his lighter productions are forgotten, or have ceased to charm--it was tom hood, we repeat, who described, in a characteristic poetical sketch, the miseries of an englishman in the french capital, who was ignorant of the language of that self-styled "metropolis of the world." he drew a very amusing picture of the _desagrémens_ such as one would be sure to encounter; and among others, the following "never go to france, unless you know the lingo, if you _do_, like me, you'll repent, by jingo! "signs i had to make, for every little notion; arms all the while a-going, like a telegraph in motion. "if i wanted a horse, how d'you think i got it? i got astride my cane, and made-believe to trot it!" there was something very ridiculous, he went on to say, we remember, about the half-english meaning of some of the words, and the utter contradiction of the ordinary meaning in others. "they call," said he, "they call their mothers _mares_, and all their daughters _fillies_!" and he cited several other words not less ludicrous. the celebrated mrs. ramsbottom, and her accomplished daughter lavinia, the cockney continental travelers, those clever burlesques of "john bull," were the first, some thirty years ago, to take notice of this discrepancy, and to illustrate it in their correspondence. the old lady, writing from paris to friends in her peculiar circle in london, tells them that she has been to see all the curious things about the french capital; and she especially extols the bridges, with their architectural and other adornments. "i went yesterday afternoon," she wrote, "to see the statute of lewis quinzy, standing close to the end of one of the _ponts_, as they call their bridges here. i was told by a man there, that lewis quinzy was buried there. quinzy wasn't his real name, but he died of a quinzy sore-throat, and just as they do things here, they called him after the complaint he died of! the statute is a more superior one than the one of henry carter (henri quatre), which i also see, with my daughter lavinia. i wonder if he was a relation of the carters of portsmouth, because if he is, his posteriors have greatly degenerated in size and figure. he is a noble-looking man, in stone." the same old ignoramus wrote letters from italy, which were equally satirical upon the class of would-be "traveled" persons, to which she was assumed to belong. speaking of rome, and certain of its wonderful and ancient structures, she says: "i have been all through the _vacuum_, where the pope keeps his bulls. every once in a while they say he lets one out, and they occasion the greatest excitement, being more obstinater, if any thing, than an irish one. i have been, too, to see the great church that was built by saint peter, and is called after him. folks was a-looking and talking about a _knave_ that had got into it, but i didn't see no suspicionary person. i heard a _tedium_ sung while i was there, but it wasn't any great things, to _my_ taste. i'd rather hear lavinia play the 'battle of prag.' it was very long and tiresome." not a little unlike "mrs. ramsbottom," is a foreign correspondent of the late major noah's paper, the "times and messenger," who writes under the _nom de plume_ of "a disbanded volunteer," from paris. he complains that the french language is very "onhandy to articklate;" that the words wont "fit his mouth at all" and that he has to "bite off the ends of 'em," and even then they are cripples. "the grammer," he says, "is orful, specially the genders, and oncommon inconsistent. a pie is a _he_, and yet they call it patty, and a loaf is a _he_, too, but if you cut a slice off it, _that's_ a _she_! the pen i'm a-driving is a _she_, but the paper i'm a-writing on is a _he_! a thief," he goes on to say, "is masculine, but the halter that hangs him is feminine;" but he rather likes that, he adds, there being something consoling in being drawn up by a female noose! _f-e-m-m-e_, he contends, "_ought_ to spell _femmy_--but i'm blowed if they don't pronounce it _fam_!" like the english cockney travelers, he was pleased with the public monuments, particularly one in the "plaster la concord," built by louis quartz, so called, in consequence of the kind of stone used in its erection. the "basalisk of looksir," and the "jargon da plant," also greatly excited his admiration. no one who has ever studied french, but will be reminded by the "disbanded volunteer's" experience of the difficulty encountered in mastering the classification of french genders. * * * * * we find, on a scrap in our "drawer," this passage from a learned lecture by a german adventurer in london, one "baron vondullbrainz." he is illustrating the great glory of _mechanics_, as a science: "de t'ing dat is _made_ is more superior dan de _maker_. i shall show you how in some t'ings. suppose i make de round wheel of de coach? ver' well; dat wheel roll five hundred mile!--and i can not roll one, myself! suppose i am de cooper, what you call, and i make de big tub to hold de wine? he hold t'ons and gallons; and _i can not hold more as fives bottel_!! so you see dat de t'ing dat is made is more superior dan de maker!" * * * * * the following domestic medicines and recipes may be relied upon. they are handed down from a very ancient period; and, "no cure, no pay:" "a stick of brimstone wore in the pocket is good for them as has cramps. "a loadstone put on the place where the pain is, is beautiful in the rheumatiz. "a basin of water-gruel, with half a quart of old rum in it, or a quart, if partic'lar bad, with lots o' brown sugar, going to bed, is good for a cold in the 'ead. "if you've got the hiccups, pinch one o' your wrists, and hold your breath while you count sixty, or--_get somebody to scare you, and make you jump_! "_the ear-ache_: put an inyun in your ear, after it is well roasted!" * * * * * how old dr. johnson did hate scotland! his severity of sarcasm upon that country is unexampled by his comments upon any thing else, however annoying. on his return from the hebrides, he was asked by a scottish gentleman, at an evening party in london, how he liked scotland. "scotland, sir?" replied johnson, with a lowering brow, and savage expression generally, "scotland? scotland, sir, is a miserable country--a _contemptible_ country, sir!" "you can not do the almighty the great wrong to say _that_, dr. johnson," answered the other, deeply nettled at so harsh a judgment: "god made scotland, sir." "yes, sir," was the cutting rejoinder: "god _did_ make scotland, but he _made it for scotchmen_! god made _hell_ also, sir!" on another occasion, when asked how he liked certain views of scenery in that country, he replied: "the finest and most satisfactory view in scotland, sir, is the view looking _from_ it, on the high-road to london!" the same spirit was manifested in his reply to a friend, who was consoling him for the loss of a favorite cane with which he had traveled in the north of scotland. "you can easily replace it, dr. johnson," said his friend. "_replace_ it, sir! consider, where i'm to find the _timber_ for such a purpose in this barren country!" it strikes us that a lack of trees or shrubbery could not be more forcibly exemplified than by this sarcastic reply. * * * * * somebody, in one of the newspapers, has been telling a story of a schoolmistress, who had a hopeful boy-pupil, whose intelligence was scarcely "fair to middling," if one may judge from one of his "exercises" in spelling. "i got him," said the schoolmarm, "clean through the alphabet, and he would point out any letter, and call it by its right name. one bright monday morning i put him, when he was sufficiently advanced, into words of two syllables; but i was obliged to tell him some fifty times what was the _nature_ of a syllable; and after all, his brain was opaque as a rock. in order to interest him, however, i said to him: "do you love pies?" "yes, marm, i guess i _do_!" "well, then, 'apple' and 'pie,' when put together, spell 'apple-pie,' don't they?" "yes, marm." "by the same rule, 'la' and 'dy,' spell 'lady?' you understand _that_, don't you?" "very well. now, what do 'mince' and 'pie' spell?" "_i_ know!--_mince_-pie!" "that's right: well, now what do 'pumpkin' and 'pie' spell? speak up." "i know _that_: that's _pumpkin_-pie!" "that's correct. now, what does 'la' and 'dy' spell?" "custard-pie!" exclaimed the urchin, with great exultation at his success. now, this is very good, and very possibly it may have occurred, precisely as narrated; but we have a suspicion--perhaps not a "_shrewd_ suspicion"--that the whole thing was borrowed from the following dialogue, which is indubitably an actual occurrence: "james," said a schoolmaster to a dull pupil, after the morning chapter had been read in the school, "james, we have read this morning that noah had three sons, shem, ham, and japheth; now, james, will you tell us who was the _father_ of shem, ham, and japheth?" "_sir?_" said james, inquiringly. "why, james," answered his colloquist, "you have seen that noah had three sons, and that their names were shem, ham, and japheth. these were noah's _sons_, james. now, who was the father of shem, ham, and japheth?" "sir?" said james, dubiously pondering the full extent of the query. "why, james," said the preceptor, "don't you _know_ who the father of shem, ham, and japheth was, after i've told you so much?" "no, sir--i d' know!" "you are very dull, james--_very_! you know mr. smith, don't you, that lives next to your house?" "sartain!--bill and jo smith and i play together. bill took my cross-gun, and owes me--" "very well: mr. smith has three boys, william, joseph, and henry. who is the father of william, joseph, and henry smith?" "mr. smith!" exclaimed james, instantly; "mr. _smith_: guess i know _that_!" "certainly, james. very _well_, then. now, this is exactly the same thing. you see, as we have been reading, that _noah_ had three sons, like mr. smith; but _their_ names were shem, ham, and japheth. now, who was the father of _noah's_ three sons?" james hesitated a minute, with his finger in his mouth; and then, as if the difficult question had been suddenly solved in his mind, he exclaimed: "_i_ know now: mr. smith!" * * * * * perhaps some of our readers have heard of that rare compound of all that was quaint, curious, and ridiculous, lord timothy dexter, of newburyport, massachusetts. he was an ignorant, eccentric old fellow, who, having made himself a rich man, conceived the original idea of setting up for a lord. accordingly he proclaimed himself "_lord timothy dexter_," bought a magnificent mansion, and set up an equipage in splendid style. every thing that he did and every thing he had about him was original. he sent a ship-load of warming-pans to the east indies; he filled his gardens with sprawling wooden statues; his dress was a mixture of the roman senator and a yankee militia-captain; the ornaments of his mansion were of the most unique stamp; and his literary compositions were more original than all the rest put together. he wrote in the most heroic disregard and defiance of the common laws of etymology and syntax. here is a specimen of his style, and an illustration of his powers as a philosopher: "how great the soul is! don't you all wonder and admire to see and behold and hear? can you all believe half the truth, and admire to hear the wonders how great the soul is?--that if a man is drowned in the water, a great bubble comes up out of the top of the water--the last of the man dying in the water; this is _mind_--the soul, that is the last to ascend out of the deep to glory. only behold!--past finding out! the bubble is the soul! when a man dies in his bed in a house, you can't see his soul go up, but when he is drowned, _then_ you can see his soul go up like a kite or a rocket!" * * * * * there is a very amusing story told of a curious fowl called "_the adjutant_," in the east indies. they are as solemn-faced a creature as the owl, the "bird of minerva." sometimes they become great favorites with the soldiers and officers of the army stationed there, and numerous, and not unfrequently ridiculous, were the tricks which the wicked wags played upon them. sometimes the soldiers would take a couple of half-picked beef-bones, tie them strongly together, at each end of a stout cord, and then throw both where some two or three "adjutants" would be sure to try to rival each other in the first possession of the desiderated luxury; the consequence of which competition would be, that two of the ravenous birds would attack the treasure at one and the same time: the one would swallow one (for they have most capacious maws) and the other the other. then there was trouble! each saw before him a divided "duty," the "line" of which, while it was sufficiently defined (and _con_-fined) was very far from being convenient to follow, so far as the _practice_ was concerned. but each, in the consequent struggle, rose into the air; a pair of aërial siamese-twins, with no power of severing their common ligament; so that very soon down they came, an easy prey to their ingenious tormentors. but the funniest trick was this: a soldier would take a similar unconsumed beef-bone; carefully scoop out a long cavity in it, establish therein a cartridge and fusee, with a long leader, lighted, and then throw it out for the especial benefit of the feathered victim. it was of course swallowed at once, and then, like a snake with a big frog in its belly, the uncouth bird would mount upon some post, or other similar eminence, and with one leg crossed like a figure-four, over the other, it would stand, in digestive mood, and with solemn visage, until suddenly the secret mine would explode, and the unsuspicious "adjutant" would be "reduced to the ranks" of birds "lost upon earth." * * * * * he was a right sensible man who wrote as follows; and his theory and advice will apply as well in gotham as elsewhere: "as to extensive dinner-giving, we can be but hungry, eat, and be happy. i would have a great deal more hospitality practiced among us than is at all common; more _hospitality_, i mean, and less _show_. properly considered, 'the quality of dinner,' like that of mercy, 'is twice blessed--it blesses him that gives, and him that takes.' a dinner with friendliness is the best of all friendly meetings; a pompous entertainment, where 'no love is,' is the least satisfactory. "i own myself to being no worse nor better than my neighbors, in giving foolish and expensive dinners. i rush off to the confectioner's for sweets, et cetera; hire sham butlers and attendants; have a fellow going round the table with 'still' and 'dry' champagne, just as if i _knew his name_, and it was my custom to drink those wines every day of my life. now if we receive great men or ladies at our house, i will lay a wager that they will select mutton and gooseberry-tart for their dinner; forsaking altogether the '_entrées_' which the men in white gloves are handing round in the plated dishes. asking those who have great establishments of their own to french dinners and delicacies, is like inviting a grocer to a meal of figs, or a pastry-cook to a banquet of raspberry tarts. they have had enough of them. great folks, if they like you, take no account of your feasts, and grand preparations. no; they eat mutton, like men." as to giving _large_ dinners, morever, mr. brown reasons like a philosopher. in the right way of giving a dinner, he contends, "every man who now gives _one_ dinner might give two, and take in a host of friends and relations," who are now excluded from his forced hospitality. "our custom," he says "is not hospitality nor pleasure, but to be able to cut off a certain number of our really best acquaintances from our dining-list." again, these large, ostentatious dinners are scarcely ever pleasant, so far as regards society: "you may chance to get near a pleasant neighbor and neighboress, when your corner of the table is possibly comfortable. but there can be no general conversation. twenty people around one board can not engage together in talk. you want even a speaking-trumpet to communicate from your place with the lady of the house." the sensible conclusion of the whole matter is: "i would recommend, with all my power, that if we give dinners they should be more simple, more frequent, and contain fewer persons. a man and woman may look as if they were really glad to see _ten_ people; but in a 'great dinner,' an ostentatious dinner, they abdicate their position as host and hostess, and are mere creatures in the hands of the sham butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioner's emissaries who crowd the room, and are guests at their own table, where they are helped last, and of which they occupy the top and bottom. i have marked many a lady watching with timid glances the large artificial major-domo who officiates 'for that night only,' and thought to myself, 'ah, my dear madam, how much happier might we all be, if there were but half the splendor, half the made-dishes, and half the company assembled!'" * * * * * to our conception there is something rather tickling to the fancy in the following sage advice as to how to conduct one's self in case of fire: "whatever may be the heat of the moment, keep cool. let nothing put you out, but find something to put out the fire. keep yourself collected, and then collect your family. after putting on your shoes and stockings, call out for pumps and hose to the fireman. don't think about saving your watch and rings, for while you stand wringing your hands, you may be neglecting the turn-cock, who is a jewel of the first water at such a moment. bid him with all your might turn on the main!" * * * * * punch once drew an admirable picture of a london "peter funk," a sort of character not altogether unknown in the metropolis of the western world: "the amount that prodigal man must spend every year would drive rothschild into the work-house. nothing is too good or too common, too expensive or too cheap, for him. one moment he will buy a silver candelabra, the next a silver thimble. in the morning he will add a hundred-guinea dressing-case to his enormous property, and in the afternoon amuse himself by bidding a shilling for a little trumpery pen-knife. why he must have somewhere about fifty thousand pen-knives already. "the article he has the greatest hankering for, are razors: and yet, to look at his unshorn beard, you would fancy that he never shaved from one month's end to another. the hairs stick out on his chin like the wires on the drum of a musical-box. it is most amusing to watch him when the razors are handed round. he will snatch one off the tray, draw the edge across his nail, breathe upon it, then hold it up to the light, and after wiping it in the gentlest manner upon the cuff of his coat, bid for it as ravenously as if he would not lose the scarce article for all the wealth of the indies. what he does with all the articles he buys we can not tell. saint paul's would not be large enough to contain all the rubbish he has been accumulating these last ten years. his collection of side-boards alone would fill hyde-park, and he must possess by this time more dumb waiters than there are real waiters in england." * * * * * a capital burlesque upon the prevalent affectation of popular song-writers, in making their first line tell as a title, is given in the following: such, for example, as "_when my eye_," "_i dare not use thy cherished name_," and so forth: "oh! don't i love you rather still? are all my pledges set at naught? dishonored is affection's bill? or passed is love's insolvent court? is memory's schedule coldly filed, on one of cupid's broken darts? is hymen's balance-sheet compiled, a bankrupt's stock of damaged hearts? "second verse. "i dare not use thy cherished name, would'st thou accept, were i to draw? the god of love may take his aim, but with an arrow made of straw each fonder feeling that i knew a lifeless heap of ruin lies: yes, false one! ticketed by you: look here!--'alarming sacrifice!'" * * * * * we must say one thing in favor of john bull. he confesses to a _beat_ with great unanimity and frankness. it is in evidence, on the authority of the three gentlemen interested in the race of the yacht _america_, that the triumph of american skill in ship-architecture was most candidly admitted on all hands, as it was in all the public journals most handsomely. this is as it should be; and we were glad to see, that at the recent dinner given to mr. stevens at the astor-house cordial and ample acknowledgments, for courtesies and attentions from the queen herself, down to the most eminent members of the royal yacht squadron, were feelingly and appropriate rendered. literary notices. _a book of romances_, _lyrics_, _and songs_, by bayard taylor. this volume consists chiefly of pieces which have not before been given to the public, and are evidently selected with great severity of taste from the miscellaneous productions of the writer. this was a highly judicious course, and will be friendly, in all respects, to the fame of bayard taylor, whose principal danger as a poet is his too great facility of execution. the pieces in this volume exhibit the marks of careful elaboration; of conscientious artistic finish; of a lofty standard of composition; and of the intellectual self-respect which is not content with a performance inferior to the highest. they are profuse in bold, poetic imagery; often expressing conceptions of exquisite delicacy and pathos; and, pervaded by a spirit of classic refinement. mr. taylor's merits as a descriptive poet of a high order have long been recognized; the present volume will confirm his beautiful reputation in that respect; while it shows a freer and nobler sweep of the imagination and reflective faculties than he has hitherto exercised. (boston: ticknor, reed, and fields.) phillips, sampson, and co., boston, have published a revised edition of _margaret, a tale of the real and the ideal_, in two volumes. the edition is introduced with a characteristic preface by the author, explaining his own conception of the drift of the work, and justifying certain features which have been severely commented on by critics. in spite of its numerous displays of eccentricity and waywardness, we believe that "margaret" possesses the elements of an enduring vitality. its quaint and expressive delineations of new-england life, its vivid reproduction of natural scenery, and the freedom and boldness with which its principal characters are sustained, will always command a certain degree of sympathy, even from those who are the most impatient with the reckless mannerisms of the writer. his genius is sufficient to atone for a multitude of faults, and there is need enough for its exercise in this respect, in the present volumes. a new edition, greatly improved and enlarged, of abbott's _young christian_, has been published by harper and brothers, and will speedily be followed by the other volumes of the series, _the corner stone_ and _the way to do good_. it is superfluous to speak of the rare merits of mr. abbott's writings on the subject of practical religion. their extensive circulation, not only in our own country, but in england, scotland, ireland, france, germany, holland, india, and at various missionary stations throughout the globe, evinces the excellence of their plan, and the felicity with which it has been executed. divesting religion of its repulsive, scholastic garb, they address the common mind in simple and impressive language. every where breathing an elevated tone of sentiment, they exhibit the practical aspects of religious truth, in a manner adapted to win the heart, and to exercise a permanent influence upon the character. in unfolding the different topics which he takes in hand, mr. abbott reasons clearly, concisely, and to the point; but the severity of argument is always relieved by a singular variety and beauty of illustration. it is this admirable combination of discussion with incident, that invests his writings with an almost equal charm for readers of every diversity of age and of culture. while the young acknowledge the fascination of his attractive pages, the most mature minds find them full of suggestion, and often presenting an original view of familiar truth.--the present edition is issued in a style of uncommon neatness, and is illustrated with numerous engravings, most of which are spirited and beautiful. _episodes of insect life_, third series, published by j.s. redfield, is brought to a close in the volume before us, which treats of the insects of autumn and the early winter. we take leave of these beautiful studies in nature with regret, though rejoicing in the eminent success which has attended their publication, both in england and in our own country. they have entered largely into the rural delights of many a family circle, during the past season, and will long continue to perform the same congenial ministry. george p. putnam has issued the first number of _a biographical and critical dictionary of painters, engravers, sculptors, and architects_, by s. spooner, m.d., compiled from a variety of authentic sources, and containing more than fifteen hundred names of eminent artists, which are not to be found in the existing english dictionaries of art. free use has been made of the best european authorities, and a mass of information concentrated which we should look for in vain in any other single work. the editor appears to have engaged in his task, not only with conscientious diligence, but with an enthusiastic interest in art, and with such qualifications, his success in its performance is almost a matter of course. the third volume of _the memoirs of dr. chalmers_ (published by harper and brothers), embraces the period of his life during his residence at aberdeen, and a portion of his career as professor at edinburgh. the interest of the previous volumes is well sustained in the present. it contains many original anecdotes, illustrating the private and social life of dr. chalmers, as well as a succinct narrative of the events in which he bore a conspicuous part before the public. every incident in the biography of this admirable man is a new proof of his indomitable energy of character, his comprehensive breadth of intellect, and the mingled gentleness and fervor of his disposition. whoever wishes to see a strong, compact, massive specimen of human nature, softened and harmonized by congenial religious and domestic influences, should not fail to become acquainted with these rich and instructive volumes. _the bible in the family_, by h.a. boardman (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.), is a series of discourses treating of the domestic relations, as the chief sources of personal and social welfare, and illustrating the importance of the principles of the bible to the happiness of the family. they were delivered to the congregation of the author, in the regular course of his pastoral ministrations, and without aiming at a high degree of exactness of thought, or literary finish, are plain, forcible, and impressive addresses on topics of vital moment. their illustrations are drawn from every-day life, and are often striking as well as pertinent. an occasional vein of satire in their descriptions of society, is introduced with good effect, tempering the prevailing honeyed suavity of discussion, which, without a corrective, would be apt to cloy. lippincott, grambo, and co. have republished _the scalp hunters_, by capt. mayne reid, a record of wild and incredible adventures among the trappers and savages of new mexico. it is written in an incoherent, slap-dash style, in which the want of real descriptive strength is supplied by the frequent use of interjectional phrases. the scenes, for the most part, consist of pictures of city brawls and forest fights, with an excess of blood and thunder sufficient to satiate the most sanguinary appetite. _the human body and its connection with man_, by james john garth wilkinson, is the transcendental title of a treatise by an original and vigorous english writer, in which the theories of swedenborg are applied to the illustration of human physiology. profoundly mystical in its general character, and thoroughly repellent to those who make the length of their own fingers the measure of the universe, it abounds in passages of admirable eloquence, presenting a piquant stimulus to the imagination, even when it fails to satisfy the intellect. its rhetoric will be attractive to many readers who take no interest in its anatomy. _ladies of the covenant_, by rev. james anderson, under an odd apposition of terms in the title, conceals a work of more than common merit. why could not the author use the good saxon word "women" in designating those heroic spirits who shed their blood for their religion in the era of the scottish covenant? we shall next hear of the noble army of "lady martyrs," of the "holy ladies of old," and other fantastic phrases engendered by a squeamish taste. with this exception, the volume is worthy of the highest commendation. it shows the horrors of political persecution, and the beauty of religious faith, in a succession of forcible and touching narratives. (published by j.s. redfield). _alban, a tale of the new world_, is a novel combining an unctuous melange of sensual description and religious discussion, by an enthusiastic neophyte of the roman catholic church. it has some lively pictures of modern puritanic character in new-england villages, which are a grateful relief to its pervading tone of speculative voluptuousness. (published by george p. putnam.) _the fifteen decisive battles of the world_, by e.s. creasy (published by harper and brothers). the key to this volume is contained in the following passage of the author's preface: "there are some battles which claim our attention, independently of the moral worth of the combatants, on account of their enduring importance, and by reason of the practical influence on our own social and political condition, which we can trace up to the results of those engagements. they have for us an abiding and actual interest, both while we investigate the chain of causes and effects by which they have helped to make us what we are, and also while we speculate on what we probably should have been, if any one of those battles had come to a different termination." the hint of his work, was first suggested to the author, by the remark of mr. hallam on the victory gained by charles martel, between tours and poictiers, over the invading saracens, that "it may justly be reckoned among those few battles of which a contrary event would have essentially varied the drama of the world in all its subsequent scenes; with marathon, arbela, the metaurus, chalons, and leipsic." the idea, presented in this form, is developed with great ingenuity by the author, in its application to the most significant battles in history, from marathon to waterloo. abstaining from merely theoretical speculations, he exhibits a profound insight into the operation of political causes, which he unfolds with great sagacity, and in a manner suited to enchain the attention of the reader. among the decisive battles embraced in his work, those of marathon, of arbela, of hastings, of the spanish armada, of blenheim, of saratoga, and of waterloo, are described with picturesque felicity, and their consequences to the fortunes of the civilized world are traced out in the genuine spirit of a sound philosophical historian. his observations, connected with the battle of saratoga, in regard to the position of america in modern history, are just and impartial. "the fourth great power of the world is the mighty commonwealth of the western continent, which now commands the admiration of mankind. that homage is sometimes reluctantly given, and is sometimes accompanied with suspicion and ill-will but none can refuse it. all the physical essentials for national strength are undeniably to be found in the geographical position and amplitude of territory which the united states possess; in their almost inexhaustible tracts of fertile but hitherto untouched soil, in their stately forests, in their mountain chains and their rivers, their beds of coal, and stores of metallic wealth, in their extensive sea-board along the waters of two oceans, and in their already numerous and rapidly-increasing population. and when we examine the character of this population, no one can look on the fearless energy, the sturdy determination, the aptitude for local self-government, the versatile alacrity, and the unresisting spirit of enterprise which characterize the anglo-americans, without feeling that here he beholds the true elements of progressive might." the second volume of miss strickland's _queens of scotland_ (published by harper and brothers), completes the life of mary of lorraine, and contains that of lady margaret douglas. it is marked by the careful research and animated style which have given the author such an enviable reputation as an authentic and pleasing historical guide. _the lily and the bee_, by samuel warren (published by harper and brothers), is a reprint of a rhapsodical prose-poem, suggested by the strange and beautiful spectacle of the crystal palace. the author has selected a wild and incoherent form for the embodiment of his impressions, but it is pervaded by a vein of rich, imaginative thought, which no one can follow without being touched with its spirit of suggestive musing. whoever peruses this volume, as the writer intimates, should suspend his judgment until the completion, and then both the lily and the bee may be found speaking with some significance. mayhew's _london labor_ (published by harper and brothers) has reached its fourteenth number, and fully sustains the interest of the earlier portions of the work. it is a faithful sketch of one aspect of london life, drawn from nature, and in graphic effect is hardly inferior to the high-wrought creations of fiction. the eighteenth part of lossing's _pictorial field-book of the revolution_ (published by harper and brothers), is now completed, and the successive parts will be issued rapidly until the work is closed. this noble tribute to the memory of our revolutionary fathers has been kindly and cordially received by the american people. we rejoice in its success, for the spirit of patriotism which it breathes is as wholesome, as the execution of its charming pictures is admirable. _malmiztic the toltec_, by w.w. fosdick (cincinnati, wm. h. moore and co.), is a romance of mexico, reproducing the times of montezuma and cortez. in spite of the desperate cacophony of the title, and the high-flown magnificence of the preface, it is a work of considerable originality and power. the style of the author would be improved by an unrelenting application of the pruning-knife, but he shows a talent of description and narrative, which, after abating the luxuriance of a first effort, might be turned to excellent account. we hope to hear from him again. _the mind and the heart_, by franklin w. fish, is the title of a little volume in verse by a very youthful poet, written before the completion of his eighteenth year. we utterly disapprove the publication of such precocious efforts, as they have no interest for the reader but that of a literary curiosity, and none but a perilous reflex influence on the unfledged author. these effusions, however, are highly creditable specimens of the kind, and show a facility of versification and a command of poetic thought and imagery, which give a fair promise of future excellence. we will not subject them to a harsh criticism, which they certainly do not deserve, but we advise the young aspirant to cling to the pen in private, and for the present to cherish a profound horror of printing ink. (adriance, sherman, and co.) * * * * * a new translation of dante's _divina commedia_ has recently been made in england by c.b. cayley. the volume published, containing the "inferno," is to be followed by the "purgatorio" and "paradiso." the metre of the original is preserved. a london journal says that "it is by far the most effectual transcript of the original that has yet appeared in english verse: in other words, the nearest approximation hitherto made to what the poet, such as we know him, might have written had he been of our time and country, instead of being a tuscan in the thirteenth century. to have done this office with tolerable success for any great poet is a claim to praise: in a translator of dante it is something more. mr. cayley's one main ground of superiority to previous translators lies in the true perception that nothing but plain and bold language in the copy can represent the bold plainness of the original. he has accordingly handled our whole vocabulary with unusual frankness; and we admire his skill in pressing apt though uncouth forms into the service, as much as we approve of the right feeling that taught him how dante may be most nearly approached." * * * * * _the hymn for all nations_, , by m.f. tupper, d.c.l., says _the athenæum_ "is at least a philological and typographical curiosity. the hymn--'would it were worthier!'--is translated into thirty different languages, and printed in the characters of each country." * * * * * thomas cooper, a well-known english chartist, distinguished by the inviting _prestige_, "author of the 'purgatory of suicides,'" advertises to deliver his orations on the genius of all men, from shakspeare to george fox the quaker, milton to mohammed, and on many subjects from astronomy to civil war, at the low charge of (to working men) two pounds per speech, or at thirty shillings each for a quantity. * * * * * thackeray is writing a novel in three volumes, to be published in the winter. the scene is in england early in the eighteenth century, and the stage will be crossed by many of the illustrious actors of that time--such as bolingbroke, swift, and pope; and dick steele will play a prominent part. "there is more than a bit of gossip," says _the leader_ "in the foregoing paragraph. it intimates that thackeray has 'risen above the mist;' he will no more be hampered and seduced by the obstacles and temptations coextensive with the fragmentary composition of monthly parts. it intimates that he has the noble ambition of producing a work of art. it also intimates that he has bidden adieu, for the present, to gaunt-house, the clubs, pall-mall, and may-fair--to forms of life which are so vividly, so wondrously reproduced in his pages, that detractors have asserted he could paint nothing else--forgetting that creative power to _that_ degree can not be restricted to one form. his _lectures_ have prepared us for a very vivid and a very charming picture of the eighteenth century." * * * * * the master of the rolls has given a favorable answer to the memorial presented to him by lord mahon and various literary men, praying for the admission of historical writers to the free use of the records. on this, the _london examiner_ remarks, "there is a point of view in which this matter is most important. the concession throws a vast amount of new responsibility upon literary men. henceforth the guess-work, the mere romance-writing, which we have been too long accustomed to suppose to be history, will be without excuse. writers who neglect to take advantage of record-evidence on all subjects to which it is applicable, will lay themselves open to the sharpest and justest critical censure. our history may now be put upon the strong foundation, not of borrowed evidence, but of the records themselves. if literary men neglect this opportunity, the government will be no longer to blame. the master of the rolls has cleared his conscience, and that of the state. but we have no fear that such will be the result. wise and liberal concession, like that of the master of the rolls, must tell with honorable effect both upon our literary men and upon our national character." * * * * * the following ludicrous remarks, are from an article in the _london spectator_ on parkman's _history of pontiac_. they are a specimen of what a certain class of english writers call criticism. the obtuseness of john bull can no farther go. "it is remarked by travelers, that however individual americans may differ--as the observing shepherd can detect physiognomical differences in his flock--there is a general resemblance throughout the union in lathy lankiness, in haste, in tobacco-chewing, in dress, in manners or (as scott expressed it) 'no manners.' the remark may be truly applied to american books. poetry and travels with hardly an exception, historical novels and tales without any exception, and works on or about history, have a certain family likeness. as one star differs from another in brightness, and yet they are all stars, so one american writer on history differs from another in point of merit, yet their kind of merit is alike. washington irving's mode of composition is the type of them all, and consists in making the most of things. the landscape is described, not to possess the reader with the features of the country so far as they are essential to the due apprehension of the historical event, but as a thing important in itself, and sometimes as a thing adapted to show off the writing or the writer. the costumes are not only indicated, to remind the reader of the various people engaged, but dwelt upon with the unction of a virtuoso. the march is narrated in detail; the accessories are described in their minutiæ; and the probable or possible feelings of the actors are laid before the reader. sometimes this mode of composition is used sparingly and chastely, as by bancroft; sometimes more fully, as by theodore irving in his _conquest of florida_; other styles (in the sense of _expressing_ ideas) than the model may also preponderate, so as to suggest no idea of the author of the _sketch book_ and the _conquest of granada_; but, more or less, the literary sketcher or tale-writer has encroached upon the province of the historian." the london journals announce that _carlyle's memoirs_ of john stirling will be issued immediately. * * * * * the _leader_ announces the certainty of an abridged translation of auguste comte's six volumes of _positive philosophy_ appearing as soon as is compatible with the exigencies of so important an undertaking. a very competent mind has long been engaged upon the task; and the growing desire in the public to hear more about this bacon of the nineteenth century, remarks the _leader_, renders such a publication necessary. * * * * * at a recent meeting of the royal society of literature in london, a communication was made from the celebrated antiquarian explorer, mr. layard, of the progress and results of his recent investigations at nimroud; from which it was evident that the public is justified in forming high expectations of the advance which it will be enabled to make in the knowledge of assyrian history and antiquities, in consequence of his further indefatigable labors. the new objects of antiquity exhumed will throw light on the state of the arts, the chronology, the origin of the egyptian influence, and other facts relating to this the most ancient empire of the world. * * * * * a tablet in memory of the late william wordsworth has just been fixed in grasmere church, executed by mr. thomas woolner. the inscription is from the pen of professor keble. * * * * * dr. achilli has intimated at one of the meetings of the evangelical alliance, that he intends to prosecute dr. newman for libel at the commencement of next term. * * * * * mazzini's little work, _the pope in the nineteenth century_, which made considerable sensation, when it appeared in french, has been translated into english, and is now published as a pamphlet. * * * * * french literature is beginning to show some activity. thiers issues the eleventh volume of his _history of the consulate and the empire_; instead of the ten volumes originally proposed, the work is to extend to fourteen--an extension for which few will be grateful! * * * * * adolphe granier de cassagnac, the lively, impertinent, paradoxical journalist, is writing a _histoire du directoire_ in his own paper, and the brussels edition of volume i. is already published. it is full of sarcasms and declamations against the republican party and their great leaders; but it is sprightly, amusing, and has something of novelty in its tone: after so much wearisome laudation of every body in the revolution, a spirited, reckless, and dashing onslaught makes the old subject piquant. * * * * * this is verily the age of cheapness. george sand has consented to allow all her novels to be reprinted in paris, for the small charge of four _sous_, a shade less than twopence, per part, which will make, it appears, about _l._ for the whole collection. this popular edition is to be profusely illustrated by eminent artists, and is to be printed and got up in good style. * * * * * during the last year or two an immense deal of business has been done by three or four publishing houses, in the production of esteemed works at four sous the sheet, of close yet legible type, excellent paper, and spirited illustrations. by this plan, the humblest working-man and the poorest _grisette_ have been able to form a very respectable library. naturally the works so brought out have been chiefly of the class of light literature, but not a few are of a graver character. among the authors whose complete works have been published, are lesage, chateaubriand, anquetil (the historian), balzac, sue, paul de kock; among those partially published, rousseau, lamennais, voltaire, diderot, fénélon, bernardin de saint pierre. translations of foreign works have also been produced; in the batch are, complete or partial, goldsmith, sterne, anne radcliffe, mrs. inchbald, walter scott, fenimore cooper, bulwer, dickens, marryatt, goethe, schiller, silvio pellico; and boccacio. * * * * * an eminent critic has just revealed a fact which very few people knew--viz. that st. just, one of the most terrible of the terrible heroes of the first french revolution, wrote and published, before he gained his sanguinary celebrity, a long poem, entitled, "orgaut." the opinion which m. thiers and other historians have caused the public to form of this man was, that he was a fanatic--implacable, but sincere--a ruthless minister of the guillotine; but deeming wholesale slaughter indispensable for securing, what he conscientiously considered, the welfare of the people. he was, we may imagine, something like the gloomy inquisitors of old, who thought it was doing god service to burn heretics at the stake. to justify this opinion, one would have expected to have found in a poem written by him when the warm and generous sentiments of youth were in all their freshness, burning aspirations for what it was the fashion of his time to call _vertu_, and lavish protestations of devotedness to his country and the people. but instead of that, the work is, it appears, from beginning to end, full of the grossest obscenity--it is the delirium of a brain maddened with voluptuousness--it is coarser and more abominable than the "pucelle" of voltaire, and is not relieved, as that is, by sparkling wit and graces of style. in a moral point of view, it is atrocious--in a literary point of view, wretched. * * * * * of a political writer, who, for the last year or two, has made some noise in the world, the all-destructive proudhon, a sharp english critic keenly enough observes: "after comte there is no one in france to compare with proudhon for power, originality, daring, and coherence. his name is a name of terror. he is of no party, no sect. like ishmael, his hand is raised against every one, and his blows are crushing. in some respects he reminds us of carlyle there is the same relentless scorn for his adversaries, the same vehement indignation against error, the same domineering personality, the same preference for crude energy of statement, the same power of sarcasm; but there is none of the abounding _poetry_ which is in carlyle, none of the true genius; and there is an excess of dialectics such as carlyle would turn aside from. if carlyle is the prophet of democracy, proudhon is its logician and economist. proudhon loves to startle. it suits his own vehement, combative nature. we do not think he does it from calculation so much as from instinct; he does not fire a musket in the air that its noise may call attention to him, but from sheer sympathy with musket shots. whatever may be the motive, the result is unquestionable: attention _is_ attracted and fixed." * * * * * a french writer, m. leon de montbeillard, has just published a work on spinoza, calling in question the logical powers of that "thorny" reasoner on inscrutable problems. the _london leader_ disposes of it in a summary manner: "if spinoza has one characteristic more eminent than another, it is commonly supposed to be the geometric precision and exactitude of his logical demonstrations. to say that spinoza was a rigorous logician is like saying that shakspeare was dramatic, and milton imaginative--a platitude unworthy of an original mind, a truism beneath notice. m. montbeillard declines to walk in such a beaten path. he denies spinoza's logical merit. spinoza a logician; _fi donc_! read this treatise and learn better. what all the world has hitherto supposed to be severe deductive logic, only to be escaped by a refusal to accept the premises, is here shown to be nothing but a pedantic array of pretended axioms and theorems, which are attacked and overturned by this adventurous author _avec une assez grande facilité_. we have not seen the work, but we have not a doubt of the _facility_!" * * * * * in a letter to the newspapers, alexandre dumas complains that a publisher, who has got possession of a manuscript history of louis philippe, written by him, intends to bring it out under a title insulting to the exiled royal family--"mysteries of the orleans family," or something of that kind. the proceeding would certainly be scandalously unjust to the author; but doubts are raised whether he can obtain any legal redress. the manuscript is the publisher's, paid for with his money, purchased by him, not from dumas himself, but from another _editeur_ to whom dumas ceded it. it is, therefore, to all intents and purposes, merchandise in the eyes of the owner; and, as in the case of any other merchandise, it is contended that he may sell it under any title he pleases that does not absolutely misrepresent its character. * * * * * eugene sue has commenced the publication of another of his lengthy romances in one of the daily papers, and has also begun the printing of a comedy, in six acts, in another journal. the quantity of matter which popular romancers in france manage to produce is really extraordinarily great. they think nothing of writing three or four columns of newspaper type in a day, and that day after day, for months at a time. the most active journalists certainly, on an average, do not knock off any thing like that quantity; and yet what _they_ produce requires (or at least obtains) little or no thought--no previous study--is not part of a regular plan--and is not expected to display much originality of conception, or much grace of style. * * * * * the success of balzac's comedy has caused the playwrights to turn their attention to his novels, and it is probable that in the course of the next few months we shall see one and all dramatized. full as balzac's novels are of forcibly drawn personages and striking incidents, competent critics doubt whether they will suit the stage; for their great charm and their great merit consists in minute analyzation, which is impracticable in the theatre. he was an admirable miniaturist, a laborious anatomist, and a complete master of detail--qualities with which the acted drama has naught to do. * * * * * eugene sue offers us a new novel, _l' avarice_, the last of his series on the seven cardinal sins, in one volume. * * * * * the two volumes of de maistre's letters and inedited trifles, _lettres et opuscules inédits_, with a biographical notice written by his son, will be very acceptable, not only to catholics, but to all who can rise above differences of creed, and recognize the amazing power of this great writer. these volumes present him, _en déshabille_, and he is worthy knowing so. * * * * * jules janin's letters on the exhibition, reprinted in a neat volume in paris as well as at london, have procured him the honor of a very complimentary autograph letter from prince albert. the popularity which janin has contrived to gain, not only in his own country, but in europe--and not only among the middle classes, those great patrons of literary men nowadays, but among royal and aristocratic personages also--this popularity is envied by scores of writers of far greater pretensions. * * * * * the french have a very common and most unjust practice--that of appropriating the authorship of works which they only translate. a complete edition of fielding has appeared under the title "oeuvres de l'abbé st. romme," or some such name. ducis has passed himself off as the _author_ of _hamlet_ and _macbeth_, and the other great plays of shakspeare which he has dared to mutilate. there are half a dozen translations of "paradise lost," in which the name of some obscure varlet figures on the title-page, while that of milton is not once mentioned. there are editions of the "decline and fall," by monsieur so-and-so, without the slightest indication that the work is that of gibbon; and bulwer and scott, and indeed all english authors of note, dead and living, have been pillaged in the same way. the german and italian authors have suffered the same treatment from these literary wreckers. * * * * * an edition of brentano's works has been published in six volumes. as one of the most famous of the "romantic school," brentano is interesting to all students of german literature, and the present publication receives additional stimulus from the knowledge that brentano, late in life, looked upon his works as "dangerous," if not "devilish," and destroyed all the copies he could lay hands on. * * * * * metternich is writing a book, and that book is a _history of austria_ during his own time! unhappily this bit of gossip can only interest our grandchildren, as the prince inserts a clause in his will, which forbids the publication till sixty years after his death. * * * * * the inhabitants of schaffhausen have been inaugurating a monument to the memory of the historian john von muller in that, his native town. the monument--which is the work of the swiss sculptor oechslein--is composed of a colossal marble bust of the historian--on a lofty granite pedestal, ornamented with a bas-relief, in marble, representing the muse of history engaging muller to write the great events of his country's story. below, inscribed in characters of gold, is the following passage from one of muller's own letters: "i have never been on the side of party--but always on that of truth and justice wherever i could recognize them." * * * * * john bartlett, cambridge, has in press the _miscellaneous writings_ of andrews norton, in one volume, vo, including reviews, critiques, and essays on various subjects of literature and theology. it will be a work of considerable interest. the same publisher announces also stockhardt's _agricultural chemistry_, to be published simultaneously with the german edition. a seventh edition of this author's _principles of chemistry_ has been published by mr. bartlett. in a letter to him, dr. stockhardt thus writes of the american reprint: "the style in which you have got up my 'principles of chemistry,' is worthy of the great land of freedom, whose adopted son you have made my work, and places the original quite in the shade. the translation, by dr. peirce, is likewise so faithful and correct, that any author would be highly gratified to find his thoughts and opinions rendered so perfectly in another language." * * * * * from the recent report of the methodist book concern in new york, it appears that the sales for the last twelve months were more than $ , , being an increase of $ , over the previous year, and exceeding all former years. the profits on the new hymn book were $ , . the christian advocate and journal has a circulation of from , to , . the missionary advocate , . the sunday school advocate , , with a yearly sale of sunday school books amounting to $ . the quarterly review has subscribers. * * * * * the name of the popular author, w. gilmore simms, having been publicly mentioned in connection with the presidency of the south carolina college, the charleston _literary gazette_ remarks, "we should rejoice greatly to see mr. simms in a position which, we think, would be so congenial to his tastes, and for which his whole career has eminently fitted him. the watchword of his life has been, 'strive.' he has striven, manfully, daringly, nobly, _successfully_! he has raised himself to a position in the world of letters, scarcely a whit inferior to the noblest of our writers. the death of cooper leaves him without a living american compeer in the realm of fiction, and we confidently predict that the next generation will pronounce him to have been the greatest american poet of this!" * * * * * from america, says the london "household narrative," we receive a well-written and animated history of the campaigns of the celebrated indian chief, _pontiac_, during his gallant "conspiracy" to expel the english colonists after the conquest of canada. it is principally interesting for the picture it gives of the chief himself; and for a more favorable view of the plans, and of the sagacity which informed and shaped them, than englishmen have been prepared for in the case of any chief of those tribes. * * * * * mr. james richardson, the enterprising african traveler, died on the th of march last, at a small village called ungurutua, six days distant from kouka, the capital of bornou. early in january, he and the companions of his mission, drs. barth and overweg, arrived at the immense plain of damergou, when, after remaining a few days, they separated, dr. barth proceeding to kanu, dr. overweg to guber, and mr. richardson taking the direct route to kouka, by zinder. there, it would seem, his strength began to give way, and before he had arrived twelve days distant from kouka he became seriously ill, suffering much from the oppressive heat of the sun. having reached a large town called kangarrua, he halted for three days, and feeling himself rather refreshed he renewed his journey. after two days' more traveling, during which his weakness greatly increased, they arrived at the waddy mellaha. leaving this place on the d of march, they reached in two hours the village of ungurutua, when mr. richardson became so weak that he was unable to proceed. in the evening he took a little food and tried to sleep, but became very restless, and left his tent, supported by his servant. he then took some tea, and threw himself again on his bed, but did not sleep. his attendants having made some coffee, he asked for a cup, but had no strength to hold it. he repeated several times "i have no strength," and after having pronounced the name of his wife, sighed deeply, and expired without a struggle, about two hours after midnight. * * * * * mr. william nicol, f.r.s.e., died in edinburgh on the d inst., in his eighty-third year. mr. nicol commenced his career as assistant to the late dr. moyes, the eminent blind lecturer on natural philosophy. dr. moyes, at his death, bequeathed his apparatus to mr. nicol, who then lectured on the same subject as his predecessor. mr. nicol's contributions to the "edinburgh philosophical journal" were various and valuable; the more important being his description of his successful repetition of döbereiner's celebrated experiment of igniting spongy platina by a stream of cold hydrogen gas; also his method of preparing fossil woods for microscopic investigation, which led to his discovery of the structural difference between the arucarian and coniferous woods, by far the most important in fossil botany. but the most valuable contribution to physical science, and with which his name will ever be associated, was his invention of the single image prism of calcareous spar, known to the scientific world as nicol's prism. * * * * * the london papers announce the death of mr. b. p. gibbon, the line engraver, deservedly celebrated for his many excellent engravings after the works of sir edwin landseer. his death was occasioned by a sudden attack of english cholera. "he was well versed in the history of his art, and of a mild and gentlemanlike disposition of mind. one of his first works was a small engraving after landseer's 'traveled monkey;' and the work on which he was last engaged--and which he has left scarcely half done--was an engraving after one of mr. webster's pictures. his inclinations in early life turned to the stage; but his true path was line engraving. in this he was distinguished rather for the delicacy of his touch and the close character of his work, than for breadth of effect and boldness in the laying in of lines." * * * * * the london papers record the death of john kidd, d.m. of christchurch, regius professor of medicine, tomline's prælector of anatomy, aldrichian professor of anatomy, and radcliffe's librarian. dr. kidd was highly esteemed and respected both in the university and city of oxford, in dr. kidd succeeded sir christopher pegge, bart., in the office of regius professor of medicine, to which is annexed tomline's prælectorship of anatomy, and the aldrichian professorship of anatomy, and in he succeeded dr. williams as radcliffe's librarian. the _leader_ says, "oxford has lost an ornament in losing dr. kidd, the regius professor of medicine in the university, whose death we see recorded in the papers; and the public will remember him as the author of one of the most popular _bridgewater treatises_, a series of works intended to give orthodoxy the support of science, and which, by the very juxtaposition of religion and science, have greatly helped to bring their discordances into relief. dr. kidd was not a writer of such attainments in philosophy as to give any weight to his views; but his knowledge of facts was extensive, and his exposition popular in style. it may be worth remarking that the title of his book, _on the adaptation of external nature to the physical condition of man_, is radically opposed to the most advanced views of physiology." a leaf from punch. [illustration: _brother jonathan._--"i guess, master johnny, if you don't look sharp, i'll show you how to make a seventy-four next."] [illustration: not a difficult thing to foretell. "let the poor gipsy tell your fortune, my pretty gentleman."] [illustration: curiosities of medical experience. _medical student._ "well, old feller, so you've 'passed' at last." _consulting surgeon._ "yes; but i don't get much practice somehow--although i am nearly always at home, in case any one should call."] [illustration: retirement.] fashions for november. [illustration: fig. .--ball and dinner costumes.] this is the commencement season for social parties and public amusements. we present seasonable illustrations of fashionable costumes for dinner parties, balls, and the opera. the first figure in the above engraving represents an elegant ball dress.--hair in short bandeaux, tied behind à la grecque, with a wreath of bluebells; the flowers are small and arranged on a cord along the forehead; they increase in size and form tufts at the sides. the cord is continued behind and a second cord of flowers passes over the head, and blends with the flowers at the sides. the dress of white watered silk with a body and upper skirt of white silk net, festooned and embroidered in spots with silk. the spots are small. the opening of the body is heart-shape. the waist is pointed behind and before. the sleeves are silk net, puffed, and held up by a few bluebells. the body is trimmed with a double berthe, of silk net; a bouquet of bluebells is placed on the left, goes down from the waist _en cordon_, and forms another bouquet to hold up the left side of the skirt. on the right side it is held up by an isolated bouquet. this upper skirt is very full, and much longer behind than before. in the opening of the body and that formed by turning up the sleeves, a chemisette plaited very small, and edged with lace, is visible. dinner toilet.--the second, or right hand figure, represents a graceful dinner toilet. _fanchonnette_ cap made of english lace, which is disposed in two rows. the upper one is about four inches wide sewed on silk net, which forms the middle, the joining being covered by a narrow band of terry velvet, no. . the bottom is composed of the same elements, exactly in the shape of a _fanchon_, straight in front, pointed behind, with small barbes at the side. under the row that covers the top of the head are loops of silk ribbon. the sides are trimmed with more of the same kind, that hang down the cheeks. plain silk dress. the body is low and opens down to the point. the skirt, in front, is open the whole length. the edges of the body, sleeves, and front of the skirt are undulated, and the undulations are trimmed with a silk _ruché_, the sides of which are the same stuff as the dress, while the middle is of a different-colored silk. the sleeves, turned up at the bend of the arm, show under-sleeves composed of three waves of lace; the body and under-skirt are muslin, embroidered so as to show the embroidery at the openings. the skirt has five graduated openings. the bottom edge of the body is composed of a deep lace, arranged square. [illustration: fig. .--opera dress.] opera dress.--costumes for the opera are diversified and quite fanciful. our illustration exhibits one of the most elegant and admired. hair in short puffed bandeaux. the knot behind is composed of two plaits, and a third is brought round on the top of the head in front. waistcoat of watered silk, opening heart-shape in front, sitting well to the shape of the breast and waist, ending in an open point at bottom, and hollowed over the hip about an inch and a half. the back of the waistcoat is tight. it buttons straight down in front, the left side lapping over a little on the right, like a gentleman's waistcoat; it has one row of small buttons. the edge of the waistcoat has a narrow silk binding lapped over the edge, and all round run five rows of braid, one-tenth of an inch wide, at intervals of about one-fifth of an inch. jaconet skirt, ornamented in front with six english bands one above the other; the first inches long, the second , the third - / , the fourth , the fifth - / , and the sixth inches. each of these bands falls over the gathering of the other, the last covering the top of the flounce which runs round the skirt. the flounce is inches deep, and the width of the bands, beginning with the top one is , - / , - / , - / , , and - / inches. the white sleeves which come below those of the _soutanelle_ (cassock) have two rows of embroidery. the _soutanelle_ is made of silk, and lined with a different color; it has a hood, the inside of which is like the lining; it forms a pelerine, and ends square in front. the _soutanelle_ is cut without arm-holes; that is, the sleeve is taken out of the stuff and the seams of the body are taken in the cut under the arm. sitting close on the shoulders and the upper part of the body, it forms round plaits from the waist. this fullness is owing to its being cut in a style like the paletot. the back is not tight. the edges of the hood, the _soutanelle_, and the sleeves are trimmed with three _ruchés_, very full, and indented like a saw. the one in the middle is the same color as the lining, the two others like the outside. [illustration: figs. and .--head-dresses and caps.] head toilet.--much attention continues to be bestowed upon caps and other arrangements for the head. figure represents one of the newest styles, called the _chambord head-dress_. the hair forms a point over the forehead: a very small cap _à la marie stuart_, formed of several small quillings of white silk net, set close together, with a bouquet of flowers upon one side and a small bow of ribbon upon the other. figure represents a simple cap of black lace, with broad appendages of the same, instead of ribbons, on each side, and covering the ears. this is a neat head toilet for the morning costume of matrons. head-dresses for the young are principally composed of the same flowers as those which decorate the dress, and are formed so as to suit the countenance of the wearer, either as a cordon around the head, from which droop long sprays of twining herbs, or bouquets of flowers, placed very far back, and tied with bows of black ribbon or velvet, with long ends. the rage for lace is undiminished. it is adapted to so many purposes--vails, falls, flounces, shawl-berthes, collars, ruffles, habit-shirts, &c., that every variety of costume has lace as an important material in trimming. it forms a part of the head-dress, accompanies the gown, surrounds the waist, falls from the shoulders; light as feathers, rich as velvet, it is at once an article of luxury and ornament--a garment and a jewel. embroidery, following the example of lace, is coming more and more into favor; sleeves, collars, petticoats, and handkerchiefs are literally loaded with it, abroad; even stockings are beginning to participate in this kind of luxury. there is no essential change in the make of dresses. sleeves _à la duchesse_ are beginning to be more fashionable than the pagoda sleeves. the waistcoat is still greatly admired, and is more seasonable now than in midsummer. a new style of mantelet has appeared, called the _valdivia_. it is a light gray cloth, lined with blue sarcenet. it is made without seams, very full, falling very low behind, where it is rounded in the form of the half circle. the two lappets before are also very long and wide, rounded like the back. no sleeves; the place for the hand is indicated by the sloped part. another, called the _espera_ mantelet, is of black watered silk, trimmed with a wide velvet, and bordered by a chenille fringe. it fits to the waist and falls as low as the calf behind. the fronts fall straight and square, a little lower than behind. the bloomer costume has appeared in england and ireland, and attracted attention and approbation. although comparatively few in this country have yet adopted it to its full extent (or, rather, curtailment), the agitation of the question has been of essential benefit in modifying the long and untidy skirts. they are now made some inches shorter than they were six months ago. harper's new monthly magazine. no. xx--january, --vol. iv. [illustration] early and private life of benjamin franklin. by jacob abbott. it is generally true in respect to great statesmen that they owe their celebrity almost entirely to their public and official career. they promote the welfare of mankind by directing legislation, founding institutions, negotiating treaties of peace or of commerce between rival states, and guiding, in various other ways, the course of public and national affairs, while their individual and personal influence attracts very little regard. with benjamin franklin, however, the reverse of this is true. he did indeed, while he lived, take a very active part, with other leading men of his time, in the performance of great public functions; but his claim to the extraordinary degree of respect and veneration which is so freely awarded to his name and memory by the american people, rests not chiefly upon this, but upon the extended influence which he has exerted, and which he still continues to exert upon the national mind, through the power of his private and personal character. the prevalence of habits of industry and economy, of foresight and thrift, of cautious calculation in the formation of plans, and energy and perseverance in the execution of them, and of the disposition to invest what is earned in substantial and enduring possessions, rather than to expend it in brief pleasures or for purposes of idle show--the prevalence of these traits, so far as they exist as elements of the national character in this country--is due in an incalculable degree to the doings and sayings and history of this great exemplar. thus it is to his life and to his counsels that is to be attributed, in a very high degree, the formation of that great public sentiment prevailing so extensively among us, which makes it more honorable to be industrious than to be idle, and to be economical and prudent rather than extravagant and vain; which places substantial and unpretending prosperity above empty pretension, and real comfort and abundance before genteel and expensive display. a very considerable portion of the effect which franklin has produced upon the national character is due to the picturesque and almost romantic interest which attaches itself to the incidents of his personal history. in his autobiography he has given us a very full and a very graphic narrative of these incidents, and as the anniversary of his birth-day occurs during the present month, we can not occupy the attention of our readers at this time, in a more appropriate manner than by a brief review of the principal events of his life--so far as such a review can be comprised within the limits of a single article. [illustration] the ancestors of franklin lived for many generations on a small estate in northamptonshire, one of the central counties in england. the head of the family during all this time followed the business of a smith, the eldest son from generation to generation, being brought up to that employment. the franklin family were protestants, and at one time when the catholics were in power, during the reign of mary, the common people were forbidden to possess or to read the english bible. nevertheless the franklin family contrived to get possession of a copy of the scriptures, and in order to conceal it they kept it fastened on the under side of the seat of a little stool. the book was open, the back of the covers being against the seat, and the leaves being kept up by tapes which passed across the pages, and which were fastened to the seat of the stool at the ends. when mr. franklin wished to read his bible to his family, he was accustomed to take up this stool and place it bottom upward upon his lap; and thus he had the book open before him. when he wished to turn over a leaf, he had to turn it under the tape, which, though a little inconvenient, was attended with no serious difficulty. during the reading one of the children was stationed at the door, to watch, and to give notice if an officer should be coming; and in case of an alarm the stool was immediately turned over and placed in its proper position upon the floor, the fringe which bordered the sides of it hanging down so as to conceal the book wholly from view. this was in the day of franklin's _great-grandfather_. in process of time, after the catholic controversy was decided, new religious dissensions sprang up between the church of england and the nonconformists. the family of franklin were of the latter party, and at length mr. josiah franklin--who was benjamin franklin's father--concluded to join a party of his neighbors and friends, who had determined, in consequence of the restrictions which they were under in england, in respect to their religious faith and worship, to emigrate to america. mr. franklin came accordingly to boston, and there, after a time, benjamin franklin was born. the place of his birth was in milk-street, opposite to the old south church. the humble dwelling, however, in which the great philosopher was born, has long since disappeared. the magnificent granite warehouses of the boston merchants now cover the spot, and on one of them is carved conspicuously the inscription, birthplace of franklin. mr. josiah franklin had been a dyer in england, but finding on his coming to boston that there was but little to be done in that art in so new a country, he concluded to choose some other occupation; and he finally determined upon that of a tallow chandler. benjamin was the youngest son. the others, as they gradually became old enough, were put to different trades, but as benjamin showed a great fondness for his books, having learned to read of his own accord at a very early age, and as he was the youngest son, his father conceived the idea of educating him for the church. so they sent him to the grammar school, and he commenced his studies. he was very successful in the school, and rose from class to class quite rapidly; but still the plan of giving him a public education was at length, for some reason or other, abandoned, and mr. franklin took benjamin into his store, to help him in his business. his duties here were to cut the wicks for the candles, to fill the moulds, to attend upon the customers, or to go of errands or deliver purchases about the town. [illustration] there was a certain mill-pond in a back part of the town, where benjamin was accustomed to go sometimes, in his play-hours, with other boys, to fish. this mill-pond has long since been filled up, and its place is now occupied by the streets and warehouses of the city. in franklin's day, however, the place was somewhat solitary, and the shore of the pond being marshy, the boys soon trampled up the ground where they were accustomed to stand in fishing, so as to convert it into a perfect quagmire. at length young franklin proposed to the boys that they should build a wharf, or pier, to stand upon--getting the materials for the purpose from a heap of stones that had been brought for a house which some workmen were building in the neighborhood. the boys at once acceded to the proposal. they all accordingly assembled at the spot one evening after the workmen had gone away for the night, and taking as many stones as they needed for the purpose, they proceeded to build their wharf. [illustration] the boys supposed very probably that the stones which they had taken would not be missed. the workmen, however, did miss them, and on making search the following morning they soon discovered what had become of them. the boys were thus detected, and were all punished. franklin's father, though he was plain and unpretending in his manners, was a very sensible and well-informed man, and he possessed a sound judgment and an excellent understanding. he was often consulted by his neighbors and friends, both in respect to public and private affairs. he took great interest, when conversing with his family at table, in introducing useful topics of discourse, and endeavored in other ways to form in the minds of his children a taste for solid and substantial acquisitions. he was quite a musician, and was accustomed sometimes when the labors of the day were done, to play upon the violin and sing, for the entertainment of his family. this music benjamin himself used to take great delight in listening to. [illustration] young benjamin did not like his father's trade--that of a chandler--and it was for a long time undecided what calling in life he should pursue. he wished very much to go to sea, but his parents were very unwilling that he should do so. his father, accordingly, in order to make him contented and willing to remain at home, took great pains to find some employment for him that he would like, and he was accustomed to walk about the town with him to see the workmen employed about their various trades. it was at last decided that he should learn the trade of a printer. one reason why this trade was decided upon was that one of benjamin's older brothers was a printer, and had just returned from england with a press and a font of type, and was about setting up his business in boston. so it was decided that benjamin should be bound to him, as his apprentice; and this was accordingly done. benjamin was then about twelve years old. benjamin had always from his childhood manifested a great thirst for reading, which thirst he had now a much better opportunity to gratify than ever before, as his connection with printers and booksellers gave him facilities for borrowing books. sometimes he would sit up all night to read the book so borrowed. [illustration] benjamin's brother, the printer, did not keep house, but boarded his apprentices at a boarding house in the town. benjamin pretty soon conceived the idea of boarding himself, on condition that his brother would pay to him the sum which he had been accustomed to pay for him to the landlady of the boarding house. by this plan he saved a large portion of the time which was allotted to dinner, for reading; for, as he remained alone in the printing office while the rest were gone, he could read, with the book in his lap, while partaking of the simple repast which he had provided. [illustration] young benjamin was mainly employed, of course, while in his brother's office, in very humble duties; but he did not by any means confine himself to the menial services which were required of him, as the duty of the youngest apprentice. in fact he actually commenced his career as an author while in this subordinate position. it seems that several gentlemen of boston, friends of his brother, used to write occasional articles for a newspaper which he printed; and they would sometimes meet at the office to discuss the subjects of their articles, and the effects that they produced. benjamin determined to try his hand at this work. he accordingly wrote an article for the paper, and after copying it carefully in disguised writing, he put it late one night under the door. his brother found it there in the morning, and on reading it was much pleased with it. he read it to his friends when they came in--benjamin being at work all the time near by, at his printing case, and enjoying very highly the remarks and comments which they made. he was particularly amused at the guesses that they offered in respect to the author, and his vanity was gratified at finding that the persons that they named were all gentlemen of high character for ingenuity and learning. the young author was so much encouraged by this attempt that he afterward sent in several other articles in the same way; they were all approved of and duly inserted in the paper. at length he made it known that he was the author of the articles. all were very much surprised, and benjamin found that in consequence of this discovery he was regarded with much greater consideration by his brother's friends, the gentlemen to whom his performances had been shown, but that his brother himself did not appear to be much pleased. benjamin was employed at various avocations connected with the newspaper, while in his brother's service; sometimes in setting types, then in working off the sheets at the press, and finally in carrying the papers around the town to deliver them to the subscribers. thus he was, at the same time, compositor, pressman, and carrier. this gave a very agreeable variety to his work, and the opportunities which he enjoyed for acquiring experience and information were far more favorable than they had ever been before. [illustration] in the efforts which young franklin made to improve his mind, while in his brother's office, he did not devote his time to mere reading, but applied himself vigorously to _study_. he was deficient, he thought, in a knowledge of figures, and so he procured an arithmetic, of his own accord, and went through it himself, with very little or no assistance. by proceeding very slowly and carefully in this work, leaving nothing behind that he did not fully understand, he so smoothed his own way as to go through the whole with very little embarrassment or difficulty. he also studied a book of english grammar. the book contained, moreover, brief treatises on logic and rhetoric, which were inserted at the end by way of appendix. these treatises franklin studied too with great care. in a word, the time which he devoted to books was spent, not in seeking amusement, but in acquiring solid and substantial knowledge. [illustration] notwithstanding these advantages, however, benjamin did not lead a very happy life as his brother's apprentice. he found his brother a very passionate man and he was often used very roughly by him. finally after the lapse of four or five years, during which various difficulties occurred which can not here be fully narrated, young benjamin determined to run away, and seek his fortune in new york. in writing the history of his life, franklin acknowledges that he was very censurable for taking such a step, and that in the disputes which had occurred between him and his brother, he himself was much in fault, having often needlessly irritated his brother by his saucy and provoking behavior. he, however, determined to go, and a young friend of his, named collins, a boy of about his own age, helped him form and execute the plan of his escape. [illustration] the plan which they formed was for benjamin to take passage secretly, in a new york sloop, which was then in boston and about ready to sail. the boys made up a false story to tell the captain of the sloop in order to induce him to take benjamin on board. benjamin sold his books and such other little property as he possessed, to raise money, and at length, when the time arrived he went on board the sloop in a very private manner, and concealed himself there. the captain of the sloop undoubtedly did wrong in taking such a boy away in this manner. he knew that franklin was running away from home, though he was deceived by collins's story in respect to the cause of his flight. the vessel soon sailed, with franklin on board. the wind was fair and she had a very prosperous passage. in three days which was by no means a long time for such a voyage, she reached new york, and benjamin landed safely. [illustration] he found himself, however, when landed, in a very forlorn and friendless condition. he knew no one, he was provided, of course, with no letters of introduction or recommendation, and he had very little money. he applied at a printing office for employment. the printer, whose name was bradford, said that he had workmen enough, but that he had a son in philadelphia who was also a printer, and who had lately lost one of his principal hands. so our young hero determined to go to philadelphia. on his journey to philadelphia he met with various romantic adventures. a part of the way he went by water, and very narrowly escaped shipwreck in a storm which suddenly arose, and which drove the vessel to the eastward, entirely out of her course, and came very near throwing her upon the shores of long island. he, however, at length reached amboy in safety, and thence he undertook to travel on foot through new jersey to burlington, a distance of about fifty miles, carrying his pack upon his back. [illustration] it rained violently all the day, and the unhappy adventurer became so exhausted with his exposures and suffering that he heartily repented of having ever left his home. at length after two days of weary traveling, franklin reached burlington, on the delaware, the point where he had expected to embark again on board a vessel in order to proceed down the river to philadelphia. the regular packet, however, had just gone, and no other one was expected to sail for three days. it was then saturday, and the next boat was not to go until tuesday. our traveler was very much disappointed to find that he must wait so long. in his perplexity he went back to the house of a woman where he had stopped to buy some gingerbread when he first came into town, and asked her what she thought he had better do. she offered to give him lodging in her house, until tuesday, and inviting him in she immediately prepared some dinner for him, which, though it was very frugal and plain, was received with great thankfulness by the weary and wayworn traveler. [illustration] our hero was not obliged to wait so long as he expected, after all; for that evening as he chanced to be walking along the shore of the river, a small vessel came by on its way to philadelphia, and on his applying to the boatmen for a passage they agreed to take him on board. he accordingly embarked, and the vessel proceeded down the river. there was no wind, and the men spent the night in rowing. franklin himself worked with the rest. toward morning they began to be afraid that they had passed the city in the dark, and so they hauled their vessel up to the shore and landed. when daylight appeared they found that they were about five miles above the city. when they arrived at the city franklin paid the boatmen a shilling for his passage. they were at first unwilling to receive it, on account of his having helped them to row, but he insisted that they should. he then counted up the money which he had left, and found that it amounted to just one dollar. [illustration] the first thing that he did was to go to a baker's to buy something to eat. he asked for three-pence worth of bread. the baker gave him three good sized rolls for that money. his pockets were full of clothes and other such things, which he had put into them, and so he walked off up the street, holding one of his rolls under each arm and eating the third. it is a singular circumstance that while he was walking through the streets in this way, he passed by the house where the young woman resided who was destined in subsequent years to become his wife, and that she actually saw him as he passed, and took particular notice of him on account of the ridiculous appearance which he made. franklin went on in this manner up market-street to fourth-street, then down through chestnut-street and apart of walnut-street, until he came back to the river again at the place where the vessel lay. he came thus to the shore again in order to get a drink of water from the river, for he was thirsty. in fact the situation in which our young adventurer found himself at this time must have been extremely discouraging. he was in a strange town, hundreds of miles from home, without friends, without money, without even a place to lay his head, and scarcely knowing what to do or where to go. it is not strange, therefore, that, after taking his short walk around the streets of the town, he should find himself returning again toward the vessel that had brought him; since this vessel alone contained objects and faces in the least degree familiar to his eye. it happened that among the passengers that had come down the river on board the vessel, there was a poor woman, who was traveling with her child, a boy of six or eight years of age. when franklin came down to the wharf he found this woman sitting there with her child, both looking quite weary and forlorn; and, as he had already satisfied his hunger with eating only one of his rolls, he gave the other two to them. they received his charity very thankfully. it seems that they were waiting there for the vessel to sail again, as they were not intending to stop at philadelphia, but were going farther down the river. the way it happened that our young hero had provided himself with so much more bread than he needed, notwithstanding that his funds were so low, was this. when he went into the baker's he asked first for biscuits, meaning such as he had been accustomed to buy in boston. the baker told him that they did not make such biscuits in philadelphia. he then asked for a three-penny loaf. the baker said they had no three-penny loaves. franklin then asked him for three-penny worth of bread of any sort, and the baker gave him the three penny rolls. franklin was surprised to find how much bread he got for his money, but he took the rolls, though he knew it was more than he would need, and so after eating one he had no very ready way of disposing of the other two. his giving them therefore to the poor woman and her boy was not quite as great a deed of benevolence as it might at first seem. it was, however, in this respect like other charitable acts, performed in this world, which will seldom bear any very rigid scrutiny. it ought, however, to be added in justice to our hero, that instances frequently occurred during this period of his life in which he made real sacrifices for the comfort and welfare of others, and thus gave unquestionable evidence that he possessed a truly benevolent heart. in fact, his readiness to aid and assist others, whenever it was in his power to do so, constituted one of the most conspicuous traits in the philosopher's character. [illustration] having thus given his bread to the woman, and obtained a draught of water from the river for himself, franklin turned up the street again and went back into the town. he observed many well dressed people in the street, all going the same way. it was sunday, and they were going to meeting. franklin followed them, and took a seat in the meeting-house. it proved to be a meeting of the society of friends, and as is usual in their meetings when no one is moved to speak, the congregation sat in silence. as there was thus no service to occupy franklin's attention, and as he was weary with the rowing of the previous night and with the other hardships and fatigues which he had undergone, he fell asleep. he did not wake until the meeting was concluded, and not then until one of the congregation came and aroused him. [illustration] early on monday morning franklin went to mr. bradford's office to see if he could obtain employment. to his surprise he found bradford the father there. he had come on from new york on horseback, and so had arrived before franklin. franklin found that young bradford had obtained a workman in the place of the one he had lost, but old mr. bradford offered to go with him and introduce him to another printer named keimer, who worked in the neighborhood. [illustration] mr. keimer concluded to take the young stranger into his employ, and he entered into a long conversation with mr. bradford about his plans and prospects in business, not imagining that he was talking to the father of his rival in trade. at length mr. bradford went away, and franklin prepared to commence his operations. he found his new master's printing office, however, in a very crazy condition. there was but one press, and that was broken down and disabled. the font of type, too, the only one that the office contained, was almost worn out with previous usage. mr. keimer himself, moreover, knew very little about his trade. he was an author, it seems, as well as compositor, and was employed, when franklin and mr. bradford came to see him, in setting up an elegy which he was composing and putting in type at the same time, using no copy. franklin, however took hold of his work with alacrity and energy, and soon made great improvements in the establishment. the press was repaired and put in operation. a new supply of types and cases was obtained. mr. keimer did not keep house, and so a place was to be looked for in some private family where the young stranger could board. the place finally decided upon was mr. read's, the house where the young woman resided who has already been mentioned as having observed the absurd figure which franklin had made in walking through the streets when he first landed. he presented a much better appearance now, for a chest of clothing which he and collins had sent round secretly from boston by water, had arrived, and this enabled him to appear now in quite a respectable guise. it was in the fall of the year , that franklin came thus to philadelphia. he remained there during the winter, but in the spring a very singular train of circumstances occurred, which resulted in leading him back to boston. during the winter he worked industriously at his trade, and spent his leisure time in reading and study. he laid up the money that he earned, instead of squandering it, as young men in his situation often do, in transient indulgences. he formed many useful acquaintances among the industrious and steady young men in the town. he thus lived a very contented life, and forgot boston, as he said, as much as he could. he still kept it a profound secret from his parents where he was--no one in boston excepting collins having been admitted to the secret. it happened, however, that captain holmes, one of franklin's brothers-in-law who was a shipmaster, came about this time to newcastle, a town about forty miles below philadelphia, and there, hearing that benjamin was at philadelphia, he wrote to him a letter urging him to return home. benjamin replied by a long letter defending the step that he had taken, and explaining his plans and intentions in full. it happened that captain holmes was in company with sir william keith, the governor of the colony, when he received the letter; and he showed it to him. the governor was struck with the intelligence and manliness which the letter manifested, and as he was very desirous of having a really good printing office established in philadelphia, he came to see franklin when he returned to the city, and proposed to him to set up an office of his own. his father, the governor said, would probably furnish him with the necessary capital, if he would return to boston and ask for it, and he himself would see that he had work enough, for he would procure the public printing for him. so it was determined that franklin should take passage in the first vessel that sailed, and go to boston and see his father. of course all this was kept a profound secret from mr. keimer. in due time franklin took leave of mr. keimer and embarked; and after a very rough and dangerous passage he arrived safely in boston. his friends were very much astonished at seeing him, for captain holmes had not yet returned. they were still more surprised at hearing the young fugitive give so good an account of himself, and of his plans and prospects for the future. the apprentices and journeymen in the printing office gathered around him and listened to his stories with great interest. they were particularly impressed by his taking out a handful of silver money from his pocket, in answer to a question which they asked him in respect to the kind of money which was used in philadelphia. it seems that in boston they were accustomed to use paper money almost altogether in those days. [illustration] young collins, the boy who had assisted franklin in his escape the year before, was so much pleased with the accounts that the young adventurer brought back of his success in philadelphia that he determined to go there himself. he accordingly closed up his affairs and set off on foot for new york, with the understanding that franklin, who was to go on afterward by water, should join him there, and that they should then proceed together to philadelphia. after many long consultations franklin's father concluded that it was not best for benjamin to attempt to commence business for himself in philadelphia, and so benjamin set out on his return. on his way back he had a narrow escape from a very imminent danger. a quaker lady came to him one day, on board the vessel in which he was sailing to new york, and began to caution him against two young women who had come on board the vessel at newport, and who were very forward and familiar in their manners. [illustration] "young man," said she, "i am concerned for thee, as thou hast no friend with thee, and seems not to know much of the world, or of the snares youth is exposed to: depend upon it, these are very bad women. i can see it by all their actions, and if thou art not upon thy guard, they will draw thee into some danger; they are strangers to thee, and i advise thee, in a friendly concern for thy welfare, to have no acquaintance with them." franklin thanked the lady for her advice, and determined to follow it. when they arrived at new york the young women told him where they lived, and invited him to come and see them. but he avoided doing so, and it was well that he did, for a few days afterward he learned that they were both arrested as thieves. they had stolen something from the cabin of the ship during the voyage. if franklin had been found in their company he might have been arrested as their accomplice. it happened curiously enough that young franklin attracted the notice and attention of a governor for the second time, as he passed through new york on this journey. it seems that the captain of the vessel in which he had made his voyage, happened to mention to the governor when he arrived in new york, that there was a young man among his passengers who had a great many books with him, and who seemed to take quite an interest in reading; and the governor very kindly sent word back to invite the young man to call at his house, promising, if he would do so, to show him his library. franklin very gladly accepted this invitation, and the governor took him into his library, and held considerable conversation with him, on the subject of books and authors. franklin was of course very much pleased with this adventure. [illustration] at new york franklin found his old friend collins, who had arrived there some time before him. collins had been, in former times, a very steady and industrious boy, but his character had greatly degenerated during franklin's absence. he had fallen into very intemperate habits, and franklin found, on joining him at new york, that he had been intoxicated almost the whole time that he had been there. he had been gaming too, and had lost all his money, and was now in debt for his board, and wholly destitute. franklin paid his bills, and they set off together for philadelphia. of course franklin had to pay all the expenses, both for himself and his companion, on the journey, and this, together with the charges which he had incurred for collins in new york, soon exhausted his funds, and the two travelers would have been wholly out of money, had it not been that franklin had received a demand to collect for a man in rhode island, who gave it to him when he came through. this demand was due from a man in pennsylvania, and when the travelers reached the part of the country where this man resided, they called upon him and he paid them the money. this put franklin in funds again, though as it was money which did not belong to him, he had no right to use it. he however considered himself compelled to use a part of it, by the necessity of the case; and collins, knowing that his companion had the money, was continually asking to borrow small sums, and franklin lent them to him from time to time, until at length such an inroad was made upon the trust funds which he held, that franklin began to be extremely anxious and uneasy. to make the matter worse collins continued to addict himself to drinking habits, notwithstanding all that franklin could do to prevent it. in fact franklin soon found that his remonstrances and efforts only irritated collins and made him angry, and so he desisted. when they reached philadelphia the case grew worse and worse. collins could get no employment, and he led a very dissipated life, all at franklin's expense. at length, however, an incident occurred which led to an open quarrel between them. the circumstances were these. the two boys, with some other young men, went out one day upon the delaware in a boat, on an excursion of pleasure. when they were away at some distance from the shore, collins refused to row in his turn. he said that franklin and the other boys should row him home. franklin said that they would not. "then," said collins. "you will have to stay all night upon the water. you can do just as you please." the other two boys were disposed to give up to collins, unreasonable as he was. "let us row," said they, "what signifies it?" but franklin, whose resentment was now aroused, opposed this, and persisted in refusing. collins then declared that he would make him row or throw him overboard; and he came along, stepping on the thwarts, toward franklin, as if to put his threat in execution. when he came near he struck at franklin, but franklin just at the instant thrust his head forward between collins's legs, and then rising suddenly with all his force he threw him over headlong into the water. [illustration] franklin knew that collins was a good swimmer, and so he felt no concern about his safety. he walked along to the stern of the boat, and asked collins if he would promise to row if they would allow him to get on board again. collins was very angry, and declared that he would not row. so the boys who had the oars pulled ahead a few strokes, to keep the boat out of collins's reach as he swam after her. this continued for some time--collins swimming in the wake of the boat, and the boys pulling gently, so as just to keep the boat out of his reach--while franklin himself stood in the stern, interrogating him from time to time, and vainly endeavoring to bring him to terms. at last finding him beginning to tire without showing any signs of yielding, for he was obstinate as well as unreasonable, the boys stopped and drew him on board, and then took him home dripping wet. collins never forgave franklin for this. a short time after this incident, however, he obtained some engagement to go to the west indies, and he went away promising to send back money to franklin, to pay him what he owed him, out of the very first that he should receive. he was never heard of afterward. in the mean time franklin returned to his work in mr. keimer's office. he reported the result of his visit to boston, to sir william, the governor, informing him that his father was not willing to furnish the capital necessary for setting up a printing office. sir william replied that it would make no difference; he would furnish the capital himself, he said; and he proposed that franklin should go to england in the next vessel, and purchase the press and type. this franklin agreed to do. [illustration] in the mean time, before the vessel sailed, franklin had become very much attached to miss read. he felt, he says, a great respect and affection for her, and he succeeded, as he thought, in inspiring her with the same feelings toward him. it was not, however, considered prudent to think of marriage immediately, especially as franklin was contemplating so long a voyage. besides the company of miss read there were several young men in philadelphia whose society franklin enjoyed very highly at this time. his most intimate friend was a certain james ralph. ralph was a boy of fine literary taste and great love of reading. he had an idea that he possessed poetic talent, and used often to write verses, and he maintained that though his verses might be in some respects faulty, they were no more so than those which other poets wrote when first beginning. he intended, he said, to make writing poetry the business of his life. franklin did not approve of such a plan as this; still he enjoyed young ralph's company, and he was accustomed sometimes on holidays to take long rambles with him in the woods on the banks of the schuylkill. here the two boys would sit together under the trees, for hours, reading, and conversing about what they had read. [illustration] [illustration] at length the time arrived for the sailing of the ship in which franklin was to go to england. the governor was to have given him letters of introduction and of credit, and franklin called for them from time to time, but they were not ready. finally he was directed to go on board the vessel, and was told that the governor would send the letters there, and that he would find them among the other letters, and could take them out at his leisure. franklin supposed that all was right, and accordingly after taking leave of miss read, to whom he was now formally engaged, and who wished him heartily a good voyage and a speedy return, he proceeded to newcastle, where the ship was anchored, and went on board. on the voyage franklin met with a variety of incidents and adventures, which, however, can not be particularly described here. among other things he made the acquaintance of a certain gentleman named denham, a _friend_, from philadelphia, who afterward rendered him very essential service in london. he did not succeed in finding the governor's letters immediately, as the captain told him, when he inquired for them, that the letters were all together in a bag, stowed away. he said, however, that he would bring out the bag when they entered the channel, and that franklin would have ample time to look out the letters before they got up to london. accordingly when the vessel entered the channel the letters were all brought out, and franklin looked them over. he did not find any that seemed very certainly intended for him, though there were several marked with his name, as if consigned to his care. he thought that these must be the governor's letters, especially as one was addressed to a printer and another to a bookseller and stationer. he accordingly took them out, and on landing he proceeded to deliver them. he went first with the one which was addressed to the bookseller. the bookseller asked him who the letter was from. franklin replied that it was from sir william keith. the bookseller replied that he did not know any such person, and on opening the letter and looking at the signature, he said angrily that it was from riddlesden, "a man," he added, "whom i have lately found to be a complete rascal, and i will have nothing to do with him or receive any letters from him." so saying he thrust the letter back into franklin's hands. [illustration] poor franklin, mortified and confounded, went immediately to mr. denham to ask him what it would be best for him to do. mr. denham, when he had heard a statement of the case, said that in all probability no one of the letters which franklin had taken was from the governor. sir william, he added, was a very good-natured man, who wished to please every body, and was always ready to make magnificent offers and promises but not the slightest reliance could be placed upon any thing that he said. so franklin found himself alone and moneyless in london, and dependent wholly upon his own resources. he immediately began to seek employment in the printing offices. he succeeded in making an engagement with a mr. palmer, and he soon found a second-hand bookstore near the printing office, where he used to go to read and to borrow books--his love of reading continuing unchanged. [illustration] in a short time franklin left mr. palmer's and went to a larger printing office, one which was carried on by a printer named watts. the place was near lincoln's inn fields, a well known part of london. here he was associated with a large number of workmen, both compositors and pressmen. they were very much astonished at franklin's temperance principles, for he drank nothing but water, while they consumed immense quantities of strong beer. there was an ale-house near by, and a boy from it attended constantly at the printing office to supply the workmen with beer. these men had a considerable sum to pay every saturday night out of their wages for the beer they had drank; and this kept them constantly poor. they maintained, however, that they needed the beer to give them strength to perform the heavy work required of them in the printing office. they drank _strong_ beer, they said, in order that they might be _strong_ to labor. franklin's companion at the press drank a pint before breakfast, a pint at breakfast, a pint between breakfast and dinner, a pint at dinner, a pint in the afternoon at six o'clock, and a pint when he had done his day's work. some others drank nearly as much. franklin endeavored to convince them that it was a mistake to suppose that the beer gave them strength, by showing that he, though he drank nothing but water, could carry two heavy forms up-stairs to the press-room, at a time, taking one in each hand; while they could only carry one with both hands. they were very much surprised at the superior strength of the "water american," as they called him, but still they would not give up drinking beer. [illustration] [illustration] as is usually the case with young workmen entering large establishments, where they are strangers, franklin encountered many little difficulties at first, but he gradually overcame them all, and soon became a favorite both with his employer and his fellow workmen. he earned high wages, for he was so prompt, and so steady, that he was put to the best work. he took board at the house of an elderly woman, a widow, who lived not far distant, and who, after inquiring in respect to franklin's character, took him at a cheaper rate than usual, from the protection which she expected in having him in the house. in a small room in the garret of the house where franklin boarded, there was a lodger whose case was very singular. she was a roman catholic, and when young had gone abroad, to a nunnery, intending to become a nun; but finding that the climate did not agree with her she returned to england, where, though there was no nunnery, she determined on leading the life of a nun by herself. she had given away all her property, reserving only a very small sum which was barely sufficient to support life. the house had been let from time to time to various catholic families, who all allowed the nun to remain in her garret rent free, considering it a blessing upon them to have her there. a priest visited her every day to receive her confessions; otherwise she lived in almost total seclusion. franklin, however, was once permitted to pay her a visit. he found her cheerful and polite. she looked pale, but said that she was never sick. the room had scarcely any furniture except such as related to her religious observances. [illustration] franklin mentions among other incidents which occurred while he was in london, that he taught two young men to swim, by only going twice with them into the water. one of these young men was a workman in the printing-office where franklin was employed, named wygate. franklin was always noted for his great skill and dexterity as a swimmer, and one day, after he had taught the two young men to swim, as mentioned above, he was coming down the river thames in a boat with a party of friends, and wygate gave such an account of franklin's swimming as to excite a strong desire in the company to see what he could do. so franklin undressed himself, and leaped into the water, and he swam all the way from chelsea to blackfriar's bridge in london, accompanying the boat, and performing an infinite variety of dextrous evolutions in and under the water, much to the astonishment and delight of all the company. in consequence of this incident, franklin had an application made to him some time afterward, by a certain nobleman, to teach his two sons to swim, with a promise of a very liberal reward. the nobleman had accidentally heard of franklin's swimming from chelsea to london, and of his teaching a person to swim in two lessons. franklin remained in london about eighteen months; at the end of that time one of his fellow workmen proposed to him that they two should make a grand tour together on the continent of europe, stopping from time to time in the great towns to work at their trade, in order to earn money for their expenses. franklin went to his friend, mr. denham, to consult him in respect to this proposal. mr. denham advised him not to accede to it, but proposed instead that franklin should connect himself in business with _him_. he was going to return to america, he said, with a large stock of goods, there to go into business as a merchant. he made such advantageous offers to franklin, in respect to this enterprise, that franklin very readily accepted them, and in due time he settled up his affairs in london, and sailed for america, supposing that he had taken leave of the business of printing forever. in the result, however, it was destined to be otherwise; for after a short time mr. denham fell sick and died, and then franklin, after various perplexities and delays, concluded to accept of a proposal which his old master, mr. keimer, made to him, to come and take charge of his printing-office. mr. keimer had a number of rude and inexperienced hands in his employ, and he wished to engage franklin to come, as foreman and superintendent of the office, and teach the men to do their work skillfully. [illustration] franklin acceded to this proposal, but he did not find his situation in all respects agreeable, and finally his engagement with mr. keimer was suddenly brought to a close by an open quarrel. mr. keimer, it seems, had not been accustomed to treat his foreman in a very respectful or considerate manner, and one day when franklin heard some unusual noise in the street, and put his head out a moment to see what was the matter, mr. keimer, who was standing below, called out to him, in a very rough and angry manner, to go back and attend to his business, adding some reproachful words which nettled franklin exceedingly. he immediately afterward came up into the office, when a sharp contention and high words ensued. the end of the affair was that franklin took his dismissal and went immediately away. [illustration] in a short time, however, keimer sent for franklin to come back, saying that a few hasty words ought not to separate old friends, and franklin, after some hesitation, concluded to return. about this time keimer had a proposition made to him to print some bank bills, for the state of new jersey. a copper-plate press is required for this purpose, a press very different in its character from an ordinary press. franklin contrived one of these presses for mr. keimer, the first which had been seen in the country. this press performed its function very successfully. mr. keimer and franklin went together, with the press, to burlington, where the work was to be done: for it was necessary that the bills should be printed under the immediate supervision of the government, in order to make it absolutely certain that no more were struck off than the proper number. in printing these bills franklin made the acquaintance of several prominent public men in new jersey, some of whom were always present while the press was at work. several of these gentlemen became very warm friends of franklin, and continued to be so during all his subsequent life. at last franklin joined one of his comrades in the printing-office, named meredith, in forming a plan to leave mr. keimer, and commence business themselves, independently. meredith's father was to furnish the necessary capital, and franklin was to have the chief superintendence and care of the business. this plan being arranged, an order was sent out to england for a press and a font of type, and when the articles arrived the two young men left mr. keimer's, and taking a small building near the market, which they thought would be suitable for their purpose, they opened their office, feeling much solicitude and many fears in respect to their success. to lessen their expense for rent they took a glazier and his family into the house which they had hired, while they were themselves to board in the glazier's family. thus the arrangement which they made was both convenient and economical. [illustration] this glazier, godfrey, had long been one of franklin's friends, he was a prominent member, in fact, of the little circle of young mechanics, who, under the influence of franklin's example, spent their leisure time in scientific studies. godfrey was quite a mathematician. he was self-taught, it is true, but still his attainments were by no means inconsiderable. he afterward distinguished himself as the inventor of an instrument called hadley's quadrant, now very generally relied upon for taking altitudes and other observations at sea. it was called by hadley's name, as is said, through some artifice of hadley, in obtaining the credit of the invention, though godfrey was really the author of it. though godfrey was highly respected among his associates for his mathematical knowledge, he knew little else, and he was not a very agreeable companion. the mathematical field affords very few subjects for entertaining conversation, and besides godfrey had a habit, which franklin said he had often observed in great mathematicians, of expecting universal precision in every thing that was said, of forever taking exception to what was advanced by others, and of making distinctions, on very trifling grounds, to the disturbance of all conversation. he, however, became afterward an eminent man, and though he died at length at a distance from philadelphia, his remains were eventually removed to the city and deposited at laurel hill, where a monument was erected to his memory. the young printers had scarce got their types in the cases and the press in order, before one of franklin's friends, a certain george house, came in and introduced a countryman whom he had found in the street, inquiring for a printer. they did the work which he brought, and were paid five shillings for it.--franklin says that this five shillings, the first that he earned as an independent man, afforded him a very high degree of pleasure. he was very grateful too to house, for having taken such an interest in bringing him a customer, and recollecting his own experience on this occasion, he always afterward felt a strong desire to help new beginners, whenever it was in his power. a certain other gentleman evinced his regard for the young printers in a much more equivocal way. he was a person of some note in philadelphia, an elderly man, with a wise look, and a very grave and oracular manner of speaking. this gentleman, who was a stranger to franklin stopped one day at the door and asked franklin if he was the young man who had lately opened a printing house. being answered in the affirmative he told franklin that he was very sorry for him, as he certainly could not succeed. philadelphia, he said, was a sinking place. the people were already half of them bankrupts, or nearly so, to his certain knowledge. he then proceeded to present such a gloomy detail of the difficulties and dangers which philadelphia was laboring under, and of the evils which were coming, that finally he brought franklin into a very melancholy frame of mind. [illustration] the young printers went steadily on, notwithstanding these predictions, and gradually began to find employment for their press. they obtained considerable business through the influence of the members of a sort of debating club which franklin had established some time before. this club was called the junto, and was accustomed to meet on friday evenings for conversation and mutual improvement. the rules which franklin drew up for the government of this club required that each member should, in his turn, propose subjects or queries on any point of morals, politics, or natural philosophy, to be discussed by the company; and once in three months to produce and read an essay of his own writing, on any subject that he pleased. the members of the club were all enjoined to conduct their discussion in a sincere spirit of inquiry after truth, and not from love of dispute or desire of victory. every thing like a positive and dogmatical manner of speaking, and all direct contradiction of each other, was strictly forbidden. violations of these rules were punished by fines and other similar penalties. the members of this club having become much interested in franklin's character from what they had seen of him at the meetings, were strongly disposed to aid him in obtaining business now that he had opened an office of his own. they were mostly mechanics, being engaged in different trades, in the city. one of them was the means of procuring quite a large job for the young printers--the printing of a book in folio. while they were upon this job, franklin employed himself in setting the type, his task being one sheet each day, while meredith worked the press. it required great exertion to carry the work on at the rate of one sheet per day, especially as there were frequent interruptions, on account of small jobs which were brought in from time to time. franklin was, however, very resolutely determined to print a sheet a day, though it required him sometimes to work very late, and always to begin very early. so determined was he to continue doing a sheet a day of the work, that one night when he had imposed his forms and thought his day's work was done, and by some accident one of the forms was broken, and two pages thrown into _pi_, he immediately went to work, distributed the letter, and set up the two pages anew before he went to bed. this indefatigable industry was soon observed by the neighbors, and it began to attract considerable attention; so that at length, when certain people were talking of the three printing-offices that there were now in philadelphia, and predicting that they could not all be sustained, some one said that whatever might happen to the other two, franklin's office must succeed, "for the industry of that franklin," said he, "is superior to any thing i ever saw of the kind. i see him still at work every night when i go home, and he is at work again in the morning before his neighbors are out of bed." as the character of franklin's office in this respect became generally known, the custom that came to it rapidly increased. there were still, however, some difficulties to be encountered. [illustration] franklin was very unfortunate in respect to his partner, so far as the work of the office was concerned, for meredith was a poor printer, and his habits were not good. in fact the sole reason why franklin had consented to associate himself with meredith was that meredith's father was willing to furnish the necessary capital for commencing business. his father was persuaded to do this in hopes that franklin's influence over his son might be the means of inducing him to leave off his habits of drinking. instead of this, however, he grew gradually worse. he neglected his work, and was in fact often wholly incapacitated from attending to it, by the effects of his drinking. franklin's friends regretted his connection with such a man, but there seemed to be now no present help for it. it happened, however, that things took such a turn, a short time after this, as to enable franklin to close his partnership with meredith in a very satisfactory manner. in the first place meredith himself began to be tired of an occupation which he was every day more and more convinced that he was unfitted for. his father too found it inconvenient to meet the obligations which he had incurred for the press and types, as they matured; for he had bought them partly on credit. two gentlemen, moreover, friends of franklin, came forward of their own accord, and offered to advance him what money he would require to take the whole business into his own hands. the result of all this was that the partnership was terminated, by mutual consent, and meredith went away. franklin assumed the debts, and borrowed money of his two friends to meet the payments as they came due; and thenceforward he managed the business in his own name. after this change, the business of the office went on more prosperously than ever. there was much interest felt at that time on the question of paper money, one party in the state being in favor of it and the other against it. franklin wrote and printed a pamphlet on the subject. the title of it was _the nature and necessity of a paper currency_. this pamphlet was very well received, and had an important influence in deciding the question in favor of such a currency. in consequence of this franklin was employed to print the bills, which was very profitable work. he also obtained the printing of the laws, and of the proceedings of the government, which was of great advantage to him. about this time franklin enlarged his business by opening a stationery store in connection with his printing office. he employed one or two additional workmen too. in order, however, to show that he was not above his business, he used to bring home the paper which he purchased at the stores, through the streets on a wheelbarrow. [illustration] the engagement which franklin had formed with miss read before he went to london had been broken off. this was _his_ fault and not hers; as the rupture was occasioned by his indifference and neglect. when her friends found that franklin had forsaken her, they persuaded her to marry another man. this man, however, proved to be a dissolute and worthless fellow, having already a wife in england, when he married miss read. she accordingly refused to live with him, and he went away to the west indies, leaving miss read at home, disconsolate and wretched. [illustration] franklin pitied her very much, and attributed her misfortunes in a great measure to his unfaithfulness to the promises which he had made her. he renewed his acquaintance with her, and finally married her. the wedding took place on the st of september, ; franklin was at this time about twenty-five years of age. it was reported that the man who had married her was dead. at all events her marriage with him was wholly invalid. at the time when franklin commenced his business in philadelphia there was no bookstore in any place south of boston. the towns on the sea coast which have since grown to be large and flourishing cities, were then very small, and comparatively insignificant; and they afforded to the inhabitants very few facilities of any kind. those who wished to buy books had no means of doing it except to send to england for them. in order to remedy in some measure the difficulty which was experienced on this account, franklin proposed to the members of the debating society which has already been named, that they should form a library, by bringing all their books together and depositing them in the room where the society was accustomed to hold its meetings. this was accordingly done. the members brought their books, and a foundation was thus laid for what afterward became a great public library. the books were arranged on shelves which were prepared for them in the club-room, and suitable rules and regulations were made in respect to the use of them by the members. [illustration] with the exception that he appropriated one or two hours each day to the reading of books from the library, franklin devoted his time wholly to his business. he took care, he said, not only to _be_, in reality, industrious and frugal, but to appear so. he dressed plainly; he never went to any places of diversion; he never went out a-hunting or shooting, and he spent no time in taverns, or in games or frolics of any kind. the people about him observed his diligence, and the consequence was that he soon acquired the confidence and esteem of all who knew him. business came in, and his affairs went on more and more smoothly every day. [illustration] it was very fortunate for him that his wife was as much disposed to industry and frugality as himself. she assisted her husband in his work by folding and stitching pamphlets, tending shop, purchasing paper, rags, and other similar services. they kept no servants, and lived in the plainest and most simple manner. thus all the money which was earned in the printing office, or made by the profits of the stationery store, was applied to paying back the money which franklin had borrowed of his friends, to enable him to settle with meredith. he was ambitious to pay this debt as soon as possible, so that the establishment might be wholly his own. his wife shared in this desire, and thus, while they deprived themselves of no necessary comfort, they expended nothing for luxury or show. their dress, their domestic arrangements, and their whole style of living, were perfectly plain. [illustration] franklin's breakfast, for example, for a long time, consisted only of a bowl of bread and milk, which was eaten from a two-penny earthen porringer and with a pewter spoon. at length, however, one morning when called to his breakfast he found a new china bowl upon the table, with a silver spoon in it. they had been bought for him by his wife without his knowledge, who justified herself for the expenditure by saying that she thought that her husband was as much entitled to a china bowl and silver spoon as any of her neighbors. about this time franklin adopted a very systematic and formal plan for the improvement of his moral character. he made out a list of the principal moral virtues, thirteen in all, and then made a book of a proper number of pages, and wrote the name of one virtue on each page. he then, on each page, ruled a table which was formed of thirteen lines and seven columns. the lines were for the names of the thirteen virtues, and the columns for the days of the week. each page therefore represented one week, and franklin was accustomed every night to examine himself, and mark down in the proper column, and opposite to the names of the several virtues, all violations of duty in respect to each one respectively, which he could recollect that he had been guilty of during that day. he paid most particular attention each week to one particular virtue, namely, the one which was written on the top of the page for that week, without however neglecting the others--following in this respect, as he said, the example of the gardener who weeds one bed in his garden at a time. [illustration] he had several mottos prefixed to this little book, and also two short prayers, imploring divine assistance to enable him to keep his resolution. one of these prayers was from thomson: "father of light and life, thou good supreme! o teach me what is good; teach me thyself! save me from folly, vanity, and vice; from every low pursuit; and feed my soul with knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, sacred, substantial, never fading bliss." the other was composed by himself, and was as follows. "o powerful goodness! bountiful father! merciful guide! increase in me that wisdom which discovers my truest interest. strengthen my resolution to perform what that wisdom dictates. accept my kind offices to thy other children as the only return in my power for thy continual favors to me." franklin persevered in his efforts to improve himself in moral excellence, by means of this record, for a long time. he thought he made great progress, and that his plan was of lasting benefit to him. he found, however, that he could not, as at first he fondly hoped, make himself perfect. he consoled himself at last, he said, by the idea that it was not best, after all, for any one to be absolutely perfect. he used to say that this willingness on his part to be satisfied with retaining some of his faults, when he had become wearied and discouraged with the toil and labor of removing them, reminded him of the case of one of his neighbors, who went to buy an ax of a smith. the ax, as is usual with this tool, was ground bright near the edge, while the remainder of the surface of the iron was left black, just as it had come from the forge. the man wished to have his ax bright all over, and the smith said that he would grind it bright if the man would turn the grindstone. so the man went to the wheel by which it seems the grindstone was turned, through the intervention of a band, and began his labor. the smith held the ax upon the stone, broad side down, leaning hard and heavily. the man came now and then to see how the work went on. the brightening he found went on slowly. at last, wearied with the labor, he said that he would take the ax as it then was, without grinding it any more. "oh, no," said the smith, "turn on, turn on; we shall have it bright by-and-by. all that we have done yet has only made it speckled." "yes," said the man, "but i think i like a speckled ax best." so he took it away. [illustration] in the same manner franklin said that he himself seemed to be contented with a character somewhat speckled, when he found how discouraging was the labor and toil required to make it perfectly bright. during all this time franklin went on more and more prosperously in business, and was continually enlarging and extending his plans. he printed a newspaper which soon acquired an extensive circulation. he commenced the publication of an almanac, which was continued afterward for twenty-five years, and became very celebrated under the name of poor richard's almanac. at length the spirit of enterprise which he possessed went so far as to lead him to send one of his journeymen to establish a branch printing-office in charleston, south carolina. this branch, however, did not succeed very well at first, though, after a time, the journeyman who had been sent out died, and then his wife, who was an energetic and capable woman, took charge of the business, and sent franklin accounts of the state of it promptly and regularly. franklin accordingly left the business in her hands, and it went on very prosperously for several years: until at last the woman's son grew up, and she purchased the office for him, with what she had earned and saved. [illustration] notwithstanding the increasing cares of business, and the many engagements which occupied his time and attention, franklin did not, during all this time, in any degree remit his efforts to advance in the acquisition of knowledge. he studied french, and soon made himself master of that language so far as to read it with ease. then he undertook the italian. a friend of his, who was also studying italian, was fond of playing chess, and often wished franklin to play with him. franklin consented on condition that the penalty for being beaten should be to have some extra task to perform in the italian grammar--such as the committing to memory of some useful portion of the grammar, or the writing of exercises. they were accordingly accustomed to play in this way, and the one who was beaten, had a lesson assigned him to learn, or a task to perform, and he was bound upon his honor to fulfill this duty before the next meeting. after having acquired some proficiency in the italian language franklin took up the latin. he had studied latin a little when a boy at school, at the time when his father contemplated educating him for the church. he had almost entirely forgotten what he had learned of the language at school, but he found, on looking into a latin testament, that it would be very easy for him to learn the language now, on account of the knowledge which he had acquired of french and italian. his experience in this respect led him to think that the common mode of learning languages was not a judicious one. "we are told," says he, "that it is proper to begin first with the latin, and having acquired that, it will be more easy to attain those modern languages which are derived from it; and yet we do not begin with the greek in order more easily to acquire the latin." he then compares the series of languages to a staircase. it is true that if we contrive some way to clamber to the upper stair, by the railings or by some other method, without using the steps, we can then easily reach any particular stair by coming down, but still the simplest and the wisest course would seem to be to walk up directly from the lower to the higher in regular gradation. "i would therefore," he adds, "offer it to the consideration of those who superintend the education of our youth, whether, since many of those who begin with the latin quit the same after spending some years, without having made any great proficiency, and what they have learned becomes almost useless, so that their time has been lost, it would not have been better to have begun with the french, proceeding to the italian and latin; for though after spending the same time they should quit the study of languages, and never arrive at the latin, they would, however, have acquired another tongue or two that, being in modern use, might be serviceable to them in common life." [illustration] it was now ten years since franklin had been at boston, and as he was getting well established in business, and easy in his circumstances, he concluded to go there and visit his relations. his brother, mr. james franklin, the printer to whom he had been apprenticed when a boy, was not in boston at this time. he had removed to newport. on his return from boston franklin went to newport to see him. he was received by his brother in a very cordial and affectionate manner, all former differences between the two brothers being forgotten by mutual consent. he found his brother in feeble health, and fast declining--and apprehending that his death was near at hand. he had one son, then ten years of age, and he requested that in case of his death benjamin would take this child and bring him up to the printing business. benjamin promised to do so. a short time after this his brother died, and franklin took the boy, sent him to school for a few years, and then took him into his office, and brought him up to the business of printing. his mother carried on the business at newport until the boy had grown up, and then franklin established him there, with an assortment of new types and other facilities. thus he made his brother ample amends for the injury which he had done him by running away from his service when he was a boy. [illustration] on his return from boston, franklin found all his affairs in philadelphia in a very prosperous condition. his business was constantly increasing, his income was growing large, and he was beginning to be very widely known and highly esteemed, throughout the community. he began to be occasionally called upon to take some part in general questions relating to the welfare of the community at large. he was appointed postmaster for philadelphia. soon after this he was made clerk of the general assembly, the colonial legislature of pennsylvania. he began, too, to pay some attention to municipal affairs, with a view to the better regulation of the public business of the city. he proposed a reform in the system adopted for the city watch. the plan which had been pursued was for a public officer to designate every night a certain number of householders, taken from the several wards in succession, who were to perform the duty of watchmen. this plan was, however, found to be very inefficient, as the more respectable people, instead of serving themselves, would pay a fine to the constable to enable him to hire substitutes; and these substitutes were generally worthless men who spent the night in drinking, instead of faithfully attending to their duties. franklin proposed that the whole plan should be changed; he recommended that a tax should be levied upon the people, and a regular body of competent watchmen employed and held to a strict responsibility in the performance of their duty. this plan was adopted, and proved to be a very great improvement on the old system. it was also much more just; for people were taxed to pay the watchmen in proportion to their property, and thus they who had most to be protected paid most. [illustration] franklin took a great interest, too, about this time, in promoting a plan for building a large public edifice in the heart of the city, to accommodate the immense audiences that were accustomed to assemble to hear the discourses of the celebrated mr. whitefield. the house was built by public contribution. when finished, it was vested in trustees, expressly for the use of _any preacher of any religious persuasion_, who might desire to address the people of philadelphia. in fact, franklin was becoming more and more a public man, and soon after this time, he withdrew almost altogether from his private pursuits, and entered fully upon his public career. the history of his adventures in that wider sphere must be postponed to some future number. [illustration] napoleon bonaparte.[ ] by john s. c. abbott. the expedition to egypt. [ ] entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. napoleon's expedition to egypt was one of the most magnificent enterprises which human ambition ever conceived. when napoleon was a schoolboy at brienne, his vivid imagination became enamored of the heroes of antiquity, and ever dwelt in the society of the illustrious men of greece and rome. indulging in solitary walks and pensive musings, at that early age he formed vague and shadowy, but magnificent conceptions of founding an empire in the east, which should outvie in grandeur all that had yet been told in ancient or in modern story. his eye wandered along the shores of the persian gulf, and the caspian sea, as traced upon the map, and followed the path of the majestic floods of the euphrates, the indus, and the ganges, rolling through tribes and nations, whose myriad population, dwelling in barbaric pomp and pagan darkness, invited a conqueror. "the persians," exclaimed this strange boy, "have blocked up the route of tamerlane, but i will open another." he, in those early dreams, imagined himself a conqueror, with alexander's strength, but without alexander's vice or weakness, spreading the energies of civilization, and of a just and equitable government, over the wild and boundless regions which were lost to european eyes in the obscurity of distance. when struggling against the armies of austria, upon the plains of italy, visions of egypt and of the east blended with the smoke and the din of the conflict. in the retreat of the austrians before his impetuous charges, in the shout of victory which incessantly filled his ear, swelling ever above the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying, napoleon saw but increasing indications that destiny was pointing out his path toward an oriental throne. when the austrians were driven out of italy, and the campaign was ended, and napoleon, at montebello, was receiving the homage of europe, his ever-impetuous mind turned with new interest to the object of his early ambition. he often passed hours, during the mild italian evenings, walking with a few confidential friends in the magnificent park of his palace, conversing with intense enthusiasm upon the illustrious empires, which have successively overshadowed those countries, and faded away. "europe," said he, "presents no field for glorious exploits; no great empires or revolutions are to be found but in the east, where there are six hundred millions of men." upon his return to paris, he was deaf to all the acclamations with which he was surrounded. his boundless ambition was such that his past achievements seemed as nothing. the most brilliant visions of eastern glory were dazzling his mind. "they do not long preserve at paris," said he, "the remembrance of any thing. if i remain long unemployed, i am undone. the renown of one, in this great babylon, speedily supplants that of another. if i am seen three times at the opera, i shall no longer be an object of curiosity. i am determined not to remain in paris. there is nothing here to be accomplished. every thing here passes away. my glory is declining. this little corner of europe is too small to supply it. we must go to the east. all the great men of the world have there acquired their celebrity." when requested to take command of the army of england, and to explore the coast, to judge of the feasibility of an attack upon the english in their own island, he said to bourrienne, "i am perfectly willing to make a tour to the coast. should the expedition to britain prove too hazardous, as i much fear that it will, the army of england will become the army of the east, and we will go to egypt." he carefully studied the obstacles to be encountered in the invasion of england, and the means at his command to surmount them. in his view, the enterprise was too hazardous to be undertaken, and he urged upon the directory the expedition to egypt. "once established in egypt," said he, "the mediterranean becomes a _french lake_; we shall found a colony there, unenervated by the curse of slavery, and which will supply the place of st. domingo; we shall open a market for french manufactures through the vast regions of africa, arabia, and syria. all the caravans of the east will meet at cairo, and the commerce of india, must forsake the cape of good hope, and flow through the red sea. marching with an army of sixty thousand men, we can cross the indus, rouse the oppressed and discontented native population, against the english usurpers, and drive the english out of india. we will establish governments which will respect the rights and promote the interests of the people. the multitude will hail us as their deliverers from oppression. the christians of syria, the druses, and the armenians, will join our standards. we may change the face of the world." such was the magnificent project which inflamed this ambitious mind. england, without a shadow of right, had invaded india. her well-armed dragoons had ridden, with bloody hoofs, over the timid and naked natives. cannon, howitzers, and bayonets had been the all-availing arguments with which england had silenced all opposition. english soldiers, with unsheathed swords ever dripping with blood, held in subjection provinces containing uncounted millions of inhabitants. a circuitous route of fifteen thousand miles, around the stormy cape of good hope, conducted the merchant fleets of london and liverpool to calcutta and bombay; and through the same long channel there flooded back upon the maritime isle the wealth of the indies. it was the plea of napoleon that he was not going to make an unjust war upon the unoffending nations of the east; but that he was the ally of the oppressed people, drawing the sword against their common enemy, and that he was striving to emancipate them from their powerful usurpers, and to confer upon them the most precious privileges of freedom. he marched to egypt not to desolate, but to enrich; not to enslave, but to enfranchise; not to despoil the treasures of the east, but to transfer to those shores the opulence and the high civilization of the west. never was an ambitious conqueror furnished with a more plausible plea. england, as she looks at india and china, must be silent. america, as she listens to the dying wail of the red man, driven from the forests of his childhood and the graves of his fathers, can throw no stone. napoleon surely was not exempt from the infirmities of humanity. but it is not becoming in an english or an american historian to breathe the prayer, "we thank thee, oh god, that we are not like this bonaparte." egypt, the memorials of whose former grandeur still attract the wonder and the admiration of the civilized world, after having been buried, during centuries, in darkness and oblivion, is again slowly emerging into light, and is, doubtless, destined eventually to become one of the great centres of industry and of knowledge. the mediterranean washes its northern shores, opening to its commerce all the opulent cities of europe. the red sea wafts to its fertile valley the wealth of india and of china. the nile, rolling its vast floods from the unknown interior of africa, opens a highway for inexhaustible internal commerce with unknown nations and tribes. the country consists entirely of the lower valley of the nile, with a front of about one hundred and twenty miles on the mediterranean. the valley six hundred miles in length, rapidly diminishes in breadth as it is crowded by the sands of the desert, presenting, a few leagues from the mouth of the river, but the average width of about six miles. the soil fertilized by the annual inundations of the nile, possesses most extraordinary fertility. these floods are caused by the heavy rains which fall in the mountains of abyssinia. it never rains in egypt. centuries may pass while a shower never falls from the sky. under the ptolemies the population of the country was estimated at twenty millions. but by the terrific energies of despotism, these numbers had dwindled away, and at the time of the french expedition egypt contained but two million five hundred thousand inhabitants. these were divided into four classes. first came the copts, about two hundred thousand, the descendants of the ancient egyptians. they were in a state of the most abject degradation and slavery. the great body of the population, two millions in number, were the arabs. they were a wild and semi-barbarian race, restrained from all enterprise and industry, by unrelenting despotism. the turks or janizaries, two hundred thousand strong, composed a standing army, of sensual, merciless, unprincipled usurpers, which kept the trembling population by the energies of the bastinado, the scimitar and the bowstring in most servile subjection. the mamelukes composed a body of twelve thousand horsemen, proud, powerful and intolerable oppressors. each horseman had two servants to perform his menial service. twenty-four beys, each of whom had five or six hundred mamelukes under his command, governed this singular body of cavalry. two principal beys, ibrahim and mourad divided between them the sovereignty of egypt. it was the old story of despotism. the millions were ground down into hopeless degradation and poverty to pamper to the luxury and vice of a few haughty masters. oriental voluptuousness and luxury reigned in the palaces of the beys; beggary and wretchedness deformed the mud hovels of the defrauded and degraded people. it was napoleon's aim to present himself to the _people_ of egypt as their friend and liberator; to rally them around his standard, to subdue the mamelukes, to establish a government, which should revive all the sciences and the arts of civilized life in egypt; to acquire a character, by these benefactions, which should emblazon his name throughout the east; and then, with oppressed nations welcoming him as a deliverer, to strike blows upon the british power in india, which should compel the mistress of the seas to acknowledge that upon the land there was an arm which could reach and humble her. it was a design sublime in its magnificence. but it was not the will of god that it should be accomplished. the directory, at last overcome by the arguments of napoleon, and also, through jealousy of his unbounded popularity, being willing to remove him from france, assented to the proposed expedition. it was however necessary to preserve the utmost secrecy. should england be informed of the direction in which the blow was about to fall upon her, she might, with her invincible fleet, intercept the french squadron--she might rouse the mamelukes to most formidable preparations for resistance, and might thus vastly increase the difficulties of the enterprise. all the deliberations were consequently conducted with closed doors, and the whole plan was enveloped in the most profound mystery. for the first time in the history of the world, literature and science and art, formed a conspicuous part of the organization of an army. it was agreed that napoleon should take forty-six thousand men, a certain number of officers of his own selection, men of science, engineers, geographers, and artisans of all kinds. napoleon now devoted himself with the most extraordinary energy to the execution of his plans. order succeeded order with ceaseless rapidity. he seemed to rest not day nor night. he superintended every thing himself, and with almost the rapidity of the wind passed from place to place, corresponding with literary men, conversing with generals, raising money, collecting ships, and accumulating supplies. his comprehensive and indefatigable mind arranged even the minutest particulars. "i worked all day," said one, in apology for his assigned duty not having been fully performed. "but had you not the night also?" napoleon replied. "now sir," said he to another, "use dispatch. remember that the world was created in but six days. ask me for whatever you please, except _time_; that is the only thing which is beyond my power." his own energy was thus infused into the hearts of hundreds, and with incredible rapidity the work of preparation went on. he selected four points for the assemblage of convoys and troops, toulon, genoa, ajaccio, and civita vecchia. he chartered four hundred vessels of merchantmen in france and italy as transports for the secret service, and assembled them at the points of departure. he dispatched immediate orders for the divisions of his renowned army of italy to march to genoa and toulon. he collected the best artisans europe could furnish in all the arts of human industry. he took printing types, of the various languages of the east, from the college of the propaganda at rome, and a company of printers. he formed a large collection of the most perfect philosophical and mathematical instruments. the most illustrious men, though knowing not where he was about to lead them, were eager to attach themselves to the fortunes of the young general. preparations for an enterprise upon such a gigantic scale could not be made without attracting the attention of europe. rumor was busy with her countless contradictions. "where is napoleon bound?" was the universal inquiry. "he is going," said some "to the black sea"--"to india"--"to cut a canal through the isthmus of suez"--"to ireland"--"to the thames." even kleber supposed that they were bound for england, and reposing implicit confidence in the invincibility of napoleon, he said, "well! if you throw a fireship into the thames, put kleber on board of her and you shall see what he will do." the english cabinet was extremely perplexed. they clearly foresaw that a storm was gathering, but knew not in what direction it would break. extraordinary efforts were made to equip a powerful fleet, which was placed under the command of lord nelson, to cruise in the mediterranean and watch the movements of the french. on the th of may, , just five months after napoleon's return to paris from the italian campaign, he entered toulon, having completed all his preparations for the most magnificent enterprise ever contemplated by a mortal. josephine accompanied him, that he might enjoy as long as possible, the charms of her society. passionately as he loved his own glory, his love for josephine was _almost_ equally enthusiastic. a more splendid armament never floated upon the bosom of the ocean than here awaited him, its supreme lord and master. the fleet consisted of thirty ships of the line and frigates; seventy-two brigs and cutters, and four hundred transports. it bore forty-six thousand combatants, and a literary corps of one hundred men, furnished in the most perfect manner, to transport to asia the science and the arts of europe, and to bring back in return the knowledge gleaned among the monuments of antiquity. the old army of italy was drawn up in proud array to receive its youthful general, and they greeted him with the most enthusiastic acclamations. but few even of the officers of the army were aware of its destination. napoleon inspirited his troops with the following proclamation: "soldiers! you are one of the wings of the army of england. you have made war in mountains, plains and cities. it remains to make it on the ocean. the roman legions, whom you have often imitated but not yet equaled, combated carthage, by turns, on the seas and on the plains of zama. victory never deserted their standards, because they never ceased to be brave, patient, and united. soldiers! the eyes of europe are upon you. you have great destinies to accomplish, battles to fight, dangers and fatigues to overcome. you are about to do more than you have yet done, for the prosperity of your country, the happiness of man and for your own glory." thus the magnitude of the enterprise was announced, while at the same time it was left vailed in mystery. [illustration: the embarkation.] napoleon had, on many occasions, expressed his dislike of the arbitrary course pursued by the directory. in private he expressed, in the strongest terms, his horror of jacobin cruelty and despotism. "the directors," said he "can not long retain their position. they know not how to do any thing for the imagination of the nation." it is said that the directors, at last, were so much annoyed by his censure that they seriously contemplated his arrest and applied to fouché for that purpose. the wily minister of police replied, "napoleon bonaparte is not the man to be arrested; neither is fouché the man who will undertake to arrest him." when bourrienne inquired if he were really determined to risk his fate on the expedition to egypt, "yes!" he replied, "if i remain here, it will be necessary for me to overturn this miserable government, and make myself king. but we must not think of that yet. the pear is not yet ripe. i have sounded, but the time has not yet come. i must first dazzle these gentlemen by my exploits." one of his last acts before embarkation was to issue a humane proclamation to the military commission at toulon urging a more merciful construction of one of the tyrannical edicts of the directory against the emigrants. "i exhort you, citizens," said he, "when the law presents at your tribunal old men and females, to declare that, in the midst of war, frenchmen respect the aged and the women, even of their enemies. the soldier who signs a sentence against one incapable of bearing arms is a coward." there was perhaps not another man in france, who would have dared thus to oppose the sanguinary measures of government. this benevolent interposition met however with a response in the hearts of the people, and added a fresh laurel to his brow. on the morning of the th of may, , just as the sun was rising over the blue waves of the mediterranean the fleet got under way. napoleon, with eugene, embarked in the orient, an enormous ship of one hundred and twenty guns. it was a brilliant morning and the unclouded sun perhaps never shone upon a more splendid scene. the magnificent armament extended over a semi-circle of not less than eighteen miles. the parting between napoleon and josephine is represented as having been tender and affecting in the extreme. she was very anxious to accompany him, but he deemed the perils to which they would be exposed, and the hardships they must necessarily endure, far too formidable for a lady to encounter. josephine stood upon a balcony, with her eyes blinded with tears, as she waved her adieus to napoleon, and watched the receding fleet, till the lessening sails disappeared beneath the distant horizon. the squadron sailed first to genoa, thence to ajaccio, and thence to civita vecchia, to join the convoys collected in those ports. the signal was then given for the whole fleet to bear away, as rapidly as possible, for malta. in coasting along the shores of italy, napoleon, from the deck of the orient descried, far away in the distant horizon, the snow-capped summits of the alps. he called for a telescope, and gazed long and earnestly upon the scene of his early achievements. "i can not," said he, "behold without emotion, the land of italy. these mountains command the plains where i have so often led the french to victory. now i am bound to the east. with the same troops victory is still secure." [illustration: the distant alps.] all were fascinated by the striking originality, animation, and eloquence of his conversation. deeply read in all that is illustrious in the past, every island, every bay, every promontory, every headland recalled the heroic deeds of antiquity. in pleasant weather napoleon passed nearly all the time upon deck, surrounded by a group never weary of listening to the freshness and the poetic vigor of his remarks. upon all subjects he was alike at home, and the most distinguished philosophers, in their several branches of science, were amazed at the instinctive comprehensiveness with which every subject seemed to be familiar to his mind. he was never depressed and never mirthful. a calm and thoughtful energy inspired every moment. from all the ships the officers and distinguished men were in turn invited to dine with him. he displayed wonderful tact in drawing them out in conversation, forming with unerring skill an estimate of character, and thus preparing himself for the selection of suitable agents in all the emergencies which were to be encountered. in nothing was the genius of napoleon more conspicuous, than in the lightning-like rapidity with which he detected any vein of genius in another. not a moment of time was lost. intellectual conversation, or reading or philosophical discussion caused the hours to fly on swiftest wing. napoleon always, even in his most hurried campaigns, took a compact library with him. when driving in his carriage, from post to post of the army, he improved the moments in garnering up that knowledge, for the accumulation of which he ever manifested such an insatiable desire. _words_ were with him nothing, _ideas_ every thing. he devoured biography, history, philosophy, treatises upon political economy and upon all the sciences. his contempt for works of fiction--the whole class of novels and romances--amounted almost to indignation. he could never endure to see one reading such a book or to have such a volume in his presence. once, when emperor, in passing through the saloons of his palace, he found one of the maids of honor with a novel in her hands. he took it from her, gave her a severe lecture for wasting her time in such frivolous reading, and cast the volume into the flames. when he had a few moments for diversion, he not unfrequently employed them in looking over a book of logarithms, in which he always found recreation. at the dinner table some important subject of discussion was ever proposed. for the small talk and indelicacies which wine engenders napoleon had no taste, and his presence alone was sufficient to hold all such themes in abeyance. he was a young man of but twenty-six years of age, but his pre-eminence over all the forty-six thousand who composed that majestic armament was so conspicuous, that no one dreamed of questioning it. without annoyance, without haughtiness, he was fully conscious of his own superiority, and received unembarrassed the marks of homage which ever surrounded him. the questions for discussion relating to history, mythology, and science, were always proposed by napoleon. "are the planets inhabited?" "what is the age of the world?" "will the earth be destroyed by fire or water?" "what are the comparative merits of christianity and moslemism?" such were some of the questions which interested the mind of this young general. from the crowded state of the vessels, and the numbers on board unaccustomed to nautical manoeuvres, it not unfrequently happened that some one fell overboard. though napoleon could look with perfect composure upon the carnage of the field of battle, and order movements, without the tremor of a nerve, which he knew must consign thousands to a bloody death, when by such an accidental event life was periled, his sympathies were aroused to the highest degree, and he could not rest until the person was extricated. he always liberally rewarded those who displayed unusual courage and zeal in effecting a rescue. one dark night a noise was heard as of a man falling overboard. the whole ship's company, consisting of two thousand men, as the cry of alarm spread from stem to stern, was instantly in commotion. napoleon immediately ascended to the deck. the ship was put about; boats were lowered, and, after much agitation and search, it was discovered that the whole stir was occasioned by the slipping of a quarter of beef from a noose at the bulwark. napoleon ordered that the recompense for signal exertions should be more liberal than usual. "it might have been a man," he said, "and the zeal and courage now displayed have not been less than would have been required in that event." on the morning of the th of june, after a voyage of twenty days, the white cliffs of malta, and the magnificent fortifications of that celebrated island, nearly a thousand miles from toulon, emerged from the horizon, glittering with dazzling brilliance in the rays of the rising sun. by a secret understanding with the knights of malta. napoleon had prepared the way for the capitulation of the island before leaving france. the knights, conscious of their inability to maintain independence, preferred to be the subjects of france, rather than of any other power. "i captured malta," said napoleon, "while at mantua." the reduction, by force, of that almost impregnable fortress, would have required a long siege, and a vast expenditure of treasure and of life. a few cannon shot were exchanged, that there might be a slight show of resistance, when the island was surrendered, and the tri-colored flag waved proudly over those bastions which, in former years, had bid defiance, to the whole power of the all-conquering turk. the generals of the french army were amazed as they contemplated the grandeur and the strength of these works, upon which had been expended the science, the toil, and the wealth of ages. "it is well," said general caffarelli to napoleon, "that there was some one within to open the gates to us. we should have had more trouble in making our way through, if the place had been empty." the knights of malta, living upon the renown acquired by their order in by-gone ages, and reveling in luxury and magnificence, were very willing to receive the gold of napoleon, and palaces in the fertile plains of italy and france, in exchange for turrets and towers, bastions and ramparts of solid rock. the harbor is one of the most safe and commodious in the world. it embraced, without the slightest embarassment, the whole majestic armament, and allowed the magnificent orient, to float, with abundance of water, at the quay. napoleon immediately devoted his mind, with its accustomed activity, to securing and organizing the new colony. the innumerable batteries, were immediately armed, and three thousand men were left in defense of the place. all the turkish prisoners, found in the galleys, were set at liberty, treated with the greatest kindness, and scattered through the fleet, that their friendship might be won, and that they might exert a moral influence, in favor of the french, upon the mohammedan population of the east. with as much facility as if he had devoted a long life to the practical duties of a statesman, napoleon arranged the municipal system of the island; and having accomplished all this in less than a week, he again weighed anchor, and directed his course toward egypt. many of the knights of malta, followed the victorious general, and with profound homage, accepted appointments in his army. the whole french squadron, hourly anticipating collision with the english fleet, were ever ready for battle. though napoleon did not turn from his great object to seek the english, he felt no apprehension in view of meeting the enemy. upon every ship-of-the-line he had put five hundred picked men, who were daily exercised in working the guns. he had enjoined upon the whole fleet, that, in case of an encounter, every ship was to have but one single aim, that of closing immediately with a ship of the enemy, and boarding her with the utmost desperation. nelson, finding that the french had left their harbors, eagerly but unavailingly searched for them. he was entirely at a loss respecting their destination, and knew not in what direction to sail. it was not yet known, even on board the french ships, but to a few individuals, whither the fleet was bound. gradually, however, as the vast squadron drew nearer the african shore, the secret began to transpire. mirth and gayety prevailed. all were watching with eagerness, to catch a first glimpse of the continent of africa. in the evenings napoleon assembled, in the capacious cabins of the orient, the men of science and general officers, and then commenced the learned discussions of the institute of egypt. one night, the two fleets were within fifteen miles of each other; so near that the signal guns of nelson's squadron, were heard by the french. the night, however, was dark and foggy, and the two fleets passed without collision. on the morning of the st of july, after a passage of forty days, the low and sandy shores of egypt, about two thousand miles from france, were discerned extending along the distant horizon, as far as the eye could reach. as with a gentle breeze they drew nearer the land, the minarets of alexandria, the needle of cleopatra, and pompey's pillar, rose above the sand hills, exciting, in the minds of the enthusiastic french, the most romantic dreams of oriental grandeur. the fleet approached a bay, at a little distance from the harbor of alexandria, and dropped anchor about three miles from the shore. but two days before, nelson had visited that very spot, in quest of the french, and, not finding them there, had sailed for the mouth of the hellespont. the evening had now arrived, and the breeze had increased to almost a gale. notwithstanding the peril of disembarkation in such a surf, napoleon decided that not a moment was to be lost. the landing immediately commenced, and was continued, with the utmost expedition, through the whole night. many boats were swamped, and some lives lost, but, unintimidated by such disasters, the landing was continued with unabated zeal. the transfer of the horses from the ships to the shore, presented a very curious spectacle. they were hoisted out of the ships and lowered into the sea, with simply a halter about their necks, where they swam in great numbers around the vessels, not knowing which way to go. six were caught by their halters, and towed by a boat toward the shore. the rest, by instinct followed them. as other horses were lowered into the sea from all the ships, they joined the column hastening toward the land, and thus soon there was a dense and wide column of swimming horses, extending from the ships to the beach. as fast as they reached the shore they were caught, saddled, and delivered to their riders. toward morning the wind abated, and before the blazing sun rose over the sands of the desert, a proud army of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, was marshaled upon the dreary waste, awaiting the commands of its general. in the midst of the disembarkation, a sail appeared in the distant horizon. it was supposed to be an english ship. "oh, fortune!" exclaimed napoleon, "dost thou forsake me now? i ask of thee but a short respite." the strange sail proved to be a french frigate, rejoining the fleet. while the disembarkation was still going on, napoleon advanced, with three thousand men, whom he had hastily formed in battle array upon the beach, to alexandria, which was at but a few miles distance, that he might surprise the place before the turks had time to prepare for a defense. no man ever better understood the value of time. his remarkable saying to the pupils of a school which he once visited, "_my young friends! every hour of time is a chance of misfortune for future life_," formed the rule of his own conduct. just before disembarking, napoleon had issued the following proclamation to his troops: "soldiers! you are about to undertake a conquest fraught with incalculable effects upon the commerce and civilization of the world. you will inflict upon england the most grievous stroke she can sustain before receiving her death blow. the people with whom we are about to live are mohammedans. their first article of faith is, there is but one god, and mohammed is his prophet. contradict them not. treat them as you have treated the italians and the jews. show the same regard to their muftis and imaums, as you have shown to the bishops and rabbins. manifest for the ceremonies of the koran, the same respect you have shown to the convents and the synagogues, to the religion of moses and that of jesus christ. all religions were protected by the legions of rome. you will find here customs greatly at variance with those of europe. accustom yourselves to respect them. women are not treated here as with us; but in every country he who violates is a monster. pillage enriches only a few, while it dishonors an army, destroys its resources, and makes enemies of those whom it is the interest of all to attach as friends." the first gray of the morning had not yet dawned, when napoleon, at the head of his enthusiastic column, marched upon the city, which bore the name, and which had witnessed the achievements of alexander. it was his aim, by the fearlessness and the impetuosity of his first assaults, to impress the turks with an idea of the invincibility of the french. the mamelukes, hastily collected upon the ramparts of the city, received the foe with discharges of musketry and artillery, and with shouts of defiance. the french, aided by their ladders, poured over the walls like an inundation, sweeping every thing before them. the conflict was short, and the tricolored flag waved triumphantly over the city of alexander. the turkish prisoners from malta, who had become fascinated by the magnificence of napoleon, as all were fascinated who approached that extraordinary man, dispersed themselves through the city, and exerted a powerful influence in securing the friendship of the people for their invaders. the army, imbibing the politic sentiments of their general, refrained from all acts of lawless violence, and amazed the enslaved populace by their justice, mercy, and generosity. the people were immediately liberated from the most grinding and intolerable despotism; just and equal laws were established; and arab and copt, soon began, lost in wonder, to speak the praises of napoleon. he was a strange conqueror for the east; liberating and blessing, not enslaving and robbing the vanquished. their women were respected, their property was uninjured, their persons protected from violence, and their interests in every way promoted. a brighter day never dawned upon egypt than the day in which napoleon placed his foot upon her soil. the accomplishment of his plans, so far as human vision can discern, would have been one of the greatest of possible blessings to the east. again napoleon issued one of those glowing proclamations which are as characteristic of his genius as were the battles which he fought: [illustration: the disembarkation.] "people of egypt! you will be told, by our enemies, that i am come to destroy your religion. believe them not. tell them that i am come to restore your rights, punish your usurpers, and revise the true worship of mohammed. tell them that i venerate, more than do the mamelukes, god, his prophet, and the koran. tell them that all men are equal in the sight of god; that wisdom, talents, and virtue alone constitute the difference between them. and what are the virtues which distinguish the mamelukes, that entitle them to appropriate all the enjoyments of life to themselves? if egypt is their farm, let them show their lease, from god, by which they hold it. is there a fine estate? it belongs to the mamelukes. is there a beautiful slave, a fine horse, a good house? all belong to the mamelukes. but god is just and merciful, and he hath ordained that the empire of the mamelukes shall come to an end. thrice happy those who shall side with us; they shall prosper in their fortune and their rank. happy they who shall be neutral; they will have time to become acquainted with us, and will range themselves upon our side. but woe, threefold woe to those who shall arm for the mamelukes and fight against us. for them there will be no hope; they shall perish." "you witlings of paris," wrote one of the officers of the army, "will laugh outright, at the mohammedan proclamation of napoleon. he, however, is proof against all your raillery, and the proclamation itself has produced the most surprising effect. the arabs, natural enemies of the mamelukes, sent us back, as soon as they had read it, thirty of our people, whom they had made prisoners, with an offer of their services against the mamelukes." it was an interesting peculiarity in the character of napoleon that he respected all religions as necessities of the human mind. he never allowed himself to speak in contemptuous terms even of the grossest absurdities of religious fanaticism. christianity was presented to him only as exhibited by the papal church. he professed the most profound admiration of the doctrines and the moral precepts of the gospel, and often expressed the wish that he could be a devout believer. but he could not receive, as from god, all that popes, cardinals, bishops, and priests claimed as divine. in the spiritual power of the pope he recognized an agent of tremendous efficiency. as such he sincerely respected it, treated it with deference, and sought its alliance. he endeavored to gain control over every influence which could sway the human heart. so of the mohammedans; he regarded their religion as an element of majestic power, and wished to avail himself of it. while the philosophers and generals around him regarded all forms of religion with contempt, he, influenced by a far higher philosophy, regarded all with veneration. since the revolution there had been no sort of worship in france. the idea even of a god had been almost entirely obliterated from the public mind. the french soldiers were mere animals, with many noble as well as depraved instincts. at the command of their beloved chieftain, they were as ready to embrace a religion as to storm a battery. napoleon was accused of hypocrisy for pursuing this course in egypt. "i never," said he, subsequently, "followed any of the tenets of the mohammedan religion. i never prayed in the mosques. i never abstained from wine, or was circumcised. i said merely that we were friends of the mussulmans, and that i respected their prophet; which was true. i respect him now." napoleon remained in alexandria but six days. during this time he devoted himself with a zeal and energy which elicited universal admiration, to the organization of equitable laws, the regulations of police, and the development of the resources of the country. the very hour of their establishment in the city, artisans, and artists, and engineers all were busy, and the life and enterprise of the west, were infused into the sepulchral streets of alexandria. preparations were immediately made for improving the harbor, repairing the fortifications, erecting mills, establishing manufactories, founding schools, exploring antiquities, and the government of the country was placed in the hands of the prominent inhabitants, who were interested to promote the wise and humane policy of napoleon. since that day half a century of degradation, ignorance, poverty, oppression, and wretchedness has passed over egypt. had napoleon succeeded in his designs, it is probable that egypt would now have been a civilized and a prosperous land, enriched by the commerce of the east and the west; with villas of elegance and refinement embellishing the meadows and headlands of the nile, and steamers, freighted with the luxuries of all lands, plowing her majestic waves. the shores of the red sea, now so silent and lonely, would have echoed with the hum of happy industry, and fleets would have been launched from her forests, and thriving towns and opulent cities would have sprung up, where the roving bedouin now meets but desolation and gloom. it is true that in the mysterious providence of god all these hopes might have been disappointed. but it is certain that while napoleon remained in egypt the whole country received an impulse unknown for centuries before; and human wisdom can not devise a better plan than he proposed, for arousing the enterprise, and stimulating the industry, and developing the resources of the land. about thirty of the french troops fell in the attack upon alexandria. napoleon, with his prompt conceptions of the sublime, caused them to be buried at the foot of pompey's pillar, and had their names engraven upon that monument, whose renown has grown venerable through countless ages. the whole army assisted at the imposing ceremony of their interment. enthusiasm spread through the ranks. the french soldiers, bewildered by the meteor glare of glory, and deeming their departed comrades now immortalized, envied their fate. never did conqueror better understand than napoleon what springs to touch, to rouse the latent energies of human nature. leaving three thousand men in alexandria, under the command of general kleber, who had been wounded in the assault, napoleon set out, with the rest of his army, to cross the desert to cairo. the fleet was not in a place of safety, and napoleon gave emphatic orders to admiral brueys to remove the ships, immediately after landing the army, from the bay of aboukir, where it was anchored, into the harbor of alexandria; or, if the large ships could not enter that port, to proceed, without any delay, to the island of corfu. the neglect, on the part of the admiral, promptly to execute these orders, upon which napoleon had placed great stress, led to a disaster which proved fatal to the expedition. napoleon dispatched a large flotilla, laden with provisions, artillery, ammunition, and baggage, to sail along the shore of the mediterranean to the western branch of the nile, called the rosetta mouth, and ascend the river to a point where the army, having marched across the desert, would meet it. the flotilla and the army would then keep company, ascending the nile, some fifty miles, to cairo. the army had a desert of sixty miles to cross. it was dreary and inhospitable in the extreme. a blazing sun glared fiercely down upon the glowing sands. not a tree or a blade of grass cheered the eye. not a rivulet trickled across their hot and sandy path. a few wells of brackish water were scattered along the trackless course pursued by the caravans, but even these the arabs had filled up or poisoned. [illustration: the march through the desert.] early on the morning of the th of july the army commenced its march over the apparently boundless plain of shifting sands. no living creature met the eye but a few arab horsemen, who occasionally appeared and disappeared at the horizon, and who, concealing themselves behind the sand hills, immediately murdered any stragglers who wandered from the ranks, or from sickness or exhaustion loitered behind. four days of inconceivable suffering were occupied in crossing the desert. the soldiers, accustomed to the luxuriance, beauty, and abundance of the valleys of italy, were plunged into the most abject depression. even the officers found their firmness giving way, and lannes and murat, in paroxysms of despair, dashed their hats upon the sand, and trampled them under foot. many fell and perished on the long and dreary route. but the dense columns toiled on, hour after hour, weary, and hungry, and faint, and thirsty, the hot sun blazing down upon their unsheltered heads, and the yielding sands burning their blistered feet. at the commencement of the enterprise napoleon had promised, to each of his soldiers, seven acres of land. as they looked around upon this dreary and boundless ocean of sand, they spoke jocularly of his moderation in promising them but _seven acres_, "the young rogue," said they, "might have safely offered us as much as we chose to take. we certainly should not have abused his good-nature." nothing can show more strikingly the singular control which napoleon had obtained over his army, than the fact that under these circumstances, no one murmured against him. he toiled along on foot, at the head of the column, sharing the fatigue of the most humble soldiers. like them he threw himself upon the sands at night, with the sand for his pillow, and, secreting no luxuries for himself, he ate the coarse beans which afforded the only food for the army. he was ever the last to fold his cloak around him for the night, and the first to spring from the ground in the morning. the soldiers bitterly cursed the government who had sent them to that land of barrenness and desolation. seeing the men of science stopping to examine the antiquities, they accused them of being the authors of the expedition, and revenged themselves with witticisms. but no one uttered a word against napoleon. his presence overawed all. he seemed to be insensible to hunger, thirst, or fatigue. it was observed that while all others were drenched with perspiration, not a drop of moisture oozed from his brow. through all the hours of this dreary march, not a word or a gesture escaped him, which indicated the slightest embarrassment or inquietude. one day he approached a group of discontented officers, and said to them, in tones of firmness which at once brought them to their senses, "you are holding mutinous language! beware! it is not your being six feet high which will save you from being shot in a couple of hours." in the midst of the desert, when gloom and despondency had taken possession of all hearts, unbounded joy was excited by the appearance of a lake of crystal water, but a few miles before them, with villages and palm trees beautifully reflected in its clear and glassy depths. the parched and panting troops rushed eagerly on, to plunge into the delicious waves. hour after hour passed, and they approached no nearer the elysium before them. dreadful was their disappointment when they found that it was all an illusion, and that they were pursuing the _mirage_ of the dry and dusty desert. at one time napoleon, with one or two of his officers, wandered a little distance from the main body of his army. a troop of arab horsemen, concealed by some sand hills, watched his movements, but for some unknown reason, when he was entirely in their power, did not harm him. napoleon soon perceived his peril, and escaped unmolested. upon his return to the troops, peacefully smiling, he said, "it is not written on high, that i am to perish by the hands of the arabs." as the army drew near the nile the mameluke horsemen increased in numbers, and in the frequency and the recklessness of their attacks. their appearance and the impetuosity of their onset was most imposing. each one was mounted on a fleet arabian steed, and was armed with pistol, sabre, carbine, and blunderbuss. the carbine was a short gun which threw a small bullet with great precision. the blunderbuss was also a short gun, with a large bore, capable of holding a number of balls, and of doing execution without exact aim. these fierce warriors accustomed to the saddle almost from infancy, presented an array indescribably brilliant, as, with gay turbans, and waving plumes, and gaudy banners, and gold-spangled robes, in meteoric splendor, with the swiftness of the wind, they burst from behind the sand hills. charging like the rush of a tornado, they rent the air with their hideous yells, and discharged their carbines, while in full career, and halted, wheeled, and retreated with a precision and celerity which amazed even the most accomplished horsemen of the army of italy. the extended sandy plains were exactly adapted to the manoeuvres of these flying herds. the least motion, or the slightest breath of wind, raised a cloud of dust, blinding, choking, and smothering the french, but apparently presenting no annoyance either to the arab rider or to his horse. if a weary straggler loitered a few steps behind the toiling column, or if any soldiers ventured to leave the ranks in pursuit of the mamelukes in their bold attacks, certain and instant death was encountered. a wild troop, enveloped in clouds of dust, like spirits from another world, dashed upon them, cut down the adventurers with their keen damascus blades, and disappeared in the desert, almost before a musket could be leveled at them. after five days of inconceivable suffering the long-wished-for nile was seen, glittering through the sand hills of the desert, and bordered by a fringe of the richest luxuriance. the scene burst upon the view of the panting soldiers like a vision of enchantment. shouts of joy burst from the ranks. all discipline and order were instantly forgotten. the whole army of thirty thousand men, with horses and camels rushed forward, a tumultuous throng, and plunged, in the delirium of excitement, into the waves. they luxuriated, with indescribable delight, in the cool and refreshing stream. they rolled over and over in the water, shouting and frolicking in wild joy. reckless of consequences, they drank and drank again, as if they never could be satiated with the delicious beverage. in the midst of this scene of turbulent and almost frenzied exultation, a cloud of dust was seen in the distance, the trampling of hoofs was heard, and a body of nearly a thousand mameluke horsemen, on fleet arabian chargers, came sweeping down upon them, like the rush of the wind, their sabres flashing in the sunlight, and rending the air with their hideous yells. the drums beat the alarm; the trumpets sounded, and the veteran soldiers, drilled to the most perfect mechanical precision, instantly formed in squares, with the artillery at the angles, to meet the foe. in a moment the assault, like a tornado, fell upon them. but it was a tornado striking a rock. not a line wavered. a palisade of bristling bayonets met the breasts of the horses, and they recoiled from the shock. a volcanic burst of fire, from artillery and musketry, rolled hundreds of steeds and riders together in the dust. the survivors, wheeling their unchecked chargers, disappeared with the same meteoric rapidity with which they had approached. the flotilla now appeared in sight, having arrived at the destined spot at the precise hour designated by napoleon. this was not accident. it was the result of that wonderful power of mind, and extent of information, which had enabled napoleon perfectly to understand the difficulties of the two routes, and to give his orders in such a way, that they could be, and would be obeyed. it was remarked by napoleon's generals, that during a week's residence in egypt, he acquired apparently as perfect an acquaintance with the country as if it had been his native land. the whole moral aspect of the army was now changed, with the change in the aspect of the country. the versatile troops forgot their sufferings, and, rejoicing in abundance, danced and sang, beneath the refreshing shade of sycamore and palm trees. the fields were waving with luxuriant harvests. pigeons were abundant. the most delicious watermelons were brought to the camp in inexhaustible profusion. but the villages were poor and squalid, and the houses mere hovels of mud. the execrations in which the soldiers had indulged in the desert, now gave place to jokes and glee. for seven days they marched resolutely forward along the banks of the nile, admiring the fertility of the country, and despising the poverty and degradation of the inhabitants. they declared that there was no such place as cairo, but that the "little corporal," had suffered himself to be transported _like a good boy_, to that miserable land, in search of a city even more unsubstantial than the mirage of the desert. on the march napoleon stopped at the house of an arab sheik. the interior presented a revolting scene of squalidness and misery. the proprietor was however reported to be rich. napoleon treated the old man with great kindness and asked, through an interpreter, why he lived in such utter destitution of all the comforts of life, assuring him that an unreserved answer should expose him to no inconvenience. he replied, "some years ago i repaired and furnished my dwelling. information of this was carried to cairo, and having been thus proved to be wealthy, a large sum of money was demanded from me by the mamelukes, and the bastinado was inflicted until i paid it. look at my feet, which bear witness to what i endured. from that time i have reduced myself to the barest necessaries, and no longer seek to repair any thing." the poor old man was lamed for life, in consequence of the mutilation which his feet received from the terrible infliction. such was the tyranny of the mamelukes. the egyptians, in abject slavery to their proud oppressors, were compelled to surrender their wives, their children, and even their own persons to the absolute will of the despots who ruled them. numerous bands of mameluke horsemen, the most formidable body of cavalry in the world, were continually hovering about the army, watching for points of exposure, and it was necessary to be continually prepared for an attack. nothing could have been more effective than the disposition which napoleon made of his troops to meet this novel mode of warfare. he formed his army into five squares. the sides of each square were composed of ranks six men deep. the artillery were placed at the angles. within the square were grenadier companies in platoons to support the points of attack. the generals, the scientific corps, and the baggage were in the centre. these squares were moving masses. when on the march all faced in one direction, the two sides marching in flank. when charged they immediately halted and fronted on every side; the outermost rank kneeling that those behind might shoot over their heads--the whole body thus presenting a living fortress of bristling bayonets. when they were to carry a position the three front ranks were to detach themselves from the square and to form a column of attack. the other three ranks were to remain in the rear, still forming the square, ready to rally the column. these flaming citadels of fire set at defiance all the power of the arab horsemen. the attacks of the enemy soon became a subject of merriment to the soldiers. the scientific men, or _savans_, as they were called, had been supplied with asses to transport their persons and philosophical apparatus. as soon as a body of mamelukes was seen in the distance, the order was given, with military precision, "_form square, savans and asses in the centre_." this order was echoed, from rank to rank, with peals of laughter. the soldiers amused themselves with calling the asses _demi-savans_. though the soldiers thus enjoyed their jokes, they cherished the highest respect for many of these savans, who in scenes of battle had manifested the utmost intrepidity. after a march of seven days, during which time they had many bloody skirmishes with the enemy, the army approached cairo. mourad bey had there assembled the greater part of his mamelukes, nearly ten thousand in number, for a decisive battle. these proud and powerful horsemen were supported by twenty-four thousand foot soldiers, strongly intrenched. cairo is on the eastern banks of the nile. napoleon was marching along the western shore. on the morning of the st of july, napoleon, conscious that he was near the city, set his army in motion before the break of day. just as the sun was rising in those cloudless skies, the soldiers beheld the lofty minarets of the city upon their left, gilded by its rays, and upon the right, upon the borders of the desert, the gigantic pyramids rising like mountains upon an apparently boundless plain. the whole army instinctively halted and gazed awe-stricken upon those monuments of antiquity. the face of napoleon beamed with enthusiasm. "soldiers!" he exclaimed, as he rode along the ranks; "from those summits forty centuries contemplate your actions." the ardor of the soldiers was aroused to the highest pitch. animated by the clangor of martial bands, and the gleam of flaunting banners, they advanced with impetuous steps to meet their foes. the whole plain before them, at the base of the pyramids was filled with armed men. the glittering weapons of ten thousand horsemen, in the utmost splendor of barbaric chivalry, brilliant with plumes and arms of burnished steel and gold, presented an array inconceivably imposing. undismayed the french troops, marshaled in five invincible squares, pressed on. there was apparently no alternative. napoleon must march upon those intrenchments, behind which twenty-four thousand men were stationed with powerful artillery and musketry to sweep his ranks, and a formidable body of ten thousand horsemen, on fleet and powerful arabian steeds, awaiting the onset, and ready to seize upon the slightest indications of confusion to plunge, with the fury which fatalism can inspire, upon his bleeding and mangled squares. it must have been with napoleon a moment of intense anxiety. but as he sat upon his horse, in the centre of one of the squares, and carefully examined, with his telescope, the disposition of the enemy, no one could discern the slightest trace of uneasiness. his gaze was long and intense. the keenness of his scrutiny detected that the guns of the enemy were not mounted upon carriages, and that they could not therefore be turned from the direction in which they were placed. no other officer, though many of them had equally good glasses, made this important discovery. he immediately, by a lateral movement, guided his army to the right, toward the pyramids, that his squares might be out of the range of the guns, and that he might attack the enemy in flank. the moment mourad bey perceived this evolution, he divined its object, and with great military sagacity resolved instantly to charge. [illustration: battle of the pyramids.] "you shall now see us," said the proud bey, "cut up those dogs, like gourds." it was, indeed, a fearful spectacle. ten thousand horsemen, magnificently dressed, with the fleetest steeds in the world, urging their horses with bloody spurs, to the most impetuous and furious onset, rending the heavens with their cries, and causing the very earth to tremble beneath the thunder of iron feet, came down upon the adamantine host. nothing was ever seen in war more furious than this charge. ten thousand horsemen is an enormous mass. those longest inured to danger felt that it was an awful moment. it seemed impossible to resist such a living avalanche. the most profound silence reigned through the ranks, interrupted only by the word of command. the nerves of excitement being roused to the utmost tension, every order was executed with most marvelous rapidity and precision. the soldiers held their breath, and with bristling bayonets stood, shoulder to shoulder, to receive the shock. the moment the mamelukes arrived within gunshot, the artillery, at the angles, plowed their ranks, and platoons of musketry, volley after volley, in a perfectly uninterrupted flow, swept into their faces a pitiless tempest of destruction. horses and riders, struck by the balls, rolled over each other, by hundreds, in the sand, and were trampled and crushed by the iron hoofs of the thousands of frantic steeds, enveloped in dust and smoke, composing the vast and impetuous column. but the squares stood as firm as the pyramids at whose base they fought. not one was broken; not one wavered. the daring mamelukes, in the frenzy of their rage and disappointment, threw away their lives with the utmost recklessness. they wheeled their horses round and reined them back upon the ranks, that they might kick their way into those terrible fortresses of living men. rendered furious by their inability to break the ranks, they hurled their pistols and carbines at the heads of the french. the wounded crawled along the ground, and with their scimitars, cut at the legs of their indomitable foes. they displayed superhuman bravery, the only virtue which the mamelukes possessed. but an incessant and merciless fire from napoleon's well-trained battalions continually thinned their ranks, and at last the mamelukes, in the wildest disorder, broke, and fled. the infantry, in the intrenched camp, witnessing the utter discomfiture of the mounted troops, whom they had considered invincible, and seeing such incessant and volcanic sheets of flame bursting from the impenetrable squares, caught the panic, and joined the flight. napoleon now, in his turn, charged with the utmost impetuosity. a scene of indescribable confusion and horror ensued. the extended plain was crowded with fugitives--footmen and horsemen, bewildered with terror, seeking escape from their terrible foes. thousands plunged into the river, and endeavored to escape by swimming to the opposite shore. but a shower of bullets, like hail stones, fell upon them, and the waves of the nile were crimsoned with their blood. others sought the desert, a wild and rabble rout. the victors, with their accustomed celerity pursued, pitilessly pouring into the dense masses of their flying foes the most terrible discharges of artillery and musketry. the rout was complete--the carnage awful. the sun had hardly reached the meridian, before the whole embattled host had disappeared, and the plain as far as the eye could extend, was strewn with the dying and the dead. the camp, with all its oriental wealth, fell into the hands of the victors; and the soldiers enriched themselves with its profusion of splendid shawls, magnificent weapons, arabian horses, and purses filled with gold. the mamelukes were accustomed to lavish great wealth in the decorations of their persons, and to carry with them large sums of money. the gold and the trappings found upon the body of each mameluke were worth from twelve hundred to two thousand dollars. besides those who were slain upon the field, more than a thousand of these formidable horsemen were drowned in the nile. for many days the soldiers employed themselves in fishing up the rich booty, and the french camp was filled with all abundance. this most sanguinary battle cost the french scarcely one hundred men in killed and wounded. more than ten thousand of the enemy perished. napoleon gazed with admiration upon the bravery which these proud horsemen displayed. "could i have united the mameluke horse to the french infantry," said he, "i should have reckoned myself master of the world." after the battle, napoleon, now the undisputed conqueror of egypt, quartered himself for the night in the country palace of mourad bey. the apartments of this voluptuous abode were embellished with all the appurtenances of oriental luxury. the officers were struck with surprise in viewing the multitude of cushions and divans covered with the finest damasks and silks, and ornamented with golden fringe. egypt was beggared to minister to the sensual indulgence of these haughty despots. much of the night was passed in exploring this singular mansion. the garden was extensive and magnificent in the extreme. innumerable vines were laden with the richest grapes. the vintage was soon gathered by the thousands of soldiers who filled the alleys and loitered in the arbors. pots of preserves, of confectionery, and of sweetmeats of every kind, were quickly devoured by an army of mouths. the thousands of little elegancies which europe, asia, and africa had contributed to minister to the voluptuous splendors of the regal mansion, were speedily transferred to the knapsacks of the soldiers. the "battle of the pyramids," as napoleon characteristically designated it, sent a thrill of terror, far and wide, into the interior of asia and africa. these proud, merciless, licentious oppressors were execrated by the timid egyptians, but they were deemed invincible. in an hour they had vanished, like the mist, before the genius of napoleon. the caravans which came to cairo, circulated through the vast regions of the interior, with all the embellishments of oriental exaggeration, most glowing accounts of the destruction of these terrible squadrons, which had so long tyrannized over egypt, and the fame of whose military prowess had caused the most distant tribes to tremble. the name of napoleon became suddenly as renowned in asia and in africa as it had previously become in europe. but twenty-one days had elapsed since he placed his foot upon the sands at alexandria, and now he was sovereign of egypt. the egyptians also welcomed him as a friend and a liberator. the sheets of flame, which incessantly burst from the french ranks, so deeply impressed their imaginations, that they gave to napoleon the oriental appellation of sultan kebir, or king of fire. the wives of the mamelukes had all remained in cairo. napoleon treated them with the utmost consideration. he sent eugene to the wife of mourad bey, to assure her of his protection. he preserved all her property for her, and granted her several requests which she made to him. thus he endeavored, as far as possible, to mitigate the inevitable sufferings of war. the lady was so grateful for these attentions that she entertained eugene with all possible honors, and presented him, upon his departure, with a valuable diamond ring. cairo contained three hundred thousand inhabitants. its population was brutal and ferocious in the extreme. the capital was in a state of terrible agitation, for the path of oriental conquerors is ever marked with brutality, flames, and blood. napoleon immediately dispatched a detachment of his army into the city to restore tranquillity, and to protect persons and property from the fury of the populace. the next day but one, with great pomp and splendor, at the head of his victorious army, he entered cairo, and took possession of the palace of mourad bey. with the most extraordinary intelligence and activity he immediately consecrated all his energies to promote the highest interest of the country he had conquered. nothing escaped his observation. he directed his attention to the mosques, the harems, the condition of the women, the civil and religious institutions, the state of agriculture, the arts, and sciences--to every thing which could influence the elevation and prosperity of the country. he visited the most influential of the arab inhabitants, assured them of his friendship, of his respect for their religion, of his determination to protect their rights, and of his earnest desire to restore to egypt its pristine glory. he disclaimed all sovereignty over egypt, but organized a government to be administered by the people themselves. he succeeded perfectly in winning their confidence and admiration. he immediately established a congress, composed of the most distinguished citizens of cairo, for the creation of laws and the administration of justice, and established similar assemblies in all the provinces, which were to send deputies to the general congress at cairo. he organized the celebrated institute of egypt, to diffuse among the people the light and the sciences of europe. some of the members were employed in making an accurate description and a perfect map of egypt; others were to study the productions of the country, that its resources might be energetically and economically developed; others were to explore the ruins, thus to shed new light upon history; others were to study the social condition of the inhabitants, and proper plans for the promotion of their welfare, by the means of manufactures, canals, roads, mills, works upon the nile, and improvements in agriculture. among the various questions proposed to the institute by napoleon, the following may be mentioned as illustrative of his enlarged designs: ascertain the best construction for wind and water mills; find a substitute for the hop, which does not grow in egypt, for the making of beer; select sites adapted to the cultivation of the vine; seek the best means of procuring water for the citadel of cairo; select spots for wells in different parts of the desert; inquire into the means of clarifying and cooling the waters of the nile; devise some useful application of the rubbish with which the city of cairo, and all the ancient towns of egypt, are encumbered; find materials for the manufacture of gunpowder. it is almost incredible that the egyptians were not acquainted with windmills, wheelbarrows, or even handsaws, until they were introduced by napoleon. engineers, draughtsmen, and men of science immediately dispersed themselves throughout all the provinces of egypt. flour, as fine as could be obtained in paris, was ground in mills at alexandria, rosetta, damietta, and cairo. by the erection of public ovens, bread became abundant. hospitals were established, with a bed for each patient. saltpetre and gunpowder-mills were erected. a foundry was constructed with reverberating furnaces. large shops were built for locksmiths, armorers, joiners, cartwrights, carpenters, and rope-makers. silver goblets and services of plate were manufactured. a french and arabic printing-press was set at work. inconceivable activity was infused into every branch of industry. the genius of napoleon, never weary, inspired all and guided all. it was indeed a bright day which, after centuries of inaction and gloom, had thus suddenly dawned upon egypt. the route was surveyed, and the expense estimated, of two ship-canals, one connecting the waters of the red sea with the nile at cairo; the other uniting the red sea with the mediterranean across the isthmus of suez. five millions of dollars and two years of labor would have executed both of these magnificent enterprises, and would have caused a new era to have dawned upon three continents. it is impossible not to deplore those events which have thus consigned anew these fertile regions to beggary and to barbarism. the accomplishment of these majestic plans might have transferred to the nile and the euphrates those energies now so transplendent upon the banks of the mississippi and the ohio. "it is incredible," says talleyrand, "how much napoleon was able to achieve. he could effect more than any man, yes, more than any four men whom i have ever known. his genius was inconceivable. nothing could exceed his energy, his imagination, his spirit, his capacity for work, his ease of accomplishment. he was clearly the most extraordinary man that i ever saw, and i believe the most extraordinary man that has lived in our age, or for many ages." all the energies of napoleon's soul were engrossed by these enterprises of grandeur and utility. dissipation could present no aspect to allure him. "i have no passion," said he, "for women or gaming. i am entirely a political being." the arabs were lost in astonishment that a conqueror, who wielded the thunderbolt, could be so disinterested and merciful. such generosity and self-denial was never before heard of in the east. they could in no way account for it. their females were protected from insult; their persons and property were saved. thirty thousand europeans were toiling for the comfort and improvement of the egyptians. they called napoleon the worthy son of the prophet, the favorite of allah. they even introduced his praises into their litany, and chanted in the mosques, "who is he that hath saved the favorite of victory from the dangers of the sea, and from the rage of his enemies? who is he that hath led the brave men of the west, safe and unharmed to the banks of the nile! it is allah! the great allah! the mamelukes put their trust in horses; they draw forth their infantry in battle array. but the favorite of victory hath destroyed the footmen and the horsemen of the mamelukes. as the vapors which rise in the morning are scattered by the rays of the sun, so hath the army of the mamelukes been scattered by the brave men of the west. for the brave men of the west are as the apple of the eye to the great allah." napoleon, to ingratiate himself with the people, and to become better acquainted with their character, attended their religious worship, and all their national festivals. though he left the administration of justice in the hands of the sheiks, he enjoined and enforced scrupulous impartiality in their decisions. the robbers of the desert, who for centuries had devastated the frontiers with impunity, he repulsed with a vigorous hand, and under his energetic sway life and property became as safe in egypt as in england or in france. the french soldiers became very popular with the native egyptians, and might be seen in the houses, socially smoking their pipes with the inhabitants, assisting them in their domestic labors, and playing with their children. one day napoleon, in his palace, was giving audience to a numerous assemblage of sheiks and other distinguished men. information was brought to him that some robbers from the desert had slain a poor friendless peasant, and carried off his flocks. "take three hundred horsemen and two hundred camels," said napoleon, immediately, to an officer of his staff, "and pursue these robbers until they are captured, and the outrage is avenged." "was the poor wretch your cousin," exclaimed one of the sheiks, contemptuously, "that you are in such a rage at his death?" "he was more," napoleon replied, sublimely, "he was one whose safety providence had intrusted to my care." "wonderful!" rejoined the sheik, "you speak like one inspired of the almighty." more than one assassin was dispatched by the turkish authorities to murder napoleon. but the egyptians with filial love, watched over him, gave him timely notice of the design, and effectually aided him in defeating it. in the midst of this extraordinary prosperity, a reverse, sudden, terrible, and irreparable, befell the french army. admiral brueys, devotedly attached to napoleon, and anxious to ascertain that he had obtained a foothold in the country before leaving him to his fate, delayed withdrawing his fleet, as napoleon had expressly enjoined, from the bay of aboukir, to place it in a position of safety. the second day after entering cairo, napoleon received dispatches from admiral brueys by which he learned that the squadron was in the bay of aboukir, exposed to the attacks of the enemy. he was amazed at the intelligence, and immediately dispatched a messenger, to proceed with the utmost haste, and inform the admiral of his great disapprobation, and to warn him to take the fleet, without an hour's delay, either into the harbor of alexandria, where it would be safe, or to make for corfu. the messenger was assassinated on the way by a party of arabs. he could not, however, have reached aboukir before the destruction of the fleet. in the mean time, lord nelson learned that the french had landed at egypt. he immediately turned in that direction to seek their squadron. at six o'clock in the evening of the first of august, but ten days after the battle of the pyramids, the british fleet majestically entered the bay of aboukir, and closed upon their victims. the french squadron consisting of thirteen ships of the line and four frigates, was anchored in a semi-circle, in a line corresponding with the curve of the shore. the plan of attack, adopted by nelson, possessed the simplicity and originality of genius, and from the first moment victory was almost certain. as soon as nelson perceived the situation of the french fleet, he resolved to double with his whole force on half of that of his enemy, pursuing the same system of tactics by sea which napoleon had found so successful on the land. he ordered his fleet to take its station half on the outer, and half on the inner side of one end of the french line. thus each french ship was placed between the fire of two of those of the english. the remainder of the french fleet being at anchor to the windward could not easily advance to the relief of their doomed friends. admiral brueys supposed that he was anchored so near the shore that the english could not pass inside of his line. but nelson promptly decided that where there was room for the enemy to swing, there must be room for his ships to float. "if we succeed what will the world say," exclaimed one of nelson's captains, with transport, as he was made acquainted with the plan of attack. "there is no if in the case," nelson replied, "that we shall succeed is certain. who may live to tell the story is a very different question." the french fought with the energies of despair. for fifteen hours the unequal contest lasted. dark night came on. the bay of aboukir resembled one wide flaming volcano, enveloped in the densest folds of sulphureous smoke. the ocean never witnessed a conflict more sanguinary and dreadful. about eleven o'clock the orient took fire. the smoke, from the enormous burning mass, ascended like an immense black balloon, when suddenly the flames, flashing through them, illumined the whole horizon with awful brilliance. at length its magazine, containing hundreds of barrels of gunpowder, blew up, with an explosion so tremendous as to shake every ship to its centre. so awfully did this explosion rise above the incessant roar of the battle, that simultaneously on both sides, the firing ceased, and a silence, as of the grave, ensued. but immediately the murderous conflict was resumed. death and destruction, in the midst of the congenial gloom of night, held high carnival in the bay. thousands of arabs lined the shore, gazing with astonishment and terror upon the awful spectacle. for fifteen hours that dreadful conflict continued, through the night and during the morning, and until high noon of the ensuing day, when the firing gradually ceased, for the french fleet was destroyed. four ships only escaped, and sailed for malta. the english ships were too much shattered to attempt to pursue the fugitives. admiral brueys was wounded early in the action. he would not leave the quarter-deck. "an admiral," said he, "should die giving orders." a cannon ball struck him, and but the fragments of his body could be found. nelson was also severely wounded on the head. when carried to the cockpit, drenched in blood, he nobly refused, though in imminent danger of bleeding to death, to have his wounds dressed, till the wounded seamen, who were brought in before him, were attended to. "i will take my turn with my brave fellows," said he. fully believing that his wound was mortal, he called for the chaplain, and requested him to deliver his dying remembrance to lady nelson. when the surgeon came, in due time, to inspect his wound, it was found that the wound was only superficial. all of the transports and small craft which had conveyed napoleon's army to egypt, were in the harbor of alexandria, safe from attack, as nelson had no frigates with which to cross the bar. for leagues the shore was strewn with fragments of the wreck, and with the mangled bodies of the dead. the bay was also filled with floating corpses, notwithstanding the utmost efforts to sink them. the majestic armament which but four weeks before had sailed from toulon, was thus utterly overthrown. the loss of the english was but about one thousand. of the french five thousand perished, and three thousand were made prisoners. as soon as the conquest was completed, nelson made signal for the crew, in every ship, to be assembled for prayers. the stillness of the sabbath instantly pervaded the whole squadron, while thanksgivings were offered to god for the signal victory. so strange is the heart of man. england was desolating the whole civilized world with war, to compel the french people to renounce republicanism and establish a monarchy. and in the bloody hour when the bay of aboukir was covered with the thousands of the mutilated dead, whom her strong arm had destroyed, she, with unquestioned sincerity, offered to god the tribute of thanksgiving and praise. and from the churches and the firesides of england, tens of thousands of pious hearts breathed the fervent prayer of gratitude to god for the great victory of aboukir. such was the famous _battle of the nile_, as it has since been called. it was a signal conquest. it was a magnificent triumph of british arms. but a victory apparently more fatal to the great interests of humanity was perhaps never gained. it was the death-blow to reviving egypt. it extinguished in midnight gloom the light of civilization and science, which had just been enkindled on those dreary shores. merciless oppression again tightened its iron grasp upon asia and africa, and already, as the consequence, has another half century of crime, cruelty and outrage, blighted that doomed land. napoleon at once saw that all his hopes were blasted. the blow was utterly irreparable. he was cut off from europe. he could receive no supplies. he could not return. egypt was his prison. yet he received the news of this terrible disaster, with the most imperturbable equanimity. not a word or a gesture escaped him, which indicated the slightest discouragement. with unabated zeal he pursued his plans, and soon succeeded in causing the soldiers to forget the disaster. he wrote to kleber, "we must die in this country or get out of it as great as the ancients. this will oblige us to do greater things than we intended. we must hold ourselves in readiness. we will at least bequeath to egypt an heritage of greatness." "yes!" kleber replied, "we must do great things. i am preparing my faculties." the exultation among the crowned heads in europe in view of this great monarchical victory was unbounded. england immediately created nelson baron of the nile, and conferred a pension of ten thousand dollars a year, to be continued to his two immediate successors. the grand signior, the emperor of russia, the king of sardinia, the king of naples, and the east india company made him magnificent presents. despotism upon the continent, which had received such heavy blows from napoleon, began to rejoice and to revive. the newly emancipated people, struggling into the life of liberty, were disheartened. exultant england formed new combinations of banded kings, to replace the bourbons on their throne, and to crush the spirit of popular liberty and equality, which had obtained such a foothold in france. all monarchical europe rejoiced. all republican europe mourned. the day of aboukir was indeed a disastrous day to france. napoleon with his intimate friends did not conceal his conviction of the magnitude of the calamity. he appeared occasionally, for a moment, lost in painful reverie, and was heard two or three times to exclaim, in indescribable tones of emotion, "unfortunate brueys, what have you done." but hardly an hour elapsed after he had received the dreadful tidings, ere he entirely recovered his accustomed fortitude, and presence of mind, and he soon succeeded in allaying the despair of the soldiers. he saw, at a glance, all the consequences of this irreparable loss. and it speaks well for his heart that in the midst of a disappointment so terrible, he could have forgotten his own grief in writing a letter of condolence to the widow of his friend. a heartless man could never have penned so touching an epistle as the following addressed to madame brueys, the widow of the man who had been unintentionally the cause of apparently the greatest calamity which could have befallen him. "your husband has been killed by a cannon ball, while combating on his quarter deck. he died without suffering--the death the most easy and the most envied by the brave. i feel warmly for your grief. the moment which separates us from the object which we love is terrible; we feel isolated on the earth; we almost experience the convulsions of the last agony; the faculties of the soul are annihilated; its connection with the earth is preserved only through the medium of a painful dream, which disturbs every thing. we feel, in such a situation, that there is nothing which yet binds us to life; that it were far better to die. but when, after such just and unavoidable throes, we press our children to our hearts, tears and more tender sentiments arise, and life becomes bearable for their sakes. yes, madame! they will open the fountains of your heart. you will watch their childhood, educate their youth. you will speak to them of their father, of your present grief, and of the loss which they and the republic have sustained in his death. after having resumed the interests in life by the chord of maternal love, you will perhaps feel some consolation from the friendship and warm interest which i shall ever take in the widow of my friend." [illustration] the french soldiers with the versatility of disposition which has ever characterized the light-hearted nation, finding all possibility of a return to france cut off, soon regained their accustomed gayety, and with zeal engaged in all the plans of napoleon, for the improvement of the country, which it now appeared that, for many years, must be their home. the german emigrants--a sketch of life. by john doggett, jun. a few years ago, while wandering a stranger along the quay at albany, my attention was attracted to a crowd composed for the most part of persons about to depart by a canal-packet for buffalo. the scene was to me one of some interest, as a number of germans of the better class were among the passengers. one was a beautiful girl apparently of about the age of eighteen, arrayed in the simple, unaffected garb of her country, but whose intellectual features, black and lustrous hair, tall and elegant figure, and somewhat melancholy cast of countenance, rendered her an object of interest, perhaps, i may say of admiration, to the bystanders. i noticed the sweet, sad smile which occasionally enlivened her countenance as fondly holding the hand of her companion in her own, she spoke to him in a tone and with a frankness of manner, that betrayed a deep and abiding interest in his welfare. i was informed that this young man was her only brother, who had been for some months employed in a manufacturing establishment in albany; that his sister, however, had but recently arrived in the country, and, accompanied by her uncle, was now about to depart on a pilgrimage to the distant west. feeling an interest--why i know not--in this brother and sister, and perceiving they were of a better class than ordinarily emigrate to america, i was not surprised to learn that they had been educated with all the care and tenderness wealthy parents could bestow; that their father, who for many years had been engaged in extensive commercial pursuits in bremen, died from grief and despair at the sudden prostration of his credit and loss of fortune, his widow soon after following him to the grave. a few months previous to the time alluded to, the sister was the affianced bride of an amiable, enterprising young man, the partner of her father in business. at that period her ideal world was doubtless one of beauty and of innocence, the acme, perhaps, of earthly peace and happiness; for within it was a fountain of pure and mutual love, ever full and ever flowing. no worldly care disturbed her tranquil bosom--her every wish was gratified; no cloud obscured the brightness of her sky--it was pure, serene, and beautiful. how uncertain are earthly hopes! how vain are human expectations! in a moment, as it were, all with her had changed. grief had taken possession of her heart, bitter tears had succeeded to innocent smiles, and her hopes of domestic bliss were blasted, perhaps never again to bud or bloom. she was miserably unhappy, the innocent victim of a disappointment, heart-rending indeed and by her never to be forgotten. on the decline of her father's fortune and that also of edward nordheimer (for that was the name of her lover), the latter suddenly became intemperate. thinking, as many wiser and older than himself had thought, to drown the recollection of bankruptcy and the disappointment of worldly hope in the giddy bowl, he seized the intoxicating draught with an infatuated zeal. he heeded not the timid admonitions of love, or the kind entreaties of friends; but reckless alike of the consequences of his dreadful habit to himself and others, was hurrying to inevitable ruin, making no effort to stem the wild, the eddying stream that controlled him, and within the vortex of which he was soon, alas! to be forever lost. like many others, he had been taught by the example of his elders, perhaps, by the daily habits of his parents, the unwise and dangerous idea that discourtesy consisteth not in partaking but in _refusing_ the proffered glass; hence, what was in youth a fashionable indulgence--a mere pastime--had become in his manhood a settled, desperate vice. every principle, every ambition, of which apparently the exercise had gained him the respect, confidence, best wishes of his fellow-men, no longer controlled him. once an industrious, careful, esteemed young merchant, he was now a reckless, abandoned inebriate. all his energies were apparently paralyzed. the pangs of remorse (for reflections on his course would sometimes flit with the rapidity of shadows across his mind) were drowned in deep and frequent potations; his features were bloated, his eyes were bloodshot, his limbs shook. so changed was he that few could realize in him the man who so recently in conscious manliness of character, had held high his head on the exchange, and operated so extensively in the marts of bremen. love was regarded by him, if regarded at all, as an idle creation of the brain; and whether from such an opinion of the tender passion, a consciousness of his own unworthiness of being loved, or, from a feeling of shame to meet the pure and lovely being to whom he had paid his addresses; yet, he had forsaken her--her, recently his polar star--the object of his thoughts by day and of his dreams by night! yes, he had forsaken her, and taken a dreary, debauched abode with those who go down to the grave, unwept, unhonored, and unlamented. brief, indeed, was the earthly career of edward nordheimer. his youthful habit of enjoying an occasional glass, had led him gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps, but surely to the verge of the grave! how dreadful must thy summons be, oh! death, to such an one! to any one, indeed, who, regardless of the great and wise purposes for which he was created, has passed his days and nights in drunkenness and debauchery; who, having fallen from his high estate--disappointed his own hopes of usefulness, respectability, and honor among men; having frustrated the fond, ardent hopes of parents, the wishes of troops of friends, finds himself at last on a drunkard's death-bed, with the awful consciousness of having laughed to scorn the responsibilities resting on his immortal soul! i need not attempt to describe the effect (for who can portray the extreme bitterness of the human heart?) which the melancholy, soul-harrowing change in edward, produced on the mind of his lady-love, or expose to the curious gaze, the broken fountains of her soul. aware as she was, however, that all efforts had failed to reclaim the idol of her bosom, it would be difficult to tell if she more mourned his exit from the earth than his departure from that course which leads to happiness and peace. but he was gone, and forever. the eyes, that once looked so fondly on her, were closed in their last sleep; the tongue that had so oft and so truly pronounced the soft, musical accents of love, was a noiseless instrument, and that voice, the very whisperings of which had sent such a thrill of joy to her once happy heart, was now forever hushed. the cold embrace of death was around him, and the places which once knew him were to know him no more. the unfortunate, broken-hearted maiden, became regardless of every attraction of society--every attention of friends--for hers was a sorrow, calm, indeed, but deep and abiding withal--a disappointment as well as a grief, of that peculiarly delicate nature, for which there is no earthly consolation. she felt that the world had lost its interest, its attraction, its delight: her edward was no more. her uncle noticed with deep solicitude the change wrought in her by the utter wreck and sudden dispersion of all her hopes of happiness, and with this sympathizing relative she readily consented to seek, on the distant shores of america, that peace of mind compared with which thrones and empires and principalities and powers are but vanity and dust. her feelings, on leaving her native germany, may be inferred from the circumstances already related. they were those peculiar to all, who for the first time depart from their own country, who for the first time bid their native land good-night, who for the first time bid an adieu, perhaps final, to the green fields, the pure skies, the sunny and endeared spots around the home of infancy and love. others know not how oft, how tenderly they are remembered, or how strongly the affections cling to them, when a wide waste of ocean rolls between our "ain dear home" and us. if we have left it in prosperity to visit the grand and beautiful in nature, in other lands, or, reluctantly departed from it in adversity, with the hope of improving our fortunes, in either case, the mind ever yearns for the spot where every object, tree, flower, rock, and shrub is associated with our earliest, our happiest days, where every breeze is fragrant and refreshing as the breath of araby. with these sympathies for a then distant home, i entered fully into the situation, the feelings, and affections of the brother and sister before me and watched with deep interest, their every look and movement. presently a boatman sounded the signal of departure, then a long and hearty embrace, a fond and mutual kiss was exchanged, and the interesting couple parted. the packet was soon seen moving slowly up the basin, and on the deck, gazing at her brother, stood the beautiful sister, playing, meanwhile, on her guitar, and singing the air "home." with what sweetness and feeling did she warble that music! how expressive those silent tokens of sorrow which then bedewed her fair, pale cheek! the bright, beautiful sun of an autumnal day was sinking in the west, and when its golden, lingering rays no longer tinged objects living or inanimate, neither the guitar nor the sweet voice of the german maiden was heard, nor were her features visible. * * * * * i have often asked myself, is that sister now happy? has she recovered her wonted cheerfulness? has she forgotten edward nordheimer? is she married? is she living? alas! perhaps, in seeking an asylum in the far wilds of the west, she has measured out her own span upon earth, fallen, as many before have fallen, a victim to some disease peculiar to a new, uncultivated country. since the time alluded to, i have often seen in my mind's eye, the intellectual, beautiful face, and the graceful figure of that sister. i have seen her as she stood on the deck of the little packet gazing with tearful eyes at her lonely brother, and as i recalled the trials and sorrows through which she had passed, have fancied i heard her melancholy voice again warbling the same plaintive air which caused my heart to sink within me when i really heard it. yes, she often rises in memory, and ever with a strong, a sad impression of the pang which rent her heart, as her own native bremen faded forever from her sight! bremen! the scene of all her joys, of all her woes! of her first--only love! the burial-place of her parents! bremen! within whose precincts lie also entombed the cold and perishing remains of edward nordheimer! of him whom she had so truly loved, and who in other, happier days, as fondly loved her. conspiracy of the clocks. when cardinal montalto assumed the tiara under the title of sixtus v., he speedily threw off the disguise which had enveloped his former life, smoothed the wrinkles from his now proud forehead, raised his piercing eyes--heretofore cautiously vailed by their downcast lids--and made the astounded conclave know that in place of a docile instrument they had elected an inflexible master. many glaring abuses existed in rome, and these the new pope determined to reform. it was the custom for the nobles, whether foreigners or natives, to be escorted whenever they went out by a numerous body of pages, valets, soldiers, and followers of all kinds, armed, like their masters, to the teeth. sometimes a noble's "following" resembled an army rather than an escort; and it frequently happened that when two such parties met in a narrow street, a violent struggle for precedence would take place, and blood be freely shed by those who had had no previous cause of quarrel. hence came the warlike meaning--which it still retains--of the word _rencontre_. sixtus v. resolved to put down this practice, and seized the opportunity of an unusually fierce combat taking place on easter-day within the very precincts of st. peter's. next morning an official notice was posted on the city walls, prohibiting every noble without exception from being followed by more than twenty attendants. every one also, of whatever degree, who should himself carry, or cause his people to carry any sort of fire-arms (pocket-pistols being especially mentioned), should thereby incur the penalty of death. at this notice pasquin jested, and the nobles laughed, but no one dared to indulge in bravado, until the following incident occurred. just after the promulgation of the pope's orders, ranuccio farnese, the only son of the duke of parma, arrived in rome. his first care was to wait on the new pontiff; and being presented by his uncle, cardinal farnese, the young prince met the reception due to his rank and to his merit. already his talents and courage gave promise of his becoming a worthy successor to his father; and the roman nobles vied with each other in doing honor to the heir of one of the richest duchies in the peninsula. on the evening after his arrival he was invited by prince cesarini to a magnificent banquet. wine flowed freely, and the night waxed late, when the gay guests began to discuss the recent edict of his holiness. several wild young spirits, and among them ranuccio, declared themselves ready to brave it openly. next morning, however, when sobered by sleep, they all, with one exception, judged it expedient to forget their bravado. ranuccio alone felt a strong desire to try conclusions with the pope. although a feudatory of the holy see, he was not a roman, and he was a prince. sixtus v. would probably think twice before touching a head that was almost crowned. besides, youths of twenty love adventure, and it is not every day that one can enjoy the pleasure of putting a pope in a dilemma. ranuccio, in short, went to the vatican and asked an audience of his holiness. it was immediately granted, and the prince, after having, according to the custom, knelt three times, managed adroitly to let fall at the very feet of sixtus a pair of pistols loaded to the muzzle. such audacity could not go unpunished. without a moment's hesitation the pope summoned his guards, and ordered them to arrest and convey to fort st. angelo the son of the duke of parma, who had just condemned himself to death. war might be declared on the morrow; an outraged father might come, sword in hand, to demand the life and liberty of his son. what cared sixtus? he was resolved to restore but a corpse. the news spread quickly: so much audacity on one side and so much firmness on the other seemed almost incredible. cardinal farnese hastened to the vatican, and, falling at the feet of the pope, with tears in his eyes pleaded his nephew's cause. he spoke of the youth of the culprit and the loyalty of his father, who was then in flanders fighting the battles of the holy see. ranuccio had been but two days in rome--might he not fairly be supposed ignorant of the new enactment? then he belonged to a powerful house, which it might not be prudent for even his holiness to offend; and, finally, he was closely related by blood to the late pope, paul iii. the holy father's reply was cruelly decisive. "the law," he said, "makes no distinction: a criminal is a criminal, and nothing more. the vicegerent of god on earth, my justice, like his, must be impartial; nor dare i exercise clemency, which would be nothing but weakness." the cardinal bent his head and retired. besieged incessantly by fresh supplications from various influential quarters, the pope sent for monsignor angeli, the governor of fort st. angelo. to him he gave imperative orders, that precisely at twenty-four o'clock[ ] that evening his illustrious prisoner's head should be struck off. [ ] in italy the hours are reckoned from to , commencing at sunset. the governor returned to the castle, and signified to ranuccio that he had but two hours to live. the young man laughed in his face, and began to eat his supper. he could not bring himself to believe that he, the heir-apparent of the duke of parma, could be seriously menaced with death by an obscure monk, whose only title to the pontificate seemed to have been his age and decrepitude. yet speedily the threat seemed to him less worthy of derision, when he saw from his window a scaffold, bearing a hatchet and a block, in process of erection. but who can describe his dismay when his room was entered by a monk, who came to administer the last rites of the church, followed by the executioner, asking for his last orders! meantime cardinal farnese was not idle. he consulted with his friend, count olivarès, embassador from the court of spain, and they resolved to attempt to obtain by stratagem what had been refused to their prayers. two precious hours remained. "our only plan," said the cardinal, "is to stop the striking of all the public clocks in rome! meantime do you occupy angeli's attention." his eminence possessed great influence in the city, and, moreover, the control of the public clocks belonged to his prerogative. at the appointed hour, as if by magic, time changed his noisy course into a silent flight. two clocks, those of st. peter and st. angelo, were put back twenty minutes. their proximity to the prison required this change, and the cardinal's authority secured the inviolable secrecy of every one concerned in the plot. the execution was to be private; but olivarès, in his quality of embassador, was permitted to remain with the governor. a single glance assured him that the clock was going right--that is to say, that it was quite wrong. already the inner court was filled with soldiers under arms, and monks chanting the solemn "dies iræ." every thing was prepared save the victim. olivarès was with angeli, and a scene commenced at once terrible and burlesque. the embassador, in order to gain time, began to converse on every imaginable subject, but the governor would not listen. "my orders," he said, "are imperative. at the first stroke of the clock all will be over." "but the pope may change his mind." without replying, the terrible angeli walked impatiently up and down the room, watching for the striking of his clock. he called: a soldier appeared. "is all prepared?" all was prepared: the attendants, like their master, were only waiting for the hour. "'tis strange," muttered the governor. "i should have thought--" "at least," interposed olivarès, "if you will not delay, do not anticipate." and monsignor resumed his hasty walk between the door and window, listening for the fatal sound which the faithful tongue of the clock still refused to utter. despite of the delay, however, the fatal hour approached. ten minutes more, and ranuccio's fate would be sealed. meanwhile the cardinal repaired to the pope. as he entered, sixtus drew out his watch, and his eyes sparkled with revengeful joy. on the testimony of that unerring time-piece ranuccio was already executed. "what seek you?" asked his holiness. "the body of my nephew, that i may convey it to parma. at least let the unhappy boy repose in the tomb of his ancestors." "did he die like a christian?" "like a saint," cried the cardinal, trembling at a moment's delay. sixtus v. traced the following words: "we order our governor of fort st. angelo to deliver up to his eminence the body of ranuccio farnese." having sealed it with the pontifical signet, he gave it to the cardinal. arrived at the palace gates, farnese, agitated between fear and hope, hastened to demand an entrance. a profound silence reigned within, broken only by the distant note of the "de profundis." he rushed toward the court. was he too late?--had his stratagem succeeded? one look would decide. he raised his eyes--his nephew still lived. his neck bare, and his hands tied, he knelt beside the block, between a priest and the executioner, faintly uttering the words of his last prayer. suddenly the chanting ceased; the cardinal flew toward the governor. ere he could speak, his gestures and his countenance lied for him: "a pardon?--a pardon!" exclaimed olivarès. the soldiers shouted. the executioner began to unloose his victim, when a sign from angeli made him pause. the governor read and re-read the missive. "the _body_ of ranuccio farnese!" he repeated: "the criminal's name would suffice. why these words, '_the body of_?'" "what stops you?" cried the cardinal, at that perilous moment looking paler than his nephew. "read!" replied angeli, handing him the pope's letter. "is that all?" said his eminence, forcing a smile and pointing to the clock. "look at the hour: it still wants two minutes of the time, and i received that paper from his holiness more than a quarter of an hour since." the governor bowed: the argument was irresistible. ranuccio was given up to his deliverers. a carriage, with four fleet horses, waited outside the prison, and in a few moments the cardinal and the young prince were galloping along the road to parma. just then the clocks of rome pealed forth in unison, as if rejoicing that by their judicious silence they had gained their master's cause. it might be well if lawyers in our day would sometimes follow their example. monsignor angeli, as the chronicle relates, was rather astonished at the rapid flight of time after his prisoner's departure. in fact, the next hour seemed to him as short as its predecessor was long. this phenomenon, due to the simple system of compensation, was ascribed by him to the peaceful state of his conscience. although inflexible in the discharge of what he esteemed his duty, he was in reality a kind-hearted man, and felt sincere pleasure at what he honestly believed to be ranuccio's pardon. on the morrow the spanish embassador was the first to congratulate sixtus v., with admirable _sang froid_, on his truly pious clemency. olivarès was only a diplomatist, but he played his part as well as if he had been a cardinal, and made every one believe that he had been the dupe of his accomplice. he had good reasons for so acting. his master, philip ii., seldom jested, more especially when the subject of the joke was the infallible head of the church; and he strongly suspected that the clocks of madrid might prove less complaisant than those at rome. poor angeli was the only sufferer. for no other crime than that of not wearing a watch, the pope deprived him of his office, and imprisoned him for some time in fort st. angelo. as to cardinal farnese, renouncing all the praises and congratulations of his friends at rome, he prudently remained an absentee. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune.[ ] [ ] continued from the december number chapter xlviii. a village "syndicus." i sat up all night listening to the soldiers' stories of war and campaigning. some had served with soult's army in the asturias; some made part of davoust's corps in the north of europe; one had just returned from friedland, and amused us with describing the celebrated conference at tilsit, where he had been a sentinel on the river side, and presented arms to the two emperors as they passed. it will seem strange, but it is a fact, that this slight incident attracted toward him a greater share of his comrades' admiration than was accorded to those who had seen half the battle-fields of modern war. he described the dress, the air, the general bearing of the emperors; remarking that, although alexander was taller and handsomer, and even more soldier-like than our own emperor, there was a something of calm dignity and conscious majesty in napoleon that made him appear immeasurably the superior. alexander wore the uniform of the russian guards, one of the most splendid it is possible to conceive, the only thing simple about him was his sword, which was a plain sabre with a tarnished gilt scabbard, and a very dirty sword-knot; and yet every moment he used to look down at it and handle it with great apparent admiration; and "well might he," added the soldier, "napoleon had given it to him but the day before." to listen even to such meagre details as these was to light up again in my heart the fire that was only smouldering, and that no life of peasant labor or obscurity could ever extinguish. my companions quickly saw the interest i took in their narratives, and certainly did their utmost to feed the passion--now with some sketch of a spanish marauding party, as full of adventure as a romance; now with a description of northern warfare, where artillery thundered on the ice, and men fought behind entrenchments of deep snow. from the north sea to the adriatic, all europe was now in arms. great armies were marching in every direction; some along the deep valley of the danube, others from the rich plains of poland and silesia; some were passing the alps into italy, and some again were pouring down for the tyrol "jochs," to defend the rocky passes of their native land against the invader. patriotism and glory, the spirit of chivalry and conquest, all were abroad, and his must indeed have been a cold heart which could find within it no response to the stirring sounds around. to the intense feeling of shame which i at first felt at my own life of obscure inactivity, there now succeeded a feverish desire to be somewhere and do something to dispel this worse than lethargy. i had not resolution to tell my comrades that i had served; i felt reluctant to speak of a career so abortive and unsuccessful; and yet i blushed at the half pitying expressions they bestowed upon my life of inglorious adventure. "you risk life and limb here in these pine forests, and hazard existence for a bear or a chamois goat," cried one, "and half the peril in real war would perhaps make you a chef d'escadron, or even a general." "ay," said another, "we serve in an army where crowns are military distinctions, and the epaulet is only the first step to a kingdom." "true," broke in a third, "napoleon has changed the whole world, and made soldiering the only trade worth following. massena was a drummer-boy within my own memory, and see him now! ney was not born to great wealth and honors. junot never could learn his trade as a cobbler, and for want of better has become a general of division." "yes, and," said i, following out the theme, "under that wooden roof yonder, through that little diamond-paned window the vine is trained across, a greater than any of the last three first saw the light. it was there kleber, the conqueror of egypt was born." "honor to the brave dead!" said the soldiers from their places around the fire, and carrying their hands to the salute. "we'll fire a salvo to him to-morrow before we set out!" said the corporal. "and so kleber was born there!" said he, resuming his place, and staring with admiring interest at the dark outline of the old house, as it stood out against the starry and cloudless sky. it was somewhat of a delicate task for me to prevent my companions offering their tribute of respect, but which the old peasant would have received with little gratitude, seeing that he had never yet forgiven the country nor the service for the loss of his son. with some management i accomplished this duty, however, promising my services at the same time to be their guide through the bregenzer wald, and not to part with them till i had seen them safely into bavaria. had it not been for my thorough acquaintance with the tyroler dialect, and all the usages of tyrol life, their march would have been one of great peril, for already the old hatred against their bavarian oppressors was beginning to stir the land, and austrian agents were traversing the mountain districts in every direction, to call forth that patriotic ardor which, ill-requited as it has been, has more than once come to the rescue of austria. so sudden had been the outbreak of this war, and so little aware were the peasantry of the frontier of either its object or aim, that we frequently passed recruits for both armies on their way to head-quarters on the same day; honest bavarians, who were trudging along the road with pack on their shoulders, and not knowing, nor indeed much caring, on which side they were to combat. my french comrades scorned to report themselves to any german officer, and pushed on vigorously in the hope of meeting with a french regiment. i had now conducted my little party to immenstadt, at the foot of the bavarian alps; and, having completed my compact, was about to bid them good-by. we were seated around our bivouac fire for the last time, as we deemed it, and pledging each other in a parting glass, when suddenly our attention was attracted to a bright red tongue of flame that suddenly darted up from one of the alpine summits above our head. another and another followed, till at length every mountain peak for miles and miles away displayed a great signal fire! little knew we that behind that giant range of mountains, from the icy crags of the glockner, and from the snowy summit of the ortelér itself, similar fires were summoning all tyrol to the combat; while every valley resounded with the war cry of "god and the emperor!" we were still in busy conjecture what all this might portend, when a small party of mounted men rode past us at a trot. they carried carbines slung over their peasant frocks, and showed unmistakably enough that they were some newly-raised and scarcely-disciplined force. after proceeding about a hundred yards beyond us they halted, and drew up across the road, unslinging their pieces as if to prepare for action. "look at those fellows, yonder," said the old corporal, as he puffed his pipe calmly and deliberately; "they mean mischief, or i'm much mistaken. speak to them, tiernay; you know their jargon." i accordingly arose and advanced toward them, touching my hat in salute as i went forward. they did not give me much time, however, to open negotiations, for scarcely had i uttered a word, when bang went a shot close beside me; another followed; and then a whole volley was discharged, but with such haste and ill direction that not a ball struck me. before i could take advantage of this piece of good fortune to renew my advances, a bullet whizzed by my head, and down went the left hand horse of the file, at first on his knees, and then, with a wild plunge into the air, he threw himself stone dead on the road, the rider beneath him. as for the rest, throwing off carbines and cartouche-boxes, they sprung from their horses, and took to the mountains with a speed that showed how far more they were at home amidst rock and heather than when seated on the saddle. my comrades lost no time in coming up; but while three of them kept the fugitives in sight, covering them all the time with their muskets, the others secured the cattle, as in amazement and terror they stood around the dead horse. although the peasant had received no other injuries than a heavy fall and his own fears inflicted, he was overcome with terror, and so certain of death that he would do nothing but mumble his prayers, totally deaf to all the efforts i made to restore his courage. "that comes of putting a man out of his natural bent," said the old corporal. "on his native mountains, and with his rifle, that fellow would be brave enough; but making a dragoon of him is like turning a cossack into a foot soldier. one thing is clear enough, we've no time to throw away here; these peasants will soon alarm the village in our rear, so that we had better mount and press forward." "but in what direction," said another; "who knows if we shall not be rushing into worse danger?" "tiernay must look to that," interposed a third. "it's clear he can't leave us now; _his_ retreat is cut off, at all events." "that's the very point i was thinking of, lads," said i. "the beacon fires show that the 'tyrol is up,' and safely as i have journeyed hither i know well i dare not venture to retrace my road; i'd be shot in the first dorf i entered. on one condition, then, i'll join you; and short of that, however, i'll take my own path, come what may of it." "what's the condition, then?" cried three or four together. "that you give me the full and absolute command of this party, and pledge your honor, as french soldiers, to obey me in every thing, till the day we arrive at the head-quarters of a french corps." "what, obey a pekin! take the _mot d'ordre_ from a civilian that never handled a firelock!" shouted three or four, in derision. "i have served, and with distinction too, my lads," said i calmly; "and if i have not handled a firelock, it is because i wielded a sabre, as an officer of hussars. it is not here, nor now, that i am going to tell why i wear the epaulet no longer. i'll render an account of that to my superior and yours! if you reject my offer, and i don't press you to accept it, let us at least part good friends. as for me, i can take care of myself." as i said this, i slung over my shoulder the cross-belt and carbine of one of the fugitives, and selecting a strongly-built, short-legged black horse as my mount, i adjusted the saddle, and sprung on his back. "that was done like an old hussar, anyhow," said a soldier, who had been a cavalry man, "and i'll follow you, whatever the rest may do." he mounted as he spoke, and saluted as if on duty. slight as the incident was, its effect was magical. old habits of discipline revived at the first signal of obedience, and the corporal having made his men fall in, came up to my side for orders. "select the best of these horses," said i, "and let us press forward at once. we are about eighteen miles from the village of wangheim; by halting a short distance outside of it, i can enter alone, and learn something about the state of the country, and the nearest french post. the cattle are all fresh, and we can easily reach the village before daybreak." three of my little "command" were tolerable horsemen, two of them having served in the artillery train, and the third being the dragoon i have alluded to. i accordingly threw out a couple of these as an advanced picket, keeping the last as my aid-de-camp at my side. the remainder formed the rear, with orders, if attacked, to dismount at once, and fire over the saddle, leaving myself and the others to manoeuvre as cavalry. this was the only way to give confidence to those soldiers who in the ranks would have marched up to a battery, but on horseback were totally devoid of self-reliance. meanwhile i imparted such instructions in equitation as i could, my own old experience as a riding-master well enabling me to select the most necessary and least difficult of a horseman's duties. except the old corporal, all were very creditable pupils; but he, possibly deeming it a point of honor not to discredit his old career, rejected every thing like teaching, and openly protested that, save to run away from a victorious enemy, or follow a beaten one, he saw no use in cavalry. nothing could be in better temper, however, nor more amicable, than our discourses on this head; and as i let drop, from time to time, little hints of my services on the rhine and in italy, i gradually perceived that i grew higher in the esteem of my companions, so that ere we rode a dozen miles together their confidence in me became complete. in return for all their anecdotes of "blood and field," i told them several stories of my own life, and, at least, convinced them that if they had not chanced upon the very luckiest of mankind, they had, at least, fallen upon one who had seen enough of casualties not to be easily baffled, and who felt in every difficulty a self-confidence that no amount of discomfiture could ever entirely obliterate. no soldier can vie with a frenchman in tempering respect with familiarity; so that while preserving toward me all the freedom of the comrade, they recognized in every detail of duty the necessity of prompt obedience, and followed every command i gave with implicit submission. it was thus we rode along, till in the distance i saw the spire of a village church, and recognized what i knew must be dorf wangheim. it was yet an hour before sunrise, and all was tranquil around. i gave the word to trot, and after about forty minutes' sharp riding we gained a small pine wood, which skirted the village. here i dismounted my party, and prepared to make my _entrée_ alone into the dorf, carefully arranging my costume for that purpose, sticking a large bouquet of wild flowers in my hat, and assuming as much as i could of the tyrol look and lounge in my gait. i shortened my stirrups, also, to a most awkward and inconvenient length, and gripped my reins into a heap in my hand. it was thus i rode into wangheim, saluting the people as i passed up the street, and with the short, dry greeting of "tag," and a nod as brief, playing the tyroler to the top of my bent. the "syndicus," or the ruler of the village, lived in a good-sized house in the "platz," which, being market-day, was crowded with people, although the articles for sale appeared to include little variety, almost every one leading a calf by a straw rope, the rest of the population contenting themselves with a wild turkey, or sometimes two, which, held under the arms, added the most singular element to the general concert of human voices around. little stalls for rustic jewelry and artificial flowers, the latter in great request, ran along the sides of the square, with here and there a booth where skins and furs were displayed, more, however, as it appeared to give pleasure to a group of sturdy jägers, who stood around, recognizing the track of their own bullets, than from any hope of sale. in fact, the business of the day was dull, and an experienced eye would have seen at a glance that turkeys were "heavy," and calves "looking down." no wonder that it should be so; the interest of the scene being concentrated on a little knot of some twenty youths, who, with tickets containing a number in their hats, stood before the syndic's door. they were fine-looking, stalwart, straight fellows; and became admirably the manly costume of their native mountains; but their countenances were not without an expression of sadness, the reflection, as i soon saw, of the sadder faces around them. for so they stood, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, their tearful eyes turned on the little band. it puzzled me not a little at first to see these evidences of a conscription in a land where hitherto the population had answered the call to arms by a levy "_en masse_," while the air of depression and sadness seemed also strange in those who gloried in the excitement of war. the first few sentences i overheard revealed the mystery. wangheim was bavarian; although strictly a tyrol village, and austrian tyrol, too, it had been included within the bavarian frontier, and the orders had arrived from munich at the syndicate to furnish a certain number of men by a certain day. this was terrible tidings; for although they did not as yet know that the war was against austria, they had heard that the troops were for foreign service, and not for the defense of home and country, the only cause which a tyroler deems worthy of battle. as i listened i gathered that the most complete ignorance prevailed as to the service or the destination to which they were intended. the bavarians had merely issued their mandates to the various villages of the border, and neither sent emissaries nor officers to carry them out. having seen how the "land lay," i pushed my way through the crowd, into the hall of the syndicate, and by dint of a strong will and stout shoulder, at length gained the audience chamber; where, seated behind an elevated bench, the great man was dispensing justice. i advanced boldly, and demanded an immediate audience in private, stating that my business was most pressing, and not admitting of delay. the syndic consulted for a second or two with his clerk, and retired, beckoning me to follow. "you're not a tyroler," said he to me, the moment we were alone. "that is easy to see, herr syndicus," replied i. "i'm an officer of the staff, in disguise, sent to make a hasty inspection of the frontier villages, and report upon the state of feeling that prevails among them, and how they stand affected toward the cause of bavaria." "and what have you found, sir?" said he, with native caution; for a bavarian tyroler has the quality in a perfection that neither a scotchman nor a russian can pretend to. "that you are all austrian at heart," said i, determined to dash at him with a frankness that i knew he could not resist. "there's not a bavarian among you. i have made the whole tour of the vorarlberg; through the bregenzer wald, down the valley of the lech, by immenstadt, and wangheim; and it's all the same. i have heard nothing but the old cry of 'gott, und der kaiser!'" "indeed!" said he, with an accent beautifully balanced between sorrow and astonishment. "even the men in authority, the syndics, like yourself, have frankly told me how difficult it is to preserve allegiance to a government by whom they have been so harshly treated. i'm sure i have the 'grain question,' as they call it, and the 'freiwechsel' with south tyrol, off by heart," said i, laughing. "however, my business lies in another quarter. i have seen enough to show me that, save the outcasts from home and family, that class so rare in tyrol, that men call adventurers, we need look for no willing recruits here; and you'll stare when i say that i am glad of it--heartily glad of it." the syndic did, indeed, stare, but he never ventured a word in reply. "i'll tell you why, then, herr syndicus. with a man like yourself one can afford to be open-hearted. wangheim, luttrich, kempenfeld, and all the other villages at the foot of these mountains, were never other than austrian. diplomatists and map-makers colored them pale blue, but they were black and yellow underneath; and what's more to the purpose, austrian they must become again. when the real object of this war is known, all tyrol will declare for the house of hapsburg. we begin to perceive this ourselves, and to dread the misfortunes and calamities that must fall upon you and the other frontier towns by this divided allegiance; for when you have sent off your available youth to the bavarians, down will come austria to revenge itself upon your undefended towns and villages." the syndic apparently had thought of all these things exactly with the same conclusions, for he shook his head gravely, and uttered a low, faint sigh. "i'm so convinced of what i tell you," said i, "that no sooner have i conducted to head-quarters the force i have under my command--" "you have a force, then, actually under your orders?" cried he, starting. "the advanced guard is picketed in yonder pine wood, if you have any curiosity to inspect them; you'll find them a little disorderly, perhaps, like all newly-raised levies, but i hope not discreditable allies for the great army." the syndic protested his sense of the favor, but begged to take all their good qualities on trust. i then went on to assure him that i should recommend the government to permit the range of frontier towns to preserve a complete neutrality; by scarcely any possibility could the war come to _their_ doors; and that there was neither sound policy nor humanity in sending them to seek it elsewhere. i will not stop to recount all the arguments i employed to enforce my opinions, nor how learnedly i discussed every question of european politics. the syndic was amazed at the vast range of my acquirements, and could not help confessing it. my interview ended by persuading him not to send on his levies of men till he had received further instructions from munich; to supply my advanced guards with rations and allowances intended for the others; and lastly to advance me the sum of one hundred and seventy crown thalers, on the express pledge that the main body of my "marauders," as i took the opportunity to style them, should take the road by kempen and durcheim, and not touch on the village of wangheim at all. when discussing this last point, i declared to the syndic that he was depriving himself of a very imposing sight; that the men, whatever might be said of them in point of character, were a fine-looking, daring set of rascals, neither respecting laws nor fearing punishment, and that our band, for a newly formed one, was by no means contemptible. he resisted all these seducing prospects, and counted down his dollars with the air of a man who felt that he had made a good bargain. i gave him a receipt in form, and signed maurice tiernay at the foot of it as stoutly as though i had the _grand livre de france_ at my back. let not the reader rashly condemn me for this fault, nor still more rashly conclude that i acted with a heartless and unprincipled spirit in this transaction. i own that a species of jesuitry suggested the scheme, and that while providing for the exigencies of my own comrades, i satisfied my conscience by rendering a good service in return. the course of war, as i suspected it would, did sweep past this portion of the bavarian tyrol without inflicting any heavy loss. such of the peasantry as joined the army fought under the austrian banners, and wangheim and the other border villages had not to pay the bloody penalty of a divided allegiance. i may add, too, for conscience sake, that while traveling this way many years after, i stopped a day at wangheim to point out its picturesque scenery to a fair friend who accompanied me. the village inn was kept by an old, venerable-looking man, who also discharged the functions of "vorsteher"--the title syndicus was abolished. he was, although a little cold and reserved at first, very communicative, after a while, and full of stories of the old campaigns of france and austria, among which he related one of a certain set of french freebooters that once passed through wangheim, the captain having actually breakfasted with himself, and persuaded him to advance a loan of nigh two hundred thalers on the faith of the bavarian government. "he was a good-looking, dashing sort of fellow," said he, "that could sing french love songs to the piano and jodle 'tyroler lieder' for the women. my daughter took a great fancy to him, and wore his sword-knot for many a day after, till we found that he had cheated and betrayed us. even then, however, i don't think she gave him up, though she did not speak of him as before. this is the fellow's writing," added he, producing a much-worn and much-crumpled scrap of paper from his old pocket-book, "and there's his name. i have never been able to make out clearly whether it was thierray or lierray." "i know something about him," said i, "and, with your permission, will keep the document, and pay the bill. your daughter is alive still?" "ay, and married, too, at bruck, ten miles from this." "well, if she has thrown away the old sword-knot, tell her to accept this one in memory of the french captain, who was not, at least, an ungrateful rogue;" and i detached from my sabre the rich gold tassel and cord which i wore as a general officer. this little incident i may be pardoned for interpolating from a portion of my life, of which i do not intend to speak further, as with the career of the soldier of fortune i mean to close these memoirs of maurice tiernay. chapter xlix. "a lucky meeting." the reader will probably not complain if, passing over the manifold adventures and hair-breadth 'scapes of my little party, i come to our arrival at ingoldstadt, where the head-quarters of general vandamme were stationed. it was just as the recall was beating that we rode into the town, where, although nearly eight thousand men were assembled, our somewhat singular cavalcade attracted no small share of notice. fresh rations for "man and beast" slung around our very ragged clothing, and four austrian grenadiers tied by a cord, wrist to wrist, as prisoners behind us, we presented, it must be owned, a far more picturesque than soldierlike party. accepting all the attentions bestowed upon us in the most flattering sense, and affecting not to perceive the ridicule we were exciting on every hand, i rode up to the "etat major" and dismounted. i had obtained from "my prisoners" what i deemed a very important secret, and was resolved to make the most of it by asking for an immediate audience of the general. "i am the officier d'ordonnance," said a young lieutenant of dragoons, stepping forward; "any communication you have to make must be addressed to _me_." "i have taken four prisoners, monsieur le lieutenant," said i, "and would wish to inform general vandamme on certain matters they have revealed to me." "are you in the service?" asked he, with a glance at my incongruous equipment. "i have served sir," was my reply. "in what army of brigands was it then," said he, laughing, "for, assuredly, you do not recall to my recollection any european force that i know of?" "i may find leisure and inclination to give you the fullest information on this point at another moment, sir; for the present my business is more pressing. can i see general vandamme?" "of course, you can not, my worthy fellow! if you had served, as you say you have, you could scarcely have made so absurd a request. a french general of division does not give audience to every tatterdemalion who picks up a prisoner on the high road." "it is exactly because i _have_ served that i do make the request," said i, stoutly. "how so, pray?" asked he, staring at me. "because i know well how often young staff-officers, in their own self-sufficiency, overlook the most important points, and, from the humble character of their informants, frequently despise what their superiors, had they known it, would have largely profited by. and, even if i did not know this fact, i have the memory of another one scarcely less striking, which was, that general massena himself admitted me to an audience when my appearance was not a whit more imposing than at present." "you knew general massena, then. where was it, may i ask?" "in genoa, during the siege." "and what regiment have you served in?" "the ninth hussars." "quite enough, my good fellow. the ninth were on the sambre while that siege was going on," said he, laughing sarcastically. "i never said that my regiment was at genoa. i only asserted that i was," was my calm reply, for i was anxious to prolong the conversation, seeing that directly over our heads, on a balcony, a number of officers had just come out to smoke their cigars after dinner, among whom i recognized two or three in the uniform of general. "and now for your name; let's have that," said he, seating himself, as if for a lengthy cross-examination. i stole a quick glance over head, and seeing that two of the officers were eagerly listening to our colloquy, said aloud, "i'll tell you no more, sir. you have already heard quite enough to know what my business is. i didn't come here to relate my life and adventures." "i say, lestocque," cried a large, burly man, from above, "have you picked up robinson crusoe, there?" "he's far more like the man, friday, mon general," said the young lieutenant, laughing, "although even a savage might have more deference for his superiors." "what does he want, then?" asked the other. "an audience of yourself, mon general--nothing less." "have you told him how i am accustomed to reward people who occupy my time on false pretences, lestocque?" said the general, with a grin. "does he know that the salle de police first, and the prevot afterward comprise my gratitude?" "he presumes to say, sir, that he knows general massena," said the lieutenant. "diable! he knows _me_, does he say--he knows _me_? who is he--what is he?" said a voice i well remembered, and at the same instant the brown, dark visage of general massena peered over the balcony. "he's a countryman of yours, massena," said vandamme, laughing. "eh, are you not a piedmontais?" up to this moment i had stood silently listening to the dialogue around me, without the slightest apparent sign of noticing it. now, however, as i was directly addressed, i drew myself up to a soldier-like attitude and replied-- "no, sir. i am more a frenchman than general vandamme, at least." "send that fellow here; send him up, lestocque, and have a corporal's party ready for duty," cried the general, as he threw the end of his cigar into the street, and walked hastily away. it was not the first time in my life that my tongue had brought peril on my head; but i ascended the stairs with a firm step, and if not with a light, at least with a resolute heart, seeing how wonderfully little i had to lose, and that few men had a smaller stake in existence than myself. the voices were loud, and in tones of anger, as i stepped out upon the terrace. "so we are acquaintances, it would appear, my friend?" said massena, as he stared fixedly at me. "if general massena can not recall the occasion of our meeting," said i, proudly, "i'll scarcely remind him of it." "come, come," said vandamme, angrily, "i must deal with this 'gailliard' myself. are you a french soldier?" "i was, sir; an officer of cavalry." "and were you broke? did you desert? or what was it?" cried he, impatiently. "i kept better company than i believe is considered safe in these days, and was accidentally admitted to the acquaintance of the prince de condé--" "that's it!" said vandamme, with a long whistle; "_that's_ the mischief, then. you are a vendéan?" "no, sir; i was never a royalist, although, as i have said, exposed to the very society whose fascinations might have made me one." "your name is tiernay, monsieur, or i mistake much?" said a smart-looking young man in civilian dress. i bowed an assent, without expressing any sentiment of either fear or anxiety. "i can vouch for the perfect accuracy of that gentleman's narrative," said monsieur de bourrienne, for i now saw it was himself. "you may possibly remember a visitor--" "at the temple," said i, interrupting him. "i recollect you perfectly, sir, and thank you for this recognition." monsieur de bourrienne, however, did not pay much attention to my gratitude, but proceeded in a few hurried words to give some account of me to the bystanders. "well, it must be owned that he looks devilish unlike an officer of hussars," said massena, as he laughed, and made others laugh, at my strange equipment. "and yet you saw me in a worse plight, general," said i, coolly. "how so--where was that?" cried he. "it will be a sore wound to my pride, general," said i slowly, "if i must refresh your memory." "you were not at valenciennes," said he, musing. "no, no; _that_ was before your day. were you on the meuse, then? no. nor in spain? i've always had hussars in my division; but i confess i do not remember all the officers." "will genoa not give the clew, sir?" said i, glancing at him a keen look. "least of all," cried he. "the cavalry were with soult. i had nothing beyond an escort in the town." "so there's no help for it," said i, with a sigh. "do you remember a half-drowned wretch that was laid down at your feet in the annunziata church one morning during the siege?" "a fellow who had made his escape from the english fleet, and swam ashore! what! are you--by jove! so it is, the very same. give me your hand, my brave fellow. i've often thought of you, and wondered what had befallen you. you joined that unlucky attack on monte faccio; and we had warm work ourselves on hands the day after. i say, vandamme, the first news i had of our columns crossing the alps were from this officer--for officer he was, and shall be again, if i live to command a french division." massena embraced me affectionately, as he said this; and then turning to the others, said-- "gentlemen, you see before you the man you have often heard me speak of--a young officer of hussars, who, in the hope of rescuing a division of the french army, at that time shut up in a besieged city, performed one of the most gallant exploits on record. within a week after he led a storming party against a mountain fortress; and i don't care if he lived in the intimacy of every bourbon prince, from the count d'artois downward, he's a good frenchman, and a brave soldier. bourrienne, you're starting for head-quarters? well, it is not at such a moment as this, you can bear these matters in mind; but don't forget my friend tiernay; depend upon it he'll do you no discredit. the emperor knows well both how to employ and how to reward such men as him." i heard these flattering speeches like one in a delicious dream. to stand in the midst of a distinguished group, while massena thus spoke of me, seemed too much for reality, for praise had indeed become a rare accident to me; but from such a quarter it was less eulogy than fame. how hard was it to persuade myself that i was awake, as i found myself seated at the table, with a crowd of officers, pledging the toasts they gave, and drinking bumpers in friendly recognition with all around me. such was the curiosity to hear my story, that numbers of others crowded into the room, which gradually assumed the appearance of a theatre. there was scarcely an incident to which i referred, that some one or other of those present could not vouch for; and whether i alluded to my earlier adventures in the black forest, or the expedition of humbert, or to the later scenes of my life, i met corroboration from one quarter or another. away as i was from paris and its influences, in the midst of my comrades, i never hesitated to relate the whole of my acquaintance with fouché--a part of my narrative which, i must own, amused them more than all the rest. in the midst of all these intoxicating praises, and of a degree of wonder that might have turned wiser heads, i never forgot that i was in possession of what seemed to myself at least a very important military fact, no less than the mistaken movement of an austrian general, who had marched his division so far to the southward as to leave an interval of several miles between himself and the main body of the imperial forces. this fact i had obtained from the grenadiers i had made prisoners, and who were stragglers from the corps i alluded to. the movement in question was doubtless intended to menace the right flank of our army, but every soldier of napoleon well knew that so long as he could pierce the enemy's centre such flank attacks were ineffectual, the question being already decided before they could be undertaken. my intelligence, important as it appeared to myself, struck the two generals as of even greater moment; and massena, who had arrived only a few hours before from his own division to confer with vandamme, resolved to take me with him at once to head-quarters. "you are quite certain of what you assert, tiernay?" said he; "doubtful information, or a mere surmise, will not do with him before whom you will be summoned. you must be clear on every point, and brief--remember that--not a word more than is absolutely necessary." i repeated that i had taken the utmost precautions to assure myself of the truth of the men's statement, and had ridden several leagues between the austrian left and the left centre. the prisoners themselves could prove that they had marched from early morning till late in the afternoon without coming up with a single austrian post. the next question was to equip me with a uniform--but what should it be? i was not attached to any corps, nor had i any real rank in the army. massena hesitated about appointing me on his own staff without authority, nor could he advise me to assume the dress of my old regiment. time was pressing, and it was decided--i own to my great discomfiture--that i should continue to wear my tyroler costume till my restoration to my former rank was fully established. i was well tired, having already ridden thirteen leagues of a bad road, when i was obliged to mount once more, and accompany general massena in his return to head-quarters. a good supper and some excellent bordeaux, and, better than either, a light heart, gave me abundant energy; and after the first three or four miles of the way i felt as if i was equal to any fatigue. as we rode along the general repeated all his cautions to me in the event of my being summoned to give information at head-quarters; the importance of all my replies being short, accurate, and to the purpose; and, above all, the avoidance of any thing like an opinion or expression of my own judgment on passing events. i promised faithfully to observe all his counsels, and not bring discredit on his patronage. chapter l. the march on vienna. all general massena's wise counsels, and my own steady resolves to profit by them, were so far thrown away, that, on our arrival at abensberg, we found that the emperor had left it four hours before, and pushed on to ebersfield, a village about five leagues to the eastward. a dispatch, however, awaited massena, telling him to push forward with oudinot's corps to newstadt, and, with his own division, which comprised the whole french right, to manoeuvre so as to menace the archduke's base upon the iser. let my reader not fear that i am about to inflict on him a story of the great campaign itself, nor compel him to seek refuge in a map from the terrible array of hard names of towns and villages for which that district is famous. it is enough for my purpose that i recall to his memory the striking fact, that when the french sought victory by turning and defeating the austrian left, the austrians were exactly in march to execute a similar movement on the french left wing. napoleon, however, gave the first "check," and "mated" his adversary ere he could open his game. by the almost lightning speed of his manoeuvres, he moved forward from ratisbon with the great bulk of his army; and at the very time that the archduke believed him to be awaiting battle around that city, he was far on his march to landshut. general massena was taking a hurried cup of coffee, and dictating a few lines to his secretary, when a dragoon officer galloped into the town with a second dispatch, which, whatever its contents, must needs have been momentous, for in a few minutes the drums were beating and trumpets sounding, and all the stirring signs of an immediate movement visible. it was yet an hour before daybreak, and dark as midnight; torches, however, blazed every where, and by their flaring light the artillery-trains and wagons drove through the narrow street of the village, shaking the frail old houses with their rude trot. even in a retreating army, i have scarcely witnessed such a spectacle of uproar, confusion, and chaos; but still, in less than an hour the troops had all defiled from the town, the advanced guard was already some miles on its way; and, except a small escort of lancers before the little inn where the general still remained, there was not a soldier to be seen. it may seem absurd to say it, but i must confess that my eagerness to know what was "going on" in front, was divided by a feeling of painful uneasiness at my ridiculous dress, and the shame i experienced at the glances bestowed on me by the soldiers of the escort. it was no time, however, to speak of myself or attend to my own fortunes, and i loitered about the court of the inn, wondering if, in the midst of such stirring events, the general would chance to remember me. if i had but a frock and a shako, thought i, i could make my way. it is this confounded velvet jacket and this absurd and tapering hat, will be my ruin. if i were to charge a battery, i'd only look like a merry-andrew after all; men will not respect what is only laughable. perhaps, after all, thought i, it matters little; doubtless, massena has forgotten me, and i shall be left behind like a broken limber. at one time i blamed myself for not pushing on with some detachment--at another i half resolved to put a bold face on it, and present myself before the general; and between regrets for the past and doubts for the future, i at last worked myself up to a state of anxiety little short of fever. while i walked to and fro in this distracted mood i perceived, by the bustle within doors, that the general was about to depart; at the same time several dismounted dragoons appeared, leading saddle-horses, tightening girths, and adjusting curb-chains, all tokens of a start. while i looked on these preparations, i heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs close behind, and the spluttering noise of a struggle. i turned and saw it was the general himself, who had just mounted his charger, but before catching his right stirrup the horse had plunged, and was dragging the "orderly" across the court by the bridle. seeing, in an instant, that the soldier's effort to hold on was only depriving general massena of all command of the horse, who must probably have fallen on his flank, i jumped forward, caught the stirrup, and slipped it over the general's foot, and then, with a sharp blow on the soldier's wrist, compelled him to relax his grasp. so suddenly were the two movements effected, that in less time than i take to relate it, all was over, and the general, who, for a heavy man, was a good rider, was fast seated in his saddle. i had now no time, however, to bestow on him, for the dragoon, stung by the insult of a blow, and from a peasant, as he deemed it, rushed at me with his sabre. "_halte la!_" cried massena in a voice of thunder; "it was that country fellow saved me from a broken bone, which your infernal awkwardness might have given me. throw him a couple of florins for me," cried he to his aid-de-camp, who just rode in; "and do you, sir, join your ranks, i must look for another orderly." "i am right glad to have been in the way, general," said i, springing forward, and touching my hat. "what, tiernay--this you?" cried he. "how is this? have i forgotten you all this time? what's to be done now? you ought to have gone on with the rest, monsieur. you should have volunteered with some corps, eh?" "i hoped to have been attached to yourself, general. i thought i could, perhaps, have made myself useful." "yes, yes, very true; so you might, i've no doubt; but my staff is full, i've no vacancy. what's to be done now? lestocque, have we any spare cattle?" "yes, general; we've your own eight horses, and two of cambronne's." "ah, poor fellow, he'll not want them more. i suppose tiernay may as well take one of them, at least." "there's an undress uniform, too, of cambronne's would fit monsieur de tiernay," said the officer, who, i saw, had no fancy for my motley costume alongside of him. "oh, tiernay doesn't care for that; he's too old a soldier to bestow a thought upon the color of his jacket," said massena. "pardon me, general, but it is exactly one of my weaknesses; and i feel that until i get rid of these trappings i shall never feel myself a soldier." "i thought you had been made of other stuff," muttered the general, "and particularly since there's like to be little love-making in the present campaign." and with that he rode forward, leaving me to follow when i could. "these are cambronne's keys," said lestocque, "and you'll find enough for your present wants in the saddle-bags. take the gray, he's the better horse, and come up with us as fast as you can." i saw that i had forfeited something of general massena's good opinion by my dandyism; but i was consoled in a measure for the loss, as i saw the price at which i bought the forfeiture. the young officer, who had fallen three days before, and was a nephew of the general cambronne, was a lieutenant in murat's celebrated corps, the lancers of "berg," whose uniform was the handsomest in the french army. even the undress scarlet frock and small silver helmet were more splendid than many full parade uniforms; and as i attired myself in these brilliant trappings, i secretly vowed that the austrians should see them in some conspicuous position ere a month was over. if i had but one sigh for the poor fellow to whose "galanterie" i succeeded, i had many a smile for myself as i passed and re-passed before the glass, adjusting a belt or training an aigrette to fall more gracefully. while thus occupied, i felt something heavy clink against my leg, and opening the sabertasch, discovered a purse containing upward of forty golden napoleons and some silver. it was a singular way to succeed to a "heritage," i thought, but, with the firm resolve to make honest restitution, i replaced the money where i found it, and descended the stairs, my sabre jingling and my spurs clanking, to the infinite admiration of the hostess and her handmaiden, who looked on my transformation as a veritable piece of magic. i'm sure napoleon himself had not framed one-half as many plans for that campaign as i did while i rode along. by a close study of the map, and the aid of all the oral information in my power, i had at length obtained a tolerably accurate notion of the country; and i saw, or i thought i saw, at least, half a dozen distinct ways of annihilating the austrians. i have often since felt shame, even to myself, at the effrontery with which i discussed the great manoeuvres going forward, and the unblushing coolness with which i proffered my opinions and my criticisms: and i really believe that general massena tolerated my boldness rather for the amusement it afforded him than from any other cause. "well, tiernay," said he, as a fresh order reached him, with the most pressing injunction to hurry forward, "we are to move at once on moosburg--what does that portend?" "sharp work, general," replied i, not noticing the sly malice of the question; "the austrians are there in force." "do your grenadiers say so?"--asked he, sarcastically. "no, general; but as the base of the operations is the iser, they must needs guard all the bridges over the river, as well as protect the high road to vienna by landshut." "but you forget that landshut is a good eight leagues from that!" said he, with a laugh. "they'll have to fall back there, nevertheless," said i, coolly, "or they suffer themselves to be cut off from their own centre." "would you believe it," whispered massena to a colonel at his side, "the fellow has just guessed our intended movement?" low as he spoke, my quick ears caught the words, and my heart thumped with delight as i heard them. this was the emperor's strategy--massena was to fall impetuously on the enemy's left at moosburg, and drive them to a retreat on landshut; when, at the moment of the confusion and disorder, they were to be attacked by napoleon himself, with a vastly superior force. the game opened even sooner than expected, and a few minutes after the conversation i have reported, our "tirailleurs" were exchanging shots with the enemy. these sounds, however, were soon drowned in the louder din of artillery, which thundered away at both sides till nightfall. it was a strange species of engagement, for we continued to march on the entire time, the enemy as steadily retiring before us, while the incessant cannonade never ceased. although frequently sent to the front with orders, i saw nothing of the austrians; a low line of bluish smoke toward the horizon, now and then flashing into flame, denoted their position, and as we were about as invisible to them, a less exciting kind of warfare would be difficult to conceive. neither was the destruction important; many of the austrian shot were buried in the deep clay in our front; and considering the time, and the number of pieces in action, our loss was insignificant. soldiers, if they be not the trained veterans of a hundred battles, grow very impatient in this kind of operation; they can not conceive why they are not led forward, and wonder at the over caution of the general. ours were mostly young levies, and were consequently very profuse of their comments and complaints. "have patience, my brave boys," said an old sergeant to some of the grumblers; "i've seen some service, and i never saw a battle open this way that there wasn't plenty of fighting ere it was over." a long, low range of hills bounds the plain to the west of moosburg, and on these, as night closed, our bivouac fires were lighted, some of them extending to nearly half a mile to the left of our real position, and giving the austrians the impression that our force was stationed in that direction. a thin, drizzly rain, cold enough to be sleet, was falling; and as the ground had been greatly cut up by the passage of artillery and cavalry, a less comfortable spot to bivouac in could not be imagined. it was difficult, too, to obtain wood for our fires, and our prospects for the dark hours were scarcely brilliant. the soldiers grumbled loudly at being obliged to sit and cook their messes at the murky flame of damp straw, while the fires at our left blazed away gayly without one to profit by them. frenchmen, however, are rarely ill-humored in face of an enemy, and their complaints assumed all the sarcastic drollery which they so well understand, and even over their half-dressed supper they were beginning to grow merry, when staff-officers were seen traversing the lines at full speed in all directions. "we are attacked--the austrians are upon us!" cried two or three soldiers, snatching up their muskets. "no, no, friend," replied a veteran, "it's the other way; we are going at _them_." this was the true reading of the problem; orders were sent to every brigade to form in close column of attack; artillery and cavalry to advance under their cover, and ready to deploy at a moment's notice. moosburg lay something short of two miles from us, having the iser in front, over which was a wooden bridge, protected by a strong flanking battery. the river was not passable, nor had we any means of transporting artillery across it; so that to this spot our main attack was at once directed. had the austrian general, heller, who was second in command to the archduke louis, either cut off the bridge, or taken effectual measures to oppose its passage, the great events of the campaign might have assumed a very different feature. it is said, however, that an entire austrian brigade was encamped near freising, and that the communication was left open to save them. still it must be owned that the imperialists took few precautions for their safety; for, deceived by our line of watch-fires, the pickets extended but a short distance into the plain; and when attacked by our light cavalry, many of them were cut off at once; and of those who fell back, several traversed the bridge, with their pursuers at their heels. such was the impetuosity of the french attack, that although the most positive orders had been given by massena that not more than three guns and their caissons should traverse the bridge together, and even these at a walk, seven or eight were seen passing at the same instant, and all at a gallop, making the old frame-work so rock and tremble, that it seemed ready to come to pieces. as often happens, the hardihood proved our safety. the austrians counting upon our slow transit, only opened a heavy fire after several of our pieces had crossed, and were already in a position to reply to them. their defense, if somewhat late, was a most gallant one; and the gunners continued to fire on our advancing columns till we captured the block-house, and sabred the men at their guns. meanwhile the imperial cuirassiers, twelve hundred strong, made a succession of furious charges upon us, driving our light cavalry away before them, and for a brief space making the fortune of the day almost doubtful. it soon appeared, however, that these brave fellows were merely covering the retreat of the main body, who in all haste were falling back on the villages of furth and arth. some squadrons of kellerman's heavy cavalry gave time for our light artillery to open their fire, and the austrian ranks were rent open with terrific loss. day was now dawning, and showed us the austrian army in retreat by the two great roads toward landshut. every rising spot of ground was occupied by artillery, and in some places defended by stockades, showing plainly enough that all hope of saving the guns was abandoned, and that they only thought of protecting their flying columns from our attack. these dispositions cost us heavily, for as we were obliged to carry each of these places before we could advance, the loss in this hand-to-hand encounter was very considerable. at length, however, the roads became so blocked up by artillery, that the infantry were driven to defile into the swampy fields at the road side, and here our cavalry cut them down unmercifully, while grape tore through the dense masses at half musket range. had discipline or command been possible, our condition might have been made perilous enough, since, in the impetuosity of attack, large masses of our cavalry got separated from their support, and were frequently seen struggling to cut their way out of the closing columns of the enemy. twice or thrice it actually happened that officers surrendered the whole squadron as prisoners, and were rescued by their own comrades afterward. the whole was a scene of pell-mell confusion and disorder; some abandoning positions when successful defense was possible, others obstinately holding their ground when destruction was inevitable. few prisoners were taken; indeed, i believe, quarter was little thought of by either side. the terrible excitement had raised men's passions to the pitch of madness, and each fought with all the animosity of hate. massena was always in the front, and, as was his custom, comporting himself with a calm steadiness that he rarely displayed in the common occurrences of every-day life. like the english picton, the crash and thunder of conflict seemed to soothe and assuage the asperities of an irritable temper, and his mind appeared to find a congenial sphere in the turmoil and din of battle. the awkward attempt of a french squadron to gallop in a deep marsh, where men and horses were rolling indiscriminately together, actually gave him a hearty fit of laughter, and he issued his orders for their recall, as though the occurrence were a good joke. it was while observing this incident, that an orderly delivered into his hands some maps and papers that had just been captured from the fourgon of a staff-officer. turning them rapidly over, massena chanced upon the plan of a bridge, with marks indicative of points of defense at either side of it, and the arrangements for mining it, if necessary. it was too long to represent the bridge of moosburg, and must probably mean that of landshut; and so thinking, and deeming that its possession might be important to the emperor, he ordered me to take a fresh horse, and hasten with it to the head-quarters. the orders i received were vague enough. "you'll come up with the advance guard some eight or nine miles to the north'ard; you'll chance upon some of the columns near fleisheim." such were the hurried directions i obtained, in the midst of the smoke and din of a battle; but it was no time to ask for more precise instructions, and away i went. in less than twenty minutes' sharp riding, i found myself in a little valley, inclosed by low hills, and watered by a small tributary of the danube, along whose banks cottages were studded in the midst of what seemed one great orchard, since for miles the white and pink blossoms of fruit-trees were to be seen extending. the peasants were at work in the fields, and the oxen were toiling along with the heavy wagons, or the scarcely less cumbersome plow, as peacefully as though bloodshed and carnage were not within a thousand miles of them. no high road penetrated this secluded spot, and hence it lay secure, while ruin and devastation raged at either side of it. as the wind was from the west, nothing could be heard of the cannonade toward moosburg, and the low hills completely shut out all signs of the conflict. i halted at a little way-side forge, to have a loose shoe fastened, and in the crowd of gazers who stood around me, wondering at my gay trappings and gaudy uniform, not one had the slightest suspicion that i was other than austrian. one old man asked me if it were not true that the "french were coming?" and another laughed, and said, "they had better not;" and there was all they knew of that terrible struggle--the shock that was to rend in twain a great empire. full of varied thought on this theme, i mounted and rode forward. at first, the narrow roads were so deep and heavy, that i made little progress; occasionally, too, i came to little streams, traversed by a bridge of a single plank, and was either compelled to swim my horse across, or wander long distances in search of a ford. these obstructions made me impatient, and my impatience but served to delay me more, and all my efforts to push directly forward only tended to embarrass me. i could not ask for guidance, since i knew not the name of a single village or town, and to have inquired for the direction in which the troops were stationed, might very possibly have brought me into danger. at last, after some hours of toilsome wandering, i reached a small way-side inn, and resolving to obtain some information of my whereabouts, i asked whither the road led that passed through a long, low, swampy plain, and disappeared in a pine wood. "to landshut," was the answer. "and the distance?" "three german miles," said the host; "but they are worse than five; for since the new line has been opened, this road has fallen into neglect. two of the bridges are broken, and a landslip has completely blocked up the passage at another place." "then how am i to gain the new road?" alas! there was nothing for it but going back to the forge where i had stopped three hours and a half before, and whence i could take a narrow bridle-path to fleisheim, that would bring me out on the great road. the very thought of retracing my way was intolerable; many of the places i had leaped my horse over would have been impossible to cross from the opposite side; once i narrowly escaped being carried down by a mill-race; and, in fact, no dangers nor inconveniences of the road in front of me, could equal those of the course i had just come. besides all this, to return to fleisheim would probably bring me far in the rear of the advancing columns, while if i pushed on toward landshut, i might catch sight of them from some rising spot of ground. "you will go, i see," cried the host, as he saw me set out. "perhaps you're right; the old adage says, 'it's often the roughest road leads to the smoothest fortune.'" even that much encouragement was not without its value. i spurred into a canter with fresh spirits. the host of the little inn had not exaggerated; the road was execrable. heavy rocks and mounds of earth had slipped down with the rains of winter, and remained in the middle of the way. the fallen masonry of the bridges had driven the streams into new channels, with deep pools among them; broken wagons and ruined carts marked the misfortunes of some who had ventured on the track; and except for a well-mounted and resolute horseman, the way was impracticable. i was well-nigh overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, as clambering up a steep hill, with the bridle on my arm, i gained the crest of the ridge, and suddenly saw landshut--for it could be no other--before me. i have looked at many new pictures and scenes, but i own i never beheld one that gave me half the pleasure. the ancient town, with its gaunt old belfries, and still more ancient castle, stood on a bend of the inn, which was here crossed by a long wooden bridge, supported on boats, a wide track of shingle and gravel on either side showing the course into which the melting snows often swelled the stream. from the point where i stood, i could see into the town. the platz, the old gardens of the nunnery, the terrace of the castle, all were spread out before me; and to my utter surprise, there seemed little or no movement going forward. there were two guns in position at the bridge; some masons were at work on the houses, beside the river, piercing the walls for the use of musketry, and an infantry battalion was under arms in the market-place. these were all the preparations i could discover against the advance of a great army. but so it was; the austrian spies had totally misled them, and while they believed that the great bulk of the french lay around ratisbon, the centre of the army, sixty-five thousand strong, and led by napoleon himself, was in march to the southward. that the attack on moosburg was still unknown at landshut seemed certain; and i now perceived that, notwithstanding all the delays i had met with, i had really come by the most direct line; whereas, on account of the bend of the river no austrian courier could have brought tidings of the engagement up to that time. my attention was next turned toward the direction whence our advance might be expected; but although i could see nearly four miles of the road, not a man was to be descried along it. i slowly descended the ridge and, passing through a meadow, was approaching the high road, when suddenly i heard the clattering of a horse at full gallop coming along the causeway. i mounted at once, and pushed forward to an angle of the road, by which i was concealed from all view. the next instant a hungarian hussar turned the corner at top speed. "what news?" cried i, in german. "are they coming?" "ay, in force," shouted he without stopping. i at once drew my pistol, and leveled at him. the man's back was toward me, and my bullet would have pierced his skull. it was my duty, too, to have shot him, for moments were then worth days, or even weeks. i couldn't pull the trigger, however, and i replaced my weapon in the holster. another horseman now swept past without perceiving me, and quickly behind him came a half squadron of hussars, all riding in mad haste and confusion. the horses, though "blown," were not sweated, so that i conjectured they had ridden fast though not far. such was the eagerness to press on, and so intent were they on the thought of their own tidings, that none saw me, and the whole body swept by and disappeared. i waited a few minutes to listen, and as the clattering toward landshut died away, all was silent. trusting to my knowledge of german to save me, even if i fell in with the enemy, i now rode forward at speed in the direction of our advance. the road was straight as an arrow for miles, and a single object coming toward me was all i could detect. this proved to be a hussar of the squadron, whose horse, being dead lame, could not keep up with the rest, and now the poor fellow was making the best of his way back as well as he was able. of what use, thought i, to make him my prisoner; one more or less at such a time can be of slight avail; so i merely halted him to ask how near the french were. the man could only speak hungarian, but made signs that the lancers were close upon us, and counseled me to make my escape into the town with all speed. i intimated by a gesture that i could trust to my horse, and we parted. he was scarcely out of sight when the bright gleam of brass helmets came into view toward the west, and then i could make out the shining cuirasses of the "corps de guides," as, mounted on their powerful horses, they came galloping along. "i thought i was foremost," said a young officer to me, as he rode up. "how came _you_ in advance?" "where's the 'etat major?'" cried i, in haste, and not heeding his question. "i have a dispatch for the emperor." "follow the road," said he, "and you'll come up with them in half an hour." and with these hurried words we passed each other. a sharp pistol report a moment after told me what had befallen the poor hungarian; but i had little time to think of his fate. our squadrons were coming on at a sharp pace, while in their rear the jingling clash of horse-artillery resounded. from a gentle rise of the road, i could see a vast distance of country, and perceive that the french columns extended for miles away--the great chaussée being reserved for the heavy artillery, while every by-road and lane was filled with troops of all arms, hurrying onward. it was one of those precipitous movements by which napoleon so often paralyzed an enemy at once, and finished a campaign by one daring exploit. at such a time it was in vain for me to ask in what direction the staff might be found. all were eager and intent on their own projects; and as squadron after squadron passed, i saw it was a moment for action rather than for thought. still i did not like to abandon all hope of succeeding after so much of peril and fatigue, and seeing that it was impossible to advance against the flood of horse and artillery that formed along the road, i jumped my horse into a field at the side, and pushed forward. even here, however, the passage was not quite clear, since many, in their eagerness to get forward, had taken to the same line, and with cheering cries and wild shouts of joy, were galloping on. my showy uniform drew many an eye toward me, and at last a staff-officer cried out to me to stop, pointing with his sabre as he spoke to a hill a short distance off, where a group of officers were standing. this was general moulon and his staff, under whose order the advanced-guard was placed. "a dispatch--whence from!" cried he, hastily, as i rode up. "no, sir; a plan of the bridge of landshut, taken from the enemy this morning at moosburg." "are they still there?" asked he. "by this time they must be close upon landshut; they were in full retreat when i left them at day-break." "we'll be able to speak of the bridge without this," said he, laughing, and turning toward his staff, while he handed the sketch carelessly to some one beside him; "and you'll serve the emperor quite as well, sir, by coming with us as hastening to the rear." i professed myself ready and willing to follow his orders, and away i went with the staff, well pleased to be once more on active service. two cannon shots, and a rattling crash of small arms, told us that the combat had begun; and as we rose the hill, the bridge of landshut was seen on fire in three places. either from some mistake of his orders, or not daring to assume a responsibility for what was beyond the strict line of duty, the french commander of the artillery placed his guns in position along the river's bank, and prepared to reply to the fire now opening from the town, instead of at once dashing onward within the gates. moulon hastened to repair the error; but by the delay in pushing through the dense masses of horse, foot, and artillery that crowded the passage, it was full twenty minutes ere he came up. with a storm of oaths on the stupidity of the artillery colonel, he ordered the firing to cease, commanding both the cavalry and the train wagons to move right and left, and give place for a grenadier battalion, who were coming briskly on with their muskets at the sling. the scene was now a madly-exciting one. the chevaux-de-frize at one end of the bridge was blazing; but beyond it on the bridge the austrian engineer and his men were scattering combustible material, and with hempen torches touching the new-pitched timbers. an incessant roll of musketry issued from the houses on the river side, with now and then the deeper boom of a large gun, while the roar of voices, and the crashing noise of artillery passing through the streets, swelled into a fearful chorus. the french sappers quickly removed the burning chevaux-de-frize, and hurled the flaming timbers into the stream; and scarcely was this done, when moulon, dismounting, advanced, cheering, at the head of his grenadiers. charging over the burning bridge, they rushed forward; but their way was arrested by the strong timbers of a massive portcullis, which closed the passage. this had been concealed from our view by the smoke and flame; and now, as the press of men from behind grew each instant more powerful, a scene of terrible suffering ensued. the enemy, too, poured down a deadly discharge, and grape-shot tore through us at pistol range. the onward rush of the columns to the rear defied retreat, and in the mad confusion, all orders and commands were unheard or unheeded. not knowing what delayed our advance, i was busily engaged in suppressing a fire at one of the middle buttresses, when, mounting the parapet, i saw the cause of our halt. i happened to have caught up one of the pitched torches at the instant, and the thought at once struck me how to employ it. to reach the portcullis, no other road lay open than the parapet itself--a wooden railing, wide enough for a footing, but exposed to the whole fire of the houses. there was little time for the choice of alternatives, even had our fate offered any, so i dashed on, and, as the balls whizzed and whistled around me, reached the front. it was a terrible thing to touch the timbers against which our men were actually flattened, and to set fire to the bars around which their hands were clasped; but i saw that the austrian musketry had already done its work on the leading files, and that not one man was living among them. by a blunder of one of the sappers, the portcullis had been smeared with pitch like the bridge; and as i applied the torch, the blaze sprung up, and, encouraged by the rush of air between the beams, spread in a second over the whole structure. expecting my death-wound at every instant, i never ceased my task, even when it had become no longer necessary, impelled by a kind of insane persistence to destroy the barrier. the wind carrying the flame inward, however, had compelled the austrians to fall back, and before they could again open a collected fire on us, the way was open, and the grenadiers, like enraged tigers, rushed wildly in. i remember that my coat was twice on fire as, carried on my comrades' shoulders, i was borne along into the town. i recollect, too, the fearful scene of suffering that ensued, the mad butchery at each door-way as we passed, the piercing cries for mercy, and the groan of dying agony. war has no such terrible spectacle as a town taken by infuriated soldiery, and even among the best of natures a relentless cruelty usurps the place of every chivalrous feeling. when or how i was wounded i never could ascertain; but a round shot had penetrated my thigh, tearing the muscles into shreds, and giving to the surgeon who saw me the simple task of saying, "_enlevez le--point d'espoir_." i heard thus much, and i have some recollection of a comrade having kissed my forehead, and there ended my reminiscences of landshut. nay, i am wrong; i cherish another and a more glorious one. it was about four days after this occurrence that the surgeon in charge of the military hospital was obliged to secure by ligature a branch of the femoral artery which had been traversed by the ball through my thigh. the operation was a tedious and difficult one, for round shot, it would seem, have little respect for anatomy, and occasionally displace muscles in a sad fashion. i was very weak after it was over, and orders were left to give a spoonful of bordeaux and water from time to time during the evening, a direction which i listened to attentively, and never permitted my orderly to neglect. in fact, like a genuine sick man's fancy, it caught possession of my mind that this wine and water was to save me; and in the momentary rally of excitement it gave, i thought i tasted health once more. in this impression i never awoke from a short doze without a request for my cordial, and half mechanically would make signs to wet my lips as i slept. it was near sunset, and i was lying with unclosed eyes, not asleep, but in that semi-conscious state that great bodily depression and loss of blood induce. the ward was unusually quiet, the little buzz of voices that generally mingled through the accents of suffering was hushed, and i could hear the surgeon's well-known voice as he spoke to some persons at the further end of the chamber. by their stopping from time to time, i could remark that they were inspecting the different beds, but their voices were low and their steps cautious and noiseless. "tiernay--this is tiernay," said some one reading my name from the paper over my head. some low words which i could not catch followed, and then the surgeon replied-- "there is a chance for him yet, though the debility is greatly to be feared." i made a sign at once to my mouth, and after a second's delay the spoon touched my lips, but so awkwardly was it applied, that the fluid ran down my chin; with a sickly impatience i turned away, but a mild low voice, soft as a woman's, said-- "allons!--let me try once more;" and now the spoon met my lips with due dexterity. "thanks," said i faintly, and i opened my eyes. "you'll soon be about again, tiernay," said the same voice; as for the person, i could distinguish nothing, for there were six or seven around me; "and if i know any thing of a soldier's heart, this will do just as much as the doctor." as he spoke he detached from his coat a small enamel cross, and placed it in my hand, with a gentle squeeze of the fingers, and then saying, "au revoir," moved on. "who's that?" cried i, suddenly, while a strange thrill ran through me. "hush!" whispered the surgeon, cautiously; "hush! it is the emperor." (to be continued.) talk about the spider. the spider family is very numerous, no less than fifty different kinds being described by naturalists. we shall, however, only mention some of the most common. all spiders have eight legs, with three joints in each, and terminating in three crooked claws. they have eight eyes also, differently arranged according to the different species: some have them in a straight line, others in the shape of a capital v; others four above and four below; others two above, two below, and two on either side; while others, again, have them arranged in a way too complicated to be described without plates. in the fore part of the head, they have a pair of sharp crooked claws, or forceps, which stand horizontally, and which, when not in use, are hidden from view, being concealed in cases beautifully adapted for their reception, and in which they fold up, just like a clasp-knife, and there remain between two rows of teeth. when the spider bites its prey, it thrusts a small white proboscis out of its mouth, with which it instills a poisonous liquor into the wound. the abdomen, or hinder part of the spider, is separated from the head and breast by a small thread-like tube. their outer skin is a hard polished crust. a very curious description, sometimes found in this country, but more generally in italy, is the hunting-spider, so called because, instead of spinning webs to entrap their prey, they pounce on them, and devour them. this spider is small and brown, but beautifully spotted, with its hinder-legs longer than the rest. when one of these spiders sees a fly three or four yards off, it does not attack it without some deliberation as to the best means of doing so. generally speaking, it creeps under it, and then, stealing softly up, it seldom misses its prey. if, however, on a nearer approach, it finds that it is not in a direct line, it will immediately slide down again, and the next time, making its observations more correctly, it pounces on the unsuspecting fly's back. meantime, if the fly moves, the hunter follows its example, always taking care to face its prey. should the fly, however, take wing, its enemy will follow it, swift as the lightning's flash, and then, moving almost imperceptibly along, she catches it by the poll, and, after quietly satisfying the pangs of hunger, carries the remainder home, to keep for a future day. the nest of these spiders is very curious: it is about two inches high, and is composed of a close and soft satin-like texture. in this are two chambers, placed perpendicularly, in which the spider reposes during the day, generally going out to _hunt_ after nightfall. the parent hunter regularly instructs her young ones how to pursue their future avocation, and when, in teaching them, they themselves happen to miss a jump, they always run away, as if quite ashamed of themselves! one of the largest kinds of nests to be met with in this country is that of the labyrinthic-spider, whose web most of our readers must surely have seen spread out like a broad sheet in hedges, generally in the furze, or other low bushes. the middle of this net, which is of a very close texture, is suspended like a sailor's hammock, by fine silken threads fastened to higher branches. the whole curves upward, sloping down to a long funnel-shaped gallery, nearly horizontal at the entrance, but winding obliquely until it becomes almost perpendicular. this gallery is about a quarter of an inch, is much more closely woven than the sheet part of the web, and generally descends into a hole in the ground, or else into a soft tuft of grass. here is the spider's dwelling-place, where she may often be found resting with her legs extended, ready to catch the hapless insects which get entangled in her sheet net. the most extraordinary nest, however, of the whole species, is that of the mason-spider, which is a native of the tropics, and is generally found in the west indies. this nest is formed of very hard clay, colored deeply with brown oxide of iron. it is constructed in the form of a tube, about one inch in diameter and six or seven long. their first labor is to line it, which they do with a uniform tapestry of orange-colored silken web, of a texture rather thicker than fine paper. this lining is useful for two important purposes: it prevents the walls of the house from falling down, and also, by being connected with the door, it enables the spider to know what is going on above, for the entire vibrates when one part is touched. our readers who have not been so fortunate as to meet with this description of nest, may very probably feel inclined to laugh at our mention of a door. it is nevertheless perfectly true that there _is_ a door, and a most ingeniously contrived one also, and truly it may be regarded as one of the most curious things in the whole range of insect architecture. it is about the size and shape of a crown-piece, slightly convex inside, and concave on the outer side. it is composed of twelve or more layers of web, similar to that with which the inner part is lined; these are laid very closely one over the other, and managed so that the inner layers are the broadest, the others gradually diminishing in size, except near the hinge, which is about an inch long; and as all the layers are united there, and prolonged into the tube, it is necessarily the firmest and strongest portion of the entire structure. the materials are so elastic, that the hinge shuts as if it had a spring, and of its own accord. the hole in which the nest is made being on a sloping bank, one side must always be higher than the other, and it is observed that the hinge is invariably placed on the highest side, because the spider knows well, that, when so situated, the door, if pushed from the outside, will fall down by its own weight, and close; and so nicely does it fit into the little groove prepared for it, that the most attentive observer could scarcely discover where the joining was. in this safe retreat the wary spider lives, nor will the loudest knocking tempt it out of its hiding-place. should, however, the least attempt be made to force open the door, the spider, aware of what is going on by the motion of the threads, runs quickly to the door, fastens its legs to the silk lining of the walls, and, turning on its back, pulls the door with all its might. the truth of this assertion has been tested by many entomologists, who, by lifting the door with a pin, have felt the little spider trying to prevent their entrance; the contest, of course, is not a long one, and the assailants being uniformly victorious, the spider seeks safety in flight. should the door be entirely taken away, another will soon be put in its place. these spiders hunt their prey at night, and devour them in their nests, which are generally found scattered all over with the fragments of their repasts. a pair of spiders, with thirty or forty young ones, often live together in one nest such as we have described. the most famous of all spiders is the tarantula. it is an inhabitant of italy, cyprus, and the east indies. its breast and abdomen are ash-colored, as are also the wings, which have blackish rings on the inner side. its eyes are red: two of them are larger than the others, and placed in the front of its head; four others in a transverse direction near the mouth; and the remaining two close to the back. it generally lives in bare fields, where the land is fallow and soft; and it carefully shuns damp shady places, preferring a rising ground facing the east. its nest is four inches deep, half an inch wide, and curved at the bottom, and here the insect retreats in unfavorable weather, weaving a web at the door to be secure from rain and damp. in july it casts its skin, and lays eggs, but does not live to rear them, as it dies early in the winter. its bite is said to occasion death. first, the part bitten becomes inflamed, then sickness and faintness come on, followed by difficulty of breathing, and then by death. music is the only cure resorted to. a musician is brought to see the patient, and tries one air after another, and at length hits upon the one which impels the sufferer to dance. the violence of the exercise brings on perspiration, which invariably cures the disorder. a gentleman who was traveling in italy some years ago, was very anxious to see the dance, but it being too early in the year for the spider to be found, all he could do was to prevail on a young woman who had been bitten on a previous year to go through the dance for him just as she did then. she agreed to the proposal, and at first lolled listlessly and stupidly about, while slow, dull music was played. at length the right chord was touched; she sprang up with a fearful yell, and staggered exactly like a drunken person, holding a handkerchief in each hand, and moving correctly to tune. as the music became more lively, she jumped about with great velocity, shrieking very loudly. altogether, the scene was most painful, but was acted to perfection. the patients were always dressed in white, and adorned with red, green, and blue ribbons; their hair fell loosely over their shoulders, which were covered with a white scarf. all that we have related as to the effects of the bite, was long believed to be true; but many years ago its truth was questioned, and the result of the investigation was, that the tarantula was a harmless insect, and that the supposed injuries inflicted by it were made use of as an excuse for indulging in a dance similar to that of the priestess of bacchus, which the introduction of christianity had put an end to. those who are not impostors are merely afflicted with a nervous illness, known by the name of st. vitus's dance: and to this saint many chapels have been dedicated. another curious and interesting description of the spider is that called the water-diving spider. it can easily be understood that a spider would not find any difficulty in breathing under water, inasmuch as they are provided with gills. but the diving-spider is not content, as frogs are, with the air furnished by the water, but independently carries down a supply with her to her sub-marine territories. this spider, which is constantly found in the neighborhood of london, does not relish stagnant water, preferring slow-running streams, where she lives in her diving-bell, which shines like a globe of silver. this shining appearance is supposed to proceed either from an inflated globule surrounding the abdomen, or else from the space between the body and the water. when the little diver wishes to inhale a fresh supply of atmospheric air, it rises to the surface, with its body still continuing in the water, and merely the part containing the spinneret visible, and this it briskly opens and moves. it generally comes up every quarter of an hour, although it _could_ remain in the water for many days together. a thick coating of hair prevents its being wet, or otherwise incommoded by the water. the diving-spider spins its cell in the water; it is composed of closely-woven, strong, white silk, and shaped like half a pigeon's egg, looking something like a diving-bell. occasionally this nest is allowed to remain partly above water; generally, however, it is totally submerged, and is attached by a great number of irregular threads to some near objects. it is entirely closed, except at the bottom, where there is a large opening. this, however, is sometimes shut, and then the spider may be seen staying peaceably at home, with her head downward; and thus they often remain during the three winter months. no insects are more cleanly in their habits than spiders, although the gummy substance of which their webs are composed, and the rough hairy covering of their bodies, with but few exceptions, render this an arduous task. whenever they happen to break a thread of their web which they are unable to mend, they roll it up in a little ball, and throw it away, and they regularly comb their legs. in concluding this brief account of the spider family, we can assure our readers, that any time they may bestow on the subject will be amply rewarded by the interest and pleasure they will derive. and, lest any should imagine that the hours thus passed are wasted or misspent, we shall close our article by giving a short history of a man whose life was saved by his knowledge of the habits of a spider. very many years ago, a frenchman called quatreman disjouval sided with the dutch in a revolt against the french. for this offense he was cast into prison, where he remained for eight long years, without the most remote prospect of being set at liberty. to while away the dreary hours, he made acquaintance with some spiders who shared his solitary cell, and, having nothing to occupy his mind, he passed the greater part of his time in attentively watching their movements. by degrees he discovered that they only spun their large wheel-like webs in fine weather, or when it was about to set in; while in damp weather they generally disappeared altogether. in the month of december, , when the republican troops were in holland, a sudden and unexpected thaw set in, and so materially disarranged their general's plans, that he actually thought of withdrawing his army altogether, and accepting the money which the dutch would gladly have given to have got rid of them. meantime disjouval, who thought that any masters would be better than his present ones, ardently hoped that the french would be victorious. shut up as he was, he contrived to hear all about their intended movements, and, knowing that the weather alone prevented it, he watched his old friends the spiders with redoubled interest. to his infinite delight, he found that a frost was just about to set in, and so severe a one, too, that it would enable the rivers and canals to bear the weight of the baggage and artillery. somehow or other, he succeeded in having a letter conveyed to the general, assuring him that within fourteen days a severe frost would set in. "the wish was parent to the hope;" and the commander-in-chief, believing that he really had some supernatural revelation on the subject, maintained his position. at the close of the twelfth day, the anxiously wished for frost began, and disjouval felt sure that now he would be set at liberty. nor was he mistaken. the general's first act on entering the town was to go to the prison, and, thanking him personally for his valuable information, he set him free. disjouval subsequently became a celebrated entomologist, directing his attention principally to spiders, whose first appearance in summer he thought ought to be welcomed by sound of trumpet! amalie de bourblanc, the lost child.--a tale of facts. in the heat of the last french war, some forty years ago, we were under the necessity of removing from the north to make our residence in london. we took our passage in one of the old scotch smacks from leith, and, wishing to settle down immediately on our arrival in the great metropolis, we took our servants and our furniture along with us. contrary winds detained us long upon our passage. although a mere child at the time, i well remember one eventful morning, when, to our horror and alarm, a french man-of-war was seen looming on the distant horizon, and evidently bearing down on us. a calm had settled on the sea, and we made but little way, and at last we saw two boats lowered from the frenchman's deck, and speedily nearing us. this occurred shortly after the famous and heroic resistance made successfully by the crew of one of the vessels in the same trade to a french privateer. with this glorious precedent before our eyes, both passengers and crew were disposed to make no tame resistance. our guns were loaded to the muzzle, and every sailor was bared for action. old cutlasses and rusty guns were handed round about, and piled upon the deck. truly, we were a motley crew, more like a savage armament of lawless buccaneers than bloodless denizens of peace. but happily these warlike preparations were needless, for a breeze sprung up, and, though we were pretty smartly chased, the favoring gale soon bore us far from danger, and eventually wafted us in safety to our destined port. my mother was somewhat struck, during the period of our short alarm, by the fearless and heroic bearing of our servant jane. a deeper feeling seemed to pervade her mind than common antipathy to the common foe. in fact, at various times during her previous service, when any events connected with the french war formed, as they ever did, the all-engrossing subject of discourse, jane evinced an interest in the theme equaled only by the intense hatred toward that nation which she now displayed. on the present occasion, the appearance of the foe awakened in her bosom a thousand slumbering but bitter recollections of a deep domestic tragedy connected with herself; and so far from showing the natural timidity of her sex, she even endeavored to assist in the arrangement of our murderous preparations. even a shade of regret appeared upon her face, as we bounded over the sparkling waves, when our tardy foe seemed but as a speck upon the distant sea. during the remainder of our voyage she sunk into a dreamy melancholy. with her head almost continually resting on the bulwarks of the ship, she gazed upon the clear, blue depths below; and, had we watched her closely, we might perhaps have seen some of the round tear-drops which gathered on her eyelids, and fell silently, to mingle with the waves. but we heeded not. she was a singular girl, and seemed evidently superior to her present station; yet she toiled on with the drudgery of the house, listless and indifferent, but always usefully engaged. my mother was not altogether satisfied with her work, and still found a difficulty in blaming her. she seemed to dream through her whole duty, as if her mind was rapt in some strange fancies, while her hands mechanically did her task. at last, after long solicitation, she explained the mystery by telling us her history. we must throw our story back some twenty years. her family at that time occupied a respectable, if not a wealthy position in our northern metropolis. her father was engaged in a lucrative business, had been married about six years, and was the father of four children. his youngest daughter had been born about three months previous to this period of our tale. she was a singularly lovely child. a sister of his wife's, who had made a wealthy marriage with an officer in the french army, was at this time on a short visit to the land of her birth. madame de bourblanc was childless, and her heart was yearning for those blessings of maternal love which providence denied her. she was unhappy: no wonder; for her home in sunny france was desolate. a little while soon passed away. mrs. wilson and her sister were seated at the parlor fire one cold november night--the one contemplating the blessings she possessed, the other brooding on her far different lot. the children prattled merrily beside them, and waited only for their father's evening kiss, before they went to childhood's innocent sleep. but their father came not. his usual time had long since passed, and his wife betrayed some symptoms of uneasiness at the unwonted delay. at last they heard a hurried knock, and mr. wilson entered the apartment. there were traces of anxiety and grief upon his countenance, but, as he spoke not of the cause, his wife forbore inquiries in the presence of her sister. but mr. wilson was extremely unsocial, nay, even harsh; and, when his wife held out her babe, and the unconscious infant seemed to put up its little lips for its evening kiss, he pushed the child aside, and muttered something audibly about the curses of a married life, and the inconvenience and expense of bringing up a large, increasing family. the babe was sent to bed, and the mother spoke not, though a bitter tear might be seen rolling down her cheek. she was deeply hurt, and justly so. but mr. wilson had met with some heavy losses during the course of the day. these had soured his heart and embittered his words. perhaps he meant not what he said; it might have been but the passing bitterness of a disappointed man. however the case may be, the words he uttered remained in the bosom of his wife, rooted and festering there; and many a bitter pang had she in after-life, and the desolations and the sorrows which dispersed her family, some to their grave, others far asunder--that all could be ascribed to these few bitter words. a week had scarcely elapsed since the occurrences of that unhappy evening, when an event took place which wrought a fearful revolution in that happy family. surely the "evil eye" had looked upon that house. mrs. wilson and her sister went to make a call upon a friend. as they expected to return almost immediately, they left the babe slumbering in its cradle, and sent the servant on some trifling errand. circumstances retarded their return. the anxious mother hastened to the nursery to tend upon her babe. she looked into the room, but all was still. surely the child was slumbering. she must not rouse it from its peaceful dreams. but all continued still. there was a death-like silence in the room. she could not even hear her infant breathe. she sat a while by the flickering light of the expiring fire, for the shades of evening had gathered over the darkening horizon. at length she rose; she went to look upon her child; she lifted up the coverlid. no child was there. an indescribable dread took possession of her soul; she rushed like a maniac from room to room. at last she heard a noise; she flew to the spot. yes, three of her children were there, but the other, her babe, her newest born, the flower of her heart, was gone. "my child! my child!" she screamed, and fell upon the floor. her sister heard the fall, and rushed up stairs. she knelt beside the stricken woman, bathed her temples with cold water, and with a start mrs. wilson awoke from her swoon. "my child! my child!" she sobbed. "what of the child?" her sister cried. "gone--lost--stolen from its mother!" screamed the wretched woman. "oh, impossible! be calm; the child will soon be found," her sister said. "some neighbor, perhaps--" "perhaps--perhaps," hurriedly replied the mother, and she rushed from house to house. the people thought her mad. no child was there. her sister led her home. she followed her calmly, unresistingly. was her spirit broken? she was placed upon a chair; she sat as one bereft of reason; her face was pale; and perspiration, the deep dews of agony, gathered upon her brow. not even a feather would have stirred before her breath. it looked like death. at last she started from her seat. her brows were knit, and her whole face convulsed with the fearful workings of her soul. "john! john!" she cried. "where is my husband. send him to me." and they went to seek him, but he was not to be found. they told her so, and she was silent. there were evidently some frightful thoughts laboring within her breast--some terrible suspicions, which her spirit scarce dared to entertain. for about an hour she sat, but never opened her lips. it was a fearful silence. at last his knock was heard; the stair creaked beneath his well known tread; he entered. the mother sprang upon her feet. "john!" she screamed, "give me my child! where have you put her? where is my child?" her husband started. "woman, are you mad?" he cried. "give me my child!" "wife, be calm." "i will not be calm. my child! you spoke coarsely to me the other night for nothing, john. she was a burden on you, was she? but why did you take her from me? i would have worked for her--drudged, slaved, to win her bread. oh, why did you _kill_ my child?" the man looked stupidly upon his wife, and sank into a chair. the room was filled with neighbors; they looked at him, and then to one another, and whispered. "give me my child!" the mother screamed. he sat buried in thought, and covering his face with both his hands. "take him away!" she cried, and the people laid their hands upon him. he started to his feet, and dashed the foremost to the ground. there was a look about the man that terrified, and they quailed before him. he strode before his wife. "woman," said he, "your lips accused me. bitterly, ay, bitterly, shall you rue this night's work. come, neighbors, i am ready." and they took him to a magistrate. "my child!" the wretched woman shrieked, and swooned away. before a few hours had passed, she was writhing in the agonies of a burning fever. and where was her husband then? walking to and fro upon the cold flagstones of a felon's cell, upon a charge of murdering his child, his own child; doomed thither by his own wife. a close investigation of every matter connected with this mysterious affair was set on foot. no proof of mr. wilson's guilt could be obtained. he was arraigned before his country's laws, and, after a patient trial, was discharged, as his judge emphatically pronounced, without a stain upon his character. discharged, forsooth, to what? to meet the frowns and suspicions of a too credulous world; to see the people turn and stare behind him, as he passed along the streets; to see the children shrink from him and flee, as from some monster; and to dwell in a desolate home, his own offspring trembling as he touched them, and his wife--that wife who had accused him--looking with cold, suspicious, unhappy eye upon the being she had sworn to love and cherish with her life. such was his fate! who had wrought it? his wife recovered from her illness; and her sister went her way back to her home in france. seldom did the poor man even speak: there was gloom about that desolate house. his trade fell off, and his credit declined; and why? because his heart was broken. day after day he sat in his lone counting-house; there was no bustle there. his books were covered with a thick coat of dust; and, as one by one his customers stepped off, so poverty stepped in, until at last he found himself almost a beggar. he shut his office-doors, shut them for the last time, then wiped away a tear, the first he had shed for many a day. he went home, but not to the home he used to have. his furniture had been sold to supply the common necessaries of life; and poor indeed was their now humble abode. there was silence in that little house, scarcely a whisper. in the secret fountains of his wife's heart there was still a depth of love for him; but, always when she would have breathed it forth, the strange horrid suspicion would flit across her brain--her child was not. he often looked at her, a long, earnest gaze, but he seldom spoke. one evening, he was more than usually sad. he kissed his children fondly. he took his wife's cold hand, and pressed it in his own. "jessie," said he, "as ye have sown, so shall ye reap; but i forgive you. god bless you, wife!" he lay down upon his hard pallet, and when they would have roused him in the morning, he was dead. time rolled on with rapid sweep, alas! bringing death and its attendant evils in his train. two of the widow's children died; and jane was now about eighteen years of age. sorrow, rather than age, had already blanched the widow's hair. they were in great poverty; eked out a scanty livelihood with their needle. indeed, their only certain dependence lay in the small assistance which madame de bourblanc sent from france. perhaps, had that sister known the straits of her poor relatives, her paltry pittance might have been increased. they were perhaps too proud to make it known; as it was, she knew not, or, if she did, she heeded not. about this time a letter reached the widow from her sister. besides containing the usual remittance, the letter was unusually long. she requested jane to read it to her, while she sat and sewed. what ailed the girl, her mother thought, as jane gazed upon the page with some indescribable emotions depicted on her face. "mother," she cried, "my sister lives! your child is found again!" the widow tore the letter from her daughter's hand, and read it eagerly, while her face grew paler every moment. she gasped for utterance; and the mystery was solved at last. yes, reader, at last was the mystery unraveled, and the criminal was her sister--she who had stood calmly by, and seen the agony of the bereaved mother--she who had beheld the injured father dragged as a felon to prison, when a word from her would have cleard it all--she was that wretch. madame de bourblanc was childless and her heart yearned for some one she could love. she saw the little cherub of her sister, and she envied it. she knew that, if she had asked the child, the mother's heart would have spurned the offer, so she laid her plans to steal the infant. she employed a woman from france, who, as she prowled about the house, had seized the favorable moment, and snatched the infant from its cradle, and the child was safely housed in france before the tardy law began its investigations. madame de bourblanc remained beside her sister for a time; then hurried off to france, to lavish all her love upon the stolen child. it is true, she loved the child; but was it not a selfish love to see the bereaved mother mourn its loss, yet never soothe her troubled heart? and was it not a cruel love, to see a household broken up, affections desolated, and all to gratify a selfish whim of hers? it was worse than cruel--it was deeply criminal. she brought up the infant as her own: she named it amalie, and a pretty child she was. did a pang never strike into the heart of that cruel woman, as the child would lift its little eyes to hers, and lisp "my mother?" she must have thought of the true mother, broken-hearted, in another land. yes, a pang did pierce her heart; but alas! it came too late; the misery was already wrought. she wrote to her injured sister, begging her forgiveness, and at the same time offering a considerable sum, if she would permit the child to remain with her, still ignorant of her real parentage. but she was mistaken in her hope; for not only did the mother indignantly demand the restoration of her child, but she did more; she published the sister's letter, and triumphantly removed the stains that lingered on her dead husband's memory. a few weeks after this, the widow went to pay a visit to the green grave of her broken-hearted husband: she knelt upon the verdant mound, and watered it with her tributary tears. all her unjust suspicions crowded on her mind: conscience reproached her bitterly. she knelt, and supplicated for forgiveness, seeming to commune with his spirit on the spot where his poor frail body reposed in its narrow bed. she felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder; it was her daughter jane. one moment after, and she was clasped in the embrace of a stranger. nature whispered to the mother's heart her child was there, her long lost child. _she_ too had come to look upon that lowly grave--the grave of a father. after the first transports of meeting were over, the widow found leisure to observe her child. but what a poor young delicate flower was she, to brave the rude blasts of poverty. she was a lovely girl: like a lily, fragile and pale, the storms of life would wither her. her mother took her home; but the contrast was too great, from affluence to poverty--amalie wept. poor jane strove to comfort her; but she might only use the language of the eyes, for her foreign sister scarcely understood two words of english. amalie struggled hard to love her new mother, and to reconcile her young heart to this sudden change, but the effort was too great, and she gradually sank. early and late her mother and her sister toiled, to obtain for her, in her delicate state, some of those luxuries to which she had been accustomed; but their efforts were vain--she was not long for earth. the widow had indignantly refused all offers of assistance from her cruel sister though she felt that, unless providence should interpose, her strength must soon fail under its additional exactions. a letter arrived from france; it was sealed with black. they opened it hastily and fearfully; and they had cause. madame de bourblanc was dead; she was suddenly cut off, to render an account before her creator. the shock was too great for poor amalie. day by day she languished, pining in heart for sunny france. three months after she had reached england, amalie died. her last words were, "my mother!" soon after, her old mother followed her. oh, that the purified spirits of them all may meet in heaven! jane is the sole survivor of this domestic tragedy. even she may have departed to the haven of eternal rest, for she left my mother shortly after we were settled in london. we have never seen her since. the game of chess.--a scene in the court of philip the second. the escurial. king philip the second was playing at chess in the palace of the escurial. ruy lopez, a priest of the ordinary rank, who was most expert at this game, was his majesty's antagonist. the player was allowed to kneel, by special privilege, while the nobles stood round as spectators. there was something in their attitudes betokening an engagement of mind too anxious to be called forth by the mere interest of the game. it was a splendid morning, and the air was redolent with perfume not less sweet than that exhaled by the orange-groves of granada. the violet-colored curtains of the magnificent saloon softened the powerful rays of the sun as they darted through the casements. the bright, cheerful light seemed at this moment but ill to accord with the mood of the king, whose gloomy brow seemed to grow darker and darker, like the tempest brooding on the lofty alpuxares. he frowned as he frequently glanced toward the entrance of the saloon. the nobles remained silent, exchanging looks of mutual intelligence. the assembly was any thing but a cheerful one, and it was easy to perceive that some grave affair occupied the thoughts of all present. none appeared to pay attention to the chess save ruy lopez, who, with his eyes fixed on the board, was deliberating between a checkmate and the deference due to his most catholic majesty philip the second, lord of the territories of spain and its dependencies. not a sound was heard but the slight noise made by the players as they moved their pieces, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man of rude and sinister aspect advanced toward the king, and in lowly reverence waited permission to address him. the appearance of this man was most forbidding; his entrance caused a general sensation. the nobles drew haughtily back, allowing their feelings of disgust for a moment to overpower their sense of etiquette. one would have supposed some fierce and loathsome beast had suddenly come among them; and certainly he was well calculated to excite such feelings. his figure was tall, bony, and of herculean dimensions, clad in a black leather doublet. his coarse features, unlighted by a ray of intelligence, betrayed tastes and passions of the most degraded character, while a large, deep scar, reaching from the eyebrow to the chin, till lost in a thick black beard, added to the natural ferocity of his countenance. philip turned to address him, but his faltering voice gave evidence of some unusual emotion. an electric shock passed through the whole assembly. the fact was, that this new arrival, who seemed the very personification of physical force, was fernando calavarex, executioner in spain. "is he dead?" demanded philip, at last, in an imperious tone, while a shudder ran through the assembly. "not yet, sire," replied fernando calavarex, as he bent before the monarch, who frowned angrily; "he claims his privilege as a grandee of spain, and i can not proceed to do my office upon a man in whose veins flows the hidalgo-blood without having further orders from your majesty." and he again bent his head. an answering murmur of approval broke from the assembled nobles, and the blood of castille boiled in their veins, and rushed to their brows. the excitement became general. the young alonzo d'ossuna gave open expression to the general feeling by putting on his hat. his bold example was followed by the majority; and now many a white plume waved, as if in token that their wearers claimed their every other privilege by using that which the grandees of spain have always had--of standing with covered heads before their sovereign. the king fiercely struck the table, overturning the pieces on the chess-board with the violence of the blow. "he has been condemned by our royal council, what more would the traitor have?" "sire," replied the executioner, "he demands to die by the ax, as becomes a noble, and not by the cord, and also to be allowed to spend the three last hours of his life with a priest." "ah! let it be so," replied philip, evidently relieved. "but is not our confessor already with him, according to our order?" "yes, sire," said fernando, "the holy man is with him; but the duke refuses to have st. diaz de silva. he will not receive absolution from any one under the rank of a bishop; such is the privilege of a noble condemned to death for high treason." "it is, indeed, our right," said the fiery d'ossuna, boldly, "and we demand from the king our cousin's privilege." this demand seemed to be the signal for a general movement. "our rights and the king's justice are inseparable," said, in his turn, don diego de tarrasez, count of valencia, an old man of gigantic height, encased in armor, bearing in his hand the _bâton_ of high constable of spain, and leaning on his toledo blade. "our rights and privileges?" cried the nobles. these words were repeated like an echo, till the king started from his throne of ebony, exclaiming, "by the bones of campeador, by the soul of st. jago, i have sworn neither to eat nor drink till the bloody head of that traitor don guzman has been brought to me; and as i have said, so shall it be! but don tarrasez has well said, 'the king's justice is the security for the rights of his subjects.' my lord constable, where is the nearest bishop to be found?" "sire, i have had more to do with the camp than with the church," bluntly replied the constable; "your majesty's almoner, don silva, who is present, can give you more information upon such points than i can." don silva y mendez answered in some trepidation, "sire, the bishop of segovia was attached to the royal household, but he died last week, and the nomination of his successor still lies on the council-table, and has yet to be submitted for the pope's veto. a meeting of all the princes of the church is to be held at valladolid--all the prelates have been summoned there; so that the bishop of madrid has already set out from this." at these words a smile played about the lips of d'ossuna. his joy was most natural, for not only was he of the blood of the guzmans, but the condemned noble had been his dearest friend. but the smile did not escape the notice of the king, and an expression of impatience and determination passed over his face. "nevertheless, we are king," said he, with a calmness which seemed assumed but to cover the storm beneath, "and we choose not that our royal person should be a butt for ridicule. this sceptre may seem light, gentlemen, but he who dares to mock it will be crushed by it as surely as though it were an iron block! but this matter is easily settled. our holy father the pope being in no slight degree indebted to us, we do not fear his disapproval of the step we are about to take; since the king of spain can create a prince, he may surely make a bishop. rise, then, don ruy lopez, bishop of segovia. rise, priest, i command it; take possession of your rank in the church!" the astonishment was general. don ruy lopez rose mechanically; he would have spoken, but his head reeled, his brain grew dizzy, and he paused. then, with a violent effort, he began, "may it please your majesty--" "silence, my lord bishop!" replied the king. "obey the command of your sovereign. the formalities of your installation may be deferred to a future occasion. meanwhile, our subjects will not fail to recognize our lawful authority in this matter. you, bishop of segovia, go with calavarez to the cell of the condemned man. absolve his sinful soul, and deliver his body to be dealt with by our trusty minister here, according to our pleasure. and, calavarez, see that you bring to us the head of this traitor to the saloon, where we shall await you--for don guzman, prince of calatrava, duke of medina sidonia, is a traitor, and shall this day die a traitor's death!" and turning to ruy lopez, "here is my signet-ring," said he, "as a token to the duke." "and now, my lords, have you any thing to say why the justice of your monarch should not have its course?" no one answered. ruy lopez followed the executioner, and the king resumed his seat, beckoning to one of his favorites to take his place at the chessboard. don ramirez, count of biscay, immediately came forward, and knelt on the velvet cushion before occupied by don lopez. "with the help of the chess, gentlemen, and your company," said the king, smiling, "i shall pass the time most pleasantly. let none of you leave till the return of calavarez; our good cheer would be diminished were we to lose one of you." with these ironical words, philip began to play with don ramirez, and the tired nobles remained grouped around the august personages as at the beginning of our recital. every thing was restored to its usual order and quiet, while calavarez conducted the impromptu bishop to the cell of the condemned nobleman. ruy lopez walked along without raising his eyes. he resembled far more a criminal dragging to execution than a newly-made bishop. was it a dream? but no--the dark, scowling calavarez that preceded him was indeed a stern reality, and reminded him at once of his new dignity and of the fearful condition attached to it. and as the vaulted passage echoed to their steps, he devoutly prayed the ground might open, and swallow him up alive, rather than that he should take any part in the impending fate of don guzman. what was it bound him thus closely to don guzman? was it that they had been old and intimate friends? was it that in the veins of both flowed noble blood? no; it was simply that both were the best chessplayers in spain. fervent and sincere was his prayer; but it was not granted. the prison. the prince of calatrava was pacing his narrow cell with a step whose inequality betokened intense agitation. the whole furniture consisted of a massive table and two heavy wooden stools. the floor was covered with coarse, thick matting, which suffered not the sound of their footfalls to break the gloomy silence. in the embrasure of the one narrow and grated window was fixed a rudely-carved crucifix. with the exception of this emblem of mercy and self-sacrifice, the walls were bare, and as the damp chill of the cell struck to the heart of ruy lopez, he felt that it was indeed the ante-chamber of death. the duke turned as they entered, and courteously saluted the new dignitary of the church. glances of intelligence passed between them, and conveyed to each feelings, the audible expression of which the presence of calavarez forbade. the duke understood how painful to ruy lopez was the office which the executioner on the instant announced that he had come to perform; and ruy lopez felt as fully convinced of the innocence of don guzman as was the duke himself, notwithstanding the apparently strong proofs of his guilt. one of these proofs was nothing less than a letter in his own handwriting, addressed to the court of france, entering into full detail of a plot to assassinate king philip. in the proud consciousness of innocence, don guzman had refused to offer any defense, and as no attempt was made to disprove the accusation, his silence was construed into an admission of guilt, and he was condemned to die the death of a traitor. in the same calm silence don guzman heard the sentence; the color faded not from his cheek, his eye quailed not, and with as firm a step as he entered that judgment-hall, he quitted it for the cell of the condemned. and if now his brow was contracted--his step unequal; if now his breath came short and thick--it was because the thought of his betrothed, the fair, the gentle donna estella, lay heavy at his heart. he pictured her, ignorant of his situation, waiting for him in her father's stately halls on the banks of the guadalquiver--and awaiting him in vain. what marvel that love should make him weak whom death could not appall! calavarez, imagining that he had been hitherto unheeded, again repeated the monarch's commands, and announced that don ruy lopez now held such rank in the church as qualified him to render the last offices to a grandee of spain. the young nobleman on the instant bent his knee to the new bishop, and craved his blessing. then, turning to calavarez, he haughtily pointed to the door. "we need not your presence, sir; begone. in three hours i shall be ready." and how were these three hours passed? first came short shrift--soon made. with a natural levity of character, which even this solemn hour could not subdue, don guzman turned from the grave exhortations of his confessor, as he dwelt upon the last great change. "change, indeed!" cried the duke; "how different were the circumstances in which we last met. do you not remember you were playing your famous game with paoli boz, the sicilian, in the presence of philip and the whole court, and it was on my arm that the king leaned? change, indeed! well has cervantes said, 'life is a game of chess.' i have forgotten the precise words, but the passage runs to this effect--that upon the earth, as upon the chess-board, men are playing different parts, as ordered by fate, fortune, and birth. and when death's checkmate comes, the game is finished, and the human pieces lie in the grave huddled together, like the chessmen in the box." "i remember these words of don quixotte," said ruy lopez, "and i also remember sancho's reply--that though the comparison was a good one, it was not altogether so new, but that he had heard it before. but these are not subjects for such an hour as this; may the lord forgive this unseemly levity!" the duke went on, without heeding don lopez, "i, too, have had my triumphs in chess; and even from you, holy father, have i sometimes wrested a trophy. you used to be proud of me as your pupil." "it is quite true," answered the bishop; "your play is masterly; and i have often gloried in having been your first instructor." "a bright idea has struck me," suddenly exclaimed don guzman; "let us have one last game of chess!" "the thought is too profane," said the startled ruy lopez. "if you refuse me this last request, i will summon the executioner on the instant; for how, think you, can i endure the two hours of suspense that have yet to be undergone? to meet death is easy--to await it is intolerable! are you as changed as my fortunes? care you neither for me nor for chess?" the bishop again objected, but it was now faintly and hesitatingly. to say the truth, the ruling passion, thus proved to be indeed strong in death, was nearly as powerful in his own mind. "you consent, i see," said the young nobleman; "but what shall we do for chessmen?" "i always carry my arms about me," said ruy lopez, now completely won over. then, drawing two stools to the table, he produced a miniature set of chessmen and a small board. "our lady pardon me," he said, as he proceeded to arrange the pieces; "but i own to you that sometimes a difficult move comes between me and my breviary." it was a curious picture to see the priest and the condemned man seated at a game, so strange in their position! the light rested on the pale and noble countenance of don guzman, and fell slantingly through the gothic window on the benevolent face of ruy lopez, from which he had often to brush away the tear of irrepressible emotion. what wonder, then, that he played with a distraction which was not usual, and with little of his wonted skill and power. don guzman, on the contrary, as if stimulated by the excitement he was laboring under, played with extraordinary address. he seemed wholly engrossed by the game, and as much abstracted from all surrounding and impending circumstances, as if the executioner had already done his work; and the victory would soon have been decided in his favor, had not the old passion suddenly revived in ruy lopez, on seeing the near prospect of defeat, and roused him into putting forth all his wonted skill, and he was soon as fully absorbed in the game as his friend. and the chessboard was now to both the universe. happy illusion, could it but last! and now the minutes become quarters, the quarters half-hours, and the fatal moment arrives. a distant sound is heard--it becomes louder and louder--a step approaches--it draws nearer and nearer. the door grates on its hinges, and the executioner, with all his grim paraphernalia, enters to arouse them to the stern and terrible reality. the assistants of calavarez, armed with swords and bearing torches, advanced, carrying a block covered with black cloth, the use of which was evident enough from the ax which lay upon it. they placed their torches in their sockets, and strewed sawdust upon the ground. all this took but a few seconds, and they stood awaiting their victim. on the appearance of calavarez, ruy lopez started from his seat, but the duke moved not; he remained with his eyes fixed on the chessboard, paying no attention either to the men or their fatal preparations. it was his turn to move. calavarez, seeing the duke thus fixed and motionless, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and uttered one word--only one--but in that word was the destruction of a young life, with all its memories and all its earthly hopes. that word was "come!" the prisoner started, as though he had trod upon a serpent; then, recovering himself, said imperiously, "i must finish my game." "impossible," replied calavarez. "possible, or not possible, i must see my game out. i have all but checkmated him. unhand me! come on, ruy lopez." "impossible," repeated the executioner. "are the three hours then out?" "to the very second. the king must be obeyed." the attendants, who had stood leaning on their swords, now advanced. the duke was seated with his back to the wall, just under the narrow window. the table was between him and calavarez. he rose, and exclaimed in an imperious tone, "i will have this game, and then my head is yours. until i have finished it i will not stir. i must have half an hour, and wait you must." "duke," replied calavarez, "i have great respect for you, and would willingly give you all accommodation; but this is out of my power. the delay would be as much as my life is worth." don guzman started up. then, drawing off his rings, and detaching his diamond clasps, threw them to the executioner, saying carelessly, "to our game, ruy lopez." the jewels rolled along the floor, but none stooped to pick them up. the executioners gazed upon each other in astonishment. "my orders are precise," cried calavarez, determinedly. "your pardon, noble duke, if we employ force; but i have no choice; the commands of the king and the laws of spain must be obeyed. rise, then, and do not waste your last moments in a useless struggle. speak to the duke, my lord bishop! exhort him to submit to his fate." the answer of ruy lopez was prompt and decisive; for, seizing the ax that was lying on the block, and whirling it over his head, he exclaimed, "stand back! for, by heaven, the duke shall finish this game!" at this unexpected demonstration of the bishop, calavarez started back, and almost fell over his assistants, who, brandishing their swords, were about to rush upon the prisoner, when ruy lopez, who appeared suddenly metamorphosed into a hercules, threw down his heavy oaken stool upon the floor, exclaiming-- "the first of you that passes this boundary fixed by the church is a dead man. courage! noble duke. to work again. there are but three of these miscreants. your lordship's last wish shall be accomplished, were my life to be the forfeit. and you, wretches--woe to him who dares to lay his hand upon a bishop of his church! accursed be he forever--cut off from the flock of the faithful in this world, to be a howling demon in the other! down with your swords, and respect the anointed of the lord!" ruy lopez continued, in a jargon of spanish and latin, to fulminate anathemas, maledictions, and threats of excommunication, which, at that time, had such influence upon the mass of the people. the effect of this interposition was immediate; for the assistants stood motionless, and calavarez began to think that to kill a bishop without a special order from the king might expose him to great peril in this world, to say nothing of the next. "i will go to his majesty," said he. "go to the devil!" replied the bishop, still standing on the defensive. the executioner did not know what to do. did he go to announce this news to philip, who was expecting the head of the traitor, he only exposed himself to the consequences of his fury. the odds were not enough in his favor to make him certain of the result of an attempt at force, for the strength of ruy lopez was by no means to be despised--and as to the duke, desperation would only add to his well-known prowess. he ended by adopting what appeared to him the wisest decision: he would wait. "will you pledge your word to close the game in half an hour?" he demanded. "i pledge you my honor," replied the duke. "agreed, then," said the executioner. "play away." the truce thus concluded, the players resumed their places and their game. calavarez, who was also a chess-player, became, in spite of himself, interested in the moves, and the attendants, keeping their eyes upon the duke, seemed to say--"you and the game must end together!" don guzman gave one glance around him, and then coolly said-- "never before have i played in such noble company--but at least i shall not be without witnesses that once in my life i have beaten don lopez." and he turned to his game with a smile, but it was a smile of bitter sadness, as though he despised the triumph he had gained. as to the bishop, he kept firm grasp of the handle of the ax, muttering, "if i were sure that the duke and i could get out of this den of tigers, i would not be long breaking the heads of all three." a discovery. if the three hours had passed but slowly in the prisoner's cell, their flight had not been more rapid at the court of king philip. the monarch had continued to play with his favorite, don ramirez de biscay; and the nobles, obliged by the rules of etiquette to remain standing, and unable to leave under any pretext, appeared sinking under a fatigue, rendered still greater by the weight of their armor. don tarrasez, with half-closed eyes, stood motionless, resembling one of those statues cased in iron, ornamenting gothic halls. the young d'ossuna, almost worn out with weariness and sorrow, was leaning against a marble pillar. and king philip, pacing up and down with hasty steps, paused occasionally to listen for some distant noise. at one time he stopped to examine the hour-glass, at another, with that mingling of superstitious feeling apparently as inconsistent with some points of his character as it was with that of louis the eleventh, he knelt before an image of the virgin, placed on a pedestal of porphyry brought from the ruins of the alhambra--and implored her to pardon him for the bloody deed that was now accomplishing. all was as silent as in the palace of azrael, the angel of death; for no one, however high or exalted his rank, dared to speak without the permission of his sovereign. no sooner had the last grain of sand announced that the fatal hour had arrived, than the king joyfully exclaimed-- "the traitor's hour has come!" a low murmur ran through the assembly. "the time has expired," replied philip; "and with it, count de biscay, your enemy is no more. he has fallen like the leaves of the olive-tree before the blast." "my enemy, sire?" exclaimed don ramirez, affecting surprise. "yes, count," replied philip. "why repeat our words? were you not the rival of don guzman in the affection of donna estella--and can rivals be friends? in truth, though we have not spoken of that at our council, our royal word is pledged; donna estella shall be yours! yours are her beauty and her vast domains. thus, count, when you hear tell of the ingratitude of sovereigns, you can say, we at least have not forgotten the true friend of the king and of spain, who discovered the conspiracy and correspondence of don guzman with france." there was more of uneasiness in the countenance and manner of don ramirez than such gracious words from the lips of royalty seemed calculated to excite, and it was with downcast eyes, as if shrinking from such public approval, he answered-- "sire, it was with much repugnance i fulfilled a painful duty--" he could not say more: his embarrassment seemed to increase. tarrasez coughed, and as d'ossuna's gauntleted hand sought the hilt of his sword, he mentally ejaculated--"before this man calls donna estella his, i will follow my noble cousin to the grave. let me but see to-morrow's dawn, and i will avenge him." the king continued: "your zeal and devotedness, don ramirez, shall be rewarded. the saviour of our throne, and, perhaps, of our dynasty, merits no insignificant reward. this morning we commanded you to prepare with our high chancellor the letters patent which will give you the rank of duke and governor of valencia. are these papers ready to be signed?" was it remorse that made don ramirez tremble for the moment, and draw back involuntarily? the king made a movement of impatience, and the count drew with some precipitation a roll of parchment from his bosom, and kneeling, presented it to the king, who received it, saying: "to sign these letters patent shall be our first public act to-day. treason has been already punished by the executioner--it is time for the monarch to reward his faithful servant." as the king unrolled the parchment, a scroll fell from it on the ground. with an involuntary cry, don ramirez sprang forward to seize it, but at a sign from the king, a page picked it up, and it was already in the hands of the king. another moment, and the monarch's face gloomed wrathfully, his eye flashed fire, and he furiously exclaimed: "holy virgin, what is this!" more than one checkmated. the game of chess was now over. don guzman had beaten ruy lopez--his triumph was complete, and he rose, saying to calavarez-- "i am ready to meet the wishes of my king, as becomes one who has never swerved from his allegiance to him. my god, may this deed of foul injustice fall only upon him who has been the instigator of it, but may my blood never call down vengeance upon my king. i blame him not for my untimely fate." the executioner was now preparing the block, while ruy lopez, kneeling in a corner, and hiding his face in his mantle, recited the office for the dying. calavarez laid his hand on the duke's shoulder to remove his ruff. don guzman drew back. "touch not a guzman with aught belonging to thee, save this ax!" said he, and tearing off the collar, he placed his head upon the block. "now strike," added he; "i am ready!" the executioner raised the ax, and all would have been over, when shouts, and the noise of hasty steps, and a confused murmur of voices, arrested the arm of calavarez. the door was flung open, and d'ossuna threw himself between the victim and the executioner. "we are in time!" "is he alive?" exclaimed tarrasez. "he is safe!" cried d'ossuna. "my dearest friend and cousin, i had not hoped ever to see you again. god would not suffer the innocent to perish for the guilty. his holy name be praised!" "god be praised!" exclaimed all present, and among them all, and above them all, was heard don ruy lopez. "you have indeed arrived in time--dear friend," said don guzman to his cousin, "for now, i have not strength left to die." he fainted on the block--the revulsion was too mighty. ruy lopez sprang to his side, and raising him in his arms, bore him to the royal saloon. the nobles followed, and when don guzman was restored to consciousness, he beheld all his friends thronging around him, with congratulations, which the presence of the monarch scarcely restrained. to don guzman, it all seemed a dream. one moment with his head on the block, and the next in the royal saloon. he had yet to learn, that don ramirez, agitated by secret remorse, and flurried by the impatience of the monarch, had, with the letters patent, the royal signature to which was to crown all his ambitious hopes, drawn from his bosom a document, fatal alike to those hopes and to himself. that paper contained indications not only of a plot to ruin don guzman, but of treasonable designs against the sovereign, sufficient to arouse the king's suspicions, and further inquiry soon extorted confession from the lips of the traitor himself. he was instantly committed to the tender mercies of calavarez, who, this time, was given to understand, that his own head must answer for any delay in executing the royal mandate. need we say that don guzman's deliverance was hailed with joy by the whole court, and even the stern monarch himself condescended to express his satisfaction that his favorite had escaped. "it is our royal desire," he said, "that henceforth, to perpetuate the remembrance of your almost miraculous escape, that you bear in your escutcheon a silver ax on an azure chessboard. it is also our royal will and pleasure that donna estella shall be your bride, and that your nuptials be solemnized in this our palace of the escurial." then, turning to ruy lopez, he added, "i am sure the church has found a good servant in her new bishop. as a mark of our royal favor, we bestow upon you a scarlet robe enriched with diamonds, to wear on the day of your consecration. you well deserve this at my hands, for your game of chess with don guzman." "sire," replied ruy lopez, "for the first time in my life, i need no consolation for being checkmated." the king smiled--so did the court. "now, my lords," added philip, "we invite you to our royal banquet. let covers for don guzman and for the bishop of segovia be placed at the table with ourself. your arm, don guzman." how men rise in the world. few things that happen in the world are the result of accident. law governs all; there is even a law of chances and probabilities, which has been elaborated by laplace, quetelet, and others, and applied by practical men to such purposes as life insurance, insurances against fire, shipwreck, and so on. many things which happen daily, and which are usually attributed to chance, occur with such regularity that, where the field of observation is large, they can almost be calculated upon as certainties. but we do not propose now to follow out this idea, interesting though it would be; we would deal with the matter of "accident" in another light--that of self-culture. when a man has risen from a humble to a lofty position in life, carved his name deep into the core of the world, or fallen upon some sudden discovery with which his name is identified in all time coming, his rise, his work, his discovery is very often attributed to "accident." the fall of the apple is often quoted as the accident by which newton discovered the law of gravitation; and the convulsed frog's legs, first observed by galvani, are in like manner quoted as an instance of accidental discovery. but nothing can be more unfounded; newton had been studying in retirement the laws of matter and motion, and his head was full, and his brain beating with the toil of thinking on the subject, when the apple fell. the train was already laid long before, and the significance of the apple's fall was suddenly apprehended as only genius could apprehend it; and the discovery, which had long before been elaborating, suddenly burst on the philosopher's sight. so with galvani, jenner, franklin, watt, davy, and all other philosophers; their discoveries were invariably the result of patient labor, of long study, and of earnest investigation. they worked their way by steps, feeling for the right road like the blind man, and always trying carefully the firmness of the new ground before venturing upon it. genius of the very highest kind never trusts to accident, but is indefatigable in labor. buffon has said of genius, "it is patience." some one else has called it "intense purpose;" and another, "hard work." newton himself used to declare, that whatever service he had done to the public was not owing to extraordinary sagacity, but solely to industry and patient thought. genius, however, turns to account all accidents--call them rather by their right name, opportunities. the history of successful men proves that it was the habit of cultivating opportunities--of taking advantage of opportunities--which helped them to success--which, indeed, secured success. take the crystal palace as an instance; was it a sudden idea--an inspiration of genius--flashing upon one who, though no architect, must at least have been something of a poet? not at all; its contriver was simply a man who cultivates opportunities--a laborious, pains-taking man, whose life has been a career of labor, of diligent self-improvement, of assiduous cultivation of knowledge. the idea of the crystal palace, as mr. paxton himself has shown, in a lecture before the society of arts, was slowly and patiently elaborated by experiments extending over many years; and the exhibition of merely afforded him the opportunity of putting forward his idea--the right thing at the right time--and the result is what we have seen. if opportunities do not fortuitously occur, then the man of earnest purpose proceeds to make them for himself. he looks for helps every where; there are many roads into nature; and if determined to find a path, a man need not have to wait long. he turns all accidents to account, and makes them promote his purpose. dr. lee, professor of hebrew at cambridge, pursued his trade of a bricklayer up to twenty-eight years of age, and was first led to study hebrew by becoming interested in a hebrew bible, which fell in his way when engaged in the repairs of a synagogue; but before this time he had been engaged in the culture of his intellect, devoting all his spare hours and much of his nights to the study of latin and greek. ferguson, the astronomer, cultivated the opportunity afforded him by the nights occupied by him in watching the flocks on the highland hills, of studying astronomy in the heavens; and the sheep-skin in which he wrapped himself, became him as well as the gown of the oxford professor. osgood, the american painter, when a boy, was deprived by an austere relative, of the use of pencils and paper; but he set to work and practiced drawing on the sand of the river side. gifford, late editor of the _quarterly review_, worked his first problems in mathematics, when a cobbler's apprentice, upon small scraps of leather, which he beat smooth for the purpose. bloomfield, the author of the "farmer's boy," wrote his first poems on the same material with an awl. bewick first practiced his genius on the cottage-walls of his native village, which he covered with his sketches in chalk. rittenhouse, the astronomer, calculated eclipses on the plow-handle. benjamin west, the painter, made his first brushes out of the cat's tail. it is not accident, then, that helps a man on in the world, but purpose and persistent industry. these make a man sharp to discern opportunities, and to use them. to the sluggish and the purposeless, the happiest opportunities avail nothing--they pass them by with indifference, seeing no meaning in them. successful men achieve and perform, because they have the purpose to do so. they "scorn delights, and live laborious days." they labor with hand and head. difficulties serve only to draw forth the energies of their character, and often their highest pleasure is in grappling with and overcoming them. difficulties are the tutors and monitors of men, placed in their path for their best discipline and development. push through, then strength will grow with repeated effort. doubtless professor faraday had difficulties to encounter, in working his way up from the carpenter's bench to the highest rank as a scientific chemist and philosopher. and dr. kitto had his difficulties to overcome, in reaching his present lofty position as one of the best of our biblical critics; deaf from a very early age, he was for some time indebted to the poor-rates for his subsistence, having composed his first essays "in a workhouse." and hugh miller, the author of "the old red sandstone," had difficulties to grapple with, in the stone-quarry in cromarty, out of which he raised himself to a position of eminent honor and usefulness. and george stephenson too, who was a trapper-boy in a coal-pit, had difficulties to encounter, perhaps greater than them all; but, like a true and strong man, bravely surmounted and triumphed over them. "what!" said john hunter, the first of english surgeons, originally a carpenter, "is there a man whom difficulties dishearten, who bends to the storm? he will do little. is there one who _will_ conquer? that kind of man _never_ fails." man must be his own helper. he must cultivate his own nature. no man can do this for him. no institution can do it. possibly a man may get another to do his _work_ for him, but not to do his _thinking_ for him. a man's best help is in himself--in his own heart, his own soul, his own resolute purpose. the battle can not be fought by proxy. a man's mind may be roused by another, and his desire to improve and advance himself excited by another; but he must mould his own stuff, quarry his own nature, make his own character. what if a man fails in one effort? let him try again! let him try hard, try often, and he can not fail ultimately to succeed. no man can tell what he can do until he tries, and tries with resolution. difficulties often fall away of themselves, before a determination to overcome them. "there is something in resolution," says walker, in the _original_, "which has an influence beyond itself, and it marches on like a mighty lord among its slaves. all is prostration where it appears. when bent on good, it is almost the noblest attribute of man; when on evil, the most dangerous. it is only by _habitual_ resolution, that men succeed to any great extent--mere impulses are not sufficient." some are scared from the diligent practice of self-culture and self-help, because they find their progress to be slow. they are in despair, because, having planted their acorn, they do not see it grow up into an oak at once. these must cultivate the virtue of patience--one of the quietest but most valuable of human virtues. they must be satisfied to do their true work, and wait the issues thereof. "how much," says carlyle, "grows every where, if we do but wait! through the swamps one will shape causeways, force purifying drains; we will learn to thread the rocky inaccessibilities, and beaten tracks, worn smooth by mere traveling human feet, will form themselves. not a difficulty but can transfigure itself into a triumph; not even a deformity, but if our own soul have imprinted worth on it, will grow dear to us." let us have the honesty and the wisdom to do the duty that lies nearest us; and assuredly the first is the culture of ourselves. if we can not accomplish much, we can at least do our best. we can cultivate such powers as have been given to us. we may not have the ten talents, but if we have only the one, let us bring it out and use it, not go bury it in the earth like the unworthy man in the parable. "if there be one thing on earth," said dr. arnold, "which is truly admirable, it is to see god's wisdom blessing an inferiority of natural powers, when they have been honestly, truly, and zealously cultivated." let us strike into the true path, and keep there, working on hopefully, patiently, and resolutely--not turned aside by temptation, nor putting off the work from day to day by vain resolutions to do things that are never done; but do, with all our might, what the hand findeth to do; and we may safely leave the issues in the hands of supreme beneficence; for doubtless the rewards of well-doing will come in their due season. the brothers. one fine spring day in , i was walking, accompanied by a physician, in the gardens belonging to the celebrated lunatic asylum near paris, conducted by dr. b----. at the turn of an alley i suddenly found myself close to an old man, on whose arm leaned a youth, apparently about twenty years of age. the countenance of the first wore an expression of profound sadness, while the young man's eye gleamed with the wild strange fire of madness. the aged man saluted me with silent courtesy, but the younger ran to me, seized my hand, and exclaimed, "a glorious day, monsieur; the scaffold is ready on the plaza bemposta! do you see the crowds assembled? and look! chained on yonder cart, that woman with the pale and savage face; that is queen carlotta, the wife of juan vi., the mother of don miguel. 'tis now thy turn to die, tigress! thy turn to bow beneath the ax, and redden the scaffold with thy blood! but adieu," he added, addressing me, "they are waiting for me--they call me! i am the queen's executioner!" i turned toward the old man, but he only shook his head and sighed; then i questioned the physician who accompanied me. "that young man," he said, "is one of the most interesting cases we have; his history is a strange one." my curiosity was now excited, and i begged of my companion to satisfy it. "may i, without indiscretion, listen also?" asked a tall man, with a sad and gloomy countenance, who now approached us, and who, as i learned afterward, was under dr. b----'s care for a serious affection of the heart. "you may, certainly," replied my friend, bowing, and then began: "in the year , one of the first families in portugal inhabited an old castle not far from coimbra. the marquis de san payo, the head of this house had played an important part in the revolution which, for a short time, removed from the throne juan vi. and his imperious queen, carlotta. the attempt, however, having been finally frustrated, the men who had made it fell victims to their temerity, and the marquis, disgraced and distrusted by the reigning powers, was forced to live in his castle, as it were in exile. his wife and his two sons accompanied him thither; the eldest of these, named manoel, was fifteen years of age, and of an ardent, excitable temperament; his brother, jacinto, two years younger, was of a tender, melancholy, dreamy disposition. the minds of both were fully nurtured in the political views which had ruined their father's fortunes, both by his conversation and the instructions imparted to them at the college of coimbra. that city had become the centre of the cortes' revolutionary operations, and the university had not escaped the contagious excitement of the times. the students organized the plan of a new insurrection, and at their head was manoel; the contest, however, proved an unequal one--a charge of cavalry, a few volleys of shot and shell, two hundred corpses on the field, and all was over. manoel was taken, and thrown into the prison of oporto. the rebels were divided into three classes; the first, and least guilty, were condemned to perpetual confinement, the second to transportation, and the third to death; among the latter was manoel. no allowance was made for his youth and inexperience, for among his judges was the duca d'arenas, a former rival of the marquis, first in love and then in ambition, whose cowardly malicious spirit sought to strike the father through the son." here the stranger, who was listening attentively, gave a visible start. "imagine," resumed the doctor, "what must have been the anguish of the poor parents, and of jacinto. the boy's energies were roused by his mighty grief; he hastened to the palace of bemposta, and went straight to the hall, where the queen was giving audience to her favorite d'arenas. when jacinto crossed the threshold, he paused; a woman was before him--a cold and haughty woman. no trace of pity or of softness lingered on her features, or beamed in her piercing eyes; no, her heart was ice, her face iron. "'pardon, madam!' cried the boy, falling on his knees. "'child, we know of naught but justice; who art thou--what dost thou want?' "'i am the son of the marquis de san payo, and i come to ask pardon for my brother.' "the duke d'arenas looked up, and exchanged glances with the queen. 'madam,' said he, 'the best clemency in political affairs is shown by the sword of the executioner!' "'manoel is but sixteen years old!' cried jacinto, in a voice of agony. "'so much the better,' replied carlotta; '_he will go the more surely and speedily to heaven_!'[ ] [ ] these words are matter of history. "next morning the condemned cart left the prison of oporto; it contained the two brothers, for donna carlotta, with an incredible refinement of cruelty, had ordered that jacinto should be present at the execution. i shall not try to describe the last scene of this fearful drama; when manoel bowed his head, jacinto started upright; and when the fatal blow had fallen, he crouched down on the scaffold; a smile parted his lips--he was struck with madness! concealed among the crowd, the marquis had witnessed all, but no external emotion betrayed his inward agony; his tearless eyes were fixed on the ax which had hewn down the noblest branch of his house. as to the marchioness, her woe was also silent: eight days afterward, she was found dead, with her eyes fixed on manoel's portrait. the marquis, after a time, went to england with jacinto, where he was during a year and a half under medical treatment, but without benefit. afterward, they went to germany, and there, finding science equally powerless, the marquis at length resolved to place his son under the care of dr. b----; he is now in a fair way to recover." "are you sure of that!" asked the stranger eagerly. "i have every reason to believe it." we walked toward the house, and again saw jacinto; he was seated on a grass-plat, leaning forward, with his face buried in his hands. his father was near him, grave, silent, and anxious-looking as before. the stranger followed us, and, as he came near, the eyes of jacinto were raised, and fixed on him with a wild bright look. suddenly the youth started up, and shrieked, "the duke d'arenas!" then he fell senseless on the ground. at the unwonted sound the old man thought that intellect and memory had returned to his child, and, forgetting that his enemy, the murderer of his eldest son, stood before him, he exclaimed, "oh! thank god he is saved!" "he is _lost_," said the doctor, sadly. a few moments of awful silence followed; all eyes were fixed on jacinto, whose mouth was open, and whose eyes were fixed on vacancy. the sudden shock had rendered him a hopeless idiot. the duke d'arenas looked at the marquis with an earnest supplicating expression; and then, falling on his knees before him, exclaimed, "pardon me, i have suffered!" "i curse thee! duke d'arenas." "behold me at thy feet, marquis de san payo!" "begone!" cried the old man, sternly; "there are between us the corpses of my wife and of my eldest son, besides this other ruin, whose destruction you have just achieved; i am now childless!" the duke d'arenas fixed on the marquis a look so filled with sorrow and despair, that it might have sufficed to satisfy his vengeance. "and i," he said, bending his head, "can never again know repose, except in the grave!" sketch of the life of m. thiers. m. thiers is one of the notable celebrities of our day. though a frenchman, his name is well known in england as the author of the famous history of the french revolution. but in his own country, he is also known as a distinguished orator and statesman; indeed it is not too much to say, that thiers is the _cleverest_ man in france. you enter the chamber of deputies on some day of grand debate. a speaker has possession of the ear of the house. you see little more than his head above the marble of the tribune, but the head is a good one--large, well-formed, and intelligent. his eyes, the twinkle of which you can discern behind those huge spectacles he wears, are keen and piercing. his face is short, and rather disfigured by a grin, but when he speaks, it is lively, volatile, and expressive in a remarkable degree. his thin nervous lips, curled like voltaire's, are characterized by a smile, by turns the most winning, sarcastic, and subtle, that can possibly be imagined. listen to him. he speaks with a nasal twang and a provincial accent. he has no melody in his voice. it is loud and ear-piercing--that of a vixen. sometimes it rises to a screech, as that of sheil's did. and yet all ears hang listening to that voice, which pours forth a succession of words embodying ideas as clear as crystal, copious almost to excess, but never tiresome. his exuberant thoughts flow from him without effort; he is perfectly easy, frank, familiar, and colloquial, in his style; his illustrations are most happy, often exceedingly brilliant. be his theme ever so unpopular, he is invariably listened to with interest. his diminutive figure, his grim face, his screeching voice, are all forgotten in the brilliancy of his eloquence, and in the felicitous dexterity of his argument. that speaker is m. thiers. such as his position is, he has made it himself. he has worked his way upward from obscure poverty. he owes nothing to birth, but every thing to labor. his father was a poor locksmith of marseilles, where adolphe was born in the year . through the interest of some of his mother's relations, the boy obtained admission to the free school of marseilles, where he distinguished himself by his industry, and achieved considerable success. from thence, at eighteen, he went to study law at the town of aix. here it was that he formed his friendship with mignet, afterward the distinguished historian. these two young men, in the intervals of their dry labors in the study of law, directed their attention to literary, historical, and political subjects. thiers even led a political party of the students of aix, and harangued them against the government of the restoration. he was practicing his eloquence for the tribune, though he then knew it not. he thus got into disgrace with the professors and the police, but the students were ardently devoted to him. he competed for a prize essay, and though his paper was the best, the professors refused to adjudge the prize to "the little jacobin." the competition was adjourned till next year. thiers sent in his paper again "next year," but meanwhile, a production arrived from paris, which eclipsed all the others. to this the prize was speedily adjudged by the professors. but great was their dismay, when, on opening the sealed letter containing the name of the competitor, it was found to be no other than that of m. thiers himself! the young lawyer commenced practice in the town of aix, but finding it up-hill work, and not at all productive, he determined to remove, in company with his friend mignet, to seek his fortune in paris. full of talents, but light in pocket, the two friends entered the capital, and took lodgings in one of its obscurest and dirtiest quarters--a room on the fourth floor of a house in the dark passage montesquieu, of which a deal chest of drawers, a walnut-wood bedstead, two chairs, and a small black table somewhat rickety, constituted the furniture. there the two students lodged, working for the future. they did not wait with their hands folded. thiers was only twenty-four, but he could already write with brilliancy and power, as his prize essay had proved. he obtained an introduction to manuel, then a man of great influence in paris, who introduced thiers to lafitte, the banker, and lafitte got him admitted among the editors of the _constitutionelle_, then the leading journal. it was the organ of _les epiciers_, or "grocers," in other words, of the rising middle classes of france. at the same time, mignet obtained a similar engagement on the _courrier_. the position of thiers was a good one to start from, and he did not fail to take advantage of it. he possessed a lively and brilliant style, admirably suited for polemical controversy; and he soon attracted notice by the boldness of his articles. he ventured to write on all subjects, and in course of time he learned something of them. art, politics, literature, philosophy, religion, history, all came alike ready to his hand. in france, the literary man is a much greater person than he is in england. he is a veritable member of the fourth estate, which in france overshadows all others. thiers became known, invited, courted, and was a frequenter of the most brilliant _salons_ of the opposition. but newspaper writing was not enough to satisfy the indefatigable industry of the man. he must write history too, and his theme was neither more nor less than the great french revolution. our readers must know the book well enough. it is remarkably rapid, brilliant, stylish--full of interest in its narrative, though not very scrupulous in its morality--decidedly fatalistic, recognizing heroism only in the conqueror, and unworthiness only in the vanquished--in short, the history of m. thiers is a deification of _success_. but ordinary readers did not look much below the surface; the brilliant narrative, which ministered abundantly to the national appetite for "glory," fascinated all readers; and m. thiers at once took his place among the most distinguished literary and political leaders of france. he became a partner in the _constitutionelle_; descended from his garret, turned dandy, and frequented tortoni's. nothing less than a handsome hotel could now contain him. thiers has grown a successful man, and to such nothing is denied. liberalism had thriven so well with him, that he must go a little further, he must be democratic; the drift of opinion was then in that direction, so he set on foot the _national_, the organ of the revolutionary party. the war which this paper waged against the government of charles x. and the polignac ministry, was of the most relentless kind. the _national_ it was, that stung the government into the famous _ordonnances_, which issued in the "three days'" revolution of . thiers was, throughout, the soul of this ardent, obstinate, brilliant struggle against the old bourbon government. the _national_ had only been seven months in existence, when the event referred to occurred. the _ordonnances_ against the press appeared on the morning of the th of july. in the course of the day, the leaders of the opposition press, and several members of the chamber of deputies, met at the office of the _national_. m. thiers at once propounded the course that was to be adopted at this juncture. "well," said he, "what's to be done now, as to opposition in the journals--in our articles? come! we must perform an act." "and what mean you by an act?" "a signal of disobedience to a law which is no law! a protest!" "well--do it then!" was the reply. a committee was named, on the spur of the moment, composed of thiers, chatelain, and cauchois-lemaire. thiers drew up the protest: he inserted the leading idea--"the writers of journals, called upon the first to obey, ought to give the first example of resistance." this was the signal of revolution! some said, "good! we shall insert the protest as a leading article in our journals." "not only that," said thiers, "we must put our names under it, and our heads under it." the protest was agreed to, after considerable discussion; it was published; and the people of paris indorsed the protest in the streets of paris the very next day. thus thiers performed the initial act, which led to the expulsion from france of the elder branch of the bourbon family. but it ought to be added that, after having signed the protest, which was published next morning, thiers returned to muse in the shades of montmorency, and did not return to paris until the th, after the decisive battle of the barricades had been fought. of course, thiers was now a man of greater mark than ever. the new government of the citizen king at once secured him; and the son of the marseilles locksmith, the poor law student of aix, the newspaper writer of the garret, was now appointed counselor of state and secretary-general of finance. it is said that the citizen king even offered him the portfolio of finance, which he declined on the ground of inexperience; but he afterward accepted the office of under-secretary of state, and mainly directed that important part of the administration through a crisis of great financial difficulty. he was sent into the chamber of deputies as member for aix, at whose college he had studied. thiers was no favorite when he entered the chamber; he was very generally disliked, and he did much to alarm the timid by his style of dressing à-la-danton, as well as by his high-flown phrases in favor of democratizing europe, saving poland, delivering belgium, and passing the rhine. his eloquence was then bluster, but as he grew older, he became more polished, more cautious, and more politic. when the lafitte ministry fell, of which he had been a member, thiers at once deserted that party, and attached himself to the casimir-perier administration. he fell foul of his old comrades, who proclaimed him a renegade. never mind! thiers was a clever fellow, who knew what cards he was playing. he who was for passing the rhine, was now all for repose and peace; he would have no more innovations, nor propagandism; before, the advocate of equality and democracy, he now became the defender of conservatism, the peerage, and the old institutions of france. he stood almost alone in defending the peerage, but it fell nevertheless, and the revolution went on. on marshal soult assuming the direction of affairs in , thiers was appointed minister of the interior. la vendée was in flames at the time, belgium was menaced, and excitement generally prevailed. thiers acted with great energy under the circumstances; by means of gold, a traitor was found who secured the arrest of the duchess de berri, and the rebellion in vendée was extinguished. a french army was sent against antwerp, the citadel was taken, and the independence of belgium secured. in the chambers, thiers obtained a credit for a hundred millions of francs, for the completion of public works. the statue of napoleon was replaced on the place vendôme; public works were every where proceeded with; roads were formed; canals dug; and industry began generally to revive. the minister of the interior was successful. but a storm was brewing. the republicans were yet a powerful party, and the government brought to bear upon them the terrors of the law. secret associations were put down, and an explosion took place. insurrections broke out at paris and lyons; thiers went to the latter place, where he was less sparing of his person than he had been during the three days of paris; for at lyons two officers fell at his side, killed by musket-shots aimed at the minister himself. at length the insurrection was got under; dissensions occurred in the ministry; thiers retired, but soon after took office under marshal mortier; the fêtes of july, , arrived; the fieschi massacre took place, thiers being by the king's side at the time of the explosion. laws against the liberty of the press followed this diabolic act, and now m. thiers was found on the side of repression of free speech. the laws against the press were enforced by him with rigor. he was now on the high road to power. he became president of the council, and minister of foreign affairs. but the spanish intervention question occurred. thiers was in favor of intervention, and the majority of the ministry were opposed to it. thiers resigned office, and bided his time. he went to rome and kissed the pope's toe, bringing home with him leather trunks of the middle ages, roman medals, and a store of new arguments against democracy. a coalition ministry was formed in , and thiers, "the mirabeau gadfly," as a pungent lady styled him about this time, became the leader of the party. thiers failed in his assaults on the ministry; molé reigned, then guizot; and the brilliant thiers was reduced to the position of a simple deputy on the seats of the opposition. but again did m. thiers find himself in power, after the failure of the ministry on the dotation bill of the duke of nemours. the ministry of march st, , was formed, and thiers was the president of the council. louis philippe confided all to him; but, though louis trusted thiers, and perhaps owed his crown to him, this statesman seemed really to be his evil genius. the thiers ministry brought the government of france into imminent danger from foreign powers, and was replaced, as a matter of urgency, by that of guizot, in october. thiers again relapsed into violent opposition. years passed, during which he proceeded with his completion of the history of the consulate and the empire, which brought him in large gains. the fatal year of arrived; and when guizot was driven from power, louis philippe again, and for the last time, charged m. thiers with the formation of a ministry. it did not last an hour. the revolution of was already consummated. the career of thiers since then is well known. for a time he disappeared from france; haunted louis philippe's foot-steps--still protesting undying love for that branch of the bourbon family. he returned to the chamber of deputies, where he is again in opposition; though what he is, and what the principles he holds, it is difficult to say. principles, indeed, seem to stick to thiers but lightly. one day he is the bitter enemy of socialism, the next he is its defender. he is a free-trader to-day, a protectionist to-morrow. he is a liberal and a conservative by turns. in short, he is a man "too clever by half," and seems constantly tempted, like many skillful speakers, to show how much can be said on both sides of a question. he is greatest in an attack; he is a capital puller-down: when any thing is to be built up, you will not find thiers among the constructors. he is a thoroughly dextrous man--sagacious, subtle, scheming, and indefatigable. few trust him, and yet, see how he is praised! "have you read thiers' speech? ah! there is a transcendent orator!" "bah!" says another, "who believes in what thiers says? the little stinging dwarf--he is only the _roué_ of the tribune!" thus, though thiers has many admirers, he has few friends. his changes have been so sudden and unexpected on many occasions, that few care to trust him. he is not a man to be depended upon. he has been a republican and a monarchist by turns: who knows but to-morrow he may be a red? it all depends on how the wind blows! this is what they say of m. thiers. the nobles regard him as a _parvenu_; the republicans stigmatize him as a renegade. the monarchists think of him as a waiter on providence. m. cormenin (timon), in his _livre des orateurs_, has drawn a portrait of thiers with a pencil of caustic. perhaps it is too severe; but many say it is just. in that masterly sketch, cormenin says--"principles make revolutions and revolutionists. principles found monarchies, aristocracies, republics, parliaments. principles are morals and religion, peace and war. principles govern the world. in truth, m. thiers affirms that there are no principles, that is to say, m. thiers has none. that is all." life and death. by rev. charles kingsley, author of "alton locke," "yeast," etc. god gives life, not only to us who have immortal souls, but to every thing on the face of the earth; for the psalm has been talking all through not only of men, but of beasts, fishes, trees, and rivers, and rocks, sun, and moon. now, all these things have a life in them. not a life like ours; but still you speak rightly and wisely when you say, "that tree is alive, and that tree is dead. that running water is live water; it is clear and fresh; but if it is kept standing it begins to putrefy; its life is gone from it, and a sort of death comes over it, and makes it foul, and unwholesome, and unfit to drink." this is a deep matter, this, how there is a sort of life in every thing, even to the stones under our feet. i do not mean, of course, that stones can think as our life makes us do, or feel as the beasts' life makes them do; or even grow as the trees' life makes them do; but i mean that their life keeps them as they are, without changing. you hear miners and quarrymen talk very truly of the live rock. that stone, they say, was cut out of the live rock, meaning the rock as it was under ground, sound and hard; as it would be, for aught we know, to the end of time, unless it was taken out of the ground, out of the place where god's spirit meant it to be, and brought up to the open air and the rain, in which it is not its nature to be; and then you will see that the life of the stone begins to pass from it bit by bit, that it crumbles and peels away, and, in short, decays, and is turned again to its dust. its organization, as it is called, or life, ends, and then--what? does the stone lie forever useless? no. and there is the great, blessed mystery of how god's spirit is always bringing life out of death. when the stone is decayed and crumbled down to dust and clay, it makes _soil_. this very soil here, which you plow, is the decayed ruins of ancient hills; the clay which you dig up in the fields was once part of some slate or granite mountains, which were worn away by weather and water, that they might become fruitful earth. wonderful! but any one who has studied these things can tell you they are true. any one who has ever lived in mountainous countries ought to have seen the thing happen--ought to know that the land in the mountain valleys is made at first, and kept rich year by year by the washings from the hills above; and this is the reason why land left dry by rivers and by the sea is generally so rich. then what becomes of the soil? it begins a new life. the roots of the plants take it up; the salts which they find in it--the staple, as we call them--go to make leaves and seed; the very sand has its use; it feeds the stocks of corn and grass, and makes them stiff. the corn-stalks would never stand upright if they could not get sand from the soil. so what a thousand years ago made part of a mountain, now makes part of a wheat plant; and in a year more the wheat grain will have been eaten, and the wheat straw, perhaps, eaten too, and they will have _died_--decayed in the bodies of the animals who have eaten them, and then they will begin a third new life--they will be turned into parts of the animal's body--of a man's body. so what is now your bones and flesh may have been once a rock on some hill-side a hundred miles away. a black eagle in a bad way. austria, in this present year of grace, , looks to me very much like a translated version of england under the stuarts. i am a resident at vienna, and know austria pretty well. i have seen many birds before now in a sickly state--have seen some absolutely rotting away--but i never saw one with such unpromising symptoms upon him as the black eagle of austria. the court of vienna is perhaps the most brilliant in europe; the whole social system in vienna is perhaps the most thoroughly unsound in europe. austria is weighed down by a numerous and impoverished nobility, by unjust taxes, and by a currency incredibly depreciated. her commerce is hampered by all manner of monopolies, and is involved in such a complex network of restrictions, as only the industrious, gold-getting fingers of a few can unravel. nearly the whole trade of austria is in the hands of this busy, persevering few. out of the immediate circle of the government, there is scarcely a satisfied man in the austrian dominions. the nobles feel abridgment of their privileges, and decrease of profit by the abolition of their feudal rights, succeeding the late revolution. the merchants feel that in austria they suffer more vexatious interference than it is in the nature of man to bear quietly. the people, a naturally good-humored race, have learned insensibly to clench their fists whenever they think of their absolute and paternal government. the position of the nobles is ridiculous. they swarm over the land; increase and multiply, and starve. not more than a few dozen of them can live honestly without employment; while not one of the noble millions may exercise a trade for bread; may practice law or medicine, or sink down into authorship. the austrian patrician can not feed himself by marriage with a merchant's daughter; if he do, his household will not be acknowledged by his noble friends. the he-noble must marry the she-noble, and they must make a miserable, mean, hungry, noble pair. a celebrated viennese professor dined one day in england with a learned lord. "pray, how is baron dash?" inquired a guest--said baron dash being at that time an austrian minister. "he is quite well," said the professor. "and his wife!" pursued the other. "i remember meeting her at rome; they were just married, and she was a most delightful person. she created a sensation, no doubt, when she was received at your court?" "she was not received at all," said the professor. "how was that?" asked many voices. "because she is not born." "not born" is the customary mode of ignoring (if i may use a slang word of this time) the existence of the vulgar, among the noble viennese. at the present moment, the family of a minister, or of any of the generals who have saved the throne, may be excluded from society on this pretense. two recent exceptions have been made in favor of the wives of two of the most important people in the empire. they were invited to the court-balls; but were there treated so scurvily by the "born" ladies, that these unborn women visited them only once. what is to be done by these poor nobles--shut out from commerce, law, and physic? diplomacy is voted low; unless they get the great embassies. the church, as in all catholic countries, is low; unless a nobleman should enter it with certain prospect of a cardinal's hat or a bishopric. the best bishoprics in the world (meaning, of course, the most luxurious) are austrian. the revenues of the primate of hungary are said to be worth the comfortable trifle of sixty thousand pounds a year. but there remains for these wretched nobles, one road to independence and distinction; and this is the army. to the army, it may be said, the whole body of the austrian nobility belongs. the more fortunate, that is to say, the highest in rank, add to their commissions places about the court. cherished titles are acquired in this way; and a lady may insist on being seriously addressed in polite austrian society as--say for example, frau-ober-consistorial-hof-directorinn. in the army, of course, under such a system, we see lieutenants with the hair gone from their heads, and generals with no hair come yet on their chins. a young man of family may get a captaincy in three months, which his neighbor without patronage, might not get if he lived forever. commissions are not sold in austria as they are in england, but the ministry of war knows how to respond to proper influence. in an army of five hundred thousand, vacancies, it is needless to say constantly occur. the lad who is named cornet in hungary, is presently lieutenant of a regiment in italy, and by-and-by a captain in croatia. after that, he may awake some morning, major, with the place of aid-de-camp to the emperor; and to such a boy, with friends to back him, the army is decidedly a good profession. the inferior officers are miserably paid, an ensign having little more than thirty pounds a year. a captain, however, is well paid in allowances, if not in money; while a colonel has forage for twelve horses, and very good contingencies besides. again, there are to be considered other very important differences between pay in the austrian and pay in the english army. an austrian can live upon his pay. his simple uniform is not costly; he is free from mess expenses, and may dine for six-pence at the tavern favored by his comrades. not being allowed at any time to lay aside his uniform, he can not run up a long tailor's bill; and, being admitted to the best society, he need not spend much money on amusement. besides, does not the state accord to him the privilege of going to the theatre for twopence? the poorer officers in the austrian service are so unreasonable and ill-conditioned, that they are not in general pleased by these advantages being given to men, who may possibly be well born, but who have certainly not been long born; and in many places combinations have been made to resist the unfair system of promotion. a young captain sent down to command gray-beards, with a lively sense of their own claims on the vacancy, is now and then required to fight, one after the other, the whole series of senior lieutenants. this causes a juvenile captain occasionally to shirk the visit to his regiment, and effect a prompt exchange. some part of the last-named difficulty is overcome by the existence of one or two corps of officers who have no regiment at all. where there are no men to murmur, the business of promotion is carried on with perfect comfort. in spite of all this, there is much to be said to the credit and honor of the innumerable throng of people forming the austrian army. it is an excellently appointed and well-disciplined multitude. the gallantry of its soldiers, and the skill and experience of many of its highest officers, must be freely admitted. then, too, the great number of nobles classed within it has at least had the good effect of creating a high standard of artificial honor. the fellow-feeling among austrian soldiers is also great; those of the same rank accost each other with the "du," the household word of german conversation; and the common word for an old companion in arms is "duty-bruder." duels are frequent, but not often fatal, or even dangerous. to take the nib from an adversary's nose, or to pare a small rind from his ear, is ample vengeance even for the blood-thirsty. an austrian officer who has received a blow, though only in an accidental scuffle, is called upon to quit his regiment, unless he has slain upon the spot the owner of the sacrilegious hand that struck him. this he is authorized by law to do, if struck while wearing uniform. the effect of this savage custom has been to produce in austrian officers a peculiar meekness and forbearance; to keep them always watchful against quarrels with civilians; and to make them socially the quietest gentlemen in the world. last winter a fast english gent left a masked ball at the redoute, intoxicated. disarming a sentry, he ensconced himself until morning in his box. the gent was then forwarded to the frontier, but the soldier was flogged for not having shot him. freedom from arrest for debt is an immunity enjoyed by austrian officers; but those who indulge too freely in their exemption from responsibility, may want defenders powerful enough to prevent their summary dismissal from the service. i have written thus much about the austrian army, because, in fact, as the world here now stands, every third man is or has been a soldier; and one can not talk about society in this empire without beginning at once to talk about its military aspect. gay and trifling as the metropolis is, with its abundance of out-door amusement, vienna must be put down in plain words as the most inhospitable capital in europe. the austrians themselves admit that they could not endure to be received abroad as they are in the habit of receiving strangers here. the greater austrian nobles never receive a stranger to their intimacy. a late french embassador, who conducted his establishment with splendor, and was at all times profusely hospitable, used to say that he was not once asked privately to dinner during the whole period of his residence in vienna. the diplomatic corps do not succeed in forcing the close barriers of austrian exclusiveness; and twenty years of residence will not entitle a stranger to feel that he has made himself familiarly the friend of a single austrian. any one who has lived among the higher classes in vienna will confirm my statement, and will recall with astonishment the somewhat indignant testimony of the oldest and most respected members of the _corps diplomatique_ to the inhospitable way in which their friendly overtures have been received. invitations to dinner are exceedingly rare; there are brilliant balls; but these do not satisfy an english longing for good-fellowship. familiar visits and free social intercourse do not exist at all. then there are the two great divisions of society--or the nobles and the merchant jews; on one side poverty and pride; on the other, wealth and intellect. the ugliest and most illiterate of pauper-countesses would consider her glove soiled by contact with the rosy fingers of the fairest and most accomplished among bankers' wives. the nobles so intermarrying and so looking down contemptuously upon the brain and sinew of the land, have, as a matter of course, degenerated into colorless morsels of humanity. how long they can remain uppermost is for themselves to calculate, if they can; it is enough for us who see good wine at the bottom, and lees at the top, to know that there must be a settlement impending. for the inhospitality of viennese society there is one sufficient reason; it springs out of the dread of espionage. in this city of vienna alone there are said to be four hundred police spies, varying in rank between an archduke and a waiter. letters are not safe; writing-desks are not sacred. an office for opening letters exists in the post-office. upon the slightest suspicion or curiosity, seals have impressions taken from them, the wax is melted over a jet of flame, the letters are read, and, if necessary, copied, re-sealed, and delivered. wafers are of course moistened by steam. you can not prevent this espionage, but it can be detected (supposing that to be any consolation) if you seal with wax over a wafer. one consequence of the melting and steaming practices of the austrian post-office is especially afflicting to merchants;--bills come sometimes to be presented, while the letters containing advice of them lie detained by the authorities; acceptance, in the absence of advice, being refused. from the surveillance of the police officials, perhaps not a house in vienna is free. the man whom you invited as a friend, and who is dancing with your wife, may be a spy. you can not tell; and for this reason people in vienna--naturally warm and sociable--close their doors upon familiarity, and are made freezingly inhospitable. yet this grand machine of espionage leaves crime at liberty. although murder is rare, or at least rare of discovery (there is a todschauer, or inspector of deaths, but no coroner's inquest), unpunished forgeries and robberies of the most shameless kind outrage society continually. many of the more distant provinces are infested by gangs of organized banditti; who will ride, during broad daylight, into a country gentleman's courtyard; invite themselves to dinner, take away his property, and insist on a ransom for himself if he has no wish to see his house in flames. when met by troops these bands of thieves are often strong enough to offer battle. but, although the austrian police can not protect austrian subjects, it can annoy not only them, but foreigners besides. the english are extremely liable to suffer. one englishman, only the other day, was ordered to the frontier for a quarrel with his landlady; another, for keeping bad society; another, for hissing a piece of music; three, for being suspected of political intrigue; two for being newspaper reporters. the french have lately come in for their share of police attentions; and we have lost, from the same cause, the company of two americans. among the austrians themselves, the very name of the police is a word of terror. by their hearths they dare barely whisper matter that would be harmless enough elsewhere, but dangerous here, if falling upon a policeman's ears. recently there was a poem published which professed to draw a parallel between a monarchy and a republic. of course it was an orthodox and an almost rabid glorification of "sound" absolutist principles. the poet sent a copy to an austrian noble; who, opening it carelessly, and immediately noticing the word "republic," handed the book back to a servant, with a shudder, and a note to the author acknowledging its receipt, and wondering that the poet "should have thought him (the noble) capable of encouraging republican principles!" this note scarified the feelings of the rhymer intensely. he hurried off to exculpate himself and explain the real aim of his book. he did this, and, of course, his book was bought. this is the state of austria in . men of all grades look anxiously to france; well knowing that the events in paris next year, if they lead to outbreak, will be felt in vienna instantly. yet strauss delights the dancers, and the military bands play their "hoch lebe" round the throne. the nobles scorn the merchants and the men of letters; who return the noble scorn with a contemptuous pity. the murmur of the populace is heard below; but still we have the gayest capital in all the world. we throng the places of amusement. dissipation occupies our minds and shuts out graver thought. verily, charles stuart might be reigning in this capital. the potter of tours. among the choicest works of art contributed to the great industrial exhibition by our french neighbors, were some enameled earthernware vases of remarkably fine workmanship, and particularly worthy of attention for their grotesque yet graceful decorations. these vases had, however, a still higher claim to distinction than that arising from their own intrinsic value, for they were the workmanship of one who may truly be ranked among "nature's nobles," although by birth and station owning no greater title than that of "charles avisseau, the potter of tours." a worthy successor of bernard palissy, he has, like him, achieved the highest success in his art, in spite of difficulties which would have caused most other men to yield despairingly before what they would have deemed their untoward fate. charles avisseau was born at tours on christmas-day, in the year . his father was a stone-cutter, but whenever labor was slack in that department, he sought additional occupation in a neighboring pottery. while still a child, he used frequently to accompany his father to the factory. his eager attention was quickly attracted by the delicate workmanship of the painters in enamel, and before long he attempted to imitate their designs. the master of the factory observed some flowers and butterflies which he had sketched on a coarse earthernware vase, and at once perceiving that he gave promise of being a good workman, he engaged him in the service of the factory. the boy now began to feel himself a man, and entered with his whole soul into his work. by the dim and uncertain light of the one lamp around which the avisseau family gathered in the long winter evenings, charles would spend hour after hour in tracing out new designs for the earthernware he was to paint on the morrow. he was at first too poor to purchase either pencil or paper, and used to manufacture from clay the best substitute he could for the former, while he generally employed the walls of the apartment as a substitute for the latter. he applied himself indefatigably to the study of every branch of his art--the different varieties of earths, the methods of baking them, the mode of producing various enamels, &c.--until, after some years of patient labor in the humble situation he had first occupied, he was offered the post of superintendent of the manufactory of fine porcelain at beaumont-les-hôtels. he was still, however, but a poor man; and, having married very young, was struggling with family cares and the trials of penury, when one day there fell into his hands an old enameled earthenware vase, which filled him with a transport of astonishment and delight. this was the _chef-d'oeuvre_ he had so often dreamed of, and longed to accomplish; the colors were fired on the ware without the aid of the white glaze, and the effect was exquisite. "whose work is this masterpiece?" inquired the young man. "that of bernard palissy," was the reply; "a humble potter by birth. he lived at saintes three centuries ago, and carried with him to the grave the secret of the means by which his beautiful enamels were produced." "well, then," thought avisseau, "i will rediscover this great secret. if he was a potter like me, why should not i become an artist like him?" from that hour forward he devoted himself with the most unwearying perseverance to his great pursuit. he passed whole nights over the furnace; and although ignorant of chemistry, and destitute of resources, instruments, or books, he tried one experiment after another, in hopes of at length attaining the much-desired object. his neighbors called him a madman and a fool; his wife, too gentle to complain, often looked on with sad and anxious eye as she saw their scanty resources diminishing day by day--wasted, as she conceived, in vain and fruitless experiments. all his hopes seemed doomed to disappointment, and destitution stared him in the face; yet one more trial he determined to make, although that one he promised should be the last. with the utmost care he blended the materials of his recomposed enamel, and applied them to the ware, previous to placing it in the oven. but who can describe the deep anxiety of the ensuing hour, the hour on which the fondly-cherished hopes of a lifetime seemed to hang? at length with beating heart and trembling hand he opened the furnace; his ware was duly baked, and the colors of his enamel had undergone no change! this was a sufficient reward for all his labors; and even to this day avisseau can never speak of that moment without the deepest emotion. but this was not a mind to rest contented with what he had already achieved: he longed still further to perfect his art. he accordingly gave up his situation in the factory, and opened a shop in tours, where he earned his livelihood by selling little earthernware figures, ornaments for churches, &c., while he passed his nights in study and in making renewed experiments. he borrowed treatises on chemistry, botany, and mineralogy; studied plants, insects, and reptiles; and succeeded at last in composing a series of colors which were all fusible at the same temperature. one more step remained to be achieved: he wished to introduce gold among his enamel; but, alas! he was a poor man, too poor to buy even the smallest piece of that precious metal. for many a weary day and night this thought troubled him. let us transport ourselves for a few moments to the interior of his lowly dwelling, and see how this difficulty too was overcome. it is a winter's evening; two men--charles avisseau and his son--are seated at a table in the centre of the room; they have worked hard all day, but are not the less intent upon their present occupation--that of moulding a vase of graceful and classic form. under their direction, two young sisters are engaged in tracing the veins upon some vine-leaves which had recently been modeled by the artists; while the mother of the family, seated by the chimney-corner, is employed in grinding the colors for her husband's enamels. her countenance expresses a peaceful gravity, although every now and then she might be perceived to direct an anxious and inquiring glance toward her goodman, who seemed to be this evening even more than usually pensive. at last he exclaimed, more as if speaking to himself than addressing his observation to others: "oh, what would i not give to be able to procure the smallest piece of gold!" "you want gold!" quietly inquired his wife; "here is my wedding-ring: if it can help to make you happy, what better use can i put it to? take it, my husband! god's blessing rests upon it." so saying, she placed the long-treasured pledge in avisseau's hand. he gazed upon it with deep emotion: how many were the associations connected with that little circlet of gold--the pledge of his union with one who had cheered him in his sorrows, assisted him in his labors, and aided him in his struggles! and, besides, would it not be cruel to accept from her so great a sacrifice? on the other hand, however, the temptation was strong; he had so longed to perform this experiment! if it succeeded, it would add so much to the beauty of his enamel: he knew not what to do. at length, hastily rising from his seat, he left the house. he still retained the ring in his hand: a great struggle was going on in his mind; but each moment the temptation to make the long-desired experiment gained strength in his mind, until at last the desire proved irresistible. he hurried to the furnace, dropped the precious metal into the crucible, applied it to the ware, which he then placed in the oven, and, after a night of anxious watching, held in his hand a cup, such as he had so long desired to see, ornamented with gilt enamel! his wife as she gazed upon it, although at the same time a tear glistened in her eye; and looking proudly upon her husband, she exclaimed: "my wedding-ring has not been thrown away!" still, avisseau, notwithstanding his genius, was destined to lead for many years a life of poverty and obscurity. it was not until the year that m. charles sciller, a barrister, at tours, first drew attention to the great merit of some of the pieces he had executed, and persuaded him to exhibit them at angers, poitiers, and paris. the attention of the public once directed toward his works, orders began to flow in upon him apace. the president of the republic and the princess matilda bonaparte are among his patrons, and the most distinguished artists and public men of the day are frequently to be met with in his _atélier_. in the midst of all this unlooked-for success, avisseau had ever maintained the modest dignity of his character. m. brongniart, the influential director of the great porcelain manufactory at sèvres, begged of him to remove thither, promising him a liberal salary if he would work for the sèvres company, and impart to them his secrets. "i thank you for your kindness, sir," replied the potter of tours, "and i feel you are doing me a great honor; but i would rather eat my dry crust here as an artisan than live as an artist on the fat of the land at sèvres. _here_ i am free, and my own master: _there_ i should be the property of another, and that would never suit me." when he was preparing his magnificent vase for the exhibition, he was advised to emboss it with the royal arms of england. "no," he replied, "i will not do that. if her majesty were then to purchase my work, people might imagine i had ornamented it with these insignia in order to obtain her favor, and i have never yet solicited the favor of any human being!" avisseau has no ambition to become a rich man. he shrinks from the busy turmoil of life--loving his art for its own sake, and delighting in a life of meditative retirement, which enables him to mature his ideas, and to execute them with due deliberation. in the swamps and in the meadows he studies the varied forms and habits of reptiles, insects, and fish, until he succeeds in reproducing them so truly to the life, that one can almost fancy he sees them winding themselves around the rushes, or gliding beneath the shelter of the spreading water-leaves. his humble dwelling, situated in one of the faubourgs of tours, is well worthy of a visit. here he and his son--now twenty years of age, who promises to prove in every respect a worthy successor to his father--may be found at all hours of the day laboring with unremitting diligence. a room on the ground-floor forms the artist's studio and museum: its walls are hung with cages, in which are contained a numerous family of frogs, snakes, lizards, caterpillars, &c., which are intended to serve as models; rough sketches, broken busts, half-finished vases, lie scattered around. the furnaces are constructed in a little shed in the garden, and one of them has been half-demolished, in order to render it capable of admitting the gigantic vase which avisseau has sent to the great exhibition. there we trust the successor of bernard palissy will meet with the success so justly due to his unassuming merit, and to the persevering genius which carried him onward to his goal in the midst of so much to discourage, and with so little help to speed him on his way. knights of the cross. st. george's cross. by caroline chesebro'. a dull november evening: ghosts of a fog aspiring to the summit of a mountain, which formed the startling feature in the background of a landscape: a melancholy dissonance of swelling, rolling, breaking waves--strong, though not violent, moaning of autumnal winds through the valley, and up the mountain side: dark, heavy masses of cloud--red, and silvery, and leaden lines alternating on the horizon, at the point where the sun had disappeared: a girl standing on an enormous stone that was nearly surrounded by the water, a boy seated on the same rock near her feet; they were ella, the clergyman's daughter, and george, a shoemaker's son. an arm, white, round, and smooth as a girl's, bared to the elbow, besmeared with blood and india ink, a hand, gliding over it rapidly, making strange tracery as it moved; a voice, soft and melodious, but tremulous in its tones, telling of a heart beating within the speaker's breast that was keenly susceptible to every emotion----that voice saying, "did i show you the verses that i wrote about our cross, ella?" "no! no--_did_ you write _verses_ about it?" without replying to the words, the boy laid down the needle he was using, drew from his pocket a little book, took from it a paper which he gave to the girl, silently resuming his work. and in the gloom and cold she read, for ella. the symbol and memorial. i place the semblance of a wayside cross, thy hands and mine have fashioned, in this place, not only as an ornament, to grace with well-shaped form, and covering of moss, my shelves of books; nor yet life's supreme loss to hint through it to all who will admire: another impulse urged me, and a higher-- all false ambition and "world praise," pure dross, which doth but weaken thought, and lay on toil a heavier curse than adam's, stands reproved before this solemn figure. he who died ordained a rest from this vain world's turmoil in shadow of his cross. so unremoved here let this stand, and shed its warnings wide. here shall it stand above these graves of thought, these well-remembered, and frequented graves, in memory of the lion-hearted braves who into life new life and strength have brought-- in memory of the martyrs who have taught the sacred truths for which they dared to die-- in memory of the poet-souls that lie in the poor potter's field for strangers bought; here let it stand, a hallowed monument, most meet, o'er the great hopes entomed beneath-- and if it speaks to only you and i of more than beauty, have we vainly blent the moss and lichens? is it thy belief _our_ thoughts shall ever in such shadow lie? "a rare _library_ i have," said the boy, with bitter accent--"yet i have made use of no poetic license in speaking of my shelves of books--i have just two shelves, and there are at least a dozen books in each." "i know of some men who have great libraries, and they might be glad to know as much as you do about books," said the girl, soothingly. "never mind, you'll write more books than you own, one of these days." "oh, ella, you speak like a child--you _are_ a child indeed," he repeated, surveying her as if he had not thought of such a thing before. "i shall never, _never_ write a book, i have got another life marked out for me." "who says so? who put such a thing into your head?" she asked, quickly. "why, you write _now_--you write verses and prose--so you are an author already." "i wish to god i were!" "you are, you are, i tell you." "_i have a mother_--_i am to be a preacher!_" the words were almost hissed forth--but having uttered them, he seemed immediately to regain tranquillity. "do you remember the day when we two had a pic-nic here, and gathered moss from the rocks, and made those crosses?" he said, tenderly. "why, yes," she answered, with evident surprise--"to be sure i remember--it was only last week. what a lovely day it was--and what a beautiful cross that was you shaped for me. i look at it every day--i believe it will never fade." "it can not fade.... you spoke of my writing books ... what should i write them for?" "money and fame--what all authors write for." "oh, what a mistake! not all! sit down here, ella. there's a good girl. don't you know there are _some_ persons who don't write for money, and who don't care for fame? some who write because they must, who'd go crazy outright, if they didn't, but who would just as soon dig a hole in the ground, and throw what they write in there, or make a burial place of this sea, as they'd have their writings printed? they write to satisfy their own great spirits, not to please others." "no, i never heard of such a thing, and i don't believe it either. you are talking in fun, to hear yourself--or to get me into a dispute with you--nothing pleases you better." the boy looked up, his eyes met those of the girl beside him--they smiled on each other. what children they were. how strangely forgetful of the gulf that lay between them! "see, ella, i have finished my work." it was getting very cold and cheerless there on the sea-side, and she shivered as she turned to look at the completed work, whose progress she had shrunk from watching. "what did you call it? oh, i remember, that is the anchor. but there's another mark below it, an old one too," she said, bending lower, that she might see it more distinctly. "you never told me about this--what is it?" "shall i make an anchor on your arm?" the girl drew back. "you are afraid it will hurt you," he said, half in scorn. she looked on his arm where the blood was mingling with the ink. "no," she said, resolutely, "i'm not afraid it will hurt me, but the mark, will it not last always?" "to be sure it will. oh! you will be a beauty--you will shine in ball-rooms with those fair white arms uncovered! such stuff as _this_ would deface them!" "no such thing! you like to tease me, and that's the reason you talk so. how wild you are! i'm not at all afraid of the pain--nor of marring my beauty. you know, in the first place, i have no beauty, and i don't want any either." "tut--but i'm not going to flatter you. do you really want to know what this other mark here is?" "yes." "it's a cross, ella." "a cross, george? what's the reason you wear it _there_?" "why do you wear that gold thing attached to the gold chain hung around your neck? _that_ is a cross too." "this? oh, mamma gave it to me." "what good does it do you? do you say your prayers over it?" "no--i think it very pretty--i wear it for mamma's sake." the boy folded his arms, and turning half away from her said, scornfully, as if to himself: "she wears it _proudly_, for it shines with costly gems, a radiant thing'-- a worthier emblem of the times to fashion's court she could not bring. "made fast with chain of precious gold, she dons it with her gala-dress:-- it shines amid the silken fold-- sin clasps it with a bold caress. "it is no burden as she treads through pleasure's paths in open day; no threat'ning shadow ever spreads from those rich jewels round her way "she clasps it in her vainest mood, (that awful symbol lightly worn,) forgetful that 'tis stained with blood, and has the prince of glory borne' "oh strange forgetfulness! she sees no circling crown of thorns hung there' droops ne'er beneath it to her knees' is never driven by it to prayer! "it lies no weight upon her breast-- it speaks no warning to her heart-- it lends no guiding light--at best is but a gaud in folly's mart. "go! hide the glittering thing from sight! go! bear the cross in worthier guise' the soul-worn crucifix sheds light that in no paltry bauble lies." as he finished the recitation, or improvisation, whichever it might be, the youth quietly turned toward the maiden, lifted the slight chain which secured the ornament over her head, and glancing at the "bauble" contemptuously, flung it far into the water. she was so astonished that, though his movement was comprehended, she made no attempt to stay his purpose--her eyes followed his hand, and the bright golden cross as it flashed on the waves and disappeared--then she turned away, without speaking, as if to leave him. "stay!" he said, and she stopped short--"come and sit down here beside me," but she looked at him as though she did not hear. "it vexes me," he said, in an apologetic, conciliatory way, "it vexes me to see every holy, sacred thing made vain, by vain unmeaning people. what business has any one to wear a _golden_ cross? had you worn one of lead or iron, i would not have thrown it into the sea. i wish you _would_ wait a few minutes--_don't_ go! i want to tell you about this cross on my arm. you _asked_ me about it. to me it means endure. ella, you can't guess how much it means; because it isn't possible for you ever to look into the future as i do. you can't imagine what i see before me. i don't know as i should have thought of engraving an anchor here, under this cross, but when i came down to the beach to-night i was very desperate--i saw you standing up here on this rock, the sunlight was shining on your hair and face, the breeze making sport with your shawl and dress, and you looked to me just like hope, standing so firm on the rock, looking up so calmly into heaven. oh, ella, you can't guess what quiet the sight of you sent into my soul. if you had been an angel, and had stood repeating the words of jesus as he walked on the waters, i could not have heard you say _peace_ more distinctly.... one has no right to hope, who can not endure. i don't like to see such awful realities as the cross turned into vain symbols, that's the truth about it. but i want you to forgive me for throwing your cross into the sea, i only wish i could tear every cross from you as easily, as you go through life. i couldn't bear to think that you would very soon, let me see, you are fifteen years old! go among gay people wearing that thing, forgetful of its meaning. will you forgive me?" the "yes" she said was more than a half sob--but as if ashamed of the emotion she could not conceal, ella gave the boy her hand, with a frankness that conveyed all the pardon he wanted. "will you let me mark the anchor on your arm then, ella?" "no, but you _may_ do the cross." she sat down beside him again, and he traced on her tender arm, with the fine point of the needle, a symbol and a badge. "and you will not have the hope?" "that is in my heart." "in truth it is the safest place for it. your arm might have to be amputated some day, but your heart, i know, will never die while you live." "can the heart die?" "yes, it can be killed--it can die of disease, of cold, of fever, a thousand things can destroy it--just as the body is destroyed." "don't you keep your hope in _your_ heart too?" "yes, when i have any. there's no moon to-night. let's go. we shall have a storm before morning. see the waves! they look as if they had been saturated in the blackness of darkness, and were just escaped from it. and, do look up! what a fit pavilion are those clouds for the angel of wrath! oh, how i wish he would appear!" "george! george!" "yes, ella--for he would be sure to do away these cursed distinctions we know so much of! then i should have no need for feeling as i do, when i shut your gate after you, and go on to the shed where the shoemaker's widow lives with her son, whom people are so very kind, so exceeding kind, as to call a poet. ella, neither you nor i will live to see it--but the old things shall pass away on this earth, and new powers reign here ere long. and then, in that blessed day when justice shall rule, a girl like you may walk up this village street with a boy even like _me_, and take his arm, and speak with him as an equal, and none shall stare and think the condescension wonderful. as it is--walk alone--go on before me--though you are weary and cold, i am not fit to support or to shelter you." he opened the gate for her, for they stood now before the parsonage--as she passed through he said, more gently, "i am sorry that i threw your cross away; it was a violent, and passionate, and childish act. besides, you prized it--for your mother's sake; you _love_ your mother. and no good will ever come of its being torn away from you. there was no cause for treating you so." "yes, there was, george--don't mind--good _has_ come of it already." "oh, ella--how?" "i'm ready, this moment, to bear another cross, to take it up and bear it, if god will." "woe to the human hand that lays a heavier cross on your shoulder than that i threw away from you." "good-night, george." "good-night, ella." "george, you don't believe _i_ feel as you say people do about being seen walking or talking--with--you? i am, indeed, very proud of you, and--" "yes--i don't doubt it, since you say so--you're proud _of_ me, though i can't see why. but you're not proud _for_ me, nor _with_ me." "yes--i am." "no! no! you don't understand what you're talking about. i'm glad you don't--if i called 'the whole world a cheat, and all men liars,' you wouldn't say yea and amen to that?" "no; for i could prove to you that you mistook all about you. oh, if you only knew how--" "no more--good-night. you are not like other people, ella, or we could not speak as we do together." ii. a dull november morning--rain had fallen in great quantities during the night, as george waldron had predicted, and clouds yet covered the entire heaven. amid the leafless forest trees that covered the mountain side, stood here and there a few evergreens, like ghosts, robed in funereal gloom--the wind was fierce and cold--the waters of the lake rolled high and furiously, they dashed madly on the beach--they rolled far back and up, with maniac force. the boy was there again, standing on the seashore--the sun had not yet risen--he stood where the sunlight had fallen the night before on ella, but the light that had enveloped her as a glory-robe, was not on him. he looked pale, and very anxious, and from the rock where she had stood he restlessly and curiously scanned every wave that broke upon the beach. he had been roused long before daylight from his slumbers, by the parson, ella's father, and at his request had gone for a physician, for ella was very ill. and all that night, after the leech was summoned, he walked or ran along the beach, waiting with an impatience so fierce that one could not call it childish, for day to come. his garments were soaked with rain, but he knew it not, neither was he conscious of fatigue, or cold, or faintness, but incessantly, as he went to and fro, wild prayers burst from his lips. in the gloom, and storm, and darkness, he harbored but one thought, one hope, the rescue of ella's golden cross from the waters. the moment he heard that she was ill, he said to himself, _she will die_, and his fiery soul, recalling her mild, reproachful look as she watched his sudden motion, and her gently-expressed regret when the cross was lost, began to torture him. the act of passion became a thousand times exaggerated, and the recollection maddened him. all day he walked along that stormy beach, and when night came, it was not till thick darkness began to gather over land and flood, that he arose to go back to his mother's house. mrs. waldron had but just come in from the parsonage--she was going back again for the night, for ella was very ill--and this good woman was noted as an efficient nurse. "how is she, mother?" was his abrupt salutation, as he closed the door behind him, and walked up to the table where she sat at work for him. "who?" asked the mother, forgetting her neighborly, in her maternal anxiety, as she looked upon the pale and haggard face of her boy. "the girl at the parsonage. i went for the doctor for her last night, you know." "oh--she is very ill indeed, very ill; i'm going to watch there to-night." "it will tire you. you're not well yourself." "oh, well, son, when a _neighbor's_ sick, and wants my help, i hope i shall always be ready to give it--even if i _don't_ feel over and above smart myself." "neighbor!" he repeated, furiously. "if it was _you_ they talked of visiting, or helping, they'd say, _it is a poor woman that lives near us_--they wouldn't call you 'neighbor,' mother--they've a different way of talking." "oh, son! son! how awful proud you are. you're hard on 'em. i'm feared you haven't the right sort of spirit in you. it's not the mood to take into the world--if you knock people down you'll have to pay for it; the best way is just to ask leave to go by, and if they won't make room, apologize for pushing on." "mother," he said, abruptly interrupting her, "did you see el--the sick girl, to-day?" "why, yes! i staid in the room all the time. poor child, i don't think she quite knew what she was talking about. she was wild-like--running on about the storm, and the night, and a cross, which was give to her by her mother--and it's lost, they say. you never see folks so done up as the minister and his wife. when sorrow comes to us we're all alike. but _they are_ knocked up complete." "was she _grieving_ about the cross? why don't they get another like it, and make her think it's found!" "oh, they wouldn't _deceive_ her! that would be agin the parson's principles. it wouldn't be right." "don't trouble yourself about getting tea, mother. i'm not at all hungry. lie down and take a little nap. i'll help myself, and i've got a book i want to read now." though the words were kindly uttered, he spoke as one having authority; and without attempting a remonstrance, the mother complied with his suggestion, and was soon in a deep sleep. early in the evening he aroused her, hurried away to the parsonage, and there left her for the night. exhausted by the excitement to which both mind and body had been subject for the last twenty-four hours, he returned home, but not to read, nor to study. the door to his humble home made fast, he passionately flung himself upon the floor, and until the fire-light died away he lay there, his eyes glaring about like a maniac's, scanning the discolored walls, and the humble furniture, familiar to him since he first learned to take note of things, and understand the contrasts in the world. he slept not for one moment, nor could he think connectedly on any subject. his hopes were all dashing to and fro, confused and stormy as he knew the waves were, that beat along the shore on that wild night. one moment a gleam of glory, like a lightning flash, would break upon his soul, and the next the thunder-crash of the decision of destiny and doom, would peal through his excited intellect. he never for an instant thought of her recovery. he looked upon her death as a necessity that concerned him, and him alone, and he looked _beyond her grave_ to his own future, as though he could tread on to it across that mound alone.... he thought upon his mother, and an icy chill made him nerveless--he painted his own portrait, and stood apart from the work, and gazed upon it with a critic's eyes. it was always in the light of a preacher that he looked upon himself; but while one of these pictured similitudes, that of the poet-preacher, whose parish lay in author-land, won him again and again, as by a siren charm, to bestow upon it one more, and _one more_ look, from the other he turned with shuddering and aversion. and while he lay on the hard floor, and thought, and groaned, and agonized through all that night, the wild and pitiless storm raged over sea and land--it was a desolating storm, but not so dreadful as that which convulsed the soul of this poor youth. all the following day he kept up his vain search along the beach, until night came again, when dizzy with the incessant watch he kept over the dashing, breaking waves, and faint from his long fasting, and suddenly mindful that there might be some new tidings of ella waiting him, he returned from the dreary watching place. he did not find his mother at home, but she had been there since he left in the morning, for the table was spread in readiness for him. she had remembered him in the sick room, and mindful of his comfort had come, prepared the meal for him, and gone again. the boy's heart smote him for the many ungrateful and hard thoughts he had borne her that day. he was removing the things from the table, for he thought that he would write when she came in. he saw at once that she had been weeping, and his assumed indifference vanished in an instant; he cried out, "_is_ she dead?" "no; but they're in dreadful trouble over to that house. oh, son! if you could see that dear angel lying there so beautiful on the bed, and the room so quiet, and the poor creature's pa and ma taking on so, and she not knowing it! it's a dreadful sight! it's strange, it is!" "but is she no better, mother? won't she recover?" "no hope of such a thing. i wanted to go back to-night to sit there in the room with her, but they said i'd tire out, and maybe they'd _have_ to call on me again; and so i _must_ rest to-night." "but _do_ you feel so very tired?" "no; i could sit there just as well as sleep here. i'm so anxious. i'll have time enough to rest when i can't do nothing for them, poor things!" "oh, do go then! has she been in her right mind to-day?" "not a minute. but it's strange though, how her thoughts has kept on to one thing the whole time. i wish you could see her arm! it's dreadful inflamed; and it's stained with something like ink, and odd enough, just in the shape of a cross. it couldn't be no supernatural work, george. i told you her gold cross was lost." "and does her arm pain her?" "not that, i guess. but it's all about having her _hope_ amputated, and then she'll lift her arm, as if she couldn't do it hardly, and talk about the cross being heavy to bear. and then she cries about the angel of wrath, and says he's coming--and whispers, and takes on the queerest you ever see. oh, it would be dreadful if she wasn't so lovely, and so angel-like, when she talks about these horrid things!" "what horrid things?" he asked, abruptly and coldly, as though just waking from a sleep. "oh, but you're heartless! i believe you don't care for the dying no more than you do for the living. i believe you've slept all the time i was talking!" "if i didn't care about her being nursed every minute, would i ask you to go back, when i know you're tired? they are nothing to me, and you are my mother! would i ever ask you to go, if i could sleep while you are talking about her? will you go?" "yes, yes; i mean to go. i'm glad you _have_ some feeling in you. but you--you look like a ghost! i declare you look frightful! your face is as pale! and your eyes stare out of your head so! son! son! what's the use of killing yourself just to get a little learning? what manner of good can come of it? somebody, oh, the doctor, dr. williams, was asking me to-day if you was writing a book. i told him no; but i didn't tell him what i thought about it--that you had as good as promised me that you would be a preacher. i shall be so proud of you then. these fiddling poets! i like a man, as long as he is in the world, to be of some use in it." "don't get in a passion, mother. _i_ am no poet. no son of yours will disgrace you by ever publishing a book." he spoke with frantic energy. "but it's getting late. i will now go with you." "no, no, you won't--i'll not hear of it, you look a'most as bad as ella does." "do you call her 'ella' over there?" "no--you know i haven't much acquaintance with 'em." "then i wouldn't condescend to call her so _here_," was the bitter rebuke. his mother did not answer him, but went out of the house lamenting her son's pride, rather audibly. and he kept another watch that night, and in a solemn passion vowed a vow; and wherever his eyes turned through the darkness he beheld a cross uplifted before him--and a voice was ringing in his ear--"this for thee," and the shadow of that cross he could not escape, for it lay upon his soul. iii. another day-dawn, but how unlike those wild preceding days! again the sun arose, and was no longer hid by threatening clouds--the wind swept steadily and keenly, but not fiercely over the waters; and the waves beat against the shore, upon the beach, and the rock, but not with angry violence, and the splendor of the dazzling sunlight was upon them all. and again a boyish form, in which a man's heart and a giant's soul were beating, paced to and fro upon that beach--and a vow made in the solitude of night was on his lips, and he spoke it calmly in that lonely place where there was only the mountain, and the waters, the singing petrel, and the sandy beach, and the maker of them all, to testify against him if he should break the vow: "oh ye waves, only give up that treasure dear to her, and i will obey my mother--i will not let one dream of fame tempt me--i will _forget_ that i too could be a poet, and an author. yes, yes, i _will_ be a preacher, as she would have me. god! hear me!" he stepped upon the rock, the rock on which she stood, that night--for the stormy petrel, singing as it went, was floating just then under it--but for a moment when he stood there he made no effort to advance, for the doom he had feared, yet invoked, met him there! upon a shrub, that was lodged upon the rock in a handful of earth, the glittering cross and golden chain were hanging. he paused, as if blasted by the recollection of his vow--a phantom, horrible as death stood between him and the cross--then he went forward resolutely, as one who walks upon a sacrificed hope, to work for another some good thing.... in solemn silence he lifted the bauble, turned away from the sea-side, passed up the village-street, through the parsonage-gate, and for the first time in his life up to the parsonage-door. he did not even pause to knock, but went on, as led by instinct, to the very door of her chamber--it stood open, and dr. williams was there alone with ella. she must have been speaking of the youth even then, for the physician did not look surprise upon george--on the contrary he stepped aside, and while the boy remained with ella none other of the household were permitted to enter the room. ella had wakened that morning from her fever-dream, and was once more quite conscious--of her danger--but not of the hopelessness of those around her: what all the household now knew, that she would not recover, had not yet been told her. george took her hand--she recognized him with a smile, and directed his eyes to the inflamed arm which, through all her delirium, and now in her consciousness, she would not suffer to be covered. the red cross glared upon his sight. "where is the anchor, ella?" "here," she said, laying her hand upon her breast. "ella, have you forgiven me for robbing you of the cross your mother gave you?" "oh, yes; i had forgotten it, george." he held it up before her--the sea-weed clinging to it still. "see," he said, "the waves were too generous to keep it. i found it just now on the rock--the place where you stood that night." "keep it, george. though i never thought to leave _you such_ a remembrancer. oh, george! i should have been just as this sea-weed, and perhaps have clung to the cross of christ with not a bit more energy, if i had staid in the world." "you are not going away! you are not going!" he cried; but his voice faltered and fell as he said it, for he felt that she _was_ going. "doctor, i left a little book on my desk, will you bring it to me?" it was laid before her. "this," she said, again addressing the youth, "i meant for you. it pleased _me_, and i thought perhaps you would like it--and won't you lay it on your shelf nearest to your cross, the one we made. it has a pretty name--the shadow of the cross. see, i wrote your name in it after i came home that night. _you_ could write a better book"--he shuddered, and half turned away--she observed his look and motion, and said quickly, "yes, you will. and all the world will love you. but you will keep this, if only for my sake. and don't ever, _ever_ think, george waldron, that i wouldn't have been proud to have taken your arm and walked with you in the broad daylight through our streets. i was very tired and sick that night, or i wouldn't have let you go home without convincing you. do you believe me?" "yes," he said, and something of the calmness passed from her face into his, as he bent over her. "do you know, can you guess, what my cross in this life is? _i_ know, for it is laid on me already. oh, ella, if you could live, it would not be with me as it must be now!" perhaps she had grown too weak to answer him, for she pressed his hands closely between her own, and made no other reply. * * * * * he saw her only once after that day. they had removed her from the bed, and from her pleasant chamber then. she was in the little parlor of the parsonage--and the shadow of a cross was lying on her sweet, pale face, for her coffin was near the mantle, and on that stood the "symbol" which _they_ had fashioned one bright october day. he only looked upon her for a moment on that morning, but the brief glance was more than he could bear composedly, and the widowed boy went out hastily from the little group of mourners, to weep such tears as he could never, never in his life weep again. * * * * * he kept that vow, made in the frenzy of despair, religiously. did he not? question his witness--it is not voiceless--it stands unimpeachable at this moment; on a now populous sea-side, there, in the very place where, one dull november night, the first act of a most sad life-drama was read, in a wild and dreary solitude, by two young, dreaming children. it stands a seamen's chapel, whose corner-stone _he_ laid, whose foundation is the rock whereon ella stood that night. a cross surmounts its spire, and if you walk along the pleasant beach its shadow will be sure to fall upon you. many a day and many a night george waldron walked there: and this is his monument on earth. but--who can tell the heaviness of that cross he bore? the cross his mother lifted to his shoulder, which, from the moment of ella's death, he bore in uncomplaining silence? there was energy in his heart, and in his brain; he was zealous, he was loving, he had respect, and sorrow, and compassion for the poor; and these were the characteristics he took with him on his way of life, when the priestly office was conferred upon him. that vow his fiery spirit made, which was induced by a conviction of his mother's will and hope (we state it as a fact merely, not as an extenuation), that vow was all the seal he ever recognized, to himself, as set upon his ministry, and yet, he was an honor to his calling; in all his human "walk and conversation" he was a holy example, and a shining light. but heavy, heavy was the cross he bore! through the poet's dreaming youth, and thoughtful, striving manhood, he went, and never a hope of fame, nor praise of men beguiled him. every freshly-tinted cloud that rose and floated over the fairy land of his imagination was suffered to dissolve, in unseen and unsuspected mist and dew, upon the hearts and lives of other men. he steadily trode a straight and beaten path, when the panting soul within him urged his intellect forth on the wings of genius to discovery and portrayal, he suffered his aspiring nature to exhaust herself in a round of daily, common duties, than which indeed none are nobler, when inspired by the spirit of grace! than which none _can_ be more glorious in result, if god incite to their performance; but, which are dreadful in enduring, and in working out, which are presumptuously and impiously endured and wrought by the poor cross-bearer, if another human being's will, and not his own prayerful desire be the incitement. it was this heavy cross that george waldron bore. he died young, a maniac some said, a martyr and a saint assuredly. and in compliance with the only request made in his will, his body was lowered on his funeral day, a dull november day, from the chapel rock to the deep sea beneath. oh, must it not have been with joy unspeakable and full of glory that his chastened, fettered spirit at last, at last, burst forth in its release, with thanksgiving and a wondrous voice of melody? anecdotes of wild beasts.--leopards and jaguars. leopards and panthers, if taken quite young, and treated with kindness, are capable of being thoroughly tamed; the poet cowper, describes the great difference in the dispositions of his three celebrated hares; so it is with other wild animals, and leopards among the rest, some returning kindness with the utmost affection, others being rugged and untamable from the first. of those brought to this country, the characters are much influenced by the treatment they have experienced on board ship; in some cases, they have been made pets by the sailors, and are as tractable as domestic cats; but when they have been teased and subjected to ill-treatment during the voyage, it is found very difficult to render them sociable; there are now (september, ), six young leopards in one den at the zoological gardens: of these, five are about the same age, and grew up as one family; the sixth was added some time after, and being looked upon as an intruder, was quite sent to coventry, and even ill-treated by the others; this he has never forgotten. when the keeper comes to the den, he courts his caresses, and shows the greatest pleasure, but if any of his companions advance to share them with him, he growls and spits, and shows the utmost jealousy and displeasure. in the same collection there is a remarkably fine, full-grown leopard, presented by her majesty, who is as tame as any creature can be; mutton is his favorite food, but the keeper will sometimes place a piece of beef in the den; the leopard smells it, turns it over with an air of contempt, and coming forward, peers round behind the keeper's back to see if he has not (as is generally the case), his favorite food concealed. if given to him, he lays it down, and will readily leave it at the keeper's call, to come and be patted, and while caressed he purrs, and shows the greatest pleasure. there were a pair of leopards in the tower, before the collection was broken up, which illustrated well the difference in disposition; the male, a noble animal, continued to the last, as sullen and savage as on the day of his arrival. every kindness was lavished upon him by the keepers, but he received all their overtures with such a sulky and morose return, that nothing could be made of his unreclaimable and unmanageable disposition. the female, which was the older of the two, on the contrary, was as gentle and affectionate as the other was savage, enjoying to be patted and caressed by the keeper, and fondly licking his hands; one failing, however, she had, which brought affliction to the soul of many a beau and lady fair; it was an extraordinary predilection for the destruction of hats, muffs, bonnets, umbrellas, and parasols, and indeed articles of dress generally, seizing them with the greatest quickness, and tearing them into pieces, almost before the astonished victim was aware of the loss; to so great an extent did she carry this peculiar taste, that mr. cops, the superintendent, used to say, that she had made prey of as many of these articles, as there were days in the year. animals in menageries are sometimes great enemies to the milliner's art; giraffes have been known to filch the flowers adorning a bonnet, and we once saw a lady miserably oppressed by monkeys. she was very decidedly of "a certain age," but dressed in the extreme of juvenility, with flowers and ribbons of all the colors of the rainbow. her complexion was delicately heightened with rouge, and the loveliest tresses played about her cheeks. as she languidly sauntered through the former monkey-house at the gardens, playfully poking the animals with her parasol, one seized it so vigorously, that she was drawn close to the den; in the twinkling of an eye, a dozen little paws were protruded, off went bonnet, curls and all, leaving a deplorably gray head, while others seized her reticule and her dress, pulling it in a very unpleasant manner. the handiwork of m. vouillon was of course a wreck, and the contents of the reticule, her purse, gloves, and delicately scented handkerchief, were with difficulty recovered from out of the cheek pouch of a baboon. on another occasion we saw the elephant, that fine old fellow who died some years ago, administer summary punishment to a weak-minded fop, who kept offering him cakes, and on his putting out his trunk, withdrawing them and giving him a rap with his cane instead. one of the keepers warned him, but he laughed, and after he had teased the animal to his heart's content, walked away. after a time he was strolling by the spot again, intensely satisfied with himself, his glass stuck in his eye and smiling blandly in the face of a young lady who was evidently offended at his impudence, when the elephant, who was rocking backward and forward, suddenly threw out his trunk and seized our friend by the coat-tails; the cloth gave way, and the whole back of the coat was torn out, leaving nothing but the collar, sleeves, and front. as may be supposed, this was a damper upon his amatory proceedings; indeed we never saw a man look so small, as he shuffled away amidst the titters of the company, who enjoyed his just reward. that very agreeable writer, mrs. lee, formerly mrs. bowdich, has related in the first volume of the "magazine of natural history," a most interesting account of a tame panther which was in her possession several months. he and another were found very young in the forest, apparently deserted by their mother; they were taken to the king of ashantee, in whose palace they lived several weeks, when our hero, being much larger than his brother, suffocated him in a fit of romping, and was then sent to mr. hutchinson, the resident left by mr. bowdich at coomassie, by whom he was tamed. when eating was going on he would sit by his master's side and receive his share with gentleness. once or twice he purloined a fowl, but easily gave it up on being allowed a portion of something else; but on one occasion, when a silly servant tried to pull his food from him, he tore a piece of flesh from the offender's leg, but never owed him any ill-will afterward. one morning he broke the cord by which he was confined, and the castle gates being shut, a chase commenced, but after leading his pursuers several times round the ramparts, and knocking over a few children by bouncing against them, he suffered himself to be caught and led quietly back to his quarters, under one of the guns of the fortress. by degrees all fear of him subsided, and he was set at liberty, a boy being appointed to prevent his intruding into the apartments of the officers. his keeper, however, like a true negro, generally passed his watch in sleeping, and saï, as the panther was called, roamed at large. on one occasion he found his servant sitting on the step of the door, upright, but fast asleep, when he lifted his paw, gave him a pat on the side of the head which laid him flat, and then stood wagging his tail as if enjoying the joke. he became exceedingly attached to the governor, and followed him every where like a dog. his favorite station was at a window in the sitting-room, which overlooked the whole town; there, standing on his hind legs, his fore paws resting on the ledge of the window, and his chin laid between them, he amused himself with watching all that was going on. the children were also fond of this scene; and one day finding saï's presence an incumbrance, they united their efforts and pulled him down by the tail. he one day missed the governor, and wandered with dejected look to various parts of the fortress in search of him; while absent on this errand the governor returned to his private rooms, and seated himself at a table to write; presently he heard a heavy step coming up the stairs, and raising his eyes to the open door beheld saï. at that moment he gave himself up for lost, for saï immediately sprang from the door on to his neck; instead, however, of devouring him, he laid his head close to the governor's, rubbed his cheek upon his shoulder, wagged his tail, and tried to evince his happiness. occasionally, however, the panther caused a little alarm to the other inmates of the castle, and on one occasion the woman, whose duty it was to sweep the floors, was made ill by her fright; she was sweeping the boards of the great hall with a short broom, and in an attitude approaching all fours, when saï, who was hidden under one of the sofas, suddenly leaped upon her back, where he stood waving his tail in triumph. she screamed so violently as to summon the other servants, but they, seeing the panther in the act of devouring her, as they thought, gallantly scampered off one and all as fast as their heels could carry them; nor was the woman released from her load till the governor, hearing the noise, came to her assistance. mrs. bowdich determined to take this interesting animal to england, and he was conveyed on board ship, in a large wooden cage, thickly barred in front with iron. even this confinement was not deemed a sufficient protection by the canoe men, who were so alarmed that in their confusion they managed to drop cage and all into the sea. for a few minutes the poor fellow was given up for lost, but some sailors jumped into a boat belonging to the vessel, and dragged him out in safety. he seemed completely subdued by his ducking; and as no one dared to open the cage to dry it, he rolled himself up in one corner, where he remained for some days, till roused by the voice of his mistress. when she first spoke he raised his head, listened attentively, and when she came fully into his view, he jumped on his legs and appeared frantic, rolling over and over, howling and seeming as if he would have torn his cage to pieces; however, his violence gradually subsided, and he contented himself with thrusting his nose and paws through the bars to receive her caresses. the greatest treat that could be bestowed upon saï was lavender water. mr. hutchinson had told mrs. bowdich, that on the way from ashantee, happening to draw out a scented pocket-handkerchief, it was immediately seized by the panther, who reduced it to atoms; nor could he venture to open a bottle of perfume when the animal was near, he was so eager to enjoy it. twice a week his mistress indulged him by making a cup of stiff paper, pouring a little lavender water into it, and giving it to him through the bars of the cage; he would drag it to him with great eagerness, roll himself over it, nor rest till the smell had evaporated. quiet and gentle as saï was, pigs never failed to excite indignation when they hovered about his cage, and the sight of a monkey put him in a complete fury. while at anchor in the gaboon, an orang-outang was brought on board and remained three days. when the two animals met, the uncontrollable rage of the one and the agony of the other was very remarkable. the orang was about three feet high, and very powerful: so that when he fled, with extraordinary rapidity, from the panther to the other side of the deck, neither men or things remained upright if they opposed his progress. as for the panther, his back rose in an arch, his tail was elevated and perfectly stiff, his eyes flashed, and as he howled he showed his huge teeth; then, as if forgetting the bars before him, he made a spring at the orang to tear him to atoms. it was long before he recovered his tranquillity; day and night he was on the listen, and the approach of a monkey or a negro brought back his agitation. during the voyage to england the vessel was boarded by pirates, and the crew and passengers nearly reduced to starvation in consequence; saï must have died had it not been for a collection of more than three hundred parrots; of these his allowance was one per diem, but he became so ravenous that he had not patience to pick off the feathers, but bolted the birds whole; this made him very ill, but mrs. bowdich administered some pills, and he recovered. on the arrival of the vessel in the london docks, saï was presented to the duchess of york, who placed him in exeter change temporarily. on the morning of the duchess's departure for oatlands, she went to visit her new pet, played with him, and admired his gentleness and great beauty. in the evening, when her royal highness's coachman went to take him away to his new quarters at oatlands, saï was dead from inflammation on the lungs. nature, ever provident, has scattered with a bounteous hand her gifts in the country of the orinoco, where the jaguar especially abounds. the savannahs, which are covered with grasses and slender plants, present a surprising luxuriance and diversity of vegetation; piles of granite blocks rise here and there, and, at the margins of the plains, occur deep valleys and ravines, the humid soil of which is covered with arums, heliconias, and llianas. the shelves of primitive rocks, scarcely elevated above the plain, are partially coated with lichens and mosses, together with succulent plants and tufts of evergreen shrubs with shining leaves. the horizon is bounded with mountains overgrown with forests of laurels, among which clusters of palms rise to the height of more than a hundred feet, their slender stems supporting tufts of feathery foliage. to the east of atures other mountains appear, the ridge of which is composed of pointed cliffs, rising like huge pillars above the trees. when these columnar masses are situated near the orinoco, flamingoes, herons, and other wading birds perch on their summits, and look like sentinels. in the vicinity of the cataracts, the moisture which is diffused in the air, produces a perpetual verdure, and wherever soil has accumulated on the plains, it is adorned by the beautiful shrubs of the mountains. such is one view of the picture, but it has its dark side also; those flowing waters, which fertilize the soil, abound with crocodiles; those charming shrubs and flourishing plants, are the hiding-places of deadly serpents; those laurel forests, the favorite lurking spots of the fierce jaguar; while the atmosphere, so clear and lovely, abounds with musquitoes and zancudoes, to such a degree that, in the missions of orinoco, the first questions in the morning when two people meet, are "how did you find the zancudoes during the night? how are we to-day for the musquitoes?" it is in the solitude of this wilderness, that the jaguar, stretched out motionless and silent, upon one of the lower branches of the ancient trees, watches for its passing prey; a deer, urged by thirst, is making its way to the river, and approaches the tree where his enemy lies in wait. the jaguar's eyes dilate, the ears are thrown down, and the whole frame becomes flattened against the branch. the deer, all unconscious of danger, draws near, every limb of the jaguar quivers with excitement; every fibre is stiffened for the spring; then, with the force of a bow unbent, he darts with a terrific yell upon his prey, seizes it by the back of the neck, a blow is given with his powerful paw, and with broken spine the deer falls lifeless to the earth. the blood is then sucked, and the prey dragged to some favorite haunt, where it is devoured at leisure. humboldt surprised a jaguar in his retreat. it was near the joval, below the mouth of the cano de la tigrera, that in the midst of wild and awful scenery, he saw an enormous jaguar stretched beneath the shade of a large mimosa. he had just killed a chiguire, an animal about the size of a pig, which he held with one of his paws, while the vultures were assembled in flocks around. it was curious to observe the mixture of boldness and timidity which these birds exhibited; for although they advanced within two feet of the jaguar, they instantly shrank back at the least motion he made. in order to observe more nearly their proceedings, the travelers went into their little boat, when the tyrant of the forest withdrew behind the bushes, leaving his victim, upon which the vultures attempted to devour it, but were soon put to flight by the jaguar rushing into the midst of them; the following night, humboldt and his party were entertained by a jaguar hunter, half-naked, and as brown as a zambo, who prided himself on being of the european race, and called his wife and daughter, who were as slightly clothed as himself, donna isabella and donna manuela. as this aspiring personage had neither house nor hut, he invited the strangers to swing their hammocks near his own between two trees, but as ill-luck would have it, a thunderstorm came on, which wetted them to the skin; but their troubles did not end here, for donna isabella's cat had perched on one of the trees, and frightened by the thunder-storm, jumped down upon one of the travelers in his cot; he naturally supposed that he was attacked by a wild beast, and as smart a battle took place between the two, as that celebrated feline engagement of don quixote; the cat, who perhaps had most reason to consider himself an ill-used personage, at length bolted, but the fears of the gentleman had been excited to such a degree, that he could hardly be quieted. the following night was not more propitious to slumber. the party finding no tree convenient, had stuck their oars in the sand, and suspended their hammocks upon them. about eleven, there arose in the immediately adjoining wood, so terrific a noise, that it was impossible to sleep. the indians distinguished the cries of sapagous, alouates, jaguars, cougars, peccaris, sloths, curassows, paraquas, and other birds, so that there must have been as full a forest chorus as mr. hullah himself could desire. when the jaguars approached the edge of the forest, which they frequently did, a dog belonging to the party began to howl, and seek refuge under their cots. sometimes, after a long silence, the cry of the jaguars came from the tops of the trees, when it was followed by an outcry among the monkeys. humboldt supposes the noise thus made by the inhabitants of the forest during the night, to be the effect of some contest that has arisen among them. on the pampas of paraguay, great havoc is committed among the herds of horses by the jaguars, whose strength is quite sufficient to enable them to drag off one of these animals. azara caused the body of a horse, which had been recently killed by a jaguar, to be drawn within musket-shot of a tree, in which he intended to pass the night, anticipating that the jaguar would return in the course of it, to its victim; but while he was gone to prepare for his adventure, behold the animal swam across a large and deep river, and having seized the horse with his teeth, dragged it full sixty paces to the river, swam across again with his prey, and then dragged the carcass into a neighboring wood: and all this in sight of a person, whom azara had placed to keep watch. but the jaguars have also an aldermanic goût for turtles, which they gratify in a very systematic manner, as related by humboldt, who was shown large shells of turtles emptied by them. they follow the turtles toward the beaches, where the laying of eggs is to take place, surprise them on the sand, and in order to devour them at their ease, adroitly turn them on their backs; and as they turn many more than they can devour in one night, the indians often profit by their cunning. the jaguar pursues the turtle quite into the water, and when not very deep, digs up the eggs; they, with the crocodile, the heron, and the gallinago vulture, are the most formidable enemies the little turtles have. humboldt justly remarks, "when we reflect on the difficulty that the naturalist finds in getting out the body of the turtle, without separating the upper and under shells, we can not enough admire the suppleness of the jaguar's paw, which empties the double armor of the _arraus_, as if the adhering parts of the muscles had been cut by means of a surgical instrument." the rivers of south america swarm with crocodiles, and these wage perpetual war with the jaguars. it is said, that when the jaguar surprises the alligator asleep on the hot sand-bank, he attacks him in a vulnerable part under the tail, and often kills him, but let the crocodile only get his antagonist into the water, and the tables are turned, for the jaguar is held under water until he is drowned. the onset of the jaguar is always made from behind, partaking of the stealthy treacherous character of his tribe; if a herd of animals, or a party of men be passing, it is the last that is always the object of his attack. when he has made choice of his victim, he springs upon the neck, and placing one paw on the back of the head, while he seizes the muzzle with the other, twists the head round with a sudden jerk which dislocates the spine, and deprives it instantaneously of life; sometimes, especially when satiated with food, he is indolent and cowardly, skulking in the gloomiest depths of the forest, and scared by the most trifling causes, but when urged by the cravings of hunger, the largest quadrupeds, and man himself, are attacked with fury and success. mr. darwin has given an interesting account of the habits of the jaguar: the wooded banks of the great south american rivers appear to be their favorite haunt, but south of the plata they frequent the reeds bordering lakes; wherever they are they seem to require water. they are particularly abundant on the isles of the parana, their common prey being the carpincho, so that it is generally said, where carpinchos are plentiful, there is little fear of the jaguar; possibly, however, a jaguar which has tasted human flesh, may afterward become dainty, and like the lions of south africa, and the tigers of india, acquire the dreadful character of man-eaters, from preferring that food to all others. it is not many years ago since a very large jaguar found his way into a church in santa fé; soon afterward a very corpulent padre entering, was at once killed by him: his equally stout coadjutor, wondering what had detained the padre, went to look after him, and also fell a victim to the jaguar; a third priest, marveling greatly at the unaccountable absence of the others, sought them, and the jaguar having by this time acquired a strong clerical taste, made at him also, but he, being fortunately of the slender order, dodged the animal from pillar to post, and happily made his escape; the beast was destroyed by being shot from a corner of the building, which was unroofed, and thus paid the penalty of his sacrilegious propensities. on the parana they have killed many wood-cutters, and have even entered vessels by night. one dark evening the mate of a vessel, hearing a heavy but peculiar footstep on deck, went up to see what it was, and was immediately met by a jaguar, who had come on board, seeking what he could devour: a severe struggle ensued, assistance arrived, and the brute was killed, but the man lost the use of the arm which had been ground between his teeth. the gauchos say that the jaguar, when wandering about at night, is much tormented by the foxes yelping as they follow him; this may perhaps serve to alarm his prey, but must be as teasing to him as the attentions of swallows are to an owl, who happens to be taking a daylight promenade; and if owls ever swear, it is under those circumstances. mr. darwin, when hunting on the banks of the uruguay, was shown three well-known trees to which the jaguars constantly resort, for the purpose, it is said, of sharpening their claws. every one must be familiar with the manner in which cats, with outstretched legs and extended claws, will card the legs of chairs and of men; so with the jaguar; and of these trees the bark was worn quite smooth in front; on each side there were deep grooves, extending in an oblique line nearly a yard in length. the scars were of different ages, and the inhabitants could always tell when a jaguar was in the neighborhood, by his recent autograph on one of these trees. a fashionable forger. i am an attorney and a bill discounter. as it is my vocation to lend money at high interest to extravagant people, my connection principally lies among "fools," sometimes among rogues, "of quality." mine is a pursuit which a prejudiced world either holds in sovereign contempt, or visits with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness; but to my mind, there are many callings, with finer names, that are no better. it gives me two things which i love--money and power; but i can not deny that it brings with it a bad name. the case lies between character and money, and involves a matter of taste. some people like character; i prefer money. if i am hated and despised, i chuckle over the "per contra." i find it pleasant for members of a proud aristocracy to condescend from their high estate to fawn, feign, flatter; to affect even mirthful familiarity in order to gain my good-will. i am no shylock. no client can accuse me of desiring either his flesh or his blood. sentimental vengeance is no item in my stock in trade. gold and bank-notes satisfy my "rage;" or, if need be, a good mortgage. far from seeking revenge, the worst defaulter i ever had dealings with can not deny that i am always willing to accept a good post-obit. i say again, i am daily brought in contact with all ranks of society, from the poverty-stricken patentee to the peer; and i am no more surprised at receiving an application from a duchess than from a pet opera-dancer. in my ante-room wait, at this moment, a crowd of borrowers. among the men, beardless folly and mustached craft are most prominent: there is a handsome young fellow, with an elaborate cane and wonderfully vacant countenance, who is anticipating, in feeble follies, an estate that has been in the possession of his ancestors since the reign of henry the eighth. there is a hairy, high-nosed, broken-down non-descript, in appearance some thing between a horse-dealer and a pugilist. he is an old etonian. five years ago he drove his four-in-hand; he is now waiting to beg a sovereign, having been just discharged from the insolvent court, for the second time. among the woman, a pretty actress, who, a few years since, looked forward to a supper of steak and onions, with bottled stout, on a saturday night, as a great treat, now finds one hundred pounds a month insufficient to pay her wine-merchant and her confectioner. i am obliged to deal with each case according to its peculiarities. genuine undeserved ruin seldom knocks at my door. mine is a perpetual battle with people who imbibe trickery at the same rate as they dissolve their fortunes. i am a hard man, of course. i should not be fit for my pursuit if i were not; but when, by a remote chance, honest misfortune pays me a visit, as rothschild amused himself at times by giving a beggar a guinea, so i occasionally treat myself to the luxury of doing a kind action. my favorite subjects for this unnatural generosity, are the very young, or the poor, innocent, helpless people, who are unfit for the war of life. many among my clients (especially those tempered in the "ice-brook" of fashion and high life--polished and passionless) would be too much for me, if i had not made the face, the eye, the accent, as much my study as the mere legal and financial points of discount. to show what i mean, i will relate what happened to me not long since: one day, a middle-aged man, in the usual costume of a west-end shopman, who had sent in his name as mr. axminster, was shown into my private room. after a little hesitation, he said, "although you do not know me, living at this end of the town, i know you very well by reputation, and that you discount bills. i have a bill here which i want to get discounted. i am in the employ of messrs. russle and smooth. the bill is drawn by one of our best customers, the hon. miss snape, niece of lord blimley, and accepted by major munge; whom, no doubt, you know by name. she has dealt with us for some years, is very, very extravagant; but always pays." he put the acceptance--which was for two hundred pounds--into my hands. i looked at it as scrutinizingly as i usually do at such paper. the major's signature was familiar to me; but having succeeded to a great estate, he has long ceased to be a customer. i instantly detected a forgery; by whom? was the question. could it be the man before me?--experience told me it was not. perhaps there was something in the expression of my countenance which mr. axminster did not like, for he said, "it is good for the amount, i presume?" i replied, "pray, sir, from whom did you get this bill?" "from miss snape herself." "have you circulated any other bills made by the same drawer?" "o yes!" said the draper, without hesitation; "i have paid away a bill for one hundred pounds to mr. sparkle, the jeweler, to whom miss snape owed twenty pounds. they gave me the difference." "and how long has that bill to run now?" "about a fortnight." "did you endorse it?" "i did," continued the shopman. "mr. sparkle required me to do so, to show that the bill came properly into his possession." "this second bill, you say, is urgently required to enable miss snape to leave town?" "yes; she is going to brighton for the winter." i gave mr. axminster a steady, piercing look of inquiry. "pray, sir," i said, "could you meet that one hundred pounds bill, supposing it should not be paid by the acceptor?" "meet it?" the poor fellow wiped from his forehead the perspiration which suddenly broke out at the bare hint of a probability that the bill would be dishonored: "meet it? o no! i am a married man, with a family, and have nothing but my salary to depend on." "then, the sooner you get it taken up, and the less you have to do with miss snape's bill affairs, the better." "she has always been punctual hitherto." "that may be." i pointed to the cross-writing on the document, and said deliberately, "_this_ bill is a forgery!" at these words the poor man turned pale. he snatched up the document; and, with many incoherent protestations, was rushing toward the door, when i called to him, in an authoritative tone, to stop. he paused. his manner indicating not only doubt, but fear. i said to him, "don't flurry yourself; i only want to serve you. you tell me that you are a married man with children, dependent on daily labor for daily bread; and that you have done a little discounting for miss snape out of your earnings. now, although i am a bill discounter, i don't like to see such men victimized. look at the body of this bill: look at the signature of your lady customer, the drawer. don't you detect the same fine, thin, sharp-pointed handwriting in the words, 'accepted, dymmock munge.'" the man, convinced against his will, was at first overcome. when he recovered, he raved: he would expose the honorable miss snape, if it cost him his bread: he would go at once to the police office. i stopped him, by saying, roughly, "don't be a fool. any such steps would seal your ruin. take my advice; return the bill to the lady, saying simply that you can not get it discounted. leave the rest to me, and i think the bill you have endorsed to sparkle will be paid." comforted by this assurance, axminster, fearfully changed from the nervous, but smug, hopeful man of the morning, departed. it now remained for me to exert what skill i own, to bring about the desired result. i lost no time in writing a letter to the honorable miss snape, of which the following is a copy: "madam--a bill, purporting to be drawn by you, has been offered to me for discount. there is something wrong about it; and, though a stranger to you, i advise you to lose no time in getting it back into your own hands.--d. d." i intended to deal with the affair quietly, and without any view to profit. the fact is, that i was sorry--you may laugh--but i really _was_ sorry to think that a young girl might have given way to temptation under pressure of pecuniary difficulties. if it had been a man's case, i doubt whether i should have interfered. by the return of post, a lady's maid entered my room, profusely decorated with ringlets, lace, and perfumed with _patchouli_. she brought a letter from her mistress. it ran thus: "sir--i can not sufficiently express my thanks for your kindness in writing to me on the subject of the bills; of which i had also heard a few hours previously. as a perfect _stranger_ to you, i can not estimate your kind consideration at too high a value. i trust the matter will be explained; but i should much like to see you. if you would be kind enough to write a note as soon as you receive this, i will order it to be sent to me at once to tyburn-square. i will wait on you at any hour on friday you may appoint. i believe that i am not mistaken in supposing that you transact business for my friend sir john markham, and you will therefore know the inclosed to be his handwriting. again thanking you most gratefully, allow me to remain your much and deeply obliged, "juliana snape." this note was written upon delicate french paper, embossed with a coat of arms. it was in a fancy envelope: the whole richly perfumed, and redolent of rank and fashion. its contents were an implied confession of forgery. silence, or three lines of indignation, would have been the only innocent answer to my letter. but miss snape thanked me. she let me know, by implication, that she was on intimate terms with a name good on a west-end bill. my answer was, that i should be alone on the following afternoon at five. at the hour fixed, punctual to a moment, a brougham drew up at the corner of the street next to my chambers. the honorable miss snape's card was handed in. presently, she entered, swimming into my room, richly yet simply dressed in the extreme of parisian good taste. she was pale--or rather colorless. she had fair hair, fine teeth, and a fashionable voice. she threw herself gracefully into the chair i handed to her, and began by uncoiling a string of phrases, to the effect that her visit was merely to consult me on "unavoidable pecuniary difficulties." according to my mode, i allowed her to talk; putting in only an occasional word of question, that seemed rather a random observation than a significant query. at length, after walking round and round the subject, like a timid horse in a field, round a groom with a sieve of oats, she came nearer and nearer the subject. when she had fairly approached the point, she stopped, as if courage had failed her. but she soon recovered, and observed--"i can not think why you should take the trouble to write so to me, a perfect stranger." another pause--"i wonder no one ever suspected me before." here was a confession and a key to character. the cold gray eye, the thin compressed lips, which i had had time to observe, were true indexes to the "lady's" inner heart:--selfish, calculating, utterly devoid of conscience; unable to conceive the existence of spontaneous kindness; utterly indifferent to any thing except discovery; and almost indifferent to that, because convinced that no serious consequences could affect a lady of her rank and influence. "madam," i replied, "as long as you dealt with tradesmen accustomed to depend on aristocratic customers, your rank and position, and their large profits, protected you from suspicion; but you have made a mistake in descending from your vantage ground to make a poor shopman your innocent accomplice--a man who will be keenly alive to any thing that may injure his wife or children. his terrors--but for my interposition--would have ruined you. tell me, how many of these things have you put afloat?" she seemed a little taken aback by this speech; but was wonderfully firm. she passed her white, jeweled hand over her eyes, seemed calculating, and then whispered, with a confiding look of innocent helplessness, admirably assumed: "about as many as amount to twelve hundred pounds." "and what means have you for meeting them?" at this question, so plainly put, her face flushed. she half-rose from her chair, and exclaimed, in the true tone of aristocratic _hauteur_, "really, sir, i do not know what right you have to ask me that question." i laughed a little, though not very loud. it was rude, i own; but who could have helped it? i replied, speaking low, but slowly and distinctly, "you forget. i did not send for you: you came to me. you have forged bills to the amount of twelve hundred pounds. yours is not the case of a ruined merchant, or an ignorant over-tempted clerk. in your case a jury" (she shuddered at that word) "would find no extenuating circumstances; and if you should ever fall into the hands of justice, you will be convicted, degraded, clothed in a prison dress, and transported for life. i do not want to speak harshly; but i insist that you find means to take up the bill which mr. axminster has so unwittingly indorsed!" the honorable miss snape's grand manner melted away. she wept. she seized and pressed my hand. she cast up her eyes, full of tears, and went through the part of a repentant victim with great fervor. she would do any thing; any thing in the world to save the poor man. indeed, she had intended to appropriate part of the two hundred pound bill to that purpose. she forgot her first statement, that she wanted the money to go out of town. without interrupting, i let her go on and degrade herself by a simulated passion of repentance, regret, and thankfulness to me, under which she hid her fear and her mortification at being detected. i at length put an end to a scene of admirable acting, by recommending her to go abroad immediately, to place herself out of reach of any sudden discovery; and then lay her case fully before her friends, who would, no doubt, feel bound to come forward with the full amount of the forged bills. "but," she exclaimed, with an entreating air, "i have no money; i can not go without money!" to that observation i did not respond; although i am sure she expected that i should, check-book in hand, offer her a loan. i do not say so without reason; for, the very next week, this honorable young lady came again; and, with sublime assurance and a number of very charming, winning speeches (which might have had their effect upon a younger man), asked me to lend her one hundred pounds, in order that she might take the advice i had so obligingly given her, and retire into private life for a certain time in the country. i do meet with a great many impudent people in the course of my calling--i am not very deficient in assurance myself--but this actually took away my breath. "really, madam," i answered, "you pay a very ill compliment to my gray hairs; and would fain make me a very ill return for the service i have done you, when you ask me to lend a hundred pounds to a young lady who owns to having forged to the extent of one thousand two hundred pounds, and to owing eight hundred pounds besides. i wished to save a personage of your years and position from a disgraceful career; but i am too good a trustee for my children to lend money to any body in such a dangerous position as yourself." "oh!" she answered, quite unabashed, without a trace of the fearful, tender pleading of the previous week's interview--quite as if i had been an accomplice, "i can give you excellent security." "that alters the case; i can lend any amount on good security." "well, sir, i can get the acceptances of three friends of ample means." "do you mean to tell me, miss snape, that you will write down the names of three parties who will accept a bill for one hundred pounds for you?" yes, she could, and did actually write down the names of three distinguished men. now i knew for certain that not one of those noblemen would have put his name to a bill on any account whatever for his dearest friend; but, in her unabashed self-confidence, she thought of passing another forgery _on me_. i closed the conference by saying, "i can not assist you;" and she retired with the air of an injured person. in the course of a few days i heard from mr. axminster, that his liability had been duly honored. in my active and exciting life, one day extinguishes the recollection of the events of the preceding day; and, for a time, i thought no more about the fashionable forger. i had taken it for granted that, heartily frightened, although not repenting, she had paused in her felonious pursuits. my business, one day, led me to the establishment of one of the most wealthy and respectable legal firms in the city, where i am well known, and, i believe, valued; for at all times i am most politely, i may say most cordially received. mutual profits create a wonderful freemasonry between those who have not any other sympathy or sentiment. politics, religion, morality, difference of rank, are all equalized and republicanized by the division of an account. no sooner had i entered the _sanctum_, than the senior partner, mr. preceps, began to quiz his junior, mr. jones, with, "well, jones must never joke friend discount any more about usury. just imagine," he continued, addressing me, "jones has himself been discounting a bill for a lady; and a deuced pretty one, too. he sat next her at dinner in grosvenor-square last week. next day she gave him a call here, and he could not refuse her extraordinary request. gad, it is hardly fair for jones to be poaching on your domains of west-end paper!" mr. jones smiled quietly, as he observed, "why, you see, she is the niece of one of our best clients; and, really, i was so taken by surprise, that i did not know how to refuse." "pray," said i, interrupting his excuses, "does your young lady's name begin with s? has she not a very pale face, and cold gray eye?" the partners stared. "ah! i see it is so; and can at once tell you that the bill is not worth a rush." "why, you don't mean--?" "i mean simply that the acceptance is, i'll lay you a wager, a forgery." "a forgery!" "a forgery," i repeated, as distinctly as possible. mr. jones hastily, and with broken ejaculations, called for the cash-box. with trembling hands he took out the bill, and followed my finger with eager, watchful eyes, as i pointed out the proofs of my assertion. a long pause was broken by my mocking laugh, for, at the moment, my sense of politeness could not restrain my satisfaction at the signal defeat which had attended the first experiment of these highly respectable gentlemen in the science of usury. the partners did not have recourse to the police. they did not propose a consultation with either mr. forrester or mr. field: but they took certain steps, under my recommendation; the result of which was that at an early day, an aunt of the honorable miss snape was driven, to save so near a connection from transportation, to sell out some fourteen hundred pounds of stock, and all the forgeries were taken up. one would have thought that the lady who had thus so narrowly escaped, had had enough; but forgery, like opium-eating, is one of those charming vices which is never abandoned, when once adopted. the forger enjoys not only the pleasure of obtaining money so easily, but the triumph of be-fooling sharp men of the world. dexterous penmanship is a source of the same sort of pride as that which animates the skillful rifleman, the practiced duelist, or well-trained billiard-player. with a clean gillott he fetches down a capitalist, at three or six months, for a cool hundred or a round thousand; just as a scrope drops over a stag at ten, or a gordon cumming a monstrous male elephant at a hundred paces. as i before observed, my connection especially lies among the improvident--among those who will be ruined--who are being ruined--and who have been ruined. to the last class belongs francis fisherton, once a gentleman, now without a shilling or a principle; but rich in mother-wit--in fact a _farceur_, after paul de kock's own heart. having in by-gone days been one of my willing victims, he occasionally finds pleasure and profit in guiding others through the gate he frequented, as long as able to pay the tolls. in truth he is what is called a "discount agent." one day i received a note from him, to say that he would call on me at three o'clock the next day, to introduce a lady of family, who wanted a bill "done" for one hundred pounds. so ordinary a transaction merely needed a memorandum in my diary, "tuesday, p.m.; f. f., £ bill." the hour came and passed; but no frank, which was strange--because every one must have observed, that, however dilatory people are in paying, they are wonderfully punctual when they expect to receive money. at five o'clock, in rushed my jackal. his story, disentangled from oaths and ejaculations, amounted to this:--in answer to one of the advertisements he occasionally addresses "to the embarrassed," in the columns of the "times," he received a note from a lady, who said she was anxious to get a "bill done"--the acceptance of a well-known man of rank and fashion. a correspondence was opened, and an appointment made. at the hour fixed, neatly shaved, brushed, gloved, booted--the revival, in short, of that high-bred frank fisherton, who was so famous. "in his hot youth, when crockford's was the thing," glowing with only one glass of brandy "just to steady his nerves," he met the lady at a west-end pastry-cook's. after a few words (for all the material questions had been settled by correspondence) she stepped into her brougham; and invited frank to take a seat beside her. elated with a compliment of late years so rare, he commenced planning the orgies which were to reward him for weeks of enforced fasting, when the coachman, reverentially touching his hat, looked down from his seat for orders. "to ninety-nine, george-street, st. james," cried fisherton, in his loudest tones. in an instant, the young lady's pale face changed to scarlet, and then to ghastly green. in a whisper, rising to a scream, she exclaimed, "good heavens! you do not mean to _that_ man's house" (meaning me). "indeed, i can not go to him, on any account; he is a most horrid man, i am told, and charges most extravagantly." "madam," answered frank, in great perturbation, "i beg your pardon, but you have been grossly misinformed. i have known that excellent man these twenty years, and have paid him hundreds on hundreds; but never so much by ten per cent. as you offered me for discounting your bill." "sir, i can not have any thing to do with your friend." then, violently pulling the check-string, "stop," she gasped: "and _will you_ have the goodness to get out?" "and so i got out," continued fisherton, "and lost my time; and the heavy investment i made in getting myself up for the assignation; new primrose gloves, and a shilling to the hair-dresser--hang her! but, did you ever know any thing like the prejudices that must prevail against you? i am disgusted with human nature. could you lend me half a sovereign till saturday?" i smiled; i sacrificed the half-sovereign and let him go, for he is not exactly the person to whom it was advisable to intrust all the secrets relating to the honorable miss snape. since that day i look each morning in the police reports, with considerable interest; but, up to the present hour, the honorable miss snape has lived and thrived in the best society. to be read at dusk. by charles dickens. one, two, three, four, five. there were five of them. five couriers, sitting on a bench outside the convent on the summit of the great st. bernard in switzerland, looking at the remote heights, stained by the setting sun, as if a mighty quantity of red wine had been broached upon the mountain top, and had not yet had time to sink into the snow. this is not my simile. it was made for the occasion by the stoutest courier, who was a german. none of the others took any more notice of it than they took of me, sitting on another bench on the other side of the convent door, smoking my cigar, like them, and--also like them--looking at the reddened snow, and at the lonely shed hard by, where the bodies of belated travelers, dug out of it, slowly wither away, knowing no corruption in that cold region. the wine upon the mountain top soaked in as we looked; the mountain became white; the sky, a very dark blue; the wind rose; and the air turned piercing cold. the five couriers buttoned their rough coats. there being no safer man to imitate in all such proceedings than a courier, i buttoned mine. the mountain in the sunset had stopped the five couriers in a conversation. it is a sublime sight, likely to stop conversation. the mountain being now out of the sunset, they resumed. not that i had heard any part of their previous discourse; for, indeed, i had not then broken away from the american gentleman, in the travelers' parlor of the convent, who, sitting with his face to the fire, had undertaken to realize to me the whole progress of events which had led to the accumulation by the honorable ananias dodger of one of the largest acquisitions of dollars ever made in our country. "my god!" said the swiss courier, speaking in french, which i do not hold (as some authors appear to do) to be such an all-sufficient excuse for a naughty word, that i have only to write it in that language to make it innocent; "if you talk of ghosts--" "but i _don't_ talk of ghosts," said the german. "of what then?" asked the swiss. "if i knew of what then," said the german, "i should probably know a great deal more." it was a good answer, i thought, and it made me curious. so, i moved my position to that corner of my bench which was nearest to them and leaning my back against the convent-wall, heard perfectly, without appearing to attend. "thunder and lightning!" said the german, warming, "when a certain man is coming to see you, unexpectedly; and, without his own knowledge, sends some invisible messenger, to put the idea of him in your head all day, what do you call that? when you walk along a crowded street--at frankfort, milan, london, paris--and think that a passing stranger is like your friend heinrich, and then that another passing stranger is like your friend heinrich, and so begin to have a strange foreknowledge that presently you'll meet your friend heinrich--which you do, though you believed him at trieste--what do you call _that_?" "it's not uncommon either," murmured the swiss and the other three. "uncommon!" said the german. "it's as common as cherries in the black forest. it's as common as maccaroni at naples. and naples reminds me! when the old marchesa senzanima shrieks at a card party on the chiaja--as i heard and saw her, for it happened in a bavarian family of mine, and i was overlooking the service that evening--i say, when the old marchesa starts up at the card-table, white through her rouge, and cries, 'my sister in spain is dead! i felt her cold touch on my back!'--and when that sister _is_ dead at the moment--what do you call that?" "or when the blood of san gennaro liquefies at the request of the clergy--as all the world knows that it does regularly once a year, in my native city," said the neapolitan courier, after a pause, with a comical look, "what do you call that?" "_that!_" cried the german. "well! i think i know a name for that." "miracle?" said the neapolitan, with the same sly face. the german merely smoked and laughed; and they all smoked and laughed. "bah!" said the german, presently. "i speak of things that really do happen. when i want to see the conjurer, i pay to see a professed one, and have my money's worth. very strange things do happen without ghosts. ghosts! giovanni baptista, tell your story of the english bride. there's no ghost in that, but something full as strange. will any man tell me what?" as there was a silence among them, i glanced around. he whom i took to be baptista was lighting a fresh cigar. he presently went on to speak. he was a genoese, as i judged. "the story of the english bride?" said he. "basta! one ought not to call so slight a thing a story. well, it's all one. but it's true. observe me well, gentlemen, it's true. that which glitters is not always gold; but what i am going to tell is true." he repeated this more than once. ten years ago, i took my credentials to an english gentleman at long's hotel, in bond-street, london, who was about to travel--it might be for one year, it might be for two. he approved of them; likewise of me. he was pleased to make inquiry. the testimony that he received was favorable. he engaged me by the six months, and my entertainment was generous. he was young, handsome, very happy. he was enamored of a fair young english lady, with a sufficient fortune, and they were going to be married. it was the wedding trip, in short, that we were going to take. for three months' rest in the hot weather (it was early summer then) he had hired an old palace on the riviera, at an easy distance from my city, genoa, on the road to nice. did i know that palace? yes; i told him i knew it well. it was an old palace, with great gardens. it was a little bare, and it was a little dark and gloomy, being close surrounded by trees; but it was spacious, ancient, grand, and on the sea shore. he said it had been so described to him exactly, and he was well pleased that i knew it. for its being a little bare of furniture, all such places were. for its being a little gloomy, he had hired it principally for the gardens, and he and my mistress would pass the summer weather in their shade. "so all goes well, baptista?" said he. "indubitably, signor; very well." we had a traveling chariot for our journey, newly built for us, and in all respects complete. all we had was complete; we wanted for nothing. the marriage took place. they were happy. _i_ was happy, seeing all so bright, being so well situated, going to my own city, teaching my language in the rumble to the maid, la bella carolina, whose heart was gay with laughter: who was young and rosy. the time flew. but i observed--listen to this, i pray!--(and here the courier dropped his voice)--i observed my mistress sometimes brooding in a manner very strange; in a frightened manner; in an unhappy manner; with a cloudy, uncertain alarm upon her. i think that i began to notice this when i was walking up hills by the carriage side, and master had gone on in front. at any rate, i remember that it impressed itself upon my mind one evening in the south of france, when she called to me to call master back; and when he came back, and walked for a long way, talking encouragingly and affectionately to her, with his hand upon the open window, and hers in it. now and then, he laughed in a merry way, as if he were bantering her out of something. by-and-by, she laughed, and then all went well again. it was curious. i asked la bella carolina, the pretty little one, was mistress unwell? no. out of spirits? no. fearful of bad roads, or brigands? no. and what made it more mysterious was, the pretty little one would not look at me in giving answer, but _would_ look at the view. but, one day she told me the secret. "if you must know," said carolina, "i find, from what i have overheard, that mistress is haunted." "how haunted?" "by a dream." "what dream?" "by a dream of a face. for three nights before her marriage, she saw a face in a dream--always the same face, and only one." "a terrible face?" "no. the face of a dark, remarkable-looking man, in black, with black hair and a gray mustache--a handsome man, except for a reserved and secret air. not a face she ever saw, or at all like a face she ever saw. doing nothing in the dream but looking at her fixedly, out of darkness." "does the dream come back?" "never. the recollection of it, is all her trouble." "and why does it trouble her?" carolina shook her head. "that's master's question," said la bella. "she don't know. she wonders why, herself. but i heard her tell him, only last night, that if she was to find a picture of that face in our italian house (which she is afraid she will), she did not know how she could ever bear it." upon my word i was fearful after this (said the genoese courier), of our coming to the old palazzo, lest some such ill-starred picture should happen to be there. i knew there were many there; and, as we got nearer and nearer to the place, i wished the whole gallery in the crater of vesuvius. to mend the matter, it was a stormy dismal evening when we, at last, approached that part of the riviera. it thundered; and the thunder of my city and its environs, rolling among the high hills, is very loud. the lizards ran in and out of the chinks in the broken stone wall of the garden, as if they were frightened; the frogs bubbled and croaked their loudest; the sea-wind moaned, and the wet trees dripped; and the lightning--body of san lorenzo, how it lightened! we all know what an old palazzo in or near genoa is--how time and the sea air have blotted it--how the drapery painted on the outer walls has peeled off in great flakes of plaster--how the lower windows are darkened with rusty bars of iron--how the courtyard is overgrown with grass--how the outer buildings are dilapidated--how the whole pile seems devoted to ruin. our palazzo was one of the true kind. it had been shut up close for months. months?--years! it had an earthy smell, like a tomb. the scent of the orange-trees on the broad back terrace, and of the lemons ripening on the wall, and of some shrubs that grew around a broken fountain, had got into the house somehow, and had never been able to get out again. there it was, in every room, an aged smell, grown faint with confinement. it pined in all the cupboards and drawers. in the little rooms of communication between great rooms, it was stifling. if you turned a picture--to come back to the pictures--there it still was, clinging to the wall behind the frame, like a sort of bat. the lattice-blinds were close shut, all over the house. there were two ugly, gray old women in the house, to take care of it; one of them with a spindle, who stood winding and mumbling in the doorway, and who would as soon have let in the devil as the air. master, mistress, la bella carolina, and i, went all through the palazzo. i went first, though i have named myself last, opening the windows and the lattice-blinds, and shaking down on myself splashes of rain, and scraps of mortar, and now and then a dozing musquito, or a monstrous, fat, blotchy, genoese spider. when i had let the evening light into a room, master, mistress, and la bella carolina entered. then, we looked round at all the pictures, and i went forward again into another room. mistress secretly had great fear of meeting with the likeness of that face--we all had; but there was no such thing. the madonna and bambino, san francisco, san sebastiano, venus, santa caterina, angels, brigands, friars, temples at sunset, battles, white horses, forests, apostles, doges, all my old acquaintance many times repeated? yes. dark, handsome man in black, reserved and secret, with black hair and gray mustache, looking fixedly at mistress out of darkness? no. at last we got through all the rooms and all the pictures, and came out into the gardens. they were pretty well kept, being rented by a gardener, and were large and shady. in one place, there was a rustic theatre, open to the sky; the stage a green slope: the coulisses, three entrances upon a side, sweet-smelling leafy screens. mistress moved her bright eyes, even there, as if she looked to see the face come in upon the scene: but all was well. "now, clara," master said, in a low voice, "you see that it is nothing? you are happy." mistress was much encouraged. she soon accustomed herself to that grim palazzo, and would sing, and play the harp, and copy the old pictures, and stroll with master under the green trees and vines, all day. she was beautiful. he was happy. he would laugh and say to me, mounting his horse for his morning ride before the heat: "all goes well, baptista!" "yes, signore, thank god; very well!" we kept no company. i took la bella to the duomo and annunciata, to the café, to the opera, to the village festa, to the public garden, to the day theatre, to the marionetti. the pretty little one was charmed with all she saw. she learnt italian--heavens! miraculously! was mistress quite forgetful of that dream? i asked carolina sometimes. nearly, said la bella--almost. it was wearing out. one day master received a letter, and called me. "baptista!" "signore." "a gentleman who is presented to me will dine here to-day. he is called the signor dellombra. let me dine like a prince." it was an odd name. i did not know that name. but, there had been many noblemen and gentlemen pursued by austria on political suspicions, lately, and some names had changed. perhaps this was one. altro! dellombra was as good a name to me as another. when the signor dellombra came to dinner (said the genoese courier in the low voice, into which he had subsided once before), i showed him into the reception-room, the great sala of the old palazzo. master received him with cordiality, and presented him to mistress. as she rose, her face changed, she gave a cry, and fell upon the marble floor. then, i turned my head to the signor dellombra, and saw that he was dressed in black, and had a reserved and secret air, and was a dark remarkable-looking man, with black hair and a gray mustache. master raised mistress in his arms, and carried her to her own room, where i sent la bella carolina straight. la bella told me afterward that mistress was nearly terrified to death, and that she wandered in her mind about her dream, all night. master was vexed and anxious--almost angry, and yet full of solicitude. the signor dellombra was a courtly gentleman, and spoke with great respect and sympathy of mistress's being so ill. the african wind had been blowing for some days (they had told him at his hotel of the maltese cross), and he knew that it was often hurtful. he hoped the beautiful lady would recover soon. he begged permission to retire, and to renew his visit when he should have the happiness of hearing that she was better. master would not allow of this, and they dined alone. he withdrew early. next day he called at the gate, on horseback, to inquire for mistress. he did so two or three times in that week. what i observed myself, and what la bella carolina told me, united to explain to me that master had now set his mind on curing mistress of her fanciful terror. he was all kindness, but he was sensible and firm. he reasoned with her, that to encourage such fancies was to invite melancholy, if not madness. that it rested with herself to be herself. that if she once resisted her strange weakness, so successfully as to receive the signor dellombra as an english lady would receive any other guest, it was forever conquered. to make an end, the signor came again, and mistress received him without marked distress (though with constraint and apprehension still), and the evening passed serenely. master was so delighted with this change, and so anxious to confirm it, that the signor dellombra became a constant guest. he was accomplished in pictures, books, and music; and his society, in any grim palazzo, would have been welcome. i used to notice, many times, that mistress was not quite recovered. she would cast down her eyes and droop her head, before the signor dellombra, or would look at him with a terrified and fascinated glance, as if his presence had some evil influence or power upon her. turning from her to him, i used to see him in the shaded gardens, or the large half-lighted sala, looking, as i might say, "fixedly upon her out of darkness." but, truly, i had not forgotten la bella carolina's words describing the face in the dream. after his second visit i heard master say: "now see, my dear clara, it's over! dellombra has come and gone, and your apprehension is broken like glass." "will he--will he ever come again?" asked mistress. "again? why, surely, over and over again! are you cold?" (she shivered). "no, dear--but--he terrifies me: are you sure that he need come again?" "the surer for the question, clara!" replied master, cheerfully. but, he was very hopeful of her complete recovery now, and grew more and more so every day. she was beautiful. he was happy. "all goes well, baptista?" he would say to me again. "yes, signore, thank god; very well." we were all (said the genoese courier, constraining himself to speak a little louder), we were all at rome for the carnival. i had been out, all day, with a sicilian, a friend of mine and a courier, who was there with an english family. as i returned at night to our hotel, i met the little carolina, who never stirred from home alone, running distractedly along the corso. "carolina! what's the matter?" "o baptista! oh, for the lord's sake! where is my mistress?" "mistress, carolina?" "gone since morning--told me, when master went out on his day's journey, not to call her, for she was tired, with not resting in the night (having been in pain), and would lie in bed until the evening; then get up refreshed. she is gone!--she is gone! master has come back, broken down the door, and she is gone! my beautiful, my good, my innocent mistress!" the pretty little one so cried, and raved, and tore herself, that i could not have held her, but for her swooning on my arm as if she had been shot. master came up--in manner, face, or voice, no more the master that i knew, than i was he. he took me (i laid the little one upon her bed in the hotel, and left her with the chamber-women), in a carriage, furiously through the darkness, across the desolate campagna. when it was day, and we stopped at a miserable post-house, all the horses had been hired twelve hours ago, and sent away in different directions. mark me!--by the signor dellombra, who had passed there in a carriage, with a frightened english lady crouching in one corner. i never heard (said the genoese courier, drawing a long breath) that she was ever traced beyond that spot. all i know is, that she vanished into infamous oblivion, with the dreaded face beside her that she had seen in her dream. "what do you call _that?_" said the german courier, triumphantly; "ghosts! there are no ghosts _there!_ what do you call this, that i am going to tell you? ghosts? there are no ghosts _here!_" _i_ took an engagement once (pursued the german courier) with an english gentleman, elderly and a bachelor, to travel through my country, my fatherland. he was a merchant who traded with my country and knew the language, but who had never been there since he was a boy--as i judge, some sixty years before. his name was james, and he had a twin-brother john, also a bachelor. between these brothers there was a great affection. they were in business together at goodman's fields, but they did not live together. mr. james dwelt in poland-street, turning out of oxford-street, london. mr. john resided by epping forest. mr. james and i were to start for germany in about a week. the exact day depended on business. mr. john came to poland-street (where i was staying in the house), to pass that week with mr. james. but, he said to his brother on the second day, "i don't feel very well, james. there's not much the matter with me; but i think i am a little gouty. i'll go home and put myself under the care of my old housekeeper, who understands my ways. if i get quite better, i'll come back and see you before you go. if i don't feel well enough to resume my visit where i leave it off, why _you_ will come and see _me_ before you go." mr. james, of course, said he would, and they shook hands--both hands, as they always did--and mr. john ordered out his old-fashioned chariot and rumbled home. it was on the second night after that--that is to say, the fourth in the week--when i was awoke out of my sound sleep by mr. james coming into my bedroom in his flannel-gown, with a lighted candle. he sat upon the side of my bed, and looking at me, said: "wilhelm, i have reason to think i have got some strange illness upon me." i then perceived that there was a very unusual expression in his face. "wilhelm," said he, "i am not afraid or ashamed to tell you, what i might be afraid or ashamed to tell another man. you come from a sensible country, where mysterious things are inquired into, and are not settled to have been weighed and measured or to have been unweighable and immeasurable--or in either case to have been completely disposed of, for all time--ever so many years ago. i have just now seen the phantom of my brother." i confess (said the german courier) that it gave me a little tingling of the blood to hear it. "i have just now seen," mr. james repeated, looking full at me, that i might see how collected he was, "the phantom of my brother john. i was sitting up in bed, unable to sleep, when it came into my room, in a white dress, and, regarding me earnestly, passed up to the end of the room, glanced at some papers on my writing-desk, turned, and, still looking earnestly at me as it passed the bed, went out at the door. now, i am not in the least mad, and am not in the least disposed to invest that phantom with an external existence out of myself. i think it is a warning to me that i am ill; and i think i had better be bled." i got out of bed directly (said the german courier) and began to get on my clothes, begging him not to be alarmed, and telling him that i would go myself to the doctor. i was just ready, when we heard a loud knocking and ringing at the street door. my room being an attic at the back, and mr. james's being the second-floor room in the front, we went down to his room, and put up the window, to see what was the matter. "is that mr. james?" said a man below, falling back to the opposite side of the way to look up. "it is," said mr. james; "and you are my brother's man, robert." "yes, sir. i am sorry to say, sir, that mr. john is ill. he is very bad, sir. it is even feared that he may be lying at the point of death. he wants to see you, sir. i have a chaise here. pray come to him. pray lose no time." mr. james and i looked at one another. "wilhelm," said he, "this is strange. i wish you to come with me!" i helped him to dress, partly there and partly in the chaise; and no grass grew under the horses' iron shoes between poland-street and the forest. now, mind! (said the german courier). i went with mr. james into his brother's room, and i saw and heard myself what follows. his brother lay upon his bed, at the upper end of a long bed-chamber. his old housekeeper was there, and others were there: i think three others were there, if not four, and they had been with him since early in the afternoon. he was in white, like the figure--necessarily so, because he had his night-dress on. he looked like the figure--necessarily so, because he looked earnestly at his brother when he saw him come into the room. but, when his brother reached the bed-side, he slowly raised himself in bed, and looking full upon him, said these words: "james, you have seen me before, to-night, and you know it!" and so died! i waited, when the german courier ceased, to hear something said of this strange story. the silence was unbroken. i looked round, and the five couriers were gone: so noiselessly that the ghostly mountain might have absorbed them into its eternal snows. by this time, i was by no means in a mood to sit alone in that awful scene, with the chill air coming solemnly upon me--or, if i may tell the truth, to sit alone anywhere. so i went back into the convent-parlor, and, finding the american gentleman still disposed to relate the biography of the honorable ananias dodger, heard it all out. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] [ ] continued from the december number. chapter vii. randal advanced--"i fear, signior riccabocca, that i am guilty of some want of ceremony." "to dispense with ceremony is the most delicate mode of conferring a compliment," replied the urbane italian, as he recovered from his first surprise at randal's sudden address, and extended his hand. violante bowed her graceful head to the young man's respectful salutation. "i am on my way to hazeldean," resumed randal, "and, seeing you in the garden, could not resist this intrusion." riccabocca.--"you come from london? stirring times for you english, but i do not ask you the news. no news can affect us." randal (softly). "perhaps--yes." riccabocca (startled).--"how?" violante.--"surely he speaks of italy, and news from that country affects you still, my father." riccabocca.--"nay, nay, nothing affects me like this country; its east wind might affect a pyramid! draw your mantle round you, child, and go in; the air has suddenly grown chill." violante smiled on her father, glanced uneasily toward randal's grave brow, and went slowly toward the house. riccabocca, after waiting some moments in silence, as if expecting randal to speak, said with affected carelessness. "so you think that you have news that might affect me? _corpo di bacco!_ i am curious to learn what!" "i may be mistaken--that depends on your answer to one question. do you know the count of peschiera?" riccabocca winced, and turned pale. he could not baffle the watchful eye of the questioner. "enough," said randal; "i see that i am right. believe in my sincerity. i speak but to warn and to serve you. the count seeks to discover the retreat of a countryman and kinsman of his own." "and for what end?" cried riccabocca, thrown off his guard, and his breast dilated, his crest rose, and his eye flashed; valor and defiance broke from habitual caution and self-control. "but pooh," he added, striving to regain his ordinary and half-ironical calm, "it matters not to me. i grant, sir, that i know the count di peschiera; but what has dr. riccabocca to do with the kinsman of so grand a personage?" "dr. riccabocca--nothing. but--" here randal put his lips close to the italian's ear, and whispered a brief sentence. then retreating a step, but laying his hand on the exile's shoulder, he added--"need i say that your secret is safe with me?" riccabocca made no answer. his eyes rested on the ground musingly. randal continued--"and i shall esteem it the highest honor you can bestow on me, to be permitted to assist you in forestalling danger." riccabocca (slowly).--"sir, i thank you; you have my secret, and i feel assured it is safe, for i speak to an english gentleman. there may be family reasons why i should avoid the count di peschiera; and, indeed, he is safest from shoals who steers clearest of his--relations." the poor italian regained his caustic smile as he uttered that wise, villainous italian maxim. randal.--"i know little of the count of peschiera save from the current talk of the world. he is said to hold the estates of a kinsman who took part in a conspiracy against the austrian power." riccabocca.--"it is true. let that content him; what more does he desire? you spoke of forestalling danger? what danger? i am on the soil of england, and protected by its laws." randal.--"allow me to inquire if, had the kinsman no child, the count di peschiera would be legitimate and natural heir to the estates he holds?" riccabocca.--"he would. what then?" randal.--"does that thought suggest no danger to the child of the kinsman?" riccabocca recoiled, and gasped forth, "the child! you do not mean to imply that this man, infamous though he be, can contemplate the crime of an assassin?" randal paused perplexed. his ground was delicate. he knew not what causes of resentment the exile entertained against the count. he knew not whether riccabocca would not assent to an alliance that might restore him to his country--and he resolved to feel his way with precaution. "i did not," said he, smiling gravely, "mean to insinuate so horrible a charge against a man whom i have never seen. he seeks you--that is all i know. i imagine from his general character, that in this search he consults his interest. perhaps all matters might be conciliated by an interview!" "an interview!" exclaimed riccabocca; "there is but one way we should meet--foot to foot, and hand to hand." "is it so? then you would not listen to the count if he proposed some amicable compromise; if, for instance, he was a candidate for the hand of your daughter?" the poor italian, so wise and so subtle in his talk, was as rash and blind when it came to action, as if he had been born in ireland, and nourished on potatoes and repeal. he bared his whole soul to the merciless eye of randal. "my daughter!" he exclaimed. "sir, your question is an insult." randal's way became clear at once. "forgive me," he said, mildly; "i will tell you frankly all that i know. i am acquainted with the count's sister. i have some little influence over her. it was she who informed me that the count had come here, bent upon discovering your refuge, and resolved to wed your daughter. this is the danger of which i spoke. and when i asked your permission to aid in forestalling it, i only intended to suggest that it might be wise to find some securer home, and that i, if permitted to know that home, and to visit you, could apprise you, from time to time, of the count's plans and movements." "sir, i thank you sincerely," said riccabocca, with emotion; "but am i not safe here?" "i doubt it. many people have visited the squire in the shooting season, who will have heard of you--perhaps seen you, and who are likely to meet the count in london. and frank hazeldean, too, who knows the count's sister--" "true, true," interrupted riccabocca. "i see, i see. i will consider. i will reflect. meanwhile you are going to hazeldean. do not say a word to the squire. he knows not the secret you have discovered." with those words riccabocca turned slightly away, and randal took the hint to depart. "at all times command and rely on me," said the young traitor, and he regained the pale to which he had fastened his horse. as he remounted, he cast his eyes toward the place where he had left riccabocca. the italian was still standing there. presently the form of jackeymo was seen emerging from the shrubs. riccabocca turned hastily round, recognized his servant, uttered an exclamation loud enough to reach randal's ear, and then catching jackeymo by the arm, disappeared with him amidst the deeper recesses of the garden. "it will be indeed in my favor," thought randal, as he rode on, "if i can get them into the neighborhood of london--all occasion there to woo, and, if expedient, to win--the heiress." chapter viii. "by the lord harry!" cried the squire, as he stood with his wife in the park, on a visit of inspection to some first-rate south-downs just added to his stock; "by the lord, if that is not randal leslie trying to get into the park at the back gate! hollo, randal! you must come round by the lodge, my boy," said he. "you see this gate is locked to keep out trespassers." "a pity," said randal. "i like short-cuts, and you have shut up a very short one." "so the trespassers said," quoth the squire "but stirn would not hear of it;--valuable man stirn. but ride round to the lodge. put up your horse, and you'll join us before we can get to the house." randal nodded and smiled, and rode briskly on. the squire rejoined his harry. "ah, william," said she anxiously, "though certainly randal leslie means well, i always dread his visits." "so do i, in one sense," quoth the squire, "for he always carries away a bank-note for frank." "i hope he is really frank's friend," said mrs. hazeldean. "whose else can he be? not his own, poor fellow, for he will never accept a shilling from me, though his grandmother was as good a hazeldean as i am. but, zounds! i like his pride, and his economy too. as for frank--" "hush, william!" cried mrs. hazeldean, and put her fair hand before the squire's mouth. the squire was softened, and kissed the fair hand gallantly--perhaps he kissed the lips too; at all events, the worthy pair were walking lovingly arm-in-arm when randal joined them. he did not affect to perceive a certain coldness in the manner of mrs. hazeldean, but began immediately to talk to her about frank; praise that young gentleman's appearance; expatiate on his health, his popularity, and his good gifts, personal and mental; and this with so much warmth, that any dim and undeveloped suspicions mrs. hazeldean might have formed soon melted away. randal continued to make himself thus agreeable, until the squire, persuaded that his young kinsman was a first-rate agriculturist, insisted upon carrying him off to the home-farm, and harry turned toward the house to order randal's room to be got ready: "for," said randal, "knowing that you will excuse my morning dress, i ventured to invite myself to dine and sleep at the hall." on approaching the farm buildings, randal was seized with the terror of an impostor; for, despite all the theoretical learning on bucolics and georgics with which he had dazzled the squire, poor frank, so despised, would have beat him hollow when it came to judging of the points of an ox or the show of a crop. "ha, ha!" cried the squire, chuckling, "i long to see how you'll astonish stirn. why, you'll guess in a moment where we put the top-dressing; and when you come to handle my short-horns, i dare swear you'll know to a pound how much oilcake has gone into their sides." "oh, you do me too much honor--indeed you do. i only know the general principles of agriculture--the details are eminently interesting; but i have not had the opportunity to acquire them." "stuff!" cried the squire. "how can a man know general principles unless he has first studied the details? you are too modest, my boy. ho! there's stirn looking out for us!" randal saw the grim visage of stirn peering out of a cattle-shed, and felt undone. he made a desperate rush toward changing the squire's humor. "well, sir, perhaps frank may soon gratify your wish, and turn farmer himself." "eh!" quoth the squire, stopping short. "what now?" "suppose he was to marry?" "i'd give him the two best farms on the property rent free. ha, ha! has he seen the girl yet? i'd leave him free to choose, sir. i chose for myself--every man should. not but what miss sticktorights is an heiress, and, i hear, a very decent girl, and that would join the two properties, and put an end to that lawsuit about the right of way, which began in the reign of king charles the second, and is likely otherwise to last till the day of judgment. but never mind her; let frank choose to please himself." "i'll not fail to tell him so, sir. i did fear you might have some prejudices. but here we are at the farm-yard." "burn the farm-yard! how can i think of farm-yards when you talk of frank's marriage? come on--this way. what were you saying about prejudices?" "why, you might wish him to marry an englishwoman, for instance." "english! good heavens, sir, does he mean to marry a hindoo?" "nay, i don't know that he means to marry at all: i am only surmising, but if he did fall in love with a foreigner--" "a foreigner! ah, then harry was--" the squire stopped short. "who might, perhaps," observed randal--not truly, if he referred to madame di negra--"who might, perhaps, speak very little english?" "lord ha' mercy!" "and a roman catholic--" "worshiping idols, and roasting people who don't worship them." "signior riccabocca is not so bad as that." "rickeybockey! well, if it was his daughter! but not speak english! and not go to the parish church! by george! if frank thought of such a thing, i'd cut him off with a shilling. don't talk to me, sir; i would. i'm a mild man, and an easy man; but when i say a thing, i say it, mr. leslie. oh, but it is a jest--you are laughing at me. there's no such painted good-for-nothing creature in frank's eye, eh?" "indeed, sir, if ever i find there is, i will give you notice in time. at present i was only trying to ascertain what you wished for a daughter in-law. you said you had no prejudice." "no more i have--not a bit of it." "you don't like a foreigner and a catholic?" "who the devil would?" "but if she had rank and title?" "rank and title! bubble and squeak! no, not half so good as bubble and squeak. english beef and good cabbage. but foreign rank and title!--foreign cabbage and beef!--foreign bubble and foreign squeak!" and the squire made a wry face, and spat forth his disgust and indignation. "you must have an englishwoman?" "of course?" "money?" "don't care, provided she is a tidy, sensible, active lass, with a good character for her dower." "character--ah, that is indispensable?" "i should think so, indeed. a mrs. hazeldean of hazeldean; you frighten me. he's not going to run off with a divorced woman, or a--" the squire stopped, and looked so red in the face, that randal feared he might be seized with apoplexy before frank's crimes had made him alter his will. therefore he hastened to relieve mr. hazeldean's mind, and assured him that he had been only talking at random; that frank was in the habit, indeed, of seeing foreign ladies occasionally, as all persons in the london world were; but that he was sure frank would never marry without the full consent and approval of his parents. he ended by repeating his assurance that he would warn the squire if ever it became necessary. still, however, he left mr. hazeldean so disturbed and uneasy, that that gentleman forgot all about the farm, and went moodily on in the opposite direction, re-entering the park at its farther extremity. as soon as they approached the house, the squire hastened to shut himself with his wife in full parental consultation; and randal, seated upon a bench on the terrace, revolved the mischief he had done, and its chances of success. while thus seated, and thus thinking, a footstep approached cautiously, and in a low voice said, in broken english, "sare, sare, let me speak vid you." randal turned in surprise, and beheld a swarthy saturnine face, with grizzled hair and marked features. he recognized the figure that had joined riccabocca in the italian's garden. "speak-a you italian?" resumed jackeymo. randal, who had made himself an excellent linguist, nodded assent; and jackeymo, rejoiced, begged him to withdraw into a more private part of the grounds. randal obeyed, and the two gained the shade of a stately chestnut avenue. "sir," then said jackeymo, speaking in his native tongue, and expressing himself with a certain simple pathos, "i am but a poor man; my name is giacomo. you have heard of me;--servant to the signior whom you saw to-day--only a servant; but he honors me with his confidence. we have known danger together; and of all his friends and followers, i alone came with him to the stranger's land." "good, faithful fellow," said randal, examining the man's face, "say on. your master confides in you? he confided that which i told him this day?" "he did. ah, sir! the padrone was too proud to ask you to explain more--too proud to show fear of another. but he does fear--he ought to fear--he shall fear" (continued jackeymo, working himself up to passion)--"for the padrone has a daughter, and his enemy is a villain. oh, sir, tell me all that you did not tell to the padrone. you hinted that this man might wish to marry the signora. marry her! i could cut his throat at the altar!" "indeed," said randal, "i believe that such is his object." "but why? he is rich--she is penniless; no not quite that, for we have saved--but penniless, compared to him." "my good friend, i know not yet his motives, but i can easily learn them. if, however, this count be your master's enemy, it is surely well to guard against him, whatever his designs; and, to do so, you should move into london or its neighborhood. i fear that while we speak, the count may get upon his track." "he had better not come here!" cried the servant, menacingly, and putting his hand where the knife was _not_. "beware of your own anger, giacomo. one act of violence, and you would be transported from england, and your master would lose a friend." jackeymo seemed struck by this caution. "and if the padrone were to meet him, do you think the padrone would meekly say, 'come stà sa signoria.' the padrone would strike him dead!" "hush--hush! you speak of what, in england, is called murder, and is punished by the gallows. if you really love your master, for heaven's sake, get him from this place--get him from all chance of such passion and peril. i go to town to-morrow; i will find him a house that shall be safe from all spies--all discovery. and there, too, my friend, i can do--what i can not at this distance--watch over him, and keep watch also on his enemy." jackeymo seized randal's hand, and lifted it toward his lip; then, as if struck by a sudden suspicion, dropped the hand, and said bluntly: "signior, i think you have seen the padrone twice. why do you take this interest in him?" "is it so uncommon to take interest even in a stranger who is menaced by some peril?" jackeymo, who believed little in general philanthropy, shook his head skeptically. "besides," continued randal, suddenly bethinking himself of a more plausible reason: "besides, i am a friend and connection of mr. egerton; and mr. egerton's most intimate friend is lord l'estrange; and i have heard that lord l'estrange--" "the good lord! oh, now i understand," interrupted jackeymo, and his brow cleared. "ah, if _he_ were in england! but you will let us know when he comes?" "certainly. now, tell me, giacomo, is this count really unprincipled and dangerous? remember, i know him not personally." "he has neither heart, head, nor conscience." "that makes him dangerous to men; but to women, danger comes from other qualities. could it be possible, if he obtained any interview with the signora, that he could win her affections?" jackeymo crossed himself rapidly, and made no answer. "i have heard that he is still very handsome." jackeymo groaned. randal resumed: "enough; persuade the padrone to come to town." "but if the count is in town?" "that makes no difference; the safest place is always the largest city. every where else a foreigner is in himself an object of attention and curiosity." "true." "let your master, then, come to london. he can reside in one of the suburbs most remote from the count's haunts. in two days i will have found him a lodging and write to him. you trust to me now?" "i do indeed--i do, excellency. ah, if the signorina were married, we would not care!" "married! but she looks so high!" "alas! not now--not here!" randal sighed heavily. jackeymo's eyes sparkled. he thought he had detected a new motive for randal's interest--a motive to an italian the most natural, the most laudable of all. "find the house, signior--write to the padrone. he shall come. i'll talk to him. i can manage him. holy san giacomo, bestir thyself now--'tis long since i troubled thee!" jackeymo strode off through the fading trees, smiling and muttering as he went. the first dinner-bell rang, and, on entering the drawing-room, randal found parson dale and his wife, who had been invited in haste to meet the unexpected visitor. the preliminary greetings over, mr. dale took the opportunity afforded by the squire's absence to inquire after the health of mr. egerton. "he is always well," said randal, "i believe he is made of iron." "his heart is of gold," said the parson. "ah!" said randal, inquisitively, "you told me you had come in contact with him once, respecting, i think, some of your old parishioners at lansmere?" the parson nodded, and there was a moment's silence. "do you remember your battle by the stocks, mr. leslie?" said mr. dale, with a good-humored laugh. "indeed, yes. by the way, now you speak of it, i met my old opponent in london the first year i went up to it." "you did! where?" "at a literary scamp's--a cleverish man called burley." "burley! i have seen some burlesque verses in greek by a mr. burley." "no doubt, the same person. he has disappeared--gone to the dogs, i dare say. burlesque greek is not a knowledge very much in power at present." "well, but leonard fairfield?--you have seen him since?" "no." "nor heard of him?" "no!--have you?" "strange to say, not for a long time. but i have reason to believe that he must be doing well." "you surprise me! why?" "because, two years ago, he sent for his mother. she went to him." "is that all?" "it is enough; for he would not have sent for her if he could not maintain her." here the hazeldeans entered, arm-in-arm, and the fat butler announced dinner. the squire was unusually taciturn--mrs. hazeldean thoughtful--mrs. dale languid, and headachy. the parson, who seldom enjoyed the luxury of converse with a scholar, save when he quarreled with dr. riccabocca, was animated, by randal's repute for ability, into a great desire for argument. "a glass of wine, mr. leslie. you were saying, before dinner, that burlesque greek is not a knowledge very much in power at present. pray, sir, what knowledge is in power?" randal (laconically).--"practical knowledge." parson.--"what of?" randal.--"men." parson (candidly).--"well, i suppose that is the most available sort of knowledge, in a worldly point of view. how does one learn it? do books help?" randal.--"according as they are read, they help or injure." parson.--"how should they be read in order to help?" randal.--"read specially to apply to purposes that lead to power." parson (very much struck with randal's pithy and spartan logic).--"upon my word, sir, you express yourself very well. i must own that i began these questions in the hope of differing from you; for i like an argument." "that he does," growled the squire; "the most contradictory creature!" parson.--"argument is the salt of talk. but now i am afraid i must agree with you, which i was not at all prepared for." randal bowed, and answered--"no two men of our education can dispute upon the application of knowledge." parson (pricking up his ears).--"eh! what to?" randal.--"power, of course." parson (overjoyed).--"power!--the vulgarest application of it, or the loftiest? but you mean the loftiest?" randal (in his turn interested and interrogative).--"what do you call the loftiest, and what the vulgarest?" parson.--"the vulgarest, self-interest; the loftiest, beneficence." randal suppressed the half disdainful smile that rose to his lip. "you speak, sir, as a clergyman should do. i admire your sentiment, and adopt it; but i fear that the knowledge which aims only at beneficence very rarely in this world gets any power at all." squire (seriously).--"that's true: i never get my own way when i want to do a kindness, and stirn always gets his when he insists on something diabolically brutal and harsh." parson.--"pray, mr. leslie, what does intellectual power refined to the utmost, but entirely stripped of beneficence, most resemble?" randal.--"resemble?--i can hardly say, some very great man--almost any very great man--who has baffled all his foes, and attained all his ends." parson.--"i doubt if any man has ever become very great who has not meant to be beneficent, though he might err in the means. cæsar was naturally beneficent, and so was alexander. but intellectual power refined to the utmost, and wholly void of beneficence, resembles only one being, and that, sir, is the principle of evil." randal (startled).--"do you mean the devil?" parson.--"yes, sir--the devil; and even he, sir, did not succeed! even he, sir, is what your great men would call a most decided failure." mrs. dale.--"my dear--my dear." parson.--"our religion proves it, my love; he was an angel, and he fell." there was a solemn pause. randal was more impressed than he liked to own to himself. by this time the dinner was over, and the servants had retired. harry glanced at carry. carry smoothed her gown and rose. the gentlemen remained over their wine; and the parson, satisfied with what he deemed a clencher upon his favorite subject of discussion, changed the subject to lighter topics, till happening to fall upon tithes, the squire struck in, and by dint of loudness of voice, and truculence of brow, fairly overwhelmed both his guests, and proved to his own satisfaction that tithes were an unjust and unchristianlike usurpation on the part of the church generally, and a most especial and iniquitous infliction upon the hazeldean estates in particular. chapter ix. on entering the drawing-room, randal found the two ladies seated close together, in a position much more appropriate to the familiarity of their school-days than to the politeness of the friendship now existing between them. mrs. hazeldean's hand hung affectionately over carry's shoulder, and both those fair english faces were bent over the same book. it was pretty to see these sober matrons, so different from each other in character and aspect, thus unconsciously restored to the intimacy of happy maiden youth by the golden link of some magician from the still land of truth or fancy--brought together in heart, as each eye rested on the same thought;--closer and closer, as sympathy, lost in the actual world, grew out of that world which unites in one bond of feeling the readers of some gentle book. "and what work interests you so much?" said randal, pausing by the table. "one you have read, of course," replied mrs. dale, putting a bookmark embroidered by herself into the page, and handing the volume to randal. "it has made a great sensation, i believe." randal glanced at the title of the work "true," said he, "i have heard much of it in london, but i have not yet had time to read it." mrs. dale.--"i can lend it to you, if you like to look over it to-night, and you can leave it for me with mrs. hazeldean." parson (approaching).--"oh! that book!--yes, you must read it. i do not know a work more instructive." randal.--"instructive! certainly i will read it then. but i thought it was a mere work of amusement--of fancy. it seems so, as i look over it." parson.--"so is the _vicar of wakefield_; yet what book more instructive?" randal.--"i should not have said _that_ of the _vicar of wakefield_. a pretty book enough, though the story is most improbable. but how is it instructive?" parson.--"by its results: it leaves us happier and better. what can any instruction do more? some works instruct through the head, some through the heart; the last reach the widest circle, and often produce the most genial influence on the character. this book belongs to the last. you will grant my proposition when you have read it." randal smiled and took the volume. mrs. dale.--"is the author known yet?" randal.--"i have heard it ascribed to many writers, but i believe no one has claimed it." parson.--"i think it must have been written by my old college friend, professor moss, the naturalist; its descriptions of scenery are so accurate." mrs. dale.--"la, charles, dear! that snuffy, tiresome, prosy professor? how can you talk such nonsense? i am sure the author must be young; there is so much freshness of feeling." mrs. hazeldean (positively).--"yes, certainly young." parson (no less positively).--"i should say just the contrary. its tone is too serene, and its style too simple for a young man. besides, i don't know any young man who would send me his book, and this book has been sent me--very handsomely bound too, you see. depend upon it, moss is the man--quite his turn of mind." mrs. dale.--"you are too provoking, charles dear! mr. moss is so remarkably plain, too." randal.--"must an author be handsome?" parson.--"ha, ha! answer that, if you can, carry." carry remained mute and disdainful. squire (with great _naïveté_).--"well, i don't think there's much in the book, whoever wrote it; for i've read it myself, and understand every word of it." mrs. dale.--"i don't see why you should suppose it was written by a man at all. for my part, i think it must be a woman." mrs. hazeldean.--"yes, there's a passage about maternal affection, which only a woman could have written." parson.--"pooh, pooh! i should like to see a woman who could have written that description of an august evening before a thunderstorm; every wildflower in the hedgerow exactly the flowers of august--every sign in the air exactly those of the month. bless you! a woman would have filled the hedge with violets and cowslips. nobody else but my friend moss could have written that description." squire.--"i don't know; there's a simile about the waste of corn-seed in hand-sowing, which makes me think he must be a farmer!" mrs. dale (scornfully).--"a farmer! in hob-nailed shoes, i suppose! i say it is a woman." mrs. hazeldean.--"a woman, and a mother!" parson.--"a middle-aged man, and a naturalist." squire.--"no, no, parson; certainly a young man; for that love-scene puts me in mind of my own young days, when i would have given my ears to tell harry how handsome i thought her; and all i could say was--'fine weather for the crops, miss.' yes, a young man, and a farmer. i should not wonder if he had held the plow himself." randal (who had been turning over the pages).--"this sketch of night in london comes from a man who has lived the life of cities, and looked at wealth with the eyes of poverty. not bad! i will read the book." "strange," said the parson, smiling, "that this little work should so have entered our minds, suggested to all of us different ideas, yet equally charmed all--given a new and fresh current to our dull country life--animated us as with the sight of a world in our breasts we had never seen before, save in dreams;--a little work like this, by a man we don't know, and never may! well, _that_ knowledge _is_ power, and a noble one!" "a sort of power, certainly, sir," said randal, candidly; and that night, when randal retired to his own room, he suspended his schemes and projects, and read, as he rarely did, without an object to gain by the reading. the work surprised him by the pleasure it gave. its charm lay in the writer's calm enjoyment of the beautiful. it seemed like some happy soul sunning itself in the light of its own thoughts. its power was so tranquil and even, that it was only a critic who could perceive how much force and vigor were necessary to sustain the wing that floated aloft with so imperceptible an effort. there was no one faculty predominating tyrannically over the others; all seemed proportioned in the felicitous symmetry of a nature rounded, integral, and complete. and when the work was closed, it left behind it a tender warmth that played round the heart of the reader, and vivified feelings that seemed unknown before. randal laid down the book softly; and for five minutes the ignoble and base purposes to which his own knowledge was applied, stood before him, naked and unmasked. "tut," said he, wrenching himself violently away from the benign influence, "it was not to sympathize with hector, but to conquer with achilles, that alexander of macedon kept homer under his pillow. such would be the true use of books to him who has the practical world to subdue; let parsons and women construe it otherwise as they may?" and the principle of evil descended again upon the intellect, from which the guide beneficence was gone. chapter x. randal rose at the sound of the first breakfast bell, and on the staircase met mrs. hazeldean. he gave her back the book; and as he was about to speak, she beckoned to him to follow her into a little morning-room appropriated to herself. no boudoir of white and gold, with pictures by watteau, but lined with large walnut-tree presses that held the old heir-loom linen strewed with lavender--stores for the housekeeper, and medicines for the poor. seating herself on a large chair in this sanctum, mrs. hazeldean looked formidably at home. "pray," said the lady, coming at once to the point, with her usual straightforward candor, "what is all this you have been saying to my husband as to the possibility of frank's marrying a foreigner?" randal.--"would you be as averse to such a notion as mr. hazeldean is?" mrs. hazeldean.--"you ask me a question, instead of answering mine." randal was greatly put out in his fence by these rude thrusts. for indeed he had a double purpose to serve--first thoroughly to know if frank's marriage with a woman like madame di negra would irritate the squire sufficiently to endanger the son's inheritance; and, secondly, to prevent mr. and mrs. hazeldean believing seriously that such a marriage was to be apprehended, lest they should prematurely address frank on the subject, and frustrate the marriage itself. yet, withal, he must so express himself, that he could not be afterward accused by the parents of disguising matters. in his talk to the squire the preceding day, he had gone a little too far--farther than he would have done but for his desire of escaping the cattle-shed and short-horns. while he mused, mrs. hazeldean observed him with her honest, sensible eyes and finally exclaimed-- "out with it, mr. leslie!" "out with what, my dear madam? the squire has sadly exaggerated the importance of what was said mainly in jest. but i will own to you plainly, that frank has appeared to me a little smitten with a certain fair italian." "italian!" cried mrs. hazeldean. "well, i said so from the first. italian!--that's all, is it?" and she smiled. randal was more and more perplexed. the pupil of his eye contracted, as it does when we retreat into ourselves, and think, watch, and keep guard. "and perhaps," resumed mrs. hazeldean, with a very sunny expression of countenance, "you have noticed this in frank since he was here?" "it is true," murmured randal; "but i think his heart or his fancy was touched even before." "very natural," said mrs. hazeldean. "how could he help it?--such a beautiful creature! well, i must not ask you to tell frank's secrets; but i guess the object of attraction; and though she will have no fortune to speak of--and it is not such a match as he might form--still she is so amiable, and has been so well brought up, and is so little like one's general notions of a roman catholic, that i think i could persuade hazeldean into giving his consent." "ah!" said randal, drawing a long breath, and beginning with his practiced acuteness to detect mrs. hazeldean's error, "i am very much relieved and rejoiced to hear this: and i may venture to give frank some hope, if i find him disheartened and desponding, poor fellow!" "i think you may," replied mrs. hazeldean, laughing pleasantly. "but you should not have frightened poor william so, hinting that the lady knew very little english. she has an accent, to be sure; but she speaks our tongue very prettily. i always forget that she's not english born! ha, ha, poor william!" randal.--"ha, ha!" mrs. hazeldean.--"we had once thought of another match for frank--a girl of good english family." randal.--"miss sticktorights?" mrs. hazeldean.--"no; that's an old whim of hazeldean's. but he knows very well that the sticktorights would never merge their property in ours. bless you, it would be all off the moment they came to settlements, and had to give up the right of way. we thought of a very different match; but there's no dictating to young hearts, mr. leslie." randal.--"indeed no, mrs. hazeldean. but since we now understand each other so well, excuse me if i suggest that you had better leave things to themselves, and not write to frank on the subject. young hearts, you know, are often stimulated by apparent difficulties, and grow cool when the obstacle vanishes." mrs. hazeldean.--"very possibly; it was not so with hazeldean and me. but i shall not write to frank on the subject, for a different reason--though i would consent to the match, and so would william, yet we both would rather, after all, that frank married an englishwoman, and a protestant. we will not, therefore, do any thing to encourage the idea. but if frank's happiness becomes really at stake, _then_ we will step in. in short, we would neither encourage nor oppose. you understand?" "perfectly." "and, in the mean while, it is quite right that frank should see the world, and try to distract his mind, or at least to know it. and i dare say it has been some thought of that kind which has prevented his coming here." randal, dreading a further and plainer _éclaircissement_, now rose, and saying, "pardon me, but i must hurry over breakfast, and be back in time to catch the coach"--offered his arm to his hostess, and led her into the breakfast-parlor. devouring his meal, as if in great haste, he then mounted his horse, and, taking cordial leave of his entertainers, trotted briskly away. all things favored his project--even chance had befriended him in mrs. hazeldean's mistake. she had not unnaturally supposed violante to have captivated frank on his last visit to the hall. thus, while randal had certified his own mind that nothing could more exasperate the squire than an alliance with madame di negra, he could yet assure frank that mrs. hazeldean was all on his side. and when the error was discovered, mrs. hazeldean would only have to blame herself for it. still more successful had his diplomacy proved with the riccaboccas; he had ascertained the secret he had come to discover; he should induce the italian to remove to the neighborhood of london; and if violante were the great heiress he suspected her to prove, whom else of her own age would she see but him? and the old leslie domains--to be sold in two years--a portion of the dowry might purchase them! flushed by the triumph of his craft, all former vacillations of conscience ceased. in high and fervent spirits he passed the casino, the garden of which was solitary and deserted, reached his home, and, telling oliver to be studious, and juliet to be patient, walked thence to meet the coach and regain the capital. chapter xi. violante was seated in her own little room, and looking from the window on the terrace that stretched below. the day was warm for the time of year. the orange-trees had been removed under shelter for the approach of winter; but where they had stood sate mrs. riccabocca at work. in the belvidere, riccabocca himself was conversing with his favorite servant. but the casements and the door of the belvidere were open; and where they sate, both wife and daughter could see the padrone leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor; while jackeymo, with one finger on his master's arm, was talking to him with visible earnestness. and the daughter from the window, and the wife from her work, directed tender, anxious eyes toward the still thoughtful form so dear to both. for the last day or two, riccabocca had been peculiarly abstracted, even to gloom. each felt there was something stirring at his heart--neither as yet knew what. violante's room silently revealed the nature of the education by which her character had been formed. save a sketch book which lay open on a desk at hand, and which showed talent exquisitely taught (for in this riccabocca had been her teacher), there was nothing that spoke of the ordinary female accomplishments. no piano stood open, no harp occupied yon nook, which seemed made for one; no broidery frame, nor implements of work, betrayed the usual and graceful resources of a girl; but ranged on shelves against the wall were the best writers in english, italian, and french; and these betokened an extent of reading, that he who wishes for a companion to his mind in the sweet company of woman, which softens and refines all it gives and takes in interchange, will never condemn as masculine. you had but to look into violante's face to see how noble was the intelligence that brought soul to those lovely features. nothing hard, nothing dry and stern was there. even as you detected knowledge, it was lost in the gentleness of grace. in fact, whatever she gained in the graver kinds of information, became transmuted, through her heart and her fancy, into spiritual golden stores. give her some tedious and arid history, her imagination seized upon beauties other readers had passed by, and, like the eye of the artist, detected every where the picturesque. something in her mind seemed to reject all that was mean and common-place, and to bring out all that was rare and elevated in whatever it received. living so apart from all companions of her age, she scarcely belonged to the present time. she dwelt in the past, as sabrina in her crystal well. images of chivalry--of the beautiful and the heroic--such as, in reading the silvery line of tasso, rise before us, softening force and valor into love and song--haunted the reveries of the fair italian maid. tell us not that the past, examined by cold philosophy, was no better and no loftier than the present; it is not thus seen by pure and generous eyes. let the past perish, when it ceases to reflect on its magic mirror the beautiful romance which is its noblest reality, though perchance but the shadow of delusion. yet violante was not merely the dreamer. in her, life was so puissant and rich, that action seemed necessary to its glorious development--action, but still in the woman's sphere--action to bless and to refine and to exalt all around her, and to pour whatever else of ambition was left unsatisfied into sympathy with the aspirations of man. despite her father's fears of the bleak air of england, in that air she had strengthened the delicate health of her childhood. her elastic step--her eyes full of sweetness and light--her bloom, at once soft and luxuriant--all spoke of the vital powers fit to sustain a mind of such exquisite mould, and the emotions of a heart that, once aroused, could ennoble the passions of the south with the purity and devotion of the north. solitude makes some natures more timid, some more bold. violante was fearless. when she spoke, her eyes frankly met your own; and she was so ignorant of evil, that as yet she seemed nearly unacquainted with shame. from this courage, combined with affluence of idea, came a delightful flow of happy converse. though possessing so imperfectly the accomplishments ordinarily taught to young women, and which may be cultured to the utmost, and yet leave the thoughts so barren, and the talk so vapid--she had that accomplishment which most pleases the taste, and commands the love of the man of talent; especially if his talent be not so actively employed as to make him desire only relaxation where he seeks companionship--the accomplishment of facility in intellectual interchange--the charm that clothes in musical words beautiful womanly ideas. "i hear him sigh at this distance," said violante softly, as she still watched her father; "and methinks this is a new grief, and not for his country. he spoke twice yesterday of that dear english friend, and wished that he were here." as she said this, unconsciously the virgin blushed, her hands drooped on her knee, and she fell herself into thought as profound as her father's, but less gloomy. from her arrival in england, violante had been taught a grateful interest in the name of harley l'estrange. her father, preserving a silence, that seemed disdain, of all his old italian intimates, had been pleased to converse with open heart of the englishman who had saved where countrymen had betrayed. he spoke of the soldier, then in the full bloom of youth, who, unconsoled by fame, had nursed the memory of some hidden sorrow amidst the pine-trees that cast their shadow over the sunny italian lake; how riccabocca, then honored and happy, had courted from his seclusion the english signor, then the mourner and the voluntary exile; how they had grown friends amidst the landscapes in which her eyes had opened to the day; how harley had vainly warned him from the rash schemes in which he had sought to reconstruct in an hour the ruins of weary ages; how, when abandoned, deserted, proscribed, pursued, he had fled for life--the infant violante clasped to his bosom--the english soldier had given him refuge, baffled the pursuers, armed his servants, accompanied the fugitive at night toward the defile in the apennines, and, when the emissaries of a perfidious enemy, hot in the chase, came near, he said, "you have your child to save! fly on! another league, and you are beyond the borders. we will delay the foes with parley; they will not harm us." and not till escape was gained did the father know that the english friend had delayed the foe, not by parley, but by the sword, holding the pass against numbers, with a breast as dauntless as bayard's in the immortal bridge. and since then, the same englishman had never ceased to vindicate his name, to urge his cause, and if hope yet remained of restoration to land and honors, it was in that untiring zeal. hence, naturally and insensibly this secluded and musing girl had associated all that she read in tales of romance and chivalry with the image of the brave and loyal stranger. he it was who animated her dreams of the past, and seemed born to be, in the destined hour, the deliverer of the future. around this image grouped all the charms that the fancy of virgin woman can raise from the enchanted lore of old heroic fable. once in her early girlhood, her father (to satisfy her curiosity, eager for general description) had drawn from memory a sketch of the features of the englishman--drawn harley, as he was in that first youth, flattered and idealized, no doubt, by art and by partial gratitude--but still resembling him as he was then; while the deep mournfulness of recent sorrow yet shadowed and concentrated all the varying expression of his countenance; and to look on him was to say--"so sad, yet so young!" never did violante pause to remember that the same years which ripened herself from infancy into woman, were passing less gently over that smooth cheek and dreamy brow--that the world might be altering the nature, as time did the aspect. to her, the hero of the ideal remained immortal in bloom and youth. bright illusion, common to us all, where poetry once hallows the human form! who ever thinks of petrarch as the old time-worn man? who does not see him as when he first gazed on laura?-- "ogni altra cosa ogni pensier va fore; e sol ivi con voi rimansi amore!" chapter xii. and violante, thus absorbed in reverie, forgot to keep watch on the belvidere. and the belvidere was now deserted. the wife, who had no other ideal to distract _her_ thoughts, saw riccabocca pass into the house. the exile entered his daughter's room, and she started to feel his hand upon her locks and his kiss upon her brow. "my child!" cried riccabocca, seating himself, "i have resolved to leave for a time this retreat, and to seek the neighborhood of london." "ah, dear father, _that_ then, was your thought? but what can be your reason? do not turn away; you know how carefully i have obeyed your command and kept your secret. ah, you will confide in me." "i do, indeed," returned riccabocca, with emotion. "i leave this place, in the fear lest my enemies discover me. i shall say to others that you are of an age to require teachers, not to be obtained here. but i should like none to know where we go." the italian said these last words through his teeth, and hanging his head. he said them in shame. "my mother--(so violante always called jemima)--my mother, you have spoken to her?" "not yet. _there_ is the difficulty." "no difficulty, for she loves you so well," replied violante, with soft reproach. "ah, why not also confide in her? who so true? so good?" "good--i grant it!" exclaimed riccabocca. "what then? 'da cattiva donna guardati, ed alla buona non fidar niente,' (from the bad woman, guard thyself; to the good woman, trust nothing). and if you must trust," added the abominable man, "trust her with any thing but a secret!" "fie," said violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her father's humors too well to interpret his horrible sentiments literally--"fie on your consistency, _padre carissimo_. do you not trust your secret to me?" "you! a kitten is not a cat, and a girl is not a woman. besides, the secret was already known to you, and i had no choice. peace, jemima will stay here for the present. see to what you wish to take with you; we shall leave to-night." not waiting for an answer, riccabocca hurried away, and with a firm step strode the terrace and approached his wife. "_anima mia_," said the pupil of machiavel, disguising in the tenderest words the cruelest intentions--for one of his most cherished italian proverbs was to the effect, that there is no getting on with a mule or a woman unless you coax them--"_anima mia_--soul of my being--you have already seen that violante mopes herself to death here." "she, poor child! oh no!" "she does, core of my heart, she does, and is as ignorant of music as i am of tent-stitch." "she sings beautifully." "just as birds do, against all the rules, and in defiance of gamut. therefore, to come to the point, o treasure of my soul! i am going to take her with me for a short time, perhaps to cheltenham, or brighton--we shall see." "all places with you are the same to me, alphonso. when shall we go?" "_we_ shall go to-night; but, terrible as it is to part from you--you--" "ah!" interrupted the wife, and covered her face with her hands. riccabocca, the wiliest and most relentless of men in his maxims, melted into absolute uxorial imbecility at the sight of that mute distress. he put his arm round his wife's waist, with genuine affection, and without a single proverb at his heart--"_carissima_, do not grieve so; we shall be back soon, and traveling is expensive; rolling stones gather no moss, and there is so much to see to at home." mrs. riccabocca gently escaped from her husband's arms. she withdrew her hands from her face, and brushed away the tears that stood in her eyes. "alphonso," she said touchingly, "hear me! what you think good, that shall ever be good to me. but do not think that i grieve solely because of our parting. no; i grieve to think that, despite all these years in which i have been the partner of your hearth and slept on your breast--all these years in which i have had no thought but, however humbly, to do my duty to you and yours, and could have wished that you had read my heart, and seen there but yourself and your child--i grieve to think that you still deem me as unworthy your trust as when you stood by my side at the altar." "trust!" repeated riccabocca, startled and conscience-stricken; "why do you say 'trust?' in what have i distrusted you? i am sure," he continued, with the artful volubility of guilt, "that i never doubted your fidelity--hook-nosed, long-visaged foreigner though i be; never pried into your letters; never inquired into your solitary walks; never heeded your flirtations with that good-looking parson dale; never kept the money; and never looked into the account-books!" mrs. riccabocca refused even a smile of contempt at these revolting evasions; nay, she seemed scarcely to hear them. "can you think," she resumed, pressing her hand on her heart to still its struggles for relief in sobs--"can you think that i could have watched, and thought, and tasked my poor mind so constantly, to conjecture what might best soothe or please you, and not seen, long since, that you have secrets known to your daughter--your servant--not to me? fear not--the secrets can not be evil, or you would not tell them to your innocent child. besides, do i not know your nature? and do i not love you because i know it?--it is for something connected with these secrets that you leave your home. you think that i should be incautious--imprudent. you will not take me with you. be it so. i go to prepare for your departure. forgive me if i have displeased you, husband." mrs. riccabocca turned away; but a soft hand touched the italian's arm. "o father, can you resist this? trust her!--trust her! i am a woman like her! i answer for her woman's faith. be yourself--ever nobler than all others, my own father." "_diavolo!_ never one door shuts but another opens," groaned riccabocca. "are you a fool, child? don't you see that it was for your sake only i feared--and would be cautious?" "for mine! o then, do not make me deem myself mean, and the cause of meanness. for mine! am i not your daughter--the descendant of men who never feared?" violante looked sublime while she spoke; and as she ended she led her father gently on toward the door, which his wife had now gained. "jemima--wife--mine!--pardon, pardon," cried the italian, whose heart had been yearning to repay such tenderness and devotion--"come back to my breast--it has been long closed--it shall be open to you now and forever." in another moment, the wife was in her right place--on her husband's bosom; and violante, beautiful peace-maker, stood smiling awhile at both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven, and stole away. chapter xiii. on randal's return to town, he heard mixed and contradictory rumors in the streets, and at the clubs, of the probable downfall of the government at the approaching session of parliament. these rumors had sprung up suddenly, as if in an hour. true that, for some time, the sagacious had shaken their heads and said, "ministers could not last." true that certain changes in policy, a year or two before, had divided the party on which the government depended, and strengthened that which opposed it. but still its tenure in office had been so long, and there seemed so little power in the opposition to form a cabinet of names familiar to official ears, that the general public had anticipated, at most, a few partial changes. rumor now went far beyond this. randal, whose whole prospects at present were but reflections from the greatness of his patron, was alarmed. he sought egerton, but the minister was impenetrable, and seemed calm, confident, and imperturbed. somewhat relieved, randal then set himself to work to find a safe home for riccabocca; for the greater need to succeed in obtaining fortune there, if he failed in getting it through egerton. he found a quiet house, detached and secluded, in the neighborhood of norwood. no vicinity more secure from espionage and remark. he wrote to riccabocca, and communicated the address, adding fresh assurances of his own power to be of use. the next morning he was seated in his office, thinking very little of the details, that he mastered, however, with mechanical precision, when the minister who presided over that department of the public service sent for him into his private room, and begged him to take a letter to egerton, with whom he wished to consult relative to a very important point to be decided in the cabinet that day. "i want you to take it," said the minister smiling (the minister was a frank, homely man), "because you are in mr. egerton's confidence, and he may give you some verbal message besides a written reply. egerton is often _over_ cautious and brief in the _litera scripta_." randal went first to egerton's neighboring office--he had not been there that day. he then took a cabriolet and drove to grosvenor square. a quiet-looking chariot was at the door. mr. egerton was at home; but the servant said, "dr. f. is with him, sir; and perhaps he may not like to be disturbed." "what, is your master ill?" "not that i know of, sir. he never says he is ill. but he has looked poorly the last day or two." randal hesitated a moment; but his commission might be important, and egerton was a man who so held the maxim, that health and all else must give way to business, that he resolved to enter; and, unannounced, and unceremoniously, as was his wont, he opened the door of the library. he started as he did so. audley egerton was leaning back on the sofa, and the doctor, on his knees before him, was applying the stethoscope to his breast. egerton's eyes were partially closed as the door opened. but at the noise he sprang up, nearly oversetting the doctor. "who's that?--how dare you!" he exclaimed, in a voice of great anger. then recognizing randal, he changed color, bit his lip, and muttered drily, "i beg pardon for my abruptness; what do you want, mr. leslie?" "this letter from lord ----; i was told to deliver it immediately into your own hands; i beg pardon--" "there is no cause," said egerton, coldly. "i have had a slight attack of bronchitis; and as parliament meets so soon, i must take advice from my doctor, if i would be heard by the reporters. lay the letter on the table, and be kind enough to wait for my reply." randal withdrew. he had never seen a physician in that house before, and it seemed surprising that egerton should even take a medical opinion upon a slight attack. while waiting in the ante-room there was a knock at the street door, and presently a gentleman, exceedingly well dressed, was shown in, and honored randal with an easy and half familiar bow. randal remembered to have met this personage at dinner, and at the house of a young nobleman of high fashion, but had not been introduced to him, and did not even know him by name. the visitor was better informed. "our friend egerton is busy, i hear, mr. leslie," said he, arranging the camelia in his button-hole. "our friend egerton!" it must be a very great man to say, "our friend egerton." "he will not be engaged long, i dare say," returned randal, glancing his shrewd, inquiring eye over the stranger's person. "i trust not: my time is almost as precious as his own. i was not so fortunate as to be presented to you when we met at lord spendquick's. good fellow, spendquick: and decidedly clever." lord spendquick was usually esteemed a gentleman without three ideas. randal smiled. in the meanwhile the visitor had taken out a card from an embossed morocco case, and now presented it to randal, who read thereon "baron levy, no --, bruton-street." the name was not unknown to randal. it was a name too often on the lips of men of fashion not to have reached the ears of an _habitué_ of good society. mr. levy had been a solicitor by profession. he had of late years relinquished his ostensible calling; and not long since, in consequence of some services toward the negotiation of a loan, had been created a baron by one of the german kings. the wealth of mr. levy was said to be only equaled by his good nature to all who were in want of a temporary loan, and with sound expectations of repaying it some day or other. you seldom saw a finer-looking man than baron levy--about the same age as egerton, but looking younger: so well preserved--such magnificent black whiskers--such superb teeth! despite his name and his dark complexion, he did not, however, resemble a jew--at least externally; and, in fact, he was not a jew on the father's side, but the natural son of a rich english _grand seigneur_, by a hebrew lady of distinction--in the opera. after his birth, this lady had married a german trader of her own persuasion, and her husband had been prevailed upon, for the convenience of all parties, to adopt his wife's son, and accord to him his own hebrew name. mr. levy senior was soon left a widower, and then the real father, though never actually owning the boy, had shown him great attention--had him frequently at his house--initiated him betimes into his own high-born society, for which the boy showed great taste. but when my lord died, and left but a moderate legacy to the younger levy, who was then about eighteen, that ambiguous person was articled to an attorney by his putative sire, who shortly afterward returned to his native land, and was buried at prague, where his tombstone may yet be seen. young levy, however, continued to do very well without him. his real birth was generally known, and rather advantageous to him in a social point of view. his legacy enabled him to become a partner where he had been a clerk, and his practice became great among the fashionable classes of society. indeed he was so useful, so pleasant, so much a man of the world, that he grew intimate with his clients--chiefly young men of rank; was on good terms with both jew and christian; and being neither one nor the other, resembled (to use sheridan's incomparable simile) the blank page between the old and the new testament. vulgar, some might call mr. n. levy, from his assurance, but it was not the vulgarity of a man accustomed to low and coarse society--rather the _mauvais ton_ of a person not sure of his own position, but who has resolved to swagger into the best one he can get. when it is remembered that he had made his way in the world, and gleaned together an immense fortune, it is needless to add that he was as sharp as a needle, and as hard as a flint. no man had had more friends, and no man had stuck by them more firmly--as long as there was a pound in their pockets! something of this character had randal heard of the baron, and he now gazed, first at his card, and then at him, with--admiration. "i met a friend of yours at borrowwell's the other day," resumed the baron--"young hazeldean. careful fellow--quite a man of the world." as this was last praise poor frank deserved, randal again smiled. the baron went on--"i hear, mr. leslie, that you have much influence over this same hazeldean. his affairs are in a sad state. i should be very happy to be of use to him, as a relation of my friend egerton's; but he understands business so well that he despises my advice." "i am sure you do him injustice." "injustice! i honor his caution. i say to every man, 'don't come to me--i can get you money on much easier terms than any one else;' and what's the result? you come so often that you ruin yourself; whereas a regular usurer without conscience frightens you. 'cent. per cent.,' you say; 'oh, i must pull in.' if you have influence over your friend, tell him to stick to his bill-brokers, and have nothing to do with baron levy." here the minister's bell rung, and randal, looking through the window, saw dr. f. walking to his carriage, which had made way for baron levy's splendid cabriolet--a cabriolet in the most perfect taste--baron's coronet on the dark brown panels--horse black, with such action!--harness just relieved with plating. the servant now entered, and requested randal to step in; and addressing the baron, respectfully assured him that he would not be detained a minute. "leslie," said the minister, sealing a note, "take this back to lord ----, and say that i shall be with him in an hour." "no other message?--he seemed to expect one." "i dare say he did. well, my letter is official, my message is not; beg him to see mr. ---- before we meet--he will understand--all rests upon that interview." egerton then, extending the letter, resumed gravely, "of course you will not mention to any one that dr. f. was with me: the health of public men is not to be suspected. hum--were you in your own room or the ante-room?" "the ante-room, sir." egerton's brow contracted slightly. "and mr. levy was there, eh?" "yes--the baron." "baron! true. come to plague me about the mexican loan, i suppose. i will keep you no longer." randal, much meditating, left the house, and re-entered his hack cab. the baron was admitted to the statesman's presence. chapter xiv. egerton had thrown himself at full length on the sofa, a position exceedingly rare with him; and about his whole air and manner, as levy entered, there was something singularly different from that stateliness of port common to the austere legislator. the very tone of his voice was different. it was as if the statesman--the man of business--had vanished; it was rather the man of fashion and the idler, who, nodding languidly to his visitor, said, "levy, what money can i have for a year?" "the estate will bear very little more. my dear fellow, that last election was the very devil. you can not go on thus much longer." "my dear fellow!" baron levy hailed audley egerton as "my dear fellow." and audley egerton, perhaps, saw nothing strange in the words, though his lip curled. "i shall not want to go on thus much longer," answered egerton, as the curl on his lip changed to a gloomy smile. "the estate must, meanwhile, bear £ more." "a hard pull on it. you had really better sell." "i can not afford to sell at present. i can not afford men to say, 'audley egerton is done up--his property is for sale.'" "it is very sad when one thinks what a rich man you have been--and may be yet!" "be yet! how?" baron levy glanced toward the thick mahogany doors--thick and impervious as should be the doors of statesmen. "why, you know that, with three words from you, i could produce an effect upon the stocks of three nations, that might give us each a hundred thousand pounds. we would go shares." "levy," said egerton coldly, though a deep blush overspread his face, "you are a scoundrel; that is your look out. i interfere with no man's tastes and consciences. i don't intend to be a scoundrel myself. i have told you that long ago." the baron laughed, without evincing the least displeasure. "well," said he, "you are neither wise nor complimentary; but you shall have the money. but yet, would it not be better," added levy, with emphasis, "to borrow it, without interest, of your friend l'estrange?" egerton started as if stung. "you mean to taunt me, sir!" he exclaimed passionately. "i accept pecuniary favors from lord l'estrange! i!" "tut, my dear egerton, i dare say my lord would not think so ill now of that little act in your life which--" "hold, hold!" exclaimed egerton, writhing. "hold!" he stopped, and paced the room, muttering in broken sentences, "to blush before this man! chastisement, chastisement!" levy gazed on him with hard and sinister eyes. the minister turned abruptly. "look you, levy," said he, with forced composure--"you hate me--why, i know not. i have never injured you--never avenged the inexpiable wrong you did me." "wrong!--you a man of the world! wrong! call it so if you will then," he added shrinkingly, for audley's brow grew terrible. "but have i not atoned it? would you ever have lived in this palace, and ruled this country as one of the most influential of its ministers, but for my management--my whispers to the wealthy miss leslie? come, but for me what would you have been--perhaps a beggar?" "what shall i be now if i live? _then_ i should not have been a beggar; poor perhaps in money, but rich--rich in all that now leaves my life bankrupt. gold has not thriven with me; how should it. and this fortune--it has passed for the main part into your hands. be patient, you will have it all ere long. but there is one man in the world who has loved me from a boy, and woe to you if ever he learn that he has the right to despise me!" "egerton, my good fellow," said levy, with great composure, "you need not threaten me, for what interest can i possibly have in tale-telling to lord l'estrange? as to hating you--pooh! you snub me in private, you cut me in public, you refuse to come to my dinners, you'll not ask me to your own; still there is no man i like better, nor would more willingly serve. when do you want the £ ?" "perhaps in one month, perhaps not for three or four. let it be ready when required." "enough; depend on it. have you any other commands?" "none." "i will take my leave, then. by the by, what do you suppose the hazeldean rental is worth--net?" "i don't know nor care. you have no designs upon _that_, too?" "well, i like keeping up family connections. mr. frank seems a liberal young gentleman." before egerton could answer, the baron had glided to the door, and, nodding pleasantly, vanished with that nod. egerton remained standing on his solitary hearth. a drear, single man's room it was, from wall to wall, despite its fretted ceilings and official pomp of bramah escritoires and red boxes. drear and cheerless--no trace of woman's habitation--no vestige of intruding, happy children. there stood the austere man alone. and then with a deep sigh he muttered, "thank heaven, not for long--it will not last long." repeating those words, he mechanically locked up his papers, and pressed his hand to his heart for an instant, as if a spasm had shot through it. "so--i must shun all emotion!" said he, shaking his head gently. in five minutes more, audley egerton was in the streets, his mien erect, and his step firm as ever. "that man is made of bronze," said a leader of the opposition to a friend as they rode past the minister. "what would i give for his nerves!" (to be continued.) the opera. by thomas carlyle. [to the editor of the london keepsake: "dear p.--not having any thing of my own which i could contribute (as is my wish and duty) to this pious adventure of yours, and not being able in these hot busy days to get any thing ready, i decide to offer you a bit of an excerpt from that singular 'conspectus of england,' lately written, not yet printed, by professor ezechiel peasemeal, a distinguished american friend of mine. dr. peasemeal will excuse my printing it here. his 'conspectus,' a work of some extent, has already been crowned by the phi beta kappa society of bunkum, which includes, as you know, the chief thinkers of the new world and it will probably be printed entire in their 'transactions' one day. meanwhile let your readers have the first taste of it; and much good may it do them and you!"--t. c.] music is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. it brings us near to the infinite; we look, for moments, across the cloudy elements, into the eternal sea of light, when song leads and inspires us. serious nations, all nations that can still listen to the mandate of nature, have prized song and music as the highest; as a vehicle for worship, for prophecy, and for whatsoever in them was divine. their singer was a _vates_, admitted to the council of the universe, friend of the gods and choicest benefactor to man. reader, it was actually so in greek, in roman, in moslem, christian, most of all in old-hebrew times: and if you look how it now is, you will find a change that should astonish you. good heavens, from a psalm of asaph to a seat at the london opera in the haymarket, what a road have men traveled! the waste that is made in music is probably among the saddest of all our squanderings of god's gifts. music has, for a long time past, been avowedly mad, divorced from sense and fact; and runs about now as an open bedlamite, for a good many generations back, bragging that she has nothing to do with sense and fact, but with fiction and delirium only; and stares with unaffected amazement, not able to suppress an elegant burst of witty laughter, at my suggesting the old fact to her. fact nevertheless it is, forgotten, and fallen ridiculous as it may be. tyrtæus, who had a little music, did not sing barbers of seville, but the need of beating back one's country's enemies; a most _true_ song, to which the hearts of men did burst responsive into fiery melody, followed by fiery strokes before long. sophocles also sang, and showed in grand dramatic rhythm and melody, not a fable but a fact, the best he could interpret it: the judgments of eternal deity upon the erring sons of men. Ã�schylus, sophocles, all noble poets were priests as well; and sang the _truest_ (which was also the divinest) they had been privileged to discover here below. to "sing the praise of god," that, you will find, if you can interpret old words, and see what new things they mean, was always, and will always be, the business of the singer. he who forsakes that business, and, wasting our divinest gifts, sings the praise of chaos, what shall we say of him? david, king of judah, a soul inspired by divine music and much other heroism, was wont to pour himself in song; he, with seer's eye and heart, discerned the godlike amid the human; struck tones that were an echo of the sphere-harmonies, and are still felt to be such. reader, art thou one of a thousand, able still to _read_ a psalm of david, and catch some echo of it through the old dim centuries; feeling far off, in thy own heart, what it once was to other hearts made as thine? to sing it attempt not, for it is impossible in this late time; only know that it once was sung. then go to the opera, and hear, with unspeakable reflections, what men now sing! of the haymarket opera my account, in fine, is this:--lustres, candelebras, painting, gilding at discretion: a hall as of the caliph alraschid, or him that commanded the slaves of the lamp; a hall as if fitted up by the genies, regardless of expense. upholstery, and the outlay of human capital, could do no more. artists, too, as they are called, have been got together from the ends of the world, regardless likewise of expense, to do dancing and singing, some of them even geniuses in their craft. one singer in particular, called coletti or some such name, seemed to me, by the cast of his face, by the tones of his voice, by his general bearing, so far as i could read it, to be a man of deep and ardent sensibilities, of delicate intuitions, just sympathies; originally an almost poetic soul, or man of _genius_ as we term it; stamped by nature as capable of far other work than squalling here, like a blind samson, to make the philistines sport! nay, all of them had aptitudes, perhaps of a distinguished kind; and must, by their own and other people's labor, have got a training equal or superior in toilsomeness, earnest assiduity, and patient travail, to what breeds men to the most arduous trades. i speak not of kings, grandees, or the like show-figures; but few soldiers, judges, men of letters, can have had such pains taken with them. the very ballet-girls, with their muslin saucers round them, were perhaps little short of miraculous; whirling and spinning there in strange mad vortexes, and then suddenly fixing themselves motionless, each upon her left or right great-toe, with the other leg stretched out at an angle of ninety degrees; as if you had suddenly pricked into the floor, by one of their points, a pair, or rather a multitudinous cohort, of mad restlessly jumping and clipping scissors, and so bidden them rest, with opened blades, and stand still, in the devil's name! a truly notable motion; marvelous, almost miraculous, were not the people there so used to it. motion peculiar to the opera; perhaps the ugliest, and surely one of the most difficult, ever taught a female creature in this world. nature abhors it; but art does at least admit it to border on the impossible. one little cerito, or taglioni the second, that night when i was there, went bounding from the floor as if she had been made of indian-rubber, or filled with hydrogen gas, and inclined by positive levity to bolt through the ceiling: perhaps neither semiramis nor catharine the second had bred herself so carefully. such talent, and such martyrdom of training, gathered from the four winds, was now here, to do its feat and be paid for it. regardless of expense, indeed! the purse of fortunatus seemed to have opened itself, and the divine art of musical sound and rhythmic motion was welcomed with an explosion of all the magnificences which the other arts, fine and coarse, could achieve. for you are to think of some rossini or bellini in the rear of it, too; to say nothing of the stanfields, and hosts of scene-painters, machinists, engineers, enterprisers--fit to have taken gibraltar, written the history of england, or reduced ireland into industrial regiments, had they so set their minds to it!... alas, and all of these notable or noticeable human talents, and excellent perseverances and energies, backed by mountains of wealth, and led by the divine art of music and rhythm vouchsafed by heaven to them and us, what was to be the issue here this evening? an hour's amusement, not amusing either, but wearisome and dreary, to a high-dizened select populace of male and female persons, who seemed to me not much worth amusing! could any one have pealed into their hearts once, one true thought, and glimpse of self-vision: "high-dizened, most expensive persons, aristocracy so-called, or _best_ of the world, beware, beware what proofs you give of betterness and bestness!" and then the salutary pang of conscience in reply: "a select populace, with money in its purse, and drilled a little by the posture-maker: good heavens! if that were what, here and every where in god's creation, i _am_? and a world all dying because i am, and shew myself to be, and to have long been, even that? john, the carriage, the carriage; swift! let me go home in silence, to reflection, perhaps to sackcloth and ashes!" this, and not amusement, would have profited those high-dizened persons. amusement, at any rate, they did not get from euterpe and melpomene. these two muses, sent for, regardless of expense, i could see, were but the vehicle of a kind of service which i judged to be paphian rather. young beauties of both sexes use their opera-glasses, you could notice, not entirely for looking at the stage. and it must be owned the light, in this explosion of all the upholsteries and the human fine arts and coarse, was magical; and made your fair one an armida--if you liked her better so. nay, certain old improper-females (of quality), in their rouge and jewels, even these looked some _reminiscence_ of enchantment; and i saw this and the other lean domestic dandy, with icy smile on his old worn face; this and the other marquis singedelomme, prince mahogany, or the like foreign dignitary, tripping into the boxes of said females; grinning there awhile, with dyed mustaches and macassar-oil graciosity, and then tripping out again: and, in fact, i perceived that coletti and cerito and the rhythmic arts were a mere accompaniment here. wonderful to see; and sad, if you had eyes! do but think of it. cleopatra threw pearls into her drink, in mere waste; which was reckoned foolish of her. but here had the modern aristocracy of men brought the divinest of its arts, heavenly music itself; and piling all the upholsteries and ingenuities that other human art could do, had lighted them into a bonfire to illuminate an hour's flirtation of singedelomme, mahogany, and these improper-persons! never in nature had i seen such waste before. o colletti, you whose inborn melody, once of kindred as i judged to 'the melodies eternal,' might have valiantly weeded out this and the other false thing from the ways of men, and made a bit of god's creation more melodious--they have purchased you away from that; chained you to the wheel of prince mahogany's chariot, and here you make sport for a macassar singedelomme and his improper-females past the prime of life! wretched spiritual nigger, oh, if you _had_ some genius, and were not a born nigger with mere appetite for pumpkin, should you have endured such a lot? i lament for _you_, beyond all other expenses. other expenses are light; you are the cleopatra's pearl that should not have been flung into mahogany's claret-cup. and rossini, too, and mozart, and bellini--oh heavens, when i think that music too is condemned to be mad and to burn herself, to this end, on such a funeral pile--your celestial opera-house grows dark and infernal to me! behind its glitter stalks the shadow of eternal death; through it too i look not 'up into the divine eye,' as richter has it, 'but down into the bottomless eyesocket--not up toward god, heaven, and the throne of truth, but too truly down toward falsity, vacuity, and the dwelling-place of everlasting despair.... good sirs, surely i by no means expect the opera will abolish itself this year or the next. but if you ask me, why heroes are not born now, why heroisms are not done now? i will answer you, it is a world all calculated for strangling of heroisms. at every ingress into life, the genius of the world lies in wait for heroisms, and by seduction or compulsion unweariedly does its utmost to pervert them or extinguish them. yes; to its hells of sweating tailors, distressed needle-women, and the like, this opera of yours is the appropriate heaven! of a truth, if you will read a psalm of asaph till you understand it, and then come hither and hear the rossini-and-coletti psalm, you will find the ages have altered a good deal.... nor do i wish all men to become psalmist asaphs and fanatic hebrews. far other is my wish; far other, and wider, is now my notion of this universe. populations of stern faces, stern as any hebrew, but capable withal of bursting into inextinguishable laughter on occasion;--do you understand that new and better form of character? laughter also, if it come from the heart, is a heavenly thing. but, at least and lowest, i would have you a population abhorring phantasms;--abhorring _unveracity_ in all things; and in your 'amusements,' which are voluntary and not compulsory things, abhorring it most impatiently of all.... high life in the fifteenth century. we gain the following glimpse of the manners of the upper classes in england, four hundred years ago, from the journal of elizabeth woodville, subsequently lady grey, and finally queen of edward iv. royalty _in petto_ seems to have taken, with a most refreshing cordiality, to the avocations of baking and brewing, pig-tending, poultry-feeding, and pony-catching. "_monday morning._--rose at o'clock, and helped catherine to milk the cows. rachel, the dairy-maid, having scalded her hand in so bad a manner the night before; made a poultice, and gave robin a penny to get something from the apothecary. " _o'clock._--the buttock of beef too much boiled, and beer a little stale; (mem) to talk to the cook about the first fault, and to mend the other myself by tapping a fresh barrel immediately. " _o'clock._--went to walk with the lady my mother in the court-yard; fed men and women: chid roger severely for expressing some ill-will at attending us with some broken meat. " _o'clock._--went into the paddock behind the house with my maid dorothy; caught thump, the little pony, myself; rode a matter of ten miles without saddle or bridle. " _o'clock._--went to dinner. john grey, a most comely youth; but what is that to me? a virtuous maid should be entirely under the direction of her parents. john ate but little, and stole a great many tender glances at me. said women could never be handsome in his eyes, who were not good tempered. i hope my temper is not intolerable; nobody finds fault with it but roger, and he is the most disorderly youth in our house. john grey likes white teeth; my teeth are a pretty good color. i think my hair is as black as jet--tho' i say it; and john grey, if i mistake not, is of the same opinion. " _o'clock._--rose from the table--the company all desirous of walking in the field. john grey lifted me over every stile, and twice squeezed my hand with much vehemence. i can not say i should have much objection, for he plays at prison bar as well as any of the country gentlemen; is remarkably dutiful to his parents, my lord and lady, and never misses church on sunday. " _o'clock._--poor farmer robinson's house burnt down by accidental fire. john grey proposed a subscription among the company for the relief of the farmer, and gave no less than four pounds with this benevolent intent. (mem) never saw him look so comely as at this moment. " _o'clock._--went to prayers. " _o'clock._--fed hogs and poultry. monthly record of current events. united states. the arrival of m. kossuth has been the chief event, so far as public interest is concerned, of the past month. the manifestations of popular regard and admiration of which he has been the object, have been most remarkable, and are entirely without example. that a foreigner, whose name, five years ago, was not known to a thousand people in the united states, and whose subsequent career has been upon a field so remote from general knowledge and interest as the plains of hungary, should have aroused a degree of enthusiasm never equaled hitherto, is a phenomenon which finds its only explanation in his extraordinary ability, and the character of the heroic struggle in which he has been engaged. m. kossuth and his suite arrived in the american steamer humboldt, on the morning of friday, december th. at the request of the mayor of new york he remained for a day on staten island, at the residence of dr. doane, until the authorities of new york could prepare for his public reception in that city. he was immediately waited upon by numerous deputations, presenting addresses of congratulation and respect, to all of which he made pertinent replies. the citizens of staten island gave him a public reception on friday, at which he spoke for half an hour;--he referred to the general objects of his visit to the united states, which were, to advance the interests of his own country; and repelled some of the slanders which have been put in circulation against him. on saturday he entered the city of new york, amidst vast numbers of its people who had gathered to meet him, and whose enthusiasm exceeded all bounds. he made a brief address at castle garden, joined a great procession around the city, and reviewed the troops at the city hall. his address was merely introductory to the purposes of his visit here. he expressed the warmest gratitude for the interference of the united states to release him from captivity, and for the reception with which he had been honored. he spoke of the condition of his country with the deepest feeling, and expressed a hope that the united states would extend their aid to prevent foreign powers from crushing hungary. he said he desired some little time, not only to recruit his health, which had suffered somewhat from his voyage, but also to examine the ground upon which he must stand in his labors for his country.--the few days succeeding were passed in comparative retirement, though on every day numerous deputations from various parts of the country waited upon him to tender their congratulations, and to invite him to their respective sections. on the evening of thursday, the th ult., the corporation of new york city entertained m. kossuth at a splendid banquet, at which he made a very long and very able speech, explaining the purposes which had brought him to the united states, and the action which he desired should be taken by the people, and vindicating their propriety and necessity. he began by saying that washington's alleged policy of non-interference in european affairs was the greatest obstacle which he encountered to the prosecution of his plans. supposing even that such a doctrine had been bequeathed by washington, he insisted that it could not possibly be applicable to the present greatly-changed condition of the country. but washington, in his judgment, had never recommended such a policy. he only recommended neutrality: and there was a great difference between these two ideas. neutrality relates to a state of war between belligerent powers: and in such contentions washington wisely advised his countrymen to maintain a position of neutrality. but non-interference relates to the sovereign right of nations to dispose of themselves; this right is a public law of nations--common to all, and, therefore, put under the common guarantee of all. this law the citizens of the united states must recognize, because their own independence rests upon it. and they could not, therefore, remain indifferent to its violation. washington never advised such indifference, as his instructions to our minister in france, and his correspondence, show. but even neutrality was recommended by washington, not as a constitutional principle, of permanent obligation, but only as a _policy_--suited to temporary exigencies--which pass away. washington himself declared, that his motive was to enable the country to gain _time_, to settle and mature its institutions to that degree of strength and consistency which would give it the command of its own fortunes. and in a letter to lafayette, he said, that twenty years of peace would bring the country to that degree of power and wealth which would enable it, in a just cause, to defy whatever power on earth. m. kossuth then proceeded to show, that in the history of this country this policy had been steadily developed. he referred to the declaration of the government that they would not permit the interference of european powers with the revolted spanish colonies. true, this doctrine was restricted to this continent, because it was so distant from europe, and because the atlantic separated us from european nations. both these objections have been superseded. europe is now nearer to us than many parts of our own country: and the atlantic now _connects_ europe and america, instead of separating them. commercial interest required the united states to prevent the overgrowth of absolutism in europe, because that growth is, and must be hostile to intercourse with a republican country. if these absolutist powers, moreover should become victorious in europe, and then united, they would aim a blow at republicanism on this continent. m. kossuth proceeded to quote from mr. fillmore's late message the declaration, that the deep interest we feel in every struggle for liberty, "forbids that we should be indifferent to a case, in which the strong arm of a foreign power is invoked to stifle public sentiment, and repress the spirit of freedom in any country." he quoted also similar declarations from washington and from mr. webster, and claimed that he had thus fully established, on american authority, that all nations are bound to interfere to prevent any one nation from interfering in the concerns of any other. he then considered the objections that may be urged against carrying this principle into effect. the objection that it is not our business, was met by the denial of any nation to live only for itself: every nation is bound to obey the divine injunction--"do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you." the objection against such a step because it might lead to war, was answered by saying, that it would _prevent_ war--that the union of the united states and of england, in a protest against the intervention of russia in the affairs of hungary, would be sufficient to stop it, and to prevent war. he wished, therefore, that the people of this country should adopt resolutions, requesting their government to take such a step. he sketched briefly the history of the hungarian struggle, and concluded by proposing three distinct measures which he desired at the hands of the american people:-- st. a declaration, conjointly with england, against the interference of russia in the affairs of hungary; d. a declaration that the united states will maintain commerce with european nations, whether they are in a state of revolution or not; and d. that the people would recognize hungary as an independent nation. these three steps, taken by the people and government of the united states in concert with those of england, he was confident, would prevent russian intervention, and enable hungary to assert and maintain her position as one among the independent nations of the earth. he also appealed to the people for aid to hungary, in gifts and loans of money. the speech was eminently argumentative and calm in its tone. it was heard with universal pleasure and admiration. on the evening of monday, dec. th, the members of the press in the city of new york gave m. kossuth a splendid banquet at the astor house. the large hall was very elegantly decorated, and a company of nearly three hundred sat down at table. mr. w. c. bryant presided. kossuth commenced his speech by speaking of the power of the press, and its freedom in the united states--the only country, in his opinion, where that freedom was truly practical and useful to the great mass of the people. the devotion of this country to the cause of education he regarded as its greatest glory. and he desired to appeal to the people, thus fitted by their education and their press to form an intelligent and correct judgment, on behalf of his country's cause. he was proud to remember that he commenced his public career as a journalist; and he drew a graphic picture of the circumstances under which journalists in despotic countries, with fettered hands and a censor at their side, are compelled to perform their task. he then proceeded to correct some very remarkable misrepresentations of the hungarian cause to which currency had been given. the united states had a national government, in spite of the great variety of languages spoken within their borders. now, if the various races in the union should refuse to receive the laws, the liberties, the protection, and the freedom of the general government, and sacrifice all these to language--each claiming to set up a government in which its own language should alone be used--we should have an example here of the manner in which the several races of hungary had been excited to rebellion by the wiles of austria. he dwelt at some length upon the superior numbers of those in hungary speaking the magyar tongue, over those speaking all others; and upon the _pansclavic_ league, which professed to seek to unite all speaking sclavic in a common cause, but which was really a trick of despots to destroy their freedom. the hungarian diet had not abolished any other tongue; it had only replaced the dead latin by a living language. it was, therefore, untrue that the hungarians had struggled for the dominion of their own race; they struggled for civil, political, social, and religious freedom, common to all, against austrian despotism: the ruling principle of the nation was, to have republican institutions, founded on universal suffrage--so that the majority of the people shall rule in every respect and in all departments. this was the principle for which they would live, and for which they were willing to die. he entreated the aid of the united states in that great struggle. the speech was heard with interest, and was followed by speeches from a large number of gentlemen connected with the city press. the thirty-second congress met, in its first session, on the st of december. a caucus of the democratic members met on the saturday evening previous:--at this meeting a resolution pledging the party to sustain the compromise measures was laid upon the table by a vote of to --mainly on the ground that it was not a proper occasion for action upon that subject. on monday morning, a caucus of whig members was held, and a similar resolution was passed. in the house of representatives, hon. linn boyd of kentucky was elected speaker, and john w. forney of pennsylvania, clerk. a resolution, offered by mr. seward of new york, declaring that, on behalf of the people of the united states, congress extended to kossuth a welcome to the capital and to the country, was passed, there being six nays in the senate and sixteen in the house of representatives. some little debate was had upon the subject in the senate,--but none in the house.--senator foote, of mississippi, offered a series of resolutions declaring the compromise measures of a final settlement of the questions to which they relate. they were under discussion in the senate when our record closed. the president's message was sent in on tuesday. it presents in a clear and able manner the condition of the country, and the events of the past year. it congratulates congress on the preservation of peace, and on the abatement of those sectional agitations which for a time threatened to disturb the harmony of the union. a detailed narrative is given of the invasion of cuba, and the events by which it was followed. the steamer pampero, with about men, left new orleans for cuba on the d of august, in spite of the precautions which had been taken to prevent it. the expedition was set on foot in palpable violation of the laws of the united states. the steamer landed those on board on the night of august th, at playtas, twenty leagues from havana, whence the main body of them marched to an inland village in the interior. the remainder were attacked on the th, by a body of spanish troops, captured, taken to havana and shot. the main body was dispersed august th, and their leader lopez, executed on the st of september. of those taken prisoners several were pardoned, and about sent to spain. the government will spare no proper efforts to procure their release; but its purpose is proclaimed to enforce rigidly the laws which prevent its citizens from interfering with the concerns of foreign nations. no individuals, it is declared, have a right to hazard the peace of the country or to violate its laws, upon vague notions of altering or reforming governments in other states; but every independent nation, it is added, must be able to defend its possessions against unauthorized individuals banded together to attack them. the government of the united states will rigidly adhere to, and enforce its policy of neutrality, which they were among the first to proclaim and establish. friendly relations with all, but entangling alliances with none, is declared to be our policy. "our true mission is not to propagate our opinions, or impose upon other countries our form of government, by artifice or force; but to teach by example, and show by our success, moderation, and justice, the blessings of self-government, and the advantages of free institutions. let every people choose for itself, and make and alter its political institutions to suit its own condition and convenience. but, while we avow and maintain this neutral policy ourselves, we are anxious to see the same forbearance on the part of other nations whose forms of government are different from our own. the deep interest which we feel in the spread of liberal principles, and the establishment of free governments, and the sympathy with which we witness every struggle against oppression, forbid that we should be indifferent to a case in which the strong arm of a foreign power is invoked to stifle public sentiment, and repress the spirit of freedom in any country." the governments of france and great britain have issued orders to their commanders on the west india station to prevent, by force if necessary, the landing of invaders upon the coast of cuba. our government has taken proper precautions to prevent the execution of these orders from interfering with the maritime rights of the united states. the principle that in every regularly documented merchant vessel, the crew who navigate it, and those on board of it, will find their protection in the flag that is over them, will be rigidly enforced in all cases, and at all hazards. no american ship can be allowed to be visited and searched for the purpose of ascertaining the character of individuals on board, nor can there be allowed any watch by the vessels of any foreign nation over american vessels on the coasts of the united states or the seas adjacent thereto. the french government has given orders to its commanders to respect the flag of the united states wherever it might appear.--the outrages committed at new orleans upon the spanish consul are recited and deeply deplored. the president considers the legislation of the country, for the protection or punishment of consuls, insufficient. the attention of congress is asked to the question of reciprocal trade between canada and the united states, and to the survey of the oregon boundary. louis napoleon has accepted the post of arbiter in the dispute between portugal and the united states, concerning the general armstrong. the steps taken by congress to procure the release of kossuth are recited, and the president recommends to congress to consider in what manner governor kossuth and his companions, brought hither by its authority, shall be received and treated.--it is hoped that the differences between france and the sandwich islands may be adjusted so as to secure the independence of those islands--which has been recognized by the united states, as well as by several european nations.--the disturbances in mexico are deplored:--steps have been taken to prevent american citizens from aiding the rebellion in the northern departments. a convention has been entered into between mexico and the united states, intended to impart a feeling of security to those citizens of the united states who have undertaken to construct a railroad across the isthmus of tehuantepec;--it has not yet, however, been ratified by the congress and executive of that country. the only object which our government has had in view, has been the construction of a passage from ocean to ocean, the shortest and best for travelers and merchandise, and equally open to all the world. it has sought neither territorial acquisition, nor any advantages peculiar to itself. it will therefore continue to exert all proper efforts to secure the co-operation of mexico.--the republic of nicaragua has been so much disturbed by internal convulsions, that nothing can be done as yet toward disposing of the questions pending between the two countries.--inter-oceanic communication from the mouth of the st. john to the pacific has been so far accomplished that passengers and merchandise have been transported over it. a considerable part of the railroad across the isthmus has been completed. peace has been concluded between the contending parties in the island of st. domingo. the office of commissioner to china is not yet filled:--a higher salary is asked for it. the aggregate receipts of the last fiscal year amounted to $ , , :--the total expenditures $ , , . the total imports of the year were $ , , , of which $ , , was in specie. the total exports were $ , , , of which $ , , was in specie. since the st of december , the payments on account of the principal of the public debt have amounted to $ , , , which includes $ , , paid to mexico and $ , , awarded to american citizens under the mexican treaty. the public debt on the th of november, exclusive of stock authorized to be issued to texas, was $ , , . the receipts for the next fiscal year are estimated at $ , , . the total expenditures for the next year are estimated at $ , , , of which $ , , will be needed for the ordinary expenses of the government, and $ , , for payments of the public debt and expenses consequent on our territorial acquisitions. the value of our exports is $ , , more than it was the year before last, but this is owing mainly to the increased price of cotton. the value of our exports of bread stuffs and provisions has fallen from $ , , in , to $ , , in , and to $ , , in , with a strong probability of a still farther reduction in the current year. in the exports of rice and tobacco there has also been a large decrease. these facts are cited as showing the fallacy of expecting increased exports from a reduced tariff. the production of gold in california, it is feared, will tend to increase our imports beyond a healthy demand. we have exported specie during the year to the amount of $ , , beyond our imports. of the stock due to texas only five millions have been issued. the president recommends a change in the tariff so as to convert _ad valorem_ into specific duties, wherever it is possible, and also to discriminate in favor of american industry. the cash sales of the public lands exceed those of the previous year. proper steps have been taken for a survey of the mineral lands of california. the establishment of an agricultural bureau is recommended. the president also recommends appropriations for internal improvements, and the more effectual protection of our frontiers from indian incursions. the expenditures of the war department for the year were $ , , : the estimates for the next year are $ , , . the return of the arctic expedition is noticed: the estimates for the navy during the ensuing year are $ , , . the length of mail routes at the end of the year was , miles: the annual transportation thereon , , miles: and the total cost $ , , . the length of the foreign mail routes is estimated at , miles; and the annual transportation thereon at , miles. the annual cost of this service is $ , , , of which $ , is paid by the post office department, and $ , , is paid through the navy department. the annual transportation _within_ the united states (excluding the service in california and oregon), exceeds that of the preceding year , , miles, at an increased cost of $ , . the whole number of post offices in the united states, on the th day of june last, was , . there were , post offices established, and discontinued, during the year. the gross revenues of the department for the fiscal year, including the appropriations for the franked matter of congress, of the departments, and officers of government, and excluding the foreign postages, collected for and payable to the british post office, amounted to $ , , . . the expenditures for the same period amounted to $ , , . ; leaving a balance of revenue over the proper expenditures of the year of $ , . . the receipts for postages during the year (excluding the foreign postages collected for and payable to the british post office) amounted to $ , , . , being an increase of $ , . , or - . percent over the like receipts for the preceding year. no reliable estimate can as yet be formed of the effect of the reduction of postage: it is believed, however, that the receipts will be diminished. the postmaster general recommends adherence to the present rates of letter postage, and advises against a further reduction until it shall be justified by the revenues of the department. he recommends a revision of the rates of postage on printed matter. the president urges the appointment of a commission to revise the public statutes of the united states. measures have been taken, pursuant to law, for the extension of the capitol. it is deeply regretted that the execution of the fugitive slave law should have been resisted in one or two instances: the purpose of the president is reiterated to secure its enforcement. the message recommends that the compromise measures of be regarded as a final settlement of the questions to which they relate. reports from several of the departments were submitted with the message: but as all their material statements are embodied in that document, further reference to them is not essential. it was also accompanied by a voluminous diplomatic correspondence with the representatives of spain, england and france, on topics connected with the invasion of cuba. on being informed that the french and english naval forces had been directed to aid spain in preventing by force the invasion of cuba, the secretary of state wrote to the french minister pointing out the injurious consequences that might result from such an interference in a matter with which they had no direct concern. the government of the united states had shown its willingness and determination to prevent such invasions, and no hostile expedition could be fitted out against that province formidable enough to create any alarm for the safety of cuba. the position of cuba, moreover, in the line of direct commerce with europe, rendered such an interposition especially objectionable. the government of france and those of other european nations, were long since informed that the united states could not see that island transferred by spain to any other european state with indifference: and such a protectorate as these orders to their squadron implied, might lead to results equally objectionable. all experience proves, it was added, that the rights, interest, and peace of the continents of europe and america will be best preserved by the forbearance of each to interfere in the affairs of the other. the french minister in his reply acknowledged the perfect propriety of the attitude of the american government, and repudiated the thought that france entertained doubts of the disposition of the united states to prevent the invasion of cuba from their shores. america, he says, is now closely connected with europe by the interest of commerce, and the nations of the two continents are so dependent upon each other, that the effects of any event on one side are immediately felt on the other. full explanations were offered to the spanish government in regard to the insults to which the spanish consul was subjected in new orleans, and the liberation of the american prisoners in cuba was strongly urged. a sad accident occurred in new york city on the th of november. in a large public school, in the ninth ward, one of the teachers was seized with paralysis. the circumstance alarmed her pupils, and their screams created a sudden panic throughout all the school. immense numbers rushed to the stairs the banisters of which gave way, and they fell one upon another, upon the stone floor below. _forty-three_ children were killed by this sad catastrophe. the coroner's inquest discovered nothing except that the stairs were improperly and insecurely constructed. in mississippi the constitutional convention adjourned on the th november, after adopting resolutions declaring the acquiescence of the state in the compromise and the union, but declaring that it would secede in case congress should repeal the fugitive slave law, or in any way interfere with slavery in the states. the same convention adopted by a vote of to , a resolution declaring that the asserted right of secession is utterly unsanctioned by the constitution, and that it can not, in fact, take place without a subversion of the union and a civil revolution. mr. john s. thrasher, the american in havana, to whose case we alluded in our last monthly record, has had his trial (if the process to which he was subjected deserves such a name), and has been sentenced to imprisonment for eight years on the coast of africa. he was thrown into prison and kept there for some weeks, until the th of november, when he was tried before a court martial. he was not allowed counsel, no witnesses were examined, and the proceeding was wholly a farce. the charges against him were of the most puerile kind, and not the slightest proof of their truth was offered. yet he was convicted, sentenced, and sent from havana in a spanish ship of war. he has published a brief appeal to the government and people of the united states, in which he sets forth the gross illegality of the whole proceeding. the official returns of the state election in new york have just been declared as follows: _judge of court_ } johnson (dem.) , , _maj._ _of appeals._ } foote (whig) , _sec. of state._ randal (dem.) , _maj._ forsyth (whig) , _comptroller._ wright (dem.) , _maj._ patterson (whig) , _treasurer._ welch (dem.) , cook (whig) , _maj._ _canal com._ wheaton (dem.) , fitzhugh (whig) , _maj._ _state engineer._ mcalpine (dem.) , , _maj._ seymour (whig) , _ins. state pris._ storms (dem.) , , _maj._ wells (whig) , the aggregate vote in all the districts, for senators and members of assembly, was as follows: _senators._ _assembly._ whig ticket , , democratic , , ------- ------- whig majority , from california we have news to the st of november. over three millions of dollars in gold dust have been received during the month. the news is not of special interest. the success of the miners continued undiminished, and new deposits and veins of gold were discovered daily. from want of rain, however, washing the auriferous earth was attended with difficulty and delay. the capital has been removed back to san josé. a convention was held in the southern counties, on the th of october, to take steps for a division of the state. a declaration was adopted setting forth the reasons for this measure, which is ascribed mainly to the inequality of taxation, the distance of that section from the seat of government, and the inadequate protection received from the state authorities. nothing definite was accomplished at the convention.--the indians have again proved to be troublesome on the southern frontier. great fears were entertained for the safety of a company of twenty-three u. s. troops on the gila river.--an expedition of about men sailed from san francisco for the sandwich islands, on the last of october: its object is not stated, though significant hints are thrown out that it is political. it was to be followed by another soon. from santa fé we have news of fresh excitements growing out of alleged discoveries of gold on the gila. numerous parties had been formed and were going thither for the purpose of digging. the indians in the neighborhood were comparatively quiet. several battles, between the different tribes had occurred in the southern part of the territory. in utah, among the mormons, a spirit of resistance to the government of the united states has been developed, and the governor of the territory, brigham young--one of the leading mormons--has given indications of hostility, which will probably lead to his removal. we have not as yet received any definite details of the proceedings there. great britain. public attention in england has been mainly occupied with the movements and speeches of m. kossuth. on the th of november he visited birmingham, where he was received by an immense crowd of people, who evinced the utmost enthusiasm on his behalf. without making any address at that time, he left for manchester on the th, where he was also received with the greatest conceivable _eclat_. he made an address to the people in the town hall mainly upon the commercial and political aspects of the cause to which he was devoted. he felt that the great contest of the age is between absolutism, the power of the few, and the rights and well-being of the many. the decisive struggle is close at hand, as the signs of the times, visible on every side, sufficiently indicate. it was folly to say that the nations of europe are contented, and that it is only a few ambitious and unprincipled individuals who are disturbing the existing tranquillity. the people of europe would embrace the first opportunity to strike another blow for their rights. and the cause of hungary, in this connection, was the cause of europe, because hungary from her local position must always form the only effectual bulwark against the despotism of russia. england and the united states, he urged, were both deeply interested as free nations, and as guardians of the law of nations, to prevent russia from again interfering to crush hungary. he appealed to the people of manchester upon this subject, mainly upon the ground, in addition to political considerations, that their trade would be greatly extended and all their interests benefited by the establishment of freedom in europe. he closed by urging the aid of the people, in urging their government to act in the matter, and in contributions of money. on the next day, wednesday, m. kossuth returned to birmingham, where he made two addresses, the first at a _dejeuner_ at the house of mr. henry, in which he took occasion to disavow, in the most explicit terms, all or any participation in the views and purposes of socialists or communists. the other was at the musical fund hall, where a banquet had been prepared. he there commenced with a sketch of the hungarian struggle, and especially of the circumstances attending her declaration of independence. he said he had from his earliest youth been familiar with british history, and filled with the free spirit of her institutions, and he had longed to secure for his own country some of the rights which had made england so glorious and so happy a country. he spoke warmly in praise of the industry of birmingham, and passed to a consideration of the character, condition, and hopes of hungary. henceforth, he said, monarchical institutions were impossible there. the treacheries of the house of hapsburgh, had alienated the hearts of hungarians from royalty, and henceforth republicanism must form the basis of their political institutions. the contest in europe was not now for any single nation, or for any isolated interest;--it was a contest between despotism and freedom, for the dominion of the world. he called upon the people of england to prevent russia from interfering against the struggling people of hungary. in london, m. kossuth received addresses from numerous deputations, to all which he replied with great felicity--aiming steadily at his great object of receiving sympathy and aid for hungary--denouncing alike radicalism, socialism, and despotism, asserting the political rights and advocating the civil freedom of the people, and impressing upon the public mind the fact that the struggle is at hand, which must decide which of the two great principles, despotism or freedom, shall dominate in europe for many years to come. he attended the polish and hungarian ball in london on the th, and on the th went to southampton to embark for the united states. he was met by the mayor and corporation and entertained at a farewell banquet. he there made a speech of an hour's length, in which he expressed his belief that england was the country which would have after all to decide the destinies of europe. france was republican, and russia must know, let it please her or not, that she must accept the necessity of fighting france on the field of republicanism against absolutism; but russia must also learn that she would have to meet england and the force of her public opinion in opposition to despotism. he would not say that england would do so by going to war; but that she would exercise an influence of this kind by declaring her opinion against any interference in the domestic affairs of nations from foreign powers. freedom and independence were but local self-government as opposed to centralization. he wished them to remember this, then they would see that the cause of hungary was their cause too. his last request was, do not forget poor hungary. on whatever question they met, let englishmen, in their addresses to the house of commons, in their petitions, and in their public resolutions, remember the cause of hungary as involving their own interests. in the course of his speech he begged of them not to forget to agitate against secret diplomacy. it had been said that diplomacy should be kept secret, just as a merchant would keep his negotiations secret, till they were finished; but what merchant would allow business to be transacted in his counting-house the nature of which he did not know? in this case the people were the masters, and they should not allow any business to be conducted with the details of which they were not fully acquainted. the entertainment being over, m. kossuth, madame kossuth, m. pulzsky, and madame pulzsky, and suite, proceeded on board the american steamer humboldt, which quickly started forth on her voyage across the atlantic. of his arrival and reception there we have already given an account. france. the political intelligence from france is of decided interest and importance. the assembly has met--the president has demanded the restoration of universal suffrage, and the assembly has refused to grant it. the appeal, of course, is to the people in the presidential election of next may. what will be the result is, of course, matter of conjecture; but whatever it may be, it will exert a prodigious influence upon the politics of europe. the assembly met on the th of november, six hundred and thirty-three members being present. on the next day the message of the president was sent in and read. it opens by proclaiming the continued preservation of peace, but utters warnings against being deceived by this apparent tranquillity. a vast demagogical conspiracy, the president says, has been organized in france and in europe; secret societies have been formed extending their ramifications to the smallest communes; and all the most insensate and turbulent spirits, without being agreed on men or on things, have given themselves rendezvous for . he relies on the patriotism of the assembly to save france from these perils. the best means of doing this is by satisfying legitimate wants, and in putting down, on their first appearance, all attacks on religion, morality, and society.--the message then proceeds, under different heads, to give a statement of the condition of the country. with the exception of the departments of ardice, cher, nievre, and lyons, the ordinary measures have been sufficient to preserve order. the receipts of taxes have been quite satisfactory. the progress of exportations continues unabated. public roads and public buildings have received the attention of the government. special care has also been given to the encouragement of agriculture. the superiority of french manufactures has been abundantly shown at the great exhibition in london. the number of common schools is , ; of girls' schools , .--the number of the land forces on the st of october was , men and , horses. if circumstances permit, this will be reduced to , men and , horses. out of tribes in algeria, have recognized the rule of france. various important naval works have been constructed. the relations of france to foreign powers are eminently satisfactory. her situation at rome continues unchanged, and the pope still shows constant solicitude for the happiness of france and the welfare of her soldiers. important measures are in progress at rome, and active exertions are making for the formation of an army, which will render possible the withdrawal of the troops from the states of the church. a proof has been given of the friendly disposition of france toward spain, by offering her the aid of the french naval forces to oppose the audacious attempt against the island of cuba.--in spite of all these satisfactory results, the president says a general feeling of uneasiness is daily increasing. "every where employment is falling off, wretchedness is increasing, and anti-social hopes gain courage in proportion as the public powers, now weakened, are approaching their termination." the government, in such a state of things, ought to seek out proper means of conjuring away the peril, and of assuring the best chances of safety. resolutions must be adopted, which emanate from a decisive act of sovereign authority. "well, then," proceeds the president, "i have asked myself whether, in presence of the madness of passions, the confusion of doctrines, the division of parties, when every thing is leaguing together to deprive justice, morality, and authority of their last prestige--whether, i say, we ought to allow the only principle to be shaken which, in the midst of the general chaos, providence has left upstanding as our rallying point? when universal suffrage has again upraised the social edifice, when it has substituted a right for a revolutionary act, ought its base to be any longer narrowed? when new powers shall come to preside over the destinies of the country, is it not to compromise their stability in advance to leave a pretext for discussing their origin or doubting their legitimacy? no doubt on the subject can be entertained; and without for a moment departing from the policy of order which i have always pursued, i have seen myself, to my deep regret, obliged to separate myself from a ministry which possessed my full confidence and esteem, to choose another, composed also of honorable men, known for their conservative opinions, but who are willing to admit the necessity of re-establishing universal suffrage on the largest possible base. in consequence, there will be presented to you a bill to restore that principle in all its plenitude, in preserving such parts of the law of may as free universal suffrage from its impure elements, and render its application more moral and more regular." the law of may , he says, was originally passed as a measure of public safety, and of course now that the necessity for it has passed away, the law itself should be repealed. its operation, moreover, has gone further than could have been foreseen. it has disfranchised three millions of electors, two-thirds of whom are peaceable inhabitants of the country. this immense exclusion has been made the basis and pretext of the anarchical party, which covers its detestable designs with the appearance of right torn from it, and requiring to be reconquered. the law also presents grave inconveniences, especially in its application to the election of a president. the constitution requires that two millions of votes should be given for the candidate before he is declared elected, and if no one receives that number then the assembly shall elect. the law changes the proportion of votes from that originally established by the constitution. the restoration of universal suffrage is urged, finally, on the ground that it will give an additional chance of securing the revision of the constitution.--the president says he is aware that this proposition is inspired by his own personal interests, but he says his conduct for the last three years ought to be sufficient to put aside such an allegation. the good of his country will always be the motive of his conduct. he concludes by saying, that, "to restore universal suffrage is to deprive civil war of its flag, and the opposition of their last argument; it is to afford to france an opportunity of giving herself institutions which will insure her repose; it will be to bestow on the powers to come that moral repose which exists only when resting on a consecrated principle and an incontestable authority." immediately after the reading of the message, the minister read the project of a law proposing the abrogation of the law of may , , and re-establishing the electoral law of march , , by which all citizens years old, and having resided six months in the commune, are declared electors. the minister, on presenting this law, demanded urgency for its consideration. a warm debate followed, and the urgency was rejected by a large majority. the bill was then referred to a committee, which reported on tuesday of the succeeding week. the report was very explicit against universal suffrage, and closed by advising that the bill be rejected at once, without passing even to second reading. the matter was then postponed until the following thursday. on that day, after an animated debate, in which, by agreement, the republicans were represented by m. michel de bourges, the motion was carried by a vote of to --a majority of _seven_ against the government. during the debate m. de bourges asked, "is it not probable that the disfranchised electors will present themselves at the hustings in may, , and with the message of the president in their hands, declare their determination to vote?" this has been regarded as a hint to the electors to go forward and claim their right to vote.--another question of very great interest and importance, grew out of a demand of the quæstors that the troops of the city should be put under their orders for the protection of the assembly; the question whether the project should be brought under consideration or not, came up on the th of november. the project as presented by the quæstors, m. baze, gen. leflo, and one other, defined the right in such a manner as to make the power of the assembly over the troops direct--without the intervention of the war office or of the executive. the question was discussed with great warmth, and for part of the time amidst the greatest confusion and clamor. the vote was finally taken, and the proposition of the quæstors was rejected, to .--a large number of officers of the army recently presented themselves at the elyssée and were received by the president in a speech that created great excitement. he said he was sure he could depend upon their support, because he should demand nothing that did not accord with his right, recognized by the constitution, with military honor, and with the interest of the country; because he had placed at their head officers who had his confidence, and who merited theirs; and because he should not do as other governments had done, ask them to march on and he would follow; but he would say, "i march, follow me." the speech created great commotion throughout all political parties.--general uneasiness is felt as to the result of the political struggle in france. the votes upon the propositions mentioned above were not party votes, but seemed to be the result of ever changing alliances and combinations. the hostility which burst out against the president upon the first publication of his message, had in some degree subsided, or rather it had been directed against m. thiers. it is universally felt that, whether peacefully solved or not, the election in may can not fail to have a most important influence upon european politics. on the th of november, the president made a brief but significant speech, on distributing to the manufacturers the prizes they had won by the articles exhibited at the world's exhibition. after expressing his satisfaction at the proofs of french genius and skill which had been afforded at the exhibition, he proceeded to speak of the check upon industry which the continued machinations of evil men in france could not fail to create. on the one hand france was disturbed by demagogical ideas, and on the other by monarchist hallucinations. the former disseminate every where error and falsehood. "disquietude goes before them, and deception follows them, while the resources employed in repressing them are so much loss to the most pressing ameliorations and to the relief of misery. the schemes of monarchists impede all progress, all serious labor, for in place of an advance the country is forced to have recourse to a struggle. the efforts of both, however, will be in vain." and the president exhorted the manufacturers to continue their labors. "undertake them without fear, for they will prevent the want of occupation during the winter. do not dread the future; tranquillity will be maintained, come what may. a government which relies for support on the entire mass of the nation, which has no other motive of action than the public good, and which is animated by that ardent faith which is a sure guide even through a space in which there is no path traced, that government, i say, will know how to fulfill its mission, for it has in it that right which comes from the people, and that force which comes from god." this speech created a profound sensation, and elicited general discussion.--the _constitutionnel_ created a universal excitement by an article proclaiming the existence of a monarchical conspiracy, and menacing that section of the assembly with instant seizure and imprisonment upon the first movement toward the accomplishment of their plans. the editor, a. granier de cassagnac, was denounced in very violent terms by m. creton, an orleanist deputy, who was challenged therefor. he refused, however, to take any notice of it, when he was posted as a coward by cassagnac. ernest, king of hanover, died at his palace in herrenhausen, on the th of november, at the age of , and after a reign of thirteen years. he was the fifth and last surviving son of george iii., and was born at kew, england, on the th of june, . in he entered the army, and served in the european wars which followed. in he was created duke of cumberland, earl of armagh, and duke of teviotdale, with a parliamentary grant of £ , per annum. he continued to live in england until the death of william iv., when he became king of hanover. his reign has not been marked by any great events. he was always an ultra champion of privileged classes, and made himself very prominent in england as the enemy of catholic emancipation, and reform measures of all sorts. in switzerland, the recent election has resulted in the return of nearly all the members of the present federal assembly, especially in the german cantons. the radicals have a decided majority--contrary to the expectations that had been very generally entertained. the new assembly was to meet on the st of december in order to elect the federal government. the character of the justice administered in austria is strongly illustrated by a notification in a venice gazette. count agostino guerrieri, of verona, lately of the austrian hussars, was convicted of having received an anonymous letter from revolutionary parties, and of not giving it up to the authorities; the verdict against him was that he was guilty of high treason, and for this he was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment in a fortress. baron lutti was convicted of having advised him to burn the letter, and for that offense he was sentenced to imprisonment for two years. from southern and eastern europe there is no news of special interest. in austria financial necessities are creating general anxiety. the credit of the country does not prove sufficient to effect needed loans. general dissatisfaction, moreover, still prevails in hungary, and many of the hungarian regiments evince a disposition to take sides with their country rather than their employers.--in italy the country is apparently quiet, but a very thorough and effective organization has been effected for a new revolutionary movement, whenever a proper opportunity shall be presented.--the peace of europe is generally supposed to depend upon the french election in may next; but it is not easy to see by what result general peace can be preserved. editor's table. the year comes round with such perfect uniformity that we find it hard to realize how there could ever have been any great difficulty in settling either its true boundaries or its internal divisions. any body, it seems to us, could make an almanac, as far as the calendar is concerned. such might be the first thought, even of persons who could not justly be charged with a lack of general intelligence. but let them think again, and they will rather find cause to wonder at the immense amount of observation involved in the process of gathering, age after age, the elements of a computation apparently so simple. had the seasons been so strikingly marked that the transition from one to the other had been instantaneous, or had the lesser sections of time been so contrived, in the divine wisdom, as to be exact divisors of the greater, there would have been no difficulty whatever in the problem. but the author of nature has not made it so easy for us. twelve moons fall short of the year; thirteen exceed it. any monthly division, therefore, founded on the revolutions of the satellite, must require, after the lapse of a few years, an addition, or a subtraction, of a certain period, to make the seasons come round again in harmony. the first men, unquestionably, soon learned to note the general revolution by the return of the same seasons. the earliest agricultural operations would necessitate similar estimates, and thus a general notion of the year would be arrived at without an exact knowledge of the precise number of days contained. hence, in all languages, some such idea has entered into the name. the year is that which comes, and _comes again_. in greek (if our readers will pardon a little display of learning which we have picked up for the occasion) it is [greek: eti "etos" heteros] _another_ and yet _another_. in the hebrew it is _repetition_. in our own, and the northern tongues generally, the word in all its forms (_year_, _gear_, _jahr_, _jaar_, &c.) ever denotes a _course_ (_currus_) or _circle_. another mode was by rude astronomical observations, which must have been resorted to in the very earliest periods. for a good portion of the year, the sun was seen to come regularly north. then he remained apparently stationary; and then, slowly _turning_, made his retreat again to the southern limit, there to perform the same movement--and so on without interruption or variation. hence the word _tropic_, signifying the _turning_, and of which st. james makes so sublime and beautiful a use when he tells us (james i. ) that the unchangeable spiritual sun, or "father of lights," has no _parallax_[ ] and no "_shadow of turning_," or _tropical shadow_, as it should be rendered, referring to the mode of determining the period of _turning_ by the shortest shadow cast by a perpendicular object. still all this was merely an approximation to the length of the year, but with errors which only repeated observations could correct. by taking, however, a large number of these self-repeating repeating phenomena for a divisor, and the whole number of carefully ascertained days for a dividend, the error in each case would be diminished in an inverse ratio; so that we should not wonder that the number of three hundred and sixty-five days was fixed upon at quite an early period. [ ] the word parallax, or "_parallage_," here must refer to the sun's declination north and south of the equator. we have no reason for supposing that the ideas connected with the term in modern astronomical science were at all known to the apostle. it may, however, be taken generally, for any deviation from one unchangeable position, and, in such a sense, preserve all the beauty and sublimity of the metaphor. such estimates, too, were aided by collateral observations of the stars. let any one look out upon the heavens some clear night at the commencement of the year, and he can not help being struck with the position as well as the brilliancy of certain constellations. over head are the pleiades, the lone aldebaran, perseus, and capella. coming up the eastern sky are orion, gemini, sirius, the lesser dog. descending in the western are andromeda, pegasus, capricornus, the southern fish. while low down toward the setting horizon are the harp, the eagle, and the swan. two weeks later, at the same time in the evening, he will find them all farther westward. in a month the change will be still more marked. after three months, those that before were just rising are on the meridian, and those that were then on the meridian are now setting. in six months, an entirely new host of stars will adorn the firmament, and at the end of a year, all the same phenomena will be found to have come round again. our minuteness of detail may seem like trifling in an age so scientific as this; but it is astonishing how much our science is the science of books, and how little, after all, especially in astronomy, there is of personal acquaintance with the objects whose laws we know so well in theory. how many understand thoroughly the doctrine of transits and parallaxes, and even the more difficult laws of celestial influences, as laid down in scientific treatises, and yet, to save their lives, could not tell us what stars are now overhead, or what planets are now visible in our nightly heavens. they have read of jupiter, they know the dimensions of jupiter, and have even calculated the movements of jupiter, it may be, but jupiter himself they never saw. they would be surprised, perhaps, to discover, by actual sight, how much, in respect to position and appearance, our wintry constellations differ from those that are visible in summer; although night after night, for years and years, the brilliant phenomena have been passing over their heads, and silently, yet most eloquently, inviting their observation. this should not be so. the names and locations of the stars should ever be a part of astronomical instruction. we should learn them, if only for their classical reminiscences--for the sublime pleasure of having such a theme for contemplation in our evening walks. how easy, in this way, to fill the heavens with life, when we are led to regard them no longer as an unmeaning collection of glittering points, or what is scarcely better, a mere diagram for the illustration of scientific abstractions, but stored with remembrances of the older days of our world--the old religion, the old mythology, the old philosophy pictured on the sky--the old heroes, and heroines, and heroic events, transferred to the stars, and still shining in immortal splendor above us. but to return from our digression--any one may see how such an observation of the stars furnished a second mode of ascertaining the length of the year. the men of the olden time were driven to this earnest watching of the heavens by an interest, of which, in these days of almanacs, and clocks, and compasses we can form but an inadequate conception. the period of the year was named after the principal star that rose just before, or set just after the sun. for example, when sirius rose and set with or near the time of the sun, it was called the "dog days"--the only one of these old sidereal measures of time that has come down to us. another season was under the sway of orion. it was called the "stormy constellation," and at its heliacal rising, or when, as hesiod expresses it, the gentle pleiads, shunning his fierce pursuit, sank late in the ocean wave-- then was the ship to be drawn up into the well-secured harbor, and the sailor for a season to shun the dangerous deep. in the same way the periods of different agricultural operations were assigned to different constellations--some to arcturus, others to the humid hyades, and others, again, to the bull, who "opened the year with his golden horns." from the observed fact of simultaneousness arose, also, the notion of some secret causative influence between the concurrent events. hence those views of astrology, so early and so widely held among mankind, and which assigned to each event its celestial concomitants, and to each individual man his natal star. exploded it may have been by the modern progress, but there was nevertheless at bottom an _idea_ of more value than any science, however accurate, that does not give it the first and highest place. it was the thought of the absolute unity of nature, and of the unbroken relation of every part of the universe to every other part--in other words, the sublime idea which the oldest philosophy strove to express by that grand word, kosmos. the length of the year, as a whole number, was early known. it was some time, however, before the disturbance created by the fraction began to be distinctly perceived, and still longer before it was reduced to any thing like satisfactory measurement. in the division of the days into monthly periods, lay at first the greatest difficulty. the lunar number was in general employed, not only as the nearest marked divisor, but because the new and full moons were so generally connected with religious festivals whether this arose from convenience of arrangement, or from the idea of some deep religious meaning symbolized by the ever dying and reviving phases of this mysterious planet. we can not, however, help being struck with the superior accuracy of the jewish, when compared with the confusion and change that prevailed in the greek and roman calendar. no reader of the bible can avoid remarking its extreme particularity of date. the oldest and, on this account, the most striking instance is in the narration of the flood: "in the th year of noah, in the second month, and on the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened." and so also in respect to its close. there is the same particularity, too, in the date of the passover, of the exodus, of the arrival at sinai, of various events in the wilderness, of the wars and settlement of canaan, of the building and dedication of the temple, and of the messages of the later prophets. the first would seem to present the most unanswerable proof that the jewish computation had been derived from an antediluvian science that must have been of a higher kind than we are generally disposed to acknowledge. with all their mathematics, and with some attainments in astronomy to which the jew could make no pretension, the calendar of the greeks presents the appearance of far more confusion. herodotus, after saying that the egyptians first _found out_ the year, and divided it into twelve parts by _means of the stars_, praises their arrangement (which was probably the same with, or derived from, that of the patriarchical times) as being much more easy and correct than the division of the greeks. "the egyptians," he says, "divide the year into twelve months of thirty days each; and then, by adding five days to each year, they have a uniform revolution of time; whereas the greeks, for the sake of adjusting the seasons accurately, add every third year an intercalary month" (herod. ii. ). by this, however, they seem only to have made "confusion worse confounded." the great difficulty of the greeks arose from the attempt to do what the wiser egyptians and hebrews seem to have abandoned--namely, to divide the year solely by lunar months. by arbitrary intercalations, it is true, they could bring the solar and lunar years to a tolerable agreement, but then, their effect was continually to change the places of the months relatively to the seasons. the periods of intercalation were at first every two years, then three, and lastly four, and eight. in the two latter they seem to have been governed by some respect to the quadrennial return of the great olympic games, and the olympiads corresponding thereto. the computation of the year was afterward brought to a still greater degree of accuracy by what was called the cycle of melon, which, by embracing a period of nineteen years brought the times of the new and full moon to fall again, very nearly, on the same days of each month. with the romans it was still worse. nothing shows how much better they understood fighting than astronomy, than the way they managed their year. under romulus it was said to have consisted of only ten months. it is not easy to see how this could be adjusted on any mode of computation, and yet the numerical names, some of which have come down to our own calendar, would seem to present some proof of it. the last month in the year is yet called _december_, or the _tenth_. in the days of numa it consisted of twelve lunar months, with a system of intercalation something like that of the greeks. the two added months were january and february, which, in numerical order would have been undecember, and duodecember, or the eleventh and twelfth. the year, however, by the clumsiness of these methods, and by the whole matter being left in the hands of the pontifices who seem to have had little science, and still less honesty, became turned so completely topsy-turvy, that instead of being put at the end, these two new months were finally arranged at the beginning. the first was called january from the great (some say the greatest) latin deity, janus, whose original name was djanus or di-annus, _the god of the year_ (similar to the greek kronos or time), and who was most expressively represented with two faces, one ever looking back upon the past, and the other forward to the coming period. in the hands of the pontifices the roman year had again been getting more and more out of order, until, in the days of julius cæsar, the first of january had retrograded nearly to the autumnal equinox. this very useful despot determined to take the matter in his own hands, and make a thorough reform; but, as a preliminary, was obliged to have an extraordinary year of days, which was called the _year of confusion_. before this, there had been, too, a continual neglect of the fraction of a day, although its existence seems to have been known at a much earlier period. cæsar arranged the months as they now stand, and made provision for the fraction by ordering a day to be added to february every fourth year. this seemed to answer every purpose, until, after the lapse of more than fourteen centuries, it was found that the seasons began to disagree with the almanac, and the religious festivals to fall somewhat out of place. the error was estimated to amount to eleven days; the correction of which was assumed by the roman pontifex, but with the aid of a science far more accurate than had been possessed by the pontifices of the older time. the modes now adopted, for preserving accuracy in future, are known to most well-informed readers, so that we shall not dwell upon them farther than to say, that they consist generally in such omissions of the leap year, from time to time, as will correct the very small excess by which a quarter of a day exceeds the actual fraction of the tropical year. "and god said--let there be lights in the firmament of heaven, and let them be for days, and for years, and for times, and for seasons." it requires some thought before we can fully realize how much we are indebted, morally and mentally, as well as physically, to these time-measuring arrangements. we must place ourselves in the condition of the savage before we can know how much of our civilization comes from the almanac, or, in other words, our exact divisions of time aiding the idea and the memory--thus shaping our knowledge, or thinking, and even our emotions, so as to make them very different from what they might have been, had we not possessed these regulators of our inner as well as our outer man. how unlike, in all this, must be the life of the untaught children of the forest! let us endeavor to fancy men living from age to age without any known length or divisions of the year--no lesser or greater periods to serve as landmarks, or, rather, sky-marks, in their history--and, therefore, without any possibility of really having any history. summer and winter come and go, but to the savage all the future is a chaos, and all the past is with the years beyond the flood, unmarked by any intervals which may give it a hold upon the thoughts or the memory. the heavenly bodies make their monthly, and annual, and cyclical revolutions, but their eternal order finds no correspondence in his chaotic experience. the stars roll nightly over his head, but only to direct his steps in the wilderness, without shedding a ray of light upon the denser wilderness of his dark and sensual mind. the old man knows not how many years he has lived. he knows not the ages of his children. he has heard, indeed, of the acts of his fathers; but all are equally remote. they belong to the past, and the past is all alike--a dark back-ground of tradition, without any of that chronological perspective through which former ages look down upon us with an aspect as life-like and as truthful as the present. the phenomena of the physical world have been ever flitting like shadows before his sense, but the understanding has never _connected_ them with their causes, never followed them to their sources, never seen in them any ground of coherence or relation, simply because time, the great _connective_ medium of all inductive comparison, has been to him an undivided, unarranged, and, therefore, unremembered vacancy. hence it is, he never truly learns to think, and, on this account, never makes progress--never rises of himself from that low animal state to which he may once have fallen, in his ever downward course from the primitive light and truth. Ã�schylus, in the prometheus, makes such to have been the first condition of mankind. but, however false his theory in this respect--opposed as it is to the sure teachings of revelation--nothing can be truer to the life than the fancy picture he has given us-- no sure foreknowing sign had they of winter, nor of flowery spring, or summer with its fruits. unmarked the years rolled ever on; and hence _seeing, they saw not_; hearing, they heard in vain. like one wild dream their waste unmeasured life, until i taught them how to note _the year_ by signal stars, and gave them _memory_, the active mother of all human science. * * * * * the pulpit and the press--the past and the present, the rising and the waning power, would be to some minds the first idea suggested by such a collocation of terms. but we trust the time has not yet come for the actual verification of any such contrast. far be it from us to underrate the value of the very instrument through which we seek to instruct and reform the public mind; but woe to the land and to the age in which such an antagonism shall ever be realized. the press is man's boasted means for enlightening the world. the pulpit is heaven's ordinance; and sad will it be for the church, and sadder still for the state, when any other power on earth challenges a superiority, either in rank or influence. the clergy can safely occupy no inferior place; and such is their position, unless they are ever in advance of the age, not in the common cant of a superficial doctrine of progress, but as champions of the eternal and _immovable_ truths, while they are, at the same time, contending in all the fields, whether of theology, or science, or literature, or philosophy, in which there may be an enemy to be subdued, or a victory won for christ. such rank, we believe, may still be claimed for the church. in former centuries she had neither antagonist nor rival. now has she hosts of both. yet are her servants still in the "fore-front of the hottest battle." philosophy and science are swelling loud and long the note of triumph, and yet it is still true, even in a period the most thoroughly secular the world has ever known since the days of the apostles, that the highest efforts of mind are connected, as ever, with the domain of theology. science, literature, and even politics, find their most profound interest for the human soul when the questions they raise lie nearest to her sacred confines, and connect themselves with that "faith which is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen." what true worth in any problem in philosophy, in any discovery in science, the moment it is once conclusively settled, beyond a peradventure, that man has no hereafter? what becomes of art, and poetry? what meaning in "progress," and "ideas," and the "_rights of man_?" but it is this dread though all-conservative idea of a hereafter, which it is the office of the pulpit ever to keep before the human soul, not as a lifeless dogma for the understanding, but in all those stern relations to a higher positive law, which shall ever prevent its coalescing with a frivolous creed in theology, or any boasting philosophy of mere secular reform. in doing this, there is needed for the pulpit, first of all, and above all, the most intense seriousness of spirit, secondly the most thorough knowledge of the scriptures, and thirdly, learning, science, and philosophy, fully equal to any thing that may be brought to cope with it in its unyielding strife for the dominion of the world. in urging this, however, we should never forget, that while the power of the periodical press is often unduly enhanced by a falsely coloring medium of estimation, the glory and influence of the pulpit are diminished by a similar cause. apparent variety of topic, an apparent freshness in the mode of treatment, a skillful adaptation to the ever varying excitements of the hour, all aided by the ceaseless craving in the human soul for mere intellectual novelty, give to the one an appearance of superiority it does not really possess, while, in respect to the other, the necessary repetition of the same great truths, from age to age, has produced just the contrary effect. there is no way, therefore, in which we can better employ the imagination than in helping us to get away from such a false and blinding influence. how would the mightiest minds of the ancient world now estimate the two prime powers of which we are speaking. let us imagine cicero, or aristotle, to be permitted to revisit the earth, and study its new modes of thought as they would strike them from their old and, therefore, unbiased point of observation. lay before them all the wonders of the modern newspaper press. they would doubtless be startled with many things it would reveal to them in the discoveries of modern physical science. but take them in those wide fields of thought in which mere physical discovery avails not to give superiority, and we may well doubt whether they would yield to us that triumph we so loudly claim. there is nothing in any modern declamation on the rights of men, or rights of women, that would make aristotle ashamed of his _politica_. cicero might hear discussed our closest questions of social casuistry, yet think as proudly of his _offices_, and his _republic_, as he ever did while a resident upon earth. no modern political correspondence would make him blush for his letters to brutus and to atticus. the ablest leader in any of our daily journals, would not strike them as very superior, either in thought or style, to what might have been expected from a pericles, a cleon, an isocrates, or a sallust. our profoundest arguments for and against foreign intervention might, perhaps, only remind him of the times when democratic athens was so disinterestedly striving to extend her "liberal institutions," and aristocratic sparta, with just about equal honesty, was gathering the other hellenic cities to a crusade in favor of a sound conservatism. modern europe, with its politics, would be only greece on a larger scale; and our own boasts of universal annexation might only call up some sad reminiscences of the olden time, when "the masses" did their thinking through the sophist and the rhetorician, instead of the lecturer and the press. but now let fancy change the scene from the reading room to the ministrations of the christian temple. to present the contrast in its strongest light, let it be the humblest church, with the humblest worshipers, and the humblest preacher of our great city--some obscure corner which the literary and editorial lights of the age might regard as the last place in which there could be expected any thing original or profound. yes--the poorest sermon of the poorest preacher in new york could hardly fail to strike the great roman, and the greater greek, with an awe which nothing of any other kind in the modern world could ever inspire. what wondrous truths are these, and whence came they! whence this doctrine of eternal life, so far beyond what we ever dared to think--this preaching of "righteousness, temperance, and a judgment to come," so far transcending all the ancient moralists had ever taught! whence these new and startling words, these superhuman ideas of grace, of prayer, of redemption, of a new and heavenly birth! and then again, the sublimity of that invocation--the heavenly thought, and heavenly harmony, of that song of praise and love! all is redolent of a philosophy to which our most rapt contemplations never ventured to ascend. even the despised hymn-book may be soberly supposed to fill their souls with an admiration that dryden and shakspeare might fail to inspire. how transcendent the conceptions on every page! how far beyond all ancient or modern poetry that is alien to its spirit, or claims no kindred with its celestial origin. here, indeed is progress. but we must close our sketch. is the picture overdrawn? or have we truthfully presented the highest although, in spirit, the least acknowledged aspect of the real superiority of the modern mind--even the humblest modern mind--over the proudest intellects of the ancient world? editor's easy chair. between congress, kossuth, and christmas--an alliterative trio of topic--we hardly know where to find the handle of a single other moving hammer of gossip. the hunt for chit-chat is after all a very philosophical employ; and we do not know another _colaborateur_, in the whole editorial fraternity, who has smacked the turbulence of congressional debaters, the enthusiasm of the hungarian patrick henry, and the _cadeaux_ of our _noel_, with more equanimity and composure than ourselves. our chair, as we have hinted, is an easy one; and throwing ourselves back into its luxurious embrace, we have raced through the swift paragraphs of morning journalism, or lingered, as is our wont, upon the piquancy of occasional romance, with all the gravity of a stoic, and all the glow of epicurus. we are writing now, while the street and the salon are lighted up with the full flush of the hungarian enthusiasm. it amounts to a frenzy; and may well give to the quiet observer a text on which to preach of our national characteristics. and _firstly_, we are prone to enthusiastic outbursts, we love to admire with an ecstasy; and when we do admire, we have a pride to eclipse all rivals in our admiration. we doubt if ever at pesth, in the best days that are gone, or that are to come, of hungarian nationality, the chief of the nation could receive more hearty and zealous plaudits than have welcomed him upon our sunny bay of new york. a fine person, an honest eye, and an eloquent tongue--pleading for liberty and against oppression--stir our street-folk--and we hope in heaven may always stir them--to such enthusiasm as no paris mob can match. but, _secondly_--since we are speaking sermonwise--our enthusiasm is only too apt to fall away into reaction. we do not so much grow into a steady and healthful consciousness of what we count worthy, as we leap to the embrace of what wears the air of worthiness; and the very excess of our emotion is only too often followed by a lethargy, which is not so much the result of a changed opinion, as of a fatigue of sentiment. whether this counter-action is to follow upon the enthusiasm that greets the great guest, we dare not say. we hope--for the sake of hungary, for the sake of liberty, and for the sake of all that ennobles manhood--that it may not! _thirdly_, and finally, as sermonizers are wont to say, we are, at bottom, with all our exciting moments, and all our fevers of admiration, a very matter-of-fact people. we could honor mr. dickens with such adulation, and such attention as he never found at home; but when it came to the point of any definite action for the protection of his rights as an author, we said to mr. dickens, with our heart in his books, but with our hands away from our pockets, "we are our own law-makers, and must pay you only in--honor!" how will our matter-of-fact tendencies answer to the calls of kossuth? we are not advocates or partisans--least of all--in our easy chair: we only seek to chisel out of the rough block of every day talk, that image of thought which gives it soul and intent. that the enlarged ideas of kossuth--independent of their eloquent exposition from his lips--will meet with the largest and profoundest sympathy from the whole american people, we can not have a doubt. nor can we doubt that that sympathy will lend such material aid, as was never before lent to any cause, not our own. but the question arises, how far such sympathy and individual aid will help forward a poor, down-trodden, and distant nation, toward the vigor of health and power. sympathies and favoring opinion may do much toward alleviating the pains of wounded hearts and pride; they may, by urgency of expression, spread, and new leaven the whole thought of the world; but he is a fast thinker who does not know that this must be the action of time. we can not but believe that the strongest sympathy, and the most generous proffers of individual aid will, after all, help very little toward practical issues, in any new endeavor of hungary to be itself again. poor poland is a mournful monument of the truth of what we say. how then is our great guest to derive really tangible aid in the furtherance of what lies so near his heart? we pose the question, not for political discussion, but as the question which is giving a slant to all the talk of the town. to break peace with austria and with russia, and openly to take ground, as a government, with the subdued hungarians, is what very few presume to hint--much less to think soberly of. the great hungarian, himself, would hardly seem to have entertained such a possibility. we suppose his efforts rather to be directed toward the enkindling of such a large love of liberty, and such international sympathy among all people who are really free, as shall make a giant league of opinion, whose thunders shall mutter their anathemas against oppression, in every parliament and every congress; and by congruity of action, as well as congruity of impulse, fix the bounds to oppression, and fright every tyrant from advance--if not from security. in all this we only sketch the color of the hungarian talk. * * * * * winter gayeties, meantime, have taken up their march toward the fatigues of spring. furs, and velvet mantillas float along the streets, as so many pleasant decoys to graver thought. the opera, they say, has held its old predominance, with a stronger lift than ever, in the fashion of the town. poor lola montes, shadowed under the folds of the hungarian banner, has hardly pointed the talk of an hour. we can not learn that any triumphal arch graced the entry of the spanish aspasia, or that her coming is celebrated in any more signal way, than by the uncorking of a few extra bottles of bavarian beer. that many will see her if she dances, there can hardly be a doubt; but that many will boast the seeing her, is far more doubtful. we can wink at occasional lewdness at home, but when europe sends us the queen of its lewdness to worship, we forswear the issue, and like agamemnon at the sacrifice of iphigenia--hide our faces in our mantles. we observe that our usually staid friend m. gaillardet, of the _courrier_, records in one of his later letters, an interview with the witching lola; and it would seem that he had been wrought upon to speak for her an apologetic word. with all respect, however, for the french republican, we think it will need far more than his casual encouragement, to lift the bavarian countess into the range of american esteem. speaking of the french republic, we can not forbear putting in record a little episode of its nice care for itself. m. dumas, the favorite dramatist, publishes a letter in one of the paris journals, in way of consolation for the imprisoned editor of the _avenement_. "my dear vacquerie," he says, "while i am on the lookout for sundry notices of what may touch the honorable institution of our press censorship, i send you this fact, which is worthy to stand beside the official condemnation of the verses of victor hugo. m. guizard, the director in such matters, has refused me, personally, the request to reproduce my _chevalier de la maison rouge_; and the reason is, that my poor play has contributed to the accession of the republic!" ever yours, "a. dumas." we are only surprised at the audacity of m. dumas, in giving publicity to such a note. * * * * * as a curious and not unnatural issue, growing out of the free appropriation of italian treasure, by the french republicans of the last century, we notice the fact, that a certain signor braschi, whose father, or grandfather, was a near connection of pope pius vi., has recently laid claim to some of the most valuable pictures in the louvre. it appears from his representations--supported by voluminous documentary evidence--that these objects pertained to a certain villa near rome, occupied at the time of the french invasion by the braschi family. signor braschi, in quality of heir, now claims the spoils, including some of the most brilliant works of the paris gallery. he avows his willingness, however, to waive his rights, in consideration of a few millions of francs, to be paid within the year. we have a fear that the only reparation the republic will bestow, will be the offer of an airy apartment in the _maison des fous_. * * * * * keeping to paris gossip, for want of any thing special in that way belonging to our own capital, we find this little half-incident chronicled in the french papers. ladies, it is known (or if not known may hence forth be known) traffic in the funds at the paris exchange, in a way that would utterly amaze our princesses of the salon. you do not indeed see them upon the marble floor of the stately _bourse_ itself, but at the hour of "the board," you are very sure to see a great many luxurious-looking little carriages drawn up in the neighborhood, and a great many ladies, at that special hour, are particularly zealous in their admiration of the old paintings which the dealers behind the exchange, offer "at a bargain." very quick-running footmen are also stirring, and report sales and offers to their mistresses with most commendable activity. among these outsiders, some paris romancist has remarked lately a very elegantly-dressed lady, who, three times a week, drew up her phaeton opposite the doors of the vaudeville theatre (which all _habitués_ will remember, is just opposite the bourse). chance passers imagined her to be some actress of the boards, and gazed at her accordingly. but it was observed that an "agent de change" made repeated visits to her little phaeton, and at the closing of the board our lady disappeared down the rue vivienne. upon a certain day--no matter when--the bystanders were startled by piercing shrieks issuing from the phaeton of "my lady," and all ran, to prevent as they supposed, some terrible crime. sympathy proved vain; and to the inquiries of the police the "man of business" only made phlegmatic reply, that the funds had fallen some ten per cent., and "my lady" was ruined. three days after, and the phaeton was a _voiture de remise_ in the rue lepelletier. the coachman had negotiated the sale, but all tidings of "my lady" were lost. * * * * * guinot, to whom we have been indebted again and again, has twisted out of his brain (we can not doubt it) this little happening of paris life, which, if not true, is yet as characteristic of france as a revolution. two funerals, he says, on a certain day wended their course toward the cemetery of _père la chaise_. one bier bore the body of a man; the other, the body of a woman. the day was a sour november day--with the half-mist and half-frostiness that sometimes ushers in the paris winter. the mourners were few--as mourners at paris are generally few. arrived within the gates, one _cortège_ took the path leading to the right; the other turned to the left. the ceremonies being over, a single mourner only remained at each tomb. at the grave of the lady lingered a man, apparently overcome with grief; at the grave of the man--a lady, who seemed equally overcome. their adieus were lengthened at the graves until all the attendants had disappeared. by chance, the grief of the two parties seemed to show the same amount of persistent sorrow, and of lingering regard: thus it happened that in retracing their slow and saddened steps toward the main entrance, they met in the grand alley face to face. they exchanged a look of sorrow, and an exclamation of surprise. "you, madame?" "_vous, monsieur?_" "but this is very strange," continued the gentleman, "is it not? we have met so rarely, since we broke our marriage contract ten years ago!" "the chance which has led me here is a very sad one, monsieur," and madame says it in very dolorous tones. "it is as much for me; i have followed to the grave a person very dear to me." "ah," returns madame, "she is dead! i, too, have lost my dearest friend," and she sobs. "i beg you would accept, madame, my sincerest sympathy." "and you too, sir; believe me, my heart bleeds for you." upon thus much of mournful interchange of grief, supervenes a silence--only broken by the low steps of the parties, and by occasional sobs of lament. guinot opens their conversation again thus: _gentleman._--"alas, existence seems to me very worthless--all is dark!" _lady._--"ah, what must it be for me, then?" _gentleman._--"how can i ever replace her fondness?" _lady._--"to whom can i confide my griefs?" _gentleman._--"what home will now receive me?" _lady._--"upon whose arm can i lean?" in such humor our racy _feuilletonist_ traces their walk and conversation along the parterres of that paris garden of death; at the gate he dismisses one of the two carriages which attend them; he crowns their mutual offices of consolation with a happy reunion--never to be broken--till one shall be again a mourner, and the other a tenant of the tomb. thus, says he, grief moralizes; and wise resolutions ride at an easy gallop, into broken hearts! and thus, we say, french ingenuity makes every hearse the carrier of a romance; and seasons the deepest woe with the piquancy of an intrigue! yet another story is swimming in our ink-stand; and with a gracious lift of the pen we shall stretch it upon our sheet. at viterbo, which, as every one ought to know, lies within the italian confines, lived once a poor peasant, with a poor, but pretty daughter, whose name was marianne. she had not the silks of our ladies, or the refinements, so called, of fashion. she wore a rough peasant robe, and watched her father's kids as they wandered upon the olive-shaded slopes of viterbo. at viterbo lived a youth whose name was carlo. carlo was prone to ramble; and albeit of higher family than the peasant's daughter, he saw and loved, and wooed and won the pretty marianne. they were betrothed in the hearing only of the drowsy tinkle of the bells that hung upon the necks of the kids, over which marianne was shepherdess. to marry they were afraid. he feared the anger of his father; and she feared to desert the cottage of her mother. carlo, swearing devotion, went away to rome and became an advocate. the revolution stirred the stolid romans, and carlo enlisted under garibaldi. after a series of fights and of escapes, carlo found himself in five years from his parting with the pretty peasantess of viterbo, a refugee, in the _café de france_, which stands behind the palais royal at paris. lamenting over his broken fortunes, and mourning for his poor italy, he sauntered, upon a certain day, into the garden of plants, upon the further side of the seine. it is a place where the neighboring world go to breathe the air of woods, and to relieve the stifling atmosphere of the city, with the openness and freedom of nature. (in parenthesis, let us ask, when shall new york civilization reach such a kind provision for life?) carlo wandered, dejected, sad, musing of bitterness, when his eye fell upon a face that seemed familiar. it was the face of a lady--in parisian costume, with a parisian air--but very like to the pretty peasantess of viterbo. he followed her--met her--accosted her; there was no mistaking her frighted look of recognition. she was distant and cool--for the fates had bound her fortunes to those of a parisian _bourgeois_, and she was the wife of the very respectable monsieur bovin. carlo was neither cool nor distant: for grief had cast him down, and now first, hope blessed him with a shadow of the joys that were gone. madame bovin's distance wore off under the impassioned addresses of the poor refugee, and again and again carlo found his way to the _jardin des plantes_. finally (alas for paris virtue!) the household of the respectable monsieur bovin, was, upon a certain morning, deserted; only a little note of poor french told the disconsolate husband, that the pretty marianne could no longer subdue her new kindled love for her italian home, and had gone back to the hills of viterbo. the sorrowing husband, though he could not purchase content, could yet purchase the services of the police. through them, he tracked the runaway lovers to the borders of france. thereafter the search was vain. but, alas, for poor carlo, he was recognized by the myrmidons of the powers that be, thrown into a dungeon, and report tells a story of his death. as for the pretty peasant, marianne, she wandered forlorn to her father's home; but the father's home was gone; and now, for menial hire--in her peasant dress (in place of the paris robes) and with a saddened heart--she watches the kids, upon the olive-shaded slopes of viterbo! editor's drawer. we are at the beginning of another year; a season in which all pause, and "take note of time"--time, the vehicle that carries every thing into nothing. "we talk," says a quaint english author, "of _spending_ our time, as if it were so much interest of a perpetual annuity; whereas, we are all living upon our capital; and he who wastes a single day, throws away that which can never be recalled or recovered: 'our moments fly apace, nor will our minutes stay; just like a flood our hasty days are sweeping us away!'" it is well to think of these things, standing upon the verge of a new year. but let us not trouble the reader with a prolonged homily. * * * * * every body will remember the missionary at one of the cannibal islands, who asked one of the natives if he had ever known a certain predecessor of his upon the island, who had labored in the moral vineyard there? "yes, we know him well--we _ate_ a part of him." now, the "piece of a cold missionary on the sideboard for a morning lunch," of which the witty sydney smith made mention, is scarcely a less objectionable dish, on the score of the material, than the chief feature of a repast, held, according to a french journal, not a thousand miles from the ascot race-course, in england: "at the recent races at ascot the famous horse tiberius broke his leg, by bounding against one of the posts of the barrier, while preparing for the race. his owner, the lord millbank, lost ten thousand pounds in betting upon his noble steed, besides his value, and others also lost very heavily: the law, of course, being that all bets should be paid whether the failure to win came from the less speed or from accident. "three days afterward, lord millbank gave a very sumptuous dinner. the most distinguished of the english peerage were present, and the conviviality ran exceedingly high. toward the close, the noble host rose in his place, and proposed an oblation to the health of the departed tiberius. "the toast was clamorously received, but the speaker remained standing with his glass in his hand. "'we drink to tiberius,' said milord millbank, when the shouts had subsided; 'to tiberius the most beautiful, the most admirable, the most spirited courser whose hoofs ever trod upon our glorious british turf!' "shouts again resounded to the roof in vehement peals. "'you know,' continued his lordship, 'the achievements of this horse. his deeds belong to history. fame has taken charge of his glory. but it belongs to me, and to you, my lords and gentlemen, to do honor to his mortal remains! i wished that this lofty courser should have a burial worthy of his great, his immortal deservings. he has _had_ it, my lords and gentlemen, he has had it! my cook has fitly prepared him, and you have feasted upon him to-day! yes, my lords and gentlemen, this repast which you have relished so keenly--these dishes which awakened the so frequent inquiry, 'what animal could be so delicious?'--that animal, my lords and gentlemen, was tiberius! it is that noble courser whose mortal remains now repose in your stomachs! may your digestions be light!' "at these words the enthusiasm concentrated for a moment--possibly with some vague thought of an immediate resurrection--but with a sudden outburst of 'hurrahs!' the sentiment took the turn of sublimity, and another glowing bumper was sent to join the departed courser in his metempsychosis." the english papers sometimes get off telling jokes against their neighbors across the channel, but seldom any thing better than this. besides, how thoroughly _french_ it is, both in the conception and execution! its origin could never be mistaken. * * * * * we put on record, in these holiday-times of _imbibition_, these warning stanzas, to guard the reader alike against _cause_ and _effect_: "my head with ceaseless pain is torn, fast flow the tear-drops from my eye i curse the day i e'er was born, and wish to lay me down and die; bursts from my heart the frequent sigh, it checks the utterance of my tongue; but why complain of silence?--why, when all i speak is rash and wrong? "the untasted cup before me lies-- what care i for its sparkle now? before me other objects rise, i know not why--i know not how. my weary limbs beneath me bow. all useless is my unstrung hand: why does this weight o'ershade my brow? why doth my every vein expand? "what rends my head with racking pain? why through my heart do sorrows pass? why flow my tears like scalding rain? why look my eyes like molten brass? and why from yonder brimming glass of wine untasted have i shrunk? 'cause i can't lift it--for, alas! i'm so pre-pos-ter-ous-ly drunk!" * * * * * the vagaries of the insane are sometimes amusing to witness; and not unfrequently there is a "method in their madness" that would not be amiss in those who are on the _outside_ of lunatic asylums. many years ago in philadelphia, a patient in the insane asylum of that city fancied himself to be the redeemer of the world; and his talk and actions were always in keeping with the character, save that he exacted a rigid deference to his person and his divinely-derived power. but one day another patient arrived, whose idiosyncrasy it was, that he was the supreme being. a little while after his entrance into the institution, he met in one of the halls, as he was passing, the imagined representative of the son; who, not liking his bearing, reminded him who he was: "yes, you are the son, but know from this time henceforth, that you have seen the father, and must obey him!" "and strange enough," said the keeper of the institution to the friend who gives us the particulars, "from that day forward, all power was given unto the latter; and at length the fancied son's 'air-drawn' vision melted away, and he left the establishment a perfectly sane man." some twelve or fifteen years ago there was in the lunatic asylum at worcester, massachusetts, a kind of crazy david crockett, who fancied that he could do any thing that _could_ be done, and a little more. one day a good many visitors were walking slowly through the halls, examining them, and occasionally saying a word or two to the patients. after a very courteous reception of a gentleman, who mentioned that he had come from south carolina, the crazy man interrupted him abruptly with: "have you felt any of my earthquakes down there lately?" one of the visitors replied: "no, we've had nothing of the kind, where _i_ live." "i thought so! i knew it!" returned the patient, frowning. "i have an enemy. ice! ice! why, i ordered one of my very best earthquakes for your part of the country! it was to have ripped up the earth, and sent the mississippi into the gulf of mexico. look here!" he continued, pointing to a crack in the plastering, "_that's_ one of my earthquakes! what do you think of _that_? i've got more orders for earthquakes than i can attend to in a year. i've got four coming off, up north this afternoon--two in vermont!" * * * * * that was a good story that was told of an occurrence which took place in a stage-coach one morning many years ago in the western part of this state. a young, conceited fellow, who had been monopolizing almost all the conversation of the company, consisting of some sixteen passengers, had been narrating the wonderful exploits he had performed, the prodigies of valor of which he had been the hero, and the wonderful escapes of which he had been the subject. at least he related _one_ adventure in which he was the principal actor, which was so perfectly astounding, that a low whistle of incredulity was a simultaneous demonstration on the part of the passengers. an old gentleman, with a solemn visage, and an ivory-headed cane, sitting in the back corner of the stage, here observed: "that last adventure of yours, my young friend, is a very extraordinary one--_very_ extraordinary. one could hardly believe it without having _seen_ it. i didn't see it; but i can relate a circumstance which happened in my family, and in which i was for a time deeply interested, which is almost as remarkable, and i believe quite as true. will you hear it?" "certainly," said our braggadocio; "i should be very _glad_ to hear it." "give it to us! give it to us!" echoed the whole company, getting an inkling, from the solemn phiz of the old gentleman, that something rich was in the wind. "well, sir," continued the narrator, "the circumstance to which i alluded is this: my father had three children. he had an only brother, who had also three children. my grandfather had left to my father and my uncle a large estate, in the executorship of which a quarrel broke out, which grew more and more bitter, until at length the aid of the law was invoked, and many years of violent litigation ensued, during all which time the costs of the proceedings were gradually eating up the estate. my father and uncle saw this, and though bitter enemies, they had too much sense to bite each his own nose off. they were chivalrous and brave men, almost as much, probably, as yourself, sir (addressing the daring young gentleman aforesaid), and they determined to 'fight it out among themselves,' as the saying is, and thus keep the money in the family. well, sir, my father made this proposition to my uncle; to wit: that the three sons of each, in the order of their age, should settle the disputed question on the field of honor; the majority of the survivors to decide the affirmative. it was readily acceded to. my eldest brother went out, on the appointed day, and at the first fire he fell dead upon the turf. my next eldest brother took his station at once, and at the second fire, shot my next eldest cousin through the lungs, and he never drew a whole breath afterward." here the old gentleman's emotion was so great that he paused a moment, as if to collect himself. presently he proceeded: "it now became _my_ turn to take the stand; and upon _me_ rested the hopes of my family. i can truly say, that it was not so much fear that made my hand tremble and my pistol to waver: it was the deep sense of _responsibility_ that rested upon me. we took our places--a simultaneous discharge was a moment after heard--and, and----" here the narrator put his handkerchief to his face, and seemed to shake with irrepressible agitation. "well, sir," exclaimed our young munchausen who had listened to the narrative with almost breathless attention, "well, sir--well?--what was the result? how did it end?" "_i was shot dead the first fire!_" replied the old gentleman; "the property passed into the hands of my uncle and his family; and my surviving brother has been poor as a rat ever since!" an uproarious laugh, that fairly shook the coach, told "braggadocio" that he had been slightly "taken in and done for" after a manner entirely his own. this anecdote will not be lost upon bored listeners to those who shoot with the long bow, or in other words, stretch a fact until they have made it as long as they want it. we have somewhere heard of a man at a dinner-party who was determined not to be outdone in this but too common species of archery. some one present had been engaged in attracting the attention of the company to an account of a pike that he had caught the day before that weighed nineteen pounds! "pooh!" exclaimed a gentleman sitting near him, "that is nothing to the one _i_ caught last week, which weighed twenty-six pounds." "confound it!" whispered the first fisherman to his neighbor, "i wish i could catch my pike again; i'd add ten pounds to him directly!" * * * * * there is something more than mere good measures in the following lines. there is a satire upon love and mammon, when the deep affections of the heart reach a greater depth in the pocket: "dear friend, i'm glad to meet you here, but scarce know what to say, for such an angel i have seen at your mamma's to-day! of fairer form than venus, when she trod the grecian shore; and then such splendid hair and eyes i never saw before. "her air and manners were divine, above all petty arts; oh, surely she was formed to reign the peerless queen of hearts. dear bob, we have been college friends, and friendship's still the same; now only tell me who she is-- oblige me with her name. "'fine hair and eyes!'--'the queen of hearts!' who can she be?--oh, yes! i know her now--why, frederick, that's my sister's governess!' your sister's governess!!--indeed i _thought_ it might be so; she looks genteel--but still there is about her something low!" * * * * * it is not a little amusing, or it _would_ be if it were not rather a serious matter oftentimes, to hear a surgeon who loves his profession talk with another of the "splendid fungus" which he had recently removed, or the "beautiful case of amputation of both arms at the shoulder," which he had just witnessed. a fair travesty of this is afforded in the letter purporting to come from an apothecary in the country to a friend in london, wherein, among other things, he wrote: "my patients are rather select than numerous, but i think the red lamp and brass plate may attract a few. i had a glorious case of dislocation of the shoulder last week, and nearly pulled the fellow in half with the assistance of two or three bricklayers who were building next door. the other doctor tried first, and couldn't reduce it, because he had no bricklayers at hand. this has got my name up, rather. they are terrible goths down here though. you can scarcely conceive the extent of their ignorance. not one in twenty can read or write; and so all my dispensing-labels which i tie on the bottles are quite thrown away. a small female toddled into the surgery the other day, and horrified me by drawling out: "'if you please, sir, mother's took the lotion, and rubbed her leg with the mixture!' "this might have been serious, for the lotion contained a trifle of poison; but jack and i started off directly; and as it happened very luckily to be washing-day, we drenched the stupefied woman with soap-suds and pearl-ash, until every thing was thrown off from the stomach, including, i suspect, a quantity of the lining membrane. this taught me the lesson, that a medical man should always have his instruments in order; for if jack had not borrowed my stomach-pump to squirt at the cats with, a good deal of bother might have been avoided. but he is a clever fellow at heart, and would do any thing for me. he quite lived on the ice during the frost, tripping every body up he came near; and whether he injured them seriously or not, i know the will was good, and was therefore much obliged to him!" * * * * * it would be a curious thing, if they could be traced out, to ascertain the origin of half the quaint old sayings and maxims that have come down to the present time from unknown generations. who, for example, was "dick," who had the odd-looking "hat-band," and who has so long been the synonym or representative of oddly-acting people? who knows any thing authentic of the leanness of "job's turkey," who has so many followers in the ranks of humanity? scores of other sayings there are, concerning which the same, or similar questions might be asked. who ever knew, until comparatively late years, what was the origin of the cautionary saying, "mind your p's and q's?" a modern antiquarian, however, has put the world right in relation to _that_ saying: in ale-houses, in the olden time, when chalk "scores" were marked upon the wall, or behind the door of the tap-room, it was customary to put the initials "p" and "q" at the head of every man's account, to show the number of "pints" and "quarts" for which he was in arrears; and we may presume many a friendly rustic to have tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, when he was indulging too freely in his potations, and to have exclaimed, as he pointed to the chalk-score, "mind your p's and q's, man! mind your p's and q's!" the same writer, from whom we glean this information, mentions an amusing anecdote in connection with it, which had its origin in london, at the time a "learned pig" was attracting the attention of half the town. a theatrical wag, who attended the porcine performances, maliciously set before the four-legged actor some _peas_--a temptation which the animal could not resist, and which immediately occasioned him to lose the "cue" given him by the showman. the pig-exhibitor remonstrated with the author of the mischief, on the unfairness of what he had done; to which he replied: "i only wanted to ascertain whether the pig knew his 'peas' from his 'cues!'" * * * * * sympathy, we find described on a slip in our "drawer" to be "a _sensibility_ of which its _objects_ are oftentimes _in_sensible." it may be considered wrong to discourage a feeling of which there is no great superabundance is this selfish and hard-hearted world; but even of the little that _exists_, a portion is frequently thrown away; a fact sufficiently illustrated by two amusing instances, cited by the writer in question: "a city damsel, whose ideas had been _arcadianized_ by the perusal of pastorals, having once made an excursion to a distance of twenty miles from london, wandered into the fields, in the hope of discovering a _bonâ-fide_ live 'shepherd.' to her great delight, she at length encountered one, under a green hedge, with his dog by his side, his 'crook' in his hand, and his sheep round about him, just as if he were sitting to be modeled in china for a chimney-ornament. to be sure, he did not exhibit the blue jacket, jessamine vest, pink inexpressibles, and peach-colored stockings of those faithful portraitures. this was mortifying: still more so was it, that he was neither particularly young nor cleanly; but most of all, that he wanted the indispensable accompaniment of a pastoral reed, in order that he might beguile his solitude with the charms of music. touched with pity at this privation, and lapsing unconsciously into poetical language, the damsel exclaimed: "'ah, gentle shepherd! tell me, where's your pipe?' "'i left it at home, miss,' replied the clown, scratching his head, 'cause i haint got no 'baccy!'" the "sentiment" was satisfied at once in this case, as it was in the other, which is thus presented: "a benevolent committee-man of the society for superseding the necessity of climbing chimney-sweep boys, seeing a sooty urchin weeping bitterly at the corner of a street, asked him the cause of his distress; to which the boy replied: "'master has been using me shamefully: he has been letting jim hudson go up the chimney at number nine, when it was _my_ turn. he said it was too high and too dangerous for me; but i'll go up a chimney with jim hudson any day in the year; that's what i will; and he knows it, and master knows it too!'" sympathy _was_ rather thrown away in _this_ case, that's quite certain. * * * * * winter is upon us; the biting winds rattle our window-shutters and howl down our chimneys. "poor naked wretches" tremble in the fierce cold; and homeless, houseless women and children huddle in the alleys and hiding-places of the city. god help the poor! now is the time to remember them. let the rich recall "poor old lear," when deprived of his kingdom, and reduced to want, the cold rains beat pitilessly upon his white head, he was forced to exclaim, remembering what he _might_ have done when he had the power, "we have ta'en too little care of this!" let no disappointment, such as is most forcibly expressed in these lines, add an additional drop to the cup of bitterness which is commended to the lips of the poor of our city: rejoice! hope dawns upon the poor; the rich man's heard our prayer; he'll open wide the garner door, and bid us come and share. he feels the bread-seed was not given alone to swell his pride; but that god sent it down from heaven, for all the world beside. wail! wail! the rich man's word has proved a syren sound alone! he looked upon the wealth he loved; and then his heart was stone! oh, would the dull, insensate clod give forth its yearly store, if our great father and our god had thought not of the poor? * * * * * a story has been for many years current, that an eccentric gentleman, of some scientific aspirations, residing on long island, not a thousand miles from new york, once induced a thick-set and very green hibernian to ascend a very remarkably high and spreading tree, near his residence, accompanied by a curious nondescript flying-machine, by the aid of which he was to soar off, and float very softly down upon the bosom of mother earth! all being ready, the aeronaut started from a platform which had been built in the topmost branches. he "_slode_" over the branches, and then "toppled down headlong" to the ground, covered with the wrecks of his scientific master's flying-machine, and making another wreck of himself. he "heard something drop," and it was a foolish irishman! when taken up, it was found that he had broken both his arms, a leg, dislocated a shoulder, and otherwise seriously injured himself. being long ill, at his employer's cost and charges, the "flying-machine," so signally destroyed, was considered a "_permanent_ investment." this incident, which is really true, reminds us of the story of "_the flying cobbler_," an old irish story, of which we find a record preserved in "the drawer:" "when felix showed himself on the top battlement of the tower from which he was to jump, opening and shutting a great pair of black wings that were fastened to his shoulders, every face in the great crowd was turned up to gaze at him. i thought myself that the tower never looked such a murdering height from the ground as when i looked at the poor devil standing on the tip-top stone, as unconcerned as an old cormorant on a rock, flapping his wings for a flight. at length, by his motions we saw that he was preparing to be off in earnest. the men held their breath hard, and the women began to tremble and cry; and then, all of a sudden, he made a jump off the battlement, and sailed away 'most illigant.' a wild shout of delight arose from the people, but before it had ceased the glory of poor felix was 'done up.' after two or three flutters, his wings fell flat to his sides, his heels went up, and down he came tumbling like a wild-goose with a shot through his gizzard, plump to the ground! every body thought that it was all over with him; but when we ran to pick him up, we found him lying on his back, not dead, but groaning most pitifully. we took him up as tenderly as we could, and carried him home, and laid him on his bed. when the doctor came he found that both his legs were smashed. not a word nor a groan escaped him. after he came to his senses, he lay with his eyes open near an hour; and then, when the doctor was setting one of the broken bones, he tried to raise himself up in the bed, and with the fire dancing in his eyes, he said: "'doctor, dear, how long will it be before i'm cured again?' "'really,' says the doctor, 'i can't possibly take upon me to say, precisely. 'tis a bad case, and i don't apprehend that you can be perfectly recovered under three months.' "'three months! oh the devil! what am i to do? three months!--when i had just found it out!' "'found _what_ out, jewel?' said his mother, who was sitting by his bedside. "'the cause of my failing to-day, mother. the wings were right, but i forgot _one_ thing.' "'and what was that, felix?'" "'the _tail_, mother! if i'd not forgot me _tail_, i could have flew to ameriky and back again!'" * * * * * now that what is called, or miscalled the "code of honor," is falling into desuetude in regions of the country where it was once considered binding, the following laughable burlesque upon the manner in which modern duels are sometimes brought about, and conducted, will doubtless, as the newspapers say, be "read with interest:" "william singsmall, esquire, thought proper to say something very severe about somebody abroad, when the expression was taken up by mr. flea, a friend of the insulted party, who happened to be within reach of william singsmall, esquire. mr. flea waited on mr. singsmall, who refused to retract. ulterior measures were hinted at, and the following series of hostile notes and messages ensued: i. "sir: understanding you have imputed cowardice to my friend william singsmall, esquire, i call on you either to retract, or refer me to a friend. as the matter presses, i beg, on the part of william singsmall, esquire, that you will answer this when i return from paris, where i am going for three weeks. "yours obediently, peter skullthick." "_to james flea, esquire._" ii. "sir: i received your note, and went immediately into the country; but on my return to town you shall hear from me with the least possible delay. "yours obediently, james flea." iii. "sir: i have got your note, and will see about it. "yours obediently, peter skullthick." iv. "sir: i have waited every day at the club, from ten in the morning until twelve at night, for the last month, hoping to hear from you. "yours obediently, james flea." v. "sir: my object in writing to you was not on my own account, but on behalf of william singsmall, esquire, to whom you have most offensively imputed cowardice, and alleged that you threatened to cane him, while he was hidden in the larder of the club-house." "you will see that as a man of honor he must take some notice of this. i am going out of town for a few weeks, and as soon as convenient after my return shall be glad to hear from you." "yours obediently, peter skullthick." vi. "sir: i _did_ go to the club-house with a cane under my coat, for the purpose of pitching into singsmall. i had the solemn assurance of the porter that singsmall had entered the club and had not left it; but on searching the house he was not to be found. i can only presume that your friend was under the sink or in the larder, and i therefore can not consider him entitled to any thing better than the severe drubbing i mean to inflict upon him whenever i shall be so fortunate as meet him." "yours obediently, james flea." vii. "sir: i expected you would have referred me to a friend, and shall wait at the club until i hear from you again--unless i am called away by other engagements." "yours obediently, peter skullthick." after this correspondence, flea sent a friend to skullthick, who declared he had no quarrel with any one, but only wished his friend singsmall to have the opportunity of being shot through the body by flea, whose friend insisted that he (flea) should fight no one but him (skullthick). skullthick, on the contrary, had no quarrel with flea; but although a married man, was ready to fight flea's friend, who threw himself into the hands of somebody else, who would have nothing to do with _any_ of them. and there the matter ended! literary notices. _wesley and methodism_, by isaac taylor (published by harper and brothers), is one of the most characteristic productions of the author, and on account of its deep reflective spirit, its comprehensive breadth of view, its subtle analysis of psychological manifestations, its acute and independent criticisms of great popular movements, its unmistakable earnestness of tone, and its catholic freedom from sectarian limitations, may be regarded as possessing a greater significance than most of the theological publications of the day. mr. taylor's favorite theme of discussion is the philosophical import of the historical developments of religion. deeply imbued with the spirit of contemplation, he is not a dogmatist, nor a partisan. his own religious convictions are too prominent to allow any hesitation as to their character; but he has divested his mind, to a singular degree, of the influence of personal tendencies, in pronouncing judgment on the object of his investigations. he evidently intends to be impartial--and this is no slight praise--to obtain an uncolored view of the facts which he is considering, to do justice to every trait of excellence, wherever discovered, and to abstain from all indulgence of needless censure, even when compelled to express an unfavorable opinion. in the present work mr. taylor discusses the origin, the progress, the actual condition, and the future application of wesleyan methodism, as an instrument, under providence, for the spiritual elevation of mankind. regarding methodism as a divinely-appointed development of the gospel, acknowledging the hand of god in its rise and progress, holding the character and labors of its early founders in affectionate veneration, and deeming it fraught with momentous ulterior consequences, although temporary in its import, he presents a series of consecutive sketches of its history, depicting the wonderful events which attended its energetic progress, analyzing the causes which impeded its universal triumph, and tracing the conditions of its wide success to the elementary principles in the religious nature of man. the first, and by far the most interesting portion of the volume, is occupied with a description of the founders of methodism, including the two wesleys, john and charles, whitefield, fletcher, coke, and lady huntingdon. without entering into the minute details of biography, which have been anticipated by watson, southey, and other writers, mr. taylor gives a discriminating critical estimate of the devoted apostles, to whose zeal and intrepidity england was indebted for the revival of the religious life, at a time when she had far lapsed from the warmth and vitality of spiritual christianity. john wesley, in the opinion of the author, has never been surpassed by any general, statesman, or churchman, in administrative skill--in the faculty of adapting himself to the circumstances of the moment, without compromise of his authority or personal dignity. for more than half a century he passed through the most difficult conjunctures with admirable success. his simplicity and integrity of purpose were in perfect harmony with the simplicity of his institution, enabling him to manage with ability what had been devised by skill. nor was his personal character less worthy of affection and homage. if he had moved in a private sphere, that of a parish priest for example, his flock would not have been able to find a single fault in their minister. the love and admiration of his intimate friends would only have been a more emphatic expression of the feeling of the little world whose happiness it was to live within sight and hearing of him. his personal virtue was not merely unblemished; it was luminously bright. his countenance shone with goodness, truth, purity, benevolence; a sanctity belonged to him, which was felt by every one in his presence, as if it were a power with which the atmosphere was fraught. it was wesley's virtue and piety that gave form and tone to his teaching, and his teaching has embodied itself in the christian-like behavior of tens of thousands of his people on both sides the atlantic. of whitefield, mr. taylor remarks, that the secret of his power over the vast multitudes that he moulded like wax, was a vivid perception of the reality of spiritual things, and the concentrated force with which he brought them to bear on the conscience and imagination of his hearers. his singular gifts as a speaker rested on the conceptive faculty as related to those objects that are purely spiritual, both abstract and concrete; and with him this faculty had a compass, a depth, and an intensity of sensitiveness, never, perhaps, equaled. while he spoke the visible world seemed to melt away into thin mist, and the real, the eternal world to come out from among shadows, and stand forth in awful demonstration. this faculty was by no means that of the poet or the painter, which is sensuous in its material. if it had been of this sort, he would have left us monuments of his genius, like a divina commedia, or a paradise lost, or a series of michael angelo cartoons. the history of whitefield's ministry is simply this: the gospel he proclaimed drew around him dense masses of men as soon as he commenced his course; it was the power of religious truth, not the preacher's harmonious voice, not his graceful action, not his fire as an orator, that gained him power over congregations to the last. in the remainder of the volume, mr. taylor considers the primary elements of methodism, its relations to society, and its position in the future. these topics are discussed with sagacity, and with perfect candor, although not in a manner to command universal assent. whatever opinion may be formed as to his conclusions, no one can doubt the suggestiveness of his comments, nor the earnestness of his inquiries. the style of this work, which we do not admire, betrays the same intellectual habits as the former treatises of the author. he writes like a man more addicted to reflection than to utterance. he simply records his own musings as they succeed each other in the solitude of the closet, without aiming, at the force, point, and effective brevity of expression, which is necessary to obtain a mastery over the minds of others. he seems to regard language as an aid to his own meditations, rather than a medium of intercourse with his fellow-men. his writings are far more like a monologue than an address. he aims to clear up his own convictions, to reduce them to order, and to give them an outward embodiment, by their visible expression, rather than to enforce them on the attention of his readers. hence, he is often diffuse, even to languor; and nothing but the vigor of his thought could prevent a wearisome monotony. no one, however, can call in question the originality and genuine earnestness of his speculations; and accordingly, it is impossible to follow their track, without a profound interest, in spite of the defects of his style. charles scribner has published a new edition of _young's night thoughts_, edited by james robert boyd, with critical and explanatory notes, a memoir of the author, and an estimate of his writings. the editor has performed his task with evident industry and love of his author. his notes are generally brief, and well-adapted to their purpose. in some instances, they dwell on minute and comparatively unimportant points, which might safely be left to the sagacity of the reader. the edition, however, is designed as a text-book in schools, for the study of grammatical analysis and rhetorical criticism, and, in this respect, justifies an attention to trifling verbal difficulties, which would be out of place in a work prepared merely for the library of the adult. as a poet, young can never become a general favorite. his day, we believe, is past. the prevailing taste demands a more genial, human, healthy expression of feeling--certainly, not of less religious fervor--but one breathing the spirit of serene trust, rather than of morbid gloom. still, the lovers of his sombre meditations will find this edition convenient and ample. _florence_, by eliza buckminster lee, is a story of singular sweetness and grace, recounting the history of a parish orphan, and filled with charming pictures of domestic life in the interior of new england. "a sketch of the village in the last century," is added to the volume, presenting a succession of rural descriptions in a series of familiar letters. mrs. lee is distinguished as a writer, for her exquisite taste, her power of graphic portraiture, her love of home-scenes and incidents, and her deep vein of cordial, kindly feeling. these qualities run through the present little work with a mild, silvery brightness, which gives it an irresistible charm. (published by ticknor, reed, and fields.) under the title of _words in earnest_, a collection of valuable essays from the pens of several eminent clergymen, has been issued by e. h. fletcher. the work includes two able discourses on "the moral influence of cities," and an essay on "the theatre," by rev. w. w. everts; an admirable appeal to the young men of cities on the importance of "mental improvement," by rev. j. w. alexander; a sound and instructive article on "the duties of employers to the employed," by rev. william hague; an argumentative essay, maintaining the retributive character of "punishment," by prof. anderson; and an eloquent plea for "children," and for "the sabbath," by rev. geo. b. cheever. the work abounds in salutary counsels, expressed with pungency and force. _the captains of the old world_, by henry william herbert (published by charles scribner), is an original and erudite description of several of the chief battles recorded in ancient history, with an estimate of the character and position of the most celebrated commanders. mr. herbert is a decided adherent of the modern critical school of history, the principles of which have been applied to roman antiquities with such admirable effect by the german niebuhr and the english arnold. he is no slavish copyist, however, of those authorities, nor of any others, however eminent. his work is the fruit of independent personal research and reflection. a classical scholar of rare attainments, familiar with the language and style of the ancient masters, fortified with learning which embraces a much wider sphere than the subject of the present inquiries, and endowed with an instinctive sagacity of no common order, mr. herbert is singularly qualified for the task he has attempted, and has performed it in a manner highly creditable to the soundness of his judgment and the depth of his researches. his comparison of the ancient strategy with the modern science of warfare is so clearly illustrated, and so forcibly reasoned, as to possess a profound interest not only for professional military men, but for all readers who delight in the removal of learned dust from the records of antiquity. he describes the battles which come under his consideration, not rhetorically, but with the paramount desire of accurate statement, though without the sacrifice of picturesque effect. in many cases, where the facts are covered with obscurity, and none but the most cautious inquirer can hope for the attainment of truth, mr. herbert displays a nice critical judgment in the sifting of evidence, never seduced into the love of paradox, and if compelled to have recourse to theories, always sustaining them by arguments that are no less powerful than ingenious. his conclusions in regard to the character of several ancient heroes, differ from the prevailing opinions. his discussions on this point are among the most interesting portions of his volume. he thus summarily disposes of the hero of marathon: "much obloquy has been heaped on athens on his account; much ink has been spilt, and much fine writing wasted thereanent, concerning the ingratitude of that state in particular, and of democracies in general.... but all the outcry in this cause is futile, unjust, and absurd. miltiades was a successful and victorious soldier: he was rewarded according to the laws of his state to the utmost--he was the first man in athens. he was a bad citizen, almost a traitor, and all the severity and disgrace of his punishment was remitted in memory of his great deeds past.... as a man, it must be said, he was flawed. wholly unfitted to be a citizen of a free state, he might command others. but he could not command himself." nor does the great alexander fare better at the hands of our merciless iconoclast: "if we consider calmly the atrocities committed by his orders and under his authority at thebes, at tyre, at gaza, and the barbarous torments inflicted in cold-blooded policy, alike on the good and gallant britis and on the brutal and blood-thirsty bressos--if we remember the unrelenting, if not undeserved slaughter of the high-spirited and brave parmenion, the ruthless slaughter of the hardy klutos, who had saved his own life in the desperate melée of issos--if we recount the woes inflicted on the brave population of a loyal country, fighting in defense of their own liberties, the fearful waste of blood in his reckless and fruitless battles, we shall have no reason to doubt the correctness of the verdict which condemns him as the rashest of conquerors, and the cruelest of all who have laid claim to the much-misapplied title of hero." we recommend this volume as an admirable specimen of the method of investigating history with the lights of modern criticism. if we can not accept all the author's conclusions, we never cease to admire his frankness, candor, and manliness as a writer. his style is in perfect keeping with his subject, though occasionally careless, and now and then sliding into unauthorized expressions, which can not be excused on the ground of defective culture or taste. harper and brothers have issued an edition of _a lady's voyage round the world_, by the renowned female traveler, ida pfeiffer. the translation from the german by mrs. percy sinnett is executed with spirit and with apparent fidelity. ida pfeiffer was born with an innate passion for travel. from earliest childhood, her great longing was to see the world. the sight of a traveling carriage brought tears to her eyes. when a mere girl of ten or twelve, she devoured every book of travels on which she could lay her hands. subsequently, she made numerous tours with her parents, and at a later period with her husband. nothing could detain her at home, but the care of her children. when their education was completed, her youthful dreams and visions began to haunt her imagination. distant lands and strange customs seemed to open upon her a new heaven and a new earth. her age made it not inconvenient to travel alone. defying danger and privation, she resumed her travels, and has since left scarce a spot of peculiar interest on the globe unvisited. in the volume now published, she describes a voyage to brazil, with excursions into the interior, a voyage to canton by way of tahiti, a residence in china, hindostan, persia, turkey, and other countries of most importance to the intelligent traveler. she possesses a happy talent of portraying incidents and facts in an agreeable manner. her work is replete with valuable information, while its perpetual good humor, sagacious observation, and sound common sense, sustain an unflagging interest in its perusal. charles scribner has published a beautiful edition of ik. marvel's _reveries of a bachelor_, with several admirable illustrations by darley. welcome to our quaint, genial, "bachelor," in his holiday costume, destined to shed a new gladness over the new year by his delicious whimsicalities, and his quaint, sparkling, mosaic of fun, frolic, and melting pathos! welcome with his most fantastic dreams, so cheery and bright, in the midst of the bustling, heartless utilities of the day! we can recommend ik. marvel's lifesome, soul-ful pages to all whose spirits are chafed with the wear and tear of this working-day world. _aims and obstacles_, by g. p. r. james. another production of the most indefatigable of english novelists, whose powers seem to have received a new impulse from his recent change of residence. the scene of this work is laid in england, and like all its predecessors, abounds in lively sketches of character, and charming descriptions of nature. for boldness of invention, variety of incident, and freshness of feeling, it is not surpassed by any recent production of its eminent author. _norman maurice_, by w. gilmore simms, is the title of a new drama, which can not fail to add to the high literary reputation of its distinguished author. the materials are derived from american professional and political life; not a very promising source, one would suppose, for a work of art; but in the plastic hands of the present writer, they are wrought into a dramatic composition of admirable skill and thrilling interest. the plot is one of great simplicity. a noble-minded and brilliantly-gifted person becomes the object of jealousy and hatred to a crafty, unscrupulous villain. the drama consists in the development of his infernal machinations for the ruin of his enemy, and the ultimate triumph of the latter over his foul and cunning conspiracies. the denouement is effected by an heroic instance of self-devotion on the part of a woman, whose character exhibits a rare combination of feminine loveliness and strength. mr. simms has succeeded in portraying some of the darker passions of humanity with uncommon power. his language is terse and vigorous--intense, but not extravagant, and often marked by an idiomatic simplicity that reminds one of the golden age of dramatic writing. we rejoice to notice such an instance of decided success in a branch of literary creation where triumphs are so much less frequent than defeats. (richmond. published by john r. thompson.) _the claims of science_, by william c. richards, is an anniversary discourse before the literary societies of erskine college, south carolina. it sets forth the value and importance of the physical sciences, both as the means of a generous intellectual culture, and the condition of great practical discoveries. the argument of the speaker is sustained with great vigor of statement, and a rich profusion of illustration. familiar with the varied field of nature, he expatiates on her majesty and loveliness with the enthusiasm of a favored votary. the style of the discourse is chaste and polished throughout, and often rises into earnest and impressive eloquence. a second series of _greenwood leaves_, being a collection of letters and sketches by grace greenwood, has just been published by ticknor, reed, and fields. a sincere, genial, thoroughly individualistic production--overflowing with exuberant gayety--though dashed with frequent touches of bitter sadness--often wildly impulsive, but always kindly, human, and hopeful--with occasional specimens of sharp-shooting, though the polished, nimble arrows are never dipped in poison. it will be widely read for its spicy humor, its fine, frolicsome naïveté, its gushing good-nature, and its genuine nobleness of tone, even by those who may now and then wish that she would leave political and social questions to the sterner sex. the same publishers have issued another work by grace greenwood, entitled _recollections of my childhood_, intended for juvenile readers, and abounding in beautiful appeals to the best feelings of the young heart, illustrated by the reminiscences of personal experience. m. w. dodd has published a translation from the german of hildebrandt, of _winter in spitzbergen_, by e. goodrich smith, depicting the frozen horrors of that savage clime. it is a narrative of great interest, and will be read eagerly by young people, for whom it is intended. it is equally rich in attractiveness and in information. a collection of stories by caroline chesebro', entitled _dream-land by daylight_, has been issued by redfield in a style of uncommon typographical neatness. the writings of this lady are not unknown to the public, in the isolated form in which many of them have already made their appearance. we are glad that she has been induced to embody them in this pleasant volume, which, we think, will occupy no inferior place in american fictitious literature. we find in it the unmistakable evidences of originality of mind, an almost superfluous depth of reflection for the department of composition to which it is devoted, a rare facility in seizing the multiform aspects of nature, and a still rarer power of giving them the form and hue of imagination, without destroying their identity. the writer has not yet attained the mastery of expression, corresponding to the liveliness of her fancy and the intensity of her thought. her style suffers from the want of proportion, of harmony, of artistic modulation, and though frequently showing an almost masculine energy, is destitute of the sweet and graceful fluency which would finely attemper her bold and striking conceptions. we do not allude to this in any spirit of carping censure; but to account for the want of popular effect which, we apprehend, will not be so decided in this volume as in future productions of the author. she has not yet exhausted the golden placers of her genius; but the products will obtain a more active currency when they come refined and brilliant from the mint, with a familiar legible stamp, which can be read by all without an effort.--the fantastic, alliterative title of this volume does no justice to the genuine value of its contents, and we hope miss chesebro' will hereafter avoid such poverty-struck devices of ambitious second-rate writers. _memoir of mary lyon_, compiled by edward hitchcock, president of amherst college, has passed to a third edition from the press of hopkins, bridgman, and co., northampton. it is a record of a life devoted to a great work of christian benevolence. inspired by a lofty sense of duty, possessing an energy of purpose and a power of execution seldom equaled in any walk of life, and endowed with intellectual gifts of a robust, practical character, miss lyon was a highly successful agent in the cause of popular and religious education. the narrative of her labors is no less interesting than it is useful and instructive. her name is held in grateful remembrance in new england by numerous pupils to whose character she gave a powerful impulse for good. the present volume is prepared with the ability of which the name attached to it is a promise. it is an excellent piece of biography, in all respects, and will long hold an honored place in new england households. _sixteen months at the gold diggings_, by daniel b. woods. (published by harper and brothers.) the peculiar value of this work consists in its being an authentic record of the experience of an intelligent and trustworthy writer. in this respect, we have seen no publication on california that is its equal. mr. woods is a man of high character and learned education, who was led by ill health to exchange the duties of professional life for the rude toils of the gold-digger. he engaged in his new business with unflinching energy. becoming a miner among the miners, he had the most ample opportunities to learn their condition, their prospects, their sufferings, and their rewards. he describes plainly what he saw. he borrows no colors from the fancy. his book is a record of hard facts. it introduces us behind the scenes. eminently free from exaggeration, it shows the hardships by which the gold of california was procured on the first discovery of the placers. its tendency is to discourage emigration. he would advise those who are tolerably well off at home to be content. at the same time, the california adventurer, who is tempted by the hope of a golden harvest to leave the blessings of atlantic civilization, will find a guide and counselor in this volume, which can hardly fail to be of essential service. we recommend all prospective gold-diggers to take it with them across the isthmus or around the cape. d. appleton and co. have issued an elegant volume of oriental travels, entitled _the land of bondage_, by the rev. j. m. wainwright. it contains the journal of a tour in egypt, with a description of its ancient monuments and present condition, illustrated by a variety of well-executed appropriate engravings. the work is intended to present an accurate record of the observations made by the intelligent author, without aiming at the brilliant vivacity which has been so much affected by recent travelers in the east. it is a simple, faithful narrative, and makes no pretensions to being a romance or prose-poem. the scenes visited by dr. wainwright, comprising the valley of the nile from cairo to thebes, are full of interest. he describes them minutely, and with excellent taste. uniting a fresh susceptibility to the romantic impressions of the "morning land," with a style of polished classic elegance, dr. wainwright has produced a standard book of travels, which merits a cordial reception by the public, both for the extent and accuracy of its information, and the beauty and good taste of its execution. _the evening book_, by mrs. kirkland (published by charles scribner), is a collection of popular essays on morals and manners, with sketches of western life, including many of the most agreeable productions of the favorite authoress. several of them have a sober, didactic aim, but all are marked with mrs. kirkland's habitual brilliancy and point. her discussions of various topics of social ethics are admirable. she exhibits the acute tact of a woman in her perceptions of character, while she presents the fruits of tranquil reflection in a tone of masculine vigor. the spirit of these essays is one of mild, contemplative wisdom, gracefully blended with a love of the humorous, and a spice of perfectly good-natured satire.--a number of beautiful illustrations greatly enhances the interest of the volume. _the tutor's ward_, (published by harper and brothers), is the title of one of the most powerful english novels of the season. it is intended to illustrate the great moral truth that the soul's repose is not found in human love; that the immortal spirit can live in love alone; but that human love is only the type of that which can never die. the story turns on two female characters--one a brilliant, gifted, fascinating, bewildering creature, whose heart has been wholly steeped in selfishness, but whose artful nature has called forth the most impassioned love--the other, a being of rare and beautiful endowments, with an intense, loving, devoted soul, in whom passion takes the form of a sublime, almost inconceivable disinterestedness, presenting the most striking contrast to her rival and evil genius. the plot is a heart-rending tragedy; the scenes are skillfully shaded off till they present the sullen blackness of midnight; the whole winding up with terrible retributions and despair. while we do not think the developments of this story are true to nature, we can not deny its strange, irresistible fascinations. it paints an ideal of heartless egotism on the one side, and of generous self-sacrifice on the other, which is psychologically impossible; but this ideal is set forth with so much subtlety of invention, such tragic pathos, and such artistic word-painting, that we forgive the defects of the plot, in our admiration of the skill with which it is conducted. m. w. dodd has issued a little volume by rev. joseph p. thompson, entitled _hints to employers_. the substance of it was originally delivered in lectures at the broadway tabernacle, but the importance of its suggestions eminently deserves a more permanent form. mr. thompson handles the subject without gloves, and shows himself as well acquainted with the customs of trade as with the usages of the church. his strictures on the prevailing methods of business are forcibly put, and have the merit of being directed against systems rather than against individuals. it is far better, for instance, to point out the evils of employing "drummers" to gain custom, than to inveigh against those who can not deviate from established habits without great sacrifice. abolish an evil system, and the whole community is benefited; while abstaining from it in single cases is only an individual advantage. mr. thompson discusses the whole subject with decision and earnestness, but does not deal in wholesale denunciation. * * * * * _the collected edition of_ douglas jerrold's _writings_, is carrying on in weekly numbers and monthly parts. jerrold's writing is very unequal, the story and the style sometimes limping tiresomely; but even then detached thoughts and expressions keep up interest, and few pages pass without presenting a good idea or a good joke. * * * * * in announcing a new novel by bulwer, the _london critic_ remarks: "certainly, whatever the faults of 'our own wayward bulwer' (as miss martineau fondly calls him), a want of industry can not be laid to his charge. what with novels, dramas, epics, byronics, editorships, pamphlets, parliamenteering, electioneering, and even agitating, when the interests of the drama and literature seem to require it, bulwer is as hard-working a man as any pale or ruddy-bustling compiler in the reading-room of the british museum. close beside him in the advertisement columns (though not in life) is lady bulwer, who also announces a new novel, "molière's tragedy: his life and times," another of those "literary novels" which mr. grave lately predicted would soon be rife. lady bulwer has taken the idea directly from george sand, who recently produced, with considerable success on the paris stage, a drama of "molière," in which the poet was made the dupe of a heartless coquette. our english authoress's title is rather lachrymose for the subject; since moliere's life was by no means a tragic, but, on the whole, a pleasant and successful one." * * * * * we find a curious anecdote of chevalier bunsen in connection with the recently-published life of niebuhr, issued in london, under the superintendence of the chevalier: the portly and hearty representative of prussia at the court of st. james, niebuhr, the roman historian--every body has heard and knows something of him. but every body does _not_ know the special claim that his memory has on bunsen; for the latter, though he has risen to be the minister of public instruction and foreign representative of a great kingdom, was once (how strangely it sounds in english ears)--not even a calico-printer or a cotton-spinner--but a poor student, niebuhr's humble amanuensis! a prodigy of learning, as unknown then as mr. thomas watts of the british museum library, in comparison with his deserts, is unknown now. bunsen, the story runs, was in attendance on his employer, at that time prussian minister at rome, when the king of prussia, then crown prince, paid niebuhr a visit. the conversation turned upon literary matters, and the crown prince made a statement which the humble amanuensis, bursting into the talk, took upon him flatly to contradict. most crown princes (and some british commoners) would have flown into a passion. not so our frederick william the fourth of prussia. he inquired into the character and history of the plain-spoken youth; found that he knew every language and literature under heaven, from chinese and coptic to welsh and icelandic; kept his eye on him, and gradually promoted him to be what he is. niebuhr's letters have been published, and some years ago a biography of him, founded on them, was attempted in _tait's magazine_, and broke down; but bunsen's will be _the_ life. niebuhr was foolish enough to die of the three days of july, , being a staunch conservative. as the french would say: _tant pis pour lui!_ * * * * * the winter session of the new college, edinburgh, has been opened, with an introductory address, by the rev. dr. cunningham, successor of dr. chalmers, as principal of the college. the institution is chiefly intended as a theological school, connected with the free church of scotland, but has other chairs attached, one of which, on natural history, is held by dr. fleming, the zoologist. on november th the philosophical institution of the same city was opened for the session by sir david brewster, who gave an able address. among the lecturers announced for the season are some distinguished names, and the institution seems to be conducted in a higher tone than is usual in similar places of popular instruction and amusement. hugh miller, the geologist, and isaac taylor, author of the "natural history of enthusiasm," are to deliver courses of lectures. in the university of edinburgh, principal lee is reading a course of moral philosophy lectures, in room of professor wilson, whose illness precludes him from any public duty. * * * * * madame pfeiffer's account of her voyage round the world, says a london journal, a translation of which has just been published by messrs longman, is exceedingly interesting, and as full of adventure as the production of the awful cumming gordon, of rhinoceros-riding notoriety. when in brazil, she undertook a long and hazardous journey into the interior, to visit the puri indians. she states that many of these singular people have been baptized, and, indeed, "they are at all times willing, for the consideration of a little brandy, to go through the ceremony again, and only regret that they have not more frequent opportunities, especially as it does not last long." their language is extremely poor, and they have no method of expressing number but by repeating one, two--one, two, as many times as may be required. for yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by "pointing backward for yesterday, forward for to-morrow, and over the head for the passing day." we have noticed harper's edition of this work in another place. * * * * * the late work of sir john richardson on _the arctic searching expedition_, now in press by harper and brothers, is spoken of with unqualified praise by the london press. we quote a notice from _the literary gazette_: "this work affords a glorious instance of genuine, hearty philanthropy. with a self-devotion seldom equaled, and certainly never surpassed, the author of these volumes, at a time of life when most men think seriously of exchanging the cares and anxieties of an arduous profession, or of an official occupation, for repose, adventured forth to the terrible regions of arctic america, to seek, and, if possible, to rescue a cherished friend. and this was done with no other incentive than friendship, hallowed by former companionship in the same regions, and the social intercourse of many years. with becoming modesty, sir john richardson is entirely silent respecting his official and domestic position at the time of his departure on his humane mission; but it is due to him to say, that he left a valuable government appointment, and sacrificed pecuniary advantages, when, taking leave of an affectionate wife and family, he left england in search of his old traveling companion; and though he has been happily restored to his country in unimpaired health and vigor, it must not be forgotten that the journey which he proposed taking, was not only arduous but hazardous, and might have been accompanied by a repetition of the frightful sufferings which befell him during his adventurous and memorable expedition with franklin in the same country he was about to visit." * * * * * a new play by mr. jerrold, and one by mr. marston, are in the hands of mr. kean, for early representation. * * * * * sir james stephen's _lectures on the history of france_, republished by harper and brothers, are thus characterized by a recent journal: "the distinguishing characteristics of these lectures are an independent criticism, uninfluenced by previous authority, a religious philosophy which traces the effect of moral causes, the knowledge of a man of affairs rather than of a statesman, and a pellucid pleasantry of manner." * * * * * hildreth's _history of the united states_ is now attracting the attention of london readers, and has given occasion to some able criticisms. his imperturbable coolness in the narration of events, excites no little surprise, and most of his judges would prefer a more impassioned tone. nor, in the opinion of the _london athenæum_, has he done justice to the character of jefferson. the merits of the work as an authentic collection of facts, appear to be highly appreciated. the journal just alluded to, says: "on this point, we have to object that jefferson--a man of remarkable powers, and whose spirit has more intimately transferred itself into the heart and hereditary sentiment of the american people than that of perhaps any other american, not perhaps excepting even washington--does not seem to have received a full enough measure of that appreciation which even mr. hildreth might have been able to give him. jefferson we regard as the type and father of much that is now most characteristic in the american mind; and in any history of the united states he ought to figure largely. we have to repeat that mr. hildreth's work is, in its kind, a most conscientious and laborious undertaking--as an accumulation of particulars and a register of debates unrivaled--and therefore extremely valuable to all who wish to prosecute minute researches into the history of the union, or of the several states composing it." * * * * * herman melville's last work, _moby dick_, or _the whale_, has excited a general interest among the critical journals of london. the bold and impulsive style of some portions of the book, seems to shock john bull's fastidious sense of propriety. one of the most discriminating reviewals we have seen is from the _london atlas_: "in some respects we hold it to be his (mr. melville's) greatest effort. in none of his previous works are finer or more highly-soaring imaginative powers put forth. in none of them are so many profound and fertile and thoroughly original veins of philosophic speculation, or rather, perhaps, philosophic fancy struck.... upon the whale, its mysteries, and its terrors, he revels as if the subject had enchantment for him. he pours into multitudinous chapters a mass of knowledge touching the whale--its habits and its history--the minutest details of its feeding or sporting, or swimming, strangely mixed with ingenious and daring speculations on the mysterious habits and peculiarities of the great brute--the whole written in a tone of exaltation and poetic sentiment, which has a strange effect upon the reader's mind, in refining and elevating the subject of discourse, and, at last, making him look upon the whale as a sort of awful and unsoluble mystery--the most strange and the most terrible of the wonders of the deep. that herman melville knows more about whales than any man from jonah down, we do really believe." * * * * * douglas jerrold has written a letter, containing the suggestion, that a penny subscription shall be commenced to present kossuth with a copy of shakspeare's works, in a suitable casket. mr. jerrold remarks: "it is written in the brief history made known to us of kossuth, that in an austrian prison he was taught english by the words of the teacher shakspeare. an englishman's blood glows with the thought that, from the quiver of the immortal saxon, kossuth has furnished himself with those arrowy words that kindle as they fly--words that are weapons, as austria will know. there are hundreds of thousands of englishmen who would rejoice thus to endeavor to manifest their gratitude to kossuth for the glorious words he has uttered among us, words that have been as pulses to the nation." to this excellent proposal a response has already been made in many quarters. an incident, not mentioned in the daily papers, is worth recording: that among other deputations to the hungarian president in london, one was to present him with a copy of the sacred scriptures, for which many had subscribed. in his reply, kossuth said how much he had owed, both of counsel and comfort, to the bible, and that this present he would treasure as the choicest memorial of england. he took occasion at the same time to thank an honorable working-man, unknown to him, who, on his entering winchester, had come up to his carriage and presented a bible to madame kossuth. * * * * * an address to the hungarian ex-president, from the citizens of bath, was headed by the signature of walter savage landor. his letter, in reply to kossuth's acknowledgment, is worth recording, as a memorial of one so well known in the world of letters: "sir--the chief glory of my life is, that i was the first in subscribing for the assistance of the hungarians at the commencement of their struggle; the next is, that i have received the approbation of their illustrious chief. i, who have held the hand of kosciusko, now kiss with veneration the signature of kossuth. no other man alive could confer an honor i would accept." * * * * * in a notice of springer's _forest life and forest trees_ (published by harper and brothers), the _london spectator_ suggests a singular comparison between the population of england and the united states, as afforded by the social position of the respective countries: "the volume will be found interesting from its pictures of hardship, exertion, skill, and adventure, in a country little known to the english reader even from books. it has also an interest of a deeper kind. it is impossible to look at the willing labors of these men, and to consider them as only a portion of the rural population of the united states, without seeing what a raw material they possess for war or enterprise. it is the tendency of a dense population and a high civilization to dwarf the physical powers and energies of men in two ways--by congregating large numbers of men in cities, and engaging them in pursuits which if not absolutely injurious to health, are destructive to hardihood; and by removing from the face of a country those natural obstacles which call forth energy and readiness of resource. in england, the working agriculturist is the most helpless of men out of his routine, from his having nothing to contend with: the 'navvies,' miners, and mariners, are almost the only classes trained to endurance and great physical exertion in their regular business, except the navy and perhaps the army, as special vocations." * * * * * _the london examiner_ pronounces layard's abridged edition of _nineveh_ (just re-published by harper and brothers), "a charming volume, to which we may safely promise a circulation without limit, and as unbounded popularity. the great feature of the abridgement is, the introduction of the principal biblical and historical illustrations (forming a separate section of the original work) into the narrative, which, without sacrificing any matter of importance, _makes the story more compact, useful, and, indeed, complete in its abridged, than it was in its original form_." * * * * * sheriff alison, the historian, has been re-elected lord rector of glasgow university. * * * * * in a recent synodical letter of the bishop of luçon, among the books denounced as immoral and dangerous, are anquetil's "history of france," thiers's "history of the french revolution," lemaistre de sacy's "translation of the new testament," "le bonhomme richard," and, lastly, "robinson crusoe!" facts like these require no comment. * * * * * the french papers state that lord brougham, in his retreat at cannes, is preparing for publication a work entitled, "france and england before europe in ." * * * * * the extraordinary popularity of walter scott in france, is illustrated by the announcement of the publication of another volume of the _twentieth_ edition of defauconpret's translation of his novels, and the announcement of the publication of an entirely new translation of the said novels. if defauconpret had been the only translator, _twenty_ editions would have been an immense success; but there are besides, at the very least, twenty different translations of the complete works (many of which have had two, three, or four editions) and innumerable translations of particular novels, especially of "quentin durward." in fact, in france as in england, scott dazzles every imagination and touches every heart--whatever be his reader's degree of education, or whatever his social position. his popularity amongst the lower orders, in particular, is so extraordinarily great, that it forms one of the most striking literary events of the present century. * * * * * _the leader_ announces a new work from guizot, with the promising title of _méditations et etudes morales_; a novel by the countess d'orsay, called _l'ombre du bonheur_; and an important work by gioberti, _di rinovamento civile d'italia_, the first part being devoted to the errors and schemes of the day: the second to remedies and hopes. to those who love pure literature, we know not what more agreeable volume to recommend than the one just issued of saint beuve's _causeries du lundi_. it contains some of the best portraits he has ever drawn; and a charming gallery they make. we pass from rabelais to vauvenargues, from the duc de saint simon to frederick the great, from diderot to the duchesse de maine, from camille desmoulins to madame emilie de girardin. the necessity of limiting his articles to the exigencies of a newspaper, has forced saint-beuve into a concision both of style and exposition, which greatly improves his sketches; and we know not which to admire most, the variety of his attainments or the skill of his pencil. * * * * * in history and biography, european continental literature has not been doing very much lately. there is a new or newer volume, the eleventh, of thiers's _consulate and empire_, and a paris journalist of high repute, m. de la guerronniere commences a promised series of _portraits politiques contemporains_ ("portraits of political contemporaries"), with a monograph of that "nephew of his uncle," the prince-president of the french republic. a. m. leonard gallois publishes in four volumes, with illustrations, a _histoire de la révolution de _ ("history of the revolution of "), written from a republican-of-the-morrow point of view. saint-beuve contributes to _the constitutionnel_ graceful sketches of the lately-deceased duchess of angouleme, and of rivarol, the royalist pamphleteer and man-of-all-work in the first revolution, famed for the plaintive epigram, "mirabeau is paid, not sold; i am sold but not paid," one of the saddest predicaments that poor humanity can find itself in. a. m. coindet has compressed warburton's _prince rupert and the cavaliers_ into a handy _histoire de prince rupert_ ("history of prince rupert"). the germans send us the _leben and reden sir robert peel's_ ("life and speeches of sir robert peel"), tolerably compiled by one kunzel, and italy has produced a new _life of paganini_. worthy of more extensive notice is edouard fleury's _saint-just et la terreur_ ("saint just and the reign of terror"), a biography of the "great saint of the mountain," the fellow-triumvir of robespierre, and partaker of his fate, though not five-and-twenty; the fanatic young man who, scarcely beginning life, declared, "for revolutionists there is no rest but in the tomb!" fleury is a clever and active young journalist in the department of the aisne, saint-just's birth-country--the same who lately brought out the very interesting "memoir of camille desmoulins," and an equally interesting historical study, "babæuf and socialism in ." fleury has gone about his biographical task in the proper way; roamed up and down the country side, sketching the scenery in which his subject spent "a sulky adolescence," and collecting anecdotes and reminiscences. one of these is worth retailing. an old woman who knew saint-just well when a boy, pointed out "an alley of old trees" where he used to stalk and spout: when he came into the house, after one of these soliloquies, quoth the old woman, "he would say terrible things to us!" * * * * * first in the list of recent french novels is the far-famed jules janin's _gaieties champêtres_ ("rural gaieties"), which all paris is eagerly devouring. the scene is laid in the era of louis xv., and the story (alas!) is worthy of the period, and must not be recited here. more innocent are _les derniers paysans_ ("the last peasants"), by emile souvestre, a cycle of graphic, and, for the most part, gloomy stories, meant to embalm the superstitions, which still linger among the peasantry of brittany, soon to be dispelled by the march of civilization. armand barthet's _henriette_, though a touching tale, is not to be recommended. alphonse karr, a writer scarcely so well known out of france as he deserves to be, promises _recits sur la plage_ ("stories from the sea shore"). karr is the only living french novelist who reminds one at all of thackeray, of whom he has some of the caustic bitterness, but none of the light playfulness. he first became known by his _guêpes_ ("wasps"), a periodical consisting of little, sharp, sarcastic, and isolated sentences, aimed at the quacks and quackeries of the day. with all this, he has a true feeling for nature, which is sometimes, however, carried to an absurd length. a recent number of the official _moniteur_ contains a long report to the minister of public instruction, by m. vattemare, on the "literary exchanges" which have recently been effected between france and the united states. it is not, perhaps, generally known that the governments, universities, colleges, scientific societies, literary establishments, medical and legal bodies, borough municipalities, and commercial associations of the two countries, have for years past been in the habit of making exchanges of books. they have thus got rid of duplicate copies which were rotting on their shelves, and have received in return works which it would have cost vast sums to purchase. a more useful arrangement could not possibly be conceived; and at the same time it has the advantage of spreading knowledge, and of increasing the friendly relations between the two peoples. * * * * * m. ch. pieters has published the "_annales de l'imprimerie elzevirienne_," giving copious details on the life and exertions of the famous printers, the elzevirs. this book is the result of very extensive researches on this subject, as there were fourteen members of that family who were printers and publishers during a period of years. m. pieters's book contains quite new data obtained from authentic sources; to which he has added a list of all the works issued from the elzevir presses, followed by one of those which have been erroneously attributed to them, and another of such as are the continuation of works published at that celebrated establishment. * * * * * the paris papers state that the free society of fine arts in that capital are subscribing for a monument to the late m. daguerre--who was a member of their body--to be erected at petit-brie, where the distinguished artist lies buried. * * * * * henry heine, the german poet, whom his countrymen insist on comparing with lord byron, has published a collection of the poems of his later years, under the title of "romances." the book, which all the german papers concur in eulogizing, and a large edition of which was sold within a few days after its publication, is divided into three parts, histories, lamentations, and hebrew melodies. a brief prose notice prefixed announces that the skeptic has become a believer, and hurls defiance at the hegelians refusing (to use his own words) "to herd swine with them any longer." this celebrated poet, and perhaps the only man who has succeeded in uniting german solidity and grandeur to french elegance and wit, is now languishing on his death-bed. recovery is impossible, and his state is such that death would be almost a blessing, though in him the world would lose one of the most remarkable geniuses of modern times. in the intervals between the paroxysms of his malady he composes verses, and (being deprived of the use of his limbs and of his eyesight) dictates them to his friends. he also occupies himself at times in inditing memoirs of his life, and as he has seen a good deal of french society, and was a shrewd and intelligent observer, he has much to say. one consequence of his long and lamentable sickness has been to effect a complete change in his religious views--the mocking voltairian skeptic has become a devout believer. * * * * * we see it stated that in the short space of time between the easter fair and the th of september there were published in germany no less than new works, and there were on the latter date new works in the press. nearly five thousand new works in one country of europe in one half year! of the works already published, more than half treat of various matters connected with science and its concerns. that is to say--descending to particulars-- works treat of protestant theology; of catholic theology; of philosophy; of history and biography; of languages; of natural sciences; of military tactics; of medicine; of jurisprudence; of politics; of political economy; of industry and commerce; of agriculture and forest administration; of public instruction; of classical philology; of living languages; of the theory of music and the arts of design; of the fine arts in general; of popular writings; of mixed sciences; and of bibliography. it is satisfactory to see, after their recent comparative neglect, that science and the arts begin to resume their old sway over the german mind. * * * * * the frankfort journals state that, in consequence of the rigor displayed by the saxon government with respect to the press, the booksellers of leipzig seriously intend to remove the general book fair to berlin or brunswick. * * * * * in germany, austria excluded, appear newspapers; of which are printed in german, in french, in english, in polish, in wendish (the wenden are a slavonic people in the midst of germany), in the lutheran language. in all europe, according to official statements, news papers are published, of which are issued at paris, at london, at berlin, at leipzig, at st. petersburg, at vienna. * * * * * dr. augustus pfizmaier, of vienna, has published the first part, in ninety-two pages folio, of a dictionary of the japanese language. * * * * * baron alexander von humboldt has announced the discovery at athens of the edifice in which the council of four hundred was in the habit of assembling in ancient times. few particulars of the alleged discovery are given; but it is added, that more than a hundred inscriptions have been found by the excavators--and that a number of columns, statues, and other relics have been already dug up. * * * * * dr. hefele's german work on _cardinal ximenes_ and the _ecclesiastical affairs of spain_ in the th and th century, has just reached a second edition. * * * * * one of the principal literary men of spain, don juan hartzenbusch, assisted by the publisher, senor rivadencyra, has commenced a reprint of the works of her most distinguished authors, from the earliest ages to the present time. this reprint is entitled "biblioteca de autores espanoles," and it is a more difficult undertaking than things of the kind in western and northern europe. for as very many of the works of the principal authors never having been printed at all, the compiler has to hunt after them in libraries, in convents, and in out-of-the-way places; while others, having been negligently printed, or "improved" by friends, or disfigured by enemies, have to be revised line by line. some idea of the importance of this gentleman's labors maybe formed from the fact, that he has brought to light not fewer than _fourteen_ comedies of calderon de la barca, which previous editors were unable to discover. the total number of calderon's pieces the world now possesses is therefore ; and there is every reason to believe that they are all he wrote, with the exception of two or three, which there is not the slightest hope of recovering. in addition to this, m. hartzenbusch has carefully corrected the text from the original manuscripts in the theatre del principe, or authentic copies deposited elsewhere; and he has added notes, which throw great light on the most obscure passages. moreover, he has given a chronological table of the order in which calderon produced his plays. but what, perhaps, is the most curious thing of all is, that he demonstrates that "le grand corneille" of france actually borrowed, not plots alone, but whole passages from calderon. his play of _heraclius_, for instance, has evidently been taken from calderon's comedy called _en esta vida todo es verdad y todo mentira_. some of the passages are literal translations. * * * * * daily, about noon, writes the _weser zeitung_, the loungers "under the linden" at berlin, are startled by the extraordinary appearance of a tall, lanky woman, whose thin limbs are wrapped up in a long black robe or coarse cloth. an old crumpled bonnet covers her head, which, continually moving, turns restlessly in all directions. her hollow cheeks are flushed with a morbid coppery glow; one of her eyes is immovable, for it is of glass, but her other eye shines with a feverish brilliancy, and a strange and almost awful smile hovers constantly about her thin lips. this woman moves with an unsteady, quick step, and whenever her black mantilla is flung back by the violence of her movements, a small rope of hair, with a crucifix at the end, is plainly seen to bind her waist. this black, ungainly woman is the quondam authoress, countess ida hahn-hahn, who has turned a catholic, and is now preparing for a pilgrimage to rome, to crave the pope's absolution for her literary trespasses. * * * * * professor nuylz, whose work on canon law has but recently been condemned by the holy see, resumed his lectures at turin, on the th. the lecture-room was crowded, and the learned professor was received with loud applause. in the course of his lecture he adverted to the hostility of the clergy, and to the papal censures of his work, which censures he declared to be in direct opposition to the rights of the civil power. he expressed his thanks to the ministry for having refused to deprive him of his chair. * * * * * we hear from rome that the library of the vatican is to receive the valuable collection of oriental manuscripts made by the late monsignor molsa--laureani's successor. * * * * * two curious instances of the favor that literature and art are to receive from the ultra-montane party on the continent of europe, have recently occurred. from paris we learn that a relative of mr. gladstone has been excluded from a _cercle_, or club, in that city by the priestly party, because his uncle, the member for oxford, had the courage to denounce the senseless tyranny of the neapolitan government! the other instance amounts to the grotesque. it is the case of a young roman artist, who is banished from rome for the crime of being called giovanni mazzini! the very name of the late triumvir--it would seem--is about to be proscribed in the roman states, as that of macgregor was, in time gone by, in scotland. to the question "what's in a name?" the roman government gives a very significant and practical reply. * * * * * we learn from münster, westphalia, that some fresco paintings of the th century have been lately discovered in the church at seremhorst, near that town, and that a curious specimen of painted glass has been found at legenwinden. in the chief aisle of patroklus church, at soest, romanic frescos and statuettes of the th century have been discovered, and measures taken to remove from them the coatings of lime and plaster which the fanaticism or the ignorance of former years has heaped on them. it has also been discovered that the nicolai chapel, in soest cathedral, is entirely covered with very curious paintings of the th century. * * * * * on the th october, died at brighton, mr. william wyon, a medal engraver of admirable skill, and probably more widely known by his works than any other living artist. mr. wyon was the engraver of the later coins of king george the fourth, and of all the coins of william the fourth and of her present majesty. mr. wyon's medals include the recent war medals of the peninsula, trafalgar, jellalabad, and cabul--the civic medals of the royal academy, the royal society, the royal institution, the geological society, the geographical society, the bengal asiatic society, and indeed of almost every learned society, home and colonial. mr. wyon was in his th year. much of his genius is inherited by his son leonard--known by his medals of wordsworth and others, and honorably distinguished in the recent awards at the great exhibition. * * * * * the london journals announce the decease of the rev. j. hobart caunter. eighteen years ago this gentleman's appearances in the world of ephemeral literature were frequent--and fairly successful. he was the author of "the island bride," a poem of some length, and editor of "the oriental annual." besides these, mr. caunter produced translations, and one or two graver works on historical and biblical subjects. * * * * * the foreign papers report the death of the chevalier lavy, member of the council of mines in sardinia, and of the academy of sciences in turin--and described as being one of the most learned of italian numismatists. he had created at great cost a museum of medals, which he presented to his country, and which bears his name. * * * * * the french papers report the death, at moscow, of m. de saint priest--a member of the french academy, formerly a peer of france--and the author of several historical works. * * * * * dr. paul erman, the nestor of prussian _savans_, died recently at berlin, at the advanced age of eighty-seven. in addition to innumerable articles on different subjects in scientific periodicals, he published important works on electricity, galvanism, magnetism, physiology, and optics. * * * * * the continental papers report the death, at jena, of professor wolff.--professor humbert, of the academy of geneva, a distinguished orientalist, and author of many learned works, is also reported to have died, on the th of last month. mr. potts's new year's. mr. t. pemberton potts--thus he always wrote his name, though the "family record," which sets forth the genesis of the house of potts, does not contain the sonorous trisyllable which follows the modest initial t., which is all that he ever acknowledges of his baptismal appellation of timothy--mr. potts had been in great tribulation all day, in the apprehension that hatter, or tailor, or bootmaker would fail to send home the articles of their craft in which he proposed to make a sensation in his to-morrow's "new-year's calls." but his apprehensions were groundless. for a wonder, all these artists kept their word; and the last installment arrived fully two hours before the old year had taken its place in the silent and irrevocable past. as one by one came in the brilliant beaver, the exquisite paletot, the unimpeachable swallow-tail, the snowy vest, the delicate, pearl-gray "continuations," and the resplendent boots, which cinderella might have assumed, had she lived in the days of "bloomerism," mr. potts displayed them scientifically over a chair, and gazed upon the picture they presented, as fondly as painter ever gazed upon the canvas upon which he had flung his whole burning soul. [illustration: mr. potts makes his toilet.] when mr. potts awoke on the following morning, he was half afraid to open his eyes, for fear that the whole should prove a dream, too blissful to be true. after he had mustered courage to look, and found it to be all real, he lay for a while in lazy rapture, feeding his eyes upon the picture, which seemed more beautiful by daylight than it had appeared by the midnight camphene, of the preceding night. having performed the initial rites of the toilet, mr. potts attempted to assume the admired boots; but found to his cost that the disciple of st. crispin had too literally obeyed his injunctions to give him a "snug fit." in vain he tugged and pulled, excoriating his fingers against the unyielding straps--his dressing apparatus did not comprise a pair of boot-hooks--his foot would no more _in_ than lady macbeth's blood-fleck would _out_. at last, by dispensing with his "lambs-wools," diligently lubricating the leather, and introducing a handkerchief into one strap, and a towel into the other, so as to gain a firmer hold, he succeeded in insinuating his naked feet into their places. "it is the first step that costs," says the french proverb, and mr. potts's first step in his new boots cost him an agonizing thrill in his toes, which threatened to put a veto upon his hopes of wearing them that day. having fully arrayed himself, mr. potts mounted a chair, so as to bring the lower part of his figure within the range of his somewhat diminutive dressing-glass, and finding that the image which met his view fully equaled his anticipations, he bestowed upon it a farewell smile of approbation and set off upon his rounds. [illustration: mr. potts suffers--inexpressibly.] he was soon at the door of the up-town mansion whither mr. briggs had retired from the "dry-salted," "roans," and "skivers" of the "swamp," with a plum in his pocket, and one fair daughter whom mr. potts loved well if not wisely. just as he was about to ascend the marble steps, an omnibus dashed by, and to the infinite horror of the wearer, deposited several large mud-blotches upon the delicate pearl-gray inexpressibles, in which were encased the nether limbs of the unfortunate mr. potts. with a muttered malediction between his teeth, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the hall. as he had come somewhat early, with the hope of finding the fair mary briggs alone, in which case he determined to make more than a passing call, he was in the act of laying aside his paletot, when a shrill cry and a simultaneous pang, made him aware that the tail of a monstrous cat was crushed under his boot, while the claws of the agonized animal were firmly fixed in his leg. mr. potts could not at once free himself from the hold of the enraged beast, for his arms were pinioned behind him by his upper garment, of which he was disencumbering himself. this circumstance nowise tended to restore his mental equilibrium, which had been disturbed by the previous occurrences. [illustration: mr. potts is discomposed.] bewildered and confused, instead of passing through the door of the drawing-room, which was held open for him by the sable attendant, mr. potts rushed up the broad staircase, and burst into the first door he saw. here he encountered a spectacle which sent the perspiration to his forehead faster than the most vigorous application of his handkerchief could remove it. he found himself in the presence of a matronly dame, robed in the loosest possible of dressing-gowns, her hair hanging down her neck, while a heap of articles which had fallen from her lap as she hastily rose, and lay at her feet, showed that, mindful of the economics of her "below bleecker-street" days, the stately mrs. briggs had been engaged in repairing certain portions of her husband's wardrobe. a rustling sound, which met his ears, though at first he could not tell whence it came, was explained, when the eyes of mr. potts fell upon a glass so placed as to reflect objects behind a screen. there he saw the rubicund visage of the worthy ex-leather-dealer peeping out from the folds of a cloak, which hung against the wall, while the portion of his figure appearing below its bottom, showed that he was in a state as remote as could well be conceived from full dress. [illustration: mr. potts finds himself in the wrong apartment.] had mr. potts been writing his own biography, the next few minutes must have been a blank, so far as any definite reminiscences on his own part were concerned. he has a dim recollection of stammering out something about "mistaking the room," the "industry of penelope," and "begging pardon;" then he remembers somebody, he hardly knows whether himself or not, rushing down-stairs, and passing through a door held open before him. then he said, or heard somebody say something about "compliments of the season," "many returns," "fine day," "the gentlemen are favored," "make many calls?" at last, when he fully came to himself, he found that he was sitting in a drawing-room, his hat between his knees, and a cup of coffee in his hand. near him was a table upon which, instead of a vulgar eating-house display of all the "delicacies of the season," was simply a massive coffee-urn, and two or three articles of plate. before the table stood a lovely figure dressed in the purest white, her countenance lit up with the most enchanting smile in the world. mr. potts found himself in the very situation in which he had hoped to be. he had been the first to make his appearance that morning, and he thought himself sure of a long _tête-à-tête_ with the fair mary briggs. in anticipation of this he had conned over in his own mind a variety of brilliant remarks, with which he purposed to enliven the conversation, and which he fully intended should impress upon her mind the conviction that he was an extremely agreeable young man. but things never turn out in such cases precisely as one has arranged them. the gentleman himself was not over-gifted with extempore conversational powers, and the adventures of the morning had not tended to remedy the deficiency. he quite forgot the criticisms which--_à propos_ of the opera--he had intended to make upon truffi and parodi, benedetti and beneventano, for the getting-up of which he had almost learned by heart the cant of the musical critics. even his raptures about jenny lind came coldly off. but the liveliness of the lady made amends for his deficiencies: the more silent and embarrassed he became, the more brilliant and charming she grew, and the more earnestly were his eyes fixed upon the charming countenance that beamed down upon him. [illustration: mr. potts enchanted.] "how she did talk!" said mr. potts to us, one day, not long after the occurrence. he had invited us to dine with him at delmonico's, when he would tell us how we could "do him a great favor--that's a good fellow." as we were sure of a good dinner and a capital regalia afterward; and knew, moreover, that mr. potts never wanted to borrow money, we of course accepted the invitation. he wanted us to go and "put things right with old briggs about that confounded new year's scrape," and so unburdened his whole soul to us.--"how she did talk!" said mr. potts; "she knows every thing! had i heard this opera, and that? and didn't i admire this passage and that? and then she would go off into her italian lingo, which i couldn't understand a word of. i didn't know she understood italian. however, i'm glad i found it out--i know what to make of that handsome, dark-complexioned fellow, with black eyes and hair, and such a mustache, that i used to see coming out of old briggs's every day or two--he was her italian teacher. and then about jenny lind, and there was more italian, and i don't know what. and then had i visited the düsseldorff gallery? and wasn't i in love with those little fairies? and didn't the tears start to my eyes when i saw the silesian weavers? and what did i think of the nativity? and did i ever see any thing so comical as the student? and wasn't the wine-tasters admirable? and wasn't it wonderful that a man could put so much soul upon a bit of canvas, not larger than one's nail, with no materials except a few red, and yellow, and blue, and brown colors, and a few bristles fastened into the end of a stick? and--" but we forbear: mr. potts's confidences are sacred. we inferred, from his embarrassment and her volubility, that he was in love, and she wasn't--with him. [illustration: mr. potts assumes a striking attitude.] mr. potts gazed up into her face with his heart in his mouth:--it had been better for him, just then to have had his coffee there. a scalding sensation made him look down, when to his horror he found that he had been quietly emptying his cup into his hat, and had finished by depositing the last of its scalding contents upon his knees. he gave a start of agony and horror, when the treacherous chair, upon the edge of which he had been perched, slid out from under him, and he found himself seated upon the floor. the fragile china, which he held in his hand, was shattered into a score of fragments, while his hat, in falling, came in contact with the lady, who was standing before him, and bestowed its contents in the most liberal manner upon her snowy dress. mary briggs was as sweet a girl as the city held on that new year's day, but even she could not prevent a look, half of vexation, and half of amusement, from passing over her countenance. the frown was but transient, and soon passed off into an expression of sympathy for the condition of the luckless gentleman at her feet. mr. potts, however, did not perceive the change. with a sudden spring he made for the door of the room. two strides more brought him to the street door, which the servant was just then closing behind a new visitor. he rushed through like a whirlwind, without noticing their astonished looks, and shut the door after him with a report like a thunder-clap. [illustration: a sensation.] he had taken only a single step from the threshold when he found himself suddenly detained by an irresistible power, while at the same instant a sudden darkness came over his vision, as though a black curtain had been drawn between his eyes and the world without. he leaned against the door for support, with a terrible apprehension that his overwrought nervous system had yielded to the shock, and that he had been struck with sudden paralysis and blindness. but finding, in the course of a few moments, that the weakness did not increase, he proceeded to investigate his situation. seeing a faint glimmer of light, like the narrow line shining under the door of an illuminated apartment, he put his hand to his eyes, and found that the obscuration was caused by the hat, which had slipped down from his forehead, and was now resting on the tip of his nose. he took it off, and beheld the well-known broad-brim which was wont to cover the capacious head of mr. briggs, instead of his own resplendent beaver. mr. potts then proceeded to examine into the cause of his detention, and found that the skirt of his coat had caught in the door. the whole matter was now plain. in his exodus through the hall, he had snatched up the only hat he saw, forgetting that his own was lying in the drawing-room beside the broken china; his hasty flight had projected his skirts horizontally as he passed through the door, which had closed upon them. the shock occasioned by the sudden check upon his progress, had brought the hat, too large for his head, over his eyes. the whole extent of his misfortune dawned gradually upon him. the keen january air reminded him that he had left his upper garment in the hall, while his benumbed fingers admonished him that the primrose kids, which he had so carefully selected, were ornamental rather than useful. he hesitated whether he should ring to be released from his durance, and to recover the missing articles of his apparel; but a sound within warned him that the visitor whom he had met was just taking his departure; and he felt that he could not encounter him. with a desperate tug at his coat, he tore himself away, leaving a fragment of the skirt behind him, and rushed down the steps. [illustration: mr potts tears himself away.] mr. potts was in no mood or condition to pursue his intended rounds. his only thought was how to bestow himself for the remainder of the day, till he could creep home unobserved, under cover of night. he made his way to one of the obscure streets running parallel with broadway, down which he went till he reached florence's. he rushed through the whole length of the long saloon, and took possession of the box most remote from the door. the waiter was astonished by the multiplicity and singular character of the orders which kept coming all that afternoon from no. , in which cigars and potables largely figured. [illustration: mr. potts receives a lecture on temperance.] toward ten o'clock, mr. potts might have been seen making his way down broadway, with a peculiarly oscillating motion. he had just reached the corner of murray-street, and was felicitating himself that the troubles of the day were over, when he found his progress checked by a strong hand fastened upon his collar. he looked up with a stupid stare, and was half sobered by the sight of mr. briggs, in his well-known fur-trimmed wrapper. that worthy gentleman's special hobby was temperance, and he never failed to trot it out on all available occasions. mr. potts clearly furnished such an occasion. in vain he protested that he had drunk only a single glass "o' bran'y-'n-wa-r-r." mr. briggs had an infallible test of a man's sobriety; if he could say "_national intelligencer_," he was sober: if not, not. mr. potts's nearest approach to these sounds was, "_na-s-nl'ntl-n'sr_." from the fact of his present condition, mr. briggs leaped to the conclusion that his conduct in the morning was owing to the same cause, and proceeded to set forth the enormity and danger of such a course, to the great edification of a group who soon gathered around. after being kept for half an hour shivering in the cold, mr. potts was suffered to escape. he saw that he was under a cloud, and was at a loss what to do, till the lucky thought struck him, of securing our intervention to "set the matter straight with old briggs:" whence our acquaintance with all the facts of the case, of which so many contradictory accounts have been circulated about town. a leaf from punch. [illustration: "now, then, granny, i've eaten the plums, and if you don't give me sixpence, i'll swallow the stones!"] [illustration: mr. booby delivering his lecture in and upon the new costume for males.] [illustration: a "bloomer" (in _leap year_).--"say! oh, say, dearest, will you be mine?"] [illustration: strong-minded "bloomer."--"now, do, alfred, put down that foolish novel, and do something rational. go and play something. you never practice, now you're married."] winter fashions. [illustration: figs. and .--home and walking dresses.] short cloaks and mantillas, with dark figured dresses, compose the most fashionable walking costume for this season. they are recommended for their elegance, comfort, and convenience. figure represents a home or dinner dress.--no cap, and hair arranged in puffed bands, ornamented with two tufts of taffeta ribbons, intermixed with a few small loops of no. velvet; then, quite behind, these loops become longer; lastly, on each side hang long loose ends of taffeta ribbon, and others of velvet not so long. the dress is quite a new model; it is _à disposition_; that is to say, the designs are so arranged as to fall in certain parts of the dress. the material is very thick, dark silk, a sort of _lampas_. the top of the skirt is worked with very light, black designs, which do not reach quite up to the waist. the stripes are obtained in the stuff by imitations of velvet, which simulate the appearance of velvet ribbons of graduated widths. the black lace is also woven in the stuff, and imitates real lace very naturally. the body and sleeves are plain, except at the edge of the lapel and the sleeves, where some light designs are combined in the fabric in the same style as the lace in the skirt; the lapel and sleeves are trimmed with real black lace. two large velvet rosettes ornament the body; and a similar one holds up each sleeve, just above the bend of the arm. these special patterns woven in the fabric may be replaced by the application of ornaments of velvet ribbon and real lace on the skirt.--mittens of black silk embroidered: these mittens are indispensable with the sleeves now worn. they come up the arm and accompany the trimming of the pagodas; the flounces on the arm have an excellent effect. between the black lace of the sleeve and the trimmings of the mitten, there is some white lace trimming, which gives an air of lightness to the whole.--there is another very pretty style of dinner costume. it consists of a jupe of pale buff satin, with deep volant, headed by a narrow rûche of the same; _loin de feu_ of crimson velvet, low in the neck; the jacket being _à la hongroie_; wide pagoda sleeves, finished by a very broad silk trimming, the jacket edged to correspond. a scarf of black lace is tied negligently round the neck, falling over the top of the corsage. figure represents a walking costume. bonnet of satin velvet; the front satin, the crown velvet. the edge of the front, is trimmed with two small satin _bouillonnés_; the _bouillonnés_ of the band and crown are velvet.--dress of black lampas, figured: the patterns form wreaths one over the other, with a large flower and pointed leaves detaching themselves through difference of shade in the worked figures on the plain ground.--cloak, of black velvet. this cloak, very full, has a large flat collar, pointed in front, rounded behind. from the points hang very long black silk tassels, with broad ornaments over them. behind, the cloak is continued in a round shape, but longer than in front. the fore parts lap over and drape one on the other; the right side clasps almost behind, on the left shoulder, under the collar; from this place hangs a long tassel, as well as at the bottom of the side that laps over. all around the edge of the cloak and collar is silk galloon, from three to four inches wide, sewed on flat; each side of this galloon is satined for about half an inch in width, and the middle is worked dead. the edge is finished off with a narrow fringe, little more than half an inch wide. in the draped part, when the arm is raised, the lining is seen; its color contrasts with the stuff. [illustration: fig. .--walking costume.] figure represents a full winter costume, for a pleasant day, when furs are not indispensable. bonnet, satin and blond. the brim is transparent, of white blond, gathered; it comes forward on the forehead, and opens off at the sides; the crown is rather square; it is made of white satin, gathered so as to form a shell without stiffness. the sides of the crown are composed of two small puffed rolls and a large _bouillonné_, all of white satin. the top of the crown is covered with a piece of blond which comes down and forms the curtain. three white feathers at the side; the bottom one comes forward against the cheek, and covers the edge of the brim with its curls. the cheeks are trimmed with tufts of blue primroses. the strings are no. ; they are edged with dead stripes crossed with small bars. dress of black velvet. winter mantelet of black velvet and blue satin, lined with blue satin, and trimmed with blue loose fringe, mixed with ends of black twisted _chenille_. this mantelet, round behind, has the stole shape in front; it is composed of bands of black velvet, from three to four inches wide, and bands of blue satin. both velvet and satin are drawn in the middle and gathered like a bonnet; nothing can be rounder, softer, more luxuriously warm than this garment. the fringes at the edge are about seven inches deep where the arm comes, and deepen gradually toward the back, where they are ten inches deep. [illustration: figs. and .--hood and head-dress.] figure represents the hood of a new and graceful mantle for promenading in the open air, for a short distance. the appearance of the hood is very graceful. when the mantle is worn in walking in private grounds, or going to a place of amusement, the hair can be arranged in any style, without danger of being disturbed, or with a bonnet. a mantle of blue silk, the hood and body trimmed with deep black lace, headed with a _ruché_ of silk, is a pretty style. the bottom edge of the hood, and the part which draws over the head, should be thus trimmed, the latter having a fulling of lace. figure shows a portion of a very chaste costume for a young married lady. hair ornamented with broad velvet ribbons rolled in the torsade and with ends floating at each side. plain silk dress with the body very open in front, and the trimming composed of a worked band, four inches wide, sewed flat on another of eight or ten inches broad; this trimming, which is not gathered, forms a kind of double _berthe_, and gets less toward the bottom so as to round off gracefully, and not mark the waist too decidedly. three bows of black velvet decorate the front of the body. the sleeves are short, and have two rows of gathered trimming; the skirt which is very ample, is smooth at top, and trimmed below with six figured flounces, a small one over a larger one, three times its width. when this figured stuff is not at hand, it may be replaced by embroidery or a simple festoon. the figures are worked in white. the habit shirt is made of silk-net, is high and square in front, where it is finished off with two rows of lace standing up. the body is rich open-work insertions and small plaits. the under-sleeves have a silk-net _bouillon_, with handsome lace raised in front, by a black velvet bow. transcriber's note . numerous missing periods have been inserted, and a few obvious printer's errors corrected. inconsistent hyphenation has not been corrected. . at bottom of page , a confused series of five double quotes have been corrected to two double quotes and two pairs of (internal) single quotes. . the spelling "vailed" has been retained as acceptable in th century writing. . headers in gothic script, even when printed in title case, have been rendered in all caps. harper's new monthly magazine. volume i. june to november, . new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. mdcccl advertisement. the publishers take great pleasure in presenting herewith the first volume of the new monthly magazine. it was projected and commenced in the belief, that it might be made the means of bringing within the reach of the great mass of the american people, an immense amount of useful and entertaining reading matter, to which, on account of the great number and expense of the books and periodicals in which it originally appears, they have hitherto had no access. the popularity of the work has outstripped their most sanguine expectations. although but six months have elapsed since it was first announced, it has already attained a regular monthly issue of more than fifty thousand copies, and the rate of its increase is still unchecked. under these circumstances, the publishers would consider themselves failing in duty, as well as in gratitude, to the public, if they omitted any exertion within their power to increase its substantial value and its attractiveness. it will be their aim to present, in a style of typography unsurpassed by any similar publication in the world, every thing of general interest and usefulness which the current literature of the times may contain. they will seek, in every article, to combine entertainment with instruction, and to enforce, through channels which attract rather than repel attention and favor, the best and most important lessons of morality and of practical life. they will spare neither labor nor expense in any department of the work; freely lavishing both upon the editorial aid, the pictorial embellishments, the typography, and the general literary resources by which they hope to give the magazine a popular circulation, unequaled by that of any similar periodical ever published in the world. and they are satisfied that they may appeal with confidence to the present volume, for evidence of the earnestness and fidelity with which they will enter upon the fulfillment of these promises for the future. contents of volume i. a bachelor's reverie. by ik. marvel a child's dream of a star a chip from a sailor's log adventure in a turkish harem adventure with a snake aerial voyage of barral and bixio a few words on corals a five days' tour in the odenwald. by william howitt a giraffe chase alchemy and gunpowder american literature american vanity a midnight drive amusements of the court of louis xv andrew carson's money: a story of gold anecdote of a singer anecdotes of dr. chalmers anecdote of lord clive a night in the bell inn. a ghost story. a paris newspaper a pilgrimage to the cradle of liberty archibald alison (with portrait) a shilling's worth of science assyrian sects a tale of the good old times atlantic waves a true ghost story a tuscan vintage a word at the start bathing--its utility. by dr. moore battle with life (poetry) benjamin west. by leigh hunt biographical sketch of zachary taylor borax lagoons of tuscany burke and the painter barry charlotte corday chemical contradictions christ-hospital worthies. by leigh hunt conflict with an elephant death of cromwell (poetry) descent into the crater of a volcano diplomacy--lord chesterfield doing (poetry) dr. johnson: his religious life and death early history of the use of coal early rising earth's harvests (poetry) ebenezer elliott education in america elephant shooting in south africa encounter with a lioness eruptions of mount etna fashions for early summer fashions for july fashions for august fashions for early autumn fashions for autumn fashions for november fate days, and other superstitions father and son fearful tragedy--a man-eating lion fifty years ago. by leigh hunt fortunes of the gardener's daughter francis jeffrey galileo and his daughter genius ghost stories: mademoiselle clairon glimpses of the east. by albert smith globes, and how they are made greenwich weather-wisdom habits of the african lion have great poets become impossible? history of bank note forgeries how to kill clever children how to make home unhealthy. by harriet martineau how we went whaling hydrophobia ignorance of the english illustrations of cheapness. lucifer matches industry of the blind jenny lind. by fredrika bremer jewish veneration lack of poetry in america lady alice daventry; or, the night of crime ledru rollin leigh hunt drowning lettice arnold. by mrs. marsh , , lines. by robert southey literary and scientific miscellany lord jeffrey's account of the origin of the edinburgh review--character of sir robert peel--the ownership of land--a self-taught artist--conversation of literary men--rewards of literature--schamyl the prophet of the caucasus--the colossal statue--wordsworth's prose-writings--anecdotes of beranger--the paris academy of inscriptions. literary notices. bryant's letters of a traveler; bayard taylor's eldorado, . standish the puritan; talbot and vernon, . smyth's unity of the human races, . talvi's literature of the slavic nations; greeley's hints toward reforms, . antonina martinet's solution of great problems; lossing's field book, , , . lamartine's past present and future of the french republic; lardner's railway economy; the lone dove; mezzofanti's method applied to the study of the french language; the ojibway conquest; buffum's six months in the gold mines; the world as it is and as it appears; drake's diseases of the interior valley of north america, . campbell's life and letters, . life and correspondence of andrew combe, . dr. johnson's religious life and death; sydney smith's sketches of moral philosophy; the plough, the loom, and the anvil, . mrs. child's rebels; davies's logic and utility of mathematics; the gallery of illustrious americans; the phantom world; christopher under canvas; byrne's dictionary of mechanics; griffith's marine and naval architecture, . duggin's specimens of bridges, etc. on the u.s. railroads; m'clintock's second book in greek; baird's impressions of the west indies, and north america; fleetwood's life of christ; the shoulder knot; supplement to forester's fish and fishing; the morning watch; debates in the convention of california; the mothers of the wise and good, . carlyle's latter-day pamphlets, , . the illustrated domestic bible; earnestness; amy harrington; the vale of cedars; chronicles and characters of the stock exchange; wah-to-yah, and the taos trail; poems by h. ladd spencer; talvi's heloise; the initials; the lorgnette, . tennyson's in memoriam, . abbott's history of darius; fowler's english language in its elements and forms; julia howard; cumming's five years of a hunter's life; moore's health, disease, and remedy; wright's perforations of the latter-day pamphlets; lanman's haw-ho-noo, . leigh hunt's autobiography; u.s. railroad guide and steamboat journal; ware's hints to young men; the iris; irving's conquest of granada, . life and times of gen. john lamb, progress of the northwest; everett's bunker hill oration; walker's phi beta kappa oration; bayard taylor's american legend; ungewitter's europe, past and present; downing's architecture of country houses, . jarvis's don quixote; halliwell's shakspeare; meyer's universum; the night side of nature; giles's thoughts on life; hill's lectures on surgery; the national temperance offering, . rural hours; robinson's greek and english lexicon; the berber, . works of joseph bellamy; adelaide lindsay; mayhew's popular education; poems by elizabeth barrett browning; after dinner table talk; cooper's deer slayer; stockton's sermon on the death of zachary taylor; raymond's relations of the american scholar to his country and his times, . loomis's recent progress of astronomy; loomis's mathematical course; autobiography of goethe; braithwaite's retrospect; mrs. ellett's domestic history of the revolution; lives of eminent literary and scientific men; johnson's cicero; lady willoughby's diary; the young woman's book of health, . whittier's songs of labor; nicholson's poems of the heart; the mariner's vision; collins's edition of Æsop's fables; seba smith's new elements of geometry, . buckingham's specimens of newspaper literature; edward everett's orations and speeches, . echoes of the universe; memoir of anne boleyn; the lily and the totem; reminiscences of congress; mental hygiene, . williams's religious progress; poetry of science; footprints of the creator; pre-adamite earth, . household surgery; gray's poetical works; memoirs of chalmers; history of propellers and steam navigation; the country year-book; success in life; alton locke, . the builder's, and the cabinet-maker and upholster's companion; lessons from the history of medical delusions; lexicon of terms used in natural history; lamartine's additional memoirs, and genevieve; rose's chemical tables; pendennis; stockhardt's principles of chemistry; petticoat government; etchings to the bridge of sighs, . bartlett's natural philosophy; church's calculus; lonz powers; abbott's history of xerxes; alexander's dictionary of weights and measures; america discovered; dwight's christianity revived in the east; grahame, . george castriot; the last of the mohicans; johnston's relations of science and agriculture; descriptive geography of palestine; life of commodore talbot; american biblical repository; north american review, . methodist quarterly review; christian review; brownson's quarterly, . little mary--a tale of the irish famine lizzie leigh. by charles dickens longfellow lord byron, wordsworth, and lamb lord coke and lord bacon madame grandin married men maurice tiernay. by charles lever , , , , , memoirs of the first duchess of orleans memories of miss jane porter. by mrs. s.c. hall men and women metal in sea water milking in australia mirabeau. anecdote of his private life. monthly record of current events. domestic. general intelligence.--the invasion of cuba, . mr. webster's letter on the delivery of fugitive slaves; reply of hon. horace mann, . prof. stuart's pamphlet, . the nashville convention, . new southern paper at washington, . connecticut resolutions in favor of the compromise bill, . dinner to senator dickenson, . dinner to hon. edward gilbert, of california, . constitutional conventions in ohio and michigan; governors crittenden and wright, . anniversary of the battle of bunker hill, . seizure of a vessel for violation of the neutrality act, . death of president taylor; succession of mr. fillmore, and the new cabinet, . release of the contoy prisoners, . incorrect rumor of an insult to the u.s. minister to spain, , . fire in philadelphia, . will saltpetre explode, . cholera at the west, . professor webster's confession, . the collins steamers, . mr. squier's researches in central america, . measures for a direct trade from the south to liverpool, . free school system in new york, . medal to colonel fremont, . u.s. boundary commission, . state convention in new mexico, . fourth of july addresses at various places, . celebration of the capture of stony point, . affairs at liberia, . american claims on portugal, . courtesies between the corporations of buffalo and toronto, . suffering the growth of the canada thistle made penal in wisconsin, . report of the west point board of visitors, . project for shortening the passage of the atlantic, . gen. quitman's letter, . re-election of mr. rusk as senator from texas, indicating a disposition to accept the u.s. proposals, . arrival of a turkish commissioner, . changes in the cabinet, . mr. conrad's letter to his constituents on the slavery question, . execution of prof. webster, . arrival of jenny lind, . opening of the gallery of the art union, . passage of the pacific from liverpool, the shortest ever made, . whig state convention at syracuse; convention of the seceders at utica; letter of washington hunt, . anti-renters' convention at albany, . feeling at the south in relation to the admission of california, . hon. c.j. jenkins on disunion, . new collins steamers, arctic and baltic, . property in n.y. city, . swedish colony in illinois, . working of the fugitive slave bill, . jenny lind's concerts, . new york a catholic archepiscopal see, . the boundary bill in texas; mr. kaufman's letter, . policy of government in relation to the transit of the isthmus, . earthquake at cleveland, . congressional.--the compromise bill in the senate, . webster's speech on the bill, . the galphin claim, . final action of the senate on the compromise bill, . protest of southern senators against the admission of california, . proposals to texas, in relation to the boundary, . discussion in the house on the appropriation bill, . president's message on texas and new mexico, with webster's letter to gov. bell, of texas, . nominations to the cabinet, . passage of the texas bill, and analysis of the votes, . passage of the california bill; of the fugitive slave bill; of bill abolishing the slave-trade in the district, . passage of the appropriation bills, with provisions for abolishing flogging in the navy, and granting bounties to soldiers; adjournment of congress, . elections.--in virginia for members of constitutional convention; contest between the eastern and western sections, . in missouri, partial success of the whigs, . in north carolina, success of the democrats, . in indiana, giving the democrats the control of the legislature and constitutional convention, . in vermont, success of the whigs, . election of hon. solomon foot as senator, . california, new mexico, and oregon.--tax on foreigners, . excitement at the delay of admission to the union, . riot at panama, . fires at san francisco, . gold, . indian hostilities, . bill for the admission of california as a state into the union, passed the senate, and protest of southern senators, . line of stages between independence, mo., and santa fé, . continued discoveries of gold, . disturbances with foreigners and indians, . steam communication between san francisco and china, . rumors of gold in oregon, . resignation of gov. lane, . news from the boundary commission, . disturbances on account of sutter's claims, . cholera on board steamers, . new rumors of gold in oregon, . arrival of senators from new mexico; conflict of authorities; indian outrages, . state of affairs in california, up to sept. , . in oregon to sept. , . mexico and south america.--presidential election in mexico, cholera; right of way across the isthmus, . ravages of the indians in mexico, . transit of the isthmus; opening of the port of san juan, . steamers proposed between valparaiso and panama, . literary.--agassiz and smyth on the unity of the human race; address of professor lewis; bishop hughes on socialism. walter colton's book on california; professor davies's logic and utility of mathematics, . bartlett's natural philosophy; mansfield on american education, . de quincey's writings: poems by longfellow, whittier, and lowell; giles's christian thoughts on life; bristed's reply to mann; gould's comedy, the very age, . historical society in trinity college, hartford, . march's reminiscences of congress, . torrey's translation of neander, . life of randolph, . kendall's work on the mexican war, . commencement exercises at various colleges, . g.p.r. james's lectures, . andrews's latin lexicon, . hildreth's new volume of american history, . dr. wainwright's our saviour with prophets and apostles; miss mcintosh's evenings at donaldson manor, . scientific.--paine's water-gas, , . forshey's essay on the deepening of the channel of the mississippi, . professor page's experiments in electro-magnetism, . mathiot's experiment's at illuminating with hydrogen, . meeting of the american scientific association at new haven, . astronomical expedition under lieutenant gillis; humboldt's notice of american science, . personal.--arrival of g.p.r. james, . arrival of gen. dembinski, . emerson, prescott, hudson, garibaldi, . hon. d.d. barnard, . henry clay at newport, . intelligence from the franklin expedition, . messrs. lawrence and rives at the royal agricultural society, . messrs. duer, spaulding, and ashmun, decline re-election to congress, . ammin bey, . jenny lind, . nomination of george n. briggs for re-election as governor of mass., . hamlet the fugitive slave, . archbishop hughes, . bishop onderdonk, . g.p.r. james and the whig review, . deaths.--adam ramage; s. margaret fuller, . commodore jacob jones, . mr. nes; professor webster; dr. judson; bishop h.b. bascom; john inman, . gen. herard, ex-president of haiti, . foreign. england.--birth of prince arthur, . mr. gibson's motion in parliament to abolish all taxes on knowledge; bearing of these taxes; motion negatived; evasion of the excise on paper by the publisher of the "greenock newscloth," . education bill introduced, discussed, and postponed, . defeat of ministers on unimportant measures, . preparations for industrial exhibition, , , , . expeditions in search of sir john franklin, , . the greek quarrel, . consequent action of russia and austria in relation to british subjects, . university reform, . imprisonment of british colored seamen at charleston, . sinecures in the ecclesiastical courts, . motion in parliament to give the australian colonies the full management of their own affairs, lost, . bill passed reducing the parliamentary franchise in ireland, and speech of sir james graham in its favor, . various bills for sanitary and social reform, . bill to abolish the viceroyalty in ireland, . commission of inquiry into the state of the universities, . death of sir robert peel, . discussions on the greek question; remarkable speeches of lord palmerston and lord john russell, . sunday labor in the post-office, . bill lost for protecting free sugar; intra-mural interments bill passed, . assault on the queen, . wrecks in the northern atlantic; wreck of the orion, . the rothschild case, . foreign policy of ministers sustained, . sundry bills for social and political reform lost, . grants to the duke of cambridge and the princess mary, . explosion of a coal-mine, . gen. haynau mobbed, . prorogation of parliament, . lord brougham's vagaries, . extent of railways in great britain, . the times and gen. haynau, . the arctic expedition, . cotton in siberia, . lord clarendon in ireland, . queen's university and the bishops, , . shipwrecks, . the sea serpent in ireland, . punishment of naval officers for carelessness, . amount of irish crop, . cunard steamers, . france.--contest in paris for election of member of assembly; election of eugene sue, . mutiny in the th infantry, . destruction of the suspension-bridge at angers, and terrible loss of life, . arrest of m. proudhon, . capture of louis pellet, a notorious murderer, . bill for restricting the suffrage, . stringent proceedings against the press, . recall of the french embassador to england, . increase voted to the salary of the president, . new laws for the restriction of the press, . walker's attempt to assassinate louis napoleon, . m. thiers's visit to louis philippe, . tax on feuilletons, . the president's tour, . death of louis philippe, and notice of his life, . decision of a majority of the departments in favor of a revision of the constitution, . duel between mm. chavoix and dupont, . death of balzac, and notice of his life and works, . the president's plans; revision of the constitution, . germany.--convocations at frankfort and berlin, . attempt on the life of the king of prussia, . dissolution of the saxon chambers, and of the wurtemberg diet, . peace convention at frankfort, , . restrictions on the press in prussia, . fresh hostilities in schleswig-holstein, battle of idstedt, . proceedings of austria, respecting the act of confederation, . inundations in belgium, . general krogh rewarded by the emperor of russia for his bravery at the battle of idstedt, . extension of telegraphs, . hungarian musicians expelled from vienna, . colossal statue completed, . revolutions in hesse cassel and mecklenburg-schwerin, . italy, spain, portugal.--the pope's return, and adhesion to the absolutists, . state of affairs in italy, . intrigues in spain, . rain after a five years' drought, . explosion of a powder-mill, . claims of the united states on portugal, and consequent difficulties, , . birth and death of an heir to the spanish crown, . disturbances in piedmont, . disquiets in rome, . inundation in lombardy, . prisons at naples, . india, and the east.--disturbances among the affredies; their villages destroyed by sir charles napier, . arrangements of the pasha of egypt for shortening the passage across the desert, . establishment of a new journal in china, . permission granted the jews for building a temple on mount zion, . university in new south wales, . terrible explosion at benares, . sickness at canton, . the great diamond, . revolt at bantam, . sulphur mines in egypt, . literary.--postponement of the french exhibition of paintings, . goethe's manuscripts, . mr. hartley's bequests set aside, . history of spain, by st. hilaire, . sir robert peel's mss., , . miss strickland's forthcoming lives of the queens of scotland, . bulwer's new novel, . copyright of foreigners, . sale of the paintings of the king of holland, . lamartine's confidences, . notice of ticknor's spanish literature in the morning chronicle, . the north british review, . sale of the barbarigo gallery at venice, . a new singer, . new edition of owen's works, . copyrights paid to american authors, . theological faculties in germany, . translation of dante and ovid into hebrew, . books issued, , , , , . scientific.--papers read by murchison and lepsius before the geological society, . before the royal society, by o'brien, faraday, and mantell, . the _pelorosaurus_, . lead for statues, . operations of mr. layard, , , . discovery of ancient roman coins in the duchy of oldenburg, . opening of the submarine telegraph between dover and calais, . experimental slips dropped from balloons, . box tunnel, london, . transplantation of a full grown tree, . glass pipes for gas, . international railway commission, . russian expedition for exploring the northern ural, . invention for extinguishing tires, . experiments on light and heat, . discovery of a new comet, . unswathing a mummy, . society for investigating epidemics; for observations in meteorology, . depredations on assyrian and egyptian antiquities, . apparatus to render sea-water drinkable, . improved mode of producing iron, . prof. johnston on american agriculture, . telegraphic wire between dover and calais, . iron unsuitable for vessels of war, . new submarine telegraph, . the atmopyre, . a new star, . the britannia bridge, . ascent of mount blanc, . social.--great project for agricultural emigration, . english criminal cases, . building for the industrial exhibition, . lord campbell on the sunday letter bill, . extension of the franchise in ireland, . introduction of laborers into the west indies, . tenant-right conference in dublin, . peace congress at frankfort, , . personal.--monument to jeffrey, . absence of mind of bowles, . degree of doctor of music conferred upon meyerbeer, . gutzlaff, corbould, gibson, . baptism of the infant prince, . accident to rogers, . monument to wordsworth, . sir robert peel's injunction to his family not to accept titles or pensions, . barral and bixio's balloon ascent, and poitevin's horseback ascent, . poverty of guizot, . meinhold fined for libel, . guizot's refusal to accept a seat in the council of public instruction, . bulwer a candidate for the house of commons; his new play, . ovation to leibnitz and humboldt, . haynau mobbed, . movements of the queen, . duel between mm. chavoix and dupont, . viscount fielding embraces catholicism, . prospective liberation of kossuth, . deaths.--wordsworth, bowles, ; sir james bathurst, madame dulcken, sir archibald galloway, admiral hills, dr. prout, madame tussaud, ; dr. potts, inventor of the hydraulic pile-driver, . gay lussac, ; m.p. souyet, the emperor of china, earl of roscommon, sir james sutherland, mrs. jeffrey, ; sir robert peel, ; duke of cambridge, ; dr. burns, dr. gray, rev. w. kirby, b. simmons, ; neander, ; louis philippe, ; balzac, ; sir martin archer shee, . gale the aeronaut, . moorish domestic life morning in spring moscow after the conflagration mrs. hemans my novel; or varieties in english life. by sir edward bulwer lytton , my wonderful adventures in skitzland neander. a biographical sketch obstructions to the use of the telescope ode to the sun. by hunt papers on water, no. physical education peace (poetry). by chas. dryden. pilgrimage to the home of sir thomas more. by mrs. s.c. hall portrait of charles i. by vandyck poverty of the english bar presence of mind. by de quincey rapid growth of america recollections of dr. chalmers recollections of eminent men. by leigh hunt recollections of thomas campbell scenery on the erie railroad scenes in egypt shooting stars and meteoric showers short cuts across the globe singular proceedings of the sand wasp. by william howitt sir robert peel. a biographical sketch sketches of english character--the old squire--the young squire. by william howitt sketches of life. by a radical snakes and serpent charmers sonnet on the death of wordsworth sonetto sonnets from the italian sophistry of anglers. by leigh hunt sorrows and joys (poetry) spider's silk sponges steam steam bridge of the atlantic story of a kite summer pastime (poetry) sydney smith sydney smith on moral philosophy terrestrial magnetism the american revolution. by guizot the appetite for news the approach of christmas (poetry) the australian colonies the blind sister the brothers cheeryble the chapel by the shore the character of burns. by elliott the chemistry of a candle the circassian priest warrior and his white horse (poetry) the communist sparrow--an anecdote of cuvier the corn law rhymer the countess the death of an infant (poetry) the disasters of a man who wouldn't trust his wife. by william howitt the doom of the slaver the enchanted baths the enchanted rock the english peasant. by howitt the every-day married lady the every-day young lady the flower gatherer the force of fear the genius of george sand. the comedy of françois le champi the gentleman beggar. an attorney's story the german meistersingers the haunted house in charnwood forest the household jewels (poetry) the imprisoned lady the iron ring the laboratory in the chest the light of home the literary profession--authors and publishers the little hero of haarlem the magic maze the mania for tulips in holland the miner's daughters. a tale of the peak the modern argonauts (poetry) the mother's first duty the mysterious preacher the old church-yard tree--a prose-poem the old man's bequest. a story of gold the old well in languedoc the oldest inhabitant of the place de grève the orphan's voyage home (poetry) the paris election the planet-watchers of greenwich the pleasures of illness the pope at home again the power of mercy the prodigal's return the quakers during the american war. by howitt the railway (poetry) the railway station (poetry) the railway works at crewe the return of pope pius ix. to rome the rev. william lisle bowles the salt mines of europe the schoolmaster of coleridge and lamb. by leigh hunt the snowy mountains in new zealand the state of the world before adam the steel pen. illustration of cheapness the sun the tea plant the two guides of the child the two thompsons the young advocate the uses of sorrow (poetry) the wahr-wolf the wife of kong tolv. a fairy tale thomas babington macaulay thomas carlyle. by george gilfillan thomas de quincey, the "english opium eater" thomas moore trial and execution of mad. roland truth tunnel of the alps two-handed dick, the stockman. a tale of adventure in australia ugliness redeemed--a tale of a london dust-heap unsectarian education in england villainy outwitted wallace and fawdon (poetry). by leigh hunt what becomes of all the clever children? what horses think of men. from the raven in the happy family when the summer comes william h. prescott william pitt. by s.t. coleridge william wordsworth women in the east work! an anecdote wordsworth--his character and genius. by george gilfillan wordsworth's posthumous poem writing for periodicals young poet's plaint. by elliott young russia--state of society in the russian empire list of illustrations. portrait of archibald alison portrait of thomas babington macaulay portrait of william h. prescott the pyramids section of the great pyramid the great hall at karnak view from piermont (erie railroad) valley of the neversink (from the erie railroad) starucca viaduct (erie railroad) portrait of sir thomas more box containing the skull of more clock house at chelsea house of sir thomas more chelsea church tomb of sir thomas more house of roper, more's son-in-law sir thomas more and his daughter portrait of zachary taylor portrait of jane porter jane porter's cottage at esher tomb of jane porter's mother shooting stars (six illustrations) initial letter. meteoric showers in greenland. meteors at the falls of niagara. falling stars among the cordilleras. the november meteors. diagram. neander in the lecture room portrait of william wordsworth wordsworth's home at rydal mount portrait of sydney smith portrait of thomas carlyle revolutionary memorials (fifteen illustrations) initial letter. monument at concord. monument at lexington. near view of lexington monument. portrait of jonathan harrington. washington's head-quarters at cambridge. the riedesel house at cambridge. autograph of the baroness riedesel. bunker hill monument. chantrey's statue of washington. mather's vault. handwriting of cotton mather. speaker's desk and winthrop's chair. philip's samp-pan. church's sword. portrait of madame roland fashions for early summer (six illustrations) ball and visiting dresses. straw hats for promenade. straw bonnet. tulip bonnet. lace jacquette. fashions for summer (three illustrations) carriage costume. bridal dress. riding dress. fashions for later summer (five illustrations) promenade dress. pelerines. little girl's costume. home dress. ball dress. fashions for early autumn (four illustrations) promenade dress. costume for a young lady. morning caps. morning costume. fashions for autumn (three illustrations) evening costume. morning costume. promenade dress. fashions for november (three illustrations) promenade and carriage costume. morning costume. opera costume. harper's new monthly magazine. no. i--june, --vol. i. a word at the start. harper's new monthly magazine, of which this is the initial number, will be published every month, at the rate of three dollars per annum. each number will contain as great an amount and variety of reading matter, and at least as many pictorial illustrations, and will be published in the same general style, as the present. the design of the publishers, in issuing this work, is to place within the reach of the great mass of the american people the unbounded treasures of the periodical literature of the present day. periodicals enlist and absorb much of the literary talent, the creative genius, the scholarly accomplishment of the present age. the best writers, in all departments and in every nation, devote themselves mainly to the reviews, magazines, or newspapers of the day. and it is through their pages that the most powerful historical essays, the most elaborate critical disquisitions, the most eloquent delineations of manners and of nature, the highest poetry and the most brilliant wit, have, within the last ten years, found their way to the public eye and the public heart. this devotion to periodical writing is rapidly increasing. the leading authors of great britain and of france, as well as of the united states, are regular and constant contributors to the periodicals of their several countries. the leading statesmen of france have been for years the leading writers in her journals. lamartine has just become the editor of a newspaper. dickens has just established a weekly journal of his own, through which he is giving to the world some of the most exquisite and delightful creations that ever came from his magic pen. alison writes constantly for blackwood. lever is enlisted in the dublin university magazine. bulwer and croly publish their greatest and most brilliant novels first in the pages of the monthly magazines of england and of scotland. macaulay, the greatest of living essayists and historians, has enriched the edinburgh review with volumes of the most magnificent productions of english literature. and so it is with all the living authors of england. the ablest and the best of their productions are to be found in magazines. the wealth and freshness of the literature of the nineteenth century are embodied in the pages of its periodicals. the weekly and daily journals of england, france, and america, moreover, abound in the most brilliant contributions in every department of intellectual effort. the current of political events, in an age of unexampled political activity, can be traced only through their columns. scientific discovery, mechanical inventions, the creations of fine art, the orations of statesmen, all the varied intellectual movements of this most stirring and productive age, find their only record upon these multiplied and ephemeral pages. it is obviously impossible that all these sources of instruction and of interest should be accessible to any considerable number even of the reading public, much less that the great mass of the people of this country should have any opportunity of becoming familiar with them. they are scattered through scores and hundreds of magazines and journals, intermingled with much that is of merely local and transient interest, and are thus hopelessly excluded from the knowledge and the reach of readers at large. the publishers of the new monthly magazine intend to remedy this evil, and to place every thing of the periodical literature of the day, which has permanent value and commanding interest, in the hands of all who have the slightest desire to become acquainted with it. each number will contain octavo pages, in double columns: the volumes of a single year, therefore, will present nearly two thousand pages of the choicest and most attractive of the miscellaneous literature of the age. the magazine will transfer to its pages as rapidly as they may be issued all the continuous tales of dickens, bulwer, croly, lever, warren, and other distinguished contributors to british periodicals: articles of commanding interest from all the leading quarterly reviews of both great britain and the united states: critical notices of the current publications of the day: speeches and addresses of distinguished men upon topics of universal interest and importance: notices of scientific discoveries, of the progress and fruits of antiquarian research, of mechanical inventions, of incidents of travel and exploration, and generally of all the events in science, literature, and art in which the people at large have any interest. constant and special regard will be had to such articles as relate to the economy of social and domestic life, or tend to promote in any way the education, advancement, and well-being of those who are engaged in any department of productive activity. a carefully prepared fashion plate, and other pictorial illustrations, will also accompany each number. the magazine is not intended exclusively for any class of readers, or for any kind of reading. the publishers have at their command the exhaustless resources of current periodical literature in all its departments. they have the aid of editors in whom both they and the public have long since learned to repose full and implicit confidence. they have no doubt that, by a careful, industrious, and intelligent use of these appliances, they can present a monthly compendium of the periodical productions of the day which no one who has the slightest relish for miscellaneous reading, or the slightest desire to keep himself informed of the progress and results of the literary genius of his own age, would willingly be without. and they intend to publish it at so low a rate, and to give to it a value so much beyond its price, that it shall make its way into the hands or the family circle of every intelligent citizen of the united states. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. chapter i. "the days of the guillotine." neither the tastes nor the temper of the age we live in are such as to induce any man to boast of his family nobility. we see too many preparations around us for laying down new foundations, to think it a suitable occasion for alluding to the ancient edifice. i will, therefore, confine myself to saying, that i am not to be regarded as a mere pretender because my name is not chronicled by burke or debrett. my great-grandfather, after whom i am called, served on the personal staff of king james at the battle of the boyne, and was one of the few who accompanied the monarch on his flight from the field, for which act of devotion he was created a peer of ireland, by the style and title of timmahoo--lord tiernay of timmahoo the family called it--and a very rich-sounding and pleasant designation has it always seemed to me. the events of the time--the scanty intervals of leisure enjoyed by the king, and other matters, prevented a due registry of my ancestors' claims; and, in fact, when more peaceable days succeeded it, it was judged prudent to say nothing about a matter which might revive unhappy recollections, and open old scores, seeing that there was now another king on the throne "who knew not joseph;" and so, for this reason and many others, my great-grandfather went back to his old appellation of maurice tiernay, and was only a lord among his intimate friends and cronies of the neighborhood. that i am simply recording a matter of fact, the patent of my ancestors' nobility now in my possession will sufficiently attest: nor is its existence the less conclusive, that it is inscribed on the back of his commission as a captain in the shanabogue fencibles--the well-known "clear-the-way-boys"--a proud title, it is said, to which they imparted a new reading at the memorable battle afore-mentioned. the document bears the address of a small public house called the nest, on the kells road, and contains in one corner a somewhat lengthy score for potables, suggesting the notion that his majesty sympathized with vulgar infirmities, and found, as the old song says, "that grief and sorrow are dry." the prudence which for some years sealed my grandfather's lips, lapsed, after a time, into a careless and even boastful spirit, in which he would allude to his rank in the peerage, the place he ought to be holding, and so on; till at last some of the government people, doubtless taking a liking to the snug house and demesne of timmahoo, denounced him as a rebel, on which he was arrested and thrown into jail, where he lingered for many years, and only came out at last to find his estate confiscated and himself a beggar. there was a small gathering of jacobites in one of the towns of flanders, and thither he repaired; but how he lived, or how he died, i never learned. i only know that his son wandered away to the east of europe, and took service in what was called trenck's pandours--as jolly a set of robbers as ever stalked the map of europe, from one side to the other. this was my grandfather, whose name is mentioned in various chronicles of that estimable corps, and who was hanged at prague afterward for an attempt to carry off an archduchess of the empire, to whom, by the way, there is good reason to believe he was privately married. this suspicion was strengthened by the fact that his infant child, joseph, was at once adopted by the imperial family, and placed as a pupil in the great military school of vienna. from thence he obtained a commission in the maria theresa hussars, and subsequently, being sent on a private mission to france, entered the service of louis xvi., where he married a lady of the queen's household--a mademoiselle de la lasterie--of high rank and some fortune; and with whom he lived happily till the dreadful events of --, when she lost her life, beside my father, then fighting as a garde du corps, on the stair-case at versailles. how he himself escaped on that day, and what were the next features in his history, i never knew; but when again we heard of him, he was married to the widow of a celebrated orator of the mountain, and he himself an intimate friend of st. just and marat, and all the most violent of the republicans. my father's history about this period is involved in such obscurity, and his second marriage followed so rapidly on the death of his first wife, that, strange as it may seem, i never knew who was my mother--the lineal descendant of a house, noble before the crusades, or the humble "bourgeoise" of the quartier st. denis. what peculiar line of political action my father followed i am unable to say, nor whether he was suspected with or without due cause: but suspected he certainly was, and at a time when suspicion was all-sufficient for conviction. he was arrested, and thrown into the temple, where i remember i used to visit him every week; and whence i accompanied him one morning, as he was led forth with a string of others to the place de la grève, to be guillotined. i believe he was accused of royalism; and i know that a white cockade was found among his effects, and in mockery was fastened on his shoulder on the day of his execution. this emblem, deep dyed with blood, and still dripping, was taken up by a bystander, and pinned on my cap, with the savage observation, "voila, it is the proper color; see that you profit by the way it became so." as with a bursting heart, and a head wild with terror, i turned to find my way homeward, i felt my hand grasped by another--i looked up, and saw an old man, whose threadbare black clothes and emaciated appearance bespoke the priest in the times of the convention. "you have no home now, my poor boy," said he to me; "come and share mine." i did not ask him why. i seemed to have suddenly become reckless as to every thing present or future. the terrible scene i had witnessed had dried up all the springs of my youthful heart; and, infant as i was, i was already a skeptic as to every thing good or generous in human nature. i followed him, therefore, without a word, and we walked on, leaving the thoroughfares and seeking the less frequented streets, till we arrived in what seemed a suburban part of paris--at least the houses were surrounded with trees and shrubs; and at a distance i could see the hill of montmartre and its wind-mills--objects well known to me by many a sunday visit. even after my own home, the poverty of the père michel's household was most remarkable: he had but one small room, of which a miserable settle-bed, two chairs, and a table constituted all the furniture; there was no fire-place, a little pan for charcoal supplying the only means for warmth or cookery; a crucifix and a few colored prints of saints decorated the whitewashed walls; and, with a string of wooden beads, a cloth skull-cap, and a bracket with two or three books, made up the whole inventory of his possessions; and yet, as he closed the door behind him, and drew me toward him to kiss my cheek, the tears glistened in his eyes with gratitude as he said, "now, my dear maurice, you are at home." "how do you know that i am called maurice?" said i, in astonishment. "because i was an old friend of your poor father, my child; we came from the same country--we held the same faith, had the same hopes, and may one day yet, perhaps, have the same fate." he told me that the closest friendship had bound them together for years past, and in proof of it showed me a variety of papers which my father had intrusted to his keeping, well aware, as it would seem, of the insecurity of his own life. "he charged me to take you home with me, maurice, should the day come when this might come to pass. you will now live with me, and i will be your father, so far at least as humble means will suffer me." i was too young to know how deep my debt of gratitude ought to be. i had not tasted the sorrows of utter desertion; nor did i know from what a hurricane of blood and anarchy fortune had rescued me; still i accepted the père's benevolent offer with a thankful heart, and turned to him at once as to all that was left to me in the world. all this time, it may be wondered how i neither spoke nor thought of my mother, if she were indeed such; but for several weeks before my father's death i had never seen her, nor did he ever once allude to her. the reserve thus imposed upon me remained still, and i felt as though it would have been like a treachery to his memory were i now to speak of her whom, in his life-time i had not dared to mention. the père lost no time in diverting my mind from the dreadful events i had so lately witnessed. the next morning, soon after daybreak, i was summoned to attend him to the little church of st. blois, where he said mass. it was a very humble little edifice, which once had been the private chapel of a chateau, and stood in a weed-grown, neglected garden, where broken statues and smashed fountains bore evidence of the visits of the destroyer. a rude effigy of st. blois, upon whom some profane hand had stuck a phrygian cap of liberty, and which none were bold enough to displace, stood over the doorway; besides, not a vestige of ornament or decoration existed. the altar, covered with a white cloth, displayed none of the accustomed emblems; and a rude crucifix of oak was the only symbol of the faith remaining. small as was the building, it was even too spacious for the few who came to worship. the terror which prevailed on every side--the dread that devotion to religion should be construed into an adherence to the monarchy, that submission to god should be interpreted as an act of rebellion against the sovereignty of human will, had gradually thinned the numbers, till at last the few who came were only those whose afflictions had steeled them against any reverses, and who were ready martyrs to whatever might betide them. these were almost exclusively women--the mothers and wives of those who had sealed their faith with their blood in the terrible place de la grève. among them was one whose dress and appearance, although not different from the rest, always created a movement of respect as she passed in or out of the chapel. she was a very old lady, with hair white as snow, and who led by the hand a little girl of about my own age; her large dark eyes and brilliant complexion giving her a look of unearthly beauty in that assemblage of furrowed cheeks, and eyes long dimmed by weeping. it was not alone that her features were beautifully regular, or that their lines were fashioned in the very perfection of symmetry, but there was a certain character in the expression of the face so different from all around it, as to be almost electrical in effect. untouched by the terrible calamities that weighed on every heart, she seemed, in the glad buoyancy of her youth, to be at once above the very reach of sorrow, like one who bore a charmed fate, and whom fortune had exempted from all the trials of this life. so at least did i read those features, as they beamed upon me in such a contract to the almost stern character of the sad and sorrow-struck faces of the rest. it was a part of my duty to place a foot-stool each morning for the "marquise," as she was distinctively called, and on these occasions it was that i used to gaze upon that little girl's face with a kind of admiring wonder that lingered in my heart for hours after. the bold look with which she met mine, if it at first half abashed, at length encouraged me; and as i stole noiselessly away, i used to feel as though i carried with me some portion of that high hope which bounded within her own heart. strange magnetism! it seemed as though her spirit whispered to me not to be down-hearted or depressed--that the sorrows of life came and went as shadows pass over the earth--that the season of mourning was fast passing, and that for us the world would wear a brighter and more glorious aspect. such were the thoughts her dark eyes revealed to me, and such the hopes i caught up from her proud features. it is easy to color a life of monotony; any hue may soon tinge the outer surface, and thus mine speedily assumed a hopeful cast; not the less decided, that the distance was lost in vague uncertainty. the nature of my studies--and the père kept me rigidly to the desk--offered little to the discursiveness of fancy. the rudiments of greek and latin, the lives of saints and martyrs, the litanies of the church, the invocations peculiar to certain holy days, chiefly filled up my time, when not sharing those menial offices which our poverty exacted from our own hands. our life was of the very simplest; except a cup of coffee each morning at daybreak, we took but one meal; our drink was always water. by what means even the humble fare we enjoyed was procured, i never knew, for i never saw money in the père's possession, nor did he ever appear to buy any thing. for about two hours in the week i used to enjoy entire liberty, as the père was accustomed every saturday to visit certain persons of his flock who were too infirm to go abroad. on these occasions he would leave me with some thoughtful injunction about reflection or pious meditation, perhaps suggesting, for my amusement, the life of st. vincent de paul, or some other of those adventurous spirits whose missions among the indians are so replete with heroic struggles; but still with free permission for me to walk out at large and enjoy myself as i liked best. we lived so near the outer boulevard that i could already see the open country from our windows; but fair and enticing as seemed the sunny slopes of montmartre--bright as glanced the young leaves of spring in the gardens at its foot--i ever turned my steps into the crowded city, and sought the thoroughfares where the great human tide rolled fullest. there were certain spots which held a kind of supernatural influence over me--one of these was the temple, another was the place de la grève. the window at which my father used to sit, from which, as a kind of signal, i have so often seen his red kerchief floating, i never could pass now, without stopping to gaze at; now, thinking of him who had been its inmate, now, wondering who might be its present occupant. it needed not the onward current of population that each saturday bore along, to carry me to the place de la grève. it was the great day of the guillotine, and as many as two hundred were often led out to execution. although the spectacle had now lost every charm of excitement to the population, from its frequency, it had become a kind of necessity to their existence, and the sight of blood alone seemed to slake that feverish thirst for vengeance which no sufferings appeared capable of satiating. it was rare, however, when some great and distinguished criminal did not absorb all the interest of the scene. it was at that period when the fierce tyrants of the convention had turned upon each other, and sought, by denouncing those who had been their bosom friends, to seal their new allegiance to the people. there was something demoniacal in the exultation with which the mob witnessed the fate of those whom, but a few weeks back, they had acknowledged as their guides and teachers. the uncertainty of human greatness appeared the most glorious recompense to those whose station debarred them from all the enjoyments of power, and they stood by the death-agonies of their former friends with a fiendish joy that all the sufferings of their enemies had never yielded. to me the spectacles had all the fascination that scenes of horror exercise over the mind of youth. i knew nothing of the terrible conflict, nothing of the fierce passions enlisted in the struggle, nothing of the sacred names so basely polluted, nothing of that remorseless vengeance with which the low-born and degraded were still hounded on to slaughter. it was a solemn and a fearful sight, but it was no more; and i gazed upon every detail of the scene with an interest that never wandered from the spot whereon it was enacted. if the parade of soldiers, of horse, foot, and artillery, gave these scenes a character of public justice, the horrible mobs, who chanted ribald songs, and danced around the guillotine, suggested the notion of popular vengeance; so that i was lost in all my attempts to reconcile the reasons of these executions with the circumstances that accompanied them. not daring to inform the père michel of where i had been, i could not ask him for any explanation; and thus was i left to pick up from the scattered phrases of the crowd what was the guilt alleged against the criminals. in many cases the simple word "chouan," of which i knew not the import, was all i heard; in others jeering allusions to former rank and station would be uttered; while against some the taunt would imply that they had shed tears over others who fell as enemies of the people, and that such sympathy was a costly pleasure to be paid for but with a life's-blood. such entire possession of me had these awful sights taken, that i lived in a continual dream of them. the sound of every cart-wheel recalled the dull rumble of the hurdle--every distant sound seemed like the far-off hum of the coming multitude--every sudden noise suggested the clanking drop of the guillotine! my sleep had no other images, and i wandered about my little round of duties pondering over this terrible theme. had i been less occupied with my own thoughts, i must have seen that père michel was suffering under some great calamity. the poor priest became wasted to a shadow; for entire days long he would taste of nothing; sometimes he would be absent from early morning to late at night, and when he did return, instead of betaking himself to rest, he would drop down before the crucifix in an agony of prayer, and thus spend more than half the night. often and often have i, when feigning sleep, followed him as he recited the litanies of the breviary, adding my own unuttered prayers to his, and beseeching for a mercy whose object i knew not. for some time his little chapel had been closed by the authorities; a heavy padlock and two massive seals being placed upon the door, and a notice, in a vulgar handwriting, appended, to the effect, that it was by the order of the commissary of the department. could this be the source of the père's sorrow? or did not his affliction seem too great for such a cause? were questions i asked myself again and again. in this state were matters, when one morning, it was a saturday, the père enjoined me to spend the day in prayer, reciting particularly the liturgies for the dead, and all those sacred offices for those who have just departed this life. "pray unceasingly, my dear child--pray with your whole heart, as though it were for one you loved best in the world. i shall not return, perhaps, till late to-night; but i will kiss you then, and to-morrow we shall go into the woods together." the tears fell from his cheek to mine as he said this, and his damp hand trembled as he pressed my fingers. my heart was full to bursting at his emotion, and i resolved faithfully to do his bidding. to watch him, as he went, i opened the sash, and as i did so, the sound of a distant drum, the well-known muffled roll, floated on the air, and i remembered it was the day of the guillotine--that day in which my feverish spirit turned, as it were in relief, to the reality of blood. remote as was the part of the city we lived in, to escape from the hideous imaginings of my overwrought brain, i could still mark the hastening steps of the foot-passengers, as they listened to the far-off summons, and see the tide was setting toward the fatal place de grève. it was a lowering, heavy morning, overcast with clouds, and on its loaded atmosphere sounds moved slowly and indistinctly; yet i could trace through all the din of the great city, the incessant roll of the drums, and the loud shouts that burst forth, from time to time, from some great multitude. forgetting every thing, save my intense passion for scenes of terror, i hastened down the stairs into the street, and at the top of my speed hurried to the place of execution. as i went along, the crowded streets and thronged avenues told of some event of more than common interest; and in the words which fell from those around me i could trace that some deep royalist plot had just been discovered, and that the conspirators would all on that day be executed. whether it was that the frequent sight of blood was beginning to pall upon the popular appetite, or that these wholesale massacres interested less than the sight of individual suffering, i know not; but certainly there was less of exultation, less of triumphant scorn in the tone of the speakers. they talked of the coming event, as of a common occurrence, which, from mere repetition, was gradually losing interest. "i thought we had done with these chouans," said a man in a blouse, with a paper cap on his head. "pardie! they must have been more numerous than we ever suspected." "that they were, citoyen," said a haggard-looking fellow, whose features showed the signs of recent strife; "they were the millions who gorged and fed upon us for centuries--who sipped the red grape of bourdeaux, while you and i drank the water of the seine." "well, their time is come now," cried a third. "and when will ours come?" asked a fresh-looking, dark-eyed girl, whose dress bespoke her trade of _bouquetiere_--"do you call this our time, my masters, when paris has no more pleasant sight than blood, nor any music save the 'ça ira' that drowns the cries at the guillotine? is this our time, when we have lost those who gave us bread, and got in their place only those who would feed us with carnage?" "down with her! down with the chouan! à bas la royaliste!" cried the pale-faced fellow; and he struck the girl with his fist upon the face, and left it covered with blood. "to the lantern with her!--to the seine!" shouted several voices; and now, rudely seizing her by the shoulders, the mob seemed bent upon sudden vengeance; while the poor girl, letting fall her basket, begged, with clasped hands, for mercy. "see here, see here, comrades," cried a fellow, stooping down among the flowers, "she is a royalist: here are lilies hid beneath the rest." what sad consequences this discovery might have led to, there is no knowing; when, suddenly, a violent rush of the crowd turned every thought into a different direction. it was caused by a movement of the gendarmerie à cheval, who were clearing the way for the approaching procession. i had just time to place the poor girl's basket in her hands, as the onward impulse of the dense mob carried me forward. i saw her no more. a flower--i know not how it came there--was in my bosom, and seeing that it was a lily, i placed it in my cap for concealment. the hoarse clangor of the bassoons--the only instruments which played during the march--now told that the procession was approaching; and then i could see, above the heads of the multitude, the leopard-skin helmets of the dragoons, who led the way. save this i could see nothing, as i was borne along in the vast torrent toward the place of execution. slowly as we moved, our progress was far more rapid than that of the procession, which was often obliged to halt from the density of the mob in front. we arrived, therefore, at the place a considerable time before it; and now i found myself beside the massive wooden railing placed to keep off the crowd from the space around the guillotine. it was the first time i had ever stood so close to the fatal spot, and my eyes devoured every detail with the most searching intensity. the colossal guillotine itself, painted red, and with its massive ax suspended aloft--the terrible basket, half filled with sawdust, beneath--the coarse table, on which a rude jar and a cap were placed--and, more disgusting than all, the lounging group, who, with their newspapers in hand, seemed from time to time to watch if the procession were approaching. they sat beneath a misshapen statue of wood, painted red like the guillotine. this was the goddess of liberty. i climbed one of the pillars of the paling, and could now see the great cart, which, like a boat upon wheels, came slowly along, dragged by six horses. it was crowded with people, so closely packed that they could not move their bodies, and only waved their hands, which they did incessantly. they seemed, too, as if they were singing; but the deep growl of the bassoons, and the fierce howlings of the mob, drowned all other sounds. as the cart came nearer, i could distinguish the faces, amid which were those of age and youth--men and women--bold-visaged boys and fair girls--some, whose air bespoke the very highest station, and beside them, the hardy peasant, apparently more amazed than terrified at all he saw around him. on they came, the great cart surging heavily, like a bark in a stormy sea; and now it cleft the dense ocean that filled the place, and i could descry the lineaments wherein the stiffened lines of death were already marked. had any touch of pity still lingered in that dense crowd, there might well have been some show of compassion for the sad convoy, whose faces grew ghastly with terror as they drew near the horrible engine. down the furrowed cheek of age the heavy tears coursed freely, and sobs and broken prayers burst forth from hearts that until now had beat high and proudly. "there is the duc d'angeaç," cried a fellow, pointing to a venerable old man, who was seated at the corner of the cart, with an air of calm dignity; "i know him well, for i was his perruquier." "his hair must be content with sawdust this morning, instead of powder," said another; and a rude laugh followed the ruffian jest. "see! mark that woman with the long dark hair--that is la bretonville, the actress of the st. martin." "i have often seen her represent terror far more naturally," cried a fashionably-dressed man, as he stared at the victim through his opera-glass. "bah!" replied his friend, "she despises her audience, _voila tout_. look, henri, if that little girl beside her be not lucille of the pantheon." "parbleu! so it is. why, they'll not leave a pirouette in the grand opera. pauvre petite, what had you to do with politics?" "her little feet ought to have saved her head any day." "see how grim that old lady beside her looks: i'd swear she is more shocked at the company she's thrown into, than the fate that awaits her. i never saw a glance of prouder disdain than she has just bestowed on poor lucille." "that's the old marquise d'estelles, the very essence of our old nobility. they used to talk of their mesalliance with the bourbons as the first misfortune of their house." "pardie! they have lived to learn deeper sorrows." i had by this time discovered her they were speaking of, whom i recognized at once as the old marquise of the chapel of st. blois. my hands nearly gave up their grasp as i gazed on those features, which so often i had seen fixed in prayer, and which now--a thought paler, perhaps--wore the self-same calm expression. with what intense agony i peered into the mass, to see if the little girl, her grand-daughter, were with her; and, oh! the deep relief i felt as i saw nothing but strange faces on every side. it was terrible to feel, as my eyes ranged over that vast mass, where grief and despair, and heart-sinking terror were depicted, that i should experience a spirit of joy and thankfulness; and yet i did so, and with my lips i uttered my gratitude that she was spared! but i had not time for many reflections like this; already the terrible business of the day had begun, and the prisoners were now descending from the cart, ranging themselves, as their names were called, in a line below the scaffold. with a few exception, they took their places in all the calm of seeming indifference. death had long familiarized itself to their minds in a thousand shapes. day by day they had seen the vacant places left by those led out to die, and if their sorrows had not rendered them careless of life, the world itself had grown distasteful to them. in some cases a spirit of proud scorn was manifested to the very last; and, strange inconsistency of human nature! the very men whose licentiousness and frivolity first evoked the terrible storm of popular fury, were the first to display the most chivalrous courage in the terrible face of the guillotine. beautiful women, too, in all the pride of their loveliness, met the inhuman stare of that mob undismayed. nor were these traits without their fruits. this noble spirit--this triumphant victory of the well-born and the great--was a continual insult to the populace, who saw themselves defrauded of half their promised vengeance, and they learned that they might kill, but they could never humiliate them. in vain they dipped their hands in the red life-blood, and, holding up their dripping fingers, asked, "how did it differ from that of the canaille?" their hearts gave the lie to the taunt for they witnessed instances of heroism from gray hairs and tender womanhood, that would have shamed the proudest deeds of their new-born chivalry! "charles gregoire courcelles!" shouted out a deep voice from the scaffold. "that is my name," said a venerable-looking old gentleman, as he arose from his seat, adding, with a placid smile, "but, for half a century my friends have called me the duc de riancourt." "we have no dukes nor marquises; we know of no titles in france," replied the functionary. "all men are equal before the law." "if it were so, my friend, you and i might change places; for you were my steward, and plundered my chateau." "down with the royalist--away with the aristocrat!" shouted a number of voices from the crowd. "be a little patient, good people," said the old man, as he ascended the steps with some difficulty; "i was wounded in canada, and have never yet recovered. i shall probably be better a few minutes hence." there was something of half simplicity in the careless way the words were uttered that hushed the multitude, and already some expressions of sympathy were heard; but as quickly the ribald insults of the hired ruffians of the convention drowned these sounds, and "down with the royalist" resounded on every side, while two officials assisted him to remove his stock and bare his throat. the commissary, advancing to the edge of the platform, and, as it were, addressing the people, read in a hurried, slurring kind of voice, something that purported to be the ground of the condemnation. but of this not a word could be heard. none cared to hear the ten-thousand-time told tale of suspected royalism, nor would listen to the high-sounding declamation that proclaimed the virtuous zeal of the government--their untiring energy--their glorious persistence in the cause of the people. the last words were, as usual, responded to with an echoing shout, and the cry of "vive la republique" rose from the great multitude. "vive le roi!" cried the old man, with a voice heard high above the clamor; but the words were scarce out when the lips that muttered them were closed in death; so sudden was the act, that a cry burst forth from the mob, but whether in reprobation or in ecstasy i knew not. i will not follow the sad catalogue, wherein nobles and peasants, priests, soldiers, actors, men of obscure fortune, and women of lofty station succeeded each other, occupying for a brief minute every eye, and passing away for ever. many ascended the platform without a word; some waved a farewell toward a distant quarter, where they suspected a friend to be--others spent their last moments in prayer, and died in the very act of supplication. all bore themselves with a noble and proud courage; and now some five or six alone remained, of whose fate none seemed to guess the issue, since they had been taken from the temple by some mistake, and were not included in the list of the commissary. there they sat, at the foot of the scaffold, speechless and stupefied--they looked as though it were matter of indifference to which side their steps should turn--to the jail or the guillotine. among these was the marquise, who alone preserved her proud self-possession, and sat in all her accustomed dignity; while close beside her an angry controversy was maintained as to their future destiny--the commissary firmly refusing to receive them for execution, and the delegate of the temple, as he was styled, as flatly asserting that he would not re-conduct them to prison. the populace soon grew interested in the dispute, and the most violent altercations arose among the partisans of each side of the question. meanwhile, the commissary and his assistants prepared to depart. already the massive drapery of red cloth was drawn over the guillotine, and every preparation made for withdrawing, when the mob, doubtless dissatisfied that they should be defrauded of any portion of the entertainment, began to climb over the wooden barricades, and, with furious cries and shouts, threatened vengeance upon any who would screen the enemies of the people. the troops resisted the movement, but rather with the air of men entreating calmness, than with the spirit of soldiery. it was plain to see on which side the true force lay. "if you will not do it, the people will do it for you," whispered the delegate to the commissary; "and who is to say where they will stop when their hands once learn the trick!" the commissary grew lividly pale, and made no reply. "see there!" rejoined the other; "they are carrying a fellow on their shoulders yonder; they mean him to be executioner." "but i dare not--i can not--without my orders." "are not the people sovereign?--whose will have we sworn to obey, but theirs?" "my own head would be the penalty if i yielded." "it will be, if you resist--even now it is too late." and as he spoke he sprang from the scaffold, and disappeared in the dense crowd that already thronged the space within the rails. by this time, the populace were not only masters of the area around, but had also gained the scaffold itself, from which many of them seemed endeavoring to harangue the mob; others contenting themselves with imitating the gestures of the commissary and his functionaries. it was a scene of the wildest uproar and confusion--frantic cries and screams, ribald songs and fiendish yellings on every side. the guillotine was again uncovered, and the great crimson drapery, torn into fragments, was waved about like flags, or twisted into uncouth head-dresses. the commissary failing in every attempt to restore order peaceably, and either not possessing a sufficient force, or distrusting the temper of the soldiers, descended from the scaffold, and gave the order to march. this act of submission was hailed by the mob with the most furious yell of triumph. up to that very moment, they had never credited the bare possibility of a victory; and now they saw themselves suddenly masters of the field--the troops, in all the array of horse and foot, retiring in discomfiture. their exultation knew no bounds; and, doubtless, had there been among them those with skill and daring to profit by the enthusiasm, the torrent had rushed a longer and more terrific course than through the blood-steeped clay of the place de la grève. "here is the man we want," shouted a deep voice. "st. just told us, t'other day, that the occasion never failed to produce one; and see, here is 'jean gougon;' and though he's but two feet high, his fingers can reach the pin of the guillotine." and he held aloft on his shoulders a misshapen dwarf, who was well known on the pont neuf, where he gained his living by singing infamous songs, and performing mockeries of the service of the mass. a cheer of welcome acknowledged this speech, to which the dwarf responded by a mock benediction, which he bestowed with all the ceremonious observance of an archbishop. shouts of the wildest laughter followed this ribaldry, and in a kind of triumph they carried him up the steps, and deposited him on the scaffold. ascending one of the chairs, the little wretch proceeded to address the mob, which he did with all the ease and composure of a practiced public speaker. not a murmur was heard in that tumultuous assemblage, as he, with a most admirable imitation of hebert, then the popular idol, assured them that france was, at that instant, the envy of surrounding nations; and that, bating certain little weaknesses on the score of humanity--certain traits of softness and over-mercy--her citizens realized all that ever had been said of angels. from thence he passed on to a mimicry of marat, of danton, and of robespierre--tearing off his cravat, baring his breast, and performing all the oft-exhibited antics of the latter, as he vociferated, in a wild scream, the well-known peroration of a speech he had lately made--"if we look to a glorious morrow of freedom, the sun of our slavery must set in blood!" however amused by the dwarf's exhibition, a feeling of impatience began to manifest itself among the mob, who felt that, by any longer delay, it was possible time would be given for fresh troops to arrive, and the glorious opportunity of popular sovereignty be lost in the very hour of victory. "to work--to work, master gougon!" shouted hundreds of rude voices; "we can not spend our day in listening to oratory." "you forget, my dear friends," said he blandly, "that this is to me a new walk in life i have much to learn, ere i can acquit myself worthily to the republic." "we have no leisure for preparatory studies, gougon," cried a fellow below the scaffold. "let me, then, just begin with monsieur," said the dwarf, pointing to the last speaker; and a shout of laughter closed the sentence. a brief and angry dispute now arose as to what was to be done, and it is more than doubtful how the debate might have ended, when gougon, with a readiness all his own, concluded the discussion by saying, "i have it, messieurs, i have it. there is a lady here, who, however respectable her family and connections, will leave few to mourn her loss. she is, in a manner, public property, and if not born on the soil, at least a naturalized frenchwoman. we have done a great deal for her, and in her name, for some time back, and i am not aware of any singular benefit she has rendered us. with your permission, then, i'll begin with _her_." "name, name--name her," was cried by thousands. "_la voila_," said he, archly, as he pointed with his thumb to the wooden effigy of liberty above his head. the absurdity of the suggestion was more than enough for its success. a dozen hands were speedily at work, and down came the goddess of liberty! the other details of an execution were hurried over with all the speed of practiced address, and the figure was placed beneath the drop. down fell the ax, and gougon, lifting up the wooden head, paraded it about the scaffold, crying, "behold! an enemy of france. long live the republic, one and 'indivisible.'" loud and wild were the shouts of laughter from this brutal mockery; and for a time it almost seemed as if the ribaldry had turned the mob from the sterner passions of their vengeance. this hope, if one there ever cherished it, was short-lived; and again the cry arose for blood. it was too plain, that no momentary diversion, no passing distraction, could withdraw them from that lust for cruelty, that had now grown into a passion. and now a bustle and movement of those around the stairs showed that something was in preparation; and in the next moment the old marquise was led forward between two men. "where is the order for this woman's execution?" asked the dwarf, mimicking the style and air of the commissary. "we give it: it is from us," shouted the mob, with one savage roar. gougon removed his cap, and bowed a token of obedience. "let us proceed in order, messieurs," said he, gravely; "i see no priest here." "shrive her yourself, gougon; few know the mummeries better!" cried a voice. "is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the offices," said gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice. "yes, yes, i do," cried i, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery in which the words were spoken; "i know them all by heart, and can repeat them from 'lux beatissima' down to 'hora mortis;'" and as if to gain credence for my self-laudation, i began at once to recite in the sing-song tone of the seminary, "salve, mater salvatoris, fons salutis, vas honoris: scala coeli porta et via salve semper, o, maria!" it is possible i should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious laughter which rung around had not stopped me. "there's a brave youth!" cried gougon, pointing toward me, with mock admiration. "if it ever come to pass--as what may not in these strange times?--that we turn to priest-craft again, thou shalt be the first archbishop of paris. who taught thee that famous canticle?" "the père michel," replied i, in no way conscious of the ridicule bestowed upon me; "the père michel of st. blois." the old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes rested steadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her hand, she motioned to me to come over to her. "yes; let him come," said gougon, as if answering the half-reluctant glances of the crowd. and now i was assisted to descend, and passed along over the heads of the people till i was placed upon the scaffold. never can i forget the terror of that moment, as i stood within a few feet of the terrible guillotine, and saw beside me the horrid basket, splashed with recent blood. "look not at these things, child," said the old lady, as she took my hand and drew me toward her, "but listen to me, and mark my words well." "i will, i will," cried i, as the hot tears rolled down my cheeks. "tell the père--you will see him to-night--tell him that i have changed my mind, and resolved upon another course, and that he is not to leave paris. let them remain. the torrent runs too rapidly to last. this can not endure much longer. we shall be among the last victims! you hear me, child?" "i do, i do," cried i, sobbing. "why is not the père michel with you now?" "because he is suing for my pardon; asking for mercy, where its very name is a derision. kneel down beside me, and repeat the 'angelus.'" i took off my cap, and knelt down at her feet, reciting, in a voice broken by emotion, the words of the prayer. she repeated each syllable after me, in a tone full and unshaken, and then stooping, she took up the lily which lay in my cap. she pressed it passionately to her lips; two or three times passionately. "give it to her; tell her i kissed it at my last moment. tell her--" "this 'shrift' is beyond endurance. away, holy father," cried gougon, as he pushed me rudely back, and seized the marquise by the wrist. a faint cry escaped her. i heard no more; for, jostled and pushed about by the crowd, i was driven to the very rails of the scaffold. stepping beneath these, i mingled with the mob beneath; and burning with eagerness to escape a scene, to have witnessed which would almost have made my heart break, i forced my way into the dense mass, and, by squeezing and creeping, succeeded at last in penetrating to the verge of the place. a terrible shout, and a rocking motion of the mob, like the heavy surging of the sea, told me that all was over; but i never looked back to the fatal spot, but having gained the open streets, ran at the top of my speed toward home. (_to be continued._) [from bender's monthly miscellany.] women in the east. by an oriental traveler. within the gay kiosk reclined, above the scent of lemon groves, where bubbling fountains kiss the wind, and birds make music to their loves, she lives a kind of faery life, in sisterhood of fruits and flowers, unconscious of the outer strife that wears the palpitating hours. _the hareem._ r.m. milnes. there is a gentle, calm repose breathing through the whole of this poem, which comes soothingly to the imagination wearied with the strife and hollowness of modern civilization. woman in it is the inferior being; but it is the inferiority of the beautiful flower, or of the fairy birds of gorgeous plumage, who wing their flight amid the gardens and bubbling streams of the eastern palace. life is represented for the eastern women as a long dream of affection; the only emotions she is to know are those of ardent love and tender maternity. she is not represented as the companion to man in his life battle, as the sharer of his triumph and his defeats: the storms of life are hushed at the entrance of the hareem; _there_ the lord and master deposits the frown of unlimited power, or the cringing reverence of the slave, and appears as the watchful guardian of the loved one's happiness. such a picture is poetical, and would lead one to say, alas for human progress, if the eastern female slave is thus on earth to pass one long golden summer--her heart only tied by those feelings which keep it young--while her christian sister has these emotions but as sun-gleams to lighten and make dark by contrast, the frequent gloom of her winter life. but although the conception is poetical, to one who has lived many years in the east, it appears a conception, not a description of the real hareem life, even among the noble and wealthy of those lands. the following anecdote may be given us the other side of the picture. the writer was a witness of the scene, and he offers it as a consolation to those of his fair sisters, who, in the midst of the troubles of common-place life, might be disposed to compare their lot with that of the inmate of the mysterious and happy home drawn by the poet. it was in a large and fruitful district of the south of india that i passed a few years of my life. in this district lived, immured in his fort, one of the native rajahs, who, with questionable justice, have gradually been shorn of their regal state and authority, to become pensioners of the east india company. the inevitable consequence of such an existence, the forced life of inactivity with the traditions of the bold exploits of his royal ancestors, brilliant mahratta chieftains, may be imagined. the rajah sunk into a state of slothful dissipation, varied by the occasional intemperate exercise of the power left him within the limits of the fortress, his residence. this fort is not the place which the word would suggest to the reader, but was rather a small native town surrounded by fortifications. this town was peopled by the descendants of the mahrattas, and by the artisans and dependents of the rajah and his court. twice a year the english resident and his assistants were accustomed to pay visits of ceremony to the rajah, and had to encounter the fatiguing sights of dancing-girls, beast-fights, and _music_, if the extraordinary assemblage of sounds, which in the east assume the place of harmony, can be so called. we had just returned from one of these visits, and were grumbling over our headaches, the dust, and the heat, when, to our surprise, the rajah's vabul or confidential representative was announced. as it was nine o'clock in the evening this somewhat surprised us. he was, however, admitted, and after a short, hurried obeisance, he announced "that he must die! that there had been a sudden revolt of the hareem, and that when the rajah knew it, he would listen to no explanations, but be sure to imprison and ruin all round him; and that foremost in the general destruction would be himself, veneat-rao, who had always been the child of the english sahibs, who were his fathers--that they were wise above all natives, and that he had come to them for help!" all this was pronounced with indescribable volubility, and the appearance of the speaker announced the most abject fear. he was a little wizened brahmin, with the thin blue lines of his caste carefully painted on his wrinkled forehead. his dark black eyes gleamed with suppressed impotent rage, and in his agitation he had lost all that staid, placid decorum which we had been accustomed to observe in him when transacting business. when urged to explain the domestic disaster which had befallen his master, he exclaimed with ludicrous pathos, "by rama! women are devils; by them all misfortunes come upon men! but, sahibs, hasten with me; they have broken through the guard kept on the hareem door by two old sentries; they ran through the fort and besieged my house; they are now there, and refuse to go back to the hareem. the rajah returns to-morrow from his hunting--what can i say? i must die! my children, who will care for them? what crime did my father commit that i should thus be disgraced?" yielding to these entreaties, and amused at the prospect of a novel scene, we mounted our horses and cantered to the fort. the lights were burning brightly in the bazaars as we rode through them, and except a few groups gathered to discuss the price of rice and the want of rain, we perceived no agitation till we reached the vakeel's house. arrived here we dismounted, and on entering the square court-yard a scene of indescribable confusion presented itself. the first impression it produced on me was that of entering a large aviary in which the birds, stricken with terror, fly madly to and fro against the bars. such was the first effect of our entrance. women and girls of all ages, grouped about the court, in most picturesque attitudes, started up and fled to its extreme end; only a few of the more matronly ladies stood their ground, and with terribly screeching voices, declaimed against some one or something, but for a long time we could, in this babel of female tongues, distinguish nothing. at last we managed to distinguish the rajah's name, coupled with epithets most disrespectful to royalty. this, and that they, the women, begged instantly to be put to death, was all that the clamor would permit us to understand. we looked appealingly at veneat rao, who stood by, wringing his hands. however, he made a vigorous effort, and raising his shrill voice, told them that the sahibs had come purposely to listen to, and redress their grievances, and that they would hold durbar (audience) then and there. this announcement produced a lull, and enabled us to look round us at the strange scene. scattered in various parts of the court were these poor prisoners, who now for the first time for many years tasted liberty. scattered about were some hideous old women, partly guardians of the younger, partly remains, we were told, of the rajah's father's seraglio. young children moved among them looking very much frightened. but the group which attracted our attention and admiration consisted of about twenty really beautiful girls, from fourteen to eighteen years of age, of every country and caste, in the various costume and ornament of their races; these were clustering round a fair and very graceful mahratta girl, whose tall figure was seen to great advantage in the blaze of torchlight. her muslin vail had half fallen from her face, allowing us to see her large, soft, dark eyes, from which the tears were fast falling, as in a low voice she addressed her fellow-sufferers. there was on her face a peculiar expression of patient endurance of ill, inexpressibly touching. this is not an unfrequent character in the beauty of asiatic women; the natural result of habits of fear, and the entire submission to the will of others. her features were classically regular, with the short rounded chin, the long graceful neck, and that easy port of head so seldom seen except in the women of the east. her arms were covered with rich bracelets, and were of the most perfect form; her hands long and tapering, the palms and nails dyed with the "henna." no barbarously-civilized restraint rendered her waist a contradiction of natural beauty; a small, dark satin bodice, richly embroidered, covered a bosom which had hardly attained womanly perfection; a zone of gold held together the full muslin folds of the lower portion of her dress, below which the white satin trowsers reached, without concealing a faultless ankle and foot, uncovered, except by the heavy anklet and rings which tinkled at every step she took. after the disturbance that our entrance had caused, had in a measure subsided, the children, who were richly dressed and loaded with every kind of fantastic ornament, came sidling timidly round us, peering curiously with their large black eyes, at the unusual sight of white men. considerably embarrassed at the very new arbitration which we were about to undertake, b. and i consulted for a little while, after which, gravely taking our seats, and veneat rao having begged them to listen with respectful attention, i, at b.'s desire, proceeded to address them, telling them, "that we supposed some grave cause must have arisen for them to desert the palace of the rajah, their protector, during his absence, and by violently overpowering the guard, incur his serious anger (here my eye caught a sight of the said guard, consisting of two blear-eyed, shriveled old men, and i nearly lost all solemnity of demeanor) that if they complained of injustice, we supposed that it must have been committed without his highness's knowledge, but that if they would quietly return to the hareem we would endeavor to represent to their master their case, and entreat him to redress their grievance." i spoke this in hindusthani, which, as the _lingua franca_ of the greater part of india, i thought was most likely to be understood by the majority of my female audience. i succeeded perfectly in making myself understood, but was not quite so successful in convincing them that it was better that they should return to the rajah's palace. after rather a stormy discussion, the mahratta girl, whom we had so much admired on our entrance, stepped forward, and, bowing lowly before us, and crossing her arms, in a very sweet tone of voice proceeded to tell her story, which, she said, was very much the history of them all. the simple, and at times picturesque expressions lose much by translation. "sir, much shame comes over me, that i, a woman, should speak before men who are not our fathers, husbands, nor brothers, who are strangers, of another country and religion; but they tell us that you english sahibs love truth and justice, and protect the poor. "i was born of gentoo parents--rich, for i can remember the bright, beautiful jewels which, as a child, i wore on my head, arms, and feet, the large house and gardens where i played, and the numerous servants who attended me. "when i had reached my eighth or ninth year i heard them talk of my betrothal,[ ] and of the journey which we were, previous to the ceremony, to take to some shrine in a distant country. my father, who was advancing in years, and in bad health, being anxious to bathe in the holy waters, which should give him prolonged life and health. [ ] the usual age for the ceremony among the wealthy india. "the journey had lasted for many days, and one evening after we had halted for the day i accompanied my mother when she went to bathe in a tank near to our encampment. as i played along the bank and picked a few wild flowers that grew under the trees i observed an old woman advancing toward me. she spoke to me in a kind voice, asked me my name? who were my parents? where we were going? and when i had answered her these questions she told me that if i would accompany her a little way she would give me some prettier flowers than those i was gathering, and that her servant should take me back to my people. "i had no sooner gone far enough to be out of sight and hearing of my mother than the old woman threw a cloth over my head, and taking me up in her arms, hurried on for a short distance. there i could distinguish men's voices, and was sensible of being placed in a carriage, which was driven off at a rapid pace. no answer was returned to my cries and entreaties to be restored to my parents, and at sunrise i found myself near hills which i had never before seen, and among a people whose language was new to me. "i remained with these people, who were not unkind to me, three or four years; and i found out that the old woman who had carried me off from my parents, was an emissary sent from the rajah's hareem to kidnap, when they could not be purchased, young female children whose looks promised that they would grow up with the beauty necessary for the gratification of the prince's passions. "sahibs! i have been two years an inmate of the rajah's hareem--would to god i had died a child in my own country with those i loved, than that i should have been exposed to the miseries we suffer. the splendor which surrounds us is only a mockery. the rajah, wearied and worn out by a life of debauchery, takes no longer any pleasure in our society, and is only roused from his lethargy to inflict disgrace and cruelties upon us. we, who are of brahmin caste, for his amusement, are forced to learn the work of men--are made to carry in the gardens of the hareem a palanquin, to work as goldsmiths--and, may our gods pardon us, to mingle with the dancing-girls of the bazaar. his attendants deprive us even of our food, and we sit in the beautiful palace loaded with jewels, and suffer from the hunger not felt even by the poor pariah. "sahibs! you who have in your country mothers and sisters, save us from this cruel fate, and cause us to be restored to our parents; do not send us back to such degradation, but rather let us die by your orders." as with a voice tremulous with emotion, she said these words, she threw herself at our feet, and burst into an agony of weeping. deeply moved by the simple expression of such undeserved misfortune, we soothed her as well as we were able, and promising her and her companions to make every effort with the rajah for their deliverance, we persuaded rosambhi, the mahratta girl (their eloquent pleader), to induce them to return for the night to the palace. upon a repetition of our promise they consented, to the infinite relief of veneat rao, who alternately showered blessings on us, and curses on all womankind, as he accompanied us back to the residency. and now we had to set about the deliverance of these poor women. this was a work of considerable difficulty. it was a delicate matter interfering with the rajah's domestic concerns, and we could only commission veneat rao to communicate to his highness the manner in which we had become implicated with so unusual an occurrence as a revolt of his seraglio; we told him to express to his highness our conviction that his generosity had been deceived by his subordinates. in this we only imitated the profound maxim of european diplomacy, and concealed our real ideas by our expressions. this to the rajah. on his confidential servant we enforced the disapprobation the resident felt at the system of kidnapping, of which his highness was the instigator, and hinted at that which these princes most dread--an investigation. this succeeded beyond our expectation, and the next morning a message was sent from the palace, intimating that the charges were so completely unfounded, that the rajah was prepared to offer to his revolted women, the choice of remaining in the hareem, or being sent back to their homes. again they were assembled in veneat rao's house, but this time in much more orderly fashion, for their vails were down, and except occasionally when a coquettish movement showed a portion of some face, we were unrewarded by any of the bright eyes we had admired on the previous visit. the question was put to them one by one, and all with the exception of a few old women, expressed an eager wish not to re-enter the hareem. after much troublesome inquiry, we discovered their parents, and were rewarded by their happy and grateful faces, as we sent them off under escort to their homes. it was painful to reflect what their fate would be; they left us rejoicing at what they thought would be a happy change, but we well knew that no one would marry them, knowing that they had been in the rajah's hareem, and that they would either lead a life of neglect, or sink into vice, of which the liberty would be the only change from that, which by our means they had escaped. in the inquiries we made into the circumstances of this curious case, we found that their statements were true. large sums were paid by the rajah to his creatures, who traveled to distant parts of the country, and wherever they could meet with parents poor enough, bought their female children from them, or when they met with remarkable beauty such as rosambhi's, did not hesitate to carry the child off, and by making rapid marches, elude any vigilance of pursuit on the part of the parents. the cruelties and degradations suffered by these poor girls are hardly to be described. we well know how degraded, even in civilized countries the pursuit of sensual pleasures renders men, to whom education and the respect they pay the opinion of society, are checks; let us imagine the conduct of the eastern prince, safe in the retirement of his court, surrounded by those dependents to whom the gratification of their master's worst passions was the sure road to favor and fortune. besides the sufferings they had to endure from him, the women of the hareem were exposed to the rapacities of those who had charge of them, and rosambhi did not exaggerate, when she described herself and her companions as suffering the pangs of want amid the splendors of a palace. this is the reverse of the pleasing picture drawn by the poet of the eastern woman's existence--but, though less pleasing, it is true--nor need we describe her in the lower ranks of life in those countries, where, her beauty faded, she has to pass a wearisome existence, the servant of a rival, whose youthful charms have supplanted her in her master's affections. the calm happiness of advancing age is seldom hers--she is the toy while young--the slave, or the neglected servant, at best, when, her only merit in the eyes of her master, physical beauty, is gone. let her sister in the western world, in the midst of her joys, think with pity on these sufferings, and when sorrow's cloud seems darkest, let her not repine, but learn resignation to her lot, as she compares it with the condition of the women of the east; let her be grateful that she lives in an age and land where woman is regarded as the helpmate and consolation of man, by whom her love is justly deemed the prize of his life. [from the ladies' companion.] lettice arnold. by the author of "two old men's tales," "emilia wyndham," &c. chapter i. "it is the generous spirit, who when brought unto the task of common life, hath wrought even upon the plan which pleased the childish thought * * * * * who doomed to go in company with pain, and fear, and ruin--miserable train!-- makes that necessity a glorious gain, by actions that would force the soul to abate her feeling, rendered more compassionate. * * * * * more gifted with self-knowledge--even more pure as tempted more--more able to endure, as more exposed to suffering and distress; thence, also, more alive to tenderness." wordsworth. _happy warrior._ "no, dearest mother, no! i can not. what! after all the tenderness, care, and love i have received from you, for now one-and-twenty years, to leave you and my father, in your old age, to yourselves! oh, no! oh, no!" "nay, my child," said the pale, delicate, nervous woman, thus addressed by a blooming girl whose face beamed with every promise for future happiness, which health and cheerfulness, and eyes filled with warm affections could give, "nay, my child, don't talk so. you must not talk so. it is not to be thought of." and, as she said these words with effort, her poor heart was dying within her, not only from sorrow at the thought of the parting from her darling, but with all sorts of dreary, undefined terrors at the idea of the forlorn, deserted life before her. abandoned to herself and to servants, so fearful, so weak as she was, and with the poor, invalided, and crippled veteran, her husband, a martyr to that long train of sufferings which honorable wounds, received in the service of country, too often leave behind them, a man at all times so difficult to sooth, so impossible to entertain--and old age creeping upon them both; the little strength she ever had, diminishing; the little spirit she ever possessed, failing; what should she do without this dear, animated, this loving, clever being, who was, in one word, every thing to her? but she held to her resolution--no martyr ever more courageously than this trembling, timid woman. a prey to ten thousand imaginary fears, and, let alone the imaginary terrors, placed in a position where the help she was now depriving herself of was really so greatly needed. "no, my dear," she repeated, "don't think of it; don't speak of it. you distress me very much. pray don't, my dearest catherine." "but i should be a shocking creature, mamma, to forsake you; and, i am sure, edgar would despise me as much as i should myself, if i could think of it. i can not--i ought not to leave you." the gentle blue eye of the mother was fixed upon the daughter's generous, glowing face. she smothered a sigh. she waited a while to steady her faltering voice. she wished to hide, if possible, from her daughter the extent of the sacrifice she was making. at last she recovered herself sufficiently to speak with composure, and then she said: "to accept such a sacrifice from a child, i have always thought the most monstrous piece of selfishness of which a parent could be guilty. my love, this does not come upon me unexpectedly. i have, of course, anticipated it. i knew my sweet girl could not be long known and seen without inspiring and returning the attachment of some valuable man. i have resolved--and god strengthen me in this resolve," she cast up a silent appeal to the fountain of strength and courage--"that nothing should tempt me to what i consider so base. a parent accept the sacrifice of a life in exchange for the poor remnant of her own! a parent, who has had her own portion of the joys of youth in her day, deprive a child of a share in her turn! no, my dearest love, never--never! i would die, and i will die first." but it was not death she feared. the idea of death did not appall her. what she dreaded was melancholy. she knew the unsoundness of her own nerves; she had often felt herself, as it were, trembling upon the fearful verge of reason, when the mind, unable to support itself, is forced to rest upon another. she had known a feeling, common to many very nervous people, i believe, as though the mind would be overset when pressed far, if not helped, strengthened, and cheered by some more wholesome mind; and she shrank appalled from the prospect. but even this could not make her waver in her resolution. she was a generous, just, disinterested woman; though the exigencies of a most delicate constitution, and most susceptible nervous system, had too often thrown upon her--from those who did not understand such things, and whose iron nerves and vigorous health rendered sympathy at such times impossible--the reproach of being a tedious, whimsical, selfish hypochondriac. poor thing, she knew this well. it was the difficulty of making herself understood; the want of sympathy, the impossibility of rendering needs, most urgent in her case, comprehensible by her friends, which had added so greatly to the timorous cowardice, the fear of circumstances, of changes, which had been the bane of her existence. and, therefore, this kind, animated, affectionate daughter, whose tenderness seemed never to weary in the task of cheering her; whose activity was never exhausted in the endeavor to assist and serve her; whose good sense and spirit kept every thing right at home, and more especially kept those terrible things, the servants, in order--of whom the poor mother, like many other feeble and languid people, was so foolishly afraid; therefore, this kind daughter was as the very spring of her existence; and the idea of parting with her was really dreadful. yet she hesitated not. so did that man behave, who stood firm upon the rampart till he had finished his observation, though his hair turned white with fear. mrs. melwyn was an heroic coward of this kind. she had prayed ardently, fervently, that day, for courage, for resolution, to complete the dreaded sacrifice, and she had found it. "oh, lord! i am thy servant. do with me what thou wilt. trembling in spirit, the victim of my infirmity--a poor, selfish, cowardly being, i fall down before thee. thou hast showed me what is right--the sacrifice i ought to make. oh, give me strength in my weakness to _be_ faithful to complete it!" thus had she prayed. and now resolved in heart, the poor sinking spirit failing her within but, as i said, steadying her voice with an almost heroic constancy, she resisted her grateful and pious child's representation: "i have told edgar--dear as he is to me--strong as are the claims his generous affection gives him over me--that i will not--i can not forsake you." "you must not call it forsake," said the mother, gently. "my love, the lord of life himself has spoken it: 'therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.'" "and so he is ready to do," cried catherine, eagerly. "yes, mother, he desires nothing better--he respects my scruples--he has offered, dear edgar! to abandon his profession and come and live here, and help me to take care of you and my father. was not that beautiful?" and the tears stood in her speaking eyes. "beautiful! generous! devoted! my catherine will be a happy woman;" and the mother smiled. a ray of genuine pleasure warmed her beating heart. this respect in the gay, handsome young officer for the filial scruples of her he loved was indeed beautiful! but the mother knew his spirit too well to listen to this proposal for a moment. "and abandon his profession? no, my sweet child, that would never, never do." "but he says he is independent of his profession--that his private fortune, though not large, is enough for such simple, moderate people as he and i are. in short, that he shall be miserable without me, and all that charming stuff, mamma; and that he loves me better, for what he calls, dear fellow, my piety to you. and so, dear mother, he says if you and my father will but consent to take him in, he will do his very best in helping me to make you comfortable; and he is so sweet-tempered, so reasonable, so good, so amiable, i am quite sure he would keep his promise, mamma." and she looked anxiously into her mother's face waiting for an answer. the temptation was very, very strong. again those domestic spectres which had so appalled her poor timorous spirit rose before her. a desolate, dull fireside--her own tendency to melancholy--her poor maimed suffering, and, alas, too often peevish partner--encroaching, unmanageable servants. the cook, with her careless, saucy ways--the butler so indifferent and negligent--and her own maid, that randall, who in secret tyrannized over her, exercising the empire of fear to an extent which catherine, alive as she was to these evils, did not suspect. and again she asked herself, if these things were disagreeable now, when catherine was here to take care of her, what would they be when she was left alone? and then such a sweet picture of happiness presented itself to tempt her--catherine settled there--settled there forever. that handsome, lively young man, with his sweet, cordial ways and polite observance of every one, sitting by their hearth, and talking, as he did, to the general of old days and military matters, the only subject in which this aged military man took any interest, reading the newspaper to him, and making such lively, pleasant comments as he read! how should _she_ ever get through the debates, with her breath so short, and her voice so indistinct and low? the general would lose all patience--he hated to hear her attempt to read such things, and always got catherine or the young lieutenant-colonel to do it. oh! it was a sore temptation. but this poor, dear, good creature resisted it. "my love," she said, after a little pause, daring which this noble victory was achieved--laugh if you will at the expression, but it _was_ a noble victory over self--"my love," she said, "don't tempt your poor mother beyond her strength. gladly, gladly, as far as we are concerned, would we enter into this arrangement; but it must not be. no, catherine; edgar must not quit his profession. it would not only be a very great sacrifice i am sure now, but it would lay the foundation of endless regrets in future. no, my darling girl, neither his happiness nor your happiness shall be ever sacrificed to mine. a life against a few uncertain years! no--no." the mother was inflexible. the more these good children offered to give up for her sake, the more she resolved to suffer no such sacrifice to be made. edgar could not but rejoice. he was an excellent young fellow, and excessively in love with the charming catherine, you may be sure, or he never would have thought of offering to abandon a profession for her sake in which he had distinguished himself highly--which opened to him the fairest prospects, and of which he was especially fond--but he was not sorry to be excused. he had resolved upon this sacrifice, for there is something in those who truly love, and whose love is elevated almost to adoration by the moral worth they have observed in the chosen one, which revolts at the idea of lowering the tone of that enthusiastic goodness and self-immolation to principle which has so enchanted them. edgar could not do it. he could not attempt to persuade this tender, generous daughter, to consider her own welfare and his, in preference to that of her parents. he could only offer, on his own part, to make the greatest sacrifice which could have been demanded from him. rather than part from her what would he not do? every thing was possible but that. however, when the mother positively refused to accept of this act of self-abnegation, i can not say that he regretted it. no: he thought mrs. melwyn quite right in what she said; and he loved and respected both her character and understanding very much more than he had done before. * * * * * that night mrs. melwyn was very, very low indeed. and when she went up into her dressing-room, and catherine, having kissed her tenderly, with a heart quite divided between anxiety for her, and a sense of happiness that would make itself felt in spite of all, had retired to her room, the mother sat down, poor thing, in the most comfortable arm-chair that ever was invented, but which imparted no comfort to her; and placing herself by a merry blazing fire, which was reflected from all sorts of cheerful pretty things with which the dressing-room was adorned, her feet upon a warm, soft footstool of catherine's own working, her elbow resting upon her knee, and her head upon her hand, she, with her eyes bent mournfully upon the fire, began crying very much. and so she sat a long time, thinking and crying, very sorrowful, but not in the least repenting. meditating upon all sorts of dismal things, filled with all kinds of melancholy forebodings, as to how it would, and must be, when catherine was really gone, she sank at last into a sorrowful reverie, and sate quite absorbed in her own thoughts, till she--who was extremely punctual in her hour of going to bed--for reasons best known to herself, though never confided to any human being, namely, that her maid disliked very much sitting up for her--started as the clock in the hall sounded eleven and two quarters, and almost with the trepidation of a chidden child, rose and rang the bell. nobody came. this made her still more uneasy. it was randall's custom not to answer her mistress's bell the first time, when she was cross. and poor mrs. melwyn dreaded few things in this world more than cross looks in those about her, especially in randall; and that randall knew perfectly well. "she must be fallen asleep in her chair, poor thing. it was very thoughtless of me," mrs. melwyn did not say, but would have said, if people ever did speak to themselves aloud. even in this sort of mute soliloquy she did not venture to say, "randall will be very ill-tempered and unreasonable." she rang again; and then, after a proper time yielded to the claims of offended dignity, it pleased mrs. randall to appear. "i am very sorry, randall. really i had no idea how late it was. i was thinking about miss catherine, and i missed it when it struck ten. i had not the least idea it was so late," began the mistress in an apologizing tone, to which randall vouchsafed not an answer, but looked like a thunder cloud--as she went banging up and down the room, opening and shutting drawers with a loud noise, and treading with a rough heavy step; two things particularly annoying, as she very well knew, to the sensitive nerves of her mistress. but randall settled it with herself--that as her mistress had kept her out of bed an hour and a half longer than usual, for no reason at all but just to please herself, she should find she was none the better for it. the poor mistress bore all this with patience for some time. she would have gone on bearing the roughness and the noise, however disagreeable, as long as randall liked; but her soft heart could not bear those glum, cross looks, and this alarming silence. "i was thinking of miss catherine's marriage, randall. that was what made me forget the hour. what shall i do without her?" "yes, that's just like it," said the insolent abigail; "nothing ever can content some people. most ladies would be glad to settle their daughters so well; but some folk make a crying matter of every thing. it would be well for poor servants, when they're sitting over the fire, their bones aching to death for very weariness, if _they'd_ something pleasant to think about. they wouldn't be crying for nothing, and keeping all the world out of their beds, like those who care for naught but how to please themselves." part of this was said, part muttered, part thought; and the poor timid mistress--one of whose domestic occupations it seemed to be to study the humors of her servants--heard a part and divined the rest. "well, randall, i don't quite hear all you are saying; and perhaps it is as well i do not; but i wish you would give me my things and make haste, for i'm really very tired, and i want to go to bed." "people can't make more haste than they can." and so it went on. the maid-servant never relaxing an atom of her offended dignity--continuing to look as ill-humored, and to do every thing as disagreeably as she possibly could--and her poor victim, by speaking from time to time in an anxious, most gentle, and almost flattering manner, hoping to mollify her dependent; but all in vain. "i'll teach her to keep me up again for nothing at all," thought randall. and so the poor lady, very miserable in the midst of all her luxuries, at last gained her bed, and lay there not able to sleep for very discomfort. and the abigail retired to her own warm apartment, where she was greeted with a pleasant fire, by which stood a little nice chocolate simmering, to refresh her before she went to bed--not much less miserable than her mistress, for she was dreadfully out of humor--and thought no hardship upon earth could equal that she endured--forced to sit up in consequence of another's whim when she wanted so sadly to go to bed. * * * * * while, thus, all that the most abundant possession of the world's goods could bestow, was marred by the weakness of the mistress and the ill-temper of the maid--the plentiful gifts of fortune rendered valueless by the erroneous facility upon one side, and insolent love of domination on the other; how many in the large metropolis, only a few miles distant, and of which the innumerable lights might be seen brightening, like an aurora, the southern sky; how many laid down their heads supperless that night! stretched upon miserable pallets, and ignorant where food was to be found on the morrow to satisfy the cravings of hunger; yet, in the midst of their misery, more miserable, also, because they were not exempt from those pests of existence--our own faults and infirmities. and even, as it was, how many poor creatures _did_ actually lay down their heads that night, far less miserable than poor mrs. melwyn. the tyranny of a servant is noticed by the wise man, if i recollect right, as one of the most irritating and insupportable of mortal miseries. * * * * * two young women inhabited one small room of about ten feet by eight, in the upper story of a set of houses somewhere near mary-le-bone street. these houses appear to have been once intended for rather substantial persons, but have gradually sunk into lodging-houses for the very poor. the premises look upon an old grave-yard; a dreary prospect enough, but perhaps preferable to a close street, and are filled, with decent but very poor people. every room appears to serve a whole family, and few of the rooms are much larger than the one i have described. it was now half-past twelve o'clock, and still the miserable dip tallow candle burned in a dilapidated tin candlestick. the wind whistled with that peculiar wintry sound which betokens that snow is falling; it was very, very cold; the fire was out; and the girl who sat plying her needle by the hearth, which was still a little warmer than the rest of the room, had wrapped up her feet in an old worn-out piece of flannel, and had an old black silk wadded cloak thrown over her to keep her from being almost perished. the room was scantily furnished, and bore an air of extreme poverty, amounting almost to absolute destitution. one by one the little articles of property possessed by its inmates had disappeared to supply the calls of urgent want. an old four-post bedstead, with curtains of worn-out serge, stood in one corner; one mattress, with two small thin pillows, and a bolster that was almost flat; three old blankets, cotton sheets of the coarsest description upon it: three rush-bottomed chairs, an old claw-table, very ancient dilapidated chest of drawers--at the top of which were a few battered band-boxes--a miserable bit of carpet before the fire-place; a wooden box for coals; a little low tin fender, a poker, or rather half a poker; a shovel and tongs, much the worse for wear, and a very few kitchen utensils, was all the furniture in the room. what there was, however, was kept clean; the floor was clean, the yellow paint was clean; and, i forgot to say, there was a washing-tub set aside in one corner. the wind blew shrill, and shook the window, and the snow was heard beating against the panes; the clock went another quarter, but still the indefatigable toiler sewed on. now and then she lifted up her head, as a sigh came from that corner of the room where the bed stood, and some one might be heard turning and tossing uneasily upon the mattress--then she returned to her occupation and plied her needle with increased assiduity. the workwoman was a girl of from eighteen to twenty, rather below the middle size, and of a face and form little adapted to figure in a story. one whose life, in all probability, would never be diversified by those romantic adventures which _real_ life in general reserves to the beautiful and the highly-gifted. her features were rather homely, her hair of a light brown, _without_ golden threads through it, her hands and arms rough and red with cold and labor; her dress ordinary to a degree--her clothes being of the cheapest materials--but then, these clothes were so neat, so carefully mended where they had given way; the hair was so smooth, and so closely and neatly drawn round the face; and the face itself had such a sweet expression, that all the defects of line and color were redeemed to the lover of expression, rather than beauty. she did not look patient, she did not look resigned; she _could_ not look cheerful exactly. she looked earnest, composed, busy, and exceedingly kind. she had not, it would seem, thought enough of self in the midst of her privations, to require the exercise of the virtues of patience and resignation; she was so occupied with the sufferings of others that she never seemed to think of her own. she was naturally of the most cheerful, hopeful temper in the world--those people without selfishness usually are. and, though sorrow had a little lowered the tone of her spirits to composure, and work and disappointment had faded the bright colors of hope; still hope was not entirely gone, nor cheerfulness exhausted. but, the predominant expression of every word, and look, and tone, and gesture, was kindness--inexhaustible kindness. i said she lifted up her head from time to time, as a sigh proceeded from the bed, and its suffering inhabitant tossed and tossed: and at last she broke silence and said, "poor myra, can't you get to sleep?" "it is so fearfully cold," was the reply; "and when _will_ you have done, and come to bed?" "one quarter of an hour more, and i shall have finished it. poor myra, you are so nervous, you never can get to sleep till all is shut up--but have patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and then i will throw my clothes over your feet, and i hope you will be a little warmer." a sigh for all answer; and then the _true_ heroine--for she was extremely beautiful, or rather had been, poor thing, for she was too wan and wasted to be beautiful now--lifted up her head, from which fell a profusion of the fairest hair in the world, and leaning her head upon her arm, watched in a sort of impatient patience the progress of the indefatigable needle-woman. "one o'clock striking, and you hav'n't done yet, lettice? how slowly you _do_ get on." "i can not work fast and neatly too, dear myra. i can not get through as some do--i wish i could. but my hands are not so delicate and nimble as yours, such swelled clumsy things," she said, laughing a little, as she looked at them--swelled, indeed, and all mottled over with the cold! "i can not get over the ground nimbly and well at the same time. you are a fine race-horse, i am a poor little drudging pony--but i will make as much haste as i possibly can." myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh, and sank down again, saying, "my feet are so dreadfully cold!" "take this bit of flannel then, and let me wrap them up." "nay, but you will want it." "oh, i have only five minutes more to stay, and i can wrap the carpet round my feet." and she laid down her work and went to the bed, and wrapped her sister's delicate, but now icy feet, in the flannel; and then she sat down; and at last the task was finished. and oh, how glad she was to creep to that mattress, and to lay her aching limbs down upon it! hard it might be, and wretched the pillows, and scanty the covering, but little felt she such inconveniences. she fell asleep almost immediately, while her sister still tossed and murmered. presently lettice, for lettice it was, awakened a little, and said, "what is it, love? poor, poor myra! oh, that you could but sleep as i do." and then she drew her own little pillow from under her head, and put it under her sister's, and tried to make her more comfortable; and she partly succeeded, and at last the poor delicate suffering creature fell asleep, and then lettice slumbered like a baby. chapter ii. "oh, blest with temper whose unclouded ray can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day: * * * * and can hear sighs for a sister with unwounded ear." pope.--_characters of women._ early in the morning, before it was light, while the wintry twilight gleamed through the curtainless window, lettice was up, dressing herself by the scanty gleam cast from the street lamps into the room, for she could not afford the extravagance of a candle. she combed and did up her hair with modest neatness; put on her brown stuff only gown, and then going to the chest of drawers--opening one with great precaution, lest she should make a noise, and disturb myra, who still slumbered --drew out a shawl, and began to fold it as if to put it on. alas! poor thing, as she opened it, she became first aware that the threadbare, time-worn fabric had given way in two places. had it been in one, she might have contrived to conceal the injuries of age: but it was in two. she turned it; she folded and unfolded: it would not do. the miserable shawl seemed to give way under her hands. it was already so excessively shabby that she was ashamed to go out in it; and it seemed as if it was ready to fall to pieces in sundry other places, this dingy, thin, brown, red, and green old shawl. mend it would not: besides, she was pressed for time; so, with the appearance of considerable reluctance, she put her hand into the drawer, and took out another shawl. this was a different affair. it was a warm, and not very old, plaid shawl, of various colors, well preserved and clean looking, and, this cold morning, _so_ tempting. should she borrow it? myra was still asleep, but she would be horridly cold when she got up, and she would want her shawl, perhaps; but then lettice must go out, and must be decent, and there seemed no help for it. but if she took the shawl, had she not better light the fire before she went out? myra would be so chilly. but then, myra seldom got up till half-past eight or nine, and it was now not seven. an hour and a half's, perhaps two hour's, useless fire would never do. so after a little deliberation, lettice contented herself with "laying it," as the housemaids say; that is, preparing the fire to be lighted with a match: and as she took out coal by coal to do this, she perceived with terror how very, very low the little store of fuel was. "we must have a bushel in to-day," she said. "better without meat and drink than fire, in such weather as this." however, she was cheered with the reflection that she should get a little more than usual by the work that she had finished. it had been ordered by a considerate and benevolent lady, who, instead of going to the ready-made linen warehouses for what she wanted, gave herself a good deal of trouble to get at the poor workwomen themselves who supplied these houses, so that they should receive the full price for their needle-work, which otherwise must of necessity be divided. what she should get she did not quite know, for she had never worked for this lady before; and some ladies, though she always got more from private customers than from the shops, would beat her down to the last penny, and give her as little as they possibly could. much more than the usual price of such matters people can not, i suppose, habitually give; they should, however, beware of driving hard bargains with the very poor. * * * * * her bonnet looked dreadfully shabby, as poor little lettice took it out from one of the dilapidated band-boxes that stood upon the chest of drawers; yet it had been carefully covered with a sheet of paper, to guard it from the injuries of the dust and the smoke-loaded air. the young girl held it upon her hand, turning it round, and looking at it, and she could not help sighing when she thought of the miserably shabby appearance she should make; and she going to a private house, too: and the errand!--linen for the trousseau of a young lady who was going to be married. what a contrast did the busy imagination draw between all the fine things that young lady was to have and her own destitution! she must needs be what she was--a simple-hearted, god-fearing, generous girl, to whom envious comparisons of others with herself were as impossible as any other faults of the selfish--not to feel as if the difference was, to use the common word upon such occasions, "very hard." she did not take it so. she did not think that it was very _hard_ that others should be happy and have plenty, because she was poor and had nothing. they had not robbed _her_. what they had was not taken from _her_. nay, at this moment their wealth was overflowing toward her. she should gain in her little way by the general prosperity. the thought of the increased pay came into her mind at this moment in aid of her good and simple-hearted feelings, and she brightened up, and shook her bonnet, and pulled out the ribbons, and made it look as tidy as she could; bethinking herself that if it possibly could be done, she would buy a bit of black ribbon, and make it a little more spruce when she got her money. and now the bonnet is on, and she does not think it looks so _very_ bad, and myra's shawl, as reflected in the little threepenny glass, looks quite neat. now she steals to the bed in order to make her apologies to myra about the shawl and fire, but myra still slumbers. it is half-past seven and more, and she must be gone. the young lady for whom she made the linen lived about twenty miles from town, but she had come up about her things, and was to set off home at nine o'clock that very morning. the linen was to have been sent in the night before, but lettice had found it impossible to get it done. it must _per force_ wait till morning to be carried home. the object was to get to the house as soon as the servants should be stirring, so that there would be time for the things to be packed up and accompany the young lady upon her return home. now, lettice is in the street. oh, what a morning it was! the wind was intensely cold the snow was blown in buffets against her face; the street was slippery: all the mud and mire turned into inky-looking ice. she could scarcely stand; her face was blue with the cold; her hands, in a pair of cotton gloves, so numbed that she could hardly hold the parcel she carried. she had no umbrella. the snow beat upon her undefended head, and completed the demolition of the poor bonnet; but she comforted herself with the thought that its appearance would now be attributed to the bad weather having spoiled it. nay (and she smiled as the idea presented itself), was it not possible that she might be supposed to have a better bonnet at home? so she cheerfully made her way; and at last she entered grosvenor-square, where lamps were just dying away before the splendid houses, and the wintry twilight discovered the garden, with its trees plastered with dirty snow, while the wind rushed down from the park colder and bitterer than ever. she could hardly get along at all. a few ragged, good-for-nothing boys were almost the only people yet to be seen about; and they laughed and mocked at her, as, holding her bonnet down with one hand, to prevent its absolutely giving way before the wind, she endeavored to carry her parcel, and keep her shawl from flying up with the other. the jeers and the laughter were very uncomfortable to her. the things she found it the most difficult to reconcile herself to in her fallen state were the scoffs, and the scorns, and the coarse jests of those once so far, far beneath her; so far, that their very existence, as a class, was once almost unknown, and who were now little, if at all, worse off than herself. the rude brutality of the coarse, uneducated, and unimproved saxon, is a terrible grievance to those forced to come into close quarters with such. at last, however, she entered green-street, and raised the knocker, and gave one timid, humble knock at the door of a moderate-sized house, upon the right hand side as you go up to the park. here lived the benevolent lady of whom i have spoken, who took so much trouble to break through the barriers which in london separate the employers and the employed, and to assist the poor stitchers of her own sex, by doing away with the necessity of that hand, or those many hands, through which their ware has usually to pass, and in each of which something of the recompense thereof must of necessity be detained. she had never been at the house before; but she had sometimes had to go to other genteel houses, and she had too often found the insolence of the pampered domestics harder to bear than even the rude incivility of the streets. so she stood feeling very uncomfortable; still more afraid of the effect her bonnet might produce upon the man that should open the door, than upon his superiors. but "like master, like man," is a stale old proverb, which, like many other old saws of our now despised as _childish_ ancestors, is full of pith and truth. the servant who appeared was a grave, gray-haired man, of somewhat above fifty. he stooped a little in his gait, and had _not_ a very fashionable air; but his countenance was full of kind meaning, and his manner so gentle, that it seemed respectful even to a poor girl like this. before hearing her errand, observing how cold she looked, he bade her come in and warm herself at the hall stove; and shutting the door in the face of the chill blast, that came rushing forward as if to force its way into the house, he then returned to her, and asked her errand. "i come with the young lady's work. i was so sorry that i could not possibly get it done in time to send it in last night; but i hope i have not put her to any inconvenience. i hope her trunks are not made up. i started almost before it was light this morning." "well, my dear, i hope not; but it was a pity you could not get it done last night. mrs. danvers likes people to be exact to the moment and punctual in performing promises, you must know. however, i'll take it up without loss of time, and i dare say it will be all right." "is it come at last?" asked a sweet, low voice, as reynolds entered the drawing-room. "my love, i really began to be frightened for your pretty things, the speaker went on, turning to a young lady who was making an early breakfast before a noble blazing fire, and who was no other a person than catherine melwyn. "oh, madam! i was not in the least uneasy about them, i was quite sure they would come at last." "i wish, my love," said mrs. danvers, sitting down by the fire, "i could have shared in your security. poor creatures! the temptation is sometimes so awfully great. the pawnbroker is dangerously near. so easy to evade all inquiry by changing one miserably obscure lodging for another, into which it is almost impossible to be traced. and, to tell the truth, i had not used you quite well, my dear; for i happened to know nothing of the previous character of these poor girls, but that they were certainly very neat workwomen; and they were so out of all measure poor, that i yielded to temptation. and that you see, my love, had its usual effect of making me suspicious of the power of temptation over others." mrs. danvers had once been one of the loveliest women that had ever been seen: the face of an angel, the form of the goddess of beauty herself; manners the softest, the most delightful. a dress that by its exquisite good taste and elegance enhanced every other charm, and a voice so sweet and harmonious that it made its way to every heart. of all this loveliness the sweet, harmonious voice alone remained. yet had the sad eclipse of so much beauty been succeeded by a something so holy, so saint-like, so tender, that the being who stood now shorn by sorrow and suffering of all her earthly charms, seemed only to have progressed nearer to heaven by the exchange. her life had, indeed, been one shipwreck, in which all she prized had gone down. husband, children, parents, sister, brother--all!--every one gone. it had been a fearful ruin. that she could not survive this wreck of every earthly joy was expected by all her friends: but she had lived on. she stood there, an example of the triumph of those three: faith, hope, and charity, but the greatest of these was charity. in faith she rested upon the "unseen," and the world of things "seen" around her shrunk into insignificance. in hope she looked forward to that day when tears should be wiped from all eyes, and the lost and severed meet to part never again. in charity--in other words, love--she filled that aching, desolate heart with fresh affections, warm and tender, if not possessing the joyous gladness of earlier days. every sorrowing human being, every poor sufferer, be they who they might, or whence they might, found a place in that compassionate heart. no wonder it was filled to overflowing: there are so many sorrowing sufferers in this world. she went about doing good. her whole life was one act of pity. her house was plainly furnished. the "mutton chops with a few greens and potatoes"--laughed at in a recent trial, as if indifference to one's own dinner were a crime--might have served her. she often was no better served. her dress was conventual in its simplicity. every farthing she could save upon herself was saved for her poor. you must please to recollect that she stood perfectly alone in the world, and that there was not a human creature that could suffer by this exercise of a sublime and universal charity. such peculiar devotion to one object is only permitted to those whom god has severed from their kind, and marked out, as it were, for the generous career. her days were passed in visiting all those dismal places in this great city, where lowly want "repairs to die," or where degradation and depravity, the children of want, hide themselves. she sat by the bed of the inmate of the hospital, pouring the soft balm of her consolations upon the suffering and lowly heart. in such places her presence was hailed as the first and greatest of blessings. every one was melted, or was awed into good behavior by her presence. the most hardened of brandy-drinking nurses was softened and amended by her example. the situation of the young women who have to gain their livelihood by their needle had peculiarly excited her compassion, and to their welfare she more especially devoted herself. her rank and position in society gave her a ready access to many fine ladies who had an immensity to be done for them: and to many fine dress-makers who had this immensity to do. she was indefatigable in her exertions to diminish the evils to which the young ladies--"improvers," i believe, is the technical term--are in too many of these establishments exposed. she it was who got the work-rooms properly ventilated, and properly warmed. she it was who insisted upon the cruelty and the wretchedness of keeping up these poor girls hour after hour from their natural rest, till their strength was exhausted; the very means by which they were to earn their bread taken away; and they were sent into decline and starvation. she made fine ladies learn to allow more time for the preparation of their dresses; and fine ladies' dress makers to learn to say, "no." one of the great objects of her exertions was to save the poor plain-sewers from the necessary loss occasioned by the middlemen. she did not say whether the shops exacted too much labor, or not, for their pay; with so great a competition for work, and so much always lying unsold upon their boards, it was difficult to decide. but she spared no trouble to get these poor women employed direct by those who wanted sewing done; and she taught to feel ashamed of themselves those indolent fine ladies who, rather than give themselves a little trouble to increase a poor creature's gains, preferred going to the ready-made shops, "because the other was such a bore." in one of her visits among the poor of mary-lebone, she had accidentally met with these two sisters, lettice arnold and myra. there was something in them both above the common stamp, which might be discerned in spite of their squalid dress and miserable chamber; but she had not had time to inquire into their previous history--which, indeed, they seemed unwilling to tell. catherine, preparing her wedding clothes, and well knowing how anxious mrs. danvers was to obtain work, had reserved a good deal for her; and mrs. danvers had entrusted some of it to lettice, who was too wretchedly destitute to be able to give any thing in the form of a deposit. hence her uneasiness when the promised things did not appear to the time. and hence the rather grave looks of reynolds, who could not endure to see his mistress vexed. "has the workwoman brought her bill with her, reynolds?" asked mrs. danvers. "i will go and ask." "stay, ask her to come up; i should like to inquire how she is going on, and whether she has any other work in prospect." reynolds obeyed; and soon the door opened, and lettice, poor thing, a good deal ashamed of her own appearance, was introduced into this warm and comfortable breakfast-room, where, however, as i have said, there was no appearance of luxury, except the pretty, neat breakfast, and the blazing fire. "good morning, my dear," said mrs. danvers, kindly; "i am sorry you have had such a wretched walk this morning. why did you not come last night? punctuality, my dear, is the soul of business, and if you desire to form a private connection for yourself, you will find it of the utmost importance to attend to it. this young lady is just going off, and there is barely time to put up the things." catherine had her back turned to the door, and was quietly continuing her breakfast. she did not even look round as mrs. danvers spoke, but when a gentle voice replied: "indeed, madam, i beg your pardon. indeed, i did my very best, but--" she started, looked up, and rose hastily from her chair. lettice started, too, on her side, as she did so; and, advancing a few steps, exclaimed, "catherine!" "it must--it is--it is you!" cried catherine hastily, coming forward and taking her by the hand. she gazed with astonishment at the worn and weather-beaten face, the miserable attire, the picture of utter wretchedness before her. "you!" she kept repeating, "lettice! lettice arnold! good heavens! where are they all? where is your father? your mother? your sister?" "gone!" said the poor girl. "gone--every one gone but poor myra!" "and she--where is _she_? the beautiful creature, that used to be the pride of poor mrs. price's heart. how lovely she was! and you, dear, dear lettice, how can you, how have you come to this?" mrs. danvers stood like one petrified with astonishment while this little scene was going on. she kept looking at the two girls, but said nothing. "poor, dear lettice!" catherine went on in a tone of the most affectionate kindness, "have you come all through the streets and alone this most miserable morning? and working--working for me! good heavens! how has all this come about?" "but come to the fire first," she continued, taking hold of the almost frozen hand. mrs. danvers now came forward. "you seem to have met with an old acquaintance, catherine. pray come to the fire, and sit down and warm yourself; and have you breakfasted?" lettice hesitated. she had become so accustomed to her fallen condition, that it seemed to her that she could no longer with propriety sit down to the same table with catherine. catherine perceived this, and it shocked and grieved her excessively. "do come and sit down," she said, encouraged by mrs. danvers's invitation, "and tell us, have you breakfasted? but though you have, a warm cup of tea this cold morning must be comfortable." and she pressed her forward, and seated her, half reluctant, in an arm-chair that stood by the fire: then she poured out a cup of tea, and carried it to her, repeating, "won't you eat? have you breakfasted?" the plate of bread-and-butter looked delicious to the half-starved girl: the warm cup of tea seemed to bring life into her. she had been silent from surprise, and a sort of humiliated embarrassment; but now her spirits began to revive, and she said, "i never expected to have seen you again, miss melwyn!" "_miss melwyn!_ what does that mean? dear lettice, how has all this come about?" "my father was ill the last time you were in nottinghamshire, do you not recollect, miss melwyn? he never recovered of that illness; but it lasted nearly two years. during that time, your aunt, mrs. montague, died; and her house was sold, and new people came; and you never were at castle rising afterward." "no--indeed--and from that day to this have never chanced to hear any thing of its inhabitants. but mrs. price, your aunt, who was so fond of myra, what is become of her?" "she died before my poor father." "well; but she was rich. did she do nothing?" "every body thought her rich, because she spent a good deal of money; but hers was only income. our poor aunt was no great economist--she made no savings." "well; and your mother? i can not understand it. no; i can not understand it," catherine kept repeating. "so horrible! dear, dear lettice--and your shawl is quite wet, and so is your bonnet, poor, dear girl. why did you not put up your umbrella?" "for a very good reason, dear miss melwyn; because i do not possess one." "call me catherine, won't you? or i will not speak to you again." but mrs. danvers's inquiring looks seemed now to deserve a little attention. she seemed impatient to have the enigma of this strange scene solved. catherine caught her eye, and, turning from her friend, with whom she had been so much absorbed as to forget every thing else, she said: "lettice arnold is a clergyman's daughter, ma'am." "i began to think something of that sort," said mrs. danvers; "but, my dear young lady, what can have brought you to this terrible state of destitution?" "misfortune upon misfortune, madam. my father was, indeed, a clergyman, and held the little vicarage of castle rising. there catherine," looking affectionately up at her, "met me upon her visits to her aunt, mrs. montague." "we have known each other from children," put in catherine. the door opened, and reynolds appeared-- "the cab is waiting, if you please, miss melwyn." "oh, dear! oh, dear! i can't go just this moment. bid the man wait." "it is late already," said reynolds, taking out his watch. "the train starts in twenty minutes." "oh, dear! oh, dear! and when does the next go? i can't go by this. can i, dear mrs. danvers? it is impossible." "another starts in an hour afterward." "oh! that will do--tell sarah to be ready for that. well, my dear, go on, go on--dear lettice, you were about to tell us how all this happened--but just another cup of tea. do you like it strong?" "i like it any way," said lettice, who was beginning to recover her spirits, "i have not tasted any thing so comfortable for a very long time." "dear me! dear me!" "you must have suffered very much, i fear, my dear young lady," said mrs. danvers, in a kind voice of interest, "before you could have sunk to the level of that miserable home where i found you." "yes," said lettice. "every one suffers very much, be the descent slow or rapid, when he has to fall so far. but what were my sufferings to poor myra's!" "and why were your sufferings as nothing in comparison with poor myra's?" "ah, madam, there are some in this world not particularly favored by nature or fortune, who were born to be denied; who are used to it from their childhood--it becomes a sort of second nature to them, as it were. they scarcely feel it. but a beautiful girl, adored by an old relation, accustomed to every sort of indulgence and luxury! they doated upon the very ground she trod on. oh! to be cast down to such misery, that _is_ dreadful." "i don't see--i don't know," said catherine, who, like the world in general, however much they might admire, and however much too many might flatter myra, greatly preferred lettice to her sister. "i don't know," said she, doubtingly. "ah! but you would know if you could see!" said the generous girl. "if you could see what she suffers from every thing--from things that i do not even feel, far less care for--you would be so sorry for her." mrs. danvers looked with increasing interest upon the speaker. she seemed to wish to go on with the conversation about this sister, so much pitied; so she said, "i believe what you say is very true. very true, catherine, in spite of your skeptical looks. some people really do suffer very much more than others under the same circumstances of privation." "yes, selfish people like myra," thought catherine, but she said nothing. "indeed, madam, it is so. they seem to feel every thing so much more. poor myra--i can sleep like a top in our bed, and she very often can not close her eyes--and the close room, and the poor food. i can get along--i was made to rough it, my poor aunt always said--but myra!" "well but," rejoined catherine, "do pray tell us how you came to this cruel pass? your poor father--" "his illness was very lingering and very painful--and several times a surgical operation was required. my mother could not bear--could any of us?--to have it done by the poor blundering operator of that remote village. to have a surgeon from nottingham was very expensive; and then the medicines; and the necessary food and attendance. the kindest and most provident father can not save much out of one hundred and ten pounds a year, and what was saved was soon all gone." "well, well," repeated catherine, her eyes fixed with intense interest upon the speaker. "his deathbed was a painful scene," lettice went on, her face displaying her emotion, while she with great effort restrained her tears: "he trusted in god; but there was a fearful prospect before us, and he could not help trembling for his children. dear, dear father! he reproached himself for his want of faith, and would try to strengthen us, 'but the flesh,' he said, 'was weak.' he could not look forward without anguish. it was a fearful struggle to be composed and confiding--he could not help being anxious. it was for us, you know, not for himself." "frightful!" cried catherine, indignantly; "frightful! that a man of education, a scholar, a gentleman, a man of so much activity in doing good, and so much power in preaching it, should be brought to this. one hundred and ten pounds a year, was that all? how could you exist?" "we had the house and the garden besides, you know, and my mother was such an excellent manager; and my father! no religious of the severest order was ever more self-denying, and there was only me. my aunt price, you know, took myra--myra had been delicate from a child, and was so beautiful, and she was never made to rough it, my mother and my aunt said. now i seemed made expressly for the purpose," she added, smiling with perfect simplicity. "and his illness, so long! and so expensive!" exclaimed catherine, with a sort of cry. "yes, it was--and to see the pains he took that it should not be expensive. he would be quite annoyed if my mother got any thing nicer than usual for his dinner. she used to be obliged to make a mystery of it; and we were forced almost to go down upon our knees to get him to have the surgeon from nottingham. nothing but the idea that his life would be more secure in such hands could have persuaded him into it. he knew how important that was to us. as for the pain which the bungling old doctor hard by would have given him, he would have borne that rather than have spent money. oh, catherine! there have been times upon times when i have envied the poor. they have hospitals to go to; they are not ashamed to ask for a little wine from those who have it; they can beg when they are in want of a morsel of bread. it is natural. it is right--they feel it to be right. but oh! for those, as they call it, better born, and educated to habits of thought like those of my poor father!... want is, indeed, like an armed man, when he comes into _their_ dwellings." "too true, my dear young lady," said mrs. danvers, whose eyes were by this time moist; "but go on, if it does not pain you too much, your story is excessively interesting. there is yet a wide step between where your relation leaves us, and where i found you." "we closed his eyes at last in deep sorrow. excellent man, he deserved a better lot! so, at least, it seems to me--but who knows? nay, he would have reproved me for saying so. he used to say of _himself_, so cheerfully, 'it's a rough road, but it leads to a good place.' why could he not feel this for his wife and children? he found that so very difficult!" "he was an excellent and a delightful man," said catherine. "well?"... "well, my dear, when he had closed his eyes, there was his funeral. we _could_ not have a parish funeral. the veriest pauper has a piety toward the dead which revolts at that. we did it as simply as we possibly could, consistently with common decency; but they charge so enormously for such things: and my poor mother would not contest it. when i remonstrated a little, and said i thought it was right to prevent others being treated in the same way, who could no better afford it than we could, i shall never forget my mother's face: 'i dare say--yes, you are right, lettice; quite right--but not this--not _his_. i can not debate that matter. forgive me, dear girl; it is weak--but i can not.' "this expense exhausted all that was left of our little money: only a few pounds remained when our furniture had been sold, and we were obliged to give up possession of that dear, dear, little parsonage, and we were without a roof to shelter us. you remember it, catherine!" "remember it! to be sure i do. that sweet little place. the tiny house, all covered over with honey-suckles and jasmines. how sweet they _did_ smell. and your flower-garden, lettice, how you used to work in it. it was that which made you so hale and strong, aunt montague said. she admired your industry so, you can't think. she used to say you were worth a whole bundle of fine ladies." "did she?" and lettice smiled again. she was beginning to look cheerful, in spite of her dismal story. there was something so inveterately cheerful in that temper, that nothing could entirely subdue it. the warmth of her generous nature it was that kept the blood and spirits flowing. "it was a sad day when we parted from it. my poor mother! how she kept looking back--looking back--striving not to cry; and myra was drowned in tears." "and what did you do?" "i am sure i don't know; i was so sorry for them both; i quite forget all the rest." "but how came you to london?" asked mrs. danvers. "every body, without other resource, seem to come to london. the worst place, especially for women, they can possibly come to. people are so completely lost in london. nobody dies of want, nobody is utterly and entirely destitute of help or friends, except in london." "a person we knew in the village, and to whom my father had been very kind, had a son who was employed in one of the great linen-warehouses, and he promised to endeavor to get us needle-work; and we flattered ourselves, with industry, we should, all three together, do pretty well. so we came to london, and took a small lodging, and furnished it with the remnant of our furniture. we had our clothes, which, though plain enough, were a sort of little property, you know. but when we came to learn the prices they actually paid for work, it was really frightful! work fourteen hours a day apiece, and we could only gain between three and four shillings a week each--sometimes hardly that. there was our lodging to pay, three shillings a week, and six shillings left for firing and food for three people; this was in the weeks of _plenty_. oh! it was frightful!" "horrible!" echoed catherine. "we could not bring ourselves down to it at once. we hoped and flattered ourselves that by-and-by we should get some work that would pay better; and when we wanted a little more food, or in very cold days a little more fire, we were tempted to sell or pawn one article after another. at last my mother fell sick, and then all went; she died, and she _had_ a pauper's funeral," concluded lettice, turning very pale. they were all three silent. at last mrs. danvers began again. "that was not the lodging i found you in?" "no, madam, that was too expensive. we left it, and we only pay one-and-sixpence a week for this, the furniture being our own." "the cab is at the door, miss melwyn," again interrupted reynolds. "oh, dear! oh, dear! i can't go, indeed, mrs. danvers, i can't go;" with a pleading look, "may i stay one day longer?" "most gladly would i keep you, my dearest love; but your father and mother.... and they will have sent to meet you." "and suppose they have, john must go back, but stay, stay, sarah shall go and take all my boxes, and say i am coming to-morrow; that will do." "and you travel alone by railway? your mother will never like that." "i am ashamed," cried catherine, with energy, "to think of such mere conventional difficulties, when here i stand in the presence of real misery. indeed, my dear mrs. danvers, my mother will be quite satisfied when she hears why i staid. i must be an insensible creature if i could go away without seeing more of dear lettice." lettice looked up so pleased, so grateful, so happy. "well, my love, i think your mother will not be uneasy, as sarah goes; and i just remember mrs. sands travels your way to-morrow, so she will take care of you; for taken care of you must be, my pretty catherine, till you are a little less young, and somewhat less handsome." and she patted the sweet, fall, rosy cheek. catherine was very pretty indeed, if you care to know that, and so it was settled. and now, lettice having enjoyed a happier hour than she had known for many a long day, began to recollect herself, and to think of poor myra. she rose from her chair, and taking up her bonnet and shawl, which catherine had hung before the fire to dry, seemed preparing to depart. then both catherine and mrs. danvers began to think of her little bill, which had not been settled yet. catherine felt excessively awkward and uncomfortable at the idea of offering her old friend and companion money; but mrs. danvers was too well acquainted with real misery, had too much approbation for that spirit which is not above _earning_, but is above begging, to have any embarrassment in such a case. "catherine, my dear," she said, "you owe miss arnold some money. had you not better settle it before she leaves?" both the girls blushed. "nay, my dears," said mrs. danvers, kindly; "why this? i am sure," coming up to them, and taking lettice's hand, "i hold an honest hand here, which is not ashamed to labor, when it has been the will of god that it shall be by her own exertions that she obtains her bread, and part of the bread of another, if i mistake not. what you have nobly earned as nobly receive. humiliation belongs to the idle and the dependent, not to one who maintains herself." the eyes of lettice glistened, and she could not help gently pressing the hand which held hers. such sentiments were congenial to her heart. she had never been able to comprehend the conventional distinctions between what is honorable or degrading, under the fetters of which so many lose the higher principles of independence--true honesty and true honor. to work for her living had never lessened her in her own eyes; and she had found, with a sort of astonishment, that it was to sink her in the eyes of others. to deny herself every thing in food, furniture, clothing, in order to escape debt, and add in her little way to the comforts of those she loved, had ever appeared to her noble and praiseworthy. she was as astonished, as many such a heart has been before her, with the course of this world's esteem, too often measured by what people _spend_ upon themselves, rather than by what they spare. i can not get that story in the newspaper--the contempt expressed for the dinner of one mutton chop, potatoes, and a few greens--out of my head. catherine's confusion had, in a moment of weakness, extended to lettice. she had felt ashamed to be paid as a workwoman by one once her friend, and in social rank her equal; but now she raised her head, with a noble frankness and spirit. "i am very much obliged to you for recollecting it, madam, for in truth the money is very much wanted; and if--" turning to her old friend, "my dear catherine can find me a little more work, i should be very greatly obliged to her." catherine again changed color. work! she was longing to offer her money. she had twenty pounds in her pocket, a present from her godmother, to buy something pretty for her wedding. she was burning with desire to put it into lettice's hand. she stammered--she hesitated. "perhaps you _have_ no more work just now," said lettice. "never mind, then; i am sure when there is an opportunity, you will remember what a pleasure it will be to me to work for you; and that a poor needlewoman is very much benefited by having private customers." "my dear, dear lettice!" and catherine's arms were round her neck. she could not help shedding a few tears. "but to return to business," said mrs. danvers, "for i see miss arnold is impatient to be gone. what is your charge, my dear? these slips are tucked and beautifully stitched and done." "i should not get more than threepence, at most fourpence, at the shops for them. should you think ninepence an unreasonable charge? i believe it is what you would pay if you had them done at the schools." "threepence, fourpence, ninepence! good heavens!" cried catherine; "so beautifully done as these are; and then your needles and thread, you have made no charge for them." "we pay for those ourselves," said lettice. "but my dear," said mrs. danvers, "what catherine would have to pay for this work, if bought from a linen warehouse, would at least be fifteen pence, and not nearly so well done, for these are beautiful. come, you must ask eighteen pence; there are six of them; nine shillings, my dear." the eyes of poor lettice quite glistened. she could not refuse. she felt that to seem over delicate upon this little enhancement of price would be really great moral indelicacy. "thank you," said she, "you are very liberal; but it must only be for this once. if i am to be your needlewoman in ordinary, catherine, i must only be paid what you would pay to others." she smiled pleasantly as she said this; but catherine could not answer the smile. she felt very sad as she drew the nine shillings from her purse, longing to make them nine sovereigns. but she laid the money at last before lettice upon the table. lettice took it up, and bringing out an old dirty leathern purse, was going to put it in. "at least, let me give you a better purse," said catherine, eagerly, offering her own handsome one, yet of a strong texture, for it was her business purse. "they would think i had stolen it," said lettice, putting it aside. "no, thank you, dear, kind catherine. consistency in all things; and my old leather convenience seems to me much more consistent with my bonnet than your beautiful one. not but that i shall get myself a decent bonnet _now_, for really this is a shame to be seen. and so, good-by; and farewell, madam. when you _have_ work, you won't forget me, will you, dear?" "oh, catherine has plenty of work," put in mrs. danvers, "but somehow she is not quite herself this morning"--again looking at her very kindly. "you can not wonder, miss arnold, that she is much more agitated by this meeting than you can be. my dear, there are those pocket-handkerchiefs to be marked, which we durst not trust to an unknown person. that will be a profitable job. my dear, you would have to pay five shillings apiece at mr. morris's for having them embroidered according to that pattern you fixed upon, and which i doubt not your friend and her sister can execute. there are six of them to be done." "may i look at the pattern? oh, yes! i think i can do it. i will take the greatest possible pains. six at five shillings each! oh! madam!--oh, catherine!--what a benefit this will be." again catherine felt it impossible to speak. she could only stoop down, take the poor hand, so roughened with hardships, and raise it to her lips. the beautiful handkerchiefs were brought. "i will only take one at a time, if you please. these are too valuable to be risked at our lodgings. when i have done this, i will fetch another, and so on. i shall not lose time in getting them done, depend upon it," said lettice, cheerfully. "take two, at all events, and then myra can help you." "no, only one at present, at least, thank you." she did not say what she knew to be very true, that myra could not help her. myra's fingers were twice as delicate as her own; and myra, before their misfortunes, had mostly spent her time in ornamental work--her aunt holding plain sewing to be an occupation rather beneath so beautiful and distinguished a creature. nevertheless, when work became of so much importance to them all, and fine work especially, as gaining so much better a recompense in proportion to the time employed, myra's accomplishments in this way proved very useless. she had not been accustomed to that strenuous, and, to the indolent, painful effort, which is necessary to do any thing _well_. to exercise self-denial, self-government, persevering industry, virtuous resistance against weariness, disgust, aching fingers and heavy eyes--temptations which haunt the indefatigable laborer in such callings, she was incapable of: the consequence was, that she worked in a very inferior manner. while lettice, as soon as she became aware of the importance of this accomplishment as to the means of increasing her power of adding to her mother's comforts, had been indefatigable in her endeavors to accomplish herself in the art, and was become a very excellent workwoman. chapter iii. "umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, as ever sullied the fair face of light."--pope. and now she is upon her way home. and oh! how lightly beats that honest simple heart in her bosom: and oh! how cheerily sits her spirit upon its throne. how happily, too, she looks about at the shops, and thinks of what she shall buy; not what she can possibly do without; not of the very cheapest and poorest that is to be had for money, but upon what she shall _choose_! then she remembers the fable of the maid and the milk-pail, and grows prudent and prosaic; and resolves that she will not spend her money till she has got it. she begins to limit her desires, and to determine that she will only lay out six shillings this morning, and keep three in her purse, as a resource for contingencies. nay, she begins to grow a little martha-like and careful, and to dream about savings-banks; and putting half-a-crown in, out of the way of temptation, when she is paid for her first pocket-handkerchief. six shillings, however, she means to expend for the more urgent wants. two shillings coals; one shilling a very, very coarse straw bonnet; fourpence ribbon to trim it with; one shilling bread, and sixpence potatoes, a half-pennyworth of milk, and then, what is left?--one shilling and a penny-half-penny. myra shall have a cup of tea, with sugar in it; and a muffin, that she loves so, and a bit of butter. four-pennyworth of tea, three-pennyworth of sugar, two-pennyworth of butter, one penny muffin; and threepence-halfpenny remains in the good little manager's hands. she came up the dark stairs of her lodgings so cheerfully, followed by a boy lugging up her coals, she carrying the other purchases herself--so happy! quite radiant with joy--and opened the door of the miserable little apartment. it was a bleak wintry morning. not a single ray of the sun could penetrate the gray fleecy covering in which the houses were wrapped; yet the warmth of the smoke and fires was sufficient so far to assist the temperature of the atmosphere as to melt the dirty snow; which now kept dripping from the roofs in dreary cadence, and splashing upon the pavement below. the room looked so dark, so dreary, so dismal! such a contrast to the one she had just left! myra was up, and was dressed in her miserable, half-worn, cotton gown, which was thrown round her in the most untidy, comfortless manner. she could not think it worth while to care how _such_ a gown was put on. her hair was dingy and disordered; to be sure there was but a broken comb to straighten it with, and who could do any thing with _such_ a comb? she was cowering over the fire, which was now nearly extinguished, and, from time to time, picking up bit by bit of the cinders, as they fell upon the little hearth, putting them on again--endeavoring to keep the fire alive. wretchedness in the extreme was visible in her dress, her attitude, her aspect. she turned round as lettice entered, and saying pettishly, "i thought you never _would_ come back, and i do _so_ want my shawl," returned to her former attitude, with her elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin upon the palms of her hands. "i have been a sad long time, indeed," said lettice, good-humoredly; "you must have been tired to death of waiting for me, and wondering what i _could_ be about. but i've brought something back which will make you amends. and, in the first place, here's your shawl," putting it over her, "and thank you for the use of it--though i would not ask your leave, because i could not bear to waken you. but i was _sure_ you would lend it me--and now for the fire. for once in a way we _will_ have a good one. there, sim, bring in the coals, put them in that wooden box there. now for a good lump or two." and on they went; and the expiring fire began to crackle and sparkle, and make a pleased noise, and a blaze soon caused even that room to look a little cheerful. "oh dear! i am so glad we may for _once_ be allowed to have coal enough to put a spark of life into us," said myra. lettice had by this time filled the little old tin kettle, and was putting it upon the fire, and then she fetched an old tea-pot with a broken spout, a saucer without a cup, and a cup without a saucer; and putting the two together, for they were usually divided between the sisters, said: "i have got something for you which i know you will like still better than a blaze, a cup of tea. and to warm your poor fingers, see if you can't toast yourself this muffin," handing it to her upon what was now a two-pronged, but had once been a three-pronged fork. "but what have you got for yourself?" myra had, at least, the grace to say. "oh! i have had _such_ a breakfast. and such a thing has happened! but i can not and will not tell you till you have had your own breakfast, poor, dear girl. you must be ravenous--at least, i should be in your place--but you never seem so hungry as i am, poor myra. however, i was sure you could eat a muffin." "that was very good-natured of you, lettice, to think of it. it _will_ be a treat. but oh! to think that we should be brought to this--to think a muffin--_one_ muffin--a treat!" she added dismally. "let us be thankful when we get it, however," said her sister: "upon my word. mrs. bull has given us some very good coals. oh, how the kettle does enjoy them! it must be quite a treat to our kettle to feel _hot_--poor thing! lukewarm is the best it mostly attains to. hear how it buzzes and hums, like a pleased child." and so she prattled, and put a couple of spoonfuls of tea into the cracked tea-pot. there were but about six in the paper, but myra liked her tea strong, and she should have it as she pleased this once. then she poured out a cup, put in some milk and sugar, and, with a smile of ineffable affection, presented it, with the muffin she had buttered, to her sister. myra _did_ enjoy it. to the poor, weedy, delicate thing, a cup of good tea, with something to eat that she could relish, _was_ a real blessing. mrs. danvers was right so far: things did really go much harder with her than with lettice; but then she made them six times worse by her discontent and murmuring spirit, and lettice made them six times better by her cheerfulness and generous disregard of self. while the one sister was enjoying her breakfast, the other, who really began to feel tired, was very glad to sit down and enjoy the fire. so she took the other chair, and, putting herself upon the opposite side of the little table, began to stretch out her feet to the fender, and feel herself quite comfortable. three shillings in her purse, and three-pence halfpenny to do just what she liked with! perhaps buy myra a roll for tea: there would be butter enough left. then she began her story. but the effect it produced was not exactly what she had expected. instead of sharing in her sister's thankful joy for this unexpected deliverance from the most abject want, through the discovery of a friend--able and willing to furnish employment herself, and to recommend them, as, in her hopeful view of things, lettice anticipated, to others, and promising them work of a description that would pay well, and make them quite comfortable--myra began to draw a repining contrast between catherine's situation and her own. the poor beauty had been educated by her silly and romantic old aunt to look forward to making some capital match. "she had such a sweet pretty face, and so many accomplishments of mind and manner," for such was the way the old woman loved to talk. accomplishments of mind and manner, by the way, are indefinite things; any body may put in a claim for them on the part of any one. as for the more positive acquirements which are to be seen, handled, or heard and appreciated--such as dancing, music, languages, and so forth, myra had as slender a portion of those as usually falls to the lot of indulged, idle, nervous girls. the poor beauty felt all the bitterness of the deepest mortification at what she considered this cruel contrast of her fate as compared to catherine's. she had been indulged in that pernicious habit of the mind--the making claims. "with claims no better than her own" was her expression for though catherine had more money, every body said catherine was _only_ pretty, which last sentence implied that there was another person of catherine's acquaintance, who was positively and extremely beautiful. lettice, happily for herself, had never been accustomed to make "claims." she had, indeed, never distinctly understood whom such claims were to be made upon. she could not quite see why it was very _hard_ that other people should be happier than herself. i am sure she would have been very sorry if she had thought that every body was as uncomfortable. she was always sorry when she heard her sister talking in this manner, partly because she felt it could not be quite right, and partly because she was sure it did no good, but made matters a great deal worse; but she said nothing. exhortation, indeed, only made matters worse: nothing offended myra so much as an attempt to make her feel more comfortable, and to reconcile her to the fate she complained of as so _hard_. even when let alone, it would often be some time before she recovered her good humor; and this was the case now. i am afraid she was a little vexed that lettice and not herself had met with the good luck first to stumble upon catherine, and also a little envious of the pleasing impression it was plain her sister had made. so she began to fall foul of lettice's new bonnet, and to say, in a captious tone, "you got money enough to buy yourself a new bonnet, i see." "indeed, i did," lettice answered with simplicity. "it was the very first thing i thought of. mine was such a wretched thing, and wetted with the snow--the very boys hooted at it. poor old friend!" said she, turning it upon her hand, "you have lost even the shape and pretension to be a bonnet. what must i do with thee? the back of the fire? sad fate! no, generous companion of my cares and labors, that shall _not_ be thy destiny. useful to the last, thou shalt _light_ to-morrow's fire; and that will be the best satisfaction to thy generous manes." "_my_ bonnet is not so _very_ much better," said myra, rather sulkily. "_not_ so _very_ much, alas! but better, far better than mine. and, besides, confess, please, my dear, that you had the last bonnet. two years ago, it's true; but mine had seen three; and then, remember, i am going into grand company again to-morrow, and _must_ be decent." this last remark did not sweeten myra's temper. "oh! i forgot. of course you'll keep your good company to yourself. i am, indeed, not fit to be seen in it. but you'll want a new gown and a new shawl, my dear, though, indeed, you can always take mine, as you did this morning." "now, myra!" said lettice, "can you really be so naughty? nay, you are cross; i see it in your face, though you won't look at me. now don't be so foolish. is it not all the same to us both? are we not in one box? if you wish for the new bonnet, take it, and i'll take yours: i don't care, my dear. you were always used to be more handsomely dressed than me--it must seem quite odd for you not to be so. i only want to be decent when i go about the work, which i shall have to do often, as i told you, because i dare not have two of these expensive handkerchiefs in my possession at once. dear me, girl! have we not troubles enough? for goodness' sake don't let us _make_ them. there, dear, take the bonnet, and i'll take yours; but i declare, when i look at the two, this is so horridly coarse, yours, old as it is looks the genteeler to my mind," laughing. so thought myra, and kept her own bonnet, lettice putting upon it the piece of new ribbon she had bought, and after smoothing and rubbing the faded one upon her sister's, trimming with it her own. * * * * * the two friends in green-street sat silently for a short time after the door had closed upon lettice; and then catherine began. "more astonishing things happen in the real world than one ever finds in a book. i am sure if such a reverse of fortune as this had been described to me in a story, i should at once have declared it to be impossible. i could not have believed it credible that, in a society such as ours--full of all sorts of kind, good-natured people, who are daily doing so much for the poor--an amiable girl like this, the daughter of a clergyman of the church of england, could be suffered to sink into such abject poverty." "ah! my dear catherine, that shows you have only seen life upon one side, and that its fairest side--as it presents itself in the country. you can not imagine what a dreadful thing it may prove in large cities. it can not enter into the head of man to conceive the horrible contrasts of large cities--the dreadful destitution of large cities--the awful solitude of a crowd. in the country, i think, such a thing hardly could have happened, however great the difficulty is of helping those who still preserve the delicacy and dignity with regard to money matters, which distinguishes finer minds--but in london what _can_ be done? like lead in the mighty waters, the moneyless and friendless sink to the bottom, society in all its countless degrees closes over them: they are lost in its immensity, hidden from every eye, and they perish as an insect might perish; amid the myriads of its kind, unheeded by every other living creature. ah, my love! if your walks lay where mine have done, your heart would bleed for these destitute women, born to better hopes, and utterly shipwrecked." "she was such a dear, amiable girl," catherine went on, "so cheerful, so sweet-tempered--so clever in all that one likes to see people clever about! her mother was a silly woman." "so she showed, i fear, by coming to london," said mrs. danvers. "she was so proud of myra's beauty, and she seemed to think so little of lettice. she was always prophesying that myra would make a great match; and so did her aunt, mrs. price, who was no wiser than mrs. arnold; and they brought up the poor girl to such a conceit of herself--to 'not to do this,' and 'it was beneath her to do that'--and referring every individual thing to her comfort and advancement, till, poor girl, she could hardly escape growing, what she certainly did grow into, a very spoiled, selfish creature. while dear lettice in her simplicity--that simplicity 'which thinketh no evil'--took it so naturally, that so it was, and so it ought to be; that sometimes one laughed, and sometimes one felt provoked, but one loved her above all things. i never saw such a temper." "i dare say," said mrs. danvers, "that your intention in staying in town to-day was to pay them a visit, which, indeed, we had better do. i had only a glance into their apartment the other day, but it occurred to me that they wanted common necessaries. ignorant as i was of who they were, i was thinking to get them put upon lady a----'s coal and blanket list, but that can not very well be done now. however, presents are always permitted under certain conditions, and the most delicate receive them; and, really, this is a case to waive a feeling of that sort in some measure. as you are an old friend and acquaintance, there can be no harm in a few presents before you leave town." "so i was thinking, ma'am, and i am very impatient to go and see them, and find out what they may be most in want of." "well, my dear, i do not see why we should lose time, and i will order a cab to take us, for it is rather too far to walk this terrible day." they soon arrived at the place i have described, and, descending from their cab, walked along in front of this row of lofty houses looking upon the grave-yard, and inhabited by so much human misery. the doors of most of the houses stood open, for they were all let in rooms, and the entrance and staircase were common as the street. what forms of human misery and degradation presented themselves during one short walk which i once took there with a friend employed upon a mission of mercy! disease in its most frightful form, panting to inhale a little fresh air. squalid misery, the result of the gin-shop--decent misery ready to starve. women shut up in one room with great heartless, brutal, disobedient boys--sickness resting untended upon its solitary bed. wailing infants--scolding mothers--human nature under its most abject and degraded forms. no thrift, no economy, no attempt at cleanliness and order. idleness, recklessness, dirt, and wretchedness. perhaps the very atmosphere of towns; perhaps these close, ill-ventilated rooms; most certainly the poisonous gin-shop, engender a relaxed state of nerves and muscles, which deprives people of the spirits ever to attempt to make themselves a little decent. then water is so dear, and dirt so pervading the very atmosphere. poor things, they give it up; and acquiesce in, and become accustomed to it, and "_avec un mal heur sourd dont l'on ne se rend pas compte_," gradually sink and sink into the lowest abyss of habitual degradation. it is difficult to express the painful sensations which catherine experienced when she entered the room of the two sisters. to her the dirty paper, the carpetless floor, the miserable bed, the worm-eaten and scanty furniture, the aspect of extreme poverty which pervaded every thing, were so shocking, that she could hardly restrain her tears. not so mrs. danvers. greater poverty, even she, could rarely have seen; but it was too often accompanied with what grieved her more, reckless indifference, and moral degradation. dirt and disorder, those agents of the powers of darkness, were almost sure to be found where there was extreme want; but here the case was different. as her experienced eye glanced round the room, she could perceive that, poor as was the best, the best _was_ made of it; that a cheerful, active spirit--the "how to make the best of it"--that spirit which is like the guardian angel of the poor, had been busy here. the floor, though bare, was clean; the bed, though so mean, neatly arranged and made; the grate was bright; the chairs were dusted; the poor little plenishing neatly put in order. no dirty garments hanging about the room; all carefully folded and put away they were; though she could not, of course, see that, for there were no half-open drawers of the sloven, admitting dust and dirt, and offending the eye. lettice herself, with hair neatly braided, her poor worn gown carefully put on, was sitting by the little table, busy at her work, looking the very picture of modest industry. only one figure offended the nice moral sense of mrs. danvers: that of myra, who sat there with her fine hair hanging round her face, in long, dirty, disheveled ringlets, her feet stretched out and pushed slip-shod into her shoes. with her dress half put on, and hanging over her, as the maids say, "no how," she was leaning back in the chair, and sewing very languidly at a very dirty piece of work which she held in her hand. both sisters started up when the door opened. lettice's cheeks flushed with joy, and her eye sparkled with pleasure as she rose to receive her guests, brought forward her other only chair, stirred the fire, and sent the light of a pleasant blaze through the room. myra colored also, but her first action was to stoop down hastily to pull up the heels of her shoes; she then east a hurried glance upon her dress, and arranged it a little--occupied as usual with herself, her own appearance was the first thought--and never in her life more disagreeably. catherine shook hands heartily with lettice, saying, "we are soon met again, you see;" and then went up to myra, and extended her hand to her. the other took it, but was evidently so excessively ashamed of her poverty, and her present appearance, before one who had seen her in better days, that she could not speak, or make any other reply to a kind speech of catherine's, but by a few unintelligible murmurs. "i was impatient to come," said catherine--she and mrs. danvers having seated themselves upon the two smaller chairs, while the sisters sat together upon the larger one--"because, you know, i must go out of town so very soon, and i wanted to call upon you, and have a little chat and talk of old times--and, really--really--" she hesitated. dear, good thing, she was so dreadfully afraid of mortifying either of the two in their present fallen state. "and, really--really," said mrs. danvers, smiling, "out with it, my love--really--really, lettice, catherine feels as i am sure you would feel if the cases were reversed. she can not bear the thoughts of her own prosperity, and at the same time think of your misfortunes. i told her i was quite sure you would not be hurt if she did for you, what i was certain you would have done in such a case for her, and would let her make you a little more comfortable before she went. the poor thing's wedding-day will be quite spoiled by thinking about you, if you won't, lettice." lettice stretched out her hand to catherine by way of answer; and received in return the most warm and affectionate squeeze. myra was very glad to be made more comfortable--there was no doubt of that; but half offended, and determined to be as little obliged as possible. and then, catherine going to be married too. how hard!--every kind of good luck to be heaped upon _her_, and she herself so unfortunate in every way. but nobody cared for her ungracious looks. catherine knew her of old, and mrs. danvers understood the sort of thing she was in a minute. her walk had lain too long amid the victims of false views and imperfect moral training, to be surprised at this instance of their effects. the person who surprised her was lettice. "well, then," said catherine, now quite relieved, and looking round the room, "where shall we begin? what will you have? what do you want most? i shall make you wedding presents, you see, instead of you making them to me. when your turn comes you shall have your revenge." "well," lettice said, "what must be must be, and it's nonsense playing at being proud. i am very much obliged to you, indeed, catherine, for thinking of us at this time; and if i must tell you what i should be excessively obliged to you for, it is a pair of blankets. poor myra can hardly sleep for the cold." "it's not the cold--it's the wretched, hard, lumpy bed," muttered myra. this hint sent catherine to the bed-side. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried she, piteously, "poor dear things, how could you sleep at all? do they call this a bed? and such blankets! poor myra!" her compassion quite overcoming her dislike. "no wonder. my goodness! my goodness! it's very shocking indeed." and the good young thing could not help crying. "blankets, dear girls! and a mattress, and a feather bed, and two pillows. how have you lived through it? and you, poor myra, used to be made so much of. poor girl! i am so sorry for you." and oh! how her heart smote her for all she had said and thought to myra's disadvantage. and oh! how the generous eyes of lettice beamed with pleasure as these compassionate words were addressed to her sister. myra was softened and affected. she could almost forgive catherine for being so fortunate. "you are very kind, indeed, catherine," she said. catherine, now quite at her ease, began to examine into their other wants; and without asking many questions, merely by peeping about, and forming her own conclusions, was soon pretty well aware of what was of the most urgent necessity. she was now quite upon the fidget to be gone, that she might order and send in the things; and ten of the twenty pounds given her for wedding lace was spent before she and mrs. danvers reached home; that lady laughing, and lamenting over the wedding gown, which would certainly not be flounced with honiton, as catherine's good god-mother had intended, and looking so pleased, contented, and happy, that it did catherine's heart good to see her. chapter iv. "the swain in barren deserts with surprise sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise: and starts amid the thirsty wilds to hear new falls of water murm'ring in his ear."--pope. in the evening mrs. danvers seemed rather tired, and the two sat over the fire a long time, without a single word being uttered; but, at last, when tea was finished, and they had both taken their work, catherine, who had been in profound meditation all this time, began: "my dear mrs. danvers, are you rested? i have a great deal to talk to you about, if you will let me." "i must be very much tired, indeed, catherine, when i do not like to hear _you_ talk," was the kind reply. mrs. danvers reposed very comfortably in her arm-chair, with her feet upon a footstool before the cheerful blazing fire; and now catherine drew her chair closer, rested her feet upon the fender, and seemed to prepare herself for a regular confidential talk with her beloved old friend. "my dear mrs. danvers, you are such a friend both of my dear mother's and mine, that i think i may, without scruple, open my whole heart to you upon a matter in which more than myself are concerned. if you think me wrong stop me," said she, laying her hand affectionately upon that of her friend, and fixing those honest, earnest eyes of hers upon her face. mrs. danvers pressed the hand, and said: "my love, whatever you confide to me you know is sacred; and if i can be of any assistance to you, dear girl, i think you need not scruple opening your mind; for you know i am a sort of general mother-confessor to all my acquaintance, and am as secret as such a profession demands." catherine lifted up the hand; she held it, pressed it, and continued to hold it; then she looked at the fire a little while, and at last spoke. "did you never in your walk in life observe one evil under the sun, which appears to me to be a most crying one in many families, the undue influence exercised by, and the power allowed to servants?" "yes, my dear, there are few of the minor evils--if minor it can be called--that i have thought productive of more daily discomforts than that. at times the evils assume a much greater magnitude, and are very serious indeed. alienated hearts--divided families--property to a large amount unjustly and unrighteously diverted from its natural channel--and misery, not to be told, about old age and a dying bed." catherine slightly shuddered, and said: "i have not had an opportunity of seeing much of the world, you know; what you say is rather what i feared it might be, than what i have actually observed; but i have had a sort of divination of what might in future arise. it is inexplicable to me the power a servant may gain, and the tyrannical way in which she will dare to exercise it. the unaccountable way in which those who have every title to command, may be brought to obey is scarcely to be believed, and to me inexplicable." "fear and indolence, my dear. weak spirits and a weak body, upon the one side; on the other, that species of force which want of feeling, want of delicacy, want of a nice conscience, want even of an enlarged understanding--which rough habits and coarse perceptions bestow. believe me, dear girl, almost as much power is obtained in this foolish world by the absence of certain qualities as by the possession of others. silly people think it so nice and easy to govern, and so hard to obey. it requires many higher qualities, and much more rule over the spirit to command obedience than to pay it." "yes, no doubt one does not think enough of that. jeremy taylor, in his fine prayers, has one for a new married wife just about to enter a family: he teaches her to pray for 'a right judgment in all things; not to be annoyed at trifles; nor discomposed by contrariety of accidents;' a spirit 'to overcome all my infirmities, and comply with and bear with the infirmities of others; giving offense to none, but doing good to all i can, but i think he should have added a petition for strength to rule and guide that portion of the household which falls under her immediate care with a firm and righteous hand, not yielding feebly to the undue encroachment of others, not suffering, through indolence or a mistaken love of peace, evil habits to creep over those who look up to us and depend upon us, to their own infinite injury as well as to our own.' ah! that is the part of a woman's duty hardest to fulfill; and i almost tremble," said the young bride elect, "when i think how heavy the responsibility; and how hard i shall find it to acquit myself as i desire." "in this as in other things," answered mrs. danvers, affectionately passing her hand over her young favorite's smooth and shining hair, "i have ever observed there is but one portion of real strength; one force alone by which we can move mountains. but, in that strength we assuredly are able to move mountains. was this all that you had to say, my dear?" "oh, no--but--it is so disagreeable--yet i think. did you ever notice how things went on at home, my dear friend?" "yes--a little i have. one can not help, you know, if one stays long in a house, seeing the relation in which the different members of a family stand to each other." "i thought you must have done so; that makes it easier for me--well, then, _that_ was one great reason which made me so unwilling to leave mamma." "i understand." "there is a vast deal of that sort of tyranny exercised in our family already. ever since i have grown up i have done all in my power to check it, by encouraging my poor, dear mamma, to exert a little spirit; but she is so gentle, so soft, so indulgent, and so affectionate--for even _that_ comes in her way.... she gets attached to every thing around her. she can not bear new faces, she says, and this i think the servants know, and take advantage of. they venture to do as they like, because they think it will be too painful an exertion for her to change them." "yes, my dear, that is exactly as things go on; not in your family alone, but in numbers that i could name if i chose. it is a very serious evil. it amounts to a sin in many households. the waste, the almost vicious luxury, the idleness that is allowed! the positive loss of what might be so much better bestowed upon those who really want it, to the positive injury of those who enjoy it! the demoralizing effect of pampered habits--the sins which are committed through the temptation of having nothing to do, will make, i fear, a dark catalogue against the masters and mistresses of families; who, because they have money in abundance, and hate trouble, allow all this misrule, and its attendant ill consequences upon their dependents. neglecting 'to rule with diligence,' as the apostle commands us, and satisfied, provided they themselves escape suffering from the ill consequences, except as far as an overflowing plentiful purse is concerned. few people seem to reflect upon the mischief they may be doing to these their half-educated fellow creatures by such negligence." catherine looked very grave, almost sorrowful, at this speech--she said: "poor mamma--but she _can not_ help it--indeed she can not. she is all love, and is gentleness itself. the blessed one 'who thinketh no evil.' how can that randall find the heart to tease her! as i am sure she does--though mamma never complains. and then, i am afraid, indeed, i feel certain, when i am gone the evil will very greatly increase. you, perhaps, have observed," added she, lowering her voice, "that poor papa makes it particularly difficult in our family--doubly difficult. his old wounds, his injured arm, his age and infirmities, make all sorts of little comforts indispensable to him. he suffers so much bodily, and he suffers, too, so much from little inconveniences, that he can not bear to have any thing done for him in an unaccustomed way. randall and williams have lived with us ever since i was five years old--when poor papa came back from waterloo almost cut to pieces. and he is so fond of them he will not hear a complaint against them--not even from mamma. oh! it is not her fault--poor, dear mamma!" "no, my love, such a dreadful sufferer as the poor general too often is, makes things very difficult at times. i understand all that quite well; but we are still only on the preamble of your discourse, my catherine; something more than vain lamentation is to come of it, i feel sure." "yes, indeed. dear generous mamma! she would not hear of my staying with her and giving up edgar; nor would she listen to what he was noble enough to propose, that he should abandon his profession and come and live at the hazels, rather than that i should feel i was tampering with my duty, for his sake, dear fellow!" and the tears stood in catherine's eyes. "nothing i could say would make her listen to it. i could hardly be sorry for edgar's sake. i knew what a sacrifice it would be upon his part--more than a woman ought to accept from a _lover_, i think--a man in his dotage, as one may say. don't you think so, too, ma'am?" "yes, my dear, indeed i do. well, go on." "i have been so perplexed, so unhappy, so undecided what to do--so sorry to leave this dear, generous mother to the mercy of those servants of hers--whose influence, when she is alone, and with nobody to hearten her up a little, will be so terribly upon the increase--that i have not known what to do. but to-day, while i was dressing for dinner, a sudden, blessed thought came into my mind--really, just like a flash of light that seemed to put every thing clear at once--and it is about that i want to consult you, if you will let me. that dear lettice arnold!--i knew her from a child. you can not think what a creature she is. so sensible, so cheerful, so sweet-tempered, so self-sacrificing, yet so clever, and firm, and steady, when necessary. mamma wants a daughter, and papa wants a reader and a backgammon prayer. lettice arnold is the very thing." mrs. danvers made no answer. "don't you think so? are you not sure? don't you see it?" asked poor catherine, anxiously. "alas! my dear, there is one thing i can scarcely ever persuade myself to do; and that is--advise any one to undertake the part of humble friend." "oh, dear! oh, dear! i know it's a terrible part in general; and i can't think why." "because neither party in general understands the nature of the relation, nor the exchange of duties it implies. for want of proper attention to this, the post of governess is often rendered so unsatisfactory to one side, and so very uncomfortable to the other, but in that case at least _something_ is defined. in the part of the humble friend there is really nothing--every thing depends upon the equity and good-nature of the first party, and the candor and good-will of the second. equity not to exact too much--good-nature to consult the comfort and happiness of the dependent. on that dependent's side, candor in judging of what _is_ exacted; and good-will cheerfully to do the best in her power to be amiable and agreeable." "i am not afraid of mamma. she will never be exacting _much_. she will study the happiness of all who depend upon her; she only does it almost too much, i sometimes think, to the sacrifice of her own comfort, and to the spoiling of them--and though papa is sometimes so suffering that he can't help being a little impatient, yet he is a perfect gentleman, you know. as for lettice arnold, if ever there was a person who knew 'how to make the best of it,' and sup cheerfully upon fried onions when she had lost her piece of roast kid, it is she. besides, she is so uniformly good-natured, that it is quite a pleasure to her to oblige. the only danger between dearest mamma and lettice will be--of their quarreling which shall give up most to the other. but, joking apart, she is a vast deal more than i have said--she is a remarkably clever, spirited girl, and shows it when she is called upon. you can not think how discreet, how patient, yet how firm, she can be. her parents, poor people, were very difficult to live with, and were always running wrong. if it had not been for lettice, affairs would have got into dreadful confusion. there is that in her so _right_, such an inherent downright sense of propriety and justice--somehow or other i am confident she will not let randall tyrannize over mamma when i am gone." "really," said mrs. danvers, "what you say seems very reasonable. there are exceptions to every rule. it certainly is one of mine to have as little as possible to do in recommending young women to the situation of humble friends. yet in some cases i have seen all the comfort you anticipate arise to both parties from such a connection; and i own i never saw a fairer chance presented than the present; provided randall is not too strong for you all; which may be feared." "well, then, you do not _dis_advise me to talk to mamma about it, and i will write to you as soon as i possibly can; and you will be kind enough to negotiate with lettice, if you approve of the terms. as for randall, she shall _not_ be too hard for me. now is my hour; i am in the ascendant, and i will win this battle or perish; that is, i will tell mamma i _won't_ be married upon any other terms; and to have 'miss' married is quite as great a matter of pride to mrs. randall as to that dearest of mothers." * * * * * the contest with mrs. randall was as fierce as catherine, in her worst anticipations, could have expected. she set herself most doggedly against the plan. it, indeed, militated against all her schemes. she had intended to have every thing far more than ever her own way when "miss catherine was gone;" and though she had no doubt but that she should "keep the creature in her place," and "teach her there was only one mistress here" (which phrase usually means the maid, though it implies the lady), yet she had a sort of a misgiving about it. there would be one at her (mrs. melwyn's) ear as well as herself, and at, possibly, her master's, too, which was of still more importance. and then "those sort of people are so artful and cantankerous. oh! she'd seen enough of them in her day! poor servants couldn't have a moment's peace with a creature like that in the house, spying about and telling every thing in the parlor. one can't take a walk, or see a poor friend, or have a bit of comfort, but all goes up there. well, those may put up with it who like. here's one as won't, and that's me myself; and so i shall make bold to tell miss catherine. general and mrs. melwyn must choose between me and the new-comer." poor catherine! mrs. melwyn cried, and said her daughter was very right; but she was sure randall never _would_ bear it. and the general, with whom randall had daily opportunity for private converse while she bound up his shattered arm, and dressed the old wound, which was perpetually breaking out afresh, and discharging splinters of bone, easily talked her master into the most decided dislike to the scheme. but catherine stood firm. she had the support of her own heart and judgment; and the greater the difficulty, the more strongly she felt the necessity of the measure. edgar backed her, too, with all his might. he could hardly keep down his vexation at this weakness on one side, and indignation at the attempted tyranny on the other, and he said every thing he could think of to encourage catherine to persevere. she talked the matter well over with her father. the general was the most testy, cross, and unreasonable of old men; always out of humor, because always suffering, and always jealous of every body's influence and authority, because he was now too weak and helpless to rule his family with a rod of iron, such as he, the greatest of martinets, had wielded in better days in his regiment and in his household alike. he suffered himself to be governed by randall, and by nobody else; because in yielding to randall, there was a sort of consciousness of the exercise of free will. he _ought_ to be influenced by his gentle wife, and clever, sensible daughter; but there was no reason on earth, but because he _chose_ to do it, that he should mind what randall said. "i hate the whole pack of them! i know well enough what sort of a creature you'll bring among us, catherine. a whining, methodistical old maid, with a face like a hatchet, and a figure as if it had been pressed between two boards, dressed in a flimsy cheap silk, of a dingy brown color, with a cap like a grenadier's. your mother and she will be sitting moistening their eyes all day long over the sins of mankind; and, i'll be bound, my own sins won't be forgotten among them. oh! i know the pious creatures, of old. nothing they hate like a poor old veteran, with a naughty word or two in his mouth now and then. never talk to me, catherine, i can't abide such cattle." "dearest papa, what a picture you _do_ draw! just to frighten yourself. why, lettice arnold is only about nineteen, i believe; and though she's not particularly pretty, she's the pleasantest-looking creature you ever saw. and as for bemoaning herself over her neighbors' sins, i'll be bound she's not half such a methodist as randall." "randall is a very pious, good woman, i'd have you to know, miss catherine." "i'm sure i hope she is, papa; but you must own she makes a great fuss about it. and i really believe, the habit she has of whispering and turning up the whites of her eyes, when she hears of a neighbor's peccadillos, is one thing which sets you so against the righteous, dearest papa; now, you know it is." "you're a saucy baggage. how old is this thing you're trying to put upon us, did you say?" "why, about nineteen, or, perhaps, twenty. and then, who's to read to you, papa, when i am gone, and play backgammon? you know mamma must _not_ read, on account of her chest, and she plays so badly, you say, at backgammon; and it's so dull, husband and wife playing, you know." (poor mrs. melwyn dreaded, of all things, backgammon; she invariably got ridiculed if she played ill, and put her husband into a passion if she beat him. catherine had long taken this business upon herself.) "does she play backgammon tolerably? and can she read without drawling or galloping?" "just at your own pace, papa, whatever that may be. besides, you can only try her; she's easily sent away if you and mamma don't like her. and then think, she is a poor clergyman's daughter; and it would be quite a kind action." "a poor parson's! it would have been more to the purpose if you had said a poor officer's. i pay tithes enough to the black coated gentlemen, without being bothered with their children, and who ever pays tithes to us, i wonder? i don't see what right parsons have to marry at all; and then, forsooth, come and ask other people to take care of their brats!" "ah! but she's not to be taken care of for nothing; only think what a comfort she'll be." "to your mamma, perhaps, but not to me. and _she's_ always the first person to be considered in this house, i know very well; and i know very well who it is that dresses the poor old soldier's wounds, and studies his comforts--and he'll study hers; and i won't have her vexed to please any of you." "but why should she be vexed? it's nothing to _her_. _she's_ not to live with lettice. and i must say, if randall sets herself against this measure, she behaves in a very unreasonable and unworthy manner, in my opinion." "hoity toity! _to_ be sure; and who's behaving in an unreasonable and unworthy manner now, i wonder, abusing her behind her back, a worthy, attached creature, whose sole object it is to study the welfare of us all? she's told me so a thousand times." "i daresay. well, now, papa, listen to me. i'm going away from you for good--your little catherine. just for once grant me this as a favor. only try lettice. i'm sure you'll like her; and if, after she's been here a quarter of a year, you don't wish to keep her, why part with her, and i'll promise not to say a word about it. randall has her good qualities, i suppose, like the rest of the world; but randall must be taught to keep her place, and that's not in this drawing-room. and it's _here_ you want lettice, not in your dressing-room. randall shall have it all her own way _there_, and that _ought_ to content her. and besides, papa, do you know, i can't marry edgar till you have consented, because i can not leave mamma and you with nobody to keep you company." "edgar and you be d----d! well, do as you like. the sooner you're out of the house the better. i shan't have my own way till you're gone. you're a sad coaxing baggage, but you _have_ a pretty face of your own, miss catherine." * * * * * if the debate upon the subject ran high at the hazels, so did it in the little humble apartment which the two sisters occupied. "a humble friend! no," cried myra, "that i would never, never be; rather die of hunger first." "dying of hunger is a very horrible thing," said lettice, quietly, "and much more easily said than done. we have not, god be thanked for it, ever been quite so badly off as that; but i have stood near enough to the dreadful gulf to look down, and to sound its depth and its darkness. i am very thankful, deeply thankful, for this offer, which i should gladly accept, only what is to become of you?" "oh! never mind me. it's the fashion now, i see, for every body to think of _you_, and nobody to think of me. i'm not worth caring for, now those who cared for me are gone. oh! pray, if you like to be a domestic slave yourself, let _me_ be no hindrance." "a domestic slave! why should i be a domestic slave? i see no slavery in the case." "_i_ call it slavery, whatever you may do, to have nothing to do all day but play toad-eater and flatterer to a good-for-nothing old woman; to bear all her ill-humors, and be the butt for all her caprices. that's what humble friends are expected to do, i believe; what else are they hired for?" "i should neither toady nor flatter, i hope," said lettice; "and as for bearing people's ill-humors, and being now and then the sport of their caprices, why that, as you say, is very disagreeable, yet, perhaps, it is what we must rather expect. but mrs. melwyn, i have always heard, is the gentlest of human beings. and if she is like catherine, she must be free from caprice, and nobody could help quite loving her." "stuff!--love! love! a humble friend love her _un_humble friend; for i suppose one must not venture to call one's mistress a tyrant. oh, no, a friend! a dear friend!" in a taunting, ironical voice. "whomever it might be my fate to live with, i should _try_ to love; for i believe if one tries to love people, one soon finds something lovable about them, and mrs. melwyn, i feel sure, i should soon love very much." "so like you! ready to love any thing and every thing. i verily believe if there was nothing else to love but the little chimney-sweeper boy, you'd fall to loving him, rather than love nobody." "i am sure that's true enough," said lettice, laughing; "i have more than once felt very much inclined to love the little boy who carries the soot-bag for the man who sweeps these chimneys--such a saucy-looking, little sooty rogue." "as if a person's love _could_ be worth having," continued the sister, "who is so ready to love any body." "no, that i deny. some few people i _do_ find it hard to love." "me for one." "oh, myra!" "well, i beg your pardon. you're very kind to me. but i'll tell you who it will be impossible for you to love--if such a thing can be: that's that testy, cross, old general." "i don't suppose i shall have much to do with the old general, if i go." "_if_ you go. oh, you're sure to go. you're so sanguine; every new prospect is so promising. but pardon me, you seem quite to have forgotten that reading to the old general, and playing backgammon with him, are among your specified employments." "well, i don't see much harm in it if they are. a man can't be very cross with one when one's reading to him--and as for the backgammon, i mean to lose every game, if that will please him." "oh, a man can't be cross with a reader? i wish you knew as much of the world as i do, and had heard people read. why, nothing on earth puts one in such a fidget. i'm sure i've been put into such a worry by people's way of reading, that i could have pinched them. really, lettice, your simplicity would shame a child of five years old." "well, i shall do my best, and besides i shall take care to set my chair so far off that i can't get pinched, at least; and as for a poor, ailing, suffering old man being a little impatient and cross, why one can't expect to get fifty pounds a year for just doing nothing.--i do suppose it is expected that i should bear a few of these things in place of mrs. melwyn; and i don't see why i should not." "oh, dear! well, my love, you're quite made for the place, i see; you always had something of the spaniel in you, or the walnut-tree, or any of those things which are the better for being ill-used. it was quite a proverb with our poor mother, 'a worm will turn, but not lettice.'" lettice felt very much inclined to turn now. but the mention of her mother--that mother whose mismanagement and foolish indulgence had contributed so much to poor myra's faults--faults for which she now paid so heavy a penalty--silenced the generous girl, and she made no answer. no answer, let it proceed from never so good a motive, makes cross people often more cross; though perhaps upon the whole it is the best plan. so myra in a still more querulous voice went on: "this room will be rather dismal all by one's self, and i don't know how i'm to go about, up and down, fetch and carry, and work as you are able to do.... i was never used to it. it comes very hard upon me." and she began to cry. "poor myra! dear myra! don't cry: i never intended to leave you. though i talked as if i did, it was only in the way of argument, because i thought more might be said for the kind of life than you thought; and i felt sure if people were tolerably kind and candid, i could get along very well and make myself quite comfortable. dear me! after such hardships as we have gone through, a little would do that. but do you think, poor dear girl, i could have a moment's peace, and know you were here alone? no, no." and so when she went in the evening to carry her answer to mrs. danvers, who had conveyed to her catherine's proposal, lettice said, "that she should have liked exceedingly to accept catherine's offer, and was sure she should have been very happy herself, and would have done every thing in her power to make mrs. melwyn happy, but that it was impossible to leave her sister." "if that is your only difficulty, my dear, don't make yourself uneasy about that. i have found a place for your sister which i think she will like very well. it is with mrs. fisher, the great milliner in dover-street, where she will be taken care of, and may be very comfortable. mrs. fisher is a most excellent person, and very anxious, not only about the health and comfort of those she employs, but about their good behavior and their security from evil temptation. such a beautiful girl as your sister is, lives in perpetual danger, exposed as she is without protection in this great town." "but myra has such an abhorrence of servitude, as she calls it--such an independent high spirit--i fear she will never like it." "it will be very good for her, whether she likes it or not. indeed, my dear, to speak sincerely, the placing your sister out of danger in the house of mrs. fisher ought to be a decisive reason with you for accepting catherine's proposal--even did you dislike it much more than you seem to do." "oh! to tell the truth, i should like the plan very much indeed--much more than i have wished to say, on account of myra: but she never, never will submit to be ruled, i fear, and make herself happy where, of course, she must obey orders and follow regulations, whether she likes them or not. unfortunately, poor dear, she has been so little accustomed to be contradicted." "well, then, it is high time she should begin; for contradicted, sooner or later, we all of us are certain to be. seriously, again, my dear, good lettice--i must call you lettice--your innocence of heart prevents you from knowing what snares surround a beautiful young woman like your sister. i like you best, i own; but i have thought much more of her fate than yours, upon that account. such a situation as is offered to you she evidently is quite unfit to fill: but i went--the very day catherine and i came to your lodgings and saw you both--to my good friend mrs. fisher, and, with great difficulty, have persuaded her at last to take your sister. she disliked the idea very much; but she's an excellent woman: and when i represented to her the peculiar circumstances of the case, she promised she would consider the matter. she took a week to consider of it--for she is a very cautious person is mrs. fisher; and some people call her very cold and severe. however, she has decided in our favor, as i expected she would. her compassion always gets the better of her prudence, when the two are at issue. and so you would not dislike to go to mrs. melwyn's?" "how could i? why, after what we have suffered, it must be like going into paradise." "nay, nay--a little too fast. no dependent situation is ever exactly a paradise. i should be sorry you saw things in a false light, and should be disappointed." "oh, no, i do not wish to do that--i don't think--thank you for the great kindness and interest you are so kind as to show by this last remark--but i think i never in my life enjoyed one day of unmixed happiness since i was quite a little child; and i have got so entirely into the habit of thinking that every thing in the world goes so--that when i say paradise, or quite happy, or so on, it is always in a certain sense--a comparative sense." "i am glad to see you so reasonable--that is one sure way to be happy; but you will find your crosses at the hazels. the general is not very sweet-tempered; and even dear mild mrs. melwyn is not perfect." "why, madam, what am i to expect? if i can not bear a few disagreeable things, what do i go there for? not to be fed, and housed, and paid at other people's expense, just that i may please my own humors all the time. that _would_ be rather an unfair bargain, i think. no: i own there are some things i could not and would not bear for any consideration; but there are a great many others that i can, and i shall, and i will--and do my best, too, to make happy, and be happy; and, in short, i don't feel the least afraid." "no more you need--you right-spirited creature," said mrs. danvers, cordially. * * * * * many were the difficulties, endless the objections raised by myra against the proposed plan of going to mrs. fisher. such people's objections and difficulties are indeed endless. in their weakness and their selfishness, they _like_ to be objects of pity--they take a comfort in bothering and wearying people with their interminable complaints. theirs is not the sacred outbreak of the overloaded heart--casting itself upon another heart for support and consolation under suffering that is too strong and too bitter to be endured alone. sacred call for sympathy and consolation, and rarely made in vain! it is the wearying and futile attempt to cast the burden of sorrow and suffering upon others, instead of seeking their assistance in enduring it one's self. vain and useless endeavor, and which often bears hard upon the sympathy even of the kindest and truest hearts! ineffectually did lettice endeavor to represent matters under a cheerful aspect. nothing was of any avail. myra would persist in lamenting, and grieving, and tormenting herself and her sister; bewailing the cruel fate of both--would persist in recapitulating every objection which could be made to the plan, and every evil consequence which could possibly ensue. not that she had the slightest intention in the world of refusing her share in it, if she would have suffered herself to say so. she rather liked the idea of going to that fashionable _modiste_, mrs. fisher: she had the "_âme de dentelle_" with which napoleon reproached poor josephine. there was something positively delightful to her imagination in the idea of dwelling among rich silks, brussels laces, ribbons, and feathers; it was to her what woods, and birds, and trees were to her sister. she fancied herself elegantly dressed, walking about a show-room, filled with all sorts of beautiful things; herself, perhaps, the most beautiful thing in it, and the object of a sort of flattering interest, through the melancholy cloud "upon her fine features." nay, her romantic imagination traveled still farther--gentlemen sometimes come up with ladies to show-rooms,--who could tell? love at first sight was not altogether a dream. such things _had_ happened.... myra had read plenty of old, rubbishy novels when she was a girl. such were the comfortable thoughts she kept to herself; but it was, as i said, one endless complaining externally. catherine insisted upon being allowed to advance the money for the necessary clothes, which, to satisfy the delicacy of the one and the pride of the other, she agreed should be repaid by installments as their salaries became due. the sale of their few possessions put a sovereign or so into the pocket of each, and thus the sisters parted; the lovely myra to mrs. fisher's, and lettice, by railway, to the hazels. (_to be continued._) eruption of mount etna in . "for many days previous the sky had been overcast, and the weather, notwithstanding the season, oppressively hot. the thunder and lightning were incessant, and the eruption was at length ushered in by a violent shock of an earthquake, which leveled most of the houses at nicolosi. two great chasms then opened near that village, from whence ashes were thrown out in such quantities, that, in a few weeks, a double hill, called monte rosso, feet high, was formed, and the surrounding country covered to such a depth, that, nothing but the tops of the trees could be seen. the lava ran in a stream fifty feet deep, and four miles wide, overwhelming in its course fourteen towns and villages; and had it not separated before reaching catania, that city would have been virtually annihilated as were herculaneum and pompeii. the walls had been purposely raised to a height of sixty feet, to repel the danger if possible, but the torrent accumulated behind them, and poured down in a cascade of fire upon the town. it still continued to advance, and, after a course of fifteen miles, ran into the sea, where it formed a mole yards long. the walls were neither thrown down nor fused by contact with the ignited matter, and have since been discovered by prince biscari, when excavating in search of a well known to have existed in a certain spot, and from the steps of which the lava may now be seen curling over like a monstrous billow in the very act of falling. "the great crater fell in during this eruption, and a fissure, six feet wide and twelve miles long, opened in the plain of s. leo. in the space of six weeks, the habitations of , persons were destroyed, a vast extent of the most fertile land rendered desolate for ages, the course of rivers changed, and the whole face of the district transformed."--_marquis of ormonde's autumn in sicily._ volcanic eruption--mount etna in . "the mass extended for a breadth of about paces, advancing gradually, more or less rapidly according to the nature of the ground over which it moved, but making steady progress. it had formed two branches, one going in a northerly, and the other in a westerly direction. no danger beyond loss of trees or crops was apprehended from the former, but the second was moving in a direct line for the town of bronte, and to it we confined our attention. the townspeople, on their part, had not been idle. i have before mentioned the clearance which they made of their goods, but precautions had also been taken outside the town, with a view, if possible, to arrest the progress of the lava; and a very massive wall of coarse loose work was in the course of erection across a valley down which the stream must flow. we heard afterward, that the impelling power was spent before the strength of this work was put to the test, but had it failed, bronte had been lost. it is not easy to convey by words any very accurate idea. the lava appeared to be from thirty to forty feet in depth, and some notion of its aspect and progress may be formed by imagining a hill of loose stones of all sizes, the summit or brow of which is continually falling to the base, and as constantly renewed by unseen pressure from behind. down it came in large masses, each leaving behind it a fiery track, as the red-hot interior was for a moment or two exposed. the impression most strongly left on my mind was that of its irresistible force. it did not advance rapidly; there was no difficulty in approaching it, as i did, closely, and taking out pieces of red-hot stone; the rattling of the blocks overhead gave ample notice of their descent down the inclined face of the stream, and a few paces to the rear, or aside, were quite enough to take me quite clear of them; but still onward, onward it came, foot by foot it encroached on the ground at its base, changing the whole face of the country, leaving hills where formerly valleys had been, overwhelming every work of man that it encountered in its progress, and leaving all behind one black, rough, and monotonous mass of hard and barren lava. it had advanced considerably during the night. on the previous evening i had measured the distance from the base of the moving hill to the walls of a deserted house which stood, surrounded by trees, at about fifty yards off, and, though separated from it by a road, evidently exposed to the full power of the stream. not a trace of it was now left, and it was difficult to make a guess at where it had been. the owners of the adjacent lands were busied in all directions felling the timber that stood in the line of the advancing fire, but they could not in many instances do it fast enough to save their property from destruction; and it was not a little interesting to watch the effect produced on many a goodly tree, first thoroughly dried by the heat of the mass, and, in a few minutes after it had been reached by the lava, bursting into flames at the base, and soon prostrate and destroyed. it being sunday, all the population had turned out to see what progress the enemy was making, and prayers and invocations to a variety of saints were every where heard around. 'chiamate sant' antonio, signor,' said one woman eagerly to me, 'per l'amor di dio, chiamate la santa maria.' many females knelt around, absorbed in their anxiety and devotion, while the men generally stood in silence gazing in dismay at the scene before them. our guide was a poor fiddler thrown out of employment by the strict penance enjoined with a view to avert the impending calamity, dancing and music being especially forbidden, even had any one under such circumstances been inclined to indulge in them." * * * * * the marquis of ormonde was adventurous enough, despite the fate of empedocles and of pliny, to ascend in the evening to see the bocca di fuoco, which is at an elevation of about feet. the sight which met his eyes was, he tells us, and we may well believe it, one of the grandest and most awful it had ever been his fortune to witness: "the evening had completely closed in, and it was perfectly dark, so that there was nothing which could in any way injure or weaken the effect. the only thing to which i can compare it is, as far as can be judged from representations of such scenes, the blowing up of some enormous vessel of war, the effect being permanent instead of momentary only. directly facing us was the chasm in the mountain's side from which the lava flowed in a broad stream of liquid fire; masses of it had been forced up on each side, forming, as it got comparatively cool, black, uneven banks, the whole realizing the poetic description of phlegethon in the most vivid manner. the flames ascended to a considerable height from the abyss, and high above them the air was constantly filled with large fiery masses, projected to a great height, and meeting on their descent a fresh supply, the roar of the flames and crash of the falling blocks being incessant. advancing across a valley which intervened, we ascended another hill, and here commanded a view of the ground on which many of the ejected stones fell, and, though well to windward, the small ashes fell thickly around us. the light was sufficient, even at the distance we stood, to enable us to read small print, and to write with the greatest ease. the thermometer stood at about °, but, cold though it was, it was some time before we could resolve to take our last look at this extraordinary sight, and our progress, after we had done so, was retarded by the constant stoppages made by us to watch the beautiful effect of the light, as seen through the _bosco_, which we had entered on our return."--_marquis of ormonde's autumn in sicily._ american literature. we believe it was m. l'abbé raynal who said that america had not yet produced a single man of genius. the productions now under our notice will do more to relieve her from this imputation than the reply of president jefferson: "when we have existed," said that gentleman, "so long as the greeks did before they produced homer, the romans virgil, the french a racine and a voltaire, the english a shakspeare and a milton, we shall inquire from what unfriendly causes it has proceeded that the other countries of europe, and quarters of the earth, shall not have inscribed any poet of ours on the roll of fame." the ingenuity of this defense is more apparent than its truth; for although the existence of america, as a separate nation, is comparatively recent, it must not be forgotten that the origin of her people is identical with that of our own. their language is the same; they have always had advantages in regard of literature precisely similar to those which we now enjoy; they have free trade, and a little more, in all our best standard authors. there is, therefore, no analogy whatever between their condition and that of the other nations with whom the attempt has been made to contrast them. with a literature ready-made, as it were, to their hand, america had never to contend against any difficulties such as they encountered. beyond the ballads of the troubadours and trouveres, france had no stock either of literature or of traditions to begin upon; the language of rome was foreign to its people; greece had but the sixteen letters of cadmus; the literature of england struggled through the rude chaos of anglo-saxon, norman, french, and monkish latin. if these difficulties in pursuit of knowledge be compared with the advantages of america, we think it must be admitted that the president had the worst of the argument. but although america enjoys all these advantages, it can not be denied that her social condition presents impediments of a formidable character toward the cultivation of the higher and more refined branches of literature. liberty, equality, and fraternity are not quite so favorable to the cultivation of elegant tastes as might be imagined; where every kind of social rank is obliterated, the field of observation, which is the province of fiction, becomes proportionately narrow; and although human nature must be the same under every form of government, the liberty of a thorough democracy by no means compensates for its vulgarity. it might be supposed that the very obliteration of all grades of rank, and the consequent impossibility of acquiring social distinction, would have a direct tendency to turn the efforts of genius in directions where the acquisition of fame might be supposed to compensate for more substantial rewards; and when men could no longer win their way to a coronet, they would redouble their exertions to obtain the wreath. the history of literature, however, teaches us the reverse: its most brilliant lights have shone in dark and uncongenial times. amid the clouds of bigotry and oppression, in the darkest days of tyranny and demoralization, their lustre has been the most brilliant. under the luxurious tyranny of the empire, virgil and horace sang their immortal strains; the profligacy of louis the fourteenth produced a voltaire and a rosseau; amid the oppression of his country grew and flourished the gigantic intellect of milton; ireland, in the darkest times of her gloomy history, gave birth to the imperishable genius of swift; it was less the liberty of athens than the tyranny of philip, which made demosthenes an orator; and of the times which produced our great dramatists it is scarcely necessary to speak. the proofs, in short, are numberless. be this, however, as it may, the character of american literature which has fallen under our notice must demonstrate to every intelligent mind, what immense advantages she has derived from those sources which the advocates of her claims would endeavor to repudiate. there is scarcely a page which does not contain evidence how largely she has availed herself of the learning and labors of others. we do not blame her for this; far from it. we only say that, having reaped the benefit, it is unjust to deny the obligation; and that in discussing her literary pretensions, the plea which has been put forward in her behalf is untenable.--_dublin university magazine._ milking in australia. this is a very serious operation. first, say at four o'clock in the morning, you drive the cows into the stock-yard, where the calves have been penned up all the previous night in a hutch in one corner. then you have to commence a chase after the first cow, who, with a perversity common to australian females, expects to be pursued two or three times round the yard, ankle deep in dust or mud, according to the season, with loud halloas and a thick stick. this done, she generally proceeds up to the _fail_, a kind of pillory, and permits her neck to be made fast. the cow safe in the fail, her near hind leg is stretched out to its full length, and tied to a convenient post with the universal cordage of australia, a piece of green hide. at this stage, in ordinary cases, the milking commences; but it was one of the hobbies of mr. jumsorew, a practice i have never seen followed in any other part of the colony, that the cow's tail should be held tight during the operation. this arduous duty i conscientiously performed for some weeks, until it happened one day that a young heifer slipped her head out of an ill-fastened fail, upset milkman and milkpail, charged the head-stockman, who was unloosing the calves, to the serious damage of a new pair of fustians, and ended, in spite of all my efforts, in clearing the top rail of the stock-yard, leaving me flat and flabbergasted at the foot of the fence.--_from "scenes in the life of a bushman" (unpublished.)_ [from household words.] lizzie leigh. in four chapters.--chapter i when death is present in a household on a christmas day, the very contrast between the time as it now is, and the day as it has often been, gives a poignancy to sorrow--a more utter blankness to the desolation. james leigh died just as the far-away bells of rochdale church were ringing for morning service on christmas day, . a few minutes before his death, he opened his already glazing eyes, and made a sign to his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, that he had yet something to say. she stooped close down, and caught the broken whisper, "i forgive her, anne! may god forgive me." "oh my love, my dear! only get well, and i will never cease showing my thanks for those words. may god in heaven bless thee for saying them. thou'rt not so restless, my lad! may be--oh god!" for even while she spoke, he died. they had been two-and-twenty years man and wife; for nineteen of those years their life had been as calm and happy, as the most perfect uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving submission on the other, could make it. milton's famous line might have been framed and hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was truly the interpreter, who stood between god and her; she would have considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him austere, though as certainly as he was an upright man, so surely was he hard, stern, and inflexible. but for three years the moan and the murmur had never been out of her heart; she had rebelled against her husband as against a tyrant with a hidden, sullen rebellion, which tore up the old landmarks of wifely duty and affection, and poisoned the fountains whence gentlest love and reverence had once been forever springing. but those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in her heart, and called out penitent anguish for all the bitter estrangement of later years. it was this which made her refuse all the entreaties of her sons, that she would see the kind-hearted neighbors, who called on their way from church, to sympathize and condole. no! she would stay with the dead husband that had spoken tenderly at last, if for three years he had kept silence; who knew but what, if she had only been more gentle and less angrily reserved he might have relented earlier--and in time! she sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, while the footsteps below went in and out; she had been in sorrow too long to have any violent burst of deep grief now; the furrows were well worn in her cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if incessantly, all the day long. but when the winter's night drew on, and the neighbors had gone away to their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, long and wistfully, over the dark, gray moors. she did not hear her son's voice, as he spoke to her from the door, nor his footstep, as he drew nearer. she started when he touched her. "mother! come down to us. there's no one but will and me. dearest mother, we do so want you." the poor lad's voice trembled, and he began to cry. it appeared to require an effort on mrs. leigh's part to tear herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied with his request. the two boys (for though will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought of him as a lad) had done every thing in their power to make the house-place comfortable for her. she herself, in the old days before her sorrow, had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for her husband's return home, than now awaited her. the tea-things were all put out, and the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief down into a kind of sober cheerfulness. they paid her every attention they could think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not resist--she rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did not seem to touch her heart. when tea was ended--it was merely the form of tea that had been gone through--will moved the things away to the dresser. his mother leant back languidly in her chair. "mother, shall tom read you a chapter? he's a better scholar than i." "ay, lad!" said she, almost eagerly. "that's it. read me the prodigal son. ay, ay, lad. thank thee." tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is customary in village-schools. his mother bent forward, her lips parted, her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. will sat with his head depressed, and hung down. he knew why that chapter had been chosen; and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. when the reading was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. but her face was brighter than it had been before for the day. her eyes looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by and by she pulled the bible toward her, and putting her finger underneath each word, began to read them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of bitter sorrow and deep humiliation; but most of all she paused and brightened over the father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal. so passed the christmas evening in the upclose farm. the snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland, before the day of the funeral. the black, storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. two and two the mourners followed, making a black procession in their winding march over the unbeaten snow, to milne-row church--now lost in some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heaving ascents. there was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbors who accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great white flakes which came slowly down, were the boding forerunners of a heavy storm. one old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to their home. the upclose farm had belonged for generations to the leighs; and yet its possession hardly raised them above the rank of laborers. there was the house and outbuildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven acres of barren, unproductive land, which they had never possessed capital enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some trade--such as a wheelwright's, or blacksmith's. james leigh had left a will, in the possession of the old man who accompanied them home. he read it aloud. james had bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, anne leigh, for her life-time; and afterward, to his son william. the hundred and odd pounds in the savings'-bank was to accumulate for thomas. after the reading was ended, anne leigh sat silent for a time; and then she asked to speak to samuel orme alone. the sons went into the back-kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields, regardless of the driving snow. the brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they were very different in character. will, the elder, was like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupulously upright. tom (who was ten years younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and character. he had always clung to his mother and dreaded his father. they did not speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the more sophisticated language applied to the description of feelings. meanwhile their mother had taken hold of samuel orme's arm with her trembling hand. "samuel, i must let the farm--i must." "let the farm! what's come o'er the woman?" "oh, samuel!" said she, her eyes swimming in tears, "i'm just fain to go and live in manchester. i mun let the farm." samuel looked and pondered, but did not speak for some time. at last he said, "if thou hast made up thy mind, there's no speaking again it; and thou must e'en go. thou'lt be sadly pottered wi' manchester ways; but that's not my look-out. why, thou'lt have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast never done afore in all thy born life. well! it's not my look-out. it's rather for me than again me. our jenny is going to be married to tom higginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to begin upon. his father will be dying sometime, i reckon, and then he'll step into the croft farm. but meanwhile--" "then, thou'lt let the farm," said she, still as eagerly as ever. "ay, ay, he'll take it fast enough, i've a notion. but i'll not drive a bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we'll wait a bit." "no; i can not wait, settle it out at once." "well, well; i'll speak to will about it. i see him out yonder. i'll step to him, and talk it over." accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and without more ado, began the subject to them. "will, thy mother is fain to go live in manchester, and covets to let the farm. now, i'm willing to take it for tom higginbotham; but i like to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chaffering with thy mother just now. let thee and me buckle to, my lad! and try and cheat each other; it will warm us this cold day." "let the farm!" said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise. "go live in manchester!" when samuel orme found that the plan had never before been named to either will or tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until they had spoken to their mother; likely she was "dazed" by her husband's death; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to tom higginbotham himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it. the lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother. he bade them good day, and left them. will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the house. then he said, "tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the cows. i want to speak to mother alone." when he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire, looking into its embers. she did not hear him come in; for some time she had lost her quick perception of outward things. "mother! what's this about going to manchester?" asked he. "oh, lad!" said she, turning round and speaking in a beseeching tone, "i must go and seek our lizzie. i can not rest here for thinking on her. many's the time i've left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th' window, and looked and looked my heart out toward manchester, till i thought i must just set out and tramp over moor and moss straight away till i got there, and then lift up every downcast face till i came to our lizzie. and often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the hollows, i've fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) i heard her crying upon me; and i've thought the voice came closer and closer, till it last it was sobbing out "mother" close to the door; and i've stolen down, and undone the latch before now, and looked out into the still, black night, thinking to see her, and turned sick and sorrowful when i heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away. oh! speak not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable." and now she lifted up her voice and wept aloud. will was deeply grieved. he had been old enough to be told the family shame when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to his daughter returned by her mistress in manchester, telling him that lizzie had left her service some time--and why. he had sympathized with his father's stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it is true, when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they would have no daughter; that she should be as one dead; and her name never more be named at market or at meal-time, in blessing or in prayer. he had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when the neighbors had noticed to him how poor lizzie's death had aged both his father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple would never hold up their heads again. he himself had felt as if that one event had made him old before his time; and had envied tom the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead lizzie. he thought about her sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, and could have struck her down in her shame. his mother had never named her to him until now. "mother!" said he at last. "she may be dead. most likely she is." "no, will; she is not dead," said mrs. leigh. "god will not let her die till i've seen her once again. thou dost not know how i've prayed and prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her i've forgiven her, though she's broken my heart--she has, will." she could not go on for a minute or two for the choking sobs. "thou dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say she could be dead--for god is very merciful, will; he is--he is much more pitiful than man--i could never ha' spoken to thy father as i did to him--and yet thy father forgave her at last. the last words he said were that he forgave her. thou'lt not be harder than thy father, will? do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's no use." will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. at last he said, "i'll not hinder you. i think she's dead, but that's no matter." "she is not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. will took no notice of the interruption. "we will all go to manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to tom higginbotham. i'll get blacksmith's work; and tom can have good schooling for awhile, which he's always craving for. at the end of the year you'll come back, mother, and give over fretting for lizzie and think with me that she is dead--and to my mind, that would be more comfort than to think of her living;" he dropped his voice as he spoke these last words. she shook her head, but made no answer. he asked again, "will you, mother, agree to this?" "i'll agree to it a-this-ons," said she. "if i hear and see naught of her for a twelvemonth me being in manchester looking out, i'll just ha' broken my heart fairly before the year's ended, and then i shall know neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when i'm at rest in the grave--i'll agree to that, will." "well, i suppose it must be so. i shall not tell tom, mother, why we're flitting to manchester. best spare him." "as thou wilt," said she, sadly, "so that we go, that's all." before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round upclose farm, the leighs were settled in their manchester home; if they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no garden, or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view, over moor and hollow--no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone. mrs. leigh heeded the loss of all these things less than her sons. she had more spirit in her countenance than she had had for months, because now she had hope; of a sad enough kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. she performed all her household duties, strange and complicated as they were, and bewildered as she was with all the town-necessities of her new manner of life; but when her house was "sided," and the boys come home from their work, in the evening, she would put on her things and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not without many a heavy sigh from will, after she had closed the house-door and departed. it was often past midnight before she came back, pale and weary, with almost a guilty look upon her face; but that face so full of disappointment and hope deferred, that will had never the heart to say what he thought of the folly and hopelessness of the search. night after night it was renewed, till days grew to weeks, and weeks to months. all this time will did his duty toward her as well as he could, without having sympathy with her. he staid at home in the evenings for tom's sake, and often wished he had tom's pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his hands, as he sat up for his mother. i need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours. and yet i will tell you something. she used to wander out, at first as if without a purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought all her energies to bear on the one point; then she went with earnest patience along the least known ways to some new part of the town, looking wistfully with dumb entreaty into people's faces; sometimes catching a glimpse of a figure which had a kind of momentary likeness to her child's, and following that figure with never wearying perseverance, till some light from shop or lamp showed the cold, strange face which was not her daughter's. once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck by her look of yearning woe, turned back and offered help, or asked her what she wanted. when so spoken to, she answered only, "you don't know a poor girl they call lizzie leigh, do you?" and when they denied all knowledge, she shook her head and went on again. i think they believed her to be crazy. but she never spoke first to any one. she sometimes took a few minutes' rest on the door-steps, and sometimes (very seldom) covered her face and cried; but she could not afford to lose time and chances in this way; while her eyes were blinded with tears, the lost one might pass by unseen. one evening, in the rich time of shortening autumn-days, will saw an old man, who, without being absolutely drunk, could not guide himself rightly along the foot-path, and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait by the idle boys of the neighborhood. for his father's sake, will regarded old age with tenderness, even when most degraded and removed from the stern virtues which dignified that father; so he took the old man home, and seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions that he drank nothing but water. the stranger tried to stiffen himself up into steadiness as he drew nearer home, as if there were some one there, for whose respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. his home was exquisitely clean and neat even in outside appearance; threshold, window, and window-sill, were outward signs of some spirit of purity within. will was rewarded for his attention by a bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame, from a young woman of twenty or thereabouts. she did not speak, or second her father's hospitable invitation to him to be seated. she seemed unwilling that a stranger should witness her father's attempts at stately sobriety, and will could not bear to stay and see her distress. but when the old man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, kept asking him to come again some other evening and see them, will sought her downcast eyes, and, though he could not read their vailed meaning, he answered, timidly, "if it's agreeable to every body, i'll come--and thank ye." but there was no answer from the girl to whom this speech was in reality addressed; and will left the house, liking her all the better for never speaking. he thought about her a great deal for the next day or two; he scolded himself for being so foolish as to think of her, and then fell to with fresh vigor, and thought of her more than ever. he tried to depreciate her; he told himself she was not pretty, and then made indignant answer that he liked her looks much better than any beauty of them all. he wished he was not so country-looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered; while she was like a lady, with her smooth, colorless complexion, her bright dark hair, and her spotless dress. pretty, or not pretty, she drew his footsteps toward her; he could not resist the impulse that made him wish to see her once more, and find out some fault which should unloose his heart from her unconscious keeping. but there she was, pure and maidenly as before. he sat and looked, answering her father at cross-purposes, while she drew more and more into the shadow of the chimney-corner out of sight. then the spirit that possessed him (it was not he himself, sure, that did so impudent a thing!) made him get up and carry the candle to a different place, under the pretence of giving her more light at her sewing, but, in reality, to be able to see her better; she could not stand this much longer, but jumped up, and said she must put her little niece to bed; and surely, there never was, before or since, so troublesome a child of two years old; for, though will staid an hour and a half longer, she never came down again. he won the father's heart, though, by his capacity as a listener, for some people are not at all particular, and, so that they themselves may talk on undisturbed, are not so unreasonable as to expect attention to what they say. will did gather this much, however, from the old man's talk. he had once been quite in a genteel line of business, but had failed for more money than any greengrocer he had heard of: at least, any who did not mix up fish and game with greengrocery proper. this grand failure seemed to have been the event of his life, and one on which he dwelt with a strange kind of pride. it appeared as if at present he rested from his past exertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended on his daughter, who kept a small school for very young children. but all these particulars will only remembered and understood, when he had left the house; at the time he heard them, he was thinking of susan. after he had made good his footing at mr. palmer's, he was not long, you may be sure, without finding some reason for returning again and again. he listened to her father, he talked to the little niece, but he looked at susan, both while he listened and while he talked. her father kept on insisting upon his former gentility, the details of which would have appeared very questionable to will's mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest susan had not thrown an inexplicable air of refinement over all she came near. she never spoke much: she was generally diligently at work; but when she moved, it was so noiselessly, and when she did speak, it was in so low and soft a voice, that silence, speech, motion, and stillness, alike seemed to remove her high above will's reach, into some saintly and inaccessible air of glory--high above his reach, even as she knew him! and, if she were made acquainted with the dark secret behind, of his sister's shame, which was kept ever present to his mind by his mother's nightly search among the outcast and forsaken, would not susan shrink away from him with loathing, as if he were tainted by the involuntary relationship? this was his dread; and thereupon followed a resolution that he would withdraw from her sweet company before it was too late. so he resisted internal temptation, and staid at home, and suffered and sighed. he became angry with his mother for her untiring patience in seeking for one who, he could not help hoping, was dead rather than alive. he spoke sharply to her, and received only such sad, deprecatory answers as made him reproach himself, and still more lose sight of peace of mind. this struggle could not last long without affecting his health; and tom, his sole companion through the long evenings, noticed his increasing languor, his restless irritability, with perplexed anxiety, and at last resolved to call his mother's attention to his brother's haggard, care-worn looks. she listened with a startled recollection of will's claims upon her love. she noticed his decreasing appetite, and half-checked sighs. "will, lad! what's come o'er thee?" said she to him, as he sat listlessly gazing into the fire. "there's naught the matter with me," said he, as if annoyed at her remark. "nay, lad, but there is." he did not speak again to contradict her; indeed she did not know if he had heard her, so unmoved did he look. "would'st like to go back to upclose farm?" asked she, sorrowfully. "it's just blackberrying time," said tom. will shook his head. she looked at him a while, as if trying to read that expression of despondency and trace it back to its source. "will and tom could go," said she; "i must stay here till i've found her, thou know'st," continued she, dropping her voice. he turned quickly round, and with the authority he at all times exercised over tom, bade him begone to bed. when tom had left the room he prepared to speak. chapter ii. "mother," then said will, "why will you keep on thinking she's alive? if she were but dead, we need never name her name again. we've never heard naught on her since father wrote her that letter; we never knew whether she got it or not. she'd left her place before then. many a one dies is--" "oh, my lad! dunnot speak so to me, or my heart will break outright," said his mother, with a sort of cry. then she calmed herself, for she yearned to persuade him to her own belief. "thou never asked, and thou'rt too like thy father for me to tell without asking--but it were all to be near lizzie's old place that i settled down on this side o' manchester; and the very day after we came, i went to her old missus, and asked to speak a word wi' her. i had a strong mind to cast it up to her, that she should ha' sent my poor lass away without telling on it to us first; but she were in black, and looked so sad i could na' find in my heart to threep it up. but i did ask her a bit about our lizzie. the master would have her turned away at a day's warning (he's gone to t'other place; i hope he'll meet wi' more mercy there than he showed our lizzie--i do); and when the missus asked her should she write to us, she says lizzie shook her head; and when she speered at her again, the poor lass went down on her knees, and begged her not, for she said it would break my heart (as it has done, will--god knows it has)," said the poor mother, choking with her struggle to keep down her hard, overmastering grief, "and her father would curse her--oh, god, teach me to be patient." she could not speak for a few minutes. "and the lass threatened, and said she'd go drown herself in the canal, if the missus wrote home--and so-- "well! i'd got a trace of my child--the missus thought she'd gone to th' workhouse to be nursed; and there i went--and there, sure enough, she had been--and they'd turned her out as soon as she were strong, and told her she were young enough to work--but whatten kind o' work would be open to her, lad, and her baby to keep?" will listened to his mother's tale with deep sympathy, not unmixed with the old bitter shame. but the opening of her heart had unlocked his, and after a while he spoke. "mother! i think i'd e'en better go home. tom can stay wi' thee. i know i should stay too, but i can not stay in peace so near--her--without craving to see her--susan palmer, i mean." "has the old mr. palmer thou telled me on a daughter?" asked mrs. leigh. "ay, he has. and i love her above a bit. and it's because i love her i want to leave manchester. that's all." mrs. leigh tried to understand this speech for some time, but found it difficult of interpretation. "why should'st thou not tell her thou lov's her? thou'rt a likely lad, and sure o' work. thou'lt have upclose at my death; and as for that i could let thee have it now, and keep mysel' by doing a bit of charring. it seems to me a very backward sort o' way of winning her to think of leaving manchester." "oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good--she's downright holy. she's never known a touch of sin; and can i ask her to marry me, knowing what we do about lizzie, and fearing worse! i doubt if one like her could ever care for me; but if she knew about my sister, it would put a gulf between us, and she'd shudder up at the thought of crossing it. you don't know how good she is, mother!" "will, will! if she's so good as thou say'st, she'll have pity on such as my lizzie. if she has no pity for such, she's a cruel pharisee, and thou'rt best without her." but he only shook his head, and sighed; and for the time the conversation dropped. but a new idea sprang up in mrs. leigh's head. she thought that she would go and see susan palmer, and speak up for will, and tell her the truth about lizzie; and according to her pity for the poor sinner, would she be worthy or unworthy of him. she resolved to go the very next afternoon, but without telling any one of her plan. accordingly she looked out the sunday clothes she had never before had the heart to unpack since she came to manchester, but which she now desired to appear in, in order to do credit to will. she put on her old-fashioned black mode bonnet, trimmed with real lace; her scarlet cloth cloak, which she had had ever since she was married; and always spotlessly clean, she set forth on her unauthorized embassy. she knew the palmers lived in crown-street, though where she had heard it she could not tell; and modestly asking her way, she arrived in the street about a quarter to four o'clock. she stopped to inquire the exact number, and the woman whom she addressed told her that susan palmer's school would not be loosed till four, and asked her to step in and wait until then at her house. "for," said she, smiling, "them that wants susan palmer wants a kind friend of ours; so we, in a manner, call cousins. sit down, missus, sit down. i'll wipe the chair, so that it shanna dirty your cloak. my mother used to wear them bright cloaks, and they're right gradely things again' a green field." "han ye known susan palmer long?" asked mrs. leigh, pleased with the admiration of her cloak. "ever since they comed to live in our street. our sally goes to her school." "whatten sort of a lass is she, for i ha' never seen her?" "well, as for looks, i can not say. it's so long since i first knowed her, that i've clean forgotten what i thought of her then. my master says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the heart. but may be it's not looks you're asking about. the best thing i can say of her looks is, that she's just one a stranger would stop in the street to ask help from if he needed it. all the little childer creeps as close as they can to her; she'll have as many as three or four hanging to her apron all at once." "is she cocket at all?" "cocket, bless you! you never saw a creature less set up in all your life. her father's cocket enough. no! she's not cocket any way. you've not heard much of susan palmer, i reckon, if you think she's cocket. she's just one to come quietly in, and do the very thing most wanted; little things, maybe, that any one could do, but that few would think on, for another. she'll bring her thimble wi' her, and mend up after the childer o' nights--and she writes all betty harker's letters to her grandchild out at service--and she's in nobody's way, and that's a great matter, i take it. here's the childer running past! school is loosed. you'll find her now, missus, ready to hear and to help. but we none on us frab her by going near her in schooltime." poor mrs. leigh's heart began to beat, and she could almost have turned round and gone home again. her country breeding had made her shy of strangers, and this susan palmer appeared to her like a real born lady by all accounts. so she knocked with a timid feeling at the indicated door, and when it was opened, dropped a simple curtsey without speaking. susan had her little niece in her arms, curled up with fond endearment against her breast, but she put her gently down to the ground, and instantly placed a chair in the best corner of the room for mrs. leigh, when she told her who she was. "it's not will as has asked me to come," said the mother, apologetically, "i'd a wish just to speak to you myself!" susan colored up to her temples, and stooped to pick up the little toddling girl. in a minute or two mrs. leigh began again. "will thinks you would na respect us if you knew all; but i think you could na help feeling for us in the sorrow god has put upon us; so i just put on my bonnet, and came off unknownst to the lads. every one says you're very good, and that the lord has keeped you from falling from his ways; but maybe you've never yet been tried and tempted as some is. i'm perhaps speaking too plain, but my heart's welly broken, and i can't be choice in my words as them who are happy can. well, now! i'll tell you the truth. will dreads you to hear it, but i'll just tell it you. you mun know"--but here the poor woman's words failed her, and she could do nothing but sit rocking herself backward and forward, with sad eyes, straight-gazing into susan's face, as if they tried to tell the tale of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter. those wretched stony eyes forced the tears down susan's cheeks, and, as if this sympathy gave the mother strength, she went on in a low voice, "i had a daughter once, my heart's darling. her father thought i made too much on her, and that she'd grow marred staying at home; so he said she mun go among strangers, and learn to rough it. she were young, and liked the thought of seeing a bit of the world; and her father heard on a place in manchester. well! i'll not weary you. that poor girl were led astray; and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of her father's was sent back by her missus, saying she'd left her place, or, to speak right, the master had turned her into the street soon as he had heard of her condition--and she not seventeen!" she now cried aloud; and susan wept too. the little child looked up into their faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to whimper and wail. susan took it softly up, and hiding her face in its little neck, tried to restrain her tears, and think of comfort for the mother. at last she said: "where is she now?" "lass! i dunnot know," said mrs. leigh, checking her sobs to communicate this addition to her distress. "mrs. lomax telled me she went--" "mrs. lomax--what mrs. lomax?" "her as lives in brabazon-street. she telled me my poor wench went to the workhouse fra there. i'll not speak again' the dead; but if her father would but ha' letten me--but he were one who had no notion--no, i'll not say that; best say naught. he forgave her on his death-bed. i dare say i did na go th' right way to work." "will you hold the child for me one instant?" said susan. "ay, if it will come to me. childer used to be fond on me till i got the sad look on my face that scares them, i think." but the little girl clung to susan; so she carried it up-stairs with her. mrs. leigh sat by herself--how long she did not know. susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby-clothes. "you must listen to me a bit, and not think too much about what i'm going to tell you. nanny is not my niece, nor any kin to me that i know of. i used to go out working by the day. one night, as i came home, i thought some woman was following me; i turned to look. the woman, before i could see her face (for she turned it to one side), offered me something. i held out my arms by instinct: she dropped a bundle into them with a bursting sob that went straight to my heart. it was a baby. i looked round again; but the woman was gone. she had run away as quick as lightning. there was a little packet of clothes--very few--and as if they were made out of its mother's gowns, for they were large patterns to buy for a baby. i was always fond of babies; and i had not my wits about me, father says; for it was very cold, and when i'd seen as well as i could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in the street, i brought it in and warmed it. father was very angry when he came, and said he'd take it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted me sadly about it. but when morning came i could not bear to part with it; it had slept in my arms all night; and i've heard what workhouse bringing is. so i told father i'd give up going out working, and stay at home and keep school, if i might only keep the baby; and after a while, he said if i earned enough for him to have his comforts, he'd let me; but he's never taken to her. now, don't tremble so--i've but a little more to tell--and may be i'm wrong in telling it; but i used to work next door to mrs. lomax's, in brabazon-street, and the servants were all thick together; and i heard about bessy (they called her) being sent away. i don't know that ever i saw her; but the time would be about fitting to this child's age, and i've sometimes fancied it was hers. and now, will you look at the little clothes that came with her--bless her!" but mrs. leigh had fainted. the strange joy and shame, and gushing love for the little child had overpowered her; it was some time before susan could bring her round. there she was all trembling, sick impatience to look at the little frocks. among them was a slip of paper which susan had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle. on it was scrawled in a round stiff hand: "call her anne. she does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice. god bless you and forgive me." the writing was no clew at all; the name "anne," common though it was, seemed something to build upon. but mrs. leigh recognized one of the frocks instantly, as being made out of part of a gown that she and her daughter had bought together in rochdale. she stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing over susan's bent head. "god bless you, and show you his mercy in your need, as you have shown it to this little child." she took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again, "nanny, nanny, my little nanny." at last the child was soothed, and looked in her face and smiled back again. "it has her eyes," said she to susan. "i never saw her to the best of my knowledge i think it must be hers by the frock. but where can she be?" "god knows," said mrs. leigh; "i dare not think she's dead. i'm sure she isn't." "no! she's not dead. every now and then a little packet is thrust in under our door, with may be two half-crowns in it; once it was half-a-sovereign. altogether i've got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped up for nanny. i never touch it, but i've often thought the poor mother feels near to god when she brings this money. father wanted to set the policeman to watch, but i said, no, for i was afraid if she was watched she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her in, i could not find in my heart to do it." "oh, if we could but find her! i'd take her in my arms, and we'd just lie down and die together." "nay, don't speak so!" said susan gently, "for all that's come and gone, she may turn right at last. mary magdalen did, you know." "eh! but i were nearer right about thee than will. he thought you would never look on him again, if you knew about lizzie. but thou'rt not a pharisee." "i'm sorry he thought i could be so hard," said susan in a low voice, and coloring up. then mrs. leigh was alarmed, and in her motherly anxiety, she began to fear lest she had injured will in susan's estimation. "you see will thinks so much of you--gold would not be good enough for you to walk on, in his eye. he said you'd never look at him as he was, let alone his being brother to my poor wench. he loves you so, it makes him think meanly on every thing belonging to himself, as not fit to come near ye--but he's a good lad, and a good son--thou'lt be a happy woman if thou'lt have him--so don't let my words go against him; don't!" but susan hung her head and made no answer. she had not known until now, that will thought so earnestly and seriously about her; and even now she felt afraid that mrs. leigh's words promised her too much happiness, and that they could not be true. at any rate the instinct of modesty made her shrink from saying any thing which might seem like a confession of her own feelings to a third person. accordingly she turned the conversation on the child. "i'm sure he could not help loving nanny," said she. "there never was such a good little darling; don't you think she'd win his heart if he knew she was his niece, and perhaps bring him to think kindly on his sister?" "i dunnot know," said mrs. leigh, shaking her head. "he has a turn in his eye like his father, that makes me--. he's right down good though. but you see i've never been a good one at managing folk; one severe look turns me sick, and then i say just the wrong thing, i'm so fluttered. now i should like nothing better than to take nancy home with me, but tom knows nothing but that his sister is dead, and i've not the knack of speaking rightly to will. i dare not do it, and that's the truth. but you mun not think badly of will. he's so good hissel, that he can't understand how any one can do wrong; and, above all, i'm sure he loves you dearly." "i don't think i could part with nancy," said susan, anxious to stop this revelation of will's attachment to herself. "he'll come round to her soon; he can't fail; and i'll keep a sharp look-out after the poor mother, and try and catch her the next time she comes with her little parcels of money." "ay, lass! we mun get hold of her; my lizzie. i love thee dearly for thy kindness to her child; but, if thou can'st catch her for me, i'll pray for thee when i'm too near my death to speak words; and while i live, i'll serve thee next to her--she mun come first, thou know'st. god bless thee, lass. my heart is lighter by a deal than it was when i comed in. them lads will be looking for me home, and i mun go, and leave this little sweet one," kissing it. "if i can take courage, i'll tell will all that has come and gone between us two. he may come and see thee, mayn't he?" "father will be very glad to see him, i'm sure," replied susan. the way in which this was spoken satisfied mrs. leigh's anxious heart that she had done will no harm by what she had said; and with many a kiss to the little one, and one more fervent tearful blessing on susan, she went homeward. chapter iii. that night mrs. leigh stopped at home; that only night for many months. even tom, the scholar, looked up from his books in amazement; but then he remembered that will had not been well, and that his mother's attention having been called to the circumstance, it was only natural she should stay to watch him. and no watching could be more tender, or more complete. her loving eyes seemed never averted from his face; his grave, sad, care-worn face. when tom went to bed the mother left her seat, and going up to will where he sat looking at the fire, but not seeing it, she kissed his forehead, and said, "will! lad, i've been to see susan palmer!" she felt the start under her hand which was placed on his shoulder, but he was silent for a minute or two. then he said, "what took you there, mother?" "why, my lad, it was likely i should wish to see one you cared for; i did not put myself forward. i put on my sunday clothes, and tried to behave as yo'd ha liked me. at least i remember trying at first; but after, i forgot all." she rather wished that he would question her as to what made her forget all. but he only said, "how was she looking, mother?" "will, thou seest i never set eyes on her before; but she's a good, gentle-looking creature; and i love her dearly as i have reason to." will looked up with momentary surprise; for his mother was too shy to be usually taken with strangers. but after all it was natural in this case, for who could look at susan without loving her? so still he did not ask any questions, and his poor mother had to take courage, and try again to introduce the subject near to her heart. but how? "will!" said she (jerking it out, in sudden despair of her own powers to lead to what she wanted to say), "i've telled her all." "mother! you've ruined me," said he, standing up, and standing opposite to her with a stern, white look of affright on his face. "no! my own dear lad; dunnot look so scared, i have not ruined you!" she exclaimed, placing her two hands on his shoulders and looking fondly into his face. "she's not one to harden her heart against a mother's sorrow. my own lad, she's too good for that. she's not one to judge and scorn the sinner. she's too deep read in her new testament for that. take courage, will; and thou mayst, for i watched her well, though it is not for one woman to let out another's secret. sit thee down, lad, for thou look'st very white." he sat down. his mother drew a stool toward him, and sat at his feet. "did you tell her about lizzie, then?" asked he, hoarse and low. "i did, i telled her all; and she fell a crying over my deep sorrow, and the poor wench's sin. and then a light comed into her face, trembling and quivering with some new, glad thought; and what dost thou think it was, will, lad? nay, i'll not misdoubt but that thy heart will give thanks as mine did, afore god and his angels, for her great goodness. that little nanny is not her niece, she's our lizzie's own child, my little grandchild." she could no longer restrain her tears, and they fell hot and fast, but still she looked into his face. "did she know it was lizzie's child? i do not comprehend," said he, flushing red. "she knows now: she did not at first, but took the little helpless creature in, out of her own pitiful, loving heart, guessing only that it was the child of shame, and she's worked for it, and kept it, and tended it ever sin' it were a mere baby, and loves it fondly. will! won't you love it?" asked she, beseechingly. he was silent for an instant; then he said, "mother, i'll try. give me time, for all these things startle me. to think of susan having to do with such a child!" "ay, will! and to think (as may be yet) of susan having to do with the child's mother! for she is tender and pitiful, and speaks hopefully of my lost one, and will try and find her for me, when she comes, as she does sometimes, to thrust money under the door for her baby. think of that will. here's susan, good and pure as the angels in heaven, yet, like them, full of hope and mercy, and one who, like them, will rejoice over her as repents. will, my lad, i'm not afeared of you now, and i must speak, and you must listen. i am your mother, and i dare to command you, because i know i am in the right and that god is on my side. if he should lead the poor wandering lassie to susan's door, and she comes back crying and sorrowful, led by that good angel to us once more, thou shalt never say a casting-up word to her about her sin, but be tender and helpful toward one 'who was lost and is found,' so may god's blessing rest on thee, and so mayst thou lead susan home as thy wife." she stood, no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, but firm and dignified, as if the interpreter of god's will. her manner was so unusual and solemn, that it overcame all will's pride and stubbornness. he rose softly while she was speaking, and bent his head as if in reverence at her words, and the solemn injunction which they conveyed. when she had spoken, he said in so subdued a voice that she was almost surprised at the sound, "mother, i will." "i may be dead and gone--but all the same--thou wilt take home the wandering sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead her to her father's house. my lad! i can speak no more; i'm turned very faint." he placed her in a chair; he ran for water. she opened her eyes and smiled. "god bless you, will. oh! i am so happy. it seems as if she were found; my heart is so filled with gladness." that night, mr. palmer staid out late and long. susan was afraid that he was at his old haunts and habits--getting tipsy at some public-house; and this thought oppressed her, even though she had so much to make her happy, in the consciousness that will loved her. she sat up long, and then she went to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she could for her father's return. she looked at the little, rosy sleeping girl who was her bed-fellow, with redoubled tenderness, and with many a prayerful thought. the little arms entwined her neck as she lay down, for nanny was a light sleeper, and was conscious that she, who was loved with all the power of that sweet childish heart, was near her, and by her, although she was too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words. and by-and-by she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the windows, and next the door-fastenings, with many a loud, incoherent murmur. the little innocent twined around her seemed all the sweeter and more lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring father; and presently he called aloud for a light; she had left matches and all arranged as usual on the dresser, but, fearful of some accident from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to his assistance. alas! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily awakened sleeper. nanny missed her darling susy, and terrified at being left alone in the vast, mysterious darkness, which had no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered in her little night-gown toward the door. there was a light below, and there was susy and safety! so she went onward two steps toward the steep, abrupt stairs; and then dazzled with sleepiness, she stood, she wavered, she fell! down on her head, on the stone floor she fell! susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words; but her white lids covered, up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came out of the pale lips. the warm tears that rained down, did not awaken her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on susan's knee. susan went sick with terror. she carried her up-stairs, and laid her tenderly in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling fingers. her father was asleep on the settle down stairs; and useless, and worse than useless if awake. but susan flew out of the door, and down the quiet, resounding street, toward the nearest doctor's house. quickly she went; but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by some sudden terror. susan rung wildly at the night-bell--the shadow crouched near. the doctor looked out from an up-stairs window. "a little child has fallen down stairs at no. , crown-street, and is very ill--dying i'm afraid. please, for god's sake, sir, come directly. no. , crown-street." "i'll be there directly," said he, and shut the window. "for that god you have just spoken about--for his sake--tell me are you susan palmer? is it my child that lies a-dying?" said the shadow, springing forward, and clutching poor susan's arm. "it is a little child of two years old--i do not know whose it is; i love it as my own. come with me, whoever you are; come with me." the two sped along the silent streets--as silent as the night were they. they entered the house; susan snatched up the light, and carried it up-stairs. the other followed. she stood with wild glaring eyes by the bed side, never looking at susan, but hungrily gazing at the little, white, still child. she stooped down, and put her hand tight on her own heart, as if to still its beating, and bent her ear to the pale lips. whatever the result was, she did not speak; but threw off the bed-clothes wherewith susan had tenderly covered up the little creature, and felt its left side. then she threw up her arms with a cry of wild despair. "she is dead! she is dead!" she looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that for an instant susan was terrified--the next, the holy god had put courage into her heart, and her pure arms were round that guilty, wretched creature, and her tears were falling fast and warm upon her breast. but she was thrown off with violence. "you killed her--you slighted her--you let her fall down those stairs! you killed her!" susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and gazing at the mother with her clear, sweet, angel-eyes, said, mournfully, "i would have laid down my life for her." "oh, the murder is on my soul!" exclaimed the wild, bereaved mother, with the fierce impetuosity of one who has none to love her and to be beloved, regard to whom might teach self-restraint. "hush!" said susan, her finger on her lips. "here is the doctor. god may suffer her to live." the poor mother turned sharp round. the doctor mounted the stair. ah! that mother was right; the little child was really dead and gone. and when he confirmed her judgment, the mother fell down in a fit. susan, with her deep grief had to forget herself, and forget her darling (her charge for years), and question the doctor what she must do with the poor wretch, who lay on the floor in such extreme of misery. "she is the mother!" said she. "why did not she take better care of her child?" asked he, almost angrily. but susan only said, "the little child slept with me; and it was i that left her." "i will go back and make up a composing draught; and while i am away you must get her to bed." susan took out some of her own clothes, and softly undressed the stiff, powerless, form. there was no other bed in the house but the one in which her father slept. so she tenderly lifted the body of her darling; and was going to take it down stairs, but the mother opened her eyes, and seeing what she was about, she said, "i am not worthy to touch her, i am so wicked; i have spoken to you as i never should have spoken; but i think you are very good; may i have my own child to lie in my arms for a little while?" her voice was so strange a contrast to what it had been before she had gone into the fit that susan hardly recognized it; it was now so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading, the features too had lost their fierce expression, and were almost as placid as death. susan could not speak, but she carried the little child; and laid it in its mother's arms; then as she looked at them, something overpowered her, and she knelt down, crying aloud: "oh, my god, my god, have mercy on her, and forgive and comfort her." but the mother kept smiling, and stroking the little face, murmuring soft, tender words, as if it were alive; she was going mad, susan thought; but she prayed on, and on, and ever still she prayed with streaming eyes. the doctor came with the draught. the mother took it, with docile unconsciousness of its nature as medicine. the doctor sat by her; and soon she fell asleep. then he rose softly, and beckoning susan to the door, he spoke to her there. "you must take the corpse out of her arms. she will not awake. that draught will make her sleep for many hours. i will call before noon again. it is now daylight. good-by." susan shut him out; and then gently extricating the dead child from its mother's arms, she could not resist making her own quiet moan over her darling. she tried to learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale before her. "not all the scalding tears of care shall wash away that vision fair not all the thousand thoughts that rise, not all the sights that dim her eyes. shall e'er usurp the place of that little angel-face." and then she remembered what remained to be done. she saw that all was right in the house; her father was still dead asleep on the settle, in spite of all the noise of the night. she went out through the quiet streets, deserted still, although it was broad daylight, and to where the leighs lived. mrs. leigh, who kept her country hours, was opening her window-shutters. susan took her by the arm, and, without speaking, went into the house-place. there she knelt down before the astonished mrs. leigh, and cried as she had never done before; but the miserable night had overpowered her, and she who had gone through so much calmly, now that the pressure seemed removed, could not find the power to speak. "my poor dear! what has made thy heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-ons? speak and tell me. nay, cry on, poor wench, if thou canst not speak yet. it will ease the heart, and then thou canst tell me." "nanny is dead!" said susan. "i left her to go to father, and she fell down stairs, and never breathed again. oh, that's my sorrow but i've more to tell. her mother is come--is in our house. come and see if it's your lizzie." mrs. leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her things, and went with susan in dizzy haste back to crown-street. chapter iv. as they entered the house in crown-street, they perceived that the door would not open freely on its hinges, and susan instinctively looked behind to see the cause of the obstruction. she immediately recognized the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a scrap of newspaper, and evidently containing money. she stooped and picked it up. "look!" said she, sorrowfully, "the mother was bringing this for her child last night." but mrs. leigh did not answer. so near to the ascertaining if it were her lost child or no, she could not be arrested, but pressed onward with trembling steps and a beating, fluttering heart. she entered the bedroom, dark and still. she took no heed of the little corpse, over which susan paused, but she went straight to the bed, and withdrawing the curtain, saw lizzie--but not the former lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant, and undimmed. this lizzie was old before her time; her beauty was gone; deep lines of care, and alas! of want (or thus the mother imagined) were printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and smooth, when last she gladdened her mother's eyes. even in her sleep she bore the look of woe and despair which was the prevalent expression of her face by day; even in her sleep she had forgotten how to smile. but all these marks of the sin and sorrow she had passed through only made her mother love her the more. she stood looking at her with greedy eyes, which seemed as though no gazing could satisfy their longing; and at last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside the bed-clothes. no touch disturbed the sleeper; the mother need not have laid the hand so gently down upon the counterpane. there was no sign of life, save only now and then a deep, sob-like sigh. mrs. leigh sat down beside the bed, and, still holding back the curtain, looked on and on, as if she could never be satisfied. susan would fain have staid by her darling one; but she had many calls upon her time and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, to be given up to that of others. all seemed to devolve the burden of their cares on her. her father, ill-humored from his last night's intemperance, did not scruple to reproach her with being the cause of little nanny's death; and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, she could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, he wounded her even more by his injudicious attempts at comfort: for he said it was as well the child was dead; it was none of theirs, and why should they be troubled with it? susan wrung her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and implored him to forbear. then she had to take all requisite steps for the coroner's inquest; she had to arrange for the dismissal of her school; she had to summon a little neighbor, and send his willing feet on a message to william leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed of his mother's whereabouts, and of the whole state of affairs. she asked her messenger to tell him to come and speak to her--that his mother was at her house. she was thankful that her father sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest coach-stand, and to relate as many of the night's adventures as he knew; for as yet he was in ignorance of the watcher and the watched, who silently passed away the hours up-stairs. at dinner-time will came. he looked red, glad, impatient, excited. susan stood calm and white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing straight into his. "will," said she, in a low, quiet voice, "your sister is up-stairs." "my sister!" said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing his glad look in one of gloom. susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but she went on as calm to all appearance as ever. "she was little nanny's mother, as perhaps you know. poor little nanny was killed last night by a fall down stairs." all the calmness was gone; all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of every effort. she sat down, and hid her face from him, and cried bitterly. he forgot every thing but the wish, the longing to comfort her. he put his arm round her waist, and bent over her. but all he could say was, "oh, susan, how can i comfort you? don't take on so--pray, don't!" he never changed the words, but the tone varied every time he spoke. at last she seemed to regain her power over herself, and she wiped her eyes, and once more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze. "your sister was near the house. she came in on hearing my words to the doctor. she is asleep now, and your mother is watching her. i wanted to tell you all myself. would you like to see your mother?" "no!" said he. "i would rather see none but thee. mother told me thou knew'st all." his eyes were downcast in their shame. but the holy and pure did not lower or vail her eyes. she said, "yes, i know all--all but her sufferings. think what they must have been!" he made answer low and stern, "she deserved them all--every jot." "in the eye of god, perhaps she does. he is the judge: we are not." "oh," she said, with a sudden burst, "will leigh, i have thought so well of you; don't go and make me think you cruel and hard. goodness is not goodness unless there is mercy and tenderness with it. there is your mother who has been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing over her child--think of your mother." "i do think of her," said he. "i remember the promise i gave her last night. thou should'st give me time. i would do right in time. i never think it o'er in quiet. but i will do what is right and fitting, never fear. thou hast spoken out very plain to me, and misdoubted me, susan; i love thee so, that thy words cut me. if i did hang back a bit from making sudden promises, it was because, not even for love of thee, would i say what i was not feeling; and at first i could not feel all at once as thou would'st have me. but i'm not cruel and hard; for if i had been, i should na' have grieved as i have done." he made as if he were going away; and indeed he did feel he would rather think it over in quiet. but susan, grieved at her incautious words, which had all the appearance of harshness, went a step or two nearer--paused--and then, all over blushes, said in a low, soft whisper, "oh, will! i beg your pardon. i am very sorry--won't you forgive me?" she who had always drawn back, and been so reserved, said this in the very softest manner; with eyes now uplifted beseechingly, now dropped to the ground. her sweet confusion told more than words could do; and will turned back, all joyous in his certainty of being beloved, and took her in his arms and kissed her. "my own susan!" he said. meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above. it was late in the afternoon before she awoke, for the sleeping draught had been very powerful. the instant she awoke, her eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a gaze as unflinching as if she were fascinated. mrs. leigh did not turn away, nor move. for it seemed as if motion would unlock the stony command over herself which, while so perfectly still, she was enabled to preserve. but by-and-by lizzie cried out, in a piercing voice of agony, "mother, don't look at me! i have been so wicked!" and instantly she hid her face, and groveled among the bed-clothes, and lay like one dead--so motionless was she. mrs. leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most soothing tones. "lizzie, dear, don't speak so. i'm thy mother, darling; don't be afeard of me. i never left off loving thee, lizzie. i was always a-thinking of thee. thy father forgave thee afore he died." (there was a little start here, but no sound was heard). "lizzie, lass, i'll do aught for thee; i'll live for thee; only don't be afeard of me. whate'er thou art or hast been, we'll ne'er speak on't. we'll leave th' oud times behind us, and go back to the upclose farm. i but left it to find thee, my lass; and god has led me to thee. blessed be his name. and god is good, too, lizzie. thou hast not forgot thy bible, i'll be bound, for thou wert always a scholar. i'm no reader, but i learnt off them texts to comfort me a bit, and i've said them many a time a day to myself. lizzie, lass, don't hide thy head so, it's thy mother as is speaking to thee. thy little child clung to me only yesterday; and if it's gone to be an angel, it will speak to god for thee. nay, don't sob a that 'as; thou shalt have it again in heaven; i know thou'lt strive to get there, for thy little nancy's sake--and listen! i'll tell thee god's promises to them that are penitent; only don't be afeard." mrs. leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, while she repeated every tender and merciful text she could remember. she could tell from the breathing that her daughter was listening; but she was so dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, that she could not go on speaking. it was all she could do to keep from crying aloud. at last she heard her daughter's voice. "where have they taken her to?" she asked. "she is down stairs. so quiet, and peaceful, and happy she looks." "could she speak? oh, if god--if i might but have heard her little voice! mother, i used to dream of it. may i see her once again--oh, mother, if i strive very hard, and god is very merciful, and i go to heaven, i shall not know her--i shall not know my own again--she will shun me as a stranger, and cling to susan palmer and to you. oh woe! oh woe!" she shook with exceeding sorrow. in her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and tried to read mrs. leigh's thoughts through her looks. and when she saw those aged eyes brimming full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, she threw her arms round the faithful mother's neck, and wept there as she had done in many a childish sorrow, but with a deeper, a more wretched grief. her mother hushed her on her breast; and lulled her as if she were a baby; and she grew still and quiet. they sat thus for a long, long time. at last susan palmer came up with some tea and bread and butter for mrs. leigh. she watched the mother feed her sick, unwilling child, with every fond inducement to eat which she could devise; they neither of them took notice of susan's presence. that night they lay in each other's arms; but susan slept on the ground beside them. they took the little corpse (the little unconscious sacrifice, whose early calling-home had reclaimed her poor, wandering mother), to the hills, which in her life-time she had never seen. they dared not lay her by the stern grandfather in milne-row church-yard, but they bore her to a lone moorland grave-yard, where long ago the quakers used to bury their dead. they laid her there on the sunny slope, where the earliest spring-flowers blow. will and susan live at the upclose farm. mrs. leigh and lizzie dwell in a cottage so secluded that, until you drop into the very hollow where it is placed, you do not see it. tom is a schoolmaster in rochdale, and he and will help to support their mother. i only know that, if the cottage be hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow in the whole upland is heard there--every call of suffering or of sickness for help, is listened to by a sad, gentle-looking woman, who rarely smiles (and when she does, her smile is more sad than other people's tears), but who comes out of her seclusion whenever there's a shadow in any household. many hearts bless lizzie leigh, but she--she prays always and ever for forgiveness--such forgiveness as may enable her to see her child once more. mrs. leigh is quiet and happy. lizzie is to her eyes something precious--as the lost piece of silver--found once more. susan is the bright one who brings sunshine to all. children grow around her and call her blessed. one is called nanny. her, lizzie often takes to the sunny grave-yard in the up-lands, and while the little creature gathers the daisies, and makes chains, lizzie sits by a little grave, and weeps bitterly. steam. how wonderful are the revolutions which steam has wrought in the world! the diamond, we are told, is but pure carbon; and the dream of the alchymist has long been to disentomb the gem in its translucent purity from the sooty mass dug up from the coal-field. but if the visionary has failed to extricate the fair spirit from its earthly cerements, the practical philosopher has produced from the grimy lump a gem, in comparison to which the diamond is valueless--has evoked a titanic power, before which the gods of ancient fable could not hold their heaven for an hour; a power wielding the thunderbolt of jove, the sledge of vulcan, the club of hercules; which takes to itself the talaria of mercury, the speed of iris, and the hundred arms of briareus. ay, the carbon gives us, indeed, the diamond after all; the white and feathery vapor that hisses from the panting tube, is the priceless pearl of the modern utilitarian. without steam man is nothing--a mere zoological specimen--lord monboddo's ape, without the caudal elongation of the vertebræ. with steam, man is every thing. a creature that unites in himself the nature and the power of every animal; more wonderful than the ornithorhynchus--he is fish, flesh, and fowl. he can traverse the illimitable ocean with the gambolings of the porpoise, and the snort of the whale; rove through the regions of the earth with the speed of the antelope, and the patient strength of the camel; he essays to fly through the air with the steam-wing of the aeronauticon, though as yet his pinions are not well fledged, and his efforts have been somewhat icarian. and, albeit our own steam aeronavigation is chiefly confined to those involuntary gambols (as sterne happily called sancho's blanket tossing), which we now and then take at the instance of an exploding boiler, yet may we have good hope that our grandchildren will be able to "take the wings of the morning," and sip their cup of tea genuine at pekin. he is more than human, and little less than divinity. were aristotle alive, he would define the genus "homo"--neither as "animal ridens," nor yet "animal sentiens," but "animal vaporans." true it is, doubtless, that man alone can enjoy his joke. he hath his laugh, when the monkey can but grin and the ape jabber--his thinking he shares with the dog and the elephant; but who is there that can "get up the steam" but man? "man," say we, "is an animal that vaporeth!" and we will wager one of stephenson's patent high-pressure engines again our cook's potato-steamer, that dr. whately will affirm our definition.--_dublin university magazine._ [from the ladies' companion.] papers on water.--no. . why is hard water unfit for domestic purposes? few subjects have attracted more attention among sanitary reformers, than the necessity of obtaining a copious supply of water to the dwellers in large cities. experience has shown that the supply should be at least twenty gallons daily for each inhabitant, although forty gallons are necessary to carry out to the full extent all the sanitary improvements deemed desirable for the well-being of a population. but in looking to quantity of supply, quality has been thought of less importance; there could not be a more gross error, or one more fatal to civic economy and domestic comfort. as we are anxious to instruct the readers of this journal in the science of every-day life, we propose to consider the subject of water-supply in some detail, and in the present article to explain the serious inconveniences which result from an injudicious selection of hard water for domestic purposes. the water found in springs, brooks, and rivers, has its primary origin in the rain of the district, unless there should happen to be some accidental infiltration from the sea or other great natural reservoirs. this rain, falling on the upper soil, either runs off in streams, or, percolating through it and the porous beds beneath, gushes out in the form of springs wherever it meets with an impervious bed which refuses it a passage; pits sunk down to the latter detect it there, and these form the ordinary wells. in its passage through the pervious rocks, it takes up soluble impurities, varying in their amount and character with the nature of the geological formations, these impurities being either mineral, vegetable, or animal matter. the mineral ingredients may be chalk, gypsum, common salt, and different other compounds but it is the earthy salts generally which impress peculiar qualities on the water. the salts of lime and magnesia communicate to water the quality termed _hardness_, a property which every one understands, but which it would be very difficult to describe. by far the most common giver of hardness is chalk, or, as chemists term it, carbonate of lime; a substance not soluble in pure water, but readily so in water containing carbonic acid. rain water always contains this acid, and is, therefore, a solvent for the chalk disseminated in the different geological formations through which it percolates. gypsum, familiarly known as plaster of paris, and termed sulphate of lime by chemists, is also extensively diffused in rocks, and being itself soluble in water, becomes a very common hardening ingredient, though not of such frequent occurrence as chalk. any earthy salt, such as chalk or gypsum, decomposes soap, and prevents its action as a detergent. soap consists of an oily acid combined generally with soda. now, when this is added to water containing lime, that earth unites with the oily acid, forming an insoluble soap, of no use as a detergent; this insoluble lime-soap is the curd which appears in hard water during washing with soap. hard water is of no use as a cleanser, until all the lime has been removed by uniting with the oily acid of the soap. every hundred gallons of thames water destroy in this way thirty ounces of soap before becoming a detergent. but as this is an enormous waste, the dwellers in towns, supplied with hard water, resort to other methods of washing, so as to economize soap. if our readers in london observe their habits in washing, they will perceive that the principal quantity of the water is used by them not as a cleanser, but merely for the purposes of rinsing off the very sparing amount employed for detergent purposes. in london, we do not wash ourselves _in_ but _out_ of the basin. a small quantity of water is taken on the hands and saturated with soap so as to form a lather; the ablution is now made with this quantity, and the water in the basin is only used to rinse it off. the process of washing with soft water is entirely different, the whole quantity being applied as a detergent. to illustrate this difference an experiment may be made, by washing the hands alternately in rain and then in hard water, such as that supplied to london; and the value of the soft water for the purposes of washing will be at once recognized. even without soap, the soft water moistens the hand, while hard water flows off, just as if the skin had been smeared with oil. now, although the soap may be economized in personal ablution by the uncomfortable method here described, it is impossible to obtain this economy in the washing of linen. in this case, the whole of the water must be saturated with soap before it is available. soda is, to a certain extent, substituted with a view to economy, as much as £ , worth of soda being annually used in the metropolis to compensate for the hard quality of the water; and, perhaps, as an approximative calculation, £ , worth of soap is annually wasted without being useful as a detergent. this enormous tax on the community results from the hardness both of the well and river water; the former being generally much harder than the latter. but this expense, large as it may seem, is not the only consequence of a bad water supply. the labor required to wash with hard water is very much greater than that necessary when it is soft, this labor being represented in the excessive charges for washing. in fact, extraordinary as it may appear, it has recently been shown in evidence before the general board of health, that the washerwoman's interest in the community is actually greater than that of the cotton-spinner, with all his enormous capital. an instance of this will suffice to show our meaning: a gentleman buys one dozen shirts at a cost of £ , three of these are washed every week, the charge being fourpence each, making an annual account of £ _s._ the set of shirts, with careful management, lasts for three years, and has cost in washing £ _s._ the cotton-spinner's interest in the shirts and that of the shirt-maker's combined, did not exceed £ , while the washerwoman's interest is nearly double. a considerable portion of this amount is unavoidable; but a very large part is due to the excessive charges for washing rendered necessary by the waste of soap and increased labor required for cleansing. a family in london, with an annual income of £ , spends about one-twelfth of the amount, or £ , in the expenses of the laundry. on an average, every person in london, rich and poor, spends one shilling per week, or fifty-two shillings a year for washing. hence, at least five million two hundred thousand pounds is the annual amount expended in the metropolis alone for this purpose. yet, large as this amount is--and it matters not whether it be represented in the labors of household washing or that of the professed laundress--it is obvious that the greatest part of it is expended in actual labor, for the washerwoman is rarely a rich or even a thriving person. hence, it follows that this labor, barely remunerative as it is, must be made excessive from some extraneous cause; for it is found by experience that one-half the charge is ample compensation in a country district supplied with soft water. the tear and wear of clothes by the system necessary for washing in hard water, is very important in the economical consideration of the question. the difference in this respect, between hard and soft water, is very striking. it has been calculated that the extra cost to ladies in london in the one article of collars, by the unnecessary tear and wear, as compared with country districts, is not less than, but probably much exceeds, £ , . we now proceed to draw attention to the inconvenience of hard water in cooking. it is well known that greens, peas, french beans, and other green vegetables, lose much of their delicate color by being boiled in hard water. they not only become yellow, but assume a shriveled and disagreeable appearance, losing much of their delicacy to the taste. for making tea the evil is still more obvious. it is extremely difficult to obtain a good infusion of tea with hard water, however much may be wasted in the attempt. we endeavor to overcome the difficulty by the addition of soda, but the tea thus made is always inferior. one reason of this is, that it is difficult to adjust the quantity of the soda. tea contains nearly per cent. of cheese or casein, and this dissolves in water rendered alkaline by soda; and although the nutritious qualities are increased by this solution, the delicacy of the flavor is impaired. the water commonly used in london requires, at the very least, one-fifth more tea to produce an infusion of the same strength as that obtained by soft water. this, calculated on the whole amount of tea consumed in london, resolves itself into a pecuniary consideration of great magnitude. the effect of hard water upon the health of the lower animals is very obvious. horses, sheep, and pigeons, refuse it whenever they can obtain a supply of soft water. they prefer the muddiest pool of the latter to the most brilliant and sparkling spring of the former. in all of them it produces colic, and sometimes more serious diseases. the coats of horses drinking hard water soon become rough, and stare, and they quickly fall out of condition. it is not, however, known that it exerts similar influences upon the health of man, although analogy would lead us to expect that a beverage unsuited to the lower animals can not be favorable to the human constitution. persons with tender skins can not wash in hard water, because the insoluble salts left by evaporation produce an intolerable irritation. in order to simplify the explanation of the action of hard water, attention has been confined to that possessing lime. but hard waters frequently contain magnesia, and in that case a very remarkable phenomenon attends their use. at a certain strength the magnesian salt does not decompose the soap, or retard the formation of a lather, but the addition of soft water developes this latent hardness. with such waters, the extraordinary anomaly appears, that the more soft water is added to them, up to a certain point, the harder do they become. some of the wells at doncaster are very remarkable in this respect, for when their hard water is diluted with eight times the quantity of pure soft distilled water, the resulting mixture is as hard--that is, it decomposes as much soap--as the undiluted water. thus the dilution of such water with four or five times its bulk of soft rain water actually makes it harder. the cause of this anomaly has not yet been satisfactorily made out, but it only occurs in waters abounding in magnesia. having now explained the inconveniences of the hardening ingredients of water, we propose to show in the next article the action of other deteriorating constituents; and after having done so, it will become our duty to point out the various modes by which the evils thus exposed may best be counteracted or remedied. l.p. early rising. did you but know, when bathed in dew, how sweet the little violet grew, amidst the thorny brake; how fragrant blew the ambient air, o'er beds of primroses so fair, your pillow you'd forsake. paler than the autumnal leaf, or the wan hue of pining grief, the cheek of sloth shall grow; nor can cosmetic, wash, or ball, nature's own favorite tints recall, if once you let them go. herrick. [from household words.] a tale of the good old times. an alderman of the ancient borough of beetlebury, and churchwarden of the parish of st. wulfstan's, in the said borough, mr. blenkinsop might have been called, in the language of the sixteenth century, a man of worship. this title would probably have pleased him very much, it being an obsolete one, and he entertaining an extraordinary regard for all things obsolete, or thoroughly deserving to be so. he looked up with profound veneration to the griffins which formed the waterspouts of st. wulfstan's church, and he almost worshiped an old boot under the name of a black jack, which on the affidavit of a foresworn broker, he had bought for a drinking-vessel of the sixteenth century. mr. blenkinsop even more admired the wisdom of our ancestors than he did their furniture and fashions. he believed that none of their statutes and ordinances could possibly be improved on, and in this persuasion had petitioned parliament against every just or merciful change, which, since he had arrived at man's estate, had been in the laws. he had successively opposed all the beetlebury improvements, gas, water-works, infant schools, mechanics' institute, and library. he had been active in an agitation against any measure for the improvement of the public health, and being a strong advocate of intra-mural interment, was instrumental in defeating an attempt to establish a pretty cemetery outside beetlebury. he had successfully resisted a project for removing the pig-market from the middle of high-street. through his influence the shambles, which were corporation property, had been allowed to remain where they were, namely, close to the town-hall, and immediately under his own and his brethren's noses. in short, he had regularly, consistently, and nobly done his best to frustrate every scheme that was proposed for the comfort and advantage of his fellow creatures. for this conduct he was highly esteemed and respected, and, indeed, his hostility to any interference with disease, had procured him the honor of a public testimonial; shortly after the presentation of which, with several neat speeches, the cholera broke out in beetlebury. the truth is, that mr. blenkinsop's views on the subject of public health and popular institutions were supposed to be economical (though they were, in truth, desperately costly), and so pleased some of the rate-payers. besides, he withstood ameliorations, and defended nuisances and abuses with all the heartiness of an actual philanthropist. moreover, he was a jovial fellow--a boon companion; and his love of antiquity leant particularly toward old ale and old port wine. of both of these beverages he had been partaking rather largely at a visitation-dinner, where, after the retirement of the bishop and his clergy, festivities were kept up till late, under the presidency of the deputy-registrar. one of the last to quit the crown and mitre was mr. blenkinsop. he lived in a remote part of the town, whither, as he did not walk exactly in a right line, it may be allowable perhaps, to say that he bent his course. many of the dwellers in beetlebury high-street, awakened at half-past twelve on that night, by somebody passing below, singing, not very distinctly, "with a jolly full bottle let each man be armed," were indebted, little as they may have suspected it, to alderman blenkinsop, for their serenade. in his homeward way stood the market cross; a fine medieval structure, supported on a series of circular steps by a groined arch, which served as a canopy to the stone figure of an ancient burgess. this was the effigies of wynkyn de vokes, once mayor of beetlebury, and a great benefactor to the town; in which he had founded almhouses and a grammar-school, a.d. . the post was formerly occupied by st. wulfstan; but de vokes had been removed from the town hall in cromwell's time, and promoted to the vacant pedestal, _vice_ wulfstan, demolished. mr. blenkinsop highly revered this work of art, and he now stopped to take a view of it by moonlight. in that doubtful glimmer, it seemed almost life-like. mr. blenkinsop had not much imagination, yet he could well nigh fancy he was looking upon the veritable wynkyn, with his bonnet, beard, furred gown, and staff, and his great book under his arm. so vivid was this impression, that it impelled him to apostrophize the statue. "fine old fellow!" said mr. blenkinsop. "rare old buck! we shall never look upon your like again. ah! the good old times--the jolly good old times! no times like the good old times, my ancient worthy. no such times as the good old times!" "and pray, sir, what times do you call the good old times?" in distinct and deliberate accents, answered--according to the positive affirmation of mr. blenkinsop, subsequently made before divers witnesses--the statue. mr. blenkinsop is sure that he was in the perfect possession of his senses. he is certain that he was not the dupe of ventriloquism, or any other illusion. the value of these convictions must be a question between him and the world, to whose perusal the facts of his tale, simply as stated by himself, are here submitted. when first he heard the statue speak, mr. blenkinsop says, he certainly experienced a kind of sudden shock, a momentary feeling of consternation. but this soon abated in a wonderful manner. the statue's voice was quite mild and gentle--not in the least grim--had no funereal twang in it, and was quite different from the tone a statue might be expected to take by any body who had derived his notions on that subject from having heard the representative of the class in "don giovanni." "well, what times do you mean by the good old times?" repeated the statue, quite familiarly. the churchwarden was able to reply with some composure, that such a question coming from such a quarter had taken him a little by surprise. "come, come, mr. blenkinsop," said the statue, "don't be astonished. 'tis half-past twelve, and a moonlight night, as your favorite police, the sleepy and infirm old watchman, says. don't you know that we statues are apt to speak when spoken to, at these hours? collect yourself. i will help you to answer my own question. let us go back step by step; and allow me to lead you. to begin. by the good old times, do you mean the reign of george the third?" "the last of them, sir," replied mr. blenkinsop, very respectfully, "i am inclined to think, were seen by the people who lived in those days." "i should hope so," the statue replied. "those the good old old times? what! mr. blenkinsop, when men were hanged by dozens, almost weekly, for paltry thefts. when a nursing woman was dragged to the gallows with a child at her breast, for shop-lifting, to the value of a shilling. when you lost your american colonies, and plunged into war with france, which, to say nothing of the useless bloodshed it cost, has left you saddled with the national debt. surely you will not call these the good old times, will you, mr. blenkinsop?" "not exactly, sir; no, on reflection i don't know that i can," answered mr. blenkinsop. he had now--it was such a civil, well-spoken statue--lost all sense of the preternatural horror of his situation, and scratched his head, just as if he had been posed in argument by an ordinary mortal. "well then," resumed the statue, "my dear sir, shall we take the two or three reigns preceding? what think you of the then existing state of prisons and prison discipline? unfortunate debtors confined indiscriminately with felons, in the midst of filth, vice, and misery unspeakable. criminals under sentence of death tippling in the condemned cell, with the ordinary for their pot-companion. flogging, a common punishment of women convicted of larceny. what say you of the times when london streets were absolutely dangerous, and the passenger ran the risk of being hustled and robbed even in the daytime? when not only hounslow and bagshot heath, but the public roads swarmed with robbers, and a stage-coach was as frequently plundered as a hen-roost. when, indeed, 'the road' was esteemed the legitimate resource of a gentleman in difficulties, and a highwayman was commonly called 'captain'--if not respected accordingly. when cock-fighting, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting were popular, nay, fashionable amusements. when the bulk of the landed gentry could barely read and write, and divided their time between fox-hunting and guzzling. when duelist was a hero, and it was an honor to have 'killed your man.' when a gentleman could hardly open his mouth without uttering a profane or filthy oath. when the country was continually in peril of civil war; through a disputed succession; and two murderous insurrections, followed by more murderous executions, actually took place. this era of inhumanity, shamelessness, brigandage, brutality, and personal and political insecurity, what say you of it, mr. blenkinsop? do you regard this wig and pigtail period as constituting the good old times, respected friend?" "there was queen anne's golden reign, sir," deferentially suggested mr. blenkinsop. "a golden reign!" exclaimed the statue. "a reign of favoritism and court trickery at home, and profitless war abroad. the time of bolingbroke's, and harley's, and churchill's intrigues. the reign of sarah, duchess of marlborough and of mrs. masham. a golden fiddlestick! i imagine you must go farther back yet for your good old times, mr. blenkinsop." "well," answered the churchwarden, "i suppose i must, sir, after what you say." "take william the third's rule," pursued the statue. "war, war again; nothing but war. i don't think you'll particularly call these the good old times. then what will you say to those of james the second? were they the good old times when judge jefferies sat on the bench? when monmouth's rebellion was followed by the bloody assize. when the king tried to set himself above the law, and lost his crown in consequence. does your worship fancy these were the good old times?" mr. blenkinsop admitted that he could not very well imagine that they were. "were charles the second's the good old times?" demanded the statue. "with a court full of riot and debauchery; a palace much less decent than any modern casino; while scotch covenanters were having their legs crushed in the 'boots,' under the auspices and personal superintendence of his royal highness the duke of york. the time of titus oates, bedloe, and dangerfield, and their sham plots, with the hangings, drawings, and quarterings, on perjured evidence, that followed them. when russell and sidney were judicially murdered. the time of the great plague and fire of london. the public money wasted by roguery and embezzlement, while sailors lay starving in the streets for want of their just pay; the dutch about the same time burning our ships in the medway. my friend, i think you will hardly call the scandalous monarchy of the 'merry monarch' the good old times." "i feel the difficulty which you suggest, sir," owned mr. blenkinsop. "now, that a man of your loyalty," pursued the statue, "should identify the good old times with cromwell's protectorate, is, of course, out of the question." "decidedly, sir!" exclaimed mr. blenkinsop. "_he_ shall not have a statue, though you enjoy that honor," bowing. "and yet," said the statue, "with all its faults, this era was perhaps no worse than any we have discussed yet. never mind! it was a dreary, cant-ridden one, and if you don't think those england's palmy days, neither do i. there's the previous reign, then. during the first part of it, there was the king endeavoring to assert arbitrary power. during the latter, the parliament were fighting against him in the open field. what ultimately became of him i need not say. at what stage of king charles the first's career did the good old times exist, mr. alderman? i need barely mention the star chamber and poor prynne; and i merely allude to the fate of strafford and of laud. on consideration, should you fix the good old times any where thereabouts?" "i am afraid not, indeed, sir," mr. blenkinsop responded, tapping his forehead. "what is your opinion of james the first's reign? are you enamored of the good old times of the gunpowder plot? or when sir walter raleigh was beheaded? or when hundreds of poor, miserable old women were burnt alive for witchcraft, and the royal wiseacre on the throne wrote as wise a book, in defense of the execrable superstition through which they suffered?" mr. blenkinsop confessed himself obliged to give up the times of james the first. "now, then," continued the statue, "we come to elizabeth." "there i've got you!" interrupted mr blenkinsop, exultingly. "i beg your pardon, sir," he added, with a sense of the freedom he had taken; "but everybody talks of the times of good queen bess, you know." "ha, ha!" laughed the statue, not at all like zamiel, or don guzman, or a pavior's rammer, but really with unaffected gayety. "everybody sometimes says very foolish things. suppose everybody's lot had been cast under elizabeth! how would everybody have relished being subject to the jurisdiction of the ecclesiastical commission, with its power of imprisonment, rack, and torture? how would everybody have liked to see his roman catholic and dissenting fellow-subjects butchered, fined, and imprisoned for their opinions; and charitable ladies butchered, too, for giving them shelter in the sweet compassion of their hearts? what would everybody have thought of the murder of mary queen of scots? would everybody, would anybody, would _you_, wish to have lived in these days, whose emblems are cropped ears, pillory, stocks, thumb-screws, gibbet, ax, chopping-block, and scavenger's daughter? will you take your stand upon this stage of history for the good old times, mr. blenkinsop?" "i should rather prefer firmer and safer ground, to be sure, upon the whole," answered the worshiper of antiquity, dubiously. "well, now," said the statue, "'tis getting late, and, unaccustomed as i am to conversational speaking, i must be brief. were those the good old times when sanguinary mary roasted bishops, and lighted the fires of smithfield? when henry the eighth, the british bluebeard, cut his wives heads off, and burnt catholic and protestant at the same stake? when richard the third smothered his nephews in the tower? when the wars of the roses deluged the land with blood? when jack cade marched upon london? when we were disgracefully driven out of france under henry the sixth, or, as disgracefully, went marauding there, under henry the fifth? were the good old times those of northumberland's rebellion? of richard the second's assassination? of the battles, burnings, massacres, cruel tormentings, and atrocities, which form the sum of the plantagenet reigns? of john's declaring himself the pope's vassal, and performing dental operations on the jews? of the forest laws and curfew under the norman kings? at what point of this series of bloody and cruel annals will you place the times which you praise? or do your good old times extend over all that period when somebody or other was constantly committing high treason, and there was a perpetual exhibition of heads on london bridge and temple bar?" it was allowed by mr. blenkinsop that either alternative presented considerable difficulty. "was it in the good old times that harold fell at hastings, and william the conqueror enslaved england? were those blissful years the ages of monkery; of odo and dunstan, bearding monarchs and branding queens? of danish ravage and slaughter? or were they those of the saxon heptarchy, and the worship of thor and odin? of the advent of hengist and horsa? of british subjugation by the romans? or, lastly, must we go back to the ancient britons, druidism, and human sacrifices, and say that those were the real, unadulterated, genuine, good old times, when the true-blue natives of this island went naked, painted with woad?" "upon my word, sir," said mr. blenkinsop, "after the observations that i have heard from you this night, i acknowledge that i _do_ feel myself rather at a loss to assign a precise period to the times in question." "shall i do it for you?" asked the statue. "if you please, sir. i should be very much obliged if you would," replied the bewildered blenkinsop, greatly relieved. "the best times, mr. blenkinsop," said the statue, "are the oldest. they are the wisest; for the older the world grows, the more experience it acquires. it is older now than ever it was. the oldest and best times the world has yet seen are the present. these, so far as we have yet gone, are the genuine good old times, sir." "indeed, sir!" ejaculated the astonished alderman. "yes, my good friend. these are the best times that we know of--bad as the best may be. but in proportion to their defects, they afford room for amendment. mind that, sir, in the future exercise of your municipal and political wisdom. don't continue to stand in the light which is gradually illuminating human darkness. the future is the date of that happy period which your imagination has fixed in the past. it will arrive when all shall do what in right; hence none shall suffer what is wrong. the true good old times are yet to come." "have you any idea when, sir?" mr. blenkinsop inquired, modestly. "that is a little beyond me," the statue answered. "i can not say how long it will take to convert the blenkinsops. i devoutly wish you may live to see them. and with that, i wish you good-night, mr. blenkinsop." "sir," returned mr. blenkinsop, with a profound bow, "i have the honor to wish you the same." mr. blenkinsop returned home an altered man. this was soon manifest. in a few days he astonished the corporation by proposing the appointment of an officer of health to preside over the sanitary affairs of beetlebury. it had already transpired that he had consented to the introduction of lucifer-matches into his domestic establishment, in which, previously, he had insisted on sticking to the old tinder-box. next, to the wonder of all beetlebury, he was the first to propose a great, new school, and to sign a requisition that a county penitentiary might be established for the reformation of juvenile offenders. the last account of him is, that he has not only become a subscriber to the mechanics' institute, but that he actually presided there at, lately, on the occasion of a lecture on geology. the remarkable change which has occurred in mr. blenkinsop's views and principles, he himself refers to his conversation with the statue, as above related. that narrative, however, his fellow-townsmen receive with incredulous expressions, accompanied by gestures and grimaces of like import. they hint, that mr. blenkinsop had been thinking for himself a little, and only wanted a plausible excuse for recanting his errors. most of his fellow-aldermen believe him mad; not less on account of his new moral and political sentiments, so very different from their own, than of his statue story. when it has been suggested to them that he has only had his spectacles cleaned, and has been looking about him, they shake their heads, and say that he had better have left his spectacles alone, and that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and a good deal of dirt quite the contrary. _their_ spectacles have never been cleaned, they say, and any one may see they don't want cleaning. the truth seems to be, that mr. blenkinsop has found an altogether new pair of spectacles, which enable him to see in the right direction. formerly, he could only look backward; he now looks forward to the grand object that all human eyes should have in view--progressive improvement. he who can not live well to-day, will be less qualified to live well to-morrow.--martial. men are harassed, not by things themselves but by opinions respecting them.--epictetus. [from the dublin university magazine.] memoirs of the first duchess of orleans. while the fortunes of the last duchess of orleans are still in uncertainty, it may not be unpleasing to read something of the family and character of the first princess who bore that title. the retrospect will carry us back to stirring times, and make us acquainted with the virtues and sufferings, as well as the crimes, which mark the family history of the great european houses. the story of valentina visconti links the history of milan with that of paris, and imparts an italian grace and tenderness to the french annals. yet although herself one of the gentlest of women, she was sprung from the fiercest of men. the history of the rise and progress of the family of visconti is, in truth, one of the most characteristic that the lombardic annalists have preserved. the sforzias, called visconti from their hereditary office of _vicecomes_, or temporal vicar of the emperor, were a marked and peculiar race. with the most ferocious qualities, they combined high intellectual refinement, and an elegant and cultivated taste, in all that was excellent in art, architecture, poetry, and classical learning. the founder of the family was otho, archbishop of milan at the close of the th century. he extended his vicarial authority into a virtual sovereignty of the lombard towns, acknowledging only the german emperor as his feudal lord. this self-constituted authority he transmitted to his nephew matteo, "il grande." in the powerful hands of matteo the magnificent, milan became the capital of a virtual lombardic kingdom. three of the sons of matteo were successively "tyrants" of milan, the designation being probably used in its classical, rather than its modern sense. galeazzo, the eldest, was succeeded by his son azzo, the only one of the male representatives of the visconti who exhibited any of the milder characteristics befitting the character of a virtuous prince. luchino, his uncle and successor, was, however, a patron of learning, and has had the good fortune to transmit his name to us in illustrious company. at his court, in other respects contaminated by vice, and made infamous by cruelty, the poet petrarch found a home and a munificent patron. luchino cultivated his friendship. the poet was not above repaying attentions so acceptable by a no less acceptable flattery. petrarch's epistle, eulogizing the virtues and recounting the glory of the tyrant, remains a humiliating record of the power of wealth and greatness, and the pliability of genius. luchino's fate was characteristic. his wife, isabella of fieschi, had frequently suffered from his caprice and jealousy; at length she learned that he had resolved on putting her to death. forced to anticipate his cruel intent, she poisoned him with the very drugs he had designed for her destruction. luchino was succeeded by his brother giovanni, archbishop of milan, the ablest of the sons of matteo. under his unscrupulous administration the milanese territory was extended, until almost the whole of lombardy was brought under the yoke of the vigorous and subtle tyrant. although an ecclesiastic, he was as prompt to use the temporal as the spiritual sword. on his accession to power, pope clement the sixth, then resident at avignon, summoned him to appear at his tribunal to answer certain charges of heresy and schism. the papal legate sent with this commission had a further demand to make on behalf of the pontiff--the restitution of bologna, a fief of the church, which had been seized by the milanese prelate, giovanni visconti, as well as the cession, by the latter, of either his temporal or spiritual authority, which the legate declared could not be lawfully united in the person of an archbishop. giovanni insisted that the legate should repeat the propositions with which he was charged at church on the following sunday: as prince and bishop he could only receive such a message in the presence of his subjects and the clergy of his province. on the appointed day, the archbishop having celebrated high-mass with unusual splendor, the legate announced the message with which he was charged by his holiness. the people listened in silence, expecting a great discussion. but their astonishment was not greater than that of the legate, when archbishop giovanni stepped forth, with his crucifix in one hand, while with the other he drew from beneath his sacerdotal robes a naked sword, and exclaimed, "behold the spiritual and temporal arms of giovanni visconti! by the help of god, with the one i will defend the other." the legate could obtain no other answer save that the archbishop declared that he had no intention of disobeying the pontiff's citation to appear at avignon. he accordingly prepared, indeed, to enter such an appearance as would prevent citations of that kind in future. he sent, as his precursor, a confidential secretary, with orders to make suitable preparations for his reception. thus commissioned, the secretary proceeded to hire every vacant house in the city and surrounding neighborhood, within a circuit of several miles; and made enormous contracts for the supply of furniture and provisions for the use of the archbishop and his suite. these astounding preparations soon reached the ears of clement. he sent for the secretary, and demanded the meaning of these extraordinary proceedings. the secretary replied, that he had instructions from his master, the archbishop of milan, to provide for the reception of , knights and , foot soldiers, exclusive of the milanese gentlemen who would accompany their lord when he appeared at avignon, in compliance with his holiness's summons. clement, quite unprepared for such a visit, only thought how he should extricate himself from so great a dilemma. he wrote to the haughty visconti, begging that he would not put himself to the inconvenience of such a journey: and, lest this should not be sufficient to deter him, proposed to grant him the investiture of bologna--the matter in dispute between them--for a sum of money: a proposal readily assented to by the wealthy archbishop. giovanni visconti bequeathed to the three sons of his brother stephano a well-consolidated power; and, for that age, an enormous accumulation of wealth. the visconti were the most skillful of financiers. without overburthening their subjects, they had ever a well-filled treasury--frequently recruited, it is true, by the plunder of their enemies, or replenished by the contributions they levied on neighboring cities. the uniform success which attended their negotiations in these respects, encouraged them in that intermeddling policy they so often pursued. we can scarcely read without a smile the proclamations of their generals to the inoffensive cities, of whose affairs they so kindly undertook the unsolicited management. "it is no unworthy design which has brought us hither," the general would say to the citizens of the towns selected for these disinterested interventions; "we are here to re-establish order, to destroy the dissensions and secret animosities which divide the people (say) of tuscany. we have formed the unalterable resolution to reform the abuses which abound in all the tuscan cities. if we can not attain our object by mild persuasions, we will succeed by the strong hand of power. our chief has commanded us to conduct his armies to the gates of your city, to attack you at our swords' point, and to deliver over your property to be pillaged, unless (solely for your own advantage) you show yourselves pliant in conforming to his benevolent advice." giovanni visconti, as we have intimated, was succeeded by his nephews. the two younger evinced the daring military talent which distinguished their race. matteo, the eldest, on the contrary, abandoned himself to effeminate indulgences. his brothers, bernabos and galeazzo, would have been well pleased that he should remain a mere cipher, leaving the management of affairs in their hands; but they soon found that his unrestrained licentiousness endangered the sovereignty of all. on one occasion a complaint was carried to the younger brothers by an influential citizen. matteo visconti, having heard that this citizen's wife was possessed of great personal attractions, sent for her husband, and informed him that he designed her for an inmate of his palace, commanding him, upon pain of death, to fetch her immediately. the indignant burgher, in his perplexity, claimed the protection of bernabos and galeazzo. the brothers perceived that inconvenient consequences were likely to ensue. a dose of poison, that very day, terminated the brief career of matteo the voluptuous. of the three brothers, bernabos was the most warlike and the most cruel; galeazzo the most subtle and politic. laboring to cement his power by foreign alliances, he purchased from john, king of france, his daughter, isabelle de valois, as the bride of his young son and heir; and procured the hand of lionel, duke of clarence, son of edward iii. of england, for his daughter violante. while galeazzo pursued these peaceful modes of aggrandizement, bernabos waged successful war on his neighbors, subjecting to the most refined cruelties all who questioned his authority. it was he who first reduced the practice of the torture to a perfect system, extending over a period of forty-one days. during this period, every alternate day, the miserable victim suffered the loss of some of his members--an eye, a finger, an ear--until at last his torments ended on the fatal wheel. pope after pope struggled in vain against these powerful tyrants. they laughed at excommunication, or only marked the fulmination of a papal bull by some fresh act of oppression on the clergy subject to their authority. on one occasion urban the fifth sent bernabos his bull of excommunication, by two legates. bernabos received the pontifical message unmoved. he manifested no irritation--no resentment; but courteously escorted the legates, on their return, as far as one of the principal bridges in milan. here he paused, about to take leave of them. "it would be inhospitable to permit you to depart," he said, addressing the legates, "without some refreshment; choose--will you eat or drink?" the legates, terrified at the tone in which the compliment was conveyed, declined his proffered civility. "not so," he exclaimed, with a terrible oath; "you shall not leave my city without some remembrance of me; say, will you eat or drink?" the affrighted legates, perceiving themselves surrounded by the guards of the tyrant, and in immediate proximity to the river, felt no taste for drinking. "we had rather eat," said they; "the _sight_ of so much water is sufficient to quench our thirst." "well, then," rejoined bernabos, "here are the bulls of excommunication which you have brought to me; you shall not pass this bridge until you have eaten, in my presence, the parchments on which they are written, the leaden seals affixed to them, and the silken cords by which they are attached." the legates urged in vain the sacred character of their offices of embassador and priest: bernabos kept his word; and they were left to digest the insult as best they might. bernabos and his brother, after having disposed of matteo, became, as companions in crime usually do, suspicious of one another. in particular, each feared that the other would poison him. those banquets and entertainments to which they treated one another must have been scenes of magnificent discomfort. galeazzo died first. his son, giovanni-galeazzo, succeeded, and matched the unscrupulous ambition of his uncle with a subtlety equal to his own. not satisfied with a divided sway, he maneuvered unceasingly until he made himself master of the persons of bernabos and his two sons. the former he kept a close prisoner for seven months, and afterward put to death by poison. the cruelty and pride of bernabos had rendered him so odious to his subjects, that they made no effort on his behalf, but submitted without opposition to the milder government of giovanni-galeazzo. he was no less successful in obtaining another object of his ambition. he received from the emperor wenceslaus the investiture and dukedom of milan, for which he paid the sum of , florins, and now saw himself undisputed master of lombardy. the court of milan, during such a period, seems a strange theatre for the display of graceful and feminine virtues. yet it was here, and under the immediate eye of her father, this very giovanni-galeazzo, that valentina visconti, one of the most amiable female characters of history, passed the early days of her eventful life. as the naturalist culls a wild flower from the brink of the volcano, the historian of the dynasty of milan pauses to contemplate her pure and graceful character, presenting itself among the tyrants, poisoners, murderers, and infidels who founded the power and amassed the wealth of her family. it would be sad to think that the families of the wicked men of history partook of the crimes of their parents. but we must remember that virtue has little charm for the annalist; he records what is most calculated to excite surprise or awake horror, but takes no notice of the unobtrusive ongoings of those who live and die in peace and quietness. we may be sure that among the patrons of petrarch there was no want of refinement, or of the domestic amenities with which a youthful princess, and only child, ought to be surrounded. in fact, we have been left the most permanent and practical evidences of the capacity of these tyrants for the enjoyment of the beautiful. the majestic cathedral of milan is a monument of the noble architectural taste of valentina's father. in the midst of donjons and fortress-palaces it rose, an embodiment of the refining influence of religion; bearing in many respects a likeness to the fair and innocent being whose fortunes we are about to narrate, and who assisted at its foundation. the progress of the building was slow; it was not till a more magnificent usurper than any of the visconti assumed the iron-crown of lombardy, in our own generation, that the general design of the duomo of milan was completed. many of the details still remain unfinished; many statues to be placed on their pinnacles; some to be replaced on the marble stands from which they were overthrown by the cannon of radetski. of the old castle of the visconti two circular towers and a curtain wall alone remain: its court-yard is converted into a barrack, its moats filled up, its terraced gardens laid down as an esplanade for the troops of the austrian garrison. the family of the visconti have perished. milan, so long the scene of their glory, and afterward the battle-ground of contending claimants, whose title was derived through them, has ceased to be the capital of a free and powerful italian state: but the cathedral, after a growth of nearly four centuries, is still growing; and the name of the gentle valentina, so early associated with the majestic gothic edifice, "smells sweet, and blossoms in the dust." the year after the foundation of the duomo, valentina visconti became the bride of louis duke of orleans, only brother to the reigning monarch of france, charles vi. their politic father, the wise king charles, had repaired the disasters occasioned by the successful english invasion, and the long captivity of john the second. the marriage of valentina and louis was considered highly desirable by all parties. the important town of asti, with an immense marriage portion in money, was bestowed by giovanni-galeazzo on his daughter. a brilliant escort of the lombard chivalry accompanied the "promessa sposa" to the french frontier. charles vi. made the most magnificent preparations for the reception of his destined sister-in-law. the weak but amiable monarch, ever delighting in fêtes and entertainments, could gratify his childish taste, while displaying a delicate consideration and brotherly regard for louis of orleans. the marriage was to be celebrated at mélun. fountains of milk and choice wine played to the astonishment and delight of the bourgeois. there were jousts and tournaments, masks, and banquets, welcoming the richly-dowered daughter of milan. all promised a life of secured happiness; she was wedded to the brave and chivalrous louis of orleans, the pride and darling of france. he was eminently handsome; and his gay, graceful, and affable manners gained for him the strong personal attachment of all who surrounded him. but, alas! for valentina and her dream of happiness, louis was a profligate; she found herself, from the first moment of her marriage, a neglected wife: her modest charms and gentle deportment had no attractions for her volatile husband. the early years of her wedded life were passed in solitude and uncomplaining sorrow. she bore her wrongs in dignified silence. her quiet endurance, her pensive gentleness, never for a moment yielded; nor was she ever heard to express an angry or bitter sentiment. still she was not without some consolation; she became the mother of promising children, on whom she could bestow the treasures of love and tenderness, of the value of which the dissolute louis was insensible. affliction now began to visit the french palace. charles vi. had long shown evidences of a weak intellect. the events of his youth had shaken a mind never robust: indeed they were such as one can not read of even now without emotion. during his long minority the country, which, under the prudent administration of his father, had well nigh recovered the defeats of cressy and poietiers, had been torn by intestine commotions. the regency was in the hands of the young king's uncles, the dukes of anjou and burgundy. the latter inheriting by his wife, who was heiress of flanders, the rich provinces bordering france on the northeast, in addition to his province of burgundy, found himself, in some respects, more powerful than his sovereign. the commercial prosperity of the low countries filled his coffers with money, and the hardy burgundian population gave him, at command, a bold and intrepid soldiery. from his earliest years, charles had manifested a passion for the chase. when about twelve years old, in the forest of senlis, he had encountered a stag, bearing a collar with the inscription, "_cæsar hoc mihi donavit_." this wonderful stag appeared to him in a dream a few years afterward, as he lay in his tent before roosebeke in flanders, whither he had been led by his uncle of burgundy to quell an insurrection of the citizens of ghent, headed by the famous philip van artevelde. great had been the preparations of the turbulent burghers. protected by their massive armor, they formed themselves into a solid square bristling with pikes. the french cavalry, armed with lances, eagerly waited for the signal of attack. the signal was to be the unfurling of the oriflamme, the sacred banner of france, which had never before been displayed but when battling against infidels. it had been determined, on this occasion, to use it against the flemings because they rejected the authority of pope clement, calling themselves urbanists, and were consequently looked on by the french as excluded from the pale of the church. as the young king unfurled this formidable banner, the sun, which had for days been obscured by a lurid fog, suddenly shone forth with unwonted brilliancy. a dove, which had long hovered over the king's battalion, at the same time settled on the flag-staff. "now, by the lips of those you love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance!" the french chivalry did indeed execute a memorable charge on these burghers of ghent. their lance points reached a yard beyond the heads of the flemish pikes. the flemings, unable to return or parry their thrusts, fell back on all sides. the immense central mass of human beings thus forcibly compressed, shrieked and struggled in vain. gasping for breath, they perished, _en masse_, suffocated by the compression, and crushed under the weight of their heavy armor. a reward had been offered for the body of philip van artevelde: it was found amid a heap of slain, and brought to the king's pavilion. the young monarch gazed on the mortal remains of his foe, but no wound could be discovered on the body of the flemish leader--he had perished from suffocation. the corpse was afterward hanged on the nearest tree. when the king surveyed this horrible yet bloodless field, the appalling spectacle of this mass of dead, amounting, it is said, to , corpses, was more than his mind could bear. from this period unmistakable evidences of his malady became apparent. the marvelous stag took possession of his fancy; it seemed to him the emblem of victory, and he caused it to be introduced among the heraldic insignia of the kingdom. in his sixteenth year, the king selected, as the partner of his throne, the beautiful isabeau of bavaria. she also was a visconti by the mother's side, her father having wedded one of the daughters of bernabos. in her honor various costly fêtes had been given. on one of these occasions the royal bridegroom displayed his eccentricity in a characteristic manner. the chroniclers of the time have given us very detailed accounts of these entertainments. the costumes were extravagantly fantastic: ladies carried on their head an enormous _hennin_, a very cumbrous kind of head-dress, surmounted by horns of such dimensions, that their exit or entrance into an apartment was a work of considerable difficulty. the shoes were equally absurd and inconvenient; their pointed extremities, half a yard in length, were turned up and fastened to the knees in various grotesque forms. the robes, the long open sleeves of which swept the ground, were emblazoned with strange devices. among the personal effects of one of the royal princes we find an inventory of about a thousand pearls used in embroidering on a robe the words and music of a popular song. the chronicle of the _religieux de st. denis_ describes one of these masked balls, which was held in the court-yard of that venerable abbey, temporarily roofed over with tapestries for the occasion. the sons of the duke of anjou, cousins of the king, were prepared to invade naples, in right of their father, to whom joanna of naples had devised that inheritance. previous to their departure, their royal cousin resolved to confer on them the order of knighthood. an immense concourse of guests were invited to witness the splendid ceremonial, and take part in the jousts and tournaments which were to follow. the king had selected a strange scene for these gay doings. the abbey of st. denis was the last resting-place of the kings of france. here mouldered the mortal remains of his predecessors, and here were to repose his bones when he, too, should be "gathered to his fathers." the celebrated "captain of the companies," the famous du guesclin, the saviour of france in the reign of his father, had paid the debt of nature many years before, and reposed there among the mortal remains of those whose throne he had guarded so well. the astonishment of the guests was extreme, when it appeared that the exhumation and reinterment of du guesclin formed part of the programme of the revels. the old warrior was taken up, the funeral rites solemnly gone through, three hundred livres appropriated to the pious use of masses for his soul, and the revelers dismissed to meditate on the royal eccentricities. the murder of the constable of france, oliver de clisson, followed soon after, and quite completed the break down of poor charles's mind. this powerful officer of the crown had long been feared and hated by the great feudal lords especially by the duke of brittany, who entertained an absurd jealousy of the one-eyed hero. although clisson, by his decisive victory at auray, had secured to him the contested dukedom of brittany, the jealous duke treacherously arrested his benefactor and guest, whom he kept prisoner in the dungeons of his castle of la motte. in the first transports of his fury the duke had given orders that de clisson should be put to death; but his servants, fearing the consequences of so audacious an act, left his commands unexecuted. eventually, the constable was permitted by his captor to purchase his freedom, a condition which was no sooner complied with, than the duke repented having allowed his foe to escape from his hands. he now suborned pierre de craon, a personal enemy of de clisson, to be the executioner of his vengeance. the constable was returning to his hotel, having spent a festive evening with his sovereign, when he was set on by his assassins. he fell, covered with wounds, and was left for dead. to increase his torments, the murderer announced to him, as he fell, his name and motives. but, though severely injured, clisson was yet alive. the noise of the conflict reached the king, who was just retiring to rest. he hastened to the spot. his bleeding minister clung to his robe, and implored him to swear that he should be avenged. "my fidelity to your majesty has raised up for me powerful enemies: this is my only crime. whether i recover or perish from my wounds, swear to me that i shall not be unavenged." "i shall never rest, so help me god," replied the excited monarch, "until the authors of this audacious crime shall be brought to justice." charles kept his word. although suffering from fever, the result of this night's alarm and exposure, he collected a considerable army, and marched for brittany. his impatient eagerness knew no bounds. through the sultry, noonday heat, over the arid plains and dense forests of brittany, he pursued the assassin of his constable. he rode the foremost of his host; often silently and alone. one day, having undergone great personal fatigue, he had closed his eyes, still riding forward, when he was aroused by the violent curveting of his steed, whose bridle had been seized by a wild-looking man, singularly clad. "turn back, turn back, noble king," cried he; "to proceed further is certain death, you are betrayed!" having uttered these words, the stranger disappeared in the recesses of the forest before any one could advance to arrest him. the army now traversed a sandy plain, which reflected the intensity of the solar rays. the king wore a black velvet jerkin, and a cap of crimson velvet, ornamented with a chaplet of pearls. this ill-selected costume rendered the heat insufferable. while musing on the strange occurrence in the forest, he was aroused by the clashing of steel around him. the page, who bore his lance, had yielded to the drowsy influences of the oppressive noonday heat, and as he slumbered his lance had fallen with a ringing sound on the casque of the page before him. the succession of these alarms quite damaged charles's intellect. he turned, in a paroxysm of madness, crying, "down with the traitors!" and attacked his own body-guard. all made way, as the mad king assailed them. several fell victims to his wildly-aimed thrusts, before he sunk at length, exhausted by his efforts, a fit of total insensibility followed. his brother of orleans and kinsman of burgundy had him conveyed by slow stages to paris. charles's recovery was very tedious. many remedies were tried--charms and incantations, as well as medicines; but to the great joy of the people, who had always loved him, his reason was at length pronounced to be restored, and his physicians recommended him to seek amusement and diversion in festive entertainments. another shock, and charles vi. became confirmed lunatic. this tragical termination of an absurd frolic occurred as follows: on a gala occasion the monarch and five knights of his household conceived the design of disguising themselves as satyrs. close-fitting linen dresses, covered with some bituminous substance, to which was attached fine flax resembling hair, were stitched on their persons. their grotesque figures excited much merriment. the dukes of orleans and bar, who had been supping elsewhere, entered the hall somewhat affected by their night's dissipation. with inconceivable folly, one of these tipsy noblemen applied a torch to the covering of one of the satyrs. the miserable wretch, burning frightfully and hopelessly, rushed through the hall in horrible torments, shrieking in the agonies of despair. the fire was rapidly communicated. to those of the satyrs, whose hairy garments were thus ignited, escape was hopeless. to detach the flaming pitch was impossible; they writhed and rolled about, but in vain: their tortures only ended with their lives. one alone beside the king escaped. recollecting that the buttery was near, he ran and plunged himself in the large tub of water provided for washing the plates and dishes. even so, he did not escape without serious injuries. the king had been conversing in his disguise with the young bride of the duke of berri. she had recognized him, and with admirable presence of mind and devotion, she held him fast, covering him with her robe lest a spark should descend on him. to her care and energy he owed his preservation from so horrible a fate; but, alas! only to linger for years a miserable maniac. the terrible spectacle of his companions in harmless frolic perishing in this dreadful manner before his eyes, completed the wreck of his already broken intellect. his reason returned but partially. even these slight amendments were at rare intervals. he became a squalid and pitiable object; his person utterly neglected, for his garments could only be changed by force. his heartless and faithless wife deserted him--indeed, in his insane fits his detestation of her was excessive--and neglected their children. one human being only could soothe and soften him, his sister-in-law, valentina visconti. charles had always manifested the truest friendship for the neglected wife of his brother. they were alike unhappy in their domestic relations; for the gallantries of the beautiful queen were scarcely less notorious than those of louis of orleans; and if scandal spoke truly, louis himself was one of the queen's lovers. the brilliant and beautiful isabeau was distinguished by the dazzlingly clear and fair complexion of her german fatherland, and the large lustrous eyes of the italian. but charles detested her, and delighted in the society of valentina. he was never happy but when near her. in the violent paroxysms of his malady, she only could venture to approach him--she alone had influence over the poor maniac. he yielded to her wishes without opposition; and in his occasional glimpses of reason, touchingly thanked his "dear sister" for her watchful care and forbearance. it must have been a dismal change, even from the barbaric court of milan; but valentina was not a stranger to the consolations which are ever the reward of those who prove themselves self-sacrificing in the performance of duty. she was eminently happy in her children. charles, her eldest son, early evinced a delicate enthusiasm of mind--the sensitive organization of genius. he was afterward to become, _par excellence_, the poet of france. in his childhood he was distinguished for his amiable disposition and handsome person. possibly at the time of which we now write, was laid the foundation of that sincere affection for his cousin isabella, eldest daughter of the king, which many years afterward resulted in their happy union. one of the most touching poems of charles of orleans has been charmingly rendered into english by mr. carey. it is addressed to his deceased wife, who died in child-bed at the early age of twenty-two. "to make my lady's obsequies, my love a minster wrought, and in the chantry, service there was sung by doleful thought. the tapers were of burning sighs, that light and odor gave, and grief, illumined by tears, irradiated her grave; and round about in quaintest guise was carved, 'within this tomb there lies the fairest thing to mortal eyes.' "above her lieth spread a tomb, of gold and sapphires blue; the gold doth mark her blessedness, the sapphires mark her true; for blessedness and truth in her were livelily portray'd, when gracious god with both his hands her wondrous beauty made; she was, to speak without disguise, the fairest thing to mortal eyes. "no more, no more; my heart doth faint, when i the life recall of her who lived so free from taint, so virtuous deemed by all; who in herself was so complete, i think that she was ta'en by god to deck his paradise, and with his saints to reign; for well she doth become the skies, whom, while on earth, each one did prize, the fairest thing to mortal eyes!" the same delicate taste and sweet sensibility which are here apparent, break forth in another charming poem by charles, composed while a prisoner in england, and descriptive of the same delightful season that surrounds us with light and harmony, while we write, "le premier printemps:" "the time hath laid his mantle by of wind, and rain, and icy chill, and dons a rich embroidery of sunlight pour'd on lake and hill. "no beast or bird in earth or sky, whose voice doth not with gladness thrill; for time hath laid his mantle by of wind, and rain, and icy dull. "river and fountain, brook and rill, bespangled o'er with livery gay of silver droplets, wind their way. all in their new apparel vie, for time hath laid his mantle by." we have said little of louis of orleans, the unfaithful husband of valentina. this young prince had many redeeming traits of character. he was generous, liberal, and gracious; adored by the french people; fondly loved, even by his neglected wife. his tragical death, assassinated in cold blood by his cousin, jean-sans-peur of burgundy, excited in his behalf universal pity. let us review the causes which aroused the vindictive hostility of the duke of burgundy, only to be appeased by the death of his gay and unsuspicious kinsman. among the vain follies of louis of orleans, his picture-gallery may be reckoned the most offensive. here were suspended the portraits of his various mistresses; among others he had the audacity to place there the likeness of the bavarian princess, wife of jean-sans-peur. the resentment of the injured husband may readily be conceived. in addition to this very natural cause of dislike, these dukes had been rivals for that political power which the imbecility of charles the sixth placed within their grasp. the unamiable elements in the character of the duke of burgundy had been called into active exercise in very early life. while duke de nevers, he was defeated at nicopolis, and made prisoner by bajazet, surnamed "ilderim," or the thunderer. what rendered this defeat the more mortifying was, the boastful expectation of success proclaimed by the christian army. "if the sky should fall, we could uphold it on our lances," they exclaimed, but a few hours before their host was scattered, and its leaders prisoners to the moslem. jean-sans-peur was detained in captivity until an enormous ransom was paid for his deliverance. giovanni-galeazzo was suspected of connivance with bajazet, both in bringing the christians to fight at a disadvantage, and in putting the turks on the way of obtaining the heaviest ransoms. the splenetic irritation of this disaster seems to have clung long after to the duke of burgundy. his character was quite the reverse of that of his confiding kinsman of orleans. he was subtle, ambitious, designing, crafty--dishonorably resorting to guile, where he dared not venture on overt acts of hostility. for the various reasons we have mentioned, he bore a secret but intense hatred to his cousin louis. in the early winter of , the duke of orleans, finding his health impaired, bade a temporary adieu to the capital, and secluded himself in his favorite chateau of beauté. he seems to have been previously awakened to serious reflections. he had passed much of his time at the convent of the celestines, who, among their most precious relics, still reckon the illuminated manuscript of the holy scriptures presented to them by louis of orleans, and bearing his autograph. to this order of monks he peculiarly attached himself, spending most of the time his approaching death accorded to him. a spectre, in the solitude of the cloisters, appeared to him, and bade him prepare to stand in the presence of his maker. his friends in the convent, to whom he narrated the occurrence, contributed by their exhortations to deepen the serious convictions pressing on his mind. there now seemed a reasonable expectation that louis of orleans would return from his voluntary solitude at his chateau on the marne, a wiser and a better man, cured, by timely reflection, of the only blemish which tarnished the lustre of his many virtues. the aged duke of berri had long lamented the ill-feeling and hostility which had separated his nephews of orleans and burgundy. it was his earnest desire to see these discords, so injurious to their true interests and the well-being of the kingdom, ended by a cordial reconciliation. he addressed himself to jean-sans-peur, and met with unhoped-for success. the duke of burgundy professed his willingness to be reconciled, and acceded with alacrity to his uncle's proposition of a visit to the invalided louis. the latter, ever trusting and warm-hearted, cordially embraced his former enemy. they received the sacrament together, in token of peace and good-will: the duke of burgundy, accepting the proffered hospitality of his kinsman, promised to partake of a banquet to be given on this happy occasion by louis of orleans, a few days later. during the interval the young duke returned to paris. his sister-in-law, queen isabeau, was then residing at the hotel barbette--a noble palace in a retired neighborhood, with fine gardens, almost completely secluded. louis of orleans, almost unattended, visited the queen, to condole with her on the loss of her infant, who had survived its birth but a few days. while they were supping together, sas de courteheuze, valet-de-chambre to charles vi., arrived with a message to the duke: "my lord, the king sends for you, and you must instantly hasten to him, for he has business of great importance to you and to him, which he must communicate to you this night." louis of orleans, never doubting that this message came from his brother, hastened to obey the summons. his inconsiderable escort rendered him an easy prey to the ruffians who lay in wait for him. he was cruelly murdered; his skull cleft open, the brains scattered on the pavement; his hand so violently severed from the body, that it was thrown to a considerable distance; the other arm shattered in two places; and the body frightfully mangled. about eighteen were concerned in the murder: raoul d'oquetonville and scas de courteheuze acted as leaders. they had long waited for an opportunity, and lodged at an hotel "having for sign the image of our lady," near the porte barbette, where, it was afterward discovered, they had waited for several days for their victim. thus perished, in the prime of life, the gay and handsome louis of orleans. the mutilated remains were collected, and removed to the church of the guillemins, the nearest place where they might be deposited. this confraternity were an order of hermits, who had succeeded to the church convent of the blanc manteax, instituted by st. louis. the church of the guillemins was soon crowded by the friends and relatives of the murdered prince. all concurred in execrating the author or authors of this horrid deed. suspicion at first fell upon sir aubert de canny, who had good reason for hating the deceased duke. louis of orleans, some years previously, had carried off his wife, marietta d'enghein, and kept her openly until she had borne him a son, afterward the celebrated dunois. immediate orders were issued by the king for the arrest of the knight of canny. great sympathy was felt for the widowed valentina, and her young and fatherless children. no one expressed himself more strongly than the duke of burgundy. he sent a kind message to valentina, begging her to look on him as a friend and protector. while contemplating the body of his victim, he said, "never has there been committed in the realm of france a fouler murder." his show of regret did not end here: with the other immediate relatives of the deceased prince, he bore the pall at the funeral procession. when the body was removed to the church of the celestines, there to be interred in a beautiful chapel louis of orleans had himself founded and built, burgundy was observed by the spectators to shed tears. but he was destined soon to assume quite another character, by an almost involuntary act. the provost of paris, having traced the flight of the assassins, had ascertained beyond doubt that they had taken refuge at the hotel of this very duke of burgundy. he presented himself at the council, and undertook to produce the criminals, if permitted to search the residences of the princes. seized with a sudden panic, the duke of burgundy, to the astonishment of all present, became his own accuser: pale and trembling, he avowed his guilt: "it was i!" he faltered; "the devil tempted me!" the other members of the council shrunk back in undisguised horror. jean-sans-peur, having made this astounding confession, left the council-chamber, and started, without a moment's delay, for the flemish frontier. he was hotly pursued by the friends of the murdered louis; but his measures had been taken with too much prompt resolution to permit of a successful issue to his orleanist pursuers. once among his subjects of the low countries, he might dare the utmost malice of his opponents. in the mean time, the will of the deceased duke was made public. his character, like cæsar's, rose greatly in the estimation of the citizens, when the provisions of his last testament were made known. he desired that he should be buried without pomp in the church of the celestines, arrayed in the garb of that order. he was not unmindful of the interests of literature and science; nor did he forget to make the poor and suffering the recipients of his bounty. lastly, he confided his children to the guardianship of the duke of burgundy: thus evincing a spirit unmindful of injuries, generous, and confiding. this document also proved, that even in his wild career, louis of orleans was at times visited by better and holier aspirations. valentina mourned over her husband long and deeply; she did not long survive him; she sunk under her bereavement, and followed him to the grave ere her year of widowhood expired. at first the intelligence of his barbarous murder excited in her breast unwonted indignation. she exerted herself actively to have his death avenged. a few days after the murder, she entered paris in "a litter covered with white cloth, and drawn by four white horses." all her retinue wore deep mourning. she had assumed for her device the despairing motto: "rien ne m'est plus, plus ne m'est rien." proceeding to the hôtel st. pôl, accompanied by her children and the princess isabella, the affianced bride of charles of orleans, she threw herself at the king's knees, and, in a passion of tears, prayed for justice on the murderer of his brother, her lamented lord. charles was deeply moved: he also wept aloud. he would gladly have granted her that justice which she demanded, had it been in his power to do so; but burgundy was too powerful. the feeble monarch dared not offend his overgrown vassal. a process at law was all the remedy the king could offer. law was then, as now, a tedious and uncertain remedy, and a rich and powerful traverser could weary out his prosecutor with delays and quibbles equal to our own. jean-sans-peur returned in defiance to paris to conduct the proceedings in his own defense. he had erected a strong tower of solid masonry in his hôtel; here he was secure in the midst of his formidable guards and soldiery. for his defense, he procured the services of jean petit, a distinguished member of the university of paris, and a popular orator. the oration of petit (which has rendered him infamous), was rather a philippic against louis of orleans, than a defense of jean-sans-peur. he labors to prove that the prince deserved to die, having conspired against the king and kingdom. one of the charges--that of having, by incantations, endeavored to destroy the monarch--gives us a singular idea of the credulity of the times, when we reflect that these absurd allegations were seriously made and believed by a learned doctor, himself a distinguished member of the most learned body in france, the university of paris. the duke of orleans conspired "to cause the king, our lord, to die of a disorder, so languishing and so slow, that no one should divine the cause of it; he, by dint of money, bribed four persons, an apostate monk, a knight, an esquire, and a varlet, to whom he gave his own sword, his dagger, and a ring, for them to consecrate to, or more properly speaking, to make use of, in the name of the devil," &c. "the monk made several incantations.... and one grand invocation on a sunday, very early, and before sunrise on a mountain near to the tower of mont-joy.... the monk performed many superstitious acts near a bush, with invocations to the devil; and while so doing he stripped himself naked to his shirt and kneeled down: he then struck the points of the sword and dagger into the ground, and placed the ring near them. having uttered many invocations to the devils, two of them appeared to him in the shape of two men, clothed in brownish-green, one of whom was called hermias, and the other estramain. he paid them such honors and reverence as were due to god our saviour--after which he retired behind the bush. the devil who had come for the ring took it and vanished, but he who was come for the sword and dagger remained--but afterward, having seized them, he also vanished. the monk, shortly after, came to where the devils had been, and found the sword and dagger lying flat on the ground, the sword having the point broken--but he saw the point among some powder where the devil had laid it. having waited half-an-hour, the other devil returned and gave him the ring; which to the sight was of the color of red, nearly scarlet, and said to him: 'thou wilt put it into the mouth of a dead man in the manner thou knowest,' and then he vanished." to this oration the advocate of the duchess of orleans replied at great length. valentina's answer to the accusation we have quoted, was concise and simple. "the late duke, louis of orleans, was a prince of too great piety and virtue to tamper with sorceries and witchcraft." the legal proceedings against jean-sans-peur seemed likely to last for an interminable period. even should they be decided in favor of the family of orleans, the feeble sovereign dared not carry the sentence of the law into execution against so powerful an offender as the duke of burgundy. valentina knew this; she knew also that she could not find elsewhere one who could enforce her claims for justice--justice on the murderer of her husband--the slayer of the father of her defenseless children. milan, the home of her girlhood, was a slaughter-house, reeking with the blood of her kindred. five years previously her father, giovanni-galeazzo visconti, had died of the plague which then desolated italy. to avoid this terrible disorder he shut himself up in the town of marignano, and amused himself during his seclusion by the study of judicial astrology, in which science he was an adept. a comet appeared in the sky. the haughty visconti doubted not that this phenomenon was an announcement to him of his approaching death. "i thank god," he cried, "that this intimation of my dissolution will be evident to all men: my glorious life will be not ingloriously terminated." the event justified the omen. by his second marriage with katharina visconti, daughter of his uncle bernabos, giovanni galeazzo left two sons, still very young, giovanni-maria and philippo-maria, among whom his dominions were divided, their mother acting as guardian and regent. all the ferocious characteristics of the visconti seemed to be centred in the stepmother of valentina. the duchess of milan delighted in executions; she beheaded, on the slightest suspicions, the highest nobles of lombardy. at length she provoked reprisals, and died the victim of poison. giovanni-maria, nurtured in blood, was the worthy son of such a mother. his thirst for blood was unquenchable; his favorite pursuit was to witness the torments of criminals delivered over to bloodhounds, trained for the purpose, and fed only on human flesh. his huntsman and favorite, squarcia giramo, on one occasion, for the amusement of his master, threw to them a young boy only twelve years of age. the innocent child clung to the knees of the duke, and entreated that he might be preserved from so terrible a fate. the bloodhounds hung back. squarcia giramo seizing the child, with his hunting-knife cut his throat, and then flung him to the dogs. more merciful than these human monsters, they refused to touch the innocent victim. facino cane, one of the ablest generals of the late duke, compelled the young princes to admit him to their council, and submit to his management of their affairs; as he was childless himself, he permitted them to live, stripped of power, and in great penury. to the sorrow and dismay of the milanese, they saw this salutary check on the ferocious visconti about to be removed by the death of facino cane. determined to prevent the return to power of the young tyrant, they attacked and massacred giovanni-maria in the streets of milan. while this tragedy was enacting, facino cane breathed his last. philippo-maria lost not a moment in causing himself to be proclaimed duke. to secure the fidelity of the soldiery, he married, without delay, the widow of their loved commander. beatrice di tenda, wife of facino cane, was an old woman, while her young bridegroom was scarcely twenty years of age: so ill-assorted a union could scarcely be a happy one. philippo-maria, the moment his power was firmly secured, resolved to free himself from a wife whose many virtues could not compensate for her want of youth and beauty. the means to which he resorted were atrocious: he accused the poor old duchess of having violated her marriage vow, and compelled, by fear of the torture, a young courtier, michel orombelli, to become her accuser. the duke, therefore, doomed them both to be beheaded. before the fatal blow of the executioner made her his victim, beatrice di tenda eloquently defended herself from the calumnies of her husband and the base and trembling orombelli. "i do not repine," she said, "for i am justly punished for having violated, by my second marriage, the respect due to the memory of my deceased husband; i submit to the chastisement of heaven; i only pray that my innocence may be made evident to all; and that my name may be transmitted to posterity pure and spotless." such were the sons of giovanni-galeazzo visconti, the half-brothers of the gentle valentina of orleans. when she sank broken-hearted into an early grave--her husband unavenged, her children unprotected--she felt how hopeless it would be to look for succor or sympathy to her father's house; yet her last moments were passed in peace. her maternal solicitude for her defenseless orphans was soothed by the conviction that they would be guarded and protected by one true and faithful friend. their magnanimous and high-minded mother had attached to them, by ties of affection and gratitude more strong, more enduring than those of blood, one well fitted by his chivalrous nature and heroic bravery to defend and shelter the children of his protectress. dunois--"the young and brave dunois"--the bastard of orleans, as he is generally styled, was the illegitimate son of her husband. valentina, far from slighting the neglected boy, brought him home to her, nurtured and educated him with her children, cherishing him as if he had indeed, been the son of her bosom. if the chronicles of the time are to be believed, she loved him more fondly than her own offspring. "my noble and gallant boy," she would say to him, "i have been robbed of thee; it is thou that art destined to be thy father's avenger; wilt thou not, for my sake, who have loved thee so well, protect and cherish these helpless little ones?" long years after the death of valentina the vengeance of heaven did overtake jean-sans-peur of burgundy: he fell the victim of treachery such as he had inflicted on louis of orleans; but the cruel retaliation was not accomplished through the instrumentality or connivance of the orleanists: dunois was destined to play a far nobler part. the able seconder of joan of arc--the brave defender of orleans against the besieging english host--he may rank next to his illustrious countrywoman, "la pucelle," as the deliverer of his country from foreign foes. his bravery in war was not greater than his disinterested devotion to his half-brothers. well and nobly did he repay to valentina, by his unceasing devotion to her children, her tender care of his early years. charles of orleans, taken prisoner by the english at the fatal battle of agincourt, was detained for the greater part of his life in captivity: his infant children were unable to maintain their rights. dunois reconquered for them their hereditary rights, the extensive appanages of the house of orleans. they owed every thing to his sincere and watchful affection. valentina's short life was one of suffering and trial; but she seems to have issued from the furnace of affliction "purified seven times." in the midst of a licentious court and age, she shines forth a "pale pure star." her spotless fame has never been assailed. piety, purity, and goodness, were her distinguishing characteristics. she was ever a self-sacrificing friend, a tender mother, a loving and faithful wife. her gentle endurance of her domestic trials recalls to mind the character of one who may almost be styled her contemporary, the "patient griselda," so immortalized by chaucer and boccacio. valentina adds another example to the many which history presents for our contemplation, to show that suffering virtue, sooner or later, meets with its recompense, even in this life. the broken-hearted duchess of orleans became the ancestress of two lines of french sovereigns, and through her the kings of france founded their claims to the duchy of milan. her grandson, louis the twelfth, the "father of his people," was the son of the poet duke of orleans. on the extinction of male heirs to this elder branch, the descendant of her younger son, the duke of angoulême, ascended the throne as francis the first. her great-grand-daughter was the mother of alphonso, duke of ferrara, the "magnanimo alfonso" of the poet tasso. his younger sister, leonora, will ever be remembered as the beloved one of the great epic poet of italy--the ill-starred torquato tasso. the mortal remains of valentina repose at blois; her heart is buried with her husband, in the church of the celestines at paris. over the tomb was placed the following inscription: 'cy gist loys duc d'orleans. lequel sur tons duez terriens, fut le plus noble en son vivant mais ung qui voult aller devant, par envye le feist mourir.' m.n. the snowy mountains in new zealand. the "wellington independent" gives the following account of a recent expedition made by the lieutenant-governor to the middle island: after leaving the wairau, having traversed the kaparatehau district, his excellency and his attendants reached the snowy mountains to the southward, about four short days' journey from the wairau, and encamped at the foot of the tapuenuko mountain, which they ascended. previously to starting into the pass which is supposed to exist between the wairau and port cooper plains, his excellency ascended the great snowy mountain which forms the principal peak of the kaikoras, and which attains an elevation of at least feet, the upper part being heavily covered with snow to a great depth. he succeeded in reaching the top of the mountain, but so late as to be unable to push on to the southern edge of the summit, when an extensive view southwards would have been obtained. in returning, a steep face of the hill (little less than perpendicular), down which hung a bed of frozen snow, had to be crossed for a considerable distance. mr. eyre, who had led the party up the dangerous ascent, was in advance with one native, the others being feet before and behind him, on the same perpendicular of the snow. he heard a cry, and looking round, saw wiremu hoeta falling down the precipice, pitching from ledge to ledge, and rolling over and over in the intervals, till he fell dead, and no doubt smashed to pieces at a depth below of about feet, where his body could be seen in a sort of ravine, but where it was impossible to get at it. his excellency narrowly escaped from similar destruction, having lost both feet from under him, and only saving himself by the use of an iron-shod pole which he carried. another of the natives had a still narrower escape, having actually fallen about fifteen yards, when he succeeded in clutching a rock and saving himself. the gloom which this unfortunate event caused, and the uncertainty of crossing the rivers while the snows are melting, induced his excellency to return. genius. self-communion and solitude are its daily bread; for what is genius but a great and strongly-marked individuality--but an original creative being, standing forth alone amidst the undistinguishable throng of our everyday world? genius is a lonely power; it is not communicative; it is not the gift of a crowd; it is not a reflection cast from without upon the soul. it is essentially an inward light, diffusing its clear and glorious radiance over the external world. it is a broad flood, pouring freely forth its deep waters; but with its source forever hidden from human ken. it is the creator, not the creature it calls forth glorious and immortal shapes; but it is called into being by none--save god.--_women in france during the eighteenth century._ [from household words.] francis jeffrey. jeffrey was a year younger than scott, whom he outlived eighteen years, and with whose career his own had some points of resemblance. they came of the same middle-class stock, and had played together as lads in the high school "yard" before they met as advocates in the court of session. the fathers of both were connected with that court; and from childhood, both were devoted to the law. but scott's boyish infirmity imprisoned him in edinburgh, while jeffrey was let loose to glasgow university, and afterward passed up to queen's college, oxford. the boys, thus separated, had no remembrance of having previously met, when they saw each other at the speculative society in . the oxford of that day suited jeffrey ill. it suited few people well who cared for any thing but cards and claret. southey, who came just after him, tells us that the greek he took there he left there, nor ever passed such unprofitable months; and lord malmesbury, who had been there but a little time before him, wonders how it was that so many men should make their way in the world creditably, after leaving a place that taught nothing but idleness and drunkenness. but jeffrey was not long exposed to its temptations. he left after the brief residence of a single term; and what in after life he remembered most vividly in connection with it, seems to have been the twelve days' hard traveling between edinburgh and london, which preceded his entrance at queen's. some seventy years before, another scotch lad, on his way to become yet more famous in literature and law, had taken nearly as many weeks to perform the same journey; but, between the schooldays of mansfield and of jeffrey, the world had not been resting. it was enacting its greatest modern incident, the first french revolution, when the young scotch student returned to edinburgh and changed his college gown for that of the advocate. scott had the start of him in the court of session by two years, and had become rather active and distinguished in the speculative society before jeffrey joined it. when the latter, then a lad of nineteen, was introduced (one evening in ), he observed a heavy-looking young man officiating as secretary, who sat solemnly at the bottom of the table in a huge woolen night-cap, and who, before the business of the night began, rose from his chair, and, with imperturbable gravity seated on as much of his face as was discernible from the wrappings of the "portentous machine" that enveloped it, apologized for having left home with a bad toothache. this was his quondam schoolfellow scott. perhaps jeffrey was pleased with the mingled enthusiasm for the speculative, and regard for the practical, implied in the woolen nightcap; or perhaps he was interested by the essay on ballads which the hero of the nightcap read in the course of the evening: but before he left the meeting he sought an introduction to mr. walter scott, and they were very intimate for many years afterward. the speculative society dealt with the usual subjects of elocution and debate prevalent in similar places then and since; such as, whether there ought to be an established religion, and whether the execution of charles i. was justifiable, and if ossian's poems were authentic? it was not a fraternity of speculators by any means of an alarming or dangerous sort. john allen and his friends, at this very time, were spouting forth active sympathy for french republicanism at fortune's tavern under immediate and watchful superintendence of the police; james mackintosh was parading the streets with horne tooke's colors in his hat; james montgomery was expiating in york jail his exulting ballad on the fall of the bastile; and southey and coleridge, in despair of old england, had completed the arrangements of their youthful colony for a community of property, and proscription of every thing selfish, on the banks of the susquehanna; but the speculative orators rarely probed the sores of the body politic deeper than an inquiry into the practical advantages of belief in a future state? and whether it was for the interest of britain to maintain the balance of europe? or if knowledge could be too much disseminated among the lower ranks of the people? in short, nothing of the extravagance of the time, on either side, is associable with the outset of jeffrey's career. as little does he seem to have been influenced, on the one hand, by the democratic foray of some two hundred convention delegates into edinburgh in , as, on the other, by the prominence of his father's name to a protest of frantic high-tory defiance; and he was justified, not many years since, in referring with pride to the fact that, at the opening of his public life, his view of the character of the first french revolution, and of its probable influence on other countries, had been such as to require little modification during the whole of his subsequent career. the precision and accuracy of his judgment had begun to show itself thus early. at the crude young jacobins, so soon to ripen into quarterly reviewers, who were just now coquetting with mary woolstonecraft, or making love to the ghost of madame roland, or branding as worthy of the bowstring the tyrannical enormities of mr. pitt, he could afford to laugh from the first. from the very first he had the strongest liberal tendencies, but restrained them so wisely that he could cultivate them well. he joined the band of youths who then sat at the feet of dugald stewart, and whose first incentive to distinction in the more difficult paths of knowledge, as well as their almost universal adoption of the liberal school of politics, are in some degree attributable to the teaching of that distinguished man. among them were brougham and homer, who had played together from boyhood in edinburgh streets, had joined the speculative on the same evening six years after jeffrey (who in brougham soon found a sharp opponent on colonial and other matters), and were still fast friends. jeffrey's father, raised to a deputy clerk of session, now lived on a third or fourth flat in buchanan's court in the lawn market, where the worthy old gentleman kept two women servants and a man at livery; but where the furniture does not seem to have been of the soundest. this fact his son used to illustrate by an anecdote of the old gentleman eagerly setting to at a favorite dinner one day, with the two corners of the table cloth tied round his neck to protect his immense professional frills, when the leg of his chair gave way, and he tumbled back on the floor with all the dishes, sauces, and viands a-top of him. father and son lived here together, till the latter took for his first wife the daughter of the professor of hebrew in the university of st. andrew, and moved to an upper story in another part of town. he had been called to the bar in , and was married eight years afterward. he had not meanwhile obtained much practice, and the elevation implied in removal to an upper flat is not of the kind that a young benedict covets. but distinction of another kind was at length at hand. one day early in , "in the eighth or ninth story or flat in buccleugh place, the elevated residence of the then mr. jeffrey," mr. jeffrey had received a visit from horner and sydney smith, when sydney, at this time a young english curate temporarily resident in edinburgh, preaching, teaching, and joking with a flow of wit, humanity, and sense that fascinated every body, started the notion of the edinburgh review. the two scotchmen at once voted the englishman its editor, and the notion was communicated to john archibald murray (lord advocate after jeffrey, long years afterward), john allen (then lecturing on medical subjects at the university, but who went abroad before he could render any essential service), and alexander hamilton (afterward sanscrit professor at haileybury). this was the first council; but it was extended, after a few days, till the two thomsons (john and thomas, the physician and the advocate), thomas brown (who succeeded to dugald stewart's chair), and henry brougham, were admitted to the deliberations. horner's quondam playfellow was an ally too potent to be obtained without trouble; and, even thus early, had not a few characteristics in common with the roman statesman and orator whom it was his greatest ambition in after life to resemble, and of whom shakspeare has told us that he never followed any thing that other men began. "you remember how cheerfully brougham approved of our plan at first," wrote jeffrey to horner, in april, in the thick of anxious preparations for the start, "and agreed to give us an article or two without hesitation. three or four days ago i proposed two or three books that i thought would suit him; when he answered with perfect good humor, that he had changed his view of our plan a little, and rather thought now that he should decline to have any connection with it." this little coquetry was nevertheless overcome; and before the next six months were over, brougham had become an efficient and zealous member of the band. it is curious to see how the project hung fire at first. jeffrey had nearly finished four articles, horner had partly written four, and more than half the number was printed; and yet well-nigh the other half had still to be written. the memorable fasciculus at last appeared in november, after a somewhat tedious gestation of nearly ten months; having been subject to what jeffrey calls so "miserable a state of backwardness" and so many "symptoms of despondency," that constable had to delay the publication some weeks beyond the day first fixed. yet as early as april had sydney smith completed more than half of what he contributed, while nobody else had put pen to paper; and shortly after the number appeared, he was probably not sorry to be summoned, with his easy pen and his cheerful wit, to london, and to abandon the cares of editorship to jeffrey. no other choice could have been made. the first number settled the point. it is easy to discover that jeffrey's estimation in edinburgh had not, up to this time, been in any just proportion to his powers; and that, even with those who knew him best, his playful and sportive fancy sparkled too much to the surface of his talk to let them see the grave, deep currents that ran underneath. every one now read with surprise the articles attributed to him. sydney had yielded him the place of honor, and he had vindicated his right to it. he had thrown out a new and forcible style of criticism, with a fearless, unmisgiving, and unhesitating courage. objectors might doubt or cavil at the opinions expressed; but the various and comprehensive knowledge, the subtle, argumentative genius the brilliant and definite expression, there was no disputing or denying. a fresh, and startling power was about to make itself felt in literature. "jeffrey," said his most generous fellow laborer, a few days after the review appeared, "is the person who will derive most honor from this publication, as his articles in this number are generally known, and are incomparably the best; i have received the greater pleasure from this circumstance, because the genius of that little man has remained almost unknown to all but his most intimate acquaintances. his manner is not at first pleasing; what is worse, it is of that cast which almost irresistibly impresses upon strangers the idea of levity and superficial talents. yet there is not any man, whose real character is so much the reverse; he has, indeed, a very sportive and playful fancy, but it is accompanied with an extensive and varied information, with a readiness of apprehension almost intuitive, with judicious and calm discernment, with a profound and penetrating understanding." this confident passage from a private journal of the th november, may stand as a remarkable monument of the prescience of francis horner. yet it was also the opinion of this candid and sagacious man that he and his fellows had not gained much character by that first number of the review. as a set-off to the talents exhibited, he spoke of the severity--of what, in some of the papers, might be called the scurrility--as having given general dissatisfaction; and he predicted that they would have to soften their tone, and be more indulgent to folly and bad taste. perhaps it is hardly thus that the objection should have been expressed. it is now, after the lapse of nearly half a century, admitted on all hands that the tone adopted by these young edinburgh reviewers was in some respects extremely indiscreet; and that it was not simply folly and bad taste, but originality and genius, that had the right to more indulgence at their hands. when lord jeffrey lately collected mr. jeffrey's critical articles, he silently dropped those very specimens of his power which by their boldness of view, severity of remark, and vivacity of expression, would still as of old have attracted the greatest notice; and preferred to connect with his name, in the regard of such as might hereafter take interest in his writings, only those papers which, by enforcing what appeared to him just principles and useful opinions, he hoped might have a tendency to make men happier and better. somebody said by way of compliment of the early days of the scotch review, that it made reviewing more respectable than authorship; and the remark, though essentially the reverse of a compliment, exhibits with tolerable accuracy the general design of the work at its outset. its ardent young reviewers took a somewhat too ambitious stand above the literature they criticised. "to all of us," horner ingenuously confessed, "it is only matter of temporary amusement and subordinate occupation." something of the same notion was in scott's thoughts when, smarting from a severe but not unjust or ungenerous review of marmion, he said that jeffrey loved to see imagination best when it is bitted and managed, and ridden upon the _grand pas_. he did not make sufficient allowance for starts and sallies and bounds, when pegasus was beautiful to behold, though sometimes perilous to his rider. he would have had control of horse as well as rider, scott complained, and made himself master of the ménage to both. but on the other hand this was often very possible; and nothing could then be conceived more charming than the earnest, playful, delightful way in which his comments adorned and enriched the poets he admired. hogarth is not happier in charles lamb's company, than is the homely vigor and genius of crabbe under jeffrey's friendly leading; he returned fancy for fancy to moore's exuberance, and sparkled with a wit as keen; he "tamed his wild heart" to the loving thoughtfulness of rogers, his scholarly enthusiasm, his pure and vivid pictures; with the fiery energy and passionate exuberance of byron, his bright, courageous spirit broke into earnest sympathy; for the clear and stirring strains of campbell he had an ever lively and liberal response; and scott, in the midst of many temptations to the exercise of severity never ceased to awaken the romance and generosity of his nature. his own idea of the more grave critical claims put forth by him in his early days, found expression in later life. he had constantly endeavored, he said, to combine ethical precepts with literary criticism. he had earnestly sought to impress his readers with a sense, both of the close connection between sound intellectual attainments, and the higher elements of duty and enjoyment; and of the just and ultimate subordination of the former to the latter. nor without good reason did he take this praise to himself. the taste which dugald stewart had implanted in him, governed him more than any other at the outset of his career; and may often have contributed not a little, though quite unconsciously, to lift the aspiring young metaphysician somewhat too ambitiously above the level of the luckless author summoned to his judgment seat. before the third year of the review had opened, he had broken a spear in the lists of metaphysical philosophy even with his old tutor, and with jeremy bentham, both in the maturity of their fame; he had assailed, with equal gallantry, the opposite errors of priestley and reid; and, not many years later, he invited his friend alison to a friendly contest, from which the fancies of that amiable man came out dulled by a superior brightness, by more lively, varied, and animated conceptions of beauty, and by a style which recommended a more than scotch soberness of doctrine with a more than french vivacity of expression. for it is to be said of jeffrey, that when he opposed himself to enthusiasm, he did so in the spirit of an enthusiast; and that this had a tendency to correct such critical mistakes as he may occasionally have committed. and as of him, so of his review. in professing to go deeply into the _principles_ on which its judgments were to be rested, as well as to take large and original views of all the important question to which those works might relate--it substantially succeeded, as jeffrey presumed to think it had done, in familiarizing the public mind with higher speculations, and sounder and larger views of the great objects of human pursuit; as well as in permanently raising the standard, and increasing the influence, of all such occasional writings far beyond the limits of great britain. nor let it be forgotten that the system on which jeffrey established relations between his writers and publishers has been of the highest value as a precedent in such matters, and has protected the independence and dignity of a later race of reviewers. he would never receive an unpaid-for contribution. he declined to make it the interest of the proprietors to prefer a certain class of contributors. the payment was ten guineas a sheet at first, and rose gradually to double that sum, with increase on special occasions; and even when rank or other circumstances made remuneration a matter of perfect indifference, jeffrey insisted that it should nevertheless be received. the czar peter, when working in the trenches, he was wont to say, received pay as a common soldier. another principle which he rigidly carried out, was that of a thorough independence of publishing interests. the edinburgh review was never made in any manner tributary to particular bookselling schemes. it assailed or supported with equal vehemence or heartiness the productions of albemarle-street and paternoster-row. "i never asked such a thing of him but once," said the late mr. constable, describing an attempt to obtain a favorable notice from his obdurate editor, "and i assure you the result was no encouragement to repeat such petitions." the book was scott's edition of swift; and the result one of the bitterest attacks on the popularity of swift, in one of jeffrey's most masterly criticisms. he was the better able thus to carry his point, because against more potent influences he had already taken a decisive stand. it was not till six years after the review was started that scott remonstrated with jeffrey on the virulence of its party politics. but much earlier even than this, the principal proprietors had made the same complaint; had pushed their objections to the contemplation of jeffrey's surrender of the editorship; and had opened negotiations with writers known to be bitterly opposed to him. to his honor, southey declined these overtures, and advised a compromise of the dispute. some of the leading whigs themselves were discontented, and horner had appealed to him from the library of holland house. nevertheless, jeffrey stood firm. he carried the day against paternoster-row, and unassailably established the all-important principle of a perfect independence of his publishers' control. he stood as resolute against his friend scott; protesting that on one leg, and the weakest, the review could not and should not stand, for that its _right leg_ he knew to be politics. to horner he replied, by carrying the war into the holland house country with inimitable spirit and cogency. "do, for heaven's sake, let your whigs do something popular and effective this session. don't you see the nation is now divided into two, and only two parties; and that _between_ these stand the whigs, utterly inefficient, and incapable of ever becoming efficient, if they will still maintain themselves at an equal distance from both. you must lay aside a great part of your aristocratic feelings, and side with the most respectable and sane of the democrats." the vigorous wisdom of the advice was amply proved by subsequent events, and its courage nobody will doubt who knows any thing of what scotland was at the time. in office, if not in intellect, the tories were supreme. a single one of the dundases named the sixteen scots peers, and forty-three of the scots commoners; nor was it an impossible farce, that the sheriff of a county should be the only freeholder present at the election of a member to represent it in parliament, should as freeholder vote himself chairman, should as chairman receive the oaths and the writ for himself as sheriff, should as chairman and sheriff sign them, should propose himself as candidate, declare himself elected, dictate and sign the minutes of election, make the necessary indenture between the various parties represented solely by himself, transmit it to the crown-office, and take his seat by the same night's mail to vote with mr. addington! we must recollect such things, when we would really understand the services of such men as jeffrey. we must remember the evil and injustice he so strenuously labored to remove, and the cost at which his labor was given. we must bear in mind that he had to face day by day, in the exercise of his profession, the very men most interested in the abuses actively assailed, and keenly resolved, as far as possible, to disturb and discredit their assailant. "oh, mr. smith," said lord stowell to sydney, "you would have been a much richer man if you had come over to us!" this was in effect the sort of thing said to jeffrey daily in the court of session, and disregarded with generous scorn. what it is to an advocate to be on the deaf side of "the ear of the court," none but an advocate can know; and this, with jeffrey, was the twenty-five years' penalty imposed upon him for desiring to see the catholics emancipated, the consciences of dissenters relieved, the barbarism of jurisprudence mitigated, and the trade in human souls abolished. the scotch tories died hard. worsted in fair fight they resorted to foul; and among the publications avowedly established for personal slander of their adversaries, a pre-eminence so infamous was obtained by the beacon, that it disgraced the cause irretrievably. against this malignant libeler jeffrey rose in the court of session again and again, and the result of its last prosecution showed the power of the party represented by it thoroughly broken. the successful advocate, at length triumphant even in that court over the memory of his talents and virtues elsewhere, had now forced himself into the front rank of his profession; and they who listened to his advocacy found it even more marvelous than his criticism, for power, versatility, and variety. such rapidity yet precision of thought, such volubility yet clearness of utterance, left all competitors behind. hardly any subject could be so indifferent or uninviting, that this teeming and fertile intellect did not surround it with a thousand graces of allusion, illustration, and fanciful expression. he might have suggested butler's hero, "--who could not ope his mouth but out there flew a trope," with the difference that each trope flew to its proper mark, each fancy found its place in the dazzling profusion, and he could at all times, with a charming and instinctive ease, put the nicest restraints and checks on his glowing velocity of declamation. a worthy glasgow baillie, smarting under an adverse verdict obtained by these facilities of speech, could find nothing so bitter to advance against the speaker as a calculation made with the help of johnson's dictionary, to the effect that mr. jeffrey, in the course of a few hours, had spoken the whole english language twice over! but the glasgow baillie made little impression on his fellow citizens; and from glasgow came the first public tribute to jeffrey's now achieved position, and legal as well as literary fame. he was elected lord rector of the university in and . some seven or eight years previously he had married the accomplished lady who survives him, a grand-niece of the celebrated wilkes; and had purchased the lease of the villa near edinburgh which he occupied to the time of his death, and whose romantic woods and grounds will long be associated with his name. at each step of his career a new distinction now awaited him, and with every new occasion his unflagging energies seemed to rise and expand. he never wrote with such masterly success for his review as when his whole time appeared to be occupied with criminal prosecutions, with contested elections, with journeyings from place to place, with examinings and cross-examinings, with speeches, addresses, exhortations, denunciations. in all conditions and on all occasions, a very atmosphere of activity was around him. even as he sat, apparently still, waiting to address a jury or amaze a witness, it made a slow man nervous to look at him. such a flush of energy vibrated through that delicate frame, such rapid and never ceasing thought played on those thin lips, such restless flashes of light broke from those kindling eyes. you continued to look at him, till his very silence acted as a spell; and it ceased to be difficult to associate with his small but well-knit figure even the giant-like labors and exertions of this part of his astonishing career. at length, in , he was elected dean of the faculty of advocates; and thinking it unbecoming that the official head of a great law corporation should continue the editing of a party organ, he surrendered the management of the edinburgh review. in the year following, he took office with the whigs as lord advocate, and replaced sir james scarlett in lord fitzwilliam's borough of malton. in the next memorable year he contested his native city against a dundas; not succeeding in his election, but dealing the last heavy blow to his opponent's sinking dynasty. subsequently he took his seat as member for perth, introduced and carried the scotch reform bill, and in the december of was declared member for edinburgh. he had some great sorrows at this time to check and alloy his triumphs. probably no man had gone through a life of eager conflict and active antagonism with a heart so sensitive to the gentler emotions, and the deaths of mackintosh and scott affected him deeply. he had had occasion, during the illness of the latter, to allude to him in the house of commons; and he did this with so much beauty and delicacy, with such manly admiration of the genius and modest deference to the opinions of his great tory friend, that sir robert peel made a journey across the floor of the house to thank him cordially for it. the house of commons nevertheless was not his natural element, and when, in , a vacancy in the court of session invited him to his due promotion, he gladly accepted the dignified and honorable office so nobly earned by his labors and services. he was in his sixty-second year at the time of his appointment, and he continued for nearly sixteen years the chief ornament of the court in which he sat. in former days the judgment-seats in scotland had not been unused to the graces of literature; but in jeffrey these were combined with an acute and profound knowledge of law less usual in that connection; and also with such a charm of demeanor, such a play of fancy and wit sobered to the kindliest courtesies, such clear sagacity, perfect freedom from bias, consideration for all differences of opinion; and integrity, independence, and broad comprehensiveness of view in maintaining his own; that there has never been but one feeling as to his judicial career. universal veneration and respect attended it. the speculative studies of his youth had done much to soften all the asperities of his varied and vigorous life, and now, at its close, they gave to his judgments a large reflectiveness of tone, a moral beauty of feeling, and a philosophy of charity and good taste, which have left to his successors in that court of session no nobler models for imitation and example. impatience of dullness _would_ break from him, now and then; and the still busy activity of his mind might be seen as he rose often suddenly from his seat, and paced up and down before it; but in his charges or decisions nothing of this feeling was perceptible, except that lightness and grace of expression in which his youth seemed to linger to the last, and a quick sensibility to emotion and enjoyment which half concealed the ravages of time. if such was the public estimation of this great and amiable man, to the very termination of his useful life, what language should describe the charm of his influence in his private and domestic circle? the affectionate pride with which every citizen of edinburgh regarded him rose here to a kind of idolatry. for here the whole man was known--his kind heart, his open hand, his genial talk, his ready sympathy, his generous encouragement and assistance to all that needed it. the first passion of his life was its last, and never was the love of literature so bright within him as at the brink of the grave. what dims and deadens the impressibility of most men, had rendered his not only more acute and fresh, but more tributary to calm satisfaction, and pure enjoyment. he did not live merely in the past as age is wont to do, but drew delight from every present manifestation of worth, or genius, from whatever quarter it addressed him. his vivid pleasure where his interest was awakened, his alacrity and eagerness of appreciation, the fervor of his encouragement and praise, have animated the hopes and relieved the toil alike of the successful and the unsuccessful, who can not hope, through whatever checkered future may await them, to find a more, generous critic, a more profound adviser, a more indulgent friend. the present year opened upon francis jeffrey with all hopeful promise. he had mastered a severe illness, and resumed his duties with his accustomed cheerfulness; private circumstances had more than ordinarily interested him in his old review; and the memory of past friends, giving yet greater strength to the affection that surrounded him, was busy at his heart. "god bless you!" he wrote to sydney smith's widow on the night of the th of january; "i am very old, and have many infirmities; but i am tenacious of old friendships, and find much of my present enjoyments in the recollections of the past." he sat in court the next day, and on the monday and tuesday of the following week, with his faculties and attention unimpaired. on the wednesday he had a slight attack of bronchitis; on friday, symptoms of danger appeared; and on saturday he died, peacefully and without pain. few men had completed with such consummate success the work appointed them in this world; few men had passed away to a better with more assured hopes of their reward. the recollection of his virtues sanctifies his fame; and his genius will never cease to awaken the gratitude, respect, and pride of his countrymen. hail and farewell! metal in sea-water. the french _savans_, mm. malaguti, derocher, and sarzeaud, announce that they have detected in the waters of the ocean the presence of copper, lead, and silver. the water examined appears to have been taken some leagues off the coast of st. malo, and the fucoidal plants of that district are also found to contain silver. the _f. serratus_ and the _f. ceramoides_ yielded ashes containing - , th, while the water of the sea contained but little more than - , , th. they state also that they find silver in sea-salt, in ordinary muriatic acid, and in the soda of commerce; and that they have examined the rock-salt of lorraine, in which also they discover this metal. beyond this, pursuing their researches on terrestrial plants, they have obtained such indications as leave no doubt of the existence of silver in vegetable tissues. lead is said to be always found in the ashes of marine plants, usually about an - , th part, and invariably a trace of copper. should these results be confirmed by further examination, we shall have advanced considerably toward a knowledge of the phenomena of the formation of mineral veins.--_athenæum._ [from bentley's miscellany.] dr. johnson: his religious life, and his death. the title is a captivating one, and will allure many, but it very feebly expresses the contents of the volume, which brings under our observation the religious opinions of scores upon scores of other men, and is enriched with numerous anecdotes of the contemporaries of the great lexicographer. the book, indeed, may be considered as a condensation of all that was known and recorded of dr. johnson's practice and experience of religion from his youth to his death; of its powerful influence over him through many years of his life--of the nature of his faith, and of its fruits in his works; but there is added to this so much that is excellent of other people--the life of the soul is seen in so many other characters--so many subjects are introduced that are more or less intimately connected with that to which the title refers, and all are so admirably blended together, and interwoven with the excellent remarks of the author, as to justify us in saying of the book, that it is one of the most edifying and really useful we have for years past met with. it has often been our lot to see the sneers of beardless boys at the mention of religion, and to hear the titter of the empty-headed when piety was spoken of, and we always then thought of the profound awe with which the mighty mind of dr. johnson was impressed by such subjects--of his deep humiliation of soul when he reflected upon his duties and responsibilities--and of his solemn and reverential manner when religion became the topic of discourse, or the subject of his thoughts. his intellect, one of the grandest that was ever given to man, humbled itself to the very dust before the giver; the very superiority of his mental powers over those of other men, made him but feel himself the less in his own sight, when he reflected from whom he had his being, and to whom he must render an account of the use he made of the vast intellectual powers he possessed. but the religion of dr. johnson consisted not in deep feeling only, nor in much talking nor professing, but was especially distinguished by its practical benevolence; when he possessed but two-pence, one penny was always at the service of any one who had nothing at all; his poor house was an asylum for the poor, a home for the destitute; there, for months and years together, he sheltered and supported the needy and the blind, at a time when his utmost efforts could do no more than provide bare support for them and himself. those whom he loved not he would serve--those whom he esteemed not he would give to, and labor for, and devote the best powers of his pen to help and to benefit. the cry of distress, the appeal of the afflicted, was irresistible with him--no matter whatever else pressed upon him--whatever literary calls were urging him--or however great the need of the daily toil for the daily bread--all was abandoned till the houseless were sheltered, till the hungry were fed, and the defenseless were protected; and it would be difficult to name any of all dr. johnson's contemporaries--he in all his poverty, and they in all their abundance--in whose lives such proofs could be found of the most enlarged charity and unwearied benevolence. but the book treats of so many subjects, of so much that is connected with religion in general, and with the church of england in particular, that we can really do no more than refer our readers to the volume itself; with the assurance that they will find in it much useful and agreeable information on all those many matters which are connected in these times with church interests, and which are more or less influencing all classes of the religious public. the author writes freely, and with great power; he argues ably, and discusses liberally all the points of religious controversy, and a very delightful volume is the result of his labors. it must do good, it must please and improve the mind, as well as delight the heart of all who read it. indeed, no one not equal to the work could have ventured upon it without lasting disgrace had he failed in it; a dissertation upon the faith and morals of a man whose fame has so long filled the world, and in whose writings so much of his religious feelings are displayed, and so much of his spiritual life is unvailed, must be admirably written to receive any favor from the public; and we think that the author has so ably done what he undertook to do, that that full measure of praise will be awarded to him, which in our judgment he deserves. a perusal of this excellent work reminds us of the recent sale of some letters and documents of dr. johnson from mr. linnecar's collection. the edifying example of this good and great man, so well set forth in the present volume, is fully borne out in an admirable prayer composed by dr. johnson, a few months before his death, the original copy of which was here disposed of. for the gratification of the reader, we may be allowed to give the following brief abstract of the contents of these papers: "to david garrick. "streatham, december , . "i have thought upon your epitaph, but without much effect; an epitaph is no easy thing. of your three stanzas, the third is utterly unworthy of you. the first and third together give no discriminative character. if the first alone were to stand, hogarth would not be distinguished from any other man of intellectual eminence. suppose you worked upon something like this: "the hand of art here torpid lies, that traced th' essential form of grace, here death has clos'd the curious eyes that saw the manners in the face. if genius warm thee, reader, stay, if merit touch thee, shed a tear, be vice and dullness far away, great hogarth's honor'd dust is here." "to dr. farmer. "bolt court, july d, . "the booksellers of london have undertaken a kind of body of english poetry, excluding generally the dramas, and i have undertaken to put before each author's works a sketch of his life, and a character of his writings. of some, however, i know very little, and am afraid i shall not easily supply my deficiencies. be pleased to inform me whether among mr. burke's manuscripts, or any where else at cambridge any materials are to be found." "to ozias humphrey. "may st, . "i am very much obliged by your civilities to my godson, and must beg of you to add to them the favor of permitting him to see you paint, that he may know how a picture is begun, advanced and completed. if he may attend you in a few of your operations, i hope he will show that the benefit has been properly conferred, both by his proficiency and his gratitude." the following beautiful prayer is dated ashbourne, sept. , : "make me truly thankful for the call by which thou hast awakened my conscience and summoned me to repentance. let not thy call, o lord, be forgotten, or thy summons neglected, but let the residue of my life, whatever it shall be, be passed in true contrition, and diligent obedience. let me repent of the sins of my past life, and so keep thy laws for the time to come, that when it shall be thy good pleasure to call me to another state, i may find mercy in thy sight. let thy holy spirit support me in the hour of death, and, o lord, grant me pardon in the day of judgment." besides the above, dr. johnson's celebrated letter to the author of "ossian's poems," in which he says, "i will not be deterred from detecting what i think to be a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian," was sold at this sale for twelve guineas. sonetto. from the italian of benedetto menzini. i planted once a laurel tree, and breathed to heaven an humble vow that phoebus' favorite it might be, and shade and deck a poet's brow! i prayed to zephyr that his wing, descending through the april sky, might wave the boughs in early spring and brush rude boreas frowning by. and slowly phoebus heard the prayer, and slowly, slowly, grew the tree, and others sprang more fast and fair, yet marvel not that this should be; for tardier still the growth of fame-- and who is _he_ the crown may claim? eta [from household words.] a child's dream of a star. there was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. he had a sister, who was a child too, and his constant companion. these two used to wonder all day long. they wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of god who made the lovely world. they used to say to one another, sometimes, supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry? they believed they would be sorry. for, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides are the children of the water; and the smallest bright specks, playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more. there was one clear, shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. it was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. whoever saw it first, cried out, "i see the star!" and often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. so they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good night; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to say, "god bless the star!" but while she was still very young, oh very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient, pale face on the bed, "i see the star!" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little, weak voice used to say, "god bless my brother and the star!" and so the time came, all too soon! when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays down toward him, as he saw it through his tears. now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. and the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. all these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. but there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. the patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. his sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither: "is my brother come?" and he said "no." she was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, "o, sister, i am here! take me!" and then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. from that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home he was to go to, when his time should come; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. there was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out on his bed, and died. again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. said his sister's angel to the leader: "is my brother come?" and he said, "not that one, but another." as the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, "o, sister, i am here! take me!" and she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining. he grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him, and said, "thy mother is no more. i bring her blessing on her darling son!" again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. said his sister's angel to the leader: "is my brother come?" and he said, "thy mother!" a mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two children. and he stretched out his arms and cried, "o, mother, sister, and brother, i am here! take me!" and they answered him, "not yet," and the star was shining. he grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. said his sister's angel to the leader, "is my brother come?" and he said, "nay, but his maiden daughter." and the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, "my daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is round my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and i can bear the parting from her, god be praised!" and the star was shining. thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. and one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago, "i see the star!" they whispered one another, "he is dying." and he said, "i am. my age is falling from me like a garment, and i move toward the star as a child. and o, my father, now i thank thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me!" and the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. longfellow. the muse of mr. longfellow owes little or none of her success to those great national sources of inspiration which are most likely to influence an ardent poetic temperament. the grand old woods--the magnificent mountain and forest scenery--the mighty rivers--the trackless savannahs--all those stupendous and varied features of that great country, with which, from his boyhood, he must have been familiar, it might be thought would have stamped some of these characteristics upon his poetry. such, however, has not been the case. of lofty images and grand conceptions we meet with few, if any, traces. but brimful of life, of love, and of truth, the stream of his song flows on with a tender and touching simplicity, and a gentle music, which we have not met with since the days of our own moore. like him, too, the genius of mr. longfellow is essentially lyric; and if he has failed to derive inspiration from the grand features of his own country, he has been no unsuccessful student of the great works of the german masters of song. we could almost fancy, while reading his exquisite ballad of the "beleaguered city," that goethe, schiller, or uhland was before us; and yet, we must by no means be understood to insinuate that he is a mere copyist--quite the contrary. he has become so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of these exquisite models, that he has contrived to produce pieces marked with an individuality of their own, and noways behind them in point of poetical merit. in this regard he affords another illustration of the truth of the proposition, that the legendary lore and traditions of other countries have been very serviceable toward the formation of american literature. about the year , longfellow, being engaged in making the tour of europe, selected heidelberg for a permanent winter residence. there his wife was attacked with an illness, which ultimately proved fatal. it so happened, however, that some time afterward there came to the same romantic place a young lady of considerable personal attractions. the poet's heart was touched--he became attached to her; but the beauty of sixteen did not sympathize with the poet of six-and-thirty, and longfellow returned to america, having lost his heart as well as his wife. the young lady, also an american, returned home shortly afterward. their residences, it turned out, were contiguous, and the poet availed himself of the opportunity of prosecuting his addresses, which he did for a considerable time with no better success than at first. thus foiled, he set himself resolutely down, and instead, like petrarch, of laying siege to the heart of his mistress through the medium of sonnets, he resolved to write a whole book; a book which would achieve the double object of gaining her affections, and of establishing his own fame. "hyperion" was the result. his labor and his constancy were not thrown away: they met their due reward. the lady gave him her hand as well as her heart; and they now reside together at cambridge, in the same house which washington made his head-quarters when he was first appointed to the command of the american armies. these interesting facts were communicated to us by a very intelligent american gentleman whom we had the pleasure of meeting in the same place which was the scene of the poet's early disappointment and sorrow.--_dublin university magazine._ the chapel by the shore. by the shore, a plot of ground clips a ruined chapel round, buttressed with a grassy mound; where day, and night, and day go by and bring no touch of human sound. washing of the lonely seas-- shaking of the guardian trees-- piping of the salted breeze-- day, and night, and day go by, to the endless tune of these. or when, as winds and waters keep a hush more dead than any sleep, still morns to stiller evenings creep, and day, and night, and day go by here the stillness is most deep. and the ruins, lapsed again into nature's wide domain, sow themselves with seed and grain, as day, and night, and day go by, and hoard june's sun and april's rain. here fresh funeral tears were shed; and now the graves are also dead: and suckers from the ash-tree spread, as day, and night, and day go by and stars move calmly overhead. [from household words.] illustrations of cheapness. the lucifer match. some twenty years ago the process of obtaining fire, in every house in england, with few exceptions, was as rude, as laborious, and as uncertain, as the effort of the indian to produce a flame by the friction of two dry sticks. the nightlamp and the rushlight were for the comparatively luxurious. in the bedrooms of the cottager, the artisan, and the small tradesman, the infant at its mother's side too often awoke, like milton's nightingale, "darkling"--but that "nocturnal note" was something different from "harmonious numbers." the mother was soon on her feet; the friendly tinder-box was duly sought. click, click, click; not a spark tells upon the sullen blackness. more rapidly does the flint ply the sympathetic steel. the room is bright with the radiant shower. but the child, familiar enough with the operation, is impatient at its tediousness, and shouts till the mother is frantic. at length one lucky spark does its office--the tinder is alight. now for the match. it will not burn. a gentle breath is wafted into the murky box; the face that leans over the tinder is in a glow. another match, and another, and another. they are all damp. the toil-worn father "swears a prayer or two," the baby is inexorable; and the misery is only ended when the goodman has gone to the street door, and after long shivering has obtained a light from the watchman. in this, the beginning of our series of illustrations of cheapness, let us trace this antique machinery through the various stages of its production. the tinder-box and the steel had nothing peculiar. the tinman made the one as he made the saucepan, with hammer and shears; the other was forged at the great metal factories of sheffield and birmingham; and happy was it for the purchaser if it were something better than a rude piece of iron, very uncomfortable to grasp. the nearest chalk quarry supplied the flint. the domestic manufacture of the tinder was a serious affair. at due seasons, and very often if the premises were damp, a stifling smell rose from the kitchen, which, to those who were not intimate with the process, suggested doubts whether the house were not on fire. the best linen rag was periodically burnt, and its ashes deposited in the tinman's box, pressed down with a close fitting lid, upon which the flint and steel reposed. the match was chiefly an article of itinerant traffic. the chandler's shop was almost ashamed of it. the mendicant was the universal match-seller. the girl who led the blind beggar had invariably a basket of matches. in the day they were vendors of matches--in the evening manufacturers. on the floor of the hovel sit two or three squalid children, splitting deal with a common knife. the matron is watching a pipkin upon a slow fire. the fumes which it gives forth are blinding as the brimstone's liquifying. little bundles of split deal are ready to be dipped, three or four at a time. when the pennyworth of brimstone is used up, when the capital is exhausted, the night's labor is over. in the summer, the manufacture is suspended, or conducted upon fraudulent principles. fire is then needless; so delusive matches must be produced--wet splints dipped in powdered sulphur. they will never burn, but they will do to sell to the unwary maid-of-all-work. about twenty years ago chemistry discovered that the tinder-box might be abolished. but chemistry set about its function with especial reference to the wants and the means of the rich few. in the same way the first printed books were designed to have a great resemblance to manuscripts, and those of the wealthy class were alone looked to as the purchasers of the skillful imitations. the first chemical light producer was a complex and ornamental casket, sold at a guinea. in a year or so, there were pretty portable cases of a phial and matches, which enthusiastic young housekeepers regarded as the cheapest of all treasures at five shillings. by-and-by the light-box was sold as low as a shilling. the fire revolution was slowly approaching. the old dynasty of the tinder-box maintained its predominance for a short while in kitchen and garret, in farm-house and cottage. at length some bold adventurer saw that the new chemical discovery might be employed for the production of a large article of trade--that matches, in themselves the vehicles of fire without aid of spark and tinder, might be manufactured upon the factory system--that the humblest in the land might have a new and indispensable comfort at the very lowest rate of cheapness. when chemistry saw that phosphorus, having an affinity for oxygen at the lowest temperature, would ignite upon slight friction, and so ignited would ignite sulphur, which required a much higher temperature to become inflammable, thus making the phosphorus do the work of the old tinder with far greater certainty; or when chemistry found that chlorate of potash by slight friction might be exploded so as to produce combustion, and might be safely used in the same combination--a blessing was bestowed upon society that can scarcely be measured by those who have had no former knowledge of the miseries and privations of the tinder-box. the penny box of lucifers, or congreves, or by whatever name called, is a real triumph of science, and an advance in civilization. let us now look somewhat closely and practically into the manufacture of a lucifer match. the combustible materials used in the manufacture render the process an unsafe one. it can not be carried on in the heart of towns without being regarded as a common nuisance. we must therefore go somewhere in the suburbs of london to find such a trade. in the neighborhood of bethnal green there is a large open space called wisker's gardens. this is not a place of courts and alleys, but a considerable area, literally divided into small gardens, where just now the crocus and the snowdrop are telling hopefully of the springtime. each garden has the smallest of cottages--for the most part wooden--which have been converted from summer-houses into dwellings. the whole place reminds one of numberless passages in the old dramatists, in which the citizens' wives are described in their garden-houses of finsbury or hogsden, sipping syllabub and talking fine on summer holidays. in one of these garden-houses, not far from the public road, is the little factory of "henry lester, patentee of the domestic safety match-box," as his label proclaims. he is very ready to show his processes, which in many respects are curious and interesting. adam smith has instructed us that the business of making a pin is divided into about eighteen distinct operations; and further, that ten persons could make upward of forty-eight thousand pins a day with the division of labor; while if they had all wrought independently and separately, and without any of them having been educated to this peculiar business, they certainly could not each of them have made twenty. the lucifer match is a similar example of division of labor, and the skill of long, practice. at a separate factory, where there is a steam-engine, not the refuse of the carpenter's shop, but the best norway deals are cut into splints by machinery, and are supplied to the match-maker. these little pieces, beautifully accurate in their minute squareness, and in their precise length of five inches, are made up into bundles, each of which contains eighteen hundred. they are daily brought on a truck to the dipping-house, as it is called--the average number of matches finished off daily requiring two hundred of these bundles. up to this point we have had several hands employed in the preparation of the match, in connection with the machinery that cuts the wood. let us follow one of these bundles through the subsequent processes. without being separated, each end of the bundle is first dipped into sulphur. when dry, the splints, adhering to each other by means of the sulphur, must be parted by what is called dusting. a boy sitting on the floor, with a bundle before him, strikes the matches with a sort of a mallet on the dipped ends till they become thoroughly loosened. in the best matches the process of sulphur-dipping and dusting is repeated. they have now to be plunged into a preparation of phosphorus or chlorate of potash, according to the quality of the match. the phosphorus produces the pale, noiseless fire; the chlorate of potash the sharp, crackling illumination. after this application of the more inflammable substance, the matches are separated, and dried in racks. thoroughly dried, they are gathered up again into bundles of the same quantity; and are taken to the boys who cut them; for the reader will have observed that the bundles have been dipped at each end. there are few things more remarkable in manufactures than the extraordinary rapidity of this cutting process, and that which is connected with it. the boy stands before a bench, the bundle on his right hand, a pile of half opened empty boxes on his left, which have been manufactured at another division of this establishment. these boxes are formed of scale-board, that is, thin slices of wood, planed or scaled off a plank. the box itself is a marvel of neatness and cheapness. it consists of an inner box, without a top, in which the matches are placed, and of an outer case, open at each end, into which the first box slides. the matches, then, are to be cut, and the empty boxes filled, by one boy. a bundle is opened; he seizes a portion, knowing, by long habit, the required number with sufficient exactness; puts them rapidly into a sort of frame, knocks the ends evenly together, confines them with a strap which he tightens with his foot, and cuts them in two parts with a knife on a hinge, which he brings down with a strong leverage: the halves lie projecting over each end of the frame; he grasps the left portion and thrusts it into a half open box, which he instantly closes, and repeats the process with the matches on his right hand. this series of movements is performed with a rapidity almost unexampled; for in this way, two hundred thousand matches are cut, and two thousand boxes filled in a day, by one boy, at the wages of three halfpence per gross of boxes. each dozen boxes is then papered up, and they are ready for the retailer. the number of boxes daily filled at this factory is from fifty to sixty gross. the _wholesale_ price per dozen boxes of the best matches is fourpence, of the second quality, threepence. there are about ten lucifer match manufactories in london. there are others in large provincial towns. the wholesale business is chiefly confined to the supply of the metropolis and immediate neighborhood by the london makers; for the railroad carriers refuse to receive the article, which is considered dangerous in transit. but we must not therefore assume that the metropolitan populations consume the metropolitan matches. taking the population at upward of two millions, and the inhabited houses at about three hundred thousand, let us endeavor to estimate the distribution of these little articles of domestic comfort. at the manufactory at wisker's gardens there are fifty gross, or seven thousand two hundred boxes, turned out daily, made from two hundred bundles, which will produce seven hundred and twenty thousand matches. taking three hundred working days in the year, this will give for one factory, two hundred and sixteen millions of matches annually, or two millions one hundred and sixty thousand boxes, being a box of one hundred matches for every individual of the london population. but there are ten other lucifer manufactories, which are estimated to produce about four or five times as many more. london certainly can not absorb ten millions of lucifer boxes annually, which would be at the rate of thirty-three boxes to each inhabited house. london, perhaps, demands a third of the supply for its own consumption; and at this rate the annual retail cost for each house is eightpence, averaging those boxes sold at a halfpenny, and those at a penny. the manufacturer sells this article, produced with such care as we have described, at one farthing and a fraction per box. and thus, for the retail expenditure of three farthings per month, every house in london, from the highest to the lowest, may secure the inestimable blessing of constant fire at all seasons, and at all hours. london buys this for ten thousand pounds annually. the excessive cheapness is produced by the extension of the demand, enforcing the factory division of labor, and the most exact saving of material. the scientific discovery was the foundation of the cheapness. but connected with this general principle of cheapness, there are one or two remarkable points, which deserve attention. it is a law of this manufacture that the demand is greater in the summer than in the winter. the old match maker, as we have mentioned, was idle in the summer--without fire for heating the brimstone--or engaged in more profitable field-work. a worthy woman, who once kept a chandler's shop in a village, informs us, that in summer she could buy no matches for retail, but was obliged to make them for her customers. the increased summer demand for the lucifer matches shows that the great consumption is among the masses--the laboring population--those who make up the vast majority of the contributors to duties of customs and excise. in the houses of the wealthy there is always fire; in the houses of the poor, fire in summer is a needless hourly expense. then comes the lucifer match to supply the want; to light the candle to look in the dark cupboard--to light the afternoon fire to boil the kettle. it is now unnecessary to run to the neighbor for a light, or, as a desperate resource, to work at the tinder-box. the lucifer matches sometimes fail, but they cost little, and so they are freely used, even by the poorest. and this involves another great principle. the demand for the lucifer match is always continuous, for it is a perishable article. the demand never ceases. every match burnt demands a new match to supply its place. this continuity of demand renders the supply always equal to the demand. the peculiar nature of the commodity prevents any accumulation of stock; its combustible character--requiring the simple agency of friction to ignite it--renders it dangerous for large quantities of the article to be kept in one place. therefore no one makes for store, but all for immediate sale. the average price, therefore, must always yield a profit, or the production would altogether cease. but these essential qualities limit the profit. the manufacturers can not be rich without secret processes or monopoly. the contest is to obtain the largest profit by economical management. the amount of skill required in the laborers, and the facility of habit, which makes fingers act with the precision of machines, limit the number of laborers, and prevent their impoverishment. every condition of this cheapness is a natural and beneficial result of the laws that govern production. tunnel of the alps. the sardinian government is about to execute a grand engineering project; it is going to pierce the summit-ridge of the alps with a tunnel twice as long as any existing tunnel in the world. a correspondent of the _times_ announces the fact. from london as far as chambery, by the lyons railroad, all is at present smooth enough; and the lyons road is indeed about to be pushed up the ascents of mont meillaud and st. maurienne, even as far as modane at the foot of the northern crest of the graian and cottian alps: but there all further progress is arrested; you can not hope to carry a train to susa and turin unless you pierce the snow capped barrier itself: this is the very step which the chevalier henry maus projects. the chevalier is honorary inspector of the génie civil; it was he who projected and executed the great works on the liége railroad. after five years of incessant study, many practical experiments, and the invention of new machinery for boring the mountain, he made his final report to the government on the th of february, . a commission of distinguished civil engineers, artillery officers, geologists, senators, and statesmen, have reported unanimously in favor of the project; and the government has resolved to carry it out forthwith. the "railroad of the alps," connecting the tunnel with the chambery railway on the one side and with that of susa on the other side, will be , metres or - / english miles in length, and will cost , , francs. the connecting tunnel is thus described: "it will measure , metres, or nearly seven english miles in length; its greatest height will be feet, and its width feet, admitting, of course, of a double line of rail. its northern entrance is to be at modane, and the southern entrance at bardonneche, on the river mardovine. this latter entrance, being the highest point of the intended line of rail, will be , feet above the level of the sea, and yet , feet below the highest or culminating point of the great road or pass over the mont cenis. it is intended to divide the connecting lines of rail leading to either entrance of the tunnel into eight inclined planes of about , metres or - / english miles each, worked like those at liége, by endless cables and stationary engines, but in the present case moved by water-power derived from the torrents." the flower gatherer. [from the german of krummacher.] "god sends upon the wings of spring, fresh thoughts into the breasts of flowers." miss bremer. the young and innocent theresa had passed the most beautiful part of the spring upon a bed of sickness; and as soon as ever she began to regain her strength, she spoke of flowers, asking continually if her favorites were again as lovely as they had been the year before, when she had been able to seek for and admire them herself. erick, the sick girl's little brother, took a basket, and showing it to his mamma, said, in a whisper, "mamma, i will run out and get poor theresa the prettiest i can find in the fields." so out he ran, for the first time for many a long day, and he thought that spring had never been so beautiful before; for he looked upon it with a gentle and loving heart, and enjoyed a run in the fresh air, after having been a prisoner by his sister's couch, whom he had never left during her illness. the happy child rambled about, up hill and down hill. nightingales sang, bees hummed, and butterflies flitted round him, and the most lovely flowers were blowing at his feet. he jumped about, he danced, he sang, and wandered from hedge to hedge, and from flower to flower, with a soul as pure as the blue sky above him, and eyes that sparkled like a little brook bubbling from a rock. at last he had filled his basket quite full of the prettiest flowers; and, to crown all, he had made a wreath of field-strawberry flowers, which he laid on the top of it, neatly arranged on some grass, and one might fancy them a string of pearls, they looked so pure and fresh. the happy boy looked with delight at his full basket, and putting it down by his side, rested himself in the shade of an oak, on a carpet of soft green moss. here he sat, looking at the beautiful prospect that lay spread out before him in all the freshness of spring, and listening to the ever-changing songs of the birds. but he had really tired himself out with joy; and the merry sounds of the fields, the buzzing of the insects, and the birds' songs, all helped to send him to sleep. and peacefully the fair child slumbered, his rosy cheek resting on the hands that still held his treasured basket. but while he slept a sudden change came on. a storm arose in the heavens, but a few moments before so blue and beautiful. heavy masses of clouds gathered darkly and ominously together; the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled louder and nearer. suddenly a gust of wind roared in the boughs of the oak, and startled the boy out of his quiet sleep. he saw the whole heavens vailed by black clouds; not a sunbeam gleamed over the fields, and a heavy clap of thunder followed his waking. the poor child stood up, bewildered at the sudden change; and now the rain began to patter through the leaves of the oak, so he snatched up his basket, and ran toward home as fast as his legs could carry him. the storm seemed to burst over his head. rain, hail, and thunder, striving for the mastery, almost deafened him, and made him more bewildered every minute. water streamed from his poor soaked curls down his shoulders, and he could scarcely see to find his way homeward. all on a sudden a more violent gust of wind than usual caught the treasured basket, and scattered all his carefully-collected flowers far away over the field. his patience could endure no longer, for his face grew distorted with rage, and he flung the empty basket from him, with a burst of anger. crying bitterly, and thoroughly wet, he reached at last his parents' house in a pitiful plight. but soon another change appeared; the storm passed away, and the sky grew clear again. the birds began their songs anew, the countryman his labor. the air had become cooler and purer, and a bright calm seemed to lie lovingly in every valley and on every hill. what a delicious odor rose from the freshened fields! and their cultivators looked with grateful joy at the departing clouds, which had poured the fertilizing rain upon them. the sight of the blue sky soon tempted the frightened boy out again, and being by this time ashamed of his ill-temper, he went very quietly to look for his discarded basket, and to try and fill it again. he seemed to feel a new life within him. the cool breath of the air--the smell of the fields--the leafy trees--the warbling birds, all appeared doubly beautiful after the storm, and the humiliating consciousness of his foolish and unjust ill-temper softened and chastened his joy. after a long search he spied the basket lying on the slope of a hill, for a bramble bush had caught it, and sheltered it from the violence of the wind. the child felt quite thankful to the ugly-looking bush as he disentangled the basket. but how great was his delight on looking around him, to see the fields spangled with flowers, as numerous as the stars of heaven! for the rain had nourished into blossom thousands of daisies, opened thousands of buds, and scattered pearly drops on every leaf. erick flitted about like a busy bee, and gathered away to his heart's content. the sun was now near his setting, and the happy child hastened home with his basket full once more. how delighted he was with his flowery treasure, and with the pearly garland of fresh strawberry-flowers! the rays of the sinking sun played over his fair face as he wandered on, and gave his pretty features a placid and contented expression. but his eyes sparkled much more joyously when he received the kisses and thanks of his gentle sister. "is it not true, dear," said his mother, "that the pleasures we prepare for others are the best of all?" royal road to knowledge.--a mr. jules aleix, of paris, states that he has discovered a new method of education, by which a child can be taught to read in fifteen lessons, and has petitioned the assembly to expend , francs on a model school to demonstrate the fact. [from household words.] short cuts across the globe. to a person who wishes to sail for california an inspection of the map of the world reveals a provoking peculiarity. the atlantic ocean--the highway of the globe--being separated from the pacific by the great western continent, it is impossible to sail to the opposite coasts without going thousands of miles out of his way; for he must double cape horn. yet a closer inspection of the map will discover that but for one little barrier of land, which is in size but as a grain of sand to the bed of an ocean, the passage would be direct. were it not for that small neck of land, the isthmus of panama (which narrows in one place to twenty-eight miles) he might save a voyage of from six to eight thousand miles, and pass at once into the pacific ocean. again, if his desires tend toward the east, he perceives that but for the isthmus of suez, he would not be obliged to double the cape of good hope. the eastern difficulty has been partially obviated by the overland route opened up by the ill-rewarded waghorn. the western barrier has yet to be broken through. now that we can shake hands with brother jonathan in twelve days by means of weekly steamers; travel from one end of great britain to another, or from the hudson to the ohio, as fast as the wind, and make our words dance to distant friends upon the magic tight wire a great deal faster--now that the european and columbian saxon is spreading his children more or less over all the known habitable world: it seems extraordinary that the simple expedient of opening a twenty-eight mile passage between the pacific and atlantic oceans, to save a dangerous voyage of some eight thousand miles, has not been already achieved. in this age of enterprise that so simple a remedy for so great an evil should not have been applied appears astonishing. nay, we ought to feel some shame when we reflect that evidences in the neighborhood of both isthmuses exist of such junction having existed, in what we are pleased to designate "barbarous" ages. does nature present insurmountable engineering difficulties to the panama scheme? by no means: for after the croton aqueduct, our own railway tunneling, and the britannia tubular bridge, engineering difficulties have become obsolete. are the levels of the pacific and the gulf of mexico, which should be joined, so different, that if one were admitted the fall would inundate the surrounding country? not at all. hear humboldt on these points. forty years ago he declared it to be his firm opinion that "the isthmus of panama is suited to the formation of an oceanic canal--one with fewer sluices than the caledonian canal--capable of affording an unimpeded passage, at all seasons of the year, to vessels of that class which sail between new york and liverpool, and between chili and california." in the recent edition of his "views of nature," he "sees no reason to alter the views he has always entertained on this subject." engineers, both british and american, have confirmed this opinion by actual survey. as, then, combination of british skill, capital, and energy, with that of the most "go-ahead" people upon earth, have been dormant, whence the secret of the delay? the answer at once allays astonishment: till the present time, the speculation would not have "paid." large works of this nature, while they create an inconceivable development of commerce, must have a certain amount of a trading population to begin upon. a gold-beater can cover the effigy of a man on horseback with a sovereign; but he must have the sovereign first. it was not merely because the full power of the iron rail to facilitate the transition of heavy burdens had not been estimated, and because no stephenson had constructed a "rocket engine," that a railway with steam locomotives was not made from london to liverpool before . until the intermediate traffic between these termini had swelled to a sufficient amount in quantity and value to bear reimbursement for establishing such a mode of conveyance, its execution would have been impossible, even though men had known how to set about it. what has been the condition of the countries under consideration? in , the entire population of the tropical american isthmus, in the states of central america and new grenada did not exceed three millions. the number of the inhabitants of pure european descent did not exceed one hundred thousand. it was only among this inconsiderable fraction that any thing like wealth, intelligence, and enterprise, akin to that of europe, was to be found; the rest were poor and ignorant aboriginals and mixed races, in a state of scarcely demi-civilization. throughout this thinly-peopled and poverty-stricken region, there was neither law nor government. in stephens's "central america," may be found an amusing account of a hunt after a government, by a luckless american diplomatist, who had been sent to seek for one in central america. a night wanderer running through bog and brake after a will-o'-the-wisp, could not have encountered more perils, or in search of a more impalpable phantom. in short, there was nobody to trade with. to the south of the isthmus, along the pacific coast of america, there was only one station to which merchants could resort with any fair prospect of gain--valparaiso. except chili, all the pacific states of south america were retrograding from a very imperfect civilization, under a succession of petty and aimless revolutions. to the north of the isthmus matters were little, if any thing better. mexico had gone backward from the time of its revolution; and, at the best, its commerce in the pacific had been confined to a yearly ship between acapulco and the philippines. throughout california and oregon, with the exception of a few european and half-breed members, there were none but savage aboriginal tribes. the russian settlements in the far north had nothing but a paltry trade in furs with kamschatka, that barely defrayed its own expenses. neither was there any encouragement to make a short cut to the innumerable islands of the pacific. the whole of polynesia lay outside of the pale of civilization. in tahiti, the sandwich group, and the northern peninsula of new zealand, missionaries had barely sowed the first seeds of morals and enlightenment. the limited commerce of china and the eastern archipelago was engrossed by europe, and took the route of the cape of good hope, with the exception of a few annual vessels that traded from the sea-board states of the north american union to valparaiso and canton. the wool of new south wales was but coming into notice, and found its way to england alone round the cape of good hope. an american fleet of whalers scoured the pacific, and adventurers of the same nation carried on a desultory and inconsiderable traffic in hides with california, in tortoise-shell and mother of pearl with the polynesian islands. what, then, would have been the use of cutting a canal, through which there would not have passed five ships in a twelvemonth? but twenty years have worked a wondrous revolution in the state and prospects of these regions. the traffic of chili has received a large development, and the stability of its institutions has been fairly tried. the resources of costa rica, the population of which is mainly of european race, is steadily advancing. american citizens have founded a state in oregon. the sandwich islands have become for all practical purposes an american colony. the trade with china--to which the proposed canal would open a convenient avenue by a western instead of the present eastern route--is no longer restricted to the canton river, but is open to all nations as far north as the yang-tse-kiang. the navigation of the amur has been opened to the russians by a treaty, and can not long remain closed against the english and american settlers between mexico and the russian settlements in america. tahiti has become a kind of commercial emporium. the english settlements in australia and new zealand have opened a direct trade with the indian archipelago and china. the permanent settlements of intelligent and enterprising anglo-americans and english in polynesia, and on the eastern and western shores of the pacific, have proved so many _dépôts_ for the adventurous traders with its innumerable islands, and for the spermaceti whalers. then the last, but greatest addition of all, is california: a name in the world of commerce and enterprise to conjure with. there gold is to be had for fetching. gold, the main-spring of commercial activity, the reward of toil--for which men are ready to risk life, to endure every sort of privation; sometimes, alas! to sacrifice every virtue; one most especially, and that is patience. they will away with her now. till the discovery of the new gold country how contentedly they dawdled round cape horn; creeping down one coast, and up another: but now such delay is not to be thought of. already, indeed, panama has become the seat of a great, increasing, and perennial transit trade. this can not fail to augment the settled population of the region, its wealth and intelligence. upon these facts we rest the conviction that the time has arrived for realizing the project of a ship canal there or in the near neighborhood. that a ship canal, and not a railway, is what is first wanted (for very soon there will be both), must be obvious to all acquainted with the practical details of commerce. the delay and expense to which merchants are subjected, when obliged to "break bulk" repeatedly between the port whence they sail and that of their destination, is extreme. the waste and spoiling of goods, the cost of the operation, are also heavy drawbacks, and to these they are subject by the stormy passage round cape horn. two points present themselves offering great facilities for the execution of a ship canal. the one is in the immediate vicinity of panama, where the many imperfect observations which have hitherto been made, are yet sufficient to leave no doubt that, as the distance is comparatively short, the summit levels are inconsiderable, and the supply of water ample. the other is some distance to the northward. the isthmus is there broader, but is in part occupied by the large and deep fresh-water lakes of nicaragua and naragua. the lake of nicaragua communicates with the atlantic by a copious river, which may either be rendered navigable, or be made the source of supply for a side canal. the space between the two lakes is of inconsiderable extent, and presents no great engineering difficulties. the elevation of the lake of naragua above the pacific is inconsiderable; there is no hill range between it and the gulf of canchagua; and captain sir edward belcher carried his surveying ship _sulphur_ sixty miles up the estero real, which rises near the lake, and falls into the gulf. the line of the panama canal presents, as humboldt remarks, facilities equal to those of the line of the caledonian canal. the nicaragua line is not more difficult than that of the canal of languedoc, a work executed between and , at a time when the commerce to be expedited by it did not exceed--it is equaled--that which will find its way across the isthmus; when great part of the maritime country was as thinly inhabited by as poor a population as the isthmus now is; and when the last subsiding storms of civil war, and the dragonnades of louis xiv., unsettled men's minds, and made person and property insecure. the cosmopolitan effects of such an undertaking, if prosecuted to a successful close, it is impossible even approximately to estimate. the acceleration it will communicate to the already rapid progress of civilization in the pacific is obvious. and no less obvious are the beneficial effects it will have upon the mutual relations of civilized states, seeing that the recognition of the independence and neutrality in times of general war of the canal and the region through which it passes, is indispensable to its establishment. we have dwelt principally on the commercial, the economical considerations of the enterprise, for they are what must render it possible. but the friends of christian missions, and the advocates of universal peace among nations, have yet a deeper interest in it. in the words used by prince albert at the dinner at the mansion house respecting the forthcoming great exhibition of arts and industry, "nobody who has paid any attention to the particular features of our present era, will doubt for a moment that we are living at a period of most wonderful transition, which tends rapidly to accomplish that great end--to which, indeed, all history points--the realization of the unity of mankind. not a unity which breaks down the limits and levels the peculiar characteristics of the different nations of the earth, but rather a unity the result and product of those very national varieties and antagonistic qualities. the distances which separated the different nations and parts of the globe are gradually vanishing before the achievements of modern invention, and we can traverse them with incredible speed; the languages of all nations are known, and their acquirements placed within the reach of every body; thought is communicated with the rapidity, and even by the power of lightning." every short cut across the globe brings man in closer communion with his distant brotherhood, and results in concord, prosperity, and peace. truth in pleasure.--men have been said to be sincere in their pleasures, but this is only that the tastes and habits of men are more easily discernible in pleasure than in business; the want of truth is as great a hindrance to the one as to the other. indeed, there is so much insincerity and formality in the pleasurable department of human life, especially in social pleasures, that instead of a bloom there is a slime upon it, which deadens and corrupts the thing. one of the most comical sights to superior beings must be to see two human creatures with elaborate speech and gestures making each other exquisitely uncomfortable from civility; the one pressing what he is most anxious that the other should not accept, and the other accepting only from the fear of giving offense by refusal. there is an element of charity in all this too; and it will be the business of a just and refined nature to be sincere and considerate at the same time. this will be better done by enlarging our sympathy, so that more things and people are pleasant to us, than by increasing the civil and conventional part of our nature, so that we are able to do more seeming with greater skill and endurance.--_friends in council._ [from the dublin university magazine.] the german meistersingers--hans sachs. we once chanced to meet with a rare old german book which contains an accurate history of the foundation of the meistersingers, a body which exercised so important an influence upon the literary history, not only of germany, but of the whole european continent, that the circumstances connected with its origin can not prove uninteresting to our readers. the burghers of the provincial towns in germany had gradually formed themselves into guilds or corporations, the members of which, when the business of the day was discussed, would amuse themselves by reading some of the ancient traditions of their own country, as related in the old nordic poems. this stock of literature was soon exhausted, and the worthy burghers began to try their hands at original composition. from these rude snatches of song sprung to life the fire of poetic genius, and at mentz was first established that celebrated guild, branches of which soon after extended themselves to most of the provincial towns. the fame of these social meetings soon became widely spread. it reached the ears of the emperor, otho i., and, about the middle of the ninth century, the guild received a royal summons to attend at pavia, then the emperor's residence. the history of this famous meeting remained for upward of six hundred years upon record among the archives of mentz, but is supposed to have been taken away, among other plunder, about the period of the smalkaldic war. from other sources of information we can, however, gratify the curiosity of the antiquarian, by giving the names of the twelve original members of this guild: walter, lord of vogelweid, wolfgang eschenbach, knight, conrad mesmer, knight, franenlob of mentz, theologian, mergliny of ment, theologian, klingsher, starke papp, bartholomew regenboger, a blacksmith, the chancellor, a fisherman, conrad of wurtzburg, stall seniors, the roman of zgwickau. these gentlemen, having attended the royal summons in due form, were subjected to a severe public examination before the court by the wisest men of their times, and were pronounced masters of their art; enthusiastic encomiums were lavished upon them by the delighted audience, and they departed, having received from the emperor's hands a crown of pure gold, to be presented annually to him who should be selected by the voice of his fellows as laureate for the year. admission to these guilds became, in process of time, the highest literary distinction; it was eagerly sought for by numberless aspirants, but the ordeal through which the candidate had to pass became so difficult that very few were found qualified for the honor. the compositions of the candidates were measured with a degree of critical accuracy of which candidates for literary fame in these days can form but little idea. the ordeal must have been more damping to the fire of young genius than the most slashing article ever penned by the most caustic reviewer. every composition had of necessity to belong to a certain class; each class was distinguished by a limited amount of rhymes and syllables, and the candidate had to count each stanza, as he read it, upon his fingers. the redundancy or the deficiency of a single syllable was fatal to his claims, and was visited in addition by a pecuniary fine, which went to the support of the corporation. of that branch of this learned body which held its meetings at nuremberg, hans sachs became, in due time, a distinguished member. his origin was obscure--the son of a tailor, and a shoemaker by trade. the occupations of his early life afforded but little scope for the cultivation of those refined pursuits which afterward made him remarkable. the years of his boyhood were spent in the industrious pursuit of his lowly calling; but when he had arrived at the age of eighteen, a famous minstrel, numenbach by name, chancing to pass his dwelling, the young cobbler was attracted by his dulcet strains, and followed him. numenbach gave him gratuitous instruction in his tuneful art, and hans sachs forthwith entered upon the course of probationary wandering, which was an essential qualification for his degree. the principal towns of germany by turns received the itinerant minstrel, who supported himself by the alternate manufacture of verses and of shoes. after a protracted pilgrimage of several years, he returned to nuremberg, his native city, where, having taken unto himself a wife, he spent the remainder of his existence; not unprofitably, indeed, as his voluminous works still extant can testify. we had once the pleasure of seeing an edition of them in the library at nuremberg, containing two hundred and twelve pieces of poetry, one hundred and sixteen sacred allegories, and one hundred and ninety-seven dramas--a fertility of production truly wonderful, and almost incredible, if we reflect that the author had to support a numerous family by the exercise of his lowly trade. the writings of this humble artisan proved an era, however, in the literary history of germany. to him may be ascribed the honor of being the founder of her school of tragedy as well as comedy; and the illustrious goethe has, upon more than one occasion, in his works, expressed how deeply he is indebted to this poet of the people for the outline of his immortal tragedy of "faust." indeed, if we recollect aright, there are in his works several pieces which he states are after the manner of hans sachs. the lord of vogelweid, whose name we find occupying so conspicuous a position in the roll of the original meistersingers, made rather a curious will--a circumstance which we find charmingly narrated in the following exquisite ballad: "walter von der vogelweid." "vogelweid, the minnesinger, when he left this world of ours, laid his body in the cloister, under wurtzburg's minster towers. "and he gave the monks his treasure, gave them all with this bequest-- they should feed the birds at noontide, daily, on his place of rest. "saying, 'from these wandering minstrels i have learned the art of song; let me now repay the lessons they have taught so well and long. "thus the bard of lore departed, and, fulfilling his desire, on his tomb the birds were feasted, by the children of the choir. "day by day, o'er tower and turret, in foul weather and in fair-- day by day, in vaster numbers, flocked the poets of the air. "on the tree whose heavy branches overshadowed all the place-- on the pavement; on the tomb-stone, on the poet's sculptured face: "there they sang their merry carols, sang their lauds on every side; and the name their voices uttered, was the name of vogelweid. "'till at length the portly abbot murmured, 'why this waste of food, be it changed to loaves henceforward. for our fasting brotherhood.' "then in vain o'er tower and turret, from the walls and woodland nests. when the minster bell rang noontide, gathered the unwelcome guests. "then in vain, with cries discordant, clamorous round the gothic spire. screamed the feathered minnesingers for the children of the choir. "time has long effaced the inscription on the cloister's funeral stones; and tradition only tells us where repose the poet's bones. "but around the vast cathedral, by sweet echoes multiplied, still the birds repeat the legend, and the name of vogelweid." education.--the striving of modern fashionable education is to make the character impressive; while the result of good education, though not the aim, would be to make it expressive. there is a tendency in modern education to cover the fingers with rings, and at the same time to cut the sinews at the wrist. the worst education, which teaches self denial, is better than the best which teaches every thing else, and not that.--_tales and essays by john sterling._ [from household words.] ghost stories--an incident in the life of mad^{lle} clairon. the occurrence related in the letter which we are about to quote, is a remarkable instance of those apparently supernatural visitations which it has been found so difficult (if not impossible) to explain and account for. it does not appear to have been known to scott, brewster, or any other english writer who has collected and endeavored to expound those ghostly phenomena. clairon was the greatest tragedian that ever appeared on the french stage; holding on it a supremacy similar to that of siddons on our own. she was a woman of powerful intellect, and had the merit of affecting a complete revolution in the french school of tragic acting; substituted an easy, varied and natural delivery for the stilted and monotonous declamation which had till then prevailed, and being the first to consult classic taste and propriety of costume. her mind was cultivated by habits of intimacy with the most distinguished men of her day; and she was one of the most brilliant ornaments of those literary circles which the contemporary memoir writers describe in such glowing colors. in an age of corruption, unparalleled in modern times, mademoiselle clairon was not proof against the temptations to which her position exposed her. but a lofty spirit, and some religious principles, which she retained amidst a generation of infidels and scoffers, saved her from degrading vices, and enabled her to spend an old age protracted beyond the usual period of human life, in respectability and honor. she died in , at the age of eighty. she was nearly seventy when the following letter was written. it was addressed to m. henri meister, a man of some eminence among the literati of that period; the associate of diderot, grimm, d'holbach, m. and madame necker, &c., and the _collaborateur_ of grimm in his famous "correspondence." this gentleman was clairon's "literary executor;" having been intrusted with her memoirs, written by herself, and published after her death. with this preface we give mademoiselle clairon's narrative, written in her old age, of an occurrence which had taken place half a century before. "in , my youth, and my success on the stage, had drawn round me a good many admirers. m. de s----, the son of a merchant in brittany, about thirty years old, handsome, and possessed of considerable talent, was one of those who were most strongly attached to me. his conversation and manners were those of a man of education and good society, and the reserve and timidity which distinguished his attention made a favorable impression on me. after a green-room acquaintance of some time i permitted him to visit me at my house, but a better knowledge of his situation and character was not to his advantage. ashamed of being only a _bourgeois_, he was squandering his fortune at paris under an assumed title. his temper was severe and gloomy: he knew mankind too well, he said, not to despise and avoid them. he wished to see no one but me, and desired from me, in return, a similar sacrifice of the world. i saw, from this time, the necessity, for his own sake as well as mine, of destroying his hopes by reducing our intercourse to terms of less intimacy. my behavior brought upon him a violent illness, during which i showed him every mark of friendly interest, but firmly refused to deviate from the course i had adopted. my steadiness only deepened his wound; and unhappily, at this time, a treacherous relative, to whom he had intrusted the management of his affairs, took advantage of his helpless condition by robbing him, and leaving him so destitute that he was obliged to accept the little money i had, for his subsistence, and the attendance which his condition required. you must feel, my dear friend, the importance of never revealing this secret. i respect his memory, and i would not expose him to the insulting pity of the world. preserve, then, the religious silence which after many years i now break for the first time. "at length he recovered his property, but never his health; and thinking i was doing him a service by keeping him at a distance from me, i constantly refused to receive either his letters or his visits. "two years and a half elapsed between this period and that of his death. he sent to beg me to see him once more in his last moments, but i thought it necessary not to comply with his wish. he died, having with him only his domestics, and an old lady, his sole companion for a long time. he lodged at that time on the rempart, near the chaussée d'antin; i resided in the rue de bussy, near the abbaye st. germain. my mother lived with me; and that night we had a little party to supper. we were very gay, and i was singing a lively air, when the clock struck eleven, and the sound was succeeded by a long and piercing cry of unearthly horror. the company looked aghast; i fainted, and remained for a quarter of an hour totally insensible. we then began to reason about the nature of so frightful a sound, and it was agreed to set a watch in the street in case it were repeated. "it was repeated very often. all our servants, my friends, my neighbors, even the police, heard the same cry, always at the same hour, always proceeding from under my windows, and appearing to come from the empty air. i could not doubt that it was meant entirely for me. i rarely supped abroad; but the nights i did so, nothing was heard; and several times, when i came home, and was asking my mother and servants if they had heard any thing, it suddenly burst forth, as if in the midst of us. one night, the president de b----, at whose house i had supped, desired to see me safe home. while he was bidding me 'good night' at my door, the cry broke out seemingly from something between him and me. he, like all paris, was aware of the story; but he was so horrified, that his servants lifted him into his carriage more dead than alive. "another time, i asked my comrade rosely to accompany me to the rue st. honoré to choose some stuffs, and then to pay a visit to mademoiselle de st. p----, who lived near the porte saint-denis. my ghost story (as it was called) was the subject of our whole conversation. this intelligent young man was struck by my adventure, though he did not believe there was any thing supernatural in it. he pressed me to evoke the phantom, promising to believe if it answered my call. with weak audacity i complied, and suddenly the cry was heard three times with fearful loudness and rapidity. when we arrived at our friend's door both of us were found senseless in the carriage. "after this scene, i remained for some months without hearing any thing. i thought it was all over; but i was mistaken. "all the public performances had been transferred to versailles on account of the marriage of the dauphin. we were to pass three days there, but sufficient lodgings were not provided for us. madame grandval had no apartment; and i offered to share with her the room with two beds which had been assigned to me in the avenue of st. cloud. i gave her one of the beds and took the other. while my maid was undressing to lie down beside me, i said to her, 'we are at the world's end here, and it is dreadful weather; the cry would be somewhat puzzled to get at us.' in a moment it rang through the room. madame grandval ran in her night-dress from top to bottom of the house, in which nobody closed an eye for the rest of the night. this, however, was the last time the cry was heard. "seven or eight days afterward, while i was chatting with my usual evening circle, the sound of the clock striking eleven was followed by the report of a gun fired at one of the windows. we all heard the noise, we all saw the fire, yet the window was undamaged. we concluded that some one sought my life, and that it was necessary to take precautions again another attempt. the intendant des menus plaisirs, who was present, flew to the house of his friend, m. de marville, the lieutenant of police. the houses opposite mine were instantly searched, and for several days were guarded from top to bottom. my house was closely examined; the street was filled with spies in all possible disguises. but, notwithstanding all this vigilance, the same explosion was heard and seen for three whole months always at the same hour, and at the same window-pane, without any one being able to discover from whence it proceeded. this fact stands recorded in the registers of the police. "nothing was heard for some days; but having been invited by mademoiselle dumesnil[ ] to join a little evening party at her house near the _barrière blanche_, i got into a hackney-coach at eleven o'clock with my maid. it was clear moonlight as we passed along the boulevards, which were then beginning to be studded with houses. while we were looking at the half-finished buildings, my maid said, 'was it not in this neighborhood that m. de s---- died?' 'from what i have heard,' i answered, 'i think it should be there'--pointing with my finger to a house before us. from that house came the same gun-shot that i had heard before. it seemed to traverse our carriage, and the coachman set off at full speed, thinking we were attacked by robbers. we arrived at mademoiselle dumesnil's in a state of the utmost terror; a feeling i did not get rid of for a long time." [ ] the celebrated tragedian. [mademoiselle clairon gives some further details similar to the above, and adds that the noises finally ceased in about two years and a half. after this, intending to change her residence, she put up a bill on the house she was leaving; and many people made the pretext of looking at the apartments an excuse for gratifying their curiosity to see, in her every-day guise, the great tragedian of the théâtre français.] "one day i was told that an old lady desired to see my rooms. having always had a great respect for the aged, i went down to receive her. an unaccountable emotion seized me on seeing her, and i perceived that she was moved in a similar manner. i begged her to sit down, and we were both silent for some time. at length she spoke, and, after some preparation, came to the subject of her visit. "'i was, mademoiselle, the best friend of m. de s----, and the only friend whom he would see during the last year of his life. we spoke of you incessantly; i urging him to forget you,--he protesting that he would love you beyond the tomb. your eyes which are full of tears allow me to ask you why you made him so wretched; and how, with such a mind and such feelings as yours, you could refuse him the consolation of once more seeing and speaking to you?' "'we can not,' i answered, 'command our sentiments. m. de s---- had merit and estimable qualities; but his gloomy, bitter, and overbearing temper made me equally afraid of his company, his friendship, and his love. to make him happy, i must have renounced all intercourse with society, and even the exercise of my talents. i was poor and proud; i desire, and hope i shall ever desire, to owe nothing to any one but myself. my friendship for him prompted me to use every endeavor to lead him to more just and reasonable sentiments: failing in this, and persuaded that his obstinacy proceeded less from the excess of his passion than from the violence of his character, i took the firm resolution to separate from him entirely. i refused to see him in his last moments, because the sight would have rent my heart; because i feared to appear too barbarous if i remained inflexible, and to make myself wretched if i yielded. such, madame, are the motives of my conduct--motives for which, i think, no one can blame me.' "'it would indeed,' said the lady, 'be unjust to condemn you. my poor friend himself in his reasonable moments acknowledged all that he owed you. but his passion and his malady overcame him, and your refusal to see him hastened his last moments. he was counting the minutes, when at half-past ten, his servant came to tell him that decidedly you would not come. after a moment's silence, he took me by the hand with a frightful expression of despair. barbarous woman! he cried; but she will gain nothing by her cruelty. as i have followed her in life, i shall follow her in death! i endeavored to calm him; he was dead.' "i need scarcely tell you, my dear friend, what effect these last words had upon me. their analogy to all my apparitions filled me with terror, but time and reflection calmed my feelings. the consideration that i was neither the better nor the worse for all that had happened to me, has led me to ascribe it all to chance. i do not, indeed, know what _chance_ is; but it can not be denied that the something which goes by that name has a great influence on all that passes in the world. "such is my story; do with it what you will. if you intend to make it public, i beg you to suppress the initial letter of the name, and the name of the province." this last injunction was not, as we see, strictly complied with; but, at the distance of half a century, the suppression of a name was probably of little consequence. there is no reason to doubt the entire truth of mademoiselle clairon's narrative. the incidents which she relates made such a deep and enduring impression on her mind, that it remained uneffaced during the whole course of her brilliant career, and, almost at the close of a long life spent in the bustle and business of the world, inspired her with solemn and religious thoughts. those incidents can scarcely be ascribed to delusions of her imagination; for she had a strong and cultivated mind, not likely to be influenced by superstitious credulity; and besides, the mysterious sounds were heard by others as well as herself, and had become the subject of general conversation in paris. the suspicion of a trick or conspiracy never seems to have occurred to her, though such a supposition is the only way in which the circumstances can be explained; and we are convinced that this explanation, though not quite satisfactory in every particular, is the real one. several portentous occurrences, equally or more marvelous, have thus been accounted for. our readers remember the history of the commissioners of the roundhead parliament for the sequestration of the royal domains, who were terrified to death, and at last fairly driven out of the palace of woodstock, by a series of diabolical sounds and sights, which were long afterward discovered to be the work of one of their own servants, joe tomkins by name, a loyalist in the disguise of a puritan. the famous "cocklane ghost," which kept the town in agitation for months, and baffled the penetration of multitudes of the divines, philosophers, and literati of the day, was a young girl of some eleven or twelve years old, whose mysterious knockings were produced by such simple means, that their remaining so long undetected is the most marvelous part of the story. this child was the agent of a conspiracy formed by her father, with some confederates, to ruin the reputation of a gentleman by means of pretended revelations from the dead. for this conspiracy these persons were tried, and the father, the most guilty party, underwent the punishment of the pillory. a more recent story is that of the "stockwell ghost," which forms the subject of a volume published in , and is shortly told by mr. hone in the first volume of his "every day book." mrs. golding, an elderly lady residing at stockwell, in surrey, had her house disturbed by portents, which not only terrified her and her family, but spread alarm through the vicinity. strange noises were heard proceeding from empty parts of the house, and heavy articles of furniture, glass, and earthenware, were thrown down and broken in pieces before the eyes of the family and neighbors. mrs. golding, driven by terror from her own dwelling, took refuge, first in one neighboring house, and then in another, and thither the prodigies followed her. it was observed that her maid-servant, ann robinson, was always present when these things took place, either in mrs. golding's own house, or in those of the neighbors. this girl, who had lived only about a week with her mistress, became the subject of mistrust and was dismissed, after which the disturbances entirely ceased. but the matter rested on mere suspicion. "scarcely any one," says mr. hone, "who lived at that time listened patiently to the presumption, or without attributing the whole to witchcraft." at length mr. hone himself obtained a solution of the mystery from a gentleman who had become acquainted with ann robinson many years after the affair happened, and to whom she had confessed that she alone had produced all these supernatural horrors, by fixing wires or horse-hairs to different articles, according as they were heavy or light, and thus throwing them down, with other devices equally simple, which the terror and confusion of the spectators prevented them from detecting. the girl began these tricks to forward some love affair, and continued them for amusement when she saw the effect they produced. remembering these cases, we can have little doubt that mademoiselle clairon's maid was the author of the noises which threw her mistress and her friends into such consternation. her own house was generally the place where these things happened; and on the most remarkable occasions where they happened elsewhere, is expressly mentioned that the maid was present. at st. cloud it was to the maid, who was her bed-fellow, that clairon was congratulating herself on being out of the way of the cry, when it suddenly was heard in the very room. she had her maid in the carriage with her on the boulevards, and it was immediately after the girl had asked her a question about the death of m. de s---- that the gun-shot was heard, which seemed to traverse the carriage. had the maid a confederate--perhaps her fellow-servant on the box--to whom she might have given the signal? when mademoiselle clairon went a-shopping to the rue st. honoré, she probably had her maid with her, either in or outside the carriage; and, indeed, in every instance the noises took place when the maid would most probably have been present, or close at hand. in regard to the unearthly cry, she might easily have produced it herself without any great skill in ventriloquism, or the art of imitating sounds; a supposition which is rendered the more probable, as its realization was rendered the more easy, by the fact of no words having been uttered--merely a wild cry. most of the common itinerant ventriloquists on our public race-courses can utter speeches for an imaginary person without any perceptible motion of the lips; the utterance of a mere sound in this way would be infinitely less difficult. the noises resembling the report of fire-arms (very likely to have been unconsciously, and in perfect good faith, exaggerated by the terror of the hearers) may have been produced by a confederate fellow-servant, or a lover. it is to be observed, that the first time this seeming report was heard, the houses opposite were guarded by the police, and spies were placed in the street, but mademoiselle clairon's own house was merely "examined." it is evident that these precautions, however effectual against a plot conducted from without, could have no effect whatever against tricks played within her house by one or more of her own servants. as to the maid-servant's motives for engaging in this series of deceptions, many may have existed and been sufficiently strong; the lightest, which we shall state last, would probably be the strongest. she may have been in communication with m. de s----'s relations for some hidden purpose which never was effected. how far this circumstance may be connected with the date of the first portent, the very night of the young man's death, or whether that coincidence was simply accidental, is matter for conjecture. the old lady, his relative, who afterward visited clairon, and told her a tale calculated to fill her with superstitious dread, _may_ herself have been the maid-servant's employer for some similar purpose; or (which is at least equally probable) the tale may have had nothing whatever to do with the sound, and may have been perfectly true. but all experience in such cases assures us that the love of mischief, or the love of power, and the desire of being important, would be sufficient motives to the maid for such a deception. the more frightened clairon was, the more necessary and valuable her maid became to her, naturally. a thousand instances of long continued deception on the part of young women, begun in mere folly, and continued for the reasons just mentioned, though continued at an immense cost of trouble, resolution, and self-denial in all other respects, are familiar to most readers of strange transactions, medical and otherwise. there seem to be strong grounds for the conclusion that the maid was the principal, if not the sole agent in this otherwise supernatural part of this remarkable story. the rev. william lisle bowles. we must not allow a poet of the tender and manly feeling of mr. bowles to pass away from among us with a mere notice of his death amid the common gossip of the week. the peculiar excellence of his sonnets and his influence on english poetry deserve a further notice at our hands. the rev. william lisle bowles, of an ancient family in the county of wilts, was born in the village of king's sutton, in northamptonshire--a parish of which his father was vicar--on the th of september, . his mother was the daughter of dr. richard gray, chaplain to nathaniel crew, bishop of durham. he was educated at winchester school, under dr. joseph warton, and rose to be the senior boy. warton took much notice of him; and, on his removal to oxford, in , was the means, we have heard, of inducing him to enter at trinity college, of which tom warton was then the senior fellow. "among my contemporaries at trinity," he says, "were several young men of talents and literature--headley, kett, benwell, dallaway, richards, dornford." of these headley is still remembered by some beautiful pieces of poetry, distinguished for imagery, pathos, and simplicity. mr. bowles became a poet in print in his twenty-seventh year--publishing in a very small volume in quarto, with the very modest title of "fourteen sonnets." his excellencies were not lost on the public; and in the same year appeared a second edition, with seven additional sonnets. "i had just entered on my seventeenth year," says coleridge, in his "biographia literaria," "when the sonnets of mr. bowles, twenty-one in number, and just then published in a quarto pamphlet, were first made known and presented to me by a schoolfellow [at christ's hospital] who had quitted us for the university. as my school finances did not permit me to purchase copies, i made, within less than a year and a half, more than forty transcriptions--as the best presents i could offer to those who had in any way won my regard. and with almost equal delight did i receive the three or four following publications of the same author." coleridge was always consistent in his admiration of mr. bowles. charlotte smith and bowles, he says--writing in --are they who first made the sonnet popular among the present generation of english readers; and in the same year in which this encomium was printed, his own volume of poetry contains "sonnets attempted in the manner of mr. bowles." "my obligations to mr. bowles," he adds in another place, "were indeed important, and for radical good;" and that his approbation might not be confined to prose, he has said in verse: "my heart has thanked thee, bowles, for those soft strains whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring." mr. bowles's sonnets were descriptive of his personal feelings; and the manly tenderness which pervades them was occasioned, he tells us, by the sudden death of a deserving young woman with whom "sperabat longos, heu! ducere soles, et fido acclinis consenuisse sinu." an eighth edition appeared in ; and a ninth and a tenth have since been demanded. while at trinity--where he took his degree in --mr. bowles obtained the chancellor's prize for a latin poem. on leaving the university he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in wiltshire; from which he was preferred to a living in gloucestershire--and in to a canonry in salisbury cathedral. his next step was to the rectory of bremhill in wiltshire--to which he was presented by archbishop moore. here he remained till his death--beloved by his parishioners and by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. a volume of his sermons ("paulus parochialis"), designed for country congregations, was published in . the sonnets were followed, at an horatian interval, by other poems hardly of an inferior quality: such, for instance, as his "hope, an allegorical sketch"--"st. michael's mount"--"coombe ellen"--and "grave of howard." his "spirit of discovery by sea," the longest of his productions, was published in , and is now chiefly remembered by the unhappy notoriety which lord byron obtained for it by asserting in his "english bards" that the poet had made the woods of madeira tremble to a kiss. lord byron subsequently acknowledged that he had mistaken mr. bowles's meaning: too late, however, to remove the injurious impression which his hasty reading had occasioned. generally, mr. bowles's more ambitious works may be ranked as superior to the poems of crowe and carrington--both of which in their day commanded a certain reputation--and as higher in academical elegance than the verse of mr. james montgomery; while they have neither the nerve and occasional nobility of cowper, nor that intimate mixture of fancy, feeling, lofty contemplations, and simple themes and images which have placed wordsworth at the head of a school. the school of the wartons was not the school of pope; and the comparatively low appreciation of the great poetical satirist, which mr. bowles entertained and asserted in print, was no doubt imbibed at winchester under joseph warton, and strengthened at oxford under tom. mr. bowles's edition of pope is a very poor performance. he had little diligence, and few indeed of the requirements of an editor. he undertook to traduce the moral character of pope; and the line in which lord byron refers to him on that account "to do for hate what mallet did for hire" will long be remembered to his prejudice. his so-called "invariable principles of poetry" maintained in his pope and in his controversy with byron and campbell, are better based than critics hitherto have been willing to admit. considering how sharply the reverend pamphleteer was hit by the peer's ridicule, it must be always remembered, to the credit of his christianity, that possibly the most popular of all the dirges written on lord byron's death came from mr. bowles's pen; and the following tributary stanza is deepened in its music by the memory of the former war. "i will not ask sad pity to deplore his wayward errors who thus sadly died, still less, childe harold, now thou art no more, will i say aught of genius misapplied; of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride: but i will bid th' arcadian cypress wave, pluck the green laurel from the perseus's side, and pray thy spirit may such quiet have that not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave." it only remains for us to add, that mr. bowles wrote a somewhat poor life of bishop ken--that he was famous for his parson adams-like forgetfulness--that his wife died in , at the age of --and that he himself at the time of his death was in his eighty-eighth year.--_london athenæum._ morning in spring. (from the german of gustav solling.) from the valleys to the hills see the morning mists arise; and the early dew distills balmy incense to the skies. purple clouds, with vapory grace, round the sun their soft sail fling; now they fade--and from his face beams the new-born bliss of spring! from the cool grass glitter bright myriad drops of diamond dew; bending 'neath their pressure light, waves the green corn, springing new nought but the fragrant wind is heard, whispering softly through the trees, or, lightly perched, the early bird chirping to the morning breeze dewy may-flowers to the sun ope their buds of varied hue. fragrant shades--his beams to shun-- hide the violet's heavenly blue a joyous sense of life revived streams through every limb and vein: i thank thee, lord! that i have lived to see the bright young spring again! eta. [from household words.] work! an anecdote. a calvary officer of large fortune, who had distinguished himself in several actions, having been quartered for a long time in a foreign city, gradually fell into a life of extreme and incessant dissipation. he soon found himself so indisposed to any active military service, that even the ordinary routine became irksome and unbearable. he accordingly solicited and obtained leave of absence from his regiment for six months. but, instead of immediately engaging in some occupation of mind and body, as a curative process for his morbid condition, he hastened to london, and gave himself up entirely to greater luxuries than ever, and plunged into every kind of sensuality. the consequence was a disgust of life and all its healthy offices. he became unable to read half a page of a book, or to write the shortest note; mounting his horse was too much trouble; to lounge down the street was a hateful effort. his appetite failed, or every thing disagreed with him; and he could seldom sleep. existence became an intolerable burden; he therefore determined on suicide. with this intention he loaded his pistols, and, influenced by early associations, dressed himself in his regimental frock-coat and crimson sash, and entered st. james's park a little before sunrise. he felt as if he was mounting guard for the last time; listened to each sound, and looked with miserable affection across the misty green toward the horse guards, faintly seen in the distance. a few minutes after the officer had entered the park, there passed through the same gate a poor mechanic, who leisurely followed in the same direction. he was a gaunt, half-famished looking man, and walked with a sad air, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground, and his large bony hands dangling at his sides. the officer, absorbed in the act he meditated, walked on without being aware of the presence of another person. arriving about the middle of a wide open space, he suddenly stopped, and drawing forth both pistols, exclaimed, "oh, most unfortunate and most wretched man that i am! wealth, station, honor, prospects, are of no avail! existence has become a heavy torment to me! i have not strength--i have not courage to endure or face it a moment longer!" with these words he cocked the pistols, and was raising both of them to his head, when his arms were seized from behind, and the pistols twisted out of his fingers. he reeled round, and beheld the gaunt scarecrow of a man who had followed him. "what are you?" stammered the officer, with a painful air; "how dare you to step between me and death?" "i am a poor, hungry mechanic;" answered the man, "one who works from fourteen to sixteen hours a day, and yet finds it hard to earn a living. my wife is dead--my daughter was tempted away from me--and i am a lone man. as i have nobody to live for, and have become quite tired of my life, i came out this morning, intending to drown myself. but as the fresh air of the park came over my face, the sickness of life gave way to shame at my own want of strength and courage, and i determined to walk onward and live my allotted time. but what are _you_? have you encountered cannon-balls and death in all shapes, and now want the strength and courage to meet the curse of idleness?" the officer was moving off with some confused words, but the mechanic took him by the arm, and threatening to hand him over to the police if he resisted, led him droopingly away. this mechanic's work was that of a turner, and he lived in a dark cellar, where he toiled at his lathe from morning to night. hearing that the officer had amused himself with a little turnery in his youth, the poor artisan proposed to take him down into his work-shop. the officer offered him money; and was anxious to escape; but the mechanic refused it, and persisted. he accordingly took the morbid gentleman down into his dark cellar, and set him to work at his lathe. the officer began very languidly, and soon rose to depart. whereupon, the mechanic forced him down again on the hard bench, and swore that if he did not do an hour's work for him, in return for saving his life, he would instantly consign him to a policeman, and denounce him for attempting to commit suicide. at this threat the officer was so confounded, that he at once consented to do the work. when the hour was over, the mechanic insisted on a second hour, in consequence of the slowness of the work--it had not been a fair hour's labor. in vain the officer protested, was angry, and exhausted--had the heartburn--pains in his back and limbs--and declared it would kill him. the mechanic was inexorable. "if it _does_ kill you," said he, "then you will only be where you would have been if i had not stopped you." so the officer was compelled to continue his work with an inflamed face, and the perspiration pouring down over his cheeks and chin. at last he could proceed no longer, come what would of it, and sank back in the arms of his persecuting preserver. the mechanic now placed before him his own breakfast, composed of a two-penny loaf of brown bread, and a pint of small beer; the whole of which the officer disposed of in no time, and then sent out for more. before the boy who was dispatched on this errand returned, a little conversation had ensued; and as the officer rose to go, he smilingly placed his purse, with his card, in the hands of the mechanic. the poor, ragged man received them with all the composure of a physician, and with a sort of dry, grim humor which appeared peculiar to him, and the only relief of his other wise rough and rigid character, made sombre by the constant shadows and troubles of life. but the moment he read the name on the card all the hard lines in his deeply-marked face underwent a sudden contortion. thrusting back the purse and card into the officer's hand, he seized him with a fierce grip by one arm--hurried him, wondering, up the dark broken stairs, along the narrow passage--then pushed him out at the door! "you are the fine gentleman who tempted my daughter away!" said he. "i--_your_ daughter!" exclaimed the officer. "yes, my daughter; ellen brentwood!" said the mechanic. "are there so many men's daughters in the list, that you forget her name?" "i implore you," said the officer, "to take this purse. _pray_, take this purse! if you will not accept it for yourself, i entreat you to send it to her!" "go and buy a lathe with it," said the mechanic. "work, man! and repent of your past life!" so saying, he closed the door in the officer's face, and descended the stairs to his daily labor. ignorance in england.--taking the whole of northern europe--including scotland, and france and belgium (where education is at a low ebb), we find that to every - / of the population, there is one child acquiring the rudiments of knowledge; while in england there is only one such pupil to every fourteen inhabitants. it has been calculated that there are at the present day in england and wales nearly , , persons who can neither read nor write--that is to say, nearly one quarter of the population. also, that of all the children between five and fourteen, more than one half attend no place of instruction. these statements would be hard to believe, if we had not to encounter in our every-day life degrees of illiteracy which would be startling, if we were not thoroughly used to it. wherever we turn, ignorance, not always allied to poverty, stares us in the face. if we look in the _gazette_, at the list of partnerships dissolved, not a month passes but some unhappy man, rolling, perhaps, in wealth, but wallowing in ignorance, is put to the _experimentum crucis_ of "his mark." the number of petty jurors--in rural districts especially--who can only sign with a cross, is enormous. it is not unusual to see parish documents of great local importance defaced with the same humiliating symbol by persons whose office shows them to be not only "men of mark," but men of substance. a housewife in humble life need only turn to the file of her tradesmen's bills to discover hieroglyphics which render them so many arithmetical puzzles. in short, the practical evidences of the low ebb to which the plainest rudiments of education in this country have fallen, are too common to bear repetition. we can not pass through the streets, we can not enter a place of public assembly, or ramble in the fields, without the gloomy shadow of ignorance sweeping over us.--_dickens's "household words."_ [from the ladies' companion.] men and women. a woman is naturally gratified when a man singles her out, and addresses his conversation to her. she takes pains to appear to the best advantage, but without any thought of willfully misleading. how different is it with men! at least it is thus that women in general think of men. the mask with them is deliberately put on and worn as a mask, and wo betide the silly girl who is too weak or too unsuspicious, not to appear displeased with the well-turned compliments and flattering attentions so lavishly bestowed upon her by her partner at the ball. if a girl has brothers she sees a little behind the scenes, and is saved much mortification and disappointment. she discovers how little men mean by attentions they so freely bestow upon the last new face which takes their fancy. men are singularly wanting in good feeling upon this subject; they pay a girl marked attention, flatter her in every way, and then, perhaps, when warned by some judicious friend that they are going too far, "can hardly believe the girl could be so foolish as to fancy that any thing was meant." the fault which strikes women most forcibly in men is _selfishness_. they expect too much in every way, and become impatient if their comforts and peculiarities are interfered with. if the men of the present day were less selfish and self-indulgent, and more willing to be contented and happy upon moderate means, there would be fewer causes of complaint against young women undertaking situations as governesses when they were wholly unfit for so responsible an office. i feel the deepest interest in the present movement for the improvement of the female sex; and most cordially do i concur in the schemes for this desirable purpose laid down in "the ladies' companion;" but i could not resist the temptation of lifting up my voice in testimony against some of the every-day faults of men, to which i think many of the follies and weaknesses of women are mainly to be attributed. mr. thackeray is the only writer of the present day who touches, with any severity, upon the faults of his own sex. he has shown us the style of women that he thinks men most admire, in "amelia," and "mrs. pendennis." certainly, my own experience agrees with his opinion; and until men are sufficiently improved to be able to appreciate higher qualities in women, and to choose their wives among women who possess such qualities, i do not expect that the present desirable movement will make much progress. the improvement of both sexes must be simultaneous. a "gentleman's horror" is still a "blue stocking," which unpleasing epithet is invariably bestowed upon all women who have read much, and who are able to think and act for themselves. a young wife the return of pope pius ix. to rome. the banishment of a pope has hitherto been a rare event: the following detailed and graphic description of the return of pius ix. to his seat of empire, superadds a certain degree of historical importance to its immediate interest. it is from the correspondence of the "london times." velletri, _thursday, april_ . all speculation is now set at rest--the last and the most important stage in the papal progress has been made--the pope has arrived at velletri. the pope was expected yesterday at three o'clock, but very early in the morning every one in the town, whether they had business to execute or not, thought it necessary to rush about, here, there, and every where. i endeavored to emulate this activity, and to make myself as ubiquitous as the nature of the place, which is built on an ascent, and my own nature, which is not adapted to ascents, would allow me. at one moment i stood in admiration at the skill with which sundry sheets and napkins were wound round a wooden figure, to give it a chaste and classic appearance, which figure--supposed to represent charity, fortitude, prudence, or plenty--was placed as a _basso relievo_ on the triumphal arch, where it might have done for any goddess or virtue in the mythology or calendar. at another moment i stood on the grand place, marveling at the arch and dry manner in which half a dozen painters were inscribing to pio nono, over the doors of the municipality, every possible quality which could have belonged to the whole family of saints--one man, in despair at giving adequate expression to his enthusiasm, having satisfied himself with writing _pio nono immortale! immortale! immortale! vero angelo!_ but to say the truth, there was something very touching in the enthusiasm of this rustic and mountain people, although it was sometimes absurdly and quaintly expressed; for instance, in one window there was a picture, or rather a kind of transparency, representing little angels, which a scroll underneath indicated as the children of his holiness. whether the velletrians intended to represent their own innocence or to question that of his holiness, i did not choose to inquire. then there were other pictures of the pope in every possible variety of dress; sometimes as a young officer, at another as a cardinal; again, a corner shop had him as a benevolent man in a black coat and dingy neck-cloth; but, most curious of all, he at one place took the shape of a female angel placing her foot on the demon of rebellion. the circumstance of his protean quality arose from each family having turned their pictures from the inside outside the houses, and printed pio nono under each; but if the features of each picture differed, not so the feelings that placed them there: it was a touching and graceful sight to see the people as they greeted each other that morning. as the day drew on, the preparations were completed, and the material of which every house was built was lost under a mass of scarlet and green. but, alas! about three o'clock the clouds gathered upon alba; monte calvi was enveloped in mist, which sailed over the top of artemisio; the weather turned cold; and the whole appearance of the day became threatening. the figure of the pope on the top of the triumphal arch, to compose which sundry beds must have been stripped of their sheets--for it was of colossal dimensions--quivered in the breeze, and at every blast i expected to see the worst possible omen--the mitre, which was only fastened by string to the sacred head, falling down headless; but having pointed this out to some persons who were too excited themselves to see anything practical, a boy was sent up, and with two long nails secured the mitre more firmly on the sacred head than even lord minto's counsels could do. at three o'clock the municipality passed down the lines of troops amid every demonstration of noisy joy. there were half a dozen very respectable gentlemen in evening dress, all looking wonderfully alike, and remarkably pale, either from the excitement or the important functions which they had to perform; but i ought to speak well of them, for they invited me to the reserved part of the small entrance square, where i had the good fortune to shelter myself from the gusts of wind which drove down from the hills. from three to six we all waited, the people very patient, and fortunately so crowded that they could not well feel cold. the cardinal's servants--strange grotesque-looking fellows in patchwork liveries--were running up and down the portico, and the soldiers on duty began to give evident signs of a diminution of ardor. some persons were just beginning to croak, "well, i told you he would not come," when the cannon opened from the heights, the troops fell in--a carriage is seen coming down the hill, but it is the wrong road. who can it be? the troops seem to know, for the chasseurs draw their swords, the whole line present arms, the band strikes up, and the french general baraguay d'hilliers dashes through the gates. again roar the cannon--another carriage is seen, and this time in the right direction; it is preceded by the pope's courier, covered with scarlet and gold. the people cheered loudly, although they could not have known whom it contained; but they cheered the magnificent arms and the reeking horses. it was the vice-legate of velletri, monsignore beraldi. the municipality rushed to the door of the carriage, and a little, energetic-looking man in lace and purple descended, and was almost smothered in the embraces of the half dozen municipal officers, who confused him with questions--"dove e la sua santita!" "vicino! vicino!" "e a frosinone, e a valomontone?" "bellissimo, bellissimo, recevimento! sorprendente! tanto bello! tanto bello!" was all the poor little man could jerk out, and at each word he was stifled with fresh embraces; but he was soon set aside and forgotten, when half a dozen of the papal couriers galloped up, splashed from head to foot. they were followed by several carriages with four or six horses, the postillions in their new liveries; then came a large squadron of neapolitan cavalry, and immediately afterward the pope. it was a touching sight. while the women cried, the men shouted; but however absurd a description of enthusiasm may be, in its action it was very fine. as he passed on, the troops presented arms, and every one knelt. he drew up in front of the municipality, who were so affected or so frightened that their speech ended in nothing. the carriage door was opened, and then the scene which ensued was without parallel; every one rushed forward to kiss the foot which he put out. one little abbate, don pietro metranga, amused me excessively. nothing could keep him back; he caught hold of the sacred foot, he hugged it, he sighed, he wept over it. a knot of gentlemen were standing on the steps of the entrance, among others mr. baillie cochrane, in the scotch archers' uniform, whom his holiness beckoned forward, and put out his hand for him to kiss. again the carriages would have moved on, for it was late, and _te deum_ had to be sung; but for some time it was quite impossible to shake off the crowd at the door. at last the procession moved, and i, at the peril of my life--for the crowd, couriers, and chasseurs rode like lunatics--ran down to the cathedral. to my surprise, the pope had anticipated me, and the door was shut. i was about to retire in despair, when i saw a little man creeping silently up to a small gate, followed by a very tall and ungainly prince in a red uniform, which put me very much in mind of ducrow in his worst days. i looked again, and i knew it was my friend the abbé, and if i followed him i must go right. it was as i expected. while we had been abusing the arrangements, he had gone and asked for the key of the sacristy, by which way we entered the church. it was densely crowded in all parts, and principally by troops who had preoccupied it. when the host was raised, the effect was grand in the extreme. the pope, with all his subjects, bowed their heads to the pavement, and the crash of arms was succeeded by the most perfect silence. the next ceremony was the benediction of the people from the palace, which is situate on the extreme height of the town. nerving myself for this last effort, i struggled and stumbled up the hill. there the thousands from the country and neighborhood were assembled, and in a few minutes the pope arrived. in the interval all the façades of the houses had been illuminated, and the effects of the light on the various picturesque groups and gay uniforms was very striking. a burst of music and fresh cannon announced the arrival of his holiness. he went straight into the palace, and in a few minutes the priests with the torches entered the small chapel which was erected on the balcony. the pope followed, and then arose one shout, such as i never remember to have heard: another and another, and all knelt, and not a whisper was heard. as the old man stretched out his hands to bless the people, his voice rung clear and full in the night: "sit nomen dei benedictum." and the people, with one voice, replied: "ex hoc et nunc et in seculum." then the pope: "adjutorum nostrum in nomine domini." the people: "qui fecit coelum et terram." his holiness: "benedicat vos omnipotens deus pater, filius, et spiritus sanctus." and the people, with one voice: "amen!" _thursday evening._ the velletri fireworks were certainly a failure; the population understands genuflexions better than squibs and crackers; but the illumination, which consisted of large pots of grease placed on posts at intervals of a yard down every street, had really a very good effect, and might afford a good hint for cheap illuminations in england. what is most remarkable to an englishman on such occasions is, the total absence of drunkenness and the admirable and courteous conduct of the people to each other. it seemed to me that the population never slept; they were perambulating the streets chanting "viva pio nono" all night; and, at o'clock this morning, there was the same crowd, with the same excitement. i went early to the papal palace to witness the reception of the different deputations; but, notwithstanding my activity, i arrived one of the last, and on being shown into a waiting-room found myself standing in a motley group of generals of every clime, priests in every variety of costume, judges, embassadors, and noble guards. a long suite of ten rooms was thrown open, and probably the old and tapestried walls had never witnessed so strange a sight before as the gallery presented. there was a kind of order and degree preserved in the distribution of the visitors. the first room mostly contained priests of the lower ranks, in the second were gentlemen in violet colored dresses, looking proud and inflated; then came a room full of officers, then distinguished strangers, among whom might be seen general baraguay d'hilliers, count ludolf, the neapolitan embassador, the princes massimo, corsini, ruspoli, cesareni, all covered with stars, ribbons, and embroidery. the door of each room was kept by the municipal troops, who were evidently very new to the work, for the pages in their pink silk dresses might be seen occasionally instructing them in the salute. presently there was a move, every one drew back for cardinal macchi; he is the _doyen_ of the college, and, as archbishop of velletri, appeared in his brightest scarlet robes--a fit subject for the pencil of the great masters. he was followed by cardinals asquini and dupont in more modest garb, and each as he passed received and gracefully acknowledged the homage of the crowd. while we were standing waiting, two priests in full canonicals marched by with stately steps, preceded by the cross, and bearing the consecrated elements which they were to administer to the pope; they remained with him about twenty minutes, and again the doors were thrown open, and they came out with the same forms. the sacrament was succeeded by the breakfast service of gold, which it would have made any amateurs of benvenuto cellini's workmanship envious to see. at last the breakfast was ended, and i began to hope there was some chance of our suspense terminating, when there was a great movement among the crowd at one end of the gallery, the pages rushed to their posts, flung back the two doors, and the prime minister, cardinal antonelli, entered. standing in that old palace, and gazing on the priest premier, i could realize the times of mazarin and richelieu. neither of these could have possessed a haughtier eye than antonelli, or carried themselves more proudly: every action spoke the man self-possessed and confident in the greatness of his position. he is tall, thin, about forty-four or forty-five, of a dark and somewhat sallow complexion, distinguished not by the regularity or beauty of his features, but by the calmness and dignity of their expression. as the mass moved to let him pass to the papal apartments at the other extremity of the gallery, there was nothing flurried in his manner or hurried in his step--he knew to a nicety the precise mode of courtesy which he should show to each of his worshipers; for instance, when the french general--ay, the rough soldier of the camp--bent to kiss his hand, he drew it back, and spoke a few low, complimentary words as he bowed low to him, always graciously, almost condescendingly. when the roman princes wished to perform the same salute his hand met their lips half-way. when the crowd of abbes, monks, priests, and deacons, seized it, it passed on unresistingly from mouth to mouth, as though he knew that blessing was passing out of him, but that he found sufficient for all. i was beginning to marvel what had become of my little friend of the preceding evening, don pietro, when i observed a slight stoppage, occasioned by some one falling at the cardinal's feet. it was don pietro. he had knelt down to get a better hold of the hanging fringes, and no power could withdraw them from his lips; he appeared determined to exhaust their valuable savor, and, for the first time, i saw a smile on antonelli's countenance, which soon changed into a look of severity, which so frightened the little abbate that he gave up his prey. cardinal antonelli went in to the pope, and expectation and patience had to be renewed. then came all the deputations in succession, men with long parchments and long faces of anxiety. there could not have been less than eight or ten of these, who all returned from the interview looking very bright and contented, ejaculating "_quanto e buono! quanto buono!_" to my great disappointment, a very officious little gentleman, who, it appears, is a nephew of cardinal borroneo, and who, only two days since, had been appointed a kind of deputy master of the ceremonies, informed me that it was very unlikely his holiness could receive any more people, as he had to go out at eleven, which fact was confirmed by the papal couriers, who marched, booted and spurred, whip in hand, into the ante-room. this announcement had scarcely been made, when cardinal antonelli appeared and informed us that the pope would receive two or three at a time, but that they must not stop long. the first batch consisted of "our own correspondent;" don flavio ghigi, i looked round to see who was the third, it was the little abbate. as we entered the presence chamber, i made an inclination, but, to my surprise, both don flavio and don pietro rushed forward. the ghigi gracefully, and with emotion, kissed the sovereign's foot, and then his hand, which was extended to him. his holiness had evidently been greatly excited. he took don flavio by the hand, saying, "rise up, my son, our sorrows are over." meanwhile don pietro had embraced not merely the foot, but the ankle. vainly the pope bade him rise. at last he exclaimed, looking at the little man with wonder, "eh! ché don pietro con una barba!" "ah," said the unclerical priest, not in any degree taken by surprise, "since our misfortunes, your holiness, i never had the heart to shave." "then, now that happier times are come, we shall see your face quite clean," was the pope's reply. more genuflexions, more embracings, and away we went. after a few minutes' delay, the gentlemen of the chamber gave notice that his holiness was about to pass; he was preceded by priests bearing the crucifix, and this time wore a rich embroidered stole; his benevolent face lighted up as he blessed all his servants who knelt on his passage. he has a striking countenance, full of paternal goodness; nor does his tendency to obesity interfere with the dignity of his movements. some half-dozen capuchins fell down before him, and the guards had some difficulty in making them move out of the way. as the pope moved he dispensed his blessing to the right and to the left. meanwhile a great crowd had collected outside. when he appeared he was enthusiastically cheered. he entered his carriage--the scarlet couriers kicked, cracked, and spurred--the troops all knelt--the band played some strange anthem, for he has become rather tired of "_viva pio nono_," with which he has no agreeable associations--and the pageant passed away. i was compelled to decline the invitation from the council of state; and, soon after his holiness's departure, i started for rome, in order to arrive before the gates were shut, for the passport system is in the strictest operation. all along the road fortunately the preparations have taken the turn of cleanliness--whitewash is at a premium. at genzano and albano the woods of dunsinane seem to be moving through the towns. at the former place i saw general baraguay d'hilliers, who had to send to albano for two cutlets and bread, the supplies of genzano being exhausted. the pope leaves velletri to-morrow, friday, th, at o'clock. at genzano the neapolitan troops leave him, and are replaced by the french; at albano he breakfasts, and enters rome at o'clock. preparations are making for a grand illumination, and the town is all alive. rome, _friday evening, april_ . the history of the last two years has taught us to set very little reliance on any demonstrations of public opinion. but for this sad experience i should have warmly congratulated the pope and his french advisers on the success of their experiment, and augured well of the new roman era from the enthusiasm which has ushered it in. it is true that there was wanting the delirious excitement which greeted our second charles on his return from a sixteen years' exile; nor were the forms of courtly etiquette broken through as on that memorable st of march, when napoleon, accompanied by cambronne and bertrand dashed into the court of the tuileries and was borne on the shoulders of his troops into the salle des maréchaux. even the genuine heartiness, the uncalculating expression of emotion, which delighted the pope at frosinone and velletri, were not found in rome; but then it must be remembered that it was from rome the pope was driven forth as an exile--that shame and silence are the natural expressions of regret and repentance; so, considering every thing, the pope was very well received. bright banners waved over his head, bright flowers were strewn on his path, the day was warm and sunny--in all respects it was a morning _albâ notanda credâ_, one of the _dies fasti_ of the reformed papacy. and yet the thoughts which the gorgeous scene suggested were not of unmixed gratification. french troops formed the papal escort; french troops lined the streets and thronged st. peter's. at first the mind was carried back to the times when pepin, as the eldest son of the catholic church, restored the pope to the throne of the apostle, and for the moment we were disposed to feel that the event and the instrument were happily associated; but a moment's glance at the tri-color standard, at the free and easy manner of the general-in-chief when he met the pope at the gate of the lateran, recalled the mind back to the french republic, with all its long train of intrigue, oppression, and infatuated folly. but, whatever the change of scene may be, it must be admitted that the drama was full of interest and the decorations magnificent. when the sun shone on the masses collected in the piazza of st. giovanni, and the great gates of the lateran being thrown open the gorgeous hierarchy of rome, with the banners of the various basilicæ, the insignia and costume of every office issued forth, the effect was beyond measure imposing. an artist must have failed in painting, as he must have failed in composing such a picture. precisely at o'clock the batteries on the place announced that the _cortége_ was in view, and presently the clouds of dust blown before it gave a less agreeable assurance of its approach. the procession was headed by a strong detachment of cavalry; then followed the tribe of couriers, outriders, and officials--whom i described from velletri--more troops, and then the pope. as he passed the drums beat the _générale_, and the soldiers knelt, it was commonly reported, but i know not with what truth; it was the first time they ever knelt before the head of the church. certainly, with the italians church ceremonies are an instinct--the coloring and grouping are so accidentally but artistically arranged; the bright scarlet of the numerous cardinals mingling with the solemn black of the _conservatori_, the ermine of the senate, the golden vestments of the high-priests, and the soberer hues of the inferior orders of the clergy. when the pope descended from the carriage a loud cheer was raised and handkerchiefs were waved in abundance; but, alas! the enthusiasm that is valuable is that which does not boast of such a luxury as handkerchiefs. very few people seemed to think it necessary to kneel, and, on the whole, the mass were more interested in the pageant itself than in the circumstances in which it originated. the excitement of curiosity was, however, at its height, for many people in defiance of horse and foot broke into the square, where they afforded excellent sport to the chasseurs, who amused themselves in knocking off their hats and then in preventing them from picking them up. i ran down in time to see his holiness march in procession up the centre of the magnificent st. giovanni. this religious part of the ceremony was perhaps more imposing than that outside the church. the dead silence while the pope prayed, the solemn strains when he rose from his knees, the rich draperies which covered the walls and cast an atmosphere of purple light around, the black dresses and the vails which the ladies wore, mingling with every variety of uniform, stars, and ribbons, produced an admirable effect. the great object, when this ceremony was half finished, was to reach st. peter's before the pope could arrive there, every body, of course, starting at the same moment, and each party thinking they were going to do a very clever thing in taking a narrow roundabout way to the ponte sisto, so choking it up and leaving the main road by the coliseum and the foro trajano quite deserted. in the palmiest days of the circus rome could never have witnessed such chariot-racing. all ideas of courtesy and solemnity befitting the occasion were banished. the only thing was who could arrive first at the bridge. the streets as we passed through were quite deserted--it looked like a city of the dead. as we passed that admirable institution, the hospital st. giovanni colabita, which is always open to public view, the officiating priests and soldiers were standing in wonder at the entrance, and the sick men raised themselves on their arms and looked with interest on the excitement occasioned by the return of the head of that church, to which they owed the foundation where they sought repose, and the faith that taught them hope. by the time we arrived at st. peter's the immense space was already crowded, but, thanks to my irish pertinacity, i soon elbowed myself into a foremost place at the head of the steps. here i had to wait for about an hour, admiring the untiring energy of the mob, who resisted all the attempts of the troops to keep them back, the gentle expostulations of the officers, and sometimes the less gentle persuasion of the bayonet. at o'clock, the banners flew from the top of adrian's tomb, and the roar of cannon recommenced; but again the acclamations were very partial, and, but for the invaluable pocket-handkerchiefs of the ever-sympathizing ladies, the affair must have passed off rather coldly. it was, however, very different in st. peter's. when his holiness trod that magnificent temple the thousands collected within its walls appeared truly impressed with the grandeur, the almost awful grandeur of the scene. the man, the occasion, and the splendor, all so striking; never was the host celebrated under a more remarkable combination of circumstances. the word of command given to the troops rang through the immense edifice, then the crash of arms, and every man knelt for some moments amid a breathless silence, only broken by the drums, which rolled at intervals. the mass was ended. st. peter's sent forth the tens of thousands, the soldiers fell in, the pageantry was at an end. then came the illumination, which was very beautiful, not from the brilliancy of the lights, but from its being so universal. st. peter's was only lighted _en demi-toilette_, and is to appear in his glory to-morrow evening; but as the wind played among the lamps, and the flames flickered and brightened in the breeze, the effect from the pincian was singularly graceful. the campodoglio, that centre of triumph, was in a blaze of glory, and the statues of the mighty of old stood forth, like dark and solemn witnesses of the past, in the sea of light. but one by one the lamps died out, the silence and the darkness of the night resumed their sway, and the glory of the day became the history of the past. thus far prognostications have been defeated. the pope is in the vatican. let us hope the prophets of evil may again find their predictions falsified; but, alas! it is impossible to be blind to the fact, that within the last few days the happiness of many homes has been destroyed, and that the triumph of the one has been purchased by the sorrows of the many. true, some , scudi have been given in charity, of which the pope granted , ; but there is that which is even more blessed than food--it is liberty. there were conspiracies, it is true. an attempt was made to set fire to the quirinal; a small _machine infernale_ was exploded near the palazzo teodoli. there was the excuse for some arrests, but not for so many. but if the hand of the administration is to press too heavily on the people, the absence of prudence and indulgence on the part of the church can not be compensated for by the presence of its head. in former days of clerical ignorance and religious bigotry the master-writings of antiquity, which were found inscribed on old parchments, were obliterated to make way for missals, homilies, and golden legends, gorgeously illuminated but ignorantly expressed. let not the church fall into the same error in these days, by effacing from its record the stern but solemn lessons of the past, to replace them by illiberal, ungenerous, and therefore erroneous views, clothed although they may be with all the pride and pomp of papal supremacy. doubtless some time will elapse before any particular course of policy will be laid down. the pope will for the moment bide his time and observe. no one questions his good intentions, no man puts his benevolence in doubt. let him only follow the dictates of his own kindness of heart, chastened by his bitter experience, which will teach him alike to avoid the extremes of indulgence and the excesses of severity. _saturday morning, april_ . i am glad to be able to add that the night has passed off in the most quiet and satisfactory manner, and i do not hear that in a single instance public tranquillity was disturbed. the decorations, consisting of bright colors and rich tapestry, which ornamented the windows and balconies yesterday, are kept up to-day, and the festive appearance of the city is fully maintained. there is an apparent increase of movement in all the principal thoroughfares. his holiness is engaged to-day in receiving various deputations, but to-morrow the ceremonies will recommence with high mass at st. peter's, after which the pope will bless the people from the balcony, and no doubt for several days to come religious observances will occupy all the time and attention of his holiness. i am very glad to find, from a gentleman who arrived last night, having followed the papal progress through cesterna, velletri, genzano, and albano, several hours after i had left, that the most perfect tranquillity prevailed on the whole line of road, and up to the gates of rome, at four o'clock this morning not a single accident had occurred to disturb the general satisfaction. of course the whole city is alive with reports of various descriptions; every body draws his own conclusions from the great events of yesterday, and indulges in vaticinations in the not improbable event of general baraguay d'hilliers' immediate departure, now that his mission has been accomplished. a fine field will be open for speculation. meanwhile the presence of the sovereign has been of one inestimable advantage to the town--it has put the municipality on the alert. the heaps of rubbish have been removed from the centres of the squares and the corners of the different streets, to the great discomfiture of the tribes of hungry dogs which, for the comfort of the tired population, had not energy to bay through the night. workpeople have been incessantly employed in carting away the remains of republican violence. i observe, however, that the causeway between the vatican and st. angelo, which was broken down by the mob, has not yet been touched. are we to hail this as an omen that the sovereign will never again require to seek the shelter of the fortress, or as an evidence that the ecclesiastical and the civil power are not yet entirely united? [from bentley's miscellany.] the genius of george sand. the comedy of franÇois le champi. scarcely half a dozen years have elapsed since it was considered a dangerous experiment to introduce the name of george sand into an english periodical. in the interval we have overcome our scruples, and the life and writings of george sand are now as well known in this country as those of charles dickens, or bulwer lytton. the fact itself is a striking proof of the power of a great intellect to make itself heard in spite of the prejudices and aversion of its audience. the intellectual power of george sand is attested by the suffrages of europe. the use to which she has put it is another question. unfortunately, she has applied it, for the most part, to so bad a use, that half the people who acknowledge the ascendency of her genius, see too much occasion to deplore its perversion. the principles she has launched upon the world have an inevitable tendency toward the disorganization of all existing institutions, political and social. this is the broad, palpable fact, let sophistry disguise or evade it as it may. whether she pours out an intense novel that shall plow up the roots of the domestic system, or composes a proclamation for the red republicans that shall throw the streets into a flame, her influence is equally undeniable and equally pernicious. it has been frequently urged, in the defense of her novels, that they do not assail the institution of marriage, but the wrongs that are perpetrated in its name. give her the full benefit of her intention, and the result is still the same. her eloquent expositions of ill-assorted unions--her daring appeals from the obligations they impose, to the affections they outrage--her assertion of the rights of nature over the conventions of society, have the final effect of justifying the violation of duty on the precarious ground of passion and inclination. the bulk of her readers--of all readers--take such social philosophy in the gross; they can not pick out its nice distinctions, and sift its mystical refinements. it is less a matter of reasoning than of feeling. their sensibility, and not their judgment, is invoked. it is not to their understanding that these rhapsodies are addressed, but to their will and their passions. a writer who really meant to vindicate an institution against its abuses, would adopt a widely different course; and it is only begging george sand out of the hands of the jury to assert that the _intention_ of her writings is opposed to their _effect_, which is to sap the foundations upon which the fabric of domestic life reposes. her practice accords harmoniously with her doctrines. nobody who knows what the actual life of george sand has been, can doubt for a moment the true nature of her opinions on the subject of marriage. it is not a pleasant subject to touch, and we should shrink from it, if it were not as notorious as every thing else by which she has become famous in her time. it forms, in reality, as much a part of the philosophy she desires to impress upon the world, as the books through which she has expounded her theory. it is neither more nor less than her theory of freedom and independence in the matter of passion (we dare not dignify it by any higher name) put into action--rather vagrant action, we fear, but, on that account, all the more decisive. the wonder is, how any body, however ardent an admirer of george sand's genius, can suppose for a moment that a woman who leads this life from choice, and who carries its excesses to an extremity of voluptuous caprice, could by any human possibility pass so completely out of herself into another person in her books. the supposition is not only absurd in itself, but utterly inconsistent with the boldness and sincerity of her character. some sort of justification for the career of madame dudevant has been attempted to be extracted from the alleged unhappiness of her married life, which drove her at last to break the bond, and purchase her liberty at the sacrifice of a large portion of her fortune, originally considerable. but all such justifications must be accepted with hesitation in the absence of authentic data, and more especially when subsequent circumstances are of a nature to throw suspicion upon the defense. cases undoubtedly occur in which the violent disruption of domestic ties may be extenuated even upon moral grounds; but we can not comprehend by what process of reasoning the argument can be stretched so as to cover any _indiscretions_ that take place afterward. madame dudevant was married in , her husband is represented as a plain country gentleman, very upright and literal in his way, and quite incapable, as may readily be supposed, of sympathizing with what one of her ablest critics calls her "aspirations toward the infinite, art and liberty." she bore him two children, lived with him eight years, and, shortly after the insurrection of july, , fled from her dull house at nohant, and went up to paris. upon this step nobody has a right, to pronounce judgment. nor should the world penetrate the recesses of her private life from that day forward, if her life could be truly considered private, and if it were not in fact and in reality a part and parcel of her literary career. she has made so little scruple about publishing it herself, that nobody else need have any such scruple on that head. she has been interwoven in such close intimacies with a succession of the most celebrated persons, and has acted upon all occasions so openly, that there is not the slightest disguise upon the matter in the literary circles of paris. but even all this publicity might not wholly warrant a reference to the erratic course of this extraordinary woman, if she had not made her own experiences, to some extent, the basis of her works, which are said by those most familiar with her habits and associations, to contain, in a variety of forms, the confession of the strange vicissitudes through which her heart and imagination have passed. the reflection is not limited to general types of human character and passion, but constantly descends to individualization; and her intimate friends are at no loss to trace through her numerous productions a whole gallery of portraits, beginning with poor m. dudevant, and running through a remarkable group of contemporary celebrities. her works then are, avowedly, transcripts of her life; and her life consequently becomes, in a grave sense, literary property, as the spring from whence has issued the turbid principles she glories in enunciating. we have no desire to pursue this view of george sand's writings to its ultimate consequences. it is enough for our present purpose to indicate the source and nature of the influence she exercises. taking her life and her works together, their action and re-action upon each other, it may be observed that such a writer could be produced and fostered only in such a state of society as that of paris. with all her genius she would perish in london. the moral atmosphere of france is necessary alike to its culture and reception--the volcanic soil--the perpetual excitement--the instability of the people and the government--the eternal turmoil, caprice, and transition--a society agitated and polluted to its core. these elements of fanaticism and confusion, to which she has administered so skillfully, have made her what she is. in such a country as england, calm, orderly, and conservative, her social philosophy would lack earth for its roots and air for its blossoms. the very institutions of france, upon which no man can count for an hour, are essential to her existence as a writer. but time that mellows all things has not been idle with george sand. after having written "indiana," "lelie," "valentine," and sundry other of her most conspicuous works, she found it necessary to defend herself against the charge of advocating conjugal infidelity. the defense, to be sure, was pre-eminently sophistical, and rested on a complete evasion of the real question; but it was a concession to the feelings and decorum of society which could not fail in some measure to operate as a restraint in future labors. her subsequent works were not quite so decisive on these topics; and in some of them marriage was even treated with a respectful recognition, and love was suffered to run its course in purity and tranquillity, without any of those terrible struggles with duty and conscience which were previously considered indispensable to bring out its intensity. and now comes an entirely new phase in the development of george sand's mind. perhaps about this time the influences immediately acting upon her may have undergone a modification that will partly help to explain the miracle. her daughter, the fair solange, is grown up and about to be married; and the household thoughts and cares, and the tenderness of a serious and unselfish cast, which creep to a mother's heart on such occasions, may have shed their sweetness upon this wayward soul, and inspired it with congenial utterances. this is mere speculation, more or less corroborated by time and circumstance; but whatever may have been the agencies by which the charm was wrought, certain it is that george sand has recently produced a work which, we will not say flippantly in the words of the song, "has for once a moral," but which is in the highest degree chaste in conception, and full of simplicity and truthfulness in the execution. this work is in the form of a three-act comedy, and is called "françois le champi." (for the benefit of the country gentlemen, we may as well at once explain that the word _champi_ means a foundling of the fields.) the domestic morality, the quiet nature, the _home feeling_ of this comedy may be described as something wonderful for george sand; not that her genius was not felt to be plastic enough for such a display, but that nobody suspected she could have accomplished it with so slight an appearance of artifice or false sentiment, or with so much geniality and faith in its truth. but this is not the only wonder connected with "françois le champi." its reception by the paris audience was something yet more wonderful. we witnessed a few weeks ago at the odeon its hundred and fourth or fifth representation--and it was a sight not readily forgotten. the acting, exquisite as it was through the minutest articulation of the scene, was infinitely less striking than the stillness and patience of the spectators. it was a strange and curious thing to see these mercurial people pouring in from their gay _cafés_ and _restaurants_, and sitting down to the representation of this dramatic pastoral with much the same close and motionless attention as a studious audience might be expected to give to a scientific lecture. and it was more curious still to contrast what was doing at that moment in different places with a like satisfaction to other crowds of listeners; and to consider what an odd compound that people must be who can equally enjoy the rustic virtues of the odeon, and the grossnesses and prurient humors of the variétés. paris and the parisians will, probably, forever remain an enigma to the moral philosopher. one never can see one's way through their surprising contradictions, or calculate upon what will happen next, or what turn any given state of affairs will take. in this sensuous, sentimental, volatile, and dismal paris, any body who may think it worth while to cross the water for such a spectacle, may see reproduced together, side by side, the innocence of the golden age, and the worst vices of the last stage of a high civilization. at the bottom of all this, no doubt, will be found a constitutional melancholy that goes a great way to account for the opposite excesses into which the national character runs. a frenchman is at heart the saddest man in the universe; but his nature is of great compass at both ends, being deficient only in the repose of the middle notes. and this constitutional melancholy opposed to the habitual frivolity (it never deserved to be called mirth) of the french is now more palpable than ever. commercial depression has brought it out in its darkest colors. the people having got what they wanted, begin now to discover that they want every thing else. the shops are empty--the palais royal is as _triste_ as the suburb of a country town--and the drive in the champs elysées, in spite of its display of horsemen and private carriages, mixed up in motley cavalcade with hack cabriolets and omnibuses, is as different from what it used to be in the old days of the monarchy, as the castle of dublin will be by-and-by, when the viceregal pageant is removed to london. the sparkling butterflies that used to flirt about in the gardens of the tuileries, may now be seen pacing moodily along, their eyes fixed on the ground, and their hands in their pockets, sometimes with an old umbrella (which seems to be received by common assent as the emblem of broken-down fortunes), and sometimes with a brown paper parcel under their arms. the animal spirits of the parisians are very much perplexed under these circumstances; and hence it is that they alternately try to drown their melancholy in draughts of fierce excitement, or to solace it by gentle sedatives. george sand has done herself great honor by this charming little drama. that she should have chosen such a turbulent moment for such an experiment upon the public, is not the least remarkable incident connected with it. only a few months before we heard of her midnight revels with the heads of the repulican party in the midst of the fury and bloodshed of an _emeute_; and then follows close upon the blazing track of revolution, a picture of household virtues so sweet and tranquil, so full of tenderness and love, that it is difficult to believe it to be the production of the same hand that had recently flung flaming addresses, like brands, into the streets to set the town on fire. but we must be surprised at nothing that happens in france, where truth is so much stranger than fiction, as to extinguish the last fragment of an excuse for credulity and wonder. amusements of the court of louis xv. at one time the whole court was thrown into great commotion by a sudden fancy which the king took for worsted work. a courier was instantly dispatched to paris for wool, needles, and canvas. he only took two hours and a half to go and come back, and the same day all the courtiers in versailles were seen, with the duke of gesvres at their head, embroidering like their sovereign. at a later period, both the new and the old nobility joined in the common pursuit of pleasure before their fall. bad taste and frivolousness marked their amusements. titled ladies, who eagerly sought the favor of being allowed a seat in the presence of madame de pompadour, visited in secret the popular ball of the porcherons, or amused themselves by breaking plates and glasses in obscure cabarets, assuming the free and reckless tone of men. their husbands in the meanwhile embroidered at home, or paced the stately galleries of louis xiv, at versailles, a little painted cardboard figure in one hand, while with the other they drew the string which put it in motion. this preposterous amusement even spread throughout the whole ration, and grave magistrates were to be met in the streets playing, like the rest, with their _pantins_, as these figures were called. this childish folly was satirized in the following epigram: "d'un peuple frivole et volage pantin fut la divinité. faut-il être s'il chérissait l'image dont il est la réalité?" the general degeneracy of the times was acknowledged even by those who shared in it. the old nobles ascribed it to that fatal evil, the want of female chastity. never, indeed, had this social stain been so universal and so great.--_women in france during the eighteenth century._ the pleasures of old age.--one forenoon i did prevail with my mother to let them carry her to a considerable distance from the house, to a sheltered, sunny spot, whereunto we did often resort formerly to hear the wood-pigeons which frequented the fir trees hereabout. we seated ourselves, and did pass an hour or two very pleasantly. she remarked, how merciful it was ordered that these pleasures should remain to the last days of life; that when the infirmities of age make the company of others burdensome to us and ourselves a burden to them, the quiet contemplation of the works of god affords a simple pleasure which needeth not aught else than a contented mind to enjoy: the singing of birds, even a single flower, or a pretty spot like this, with its bank of primroses, and the brook running in there below, and this warm sunshine, how pleasant they are. they take back our thoughts to our youth, which ago doth love to look back upon.--_diary of lady willoughby._ [from bentley's miscellany.] the circassian priest-warrior and his white horse. a true tale of the daghestan. the russian camp lay at the foot of a bold and lofty hill, where many a noble tree had root, and babbled many a rill; and the rill's laughter and the shade-- the melody and shade combin'd-- men of most gentle feelings made, but of unbending mind. on that hill's side, concealed by trees, slumber'd circassia's might, awaiting till the war-horse neighs his welcome to the light. the first gray light broke forth at length, and with it rose the invader's strength. now, if the vulture, reasoning bird, foretelling blood and scenting strife, had not among the hill-clouds stirr'd, one would have said that human life, save that of shepherds tending flocks, breathed not among yon silent rocks. what spectre, gliding tow'rd the rays of rising sun, meets russian gaze, and is it fright, amaze, or awe, distends each eye and hangs each jaw? a horse, as snow on mountain height, his master clothed all, too, in white, moved slowly up the mountain's side, arching his neck in conscious pride. and though the cannon pointed stood, charged with its slumb'ring lava flood, the rider gave no spur nor stroke, nor did he touch the rein which lay upon the horse's neck--who yoke of spur nor rein did e'er obey. his master's voice he knew--the horse, and by it checked or strain'd his course. but even no voice was needed now, for when he reach'd the mountain's brow, he halted while his master spread his arms full wide, threw back his head, and pour'd to allah forth a pray'r-- or seem'd to pray--for russian ear even in that pure atmosphere, the name of allah 'lone could hear. the sound, whose purport is to name god's name--it is an awful sound, no matter from what lips it came, or in what form 'tis found-- jehovah! allah! god alike, most christian heart with terror strike. for ignorant as may be man, or with perverted learning stored, there is, within the soul's wide span, a deep unutterable word. a music, and a hymn, which any voice of love that breaks from pious spirit gently wakes, like slumb'ring cherubim. and "allah, allah, allah!" rose more thrilling still for russian foes by russian eyes unseen! behind a thick wood's screen, circassia's dreadful horsemen were bowed to the earth, and drinking there enthusiasm grand from pray'r, ready to spring as soldier fir'd, when soldier is a priest inspir'd. ay, o'er that host the sacred name of allah rolled, a scorching flame, that thrilled into the heart's deep core, and swelled it like a heaving ocean visited by tempest's roar. invader! such sublime emotion bodes thee no good--so do not mock the sacred sound which fills each rock. "yon priest must fall, and by his blood damp the affrighted army's zeal, who dream his body's proof and good 'gainst flying ball or flashing steel." a gun was pointed--match applied-- the ball leaped forth; the smoke spread wide. and cleared away as the echo died, and "allah! allah! allah!" rose from lips that never quiver'd: nor changed the white priest's grand repose, the white horse never shiver'd. the cannoneer, now trembling, blushed, for he rarely missed his aim, while his commander forward rushed, with words of bitter blame. "there is no mark to guide the eye," faltered the chidden man; "yon thing of white is as the sky-- no difference can i scan!" "let charge the gun with _mitraille_ show'r, and allah will be heard no more." and the gun was charged, and fixed, and fired; full fifty bullets flew. the smoke hung long, the men admired how the cannon burst not through. and the startled echoes thundered, and more again all wondered-- as died away the echoes' roar-- the name of allah rose once more. and "allah! allah! allah!" rose, while horse and rider look'd repose, as statues on the mountain raised, round whom the _mitraille_ idly blazed, and rent and tore the earth around; but nothing shook except the ground, still the untroubled lip ne'er quivered, still that white altar-horse ne'er shivered. "wait his return," the captain cried; "the mountain's side a mark supplies, and range in line some twenty guns: fire one by one, as back he runs; with _mitraille_ loaded be each gun-- for him who kills a grade is won!" but back the white horse ran not--no! his pace was gentle, grand, and slow; his rider on the holy skies, in meditation fix'd his eyes. the enemy, with murderous plan, knew not which to most admire, the grand white steed, the grander man, when, lo! the signal--"fire!" "unscath'd! unscath'd! now mark the race!" the laughing soldiers cried: the white horse quickens not his pace, the priest spurs not his side. "ha! mark his figure on the rock!" a second gun is ringing, the rock itself is springing, as from a mine's low shock, its splinters flying in the air, and round the priest and steed is there of balls and stones an atmosphere. what not one stain upon his side! the whited robe remains undyed-- no bloody rain upon the path-- surprise subdues the soldier's wrath. "give him a chance for life, one chance; (now, hear the chance the captain gave) let every gun be fired at once-- at random, too--and he, the brave, if he escape, will have to tell a prodigy--a miracle-- or meet the bloodiest grave that ever closed o'er human corse, o'er rider brave, or gallant horse." and away, and away, like thunder weather, full twenty cannon blaze together; forth the volcano vomits wide. the men who fired them spring aside, as back the cannons wheeled. then came a solemn pause; one would have thought the mountain reeled, as a crater opes its jaws. but the smoke and sulphur clearing, down the mountain's side, unfearing, phantom-like glided horse and man, as though they had no danger ran. "hurrah! hurrah!" the soldiers cheer, and clap their hands in wild delight. circassia's priest, who scorn'd to fear, bears the applause of muscovite. but, soldiers, load your guns once more; load them if ye have time, for ears did hear your cannons roar, to whom it is as sweet bells chime, inviting to a battle feast. dark eyes did see the _mitraille_ driven, with murderous intent, 'gainst the high priest, to whom was given protection by offended heaven, from you on murder bent, haste, sacrilegious russian, haste, for behold, their forest-screen they form, with the ominous sounds of a gathering storm. promptly--swiftly--fatally burst, that storm by patriot-piety nursed; down it swept the mountain's side; fast o'er the plain it pour'd, an avalanche--a deluge wide, o'er the invader roared. a white horse, like a foaming wave, dashed forward 'mong the foremost brave, and swift as is the silver light, he arrowy clear'd his way, and cut the mass as clouds a ray. or meteor piercing night. aimed at him now was many a lance, no spear could stop his fiery prance, oft would he seize it with his mouth, with snort and fierce tempestuous froth, while swift the rider would cut down the lanceman rash, and then dash on among advancing hosts, or flying, marking his path with foemen dying. now, the morning after, when the gray light kiss'd the mountain, and down it, like a fountain, freshly, clearly ran--oh, then the priest and white horse rose, so white they scarce threw shade, but now no sacrilegious blows at man nor horse are made. the eyes profane that yester glared, hung'ring for that sacred life, were quench'd in yester's fatal strife, and void of meaning stared. no lip could mock--no russian ear thanksgiving unto allah hear, "to allah, the deliverer!" the mountain look'd unchang'd, the plain is red; peaceful be the fallen invaders' bed. _paris._ j.f.c. on atheism.--"i had rather," says sir francis bacon, "believe all the fables in the legend, the talmud, and the koran, than that this universal frame is without a mind. god never wrought miracles to convince atheists, because his ordinary works are sufficient to convince them. it is true, that a little philosophy inclineth men's minds to atheism; but depth in philosophy bringeth them back to religion; for while the mind of man looketh upon second causes scattered, it may sometimes rest on them, and go no further; but when it beholdeth the chain of them confederate and linked together, it must needs fly to providence and deity." [from the london examiner.] unsectarian education in england. upon none of the various classes of official men who have been employed for the last twenty years in introducing or extending social and administrative reforms, has a more delicate, invidious, and thankless task devolved, than upon those who have had the charge of the preliminary arrangements for a system of national education. a growing sense of the importance of this great subject has been slowly manifesting itself since the close of last century. the edgeworths diffused practical views of individual education. lancaster demonstrated the possibility, by judicious arrangement, of imparting instruction to great numbers of children at once, and, by thus reducing the cost of education, of rendering it acceptable to the poorest. before lancaster entered the field some benevolent persons, among whom nonconformists were the most numerous and active, had set on foot sunday schools for the benefit of those whose week-day toil left them no leisure for mental cultivation. the high church and tory parties at first very bitterly opposed these sunday and lancaster schools; but finding the tide too strong against them, they set up dr. bell, as a churchman, against lancaster the dissenter, and organized the national school society in opposition to the british and foreign school society. controversy, as usual, not only increased the numbers of those who took an interest in the discussion, but rectified and improved public opinion on the matters at issue. the _edinburgh review_ took the lead, and for a considerable time kept it, as the champion of unsectarian education; and the wit and wisdom of sydney smith did invaluable service in this field. the result was, that, very gradually, by means of individuals and private associations, opportunities of education were extended to classes who had not previously enjoyed them; improved methods of tuition were introduced; and the good work went on in an imperfect, scrambling, amorphous way till after the passing of the reform bill, and the establishment of the whigs in power. from this time we have to date the first regular efforts--poor enough at first, lamentably inadequate still, but steadily and progressively increasing--to countenance and extend general education by the government and legislature. the beginnings were very feeble, as we have said. from to , £ , was annually voted for the promotion of educational purposes, and this paltry sum was administered by the lords of the treasury. since the annual grant has been administered by the committee of council on education, and its amount has been progressively augmented. from to inclusive it was £ , per annum; in and it was £ , ; £ , in ; £ , in and in ; and in it was raised to £ , . the distribution of this grant being intrusted to a committee of council, the president became to a certain extent invested with the character of a minister of education. a machinery of government inspectors of schools was organized, and a permanent educational secretary attached to the committee. not to mention other valuable results, we may add that the establishment of workhouse and factory schools, and the institution of the normal school for training teachers at kneller hall, are among the most prominent benefits for which we are indebted to this growing recognition of a care for the extension of general education as one of the duties of government. when we thus look back on the twenty years since , it can not be denied that a great advance has been made. we have now the rudiments of an educational department of government. the grants annually voted by parliament for educational purposes are still, it must be confessed, unworthily small, when contrasted with the sums freely voted for less essential objects; and the operations of the committee on education have been thwarted, impeded, and obstructed by all kinds of narrow-minded and vexatious opposition. still we can console ourselves by the reflection that we have got an educational department of government; that the public mind is becoming familiarized with its existence, and convinced of its utility; and that its organization, slowly indeed, but surely, is being extended and perfected. this was substantially admitted by mr. fox in the able speech introducing his supplementary educational plan to the house of commons; and with the strongest sense of the merits and claims of the government measure, we find ourselves able very heartily to approve of the proposal of mr. fox. it would remedy the defects of the existing system with the least possible jar to existing prejudices. with nothing heretofore set on foot for the promotion of educational purposes would it in any way meddle--being addressed simply to the remedy of notorious defects, and for that purpose using and strengthening the machinery at present employed by government. it is on every account desirable that a fair and earnest consideration should be given to the second reading of this bill. it has been mixed up with other educational projects lately set on foot, and not a very correct impression prevails respecting it. for here we must be allowed to remark, in passing, that of all the caviling and vexatious obstructions which the committee of council have had to encounter, the most ungracious and indefensible appear to have been those offered by advocates of unsectarian education less reasonable and considerate than mr. fox. we are not going to challenge any particular respect for the feelings of men in office. it is the well-understood fate of those who undertake reforms to be criticised sharply and unreflectingly; such unsparing treatment helps to harden them for the discharge of unpalatable duties; and even the most captious objections may be suggestive of improved arrangements. but making every allowance on this score, it remains incontrovertible that men entertaining sound abstract views respecting unsectarian education, and the importance of intrusting to the local public a large share in the control of educational institutions, like the members of the lancashire school association and others, have not only refused to make due allowance for the obstructions opposed to the committee of council on education by the prepossessions of the general public, but, by assuming an attitude of jealous opposition to it, have materially increased the difficulties with which it has had to labor. these gentlemen think no reform worth having unless it accord precisely with their preconceived notions; and are not in the least contented with getting what they wish, unless they can also have it in the exact way they wish it. other and even more factious malcontents have been found among a class of very worthy but not very wise persons, who, before government took any charge of education, had exerted themselves to establish sunday and other schools; and have now allowed the paltry jealousy lest under a new and improved system of general education their own local and congregational importance may be diminished, to drive them into a virulent opposition to any scheme of national education under the auspices or by the instrumentality of government. but all this parenthetically. our immediate object is to comment upon an opposition experienced in carrying out the scheme of operations which the state of public opinion has compelled government to adopt, coming from the very parties who were most instrumental in forcing that scheme upon it. the committee of council, finding it impossible, in the face of threatened resistance from various religious bodies, to institute schools by the unaided power of the secular authorities, yielded so far as to enter into arrangements with the existing societies of promoters of schools, with a view to carry out the object through their instrumentality. the correspondence commenced in under the administration of sir robert peel, and the arrangements were concluded under the ministry of lord john russell in . it was agreed that money should be advanced by government to assist in founding and supporting schools in connection with various religious communions, on the conditions that the schools should be open to the supervision of government inspectors (who were, however, to be restrained from all interference "with the religious instruction, or discipline, or management of the schools"), and that certain "management clauses," drawn up in harmony with the religious views of the respective communions, should be adhered to. on these terms arrangements were concluded with the national society, representing the promoters of church of england schools; with the british and foreign school society; with the wesleyan body; and with the free church of scotland. a negotiation with the poor-school committee of the roman catholic church is still pending. with the exception of the national society all the bodies who entered into these arrangements with the committee of council have co-operated with it in a frank and fair spirit, and to good purpose. a majority of the national society, on the other hand, have made vehement efforts to recede from the very arrangements which they themselves had proposed; and have at length concluded a tedious and wrangling attempt to cajole or bully the committee on education to continue their grants, and yet emancipate them from the conditions on which they were made, by passing, on the th of december last, a resolution which virtually suspends all co-operation between the society and government. the state of the controversy may be briefly explained. the "management clauses" relating to church of england schools are few in number. they relate, first, to the constitution of the managing committee in populous and wealthy districts of towns; second, to the constitution of the committee in towns and villages having not less than a population of five hundred, and a few wealthy and well-educated inhabitants; third, to its constitution in very small parishes, where the residents are all illiterate, or indifferent to education; and, fourth, to its constitution in rural parishes having a population under five hundred, and where, from poverty and ignorance, the number of subscribers is limited to very few persons. there are certain provisions common to all these clauses. the master, mistress, assistant teachers, managers, and electors, must all be _bona fide_ members of the church; the clergyman is _ex-officio_ chairman of the committee, with power to place his curate or curates upon it, and with a casting vote; the superintendence of the religious and moral instruction is vested exclusively in the clergyman, with an appeal to the bishop, whose decision is final; the bishop has a veto on the use of any book, in school hours, which he deems contrary to the doctrines of the church; in matters not relating to religious and moral instruction, an appeal lies to the president of the council, who refers it to one of the inspectors of schools nominated by himself, to another commissioner nominated by the bishop of the diocese, and to a third named by the other two commissioners. it must be kept in mind as bearing on the composition of such commissions, that the concurrence of the archbishop of the province is originally requisite in appointing inspectors of church schools, and that the third commissioner must be a magistrate and member of the church. we now come to the points of difference in these "management clauses." they relate exclusively to the constitution of the local school committees. in the first class of schools, the committee is elected by annual subscribers; in the second, it is nominated by the promoters, and vacancies are supplied by election; in the third it is nominated, as the promotions and vacancies are filled up, by the remaining members, till the bishop may direct the election to be thrown open to subscribers; in the fourth no committee is provided, but the bishop may order one to be nominated by the clergyman from among the subscribers. the management clauses, thus drawn, were accepted by the national society. the provisions for appeal, in matters of moral and religious instruction, had been proposed by themselves, and were in a manner forced by them on the committee of council. let us now look at the claims which the society has since advanced, and on account of the refusal of which it has suspended, if not finally broken off, its alliance with the committee. the national society required: st, that a free choice among the several clauses be left to the promoters of church schools; d, that another court of appeal be provided, in matters not relating to religious and moral instruction; and d, that all lay members of school committees shall qualify to serve, by subscribing a declaration not merely to the effect that they are members of the church, but that they have for three years past been communicants. and because demur is made to these demands, the committee of the society have addressed a letter to the committee of council, in which they state that they "deeply regret the resolution finally adopted by the committee of council to exclude from all share in the parliamentary grant for education, those church schools the promoters of which are unwilling to constitute their trust deeds on the model prescribed by their lordships." it is a minor matter, yet, in connection with considerations to be hereafter alluded to, not unworthy of notice, that this statement is simply untrue. the committee of council have only declined to contribute, in the cases referred to, to the building of schools; they have not absolutely declined to contribute to their support when built. they have refused to give public money to build schools without a guarantee for their proper management; but they have not refused to give public money to support even such schools as withhold the guarantee, so long as they _are_ properly conducted. the object of the alterations in the management clauses demanded by the national society is sufficiently obvious. it is asked that a free choice among the several clauses be left to the promoters of church schools. this is a jesuitical plan for getting rid of the co-operation and control of lay committee-men. the fourth clause would uniformly be chosen, under which no committee is appointed, but the bishop may empower the clergyman to nominate one. it is asked that another court of appeal be provided in matters relating to the appointment, selection, and dismissal of teachers and their assistants. by this means the teachers would be placed, in all matters, secular as well as religious, under the despotic control of the clergy instead of being amenable, in purely secular matters, to a committee principally composed of laymen, with an appeal to lay judges. the third demand also goes to limit the range of lay interference with, and control of church schools. the sole aim of the demands of the national society, however variously expressed, is to increase the clerical power. their desire and determination is to invest the clergy with absolute despotic power over all church of england schools. in short, the quarrel fastened by the national society on the committee on education is but another move of that clerical faction which is resolute to ignore the existence of laymen as part of the church, except in the capacity of mere passing thralls and bondsmen of the clergy. it is a scheme to further their peculiar views. it is another branch of the agitation which preceded and has followed the appeal to the judicial committee of the privy council in the gorham case. it is a trick to render the church policy and theories of philpotts omnipotent. the equivocation to evade the arrangement investing a degree of control over church schools in lay contributors to their foundation and support, by insisting upon liberty to choose an inapplicable "management clause," is transparent. so is the factious complaint against the court of appeal provided in secular matters, and the allegation that nonconformists have no such appeal, when the complainants know that this special arrangement was conceded at their own request. the untrue averment that the committee of council have refused to contribute to the support of schools not adopting the management clauses is in proper keeping with these equivocations. let us add that the intolerant, almost blasphemous denunciations of the council, and of all who act with it, which some advancers of these falsehoods and equivocations have uttered from the platform, are no more than might have been expected from men so lost to the sense of honesty and shame. the position of the committee of council on education is, simply and fairly, this: they have yielded to the religious sentiment of an overwhelming majority in the nation, and have consented to the experiment of conducting the secular education of the people by the instrumentality of the various ecclesiastical associations into which the people are divided. but with reference to the church, as to all other communions, they insist upon the laity having a fair voice in the administration of those schools which are in part supplied by the public money, and which have in view secular as well as religious instruction. the clergy of only two communions seek to thwart them in this object, and to arrogate all power over the schools to themselves. the conduct of the ultra-high church faction in the anglican establishment we have attempted to make clear. the conduct of the roman catholic clergy has been more temperate, but hardly less insincere or invidious. their poor-school committee declare that their prelates would be unwilling "to accept, were it tendered to them, an appellate jurisdiction over schools in matters purely secular;" but at the same time they claim for their "ecclesiastical authorities" the power of deciding what questions do or do not affect "religion and morals." the committee of the council, on the one hand, are exerting themselves to give effect to the desire of a great majority of the english public, that religious and moral shall be combined with intellectual education; and, on the other, to guard against their compliance with this desire being perverted into an insidious instrument for enabling arrogant priesthoods to set their feet on the necks of the laity. we challenge for public men thus honorably and usefully discharging important duties a more frank and cordial support than it has yet been their good fortune to obtain. several ornaments of the church, conspicuous for their learning and moderation--such men as the bishop of manchester, archdeacon hare, and the rev. henry parr hamilton--have already borne direct and earnest testimony to the temper and justice, as well as straightforward, honesty of purpose, displayed by the committee of council. it is to be hoped that the laity of the church will now extend to them the requisite support; and that the nonconformists and educational enthusiasts, who, by their waywardness, have been playing the game of the obscurantist priests, may see the wisdom of altering this very doubtful policy. [from the london athenæum.] william wordsworth. the great philosophical poet of our age, william wordsworth, died at rydal mount, in westmoreland--among his native lakes and hills--on the d of april, in the eighty-first year of his age. those who are curious in the accidents of birth and death, observable in the biographies of celebrated men, have thought it worthy of notice that the day of wordsworth's death was the anniversary of shakspeare's birth. william wordsworth was born at cockermouth, in cumberland, on the th of april, , and educated at hawkeshead grammar school, and at st. john's college, cambridge. he was designed by his parents for the church--but poetry and new prospects turned him into another path. his pursuit through life was poetry, and his profession that of stamp distributor for the government in the counties of cumberland and westmoreland: to which office he was appointed by the joint interest, as we have heard, of his friend, sir george beaumont, and his patron, lord lonsdale. mr. wordsworth made his first appearance as a poet in the year , by the publication of a thin quarto volume entitled "an evening walk--an epistle in verse, addressed to a young lady from the lakes of the north of england, by w. wordsworth, b.a., of st. john's college, cambridge." printed at london, and published by johnson in st. paul's church-yard from whose shop seven years before had appeared "the task" of cowper. in the same year he published "descriptive sketches in verse, taken during a pedestrian tour in the italian, grison, swiss and savoyard alps." what was thought of these poems by a few youthful admirers may be gathered from the account given by coleridge in his "biographia literaria." "during the last year of my residence at cambridge, , i became acquainted with mr. wordsworth's first publication, entitled 'descriptive sketches;' and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." the two poets, then personally unknown to each other, first became acquainted in the summer of , at nether stowey, in somersetshire. coleridge was then in his twenty-fourth year, and wordsworth in his twenty-sixth. a congeniality of pursuit soon ripened into intimacy; and in september, , the two poets, accompanied by miss wordsworth, made a tour in germany. wordsworth's next publication was the first volume of his "lyrical ballads," published in the summer of by mr. joseph cottle, of bristol, who purchased the copyright for thirty guineas. it made no way with the public, and cottle was a loser by the bargain. so little, indeed, was thought of the volume, that when cottle's copyrights were transferred to the messrs. longman, the "lyrical ballads" was thrown in as a valueless volume, in the mercantile idea of the term. the copyright was afterward returned to cottle; and by him transferred to the great poet, who lived to see it of real money value in the market of successful publications. disappointed but not disheartened by the very indifferent success of his "lyrical ballads," years elapsed before mr. wordsworth again appeared as a poet. but he was not idle. he was every year maturing his own principles of poetry and making good the remark of coleridge, that to admire on principle is the only way to imitate without loss of originality. in the very year which witnessed the failure of his "lyrical ballads," he wrote his "peter bell," the most strongly condemned of all his poems. the publication of this when his name was better known (for he kept it by him till, he says, it nearly survived its _minority_) brought a shower of contemptuous criticisms on his head. wordsworth married in the year miss mary hutchinson of penrith, and settled among his beloved lakes--first at grasmere, and afterward at rydal mount. southey's subsequent retirement to the same beautiful country, and coleridge's visits to his brother poets, originated the name of the lake school of poetry--"the school of whining and hypochondriacal poets that haunt the lakes"--by which the opponents of their principles and the admirers of the _edinburgh review_ distinguished the three great poets whose names have long been and will still continue to be connected. wordsworth's fame increasing, slowly, it is true, but securely, he put forth in two volumes of his poems. they were reviewed by byron, then a young man of nineteen, and as yet not even a poet in print, in the _monthly literary recreations_ for the august of that year. "the poems before us," says the reviewer, "are by the author of 'lyrical ballads,' a collection which has not undeservedly met with a considerable share of public applause. the characteristics of mr. wordsworth's muse are, simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious verse, strong and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. though the present work may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems possess a native elegance, natural and unaffected, totally devoid of the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles of several contemporary sonneteers. 'the song at the feasting of brougham castle,' 'the seven sisters,' 'the affliction of margaret ----, of ----,' possess all the beauties and few of the defects of this writer. the pieces least worthy of the author are those entitled 'moods of my own mind.' we certainly wish these moods had been less frequent." such is a sample of byron's criticism--and of the criticising indeed till very recently of a large class of people misled by the caustic notices of the _edinburgh review_, the pungent satires of byron, and the admirable parody of the poet's occasional style contained in the "rejected addresses." his next publication was "the excursion, being a portion of the recluse," printed in quarto in the autumn of . the critics were hard upon it. "this will never do," was the memorable opening of the review in the _edinburgh_. men who thought for themselves thought highly of the poem--but few dared to speak out. jeffrey boasted wherever he went that he had _crushed_ it in its birth. "_he_ crush 'the excursion!'" said southey, "tell him he might as easily crush skiddaw." what coleridge often wished, that the first two books of "the excursion" had been published separately under the name of "the deserted cottage" was a happy idea--and one, if it had been carried into execution, that would have removed many of the trivial objections made at the time to its unfinished character. while "the excursion" was still dividing the critics much in the same way that davenant's "gondibert" divided them in the reign of charles the second, "peter bell" appeared, to throw among them yet greater difference of opinion. the author was evidently aware that the poem, from the novelty of its construction, and the still greater novelty of its hero, required some protection, and this protection he sought behind the name of southey: with which he tells us in the dedication, his own had often appeared "both for good and evil." the deriders of the poet laughed still louder than before--his admirers too were at first somewhat amazed--and the only consolation which the poet obtained was from a sonnet of his own, in imitation of milton's sonnet, beginning: a book was writ of late called "tetrachordon." this sonnet runs as follows-- a book came forth of late, called "peter bell;" not negligent the style;--the matter?--good as aught that song records of robin hood; or roy, renowned through many a scottish dell; but some (who brook these hackneyed themes full wet nor heat at tam o'shanter's name their blood) waxed wrath, and with foul claws, a harpy brood on bard and hero clamorously fell. heed not, wild rover once through heath and glen. who mad'st at length the better life thy choice. heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men to thee appear not an unmeaning voice, lift up that gray-haired forehead and rejoice in the just tribute of thy poet's pen. lamb in thanking the poet for his strange but clever poem, asked "where was 'the wagoner?'" of which he retained a pleasant remembrance from hearing wordsworth read it in ms. when first written in . pleased with the remembrance of the friendly essayist, the poet determined on sending "the wagoner" to press--and in the poem appeared with a dedication to his old friend who had thought so favorably of it. another publication of this period which found still greater favor with many of his admirers, was "the white doe of rylstone;" founded on a tradition connected with the beautiful scenery that surrounds bolton priory, and on a ballad in percy's collection called "the rising of the north." his next poem of consequence in the history of his mind is "the river duddon," described in a noble series of sonnets, and containing some of his very finest poetry. the poem is dedicated to his brother, the rev. dr. wordsworth, and appeared in . the subject seems to have been suggested by coleridge; who, among his many unfulfilled intentions, designed writing "the brook," a poem which in his hands would surely have been a masterly performance. the "duddon" did much for the extension of wordsworth's fame; and the public began to call, in consequence, for a fresh edition of his poems. the sneers of byron, so frequent in his "don juan," such as, thou shalt believe in milton, dryden, pope, thou shalt not set up wordsworth, coleridge, southey, because the first is crazed beyond all hope, the second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey; and again in another place, "peddlers" and "boats" and "wagons." oh! ye shades of pope and dryden, are we come to this? and somewhat further on, the little boatman and his peter bell can sneer at him who drew achitophel, fell comparatively harmless. the public had now found out (what was known only to a few before) that amid much novelty of construction and connected with some very homely heroes, there was a rich vein of the very noblest poetry throughout the whole of wordsworth's works, such as was not to be found elsewhere in the whole body of english poetry. the author felt at the same time the truth of his own remark, that no really great poet had ever obtained an immediate reputation, or any popular recognition commensurate to his merits. wordsworth's last publication of importance was his "yarrow revisited, and other poems," published in . the new volume, however, rather sustained than added to his reputation. some of the finer poems are additions to his memorials of a tour in scotland, which have always ranked among the most delightful of his works. in the same year mr. wordsworth received a pension of £ a year from sir robert peel's government, and permission to resign his office of stamp distributor in favor of his son. the remaining fifteen years of his life were therefore even less diversified by events of moment than any fifteen years previous had been. he seems henceforth to have surrendered himself wholly to the muse--and to contemplations suitable to his own habits of mind and to the lovely country in which he lived. this course of life, however, was varied by a tour to italy in company with his friend, mr. crabb robinson. the result of his visit, as far as poetry is concerned, was not remarkable. on southey's death mr. wordsworth was appointed poet laureate: an appropriate appointment, if such an office was to be retained at all--for the laurel dignified by the brows of ben johnson, davenant, dryden, tom warton, and southey, had been sullied and degraded by appearing on the unworthy temples of tate, eusden, whitehead, and pye. once, and once only, did wordsworth sing in discharge of his office--on the occasion of her majesty's visit to the university of cambridge. there is more obscurity, however, than poetry in what he wrote. indeed, the ode in question must be looked on as another addition to the numerous examples that we possess of how poor a figure the muse invariably makes when the occasion of her appearance is such as the poet himself would not have selected for a voluntary invocation. if wordsworth was unfortunate--as he certainly was--in not finding any recognition of his merits till his hair was gray, he was luckier than other poets similarly situated have been in living to, a good old age, and in the full enjoyment of the amplest fame which his youthful dreams had ever pictured. his admirers have perhaps carried their idolatry too far: but there can be no doubt of the high position which he must always hold among british poets. his style is simple, unaffected, and vigorous--his blank verse manly and idiomatic--his sentiments both noble and pathetic--and his images poetic and appropriate. his sonnets are among the finest in the language: milton's scarcely finer. "i think," says coleridge, "that wordsworth possessed more of the genius of a great philosophic poet than any man i ever knew, or, as i believe, has existed in england since milton; but it seems to me that he ought never to have abandoned the contemplative position which is peculiarly--perhaps i might say exclusively--fitted for him. his proper title is _spectator ab extra_." mr. wordsworth's works are rich in quotations suitable to the various phases of human life; and his name will be remembered not by his "peter bell," or his "idiot boy," or even his "wagoner," but by his "excursion," his "laodamia," his "tintern abbey," some twenty of his sonnets, his "daisy," and his "yarrow _un_visited." the lineaments of his face will be perpetuated by chantrey's noble bust; not by the pictures of it, which in too many cases justify the description that he gave of one of them in our hearing: "it is the head of a drover, or a common juryman, or a writer in the _edinburgh review_, or a speaker in the house of commons: ... as for the head of a poet, it is no such thing." the mother's first duty. i would wish every mother to pay attention to the difference between a course of action, adopted in compliance with _the authority_, and between a conduct pursued _for the sake of another_. the first proceeds from reasoning; the second flows from affection. the first may be abandoned, when the immediate cause may have ceased to exist; the latter will be permanent, as it did not depend upon circumstances, or accidental considerations, but is founded in a moral and constant principle. in the case now before us, if the infant does not disappoint the hope of the mother, it will be a proof, first of affection, secondly, of confidence. of affection--for the earliest, and the most innocent wish to please, is that of the infant to please the mother. if it be questioned, whether that wish can at all exist in one so little advanced in development. i would again, as i do upon almost all occasions, appeal to the experience of mothers. it is a proof, also, of confidence. whenever an infant has been neglected; when the necessary attention has not been paid to its wants; and when, instead of the smile of kindness, it has been treated with the frown of severity; it will be difficult to restore it to that quiet and amiable disposition, in which it will wait for the gratification of its desires without impatience, and enjoy it without greediness. if affection and confidence have once gained ground in the heart, it will be the first duty of the mother to do every thing in her power to encourage, to strengthen, and to elevate this principle.--_pestalozzi._ physical education. the revival of gymnastics is, in my opinion, the most important step that has been done in that direction. the great merit of the gymnastic art is not the facility with which certain exercises are performed, or the qualification which they may give for certain exertions that require much energy and dexterity; though an attainment of that sort is by no means to be despised. but the greatest advantage resulting from a practice of these exercises, is the natural progress which is observed in the arrangement of them, beginning with those which, while they are easy in themselves, yet lead as a preparatory practice to others which are more complicated and more difficult. there is not, perhaps, any art in which it may be so clearly shown, that energies which appeared to be wanting, are to be produced, as it were, or at least are to be developed, by no other means than practice alone. this might afford a most useful hint to all those who are engaged in teaching any object of instruction, and who meet with difficulties in bringing their pupils to that proficiency which they had expected. let them recommence on a new plan, in which the exercises shall be differently arranged, and the subjects brought forward in a manner that will admit of the natural progress from the easier to the more difficult. when talent is wanting altogether, i know that it can not be imparted by any system of education. but i have been taught by experience to consider the cases, in which talents of any kind are absolutely wanting, but very few. and in most cases, i have had the satisfaction to find, that a faculty which had been quite given over, instead of being developed, had been obstructed rather in its agency by a variety of exercises which tended to perplex or to deter from further exertion. and here i would attend to a prejudice, which is common enough, concerning the use of gymnastics; it is frequently said, that they may be very good for those who are strong enough; but that those who are suffering from weakness of constitution would be altogether unequal to, and even endangered by, a practice of gymnastics. now, i will venture to say, that this rests merely upon a misunderstanding of the first principles of gymnastics: the exercises not only vary in proportion to the strength of individuals; but exercises may be, and have been devised, for those also who were decidedly suffering. and i have consulted the authority of the first physicians, who declared, that in cases which had come under their personal observation, individuals affected with pulmonary complaints, if these had not already proceeded too far, had been materially relieved and benefited by a constant practice of the few and simple exercises, which the system in such cases proposes. and for this very reason, that exercises may be devised for every age, and for every degree of bodily strength, however reduced, i consider it to be essential, that mothers should make themselves acquainted with the principles of gymnastics, in order that, among the elementary and preparatory exercises, they may be able to select those which, according to circumstances, will be most likely to suit and benefit their children. if the physical advantage of gymnastics is great and incontrovertible, i would contend, that the moral advantage resulting from them is as valuable. i would again appeal to your own observation. you have seen a number of schools in germany and switzerland, of which gymnastics formed a leading feature; and i recollect that in our conversations on the subject, you made the remark, which exactly agrees with my own experience, that gymnastics, well conducted, essentially contribute to render children not only cheerful and healthy, which, for moral education, are two all-important points, but also to promote among them a certain spirit of union, and a brotherly feeling, which is most gratifying to the observer: habits of industry, openness and frankness of character, personal courage, and a manly conduct in suffering pain, are also among the natural and constant consequences of an early and a continued practice of exercises on the gymnastic system.--_pestalozzi._ married men.--so good was he, that i now take the opportunity of making a confession which i have often had upon my lips, but have hesitated to make from the fear of drawing upon myself the hatred of every married woman. but now i will run the risk--so now for it--some time or other, people must unburden their hearts. i confess, then, that i never find, and never have found a man more lovable, more captivating than when he is a married man; that is to say, a good married man. a man is never so handsome, never so perfect in my eyes as when he is married, as when he is a husband, and the father of a family, supporting, in his manly arms, wife and children, and the whole domestic circle, which, in his entrance into the married state, closes around him and constitutes a part of his home and his world. he is not merely ennobled by this position, but he is actually _beautified_ by it. then he appears to me as the crown of creation; and it is only such a man as this who is dangerous to me, and with whom i am inclined to fall in love. but then propriety forbids it. and moses, and all european legislators declare it to be sinful, and all married women would consider it a sacred duty to stone me. nevertheless, i can not prevent the thing. it is so, and it can not be otherwise, and my only hope of appeasing those who are excited against me is in my further confession, that no love affects me so pleasantly; the contemplation of no happiness makes me so happy, as that between married people. it is amazing to myself, because it seems to me, that i living unmarried, or mateless, have with that happiness little to do. but it is so, and it always was so.--_miss bremer._ [from the london examiner.] sidney smith on moral philosophy. _elementary sketches of moral philosophy_; delivered at the royal institution, in the years , , and . by the late rev. sydney smith, m.a. longman and co. how difficult it is to discover the merits of a manuscript appears from the history of this book. lord jeffrey, consulted as to the expediency of its publication, while it yet existed but in pen and ink, gave a decidedly adverse opinion. but some hundred copies having been printed for private distribution, and a copy reaching lord jeffrey, he hastened, with his accustomed candor and sweetness of disposition, to retract his hostile verdict, after reading the book in print; and (only three days before he was attacked by the illness which terminated his valuable life) thus wrote to sydney smith's widow: "i am now satisfied that in what i then said, i did great and grievous injustice to the merit of these lectures, and was quite wrong in dissuading their publication, or concluding they would add nothing to the reputation of the author; on the contrary, my firm impression is, that, with a few exceptions, they will do him as much credit as any thing he ever wrote, and produce, on the whole, a stronger impression of the force and vivacity of his intellect, as well as a _truer_ and more engaging view of his character, than most of what the world has yet seen of his writings." one practical application of this anecdote is to enforce the importance of calligraphical studies upon authors. a hieroglyphical hand is the false medium excluding british authors from the public; in general we should say that there is no class of men whose education in this respect is so deplorably imperfect, or to whom "only six lessons" would so often be priceless. we must confess that the book before us has taken us by surprise, notwithstanding our affectionate esteem and admiration for its writer. it has raised our estimate of the power and range of his intellect, of his insight into human character, of his well-balanced judgment, of his tolerance and charity undebased by compromise with the vicious or mean, of the vigorous play of his thoughts, of the sustained beauty of his style, of his eloquence as well as his humor, and of his profundity no less than of his wit. hurriedly composed and unrevised though the lectures obviously are, fragmentary as the condition is in which they have been preserved, they are an invaluable addition to english literature. their delivery is associated with the first outbreak of a fashion ridiculed by lord byron in his _beppo_ and his _blues_. the poet's satirical touches notwithstanding, we think that those lectures at the royal institution were even more wanted by their fashionable auditors at the time, than the similar prelections at mechanics' institutes which came in vogue for less fashionable auditors some few years later. had it only been possible to insure the services of a series of sydney smiths, the institution might have gone on lecturing to the present day to the unspeakable advantage of all parties concerned. what innumerable fopperies in literature, in politics, in religion, we might thus have escaped, it is not easy to conjecture! the "elementary sketches" were delivered soon after the commencement of sydney's metropolitan career, and bear strong marks of his recent residence in edinburgh. in their general outline they closely approximate to the course delivered from the moral philosophy chairs of scotch universities. the division of the subject is the same; the authorities most frequently and panegyrically cited are the same; the principles and opinions set forth are in the main the same. sydney smith's moral philosophy belongs undeniably to the scotch school--to the school of reid, stewart, and adam smith. but his "sketches" do not the less indicate an original thinker, a master in the science taught, and one who can suggest to the great men we have named almost as much as he receives from them. the book is an excellent illustration of what could be gained by engrafting the edinburgh philosophy on a full-grown healthy english intellect. the habits of english society, and the classical tastes imbibed at an english university, preserved sydney smith from that touch of pedantry which characterized the thinkers of the scotch universities, trained in a provincial sphere, and trammeled by the calvinistic logic even after they had freed themselves from the calvinistic theology. without disparaging the edinburgh school of literature, the fact must be admitted that its most prominent ornaments have generally had the advantage of a "foreign" education. hume and black studied in france; adam smith was the member of an english university; jeffrey had become familiar with oxford, though he did not stay there; homer was caught young, and civilized at hackney; and mackintosh and brougham, thoroughly scotch-bred, expanded amazingly when transplanted to the south. it may be a national weakness, but it occurs to us that sydney smith, who was southern born as well as bred, is still more free from narrownesses and angularities than any of them. the healthy and genial nature of the man accounts for his most characteristic excellencies, but this book exhibits much we had not looked for. the lectures on the passions evince a power of comprehending and sympathizing with what is great in the emotional part of human nature for which we were not prepared. the lectures on the conduct of the understanding, and on habit, show that the writer had studied profoundly and successfully the discipline of the mind and character. the lectures on the beautiful are pervaded by a healthy and unaffected appreciation of the loveliness of external nature. and combined with these high qualities, is that incessant play of witty and humorous fancy (perhaps the only certain safeguard against sentimental and systematic excesses, and, when duly restrained by the judgment and moral sense, the best corrective of hasty philosophizing), so peculiar to sydney smith. much of all that we have mentioned is indeed and undoubtedly attributable to the original constitution of smith's mind; but for much he was also, beyond all question, indebted to the greater freedom of thought and conversation which (as compared with the scotch) has always characterized literary and social opinion in england. the topics discussed in the lectures naturally resolve themselves into, and are arranged in, three divisions. we have an analysis of the thinking faculties, or the powers of perception, conception, and reasoning; an analysis of the powers of taste, or of what schiller and other germans designate the _æsthetical_ part of our nature; and an exposition of the "active powers of the mind," as they are designated in the nomenclature of the school of reid, the appetites, passions, and will. all these themes are discussed with constant reference to a practical application of the knowledge conveyed. every thing is treated in subordination to the establishment of rules for the right conduct of the understanding, and the formation of good habits. these practical lessons for the strengthening of the reason, and the regulation of the emotions and imagination, constitute what, in the language of sydney smith, and the school to which he belongs, is called "moral philosophy." apart from any particular school, the impression of the author left by the perusal of his lectures is that he was a man of considerable reading in books, but far more deeply read in the minds of those he encountered in society. it is in this extensive knowledge of the world, confirming and maturing the judgments suggested by his wisely-balanced powers of feeling and humor, that the superiority of smith over the rest of his school consists. he knows men not merely as they are represented in books, but as they actually are; he knows them not only as they exist in a provincial sphere, narrowed by petty interests and trammeled by pedantic opinion, but as they exist in the freest community of the world, where boundless ambition and enterprise find full scope. it appears to us that sidney smith is most perfectly at home--most entirely in his element--when discussing the "active powers" of man, or those impulses in which originate the practical business of life. scarcely, if at all, secondary in point of excellence to his remarks on these topics, are those which he makes on the sublime and beautiful (a fact for which many will not be prepared), and on wit and humor (which every body will have expected). the least conclusive and satisfactory of his discussions are those which relate to the intellectual powers, or the anatomy of mind. with reference to this part of the course, however, it must be kept in remembrance that here, more than in the other two departments, he was fettered by the necessity of being popular in his language, and brief and striking in his illustrations, in order to keep within the range of the understandings and intellects of his auditory. these earlier lectures, too, survive in a more fragmentary and dilapidated condition than the rest. and after all, even where we seem to miss a sufficiently extensive and intimate acquaintance with the greatest and best writers on the subjects handled, or a sufficiently subtle and precise phraseology, we always find the redeeming qualities of lively and original conception, of witty and forcible illustration, and of sound manly sense most felicitously expressed. in the general tone and tendency of the lectures there is something socratic. there is the pervading common sense and practical turn of mind which characterized the greek philosopher. there is the liberal tolerance, and the moral intrepidity. there is the amusement always insinuating or enforcing instruction. there is the conversational tone, and adaptation to the tastes and habits of the social circle. we feel that we are listening to a man who moves habitually in what is called the best society, who can relish and add a finishing grace to the pleasures of those portions of the community, but who retains unsophisticated his estimate of higher and more important matters, and whose incessant aim is to engraft a better and worthier tone of thought and aspiration upon the predominating frivolity of his associates. nothing can be more graceful or charming than the way in which sydney accommodates himself to the habitual language and thoughts of his brilliant auditory; nothing more manly or strengthening than the sound practical lessons he reads to them. such a manual should now be invaluable to our aristocracy. let them thoroughly embue themselves with its precepts, and do their best to act as largely as possible upon its suggestions. they can have no better chance of maintaining their position in the front of english society. to appreciate the book as a whole--and its purpose, thought, and sentiment impart to it a unity of the highest kind--it must be not only read but studied. a few citations, however, gleaned here and there at random, may convey some notion of the characteristic beauties and felicities of thought and expression which are scattered through every page of it. socrates. socrates was, in truth, not very fond of subtle and refined speculations; and upon the intellectual part of our nature, little or nothing of his opinions is recorded. if we may infer any thing from the clearness and simplicity of his opinions on moral subjects, and from the bent which his genius had received for the useful and the practical, he would certainly have laid a strong foundation for rational metaphysics. the slight sketch i have given of his moral doctrines contains nothing very new or very brilliant, but comprehends those moral doctrines which every person of education has been accustomed to hear from his childhood; but two thousand years ago they were great discoveries, two thousand years since, common sense was not invented. if orpheus, or linus, or any of those melodious moralists, sung, in bad verses, such advice as a grandmamma would now give to a child of six years old, he was thought to be inspired by the gods, and statues and altars were erected to his memory. in hesiod there is a very grave exhortation to mankind to wash their faces: and i have discovered a very strong analogy between the precepts of pythagoras and mrs. trimmer; both think that a son ought to obey his father, and both are clear that a good man is better than a bad one. therefore, to measure aright this extraordinary man, we must remember the period at which he lived; that he was the first who called the attention of mankind from the pernicious subtleties which engaged and perplexed their wandering understandings to the practical rules of life; he was the great father and inventor of common sense, as ceres was of the plow, and bacchus of intoxication. first, he taught his contemporaries that they did not know what they pretended to know; then he showed them that they knew nothing; then he told them what they ought to know. lastly, to sum the praise of socrates, remember that two thousand years ago, while men were worshiping the stones on which they trod, and the insects which crawled beneath their feet; two thousand years ago, with the bowl of poison in his hand, socrates said, "i am persuaded that my death, which is now just coming, will conduct me into the presence of the gods, who are the most righteous governors, and into the society of just and good men; and i derive confidence from the hope that something of man remains after death, and that the condition of good men will then be much better than that of the bad." soon after this he covered himself up with his cloak and expired. plato. of all the disciples of socrates, plato, though he calls himself the least, was certainly the most celebrated. as long as philosophy continued to be studied among the greeks and romans, his doctrines were taught, and his name revered. even to the present day his writings give a tinge to the language and speculations of philosophy and theology. of the majestic beauty of plato's style, it is almost impossible to convey an adequate idea. he keeps the understanding up to a high pitch of enthusiasm longer than any existing writer; and, in reading plato, zeal and animation seem rather to be the regular feelings than the casual effervescence of the mind. he appears almost disdaining the mutability and imperfection of the earth on which he treads, to be drawing down fire from heaven, and to be seeking among the gods above, for the permanent, the beautiful, and the grand! in contrasting the vigor and the magnitude of his conceptions with the extravagance of his philosophical tenets, it is almost impossible to avoid wishing that he had confined himself to the practice of eloquence; and, in this way giving range and expansion to the mind which was struggling within him, had become one of those famous orators who "wielded at will that fierce democratic, shook th' arsenal, and fulmin'd over greece to macedon and artaxerxes' throne." after having said so much of his language, i am afraid i must proceed to his philosophy; observing always, that, in stating it, i do not always pretend to understand it, and do not even engage to defend it. in comparing the very few marks of sobriety and discretion with the splendor of his genius, i have often exclaimed as prince henry did about falstaff's bill, "oh, monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack!" dr. reid. in answer to these metaphysical lunacies, dr. reid has contended that, for all reasoning, there must be some first principles from whence such reasoning originates, and which must _necessarily_ be incapable of proof or they would not be _first principles_; and that facts so irresistibly ingrafted upon human belief as the existence of mind and matter, must be assumed for truths, and reasoned upon as such. all that these skeptics have said of the outer and the inner world may, with equal justice, be applied to every other radical truth. who can prove his own personal identity? a man may think himself a clergyman, and believe he has preached for these ten years last past; but i defy him to offer any sort of _proof_ that he has not been a fishmonger all the time ... ever doubt that all reasoning _must_ end in arbitrary belief; that we must, at last, come to that point where the only reply can be, "i _am so_--this belief is the constitution of my nature--god willed it." i grant that this reasoning is a ready asylum for ignorance and imbecility, and that it affords too easy a relief from the pain of rendering a reason: but the most unwearied vigor of human talents must at last end there; the wisdom of ages can get no further; here, after all, the porch, the garden, the academy, the lyceum, must close their labors. much as we are indebted to dr. reid for preaching up this doctrine, he has certainly executed it very badly; and nothing can be more imperfect than the table of first principles which he has given us--an enumeration of which is still a desideratum of the highest importance. the skeptics may then call the philosophy of the human mind merely hypothetical; but if it be so, all other knowledge must, of course, be hypothetical also; and if it be so, and all is erroneous, it will do quite as well as reality, if we keep up a certain proportion in our errors: for there _may_ be no such things as lunar tables, no sea, and no ships; but, by falling into one of these errors after the other, we avoid shipwreck, or, what is the same thing, as it gives the same pain, the idea of shipwreck. so with the philosophy of the human mind: i may have no memory, and no imagination--they may be mistakes; but if i cultivate them both, i derive honor and respect from my fellow-creatures, which may be mistakes also; but they harmonize so well together, that they are quite as good as realities. the only evil of errors is, that they are never supported by consequences; if they were, they would be as good as realities. great merit is given to dr. reid for his destruction of what is called the ideal system, but i confess i can not see the important consequences to which it has yet led. puns. i have mentioned puns. they are, i believe, what i have denominated them--the wit of words. they are exactly the same to words which wit is to ideas, and consist in the sudden discovery of relations in language. a pun, to be perfect in its kind, should contain two distinct meanings; the one common and obvious; the other, more remote; and in the notice which the mind takes of the relation between these two sets of words, and in the surprise which that relation excites, the pleasure of a pun consists. miss hamilton, in her book on education, mentions the instance of a boy so very neglectful, that he could never be brought to read the word _patriarchs_; but whenever he met with it he always pronounced it _partridges_. a friend of the writer observed to her, that it could hardly be considered as a mere piece of negligence, for it appeared to him that the boy, in calling them partridges, was _making game_ of the patriarchs. now, here are two distinct meanings contained in the same phrase; for to make game of the patriarchs is to laugh at them; or to make game of them is, by a very extravagant and laughable sort of ignorance of words, to rank them among pheasants, partridges, and other such delicacies, which the law takes under its protection and calls _game_; and the whole pleasure derived from this pun consists in the sudden discovery that two such different meanings are referable to one form of expression. i have very little to say about puns; they are in very bad repute, and so they _ought to_ be. the wit of language is so miserably inferior to the wit of ideas, that it is very deservedly driven out of good company. sometimes, indeed, a pun makes its appearance which seems for a moment to redeem its species; but we must not be deceived by them; it is a radically bad race of wit. by unremitting persecution, it has been at last got under, and driven into cloisters--from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world. importance of being able to despise ridicule. i know of no principle which it is of more importance to fix in the minds of young people than that of the most determined resistance to the encroachment of ridicule. give up to the world, and to the ridicule with which the world enforces its dominion, every trifling question of manner and appearance; it is to toss courage and firmness to the winds, to combat with the mass upon such subjects as these. but learn from the earliest days to insure your principles against the perils of ridicule: you can no more exercise your reason, if you live in the constant dread of laughter, than you can enjoy your life, if you are in the constant terror of death. if you think it right to differ from the times, and to make a stand for any valuable point of morals, do it, however rustic, however antiquated, however pedantic it may appear--do it, not for insolence, but _seriously_ and _grandly_--as a man who wore a soul of his own in his bosom, and did not wait till it was breathed into him by the breath of fashion. let men call you mean, if you know you are just; hypocritical, if you are honestly religious; pusillanimous, if you feel that you are firm: resistance soon converts unprincipled wit into sincere respect; and no after-time can tear from you those feelings which every man carries within him who has made a noble and successful exertion in a virtuous cause. bulls and charades. a bull--which must by no means be passed over in this recapitulation of the family of wit and humor--a bull is exactly the counterpart of a witticism: for as wit discovers real relations that are not apparent, bulls admit apparent relations that are not real. the pleasure arising from bulls, proceeds from our surprise at suddenly discovering two things to be dissimilar in which a resemblance might have been suspected. the same doctrine will apply to wit and bulls in action. practical wit discovers connection or relation between actions, in which duller understandings discover none; and practical bulls originate from an apparent relation between two actions which more correct understandings immediately perceive to have none at all. in the late rebellion in ireland, the rebels, who had conceived a high degree of indignation against some great banker, passed a resolution that they would burn his notes; which they accordingly did, with great assiduity; forgetting, that in burning his notes they were destroying his debts, and that for every note which went into the flames, a correspondent value went into the banker's pocket. a gentleman, in speaking of a nobleman's wife of great rank and fortune, lamented very much that she had no children. a medical gentleman who was present observed, that to have no children was a great misfortune, but he thought he had remarked it was _hereditary_ in some families. take any instance of this branch of the ridiculous, and you will always find an apparent relation of ideas leading to a complete inconsistency. i shall say nothing of charades, and such sort of unpardonable trumpery: if charades are made at all, they should be made without benefit of clergy, the offender should instantly be hurried off to execution, and be cut off in the middle of his dullness, without being allowed to explain to the executioner why his first is like his second, or what is the resemblance between his fourth and his ninth. wit and professed wits. i wish, after all i have said about wit and humor, i could satisfy myself of their good effects upon the character and disposition; but i am convinced the probable tendency of both is, to corrupt the understanding and the heart. i am not speaking of wit where it is kept down by more serious qualities of mind, and thrown into the background of the picture; but where it stands out boldly and emphatically, and is evidently the master quality in any particular mind. professed wits, though they are generally courted for the amusement they afford, are seldom respected for the qualities they possess. the habit of seeing things in a witty point of view, increases, and makes incursions from its own proper regions, upon principles and opinions which are ever held sacred by the wise and good. a witty man is a dramatic performer: in process of time, he can no more exist without applause than he can exist without air; if his audience be small, or if they are inattentive, or if a new wit defrauds him of any portion of his admiration, it is all over with him--he sickens, and is extinguished. the applauses of the theatre on which he performs are so essential to him, that he must obtain them at the expense of decency, friendship, and good feeling. it must always be _probable_, too, that a _mere_ wit is a person of light and frivolous understanding. his business is not to discover relations of ideas that are _useful_, and have a real influence upon life, but to discover the more trifling relations which are only amusing; he never looks at things with the naked eye of common sense, but is always gazing at the world through a claude lorraine glass--discovering a thousand appearances which are created only by the instrument of inspection, and covering every object with factitious and unnatural colors. in short, the character of a _mere_ wit it is impossible to consider as very amiable, very respectable, or very safe. so far the world, in judging of wit where it has swallowed up all other qualities, judge aright; but i doubt if they are sufficiently indulgent to this faculty where it exists in a lesser degree, and as one out of many other ingredients of the understanding. there is an association in men's minds between dullness and wisdom, amusement and folly, which has a very powerful influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without considerable difficulty. the reason is, that the _outward_ signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward signs of a frivolous man and a witty man; and we are not to expect that the majority will be disposed to look to much _more_ than the outward sign. i believe the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the _only_ eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times, have been witty, cæsar, alexander, aristotle, descartes, and lord bacon, were witty men; so were cicero, shakspeare, demosthenes, boileau, pope, dryden, fontenelle, jonson, waller, cowley, solon, socrates, dr. johnson, and almost every man who has made a distinguished figure in the house of commons. i have talked of the _danger_ of wit: i do not mean by that to enter into commonplace declamation against faculties because they _are_ dangerous; wit is dangerous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, _every_ thing is dangerous that has efficacy and vigor for its characteristics: nothing is safe but mediocrity. the business is, in conducting the understanding well, to risk something; to aim at uniting things that are commonly incompatible. the meaning of an extraordinary man is, that he is _eight_ men, not one man; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. but when wit is combined with sense and information; when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and something much _better_ than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good-nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit; wit is _then_ a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. there is no more interesting spectacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different characters of men; than to observe it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness--teaching age, and care, and pain to smile--extorting reluctant gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs of grief. it is pleasant to observe how it penetrates through the coldness and awkwardness of society, gradually bringing men nearer together, and, like the combined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and a shining countenance. genuine and innocent wit like this, is surely the _flavor of the mind_! man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food; but god has given us wit, and flavor, and brightness, and laughter, and perfumes, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to "charm his pained steps over the burning marl." influence of association. i remember once seeing an advertisement in the papers, with which i was much struck; and which i will take the liberty of reading: "lost, in the temple coffee-house, and supposed to be taken away by mistake, an oaken stick, which has supported its master not only over the greatest part of europe, but has been his companion in his journeys over the inhospitable deserts of africa: whoever will restore it to the waiter, will confer a very serious obligation on the advertiser; or, if that be any object, shall receive a recompense very much above the value of the article restored." now, here is a man, who buys a sixpenny stick, because it is useful; and, totally forgetting the trifling causes which first made his stick of any consequence, speaks of it with warmth and affection; calls it his companion; and would hardly have changed it, perhaps, for the gold stick which is carried before the king. but the best and the strongest example of this, and of the customary progress of association, is in the passion of avarice. a child only loves a guinea because it shines; and, as it is equally splendid, he loves a gilt button as well. in after-life, he begins to love wealth, because it affords him the comforts of existence; and then loves it so well, that he denies himself the common comforts of life to increase it. the uniting idea is so totally forgotten, that it is completely sacrificed to the ideas which it unites. two friends unite against the person to whose introduction they are indebted for their knowledge of each other; exclude him their society, and ruin him by their combination. indestructibility of enjoyment. mankind are always happier for having been happy; so that if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence, by the memory of it. a childhood passed with a due mixture of rational indulgence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the whole of life a feeling of calm pleasure; and, in extreme old age, is the very last remembrance which time can erase from the mind of man. no enjoyment, however inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment. a man is the happier for life, from having made once an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of innocent pleasure: and it is most probably the recollection of their past pleasures, which contributes to render old men so inattentive to the scenes before them; and carries them back to a world that is past, and to scenes never to be renewed again. happiness as a moral agent. that virtue gives happiness we all know; but if it be true that happiness contributes to virtue, the principle furnishes us with some sort of excuse for the errors and excesses of able young man, at the bottom of life, fretting with impatience under their obscurity, and hatching a thousand chimeras of being neglected and overlooked by the world. the natural cure for these errors is the sunshine of prosperity: as they get happier, they get better, and learn, from the respect which they receive from others, to respect themselves. "whenever," says mr. lancaster (in his book just published), "i met with a boy particularly mischievous, i made him a monitor: i never knew this fail." the _cause_ for the promotion, and the kind of encouragement it must occasion, i confess appear rather singular, but of the _effect_, i have no sort of doubt. power of habit. habit uniformly and constantly strengthens all our active exertions: whatever we do often, we become more and more apt to do. a snuff-taker begins with a pinch of snuff per day, and ends with a pound or two every month. swearing begins in anger; it ends by mingling itself with ordinary conversation. such-like instances are of too common notoriety to need that they be adduced; but, as i before observed, at the very time that the tendency to do the thing is every day increasing, the pleasure resulting from it is, by the blunted sensibility of the bodily organ, diminished, and the desire is irresistible, though the gratification is nothing. there is rather an entertaining example of this in fielding's "life of jonathan wild," in that scene where he is represented as playing at cards with the count, a professed gambler. "such," says mr. fielding, "was the power of habit over the minds of these illustrious persons, that mr. wild could not keep his hands out of the count's pockets, though he knew they were empty; nor could the count abstain from palming a card, though he was well aware mr. wild had no money to pay him." the use of the passions. the passions are in morals, what motion is in physics; they create, preserve, and animate, and without them all would be silence and death. avarice guides men across the deserts of the ocean; pride covers the earth with trophies, and mausoleums, and pyramids; love turns men from their savage rudeness; ambition shakes the very foundations of kingdoms. by the love of glory, weak nations swell into magnitude and strength. whatever there is of terrible, whatever there is of beautiful in human events, all that shakes the soul to and fro, and is remembered while thought and flesh cling together, all these have their origin from the passions. as it is only in storms, and when their coming waters are driven up into the air, that we catch a sight of the depths of the sea, it is only in the season of perturbation that we have a glimpse of the real internal nature of man. it is then only that the might of these eruptions, shaking his frame, dissipates all the feeble coverings of opinion, and rends in pieces that cobweb vail with which fashion hides the feelings of the heart. it is then only that nature speaks her genuine feelings; and, as at the last night of troy, when venus illumined the darkness, Æneas saw the gods themselves at work, so may we, when the blaze of passion is flung upon man's nature, mark in him the signs of a celestial origin, and tremble at the invisible agents of god! look at great men in critical and perilous moments, when every cold and little spirit is extinguished: their passions always bring them out harmless, and at the very moment when they _seem_ to perish, they emerge into greater glory. alexander in the midst of his mutinous soldiers; frederick of prussia, combating against the armies of three kingdoms; cortes, breaking in pieces the mexican empire: their passions led all these great men to fix their attention strongly upon the objects of their desires; they saw them under aspects unknown to, and unseen by common men, and which enabled them to conceive and execute those hardy enterprises, deemed rash and foolish, till their wisdom was established by their success. it is, in fact, the great passions alone which enable men to distinguish between what is difficult and what is impossible; a distinction always confounded by merely _sensible_ men, who do not even _suspect_ the existence of those means which men of genius employ to effect their object. it is only passion which gives a man that high enthusiasm for his country, and makes him regard it as the only object worthy of human attention; an enthusiasm which to common eyes appears madness and extravagance, but which always creates fresh powers of mind, and commonly insures their ultimate success. in fact, it is only the great passions which, tearing us away from the seductions of indolence, endow us with that continuity of attention, to which alone superiority of mind is attached. it is to their passions alone, under the providence of god, that nations must trust, when perils gather thick about them, and their last moments seem to be at hand. the history of the world shows us that men are not to be counted by their numbers, but by the fire and vigor of their passions; by their deep sense of injury; by their memory of past glory; by their eagerness for fresh fame; by their clear and steady resolution of ceasing to live, or of achieving a particular object, which, when it is _once_ formed, strikes off a load of manacles and chains, and gives free space to all heavenly and heroic feelings. all great and extraordinary actions come from the heart. there are seasons in human affairs, when qualities fit enough to conduct the common business of life, are feeble and useless, and when men must trust to emotion for that safety which reason at such times can never give. these are the feelings which led the ten thousand over the carduchian mountains; these are the feelings by which a handful of greeks broke in pieces the power of persia: they have, by turns, humbled austria, reduced spain; and in the fens of the dutch, and on the mountains of the swiss, defended the happiness, and revenged the oppressions of man! god calls all the passions out in their keenness and vigor for the present safety of mankind. anger, and revenge, and the heroic mind, and a readiness to suffer; all the secret strength, all the invisible array of the feelings, all that nature has reserved for the great scenes of the world. for the usual hopes and the common aids of man are all gone! kings have perished, armies are subdued, nations mouldered away! nothing remains, under god, but those passions which have often proved the best ministers of his vengeance, and the surest protectors of the world. in that, and similar passages, a sustained feeling and expression not ordinarily associated with sydney smith, impresses the reader with its unaffected eloquence and emotion. we close the book reluctantly, for we leave many things unquoted that had the most forcibly impressed us. in the two chapters on the conduct of the understanding, there are most masterly disquisitions on labor and study as connected with the manifestations of genius; on the importance of men adhering to the particular line of their powers or talents, and on the tendency of all varieties of human accomplishment to the same great object of exalting and gladdening life. we would also particularly mention a happy and noble recommendation of the uses of classical study at the close of the chapter on the sublime. young poet's plaint. god, release our dying sister! beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her whiter than the wild, white roses, famine in her face discloses mute submission, patience holy, passing fair! but passing slowly. though she said, "you know i'm dying." in her heart green trees are sighing; not of them hath pain bereft her, in the city, where we left her: "bring," she said, "a hedgeside blossom!" love shall lay it on her bosom. elliott. alexander after the retreat from lutzen.--"the emperor of russia passed the night of the battle at pegau, whither his britcka containing his papers and camp-bed had been brought; and, after having been twenty-four hours on horseback, lord cathcart and his staff found the bare floor of a cottage so comfortable a couch, without even the luxury of straw, that no one seemed in a hurry to rise when we were informed soon after daylight, that his imperial majesty was about to mount and depart, and that the enemy were approaching to dislodge us. the emperor slowly rode some miles toward the rear, along the altenburg road, conversing with lord cathcart about the battle: he laid great stress upon the report of the commandant of artillery as to the want of ammunition, which he assigned as the principal reason for not renewing the action; he spoke of the result as a victory gained on our side; and it was afterward the fashion in the army to consider it as such, though not perhaps a victory so important in its consequences, or so decisive as could have been wished. at length the emperor observed that he did not like to be seen riding, fast to the rear, and that it was now necessary for him to go to dresden with all expedition, and prepare for ulterior operations: he then entered his little traveling-carriage, which was drawn by relays of cossack horses, and proceeded by altenburg to penig."--_cathcart._ [from the dublin university magazine.] sonnets from the italian. upon the death of the redeemer. by minzoni. when, in that last, loud wail, the son of god rent open graves and shook the mountain's steep-- adam, affrighted from his world-long sleep, raised up his head; then stark and upright stood: with fear and wonder filled, he moved around his troubled eyes--then asked, with throbbing heart, who was that awful one who hung apart, gore-stained and lifeless, on the curst tree bound. soon as he learned, his penitent hand defiled his shriveled brow and bloodless cheeks, and tore the hoary locks that streamed his shoulders o'er. turning to eve, in lamentation wild, he cried, 'till calvary echoed to the cry-- "woman! for thee i've given my lord to die!" two sonnets on judas. by monti. i. down on the temple-floor the traitor flung the infamous bribe for which he sold the lord, then in despair rushed forth, and with a cord, from out the tree, his reprobate body hung. pent in his throat, the struggling spirit poured a mingled sound of rage and wildest grief, and christ it cursed, and its own sin in chief, which glutted hell with triumphs so abhorred. forth with a howl at last the spirit fled. then justice bore it to the holy mount, and dipping there her finger in the fount of christ's all-sacred blood, the sentence dread wrote on its brow of everlasting woe, then, loathing, plunged it into hell below. ii. down into hell that wretched soul she flung, when lo! a mighty earthquake shook the ground; the mountain reeled. the wind swept fierce around the black and strangled body where it hung. from calvary at eve, the angels wending, on slow, hushed wing, their holy vigil o'er, saw it afar, and swift their white wings, blending with trembling fear, their pure eyes spread before. meanwhile fiends pluck the corse down in the gloom, and on their burning shoulders, as a bier, convey the burden to its nameless doom. cursing and howling, downward thus they steer their hell-ward course, and in its depths restore the wandering soul to its damned corse once more. sonnet upon judas. by gianni. spent with the struggles of his mad despair, judas hung gasping from the fatal tree; then swift the tempter-fiend sprang on him there, flapping his flame-red wings exultingly. with griping claws he clutched the noose that bound the traitor's throat, and hurled him down below, where hell's hot depths, incessant bubbling glow his burning flesh and crackling bones around: there, mid the gloomy shades, asunder riven by storm and lurid flame, was satan seen; relaxing his stern brow, with hideous grin. within his dusky arms the wretch he caught, and with smutched lips, fuliginous and hot, _repaid the kiss which he to christ had given._ the character of burns. by ebenezer elliott. perhaps no falsehood has been more frequently repeated, than that men of genius are less fortunate and less virtuous than other men; but the obvious truth, that they who attempt little are less liable to failure than they who attempt much, will account for the proverbial good luck of fools. in our estimate of the sorrows and failings of literary men, we forget that sorrow is the common lot; we forget, too, that the misfortunes and the errors of men of genius are recorded; and that, although their virtues may be utterly forgotten, their minutest faults will be sure to find zealous historians. and this is as it should be. let the dead instruct us. but slanderers blame, in individuals, what belongs to the species. "we women," says clytemnestra in eschylus, when meditating the murder of her husband, and in reply to an attendant who was praising the gentleness of the sex, "we women are--what we are." so is it with us all. then let every fault of men of genius be known; but let not hypocrisy come with a sponge, and wipe away their virtues. of the misfortunes of cowper we have all heard, and certainly he was unfortunate, for he was liable to fits of insanity. but it might be said of him, that he was tended through life by weeping angels. warm-hearted friends watched and guarded him with intense and unwearied solicitude; the kindest hearted of the softer sex, the best of the best, seems to have been born only to anticipate his wants. a glance at the world, will show us that his fate, though sad, was not saddest; for how many madmen are there, and how many men still more unfortunate than madmen, who have no living-creature to aid, or soothe, or pity them! think of milton--"blind among enemies!" but the saddest incident in the life of cowper remains to be told. in his latter days, he was pensioned by the crown--a misfortune which i can forgive to him, but not to destiny. it is consoling to think, that he was not long conscious of his degradation after the cruel kindness was inflicted on him. but why did not his friends, if weary of sustaining their kinsman stricken by the arrows of the almighty, suffer him to perish in a _beggars'_ mad-house? would he had died in a ditch rather than this shadow had darkened over his grave! burns was more fortunate in his death than cowper: he lived self-supported to the end. glorious hearted burns! noble, but unfortunate cowper! burns was one of the few poets fit to be seen. it has been asserted that genius is a disease--the malady of physical inferiority. it is certain that we have heard of pope, the hunchback: of scott and byron, the cripples: of the epileptic julius cæsar, who, it is said, never planned a great battle without going into fits; and of napoleon, whom a few years of trouble killed: where cobbett (a man of talent, not of genius) would have melted st. helena, rather than have given up the ghost with a full belly. if pope could have leaped over five-barred gates, he probably would not have written his inimitable sofa-and-lap-dog poetry; but it does not follow that he would not have written the "essay on man;" and they who assert that genius is a physical disease, should remember that, as true critics are more rare than true poets, we having only one in our language, william hazlitt, so, very tall and complete men are as rare as genius itself, a fact well known to persons who have the appointment of constables. and if it is undeniable that god wastes nothing, and that we, therefore, perhaps seldom find a gigantic body combined with a soul of Æolian tones; it is equally undeniable, that burns was an exception to the rule--a man of genius, tall, strong, and handsome, as any man that could be picked out of a thousand at a country fair. but he was unfortunate, we are told. unfortunate! he was a tow-heckler who cleared six hundred pounds by the sale of his poems: of which sum he left two hundred pounds behind him, in the hands of his brother gilbert: two facts which prove that he could neither be so unfortunate, nor so imprudent, as we are told he was. if he had been a mere tow-heckler, i suspect he would never have possessed six hundred shillings. but he _was_ imprudent, it is said. now, he is a wise man who has done one act that influences beneficially his whole life. burns did three such acts--he wrote poetry--he published it; and, despairing of his farm, he became an exciseman. it is true he did one imprudent act; and, i hope, the young persons around me will be warned by it; he took a farm, without thoroughly understanding the business of farming. it does not appear that he wasted or lost any capital, except what he threw away on his farm. he was unlucky, but not imprudent in giving it up when he did. had he held it a little longer, the bank restriction act would have enriched him at the expense of his landlord; but burns was an honest man, and, therefore, alike incapable of desiring and foreseeing that enormous villainy. but he was neglected, we are told. neglected! no strong man in good health _can_ be neglected, if he is true to himself. for the benefit of the young, i wish we had a correct account of the number of persons who fail of success, in a thousand that resolutely strive to do well. i do not think it exceeds one per cent. by whom was burns neglected? certainly not by the people of scotland: for they paid him the highest compliment that can be paid to an author: they bought his book! oh, but he ought to have been pensioned. pensioned! can not we think of poets without thinking of pensions? _are_ they such poor creatures, that they can not earn an honest living? let us hear no more of such degrading and insolent nonsense. but he was a drunkard, it is said. i do not mean to exculpate him when i say that he was probably no worse, in that respect, than his neighbors; for he _was_ worse if he was not better than they, the balance being against him; and his almighty father would not fail to say to him, "what didst thou with the lent talent?" but drunkenness, in his time, was the vice of his country--it is so still; and if the traditions of dumfries are to be depended on, there are allurements which burns was much less able to resist than those of the bottle; and the supposition of his frequent indulgence in the crimes to which those allurements lead, is incompatible with that of his habitual drunkenness. of delays.--fortune is like the market where, many times, if you can stay a little, the price will fall; and again, it is sometimes like the sibyl's offer, who at first offereth the commodity at full, then consumeth part and part, and still holdeth up the price.... there is surely no greater wisdom than well to time the beginnings and onsets of things. dangers are no more light if they once seem light: and more dangers have deceived men than forced them. nay, it were better to meet some dangers half-way, though they come nothing near, than to keep too long a watch upon their approaches; for if a man watch too long, it is odds he will fall asleep. on the other side, to be deceived with too long shadows--as some have been, when the moon was low and shone on their enemies, and so to shoot off before the time--or to teach dangers to come on, by an over-early buckling toward them, is another extreme. the ripeness or unripeness of the occasion must ever be well weighed; and, generally, it is good to commit the beginnings of all great actions to argus with his hundred eyes, and the ends to briareus with his hundred hands; first to watch, and then to speed.--_lord bacon._ [from the london examiner.] the paris election. all paris is absorbed in the contest between the stationer leclerc and eugene sue the novelist. strange it is that the party which pretends to superior intelligence and refinement, should have put forward as their candidate merely a specimen of constabulary violence, an honest policemen, in fact; while the party accused of consisting of the mere dregs of society has selected for its representative one of the most refined and searching intellects of the day. if ever a man became a socialist from conviction, it has been sue; for his writings clearly show the progress and the changes of his mind. from depicting high society and influences he acquired a disgust for them; by diving among the vulgar, he discovered virtues whose existence he did not suspect. and though the conclusions he has drawn are erroneous, they would seem to be sincere. it is remarkable indeed to observe how all the great literary geniuses of the day in france have taken the popular side. we know how boldly lamartine plunged into it. victor hugo has taken the same part, and eugene sue. alexandre dumas, though in the employ of louis philippe in , soon flung aside court livery and conservatism. emile de girardin, another man of first rate literary ability, is decidedly socialist. beranger, as far as age will permit him, is a stern republican. when a cause thus attracts and absorbs all the floating talent of a country, there is a vitality and respectability in it, more than we are at present inclined to allow to french democratic parties. that the intellect, that is, the entire working intelligence of the country, has labored on the democratic, and, we fear even on the socialist side, is too evident from the fact that the opinions of the latter have gained ground, and not retrograded even in the provinces, where property is subdivided, and where there are few of the indigent classes. in no place is property more generally possessed that in the south of france; and there the results of the last two years have been certainly to strengthen democratic ideas, and to make monarchic ones decline. there is no mistaking, indeed, in what direction the current of ideas has set. the conservatives, or monarchists, or the old political class, whatever one pleases to call them, begin to perceive that they are beaten in the intellectual, the argumentative struggle. they therefore make an appeal to arms. this is evident in all their acts, arguments, and movements. their efforts are directed to crush the press, proscribe and imprison writers, and abolish meetings and speeches, except those delivered in their own clubs. they give the universities over to the jesuits, and elect for the assembly no longer orators, but stout soldiers. changarnier is the alpha, and leclerc the omega of such a party. strategy is its policy. it meditates no question of political economy or of trade, but bethinks it how streets are best defended, and how towns are fortified against themselves. a war minister, a tax minister, and a police minister--these form the head cabinet of france. as to foreign policy, trade policy, and the other paraphernalia of government, all this is as much a sham and a humbug, as an assembly must be of which the majority is marshaled and instructed in a club, before it dares proceed to its duties of legislation. the entire tendency is to change an intellectual and argumentative into a physical struggle. what events may occur, and what fortune prevail in a war of this kind, it is utterly impossible to foretell. for, after all, the results of war depend infinitely upon chance, and still more on the talent of the leader which either party may choose to give itself. nor is it always the one which conquers first that maintains its ascendency to the last. a war of this kind in france would evidently have many soldiers enlisted on either side, and soldiers in that country make excellent officers. the conservatives seem to think that the strife will be decided, as of old, in the streets of paris; and they look to the field of battle, and prepare for it, with a forethought and a vigilance as sanguinary and destructive as it is determined. we doubt, however, whether any quantity of street-fighting in the metropolis can decide a quarrel which becomes every day more embittered and more universal. socialism will not be put down in a night, nor yet in three days; no nor, we fear, even in a campaign. looking on the future in this light, it appears to us of trifling moment whether m. leclerc or m. sue carry the paris election. some thousand voters, more or less, on this side or on that, is no decision. the terrible fact is, the almost equal division of french society into two camps, either of which makes too formidable a minority to put up with defeat and its consequences, without one day or other taking up arms to advance fresh pretensions and defend new claims. mrs. hemans.--she reminds us of a poet just named, and whom she passionately admired, namely, shelley. like him, drooping, fragile, a reed shaken by the wind, a mighty mind, in sooth, too powerful for the tremulous reed on which it discoursed its music--like him, the victim of exquisite nervous organization--like him, verse flowed on and from her, and the sweet sound often overpowered the meaning, kissing it, as it were, to death; like him she was melancholy, but the sadness of both was musical, tearful, active, not stony, silent and motionless, still less misanthropical and disdainful; like him she was gentle, playful, they could both run about their prison garden, and dally with the dark chains which they knew bound them to death. mrs. hemans was not indeed a _vates_, she has never reached his heights, nor sounded his depths, yet they are, to our thought, so strikingly alike as to seem brother and sister, in one beautiful but delicate and dying family.--_gilfillan._ the pope at home again. the pope has returned to rome, but the papacy is not reinstated. the past can not be recalled. when pius the ninth abandoned the territorial seat of the papal power, he relinquished the post that preserved to that power its place of command throughout many parts of europe. it was the "pope _of rome_" to whom the many did homage, and the pope could only be deemed to be "_of_ rome" so long as he was _at_ rome: for there can be no doubt that a great part of the spiritual influence possessed by the sovereign pontiff has been indissolubly connected with the temporal sovereignty and territorial abode of the pontificate. even after his dispossession, for a time, no doubt, heart might have been kept up among his more refined and cultivated followers; but the most faithful peoples have always demanded a tangible standard or beacon of their faith--a pillar of fire or a visible church. when pius left rome, the rock became tenantless; the mansion of st. peter was vacant; a pope in lodgings was no pope of europe. and so it was felt. but the bodily restoration of pius the ninth to the capital of his states is not the restoration of the pope to his spiritual throne. that can no more be effected. the riddle has been read, in these terrible days of reading and writing--so different from the days when a papal rustication at avignon disturbed the catholic world, and verily shook the papacy to its foundations even then. some accounts describe the pope's return as a triumph, and relate how the romans submitted themselves in obedient ecstasy to his blessing: it is not true--it is not in the nature of things. it is easy to get up an array of popular feeling, as in a theatre, which shall make a show--a frontage of delight; easy to hire twelve beggars that their feet may be washed. mr. anderson of drury lane can furnish any amount of popular feeling or pious awe at a shilling a head; and the managers know these things in rome, where labor is much cheaper than with us. pius returned to rome under cover of the french bayonets, to find a people cowed and sulky--contrasting their traditions with the presence of the gaul, remembering in bitterness the days before the papacy, and imputing this crowning finish of their disgrace to the pope forced back upon them. even were the people for a moment pleased to see the well-meaning and most unfortunate old man, the days of his inscrutable power are over. nothing can again be inscrutable that he can hold. while he was away, the tongue of rome was let loose, and can he make the ear of rome forget what it heard in those days of license? can he undo the knowledge which men then attained of each other, and their suppressed ideas? assuredly not. when he left the keys of st. peter in his flight, men unlocked the door of the sanctuary, and found out his secret--that it was bare. political bondage to them will be, not the renewal of pious ignorance, but the rebinding of limbs that have learned to be free. nay, were rome to resume her subjection, the past has been too much broken up elsewhere for a quiet return to the old régime, even in italy. the ecclesiastical courts have been abolished in piedmont, and the sardinian states henceforth stand in point of free discussion on a level with germany, if not with france. the pope will be fain to permit more in genoa or turin than the eating of eggs during lent--to permit a canvassing of papal authority fatal to its existence. but in tuscany, for many generations, a spirit of free discussion has existed among the educated classes: the reforming spirit of ricci has never died in the capital of tuscany, and the memory of leopold protected the freedom of thought: a sudden and a new value has been given to that prepared state of the tuscan mind by the existence of free institutions in piedmont. giusti will no longer need to traverse the frontier of italy in search of a printer. with free discussion in two of the italian states, milan will not be deaf, nor naples without a whisper. italy _must_ sooner or later get to know her own mind, and then the bishop of rome will have to devise a new position for himself. abroad, in catholic europe, there is the same disruption between the past and the future. the archbishop of cologne exposed, in his rashness, the waning sanctity of the church; the neo-catholics have exposed its frangible condition. sectarian distinctions are torn to pieces in hungary by the temporal conflicts, and the dormant spirit of a national protestantism survives in sullen hatred to alien rule. austria proper is pledged to any course of political expediency which may defer the evil day of imperial accountability, and will probably, in waxing indifferency, see fit to put lombardy on a spiritual par with piedmont. france is precarious in her allegiance. two countries alone remain in unaltered relation to the see of rome--spain, the most bigoted of the children of rome; and ireland, the most faithful. but ireland is impotent. and to this day spain asserts, and preserves, the _national_ independence which she has retained throughout the most arrogant days of romish supremacy, throughout the tyrant régime of torquemada. even court intrigue dares not prostitute the _nationality_ of spain to roman influence. rome is the talk of the world, and the return of pius to the vatican can not restore the silent submission of the faithful. he is but to be counted among the "fashionable arrivals."--_london spectator._ civil liberty defined.--this is not the liberty which we can hope, that no grievance ever should arise in the commonwealth; that let no man in this world expect; but when complaints are freely heard, deeply considered, and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.--_john milton._ [from the london examiner.] the australian colonies. the jutland and sleswick pirates, who fourteen centuries ago performed the great achievement of conquering and colonizing britain, have since, in the persons of their descendants, achieved the still greater feat of colonizing and settling, while they are in a fair way of conquering and occupying, a whole continent, to the destruction or absorption of every other race. the anglo-saxon population of america, in fact, constitutes, at this moment, a people more numerous and mighty than any european nation of the period when their emigration commenced. the very same people is now engaged in achieving another great, although not equally great enterprise, the colonization of another continent, australia; and the australian colonies, within sixty years of their first foundation, are already calling loudly for self and responsible government, which is, by more than a century, sooner than the american colonies made a similar claim. we have not the least doubt but that it will be to the mutual and permanent advantage of both parties, that these demands of the colonists, which are in no respect unreasonable, should be liberally and readily granted. the better to understand our position in relation to them, let us compare the two continents alluded to. america has a greater extent of territory, and therefore more room for expansion than australia. its natural products are more valuable, its soil is more fertile, and its climates more varied and propitious to vegetation. its greatest superiority over australia, however, consists in its magnificent water communication--its great rivers, its splendid lakes, its navigable estuaries, and its commodious harbors. finally, it possesses the vast advantage of being only one-sixth part of the distance that australia is from the civilization and markets of europe. let us now see what australia is. it is said to contain three millions of square miles. but of this we take it that about one-half, or all of it that lies north of the twenty-fifth degree of south latitude, is unfit for our use as europeans, and, most probably, for the profitable use of any people, on account of the comparative sterility of the land, or, what in such a situation is equivalent to sterility, the drought of the climate. but for these great and, we fear, insuperable disadvantages, the tropical portion of australia might have been peopled from industrious and teeming china, which, with the help of steam navigation, is at an easy distance. notwithstanding this serious deduction from its available area, australia has extent enough for the abode of a great people, as what remains is equal to near twenty britains, or above seven countries as large as france! the absence of good water communication is the greatest defect of australia. it has not one great river which at once penetrates deeply into the country and communicates by a navigable course with the sea. the best of its rivers are not equal to those of the fourth or fifth order in america, and it has no lake at all of commercial value. another almost equally great disadvantage is frequent and long-continued droughts, even of its southern parts, which, however, as strength and wealth increase, may in time be, at least, mitigated by the erection of great works of irrigation, such as those on which the existence of whole populations depend in the warmer regions of asia. in salubrity of climate australia has a great superiority, not only over america, but over every other country. for the rearing of sheep and the production of fine wool, it may be said to possess almost a natural monopoly; and in this respect, it will soon become as necessary to us, and probably as important, as america is for the growth of cotton. its adaptation for pastoral husbandry is such, indeed, that we have often thought, had it been settled by tartars or arabs, or even by anglo-saxons of the time of hengist and horsa, that it would have been now thinly inhabited by nomade hordes, mere shepherds and robbers, if there was any one to rob. one immense advantage australia possesses over america, which must not be omitted--the total absence of a servile population and an alien race. in america the bondsmen form a fourth part of the whole population, and in australia little more than one sixtieth, speedily to vanish all together. if the comparison between america and australia have reference to the facility of achieving and maintaining independence, all the advantages are unquestionably on the side of australia. it is at least six times as far away from europe; and a military force sufficient to have even a chance of coercing the colonists could not get at them in less than four months, while the voyage would force it to run the gauntlet of the equator and both tropics. when it reached its destination, supposing its landing to be unopposed, it would have to march every step to seek the insurgents, for there is neither river nor estuary to transport it into the interior of the country. the colonists, rifle in hand, and driving their flocks and herds before them to the privation of the invader, would of course take to the bush, and do so with impunity, being without tents or equipage, or risk of starvation, having a wholesome sky over their heads, and abundant food in their cattle. with a thorough knowledge of localities, the colonial riflemen, under such circumstances, would be more than a match for regular troops, and could pick off soldiers with more ease than they bring down the kangaroo or opossum. we should look, however, to the number and character of the australian population. in the total colonial population of australia was , , of whom a large proportion were convicts. in it was , , of which the convicts were but . in the two years since, , emigrants have proceeded thither, and the total population at this moment can not be less than , . it has, therefore, been multiplied in twenty-two years' time by near seven-fold; and if it should go on at this rate of increase, in the year it will amount to close on two millions and a half, which is a greater population than that of the old american colonies at the declaration of independence, and after an existence of years. such a population, or the one half of it, would, from numbers, position, and resources, be unconquerable. such is a true picture, we conceive, of the position in which we stand in relation to our australian colonies. meanwhile, the colonists are loyal, affectionate, and devoted, and (the result of absence and distance) with really warmer feelings toward the mother country than those they left behind them. it will be the part of wisdom on our side to keep them in this temper. they demand nothing that is unreasonable--nothing that it is not equally for their advantage and ours that we should promptly and freely concede. they ask for responsible government, and doing so they ask for no more than what is possessed by their fellow-citizens. they ought to have perfect power over their own resources and their own expenditure; but, in justice and fairness, they ought also to defray their own military charges; and, seeing they have neither within nor without any enemy that can cope with a company of light infantry, the cost ought not to be oppressive to them. the australian colonies are, at present, governed in a fashion to produce discontent and recalcitration. they are, consequently, both troublesome and expensive. the nation absolutely gains nothing by them that it would not gain, and even in a higher degree, were they self-governed, or, for that matter, were they even independent. thus, emigration to them would go on at least in the same degree as it does now. it does so go on, to the self-governed colony of canada, and to the country which was once colonies, and this after a virtual separation of three quarters of a century. in like manner will our commercial intercourse with the australian colonies proceed under self-government. in , the whole exports of australia amounted only to the paltry sum of £ , , and in , the last for which there is a return, they had come to £ , , , or in seventeen years' time, had been increased by above fourteen-fold, a rapidity of progress to which there is no parallel. at this ratio, of course, they can not be expected to proceed in future; for the australians, having coal, iron, and wool in abundance, will soon learn to make coarse fabrics for themselves. the finer they will long receive from us, as america, after its long separation, still does. but that the australian colonies, under any circumstances, are destined to become one of the greatest marts of british commerce, may be considered as a matter of certainty. the only good market in the world, for the wool, the tallow, the train oil, and the copper ore of australia, is england; and to england they must come, even if australia were independent to-morrow; and they must be paid for, too, in british manufactures. independence has never kept the tobacco of america from finding its best market in england, nor has it prevented american cotton from becoming the greatest of the raw materials imported by england. a common lineage, a common language, common manners, customs, laws, and institutions, bind us and our australian brethren together, and will continue to do so, perhaps longer than the british constitution itself will last. they form, in fact, a permanent bond of union; whereas the influence of patronage, and the trickeries of conservative legislation, do but provoke and hasten the separation which they are foolishly framed to prevent. [from the dublin university magazine.] jewish veneration. the veneration of the jew for the law is displayed by the grossest superstition, a copy of the torah or decalogue being carefully soldered into a narrow tin case, and hung over the entrance to their chambers, as old crones with us nail a horse-shoe to a door; it is even believed to avail as an amulet or charm capable of averting evil, or curing the most obstinate disease. "ah," said a bed-ridden old hebrew woman to me, as i visited the mission hospital in jerusalem, "what can the doctors do for me? if i could only touch the torah i should be made whole." not exactly comprehending what she meant, i handed her a little tin-cased copy of the ten commandments; she grasped it in her emaciated hands, which trembled with anxiety, and her eyes were lit up with a transient gleam of joy. "are you made whole?" i inquired; she made no answer, fell back on her pillow, let drop the torah, and turned from me with a sigh. sitting one evening with an intelligent german jew, who used often to pay me a visit at my lodgings, the conversation turned on jewish religious rites and ceremonies. alluding to the day of atonement, he assured me that on that day the jews believe that ministers are appointed in heaven for the ensuing year: a minister over angels; one over the stars; one over earth; the winds, trees, plants, birds, beasts, fishes, men, and so forth. that, on that day also, the good and evil deeds of every son of abraham are actually summed up, and the balance struck for or against each, individually. where the evil deeds preponderate, such individuals are brought in as in debt to the law; and ten days after the day of atonement, summonses are issued to call the defaulters before god. when these are served, the party summoned to appear is visited either with sudden death or a rapid and violent disease which must terminate speedily in death. "but can not the divine wrath be appeased?" said i. "not appeased," said my informant; "_the decree must be evaded_." "how so?" "thus," he replied. "when a jew is struck with sudden sickness about this time, if he apprehends that his call is come, he sends immediately for twelve elders of his people; they demand his name; he tells them, for example, my name is isaac; they answer, thy name shall no more be isaac, but jacob shall thy name be called. then kneeling round the sick roan, they pray for him in these words: o god, thy servant, isaac, has not good deeds to exceed the evil, and a summons against him has gone forth; but this pious man before thee, is named jacob, and not isaac. there is a flaw in the indictment; the name in the angel's summons is not correct, therefore, thy servant jacob can not be called on to appear." "after all," said i, "suppose this jacob dies." "then," replied my companion, "_the almighty is unjust_; the summons was irregular, and its execution not according to law." does not this appear incredible? another anecdote, and i have done. on the same occasion we were speaking about vows, and the obligation of fulfilling them. "as to paying your vow," said my jewish friend, "we consider it performed, if the vow be observed to the letter." he then gave me the following rather ludicrous illustration as a case in point: there was in his native village a wealthy jew, who was seized with a dangerous illness. seeing death approach, despite of his physician's skill, he bethought him of vowing a vow; so he solemnly promised, that if god would restore him to health, he, on his part, on his recovery, would sell a certain fat beast in his stall, and devote the proceeds to the lord. the man recovered, and in due time appeared before the door of the synagogue, driving before him a goodly ox, and carrying under one arm a large, black spanish cock. the people were coming out of the synagogue, and several jewish butchers, after artistically examining the fine, fat beast, asked our convalescent what might be the price of the ox. "this ox," replied the owner, "i value at _two shillings_ (i substitute english money); but the cock," he added, ostentatiously exhibiting chanticleer, "i estimate at _twenty pounds_." the butchers laughed at him; they thought he was in joke. however, as he gravely persisted that he was in earnest, one of them, taking him at his word, put down two shillings for the ox. "softly, my good friend," rejoined the seller, "_i have made a vow not to sell the ox without the cock_; you must buy both, or be content with neither." great was the surprise of the bystanders, who could not conceive what perversity possessed their wealthy neighbor. but the cock being value for two shillings, and the ox for twenty pounds, the bargain was concluded, and the money paid. our worthy jew now walks up to the rabbi, cash in hand. "this," said he, handing the two shillings, "i devote to the service of the synagogue, being the price of the ox, which i had vowed; and this, placing the twenty pounds in his own bosom, is lawfully mine own, for is it not the price of the cock?" "and what did your neighbors say of the transaction? did they not think this rich man an arrant rogue?" "rogue!" said my friend, repeating my last words with some amazement, "they considered him a pious and a _clever_ man." sharp enough, thought i; but delicate about exposing my ignorance, i judiciously held my peace. [from blackwood's edinburgh magazine.] the modern argonauts. i. you have heard the ancient story, how the gallant sons of greece, long ago, with jason ventured for the fated golden fleece; how they traversed distant regions, how they trod on hostile shores; how they vexed the hoary ocean with the smiting of their oars;-- listen, then, and you shall hear another wondrous tale, of a second argo steering before a prosperous gale! ii. from the southward came a rumor, over sea and over land; from the blue ionian islands, and the old hellenic strand, that the sons of agamemnon, to their faith no longer true, had confiscated the carpets of a black and bearded jew! helen's rape, compared to this, was but an idle toy, deeper guilt was that of athens than the crime of haughty troy. iii. and the rumor, winged by ate, to the lofty chamber ran, where great palmerston was sitting in the midst of his divan: like saturnius triumphant, in his high olympian hall, unregarded by the mighty, but detested by the small; overturning constitutions--setting nations by the ears, with divers sapient plenipos, like minto and his peers. iv. with his fist the proud dictator smote the table that it rang-- from the crystal vase before him the blood-red wine upsprang! "is my sword a wreath of rushes, or an idle plume my pen, that they dare to lay a finger on the meanest of my men? no amount of circumcision can annul the briton's right-- are they mad, these lords of athens, for i know they can not fight? v. "had the wrong been done by others, by the cold and haughty czar, i had trembled ere i opened all the thunders of my war. but i care not for the yelping of these fangless curs of greece-- soon and sorely will i tax them for the merchant's plundered fleece. from the earth his furniture for wrath and vengeance cries-- ho, eddisbury! take thy pen, and straightway write to wyse!" vi. joyfully the bells are ringing in the old athenian town, gayly to piræus harbor stream the merry people down; for they see the fleet of britain proudly steering to their shore, underneath the christian banner that they knew so well of yore, when the guns at navarino thundered o'er the sea, and the angel of the north proclaimed that greece again was free. vii. hark!--a signal gun--another! on the deck a man appears stately as the ocean-shaker-- "ye athenians, lend your ears! thomas wyse am i, a herald come to parley with the greek; palmerston hath sent me hither, in his awful name i speak-- ye have done a deed of folly--one that ye shall sorely rue! wherefore did ye lay a finger on the carpets of the jew? viii. "don pacifico of malta! dull indeed were britain's ear, if the wrongs of such a hero tamely she could choose to hear! don pacifico of malta! knight-commander of the fleece-- for his sake i hurl defiance at the haughty towns of greece. look to it--for by my head! since xerxes crossed the strait, ye never saw an enemy so vengeful at your gate. ix. "therefore now, restore the carpets, with a forfeit twenty-fold; and a goodly tribute offer of your treasure and your gold sapienza and the islet cervi, ye shall likewise cede, so the mighty gods have spoken, thus hath palmerston decreed! ere the sunset, let an answer issue from your monarch's lips; in the mean time, i have orders to arrest your merchants' ships." x. thus he spoke, and snatched a trumpet swiftly from a soldier's hand, and therein he blew so shrilly, that along the rocky strand rang the war-note, till the echoes from the distant hills replied, hundred trumpets wildly wailing, poured their blast on every side; and the loud and hearty shout of britain rent the skies, "three cheers for noble palmerston! another cheer for wyse!" xi. gentles! i am very sorry that i can not yet relate, of this gallant expedition, what has been the final fate. whether athens was bombarded for her jew-coercing crimes, hath not been as yet reported in the columns of the _times_. but the last accounts assure us of some valuable spoil: various coasting vessels, laden with tobacco, fruit, and oil. xii. ancient chiefs! that sailed with jason o'er the wild and stormy waves-- let not sounds of later triumphs stir you in your quiet graves! other argonauts have ventured to your old hellenic shore, but they will not live in story like the valiant men of yore. o! 'tis more than shame and sorrow thus to jest upon a theme that for britain's fame and glory, all would wish to be dream! monthly record of current events. the new monthly magazine will present monthly a digest of all foreign events, incidents, and opinions, that may seem to have either interest or value for the great body of american readers. domestic intelligence reaches every one so much sooner through the daily and weekly newspapers, that its repetition in the pages of a monthly would be dull and profitless. we shall confine our summary, therefore, to the events and movements of foreign lands. * * * * * the affairs of france continue to excite general interest. the election of member of the assembly in paris has been the great european event of the month. the socialists nominated eugene sue; their opponents, m. leclerc. the first is known to all the world as a literary man of great talent, personally a profligate--wealthy, unprincipled, and unscrupulous. the latter was a tradesman, distinguished for nothing but having fought and lost a son at the barricades, and entirely unqualified for the post for which he had been put in nomination. the contest was thus not so much a struggle between the _men_, as the _parties_ they represented; and those parties were not simply socialists and anti-socialists. each party included more than its name would imply. the socialists in paris are all republicans: it suits the purposes of the government to consider all republicans as socialists, inasmuch as it gives them an admirable opportunity to make war upon republicanism, while they seem only to be resisting socialism. in this adroit and dangerous manner louis napoleon was advancing with rapid strides toward that absolutism--that personal domination independent of the constitution, which is the evident aim of all his efforts and all his hopes. he had gone on exercising the most high-handed despotism, and violating the most explicit and sacred guarantees of the constitution. he had forbidden public meetings, suppressed public papers, and outraged private rights, with the most wanton disregard of those provisions of the constitution by which they are expressly guaranteed. the nomination of eugene sue was a declaration of hostility to this unconstitutional dynasty. he was supported not only by the socialists proper, but by all citizens who were in favor of maintaining the republic with its constitutional guarantees. the issue was thus between a republic and a monarchy, between the constitution and a revolution. for days previous to the election this issue was broadly marked, and distinctly recognized by all the leading royalist journals, and the republic was attacked with all the power of argument and ridicule. repressive laws, and a stronger form of government, which should bridle the fierce democracy, were clamorously demanded. the very day before the polls were opened, the _napoleon_ journal, which derives its chief inspiration from the president, drew a colored parallel between the necessities of the th _brumaire_, and those of the present crisis, and entered into a labored vindication of all the arbitrary measures which followed bonaparte's dissolution of the assembly, and his usurpation of the executive power. the most high-handed expedients were resorted to by the ministry to assure the success of the coalition. the sale of all the principal democratic journals in the streets was interdicted. the legal prosecutions of the procureur general virtually reestablished the censorship of the press. placards in favor of the democratic candidate were excluded from the street walls, while those of his opponent were every where emblazoned. electoral meetings were prohibited; democratic merchants and shop-keepers were threatened with a loss of patronage; and the whole republican party was officially denounced as a horde of imbeciles, and knaves, and fanatics. no means were left unemployed by the reactionists to secure a victory. it was all in vain. on closing the polls the vote stood thus: eugene sue , m. leclerc , ------- sue's majority , and, what is still more startling, _four-fifths_ of all the votes given by the army were cast for sue. the result created a good deal of alarm in paris. stocks fell, and there seemed to be a general apprehension of an outbreak. if any such event occurs, however, it will be through the instigation of the government. finding himself outvoted, louis napoleon would undoubtedly be willing to try force. in any event, we do not believe it will be found possible to overthrow republicanism in france. previous to the election there was a _mutiny in the th infantry_. on the march of the d battalion from rennes to toulon, on the th april, the popular cry was raised by the common soldiers, urged on by the democrats of the town, and they insulted their officers. at angers the men were entertained at a fete; and in the evening the soldiers and subaltern officers, accompanied by their entertainers, paraded the streets, shouting again and again, "vive la république démocratique et sociale!" the minister of war, on receiving intelligence of this affair, ordered the battalion to be disbanded, and the subalterns and soldiers drafted into the regiments at algiers. besides this disgrace, an involuntary and _appalling calamity_ befell this regiment. when the d battalion was leaving angers, on the th, at eleven o'clock in the morning they met a squadron of hussars coming from nantes, which crossed over the suspension-bridge of the basse maine, without any accident. a fearful storm raged at the time. the last of the horses had scarcely crossed the bridge than the head of the column of the third battalion of the th appeared on the other side. reiterated warnings were given to the troops to break into sections, as is usually done, but, the rain falling heavily, it was disregarded, and they advanced in close column. the head of the battalion had reached the opposite side--the pioneers, the drummers, and a part of the band were off the bridge, when a horrible crash was heard; the cast-iron columns of the right bank suddenly gave way, crushing beneath them the rear of the fourth company, which, with the flank company, had not stepped upon the bridge. to describe the frightful spectacle, and the cries of despair which were raised, is impossible. the whole town rushed to the spot to give assistance. in spite of the storm, all the boats that could be got at were launched to pick up the soldiers in the river, and a great number who were clinging to the parapets of the bridge, or who were afloat by their knapsacks, were immediately got out. the greater number were, however, found to be wounded by the bayonets, or by the fragments of the bridge falling on them. as the soldiers were got out, they were led into the houses adjoining, and every assistance given. a young lieutenant, m. loup, rendered himself conspicuous for his heroic exertions; and a young workwoman, at the imminent danger of her life, jumped into the water, and saved the life of an officer who was just sinking. a journeyman hatter stripped and jumped into the river, and, by his strength and skill in swimming, saved a great many lives. one of the soldiers who had reached the shore unhurt, immediately stripped, and swam to the assistance of his comrades. the lieutenant-colonel, an old officer of the empire, was taken out of the river seriously wounded, but remained to watch over the rescue of his comrades. it appears that some people of the town were walking on the bridge at the time of the accident, for among the bodies found were those of a servant-maid and two children. when the muster-roll was called, it was found that there were soldiers missing, whose fate was unknown. there were, besides, bodies lying in the hospital, and wounded men; more bodies were found during the morning, of whom were officers. _m. proudhon was arrested_ on the th, and sent to the fortress of doullens, for having charged the ministry in his own paper, the "voix du peuple," with having occasioned the disaster of angers by sending the th regiment of light infantry to africa. in a letter from prison he acquitted the government of design in producing the catastrophe, but in a tone which hinted the possibility of so diabolical a crime having been meditated. a _notorious murderer_ has been arrested in france, whose mysterious and criminal career would afford the materials for a romance. he was taken at ivry; in virtue of a writ granted by the president, on the demand of the sardinian government, having been condemned for a murder under extraordinary circumstances. he was arrested in , at chambery, his native town, for being concerned in a murder; but he escaped from the prison of bonneville, where he was confined, and by means of a disguise succeeded in reaching the town of chene tonnex, where he went to an inn which was full of travelers. there being no vacant beds, the innkeeper allowed him to sleep in a room with a cattle-dealer, named claude duret. the unfortunate cattle-dealer was found dead in the morning, he having been smothered with the mattress on which he had slept. he had a large sum of money with him, which was stolen, and this, as well as his papers, had, no doubt, been taken by louis pellet, who had disappeared. judicial inquiries ensued, and the result was that louis pellet, already known to have committed a murder, was condemned, _par contumace_, to ten years' imprisonment at the galleys by the senate of chambery. in the mean time louis pellet, profiting by the papers of the unfortunate claude duret, contrived to reach paris, when he opened a shop, where he organized a foreign legion for algeria, enrolled himself under the name of his victim, and sailed for oran in a government vessel. from this time up to all trace of him was lost. he came to paris, took a house, amassed a large sum of money, and it turns out he was mixed up with a number of cases of murder, swindling, and forgery. these facts came to the knowledge of the police, owing to pellet having been taken before the correctional police for a trifling offense, when he appealed against the punishment of confinement for five days. the french government immediately sent an account of the arrest of this great criminal to the consul of the government of savoy resident at paris. * * * * * political movements in england are not without interest and importance, although nothing startling has occurred. the birth of another prince, christened arthur, has furnished another occasion for evincing the attachment of the english people to their sovereign. the event, which, occurred on the th of april, was celebrated by the usual demonstrations of popular joy. few years will elapse, however, before each of the princes and princesses, whose advent is now so warmly welcomed, will require a splendid and expensive establishment, which will add still more to the burdens of taxation which already press, with overwhelming weight, upon the great mass of the english people. thus it is that every thing in that country, however fortunate and welcome it may appear, tends irresistibly to an increase of popular burdens which infallibly give birth to popular discontents. the attention of parliament has been attracted of late, in an unusual degree, to the intellectual wants of the humbler classes, and to the removal, by legislation, of some of the many restrictions which now deprive them of all access even to the most ordinary sources of information. even newspapers, which in this country go into the hands of every man, woman, and child who can read, and which therefore enable every member of the community to keep himself informed concerning all matters of interest to him as a citizen, are virtually prohibited to the poorer classes in england by the various duties which are imposed upon them, and which raise the price so high as to be beyond their reach. mr. gibson, in the house of commons, brought forward resolutions, on the th of april, to abolish what he justly styled these _taxes on knowledge_: they proposed st, to repeal the excise duty only on paper; d, to abolish the stamp, and d, the advertisement duty on newspapers; th, to do away with the customs duty on foreign books. in urging these measures mr. gibson said, that the sacrifice of the small excise duty on paper yearly, would lead to the employment of , people in london alone. the suppression of chambers' miscellany, and the prevented re-issue of mr. charles knight's penny cyclopædia, from the pressure of the duty, were cited as gross instances of the check those duties impose on the diffusion of knowledge. mr. gibson did not propose to alter the postal part of the newspaper stamp duties; all the duty paid for postage--a very large proportion--would therefore still be paid. he dwelt on the unjust excise caprices which permit this privilege to humorous and scientific weekly periodicals, but deny it to the avowed "news" columns of the daily press. he especially showed by extracts from a heap of unstamped newspapers, that great evil is committed on the poorest reading classes, by denying them that useful fact and true exposition which would be the best antidote to the pernicious principles now disseminated among them by the cheap, unstamped press. there is no reason but this duty, which only gives £ , per annum, why the poor man should not have his penny and even his halfpenny newspaper, to give him the leading facts and the important ideas of the passing time. the tax on advertisements checks information, fines poverty, mulcts charity, depresses literature, and impedes every species of mental activity, to realize £ , per annum. that mischievous tax on knowledge, the duty on foreign books, is imposed for the sake of no more than £ a year! mr. gibson concluded by expressing his firm conviction, that unless these taxes were removed, and the progress of knowledge by that and every other possible means facilitated, evils most terrible would arise in the future--a not unfit retribution for the gross impolicy of the legislature. he was supported by mr. roebuck, but the motion was negatived, to . in his speech he instanced a curious specimen of the manner in which the act is sometimes evaded. a greenock publisher himself informed him that, having given offense to the authorities by some political reflections in a weekly unstamped newspaper of his of the character of _chambers's journal_, he was prosecuted for violation of the stamp act, and fined for each of five numbers £ . thereupon he diligently studied the act; and finding that printing upon _cloth_ was not within the prohibition, he set to work and printed his journal upon cloth--giving matter "savoring of intelligence" without the penny stamp--and calling his paper the _greenock newscloth_, sent it forth despite the solicitor to the stamp office. the _education bill_ introduced by mr. fox came up on the th, and was discussed at some length. the general character of the measure proposed, is very forcibly set forth in an article from the _examiner_, which will be found upon a preceding page of this magazine. the bill was opposed mainly by lord arundel, a catholic, on the ground that it made no provision for religious education, and secular education he denounced as essentially atheistic. mr. roebuck advocated the bill in an able and eloquent speech, urging the propriety of education as a means of preventing crime. he asked for the education of the people, and he asked it upon the lowest ground. as a mere matter of policy, the state ought to educate the people; and why did he say so? lord ashley had been useful in his generation in getting up ragged schools. it was a great imputation upon the kingdom that such schools were needed. why were they needed? because of the vice which was swarming in all our great cities. "we pass laws," said he, "send forth an army of judges and barristers to administer them, erect prisons and place aloft gibbets to enforce them; but religious bigotry prevents the chance of our controlling the evil at the source, by so teaching the people as to prevent the crimes we strive to punish." it was because he believed that prevention was better than cure; it was because he believed that the business of government was to prevent crime in every possible way rather than to punish it after its commission, that he asked the house to divest themselves of all that prejudice and bigotry which was at the bottom of the opposition to this measure. the bill was warmly opposed, however, and its further consideration was postponed until the th of may. the ministry during the month has been defeated upon several measures, though upon none of very great importance. in the first week of the meeting of parliament after the easter holidays, the cabinet had to endure, in the house of commons, three defeats--two positive, and one comparative; and, shortly after, a fourth. on a motion, having for its object improvement in the status and accommodation of assistant-surgeons on board her majesty's ships, ministers were placed in a minority equal to eight votes. on the measure for extending the jurisdiction of county courts, to which they were not disposed to agree, they voted with a minority, which numbered against votes. these were the positive defeats; the comparative one arose out of a motion to abolish the window-tax. against this the cabinet made come effort, but its supporters only mustered in sufficient strength to afford a majority of three. their last disaster was in a committee on the new stamp duties bill. the ministry seem disposed to gratify the public by economy so far as possible. lord john russell having introduced and carried a motion for a select committee on the subject. great preparations are making for the industrial exhibition of . it has been decided that it is to take place in hyde park in a building made of iron to guard against fire. the _literary gazette_ has the following paragraph in regard to it: "we are informed that an overture has been received by the royal commissioners from the government of the united states of america, offering to remove the exhibition, after its close in london, to be reproduced at new york, and paying a consideration for the same which would go toward the increase of the english fund. with regard to this fund, while we again express our regret at its languishing so much, and at the continuance of the jobbing which inflicted the serious wound on its commencement, and is still allowed to paralyze the proceedings in chief, we adhere to the opinion that it will be sufficient for the occasion. the occasion, not as bombastically puffed, but as nationally worthy; and that the large sum which may be calculated upon for admissions (not to mention this new american element), will carry it through in as satisfactory a manner as could be expected." the _expeditions to the arctic seas_ in search of sir john franklin attract a good deal of attention. it is stated that captain penny was to sail april th from scotland, in command of the two ships the lady franklin and the sophia. he will proceed without delay to jones's sound; which he purposes thoroughly to explore. the proposed expedition under the direction of sir john ross will also be carried into execution. he will sail from ayr about the middle of may; and will probably be accompanied by commander philips, who was with sir james ross in his antarctic expedition. another expedition, in connection with that of sir john ross, is under consideration. it has for its object the search of prince regent's inlet by ship as far south as brentford bay; from whence walking and boating parties might be dispatched in various directions. this plan--which could be carried into effect by dispatching a small vessel with sir john ross, efficiently equipped for the service--is deemed highly desirable by several eminent authorities; as it is supposed--and not without considerable reason--that sir john franklin may be to the south of cape walker; and that he would, in such case, presuming him to be under the necessity of forsaking his ships this spring, prefer making for the wreck of the fury stores in prince regent's inlet, the existence of which he is aware of, to attempting to gain the barren shore of north america, which would involve great hazard and fatigue. as a matter of course this second expedition would be of a private nature, and wholly independent of those dispatched by the admiralty. these various expeditions, in addition to that organized by mr. henry grinell of new york, will do all that can be done toward rescuing captain franklin, or, at least, obtaining some knowledge of his fate. the death of wordsworth, the patriarch of english poetry, and that of bowles, distinguished also in the same high sphere, have called forth biographical notices from the english press. a sketch of each of these distinguished men will be found in these pages. the propriety of discontinuing the laureateship is forcibly urged. about £ has been contributed toward the erection of a monument to lord jeffrey. * * * * * the london scientific societies present nothing of extraordinary interest for the month. at the meeting of the geological society, march , sir roderick murchison read a paper of some importance on the relations of the hot water and vapor sources of tuscany to the volcanic eruptions of italy. on the th of april, a paper was read from prof. lepsius on the height of the nile valley in nubia, which was formerly much greater than it is now. at the royal society, april , the rev. professor o'brien, in a paper "on a popular view of certain points in the undulatory theory of light," restricted his illustration to a single topic, namely, the analogy of the mixture of colors to the mixture of sounds, having first explained generally what the undulatory theory of light is, and the composition of colors and sounds. at the meeting on the th, mr. stenhouse, in concluding a paper on the artificial production of organic bases, said he did not despair of producing artificially the natural alkaloids, and the more especially as, thirty years ago, we could not produce any alkaloids. before the chair was vacated, mr. faraday submitted a powerful magnet which had been sent to him by a foreign philosopher; indeed, it was the strongest ever made. a good magnet, mr. faraday said, weighing lbs., would support a weight of about lbs. the magnet he exhibited had surprised him; it weighed only lb., and it supported - / lbs. this magnet, so beautifully made, was, we believe, constructed by m. lozeman, on a new method, the result of the researches of m. elias, both of haarlem. at another meeting of the same society, dr. mantell submitted a paper upon the _pelorosaurus_, an undescribed, gigantic terrestrial reptile, of which an enormous arm-bone, or humerus, has recently been discovered in sussex. it was found imbedded in sandstone, by mr. peter fuller, of lewes, at about twenty feet below the surface; it presents the usual mineralized condition of the fossil bones from the arneaceous strata of the wealden. it is four and a half feet in length, and the circumference of its distal extremity is inches! it has a medullary cavity inches in diameter, which at once separates it from the cetiosaurus and other supposed marine saurians, while its form and proportions distinguish it from the humerus of the iguanodon, hylæosaurus, and megalosaurus. it approaches most nearly to the crocodilians, but possesses characters distinct from any known fossil genus. its size is stupendous, far surpassing that of the corresponding bone even of the gigantic iguanodon; and the name of _pelorosaurus_ (from [greek: pelor], _pelõr_, monster) is, therefore, proposed for the genus, with the specific term _conybeari_, in honor of the palæontological labors of the dean of llandaff. no bones have been found in such contiguity with this humerus as to render it certain that they belonged to the same gigantic reptile; but several very large caudal vertebræ of peculiar characters, collected from the same quarry, are probably referable to the pelorosaurus; these, together with some distal caudals which belong to the same type, are figured and described by the author. certain femora and other bones from the oolite of oxfordshire, in the collection of the dean of westminster, at oxford, are mentioned as possessing characters more allied to those of the pelorosaurus, or to some unknown terrestrial saurian, than to the cetiosaurus, with which they have been confounded. as to the magnitude of the animal to which the humerus belonged, dr. mantell, while disclaiming the idea of arriving at any certain conclusions from a single bone, stated that in a gavial feet long, the humerus is one foot in length, _i.e._, one-eighteenth part of the length of the animal, from the end, of the muzzle to the tip of the tail. according to these admeasurements the pelorosaurus would be feet long, and its body feet in circumference. but if we assume the length and number of the vertebræ as the scale, we should have a reptile of relatively abbreviated proportions; even in this case, however, the original creature would far surpass in magnitude the most colossal of reptilian forms. a writer in the _athenæum_, in speaking of the expense of marble and bronze statues, which limits the possession of works of high art to the wealthy, calls attention to the fact that _lead_ possesses every requisite for the casting of statues which bronze possesses, while it excels that costly material in two very important particulars--cheapness, and fusibility at a low temperature. as evidence that it may be used for that purpose, he cites the fact that the finest piece of statuary in edinburgh is composed of lead. this is the equestrian statue of charles the second, erected in the parliament square by the magistrates of edinburgh in honor of the restoration of that monarch. this statue is such a fine work of art that it has deceived almost every one who has mentioned its composition. thus, a late writer in giving an account of the statuary in edinburgh describes it as consisting of "hollow bronze;" and in "black's guide through edinburgh" it is spoken of as "the best specimen of bronze statuary which edinburgh possesses." _it is, however, composed of lead_, and has already, without sensible deterioration, stood the test of years' exposure to the weather, and it still seems as fresh as if erected but yesterday. lead, therefore, appears from this instance to be sufficiently durable to induce artists to make trial of it in metallic castings, instead of bronze. intelligence from mosul to the th ult. states that mr. layard and his party are still carrying on their excavations at nimrood and nineveh. a large number of copper vessels beautifully engraved have been found in the former; and from the latter a large assortment of fine slabs illustrative of the rule, conquests, domestic life, and arts of the ancient assyrians, are daily coming to light, and are committed to paper by the artist, mr. cooper, one of the expedition. mr layard intends to make a trip to the chaboor, the chaboras of the romans, and to visit reish aina, the resen of scripture, where he hopes to find a treasure of assyrian remains. * * * * * the literary intelligence of the month is not of special interest. the first part of a new work by william mure, entitled a "critical history of the language and literature of ancient greece," has just been published in london, and elicits warm commendation from the critical journals. the three volumes thus far published are devoted mainly to a discussion of homer. mr. charles merivale has also completed and published two volumes of his "history of the romans under the empire," which extend to the death of julius caesar. mrs. sara coleridge, widow of henry nelson, and daughter of s.t. coleridge, has collected such of her father's supposed writings in the watchman, morning post, and courier, ranging between the years and , as could with any certainty be identified for his, and, with such as he avowed by his signature, has published them in three duodecimo volumes, as _essays on his own times_, or a second series of _the friend_. they are dedicated to archdeacon hare, and embody not a little of that system of thought, or method of regarding public affairs from the point of view of a liberal and enlarged christianity, which is now ordinarily associated with what is called the german party in the english church. the volumes are not only a valuable contribution to the history of a very remarkable man's mind, but also to the history of the most powerful influence now existing in the world--the newspaper press. a more complete and elaborate work upon this subject, however, has appeared in the shape of two post octavo volumes by mr. f. knight hunt, entitled _the fourth estate_. mr. hunt describes his book very fairly as contributions toward a history of newspapers, and of the liberty of the press, rather than as a complete historical view of either; but he has had a proper feeling for the literature of his subject, and has varied his entertaining anecdotes of the present race of newspaper men, with extremely curious and valuable notices of the past. of books on mixed social and political questions the most prominent has been a new volume of mr. laing's _observations on the social and political state of the european people_, devoted to the last two years, from the momentous incidents of which mr. laing derives sundry warnings as to the instability of the future, the necessity of changes in education and political arrangements, and the certain ultimate predominance of material over imaginative influences in the progress of civilization, which his readers will very variously estimate, according to their habits of thinking; and mr. kay's collections of evidence as to the present _social condition and education of the people in england and europe_, the object of which is to show that the results of the primary schools, and of the system of dividing landed property, existing on the continent, has been to produce a certain amount of mental cultivation and social comfort among the lower classes of the people abroad, to which the same classes in england can advance no claim whatever. the book contains a great deal of curious evidence in support of this opinion. of works strictly relating to modern history, the first volume of general klapka's memoirs of the _war in hungary_, and a military treatise by colonel cathcart on the _russian and german campaigns of and _, may be mentioned as having authority. klapka was a distinguished actor in the war he now illustrates by his narrative, and colonel cathcart saw eight general actions lost and won in which napoleon commanded in person. in the department of biography, the principal publications have been a greatly improved edition of mr. charles knight's illustrations of the _life of shakspeare_, with the erasure of many fanciful, and the addition of many authentic details; a narrative of the _life of the duke of kent_, by mr. erskine neale, in which the somewhat troubled career of that very amiable prince is described with an evident desire to do justice to his character and virtues; and a _life of dr. andrew combe_, of edinburgh, an active and benevolent physician, who led the way in that application of the truths and teachings of physiology to health and education, which has of late occupied so largely the attention of the best thinkers of the time, and whose career is described with affectionate enthusiasm by his brother mr. george combe. not as a regular biography, but as a delightful assistance, not only to our better knowledge of the wittiest and one of the wisest of modern men, but to our temperate and just judgments of all men, we may mention the publication of the posthumous fragments of sydney smith's _elementary sketches of moral philosophy_. to the department of poetry, mr. browning's _christmas eve and easter day_ has been the most prominent addition. but we have also to mention a second and final volume of _more verse and prose_ by the late corn-law rhymer; a new poetical translation of _dante's divine comedy_, by mr. patrick bannerman; and a dramatic poem, called the _roman_, by a writer who adopts the fictitious name of sydney yendys, on the recent revolutionary movements in italy. in prose fiction, the leading productions have been a novel entitled the _initials_, depicting german social life, by a new writer; and an historical romance, called _reginald hastings_, of which the subject is taken from the english civil wars, by mr. eliot warburton. * * * * * the deaths of distinguished persons, during the month, have not been very numerous, though they comprise names of considerable celebrity in various departments. of wordsworth and bowles, both poets, and both friends of coleridge, lamb, southey, and crabbe, more detailed mention is made in preceding pages. lieut.-general sir james bathurst, k.c.b., died at kibworth rectory, leicestershire, on the th, in his th year. when he entered the army in , if his age be correctly stated, he could have been only twelve years of age. he served at gibraltar and in the west indies, the capture of surinam, the campaign in egypt in , in the expedition to hanover, and in the actions fought for the relief of dantzic, as well as in those of lomitten, deppen, gutstadt, heilsberg, and friedland. subsequently he served at rugen, and at the siege of copenhagen. in and , he served with the army in portugal and spain as assistant quartermaster-general, and as military secretary to the duke of wellington. madame dulcken died on the th, in harley-street, aged . she was the sister of the celebrated violinist, david, and had been for many years resident in england, where she held a conspicuous position among the most eminent professors of the piano-forte. sir archibald galloway, chairman of the hon. east india company, died on the th, in london, aged , after a few hours' illness. he transacted business at the india house, on the th, and presided at the banquet recently given by the directors of the east india company to lord gough. rear-admiral hills died on the th, aged . he became a lieutenant in , and a post-captain in . the deceased was a midshipman of the eclair at the occupation of toulon, and was lieutenant of the amethyst at the capture of various prizes during the late war. dr. prout, f.r.s., expired in piccadilly, on the th, at an advanced age. he was till lately in extensive practice as a physician, besides being a successful author. captain smith, r.n., the admiralty superintendent of packets at southampton, died on the th, unexpectedly. he was distinguished as the inventor of paddle-box boats for steamers, and of the movable target for practicing naval gunnery. he entered the navy in , and saw a good deal of service till the close of the war. madame tussaud, the well-known exhibitor of wax figures, died on the th, in her th year. she was a native of berne, but left switzerland when but six years old for paris, where she became a pupil of her uncle, m. curtius, "artiste to louis xvi.," by whom she was instructed in the fine arts, of which he was an eminent professor. madame tussaud prided herself upon the fact of having instructed madame elizabeth to draw and model, and she continued to be employed by that princess until october, . she passed unharmed through the horrors of the revolution, perhaps by reason of her peculiar ability as a modeler; for she was employed to take heads of most of the revolutionary leaders. she came to england in , and has from that time been occupied in gathering the popular exhibition now exhibiting in london. * * * * * affairs in italy seem very unpromising. the pope returned to rome on the th: and in this number of this magazine will be found a detailed and very graphic account of his approach, entry, and reception. from subsequent accounts there is reason to fear that the pope has fallen entirely under the influence of the absolutist party, which now sways the councils of the vatican; and the same arbitrary proceedings appear to be carried on in his immediate presence as were the order of the day when he resided at portici. the secret press of the republican party is kept at work, and its productions, somehow or other, find their way into the hands of pio nono himself, filling him with indignation. it is said that the pontiff is very much dissatisfied with his present position, which he feels to be that of a prisoner or hostage. no one is allowed to approach him without permission, and all papers are opened beforehand by the authority of cardinal antonelli. it is generally feared that his holiness is a tool in the hands of the absolutists--a very pretty consummation to have been brought about by the republican bayonets of france! italy, for which so many hopes have been entertained, and of whose successful progress in political regeneration so many delightful anticipations have been indulged, seems to be overshadowed, from the alps to the abruzzi, with one great failure. * * * * * the two overland mails from india which arrived during the month brought news that there had been some fighting in the newly acquired territories. on the d of february a body of affredies, inhabitants of the kohat hills, about a thousand strong, attacked the camp of a party of british sappers, employed in making a road in a pass between peshawur and kohat. twelve of the latter were killed, six wounded, and the camp was plundered. to avenge this massacre a strong force under colonel bradshaw, sir charles napier himself, with sir john campbell, accompanying him, marched from peshawur an the th. the mountaineers made a stand in every pass and defile; but although the troops destroyed six villages and killed a great number of the enemy, they were obliged to return to peshawur on the th without having accomplished their object. on the th february another force was sent to regain the passes and to keep them open for a larger armament. * * * * * accounts from egypt to the th, state that the pacha, who had been residing at his new palace in the desert, had returned to cairo. the proximity of his residence has drawn his attention to the _improvement of the overland route_; and he has said that means must be adopted to reduce the period of traveling between the ships in the mediterranean and red sea to or hours, instead of or hours. he has sent a small landing steamer to ply in suez harbor; and he is causing the work of macadamizing the desert road to be proceeded with vigorously. an agreement has been made with contractors to enlarge the station-houses on the desert, so as to admit of the necessary stabling accommodation for eight or ten relays of horses, instead of four or five, by which means or persons will be moved across in one train, instead of, as at present, half that number. mules, again, are to be substituted for baggage camels in the transport of the indian luggage and cargoes, with the view to a reduction of the time consumed in this operation between suez and cairo, from to hours. it is easy to perceive the benefits which will be derived from these measures. * * * * * mr. p. colquohon sends to the _athenæum_, the following extract of a letter from baron de rennenkampff, the chief chamberlain of h.r.h. the grand duke of oldenburg, and president of the museum of antiquities at oldenburg, which is almost entirely indebted to that gentleman for its collection--narrating an important discovery of roman silver coins: "a most interesting circumstance, the particulars of which have much occupied my attention, has occurred here lately. some poor day laborers in the neighborhood of the small town of jever, on the border of marsch and gest, found, in a circle of a few feet, at a depth of from to feet, a heap of small roman coins, of fine silver, being pieces of roman denarii. the half of them immediately fell into the hands of a jew of altona, at a very inconsiderable price. the greatest portion of the remainder were dispersed before i gained intelligence of it, and i only succeeded in collecting some pieces for the grand duke's collection, who permitted me to remunerate the discoverers with four times the value of the metal. the coins date between the years and after christ while the oldest which have hitherto been discovered on the european continent, in norway, sweden, denmark, germany, &c., date from or . each piece bears the effigy of one of the emperors of the time, the reverse is adorned with the impression of some occurrence (a woman lying down with a chariot wheel, and beneath it the legend _via trajaceæ_, a trophy, and on the escutcheon _dacia capta_, &c.), and these are so various that pairs have only been found in a few cases. the discovery is so much the more wonderful, as, historically, no trace can be found of the romans having penetrated so far down as jever." the french minister of the interior has decided on postponing the exhibition of painting in paris this year until november. the comparative absence from the capital during the fine season of strangers and of rich amateurs likely to be purchasers of pictures, is the motive for this change in the period of opening the salon. the french papers state that the submarine electric telegraph between dover and calais is to be opened to the public on the th of may, the anniversary of the proclamation of the french republic by the constituent assembly. the indian mail brings copies of a new journal published in china on the first day of the present year, and called the _pekin monitor_. it is written in chinese, and carefully printed, on fine paper. the first number contains an ordinance of the emperor, toa-kouang, forbidding the emigration of his subjects to california or the state of costa rica. it is stated in the _berliner allgemeine kirchen zeitung_, that the jews have obtained a firman from the porte, granting them permission to build a temple on mount zion. the projected edifice is, it is said, to equal solomon's temple in magnificence. the creation of a university for new south wales is a striking expression of the rapid development of the history of a colony founded, in times comparatively recent, with the worst materials of civilization grafted on the lowest forms of barbarism existing on the earth. the new institution is to be at sydney; and a sum of £ , has been, it is said, voted for the building and £ for its fittings-up. it will contain at first chairs of the classical languages, mathematics, chemistry, natural history, natural philosophy, mechanics, physiology, and the medical sciences; and professorships of history, philosophy, and political economy are to be hereafter added. there is to be no faculty of theology--and no religious tests. the late dr. potts, inventor of the hydraulic pile-driving process, and other mechanical inventions, expired at his house in buckingham-street, strand, on the d ultimo. dr. potts belonged originally to the medical profession; but by inclination, even from school-boy days, and while a class-fellow with the present premier and the duke of bedford, he appears to have devoted himself to mechanical and engineering pursuits. his name, however, will be most closely associated for the future with the ingenious process for driving piles. it is said that "among the agriculturists of gloucestershire, worcestershire, and herefordshire," there is a grand scheme of emigration afloat, which projects the purchase of a million acres of land in one of the western states of america. some of the paper slips dropped by the telegraphing balloons, sent up experimentally by the admiralty at whitehall, have been returned by post from hamburg and altona, a distance of miles direct. box tunnel, london, which is yards in length, was an object of some interest on tuesday, the th of april, as on that morning at twenty-five minutes past five the sun shone through it. the only other periods that such an event occurs are on the d and th of september. an oak tree, forty feet high, with three tons of soil on its roots, has been transplanted at graisley, near wolverhampton. the tree was mounted on a timber-carriage, and, with its branches lashed to prevent damage to windows, passed through the streets, a singular but beautiful sight. the plymouth town-council are about to lay down a quantity of glass pipes, jointed with gutta percha, as an experiment, for the conveyance of water. the french, belgian, and prussian governments appointed a commission in to draw up the base of an arrangement for an international railway communication; the commission is about to commence its sittings in paris. the russian geographical society has decided upon exploring that portion of the northern ural which lies between mount kwognar and the pass of koppol; an extent of wersts, which has not yet been explored by the ural expedition. the expedition will consist of only three persons--a geognort, who also determines the altitude, a geographer, and one assistant. a great number of attendants, interpreters, workpeople, and rein-deer sledges, have already been engaged. the expedition will set out immediately, and it is hoped will complete the investigation by september. * * * * * it is said that nothing indicates the social and moral condition of any community more accurately or impressively than its records of crime. the following instances, selected from english journals of the month, will not, therefore, be without interest and instruction. on the d, thomas denny was tried at kingston-on-thames, for _murdering his child_. he was a farm-servant, and so poor that he lived in a hay-loft on his master's premises, with his reputed wife. in august a child was born, and died immediately. suspicions arose, and an investigation took place, which led to the prisoner's commitment, charged with murdering the infant. on the trial the prisoner's son, an intelligent boy of eight years old, told the following graphic story of his father's guilt: "we all," he said, "lived together in the hay-loft at ewell. when mother had a baby, i went to my father and told him to come home directly. when we got back my father took up the baby in his arms. he then took up an awl. [here the child became much affected, and cried bitterly, and it was some time before he could proceed with his testimony. at length he went on.] my father took up the awl, and killed the baby with it. he stuck the awl into its throat. the baby cried, and my father took the child to its mother, and asked her if he should make a coffin for it. before he said this, he asked her if she would help to kill it, and gave her the awl. she tried to kill it also. my father gave her the child and the awl, and she did the same to it that he had done. i was very much frightened at what i saw, and ran away, and when i came back i found mother in bed." the woman (eliza tarrant) had been charged as an accomplice, but the bill against her was ignored by the grand jury. on the trial she was called as a witness; to which the prisoner's counsel objected, she being a presumed participator in the crime. the woman, however, was called, and partly corroborated her son's testimony; but denied that she took any share in killing her offspring. the prisoner was convicted, and mr. justice maule passed sentence of death, informing him that there was no hope of respite. subsequently, however, the objections of the prisoner's counsel proved more valid than the judge supposed, for the secretary of state thought proper to commute the sentence. the unfortunate man received the respite with heartfelt gratitude. since his conviction he appeared to be overcome with grief at his awful position. _a tale of misery_ was revealed on the d to mr. à beckett, the magistrate of southwark police court. he received a letter from a gentleman who stated that as he was walking home one evening, his attention was attracted to a young woman. she was evidently following an immoral career; but her appearance and demeanor interesting him he spoke to her. she candidly acknowledged, that having been deserted by her parents, she was leading an abandoned life to obtain food for her three sisters, all younger than herself. her father had been in decent circumstances, but that unfortunately her mother was addicted to drink, and owing to this infirmity their parents had separated, and abandoned them. the writer concluded by hoping that the magistrate would cause an inquiry to be made. mr. à beckett directed an officer of the court to investigate into this case. on the th, the officer called at the abode of the young woman, in a wretched street, at a time when such a visit could not have been expected. he found mary ann bannister, the girl alluded to, and her three sisters, of the respective ages of eight, eleven, and fourteen, in deep distress. the eldest was washing some clothing for her sisters. there was no food of any description in the place. altogether the case was a very distressing one, and although accustomed to scenes of misery, in the course of his duties, yet this was one of the most lamentable the officer had met with. the publication of the case had the effect of inducing several benevolent individuals to transmit donations to mr. à beckett for these destitute girls, to the amount, as he stated on a subsequent day, of above £ . he added that it was in contemplation to enable the girls to emigrate to south australia, and that meanwhile they had been admitted into the workhouse of st. george's parish, where they would be kept till a passage was procured for them to the colony. more than one person had offered to take mary ann bannister into domestic service; but emigration for the whole four was thought more advisable. a female named lewis, who resided at bassalleg, left her home on the d to go to newport, about three miles distant, to make purchases. she never returned. a search was made by her son and husband, who is a cripple, and on the night of the following day they discovered her _murdered in a wood_ at no very great distance from the village, so frightfully mangled as to leave no doubt that she had been waylaid and brutally murdered. the head was shockingly disfigured, battered by some heavy instrument, and the clothes were saturated with blood. for some days the perpetrators escaped detection, but eventually murphy and sullivan, two young irishmen, were arrested at cheltenham, on suspicion. wearing apparel, covered with blood, and a number of trifling articles were found on them. they were sent off to newport, where it was found they had been engaged in an atrocious outrage in gloucestershire, on an old man whom they had assailed and robbed on the road near purby; his skull was fractured; and his life was considered to be in imminent peril. both prisoners were fully committed to the county jail at monmouth to take their trial for willful murder. _a dreadful murder_ has been discovered in the neighborhood of frome, in somersetshire. on the d, a young man named thomas george, the son of a laborer residing near that town, left his father's house about eight in the evening, and never returned. next morning, his father went in search of him, and found his body in a farmer's barn; he had been apparently dead for some hours, and there were deep wounds in his head and throat. a man named henry hallier, who had been seen in company with the deceased, the night he disappeared, close to the barn where his body was found, was apprehended on the th on suspicion, and committed to the county jail. an act of _unparalleled atrocity_ was committed during the easter week in the isle of man. two poor men named craine and gill went to a hill-side to procure a bundle of heather to make brooms. the proprietor of the premises observed them, and remarked that he would quickly make them remove their quarters. he at once set fire to the dry furze and heather, directly under the hilly place where the poor men were engaged. the fire spread furiously, and it was only by rolling himself down the brow of the hill, and falling over the edge of a precipice into the river underneath, that gill escaped. his unfortunate companion, who was a pensioner, aged years, and quite a cripple, was left in his helpless state a prey to the flames. after they had subsided, gill went in search of craine, whom he found burned to a cinder. the proprietor of the heath has been apprehended. _a shot at his sweetheart_ was fired by john humble sharpe, a young man of , who was tried for it at the norfolk circuit on the th. the accused, a young carpenter, had courted and had been accepted by the prosecutrix, sarah lingwood. she, however, listened to other vows; the lover grew jealous, and was at length rejected. in the night after he had received his dismissal, the family of the girl's uncle with whom she lived were alarmed by the report of a gun. on examining her bedroom it was discovered that a bullet had been fired through the window, had crossed the girl's bed, close to the bottom where she lay, grazed a dress that was lying on the bed-clothes, and struck a chest of drawers beyond. suspicion having fallen on the prisoner, he was apprehended. the prisoner's counsel admitted the fact, but denied the intent. the prisoner had, he said, no desire to harm the girl, whom he tenderly loved, but only to alarm her and induce her to return to him. the jury, after long deliberation, acquitted the prisoner. several shocking instances of _agrarian crime_ have been mentioned in the irish papers. at glasslough, in the county of monaghan, a shot was fired into the bed-room window of mr. john robertson, land steward to c.p. leslie, esq., on the night of the th. arthur o'donnel, esq., of pickwick cottage, in clare, was murdered near his own house, on the night of the th. he was attacked by a party of men and killed with a hatchet. the supposition was that this deed was committed by recipients of relief whom mr. o'donnel was wont to strike off the lists at the weekly revision by the board of the kilrush union, of which he was one. a man was arrested on strong suspicion. there was another murder in clare. the herdsman of mr. scanlon, of fortune in that county, went out to look after some sheep, the property of his master, when he was attacked by some persons who had been lurking about the wood, and his throat cut. two evidences of the _low price of labor_ were brought before the magistrates. one at bow-street on the th, when w. gronnow, a journeyman shoemaker, was charged with pawning eight pairs of ladies' shoes intrusted to him for making up. he pleaded extreme distress, and said he intended to redeem the shoes that week. the prisoner's employer owned that the man was entitled to no more than _s._ _d._ for making and preparing the eight pairs of shoes. "why," said the magistrate, "that price is only _sevenpence_ a pair for the workman. i am not surprised to hear of so many persons pawning their employers' property, when they are paid so badly." the prisoner was fined _s._ and ordered to pay the money he had received upon the shoes within fourteen days; in default, to be imprisoned fourteen days. being unable to pay the money, he was locked up. on the previous day a man named savage, a slop shirt seller, was summoned at guildhall for _d._, the balance due to mrs. wallis for making three cotton shirts. when delivered, savage found fault with them, and deferred payment. eventually _s._ _d._ was paid instead of _s._ the alderman said he was surprised at any tradesman who only paid _d._ for making a shirt, deducting _d._ from so small a remuneration; it was disgraceful. he then ordered the money to be paid, with expenses. alexander levey, a goldsmith, was tried at the central criminal court on the th, for the _murder of his wife_. they were a quarrelsome pair: one day, while the husband, with a knife in his hand, was cooking a sweetbread, the wife came in, and, in answer to his inquiry where she had been, said she had been to a magistrate for a warrant against him. on this, with a violent exclamation, he stabbed her in the throat; she ran out of the house, while he continued eating with the knife with which he stabbed her, saying, however, he hoped she was not much hurt. she died in consequence of the wound. the defense was, that the blow had been given in the heat of passion, and the prisoner was found guilty of manslaughter only. he was sentenced to fifteen years' transportation. on the same day, jane kirtland was tried for the _manslaughter of her husband_. they lived at shadwell, and were both addicted to drinking and quarreling, in both which they indulged. kirtland having called his wife an opprobrious name she took up a chopper, and said that if he repeated the offensive expression, she would chop him. he immediately repeated it with a still more offensive addition, and at the same time thrust his fist, in her face, when she struck him on the elbow with the chopper, and inflicted a wound of which he died a few days afterward. the prisoner, when called upon for her defense, burst into tears, and said that her husband was constantly drunk, and that he was in the habit of going out all day, and leaving her and her children in a destitute state, and when he came home he would abuse her and insult her in every possible way. in a moment of anger she struck him with a chopper, but she had no intention to do him any serious injury. the jury found the prisoner guilty, but recommended her to mercy on account of the provocation she had received. she was sentenced to be kept to hard labor in the house of correction for six months. a coroner's inquest was held in southwark on the same day, respecting the death of mrs. mary carpenter, _an eccentric old lady_, of eighty-two. she had been left, by a woman who attended her, cooking a chop for her dinner; and soon afterward the neighbors were alarmed by smoke coming from the house. on breaking into her room on an upper floor, the place was found to be on fire. the flames were got under, but the old lady was burnt almost to a cinder. mrs. carpenter was a very singular person; she used at one time to wear dresses so that they did not reach down to her knees. part of her leg was exposed, but the other was encased with milk-white stockings, tied up with scarlet garters, the ribbons extending to her feet, or flying about her person. in this extraordinary dress she would sally forth to market, followed by an immense crowd of men and children. for some years past she discontinued these perambulations, and lived entirely shut up in her house in moss-alley, the windows of which she had bricked up, so that no light could enter from without. though she had considerable freehold property, she had only an occasional female attendant, and would allow no other person, but the collector of her rents, to enter her preserve. on the th, mrs. eleanor dundas percival, a lady of thirty-five, destroyed herself by poison at the hope coffee-house, in fetter-lane, where she had taken temporary apartments. _a distressing history_ transpired at the inquest. she was the daughter of a scotch clergyman, and lost the countenance of her family by marrying a catholic, a captain in the navy; while her husband suffered the same penalty for marrying a protestant. about a year ago he and their infant died in the west indies; she afterward became governess in the family of sir colin campbell, governor of barbadoes; her health failing, she returned to england in october last, and had since been reduced to extreme distress. having been turned out of a west-end hotel, and had her effects detained on account of her debt contracted there, she had been received into the apartments in fetter-lane, partly through the compassion of a person who resided in the house. while there, she had written to miss burdett coutts, and, a few days before her death, a gentleman had called on her from that benevolent lady, who paid up the rent she owed, amounting to £ _s._, and left her _s._ on the evening above-mentioned she went out, and returned with a phial in her hand containing morphia, which, it appeared, she swallowed on going to bed between five and six, as she was afterward found in a dying state, and the empty phial beside her. the verdict was temporary insanity. _elias lucas and mary reeder were executed_ at cambridge on the th. lucas was the husband of the female convict's sister, whom they had poisoned. morbid curiosity had attracted from twenty to thirty thousand spectators. in the procession from the jail to the scaffold there was a great parade of county magistrates. louisa hartley was charged at the southwark police court, on the th, with an _attempt to poison her father_, who is a fellowship porter. on the previous morning she made the coffee for breakfast, on tasting it, it burnt harley's mouth, and he charged the girl with having put poison in his cup, which she denied; he then tasted her coffee, and found it had no unpleasant flavor. his daughter then snatched away his cup, and threw the contents into a wash-hand basin. but in spite of her tears and protestations of innocence, he took the basin to guy's hospital, where it was found that the coffee must have contained vitriol. the girl, who was said to be of weak intellect, and stood sobbing at the bar, being questioned, only shook her head, and said she had nothing to say. at a subsequent hearing the magistrate decided that there was sufficient evidence for a committal. a man named william bennison, a workman in an iron-foundry, has been committed to prison at leith on suspicion of having _poisoned his wife_. the circumstances of the case are extraordinary. the scene of the murder is an old-fashioned tiled house in leith. bennison and his wife occupied the second floor of a house, in which also resides alexander milne, a cripple from his infancy, well known to the frequenters of leith walk, where he sits daily, in a small cart drawn by a dog. mrs. bennison, after, it is said, partaking of some gruel, became very ill, and died on monday, the d inst. the dog which drew the cripple's cart died about the same time; suspicion was drawn upon the husband, and he was apprehended, and the dog's body conveyed to surgeon's hall for examination. some weeks before, bennison had purchased arsenic from a neighboring druggist, to kill rats, as he said. when suspected he called on the druggist, and requested him and his wife not to mention that he had purchased the arsenic. he even pressed for a written denial of the fact, adding that there might be arsenic found in his wife's stomach, but he did not put it there. on the monday previous to her death it is said he enrolled her name in a benefit society, by which on her death he was entitled to a sum of £ . at the prisoner's examination before the sheriff, the report of the chemists pronounced the contents of the dog's stomach to have been metallic poison. the accused was eventually committed for trial. the deceased and her husband were members of the wesleyan body, and bore an excellent character for piety. bennison professed to be extremely zealous in behalf of religion, and was in the habit of administering its consolations to such as would accept of them. his "gifts" of extempore prayer are said to be extensive. _two men were shot at by a gamekeeper_ lately in a wood belonging to lord wharncliffe, near barnsley. the game on this estate is preserved by a solicitor, who resides near wokefield, who employs joseph hunter as gamekeeper. both the men were severely injured, and cherry, one of them, sued hunter as the author of the offense, in the barnsley county court, and the case was heard on the th instant. cherry stated, that on the d february he went to see the badsworth hounds meet at the village of notton, and in coming down by the side of a wood he saw the defendant, who asked plaintiff and two others where the hounds were. plaintiff told him they were in notton-park. these men left hunter, and walked down by the side of noroyds-wood. they went through the wood, when one of the men who was with him began cutting some sticks. plaintiff then saw hunter, who was about twenty-five yards from them, coming toward them: the men began to run away, when plaintiff said to the other, "he's going to shoot us;" and before he had well delivered the words, he was shot in the arm and side, and could not run with the others. a surgeon proved that the wounds were severe and in a dangerous part of the body. the two men who were with the plaintiff corroborated his evidence. the judge said that defendant deserved to be sent to york for what he had done already. the damages might have been laid at £ or £ had plaintiff been acting lawfully; but he thought plaintiff had acted with discretion in laying the damages at £ for which he should give a verdict, and all the costs the law would allow. _an affecting case_ occurred at the mansion house on the d. william powers, a boy, was brought up on the charge of picking a gentleman's pocket of a handkerchief. a little boy, who had seen the theft, was witness against him. the prisoner made a feeble attempt to represent the witness as an accomplice; but he soon abandoned it, and said, with tears, that he "did not believe the other boy to be a thief at all." the alderman, moved by his manner, asked him if he had parents? he said he had, but they were miserably poor. "my father was, when i last saw him, six months ago, going into the workhouse. what was i to do? i was partly brought up to the tailoring business, but i can get nothing to do at that. i am able to job about, but still i am compelled to be idle. if i had work, wouldn't i work! i'd be glad to work hard for a living, instead of being obliged to thieve and tell lies for a bit of bread." alderman carden--if i send you for a month to bridewell, and from thence into an industrial school, will you stick honestly to labor? the prisoner--try me. you shall never see me here or in any other disgraceful situation again. alderman carden--i will try you. you shall go to bridewell for a month, and to the school of occupation afterward, where you will have an opportunity of reforming. the wretched boy expressed himself in terms of gratitude to the alderman, and went away, as seemed to be the general impression in the justice-room, for the purpose of commencing a new life. on the th a pilot-boat brought into cowes the master of the lincoln, sailing from boston for california. he had reached the latitude of ° n. and longitude ° w., and when at . p.m. of march , during a heavy shower of rain, and without any menacing appearance in the air, the ship was _struck with lightning_, which shivered the mainmast, and darted into the hold. on opening the scuttle, volumes of smoke were emitted, and finding it impossible to extinguish the fire, the crew endeavored to stifle it by closing every aperture. in this state they remained for nearly four days, with the fire burning in the hold, when they were relieved from their perilous situation by the providential appearance of the maria christina, and taken on board. previous to leaving the ill-fated brig, the hatches were opened, when the flames burst forth, and in thirty minutes afterward the mainmast fell over the side. the unfortunate crew were most kindly treated by captain voss, the master of the maria christina, who did every thing in his power for their relief. a miss downie met, on the th, with an _extraordinary death_ at traquair-on-the-tweed. she had suffered, since childhood, from severe pains in the head and deafness; her health had been gradually declining for the last three years, and in august last she was seized with most painful inflammation in the left ear, accompanied by occasional bleedings also from the ear. on the th of march an ordinary-sized metallic pin was extracted from the left ear, which was enveloped in a firm substance with numerous fibres attached to it; several hard bodies, in shape resembling the grains of buckwheat, but of various colors, were also taken out of the right ear. the poor girl endured the most intense pain, which she bore with christian fortitude till death terminated her sufferings. it is believed the pin must have lodged in the head for nearly twenty years, as she never recollected of having put one in her ear, but she had a distinct remembrance of having, when a child, had a pin in her mouth, which she thought she had swallowed. the poet bowles.--the canon's absence of mind was very great, and when his coachman drove him into bath he had to practice all kinds of cautions to keep him to time and place. the poet once left our office in company with a well-known antiquary of our neighborhood, since deceased, and who was as absent as mr. bowles himself. the servant of the latter came to our establishment to look for him, and, on learning that he had gone away with the gentleman to whom we have referred, the man exclaimed, in a tone of ludicrous distress, "what! those two wandered away together? then they'll never be found any more!" the act of composition was a slow and laborious operation with him. he altered and re-wrote his ms. until, sometimes, hardly anything remained of the original, excepting the general conception. when we add that his handwriting was one of the worst that ever man wrote--insomuch that frequently he could not read that which he had written the day before--we need not say that his printers had very tough work in getting his works into type. at the time when we printed for mr. bowles we had one compositor in our office (his death is recorded in our paper of to-day), who had a sort of knack in making out the poet's hieroglyphics, and he was once actually sent for by mr bowles into wiltshire to copy some ms. written a year or two before, which the poet had himself vainly endeavored to decipher.--_bath chronicle._ archibald alison. [illustration: portrait of archibald alison] mr. archibald alison, author of the "history of europe," is son of the author of the well-known "essay on taste." he holds the office of sheriff of lanarkshire, and is much respected in the city of glasgow, where his official duties compel him to reside. though educated for the profession of the law, and daily administering justice as the principal local judge of a populous district, mr. alison's tastes are entirely literary. besides the "history of europe," in volumes--a work which, we believe, originated in the pages of a "scottish annual register," long since discontinued--mr. alison has written a "life of marlborough" and various economic and political pamphlets. he is also a frequent contributor to _blackwood's magazine_. it is, however, upon his "history of europe" that his fame principally rests. if mr. alison be not the most successful of modern historians, we know not to whom, in preference to him, the palm can be conceded. his work is to be found in every library, and bids fair to rank hereafter as the most valuable production of the age in which he lived. this success is due, not only to the importance and interest of his theme, but to the skillful, eloquent, and generally correct manner in which he has treated it. he has, doubtless, been guilty of some errors of omission as well as of commission, as we have heard of a literary amateur, whose chief amusement for some years past, has been to make out a list of his mistakes; but, after all deductions of this kind, enough of merit remains in the work to entitle its author to a place in the highest rank of contemporary authors. the bust of mr. alison, of which we present an engraving, was executed in the year , and presented in marble to mr. alison by a body of his private friends in glasgow, as a testimonial of their friendship to him as an individual; of their esteem and respect for him in his public capacity, as one of their local judges; and of their admiration of his writings. it is considered a very excellent likeness. the corn-law rhymer. ebenezer elliott not only possessed poetical spirit, or the apparent faculty of producing poetry, but he produced poems beautiful in description, touching in incident and feeling, and kindly in sentiment, when he was kept away from that bugbear of his imagination a landed gentleman. a man of acres, or any upholder of the corn-laws, was to him what brimstone and blue flames are to a certain species of devotee, or the giant oppressor of enchanted innocence to a mad knight-errant. in a squire or a farmer he could see no humanity; the agriculturist was an incarnate devil, bent upon raising the price of bread, reducing wages, checking trade, keeping the poor wretched and dirty, and rejoicing when fever followed famine, to sweep them off by thousands to an untimely grave. according to his creed, there was no folly, no fault, no idleness, no improvidence in the poor. their very crimes were brought upon them by the gentry class. the squires, assisted a little by kings, ministers, and farmers, were the true origin of evil in this world of england, whatever might be the cause of it elsewhere. this rabid feeling was opposed to high poetical excellence. temper and personal passion are fatal to art: "in the very torrent, tempest, and (i may say) whirlwind of your passion, you should acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness." it is also fatal to more than art: where a person looks with the vulgar eyes that ebenezer elliott used on many occasions, there can be neither truth nor justice. even the satirist must observe a partial truth and a measure in expressing it, or he sinks down to the virulent lampooner. part of this violence must be placed to the natural disposition of the man, but part of it was owing to his narrow education; by which we mean, not so much book-learning or reading, of which he had probably enough, but provincial and possibly low associates. something, perhaps, should be ascribed to a self-sufficiency rather morbid than proud; for we think elliott had a liking to be "head of the company," and that he resented any want of public notice as an affront, even when the parties could not know that he was entitled to notice. these defects of character operated very mischievously upon his works. the temper marred his political poems; though the people, their condition, vices, and virtues, is a theme that, properly sung, might stir the anglo-saxon race throughout the world and give immortality to a poet. the provincial mind affected the mass of elliott's poems even where the subject was removed from his prejudices; for he had no habitual elevation or refinement of taste: it required a favorable theme or a happy moment to triumph over the deficiencies of nature and education. his self-sufficiency coupled with his provincialism seems to have prevented him from closely criticising his productions; so that he often published things that were prosaic as well as faulty in other respects. the posthumous volumes before us naturally abound in the author's peculiarities; for the feelings of survivors are prone to err on the side of fullness, and the friends of the lately dead too often print indiscriminately. the consequence is, that the publication has an air of gatherings, and contains a variety of things that a critical stranger would wish away. it was proper, perhaps, to have given prose as a specimen of the author; and the review of his works by southey, said to have been rejected by the _quarterly_, is curious for its total disregard of the reviewer's own canons, since very little description is given of the poems, and not much of the characteristics of the poet. much of the poetry in these volumes would have been better unpublished. here and there we find a touching little piece, or a bit of power; but the greater part is not only unpoetical but trivial, or merely personal in the expression of feeling. there is, moreover, a savageness of tone toward the agricultural interest, even after the corn-laws were abolished, that looks as like malignity as honest anger.--_london spectator._ madame grandin, the widow of m. victor grandin, representative of the seine inférieure, who died about seven or eight months since, met with a melancholy end on the th, at her residence at elboeuf. she was confined to her bed from illness, and the woman, who had been watching by her during the night, had left her but a short time, when the most piercing shrieks were heard to proceed from her room. her brother ran in alarm to her assistance, but, unfortunately, he was too late, the poor lady had expired, having been burned in her bed. it is supposed that in reaching to take something from the table, her night-dress came in contact with the lamp, and thus communicated to the bed. t. babington macaulay. [illustration: portrait of thomas babington macaulay] mr. macaulay, though ambitious at one time, and perhaps still, of a reputation for poetry though an acute critic and a brilliant essayist, and though a showy and effective orator, who could command at all times the attention of an assembly that rather dislikes studied eloquence seems at present inclined to build up his fame upon his historical writings. most of his admirers consider that, in this respect, he has judged wisely. as a poet--however pleasing his "lays of ancient rome" and some of his other ballads maybe--he could never have succeeded in retaining the affection of the public. depth of feeling, earnest and far-seeing thought, fancy, imagination, a musical ear, a brilliancy of expression, and an absolute mastery of words, are all equally essential to him who, in this or any other time, would climb the topmost heights of parnassus. mr. macaulay has fancy but not imagination; and though his ear is good, and his command of language unsurpassed by any living writer, he lacks the earnestness and the deep philosophy of all the mighty masters of song. as a critic he is, perhaps, the first of his age; but criticism, even in its highest developments, is but a secondary thing to the art upon which it thrives. mr. macaulay has in him the stuff of which artists and originators are made, and we are of the number of those who rejoice that, in the vigor of his days; he has formed a proper estimate of his own powers, and that he has abandoned the poetical studies, in the prosecution of which he never could have attained the first rank; and those critical corruscations which, however beautiful, must always have been placed in a lower scale of merit than the compositions upon which they were founded; and that he has devoted his life to the production of an original work in the very highest department of literature. there was, at one time, a prospect before mr. macaulay of being one of the men who _make_, instead of those who _write_ history; but his recent retirement from parliament and from public life has, for a while at least, closed up that avenue. in cultivating at leisure the literary pursuits that he loves, we trust that he, as well as the world, will be the gainer, and that his "history of england," when completed, will be worthy of so high a title. as yet the field is clear before him. the histories that have hitherto appeared are mostly bad or indifferent. some are good, but not sufficiently good to satisfy the wants of the reader, or to render unnecessary the task of more enlightened, more impartial, more painstaking, and more elegant writers. there never was a work of art, whether in painting, sculpture, music, or literature, in which lynx-eyed criticism could not detect a flaw, or something deficient, which the lynx-eyed critic, and he alone, could have supplied. mr. macaulay's history has not escaped the ordeal, neither was it desirable that it should; but the real public opinion of the country has pronounced itself in his favor, and longs for the worthy completion of a task which has been worthily begun. the bust of mr. macaulay was executed shortly after that of mr. alison, and is, we believe, in mr. macaulay's own possession. it is a very admirable likeness. moscow after the conflagration. it was both a strange and a horrible spectacle. some houses appeared to have been razed; of others, fragments of smoke-blackened walls remained; ruins of all kinds encumbered the streets; every where was a horrible smell of burning. here and there a cottage, a church, a palace, stood erect amid the general destruction. the churches especially, by their many-colored domes, by the richness and variety of their construction, recalled the former opulence of moscow. in them had taken refuge most of the inhabitants, driven by our soldiers from the houses the fire had spared. the unhappy wretches, clothed in rags, and wandering like ghosts amid the ruins, had recourse to the saddest expedients to prolong their miserable existence. they sought and devoured the scanty vegetables remaining in the gardens; they tore the flesh from the animals that lay dead in the streets; some even plunged into the river for corn the russians had thrown there, and which was now in a state of fermentation.... it was with the greatest difficulty we procured black bread and beer; meat began to be very scarce. we had to send strong detachments to seize oxen in the woods where the peasants had taken refuge, and often the detachments returned empty-handed. such was the pretended abundance procured us by the pillage of the city. we had liquors, sugar, sweetmeats, and we wanted for meat and bread. we covered ourselves with furs, but were almost without clothes and shoes. with great store of diamonds, jewels, and every possible object of luxury, we were on the eve of dying of hunger. a large number of russian soldiers wandered in the streets of moscow. i had fifty of them seized; and a general, to whom i reported the capture, told me i might have had them shot, and that on all future occasions he authorized me to do so. i did not abuse the authorization. it will be easily understood how many mishaps, how much disorder, characterized our stay in moscow. not an officer, not a soldier, but could tell strange anecdotes on this head. one of the most striking is that of a russian whom a french officer found concealed in the ruins of a house; by signs he assured him of protection, and the russian accompanied him. soon, being obliged to carry an order, and seeing another officer pass at the head of a detachment, he transferred the individual to his charge, saying hastily--"i recommend this gentleman to you." the second officer, misunderstanding the intention of the words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, took the unfortunate russian for an incendiary, and had him shot.--_fezensac's journal._ truth.--truth is a subject which men will not suffer to grow old. each age has to fight with its own falsehoods: each man with his love of saying to himself and those around him pleasant things and things serviceable for to-day, rather than things which are. yet a child appreciates at once the divine necessity for truth; never asks, "what harm is there in saying the thing there is not?" and an old man finds in his growing experience wider and wider applications of the great doctrine and discipline of truth.--_friends in council._ a provincial paper mentions the discovery of the _original portrait of charles the first_, by vandyck, lost in the time of the commonwealth, and which has been found at barnstaple in devonshire. it had been for many years in the possession of a furniture-broker in that town, from whom it was lately purchased by a gentleman of the name of taylor, for two shillings. mr. taylor, the account adds, has since required £ for it. william h. prescott. [illustration: portrait of william h. prescott] william h. prescott, the american historian, is a native of salem, massachusetts, where he was born on the th of may . he is a son of the late eminent lawyer william prescott, ll.d., of boston, and a grandson of colonel william prescott, who commanded the forces in the redoubt on breed's hill in the memorable battle fought there on the th of june . mr. prescott entered harvard college in , where his chief delight consisted in the study of the works of ancient authors. he left harvard in , and resolved to devote a year to a course of historical study, before commencing that of the law, his chosen profession. his reading was suddenly checked by a rheumatic inflammation of his eyes, which for a long time, deprived him wholly of sight. he had already lost the use of one eye by an accidental blow while at college; doubtless the burden of study being laid upon the other overtaxed it, and produced disease. in the autumn of he went to europe, where he remained two years, a greater portion of the time utterly unable to enjoy the pleasures of reading and study. he returned to boston in , and in the course of a few years married a grand-daughter of captain linzee who commanded one of the british vessels at the battle of bunker hill. his vision gradually strengthened with advancing age, and he began to use his eye sparingly in reading. the languages of continental europe now attracted his attention, and he soon became proficient in their use. these acquirements, and his early taste for, and intimate acquaintance with, the best ancient writers, prepared him for those labors as a historian in which he has since been engaged. as early as , mr. prescott conceived the idea of producing an historical work of a superior character. for this purpose, he allowed ten years for preliminary study, and ten for the investigation and preparation of the work. he chose for his theme the history of the life and times of ferdinand and isabella of spain; and at the end of nearly twenty years, pursuant to his original plan, that great work was completed. he had resolved not to allow it to be published during his lifetime, but the remark of his father, that "the man who writes a book which he is afraid to publish, is a coward" decided him, and it went forth to the world in . it was quickly republished in london; every where it was pronounced a master-piece, and his fame was firmly established. but little did those who read his delightful pages know of the vast toil, and patient, persevering industry, in the midst of a great privation, which the historian had employed in his task. his rare volumes from spain and other sources were consulted through the medium of a reader; the copious notes were written by a secretary; much of the work in its final shape was written by himself with a writing machine for the blind, and in the whole preparation of this and subsequent works, he relied far more upon his ear than his eye for aid. the "conquest of mexico" next followed, and his publishers sold seven thousand copies the next year. it was published at the same time in london, and translated in paris, berlin, rome, madrid, and mexico. his "conquest of peru" followed soon afterward, and was received at home and abroad with equal favor. the "conquest of mexico" has had three separate translations into the castilian, and the "peru," two. they have been reprinted in english in london and paris, and have gone through repeated editions in this country. whether we shall soon have another work from mr. prescott's pen, is a matter of doubt, as it is understood that he proposes to employ the last ten years of his historic life in preparing a history of the reign of philip the second of spain. his eyes have somewhat failed in strength, and he is now able to use them for reading less than an hour each day; "but," he says in a letter to a friend, "i am not, and never expect to be, in the category of the blind men." our allotted space will not permit us to take an analytical view of the character and writings of mr. prescott. we can only say that great industry, sound judgment, comprehensive views, purity of diction, and fine, flowing style in description and narrative, all governed by a genius eminently philosophical, place him in the first rank of modern historians. americans love him as a cherished member of their household--throughout the republic of letters he is admired as one of its brightest ornaments. the enchanted baths. these warm springs are natural phenomena, which perhaps have not their equal in the whole world. i am, therefore, quite inconsolable at the thought of having made the long and difficult journey from bona, and having been five whole days here in guelma, within the distance of five-and-twenty miles from those wonderful springs, yet unable to see them. at the distance of a mile or two from hammam meskutine, thick clouds of vapor are seen rising from these warm springs. the water is highly impregnated with calcareous properties, whose accumulated deposits have formed conical heaps, some of which are upwards of thirty feet high. from amidst these cones the springs jet forth lofty columns of water, which descend in splendid cascades, flowing over the ancient masonry, and covering it with a white calcareous stratum. the mass produced by the crystalization of the particles escaping from the seething waters, has been, after a long lapse of years, transformed into beautiful rose-colored marble. f---- brought me a piece of this substance from the springs. it is precisely similar to that used in building the church at guelma, which is obtained from a neighboring quarry. from the remains of an ancient tower and a fort, situated near hammam meskutine, it is evident that these springs were known to the romans. an old arab legend records that, owing to the extreme wickedness of the inhabitants of these districts, god visited them with a punishment similar to that of lot's wife, by transforming them into the conical heaps of chalk i have mentioned above. to this day, the mass of the people firmly believe that the larger cones represent the parents, and the smaller ones, the children. owing to the high temperature, the surrounding vegetation is clothed in the most brilliant green; and the water of a tepid brook, which flows at the foot of the cascades, though in itself as clear as a mirror, appears to be of a beautiful emerald color. f---- told me that he was not a little surprised to see in this warm rivulet a multitude of little fishes sporting about, as lively as though they had been in the coolest water. this curious natural phenomenon is explainable by the fact, that in this rivulet, which is of considerable depth, the under-currents are sufficiently cool to enable the fish to live and be healthy, though the upper current of water is so warm, that it is scarcely possible to hold the hand in it any longer than a few seconds. the hilly environs of hammam meskutine are exceedingly beautiful, and around the waters perpetual spring prevails.--_travels in barbary._ literary notices. letters of a traveler; or, notes of things seen in europe and america. by william cullen bryant. mo, pp. . new york: g.p. putnam. every one will welcome a volume of descriptive sketches from the eminent american poet. the author has made a collection of letters, written at wide intervals from each other, during different journeys both in europe and in this country, rightly judging that they possess sufficient elements of interest to claim a less ephemeral form than that in which most of them have been already presented to the public. they consist of the reminiscences of travel in france, italy, england, the netherlands, cuba, and the most interesting portions of the united states. arranged in the order of time, without reference to subject or place, the transition from continent to continent is often abrupt, and sometimes introduces us without warning into scenes of the utmost incongruity with those where we had been lingering under the spell of enchantment which the author's pen throws around congenial objects. thus we are transported at once from the delicious scenery and climate of tuscany, and the dreamy glories of venice, to the horse thieves and prairie rattlesnakes of illinois, making a break in the associations of the reader which is any thing but agreeable. the method of grouping by countries would be more natural, and would leave more lively impressions both on the imagination and the memory. mr. bryant's style in these letters is an admirable model of descriptive prose. without any appearance of labor, it is finished with an exquisite grace, showing the habitual elegance and accuracy of his mental habits. the genial love of nature, and the lurking tendency to humor, which it every where betrays, prevent its severe simplicity from running into hardness, and give it a freshness and occasional glow, in spite of its entire want of _abandon_, and its prevailing conscious propriety and reserve. the criticisms on art, in the european portions of the work, are less frequent than we could have wished, and although disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, are of singular acuteness and value. mr. b.'s description of his first impressions of power's greek slave, which he saw in london in , has a curious interest at the present time, as predicting the reputation which has since been gained by that noble piece of statuary. we notice rather a singular inadvertence for one who enjoys such distinguished opportunities of "stated preaching" in a remark in the first letter from paris, that "here, too, was the tree which was the subject of the first christian miracle, the fig, its branches heavy with the bursting fruit just beginning to ripen for the market." if the first miracle was not the turning of water into wine, we have forgot our catechism. eldorado; or, adventures in the path of empire; comprising a voyage to california, _via_ panama; life in san francisco and monterey; pictures of the gold region, and experiences of mexican travel. by bayard taylor. in two vols., mo, pp. , . new york: g.p. putnam. california opens as rich a field for adventure to the collector of literary materials, as to the emigrant in pursuit of gold. we shall yet have the poetry, the romance, the dramatic embodiment of the strange life in the country of yellow sands. already it has drawn forth numerous authors, describing the results of their experience, in nearly every variety of style, from the unpretending statement of every-day occurrences, to the more ambitious attempts of graphic descriptive composition. the spectacle of a mighty nation, springing suddenly into life, has been made so familiar to us, by the frequent narratives of eye-witnesses, that we almost lose sight of its unique and marvelous character, surpassing the dreams of imagination which have so wildly reveled in the magnificent promises of the nineteenth century. mr. taylor's book is presented to us at the right moment. it completes the series of valuable productions which have been born of the californian excitement, supplying their deficiencies, and viewing the subject from the highest point that has yet been attained by any traveler. he possesses many admirable qualifications for the task which he has performed. with a natural enthusiasm for travel, a curiosity that never tires, and a rare power of adapting himself to novel situations and strange forms of society, he combines a yankee shrewdness of perception, a genial hilarity of spirit, and a freshness of poetical illustration, which place him in the very first rank of intelligent travelers. his european experiences were of no small value in his californian expedition. he had learned from them the quickness of observation, the habit of just comparison, the facility of manners, and the familiarity with foreign languages, which are essential to the success of the tourist, and enable him to feel equally at home beneath the dome of st. peter's, or in the golden streets of san francisco. mr. taylor visited california with no intention of engaging in traffic or gold-hunting. he had no private purposes to serve, no offices to seek, no plans of amassing sudden wealth to execute. he was, accordingly, able to look at every thing with the eye of an impartial spectator. he has described what he saw in a style which is equally remarkable for its picturesque beauty and its chaste simplicity. his descriptions not only give you a lively idea of the objects which they set forth, but the most favorable impression of the author, although he never allows any striking prominence to the first person singular. as a manual for the californian traveler, as well as a delightful work for the home circle, these volumes will be found to be at once singularly instructive and charming, and will increase the enviable reputation which has been so well won by the youthful author, as a man both of genius and of heart. we must not close our notice without refreshing our pages with at least one specimen of mr. taylor's felicitous descriptions. here is a bit of fine painting, which gives us a vivid idea of the scenery on the road between san francisco and the san joaquin: scenery of the inland. our road now led over broad plains, through occasional belts of timber. the grass was almost entirely burned up, and dry, gravelly arroyos, in and out of which we went with a plunge and a scramble, marked the courses of the winter streams. the air was as warm and balmy as may, and fragrant with the aroma of a species of gnaphalium, which made it delicious to inhale. not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the high, sparsely-wooded mountains on either hand showed softened and indistinct through a blue haze. the character of the scenery was entirely new to me. the splendid valley, untenanted except by a few solitary rancheros living many miles apart, seemed to be some deserted location of ancient civilization and culture. the wooded slopes of the mountains are lawns, planted by nature with a taste to which art could add no charm. the trees have nothing of the wild growth of our forests; they are compact, picturesque, and grouped in every variety of graceful outline. the hills were covered to the summit with fields of wild oats, coloring them, as far as the eye could reach, with tawny gold, against which the dark, glossy green of the oak and cypress showed with peculiar effect. as we advanced further, these natural harvests extended over the plain, mixed with vast beds of wild mustard, eight feet in height, under which a thick crop of grass had sprung up, furnishing sustenance to the thousands of cattle, roaming every where unherded. the only cultivation i saw was a small field of maize, green and with good ears. mr. taylor occasionally indulges in a touch of natural transcendentalism, as in his comparison between the palm and the pine, with which we take our leave of his fascinating volumes: i jogged steadily onward from sunrise till blazing noon, when, having accomplished about half the journey, i stopped under a palm-tree and let my horse crop a little grass, while i refreshed myself with the pine-apple. not far off there was a single ranche, called piedra gorda--a forlorn-looking place where one can not remain long without being tortured by the sand-flies. beyond it, there is a natural dome of rock, twice the size of st. peter's, capping an isolated mountain. the broad intervals of meadow between the wastes of sand were covered with groves of the beautiful fan-palm, lifting their tufted tops against the pale violet of the distant mountains. in lightness, grace, and exquisite symmetry, the palm is a perfect type of the rare and sensuous expression of beauty in the south. the first sight of the tree had nearly charmed me into disloyalty to my native pine; but when the wind blew, and i heard the sharp, dry, metallic rustle of its leaves, i retained the old allegiance. the truest interpreter of beauty is in the voice, and no tree has a voice like the pine, modulated to a rythmic accord with the subtlest flow of fancy, touched with a human sympathy for the expression of hope and love and sorrow, and sounding in an awful undertone, to the darkest excess of passion. standish the puritan. a tale of the american resolution. by edward grayson, esq. mo, pp. . new york: harper and brothers. a novel by a sharp-eyed manhattaner, illustrating some of the more salient aspects of new york society at the period of the revolutionary war, and combining many of the quaint traditions of that day in a narrative of very considerable interest and power. the author wields a satirical pen of more than common vigor, and in his descriptions of the state of traffic and the legal profession at the time of his story, presents a series of piquant revelations which, if founded on personal history, would cause many "a galled jade to wince," if revivified at the present day. his style does not exhibit a very practiced hand in descriptive composition, nor is it distinguished for its dramatic power; but it abounds in touches of humor and pathos, which would have had still greater effect if not so freely blended with moral disquisitions, in which the author seems to take a certain mischievous delight. in spite of these drawbacks, his book is lively and readable, entitling the author to a comfortable place among the writers of american fiction, and if he will guard against the faults we have alluded to, his future efforts may give him a more eminent, rank than he will be likely to gain from the production before us. talbot and vernon. a novel. mo, pp . new york: baker and scribner. the plot of this story turns on a point of circumstantial evidence, by which the hero escapes the ruin of his reputation and prospects, when arraigned as a criminal on a charge of forgery. the details are managed with a good deal of skill, developing the course of affairs in such a gradual manner, that the interest of the reader never sleeps, until the final winding-up of the narrative. familiar with the routine of courts of law, betraying no slight acquaintance with the springs of human action, and master of a bold and vigorous style of expression, the author has attained a degree of success in the execution of his plan, which gives a promising augury of future eminence. in the progress of the story, the scene shifts from one of the western cities of the united states to the camp of general taylor on the plains of mexico. many stirring scenes of military life are introduced with excellent effect, as well as several graphic descriptions of mexican scenery and manners. the battle of buena vista forms the subject of a powerful episode, and is depicted with a life-like energy. we presume the author is more conversant with the bustle of a camp than with the tranquil retirements of literature, although his work betrays no want of the taste and cultivation produced by the influence of the best books. but he shows a knowledge of the world, a familiarity with the scenes and topics of every day life, which no scholastic training can give, and which he has turned to admirable account in the composition of this volume. fashions for early summer. [illustration: ball and visiting dresses] there is a decided tendency in fashion this season to depart from simplicity in dress, and to adopt the extreme ornamental elegance of the middle ages. bonnets, dresses, and mantles are trimmed all over with puffings of net, lace, and flowers. a great change has taken place in the width of skirts, which, from being very large, are now worn almost narrow. ball dresses _à tablier_ (apron trimming, as seen in the erect figure on the left of the above group) are much in vogue, covered with puffings of net. the three flounces of lace, forming the trimming of the bottom of the dress, have all a puffing of net at the top of them; the whole being fastened to the apron with a rosette of ribbon. a precious gem is sometimes worn in the centre of the rosette, either diamond, emerald, or ruby, according to the color of the dress. wreaths are worn very full, composed of flowers and fruits of every kind; they are placed on the forehead, and the branches at the end of them are long, and fall on the neck. bouquets, in shape of bunches, are put high up on the body of the dress. such is the mania in paris and london for mixing fruits of every kind, that some even wear small apples, an ornament far less graceful than bunches of currants, grapes, and tendrils of the vine. the taste for massive ornaments is so decided, that roses and poppies of enormous dimensions are preferred. for young persons, wreaths of delicate flowers, lightly fastened, and falling upon the shoulders, are always the prettiest. silks of light texture, in the styles which the french manufacturers designate _chiné_, will be generally employed for walking dresses until the extreme heat of summer arrives, when they will be superseded by french barèges, having flounces woven with borders, consisting of either satin stripes or flowers. many of the patterns are in imitation of _guipure_ lace. the most admired of the french light silks are those wrought upon a white ground, the colors including almost every hue. in some the ground is completely covered by rich arabesque patterns. these _chinés_, on account of the oriental designs, have obtained the name of persian silks. worsted lace is the height of fashion for mantles, which are trimmed with quillings of this article, plaited in the old style. the dresses are made with several flounces, narrower than last year, and more numerous. nearly all the sleeves of visiting dresses are chinese, or "pagoda" fashion. the bodies are open in front, and laced down to the waist, as seen in the figure in the group, standing behind the sitting figure. low dresses are made falling on the shoulders, and straight across the chest; others are quite square, and others are made in the shape of a heart before and behind. opera polkas are worn short, with wide sleeves, trimmed with large bands of ermine. [illustration: straw hats for promenade.] [illustration: straw bonnet.] [illustration: tulip bonnet.] broad-brimmed straw hats are used for the promenade; open-work straw bonnets, of different colors, are adopted for the earlier summer wear, trimmed with branches of lilac, or something as appropriate. white drawn silk bonnets, covered with foldings of net, are much worn. also, drawn lace and crape bonnets, and black and white lace ones, are worn. branches of fruit are much worn upon these last-mentioned bonnets. the tulip bonnet is composed of white silk, covered with white spotted _tulle_; the edges of the front foliated, so as to give it a graceful and airy appearance. many of the straw bonnets are of dark-colored ground, ornamented with fine open straw work. _crinoline_ hats, of open pattern, trimmed generally with a flower or feathers, are worn to the opera. they are exceedingly graceful in appearance, and make a fine accompaniment to a fancy dress. [illustration: the lace jacquette.] elegant black lace jackets, with loosely-hanging sleeves, are worn, and form a beautiful portion of the dress of a well-developed figure. there is a style of walking dress, worn by those who have less love for ornaments. the robe is of a beautiful light apple-green silk, figured with white. the skirt is unflounced, but ornamented up the front with a row of green and white fancy silk buttons. bonnet of pink crape, drawn in very full _bouillonnées_; strings of pink satin ribbon, and on one side a drooping bouquet of small pink flowers. corresponding bouquets in the inside trimming. shawl of pink china crape, richly embroidered with white silk. * * * * * transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. letters preceded by ^ are superscripts. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. erroneous page numbers in table of content corrected. captions added to captionless illustrations. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "death-bed" and "deathbed"); - accents (e.g. "republique" and "république"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "fairy" and "faery"). following proper names have been corrected: - in the table of content: "farraday" corrected to be "faraday" (faraday, and mantell); "oldenburgh" corrected to be "oldenburg" (duchy of oldenburg); - pg , "lecler" corrected to be "leclerc" (whether m. leclerc or). in the table of content, word "of" added (arrest of m. proudhon). pg , word "i" removed (i <i> don't see). pg , title added to article (tunnel of the alps). pg , word "is" removed (is <is> expressly mentioned). pg , word "been" changed to "be seen" (to be seen riding). harper's new monthly magazine. no. vi.--november, .--vol. i. a pilgrimage to the cradle of american liberty. with pen and pencil. by benson j. lossing.[ ] "how suddenly that straight and glittering shaft shot thwart the earth! in crown of living fire up comes the day! as if they conscious quaff'd the sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire laugh in the waking light." richard h. dana. [illustration: i]t was a glorious october morning, mild and brilliant, when i left boston to visit concord and lexington. a gentle land-breeze during the night had borne the clouds back to their ocean birth-place, and not a trace of the storm was left except in the saturated earth. health returned with the clear sky, and i felt a rejuvenescence in every vein and muscle when, at dawn, i strolled over the natural glory of boston, its broad and beautifully-arbored common. i breakfasted at six, and at half-past seven left the station of the fitchburg rail-way for concord, seventeen miles northwest of boston. the country through which the road passed is rough and broken, but thickly settled. i arrived at the concord station, about half a mile from the centre of the village, before nine o'clock, and procuring a conveyance, and an intelligent young man for a guide, proceeded at once to visit the localities of interest in the vicinity. we rode to the residence of major james barrett, a surviving grandson of colonel barrett, about two miles north of the village, and near the residence of his venerated ancestor. major barrett was eighty-seven years of age when i visited him; and his wife, with whom he had lived nearly sixty years, was eighty. like most of the few survivors of the revolution, they were remarkable for their mental and bodily vigor. both, i believe, still live. the old lady--a small, well-formed woman--was as sprightly as a girl of twenty, and moved about the house with the nimbleness of foot of a matron in the prime of life. i was charmed with her vivacity, and the sunny radiance which it seemed to shed throughout her household; and the half hour that i passed with that venerable couple is a green spot in the memory. major barrett was a lad of fourteen when the british incursion into concord took place. he was too young to bear a musket, but, with every lad and woman in the vicinity, he labored in concealing the stores and in making cartridges for those who went out to fight. with oxen and a cart, himself, and others about his age, removed the stores deposited at the house of his grandfather, into the woods, and concealed them, a cart-load in a place, under pine boughs. in such haste were they obliged to act on the approach of the british from lexington, that, when the cart was loaded, lads would march on each side of the oxen and goad them into a trot. thus all the stores were effectually concealed, except some carriage-wheels. perceiving the enemy near, these were cut up and burned; so that parsons found nothing of value to destroy or carry away. [illustration: monument at concord.] from major barrett's we rode to the monument erected at the site of the old north bridge, where the skirmish took place. the road crosses the concord river a little above the site of the north bridge. the monument stands a few rods westward of the road leading to the village, and not far from the house of the reverend dr. ripley, who gave the ground for the purpose. the monument is constructed of granite from carlisle, and has an inscription upon a marble tablet inserted in the eastern face of the pedestal.[ ] the view is from the green shaded lane which leads from the highway to the monument, looking westward. the two trees standing, one upon each side, without the iron railing, were saplings at the time of the battle; between them was the entrance to the bridge. the monument is reared upon a mound of earth a few yards from the left bank of the river. a little to the left, two rough, uninscribed stones from the field mark the graves of the two british soldiers who were killed and buried upon the spot. we returned to the village at about noon, and started immediately for lexington, six miles eastward. concord is a pleasant little village, including within its borders about one hundred dwellings. it lies upon the concord river, one of the chief tributaries of the merrimac, near the junction of the assabeth and sudbury rivers. its indian name was musketaquid. on account of the peaceable manner in which it was obtained, by purchase, of the aborigines, in , it was named concord. at the north end of the broad street, or common, is the house of col. daniel shattuck, a part of which, built in , was used as one of the depositories of stores when the british invasion took place. it has been so much altered, that a view of it would have but little interest as representing a relic of the past. the road between concord and lexington passes through a hilly but fertile country. it is easy for the traveler to conceive how terribly a retreating army might be galled by the fire of a concealed enemy. hills and hillocks, some wooded, some bare, rise up every where, and formed natural breast-works of protection to the skirmishers that hung upon the flank and rear of colonel smith's troops. the road enters lexington at the green whereon the old meeting-house stood when the battle occurred. the town is upon a fine rolling plain, and is becoming almost a suburban residence for citizens of boston. workmen were inclosing the green, and laying out the grounds in handsome plats around the monument, which stands a few yards from the street. it is upon a spacious mound; its material is granite, and it has a marble tablet on the south front of the pedestal, with a long inscription.[ ] the design of the monument is not at all graceful, and, being surrounded by tall trees, it has a very "dumpy" appearance. the people are dissatisfied with it, and doubtless, ere long, a more noble structure will mark the spot where the curtain of the revolutionary drama was first lifted. [illustration: monument at lexington.[ ]] [illustration: near view of the monument.] after making the drawings here given, i visited and made the sketch of "clark's house." there i found a remarkably intelligent old lady, mrs. margaret chandler, aged eighty-three years. she has been an occupant of the house, i believe, ever since the revolution, and has a perfect recollection of the events of the period. her version of the escape of hancock and adams is a little different from the published accounts. she says that on the evening of the th of april, , some british officers, who had been informed where these patriots were, came to lexington, and inquired of a woman whom they met, for "mr. clark's house." she pointed to the parsonage; but in a moment, suspecting their design, she called to them and inquired if it was clark's _tavern_ that they were in search of. uninformed whether it was a _tavern_ or a _parsonage_ where their intended victims were staying, and supposing the former to be the most likely place, the officers replied, "yes, clark's tavern." "oh," she said, "clark's tavern is in that direction," pointing toward east lexington. as soon as they departed, the woman hastened to inform the patriots of their danger, and they immediately arose and fled to woburn. dorothy quincy, the intended wife of hancock, who was at mr. clark's, accompanied them in their flight. i next called upon the venerable abijah harrington, who was living in the village. he was a lad of fourteen at the time of the engagement. two of his brothers were among the minute men, but escaped unhurt. jonathan and caleb harrington, near relatives, were killed. the former was shot in front of his own house, while his wife stood at the window in an agony of alarm. she saw her husband fall, and then start up, the blood gushing from his breast. he stretched out his arms toward her, and then fell again. upon his hands and knees he crawled toward his dwelling, and expired just as his wife reached him. caleb harrington was shot while running from the meeting-house. my informant saw almost the whole of the battle, having been sent by his mother to go near enough, and be safe, to obtain and convey to her information respecting her other sons, who were with the minute men. his relation of the incidents of the morning was substantially such as history has recorded. he dwelt upon the subject with apparent delight, for his memory of the scenes of his early years, around which cluster so much of patriotism and glory, was clear and full. i would gladly have listened until twilight to the voice of such experience, but time was precious, and i hastened to east lexington, to visit his cousin, jonathan harrington, an old man of ninety, who played the fife when the minute men were marshaled on the green upon that memorable april morning. he was splitting fire-wood in his yard with a vigorous hand when i rode up; and as he sat in his rocking-chair, while i sketched his placid features, he appeared no older than a man of seventy. his brother, aged eighty-eight, came in before my sketch was finished, and i could not but gaze with wonder upon these strong old men, children of one mother, who were almost grown to manhood when the first battle of our revolution occurred! frugality and temperance, co-operating with industry, a cheerful temper, and a good constitution, have lengthened their days, and made their protracted years hopeful and happy.[ ] the aged fifer apologized for the rough appearance of his signature, which he kindly wrote for me, and charged the tremulous motion of his hand to his labor with the ax. how tenaciously we cling even to the appearance of vigor, when the whole frame is tottering to its fall! mr. harrington opened the ball of the revolution with the shrill war-notes of the fife, and then retired from the arena. he was not a soldier in the war, nor has his life, passed in the quietude of rural pursuits, been distinguished except by the glorious acts which constitute the sum of the achievements of a good citizen. [illustration: portrait of jonathan harrington.] i left lexington at about three o'clock, and arrived at cambridge at half past four. it was a lovely autumnal afternoon. the trees and fields were still green, for the frost had not yet been busy with their foliage and blades. the road is macadamized the whole distance; and so thickly is it lined with houses, that the village of east lexington and old cambridge seem to embrace each other in close union. cambridge is an old town, the first settlement there having been planted in , contemporaneous with that of boston. it was the original intention of the settlers to make it the metropolis of massachusetts, and governor winthrop commenced the erection of his dwelling there. it was called new town, and in was palisaded. the reverend mr. hooker, one of the earliest settlers of connecticut, was the first minister in cambridge. in , the general court provided for the erection of a public school in new town, and appropriated two thousand dollars for that purpose. in , the reverend john harvard, of charlestown, endowed the school with about four thousand dollars. this endowment enabled them to exalt the academy into a college, and it was called harvard university in honor of its principal benefactor. cambridge has the distinction of being the place where the first printing-press in america was established. its proprietor was named day, and the capital that purchased the materials was furnished by the rev. mr. glover. the first thing printed was the "freeman's oath," in ; the next was an almanac; and the next the psalms, in metre.[ ] old cambridge (west cambridge, or metonomy, of the revolution), the seat of the university, is three miles from west boston bridge, which connects cambridge with boston. cambridgeport is about half way between old cambridge and the bridge, and east cambridge occupies lechmere's point, a promontory fortified during the siege of boston in . arrived at old cambridge, i parted company with the vehicle and driver that conveyed me from concord to lexington, and hither; and, as the day was fast declining, i hastened to sketch the head-quarters of washington, an elegant and spacious edifice, standing in the midst of shrubbery and stately elms, a little distance from the street, once the highway from harvard university to waltham. at this mansion, and at winter hill, washington passed most of his time, after taking command of the continental army, until the evacuation of boston in the following spring. its present owner is henry wadsworth longfellow, professor of oriental languages in harvard university, and widely known in the world of literature as one of the most gifted men of the age. it is a spot worthy of the residence of an american bard so endowed, for the associations which hallow it are linked with the noblest themes that ever awakened the inspiration of a child of song. "when the hours of day are number'd and the voices of the night wake the better soul that slumber'd to a holy, calm delight, ere the evening lamps are lighted, and, like phantoms grim and tall, shadows from the fitful fire-light dance upon the parlor wall," then to the thoughtful dweller must come the spirit of the place and hour to weave a gorgeous tapestry, rich with pictures, illustrative of the heroic age of our young republic. my tarry was brief and busy, for the sun was rapidly descending--it even touched the forest tops before i finished the drawing--but the cordial reception and polite attentions which i received from the proprietor, and his warm approval of, and expressed interest for the success of my labors, occupy a space in memory like that of a long, bright summer day. [illustration: washington's head-quarters at cambridge.] this mansion stands upon the upper of two terraces, which are ascended each by five stone steps. at each front corner of the house is a lofty elm--mere saplings when washington beheld them, but now stately and patriarchal in appearance. other elms, with flowers and shrubbery, beautify the grounds around it; while within, iconoclastic innovation has not been allowed to enter with its mallet and trowel, to mar the work of the ancient builder, and to cover with the vulgar stucco of modern art the carved cornices and paneled wainscots that first enriched it. i might give a long list of eminent persons whose former presence in those spacious rooms adds interest to retrospection, but they are elsewhere identified with scenes more personal and important. i can not refrain, however, from noticing the visit of one, who, though a dark child of africa and a bond-woman, received the most polite attention from the commander-in-chief. this was phillis, a slave of mr. wheatley, of boston. she was brought from africa when between seven and eight years old. she seemed to acquire knowledge intuitively; became a poet of considerable merit, and corresponded with such eminent persons as the countess of huntingdon, earl of dartmouth, reverend george whitefield, and others. washington invited her to visit him at cambridge, which she did a few days before the british evacuated boston; her master among others, having left the city by permission, and retired, with his family, to chelsea. she passed half an hour with the commander-in-chief, from whom and his officers she received marked attention.[ ] a few rods above the residence of professor longfellow is the house in which the brunswick general, the baron riedesel, and his family were quartered, during the stay of the captive army of burgoyne in the vicinity of boston. i was not aware when i visited cambridge, that the old mansion was still in existence; but, through the kindness of mr. longfellow, i am able to present the features of its southern front, with a description. in style it is very much like that of washington's head-quarters, and the general appearance of the grounds around is similar. it is shaded by noble linden-trees, and adorned with shrubbery, presenting to the eye all the attractions noticed by the baroness of riedesel in her charming letters.[ ] upon a window-pane on the north side of the house may be seen the undoubted autograph of that accomplished woman, inscribed with a diamond point. it is an interesting memento, and is preserved with great care. the annexed is a facsimile of it. [illustration: the riedesel house, cambridge.[ ]] [illustration: autograph of the baroness riedesel.] during the first moments of the soft evening twilight i sketched the "washington elm," one of the ancient _anakim_ of the primeval forest, older, probably, by a half century or more, than the welcome of samoset to the white settlers. it stands upon washington-street, near the westerly corner of the common, and is distinguished by the circumstance that, beneath its broad shadow, general washington first drew his sword as commander-in-chief of the continental army, on the d of july, . thin lines of clouds, glowing in the light of the setting sun like bars of gold, streaked the western sky, and so prolonged the twilight by reflection, that i had ample time to finish my drawing before the night shadows dimmed the paper. early on the following morning i procured a chaise to visit charlestown and dorchester heights. i rode first to the former place, and climbed to the summit of the great obelisk that stands upon the site of the redoubt upon breed's hill. as i ascended the steps which lead from the street to the smooth gravel-walks upon the eminence whereon the "bunker hill monument" stands, i experienced a feeling of disappointment and regret, not easily to be expressed. before me was the great memento, huge and grand--all that patriotic reverence could wish--but the ditch scooped out by prescott's toilers on that starry night in june, and the mounds that were upheaved to protect them from the shots of the astonished britons, were effaced, and no more vestiges remain of the handiwork of those in whose honor and to whose memory this obelisk was raised, than of roman conquests in the shadow of trajan's column--of the naval battles of nelson around his monument in trafalgar-square, or of french victories in the place vendôme. the fosse and the breast-works were all quite prominent when the foundation-stone of the monument was laid, and a little care, directed by good taste, might have preserved them in their interesting state of half ruin until the passage of the present century, or, at least, until the sublime centenary of the battle should be celebrated. could the visitor look upon the works of the patriots themselves, associations a hundred-fold more interesting would crowd the mind, for wonderfully suggestive of thought are the slightest relics of the past when linked with noble deeds. a soft green sward, as even as the rind of a fair apple, and cut by eight straight gravel-walks, diverging from the monument, is substituted by art for the venerated irregularities made by the old mattock and spade. the spot is beautiful to the eye untrained by appreciating affection for hallowed things; nevertheless, there is palpable desecration that may hardly be forgiven. [illustration: bunker hill monument.[ ]] the view from the top of the monument, for extent, variety, and beauty, is certainly one of the finest in the world. a "york shilling" is charged for the privilege of ascending the monument. the view from its summit is "a shilling show" worth a thousand miles of travel to see. boston, its harbor, and the beautiful country around, mottled with villages, are spread out like a vast painting, and on every side the eye may rest upon localities of great historical interest, cambridge, roxbury, chelsea, quincy, medford, marblehead, dorchester, and other places, where "the old continentals, in their ragged regimentals, falter'd not," and the numerous sites of small fortifications which the student of history can readily call to mind. in the far distance, on the northwest, rise the higher peaks of the white mountains of new hampshire; and on the northeast, the peninsula of nahant, and the more remote cape anne may be seen. wonders which present science and enterprise are developing and forming are there exhibited in profusion. at one glance from this lofty observatory may be seen seven railroads,[ ] and many other avenues connecting the city with the country; and ships from almost every region of the globe dot the waters of the harbor. could a tenant of the old grave-yard on copp's hill, who lived a hundred years ago, when the village upon tri-mountain was fitting out its little armed flotillas against the french in acadia, or sending forth its few vessels of trade along the neighboring coasts, or occasionally to cross the atlantic, come forth and stand beside us a moment, what a new and wonderful world would be presented to his vision! a hundred years ago! "who peopled all the city streets a hundred years ago? who fill'd the church with faces meek a hundred years ago?" they were men wise in their generation, but ignorant in practical knowledge when compared with the present. in their wildest dreams, incited by tales of wonder that spiced the literature of their times, they never fancied any thing half so wonderful as our mighty dray-horse, "the black steam-engine! steed of iron power-- the wond'rous steed of the arabian tale, lanch'd on its course by pressure of a touch-- the war-horse of the bible, with its neck grim, clothed with thunder, swallowing the way in fierceness of its speed, and shouting out, 'ha! ha!'[ ] a little water, and a grasp of wood, sufficient for its nerves of steel, shooting away, 'ha! ha!' it shouts, as on it gallops, dragging in its tireless path its load of fire." i lingered in the chamber of the bunker hill monument as long as time would allow, and descending, rode back to the city, crossed to south boston, and rambled for an hour among the remains of the fortifications upon the heights of the peninsula of dorchester. the present prominent remains of fortifications are those of intrenchments cast up during the war of , and have no other connection with our subject than the circumstance that they occupy the site of the works constructed there by order of washington. these were greatly reduced in altitude when the engineers began the erection of the forts now in ruins, which are properly preserved with a great deal of care. they occupy the summits of two hills, which command boston neck on the left, the city of boston in front, and the harbor on the right. southeast from the heights, pleasantly situated among gentle hills, is the village of dorchester, so called in memory of a place in england of the same name, whence many of its earliest settlers came. the stirring events which rendered dorchester heights famous are universally known. i returned to boston at about one o'clock, and passed the remainder of the day in visiting places of interest within the city--the old south meeting-house, faneuil hall, the province house, and the hancock house. i am indebted to john hancock, esq., nephew of the patriot, and present proprietor and occupant of the "hancock house," on beacon-street, for polite attentions while visiting his interesting mansion, and for information concerning matters that have passed under the eye of his experience of threescore years. he has many mementoes of his eminent kinsman, and among them a beautifully-executed miniature of him, painted in london, in , while he was there at the coronation of george iii. near mr. hancock's residence is the state house, a noble structure upon beacon hill, the corner-stone of which was laid in , by governor samuel adams, assisted by paul revere, master of the masonic grand lodge. there i sketched the annexed picture of the colossal statue of washington, by chantrey, which stands in the open centre of the first story; also the group of trophies from bennington, that hang over the door of the senate chamber. under these trophies, in a gilt frame, is a copy of the reply of the massachusetts assembly to general stark's letter, that accompanied the presentation of the trophies. it was written fifty years ago. [illustration: washington.[ ]] after enjoying the view from the top of the state house a while, i walked to copp's hill, a little east of charlestown bridge, at the north end of the town, where i tarried until sunset in the ancient burying-ground. the earliest name of this eminence was snow hill. it was subsequently named after its owner, william copp.[ ] it came into the possession of the ancient and honorable artillery company by mortgage; and when, in , they were forbidden by gage to parade on the common, they went to this, their own ground, and drilled in defiance of his threats. the fort, or battery, that was built there by the british, just before the battle of bunker hill, stood near its southeast brow, adjoining the burying-ground. the remains of many eminent men repose in that little cemetery. close by the entrance is the vault of the mather family. it is covered by a plain, oblong structure of brick, three feet high and about six feet long, upon which is laid a heavy brown stone slab, with a tablet of slate, bearing the names of the principal tenants below.[ ] [illustration: mather's vault.] i passed the forenoon of the next day in the rooms of the massachusetts historical society, where every facility was afforded me by mr. felt, the librarian, for examining the assemblage of things curious collected there.[ ] the printed books and manuscripts, relating principally to american history, are numerous, rare, and valuable. there is also a rich depository of the autographs of the pilgrim fathers and their immediate descendants. there are no less than twenty-five large folio volumes of valuable manuscript letters and other documents; besides which are six thick quarto manuscript volumes--a commentary on the holy scriptures--in the handwriting of cotton mather. from an autograph letter of that singular man the annexed fac-simile of his writing and signature is given. among the portraits in the cabinet of the society are those of governor winslow, supposed to have been painted by vandyke, increase mather, and peter faneuil, the founder of faneuil hall. [illustration: mather's writing.] i had the pleasure of meeting, at the rooms of the society, that indefatigable antiquary, dr. webb, widely known as the american correspondent of the "danish society of northern antiquarians" at copenhagen. he was sitting in the chair that once belonged to governor winthrop, writing upon the desk of the speaker of the colonial assembly of massachusetts, around which the warm debates were carried on concerning american liberty, from the time when james otis denounced the writs of assistance, until governor gage adjourned the assembly to salem, in . hallowed by such associations, the desk is an interesting relic. dr. webb's familiarity with the collections of the society, and his kind attentions, greatly facilitated my search among the six thousand articles for things curious connected with my subject and made my brief visit far more profitable to myself than it would otherwise have been. among the relics preserved are the chair that belonged to governor carver; the sword of miles standish; the huge key of port royal gate; a _samp-pan_, that belonged to metacomet, or king philip; and the sword reputed to have been used by captain church when he cut off that unfortunate sachem's head. the dish is about twelve inches in diameter, wrought out of an elm knot with great skill. the sword is very rude, and was doubtless made by a blacksmith of the colony. the handle is a roughly-wrought piece of ash, and the guard is made of a wrought-iron plate. [illustration: speaker's desk and winthrop's chair.] [illustration: philip's samp-pan.] [illustration: church's sword.] footnotes: [ ] this sketch of revolutionary scenes and incidents in and about boston, is part of an unpublished chapter from lossing's "pictorial field book of the revolution," now in course of publication by harper and brothers. [ ] the following is a copy of the inscription: here, on the th of april, , was made the first forcible resistance to british aggression. on the opposite bank stood the american militia, and on this spot the first of the enemy fell in the war of the revolution, which gave independence to these united states. in gratitude to god, and in the love of freedom, this monument was erected, a.d. . [ ] the following is a copy of the inscription: "sacred to the liberty and the rights of mankind!!! the freedom and independence of america--sealed and defended with the blood of her sons--this monument is erected by the inhabitants of lexington, under the patronage and at the expense of the commonwealth of massachusetts, to the memory of their fellow-citizens, ensign robert monroe, messrs. jonas parker, samuel hadley, jonathan harrington, jun., isaac muzzy, caleb harrington, and john brown, of lexington, and asahel porter, of woburn, who fell on this field, the first victims of the sword of british tyranny and oppression, on the morning of the ever-memorable nineteenth of april, an. dom. . the die was cast!!! the blood of these martyrs in the cause of god and their country was the cement of the union of these states, then colonies, and gave the spring to the spirit, firmness, and resolution of their fellow-citizens. they rose as one man to revenge their brethren's blood, and at the point of the sword to assert and defend their native rights. they nobly dared to be free!!! the contest was long, bloody, and affecting. righteous heaven approved the solemn appeal; victory crowned their arms, and the peace, liberty, and independence of the united states of america was their glorious reward. built in the year ." [ ] this view is from the concord road, looking eastward, and shows a portion of the inclosure of the green. the distant building seen on the right is the old "buckman tavern." it now belongs to mrs. merriam, and exhibits many scars made by the bullets on the morning of the skirmish. [ ] the seventy-fifth anniversary of the battles of lexington and concord was celebrated at the latter place on the th of april, . in the procession was a carriage containing these venerable brothers, aged, respectively, nearly ninety-one and ninety-three; amos baker, of lincoln, aged ninety-four; thomas hill, of danvers, aged ninety-two; and dr. preston, of billerica, aged eighty-eight. the honorable edward everett, among others, made a speech on the occasion, in which he very happily remarked, that "it pleased his heart to see those venerable men beside him; and he was very much pleased to assist mr. jonathan harrington to put on his top coat a few minutes ago. in doing so, he was ready to say, with the eminent man of old, 'very pleasant art thou to me, my brother jonathan!'" [ ] records of harvard college. [ ] phillis wrote a letter to general washington in october, , in which she inclosed a poem eulogistic of his character. in february following the general answered it. i give a copy of his letter, in illustration of the excellence of the mind and heart of that great man, always so kind and courteous to the most humble, even when pressed with arduous public duties. "cambridge, february , . "miss phillis--your favor of the th of october did not reach my hands till the middle of december. time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. granted. but a variety of important occurrences, continually interposing to distract the mind and withdraw the attention, i hope will apologize for the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but not real neglect. i thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me in the elegant lines you inclosed; and however undeserving i may be of such encomium and panegyric, the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your poetical talents; in honor of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, i would have published the poem, had i not been apprehensive that, while i only meant to give the world this new instance of your genius, i might have incurred the imputation of vanity. this, and nothing else, determined me not to give it a place in the public prints. if you should ever come to cambridge, or near head-quarters, i shall be happy to see a person so favored by the muses, and to whom nature has been so liberal and beneficent in her dispensations. i am, with great respect, your obedient, humble servant, geo. washington." [ ] she thus writes respecting her removal from a peasant's house on winter hill to cambridge, and her residence there: "we passed three weeks in this place, and were then transferred to cambridge, where we were lodged in one of the best houses of the place, which belonged to royalists. seven families, who were connected by relationship, or lived in great intimacy, had here farms, gardens, and splendid mansions, and not far off, orchards, and the buildings were at a quarter of a mile distant from each other. the owners had been in the habit of assembling every afternoon in one or another of these houses, and of diverting themselves with music or dancing, and lived in affluence, in good humor, and without care, until this unfortunate war at once dispersed them, and transformed all their houses into solitary abodes, except two, the proprietors of which were also soon obliged to make their escape.... "on the d of june, , i gave a ball and supper, in celebration of my husband's birthday. i had invited all our generals and officers and mr. and mrs. carter. general burgoyne sent us an apology, after he had made us wait for him till eight o'clock. he had always some excuse for not visiting us, until he was about departing for england, when he came and made me many apologies, to which i made no other reply than that i should be extremely sorry if he had put himself to any inconvenience for our sake. the dance lasted long, and we had an excellent supper, to which more than eighty persons sat down. our yard and garden were illuminated. the king's birth-day falling on the next day, it was resolved that the company should not separate before his majesty's health was drank; which was done, with feelings of the liveliest attachment to his person and interests. never, i believe, was 'god save the king' sung with more enthusiasm, or with feelings more sincere. our two eldest girls were brought into the room to see the illumination. we were all deeply moved, and proud to have the courage to display such sentiments in the midst of our enemies. even mr. carter could not forbear participating in our enthusiasm." mr. carter was the son-in-law of general schuyler. remembering the kindness which she had received from that gentleman while in albany, the baroness sought out mr. and mrs. carter (who were living in boston), on her arrival at cambridge. "mrs. carter," she says, "resembled her parents in mildness and goodness of heart, but her husband was revengeful and false." the patriotic zeal of mr. carter had given rise to foolish stories respecting him. "they seemed to feel much friendship for us," says madame de riedesel; "though, at the same time, this wicked mr. carter, in consequence of general howe's having burned several villages and small towns, suggested to his countrymen to cut off our generals' heads, to pickle them, and to put them in small barrels, and, as often as the english should again burn a village, to send them one of these barrels; but that cruelty was not adopted."--_letters and memoire relating to the war of american independence, by madame de riedesel._ [ ] this is from a pencil sketch by mr. longfellow. i am also indebted to him for the fac-simile of the autograph of the baroness of riedesel. it will be perceived that the _i_ is placed before the _e_ in spelling the name. it is generally given with the _e_ first, which is according to the orthography in burgoyne's _state of the expedition_, &c., wherein i supposed it was spelled correctly. this autograph shows it to be erroneous. [ ] this monument stands in the centre of the grounds included within the breast-works of the old redoubt on breed's hill. its sides are precisely parallel with those of the redoubt. it is built of quincy granite, and is two hundred and twenty-one feet in height. the foundation is composed of six courses of stone, and extends twelve feet below the surface of the ground and base of the shaft. the four sides of the foundation extend about fifty feet horizontally. there are in the whole pile ninety courses of stone, six of them below the surface of the ground, and eighty-four above. the foundation is laid in lime mortar; the other parts of the structure in lime mortar mixed with cinders, iron filings, and springfield hydraulic cement. the base of the obelisk is thirty feet square; at the spring of the apex, fifteen feet. inside of the shaft is a round, hollow cone, the outside diameter of which, at the bottom, is ten feet, and at the top, six feet. around this inner shaft winds a spiral flight of stone steps, two hundred and ninety-five in number. in both the cone and shaft are numerous little apertures for the purposes of ventilation and light. the observatory or chamber at the top of the monument is seventeen feet in height and eleven feet in diameter. it has four windows, one on each side, which are provided with iron shutters. the cap-piece of the apex is a single stone, three feet six inches in thickness and four feet square at its base. it weighs two and a half tons. almost fifty years had elapsed from the time of the battle before a movement was made to erect a commemorative monument on breed's hill. an association for the purpose was founded in ; and to give eclat to the transaction, and to excite enthusiasm in favor of the work, general la fayette, then "the nation's guest," was invited to lay the corner-stone. accordingly, on the th of june, , the fiftieth anniversary of the battle, that revered patriot performed the interesting ceremony, and the honorable daniel webster pronounced an oration on the occasion, in the midst of an immense concourse of people. forty survivors of the battle were present; and on no occasion did la fayette meet so many of his fellow-soldiers in our revolution as at that time. the _plan_ of the monument was not then decided upon; but one by solomon willard, of boston, having been approved, the present structure was commenced, in , by james savage, of the same city. in the course of a little more than a year, the work was suspended on account of a want of funds, about fifty-six thousand dollars having then been collected and expended. the work was resumed in , and again suspended, within a year, for the same cause, about twenty thousand dollars more having been expended. in , the ladies moved in the matter. a fair was announced to be held in boston, and every female in the united states was invited to contribute some production of her own hands to the exhibition. the fair was held at faneuil hall in september, . the proceeds amounted to sufficient, in connection with some private donations, to complete the structure, and within a few weeks subsequently, a contract was made with mr. savage to finish it for forty-three thousand dollars. the last stone of the apex was raised at about six o'clock on the morning of the d of july, . edward carnes, jr., of charlestown, accompanied its ascent, waving the american flag as he went up, while the interesting event was announced to the surrounding country by the roar of cannon. on the th of june, , the monument was dedicated, on which occasion the honorable daniel webster was again the orator, and vast was the audience of citizens and military assembled there. the president of the united states (mr. tyler), and his whole cabinet, were present. in the top of the monument are two cannons, named, respectively, "hancock" and "adams," which formerly belonged to the ancient and honorable artillery company. the "adams" was burst by them in firing a salute. the following is the inscription upon the two guns: "sacred to liberty. "this is one of four cannons which constituted the whole train of field artillery possessed by the british colonies of north america at the commencement of the war, on the th of april, . this cannon and its fellow, belonging to a number of citizens of boston, were used in many engagements during the war. the other two, the property of the government of massachusetts, were taken by the enemy. "by order of the united states in congress assembled, may th, ." [ ] when i visited boston, in , it was estimated that two hundred and thirty trains of cars went daily over the roads to and from boston, and that more than six millions of passengers were conveyed in them during the preceding year. [ ] job, xxxix. , . [ ] this is a picture of chantrey's statue, which is made of italian marble, and cost fifteen thousand dollars. [ ] on some old maps of boston it is called _corpse hill_, the name supposed to have been derived from the circumstance of a burying-ground being there. [ ] the following is the inscription upon the slate tablet: "the reverend doctors increase, cotton, and samuel mather were interred in this vault. increase died august , , Ã�. . cotton " feb. , , " . samuel " jan. , , " ." [ ] this society was incorporated in february, . the avowed object of its organization is to collect, preserve, and communicate materials for a complete history of this country, and an account of all valuable efforts of human industry and ingenuity from the beginning of its settlement. between twenty and thirty octavo volumes of its "collections" have been published. [from dickens's household words.] fate days and other popular superstitions. it is a difficult puzzle to reconcile the existence of certain superstitions that continue to have wide influence with the enlightenment of the nineteenth century. when we have read glowing paragraphs about the wonderful progress accomplished by the present generation; when we have regarded the giant machinery in operation for the culture of the people--moved, in great part, by the collective power of individual charity; when we have examined the stupendous results of human genius and ingenuity which are now laid bare to the lowliest in the realm; we turn back, it must be confessed, with a mournful despondency, to mark the debasing influence of the old superstitions which have survived to the present time. the superstitions of the ancients formed part of their religion. they consulted oracles as now men pray. the stars were the arbiters of their fortunes. natural phenomena, as lightning and hurricanes, were, to them, awful expressions of the anger of their particular deities. they had their _dies atri_ and _dies albi_; the former were marked down in their calendars with a black character to denote ill-luck, and the latter were painted in white characters to signify bright and propitious days. they followed the finger posts of their teachers. faith gave dignity to the tenets of the star-gazer and fire-worshiper. the priests of old taught their disciples to regard six particular days in the year as days fraught with unusual danger to mankind. men were enjoined not to let blood on these black days, nor to imbibe any liquid. it was devoutly believed that he who ate goose on one of those black days would surely die within forty more; and that any little stranger who made his appearance on one of the _dies atri_ would surely die a sinful and violent death. men were further enjoined to let blood from the right arm on the seventh or fourteenth of march; from the left arm on the eleventh of april; and from either arm on the third or sixth of may, that they might avoid pestilential diseases. these barbaric observances, when brought before people in illustration of the mental darkness of the ancients, are considered at once to be proof positive of their abject condition. we thereupon congratulated ourselves upon living in the nineteenth century; when such foolish superstitions are laughed at; and perhaps our vanity is not a little flattered by the contrast which presents itself, between our own highly cultivated condition, and the wretched state of our ancestors. yet mrs. flimmins will not undertake a sea-voyage on a friday; nor would she on any account allow her daughter mary to be married on that day of the week. she has great pity for the poor red indians who will not do certain things while the moon presents a certain appearance, and who attach all kinds of powers to poor dumb brutes; yet if her cat purrs more than usual, she accepts the warning, and abandons the trip she had promised herself on the morrow. miss nippers subscribes largely to the fund for eradicating superstitions from the minds of the wretched inhabitants of kamschatka; and while she is calculating the advantages to be derived from a mission to the south sea islands, to do away with the fearful superstitious reverence in which these poor dear islanders hold their native flea: a coal pops from her fire, and she at once augurs from its shape an abundance of money, that will enable her to set her pious undertaking in operation; but on no account will she commence collecting subscriptions for the anti-drinking-slave-grown-sugar-in-tea society, because she has always remarked that monday is her unlucky day. on a monday her poodle died, and on a monday she caught that severe cold at brighton, from the effects of which she is afraid she will never recover. mrs. carmine is a very strong-minded woman. her unlucky day is wednesday. on a wednesday she first caught that flush which she has never been able to chase from her cheeks, and on one of these fatal days her maria took the scarlet fever. therefore, she will not go to a pic-nic on a wednesday, because she feels convinced that the day will turn out wet, or that the wheel will come off the carriage. yet the other morning, when a gipsy was caught telling her eldest daughter her fortune, mrs. carmine very properly reproached the first-born for her weakness, in giving any heed to the silly mumblings of the old woman. mrs. carmine is considered to be a woman of uncommon acuteness. she attaches no importance whatever to the star under which a child is born--does not think there is a pin to choose between jupiter and neptune; and she has a positive contempt for ghosts; but she believes in nothing that is begun, continued, or ended on a wednesday. miss crumple, on the contrary, has seen many ghosts, in fact, is by this time quite intimate with one or two of the mysterious brotherhood; but at the same time she is at a loss to understand how any woman in her senses, can believe thursday to be a more fortunate day than wednesday, or why monday is to be black-balled from the mrs. jones's calendar. she can state on her oath, that the ghost of her old schoolfellow, eliza artichoke, appeared at her bedside on a certain night, and she distinctly saw the mole on its left cheek, which poor eliza, during her brief career, had vainly endeavored to eradicate, with all sorts of poisonous things. the ghost, moreover, lisped--so did eliza! this was all clear enough to miss crumple, and she considered it a personal insult for any body to suggest that her vivid apparitions existed only in her over-wrought imagination. she had an affection for her ghostly visitors, and would not hear a word to their disparagement. the unearthly warnings which mrs. piptoss had received had well-nigh spoiled all her furniture. when a relative dies, the fact is not announced to her in the commonplace form of a letter; no, an invisible sledge-hammer falls upon her broadwood, an invisible power upsets her loo-table, all the doors of her house unanimously blow open, or a coffin flies out of the fire into her lap. mrs. grumple, who is a very economical housewife, looks forward to the day when the moon re-appears, on which occasion she turns her money, taking care not to look at the pale lady through glass. this observance, she devoutly believes, will bring her good fortune. when miss caroline has a knot in her lace, she looks for a present; and when miss amelia snuffs the candle out, it is her faith that the act defers her marriage a twelvemonth. any young lady who dreams the same dream two consecutive fridays, will tell you that her visions will "come true." yet these are exactly the ladies, who most deplore the "gross state of superstition" in which many "benighted savages" live, and willingly subscribe their money for its eradication. the superstition so generally connected with friday, may easily be traced to its source. it undoubtedly and confessedly has its origin in scriptural history: it is the day on which the saviour suffered. the superstition is the more revolting from this circumstance; and it is painful to find that it exists among persons of education. there is no branch of the public service, for instance, in which so much sound mathematical knowledge is to be found, as in the navy. yet who are more superstitious than sailors, from the admiral down to the cabin boy? friday fatality is still strong among them. some years ago, in order to lessen this folly, it was determined that a ship should be laid down on a friday, and launched on a friday; that she should be called "friday," and that she should commence her first voyage on a friday. after much difficulty a captain was found who owned to the name of friday; and after a great deal more difficulty men were obtained, so little superstitious, as to form a crew. unhappily, this experiment had the effect of confirming the superstition it was meant to abolish. the "friday" was lost--was never, in fact, heard of from the day she set sail. day-fatality, as miss nippers interprets it, is simply the expression of an undisciplined and extremely weak mind; for, if any person will stoop to reason with her on her aversion to mondays, he may ask her whether the death of the poodle, or the catching of her cold, are the two greatest calamities of her life; and, if so, whether it is her opinion that monday is set apart, in the scheme of nature, so far as it concerns her, in a black character. whether for her insignificant self there is a special day accursed! mrs. carmine is such a strong-minded woman, that we approach her with no small degree of trepidation. wednesday is her _dies ater_, because, in the first place, on a wednesday she imprudently exposed herself, and is suffering from the consequences; and, in the second place, on a wednesday her maria took the scarlet fever. so she has marked wednesday down in her calendar with a black character; yet her contempt for stars and ghosts is prodigious. now there is a consideration to be extended to the friends of ghosts, which day-fatalists can not claim. whether or not deceased friends take a more airy and flimsy form, and adopt the invariable costume of a sheet to visit the objects of their earthly affections, is a question which the shrewdest thinkers and the profoundest logicians have debated very keenly, but without ever arriving at any satisfactory conclusion. the strongest argument against the positive existence of ghosts, is, that they appear only to people of a certain temperament, and under certain exciting circumstances. the obtuse, matter-of-fact man, never sees a ghost; and we may take it as a natural law, that none of these airy visitants ever appeared to an attorney. but the attorney, mr. fee simple, we are assured, holds saturday to be an unlucky day. it was on a saturday that his extortionate bill in poor mr. g.'s case, was cut down by the taxing master; and it was on a saturday that a certain heavy bill was duly honored, upon which he had hoped to reap a large sum in the shape of costs. therefore mr. fee simple believes that the destinies have put a black mark against saturday, so far as he is concerned. the jew who thought that the thunder-storm was the consequence of his having eaten a slice of bacon, did not present a more ludicrous picture, than mr. fee simple presents with his condemned saturday. we have an esteem for ghost-inspectors, which it is utterly impossible to extend to day-fatalists. mrs. piptoss, too, may be pitied; but mog, turning her money when the moon makes her re-appearance, is an object of ridicule. we shall neither be astonished, nor express condolence, if the present, which miss caroline anticipates from the knot in her lace, be not forthcoming; and as for miss amelia, who has extinguished the candle, and to the best of her belief lost her husband for a twelvemonth, we can only wish for her, that when she is married, her lord and master will shake her faith in the prophetic power of snuffers. but of all the superstitions that have survived to the present time, and are to be found in force among people of education and a thoughtful habit, day-fatalism is the most general, as it is the most unfounded and preposterous. it is a superstition, however, in which many great and powerful thinkers have shared, and by which they have been guided; it owes much of its present influence to this fact; but reason, christianity, and all we have comprehended of the great scheme of which we form part, alike tend to demonstrate its absurdity, and utter want of all foundation. "battle with life!" bear thee up bravely, strong heart and true! meet thy woes gravely, strive with them too! let them not win from thee tear of regret. such were a sin from thee, hope for good yet! rouse thee from drooping, care-laden soul; mournfully stooping 'neath griefs control! far o'er the gloom that lies, shrouding the earth, light from eternal skies shows us thy worth. nerve thee yet stronger, resolute mind! let care no longer heavily bind. rise on thy eagle wings gloriously free! till from material things pure thou shalt be! bear ye up bravely, soul and mind too! droop not so gravely, bold heart and true! clear rays of streaming light shine through the gloom, god's love is beaming bright e'en round the tomb! trial and execution of madame roland. by rev. john s.c. abbott.[ ] [illustration: madame roland.] the girondists were led from their dungeons in the conciergerie to their execution on the st of october, . upon that very day madame roland was conveyed from the prison of st. pélagié to the same gloomy cells vacated by the death of her friends. she was cast into a bare and miserable dungeon, in that subterranean receptacle of woe, where there was not even a bed. another prisoner, moved with compassion, drew his own pallet into her cell, that she might not be compelled to throw herself for repose upon the cold, wet stones. the chill air of winter had now come, and yet no covering was allowed her. through the long night she shivered with the cold. the prison of the conciergerie consists of a series of dark and damp subterranean vaults, situated beneath the floor of the palace of justice. imagination can conceive of nothing more dismal than these sombre caverns, with long and winding galleries opening into cells as dark as the tomb. you descend by a flight of massive stone steps into this sepulchral abode, and, passing through double doors, whose iron strength time has deformed but not weakened, you enter upon the vast labyrinthine prison, where the imagination wanders affrighted through intricate mazes of halls, and arches, and vaults, and dungeons, rendered only more appalling by the dim light which struggles through those grated orifices which pierced the massive walls. the seine flows by upon one side, separated only by the high way of the quays. the bed of the seine is above the floor of the prison. the surrounding earth was consequently saturated with water, and the oozing moisture diffused over the walls and the floors the humidity of the sepulchre. the plash of the river; the rumbling of carts upon the pavements overhead; the heavy tramp of countless footfalls, as the multitude poured into and out of the halls of justice, mingled with the moaning of the prisoners in those solitary cells. there were one or two narrow courts scattered in this vast structure, where the prisoners could look up the precipitous walls, as of a well, towering high above them, and see a few square yards of sky. the gigantic quadrangular tower, reared above these firm foundations, was formerly the imperial palace from which issued all power and law. here the french kings reveled in voluptuousness, with their prisoners groaning beneath their feet. this strong-hold of feudalism had now become the tomb of the monarchy. in one of the most loathsome of these cells, maria antoinette, the daughter of the cæsars, had languished in misery as profound as mortals can suffer, till, in the endurance of every conceivable insult, she was dragged to the guillotine. it was into a cell adjoining that which the hapless queen had occupied that madame roland was cast. here the proud daughter of the emperors of austria and the humble child of the artisan, each, after a career of unexampled vicissitudes, found their paths to meet but a few steps from the scaffold. the victim of the monarchy and the victim of the revolution were conducted to the same dungeons and perished on the same block. they met as antagonists in the stormy arena of the french revolution. they were nearly of equal age. the one possessed the prestige of wealth, and rank, and ancestral power; the other, the energy of vigorous and cultivated mind. both were endowed with unusual attractions of person, spirits invigorated by enthusiasm, and the loftiest heroism. from the antagonism of life they met in death. the day after madame roland was placed in the conciergerie, she was visited by one of the notorious officers of the revolutionary party, and very closely questioned concerning the friendship she had entertained for the girondists. she frankly avowed the elevated affection and esteem with which she cherished their memory, but she declared that she and they were the cordial friends of republican liberty; that they wished to preserve, not to destroy, the constitution. the examination was vexatious and intolerant in the extreme. it lasted for three hours, and consisted in an incessant torrent of criminations, to which she was hardly permitted to offer one word in reply. this examination taught her the nature of the accusations which would be brought against her. she sat down in her cell that very night, and, with a rapid pen, sketched that defense which has been pronounced one of the most eloquent and touching monuments of the revolution. having concluded it, she retired to rest, and slept with the serenity of a child. she was called upon several times by committees sent from the revolutionary tribunal for examination. they were resolved to take her life, but were anxious to do it, if possible, under the forms of law. she passed through all their examinations with the most perfect composure, and the most dignified self-possession. her enemies could not withhold their expressions of admiration as they saw her in her sepulchral cell of stone and of iron, cheerful, fascinating, and perfectly at ease. she knew that she was to be led from that cell to a violent death, and yet no faltering of soul could be detected. her spirit had apparently achieved a perfect victory over all earthly ills. the upper part of the door of her cell was an iron grating. the surrounding cells were filled with the most illustrious ladies and gentlemen of france. as the hour of death drew near, her courage and animation seemed to increase. her features glowed with enthusiasm; her thoughts and expressions were refulgent with sublimity, and her whole aspect assumed the impress of one appointed to fill some great and lofty destiny. she remained but a few days in the conciergerie before she was led to the scaffold. during those few days, by her example and her encouraging words, she spread among the numerous prisoners there an enthusiasm and a spirit of heroism which elevated, above the fear of the scaffold, even the most timid and depressed. this glow of feeling and exhilaration gave a new impress of sweetness and fascination to her beauty. the length of her captivity, the calmness with which she contemplated the certain approach of death, gave to her voice that depth of tone and slight tremulousness of utterance which sent her eloquent words home with thrilling power to every heart. those who were walking in the corridor, or who were the occupants of adjoining cells, often called for her to speak to them words of encouragement and consolation. standing upon a stool at the door of her own cell, she grasped with her hands the iron grating which separated her from her audience. this was her tribune. the melodious accents of her voice floated along the labyrinthine avenues of those dismal dungeons, penetrating cell after cell, and arousing energy in hearts which had been abandoned to despair. it was, indeed, a strange scene which was thus witnessed in these sepulchral caverns. the silence, as of the grave, reigned there, while the clear and musical tones of madame roland, as of an angel of consolation, vibrated through the rusty bars, and along the dark, damp cloisters. one who was at that time an inmate of the prison, and survived those dreadful scenes, has described, in glowing terms, the almost miraculous effects of her soul-moving eloquence. she was already past the prime of life, but she was still fascinating. combined with the most wonderful power of expression, she possessed a voice so exquisitely musical, that, long after her lips were silenced in death, its tones vibrated in lingering strains in the souls of those by whom they had ever been heard. the prisoners listened with the most profound attention to her glowing words, and regarded her almost as a celestial spirit, who had come to animate them to heroic deeds. she often spoke of the girondists who had already perished upon the guillotine. with perfect fearlessness she avowed her friendship for them, and ever spoke of them as _our friends_. she, however, was careful never to utter a word which would bring tears into the eye. she wished to avoid herself all the weakness of tender emotions, and to lure the thoughts of her companions away from every contemplation which could enervate their energies. occasionally, in the solitude of her cell, as the image of her husband and of her child rose before her, and her imagination dwelt upon her desolated home and her blighted hopes--her husband denounced and pursued by lawless violence, and her child soon to be an orphan--woman's tenderness would triumph over the heroine's stoicism. burying, for a moment, her face in her hands, she would burst into a flood of tears. immediately struggling to regain composure, she would brush her tears away, and dress her countenance in its accustomed smiles. she remained in the conciergerie but one week, and during that time so endeared herself to all as to become the prominent object of attention and love. her case is one of the most extraordinary the history of the world has presented, in which the very highest degree of heroism is combined with the most resistless charms of feminine loveliness. an unfeminine woman can never be _loved_ by men. she may be respected for her talents, she may be honored for her philanthropy, but she can not win the warmer emotions of the heart. but madame roland, with an energy of will, an inflexibility of purpose, a firmness of stoical endurance which no mortal man has ever exceeded, combined that gentleness, and tenderness, and affection--that instinctive sense of the proprieties of her sex--which gathered around her a love as pure and as enthusiastic as woman ever excited. and while her friends, many of whom were the most illustrious men in france, had enthroned her as an idol in their hearts, the breath of slander never ventured to intimate that she was guilty even of an impropriety. the day before her trial, her advocate, chauveau de la garde, visited her to consult respecting her defense. she, well aware that no one could speak a word in her favor but at the peril of his own life, and also fully conscious that her doom was already sealed, drew a ring from her finger, and said to him, "to-morrow, i shall be no more. i know the fate which awaits me. your kind assistance can not avail aught for me, and would but endanger you. i pray you, therefore, not to come to the tribunal, but to accept of this last testimony of my regard." the next day she was led to her trial. she attired herself in a white robe, as a symbol of her innocence, and her long dark hair fell in thick curls on her neck and shoulders. she emerged from her dungeon the vision of unusual loveliness. the prisoners who were walking in the corridors gathered around her, and with smiles and words of encouragement she infused energy into their hearts. calm and invincible she met her judges. she was accused of the crimes of being the wife of m. roland and the friend of his friends. proudly she acknowledged herself guilty of both those charges. whenever she attempted to utter a word in her defense, she was brow-beaten by the judges, and silenced by the clamors of the mob which filled the tribunal. the mob now ruled with undisputed sway in both legislative and executive halls. the serenity of her eye was untroubled, and the composure of her disciplined spirit unmoved, save by the exaltation of enthusiasm, as she noted the progress of the trial, which was bearing her rapidly and resistlessly to the scaffold. it was, however, difficult to bring any accusation against her by which, under the form of law, she could be condemned. france, even in its darkest hour, was rather ashamed to behead a woman, upon whom the eyes of all europe were fixed, simply for being the _wife of her husband and the friend of his friends_. at last the president demanded of her that she should reveal her husband's asylum. she proudly replied, "i do not know of any law by which i can be obliged to violate the strongest feelings of nature." this was sufficient, and she was immediately condemned. her sentence was thus expressed: "the public accuser has drawn up the present indictment against jane mary phlippon, the wife of roland, late minister of the interior, for having wickedly and designedly aided and assisted in the conspiracy which existed against the unity and indivisibility of the republic, against the liberty and safety of the french people, by assembling at her house, in secret council, the principal chiefs of that conspiracy, and by keeping up a correspondence tending to facilitate their treasonable designs. the tribunal having heard the public accuser deliver his reasons concerning the application of the law, condemns jane mary phlippon, wife of roland, to the punishment of death." she listened calmly to her sentence, and then rising, bowed with dignity to her judges, and, smiling, said, "i thank you, gentlemen, for thinking me worthy of sharing the fate of the great men whom you have assassinated. i shall endeavor to imitate their firmness on the scaffold." with the buoyant step of a child, and with a rapidity which almost betokened joy, she passed beneath the narrow portal, and descended to her cell, from which she was to be led, with the morning light, to a bloody death. the prisoners had assembled to greet her on her return, and anxiously gathered around her. she looked upon them with a smile of perfect tranquillity, and, drawing her hand across her neck, made a sign expressive of her doom. but a few hours elapsed between her sentence and her execution. she retired to her cell, wrote a few words of parting to her friends, played upon a harp, which had found its way into the prison, her requiem, in tones so wild and mournful, that, floating in the dark hours of the night, through these sepulchral caverns, they fell like unearthly music upon the despairing souls there incarcerated. the morning of the th of november, , dawned gloomily upon paris. it was one of the darkest days of that reign of terror which, for so long a period enveloped france in its sombre shades. the ponderous gates of the court-yard of the conciergerie opened that morning to a long procession of carts loaded with victims for the guillotine. madame roland had contemplated her fate too long, and had disciplined her spirit too severely, to fail of fortitude in this last hour of trial. she came from her cell scrupulously attired for the bridal of death. a serene smile was upon her cheek, and the glow of joyous animation lighted up her features as she waved an adieu to the weeping prisoners who gathered around her. the last cart was assigned to madame roland. she entered it with a step as light and elastic as if it were a carriage for a pleasant morning's drive. by her side stood an infirm old man, m. la marche. he was pale and trembling, and his fainting heart, in view of the approaching terror, almost ceased to beat. she sustained him by her arm, and addressed to him words of consolation and encouragement in cheerful accents and with a benignant smile. the poor old man felt that god had sent an angel to strengthen him in the dark hour of death. as the cart heavily rumbled along the pavement, drawing nearer and nearer to the guillotine, two or three times, by her cheerful words, she even caused a smile faintly to play upon his pallid lips. the guillotine was now the principal instrument of amusement for the populace of paris. it was so elevated that all could have a good view of the spectacle it presented. to witness the conduct of nobles and of ladies, of boys and of girls, while passing through the horrors of a sanguinary death, was far more exciting than the unreal and bombastic tragedies of the theatre, or the conflicts of the cock-pit and the bear garden. a countless throng flooded the streets; men, women, and children, shouting, laughing, execrating. the celebrity of madame roland, her extraordinary grace and beauty, and her aspect, not only of heroic fearlessness, but of joyous exhilaration, made her the prominent object of the public gaze. a white robe gracefully enveloped her perfect form, and her black and glossy hair, which for some reason the executioners had neglected to cut, fell in rich profusion to her waist. a keen november blast swept the streets, under the influence of which, and the excitement of the scene, her animated countenance glowed with all the ruddy bloom of youth. she stood firmly in the cart, looking with a serene eye upon the crowds which lined the streets, and listening with unruffled serenity to the clamor which filled the air. a large crowd surrounded the cart in which madame roland stood, shouting, "to the guillotine! to the guillotine!" she looked kindly upon them, and, bending over the railing of the cart, said to them, in tones as placid as if she were addressing her own child, "my friends, i _am_ going to the guillotine. in a few moments i shall be there. they who send me thither will ere long follow me. i go innocent. they will come stained with blood. you who now applaud our execution will then applaud theirs with equal zeal." madame roland had continued writing her memoirs until the hour in which she left her cell for the scaffold. when the cart had almost arrived at the foot of the guillotine, her spirit was so deeply moved by the tragic scene--such emotions came rushing in upon her soul from departing time and opening eternity, that she could not repress the desire to pen down her glowing thoughts. she entreated an officer to furnish her for a moment with pen and paper. the request was refused. it is much to be regretted that we are thus deprived of that unwritten chapter of her life. it can not be doubted that the words she would then have written would have long vibrated upon the ear of a listening world. soul-utterances will force their way over mountains, and valleys, and oceans. despotism can not arrest them. time can not enfeeble them. the long procession arrived at the guillotine, and the bloody work commenced. the victims were dragged from the carts, and the ax rose and fell with unceasing rapidity. head after head fell into the basket, and the pile of bleeding trunks rapidly increased in size. the executioners approached the cart where madame roland stood by the side of her fainting companion. with an animated countenance and a cheerful smile, she was all engrossed in endeavoring to infuse fortitude into his soul. the executioner grasped her by the arm. "stay," said she, slightly resisting his grasp; "i have one favor to ask, and that is not for myself. i beseech you grant it me." then turning to the old man, she said, "do you precede me to the scaffold. to see my blood flow would make you suffer the bitterness of death twice over. i must spare you the pain of witnessing my execution." the stern officer gave a surly refusal, replying, "my orders are to take you first." with that winning smile and that fascinating grace which were almost resistless, she rejoined, "you can not, surely, refuse a woman her last request." the hard-hearted executor of the law was brought within the influence of her enchantment. he paused, looked at her for a moment in slight bewilderment, and yielded. the poor old man, more dead than alive, was conducted upon the scaffold and placed beneath the fatal ax. madame roland, without the slightest change of color, or the apparent tremor of a nerve, saw the ponderous instrument, with its glittering edge, glide upon its deadly mission, and the decapitated trunk of her friend was thrown aside to give place for her. with a placid countenance and a buoyant step, she ascended the platform. the guillotine was erected upon the vacant spot between the gardens of the tuileries and the elysian fields, then known as the place de la revolution. this spot is now called the place de la concorde. it is unsurpassed by any other place in europe. two marble fountains now embellish the spot. the blood-stained guillotine, from which crimson rivulets were ever flowing, then occupied the space upon which one of these fountains has been erected; and a clay statue to liberty reared its hypocritical front where the egyptian obelisk now rises. madame roland stood for a moment upon the elevated platform, looked calmly around upon the vast concourse, and then bowing before the colossal statue, exclaimed, "o liberty! liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name." she surrendered herself to the executioner, and was bound to the plank. the plank fell to its horizontal position, bringing her head under the fatal ax. the glittering steel glided through the groove, and the head of madame roland was severed from her body. thus died madame roland, in the thirty-ninth year of her age. her death oppressed all who had known her with the deepest grief. her intimate friend buzot, who was then a fugitive, on hearing the tidings, was thrown into a state of perfect delirium, from which he did not recover for many days. her faithful female servant was so overwhelmed with grief, that she presented herself before the tribunal, and implored them to let her die upon the same scaffold where her beloved mistress had perished. the tribunal, amazed at such transports of attachment, declared that she was mad, and ordered her to be removed from their presence. a man-servant made the same application, and was sent to the guillotine. the grief of m. roland, when apprized of the event, was unbounded. for a time he entirely lost his senses. life to him was no longer endurable. he knew not of any consolations of religion. philosophy could only nerve him to stoicism. privately he left, by night, the kind friends who had hospitably concealed him for six months, and wandered to such a distance from his asylum as to secure his protectors from any danger on his account. through the long hours of the winter's night he continued his dreary walk, till the first gray of the morning appeared in the east. drawing a long stilletto from the inside of his walking-stick, he placed the head of it against the trunk of a tree, and threw himself upon the sharp weapon. the point pierced his heart, and he fell lifeless upon the frozen ground. some peasants passing by discovered his body. a piece of paper was pinned to the breast of his coat, upon which there were written these words: "whoever thou art that findest these remains, respect them as those of a virtuous man. after hearing of my wife's death, i would not stay another day in a world so stained with crime." footnote: [ ] from abbott's "history of madame roland," soon to be issued from the press of harper & brothers. [from dickens's household words.] chemical contradictions. science, whose aim and end is to prove the harmony and "eternal fitness of things," also proves that we live in a world of paradoxes; and that existence itself is a whirl of contradictions. light and darkness, truth and falsehood, virtue and vice, the negative and positive poles of galvanic or magnetic mysteries, are evidences of all-pervading antitheses, which, acting like the good and evil genii of persian mythology, neutralize each other's powers when they come into collision. it is the office of science to solve these mysteries. the appropriate symbol of the lecture-room is a sphinx; for a scientific lecturer is but a better sort of unraveler of riddles. who would suppose, for instance, that water--which every body knows, extinguishes fire--may, under certain circumstances, add fuel to flame, so that the "coming man," who is to "set the thames on fire," may not be far off. if we take some mystical gray-looking globules of potassium (which is the metallic basis of common pearl-ash) and lay them upon water, the water will instantly appear to ignite. the globules will swim about in flames, reminding us of the "death-fires" described by the ancient mariner, burning "like witches' oil" on the surface of the stagnant sea. sometimes even, without any chemical ingredient being added, fire will appear to spring spontaneously from water; which is not a simple element, as thales imagined, when he speculated upon the origin of the creation, but two invisible gases--oxygen and hydrogen, chemically combined. during the electrical changes of the atmosphere in a thunder-storm, these gases frequently combine with explosive violence, and it is this combination which takes place when "the big rain comes dancing to the earth." these fire-and-water phenomena are thus accounted for; certain substances have peculiar affinities or attractions for one another; the potassium has so inordinate a desire for oxygen, that the moment it touches, it decomposes the water, abstracts all the oxygen, and sets free the hydrogen or inflammable gas. the potassium, when combined with the oxygen, forms that corrosive substance known as caustic potash, and the heat, disengaged during this process, ignites the hydrogen. here the mystery ends; and the contradictions are solved; oxygen and hydrogen when combined, become water; when separated the hydrogen gas burns with a pale, lambent flame. many of nature's most delicate deceptions are accounted for by a knowledge of these laws. your analytical chemist sadly annihilates, with his scientific machinations, all poetry. he bottles up at pleasure the nine muses, and proves them--as the fisherman in the arabian nights did the afrite--to be all smoke. even the will-o'-the-wisp can not flit across its own morass without being pursued, overtaken, and burnt out by this scientific detective policeman. he claps an extinguisher upon jack-o'-lantern thus: he says that a certain combination of phosphorus and hydrogen, which rises from watery marshes, produces a gas called phosphureted hydrogen, which ignites spontaneously the moment it bubbles up to the surface of the water and meets with atmospheric air. here again the ithuriel wand of science dispels all delusion, pointing out to us, that in such places animal and vegetable substances are undergoing constant decomposition; and as phosphorus exists under a variety of forms in these bodies, as phosphate of lime, phosphate of soda, phosphate of magnesia, &c., and as furthermore the decomposition of water itself is the initiatory process in these changes, so we find that phosphorus and hydrogen are supplied from these sources; and we may therefore easily conceive the consequent formation of phosphureted hydrogen. this gas rises in a thin stream from its watery bed, and the moment it comes in contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere, it bursts into a flame so buoyant, that it flickers with every breath of air, and realizes the description of goethe's mephistopheles, that the course of jack-o'-lantern is generally "zig-zag." who would suppose that absolute darkness may be derived from two rays of light! yet such is the fact. if two rays proceed from two luminous points very close to each other, and are so directed as to cross at a given point on a sheet of white paper in a dark room, their united light will be twice as bright as either ray singly would produce. but if the difference in the distance of the two points be diminished only one-half, the one light will extinguish the other, and produce absolute darkness. the same curious result may be produced by viewing the flame of a candle through two very fine slits near to each other in a card. so, likewise, strange as it may appear, if two musical strings be so made to vibrate, in a certain succession of degrees, as for the one to gain half a vibration on the other, the two resulting sounds will antagonize each other and produce an interval of perfect silence. how are these mysteries to be explained? the delphic oracle of science must again be consulted, and among the high priests who officiate at the shrine, no one possesses more recondite knowledge, or can recall it more instructively than sir david brewster. "the explanation which philosophers have given," he observes, "of these remarkable phenomena, is very satisfactory, and may easily be understood. when a wave is made on the surface of a still pool of water by plunging a stone into it, the wave advances along the surface, while the water itself is never carried forward, but merely rises into a height and falls into a hollow, each portion of the surface experiencing an elevation and a depression in its turn. if we suppose two waves equal and similar, to be produced by two separate stones, and if they reach the same spot at the same time, that is, if the two elevations should exactly coincide, they would unite their effects, and produce a wave twice the size of either; but if the one wave should be put so far before the other, that the hollow of the one coincided with the elevation of the other, and the elevation of the one with the hollow of the other, the two waves would obliterate or destroy one another; the elevation, as it were, of the one filling up half the hollow of the other, and the hollow of the one taking away half the elevation of the other, so us to reduce the surface to a level. these effects may be exhibited by throwing two equal stones into a pool of water; and also may be observed in the port of batsha, where the two waves arriving by channels of different lengths actually obliterate each other. now, as light is supposed to be produced by waves or undulations of an ethereal medium filling all nature, and occupying the pores of the transparent bodies; and as sound is produced by undulations or waves in the air: so the successive production of light and darkness by two bright lights, and the production of sound and silence by two loud sounds, may be explained in the very same manner as we have explained the increase and obliteration of waves formed on the surface of water." the apparent contradictions in chemistry are, indeed, best exhibited in the lecture-room, where they may be rendered visible and tangible, and brought home to the general comprehension. the professor of analytical chemistry, j.h. pepper, who demonstrates these things in the royal polytechnic institution, is an expert manipulator in such mysteries; and, taking a leaf out of his own magic-book, we shall conjure him up before us, standing behind his own laboratory, surrounded with all the implements of his art. at our recent visit to this exhibition we witnessed him perform, with much address, the following experiments: he placed before us a pair of tall glass vessels, each filled, apparently, with water; he then took two hen's eggs, one of these he dropped into one of the glass vessels, and, as might have been expected, it immediately sank to the bottom. he then took the other egg, and dropped it into the other vessel of water, but, instead of sinking as the other had done, it descended only half way, and there remained suspended in the midst of the transparent fluid. this, indeed, looked like magic--one of houdin's sleight-of-hand performances--for what could interrupt its progress? the water surrounding it appeared as pure below as around and above the egg, yet there it still hung like mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth, contrary to all the well-established laws of gravity. the problem, however, was easily solved. our modern cagliostro had dissolved in one half of the water in this vessel as much common salt as it would take up, whereby the density of the fluid was so much augmented that it opposed a resistance to the descent of the egg after it had passed through the unadulterated water, which he had carefully poured upon the briny solution, the transparency of which, remaining unimpaired, did not for a moment suggest the suspicion of any such impregnation. the good housewife, upon the same principle, uses an egg to test the strength of her brine for pickling. every one has heard of the power which bleaching gas (chlorine) possesses in taking away color, so that a red rose held over its fumes will become white. the lecturer, referring to this fact, exhibited two pieces of paper; upon one was inscribed, in large letters, the word "proteus;" upon the other no writing was visible; although he assured us the same word was there inscribed. he now dipped both pieces of paper in a solution of bleaching-powder, when the word "proteus" disappeared from the paper upon which it was before visible; while the same word instantly came out, sharp and distinct, upon the paper which was previously a blank. here there appeared another contradiction: the chlorine in the one case obliterating, and in the other reviving the written word; and how was this mystery explained? easily enough! our ingenious philosopher, it seems, had used indigo in penning the one word which had disappeared; and had inscribed the other with a solution of a chemical substance, iodide of potassium and starch; and the action which took place was simply this: the chlorine of the bleaching solution set free the iodine from the potassium, which immediately combined with the starch, and gave color to the letters which were before invisible. again--a sheet of white paper was exhibited, which displayed a broad and brilliant stripe of scarlet--(produced by a compound called the bin-iodide of mercury)--when exposed to a slight heat the color changed immediately to a bright yellow, and, when this yellow stripe was crushed by smartly rubbing the paper, the scarlet color was restored, with all its former brilliancy. this change of color was effected entirely by the alteration which the heat, in the one case, and the friction, in the other, produced in the particles which reflected these different colors; and, upon the same principle, we may understand the change of the color in the lobster-shell, which turns from black to red in boiling; because the action of the heat produces a new arrangement in the particles which compose the shell. with the assistance of water and fire, which have befriended the magicians of every age, contradictions of a more marvelous character may be exhibited, and even the secret art revealed of handling red-hot metals, and passing through the fiery ordeal. if we take a platinum ladle, and hold it over a furnace until it becomes of a bright red heat, and then project cold water into its bowl, we shall find that the water will remain quiescent and give no sign of ebullition--not so much as a single "fizz;" but, the moment the ladle begins to cool, it will boil up and quickly evaporate. so also, if a mass of metal, heated to whiteness, be plunged in a vessel of cold water, the surrounding fluid will remain tranquil so long as the glowing white heat continues; but, the moment the temperature falls, the water will boil briskly. again--if water be poured upon an iron sieve, the wires of which are made red hot, it will not run through; but, on the sieve cooling, it will run through rapidly. these contradictory effects are easily accounted for. the repelling power of intense heat keeps the water from immediate contact with the heated metal, and the particles of the water, collectively, retain their globular form; but, when the vessel cools, the repulsive power diminishes, and the water coming into closer contact with the heated surface its particles can no longer retain their globular form, and eventually expand into a state of vapor. this globular condition of the particles of water will account for many very important phenomena; perhaps it is best exhibited in the dew-drop, and so long as these globules retain their form, water will retain its fluid properties. an agglomeration of these globules will carry with them, under certain circumstances, so much force that it is hardly a contradiction to call water itself a solid. the water-hammer, as it is termed, illustrates this apparent contradiction. if we introduce a certain quantity of water into a long glass tube, when it is shaken, we shall hear the ordinary splashing noise as in a bottle; but, if we exhaust the air, and again shake the tube, we shall hear a loud ringing sound, as if the bottom of the tube were struck by some hard substance--like metal or wood--which may fearfully remind us of the blows which a ship's side will receive from the waves during a storm at sea, which will often carry away her bulwarks. it is now time to turn to something stronger than water for more instances of chemical contradictions. the chemical action of certain poisons (the most powerful of all agents), upon the human frame, has plunged the faculty into a maze of paradoxes; indeed, there is actually a system of medicine, advancing in reputation, which is founded on the principle of contraries. the famous dr. hahnemann, who was born at massieu in saxony, was the founder of it, and, strange to say, medical men, who are notorious for entertaining contrary opinions, have not yet agreed among themselves whether he was a very great quack or a very great philosopher. be this as it may, the founder of this system, which is called homoeopathy, when translating an article upon bark in dr. cullen's materia medica, took some of this medicine, which had for many years been justly celebrated for the cure of ague. he had not long taken it, when he found himself attacked with aguish symptoms, and a light now dawned upon his mind, and led him to the inference that medicines which give rise to the symptoms of a disease, are those which will specifically cure it, and however curious it may appear, several illustrations in confirmation of this principle were speedily found. if a limb be frost-bitten, we are directed to rub it with snow; if the constitution of a man be impaired by the abuse of spirituous liquors, and he be reduced to that miserable state of enervation when the limbs tremble and totter, and the mind itself sinks into a state of low muttering delirium, the physician to cure him must go again to the bottle and administer stimulants and opiates. it was an old hippocratic aphorism that two diseases can not co-exist in the same body, wherefore, gout has actually been cured by the afflicted person going into a fenny country and catching the ague. the fatality of consumption is also said to be retarded by a common catarrh; and upon this very principle depends the truth of the old saying, that rickety doors hang long on rusty hinges. in other words, the strength of the constitution being impaired by one disease has less power to support the morbid action of another. we thus live in a world of apparent contradictions; they abound in every department of science, and beset us even in the sanctuary of domestic life. the progress of discovery has reconciled and explained the nature of some of them; but many baffle our ingenuity, and still remain involved in mystery. this much, however, is certain, that the most opposed and conflicting elements so combine together as to produce results, which are strictly in unison with the order and harmony of the universe. descent into the crater of a volcano.[ ] by rev. h.t. cheever. a descent into the crater of the volcano of kilauea in the sandwich islands, may be accomplished with tolerable ease by the north-eastern cliff of the crater, where the side has fallen in and slidden downward, leaving a number of huge, outjutting rocks, like giants' stepping-stones, or the courses of the pyramid of ghizeh. by hanging to these, and the mere aid of a pole, you may descend the first precipice to where the avalanche brought up and was stayed--a wild region, broken into abrupt hills and deep glens, thickly set with shrubs and old ohias, and producing in great abundance the hawaiian whortleberry (formerly sacred to the goddess of the volcano), and a beautiful lustrous blackberry that grows on a branching vine close to the ground. thousands of birds find there a safe and warm retreat; and they will continue, i suppose, the innocent warblers, to pair and sing there, till the fires from beneath, having once more eaten through its foundations, the entire tract, with all its miniature mountains and woody glens, shall slide off suddenly into the abyss below to feed the hunger of all-devouring fire. no one who passes over it, and looks back upon the tall, jagged cliffs at the rear and side, can doubt that it was severed and shattered by one such ruin into its present forms. and the bottomless pits and yawning caverns, in some places ejecting hot steam, with which it is traversed, prove that the raging element which once sapped its foundations is still busy beneath. the path that winds over and down through this tract, crossing some of these unsightly seams by a natural bridge of only a foot's breadth, is safe enough by daylight, if one will keep in it. but be careful that you do not diverge far on either side, or let the shades of night overtake you there, lest a single mis-step in the grass and ferns, concealing some horrible hole, or an accidental stumble, shall plunge you beyond the reach of sunlight into a covered pen-stock of mineral fire, or into the heart of some deep, sunken cavern. one can hardly wander through that place alone, even in the daytime (as i was in coming up from the crater at evening), without having his fancy swarm with forms of evil. in spite of himself, there will "throng thick into his mind the busy shapes of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, a dire descent! of precipices huge-- rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death." the way through this tract descends not abruptly for about half a mile, to a steep bank of partially decomposed lava, somewhat furrowed by water-courses, by which you go down some hundreds of feet more to what every body calls the black ledge. this is an immense rampart or gallery of grisly black scoria and lava, about half a mile wide, running all round the pit, slightly sloping inward, and not unfrequently overflowed in eruptions. by it you learn the dimensions of the great lake to which this is now the shore. it may be compared to the wide beach of an ocean, seldom flooded all over except in very high tides; or to a great field of thick shore ice, from under which the tide has retired, leaving it cracked and rent, but not so as to break up the general evenness of its surface. the upper crust is generally glossy, cellular, and cinder-like, brittle and crackling under the feet; but directly underneath the superficies, hard and compact, as proved by inspecting the great seams and fissures, from some of which flickering currents of hot air, and from others scalding steam and smoke are continually issuing. pound on it, and you will hear deep, hollow reverberations, and sometimes your pole will break through a place like the rotten trap-door of some old ruin, and open upon you a hideous black hole without bottom. over this great volcanic mole or offset, we proceeded to make our way toward the caldron in the southeast, pounding before us with our pole, like men crossing a river to find whether the ice ahead will bear them. we stopped every now and then to examine and get up on to some great cone or oven, which had been formed after the congelation of the crust, by pent up gas blowing out from beneath the cooling lava, raising it as in great bubbles, and letting its black, viscous vomit dribble from the top, and flow down sluggishly and congeal before it had found a level, like ice in very cold weather over a waterfall. thus it would flow over the black ledge, hardening sometimes in round streams like a cable, or in serpentine forms like a great anaconda; and again it would spread out from the foot of the cone a little way, in forms like a bronze lion's foot. the surface was frequently broken, or ready to break, with the weight of one's body, from the fiery liquid having subsided after the petrifaction of the crust. generally, too, the hardened lava seemed to have been flowed over, like ice near the shore when the tide rises and goes down, with a thin scum of lava that became shelly and crepitated under the foot like shelly ice. then, as we went further into the bed of the crater, gradually going down, we would come to places where, like as in frozen mill-ponds, whence the water has been drawn off, the congealed lava had broken in to the depth sometimes of fifty and one hundred feet. every where, too, there were great fissures and cracks, as in fields of river ice, now and then a large air-hole, and here and there great bulges and breaks, and places from which a thin flame would be curling, or over which you would see a glimmer like that which trembles over a body of fresh coals or a recently-burned lime-kiln. touch your stick there, and it would immediately kindle. there were also deep, wide ditches, through which a stream of liquid lava had flowed since the petrifaction of the main body through which it passed. cascades of fire are said to be often seen in the course of these canals or rivers as they leap some precipice, presenting in the night a scene of unequaled splendor and sublimity. in some places the banks or dikes of these rivers are excavated and fallen in with hideous crash and ruin; and often you may go up, if you dare, to the edge on one side and look over into the gulf, and away under the opposite overhanging bank, where the igneous fluid has worn away and scooped it out till the cliff hangs on air, and seems to topple and lean, like the tower of pisa, just ready to fall. it would be no very comfortable reflection, if a man were not too curiously eager and bold and intent upon the novelties he is drinking in by the senses, to have much reflection or fear at such a time, to think how easily an earthquake might tumble down the bank on which he is standing, undermined in like manner with that which you are looking at right opposite. on our left, as we passed on to the great caldron, we explored, as far as was possible between the heat and vapor, the great bank, or, more properly, mountain-side of sulphur and sulphate of lime (plaster of paris), and obtained some specimens of no little beauty. there are cliffs of sulphur through which scalding hot vapor is escaping as high up above you as eight hundred feet; and lower down there are seams from which lambent and flickering flames are darting, and jets of hot air will sometimes whirl by you, involving no little danger by their inhalation. around these fissures are yellow and green incrustations of sulphur, which afford a new variety of specimens. when we had got to the leeward of the caldron, we found large quantities of the finest threads of metallic vitrified lava, like the spears and filaments of sealing-wax, called pele's hair. the wind has caught them from the jets and bubbling springs of gory lava, and carried them away on its wings till they have lodged in nests and crevices, where they may be collected like shed wool about the time of sheep-shearing. sometimes this is found twenty miles to the leeward of the volcano. the heat and sulphur gas, irritating the throat and lungs, are so great on that side, that we had to sheer away off from the brim of the caldron, and could not observe close at hand the part where there was the most gushing and bubbling of the ignifluous mineral fluid. but we passed round to the windward, and were thus enabled to get up to the brim so as to look over for a minute in the molten lake, burning incessantly with brimstone and fire-- "a furnace formidable, deep, and wide, o'erboiling with a mad, sulphureous tide." but the lava which forms your precarious foothold, melted, perhaps, a hundred times, can not be handled or trusted, and the heat even there is so great as to burn the skin of one's face, although the heated air, as it rises, is instantly swept off to the leeward by the wind. it is always hazardous, not to say fool-hardy, to stand there for a moment, lest your uncertain foothold, crumbling and crispy by the action of fire, shall suddenly give way and throw you instantly into the fiery embrace of death. at times, too, the caldron is so furiously boiling, and splashing, and spitting its fires, and casting up its salient, angry jets of melted lava and spume, that all approach to it is forbidden. we slumped several times near it, as a man will in the spring who is walking over a river of which the ice is beginning to thaw, and the upper stratum, made of frozen snow, is dissolved and rotten. a wary native who accompanied us wondered at our daring, and would not be kept once from pulling me back, as with the eager and bold curiosity of a discoverer, all absorbed in the view of such exciting wonders, i was getting too near. at the time we viewed it, the brim all round was covered with splashes and spray to the width of ten or twelve feet. the surface of the lake was about a mile in its longest diameter, at a depth of thirty or forty feet from its brim, and agitated more or less all over, in some places throwing up great jets and spouts of fiery red lava, in other places spitting it out like steam from an escape-pipe when the valves are half lifted, and again squirting the molten rock as from a pop-gun. the surface was like a river or lake when the ice is _going out_ and broken up into cakes, over which you will sometimes see the water running, and sometimes it will be quite hidden. in the same manner in this lake of fire, while its surface was generally covered with a crust of half-congealed, dusky lava, and raised into elevations, or sunk into depressions, you would now and then see the live coal-red stream running along. two cakes of lava, also, would meet like cakes of ice, and their edges crushing, would pile up and fall over, precisely like the phenomena of moving fields of ice; there was, too, the same rustling, grinding noise. sometimes, i am told, the roar of the fiery surges is like the heavy beating of surf. once, when mr. coan visited it, this caldron was heaped up in the middle, higher above its brim than his head, so that he ran up and thrust in a pyrometer, while streams were running off on different sides. at another time when he saw it, it had sunk four or five hundred feet below its brim, and he had to look down a dreadful gulf to see its fires. again, when mr. bingham was there, it was full, and concentric waves were flowing out and around from its centre. having carefully observed its movements a while, he threw a stick of wood upon the thin crust of a moving wave where he thought it would bear him, even if it should bend a little, and then stood upon it a few moments. in that position, thrusting his cane down through the cooling tough crust, about half an inch thick, and immediately withdrawing it, forthwith there gushed up, like ooze in a marsh or melted tar under a plank, enough of the viscid lava to form a globular mass, which afterward, as it cooled, he broke off and bore away. it is not easy for one that has not himself been in a similar position, to sympathize with and pardon the traveler at such a point, for he is unwilling to forbear and leave it till fairly surfeited and seared with heat and admiration, or driven off by some sudden spout and roar, or splash of the caldron. you gaze, and gaze, and gaze in amazement, without conscious thought, like a man in a trance, reluctant to go away, and you want to spend at least a day and night, viewing close at hand its ever-varying phenomena. had we only brought with us wrappers, i believe we should have been the first to have slept on the black ledge. now that the edge of curiosity is a little blunted and the judgment cool, we can see that there would be a degree of hazard and temerity in it which is not felt under the excitement of novelty, and in the full tide of discovery. forced by startling admonitions, of instant danger, i had to quit suddenly the precarious footing i had gained on the caldron's edge, like a hungry man hurried from his repast ere he has snatched a mouthful. but the look i caught there, and the impression of horror, awfulness, and sublimity thence obtained, live and will live in my conscious being forever and ever; and it is this shall help me utter what many have experienced, and have wished to say before the poet said it for them: "one compact hour of crowded life is worth an age without a name." a moment of being under such circumstances is an epoch in the history of one's mind; and he, perhaps, may be deemed the most highly favored of mortals who has the most of such epochs in remembrance, provided only that the incommunicable thoughts and emotions which, in the moment of that experience, seemed to permeate the very substance of the mind, have given it a moral tone and impulse running through all its subsequent life. it is thus that thoughts are waked "to perish never," being instamped ineffaceably upon the spiritual frame-work and foundation stones of the soul, dignifying and consecrating them to noble uses. it was not, i trust, without some valuable additions to our stock of impressions in this line, that we reluctantly left that spot. departing thence, we passed over a tract between the level of the brim of the caldron and the black ledge, in order to gain again the latter, most strangely rugged and wild, as if convulsion after convulsion had upheaved, and sunk, and rent, and piled the vast mineral and rocky masses; forming here great hills like the ruins of a hundred towers, and there deep indentations, while every block lay upon its fellow, ready to be dislodged, edge-wise, crosswise, endwise, sidewise, angle-wise, and every-wise, in the wildest confusion and variety possible, as if typhoean giants had been hurling them at each other in war; or as when the warring angels "from their foundations loosening to and fro, uptore the seated hills, with all their load, and sent them thundering upon their adversaries. then hills amid the air encounter'd hills, hurled to and fro with jaculation dire: horrid confusion heap'd upon confusion rose." rocks, too, in earthquake commotions, have been started from the perpendicular sides of the crater in this part, and have rolled down eight hundred or a thousand feet with a force, one might think, that would almost shake the world. when we had thus encompassed the crater, and had returned to the point where we first came down upon the black ledge, it was getting toward night, and i found myself so excessively heated and feverish, and throbbing with the headache, which most persons there suffer from, as to be unable to go for the castellated and gothic specimens into some ovens that are found in the sides near by. leaving, therefore, my companion and the natives to hunt for them, i proceeded slowly back, and toiled up, with difficulty, the steep side of this stupendous crater, which may be set down at a moderate calculation as not less than twelve miles in circumference, and one thousand feet deep. in the centre of this vast sunken amphitheatre of volcanic fire, "a dungeon horrible on all sides round, as one great furnace flaming," a man looks up to heaven, and to the seared walls of this great prison, and feels like a pigmy, or the veriest insect, in contrast with so mighty and terrible a work of the lord god almighty. the person who can go down into it, and come up safe from it, with a light mind, unthankful and unawed, is as wanting in some of the best attributes of mental manhood as of piety; and, let me say with cowper, "i would not enter on my list of friends, though graced with polished manners and fine sense," the man who should prove himself so brutishly insensible to the sublime vestiges of divine power, and to the providential care of divine goodness. we spent the night by the volcano. i slept a little at intervals, just raising myself at every awakening to look at pele's fires, which spouted and played like fountains, and leaped suddenly with a flash from place to place, like electricity on wire in the experiments of the lecture-room. once when i arose at midnight and went out a little beyond the range of our screen, to enjoy in silence the august and grand spectacle, the violence of the wind was such as to take off my unguarded hat, and carry it clear over the brink of the crater, where it lodged for the night, but was recovered with little injury in the morning by one of our courageous natives. one of the early visitors there said that, on coming near the rim, he fell upon his hands and knees awe-struck, and crept cautiously to the rocky brink, unwilling at once to walk up to the giddy verge and look down as from a mast-head upon the fiery gulf at his feet. in a little time, however, like a landsman after a while at sea, he was able to stand very near and gaze unalarmed upon this wonder of the world. i have myself known seamen that had faced unfearingly all the perils of the deep, and had rushed boldly into battle with its mammoth monsters, to stand appalled on the brink of kilauea, and depart without daring to try its abyss. gazing upon it, then, at midnight, so near its brink as we were, was rather venturing upon the edge of safety, as i found to my cost. but woe to the man that should have a fit of somnambulism on the spot where our tent was pitched that last night. baron munchausen's seven-leagued boots could hardly save him from a warm bath in flowing lava cherry-red. morning broke again upon our open encampment, clear and bracing as upon the green mountains of vermont. with fingers burned and bleeding from the climbing and crystal-digging of yesterday, we made all the dispatch possible in collecting and packing specimens, but it was one o'clock before we were ready to leave. having at length got off the natives with their burdens, two for hilo and two for kau, we kneeled for the last time by that wonderful old furnace, where the hand of god works the bellows and keeps up his vast laboratory of elemental fire. then we mounted our horses and bade a final good-by, the one for hilo, and the other for his happy hawaiian home. footnote: [ ] from "_the island world_," a new work soon to be issued from the press of messrs. harper and brothers. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the every-day young lady. the every-day young lady is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor lean. her complexion is not fair, but clear, and her color not bright, but healthy. she is not vulgarly well, but has not the least illness in the world. her face is oval, and her hair, moderate in quantity, is usually of a soft brown. her features are small and unobtrusive: her nose being what the french passports call _moyen_--that is, neither one thing nor t'other--and her eyes as gray as glass, but clear and gentle. it is not the eyes that give her any little character she has; although, if you have nothing else to do, and happen to look at them for a minute or so, they win upon you. they are not varnished eyes, in which you can see nothing but the brightness; and not deep eyes, into which your soul plunges as into a gulf: they are mere common skylights, winning into them a little bit of heaven, and giving you an inkling of good temper and feminine gentleness. neither is it her air, nor manner, nor dress, that stamps her individuality, if she has any, for these belong to the class of society in which she moves; but altogether she gives you an idea of young-womanish refinement and amiableness, and you would think of her again when alone, if there were not so many of her friends about her as to divide and dilute, as it were, your impressions. the every-day young lady is usually dependent upon somebody or other, but sometimes she has a small independence, which is much worse. in the former case she clings like ivy, adorning, by her truth and gentleness, the support she is proud of; while in the other she gives her £ a year to a relation as an inadequate compensation for her board and clothing, and lives in a state of unheard-of bondage and awful gratitude. her life is diversified by friendships, in which her own feelings last the longest; by enmities, in which she suffers and forgives; and by loves--though almost always at second-hand. she is a confidant, a go-between, a bridemaid; but if she finds herself on the brink of a serious flirtation, she shrinks into her own foolish little heart in surprise and timidity, and the affair never becomes any thing but a mystery, which she carries with her through life, and which makes her shake her head on occasions, and look conscious and experienced, so as to give people the idea that this young lady has a history. if the affair does go on, it is a public wonder how she came to get actually married. many persons consider that she must have been playing a part all along for this very purpose; that her timidity and bashfulness were assumed, and her self-denial a _ruse_; and that, in point of fact, she was not by any means what she gave herself out to be--an every-day young lady. for our part we have known many such young ladies in our day--and so have you, and you, and you: the world of society is full of them. we have a notion of our own, indeed, that they are _the sex_; or, in other words, that they are the class from which are drawn our conventional notions of womankind, and that the rest--that is those women who have what is called character--are counterfeit women. the feminine virtues are all of a retiring kind, which does not mean that they are invisible even to strangers, but that they are seen through a half-transparent vail of feminine timidity and self-postponement. in like manner, the _physique_ of women, truly so called, is not remarkable or obtrusive: their eyes do not flash at you like a pistol, nor their voices arrest suddenly your attention, as if they said "stand and deliver!" that men in general admire the exceptions rather than the rule, may be true, but that is owing to bad taste, coarseness of mind, or the mere hurry of society, which prevents them from observing more than its salient points. for our part we have always liked every-day young ladies, and sometimes we felt inclined to love a few of them; but somehow it never went beyond inclination. this may have been owing in part to the headlong life one leads in the world, but in part likewise--if we may venture the surmise--to our own sensitiveness preventing us from poking ourselves upon the sensitiveness of other people. a great many every-day young ladies have been represented in the character of heroines of romance; but there they are called by other names, and made to run about, and get into predicaments, so that one does not know what to make of them. the countess isabelle of croye is an extremely every-day young lady; but look how she runs away, and how she sees a bishop murdered at supper, and how she is going to be married to a wild boar, and how at last, after running away again, she gives her hand and immense possessions to a young scotsman as poor as a church mouse! who can tell, in such a hurry-skurry, what she is in her individuality, or what she would turn out to be if let alone, or if the author had a turn for bringing out every-day characters? then we have every-day young ladies set up for heroines without doing any thing for it at all, and who look in the emergencies of life just as if they were eating bread and butter, or crying over a novel at home. of such is evelina, who has a sweet look for every person, and every thing, in every possible situation, and who is expected, on the strength of that sole endowment, to pass for a heroine of every-day life. this is obviously improper; for an every-day young lady has a principle of development within her like every body else. if you expose her to circumstances, these circumstances must act upon her in one way or another; they must bring her out; and she must win a husband for herself, not get him by accident, blind contact, or the strong necessity of marrying--a necessity which has no alternative in the case of a heroine but the grave. such blunders, however, are now at an end; for a real every-day young lady has come out into public life, and an illumination has been thrown upon the class, which must proceed either from one of themselves or from inspiration.[ ] but we are not going to criticise the book; for that would bring us to loggerheads with the critics, not one of whom has the least notion of the nature of the charm they all confess. this charm consists in its painting an every-day young lady to the life, and for the first time; and it by no means consists, as it is said to do, in the plot, which is but indifferently concocted, or in the incidents, that are sometimes destitute both of social and artistical truth. anne dysart herself, however, is a masterly portrait. its living eyes are upon us from first to last, following us like the eyes of those awful pictures in the dining-room of long ago, which we could not escape from in any corner of the room. but anne's eyes are not awful: they are sweet, calm, gentle. the whole figure is associated with the quieter and better parts of our nature. it comes to us, with its shy looks and half-withdrawn hands, like somebody we knew all our lives, and still know; somebody who walks with us, mellowing, but not interrupting our thoughts; somebody who sits by us when we are writing or reading, and throws a creamy hue upon the paper; somebody whose breath warms us when it is cold, and whose shadow stands between us and the scorching sun; somebody, in short, who gives us assurance, we know not how, of an every-day young lady. to paint a character which has no salient points demands a first-rate artist; but to see the inner life of a quiet, timid, retiring mind, is the exclusive privilege of a poet. to suppose that there is no inner life in such minds, or none worth observing, is a grand mistake. the crested wave may be a picturesque or striking object in itself; but under the calm, smooth surface of the passionless sea there are beautiful things to behold--painted shells, and corals, and yellow sands, and sea-plants stretching their long waving arms up to the light. how many of us sail on without giving a glance to such things, our eyes fixed on the frowning or inviting headland, or peopling the desert air with phantoms! just so do we turn away from what seems to us the void of every-day life to grapple with the excitements of the world. anne dysart is not miss douglas's anne dysart: she is yours, ours, everybody's. she is the very every-day young lady. the author did not invent her: she found her where the highlandman found the tongs--by the fireside. and that is her true position, where alone she is at home. when she goes into society, unless it be among associates, she is always under some sort of alarm. she is told that there is company in the drawing-room, strangers come to visit--young ladies celebrated for their beauty and accomplishments--and she treads the stairs with a beating heart, feeling awkward and ignorant, and enters with a desperate calmness. the visitors, however, like her, she is so modest and unobtrusive; and the every-day young lady is charmed and even affected by their patronizing kindness. she is reputed by these persons as a "nice girl, rather amiable-looking, but not in the least like the heroine of a novel." when she visits them in return, she is at first oppressed with a feeling of shyness, but at length still more overpowered by the kindness with which she is received, and she walks to the window to conceal her emotion. in this position our anne--for we deny that miss douglas has any special property in her--comes out strong: "as anne now stood, dressed in deep mourning, the blackness of her garments only relieved by a small white collar and a pair of cuffs, the expression of her countenance very pensive, her eyes shining mildly in the sunlight which was reflected from the crimson curtain upon her at present somewhat pale cheek, mrs. grey, as she whispered to charlotte, 'really, poor thing, she does look very interesting!' felt the influence of her peculiar charm, without, however, comprehending its source." anne attracts the attention of one of the company, a harsh-featured, ungraceful person, under forty, with a large mouth, determined lips, deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a confused mass of dark hair hanging over a large and full forehead. whereupon she instantly feels uncomfortable and frightened. but for all that, it is settled that the _bête noir_ walks home with her; and resting the tips of her fingers on his arm, onward they go, these two fated individuals, in solemn silence. the conversation which at length begins consists of unpolite questions on the gentleman's part, and constrained answers on that of the lady; but at length she is saved from replying to a specially disagreeable and impertinent interrogatory by stumbling over a stone. "_did you fall on purpose?_" said he. the every-day young lady is both frightened and displeased, and being further urged, feels something actually resembling indignation. when they part, it is with a feeling on her part of inexpressible relief, and she thinks to herself that she had never before met so singular or so disagreeable a man. this is unpromising: but it is correct. the every-day young lady _thinks_ of the rough, odd man; and he is struck now and then by a word or a look in her which piques his curiosity or interests his feelings. he at length learns to look into her calm, soft eyes, and sees through the passionless surface of her character some precious things gleaming in its depths. the following quotation will show at what length he arrives: "anne pondered for a few minutes. she had a rather slow though a sound understanding. there was some truth in what mr. bolton said, but so great a want of charity, that she felt from the first as if, some way or other, he could not be quite right. it was some time, however, ere she discovered how he was wrong, and even then perhaps could not have defined it." she answered gravely and modestly, but with less timidity than usual. "but still, mr. bolton, it is possible to be both agreeable and sincere. i know it is possible, because i have seen it; and i think that though there is some truth in what you say, yet, as far as my very limited experience justifies me in forming an opinion, i should say that truth, united with kindness, _is_ appreciated; indeed i am sure some people have been liked who never flattered: i knew one person at least whom every body loved, who would not have told a falsehood for the world, and who _was_ all he _seemed_." "i suppose you mean your father? well, without exactly sharing in your filial enthusiasm, i am inclined to believe that he was a superior man." "are you indeed? why, may i ask?" said anne very timidly, and venturing for the first time to put a question in her turn. "why?" he repeated, with a momentary return of the wonderful smile. "because his daughter has rather more simplicity of mind, rather more purity of heart, rather more intelligence, rather less frivolity, rather less artifice, rather fewer coquettish tricks to flatter the vanity, and entrap the admiration, of silly men--in short, rather more _sincerity_ than one meets every day; i guess she must have had a father somewhat above the average." mr. bolton spoke in a low tone, and there was in his voice a depth and a softness that struck his listener's ear as being altogether different from its wont. whatever this difference might be, however, it was not lasting, for when, after a moment's pause, he spoke again, it was with an exaggeration even of his ordinary harshness both of voice and manner: "but you need not fancy i am paying you a compliment. you are no angel; and even during our short acquaintance, i have discovered in you some faults and follies, and doubtless there are others behind. in some respects you are very childish, or perhaps it would be as correct to say _womanish_." with this rude speech, mr. bolton concluded, drawing back with an air of having nothing more to say, and assuming a look which seemed to forbid any one to speak to him. but this wild man chooses her for a wife, proposes for her hand--and is refused. why so? because she was an every-day young lady. he was rich; he had good points--nay, great ones, in his character: but he was an uncomfortable man. she could not love him, and she could not think of marrying a man she could not love. had it been the young clergyman, the case would have been different. a nice young man was he; and, like all other young ladies of her class, anne had her dreams of gentle happiness, and congeniality of temper, and poetry, and flowers, and sunsets, and a genteel cottage. but the young clergyman could not afford to think of an almost penniless girl for a wife; and so poor anne's episode was ended before it was well begun; and the affair would have assumed in her solitary heart the enduring form of a mystery, if exigencies had not arisen to call forth feelings and resolves that brook no such unsubstantial companions. this every-day young lady had a brother in edinburgh, and the brother fell into folly, and misery, and sickness, and desperate poverty. he wanted a friend, a nurse, a servant, and she knew that his bedside was her natural post. the difficulty was to get so far with her poor little funds; but this is accomplished, and instead of the outside of the mail on a wintry night, she has even had the good-fortune to enjoy an inside seat, some gentleman being seized with the caprice of encountering the frost and snow. this gentleman, she discovers afterward, is her discarded lover; and he--how many discoveries does he make! the every-day young lady, thrown into the battle of circumstances, rises with the strife. she who had been accustomed to sit silent, seeming to agree with others in what was untrue, merely from want of courage, now endures without flinching the extremities even of actual want. now come out, one by one, obvious to the sight, the thousand beautiful things in the depths of her quiet mind; and the eyes of the odd gentleman are dimmed with emotion as he looks at them. already had she begun to wonder at this man, to call his austerity melancholy, to grieve that he was unhappy, to think what he could be thinking about; and now, when she and her darling brother are saved, protected, held up by his strong hand, the hold he takes of her imagination communicates itself insensibly to her heart. his features lose their harshness; his deep-set eyes become soft; his lips relax; and finally, he cuts his hair. what more needs be said? but we take leave to disagree with this individual in his idea that anne dysart has more simplicity, purity, and quiet intelligence than other every-day young ladies. she is, on the contrary, nothing more than a type of the class; and the fact is proved by the resemblance in her portrait being at once recognized. we do not stand upon the color of her hair, or eyes, or other physical characteristics, for these are mere averages, and may be very different in our anne and yours; but her shyness, hesitation, and cowardice--her modesty, gentleness, and truth--these are stereotyped traits, and are the same in all. but when such qualities rise, or become metamorphosed, to meet the exigencies of life, how do we recognize them? by intuition. we acknowledge in others the principle of development we feel in ourselves. our fault is, that we pass over as worthy of no remark, no careful tending, no holy reverence, the slumbering germs of all that is good and beautiful in the female character, and suffer our attention to be engrossed by its affectations and monstrosities. let us correct this fever of the taste. let us learn to enjoy the still waters and quiet pastures. when we see an every-day young lady flitting about our rooms, or crossing our paths, or wandering by our side, let us regard her no more as if she were a shadow, or a part of the common atmosphere, necessary, though unheeded; let us look upon her with fondness and respect, and if we would be blessed ourselves, let us say--god bless her! footnote: [ ] anne dysart, a tale of every-day life. vols. london: colburn. . [from dickens's household words.] history and anecdotes of bank note forgeries. viotti's division of violin-playing into two great classes--good playing and bad playing--is applicable to bank note making. the processes employed in manufacturing good bank notes have been often described; we shall now cover a few pages with a faint outline of the various arts, stratagems, and contrivances employed in concocting bad bank notes. the picture can not be drawn with very distinct or strong markings. the tableaux from which it is copied are so intertwisted and complicated with clever, slippery, ingenious scoundrelism, that a finished chart of it would be worse than morally displeasing: it would be tedious. all arts require time and experience for their development. when any thing great is to be done, first attempts are nearly always failures. the first bank note forgery was no exception to this rule, and its story has a spice of romance in it. the affair has never been circumstantially told; but some research enables us to detail it: in the month of august, , a gentleman living in the neighborhood of lincoln's inn fields, named bliss, advertised for a clerk. there were, as was usual even at that time, many applicants; but the successful one was a young man of twenty-six, named richard william vaughan. his manners were so winning, and his demeanor so much that of a gentleman (he belonged indeed to a good county family in staffordshire, and had been a student at pembroke hall, oxford), that mr. bliss at once engaged him. nor had he occasion, during the time the new clerk served him, to repent the step. vaughan was so diligent, intelligent, and steady, that not even when it transpired that he was, commercially speaking, "under a cloud," did his master lessen confidence in him. some inquiry into his antecedents showed that he had, while at college, been extravagant; that his friends had removed him thence; set him up in stafford as a wholesale linen-draper, with a branch establishment in aldersgate-street, london; that he had failed, and that there was some difficulty about his certificate. but so well did he excuse his early failings, and account for his misfortunes, that his employer did not check the regard he felt growing toward him. their intercourse was not merely that of master and servant. vaughan was a frequent guest at bliss's table; by-and-by a daily visitor to his wife, and--to his ward. miss bliss was a young lady of some attractions, not the smallest of which was a handsome fortune. young vaughan made the most of his opportunities. he was well-looking, well-informed, dressed well, and evidently made love well, for he won the young lady's heart. the guardian was not flinty-hearted, and acted like a sensible man of the world. "it was not," he said on a subsequent and painful occasion, "till i learned from the servants, and observed by the girl's behavior, that she greatly approved richard vaughan, that i consented; but on condition that he should make it appear that he could maintain her. i had no doubt of his character as a servant, and i knew his family were respectable. his brother is an eminent attorney." vaughan boasted that his mother (his father was dead) was willing to re-instate him in business with a thousand pounds; five hundred of which was to be settled upon miss bliss for her separate use. so far all went on prosperously. providing richard vaughan could attain a position satisfactory to the blisses, the marriage was to take place on the easter monday following, which, the calendar tells us, happened early in april, . with this understanding, he left mr. bliss's service, to push his fortune. months passed on, and vaughan appears to have made no way in the world. he had not even obtained his bankrupt's certificate. his visits to his affianced were frequent, and his protestations passionate; but he had effected nothing substantial toward a happy union. miss bliss's guardian grew impatient; and, although there is no evidence to prove that the young lady's affection for vaughan was otherwise than deep and sincere, yet even she began to lose confidence in him. his excuses were evidently evasive, and not always true. the time fixed for the wedding was fast approaching; and vaughan saw that something must be done to restore the young lady's confidence. about three weeks before the appointed easter tuesday, vaughan went to his mistress in high spirits. all was right: his certificate was to be granted in a day or two; his family had come forward with the money, and he was to continue the aldersgate business he had previously carried on as a branch of the stafford trade. the capital he had waited so long for, was at length forthcoming. in fact, here were two hundred and forty pounds of the five hundred he was to settle on his beloved. vaughan then produced twelve twenty-pound notes; miss bliss could scarcely believe her eyes. she examined them. the paper she remarked seemed rather thicker than usual. "oh," said bliss, "all bank bills are not alike." the girl was naturally much pleased. she would hasten to apprize mistress bliss of the good news. not for the world! so far from letting any living soul know he had placed so much money in her hands, vaughan exacted an oath of secresy from her, and sealed the notes up in a parcel with his own seal; making her swear that she would on no account open it till after their marriage. some days after, that is, "on the twenty-second of march," ( )--we are describing the scene in mr. bliss's own words--"i was sitting with my wife by the fireside. the prisoner and the girl were sitting in the same room--which was a small one--and, although they whispered, i could distinguish that vaughan was very urgent to have something returned which he had previously given to her. she refused, and vaughan went away in an angry mood. i then studied the girl's face, and saw that it expressed much dissatisfaction. presently a tear broke out. i then spoke, and insisted on knowing the dispute. she refused to tell, and i told her that, until she did, i would not see her. the next day i asked the same question of vaughan; he hesitated. 'oh!' i said, 'i dare say it is some ten or twelve pound matter--something to buy a wedding bauble with.' he answered that it was much more than that--it was near three hundred pounds! 'but why all this secresy?' i said; and he answered it was not proper for people to know he had so much money till his certificate was signed. i then asked him to what intent he had left the notes with the young lady? he said, as i had of late suspected him, he designed to give her a proof of his affection and truth. i said, 'you have demanded them in such a way that it must be construed as an abatement of your affection toward her.'" vaughan was again exceedingly urgent in asking back the packet; but bliss, remembering his many evasions, and supposing that this was a trick, declined advising his niece to restore the parcel without proper consideration. the very next day it was discovered that the notes were counterfeit. this occasioned stricter inquiries into vaughan's previous career. it turned out that he bore the character in his native place of a dissipated, and not very scrupulous person. the intention of his mother to assist him was an entire fabrication, and he had given miss bliss the forged notes solely for the purpose of deceiving her on that matter. meanwhile the forgeries became known to the authorities, and he was arrested. by what means, does not clearly appear. the "annual register" says that one of the engravers gave information; but we find nothing in the newspapers of the time to support that statement; neither was it corroborated at vaughan's trial. when vaughan was arrested he thrust a piece of paper into his mouth, and began to chew it violently. it was, however, rescued, and proved to be one of the forged notes; fourteen of them were found on his person, and when his lodgings were searched twenty more were discovered. vaughan was tried at the old bailey, on the seventh of april, before lord mansfield. the manner of the forgery was detailed minutely at the trial: on the first of march (about a week before he gave the twelve notes to the young lady), vaughan called on mr. john corbould, an engraver, and gave an order for a promissory note to be engraved with these words: "no. ----. "i promise to pay to ----, or bearer, ----, london ----." there was to be a britannia in the corner. when it was done, mr. sneed (for that was the _alias_ vaughan adopted), came again, but objected to the execution of the work. the britannia was not good, and the words "i promise" were too near the edge of the plate. another was in consequence engraved, and on the fourth of march, vaughan took it away. he immediately repaired to a printer, and had forty-eight impressions taken on thin paper, provided by himself. meanwhile, he had ordered, on the same morning, of mr. charles fourdrinier, another engraver, a second plate, with what he called "a direction," in the words, "for the governor and company of the bank of england." this was done, and about a week later he brought some paper, each sheet "folded up," said the witness, "very curiously, so that i could not see what was in them. i was going to take the papers from him, but he said he must go up-stairs with me, and see them worked off himself. i took him up-stairs; he would not let me have them out of his hands. i took a sponge and wetted them, and put them one by one on the plate in order for printing them. after my boy had done two or three of them, i went down-stairs, and my boy worked the rest off, and the prisoner came down and paid me." here the court pertinently asked, "what imagination had you when a man thus came to you to print on secret paper, 'the governor and company of the bank of england?'" the engraver's reply was: "i then did not suspect any thing. but i shall take care for the future." as this was the first bank of england note forgery that was ever perpetrated, the engraver was held excused. it may be mentioned as an evidence of the delicacy of the reporters, that, in their account of the trial, miss bliss's name is not mentioned. her designation is "a young lady." we subjoin the notes of her evidence: "a young lady (sworn). the prisoner delivered me some bills; these are the same (producing twelve counterfeit bank notes sealed up in a cover, for twenty pounds each), said that they were bank bills. i said they were thicker paper--he said all bills are not alike. i was to keep them till after we were married. he put them into my hands to show he put confidence in me, and desired me not to show them to any body; sealed them up with his own seal, and obliged me by an oath not to discover them to any body. and i did not till he had discovered them himself. he was to settle so much in stock on me." vaughan urged in his defense, that his sole object was to deceive his affianced, and that he intended to destroy all the notes after his marriage. but it had been proved that the prisoner had asked one john ballingar to change first one, and then twenty of the notes; but which that person was unable to do. besides, had his sole object been to dazzle miss bliss with his fictitious wealth, he would, most probably, have intrusted more, if not all the notes, to her keeping. he was found guilty, and passed the day that had been fixed for his wedding, as a condemned criminal. on the th of may, , richard william vaughan was executed at tyburn. by his side, on the same gallows, there was another forger: william boodgere, a military officer, who had forged a draught on an army agent named calcroft, and expiated the offense with the first forger of bank of england notes. the gallows may seem hard measure to have meted out to vaughan, when it is considered that none of his notes were negotiated, and no person suffered by his fraud. not one of the forty-eight notes, except the twelve delivered to miss bliss, had been out of his possession; indeed, the imitation must have been very clumsily executed, and detection would have instantly followed any attempt to pass the counterfeits. there was no endeavor to copy the style of engraving on a real bank note. that was left to the engraver; and as each sheet passed through the press twice, the words added at the second printing, "for the governor and company of the bank of england," could have fallen into their proper place on any one of the sheets, only by a miracle. but what would have made the forgery clear to even a superficial observer, was the singular omission, of the second "n" in the word england.[ ] the criticism on vaughan's note of a bank clerk examined on the trial was: "there is some resemblance, to be sure; but this note" (that upon which the prisoner was tried) "is numbered thirteen thousand eight hundred and forty, and we never reach so high a number." besides there was no water-mark in the paper. the note of which a fac-simile appeared in our eighteenth number, and dated so early as , has a regular design in the texture of the paper; showing that the water-mark is as old as the bank notes themselves. vaughan was greatly commiserated. but despite the unskillfulness of the forgery, and the insignificant consequences which followed it, the crime was considered of too dangerous a character not to be marked, from its very novelty, with exemplary punishment. hanging created at that time no remorse in the public mind, and it was thought necessary to set up vaughan as a warning to all future bank-note forgers. the crime was too dangerous not to be marked with the severest penalties. forgery differs from other crimes not less in the magnitude of the spoil it may obtain, and of the injury it inflicts, than in the facilities attending its accomplishment. the common thief finds a limit to his depredations in the bulkiness of his booty, which is generally confined to such property as he can carry about his person; the swindler raises insuperable and defeating obstacles to his frauds if the amount he seeks to obtain is so considerable as to awaken close vigilance or inquiry. to carry their projects to any very profitable extent, these criminals are reduced to the hazardous necessity of acting in concert, and thus infinitely increasing the risks of detection. but the forger need have no accomplice; he is burdened with no bulky and suspicious property; he needs no receiver to assist his contrivances. the skill of his own individual right hand can command thousands; often with the certainty of not being detected, and oftener with such rapidity as to enable him to baffle the pursuit of justice. it was a long time before vaughan's rude attempt was improved upon: but in the same year ( ), another department of the crime was commenced with perfect success; namely, an ingenious alteration, for fraudulent purposes, of real bank notes. a few months after vaughan's execution, one of the northern mails was stopped and robbed by a highwayman; several bank notes were comprised in the spoil, and the robber, setting up with these as a gentleman, went boldly to the hatfield post-office, ordered a chaise and four, rattled away down the road, and changed a note at every change of horses. the robbery was, of course, soon made known, and the numbers and dates of the stolen notes were advertised as having been stopped at the bank. to the genius of a highwayman this offered but a small obstacle, and the gentleman-thief changed all the figures " " he could find into " 's." these notes passed currently enough; but, on reaching the bank, the alteration was detected, and the last holder was refused payment. as that person had given a valuable consideration for the note, he brought an action for the recovery of the amount; and at the trial it was ruled by the lord chief justice, that "any person paying a valuable consideration for a bank note, payable to bearer, in a fair course of business, has an understood right to receive the money of the bank." it took a quarter of a century to bring the art of forging bank notes to perfection. in , this was nearly attained by an ingenious gentleman, named mathison, a watchmaker from the matrimonial village of gretna green. having learned the arts of engraving and of simulating signatures, he tried his hand at the notes of the darlington bank; but, with the confidence of skill, was not cautious in passing them, was suspected, and absconded to edinburgh. scorning to let his talent be wasted, he favored the scottish public with many spurious royal bank of scotland notes, and regularly forged his way by their aid to london. at the end of february he took handsome lodgings in the strand, opposite arundel-street. his industry was remarkable: for, by the th of march, he had planed and polished rough pieces of copper, engraved them, forged the water-mark, printed and negotiated several impressions. his plan was to travel and to purchase articles in shops. he bought a pair of shoe-buckles at coventry with a forged note, which was eventually detected at the bank of england. he had got so bold that he paid such frequent visits in threadneedle-street, that the bank clerks became familiar with his person. he was continually changing notes of one, for another denomination. these were his originals, which he procured to make spurious copies of. one day seven thousand pounds came in from the stamp office. there was a dispute about one of the notes. mathison, who was present, though at some distance, declared, oracularly, that the note was a good one. how could he know so well? a dawn of suspicion arose in the minds of the clerks; one trail led into another, and mathison was finally apprehended. so well were his notes forged that, on the trial, an experienced bank clerk declared, he could not tell whether the note handed him to examine was forged or not. mathison offered to reveal his secret of forging the water-mark, if mercy were shown to him; this was refused, and he suffered the penalty of his crime. mathison was a genius in his criminal way, but a greater than he appeared in . in that year perfection seemed to have been reached. so considerable was the circulation of spurious paper-money, that it appeared as if some unknown power had set up a bank of its own. notes were issued from it, and readily passed current, in hundreds and thousands. they were not to be distinguished from the genuine paper of threadneedle-street. indeed, when one was presented there, in due course, so complete were all its parts; so masterly the engraving; so correct the signatures; so skillful the water-mark, that it was promptly paid; and only discovered to be a forgery when it reached a particular department. from that period forged paper continued to be presented, especially at the time of lottery drawing. consultations were held with the police. plans were laid to help detection. every effort was made to trace the forger. clarke, the best detective of his day, went, like a sluth-hound, on the track; for in those days the expressive word "blood-money" was known. up to a certain point there was little difficulty; but, beyond that, consummate art defied the ingenuity of the officer. in whatever way the notes came, the train of discovery always paused at the lottery-offices. advertisements offering large rewards were circulated; but the unknown forger baffled detection. while this base paper was in full currency, there appeared an advertisement in the daily advertiser for a servant. the successful applicant was a young man, in the employment of a musical-instrument maker; who, some time after, was called upon by a coachman, and informed that the advertiser was waiting in a coach to see him. the young man was desired to enter the conveyance, where he beheld a person with something of the appearance of a foreigner, sixty or seventy years old, apparently troubled with the gout. a camlet surtout was buttoned round his mouth; a large patch was placed over his left eye; and nearly every part of his face was concealed. he affected much infirmity. he had a faint hectic cough; and invariably presented the patched side to the view of the servant. after some conversation--in the course of which he represented himself as guardian to a young nobleman of great fortune--the interview concluded with the engagement of the applicant; and the new servant was directed to call on mr. brank, at , titchfield-street, oxford-street. at this interview, brank inveighed against his whimsical ward for his love of speculating in lottery tickets; and told the servant that his principal duty would be to purchase them. after one or two meetings, at each of which brank kept his face muffled, he handed a forty and twenty pound bank note; told the servant to be very careful not to lose them; and directed him to buy lottery-tickets at separate offices. the young man fulfilled his instructions, and at the moment he was returning, was suddenly called by his employer from the other side of the street, congratulated on his rapidity, and then told to go to various other offices in the neighborhood of the royal exchange, and to purchase more shares. four hundred pounds in bank of england notes were handed him, and the wishes of the mysterious mr. brank were satisfactorily effected. these scenes were continually enacted. notes to a large amount were thus circulated; lottery-tickets purchased; and mr. brank--always in a coach, with his face studiously concealed--was ever ready on the spot to receive them. the surprise of the servant was somewhat excited; but had he known that from the period he left his master to purchase the tickets, one female figure accompanied all his movements; that when he entered the offices, it waited at the door, peered cautiously in at the window, hovered around him like a second shadow, watched him carefully, and never left him until once more he was in the company of his employer--that surprise would have been greatly increased.[ ] again and again were these extraordinary scenes rehearsed. at last the bank obtained a clew, and the servant was taken into custody. the directors imagined that they had secured the actor of so many parts; that the flood of forged notes which had inundated that establishment would at length be dammed up at its source. their hopes proved fallacious, and it was found that "old patch" (as the mysterious forger was, from the servant's description, nick-named) had been sufficiently clever to baffle the bank directors. the house in titchfield-street was searched; but mr. brank had deserted it, and not a trace of a single implement of forgery was to be seen. all that could be obtained was some little knowledge of "old patch's" proceedings. it appeared that he carried on his paper coining entirely by himself. his only confidant was his mistress. he was his own engraver. he even made his own ink. he manufactured his own paper. with a private press he worked his own notes; and counterfeited the signatures of the cashiers, completely. but these discoveries had no effect; for it became evident that mr. patch had set up a press elsewhere. although his secret continued as impenetrable, his notes became as plentiful as ever. five years of unbounded prosperity ought to have satisfied him; but it did not. success seemed to pall him. his genius was of that insatiable order which demands new excitements, and a constant succession of new flights. the following paragraph from a newspaper of relates to the same individual: "on the th of december, ten pounds were paid into the bank, for which the clerk, as usual, gave a ticket to receive a bank note of equal value. this ticket ought to have been carried immediately to the cashier, instead of which the bearer took it home, and curiously added an to the original sum, and returning, presented it so altered to the cashier, for which he received a note of one hundred pounds. in the evening, the clerks found a deficiency in the accounts; and on examining the tickets of the day, not only that but two others were discovered to have been obtained in the same manner. in the one, the figure was altered to , and in another to , by which the artist received, upon the whole, nearly one thousand pounds." to that princely felony, old patch, as will be seen in the sequel, added smaller misdemeanors which one would think were far beneath his notice; except to convince himself and his mistress of the unbounded facility of his genius for fraud. at that period, the affluent public were saddled with a tax on plate; and many experiments were made to evade it. among others, one was invented by a mr. charles price, a stock-jobber and lottery-office keeper, which, for a time, puzzled the tax-gatherer. mr. charles price lived in great style, gave splendid dinners, and did every thing on the grandest scale. yet mr. charles price had no plate! the authorities could not find so much as a silver tooth-pick on his magnificent premises. in truth, what he was too cunning to possess, he borrowed. for one of his sumptuous entertainments, he hired the plate of a silversmith in cornhill, and left the value in bank notes as security for its safe return. one of these notes having proved a forgery, was traced to mr. charles price; and mr. charles price was not to be found at that particular juncture. although this excited no surprise--for he was often an absentee from his office for short periods--yet in due course, and as a formal matter of business, an officer was set to find him, and to ask his explanation regarding the false note. after tracing a man, who he had a strong notion was mr. charles price, through countless lodgings and innumerable disguises, the officer (to use his own expression) "nabbed" mr. charles price. but, as mr. clarke observed, his prisoner and his prisoner's lady were even then "too many" for him; for, although he lost not a moment in trying to secure the forging implements, after he had discovered that mr. charles price, and mr. brank, and old patch, were all concentrated in the person of his prisoner, he found the lady had destroyed every trace of evidence. not a vestige of the forging factory was left. not the point of a graver, nor a single spot of ink, nor a shred of silver paper, nor a scrap of any body's handwriting, was to be met with. despite, however, this paucity of evidence to convict him, mr. charles price had not the courage to face a jury, and eventually he saved the judicature and the tyburn executive much trouble and expense, by hanging himself in bridewell. the success of mr. charles price has never been surpassed; and even after the darkest era in the history of bank forgeries--which dates from the suspension of cash payments, in february, --"old patch" was still remembered as the cæsar of forgers. footnotes: [ ] bad orthography was by no means uncommon in the most important documents at that period; the days of the week, in the day-books of the bank of england itself, are spelled in a variety of ways. [ ] francis's history of the bank of england. the oldest inhabitant of the place de greve. the police courts of london have often displayed many a curious character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so have the police courts in ireland, especially at the petty sessions in kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and peculiar humor occurs in the police _tribuneaux_ of paris. we will proceed to give the reader a "taste of their quality." an extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in the streets, and the police having good-naturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the court. several magistrates were sitting. the following dialogue took place between the president and the old woman. _president._--now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? you have been frequently warned by the police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging. _old woman (in a humble, quavering tone)._--ah, monsieur le president, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. i am a very old woman. _pres._--come, come, you must leave off begging, or i shall be obliged to punish you. _old w._--but, monsieur le president, i can not live without--i must beg--pardon me, monsieur--i am obliged to beg. _pres._--but i say you must not. can you do no work? _old w._--ah, no, monsieur; i am too old. _pres._--can't you sell something--little cakes--bonbons? _old w._--no, monsieur, i can't get any little stock to begin with; and, if i could, i should be robbed by the _gamins_, or the little girls, for i'm not very quick, and can't see well. _pres._--your relations must support you, then. you can not be allowed to beg. have you no son--no daughter--no grandchildren? _old w._--no, monsieur; none--none--all my relations are dead. _pres._--well then, your friends must give you assistance. _old w._--ah, monsieur, i have no friends; and, indeed, i never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone. _pres._--and who was he? _old w._--monsieur de robespierre--_le pauvre, cher homme_! (the poor, dear man!) _pres._--robespierre!--why what did you know of him? _old w._--oh, monsieur, my mother was one of the _tricoteurs_ (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and i always stood beside her. when monsieur de robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) _la belle marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme_! we must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the _tricoteurs_, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the "furies;" but only as a grim jest. it is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the _spectacle_. _pres._--well, goody; finish your history. _old w._--i was married soon after this, and then i used to take my seat as a _tricoteur_ among the others; and on the days when monsieur de robespierre passed, he used always to notice me--_le pauvre, cher homme_. i used then to be called _la belle tricoteuse_, but now--now, i am called _la vielle radoteuse_ (the old dotardess). ah, monsieur le president, it is what we must all come to! the old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at the president, which completely involved him in the _we_, thus presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged heart. _pres._--ahem!--silence! you seem to have a very tender recollection of monsieur robespierre. i suppose you had reason to be grateful to him? _old w._--no, monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined my husband. _pres._--certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory. _old w._--ah, monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. monsieur de robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband--he had him executed by mistake for somebody else--_le pauvre, cher homme_! thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the "poor dear man" referred to her husband, or to monsieur de robespierre; or whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] story of a kite. the setting sun beamed in golden light over the country; long shadows lay on the cool grass; the birds, which had been silent through the sultry heat of the day, sang their joyous evening hymn: the merry voices of the village children sounded through the clear air, while their fathers loitered about enjoying the luxury of rest after labor. a sun-burned traveler, with dusty shoes, walked sturdily along the high road: he was young and strong, and his ruddy cheeks glowed in the warm light: he carried his baggage on a stick over his shoulder, and looked straight on toward the cottages of the village; and you might see, by the expression of his face, that his eye was earnestly watching for the first glimpse of the home that lay among them, to which he was returning. the same setting sun threw his golden beams over the great metropolis: they lighted up streets, and squares, and parks, whence crowds were retiring from business or pleasure to their various places of abode or gay parties: they pierced even through the smoke of the city, and gilded its great central dome; but when they reached the labyrinth of lanes and courts which it incloses, their radiance was gone, for noxious vapors rose there after the heat of the day, and quenched them. the summer sun is dreaded in those places. the dusky light found its way with difficulty through a small and dim window into an upper room of a house in one of these lanes, and any one entering it would at first have thought it was void of any living inhabitant, had not the restless tossing and oppressed breathing that proceeded from a bed in one corner borne witness to the contrary. a weak sickly boy lay there, his eye fixed on the door. it opened, and he started up in bed; but at the sight of another boy, a few years older than himself, who came in alone, he sunk back again, crying in a plaintive voice, "don't you see her coming yet?" "no, she is not in sight: i ran to the corner of the lane, and could see nothing of her," replied the elder boy, who, as he spoke, knelt down before the grate, and began to arrange some sticks in it. every thing in the room bespoke poverty; yet there was an appearance of order, and as much cleanliness as can be attained in such an abode. among the scanty articles of furniture there was one object that was remarkable as being singularly out of place, and apparently very useless there: it was a large paper kite, that hung from a nail on the wall, and nearly reached from the low ceiling to the floor. "there's eight o'clock just struck, john," said the little boy in bed. "go and look once more if mother's not coming yet." "it's no use looking, jem. it won't make her come any faster; but i'll go to please you." "i hear some one on the stairs." "it's only mrs. willis going into the back-room." "oh dear, dear, what _shall_ i do?" "don't cry, jem. look, now i've put the wood all ready to boil the kettle the minute mother comes, and she'll bring you some tea: she said she would. now i'm going to sweep up the dust, and make it all tidy." jem was quieted for a few minutes by looking at his brother's busy operations, carried on in a bustling, rattling way, to afford all the amusement possible; but the feverish restlessness soon returned. "take me up, do take me up," he cried; "and hold me near the broken pane, please, john;" and he stretched out his white, wasted hands. john kindly lifted out the poor little fellow, and dragging a chair to the window, sat down with him on his knee, and held his face close to the broken pane, through which, however, no air seemed to come, and he soon began to cry again. "what is it, jem?--what's the matter?" said a kind voice at the door, where a woman stood, holding by the hand a pale child. "i want mother," sobbed jem. "mother's out at work, mrs. willis," said john; "and she thought she should be home at half-past seven; but she's kept later sometimes." "don't cry," said mrs. willis's little girl, coming forward. "here's my orange for you." jem took it, and put it to his mouth; but he stopped, and asked john to cut it in two; gave back half to the little girl, made john taste the portion he kept, and then began to suck the cooling fruit with great pleasure, only pausing to say, with a smile, "thank you, mary." "now lie down again, and try to go to sleep; there's a good boy," said mrs. willis; "and mother will soon be here. i must go now." jem was laid in bed once more; but he tossed about restlessly, and the sad wail began again. "i'll tell you what," said john, "if you will stop crying, i'll take down poor harry's kite, and show you how he used to fly it." "but mother don't like us to touch it." "no; but she will not mind when i tell her why i did it this once. look at the pretty blue and red figures on it. harry made it, and painted it all himself; and look at the long tail!" "but how did he fly it? can't you show me how poor harry used to fly it?" john mounted on a chest, and holding the kite at arm's length, began to wave it about, and to make the tail shake, while jem sat up admiring. "this was the way he used to hold it up. then he took the string that was fastened here--mother has got it in the chest--and he held the string in his hand, and when the wind came, and sent the kite up, he let the string run through his hand, and up it went over the trees, up--up--and he ran along in the fields, and it flew along under the blue sky." john waved the kite more energetically as he described, and both the boys were so engrossed by it, that they did not observe that the mother, so longed for, had come in, and had sunk down on a chair near the door, her face bent and nearly hidden by the rusty crape on her widow's bonnet, while the tears fell fast on her faded black gown. "oh mother, mother!" cried jem, who saw her first, "come and take me--come and comfort me!" the poor woman rose quickly, wiped her eyes, and hastened to her sick child, who was soon nestled in her arms, and seemed to have there forgotten all his woes. the kind, good-natured john had meanwhile hung up the kite in its place, and was looking rather anxiously at his mother, for he well understood the cause of the grief that had overcome her at the sight of his occupation, when she first came in; but she stroked his hair, looked kindly at him, and bade him make the kettle boil, and get the things out of her basket. all that was wanted for their simple supper was in it, and it was not long before little jem was again laid down after the refreshment of tea; then a mattress was put in a corner for john, who was soon asleep; and the mother, tired with her day's hard work, took her place in the bed by the side of her child. but the tears that had rolled fast down her cheeks as her lips moved in prayer before sleep came upon her, still made their way beneath the closed eyelids, and jem awoke her by saying, as he stroked her face with his hot hand, "don't cry, mother; we won't touch it again!" "it's not that, my child; no, no: it's the thought of my own harry. i think i see his pleasant face, and his curly hair, and his merry eyes looking up after his kite." it was not often she spoke out her griefs; but now, in the silent night, it seemed to comfort her. "tell me about him, mother, and about his going away? i like to hear you tell about him." "he worked with father, you know, and a clever workman he learned to be." "but he was much older than me. shall i ever be a good workman, mother?" the question made her heart ache with a fresh anguish, and she could not answer it; but replied to his first words, "yes, he was much older. we laid three of our children in the grave between him and john. harry was seventeen when his uncle took him to serve out his time in a merchant-ship. uncle ben, that was ship's carpenter, it was that took him.--the voyage was to last a year and a half, for they were to go to all manner of countries far, far away. one letter i had. it came on a sad day the day after poor father died, jem. and then i had to leave our cottage in our own village, and bring you two to london, to find work to keep you; but i have always taken care to leave word where i was to be found, and have often gone to ask after letters. not one has ever come again; and it's six months past the time when they looked for the ship, and they don't know what to think. but i know what i think: the sea has rolled over my dear boy, and i shall never see him again--never, never in this weary world." "don't cry so, mother dear; i'll try to go to sleep, and not make you talk." "yes--try; and if you can only get better, that will comfort me most." both closed their eyes, and sleep came upon them once more. it was eight o'clock in the morning when the little boy awoke, and then he was alone; but to that he was accustomed. his mother was again gone to work, and john was out cleaning knives and shoes in the neighborhood. the table, with a small piece of bread and a cup of blue milk and water on it, stood beside him. he drank a little, but could not eat, and then lay down again with his eyes fixed on harry's kite. "could he fly it," or rather, "could he see john fly it--really out of doors and in the air?" that was of all things what he most longed to do. he wondered where the fields were, and if he could ever go there and see the kite fly under the blue sky. then he wondered if john could fly it in the lane. he crept out of bed, and tottered to the window. the lane was very wet and slushy, and a nasty black gutter ran down it, and oozed out among the broken stones. there had been a heavy thunder-shower in the night, and as there was no foot pavement, and what stones there were, were very uneven and scattered, the black pools lodged among them, and altogether it seemed impossible for a boy to fly a kite there; for "how could he run along holding the string? he would tumble among the dirty pools. there were only four children to be seen in it now, out of all the numbers that lived in the houses, though it was a warm summer morning, and they were dabbling with naked feet in the mud, and their ragged clothes were all draggled. mother would never let him and john do like that." still he stood, first examining the window, then looking at the kite; then putting his hand out through the broken pane, and pondered over a scheme that had entered his mind. "john," he cried, as the door opened, "don't you think we could fly harry's kite out of the broken pane?" at first this idea seemed to john perfectly chimerical; but after some consultation and explanation a plan was devised between the two boys, to complete which they only waited for their mother's return. they expected her at one, for this was only half a day's work. jem was dressed when she returned, and his excitement made him appear better; but she saw with grief that he could not touch his dinner; and her anxiety about him made her, less unwillingly than she otherwise would have done, consent to the petition he made, that "only for this once she would let him and john fly the kite outside the window." she stifled her sigh as she sat down to needlework, lest she should cast a gloom over the busy preparations that immediately commenced. the difficulty had been how to get the kite out, because the window would not open. to surmount this, john was to go down to the lane, taking the kite with him, while jem lowered the string out of the broken pane. "when you get hold of the string, you know, john, you can fasten it, and then stand on that large stone opposite, just by where that gentleman is, and hold up the kite, and then i will pull." all was done accordingly. john did his part well. jem pulled; the kite rose to the window, and fluttered about, for the thunder had been followed by a high wind, which was felt a little even in this close place, and the boys gazed at it with great pleasure. as it dangled loosely by the window in this manner, the tail became entangled, and john was obliged to run up to help to put it right. "let it down to me again when i have run out," said he, as he tried to disentangle it; "and i will stand on the stone, and hold it up, and you can pull again. there's the gentleman still, and now there's a young man besides. the gentleman has made him look up at the kite." "come and look, mother," said jem: but she did not hear. "the young man has such a brown face, and such curly hair." "and he's like--mother, he is crossing over!" cried john. "he has come into the house!" the mother heard now. a wild hope rushed through her heart; she started up; a quick step was heard on the stairs; the door flew open, and the next moment she was clasped in her son's arms! the joy nearly took away her senses. broken words mingled with tears, thanksgivings, and blessings, were all that were uttered for some time between them. harry had jem on his knee, and john pressed close to his side, and was holding his mother tight by the hand, and looking up in her face, when at last they began to believe and understand that they once more saw each other. and then he had to explain how the ship had been disabled by a storm in the south seas; and how they got her into one of the beautiful islands there, and refitted her, and after six months' delay, brought her back safe and sound, cargo and all; and how he and uncle ben were both strong and hearty. "how well you look, my dear boy!" said the happy mother. "how tall, and stout, and handsome you are!" "and he's got his curly hair and bright eyes still," said poor wan little jem, speaking for the first time. "but you, mother, and all of you, how pale you are, and how thin! i know--yes, don't say it--i know who's gone. i went home last night, mother. i walked all the way to the village, and found the poor cottage empty, and heard how he died." "home! you went there?" "yes, and the neighbors told me you were gone to london. but i slept all night in the kitchen, on some straw. there i lay, and thought of you, and of him we have lost, and prayed that i might be a comfort to you yet." joy and sorrow seemed struggling for the mastery in the widow's heart; but the present happiness proved the stronger, and she was soon smiling, and listening to harry. "i had a hard matter to find you," he said. "you had left the lodging they directed me to at first." "but i left word where i had come to." "ay, so you had; and an old woman there told me you were at no. paradise row." "what could she be thinking of?" "no one had heard of you in that place. however, as i was going along back again to get better information, keeping a sharp look-out in hopes i might meet you, i passed the end of this lane, and saw it was called eden-lane, so i thought perhaps the old lady had fancied paradise and eden were all the same; and sure enough, they are both as like one as the other, for they are wretched, miserable places as ever i saw. i turned in here, and then no. proved wrong too; and as i was standing looking about, and wondering what i had better do next, a gentleman touched my arm, and pointing first at the black pools in the broken pavement, and then up at this window, he said--i remember his very words, they struck me so--'do not the very stones rise up in judgment against us! look at these poor little fellows trying to fly their kite out of a broken pane!' hearing him say so, i looked up, and saw my old kite--by it i found you at last." they all turned gratefully toward it, and saw that it still swung outside, held there safely by its entangled tail. the talk, therefore, went on uninterruptedly. many questions were asked and answered, and many subjects discussed; the sad state of poor little jem being the most pressing. at the end of an hour a great bustle was going on in the room: they were packing up all their small stock of goods, for harry had succeeded, after some argument, in persuading his mother to leave her unhealthy lodging that very evening, and not to risk even one more night for poor jem in that poisonous air. he smoothed every difficulty. mrs. willis gladly undertook to do the work she had engaged to do; and with her he deposited money for the rent, and the key of the room. he declared he had another place ready to take his mother to; and to her anxious look he replied, "i did good service in the ship, and the owners have been generous to us all. i've got forty pounds." "forty pounds!" if he had said, "i have got possession of a gold district in california," he would not have created a greater sensation. it seemed an inexhaustible amount of wealth. a light cart was soon hired and packed, and easily held not only the goods (not forgetting the kite), but the living possessors of them; and they set forth on their way. the evening sun again beamed over the country; and the tall trees, as they threw their shadow across the grass, waved a blessing on the family that passed beneath, from whose hearts a silent thanksgiving went up that harmonized with the joyous hymn of the birds. the sun-burnt traveler, as he walked at the horse's head, holding his elder brother's hand, no longer looked anxiously onward, for he knew where he was going, and saw by him his younger brother already beginning to revive in the fresh air, and rejoiced in his mother's expression of content and happiness. she had divined for some time to what home she was going. "but how did you contrive to get it fixed so quickly, my kind, good boy?" she said. "i went to the landlord, and he agreed at once: and do not be afraid, i can earn plenty for us all." "but must you go to sea again?" "if i must, do not fear. did you not always teach me that his hand would keep me, and hold me, even in the uttermost parts of the sea?" and she felt that there was no room for fear. a week after this time, the evening sun again lighted up a happy party. harry and john were busied in preparing the kite for flying in a green field behind their cottage. under the hedge, on an old tree trunk, sat their mother, no longer in faded black and rusty crape, but neatly dressed in a fresh, clean gown and cap, and with a face bright with hope and pleasure. by her was jem, with cheeks already filling out, a tinge of color in them, and eyes full of delight. on her other side was little mary willis. she had just arrived, and was telling them how, the very day after they left, some workmen came and put down a nice pavement on each side of the lane, and laid a pipe underground instead of the gutter; and that now it was as dry and clean as could be; and all the children could play there, and there were such numbers of games going on; and they all said it was the best thing they had done for them for many a day; and so did their mothers too, for now the children were not all crowded into their rooms all day long, but could play out of doors. "depend upon it," said harry, "it is that gentleman's doing that spoke to me of it the day i came first. this good old kite has done good service, and now it shall be rewarded by sailing up to a splendid height." as he spoke, he held it up, the light breeze caught it, and it soared away over their heads under the blue sky; while the happy faces that watched it bore witness to the truth of his words--that "the good old kite had done good service." [from sharp's magazine.] the state of the world before adam's time. among the millions of human beings that dwell on the earth, how few are those who think of inquiring into its past history. the annals of greece and rome are imparted to our children as a necessary and important branch of education, while the history of the world itself is neglected, or at the most is confined to those who are destined for a scientific profession; even adults are content to receive on hearsay a vague idea that the globe was in being for some undefined period preceding the era of human history, but few seek to know in what state it existed, or what appearance it presented. this is owing, partly, to the hard names and scientific language in which geologists have clothed their science, and partly to ignorance of the beauty and attractive nature of the study; we dread the long, abstruse-sounding titles of ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus, and are repelled by the dry disquisitions on mineralogy into which professors of the science are apt to stray. the truth is, however, that geology properly is divided into two distinct branches; one of these consists of the less attractive, though equally useful, investigation of the chemical constituents of the strata, and the classification of the fossil flora and fauna which belong to the various formations; this, which may be styled geology proper, is the department which belongs almost exclusively to men of science, and, inasmuch as it involves the necessity of acquaintance with the sister sciences of chemistry, mineralogy, zoology, and botany, is least adapted to the understanding of the uninitiated. the other branch, which may be called the history of geology, presents none of these difficulties; it is as easy of comprehension, and as suitable to the popular mind, as any other historical account; while it presents a variety of interest, and a revolution of events, before which the puny annals of modern history sink into insignificance. such of our readers as are unacquainted with the science, will probably be inclined to doubt the possibility of our being aware of events which took place ages before adam was created; here, however, nature herself steps in, and becoming her own historian, writes "in the living rock" the chronicles of past ages, and so accurately and circumstantially, that we can say positively, "here existed the sea at such a period, and here the tide ebbed and flowed for centuries;" nay, she shows us the footmarks of extinct animals, and tells us the size, nature, habits, and food of creatures which have for unnumbered ages been buried in the grave of time. she informs us that here the ocean was calm, and that there a river flowed into it; here forests grew and flourished, and there volcanoes vomited forth lava, while mighty earthquakes heaved up mountains with convulsive throes. such are the events that mark the world's history, and we now purpose giving a short sketch of the various eras in its existence. hundreds of thousands of years ago, the earth, now so busy and full of life, rolled on its ceaseless course, a vast, desolate, and sterile globe. day and night succeeded one another, and season followed season, while yet no living form existed, and still the sun rose upon arid, verdureless continents, and hot, caldron-like seas, on which the steaming vapor and heavy fogs sat like an incubus. this is the earliest period of which we glean any positive record, and it is probable that previous to this era the universe was in a state of incandescence, or intense heat, and that by the gradual cooling of the globe, the external surface became hard, and formed a firm crust, in the same manner that molten lead, when exposed to the cold air, hardens on the surface. the vapors which previously floated around this heated mass, in like manner became partially condensed, and gradually accumulating in the hollows, formed the boiling seas which in after ages were destined to be vast receptacles teeming with life. how long such a period continued it is impossible to say, and were we even able to number its years, we should in all probability obtain a total of such magnitude as would render us unable to form any accurate idea of its extent. our ideas of time, like those of space, are comparative, and so immense was this single period in geological history, that any interval taken from human records would fail to present an adequate idea of it. as might be expected, this era was marked by vast and violent convulsions; volcanoes raged and threw up molten granite, earthquakes heaved and uplifted continents, seas were displaced and inundated the land, and still the earth was enveloped in vapor and mist, arising from the high temperature, and the light most probably penetrated only sufficiently to produce a sickly twilight, while the sun shot lurid rays through the dense and foggy atmosphere. such a world must have been incompatible with either animal or vegetable life, and we accordingly find no remains of either in the rocks which belong to this early period; their principal characteristic is a highly crystalline appearance, giving strong presumptive evidence of the presence of great heat. after this era of desolation and gloom, we enter upon what is technically termed the "transition period," and here we begin to mark the gradual preparation of the globe for the reception of its destined inhabitants. the change is, however, at first very slight, and there is evidence of frequent convulsions and of a high degree of temperature; but the action of fire appears to have declined in force, and aqueous agencies are exerting themselves. the earlier portion of this formation is rendered peculiarly interesting by the fact, that during it the most ancient forms of life sprang into existence. it is true that merely a few species of shell-fish, with some corals, inhabited the depths of the ocean, while the dry land still remained untenanted; nevertheless, humble and scanty as they were, we can not fail to look with interest on the earliest types of that existence, which has subsequently reached such perfection in ourselves. the presence of corals shows, that although the transition seas had lost their high temperature, yet they retained a sufficient degree of heat to encourage the development of animals requiring warmth. these minute animals possess the remarkable property of extracting from the elementary bodies held in solution in the waters, the materials for forming new rocks. to the coral animalcule or polype we owe much of the vast limestone beds which are found in every part of the world, and many a vessel laden with the riches and productions of the earth finds a grave on the sunken reefs that are the fruit of its labors. as ages elapsed, and the universe became better adapted for the reception of life, the waters swarmed with zoophytes and corals, and in the silurian strata we find organic remains abundant; shell-fish are numerous and distinct in form, and in some instances display a very interesting anatomical construction. as an instance we may mention the trilobite, an animal of the crustacean order; the front part of its body formed a large crescent-shaped shield, while the hinder portion consisted of a broad triangular tail, composed of segments folding over each other like the tail of a lobster; its most peculiar organ, however, was the eye, which was composed of four hundred minute spherical lenses placed in separate compartments, and so situated, that in the animal's usual place at the bottom of the ocean it could see every thing around. this kind of eye is also common to the existing butterfly and dragon-fly, the former of which has , , and the latter , lenses. continuing to trace the history of this ancient period, we reach what is called among geologists the old red sandstone age. the corals, and the shell-fish, and the crustacea of the former period have passed away, and in their place we find _fishes_; thus presenting to us the earliest trace of the highest order of the animal kingdom--vertebrata. the plants in this system are few, and it would seem as if the condition of the world was ill-adapted for their growth. another peculiar characteristic of this era is the state of calm repose in which the ocean appears to have remained; in many rocks the _ripple mark_ left by the tide on the shores of the ancient seas is clearly visible; nevertheless considerable volcanic action must have taken place, if we are to believe geologists, who find themselves unable to account otherwise for the preponderance of mineral matter which seems to have been held in solution by the waters. we now pass on to the carboniferous period, and a marked change at once strikes us as having taken place. in the previous era few plants appear to have existed; now they flourished with unrivaled luxuriance. ferns, cacti, gigantic equisetums, and many plants of which there are no existing types, grew, and lived, and died in vast impenetrable forests; while the bulrush and the cane, or genera nearly allied to them, occupied the swamps and lowlands. this is the period when the great coal beds and strata of ironstone were deposited, which supply us with fuel for our fires, and materials for our machinery. the interminable forests that grew and died in the lapse of centuries were gradually borne down by the rivers and torrents to the ocean, at whose bottom they ultimately found a resting place. a considerable portion of the land also seems to have been slowly submerged, as in some cases fossil trees and plants are found in an upright position, as they originally grew. there is no period in geological history so justly deserving of examination as this. to the coal beds then deposited great britain in a great measure owes national and mercantile greatness. dr. buckland, in speaking of this remote age, remarks in his bridgewater treatise, that "the important uses of coal and iron in administering to the supply of our daily wants, give to every individual among us, in almost every moment of our lives, a personal concern, of which but few are conscious, in the geological events of these very distant eras. we are all brought into immediate connection with the vegetation that clothed the ancient earth before one half of its actual surface had yet been formed. the trees of the primeval forests have not, like modern trees, undergone decay, yielding back their elements to the soil and atmosphere by which they have been nourished; but treasured up in subterranean store-houses, have been transformed into enduring beds of coal, which in these latter ages have been to man the sources of heat, and light, and wealth. my fire now burns with fuel, and my lamp is shining with the light of gas derived from coal, that has been buried for countless ages in the deep and dark recesses of the earth. we prepare our food, and maintain our forges and furnaces, and the power of our steam-engines, with the remains of plants of ancient forms and extinct species, which were swept from the earth ere the formation of the transition strata was completed. our instruments of cutlery, the tools of our mechanics, and the countless machines which we construct by the infinitely varied applications of iron, are derived from ore, for the most part coeval with, or more ancient than the fuel, by the aid of which we reduce it to its metallic state, and apply it to innumerable uses in the economy of human life. thus, from the wreck of forests that waved upon the surface of the primeval lands, and from ferruginous mud that was lodged at the bottom of the primeval waters, we derive our chief supplies of coal and iron, those two fundamental elements of art and industry, which contribute more than any other mineral production of the earth to increase the riches, and multiply the comforts, and ameliorate the condition of mankind." this may justly be styled the golden age of the pre-adamite world; the globe having now cooled to a sufficient temperature to promote the growth of plants without being injurious to them, is for the first time clothed in all the rich verdure of a tropical climate. doubtless the earth would have presented a lovely aspect, had it been possible to have beheld it; the mighty forests unawakened by a sound save that of the sighing of the wind; the silent seas, in which the new-born denizens of the deep roamed at will; the vast inland lakes for ages unruffled but by the fitful breeze; all present to the mind's eye a picture of surpassing, solitary grandeur. the creatures that existed, though differing from those of the previous age, were still confined to the waters; as yet the dry land remained untenanted. the fishes give evidence of a higher organization, and many of them appear to have been of gigantic dimensions. some teeth which have been found of one kind, the megalichthys, equal in size those of the largest living crocodiles. there is one peculiarity respecting fossil fishes which is worthy of remark. it is that, in the lapse of time from one era to another, their character does not change _insensibly_, as in the case of many zoophytes and testacea; on the contrary, species seem to succeed species _abruptly_, and at certain definite intervals. a celebrated geologist[ ] has observed, that not a single species of fossil fish has yet been found that is common to any two great geological formations, or that is living in our own seas. continuing our investigation, we next find the fruitful coal era passing away; scarcely a trace of vegetation remains; a few species of zoophytes, shells, and fishes are to be found, and we observe the impression of footsteps, technically called _ichnites_, from the greek _ichnon_, a footmark. these marks present a highly interesting memento of past ages. persons living near the sea-shore must have frequently observed the distinctness with which the track of birds and other animals is imprinted in the sand. if this sand were to be hardened by remaining exposed to the action of the sun and air, it would form a perfect mould of the foot; this is exactly what occurred in these early ages, and the hollow becoming subsequently filled by the deposition of new sediment, the lower stone retained the impression, while the upper one presented a cast in relief. many fossil footmarks have been found in the rocks belonging to this period. it is evident from the fact of footmarks being found, that creatures capable of existing on dry land were formed about this time, and we accordingly find the remains of a new order--reptiles. these animals, which now constitute but a small family among existing quadrupeds, then flourished in great size and numbers. crocodiles and lizards of various forms and gigantic stature roamed through the earth. some of the most remarkable are those which belong to the genus ichthyosaurus, or fish-lizard, so called from the resemblance of their vertebræ to those of fishes. this saurian dr. buckland describes as something similar in form to the modern porpoise; it had four broad feet, and a long and powerful tail; its jaws were so prodigious that it could probably expand them to a width of five or six feet, and its powers of destruction must have been enormous. the length of some of these reptiles exceeded thirty feet. another animal which lived at this period was the plesiosaurus. it lived in shallow seas and estuaries, and would seem, from its organs of respiration, to have required frequent supplies of fresh air. mr. conybeare describes it as "swimming upon, or near the surface, arching its long neck like the swan, and occasionally darting it down at the fish which happened to float within its reach." this reptile, which was smaller than the ichthyosaurus, has been found as long as from twelve to fifteen feet. its appearance and habits differed from the latter materially. the ichthyosaurus, with its short neck, powerful jaws, and lizard-like body, seems admirably suited to range through the deep waters, unrivaled in size or strength, and monarch of the then existing world; the plesiosaurus, smaller in size and inferior in strength, shunned its powerful antagonist, and, lurking in shallows and sheltered bays, remained secure from the assaults of its dangerous foe, its long neck and small head being well adapted to enable it to dart on its prey, as it lay concealed amid the tangled sea-weed. this has been called by geologists the "age of reptiles;" their remains are found in great numbers in the lias, oolite, and wealden strata. these creatures seem to form a connecting link between the fishes of the previous era, and the mammalia of the tertiary age; the ichthyosaurus differed little from a fish in shape, and its paddles or feet are not unlike fins, the plesiosaurus, on the contrary, as its name denotes, partook more of the quadruped form. dr. buckland in describing it, says: "to the head of a lizard it united the teeth of a crocodile; a neck of enormous length, resembling the body of a serpent; a trunk and tail having the proportions of an ordinary quadruped; the ribs of a cameleon, and the paddles of a whale." besides these animals we find the pterodactyle, half bird and half reptile; the megalosaurus, or gigantic lizard; the hylæosaurus, or forest lizard; the geosaurus, or land lizard, and many others, all partaking more or less of affinity to both the piscatory and saurian tribes. passing on now to the period when the great chalk rocks which prevail so much in the southeastern counties of great britain were deposited, we find the land in many places submerged; the fossil remains are eminently marine in character, and the earth must literally have presented a "world of waters" to the view. sponges, corals, star-fish, and marine reptiles inhabited the globe, and plants, chiefly of marine types, grew on its surface. although, however, a great portion of the earth was under water, it must not therefore be supposed that it was returning to its ancient desolation and solitude. the author whom we last quoted, in speaking of this subject, says: "the sterility and solitude which have sometimes been attributed to the depths of the ocean, exist only in the fictions of poetic fancy. the great mass of water that covers nearly three-fourths of the globe is crowded with life, perhaps more abundantly than the air and the surface of the earth; and the bottom of the sea, within a certain depth accessible to light, swarms with countless hosts of worms and creeping things, which represent the kindred families of low degree which crawl upon the land." this era seems to have been one of peculiar tranquillity, for the most part undisturbed by earthquakes or other igneous forces. the prevailing characteristic of the scenery was flatness, and low continents were surrounded by shallow seas. the earth is now approaching the state when it will be fit for the reception of man, and in the next age we find some of the existing species of animals. it is worthy of observation, that at the different periods when the world had attained a state suitable for their existence, the various orders of animal and vegetable life were created. in the "dark ages" of geological history, when the globe had comparatively lately subsided from a state of fusion,[ ] it was barren, sterile, and uninhabited; next, the waters having become cool enough, some of the lowest orders of shell-fish and zoophytes peopled them; subsequently, fishes were formed, and for ages constituted the highest order of animal life; after this we enter on the age of reptiles, when gigantic crocodiles and lizard-like forms dwelt in fenny marshes, or reposed on the black mud of slow moving rivers, as they crept along toward the ocean betwixt their oozy banks; and we now reach the period when the noblest order of animal life, the class to which man himself belongs, mammalia, began to people the earth. the world now probably presented an appearance nearly similar to what it does at present. the land, which in the chalk formation was under water, has again emerged, and swarms with life; vast savannahs rich in verdure, and decked in a luxuriant garb with trees, plants, grasses, and shrubs, and inland lakes, to which the elephant, the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus, with many extinct races of animals, came to slake their thirst, form the principal characteristics of this period. there is something peculiarly interesting in looking back to this early age, while adam was yet dust. we picture to the mind's eye the gigantic deinotherium, the largest creature of terrestrial life, raking and grabbing with its huge tusks the aquatic plants that grew in the pools and shallow lakes, or, as dr. buckland describes it, sleeping with its head hooked on to the bank, and its nostrils sustained above water so as merely to breathe, while the body remained floating at ease beneath the surface. we see its twin-brother in greatness, the megatherium, as it comes slowly stalking through the thick underwood, its foot, of a yard in length, crushing where it treads, and its impenetrable hide defying the attacks of rhinoceros or crocodile. in the waters we behold the mighty whale, monarch of the deep, sporting in the pre-adamite seas as he now does amid the icebergs of the arctic ocean; the walrus and the seal, now denizens of the colder climes, mingling with the tropical manati; while in the forests the owl, the buzzard, and the woodcock, dwelt undisturbed, and the squirrel and monkey leaped from bough to bough. arrived at the close of the pre-adamite history, after having traced it from the earliest ages of which we possess any evidence, down to the eve of human existence, the reflection that naturally presents itself to the mind is the strangeness of the fact, that myriads of creatures should have existed, and that generation after generation should have lived and died and passed away, ere yet man saw the light. we are so accustomed to view all creatures as created solely for human use, rather than for the pleasure of the divine creator, that we can at first scarcely credit the history, though written by the hand of nature herself; and the human race sinks into insignificance when it is shown to be but the last link in a long chain of creations. nevertheless, that such, however humbling it may be, is the fact, we possess indubitable evidence: and when we consider, as mr. bakewell observes, "that more than three-fifths of the earth's present surface are covered by the ocean, and that if from the remainder we deduct the space occupied by polar ice and eternal snows, by sandy deserts, sterile mountains, marshes, rivers, and lakes, that the habitable portion will scarcely exceed one-fifth of the whole globe; that the remaining four-fifths, though untenanted by mankind, are, for the most part, abundantly stocked with animated beings, that exult in the pleasure of existence, independent of human control, and in no way subservient to the necessities or caprices of men; that such is and has been, for several thousand years, the actual condition of our planet; we may feel less reluctance in admitting the prolonged ages of creation, and the numerous tribes that lived and flourished, and left their remains imbedded in the strata which compose the outer crust of the earth." footnotes: [ ] dr. buckland. [ ] the theory of the original incandescence of the earth has been much debated, but we believe it is gaining ground among geologists. the mania for tulips in holland. the inordinate passion, which at one time prevailed for tulips, amounted to actual madness, and well deserved the name of tulipomania, by which it is distinguished. the tulip was introduced into europe from constantinople in the year , according to gesner. after it became known to the dutch merchants and nobility at vienna, it became a most important branch of trade in holland, and they sent frequently to constantinople for roots and seeds of the flower. in the year , and for three years after, little else was thought of in holland but this traffic; all embarked in it, from the nobleman to the common laborer, and so successful were many that they rose rapidly from abject poverty to affluence; and those who had been barely able to procure the most scanty means of subsistence were enabled to set up their carriages, and enjoy every convenience and luxury of life; indeed, when we read of the enormous sums paid for a single root, we can feel no surprise at the immense and rapid fortunes which were made. it is on record, that one wealthy merchant gave his daughter no other portion to secure an eligible match than a single root. the plant to this day bears the name of the "marriage portion." we find that hogsheads of wine, tuns of beer, lasts of wheat, lasts of rye, tons of butter, pounds of cheese, fat oxen, fat swine, and fat sheep, a complete bed, a suit of clothes, a silver beckess, valued at florins, were given in exchange for a single root of the tulip called the viceroy. this mode of barter, being attended with inconvenience, could not be general, and gave place to sale by weight, by which immense sums were made. single roots have sold for florins; florins was a common price for a root of the semper augustus; and it happened that once, when only two roots of this species could be procured, the one at amsterdam, and the other at haarlem, florins, a new carriage, and a pair of horses, with complete harness, were given for one; and for the other an exchange made of acres of land: indeed, land was frequently parted with when cash could not be advanced for the purchase of a desired root; and houses, cattle, furniture, and even clothes, were all sacrificed to the tulipomania. in the course of four months, a person has been known to realize , florins. these curious bargains took place in taverns, where notaries and clerks were regularly paid for attending; and after the contracts were completed, the traders of all ranks sat down together to a splendid entertainment. at these sales, the usual price of a root of the viceroy was £ ; a root of the admiral liefkuns, £ ; a root of the admiral von eyk, £ ; a root of the grebbu, £ ; a root of the schilder, £ ; a root of the semper augustus, £ . a collection of tulips of wouter brockholsminster was disposed of by his executors for £ ; but they sold a root of the semper augustus separately, for which they got £ , and a very fine spanish cabinet, valued at £ . the semper augustus was, indeed, in great request. a gentleman received £ for three roots which he sold; he had also the offer of £ a year for his plant for seven years, with an engagement that it should be given up as found, the increase alone having been retained during the period. one gentleman made £ in the space of six months. it was ascertained that the trade in tulips in one city alone, in holland, amounted to £ , , sterling. to such an extent was this extraordinary traffic carried on, that a system of stock-jobbing was introduced; and tulips, which were bought and sold for much more than their weight in gold, were nominally purchased without changing hands at all. beekmann, in describing this curious traffic, for which all other merchandise and pursuit was neglected, mentions that engagements were entered into, which were to be fulfilled in six months, and not to be affected by any change in the value of the root during that time. thus, a bargain might be made with a merchant for a root at the price of florins. at the time specified for its delivery, its value may have risen to florins, the purchaser being a gainer of florins. should it, on the contrary, have fallen to florins, the purchaser was then a loser to the amount of florins. if there had been no fluctuation in the market, the bargain terminated without an exchange of the money for the root, so that it became a species of gambling, at which immense sums were lost and won. the decline of the trade was as unexpected as its rise had been surprising. when settling day came, there were many defaulters; some from inability to meet their engagements, and many from dishonesty. persons began to speculate more cautiously, and the more respectable to feel that the system of gambling, in which they were engaged, was by no means creditable. the tulip-holders then wished to dispose of their merchandise really, and not _nominally_, but found, to their disappointment, that the demand had decreased. prices fell--contracts were violated--appeals were made to the magistrates in vain; and, after violent contentions, in which the venders claimed, and the purchasers resisted payment, the state interposed, and issued an order invalidating the contracts, which put an end at once to the stock-jobbing; and the roots, which had been valued at £ each, were now to be had for £ : and thus ended the most strange commerce in which europe had been ever engaged. some curious anecdotes connected with the mania may be found. among them is one of a burgomaster, who had made interest for a friend, and succeeded in obtaining a very lucrative situation for him. the friend, anxious to testify his gratitude, entreated of the burgomaster to allow him to show it by some substantial proof. his generous benefactor would accept no favor in return; all he asked was the gratification of seeing his flower-garden, which was readily granted. the friends did not meet again for two years. at the end of that time, the gentleman went to visit the burgomaster. on going into his garden, the first thing that attracted his observation was a rare tulip of great value, which he instantly knew must have been purloined from his garden, when his treacherous friend had been admitted into it, two years before. he gave vent to the most frantic passion--immediately resigned his place of £ per annum--returned to his house merely to tear up his flower-garden--and, having completed the work of destruction, left it, never to return. we have read of a sailor, who had brought a heavy load to the warehouse of a merchant, who only gave him a herring as payment and refreshment. this was very inadequate to satisfy the man's hunger, but perceiving, as he thought, some onions lying before him, he snatched up one, and bit it. it happened to be a tulip-root, worth a king's ransom; so we may conceive the consternation of the merchant, which is said to have nearly deprived him of reason. it has been said that john barclay, the author of the romance of "angenis," was a victim to the tulipomania. nothing could induce him to quit the house to which his flower-garden was attached, though the situation was so unwholesome that he ran the risk of having his health destroyed. he kept two fierce mastiffs to guard the flowers, which he determined never to abandon. the passion for tulips was at its height in england toward the close of the seventeenth and the commencement of the eighteenth century. the tulip is a native of the levant, and of many of the eastern countries. though common in persia, it is highly esteemed, and considered an emblem of love. chardin tells us, that when a young persian wishes to make his sentiments known to his mistress, he presents her with one of these flowers, which, of course, must be the flame-colored one, with black anthers, so often seen in our gardens; as, chardin adds, "he thus gives her to understand, that he is all on fire with her beauty, and his heart burned to a coal." the flower is still highly esteemed by florists, and has its place among the few named florists' flowers. many suppose it to be "the lily of the field," mentioned in the sermon on the mount, from its growing in wild profusion in syria, and from the extreme delicacy of the texture of its petals, and from the wonderful variety and dazzling beauty of its colors. it may be so; and the flower acquires from this an interest which nothing else could give. the salt mines of europe. the salt-mines of cheshire, and the brine-pits of worcestershire, according to the best authority, not only supply salt sufficient for the consumption of nearly the whole of england, but also upward of half a million of tons for exportation. rock-salt is by no means confined to england, it is found in many countries, especially where strata of more recent date than those of the coal measures abound. though in some instances the mineral is pure and sparkling in its native state, it is generally dull and dirty, owing to the matter with which it is associated. the ordinary shade is a dull red, from being in contact with marls of that color. but notwithstanding, it possesses many interesting features. when the extensive subterranean halls have been lighted up with innumerable candles, the appearance is most interesting, and the visitor, enchanted with the scene, feels himself richly repaid for the trouble he may have incurred in visiting the excavations. the cheshire mines are from to yards below the surface. the number of salt-beds is five; the thinnest of them being only about six inches, while the thickest is nearly forty feet. besides these vast masses, there is a large quantity of salt mixed up with the marl beds that intervene. the method of working the rock-salt is like that adopted for the excavation of coal; but it is much more safe and pleasant to visit these than the other, owing to the roof of the excavations being much more secure, and the absence of all noxious gases, with the exception of carbonic acid gas. in the thinner coal-seams, the roof, or rock lying above the coal, is supported by wooden pillars as the mineral is withdrawn; while, in the thicker seams, pillars of coal are left at intervals to support the superincumbent mass. the latter is the plan adopted in the salt-mines. large pillars of various dimensions are left to support the roof at irregular intervals; but these bear a small proportion to the mass of mineral excavated. the effect is most picturesque; in the deep gloom of the excavation, the pillars present tangible objects on which the eye can rest, while the intervening spaces stretch away into night. the mineral is loosened from the rock by blasting, and the effect of the explosions, heard from time to time re-echoing through the wide spaces, and from the distant walls of rock, gives a peculiar grandeur and impressiveness to the scene. the great charm, indeed, on the occasion of a visit to these mines, even when they are illuminated by thousands of lights, is chiefly owing to the gloomy and cavernous appearance, the dim endless perspective, broken by the numerous pillars, and the lights half disclosing and half concealing the deep recesses which are formed and terminated by these monstrous and solid projections. the pillars, owing to the great height of the roof, are very massive. for twenty feet of rock they are about fifteen feet thick. the descent to the mines is by a shaft--a perpendicular opening of six, eight, or ten feet square; this opening is used for the general purposes of ventilation, drainage, lifting the mineral, as well as the miners. it varies in dimensions according to the extent of the excavations. in some of the english mines the part of the bed of rock-salt excavated amounts to several acres; but in some parts of europe the workings are even more extensive. the wilton mine, one of the largest in england, is worked feet below the surface, and from it, and one or two adjacent mines, upward of , tons of salt are annually obtained, two-thirds of which are immediately exported, and the rest is dissolved in water, and afterward reduced to a crystaline state by evaporating the solution. it is not yet two hundred years since the cheshire mines were discovered. in the year , before men were guided by science in their investigations, an attempt was made to find coal in the district. the sinking was unsuccessful relative to the one mineral, but the disappointment and loss were amply met by the discovery of the other. from that time till the present, the rock-salt has been dug, and, as we have seen, most extensively used in england, while the surplus supply has become an article of exportation. previous to this discovery the consumption was chiefly supplied from the brine-pits of worcestershire. there is a remarkable deposit of salt in the valley of cardona, in the pyrenees. two thick masses of rock-salt, says ansted, apparently united at their bases, make their appearance on one of the slopes of the hill of cardona. one of the beds, or rather masses, has been worked, and measures about yards by ; but its depth has not been determined. it consists of salt in a laminated condition, and with confused crystalization. that part which is exposed is composed of eight beds, nearly horizontal, having a total thickness of fifteen feet; but the beds are separated from one another by red and variegated marls and gypsum. the second mass, not worked, appears to be unstratified, but in other respects resembles the former; and this portion, where it has been exposed to the action of the weather, is steeply scarped, and bristles with needle-like points, so that its appearance has been compared to that of a glacier. there is also an extensive salt-mine at wieliczka, in poland, and the manner of working it was accurately described some years since. the manner of descending into the mine was by means of a large cord wound round a wheel and worked by a horse. the visitor, seated on a small piece of wood placed in the loop of the cord, and grasping the cord with both hands, was let down two hundred feet, the depth of the first galleries, through a shaft about eight feet square, sunk through beds of sand, alternating with limestone, gypsum, variegated marls, and calcareous schists. below the stage, the descent was by wooden staircases, nine or ten feet wide. in the first gallery was a chapel, measuring thirty feet in length by twenty-four in breadth, and eighteen in height; every part of it, the floor, the roof, the columns which sustained the roof, the altar, the crucifix, and several statues, were all cut out of the solid salt; the chapel was for the use of the miners. it had always been said that the salt in this mine had the qualities which produced magic appearances to an uncommon degree; but it is now ascertained that its scenery is not more enchanting than that of the mines in cheshire. gunpowder is now used in the polish as in the english mines; but the manner of obtaining the salt at the time of the visit we are recording was peculiar, and too ingenious to be passed over, even though it be now superseded by the more modern and more successful mode of blasting. "in the first place, the overman, or head miner, marked the length, breadth, and thickness of a block he wished to be detached, the size of which was generally the same, namely, about eight feet long, four feet wide, and two feet thick. a certain number of blocks being marked, the workman began by boring a succession of holes on one side from top to bottom of the block, the holes being three inches deep, and six inches apart. a horizontal groove was then cut, half an inch deep, both above and below, and, having put into each of the holes an iron wedge, all the wedges were struck with moderate blows, to drive them into the mass; the blows were continued until two cracks appeared, one in the direction of the line of the holes, and the other along the upper horizontal line. the block was now loosened and ready to fall, and the workman introduced into the crack produced by the driving of the wedges a wooden ruler, two or three inches broad, and, moving it backward and forward on the crack, a tearing sound was soon heard, which announced the completion of the work. if proper care had been taken, the block fell unbroken, and was then divided into three or four parts, which were shaped into cylinders for the greater convenience of transport. each workman was able to work out four such blocks every day, and the whole number of persons employed in the mine, varied from twelve hundred to about two thousand." the mine was worked in galleries; and, at the time of this visit, these galleries extended to at least eight english miles. since then the excavations have become much more extensive. the method of preparing rock-salt is very simple, and differs little from that employed in manufacturing salt from springs. the first step in the process is, to obtain a proper strength of brine, by saturating fresh water with the salt brought from the mine. the brine obtained in a clear state is put into evaporating pans, and brought as quickly as possible to a boiling heat, when a skin is formed on the surface, consisting chiefly of impurities. this skin is taken off, so also are the first crystals that are formed, and either thrown aside as useless, or used for agricultural purposes. the heat is kept at the boiling point for eight hours, during which period evaporation is going on--the liquid becoming gradually reduced, and the salt meanwhile is being deposited. when this part of the process is finished, the salt is raked out, put into moulds, and placed in a drying stove, where it is dried perfectly, and made ready for the market. my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page ._) chapter x. in my next chapter i shall present squire hazeldean in patriarchal state--not exactly under the fig tree he has planted, but before the stocks he has reconstructed. squire hazeldean and his family on the village green! the canvas is all ready for the colors. but in this chapter i must so far afford a glimpse into antecedents as to let the reader know that there is one member of the family whom he is not likely to meet at present, if ever, on the village green at hazeldean. our squire lost his father two years after his birth; his mother was very handsome--and so was her jointure; she married again at the expiration of her year of mourning--the object of her second choice was colonel egerton. in every generation of englishmen (at least since the lively reign of charles ii.) there are a few whom some elegant genius skims off from the milk of human nature, and reserves for the cream of society. colonel egerton was one of these _terque, quaterque beati_, and dwelt apart on a top shelf in that delicate porcelain dish--not bestowed upon vulgar buttermilk--which persons of fashion call the great world. mighty was the marvel of pall mall, and profound was the pity of park-lane, when this supereminent personage condescended to lower himself into a husband. but colonel egerton was not a mere gaudy butterfly; he had the provident instincts ascribed to the bee. youth had passed from him--and carried off much solid property in its flight; he saw that a time was fast coming when a home, with a partner who could help to maintain it, would be conducive to his comforts, and an occasional humdrum evening by the fire-side beneficial to his health. in the midst of one season at brighton, to which gay place he had accompanied the prince of wales, he saw a widow who, though in the weeds of mourning, did not appear inconsolable. her person pleased his taste--the accounts of her jointure satisfied his understanding; he contrived an introduction, and brought a brief wooing to a happy close. the late mr. hazeldean had so far anticipated the chance of the young widow's second espousals, that, in case of that event, he transferred, by his testamentary dispositions, the guardianship of his infant heir from the mother to two squires whom he had named his executors. this circumstance combined with her new ties somewhat to alienate mrs. hazeldean from the pledge of her former loves; and when she had borne a son to colonel egerton, it was upon that child that her maternal affections gradually concentrated. william hazeldean was sent by his guardians to a large provincial academy, at which his forefathers had received their education time out of mind. at first he spent his holidays with mrs. egerton; but as she now resided either in london, or followed her lord to brighton to partake of the gayeties at the pavilion--so, as he grew older, william, who had a hearty affection for country life, and of whose bluff manners and rural breeding mrs. egerton (having grown exceedingly refined) was openly ashamed, asked and obtained permission to spend his vacations either with his guardians or at the old hall. he went late to a small college at cambridge, endowed in the fifteenth century by some ancestral hazeldean; and left it, on coming of age, without taking a degree. a few years afterward he married a young lady, country born and bred like himself. meanwhile his half-brother, audley egerton, may be said to have begun his initiation into the _beau monde_ before he had well cast aside his coral and bells; he had been fondled in the lap of duchesses, and galloped across the room astride on the canes of embassadors and princes. for colonel egerton was not only very highly connected--not only one of the _dii majores_ of fashion--but he had the still rarer good fortune to be an exceedingly popular man with all who knew him; so popular, that even the fine ladies whom he had adored and abandoned forgave him for marrying out of "the set," and continued to be as friendly as if he had not married at all. people who were commonly called heartless, were never weary of doing kind things to the egertons. when the time came for audley to leave the preparatory school, at which his infancy budded forth among the stateliest of the little lilies of the field, and go to eton, half the fifth and sixth forms had been canvassed to be exceedingly civil to young egerton. the boy soon showed that he inherited his father's talent for acquiring popularity, and that to this talent he added those which put popularity to use. without achieving any scholastic distinction, he yet contrived to establish at eton the most desirable reputation which a boy can obtain--namely, that among his own contemporaries--the reputation of a boy who was sure to do something when he grew to be a man. as a gentleman commoner at christ church, oxford, he continued to sustain this high expectation, though he won no prizes and took but an ordinary degree; and at oxford the future "something" became more defined--it was "something in public life" that this young man was to do. while he was yet at the university, both his parents died--within a few months of each other. and when audley egerton came of age, he succeeded to a paternal property which was supposed to be large, and, indeed, had once been so; but colonel egerton had been too lavish a man to enrich his heir, and about £ a year was all that sales and mortgages left of an estate that had formerly approached a rental of ten thousand pounds. still, audley was considered to be opulent, and he did not dispel that favorable notion by any imprudent exhibition of parsimony. on entering the world of london, the clubs flew open to receive him; and he woke one morning to find himself, not indeed famous--but the fashion. to this fashion he at once gave a certain gravity and value--he associated as much as possible with public men and political ladies--he succeeded in confirming the notion that he was "born to ruin or to rule the state." now, his dearest and most intimate friend was lord l'estrange, from whom he had been inseparable at eton: and who now, if audley egerton was the fashion, was absolutely the rage in london. harley lord l'estrange was the only son of the earl of lansmere, a nobleman of considerable wealth, and allied by intermarriages to the loftiest and most powerful families in england. lord lansmere, nevertheless, was but little known in the circles of london. he lived chiefly on his estates, occupying himself with the various duties of a great proprietor, and rarely came to the metropolis; so that he could afford to give his son a very ample allowance, when harley, at the age of sixteen (having already attained to the sixth form at eton), left school for one of the regiments of the guards. few knew what to make of harley l'estrange--and that was, perhaps, the reason why he was so much thought of. he had been by far the most brilliant boy of his time at eton--not only the boast of the cricket-ground, but the marvel of the school-room--yet so full of whims and oddities, and seeming to achieve his triumphs with so little aid from steadfast application, that he had not left behind him the same expectations of solid eminence which his friend and senior, audley egerton, had excited. his eccentricities--his quaint sayings and out-of-the-way actions, became as notable in the great world as they had been in the small one of public school. that he was very clever there was no doubt, and that the cleverness was of a high order might be surmised not only from the originality but the independence of his character. he dazzled the world, without seeming to care for its praise or its censure--dazzled it, as it were, because he could not help shining. he had some strange notions, whether political or social, which rather frightened his father. according to southey, "a man should be no more ashamed of having been a republican than of having been young." youth and extravagant opinions naturally go together. i don't know whether harley l'estrange was a republican at the age of eighteen; but there was no young man in london who seemed to care less for being heir to an illustrious name and some forty or fifty thousand pounds a year. it was a vulgar fashion in that day to play the exclusive, and cut persons who wore bad neckcloths and called themselves smith or johnson. lord l'estrange never cut any one, and it was quite enough to slight some worthy man because of his neckcloth or his birth, to insure to the offender the pointed civilities of this eccentric successor to the dorimonts and the wildairs. it was the wish of his father that harley, as soon as he came of age, should represent the borough of lansmere (which said borough was the single plague of the earl's life). but this wish was never realized. suddenly, when the young idol of london still wanted some two or three years of his majority, a new whim appeared to seize him. he withdrew entirely from society--he left unanswered the most pressing three-cornered notes of inquiry and invitation that ever strewed the table of a young guardsman; he was rarely seen anywhere in his former haunts--when seen, was either alone or with egerton; and his gay spirits seemed wholly to have left him. a profound melancholy was written in his countenance, and breathed in the listless tones of his voice. at this time the guards were achieving in the peninsula their imperishable renown; but the battalion to which harley belonged was detained at home; and whether chafed by inaction or emulous of glory, the young lord suddenly exchanged into a cavalry regiment, from which a recent memorable conflict had swept one half the officers. just before he joined, a vacancy happening to occur for the representation of lansmere, he made it his special request to his father that the family interest might be given to his friend egerton--went down to the park, which adjoined the borough, to take leave of his parents--and egerton followed, to be introduced to the electors. this visit made a notable epoch in the history of many personages who figure in my narrative, but at present i content myself with saying, that circumstances arose which, just as the canvass for the new election commenced, caused both l'estrange and audley to absent themselves from the scene of action, and that the last even wrote to lord lansmere expressing his intention of declining to contest the borough. fortunately for the parliamentary career of audley egerton, the election had become to lord lansmere not only a matter of public importance, but of personal feeling. he resolved that the battle should be fought out, even in the absence of the candidate, and at his own expense. hitherto the contest for this distinguished borough had been, to use the language of lord lansmere, "conducted in the spirit of gentlemen"--that is to say, the only opponents to the lansmere interest had been found in one or the other of two rival families in the same county; and as the earl was a hospitable, courteous man, much respected and liked by the neighboring gentry, so the hostile candidate had always interlarded his speeches with profuse compliments to his lordship's high character, and civil expressions as to his lordship's candidate. but, thanks to successive elections, one of these two families had come to an end, and its actual representative was now residing within the rules of the bench; the head of the other family was the sitting member, and, by an amicable agreement with the lansmere interest, he remained as neutral as it is in the power of any sitting member to be amidst the passions of an intractable committee. accordingly, it had been hoped that egerton would come in without opposition, when, the very day on which he had abruptly left the place, a handbill, signed "haverill dashmore, captain r.n., baker-street, portman-square," announced, in very spirited language, the intention of that gentleman to emancipate the borough from the unconstitutional domination of an oligarchical faction, not with a view to his own political aggrandizement--indeed, at great personal inconvenience--but actuated solely by abhorrence to tyranny, and patriotic passion for the purity of election. this announcement was followed, within two hours, by the arrival of captain dashmore himself, in a carriage-and-four covered with yellow favors, and filled, inside and out, with harum-scarum looking friends who had come down with him to aid the canvass and share the fun. captain dashmore was a thorough sailor, who had, however, taken a disgust to the profession from the date in which a minister's nephew had been appointed to the command of a ship to which the captain considered himself unquestionably entitled. it is just to the minister to add, that captain dashmore had shown as little regard for orders from a distance, as had immortalized nelson himself; but then the disobedience had not achieved the same redeeming success as that of nelson, and captain dashmore ought to have thought himself fortunate in escaping a severer treatment than the loss of promotion. but no man knows when he is well off; and retiring on half-pay, just as he came into unexpected possession of some forty or fifty thousand pounds bequeathed by a distant relation, captain dashmore was seized with a vindictive desire to enter parliament, and inflict oratorical chastisement on the administration. a very few hours sufficed to show the sea-captain to be a most capital electioneerer for a small and not very enlightened borough. it is true that he talked the saddest nonsense ever heard from an open window; but then his jokes were so broad, his manner so hearty, his voice so big, that in those dark days, before the schoolmaster was abroad, he would have beaten your philosophical radical and moralizing democrat hollow. moreover he kissed all the women, old and young, with the zest of a sailor who has known what it is to be three years at sea without sight of a beardless lip; he threw open all the public-houses, asked a numerous committee every day to dinner, and, chucking his purse up in the air, declared "he would stick to his guns while there was a shot in the locker." till then, there had been but little political difference between the candidate supported by lord lansmere's interest and the opposing parties--for country gentlemen, in those days, were pretty much of the same way of thinking, and the question had been really local--viz., whether the lansmere interest should or should not prevail over that of the two squirearchical families who had alone, hitherto, ventured to oppose it. but though captain dashmore was really a very loyal man, and much too old a sailor to think that the state (which, according to established metaphor, is a vessel, _par excellence_), should admit jack upon quarter-deck, yet, what with talking against lords and aristocracy, jobs and abuses, and searching through no very refined vocabulary for the strongest epithets to apply to those irritating nouns-substantive, his bile had got the better of his understanding, and he became fuddled, as it were, by his own eloquence. thus, though as innocent of jacobinical designs as he was incapable of setting the thames on fire, you would have guessed him, by his speeches, to be one of the most determined incendiaries that ever applied a match to the combustible materials of a contested election; while, being by no means accustomed to respect his adversaries, he could not have treated the earl of lansmere with less ceremony if his lordship had been a frenchman. he usually designated that respectable nobleman by the title of "old pompous;" and the mayor, who was never seen abroad but in top-boots, and the solicitor, who was of a large build, received from his irreverent wit the joint sobriquet of "tops and bottoms!" hence the election had now become, as i said before, a personal matter with my lord, and, indeed, with the great heads of the lansmere interest. the earl seemed to consider his very coronet at stake in the question. "the man from baker-street," with his preternatural audacity, appeared to him a being ominous and awful--not so much to be regarded with resentment, as with superstitious terror: he felt as felt the dignified montezuma, when that ruffianly cortez, with his handful of spanish rapscallions, bearded him in his own capital, and in the midst of his mexican splendor--"the gods were menaced if man could be so insolent!" wherefore said my lord, tremulously, "the constitution is gone if the man from baker-street comes in for lansmere!" but, in the absence of audley egerton, the election looked extremely ugly, and captain dashmore gained ground hourly, when the lansmere solicitor happily bethought him of a notable proxy for the missing candidate. the squire of hazeldean, with his young wife, had been invited by the earl in honor of audley; and in the squire the solicitor beheld the only mortal who could cope with the sea-captain--a man with a voice as burly, and a face as bold--a man who, if permitted for the nonce by mrs. hazeldean, would kiss all the women no less heartily than the captain kissed them; and who was, moreover, a taller, and a handsomer, and a younger man--all three, great recommendations in the kissing department of a contested election. yes, to canvass the borough, and to speak from the window, squire hazeldean would be even more popularly presentable than the london-bred and accomplished audley egerton himself. the squire, applied to and urged on all sides, at first said bluntly, "that he would do any thing in reason to serve his brother, but that he did not like, for his own part, appearing, even in proxy, as a lord's nominee; and, moreover, if he was to be sponsor for his brother, why, he must promise and vow, in his name, to be stanch and true to the land they lived by; and how could he tell that audley, when once he got into the house, would not forget the land, and then he, william hazeldean, would be made a liar, and look like a turncoat!" but these scruples being overruled by the arguments of the gentlemen and the entreaties of the ladies, who took in the election that intense interest which those gentle creatures usually do take in all matters of strife and contest, the squire at length consented to confront the man from baker-street, and went, accordingly, into the thing with that good heart and old english spirit with which he went into every thing whereon he had once made up his mind. the expectations formed of the squire's capacities for popular electioneering were fully realized. he talked quite as much nonsense as captain dashmore on every subject except the landed interest; there he was great, for he knew the subject well--knew it by the instinct that comes with practice, and compared to which all your showy theories are mere cobwebs and moonshine. the agricultural outvoters--many of whom, not living under lord lansmere, but being small yeomen, had hitherto prided themselves on their independence, and gone against my lord--could not in their hearts go against one who was every inch the farmer's friend. they began to share in the earl's personal interest against the man from baker-street; and big fellows, with legs bigger round than captain dashmore's tight little body, and huge whips in their hands, were soon seen entering the shops, "intimidating the electors," as captain dashmore indignantly declared. these new recruits made a great difference in the muster-roll of the lansmere books; and, when the day for polling arrived, the result was a fair question for even betting. at the last hour, after a neck-and-neck contest, mr. audley egerton beat the captain by two votes. and the names of these voters were john avenal, resident freeman, and his son-in-law, mark fairfield, an outvoter, who, though a lansmere freeman, had settled in hazeldean, where he had obtained the situation of head carpenter on the squire's estate. these votes were unexpected; for, though mark fairfield had come to lansmere on purpose to support the squire's brother, and though the avenals had been always stanch supporters of the lansmere blue interest, yet a severe affliction (as to the nature of which, not desiring to sadden the opening of my story, i am considerately silent) had befallen both these persons, and they had left the town on the very day after lord l'estrange and mr. egerton had quitted lansmere park. whatever might have been the gratification of the squire, as a canvasser and a brother, at mr. egerton's triumph, it was much damped when, on leaving the dinner given in honor of the victory, at the lansmere arms, and about, with no steady step, to enter the carriage which was to convey him to his lordship's house, a letter was put into his hands by one of the gentleman who had accompanied the captain to the scene of action; and the perusal of that letter, and a few whispered words from the bearer thereof, sent the squire back to mrs. hazeldean a much soberer man than she had ventured to hope for. the fact was, that on the day of nomination, the captain having honored mr. hazeldean with many poetical and figurative appellations--such as "prize ox," "tony lumpkin," "blood-sucking vampyre," and "brotherly warming-pan," the squire had retorted by a joke upon "salt water jack;" and the captain, who, like all satirists, was extremely susceptible and thin-skinned, could not consent to be called "salt water jack" by a "prize ox" and a "blood-sucking vampyre." the letter, therefore, now conveyed to mr. hazeldean by a gentleman, who, being from the sister country, was deemed the most fitting accomplice in the honorable destruction of a brother mortal, contained nothing more nor less than an invitation to single combat; and the bearer thereof, with the suave politeness enjoined by etiquette on such well-bred homicidal occasions, suggested the expediency of appointing the place of meeting in the neighborhood of london, in order to prevent interference from the suspicious authorities of lansmere. the natives of some countries--the warlike french in particular--think little of that formal operation which goes by the name of duelling. indeed, they seem rather to like it than otherwise. but there is nothing your thorough-paced englishman--a hazeldean of hazeldean--considers with more repugnance and aversion, than that same cold-blooded ceremonial. it is not within the range of an englishman's ordinary habits of thinking. he prefers going to law--a much more destructive proceeding of the two. nevertheless, if an englishman must fight, why, he will fight. he says "it is very foolish;" he is sure "it is most unchristian-like;" he agrees with all that philosopher, preacher, and press have laid down on the subject; but he makes his will, says his prayers, and goes out, like a heathen! it never, therefore, occurred to the squire to show the white feather upon this unpleasant occasion. the next day, feigning excuse to attend the sale of a hunting stud at tattersall's, he ruefully went up to london, after taking a peculiarly affectionate leave of his wife. indeed, the squire felt convinced that he should never return home except in a coffin. "it stands to reason," said he, to himself, "that a man, who has been actually paid by the king's government for shooting people ever since he was a little boy in a midshipman's jacket, must be a dead hand at the job. i should not mind if it was with double-barreled mantons and small shot; but ball and pistol! they aren't human nor sportsmanlike!" however, the squire, after settling his worldly affairs, and hunting up an old college friend, who undertook to be his second, proceeded to a sequestered corner of wimbledon common, and planted himself, not sideways, as one ought to do in such encounters (the which posture the squire swore was an unmanly way of shirking), but full front to the mouth of his adversary's pistol, with such sturdy composure, that captain dashmore, who, though an excellent shot, was at bottom as good-natured a fellow as ever lived, testified his admiration by letting off his gallant opponent with a ball in the fleshy part of his shoulder; after which he declared himself perfectly satisfied. the parties then shook hands, mutual apologies were exchanged, and the squire, much to his astonishment to find himself still alive, was conveyed to limmer's hotel, where, after a considerable amount of anguish, the ball was extracted, and the wound healed. now it was all over, the squire felt very much raised in his own conceit; and, when he was in a humor more than ordinarily fierce, that perilous event became a favorite allusion with him. he considered, moreover, that his brother had incurred at his hand the most lasting obligations; and that, having procured audley's return to parliament, and defended his interests at the risk of his own life, he had an absolute right to dictate to that gentleman how to vote--upon all matters at least connected with the landed interest. and when, not very long after audley took his seat in parliament (which he did not do for some months), he thought proper both to vote and to speak in a manner wholly belying the promises the squire had made on his behalf, mr. hazeldean wrote him such a trimmer, that it could not but produce an unconciliatory reply. shortly afterward, the squire's exasperation reached the culminating point, for, having to pass through lansmere on a market-day, he was hooted by the very farmers whom he had induced to vote for his brother; and, justly imputing the disgrace to audley, he never heard the name of that traitor to the land mentioned, without a heightened color and an indignant expletive. monsieur de ruqueville--who was the greatest wit of his day--had, like the squire, a half-brother, with whom he was not on the best of terms, and of whom he always spoke as his "_frère de loin_." audley egerton was thus squire hazeldean's "_distant brother_!"--enough of these explanatory antecedents--let us return to the stocks. chapter xi. the squire's carpenters were taken from the park pales, and set to work at the parish stocks. then came the painter and colored them, a beautiful dark blue, with a white border--and a white rim round the holes--with an ornamental flourish in the middle. it was the gayest public edifice in the whole village--though the village possessed no less than three other monuments of the vitruvian genius, of the hazeldeans: to wit, the alms-house, the school, and the parish pump. a more elegant, enticing, coquettish pair of stocks never gladdened the eye of a justice of the peace. and squire hazeldean's eye was gladdened. in the pride of his heart he brought all the family down to look at the stocks. the squire's family (omitting the _frère de loin_) consisted of mrs. hazeldean, his wife; next, of miss jemima hazeldean, his first cousin; thirdly, of master francis hazeldean, his only son; and fourthly, of captain barnabas higginbotham, a distant relation--who, indeed, strictly speaking, was not of the family, but only a visitor ten months in the year. mrs. hazeldean was every inch the lady--the lady of the parish. in her comely, florid, and somewhat sunburnt countenance, there was an equal expression of majesty and benevolence; she had a blue eye that invited liking, and an aquiline nose that commanded respect. mrs. hazeldean had no affectation of fine airs--no wish to be greater and handsomer and cleverer than she was. she knew herself, and her station, and thanked heaven for it. there was about her speech and manner something of that shortness and bluntness which often characterizes royalty; and if the lady of a parish is not a queen in her own circle, it is never the fault of the parish. mrs. hazeldean dressed her part to perfection. she wore silks that seemed heirlooms--so thick were they, so substantial and imposing. and over these, when she was in her own domain, the whitest of aprons; while at her waist was seen no fiddle-daddle _chatelaine_, with _breloques_ and trumpery, but a good honest gold watch to mark the time, and a long pair of scissors to cut off the dead leaves from her flowers, for she was a great horticulturist. when occasion needed, mrs. hazeldean could, however, lay by her more sumptuous and imperial raiment for a stout riding-habit of blue saxony, and canter by her husband's side to see the hounds throw off. nay, on the days on which mr. hazeldean drove his famous fast-trotting cob to the market town, it was rarely that you did not see his wife on the left side of the gig. she cared as little as her lord did for wind and weather, and, in the midst of some pelting shower, her pleasant face peeped over the collar and capes of a stout dreadnought, expanding into smiles and bloom as some frank rose, that opens from its petals, and rejoices in the dews. it was easy to see that the worthy couple had married for love; they were as little apart as they could help it. and still, on the first of september, if the house was not full of company which demanded her cares, mrs. hazeldean "stepped out" over the stubbles by her husband's side, with as light a tread and as blithe an eye as when in the first bridal year she had enchanted the squire by her genial sympathy with his sports. so there now stands harriet hazeldean, one hand leaning on the squire's broad shoulder, the other thrust into her apron, and trying her best to share her husband's enthusiasm for his own public-spirited patriotism, in the renovation of the parish stocks. a little behind, with two fingers leaning on the thin arm of captain barnabas, stood miss jemima, the orphan daughter of the squire's uncle, by a runaway imprudent marriage with a young lady who belonged to a family which had been at war with the hazeldeans since the reign of charles i., respecting a right of way to a small wood (or rather spring) of about an acre, through a piece of furze land, which was let to a brick-maker at twelve shillings a year. the wood belonged to the hazeldeans, the furze land to the sticktorights (an old saxon family, if ever there was one). every twelfth year, when the fagots and timber were felled, this feud broke out afresh; for the sticktorights refused to the hazeldeans the right to cart off the said fagots and timber, through the only way by which a cart could possibly pass. it is just to the hazeldeans to say that they had offered to buy the land at ten times its value. but the sticktorights, with equal magnanimity, had declared that they would not "alienate the family property for the convenience of the best squire that ever stood upon shoe leather." therefore, every twelfth year, there was always a great breach of the peace on the part of both hazeldeans and sticktorights, magistrates, and deputy-lieutenants though they were. the question was fairly fought out by their respective dependents, and followed by various actions for assault and trespass. as the legal question of right was extremely obscure, it never had been properly decided: and, indeed, neither party wished it to be decided, each at heart having some doubt of the propriety of its own claim. a marriage between the younger son of the hazeldeans, and a younger daughter of the sticktorights, was viewed with equal indignation by both families; and the consequence had been that the runaway couple, unblessed and unforgiven, had scrambled through life as they could, upon the scanty pay of the husband, who was in a marching regiment, and the interest of £ , which was the wife's fortune, independent of her parents. they died, and left an only daughter, upon whom the maternal £ had been settled, about the time that the squire came of age and into possession of his estates. and though he inherited all the ancestral hostility toward the sticktorights, it was not in his nature to be unkind to a poor orphan who was, after all, the child of a hazeldean. therefore, he had educated and fostered jemima with as much tenderness as if she had been his sister; put out her £ at nurse, and devoted, from the ready money which had accrued from the rents during his minority, as much as made her fortune (with her own accumulated at compound interest) no less than £ , the ordinary marriage portion of the daughters of hazeldean. on her coming of age, he transferred this sum to her absolute disposal, in order that she might feel herself independent, see a little more of the world than she could at hazeldean, have candidates to choose from if she deigned to marry; or enough to live upon if she chose to remain single. miss jemima had somewhat availed herself of this liberty, by occasional visits to cheltenham and other watering-places. but her grateful affection to the squire was such, that she could never bear to be long away from the hall. and this was the more praise to her heart, inasmuch as she was far from taking kindly to the prospect of being an old maid. and there were so few bachelors in the neighborhood of hazeldean, that she could not but have that prospect before her eyes whenever she looked out of the hall windows. miss jemima was indeed one of the most kindly and affectionate of beings feminine--and if she disliked the thought of single blessedness, it really was from those innocent and womanly instincts toward the tender charities of hearth and home, without which a lady, however otherwise estimable, is little better than a minerva in bronze. but whether or not, despite her fortune and her face, which last, though not strictly handsome, was pleasing--and would have been positively pretty if she had laughed more often (for when she laughed there appeared three charming dimples, invisible when she was grave)--whether or not, i say, it was the fault of our insensibility or her own fastidiousness, miss jemima approached her thirtieth year, and was still miss jemima. now, therefore, that beautifying laugh of hers was very rarely heard, and she had of late become confirmed in two opinions, not at all conducive to laughter. one was a conviction of the general and progressive wickedness of the male sex, and the other was a decided and lugubrious belief that the world was coming to an end. miss jemima was now accompanied by a small canine favorite, true blenheim, with a snub nose. it was advanced in life, and somewhat obese. it sate on its haunches with its tongue out of its mouth, except when it snapped at the flies. there was a strong platonic friendship between miss jemima and captain barnabas higginbotham; for he too was unmarried, and he had the same ill opinion of your sex, my dear madam, that miss jemima had of ours. the captain was a man of a slim and elegant figure--the less said about the face the better--a truth of which the captain himself was sensible, for it was a favorite maxim of his, "that in a man, every thing is a slight, gentlemanlike figure." captain barnabas did not absolutely deny that the world was coming to an end, only he thought it would last his time. quite apart from the rest, with the nonchalant survey of virgin dandyism, francis hazeldean looked over one of the high starched neck-cloths which were then the fashion--a handsome lad, fresh from eton for the summer holidays, but at that ambiguous age, when one disdains the sports of the boy, and has not yet arrived at the resources of the man. "i should be glad, frank," said the squire, suddenly turning round to his son, "to see you take a little more interest in duties which, one day or other you may be called upon to discharge. i can't bear to think that the property should fall into the hands of a fine gentleman, who will let things go to rack and ruin, instead of keeping them up as i do." and the squire pointed to the stocks. master frank's eye followed the direction of the cane, as well as his cravat would permit; and he said, dryly, "yes, sir; but how came the stocks to be so long out of repair?" "because one can't see to every thing at once," retorted the squire, tartly. "when a man has got eight thousand acres to look after, he must do a bit at a time." "yes," said captain barnabas. "i know that by experience." "the deuce you do!" cried the squire, bluntly. "experience in eight thousand acres!" "no; in my apartments in the albany. number a. i have had them ten years, and it was only last christmas that i bought my japan cat." "dear me!" said miss jemima; "a japan cat! that must be very curious! what sort of a creature is it?" "don't you know? bless me, a thing with three legs, and holds toast! i never thought of it, i assure you, till my friend cosey said to me, one morning, when he was breakfasting at my rooms, 'higginbotham, how is it, that you, who like to have things comfortable about you, don't have a cat?' 'upon my life,' said i, 'one can't think of every thing at a time;' just like you, squire." "pshaw," said mr. hazeldean, gruffly; "not at all like me. and i'll thank you another time, cousin higginbotham, not to put me out when i am speaking on matters of importance; poking your cat into my stocks! they look something like now, don't they, harry? i declare that the whole village seems more respectable. it is astonishing how much a little improvement adds to the--to the--" "charm of a landscape," put in miss jemima, sentimentally. the squire neither accepted nor rejected the suggested termination; but leaving his sentence uncompleted, broke suddenly off with, "and if i had listened to parson dale--" "you would have done a very wise thing," said a voice behind, as the parson presented himself in the rear. "wise thing! why surely, mr. dale," said mrs. hazeldean, with spirit, for she always resented the least contradiction to her lord and master; perhaps as an interference with her own special right and prerogative: "why, surely if it is necessary to have stocks, it is necessary to repair them." "that's right, go it, harry!" cried the squire, chuckling, and rubbing his hands, as if he had been setting his terrier at the parson. "st--st--at him! well, master dale, what do you say to that?" "my dear ma'am," said the parson, replying in preference to the lady; "there are many institutions in the country which are very old, look very decayed, and don't seem of much use; but i would not pull them down for all that." "you would reform them, then," said mrs. hazeldean, doubtfully, and with a look at her husband, as much as to say, "he is on politics now; that's your business." "no, i would not, ma'am," said the parson, stoutly. "what on earth would you do, then?" quoth the squire. "just let 'em alone," said the parson. "master frank, there's a latin maxim which was often in the mouth of sir robert walpole, and which they ought to put in the eton grammar--'_quieta non movere_.' if things are quiet, let them be quiet! i would not destroy the stocks, because that might seem to the ill-disposed like a license to offend, and i would not repair the stocks, because that puts it into people's heads to get into them." the squire was a stanch politician of the old school, and he did not like to think that in repairing the stocks, he had perhaps been conniving at revolutionary principles. "this constant desire of innovation," said miss jemima, suddenly mounting the more funereal of her two favorite hobbies, "is one of the great symptoms of the approaching crash. we are altering, and mending, and reforming, when in twenty years at the utmost the world itself may be destroyed!" the fair speaker paused, and-- captain barnabas said, thoughtfully, "twenty years!--the insurance offices rarely compute the best life at more than fourteen." he struck his hand on the stocks as he spoke, and added, with his usual consolatory conclusion--"the odds are, that it will last our time, squire." but whether captain barnabas meant the stocks or the world, he did not clearly explain, and no one took the trouble to inquire. "sir," said master frank to his father, with that furtive spirit of quizzing, which he had acquired among other polite accomplishments at eton; "sir, it is no use now considering whether the stocks should or should not have been repaired. the only question is, whom you will get to put into them." "true," said the squire, with much gravity. "yes, there it is!" said the parson, mournfully. "if you would but learn '_quieta non movere_!'" "don't spout your latin at me, parson!" cried the squire, angrily; "i can give you as good as you bring, any day-- 'propria quæ maribus tribuuntur mascula dicas-- as in presenti, perfectum format in avi.' there," added the squire, turning triumphantly toward his harry, who looked with great admiration at this unprecedented burst of learning on the part of mr. hazeldean; "there, two can play at that game! and now that we have all seen the stocks, we may as well go home, and drink tea. will you come up and play a rubber, dale? no! hang it, man, i've not offended you--you know my ways." "that i do, and they are among the things i would not have altered," cried the parson, holding out his hand cheerfully. the squire gave it a hearty shake, and mrs. hazeldean hastened to do the same. "do come; i am afraid we've been very rude; we are sad blunt folks. do come; that's a dear good man; and of course poor mrs. dale too." mrs. hazeldean's favorite epithet for mrs. dale was _poor_, and that for reasons to be explained hereafter. "i fear my wife has got one of her bad headaches, but i will give her your kind message, and at all events you may depend upon me." "that's right," cried the squire, "in half-an-hour, eh? how d'ye do, my little man?" as lenny fairfield, on his way home from some errand in the village, drew aside and pulled off his hat with both hands. "stop--you see those stocks--eh? tell all the bad little boys in the parish to take care how they get into them--a sad disgrace--you'll never be in such a quandary!" "that at least i will answer for," said the parson. "and i too," added mrs. hazeldean, patting the boy's curly head. "tell your mother i shall come and have a good chat with her to-morrow evening." and so the party passed on, and lenny stood still on the road, staring hard at the stocks, which stared back at him from its four great eyes. but lenny did not remain long alone. as soon as the great folks had fairly disappeared, a large number of small folks emerged timorously from the neighboring cottages, and approached the site of the stocks with much marvel, fear, and curiosity. in fact, the renovated appearance of this monster--_à propos des bottes_, as one may say--had already excited considerable sensation among the population of hazeldean. and even as when an unexpected owl makes his appearance in broad daylight, all the little birds rise from tree and hedge-row, and cluster round their ominous enemy, so now gathered all the much excited villagers round the intrusive and portentous phenomenon. "d'ye know what the diggins the squire did it for, gaffer solomons?" asked one many-childed matron, with a baby in arms, an urchin of three years old clinging fast to her petticoat, and her hand maternally holding back a more adventurous hero of six, who had a great desire to thrust his head into one of the grisly apertures. all eyes turned to a sage old man, the oracle of the village, who, leaning both hands on his crutch, shook his head bodingly. "maw be," said gaffer solomons, "some of the boys ha' been robbing the orchards." "orchards," cried a big lad, who seemed to think himself personally appealed to, "why the bud's scarce off the trees yet!" "no more it isn't!" said the dame with many children, and she breathed more freely. "maw be," said gaffer solomons, "some o' ye has been setting snares." "what for?" said a stout sullen-looking young fellow, whom conscience possibly pricked to reply. "what for, when it beant the season? and if a poor man did find a hear in his pocket i' the hay time, i should like to know if ever a squire in the world would let un off wi' the stocks--eh?" that last question seemed a settler, and the wisdom of gaffer solomons went down fifty per cent. in the public opinion of hazeldean. "maw be," said the gaffer, this time with a thrilling effect, which restored his reputation, "maw be some o' ye ha' been getting drunk, and making beestises o' yoursels!" there was a dead pause, for this suggestion applied too generally to be met with a solitary response. at last one of the women said, with a meaning glance at her husband, "god bless the squire; he'll make some on us happy women, if that's all!" there then arose an almost unanimous murmur of approbation among the female part of the audience; and the men looked at each other, and then at the phenomenon, with a very hang-dog expression of countenance. "or, maw be," resumed gaffer solomons, encouraged to a fourth suggestion by the success of its predecessor, "maw be some o' the misseses ha' been making a rumpus, and scolding their goodmen. i heard say in my granfeythir's time, that arter old mother bang nigh died o' the ducking-stool, them 'ere stocks were first made for the women, out o' compassion like! and every one knows the squire is a koind-hearted man, god bless un!" "god bless un!" cried the men heartily; and they gathered lovingly round the phenomenon, like heathens of old round a tutelary temple. but then rose one shrill clamor among the females, as they retreated with involuntary steps toward the verge of the green, whence they glared at solomons and the phenomenon with eyes so sparkling, and pointed at both with gestures so menacing, that heaven only knows if a morsel of either would have remained much longer to offend the eyes of the justly enraged matronage of hazeldean, if fortunately master stirn, the squire's right-hand man, had not come up in the nick of time. master stirn was a formidable personage--more formidable than the squire himself--as, indeed, a squire's right-hand is generally more formidable than the head can pretend to be. he inspired the greater awe, because, like the stocks, of which he was deputed guardian, his powers were undefined and obscure, and he had no particular place in the out-of-door establishment. he was not the steward, yet he did much of what ought to be the steward's work; he was not the farm-bailiff, for the squire called himself his own farm-bailiff; nevertheless, mr. hazeldean sowed and plowed, cropped and stocked, bought and sold, very much as mr. stirn condescended to advise. he was not the park-keeper, for he neither shot the deer nor superintended the preserves; but it was he who always found out who had broken a park-pale or snared a rabbit. in short, what may be called all the harsher duties of a large landed proprietor devolved by custom and choice upon mr. stirn. if a laborer was to be discharged, or a rent enforced, and the squire knew that he should be talked over, and that the steward would be as soft as himself, mr. stirn was sure to be the avenging [greek: angelos] or messenger, to pronounce the words of fate; so that he appeared to the inhabitants of hazeldean like the poet's _sæva necessitas_, a vague incarnation of remorseless power, armed with whips, nails, and wedges. the very brute creation stood in awe of mr. stirn. the calves knew that it was he who singled out which should be sold to the butcher, and huddled up into a corner with beating hearts at his grim footstep; the sow grunted, the duck quacked, the hen bristled her feathers and called to her chicks when mr. stirn drew near. nature had set her stamp upon him. indeed it may be questioned whether the great m. de chambray himself, surnamed the brave, had an aspect so awe-inspiring as that of mr. stirn; albeit the face of that hero was so terrible, that a man who had been his lackey, seeing his portrait after he had been dead twenty years, fell a-trembling all over like a leaf! "and what the plague are you all doing here?" said mr. stirn, as he waved and smacked a great cart-whip which he held in his hand, "making such a hullabaloo, you women, you! that i suspect the squire will be sending out to know if the village is on fire. go home, will ye? high time indeed to have the stocks ready, when you get squalling and conspiring under the very nose of a justice of the peace, just as the french revolutioners did afore they cut off their king's head; my hair stands on end to look at ye." but already, before half this address was delivered, the crowd had dispersed in all directions--the women still keeping together, and the men sneaking off toward the ale-house. such was the beneficent effect of the fatal stocks on the first day of their resuscitation! however, in the break up of every crowd there must be always some one who gets off the last; and it so happened that our friend lenny fairfield, who had mechanically approached close to the stocks, the better to hear the oracular opinions of gaffer solomons, had no less mechanically, on the abrupt appearance of mr. stirn, crept, as he hoped, out of sight behind the trunk of the elm tree which partially shaded the stocks; and there now, as if fascinated, he still cowered, not daring to emerge in full view of mr. stirn, and in immediate reach of the cart-whip, when the quick eye of the right-hand man detected his retreat. "hallo, you sir--what the deuce, laying a mine to blow up the stocks! just like guy fox and the gunpowder plot, i declares! what ha' you got in your willainous little fist, there?" "nothing, sir," said lenny, opening his palm. "nothing--um!" said mr. stirn, much dissatisfied; and then, as he gazed more deliberately, recognizing the pattern boy of the village, a cloud yet darker gathered over his brow; for mr. stirn, who valued himself much on his learning--and who, indeed, by dint of more knowledge as well as more wit than his neighbors, had attained his present eminent station in life--was extremely anxious that his only son should also be a scholar; that wish, "the gods dispersed in empty air." master stirn was a notable dunce at the parson's school, while lenny fairfield was the pride and boast of it; therefore mr. stirn was naturally, and almost justifiably ill-disposed toward lenny fairfield, who had appropriated to himself the praises which mr. stirn had designed for his son. "um!" said the right-hand man, glowering on lenny malignantly, "you are the pattern boy of the village, are you? very well, sir--then i put these here stocks under your care--and you'll keep off the other boys from sitting on 'em, and picking off the paint, and playing three holes and chuck farthing, as i declare they've been a-doing, just in front of the elewation. now you knows your sponsibilities, little boy--and a great honor they are too, for the like o' you. if any damage be done, it is to you i shall look; d'ye understand? and that's what the squire says to me; so you sees what it is to be a pattern boy, master lenny!" with that mr. stirn gave a loud crack of the cart-whip, by way of military honors, over the head of the vicegerent he had thus created, and strode off to pay a visit to two young unsuspecting pups, whose ears and tails he had graciously promised their proprietor to crop that evening. nor, albeit few charges could be more obnoxious than that of deputy governor or _chargé d'affaires extraordinaire_ to the parish stocks, nor one more likely to render lenny fairfield odious to his contemporaries, ought he to have been insensible to the signal advantage of his condition over that of the two sufferers, against whose ears and tails mr. stirn had no especial motives of resentment. to every bad there is a worse--and fortunately for little boys, and even for grown men, whom the stirns of the world regard malignly, the majesty of law protects their ears, and the merciful forethought of nature deprived their remote ancestors of the privilege of entailing tails upon them. had it been otherwise--considering what handles tails would have given to the oppressor, how many traps envy would have laid for them, how often they must have been scratched and mutilated by the briars of life, how many good excuses would have been found for lopping, docking, and trimming them--i fear that only the lap-dogs of fortune would have gone to the grave tail-whole. chapter xii. the card-table was set out in the drawing-room at hazeldean hall; though the little party were still lingering in the deep recess of the large bay window--which (in itself of dimensions that would have swallowed up a moderate-sized london parlor) held the great round tea-table with all appliances and means to boot--for the beautiful summer moon shed on the sward so silvery a lustre, and the trees cast so quiet a shadow, and the flowers and new-mown hay sent up so grateful a perfume, that, to close the windows, draw the curtains, and call for other lights than those of heaven, would have been an abuse of the prose of life which even captain barnabas, who regarded whist as the business of town and the holiday of the country, shrank from suggesting. without, the scene, beheld by the clear moonlight, had the beauty peculiar to the garden ground round those old-fashioned country residences which, though a little modernized, still preserve their original character: the velvet lawn, studded with large plots of flowers, shaded and scented here, to the left, by lilacs, laburnums, and rich seringas--there, to the right, giving glimpses, over low-clipped yews, of a green bowling alley, with the white columns of a summer house built after the dutch taste, in the reign of william iii.; and in front--stealing away under covert of those still cedars, into the wilder landscape of the well-wooded, undulating park. within, viewed by the placid glimmer of the moon, the scene was no less characteristic of the abodes of that race which has no parallel in other lands, and which, alas, is somewhat losing its native idiosyncracies in this--the stout country gentleman, not the fine gentleman of the country--the country gentleman somewhat softened and civilized from the mere sportsman or farmer, but still plain and homely, relinquishing the old hall for the drawing-room, and with books not three months' old on his table, instead of _fox's martyrs_ and _baker's chronicle_--yet still retaining many a sacred old prejudice, that, like the knots in his native oak, rather adds to the ornament of the grain than takes from the strength of the tree. opposite to the window, the high chimney-piece rose to the heavy cornice of the ceiling, with dark pannels glistening against the moonlight. the broad and rather clumsy chintz sofas and settees of the reign of george iii., contrasted at intervals with the tall backed chairs of a far more distant generation, when ladies in fardingales, and gentlemen in trunk-hose, seemed never to have indulged in horizontal positions. the walls, of shining wainscot, were thickly covered, chiefly with family pictures; though now and then some dutch fair, or battle-piece, showed that a former proprietor had been less exclusive in his taste for the arts. the piano-forte stood open near the fire-place; a long dwarf bookcase at the far end, added its sober smile to the room. that bookcase contained what was called "the lady's library," a collection commenced by the squire's grandmother, of pious memory, and completed by his mother, who had more taste for the lighter letters, with but little addition from the bibliomaniac tenderness of the present mrs. hazeldean--who, being no great reader, contented herself with subscribing to the book club. in this feminine bodleian, the sermons collected by mrs. hazeldean, the grandmother, stood cheek-by-jowl beside the novels purchased by mrs. hazeldean, the mother. "mixtaque ridenti fundet colocasia acantho!" but, to be sure, the novels, in spite of very inflammatory titles, such as "fatal sensibility," "errors of the heart," &c., were so harmless that i doubt if the sermons could have had much to say against their next-door neighbors--and that is all that can be expected by the rest of us. a parrot dozing on his perch--some gold fish fast asleep in their glass bowl--two or three dogs on the rug, and flimsey, miss jemima's spaniel, curled into a ball on the softest sofa--mrs. hazeldean's work-table, rather in disorder, as if it had been lately used--the _st. james's chronicle_ dangling down from a little tripod near the squire's arm-chair--a high screen of gilt and stamped leather fencing off the card table; all these, dispersed about a room large enough to hold them all and not seem crowded, offered many a pleasant resting-place for the eye, when it turned from the world of nature to the home of man. but see, captain barnabas, fortified by his fourth cup of tea, has at length summoned courage to whisper to mrs. hazeldean, "don't you think the parson will be impatient for his rubber?" mrs. hazeldean glanced at the parson, and smiled; but she gave the signal to the captain, and the bell was rung, lights were brought in, the curtains let down; in a few moments more the group had collected round the card-tables. the best of us are but human--that is not a new truth, i confess, but yet people forget it every day of their lives--and i dare say there are many who are charitably thinking at this very moment, that my parson ought not to be playing at whist. all i can say to these rigid disciplinarians is, "every man has his favorite sin: whist was parson dale's!--ladies and gentlemen, what is yours?" in truth, i must not set up my poor parson, nowadays, as a pattern parson--it is enough to have one pattern in a village no bigger than hazeldean, and we all know that lenny fairfield has bespoken that place--and got the patronage of the stocks for his emoluments! parson dale was ordained, not indeed so very long ago, but still at a time when churchmen took it a great deal more easily than they do now. the elderly parson of that day played his rubber as a matter of course, the middle-aged parson was sometimes seen riding to cover (i knew a schoolmaster, a doctor of divinity, and an excellent man, whose pupils were chiefly taken from the highest families in england, who hunted regularly three times a week during the season), and the young parson would often sing a capital song--not composed by david--and join in those rotary dances, which certainly david never danced before the ark. does it need so long a prolegomenon to excuse thee, poor parson dale, for turning up that ace of spades with so triumphant a smile at thy partner? i must own that nothing that well could add to the parson's offense was wanting. in the first place he did not play charitably, and merely to oblige other people. he delighted in the game--he rejoiced in the game--his whole heart was in the game--neither was he indifferent to the mammon of the thing, as a christian pastor ought to have been. he looked very sad when he took his shillings out of his purse, and exceedingly pleased when he put the shillings that had just before belonged to other people into it. finally, by one of those arrangements common with married people, who play at the same table, mr. and mrs. hazeldean were invariably partners, and no two people could play worse; while captain barnabas, who had played at graham's with honor and profit, necessarily became partner to parson dale, who himself played a good steady parsonic game. so that, in strict truth, it was hardly fair play--it was almost swindling--the combination of those two great dons against that innocent married couple! mr. dale, it is true, was aware of this disproportion of force, and had often proposed either to change partners or to give odds, propositions always scornfully scouted by the squire and his lady; so that the parson was obliged to pocket his conscience together with the ten points which made his average winnings. the strangest thing in the world is the different way in which whist affects the temper. it is no test of temper, as some pretend--not at all! the best tempered people in the world grow snappish at whist; and i have seen the most testy and peevish in the ordinary affairs of life bear their losses with the stoicism of epictetus. this was notably manifested in the contrast between the present adversaries of the hall and the rectory. the squire who was esteemed as choleric a gentleman as most in the county, was the best humored fellow you could imagine when you set him down to whist opposite the sunny face of his wife. you never heard one of these incorrigible blunderers scold each other; on the contrary, they only laughed when they threw away the game, with four by honors in their hands. the utmost that was ever said was a "well, harry, that was the oddest trump of yours. ho--ho--ho!" or a "bless me, hazeldean--why, they made three tricks, and you had the ace in your hand all the time! ha--ha--ha!" upon which occasions captain barnabas, with great good humor, always echoed both the squire's ho--ho--ho! and mrs. hazeldean's ha--ha--ha! not so the parson. he had so keen and sportsmanlike an interest in the game, that even his adversaries' mistakes ruffled him. and you would hear him, with elevated voice and agitated gestures, laying down the law, quoting hoyle, appealing to all the powers of memory and common sense against the very delinquencies by which he was enriched--a waste of eloquence that always heightened the hilarity of mr. and mrs. hazeldean. while these four were thus engaged, mrs. dale, who had come with her husband despite her headache, sate on the sofa beside miss jemima, or rather beside miss jemima's flimsey, which had already secured the centre of the sofa, and snarled at the very idea of being disturbed. and master frank--at a table by himself--was employed sometimes in looking at his pumps, and sometimes at gilray's caricatures, with which his mother had provided him for his intellectual requirements. mrs. dale, in her heart, liked miss jemima better than mrs. hazeldean, of whom she was rather in awe, notwithstanding they had been little girls together, and occasionally still called each other harry and carry. but those tender diminutives belonged to the "dear" genus, and were rarely employed by the ladies, except at those times when--had they been little girls still, and the governess out of the way--they would have slapped and pinched each other. mrs. dale was still a very pretty woman, as mrs. hazeldean was still a very fine woman. mrs. dale painted in water colors and sang, and made card-racks and pen-holders, and was called an "elegant, accomplished woman." mrs. hazeldean cast up the squire's accounts, wrote the best part of his letters, kept a large establishment in excellent order, and was called "a clever, sensible woman." mrs. dale had headaches and nerves, mrs. hazeldean had neither nerves nor headaches. mrs. dale said, "harry had no real harm in her, but was certainly very masculine." mrs. hazeldean said, "carry would be a good creature, but for her airs and graces." mrs. dale said, "mrs. hazeldean was just made to be a country squire's lady." mrs. hazeldean said, "mrs. dale was the last person in the world who ought to have been a parson's wife." carry, when she spoke of harry to a third person, said, "dear mrs. hazeldean." harry, when she referred incidentally to carry, said, "poor mrs. dale." and now the reader knows why mrs. hazeldean called mrs. dale "poor," at least as well as i do. for, after all, the word belonged to that class in the female vocabulary which may be called "obscure significants," resembling the knox ompax, which hath so puzzled the inquirers into the eleusinian mysteries; the application is rather to be illustrated than the meaning to be exactly explained. "that's really a sweet little dog of yours, jemima," said mrs. dale, who was embroidering the word caroline on the border of a cambric pocket-handkerchief, but edging a little farther off, as she added, "he'll not bite, will he?" "dear me, no!" said miss jemima; but (she added, in a confidential whisper), "don't say _he_--'tis a lady dog." "oh," said mrs. dale, edging off still farther, as if that confession of the creature's sex did not serve to allay her apprehensions--"oh, then, you carry your aversion to the gentlemen even to lap-dogs--that is being consistent indeed, jemima!" miss jemima.--"i had a gentleman dog once--a pug!--they are getting very scarce now. i thought he was so fond of me--he snapped at every one else; the battles i fought for him! well, will you believe, i had been staying with my friend miss smilecox at cheltenham. knowing that william is so hasty, and his boots are so thick, i trembled to think what a kick might do. so, on coming here, i left buff--that was his name--with miss smilecox." (a pause.) mrs. dale, looking up languidly.--"well, my love." miss jemima.--"will you believe it, i say, when i returned to cheltenham, only three months afterward, miss smilecox had seduced his affections from me, and the ungrateful creature did not even know me again. a pug, too--yet people _say_ pugs are faithful!!! i am sure they ought to be, nasty things. i have never had a gentleman dog since--they are all alike, believe me--heartless, selfish creatures." mrs. dale.--"pugs? i dare say they are!" miss jemima, with spirit.--"men!--i told you it was a gentleman dog!" mrs. dale, apologetically.--"true, my love, but the whole thing was so mixed up!" miss jemima.--"you saw that cold-blooded case of breach of promise of marriage in the papers--an old wretch, too, of sixty-four. no age makes them a bit better. and when one thinks that the end of all flesh is approaching, and that--" mrs. dale, quickly, for she prefers miss jemima's other hobby to that black one upon which she is preparing to precede the bier of the universe.--"yes, my love, we'll avoid that subject, if you please. mr. dale has his own opinions, and it becomes me, you know, as a parson's wife," (said smilingly; mrs. dale has as pretty a dimple as any of miss jemima's, and makes more of that one than miss jemima of three), "to agree with him--that is, in theology." miss jemima, earnestly.--"but the thing is so clear, if you would but look into--" mrs. dale, putting her hand on miss jemima's lips playfully.--"not a word more. pray, what do you think of the squire's tenant at the casino, signor riccabocca? an interesting creature, is not he?" miss jemima.--"interesting! not to me. interesting! why is he interesting?" mrs. dale is silent, and turns her handkerchief in her pretty little white hands, appearing to contemplate the r. in caroline. miss jemima, half pettishly, half coaxingly.--"why is he interesting? i scarcely ever looked at him; they say he smokes, and never eats. ugly, too!" mrs. dale.--"ugly--no. a fine head--very like dante's--but what is beauty?" miss jemima.--"very true; what is it indeed? yes, as you say, i think there _is_ something interesting about him; he looks melancholy, but that may be because he is poor." mrs. dale.--"it is astonishing how little one feels poverty when one loves. charles and i were very poor once--before the squire--." mrs. dale paused, looked toward the squire, and murmured a blessing, the warmth of which brought tears into her eyes. "yes," she added, after a pause, "we were very poor, but we were happy even then, more thanks to charles than to me," and tears from a new source again dimmed those quick, lively eyes, as the little woman gazed fondly on her husband, whose brows were knit into a black frown over a bad hand. miss jemima.--"it is only those horrid men who think of money as a source of happiness. i should be the last person to esteem a gentleman less because he was poor." mrs. dale.--"i wonder the squire does not ask signor riccabocca here more often. such an acquisition _we_ find him!" the squire's voice from the card table.--"whom ought i to ask more often, mrs. dale?" parson's voice impatiently.--"come--come--come, squire; play to my queen of diamonds--do!" squire.--"there, i trump it--pick up the trick, mrs. h." parson.--"stop! stop! trump my diamond?" the captain, solemnly.--"trick turned--play on, squire." squire.--"the king of diamonds." mrs. hazeldean.--"lord! hazeldean--why, that's the most barefaced revoke--ha--ha--ha! trump the queen of diamonds and play out the king! well i never--ha--ha--ha!" captain barnabas, in tenor.--"ha, ha, ha!" squire.--"and so i have, bless my soul--ho, ho, ho!" captain barnabas, in bass.--"ho--ho--ho." parson's voice raised, but drowned by the laughter of his adversaries and the firm clear tone of captain barnabas: "three to our score!--game!" squire, wiping his eyes.--"no help for it, harry--deal for me! whom ought i to ask, mrs. dale? (waxing angry). first time i ever heard the hospitality of hazeldean called in question!" mrs. dale.--"my dear sir, i beg a thousand pardons, but listeners--you know the proverb." squire, growling like a bear.--"i hear nothing but proverbs ever since we have had that mounseer among us. please to speak plainly, marm." mrs. dale, sliding into a little temper at being thus roughly accosted.--"it was of mounseer, as you call him, that i spoke, mr. hazeldean." squire.--"what! rickeybockey?" mrs. dale, attempting the pure italian accentuation.--"signor riccabocca." parson, slapping his cards on the table in despair: "are we playing at whist, or are we not?" the squire, who is fourth player drops the king to captain higginbotham's lead of the ace of hearts. now the captain has left queen, knave, and two other hearts--four trumps to the queen and nothing to win a trick with in the two other suits. this hand is therefore precisely one of those in which, especially after the fall of that king of hearts in the adversary's hand, it becomes a matter of reasonable doubt whether to lead trumps or not. the captain hesitates, and not liking to play out his good hearts with the certainty of their being trumped by the squire, nor, on the other hand, liking to open the other suits in which he has not a card that can assist his partner, resolves, as becomes a military man, in such a dilemma, to make a bold push and lead out trumps, in the chance of finding his partner strong, and so bringing in his long suit. squire, taking advantage of the much meditating pause made by the captain.--"mrs. dale, it is not my fault. i have asked rickeybockey--time out of mind. but i suppose i am not fine enough for those foreign chaps--he won't come--that's all i know!" parson, aghast at seeing the captain play out trumps, of which he, mr. dale, has only two, wherewith he expects to ruff the suit of spades of which he has only one (the cards all falling in suits) while he has not a single other chance of a trick in his hand: "really, squire, we had better give up playing if you put out my partner in this extraordinary way--jabber--jabber--jabber!" squire.--"well, we must be good children, harry. what!--trumps, barney? thank ye for that!" and the squire might well be grateful, for the unfortunate adversary has led up to ace, king, knave--with two other trumps. squire takes the parson's ten with his knave, and plays out ace, king; then, having cleared all the trumps except the captain's queen and his own remaining two, leads off tierce major in that very suit of spades of which the parson has only one--and the captain, indeed, but two--forces out the captain's queen, and wins the game in a canter. parson, with a look at the captain which might have become the awful brows of jove, when about to thunder: "that, i suppose, is the new fashioned london play! in my time the rule was 'first save the game, then try to win it.'" captain.--"could not save it, sir." parson, exploding.--"not save it!--two ruffs in my own hand--two tricks certain till you took them out! monstrous! the rashest trump."--seizes the cards--spreads them on the table, lip quivering, hands trembling--tries to show how five tricks could have been gained--(n.b. it is _short_ whist, which captain barnabas had introduced at the hall) can't make out more than four--captain smiles triumphantly--parson in a passion, and not at all convinced, mixes all the cards together again, and falling back in his chair, groans, with tears in his voice: "the cruelest trump! the most wanton cruelty!" the hazeldeans in chorus. "ho--ho--ho! ha--ha--ha!" the captain, who does not laugh this time, and whose turn it is to deal, shuffles the cards for the conquering game of the rubber with as much caution and prolixity as fabius might have employed in posting his men. the squire gets up to stretch his legs, and the insinuation against his hospitality recurring to his thoughts, calls out to his wife--"write to rickeybockey to-morrow yourself, harry, and ask him to come and spend two or three days here. there, mrs dale, you hear me?" "yes," said mrs. dale, putting her hands to her ears in implied rebuke at the loudness of the squire's tone. "my dear sir, do remember that i'm a sad nervous creature." "beg pardon," muttered mr. hazeldean, turning to his son, who, having got tired of the caricatures, had fished out for himself the great folio county history, which was the only book in the library that the squire much valued, and which he usually kept under lock and key, in his study, together with the field-books and steward's accounts, but which he had reluctantly taken into the drawing-room that day, in order to oblige captain higginbotham. for the higginbothams--an old saxon family, as the name evidently denotes--had once possessed lands in that very county. and the captain--during his visits to hazeldean hall--was regularly in the habit of asking to look into the county history, for the purpose of refreshing his eyes, and renovating his sense of ancestral dignity with the following paragraph therein: "to the left of the village of dunder, and pleasantly situated in a hollow, lies botham hall, the residence of the ancient family of higginbotham, as it is now commonly called. yet it appears by the county rolls, and sundry old deeds, that the family formerly styled itself higges, till, the manor house lying in botham, they gradually assumed the appellation of higges-in-botham, and in process of time, yielding to the corruptions of the vulgar, higginbotham." "what, frank! my county history!" cried the squire. "mrs. h., he has got my county history!" "well, hazeldean, it is time he should know something about the county." "ay, and history too," said mrs. dale, malevolently--for the little temper was by no means blown over. frank.--"i'll not hurt it, i assure you, sir. but i'm very much interested just at present." the captain, putting down the cards to cut.--"you've got hold of that passage about botham hall, page , eh?" frank.--"no; i was trying to make out how far it is to mr. leslie's place, rood hall. do you know, mother?" mrs. hazeldean.--"i can't say i do. the leslies don't mix with the county; and rood lies very much out of the way." frank.--"why don't they mix with the county?" mrs. hazeldean.--"i believe they are poor, and therefore i suppose they are proud: they are an old family." parson, thrumming on the table with great impatience: "old fiddledee!--talking of old families when the cards have been shuffled this half hour." captain barnabas.--"will you cut for your partner, ma'am?" squire, who has been listening to frank's inquiries with a musing air: "why do you want to know the distance to rood hall?" frank, rather hesitatingly.--"because randal leslie is there for the holidays, sir." parson.--"your wife has cut for you, mr. hazeldean. i don't think it was quite fair; and my partner has turned up a deuce--deuce of hearts. please to come and play, if you _mean_ to play." the squire returns to the table, and in a few minutes the game is decided, by a dexterous finesse of the captain, against the hazeldeans. the clock strikes ten: the servants enter with a tray; the squire counts up his and his wife's losings; and the captain and parson divide sixteen shillings between them. squire.--"there, parson, i hope now you'll be in a better humor. you win enough out of us to set up a coach and four." "tut," muttered the parson; "at the end of the year, i'm not a penny the richer for it all." and, indeed, monstrous as that assertion seemed, it was perfectly true, for the parson portioned out his gains into three divisions. one-third he gave to mrs. dale, for her own special pocket-money; what became of the second third he never owned, even to his better half--but certain it was, that every time the parson won seven-and-sixpence, half-a-crown which nobody could account for found its way to the poor-box; while the remaining third, the parson, it is true, openly and avowedly retained: but i have no manner of doubt that, at the year's end, it got to the poor quite as safely as if it had been put into the box. the party had now gathered round the tray, and were helping themselves to wine and water, or wine without water--except frank, who still remained poring over the map in the county history, with his head leaning on his hands, and his fingers plunged in his hair. "frank," said mrs. hazeldean, "i never saw you so studious before." frank started up, and colored, as if ashamed of being accused of too much study in any thing. the squire, with a little embarrassment in his voice: "pray, frank, what do you know of randal leslie?" "why, sir, he is at eton." "what sort of a boy is he?" asked mrs. hazeldean. frank hesitated, as if reflecting, and then answered: "they say he is the cleverest boy in the school. but then he saps." "in other words," said mr. dale with proper parsonic gravity, "he understands that he was sent to school to learn his lessons, and he learns them. you call that sapping--i call it doing his duty. but pray, who and what is this randal leslie, that you look so discomposed, squire?" "who and what is he?" repeated the squire, in a low growl. "why, you know, mr. audley egerton married miss leslie the great heiress, and this boy is a relation of hers. i may say," added the squire, "that he is as near a relation of mine, for his grandmother was a hazeldean. but all i know about the leslies is, that mr. egerton, as i am told, having no children of his own, took up young randal, (when his wife died, poor woman), pays for his schooling, and has, i suppose, adopted the boy as his heir. quite welcome. frank and i want nothing from mr. audley egerton, thank heaven." "i can well believe in your brother's generosity to his wife's kindred," said the parson, sturdily, "for i am sure mr. egerton is a man of strong feeling." "what the deuce do you know about mr. egerton? i don't suppose you could ever have even spoken to him." "yes," said the parson, coloring up and looking confused, "i had some conversation with him once;" and observing the squire's surprise, he added--"when i was curate at lansmere--and about a painful business connected with the family of one of my parishioners." "oh! one of your parishioners at lansmere--one of the constituents mr. audley egerton threw over, after all the pains i had taken to give him his seat. rather odd you should never have mentioned this before, mr. dale!" "my dear sir," said the parson, sinking his voice, and in a mild tone of conciliatory expostulation, "you are so irritable whenever mr. egerton's name is mentioned at all." "irritable!" exclaimed the squire, whose wrath had been long simmering, and now fairly boiled over. "irritable, sir! i should think so; a man for whom i stood godfather at the hustings, mr. dale! a man for whose sake i was called a 'prize ox,' mr. dale! a man for whom i was hissed in a market-place, mr. dale! a man for whom i was shot at, in cold blood, by an officer in his majesty's service, who lodged a ball in my right shoulder, mr. dale! a man who had the ingratitude, after all this, to turn his back on the landed interest--to deny that there was any agricultural distress in a year which broke three of the best farmers i ever had, mr. dale!--a man, sir, who made a speech on the currency which was complimented by ricardo, a jew! good heavens! a pretty parson you are, to stand up for a fellow complimented by a jew! nice ideas you must have of christianity. irritable, sir!" now fairly roared the squire, adding to the thunder of his voice the cloud of a brow, which evinced a menacing ferocity that might have done honor to bussy d'amboise or fighting fitzgerald. "sir, if that man had not been my own half-brother, i'd have called him out. i have stood my ground before now. i have had a ball in my right shoulder. sir, i'd have called him out." "mr. hazeldean! mr. hazeldean! i'm shocked at you," cried the parson; and, putting his lips close to the squire's ear, he went on in a whisper: "what an example to your son! you'll have him fighting duels one of these days, and nobody to blame but yourself." this warning cooled mr. hazeldean; and muttering, "why the deuce did you set me off?" he fell back into his chair, and began to fan himself with his pocket-handkerchief. the parson skillfully and remorselessly pursued the advantage he had gained. "and now, that you may have it in your power, to show civility and kindness to a boy whom mr. egerton has taken up, out of respect to his wife's memory--a kinsman you say of your own--and who has never offended you--a boy whose diligence in his studies proves him to be an excellent companion to your son. frank," (here the parson raised his voice), "i suppose you wanted to call on young leslie, as you were studying the county map so attentively?" "why, yes," answered frank, rather timidly. "if my father did not object to it. leslie has been very kind to me, though he is in the sixth form, and, indeed, almost the head of the school." "ah," said mrs. hazeldean, "one studious boy has a fellow-feeling for another; and though you enjoy your holidays, frank, i am sure you read hard at school." mrs. dale opened her eyes very wide, and stared in astonishment. mrs. hazeldean retorted that look with great animation. "yes, carry," said she, tossing her head, "though _you_ may not think frank clever, his master finds him so. he got a prize last half. that beautiful book, frank--hold up your head, my love--what did you get it for?" frank, reluctantly.--"verses, ma'am." mrs. hazeldean, with triumph.--"verses!--there, carry, verses!" frank, in a hurried tone.--"yes, but leslie wrote them for me." mrs. hazeldean, recoiling.--"o frank! a prize for what another did for you--that was mean." frank, ingenuously.--"you can't be more ashamed, mother, than i was when they gave me the prize." mrs. dale, though previously provoked at being snubbed by harry, now showing the triumph of generosity over temper: "i beg your pardon, frank. your mother must be as proud of that shame as she was of the prize." mrs. hazeldean puts her arm round frank's neck, smiles beamingly on mrs. dale, and converses with her son in a low tone about randal leslie. miss jemima now approached carry, and said in an "aside,"--"but we are forgetting poor mr. riccabocca. mrs. hazeldean, though the dearest creature in the world, has such a blunt way of inviting people--don't you think if you were to say a word to him, carry?" mrs. dale kindly, as she wraps her shawl round her: "suppose you write the note yourself. meanwhile i shall see him, no doubt." parson, putting his hand on the squire's shoulder: "you forgive my impertinence, my kind friend. we parsons, you know, are apt to take strange liberties, when we honor and love folks, as i do you." "pish!" said the squire, but his hearty smile came to his lips in spite of himself: "you always get your own way, and i suppose frank must ride over and see this pet of my--" "_brother's_," quoth the parson, concluding the sentence in a tone which gave to the sweet word so sweet a sound that the squire would not correct the parson, as he had been about to correct himself. mr. dale moved on; but as he passed captain barnabas, the benignant character of his countenance changed sadly. "the cruelest trump, captain higginbotham!" said he sternly, and stalked by--majestic. the night was so fine that the parson and his wife, as they walked home, made a little _detour_ through the shrubbery. mrs. dale.--"i think i have done a good piece of work to-night." parson, rousing himself from a reverie.--"have you, carry?--it will be a very pretty handkerchief." mrs. dale.--"handkerchief--nonsense, dear. don't you think it would be a very happy thing for both, if jemima and signor riccabocca could be brought together?" parson.--"brought together!" mrs. dale.--"you do snap one up so, my dear--i mean if i could make a match of it." parson.--"i think riccabocca is a match already, not only for jemima, but yourself into the bargain." mrs. dale, smiling loftily.--"well, we shall see. was not jemima's fortune about £ ?" parson dreamily, for he is relapsing fast into his interrupted reverie: "ay--ay--i daresay." mrs. dale.--"and she must have saved! i dare say it is nearly £ by this time; eh! charles dear, you really are so--good gracious, what's that!" as mrs. dale made this exclamation they had just emerged from the shrubbery, into the village green. parson.--"what's what?" mrs. dale, pinching her husband's arm very nippingly.--"that thing--there--there." parson.--"only the new stocks, carry; i don't wonder they frighten you, for you are a very sensible woman. i only wish they would frighten the squire." chapter xiii. _supposed to be a letter from mrs. hazeldean to ---- riccabocca, esq., the casino; but edited, and indeed composed, by miss jemima hazeldean._ "dear sir--to a feeling heart it must always be painful to give pain to another, and (though i am sure unconsciously) you have given the _greatest_ pain to poor mr. hazeldean and myself, indeed to _all_ our little circle, in so cruelly refusing our attempts to become better acquainted with a gentleman we so highly esteem. do, pray, dear sir, make us the _amende honorable_, and give us the _pleasure_ of your company for a few days at the hall! may we expect you saturday next?--our dinner-hour is six o'clock. "with the best compliments of mr. and miss jemima hazeldean. "believe me, my dear sir, yours truly, "h.h. "_hazeldean hall._" miss jemima having carefully sealed this note, which mrs. hazeldean had very willingly deputed her to write, took it herself into the stable-yard, in order to give the groom proper instructions to wait for an answer. but while she was speaking to the man, frank, equipped for riding with more than his usual dandyism, came also into the yard, calling for his pony in a loud voice, and singling out the very groom whom miss jemima was addressing--for, indeed, he was the smartest of all in the squire's stables--told him to saddle the gray pad, and accompany the pony. "no, frank," said miss jemima, "you can't have george; your father wants him to go on a message--you can take mat." "mat, indeed!" said frank, grumbling with some reason; for mat was a surly old fellow, who tied a most indefensible neckcloth, and always contrived to have a great patch in his boots; besides, he called frank "master," and obstinately refused to trot down hill; "mat, indeed!--let mat take the message, and george go with me." but miss jemima had also her reasons for rejecting mat. mat's foible was not servility, and he always showed true english independence in all houses where he was not invited to take his ale in the servants' hall. mat might offend signor riccabocca, and spoil all. an animated altercation ensued, in the midst of which the squire and his wife entered the yard, with the intention of driving in the conjugal gig to the market town. the matter was referred to the natural umpire by both the contending parties. the squire looked with great contempt on his son. "and what do you want a groom at all for? are you afraid of tumbling off the pony?" frank.--"no, sir; but i like to go as a gentleman, when i pay a visit to a gentleman!" squire, in high wrath.--"you precious puppy! i think i'm as good a gentleman as you, any day, and i should like to know when you ever saw me ride to call on a neighbor, with a fellow jingling at my heels, like that upstart ned spankie, whose father kept a cotton-mill. first time i ever heard of a hazeldean thinking a livery-coat was necessary to prove his gentility!" mrs. hazeldean, observing frank coloring, and about to reply.--"hush, frank, never answer your father--and you are going to call on mr. leslie?" "yes, ma'am, and i am very much obliged to my father for letting me," said frank, taking the squire's hand. "well, but, frank," continued mrs. hazeldean, "i think you heard that the leslies were very poor." frank.--"eh, mother?" mrs. hazeldean.--"and would you run the chance of wounding the pride of a gentleman, as well born as yourself, by affecting any show of being richer than he is?" squire, with great admiration.--"harry, i'd give £ to have said that!" frank, leaving the squire's hand to take his mother's.--"you're quite right, mother--nothing could be more _snobbish_!" squire.--"give us your fist too, sir; you'll be a chip of the old block, after all." frank smiled, and walked off to his pony. mrs. hazeldean to miss jemima.--"is that the note you were to write for me?" miss jemima.--"yes, i supposed you did not care about seeing it, so i have sealed it and given it to george." mrs. hazeldean.--"but frank will pass close by the casino on his way to the leslies'. it may be more civil if he leaves the note himself." miss jemima, hesitatingly.--"do you think so?" mrs. hazeldean.--"yes, certainly. frank--frank--as you pass by the casino, call on mr. riccabocca, give this note, and say we shall be heartily glad if he will come." frank nods. "stop a bit," cried the squire. "if rickeybockey's at home, 'tis ten to one if he don't ask you to take a glass of wine! if he does, mind, 'tis worse than asking you to take a turn on the rack. faugh! you remember, harry?--i thought it was all up with me." "yes," cried mrs. hazeldean, "for heaven's sake, not a drop! wine indeed!" "don't talk of it," cried the squire, making a wry face. "i'll take care, sir!" said frank, laughing as he disappeared within the stable, followed by miss jemima, who now coaxingly makes it up with him, and does not leave off her admonitions to be extremely polite to the poor foreign gentleman, till frank gets his foot into the stirrup; and the pony, who knows who he has got to deal with, gives a preparatory plunge or two and then darts out of the yard. _to be continued._ [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the every-day married lady. it might be supposed that the every-day married lady was formerly the every-day young lady, and has now merely changed her condition. but this is not the case, for nothing is more common than to see the most holiday spinsters settle down into the most working-day matrons. the married lady, in fact, of the species we would describe, has no descent in particular. if you can imagine a pupa coming into the world of itself without any connection with the larva, or an imago unconscious of the pupa, that is the every-day married lady. she is born at the altar, conjured into life by the ceremonial, and having utterly lost her individual existence, becomes from that moment a noun of multitude. people may say, "oh, this is our old acquaintance, miss smith!" but that is only calling names, for the identity is gone. if she is any thing at all but what appertains to the present, she is the late miss smith, who has survived herself, and changed into a family. we would insist upon this peculiarity of the every-day married lady--that her existence is collective. her very language is in the plural number--such as we, ours, and us. she respects the rights of paternity so much, as never to permit herself to talk of her children as peculiarly her own. her individuality being merged in her husband and their actual or possible offspring, she has no private thoughts, no wishes, no hopes, no fears but for the concern. and this is all the better for her tranquillity: for although a part of her husband, she does not quite fancy that he is a part of her. she leaves at least the business to his management, and if she does advise and suggest on occasions, she thinks that somehow things will come out very well. she feels that she is only a passenger; and although, as such, she may recommend the skipper to shorten sail when weathering a critical point, or, for the sake of safety, to come to anchor in the middle of the sea, she has still a certain faith in his skill or luck, and sleeps quietly in the storm. for this reason the every day married lady is comfortable in the figure, and has usually good round features of her own. the miss smith she has survived had a slender waist and small delicate hands; but this lady is a very tolerable armful, and the wedding-ring makes such a hollow on her finger, that one might think it would be difficult to get off. the every-day married lady is commonly reported to be selfish; but this is a mistake. at least her selfishness embraces the whole family circle: it has no personality. when the wife of a poor man, she will sit up half the night sewing and darning, but not a stitch for herself: that can be done at any time; but the boys must go comfortably to school, and the girls look genteel on the street, and the husband--to think of mr. brown wanting a button on his shirt! she looks selfish, because her eye is always on her own, and because she talks of what she is always thinking about; but how can one be selfish who is perpetually postponing herself, who dresses the plainest, eats the coarsest, and sleeps the least of the family? she never puts herself forward in company unless her young ladies want backing; but yet she never feels herself overlooked, for every word, every glance bestowed upon them, is communicated electrically to her. she is, indeed, in such perfect _rapport_ with the concern, that it is no uncommon thing for her to go home chuckling with amusement, overpowered with delight, from a party at which she had not once opened her lips. this is the party which she pronounces to have "gone off" well. half-observant people fancy that the calculation is made on the score of the jellies and ice, and singing and dancing, and so on, and influenced by a secret comparison with her own achievements; but she has more depth than they imagine, and finer sympathies--they don't understand her. not that the every-day married lady is unsocial--not at all: all comfortable people are social; but she is partial to her own class, and does not care to carry her confidences out of it. she has several intimate friends whom she is fond of meeting; but besides that, she is a sort of freemason in her way, and finds out every-day people by the word and sign. rank has very little to do with this society, as you will find if you observed her sitting at a cottage door, where, in purchasing a draught of milk, she has recognized a sister. if these two every-day married women had been rocked in the same cradle, they could not talk more intimately; and, indeed, they have heavy matters to talk about, for of all the babies that ever came into this breathing world, theirs were the most extraordinary babies. the miracle is, that any of them are extant after such outrageous measles, and scarlet fevers, and chicken-poxes--prophesied of, so to speak, even before their birth, by memorabilia that might have alarmed dr. simson. the interlocutors part very well pleased with each other: the cottager proud to find that she has so much in common with a real lady, and the lady pronouncing the reflection of herself she had met with to be a most sensible individual. although careless in this instance of the circumstance of rank, the every-day married lady has but little sympathy with the class of domestic servants. she looks upon her servants, in fact, as in some sort her natural enemies, and her life may therefore be said to be passed at the best in a state of armed neutrality. she commonly proceeds on the allowance system; and this is the best way, as it prevents so many sickening apprehensions touching that leg of mutton. indeed the appetite of servants is a constant puzzle to her: she can not make it out. she has a sharp eye, too, upon the policeman, and wonders what on earth he always looks down her area for. as for followers, that is quite out of the question. servants stay long enough upon their errands to talk to all the men and women in the parish; and the idea of having an acquaintance now and then besides--more especially of the male sex--tramping into the kitchen to see them, is wildly unnatural. she tells of a sailor whom she once detected sitting in the coolest possible manner by the fireside. when she appeared, the man rose up and bowed--and then sat down again. think of that! the artful girl said he was her brother!--and here all the every-day married ladies in the company laugh bitterly. since that time she has been haunted by a sailor, and smells tar in all sorts of places. if she ever has a passable servant, whom she is able to keep for a reasonable number of years, she gets gradually attached to her, and pets and coddles her. betty is a standing testimony to her nice discrimination, and a perpetual premium on her successful rearing of servants. but alas! the end of it all is, that the respectable creature gets married to the green grocer, and leaves her indulgent mistress: a striking proof of the heartlessness and ingratitude of the whole tribe! if it is not marriage, however, that calls her away, but bad health; if she goes home unwell, or is carried to the infirmary--what then? why, then, we are sorry to say, she passes utterly away from the observation and memory of the every-day married lady. this may be reckoned a bad trait in her character; and yet it is in some degree allied to the great virtue of her life. servants are the evil principle in her household, which it is her business to combat and hold in obedience. a very large proportion of her time is spent in this virtuous warfare; and success on her part ought to be considered deserving of the gratitude of the vanquished, without imposing burdens upon the victor. the every-day married lady is the inventor of a thing which few foreign nations have as yet adopted either in their houses or languages. this thing is comfort. the word can not well be defined, the items that enter into its composition being so numerous, that a description would read like a catalogue. we all understand, however, what it means, although few of us are sensible of the source of the enjoyment. a widower has very little comfort, and a bachelor none at all; while a married man--provided his wife be an every-day married lady--enjoys it in perfection. but he enjoys it unconsciously, and therefore ungratefully: it is a thing of course--a necessary, a right, of the want of which he complains without being distinctly sensible of its presence. even when it acquires sufficient intensity to arrest his attention, when his features and his heart soften, and he looks round with a half smile on his face, and says, "this is comfort!" it never occurs to him to inquire where it all comes from. his every-day wife is sitting quietly in the corner: it was not she who lighted the fire, or dressed the dinner, or drew the curtains, and it never occurs to him to think that all these, and a hundred other circumstances of the moment, owe their virtue to her spiriting, and that the comfort which enriches the atmosphere, which sparkles in the embers, which broods in the shadowy parts of the room, which glows in his own full heart, emanates from her, and encircles her like an aureola. we have suggested, on a former occasion, that our conventional notions of the sex, in its gentle, modest, and retiring characteristics, are derived from the every-day young lady; and in like manner we venture to opine that the every-day married lady is _the_ english wife of foreigners and moralists. thus she is a national character, and a personage of history; and yet there she sits all the while in that corner, knitting something or other, and thinking to herself that she had surely smelt a puff of tar as she was passing the pantry. the curious thing is, that the dispenser of comfort can do with a very small share of it herself. when her husband does not dine at home, it is surprising what odds and ends are sufficient to make up the dinner. perhaps the best part of it is a large slice of bread-and-butter; for it is wasting the servants' time to make them cook when there is _nobody_ to be at the table. but she makes up for this at tea: that _is_ a comfortable meal for the every-day married lady. the husband, a matter-of-fact, impassive fellow, swallows down his two or three cups in utter unconsciousness of the poetry of the occasion; while the wife pauses on every sip, drinks in the aroma as well as the infusion, fills slowly and lingeringly out, and creams and sugars as if her hands dallied over a labor of love. with her daughters, in the mean time, grown up, or even half-grown up, she exchanges words and looks of motherly and masonic intelligence: she is moulding them to comfort, initiating them in every-dayism; and as their heads bend companionably toward each other, you see at a glance that the girls will do honor to their breeding. the husband calls this "dawdling," and already begins to fret. let him: he knows nothing about it. it is surprising the affection of the daughters for their every-day mother. not that the sentiment is steady and uniform in its expression, for sometimes one might suppose mamma to be forgotten, or at least considered only as a daily necessary not requiring any special notice. but wait till a grief comes, and mark to what bosom the panting girl flies for refuge and comfort; see with what _abandon_ she flings her arms round that maternal neck, and with what a passionate burst the hitherto repressed tears gush forth. this is something more than habit, something more than filial trust. there are more senses than five in human nature--or seven either: there is a fine and subtle link between these two beings--a common atmosphere of thought and feeling, impalpable and imperceptible, yet necessary to the souls of both. if you doubt it--if you doubt that there is a moral attraction in the every-day married lady, irrespective of blood-affinity, carry your view forward to another generation, and interrogate those witnesses who are never mistaken in character, and who never give false testimony--little children. they dote on their every-day grandmamma. their natures, not yet seared and hardened by the world, understand hers; and with something of the fresh perfume of eden about them still, they recognize instinctively those blessed souls to whom god has given to love little children. this is farther shown when the every-day married lady dies. what is there in the character we have drawn to account for the shock the whole family receives? the husband feels as if a thunder-cloud had fallen, and gathered, and blackened upon his heart, through which he could never again see the sun. the grown-up children, especially the females, are distracted; "their purposes are broken off;" they desire to have nothing more to do with the world: they lament as those who will not be comforted. even common acquaintances look round them, when they enter the house, with uneasiness and anxiety-- "we miss her when the morning calls, as one that mingled in our mirth: we miss her when the evening falls-- a trifle wanted on the earth! "some fancy small, or subtle thought, is checked ere to its blossom grown; some chain is broken that we wrought, now--she hath flown!" and so she passes away--this every-day married lady--leaving memorials of her commonplace existence every where throughout the circle in which she lived, moved, and had her being, and after having stamped herself permanently upon the constitution, both moral and physical, of her descendants. anecdote of a singer. signora grassini, the great italian singer, died a few months since at milan. she was distinguished not only for her musical talents, but also for her beauty and powers of theatrical expression. one evening in , she and signor crescentini performed together at the tuileries, and sang in "romeo and juliet." at the admirable scene in the third act, the emperor napoleon applauded vociferously, and talma, the great tragedian, who was among the audience, wept with emotion. after the performance was ended, the emperor conferred the decoration of a high order on crescentini, and sent grassini a scrap of paper, on which was written, "good for , livres.--napoleon." "twenty thousand francs!" said one of her friends--"the sum is a large one." "it will serve as a dowry for one of my little nieces," replied grassini quietly. indeed few persons were ever more generous, tender, and considerate toward their family than this great singer. many years afterward, when the empire had crumbled into dust, carrying with it in its fall, among other things, the rich pension of signora grassini, she happened to be at bologna. there another of her nieces was for the first time presented to her, with a request that she would do something for her young relative. the little girl was extremely pretty, but not, her friends thought, fitted for the stage, as her voice was a feeble contralto. her aunt asked her to sing; and when the timid voice had sounded a few notes, "dear child," said grassini, embracing her, "you will not want _me_ to assist you. those who called your voice a contralto were ignorant of music. you have one of the finest sopranos in the world, and will far excel me as a singer. take courage, and work hard, my love: your throat will win a shower of gold." the young girl did not disappoint her aunt's prediction. she still lives, and her name is giulia grisi. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] when the summer comes. i once knew a little boy, a little child of three years old; one of those bright creatures whose fair loveliness seems more of heaven than of earth--even at a passing glimpse stirring our hearts, and filling them with purer and holier thought. but this, the little francie, was more of a cherub than an angel,--as we picture them--with his gladsome hazel eyes, his dazzling fairness, his clustering golden hair, and his almost winged step. such he was, at least, until sickness laid its heavy hand on him; then, indeed, when, after days of burning, wasting fever--hours of weary restlessness--the little hand at last lay motionless outside the scarcely whiter coverlet of his tiny bed, the fair, still head, pressed down upon the pillow, and the pale face gazing with the silent wonder of returning consciousness on the anxious ones around it; then, indeed, a bright yet pitying look would flit across it, or dwell in the earnest eyes--a look such as we assign to angels in our dreams, when some fond fancy seems to bring them near us, weeping for mortal griefs beyond their remedy. it was a strange sickness for one so young--the struggle of typhus fever with a baby frame; but life and youth obtained the victory; and quicker even than hope could venture to expect, the pulses rallied, the cheeks grew round and rosy, and the little wasted limbs filled up again. health was restored--health, but not strength: we thought this for a while. we did not wonder that the weakened limbs refused their office, and still we waited on in hope, until days, and even weeks, passed by: then it was found that the complaint had left its bitter sting, and little francie could not walk a step, or even stand. many and tedious and painful were the remedies resorted to; yet the brave little heart bore stoutly up, with that wonderful fortitude, almost heroism, which all who have watched by suffering childhood, when the tractable spirit bends to its early discipline, must at some time or other have remarked. francie's fortitude might have afforded an example to many; but a dearer lesson was given in the hopeful spirit with which the little fellow himself noted the effect of each distressing remedy, marking each stage of progress, and showing off with eager gladness every step attained, from the first creeping on the hands and knees, to the tiptoe journey round the room, holding on by chairs and tables; then to the clinging to some loving hand; and then, at last, the graceful balancing of his light body, until he stood quite erect alone, and so moved slowly on. it was in autumn this illness seized on the little one, just when the leaves were turning, and the orchard fruits becoming ripe. his nurse attributed it all to his sitting on a grassy bank at play on one of those uncertain autumn days; but he, in his childish way, always maintained "it was francie himself--eating red berries in the holly bower." however this may have been, the season and the time seemed indelibly impressed upon his mind. in all his long confinement to the house, his thoughts continually turned to outward objects, to the external face of nature and the season's change, and evermore his little word of hope was this, "when the _summer_ comes!" he kept it up throughout the long winter, and the bleak cold spring. a fairy little carriage had been provided for him, in which, well wrapped up from the cold, and resting on soft cushions, he was lightly drawn along by a servant, to his own great delight, and the admiration of many a young beholder. but when any one--attempting to reconcile him the better to his position--expatiated on the beauty or comfort of his new acquisition, his eager look and word would show how far he went beyond it, as, quickly interrupting, he would exclaim, "wait till the summer comes--then francie will walk again!" during the winter there was a fearful storm, it shook the windows, moaned in the old trees, and howled down the chimneys with a most menacing voice. older hearts than francie's quailed that night, and he, unable to sleep, lay listening to it all--quiet, but asking many a question, as his excited fancy formed similitudes to the sounds. one time it was poor little children cruelly turned out, and wailing; then something trilling, with its last hoarse cry; then wolves and bears, from far-off other lands. but all the while francie knew he was snug and safe himself: no fears disturbed him, whatever the noise may have done. throughout the whole of it he carried his one steadfast hope, and, in the morning telling of it all, with all his marvelous thoughts, he finished his relation with the never-failing word of comfort, "ah! there shall be no loud wind, no waking nights, when once the summer comes!" the summer came with its glad birds and flowers, its balmy air; and who can paint the exquisite delight of the suffering child that had waited for it so long? living almost continually in the open air he seemed to expect fresh health and strength from each reviving breath he drew, and every day would deem himself capable of some greater effort, as if to prove that his expectation had not been in vain. one lovely day he and his little playfellows were in a group amusing themselves in part of the garden, when some friends passed through. francie, longing to show how much he could do, entreated hard to be taken with them "along the walk, just to the holly bower." his request was granted, and on he did walk; quick at first, then slowly slower: but still upheld by his strong faith in the summer's genial influence, he would not rest in any of the offered arms, though the fitful color went and came, and the pauses grew more and more frequent. no, with a heavy sigh he admitted, "'tis a very, very long walk _now_; but francie must not be tired: sure the summer is come." and so, determined not to admit fatigue in the face of the season's bright proofs around him, he succeeded in accomplishing his little task at last. thus the summer passed away, and again came the changing autumn, acting on poor little francie to a degree he had never reckoned on, and with its chill, damp airs, nearly throwing him back again. with a greater effort even than before, he had again tried the walk to the holly bower, the scene of his self-accusing misdemeanor as the cause of all his sufferings. he sat down to rest; above his head, as the autumnal breeze swept through them, "the polished leaves and berries red did rustling play;" and as little francie looked upward toward them, a memory of the former year, and of all the time that had passed since then, seemed for the first time mournfully to steal over his heart. he nestled in closer to his mother's side; and still looking up, but with more thoughtful eyes, he said, "mamma, is the summer _quite_ gone?" "yes, my darling. don't you see the scarlet berries, the food of winter for the little birds?" "quite gone, mamma, and francie not quite well?" his mother looked away; she could not bear her child to see the tell-tale tears his mournful little words called up, or know the sad echo returned by her own desponding thoughts. there was a moment's silence, only broken by the blackbird's song; and then she felt a soft, a little kiss, upon her hand, and looking down, she saw her darling's face--yes, surely now it was as an angel's--gazing upward to her, brightly beaming, brighter than ever; and his rosy lips just parted with their own sweet smile again, as he exclaimed in joyous tones, "mamma, the summer will come again!" precious was that heaven-born word of childish faith to the careworn mother, to cheer her then, and, with its memory of hope, still to sustain her through many an after-experiment and anxious watch, until, at last, she reaped her rich reward in the complete realization of her bright one's hope. precious to more than her such words may be, if bravely stemming our present trouble, whatsoe'er it be--bravely enduring, persevering, encouraging others and ourselves, even as that little child--we hold the thought, that as the revolving year brings round its different seasons, as day succeeds to night--and even as surely as we look for this, and know it--so to the trusting heart there comes a time--it may be soon or late, it may be now, or it may be _then_--when this grief or grievance will have passed away; and so 'twill all seem nothing--when the summer comes! [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] villainy outwitted--from the recollections of a police officer. the respectable agent of a rather eminent french house arrived one morning in great apparent distress at scotland yard, and informed the superintendent that he had just sustained a great, almost ruinous loss, in notes of the bank of england, and commercial bills of exchange, besides a considerable sum in gold. he had, it appeared, been absent in paris about ten days, and on his return but a few hours previously, discovered that his iron chest had been completely rifled during his absence. false keys must have been used, as the empty chest was found locked, and no sign of violence could be observed. he handed in full written details of the property carried off, the numbers of the notes, and every other essential particular. the first step taken was to ascertain if any of the notes had been tendered at the bank. not one had been presented; payment was of course stopped, and advertisements descriptive of the bills of exchange, as well as of the notes, were inserted in the evening and following morning papers. a day or two afterward, a considerable reward was offered for such information as might lead to the apprehension of the offenders. no result followed; and in spite of the active exertions of the officers employed, not the slightest clew could be obtained to the perpetrators of the robbery. the junior partner in the firm, m. bellebon, in the mean time arrived in england, to assist in the investigation, and was naturally extremely urgent in his inquiries; but the mystery which enveloped the affair remained impenetrable. at last a letter, bearing the st. martin-le-grand post-mark, was received by the agent, m. alexandre le breton, which contained an offer to surrender the whole of the plunder, with the exception of the gold, for the sum of one thousand pounds. the property which had been abstracted was more than ten times that sum, and had been destined by the french house to meet some heavy liabilities falling due in london very shortly. le breton had been ordered to pay the whole amount into hoare's to the account of the firm, and had indeed been severely blamed for not having done so as he received the different notes and bills; and it was on going to the chest immediately on his return from paris, for the purpose of fulfilling the peremptory instructions he had received, that m. le breton discovered the robbery. the letter went on to state that should the offer be acceded to, a mystically-worded advertisement--of which a copy was inclosed--was to be inserted in the "times," and then a mode would be suggested for safely--in the interest of the thieves of course--carrying the agreement into effect. m. bellebon was half-inclined to close with this proposal, in order to save the credit of the house, which would be destroyed unless its acceptances, now due in about fourteen days, could be met; and without the stolen moneys and bills of exchange, this was, he feared, impossible. the superintendent, to whom m. bellebon showed the letter, would not hear of compliance with such a demand, and threatened a prosecution for composition of felony if m. bellebon persisted in doing so. the advertisement was, however, inserted, and an immediate reply directed that le breton, the agent, should present himself at the old manor-house, green lanes, newington, unattended, at four o'clock on the following afternoon, bringing with him of course the stipulated sum _in gold_. it was added, that to prevent any possible treason (_trahison_, the letter was written in french), le breton would find a note for him at the tavern, informing him of the spot--a solitary one, and far away from any place where an ambush could be concealed--where the business would be concluded, and to which he must proceed unaccompanied, and on foot! this proposal was certainly quite as ingenious as it was cool, and the chance of out-witting such cunning rascals seemed exceedingly doubtful. a very tolerable scheme was, however, hit upon, and m. le breton proceeded at the appointed hour to the old manor-house. no letter or message had been left for him, and nobody obnoxious to the slightest suspicion could be seen near or about the tavern. on the following day another missive arrived, which stated that the writer was quite aware of the trick which the police had intended playing him, and he assured m. bellebon that such a line of conduct was as unwise as it would be fruitless, inasmuch as if "good faith" was not observed, the securities and notes would be inexorably destroyed or otherwise disposed of, and the house of bellebon and company be consequently exposed to the shame and ruin of bankruptcy. just at this crisis of the affair i arrived in town from an unsuccessful hunt after some fugitives who had slipped through my fingers at plymouth. the superintendent laughed heartily, not so much at the trick by which i had been duped, as at the angry mortification i did not affect to conceal. he presently added, "i have been wishing for your return, in order to intrust you with a tangled affair, in which success will amply compensate for such a disappointment. you know french too, which is fortunate; for the gentleman who has been plundered understands little or no english." he then related the foregoing particulars, with other apparently slight circumstances; and after a long conversation with him, i retired to think the matter over, and decide upon the likeliest mode of action. after much cogitation, i determined to see m. bellebon _alone_; and for this purpose i dispatched the waiter of a tavern adjacent to his lodgings, with a note expressive of my wish to see him instantly on pressing business. he was at home, and immediately acceded to my request. i easily introduced myself; and after about a quarter of an hour's conference, said carelessly--for i saw he was too heedless of speech, too quick and frank, to be intrusted with the dim suspicions which certain trifling indices had suggested to me--"is monsieur le breton at the office where the robbery was committed?" "no: he is gone to greenwich on business, and will not return till late in the evening. but if you wish to re-examine the place, i can of course enable you to do so." "it will, i think, be advisable; and you will, if you please," i added, as we emerged into the street, "permit me to take you by the arm, in order that the _official_ character of my visit may not be suspected by any one there." he laughingly complied, and we arrived at the house arm-in-arm. we were admitted by an elderly woman; and there was a young man--a mustached clerk--seated at a desk in an inner room writing. he eyed me for a moment, somewhat askance, i thought, but i gave him no opportunity for a distinct view of my features; and i presently handed m. bellebon a card, on which i had contrived to write, unobserved, "send away the clerk." this was more naturally done than i anticipated; and in answer to m. bellebon's glance of inquiry, i merely said, "that as i did not wish to be known there as a police-officer, it was essential that the minute search i was about to make should be without witnesses." he agreed; and the woman was also sent away upon a distant errand. every conceivable place did i ransack; every scrap of paper that had writing on it i eagerly perused. at length the search was over, apparently without result. "you are quite sure, monsieur bellebon, as you informed the superintendent, that monsieur le breton has no female relations or acquaintances in this country?" "positive," he replied. "i have made the most explicit inquiries on the subject both of the clerk dubarle, and of the woman-servant." just then the clerk returned, out of breath with haste, i noticed, and i took my leave without even now affording the young gentleman so clear a view of my face as he was evidently anxious to obtain. "no female acquaintance!" thought i, as i re-entered the private room of the tavern i had left an hour before. "from whom came, then, these scraps of perfumed note-paper i have found in his desk, i wonder?" i sat down and endeavored to piece them out, but after considerable trouble, satisfied myself that they were parts of different notes, and so small, unfortunately, as to contain nothing which separately afforded any information except that they were all written by one hand, and that a female one. about two hours after this i was sauntering along in the direction of stoke-newington, where i was desirous of making some inquiries as to another matter, and had passed the kingslaw gate a few hundred yards, when a small discolored printed handbill, lying in a haberdasher's shop window, arrested my attention. it ran thus: "two guineas reward.--lost, an italian gray-hound. the tip of its tail has been chopped off, and it answers to the name of fidèle." underneath, the reader was told in writing to "inquire within." "fidèle!" i mentally exclaimed. "any relation to m. le breton's fair correspondent fidèle, i wonder?" in a twinkling my pocket-book was out, and i reperused by the gas-light on one of the perfumed scraps of paper the following portion of a sentence, "_ma pauvre fidèle est per_--" the bill, i observed, was dated nearly three weeks previously. i forthwith entered the shop, and pointing to the bill, said i knew a person who had found such a dog as was there advertised for. the woman at the counter said she was glad to hear it, as the lady, formerly a customer of theirs, was much grieved at the animal's loss. "what is the lady's name?" i asked. "i can't rightly pronounce the name," was the reply. "it is french, i believe; but here it is, with the address, in the day-book, written by herself." i eagerly read--"madame levasseur, oak cottage; about one mile on the road from edmonton to southgate." the handwriting greatly resembled that on the scraps i had taken from m. le breton's desk; and the writer was french too! here were indications of a trail which might lead to unhoped-for success, and i determined to follow it up vigorously. after one or two other questions, i left the shop, promising to send the dog to the lady the next day. my business at stoke-newington was soon accomplished. i then hastened westward to the establishment of a well-known dog-fancier, and procured the loan, at a reasonable price, of an ugly italian hound: the requisite loss of the tip of its tail was very speedily accomplished, and so quickly healed, that the newness of the excision could not be suspected. i arrived at the lady's residence about twelve o'clock on the following day, so thoroughly disguised as a vagabond cockney dog-stealer, that my own wife, when i entered the breakfast parlor just previous to starting, screamed with alarm and surprise. the mistress of oak cottage was at home, but indisposed, and the servant said she would take the dog to her, though, if i would take it out of the basket, she herself could tell me if it was fidèle or not. i replied that i would only show the dog to the lady, and would not trust it out of my hands. this message was carried up-stairs, and after waiting some time outside--for the woman, with natural precaution, considering my appearance, for the safety of the portable articles lying about, had closed the street-door in my face--i was re-admitted, desired to wipe my shoes carefully, and walk up. madame levasseur, a showy-looking woman, though not over-refined in speech or manners, was seated on a sofa, in vehement expectation of embracing her dear fidèle; but my vagabond appearance so startled her, that she screamed loudly for her husband, m. levasseur. this gentleman, a fine, tall, whiskered, mustached person, hastened into the apartment half-shaved, and with his razor in his hand. "qu'est ce qu'il y a donc?" he demanded. "mais voyez cette horreur là," replied the lady, meaning me, not the dog, which i was slowly emancipating from the basket-kennel. the gentleman laughed; and reassured by the presence of her husband, madame levasseur's anxieties concentrated themselves upon the expected fidèle. "mais, mon dieu!" she exclaimed again as i displayed the aged beauty i had brought for her inspection, "why, that is not fidèle!" "not, marm?" i answered, with quite innocent surprise. "vy, ere is her wery tail;" and i held up the mutilated extremity for her closer inspection. the lady was not, however, to be convinced even by that evidence; and as the gentleman soon became impatient of my persistence, and hinted very intelligibly that he had a mind to hasten my passage down stairs with the toe of his boot, i, having made the best possible use of my eyes during the short interview, scrambled up the dog and basket, and departed. "no female relative or acquaintance hasn't he?" was my exulting thought as i gained the road. "and yet if that is not m. le breton's picture between those of the husband and wife, i am a booby, and a blind one." i no longer in the least doubted that i had struck a brilliant trail; and i could have shouted with exultation, so eager was i not only to retrieve my, as i fancied, somewhat tarnished reputation for activity and skill, but to extricate the plundered firm from their terrible difficulties; the more especially as young m. bellebon, with the frankness of his age and nation, had hinted to me--and the suddenly-tremulous light of his fine expressive eyes testified to the acuteness of his apprehensions--that his marriage with a long-loved and amiable girl depended upon his success in saving the credit of his house. that same evening, about nine o'clock, m. levasseur, expensively, but withal snobbishly attired, left oak cottage, walked to edmonton, hailed a cab, and drove off rapidly toward town, followed by an english swell as stylishly and snobbishly dressed, wigged, whiskered, and mustached as himself: this english swell being no other than myself, as prettily metamorphosed and made up for the part i intended playing as heart could wish. m. levasseur descended at the end of the quadrant, regent-street, and took his way to vine-street, leading out of that celebrated thoroughfare. i followed; and observing him enter a public-house, unhesitatingly did the same. it was a house of call and general rendezvous for foreign servants out of place. valets, couriers, cooks, of many varieties of shade, nation, and respectability, were assembled there, smoking, drinking, and playing at an insufferably noisy game, unknown, i believe, to englishmen, and which must, i think, have been invented in sheer despair of cards, dice, or other implements of gambling. the sole instruments of play were the gamesters' fingers, of which the two persons playing suddenly and simultaneously uplifted as many, or as few as they pleased, each player alternately calling a number; and if he named precisely how many fingers were held up by himself and opponent, he marked a point. the hubbub of cries--"cinq," "neuf," "dix," &c.--was deafening. the players--almost every body in the large room--were too much occupied to notice our entrance; and m. levasseur and myself seated ourselves, and called for something to drink, without, i was glad to see, exciting the slightest observation. m. levasseur, i soon perceived, was an intimate acquaintance of many there; and somewhat to my surprise, for he spoke french very well, i found that he was a swiss. his name was, i therefore concluded, assumed. nothing positive rewarded my watchfulness that evening; but i felt quite sure levasseur had come there with the expectation of meeting some one, as he did not play, and went away about half-past eleven o'clock with an obviously discontented air. the following night it was the same; but the next, who should peer into the room about half-past ten, and look cautiously round, but m. alexandre le breton! the instant the eyes of the friends met, levasseur rose and went out. i hesitated to follow, lest such a movement might excite suspicion; and it was well i did not, as they both presently returned, and seated themselves close by my side. the anxious, haggard countenance of le breton--who had, i should have before stated, been privately pointed out to me by one of the force early on the morning i visited oak cottage--struck me forcibly, especially in contrast with that of levasseur, which wore only an expression of malignant and ferocious triumph, slightly dashed by temporary disappointment. le breton staid but a short time; and the only whispered words i caught were--"he has, i fear, some suspicion." the anxiety and impatience of m. bellebon while this was going on became extreme, and he sent me note after note--the only mode of communication i would permit--expressive of his consternation at the near approach of the time when the engagements of his house would arrive at maturity, without any thing having in the meantime been accomplished. i pitied him greatly, and after some thought and hesitation, resolved upon a new and bolder game. by affecting to drink a great deal, occasionally playing, and in other ways exhibiting a reckless, devil-may-care demeanor, i had striven to insinuate myself into the confidence and companionship of levasseur, but hitherto without much effect; and although once i could see, startled by a casual hint i dropped to another person--one of ours--just sufficiently loud for him to hear--that i knew a sure and safe market for stopped bank of england notes, the cautious scoundrel quickly subsided into his usual guarded reserve. he evidently doubted me, and it was imperatively necessary to remove those doubts. this was at last effectually, and, as i am vain enough to think, cleverly done. one evening a rakish-looking man, who ostentatiously and repeatedly declared himself to be mr. trelawney, of conduit-street, and who was evidently three parts intoxicated, seated himself directly in front of us, and with much braggart impudence boasted of his money, at the same time displaying a pocket-book, which seemed pretty full of bank of england notes. there were only a few persons present in the room besides us, and they were at the other end of the room. levasseur i saw noticed with considerable interest the look of greed and covetousness which i fixed on that same pocket-book. at length the stranger rose to depart. i also hurried up and slipped after him, and was quietly and slyly followed by levasseur. after proceeding about a dozen paces, i looked furtively about, but _not_ behind; robbed mr. trelawney of his pocket-book, which he had placed in one of the tails of his coat; crossed over the street, and walked hurriedly away, still, i could hear, followed by levasseur. i entered another public-house, strode into an empty back-room, and was just in the act of examining my prize, when in stepped levasseur. he looked triumphant as lucifer, as he clapped me on the shoulder, and said in a low exulting voice, "i saw that pretty trick, williams, and can, if i like, transport you!" my consternation was naturally extreme, and levasseur laughed immensely at the terror he excited. "_soyez tranquille_," he said at last, at the same time ringing the bell, "i shall not hurt you." he ordered some wine, and after the waiter had fulfilled the order, and left the room, said, "those notes of mr. trelawney's will of course be stopped in the morning, but i think i once heard you say you knew of a market for such articles?" i hesitated, coyly unwilling to further commit myself. "come, come," resumed levasseur, in a still low but menacing tone, "no nonsense. i have you now; you are, in fact, entirely in my power: but be candid, and you are safe. who is your friend?" "he is not in town now," i stammered. "stuff--humbug! i have myself some notes to change. there, now we understand each other. what does he give, and how does he dispose of them?" "he gives about a third generally, and gets rid of them abroad. they reach the bank through _bonâ-fide_ and innocent holders, and in that case the bank is of course bound to pay." "is that the law also with respect to bills of exchange?" "yes, to be sure it is." "and is _amount_ of any consequence to your friend?" "none, i believe, whatever." "well, then, you must introduce me to him." "no, that i can't," i hurriedly answered. "he won't deal with strangers." "you _must_, i tell you, or i will call an officer." terrified by this threat, i muttered that his name was levi samuel. "and where does levi samuel live?" "that," i replied, "i _can not_ tell; but i know how to communicate with him." finally, it was settled by levasseur that i should dine at oak cottage the next day but one, and that i should arrange with samuel to meet us there immediately afterward. the notes and bills he had to dispose of, i was to inform samuel, amounted to nearly twelve thousand pounds, and i was promised £ for effecting the bargain. "five hundred pounds, remember, williams," said levasseur, as we parted; "or, if you deceive me, transportation. you can prove nothing regarding _me_, whereas, i could settle _you_ offhand." the superintendent and i had a long and rather anxious conference the next day. we agreed that, situated as oak cottage was, in an open space away from any other building, it would not be advisable that any officer except myself and the pretended samuel should approach the place. we also agreed as to the probability of such clever rogues having so placed the notes and bills that they could be consumed or otherwise destroyed on the slightest alarm, and that the open arrest of levasseur, and a search of oak cottage, would in all likelihood prove fruitless. "there will be only two of them," i said, in reply to a remark of the superintendent as to the somewhat dangerous game i was risking with powerful and desperate men, "even should le breton be there; and surely jackson and i, aided by the surprise and our pistols, will be too many for them." little more was said, the superintendent wished us luck, and i sought out and instructed jackson. i will confess that, on setting out the next day to keep my appointment, i felt considerable anxiety. levasseur _might_ have discovered my vocation, and set this trap for my destruction. yet that was hardly possible. at all events, whatever the danger, it was necessary to face it; and having cleaned and loaded my pistols with unusual care, and bade my wife a more than usually earnest farewell, which, by the way, rather startled her, i set off, determined, as we used to say in yorkshire, "to win the horse or lose the saddle." i arrived in good time at oak cottage, and found my host in the highest possible spirits. dinner was ready, he said, but it would be necessary to wait a few minutes for the two friends he expected. "_two_ friends!" i exclaimed, really startled. "you told me last evening there was to be only one, a monsieur le breton." "true," rejoined levasseur carelessly; "but i had forgotten that another party as much interested as ourselves would like to be present, and invite himself if i did not. but there will be enough for us all, never fear," he added, with a coarse laugh, "especially as madame levasseur does not dine with us." at this moment a loud knock was heard. "here they are!" exclaimed levasseur, and hastened out to meet them. i peeped through the blind, and to my great alarm saw that le breton was accompanied by the clerk dubarle! my first impulse was to seize my pistols and rush out of the house; but calmer thoughts soon succeeded, and the improbability that a plan had been laid to entrap me recurred forcibly. still, should the clerk recognize me? the situation was undoubtedly a critical one; but i was in for it, and must therefore brave the matter out in the best way i could. presently a conversation, carried on in a loud, menacing tone in the next room between levasseur and the new-comers, arrested my attention, and i softly approached the door to listen. le breton, i soon found was but half a villain, and was extremely anxious that the property should not be disposed of till at least another effort had been made at negotiation. the others, now that a market for the notes and securities had been obtained, were determined to avail themselves of it, and immediately leave the country. the almost agonizing entreaties of le breton that they would not utterly ruin the house he had betrayed, were treated with scornful contempt, and he was at length silenced by their brutal menaces. le breton, i further learned, was a cousin of madame levasseur, whose husband had first pillaged him at play, and then suggested the crime which had been committed as the sole means of concealing the defalcations of which he, levasseur, had been the occasion and promoter. after a brief delay, all three entered the dining-room, and a slight but significant start which the clerk dubarle gave, as levasseur, with mock ceremony, introduced me, made my heart, as folk say, leap into my mouth. his half-formed suspicions seemed, however, to be dissipated for the moment by the humorous account levasseur gave him of the robbery of mr. trelawney, and we sat down to a very handsome dinner. a more uncomfortable one, albeit, i never assisted at. the furtive looks of dubarle, who had been only partially reassured, grew more and more inquisitive and earnest. fortunately levasseur was in rollicking spirits and humor, and did not heed the unquiet glances of the young man; and as for le breton, he took little notice of any body. at last this terrible dinner was over, and the wine was pushed briskly round. i drank much more freely than usual, partly with a view to calm my nerves, and partly to avoid remark. it was nearly the time for the jew's appearance, when dubarle, after a scrutinizing and somewhat imperious look at my face, said abruptly, "i think, monsieur williams, i have seen you somewhere before?" "very likely," i replied, with as much indifference as i could assume. "many persons have seen me before--some of them once or twice too often." "true!" exclaimed levasseur, with a shout; "trelawney, for instance!" "i should like to see monsieur with his wig off!" said the clerk, with increasing insolence. "nonsense, dubarle; you are a fool," exclaimed levasseur; "and i will not have my good friend williams insulted." dubarle did not persist, but it was plain enough that some dim remembrance of my features continued to haunt and perplex him. at length, and the relief was unspeakable, a knock at the outer door announced jackson--levi samuel i mean. we all jumped up and ran to the window. it was the jew sure enough, and admirably he had dressed and now looked the part. levasseur went out, and in a minute or two returned, introducing him. jackson could not suppress a start as he caught sight of the tall, mustached addition to the expected company; and, although he turned it off very well, it drove the jewish dialect in which he had been practicing, completely out of his thoughts and speech, as he said, "you have more company than my friend williams led me to expect?" "a friend--one friend extra, mr. samuel," said levasseur; "that is all. come, sit down, let me help you to a glass of wine. you are an english jew i perceive?" "yes." a silence of a minute or two succeeded, and then levasseur said, "you are, of course, prepared for business?" "yes--that is, if you are reasonable." "reasonable! the most reasonable men in the world," rejoined levasseur, with a loud laugh. "but pray, where is the gold you mean to pay us with?" "if we agree, i will fetch it in half an hour. i do not carry bags of sovereigns about with me into _all_ companies," replied jackson, with much readiness. "well, that's right enough: and how much discount do you charge?" "i will tell you when i see the securities." levasseur arose without another word, and left the apartment. he was gone about ten minutes, and on his return, deliberately counted out the stolen bank-of-england notes, and bills of exchange. jackson got up from his chair, peered close to them, and began noting down the amounts in his pocket-book. i also rose, and pretended to be looking at a picture by the fire-place. the moment was a nervous one, as the signal had been agreed upon, and could not now be changed or deferred. the clerk dubarle also hastily rose, and eyed jackson with flaming but indecisive looks. the examination of the securities was at length terminated, and jackson began counting the bank-of-england notes aloud, "one--two--three--four--five!" as the signal word passed his lips, he threw himself upon le breton, who sat next to him; and at the same moment i passed one of my feet between dubarle's, and, with a dexterous twist hurled him violently on the floor; another instant and my grasp was on the throat of levasseur, and my pistol at his ear. "hurra!" we both shouted, with eager excitement; and, before either of the villains could recover from his surprise, or indeed perfectly comprehend what had happened, levasseur and le breton were handcuffed, and resistance was out of the question. young dubarle was next easily secured. levasseur, the instant he recovered the use of his faculties, which the completeness and suddenness of the surprise and attack had paralyzed, yelled like a madman with rage and anger, and but for us, would, i verily believe, have dashed his brains out against the walls of the room. the other two were calmer, and having at last thoroughly pinioned and secured them, and carefully gathered up the recovered plunder, we left oak cottage in triumph, letting ourselves out, for the woman-servant had gone off, doubtless to acquaint her mistress with the disastrous turn affairs had taken. no inquiry was made after either of them. an hour afterward the prisoners were securely locked up, and i hurried to acquaint m. bellebon with the fortunate issue of our enterprise. his exultation, it will be readily believed, was unbounded; and i left him busy with letters to the firm, and doubtless one to "cette chère et aimable louise," announcing the joyful news. the prisoners, after a brief trial, were convicted of felonious conspiracy, and were all sentenced to ten years' transportation. le breton's sentence, the judge told him, would have been for life, but for the contrition he had exhibited shortly before his apprehension. as levasseur passed me on leaving the dock, he exclaimed in french, and in a desperately savage tone, "i will repay you for this when i return, and that infernal trelawney too." i am too much accustomed to threats of this kind to be in any way moved by them, and i therefore contented myself by smiling, and a civil "au revoir--allons!" [from dickens's household words.] atlantic waves. one brisk march morning, in the year , the brave steam-ship hibernia rolled about in the most intoxicated fashion on the broad atlantic, in north latitude fifty-one, and west longitude thirty-eight, fifty--the wind blowing a hard gale from the west-southwest. to most of the passengers the grandeur of the waters was a mockery, the fine bearing of the ship only a delusion and a snare. every thing was made tight on deck; if any passenger had left a toothpick on one of the seats, he would assuredly have found it lashed to a near railing. rope was coiled about every imaginable item; and water dripped from every spar of the gallant vessel. now it seemed as though she were traveling along through a brilliant gallery, flanked on either side by glittering walls of water; now she climbed one of the crested walls, and an abyss dark and terrible as the famous maelstrom, which can't be found any where, yawned to receive her. the snorts of the engine seemed to defy the angry waters; and occasionally when a monster wave coiled about the ship, and thundered against her, she staggered for a moment, only to renew the battle with fresh energy. the cooks and stewards went placidly through their several daily avocations on board this rolling, fighting, shaking craft. if they had been belgravian servants, or club-house waiters, they could not have performed their duties with more profound unconcern. their coolness appeared nothing less than heroic to the poor tumbled heaps of clothes with human beings inside, who were scattered about the cabins below. an unhappy wight, who had never before been five miles from boston, was anxiously inquiring of the chief steward the precise time in the course of that evening that the vessel might be expected to founder; while another steward, with provoking pertinacity, was asking how many would dine in the saloon at six, with the same business-like unconcern, as if the ship were gliding along on glass. so tremendous was the tossing, so extreme the apparent uncertainty of any event except a watery terminus to all expectation, that this sort of coolness appeared almost wicked. then there was a monster in british form actually on deck--not braving, it was said, but tempting the storm to sweep him into eternity. he astonished even the ship's officers. the cook did not hesitate to venture a strong opinion against the sanity of a man who might, if he chose, be snugly ensconced in the cabin out of harm's way, but who _would_ remain upon deck, in momentary danger of being blown overboard. the cook's theory was not ill supported by the subject of it; for he was continually placing himself in all manner of odd places and grotesque postures. sometimes he scrambled up on the cuddy-roof; then he rolled down again on the saloon deck; now he got himself blown up on the paddle-box; _that_ was not high enough for him, for when the vessel sunk into a trough of the sea, he stood on tip-toe, trying to look over the nearest wave. a consultation was held in the cuddy, and a resolution was unanimously passed that the amateur of wind and water (which burst over him every minute) was either an escaped lunatic or--a college professor. it was resolved _nem. con._ that he was the latter; and from that moment nobody was surprised at any thing he might choose to do, even while the hibernia was laboring in what the mate was pleased to call the most "lively" manner. the professor, however, to the disgust of the sufferers below, who thought it was enough to _feel_ the height of the waves, without going to the trouble of measuring them, pursued his observations in the face of the contempt of the official conclave above mentioned. he took up his position on the cuddy roof, which was exactly twenty-three feet three inches above the ship's line of flotation, and there watched the mighty mountains that sported with the brave vessel. he was anxious to ascertain the height of these majestic waves, but he found that the crests rose so far above the horizon from the point where he was standing, that it was utterly impossible, without gaining a greater height for observation, that he could arrive at any just estimate on the subject. his observations from the cuddy-roof proved, however, beyond a doubt, that the majority of these rolling masses of water attained a height of considerably more than twenty-four feet, measuring from the trough of the sea to the crests of the waves. but the professor was not satisfied with this negative proof; and in the pursuit of his interesting inquiry, did not feel inclined to be baffled. it is impossible to know what the secret thoughts of the men at the wheel were, when the valiant observer announced his intention of making the best of his way from the cuddy-roof to the larboard paddle-box. now he was to be seen tumbling about with the motion of the ship; at one moment clinging to a chain-box; at the next, throwing himself into the arms of the second mate. now he is buried in spray, and a few minutes afterward his spare form is seen clinging to the rails which connect the paddle-boxes. despite the storm without, a calm mathematical process is going on within the mind of that ardent observer. the professor knew he was standing at a height of twenty-four feet nine inches above the flotation mark of the ship: and allowing five feet six inches as the height of his eye, he found the elevation he had obtained to be altogether thirty feet three inches. he now waited till the vessel subsided fairly for a few minutes into the trough of the sea in an even and upright position, while the nearest approaching wave had its maximum altitude. here he found also, that at least one-half part of the wave intercepted by a considerable elevation his view of the horizon. he declared that he frequently observed long ranges extending one hundred yards on one or both sides of the ship--the sea then coming right aft--which rose so high above the visible horizon, as to form an angle estimated at two to three degrees when the distance of the wave's crest, was about a hundred yards off. this distance would add about thirteen feet to the level of the eye. this immense elevation occurred about every sixth wave. now and then, when the course of a gigantic wave was impertinently interfered with by another liquid giant, and they thundered together, their breaking crests would shoot upward at least ten or fifteen feet higher--about half the height of the monument--and then pour down a mighty flood upon the poor professor in revenge for his attempt to measure their majesties. no quantity of salt water, however, could wash him from his post, till he had satisfactorily proved, by accurate observation, that the average wave which passed the vessel was fully equal to the height of his eye--or thirty feet three inches--and that the mean highest waves, not including the fighting or broken waves, were about forty-three feet above the level of the hollow occupied at the moment by the ship. satisfied at length of the truth of his observations, the professor, half-pickled by the salt water, and looking, it must be confessed, very cold and miserable, descended to the cabin. throughout dinner-time a conversation was kept up between the professor and the captain--the latter appearing to be about the only individual on board who took any interest whatever in these scientific proceedings. the ladies, one and all, vowed that the professor was a monster, only doing "all this stuff" in mockery of their sufferings. toward night the wind increased to a hurricane; the ship trembled like a frightened child before the terrible combat of the elements. night, with her pall, closed in the scene: it was a wild and solemn time. toward morning the wind abated. for thirty hours a violent northwest gale had swept over the heaving bosom of the broad atlantic. this reflection hastened the dressing and breakfasting operations of the professor, who tumbled up on deck at about ten o'clock in the morning. the storm had been subdued for several hours, and there was a visible decrease in the height of the waves. he took up his old position on the cuddy-roof, and soon observed, that, even then, when the sea was comparatively quiet, ten waves overtook the vessel in succession, which all rose above the apparent horizon; consequently they must have been more than twenty-three feet--probably about twenty-six feet--from ridge to hollow. from the larboard paddle-box, to which the professor once more scrambled, he observed that occasionally four or five waves in succession rose above the visible horizon--hence they must have been more than thirty feet waves. he also observed that the waves no longer ran in long ridges, but presented more the form of cones of moderate elongation. having so far satisfied himself as to the height of atlantic waves in a gale of wind (the professor's estimate must not be taken as the measurement of the highest known waves, but simply as that of a rough atlantic sea), he directed his attention to minuter and more difficult observations. he determined to measure the period of time occupied by the regular waves in overtaking the ship, their width from crest to crest, and the rate of their traveling. the first point to be known was the speed of the ship; this he ascertained to be nine knots. his next object was to note her course in reference to the direction of the waves. he found that the true course of the vessel was east, and that the waves came from the west-northwest, so that they passed under the vessel at a considerable angle. the length of the ship was stated to be two hundred and twenty feet. provided with this information the professor renewed his observations. he proceeded to count the seconds the crest of a wave took to travel from stern to stem of the vessel; these he ascertained to be six. he then counted the time which intervened between the moment when one crest touched the stern of the vessel, and the next touched it, and he found the average interval to be sixteen seconds and a fraction. these results gave him at once the width between crest and crest. as the crest traveled two hundred and twenty feet (or the length of the vessel) in six seconds, and sixteen seconds elapsed before the next crest touched the stern, it was clear that the wave was nearly three times the length of the vessel; to write accurately, there was a distance of six hundred and five feet from crest to crest. the professor did not forget that the oblique course of the ship elongated her line over the waves; this elongation he estimated at forty-five feet, reducing the probable average distance between crest and crest to five hundred and fifty-nine feet. being quite satisfied with the result of this experiment, the hardy professor, still balancing himself on his giddy height, to the wonder and amusement of the sailors, found that the calculations he had already made did not give him the actual velocity of the waves. a wave-crest certainly passed from stern to stem in six seconds, but then the ship was traveling in the same direction, at the rate of nine geographical miles per hour, or . feet per second; this rate the professor added to the former measure, which gave . feet for the actual distance traversed by the wave in . seconds, being at the rate of . english miles per hour. this computation was afterward compared with calculations made from totally different data by mr. scott russell, and found to be quite correct. with these facts the professor scrambled from the larboard paddle-box of the hibernia. he had also made some observations on the forms of waves. when the wind blows steadily from one point, they are generally regular; but when it is high and gusty, and shifts from point to point, the sea is broken up, and the waves take a more conical shape, and assume fantastical crests. while the sea ran high, the professor observed now and then a ridge of waves extending from about a quarter to a third of a mile in length, forming, as it were, a rampart of water. this ridge was sometimes straight, and sometimes bent as of a crescent form, with the central mass of water higher than the rest, and not unfrequently with two or three semi-elliptical mounds in diminishing series on either side of the highest peak. when the wind had subsided, a few of the bolder passengers crawled upon deck in the oddest imaginable costumes. they had not much to encounter, for about a third part of the greater undulations averaged only twenty-four feet, from crest to hollow, in height. these higher waves could be seen and selected from the pigmy waves about them, at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the ship. the professor had been very unpopular on board while the stormy weather lasted, and the ladies had vowed that he was a sarcastic creature, who _would_ have his little joke on the gravest calamities of life, but as the waves decreased in bulk, and the wind lulled, and the sun shone, and the men took off their oil-skin coats, and the cabin-windows were opened, the frowns of the fair voyagers wore off. perfect good-will was general before the ship sighted liverpool; and even the cook, as he prepared the last dinner for the passengers, was heard to declare (in confidence to one of the stokers) that, after all, there might be something worth knowing in the professor's observations. when the professor landed at liverpool, he would, on no account, suffer the carpet-bag, containing his calculations, to be taken out of his sight. several inquisitive persons, however, made the best use of their own eyes, to ascertain the name of the extraordinary observer, and found it to be legibly inscribed with the well-known name of scoresby. that his investigations may be the more readily impressed on the reader's mind, we conclude with a summary of them. it would seem from dr. scoresby's intrepid investigations, that the highest waves of the atlantic average in altitude feet mean distance between each wave " width from crest to crest " interval of time between each wave seconds velocity of each wave per hour - / miles. how to kill clever children.[ ] at any time in life, excessive and continued mental exertion is hurtful; but in infancy and early youth, when the structure of the brain is still immature and delicate, permanent injury is more easily produced by injudicious treatment than at any subsequent period. in this respect, the analogy is complete between the brain and the other parts of the body, as is exemplified in the injurious effects of premature exercise of the bones and muscles. scrofulous and rickety children are the most usual sufferers in this way. they are generally remarkable for large heads, great precocity of understanding, and small, delicate bodies. but in such instances, the great size of the brain, and the acuteness of the mind, are the results of morbid growth, and even with the best management, the child passes the first years of its life constantly on the brink of active disease. instead, however, of trying to repress its mental activity, as they should, the fond parents, misled by the promise of genius, too often excite it still further by unceasing cultivation and the never-failing stimulus of praise; and finding its progress, for a time, equal to their warmest wishes, they look forward with ecstasy to the day when its talents will break forth and shed a lustre on their name. but in exact proportion as the picture becomes brighter to their fancy, the probability of its becoming realized becomes less; for the brain, worn out by premature exertion, either becomes diseased or loses its tone, leaving the mental powers feeble and depressed for the remainder of life. the expected prodigy is thus, in the end, easily outstripped in the social race by many whose dull outset promised him an easy victory. to him who takes for his guide the necessities of the constitution, it will be obvious that the modes of treatment commonly resorted to should in such cases be reversed; and that, instead of straining to the utmost the already irritable powers of the precocious child, leaving his dull competitors to ripen at leisure, a systematic attempt ought to be made, from early infancy, to rouse to action the languid faculties of the latter, while no pains should be spared to moderate and give tone to the activity of the former. but instead of this, the prematurely intelligent child is generally sent to school, and tasked with lessons at an unusually early age, while the healthy but more backward boy, who requires to be stimulated, is kept at home in idleness merely on account of his backwardness. a double error is here committed, and the consequences to the active-minded boy are not unfrequently the permanent loss both of health and of his envied superiority of intellect. in speaking of children of this description, dr. brigham, in an excellent little work on the influence of mental excitement on health, remarks as follows: "dangerous forms of scrofulous disease among children have repeatedly fallen under my observation, for which i could not account in any other way than by supposing that the brain had been excited at the expense of the other parts of the system, and at a time in life when nature is endeavoring to perfect all the organs of the body; and after the disease commenced, i have seen, with grief, the influence of the same cause in retarding or preventing recovery. i have seen several affecting and melancholy instances of children, five or six years of age, lingering a while with diseases from which those less gifted readily recover, and at last dying, notwithstanding the utmost efforts to restore them. during their sickness they constantly manifested a passion for books and mental excitement, and were admired for the maturity of their minds. the chance for the recovery of such precocious children is, in my opinion, small when attacked by disease; and several medical men have informed me that their own observations had led them to form the same opinion, and have remarked that, in two cases of sickness, if one of the patients was a child of superior and highly-cultivated mental powers, and the other one equally sick, but whose mind had not been excited by study, they should feel less confident of the recovery of the former than of the latter. this mental precocity results from an unnatural development of one organ of the body at the expense of the constitution." there can be little doubt but that ignorance on the part of parents and teachers, is the principal cause that leads to the too early and excessive cultivation of the minds of children, and especially of such as are precocious and delicate. hence the necessity of imparting instruction on this subject to both parents and teachers, and to all persons who are in any way charged with the care and education of the young. this necessity becomes the more imperative from the fact that the cupidity of authors and publishers has led to the preparation of "children's books," many of which are announced as purposely prepared "for children from _two_ to _three_ years old!" i might instance advertisements of "infant manuals" of botany, geometry, and astronomy! in not a few isolated families, but in many neighborhoods, villages, and cities, in various parts of the country, children _under three years of age_ are not only required to commit to memory many verses, texts of scripture, and stories, but are frequently sent to school for six hours a day. few children are kept back later than the age of _four_, unless they reside a great distance from school, and some not even then. at home, too, they are induced by all sorts of excitements to learn additional tasks, or peruse juvenile books and magazines, till the nervous system becomes enfeebled, and the health broken. "i have myself," says dr. brigham, "seen many children who are supposed to possess almost miraculous mental powers, experiencing these effects and sinking under them. some of them died early, when but six or eight years of age, but manifested to the last a maturity of understanding, which only increased the agony of separation. their minds, like some of the fairest flowers were 'no sooner blown than blasted;' others have grown up to manhood, but with feeble bodies and disordered nervous system, which subjected them to hypochondriasis, dyspepsy, and all the protean forms of nervous disease; others of the class of early prodigies exhibit in manhood but small mental powers, and are the mere passive instruments of those who in early life were accounted far their inferiors." this hot-bed system of education is not confined to the united states, but is practiced less or more in all civilized countries. dr. combe, of scotland, gives an account of one of these early prodigies, whose fate he witnessed. the circumstances were exactly such as those above described. the prematurely developed intellect was admired, and constantly stimulated by injudicious praise, and by daily exhibition to every visitor who chanced to call. entertaining books were thrown in its way, reading by the fireside encouraged, play and exercise neglected, the diet allowed to be full and heating, and the appetite pampered by every delicacy. the results were the speedy deterioration of a weak constitution, a high degree of nervous sensibility, deranged digestion, disordered bowels, defective nutrition, and, lastly, _death_, at the very time when the interest excited by the mental precocity was at its height. such, however, is the ignorance of the majority of parents and teachers on all physiological subjects, that when one of these infant prodigies dies from erroneous treatment, it is not unusual to publish a memoir of his life, that other parents and teachers may see by what means such transcendent qualities were called forth. dr. brigham refers to a memoir of this kind, in which the history of a child, aged four years and eleven months, is narrated as approved by "several judicious persons, ministers and others, all of whom united in the request that it might be published, and all agreed in the opinion that a knowledge of the manner in which the child was treated, together with the results, would be profitable to both parents and children, and a benefit to the cause of education." this infant philosopher was "taught hymns before he could speak plainly;" "reasoned with," and constantly instructed until his last illness, which, "_without any assignable cause_," put on a violent and unexpected form, and carried him off! as a _warning to others_ not to force education too soon or too fast, this case may be truly profitable to both parents and children, and a benefit to the cause of education; but _as an example to be followed_, it assuredly can not be too strongly or too loudly condemned. footnote: [ ] from mayhew's treatise on "popular education," soon to be issued from the press of messrs. harper and brothers. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. (_continued from page ._) chapter xvi. "an old general of the irish brigade." in obedience to an order which arrived at saumur one morning in the july of , i was summoned before the commandant of the school, when the following brief colloquy ensued: "maurice tiernay," said he, reading from the record of the school, "why are you called l'irlandais?" "i am irish by descent, sir." "ha! by descent. your father was then an emigré?" "no, sir--my great grandfather." "_parbleu!_ that is going very far back. are you aware of the causes which induced him to leave his native country?" "they were connected with political troubles, i've heard, sir. he took part against the english, my father told me, and was obliged to make his escape to save his life." "you then hate the english, maurice?" "my grandfather certainly did not love them, sir." "nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from country and home: every man of honor retains the memory of such injuries." "i can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a french citizen," said i, proudly. "true, boy--you say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a wrong--a deep and irreparable wrong--and as a frenchman you are ready to avenge it." although i had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the hardships done me, nor in what way i was to demand the reparation, i gave the assent he seemed to expect. "you are well acquainted with the language, i believe?" continued he. "i can read and speak english tolerably well, sir." "but i speak of irish, boy--of the language which is spoken by your fellow-countrymen," said he, rebukingly. "i have always heard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is little known, save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts." he seemed impatient as i said this, and referred once more to the paper before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking. "you must be in error, boy. i find here that the nation is devotedly attached to its traditions and its literature, and feels no injury deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own noble language." "of myself i know nothing, sir; the little i have learned was acquired when a mere child." "ah, then you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it is as i tell you. this, which i hold here, is the report of a highly-distinguished and most influential personage, who lays great stress upon the circumstance. i am sorry, tiernay, very sorry, that you are unacquainted with the language." he continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and, at last, returned to the paper before him. "the geography of the country--what knowledge have you on that subject?" "no more, sir, than i may possess of other countries, and merely learned from maps." "bad again," muttered he to himself. "madyett calls these 'essentials;' but we shall see." then addressing me, he said, "tiernay, the object of my present interrogatory is to inform you that the directory is about to send an expedition to ireland to assist in the liberation of that enslaved people. it has been suggested that young officers and soldiers of irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and i have selected you for an opportunity which will convert those worsted epaulets into bullion." this, at least, was intelligible news, and now i began to listen with more attention. "there is a report," said he, laying down before me a very capacious manuscript, "which you will carefully peruse. here are the latest pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in ireland; and here are various maps of the coast, the harbors, and the strongholds of that country, with all of which you may employ yourself advantageously; and if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteer--for as a volunteer only could your services be accepted--i will willingly support your request by all the influence in my power." "i am ready to do so at once, sir," said i, eagerly; "i have no need to know any more than you have told me." "well said, boy; i like your ardor. write your petition, and it shall be forwarded to-day. i will also try and obtain for you the same regimental rank you hold in the school"--i was a sergeant--"it will depend upon yourself afterward to secure a further advancement. you are now free from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every possible information, and be ready to set out at a moment's notice." "is the expedition so nearly ready, sir?" asked i, eagerly. he nodded, and with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me, and prepare myself with all the details of a plan in which already i took the liveliest interest. before the week expired, i received an answer from the minister, accepting the offer of my services. the reply found me deep in those studies, which i scarcely could bear to quit even at meal-times. never did i experience such an all-devouring passion for a theme as on that occasion. "ireland" never left my thoughts; her wrongs and sufferings were everlastingly before me; all the cruelties of centuries--all the hard tyranny of the penal laws--the dire injustice of caste oppression--filled me with indignation and anger; while, on the other hand, i conceived the highest admiration of a people who, undeterred by the might and power of england, resolved to strike a great blow for liberty. the enthusiasm of the people--the ardent darings of a valor whose impetuosity was its greatest difficulty--their high romantic temperament--their devotion--their gratitude--the child-like trustfulness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more strongly to their cause--even from affection than reason. madyett's memoir was filled with these, and he, i concluded, must know them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege, and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of his countrymen. how i longed to see this great man, whom my fancy arrayed in all the attributes he so lavishly bestowed upon his countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and the bravest, but the handsomest people of europe. as to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts i had at first conceived, from an estimate of the immense resources of england, were speedily solved, as i read of the enormous preparations the irish had made for the struggle. the roman catholics, madyett said, were three millions, the dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and french alliance, wanting nothing but the appearance of a small armed force to give them the necessary organization and discipline. they were somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in fire-arms--cannon they had none whatever; but the character of the country, which consisted of mountains, valleys, ravines, and gorges, reduced war to the mere chivalrous features of personal encounter. what interminable descriptions did i wade through of clubs and associations, the very names of which were a puzzle to me--the great union of all appearing to be a society called "defenders," whose oath bound them to "fidelity to the united nations of france and ireland." so much for the one side. for the other, it was asserted that the english forces then in garrison in ireland, were below contempt: the militia, being principally irish, might be relied on for taking the popular side; and as to the regulars, they were either "old men, or boys," incapable of active service; and several of the regiments, being scotch, greatly disaffected to the government. then, again, as to the navy, the sailors in the english fleet were more than two-thirds irishmen, all catholics, and all disaffected. that the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could doubt? the nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the movement. on their side lay not alone the wrongs to avenge, but the courage, the energy, and the daring. their oppressors were as weak as tyrannical, their cause was a bad one, and their support of it a hollow semblance of superiority. if i read these statements with ardor and avidity, one lurking sense of doubt alone obtruded itself on my reasonings. why, with all these guarantees of victory, with every thing that can hallow a cause, and give it stability and strength--why did the irish ask for aid? if they were, as they alleged, an immense majority--if theirs was all the heroism and the daring--if the struggle was to be maintained against a miserably inferior force, weakened by age, incapacity, and disaffection--what need had they of frenchmen on their side? the answer to all such doubts, however, was "the irish were deficient in organization." not only was the explanation a very sufficient one, but it served in a high degree to flatter our vanity. we were, then, to be organizers of ireland; from us were they to take the lessons of civilization, which should prepare them for freedom--ours was the task to discipline their valor, and train their untaught intelligence. once landed in the country, it was to our standard they were to rally; from us were to go forth the orders of every movement and measure; to us this new land was to be an _eldorado_. madyett significantly hinted every where at the unbounded gratitude of irishmen; and more than hinted at the future fate of certain confiscated estates. one phrase, ostentatiously set forth in capitals, asserted that the best general of the french republic could not be any where employed with so much reputation and profit. there was, then, every thing to stimulate the soldier in such an enterprise--honor, fame, glory, and rich rewards were all among the prizes. it was when deep in the midst of these studies poring over maps and reports, taxing my memory with hard names, and getting off by heart dates, distances, and numbers, that the order came for me to repair at once to paris, where the volunteers of the expedition were to assemble. my rank of sergeant had been confirmed, and in this capacity, as "sous officier," i was ordered to report myself to general kilmaine, the adjutant-general of the expedition, then living in the "rue chantereine." i was also given the address of a certain lestaing--rue tarbout--a tailor, from whom, on producing a certificate, i was to obtain my new uniform. full as i was of the whole theme, thinking of the expedition by day, and dreaming of it by night, i was still little prepared for the enthusiasm it was at that very moment exciting in every society of the capital. for some time previous a great number of irish emigrants had made paris their residence; some were men of good position and ample fortune; some were individuals of considerable ability and intelligence. all were enthusiastic, and ardent in temperament--devotedly attached to their country--hearty haters of england, and proportionately attached to all that was french. these sentiments, coupled with a certain ease of manner, and a faculty of adaptation, so peculiarly irish, made them general favorites in society; and long before the irish question had found any favor with the public, its national supporters had won over the hearts and good wishes of all paris to the cause. well pleased, then, as i was, with my handsome uniform of green and gold, my small chapeau, with its plume of cock's feathers, and the embroidered shamrock on my collar, i was not a little struck by the excitement my first appearance in the street created. accustomed to see a hundred strange military costumes--the greater number, i own, more singular than tasteful--the parisians, i concluded, would scarcely notice mine in the crowd. not so, however; the print-shops had already given the impulse to the admiration, and the "irish volunteer of the guard" was to be seen in every window, in all the "glory of his bravery." the heroic character of the expedition, too, was typified by a great variety of scenes, in which the artist's imagination had all the credit. in one picture the "jeune irlandais" was planting a national flag of very capacious dimensions on the summit of his native mountains; here he was storming "la chateau de dublin," a most formidable fortress perched on a rock above the sea; here he was crowning the heights of "la citadelle de cork," a very gibraltar in strength, or he was haranguing the native chieftains, a highly picturesque group--a cross between a knight crusader and a south-sea islander. my appearance, therefore, in the streets was the signal for general notice and admiration, and more than one compliment was uttered, purposely loud enough to reach me, on the elegance and style of my equipment. in the pleasant flurry of spirits excited by this flattery, i arrived at the general's quarters in the rue chantereine. it was considerably before the time of his usual receptions, but the glitter of my epaulets, and the air of assurance i had assumed, so far imposed upon the old servant who acted as valet, that he at once introduced me into a small saloon, and after a brief pause presented me to the general, who was reclining on a sofa at his breakfast. although far advanced in years, and evidently broken by bad health, general kilmaine still preserved traces of great personal advantages, while his manner exhibited all that polished ease and courtesy which was said to be peculiar to the irish gentleman of the french court. addressing me in english, he invited me to join his meal; and on my declining, as having already breakfasted, he said, "i perceive, from your name, we are countrymen; and as your uniform tells me the service in which you are engaged, we may speak with entire confidence. tell me then, frankly, all that you know of the actual condition of ireland." conceiving that this question applied to the result of my late studies, and was meant to elicit the amount of my information, i at once began a recital of what i had learned from the books and reports i had been reading. my statistics were perfect--they had been gotten off by heart; my sympathies were, for the same reason, most eloquent; my indignation was boundless on the wrongs i deplored, and in fact, in the fifteen minutes during which he permitted me to declaim without interruption, i had gone through the whole "cause of ireland," from henry ii. to george iii. "you have been reading mr. madyett, i perceive," said he, with a smile; "but i would rather hear something of your own actual experience. tell me, therefore, in what condition are the people at this moment, as regards poverty?" "i have never been in ireland, general," said i, not without some shame at the avowal coming so soon after my eloquent exhortation. "ah, i perceive," said he, blandly, "of irish origin, and a relative probably of that very distinguished soldier, count maurice de tiernay, who served in the garde du corps." "his only son, general," said i, blushing with eagerness and pleasure at the praise of my father. "indeed!" said he, smiling courteously, and seeming to meditate on my words. "there was not a better nor a braver sabre in the corps than your father--a very few more of such men might have saved the monarchy--as it was, they dignified its fall. and to whose guidance and care did you owe your early training, for i see you have not been neglected?" a few words told him the principal events of my early years, to which he listened with deep attention. at length he said, "and now you are about to devote your acquirements and energy to this new expedition?" "all, general! every thing that i have is too little for such a cause." "you say truly, boy," said he, warmly; "would that so good a cause had better leaders. i mean," added he, hurriedly, "wiser ones. men more conversant with the actual state of events, more fit to cope with the great difficulties before them, more ready to take advantage of circumstances, whose outward meaning will often prove deceptive. in fact, irishmen of character and capacity, tried soldiers, and good patriots. well, well, let us hope the best. in whose division are you?" "i have not yet heard, sir. i have presented myself here to-day to receive your orders." "there again is another instance of their incapacity," cried he, passionately. "why, boy, i have no command, nor any function. i did accept office under general hoche, but he is not to lead the present expedition." "and who is, sir?" "i can not tell you. a week ago they talked of grouchy, then of hardy; yesterday it was humbert; to-day it may be bonaparte, and to-morrow yourself! ay, tiernay, this great and good cause has its national fatality attached to it, and is so wrapped up in low intrigue and falsehood, that every minister becomes in turn disgusted with the treachery and mendacity he meets with, and bequeaths the question to some official underling, meet partisan for the mock patriot he treats with." "but the expedition will sail, general?" asked i, sadly discomfited by this tone of despondency. he made me no answer, but sat for some time absorbed in his own thoughts. at last he looked up, and said, "you ought to be in the army of italy, boy; the great teacher of war is there." "i know it, sir, but my whole heart is in this struggle. i feel that ireland has a claim on all who derived even a name from her soil. do you not believe that the expedition will sail?" again he was silent and thoughtful. "mr. madyett would say, yes," said he, scornfully, "though, certes, he would not volunteer to bear it company." "colonel cherin, general!" said the valet, as he flung open the door for a young officer in a staff-uniform. i arose at once to withdraw, but the general motioned to me to wait in an adjoining room, as he desired to speak with me again. scarcely five minutes had elapsed when i was summoned once more before him. "you have come at a most opportune moment, tiernay," said he; "colonel cherin informs me that an expedition is ready to sail from rochelle at the first favorable wind. general humbert has the command; and if you are disposed to join him i will give you a letter of presentation." of course i did not hesitate in accepting the offer; and while the general drew over his desk to write the letter, i withdrew toward the window to converse with colonel cherin. "you might have waited long enough," said he, laughing, "if the affair had been in other hands than humbert's. the delays and discussions of the official people, the difficulty of any thing like agreement, the want of money, and fifty other causes, would have detained the fleet till the english got scent of the whole. but humbert has taken the short road in the matter. he only arrived at la rochelle five days ago, and now he is ready to weigh anchor." "and in what way has he accomplished this?" asked i, in some curiosity. "by a method," replied he, laughing again, "which is usually reserved for an enemy's country. growing weary of a correspondence with the minister, which seemed to make little progress, and urged on by the enthusiastic stories of the irish refugees, he resolved to wait no longer; and so he has called on the merchants and magistrates to advance him a sum on military requisition, together with such stores and necessaries as he stands in need of." "and they have complied?" asked i. "parbleu! that have they. in the first place, they had no other choice; and in the second, they are but too happy to get rid of him and his 'legion noir,' as they are called, so cheaply. a thousand louis and a thousand muskets would not pay for the damage of these vagabonds each night they spent in the town." i confess that this description did not tend to exalt the enthusiasm i had conceived for the expedition; but it was too late for hesitation--too late for even a doubt. go forward i should, whatever might come of it. and now the general had finished his letter, which, having sealed and addressed, he gave into my hand, saying, "this will very probably obtain you promotion, if not at once, at least on the first vacancy. good-by, my lad; there may be hard knocks going where you will be, but i'm certain you'll not disgrace the good name you bear, nor the true cause for which you are fighting. i would that i had youth and strength to stand beside you in the struggle. good-by." he shook me affectionately by both hands; the colonel, too, bade me adieu not less cordially; and i took my leave with a heart overflowing with gratitude and delight. chapter xvii. la rochelle. la rochelle is a quiet little town at the bottom of a small bay, the mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. there is a sleepy, peaceful air about the place--a sort of drowsy languor pervades every thing and every body about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy prosperity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life, like some retired tradesman--too poor for splendor, but rich enough to be idle. a long avenue of lime-trees incloses the harbor; and here the merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the shade, discuss the gossip of the place over their work. all is patriarchal and primitive as holland itself; the very courtesies of life exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of the land of dykes and broad breeches. it is the least "french" of any town i have ever seen in france; none of that light merriment, that gay volatility of voice and air which form the usual atmosphere of a french town. all is still, orderly, and sombre; and yet on the night in which--something more than fifty years back--i first entered it, a very different scene was presented to my eyes. it was about ten o'clock; and by a moon nearly full, the diligence rattled along the covered ways of the old fortress, and crossing many a moat and draw-bridge, the scenes of a once glorious struggle, entered the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample portals of "la poste." before i could remove the wide capote which i wore, the waiter ushered me into a large salôn where a party of about forty persons were seated at supper. with a few exceptions they were all military officers, and sous-officiers of the expedition, whose noisy gayety and boisterous mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment had begun a considerable time before. a profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so, covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common table-d'hôte supper--large dishes of segars and basins of tobacco figuring beside the omelettes and the salad. the noise, the crash, the heat, the smoke, and the confusion--the clinking of glasses, the singing, and the speech-making, made a scene of such turmoil and uproar, that i would gladly have retired to some quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform caught some eyes among the revelers, and a shout was raised of "holloa, comrades! here's one of the 'gardes' among us." and at once the whole assembly rose up to greet me. for full ten minutes i had to submit to a series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my popularity, i went through the ceremonies like one in a dream. "where's kilmaine?" "what of hardy?" "is grouchy coming?" "can the brest fleet sail?" "how many line-of-battle ships have they?" "what's the artillery force?" "have you brought any money?" this last question, the most frequent of all, was suddenly poured in upon me, and with a fortunate degree of rapidity, that i had no time for a reply, had i even the means of making one. "let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this interrogatory," said a fine, jolly-looking old chef-d'escadron at the head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. "now, tell us, boy, what number of the gardes are to be of our party?" i looked a little blank at the question, for in truth i had not heard of the corps before, nor was i aware that it was their uniform i was then wearing. "come, come, be frank with us, lad," said he; "we are all comrades here. confound secrecy, say i." "ay, ay!" cried the whole assembly together--"confound secrecy. we are not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment." "i'll be as frank as you can wish, comrades," said i; "and if i lose some importance in your eyes by owning that i am not the master of a single state secret, i prefer to tell you so, to attempting any unworthy disguise. i come here, by orders from general kilmaine, to join your expedition; and except this letter for general humbert, i have no claim to any consideration whatever." the old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table for the satisfaction of the rest. while i continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much of my own fate depended, a low whispering conversation went on at my side, at the end of which the chef said: "it's more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our general is not to be balked for that. go he will; and let the government look to themselves if he is not supported. at all events, you had better see general humbert at once; there's no saying what that dispatch may contain. santerre, conduct him up stairs." a smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow him. it was not without difficulty that we forced our way up stairs, down which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of heavy trunks and packing-cases. at last we gained an ante-room, where confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and insolent insubordination. among these were a number of the townspeople, eager to prefer complaints for outrage and robbery, but whose subdued voices were drowned amid the clamor of their oppressors. meanwhile, clerks were writing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager avidity. even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion, orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses and smashed heads, and gratefully received by the confiding populace. "if the wind draws a little more to the southward before morning, we'll pay our debts with the top-sail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter, and to the full as honest," said a man in a naval uniform. "where's the officer of the 'regiment des guides,'" cried a soldier from the door at the further end of the room; and before i had time to think over the designation of rank given me, i was hurried into the general's presence. general humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression, particularly about the mouth; a sabre-cut, which had divided the upper lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his mustache, heightening the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection. he was parading the room from end to end when i entered, stopping occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. two officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the materials of a supper had not been removed. they did not look up as i came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes. suddenly he turned toward me, and snatching the letter i held in my hand, proceeded to read it. a burst of coarse laughter broke from him as he perused the lines; and then throwing down the paper on the table, he cried out, "so much for kilmaine's contingent. i asked for a company of engineers and a battalion of 'les gardes,' and they send me a boy from the cavalry-school of saumur. i tell them that i want some fellows conversant with the language and the people, able to treat with the peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here i have got a raw youth whose highest acquirement, in all likelihood, is to daub a map with water-colors, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! i wish i had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few hours. parbleu! i think i could teach them something they'd not learn from citizen carnot. well, sir," said he, turning abruptly toward me, "how many battalions of the 'guides' are completed?" "i can not tell, general," was my timid answer. "where are they stationed?" "of that also i am ignorant, sir." "peste!" cried he, stamping his foot passionately; then suddenly checking his anger, he asked, "how many are there coming to join this expedition? is there a regiment, a battalion, a company? can you tell me with certainty that a sergeant's guard is on the way hither?" "i can not, sir; i know nothing whatever about the regiment in question." "you have never seen it?" cried he, vehemently. "never, sir." "this exceeds all belief," exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist upon the table. "three weeks letter-writing! estafettes, orderlies, and special couriers to no end! and here we have an unfledged cur from a cavalry institute, when i asked for a strong reinforcement. then what brought you here, boy?" "to join your expedition, general." "have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? did they say it was a junketing we were bent upon?" "if they had, sir, i would not have come." "the greater fool _you_, then! that's all," cried he, laughing; "when i was your age, i'd not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a bayonet-charge." while he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries. "no, parbleu!" he went on, "la maitresse before the mitraille any day for me. but what's all this, girard. here i'm issuing orders upon the national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction." the aid-de-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone. "i know it, lad; i know it well," said the general, laughing heartily; "i only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in future. well, monsieur le garde, what are we to do with you." "not refuse me, i hope, general," said i, diffidently. "not refuse you, certainly; but in what capacity to take you, lad, that's the question. if you had served--if you had even walked a campaign--" "so i have, general--this will show you where i have been;" and i handed him the "livret" which every soldier carries of his conduct and career. he took the book, and casting his eyes hastily over it, exclaimed, "why, what's this lad? you've been at kehl, at emenendingen, at rorshach, at huyningen, through all that black forest affair with moreau! you _have_ seen smoke, then. ay! i see honorable mention of you besides, for readiness in the field and zeal during action. what! more brandy! girard. why, our irish friends must have been exceedingly thirsty. i've given them credit for something like ten thousand 'velts' already! no matter, the poor fellows may have to put up with short rations for all this yet--and there goes my signature once more. what does that blue light mean, girard?" said he, pointing to a bright blue star that shone from a mast of one of the ships of war. "that is the signal, general, that the embarkation of the artillery is complete." "parbleu!" said he, with a laugh, "it need not have taken long; they've given in two batteries of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit for service. there goes a rocket, now. isn't that the signal to heave short on the anchors? yes, to be sure. and now it is answered by the other! ha! lads, this does look like business at last!" the door opened as he spoke, and a naval officer entered. "the wind is drawing round to the south, general; we can weigh with the ebb if you wish it." "wish it!--if i wish it! yes, with my whole heart and soul i do! i am just as sick of la rochelle as is la rochelle of me. the salute that announces our departure will be a 'feu-de-joie' to both of us. ay, sir, tell your captain that i need no further notice than that _he_ is ready. girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on board in irons. the fellows must learn at once that discipline begins when we trip our anchors. as for you," said he, turning to me, "you shall act upon my staff with provisional rank as sous-lieutenant: time will show if the grade should be confirmed. and now hasten down to the quay, and put yourself under colonel lerrasin's orders." colonel lerrasin, the second in command, was, in many respects, the very opposite of humbert. sharp, petulant, and irascible, he seemed quite to overlook the fact, that, in an expedition which was little better than a foray, there must necessarily be a great relaxation of the rules of discipline, and many irregularities at least winked at, which, in stricter seasons, would call for punishment. the consequence was, that a large proportion of our force went on board under arrest, and many actually in irons. the irish were, without a single exception, all drunk; and the english soldiers, who had procured their liberation from imprisonment on condition of joining the expedition, had made sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle to forget their new alliance, and vent their hatred of france and frenchmen in expressions whose only alleviation was, that they were nearly unintelligible. such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubordination never was seen. the relative conditions of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities that were scarcely even dormant, and many a bloody encounter took place between those whose instinct was too powerful to feel themselves any thing but enemies. a cry, too, was raised, that it was meant to betray the whole expedition to the english, whose fleet, it was asserted, had been seen off oleron, that morning; and although there was not even the shadow of a foundation for the belief, it served to increase the alarm and confusion. whether originating or not with the irish, i can not say, but certainly they took advantage of it to avoid embarking; and now began a schism which threatened to wreck the whole expedition, even in the harbor. the irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline as they were ignorant of french, refused to obey orders save from officers of their own country; and, although lerrasin ordered two companies to "load with ball and fire low," the similar note for preparation from the insurgents, induced him to rescind the command and try a compromise. in this crisis i was sent by lerrasin to fetch what was called the "committee," the three irish deputies who accompanied the force. they had already gone aboard of the dedalus, little foreseeing the difficulties that were to arise on shore. seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, i found these three gentlemen, whose names were tone, teeling, and sullivan. their attitudes were gloomy and despondent, and their looks anything but encouraging, as i entered. a paper on which a few words had been scrawled, and signed with their three names underneath, lay before them, and on this their eyes were bent with a sad and deep meaning. i knew not then what it meant, but i afterward learned that it was a compact formally entered into and drawn up, that if, by the chance of war, they should fall into the enemy's hands, they would anticipate their fate by suicide, but leave to the english government all the ignominy and disgrace of their death. they seemed scarcely to notice me as i came forward, and even when i delivered my message they heard it with a half indifference. "what do you want us to do, sir?" said teeling, the eldest of the party. "we hold no command in the service. it was against our advice and counsel that you accepted these volunteers at all. we have no influence over them." "not the slightest," broke in tone. "these fellows are bad soldiers and worse irishmen. the expedition will do better without them." "and _they_ better without the expedition," muttered sullivan, drily. "but you will come, gentlemen, and speak to them," said i. "you can at least assure them that their suspicions are unfounded." "very true, sir," replied sullivan, "we can do so, but with what success? no, no. if you can't maintain discipline here on your own soil, you'll make a bad hand of doing it when you have your foot on irish ground. and, after all, i for one am not surprised at the report gaining credence." "how so, sir," asked i, indignantly. "simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand men dwindles down to a force of eight hundred; when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to be represented by a couple of thousand; when an expedition, pledged by a government, has fallen down to a marauding party; when hoche or kleber--but never mind, i always swore that if you sent but a corporal's guard, i'd go with them." a musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer, and, in an agony of anxiety, i rushed to the deck. although above half a mile from the shore, we could see the movement of troops hither and thither, and hear the loud words of command. whatever the struggle, it was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to the boats. with an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places, and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the calm water of the bay. if a cautious reserve prevented any open questioning as to the late affray, the second boat which came alongside revealed some of its terrible consequences. seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station between decks. "a bad augury this!" muttered sullivan, as his eye followed them. "they might as well have left that work for the english!" a swift six-oar boat, with the tricolor flag floating from a flag-staff at her stern, now skimmed along toward us, and as she came nearer, we could recognize the uniforms of the officers of humbert's staff, while the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the midst of them. as he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on his broad bold features. greeting the assembled officers with a smile, he asked how the wind was? "all fair, and freshening at every moment," was the answer. "may it continue!" cried he, fervently. "welcome a hurricane, if it only waft us westward!" the foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy mass heaved over to the wind, and we began our voyage. (_to be continued._) [from colburn's magazine.] the wahr-wolf; or, the lovers of hundersdorf. there are few rambles that so well repay the summer wanderer who seeks for novelty, after the fatigues of a london season, as a voyage down the danube from ratisbon to vienna. in the days when the charming "lady mary" passed along the swelling waters of the dark river in one of the "wooden houses" which she found so convenient, the romantic solitudes of the majestic böhmer-wald had never been disturbed by the hissing of steam; and swiftly as her boat glided onward between the solemn banks of the then little frequented stream, the pace of the steamer which now bears the traveler to his destination, would shame the rowers of the enterprising embassadress, and leave her far behind. the native boats, _weitz-zille_, are not, however, altogether banished from the watery way which they traversed alone but a few years since; and very picturesque is it to meet them as they float lazily on, urged by their two rowers, and guided by primitive-looking paddles. many are the long, deal, raft-shaped vessels which still convey goods from one town to another; and strange do they appear with their sides painted with broad black stripes, some of them upward of a hundred feet long. from the deck of the narrow and elongated steamer the traveler can now with proud pity watch those relics of a simple period, and congratulate himself that his course is both swifter and surer. a party of strangers from ratisbon had taken their places on board the steam-packet, and were rapidly clearing the waters beneath the rock of donaustauf, gazing with admiration on the evidence of two eras presented in the gray ruins of the formidable middle-age fortress which crowns one height, and the piled-up white marble blocks of the recently completed temple of valhalla, which shines so gloriously on the other, fairly eclipsing its antique brother, and lording it over the spreading waters, in which the image of its snowy columns lies reflected. there were travelers of many nations on board, and all, attracted by the sudden vision of this magnificent structure, fraternized to welcome it with exclamations of delight, uttered in various languages. germans, french, and english were alike carried away with admiration; and those who had already beheld its wonders within became quite eloquent in describing to their neighbors the treasures with which this unapproachably splendid temple is filled to overflowing. this incident, at the very beginning of the voyage, made most of the passengers acquainted, so that the usual coldness and reserve common to northern nations was at once swept away, and animated conversation ensued. among the passengers were two young englishmen, who had been pointed out to the party leaving ratisbon, by the porter of the goldene kreutz--(the house in which it is said don juan of austria, the famous son of charles v., was born in secrecy)--as "milors," though their weather-worn costumes gave but little idea of the importance of their station; they had attached themselves to a stately but courteous bohemian baron, who, with a train of servants and carriages more than commonly well-appointed, was on his way to his castle situated opposite vilshofen on the left bank of the river. the baron was well acquainted with every nook and corner in every valley of the winding danube; and as he was full of good-humor, and described well, and, besides, was flattered at the interest his hearers took in his conversation, he enlivened the voyage by a continuous narration of circumstances which had fallen under his observation. a legend seldom comes amiss to an englishman, and enthusiasm is never wanting in his mind for magnificent scenery, such as abounds on this glorious river, which possesses much of the beauty of the rhine, and superior grandeur and sublimity. perhaps its waters are scarcely so abounding, or its bed so filled to the brim, as that of the rhine throughout its course; but, at times, one is half inclined to give the palm, even in this respect, to the more majestic rival of the beautiful torrent now so familiar to tourists as to have become an unappreciated treasure of picturesque riches. the baron directed the attention of his companions to all that was wild and striking in the scenes around them. as they passed straubing he told the sad tale of poor agnes bernauer, the agnes de castro of the danube, whose fate was even more terrible. the englishmen shuddered as they looked on the spot where the old bridge stood, from whence the fair unfortunate was cast, and felt inclined to reproach the very waves which submitted to assist the crime of the cruel wretch whose hook dragged the shrieking beauty under water, and drowned her as she struggled to reach the shore. he told stories of the dark bogenberg, as they now approached, now lost it in the windings of the capricious river; and related how the emperor charlemagne had visited a holy hermit there, whom he beheld, after cutting down a tree, hang his ax upon a sunbeam, a feat frequently performed by saints, who, in days of yore, seemed to have no other pegs for their mantles, caps, &c. his satanic majesty also figured as a conspicuous actor in the baron's legends, and the evidences of his prowess are sufficiently remarkable, it must be confessed, in these regions. for instance, it would be absurd to imagine any influence but that of the foul fiend could have been exerted to place the perpendicular rock of natternberg in the way of the steamer, rising up suddenly, as it does, several hundred feet above the waters, and exhibiting on its rugged summit the ruins of the famous castle of bogen, to reach which must have required help from the bad spirit himself, perched thus high out of reach. the lords of this castle were, however, such zealous worshipers of his, that doubtless he was not niggardly to them in lending a helping hand when called upon. it was while the steamer was gliding past the village of hundersdorf, which lies at the embouchure of the stream of kinzach, that the baron bethought himself of a circumstance which occasioned him to smile, as he exclaimed, "there is nothing very striking, you will say, in that little place; but a story was once told me concerning it which gives it a sort of fearful interest. but i have already tired you with too many of my legends, and will spare you this." "by no means," said one of the englishmen. "we can not let you off so. of course, in a place so close to the mysterious bogenberg, there must be something more than common." "oh, if you really like to hear what attracts me toward this insignificant village," replied the baron, "i am ready to tell the story as it was told to me." his auditors, grouping themselves round him as he spoke, he accordingly continued as follows: after a gloomy cold day the evening set in chill and dreary, and in spite of all the efforts i had made to reach vilshofen before dark, i found myself, owing to various vexatious delays, benighted in one of the desolate passes of the majestic mountain range which borders the left bank of the danube. the gloom became every moment deeper and deeper, and to proceed appeared almost impracticable; however, as the prospect of passing the night in the woods held out but small temptation, i urged my people forward, and accordingly we drove rapidly on, hoping at least to reach some spot more sheltered than the spectral valley where we found ourselves. our haste was of little avail; the spirits of the mountains seemed to laugh our efforts to scorn; and to prove how much travelers are in their power, they so contrived it that the wheels of my carriage coming in contact with a heap of rugged stones, a violent overturn took place, and our further progress was altogether stopped. we had no choice now but to kindle a fire under a huge tree, dispose our cloaks and baggage so as to afford us some protection from the night air, and wait for dawn before we attempted to trust ourselves again in the shattered vehicle. resolving to submit with a good grace to our misfortune, we produced our stock of provisions, which hunger made particularly palatable. the fire soon blazed cheerfully; and as masters and men drew round it, we began to think our adventure less woeful than we at first considered it. it was agreed that those of our party who were the most fatigued should endeavor to procure some sleep, while the watchful should nurse the useful flame which not only warmed but might protect us from the visits of wild animals, should any be attracted toward our neighborhood. we had with us a stout bavarian, whose lively eyes told that he had little more inclination to sleep than myself: he and i therefore seated ourselves on the knotted roots of the ancient oak, and to beguile the time i asked him some particulars of the country, new at that time to me, but with which he seemed well acquainted. we are at this moment passing the places he named; and he said he had traversed these mountains during many years, indeed, had we followed his advice at straubing, we had not then been sitting by the fire, benighted wanderers, listening to him as you now listen to me. "it is unlucky," said the bavarian, "that there is no moon, for these heights look well in her broad light and shade; i could otherwise point out to you many a remarkable spot hereabouts. on the summit of the highest of these mountains stand the ruins of the famous stammschloss of bogenberg, once belonging to the powerful counts of that race, who lorded it over all the country they could see from their strong-hold, far into bohemia. but it is long since their revels are over, and all is silent enough in those walls, except on the festivals of the wahr-wolves, and then indeed there is such a noise and riot that one might think the old knights and their vassals were once more engaged in contest with their ancient enemies of ortenburg." "what mean you," asked i, "by the wahr-wolves?" he stared with astonishment. "is it possible," said he, "that you have not heard of them? they are certainly more rare of late years, yet there are still too many in the country." "are they banditti?" said i, instinctively laying my hand on my pistol. "not so," he replied; "since you seem so surprised i will explain. a wahr-wolf is a man who has entered into a compact with the black huntsman, which enables him to change his human shape for that of a wolf, and resume his own form at will. there are many men whom you would never suspect of such a thing who are known to be of the fraternity. they meet sometimes in bands and scour the country, doing more mischief than natural wolves, for when they get into a farm they make wild havoc, and are mighty beer-drinkers; sometimes, not content with drinking up all the beer they can find, they pile up the empty barrels in the middle of the cellar, and go off howling loud enough to scare the whole country. you smile, but i know a fact relating to one of them which many besides myself can vouch for as having occurred. a farmer from straubing, with some of his people, was passing through these very mountains, and being overtaken by night, as we are, but not like us furnished with provisions, one of his men offered to procure some food, if they would all promise not to tell how he did it. whereupon he went away, and in a short time they heard the howling of a wolf; presently one came in sight bearing a sheep which he had killed. they ran to hide themselves, but he quietly laid down his prey, and, turning about, ran off to the heights. their companion returned not long after, quite out of breath and much fatigued. they proceeded to cut up and roast part of the slaughtered animal; but none of them would hold fellowship with the man afterward, because they knew him at once to be a wahr-wolf." "do you really credit this?" said i; "and could you suspect a companion of so incredible a propensity?" "when i tell you what was witnessed and recounted to me by my own father," said the bavarian, with great gravity, "you will allow that i have reasons for my belief. "hundersdorf is the native place of our family, and there, when my father was quite young, lived a mother and her two daughters, margaret and agatha. the first was soon married to a worthy man, a farmer, who by ill-luck took into his service a young fellow named augustin schultes. no one, to look at him, would have thought his face boded aught but good, he was so handsome, so gay, and obliging. "it was not long before he fell in love with the pretty agatha, who was the general favorite of the village, though somewhat proud and shy. at first she looked down upon the servant of her brother-in-law, but by degrees was won by his insinuating behavior, for women seldom look beyond the outside. her mother, however, would not listen to his or her entreaties, and nothing but weeping, scolding, and discontent was to be found in the cottage. all on a sudden every thing seemed altered; and whereas augustin never dared to cross the threshold of their house, he was now a constant guest. by-and-by he left off service and bought a bit of land of his own and some sheep, having had, according to his own report, a legacy left him. this latter circumstance explained the change in the behavior of agatha's mother, for a poor suitor and a rich one are widely different persons, and many who had never said a word in augustin's favor, now came forward with offers of friendship. heinrich ziegler, however, an unsuccessful lover of agatha's, was still heard on all occasions to speak slightingly of augustin, throwing out hints that his money was not got in an honest way, so that his insinuations filled the minds of the neighbors with suspicions which they could not account for. some thought he dealt in magic, or had found the great secret; but none imagined the truth, which at last came to light. "it happened one evening that my father was returning from work, and had to pass through a small wood which leads to the village; and, as the shades began to fall, he hurried on, because there are many strange things happen in these places which no good christian should care to look upon. suddenly he heard voices not far off, and, as he thought he recognized them, he stopped to ascertain, when he clearly distinguished those of heinrich and augustin, at least so it seemed to him. "'augustin,' said the former, 'it is of no use; if you do not resign her i will tell the whole truth, and force you to give her up; for as soon as it is known what you are--' "'tush!' interrupted the other, 'what better are you yourself? did we not take the oath together, and are not you as deeply implicated as i am. our master provides us with all we want, and our duty is not so very hard.' "'i tell you,' muttered heinrich, sullenly, 'my duty is much worse than yours; the worst of yours is over, mine is but begun. am i not obliged to scour the country in the darkest night _to bring sheep to your fold_?' "my father shuddered, a fearful suspicion darkened his mind, which was soon confirmed by what followed. heinrich continued: "'you get the reward and i the pain; but i will no longer endure it; either give me up the gold you obtain through my means, or give me up agatha.' "they then spoke together, too low to be heard, but my father gathered enough to learn that augustin promised to take from his comrade the hard duty he complained of being obliged to perform at night; and still muttering to each other words of import which my father could not comprehend, they passed on, and he, terrified and his hair bristling with horror, hurried through the wood and reached home he scarcely knew how. "he resolved to watch the proceedings of the two comrades narrowly, and in a little time observed that augustin's looks were much impaired; that he went about in the daytime fatigued and haggard, while heinrich, who before was dull and heavy, assumed a more cheerful aspect. at length the time was fixed for the marriage of agatha and augustin, and as it approached he felt greatly disturbed, on considering the conversation he had overheard: he tried to persuade himself that he had mistaken the voices or the words, but he still could not divest himself of the conviction that the two men whose mysterious words he had listened to were no other than augustin and heinrich, and they were, beyond all possibility of doubt, wahr-wolves! "the day before the wedding was to take place, he directed his steps to the cottage, and there found agatha's mother alone; she was sitting in the window, with a face of wonder and alarm, and held in her hand a small piece of paper, which, as he entered, she handed to him. "'read this,' said she; 'you are an old friend, advise me what to do to save my poor child.' "on the paper was written, 'let agatha fly from the wahr-wolf.' "my father turned pale, and on the widow's earnest entreaties that he would assist her with his advice, he related all he knew. great was her amazement and despair; the more so, as she felt certain that agatha would never credit the fact, and must inevitably fall a sacrifice. while we were in this perplexity, we were startled by the sudden appearance of heinrich. his face was very pale, and his eyes wild. "'you doubtless wonder,' said he, 'to see me here, and the more so when i tell you that i come as a saviour to your daughter. i alone have the means of delivering her, and if you will confide in me, she shall escape the fate which hangs over her.' "he then proceeded to relate that, won over by the deceitful persuasions of augustin, he had consented to become his companion in his unhallowed proceedings; but, having repented, he now resolved to reveal the wicked practices of his late friend; and if the mother of agatha would be guided by him, he would deliver her daughter from all harm. after much difficulty the mother, by my father's persuasions, at last agreed to trust him, as no better means offered; and accordingly, having obliged heinrich to take a solemn oath of his sincerity, they resolved to assemble several neighbors, and to put themselves under the guidance of this new friend. "it was night when the whole party met, not far from the gate of augustin's cottage. heinrich advanced first, and, at a signal from him, every man concealed himself till it was observed that augustin came out of the house, and proceeded cautiously onward till he reached the cemetery just without the village; the watchful band still close on his track. "he there began to undress himself, and having done so, hid his clothes under a grave-stone. scarcely had he finished this arrangement, when the hoarse cry of a raven seemed to startle him, and the sound was presently answered by a low howl, when, to the inexpressible horror of all present, a hideous wolf rushed forth, as if from the tombs, and was lost in the surrounding gloom. "no one could stir from the spot where each stood but heinrich, who darted toward the place where the garments were hid, and drawing them forth, wrapped them in a heap, and calling to the petrified group who looked on, bade them follow. they did so, and having returned to the village, prepared to complete the directions of heinrich, who ordered a large fire to be made, into which all the clothes were thrown; but, to the surprise of all, among them was discovered the hood and vail of a female. they were burned with the rest, and as the last spark of the fire died away, the face of heinrich seemed to have caught its glow, so fierce was the expression of his eyes, as he exclaimed, "'now the work of vengeance is complete; now the black huntsman has his own!' "he told the trembling lookers-on that on the destruction of these habiliments depended the wahr-wolf's power of resuming his human shape, which had now become quite impossible. "after all these ceremonies, each person returned to his respective dwelling; but my father was unable to obtain a moment's rest all night, for the continual shrieking of a raven close to his window. as day dawned the annoyance ceased, and he rose the next morning hoping all he had witnessed the preceding night was a dream. however, he hastened to the house of agatha, and there he found all in confusion and dismay. she could be nowhere found, nor any trace of her discovered. heinrich was in more consternation than any one, and hurried up and down almost distracted. "my father now related how his rest had been disturbed by the hoarse cries of the raven, and said that such an omen boded no good. he then proposed seeking for the unfortunate girl in the cemetery, as perhaps, her mysterious lover had murdered and buried her in one of the tombs. at the mention of this suspicion, a new light seemed to burst on the awe-struck heinrich. he suddenly called out in a piercing voice, "'the hood--the vail!--it is too plain, i have betrayed him, and lost her forever. i burnt her garments, and doubtless, he had taught her his infernal art, so that she can never be restored to her human form. she will remain a raven, and he a wahr-wolf, forever!' "so saying, he gnashed his teeth with rage, and, with a wild look, rushed from the house. no one observed where he went, but, from that hour, neither he, nor augustin, nor agatha, were ever beheld in the village of hundersdorf; though often, on a wintry night, the howling of wolves is heard not far off, and the ill-boding scream of the raven is sure to echo their horrid yells." such was the wild tale of the bavarian; and when he had finished, i was so impressed with the earnestness of his manner, and the firm belief he attached to this strange relation, that i was not sorry to hear the voices of my awaking companions, nor unrelieved to observe that day was breaking. we soon resumed our journey, and it was with little regret i quitted the gloomy valley where i had listened to the fearful legend of the wahr-wolf. the superstition is scarcely even yet done away with in these parts, in spite of the march of civilization, which has sent steam-boats on the danube to drive away such follies. i believe, however, there are few places now, except in the böhmer-wald, where such monstrous fables are believed. such a belief was once current all over france, and, indeed, wherever wolves existed; but as our robber chiefs end black bands are pretty well rooted out, no one has any interest in keeping up the credit of these imaginary culprits. "but see," exclaimed the baron, "we are arrived at vilshofen, and i am obliged to leave off my gossip, and allow you to pursue your way toward vienna. yonder are the walls of my domicile, and here i must bid you farewell." a true ghost story. "did you ever hear," said a friend once to me, "a real true ghost story, one you might depend upon?" "there are not many such to be heard," i replied, "and i am afraid it has never been my good fortune to meet with those who were really able to give me a genuine, well-authenticated story." "well, you shall never have cause to say so again; and as it was an adventure that happened to myself, you can scarcely think it other than well authenticated. i know you to be no coward, or i might hesitate before i told it to you. you need not stir the fire; there is plenty of light by which you can hear it. and now to begin. i had been riding hard one day in the autumn for nearly five or six hours, through some of the most tempestuous weather to which it had ever been my ill luck to be exposed. it was just about the time of the equinox, and perfect hurricanes swept over the hills, as if every wind in heaven had broken loose, and had gone mad, and on every hill the rain and driving sleet poured down in one unbroken shower. "when i reached the head of wentford valley--you know the place, a narrow ravine with rocks on one side, and those rich full woods (not that they were very full then, for the winds had shaken them till there was scarcely a leaf on their bare rustling branches) on the other, with a clear little stream winding through the hollow dell--when i came to the entrance of this valley, weather-beaten veteran as i was, i scarcely knew how to hold on my way; the wind, as it were, held in between the two high banks, rushed like a river just broken loose into a new course, carrying with it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my poor horse and i struggled with considerable difficulty: still i went on, for the village lay at the other end, and i had a patient to see there, who had sent a very urgent message, entreating me to come to him as soon as possible. we are slaves to a message, we poor medical men, and i urged on my poor jaded brute with a keen relish for the warm fire and good dinner that awaited me as soon as i could see my unfortunate patient, and get back to a home doubly valued on such a day as that in which i was then out. it was indeed dreary riding in such weather; and the scene altogether, through which i passed, was certainly not the most conducive toward raising a man's spirits; but i positively half wished myself out in it all again, rather than sit the hour i was obliged to spend by the sick-bed of the wretched man i had been summoned to visit. he had met with an accident the day before, and as he had been drinking up to the time, and the people had delayed sending for me, i found him in a frightful state of fever; and it was really an awful thing either to look at or to hear him. he was delirious, and perfectly furious; and his face, swelled with passion, and crimson with the fever that was burning him up, was a sight to frighten children, and not one calculated to add to the tranquillity even of full-grown men. i dare say you think me very weak, and that i ought to have been inured to such things, minding his ravings no more than the dash of the rain against the window; but, during the whole of my practice, i had never seen man or woman, in health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy, with the impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the face; and, in the miserable hovel that then held me with his old witch-like mother standing by, the babel of the wind and rain outside added to the ravings of the wretched creature within. i began to feel neither in a happy nor an enviable frame of mind. there is nothing so frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man's body, and leave it to a fiend instead. "after an hour or more waiting patiently by his bedside, not liking to leave the helpless old woman alone with so dangerous a companion (for i could not answer for any thing he might do in his frenzy), i thought that the remedies by which i hoped in some measure to subdue the fever, seemed beginning to take effect, and that i might leave him, promising to send all that was necessary, though fearing much that he had gone beyond all my power to restore him; and desiring that i might immediately be called back again, should he get worse instead of better, which i felt almost certain would be the case, i hastened homeward, glad enough to be leaving wretched huts and raving men, driving rain and windy hills, for a comfortable house, dry clothes, a warm fire, and a good dinner. i think i never saw such a fire in my life as the one that blazed up my chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm and bright, and there seemed an indescribable air of comfort about the room which i had never noticed before. one would have thought i should have enjoyed it all intensely after my wet ride, but throughout the whole evening, the scenes of the day would keep recurring to my mind with most uncomfortable distinctness, and it was in vain that i endeavored to forget it all in a book, one of my old favorites too; so at last i fairly gave up the attempt, as the hideous face would come continually between my eyes and an especially good passage; and i went off to bed heartily tired, and expecting sleep very readily to visit me. nor was i disappointed: i was soon deep asleep, though my last thought was on the little valley i had left. how long this heavy and dreamless sleep continued, i can not tell, but gradually i felt consciousness returning, in the shape of the very thoughts with which i fell asleep, and at last i opened my eyes, thoroughly roused by a heavy blow at my window. i can not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among the heavy surge-like clouds, i saw the very face, the face of _that_ man looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face pressed close to the glass. i started up in bed, to convince myself that i really was awake, and not suffering from some frightful dream; there it staid, perfectly moveless, its wide ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly on mine, which, by a kind of fascination, became equally fixed and rigid, gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed to float beyond it, might be fancied into one. i can scarcely tell how long i so sat looking at it, but i remember something of a rushing sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhausted back upon my pillow, and then i awoke in the morning ill and unrefreshed. i was ill at ease, and the first question i asked, on coming down stairs, was, whether any messenger had come to summon me to wentford. a messenger had come, they told me, but it was to say i need trouble myself no further, as the man was already beyond all aid, having died about the middle of the night. i never felt so strangely in my life as when they told me this, and my brain almost reeled as the events of the previous day and night passed through my mind in rapid succession. that i had seen something supernatural in the darkness of the night, i had never doubted, but when the sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, through the same window, where i had seen so frightful and strange a sight by the spectral light of the moon, i began to believe more it was a dream, and endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which, nevertheless, i could not quite shake off. haunted by what i considered a painful dream, i left my room, and the first thing i heard was a confirmation of what i had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason and ridicule myself out of believing. it was some hours before i could recover my ordinary tranquillity; and then it came back, not slowly as you might have expected, as the impression gradually wore off, and time wrought his usual changes in mind as in body, but suddenly--by the discovery that our large white owl had escaped during the night, and had honored my window with a visit before he became quite accustomed to his liberty." [from the london critic.] sketches of life. by a radical. it was an error to call this work[ ] the autobiography of an individual. it is a picturing--faithful, minute, and eloquent--of the hardships, the sufferings, and the miseries endured by a large mass of our fellow men. it is an earnest and honest exposure of the hollowness that infests english society--an insight to the weakness of the substratum. it shows what education should have done, and what corruption really has done. alton locke is also a personification of the failings, as well as of the sufferings, that make up the sum of existence of a large class. the author has effectually carried out his design--we will not say altogether with artistic consistency, or with book-making propriety. we know it is deemed a great offense against taste to make a novel the medium of exposing social dangers, or political inequalities and wrongs. we know that those who stick up for "the model," would have a fiction all fiction, or at least that the philosophy be very subordinate and the social aim be hidden so completely as not to be discernible excepting to the professional reader. but _alton locke_ is an exception to all these objections. spite of its defects, it is a perfect work--perfect, that it is invested with an air of the wildest romance, while it goes home to the heart and the judgment as a faithful picture--perfect, that it is eloquent and natural, and consistent with itself. it is one of those books which defy classification. we have not seen its like. and to those readers who accept our eulogy in earnest, _alton locke_ will ever remain a token of rich enjoyment, and a memento that did produce at least one cherishable book. the story of the biography will not impress so much or so favorably as the style. the hero is a widow's only child: his mother is a stern calvinist. her teachings, and the teaching of the vipers in religious form who come to administer consolation and to drink the old lady's tea, are hateful to an intense degree to alton. he is of a poetic temperament, and a great admirer of nature. opportunities of indulging his natural tastes are denied him. born in a close london street, very rigidly watched and governed by his mother and the good men who come to visit her, his life is any thing but pleasant. but he subsequently becomes a tailor, reads largely, writes verses, turns chartist, falls in love, and is imprisoned for spouting chartism. the upshot of his rough life is, that he becomes a true christian. several characters are hit off with great perfection. such is the mother of alton; and such is sandye mackaye, a friend to whom the boy occasionally ran for sympathy, and to borrow books. but we will now draw upon the pages of the work itself, merely repeating that it is a remarkable composition, and one which men in high places would do well to ponder. it is a growth from the defects of our time, and should be taken as a presage that change must come. the working-men of this country will be indebted to alton locke for the manner in which he pleads their cause; all men should be gratified that the warning voice, which he will inevitably be deemed, is so moderate in tone and so philosophical in manner. alton's youth, we have said, was not happy. the following are his descriptions of his mother, and one of her associates: alton's mother and the missionary. "my mother moved by rule and method; by god's law, as she considered, and that only. she seldom smiled. her word was absolute. she never commanded twice, without punishing. and yet there were abysses of unspoken tenderness in her, as well as clear, sound, womanly sense and insight. but she thought herself as much bound to keep down all tenderness as if she had been some ascetic of the middle ages--so do extremes meet! it was 'carnal,' she considered. she had as yet no right to have any 'spiritual affection' for us. we were still 'children of wrath and of the devil'--not yet 'convinced of sin,' 'converted, born again.' she had no more spiritual bond with us, she thought, than she had with a heathen or a papist. she dared not even pray for our conversion, earnestly as she prayed on every other subject. for though the majority of her sect would have done so, her clear, logical sense would yield to no such tender inconsistency. had it not been decided from all eternity? we were elect, or we were reprobate. could her prayers alter that? if he had chosen us, he would call us in his own good time: and, if not, ----. only, again and again, as i afterward discovered from a journal of hers, she used to beseech god with agonized tears to set her mind at rest by revealing to her his will toward us. for that comfort she could at least rationally pray. but she received no answer. poor, beloved mother! if thou couldst not read the answer, written in every flower and every sunbeam, written in the very fact of our existence here at all, what answer would have sufficed thee? and yet, with all this, she kept the strictest watch over our morality. fear, of course, was the only motive she employed; for how could our still carnal understandings be affected with love to god? and love to herself was too paltry and temporary to be urged by one who knew that her life was uncertain, and who was always trying to go down to deepest eternal ground and reason of every thing, and take her stand upon that. so our god, or gods rather, till we were twelve years old, were hell, the rod, the ten commandments, and public opinion. yet under them, not they, but something deeper far, both in her and us, preserved us pure. call it natural character, conformation of the spirit--conformation of the brain, if you like, if you are a scientific man and a phrenologist. i never yet could dissect and map out my own being, or my neighbor's, as you analysts do. * * * * * "my heart was in my mouth as i opened the door to them, and sunk back again to the very lowest depths of my inner man when my eyes fell on the face and figure of the missionary--a squat, red-faced, pig-eyed, low-browed man, with great soft lips that opened back to his very ears; sensuality, conceit, and cunning marked on every feature--an innate vulgarity, from which the artisan and the child recoil with an instinct as true, perhaps truer, than that of the courtier, showing itself in every tone and motion--i shrunk into a corner, so crest-fallen that i could not even exert myself to hand round the bread-and-butter, for which i got duly scolded afterward. oh! that man!--how he bawled and contradicted, and laid down the law, and spoke to my mother in a fondling, patronizing way, which made me, i knew not why, boil over with jealousy and indignation. how he filled his teacup half full of the white sugar to buy which my mother had curtailed her yesterday's dinner--how he drained the few remaining drops of the three-penny worth of cream, with which susan was stealing off to keep it as an unexpected treat for my mother at breakfast next morning--how he talked of the natives, not as st. paul might of his converts, but as a planter might of his slaves; overlaying all his unintentional confessions of his own greed and prosperity, with cant, flimsy enough for even a boy to see through, while his eyes were not blinded with the superstition that a man must be pious who sufficiently interlards his speech with a jumble of old english picked out of our translation of the new testament. such was the man i saw. i don't deny that all are not like him. i believe there are noble men of all denominations doing their best, according to their light, all over the world; but such was the one i saw--and the men who are sent home to plead the missionary cause, whatever the men may be like who stay behind and work, are, from my small experience, too often such. it appears to me to be the rule that many of those who go abroad as missionaries, go simply because they are men of such inferior powers and attainments that if they staid in england they would starve." alton's study. "i slept in a little lean-to garret at the back of the house, some ten feet long by six wide. i could just stand upright against the inner wall, while the roof on the other side ran down to the floor. there was no fire-place in it or any means of ventilation. no wonder i coughed all night accordingly, and woke about two every morning with choking throat and aching head. my mother often said that the room was 'too small for a christian to sleep in, but where could she get a better?' such was my only study. i could not use it as such, however, at night without discovery; for my mother carefully looked in every evening, to see that my candle was out. but when my kind cough woke me, i rose, and creeping like a mouse about the room--for my mother and sister slept in the next chamber, and every sound was audible through the narrow partition--i drew my darling books out from under a board in the floor one end of which i had gradually loosened at odd minutes, and with them a rushlight, earned by running on messages, or by taking bits of work home, and finishing them for my fellows. no wonder that with this scanty rest, and this complicated exertion of hands, eyes, and brain, followed by the long dreary day's work of the shop, my health began to fail; my eyes grew weaker and weaker; my cough became more acute; my appetite failed me daily. my mother noticed the change, and questioned me about it, affectionately enough. but i durst not, alas! tell the truth. it was not one offense, but the arrears of months of disobedience which i should have had to confess; and so arose infinite false excuses, and petty prevarications, which embittered and clogged still more my already overtasked spirit. before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop at six o'clock in the morning, i sat some three or four hours shivering on my bed, putting myself into cramped and painful postures, not daring even to cough, lest my mother should fancy me unwell, and come in to see me, poor dear soul!--my eyes aching over the page, my feet wrapped up in the bed-clothes to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold; longing, watching, dawn after dawn, for the kind summer mornings, when i should need no candlelight. look at the picture awhile, ye comfortable folks, who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the moment, and then lie back, amid prints and statuettes, to grow wise in an easy chair, with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp. the lower classes uneducated! perhaps you would be so too, if learning cost you the privation which it costs some of them." * * * * * but alton read largely, notwithstanding his privations. what of his time was not spent on the tailor's board, was devoted to the writings of the great spirits of the age. on a holiday he visited the national gallery, and learned to love and bless the painters. he studied narrowly milton and tennyson, and many other writers, and among them "that great prose poem, the single epic of modern days, thomas carlyle's _french revolution_." alton's daydreams were more numerous than we should imagine are those of the majority of men who are steeped in poverty as he was; and he has described them well. when he did learn to walk into the fields, he truly enjoyed the liberty thus attained. the first sip of freedom. "it was a glorious morning at the end of may; and when i escaped from the pall of smoke which hung over the city, i found the sky a sheet of cloudless blue. how i watched for the ending of the rows of houses, which lined the road for miles--the great roots of london, running far out into the country, up which poured past me an endless stream of food, and merchandise, and human beings--the sap of the huge metropolitan life-tree! how each turn of the road opened a fresh line of terraces or villas, till hope deferred made the heart sick, and the country seemed--like the place where the rainbow touches the ground, or the el dorado of raleigh's guiana settlers--always a little farther off! how, between gaps in the houses right and left, i caught tantalizing glimpses of green fields, shut from me by dull lines of high-spiked palings! how i peeped through gates and over fences at trim lawns and gardens, and longed to stay, and admire, and speculate on the names of the strange plants and gaudy flowers; and then hurried on, always expecting to find something still finer ahead--something really worth stopping to look at--till the houses thickened again into a street, and i found myself, to my disappointment, in the midst of a town! and then more villas and palings; and then a village: when would they stop, those endless houses? at last they did stop. gradually the people whom i passed began to look more and more rural, and more toil-worn and ill-fed. the houses ended, cattle yards and farm buildings appeared; and right and left, far away, spread the low rolling sheet of green meadows and corn-fields. oh, the joy! the lawns with their high elms and firs, the green hedgerows, the delicate hue and scent of the fresh clover-fields, the steep clay banks where i stopped to pick nosegays of wild flowers, and became again a child--and then recollected my mother, and a walk with her on the river bank toward the red house. i hurried on again, but could not be unhappy, while my eyes ranged free, for the first time in my life, over the checkered squares of cultivation, over glittering brooks, and hills quivering in the green haze, while above hung the skylarks, pouring out their souls in melody. and then, as the sun grew hot, and the larks dropped one by one into the growing corn, the new delight of the blessed silence! i listened to the stillness; for noise had been my native element; i had become in london quite unconscious of the ceaseless roar of the human sea, casting up mire and dirt. and now, for the first time in my life, the crashing, confusing hubbub had flowed away, and left my brain calm and free. how i felt at that moment a capability of clear, bright meditation, which was as new to me, as i believe it would have been to most londoners in my position. i can not help fancying that our unnatural atmosphere of excitement, physical as well as moral, is to blame for very much of the working-men's restlessness and fierceness. as it was, i felt that every step forward, every breath of fresh air, gave me new life. i had gone fifteen miles before i recollected that, for the first time for many months, i had not coughed since i rose." * * * * * the following is the utterance in a more eloquent mode, of some startling facts revealed by the london correspondent of _the morning chronicle_: the terrors of the competitive system. "well: one day our employer died. he had been one of the old sort of fashionable west-end tailors in the fast decreasing honorable trade; keeping a modest shop, hardly to be distinguished from a dwelling-house, except by his name on the window blinds. he paid good prices for work, though not as good, of course, as he had given twenty years before, and prided himself upon having all his work done at home. his work-rooms, as i have said, were no elysiums; but still, as good, alas! as those of three tailors out of four. he was proud, luxurious, foppish; but he was honest and kindly enough, and did many a generous thing by men who had been long in his employ. at all events, his journeymen could live on what he paid them. "but his son, succeeding to the business, determined, like rehoboam of old, to go ahead with the times. fired with the great spirit of the nineteenth century--at least with that one which is vulgarly considered its especial glory--he resolved to make haste to be rich. his father had made money very slowly of late; while dozens, who had begun business long after him, had now retired to luxurious ease and suburban villas. why should he remain in the minority? why should he not get rich as fast as he could? why should he stick to the old, slow-going, honorable trade? out of some west-end tailors, there were not one hundred left who were old-fashioned and stupid enough to go on keeping down their own profits by having all their work done at home and at first-hand. ridiculous scruples! the government knew none such. were not the army clothes, the post-office clothes, the policemen's clothes, furnished by contractors and sweaters, who hired the work at low prices, and let it out again to journeymen at still lower ones? why should he pay his men two shillings where the government paid them one? were there not cheap houses even at the west-end, which had saved several thousands a year merely by reducing their workmen's wages? and if the workmen chose to take lower wages, he was not bound actually to make them a present of more than they asked for. they would go to the cheapest market for any thing they wanted, and so must he. besides, wages had really been quite exorbitant. half his men threw each of them as much money away in gin and beer yearly, as would pay two workmen at a cheap house. why was he to be robbing his family of comforts to pay for their extravagance? and charging his customers, too, unnecessarily high prices--it was really robbing the public! "such, i suppose, were some of the arguments which led to an official announcement, one saturday night, that our young employer intended to enlarge his establishment, for the purpose of commencing business in the 'show trade;' and that, emulous of messrs. aaron, levi, and the rest of that class, magnificent alterations were to take place in the premises, to make room for which our work-rooms were to be demolished, and that for that reason--for of course it was only for that reason--all work would in future be given out, to be made up at the men's own homes.... "'we were all bound to expect this. every working tailor must come to this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having been spared so long. you all know where this will end--in the same misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are enduring now. we shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood out of our starvation. we shall have to face, as the rest have, ever decreasing prices of labor, ever increasing profits made out of that labor by the contractors who will employ us--arbitrary fines, inflicted at the caprice of hirelings--the competition of women, and children, and starving irish--our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury, slavery, misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties--almost by hundreds--yearly, out of the honorable trade in which we were brought up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring our trade and many others, body and soul. our wives will be forced to sit up night and day to help us; our children must labor from the cradle without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of heaven; our boys, as they grow up, must turn beggars or paupers; our daughters, as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by prostitution. and after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us had been doing, as yet, single-handed.'... "'government--government? you a tailor, and not know that government are the very authors of this system? not to know that they first set the example, by getting the army and navy clothes made by contractors, and taking the lowest tenders? not to know that the police clothes, the postmen's clothes, the convicts' clothes, are all contracted for on the same infernal plan, by sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters' sweaters, till government work is just the very last, lowest resource to which a poor, starved-out wretch betakes himself to keep body and soul together? why, the government prices, in almost every department, are half, and less than half, the very lowest living price. i tell you, the careless iniquity of government about these things will come out some day. it will be known, the whole abomination; and future generations will class it with the tyrannies of the roman emperors and the norman barons. why, it's a fact, that the colonels of the regiments--noblemen, most of them--make their own vile profit out of us tailors--out of the pauperism of the men, the slavery of the children, the prostitution of the women. they get so much a uniform allowed them by government to clothe the men with; and then--then, they let out the jobs to the contractors at less than half what government give them, and pocket the difference. and then you talk of appealing to government!'" * * * * * only dickens or thackeray could have rivaled the following sketch of a discussion on the real office of poetry. "'what do you mean, mr. mackaye!' asked i, with a doleful and disappointed visage. "'mean--why, if god had meant ye to write about pacifics, he'd ha put ye there--and because he means ye to write aboot london town, he's put ye there--and gien ye an unco sharp taste o' the ways o't; and i'll gie ye anither. come along wi' me.' "and he seized me by the arm, and hardly giving me time to put on my hat, marched me out into the streets, and away through clare market to st. giles's. "it was a foul, chilly, foggy saturday night. from the butchers' and greengrocers' shops the gas-lights flared and flickered, wild and ghastly, over haggard groups of slip-shod, dirty women, bargaining for scraps of stale meat, and frost-bitten vegetables, wrangling about short weight and bad quality. fish-stalls and fruit-stalls lined the edge of the greasy pavement, sending up odors as foul as the language of the sellers and buyers. blood and sewer-water crawled from under doors and out of spouts, and reeked down the gutters among offal, animal and vegetable, in every stage of putrefaction. foul vapors rose from cow-sheds and slaughter-houses, and the doorways of undrained alleys, where the inhabitants carried the filth out on their shoes from the back yard into the court, and from the court up into the main street; while above hanging like cliffs over the streets--those narrow, brawling torrents of filth, and poverty, and sin--the houses with their teeming load of life were piled up into the dingy choking night. a ghastly, deafening, sickening sight it was. go, scented belgravian! and see what london is! and then go to the library which god has given thee--one often fears in vain--and see what science says this london might be! "'ay,' he muttered to himself, as he strode along, 'sing awa; get yoursel' wi' child wi' pretty fancies and gran' words, like the rest of the poets, and gang to hell for it.' "'to hell, mr. mackaye?' "'ay, to a verra real hell, alton locke, laddie--a warse ane than ony fiend's' kitchen, or subterranean smithfield that ye'll hear o' in the pulpits--the hell on earth o' being a flunkey, and a humbug, and a useless peacock, wasting god's gifts on your ain lusts and pleasures--and kenning it--and not being able to get oot o' it, for the chains o' vanity and self-indulgence. i've warned ye. now look there--' "he stopped suddenly before the entrance of a miserable alley: "'look! there's not a soul down that yard, but's either beggar, drunkard, thief, or warse. write aboot that! say how ye saw the mouth o' hell, and the twa pillars thereof at the entry--the pawnbroker's shop o' one side and the gin palace at the other--twa monstrous deevils, eating up men and women, and bairns, body and soul. look at the jaws o' the monsters, how they open and open, and swallow in anither victim and anither. write aboot that.' "'what jaws, mr. mackaye!' "'thae faulding-doors o' the gin shop, goose. are na they a mair damnable man-devouring idol than ony red-hot statue o' moloch, or wicker gogmagog, wherein thae auld britons burnt their prisoners? look at _thae barefooted, barebacked hizzies, with their arms roun' the men's necks, and their mouths full o' vitriol and beastly words_! look at that irishwoman pouring the gin down the babbie's throat! look at that raff o' a boy gaun out o' the pawnshop, where he's been pledging the handkerchief he stole the morning, into the ginshop, to buy beer poisoned wi' grains o' paradise, and cocculus indicus, and saut, and a' damnable, maddening, thirst-breeding, lust-breeding drugs! look at that girl that went in wi' a shawl on her back and cam out wi'out ane! _drunkards frae the breast!--harlots frae the cradle!--damned before they're born!_ john calvin had an inkling o' the truth there, i'm a'most driven to think, wi' his reprobation deevil's doctrines!' "'well--but--mr. mackaye, i know nothing about these poor creatures.' "'then ye ought. what do ye ken aboot the pacific? which is maist to your business?--thae bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' the other side o' the warld, or these--these thousands o' barebacked hizzies that play the harlot o' your ain side--made out o' your ain flesh and blude? you a poet! true poetry, like true charity, my laddie, begins at hame. if ye'll be a poet at a', ye maun be a cockney poet; and while the cockneys be what they be, ye maun write, like jeremiah of old, o' lamentation and mourning and woe, for the sins o' your people. gin ye want to learn the spirit o' a people's poet, down wi' your bible and read thae auld hebrew prophets; gin ye wad learn the style, read your burns frae morning till night; and gin ye'd learn the matter, just gang after your nose, and keep your eyes open, and ye'll no miss it.'" * * * * * one other extract, and we will have done with this original but captivating and convincing volume. alton speaks prophetically of the dangers that are looming. "ay, respectable gentlemen and ladies, i will confess all to you--you shall have, if you enjoy it, a fresh opportunity for indulging that supreme pleasure which the press daily affords you of insulting the classes whose powers most of you know as little as you do their sufferings. yes; the chartist poet is vain, conceited, ambitious, uneducated, shallow, inexperienced, envious, ferocious, scurrilous, seditious, traitorous.--is your charitable vocabulary exhausted? then ask yourselves, how often have you yourself, honestly resisted and conquered the temptation to any one of these sins, when it has come across you just once in a way, and not as they came to me, as they come to thousands of the working-men, daily and hourly, 'till their torments do, by length of time, become their elements?' what, are we covetous, too? yes? and if those who have, like you, still covet more what wonder if those who have nothing, covet something? profligate too? well, though that imputation as a generality is utterly calumnious, though your amount of respectable animal enjoyment per annum is a hundred times as great as that of the most self-indulgent artisan, yet, if you had ever felt what it is to want, not only every luxury of the senses, but even bread to eat, you would think more mercifully of the man who makes up by rare excesses, and those only of the limited kinds possible to him, for long intervals of dull privation, and says in his madness, 'let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!' we have our sins, and you have yours. ours may be the more gross and barbaric, but yours are none the less damnable; perhaps all the more so, for being the sleek, subtle, respectable, religious sins they are. you are frantic enough if our part of the press calls you hard names, but you can not see that your part of the press repays it back to us with interest. _we_ see those insults, and feel them bitterly enough; and do not forget them, alas! soon enough, while they pass unheeded by your delicate eyes as trivial truisms. horrible, unprincipled, villainous, seditious, frantic, blasphemous, are epithets of course when applied to--to how large a portion of the english people, you will some day discover to your astonishment. when will that day come, and how? in thunder, and storm, and garments rolled in blood? or like the dew on the mown grass, and the clear shining of the sunlight after april rain?" footnote: [ ] alton locke, tailor and poet--an autobiography. in the press of messrs. harper and brothers. burke and the painter barry. burke delighted in lending a helping hand to genius struggling against adversity; and many who were wasting their powers in obscurity were led by his assistance to the paths of eminence. barry, the painter, was among those to whom he had shown great kindness; he found pleasure in the society of that eccentric being. a long time had passed without his having seen him, when one day they met accidentally in the street. the greeting was cordial, and barry invited his friend to dine with him the next day. burke arrived at the appointed hour, and the door was opened by dame ursula, as she was called. she at first denied her master, but when burke mentioned his name, barry, who had overheard it, came running down stairs. he was in his usual attire; his thin gray hair was all disheveled; an old and soiled green shade and a pair of mounted spectacles assisted his sight; the color of his linen was rather equivocal, but was evidently not fresh from the bleach-green; his outward garment was a kind of careless _roquelaire_. he gave burke a most hearty welcome, and led him into the apartment which served him for kitchen, parlor, studio, and gallery; it was, however, so filled with smoke that its contents remained a profound mystery, and burke was almost blinded and nearly suffocated. barry expressed the utmost surprise, and appeared utterly at a loss to account for the state of the atmosphere. burke, however, without endeavoring to explain the mystery on philosophical principles, at once brought the whole blame of the annoyance home to barry--as it came out that he had removed the stove from its wonted situation by the chimney-piece, and drawn it into the very middle of the room. he had mounted it on an old dripping-pan, to defend the carpet from the burning ashes; he had in vain called in the assistance of the bellows, no blaze would come--but volumes of smoke were puffed out ever and anon, as if to show that the fire could do something if it pleased. burke persuaded barry to reinstate the stove in its own locality, and helped him to replace it; this done and the windows opened, they got rid of the smoke, and the fire soon looked out cheerfully enough on them, as if nothing had happened. barry invited burke to the upper rooms to look at his pictures. as he went on from one to the other, he applied the sponge and water with which he was supplied, to wash away the dust which obscured them. burke was delighted with them, and with barry's history of each, and his dissertation as he pointed out its particular beauties. he then brought him to look at his bedroom; its walls were hung with unframed pictures, which had also to be freed from the thick covering of dust before they could be admired; these, like the others, were noble specimens of art. in a recess near the fire-place the rough stump-bedstead stood, with its coverlet of coarse rug. "that is my bed," said the artist; "you see i use no curtains; they are most unwholesome, and i breathe as freely and sleep as soundly as if i lay upon down and snored under velvet. look there," said he, as he pointed to a broad shelf high above the bed, "that i consider my _chef-d'oeuvre_; i think i have been more than a match for them; i have outdone them at last." mr. burke asked of whom it was he spoke. "the rats," replied he, "the nefarious rats, who robbed me of every thing in the larder. but now all is safe; i keep my food beyond their reach. i may now defy all the rats in the parish." barry had no clock, so depended on the cravings of his stomach to regulate his meals. by this unerring guide, which might have shamed the most correct regulator in a watchmaker's shop, he perceived that it was time for dinner; but forgot that he had invited burke to partake of it, till reminded by a hint. "i declare, my dear friend, i had totally forgotten, i beg your pardon--it quite escaped my memory; but if you'll just sit down here and blow the fire, i'll get a nice beef-steak in a minute." burke applied all his energies to the bellows, and had a nice clear fire when barry returned with the steak rolled up in cabbage-leaves, which he drew from his pocket; from the same receptacle he produced a parcel of potatoes; a bottle of port was under each arm, and each hand held a fresh french-roll. a gridiron was placed on the fire, and burke was deputed to act as cook while barry performed the part of butler. while he laid the cloth the old woman boiled the potatoes, and at five o'clock, all being duly prepared, the friends sat down to their repast. burke's first essay in cookery was miraculously successful, for the steak was done to admiration, and of course greatly relished by the cook. as soon as dinner was dispatched the friends chatted away over their two bottles of port till nine o'clock. burke was often heard to say that this was one of the most amusing and delightful days he had ever spent. [from hogg's instructor.] the iron ring. a tale of german robbers and german students. "i am inclined to side with our friend," said the venerable pastor, "and i would rather not see you so skeptical, justus. i have known, in my own experience, several remarkable instances of presentiments; indeed, on one occasion, i and those who were with me, all save one, greatly profited by the strange prophetic apprehension of one of our party. would we had listened to him sooner! but it was not so to be." "come, tell us the story, dear grandfather," said justus; "it will doubtless edify our guest; and, as for me, i do not object to be mystified now and then." "justus, justus, lay aside that scoffing mask. you put it on, i know, to look like another mephistopheles, but you don't succeed." "don't i?" returned justus, with a smile. "well, grandfather, that ought to be a comfort to you." "no, you don't, so you may as well give up trying. but come, if you would really like to hear the story" (the fact was, that the good man was anxious to tell it, and feared to lose the opportunity), "i shall be happy to please you. i think, however, we shall be better out of doors. let us go and take our wine under the great plane-tree. you had as well bring your chair with you, my young friend" (this was addressed to me), "for the bench is somewhat hard. and trinchen, my girl, put glasses on a tray, and some bottles of wine in a pail, and bring them out to us under the great plane-tree. and you, justus, my boy, be kind enough to transport thither this big chair of mine, like a dutiful grandson and a stout, as you are." we were soon established in the pleasant shade. the pastor took an easy posture in his chair, when, after many efforts, justus had coaxed it into touching the ground with all its four legs at once; i straddled across the seat of mine, and, placing my arms on the back, reposed the bowl of my long pipe on the ground; and justus, with his cigar in his mouth--the twentieth, or thereby, that day--threw himself down on the turf at a convenient distance from the wine-pail, prepared to replenish our glasses, as need might be. noble glasses they were, tall and green, with stalks to be grasped, not fingered. "it is now nearly sixty years ago," began the pastor, when our arrangements were complete, "a long time--a long time, indeed, to bear the staff of one's pilgrimage. i was then in my third year at the university, and was something like what you are now, justus--a merry, idle, and thoughtless student, but not a very bad boy either." "thank you, grandfather," said justus; "however, that accounts for your being the man you are at your years." "no, it does not," said the old man, smiling; "but let me tell my story, my boy, without interrupting me--at least, unless you have something better to say than that. as i was saying, i was in my third year, and, of course, i had many acquaintances. i had, however, only two friends. one was a countryman of yours, young gentleman, and his name was macdonald. the name of the other was laurenberg." "why, that was my grandmother's name!" said justus. "laurenberg was your grandmother's brother," continued the pastor, "and the event i am about to relate to you was the means of my becoming acquainted with her. but has any one ever told you his fate, justus?" "no," said justus, "i never before even heard of him." "that is not wonderful, my boy; for, since his sister was taken from me, there has been no one but me to remember my poor laurenberg. but, as i was saying, these two were my only friends. that summer, when the vacation came, we three resolved to make a pedestrian tour together. (fill our glasses, justus.) so, after some discussion, we decided on visiting the great thuringian forest, and one fine morning off we set. just as we got beyond the town, macdonald said, 'my dear brothers, let us return; this expedition will bring us no good.' 'you would almost make one think you were a prophet,' said laurenberg, with mock gravity. 'and what if i be?' cried the other, quickly. 'why, then, don't be a prophet of evil--that is to say, unless you can not help it. come, my dear fellow.' 'i tell you,' interrupted macdonald, 'that, if we go on, one of us will never see göttingen again--and laurenberg, my beloved laurenberg, it is you who will be that one. you will never return, unless you return now. i tell you this, for i know it.' 'oh, nonsense,' said the other; 'pray, how do you know it?' it seemed to me that macdonald slightly shuddered at the question, but he went on as if not heeding it: 'he of us three who first left the house, is destined never to enter it again, and that was the reason why i tried to get out before you. you, laurenberg, in your folly, ran past me, and it is thus on you that the lot has fallen. laugh if you will; if you had let me go before you, i would have said nothing; but as it is, i say, laugh if you will, and call me a dreamer, or what you please, only return, my friends, return. let us go back.' 'let us go on. forward!' cried laurenberg; 'i do not laugh at you, my brother, but i think you are scarcely reasonable; for either you have truly foreseen what is to happen, or you have not. if you have, then what is to happen _will_ happen, and we can not avoid it; if you have not, why, then it will not happen, and that is all. either you foresee truly my destiny--' he was going on, but macdonald interrupted him: 'it is with such reasoning that men lose themselves in this world--and in the next,' he added, after a pause. 'oho! dear schoolfox,' returned the other, 'we have not undertaken our march to chop logic and wind metaphysics, but, on the contrary, to be merry and enjoy ourselves. so,' and he sung, 'there wander'd three burschen along by the rhine; at the door of a wine-house, they knocked and went in, landlady, have you got good beer and wine?' 'laurenberg, your gayety is oppressive,' interrupted macdonald; 'why sing that song? you know there is death in it.' 'it is true,' replied laurenberg, somewhat gravely, 'the poor little daughter of the landlady lies in her coffin. another stave, then, if you like it better, 'up, brothers! up! enjoy your life!' and so on he went with that stupid song." "stupid!" cried justus, rising suddenly on his elbow; "stupid, did you say, grandfather?" "well, my boy, i think it stupid now, though at your age, perhaps, i thought differently. but there," continued the pastor, "i was sure of it; i never can keep both my pipe and my story going at the same time. give me a light, justus. thank you. those matches are a great invention. in our time, it was all flint, and steel, and trouble. now, fill our glasses, and then i shall go on again." justus obeyed, and his worthy relative thus proceeded: "notwithstanding all his singing, laurenberg was evidently more impressed by our companion's words than he was willing to own; and, as for me, i was much struck with them, for your countryman, young stranger, was no common man. but all that soon wore off. even macdonald seemed to forget his own forebodings. we marched on right cheerfully. that night we stopped at heiligenstadt, very tired, for it was a long way for lads so little used to walking as we were." "did you put up at the post, grandfather?" asked justus. "it is a capital inn, and the landlady is both pretty and civil. i staid there when i went from cassel to halle." "i don't remember where we put up," replied the pastor, "but it is scarcely likely we put up at the post. in those days, students preferred more modest hostelries. don't interrupt me. the next night we slept at dingelstadt; and i remember that at supper laurenberg knocked over the salt-cellar, and that macdonald said, 'see, i told you! every thing shows it!' next night we were at mülhausen, making short journeys, you see; for, after all, our object was to enjoy, not to tire ourselves. mülhausen is a very prettily situated town, and, though i have never been there since, i remember it quite well. the next afternoon we got to a place whose name i forget at this moment. stay--i think it was langensalza; yes, it was langensalza; and the following day we arrived in gotha, and lodged at the sign of the giant, in the market-place. gotha is the chief town in the duchy, and--" here the worthy pastor diverged into a description of gotha and its environs. this, however, i lost, for, the interest of the story ceasing, i went off into a sort of reverie, from which i was awakened only by the abrupt cessation of the tale, and the words, "justus, my boy, you are not asleep, are you? give me a cigar; my pipe is out again." justus complied, and the old man, leaning his long pipe, with the rich bowl, against the great plane-tree, received "fire" from his grandson, lit the cuba, and, after admonishing the youth to fill our glasses, thus went on: "our new friends were students from jena. they were each of a different country. one was a frenchman; one a pole; the third alone was a german. they were making a sort of pilgrimage to the different places remarkable for events in the life of luther--had been at erfurt, to see his cell in the orphan-house there, and were now going to eisenach and the castle of wartburg, to visit the patmos of 'junker george.' however, on hearing that we proposed marching through the thuringian forest, they gave up their original plan, and agreed to join us, which pleased us much, for all three were fine fellows. that night we got to ohrdruff, and the next day we set off for suhl. but we were not destined ever to reach that town. about noon, laurenberg said, 'come, brothers, do you not find this road tiresome? this is the way every body goes. suppose we strike off the road, and take this footpath through the wood. is it not a pleasure to explore an unknown country, and go on without knowing where you will come to? for my part, i would not have come so far only to follow a beaten track, where you meet carts and carriages, and men and women, at every step. if all we wanted was to walk along a road, why, there are better roads near göttingen. into the wood, say i! why, who knows but there may be an adventure before us? follow me!' macdonald would have remonstrated, but our new friends, and i also, i am sorry to say, felt much as laurenberg did, so we took the footpath, and plunged into the forest. we soon thought ourselves repaid. the solitude seemed to deepen as we proceeded. excepting the almost imperceptible footpath, every thing bespoke the purest state of nature. the enormous pines that towered over our heads seemed the growth of ages. great red deer stared at us from a distance through the glades, as if they had never before seen such animals as we, and then bounded away in herds. high up we saw many bustards--" here my excellent host launched in a current of descriptive landscape, which, though doubtless very fine, was almost entirely lost to me, for my thoughts again wandered. from time to time, the words "valleys," "mountains," "crags," "streamlets," "gloom," "rocks," "salvator rosa," "legends," "wood-nymphs," and the like, fell on my ear, but failed to recall my attention. and this must have lasted no little time, for i was at length aroused by his asking for another cigar, the first being done. "the glen gradually opened out into a plain," resumed the pastor, "and our progress became easier. we, however, had no idea where we were, or which way to turn in order to find a resting-place for the night; we were completely lost, in short. nevertheless, we pressed on as fast as our tired limbs would admit of, and after half an hour's march across the wooded level, we were rewarded by coming on a sort of road. it was, indeed, nothing more than the tracks of hoofs upon the turf, but we were in ecstasies at its appearance. after some deliberation as to whether we should take to the right or to the left along it, we resolved on following it to the right. half an hour more, and we saw before us a house among the trees. it was a cheerful sight to us, and we gave a shout of joy. 'i trust they will give us hospitality,' said richter, the german from jena. 'if not,' exclaimed his french friend, 'it is my opinion that we will take it.' 'what! turn robbers?' said the pole, laughing. 'it is a likely looking place for robbers,' remarked macdonald, looking rather uneasily round him. we soon reached the house. it was a long building, with low walls, but a very high thatched roof. at one end was a kind of round tower, which seemed much older than the rest of the structure. it might at one time have been much higher than it then was, but in its actual state it scarcely overtopped the gable built against it. fill our glasses, justus, if you please." "ready, grandfather," said justus. "but, before you go on, tell us something of the personal appearance of laurenberg and macdonald. as for the jena boys, i don't care about them." "laurenberg, justus, was a tall and very handsome lad. his golden hair curled over his shoulders, for he wore it very long, and his blue eyes were like his sister's. macdonald, again, was rather under the middle height; his features were dark, and his expression composed, or perhaps, i should rather say, melancholy. laurenberg was always gay, vivacious, and even restless; macdonald, on the contrary, was usually listless, almost indolent. but, as you will see, when the time of need came, he was a man of iron. but where was i? yes, i remember. well, we came up to the door, and knocked at it. it was opened, after a short delay, by a young girl. the evening shadows were closing in, but, even by the imperfect light we had, we could see she was very beautiful." "ha! grandfather, come, that is very interesting!" cried justus. "don't interrupt me, my boy. we could see she was very beautiful. we asked if we could be accommodated for the night, and she answered very readily that we could, but that we should have to sleep all in one room, and that we must be content with a poor supper. 'you will give us the best you have, at all events,' said richter; 'we are well able to pay for it;' and he jingled his money-pouch. 'oh, that i do not doubt!' said she, her eyes glistening at the sound; 'but my old grandmother and i live alone here, so we have not much to offer.' 'you two live alone in this large house?' said macdonald, rather harshly. the girl turned her eyes on him for the first time--richter had been our spokesman--and she seemed somewhat confused at the scrutinizing glance she met. 'yes,' said she, at last; 'my father, and his father before him, were foresters here--we were not always so poor--and since their death, we have been allowed still to occupy the place.' 'i beg your pardon,' said macdonald, in a softer tone. 'but why,' resumed he, in a sharp, quick way--'why must we all sleep in one room?' the girl gave him a keen, inquiring look, as if to ask what he meant by his questions, and then answered, firmly, 'because, sir, besides our own room, we have only one other furnished. but had you not better walk in? you seem tired, gentlemen; have you come far?' 'to be sure we have, my pretty girl,' said the frenchman; 'and the fact is, we have lost our way. but why do we stand talking here? let us go in, my lads.' 'stay a moment, my friends,' interposed macdonald. 'we should perhaps be burdensome to you,' said he, addressing the girl: 'how far is it to the nearest inn?' 'about two hours' good walking,' replied she. 'and which is the way?' he asked. 'this bridle-road,' said she, 'will bring you in an hour to a country-road. by turning to your left, you will then reach arnstadt in another.' 'good,' said macdonald, 'many thanks. it is my advice, my friends, that we push on to arnstadt.' 'what!' cried the pole, 'two hours more walking! if we were on horseback it would be different; but on foot, i will not go another yard;' and, as he spoke, he entered the house. 'i beg you a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, for keeping you here so long, and a heavy dew falling, too. come, let us in at once,' said the frenchman, and he followed the pole. 'it would certainly be far more comfortable to have good beds at arnstadt,' said richter, 'instead of sleeping six in a room; but i am too tired;' and he, too, went in. macdonald cast an imploring look at laurenberg, who seemed irresolute. but at the same moment the girl, who had already made a step to follow our jena companions into the house, turned slowly round, and, throwing a bewitching glance at my poor friend, said, in a voice full of persuasion, 'and you, fair young sir?' at that moment, the moon, which had risen, passed from behind a cloud, and, throwing her light on the maiden's features, gave them an almost unearthly beauty. as for macdonald, he remained in the shade; but his expressive eye flashed a look of stern warning such as i had never seen it assume before. i shall never forget that scene. laurenberg was between his good and his evil angel. but so it is ever. poor humanity is constantly called on to make the choice; and, alas! how much oftener is the evil preferred than the good! in this world--" but here justus, who seemed greatly to dread his grandfather's homilies, and to have an instinctive presentiment of their approach, rose on his knees to fill our glasses. this done, he exclaimed, "that's a bad cigar, grandfather. it does not burn even, and, besides, the ash is quite black: throw it away, and take another." the interruption was successful. "thank you, my boy," said the pastor. "don't, however, break in so often on my story. where was i?" "laurenberg was just about to go into the house with the beautiful maiden--at least, i suppose so," said justus. "yes," resumed the old man. "after a moment's hesitation, he took her hand, which she yielded easily, and they entered together. 'come,' said macdonald to me, with a sigh, 'since it must be so, we must go with them.' he took my arm, and continued, 'we enter here according to our degrees of wisdom and folly--the pole first, you and i last; but who is to pay for their blindness?' give me a light, justus. is that the same wine? it seems to me a little hard." "it is the same wine," said justus. "perhaps you find it hard, because it is cooler than the first." "it may be so. well, we went in, entering by a passage into a kind of hall. here we heard the frenchman's voice: 'come along, my beauty, and show us your wonderful and enchanted chamber, where we are to sleep; for i suppose it is there we are to sup, too. i have been trying all the doors, and not one of them will open.' 'this way, gentlemen,' said the girl, disengaging herself from laurenberg, and opening one of several doors which entered off the place we were in. 'that is your grandmother, i suppose?' said macdonald, pointing to a figure bending over a small fire, which was expiring on the hearth. 'good evening, my good woman; you seem to feel chilly;' and, as he addressed these latter words to the crouching creature, he made a step as if he would approach; but the girl, quickly grasping his arm, whispered in his ear, 'do not disturb her. since my father's death, she scarcely ever speaks to any one but me. she is very old and feeble. pray, leave her alone.' macdonald threw another of his penetrating glances at the girl, but said nothing, and he and i followed her along a passage, some twenty paces in length, and very narrow. at the end of it was another door, and this opened into the chamber we were to occupy. it was a round room, and we immediately guessed that it formed the under story of the tower we had remarked. the girl brought a lamp, and we found that the furniture consisted of a table and some stools, a large press, a heap of mattresses and bedding, a few mats of plaited straw, and a pile of fire-wood. the most curious thing about the place, however, was a strong pole, or rather mast, which stood in the very centre, and seemed to pass through the roof of the room. this roof, which was at a considerable distance from the floor, was formed--a thing i had never seen before--of furze-bushes, supported upon slender branches of pine, and appeared so rickety as to threaten every moment to come down about our heads. on questioning the girl, i was told that the mast supported the outer roof, which was possible enough. 'in the first place,' said richter to the damsel, when we had seated ourselves, and she seemed to wait for our orders, 'is this an inn, or is it not?' 'you may see, gentlemen,' replied she, 'by the scantiness of the accommodation, that it is not exactly an inn. nevertheless, you can make yourselves at home, as if it was, and welcome.' 'good. then, in the second place, have you any wine?' 'plenty. we sell a good deal to the foresters, who pass here often, and so have always a supply.' 'where is it?' asked macdonald. 'below, in the cellar.' 'very well,' returned he. 'i and two more of us will go down and help you to bring up a dozen bottles or so, if you will show us the way.' 'certainly,' said she. while macdonald and two of the others were absent with her, i contrived to light a fire, and the frenchman, on exploring the press, having found that it contained plates, knives, and forks, he and the pole laid the table; so that when the others, laden with bottles, re-appeared, the place had somewhat of a more cheerful look. 'they have not had time to drug our wine, at least,' whispered macdonald to me. 'pooh, my friend,' returned i, 'you are far too suspicious. you will smile to-morrow at having had such ideas.' 'we shall see,' said he. presently, the girl brought in some bacon, some eggs, and a piece of venison. these we cooked ourselves, staying our appetite, in the mean time, with bread and wine. then we made a hearty supper, and became very merry. richter and the pole plied the bottle vigorously, while laurenberg and the frenchman vied with each other in somewhat equivocal gallantries to the damsel. as for macdonald, he wore an expression of mingled resignation, vigilance, and resolution, which made me uncomfortable, i knew not why--" "come, grandfather, don't keep us so long in suspense. tell us at once if macdonald's suspicions were well-founded," exclaimed justus. "had you fallen into a den of thieves, or were you among honest people? were you all robbed and murdered before morning, or were you not?" "justus, my boy, you must let me tell my story my own way," said the old pastor; "and pray don't interrupt me again. where was i?" "at supper grandfather." "true. when we had supped, smoked a few pipes, and finished our wine, we began to make our beds. as we were so occupied, the girl came in and offered to help us. we readily consented, for we were tired enough. in a very short time, she had made six beds on the floor. 'why do you lay them all with the head to the middle of the room?' asked macdonald, observing that all the pillows were ranged round the mast in a circle, and as near it as possible.--'that is the way i always do,' said she, with a careless air. but she did not succeed in concealing a certain strange expression which her features assumed for a moment, and which both macdonald and i remarked, without understanding it. we well understood afterward what it meant. as she was retiring, the frenchman and laurenberg assailed her with some rather too free jokes. she turned, and cast on them a look of ineffable indignation and scorn; then, without a word, she passed out at the door, and closed it behind her. we all admired her for her modesty and virtue. fill our glasses, justus. but appearances are deceitful; this world is but a vain show; all is not gold that glitters; and--" but, a second time, justus cut short the homily. he dextrously spilt some of the wine, as he performed his ganymedian office, and so drew down on himself a mild sarcasm for his awkwardness. forgetting the sermon he had begun, the old man therefore thus went on: "all, except macdonald, were soon in bed. we had, however, only half undressed. as for macdonald, he drew a stool toward the fire, and, seating himself, buried his face in his hands, as if in thought. i almost immediately fell asleep, and must have slept for some time, for when i awoke the fire was out. but i did not awaken of myself; it was macdonald who aroused me. he did the same to the others. he had thrown himself on his bed, and spoke in a whisper, which, however, as our heads were close together, was audible to all. 'brothers,' said he, 'listen; but for your lives make no noise, and, above all, do not speak. from the first moment we arrived at this house, i feared that all was not right; now i am sure of it. it seemed odd to me that two solitary women should inhabit so large a house; that the girl should have been so ready, or rather so anxious to receive us; that she should have shown no fear of six young men, all strangers to her; and i said to myself, 'she and her grandmother do not live here alone; she depends upon aid, if aid be necessary, and that aid is not far off.' again, i am used to read the character in the countenance, and, despite her beauty, if ever treachery was marked on the human face, it is on hers. then why make us all sleep in one room? if the others are empty, our beds would be as well on the floor in them as in this one. however, all that was mere suspicion. but there is more. you saw me examine the windows during supper. i could then open the outside shutters; they have since been fastened; and, what is more, the door is locked or barred on us, and will not yield. but, what is most important, my ear, which is very quick, caught the sound of steps in the passage--heavy steps, though taken on tiptoe--steps, in short, of a man, or rather, i should say of men, for there were at least two. i stole to the door, and i distinctly heard whisperings. now, what do you think of all that? speak one at a time, and low.'--'bah!' whispered the frenchman, 'i think nothing of it. it is quite common to fasten the shutters outside; and, as for the door, your friend and i were rather free with the girl last night, and she may have locked us in for her own security, or she might be afraid of our decamping in the morning without paying the reckoning. as for the footsteps, i doubt if you can distinguish a man's from a woman's; and the whisperings were probably the girl and the old woman conversing. their voices, coming along the passage, would sound like whisperings.' this explanation was so plausible, that all expressed themselves satisfied with it. but macdonald resumed, and this time he spoke in a whisper so terrible--so full of mysterious power, that it went straight to every heart, and curdled all our blood. 'brothers,' he said, 'be wise in time. if you will not listen to common sense, take warning of a supernatural sense. have you never had a dim presentiment of approaching evil? i know you have. now, mark. i have at this moment the sure certitude of coming evil. i know, i _know_, i know, that if you continue to lie here, and will not listen to my words, neither you nor i will ever see another sun. i _know_ that we shall all certainly die before the morning. will you be advised? if not, your blood be on your own heads! as for mine, i forgive it you. decide!--resolve!'--these words, the tones in which they were uttered, and our knowledge of the speaker, produced a profound impression. as for me, i shuddered; but it was less at the idea of the threatened material danger, than at that of an occult influence hovering round us, inspiring macdonald, and filling the place with its mysterious presence. laurenberg was the first to speak, or rather to whisper. 'macdonald,' said he, 'i yield myself to your guidance.' i immediately said, 'and i.' the others followed the example. macdonald immediately took the command on himself. 'rise,' said he, 'but make not the slightest noise. collect yourselves and pay attention to the slightest thing. leave your shoes; take your swords'--i should tell you, my young friend," said the pastor, addressing me, "that in those days students wore swords, especially when they traveled. and they were not such swords, justus, as you fight your absurd duels with--not slim things, that you can bend double, and of which only a foot or so is sharp--not playthings to scratch each other's faces with; but good steel blades, meant for thrusting as well as cutting--blades not to be trifled with when wielded by a skillful and strong arm. but where was i? i remember. 'take your swords,' said macdonald. 'as it is so dark, there will probably be confusion. we must have watchwords, therefore. let them be _jena_ and _göttingen_. also, to avoid our blindly encountering each other, let each of us, if it comes to a fight, keep calling _burschen! burschen!_ i believe the attack i apprehend will come from the door. let us range ourselves three on each side of it. we from göttingen will take the right side, you from jena the left. when they open the door, we rush into the passage. i will lead my file, and do you brother,' said he to the frenchman, 'lead yours. when you hear me cry _burschen!_ follow me, and, remember, you strike for your lives.' all this was said in the lowest whisper, but at the same time so distinctly and deliberately, that we did not lose a word. we took the places assigned us, grasping our bared swords. for a time--it seemed an interminable time--so we stood silent, and hearing nothing. of course, we could not see each other, for the place was quite dark. at last our excited ears heard footsteps cautiously approaching. some one came to the door, and was evidently listening. in about a minute, we heard the listener whisper to some one in the passage--'they must all be asleep now. tell hans to cut loose.' our hearts beat quick. there was a pause of some minutes; then suddenly we heard overhead a cracking sound among the furze bushes which composed the roof of the room, and the next instant something fell to the ground with a crash so tremendous that the whole house seemed to shake. then we heard a bolt withdrawn, then a key was turned. the door began to open. '_burschen!_' cried macdonald, as he dashed it wide ajar, and sprang into the passage. '_burschen!_' cried the frenchman, and the next moment he was by our comrade's side. '_burschen!_' cried we all, as we made in after them." "_die burschen sollen leben!_" (students forever!) exclaimed justus, in a state of no little excitement. "the robbers retreated precipitately into the hall, where we had seen the old woman the previous night. it was brightly illuminated by a large fire which was blazing on the hearth. here we fought. '_burschen!_' thundered macdonald, as he struck down a man armed with a hatchet. '_a bas les voleurs!_' cried the frenchman, quitting german for his mother tongue, in the heat of the moment. '_jena! göttingen!_' shouted some of us, forgetting in our excitement that these names were our passwords and not our war-cry. '_burschen!_' cried laurenberg, as he drove into a corner one of the enemy armed with a dagger and a sword. '_burschen!_' cried he again, as he passed his weapon twice through the robber's body. '_jena!_' yelled richter, as his left arm, which he interposed to defend his head, was broken by a blow with an iron bar. '_and göttingen!_' added he with a roar, as he laid his assailant at his feet. meanwhile the pole and i had sustained a fierce attack from three robbers, who, on hearing the cries and the clashing of arms, had rushed out of one of the doors opening into the hall. the pole was already slightly wounded, and it was going hard with us, when the others came to our assistance. this decided the fight, and we found ourselves victors." "bravo!" cried justus, throwing his cap into the air. "that wasn't bad, grandfather!" and taking the old man's hand, he kissed his cheek. "you are a good boy, justus," said the pastor, "but don't interrupt me. where was i? oh, yes. we had gained the victory, and all the robbers lay about the floor, killed or wounded. we stood still a moment to take breath. at this moment, the girl of the previous evening rushed into the hall, and threw herself on the body of the man who had fallen by the hand of laurenberg. she put her hand on his heart, then she approached her cheek to his mouth. 'he is dead!' cried she, starting to her feet. 'you have killed my heinrich! my beloved heinrich! you have killed my heinrich! dead! dead! dead!' still speaking, she disappeared. but she returned almost instantly. she had a pistol in each hand. 'it was _you_, young sir,' said she, calmly and deliberately. 'i saw you,' and, as she spoke, she covered laurenberg with her weapon, taking a cool aim. with a bound, macdonald threw himself before the victim. but the generous movement was in vain. she fired; and the bullet, grazing macdonald's shoulder, passed through poor laurenberg's throat, and lodged in a door behind him. he staggered and fell." "oh, weh!" exclaimed justus. "we all stood thunderstruck. 'your life for his--and mine,' said the girl. with these words, she discharged her other pistol into her bosom, and sank slowly upon the corpse of her lover." "what a tragedy!" cried justus. "it was indeed a tragedy," resumed the pastor, in a low voice. "i knelt down beside my friend, and took his hand. macdonald raised him up a little, supporting him in a sitting posture. he said, 'my pocket-book--the letter--my last wish.' then he pressed my hand. then he said, 'farewell, comrades--farewell, my brothers. remember me to my mother and anna.' then he pressed my hand again. and so he died." here the worthy pastor's voice faltered a little, and he paused. justus and i were silent. at last the old man began again. "many, many years have passed since then, but i have never forgotten my early friend, nor ceased to mourn him. we laid him gently on his back; i closed his blue eyes. macdonald placed his sword upon his gallant breast, now still forever, and crossed his arms over it. meanwhile the frenchman and the pole, finding the girl quite dead, had laid her decently by the side of the man she had called heinrich. 'that is enough in the mean time,' then said macdonald, 'the living before the dead. we must see to our own safety first, and attend to the wounded.' we accordingly went over the house, and satisfied ourselves that no one else was concealed in it; we examined the fastenings of all the doors and windows, to guard against an attack from any members of the gang who might be outside. we found a considerable quantity of arms and ammunition, and congratulated ourselves on having surprised our enemies, as otherwise we might have been shot down like dogs. returning to the door where we had supped, we found that the thing which had fallen from the roof, with such a crash, was an enormous ring or circle of iron, bigger than a cart-wheel. it was lying on our beds, the mast being exactly in the centre of it, and serving, as we found, to sustain it when it was hoisted up. had we not obeyed macdonald's voice, we certainly should all have been crushed to death, as it was plain many a victim had already been, for the infernal thing was stained with blood, and in some places, patches of hair were still sticking to it." "and the old woman? the old grandmother?" asked justus. "we found her clothes, but not herself. hence, we guessed that some one of the gang had personated the character, and macdonald reminded us how the girl had prevented his approaching her supposed relative, and how he had got no answer to his address, the man in disguise being probably afraid that his voice might betray him. on examining the field of battle, we found that the robbers were nine in number, and that two besides heinrich were dead. we bound the wounds of the others as well as we could. they were all sturdy fellows, and, when we considered their superior strength and numbers, we wondered at our own success. it was to be attributed solely--of course, i mean humanly speaking--to our attack being so unexpected, sudden, and impetuous. indeed the combat did not last five minutes, if nearly so long. on our side, there was the irreparable loss of laurenberg. richter's broken arm gave him much pain, and the pole had lost a considerable quantity of blood; but, besides this, we had only a few scratches. 'now, lie down and rest,' said macdonald, 'for you have all need of it. as for me, i can not sleep, and so will keep watch till morning.' we did as he recommended, for in truth, now that the excitement was over, i could scarcely keep my eyes open, and the rest were like me. even richter slept. give us some wine, justus, my boy." "he was a fine fellow that macdonald," said justus, as he obeyed. "it was several hours before he awakened us," continued the pastor. "my first thoughts were of poor laurenberg. i remembered what he said about a pocket-book. i searched his dress, and found it. what it contained, i shall tell you presently. we breakfasted on some bread and wine, and then macdonald called a council of war. after putting a negative on the absurd proposal of the pole, that we should set fire to the house, and to the stupid suggestion of richter (he was in a state of fever from his hurt) that, before doing any thing else, we should empty the cellar, we unanimously agreed that our first step should be to give information to the proper authorities of all that had happened. the frenchman and i were deputed to go and seek them out. 'you remember what the girl said about the way to arnstadt?' said macdonald. 'i think you may so far rely on it; but you must trust a good deal to your own judgment to find your way.' with this piece of advice, we started." the journey to arnstadt, the interview with the bürgermeister, the reference to the rural amptman, the expedition of that functionary to the scene of the tragedy, the imprisonment of the surviving robbers, their trial, confession, and punishment, were all minutely dwelt upon by the worthy but somewhat diffuse narrator; none of these circumstances, however, interested me, and i took little note of them. at last, the pastor returned to personages more attractive of attention. "we buried laurenberg by night," said he. "there chanced to be some students from other universities in the neighborhood of arnstadt, and they joined us in paying him all due honor. we followed the coffin, on which lay his sword and cap, walking two-and-two, and each bearing a torch. when the body was lowered into the grave, we quenched the torches, and sung a latin dirge. such was the end of my friend." "and the pocket-book?" asked justus. "it contained a letter to me, a very curious letter. it was dated gotha, and bore, in substance, that macdonald's presentiments were weighing on the mind of the writer, more than he was willing should be known until _after_ the anticipated catastrophe, if, indeed, any should take place. but, that such a thing being _possible_, he took that opportunity of recommending his mother and sister to my care, and of expressing his hope that i should find i could love anna, and that so i would one day make her my wife. i need not relate to you how i performed the sad duty of bearing the news of his death to his two dear relatives. as you know, justus, anna in about three years afterward became mine. and here, in this house, young stranger, we lived very happily for thirty years. here, too, she died. and yonder, in the church-yard, near the west porch, she awaits being rejoined by her own--by her children, and her husband." we were all silent for some time. at length justus, whose emotions were yet as summer clouds, inquired of his grandfather, "and your other comrades in the thuringian forest affair?" "of the jena students i heard no more till many years afterward. it was in november, ; napoleon was retreating from the nation-fight at leipsic. the battle of hanau, too, had been fought. a wounded french officer asked hospitality of me here. of course, i granted it, and he remained more than two months with me; for, though not for several days after his arrival, i discovered that he was the french student who, with richter and the pole, had joined our party at gotha. he had returned to france about a year after our fatal adventure, had entered the army, and had been fighting almost ever since. when he left me, he was sent to mainz, a prisoner on parole; but, at the restoration in his own country, he was allowed to return. on the return of napoleon from elba, he however once more took up arms for his old master, and, with the many other victims of one man's ambition, and the, alas! too prevalent thirst for military glory common among his countrymen, he was killed at waterloo. when will such things cease? when--" "and richter?" asked justus, nipping in the bud the dreaded moralizing. "richter was killed in a duel--" "and macdonald?" "don't interrupt me, my boy; fill our glasses instead. richter was killed in a duel; so the frenchman told me. i also heard of the fate of the pole through him. it was a strange and melancholy one. he, too, had gone to france, and entered the army, serving zealously and with distinction. in , being then with the division that was advancing on the vistula, he obtained leave to visit his father, whom he had not seen for years, but whom he hoped to find in the paternal mansion, situated in a wild part of the country, but not very far from the route which his corps was taking. he was, however, surprised by the night, as he was still riding through a forest of firs which seemed interminable. he therefore put up at a small roadside inn, which presented itself just as he reached the limits of the wood. here the frenchman's account of the matter became rather obscure, indeed, his friend the pole had never told him very exactly all the circumstances. suffice it that there were two ladies in the inn--a mother and daughter--two polish ladies, who were hurrying to meet the husband of one of them, a colonel in jerome bonaparte's army. they were in a great state of alarm, the conduct of the people about the place having roused their suspicions. at their request, the pole took up his quarters in a room from which their chamber entered, so that no one could reach them without passing by him. the room he thus occupied was on the first floor, and at the top of a staircase, from which access was obtained by a trap-door. this trap the officer shut, and fastened by a wooden bolt belonging to it. then, telling the ladies to fear nothing, he placed his sword and pistols on a table beside him, and resolved to keep good watch. about midnight, he heard steps on the staircase. no answer was returned to the challenge he immediately made; on the contrary, some one tried to force the trap. the officer observing a hole two or three inches square in it, passed the muzzle of one of his pistols through it, and fired. there was the sound of a body rolling down the staircase. but the attempt was soon after renewed; this time, however, differently. a hand appeared through the hole, and grasped the bolt. the bolt was even half withdrawn, when the pole, at a single blow, severed the hand from the body it belonged to. there followed groans and horrid imprecations; but nothing more took place that night. in the morning, a squadron of french cavalry arrived, and the ladies were placed in safety. not a single person was found in the inn. the officer continued his way to his father's house. one thing, however, had much struck him; the hand he had cut off was very small, delicate, and white; moreover, one of the fingers wore a ring of considerable value. this ring he took possession of, with a strange, uncomfortable feeling of coming evil, which increased as he went on. arrived at his father's house, he was told that his parent was ill, and in bed. he was, however, soon introduced to his presence. the old man was evidently suffering great pain; but he conversed with his son for some time, with tolerable composure. suddenly, however, by a convulsive movement, he threw off the bedclothes, and the officer, to his horror, saw that his father's right hand was wanting. 'it was then you! and this is your ring!' he cried, in an agony of conflicting passions, as, throwing the jewel on the floor, he rushed out of the house, mounted his horse, and rode off at full speed. a few weeks afterward, he sought and found his death amid the bloody snows of prussian eylau." "poor fellow!" said justus. "and macdonald?" "of macdonald's fate," said the pastor, gravely, "i know nothing. when i returned to göttingen, after visiting anna and her mother, he was gone. he had left his rooms the previous day with a stranger, an elderly man, dressed in gray. and he never returned. i made every inquiry all round göttingen, but could get no tidings of him, no one on any road had seen him or his companion pass. in short, i never saw or heard any thing more of him. his books and things were sold some two or three months after; i bought every thing i thought he cared for, in order some day to restore them to him. but he has never appeared to claim them, and so i have them still. his sword hangs between laurenberg's and mine, in my study. but come, the dew is falling, let us go in. justus, my boy, be kind enough to carry in my chair for me. trinchen will come out for the rest of the things." so ended the worthy pastor's story. the countess--a tale of the french revolution. by percy b. st. john. the citizen aristides godard was the very beau ideal of a republican patriot during the early times of the terror. during the day, the citizen godard sold cloth to his brother and sister democrats, and talked politics by the yard all the while. he was of the old school--hated an aristocrat and a poet with an intensity which degenerated into the comic, and never once missed a feast of reason, or any other solemnity of those days. enter his shop to purchase a few yards of cloth, and he would eagerly ask you for the latest news, discuss the debate of the previous night in the convention, and invite you to his club. his club! for it was here the citoyen godard was great. the worthy clothier could scarcely read, but he could talk, and better still, he could perorate with remarkable emphasis and power, knew by heart all the peculiar phrases of the day, and even descended to the slang of political life. the citoyen godard was a widower, with an only son, who having inherited a small fortune from his mother, had abandoned trade, and given up his whole time to the affairs of the nation. paul godard was a young man, of handsome form and mien, of much talent, full of sincerity and enthusiasm; and with these characteristics was, though not more than four-and-twenty, president and captain of his section, where he was distinguished for his eloquence, energy, and civism. sincerely attached to the new ideas of the hour, he, however, had none of the violence of a party man; and though some very exaggerated patriots considered him lukewarm, the majority were of a very different opinion. it was eight o'clock on one gloomy evening in winter, when the citizen godard entered the old convent, where sat the jacobin club. the hall was, as usual, very full. the locality contained nearly fourteen hundred men, seated upon benches placed across the room, in all the strange and varied costumes of the time. red caps covered many heads, while tricolored vests and pantaloons were common. the chief characteristic was poverty of garb, some of the richest present wearing wooden shoes, and using a bit of cord for strings and buttons. the worst dressed were, of course, the men who assumed the character of jacobins as a disguise. one of these was speaking when godard entered, and though there was serious business before the club, was wasting its time in denouncing some fabulous aristocratic conspiracy. godard, who was late, had to take his place in the corner, where the faint glimmer of the taller candles scarcely reached him. still, from the profound silence which as usual prevailed, he could hear every word uttered by the orator. the jacobins, except when there was a plot to stifle an unpopular speaker, listened attentively to all. the eloquent rhetorician, and the unlettered stammerer, were equally attended to--the matter, not the manner, being cared for. the orator who occupied the tribune was young. his face was covered with a mass of beard, while his uncombed hair, coarse garments, dirty hands, and a club of vast dimensions, showed him to be a politician by profession. his language was choice and eloquent, though he strove to use the lowest slang of the day. "word of a patriot!" said the citoyen godard, after eying the speaker suspiciously for some time. "i know that voice. he is fitter for the _piscine des carmagnoles_[ ] than for the tribune." "who is the particular?" asked a friend of the clothier, who stood by. "it is the citizen gracchus bastide," said a third, in a soft and shrill tone, preventing the reply of godard; and then the speaker bent low, and added--"citoyen godard, you are a father and a good man. i am helene de clery; the orator is my cousin. do not betray him!" the citoyen godard looked wildly at the speaker, and then drew the young woman aside. her garb was that of a man. a red cap confined her luxuriant hair; a full coat, loose tricolored pantaloons, and a sword and brace of pistols completed her attire. "_citoyenne!_" said the revolutionary clothier, drily, "thou art an aristocrat. i should denounce thee!" "but thou wilt not?" replied the young woman, with a winning smile, "nor my cousin, though playing so foolish, so unworthy a part." "oh!" said godard, "thou ownest this, then?" "papa godard," answered the young countess, in a low, imploring tone, "my father was once thy best customer, and thou hadst never reason to complain of him. he was a good man. for his and for my sake, spare my cousin, led away by bad counsels and by fatal ambition." "i will spare him," said the clothier, moving away, "but let him take the warning i shall give him." the clothier had noticed that the citoyen gracchus bastide was about to finish, and he hurried to ask a hearing, which was instantly granted him. the citoyen godard was not an orator, and, as is the case under such circumstances, his head, arms, and feet were more active than his tongue. ascending the tribune, he struck the desk three times with his feet, while his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head, at the same time that his lips moved inarticulately. at length, however, he spoke: "the truths spoken by the citizen who preceded me are truths of which every man is fully aware, and i am not here in consequence to reiterate them. the friends of the defunct louis capet are conspiring in the midst of us every day. but the citoyen _preopinant_ forgot to say, that they come to our very forum--that they dress like true patriots--that they take names which belong rightly only to the faithful--and denounce often true men to cheat us. many a gracchus hides a marquis--many a _bonnet rouge_ a powdered crown! i move the order of the day." the citizen gracchus bastide had no sooner caught sight of godard advancing toward the tribune, than he hurried toward the door, and ere the conclusion of the other's brief oration, had vanished. godard's object gained, he descended from the forum, and gave way to a speaker big with one of those propositions which were orders to the legislature, and which swayed the fate of millions at that eventful period. godard reassumed his former post, which he patiently kept until a late hour, when the sitting being terminated, after speeches from danton, robespierre, and camille desmoulins, he sallied forth into the open air. it was eleven o'clock, and the streets of paris were dark and gloomy. the order for none to be out after ten, without a _carte de civisme_, was in force, and few were inclined to disobey it. at that time, paris went to bed almost at night-fall, with the exception of those who did the government business of the hour, and they never rested. patriots, bands of armed men guarding prisoners, volunteers returning from festivals, the chiefs of different parties sitting in committees, the orators writing their speeches for next day, the sections organizing public demonstrations--such was the picture of this great town by night. dawn was the most unwelcome of times, for then the statesman had to renew his struggle for existence, the accused had to defend himself, the suspected began again to watch the hours as they flew, and the terrific machine that depopulated the earth was at work--horrid relic of ignorance and barbarism, that killed instead of converting. father godard had scarcely left the jacobins, when from a narrow passage darted a slight figure, which he instantly recognized as that of helene de clery. the young girl caught hold of his arm and began speaking with extreme volubility, she said that her father had been dead six months, leaving her and a hot-headed cousin alone in the world. this young man embraced with fiery zeal the cause of the exiled royal family, and had already twice narrowly escaped--once on the occasion of the king's execution, and on that of the queen's. every royalist conspiracy, every movement for insurrection against the committee of public safety, found him mixed up in it. for some time they had been able to exist on what remained of her father's money, but now their resources were utterly exhausted. it was only by the charity of royalist friends that she starved not, and to obtain even this she had to disguise herself, and act with her party. but helene said, that she had no political instinct. she loved her country, but she could not join with one party against another. "give me some work to do--show me how to earn a livelihood, with my fingers, father godard, and i will bless you." "no person shall ask me how to be a good citizen in vain. citoyenne helene, thou art under my protection. my wife is dead: wilt thou be too proud to take charge of my household?" "surely too grateful." "and thy cousin?" "heaven have mercy on him. he will hear no reason. i have begged and implored him to leave the dark road of conspiracy, and to seek to serve his country, but in vain. nothing will move him." "let the wild colt have his course," replied godard, adding rather coarsely, "he will end by sneezing in samson's sack." helene shuddered, but made no reply, clinging firmly to the old _sans-culotte's_ arm as he led her through the deserted streets. it was midnight when the residence of the clothier was reached. it was in a narrow street running out of the rue st. honore. there was no coach-door, and godard opened with a huge key that hung suspended at his girdle. scarcely had the old man inserted the key in the key-hole when a figure darted forth from a guard-house close at hand. "i thought i should find the old jacobin," said a merry, hearty voice; "he never misses his club. i am on duty to-night in the neighborhood, and, says i, let us see the father, and get a crust out of him." "paul, my boy, thou art a good son, and i am glad to see thee. come in: i want to talk seriously to thee." the clothier entered, helene followed him closely, and paul closed the door. a lantern burned in the passage, by which some candles were soon lit in the cosy back sitting-room of the old _sans-culotte_. paul looked curiously at the stranger, and was about to let a very impertinent grin cross his face, when his father taking off his red cap, spoke with some emotion, laying aside, under the impression of deep feeling, all his slang. "my son, you have heard me speak often of my benefactor and friend, the count de clery, who for some trifling service, rendered when a lad, gave me the means of starting in life. this is his daughter and only child. my boy, we know how terrible are the days. the daughter of the royalist count de clery is fated to die if discovered. we must save her." paul, who was tall, handsome, and intellectual in countenance, bowed low to the agitated girl. he said little, but what he said was warm and to the point. helene thanked both with tears in her eyes, begging them also to look to her cousin. paul turned to his father for an explanation, which papa godard gave. "let him beware," said paul, drily. "he is a spy, and merits death. ah! ah! what noise is that?" "captain," cried half a dozen voices in the street, "thou art wanted. we have caught a suspicious character." "'tis perhaps albert, who has followed me," cried helene. "he thinks i would betray him." paul rushed to the door. half a dozen national guards were holding a man. it was citizen gracchus bastide. paul learned that no sooner had he entered the house, than this man crept up to the door, listened attentively, and stamped his feet as if in a passion. looking on this as suspicious, the patriots had rushed out and seized him. "captain," cried the citizen gracchus, "what is the meaning of this? i am a jacobin, and a known patriot." "hum!" said paul, "let me look at thee. ah! pardon, citizen, i recognize thee now; but why didst thou not knock? we wait supper for thee. come in. bravo, my lads, be always on the alert. i will join you soon." and pushing the other into the passage, he led him without another word into the parlor. for an instant all remained silent. paul then spoke: "thou art a spy and a traitor, and as such worthy of death. not content with foreign armies and french traitors on the frontiers, we must have them here in paris. albert de clery, thou hast thy choice--the guillotine, or a voluntary enrollment in the army. go forth, without regard to party, and fight the enemies of thy country, and in one year thou shalt find a cousin, a friend, and, i suppose, a wife." godard, helene, paul, all spoke in turns. they joined in regretting the misery of frenchmen fighting against frenchmen. they pointed out that, no matter what was its form of government, france was still france. albert resisted for some time, but at last the strong man yielded. the four men then supped in common, and the young royalist, as well as the republican, found that men may differ in politics, and yet not be obliged to cut each other's throats. they found ample subjects for agreement in other things. before morning, albert, led away by the eloquence of young paul, voluntarily pledged himself not to fight against france. next day he took service, and, after a tearful adieu, departed. he went with a ragged band of raw recruits to fight the battles of his country, a little bewildered at his new position; but not unconvinced that he was acting more wisely than in fomenting the evil passions of the hour. immediately after the leave-taking, helene commenced her new existence in plain and ordinary garb, taking her post as the old clothier's housekeeper. an old woman was cook and housemaid, and with her aid helene got on comfortably. the warm-hearted _sans-culotte_ found, in additional comfort, and in her society, ample compensation for his hospitality. helene, by gentle violence, brought him to the use of clean linen, which, like marat, and other semi-insane individuals, godard had originally affected to reject, as a sign of inferior civism. he became, too, more humanely disposed in general to his enemies, and, ere three months, ardently longed for the end of the awful struggle which was desolating the land. aristides godard felt the humanizing influence of woman, the best attribute of civilization--an influence which, when men can not feel it, they at once stamp their own character. paul became an assiduous visitor at his father's house. he brought the fair countess news from the army, flowers, books, and sometimes letters from cousin albert. they soon found much mutual pleasure in each other's society, but paul never attempted to offer serious court to the affianced wife of the young count de clery. paul was of a remarkably honorable character. of an ardent and passionate temperament, he had imbibed from his mother a set of principles which were his guide through life. he saw this young girl, taken away from the class in which she was brought up, deprived of the pleasures of her age and rank, and compelled to earn her living, and he did his utmost to make her time pass pleasantly. helene was but eighteen, and the heart at this age, knows how to bound away from sorrow, as from a precipice, when a better prospect offers; and helene, deeply grateful at the attention paid her, both by father and son, soon became reconciled to her new mode of existence, and then quite happy. paul devoted every spare hour to her, and as he had read, thought, and studied, the once spoiled child of fortune found much advantage in his society. at the end of three months, albert ceased to write, and his friend became anxious. inquiries were made, which proved that he was alive and well, and then they ceased to hear of him. a year passed, two years, and calmer days came round, but no tidings reached of the absent one. helene was deeply anxious--her cheeks grew pale--she became thin. paul did all he could to rouse her. he took her out, he showed her all the amusements and gayeties of paris, but nothing seemed to have any effect. the poor fellow was in despair, as he was deeply attached to the orphan girl. once a week, at least, he pestered the war office with inquiries about bastide, the name under which the cousin had enrolled himself. father godard, when the days of the club were over, doubly grateful for the good deed he had done, and which had its full reward, retired from business, took a simple lodging in a more lively quarter, and found in helene a dutiful and attached daughter. for a wonder, there was a garden attached to the house, and here the retired tradesman, on a summer's evening, would smoke his pipe and take his coffee, while paul and helene strolled about the alleys or chatted by his side. one evening in june--one of those lovely evenings which makes paris half italian in look, when the boulevards are crowded with walkers, when thousands crowd open-air concerts, and all is warm, and balmy, and fragrant, despite a little dust--the trio were collected. father godard was smoking his second pipe, helene was sipping some sugar and water, and paul, seated close by her side, was thinking. the young man's face was pale, while his eyes were fixed on helene with a half-melancholy, half-passionate expression. there was a world of meaning in that look, and paul perhaps felt that he was yielding to an unjustifiable emotion, for he started. "a flower for your thoughts, paul," said helene, quietly. "my thoughts," replied paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth a flower." helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed. "helene," said paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. i was wrong, i was very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as i should have expected. i love you, helene! i feel it, and i must away and see you no more. i have acted unwisely--i have acted improperly." "and why should you not love me, paul?" replied helene, with a great effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard. "are you not albert's affianced wife?" continued paul, gravely. "at last i can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me never say before. i and albert were never affianced, never could be, for i could not love him." "helene! helene!" cried paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years ago? i said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced wife when he came back, and i must keep my word." "true, true--but paul, he could not have heard you. but you are right--you are right." "let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this unfortunate accident." "paul, you have been to me more than a brother and i will be just toward you. influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but shame, because--" "because what?" asked the young man, eagerly. "because, under the circumstances in which i was placed, i had let my heart lean where it could find no support." no man could hear such a confession unmoved, and paul was half wild with delight; but he soon checked himself, and, gravely rising, took helene's hand respectfully. "but i have been wrong to ask you this until albert gives me back my word." at this instant a heavy step was heard, the clanking of spurs and arms on the graveled way, and now a tall cavalry officer of rank, preceded by a woman-servant running, was seen coming toward them. both trembled--old godard was asleep--and stood up, for both recognized albert de clery. "ah! ah! my friend," cried the soldier, gayly; "i find you at last, helene, my dear cousin. let me embrace you! eh! how is it? still mademoiselle, or are you madam by this time? paul, my good friend, give me your hand again. but come into the house. i have brought my wife to show you--an italian, a beauty, and an heiress. how do you do, papa godard?" "hum--ah! i was asleep. ah! citizen gracchus--monsieur albert, i mean--glad to see you." "guide me to the house," continued the soldier, "my wife is impatient to see you. give me your arm, papa godard; follow, cousin, and let us talk of old times." one look, one pressure of the hand, and arm-in-arm they followed, happy in reality for the first time for two years. madame de clery was indeed a fascinating and beautiful italian, and upon her albert laid the blame of his not writing. he had distinguished himself greatly, and, remarked by his officers, had risen with surprising rapidity to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. on the rhine, he was one day located in the house of a german baron, with two handsome daughters. an italian girl, an heiress, a relation by marriage, was there, and an attachment sprung up between the young people. the difficulties in the way of marriage were many; but it is an old story, how love delights in vanquishing them. antonia contrived to enter france under a safe conduct, and then was married. albert had obtained a month's leave of absence. he thought at once of those who had paved the way for his success. godard, who had seen something of what had been going on, frankly explained why helene was still unmarried. albert turned round, and shook paul by the hand. "my dear friend, i scarcely heard your sentence. but you are a noble fellow. i shall not leave paris until you are my cousin." this sentence completed the general delight. the meeting became doubly interesting to all, and ere ten days the wedding took place, albert carrying every thing with a high hand, as became a gallant soldier. he did more. he introduced paul to influential members of the government, and obtained for him an excellent position, one that gave him an occupation, and the prospect of serving his country. old godard was delighted, but far more so when some years after, in a garden near paris, he scrambled about with the children of madame paul and madame de clery, who resided with the first, her husband being generally on service. paul and his wife were very happy. they had seen adversity, and been chastened by it. helene doubly loved her husband, from his nobility of character in respecting her supposed affianced state; and never once did the descendant of the "ancient and noble" house of clery regret that in finding that great and sterling treasure, a good husband, she had lost the vain and empty satisfaction of being called madame "the countess." footnote: [ ] another slang word for the guillotine. [from bentley's miscellany.] a midnight drive.--a tale of terror. i was sitting one night in the general coach-office in the town of ----, reflecting upon the mutability of human affairs, and taking a retrospective glance at those times when i held a very different position in the world, when one of the porters of the establishment entered the office, and informed the clerk that the coach, which had long been expected, was in sight, and would be at the inn in a few minutes. i believe it was the old highflyer, but at this distance of time i can not speak with sufficient certainty. the strange story i am about to relate, occurred when stage-coaches were the usual mode of conveyance, and long before any more expeditious system of traveling had engaged the attention of mankind. i continued to sit by the fire till the coach arrived, and then walked into the street to count the number of the passengers, and observe their appearance. i was particularly struck with the appearance of one gentleman, who had ridden as an inside passenger. he wore a large black cloak, deeply trimmed with crape; his head was covered with a black traveling-cap, surmounted with two or three crape rosettes, and from which depended a long black tassel. the cap was drawn so far over his eyes that he had some difficulty to see his way. a black scarf was wrapped round the lower part of his face, so that his countenance was completely concealed from my view. he appeared anxious to avoid observation, and hurried into the inn as fast as he could. i returned to the office and mentioned to the clerk the strange appearance of the gentlemen in question, but he was too busy to pay any attention to what i had said. presently afterward a porter brought a small carpet-bag into the office, and placed it upon the table. "whose bag is that, timms?" inquired the clerk. "i don't wish to be personal," replied the man, "but i think it belongs to ----," and the fellow pointed to the floor. "you don't mean _him_, surely?" said the clerk. "yes, i do though; at any rate, if he is not the gentleman i take him for, he must be a second cousin of his, for he is the most unaccountable individual that ever i clapped my eyes on. there is not much good in him, i'll be bound." i listened with breathless anxiety to these words. when the man had finished, i said to him, "how was the gentleman dressed?" "in black." "had he a cloak on?" "yes." "a traveling-cap drawn over his eyes?" "yes." "it's the man i saw descend from the coach," i said to the clerk. "where is he?" inquired that gentleman. "in the inn," replied the porter. "is he going to stay all night?" i inquired. "i don't know." "it's very odd," observed the clerk, and he put his pen behind his ear, and placed himself in front of the fire; "very odd," he repeated. "it don't look well," said the porter; "not at all." some further conversation ensued upon the subject, but as it did not tend to throw any light upon the personage in question, it is unnecessary for me to relate it. awhile afterward, the clerk went into the hotel to learn, if possible, something more relative to this singular visitor. he was not absent more than a few minutes, and when he returned his countenance, i fancied, was more sedate than usual. i asked him if he had gathered any further information. "there is nobody knows any thing concerning him," he replied; "for when the servants enter the room, he always turns his back toward them. he has not spoken to a single individual since he arrived. there is a man who came by the same coach, who attends upon him, but he does not look like a servant." "there is something extraordinary in his history, or i am much deceived." "i am quite of your opinion," observed the clerk. while we were conversing, some persons entered the office to take places by the mail, which was to leave early on the following morning. i hereupon departed, and entered the inn with the view of satisfying my curiosity, if possible, which was now raised to the utmost pitch. the servants, i remarked, moved about more silently than usual, and sometimes i saw two or three of them conversing together, _sotto voce_, as though they did not wish their conversation to be overheard by those around them. i knew the room that the gentleman occupied, and stealthily and unobserved stole up to it, hoping to hear or see something that might throw some light upon his character. i was not, however, gratified in either respect. i hastened back to the office and resumed my seat by the fire. the clerk and i were still conversing upon the subject, when one of the girls came in, and informed me that i was to get a horse and gig ready immediately, to drive a gentleman a distance of fifteen or twenty miles. "to-night!" i said in surprise. "immediately!" "why, it's already ten o'clock!" "it's the master's orders; i can not alter them," tartly replied the girl. this unwelcome intelligence caused me to commit a great deal of sin, for i made use of a number of imprecations and expressions which were quite superfluous and perfectly unavailing. it was not long before i was ready to commence the journey. i chose the fastest and strongest animal in the establishment, and one that had never failed me in an emergency. i lit the lamps, for the night was intensely dark, and i felt convinced that we should require them. the proprietor of the hotel gave me a paper, but told me not to read it till we had proceeded a few miles on the road, and informed me at the same time in what direction to drive. the paper, he added, would give me further instructions. i was seated in the vehicle, busily engaged in fastening the leathern apron on the side on which i sat, in order to protect my limbs from the cold, when somebody seated himself beside me. i heard the landlord cry, "drive on;" and, without looking round, i lashed the mare into a very fast trot. even now, while i write, i feel in some degree the trepidation which stole over me when i discovered who my companion was. i had not gone far before i was made acquainted with this astounding fact. it was as though an electric shock had suddenly and unexpectedly been imparted to my frame, or as, in a moment of perfect happiness, i had been hastily plunged into the greatest danger and distress. a benumbing chilliness ran through me, and my mouth all at once became dry and parched. whither was i to drive? i knew not. who and what was my companion? i was equally ignorant. it was the man dressed so fantastically whom i had seen alight from the coach; whose appearance and inexplicable conduct had alarmed a whole establishment, whose character was a matter of speculation to every body with whom he had come in contact. this was the substance of my knowledge. for aught i knew, he might be--. but no matter. the question that most concerned me was, how was i to extricate myself from this dilemma? which was the best course to adopt? to turn back, and declare i would not travel in such a night, with so strange a person, or to proceed on my journey? i greatly feared the consequences of the former step would be fatal to my own interests. besides, i should be exposed to the sneers and laughter of all who knew me. no: i had started, and i would proceed, whatever might be the issue of the adventure. in a few minutes we had emerged from the town. my courage was now put to the severest test. the cheerful aspect of the streets, and the light thrown from the lamps and a few shop-windows, had hitherto buoyed me up, but my energy and firmness, i felt, were beginning to desert me. the road on which we had entered was not a great thoroughfare at any time, but at that late hour of the night i did not expect to meet either horseman or pedestrian to enliven the long and solitary journey. i cast my eyes before me, but could not discern a single light burning in the distance. the night was thick and unwholesome, and not a star was to be seen in the heavens. there was another matter which caused me great uneasiness. i was quite unarmed, and unprepared for any attack, should my companion be disposed to take advantage of that circumstance. these things flashed across my mind, and made a more forcible impression than they might otherwise have done, from the fact of a murder having been committed in the district only a few weeks before, under the most aggravated circumstances. an hypothesis suggested itself. was this man the perpetrator of that deed--the wretch who was endeavoring to escape from the officers of justice, and who was stigmatized with the foulest, the blackest crime that man could be guilty of? appearances were against him. why should he invest himself with such a mystery? why conceal his face in so unaccountable a manner? what but a man conscious of great guilt, of the darkest crimes, would so furtively enter an inn, and afterward steal away under the darkness of the night, when no mortal eye could behold him? if he was sensible of innocence, he might have deferred his journey till the morning, and faced, with the fortitude of a man, the broad light of day, and the scrutiny of his fellow-men. i say, appearances were against him, and i felt more and more convinced, that whatever his character was--whatever his deeds might have been--that the present journey was instigated by fear and apprehension for his personal safety. but was i to be the instrument of his deliverance? was i to be put to all this inconvenience in order to favor the escape of an assassin? the thought distracted me. i vowed that it should not be so. my heart chafed and fretted at the task that had been put upon me. my blood boiled with indignation at the bare idea of being made the tool of so unhallowed a purpose. i was resolved. i ground my teeth with rage. i grasped the reins with a tighter hold. i determined to be rid of the man--nay, even to attempt to destroy him rather than it should be said that i had assisted in his escape. at some distance further on there was a river suitable for that purpose. when off his guard, he could in a moment be pushed into the stream; in certain places it was sufficiently deep to drown him. one circumstance perplexed me. if he escaped, he could adduce evidence against me. no matter; it would be difficult to prove that i had any intention of taking away his life. but should he be the person i conceived, he would not dare to come forward. hitherto we had ridden without exchanging a word. indeed, i had only once turned my eyes upon him since we started. the truth was, i was too busy with my own thoughts--too intent upon devising some plan to liberate myself from my unparalleled situation. i now cast my eyes furtively toward him. i shuddered as i contemplated his proximation to myself. i fancied i already felt his contaminating influence. the cap, as before, was drawn over his face; the scarf muffled closely round his chin, and only sufficient space allowed for the purpose of respiration. i was most desirous of knowing who he was; indeed, had he been "the man with the iron mask," so many years incarcerated in the french bastile, he could scarcely have excited a greater curiosity. i deemed it prudent to endeavor to draw him into conversation, thinking that he might drop some expression that would, in some measure, tend to elucidate his history. accordingly, i said, "it's a very dark, unhealthy night, sir." he made no reply. i thought he might not have heard me. "a bad night for traveling!" i shouted, in a loud tone of voice. the man remained immovable, without in the least deigning to notice my observation. he either did not wish to talk, or he was deaf. if he wished to be silent, i was contented to let him remain so. it had not occurred to me till now that i had received a paper from the landlord which would inform me whither my extraordinary companion was to be conveyed. my heart suddenly received a new impulse--it beat with hope and expectation. this document might reveal to me something more than i was led to expect; it might unravel the labyrinth in which i was entangled, and extricate me from all further difficulty. but how was i to decipher the writing? there was no other means of doing so than by stopping the vehicle and alighting, and endeavoring to read it by the aid of the lamp, which, i feared, would afford but a very imperfect light, after all. before i had recourse to this plan, i deemed it expedient to address once more my taciturn companion. "where am i to drive you to?" i inquired, in so loud a voice that the mare started off at a brisker pace, as though i had been speaking to her. i received no reply, and, without further hesitation, i drew in the reins, pulled the paper from my pocket, and alighted. i walked to the lamp, and held the paper as near to it as i could. the handwriting was not very legible, and the light afforded me so weak, that i had great difficulty to discover its meaning. the words were few and pointed. the reader will judge of my surprise when i read the following laconic sentence: "_drive the gentleman to grayburn church-yard!_" i was more alarmed than ever; my limbs shook violently, and in an instant i felt the blood fly from my cheeks. what did my employer mean by imposing such a task upon me? my fortitude in some degree returned, and i walked up to the mare and patted her on the neck. "poor thing--poor thing!" i said; "you have a long journey before you, and it may be a dangerous one." i looked at my companion, but he appeared to take no notice of my actions, and seemed as indifferent as if he were a corpse. i again resumed my seat, and in part consoled myself with the prospect of being speedily rid of him in some way or other, as the river i have already alluded to was now only two or three miles distant. my thoughts now turned to the extraordinary place to which i was to drive--grayburn church-yard! what could the man do there at that hour of the night? had he somebody to meet? something to see or obtain? it was incomprehensible--beyond the possibility of human divination. was he insane, or was he bent upon an errand perfectly rational, although for the present wrapped in the most impenetrable mystery? i am at a loss for language adequate to convey a proper notion of my feelings on that occasion. he shall never arrive, i internally ejaculated, at grayburn church-yard; he shall never pass beyond the stream, which even now i almost heard murmuring in the distance! heaven forgive me for harboring such intentions! but when i reflected that i might be assisting an assassin to fly from justice, i conceived i was acting perfectly correct in adopting any means (no matter how bad) for the obviation of so horrid a consummation. for aught i knew, his present intention might be to visit the grave of his victim, for now i remembered that the person who had so lately been murdered was interred in this very church-yard. we gradually drew nearer to the river. i heard its roaring with fear and trepidation. it smote my heart with awe when i pondered upon the deed i had in contemplation. i could discover, from its rushing sound, that it was much swollen, and this was owing to the recent heavy rains. the stream in fine weather was seldom more than a couple of feet deep, and could be crossed without danger or difficulty; there however were places where it was considerably deeper. on the occasion in question, it was more dangerous than i had ever known it. there was no bridge constructed across it at this place, and people were obliged to get through it as well as they could. nearer and nearer we approached. the night was so dark that it was quite impossible to discern any thing. i could feel the beatings of my heart against my breast, a cold, clammy sweat settled upon my brow, and my mouth became so dry that i fancied i was choking. the moment was at hand that was to put my resolution to the test. a few yards only separated us from the spot that was to terminate my journey, and, perhaps, the mortal career of my incomprehensible companion. the light of the lamps threw a dull, lurid gleam upon the surface of the water. it rushed furiously past, surging and boiling as it leaped over the rocks that here and there intersected its channel. without a moment's hesitation, i urged the mare forward, and in a minute we were in the midst of the stream. it was a case of life or death! the water came down like a torrent--its tide was irresistible. there was not a moment to be lost. my own life was at stake. with the instinctive feeling of self-preservation, i drove the animal swiftly through the dense body of water, and in a few seconds we had gained the opposite bank of the river. we were safe, but the opportunity of ridding myself of my companion was rendered, by the emergency of the case, unavailable. i know not how it was, but i suddenly became actuated by a new impulse. wretch though he was, he had intrusted his safety, his life, into my hands. there was, perhaps, still some good in the man; by enabling him to escape, i might be the instrument of his eternal salvation. he had done me no injury, and at some period of his life he might have rendered good offices to others. i pitied his situation, and determined to render him what assistance i could. i applied the whip to the mare. in a moment she seemed to be endowed with supernatural energy and swiftness. though he was a murderer--though he was henceforth to be driven from society as an outcast, he should not be deserted in his present emergency. on, on we sped; hedges, trees, houses were passed in rapid succession. nothing impeded our way. we had a task to perform--a duty to fulfill; dangers and difficulties fled before us. a human life depended upon our exertions, and every nerve required to be strained for its preservation. on, on we hurried. my enthusiasm assumed the appearance of madness. i shouted to the mare till i was hoarse, and broke the whip in several places. although we comparatively flew over the ground, i fancied we did not go fast enough. my body was in constant motion, as though it would give an impetus to our movements. my companion appeared conscious of my intentions, and, for the first time, evinced an interest in our progress. he drew out his handkerchief, and used it incessantly as an incentive to swiftness. onward we fled. we were all actuated by the same motive. this concentration of energy gave force and vitality to our actions. the night had hitherto been calm, but the rain now began to descend in torrents, and at intervals we heard distant peals of thunder. still we progressed; we were not to be baffled, not to be deterred; we would yet defy pursuit. large tracts of country were passed over with amazing rapidity. objects, that at one moment were at a great distance, in another were reached, and in the next left far behind. thus we sped forward--thus we seemed to annihilate space altogether. we were endowed with superhuman energies--hurried on by an impulse, involuntary and irresistible. my companion became violent, and appeared to think we did not travel quick enough. he rose once or twice from his seat, and attempted to take the remnant of the whip from my hand, but i resisted, and prevailed upon him to remain quiet. how long we were occupied in this mad and daring flight, i can not even conjecture. we reached, at length, our destination; but, alas! we had no sooner done so, than the invaluable animal that had conveyed us thither dropped down dead! my companion and i alighted. i walked up to where the poor animal lay, and was busy deploring her fate, when i heard a struggle at a short distance. i turned quickly round, and beheld the mysterious being with whom i had ridden so fatal a journey, in the custody of two powerful looking men. "ha, ha! i thought he would make for this here place," said one of them. "he still has a hankering after his mother's grave. when he got away before, we nabbed him here." the mystery was soon cleared up. the gentleman had escaped from a lunatic asylum, and was both deaf and dumb. the death of his mother, a few years before, had caused the mental aberration. the horrors of the night are impressed as vividly upon my memory as though they had just occurred. the expenses of the journey were all defrayed, and i was presented with a handsome gratuity. i never ceased, however, to regret the loss of the favorite mare. [from dickens's household words.] spider's silk. urged by the increased demand for the threads which the silk-worm yields, many ingenious men have endeavored to turn the cocoons of other insects to account. in search of new fibres to weave into garments, men have dived to the bottom of the sea, to watch the operations of the pinna and the common mussel. ingenious experimentalists have endeavored to adapt the threads which hold the mussel firmly to the rock, to the purposes of the loom; and the day will probably arrive when the minute thread of that diminutive insect, known as the money-spinner, will be reeled, thrown, and woven into fabrics fit for titania and her court. in the early part of last century, an enthusiastic french gentleman turned his attention to spiders' webs. he discovered that certain spiders not only erected their webs to trap unsuspecting flies, but that the females, when they had laid their eggs, forthwith wove a cocoon, of strong silken threads, about them. these cocoons are known more familiarly as spiders' bags. the common webs of spiders are too slight and fragile to be put to any use; but the french experimentalist in question, monsieur bon, was led to believe that the cocoons of the female spiders were more solidly built than the mere traps of the ferocious males. various experiments led m. bon to adopt the short-legged silk spider as the most productive kind. of this species he made a large collection. he employed a number of persons to go in search of them; and, as the prisoners were brought to him, one by one, he inclosed them in separate paper cells, in which he pricked holes to admit the air. he kept them in close confinement, and he observed that their imprisonment did not appear to affect their health. none of them, so far as he could observe, sickened for want of exercise; and, as a jailer, he appears to have been indefatigable, occupying himself catching flies, and delivering them over to the tender mercies of his prisoners. after a protracted confinement in these miniature bastiles, the grim m. bon opened the doors, and found that the majority of his prisoners had beguiled their time in forming their bags. spiders exude their threads from papillæ or nipples, placed at the hinder part of their body. the thread, when it leaves them, is a glutinous liquid, which hardens on exposure to the air. it has been found that, by squeezing a spider, and placing the finger against its papillæ, the liquid of which the thread or silk is made may be drawn out to a great length. m. reaumur, the rival experimentalist to m. bon, discovered that the papillæ are formed of an immense number of smaller papillæ, from each of which a minute and distinct thread is spun. he asserted that, with a microscope, he counted as many as seventy distinct fibres proceeding from the papillæ of one spider, and that there were many more threads too minute and numerous to compute. he jumped to a result, however, that is sufficiently astonishing, namely, that a thousand distinct fibres proceed from each papillæ; and there being five large papillæ, that every thread of spider's silk is composed of at least five thousand fibres. in the heat of that enthusiasm, with which the microscope filled speculative minds in the beginning of last century, m. leuwenhoek ventured to assert that a hundred of the threads of a full-grown spider were not equal to the diameter of one single hair of his beard. this assertion leads to the astounding arithmetical deduction, that if the spider's threads and the philosopher's hair be both round, ten thousand threads are not bigger than such a hair; and, computing the diameter of a thread spun by a young spider as compared with that of an adult spider, four millions of the fibres of a young spider's web do not equal a single hair of m. leuwenhoek's beard. the enthusiastic experimentalist must have suffered horrible martyrdom under the razor, with such an exaggerated notion of his beard as these calculations must have given him. a clever writer, in lardner's cyclopædia notices these measurements, and shows that m. leuwenhoek went far beyond the limits of reality in his calculation. m. bon's collection of spiders continued to thrive; and, in due season, he found that the greater number of them had completed their cocoons or bags. he then dislodged the bags from the paper boxes; threw them into warm water, and kept washing them until they were quite free from dirt of any kind. the next process was to make a preparation of soap, saltpetre, and gum-arabic dissolved in water. into this preparation the bags were thrown, and set to boil over a gentle fire for the space of three hours. when they were taken out and the soap had been rinsed from them, they appeared to be composed of fine, strong, ash-colored silk. before being carded on fine cards, they were set out for some days to dry thoroughly. the carding, according to m. bon, was an easy matter: and he affirmed that the threads of the silk he obtained were stronger and finer than those of the silk-worm. m. reaumur, however, who was dispatched to the scene of m. bon's investigations by the royal academy of paris, gave a different version of the matter. he found, that whereas the thread of the spider's bag will sustain only thirty-six grains, that of the silkworm will support a weight of two drachms and a half--or four times the weight sustained by the spider-thread. though m. bon was certainly an enthusiast on behalf of spiders, m. reaumur as undoubtedly had a strong predilection in favor of the bombyx; and the result of these contending prejudices was, that m. bon's investigations were overrated by a few, and utterly disregarded by the majority of his countrymen. he injured himself by rash assertions. he endeavored to make out that spiders were more prolific, and yielded a proportionably larger quantity of silk than silkworms. these assertions were disproved, but in no kindly spirit, by m. reaumur. to do away with the impression that spiders and their webs were venomous, m. bon not only asserted, with truth, that their bite was harmless, but he even went so far as to subject his favorite insect to a chemical analysis, and he succeeded in extracting from it a volatile salt which he christened montpelier drops, and recommended strongly as an efficacious medicine in lethargic states. m. bon undoubtedly produced, from the silk of his spiders, a material that readily absorbed all kinds of dyes, and was capable of being worked in any loom. with his carded spider's silk the enthusiastic experimentalist wove gloves and stockings, which he presented to one or two learned societies. to these productions several eminent men took particular exceptions. they discovered that the fineness of the separate threads of the silk detracted from its lustre, and inevitably produced a fabric less refulgent than those woven from the silkworm. m. reaumur's most conclusive fact against the adoption of spider's silk as an article of manufacture, was deduced from his observations on the combativeness of spiders. he discovered that they had not arrived at that state of civilization when communities find it most to the general advantage to live on terms of mutual amity and confidence; on the contrary, the spider-world, according to m. reaumur (we are writing of a hundred and forty years ago), was in a continual state of warfare; nay, not a few spiders were habitual cannibals. having collected about five thousand spiders (enough to scare the most courageous old lady), m. reaumur shut them up in companies varying in number from fifty to one hundred. on opening the cells, after the lapse of a few days, "what was the horror of our hero," as the graphic novelist writes, "to behold the scene which met his gaze!" where fifty spiders, happy and full of life, had a short time before existed, only about two bloated insects now remained--they had devoured their fellow spiders! this horrible custom of the spider-world accounts for the small proportion of spiders in comparison to the immense number of eggs which they produce. so formidable a difficulty could only be met by rearing each spider in a separate cage; whether this separation is practicable--that is to say, whether it can be made to repay the trouble it would require--is a matter yet to be decided. against m. bon's treatise on behalf of spider's silk, m. reaumur urged further objections. he asserted that, when compared with silkworm's silk, spider's silk was deficient both in quality and in quantity. his calculation went to show that the silk of twelve spiders did not more than equal that of one bombyx; and that no less than fifty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-six spiders must be reared to produce one pound of silk. this calculation is now held to be exaggerated; and the spirit of partisanship in which m. reaumur's report was evidently concocted, favors the supposition that he made the most of any objections he could bring to bear against m. bon. m. bon's experiments are valuable as far as they go; spider's silk may be safely set down as an untried raw material. the objections of m. reaumur, reasonable in some respects, are not at all conclusive. it is of course undeniable that the silkworm produces a larger quantity of silk than any species of spider; but, on the other hand, the spider's silk may possess certain qualities adapted to particular fabrics, which would justify its cultivation. at the great industrial show, we shall probably find some specimens of spider's silk; such contributions would be useful and suggestive. the idea of brushing down cobwebs to convert them into ball-room stockings, forces upon us the association of two most incongruous ideas; but that this transformation is not impossible, the royal society, who are the possessors of some of m. bon's spider-fabric, can satisfactorily demonstrate. [from the dublin university magazine.] the railway. the silent glen, the sunless stream, to wandering boyhood dear, and treasur'd still in many a dream, they are no longer here; a huge red mound of earth is thrown across the glen so wild and lone, the stream so cold and clear; and lightning speed, and thundering sound, pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound. nor this alone--for many a mile along that iron way, no verdant banks or hedgerows smile in summer's glory gay; thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth were rent in some strange mountain-birth, whose depth excludes the day, we're born away at headlong pace, to win from time the wearying race! the wayside inn, with homelike air, no longer tempts a guest to taste its unpretending fare, or seek its welcome rest. the prancing team--the merry horn-- the cool fresh road at early morn-- the coachman's ready jest; all, all to distant dream-land gone, while shrieking trains are hurrying on. yet greet we them with thankful hearts, and eyes that own no tear, 'tis nothing now, the space which parts the distant from the dear; the wing that to her cherish'd nest bears home the bird's exulting breast, has found its rival here. with speed like hers we too can haste, the bliss of meeting hearts to taste. for me, i gaze along the line to watch the approaching train, and deem it still, 'twixt me and mine, a rude, but welcome chain to bind us in a world, whose ties each passing hour to sever tries, but here may try in vain; to bring us near home many an art, stern fate employs to keep apart. [from bentley's miscellany.] the blind sister, or crime and its punishment. for real comfort, snugness, and often rural beauty, where are there in the wide world any dwellings that can equal the cottage homes of england's middle classes? whether they be clad with ivy and woodbine, half hidden by forest-trees, and approached by silent, shady lanes, or, glaring with stucco and green paint, stand perched upon flights of steps, by the side of dusty suburban roads--whether they be cockney-christened with fine titles, and dignified as villas, halls, or lodges, or rejoice in such sweet names as oak cottage or linden grove--still within their humble walls, before all other places, are to be found content, and peace, and pure domestic love. upon the slope of a gentle hill, about a mile from a large town, where i was attending to the practice of an absent friend, there stood a neat and pretty residence, with slated roof and trellised porch. a light verandah shaded the narrow french windows, opening from the favorite drawing-room upon a trim, smooth lawn, studded with gay parterres, and bounded by a sweetbriar hedge; and here old mrs. reed, the widow of a clergyman, was busily employed, one lovely autumn afternoon, peering through her spectacles at the fast-fading flowers, or plucking from some favorite shrub the "sear and yellow leaf" that spoke of the summer passed away, and the dreary season hurrying on apace. her daughter, a pale and delicate-looking girl, sat with her drooping head leant against the open window-frame, watching her mother sorrowfully as she felt her own declining health, and thought how her parent's waning years might pass away, uncared for, and unsolaced by a daughter's love. within the room, a young man was reclining lazily upon a sofa; rather handsome, about the middle height, _but_ had it not been for a stubby mustache, very long hair, and his rather slovenly costume--peculiarities which he considered indispensable to his profession as an artist--there was nothing in his appearance to distinguish him from the generality of young english gentlemen of his age and station. presently there fell upon his ear the notes of a beautiful symphony, played with most exquisite taste upon the harp, and gradually blending with a woman's voice, deep, soft and tremulous, every now and then, as if with intense feeling, in one of those elaborate yet enervating melodies that have their birth in sunny italy. the performer was about twenty-five years of age, of haughty and dazzling beauty. her dark wavy hair, gathered behind into a large glossy knot, was decked on one side with a bunch of pink rose buds. a full white robe, that covered, without hiding, the outline of her bust and arms, was bound at the waist with a thick cord and tassel of black silk and gold, adding all that dress could add to the elegance of her tall and splendid figure. then, as she rose and stretched out her jeweled hand to tighten a loose string, the ineffable grace of the studied attitude in which she stood for some moments showed her to be well skilled in those fascinating arts that so often captivate the senses before the heart is touched. this lady was the daughter of mrs. reed's only sister, who in her youth had run away with an italian music master. signor arnatti, although a poor adventurer, was not quite devoid of honor, for, when first married, he really loved his english wife, and proudly introduced her to his friends at florence, where her rank and fortune were made much of, and she was caressed and fêted until half wild with pleasure and excitement. but this was not to last. her husband, a man of violent and ungovernable temper, was heard to utter certain obnoxious political opinions; and it being discovered that he was connected with a dangerous conspiracy against the existing government, a speedy flight alone saved him from the scaffold or perpetual imprisonment. they sought a temporary home in paris, where, after dissipating much of their little fortune at the gambling-table, he met with a sudden and violent death in a night-brawl, just in time to save his wife and child from poverty. the young widow, who of late had thought more of her infant than its father, was not long inconsolable. discarded by her own relations, who, with bitter and cruel taunts, had refused all communication with her, and now too proud to return to them again, she settled with her little girl in italy, where a small income enabled her to lead a life of unrestrained gayety, that soon became almost necessary to her existence. here young catherine was reared and educated, flattered and spoiled by all about her; and encouraged by her vain mother to expect nothing less than an alliance with high rank and wealth, she refused many advantageous offers of marriage, and ere long gained the character of a heartless and unprincipled coquette, especially among the english visitors, who constituted a great part of the society in which she moved. her mother corresponded occasionally with mrs. reed; and the sisters still cherished an affection for each other, which increased as they advanced in years; but their ideas, their views, even their religion was different, and the letters they exchanged once, or at most twice a year, afforded but little satisfaction to either. when the cholera visited italy, madame arnatti was seized with a presentiment that fate had already numbered her among its victims, and, under the influence of this feeling, wrote a long and touching letter to her sister, freely confessing the sin and folly of her conduct in regard to her daughter's management, of whom she gave a long description, softened, it is true, by a mother's hand, yet containing many painful truths, that must have caused the doting parent infinite sorrow to utter. she concluded by repeating her conviction that her end was near, and consigning catherine to her sister's care, with an entreaty that she would take her from the immoral and polluted atmosphere in which they lived, and try the effect of her piety, and kindness, and steady english habits on the young woman's violent and ungovernable passions. months passed away; and then mrs. reed received a letter from catherine herself, telling of her mother's death; also one from a lady, in whose company she was traveling homeward, in accordance with her mother's dying wish. another long interval elapsed, and the good lady was preparing to visit london for the purpose of consulting an eminent physician on her daughter's state of health when news reached the cottage of miss arnatti's arrival in that city, which had been retarded thus long by tedious quarantine laws, illness, and other causes. her guardian was apparently glad enough to get rid of the charge she had undertaken, and within a week catherine removed to her aunt's lodgings, where she was received and treated with every affectionate attention; but a constant yearning after gayety and amusements, indelicate and unfeeling as it appeared to her relatives, so soon after the loss of an only parent; the freedom and boldness of her manners when in company or in public, and her overbearing conduct to those about her, augured but little in favor of such an addition to their circle. however, the good aunt hoped for better things from the removal to her quiet country-home. their stay in london was even shorter than they had intended, and, for some time after their return to the cottage, miss arnatti endeavored to adapt herself to the habits that must have been so strange and new to her; she even sought, and made herself agreeable in the very orderly but cheerful society where her aunt and cousin introduced her, although annie reed's increasing weakness prevented them from receiving much company at their own house. edwin reed, catherine's other cousin, was absent on a tour in wales, and had only returned a few days previous to the afternoon on which we have described him as listening, enraptured, to the lady's native music. seating herself at the piano, she followed this by a brilliant waltz, the merry, sparkling notes of which made the eye brighten and the brain whirl, from very sympathy; and then returning to her favorite instrument, she sang, to a low, plaintive accompaniment, a simple english ballad, telling of man's heartlessness, and woman's frailty and despair. the last verse ran: so faith and hope her soul forsaking, each day to heavier sorrow waking this cruel love her heart was breaking yet, ere her breath was hushed in death, she breathed a prayer for her betrayer-- angels to heaven her poor soul taking. scarcely had she finished, when, as if in thorough contempt of the maiden's weakness, she drew her hand violently across the strings with a discordant crash, that startled poor little annie painfully, and pushing the harp from her with an impatient gesture, abruptly quitted the room. the old lady had gone in to enjoy a gossip with her next-door neighbor, and so the brother and sister were alone. the signs of tears were on the latter's cheek as edwin approached and sat down by her side; attributing this to her extreme sensibility wrought upon by what they had just heard, he spoke some kind and cheering words, and then began to talk enthusiastically of their cousin's beauty and accomplishments. she listened to him quietly for some time, and then, "dear brother," she said, timidly, "you must forgive me for what i am about to say, when it is to warn and caution you against those very charms that have already made such an impression on you. i am not one, edwin, as you know, to speak ill, even of my enemies, if such there be; and to any other but yourself would hide her faults, and try to think of some pleasing trait on which to dwell, when her name was mentioned. nay, do not interrupt me, for rest assured, i am only prompted by a sister's love. i have seen much of catherine, and heard more; i fear her dreadful temper--her different faith; although, indeed, she seems to neglect all religious duties, even those of her own church. then i think of her rudeness and inattention to our dear mother, who is so kind and gentle to her. had you been in london when we first met, you would not wonder at our being shocked and pained at all we witnessed there." "but, annie, dear," said her brother, "why should you talk thus earnestly to me? surely i may admire and praise a handsome woman, without falling hopelessly in love." "you may, or you may not," continued annie, warmly. "but this i know and feel, that, unless she were to change in every manner, thought, and action, she is the last person in the world that i would see possess a hold upon my brother's heart. why, do you know, she makes a boast of the many lovers she has encouraged and discarded; and even shows, with ill-timed jests, letters from her admirers, containing protestations of affection, and sentiments that any woman of common feeling would at least consider sacred." "and have you nothing, then, to say in her favor?" said young reed, quietly. "can you make no allowance for the manner in which she has been brought up? or, may she never change from what you represent her?" "she may, perhaps; but let me beg of you, edwin, to pause, and think, and not be infatuated and led away, against your better judgment, as so many have already been." "why, my dear sister," he replied, "if we were on the point of running off together, you could not be more earnest in the matter; but i have really never entertained such thoughts as you suggest, and if i did, should consider myself quite at liberty to act as i pleased, whether i were guided by your counsel or not." "well, edwin, be not angry with me; perhaps i have spoken too strongly on the subject. you know how much i have your happiness at heart, and this it is that makes me say so much. i often think i have not long to live, but while i am here would have you promise me--" a chilly breeze swept over the lawn, and the invalid was seized with a violent fit of coughing; her brother shut the casement, and wrapped the shawl closer round her slight figure. mrs. reed entered the room at the same instant, and their conversation ended. catherine arnatti was in her own chamber, the open window of which was within a few yards of where her cousins had been talking. attracted thither by the sound, she listened intently, and leaning out, apparently employed in training the branches of a creeping plant, she had heard every word they uttered. the winter passed away pleasantly enough, for two at least of the party at the cottage. catherine and edwin were of necessity much thrown together; she sat to him as a model, accompanied him in his walks, and flattered him by innumerable little attentions, that were unnoticed by the others; but still her conduct to his mother and sister, although seemingly more kind of late, was insincere, and marked by a want of sympathy and affection, that often grieved him deeply. her temper she managed to control, but sometimes not without efforts on her part that were more painful to witness than her previous outbreaks of passion. six months had elapsed since miss arnatti had overheard, with feelings of hatred toward one, and thorough contempt of both speakers, the dialogue in which her faults had been so freely exposed. yet she fully expected that young reed would soon be at her feet, a humble follower, as other men had been; but although polite, attentive, and ever seeking her society, he still forbore to speak of love, and then, piqued and angry at his conduct, she used every means to gain his affection, without at first any real motive for so doing; soon, however, this wayward lady began to fancy that the passion she would only feign was really felt--and being so unexpectedly thwarted gave strength to this idea--and in proportion also grew her hatred toward miss reed, to whose influence she attributed her own failure. before long she resolved that edwin _should_ be her husband, by which means her revenge on annie would be gratified, and a tolerable position in the world obtained for herself, for she had ascertained that the young man's fortune, although at present moderate, was yet sufficient to commence with, and that his prospects and expectations were nearly all that could be desired. neither was edwin altogether proof against her matchless beauty. at times he felt an almost irresistible impulse to kneel before her, and avow himself a slave forever, and as often would some hasty word or uncongenial sentiment turn his thoughts into another channel; and then they carried him away to an old country seat in wales, where he had spent the summer of last year on a visit to some friends of his family. a young lady, of good birth and education, resided there as governess to some half-dozen wild and turbulent children. her kind and unobtrusive manners and gentle voice first attracted his attention toward her; and although perhaps not handsome, her pale sweet face and dark blue eye made an impression that deepened each day as he discovered fresh beauties in her intellectual and superior mind. after an acquaintance of some months he made an offer of his hand, and her conduct on this occasion only confirmed the ardent affection he entertained for her. candidly admitting that she could joyfully unite her lot with his, she told her previous history, and begged the young man to test his feelings well before allying himself to a poor and portionless girl, and for this purpose prayed that twelve months might elapse before the subject of their marriage were renewed. she would not doubt him then; still he might see others, who would seem more worthy of his regard: but if, in that time, his sentiments were unchanged, all that she had to give was his forever. in vain he tried to alter this resolution; her arguments were stronger than his own, and so at last, with renewed vows of fidelity, he reluctantly bade her farewell. for various reasons he had kept this attachment a secret from his family, not altogether sure of the light in which they might view it; and the position of the young governess would have been rendered doubly painful, had those under whose roof she dwelt been made acquainted with the circumstances. although fully aware in cooler moments that, even had he known no other, his cousin catherine was a person with whom, as a companion for life, he could never hope for real happiness, still he knew the danger of his situation, and resolved not without a struggle, to tear himself away from the sphere of her attractions; and so, one evening, edwin announced his intention of setting off next day on a walking excursion through scotland, proposing to visit wales on his return. different were the feelings with which each of the ladies received this intelligence. catherine, who had but the day before refused a pressing invitation to join a gay party, assembled at the london mansion of one of her old acquaintances, turned away and bit her lip with rage and chagrin, as miss reed repeated to her mother, who had grown deaf of late, over and over again to make her understand, that edwin was about to leave them for a time--was going to scotland, and purposed leaving by the mail on the morrow night. she had of course no objection to offer, being but too glad to believe that nothing more than friendship existed between her son and sister's child; yet wondered much what had led to such a sudden resolution. catherine arnatti never closed her eyes that night; one instant fancying that edwin loved her, and only paused to own it for fear of a refusal, and flattering herself that he would not leave without. these thoughts gave way to bitter disappointment, hatred, and vows of revenge against him, and all connected with him, more particularly his sister, whose words she now recalled, torturing herself with the idea that annie had extorted a promise from her brother never to wed his cousin while she lived; and the sickly girl had improved much since then, and might, after all, be restored to perfect health; then, the first time for years, she wept--cried bitterly at the thought of being separated from one against whom she had but just before been breathing threats and imprecations, and yet imagined was the only man she had ever really loved. a calmer mood succeeded, and she lay down, resolving and discarding schemes to gain her wishes, that occupied her mind till daylight. the next day passed in busy preparations; edwin avoiding, as he dreaded, the result of a private interview with his cousin. toward the afternoon miss reed and her mother happened to be engaged with their medical attendant, who opportunely called that day, and often paid longer visits than were absolutely necessary; and catherine, who with difficulty had restrained her emotions, seizing on the opportunity, and scarcely waiting to knock at the door, entered edwin's apartment. he was engaged in packing a small portmanteau, and looking up, beheld her standing there, pale and agitated, more beautiful he thought than ever, and yet a combination of the angel and the fiend. some moments passed in silence; then, advancing quickly, holding out her hand, she spoke in a husky voice: "edwin, i have come to bid you a farewell--if, indeed, you go to-night, in this world we shall never meet again; neither hereafter, if half that you believe is true. it sets one thinking, does it not? a parting that we feel to be for ever, from those with whom we have been in daily intercourse, even for a few short months." "and pray, catherine," he asked, trying to talk calmly, "why should we not meet again? even if i were about to visit the antipodes i should look forward to return some day; indeed it would grieve me much to think that i should never enjoy again your company, where i have spent so many pleasant hours, and of which, believe me, i shall ever cherish a grateful recollection. be kind to poor annie and my mother when i am gone, and if you think it not too great a task, i shall be very glad sometimes to hear the news from you, and in return will write you of my wanderings in the highlands." "well, good-by, edwin," she repeated; "for all you say, my words may yet prove true." "but i do not go yet for some hours, and we shall meet again below before i leave; why not defer good-by till then?" there was another pause before she answered, with passionate energy, and grasping his arm tightly: "and is this all you have to say? now listen to me, edwin: know that i love you, and judge of its intensity by my thus owning it. i am no bashful english girl, to die a victim to concealment or suspense, but _must_ and _will_ know all at once. now, tell me, sir, have i misplaced my love? tell me, i say, and quickly; for, by the powers above, you little know how much depends upon your answer." she felt his hand, cold and trembling; his face was even paler than her own, as, overwhelmed with confusion, edwin stammered out, "really, miss arnatti--catherine--i was not aware; at least, i am so taken by surprise. give me time to think, for--" "what, then, you hesitate," she said, stamping her foot; and then, with desperate calmness, added, in a softer tone, "well, be it so; body and soul i offer, and you reject the gift." a violent struggle was racking the young man's breast, and, by the working of his countenance she saw it, and paused. but still he never raised his eyes to hers, that were so fixed on him; and she continued, "you ask for time to think, oh! heaven and hell, that i should come to this! but take it, and think well; it is four hours before you quit this roof; i will be there to say adieu. or better, perhaps, if you will write, and give at leisure the result of your deliberations." she spoke the last words with a bitter sneer; yet edwin caught at the suggestion, and replied, "yes, i will write, i promise you, within a month. forgive my apparent coldness; forgive--" "hush!" interrupted catherine; "your sister calls; why does she come here now? you will not mention what has passed, i know; remember, within a month i am to hear. think of me kindly, and believe that i might make you love me even as i love you. now, go to her, go before she finds you here." edwin pressed her hand in parting, and she bent down her forehead, but the kiss imprinted there was cold and passionless. he met his sister at the door, and led her back affectionately to the drawing-room she had just quitted. the old gardener had deposited a portmanteau and knapsack on the very edge of the footpath by the side of the high road, and had been watching for the mail, with a great horn lantern, some half-hour or so before it was expected; while the housemaid was stationed inside the gate, upon the gravel-walk, ready to convey the intelligence, as soon as the lights were visible coming up the hill; and cook stood at the front-door, gnawing her white apron. the family were assembled in that very unpleasant state of expectation, that generally precedes the departure of a friend or relative; edwin walking about the room, wrapped up for traveling, impatient and anxious to be off. at last, the gardener halloed out lustily; betty ran toward the house, as if pursued by a wild beast, and screaming, "it's a-coming;" and cook, who had been standing still all the time, rushed in, quite out of breath, begging mr. edwin to make haste, for the coach never waited a minute for nobody; so he embraced his mother and sister; and then, taking catherine's hand, raised it hastily, but respectfully to his lips. miss reed watched the movement, and saw how he avoided the piercing gaze her cousin fixed upon him, not so intently though, but that she noted the faint gleam of satisfaction that passed over annie's pale face; and cursed her for it. strange, that the idea of any other rival had never haunted her. "good-by, once more," said edwin. "i may return before you expect me; god bless you all!" and, in another five minutes, he was seated by the side of the frosty old gentleman who drove the mail, puffing away vigorously at his meerschaum. the ladies passed a dismal evening; more so, indeed, than the circumstances would seem to warrant. annie commenced a large piece of embroidery, that, judging from its size and the slow progress made, seemed likely to afford her occupation and amusement until she became an old woman; while mrs. reed called to mind all the burglaries and murders that had been committed in the neighborhood during the last twenty years; deploring their unprotected situation, discussing the propriety of having an alarm-bell hung between two of the chimney-pots, and making arrangements for the gardener to sleep on the premises for the future. miss arnatti never raised her eyes from the book over which she bent. supper, generally their most cheerful meal, remained untouched, and, earlier than usual, they retired to their respective chambers. for several hours, catherine sat at her open window, looking out into the close, hazy night. the soft wind, that every now and then had rustled through the trees, or shaken dewdrops from the thick ivy clustered beneath the overhanging eaves, had died away. as the mist settled down, and a few stars peeped out just over head, a black curtain of clouds seemed to rise up from the horizon, hiding the nearest objects in impenetrable darkness. the only sounds now heard were those that told of man's vicinity, and his restlessness: the occasional rumble of a distant vehicle; the chime of bells; sometimes the echo of a human voice, in the direction of the town; the ticking of a watch, or the hard breathing of those that slept; and these fell on the ear with strange distinctness, amid the awful stillness of nature. presently, the clouds, that hung over a valley far away, opened horizontally for an instant, while a faint flash of lightning flickered behind, showing their cumbrous outline. in a few minutes a brighter flash in another quarter was followed by the low roll of distant thunder; and so the storm worked round, nearer and nearer, until it burst in all its fury over the hill on which the cottage stood. miss reed, who from her childhood had always felt an agonizing and unconquerable fear during a thunder-storm, roused from her light slumber, lay huddled up, and trembling, with her face buried in the pillow. she did not hear the door open or the footstep that approached so stealthily, before a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and starting up she recognized her cousin. "oh, catherine!" she faltered, covering her eyes, "do stay with me awhile; i am so terrified--and think of edwin, too, exposed as he must be to it." "i _have_ been thinking of him, annie." "but you are frightened, also, a little, are you not--with all your courage, or what made you shake so then?" said the poor girl, trying to draw her cousin nearer as flash after flash glared before her eyelids, and louder claps of thunder followed each other at shorter intervals. "i frightened?" replied the dauntless woman, "i frightened; and what at? not at the thunder, surely; and as for lightning, if it strikes, they say, it brings a sudden and painless death, leaving but seldom even a mark upon the corpse. who would not prefer this, to lingering on a bed of sickness." "do not say so, catherine, pray do not; only think if--o god, have mercy on us! was not _that_ awful?" "was it not grand? magnificent--awful if you will. think of its raging and reveling uncontrolled, and striking where and what it will, without a bound or limit to its fury. and fancy such a storm pent up in the narrow compass of a human breast, and yet not bursting its frail prison. what can the torments that they tell us of, hereafter, be to this?" "and what reason can you have, dear cousin, for talking thus. kneel down by me, for once, and pray; for surely, at such a time as this, if at no other, you must feel there is a god." "no; you pray, annie reed, if it will comfort you; pray for us both. there, now, lie down again, and hide your face. i will stand by your side and listen to you." she drew the slender figure gently back. then, with a sudden movement, seizing a large pillow dashed it over annie's face, pressing thereon with all her strength. the long, half-smothered, piteous cry that followed, was almost unheard in the roaring of the storm that now was at its height. by the vivid light that every instant played around, she saw the violent efforts of her victim, whose limbs were moving up and down, convulsively, under the white bed-clothes. then, throwing the whole weight of her body across the bed, she clutched and strained upon the frame, to press more heavily. suddenly all movement ceased, and the murderess felt a short and thrilling shudder underneath her. still, her hold never relaxed; untouched by pity or remorse, exulting in the thought that the cruel deed was nearly done, so easily, and under circumstances where no suspicion of the truth was likely to arise; dreading to look upon the dead girl's face too soon, lest the mild eyes should still be open, and beaming on her with reproach and horror. but what was it she felt then, so warm and sticky, trickling down her arm? she knew it to be blood, even before the next flash showed the crimson stain, spreading slowly over the pillow. again the electric fluid darted from the clouds, but this time charged with its special mission from on high. the murderess was struck! and springing up, she fell back with one shrill, wild, piercing shriek, that reached the ears of those below, before it was drowned in the din of falling masonry, and the tremendous crash that shook the house to its foundation, until the walls quivered, like the timbers of a ship beating on a rocky shore. that night i had been to visit a patient at some distance, and finding no shelter near when returning, had ridden on through the storm. just entering the town, i overtook a man, pressing on quickly in the same direction. making some passing remark upon the weather, i was recognized by the old gardener, who begged me for god's sake to hurry back; the cottage, he said, was struck by lightning, and two of the ladies either dying or dead from the injuries they had received. in a few minutes my horse was at the gate. i had just time to observe that two of the chimneys were thrown down, and some mischief done to the roof. on entering the house, i was guided, by the low, wailing sound of intense grief, to an upper room, where i beheld one of those scenes that, in an instant, stamp themselves upon the memory, leaving their transfer there forever. day was just breaking; a cold gray light slowly gaining strength over the yellow glare of some unsnuffed candles, while the occasional boom of distant thunder told that the storm was not yet exhausted. extended on a low couch, and held by the terrified servants, was the wreck of the once beautiful catherine arnatti; at short intervals her features became horribly distorted by an epileptic spasm, that seized one side of the body, while the other half appeared to be completely paralyzed; and the unmeaning glare of the eye, when the lid was raised, told that the organ of vision was seriously injured, if not entirely destroyed. close by, the mother bent sobbing over the helpless form of her own child, blanched and inanimate, with a streak of blood just oozing from her pallid lips. i found afterward, that miss reed, in her fearful struggle, had ruptured a vessel, and, fainting from the loss of blood, had lain for some time to all appearance dead. shortly, however, a slight fluttering over the region of the heart, and a quiver of the nostril, told that the principle of life still lingered in the shattered tenement. with the aid of gentle stimulants, she recovered sufficiently to recognize her mother; but as her gaze wandered vacantly around, it fell on the wretched and blasted creature, from whose grasp she had been so wonderfully rescued. as if some magnetic power was in that glance, catherine rose up suddenly, despair and horror in the glassy stare she fixed on the corpse-like form before her, as, with another yell, such as burst forth when first struck by the hand of god, she relapsed into one of the most dreadful and violent paroxysms i have ever witnessed. annie clung tightly to her mother, crying, in a faint, imploring voice, "oh, save me--save me from her!" ere, with a heavy sigh, she once more sank into insensibility. it was not until late in the afternoon, and then only with great difficulty, that she was able to make those around her understand what had taken place, and account for the intense horror that seized upon her, when at times a groan or cry was heard from the adjoining chamber, in which miss arnatti lay. it became, therefore, necessary that this person should be removed, and accordingly, the same night she was taken to lodgings in the town. her conduct there was such as to induce a belief that she might be insane, and steps were taken toward placing her in a private asylum. once only, a few days after her removal, she asked, suddenly, if miss reed were not dead; but appeared to betray no emotion on being informed, that although still alive, her cousin was in most imminent danger, and, turning away, from that time maintained a determined silence, which nothing could induce her to break, obstinately refusing all medical aid. i visited her in company with the physician in attendance, about six weeks afterward, when she appeared to have recovered, in a great measure, the use of her limbs; but every lineament of the face was altered; the sight of one eye quite destroyed, and drawn outward, until little could be seen but a discolored ball, over which the lid hung down flabby and powerless; while a permanent distortion of the mouth added to the frightful appearance this occasioned. the beautiful hair was gone, and the unsightly bristles that remained were only partly concealed by the close-fitting cap she wore. it was indeed a sight to move the sternest heart. that proud and stately woman who had so cruelly abused the power her personal beauty alone had given her; trifling alike with youth's ardent and pure first love, as with the deeper and more lasting affection of manhood, and glorying in the misery and wretchedness she caused! stopped in her full career, her punishment began already. yet was there no index on that stolid face to tell how the dark spirit worked within; whether it felt remorse or sorrow for the crime, and pity for its victim, fearing a further punishment in this world or the next; whether the heart was torn by baffled rage and hatred still, scheming and plotting, even now that all hope was gone. or was the strong intellect really clouded? that night her attendant slept long and heavily; she might have been drugged, for miss arnatti had access to her desk and jewel case, in the secret drawers of which were afterward found several deadly and carefully prepared poisons. in a room below was a large chimney-glass, and here catherine first saw the full extent of the awful judgment that had befallen her. a cry of rage and despair, and the loud crash of broken glass, aroused the inmates early in the morning: they found the mirror shivered into a thousand fragments, but their charge was gone. we learned that day, that a person answering to her description, wearing a thick vail, and walking with pain and difficulty, had been one of the passengers on board a steam-packet that left the town at daylight. for a long time annie reed lay in the shadow of death. she lived, however, many years, a suffering and patient invalid. edwin married his betrothed and brought her home, where his fond mother and sister soon loved her as they loved him; and annie played aunt to the first-born, and shared their happiness awhile; and when her gentle spirit passed away, her mother bent to the heavy blow, living resigned and peacefully with her remaining children to a good old age. all efforts to trace the unhappy fugitive proved unavailing, and much anxiety was felt on her account; but about ten months after her disappearance, mrs. reed received a letter relative to the transfer of what little property her niece had possessed to a convent in tuscany. the lady-abbess, a distant relative of miss arnatti's, had also written much concerning her, from which the following is extracted: "when a child, catherine was for two years a boarder in this very house. fifteen years passed since then, and she came to us travel-worn, and weak, and ill. her history is known only to her confessor and myself; and she has drawn from us a promise that the name of england should never more be mentioned to her; and whatever tidings we may hear, in consequence of this communication, from those she had so cruelly injured, whether of life and health, or death--of forgiveness, or hatred and disgust at her ingratitude--that no allusion to it should be ever made to her. she follows rigidly the most severe rules of the establishment, but avoids all intercourse with the sisters. much of her time is spent at the organ, and often, in the dead of night, we are startled or soothed by the low melancholy strains that come from the dark chapel. her horror always on the approach of thunder-storms is a thing fearful to witness, and we think she can not long survive the dreadful shocks she suffers from this cause. they leave her, too, in total darkness many days. a mystery to all, we only speak of her as the blind sister." [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] fortunes of the gardener's daughter. between passy and auteuil were still to be seen, some few years ago, the remains of what had been a gentleman's residence. the residence and the family to whom it had belonged had both fallen during the first revolution. the bole of a once magnificent tree, stag-headed, owing to the neighboring buildings having hurt the roots, was all the evidence that remained of a park; but bits of old moss-grown wall--broken steps that led to nothing--heads and headless trunks of statues that once adorned the edges of what, now a marsh, had formerly been a piece of ornamental water--little thickets of stunted trees stopped in their growth by want of care--all hinted of what had been, although they could give no idea of the beauty which had once made bouloinvilliers the pride of the neighborhood and its possessor. such was the aspect of the place recently; but when the following anecdote begins, france was to external appearance prosperous, and bouloinvilliers was still in its bloom. at a cottage within the gate which entered the grounds lived the gardener and his wife. they had been long married, had lost all their children, and were considered by every body a staid, elderly couple, when, to the astonishment of all, a girl was born. this precious plant, the child of their old age, was the delight especially of pierre's life: he breathed but in little marie, and tended her with the utmost care. although attired in the costume appropriate to her station, her clothes were of fine materials; every indulgence in their power was lavished upon her, and every wish gratified, except the very natural one of going outside the grounds--_that_ was never permitted to her whom they had dedicated to the blessed virgin, and determined to keep "unspotted from the world." pierre himself taught her to read very well, and to write a little; cécilon to knit, sew, and prepare the _pot-au-feu_; and amusement she easily found for herself. she lived among green leaves and blossoms: she loved them as sisters: all her thoughts turned toward the flowers that surrounded her on every side; they were her sole companions, and she never wearied playing with them. an old lime, the branches of which drooped round like a tent, and where the bees sought honey as long as there was any lingering on its sweetly-odorous branches, was her house, as she termed it; a large acorn formed a coffee-pot; its cups her cups, plates, porringers, and saucers, according to their size and flatness; and bits of broken porcelain, rubbed bright, enlivened the knotted stump, which served for shelves, chimney, and all; a water-lily was her _marmite_; fir-cones her cows; a large mushroom her table, when mushrooms were in season, at other times a bit of wood covered with green moss or wild sorrel. her dolls even were made of flowers--bunches of lilies and roses formed the faces, a bundle of long beech-sprigs the bodies; and for hours would she sit rocking them, her low song chiming in with the drowsy hum of the insects. when grown older, and become more adventurous, she used to weave little boats from rushes upon bits of cork, and freight them with flowers. these she launched on the lake, where the fresh air and fresh water kept them sometimes longer from fading than would have otherwise been their fate, during the hot dry days of july and august, on their native beds. thus passed her happy childhood: often and often she dreamed over it in after-life, pleasing herself with the fancy, that perhaps as god, when he made sinless man in his own image, gave him a garden as his home, so for those who entered into "the joy of our lord" a garden might be prepared in heaven, sweeter far than even that of bouloinvilliers--one where sun never scorched, cold never pinched, flowers never faded, birds never died. the death of a bird was the greatest grief she had known, a cat the most ferocious animal she had as yet encountered. she attended the private chapel on sundays and saints' days. the day she made her first communion was the first of her entry into the world, and much distraction of mind did the unwonted sight of houses, shops, and crowds of people, cause to our little recluse, which served for reflection, conversation, and curious questioning for many a day after. on a white-painted table with a drawer there stood a plaster-cast of the virgin mary, much admired by its innocent namesake, and associated in her mind with praises and sugar-plums--for whenever she had been particularly good she found some there for her. it was her office to dust it with a feather brush, supply water to the flowers amid which the little figure stood, and replace them with fresh ones when faded. whenever she was petulant a black screen was placed before the table, and marie was not suffered to approach it. this was her only punishment; indeed the only one she required, for she heard and saw nothing wrong; her parents never disputed, and they were so gentle and indulgent to her, that she never felt tempted to disguise the truth. the old priest often represented to the father that unless he intended his child for the cloister, this mode of bringing her up in such total seclusion and ignorance was almost cruel; but pierre answered that he could give her a good fortune, and would take care to secure a good husband for her; and her perfect purity and innocence were so beautiful, that the kind-hearted but unwise ecclesiastic did not insist farther. in the mean time she grew apace; and her mother being dead, marie lived on as before with her father, whose affection only increased with his years, both of them apparently thinking that the world went on as they did themselves, unchanged in a single idea. alas! "we know not what a day may bring forth," even when we have an opportunity of seeing and hearing all that passes around us. pierre and marie were scarcely aware of the commencement of the revolution until it was at its height--the marquis, his son, and the good priest massacred--madame escaped to england--and the property divided, and in the possession of others of a very different stamp from his late kind patron, a model of suavity and grace of manner even in that capital which gave laws of politeness to the rest of europe. all this came like a clap of thunder upon the astonished pierre; and although he continued to live in his old cottage, he never more held up his head. finally he became quite childish, and one day died sitting in his chair, his last words being "marie," his last action pointing to the little figure of the virgin. when his death, however, became known, the new propriétaire desired that the cottage should be vacated, and came himself to look after its capabilities. he was astonished at the innocent beauty of the youthful marie, but not softened by it; for his bold, coarse admiration, and loud, insolent manner, so terrified the gentle recluse, that as soon as it was dark she made a bundle of her clothes, and taking the cherished little earthern image in her hand, went forth, like eve from paradise, though, alas! not into a world without inhabitants. terrified to a degree which no one not brought up as she had been can form the least idea of, but resolved to dare any thing rather than meet that bold, bad man again, she plunged into the increasing gloom, and wandered, wearied and heart broken, she knew not whither, until, hungry and tired, she could go no farther. she lay down, therefore, at the foot of a tree, with her head on her bundle, and the virgin in her hand, and soon fell sound asleep. she was awakened from a dream of former days by rough hands, and upon regaining her recollection, found that some one had snatched the bundle from beneath her head, and that nothing remained to her but the little image, associated in her mind with that happy childhood to which her present destitute and friendless condition formed so terrible a contrast. the sneers, and in some cases the insults of the passers-by, terrified her to such a degree, that, regardless of consequences, she penetrated further into the bois de boulogne, when at length weak, and indeed quite exhausted, from want of food, she sank down, praying to god to let her die, and take her to heaven. she waited patiently for some time, hoping, and more than half expecting, that what she asked so earnestly would be granted to her. about an hour passed, and marie, wondering in her simple faith that she was still alive, repeated her supplications, uttering them in her distraction in a loud tone of voice. suddenly she fancied she heard sounds of branches breaking, and the approach of footsteps, and filled with the utmost alarm lest it might be some of those much-dreaded men who had derided and insulted her, she attempted to rise and fly; but her weakness was so great, that after a few steps she fell. "my poor girl," said a kind voice, "are you ill? what do you here, so far from your home and friends?" "i have no home, no friend but god, and i want to go to him. oh, my god, let me die! let me die!" "you are too young to die yet: you have many happy days in store, i hope. come, come; eat something, or you _will_ die." "but eating will make me live, and i want to die, and go to my father and mother." "but that would be to kill yourself, and then you would never see either god or your parents, you know. come, eat a morsel, and take a mouthful of wine." "but when _you_ go, there is no one to give me any more, so i shall only be longer in dying." "self-destruction, you ought to know, if you have been properly brought up, is the only sin for which there _can_ be no pardon, for that is the only sin we _can not_ repent." marie looked timidly up at the manly, sensible, kind face which bent over her, and accepted the food he offered. he was dressed as a workman, and had on his shoulders a hod of glass: in fact, he was an itinerant glazier. his look was compassionate, but his voice, although soft, was authoritative. refreshed by what she had taken, marie sat up, and very soon was able to walk. she told her little history, one word of which he never doubted. "but what do you mean to do?" asked the young man. "to stay with you always, for you are kind and good, and no one else is so to me." "but that can not be: it would not be right, you know." "and why would it not be right? oh, _do_ let me! don't send me away! i will be so good!" answered she, her entire ignorance and innocence preventing her feeling what any girl, brought up among her fellow-creatures, however carefully, would at once have done. auguste was a belgian, without any relations at paris, and with little means of supporting a wife; but young, romantic, and kind-hearted, he resolved at once to marry his innocent protégée, as soon at least as he could find a priest to perform the ceremony--no easy task at that time, and in the eyes of the then world of paris no necessary one, for profligacy was at its height, and the streets were yet red with the blood of the virtuous and noble. they began life, then, with his load of glass and her gold cross and gold ear-rings, heir-looms of considerable value, which providentially the robbers had not thought of taking from her. with the produce of the ear-rings they hired a garret and some humble furniture, where they lived from hand to mouth, marie taking in coarse sewing, and her husband sometimes picking up a few sous at his trade. often, however, they had but one meal a day, seldom any fire; and when their first child was born, their troubles of course materially increased, and auguste often returned from a weary ramble all over paris just as he had set out--without having even gained a solitary sou. the cross soon followed the ear-rings, and they had now nothing left that they could part with except the little plaster figure so often alluded to, which would not bring a franc, and which was loved and cherished by marie as the sole remaining object connected with bouloinvilliers, and the last thing her father had looked at on earth. the idea of parting with this gave her grief which is better imagined than described; for, although the furniture of the cottage undoubtedly belonged to marie, her husband knew too well that at a time when might was right, any steps taken toward recovering its value would be not only fruitless, but dangerous: he, therefore, never even attempted to assert their rights. one day, however, they had been without food or firing for nearly twenty-four hours, and the little cécile was fractious with hunger, incessantly crying, "du pain! du pain!" marie rose, and approaching the virgin, said, "it is wicked to hesitate longer: go, auguste, and sell it for what you can get." she seized it hastily, as though afraid of changing her resolution, and with such trepidation, that it slipped through her fingers, and broke in two. poor marie sank upon her face at this sight, with a superstitious feeling that she had meditated wrong, and was thus punished. she was weeping bitterly, when her husband almost roughly raised her up, exclaiming in joyful accents, "marie, marie, give thanks to god! now i know why your father pointed when he could not speak! sorrow no more: we are rich!" in the body of the statuette were found bills to the amount of fifteen hundred francs--marie's fortune, in fact, which her father had told the chaplain he had amassed for her. we need not dwell upon the happiness of this excellent couple, or the rapture, mingled with gratitude, in which the remainder of this day was passed. those who disapprove of castle-building may perhaps blame them; for several castles they constructed, on better foundations, however, than most of those who spend their time in this pleasing but unprofitable occupation. next day they took a glazier's shop, stocked it, provided themselves with decent clothing and furniture, and commenced their new life with equal frugality and comfort--marie doing her own work, and serving in the shop when her husband was out engaged in business. but in time he was able to hire an assistant, and she a young girl, to look after the children while she pursued the avocation of a _couturière_, in which she soon became very expert. the little image was fastened together again, placed upon a white table, similar to that which used to stand in her childhood's home, surrounded with flowers, and made, as of old, the abode of sugar-plums and rewards of good conduct. but alas! there are not many maries in the world. in spite of her good example and good teaching, her children would at times be naughty. they sometimes quarreled, sometimes were greedy; and what vexed their simple-minded mother more than all the rest, sometimes told stories of one another. still they were good children, as children go; and when the black screen was superseded by punishments a little more severe, did credit to their training. they were not permitted to play in the street, or to go to or from school alone, or remain there after school-hours. their father took pains with their deportment, corrected false grammar, and recommended the cultivation of habits more refined than people in his humble although respectable position deem necessary. as their prosperity increased, marie was surprised to observe her husband devote all his spare time to reading, and not only picture-cleaning and repairing, but painting, in which he was such an adept, that he was employed to paint several signs. "how did you learn so much?" she said one day. "did your father teach you?" "no; i went to school." "then he was not so _very_ poor?" "he was very poor, but he lived in hopes that i might one day possess a fortune." "it would seem as if he had a foreknowledge of what my little statue contained?" "no, my love; he looked to it from another source; for a title without a fortune is a misfortune." "a title! nay, now you are playing with my simplicity." "no, marie; i am the nephew of the vicomte de ----, and for aught i know, may be the possessor of that name at this moment--the legal heir to his estate. my father, ruined by his extravagance, and, i grieve to add, by his crimes, had caused himself to be disowned by all his relations. he fled with me to paris, where he soon after died, leaving me nothing but his seal and his papers. i wrote to my uncle for assistance; but although being then quite a boy, and incapable of having personally given him offense, he refused it in the most cruel manner; and i was left to my own resources at a time when my name and education were rather a hindrance than a help, and i found no opening for entering into any employment suited to my birth. my uncle had then two fine, healthy, handsome boys; the youngest is dead; and the eldest, i heard accidentally, in such a state of health that recovery is not looked for by the most sanguine of his friends. i never breathed a word of all this to you, because i never expected to survive my cousins, and resolved to make an independent position for myself sooner or later. do you remember the other day an old gentleman stopping and asking some questions about the coat of arms i was painting?" "yes; he asked who had employed you to paint those arms, but i was unable to inform him." "well, my dear, he came again this morning to repeat the question to myself; and i am now going to satisfy him, when i expect to bring you some news." marie was in a dream. unlike gardeners' daughters of the present day, she had read no novels or romances, and it appeared to her as impossible that such an event should happen as that the cap on her head should turn into a crown. it _did_ happen, however. the old gentleman, a distant relation and intimate friend of the uncle of auguste, had come to paris, at his dying request, to endeavor to find out his nephew and heir; and the proofs auguste produced were so plain, that he found no difficulty in persuading m. b----de that he was the person he represented himself to be. he very soon after went to belgium, took legal possession of all his rights, and returned to hail the gentle and long-suffering marie as vicomtesse de ----, and conduct her and the children to a handsome apartment in the rue ----, dressed in habiliments suitable to her present station, and looking as lady-like as if she had been born to fill it. she lived long and happily, and continued the same pure, humble-minded being she had ever been, whether blooming among the flowers at bouloinvilliers, or pining for want in a garret in the faubourg st. antoine. two of her daughters are alive now. her son, after succeeding to his father, died, without children, of the cholera, in ; and the son of his eldest sister has taken up the _title_, under a different name, these matters not being very strictly looked after in france. [from dickens's household words.] the prodigal's return. many travelers know the "rutland arms" at bakewell, in the peak of derbyshire. it is a fine large inn, belonging to his grace of rutland, standing in an airy little market-place of that clean-looking little town, and commanding from its windows pleasant peeps of the green hills and the great wicksop woods, which shut out the view of chatsworth, the palace of the peak, which lies behind them. many travelers who used to traverse this road from the south to manchester, in the days of long coaches and long wintry drives, know well the "rutland arms," and will recall the sound of the guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door, amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village idlers, the ladder already taken from its stand by the wall, and placed by the officious boots in towering position, ready, at the instant of the coach stopping, to clap it under your feet, and facilitate your descent. many travelers will recall one feature of that accommodating inn, which, uniting aristocratic with commercial entertainment, has two doors; one lordly and large in front, to which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and gentility naturally draw up; and one at the end, to which all gigs, coaches, mails, and still less dignified conveyances, as naturally are driven. our travelers will as vividly remember the passage which received them at this entrance, and the room to the left, the travelers'-room, into which they were ushered. to that corner room, having windows to the market-place in front, and one small peeping window at the side, commanding the turn of the north road, and the interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance, we now introduce our readers. here sat a solitary gentleman. he was a man apparently of five-and-thirty; tall, considerably handsome; a face of the oval character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark, eyebrows dark and strong, and a light, clear, self-possessed look, that showed plainly enough that he was a man of active mind, and well to do in the world. you would have thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no means commercial manner, that he would have found his way in at the great front door, and into one of the private rooms; but he came over night by the mail, and, on being asked, on entering the house, by the waiter, to what sort of room he would be shown, answered, carelessly and abruptly, "any where." here he was, seated in the back left-hand corner of the room, a large screen between himself and the door, and before him a table spread with a goodly breakfast apparatus--coffee, eggs, fresh broiled trout from the neighboring weye, and a large round of corned beef, as a _dernier ressort_. it was a morning as desperately and delugingly rainy as any that showery region can send down. in the phrase of the country, it _siled_ down, or run, as if through a sieve. straight down streamed the plenteous element, thick, incessant, and looking as if it would hold on the whole day through. it thundered on the roof, beat a sonorous tune on porches and projections of door and window, splashed in torrents on window-sills, and streaming panes, and rushed along the streets in rivers. the hills were hidden, the very fowls driven to roost--and not a soul was to be seen out of doors. presently there was a sound of hurrying wheels, a spring-cart came up to the side door, with two men in it, in thick great coats, and with sacks over their shoulders; one huge umbrella held over their heads, and they and their horse yet looking three parts drowned. they lost no time in pitching their umbrella to the hostler, who issued from the passage, descending and rushing into the inn. in the next moment the two countrymen, divested of their sacks and great coats, were ushered into this room, the waiter, making a sort of apology, because there was a fire there--it was in the middle of july. the two men, who appeared peak farmers, with hard hands, which they rubbed at the fire, and tanned and weather-beaten complexions, ordered breakfast--of coffee and broiled ham--which speedily made its appearance, on a table placed directly in front of the before solitary stranger, between the side look-out window and the front one. they looked, and were soon perceived by our stranger to be, father and son. the old man, of apparently upward of sixty, was a middle-sized man, of no herculean mould, but well knit together, and with a face thin and wrinkled as with a life-long acquaintance with care and struggle. his complexion was more like brown leather than any thing else, and his hair, which was thin and grizzled, was combed backward from his face, and hung in masses about his ears. the son was much taller than the father, a stooping figure, with flaxen hair, a large nose, light blue eyes, and altogether a very gawky look. the old man seemed to eat with little appetite, and to be sunk into himself, as if he was oppressed by some heavy trouble. yet he every now and then roused himself, cast an anxious look at his son, and said, "joe, lad, thou eats nothing." "no, fayther," was the constant reply; "i towd you i shouldn't. this reen's enough te tak any body's appetite--and these t'other things," casting a glance at the stranger. the stranger had, indeed, his eyes fixed curiously upon the two, for he had been watching the consumptive tendency of the son; not in any cough or hectic flush, or peculiar paleness, for he had a positively sunburnt complexion of his own, but by the extraordinary power he possessed of tossing down coffee and ham, with enormous pieces of toast and butter. under his operations, a large dish of broiled ham rapidly disappeared, and the contents of the coffee-pot were in as active demand. yet the old man, ever and anon, looked up from his reverie, and repeated his paternal observation: "joe, lad, thou eats nothing!" "no, fayther," was still the reply; "i towd you i shouldn't. it's this reen, and these t'other things"--again glancing at the stranger. presently the broiled ham had totally vanished--there had been enough for six ordinary men. and while the son was in the act of holding the coffee-pot upside down, and draining the last drop from it, the old man once more repeated his anxious admonition: "joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"--and the reply was still, "no, fayther, i towd you i shouldn't. it's this reen, and these t'other things." this was accompanied by another glance at the stranger, who began to feel himself very much in the way, but was no little relieved by the son rising with his plate in his hand, and coming across the room, saying, "you've a prime round of beef there, sir; might i trouble you for some?" "by all means," said the stranger, and carved off a slice of thickness and diameter proportioned to what appeared to him the appetite of this native of the peak. this speedily disappeared; and as the son threw down the knife and fork, the sound once more roused the old man, who added, with an air of increased anxiety, "joe, lad, thou eats nothing." "no, fayther," for the last time responded the son. "i towd you i shouldn't. it's this reen, and this t'other matter--but i've done, and so let's go." the father and son arose and went out. the stranger who had witnessed this extraordinary scene, but without betraying any amusement at it, arose, too, the moment they closed the door after them, and, advancing to the window, gazed fixedly into the street. presently the father and son, in their great coats, and with their huge drab umbrella hoisted over them, were seen proceeding down the market-place in the midst of the still pouring rain, and the stranger's eyes followed them intently till they disappeared in the winding of the street. he still stood for some time, as if in deep thought, and then turning, rung the bell, ordered the breakfast-things from his table, and producing a writing-case, sat down to write letters. he continued writing, pausing at intervals, and looking steadily before him as in deep thought, for about an hour, when the door opened, and the peak farmer and his son again entered. they were in their wet and steaming greatcoats. the old man appeared pale and agitated; bade the son see that the horse was put in the cart, rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay. having discharged his bill, he continued to pace the room, as if unconscious of the stranger, who had suspended his writing, and was gazing earnestly at him. the old man frequently paused, shook his head despairingly, and muttered to himself, "hard man!--no fellow feeling!--all over! all over!" with a suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing to and fro. the stranger arose, approached the old man, and said, with a peculiarly sympathizing tone, "excuse me, sir, but you seem to have some heavy trouble on your mind; i should be glad if it were any thing that were in my power to alleviate." the old man stopped suddenly--looked sternly at the stranger--seemed to recollect, himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling an unauthorized freedom--"sir!" "i beg pardon," said the stranger. "i am aware that it must seem strange in me to address you thus; but i can not but perceive that something distresses you, and it might possibly happen that i might be of use to you." the old man looked at him for some time in silence, and then said, "i forgot any one was here; but you can be of no manner of use to me. i thank you." "i am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my freedom," said the stranger with a slight flush; "but i am an american, and we are more accustomed to ask and communicate matters than is consistent with english reserve. i beg you will pardon me." "you are an american?" asked the old man, looking at him. "you are quite a stranger here?" "quite so, sir," replied the stranger, with some little embarrassment. "i was once in this country before, but many years ago." the old man still looked at him, was silent awhile, and then said, "you can not help me, sir; but i thank you all the same, and heartily. you seem really a very feeling man, and so i don't mind opening my mind to you--i am a ruined man, sir." "i was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger. "i will not seek to peer into your affairs; but i deeply feel for you, and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. i would hope yours are not." "sir," replied the old man--the tears starting into his eyes, "i tell you i am a ruined man. i am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up next week." "that is hard," said the stranger. "but you are hale, your son is young; you can begin the world anew." "begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air. "where?--how? when? no, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this country. those days are past. that time is past with me. and as for my son: oh, god! oh, god! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and family, and knows nothing but about a farm." "and there are farms still," said the stranger. "yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?" the old man grew deadly pale, and groaned. "in this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "i believe these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. go there, worthy old man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you." the stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "god bless you, sir; god bless you for your kindness! ah! such kindness is banished from this country, but i feel that it lives in yours--but there!--no, no!--there i shall never go. there are no means." "the means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his eyes, "are very small. your friends would, no doubt--" "no, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no friends--not here." "then why should i not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "i have means--i know the country. i have somehow conceived a deep interest in your misfortunes." "you!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you!--but come along with us, sir. your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least you can counsel with us--and i feel it does me good." "i will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "you can not live far from here. i will hence to manchester, and i can, doubtless, make it in my way." "exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify--though not in the great highway. we can find you plenty of room, if you do not disdain our humble vehicle." "i have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "i will have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. it will suit you better this wet day." "oh no! i can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "i fear no rain. i am used to it, and i am neither sugar nor salt. i shall not melt." the old man's son approached simultaneously with the waiter, to say that the cart was ready. the stranger ordered a post-chaise to accompany the farmer, at which the son stood with an open-mouthed astonished stare, which would have excited the laughter of most people, but did not move a muscle of the stranger's grave and kindly face. "this good gentleman will go with us," said the old man. "oh, thank you, sir!" said the son, taking off his hat and making a low bow, "you are heartily welcome; but it's a poor place, sir." "never mind that," said the old man. "let us be off and tell millicent to get some dinner for the gentleman." but the stranger insisted that the old man should stay and accompany him in the chaise, and so the son walked off to prepare for their coming. soon the stranger's trunks were placed on the top of the chaise, and the old man and he drove off. their way was for some time along the great high-road; then they turned off to the left, and continued their course up a valley till they ascended a very stony road, which wound far over the swell of the hill, and then approached a large gray stone house, backed by a wood that screened it from the north and east. far around, lay an immense view, chiefly of green, naked, and undulating fields, intersected by stone walls. no other house was near; and villages lying at several miles distant, naked and gray on the uplands, were the only evidences of human life. the house was large enough for a gentleman's abode, but there were no neatly kept walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies; no garden lying in exquisite richness around it. there was no use made of the barns and offices. there were no servants about. a troop of little children who were in the field in front, ran into the house and disappeared. on entering the house, the stranger observed that its ample rooms were very naked and filled only by a visible presence of stern indigence. the woodwork was unpainted. the stone floors were worn, and merely sanded. the room into which he was conducted, and where the table was already laid for dinner, differed only in having the uncarpeted floor marked in figures of alternating ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy oak tables, a little shelf of books and almanacs, and a yellow-faced clock. a shabby and tired-looking maid-servant was all the domestics seen within or without. joe, the simple-looking son, received them, and the only object which seemed to give a cheering impression to the stranger, was joe's wife, who presented herself with a deep courtesy. the guest was surprised to see in her a very comely, fresh colored, and modestly sensible woman, who received him with a kindly cordiality and native grace, which made him wonder how such a woman could have allied herself to such a man. there were four or five children about her, all evidently washed and put into their best for his arrival, and who were pictures of health and shyness. mrs. warilow took off the old man's great coat with an affectionate attention, and drew his plain elbow chair, with a cushion covered with a large-patterned check on its rush bottom, toward the fire; for there was a fire, and that quite acceptable in this cold region after the heavy rain. dinner was then hastily brought in; mrs. warilow apologizing for its simplicity, from the short notice she had received, and she might have added from the painful news which joe brought with him; for it was very evident, though she had sought to efface the trace of it, by copious washing, that she had been weeping. the old man was obviously oppressed by the ill result of his morning's journey to the steward, and the position of his affairs. his daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of affectionate anxiety at him, and endeavored to help him in such a manner as to induce him to eat; but appetite he had little. joe played his part as valiantly as in the morning; and the old man occasionally rousing from his reverie, again renewed the observation of the breakfast-table. "joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too now, "milly, my dear, thou eats nothing. you eat nothing, sir. none of you have any appetite, and i have none myself. god help me!" an ordinary stranger would scarcely have resisted a smile--none appeared on the face of the guest. after dinner they drew to the fire, which consisted of large lumps of coal burning under a huge beamed chimney. there a little table was set with spirits and home-made wine, and the old man and joe lit their pipes, inviting the stranger to join them, which he did with right good-will. there was little conversation, however; joe soon said that he must go over the lands to see that the cattle was all right; he did more, and even slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed to mrs. warilow a walk in the garden, where the afternoon sun was now shining warmly. in his drive hither in the chaise, he had learned the exact position of the old farmer. he was, as he had observed, so heavily in arrear of rent, that his whole stock would not discharge it. when they had seated themselves in the old arbor, he communicated his proposal to her father-in-law to remove to america; observing, that he had conceived so great a sympathy for him, that he would readily advance him the means of conveying over the whole family. mrs. warilow was naturally much surprised at the disclosure. such an offer from a casual stranger, when all friends and family connections had turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for aid, was something so improbable that she could not realize it. "how can you, sir, a stranger to us, volunteer so large a sum, which we may never be in a position to repay?" the stranger assured her that the sum was by no means large. that to him it was of little consequence, and that such was the scope for industry and agricultural skill in america, that in a few years they could readily refund the money. here, from what the old gentleman had told him of the new augmented rate of rental, there was no chance of recovering a condition of ease and comfort. mrs. warilow seemed to think deeply on the new idea presented to her, and then said, "surely god has sent mr. vandeleur (so the stranger had given his name), for their deliverance. oh, sir!" added she, "what shall we not owe you if by your means we can ever arrive at freedom from the wretched trouble that now weighs us down. and oh! if my poor father should ever, in that country, meet again his lost son!" "he has lost a son?" said the stranger, in a tone of deep feeling. "ah, it is a sad thing, sir," continued mrs. warilow, "but it is that which preys on father's mind. he thinks he did wrong in it, and he believes that the blessing of heaven has deserted him ever since. sure enough, nothing has prospered with him, and yet he feels that if the young man lives he has not been blameless. he had not felt and forgiven as a son should. but he can not be living--no, he can not for all these years have borne resentment, and sent no part of his love or his fortune to his family. it is not in the heart of a child to do that, except in a very evil nature, and such was not that of this son." "pray go on," said the stranger, "you interest me deeply." "this thing occurred twenty years ago. mr. warilow had two sons. the eldest, samuel, was a fine active youth, but always with a turn for travel and adventure, which was very trying to his father's mind, who would have his sons settle down in this their native neighborhood, and pursue farming as their ancestors had always done. but his eldest son wished to go to sea, or to america. he read a vast deal about that country, of winter nights, and was always talking of the fine life that might be led there. this was very annoying to his father, and made him very angry, the more so that joseph, the younger son, was a weakly lad, and had something left upon him by a severe fever, as a boy, that seemed to weaken his limbs and his mind. people thought he would be an idiot, and his father thought that his eldest brother should stay and take care of him, for it was believed that he would never be able to take care of himself. but this did not seem to weigh with samuel. youths full of life and spirit don't sufficiently consider such things. and then it was thought that samuel imagined that his father cared nothing for him, and cared only for the poor weakly son. he might be a little jealous of this, and that feeling once getting into people, makes them see things different to what they otherwise would, and do things that else they would not. "true enough, the father was always particularly wrapped up in joseph. he seemed to feel that he needed especial care, and he appeared to watch over him and never have him out of his mind, and he does so to this day. you have no doubt remarked, sir, that my husband is peculiar. he never got over that attack in his boyhood, and he afterward grew very rapidly, and it was thought he would have gone off in a consumption. it is generally believed that he is not quite sharp in all things. i speak freely to you, sir, and as long habit, and knowing before i married joseph what was thought of him, only could enable me to speak to one who feels so kindly toward us. but it is not so--joseph is more simple in appearance than in reality. no, sir, he has a deal of sense, and he has a very good heart; and it was because i perceived this that i was willing to marry him, and to be a true help to him, and, sir, though we have been very unfortunate, i have never repented it, and i never shall." the stranger took mrs. warilow's hand, pressed it fervently, and said, "i honor you, madam--deeply, truly--pray go on. the eldest son left, you say." "oh yes, sir! their mother died when the boys were about fifteen and seventeen. samuel had always been strongly attached to his mother, and that, no doubt, kept him at home; but after that he was more restless than ever, and begged the father to give him money to carry himself to america. the father refused. they grew mutually angry; and one day, when they had had high words, the father thought samuel was disrespectful, and struck him. the young man had a proud spirit. that was more than he could bear. he did not utter a word in reply, but turning, walked out of the house, and from that hour has never once been heard of. "his father was very angry with him, and for many years never spoke of him but with great bitterness and resentment, calling him an unnatural and ungrateful son. but of late years he has softened very much, and i can see that it preys on his mind, and as things have gone against him, he has come to think that it is a judgment on him for his hardness and unreasonableness in not letting the poor boy try his fortune as he so yearned to do. "since i have been in the family, i have led him by degrees to talk on this subject, and have endeavored to comfort him, telling him he had meant well, and since, he had seen the thing in a different light. ah, sir! how differently we see things when our heat of mind is gone over, and the old home heart begins to stir in us again. but, since he has done this, and repented of it, god can not continue his anger, and so that can not be the cause of his misfortunes. no, sir, i don't think that--but things have altered very much of late years in this country. the farms up in this peak country used to be let very low, very low indeed; and now they have been three several times valued and raised since i can remember. people can not live on them now, they really can not. then the old gentleman, as farming grew bad, speculated in lead mines, and that was much worse; he did not understand it, and was sorely imposed on, and lost a power of money; oh! so much that it is a misery to think of. then, as troubles, they say, fly like crows in companies, there came a very wet summer, and all the corn was spoiled. that put a finish to father's hopes. he was obliged to quit the old farm where the warilows had been for ages, and that hurt him cruelly--it is like shifting old trees, shifting old people is--they never take to the new soil. "but as joseph was extremely knowing in cattle, father took this farm--it's a great grazing farm, sir, seven hundred acres, and we feeden cattle. you would not believe it, sir, but we have only one man on this farm besides joseph and father." "it is very solitary," said the stranger. "ah, sir, very, but that we don't mind--but it is a great burden, it does not pay. well, but as to the lost son. i came to perceive how sorely this sat on father's mind, by noticing that whenever i used to read in the old bible, on the shelf in the house-place, there, that it opened of itself at the prodigal son. a thought struck me, and so i watched, and i saw that whenever the old gentleman read in it on sundays, he was always looking there. it was some time before i ventured to speak about it; but, one day when father was wondering what could have been samuel's fate, i said, 'perhaps, father, he will still come home like the prodigal son in the scripture, and if he does we'll kill the fatted calf for him, and no one will rejoice in it more truly than joseph will.' "when i had said it, i wished i had not said it--for father seemed struck as with a stake. he went as pale as death, and i thought he would fall down in a fit; but, at last, he burst into a torrent of tears, and, stretching out his arms, said, 'and if he does come, he'll find a father's arms open to receive him.' "ah, sir! it was hard work to comfort him again. i thought he would never have got over it again; but, after that, he began at times to speak of samuel to me of himself, and we've had a deal of talk together about him. sometimes father thinks he is dead, and sometimes he thinks he is not; and, true enough, of late years, there have come flying rumors from america, from people who have gone out there, who have said they have seen him there--and that he was a very great gentleman--they were sure it was him. but then there was always something uncertain in the account, and, above all, father said he never could believe that samuel was a great gentleman, and yet never could forgive an angry blow, and write home through all these years. these things, sir, pull the old man down, and, what with his other troubles, make me tremble to look forward." mrs. warilow stopped, for she was surprised to hear a deep suppressed sob from the stranger; and, turning, she saw him sitting with his handkerchief before his face. strange ideas shot across her mind. but at this moment the old farmer, having finished his after-dinner nap, was coming out to seek them. mr. vandeleur rose, wiped some tears from his face, and thanked mrs. warilow for her communication. "you can not imagine," he said, with much feeling, "how deeply you have touched me. you can not believe how much what you have said resembles incidents in my own life. depend upon it, madam, your brother will turn up. i feel strongly incited to help in it. we will have a search after him, if it be from the st. lawrence to the red river. if he lives, he will be found; and i feel a persuasion that he will be." they now met the old man, and all walked into the house. after tea, there was much talk of america. mr. vandeleur related many things in his own history. he drew such pictures of american life, and farming, and hunting in the woods; of the growth of new families, and the prosperous abundance in which the people lived; that all were extremely interested in his account. joe sate devouring the story with wonder, luxuriating especially in the idea of those immense herds of cattle in the prairies; and the old man even declared that there he should like to go and lay his bones. "perhaps," added he, "there i should, some day, find again my sam. but no, he must be dead, or he would have written: many die in the swamps and from fever, don't they, sir?" "oh! many, many," said mr. vandeleur, "and yet there are often as miraculous recoveries. for many years i was a government surveyor. it was my business to survey new tracts for sale. i was the solitary pioneer of the population; with a single man to carry my chain, and to assist me in cutting a path through the dense woods. i lived in the woods for years, for months seeing no soul but a few wandering indians. sometimes we were in peril from jealous and savage squatters; sometimes were compelled to flee before the monster grisly bear. i have a strange fascinating feeling now of those days, and of our living for weeks in the great caves in the white mountains, since become the resort of summer tourists, with the glorious 'notch' glittering opposite, far above us, and above the ancient woods. these were days of real hardship, and we often saw sights of sad sorrow. families making their way to distant and wild localities, plundered by the inhuman squatters, or by the indians, and others seized by the still more merciless swamp fever, perishing without help, and often all alone in the wilderness. "ah! i remember now one case--it is nearly twenty years ago, but i never can forget it. it was a young, thin man--he could scarcely be twenty. he had been left by his party in the last stage of fever. they had raised a slight booth of green bushes over him, and placed a pumpkin-shell of water by his side, and a broken tea-cup to help himself with; but he was too weak, and was fast sinking there all alone in that vast wilderness. the paleness of death appeared in his sunken features, the feebleness of death in his wasted limbs. he was a youth who, like many others, had left his friends in europe, and now longed to let them know his end. he summoned his failing powers to give me a sacred message. he mentioned the place whence he last came." "where was it?" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of wild excitement. "where--what was it? it must be my sam!" "no, that could not be," said the stranger, startled by the old man's emotion; "it was not this place--it was--i remember it--it was another name--well--well--welland was the place." the old man gave a cry, and would have fallen from his chair, but the stranger sprung forward and caught him in his arms. there was a moment's silence, broken only by a deep groan from the old man, and a low murmur from his lips, "yes! i knew it--he is dead!" "no, no! he is not dead!" cried the stranger; "he lives--he recovered!" "where is he, then? where is my sam? let me know!" cried the old man, recovering and standing wildly up--"i must see him!--i must to him!" "father! father! it is sam!" cried his son joe; "i know him!--i know him!--this is he!" "where?--who?" exclaimed the father, looking round bewildered. "here!" said the stranger, kneeling before the old man, and clasping his hand and bathing it with tears. "here, father, is your lost and unworthy son. father!--i return like the prodigal son. 'i have sinned before heaven and in thy sight; make me as one of thy hired servants.'" the old man clasped his son in his arms, and they wept in silence. but joe was impatient to embrace his recovered brother, and he gave him a hug as vigorous as one of those grisly bears that sam had mentioned. "ah! sam!" he said, "how i have wanted thee; but i always saw thee a slim chap, such as thou went away, and now thou art twice as big, and twice as old, and yet i knew thee by thy eyes." the two brothers cordially embraced, and the returned wanderer also embraced his comely sister affectionately, and said, "you had nearly found me out in the garden." "ah, what a startle you gave me!" she replied, wiping away her tears; "but this is so unexpected--so heavenly." she ran off, and returning with the whole troop of her children, said, "there, there is your dear, lost uncle!" the uncle caught them up, one after another, and kissed them rapturously. "do you know," said the mother, laying her hand on the head of the eldest boy, a fine, rosy-looking fellow, "what name this has? it is samuel warilow! we did not forget the one that was away." "he will find another samuel in america," said his uncle, again snatching him up, "and a joe, and a thomas, the grandfather's name. my blessed mother there lives again in a lovely blue-eyed girl; and should god send me another daughter, there shall be a millicent, too!" meantime, the old man stood gazing insatiably on his son. "ah, sam!" said he, as his son again turned, and took his hand, "i was very hard to thee, and yet thou hast been hard to us, too. thou art married, too, and, with all our names grafted on new stems, thou never wrote to us. it was not well." "no, father, it was not well. i acknowledge my fault--my great fault; but let me justify myself. i never forgot you; but for many years i was a wanderer, and an unsuccessful man. my pride would not let me send, under these circumstances, to those who had always said that i should come to beggary and shame. excuse me, that i mention these hard words. my pride was always great; and those words haunted me. "but at length, when providence had blessed me greatly, i could endure it no longer. i determined to come and seek forgiveness and reconciliation; and, god be praised! i have found both. we will away home together, father. i have wealth beyond all my wants and wishes; my greatest joy will be to bestow some of it on you. my early profession of a surveyor gave me great opportunities of perceiving where the tide of population would direct itself, and property consequently rise rapidly in value. i therefore purchased vast tracts for small sums, which are now thickly peopled, and my possessions are immense. i am a member of congress." the next day, the two brothers drove over to bakewell, where joe had the satisfaction to see the whole arrears paid down to the astonished steward, on condition that he gave an instant release from the farm; and joe ordered, at the auctioneer's, large posters to be placarded in all the towns and villages of the peak, and advertisements to be inserted in all the principal papers of the midland counties, of the sale of his stock that day fortnight. we have only to record that it sold well, and that the warilows of welland, and more recently of scarthin farm, are now flourishing on another and more pleasant welland on the hudson. there is a certain tall, town-like house which the traveler sees high on a hill among the woods, on the left bank of the river, as the steamer approaches the catskill mountains. there live the warilows; and, far back on the rich slopes that lie behind the mountains, and in richer meadows, surrounded by forests and other hills, rove the flocks and herds of joe; and there comes squire sam, when the session at washington is over, and, surrounded by sons and nephews, ranges the old woods, and shoots the hill-turkey and the roe. there is another comely and somewhat matronly lady sitting with the comely and sunny-spirited millicent, the happy mistress of the new welland; and a little millicent tumbles on the carpet at their feet. the warilows of welland all bless the prodigal son, who, unlike the one of old, came back rich to an indigent father, and made the old man's heart grow young again with joy. [from sharpe's magazine.] the light of home. it was years ago when we first became acquainted with lieutenant heathcote, an old half-pay officer who resided with his young grand-daughter in a tiny cottage. it was a very humble place, for they were poor; but it was extremely pretty, and there were many comforts, even elegances, to be found in the small rooms. the old gentleman delighted in cultivating the garden; the window of the sitting-room opened on it, and beneath this window, grew the choicest roses and pinks, so that the atmosphere of the apartment was in summer laden with their fragrance. the furniture was poor enough. mrs. ---- of ---- square would have said with a genteel sneer, that "all the room contained was not worth five sovereigns." to her--no! but to the simple hearted inmates of the cottage every chair and table was dear from long association, and they would not have exchanged them for all the grandeur of mrs. ----'s drawing-room suite, albeit her chairs were of inlaid rosewood, and cost six guineas apiece. if you went into that little humbly-furnished parlor about four o'clock on a summer's afternoon, you would find lieutenant heathcote seated in his easy chair (wheeled by careful hands to the precise angle of the window that he liked), his spectacles on, and the broad sheet of the newspaper spread before him. occasionally he puts down the newspaper for awhile, and then his eyes rove restlessly about the room, till at length they light on the figure of his unconscious grand-daughter. once there, they stay a good while, and when they turn to the newspaper again, there is a serene light in them, as though what they had seen had blessed them. yet an ordinary gazer would have found little or nothing attractive in the appearance of rose heathcote, for she was but a homely, innocent-looking girl, such as we meet with every day of our lives. her eyes were neither "darkly blue," nor "densely black," her tresses neither golden, nor redundant. she had, to be sure, a sufficient quantity of dark brown hair, which was very soft and pleasant to touch, her grandfather thought, when he placed his hand caressingly on her head, as he loved to do: and this hair was always prettily arranged--braided over her forehead in front, and twisted into a thick knot behind--a fashion which certainly showed to advantage the graceful form of her head, the solitary beauty, speaking critically, which the young girl possessed. however, lieutenant heathcote thought his little rose the prettiest girl in the world. eyes that look with love, lend beauty to what they gaze on. and no one who knew rose as she was in her home, could fail to love her. she was always up with the lark, and busied in various employments till her grandfather came down to breakfast. then she poured out the tea, cut the bread-and-butter, or made the toast, talking and laughing the while, in the spontaneous gayety of her heart. to eke out their little income, she had pupils who came to her every morning, and whom she taught all she knew, with a patient earnest zeal that amply compensated for her deficiency in the showy accomplishments of the day. so, after breakfast, the room was put in order, the flowers were watered, the birds were tended, grandpapa was made comfortable in his little study, and then the school books, the slates and copy-books were placed in readiness for the little girls: and then they came, and the weary business began, of english history, geography, arithmetic, and french verbs. the children were not very clever--sometimes, indeed, they were absolutely stupid, and obstinate, moreover; they must have tried her patience very often; but a harsh rebuke never issued from her lips: it was a species of selfishness in her not to chide them, for if she did so, though ever so mildly, the remembrance of it pained her gentle heart all day, and she was not quite happy until the little one was kissed and forgiven again. the children loved her very much and her pupils gradually increased in number. dazzling visions danced before her eyes, visions of wealth resulting from her labors; yes, wealth! for, poor innocent, the four or five golden sovereigns she had already put by, _her first earnings_, multiplied themselves wonderfully in her sanguine dreams. she had magnificent schemes floating in her little brain of luxuries to be obtained with this money--luxuries for her grandfather; a new easy chair, cushioned sumptuously, and a new pair of spectacles, gold mounted, and placed in a case of her own embroidery. thoughts of possible purchases for her own peculiar enjoyment sometimes intruded. there was a beautiful geranium she would like, and a new cage for her bird--a new bonnet, even for herself; for rose was not free from a little spice of womanly vanity, which is excusable, nay, lovable, because it is so womanly, and she was quite susceptible of the pleasure most young girls feel in seeing themselves prettily dressed. that these dreams might be realized, rose worked hard. she sat up late at night, arranging the exercises and lessons of her pupils, and rose early in the morning, in order that none of her household duties should be neglected. and in the course of time, this unceasing exertion began to injure her health, for she was not strong, although, hitherto, she had been but little prone to ailments. one morning she arose languid, feverish, and weak; she was compelled to give herself a holiday, and all day she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, in a kind of dreamy yet restless languor she had never felt before. her grandfather sat beside her, watching and tending her with all the care of a mother, reading aloud from her favorite books, ransacking his memory for anecdotes to amuse her, and smiling cheerfully when she raised her heavy eyes to his. but when she fell into a fitful doze, the old man's countenance changed; an indefinable look of agony and doubt came over his features; and involuntarily, as it seemed, he clasped his hands, while his lips moved as if in prayer. he was terrified by this strange illness; for the first time, the idea occurred to him that his darling might be taken away from him. the young sometimes left the world before the old, unnatural as it seemed; what if she should die? we always magnify peril when it comes near our beloved, and the old man gradually worked himself into a frenzy of anxiety respecting his child. the next day she was not better--a doctor was sent for, who prescribed rest and change of air if possible, assuring lieutenant heathcote that it was no serious disorder--she had overworked herself, that was all. it was the summer time, and some of rose's pupils were about to proceed to the sea-side. hearing of their dear miss heathcote's illness, they came to invite her to go with them, and the grandfather eagerly and joyfully accepted the offer for her, although she demurred a little. she did not like to leave him alone; she could not be happy, she said, knowing he would be dull and lonely without her; but her objections were overruled, and she went with her friends, the wilsons. it was pleasant to see the old man when he received her daily epistles. how daintily he broke the envelope, so as not to injure the little seal, and how fondly he regarded the delicate handwriting. the letters brought happier tidings every day; she was better, she was much better, she was well, she was stronger and rosier than ever, and enjoying herself much. those letters--long, beautiful letters they were--afforded the old man his chief pleasure now. his home was very desolate while she was away; the house looked changed, the birds sang less joyously, and the flowers were not so fragrant. every morning he attended to her pets, himself, and then he wandered about the rooms, taking up her books, her papers, and her various little possessions, and examining the contents of her work-basket with childish curiosity. in the twilight he would lean back in his chair, and try to fancy she was in the room with him. among the shadows, it was easy to imagine her figure, sitting as she used to sit, with drooped head and clasped hands, thinking. at these times, her letter received that morning, was taken from his bosom and kissed, and then the simple, loving old man would go to bed and dream of his grandchild. at length she came home. she rushed into her grandfather's arms with a strange eagerness: it was as if she sought there a refuge from peril; as if she fled to him for succor and comfort in some deep trouble. poor rose! she wept so long and so passionately; it could scarce have been all for joy. "darling! you are not sorry to come home, are you?" "oh no! so glad, so very, very glad!" and then she sobbed again, so convulsively, that the old man grew alarmed, and as he tried to soothe her into calmness, he gazed distrustfully in her face. alas! there was a look of deep suffering on her pale features that he had never seen there before; there was an expression of hopeless woe in her eyes, which it wrung his loving heart to behold. "rose!" he cried, in anguish, "what has happened? you are changed!" she kissed him tenderly, and strove to satisfy him by saying, that it was only the excitement of her return home that made her weep; she would be better the next morning, she said. but she was not better then. from the day of her return she faded away visibly. it was evident, and _he_ soon saw it, that some grief had come to her, which her already weakened frame was unable to bear. he remembered, only too well, that her mother had died of consumption, and when he saw her gradually grow weaker day by day, the hectic on her cheek deepen, and her hands become thin till they were almost transparent, all hope died in his heart, and he could only pray that heaven would teach him resignation, or take him too, when _she_ went. for a little while, rose attempted to resume her teaching, but she was soon compelled to give up. only, till the last she flitted about the cottage, performing her household duties as she had ever done, and being as she had ever been, the presiding spirit of the home that was so dear to her grandfather. in the winter evenings, too, they sat together, she in her olden seat at his feet, looking into the fire, and listening to the howling wind without, neither speaking, except at rare intervals, and then in a low and dreamy tone that harmonized with the time. one evening they had sat thus for a long time, the old man clasping her hands, while her head rested on his knee. the fire burned low and gave scarcely any light; the night was stormy, and the wind blew a hurricane. at every blast he felt her tremble. "god help those at sea," he cried, with a sudden impulse. "amen, amen!" said rose, solemnly, and though she started and shivered when he spoke, she kissed his hands afterward, almost as if in gratitude. there was a long pause; then she lifted her head, and said in a very low voice: "remember, dear grandpapa, if at any time, by-and-by, you should feel inclined to be angry, vexed, with--any one--because of me; you are to forgive them, for my sake: for my sake, my own grandpapa.--promise!" he did so, and she wound her arms lovingly round his neck, and kissed his brows, as of old she had done every night before retiring to rest. and then her head sunk on his shoulder, and she wept. in those tears how much was expressed that could find no other utterance! the lingering regret to die that the young must ever feel, even when life is most desolate; the tender gratitude for the deep love her grandfather had ever borne her; sorrow for him, and for herself! and he, silent and tearless as he sat, understood it all, and blessed her in his heart. the next day she died quietly, lying on her little bed, with her pale hands meekly folded on her breast; for her last breath exhaled in prayer for her grandfather--and one other. it happened that the wilsons and some other acquaintances came in the evening to inquire how she was. for sole reply, lieutenant heathcote, whose tearless eyes and rigid lips half frightened them, led them where she lay. they retired, weeping, subdued, and sad, and as they were leaving the cottage, he heard mrs. wilson say to her friend, while she dried her eyes: "poor girl, poor girl! she was very amiable, we all liked her exceedingly. i am afraid though, on one occasion, i was rather harsh to her, and, poor child, she seemed to take it a good deal to heart. but the fact was, that our edward, i half fancied"--there followed a whispering, and then, in a louder tone--"but his father, thinking with me, sent him off to sea, and there was an end of the matter." an end of the matter! alas! think of the bereaved old man, wandering about his desolate abode, _home_ to him no longer; with the sad, wistful look on his face of one who continually seeks something that is not there. the cottage, too, was very different now to what it had been; the _home_ that was so beautiful was gone with her. he set her little bird at liberty the day she died; he could not bear to hear it singing, joyously as when _she_ had been there to listen. but for this, the parlor always remained in the same state it was in on that last evening. the empty cage in the window, a bunch of withered flowers on a chair where they had fallen from her bosom, and the book she had been reading, open at the very page she had left off. every morning the old man stole into the room to gaze around on these mute memorials of his lost darling. this was the only solace of his life now, and we may imagine what it cost him to leave it. but when they came and told him he must give up possession of his cottage, that it was to be razed to the ground shortly, he only remonstrated feebly, and finally submitted. he was old, and he hoped to die soon, but death does not always come to those longing for it. he may be living yet, for aught we know; but he has never been heard of in his old neighborhood for years, and we may hope that he is happier, that he has at length gone home to _her_. [from dickens's household words.] how we went whaling off the cape of good hope. at algoa bay, in the eastern provinces of the cape colony, there is, and has been for thirty years, a whaling establishment. by what instinct these monsters of the deep ascertain the settlement of man on the shores they frequent, it would be difficult to say. but that they do so, and that they then comparatively desert such coasts is undoubted. where one whale is now seen off the southeastern coast of africa, twenty were seen in former times, when the inhabitants of the country were few. it is the same in new zealand, and every other whale-frequented coast. nevertheless, the whaling establishment i have mentioned is still kept up in algoa bay--and with good reason. _one_ whale per annum will pay all the expenses and outgoings of its maintenance; every other whale taken in the course of a year is a clear profit. the value of a whale depends, of course, upon its size--the average is from three hundred pounds to six hundred pounds. the establishment in algoa bay consists of a stone-built house for the residence of the foreman, with the coppers and boiling-houses attached; a wooden boat-house, in which are kept three whale-boats, with all the lines and tackle belonging to them; and a set of javelins, harpoons, and implements for cutting up the whales' carcases. then, there are a boat's crew of picked men, six in number, besides the coxswain and the harpooner. there are seldom above two or three whales taken in the course of a year; occasionally not one. the appearance of a whale in the bay is known immediately, and great is the excitement caused thereby in the little town of port elizabeth, close to which the whaling establishment is situated. it is like a sudden and unexpected gala, got up for the entertainment of the inhabitants, with nothing to pay. a treat of this sort is suddenly got up by the first appearance of a whale in those parts. tackle-boats and men are got ready in a twinkling. we jump into the stern-sheets of the boat. six weather-beaten, muscular tars are at work at the oars, and there, in the bows, stands the harpooner, preparing his tackle; a boy is by his side. coils of line lie at their feet, with harpoons attached to them, and two or three spears or javelins. "pull away, boys; there she blows again!" cries the coxswain, and at each stroke the strong men almost lift the little craft out of the water. the harpooner says nothing; he is a very silent fellow; but woe to the unlucky whale that comes within the whirl of his unerring harpoon! meantime, our fat friend of the ocean is rolling himself about, as if such things as harpoons never existed; as if he were an infidel in javelins. we are approaching him, a dozen more strokes and we shall be within aim. yet the harpooner seems cool and unmoved as ever; he holds the harpoon it is true, but he seems to grasp it no tighter, nor to make any preparation for a strike. he knows the whale better than we do--better than his crew. he has been a harpooner for thirty years, and once harpooned twenty-six whales in one year with his own hand. he was right not to hurry himself, you see, for the whale has at last caught sight of us, and has plunged below the surface. now, however, the harpooner makes an imperceptible sign to the coxswain. the coxswain says, "give way, boys," scarcely above his breath, and the boat skims faster than ever over the waves. the harpooner's hand clutches more tightly the harpoon, and he slowly raises his arm; his mouth is compressed, but his face is as calm as ever. a few yards ahead of us a wave seems to swell above the others--"whiz"--at the very moment you catch sight of the whale's back again above the water, the harpoon is in it eighteen inches deep, hurled by the unerring arm of the silent harpooner. the red blood of the monster gushes forth, "incarnadining" (as macbeth says) the waves. "back water," shouts the harpooner, as the whale writhes with the pain, and flings his huge body about with force enough to submerge twenty of our little crafts at one blow. but he has plunged down again below the surface, and the pace at which he dives you may judge of, by the wonderful rapidity with which the line attached to the harpoon runs over the bows of the boat. now, too, you see the use of the boy who is bailing water from the sea in a small bucket, and pouring it incessantly over the edge of the boat where the line runs, or in two minutes the friction would set fire to it. you begin to think the whale is never coming back; but the crew know better. see too, the line is running out more slowly every instant; it ceases altogether now, and hangs slackly over the boat's side. he is coming up exhausted to breathe again. there are a few moments of suspense, during which the harpooner is getting ready and poising one of the javelins. it is longer, lighter, and sharper than the harpoon, but it has no line attached to it. the harpoon is to catch--the javelin to kill. slowly the whale rises again, but he is not within aim. "pull again boys"--while the boy is hauling in the line as fast as he can. we are near enough now. again a whiz--again another--and the harpooner has sent two javelins deep into the creature's body; while the blood flows fast. suddenly, the whale dashes forward. no need of pulling at the oars now; we are giving him fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking us through the water at the rate of twenty miles an hour at least. one would fancy that the harpoons and the javelins have only irritated him, and that the blood he has lost has diminished nothing of his strength. not so, however; the pace slackens now: we are scarcely moving through the water. "pull again, boys," and we approach; while another deadly javelin pierces him. this time he seems to seek revenge. he dashes toward us--what can save us? "back water," cries the harpooner, while the coxswain taking the hint at the same moment, with a sweep of his oar the little boat performs a kind of curvet backward, and the monster has shot past us unharming, but not unharmed; the harpooner, cool as ever, has hurled another javelin deep into him, and smiles half pityingly at this impotent rage, which, he knows full well, bodes a termination of the contest. the red blood is spouting forth from four wounds, "neither as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church-door," but _enough_ to kill--even a whale. he rolls over heavily and slowly; a few convulsive movements shake his mighty frame; then he floats motionless on the water--and the whale is dead! ropes are now made fast round him, and he is slowly towed away to shore, opposite the whaling establishment. a crowd is collected to see his huge body hauled up on to the beach, and to speculate on his size and value. in two days all his blubber is cut away and melting in the coppers. vultures are feeding on his flesh, and men are cleansing his bones. in two months, barrels of his oil are waiting for shipment to england. the fringe-work which lined his mouth, and which we call whalebone, is ready for the uses to which ladies apply it. his teeth, which are beautiful ivory, are being fashioned into ornaments by the turner; and his immense ribs are serving as landmarks on the different farms about the country, for which purpose they are admirably adapted. meanwhile our friend the harpooner and his crew are reposing on their laurels, and looking out for fresh luck; while the proprietor of the establishment is five hundred pounds the richer from this "catching a whale." hydrophobia. m. buisson has written to the paris academy of sciences, to claim as his, a small treatise on hydrophobia, addressed to the academy so far back as , and signed with a single initial. the case referred to in that treatise was his own. the particulars, and the mode of cure adopted, were as follows:--he had been called to visit a woman who, for three days, was said to be suffering under this disease. she had the usual symptoms--constriction of the throat, inability to swallow, abundant secretion of saliva, and foaming at the mouth. her neighbors said that she had been bitten by a mad dog about forty days before. at her own urgent entreaties, she was bled, and died a few hours after, as was expected. m. buisson, who had his hands covered with blood, incautiously cleansed them with a towel which had been used to wipe the mouth of the patient. he then had an ulceration upon one of his fingers, yet thought it sufficient to wipe off the saliva that adhered, with a little water. the ninth day after, being in his cabriolet, he was suddenly seized with a pain in his throat, and one, still greater, in his eyes. the saliva was continually pouring into his mouth; the impression of a current of air, the sight of brilliant bodies, gave him a painful sensation; his body appeared to him so light that he felt as though he could leap to a prodigious height. he experienced, he said, a wish to run and bite, not men, but animals and inanimate bodies. finally, he drank with difficulty, and the sight of water was still more distressing to him than the pain in his throat. these symptoms recurred every five minutes, and it appeared to him as though the pain commenced in the affected finger, and extended thence to the shoulder. from the whole of the symptoms, he judged himself afflicted with hydrophobia, and resolved to terminate his life by stifling himself in a vapor bath. having entered one for this purpose, he caused the heat to be raised to ° " fahr., when he was equally surprised and delighted to find himself free of all complaint. he left the bathing-room well, dined heartily, and drank more than usual. since that time, he says, he has treated in the same manner more than eighty persons bitten, in four of whom the symptoms had declared themselves; and in no case has he failed, except in that of one child, seven years old, who died in the bath. the mode of treatment he recommends is, that the person bit should take a certain number of vapor baths (commonly called russian), and should induce every night a violent perspiration, by wrapping himself in flannels, and covering himself with a feather-bed; the perspiration is favored by drinking freely of a warm decoction of sarsaparilla. he declares, so convinced is he of the efficacy of his mode of treatment, that he will suffer himself to be inoculated with the disease. as a proof of the utility of copious and continual perspiration, he relates the following anecdote: a relative of the musician gretry was bitten by a mad dog, at the same time with many other persons, who all died of hydrophobia. for his part, feeling the first symptoms of the disease, he took to dancing, night and day, saying that he wished to die gayly. he recovered. m. buisson also cites the old stories of dancing being a remedy for the bite of a tarantula; and draws attention to the fact, that the animals in whom this madness is most frequently found to develop itself spontaneously, are dogs, wolves, and foxes, which never perspire. the doom of the slaver. an english story of the african blockade. on a glorious day, with a bright sun and a light breeze, her majesty's brig semiramis stood along under easy sail, on a n.w. course up the channel of mozambique. save the man at the wheel and the "look-outs" in the tops, every one seemed taking it easy. and indeed there was no inducement to exertion; for the sky was cloudless, and the temperature of that balmy warmth that makes mere existence a luxury. the men, therefore, continued their "yarns" as they lounged in little groups about the deck; the middies invented new mischief, or teased the cook; the surgeon divided his time between watching the flying-fish and reading a new work on anatomy (though he never turned a fresh page); while the lieutenant of the watch built "châteux-en-espagne," or occasionally examined, with his telescope, the blue hills of madagascar in the distance. "sail ho!" shouted the look-out in the foretop. "where away?" cried the lieutenant, springing to his feet, while at the same moment every man seemed to have lost his listlessness, and to be eager for action of any kind. "over the starboard quarter, making sou' west." the captain hastened on deck, while the second lieutenant ran aloft to have a look at the strange craft. "what do you make her out, mr. saunders?" asked the captain. "a fore-and-aft schooner, hull down." "'bout ship," cried the captain; and in an instant every man was at his post. "helm's a lee--raise tacks and sheets"--"mainsail haul," &c.; and in five minutes the semiramis was standing in pursuit of the stranger, while the men were employed in "cracking on" all sail to aid in the chase. what is it that makes a chase of any kind so exciting? the indescribable eagerness which impels human nature to hunt any thing huntable is not exaggerated in "vathek," in which the population of a whole city is described as following in the chase of a black genie, who rolled himself up into a ball and trundled away before them, attracting even the halt and the blind to the pursuit. but who shall describe the excitement of a chase at sea? how eagerly is every eye strained toward the retreating sails! how anxiously is the result of each successive heaving of the log listened for! how many are the conjectures as to what the stranger ahead may prove to be! and how ardent are the hopes that she may turn out a prize worth taking! for be it remembered that, unlike the chase of a fox on land, where no one cares for the object pursued, cupidity is enlisted to add to the excitement of a chase at sea. visions of prize-money float before the eyes of every one of the pursuers, from the captain to the cabin-boy. the semiramis, being on the tack she had now taken, considerably to the windward of the stranger, there was every chance of her soon overtaking her, provided the latter held the course she was now steering. but who could hope that she would do that! indeed, all on board the brig expected every moment to hear that she was lying off and running away. if she did not do so, it would be almost a proof that she was engaged in lawful commerce, and not what they had expected, and, in truth, hoped. an hour had passed; and the semiramis had visibly gained on the schooner; so much so, that the hull of the latter, which was long, low, black, and rakish-looking, could now be seen from the brig's tops. "surely they must see us," said the captain. "she's just the build of the don pedro we took off this coast," said the second lieutenant, from the maintop. "i hope she will turn out a better prize," replied the captain. the truth is, they had captured that same don pedro, condemned her, and broken her up. the captain and owners of her had appealed; proved to the satisfaction of the admiralty that she was _not_ engaged in the slave trade; and, consequently, every man on board the semiramis who had assisted at her capture, was obliged to cash up his quota of "damages" instead of pocketing prize-money. the don pedro, therefore, was a sore subject on board the semiramis. another hour elapsed: the hull of the schooner began to be visible from the deck of the cruiser. she was a wicked-looking craft; and jack slapped his pockets in anticipation of the cash she would bring into them. "well, it's odd she don't alter course, anyhow," said the boatswain on the forecastle; "may be she wants to throw us off the scent, by pretending to be all right and proper, and not to have a notion that we can be coming after her." "show the colors," cried the captain on the quarter-deck; "let's see what flag she sports." the british ensign was soon floating from the semiramis; but the schooner at first showed no colors in reply. presently the first lieutenant, who was watching her through the glass, cried out, "brazilian by jove!" there was a short pause. every sort of spy-glass in the ship was in requisition. every eye was strained to its utmost visual tension. the captain broke the silence with "holloa! she's easing off; going to run for it at last." "she's a _leetle_ too late," said the lieutenant. "before the wind these fore-and-aft schooners are tubs, though _on_ the wind they're clippers." however, it was clear that the schooner had at last resolved to run for her life. by going off with the wind she got a good start of the brig; and, although it was her worst point of sailing, still the breeze was so light that, while it suited her, it was insufficient to make the heavier brig sail well. for three hours the chase continued, and neither vessel seemed to gain on the other; but the breeze was now freshening, and the semiramis at length began to diminish the distance between herself and the brazilian. right ahead, in the course they were pursuing, lay a point of land projecting far into the sea, and the chart showed a tremendous reef of rocks extending some three miles beyond it. it was certain that neither vessels could clear the reef, if they held the course they were then steering. "keep her a little more to windward," cried the captain. "we shall have her; she will be obliged to haul up in about an hour's time, and then she can't escape, as we shall be well to windward." the hour went by; and still the schooner showed no signs of altering her course. the captain of the semiramis again examined his charts; but the reef was clearly laid down, and it seemed utterly impossible that the schooner could weather it by the course she was then steering. yet, either from ignorance of the danger, or from the determination to brave it, she tried; knowing that if she escaped it and cleared the point, she would have gained an immense advantage over her pursuers. it would be impossible to describe the anxiety with which all on board the semiramis now watched the little brazilian. she was literally rushing into the jaws of destruction; and, as she rose over each successive wave, it seemed as if she must be dashed on the treacherous reef at the next dip. still she stood bravely on; and, though doubtless the lips of those on board her might be quivering at that moment in the agony of suspense, the little craft looked so beautiful, and sailed so gayly, her white sails and slender spars flashing in the sunlight that even her pursuers mentally prayed for her safety, quite irrespective of the prize-money they would lose by her destruction on the rocks. jack does not like to see a pretty craft run ashore, at any price. they began almost to think the schooner "bore a charmed life;" for she seemed to be floating over the very reef itself, and the white foam of the breakers could be seen all round her. "blessed, if i don't think she's the flying dutchman," said one blue jacket to another. "gammon, bill--ain't we round the cape? and don't you know that's just where the flying dutchman never could get to?" replied his messmate. the little schooner bounded onward merrily--suddenly she staggers, and every spar shivers. "she has struck!" cried twenty voices at once. now she rises with a coming wave, and now she settles down again with a violence that brings her topmasts on the deck. "out with the boats," is the order on board the semiramis, and the men fly to execute it. another wave lifts the schooner--another fearful crash--she rolls over--her decks are rent asunder--her crew are struggling in the water--and with them (every man shudders at the sight) hundreds of negroes, manacled to each other and fettered to the lower deck, are shot out into the foam. bravely pulled the seamen in the boats of the semiramis; but two strong swimmers, who had fought their way through the boiling surf were all they saved. so slight was the build of the little schooner that she had gone to pieces instantly on striking; and, within sight of the semiramis, within hearing of the death-shrieks that rent the air from _six hundred and thirty human beings_, who, shackled together with heavy irons, were dashed among the waters, and perished a slow and helpless death, two only of their jailers survived to tell of the number that had sunk! surely this sad tale may at least be added to the catalogue of ills produced by england's "good intentions" in striving to suppress the slave trade. industry of the insane. the change that has taken place of late years in the treatment of insane patients, presents one of the finest features in the civilization of the age; but the boon of wholesome labor is, perhaps, the greatest benefit that has yet been conferred upon this class of sufferers. the fact is strikingly illustrated in the annual report for the last year of the royal edinburgh asylum. the number of patients treated was , and at the close of the year there remained as inmates . of this latter number, upward of were employed daily, and sometimes as many as working in the open air in the extensive grounds of the asylum. "among these," says dr. skae, "may be daily seen many of the most violent and destructive of the inmates busily engaged in wheeling earth, manure, or stones, who for years have done little else than destroy their clothing, or spend their days and nights in restless agitation, or incoherent raving. the strong necessity which appears to exist, in many cases, for continual movement, or incessant noise, seems to find vent as naturally in active manual labor, if it can with any propriety be substituted and regulated." and a curious illustration of this is given in the case of "one of the most violent, restless, and unmanageable inmates of the asylum during the past year," whose calling was that of a miner. he was "tall and muscular, and occupied himself, if permitted to mix with others, in pursuing his fellow-patients, and fighting with them; if left alone in the airing courts, in running round and knocking his elbows violently on the stone walls; and if secluded, in continual vociferations and incessant knocking on the wall. i directed him to be sent to the grounds, and employed with the wheelbarrow--a special attendant being intrusted with him on his _début_. hard work seemed to be all he required. he spent his superfluous energies in wheeling stones; he soon proved himself to be one of the most useful and able-bodied of the awkward squad, and ere long was restored to his natural condition--that of a weak-minded but industrious coal-miner." oakum-picking proves a useful occupation not only for imbeciles capable of no higher industry, but for malingerers and idlers, who are soon anxious to escape from it into the shoemaker's, tailor's, blacksmith's, or carpenter's shops. "in the same manner the females have been gradually broken into habits of industry to a degree hitherto unprecedented. those who have done nothing for many years but mutter to themselves, or crouch in corners, now sew or knit from morning till night. knitting, sewing, straw-bonnet making, and other occupations, are carried on throughout the house to such an extent that, i fear, in a very short time, unless some outlet is obtained for exportations, we shall be at a loss to know what to do." in addition to the usual handicraft employments, which are all practiced in the establishment, it is interesting to observe that some patients occupy themselves in engraving, drawing, and land-surveying. a considerable portion of one of the houses has been elegantly painted, and in part refurnished, by the patients.--_chambers._ monthly record of current events. congress adjourned on the th of september, in accordance with the resolution noticed in the last number of the magazine. very little business of general interest was transacted in addition to that of which a record has already been made. the appropriation bills were passed, and in one of them was inserted a prohibition of flogging in the navy and aboard merchant vessels of the united states, which received the sanction of both houses and became a law. a provision was also inserted, granting land bounties to soldiers in the war of , and in any of the previous wars of the united states. the passage of the bill involving, directly or indirectly, the slavery issue, of which we have already given a full account, restored a greater degree of harmony and of calmness to both branches of congress than had hitherto prevailed, and the same influence has had an important effect, though to a less extent, upon the country at large. the political incidents of the month have not been without interest. a state convention, representing the whigs of new york, assembled at syracuse, on the th of september, for the nomination of state officers. hon. francis granger was chosen president, and a committee was appointed to report resolutions expressing the sentiments of the convention,--hon. william duer, member of congress from the oswego district, being chairman. the resolutions were at once reported. they expressed confidence in the national administration, approved the measures recently adopted by congress connected with slavery, and declared the respect of the convention for the motives which had animated the whig senator from new york, and the majority of the new york congressional delegation in the course they had taken upon them. by a vote of the majority, the convention proceeded to the nomination of state officers--the minority refusing to participate in the current business until the resolutions should have been acted on. hon. washington hunt was nominated for governor, george j. cornell, of new york city, for lieutenant governor, ebenezer blakely, for canal commissioner, abner baker, for state prison inspector, and wessel s. smith, for clerk of the court of appeals. after the nominations had been made, the resolutions were taken up. a substitute for part of them was offered by hon. george w. cornwell of cayuga county, expressing confidence in the ability, patriotism, and statesmanship of president fillmore, and approving of the course pursued by mr. seward in the senate of the united states. the latter resolution passed by a vote of to ; and the minority immediately withdrew from the convention, the president, mr. granger, leaving the chair, and organized anew elsewhere. one of the vice presidents took the chair thus vacated, and the convention, after completing its business, and appointing a state whig central committee, adjourned. the seceders appointed a committee to issue an address, and adjourned. the address soon after appeared, and after reciting the history of the syracuse convention, aiming to show that its approval of the course of senator seward deprived its doings of all binding force, concluded by calling a convention of delegates, representing those whigs who disapproved of the action at syracuse, to be held at utica, on the th of october. delegates were accordingly elected in nearly all the counties of the state, and the convention met on the day appointed. hon. francis granger was elected president. resolutions, setting forth the position and principles of those represented, were passed, and the candidates nominated at syracuse were adopted. the convention appointed another state central committee, and then adjourned. it will be observed that the only point in which the two conventions came into collision, so far as future political movements are concerned, is in the appointment of those two committees. each will, undoubtedly, endeavor to exercise the ordinary functions of such committees, in calling state conventions, &c., and thus will arise a direct conflict of claims which may lead to a permanent division of the party.----hon. washington hunt has written a letter in reply to inquiries from mr. granger, in which he declines to express any opinion as to the differences which arose at syracuse. so far as that difference relates to the merits of individuals, he considers it unworthy the attention of a great party, each individual of which must be left entirely at liberty to entertain his own opinion and preferences. he considers the whigs of the north pledged to oppose the extension of slavery into free territory, and refers to their previous declarations upon the subject, to show that the south must not ask or expect them to abandon that position. he says that the terms on which the texas boundary dispute was settled, were not altogether satisfactory to him, but he nevertheless cheerfully acquiesces in them since they have become the law of the land. he expresses dissatisfaction with the provisions of the fugitive slave bill, thinking it far more likely to increase agitation than allay it, and says that it will require essential modifications. he very earnestly urges union and harmony in the councils of the whig party.----the anti-renters held a convention at albany, and made up a ticket for state offices, selected from the nominations of the two political parties. hon. washington hunt was adopted as their candidate for governor, and ebenezer blakely for canal commissioner--both being the whig nominees for the same offices: the others were taken from the democratic ticket.----considerable excitement prevails in some of the southern states in consequence of the admission of california at the late session of congress. governor quitman of mississippi has called an extra session of the legislature, to commence on the d of november, to consider what measures of resistance and redress are proper. in south carolina a similar sentiment prevails, though the governor has decided, for prudential reasons, not to convene the legislature in extra session. in georgia a state convention, provided for in certain contingencies at the late session of the legislature, is soon to meet, and a very active popular canvass is going on for the election of delegates--the character of the measures to be adopted forming the dividing line. some are for open resistance and practical secession from the union, while others oppose such a course as unwarranted by any thing experienced thus far, and as certain to entail ruin upon the southern states. hon. c.j. jenkins, who declined a seat in the cabinet, tendered to him by president fillmore, has taken very high ground against the disunionists, saying that no action hostile to the south has been had by congress, but that all her demands have been conceded. in every southern state a party exists warmly in favor of preserving the union, and in most of them it will probably be successful.----the legislature of vermont commenced its annual session on the th ult. hon. solomon foote has been elected u.s. senator to succeed hon. s.s. phelps whose term expires in march next.----george n. briggs has been nominated by the whigs for re-election as governor of massachusetts.----the _arctic_, the third of the american line of mail steamers, between new york and liverpool, is completed, and will very soon take her place; the _baltic_ will soon be ready.----the assessed value of real and personal property in the city of new york, according to a late report of the board of supervisors, is set at millions; the tax on which is $ , . this property is all taxed to about , persons. the increase for the year is thirty millions, nearly per cent. the value of the real and personal estate of the state of new york, according to the last report of the comptroller, was $ , , . the state tax of amounted to $ , . ; of which $ , , or nearly one half, was paid by the city.----some years since a colony of swedes settled in the northwestern part of illinois, in henry county, near the mississippi. they are represented as an industrious and thriving people, supporting themselves chiefly by the manufacture of table-cloths, napkins, sheets, and other linens. last year they suffered much from the cholera; but their numbers will soon be increased by a new colony of about members who are now on their way from sweden, and are expected soon to arrive with a considerable amount of capital, the fruits of the sale of their own property, and the property of their brethren already here.----a good deal of excitement prevails in some of the northern states in regard to the execution of the new law for the recovery of fugitive slaves. the first instance in which it was carried into effect occurred in new york city, where a fugitive named james hamlet, who had lived in williamsburgh for some two years with his family, was apprehended, taken to baltimore, and restored to his owner. the process was so summary that no resistance was offered or excitement created: but after the whole was over a great deal of feeling was elicited, and money enough was speedily raised by subscription to purchase the slave, who was returned to his family amidst great public demonstrations of rejoicing among the colored population. in detroit an attempt to arrest a fugitive excited a popular resistance to suppress which it was found necessary to call out troops of the united states; the negro was seized, but purchased by voluntary subscriptions. large public meetings have been held in various cities and towns, to protest against the law, and to devise measures for defeating its operation. one of the largest was held at boston on the th ult., at which hon. josiah quincy presided. the tone of the address and resolutions was less inflammatory than in many other places, as obedience to the law while it stands upon the statute book was enjoined; but its spirit was warmly reprobated, and the necessity of agitating for its immediate repeal was strongly urged. fugitives from service at the south are very numerous in portions of the northern states. many of them, since the passage of the law, have taken refuge in canada, while others depend on the sympathy of the community in which they live for immunity from the operation of the law. the law undoubtedly requires modification in some of its details, but the main object it is designed to secure is so clearly within the provisions of the federal constitution that its enforcement is universally felt to be a public duty.----jenny lind, whose arrival and public reception in new york were mentioned in our last number, has been giving concerts in that city, boston, providence, and philadelphia. in each place there has been a strong competition in the purchase of the first ticket for the first concert. in new york it was sold for $ ; in boston for $ ; in providence $ ; and in philadelphia $ . the evident object of the purchaser in each case was notoriety. her concerts have been densely crowded, and the public excitement in regard to her continues unabated.----intelligence has been received from rome, that the pope, at the request of the late council assembled in baltimore, has erected the see of new york into an arch-episcopal see, with the sees of boston, hartford, albany, and buffalo, as suffragan sees. the right rev. bishop hughes is, of course, elevated to the dignity of archbishop. the brief of the pope is signed by cardinal lambruschini, and is dated on the th of july last.----public sentiment in texas seems to be decidedly in favor of accepting the terms offered in the boundary bill. no official action has yet been had upon the subject, but it is believed that the legislature will either accept the proposition at once or submit it to a popular vote. mr. kaufman, one of the members of congress from that state, has addressed a circular to his constituents, refuting many of the objections that have been urged against the bill. the area of texas, with the boundary now established, is , miles, which is more than five times that of new-york.----an interesting official correspondence between our government and that of central america, has recently been published, mainly relating to the subject of canals and railroads across the isthmus. mr. clayton's plan appears to have been to encourage, by every constitutional means, every railroad company, as well as every canal company, that sought to shorten the transit between the american states on both oceans. for this purpose he endeavored to extend the protection of this government to the railroads at panama and tehuantepec. it was not his purpose to exclude other nations from the right of passage, but to admit them all on the same terms; that is, provided they would all agree equally to protect the routes--a principle adopted originally by president jackson, in pursuance of a resolution of the senate, of which mr. clayton was the author, while a member of that body, on the d of march, . the principles of this resolution were fully sustained by general jackson, who sent mr. biddle to central america and new grenada for the purpose, and were afterward fully adopted by president polk, as appears by his message transmitting to the senate the treaty for the panama railroad. general taylor followed in the same train with his predecessors, as appears by his message of december last, thus fully sustaining the views of the senate resolution of the d of march, , the principles of which may now be considered as illustrating the policy of the american government on this subject.----in accordance with the provisions of the treaty recently concluded with the united states, the british government has withdrawn all its demands for port and other dues from the harbor of san juan de nicaragua, and the navigation of that noble river and the lakes connected with it are fully open to american enterprise.----a shock of an earthquake was felt at cleveland, ohio, on the st of october. the shock lasted about two seconds, and was so violent as to produce a jarring and rattling of windows and furniture, and was accompanied by a rumbling sound, like distant thunder, which lasted three or four seconds. on the same night a very brilliant meteor was observed in the eastern states, and a very remarkable aurora at sea.----the general convention of the episcopal church has been in session at cincinnati. the house of bishops, to which the subject had been referred by the diocese of new york, has decided against the restoration of bishop onderdonk, by a vote of two to one, and the general convention has provided for the election of an assistant bishop in such cases.----conventions in virginia and indiana are in session for the revision of the constitutions of those states.----the u.s. consul at valparaiso has written a letter concerning the establishment of a line of monthly steamers between that port and panama. since the discovery of the gold mines in california, he says, the travel and trade upon that coast has increased fivefold. for the last ten years there has been in successful operation a line of english steamers plying between panama, in new grenada, and valparaiso, in chili, with a grant from the british government of _one hundred thousand dollars per annum_, for the purpose of carrying the english mail; which, together with the immense amount of travel, in the last four years, renders it a most lucrative monopoly. the charter, originally granted to the company for ten years, has lately expired, and the liberal republics of chili, peru, ecuador, and bolivia have peremptorily refused to renew the monopoly, and have generously opened their ports to the competition of american steamers. between valparaiso and panama there are twenty-one different ports at which these steamers stop, in performing their monthly trips to and fro, for freight and passengers, leaving panama on the th and valparaiso on the th of each month. the voyage is punctually performed in twenty-four days. the feasibility of establishing an american line of steamers upon that coast is strongly urged. the wealth of the silver mines of copiapo is so great that every english steamer at panama transmits hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth to england in solid bars. * * * * * from california we have intelligence to the th of september. the disturbances at sacramento city, growing out of resistance to the land claims, have entirely subsided, the squatters having been dispersed. three or four persons were killed upon each side in the riots of which we have already given an account. a gentleman had arrived in california deputed by mr. letcher, u.s. minister in mexico, to attend to the settlement of land titles. he had expressed the belief that most of the grants made by the governors before the acquisition of california by the united states will be confirmed by our government, on the evidence mr. letcher is prepared to furnish from the official records in the city of mexico, as to the invariable practice of the mexican government in this particular. his assurances upon the subject had given general satisfaction.----early in september there was a complete panic in the money market at san francisco, and several of the most prominent houses had failed. confidence, however, had been fully restored at the date of our latest advices. the losses by the three great fires which had visited the city were supposed to have occasioned the monetary difficulties.----fears were entertained that the overland emigrants would suffer greatly during the present season. it was believed that ten thousand were on the way who had not crossed the great desert, one half of whom would be destitute of subsistence and teams on reaching carson river. they had been deceived into taking a longer and more difficult route, and had lost most of their animals, and not unfrequently men, women, and children had sunk under the hardships of the road, and perished of hunger or thirst.----indian difficulties still continued in different parts of california, the troops and citizens were making some progress in breaking up the bands which caused them the most difficulty.----the accounts from the mines continue to be highly encouraging. it is unnecessary to give in detail the reports from the various localities; they were all yielding abundant returns. it was believed that much larger quantities of gold will be taken from the mines this season than ever before.----from the st of august to sept. th, there arrived at san francisco by sea persons, and had left.----the tax upon foreign miners does not succeed as a revenue measure.----the expedition which sailed in july last to the klamath and umpqua rivers, has returned to san francisco. it has been ascertained that the klamath and trinity unite, and form the river which discharges its waters into the sea, in latitude ° ´ north, and that there is no river answering to the description of the klamath, in ° ´, as laid down in the charts of frémont and wilkes. from this river, the expedition visited the umpqua, which they found to have an opening into the sea, of nearly one mile in width, with some three or four fathoms of water on the bar, and navigable about thirty miles up, when it opens into a rich agricultural district. * * * * * from oregon our advices are to sept. . there is no news of general interest. the country seems to be steadily prosperous. new towns are springing up at every accessible point, and a commercial interest being awakened that is highly commendable. the frequency of communication by steam between california and oregon strongly identifies their interests. * * * * * from england there is no intelligence of much interest. the reception of baron haynau by the brewers of london has engaged the attention, and excited the discussion of all the organs of opinion in europe. most of the english journals condemn in the most earnest language the conduct of the mob, as disgraceful to the country, while only a few of them express any special sympathy with the victim of it. the london _times_ is more zealous in his defense than any other paper. it not only denounces the treatment he received at the hands of the english populace, but endeavors to vindicate him from the crimes laid to his charge, and assails the hungarian officers and soldiers in turn with great bitterness. in its anxiety to apologize for haynau, it asserts that english officers, and among them the duke of wellington and general sir lacy evans, committed acts during their campaigns quite as severe as those with which he is charged. this line of defense, however, avails but little with the english people. the public sentiment is unanimous in branding haynau as one of the most ruthless monsters of modern times, and the verdict is abundantly sustained by the incidents and deeds of his late campaigns. after his expulsion from england he returned to austria, being received with execrations and indignities at several cities on his route.----further advices have been received from the arctic expedition sent in search of sir john franklin, but they contain no satisfactory intelligence. a report, derived from an esquimaux indian whom sir john ross met near the northern extremity of baffin's bay, states that in the winter of two ships were broken by the ice a good way off from that place, and destroyed by the natives, and that the officers and crews, being without ammunition, were killed by the indians. the story is very loosely stated, and is generally discredited in england. the vessel, prince albert, attached to the expedition, has arrived at aberdeen, and announced the discovery, at cape reilley and beechy island, at the entrance of the wellington channel, of traces of five places where tents had been fixed, of great quantities of beef, pork, and birds' bones, and of a piece of rope with the woolwich mark upon it. these were considered, with slight grounds, however, undoubted traces of sir john franklin's expedition. the exploring vessels were pushing boldly up wellington channel.----the preparations for the great industrial exhibition of , are going on rapidly and satisfactorily. in nearly every country of europe, extensive arrangements are in progress for taking part in it, while in london the erection of the necessary buildings is steadily going forward.----a curious and interesting correspondence with respect to the cultivation of cotton in liberia has taken place between president roberts, of liberia, lord palmerston, the board of trade, and the chamber of commerce at manchester, tending to show that cotton may be made a most important article of cultivation in the african republic.----lord clarendon has been making the tour of ireland, and has been received in a very friendly manner by the people of every part of the island. he took every opportunity of encouraging the people to rely upon their own industry and character for prosperity, and pledged the cordial co-operation of the country in all measures that seemed likely to afford them substantial aid or relief.----the statutes constituting the queen's university in ireland have received the sanction of the queen, and gone into effect.----a captain mogg has been tried and fined for endangering lives by setting the wheels of his steamboat in operation while a number of skiffs and other light boats were in his immediate vicinity.----the ship indian, a fine east indiaman, was wrecked on the th of april, near the mauritius. she struck upon a reef and almost immediately went to pieces. the utmost consternation prevailed among the officers and crew. the captain seized and lowered the boat, and with eight seamen left the ship: they were never heard of again. those who remained succeeded in constructing a rude raft, on which they lived fourteen days, suffering greatly from hunger and thirst, and were finally rescued by a passing ship.----two steamers, the superb and polka, were lost, the former on the th, and the latter on the th, between the island of jersey and st. malo. no lives were lost by the superb, but ten persons perished in the wreck of the polka.----the queen has been visiting scotland.----some of the irish papers have been telling astounding stories of apparitions of the _great sea serpent_. a mr. t. buckley, writing from kinsale on the th instant, informs the cork reporter that he was induced by some friends to go to sea, in the hope of falling in with the interesting stranger, and that he was not long kept in suspense, for "a little to the west of the old head the monster appeared." its size, he truly avers, is beyond all description, and the head, he adds, very like a (bottle-nose) whale. one of the party fired the usual number of shots, but, of course, without effect. * * * * * of literary intelligence there is but little in any quarter. a good deal of interest has been excited by a discreditable attack made by the whig review upon the distinguished author mr. g.p.r. james. the review discovered in an old number of the dublin university magazine some verses written by mr. james for a friend who without his knowledge sent them for publication. they were upon the clamor that was then afloat about war between england and the united states: mr. james, alluding to the threats from america against england, had said that "bankrupt states were blustering high;" and had also spoken of slavery in the united states as a "living lie," which british hands in the event of a war, would wipe out and let their bondmen free. the review denounces mr. james, in very coarse and abusive terms for the poem, and seeks to excite against him the hostility of the american people. the matter was commented upon in several of the journals, and mr. james wrote a manly letter to his legal adviser mr. m.b. field, which is published in the _courier and enquirer_, in which he avows himself the author of the verses in question, explains the circumstances under which they were written, and urges the injustice of making them the ground of censure or complaint. his letter has been received with favor by the press generally, which condemns the unjust and unwarrantable assault of the review upon the character of this distinguished author. it is stated that mr. james intends to become an american citizen, and that he has already taken the preliminary legal steps.----the principal publishers are engaged in preparing gift-books for the coming holidays. the appletons have issued a very elegant and attractive work, entitled "our saviour with prophets and apostles," containing eighteen highly finished steel engravings, with descriptions by leading american divines. it is edited by rev. dr. wainwright and forms one of the most splendid volumes ever issued in this country. they have also issued a very interesting volume of tales by miss maria j. mcintosh, entitled "evenings at donaldson manor," which will be popular beyond the circle for which it is immediately designed.----other works have been issued of which notices will more appropriately be found in another department of this magazine.----the english market for the month is entirely destitute of literary novelties.----a series of interesting experiments has been undertaken by order of government, for the purpose of testing the value of iron as a material for the construction of war-steamers. when the vessels are comparatively slight, it is found that a shot going through the side exposed, makes a clean hole of its own size, which might be readily stopped; but on the opposite side of the vessel the effect is terrific, tearing off large sheets; and even when the shot goes through, the rough edges being on the outside, it is almost impossible to stop the hole. if the vessels are more substantially constructed the principal injury takes place on the side exposed; and this is so great that two or three shot, or even a single one, striking below water line, would endanger the ship. as the result of the whole series of experiments, the opinion is expressed that iron, whether used alone or in combination with wood, can not be beneficially used for the construction of vessels of war.----the wires of the submarine telegraph having been found too weak to withstand the force of the waves, it has been determined to incase the wires in a ten-inch cable, composed of what is called "whipped plait," with wire rope, all of it chemically prepared so as to protect it from rot, and bituminized. a wire thus prepared is calculated to last for twenty years.----in the allotment of space in the industrial exhibition, , square feet have been assigned to the united states; , to india; , to the remaining british colonies and possessions; to china. hamburg asked for , , and france for , feet. commissions have been formed in austria, spain, and turkey.----a correspondent of the chronicle says that the great beauty of the leaves of some american trees and plants renders them an appropriate article of ornament, and suggests that specimens preserved be sent to the exhibition; and that a large demand for them would ensue.----an edition of the works of john owen, to be comprised in sixteen volumes, under the editorial charge of rev. william h. goold, has been commenced. the doctrinal works will occupy five volumes, the practical treatises four, and the polemical seven. the first volume contains a life of owen, by rev. andrew thomson of edinburgh. this edition is edited with remarkable fidelity and care, and will prove a valuable accession to theological literature.----washington irving has received from mr. murray £ for copyrights and £ from mr. bentley, who has paid nearly £ , to cooper, prescott, and herman melville.----the principal theological faculties in germany are those of berlin and halle. the subjoined list will show that almost all the professors have attained a wide reputation in the department of sacred letters. at berlin the professors are: nitzsch, theology, dogmatic, and practical; hengstenberg and vatke, exegesis of the old and new testaments, and introduction; twesten, exegesis of the new testament, dogmatic theology; f. strauss, homiletics; jacobi, ecclesiastical history; ubbmann, oriental languages. the professors at halle are: julius muller, theology, dogmatic, and practical; tholuck, exegesis and moral philosophy; hupfeld, hebrew and oriental languages; guericke, ecclesiastical history, introduction; herzog, mayer, and thilo, ecclesiastical history.----a new apparatus for the production of heat has been invented by mr. d.o. edwards. it is named the "atmopyre," or solid gas fire. a small cylinder of pipe clay, varying in length from two to four inches, perforated with holes the fiftieth of an inch in diameter, in imitation of davy's safety lamp, is employed. the cylinder has a circular hole at one end, which fits upon a "fish-tail" burner; gas is introduced into the interior of the cylinder, with the air of which it becomes mixed, forming a kind of artificial fire-damp. this mixture is ignited on the outside of the vessel, and burns entirely on the exterior of the earthenware, which is enveloped in a coat of pale blue flame. the clay cylinder which mr. edwards calls a "hood," soon becomes red hot, and presents the appearance of a solid red flame. all the heat of combustion is thus accumulated on the clay, and is thence radiated. one of these cylinders is heated to dull redness in a minute or two; but an aggregate of these "hoods" placed in a circle or cluster, and inclosed in an argillaceous case, are heated to an orange color, and the case itself becomes bright red. by surrounding this "solid gas fire" with a series of cases, one within another, mr. edwards has obtained a great intensity of heat, and succeeded in melting gold, silver, copper, and even iron. mr. palmer, the engineer of the western gas-light company, by burning two feet of gas in an atmopyre of twelve "hoods," raised the temperature of a room measuring cubic feet, five degrees of fahrenheit in seventeen minutes. the heat generated by burning gas in this way is per cent. greater than that engendered by the ordinary gas flame when tested by the evaporation of water. feet of gas burnt in an atmopyre per hour, produces steam sufficient for one-horse power. hence the applicability of the invention to baths, brewing, &c.----at the late meeting of the british association, major rawlinson, after enumerating many interesting particulars of the progress of assyrian discoveries, stated that mr. layard, in excavating part of the palace at nineveh had found a large room filled with what appeared to be the archives of the empire, ranged in successive tables of terra cotta, the writings being as perfect as when the tablets were first stamped. they were piled in huge heaps, from the floor to the ceiling, and he had already filled five large cases for dispatch to england, but had only cleared out one corner of the apartment. from the progress already made in reading the inscriptions, he believed we should be able pretty well to understand the contents of these tables--at all events, we should ascertain their general purport, and thus gain much valuable information. a passage might be remembered in the book of ezra, where the jews having been disturbed in building the temple, prayed that search might be made in the house of records for the edict of cyrus permitting them to return to jerusalem. the chamber recently found might be presumed to be the house of records of the assyrian kings, where copies of the royal edicts were duly deposited. when these tablets had been examined and deciphered, he believed that we should have a better acquaintance with the history, the religion, the philosophy, and the jurisprudence of assyria years before the christian era, than we had of greece or rome during any period of their respective histories.----m. guillen y calomarde has just discovered a new telescopic star between the polar star and cynosure, near to the rise of the tail of the little bear--a star at least that certainly did not exist in october last. according to the observations of m. calomarde, the new star should have an increasing brilliancy, and it is likely that in less than a month this star, which now is visible only through a telescope, may be seen with the naked eye.----the senate of the university of padua is at present preparing for publication two curious works, of which the manuscripts are in the library of that establishment. one is a translation in hebrew verse of the "divina commedia," of dante, by samuel rieti, grand rabbi of padua, in the th century. the second is a translation of ovid's "metamorphoses," likewise in hebrew, in stanzas of verses of a very complicated metre, from the pen of the rabbi.----eliot warburton is engaged in collecting materials for a history of the poor, which is to appear in the spring. the captain and second mate of the steamer orion, which was wrecked in june, have been sentenced, the former to eighteen months' imprisonment, the latter to ten years' transportation, for gross and culpable negligence of duty.----lieutenant gale, somewhat celebrated as an aeronaut, lost his life while making an ascent on horseback at bordeaux. he had descended in safety, and the horse was removed; the diminution of the weight caused the balloon to ascend rapidly, with the aeronaut, who was somewhat intoxicated, clinging to it. he of course soon fell, and, a day or two after, his body was found, with the limbs all broken, and mutilated by dogs.----mr. mongredien, a london corn-factor, has published a pamphlet, in which he endeavors to estimate the probable amount of home-grown food upon which ireland can calculate the coming year. as the result of extensive inquiries, he is of the opinion that the potato crop will suffice as food for the masses only until january; and that the wheat-crop amounts to but three-fourths of last year's amount.----the postmaster general has directed that all letters addressed to the united states, shall be forwarded by the first mail packet that sails, whether british or american, unless specially directed otherwise.----viscount fielding, who occupied the chair at the great church meeting in free-mason's hall, on the d of july, has abandoned the english church for that of rome.----a number of the catholic bishops of ireland were appointed by government as official visitors of the new college, to which they were known to be bitterly opposed. the appointments have been scornfully rejected by the bishops.----the britannia bridge, one of the greatest triumphs of modern engineering, was completed on the th of september, by the lowering of the last of the tubes to its permanent resting-place. some curious acoustic effects have been observed in connection with this work. pistol shots, or any sonorous noises, are echoed within the tube half a dozen times. the cells at the top and bottom, are used by the engineers as speaking tubes, and they can carry on conversation through them in whispers; by elevating the voice persons may converse through the length of the bridge--nearly a quarter of a mile. the total cost of the entire structure has been £ , . the total weight of each of the wrought iron roadways now completed, represents , tons, supported on a total mass of masonry of a million and a half cubic feet, erected at the rate of three feet in a minute.----mount blanc was ascended on the th of september, to its top-most peak, by two gentlemen from ireland, mr. gratton, late of the army, and mr. richards, with a party of the brave mountaineers of chamouni. the enterprise was considered so dangerous, that the guides left their watches and little valuables behind, and the two gentlemen made their wills, and prepared for the worst. the ascent is always accompanied with great peril, as steps have to be cut up the sloping banks of the ice; one of the largest glaciers has to be passed, where one false step entails certain death, as the unfortunate falls into a crevice of almost unknown depth, from which no human hand could extricate him. a night has to be passed on the cold rock amidst the thunders of the avalanche, and spots have to be passed where, it is said, no word can be spoken lest thousands of tons of snow should be set in motion, and thus hurl the party into eternity, as was the case some years back when a similar attempt was made. this latter impression, however, as to the effect of the voice upon masses of snow, is unquestionably absurd. an avalanche may have occurred simultaneously with a conversation; but that the latter caused the former is incredible.----the turkish government has manifested its intention to set kossuth and his companions at liberty in september, the end of the year stipulated in the convention. austria, however, remonstrates, contending that the year did not commence till the moment of incarceration. the prisoners are to be sent in a government vessel either to england or america, and are to be furnished with piastres each, to meet their immediate wants on landing.----the two american vessels, advance and rescue, sent in search of sir john franklin, had been seen by an english whale-ship west of devil's thumb, in greenland, having advanced miles since last heard from.----the new cunard steamer africa, of the same dimensions with the asia, is nearly ready to take her place in the line, and the company are about to commence another ship of still larger size and power.----disastrous inundations have destroyed all the crops in the province of brescia, in lombardy. subscriptions were opened in milan, the aggregate amount of which (about , francs) was sent to the relief of the unfortunate inhabitants.----there are in the prisons at naples at present no less than , political prisoners; and the opinion is that, from the crowded state of the jails, the greater number will go mad, become idiots, or die.----lines of electric telegraph are extending rapidly over central europe. within four months, miles have been opened in austria, making in that empire, of which are under ground. another miles will be ready next year. the telegraph now works from cracow to trieste, miles.----on the st of october, the new telegraph union between austria, prussia, saxony, and bavaria, was to come into operation, under a uniform tariff, which is one-half of the former charges.----the hungarian musicians accustomed to perform their national airs in the streets of vienna, have been ordered to quit the city. it is said they will go through europe, in order to excite popular sympathy in behalf of their unfortunate country, by means of their music, the great characteristic of which is a strange mixture of wild passion and deep melancholy.----after eight years' labor, the gigantic statue of the king of bavaria has been finished, and is now placed on the hill of saint theresa, near munich. the bronze of the statue cost , florins, or £ , .----the will of sir robert peel prohibits his executors investing any of his real or personal property on securities in ireland.----from a late parliamentary return, it appears there are thirty-two iron steamers in her majesty's navy.----recent letters from the east speak of very valuable and expensive sulphur mines just discovered upon the borders of the red sea, in upper egypt. the products of these mines are said to be so abundant, that a material fall in the prices of sicilian sulphur must inevitably soon take place. the working of the newly-discovered mine and its productiveness are greatly facilitated by its proximity to the sea. the egyptian government, which at first leased the mines to a private company, is now about to resume possession and work them on its own account. * * * * * from france the only intelligence of interest relates to political movements, concerning which, moreover, there is nothing but partisan and unreliable rumors. the president, in his various letters, addresses, &c., insists uniformly on the necessity of maintaining the existing order of things, and speaks confidently of an appeal to the people. contradictory rumors prevail as to his intentions--some believing that he meditates a _coup-d'état_, but most regarding his movements as aimed to secure the popular vote. the assembly is to meet on the th of november, and his opponents intend then to force him to some ultra-constitutional act which will afford them ground for an appeal. a series of military reviews has engaged public attention; they have been closely watched for incidents indicative of the president's purposes: it is remarked that those who salute him as emperor are always rewarded for it by some preference over others.----the councils-general of france have closed their annual session. the chief topic of their deliberations has been the revision of the constitution, and the result is of interest as indicating the state of public opinion upon that subject. it seems that twenty-one councils separated without taking the subject into consideration; ten rejected propositions for revision; two declared that the constitution ought to be respected; thirty-three departments, therefore, refused, more or less formally, to aid the revision. on the other hand, forty-nine councils came to decisions which the revisionist party claim for themselves. but a very great diversity is to be perceived in these decisions. thirty-two pronounced in favor of revision only "so far as it should take place under legal conditions," or "so far as legality should be observed;" two of those called attention to the forty-fifth article of the constitution, which makes louis napoleon incapable of being immediately rechosen; but another demanded that his powers should be prolonged. one council voted for revision, and also desired to prolong the president's power; ten simply voted for revision; five pronounced for immediate revision, but by very small majorities; one went further, and proposed to give the present assembly--which is legislative and not constituent--authority to effect the revision. three councils express merely a desire for a remedy to the present situation. thirty-three departments have not pronounced for the revision, or have pronounced against it; thirty-three are in favor of a legal revision; thirteen demand the revision without explaining on what conditions they desire to see it effected; and six demand it immediately; making the total of eighty-five. * * * * * from germany the most important intelligence relates to the electorate of hesse cassel, a state containing less than a million of inhabitants, and having a revenue of less than two and a half millions of dollars. by the constitution the chamber has the exclusive right of voting taxes. the elector, acting probably under the advice of austria, resolved to get rid of the constitution; and as the first step toward it, he appointed as his minister hassenpflug, a man wholly without character, and who had been convicted of forgery in another state, and with him was associated haynau, brother of the infamous austrian general. months past away without the chamber being summoned, but at the time when the session usually closed, the parliament was called together, and an immediate demand made for money and for powers to raise the taxes, without specific votes of the chamber. the parliament replied by an unanimous vote, that however little the ministers possessed the confidence of parliament, they would not go the length of refusing the supplies, but requested to have a regular budget laid before them, which they promised to examine, discuss, and vote. to so fair and constitutional a resolution the minister replied by dissolving the parliament, and proceeding to levy the taxes in spite of the parliament and the constitution. the cabinet went to the extremity of proclaiming the whole electorate in a state of siege, and investing the commander-in-chief with dictatorial powers against the press, personal liberty, and property. the town council unanimously protested against these arbitrary acts; and such a spirit of resistance was excited that the elector and his minister were constrained to seek safety in flight. the elector left cassel on the morning of the th, and arrived the same evening at hanover, where he was afterward joined by hassenpflug. some of the accounts state that m. hassenpflug was agitated by terror in his flight. on the th, the elector and his ministers were at frankfort. the government of the electorate had been assumed by the permanent committee of the assembly.----in mecklenberg-schwerin a similar revolution seems likely to take place. in october, , a new constitution was formed by the deputies of this duchy, which received the assent of the duke. this constitution was quite democratic in character. the duke now feeling himself strong enough coolly pronounces the constitution invalid, absolves his subjects from all allegiance to it, and restores the old constitution, which was formed in . it is supposed that the diet will adopt the hesse cassel system of stopping the supplies, and so starving out their sovereign. literary notices. a new work by rev. william r. williams, the eminent baptist clergyman in new york, has just been issued by gould, kendall, and lincoln, entitled _religious progress_, consisting of a series of lectures on the development of the christian character, founded on the beautiful gradation of religious excellencies described by st. peter in his second epistle. the subjects, which succeed each other in the order of the text, are, religion a principle of growth, faith its root, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, charity. no one who has read any of the former productions of the author can fall into the error of supposing that these topics are treated according to any prescribed, stereotyped routine of the pulpit, or that they labor under the dullness and formality which are often deemed inseparable from moral disquisitions. on the contrary, this volume may be regarded as a profound, stringent, and lively commentary on the aspects of the present age, showing a remarkable keenness of observation, and a massive strength of expression. the author, although one of the most studious and erudite men of the day, is by no means a mere isolated scholar. his vision is not confined by the walls of his library. watching the progress of affairs, from the quiet "loop-holes of his retreat," he subjects the pictured phantasmagoria before him to a rigorous and searching criticism. he is not apt to be deluded by the dazzling shows of things. with a firm and healthy wisdom, acquired by vigilant experience, he delights to separate the genuine from the plausible, the true gold from the sounding brass, and to bring the most fair-seeming pretenses before the tribunal of universal principles. the religious tone of this volume is lofty and severe. its sternness occasionally reminds us of the sombre, passionate, half despairing melancholy of john foster. the modern latitudinarian finds in it little either of sympathy or tolerance. it clothes in a secular costume the vast religious ideas which have been sanctioned by ages, but makes no attempt to mellow their austerity, or reduce their solemn grandeur to the level of superficial thought and worldly aspirations. the train of remark pursued in any one of these lectures can never be inferred from its title. the suggestive mind of the writer is kindled by the theme, and luxuriates in a singular wealth of analogies, which lead him, it is true, from the beaten track, but only to open upon us an unexpected prospect, crowned with original and enchanting beauties. his power of apt and forcible illustration is almost without a parallel among recent writers. the mute page springs into life beneath the magic of his radiant imagination. but this is never at the expense of solidity of thought or strength of argument. it is seldom indeed that a mind of so much poetical invention yields such a willing homage to the logical element. he employs his brilliant fancies for the elucidation and ornament of truth, but never for its discovery. on this account, he inspires a feeling of trust in the sanity of his genius, although its conclusions may not be implicitly adopted. still, with the deep respect with which we regard the intellectual position of dr. williams, we do not think his writings are destined to obtain a wide popularity. their condensation of thought, the elaborate and often antique structure of their sentences, the profoundly meditative cast of sentiment with which they are pervaded, and even their oriental profusion of imagery, to say nothing of the adamantine rigor of their religious views, are not suited to the great mass of modern readers, whose tastes have been formed on models less distinguished for their austerity than for their airiness and grace. gould, kendall, and lincoln, boston, have recently issued neat reprints of _the poetry of science_, by robert hunt, a popular english work, exhibiting the great facts of science, in their most attractive aspects, and as leading the mind to the contemplation of the universe; _the footprints of the creator_, by hugh miller, with a memoir of the author, by professor agassiz, who characterizes his geological productions as possessing "a freshness of conception, a power of argumentation, a depth of thought, a purity of feeling, rarely met with in works of that character, which are well calculated to call forth sympathy, and to increase the popularity of a science which has already done so much to expand our views of the plan of creation;" and a third edition of _the pre-adamite earth_, by john harris, whose valuable contributions to theological science have won for him a high reputation both in england and our own country. harper and brothers have published nos. and of lossing's _pictorial field book of the american revolution_. the character of this popular serial may be perceived from the extracts at the commencement of the present number of our magazine. with each successive issue, mr. lossing's picturesque narrative gains fresh interest; he throws a charm over the most familiar details by his quiet enthusiasm and winning naïveté; and under the direction of such an intelligent and genial guide it is delightful to wander over the battle-fields of american history, and dwell on the exploits of the heroes by whose valor our national independence was achieved. among the embellishments in these numbers, we observe a striking likeness of the venerable timothy pickering, of massachusetts, portraits of gen. stark, joel barlow, gen. wooster, and william livingston, and exquisite sketches of baron steuben's headquarters, view near toby's eddy, the susquehanna at monocasy island, the livingston mansion, the bennington battle-ground, and other beautiful and interesting scenes in the history of the revolution. _household surgery; or hints on emergencies_, by john f. south (h.c. baird, philadelphia), is a reprint of a popular and amusing work by an eminent london surgeon, designed for non-professional readers, and pointing out the course to be pursued in case of an accident, when no surgical aid is at hand. the author puts in a caveat against misapprehending the purpose of his book, which he wishes should be judged solely on its merits. no one is to expect in it a whole body of surgery, nor to obtain materials for setting up as an amateur surgeon, to practice on every unfortunate individual who may fall within his grasp; but directions are given which may be of good service on a pinch, when the case is urgent, and no doctor is to be had. in the opinion of the author, whoever doctors himself when he can be doctored, is in much the same case with the man who conducted his own cause, and had a fool for his client. with this explanation, dr. south's volume may be consulted to great advantage; and although no one would recommend a treatise on bruises and broken bones for light reading, it must be confessed, that many popular fictions are less fertile in entertainment. an exquisite edition of _gray's poetical works_ has been issued by h.c. baird, with an original memoir and notes, by the american editor, prof. henry reed, of philadelphia. it was the intention of the editor to make this the most complete collection of gray's poems which has yet appeared, and he seems to have met with admirable success in the accomplishment of his plan. the illustrations of radclyffe, engraved in a superior style of art, by a.w. graham, form the embellishments of this edition. we have rarely, if ever, seen them surpassed in the most costly american gift-books. the volume is appropriately dedicated to james t. fields, the poet-publisher of boston. the second volume of the _memoirs of dr. chalmers_, by his son-in-law, william hanna, is issued by harper and brothers, comprising a most interesting account of his labors during his residence at glasgow, and bringing his biography down to the forty-third year of his age. the whole career of this robust and sinewy divine is full of instruction, but no part of it more abounds with important events than the period devoted to efforts in bringing the destitute classes of glasgow under the influence of christian ministrations. whether in the pulpit, in the discharge of his parochial duties, in the construction of his noble schemes for social melioration, or in the bosom of his family, dr. chalmers always appears the same whole-hearted, frank, generous, energetic man, commanding our admiration by the splendor of his intellect, and winning our esteem by the loveliness of his character. some interesting reminiscences of the powerful but erratic preacher, edward irving, who was at one time the assistant of dr. chalmers in the tron church, are presented in this volume. _history of propellers and steam navigation_, by robert macfarlane (g.p. putnam), is the title of a useful work, describing most of the propelling methods that have been invented, which may prevent ingenious men from wasting their time, talents, and money on visionary projects. it also gives a history of the attempts of the early inventors in this department of practical mechanics, including copious notices of fitch, rumsey, fulton, symington, and bell. a separate chapter, devoted to marine navigation, presents a good deal of information on the subject rarely met with in this country. _the country year-book; or, the field, the forest, and the fireside_ (harper and brothers), is the title of a new rural volume by the bluff, burly, egotistic, but good-natured and humane quaker, william howitt, filled with charming descriptions of english country life, redolent of the perfume of bean-fields and hedge-rows, overflowing with the affluent treasures of the four seasons, rich in quaint, expressive sketches of old-fashioned manners, and pervaded by a generous zeal in the cause of popular improvement. a more genial and agreeable companion for an autumn afternoon or a winter's evening could scarcely be selected in the shape of a book. _success in life. the mechanic_, by mrs. l.c. tuthill, published by g.p. putnam, is a little volume belonging to a series, intended to illustrate the importance of sound principles and virtuous conduct to the attainment of worldly prosperity. without believing in the necessary connection between good character and success in business, we may say, that the examples brought forward by mrs. tuthill are of a striking nature, and adapted to produce a deep and wholesome impression. in the present work, she avails herself of incidents in the history of john fitch, dr. franklin, robert fulton, and eli whitney, showing the obstacles which they were compelled to encounter, and the energy with which they struggled with difficulties. she writes in a lively and pleasing manner; her productions are distinguished for their elevated moral tone; and they can scarcely fail to become favorites with the public. _alton locke, tailor and poet; an autobiography_, is the quaint title of a political and religious novel, understood to be written by a clergyman of the church of england, which is said to have fallen like a bomb-shell on the old-fashioned schools of political economy in that country. it purports to be the history of a youth of genius, doomed to struggle with the most abject poverty, and forced by the necessity of his position to become a chartist and a radical. brought up in the sternest school of ultra-calvinism, he passes by natural transitions from a state of hopeless and desperate infidelity, to a milder and more cheerful religious faith, and having taken an active part in schemes for the melioration of society by political action, he learns by experience the necessity of spiritual influences for the emancipation of the people. the tone of the narrative is vehement, austere, and often indignant; never vindictive; and softened at intervals by a genuine gush of poetic sentiment. with great skill in depicting the social evils which are preying on the aged heart of england, the author is vague and fragmentary in his statement of remedies, and leads us to doubt whether he has discovered the true "balm of gilead" for the healing of nations. the book abounds with weighty suggestions, urgent appeals, vivid pictures of popular wretchedness, deep sympathy with suffering, and a pure devotion to the finer and nobler instincts of humanity. with all its outpouring of fiery radicalisms, it is intended to exert a reconciling influence, to bring the different classes of society into a nearer acquaintanceship, and to oppose the progress of licentious and destructive tendencies, by enforcing the principles of thorough reform. such a work can not but be read with general interest. its strong humanitary spirit will recommend it to a large class of readers, while its acknowledged merits as a work of fiction will attract the literary amateur.--published by harper and brothers. _the builder's companion_, and _the cabinetmaker and upholsterer's companion_, are two recent volumes of the _practical series_, published by h.c. baird, philadelphia, reprinted from english works of standard excellence. they present a mass of valuable scientific information, with succinct descriptions of various mechanical processes, and are well suited to promote an intelligent interest in industrial pursuits. _lessons from the history of medical delusions_ (baker and scribner), is a prize essay by dr. worthington hooker, whose former work on a similar subject has given him considerable reputation as a writer in the department of medical literature. he is a devoted adherent to the old system of practice, and spares no pains to expose what he deems the quackeries of modern times. his volume is less positive than critical, and contains but a small amount of practical instruction. there are many of his suggestions, however, which can not be perused without exciting profound reflection. ruschenberger's _lexicon of terms used in natural history_, a valuable manual for the common use of the student, is published by lippincott, grambo, and co., philadelphia. another volume of lamartine's _confidences_, translated from the french, under the title of _additional memoirs of my youth_, is published by harper and brothers, and can not fail to excite the same interest which has been called forth by the previous autobiographical disclosures of the author. it is written in the rich, glowing, poetical style in which lamartine delights to clothe his early recollections, and with a naïve frankness of communication equal to that of rousseau, is pervaded with a tone of tender, elevated, and religious sentiment. the description of a troop of family friends gives a lively tableau of the old school of french gentlemen, and furnishes the occasion for the picturesque delineation of manners, in which lamartine commands such an admirable pen. the confessions would not be complete without one or two love episodes, which are accordingly presented in a sufficiently romantic environment. harper and brothers have published a cheap edition of _genevieve_, translated from the french of lamartine, by a.r. scoble. this novel, intended to illustrate the condition of humble life in france, and to furnish popular, moral reading for the masses, is written with more simplicity than we usually find in the productions of lamartine, and contains many scenes of deep, pathetic interest. the incidents are not without a considerable tincture of french exaggeration, and are hardly suited, one would suppose, to exert a strong or salutary influence in the sphere of common, prosaic, unromantic duties. as a specimen of the kind of reading which lamartine deems adapted to the moral improvement of his countrymen, _genevieve_ is a literary curiosity. little and brown, boston, have published a handsome edition of prof. rose's _chemical tables for the calculation of quantitative analyses_, recalculated and improved, by the american editor, w.p. dexter. harper and brothers have issued _the history of pendennis_, no. , which, to say the least, is of equal interest with any of the preceding numbers, showing the same felicitous skill in portraying the every-day aspects of our common life, which has given thackeray such a brilliant eminence as a painter of manners. the unconscious case with which he hits off a trait of weakness or eccentricity, his truthfulness to nature, his rare common sense, and his subdued, but most effective satire, make him one of the most readable english writers now before the public. stockhardt's _principles of chemistry_, translated from the german, by c.h. peirce, is published by john bartlett, cambridge. this work is accompanied with a high recommendation from prof. horsford of harvard university, which, with its excellent reputation as a textbook in germany, will cause it to be sought for with eagerness by students of chemistry in our own country. _petticoat government_, by mrs. trollope, is the one hundred and forty-eighth number of harper's _library of select novels_, and in spite of the ill odor attached to the name of the authoress, will be found to exhibit a very considerable degree of talent, great insight into the more vulgar elements of english society, a vein of bitter and caustic satire, and a truly feminine minuteness in the delineation of character. the story is interspersed with dashes of broad humor, and with its piquant, rapid, and not overscrupulous style, will reward the enterprise of perusal. george p. putnam has published _a series of etchings_, by j.w. ehninger, illustrative of hood's "bridge of sighs." the plates, which are eight in number, are executed with a good deal of spirit and taste, representing the principal scenes suggested to the imagination by hood's exquisitely pathetic poem. a.s. barnes and co. have published _the elements of natural philosophy_, by w.h.c. bartlett, being the first of three volumes intended to present a complete system of the science in all its divisions. the present volume is devoted to the subject of mechanics. g.p. putnam has issued a new and improved edition of prof. church's _elements of the differential and integral calculus_. _lonz powers, or the regulators_, by james weir, esq. (philadelphia, lippincott, grambo, and co.), is a genuine american romance, written in defiance of all literary precedents, and a vigorous expression of the individuality of the author, as acted on by the wild, exuberant frontier life in the infancy of western society. the scenes and characters which are evidently drawn from nature, are portrayed with a bold, dramatic freedom, giving a perpetual vitality and freshness to the narrative, and sustaining the interest of the reader through a succession of adventures, which in the hands of a less skillful chronicler, would have become repulsive by their extravagance and terrible intensity. in addition to the regular progress of the story, the author leads us through a labyrinth of episodes, most of them savoring of the jovial forest life, in which he is so perfectly at home, though dashed with occasional touches of deep pathos. the reflections and criticisms, in which he often indulges to excess, though considerately printed in a different type to show that they may be skipped without damage, are too characteristic to be neglected, and on the whole, we are glad that he had enough verdant frankness to present them to his readers just as they sprung up in his mercurial brain. we imagine that the fame of milton will survive his attacks, in spite of the mean opinion which he cherishes of the paradise lost. with all its exaggerations and eccentricities, lonz powers has many of the elements of a superior novel--glowing imagination, truthfulness of description, lively humor, spicy satire, and an acute perception of the fleeting lights and shades of character. if it had ten times its present faults, it would be redeemed from a severe judgment, by its magnetic sympathies, and the fascinating naturalness with which it pours forth its flushed and joyous consciousness of life. _the history of xerxes_, by jacob abbott (harper and brothers), is intended for juvenile reading and study, but its freshness and simplicity of manner give it a charm for all ages, making it a delightful refreshment to those who wish to recall the remembrance of youthful studies. _universal dictionary of weights and measures_, by j.h. alexander, published by wm. minifie and co., baltimore, is a work of remarkable labor and research, presenting a comparative view of the weights and measures of all countries, ancient and modern, reduced to the standards of the united states of america. it is executed in a manner highly creditable to the learning and accuracy of the author, and will be found to possess great practical utility for the man of business as well as the historical student. _america discovered_ (new york, j.f. trow), is the title of an anonymous poem in twelve books, founded on a supposed convention of the heavenly hierarchs among the mountains of chili in the year , to deliberate on the best mode of making known the american continent to europeans. two of their number are elected delegates to present the subject before the court of heaven. in the course of their journey, after meeting with various adventures, they fall in with two different worlds, one of which has retained its pristine innocence, while the other has yielded to temptation, and become subject to sin. their embassy is crowned with success, and one of them is deputed to break the matter to columbus, whose subsequent history is related at length, from his first longings to discover a new world till the final consummation of his enterprise. the poet, it will be seen, soars into the highest supernal spheres, but, in our opinion, displays more ambition than discretion. he does not often come down safe from his lofty flights to solid ground. _christianity revived in the east_, by h.g.o. dwight (baker and scribner), is a modest narrative of missionary operations among the armenians of turkey, in which the author was personally engaged for a series of several years. the volume describes many interesting features of oriental life, and presents a vivid picture of the toils and sacrifices by which a new impulse was given to the progress of christianity in the east. the suggestions of the author with regard to the prosecution of the missionary enterprise are characterized by earnestness and good sense, but they are sometimes protracted to so great an extent as to become tedious to the general reader. _grahame; or, youth and manhood_ (baker and scribner), is the title of a new romance by the author of _talbot and vernon_, displaying a natural facility for picturesque writing in numerous isolated passages, but destitute of the sustained vigor and inventive skill which would place it in the highest rank of fictitious composition. the scene, which is frequently shifted, without sufficient regard to the locomotive faculties of the reader, betrays occasional inaccuracies and anachronisms, showing the hand of a writer who has not gained a perfect mastery of his materials. like the previous work of the same author, the novel is intended to support a certain didactic principle, but for the accomplishment of this purpose, recourse is had to an awkward and improbable plot, many of the details of which are, in a high degree, unnatural, and often grossly revolting. the pure intentions of the writer redeem his work from the charge of immorality, but do not set aside the objections, in an artistic point of view, which arise from the primary incidents on which the story is founded. still, we are bound to confess, that the novel, as a whole, indicates a freshness and fervor of feeling, a ready perception of the multifarious aspects of character and society, a lively appreciation of natural beauty, and a racy vigor of expression, which produce a strong conviction of the ability of the author, and awaken the hope that the more mature offerings of his genius may be contributions of sterling value to our native literature. _george castriot, surnamed scandeberg, king of albania_, by clement c. moore (d. appleton and co.), is an agreeable piece of biography, which owes its interest no less to the simplicity and excellent taste of the narrative, than to the romantic adventures of its subject. castriot was a hero of the fifteenth century, who gained a wide renown for his exploits in the warfare of the christians against the turks, as well as for the noble and attractive qualities of his private character. dr. moore has made free use of one of the early chronicles, in the construction of his narrative, and exhibits rare skill in clothing the events in a modern costume, while he retains certain quaint and expressive touches of the antique. george p. putnam has issued the second volume of _the leather stocking tales_, by j. fenimore cooper, in the author's revised edition, containing _the last of the mohicans_, to which characteristic and powerful work mr. cooper is so largely indebted for his world-wide reputation. he will lose nothing by the reprint of these masterly tales, as they will introduce him to a new circle of younger readers, while the enthusiasm of his old admirers can not fail to be increased with every fresh perusal of the experiences of the inimitable leather stocking. c.m. saxton has published a neat edition of professor johnston's _lectures on the relations of science and agriculture_, which produced a very favorable impression when delivered before the new york state agricultural society, and the members of the legislature, in the month of january last. among the subjects discussed in this volume, are the relations of physical geography, of geology, and mineralogy, of botany, vegetable physiology, and zoology to practical agriculture; the connection of chemistry with the practical improvement of the soil, and with the principles of vegetable and animal growth; and the influence of scientific knowledge on the general elevation of the agricultural classes. these lectures present a lucid exposition of the latest discoveries in agricultural chemistry, and it is stated by competent judges, that their practical adaptation to the business of the farmer will gain the confidence of every cultivator of the soil by whom they are perused. an elaborate work from the pen of a native jew, entitled _a descriptive geography of palestine_, by rabbi joseph schwartz, has been translated from the hebrew by isaac leeser, and published by a. hart, philadelphia. the author, who resided for sixteen years in the holy land, claims to have possessed peculiar advantages for the preparation of a work on this subject, in his knowledge of the languages necessary for successful discovery, and in the results of personal observations continued for several years with uncommon zeal and assiduity. the volume is handsomely embellished with maps and pictorial illustrations, the latter from the hand of a jewish artist, and appears, in all respects, to be well adapted to the race, for whose use it is especially intended. _the life of commodore talbot_, by henry t. tuckerman (new york, j.c. riker), was originally intended for the series of american biography, edited by president sparks, but on the suspension of that work, was prepared for publication in a separate volume. commodore talbot was born in bristol county, massachusetts, and at an early age commenced a seafaring life in the coasting trade, between rhode island and the southern states. soon after the breaking out of the revolution--having been present at the siege of boston as a volunteer--he offered his services to general washington, and was at once employed in the discharge of arduous and responsible duties. at a subsequent period, after having distinguished himself by various exploits of almost reckless valor, he received a commission as captain in the navy of the united states. his death took place in , in the city of new york, and his remains were interred under trinity church. mr. tuckerman has gathered up, with commendable industry, the facts in his career, which had almost faded from the memory, and rescued from oblivion the name of a brave commander and devoted patriot. the biography abounds with interesting incidents, which, as presented in the flowing and graceful narrative of the author, richly reward perusal, as well as present the character of the subject in a very attractive light. several pleasing episodes are introduced in the course of the volume, which relieve it from all tendency to dryness and monotony. _the quarterlies for october._--the first on our table is _the american biblical repository_, edited by j.m. sherwood (new york), commencing with an article on "the hebrew theocracy," by rev. e.c. wines, which presents, in a condensed form, the views which have been brought before the public by that gentleman in his popular lectures on jewish polity. "the position of the christian scholar" is discussed in a sound and substantial essay, by rev. albert barnes. dyer's "life of calvin" receives a summary condemnation at the hands of a sturdy advocate of the five points. professor tayler lewis contributes a learned dissertation on the "names for soul" among the hebrews, as an argument for the immortality of the soul. other articles are on lucian's "de morte peregrini," "the relations of the church to the young," "the harmony of science and revelation," and "secular and christian civilization." the number closes with several "literary and critical notices," written, for the most part, with ability and fairness, though occasionally betraying the influence of strong theological predilections. _the north american review_ sustains the character for learned disquisition, superficial elegance, and freedom from progressive and liberal ideas, which have formed its principal distinction under the administration of its present editor. this venerable periodical, now in its thirty-eighth year, has been, in some sense, identified with the history of american literature, although it can by no means be regarded as an exponent of its present aspect and tendencies. it belongs essentially to a past age, and shows no sympathy with the earnest, aspiring, and aggressive traits of the american character. indeed its spirit is more in accordance with the timid and selfish conservatism of europe, than with the free, bold, and hopeful temperament of our republic. the subjects to which the present number is mainly devoted, as well as the manner in which they are treated, indicate the peculiar tastes of the review, and give a fair specimen of its recent average character. the principal articles are on "mahomet and his successors," "the navigation of the ancients," "slavic language and literature," "cumming's hunter's life," "the homeric question," all of which are chiefly made up from the works under review, presenting admirable models of tasteful compilation and abridgment, but singularly destitute of originality, freshness, and point. an article on "everett's orations" pays an appreciative tribute to the literary and rhetorical merits of that eminent scholar. "the works of john adams" receive an appropriate notice. "furness's history of jesus" is reviewed in a feeble and shallow style, unworthy the magnitude of the heresy attacked, and the number closes with a clever summary of "laing's observations on europe," and one or two "critical notices." the _methodist quarterly review_ opens with a second paper on "morell's philosophy of religion," in which the positions of that writer are submitted to a severe logical examination. the conclusions of the reviewer may be learned from the passage which closes the article. "we believe mr. morell to be a sincere and earnest man, one who reverences christianity, and really desires its advancement, but we also believe that for this very reason his influence may be the more pernicious; for in attempting to make a compromise with the enemies of truth, he has compromised truth itself; and in abandoning what he deemed mere antiquated outposts to the foe, he has surrendered the very citadel." the next article is a profound and learned statement of the "latest results of ethnology," translated from the german of dr. g.l. kriegk. this is followed by a discussion of the character of john calvin, as a scholar, a theologian, and a reformer. the writer commends the manifest impartiality of dyer's "life of calvin," although he believes that it will not be popular with the "blind admirers of the genevan reformer, and that the roman catholics, as in duty bound, will prefer the caricature of monsieur audin." "the church and china," "bishop warburton," and "california," are the subjects of able articles, and the number closes with a variety of short reviews, miscellanies, and intelligence. the last named department is not so rich in the present number, as we usually find it, owing probably to the absence of prof. m'clintock in europe, whose cultivated taste, comprehensive learning, and literary vigilance admirably qualify him to give a record of intellectual progress in every civilized country, such as we look for in vain in any contemporary periodical. _the christian review_ is a model of religious periodical literature, not exclusively devoted to theological subjects, but discussing the leading questions of the day, political, social, and literary, in addition to those belonging to its peculiar sphere, from a christian point of view, and almost uniformly with great learning, vigor, profoundness, and urbanity, and always with good taste and exemplary candor. the present number has a large proportion of articles of universal interest, among which we may refer to those on "socialism in the united states," and "the territories on the pacific," as presenting a succinct view of the subjects treated of, and valuable no less for the important information they present, than for the clearness and strength with which the positions of the writers are sustained. the first of these articles is from the pen of rev. samuel osgood, minister of the church of the messiah, in this city, and the other is by prof. w. gammel, of brown university. "the confessions of saint augustine," "the apostolical constitutions," "philosophical theology," and a critical examination of the passage in joshua describing the miracle of the sun standing still, are more especially attractive to the theological reader, while a brilliant and original essay on "spirit and form," by rev. mr. turnbull, can not fail to draw the attention of the lovers of æsthetic disquisition. the brief sketches of president taylor and of neander are written with judgment and ability, and the "notices of new publications" give a well-digested survey of the current literature of the last three months. the diligence and zeal exhibited in this department, both by the christian review and the methodist quarterly present a favorable contrast to the disgraceful poverty of the north american in a branch which was admirably sustained under the editorship of president sparks and dr. palfrey. _brownson's quarterly_ is characterized by the extravagance of statement, the rash and sweeping criticisms, and the ecclesiastical exclusiveness for which it has obtained an unenviable preeminence. its principal articles are on "gioberti," "the confessional," "dana's poems and prose writings," and the "cuban expedition." some inferences may be drawn as to the editor's taste in poetry from his remarks on tennyson, in whom he "can discover no other merit than harmonious verse and a little namby-pamby sentiment." he strikes the discriminating reviewer as "a man of feeble intellect," and "a poet for puny transcendentalists, beardless boys, and miss in her teens." fashions for november. [illustration: fig. .--promenade and carriage costumes.] as the cold weather approaches, different shades of brown, dust color, green, and other grave hues, predominate, diversified with pink, blue, lilac, and purple. the beautiful season of the indian summer, which prevails with us in november, allows the use of out-of-door costume, of a character similar to that of september, the temperature being too high to require cloaks or pelises. bonnets composed of leghorn and fancy straws, are appropriate for the season. they are trimmed with _noeuds_ of pink, straw color, and white silk, which are used to decorate florence straws. these are ornamented, in the interior, with _mancini_, or bunches of harebells, heaths, and jacinths, intermixed with rose-buds and light foliage. there are plain and simple _pailles de riz_, having no other ornament than a kind of _noeud_ of white silk, placed at the side, and the interior of the front lined with pink or white _tulle_, and clusters of jacinths, tuberoses, and rose-buds, forming a most charming _mélange_. fancy straws, called _paille de lausanne_, are very fashionable abroad, resembling embroideries of straw, and trimmed with a bouquet of the wild red poppies, half blown, while those which are placed next the face are of a softer hue, with strings of straw colored silk ribbon. fig. represents a graceful afternoon promenade costume, and a carriage costume. the figure on the left shows the promenade costume. the dress is made quite plain, with low body and long sleeves, with cuffs of plain fulled muslin; chemisette of lace, reaching to the throat, and finished with a narrow row encircling the neck. _pardessus_ of silk or satin, trimmed in an elegant manner, with lace of the same color, three rows of which encircle the lower part, and two rows the half long sleeves. these rows are of broader lace than the rows placed on either side of the front of the _pardessus_. drawn white crape bonnet, decorated with small straw colored flowers, both in the interior and on the exterior. the figure on the right shows the carriage costume. it is a dress of pale pink _poult de soié_; the corsage, high on the shoulders, opens a little in the front. it has a small cape, falling deep at the back, and narrowing toward the point, pinked at the edge; the waist and point long; the sleeves reach but a very little below the elbow, and are finished with broad lace ruffles. the skirt has three deep scalloped flounces, a beautiful spray of leaves being embroidered in each scallop. manteau of india muslin, trimmed with a broad frill, the embroidering of which corresponds with the flowers of the dress. the bonnet of _paille de riz_; trimmed inside and out with bunches of roses; the form very open. there are others of the same delicate description, lined with pink _tulle_, and decorated with tips of small feathers, shaded pink and white, or terminated with tips of pink _marabout_. [illustration: fig. .--morning costume.] fig. represents a morning costume. dress high, with a small ruffle and silk cravat. the material is plain _mousseline de soié_, white, with a small frill protruding from the slightly open front. the body is full, and the skirt has a broad figured green stripe. sleeves full and demi-long, with broad lace ruffles. the skirt is very full, and has three deep flounces. [illustration: fig. .--opera costume.] fig. is a plain, and very neat costume for the opera. the body, composed of blue or green silk, satin, or velvet, fits closely. the sleeves are also tight to the elbows, when they enlarge and are turned over, exhibiting a rich lining of pink or orange, with scalloped edges. the corsage is open in front, and turned over, with a collar, made of material like that of the sleeves, and also scalloped. chemisette of lace, finished at the throat with a fulled band and _petite_ ruffle. figures and show patterns of the extremely simple caps now in fashion; simple, both in their form and the manner in which they are trimmed. those for young ladies partake mostly of the lappet form, simply decorated with a pretty _noeud_ of ribbon, from which droop graceful streamers of the same, or confined on each side the head with half-wreaths of the wild rose, or some other very light flower. those intended for ladies of a more advanced age are of a _petit_ round form, and composed of a perfect cloud of _gaze_, or _tulle_, intermixed with flowers. traveling dresses are principally composed of _foulard coutit_, or of flowered jaconets, with the _cassaquette_ of the same material. plain cachmires are also much used, because they are not liable to crease. they are generally accompanied by _pardessus_ of the same material. when the dress is of a sombre hue, the trimmings are of a different color, so as to enliven and enrich them. the skirts are made quite plain, but very long and of a moderate breadth; the bodies high and plain, and embroidered up the fronts. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. captions added to captionless illustrations. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "birth-day" and "birthday"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "panel" and "pannel"). following proper names have been corrected: - pg , "fanueil" corrected to be "faneuil" (faneuil hall). - pg , "hazledeans" corrected to be "hazeldeans" (the hazeldeans in chorus) and "higgingbotham's" corrected to be "higginbotham's" (captain higginbotham's lead). - pg , "agatha mother's" corrected to be "agatha's mother" (found agatha's mother alone). - pg , "tartantula" corrected to be "tarantula" (bite of a tarantula). - pg , "lowz" corrected to be "lonz" (lonz powers). - pg , "minifee" corrected to be "minifie" (wm. minifie and co.). following corrections are by removal or addition of a word: - pg , word "by" removed (surrounded by [by] tall trees). - pg , word "in" added (and in spite of). - pg , word "i" added (that i was not sorry). - pg , word "are" removed (there are [are] thirty-two). harper's new monthly magazine. no. x.--march, .--vol. ii. spring. by james thomson. [illustration: come gentle spring] come, gentle spring, ethereal mildness, come; and from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, while music wakes around, vail'd in a shower of shadowing roses, on our plains descend. o hertford, fitted or to shine in courts with unaffected grace, or walk the plain with innocence and meditation join'd in soft assemblage, listen to my song, which thy own season paints; when nature all is blooming and benevolent, like thee. and see where surly winter passes off far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts: his blasts obey, and quit the howling hill, the shatter'd forest, and the ravag'd vale; while softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch, dissolving snows in livid torrents lost, the mountains lift their green heads to the sky. as yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd, and winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets deform the day delightless; so that scarce the bittern knows his time with bill engulf'd to shake the sounding marsh; or, from the shore the plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, and sing their wild notes to the listening waste. at last from aries rolls the bounteous sun, and the bright bull receives him. then no more the expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold; but, full of life and vivifying soul, lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin, fleecy, and white, o'er all surrounding heaven. forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfin'd, unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives relenting nature, and his lusty steers drives from their stalls to where the well-us'd plow lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost. there, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke they lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark. meanwhile, incumbent o'er the shining share the master leans, removes the obstructing clay, winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. while, through the neighboring fields the sower stalks with measur'd step; and, liberal, throws the grain into the faithful bosom of the ground: the harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. [illustration: lend their shoulder, and begin their toil] be gracious, heaven! for now laborious man has done his part. ye fostering breezes, blow! ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! and temper all, thou world-reviving sun, into the perfect year! nor ye who live in luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, think these lost themes unworthy of your ear: such themes as these the rural maro sung to wide-imperial rome, in the full height of elegance and taste, by greece refin'd. in ancient times, the sacred plow employ'd the kings and awful fathers of mankind; and some, with whom compar'd your insect tribes are but the beings of a summer's day, have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm of mighty war, then with victorious hand, disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd the plow, and greatly independent scorn'd all the vile stores corruption can bestow. ye generous britons, venerate the plow! and o'er your hills and long withdrawing vales let autumn spread his treasures to the sun, luxuriant and unbounded! as the sea, far through his azure turbulent domain, your empire owns, and from a thousand shores wafts all the pomp of life into your ports, so with superior boon may your rich soil, exuberant, nature's better blessings pour o'er every land, the naked nations clothe, and be the exhaustless granary of a world! [illustration: wafts all the pomp of life into your ports] nor only through the lenient air this change, delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun, his force deep-darting to the dark retreat of vegetation, sets the steaming power at large, to wander o'er the verdant earth, in various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green! thou smiling nature's universal robe! united light and shade! where the sight dwells with growing strength, and ever-new delight. from the moist meadow to the wither'd hill, led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs; and swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye. the hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, till the whole leafy forest stands display'd, in full luxuriance, to the sighing gales; where the deer rustle through the twining brake, and the birds sing conceal'd. at once, array'd in all the colors of the flushing year by nature's swift and secret-working hand, the garden glows, and fills the liberal air with lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd, within its crimson folds. now from the town, buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops from the bent bush, as through the verdant maze of sweetbrier hedges i pursue my walk; or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend some eminence, augusta, in thy plains, and see the country, far diffus'd around, one boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower of mingled blossoms: where the raptur'd eye hurries from joy to joy; and, hid beneath the fair profusion, yellow autumn spies. [illustration: the deer rustle through the brake] if, brush'd from russian wilds, a cutting gale rise not, and scatter from his humid wings the clammy mildew; or, dry-blowing, breathe untimely frost--before whose baleful blast the full-blown spring through all her foliage shrinks, joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste. for oft, engender'd by the hazy north, myriads on myriads, insect armies waft keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat, through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core their eager way. a feeble race! yet oft the sacred sons of vengeance! on whose course corrosive famine waits, and kills the year. to check this plague, the skillful farmer chaff and blazing straw before his orchard burns-- till, all involv'd in smoke, the latent foe from every cranny suffocated falls; or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe; or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl, with sprinkled water drowns them in their nest: nor, while they pick them up with busy bill, the little trooping birds unwisely scares. [illustration: blazing straw before his orchard burns] be patient, swains; these cruel-seeming winds blow not in vain. far hence they keep, repress'd, those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharg'd with rain, that o'er the vast atlantic hither borne, in endless train, would quench the summer blaze, and, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year. the northeast spends his rage, and now shut up within his iron caves--the effusive south warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. at first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, scarce staining ether; but by fast degrees, in heaps on heaps, the doubling vapor sails along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, sits on the horizon round a settled gloom: not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, and full of every hope and every joy, the wish of nature. gradual sinks the breeze into a perfect calm; that not a breath is heard to quiver through the closing woods, or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves of aspen tall. the uncurling floods, diffus'd in glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse forgetful of their course. 'tis silence all, and pleasing expectation. herds and flocks drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye the falling verdure. hush'd in short suspense, the plumy people streak their wings with oil, to throw the lucid moisture trickling off; and wait the approaching sign to strike, at once, into the general choir. even mountains, vales, and forests seem, impatient, to demand the promis'd sweetness. man superior walks amid the glad creation, musing praise, and looking lively gratitude. at last, the clouds consign their treasures to the fields, and, softly shaking on the dimpled pool prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, in large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. the stealing shower is scarce to patter heard by such as wander through the forest walks, beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. but who can hold the shade, while heaven descends in universal bounty, shedding herbs, and fruits, and flowers, on nature's ample lap? swift fancy fir'd anticipates their growth; and, while the milky nutriment distills, beholds the kindling country color round. [illustration: the shower is scarce to patter heard] thus all day long the full-distended clouds indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth is deep-enrich'd with vegetable life; till, in the western sky, the downward sun looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. the rapid radiance instantaneous strikes the illumin'd mountain; through the forest streams; shakes on the floods; and in a yellow mist, far smoking o'er the interminable plain, in twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around full swell the woods; their every music wakes, mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling brooks increas'd, the distant bleatings of the hills, the hollow lows responsive from the vales, whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds, in fair proportion running from the red to where the violet fades into the sky. here, awful newton, the dissolving clouds form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; and to the sage-instructed eye unfold the various twine of light, by thee disclos'd from the white mingling maze. not so the swain: he wondering views the bright enchantment bend, delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs to catch the falling glory; but amaz'd beholds the amusive arch before him fly, then vanish quite away. still night succeeds, a soften'd shade; and saturated earth awaits the morning beam, to give to light, rais'd through ten thousand different plastic tubes, the balmy treasures of the former day. then spring the living herbs, profusely wild, o'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power of botanist to number up their tribes: whether he steals along the lonely dale, in silent search; or through the forest, rank with what the dull incurious weeds account, bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain rock, fir'd by the nodding verdure of its brow. with such a liberal hand has nature flung their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds, innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mould the moistening current, and prolific rain. but who their virtues can declare? who pierce, with vision pure, into these secret stores of health, and life, and joy? the food of man, while yet he liv'd in innocence, and told a length of golden years, unflesh'd in blood; a stranger to the savage arts of life, death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease-- the lord, and not the tyrant, of the world. [illustration: while yet man lived in innocence] the first fresh dawn then wak'd the gladdened race of uncorrupted man, nor blushed to see the sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam; for their light slumbers gently fum'd away, and up they rose as vigorous as the sun. or to the culture of the willing glebe, or to the cheerful tendance of the flock. meantime the song went round; and dance and sport, wisdom and friendly talk successive stole their hours away; while in the rosy vale love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free, and full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain that, inly thrilling, but exalts it more nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed, was known among these happy sons of heaven; for reason and benevolence were law. harmonious nature, too, look'd smiling on. clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales, and balmy spirit all. the youthful sun shot his best rays, and still the gracious clouds dropp'd fatness down; as, o'er the swelling mead, the herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure. this when, emergent from the gloomy wood, the glaring lion saw, his horrid heart was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy; for music held the whole in perfect peace: soft sigh'd the flute; the tender voice was heard, warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round applied their choir; and winds and waters flow'd in consonance. such were those prime of days. [illustration: the song went round, and dance] but now those white unblemish'd minutes, whence the fabling poets took their golden age, are found no more amid these iron times, these dregs of life! now the distemper'd mind has lost that concord of harmonious powers, which forms the soul of happiness; and all is off the poise within: the passions all have burst their bounds; and reason half-extinct, or impotent, or else approving, sees the foul disorder. senseless and deform'd, convulsive anger storms at large; or, pale and silent, settles into fell revenge. base envy withers at another's joy, and hates that excellence it can not reach. desponding fear, of feeble fancies full, weak and unmanly, loosens every power. even love itself is bitterness of soul, a pensive anguish pining at the heart; or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more that noble wish, that never-cloy'd desire, which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone to bless the dearer object of its flame. hope sickens with extravagance; and grief, of life impatient, into madness swells, or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours. these, and a thousand mix'd emotions more, from ever changing views of good and ill, form'd infinitely various, vex the mind with endless storm; whence, deeply rankling, grows the partial thought, a listless unconcern, cold, and averting from our neighbor's good; then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles coward deceit, and ruffian violence. at last, extinct each social feeling, fell and joyless inhumanity pervades and petrifies the heart. nature disturb'd is deem'd, vindictive, to have chang'd her course. hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came: when the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd the central waters round, impetuous rush'd, with universal burst, into the gulf, and o'er the high-pil'd hills of fractur'd earth wide-dash'd the waves, in undulation vast; till, from the centre to the streaming clouds, a shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe. the seasons since have, with severer sway, oppress'd a broken world: the winter keen shook forth his waste of snows; and summer shot his pestilential heats. great spring, before, green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd, in social sweetness, on the self-same bough. pure was the temperate air; an even calm perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland breath'd o'er the blue expanse: for then nor storms were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage; sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth; while sickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs, hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life. but now, of turbid elements the sport, from clear to cloudy toss'd, from hot to cold, and dry to moist, with inward-eating change, our drooping days are dwindled down to naught, their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun. and yet the wholesome herb neglected dies, though with the pure exhilarating soul of nutriment, and health, and vital powers, beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest. for, with hot ravin fir'd, ensanguin'd man is now become the lion of the plain, and worse. the wolf, who from the nightly fold fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drank her milk, nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the steer, at whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs, e'er plow'd for him. they too are temper'd high, with hunger stung and wild necessity; nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast. but man, whom nature form'd of milder clay, with every kind emotion in his heart, and taught alone to weep--while from her lap she pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs, and fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain or beams that gave them birth--shall he, fair form! who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven, e'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd, and dip his tongue in gore? the beast of prey, blood-stain'd deserves to bleed; but you, ye flocks, what have you done? ye peaceful people, what, to merit death? you, who have given us milk in luscious streams, and lent us your own coat against the winter's cold? and the plain ox, that harmless, honest, guileless animal, in what has he offended? he, whose toil, patient and ever ready, clothes the land with all the pomp of harvest?--shall he bleed, and struggling groan beneath the cruel hands even of the clowns he feeds? and that, perhaps, to swell the riot of the autumnal feast, won by his labor? this the feeling heart would tenderly suggest; but 'tis enough, in this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd light on the numbers of the samian sage. high heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain, whose wisest will has fixed us in a state that must not yet to pure perfection rise: beside, who knows, how rais'd to higher life, from stage to stage, the vital scale ascends? now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks, swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away-- and, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream descends the billowy foam--now is the time, while yet the dark-brown water aids the guile, to tempt the trout. the well dissembled fly, the rod fine-tapering with elastic spring, snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line, and all thy slender watery stores, prepare. but let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm, convulsive, twist in agonizing folds; which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep, gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch, harsh pain and horror to the tender hand. when, with his lively ray, the potent sun has pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny race then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair; chief should the western breezes curling play, and light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds, high to their fount, this day, amid the hills, and woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks, the next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, down to the river, in whose ample wave their little naiads love to sport at large. just in the dubious point where with the pool, is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank reverted plays in undulating flow, there throw nice-judging, the delusive fly; and, as you lead it round in artful curve, with eye attentive mark the springing game. straight as above the surface of the flood they wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap, then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook; some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, and to the shelving shore slow-dragging some, with various hand proportion'd to their force. if yet too young, and easily deceived, a worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, him, piteous of his youth, and the short space he has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven, soft disengage, and back into the stream the speckled infant throw. but should you lure from his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, behooves you then to ply your finest art. long time he, followed cautious, scans the fly, and oft attempts to seize it, but as oft the dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. at last, while haply o'er the shaded sun passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, with sullen plunge. at once he darts along, deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, the cavern'd bank, his old secure abode; and flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, indignant of the guile. with yielding hand, that feels him still, yet to his furious course gives way, you, now retiring, following now across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; till floating broad upon his breathless side, and to his fate abandon'd, to the shore you gayly drag your unresisting prize. [illustration: throw nice judging the delusive fly] [illustration: you gayly drag your unresisting prize] thus pass the temperate hours: but when the sun shakes from his noonday throne the scattering clouds, even shooting listless languor through the deeps, then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd, where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang the dewy head, where purple violets lurk, with all the lowly children of the shade; or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash hung o'er the steep, whence borne on liquid wing the sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk high in the beetling cliff his eyry builds. there let the classic page thy fancy lead through rural scenes, such as the mantuan swain paints in the matchless harmony of song; or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift athwart imagination's vivid eye; or, by the vocal woods and waters lull'd, and lost in lonely musing, in a dream, confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix ten thousand wandering images of things, soothe every gust of passion into peace-- all but the swellings of the soften'd heart, that waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind. behold, yon breathing prospect bids the muse throw all her beauty forth. but who can paint like nature? can imagination boast, amid its gay creation, hues like hers? or can it mix them with that matchless skill, and lose them in each other, as appears in every bud that blows? if fancy, then, unequal fails beneath the pleasing task, ah, what shall language do? ah, where find words ting'd with so many colors; and whose power, to life approaching, may perfume my lays with that fine oil, those aromatic gales, that inexhaustive flow continual round? yet, though successless, will the toil delight. come then, ye virgins and ye youths whose hearts have felt the raptures of refining love; and thou, amanda, come, pride of my song! form'd by the graces, loveliness itself! come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul-- where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd. shines lively fancy, and the feeling heart: oh come! and while the rosy-footed may steals blushing on, together let us tread the morning dews, and gather in their prime fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair and thy lov'd bosom that improves their sweets. [illustration: together let us tread the morning dews] [illustration: gather fresh flowers to grace thy hair] see, where the winding vale its lavish stores, irriguous, spreads. see, how the lily drinks the latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass, of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank, in fair profusion, decks. long let us walk, where the breeze blows from yon extended field, of blossom'd beans. arabia can not boast a fuller gale of joy than, liberal, thence breathes through the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul. nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot, full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers, the negligence of nature, wide and wild; where, undisguis'd by mimic art, she spreads unbounded beauty to the roving eye. here their delicious task the fervent bees, in swarming millions, tend: around, athwart, through the soft air the busy nations fly, cling to the bud, and with inserted tube suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul; and oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare the purple heath, or where the wild-thyme grows, and yellow load them with the luscious spoil. at length the finish'd garden to the view its vistas opens, and its alleys green. snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye distracted wanders: now the bowery walk of covert close, where scarce a speck of day falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps; now meets the bending sky; the river now dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake, the forest darkening round, the glittering spire, the ethereal mountain, and the distant main. but why so far excursive? when at hand, along these blushing borders, bright with dew, and in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace: throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first; the daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, and polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes; the yellow wallflower, stain'd with iron-brown; and lavish stock, that scents the garden round; from the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd with shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves: and full ranunculus, of glowing red. then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays her idle freaks: from family diffus'd to family, as flies the father-dust, the varied colors run; and, while they _break_ on the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks, with secret pride, the wonders of his hand. no gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud, first-born of spring, to summer's musky tribes: nor hyacinths, of purest virgin-white, low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils, of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair, as o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; nor broad carnations; nor gay-spotted pinks; nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, with hues on hues expression can not paint, the breath of nature, and her endless bloom. [illustration: the garden to the view its vistas open] hail, source of beings! universal soul of heaven and earth! essential presence, hail! to thee i bend the knee; to thee my thoughts, continual, climb; who, with a master-hand, hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. by thee the various vegetative tribes, wrapp'd in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew. by thee dispos'd into congenial soils, stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells the juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. at thy command the vernal sun awakes the torpid sap, detruded to the root by wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, and lively fermentation, mounting, spreads. all this innumerous-color'd scene of things. as rising from the vegetable world my theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, my panting muse; and hark, how loud the woods invite you forth in all your gayest trim. lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour the mazy-running soul of melody into my varied verse! while i deduce, from the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, the symphony of spring, and touch a theme unknown to fame--the passion of the groves. when first the soul of love is sent abroad, warm through the vital air, and on the heart harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, in gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; and try again the long forgotten strain, at first faint-warbled. but no sooner grows the soft infusion prevalent, and wide, than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows in music unconfin'd. up springs the lark, shrill-voic'd and loud, the messenger of morn: ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts calls up the tuneful nations. every copse deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads of the coy quiristers that lodge within, are prodigal of harmony. the thrush and woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng superior heard, run through the sweetest length of notes; when listening philomela deigns to let them joy, and purposes, in thought elate, to make her night excel their day. the blackbird whistles from the thorny brake; the mellow bullfinch answers from the grove; nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze pour'd out profusely, silent: join'd to these innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix mellifluous. the jay, the rook, the daw, and each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, aid the full concert; while the stockdove breathes a melancholy murmur through the whole. 'tis love creates their melody, and all this waste of music is the voice of love; that even to birds and beasts the tender arts of pleasing teaches. hence the glossy kind try every winning way inventive love can dictate, and in courtship to their mates pour forth their little souls. first, wide around, with distant awe, in airy rings they rove, endeavoring by a thousand tricks to catch the cunning, conscious, half-averted glance of their regardless charmer. should she seem, softening, the least approvance to bestow, their colors burnish, and, by hope inspir'd, they brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, retire disorder'd; then again approach; in fond rotation spread the spotted wing, and shiver every feather with desire. connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods they haste away, all as their fancy leads, pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts; that nature's great command may be obey'd: nor all the sweet sensations they perceive indulg'd in vain. some to the holly-hedge nestling repair, and to the thicket some; some to the rude protection of the thorn commit their feeble offspring. the cleft tree offers its kind concealment to a few, their food its insects, and its moss their nests. others, apart, far in the grassy dale, or roughening waste, their humble texture weave but most in woodland solitudes delight, in unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks, steep, and divided by a babbling brook. whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day, when by kind duty fix'd. among the roots of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream, they frame the first foundation of their domes; dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid, and bound with clay together. now 'tis naught but restless hurry through the busy air, beat by unnumber'd wings. the swallow sweeps the slimy pool, to build his hanging house intent. and often, from the careless back of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd, steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm, clean and complete, their habitation grows. [illustration: hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream] as thus the patient dam assiduous sits, not to be tempted from her tender task, or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight, though the whole loosen'd spring around her blows her sympathizing lover takes his stand high on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings the tedious time away; or else supplies her place a moment, while she sudden flits to pick the scanty meal. the appointed time with pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young, warm'd and expanded into perfect life, their brittle bondage break, and come to light a helpless family, demanding food with constant clamor. oh, what passions then, what melting sentiments of kindly care, on the new parents seize! away they fly. affectionate, and undesiring bear the most delicious morsel to their young which equally distributed, again the search begins. even so a gentle pair, by fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould, and charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, in some lone cot amid the distant woods, sustained alone by providential heaven, oft, as they weeping eye their infant train, check their own appetites and give them all. [illustration: a gentle pair, by fortune sunk] [illustration: they weeping eye their infant train] nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love, by the great father of the spring inspir'd gives instant courage to the fearful race, and to the simple, art. with stealthy wing, should some rude foot their woody haunts molest, amid a neighboring bush they silent drop, and whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive the unfeeling schoolboy. hence, around the head of wandering swain, the white-winged plover wheels her sounding flight, and then directly on in long excursion skims the level lawn, to tempt him from her nest. the wild-duck, hence, o'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste the heath-hen flutters, pious fraud! to lead the hot-pursuing spaniel far astray. be not the muse asham'd here to bemoan her brothers of the grove, by tyrant man inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage from liberty confin'd, and boundless air. dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull, ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost; nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes, which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech. oh, then, ye friends of love and love-taught song, spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear! if on your bosom innocence can win, music engage, or piety persuade. but let not chief the nightingale lament her ruin'd care, too delicately fram'd to brook the harsh confinement of the cage. oft when, returning with her loaded bill, the astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest, by the hard hand of unrelenting clowns robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce can bear the mourner to the poplar shade. where all abandon'd to despair she sings her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough sole-sitting, still at every dying fall takes up again her lamentable strain of winding woe, till wide around the woods sigh to her song, and with her wail resound. but now the feather'd youth their former bounds, ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings, demand the free possession of the sky. this one glad office more, and then dissolves parental love at once, now needless grown: unlavish wisdom never works in vain. 'tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild, when naught but balm is breathing through the woods. with yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad on nature's common, far as they can see, or wing their range and pasture. o'er the boughs dancing about, still at the giddy verge their resolution fails--their pinions still, in loose liberation stretch'd, to trust the void trembling refuse--till down before them fly the parent guides, and chide, exhort, command, or push them off. the surging air receives the plumy burden; and their self-taught wings winnow the waving element. on ground alighted, bolder up again they lead, farther and farther on, the lengthening flight, till, vanish'd every fear, and every power rous'd into life and action, light in air the acquitted parents see their soaring race, and, once rejoicing, never know them more. high from the summit of a craggy cliff, hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns on utmost kilda's shore, whose lonely race resign the setting sun to indian worlds, the royal eagle draws his vigorous young; strong-pounc'd, and ardent with paternal fire. now fit to raise a kingdom of their own, he drives them from his fort, the towering seat, for ages, of his empire; which, in peace, unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea he wings his course, and preys in distant isles. should i my steps turn to the rural seat, whose lofty elms and venerable oaks invite the rook, who high amid the boughs, in early spring, his airy city builds, and ceaseless caws amusive--there, well pleas'd, i might the various polity survey of the mix'd household-kind. the careful hen calls all her chirping family around, fed and defended by the fearless cock; whose breast with ardor flames, as on he walks graceful, and crows defiance. in the pond, the finely checker'd duck before her train rows garrulous. the stately-sailing swan gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; and, arching proud his neck, with oary feet bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle, protective of his young. the turkey nigh, loud-threatening, reddens; while the peacock spreads his every-color'd glory to the sun, and swims in radiant majesty along. o'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove flies thick in amorous chase, and wanton rolls the glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck. while thus the gentle tenants of the shade indulge their purer loves, the rougher world of brutes, below, rush furious into flame and fierce desire. through all his lusty veins the bull, deep-scorch'd, the raging passion feels. of pasture sick, and negligent of food, scarce seen, he wades among the yellow broom, while o'er his ample sides the rambling sprays luxuriant shoot; or through the mazy wood dejected wanders, nor the enticing bud crops, though it presses on his careless sense. and oft, in jealous maddening fancy wrapt, he seeks the fight; and, idly butting, feigns his rival gor'd in every knotty trunk. him should he meet, the bellowing war begins: their eyes flash fury; to the hollow'd earth, whence the sand flies, they mutter bloody deeds, and groaning deep the impetuous battle mix; while the fair heifer, balmy-breathing, near, stands kindling up their rage. the trembling steed, with this hot impulse seiz'd in every nerve, nor heeds the rein, nor hears the sounding thong; blows are not felt; but, tossing high his head, and by the well-known joy to distant plains attracted strong, all wild he bursts away; o'er rocks, and woods, and craggy mountains flies; and, neighing, on the aerial summit takes the exciting gale; then, steep-descending, cleaves the headlong torrents foaming down the hills, even where the madness of the straiten'd stream turns in black eddies round--such is the force with which his frantic heart and sinews swell. [illustration: on the aerial summit takes the gale] nor undelighted by the boundless spring are the broad monsters of the foaming deep: from the deep ooze and gelid caverns rous'd, they flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy. dire were the strain, and dissonant, to sing the cruel raptures of the savage kind; how, by this flame their native wrath sublim'd, they roam, amid the fury of their heart, the far-resounding waste in fiercer bands, and growl their horrid loves. but this, the theme i sing, enraptur'd, to the british fair, forbids; and leads me to the mountain brow, where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf, inhaling, healthful, the descending sun. around him feeds his many-bleating flock, of various cadence; and his sportive lambs, this way and that convolv'd, in friskful glee, their frolics play. and now the sprightly race invites them forth; when swift, the signal given, they start away, and sweep the massy mound that runs around the hill; the rampart once of iron war, in ancient barbarous times, when disunited britain ever bled, lost in eternal broil: ere yet she grew to this deep-laid indissoluble state, where wealth and commerce lift the golden head; and, o'er our labors, liberty and law impartial watch--the wonder of a world! what is this mighty breath, ye curious, say, that, in a powerful language, felt not heard, instructs the fowls of heaven; and through their breast these arts of love diffuses? what, but god? inspiring god! who, boundless spirit all, and unremitting energy, pervades, adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. he ceaseless works alone, and yet alone seems not to work; with such perfection fram'd is this complex stupendous scheme of things. but, though conceal'd, to every purer eye the informing author in his works appears: chief, lovely spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, the smiling god is seen; while water, earth, and air attest his bounty--which exalts the brute creation to this finer thought, and annual melts their undesigning hearts profusely thus in tenderness and joy. still let my song a nobler note assume, and sing the infusive force of spring on man, when heaven and earth, as if contending, vie to raise his being, and serene his soul, can he forbear to join the general smile of nature? can fierce passions vex his breast, while every gale is peace, and every grove is melody? hence! from the bounteous walks of flowing spring, ye sordid sons of earth, hard, and unfeeling of another's woe, or only lavish to yourselves; away! but come, ye generous minds, in whose wide thought; of all his works, creative bounty burns with warmest beam; and on your open front and liberal eye sits, from his dark retreat inviting modest want. nor till invok'd can restless goodness wait: your active search leaves no cold wintry corner unexplor'd; like silent-working heaven, surprising oft the lonely heart with unexpected good. for you the roving spirit of the wind blows spring abroad; for you the teeming clouds descend in gladsome plenty o'er the world; and the sun sheds his kindest rays for you. ye flower of human race! in these green days, reviving sickness lifts her languid head; life flows afresh; and young-ey'd health exalts the whole creation round. contentment walks the sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings to purchase. pure serenity apace induces thought, and contemplation still. by swift degrees the love of nature works, and warms the bosom; till at last, sublim'd to rapture and enthusiastic heat, we feel the present deity, and taste the joy of god to see a happy world! these are the sacred feelings of thy heart, thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray, o lyttelton, the friend! thy passions thus and meditations vary, as at large, courting the muse, through hagley park you stray; thy british tempè! there along the dale, with woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks, whence on each hand the gushing waters play. and down the rough cascade white-dashing fall, or gleam in lengthen'd vista through the trees, you silent steal; or sit beneath the shade of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts thrown graceful round by nature's careless hand, and pensive listen to the various voice of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds, the hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills, that, purling down amid the twisted roots which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake on the sooth'd ear. from these abstracted oft, you wander through the philosophic world; where in bright train continual wonders rise, or to the curious or the pious eye. and oft, conducted by historic truth, you tread the long extent of backward time: planning, with warm benevolence of mind, and honest zeal unwarp'd by party rage, britannia's weal; how from the venal gulf to raise her virtue, and her arts revive. or, turning thence thy view, these graver thoughts the muses charm; while, with sure taste refin'd, you draw the inspiring breath of ancient song, till nobly rises, emulous, thy own. perhaps thy lov'd lucinda shares thy walk, with soul to thine attun'd. then nature all wears to the lover's eye a look of love; and all the tumult of a guilty world, toss'd by ungenerous passions, sinks away. the tender heart is animated peace; and as it pours its copious treasures forth, in varied converse, softening every theme, you, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes, where meeken'd sense, and amiable grace, and lively sweetness dwell, enraptur'd drink that nameless spirit of ethereal joy, inimitable happiness! which love alone bestows, and on a _favor'd few_. meantime you gain the height, from whose fair brow the bursting prospect spreads immense around; and snatch'd o'er hill and dale, and wood and lawn, and verdant field, and darkening heath between, and villages embosom'd soft in trees, and spiry towns by surging columns mark'd of household smoke, your eye excursive roams; wide-stretching from the hall, in whose kind haunt the hospitable genius lingers still, to where the broken landscape, by degrees ascending, roughens into rigid hills-- o'er which the cambrian mountains, like far clouds that skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise. [illustration: through hagley park, thy british tempè] flush'd by the spirit of the genial year, now from the virgin's cheek a fresher bloom shoots, less and less, the live carnation round; her lips blush deeper sweets; she breathes of youth: the shining moisture swells into her eyes in brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves with palpitations wild; kind tumults seize her veins, and all her yielding soul is love. from the keen gaze her lover turns away, full of the dear ecstatic power, and sick with sighing languishment. ah, then, ye fair! be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts: dare not the infectious sigh; the pleading look, downcast and low, in meek submission dress'd, but full of guile. let not the fervent tongue, prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth, gain on your purpos'd will. nor in the bower, where woodbines flaunt and roses shed a couch, while evening draws her crimson curtains round, trust your soft minutes with betraying man. and let the aspiring youth beware of love, of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late, when on his heart the torrent-softness pours. then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame dissolves in air away; while the fond soul, wrapp'd in gay visions of unreal bliss, still paints the illusive form, the kindling grace, the enticing smile, the modest-seeming eye, beneath whose beauteous beams, belying heaven lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death; and still, false warbling in his cheated ear, her siren voice, enchanting, draws him on to guileful shores, and meads of fatal joy. even present, in the very lap of love inglorious laid--while music flows around, perfumes, and oils, and wine, and wanton hours-- amid the roses, fierce repentance rears her snaky crest: a quick-returning pang shoots through the conscious heart; where honor still, and great design, against the oppressive load of luxury, by fits, impatient heave. but absent, what fantastic woes, arous'd, rage in each thought, by restless musing fed, chill the warm cheek, and blast the bloom of life! neglected fortune flies; and, sliding swift, prone into ruin fall his scorn'd affairs 'tis naught but gloom around. the darken'd sun loses his light. the rosy-bosom'd spring to weeping fancy pines; and yon bright arch, contracted, bends into a dusky vault. all nature fades extinct; and she alone heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought, fills every sense, and pants in every vein. books are but formal dullness, tedious friends; and sad amid the social band he sits, lonely and unattentive. from the tongue the unfinish'd period falls: while, borne away on swelling thought, his wafted spirit flies to the vain bosom of his distant fair; and leaves the semblance of a lover, fixed in melancholy site, with head declined, and love-dejected eyes. sudden he starts, shook from his tender trance, and restless runs to glimmering shades and sympathetic glooms, where the dun umbrage o'er the falling stream, romantic, hangs; there through the pensive dusk strays, in heart-thrilling meditation lost, indulging all to love; or on the bank thrown, amid drooping lilies, swells the breeze with sighs unceasing, and the brook with tears. thus in soft anguish he consumes the day; nor quits his deep retirement, till the moon peeps through the chambers of the fleecy east, enlighten'd by degrees, and in her train leads on the gentle hours; then forth he walks, beneath the trembling languish of her beam, with softened soul, and woos the bird of eve to mingle woes with his; or, while the world and all the sons of care lie hush'd in sleep, associates with the midnight shadows drear; and, sighing to the lonely taper, pours his idly tortur'd heart into the page meant for the moving messenger of love-- where rapture burns on rapture, every line with rising frenzy fir'd. but if on bed delirious flung, sleep from his pillow flies. all night he tosses, nor the balmy power in any posture finds; till the gray morn lifts her pale lustre on the paler wretch, exanimate by love: and then perhaps exhausted nature sinks awhile to rest, still interrupted by distracted dreams, that o'er the sick imagination rise and in black colors paint the mimic scene. oft with the enchantress of his soul he talks; sometimes in crowds distress'd, or if retir'd to secret-winding flower-enwoven bowers, far from the dull impertinence of man, just as he, credulous, his endless cares begins to lose in blind oblivious love, snatch'd from her yielded hand, he knows not how, through forests huge, and long untravel'd heaths with desolation brown, he wanders waste, in night and tempest wrapp'd; or shrinks, aghast, back from the bending precipice; or wades the turbid stream below, and strives to reach the farther shore, where succorless and sad she with extended arms his aid implores, but strives in vain: borne by the outrageous flood to distance down, he rides the ridgy wave, or whelm'd beneath the boiling eddy sinks. these are the charming agonies of love, whose misery delights. but through the heart should jealousy its venom once diffuse, 'tis then delightful misery no more, but agony unmix'd, incessant gall, corroding every thought, and blasting all love's paradise. ye fairy prospects, then, ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy, farewell. ye gleamings of departed peace, shine out your last! the yellow-tinging plague internal vision taints, and in a night of livid gloom imagination wraps. ah! then, instead of love-enliven'd cheeks, of sunny features, and of ardent eyes with flowing rapture bright, dark looks succeed, suffus'd and glaring with untender fire; a clouded aspect, and a burning cheek, where the whole poison'd soul malignant sits, and frightens love away. ten thousand fears invented wild, ten thousand frantic views of horrid rivals, hanging on the charms for which he melts in fondness, eat him up with fervent anguish, and consuming rage. in vain reproaches lend their idle aid, deceitful pride, and resolution frail, giving false peace a moment. fancy pours, afresh, her beauties on his busy thought; her first endearments, twining round the soul with all the witchcraft of ensnaring love. straight the fierce storm involves his mind anew; flames through the nerves, and boils along the veins; while anxious doubt distracts the tortur'd heart: for even the sad assurance of his fears were peace to what he feels. thus the warm youth, whom love deludes into his thorny wilds, through flowery-tempting paths, or leads a life of fever'd rapture, or of cruel care; his brightest aims extinguish'd all, and all his lively moments running down to waste. [illustration: on the bank thrown amid drooping lilies] [illustration: in soft anguish he consumes the day] [illustration: woos the bird of eve to mingle woes] [illustration: still interrupted by distracted dreams] but happy they! the happiest of their kind! whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend, 'tis not the coarser tie of human laws, unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, that binds their peace, but harmony itself, attuning all their passions into love; where friendship full-exerts her softest power, perfect esteem enliven'd by desire ineffable, and sympathy of soul; thought meeting thought, and will preventing will with boundless confidence: for naught but love can answer love, and render bliss secure. let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent to bless himself from sordid parents buys the loathing virgin, in eternal care, well-merited, consume his nights and days; let barbarous nations whose inhuman love is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel; let eastern tyrants, from the light of heaven seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd of a mere lifeless, violated form: while those whom love cements in holy faith, and equal transport, free as nature live, disdaining fear. what is the world to them, its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all! who in each other clasp whatever fair high fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish; something than beauty dearer, should they look or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face-- truth, goodness, honor, harmony, and love, the richest bounty of indulgent heaven. meantime a smiling offspring rises round, and mingles both their graces. by degrees, the human blossom blows; and every day, soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, the father's lustre and the mother's bloom. then infant reason grows apace, and calls for the kind hand of an assiduous care. delightful task! to rear the tender thought, to teach the young idea how to shoot, to pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, to breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix the generous purpose in the glowing breast. [illustration: by degrees the human blossom blows] [illustration: delightful task! to rear the tender thought] oh, speak the joy! ye whom the sudden tear surprises often, while you look around, and nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss, all various nature pressing on the heart; an elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, ease and alternate labor, useful life, progressive virtue, and approving heaven. these are the matchless joys of virtuous love; and thus their moments fly. the seasons thus, as ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, still find them happy; and consenting spring sheds her own rosy garland on their heads: till evening comes at last, serene and mild; when after the long vernal day of life, enamor'd more, as more remembrance swells with many a proof of recollected love, together down they sink in social sleep; together freed, their gentle spirits fly to scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. [from dickens's household words.] the heart of john middleton; or, the power of love. i was born at sawley, where the shadow of pendle hill falls at sunrise. i suppose sawley sprang up into a village in the time of the monks, who had an abbey there. many of the cottages are strange old places; others again are built of the abbey stones, mixed up with the shale from the neighboring quarries; and you may see many a quaint bit of carving worked into the walls, or forming the lintels of the doors. there is a row of houses, built still more recently, where one mr. peel came to live for the sake of the water-power, and gave the place a fillip into something like life, though a different kind of life, as i take it, from the grand slow ways folks had when the monks were about. now, it was six o'clock--ring the bell, throng to the factory; sharp home at twelve; and even at night, when work was done, we hardly knew how to walk slowly, we had been so bustled all day long. i can't recollect the time when i did not go to the factory. my father used to drag me there when i was quite a little fellow, in order to wind reels for him. i never remember my mother. i should have been a better man than i have been, if i had only had a notion of the sound of her voice, or the look on her face. my father and i lodged in the house of a man, who also worked in the factory. we were sadly thronged in sawley, so many people came from different parts of the country to earn a livelihood at the new work; and it was some time before the row of cottages i have spoken of could be built. while they were building, my father was turned out of his lodgings for drinking and being disorderly, and he and i slept in the brick-kiln--that is to say, when we did sleep o' nights; but, often and often we went poaching; and many a hare and pheasant have i rolled up in clay, and roasted in the embers of the kiln. then, as followed to reason, i was drowsy next day over my work; but father had no mercy on me for sleeping, for all he knew the cause of it, but kicked me where i lay, a heavy lump on the factory-floor, and cursed and swore at me till i got up for very fear, and to my winding again. but when his back was turned i paid him off with heavier curses than he had given me, and longed to be a man that i might be revenged on him. the words i then spoke i would not now dare to repeat; and worse than hating words, a hating heart went with them. i forget the time when i did not know how to hate. when i first came to read, and learnt about ishmael, i thought i must be of his doomed race, for my hand was against every man, and every man's against me. but i was seventeen or more before i cared for my book enough to learn to read. after the row of works was finished, father took one, and set up for himself, in letting lodgings. i can't say much for the furnishing; but there was plenty of straw, and we kept up good fires; and there is a set of people who value warmth above every thing. the worst lot about the place lodged with us. we used to have a supper in the middle of the night; there was game enough, or if there was not game, there was poultry to be had for the stealing. by day we all made a show of working in the factory; by night we feasted and drank. now, this web of my life was black enough and coarse enough; but by-and-by, a little golden filmy thread began to be woven in; the dawn of god's mercy was at hand. one blowy october morning, as i sauntered lazily along to the mill, i came to the little wooden bridge over a brook that falls into the bribble. on the plank there stood a child, balancing the pitcher on her head, with which she had been to fetch water. she was so light on her feet that, had it not been for the weight of the pitcher, i almost believe the wind would have taken her up, and wafted her away, as it carries off a blow-ball in seed-time; her blue cotton dress was blown before her, as if she were spreading her wings for a flight; she turned her face round, as if to ask me for something, but when she saw who it was, she hesitated, for i had a bad name in the village, and i doubt not she had been warned against me. but her heart was too innocent to be distrustful; so she said to me, timidly: "please, john middleton, will you carry me this heavy jug just over the bridge?" it was the very first time i had ever been spoken to gently. i was ordered here and there by my father and his rough companions; i was abused and cursed by them if i failed in doing what they wished; if i succeeded, there came no expression of thanks or gratitude. i was informed of facts necessary for me to know. but the gentle words of request or entreaty were aforetime unknown to me, and now their tones fell on my ear soft and sweet as a distant peal of bells. i wished that i knew how to speak properly in reply; but though we were of the same standing, as regarded worldly circumstances, there was some mighty difference between us, which made me unable to speak in her language of soft words and modest entreaty. there was nothing for me but to take up the pitcher in a kind of gruff, shy silence, and carry it over the bridge as she had asked me. when i gave it her back again, she thanked me, and tripped away, leaving me, wordless, gazing after her, like an awkward lout, as i was. i knew well enough who she was. she was grandchild to eleanor hadfield, an aged woman, who was reputed as a witch by my father and his set, for no other reason, that i can make out, than her scorn, dignity, and fearlessness of rancor. it was true we often met her in the gray dawn of the morning when we returned from poaching, and my father used to curse her, under his breath, for a witch, such as were burnt, long ago, on pendle hill top; but i had heard that eleanor was a skillful sick-nurse, and ever ready to give her services to those who were ill; and i believe that she had been sitting up through the night (the night that we had been spending under the wild heavens, in deeds as wild), with those who were appointed to die. nelly was her orphan grand-daughter; her little hand-maiden; her treasure; her one ewe-lamb. many and many a day have i watched by the brook-side, hoping that some happy gust of wind, coming with opportune bluster down the hollow of the dale, might make me necessary once more to her. i longed to hear her speak to me again. i said the words she had used to myself, trying to catch her tone; but the chance never came again. i do not know that she ever knew how i watched for her there. i found out that she went to school, and nothing would serve me but that i must go too. my father scoffed at me; i did not care. i knew naught of what reading was, nor that it was likely that i should be laughed at; i, a great hulking lad of seventeen or upward, for going to learn my a, b, c, in the midst of a crowd of little ones. i stood just this way in my mind: nelly was at school; it was the best place for seeing her, and hearing her voice again. therefore i would go too. my father talked, and swore, and threatened, but i stood to it. he said i should leave school weary of it in a month. i swore a deeper oath than i like to remember, that i would stay a year, and come out a reader and a writer. my father hated the notion of folks learning to read, and said it took all the spirit out of them; besides, he thought he had a right to every penny of my wages; and though, when he was in good humor, he might have given me many a jug of ale, he grudged my two-pence a week for schooling. however, to school i went. it was a different place to what i had thought it before i went inside. the girls sat on one side, and the boys on the other; so i was not near nelly. she, too, was in the first class; i was put with the little toddling things that could hardly run alone. the master sat in the middle, and kept pretty strict watch over us. but i could see nelly, and hear her read her chapter; and even when it was one with a long list of hard names, such as the master was very fond of giving her, to show how well she could hit them off without spelling, i thought i had never heard a prettier music. now and then she read other things. i did not know what they were, true or false; but i listened because she read; and, by-and-by, i began to wonder. i remember the first word i ever spoke to her was to ask her (as we were coming out of school) who was the father of whom she had been reading; for when she said the words "our father," her voice dropped into a soft, holy kind of low sound, which struck me more than any loud reading, it seemed so loving and tender. when i asked her this, she looked at me with her great blue wondering eyes, at first shocked; and then, as it were, melted down into pity and sorrow, she said in the same way, below her breath, in which she read the words "our father," "don't you know? it is god." "god?" "yes; the god that grandmother tells me about." "tell me what she says, will you?" so we sat down on the hedge-bank, she a little above me, while i looked up into her face, and she told me all the holy texts her grandmother had taught her, as explaining all that could be explained of the almighty. i listened in silence, for indeed i was overwhelmed with astonishment. her knowledge was principally rote-knowledge; she was too young for much more; but we, in lancashire, speak a rough kind of bible language, and the texts seemed very clear to me. i rose up, dazed and overpowered. i was going away in silence, when i bethought me of my manners, and turned back, and said, "thank you," for the first time i ever remember saying it in my life. that was a great day for me, in more ways than one. i was always one who could keep very steady to an object when once i had set it before me. my object was to know nelly. i was conscious of nothing more. but it made me regardless of all other things. the master might scold, the little ones might laugh; i bore it all without giving it a second thought. i kept to my year, and came out a reader and writer; more, however, to stand well in nelly's good opinion, than because of my oath. about this time, my father committed some bad, cruel deed, and had to fly the country. i was glad he went; for i had never loved or cared for him, and wanted to shake myself clear of his set. but it was no easy matter. honest folk stood aloof; only bad men held out their arms to me with a welcome. even nelly seemed to have a mixture of fear now with her kind ways toward me. i was the son of john middleton, who, if he were caught, would be hung at lancaster castle. i thought she looked at me sometimes with a sort of sorrowful horror. others were not forbearing enough to keep their expression of feeling confined to looks. the son of the overlooker at the mill never ceased twitting me with my father's crime; he now brought up his poaching against him, though i knew very well how many a good supper he himself had made on game which had been given him to make him and his father wink at late hours in the morning. and how were such as my father to come honestly by game? this lad, dick jackson, was the bane of my life. he was a year or two older than i was, and had much power over the men who worked at the mill, as he could report to his father what he chose. i could not always hold my peace when he "threaped" me with my father's sins, but gave it him back sometimes in a storm of passion. it did me no good; only threw me farther from the company of better men, who looked aghast and shocked at the oaths i poured out--blasphemous words learned in my childhood, which i could not forget now that i would fain have purified myself of them; while all the time dick jackson stood by, with a mocking smile of intelligence; and when i had ended, breathless and weary with spent passion, he would turn to those whose respect i longed to earn, and ask if i were not a worthy son of my father, and likely to tread in his steps. but this smiling indifference of his to my miserable vehemence was not all, though it was the worst part of his conduct, for it made the rankling hatred grow up in my heart, and overshadow it like the great gourd-tree of the prophet jonah. but his was a merciful shade, keeping out the burning sun; mine blighted what it fell upon. what dick jackson did besides, was this, his father was a skillful overlooker, and a good man; mr. peel valued him so much, that he was kept on, although his health was failing; and when he was unable, through illness, to come to the mill, he deputed his son to watch over and report the men. it was too much power for one so young--i speak it calmly now. whatever dick jackson became, he had strong temptations when he was young, which will be allowed for hereafter. but at the time of which i am telling, my hate raged like a fire. i believed that he was the one sole obstacle to my being received as fit to mix with good and honest men. i was sick of crime and disorder, and would fain have come over to a different kind of life, and have been industrious, sober, honest, and right-spoken (i had no idea of higher virtue then), and at every turn dick jackson met me with his sneers. i have walked the night through, in the old abbey field, planning how i could out-wit him, and win men's respect in spite of him. the first time i ever prayed, was underneath the silent stars, kneeling by the old abbey walls, throwing up my arms, and asking god for the power of revenge upon him. i had heard that if i prayed earnestly, god would give me what i asked for, and i looked upon it as a kind of chance for the fulfillment of my wishes. if earnestness would have won the boon for me, never were wicked words so earnestly spoken. and oh, later on, my prayer was heard, and my wish granted! all this time i saw little of nelly. her grandmother was failing, and she had much to do in-doors. besides, i believed i had read her looks aright, when i took them to speak of aversion; and i planned to hide myself from her sight, as it were, until i could stand upright before men, with fearless eyes, dreading no face of accusation. it was possible to acquire a good character; i would do it--i did it: but no one brought up among respectable, untempted people, can tell the unspeakable hardness of the task. in the evenings i would not go forth among the village throng; for the acquaintances that claimed me were my father's old associates, who would have been glad enough to enlist a strong young man like me in their projects; and the men who would have shunned me and kept me aloof, were the steady and orderly. so i staid in-doors, and practiced myself in reading. you will say, i should have found it easier to earn a good character away from sawley, at some place where neither i nor my father was known. so i should; but it would not have been the same thing to my mind. besides, representing all good men, all goodness to me, in sawley nelly lived. in her sight i would work out my life, and fight my way upward to men's respect. two years passed on. every day i strove fiercely; every day my struggles were made fruitless by the son of the overlooker; and i seemed but where i was--but where i must ever be esteemed by all who knew me--but as the son of the criminal--wild, reckless, ripe for crime myself. where was the use of my reading and writing. these acquirements were disregarded and scouted by those among whom i was thrust back to take my portion. i could have read any chapter in the bible now; and nelly seemed as though she would never know it. i was driven in upon my books; and few enough of them i had. the peddlers brought them round in their packs, and i bought what i could. i had the "seven champions," and the "pilgrim's progress;" and both seemed to me equally wonderful, and equally founded on fact. i got byron's "narrative," and milton's "paradise lost;" but i lacked the knowledge which would give a clew to all. still they afforded me pleasure, because they took me out of myself, and made me forget my miserable position, and made me unconscious (for the time at least) of my one great passion of hatred against dick jackson. when nelly was about seventeen her grandmother died. i stood aloof in the church-yard, behind the great yew tree, and watched the funeral. it was the first religious service that ever i heard; and, to my shame, as i thought, it affected me to tears. the words seemed so peaceful and holy that i longed to go to church, but i durst not, because i had never been. the parish church was at bolton, far enough away to serve as an excuse for all who did not care to go. i heard nelly's sobs filling up every pause in the clergyman's voice; and every sob of hers went to my heart. she passed me on her way out of the church-yard; she was so near i might have touched her; but her head was hanging down, and i durst not speak to her. then the question arose, what was to become of her? she must earn her living; was it to be as a farm-servant, or by working at the mill? i knew enough of both kinds of life to make me tremble for her. my wages were such as to enable me to marry, if i chose; and i never thought of woman, for my wife, but nelly. still, i would not have married her now, if i could; for, as yet, i had not risen up to the character which i had determined it was fit that nelly's husband should have. when i was rich in good report, i would come forward, and take my chance; but until then, i would hold my peace. i had faith in the power of my long-continued, dogged, breasting of opinion. sooner or later it must, it should yield, and i be received among the ranks of good men. but, meanwhile, what was to become of nelly? i reckoned up my wages; i went to inquire what the board of a girl would be, who should help her in her household work, and live with her as her daughter, at the house of one of the most decent women of the place; she looked at me suspiciously. i kept down my temper, and told her i would never come near the place; that i would keep away from that end of the village; and that the girl for whom i made the inquiry should never know but what the parish paid for her keep. it would not do; she suspected me; but i know i had power over myself to have kept to my word; and besides, i would not for worlds have had nelly put under any obligation to me, which should speck the purity of her love, or dim it by a mixture of gratitude--the love that i craved to earn, not for my money, not for my kindness, but for myself. i heard that nelly had met with a place in bolland; and i could see no reason why i might not speak to her once before she left our neighborhood. i meant it to be a quiet, friendly telling her of my sympathy in her sorrow. i felt i could command myself. so, on the sunday before she was to leave sawley, i waited near the wood-path, by which i knew that she would return from afternoon church. the birds made such a melodious warble, such a busy sound among the leaves, that i did not hear approaching footsteps, till they were close at hand; and then there were sounds of two persons' voices. the wood was near that part of sawley where nelly was staying with friends; the path through it led to their house, and theirs only, so i knew it must be she, for i had watched her setting out to church alone. but who was the other? the blood went to my heart and head, as if i were shot, when i saw that it was dick jackson. was this the end of it all? in the steps of sin which my father had trode, i would rush to my death and to my doom. even where i stood i longed for a weapon to slay him. how dared he come near my nelly? she too--i thought her faithless, and forgot how little i had ever been to her in outward action; how few words, and those how uncouth, i had ever spoken to her; and i hated her for a traitoress. these feelings passed through me before i could see, my eyes and head were so dizzy and blind. when i looked i saw dick jackson holding her hand, and speaking quick, and low, and thick, as a man speaks in great vehemence. she seemed white and dismayed; but all at once, at some word of his (and what it was she never would tell me), she looked as though she defied a fiend, and wrenched herself out of his grasp. he caught hold of her again, and began once more the thick whisper that i loathed. i could bear it no longer, nor did i see why i should. i stepped out from behind the tree where i had been lying. when she saw me, she lost her look of one strung up to desperation, and came and clung to me; and i felt like a giant in strength and might. i held her with one arm, but i did not take my eyes off him; i felt as if they blazed down into his soul, and scorched him up. he never spoke, but tried to look as though he defied me; at last his eyes fell before mine. i dared not speak; for the old horrid oaths thronged up to my mouth; and i dreaded giving them way, and terrifying my poor trembling nelly. at last he made to go past me; i drew her out of the pathway. by instinct she wrapped her garments round her, as if to avoid his accidental touch; and he was stung by this i suppose--i believe--to the mad, miserable revenge he took. as my back was turned to him, in an endeavor to speak some words to nelly that might soothe her into calmness, she, who was looking after him, like one fascinated with terror, saw him take a sharp shaley stone, and aim it at me. poor darling! she clung round me as a shield, making her sweet body into a defense for mine. it hit her, and she spoke no word, kept back her cry of pain, but fell at my feet in a swoon. he--the coward! ran off as soon as he saw what he had done. i was with nelly alone in the green gloom of the wood. the quivering and leaf-tinted light made her look as if she were dead. i carried her, not knowing if i bore a corpse or not, to her friend's house. i did not stay to explain, but ran madly for the doctor. well! i can not bear to recur to that time again. five weeks i lived in the agony of suspense; from which my only relief was in laying savage plans for revenge. if i hated him before, what think ye i did now? it seemed as if earth could not hold us twain, but that one of us must go down to gehenna. i could have killed him; and would have done it without a scruple, but that seemed too poor and bold a revenge. at length--oh! the weary waiting oh! the sickening of my heart--nelly grew better--as well as she was ever to grow. the bright color had left her cheek; the mouth quivered with repressed pain, the eyes were dim with tears that agony had forced into them, and i loved her a thousand times better and more than when she was bright and blooming! what was best of all, i began to perceive that she cared for me. i know her grandmother's friends warned her against me, and told her i came of a bad stock; but she had passed the point where remonstrance from bystanders can take effect--she loved me as i was, a strange mixture of bad and good, all unworthy of her. we spoke together now, as those do whose lives are bound up in each other. i told her i would marry her as soon as she had recovered her health. her friends shook their heads; but they saw she would be unfit for farm-service or heavy work, and they perhaps thought, as many a one does, that a bad husband was better than none at all. anyhow we were married; and i learned to bless god for my happiness, so far i beyond my deserts. i kept her like a lady. i was a skillful workman, and earned good wages; and every want she had i tried to gratify. her wishes were few and simple enough, poor nelly! if they had been ever so fanciful, i should have had my reward in the new feeling of the holiness of home. she could lead me as a little child, with the charm of her gentle voice, and her ever-kind words. she would plead for all when i was full of anger and passion; only dick jackson's name passed never between our lips during all that time. in the evenings she lay back in her bee-hive chair, and read to me. i think i see her now, pale and weak, with her sweet young face, lighted by her holy, earnest eyes, telling me of the saviour's life and death, till they were filled with tears. i longed to have been there, to have avenged him on the wicked jews. i liked peter the best of all the disciples. but i got the bible myself, and read the mighty acts of god's vengeance in the old testament, with a kind of triumphant faith, that, sooner or later, he would take my cause in hand, and revenge me on mine enemy. in a year or so, nelly had a baby--a little girl, with eyes just like hers, that looked with a grave openness right into yours. nelly recovered but slowly. it was just before winter, the cotton-crop had failed, and master had to turn off many hands. i thought i was sure of being kept on, for i had earned a steady character, and did my work well; but once again it was permitted that dick jackson should do me wrong. he induced his father to dismiss me among the first in my branch of the business; and there was i, just before winter set in, with a wife and new-born child, and a small enough store of money to keep body and soul together, till i could get to work again. all my savings had gone by christmas eve, and we sat in the house foodless for the morrow's festival. nelly looked pinched and worn; the baby cried for a larger supply of milk than its poor starving mother could give it. my right hand had not forgot its cunning; and i went out once more to my poaching. i knew where the gang met; and i knew what a welcome back i should have--a far warmer and more hearty welcome than good men had given me when i tried to enter their ranks. on the road to the meeting-place i fell in with an old man--one who had been a companion to my father in his early days. "what, lad!" said he, "art thou turning back to the old trade? it's the better business now, that cotton has failed." "ay," said i, "cotton is starving us outright. a man may bear a deal himself, but he'll do aught bad and sinful to save his wife and child." "nay, lad," said he, "poaching is not sinful; it goes against man's laws, but not against god's." i was too weak to argue or talk much. i had not tasted food for two days. but i murmured, "at any rate, i trusted to have been clear of it for the rest of my days. it led my father wrong at first. i have tried and i have striven. now i give all up. right or wrong shall be the same to me. some are fore-doomed; and so am i." and as i spoke, some notion of the futurity that would separate nelly, the pure and holy, from me, the reckless and desperate one, came over me with an irrepressible burst of anguish. just then the bells of bolton-in-bolland struck up a glad peal, which came over the woods, in the solemn midnight air, like the sons of the morning shouting for joy--they seemed so clear and jubilant. it was christmas day; and i felt like an outcast from the gladness and the salvation. old jonah spoke out: "yon's the christmas bells. i say, johnny, my lad, i've no notion of taking such a spiritless chap as thou into the thick of it, with thy rights and thy wrongs. we don't trouble ourselves with such fine lawyer's stuff, and we bring down the 'varmint' all the better. now, i'll not have thee in our gang, for thou art not up to the fun, and thou'd hang fire when the time came to be doing. but i've a shrewd guess that plaguy wife and child of thine are at the bottom of thy half-and-half joining. now, i was thy father's friend afore he took to them helter-skelter ways; and i've five shillings and a neck of mutton at thy service. i'll not list a fasting man; but if thou'lt come to us with a full stomach, and say, 'i like your life, my lads, and i'll make one of you with pleasure, the first shiny night,' why, we'll give you a welcome and a half; but to-night, make no more ado but turn back with me for the mutton and the money." i was not proud; nay, i was most thankful. i took the meat, and boiled some broth for my poor nelly. she was in a sleep, or a faint, i know not which; but i roused her, and held her up in bed, and fed her with a teaspoon, and the light came back to her eyes, and the faint moonlight smile to her lips; and when she had ended, she said her innocent grace, and fell asleep with her baby on her breast. i sat over the fire, and listened to the bells, as they swept past my cottage on the gusts of the wind. i longed and yearned for the second coming of christ, of which nelly had told me. the world seemed cruel, and hard, and strong, too strong for me; and i prayed to cling to the hem of his garment, and be borne over the rough places when i fainted and bled, and found no man to pity or help me, but poor old jonah the publican and sinner. all this time my own woes and my own self were uppermost in my mind, as they are in the minds of most who have been hardly used. as i thought of my wrongs and my sufferings, my heart burned against dick jackson; and as the bells rose and fell, so my hopes waxed and waned, that in those mysterious days of which they were both the remembrance and the prophecy, he would be purged from off the earth. i took nelly's bible, and turned, not to the gracious story of the saviour's birth, but to the records of the former days when the jews took such wild revenge upon all their opponents. i was a jew--a leader among the people. dick jackson was as pharaoh, as the king agag, who walked delicately, thinking the bitterness of death was past--in short, he was the conquered enemy over whom i gloated, with my bible in my hand--that bible which contained our saviour's words on the cross. as yet, those words seemed faint and meaningless to me, like a tract of country seen in the starlight haze; while the histories of the old testament were grand and distinct in the blood-red color of sunset. by-and-by that night passed into day; and little piping voices came round, carol-singing. they wakened nelly. i went to her as soon as i heard her stirring. "nelly," said i, "there's money and food in the house; i will be off to padiham seeking work, while thou hast something to go upon." "not to-day," said she; "stay to-day with me. if thou wouldst only go to church with me this once"--for you see i had never been inside a church but when we were married, and she was often praying me to go; and now she looked at me, with a sigh just creeping forth from her lips, as she expected a refusal. but i did not refuse. i had been kept away from church before because i dared not go; and now i was desperate and dared do any thing. if i did look like a heathen in the face of all men, why, i was a heathen in my heart; for i was falling back into all my evil ways. i had resolved, if my search of work at padiham should fail, i would follow my father's footsteps, and take with my own right hand and by my strength of arm, what it was denied me to obtain honestly. i had resolved to leave sawley, where a curse seemed to hang over me; so what did it matter if i went to church, all unbeknowing what strange ceremonies were there performed? i walked thither as a sinful man--sinful in my heart. nelly hung on my arm, but even she could not get me to speak. i went in; she found my places, and pointed to the words, and looked up into my eyes with hers, so full of faith and joy. but i saw nothing but richard jackson--i heard nothing but his loud nasal voice, making response, and desecrating all the holy words. he was in broadcloth of the best--i in my fustian jacket. he was prosperous and glad--i was starving and desperate. nelly grew pale as she saw the expression in my eyes; and she prayed ever and ever more fervently as the thought of me tempted by the devil, even at that very moment, came more fully before her. by-and-by she forgot even me, and laid her soul bare before god, in a long silent weeping prayer, before we left the church. nearly all had gone--and i stood by her, unwilling to disturb her, unable to join her. at last she rose up, heavenly calm. she took my arm, and we went home through the woods, where all the birds seemed tame and familiar. nelly said she thought all living creatures knew it was christmas day, and rejoiced, and were loving together. i believed it was the frost that had tamed them; and i felt the hatred that was in me, and knew that whatever else was loving, i was full of malice and uncharitableness, nor did i wish to be otherwise. that afternoon i bade nelly and our child farewell, and tramped to padiham. i got work--how i hardly know; for stronger and stronger came the force of the temptation to lead a wild, free life of sin; legions seemed whispering evil thoughts to me, and only my gentle, pleading nelly to pull me back from the great gulf. however, as i said before, i got work, and set off homeward to move my wife and child to that neighborhood. i hated sawley, and yet i was fiercely indignant to leave it; with my purposes unaccomplished. i was still an outcast from the more respectable, who stood afar off from such as i; and mine enemy lived and flourished in their regard. padiham, however, was not so far away, for me to despair--to relinquish my fixed determination. it was on the eastern side of the great pendle hill; ten miles away, maybe. hate will overleap a greater obstacle. i took a cottage on the fell, high up on the side of the hill. we saw a long bleak moorland slope before us, and then the gray stone houses of padiham, over which a black cloud hung; different from the blue wood or turf smoke about sawley. the wild winds came down, and whistled round our house many a day when all was still below. but i was happy then. i rose in men's esteem. i had work in plenty. our child lived and throve. but i forgot not our country proverb: "keep a stone in thy pocket for seven years: turn it, and keep it seven years more; but have it ever ready to cast at thine enemy when the time comes." one day a fellow workman asked me to go to a hill-side preaching. now i never cared to go to church; but there was something newer and freer in the notion of praying to god right under his great dome; and the open air had had a charm to me ever since my wild boyhood. besides, they said these ranters had strange ways with them, and i thought it would be fun to see their way of setting about it; and this ranter of all others had made himself a name in our parts. accordingly we went; it was a fine summer's evening, after work was done. when we got to the place we saw such a crowd as i never saw before, men, women, and children; all ages were gathered together, and sat on the hill-side. they were care-worn, diseased, sorrowful, criminal; all that was told on their faces, which were hard, and strongly marked. in the midst, standing in a cart, was the ranter. when i first saw him, i said to my companion, "lord! what a little man to make all this pother! i could trip him up with one of my fingers;" and then i sat down, and looked about me a bit. all eyes were fixed on the preacher; and i turned mine upon him too. he began to speak; it was in no fine-drawn language, but in words such as we heard every day of our lives, and about things we did every day of our lives. he did not call our short-comings, pride or worldliness or pleasure-seeking, which would have given us no clear notion of what he meant, but he just told us outright what we did, and then he gave it a name, and said that it was accursed--and that we were lost if we went on so doing. by this time the tears and sweat were running down his face; he was wrestling for our souls. we wondered how he knew our innermost lives as he did, for each one of us saw his sin set before him in plain-spoken words. then he cried out to us to repent; and spoke first to us, and then to god, in a way that would have shocked many--but it did not shock me. i liked strong things; and i liked the bare full truth: and i felt brought nearer to god in that hour--the summer darkness creeping over us, and one after one the stars coming out above us, like the eyes of the angels watching us--than i had ever done in my life before. when he had brought us to our tears and sighs, he stopped his loud voice of upbraiding, and there was a hush, only broken by sobs and quivering moans, in which i heard through the gloom the voices of strong men in anguish and supplication, as well as the shriller tones of women. suddenly he was heard again; by this time we could not see him; but his voice was now tender as the voice of an angel, and he told us of christ, and implored us to come to him. i never heard such passionate entreaty. he spoke as if he saw satan hovering near us in the dark dense night, and as if our only safety lay in a very present coming to the cross; i believe he did see satan; we know he haunts the desolate old hills, awaiting his time, and now or never it was, with many a soul. at length there was a sudden silence; and by the cries of those nearest to the preacher, we heard that he had fainted. we had all crowded round him, as if he were our safety and our guide; and he was overcome by the heat and the fatigue, for we were the fifth set of people whom he had addressed that day. i left the crowd who were leading him down, and took a lonely path myself. here was the earnestness i needed. to this weak and weary, fainting man, religion was a life and a passion. i look back now, and wonder at my blindness as to what was the root of all my nelly's patience and long-suffering; for i thought, now i had found out what religion was, and that hitherto, it had been all an unknown thing to me. henceforward, my life was changed. i was zealous and fanatical. beyond the set to whom i had affiliated myself i had no sympathy. i would have persecuted all who differed from me, if i had only had the power. i became an ascetic in all bodily enjoyments. and, strange and inexplicable mystery, i had some thoughts that by every act of self-denial i was attaining to my unholy end, and that, when i had fasted and prayed long enough, god would place my vengeance in my hands. i have knelt by nelly's bedside, and vowed to live a self-denying life, as regarded all outward things, if so that god would grant my prayer. i left it in his hands. i felt sure he would trace out the token and the word; and nelly would listen to my passionate words, and lie awake sorrowful and heart-sore through the night; and i would get up and make her tea, and re-arrange her pillows, with a strange and willful blindness that my bitter words and blasphemous prayers had cost her miserable, sleepless nights. my nelly was suffering yet from that blow. how or where the stone had hurt her i never understood; but in consequence of that one moment's action, her limbs became numb and dead, and, by slow degrees, she took to her bed, from whence she was never carried alive. there she lay, propped up by pillows, her meek face ever bright, and smiling forth a greeting; her white pale hands ever busy with some kind of work; and our little grace was as the power of motion to her. fierce as i was away from her, i never could speak to her but in my gentlest tones. she seemed to me as if she had never wrestled for salvation as i had; and when away from her, i resolved, many a time and oft, that i would rouse her up to her state of danger when i returned home that evening--even if strong reproach were required i would rouse her up to her soul's need. but i came in and heard her voice singing softly some holy word of patience, some psalm which, maybe, had comforted the martyrs, and when i saw her face, like the face of an angel, full of patience and happy faith, i put off my awakening speeches till another time. one night, long ago, when i was yet young and strong, although my years were past forty, i sat alone in my house-place. nelly was always in bed, as i have told you, and grace lay in a cot by her side. i believed them to be both asleep; though how they could sleep i could not conceive, so wild and terrible was the night. the wind came sweeping down from the hill-top in great beats, like the pulses of heaven; and, during the pauses, while i listened for the coming roar, i felt the earth shiver beneath me. the rain beat against windows and doors, and sobbed for entrance. i thought the prince of the air was abroad; and i heard, or fancied i heard, shrieks come on the blast, like the cries of sinful souls given over to his power. the sounds came nearer and nearer. i got up and saw to the fastenings of the door, for though i cared not for mortal man, i did care for what i believed was surrounding the house, in evil might and power. but the door shook as though it, too, were in deadly terror, and i thought the fastenings would give way. i stood facing the entrance, lashing my heart up to defy the spiritual enemy that i looked to see, every instant, in bodily presence; and the door did burst open; and before me stood--what was it? man or demon? a gray-haired man, with poor worn clothes all wringing wet, and he himself battered and piteous to look upon, from the storm he had passed through. "let me in!" he said. "give me shelter. i am poor, or i would reward you. and i am friendless too," he said, looking up in my face, like one seeking what he can not find. in that look, strangely changed, i knew that god had heard me; for it was the old cowardly look of my life's enemy. had he been a stranger i might not have welcomed him, but as he was mine enemy, i gave him welcome in a lordly dish. i sat opposite to him. "whence do you come?" said i. "it is a strange night to be out on the fells." he looked up at me sharp: but in general he held his head down like a beast or hound. "you won't betray me. i'll not trouble you long. as soon as the storm abates, i'll go." "friend!" said i, "what have i to betray?" and i trembled lest he should keep himself out of my power and not tell me. "you come for shelter, and i give you of my best. why do you suspect me?" "because," said he, in his abject bitterness, "all the world is against me. i never met with goodness or kindness; and now i am hunted like a wild beast. i'll tell you--i am a convict returned before my time. i was a sawley man," (as if i, of all men did not know it!) "and i went back like a fool to the old place. they've hunted me out where i would fain have lived rightly and quietly, and they'll send me back to that hell upon earth, if they catch me. i did not know it would be such a night. only let me rest and get warm once more, and i'll go away. good kind man! have pity upon me." i smiled all his doubts away; i promised him a bed on the floor, and i thought of jael and sisera. my heart leaped up like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet, and said, "ha, ha, the lord hath heard my prayer and supplication; i shall have vengeance at last!" he did not dream who i was. he was changed; so that i, who had learned his features with all the diligence of hatred, did not at first recognize him; and he thought not of me, only of his own woe and affright. he looked into the fire with the dreamy gaze of one whose strength of character, if he had any, is beaten out of him; and can not return at any emergency whatsoever. he sighed and pitied himself, yet could not decide on what to do. i went softly about my business, which was to make him up a bed on the floor; and, when he was lulled to sleep and security, to make the best of my way to padiham, and summon the constable, into whose hands i would give him up to be taken back to his "hell upon earth." i went into nelly's room. she was awake and anxious. i saw she had been listening to the voices. "who is there?" said she. "john, tell me--it sounded like a voice i knew. for god's sake, speak." i smiled a quiet smile. "it is a poor man who has lost his way. go to sleep my dear--i shall make him up on the floor. i may not come for some time. go to sleep;" and i kissed her. i thought she was soothed, but not fully satisfied. however, i hastened away before there was any further time for questioning. i made up the bed; and richard jackson, tired out, lay down and fell asleep. my contempt for him almost equaled my hate. if i were avoiding return to a place which i thought to be a hell upon earth, think you i would have taken a quiet sleep under any man's roof, till somehow or another i was secure? now comes this man, and with incontinence of tongue, blabs out the very thing he most should conceal, and then lies down to a good, quiet, snoring sleep. i looked again. his face was old, and worn, and miserable. so should mine enemy look. and yet it was sad to gaze upon him, poor hunted creature! i would gaze no more, lest i grew weak and pitiful. thus i took my hat and softly opened the door. the wind blew in, but did not disturb him, he was so utterly weary. i was out in the open air of night. the storm was ceasing, and instead of the black sky of doom, that i had seen when i last looked forth, the moon was come out, wan and pale, as if wearied with the fight in the heavens; and her white light fell ghostly and calm on many a well-known object. now and then a dark torn cloud was blown across her home in the sky, but they grew fewer and fewer, and at last she shone out steady and clear, i could see padiham down before me. i heard the noise of the water-courses down the hill-side. my mind was full of one thought, and strained upon that one thought, and yet my senses were most acute and observant. when i came to the brook, it was swollen to a rapid, tossing river; and the little bridge, with its hand-rail was utterly swept away. it was like the bridge at sawley, where i had first seen nelly; and i remembered that day even then in the midst of my vexation at having to go round. i turned away from the brook, and there stood a little figure facing me. no spirit from the dead could have affrighted me as it did; for i saw it was grace, whom i had left in bed by her mother's side. she came to me, and took my hand. her bare feet glittered white in the moonshine; and sprinkled the light upward, as they plashed through the pool. "father," said she, "mother bade me say this." then pausing to gather breath and memory, she repeated these words, like a lesson of which she feared to forget a syllable. "mother says, 'there is a god in heaven; and in his house are many mansions. if you hope to meet her there, you will come back and speak to her; if you are to be separate forever and ever, you will go on; and may god have mercy on her and on you!' father, i have said it right--every word." i was silent. at last i said, "what made mother say this? how came she to send you out?" "i was asleep, father, and i heard her cry. i wakened up, and i think you had but just left the house, and that she was calling for you. then she prayed, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, and kept saying--'oh, that i could walk!--oh, that for one hour i could run and walk!' so i said, 'mother, i can run and walk. where must i go?' and she clutched at my arm; and bade god bless me; and told me not to fear, for that he would compass me about; and taught me my message; and now, father, dear father, you will meet mother in heaven, won't you--and not be separate forever and ever?" she clung to my knees and pleaded once more in her mother's words. i took her up in my arms and turned homeward. "is yon man there, on the kitchen floor?" asked i. "yes!" she answered. at any rate, my vengeance was not out of my power yet. when we got home i passed him, dead asleep! in our room, to which my child guided me, was nelly. she sat up in bed, a most unusual attitude for her, and one of which i thought she had been incapable of attaining to without help. she had her hands clasped, and her face wrapt as if in prayer; and when she saw me, she lay back with a sweet, ineffable smile. she could not speak at first; but when i came near, she took my hand and kissed it, and then she called grace to her, and made her take off her cloak and her wet things, and, dressed in her short scanty night-gown, she slipped into her mother's warm side, and all this time my nelly never told me why she summoned me; it seemed enough that she should hold my hand, and feel that i was there. i believed she had read my heart; and yet i durst not speak to ask her. at last she looked up. "my husband," said she, "god has saved you and me from a great sorrow this night." i would not understand, and i felt her look die away into disappointment. "that poor wanderer in the house-place is richard jackson, is it not?" i made no answer. her face grew white and wan. "oh," said she, "this is hard to bear. speak what is in your mind, i beg of you. i will not thwart you harshly; dearest john, only speak to me." "why need i speak? you seem to know all." "i do know that his is a voice i can never forget; and i do know the awful prayers you have prayed; and i know how i have lain awake, to pray that your words might never be heard; and i am a powerless cripple. i put my cause in god's hands. you shall not do the man any harm. what you have it in your thoughts to do i can not tell. but i know that you can not do it. my eyes are dim with a strange mist, but some voice tells me that you will forgive even richard jackson. dear husband--dearest john, it is so dark i can not see you; but speak once to me." i moved the candle--but when i saw her face, i saw what was drawing the mist over those loving eyes--how strange and woeful that she could die! her little girl lying by her side looked in my face, and then at her; and the wild knowledge of death shot through her young heart and she screamed aloud. nelly opened her eyes once more. they fell upon the gaunt, sorrow-worn man who was the cause of all. he roused him from his sleep, at that child's piercing cry, and stood at the doorway looking in. he knew nelly and understood where the storm had driven him to shelter. he came toward her: "oh, woman--dying woman--you have haunted me in the loneliness of the bush far away--you have been in my dreams forever--the hunting of men has not been so terrible as the hunting of your spirit--that stone--that stone!" he fell down by her bedside in an agony--above which her saint-like face looked on us all, for the last time, glorious with the coming light of heaven. she spoke once again: "it was a moment of passion--i never bore you malice for it. i forgive you--and so does john, i trust." could i keep my purpose there? it faded into nothing. but above my choking tears, i strove to speak clear and distinct, for her dying ear to hear, and her sinking heart to be gladdened. "i forgive you, richard; i will befriend you in your trouble." she could not see; but instead of the dim shadow of death stealing over her face, a quiet light came over it, which we knew was the look of a soul at rest. that night i listened to his tale for her sake; and i learnt that it is better to be sinned against than to sin. in the storm of the night mine enemy came to me; in the calm of the gray morning, i let him forth, and bade him "god speed." and a woe had come upon me, but the burning burden of a sinful, angry heart was taken off. i am old now, and my daughter is married. i try to go about preaching and teaching in my rough, rude way; and what i teach is how christ lived and died, and what was nelly's faith of love. [from fraser's magazine.] phantoms and realities.--an autobiography. part the first--morning. i. the sapling, green and tender, yields readily to wind and sun and the hand of the trainer; the grown tree resists the storm, and 'tis well with it if it be not torn up by the roots; the aged trunk, dried to the core, spreads out its branches and perishes. this is human life. at first, all wonder and curiosity, we are moulded by surrounding circumstances, which often affect our after lives, as colors laid at the root of bulbous plants are said to transmit their tints to the blossom; next comes the age of knowledge, when reason struggles with passion, and is not always the victor; lastly, the decay, when passion is extinct, and we live on a little longer on our memories, and then drop into dust. when i formed the resolution to set down the events that have agitated my life, and marked it out with a strange difference from the lives of other men, i did not see the difficulties that beset my confession on the very threshold. they grew upon me by degrees. the more i reflected on it, the more reluctance i felt at the thought of writing about things which no man would believe. looking back upon them from the verge of the grave, which can not now be long untenanted, they seem, even to me, more like fantastic dreams or wild allegories than real occurrences. how then can i expect others to accept as true a narration which contradicts their experience and convictions, and which i can not elucidate myself? i can explain nothing; i can only relate what has happened to me, careful not to deviate a hair's breadth into exaggeration. it would be little to the purpose to say that truth is stranger than fiction, an axiom which every body admits as a loose generality, but which nobody will consent to apply in the instances by which it is illustrated. i can attest, out of my own knowledge, that truth often presents inexplicable phenomena, and is sometimes irreconcilable with the laws of nature. but who will credit me, i said, when i narrate such things? again and again i approached the subject, and as often recoiled from the execution of my design. it was only by repeated efforts that i summoned up sufficient moral courage to overcome the fear and shame that overwhelmed me, from the apprehension that i should be regarded as one who had been himself deceived, or who was practicing a deception on others. a patient examination of the motives upon which my resolution was founded, determined me, however, to brave all such risks, in the assurance that they who, exercising their literal judgment, as they have a right to do, might see reason for doubting my veracity, could not fail, upon the whole, to draw a practical moral from my revelations. for the rest, i must appease my own scruples by declaring that i have herein written nothing that is not strictly true, and related exactly as it occurred. ii. my earliest recollections of my father do not extend to his form or lineaments. i remember nothing of him except his voice, the tone of which lingers as distinctly in my ear to this hour as if i had heard it yesterday. it was low and tremulous, and seemed to have a thrill in it of suffering, or anger, i know not which. the only parent i knew was my mother, with whom i lived in a solitude that i can not contemplate at this distance of time without shuddering. our house was situated on a lonely moor in the north of england, close upon the bleak border--a dismal neighborhood, savage, cold, and desolate. it was built so far back as the reign of richard ii., and with its flanking walls, crumbling on all sides into ruin, and its paved court-yards, covered a considerable area. most of the apartments were large and gloomy, and hung with arras of so great an age, that the colors had grown dim, and the thread in many places appeared to be dropping into powder. long corridors and smaller rooms ran round the quadrangle; and as the uses for which this huge pile was designed by its founders had long since passed away with the bands of retainers and extravagant pomp that distinguished the days of feudal hospitality and royal progresses, only a small part of it was kept up in an inhabitable condition by my mother. unfortunately for my after life, the part so preserved lay in the very centre of the mansion, approachable only by dark passages, utterly obscure at night, and barely lighted in the day-time by narrow latticed windows, such as we see indented in the thick walls of old cloisters. to reach the inhabited rooms it was necessary to make many windings, to twine up a short spiral stair that led from the outer court, and to traverse two sides of the quadrangle. this was always a fearful thing to me, which use by no means deprived of its terrors. there were many legends whispered from one to another in the winter nights of revolting crimes which had taken place there in former times, and which rose re-embodied before me as i cowered past the spots where they were said to have been enacted. the aspect of the dreary building, within and without, by day and night, made it all real. if the moon shone brightly into the passages, strange shadows were discernible flitting across the floor or creeping up the walls; and as i involuntarily glanced through shattered doors and inner casements, remnants of armor hanging about, and fragments of tapestry fluttering against the windows, and other relics of a 'sheeted ancestry,' would seem to glide out of the darkness, and fill the open spaces with forms swaying and undulating before my eyes. i remember how my limbs used to totter under me as i tried not to see these sights, and crept on, stifling the fear that was distilling drops of agony over my body by the greater fear of uttering a cry, lest the slightest noise might bring worse horrors round me. i am speaking of my childhood--and children will understand me. let no man scoff at these terrors. the wisest and bravest have quailed under them. skepticism may laugh, but it would be more profitably employed in endeavoring to solve the problems which concern the connection between the material and the spiritual universe. why is it that adults, as well as children, are impressed with a certain uneasiness in the dark? not a fear of ghosts, or robbers, or accidents, or of any thing upon which the mind can reason, or of which the senses are cognizant; but a vague consciousness of invisible influences. in the daylight we have no such sensations; they belong exclusively to silence and darkness. as a child, i grew up in the awe of these influences, fostered by loneliness and the moody companionship of a wayward woman, who held little intercourse with the outer world, and shut herself up in dreams and superstitions. an incident which occurred at this period helped to give a supernatural turn to many circumstances that were, no doubt, capable of a simple solution. toward the extremity of a court to the south of the old pile, there was a chasm in the ground, partly filled up with loose stones and brambles. the whole place was over-run with grass and weeds, and the walls and outbuildings that surrounded it were in ruins. i had heard that this spot, which gaped so grimly through the tall, lank bushes and accumulated rubbish, was formerly the entrance to a series of subterranean galleries, that had been excavated below the foundations for the purpose of concealing troops, or stowing away prisoners, in times of trouble; and that they had been used in that way during the civil war, when the mansion stood out a long siege against some of fairfax's generals. an irresistible curiosity to explore these galleries seized upon me. i was fascinated by the very fear with which the stories related about them had inspired me. i never could pass that yawning chasm, which, now nearly choked up, was hardly wide enough to admit of the descent of a grown person, without longing to plunge into its depths. i often lingered there in the twilight, when the shadows were falling about, enhancing the terror and the temptation; and one evening in the autumn i took courage, and, clearing away the brambles with trembling hands, i forced myself down, bringing with me a torrent of stones and earth. finding my feet at the bottom, and rubbing my eyes, i tried to grope my way onward. at first there was a dim light at a great distance above me, in a slanting direction, but in an instant afterward i was in total darkness. my first impulse was to laugh at the exploit i had achieved; but as i pattered along, plashing sometimes in pools of water, and sometimes knocking my head against the rough stones that jutted out on each side, my mirth deserted me. when i became accustomed to the darkness, i fancied i could discern shapeless figures rising up and vanishing in the gloom--the walls seemed to move out of their places, and heave to and fro like wrecks in a storm--then they would open, and collapse, and disappear: all was in motion, black and tumultuous, and a surging sound, as of winds and waters lashing and wailing in a confined space, moaned dismally in my ears. even when i closed my eyes, and pressed my fingers upon them to shut out these sights, they were still before me. this was, of course, the work of mere fright; but what followed can not be so easily accounted for. while i stood hesitating how i should proceed, for i had lost my track, and knew not whether i ought to go backward or forward, i heard a distinct rushing sound, quite close to me. it swept past, and all was silent again. it was like a rush of silk or satin, or some fabric that, suddenly crushed, gives out a crackling noise. all the blood in my body gathered into my head; my eyes emitted fire, as if they had been struck by a cord. a stifling sensation bubbled up to my throat, and i involuntarily uttered a cry, which was echoed from a hundred recesses, and continued at intervals, reverberating like a succession of shots in the distance. i panted with horror, as i grasped the wall and listened. my fear was too great to suffer me to cry out for help. the apprehension of again invoking these dreadful echoes appalled me; i hardly breathed, and stood still to listen, i know not how long. a death-like silence pervaded the darkness. the soughing of the winds had ceased, or i fancied so, the stillness was so heavy. it may be that my faculties were intent upon that palpable sound i had heard, and could distinguish nothing else. at last i began to move, treading softly, and stopping at intervals to watch and listen. i had scarcely proceeded in this way a dozen paces, when i felt as plainly as if i saw the object in the broad glare of the sun, a quick motion at my side in a nook or crevice of the wall. it was like the effort of a person to shrink down and escape from me. in an excess of fright and desperation i clutched at it with my hands, and caught it--i say caught it, for a substance resembling a thick silk filled the palms of both my hands. i held it with the grasp of one who was struggling for life, and tried to speak, but my tongue was dry; and i could not articulate a word: and while i held it, i was conscious that the object was moving away--it moved away, and still i thought i held it. i had not the power to loosen my fingers, which i had a strong impulse to do--and then the silk glided out of them, although they were coiled in it--and the next moment a grasp of muscles, cold and sharp, was on my neck, and pressed into my flesh. i was distraught with terror, and my senses forsook me. when i recovered, i found myself lying on a couch in the great room, my mother sitting at a distance, and an ancient female servant watching over me. this woman was the oldest domestic in the house. she had lived all her life in the family, and had seen two generations into the grave. it was from her lips i had learned most of the traditions that filled my head with such alarm and curiosity; it was from her i had acquired a knowledge of those subterranean passages in which i had encountered this singular adventure; and as soon as my mother left the room i related the whole story to her. she heard it to the end with a dark expression of anger on her face, which i interpreted into a reproof on my willfulness and folly in venturing into such places; and then she questioned me severely as to what i heard and saw, and what i thought it could have been. finding that i could give her no satisfactory answers to these questions, she enjoined me to hold my tongue about it, and above all things not to speak of it to my mother. she rated me soundly for saying that i firmly believed i had caught something like a woman's dress in my hands; and she made me feel her old stuff gown, that i might assure myself it was no such texture as that. "how could i be so silly as to suppose that a woman, or even a man, would hide in vaults and passages that had not been opened for hundreds of years? what could i imagine they were doing there? it was more likely that rats, and toads, and bats were to be found there than human beings." and a great deal more to the like effect, as if she wanted to impress upon me that it was altogether the fancy of a distempered brain, and no reality. yet, in spite of every thing she said, my conviction remained unaltered. i could not be deceived in a fact so clearly attested by my own sensations. but the mystery was never cleared up; and i brooded over it in secret so perversely, that it exercised a blighting influence for a long time upon my imagination. many years afterward a suspicion crossed my mind, that this woman knew more about the matter than she cared to acknowledge. it was she who carried me into the house, having discovered me, as she stated, lying insensible in the court-yard; but i had no recollection of having found my way out into the air--a circumstance which at the time did not present itself to me in the light in which i am disposed to regard it now. nor should i, perhaps, have been led to suspect her of duplicity, had she not acted with ingratitude at a time when sorrow and misfortune had fallen upon the house that had nurtured her from infancy. iii. my mother had no companion. even the servants lived apart, and performed their allotted offices at hours when she was not present; so that our table was laid and our wants supplied, for the most part by unseen hands. such was my mother's way of life. solitude and early griefs had fallen heavily upon her spirits, and fretted her temper. she rarely exchanged words with the servants, and never except upon unavoidable occasions. a spoken language was almost interdicted among us, and in its place the language of books was substituted. we dwelt in a world of our own, in which the unreal was invested with a living interest. conversation wearied her; she had no sympathy with the actual life around her, and had long closed her heart against it. but the charm of books was ever fresh and inexhaustible. she possessed in a higher degree than any person i ever knew the power of realizing their contents. portraits stepped out of them, and became as familiar to her as if they had moved about her bodily in the flesh. this daily intercourse with the creations of the brain fed her morbid desire for seclusion, and was cultivated with an earnestness that proved fatal at last. her taste lay entirely in one direction; the marvelous and extravagant alone interested her. she prohibited all works that treated of real life, and sought for the excitement she loved in the region of wonder and romance. her library (a room of which i will speak more particularly presently) was filled with histories of sorcery and enchantment--of miraculous escapes and perils--providential interpositions--dreams, omens, and spectral appearances--astrology and witchcraft--church-yard legends, and the superstitions which ascribe a mysterious power to spells, charms, and incantations--traditions of giants and monsters--feats of the genii and evil spirits, and narratives that embraced the whole round of that curious lore which relates to the alchemists and diviners. these books were the delight and occupation of her life; and when her eyes latterly began to grow dim with age, it was my task to read them aloud to her. at first, i revolted from this labor; it hung drearily upon me, and sickened me. youth is naturally mutinous under confinement, and yearns for activity and freedom. but it was surprising how soon i fell into her tastes, and found myself kindling, as she used to do, over the horrors these terrible books unfolded. and now they took possession of me, i began to believe in them as she did; and with belief, or the awe which is so closely allied to it, my eagerness to penetrate further and further grew into an irresistible passion. many a time in the bleak autumn nights, when the sharp winds snapped the leaves from the trees, and drifted their crisp spoils against the windows, have i sat gasping over some hideous tale, to which, by an involuntary association of ideas, the desolation of the season imparted additional terrors. i was wrought upon by that sort of fascination which resides in the eyes of the snake, when it fixes its gaze upon the face of a child. children who have been brought up in a healthy collision with the world know nothing of the state of fear and mental slavery i am describing. a little judicious counsel would have dispelled these delusions; a little timely explanation would have shown me their absurdity. but where was i to seek it? in my isolation i had not a single adviser. i took all i read for granted. the book could not dissipate the chaos of doubts and importunities of struggling reason it generated; it was dumb, and could not answer my questions. if i appealed to my mother, she was chafed at the interruption and the heresy, and commanded me to read on. at last i doubted no longer. wonder after wonder swept away my feeble judgment. i believed in a spiritual kingdom--in the return of the dead to the earth--in the power of prophecy and the agency of demons--in second sight and the elixir vitæ--in amulets and miraculous invocations; the crystal mirror of cornelius agrippa, the witches of the brocken, the flying dutchman, the wandering jew, were all realities to me. the ignorant alone believe in such things; but in this ignorance consisted all the knowledge that was thrown open to me. the library was at some distance from the inhabited part of the house. it was an oblong room, with deep recesses, in which stood the old oak book-cases. if we had had the power of selecting a theatre for the performance of the legends which were read aloud here every night, we could not have found one better adapted to the purpose. the apartment was large and gloomy; and the tapestried walls, the ponderous draperies, the polished floor, the painted ceiling, the high-backed chairs, and the vast fire-place, with its carved mantle-shelf, supplied the very style of scene and furniture best adapted to give a striking effect to tales of crime and enchantment. except close to the fire, and round the table on which we placed our lights, the library, from its height and extent, was buried in deep shadow; so that there was nothing wanted to help the imagination to a fitting locality for all kinds of mysteries. i shall never forget my mother's sensations on one occasion when i read to her in this room an account of some man who kept watch through a whole night in a haunted chamber, and was never heard of afterward. she fancied that the tapestry moved, and called upon me to observe it. i did so, and fancied i saw it too. twice she grasped my arm, and bade me cease; and looking shudderingly round, she twice desired me to listen, and tell her if i did not hear a foot-fall passing the extremity of the apartment in the dark with solemn regularity. i heard something--it was like the slow tread of a sentinel. it was in that room, which cast its gloom over every page, blotting out its lines of sunshine wherever any happened to fall, that i read the _decameron_. the groups in the garden--radiant, joyous, and in rapt attitudes of expectation and attention--were distinctly present to me, but darkened by immediate associations. sorrow and anguish seemed to sit in their faces; there was no flush of emotion, no lightening in the eyes, no intensity in the cleft lips, no streaming hair, or burning cheeks, or startled gestures. all was cold, as if it were cut in marble. that pallid circle of listeners, disposed in such picturesque forms, seemed to me to be lying in a trance, so completely did the miserable influence of that room kill the gayety of all objects, and leave nothing but the skeleton behind. we were never at a loss for excitement of this kind, which appeared, indeed, the only thing for which we lived. our pursuits were interrupted for a time by the serious illness of my mother; but her irritable temperament rendered her impatient of sickness, and before the signs of the malady had passed out from her stricken frame she insisted upon returning to her nightly vigils. night after night she continued at her dangerous indulgence, while her eyes were visibly contracting a dull film, her cheeks wasting and falling in, and her pulse growing fainter and fainter. it was not a sight for a son to look upon, and tend with idle fancies and the levities of fable. i felt this and remonstrated, and the agonizing reality before me awakened me for a moment to the vanities of books. but she persisted in her demand and still preserved her listening posture, although the sense of hearing and the faculty of attention were sinking rapidly. some weeks had been consumed in this way, when one winter night she desired me to read a certain history from a favorite volume of old legends. the history she selected was that of a supernatural appearance that was alleged to have followed a gentleman of verona with the fidelity of a shadow. the history set forth the arts and devices by which he endeavored to perplex and evade it--how he went into dark and lonely places, and how still his spectral companion stood at his side--how he rushed into crowded scenes, forcing his way violently through the mass, in the hope that he would thus escape; but no matter how dense the multitude, or by what stratagems and confederacy the gentleman sought to bury himself out of sight, the apparition in its human shape was ever standing or moving close beside him. the strangest thing was that it bore an unnatural likeness to him, not only in its face and form, but in its actions, which were always so faithfully and so instantaneously copied after him, that they resembled a reflection in a mirror. he tried the most painful and unexpected contortions, only to see them reproduced with a rapidity that mocked his despair. the history went on to say how he invented various schemes, and underwent many fearful trials of sorcery, in the hope of banishing or subduing his horrid familiar, but all in vain, for the fiend baffled all his efforts, and was still found at his side, day and night, whether he rode or walked, or threw himself on his couch for repose--how he summoned courage to speak to it at last, and was answered by the echoes of his own voice--how he swam floods with the ghastly thing floating along with him on the surge--how he climbed the highest hills and fled into savage caverns, the familiar still toiling or groveling beside him--how, in a fit of madness, he tried to grapple it on the edge of a precipice with the desperate intent of dragging it down with him into the abyss below, and how the shape wrought in the struggle, impalpable to the touch, but visible to the sight, like painted air--how, after enduring horrible tortures, the man wasted away, and became a mere shadow, the spirit waning and fading in like manner--and how the priests of a holy order, in the solitudes of the apennines, hearing of these strange events, bethought them of shriving the man, and expelling the incarnate devil that had worked such inexplicable misery upon him. the history next went on to relate how the monks found the man so weak and emaciated that he could scarcely take food or answer their questions--and how they had him conveyed to their chapel at midnight, amid the glare of torches and the chants of the holy brotherhood, the imperishable fiend lying stretched by his side in the litter, in open spite of the holy water with which they had sprinkled it, and of the care with which they had caused it to be made so small that it was thought impossible for him to find room upon it--and how, when the wretched man was brought to the altar, they placed him upright before it, and began to pray, the fiend all the while being in his usual place next to his mortal fellow--and how, as the prayers proceeded and the voices of the assembled priests, of whom numbers had collected from distant places to witness the scene, ascended to the roof, filling the sanctuary with solemn and blessed music, the man turned a look of deathly fear, and gazed into the eyes of the spirit, the spirit giving back the look with the same thrilling and awful expression--and how the sufferer, when the venerable abbot came to the benediction, and offered to place his hands upon his head, sank gradually down, the fiend sinking with him--and how, as the last word was uttered, they vanished together into the earth, and on the instant the torches were extinguished, as by a sudden gust of wind. when i came to this point of the story, i lifted my eyes to look upon my mother. she sat upon her great chair opposite to me, looking straight at me with a glassy and vacant stare. her limbs were rigid, and a spasm sat upon her features. "mother!" i exclaimed; "mother!" i could not speak more. i was choking for utterance, my hair coiled out like living fibres, the room seemed to swim round and round. i stretched out my arms and seized her hands--they were cold, cold and clammy. let me not dwell on it--in that spectral chamber i was alone with the dead! iv. for many days afterward the house was like a tomb. my mother was laid out in the state-room, which, never having been used in our time, had a dank, earthy smell, and was wretchedly bleak and naked. she lay upon the old square bed, whose hangings, swept up into a ring over head, were once a bright orange damask, but now an undistinguishable tawny mass, from which tracery and color had long disappeared. there was no other article of furniture in the apartment, which bore dreary evidence of the neglect into which it had fallen. the fire-place was closed up with a screen; and the fragments of arras that hung from the walls were eaten into shreds by the damp. desolate was the pomp of the poor corpse that lay freezing under its stately coverlid, in the icy air of that room. the old woman, of whom i have already spoken, undertook the melancholy office of watching the dead. she suffered nobody else to approach the body. the house felt as if it were empty. wherever a foot trod in the passage it gave out a hollow sound; and the servants, scared by undefined terror, immured themselves in their rooms, where they remained cooped and huddled together till the last rites were over. then went forth a scanty procession of ashy faces, winding down the black hills to the church-yard; and when she was laid in the grave, a shudder passed among them, and they whispered one to another, and then their eyes rested upon me. the action was significant of the feeling with which they regarded my situation. i was the last of my race, and my inheritance was little more than the mausoleum of my ancestors. the old woman had done well to monopolize the tending of the dead, and the management of the funeral. she knew my unfitness, from grief and ignorance of the world, to enter upon such details; and she took them all off my hands, with a most careful watchfulness of my ease--and her own interest. during that brief interval of sorrow--when the whole household had withdrawn into retirement--she collected all the plate, valuables, and moneys, she could find in the house; and when the grave was closed, and the servants had returned home, she was nowhere to be found. she had, in short, made ample provision for the rest of her life out of such spoils as she could secure; for which, i afterward discovered, she had been making industrious preparations long before. some attempts were made to trace her, but they were fruitless. this was my first experience of the heartlessness of the world; and, although it is an incident of every-day occurrence in all civilized communities, it was new to me at that time, and stung me to the soul. after months of seclusion through the biting winter and spring, summer came round again, and i thought i would venture abroad, in hope that the air and a little activity and change of scene would recruit my health; for i was shattered and nervous, and conscious of a prostration of mind almost amounting to disease. the country round about was abrupt and wild, covered with heather for the most part, broken up and picturesque, and studded here and there with patches of bright verdure, invaded by clumps of forest trees. in some places it took a mountainous character, and brawling streams rushing through deep gorges and rocky glens assimilated the scenery to the general tone of the region that lies still farther to the north. the neighborhood was lonely and unfrequented; it resembled the hilly solitudes of arran and bute; there were few homesteads in the distant landscape to send up cheerful volumes of smoke among the trees: and you might ride a whole morning without meeting a wayfarer. i was on horseback one day, passing leisurely in an idle mood out of the mouth of a ravine that led to an open valley, when i saw a lady, in a riding-habit, mounted at no great distance from me. her horse was apparently picking his way slowly through the hillocks that dotted the surface of the sward. the appearance of a lady alone loitering in so unfrequented a spot surprised me. had i seen an apparition i could not have been more astonished. as she moved past toward the opposite side she turned her head, and her clear, pensive eyes, fell full upon my face with an expression of ineffable sweetness. where had i seen those features before? they seemed quite familiar to me. the dress, the action of her arm as she reined up her horse, and, above all, the sad beauty of her eyes, i could have protested i had seen a hundred times. yet an instant's reflection would have sufficed to convince me that i was under a mistake, for visitors or friends like her there were none in our lonely house. her brief, quiet glance, had something in it of a look of recognition. i felt as if there was a recognition on both sides. i felt, too, or imagined, that she was slightly agitated by it. i knew that my own heart fluttered wildly. my solitary life had rendered me nervous, and the dangerous lore with which my head was filled gave to the incident an immediate coloring of romance. a new sensation had taken possession of me, a new world was opening to me; the solitude and remoteness of the place, and the unexpectedness of that vision rising up among the wild flowers and the dark green heather, acted like a charm upon me, and awakened me to a sense of bewildering delight i had never experienced before. there is always an awkwardness in country places at rencounters between people who are unaccustomed to strangers. i hardly knew whether i should advance or retreat, and suffering my horse to take his own course, he carried me a little circuit behind a patch of trees that intervened between us. when i looked again she was gone. scarcely a moment had elapsed, and she had vanished like a sunbow. i could hardly believe in a disappearance so miraculous, and rubbed my eyes, and gazed again and again over the vacant space before me. but she was nowhere to be seen. my curiosity was highly excited, and, dashing at full speed over the very spot she had so recently occupied, i traversed every outlet, but without success. it was broad noon. i knew all the bridle-tracks in and out of the valley, and it was impossible she could have taken any of them, and escaped my vigilant search in so short a time. what, then, was this form i had beheld? i had heard of second sight, and other visual deceptions--was this one of them? had she melted into air? had she come there only to mock me? was i the victim of a self-delusion? the tortures of tantalus were slight in comparison with the misery i felt as i rode round and round that sequestered dell, hoping in vain that she would return. but it was unlike any misery that had ever preyed upon me before. there was a strange thrill of expectation and uncertainty in it, and it pointed to an object in the future which, from that hour, gave me a novel interest in life. a total change had passed over me, and any change was welcome. every day i renewed my visit to the same place, but the nymph of my pilgrimage never returned to the spot where i had first beheld her. under this disappointment fancy liberally supplied a picture which sustained and heightened my desire to gaze once more on the reality. by a mental process, of which i can give no further account than that it is very well known to all readers of romance who are endowed with faith and imagination, i culled the most lovable and fascinating qualities of a hundred heroines--the tenderness and devotion, gentleness and grace, of all the amandas, isidoras, and ethelindas, my brain had become intimately acquainted with--and compiled out of them a suitable ideal for the worship of my perturbed affections. nor was i satisfied with creating this imaginary enchantress by a sweeping contribution from the special charms of all the fine heroines i had read of, but i must needs put her into every possible emergency that could show off her beauty and her virtues to advantage. i believe i made her run the gauntlet of more perilous adventures and extraordinary trials than ever befell any single heroine in the whole library of fiction. i could not for an instant dismiss her from my thoughts; and that one look that had enthralled me was ever present to me. even in sleep i was haunted by its disturbing influence, and the tantalizing scene in the valley was re-enacted, with sundry alterations and additions, over and over again in my dreams. as it had then become the sole occupation of my life to think of her, and to explore the country every day in search of her, it was not very wonderful that her image should have resolved itself into a settled illusion, possessing me so entirely that, in the image conjured up by my distempered imagination, i should at last believe that i actually saw before me that which i so cordially desired to see, and the seeing which was the object that engrossed me to the exclusion of all other pursuits. when one idea thus tyrannically absorbs the mind, the very monotony of its pressure is apt to overlay the reasoning faculties and coerce them into delusions. people mourning to excess over the dead have sometimes supposed that they saw them again "in their habit as they lived." under the influence of great excitement, profound grief has done the work of fever; and assuredly there is a fever of the mind as well as of the body. thus it was that, laboring under this constant agony of desire, i saw that abstraction of all conceivable loveliness once more. she was seated in the library--in the very chair in which my mother died. i then little suspected that i was entranced by a phantom of my own making, and that the exquisite appearance that sat in my presence was of no more substance than a beam of light, into which outlines and colors of immortal beauty were infused by my heated fancy. i spoke to her--she turned aside, and raised her hand with a motion, as i thought, of surprise. again i addressed her, and she rose, and passed noiselessly toward the door. i confess that, anxious as i was to detain her, and procure some explanation from her, my courage gave way at this movement, and i spoke no more; but i followed her with my eyes, trying to read the feeling that seemed to flit in hers. it was clear to me, ambiguous as its expression was, and difficult as it is to explain it. the melancholy smile that played over her features contained a history. there was love (of course, having created her, it was natural i should make her return my passion), intense love, darkened by some great sorrow, as if insuperable obstacles stood in its way, and turned it to despair. she retired to the door-way, and stood there for a moment in the attitude of leave-taking. she was not, i thought, to be lost thus, and perhaps forever--one effort, and i might yet preserve her. i advanced hastily to grasp her hand, but as i stretched out mine to touch it, a chill, not of fear, but awe, came upon me, and i stood looking helplessly upon the inexplicable magic of her departure. she did not leave me in the manner of one who fled from my approach, but rather as if she left me reluctantly and by constraint, slowly and lingeringly dissolving from my sight--like a bright cloud fainting from twilight into darkness. a long illness followed this visitation. during the fever that supervened, i was reunited in a delicious rapture to her who had so mysteriously fascinated me. alone with her in weird solitudes, i gazed into the deep light of her eyes, fearing to speak lest at the sound of my voice she might again vanish from me. silence appeared to be understood between us as the condition of our intercourse, so unconsciously did my imagination adapt itself to the spiritual nature of the delusion. at length the fever passed away, but although the body was delivered from the raging fires that had consumed its strength, the mind was still devoured by the same insatiable longing to discover the object of my inextinguishable passion. i was shattered in health and spirits; incapable of much exertion; and harassed by disappointments. i tried to shake off the despair that was rapidly gaining an ascendency over me; but the bleakness and loneliness of my life only helped to encourage it; and i finally resolved to leave the country, and seek relief and oblivion in new scenes and excitements. and so i forsook the old mansion with a heavy heart, and directed my course to london. v. it was my first experiment in the world. i had no friends or acquaintances in the great metropolis. i was a stranger in its thronged thoroughfares, which are more desolate to a stranger than a howling wilderness. at first i was distracted out of myself by the whirl of the vortex in which i found myself engulfed. the eternal din, the countless multitudes, the occupation that was legibly written in every man's face, gave me something to think of, and forced me into a sort of blind activity. but the novelty of this uproar and bustle, in which my own sympathies or interests were in no way engaged, soon palled upon me, and threw me back upon the morbid humors which the sudden change had only temporarily lulled. i panted again for quiet, and sought it in the depth of the town. at that time the church, of st. martin-in-the-fields was buried in a mass of dingy buildings, which, clustering up about it on all sides, blotted it out from the sun. these buildings were intersected by numerous dark courts and passages, and in one of them there was a retired tavern frequented by a few persons, mostly of an intellectual caste--artists, musicians, authors; men of high aspirations, but whom fortune never seemed weary of persecuting, and who met here of an evening to compare notes, and vent their complaints against the world. this was exactly the sort of company that fell in with my tastes. it was a satisfaction to me to herd with disappointed men, and hear them rail at the prosperity which refused to crown their merits. their failures in life had given a peculiar turn to their minds, and tinged their conversation with a spirit of fatalism. they were one and all clearly convinced that it was in vain to struggle against destiny--that no genius, however original or lofty, could secure its legitimate rewards by legitimate means--and that, in short, the only individuals really deserving of success were those who, by a perverse dispensation of laurels, never could attain it. this view of the wrongs and injustice they suffered from society stirred up much pride and bitterness among them, and led them into many abstract disquisitions, which were rendered attractive to me, no less by the nature of the topics they selected, than by the piquancy and boldness with which they dissected them. the most remarkable person in this little knot was a young man of the name of forrester. like myself, he was of no profession, and appeared to be drawn into the circle by much the same motives. he was tall and pale, and generally reserved in speech; but subject to singular fluctuations--sometimes all sunshine, breaking out into fits of wild enthusiasm, and sometimes overwhelmed with despondency. these vicissitudes of mood and temperament, which indicated a troubled experience beyond his years, interested my sympathies. the more intimate i became with him, the more reason i had to suspect that his life, like my own, was the depository of some heavy secret; but i did not venture to question him on this point, from an apprehension which his bearing toward me led me to entertain that a similar suspicion lurked in his mind respecting me. i confess that i dreaded any allusion to my own history, and carefully avoided all subjects likely to lead to it; for i should have been ashamed to acknowledge the sufferings i underwent from a cause which most men would have treated with ridicule and skepticism. i was quite aware that it was vulnerable to attacks of that sort, and the terror of having the deception, if it were one, which i had cherished with such fervor, rudely assailed and beaten down by common sense, made me preserve a strict silence in every thing relating to myself--a precaution that probably gave a keener zest to the curiosity i desired to baffle. a strong friendship grew up between me and forrester. we were both idlers, and we discovered that, by a happy coincidence, our literary tastes--if an industrious prosecution of desultory and unprofitable reading may be dignified by such a term--lay in the same channels. he was as deeply learned in the literature of the marvelous as i was myself; and during the summer evenings we used to take long walks into the country, beguiling the way by discussions upon a variety of wonderful matters which we turned up out of our old stores. the exercise at least was healthy, and the very disputations upon the evidence and likelihood of these things strengthened my faculties, and cleared off some clouds of credulity. this collision with another mind was a novelty to me, and, for a time, diverted me from other thoughts. at our tavern forrester and i enjoyed distinguished popularity. every body listened to our opinions with attention, not so much because they were remarkable for their soundness, as because they were generally opposed to established notions, and were urged with earnestness. we always spoke like men who speak out of their convictions, while most of the others argued merely for argument's sake, and were ready to take any side of a question for the pleasure of getting up a controversy, and showing off their ingenuity. one evening the conversation turned upon the possibility of the dead revisiting the earth, and the theory of manifest warnings before dissolution. the debate, which began in levity, soon took a more serious tone, and we had been arguing a full hour before i discovered that forrester and i had engrossed the discussion to ourselves, the rest of the company maintaining a profound silence, and listening to our observations with undisguised wonder and astonishment. this discovery abashed me a little, for i never meant to make such a display, and i looked across at forrester for the purpose of drawing his attention to the circumstance. i perceived, then, for the first time, that his face had undergone an extraordinary change. the natural pallor had taken an almost livid hue. the ordinary placidity of his features had given place to an expression of severe pain and alarm. "what is the matter?" i inquired. "are you ill?" "no. why do you ask?" "you look dreadfully pale." he only smiled at this remark--but it was a ghastly smile. "i know that something is the matter," i cried. "what is it, forrester?" "nothing. what can be the matter? are we not all living men talking upon equal terms, and in the best possible humor, about the dead? why should that affect me more than any body else?" "i know not why it should," i replied, "but i feel it does." "are you quite sure," he returned, in a low voice, "that it does not affect you as deeply?" he looked at me as if he knew my whole life, which he could not have known; and, in spite of a violent effort to suppress my feelings, i was conscious that i betrayed the agitation into which i was thrown by that searching look. "come, come," he exclaimed, rallying wildly, "we have both looked death in the face before now; and although use can not make it familiar, still a sight often repeated must lose some of its horrors." "no, you are wrong. i have not seen death often." "once--only once," he replied, in the same hollow voice; "but you have seen many deaths in one." "how do you know that?" i demanded; "or assume to know it?" "one day you shall learn," he answered, calmly. "you amaze me. speak openly to me, forrester, and not in these dark enigmas. i can bear to hear." "can you bear to suffer?" he asked. "i can--i think i can," i replied, shrinking at my heart from the ordeal i invited. "i have suffered that which i should once have thought utterly fabulous, and beyond human endurance." "i know it. but endurance has its limits. the earthly can bear only that which is of the earth--test them with sufferings that look out beyond this world into the darkness of eternity, and they perish. the trial is not in those things that are dated, bounded, and finite: it is where speculation can not reach nor reason avail us, where human knowledge and human strength are blind and idle, that the trial of that suffering begins, which is akin to the penalties of immortal spirits--a beginning without an end." "i do not understand you," i answered. "you _will_ understand me, however, when the hour arrives." then stopping short, he whispered, "they are observing us; this is not the place for such a theme. we shall meet again, when you shall be satisfied." "when?" "soon--i fear too soon. no matter--we shall meet, and you shall be satisfied." he rose and left the room. i was restrained from following him only by the consideration that i should expose myself to the criticisms of our companions, who, i had observed, were fond of making merry at the expense of their absent friends; and as i was beginning to feel very sensitive to ridicule, i determined not to give them an opportunity of exercising their wit upon me. when forrester was gone, they immediately took him to pieces. his character, habits, life, and opinions, furnished them with abundant materials for commentary, which they were all the less scrupulous in dealing freely with because they really knew little or nothing about him. one said that there was a mysterious something about forrester that he couldn't make out--it might be all right, but, for his part, he liked people to be candid with you and above-board; another remarked, that a man who lived nobody knew exactly how, and who disappeared every night at pretty much the same hour, and was so very incommunicative about his pursuits, laid himself open to suspicion, at all events; a third suggested that, probably, he had experienced some blight, which had spoiled him for company--perhaps he had been crossed in love (here there was a general laugh, and a rapid succession of puns); while a fourth, who made it a rule never to form a judgment on any man's character without knowing him thoroughly, could not help observing that mr. forrester certainly held some rather extraordinary doctrines about ghosts and other nonsense of that sort, which, to be sure, was no imputation on his character, but--here the speaker stopped short, and shook his head in a very significant manner. these opinions, delivered off-hand, puzzled me exceedingly, for i could not arrive at their meaning. it was evident that forrester was an object of mystery to our friends--and so he was to me. but neither they nor i could get any farther in the matter. they, however, dismissed him from their minds with the drain of their glasses, while i lay restlessly all night ruminating on what had occurred. i was passing through a state of transition from the seclusion in which my faculties had been kept dormant into a section of society which was eminently calculated to awaken and sharpen them for use. i was already getting into a habit of reasoning with myself, of trying to trace effects to causes, and examining with suspicion many things which i had hitherto taken upon trust. at first i committed numerous blunders, and fell into all sorts of mistakes, in my eagerness to emulate the cleverness of the experienced individuals with whom i was in the habit of associating. and i could not have dropped upon a clique better qualified or disposed to ride roughshod over the whole region of romance. they were generally practical men and some of them were worldly men; for although not one of them was able to do any thing for himself, they were all adepts in the knowledge of what other people ought to do. they looked with supreme contempt upon sentimental people, and took infinite pleasure in running them down. they were not the sort of men to be tricked by appearances or clap-trap. they despised finery, and ostentation, and outside manners. they loved to look at things as they were, and to call them by their proper names; never, by any accident, over-rating an excellence, but very frequently exaggerating a defect, which they considered as an error on the right side. in this severe school i acquired a few harsh practical views of life, and was beginning to feel its realities growing up about me; but in the progress from the visionary to the real there were many shapes of darkness yet to be struggled with. a few nights afterward i met forrester on his way to the rendezvous. there was the same unaccountable reserve in his manner which he betrayed at our last abrupt parting; but my anxiety, awakened more by his looks than his words, would not brook delay. i resolved to get an explanation on the spot. "forrester," i said, "you have inflicted a pain upon me which no man has a right to inflict upon another, without giving him at the same time his full confidence. you have made use of strange allusions and hints, which you are bound to explain. you seem to know more about me than i have myself ever confided to you, or than you could have known through any channels with which i am acquainted. i ask you to satisfy me at once whether it is so, or not?" "it is so," he replied. "you see i am as frank as you are curious." "but that does not satisfy me. you say you know more about me than i have thought it necessary or desirable to impart to you. what is it that you know?" "little," he returned with a singularly disagreeable smile. "then it will be the sooner told. what is that little?" and i uttered the last word with rather a bitter and satirical emphasis. forrester drew up gravely at this, and replied to me slowly, "that little is all. all that has ever happened to you, and the whole may be expressed in a single word. your life has scarcely had enough of action in it to stir the surface; it has been a life of inward strife." "you have described it truly. my world has not been like that of other men." "nor mine; but i have come out of the mist, and you are in it still." "you speak riddles, and involve me in deeper obscurity than ever. but i am resolved to be satisfied, and will be trifled with no longer. what is that which you said, nay, pledged yourself i should soon learn?" "you must not be impatient. do not fear that i will not keep my pledge. if you knew all, you would understand that i dare not break it. to-morrow night, at this hour precisely, meet me on this spot, and you shall be made wiser; happier, i will not promise. better it should never be, than that it should be too late. this is dark to you now, it will soon be clear enough." we shook hands after the promise of meeting on the following night, and so parted. neither of us was in a condition to join the cynics at the tavern. after a night of feverish suspense i rose early the next morning, my brain full of the prospect, clouded as it was, of the interview with forrester. the day was passed in a ferment of agitation; i could not remain at home; i wandered abroad, forgot to dine, and was racked with a presentiment that my fate, for good or evil, hung upon the issue of the night. vi. at last the appointed hour arrived. forrester was punctual to the moment. he was evidently affected by some strong emotion, which he made fearful efforts to control. i was too much touched by his condition, and had too much dread about what was coming, to venture upon any questions, particularly as he seemed to desire silence. he locked his arm in mine violently, and, without uttering a word, we traversed several streets till we reached a part of the town with which i was unacquainted. as we went forward forrester's agitation sensibly increased; and when we entered a small square, in the centre of which there was a stunted plantation, with a mutilated fountain in the midst, he suddenly stopped, and turning, looked me full in the face. "have you courage?" he demanded. "mortal courage," i replied, "no more." "well, well, we are fools," he continued; "very worms, to think that we can cope with that which even to endure in ignorance is a task that sublimes our nature. suffering is retributive and purifying. this is my last agony." he then advanced hastily to a house, the door of which was screened by a low porch, tastefully covered with creepers. in his attitude at this instant there was a grandeur that made a deep impression upon me; it was derived from the triumph of his manly spirit over the anguish that was laboring at his heart. he knocked, and the door was hurriedly opened by a servant in mourning. i should here remark that i had never been at his house before, although i had known him many months; nor was i even then aware that the house we were entering was his. motioning me to follow him up the stairs, which he ascended stealthily, i crept up after him with a very uneasy mind. when he reached the drawing-room door he paused for a moment, then turning the handle slowly and noiselessly, he entered the room. one glance at the apartment gave me a general idea of its character. it was small and fashionably furnished, but had an air of neglect and disorder which indicated that its tenant had been long confined by illness. at the opposite side was a sofa, which, for convenience, had been moved near the fire. a lady, apparently in a very delicate state of health (i could only judge by the languor of her position, for i could not see her face), lay resting upon it. forrester stole quietly to her side, and took her hand. "gertrude, how do you feel this evening?" a sigh, from the depths of her heart, answered him. "don't be alarmed; i am not alone; we have come to--" "who?" she demanded, suddenly raising herself from the sofa. "who is come? come!--come!--you!--henry--and--" she looked at me; i stood in the full light of the fire; our eyes met; every vein and artery in my body seemed to beat audibly; she uttered an hysterical cry, and fell back upon the sofa. i rushed to catch her, sobbed, gasped, tried to speak, flung myself upon my knees before her, and madly clasped the drooping hand, the living hand, of her who had so long enthralled my soul, and who, until this hour, had appeared to me more like a spirit of another world than a being of the earth like myself. during this short and agitated scene, forrester stood looking at us with a mixed expression of grief and satisfaction. his mind was evidently relieved of some weight that had oppressed it, but there still remained a heavy pang behind. his fortitude was admirable. "it is accomplished!" he exclaimed, flinging himself into a chair; "and if there be a hope of repose left, perhaps i may live to look back upon this night with tranquillity." the excitement of the moment affected the invalid so much that her strength sank under it, and she fainted in my arms. i did not perceive this until forrester, whose watchfulness respecting her was unceasing, gently directed my attention to it, at the same time moving her to an easier position. i was too much bewildered to have sufficient self-possession to know what to do, but, trivial as this accident was, it instantly awoke me to the full consciousness that she lived and breathed before me; she who had hitherto been to me like the invisible spirit that accompanied the knight of old, uttering sweet sounds in the air, until his heart was consumed by the love of that voice which poured its faithful music into his ears. it was a new life to know that she lived, and that the happiness i had so hopelessly yearned for was now within my reach. "enough," cried forrester, "for the present. let us leave her. she will be tended by more skillful leeches than we should prove." a servant entered the room just as we retired, and after one long gaze, in which all past delusions seemed to expire, i followed him hastily into the street. i stopped at the first retired place we reached. the explanation could no longer be delayed, but my impatience was so great that i interrupted it by a flood of questions. my mind was full of wonder, and i broke forth into a series of interrogatories, for the purpose of getting the information i wanted in the order of my own thoughts. "resolve me, forrester," i concluded,--"resolve me on all these points, for i begin to fear that my life has hithertofore been but a dream, and that even the reality which i have just looked upon will perish like the rest." "patience, patience!" he returned; "my thoughts are as confused as yours. i have as many scattered recollections to gather up as you have questions to put, and i know not if either of us can be satisfied in the end. but i am worn out. this new demand on my spirits has exhausted me. let us go forward to a seat." we advanced into the shrubbery, and in one of the recesses we found a seat. after a pause, forrester began his revelations. (_to be continued._) maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. (_continued from page ._) chapter xxiii. "the town-major of castlebar." i am at a loss to know whether or not i owe an apology to my reader for turning away from the more immediate object of this memoir of a life, to speak of events which have assumed an historical reputation. it may be thought ill-becoming in one who occupied the subordinate station that i did, to express himself on subjects so very far above both his experience and acquaintance; but i would premise, that in the opinions i may have formed, and the words of praise or censure dropped, i have been but retailing the sentiments of those older and wiser than myself, and by whose guidance i was mainly led to entertain not only the convictions, but the prejudices, of my early years. let the reader bear in mind, too, that i was very early in life thrown into the society of men--left self-dependent, in a great measure, and obliged to decide for myself on subjects which usually are determined by older and more mature heads. so much of excuse, then, if i seem presumptuous in saying that i began to conceive a very low opinion generally of popular attempts at independence, and a very high one of the powers of military skill and discipline. a mob, in my estimation, was the very lowest, and an army about the very highest, object i could well conceive. my short residence at castlebar did not tend to controvert these impressions. the safety of the town and its inhabitants was entirely owing to the handful of french who held it, and who, wearied with guards, pickets, and outpost duty, were a mere fraction of the small force that had landed a few days before. our "allies" were now our most difficult charge. abandoning the hopeless task of drilling and disciplining them, we confined ourselves to the more practical office of restraining pillage and repressing violence--a measure, be it said, that was not without peril, and of a very serious kind. i remember one incident, which, if not followed by grave consequences, yet appeared at the time of a very serious character. by the accidental mis-spelling of a name, a man named dowall, a notorious ruffian and demagogue, was appointed "commandant-de-place," or town-major, instead of a most respectable shopkeeper named downes, and who, although soon made aware of the mistake, from natural timidity, took no steps to undeceive the general. dowall was haranguing a mob of half-drunken vagabonds, when his commission was put into his hands; and accepting the post as an evidence of the fears the french entertained of his personal influence, became more overbearing and insolent than ever. we had a very gallant officer, the second major of the th regiment of the line, killed in the attack on castlebar, and this dowall at once took possession of poor delactre's horse, arms, and equipment. his coat and chako, his very boots and gloves, the scoundrel appropriated; and, as if in mockery of us and our poor friend, assumed a habit that he had, when riding fast, to place his sabre between his leg and the saddle, to prevent its striking the horse on the flanks. i need scarcely say that thoroughly disgusted by the unsightly exhibition, our incessant cares, and the endless round of duty we were engaged in, as well as the critical position we occupied, left us no time to notice the fellow's conduct by any other than a passing sign of anger or contempt--provocations that he certainly gave us back as insolently as we offered them. i do not believe that the general ever saw him, but i know that incessant complaints were daily made to him about the man's rapacity and tyranny, and scarcely a morning passed without a dozen remonstrances being preferred against his overbearing conduct. determined to have his own countrymen on his side, he issued the most absurd orders for the billeting of the rabble, the rations and allowances of all kinds. he seized upon one of the best houses for his own quarters, and three fine saddle-horses for his personal use, besides a number of inferior ones for the ruffian following he called his staff! it was, indeed, enough to excite laughter, had not indignation been the more powerful emotion, to see this fellow ride forth of a morning--a tawdry scarf of green, with deep gold fringe, thrown over his shoulder, and a saddle-cloth of the same color, profusely studded with gold shamrocks, on his horse; a drawn sword in his hand, and his head erect, followed by an indiscriminate rabble on foot or horseback--some with muskets, some pikes, some with sword-blades, bayonets, or even knives fastened on sticks, but all alike ferocious-looking and savage. they affected to march in order, and, with a rude imitation of soldiery, carried something like a knapsack on their shoulders, surmounted by a kettle, or tin-cup, or sometimes an iron-pot--a grotesque parody on the trim-cooking equipment of the french soldier. it was evident, from their step and bearing, that they thought themselves in the very height of discipline; and this very assumption was far more insulting to the real soldier than all the licentious irregularity of the marauder. if to us they were objects of ridicule and derision, to the townspeople they were images of terror and dismay. the miserable shopkeeper who housed one of them lived in continual fear; he knew nothing to be his own, and felt that his property and family were every moment at the dictate of a ruffian gang, who acknowledged no law, nor any rule save their own will and convenience. dowall's squad were indeed as great a terror in that little town as i had seen the great name of robespierre in the proud city of paris. in my temporary position on general serazin's staff, i came to hear much of this fellow's conduct. the most grievous stories were told me every day of his rapacity and cruelty; but harassed and overworked, as the general was, with duties that would have been over-much for three or four men, i forbore to trouble him with recitals, which could only fret and distress _him_, without affording the slightest chance of relief to _others_. perhaps this impunity had rendered him more daring; or, perhaps, the immense number of armed irish, in comparison with the small force of disciplined soldiers, emboldened the fellow; but certainly he grew, day by day, more presumptuous and insolent, and at last so far forgot himself as to countermand one of general serazin's orders, by which a guard was stationed at the protestant church to prevent its being molested or injured by the populace. general humbert had already refused the roman catholic priest his permission to celebrate mass in that building; but dowall had determined otherwise, and that, too, by a written order under his own hand. the french sergeant who commanded the guard of course paid little attention to this warrant; and when father hennisy wanted to carry the matter with a high hand, he coolly tore up the paper, and threw the fragments at him. dowall was soon informed of the slight offered to his mandate. he was at supper at the time, entertaining a party of his friends, who all heard the priest's story, and of course, loudly sympathized with his sorrows, and invoked the powerful leader's aid and protection. affecting to believe that the sergeant had merely acted in ignorance, and from not being able to read english, dowall dispatched a fellow, whom he called his aid-de-camp, a schoolmaster named lowrie, and who spoke a little bad french, to interpret his command, and to desire the sergeant to withdraw his men, and give up the guard to a party of "the squad." great was the surprise of the supper party, when, after the lapse of half an hour, a country fellow came in to say that he had seen lowrie led off to prison between two french soldiers. by this time dowall had drunk himself into a state of utter recklessness; while encouraged by his friend's praises, and the arguments of his own passions, he fancied that he might dispute ascendency with general humbert himself. he at once ordered out his horse, and gave a command to assemble the "squad." as they were all billeted in his immediate vicinity, this was speedily effected, and their numbers swelled by a vast mass of idle and curious, who were eager to see how the matter would end; the whole street was crowded, and when dowall mounted, his followers amounted to above a thousand people. if our sergeant, an old soldier of the "sambre et meuse," had not already enjoyed some experience of our allies, it is more than likely that, seeing their hostile advance, he would have fallen back upon the main guard, then stationed in the market-square. as it was, he simply retired his party within the church, the door of which had already been pierced for the use of musketry. this done, and one of his men being dispatched to head-quarters for advice and orders, he waited patiently for the attack. i happened that night to make one of general serazin's dinner party, and we were sitting over our wine, when the officer of the guard entered hastily with the tidings of what was going on in the town. "is it the commandant-de-place himself is at the head?" exclaimed serazin, in amazement, such a thought being a direct shock to all his ideas of military discipline. "yes, sir," said the officer; "the soldier knows his appearance well, and can vouch for its being him." "as i know something of him, general," said i, "i may as well mention that nothing is more likely." "who is he--what is he?" asked serazin hastily. a very brief account--i need not say not a flattering one--told all that i knew or had ever heard of our worthy "town major." many of the officers around corroborating, as i went on, all that i said, and interpolating little details of their own about his robberies and exactions. "and yet i have heard nothing of all this before," said the general, looking sternly around him on every side. none ventured on a reply, and what might have followed there is no guessing, when the sharp rattle of musketry cut short all discussion. "that fire was not given by soldiers," said serazin. "go, tiernay, and bring this fellow before me at once." i bowed, and was leaving the room, when an officer, having whispered a few words in serazin's ear, the general called me back, saying, "you are not to incur any risk, tiernay; i want no struggle, still less a rescue. you understand me." "perfectly, general; the matter will, i trust, be easy enough!" and so i left the room, my heart, shall i avow it, bumping and throbbing in a fashion that gave a very poor corroboration to my words. there were always three or four horses ready saddled for duty at each general's quarters, and taking one of them, i ordered a corporal of dragoons to follow me, and set out. it was a fine night of autumn; the last faint sunlight was yet struggling with the coming darkness, as i rode at a brisk trot down the main street toward the scene of action. i had not proceeded far when the crowds compelled me to slacken my pace to a walk, and finding that the people pressed in upon me in such a way as to prevent any thing like a defense if attacked, still more, any chance of an escape by flight, i sent the corporal forward to clear a passage, and announce my coming to the redoubted "commandant." it was curious to see how the old dragoon's tactics effected his object, and with what speed the crowd opened and fell back, as with a flank movement of his horse he "passaged" up the street, prancing, bounding, and back-leaping, yet all the while perfectly obedient to the hand, and never deviating from the straight line in the very middle of the thoroughfare. i could catch from the voices around me that the mob had fired a volley at the church-door, but that our men had never returned the fire, and now a great commotion of the crowd, and that swaying, surging motion of the mass, which is so peculiarly indicative of a coming event, told that something more was in preparation; and such was it; for already numbers were hurrying forward with straw-fagots, broken furniture, and other combustible material, which, in the midst of the wildest cries and shouts of triumph, were now being heaped up against the door. another moment, and i should have been too late--as it was, my loud summons to "halt," and a bold command for the mob to fall back, only came at the very last minute. "where's the commandant?" said i, in an imperious tone. "who wants him?" responded a deep husky voice, which i well knew to be dowall's. "the general in command of the town," said i, firmly; "general serazin." "maybe i'm as good a general as himself," was the answer. "i never called him my superior yet! did i, boys?" "never--devil a bit--why would you?" and such like, were shouted by the mob around us, in every accent of drunken defiance. "you'll not refuse general serazin's invitation to confer with your commandant, i hope?" said i, affecting a tone of respectful civility, while i gradually drew nearer and nearer to him, contriving, at the same, by a dexterous plunging of my horse, to force back the bystanders, and thus isolate my friend dowall. "tell him i've work to do here," said he, "and can't come; but if he's fond of a bonfire he may as well step down this far and see one." by this time, at a gesture of command from me, the corporal had placed himself on the opposite side of dowall's horse, and by a movement similar to my own, completely drove back the dense mob, so that we had him completely in our power, and could have sabred or shot him at any moment. "general serazin only wishes to see you on duty, commandant," said i, speaking in a voice that could be heard over the entire assemblage; and then, dropping it to a whisper, only audible to himself, i added, "come along, quietly, sir, and without a word. if you speak, if you mutter, or if you lift a finger, i'll run my sabre through your body." "forward, way, there," shouted i aloud, and the corporal, holding dowall's bridle, pricked the horse with the point of his sword, and right through the crowd we went at a pace that defied following, had any the daring to think of it. so sudden was the act and so imminent the peril, for i held the point of my weapon within a few inches of his back, and would have kept my word most assuredly too, that the fellow never spoke a syllable as we went, nor ventured on even a word of remonstrance till we descended at the general's door. then, with a voice tremulous with restrained passion, he said, "if ye think i'll forgive ye this thrick, my fine boy, may the flames and fire be my portion! and if i hav'n't my revenge on ye yet, my name isn't mick dowall." with a dogged, sulky resolution he mounted the stairs, but as he neared the room where the general was, and from which his voice could even now be heard, his courage seemed to fail him, and he looked back as though to see if no chance of escape remained. the attempt would have been hopeless, and he saw it. "this is the man, general," said i, half pushing him forward into the middle of the room, where he stood with his hat on, and in attitude of mingled defiance and terror. "tell him to uncover," said serazin; but one of the aids-de-camp, more zealous than courteous, stepped forward and knocked the hat off with his hand. dowall never budged an inch, nor moved a muscle, at this insult; to look at him you could not have said that he was conscious of it. "ask him if it was by his orders that the guard was assailed?" said the general. i put the question in about as many words but he made no reply. "does the man know where _he_ is? does he know who _i_ am?" repeated serazin, passionately. "he knows both well enough, sir," said i; "this silence is a mere defiance of us." "parbleu!" cried an officer, "that is the 'coquin' took poor delactre's equipments; the very uniform he has on was his." "the fellow was never a soldier," said another. "i know him well," interposed a third, "he is the very terror of the townsfolk." "who gave him his commission?--who appointed him?" asked serazin. apparently the fellow could follow some words of french, for as the general asked this he drew from his pocket a crumpled and soiled paper, which he threw heedlessly upon the table before us. "why this is not his name, sir," said i: "this appointment is made out in the name of nicholas downes, and our friend here is called dowall." "who knows him? who can identify him?" asked serazin. "i can say that his name is dowall, and that he worked as a porter on the quay in this town when i was a boy," said a young irishman who was copying letters and papers at a side-table. "yes, dowall," said the youth, confronting the look which the other gave him, "i am neither afraid nor ashamed to tell you to your face that i know you well, and who you are, and what you are." "i'm an officer in the irish independent army now," said dowall, resolutely. "to the divil i fling the french commission and all that belongs to it. 'tisn't troops that run and guns that burst we want. let them go back again the way they came, we're able for the work ourselves." before i could translate this rude speech an officer broke into the room, with tidings that the streets had been cleared, and the rioters dispersed; a few prisoners of the squad, too, were taken, whose muskets bore trace of being recently discharged. "they fired upon our pickets, general," said the officer, whose excited look and voice betrayed how deeply he felt the outrage. the men were introduced; three ragged, ill-looking wretches, apparently only roused from intoxication by the terror of their situation, for each was guarded by a soldier with a drawn bayonet in his hand. "we only obeyed ordhers my lord; we only did what the captain tould us;" cried they in a miserable, whining tone, for the sight of their leader in captivity had sapped all their courage. "what am i here for? who has any business with _me_?" said dowall, assuming before his followers, an attempt at his former tone of bully. "tell him," said serazin, "that wherever a french general stands in full command he will neither brook insolence nor insubordination. let those fellows be turned out of the town, and warned never to approach the quarters of the army under any pretense whatever. as for this scoundrel we'll make an example of him. order a peloton into the yard and shoot him." i rendered this speech into english as the general spoke it, and never shall i forget the wild scream of the wretch as he heard the sentence. "i'm an officer in the army of ireland. i don't belong to ye at all. you've no power over me. oh, captain, darlin'; oh, gentlemen, speak for me! general, dear; general, honey, don't sintince me! don't for the love of god!" and in groveling terror the miserable creature threw himself on his knees to beg for mercy. "tear off his epaulettes," cried serazin, "never let a french uniform be so disgraced." the soldiers wrenched off the epaulettes at the command, and not satisfied with this they even tore away the lace from the cuffs of the uniform, which now hung in ragged fragments over his trembling hands. "oh, sir, oh, general! oh, gentlemen, have marcy!" "away with him," said serazin contemptuously; "it is only the cruel can be such cowards. give the fellow his fusillade with blank cartridge, and the chances are fear will kill outright." the scene that ensued is too shocking, too full of abasement to record; there was nothing that fear of death, nothing that abject terror could suggest, that this miserable wretch did not attempt to save his life; he wept--he begged in accents that were unworthy of all manhood--he kissed the very ground at the general's feet in his abject sorrow; and when at last he was dragged from the room his screams were the most terrific and piercing. although all my compassion was changed into contempt, i felt that i could never have given the word to fire upon him, had such been my orders; his fears had placed him below all manhood, but they still formed a barrier of defense around him. i accordingly whispered a few words to the sergeant as we passed down the stairs, and then affecting to have forgotten something, i stepped back toward the room, where the general and his staff were sitting. the scuffling sound of feet, mingled with the crash of fire-arms, almost drowned the cries of the still struggling wretch; his voice, however, burst forth into a wild cry, and then there came a pause--a pause that at last became insupportable to my anxiety, and i was about to rush down stairs, when a loud yell, a savage howl of derision and hate burst forth from the street; and on looking out i saw a vast crowd before the door, who were shouting after a man, whose speed soon carried him out of reach. this was dowall, who thus suffered to escape, was told to fly from the town, and never to return to it. "thank heaven," muttered i, "we've seen the last of him." the rejoicing, was, however, premature. chapter xxiv. "the mission to the north." i have never yet been able to discover whether general humbert really did feel the confidence that he assumed at this period, or that he merely affected it, the better to sustain the spirits of those around him. if our success at castlebar was undeniable, our loss was also great, and far more than proportionate to all the advantages we had acquired. six officers and two hundred and forty men were either killed or badly wounded, and as our small force had really acquired no reinforcement worth the name, it was evident that another such costly victory would be our ruin. not one gentleman of rank or influence had yet joined us, few of the priesthood, and, even among the farmers and peasantry, it was easy to see that our recruits comprised those whose accession could never have conferred honor or profit on any cause. our situation was any thing but promising. the rumors that reached us, and we had no other or more accurate information than rumors, told that an army of thirty thousand men under the command of lord cornwallis, was in march against us; that all the insurrectionary movements of the south were completely repressed; that the spirit of the rebels was crushed, and their confidence broken, either by defeat or internal treachery. in a word that the expedition had already failed, and the sooner we had the means of leaving the land of our disasters the better. such were the universal feelings of all my comrades; but humbert, who often had told us that we were only here to "éclairer la route" for another and more formidable mission, now pretended to think that we were progressing most favorably toward a perfect success. perhaps he firmly believed all this, or perhaps he thought that the pretense would give more dignity to the finale of an exploit, which he already saw was nearly played out! i know not which is the true explanation, and am half disposed to think that he was actuated as much by one impulse as the other. "the army of the north" was the talisman, which we now heard of for the first time, to repair all our disasters, and insure complete victory. "the army of the north," whose strength varied from twenty to twenty-five, and sometimes reached even thirty thousand men, and was commanded by a distinguished irish general, was now the centre to which all our hopes turned. whether it had already landed, and where, of what it consisted, and how officered, not one of us knew any thing; but by dint of daily repetition and discussion we had come to believe in its existence as certainly as though we had seen it under arms. the credulous lent their convictions without any trouble to themselves whatever; the more skeptical studied the map, and fancied twenty different places in which they might have disembarked; and thus the "army of the north" grew to be a substance and reality, as undoubted as the scenes before our eyes. never was such a ready solution of all difficulties discovered as this same "army of the north." were we to be beaten by cornwallis it was only a momentary check, for the army of the north would come up within a few days and turn the whole tide of war. if our irish allies grew insubordinate or disorderly, a little patience, and the army of the north would settle all that. every movement projected was fancied to be in concert with this redoubted corps, and at last every trooper that rode in from killala or ballina was questioned as to whether his dispatches did not come from the army of the north. frenchmen will believe any thing you like for twenty-four hours. they can be flattered into a credulity of two days, and, by dint of great artifice and much persuasion, will occasionally reach a third; but there, faith has its limit; and if nothing palpable, tangible, and real intervene, skepticism ensues; and what with native sarcasm, ridicule, and irony, they will demolish the card edifice of credit far more rapidly than ever they raised it. for two whole days the "army of the north" occupied every man among us. we toasted it over our wine; we discussed it at our quarters; we debated upon its whereabouts, its strength, and its probable destination; but on the third morning a terrible shock was given to our feelings by a volatile young lieutenant of hussars exclaiming-- "_ma foi!_ i wish i could see this same 'army of the north!'" now, although nothing was more reasonable than this wish, nor was there any one of us who had not felt a similar desire, this sudden expression of it struck us all most forcibly, and a shrinking sense of doubt spread over every face, and men looked at each other, as though to say, "is the fellow capable of supposing that such an army does not exist?" it was a very dreadful moment--a terrible interval of struggle between the broad day-light of belief and the black darkness of incredulity; and we turned glances of actual dislike at the man who had so unwarrantably shaken our settled convictions. "i only said i should like to see them under arms," stammered he, in the confusion of one who saw himself exposed to public obloquy. this half apology came too late, the mischief was done! and we shunned each other like men who were afraid to read the accusation of even a shrewd glance. as for myself, i can compare my feelings only to those of the worthy alderman, who broke out into a paroxysm of grief on hearing that "robinson crusoe" was a fiction. i believe, on that sudden revulsion of feeling, i could have discredited any and every thing. if there was no army of the north, was i quite sure that there was any expedition at all? were the generals mere freebooters, the chiefs of a marauding venture? were the patriots any thing but a disorderly rabble, eager for robbery and bloodshed? was irish independence a mere phantom? such were among the shocking terrors that came across my mind as i sat in my quarters, far too dispirited and depressed to mix among my comrades. it had been a day of fatiguing duty, and i was not sorry, as night fell, that i might betake myself to bed, to forget, if it might be, the torturing doubts that troubled me. suddenly i heard a heavy foot upon the stair, and an orderly entered with a command for me to repair to the head-quarters of the general at once. never did the call of duty summon me less willing, never found me so totally disinclined to obey. i was weary and fatigued; but worse than this, i was out of temper with myself, the service, and the whole world. had i heard that the royal forces were approaching, i was exactly in the humor to have dashed into the thick of them, and sold my life as dearly as i could, out of desperation. discipline is a powerful antagonist to a man's caprices, for with all my irritability and discontent, i arose, and resuming my uniform, set out for general humbert's quarters. i followed "the orderly," as he led the way through many a dark street and crooked alley, till we reached the square. there, too, all was in darkness, save at the mainguard, where, as usual, the five windows of the first story were a blaze of light, and the sounds of mirth and revelry, the nightly orgies of our officers, were ringing out in the stillness of the quiet hour. the wild chorus of a soldier-song, with its "ran-tan-plan" accompaniment of knuckles on the table, echoed through the square, and smote upon my ear with any thing but a congenial sense of pleasure. in my heart i thought them a senseless, soulless crew, that could give themselves to dissipation and excess on the very eve, as it were, of our defeat, and with hasty steps i turned away into the side street, where a large lamp, the only light to be seen, proclaimed general humbert's quarters. a bustle and stir, very unusual at this late hour, pervaded the passages and the stairs, and it was some time before i could find one of the staff to announce my arrival, which at last was done somewhat unceremoniously, as an officer hurried me through a large chamber crowded with the staff, into an inner room, where, on a small field-bed, lay general humbert, without coat or boots, a much-worn scarlet cloak thrown half over him, and a black handkerchief tied round his head. i had scarcely seen him since our landing, and i could with difficulty recognize the burly high-complexioned soldier of a few days back in the worn and haggard features of the sick man before me. an attack of ague, which he had originally contracted in holland, had relapsed upon him, and he was now suffering all the lassitude and sickness of that most depressing of all maladies. maps, books, plans, and sketches of various kinds scattered the bed, the table, and even the floor around him; but his attitude as i entered betrayed the exhaustion of one who could labor no longer, and whose worn-out faculties demanded rest. he lay flat on his back, his arms straight down beside him, and, with half closed eyes, seemed as though falling off to sleep. his first aid-de-camp, merochamp, was standing with his back to a small turf fire, and made a sign to us to be still, and make no noise as we came in. "he's sleeping," said he, "it's the first time he has closed his eyes for ten days." we stood for a moment uncertain, and were about to retrace our steps, when humbert said, in a low, weak voice, "no! i'm not asleep, come in." the officer who presented me now retired, and i advanced toward the bed-side. "this is tiernay, general," said merochamp, stooping down and speaking low, "you wished to see him." "yes, i wanted him. ha! tiernay, you see me a good deal altered since we parted last; however, i shall be all right in a day or two; it's a mere attack of ague, and will leave when the good weather comes. i wished to ask you about your family, tiernay; was not your father irish?" "no, sir; we were irish two or three generations back, but since that we have belonged either to austria or to france." "then where were you born?" "in paris; sir, i believe, but certainly in france." "there, i said so, merochamp; i knew that the boy was french." "still i don't think the precaution worthless," replied merochamp; "teeling and the others advise it." "i know they do," said humbert, peevishly, "and for themselves it may be needful, but this lad's case will be injured not bettered by it. he is not an irishman; he never was at any time a british subject. have you any certificate of birth or baptism, tiernay?" "none, sir, but i have my 'livret' for the school of saumur, which sets forth my being a frenchman by birth." "quite sufficient, boy, let me have it." it was a document which i always carried about with me since i landed, to enable me any moment, if made prisoner, to prove myself an alien, and thus escape the inculpation of fighting against the flag of my country. perhaps there was something of reluctance in my manner as i relinquished it, for the general said, "i'll take good care of it, tiernay, you shall not fare the worse because it is in my keeping. i may as well tell you that some of our irish officers have received threatening letters. it is needless to say they are without name, stating that if matters go unfortunately with us in this campaign, they will meet the fate of men taken in open treason; and that their condition of officers in our service will avail them nothing. i do not believe this. i can not believe that they will be treated in any respect differently from the rest of us. however, it is only just that i should tell you, that your name figures among those so denounced; for this reason i have sent for you now. you, at least, have nothing to apprehend on this score. you are as much a frenchman as myself. i know merochamp thinks differently from me, and that your irish descent and name will be quite enough to involve you in the fate of others." a gesture, half of assent but half of impatience, from the aid-de-camp, here arrested the speaker. "why not tell him frankly how he stands?" said humbert, eagerly. "i see no advantage in any concealment." then addressing me, he went on. "i purpose, tiernay, to give you the same option i gave the others, but which they have declined to accept. it is this: we are daily expecting to hear of the arrival of a force in the north, under the command of generals tandy and rey." "the army of the north?" asked i, in some anxiety. "precisely; the army of the north. now i desire to open a communication with them, and at the same time to do so through the means of such officers as, in the event of any disaster here, may have the escape to france open to them; which this army will have, and which, i need not say, we have no longer. our irish friends have declined this mission, as being more likely to compromise them if taken; and also as diminishing and not increasing their chance of escape. in my belief that you were placed similarly, i have sent for you here this evening, and at the same time desire to impress upon you that your acceptance or refusal is purely a matter at your own volition." "am i to regard the matter simply as one of duty, sir? or as an opportunity of consulting my personal safety?" "what shall i say to this merochamp?" asked humbert, bluntly. "that you are running to the full as many risks of being hanged for going as by staying; such is my opinion," said the aid-de-camp. "here as a rebel, there as a spy." "i confess, then," said i smiling at the cool brevity of the speech, "the choice is somewhat embarrassing! may i ask what you advise me to do, general?" "i should say go, tiernay." "go, by all means, lad," broke in the aid-de-camp, who throughout assumed a tone of dictation and familiarity most remarkable. "if a stand is to be made in this miserable country, it will be with rey's force; here the game will not last much longer. there lies the only man capable of conducting such an expedition, and his health can not stand up against its trials!" "not so, merochamp; i'll be on horseback to-morrow or the day after at furthest; and if i never were to take the field again, there are others, yourself among the number, well able to supply my place: but to tiernay--what says he?" "make it duty, sir, and i shall go, or remain here with an easy conscience," said i. "then duty be it, boy," said he; "and merochamp will tell you every thing, for all this discussion has wearied me much, and i can not endure more talking." "sit down here," said the aid-de-camp, pointing to a seat at his side, "and five minutes will suffice." he opened a large map of ireland before us on the table, and running his finger along the coast-line of the western side, stopped abruptly at the bay of lough swilly. "there," said he, "that is the spot. there, too, should have been our own landing! the whole population of the north will be with them--not such allies as these fellows, but men accustomed to the use of arms, able and willing to take the field. they say that five thousand men could hold the passes of those mountains against thirty." "who says this?" said i, for i own it, that i had grown marvelously skeptical as to testimony. "napper tandy, who is a general of division, and one of the leaders of this force;" and he went on: "the utmost we can do will be to hold these towns to the westward till they join us. we may stretch away thus far," and he moved his finger toward the direction of leitrim, but no further. "you will have to communicate with them; to explain what we have done, where we are, and how we are. conceal nothing--let them hear fairly, that this patriot force is worth nothing, and that even to garrison the towns we take they are useless. tell them, too, the sad mistake we made by attempting to organize what never can be disciplined, and let them not arm a population, as we have done, to commit rapine and plunder." two letters were already written--one addressed to rey, the other to napper tandy. these i was ordered to destroy if i should happen to become a prisoner; and with the map of ireland, pen-marked in various directions, by which i might trace my route, and a few lines to colonel charost, whom i was to see on passing at killala, i was dismissed. when i approached the bed-side to take leave of the general, he was sound asleep. the excitement of talking having passed away, he was pale as death, and his lips totally colorless. poor fellow, he was exhausted-looking and weary, and i could not help thinking, as i looked on him, that he was no bad emblem of the cause he had embarked in! i was to take my troop-horse as far as killala, after which i was to proceed either on foot, or by such modes of conveyance as i could find, keeping as nigh the coast as possible, and acquainting myself, so far as i might do, with the temper and disposition of the people as i went. it was a great aid to my sinking courage to know that there really was an "army of the north," and to feel myself accredited to hold intercourse with the generals commanding it. such was my exultation at this happy discovery, that i was dying to burst in among my comrades with the tidings, and proclaim at the same time my own high mission. merochamp had strictly enjoined my speedy departure without the slightest intimation to any whither i was going, or with what object. a very small cloak-bag held all my effects, and with this slung at my saddle, i rode out of the town just as the church clock was striking twelve. it was a calm, starlight night, and once a short distance from the town, as noiseless and still as possible; a gossoon, one of the numerous scouts we employed in conveying letters or bringing intelligence, trotted along on foot beside me to show the way, for there was a rumor that some of the royalist cavalry still loitered about the passes to capture our dispatch-bearers, or make prisoners of any stragglers from the army. these "gossoons," picked up by chance, and selected for no other qualification than because they were keen-eyed and swift of foot, were the most faithful and most worthy creatures we met with. in no instance were they ever known to desert to the enemy, and stranger still, they were never seen to mix in the debauchery and excesses so common to all the volunteers of the rebel camp. their intelligence was considerable, and to such a pitch had emulation stimulated them in the service, that there was no danger they would not incur in their peculiar duties. my companion on the present occasion was a little fellow of about thirteen years of age, and small and slight even for that; we knew him as "peter," but whether he had any other name, or what, i was ignorant. he was wounded by a sabre cut across the hand, which nearly severed the fingers from it, at the bridge of castlebar, but with a strip of linen bound round it now, he trotted along as happy and careless as if nothing ailed him. i questioned him as we went, and learned that his father had been a herd in the service of a certain sir roger palmer, and his mother a dairy-maid in the same house; but as the patriots had sacked and burned the "castle," of course they were now upon the world. he was a good deal shocked at my asking what part his father took on the occasion of the attack, but for a very different reason than that which i suspected. "for the cause, of course!" replied he, almost indignantly, "why wouldn't he stand up for ould ireland!" "and your mother--what did she do?" he hung down his head, and made no answer till i repeated the question. "faix," said he, slowly and sadly, "she went and towld the young ladies what was goin' to be done, and if it hadn't been that the 'boys' caught tim hynes, the groom, going off to foxford with a letter, we'd have had the dragoons down upon us in no time! they hanged tim, but they let the young ladies away, and my mother with them, and off they all went to dublin." "and where's your father now?" i asked. "he was drowned in the bay of killala four days ago. he went with a party of others to take oatmeal from a sloop that was wrecked in the bay, and an english cruiser came in at the time and fired on them; at the second discharge the wreck and all upon it went down!" he told all these things without any touch of sorrow in voice or manner. they seemed to be the ordinary chances of war, and so he took them. he had three brothers and a sister; of the former, two were missing, the third was a scout; and the girl--she was but nine years old--was waiting on a canteen, and mighty handy, he said, for she knew a little french already, and understood the soldiers when they asked for a "goutte," or wanted "du feu" for their pipes. such, then, was the credit side of the account with fortune, and, strange enough, the boy seemed satisfied with it; and although a few days had made him an orphan and houseless, he appeared to feel that the great things in store for his country were an ample recompense for all. was this, then, patriotism? was it possible that one, untaught and unlettered as he was, could think national freedom cheap at such a cost? if i thought so for a moment, a very little further inquiry undeceived me. religious rancor, party feuds, the hate of the saxon--a blind, ill-directed, unthinking hate--were the motives which actuated him. a terrible retribution for something upon somebody, an awful wiping out of old scores, a reversal of the lot of rich and poor, were the main incentives to his actions, and he was satisfied to stand by at the drawing of this great lottery, even without holding a ticket in it! it was almost the first moment of calm reflective thought i had enjoyed, as i rode along thus in the quiet stillness of the night, and i own that my heart began to misgive me as to the great benefits of our expedition. i will not conceal the fact, that i had been disappointed in every expectation i had formed of ireland. the bleak and barren hills of mayo, the dreary tracts of mountain and morass, were about as unworthy representatives of the boasted beauty and fertility, as were the half-clad wretches who flocked around us of that warlike people of whom we had heard so much. where were the chivalrous chieftains with their clans behind them? where the thousands gathering around a national standard? where that high-souled patriotism, content to risk fortune, station--all, in the conflict for national independence? a rabble led on by a few reckless debauchees, and two or three disreputable or degraded priests, were our only allies; and even these refused to be guided by our counsels, or swayed by our authority. i half-suspected serazin was right when he said, "let the directory send thirty thousand men, and make it a french province; but let us not fight an enemy to give the victory to the 'sans culottes.'" as we neared the pass of burnageeragh, i turned one last look on the town of castlebar, around which, at little intervals of space, the watch-fires of our pickets were blazing; all the rest of the place was in darkness. it was a strange and a thrilling thought to think that there, hundreds of miles from their home, without one link that could connect them to it, lay a little army in the midst of an enemy's country, calm, self-possessed, and determined. how many, thought i, are destined to leave it? how many will bring back to our dear france the memory of this unhappy struggle? chapter xxv. a passing visit to killala. i found a very pleasant party assembled around the bishop's breakfast-table at killala. the bishop and his family were all there, with charost and his staff, and some three or four other officers from ballina. nothing could be less constrained, more easy, or more agreeable, than the tone of intimacy which in a few days had grown up between them. a cordial good feeling seemed to prevail on every subject, and even the reserve, which might be thought natural on the momentous events then happening, was exchanged for a most candid and frank discussion of all that was going forward, which i must own astonished as much as it gratified me. the march on castlebar, the choice of the mountain-road, which led past the position occupied by the royalists, the attack and capture of the artillery, had all to be related by me for the edification of such as were not conversant with french; and i could observe that however discomfited by the conduct of the militia, they fully relied on the regiments of the line and the artillery. it was amusing, too, to see with what pleasure they listened to all our disparagement of the irish volunteers. every instance we gave of insubordination or disobedience delighted them, while our own blundering attempts to manage the people, the absurd mistakes we fell into, and the endless misconceptions of their character and habits, actually convulsed them with laughter. "of course," said the bishop to us, "you are prepared to hear that there is no love lost between you, and that they are to the full as dissatisfied with _you_ as you are dissatisfied with _them_." "why, what can they complain of?" asked charost, smiling; "we gave them the place of honor in the very last engagement!" "very true, you did so, and they reaped all the profit of the situation. monsieur tiernay has just told the havoc that grape and round-shot scattered among the poor creatures. however, it is not of this they complain--it is their miserable fare, the raw potatoes, their beds in open fields and highways, while the french, they say, eat of the best and sleep in blankets; they do not understand this inequality, and perhaps it is somewhat hard to comprehend." "patriotism ought to be proud of such little sacrifices," said charost, with an easy laugh; "besides, it is only a passing endurance, a month hence, less, perhaps, will see us dividing the spoils, and reveling in the conquest of irish independence." "you think so, colonel?" asked the bishop, half slyly. "parbleu! to be sure i do, and you?" "i'm just as sanguine," said the bishop, "and fancy that about a month hence we shall be talking of all these things as matters of history; and while sorrowing over some of the unavoidable calamities of the event, preserving a grateful memory of some who came as enemies, but left us warm friends." "if such is to be the turn of fortune," said charost, with more seriousness than before, "i can only say that the kindly feelings will not be one-sided." and now the conversation became an animated discussion on the chances of success or failure. each party supported his opinion ably and eagerly, and with a degree of freedom that was not a little singular to the by-standers. at last, when charost was fairly answered by the bishop on every point, he asked: "but what say you to the army of the north?" "simply, that i do not believe in such a force," rejoined the bishop. "not believe it--not believe on what general humbert relies at this moment, and to which that officer yonder is an accredited messenger! when i tell you that a most distinguished irishman, napper tandy--" "napper tandy!" repeated the bishop, with a good-humored smile; "the name is quite enough to relieve one of any fears, if they ever felt them. i am not sufficiently acquainted with your language to give him the epithet he deserves; but if you can conceive an empty, conceited man, as ignorant of war as of politics, rushing into a revolution for the sake of a green uniform, and ready to convulse a kingdom that he may be called a major-general; only enthusiastic in his personal vanity, and wanting even in that heroic daring which occasionally dignifies weak capacities--such is napper tandy." "what in soldier-phrase we call a 'blaque,'" said charost, laughing. "i'm sorry for it." what turn the conversation was about to take i can not guess, when it was suddenly interrupted by one of the bishop's servants rushing into the room, with a face bloodless from terror. he made his way up to where the bishop sat, and whispered a few words in his ear. "and how is the wind blowing, andrew?" asked the bishop, in a voice that all his self-command could not completely steady. "from the north, or the northwest, and mighty strong, too, my lord," said the man, who trembled in every limb. the affrighted aspect of the messenger, the excited expression of the bishop's face, and the question as to the "wind," at once suggested to me the idea that a french fleet had arrived in the bay, and that the awful tidings were neither more nor less than the announcement of our reinforcement. "from the northwest," repeated the bishop; "then, with god's blessing, we may be spared." and so saying, he arose from the table, and with an effort that showed that the strength to do so had only just returned to him. "colonel charost, a word with you!" said he, leading the way into an adjoining room. "what is it?--what has happened?--what can it be?" was asked by each in turn. and now groups gathered at the windows, which all looked into the court of the building, which was now crowded with people, soldiers, servants, and country-folk, gazing earnestly toward the roof of the castle. "what's the matter, terry?" asked one of the bishop's sons, as he threw open the window. "'tis the chimbley on fire, master robert," said the man; "the kitchen chimbly, wid those divils of frinch!" i can not describe the burst of laughter that followed the explanation! so much terror for so small a catastrophe was inconceivable; and whether we thought of andrew's horrified face, or the worthy bishop's pious thanksgiving as to the direction of the wind, we could scarcely refrain from another outbreak of mirth. colonel charost made his appearance at the instant, and although his step was hurried, and his look severe, there was nothing of agitation or alarm on his features. "turn out the guard, truchet, without arms," said he. "come with me, tiernay--an awkward business enough," whispered he, as he led me along. "these fellows have set fire to the kitchen chimney, and we have three hundred barrels of gunpowder in the cave!" nothing could be more easy and unaffected than the way he spoke this; and i actually stared at him, to see if his coldness was a mere pretense; but far from it--every gesture and every word showed the most perfect self-possession, with a prompt readiness for action. when we reached the court, the bustle and confusion had reached its highest; for, as the wind lulled, large masses of inky smoke hung, like a canopy, over head, through which a forked flame darted at intervals, with that peculiar furnace-like roar that accompanies a jet of fire in confined places. at times, too, as the soot ignited, great showers of bright sparks floated upward, and afterward fell, like a fiery rain, on every side. the country people, who had flocked in from the neighborhood, were entirely occupied with these signs, and only intent upon saving the remainder of the house, which they believed in great peril, totally unaware of the greater and more imminent danger close beside them. already they had placed ladders against the walls, and, with ropes and buckets, were preparing to ascend, when truchet marched in with his company, in fatigue-jackets, twenty sappers with shovels accompanying them. "clear the court-yard, now," said charost, "and leave this matter to us." the order was obeyed somewhat reluctantly, it is true, and at last we stood the sole occupants of the spot, the bishop being the only civilian present, he having refused to quit the spot, unless compelled by force. the powder was stored in a long shed adjoining the stables, and originally used as a shelter for farming tools and utensils. a few tarpaulins we had carried with us from the ships were spread over the barrels, and on this now some sparks of fire had fallen, as the burning soot had been carried in by an eddy of wind. the first order was, to deluge the tarpaulins with water; and while this was being done, the sappers were ordered to dig trenches in the garden, to receive the barrels. every man knew the terrible peril so near him; each felt that at any instant a frightful death might overtake him, and yet every detail of the duty was carried on with the coldest unconcern; and when at last the time came to carry away the barrels, on a species of handbarrow, the fellows stepped in time, as if on the march, and moved in measure, a degree of indifference, which, to judge from the good bishop's countenance, evidently inspired as many anxieties for their spiritual welfare, as it suggested astonishment and admiration for their courage. he himself, it must be owned, displayed no sign of trepidation; and in the few words he spoke, or the hints he dropped, exhibited every quality of a brave man. at moments the peril seemed very imminent indeed. some timber having caught fire, slender fragments of burning wood fell in masses, covering the men as they went, and falling on the barrels, whence the soldiers brushed them off with cool indifference. the dense, thick smoke, too, obscuring every object a few paces distant, added to the confusion, and occasionally bringing the going and returning parties into collision, a loud shout, or cry, would ensue; and it is difficult to conceive how such a sound thrilled through the heart at such a time. i own that more than once i felt a choking fullness in the throat, as i heard a sudden yell, it seemed so like a signal for destruction. in removing one of the last barrels from the hand-barrow, it slipped, and falling to the ground, the hoops gave way, it burst open, and the powder fell out on every side. the moment was critical, for the wind was baffling, now wafting the sparks clear away, now whirling them in eddies around us. it was then that an old sergeant of grenadiers threw off his upper coat and spread it over the broken cask, while, with all the composure of a man about to rest himself, he lay down on it, while his comrades went to fetch water. of course his peril was no greater than that of every one around him; but there was an air of quick determination in his act which showed the training of an old soldier. at length the labor was ended, the last barrel was committed to the earth, and the men, formed into line, were ordered to wheel and march. never shall i forget the bishop's face as they moved past. the undersized and youthful look of our soldiers had acquired for them a kind of depreciating estimate in comparison with the more mature and manly stature of the british soldier, to whom, indeed, they offered a strong contrast on parade; but now, as they were seen in a moment of arduous duty, surrounded by danger, the steadiness and courage, the prompt obedience to every command, the alacrity of their movements, and the fearless intrepidity with which they performed every act, impressed the worthy bishop so forcibly, that he muttered half aloud, "thank heaven there are but few of them!" colonel charost resisted steadily the bishop's proffer to afford the men some refreshment; he would not even admit of an extra allowance of brandy to their messes. "if we become too liberal for slight services, we shall never be able to reward real ones," was his answer; and the bishop was reduced to the expedient of commemorating what he could not reward. this, indeed, he did with the most unqualified praise, relating in the drawing-room all that he had witnessed, and lauding french valor and heroism to the very highest. the better to conceal my route, and to avoid the chances of being tracked, i sailed that evening in a fishing-boat for killybegs, a small harbor on the coast of donegal, having previously exchanged my uniform for the dress of a sailor, so that if apprehended i should pretend to be an ostend or antwerp seaman, washed overboard in a gale at sea. fortunately for me i was not called on to perform this part, for as my nautical experiences were of the very slightest, i should have made a deplorable attempt at the impersonation. assuredly the fishermen of the smack would not have been among the number of the "imposed upon," for a more sea-sick wretch never masqueraded in a blue jacket than i was. my only clew, when i touched land, was a certain father doogan, who lived at the foot of the bluerock mountains, about fifteen miles from the coast, and to whom i brought a few lines from one of the irish officers, a certain bourke of ballina. the road led in this direction, and so little intercourse had the shore folk with the interior, that it was with difficulty any one could be found to act as a guide thither. at last an old fellow was discovered, who used to travel these mountains formerly with smuggled tobacco and tea; and although, from the discontinuance of the smuggling trade, and increased age, he had for some years abandoned the line of business, a liberal offer of payment induced him to accompany me as guide. it was not without great misgivings that i looked at the very old and almost decrepit creature, who was to be my companion through a solitary mountain region. the few stairs he had to mount in the little inn where i put up seemed a sore trial to his strength and chest; but he assured me that once out of the smoke of the town, and with his foot on the "short grass of the sheep-patch," he'd be like a four-year-old; and his neighbor having corroborated the assertion, i was fain to believe him. determined, however, to make his excursion subservient to profit in his old vocation, he provided himself with some pounds of tobacco and a little parcel of silk handkerchiefs, to dispose of among the country people, with which, and a little bag of meal slung at his back, and a walking-stick in his hand, he presented himself at my door just as day was breaking. "we'll have a wet day, i fear, jerry." said i, looking out. "not a bit of it," replied he. "'tis the spring tides makes it cloudy there beyant; but when the sun gets up it will be a fine mornin'; but i'm thinkin' ye'r strange in them parts;" and this he said with a keen sharp glance under his eyes. "donegal is new to me, i confess," said i guardedly. "yes, and the rest of ireland, too," said he, with a roguish leer. "but come along, we've a good step before us;" and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. once in the street however he stepped out more freely, and before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease. (_to be continued._) the death of a goblin. there is a by-street, called the pallant, in an old cathedral city--a narrow carriage-way, which leads to half a dozen antique mansions. a great number of years ago, when i began to shave, the presence of a very fascinating girl induced me to make frequent calls upon an old friend of our family who lived in one of the oldest of these houses, a plain, large building of red brick. the father, and the grandfather, and a series of great-great-great and other grandfathers of the then occupant, sir francis holyoke, had lived and died beneath its roof. so much i knew; and i had inkling of a legend in connection with the place, a very horrible affair. how and when i heard the story fully told, i have good reason to remember. we were in the great dark wainscoted parlor one december evening; papa was out. i sat with margaret by the fire-side, and saw in the embers visions of what might come to pass, but never did. ellen was playing at her harpsichord in a dark corner of the room, singing a quaint and cheerful duet out of grétry's coeur de lion with my old school-fellow, paul owen, a sentimental youth, who became afterward a martyr to the gout, and broke his neck at a great steeple-chase. "the god of love a bandeau wears," those two were singing. truly, they had their own eyes filleted. the fire-light glow, when it occasionally flickered on the cheek over which paul was bending, could not raise the semblance of young health upon its shining whiteness. that beautiful white hand was fallen into dust before paul owen had half earned the wedding-ring that should encircle it. "thanks to you, sister--thanks, too, to grétry for a pleasant ditty. now, don't let us have candles. shall we have ghost stories?" "what! in a haunted house?" "the very thing," cried paul; "let us have all the story of the ghost of holyoke. i never heard it properly." ellen was busy at her harpsichord again, with fragments from a stabat mater. not rossini's luscious lamentation, but the deep pathos of that italian, who in days past "moerebat et dolebat," who moved the people with his master-piece, and was stabbed to death by a rival at the cathedral door. "why, ellen, you look as if you feared the ghosts." "no, no," she said; "we know it is an idle tale. go to the fire, paul, and i will keep you solemn with the harpsichord, in order that you may not laugh while margaret is telling it." "well, then," began margaret, "of course this story is all nonsense." "of course it is," said i. "of course it is," said paul. ellen continued playing. "i mean," said margaret, "that really and truly no part of it can possibly be any thing but fiction. papa, you know, is a great genealogist, and he says that our ancestor, godfrey of holyoke, died in the holy land, and had two sons, but never had a daughter. some old nurse made the tale that he died here, in the house, and had a daughter ellen. this daughter ellen, says the tale, was sought in marriage by a young knight who won her good-will, but could not get her father's. that ellen--very much unlike our gentle, timid sister in the corner there--was proud and willful. she and her father quarreled. his health failed, because, the story hints mysteriously, she put a slow and subtle poison into his after-supper cup night after night. one evening they quarreled violently, and the next morning sir godfrey was gone. his daughter said that he had left the house in anger with her. the tale, determined to be horrible, says that she poisoned him outright, and with her own hands buried him in an old cellar under this room. that cellar-door is fastened with a padlock, to which there is no key remaining. not being wanted, it has not been opened probably for scores of years." "well!" "well--in a year or two the daughter married, and in time had children scampering about this house. but her health failed. the children fell ill, and, excepting one or two, all died. one night--" "yes." "one night she lay awake through care; and in the middle of the night a figure like her father came into the room, holding a cup like that from which he used to drink after his supper. it moved inaudibly to where she lay, placed the cup to her lips; a chill came over her. the figure passed away, but in a few minutes she heard the shutting of the cellar-door. after that she was often kept awake by dread, and often saw that she was visited. she heard the cellar-door creak on its hinge, and knew it was her father coming. once she watched all night by the sick-bed of her eldest child; the goblin came, and put the cup to her child's lips; she knew then that her children who were dead, and she herself who was dying, and that child of hers, had tasted of her father's poison. she died young. and ever since that time, the legend says, sir godfrey walks at night, and puts his fatal goblet to the lips of his descendants, of the children and children's children of his cruel child. it is quite true that sickliness and death occur more frequently among those who inhabit this house than is to be easily accounted for. so story-tellers have accounted for it, as you see. but it is certain that sir godfrey fell in palestine, and had no daughter." ellen continued playing with her face bowed down over the harpsichord. margaret, a healthy cheerful girl, had lived generally with an old aunt in the south of england. but the two girls wore mourning. in the flower of her years their mother had departed from them, after long lingering in broken health. the bandeau seemed to have been unrolled from poor paul's eyes, for, after a long pause, which had been filled by ellen's music, he said: "ellen, did _you_ ever see sir godfrey?" she left her harpsichord and came to him, and leaning down over his shoulder, kissed him. was she thinking of the sorrow that would come upon him soon? the sudden closing of a heavy door startled us all. but a loud jovial voice restored our spirits. sir francis had come in from his afternoon walk and gossip, and was clamoring for tea. "why, boys and girls, all in the dark! what mischief are you after?" "laughing at the holyoke ghost, papa," said margaret. "laughing, indeed; you look as if you had been drinking with him. silly tale! silly tale! look at me, i'm hale and hearty. why don't sir godfrey tackle me? i'd like a draught out of his flagon." a door below us creaked upon its hinges. ellen shrank back visibly alarmed. "you silly butterfly," sir francis cried, "it's thomas coming up out of the kitchen with the candles you left me to order. tea, girls, tea!" sir francis, a stout, warm-faced, and warm-hearted gentleman, kept us amused through the remainder of that evening. my business the next day called me to london, from whence i sailed in a few days for valparaiso. while abroad, i heard of ellen's death. on my return to england, i went immediately to the old cathedral city, where i had many friends. there i was shocked to hear that sir francis himself had died of apoplexy, and that margaret, the sole heir and survivor, had gone back, with her health injured, to live with her aunt in the south of england. the dear old house, ghost and all, had been to let, and had been taken by a school-mistress. it was now "holyoke house seminary for young ladies." the school had succeeded through the talent of its mistress; but although she was not a lady of the stocks and backboard school, the sickliness among her pupils had been very noticeable. scarlet fever, too, had got among them, of which three had died. the school had become in consequence almost deserted, and the lady who had occupied the house was on the point of quitting. surely, i thought, if this be sir godfrey's work, he is as relentless an old goblin as can be imagined. for private reasons of my own, i traveled south. margaret bloomed again; as for her aunt, she was a peony in fullest flower. she had a breezy house by the sea-side, abominated dirt and spiders, and, before we had been five minutes together, abused me for having lavender-water upon my handkerchief. she hated smells, it seemed; she carried her antipathy so far as to throw a bouquet out of the window which i had been putting together with great patience and pains for margaret. we talked of the old house at ----. "i tell you what it is, peggy," she said, "if ever you marry, ghost or no ghost, you're the heir of the holyokes, and in the old house you shall live. as soon as miss williams has quitted, i'll put on my bonnet and run across with you into the north." and so she did. we stalked together into the desolate old house. it echoed our tread dismally. "peggy," said aunt anne with her eyes quite fixed, "peggy, i smell a smell. let's go down stairs." we went into the kitchen. "peggy," the old lady said, "it's very bad. i think it's sir godfrey." "o aunt!" said margaret, laughing; "he died in palestine, and is dust long ago." "i'm sure it's sir godfrey," said aunt anne. "you fellow," to me, "just take the bar belonging to that window-shutter, and come along with me. peggy, show us sir godfrey's cellar." margaret changed color. "what," said the old lady, "flinch at a ghost you don't believe in! i'm not afraid, see; yet i'm sure sir godfrey's in the cellar. come along." we came and stood before the mysterious door with its enormous padlock. "i smell the ghost distinctly," said aunt anne. margaret did not know ghosts had a smell. "break the door open, you chap." i battered with the bar, the oaken planks were rotten and soon fell apart--some fell into the cellar with a plash. there was a foul smell. a dark cellar had a very little daylight let into it--we could just see the floor covered with filth, in which some of the planks had sunk and disappeared. "there," said the old lady, "there's the stuff your ghost had in his cup. there's your sir godfrey who poisons sleepers, and cuts off your children and your girls. bah! we'll set to work, peggy; it's clear your ancestors knew or cared nothing about drainage. we'll have the house drained properly, and that will be the death of the goblin." so it was, as our six children can testify. a reminiscence of the french revolution. the following sketch of his life was given to me by the subject of it, while living as m. hippolyte in a retired quarter of paris, and procuring a subsistence by following the profession of a baker: "my name is palamede de tour la roche. i was the third son of the duc de tour la roche, who, with his wife, eldest son, and daughter, perished in the revolution in ' . the earliest thing i remember was living in the hôtel tour la roche in great luxury and splendor--'the curled darling' of my beautiful mother, and the spoiled pet and plaything of all the house and all the company who came to it. my youth took no heed of passing events; but one evening our hôtel was attacked, and from that day to this i saw no more of my father and brothers--but my mother and sister continued to live as before, only they were now continually weeping, clasping me to their bosoms in passionate fondness, and never going out of the great gates. every thing was changed: we had no longer any servants except an old woman, her daughter, and a lame son, with whom i played in the garden, undisturbed by the cries which reached us there, because i attached no ideas that i can remember to them, and i was told not to be frightened, for it was only wicked, drunken people shouting. when i inquired after my papa, and henri, and philippe--they were called unexpectedly to england, and would be back again one of these days, was the answer, which contented me. although full eleven years old, my mind had been kept so much under, and i had lived so entirely in the perfumed atmosphere of the drawing-room--where, being little of my age, people forgot it, and made a plaything of me--that many a boy of seven or eight knew more of the world than i did. "one night, after being some time in bed, i was awakened by a terrible noise in the house, and loud voices, and lights glancing in the court. i felt greatly frightened, but did not dare to move; in a little time it ceased entirely, and, childlike, i again sunk to slumber. i lay awake long next morning. i remember singing to myself, and wondering why old marotte did not, as usual, come to dress me; so at last i got up and went into my mother's room. every thing there was in disorder, and neither mother, sister, nor servant to be seen. i cried bitterly, and ran from room to room, searching in every corner in vain. all was silent. my passionate cries of 'maman! maman! louise! louise!' remained unanswered; and the doors were fastened or locked, all but the one which led out of a small chamber into the garden, that had probably been overlooked. at last they opened, and such a rabble came pouring in, that i was frightened to death, and could scarcely make use of my trembling limbs to convey me to the garden, where i crept into a very thick bush, and remained happily unseen. there i sat, i suppose, for hours: i heard sounds of revelry, of quarreling, and breaking, and gun-firing; saw furniture thrown out of the windows--furniture i knew so well! and people with bloody hands and faces standing at them. i think i must have fainted. when i recovered my senses, however, it was getting quite dusk; so, when the coast was pretty clear, i stole out into the street, and wandering away toward the champs elysées, lay down under a tree, and slept--forgetting grief, terror, hunger, and cold, in the dreamless sleep of innocent childhood--the last i was ever to know--for the scenes that i witnessed the day following 'my early bloom of heart destroyed.' when i stood up, and saw where i was, and the events of the preceding evening crowded to my confused mind, a sort of madness, i suppose, seized me; i thought i was in my little gilded bed in my own alcove at home, and was dreaming a frightful dream, not uncommon to children who have been indulging in pastry or rich dishes. i therefore quietly turned my steps toward the hôtel, expecting there to find things as usual. i can scarcely tell what images passed through my brain, but the full horror of my helpless situation did not break upon me until i found myself before the well-known _porte cochère_, which was _shut_. then i knew it was no dream, and that all was real; and from that hour to this i have never entered my father's house--never even seen him, my brothers, my sister: my mother i saw once more--on the scaffold!" here the poor old man, whose voice had faltered two or three times, stopped and sobbed audibly. "pray," said i, "do not go on, my dear monsieur de tour la roche." "do not call me by that dear name: i can not bear it. no; i called myself hippolyte after one of our footmen: i could not bear to hear the name my darling mother addressed me by profaned by the lips that surrounded me afterward. but to proceed--" "oh no; pray spare yourself." "on the contrary, it is a relief to my long-pent-up grief: i had for some time lived in the streets, subsisting upon chance; and i was standing on a heap of rubbish, just where the corner-house on the left-hand side of the rue royale now stands, looking at the guillotine doing its dreadful work. a man, a woman mounted, and their heads fell; two other women, coarsely attired, stood waiting; one turned--oh god! it was my mother!--my gentle, timid, kind, darling mother! timid and gentle no longer, she looked calm and cold, moved resolutely, looking for one moment up to heaven, and said words i would now give my life-blood to hear. my blood curdled, my heart stopped, as i heard the rattle and clap of the descending guillotine. 'maman! maman!' i shrieked. it was over! 'encore une autre!' shouted a fierce man beside me. 'maman! maman!' 'wring the neck of that little aristocrat!' cried the mob. the man advanced, as i hoped, to kill me at once, but he only grasped me fast, saying, 'no, i shall take him home, pour le tuer à mon aise.' death i wished for; but torture!--i fainted; and when i came to myself i was in an unfrequented street, still tightly held by the man. 'don't be afraid, my child--i shan't hurt you; but never, as you value your life, whisper your name; if you do--here he swore a terrific oath--i _will_ kill you _cruelly_. now come with me. you shall sleep with mon petit pierre: call yourself achille, hercule, hippolyte--what you please, if not your own name.' hippolyte, then, and hippolyte i have been ever since--jean hippolyte, when i signed my name. the house he carried me to was wretched, dark, and dirty; the food given coarse, but plentiful; and here i groveled, moody, and nearly mad, for more than a year, wandering through the streets idle and in rags, seldom speaking, unless forced, lest i should inadvertently betray myself. at last this man, whose name was jean leroux, told me he had obtained employment for both pierre and me in a boulangerie. we were clothed somewhat more decently, and sent about with bread to different parts of the neighborhood, and employed in various little ways at first, sweeping out the shop, ovens, &c.; but by degrees we made progress. as i could both read and write, which pierre could not do, and he was also naturally a slow, indolent boy, i was preferred before him; but he was not ill-natured, and bore me no malice. i grew up healthy enough, and tall; got forward at my trade, and soon made money. i served also seven years under the emperor, and brought away, besides my laurels, two trifling wounds. upon my return, still keeping my secret, which, however, there was now no longer danger in discovering, i commenced a search for my elder brother philippe, of whose death i have never heard; but without success; although i ascertained that my father and henri had been guillotined, and that my poor sister had been massacred in the streets. i recommenced my former business, and worked early and late to make enough to enable me to live in peace and seclusion, waiting anxiously, but i hope patiently, until he who in his wisdom has thought fit to afflict me, shall take me to those realms where all tears shall be wiped from our eyes. i built this house back from those which line the street: passages and kitchens look into the courts; but i never go near those parts except at an early hour to mass. i live in my garden, and with my books. monsieur butterini--who never assumed the title his wife is so proud of, although he had an undoubted right to bear it, poor man--married the daughter of the person at whose house he lodged before taking up his abode in mine, as a matter of economy, for she saved him a seamstress, a nurse, and a servant. she is vain, weak, and vulgar, as you see, but has ever been correct in her conduct, attentive to him while he lived, as she now is to me, in return for my allowing her to retain two of the rooms she before occupied, money enough to dress upon in the mean time, and a small annuity when i die. the people whom i occasionally entertain, and to whom i shall leave the little wealth i possess, are the families of jean leroux's children, and those of my first master; but i feel still, as i have ever felt, that i am of noble birth. when my will is read, all will then know that a de tour la roche has baked their bread, but not until then. it has been a great relief to my mind to tell all this to you, madame; and if philippe or his descendants _should_ be in england, promise that you will seek them out, and speak to them of me, and perhaps even yet some of my own blood will pray over my grave!" i was deeply impressed by this melancholy history; and afterward spent many an hour with the old man in his garden, where he always welcomed me with a smile, and talked unreservedly, sometimes even cheerfully. he lived several years afterward, but last winter died of bronchitis. many know parts of this story now, and i see no reason why i should not relate the sad tale as he himself told it to me. some worldly-wise people may ask why he did not take his own proper title, and move in his proper sphere, when he could do so; but i can very easily comprehend his feelings. his heart was almost broken; he took no pleasure in this world, nor in the things of this world, except those by which he could "look up through nature unto nature's god." what were the vanities of life to him? obtaining his estate and title--the first of which would have been difficult, if not impossible--would only have hindered his desire of leading the life of calm, unpretending seclusion which pleased him best; and, besides this, he was impressed with the idea that philippe, who was the rightful duc de tour la roche, or his children, were in existence somewhere. he was in no want of money, having made by his own exertions more than enough for his moderate requirements: no, nor of the world's respect. all respected him for his integrity and charity; and his air and manner in themselves were sufficient to impress those who came in contact with him, even while they knew he was but a retired tradesman. i can understand it all perfectly. some of those who chance to read this paper may possibly have seen his tomb at père la chaise: but they will not find the name of tour la roche, for that of course is fictitious. the story of fine-ear. ten or twelve years ago, there was, in the prison at brest, a man sentenced for life to the galleys. i do not know the exact nature of his crime, but it was something very atrocious. i never heard, either, what his former condition of life had been; for even his name had passed into oblivion, and he was recognized only by a number. although his features were naturally well formed, their expression was horrible: every dark and evil passion seemed to have left its impress there; and his character fully corresponded to its outward indications. mutinous, gloomy, and revengeful, he had often hazarded his life in desperate attempts to escape, which hitherto had proved abortive. once, during winter, he succeeded in gaining the fields, and supported, for several days, the extremity of cold and hunger. he was found, at length, half frozen and insensible under a tree, and brought back to prison, where, with difficulty, he was restored to life. the ward-master watched him more closely, and punished him more severely by far, than the other prisoners, while a double chain was added to his heavy fetters. several times he attempted suicide, but failed, through the vigilance of his guards. the only results of his experiments in this line were an asthma, caused by a nail which he hammered into his chest, and the loss of an arm, which he fractured in leaping off a high wall. after suffering amputation, and a six months' sojourn in the hospital, he returned to his hopeless life-long task-work. one day this man's fierce humor seemed softened. after the hours of labor, he seated himself, with the companion in misery to whom he was chained, in a corner of the court; and his repulsive countenance assumed a mild expression. words of tenderness were uttered by the lips which heretofore had opened only to blaspheme; and with his head bent down, he watched some object concealed in his bosom. the guards looked at him with disquietude, believing he had some weapon hidden within his clothes; and two of them approaching him stealthily from behind, seized him roughly, and began to search him before he could make any resistance. finding himself completely in their power, the convict exclaimed: "oh, don't kill him! pray, don't kill him!" as he spoke, one of the guards had gained possession of a large rat, which the felon had kept next his bosom. "don't kill him!" he repeated. "beat me, chain me; do what you like with me; but don't hurt my poor rat! don't squeeze him so between your fingers! if you will not give him back to me, let him go free!"--and while he spoke, for the first time, probably, since his childhood, tears filled his eyes, and ran down his cheeks. rough and hardened men as were the guards, they could not listen to the convict, and see his tears, without some feeling of compassion. he who was about to strangle the rat, opened his fingers and let it fall to the ground. the terrified animal fled with the speed peculiar to its species, and disappeared behind a pile of beams and rubbish. the felon wiped away his tears, looked anxiously after the rat, and scarcely breathed until he had seen it out of danger. then he rose, and silently, with the old savage look, followed his companion in bonds, and lay down with him on their iron bedstead, where a ring and chain fastened them to a massive bar of the same metal. next morning, on his way to work, the convict, whose pale face showed that he had passed a sleepless night, cast an anxious, troubled glance toward the pile of wood, and gave a low, peculiar call, to which nothing replied. one of his comrades uttered some harmless jest on the loss of his favorite; and the reply was a furious blow, which felled the speaker, and drew down on the offender a severe chastisement from the task-master. arrived at the place of labor, he worked with a sort of feverish ardor, as though trying to give vent to his pent-up emotion; and, while stooping over a large beam, which he and some others were trying to raise, he felt something gently tickle his cheek. he turned round, and gave a shout of joy. there, on his shoulder, was the only friend he had in the world--his rat!--who, with marvelous instinct, had found him out, and crept gently up to his face. he took the animal in his hands, covered it with kisses, placed it within his nest, and then, addressing the head jailer, who happened to pass by at the moment, he said: "sir, if you will allow me to keep this rat, i will solemnly promise to submit to you in every thing, and never again to incur punishment." the ruler gave a sign of acquiescence, and passed on. the convict opened his shirt, to give one more fond look at his faithful pet, and then contentedly resumed his labor. that which neither threats nor imprisonment, the scourge nor the chain, could effect, was accomplished, and rapidly, by the influence of _love_, though its object was one of the most despised among animals. from the moment when the formidable convict was permitted to cherish his pet night and day in his bosom, he became the most tractable and well-conducted man in the prison. his herculean strength, and his moral energy, were both employed to assist the governors in maintaining peace and subordination. fine-ear, so he called his rat, was the object of his unceasing tenderness. he fed it before he tasted each meal, and would rather fast entirely than allow it to be hungry. he spent his brief hours of respite from toil in making various little fancy articles, which he sold, in order to procure dainties which fine ear liked--gingerbread and sugar, for example. often, during the period of toil, the convict would smile with delight when his little friend, creeping from its nestling place, would rub its soft fur against his cheek. but when, on a fine sunshiny day, the rat took up his position on the ground, smoothed his coat, combed his long mustaches with his sharp nails, and dressed his long ears with his delicate paws, his master would testify the utmost delight, and exchange tender glances with the black, roguish eyes of master fine-ear. the latter, confiding in his patron's care and protection, went, came, sported, or stood still, certain that no one would injure him; for to touch a hair of the rat's whisker would be to incur a terrible penalty. one day, for having thrown a pebble at him, a prisoner was forced to spend a week in hospital, ere he recovered the effects of a blow bestowed on him by fine-ear's master. the animal soon learned to know the sound of the dinner-bell, and jumped with delight on the convict when he heard the welcome summons. four years passed on in this manner, when one day poor fine-ear was attacked by a cat, which had found her way into the workshop, and received several deep wounds before his master, flying to the rescue, seized the feline foe, and actually tore her to pieces. the recovery of the rat was tedious. during the next month the convict was occupied in dressing his wounds. it was strange, the interest which every one connected with the prison took in fine-ear's misfortune. not only did the guards and turnkeys speak of it as the topic of the day, but the hospital nurses furnished plasters and bandages for the wounds; and even the surgeon condescended to prescribe for him. at length the animal recovered his strength and gayety, save that one of his hind paws dragged a little, and the cicatrice still disfigured his shin. he was more tame and affectionate than ever, but the sight of a cat was sufficient to throw his master into a paroxysm of rage, and, running after the unlucky puss, he would, if possible, catch and destroy her. a great pleasure was in store for the convict. thanks to his good conduct during the past four years, his sentence of imprisonment for life had been commuted into twenty years, in which were to be included the fifteen already spent in prison. "thank god!" he cried, "under his mercy it is to fine-ear i owe this happiness!" and he kissed the animal with transport. five years still remained to be passed in toilsome imprisonment, but they were cut short in an unlooked-for manner. one day, a mutinous party of felons succeeded in seizing a turnkey, and having shut him up with themselves in one of the dormitories, they threatened to put him to death if all their demands were not instantly complied with, and a full amnesty granted for this revolt. fine-ear's master, who had taken no part in the uproar, stood silently behind the officials and the soldiers, who were ready to fire on the insurgents. just as the attack was about to commence, he approached the chief superintendent, and said a few words to him in a low voice. "i accept your offer," replied the governor: "remember, you risk your life; but if you succeed, i pledge my word that you shall be strongly recommended to the government for unconditional pardon, this very night." the convict drew forth fine-ear from his bosom, kissed him several times, and then placing him within the vest of a young fellow-prisoner with whom the rat was already familiar, he said, in a broken voice: "if i do not return, be kind to him, and love him as i have loved him." then, having armed himself with an enormous bar of iron, he marched with a determined step to the dormitory, without regarding the missiles which the rebels hurled at his head. with a few blows of his bar, he made the door fly open, and darting into the room, he over-turned those who opposed his entrance, threw down his weapon, and seizing the turnkey, put him, or rather flung him, out safe and sound into the passage. while in the act of covering the man's escape from the infuriated convicts, he suddenly fell to the ground, bathed in blood. one of the wretches had lifted the iron bar and struck down with it his heroic comrade. he was carried dying to the hospital, and, ere he breathed his last, he uttered one word--it was "fine-ear!" must i tell it? the rat appeared restless and unhappy for a few days, but he soon forgot his master, and began to testify the same affection for his new owner that he had formerly shown to him who was dead. fine-ear still lives, fat, and sleek, and strong; indeed, he no longer fears his feline enemies, and has actually succeeded in killing a full-grown cat and three kittens. but he no longer remembers the dead, nor regards the sound of his master's number, which formerly used to make him prick up his ears and run from one end of the court to the other. does it only prove that rats, as well as men, may be ungrateful? or is it a little illustration of the wise and merciful arrangement, that the world must go on, die who will? [from colburn's united service magazine.] general rosas, and the argentine republic. in the provinces of the argentine confederation, as well as throughout the whole of south america, the population is divided into two distinct families; the city and the country. the inhabitants of the cities--issues of the spanish colonization--are, as it were, intimately blended with the foreign element, which they seem to represent; the inhabitants of the country, on the other hand, constitute the indigenous element, with all the customs of primitive life. until the accession to power of general rosas, who from the first had especially applied himself to the task of incorporating these two distinct races under one general head, by taming down the half savage nature of the country party, this strongly marked separation between the two castes, had been the principal cause of the numerous revolutions which had hitherto distracted and laid waste the country. this fusion, it must be allowed, was a difficult task to perform: and though not yet perfectly accomplished, it is, nevertheless, easily recognizable in the province of buenos ayres; above all, in that portion of it which lies round the capital. the inhabitant of the country, who is styled a gaucho, is, as it were, an isolated being on the face of creation; for in vain do we seek his counterpart either in the deserts of asia, or in the sands of africa. the provinces of the argentine confederation may almost be termed deserts; since, over the entire face of a territory equal in extent to the whole of france, is scattered a population numbering but , souls. in these vast and almost deserted plains, there are no cities to be found, but merely _estancias_--a species of solitary farms planted amid immense solitudes. alone, among his peons (or daily laborers) gauchos like himself, the _estancier_ lives as absolute master, without desires, without industry, without agricultural labor. his sole occupation consists in branding, and, when the proper time shall come, in slaughtering the cattle, which form his entire wealth. the gaucho exists on meat and water only; the use of bread, vegetables, fruits, or spirituous liquors being unknown to him. as for his outward apparel, he rudely manufactures it out of the hides of oxen, or the fleeces of the sheep; a few sticks, and three or four ox hides, suffice for the construction of his tent, when he sojourns for any length of time in one spot; for ordinarily, he sleeps in the open air, enveloped in his poncho. his simple, but formidable arms, are reduced to the _lasso_, and the _bolas_, and to a large knife, which he wears stuck into his waist-belt. the gaucho remains for weeks and months entire, without perceiving the face of a human being; passing his time in wandering amid the innumerable flocks and herds which cover the plains. whenever he feels the calls of hunger, he springs on horseback, pursues a bull, _lassoes_ it, slaughters it, and out of the still palpitating flesh cuts the piece he prefers; rarely does he take the trouble to have it cooked, but contents himself before devouring his steak, with softening it, by leaving it for a while under his saddle. it may easily be understood how completely this wild and solitary existence tends to destroy in the breast of the gaucho every social sentiment; and what profound hatred he must nourish against the inhabitant of the city, who knows how to enjoy all the blessings of civilization, and derive profit from the produce of his rude and toilsome trade. in the same ratio as the gaucho has held himself aloof from all social progress, has the inhabitant of the city eagerly met it half-way. in the dwelling of the latter, thanks to the activity of commerce, which pours forth in profusion all its riches into the lap of its votary, we find not only all our european comforts, but even our tastes, in science, literature, and the arts. but, as we have said before, the causes of the separation of the two races are beginning to disappear; and taking into consideration the ever active and increasing stride of european civilization, we may safely presume that in a very few years, there will remain scarcely a trace of the former strongly marked difference. throughout the entire province of buenos ayres, the country is completely naked, a dense grass alone covers the plains, which are watered by numerous rivulets, that wind through the vast prairies; the country is almost a perfect level, and the soil of which it is composed, though still virgin of all implements of husbandry, of an extraordinary degree of fertility; it is indeed with difficulty that we can discover in the environs of the city, a few gardens where it has been even turned. the city of buenos ayres has been constructed upon an uniform plan; it is divided into _suadres_, which intersect each other at right angles. the houses are composed simply of a ground floor; they are painted entirely white, and have a very neat and pleasing aspect. buenos ayres is now very thickly peopled; its inhabitants numbering more than a hundred thousand souls; it would appear, also, to be in a highly flourishing condition, as regards its commerce, for in the course of last year, upward of three hundred european ships entered its harbor, bearing merchandise from almost every quarter of the world. john manuel ortes de rosas, the sovereign dictator of the republic, personifies the country party, and is, according to his own account at least, the descendant of an old and noble spanish family, which, in the time of the conquest, emigrated to south america; what is indisputable, is, that he is a gaucho. at the period when the first troubles broke out in the country, he was proprietor of a considerable _estancia_; which, by his skill and perseverance, he had been able to render a model establishment. rosas had been endowed by nature with all the talents and virtues of the most finished gaucho; there was not an inhabitant of the plain who could tame a wild horse like him, or handle with more skill and dexterity the _lasso_, or the _bolas_; not a gaucho was there, who possessed his dexterity in the use of the knife; or who, having thrown himself in the midst of danger, could withdraw himself therefrom with more good fortune. these physical qualities would alone have sufficed to place him in the very first rank among these half-savage men, who recognize no other law than that of force; but to these advantages, rosas joined those of a superior intellect, and a degree of understanding very uncommon in a land so far removed from every source of enlightened instruction. appointed at first officer of militia, it was not long ere he became commandant of the country; shortly after this, he entered buenos ayres, drove lavalle out of the city, and had himself proclaimed governor. rosas is now a man of about fifty-eight or sixty years of age; and though, according to popular rumor, suffering from gout, and other infirmities, no traces of these disorders are perceptible upon his person. he is a man of lofty stature; his features are regular, and announce firmness; and his vivid and piercing eyes possess a degree of penetration, which takes nothing away from the austerity of his personal appearance. when conversing with strangers, the dignity of his mien, the gravity of his gestures, and the choice of his expressions, would lead one to imagine that he has constantly lived in the society of men eminent for their learning and talents; occasionally he affects, but without success, a sort of natural _bonhomie_; but he well knows that this little deceit is easily seen through, and he seldom employs it, except when in company with men whom he knows to be his inferiors in point of intellect. when, on the contrary, rosas finds himself amid his old companions, the gauchos, his tone and manner entirely change: it is no longer the polished and civilized man, the man of the cabinet and the study, that is before us, but rather the horse and bull tamer, the lion hunter, and the wild dweller on the prairies. his speech, perhaps a moment before elegant and scholarly, now becomes gross and obscene, while his gestures assume an expression known only to the desert. what we have just stated regarding rosas, will suffice to make our readers comprehend his consummate skill; if we add to this an obstinate and resolute character, and a will which has never recoiled before any necessity to attain its ends--did this necessity even involve an assassination or a massacre--and an enormous superiority of intellect over all the men who surround him, the almost boundless power which this man has succeeded in grasping and maintaining in his country, may easily be comprehended. what augments still further the degree of his power, is the secret manner in which it is exercised. although in reality reigning as absolute sovereign over the country whose constitution and institutions he is daily trampling under foot, rosas has ever been enabled to dissemble his power, and, nominally at least, shelter himself behind the rampart of legality. thus, among the apparent rights which he has left to the chamber of representatives, if it is necessary that it should give a decision upon any question, he demands it by a public and official message, almost with humility: but by a private letter addressed at the same time to the president, he directs him as to the precise form which is to be adopted by the chamber in pronouncing the resolution to be taken, as well as the exact day and hour when the said resolution is to be made known to him. to such a point are these things carried, that it is in the very cabinet of rosas himself that the fulsome votes of thanks periodically passed by the different provincial assemblies of the confederation to _the hero of the desert_, the _saviour of the country_, the _restorer of the laws_, &c., &c., &c., are drawn up. rosas attained to power uttering the war whoop of "death to the unitarians,"[ ] and by giving himself out as the restorer of the federal government; and yet it is a notorious fact, that there is not on the face of the earth a system of government more centralizing, more despotic, more unitarian, if we must say the word, than that which he has constituted; and it is this fact alone which clearly proves the extraordinary skill of this man. he has been enabled to push beyond the limits of the possible the sciences of audacity and falsehood. it is with the assistance of the federalists that he has been enabled to conquer; true, he has dubbed himself federalist in name, but as far as regards the principle of the thing, he has done his utmost to wipe away from the institutions and customs of the country every thing that might bear the most remote resemblance to this form of government, by collecting together in his own hands more than the sum of the public power--in fact, assuming in all things the sovereign will of an autocratic dictator, from whose decrees there can be no appeal. one of the glaring defects of the argentine character is the thirst for power, which possesses the inhabitants, to obtain which no obstacle will restrain them. previous to attaining to the supreme power, though recognized as the chief of the country party, rosas was surrounded by _caudillos_, whose devotion to his interests did not appear to him to be completely absolute; in fact, he well knew that on the very first occasion which should present itself, each of them, profiting by the ascendency which he individually exercised over his partisans, would make no scruple of disputing with him the power he envied. it was absolutely necessary that he should rid himself of this obnoxious body-guard, and this step he at once resolved upon, and forthwith put into execution. in a very brief space of time, steel and poison had done their work, and delivered him from all those rivals which his ambition had to dread, while the provinces very soon lost, under the terror which they experienced at this wholesale slaughter, the bare idea of resistance. there still remained, however, the city: buenos ayres had not supported lavalle as it ought to have done, nevertheless it inclosed within its walls a goodly number of men who, though they had indeed reason to manifest indifference for the unitarian government, were too enlightened not to feel a bitter regret for their own culpable weakness. it was as a fire smouldering within the city, which sooner or later would not fail to burst forth into a flame. rosas comprehended this movement, and bethought himself of the means of stifling it in the bud. it was then that he founded the famous popular society of the _mashorca_. it has been asserted, and we believe with reason, that this society by its number of outrages on human life, merits in the criminal annals of the world a renown greater than that of the celebrated jacobin club, and the revolutionary tribunal of the first french revolution. recruited from among the ranks of the savage, ignorant, and cruel men who surrounded the new dictator, the members of the _mashorca_ set to work with ardor to _moralize_ the country according to the will of general rosas. by the mere terror which this formidable _mashorca_ inspired, rosas was enabled to make the world believe, that he was at once the elect of his fellow citizens and the depository of their wishes and desires. it served him also to drill the nation to the manifestation of either enthusiasm or furious rage, of which he might, according to circumstances, stand in need. the people, docile as a flock of sheep, accordingly howled or applauded in the streets, or upon the public places, at the will of the dictator. the means of action of the _mashorqueros_ upon the multitude are well known--they consist in violence and assassination. although in appearance mute and devoted to rosas, the city of buenos ayres still bears mourning for the victims which were then sacrificed to his fury and ambition. obedient to the resentments of the _elect of the people_, the _mashorqueros_, at certain days and certain hours, would spread themselves far and wide throughout the streets, poinard in hand, and, penetrating into the dwellings pointed out to them, would pitilessly immolate the unitarian _savages_ which the _federal pacificator_ had previously marked as victims for their homicidal fury. the precise number of these victims of the blind rage of a sanguinary party is unknown; but it must have been considerable, for during an entire week the blood flowed unceasingly, and at that period it was no uncommon sight to behold the decapitated heads of the slain exposed in the public market-place; at length, one day, a cart, preceded by musicians, made the circuit of the city, to collect the dead bodies which lay in piles before the houses. it is not difficult to comprehend the effect of a similar system of government upon a population by no means numerous, exhausted by long civil dissensions, and which would have been completely annihilated at the very first symptom of any thing approaching resistance. it submitted in silence. rosas, now certain from henceforth of being able to reign by terror, began to moderate his excesses, and only from time to time had recourse to violence, in order to intimidate those among the population in whose breasts there might still lurk the remnants of some generous or patriotic sentiment. rosas possesses an incredible power of continuous labor: he sleeps during the greater part of the day, and passes the night in his cabinet. it is not until four o'clock in the afternoon that he quits his bedroom. during the summer, when he is in the country, he may be seen from this hour until six o'clock galloping through the gardens, open to all comers, or playing in front of the house with an enormous tigress, which, though of the greatest ferocity with strangers, trembles and crouches to the earth, at his voice. at six o'clock he takes a light repast; after which he sits down to work, and does not leave off until five or six in the morning. it is at this hour that he dines in company with a couple of jesters, dressed in an eccentric manner, one of whom goes by the name of _the governor_, who seek to amuse him by their witticisms, their grotesque games, and sometimes by fighting. it has been said that rosas is surrounded by guards. but this is utterly false. his house, which is vast and elegant, stands upon the highway, and the doors, according to the general custom of the country, are always wide open. so far from it being the case that he keeps his person carefully guarded, it is, on the contrary, frequently a very difficult matter on entering the house to meet with even a domestic to announce you; and the visitor could with as much ease reach his private cabinet or his bed-chamber as he could the courts upon which these apartments open. there is not even a sentry or a porter at the principal door. next to rosas, the personage who plays the most important part in all the confederation, is his daughter, manuelita. the position which this woman has acquired for herself is unique, like that of her father, although relatively less important, since she is not consulted upon state affairs. she possesses, nevertheless, with regard to all that appertains to the second rank, a liberty of action entirely her own. manuelita is, as it were, an under secretary of state in the cabinet of a minister in charge of a vast administration. she has her secretaries, her offices, her correspondence; and is well able to attend to a vast amount of important business without neglecting those duties toward society, which her intellectual acquirements and natural amiability of disposition impose upon her. by many writers, manuelita has been portrayed as a species of bacchante, unceasingly exciting her father to the commission of acts of violence, giving herself up to all the irregularities of a life of dissipation, and scandalizing society by the spectacle of incessant orgies. now nothing can be less true, nothing more false, than this. it is not necessary to know manuelita, it is sufficient to have seen her but for a few moments to be convinced of the utter falsehood of these mendacious travelers' tales. manuelita is rosas' daughter, and consequently has many prejudices to overcome, many hatreds to conquer: yet she is esteemed and loved by all, which, be it remarked, is no mean praise in a country where it may be said that no one is esteemed. this is, in our idea, the best reply to offer to the various calumnies it has pleased the "many-headed" to heap upon her. and how, we may ask, can it be otherwise? if there is a being on the earth who can soften the rigors of rosas' tyrannical government, can solicit and obtain mercy or justice, it is manuelita. she is the sole hope of the unfortunate, of the oppressed, of the poor, and rarely is this hope deceived. manuelita is tall and elegantly formed. her age has been stated to be about four-and-thirty although she looks no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. her features are regular and bear the spanish impress, that is to say, that they are strongly marked. her large black eyes announce great strength of mind, yet the glances which shoot therefrom have an expression of infinite gentleness and kindness. her jet black hair serves to bring out in more prominent relief the ivory fairness of her skin. her entire person, in short, breathes an air of grace and refinement to be met with only in the spanish women, who possess the rare art of being able to join to the charms of beauty a certain _abandon_ unknown to the women of other countries. manuelita possesses in a high degree the "knowledge of the salons," as the french would call it; she speaks english, french, and italian, as her mother tongue, and whatever turn the conversation may take, whether "grave or gay, lively or severe," she is equally enabled to shine in it either by judicious observations, or brilliant repartee. manuelita entertains for her father a degree of affection amounting to absolute devotion; often has she been seen to shed tears on learning the cruelties practiced by rosas. in the excess of grief which the acts of the dictator caused her, she has sometimes let her indignation burst forth before her friends, but nothing can sever the bonds of that filial love which bind her to her father. and happy is it for the country that this is the case, for it is very evident that were it not for her, the fury of rosas would have displayed itself more fatally than it has yet done. we have heard related by two eye-witnesses a scene which took place between her and her father, during the period of the first _mashorca_ executions, which shows the degree of dominion which the latter exercises over her. one evening while manuelita was seated at her piano-forte singing to her auditors some spanish romance, rosas entered the room holding in his hand a silver salver, upon which was deposited a pair of human ears cut from the head of a _savage_ unitarian; advancing slowly to the instrument he placed the salver upon the piano before the eyes of his daughter. manuelita started up violently from her seat and with features almost livid with rage and horror, she seized her piece of music and cast it over the plate, then turning round she was about to give free course to her indignation, when her eyes met the fixed and terrible glance of the general; she ceded to this power and fell fainting to the ground. we could relate a thousand facts of this nature, which abundantly prove the falsity of the many imputations directed against the character of manuelita. we have just said that the two individuals alone worthy of attention and study throughout the whole of the argentine confederation, are first of all general rosas, and afterward, his daughter, manuelita. in fact it is in them, in their will or their caprices, that are concentrated the entire policy and administration of the republic. the men who, below them nominally fill the higher offices of the state, are but mutes, divested alike of either power or will. like the stage representatives of noble knights and powerful monarchs, the higher functionaries of the republic and especially the secretaries of state hold office without filling any character. they serve occasionally to make known the will of the governor without being permitted in any case to interpret it. even the general officers in command of the armed forces dispersed over the territory are obliged to keep near their persons certain subaltern agents enjoying the confidence of the governor, whose orders and directions they are obliged implicitly to follow. although nominally and apparently holding appointments which seem to invest them with a certain degree of authority, the state functionaries are in this respect no better off than their less fortunate countrymen, but are like all the rest of the argentines, in a state of absolute and slavish dependence. when general rosas seized the reins of government, his first and principal care was to transform completely the argentine society. in place of the enlightened men whom rivadavia had applied himself to seek out, rosas has raised to the first rank, the crew of unlettered ignorant men, stained with every crime which disgraces human nature, who had seconded his ambitious views. the biographies of the individuals who formed the _mashorca_ are well known to every one, but such is the terror inspired by the dictator, that each, even the sons, brothers, and widows of those who fell beneath their murderous knives, eagerly hasten to show all the civility and deference in their power for the particular friends of the governor. never in any country have we had so many examples of abject and shameful servility as in this. the argentine society possesses neither morality, religion, honor, nor courage. all look forward to the day when the country shall be delivered from the reign of despotism and tyranny which has so long oppressed it; but there is not a man in all buenos ayres who has the courage to manifest his feelings of disgust and repugnance for those who aid the governor in retaining power. and let not the reader imagine that it is only a tacit assent which is rendered to the tyrant's iron rule; each after venting curses "not loud but deep" when he is certain of not being heard, against the dictator and his acolytes, rushes into the streets to take part in the public manifestations commanded by rosas. the savage device that we read upon the _cinta_[ ] is the cry which the watchmen shout aloud every hour of the night in the streets of the city; it is the cry which the actors give utterance to upon the stage on federal days, by way of prologue, previous to the commencement of the piece; it is the shout which the troops and militia under arms howl forth when the governor rides down the ranks, and as if the threat of death to the unitarians which it contains was not sufficient, it is augmented according to circumstances by similar denunciations directed against any particular marked individual who may have rendered himself obnoxious to the government, and also against foreigners, as well as by _vivats_ in honor of the immortal warrior, of the king of justice, of the restorer of the laws, of the great, the magnificent, the high and mighty rosas, in a word. if the thorough abasement of moral character, the inevitable result of despotism, which we observe in the buenos ayreans, did not counteract the feelings of sympathy one is naturally disposed to show for this population, the argentine society would possess great attractions for the traveler. the men who represent the unitarian element are in general of polished and agreeable manners. all the women without exception are possessed of a remarkable degree of beauty, and if their education is not quite so finished as it might be, they are, like all spanish women, endowed with a sort of natural grace and tact which stand them in lieu of it: they display an extraordinary degree of luxury in their toilets, and one might say that they outstrip the parisian fashions, which are with them more ephemeral even than in the spot which has given them birth. for luxury and lavish expenditure as regards the adornment of the person, nothing is comparable to the interior of the opera-house on a crowded night; the dazzled eye perceives at first but a vast amphitheatre sparkling with gold, jewels, silk and lace, so disposed as to impart fresh attractions to the ivory shoulders and ebon locks they deck, lending all the charms of art to the riches of nature. footnotes: [ ] the centralizing party in the confederation is thus denominated. [ ] this device is thus conceived: "long live the argentine confederation! death to the savage, filthy, and disgusting unitarians!" a new phase of bee-life. about the middle of an afternoon in july, , we had landed on a low sand-bank, which, for a short distance, skirted the right bank of the stream, for the purpose of encamping for the night; and right glad were we to stretch our limbs after ten hours' paddling. the indians had started in their wood-skin up the neighboring creek, in quest of game for our evening's repast, and the women were clearing a space beneath the branches for our hammocks, and collecting fuel for the nightly fire. all who have wandered with the pleasant waterton in his chivalrous expedition on the essequibo, will remember his first guiltless attempt to hook the wary cayman, before seeking more skillful allies in the indian settlement higher up the river. the sand-bank in which we were about to bivouac, was that mentioned in his narrative, where, for four days, he had impatiently waited for the shades of evening, and as often turned into his hammock at day-break with his longings ungratified. it was, as usual, intensely hot in the sun. to seek some relief, for the first time during the day, i strolled--or rather straggled, for every step through the tangled creepers had to be gained by hacking and hewing with a cutlass--down to the cool banks of the creek, whose overhanging branches, forming a magnificent arcade of verdure, almost excluded (or admitted only at distant intervals), the scorching rays. seating myself on the smooth gray trunk of a tree, which lay prostrate across the sluggish water, whose broken limbs shone bright in the gay drapery of a scarlet-blossomed epiphyte, i lighted my pipe, and taking a book from my pocket, began lazily turning over the pages and lightly gleaning the pleasant thought of a witty and social poet. my attention now and again drawn away by the ceaseless tappings of a yellow-headed woodpecker on a decaying tree close at hand, to the glittering flashes of a karabimitas, a topaz-throated humming-bird--a frequenter of dark and solitary creeks, capturing flies among the gay petals, for his nest-keeping partner, who, a few paces up the stream was gently swinging with the evening breezes in her tiny home. i had been in this position for some time, little regarding the whizzing hum of insects constantly passing and repassing--when, my gaze chancing to fall a yard or more from my resting-place, i detected a small bright-gray bee, about the third of an inch in length, disappearing in what seemed a solid part of the trunk. there was no hole or crevice perceptible to the eye, nor did that portion of the bark feel less smooth than that immediately adjoining. i might be mistaken--nay, _i must be_. i had just arrived at this last conclusion, when a tiny piece of the bark was suddenly raised, and out flew the little gentleman i had seen disappear, or one too like him not to belong to the same family. the mystery was solved. some ingenious bee-architect had devised an entrance-gate, fitting so admirably as to defy discovery when shut; while i was certain that i could lay my finger almost on the precise spot, the closest inspection failed to reveal any trace of its outline. the bark, though polished and even, was covered with faint interlaced streaks, from which even the smoothest bark is never free; and the skillful carpenter had adapted the irregular tracings of nature to his object of concealment. wishing to inspect the workmanship without injuring its delicacy, i had to wait patiently until it should again fly open; nor was i kept long in expectation, for it presently popped up to permit the egress of another of the fraternity, and a ready twig prevented its descending. i found it designedly crooked and jagged at the edges, with an average width of about a quarter of an inch, and twice that in length; its substance was little more than the outer skin of the bark, and, being still connected at one end, opened and closed as with a spring. the cunning workman had no doubt been aware that had he made it much shorter--which the size of the passengers would have permitted--it would have required to be thrown farther back, when the greater tension would soon have destroyed the elasticity of the hinge, and, with that, its power of fitting close to the tree. immediately within the doorway was a small ante-chamber, forming a sort of porter's lodge to the little surly gray-liveried gentleman inside, who, without quitting his retreat, showed his displeasure at my intrusion in a manner too pointed to be mistaken, and certainly manifesting neither trepidation nor alarm at the sight of one of the "lords of the creation," though probably the first offered to his inspection. from the entrance-hall, two circular tunnels conducted into the interior of the establishment, from whence came the confused murmurs of a numerous and busy community. i had just allowed the door to close, and was admiring the exceeding neatness of the workmanship, when another of the family returned home, signifying his arrival, and obtaining admittance in a manner at once novel and singular. after darting against the entrance, and touching it with his feet, he rose again into the air, and taking a wide swoop round the trunk came up on the other side, this time, flying straight toward the "trap," which was quickly raised, when he was a few inches distant, and, on his entering, as quickly closed. the office of the pugnacious individual inside was explained; he was actually the doorkeeper, and his returning comrades, having, like any other modern gentleman, politely rapped, circled out of the observation of prying eyes, till he was prepared to admit them. numbers were constantly arriving, and all went through the process i have described, each flying away, after knocking, in a different direction, but all allowing the same time to elapse before returning for admission; thus, the door was never opened save at the proper moment. after watching their proceedings for some time, i discovered the reason of their not waiting quietly at the entrance. sneaking among the stray leaves and rubbish in the trunk, and in the holes and cavities of the bark, were numbers of small insects, of the same color as the bees, but with the addition of one or two minute bands of black across the abdomen; their slender, graceful forms and partially exposed ovipositors revealed, however, the cause of their slinking about, and stamped them the parasitic ichneumons of the hive. i thought that, after the habits of their tribe, they were endeavoring to obtain an entrance, when they pouncingly hovered over the bees as they were disappearing in the door-way; but, as none ever succeeded, i conjectured that they had devised and were pursuing some other plan of introducing their blood-thirsty progeny. further observation showed this to be correct. the rascals were endeavoring to attach their eggs to the small pellets of pollen with which each bee was laden, and they often succeeded, in spite of the admirably devised tactics to prevent them. the duties of the janitor were gradually ceasing; all the bees had returned save a few stragglers, and even these were becoming scarce; the last parting rays of the sun--a signal for the twilight birds to issue from their lurking places--warned me, that in a few minutes i should have some difficulty in penetrating through the thick underwood, for i was in a clime where the sun "sinks at once, and all is night." i was about to retrace my steps, when the measured stroke of paddles caught my ear, and presently the indian "corial," with a brave batch of maroudis, and some smaller birds, turned a bend in the sinuous creek, and swiftly glided toward me, guided through the fallen trees and branches, which in some places almost choked the narrow stream, by the skillful arm of old paley, as i had dubbed our usual steersman. the same keen eye that kept the frail bark clear of besetting obstacles, quickly detected me--though it was almost dark--stretched in the tree above him. staying the progress of the "wood-skin" beneath, i slipped off my boots, and cautiously lowered myself down. i wouldn't advise any one to squat with booted heel in a flimsy "bark," especially when--intended for two and accommodating four--it is skimming along with the water an inch or so from the edge. a lurch to one side, and over you go--pleasantly enough in shallow water on a hot day, but any thing but that with twenty feet of black fluid beneath, and you not able to swim. a few weeks' practice had enabled me to balance myself without endangering others; so we landed safely. the birds, soon ready for the pot, were in a few minutes boiling away among the "cassareep" and peppers. we made hearty suppers that night; and as i lay in my hammock, taking the usual "soothing whiff" before resigning myself to sleep, the howling of monkeys, the bellowings of caymen, and the various cries of goatsucker, owl, and tiger-bird, blending with the occasional roar of the jaguar in his midnight courtship, the soughing of the breeze among the trees, and the murmur of the distant falls, made as discordant and motley a "hushaby" as one could imagine. fortunately, all the screeching and howling in the universe would have failed to drive away my slumbers; so i quietly fell asleep, with the swaying branches brushing past my face. my latest waking thoughts, i remember, now recalling the wandering waterton (he might have slept suspended from the same branch), and his fishing for caymen; now, the bees and their tiny trap-doors; now, my tiger-robbed coverlet, and the rapids we were to "shoot" in the morning; and, lastly, blending into a confused murmur--raising pleasant recollections of the old school-room buzz, and of the kindly comrades and anxious friends in my far-off home. we were up and away down the sparkling river at daybreak the next morning; and i had no other opportunity of observing the economy of the bees and their enemies; nor in my rambles did i ever chance to meet with another family of the same species, or with kindred habits. anecdote of a hawk. an english work on game birds and wild fowls, recently published, contains the following curious anecdote: "a friend of colonel bonham--the late col. johnson, of the rifle brigade--was ordered to canada with his battalion, in which he was then a captain, and being very fond of falconry, to which he had devoted much time and expense, he took with him two of his favorite peregrines, as his companions, across the atlantic. "it was his constant habit during the voyage to allow them to fly every day, after 'feeding them up,' that they might not be induced to take off after a passing sea-gull, or wander out of sight of the vessel. sometimes their rambles were very wide and protracted. at others they would ascend to such a height as to be almost lost to the view of the passengers, who soon found them an effectual means of relieving the tedium of a long sea voyage, and naturally took a lively interest in their welfare; but as they were in the habit of returning regularly to the ship, no uneasiness was felt during their occasional absence. at last, one evening, after a longer flight than usual, one of the falcons returned alone. the other--the prime favorite--was missing. day after day passed away and, however much he may have continued to regret his loss, captain johnson had at length fully made up his mind that it was irretrievable, and that he should never see her again. soon after the arrival of the regiment in america, on casting his eyes over a halifax newspaper, he was struck by a paragraph announcing that the captain of an american schooner had at that moment in his possession a fine hawk, which had suddenly made its appearance on board his ship during his late passage from liverpool. the idea at once occurred to captain johnson that this could be no other than his much-prized falcon, so having obtained immediate leave of absence, he set off for halifax, a journey of some days. on arriving there he lost no time in waiting on the commander of the schooner, announcing the object of his journey, and requested that he might be allowed to see the bird; but jonathan had no idea of relinquishing his prize so easily, and stoutly refused to admit of the interview, 'guessing' that it was very easy for an englisher to lay claim to another man's property, but 'calculating' that it was a 'tarnation sight' harder for him to get possession of it; and concluded by asserting, in unqualified terms, his entire disbelief in the whole story. captain johnson's object, however, being rather to recover his falcon than to pick a quarrel with the truculent yankee, he had fortunately sufficient self-command to curb his indignation, and proposed that his claim to the ownership of the bird should be at once put to the test by an experiment, which several americans who were present admitted to be perfectly reasonable, and in which their countryman was at last persuaded to acquiesce. it was this. captain johnson was to be admitted to an interview with the hawk--who, by the way, had as yet shown no partiality for any person since her arrival in the new world; but, on the contrary, had rather repelled all attempts at familiarity--and if at this meeting she should not only exhibit such unequivocal signs of attachment and recognition as should induce the majority of the bystanders to believe that he really was her original master, but especially if she should play with the buttons of his coat, then the american was at once to waive all claim to her. the trial was immediately made. the yankee went up-stairs, and shortly returned with the falcon; but the door was hardly opened before she darted from his fist, and perched at once on the shoulder of her beloved and long-lost protector, evincing, by every means in her power, her delight and affection, rubbing her head against his cheek, and taking hold of the buttons of his coat and champing them playfully between her mandibles, one after another. this was enough. the jury were unanimous. a verdict for the plaintiff was pronounced; even the obdurate heart of the sea-captain was melted, and the falcon was at once restored to the arms of her rightful owner." notes on the nile. by an american. "nile notes, by an howadji" (the eastern name for traveler) is the title of a new book, by a young american, soon to be issued from the press of messrs. harper and brothers. it is written with great vivacity, and will compare favorably with "e[=o]then," or the best books of the day on the east. the following extracts will be found attractive. the music of the east. while the hadji hamed fluttered about the deck, and the commander served his kara kooseh, the crew gathered around the bow and sang. the stillness of early evening had spelled the river, nor was the strangeness dissolved by that singing. the men crouched in a circle upon the deck, and the reis, or captain, thrummed the tarabuka, or arab drum, made of a fish-skin stretched upon a gourd. raising their hands, the crew clapped them above their heads, in perfect time, not ringingly, but with a dead, dull thump of the palms--moving the whole arm to bring them together. they swung their heads from side to side, and one clanked a chain in unison. so did these people long before the ibis nestled to this bank, long before there were americans to listen. for when diana was divine, and thousands of men and women came floating down the nile in barges to celebrate her festival, they sang and clapped, played the castanets and flute, stifling the voices of arabian and lybian echoes with a wild roar of revelry. they, too, sang a song that came to them from an unknown antiquity, linus, their first and only song, the dirge of the son of the first king of egypt. this might have been that dirge that the crew sang in a mournful minor. suddenly, one rose and led the song, in sharp, jagged sounds, formless as lightning. "he fills me the glass full, and gives me to drink," sang the leader, and the low-measured chorus throbbed after him, "hummeleager malooshee." the sounds were not a tune, but a kind of measured recitative. it went on constantly faster and faster, exciting them, as the shakers excite themselves, until a tall, gaunt nubian rose in the moonlight and danced in the centre of the circle, like a gay ghoul among his fellows. the dancing was monotonous, like the singing, a simple jerking of the muscles. he shook his arms from the elbows, like a shaker, and raised himself alternately upon both feet. often the leader repeated the song as a solo, then the voices died away, the ghoul crouched again, and the hollow throb of the tarabuka continued as an accompaniment to the distant singing of nero's crew, that came in fitful gusts through the little grove of sharp, slim masts: "if you meet my sweetheart, give her my respects." the melancholy monotony of this singing in unison, harmonized with the vague feelings of that first nile night. the simplicity of the words became the perpetual childishness of the men, so that it was not ludicrous. it was clearly the music and words of a race just better than the brutes. if a poet could translate into sound the expression of a fine dog's face, or that of a meditative cow, the howadji would fancy that he heard nile music. for, after all, that placid and perfect animal expression would be melancholy humanity. and with the crew only, the sound was sad; they smiled, and grinned, and shook their heads with intense satisfaction. the evening and the scene were like a chapter of mungo park. i heard the african mother sing to him as he lay sick upon her mats, and the world and history forgotten, those strange, sad sounds drew me deep into the dumb mystery of africa. but the musical howadji will find a fearful void in his eastern life. the asiatic has no ear, and no soul for music. like other savages and children, he loves a noise, and he plays on shrill pipes--on the tarabuka, on the tár, or tambourine, and a sharp, one-stringed fiddle, or rabáb. of course, in your first oriental days, you will decline no invitation, but you will grow gradually deaf to all entreaties of friends, or dragomen, to sally forth and hear music. you will remind him that you did not come to the east to go to bedlam. this want of music is not strange, for silence is natural to the east and the tropics. when, sitting quietly at home, in midsummer, sweeping ever sunward in the growing heats, we at length reach the tropics in the fixed fervor of a july noon, the day is rapt, the birds are still, the wind swoons, and the burning sun glares silence on the world. the orient is that primeval and perpetual noon. that very heat explains to you the voluptuous elaboration of its architecture, the brilliance of its costume, the picturesqueness of its life. but no mozart was needed to sow persian gardens with roses breathing love and beauty, no beethoven to build mighty himmalayas, no rossini to sparkle and sing with the birds and streams. those realities are there, of which the composers are the poets to western imaginations. in the east, you feel and see music, but hear it never. yet, in cairo and damascus the poets sit at the cafés, surrounded by the forms and colors of their songs, and recite the romances of the arabian nights, or of aboo zeyd, or of antar, with no other accompaniment than the tár, or the rabáb, then called the "poet's viol," and in the same monotonous strain. sometimes the single strain is touching, as when on our way to jerusalem, the too-enamored camel-driver, leading the litter of the fair armenian, saddened the silence of the desert noon with a syrian song. the high, shrill notes trembled and rang on the air. the words said little, but the sound was a lyric of sorrow. the fair armenian listened silently as the caravan wound slowly along, her eyes musingly fixed upon the east, where the flower-fringed euphrates flows through bagdad to the sea. the fair armenian had her thoughts, and the camel-driver his; also the accompanying howadji listened and had theirs. the syrian songs of the desert are very sad. they harmonize with the burning monotony of the landscape in their long recitative and shrill wail. the camel steps more willingly to that music, but the howadji, swaying upon his back, is tranced in the sound, so naturally born of silence. meanwhile our crew are singing, although we have slid upon their music, and the moonlight, far forward into the desert. but these are the forms and feelings that their singing suggested. while they sang i wandered over sahara, and was lost in the lonely libyan hills--a thousand simple stories, a thousand ballads of love and woe trooped like drooping birds through the sky-like vagueness of my mind. rosamond grey, and the child of elle passed phantom-like with vailed faces--for love, and sorrow, and delight, are cosmopolitan, building bowers indiscriminately of palm-trees or of pines. the voices died away like the muezzins', whose cry is the sweetest and most striking of all eastern sounds. it trembles in long-rising and falling cadences from the balcony of the minaret, more humanly alluring than bells, and more respectful of the warm stillness of syrian and egyptian days. heard in jerusalem it has especial power. you sit upon your house-top reading the history whose profoundest significance is simple and natural in that inspiring clime; and as your eye wanders from the aerial dome of omar, beautiful enough to have been a dome of solomon's temple, and over the olives of gethsemane climbs the mount of olives--the balmy air is suddenly filled with a murmurous cry, like a cheek suddenly rose-suffused--a sound near, and far, and every where, but soft and vibrating, and alluring, until you would fain don turban, kaftan, and slippers, and kneeling in the shadow of a cypress on the sun-flooded marble court of omar, would be the mediator of those faiths, nor feel yourself a recreant christian. once i heard the muezzin cry from a little village on the edge of the desert, in the starlight before the dawn: it was only a wailing voice in the air. the spirits of the desert were addressed in their own language--or was it themselves lamenting, like water-spirits to the green boughs overhanging them, that they could never know the gladness of the green world, but were forever demons and denizens of the desert? but the tones trembled away, without echo or response, into the starry solitude. al-lá-hu ak-bar, al-lá-hu ak-bar! so with songs and pictures, with musings, and the dinner of a mecca pilgrim, passed the first evening upon the nile. a character. verde giovane was joyous and gay. he had already been to the pyramids, and had slept in a tomb, and had his pockets picked as he wandered through their disagreeable darkness. he had come freshly and fast from england, to see the world, omitting paris and western europe on his way, as he embarked at southampton for alexandria. being in cairo, he felt himself abroad. sternhold and hopkins were his laureates, for perpetually on all kinds of wings of mighty winds he came flying all abroad. he lost a great deal of money at billiards to "jolly" fellows whom he afterward regaled with cold punch and choice cigars. he wrangled wildly with a dragoman of very imperfect english powers, and packed his tea for the voyage in brown paper parcels. he was perpetually on the point of leaving. at breakfast, he would take a loud leave of the "jolly" fellows, and if there were ladies in the room, he slung his gun in a very abandoned manner over his shoulder, and while he adjusted his shot-pouch with careless heroism, as if the enemy were in ambush on the stairs, as who should say, "i'll do their business easily enough," he would remark with a meaning smile, that he should stop a day or two at esne, probably, and then go off humming a song from the favorita--or an air whose words were well known to the jolly fellows, but would scarcely bear female criticism. after this departure, he had a pleasant way of reappearing at the dinner-table, for the pale ale was not yet aboard, or the cook was ill, or there had been another explosion with the dragoman. verde giovane found the cairene evenings "slow." it was astonishing how much execution he accomplished with those words of very moderate calibre, "slow," "jolly," and "stunning." the universe arraying itself in verde giovane's mind, under those three heads. presently it was easy to predicate his criticisms in any department. he had lofty views of travel. verde giovane had come forth to see the world, and vainly might the world seek to be unseen. he wished to push on to sennaar and ethiopia. it was very slow to go only to the _cataracts_. ordinary travel, and places already beheld of men, were not for verde. but if there were any chinese wall to be scaled, or the english standard were to be planted upon any vague and awful himmalayan height, or a new oasis were to be revealed in the desert of sahara, here was the heaven-appointed verde giovane, only awaiting his pale ale, and determined to dally a little at esne. after subduing the east by travel, he proposed to enter the caucasian mountains, and serve as a russian officer. these things were pleasant to hear, as to behold at christmas those terrible beheadings of giants by tom thumb, for you enjoyed a sweet sense of security and a consciousness that no harm was done. they were wild arabian romances, attributable to the inspiration of the climate, in the city he found so slow. the cairenes were listening elsewhere to their poets, verde giovane was ours; and we knew very well that he would go quietly up to the first cataract, and then returning to alexandria, would steam to jaffa, and thence donkey placidly to jerusalem, moaning in his sleep of cheapside and st. paul's. prospects of the east. that the east will never regenerate itself, contemporary history shows; nor has any nation of history culminated twice. the spent summer reblooms no more--the indian summer is but a memory and a delusion. the sole hope of the east is western inoculation. the child must suckle the age of the parent, and even "medea's wondrous alchemy" will not restore its peculiar prime. if the east awakens, it will be no longer in the turban and red slippers, but in hat and boots. the west is the sea that advances forever upon the shore, the shore can not stay it, but becomes the bottom of the ocean. the western, who lives in the orient, does not assume the kaftan and the baggy breeches, and those of his muslim neighbors shrink and disappear before his coat and pantaloons. the turkish army is clothed, like the armies of europe. the grand turk himself, mohammad's vicar, the commander of the faithful, has laid away the magnificence of haroun alrashid, and wears the simple red tarboosh, and a stiff suit of military blue. cairo is an english station to india, and the howadji does not drink sherbert upon the pyramids, but champagne. the choice cairo of our eastern imagination is contaminated with carriages. they are showing the secrets of the streets to the sun. their silence is no longer murmurous, but rattling. the "uzbeekeeyah," public garden of cairo, is a tea garden, of a sunday afternoon crowded with ungainly franks, listening to bad music. ichabod, ichabod! steam has towed the mediterranean up the nile to boulak, and as you move on to cairo, through the still surviving masquerade of the orient, the cry of the melon-merchant seems the sadly significant cry of each sad-eyed oriental, "consoler of the embarrassed, o pips!" the century has seen the failure of the eastern experiment, headed as it is not likely to be headed again, by an able and wise leader. mohammad alee had egypt and syria, and was mounting the steps of the sultan's throne. then he would have marched to bagdad, and sat down in haroun alrashid's seat, to draw again broader and more deeply the lines of the old eastern empire. but the west would not suffer it. even had it done so, the world of mohammad alee would have crumbled to chaos again when he died, for it existed only by his imperial will, and not by the perception of the people. at this moment the east is the el dorado of european political hope. no single power dares to grasp it, but at last england and russia will meet there, face to face, and the lion and the polar bear will shiver the desert silence with the roar of their struggle. it will be the return of the children to claim the birth-place. they may quarrel among themselves, but whoever wins, will introduce the life of the children and not of the parent. a possession and a province it may be, but no more an independent empire. father ishmael shall be a sheikh of honor, but of dominion no longer, and sit turbaned in the chimney corner, while his hatted heirs rule the house. the children will cluster around him, fascinated with his beautiful traditions, and curiously compare their little black shoes with his red slippers. the dancing women of the east. the howadji entered the bower of the ghazeeyah. a damsel admitted us at the gate, closely vailed, as if women's faces were to be seen no more forever. across a clean little court, up stone steps that once were steadier, and we emerged upon a small, inclosed stone terrace, the sky-vaulted ante-chamber of that bower. through a little door that made us stoop to enter, we passed into the peculiar retreat of the ghazeeyah. it was a small, white, oblong room, with but one window, opposite the door, and that closed. on three sides there were small holes to admit light, as in dungeons, but too lofty for the eye to look through, like the oriel windows of sacristies. under these openings were small glass vases holding oil, on which floated wicks. these were the means of illumination. a divan of honor filled the end of the room; on the side was another, less honorable, as is usual in all egyptian houses; on the floor a carpet, partly covering it. a straw matting extended beyond the carpet toward the door, and between the matting and the door was a bare space of stone floor, whereon to shed the slippers. hadji hamed, the long cook, had been ill, but hearing of music and dancing and ghawazee, he had turned out for the nonce, and accompanied us to the house, not all unmindful possibly, of the delectations of the mecca pilgrimage. he stood upon the stone terrace afterward, looking in with huge delight! the solemn, long tomb-pilgrim! the merriest lunges of life were not lost upon him, notwithstanding. the howadji seated themselves orientally upon the divan of honor. to sit as westerns sit is impossible upon a divan. there is some mysterious necessity for crossing the legs; and this howadji never sees a tailor now in lands civilized, but the dimness of eastern rooms and bazaars, the flowingness of robe, and the coiled splendor of the turban, and a world reclining leisurely at ease, rise distinct and dear in his mind--like that sicilian mirage seen on divine days from naples--but fleet as fair. to most men a tailor is the most unsuggestive of mortals; to the remembering howadji he sits a poet. the chibouque and nargileh and coffee belong to the divan, as the parts of harmony to each other. i seized the flowing tube of a brilliant amber-hued nargileh, such as hafiz might have smoked, and prayed isis that some stray persian might chance along to complete our company. the pacha inhaled at times a more sedate nargileh, at times the chibouque of the commander, who reclined upon the divan below. a tall egyptian female, filially related, i am sure, to a gentle giraffe who had been indiscreet with a hippopotamus, moved heavily about, lighting the lamps, and looking as if her bright eyes were feeding upon the flame, as the giraffes might browse upon lofty autumn leaves. there was something awful in this figure. she was the type of those tall, angular, chinese-eyed, semi-smiling, wholly homely and bewitched beings who sit in eternal profile in the sculptures of the temples. she was mystic, like the cow-horned isis. i gradually feared that she had come off the wall of a tomb, probably in thebes hard by, and that our ghawazee delights would end in a sudden embalming, and laying away in the bowels of the hills with a perpetual prospect of her upon the walls. avaunt, spectre! the fay approaches, and kushuk arnem entered her bower. a bud no longer, yet a flower not too fully blown. large laughing eyes, red pulpy lips, white teeth, arching nose, generous-featured, lazy, carelessly self-possessed, she came dancing in, addressing the howadji in arabic--words whose honey they would not have distilled through interpretation. be content with the aroma of sound, if you can not catch the flavor of sense--and flavor can you never have through another mouth. smiling and pantomime were our talking, and one choice italian word she knew--_buono_. ah! how much was _buono_ that choice evening. eyes, lips, hair, form, dress, every thing that the strangers had or wore, was endlessly _buono_. dancing, singing, smoking, coffee--_buono, buono, buonissimo_! how much work one word will do! the ghazeeyah entered--not mazed in that azure mist of gauze and muslin wherein cerito floats fascinating across the scene, nor in the peacock plumage of sprightly lucille grahn, nor yet in that june cloudiness of airy apparel which carlotta affects, nor in that sumptuous spanishness of dark drapery wherein fanny is most fanny. the glory of a butterfly is the starred brilliance of its wings. there are who declare that dress is divine--who aver that an untoileted woman is not wholly a woman, and that you may as well paint a saint without his halo, as describe a woman without detailing her dress. therefore, while the coarser sex vails longing eyes, will we tell the story of the ghazeeyah's apparel. yellow morocco slippers hid her feet, rosy and round; over these brooded a bewildering fullness of rainbow silk--turkish trowsers we call them, but they are shintyan in arabic. like the sleeve of a clergyman's gown, the lower end is gathered somewhere, and the fullness gracefully over-falls. i say rainbow, although to the howadji's little cognizant eye was the shintyan of more than the seven orthodox colors. in the bower of kushuk, nargileh-clouded, coffee-scented, are eyes to be strictly trusted? yet we must not be entangled in this bewildering brilliance. a satin jacket, striped with velvet, and of open sleeves, wherefrom floated forth a fleecy cloud of under-sleeve, rolling adown the rosy arms, as june clouds down the western rosiness of the sky, inclosed the bust. a shawl, twisted of many folds, cinctured the waist, confining the silken shintyan. a golden necklace of charms girdled the throat, and the hair, much unctuated, as is the custom of the land, was adorned with a pendent fringe of black silk, tipped with gold, which hung upon the neck behind. let us confess to a dreamy, vaporous vail, overspreading, rather suffusing with color, the upper part of the arms and the lower limits of the neck. that rosiness is known as tób to the arabians--a mystery whereof the merely masculine mind is not cognizant. beneath the tób, truth allows a beautiful bud-burstiness of bosom; yet i swear, by john bunyan, nothing so aggravating as the howadji beholds in saloons unnamable nearer the hudson than the nile. this brilliant cloud, whose spirit was kushuk arnem, our gay ghazeeyah, gathered itself upon a divan, and she inhaled vigorously a nargileh. a damsel in tób and shintyan exhaling azure clouds of aromatic smoke, had not been displeasing to that persian poet, for whose coming i had prayed too late. but more welcome than he, came the still-eyed xenobi. she entered timidly like a bird. the howadji had seen doves less gracefully sitting upon palm-boughs in the sunset, than she nestled upon the lower divan. a very dove of a ghazeeyah--a quiet child, the last born of terpsichore. blow it from mount atlas, a modest dancing-girl. she sat near this howadji, and handed him, o haroun alrashid! the tube of his nargileh. its serpentine sinuosity flowed through her fingers, as if the golden gayety of her costume were gliding from her alive. it was an electric chain of communication, and never until some xenobi of a houri hands the howadji the nargileh of paradise, will the smoke of the weed of shiraz float so lightly, or so sweetly taste. xenobi was a mere bud, of most flexile and graceful form, ripe and round as the spring fruit of the tropics. kushuk had the air of a woman for whom no surprises survive; xenobi saw in every new day a surprise, haply in every howadji a lover. she was more richly dressed than kushuk. there were gay gold bands and clasps upon her jacket; various necklaces of stamped gold and metallic charms clustered around her neck, and upon her head a bright silken web, as if a sun-suffused cloud were lingering there, and, dissolving, showered down her neck in a golden rain of pendants. then, o venus! more azure still--that delicious gauziness of tób, whereof more than to dream is delirium. wonderful the witchery of a tób! nor can the howadji deem a maiden quite just to nature, who glides through the world unshintyaned and untóbed. xenobi was perhaps sixteen years old, and a fully developed woman; kushuk arnem, of some half-dozen summers more. kushuk was unhennaed; but the younger, as younger maidens may, graced herself with the genial gifts of nature. her delicate filbert nails were rosily tinted on the tips with henna, and those peddler poets meeting her in paradise would have felt the reason of their chant, "odors of paradise, o flowers of the henna!" but she had no kohl upon the eyelashes, nor like fatima of damascus, whom the howadji later saw, were her eyebrows shaved and replaced by thick, black arches of kohl. yet fascinating are the almond-eyes of egyptian women, bordered black with the kohl, whose intensity accords with the sumptuous passion that mingles moist and languid with their light. eastern eyes are full of moonlight--eastern beauty is a dream of passionate possibility, which the howadji would fain awaken by the same spell with which the prince of faery dissolved the enchanted sleep of the princess. yet kohl and henna are only beautiful for the beautiful. in a coffee-shop at esne, bold-faced among the men, sat a coarse courtesan sipping coffee and smoking a nargileh, whose kohled eyebrows and eyelashes made her a houri of hell. "there is no joy but calm," i said, as the moments, brimmed with beauty, melted in the starlight, and the small room became a bower of bloom and a persian garden of delight. we reclined, breathing fragrant fumes, and interchanging, through the golden-sleeved, airy nothings. the howadji and the houris had little in common but looks. soulless as undine, and suddenly risen from a laughing life in watery dells of lotus, sat the houris; and, like the mariner, sea-driven upon the enchanted isle of prospero, sat the howadji, unknowing the graceful gossip of faery. but there is a faery always folded away in our souls, like a bright butterfly chrysalized, and sailing eastward, layer after layer of propriety, moderation, deference to public opinion, safety of sentiment, and all the thick crusts of compromise and convention roll away, and bending southward up the nile, you may feel the faery fairly flutter her wings. and if you pause at esne, she will fly out, and lead you a will-o'-the-wisp dance across all the trim sharp hedges of accustomed proprieties, and over the barren flats of social decencies. dumb is that faery, so long has she been secluded, and can not say much to her fellows. but she feels and sees and enjoys all the more exquisitely and profoundly for her long sequestration. presently an old woman came in with a tár, a kind of tambourine, and her husband, a grisly old sinner, with a rabáb, or one-stringed fiddle. old hecate was a gone ghazeeyah--a rose-leaf utterly shriveled away from rosiness. no longer a dancer, she made music for dancing. and the husband, who played for her in her youth, now played with her in her age. like two old votaries who feel when they can no longer see, they devoted all the force of life remaining to the great game of pleasure, whose born thralls they were. there were two tarabukas and brass castanets, and when the old pair were seated upon the carpet near the door, they all smote their rude instruments, and a wild clang rang through the little chamber. thereto they sang. strange sounds--such music as the angular, carved figures upon the temples would make, had they been conversing with us--sounds to the ear like their gracelessness to the eye. this was egyptian polyhymnia preluding terpsichore. terpsichore. "the wind is fair the boat is in the bay, and the fair mermaid pilot calls away--" kushuk arnem quaffed a goblet of hemp arrack. the beaker was passed to the upper divan, and the howadji sipping, found it to smack of anniseed. it was strong enough for the pharaohs to have imbibed--even for herod before beholding herodias, for these dances are the same. this dancing is more ancient than aboo simbel. in the land of the pharaohs, the howadji saw the dancing they saw, as uncouth as the temples they built. this dancing is to the ballet of civilized lands what the gracelessness of egypt was to the grace of greece. had the angular figures of the temple sculptures preluded with that music, they had certainly followed with this dancing. kushuk arnem rose and loosened her shawl girdle in such wise, that i feared she was about to shed the frivolity of dress, as venus shed the sea-foam, and stood opposite the divan, holding her brass castanets. old hecate beat the tár into a thunderous roar. old husband drew sounds from his horrible rabáb, sharper than the sting of remorse, and xenobi and the giraffe each thrummed a tarabuka until thought the plaster would peel from the wall. kushuk stood motionless, while this din deepened around her, the arrack aerializing her feet, the howadji hoped, and not her brain. the sharp surges of sound swept around the room, dashing in regular measure against her movelessness, until suddenly the whole surface of her frame quivered in measure with the music. her hands were raised, clapping the castanets, and she slowly turned upon herself, her right leg the pivot, marvelously convulsing all the muscles of her body. when she had completed the circuit of the spot on which she stood, she advanced slowly, all the muscles jerking in time to the music, and in solid, substantial spasms. it was a curious and a wonderful gymnastic. there was no graceful dancing--once only there was the movement of dancing when she advanced, throwing one leg before the other as gipsies dance. but the rest was most voluptuous motion--not the lithe wooing of languid passion, but the soul of passion starting through every sense, and quivering in every limb. it was the very intensity of motion, concentrated and constant. the music still swelled savagely in maddened monotony of measure. hecate and the old husband, fascinated with the ghazeeyah's fire, threw their hands and arms excitedly above their instruments, and an occasional cry of enthusiasm and satisfaction burst from their lips. suddenly stooping, still muscularly moving, kushuk fell upon her knees, and writhing with body, arms and head upon the floor, still in measure--still clanking the castanets, and arose in the same manner. it was profoundly dramatic. the scenery of the dance was like that of a characteristic song. it was a lyric of love which words can not tell--profound, oriental, intense, and terrible. still she retreated, until the constantly down-slipping shawl seemed only just clinging to her hips, and making the same circuit upon herself, she sat down, and after this violent and extravagant exertion was marbly cold. then timid but not tremulous, the young xenobi arose bare-footed, and danced the same dance, not with the finished skill of kushuk, but gracefully and well, and with her eyes fixed constantly upon the elder. with the same regular throb of the muscles she advanced and retreated, and the paradise-pavilioned prophet could not have felt his heavenly harem complete, had he sat smoking and entranced with the howadji. form so perfect was never yet carved in marble; not the venus is so mellowly moulded. her outline has not the voluptuous excess which is not too much--which is not perceptible to mere criticism, and is more a feeling flushing along the form, than a greater fullness of the form itself. the greek venus was sea-born, but our egyptian is sun-born. the brown blood of the sun burned along her veins--the soul of the sun streamed shaded from her eyes. she was still, almost statuesquely still. when she danced it was only stillness intensely stirred, and followed that of kushuk as moonlight succeeds sunshine. as she went on, kushuk gradually rose, and joining her, they danced together. the epicureans of cairo indeed, the very young priests of venus, assemble the ghawazee in the most secluded adyta of their dwellings, and there eschewing the mystery of the shintyan, and the gauziness of the tób, they behold the unencumbered beauty of these beautiful women. at festivals so fair, arrack, raw brandy, and "depraved human nature," naturally improvise a ballet whereupon the curtain here falls. suddenly, as the clarion call awakens the long-slumbering spirit of the war-horse, old hecate sprang to her feet, and loosening her girdle, seized the castanets, and, with the pure pride of power, advanced upon the floor, and danced incredibly. crouching before like a wasting old willow, that merely shakes its drooping leaves to the tempest, she now shook her fibres with the vigor of a nascent elm, and moved up and down the room with a miraculous command of her frame. in venice i had heard a gray gondolier, dwindled into a ferryman, awakened in a moonlighted midnight, as we swept by with singers chanting tasso, pour his swan-song of magnificent memory into the quick ear of night. in the champs elysées i had heard a rheumy-eyed invalide cry with the sonorous enthusiasm of austerlitz, "vive napoleon!" as a new napoleon rode by. it was the indian summer goldening the white winter--the zodiacal light far flashing day into the twilight. and here was the same in dead old egypt--in a ghazeeyah who had brimmed her beaker with the threescore and ten drops of life. not more strange, and unreal, and impressive in their way, the inscrutable remains of egypt, sand-shrouded but undecayed, than in hers this strange spectacle of an efficient coryphée of seventy. old hecate! thou wast pure pomegranate also, and not banana, wonder most wonderful of all--words which must remain hieroglyphics upon these pages--and whose explication must be sought in egypt, as they must come hither who would realize the freshness of karnak. slow, sweet singing followed. the refrain was plaintive, like those of the boat songs--soothing, after the excitement of the dancing, as nursery lays to children after a tired day. "buono," kushuk arnem! last of the arnems, for so her name signified. was it a remembering refrain of palestine, whose daughter you are? "taib," dove xenobi! fated, shall i say, or favored? pledged life-long to pleasure! who would dare to be? who but a child so careless would dream that these placid ripples of youth will rock you stormless to el dorado? o allah! and who cares? refill the amber nargileh, xenobi--another fingan of mellow mocha. yet another strain more stirring. hence, hecate! shrivel into invisibility with the thundering tár, and the old husband with his diabolical rabáb. waits not the one-eyed first officer below, with a linen lantern, to pilot as to the boat? and the beak of the ibis points it not to syene, nubia, and a world unknown? farewell, kushuk! addio, still-eyed dove! almost thou persuadest me to pleasure. o wall-street, wall-street! because you are virtuous, shall there be no more cakes and ale? curran, the irish orator.[ ] the next year after the exertions of grattan had secured the independence of the irish legislature, and just as the great question of reform began to loom up in the political horizon, there entered parliament another man, whose name is imperishably connected with the history of ireland, john philpot curran. of a slight and ungainly figure, there was nothing about him to overawe a legislative assembly. grattan was the colossus of debate. curran, like a skillful gladiator, played round the arena, and sometimes thrusting himself into the lists in the lighter armor of his wit, carried off the victory where his giant ally would have been less successful. but, in truth, this was not his proper theatre. he came into the parliament-house in the evening, after having been all day in court. he was then jaded in body and mind, and chose rather to listen than to speak. as grattan was most at home in parliament, curran was most in his element at the bar. it was in the four courts that he rose above all other men; that he won the reputation of being the most eloquent advocate that ireland had ever produced. but it is on other accounts that curran deserves a more minute sketch in this history. he represents, perhaps more than any of his celebrated countrymen, the irish character--a nature compounded of imagination and sensibility. though of less kingly intellect than grattan, he was of a warmer temperament, and more fitted to be a popular idol. curran sprang from the people. he was born at newmarket, an obscure town in the county of cork, in --being thus four years younger than grattan. on the father's side he was descended from one of cromwell's soldiers. passing his childhood in the country, he was thrown much among the people. he loved to recall the days when he played marbles in the street of newmarket, or assumed the part of punch's man at a country fair. he loved to visit the peasantry in their cabins, and to listen to their tales. there he saw the irish character--its wit, its humor, its sensibility to mirth and tears. there too, in those rough natures, which appear so sullen and savage, when brought face to face with their oppressors, he found the finest and tenderest affections of the human heart. there too he found a natural poetry and eloquence. he was a constant attendant at the weddings and wakes of his neighborhood. it was customary at that time to employ hired mourners for the dead, and their wild and solemn lamentations struck his youthful imagination. in after-years, he acknowledged that his first ideas of eloquence were derived from listening to the laments of mourners at the irish burials. when transferred to trinity college in dublin, he became distinguished chiefly for his social powers. full of the exuberant life of youth, overflowing with spirits, and fond of fun and frolic, he was always a welcome companion among the students. his mother had designed him for the church. when he came out of college, his tastes took another turn. but his mother never got over her disappointment at his not being a preacher. not even his brilliant reputation at the bar and in parliament, could satisfy her maternal heart. she lived to see the nation hanging on the lips of this almost inspired orator. yet even then she would lament over him, "o jacky, jacky, what a preacher was lost in you!" her friends reminded her that she had lived to see her son one of the judges of the land. "don't speak to me of _judges_," she would reply, "john was fit for any thing; and had he but followed our advice, it might hereafter be written upon my tomb that i had died the mother of a bishop." but no one as yet knew that he had extraordinary talent for eloquence. indeed he did not suspect it himself. in his boyhood he had a confusion in his utterance, from which he was called by his school-fellows "stuttering jack curran." it was not until many years after, while studying law at the temple, that he found out that he _could speak_. after his fame was established, a friend dining with him one day, could not repress his admiration of curran's eloquence, and remarked that it must have been born with him. "indeed, my dear sir," replied curran, "it was not, it was born twenty-three years and some months after me." but when he had made the important discovery of this concealed power, he employed every means to render his elocution perfect. he accustomed himself to speak very slowly to correct his precipitate utterance. he practiced before a glass to make his gestures graceful. he spoke aloud the most celebrated orations. one piece he was never weary of repeating, the speech of antony over the body of cæsar. this he recommended to his young friends at the bar as a model of eloquence. and while he thus used art to smooth a channel for his thoughts to flow in, no man's eloquence ever issued more freshly and spontaneously from the heart. it was always the heart of the man that spoke. it was because his own emotions were so intense, that he possessed such power over the feelings of others. his natural sympathies were strong. like every truly great man, he was simple as a child. he had all those tastes which mark a genuine man. he loved nature. he loved children. he sympathized with the poor. it was perhaps from these popular sympathies that he preferred rousseau among the french writers, and that his friendship was so strong with mr. godwin. his nature was all sensibility. he was most keenly alive to gay, or to mournful scenes. he had a boyish love of fun and frolic. he entered into sports with infinite glee. in these things he remained a child to the end of his days; while in sensibility to tears he had the heart of a woman. thus to the last hour of life he kept his affections fresh and flowing. he had the delicate organization of genius. his frame vibrated to music like an eolian harp. he had the most exquisite relish for the beauties of poetry. he was extravagantly fond of works of imagination. he devoured romances. and when in his reading he met with a passage which gratified his taste, he was never weary of repeating it to himself, or reading it to the friends who came to see him. in conversation, perhaps the most prominent faculty of his mind was fancy--sportive, playful, tender, and pathetic. his conversation was a stream which never ceased to flow. his brilliant imagination, and the warmth with which he entered into every thing, gave it a peculiar fascination. byron said that curran had spoken more poetry than any man had ever written. in a circle of genial friends, after dinner, his genius was in its first action. his countenance lighted up, and his conversation, beginning to flow, now sparkled, now ran like wine. flashes of wit played round him. mirth gleamed from his eye and shot from his tongue. he had an endless store of anecdote, to which his extraordinary dramatic talent enabled him to give the happiest effect. he told stories, and hitting off the point of irish character by the most exquisite mimicry; he "set the table on a roar," following perhaps with some touching tale which instantly brought tears into every eye. "you wept," says phillips, "and you laughed, and you wondered; and the wonderful creature, who made you do all at will, never let it appear that he was more than your equal, and was quite willing, if you chose, to become your auditor." the wit of curran was spontaneous. it was the creation of the moment, the electric sparks shot from a mind overcharged with imagery and feeling. in this it differed from the wit of another great irishman. sheridan had more of the actor about him. his brilliant sayings were prepared beforehand. he aimed at display in the receptions at holland house as much as when writing a comedy for drury-lane. perhaps no foreigner, who has visited england, has had a better opportunity of seeing its distinguished men than madame de stael. she was constantly surrounded by the most brilliant society of london. yet even in that blaze of genius, she was most struck, as she often told her friends, with the conversational powers of curran. this too, was in , when his health had sunk, and his spirits were so depressed, as to make it an effort to support his part at all in society. from the vivacity of his conversation, one would hardly have suspected the depth and seriousness of his character. in talking with ladies or with young persons, his mind was remarkable for its constant playfulness. a gleam of sunshine illumined his whole being. yet those who knew him intimately were aware that he was subject all his life to constitutional melancholy. like many other men celebrated for their wit, his gayety alternated with deep depression. the truth was that he sympathized too intensely with the scenes of real life, to be uniformly gay. in his country he saw so much to sadden him, that his feelings took a melancholy tone. the transition was often instantaneous from humor to pathos. his friends, who saw him in his lighter moods, were surprised at the sudden change of his countenance. "in grave conversation, his voice was remarkable for a certain plaintive sincerity of tone"--a sadness which fascinated the listener like mournful music. in his eloquence appeared the same transitions of feeling and variety of talent. he could descend to the dryest details of law or evidence. thomas addis emmet, who, though younger, practiced at the same bar, says that curran possessed a logical head. from this he could rise to the highest flights of imagination, and it was here, and in appeals to the feelings, that he was most at home. sometimes his wit ran away with him. his fancy was let off like a display of fireworks. it flew like a thousand rockets, darting, whizzing, buzzing, lighting up the sky with fantastic shapes. by turns he could use the lightest or the heaviest weapon, as suited the object of his attack. where ethereal wit or playful irony were likely to be thrown away upon some gross and insensible subject, he could point the keenest edge of ridicule, or the coarsest invective, or the most withering sarcasm. when dissecting the character of a perjured witness, he seemed to delight in making him feel the knife. his victim, at such a time, appeared like an insect whom he had lanced with a needle, and was holding up to the laughter and scorn of the world. thus, when treating the evidence of o'brien, a hired informer, who had come on the stand to swear away the lives of men whom the government had determined to sacrifice, curran apostrophized the patriotic individual, "dearest, sweetest, mr. james o'brien," exposing the utter rottenness of his character in a tone of irony, until the man, who had a forehead of brass, was forced to slink back into the crowd, and to escape from the court. so in his place in parliament, when exposing the corruption of the officers of government, he did not spare nor have pity. a swarm of blood-suckers had fastened on the state, who were growing fat from draining the life of their unhappy country. curran proclaimed the immaculate virtue of "those saints on the pension list, that are like lilies of the field--they toil not, neither do they spin, but they are arrayed like solomon in his glory." the extent to which this corruption had gone was incredible. "this polyglot of wealth," said curran, "this museum of curiosities, the pension list, embraces every link in the human chain, every description of men, women, and children, from the exalted excellence of a hawke or a rodney, to the debased situation of the lady who humbleth herself that she may be exalted." the road to advancement at that day in ireland, to the peerage, to the judicial bench, was to betray the country. curran branded those who thus came into power by one of the strongest figures in english eloquence. "those foundlings of fortune, overwhelmed in the torrent of corruption at an early period, lay at the bottom like drowned bodies, while soundness or sanity remained in them; but at length becoming buoyant by putrefaction, they rose as they rotted, and floated to the surface of the polluted stream, where they were drifted along, the objects of terror, and contagion, and abomination." at the bar he often indulged in sallies of wit, and thus conciliated the attention of the court. his delicate satire, his comical turns of thought, convulsed the court with laughter. then suddenly he stopped, his lip quivered, his sentences grew slow and measured, and he poured forth strains of the deepest pathos, as he pictured the wrongs of his country, or lamented the companions of other days, the illustrious departed, "over whose ashes the most precious tears of ireland had been shed." his voice excelled in the utterance of plaintive emotions, and the homage which had been paid to his eloquence by mirth, was now paid in the sound of suppressed weeping, which alone broke the death-like stillness of the room. in pleading for one on trial for his life, his voice subsided toward the close and sunk away in tones of solemnity and supplication. thus would he say, "sweet is the recollection of having done justice in that hour when the hand of death presses on the human heart! sweet is the hope which it gives birth to! from you i demand that justice for my client, your innocent and unfortunate fellow-subject at the bar; and may you have it for a more lasting reward than the perishable crown we read of, which the ancients placed on the brow of him who saved in battle the life of a fellow-citizen!" but the trait which appears most conspicuous in the public efforts of curran, and which made him the idol of his countrymen, was his enthusiastic love of ireland. says his biographer, "ireland was the choice of his youth, and was from first to last regarded by him, not so much with the feelings of a patriot, as with the romantic idolatry of a lover." in early life he had learned to love the irish peasantry, and no lapse of time could chill his affection. no temptation of office could seduce him from the side of the poor and the oppressed. he knew their noble qualities, and his bosom burned at the wrongs which they suffered. one of his first causes at the bar was pleading for a catholic priest who had been brutally assaulted by a nobleman. such was the fear of incurring the displeasure of a lord, that no one dared to undertake the prosecution, until curran stepped forward, then a young lawyer. his effort was successful. not long after, the priest was called away from the world. he sent for curran to his bedside. gold and silver he had none. but he gave him all in his power, the benediction of a dying man. he caused himself to be raised up in his bed, and stretching out his trembling hands to place them upon the head of the defender, invoked for him the blessing of the almighty. such scenes as this, while they excited the enthusiasm of the catholic population throughout ireland for the young advocate, who had dared to defend a priest of their proscribed religion, at the same time strengthened his determination to make common cause with his countrymen in their sufferings. it is melancholy to reflect that efforts so great for the liberty and happiness of ireland, were not crowned with complete success. but the patriotism and the courage were not less noble because overborne by superior power. it is the honor of curran that he loved ireland in her woe, and loved her to the last. toward the close of life he said, "to our unhappy country, what i had, i gave. i might have often sold her. i could not redeem her. i gave her the best sympathies of my heart, sometimes in tears, sometimes in indignation, sometimes in hope, but often in despondence." footnote: [ ] from the "irish confederates," by _henry m. field_, in the press of harper and brothers. [from the dublin university magazine.] ghost stories of chapelizod. take my word for it, there is no such thing as an ancient village, especially if it has seen better days, unillustrated by its legends of terror. you might as well expect to find a decayed cheese without mites, or an old house without rats, as an antique and dilapidated town without an authentic population of goblins. now, although this class of inhabitants are in nowise amenable to the police authorities, yet as their demeanor greatly affects the comforts of her majesty's subjects, i can not but regard it as a grave omission that the public have hitherto been left without any statistical returns of their numbers, activity, &c., &c. and i am persuaded that a commission to inquire into and report upon the numerical strength, habits, haunts, &c., &c., of supernatural agents resident in ireland, would be a great deal more innocent and entertaining than half the commissions for which the country pays, and at least as instructive. this i say more from a sense of duty, and to deliver my mind of a grave truth than with any hope of seeing the suggestion adopted. but, i am sure, my readers will deplore with me that the comprehensive powers of belief, and apparently illimitable leisure, possessed by parliamentary commissions of inquiry, should never have been applied to the subject i have named, and that the collection of that species of information should be confided to the gratuitous and desultory labors of individuals, who, like myself, have other occupations to attend to. this, however, by the way. among the village outposts of dublin, chapelizod once held a considerable, if not a foremost rank. without mentioning its connection with the history of the great kilmainham preceptory of the knights of st. john, it will be enough to remind the reader of its ancient and celebrated castle, not one vestige of which now remains, and of the fact that it was for, we believe, some centuries, the summer residence of the viceroys of ireland. the circumstance of its being up, we believe, to the period at which that corps was disbanded, the head-quarters of the royal irish artillery, gave it also a consequence of an humbler, but not less substantial kind. with these advantages in its favor, it is not wonderful that the town exhibited at one time an air of substantial and semi-aristocratic prosperity unknown to irish villages in modern times. a broad street, with a well-paved foot-path, and houses as lofty as were at that time to be found in the fashionable streets of dublin; a goodly stone-fronted barrack; an ancient church, vaulted beneath, and with a tower clothed from its summit to its base with the richest ivy; an humble roman catholic chapel; a steep bridge spanning the liffey, and a great old mill at the near end of it, were the principal features of the town. these, or at least most of them, remain, but still the greater part in a very changed and forlorn condition. some of them indeed superseded, though not obliterated by modern erections, such as the bridge, the chapel, and the church in part; the rest forsaken by the order who originally raised them, and delivered up to poverty, and in some cases to absolute decay. the village lies in the lap of the rich and wooded valley of the liffey, and is overlooked by the high grounds of the beautiful phoenix park on the one side, and by the ridge of the palmerstown hills on the other. its situation, therefore is eminently picturesque; and factory fronts and chimneys notwithstanding, it has, i think, even in its decay, a sort of melancholy picturesqueness of its own. be that as it may, i mean to relate two or three stories of that sort, which may be read with very good effect by a blazing fire on a shrewd winter's night, and are all directly connected with the altered and somewhat melancholy little town i have named. the first i shall relate concerns the village bully. about thirty years ago there lived in the town of chapelizod an ill-conditioned fellow of herculean strength, well known throughout the neighborhood by the title of bully larkin. in addition to his remarkable physical superiority, this fellow had acquired a degree of skill as a pugilist which alone would have made him formidable. as it was, he was the autocrat of the village, and carried not the sceptre in vain. conscious of his superiority, and perfectly secure of impunity, he lorded it over his fellows in a spirit of cowardly and brutal insolence, which made him hated even more profoundly than he was feared. upon more than one occasion he had deliberately forced quarrels upon men whom he had singled out for the exhibition of his savage prowess; and, in every encounter his overmatched antagonist had received an amount of "punishment" which edified and appalled the spectators, and in some instances left ineffaceable scars and lasting injuries after it. bully larkin's pluck had never been fairly tried. for, owing to his prodigious superiority in weight, strength, and skill, his victories had always been certain and easy; and in proportion to the facility with which he uniformly smashed an antagonist, his pugnacity and insolence were inflamed. he thus became an odious nuisance in the neighborhood, and the terror of every mother who had a son, and of every wife who had a husband who possessed a spirit to resent insult, or the smallest confidence in his own pugilistic capabilities. now it happened that there was a young fellow named ned moran--better known by the _soubriquet_ of "long ned," from his slender, lathy proportions--at that time living in the town. he was, in truth, a mere lad, nineteen years of age, and fully twelve years younger than the stalwart bully. this, however, as the reader will see, secured for him no exemption from the dastardly provocations of the ill-conditioned pugilist. long ned, in an evil hour, had thrown eyes of affection upon a certain buxom damsel, who, notwithstanding bully larkin's amorous rivalry, inclined to reciprocate them. i need not say how easily the spark of jealousy, once kindled, is blown into a flame, and how naturally, in a coarse and ungoverned nature, it explodes in acts of violence and outrage. "the bully" watched his opportunity, and contrived to provoke ned moran, while drinking in a public-house with a party of friends, into an altercation, in the course of which he failed not to put such insults upon his rival as manhood could not tolerate. long ned, though a simple, good-natured sort of fellow, was by no means deficient in spirit, and retorted in a tone of defiance which edified the more timid, and gave his opponent the opportunity he secretly coveted. bully larkin challenged the heroic youth, whose pretty face he had privately consigned to the mangling and bloody discipline he was himself so capable of administering. the quarrel, which he had himself contrived to get up, to a certain degree covered the ill-blood and malignant premeditation which inspired his proceedings, and long ned, being full of generous ire and whisky punch, accepted the gage of battle on the instant. the whole party, accompanied by a mob of idle men and boys, and in short, by all who could snatch a moment from the calls of business, proceeded in slow procession through the old gate into the phoenix park, and mounting the hill overlooking the town, selected near its summit a level spot on which to decide the quarrel. the combatants stripped, and a child might have seen in the contrast presented by the slight, lank form and limbs of the lad, and the muscular and massive build of his veteran antagonist, how desperate was the chance of poor ned moran. "seconds" and "bottle-holders"--selected, of course, for their love of the game--were appointed, and "the fight" commenced. i will not shock my readers with a description of the cool-blooded butchery that followed. the result of the combat was what any body might have predicted. at the eleventh round, poor ned refused to "give in;" the brawny pugilist, unhurt, in good wind, and pale with concentrated, and as yet, unslaked revenge, had the gratification of seeing his opponent seated upon his second's knee, unable to hold up his head, his left arm disabled; his face a bloody, swollen, and shapeless mass; his breast scarred and bloody, and his whole body panting and quivering with rage and exhaustion. "give in ned, my boy," cried more than one of the by-standers. "never, never," shrieked he, with a voice hoarse and choking. time being "up," his second placed him on his feet again. blinded with his own blood, panting and staggering, he presented but a helpless mark for the blows of his stalwart opponent. it was plain that a touch would have been sufficient to throw him to the earth. but larkin had no notion of letting him off so easily. he closed with him without striking a blow (the effect of which, prematurely dealt, would have been to bring him at once to the ground, and so put an end to the combat), and getting his battered and almost senseless head under his arm, fast in that peculiar "fix" known to the fancy pleasantly by the name of "chancery," he held him firmly, while with monotonous and brutal strokes, he beat his fist, as it seemed, almost into his face. a cry of "shame" broke from the crowd, for it was plain that the beaten man was now insensible, and supported only by the herculean arm of the bully. the round and the fight ended by his hurling him upon the ground, falling upon him at the same time, with his knee upon his chest. the bully rose, wiping the perspiration from his white face with his blood-stained hands, but ned lay stretched and motionless upon the grass. it was impossible to get him upon his legs for another round. so he was carried down, just as he was, to the pond which then lay close to the old park gate, and his head and body were washed beside it. contrary to the belief of all, he was not dead. he was carried home, and after some months, to a certain extent, recovered. but he never held up his head again, and before the year was over he had died of consumption. nobody could doubt how the disease had been induced, but there was no actual proof to connect the cause and effect, and the ruffian larkin escaped the vengeance of the law. a strange retribution, however, awaited him. after the death of long ned, he became less quarrelsome than before, but more sullen and reserved. some said, "he took it to heart," and others, that his conscience was not at ease about it. be this as it may, however, his health did not suffer by reason of his presumed agitations, nor was his worldly prosperity marred by the blasting curses with which poor moran's enraged mother pursued him; on the contrary, he had rather risen in the world, and obtained regular and well-remunerated employment from the chief-secretary's gardener, at the other side of the park. he still lived in chapelizod, whither, on the close of his day's work, he used to return across the fifteen acres. it was about three years after the catastrophe we have mentioned, and late in the autumn, when, one night, contrary to his habit, he did not appear at the house where he lodged, neither had he been seen any where, during the evening, in the village. his hours of return had been so very regular, that his absence excited considerable surprise, though, of course, no actual alarm; and, at the usual hour, the house was closed for the night, and the absent lodger consigned to the mercy of the elements, and the care of his presiding star. early in the morning, however, he was found lying in a state of utter helplessness upon the slope immediately overlooking the chapelizod gate. he had been smitten with a paralytic stroke; his right side was dead; and it was many weeks before he had recovered his speech sufficiently to make himself at all understood. he then made the following relation: he had been detained, it appeared, later than usual, and darkness had closed in before he commenced his homeward walk across the park. it was a moonlight night, but masses of ragged clouds were slowly drifting across the heavens. he had not encountered a human figure, and no sounds but the softened rush of the wind sweeping through bushes and hollows, met his ear. these wild and monotonous sounds, and the utter solitude which surrounded him, did not, however, excite any of those uneasy sensations which are ascribed to superstition, although he said he did feel depressed, or, in his own phraseology, "lonesome." just as he crossed the brow of the hill which shelters the town of chapelizod, the moon shone out for some moments with unclouded lustre, and his eye, which happened to wander by the shadowy inclosures which lay at the foot of the slope, was arrested by the sight of a human figure climbing, with all the haste of one pursued, over the church-yard wall, and running up the steep ascent directly toward him. stories of "resurrectionists" crossed his recollection, as he observed this suspicious-looking figure. but he began, momentarily, to be aware, with a sort of fearful instinct which he could not explain, that the running figure was directing his steps, with a sinister purpose, toward himself. the form was that of a man with a loose coat about him, which, as he ran, he disengaged, and as well as larkin could see, for the moon was again wading in clouds, threw from him. the figure thus advanced until within some two score yards of him; it arrested its speed, and approached, with a loose, swaggering gait. the moon again shone out bright and clear, and, gracious god! what was the spectacle before him? he saw as distinctly as if he had been presented there in the flesh, ned moran, himself, stripped naked from the waist upward, as if for pugilistic combat, and drawing toward him in silence. larkin would have shouted, prayed, cursed, fled across the park, but he was absolutely powerless; the apparition stopped within a few steps, and leered on him with a ghastly mimicry of the defiant stare with which pugilists strive to cow one another before combat. for a time, which he could not so much as conjecture, he was held in the fascination of that unearthly gaze, and at last the thing, whatever it was, on a sudden swaggered close up to him with extended palms. with an impulse of horror, larkin put out his hand to keep the figure off, and their palms touched--at least, so he believed--for a thrill of unspeakable agony, running through his arm, pervaded his entire frame, and he fell senseless to the earth. though larkin lived for many years after, his punishment was terrible. he was incurably maimed; and being unable to work, he was forced, for existence, to beg alms of those who had once feared and flattered him. he suffered, too, increasingly, under his own horrible interpretation of the preternatural encounter which was the beginning of all his miseries. it was vain to endeavor to shake his faith in the reality of the apparition, and equally vain, as some compassionately did, to try to persuade him that the greeting with which his vision closed, was intended, while inflicting a temporary trial, to signify a compensating reconciliation. "no, no," he used to say, "all won't do. i know the meaning of it well enough; it is a challenge to meet him in the other world--in hell, where i am going--that's what it means, and nothing else." and so, miserable and refusing comfort, he lived on for some years, and then died, and was buried in the same narrow church-yard which contains the remains of his victim. i need hardly say how absolute was the faith of the honest inhabitants, at the time when i heard the story, in the reality of the preternatural summons which, through the portals of terror, sickness, and misery, had summoned bully larkin to his long, last home, and that, too, upon the very ground on which he had signalized the guiltiest triumph of his violent and vindictive career. i recollect another story of the preternatural sort, which made no small sensation, some five-and-thirty years ago, among the good gossips of the town; and, with your leave, courteous reader, i shall relate it. the sexton's adventure. those who remember chapelizod a quarter of a century ago, or more, may possibly recollect the parish sexton. bob martin was held much in awe by truant boys who sauntered into the church-yard on sundays, to read the tombstones, or play leap-frog over them, or climb the ivy in search of bats or sparrows' nests, or peep into the mysterious aperture under the eastern window, which opened a dim perspective of descending steps losing themselves among profounder darkness, where lidless coffins gaped horribly among tattered velvet, bones, and dust, which time and mortality had strewn there. of such horribly curious, and otherwise enterprising juveniles, bob was, of course, the special scourge and terror. but terrible as was the official aspect of the sexton, and repugnant as his lank form, clothed in rusty, sable vesture, his small, frosty visage, suspicious, gray eyes, and rusty, brown scratch-wig, might appear to all notions of genial frailty; it was yet true, that bob martin's severe morality sometimes nodded, and that bacchus did not always solicit him in vain. bob had a curious mind, a memory well stored with "merry tales," and tales of terror. his profession familiarized him with graves and goblins, and his tastes with weddings, wassail, and sly frolics of all sorts. and as his personal recollections ran back nearly three score years into the perspective of the village history, his fund of local anecdote was copious, accurate, and edifying. as his ecclesiastical revenues were by no means considerable, he was not unfrequently obliged, for the indulgence of his tastes, to arts which were, at the best, undignified. he frequently invited himself when his entertainers had forgotten to do so; he dropped in accidentally upon small drinking-parties of his acquaintance in public-houses, and entertained them with stories, queer or terrible, from his inexhaustible reservoir, never scrupling to accept an acknowledgment in the shape of hot whisky-punch, or whatever else was going. there was at that time a certain atrabilious publican, called philip slaney, established in a shop nearly opposite the old turnpike. this man was not, when left to himself, immoderately given to drinking; but being naturally of a saturnine complexion, and his spirits constantly requiring a fillip, he acquired a prodigious liking for bob martin's company. the sexton's society, in fact, gradually became the solace of his existence, and he seemed to lose his constitutional melancholy in the fascination of his sly jokes and marvelous stories. this intimacy did not redound to the prosperity or reputation of the convivial allies. bob martin drank a good deal more punch than was good for his health, or consistent with the character of an ecclesiastical functionary. philip slaney, too, was drawn into similar indulgences, for it was hard to resist the genial seductions of his gifted companion; and as he was obliged to pay for both, his purse was believed to have suffered even more than his head and liver. be this as it may, bob martin had the credit of having made a drunkard of "black phil slaney"--for by this cognomen was he distinguished; and phil slaney had also the reputation of having made the sexton, if possible, a "bigger bliggard" than ever. under these circumstances, the accounts of the concern opposite the turnpike became somewhat entangled; and it came to pass one drowsy summer morning, the weather being at once sultry and cloudy, that phil slaney went into a small back parlor, where he kept his books, and which commanded, through its dirty window-panes, a full view of a dead wall, and having bolted the door, he took a loaded pistol, and clapping the muzzle in his mouth, blew the upper part of his skull through the ceiling. this horrid catastrophe shocked bob martin extremely; and partly on this account, and partly because having been, on several late occasions, found at night in a state of abstraction, bordering on insensibility, upon the high road, he had been threatened with dismissal; and, as some said, partly also because of the difficulty of finding any body to "treat" him as poor phil slaney used to do, he for a time forswore alcohol in all its combinations, and became an eminent example of temperance and sobriety. bob observed his good resolutions, greatly to the comfort of his wife, and the edification of the neighborhood, with tolerable punctuality. he was seldom tipsy, and never drunk, and was greeted by the better part of society with all the honors of the prodigal son. now it happened, about a year after the grisly event we have mentioned, that the curate having received, by the post, due notice of a funeral to be consummated in the church-yard of chapelizod, with certain instructions respecting the site of the grave, dispatched a summons for bob martin, with a view to communicate to that functionary these official details. it was a lowering autumn night: piles of lurid thunder-clouds, slowly rising from the earth, had loaded the sky with a solemn and boding canopy of storm. the growl of the distant thunder was heard afar off upon the dull, still air, and all nature seemed, as it were, hushed and cowering under the oppressive influence of the approaching tempest. it was past nine o'clock when bob, putting on his official coat of seedy black, prepared to attend his professional superior. "bobby, darlin'," said his wife, before she delivered the hat she held in her hand to his keeping, "sure you won't, bobby, darlin'--you won't--you know what." "i _don't_ know what," he retorted, smartly, grasping at his hat. "you won't be throwing up the little finger, bobby, acushla?" she said, evading his grasp. "arrah, why would i, woman? there, give me my hat, will you?" "but won't you promise me, bobby darlin'--won't you, alanna?" "ay, ay, to be sure i will--why not? there, give me my hat, and let me go." "ay, but you're not promisin', bobby mavourneen; you're not promisin' all the time." "well, divil carry me if i drink a drop till i come back again," said the sexton, angrily; "will that do you? and _now_ will you give me my hat?" "here it is, darlin'," she said, "and god send you safe back." and with this parting blessing she closed the door upon his retreating figure, for it was now quite dark, and resumed her knitting till his return, very much relieved; for she thought he had of late been oftener tipsy than was consistent with his thorough reformation, and feared the allurements of the half dozen "publics" which he had at that time to pass on his way to the other end of the town. they were still open, and exhaled a delicious reek of whisky, as bob glided wistfully by them; but he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked the other way, whistling resolutely, and filling his mind with the image of the curate and anticipations of his coming fee. thus he steered his morality safely through these rocks of offense, and reached the curate's lodging in safety. he had, however, an unexpected sick call to attend, and was not at home, so that bob martin had to sit in the hall and amuse himself with the devil's tattoo until his return. this, unfortunately, was very long delayed, and it must have been fully twelve o'clock when bob martin set out upon his homeward way. by this time the storm had gathered to a pitchy darkness, the bellowing thunder was heard among the rocks and hollows of the dublin mountains, and the pale, blue lightning shone upon the staring fronts of the houses. by this time, too, every door was closed; but as bob trudged homeward, his eye mechanically sought the public-house which had once belonged to phil slaney. a faint light was making its way through the shutters and the glass panes over the door-way, which made a sort of dull, foggy halo about the front of the house. as bob's eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity by this time, the light in question was quite sufficient to enable him to see a man in a sort of loose riding-coat seated upon a bench which, at that time, was fixed under the window of the house. he wore his hat very much over his eyes, and was smoking a long pipe. the outline of a glass and a quart bottle were also dimly traceable beside him; and a large horse saddled, but faintly discernible, was patiently awaiting his master's leisure. there was something odd, no doubt, in the appearance of a traveler refreshing himself at such an hour in the open street; but the sexton accounted for it easily by supposing that, on the closing of the house for the night, he had taken what remained of his refection to the place where he was now discussing it _al fresco_. at another time bob might have saluted the stranger, as he passed, with a friendly "good-night;" but, somehow, he was out of humor and in no genial mood, and was about passing without any courtesy of the sort, when the stranger, without taking the pipe from his mouth, raised the bottle, and with it beckoned him familiarly, while, with a sort of lurch of the head and shoulders, and at the same time shifting his seat to the end of the bench, he pantomimically invited him to share his seat and his cheer. there was a divine fragrance of whisky about the spot, and bob half-relented; but he remembered his promise just as he began to waver, and said, "no, i thank you, sir, i can't stop to-night." the stranger beckoned with vehement welcome, and pointed to the vacant place on the seat beside him. "i thank you for your polite offer," said bob, "but it's what i'm too late as it is, and haven't time to spare, so i wish you a good-night." the traveler jingled the glass against the neck of the bottle, as if to intimate that he might at least swallow a dram without losing time. bob was mentally quite of the same opinion; but, though his mouth watered, he remembered his promise, and, shaking his head with incorruptible resolution, walked on. the stranger, pipe in mouth, rose from his bench, the bottle in one hand, and the glass in the other, and followed at the sexton's heels, his dusky horse keeping close in his wake. there was something suspicious and unaccountable in this importunity. bob quickened his pace, but the stranger followed close. the sexton began to feel queer, and turned about. his pursuer was behind, and still inviting him with impatient gestures to taste his liquor. "i told you before," said bob, who was both angry and frightened, "that i would not taste it, and that's enough. i don't want to have any thing to say to you or your bottle; and in god's name," he added, more vehemently, observing that he was approaching still closer, "fall back, and don't be tormenting me this way." these words, as it seemed, incensed the stranger, for he shook the bottle with violent menace at bob martin; but, notwithstanding this gesture of defiance, he suffered the distance between them to increase. bob, however, beheld him dogging him still in the distance, for his pipe shed a wonderful red glow, which duskily illuminated his entire figure, like a lurid atmosphere of meteor. "i wish the devil had his own, my boy," muttered the excited sexton, "and i know well enough where you'd be." the next time he looked over his shoulder, to his dismay he observed the importunate stranger as close as ever upon his track. "confound you," cried the man of skulls and shovels, almost beside himself with rage and horror, "what is it you want of me?" the stranger appeared more confident, and kept wagging his head and extending both glass and bottle toward him as he drew near, and bob martin heard the horse snorting as it followed in the dark. "keep it to yourself, whatever it is, for there is neither grace nor luck about you," cried bob martin, freezing with terror; "leave me alone, will you." and he fumbled in vain among the seething confusion of his ideas for a prayer or an exorcism. he quickened his pace almost to a run; he was now close to his own door, under the impending bank by the river side. "let me in, let me in, for god's sake; molly, open the door!" he cried, as he ran to the threshold, and leant his back against the plank. his pursuer confronted him upon the road; the pipe was no longer in his mouth, but the dusky red glow still lingered round him. he uttered some inarticulate cavernous sounds, which were wolfish and indescribable, while he seemed employed in pouring out a glass from the bottle. the sexton kicked with all his force against the door, and cried at the same time with a despairing voice, "in the name of god almighty, once for all, leave me alone!" his pursuer furiously flung the contents of the bottle at bob martin; but, instead of fluid, it issued out in a stream of flame, which expanded and whirled round them, and for a moment they were both enveloped in a faint blaze; at the same instant a sudden gust whisked off the stranger's hat, and the sexton beheld that his skull was roofless. for an instant he beheld the gaping aperture, black and shattered, and then he fell senseless into his own doorway, which his affrighted wife had just unbarred. i need hardly give my reader the key to this most intelligible and authentic narrative. the traveler was acknowledged by all to have been the spectre of the suicide, called up by the evil one to tempt the convivial sexton into a violation of his promise, sealed, as it was, by an imprecation. had he succeeded, no doubt the dusky steed, which bob had seen saddled in attendance, was destined to have carried back a double burden to the place from whence he came. as an attestation of the reality of this visitation, the old thorn-tree which overhung the doorway was found in the morning to have been blasted with the infernal fires which had issued from the bottle, just as if a thunderbolt had scorched it. the moral of the above tale is upon the surface, apparent, and, so to speak, _self-acting_--a circumstance which happily obviates the necessity of our discussing it together. taking our leave, therefore, of honest bob martin, who now sleeps soundly in the same solemn dormitory where, in his day, he made so many beds for others, i come to a legend of the royal irish artillery, whose head-quarters were for so long a time in the town of chapelizod. i don't mean to say that i can not tell a great many more stories, equally authentic and marvelous, touching this old town; but as i may possibly have to perform a like office for other localities, and as anthony poplar is known, like atropos, to carry a shears, wherewith to snip across all "yarns" which exceed reasonable bounds, i consider it, on the whole, safer to dispatch the traditions of chapelizod with one tale more. let me, however, first give it a name; for an author can no more dispatch a tale without a title, than an apothecary can deliver his physic without a label. we shall, therefore, call it, the spectre lovers. there lived some fifteen years since in a small and ruinous house, little better than a hovel, an old woman who was reported to have considerably exceeded her eightieth year, and who rejoiced in the name of alice, or popularly, ally moran. her society was not much courted, for she was neither rich, nor, as the reader may suppose, beautiful. in addition to a lean cur and a cat, she had one human companion, her grandson, peter brien, whom, with laudable good-nature, she had supported from the period of his orphanage down to that of my story, which finds him in his twentieth year. peter was a good-natured slob of a fellow, much more addicted to wrestling, dancing, and love-making, than to hard work, and fonder of whisky-punch than good advice. his grandmother had a high opinion of his accomplishments, which, indeed, was but natural, and also of his genius, for peter had of late years begun to apply his mind to politics; and as it was plain that he had a mortal hatred of honest labor, his grandmother predicted, like a true fortune-teller, that he was born to marry an heiress, and peter himself (who had no mind to forego his freedom even on such terms), that he was destined to find a pot of gold. upon one point both were agreed, that, being unfitted by the peculiar bias of his genius for work, he was to acquire the immense fortune to which his merits entitled him by means of a pure run of good luck. this solution of peter's future had the double effect of reconciling both himself and his grandmother to his idle courses, and also of maintaining that even flow of hilarious spirits which made him every where welcome, and which was, in truth, the natural result of his consciousness of approaching affluence. it happened one night that peter had enjoyed himself to a very late hour with two or three choice spirits near palmerstown. they had talked politics and love, sung songs, and told stories, and, above all, had swallowed, in the chastened disguise of punch, at least a pint of good whisky, every man. it was considerably past one o'clock when peter bid his companions good-by, with a sigh and a hiccough, and, lighting his pipe, set forth on his solitary homeward way. the bridge of chapelizod was pretty nearly the midway point of his night march, and from one cause or another his progress was rather slow, and it was past two o'clock by the time he found himself leaning over its old battlements, and looking up the river, over whose winding current and wooded banks the soft moonlight was falling. the cold breeze that blew lightly down the stream was grateful to him. it cooled his throbbing head, and he drank it in at his hot lips. the scene, too, had, without his being well sensible of it, a secret fascination. the village was sunk in the profoundest slumber, not a mortal stirring, not a sound afloat, a soft haze covered it all, and the fairy moonlight hovered over the entire landscape. in a state between rumination and rapture, peter continued to lean over the battlements of the old bridge, and as he did so he saw, or fancied he saw, emerging one after another along the river bank in the little gardens and inclosures in the rear of the street of chapelizod, the queerest little white-washed huts and cabins he had ever seen there before. they had not been there that evening when he passed the bridge on the way to his merry tryst. but the most remarkable thing about it was the odd way in which these quaint little cabins showed themselves. first he saw one or two of them just with the corner of his eye, and when he looked full at them, strange to say, they faded away and disappeared. then another and another came in view, but all in the same coy way, just appearing and gone again before he could well fix his gaze upon them; in a little while, however, they began to bear a fuller gaze, and he found, as it seemed to himself, that he was able by an effort of attention to fix the vision for a longer and a longer time, and when they waxed faint and nearly vanished, he had the power of recalling them into light and substance, until at last their vacillating indistinctness became less and less, and they assumed a permanent place in the moonlit landscape. "be the hokey," said peter, lost in amazement, and dropping his pipe into the river unconsciously, "them is the quarist bits iv mud cabins i ever seen, growing up like musharoons in the dew of an evening, and poppin' up here and down again there, and up again in another place, like so many white rabbits in a warren; and there they stand at last as firm and fast as if they were there from the deluge; bedad it's enough to make a man a'most believe in the fairies." this latter was a large concession from peter, who was a bit of a free-thinker, and spoke contemptuously in his ordinary conversation of that class of agencies. having treated himself to a long last stare at these mysterious fabrics, peter prepared to pursue his homeward way; having crossed the bridge and passed the mill, he arrived at the corner of the main-street of the little town, and casting a careless look up the dublin road, his eye was arrested by a most unexpected spectacle. this was no other than a column of foot-soldiers, marching with perfect regularity toward the village, and headed by an officer on horseback. they were at the far side of the turnpike, which was closed; but much to his perplexity he perceived that they marched on through it without appearing to sustain the least check from that barrier. on they came at a slow march; and what was most singular in the matter was, that they were drawing several cannons along with them; some held ropes, others spoked the wheels, and others again marched in front of the guns and behind them, with muskets shouldered, giving a stately character of parade and regularity to this, as it seemed to peter, most unmilitary procedure. it was owing either to some temporary defect in peter's vision, or to some illusion attendant upon mist and moon-light, or perhaps to some other cause, that the whole procession had a certain waving and vapory character which perplexed and tasked his eyes not a little. it was like the pictured pageant of a phantasmagoria reflected upon smoke. it was as if every breath disturbed it; sometimes it was blurred, sometimes obliterated; now here, now there. sometimes, while the upper part was quite distinct, the legs of the column would nearly fade away or vanish outright, and then again they would come out into clear relief, marching on with measured tread, while the cocked hats and shoulders grew, as it were, transparent, and all but disappeared. notwithstanding these strange optical fluctuations, however, the column continued steadily to advance. peter crossed the street from the corner near the old bridge, running on tip-toe, and with his body stooped to avoid observation, and took up a position upon the raised foot-path in the shadow of the houses, where, as the soldiers kept the middle of the road, he calculated that he might, himself undetected, see them distinctly enough as they passed. "what the div--, what on airth," he muttered, checking the irreligious ejaculation with which he was about to start, for certain queer misgivings were hovering about his heart, notwithstanding the factitious courage of the whisky-bottle. "what on airth is the mainin' of all this? is it the french that's landed at last to give us a hand and help us in airnest to this blessed repale? if it is not them, i simply ask who the div--, i mane who on airth are they, for such sogers as them i never seen before in my born days?" by this time the foremost of them were quite near, and truth to say, they were the queerest soldiers he had ever seen in the course of his life. they wore long gaiters and leather breeches, three-cornered hats, bound with silver lace, long blue coats, with scarlet facings and linings, which latter were shown by a fastening which held together the two opposite corners of the skirt behind; and in front the breasts were in like manner connected at a single point, where, and below which, they sloped back, disclosing a long-flapped waistcoat of snowy whiteness; they had very large, long cross-belts, and wore enormous pouches of white leather hung extraordinarily low, and on each of which a little silver star was glittering. but what struck him as most grotesque and outlandish in their costume was their extraordinary display of shirt-frill in front, and of ruffle about their wrists, and the strange manner in which their hair was frizzed out and powdered under their hats, and clubbed up into great rolls behind. but one of the party was mounted. he rode a tall white horse, with high action and arching neck; he had a snow-white feather in his three-cornered hat, and his coat was shimmering all over with a profusion of silver lace. from these circumstances peter concluded that he must be the commander of the detachment, and examined him as he passed attentively. he was a slight, tall man, whose legs did not half fill his leather breeches, and he appeared to be at the wrong side of sixty. he had a shrunken, weather-beaten, mulberry-colored face, carried a large black patch over one eye, and turned neither to the right nor to the left, but rode right on at the head of his men with grim, military inflexibility. the countenance of these soldiers, officers as well as men, seemed all full of trouble, and, so to speak, scared and wild. he watched in vain for a single contented or comely face. they had, one and all, a melancholy and hang-dog look; and as they passed by, peter fancied that the air grew cold and thrilling. he had seated himself upon a stone bench, from which, staring with all his might, he gazed upon the grotesque and noiseless procession as it filed by him. noiseless it was; he could neither hear the jingle of accoutrements, the tread of feet, nor the rumble of the wheels; and when the old colonel turned his horse a little, and made as though he were giving the word of command, and a trumpeter, with a swollen blue nose and white feather fringe round his hat, who was walking beside him, turned about and put his bugle to his lips, still peter heard nothing, although it was plain the sound had reached the soldiers, for they instantly changed their front to three abreast. "botheration!" muttered peter, "is it deaf i'm growing?" but that could not be, for he heard the sighing of the breeze and the rush of the neighboring liffey plain enough. "well," said he, in the same cautious key, "by the piper, this bangs banagher fairly! it's either the frinch army that's in it, come to take the town iv chapelizod by surprise, an' makin' no noise for feard iv wakenin' the inhabitants; or else it's--it's--what it's--somethin' else. but, tundher-an-ouns, what's gone wid fitzpatrick's shop across the way?" the brown, dingy stone building at the opposite side of the street looked newer and cleaner than he had been used to see it; the front door of it stood open, and a sentry, in the same grotesque uniform, with shouldered musket, was pacing noiselessly to and fro before it. at the angle of this building, in like manner, a wide gate (of which peter had no recollection whatever) stood open, before which, also, a similar sentry was gliding, and into this gateway the whole column gradually passed, and peter finally lost sight of it. "i'm not asleep; i'm not dhramin'," said he, rubbing his eyes, and stamping slightly on the pavement, to assure himself that he was wide awake. "it is a quare business, whatever it is; an' it's not alone that, but every thing about the town looks strange to me. there's tresham's house new painted, bedad, an' them flowers in the windies! an' delany's house, too, that had not a whole pane of glass in it this morning, and scarce a slate on the roof of it! it is not possible it's what it's dhrunk i am. sure there's the big tree, and not a leaf of it changed since i passed, and the stars overhead, all right. i don't think it is in my eyes it is." and so looking about him, and every moment finding or fancying new food for wonder, he walked along the pavement, intending, without further delay, to make his way home. but his adventures for the night were not concluded. he had nearly reached the angle of the short lane that leads up to the church, when for the first time he perceived that an officer, in the uniform he had just seen, was walking before, only a few yards in advance of him. the officer was walking along at an easy, swinging gait, and carried his sword under his arm, and was looking down on the pavement with an air of reverie. in the very fact that he seemed unconscious of peter's presence, and disposed to keep his reflections to himself, there was something reassuring. besides, the reader must please to remember that our hero had a _quantum sufficit_ of good punch before his adventure commenced, and was thus fortified against those qualms and terrors under which, in a more reasonable state of mind, he might not impossibly have sunk. the idea of the french invasion revived in full power in peter's fuddled imagination, as he pursued the nonchalant swagger of the officer. "be the powers iv moll kelly, i'll ax him what it is," said peter, with a sudden accession of rashness. "he may tell me or not, as he plases, but he can't be offinded, anyhow." with this reflection having inspired himself, peter cleared his voice, and began, "captain," said he, "i ax your pardon, captain, an' maybe you'd be so condescendin' to my ignorance as to tell me, if it's plaisin' to yer honor, whether your honor is not a frinchman, if it's plaisin' to you." this he asked, not thinking that, had it been as he suspected, not one word of his question, in all probability, would have been intelligible to the person he addressed. he was, however, understood, for the officer answered him in english, at the same time slackening his pace, and moving a little to the side of the pathway, as if to invite his interrogator to take his place beside him. "no; i am an irishman," he answered. "i humbly thank your honor," said peter, drawing nearer--for the affability and the nativity of the officer encouraged him--"but maybe your honor is in the _sarvice_ of the king of france?" "i serve the same king as you do," he answered, with a sorrowful significance which peter did not comprehend at the time; and, interrogating in turn, he asked, "but what calls you forth at this hour of the day?" "the _day_, your honor!--the night, you mane." "it was always our way to turn night into day, and we keep to it still," remarked the soldier. "but, no matter, come up here to my house; i have a job for you, if you wish to earn some money easily. i live here." as he said this, he beckoned authoritatively to peter, who followed almost mechanically at his heels, and they turned up a little lane near the old roman catholic chapel, at the end of which stood, in peter's time, the ruins of a tall, stone-built house. like every thing else in the town, it had suffered a metamorphosis. the stained and ragged walls were now erect, perfect, and covered with pebble-dash; window-panes glittered coldly in every window; the green hall-door had a bright brass knocker on it. peter did not know whether to believe his previous or his present impressions; seeing is believing, and peter could not dispute the reality of the scene. all the records of his memory seemed but the images of a tipsy dream. in a trance of astonishment and perplexity, therefore, he submitted himself to the chances of his adventure. the door opened, the officer beckoned with a melancholy air of authority to peter, and entered. our hero followed into a sort of hall, which was very dark, but he was guided by the steps of the soldier, and in silence they ascended the stairs. the moonlight, which shone in at the lobbies, showed an old, dark wainscoting, and a heavy, oak bannister. they passed by closed doors at different landing-places, but all was dark and silent as, indeed, became that late hour of the night. now they ascended to the topmost floor. the captain paused for a minute at the nearest door, and, with a heavy groan, pushing it open, entered the room. peter remained at the threshold. a slight female form in a sort of loose, white robe, and with a great deal of dark hair hanging loosely about her, was standing in the middle of the floor, with her back toward them. the soldier stopped short before he reached her, and said, in a voice of great anguish, "still the same, sweet bird--sweet bird! still the same." whereupon, she turned suddenly, and threw her arms about the neck of the officer, with a gesture of fondness and despair, and her frame was agitated as if by a burst of sobs. he held her close to his breast in silence; and honest peter felt a strange terror creep over him, as he witnessed these mysterious sorrows and endearments. "to-night, to-night--and then ten years more--ten long years--another ten years." the officer and the lady seemed to speak these words together; her voice mingled with his in a musical and fearful wail, like a distant summer wind, in the dead hour of night, wandering through ruins. then he heard the officer say, alone, in a voice of anguish, "upon me be it all, forever, sweet birdie, upon me." and again they seemed to mourn together in the same soft and desolate wail, like sounds of grief heard from a great distance. peter was thrilled with horror, but he was also under a strange fascination; and an intense and dreadful curiosity held him fast. the moon was shining obliquely into the room, and through the window peter saw the familiar slopes of the park, sleeping mistily under its shimmer. he could also see the furniture of the room with tolerable distinctness--the old balloon-backed chairs, a four-post bed in a sort of recess, and a rack against the wall, from which hung some military clothes and accoutrements; and the sight of all these homely objects reassured him somewhat, and he could not help feeling unspeakably curious to see the face of the girl whose long hair was streaming over the officer's epaulet. peter, accordingly, coughed, at first slightly, and afterward more loudly, to recall her from her reverie of grief; and, apparently, he succeeded; for she turned round, as did her companion, and both, standing hand-in-hand, looked upon him fixedly. he thought he had never seen such large, strange eyes in all his life; and their gaze seemed to chill the very air around him, and arrest the pulses of his heart. an eternity of misery and remorse was in the shadowy faces that looked upon him. if peter had taken less whisky by a single thimbleful, it is probable that he would have lost heart altogether before these figures, which seemed every moment to assume a more marked and fearful, though hardly definable contrast to ordinary human shapes. "what is it you want with me?" he stammered. "to bring my lost treasure to the church-yard," replied the lady, in a silvery voice of more than mortal desolation. the word "treasure" revived the resolution of peter, although a cold sweat was covering him, and his hair was bristling with horror; he believed, however, that he was on the brink of fortune, if he could but command nerve to brave the interview to its close. "and where," he gasped, "is it hid--where will i find it?" they both pointed to the sill of the window, through which the moon was shining at the far end of the room, and the soldier said: "under that stone." peter drew a long breath, and wiped the cold dew from his face, preparatory to passing to the window, where he expected to secure the reward of his protracted terrors. but looking steadfastly at the window, he saw the faint image of a new-born child sitting upon the sill in the moonlight with its little arms stretched toward him, and a smile so heavenly as he never beheld before. at sight of this, strange to say, his heart entirely failed him, he looked on the figures that stood near, and beheld them gazing on the infantine form with a smile so guilty and distorted, that he felt as if he were entering alive among the scenery of hell, and shuddering, he cried in an irrepressible agony of horror: "i'll have nothing to say with you, and nothing to do with you; i don't know what yez are or what yez want iv me, but let me go this minute, every one of yez, in the name of god." with these words there came a strange rumbling and sighing about peter's ears; he lost sight of every thing, and felt that peculiar and not unpleasant sensation of falling softly, that sometimes supervenes in sleep, ending in a dull shock. after that he had neither dream nor consciousness till he wakened, chill and stiff, stretched between two piles of old rubbish, among the black and roofless walls of the ruined house. we need hardly mention that the village had put on its wonted air of neglect and decay, or that peter looked around him in vain for traces of those novelties which had so puzzled and distracted him upon the previous night. "ay, ay," said his old mother, removing her pipe, as he ended his description of the view from the bridge, "sure enough i remember myself, when i was a slip of a girl, these little white cabins among the gardens by the river side. the artillery sogers that was married, or had not room in the barracks, used to be in them, but they're all gone long ago." "the lord be marciful to us!" she resumed, when he had described the military procession, "it's often i seen the regiment marchin' into the town, jist as you saw it last night, acushla. oh, voch, but it makes my heart sore to think iv them days; they were pleasant times, sure enough; but is not it terrible, avick, to think it's what it was, the ghost of the rigiment you seen? the lord betune us an' harm, for it was nothing else, as sure as i'm sittin' here." when he mentioned the peculiar physiognomy and figure of the old officer who rode at the head of the regiment-- "_that_," said the old crone, dogmatically, "was ould colonel grimshaw, the lord presarve us! he's buried in the church-yard iv chapelizod, and well i remember him, when i was a young thing, an' a cross ould floggin' fellow he was wid the men, an' a devil's boy among the girls--rest his soul!" "amen!" said peter; "it's often i read his tombstone myself; but he's a long time dead." "sure, i tell you he died when i was no more nor a slip iv a girl--the lord betune us and harm!" "i'm afeard it is what i'm not long for this world myself, afther seeing such a sight as that," said peter, fearfully. "nonsinse, avourneen," retorted his grandmother, indignantly, though she had herself misgivings on the subject; "sure there was phil doolan, the ferryman, that seen black ann scanlan in his own boat, and what harm ever kem of it?" peter proceeded with his narrative, but when he came to the description of the house, in which his adventure had had so sinister a conclusion, the old woman was at fault. "i know the house and the ould walls well, an' i can remember the time there was a roof on it, and the doors an' windows in it, but it had a bad name about being haunted, but by who, or for what, i forget intirely." "did you ever hear was there gold or silver there?" he inquired. "no, no, avick, don't be thinking about the likes; take a fool's advice, and never go next or near them ugly black walls again the longest day you have to live; an' i'd take my davy, it's what it's the same word the priest himself 'ud be afther sayin' to you if you wor to ax his riverence consarnin' it, for it's plain to be seen it was nothing good you seen there, and there's neither luck nor grace about it." peter's adventure made no little noise in the neighborhood, as the reader may well suppose; and a few evenings after it, being on an errand to old major vandeleur, who lived in a snug old-fashioned house, close by the river, under a perfect bower of ancient trees, he was called on to relate the story in the parlor. the major was, as i have said, an old man; he was small, lean, and upright, with a mahogany complexion, and a wooden inflexibility of face; he was a man, besides, of few words, and if _he_ was old, it follows plainly that his mother was older still. nobody could guess or tell _how_ old, but it was admitted that her own generation had long passed away, and that she had not a competitor left. she had french blood in her veins, and although she did not retain her charms quite so well as ninon de l'enclos, she was in full possession of all her mental activity, and talked quite enough for herself and the major. "so, peter," she said, "you have seen the dear, old royal irish again in the streets of chapelizod. make him a tumbler of punch, frank; and peter, sit down, and while you take it let us have the story." peter accordingly, seated near the door, with a tumbler of the nectarian stimulant steaming beside him, proceeded with marvelous courage, considering they had no light but the uncertain glare of the fire, to relate with minute particularity his awful adventure. the old lady listened at first with a smile of good-natured incredulity; her cross-examination touching the drinking-bout at palmerstown had been teasing, but as the narrative proceeded she became attentive, and at length absorbed, and once or twice she uttered ejaculations of pity or awe. when it was over, the old lady looked with a somewhat sad and stern abstraction on the table, patting her cat assiduously meanwhile, and then suddenly looking upon her son, the major, she said, "frank, as sure as i live he has seen the wicked captain devereux." the major uttered an inarticulate expression of wonder. "the house was precisely that he has described. i have told you the story often, as i heard it from your dear grandmother, about the poor young lady he ruined, and the dreadful suspicion about the little baby. _she_, poor thing, died in that house heart-broken, and you know he was shot shortly after in a duel." this was the only light that peter ever received respecting his adventure. it was supposed, however, that he still clung to the hope that treasure of some sort was hidden about the old house, for he was often seen lurking about its walls, and at last his fate overtook him, poor fellow, in the pursuit; for climbing near the summit one day, his holding gave way, and he fell upon the hard uneven ground, fracturing a leg and a rib, and after a short interval died, and he, like the other heroes of these true tales, lies buried in the little church-yard of chapelizod. a morning with moritz retzsch. by mrs. s.c. hall. at dresden we enjoyed the advantage of friendly intercourse with one who is honored as much for his virtues as his talents, and whom it is a gratification to name--professor vogel von vogelstein, whose latest work decorates a new church at leipzig, designed by the estimable and highly gifted professor heidelhoff of nuremberg. the simplicity of life of the great german masters, is very striking; they care nothing for display, except that upon their canvas, or their walls. one of the great secrets of their success is their earnestness of purpose. professor vogel seldom leaves his studio except to render courtesy to friend or stranger: and it is happy for those who have the privilege of his acquaintance, to know that such labors of love draw him frequently forth. as yet, years have not diminished the ardor with which he works--respected and beloved by all who know him. it was a true pleasure to sit in his studio, and converse with him; not only about art, but about england; where he spent some time in communion with wilkie, and callcott, and lawrence, and others, who, though passed away, have left immortalities behind them. while conversing with professor vogel one morning we expressed an earnest wish to see moritz retzsch--who had so wonderfully embodied the conceptions of goethe, of shakspeare, and of schiller; his extraordinary powers of invention and description, with a few strokes of his pencil, had rendered him an object of the deepest interest to us, many years ago when an artist friend, now dead and gone, first made him known to us; and although he resided we had been told, "a long way out of dresden," we resolved, if we could, to visit him at his home. it was therefore very pleasant when professor vogel offered to accompany us himself, and present us to the great artist. in the evening, as we stood on the noble bridge that spans the rapid elbe, a summer-house crowning one of the distant vine-clad hills, was pointed out to us as belonging to him whom we so much desired to know. "his dwelling," said our friend, "is directly below that hill, and he resides on his paternal acres; his father's vineyards are as green as ever; and the artist's love of nature, is fostered amid its beauties." nothing could be more charming than the scene. we had left the bruhl terrace crowded with company, driven away from its music and society by the clouds of tobacco smoke which wrap the germans in an elysium peculiarly "their own;" but the music was softened by distance, into sweeter harmony. the sun was setting, warming the pale green of the vineyards into autumnal richness, and casting delicious tints upon the undulating waters; the atmosphere was so pure, so free from what sad experience teaches us to consider the natural vapors of city life, that the spires and public buildings looked as if carved in ivory; the mighty river swept freely on, its strong current hopelessly contending with the massive masonry of the bridge; one or two steamers were puffing their way from some of the distant villages; and a party near the shore were moving their oars, rather than rowing, singing what sounded to us like a round and chorus, in that perfect tune and time, where the voices seem as one; twilight came down without any haze, so that the range of hills was still visible, and still we fancied we saw the pavilion of moritz retzsch. our friend told us he was born at dresden in , and had never visited the distant schools, nor wandered far from his native city; in early childhood he manifested a talent for art; modeling in clay, carving in wood, and exercising his imitative, as well as his imaginative powers, by drawing with any thing, or upon any thing, whatever he saw or fancied. he never intended to become an artist; he had not received what is called "an artistic education." he looked at and loved whatever was beautiful in nature, and copied it without an effort. at that period, the profession of art would have been all too tranquil a dream for his boyhood to enjoy; nay, his "hot youth," ardent and desiring excitement, full of visions of adventure and liberty, had, at one time, nearly induced him to become a huntsman, or forester--(one of the jägers made familiar to us on the stage, in green hunting dress and buckskin, with belt and bugle)--in the royal service; a little consideration, a few speaking facts, however, taught him that this project would not have secured him the freedom he coveted so much; and, most fortunately, when he entered his twentieth year, he determined on the course which has given both to himself and to the world, such delicious pleasure. he abandoned himself to art, and has ever since exercised it with a devotion and enthusiasm, a sacred freedom, that, despite his excitable temperament, has rendered him happy. such was our friend's information concerning the author of those wonderful "outlines" which have been the admiration of the world for nearly half a century, and are scarcely better known in germany than they are in england. "nothing," he added, "could surpass the ardor with which the young artist labored. his soul was animated by the grand conceptions of goethe and schiller; his ears drank in the beauty and sublimity of their poetry; and he lived in the mingled communion of great men, and the lovely and softened beauty of saxon fatherland." in , he was nominated professor of painting in the dresden royal academy; but fame, much as he sought and loved it, did not fill his soul. the older he grew, the more his great heart yearned for that continuous sympathy with some object to comprehend and appreciate his noble pursuit, and to value him, as he believed he deserved. he coveted affection as much as fame. one of the dwellers near his father's vineyard was rich in the possession of a little daughter of extraordinary grace and beauty. she inspired the artist with some of his brightest conceptions of that peculiar infantine loveliness which his pencil has rendered with such eloquent fidelity. the child crept into his heart--the young girl took possession of it. the poet-painter made no effort to dispossess her; on the contrary, he increased her power by giving her an excellent education; and when she had arrived at the age of womanhood, he made her his wife. their married years have numbered many. one may be considered old, the other is no longer young; but their happiness has been, as far as it can be, without a shadow. although they have no children, they do not seem to have desired them. some gallant husbands pen a sonnet to a wife on her birth-day, or the anniversary of her marriage, but moritz retzsch _sketches_ his birthday ode, in which the beauty and worth of his cherished wife, his own tenderness and happiness, their mingled hopes and prayers, are penciled in forms the most poetic and expressive. from year to year these designs have enriched the album of madame retzsch; and never was a more noble tribute laid at the feet of any lady-love, even in the times of old romance! professor vogel had promised that moritz retzsch should show us his drawings; and we were full of hope that we should also have the privilege of seeing this album. the sunset had given promise of-- "a goodly day to-morrow." and it was with no small delight that, on our return to our hotel, we found an hour had been fixed for our visit to the village, or weinberg, and that professor vogel would be ready to accompany us at the time appointed. we were prepared to expect allegorical designs; and mrs. jameson has long since converted us to a belief in the great power and benefit of symbolic painting, particularly on the minds and imaginations of the young. "to address the moral faculties through the medium of the imagination," says this distinguished lady, "for any permanent or beneficial purpose, is the last thing thought of by our legislators and educators. fable, except as a mere nomenclature of heathen gods and goddesses, is banished from the nursery, and allegory in poetry and the fine arts is out of fashion;" and then she mingles her ink with gall, and adds, "it is deemed the child's play of the intellect, fit only for the days of dante, or spenser, or michael angelo." wearied with pleasure, we slept; but what we had seen and what we anticipated rendered _repose_ impossible. the morning was bright, and warm, and sunny; and when our kind friend entered the carriage, we felt assured of a day's enjoyment. we soon skirted the city, and found ourselves rolling in sight of the river; the road was overshadowed by trees, which had not yielded a leaf to the insidious advances of autumn; the villas--not certainly with shaven lawns and carefully-tended gardens, were picturesque and charming from the novelty of their construction, and not the less striking because the foliage was left to twine about them in unconstrained luxuriance. we had become accustomed to the wicker wagons, and the heavy oxen, and slow paces of men and horses; but there is something always to admire in the broad faces of the well-built saxons, and the frank and kindly expression of their clear blue eyes. we soon reached the narrow roads that wound along the base of the vine-clad hills, rising so abruptly as to form terrace after terrace, until they achieved the topmost height. nothing can be more delightful than the situation of the houses at the foot of these hills, commanding, as they do, the whole of the rich valley in which dresden is placed. "they call it paradise," said our kind companion; "and truly it deserves the name." it was positively refreshing to hear how professor vogel delighted in extolling professor retzsch. his eulogiums were so warm from the heart, and the desire to do his friend service so sincere, that we honored him more than ever. at last we paused at the garden-gate of the cottage-house of the illustrator of faust, and entered. wide-spreading trees overshadowed the path which led along the side of the house to a sort of stone verandah, formed by the upper story projecting over the lower, and supported by rude stone pillars. at the further end were stairs leading to the living-rooms; and down these stairs came a gentleman who must have riveted attention wherever seen. his figure was somewhat short and massive, and his dress not of the most modern fashion; yet the head was magnificent. his whole appearance recalled cuvier to us so forcibly, that we instantly murmured the name of the great naturalist; but when his clear wild blue eyes beamed their welcome, and his lips parted into a smile to give it words, we were even more strongly reminded of professor wilson; in each, a large, well-developed head, masculine features, a broad and high forehead, a mouth strongly expressive of a combination of generosity and force, bespoke the careful thinker and acute observer; and in both, the hair, "sable silvered," seemed to have been left to the wild luxuriance of nature. he preceded us to the drawing-room--an uncarpeted chamber, furnished with old-fashioned german simplicity. several birthday garlands were hung upon the walls. there were three doors opening into the apartment, and a long sofa extending along one of the sides; this sofa was canopied by ivy, growing in pots at either end, and entwined round a delicate framework. in heidelhoff's house, at nüremberg, we had seen wreaths of ivy growing round the window-curtains in a peculiarly graceful manner; and at berlin, in the costly and beautiful dwelling of the admirable sculptor wichmann, the door leading from the dining into the billiard-room--where mendelssohn delighted to play while jenny lind sat by and sung, enjoying, as she always does, the enjoyment of others--that door is trellised with ivy, the trellis being formed of light bamboo, and the foliage contrasting charmingly with the color of the trellis. the dust of our carpets, perhaps, prevents the introduction of this charming ornament generally into our rooms; but it is difficult to conceive how much this simple loan from nature may be made to enrich the interiors of our dwellings. nothing can be more frank and cordial than retzsch's manner, mingling, as it does, much simplicity with promptness and decision. after the lapse of a few minutes, the servant who had opened the gate brought in a couple of easels, and upon them the artist placed two paintings; both exquisitely drawn and designed, but so unlike what we had expected in color, that for a moment we felt disappointed. our enthusiasm and admiration however, soon revived; and when, shortly afterward, he conducted us into an inner room, and, having seated us with due formality, in a great chair, opposite a little table, produced a portfolio of _drawings_, the kind face of professor vogel was illumined: "ah!" he exclaimed, "now you will be delighted. i have brought many to my friend's studio; i have looked at these drawings over and over again, yet each time i see something to admire anew; there is always a discovery to be made--some allegory, half hidden under a rose-leaf; some wise and playful satire, peeping beneath the wing of a cupid, or from the fardel of a traveler. what a pity you do not understand german, that you might hear him read those exquisite lyrics, beautiful as the sonnets of your own shakspeare, or wordsworth--but i will interpret--i will interpret." and so he did--with considerate patience: there we sat turning over page after page of the most exquisite fancies; the overflowings not only of the purest and most brilliant imagination, but of the deepest tenderness and exalted independence. the allegories of moritz retzsch, are not of the "hieroglyphic caste," such as roused the indignation of horace walpole; there were no sentimental hopes supported by anchors: no fat-cheeked fames puffing noiseless trumpets; no common-place deaths, with dilapidated hour-glasses; they were triumphs of pure art, conveying a poetical idea, a moral or religious truth, a brilliant satire, brilliant and sharp as a cutting diamond, by "graphical representation;" each subject was a bit of the choicest lyric poetry, or an epigram, in which a single idea or sentiment had been illustrated and embodied, giving "a local habitation," a name, a history, in the smallest compass, and in the most intelligible and attractive form. with what delight we turned over these matchless drawings, many of them little more than outlines, yet so full of meaning--pausing between each, to glance at the face of the interpreter; though so distinctly was the idea conveyed, that there needed none; only it was such a rare delight to hear him tell his meaning in his own full sounding tongue, his face expressing all he wished to say, before the words were spoken. we could have lingered over that portfolio for hours, and like professor vogel have found something new at each inspection of the same drawing; but the artist seemed to grow gently impatient to show us his wife's album--the book of which we had heard so much on the previous evening; there it was, carefully cased and covered--and before he opened it, he explained, with smiling lips, that on each of madame retzsch's birthdays, he had presented to her a drawing expressive of his devotion, his faith in her virtues, or the hopes or disappointments to which the destiny of life had subjected them. however delicate and endearing may be the love of youth, with it there is always associated a dread that it may not endure until the end--that the world may tarnish or destroy it; that, "a word unkind or wrongly taken," may be the herald of harshness and of estrangement; but when, after a lapse of accumulated years, cupid folds his wings without the loss of a single feather, and laughs at his arch-enemy "time," the sunshine of the picture creates an atmosphere of happiness that excites the best sympathies of our nature. while he descanted on these results of his luxuriant and overflowing imagination and affection, never was genius more thoroughly love-inspired; never, as we had heard, did poet pen more exquisite birthday odes, than were framed by the tender and eloquent pencil of moritz retzsch on the birthdays of his wife. we did not feel it to be a defect in the graphic allegories, so rich and varied in thought and expression, that they required, or rather received, the eloquent explanations, of their great originator; the scene around that little table was in exquisite harmony; professor vogel's expressions of delight were as enthusiastic as our own; he repeatedly said that a visit to his old friend was a renewal of his own youth; he hailed the precious album with as much pleasure as ourselves, and reveled in the poetry and originality of its illustrations, with a freshness of feeling supposed only to belong to the early years of life. we can not remember that retzsch sat down once during our long visit; he was standing or moving about, the entire time, and frequently passed his fingers through the masses of his long gray hair, so that it assumed most peculiar styles; but nothing could detract from the picturesque magnificence of his noble head. his restlessness was certainly peculiar, he passed and repassed into the room where his precious drawings were scattered in such rich profusion, returning again and again to the window, enjoying our pleasure, the expression of his face varying so eloquently and honestly, that a young child could have read his thoughts: and then the indescribable brightness of that face; stormy, it no doubt could be at times, but the thunder would have been as nothing to the lightning. the great artist seemed as curious about england as a country child is about london; indeed the mingling of simplicity and wisdom, is one of the strongest phases in his character; so gigantic, and yet so delicate, in art; so full of the rarest knowledge; animated by an unsurpassable imagination; proud of the distinction his talents command, and yet of a noble and heroic independence which secures universal respect. the artist and his wife accompanied us to the gate which was soon to shut us out of "paradise;" and, amply gratified as we were with our visit and its results, we felt that there was still so much more to say and to see, that the past hours appeared like winged moments, reminding us how-- "noiseless falls the foot of time that only treads on flowers." it seemed as though the gate had closed upon an old friend, instead of upon one seen for so brief a space, and never perhaps to be met with again in this world. one of the dreams of a life-time had been fully realized. we had paid moritz retzsch the involuntary compliment, of forgetting the celebrity of the artist, in the warmth of our admiration of the man. the gate was closed, and we were driving rapidly toward dresden--the scenery softened and mellowed by the gray and purply tone which follows a golden sunset. yes, we felt as if we had parted from a friend; and surely the sacred lovingness we bear to those--honored though unseen--who have been as friends within our homes, dispersing by the power of their genius all trace, for a time, of the fret and turmoil of the busy world; soothing our sorrows; teaching us how to endure, and how to triumph; or enriching our minds by that art-knowledge, which, in the holiness of its beauty, is only second to the wisdom "which cometh from above;"--surely a higher tribute than either gratitude or admiration, is that of placing them within our hearts, there to remain until the end; amid the good, the beautiful, the true, and the beloved of life itself. the queen's tobacco-pipe. we have seen pipes of all sorts and sizes in our time. in germany, where the finest cnaster is but twenty-pence a pound, and excellent leaf-tobacco only five-pence, we have seen pipes that resembled actual furnaces compared with the general race of pipes, and have known a man smoke out half a pound of cnaster and drink a gallon of beer at a sitting. but this is perfectly pigmy work when compared with the royal pipe and consumptive tobacco power of victoria of england. the queen's pipe is, beyond all controversy--for we have seen it--equal to any other thousand pipes that can be produced from the pipial stores of this smoking world. she has not only an attendant to present it whenever she may call for it, but his orders are to have it always in the most admirable smoking state--always lighted, without regard to the quantity of tobacco it may consume; and, accordingly, her pipe is constantly kept smoking day and night without a moment's intermission, and there are, besides the grand pipe-master, a number of attendants incessantly employed in seeking the most suitable tobacco, and bringing it to the grand-master. there is no species of tobacco which the queen has not in her store-room. shag, pig-tail, cavendish, manilla, havanna, cigars, cheroots, negrohead, every possible species of nicotian, she gives a trial to, by way of variety. a single cigar she holds in as much contempt as a lion would a fly by way of mouthful. we have seen her grand-master drop whole handfuls of havannas at once into her pipe, and after them as many cubas. it may abate the wonder of the reader at this stupendous smoking power of the queen, if we admit, as must, indeed, have become apparent in the course of our remarks, that the queen performs her smoking, as she does many of her other royal acts, by the hands of her servants. in truth, to speak candidly, the queen never smokes at all, except through her servants. and this will appear very likely, when we describe the actual size of her royal pipe. it is, indeed of most imperial dimensions. the head alone is so large, that while its heel rests on the floor of her cellar, its top reaches out of the roof. we speak a literal fact, as any one who procures an order for the purpose may convince himself by actual inspection. we are sure that the quantity of tobacco which is required to supply it, must amount to some tons in the year. nay, so considerable is it, that ships are employed specially to bring over this tobacco, and these ships have a dock of one acre in extent at the port of london entirely for their exclusive reception. in a word, the queen's tobacco-pipe, its dimensions, its attendance, its supply and consumption of tobacco, are without any parallel in any age or any nation. if we have raised any wonder in the breasts of our readers, we shall not diminish that wonder by some further explanations regarding this extraordinary pipe; if we have raised any incredulity, what we are now about to add will at once extinguish it. the queen's tobacco-pipe, then, is a furnace built in the very centre of the great tobacco warehouse at the london docks. this furnace is kept for the purpose of consuming all the damaged tobacco which comes into port. as the warehouse is the queen's warehouse, the furnace is really termed the queen's pipe; and all that we have related of it is literally true, and is, in itself and all the circumstances connected with it, one of the most remarkable things in this country. if any one would form any thing like an adequate conception of the wonders of london, and of the power and wealth of this country, he should pay a visit to the london docks. after having traversed the extent, and amazed himself at the myriad population, the intense activity, the stupendous affluence, and the endless variety of works going on in this capital of the globe, he will, on arriving at the docks, feel a fresh and boundless astonishment. from near the tower all the way to blackwall, a distance of four miles, he will find it a whole world of docks. the mass of shipping, the extent of vast warehouses, many of them five and seven stories high, all crowded with ponderous heaps of merchandise from every region of the globe, have nothing like it besides in the world, and never have had. the enormous wealth here collected is perfectly overwhelming to the imagination. if the spectator first enter st. katherine's docks, he finds them occupying twenty-three acres, with water capable of accommodating one hundred and twenty ships, and warehouses of holding one hundred and ten thousand tons of goods; the capital of the company alone exceeding two millions of pounds. proceeding to the london docks, properly so called, there he will find an extent of more than one hundred acres, offering water for five hundred ships, and warehouse room for two hundred and thirty-four thousand tons of goods; the capital of the company amounting to four millions of pounds. the west india docks next present themselves, being three times as extensive as the london docks, having an area of no less than two hundred and ninety-five acres, with water to accommodate four hundred vessels, and warehouse-room for one hundred and eighty thousand tons of merchandise; the capital of the company is more than six millions of pounds, and the value of goods which have been on the premises at one time twenty millions. lastly, the east india docks occupy thirty-two acres, and afford warehouse-room for fifteen thousand tons of goods. the whole of these docks occupying four hundred and fifty acres, offering accommodations for one thousand two hundred ships, and for five hundred and thirty thousand tons of goods. but these are only the docks on the left bank of the river; on the other side, docks extend from rotherhithe to deptford; the surrey docks, the commercial docks, and the east country docks. when the gigantic extent of these docks, and the mass of property in them, are considered, tyre and sidon shrink up into utter insignificance. but of all these astonishing places, our present attention is devoted only to the london docks, properly so called, as being connected with the operations of the queen's pipe; the damaged and unsalable goods of these docks being its food. in these docks are especially warehoused wine, wool, spices, tea, ivory, drugs, tobacco, sugars, dye-stuffs, imported metals, and sundry other articles. except the teas and spices, you may procure inspection of all these articles, as they lie in their enormous quantities, by a ticket from the secretary. if you wish to taste the wines, you must have a tasting order for the purpose. imagine yourselves, then, entering the gateway of the london docks. if you wish only to walk round and see the shipping, and people at work, you can do that without any order. as you advance, you find yourself surrounded right and left by vast warehouses, where numbers of people, with carts and trucks, are busily at work taking in and fetching out goods. on your right you soon pass the ivory warehouse, where no lady is admitted except by a _special_ order. the cause of this singular regulation, by no means complimentary to the fair sex, we were unable to ascertain. no lady could very well be suspected of carrying off in her muff an elephant's tooth of some hundred weight, but there must have been female thieves, dexterous enough to secrete, perhaps a rhinoceros's tooth, of perhaps some dozen pounds, valued at one pound seven shillings per pound; and thus contrived to bring a stigma on the whole sex. vast heaps of ivory lie on the floor of this warehouse, in huge elephants' tusks, of from twenty to a hundred pounds weight each; tusks of rhinoceros, and the ivory weapons of sword-fish and sea-unicorns. here lay, on our last visit, the african spoils of mr. gordon cumming; and, indeed, the spectacle is one that carries you away at once to the african deserts, and shows you what is going on there while we are quietly and monotonously living at home. proceeding down the dock-yard, you see before you a large area literally paved with wine-casks, all full of the most excellent wines. on our last visit, the wine then covering the ground was delicious bordeaux, as you might easily convince yourself by dipping a finger into the bunghole of any cask; as, for some purpose of measurement, or testing the quality, the casks were most of them open. this is, in fact, the great depôt of the wine of the london merchants, no less than sixty thousand pipes being capable of being stored away in the vaults here. one vault alone, which formerly was seven acres, has now been extended under gravel-lane, so that at present it contains upward of twelve acres! these vaults are faintly lit with lamps, but on going in, you are at the entrance accosted with the singular demand--"do you want a cooper?" many people, not knowing its meaning, say, "no, by no means!" the meaning of the phrase is, "do you want to taste the wines?" when a cooper accompanies you to pierce the casks, and give you the wine. parties are every day, and all day long, making these exploratory and tasting expeditions. every one on entering is presented with a lamp at the end of a lath, about two feet long, and you soon find yourselves in some of the most remarkable caving in the world. small streets, which you perceive are of great extent, by the glimmering of lamps in the far distance, extend before you, and are crossed by others in such a manner that none but those well acquainted with the geography of these subterranean regions could possibly find their way about them. from the dark vaulted roof over head, especially in one vault, hang strange figures, black as night, light as gossamer, and of a yard or more in length, resembling skins of beasts, or old shirts dipped in soot. these are fed to this strange growth by the fumes of the wine. for those who taste the wines the cooper bores the heads of the pipes, which are ranged throughout these vast cellars on either hand in thousands and tens of thousands, and draws a glassful. these glasses, though shaped as wine-glasses, resemble much more goblets in their size, containing each as much as several ordinary wine-glasses. what you do not drink is thrown upon the ground; and it is calculated that at least a hogshead a day is thus consumed. many parties who wish for a cheap carouse, procure a tasting order, take biscuits with them, and drink of the best of all sorts of wine in the cellars, and in quantities enough to terrify any disciple of father mathew. here, again, we find a regulation permitting no ladies to enter these cellars after one o'clock. for such a rule there must be a sufficient cause, and the fact which we have just stated may perhaps furnish the key to it. not less striking than those cellars is the mixing house above, where there are vats into which merchants who wish to equalize all their wines of one vintage can have them emptied, and then re-drawn into their casks. the largest of these vats contains twenty-three thousand two hundred and fifty gallons; and to it the famous heidelburg tun is a mere keg. but the reader may ask, what have these wine-cellars to do with the queen's pipe? it is this: in the centre of the great east vault you come to a circular building without any entrance. it is the root and foundation of the queen's pipe. quitting the vault, and ascending into the warehouse over it, you find that you are in the great tobacco warehouse, called the queen's warehouse, because the government rent the tobacco warehouses here for fourteen thousand pounds per annum. this one warehouse has no equal in any other part of the world. it is five acres in extent, and yet it is covered with a roof, the framework of which is of iron, erected, we believe, by mr. barry, the architect of the new houses of parliament, and of so light and skillful a construction, that it admits of a view of the whole place; and so slender are the pillars, that the roof seems almost to hang upon nothing. under this roof is piled a vast mass of tobacco in huge casks, in double tiers; that is, two casks in height. this warehouse is said to hold, when full, twenty-four thousand hogsheads, averaging one thousand two hundred pounds each, and equal to thirty thousand tons of general merchandise. each cask is said to be worth, duty included, two hundred pounds; giving a sum total of tobacco in this one warehouse, when filled, of four millions, eight hundred thousand pounds in value! besides this, there is another warehouse of nearly equal size, where finer kinds of tobacco are deposited, many of them in packages of buffalo-hide, marked "giron," and manilla for cheroots, in packages of sacking lined with palmetto leaves. there is still another warehouse for cigars, called the cigar floor, in which there are frequently one thousand five hundred chests, valued at one hundred pounds each, at an average, or one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in cigars alone. the scene in the queen's warehouse, to which we return, is very singular. long streets stretch right and left between the walls of tobacco-casks; and when the men are absent at one of their meals, you find yourself in an odd sort of solitude, and in an atmosphere of tobacco. every one of these giant hogsheads is stripped twice from the tobacco during its stay in this warehouse; once on entrance, to weigh it, and again before leaving, to ascertain whether the mass is uninjured; and to weigh what is found good for the duty, and for the sale price to the merchant. thus the coopers take all these hogsheads twice to pieces, and put them together again. this tobacco is of the strong, coarse kind, for pigtail, shag, snuff, &c. the finer kinds, as we have said, go to the other warehouse. but your eye is now attracted by a guide-post, on which is painted, in large letters, "to the kiln." following this direction, you arrive at the centre of the warehouse, and at the queen's pipe. you enter a door on which is rudely painted the crown royal and the initials "v.r.," and find yourself in a room of considerable size, in the centre of which towers up the kiln; a furnace of the conical kind, like a glass-house or porcelain furnace. on the door of the furnace is again painted the crown and the "v.r." here you find, in the furnace, a huge mass of fire, and around are heaps of damaged tobacco, tea, and other articles ready to be flung upon it, as it admits of it. this fire never goes out, day or night, from year to year. there is an attendant who supplies it with its fuel, as it can take it; and men, during the day-time, constantly coming laden with great loads of tobacco, cigars, and other stuff, condemned to the flames. whatever is forfeited, and is too bad for sale, be it what it will, is doomed to the kiln. at the other docks damaged goods, we were assured, are buried till they are partly rotten, and then taken up and disposed of as rubbish or manure. here the queen's pipe smokes all up, except the greater quantity of the tea, which, having some time ago set the chimney of the kiln on fire, is now rarely burnt. and strange are the things that sometimes come to this perpetually burning furnace. on one occasion, the attendant informed us, he burnt nine hundred australian mutton-hams. these were warehoused before the duty came off. the owner suffered them to remain till the duty ceased, in hopes of their being exempt from it; but this not being allowed, they were left till so damaged as to be unsalable. yet a good many, the man declared, were excellent; and he often made a capital addition to his breakfast from the roast that, for some time, was so odoriferously going on. on another occasion he burnt thirteen thousand pairs of condemned french gloves. in one department of the place often lie many tons of the ashes from the furnace, which are sold by auction, by the ton, to gardeners and farmers, as manure, and for killing insects, to soap-boilers and chemical manufacturers. in a corner are generally piled cart-loads of nails, and other pieces of iron, which have been swept up from the floors, or have remained in the broken pieces of casks and boxes which go to the kiln. those which have been sifted from the ashes are eagerly bought up by gunsmiths, sorted, and used in the manufacture of gun-barrels, for which they are highly esteemed, as possessing a toughness beyond all other iron, and therefore calculated, pre-eminently, to prevent bursting. gold and silver, too, are not unfrequently found among these ashes; for many manufactured articles, if unsalable, are broken up, and thrown in. there have sometimes, indeed, been vast numbers of foreign watches, professing themselves to be gold watches, but being gross impostors, which have been ground up in a mill, and then flung in here. such is the queen's tobacco-pipe, unique of its kind, and in its capacity of consumption. none of the other docks have any thing like it. it stands alone. it is _the_ pipe--and as we have said, establishes the queen of england, besides being the greatest monarch on the globe, as the greatest of all smokers--not excepting the grand turk, or the emperor of austria, the greatest tobacconist of europe. the metal-founder of munich. when we gaze in admiration at some great work of plastic art, our thoughts naturally recur rather to the master mind whence the conception we now see realized first started into life, than to any difficulties which he or others might have had to overcome in making the quickened thought a palpable and visible thing. all is so harmonious; there is such unity throughout; material, form, and dimensions, are so adapted and proportioned one to the other, that we think not of roughnesses or of opposing force as connected with a work whence all disparities are removed, and where every harshness is smoothed away. there stands the achieved fact in its perfect completeness: there is nothing to remind us of its progress toward that state, for the aids and appliances thereunto have been removed; and the mind, not pausing to dwell on an intermediate condition, at once takes in the realized creation as an accomplished whole. and if even some were inclined to follow in thought such a work in its growth, there are few among them who, as they look at a monument of bronze, have any notion how the figure before them grew up into its present proportions. they have no idea how the limbs were formed within their earthen womb, and how many and harassing were the anxieties that attended on the gigantic birth. the sculptor, the painter, the engraver, has each, in his own department, peculiar difficulties to overcome; but these for the most part are such as skill or manual dexterity will enable him to vanquish. he has not to do with a mighty power that opposes itself to his human strength, and strives for the mastery. he has not to combat an element which he purposely rouses into fury, and then subjugates to his will. but the caster in metal has to do all this. he flings into the furnace heaps of brass--cannon upon cannon, as though they were leaden toys; and he lights a fire, and fans and feeds the flames, till within that roaring hollow there is a glow surpassing what we have yet seen of fire, and growing white from very intensity. anew it is plied with fuel, fed, gorged. the fire itself seems convulsed and agonized with its own efforts; but still it roars on. day by day, and night after night, with not a moment's relaxation, is this fiery work carried on. the air is hot to breathe; the walls, the rafters, are scorched, and if the ordeal last much longer, all will soon be in a blaze. the goaded creature becomes maddened and desperate, and is striving to burst its prison; while above it a molten metal sea, seething and fiery, is heaving with its ponderous weight against the caldron's sides! lest it be thought this picture is too highly colored, or that it owes any thing to the imagination for its interest, let us look into the foundry of munich, and see what was going on there at midnight on the th of october . when king louis i. had formed the resolution of erecting a colossal statue of bavaria, it was schwanthaler whom he charged to execute the work. the great artist's conception responded to the idea which had grown in the mind of the king, and in three years' time a model in clay was formed, sixty-three feet in height, the size of the future bronze statue. the colossus was then delivered over to the founder, to be cast in metal. the head was the first large portion that was executed. while the metal was preparing for the cast, a presentiment filled the master's mind that, despite his exact reckoning, there might still be insufficient materials for the work, and thirty cwt. were added to the half-liquid mass. the result proved how fortunate had been the forethought: nothing could be more successful. and now the chest of the figure was to be cast, and the master conceived the bold idea of forming it in one piece. those who have seen thirty or forty cwt. of metal rushing into the mould below, have perhaps started back affrighted at the fiery stream. but cwt. were requisite for this portion of the statue; and the formidable nature of the undertaking may be collected from the fact that till now, not more than cwt. had ever filled a furnace at one time. but see, the mass begins slowly to melt; huge pieces of cannon float on the surface, like boats on water, and then gradually disappear. presently upon the top of the mass a crust is seen to form, threatening danger to the furnace as well as to the model prepared to receive the fluid bronze. to prevent this crust from forming, six men were employed day and night in stirring the lava-like sea with long poles of iron; retiring, and being replaced by others every now and then; for the scorching heat, in spite of wetted coverings, causes the skin to crack like the dried rind of a tree. still the caldron was being stirred, still the fire was goaded to new efforts, but the metal was not yet ready to be allowed to flow. hour after hour went by, the day passed, and night came on. for five days and four nights the fire had been kept up and urged to the utmost intensity, and still no one could tell how long this was yet to last. the men worked on at their tremendous task in silence; the fearful heat was increasing, and as though it would never stop. there was a terrible weight in the burning air, and it pressed upon the breasts of all. there was anxiety in their hearts, though they spoke not, but most of all in his who had directed this bold undertaking. for five days he had not left the spot, but, like a columbus watching for the hourly-expected land, had awaited the final moment. on the evening of the fifth day exhausted nature demanded repose, and he sat down to sleep. hardly had he closed his eyes when his wife roused him with the appalling cry, "awake, awake, the foundry is on fire!" and it was so. nothing could stand such terrific heat. the rafters of the building began to burn. to quench the fire in the usual way was impossible, for had any cold fluid come in contact with the liquid metal, the consequences would have been frightful: the furnace would have been destroyed, and the cwt. of bronze lost. with wet cloths, therefore, the burning rafters were covered to smother the flames. but the walls were glowing, too; the whole building was now like a vast furnace. yet still more fuel on the fire!--the heat is not enough; the metal boils not yet! though the rafters burn, and the walls glow, still feed, and gorge, and goad the fire! at last the moment comes!--the whole mass is boiling! then the metal-founder of munich, miller by name, called to the men who were extinguishing the burning beams, "let them burn; the metal is ready for the cast!" and it was just midnight, when the whole of the rafters of the interior of the building were in flames, that the plug was knocked in, and the fiery flood rushed out into the mould below. all now breathed more freely: there was an end of misgiving and foreboding; and the rude workmen, as if awe-struck by what they had accomplished, stood gazing in silence, and listening to the roar of the brazen cataract. it was not till the cast was completed that the master gave the signal for extinguishing the burning roof. in due time the bell of the little chapel of neuhausen was heard summoning thither the master and his workmen to thank god for the happy completion of the work. no accident had occurred to any during its progress; not one had suffered either in life or limb. the fairy queen. the last tale by the author of "puss in boots," "cinderella," "little red riding-hood," etc. "once upon a time," in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, was born charles perrault. we pass over his boyhood and youth to the period when, after having long filled the situation of commissioner of public buildings, he fell into disgrace with his patron, the prime minister colbert, and was obliged to resign his situation. fortunately he had not been unmindful of prudential economy during the days of prosperity, and had made some little savings on which he retired to a small house in the rue st. jacques, and devoted himself to the education of his children. about this time he composed his fairy tales. he himself attached little literary importance to productions destined to be handed down to posterity, ever fresh and ever new. he usually wrote in the morning the story intended for the evening's amusement. thus were produced in their turn "cinderella," "little red riding-hood," "blue beard," "puss in boots," "riquet with the tuft," and many other wondrous tales which men now, forsooth, pretend to call fictions. charles lamb knew better. he was once looking for books for a friend's child, and when the bookseller, seeing him turn from shelves loaded with mrs. trimmer and miss edgeworth, offered him modern tales of fay and genii, as substitutes for his old favorites, he exclaimed, "these are not my own _true_ fairy tales!" when surrounded by his grandchildren, perrault related to them the stories he had formerly invented for his children. one evening after having repeated for the seventh or eighth time the clever tricks of "puss in boots," mary, a pretty little girl of seven years of age, climbed up on her grandfather's knee, and giving him a kiss, put her little dimpled hands into the curls of the old man's large wig. "grandpapa," said she, "why don't you make beautiful stories for us as you used to do for papa and my uncles?" "yes," exclaimed the other children, "dear grandpapa, you must make a story entirely for ourselves." charles perrault smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in the smile. "ah, dear children," said he, "it is very long since i wrote a fairy tale, and i am not as young as i was then. you see i require a stick to enable me to get along, and am bent almost double, and can walk but very, very slowly. my eyes are so dim, i can hardly distinguish your little merry faces; my ear can hardly catch the sound of your voices; nor is my mind what it was. my imagination has lost its vigor and freshness; memory itself has nearly deserted me; but i love you dearly, and like to give you pleasure. however, i doubt if my poor bald head could now make a fairy tale for you, so i will tell you one which i heard so often from my mother that i think i can repeat it word for word." the children joyfully gathered round the old man, who passed his hands for a moment across his wrinkled brow, and began the story as follows: my mother and your great-grandmother, madeline geoffrey, was the daughter of a linendraper, who, at the time i speak of, had been residing for three years in the rue des bourdonnais, close to the cemetery of the innocents. one evening, having gone alone to vespers at the church of st. eustace, as she was hastening home to her mother, who had been prevented by illness from accompanying her, she heard a great noise at the top of the street, and looking up saw an immense mob hurrying along, shouting and hooting. as they were then in the midst of the troubles of the fronde, madeline in alarm hurried toward the house, and having opened the door by a latch-key, was turning to close it, when she was startled on seeing behind her a woman wrapped in a black mantle holding two children by the hand. this woman rushed past madeline into the shop, exclaiming, "in the name of all you hold most dear, save me! hide me and my children in some corner of your house! however helpless and unfortunate i may appear at this moment, doubt not my power to prove my gratitude to you." "i should want no reward for helping the distressed," said madeline, deeply touched by the mother's agony; "but poor protection can this house afford against a brutal mob." the stranger cast a hurried and tearful glance around; when, suddenly uttering a cry of joy, she fixed her eye upon part of the floor almost concealed by the shop counter, and rushing to the spot, exclaimed, "i have it!--i have it!" as she spoke, she lifted a trap-door contrived in the floor, opening on a stone staircase which led to a subterranean passage; and snatching up her children in her arms, darted down into the gulf, leaving my mother stupefied with astonishment. but the cries of the mob, who had by this time reached the shop, and were clamorously demanding admittance, roused her; and quickly closing the trap-door, she called her father who came down in great alarm. after a short parley, he opened the door, which they were beginning to force. the mob consisted of two or three hundred miserable tattered wretches, who poured into the house; and after searching every corner of it, without finding any thing, were so furious with disappointment, that they seized upon madeline and her father. "deliver up to us the woman we are looking for!" they exclaimed. "she is a vile sorceress--an enemy to the citizens of paris; she takes the part of the hated austrian against us; she is the cause of all the famine and misery that is desolating paris. we must have her and her children, that we may wreak just vengeance on them!" "we know not who you mean," replied my grandfather, who, in truth, was quite ignorant of what had occurred; "we have not seen any one--no one has entered the house." "we know how to make such obstinate old wretches speak," exclaimed one of the ringleaders. he seized my mother, and pointing a loaded pistol at her breast, cried, "the woman! we want the woman!" at this moment madeline, being exactly over the trap-door, heard a slight rustle underneath; and fearing that it would betray the stranger's hiding-place, endeavored to drown the noise from below by stamping with her foot, while she boldly replied, "i have no one to give up to you." "well, then, you shall see how it fares with those who dare to resist us!" roared one of the infuriated mob. tearing off her vail, he seized madeline by the hair, and pulled her to the ground. "speak!" he exclaimed, "or i will drag you through the streets of paris to the gibbet on the place de la grève." my mother uttered not a word, but silently commended herself to god. what might have been the issue heaven only knows, had not the citizens in that quarter, on seeing their neighbor's house attacked, hastily armed themselves, and dispersed the mob. madeline's first care was to reassure her almost fainting mother. after which, rejoining her father, she helped him to barricade the door, so as to be prepared for any new incursion, and then began to prepare the supper as usual. while laying the cloth, the young girl debated whether she should tell her father of the refuge afforded to the stranger by the subterraneous passage; but after a fervent prayer to god, to enable her to act for the best, she decided that it would be more prudent not to expose him to any risk arising from the possession of such a secret. arming herself, therefore, with all the resolution she could command, she performed her usual household duties; and when her father and mother had retired to rest, and all was quiet in the house, she took off her shoes, and stealing down stairs into the shop, cautiously opened the trap-door, and entered the vault with provisions for those who already were indebted to her for life and safety. "you are a noble girl," said the stranger to her. "what do i not owe to your heroic devotedness and presence of mind? god will reward you in heaven, and i trust he will permit me to recompense you here below." madeline gazed with intense interest on the stranger, as the light of the lamp in her hand, falling full upon her face, gave to view features whose dignified and majestic expression inspired at the very first glance a feeling of respect. a long black mantle almost wholly concealed her figure and a vail was thrown over her head. her children lay at her feet in a quiet sleep. "thanks for the food you have brought," said she to madeline. "thanks, dear girl. as for me, i can not eat; but my children have tasted nothing since morning. i will ask you to leave me your light; and now go, take some rest, for surely you must want it after the excitement you have undergone." madeline looked at her in surprise. "i should have thought, madam," said she, "that you would make an effort to find some asylum, if not more secure, at least more comfortable than this." "be not uneasy about me, my good girl. when my time is come, it will be as easy for me to leave this place as it was to reveal to you the secret of its existence. good-night, my child. perhaps we may not meet again for some time; but remember i solemnly promise that i will grant any three wishes you may form!" she motioned to her to retire; and that indescribable air of majesty which accompanied every gesture of the unknown seemed as if it left madeline no choice but to obey. notwithstanding her fatigue, madeline hardly slept that night. the events of the day had seized hold of her imagination, and she exhausted herself in continued and wondering conjecture. who could this woman be, pursued by the populace, and accused of being a sorceress, and an enemy to the people? how could she know of a place of concealment of which the inhabitants of the house were ignorant? as vainly did madeline try to explain her entire composure, the certainty with which she spoke of being able to leave the vault whenever she pleased, and, above all, the solemn and mysterious promise she had made to fulfill any three wishes of the young girl. had you, my dear children, been in your great-grandmother's place, should you not have been very much excited and very curious? what think you? would you have slept a bit better than madeline did? i hardly think you would, if i may judge from those eager eyes. the whole of the next day madeline could think of nothing but her secret. seated behind the counter, in her usual place, she started at the slightest sound. at one moment, it seemed to her as if every one who entered the shop must discover the trap-door; at the next she expected to see it raised to give egress to the unknown, till, dizzy and bewildered, she scarcely knew whether to believe her whose life she had saved to be a malignant sorceress or a benevolent fairy. then smiling at her own folly, she asked herself how a woman endowed with supernatural power could need her protection. it is unnecessary to say how long the time appeared to her till she could revisit the subterranean passage, and find herself once more in the presence of the stranger. thus the morning, the afternoon, and the evening wore slowly away, and it seemed ages to her till her father, mother, and the shopmen were fairly asleep. as soon as the clock struck twelve, she rose, using still more precaution than on the preceding night, opened the trap-door, descended the stone staircase, and entered the subterraneous passage, but found no one. she turned the light in every direction. the vault was empty: the stranger and her children had disappeared! madeline was almost as much alarmed as surprised; however, recovering herself, she carefully examined the walls of the vault. not an opening, not a door, not the smallest aperture was to be seen. she stamped on the ground, but no hollow sound was heard. suddenly she thought she perceived some written characters on the stone-flag. she bent down, and by the light of her lamp read the following words, evidently traced with some pointed instrument: "remember, madeline, that she who owes to thee the life of her children, promises to grant thee three wishes." here perrault stopped. "well, children," said he, "what do you think of this first part of my story, and of your great-grandmother's adventures? what conjectures have you formed as to the mysterious lady?" "she is a good fairy," said little mary, "for she can grant three wishes, like the fairy in finetta." "no, she is a sorceress," objected louisa. "did not the people say so, and they would not have wanted to kill her unless she was wicked?" "as for me," replied joseph, the eldest of the family, "i believe neither in witches nor fairies, for there are no such things. am not i right, grandpapa?" charles perrault smiled, but contented himself with saying--"now, be off to bed. it is getting late. do not forget to pray to god to make you good children; and i promise, if you are very diligent to-morrow, to finish for you in the evening the wonderful adventures of your great-grandmother." the children kissed their grandpapa, and went to bed to dream of madeline and the fairy. the next evening, the old man, taking his usual seat in the arm-chair, resumed his story without any preamble, though a preamble is generally considered as important by a story-teller as a preface is by the writer of a romance. he spoke as follows: it would seem that my mother, in her obscure and peaceful life, had nothing to wish for, or that her wishes were all fulfilled as soon as formed; for she not only never invoked the fairy of the vault, but even gradually lost all remembrance of the promises made her by the unknown, and the whole adventure at last faded from her memory. it is true that thirteen years had passed away, and the young girl had become a wife and mother. she had long left the house where the occurrence i have related to you took place, and had come to live in the rue st. jacques, where we now reside, though i have since then rebuilt the former tenement. my father, as you know, was a lawyer. though of noble birth, he did not think it beneath him to marry the daughter of a shopkeeper, with but a small dowry. he found in madeline's excellent qualities, her gentleness and beauty, irresistible attractions--and who that knew her could disapprove of his choice? madeline possessed in an eminent degree that natural refinement of mind and manner which education and a knowledge of the world so often fail to give, while it seems intuitive in some. she devoted herself entirely to the happiness of her husband and her four sons, of whom i was the youngest. my father's income was quite sufficient for all the expenses of our happy family; for a truly happy family it was, till it pleased god to lay heavy trial upon us. my father fell ill, and for a whole year was obliged to give up the profits of his situation to provide a substitute; and he had scarcely begun, after his recovery, to endeavor to repair the losses he had suffered, when a fresh misfortune occurred. one night, as my mother was lying quietly in bed, with her four little cubs around her, she was awakened by an unusual noise to behold the house wrapped in flames, which had already almost reached the room in which we were. at this moment my father appeared, and took my eldest brothers in his arms, while my mother had charge of nicholas and me, who were the two youngest. never shall i forget this awful moment. the flames crackled and hissed around us, casting a livid hue over the pale faces of my father and mother, who boldly advanced through the fire. with great difficulty they gained the staircase. my father dashed bravely forward. nicholas, whom my mother held by the hand, screamed violently, and refused to go a step further. she caught him up in her arms, but during the short struggle the staircase had given way, and for a few moments my mother stood paralyzed by despair. but soon the imminent danger roused all the energy of her heroic nature. your grandmother was no common woman. she immediately retraced her steps, and firmly knotting the bedclothes together, fastened my brother and myself to them, and letting us down through the window, my father received us in his arms. her children once saved, my mother thought but little of danger to herself, and she waited in calm self-possession, till a ladder being brought, she was rescued. this trial was but a prelude to many others. the loss of our house completed the ruin of which my father's illness was the beginning. he was obliged to dispose of his situation, and take refuge in small lodgings at chaillot, and there set to work steadily and cheerfully to support his family, opening a kind of pleader's office for legal students; but his health soon failed, and he became dangerously ill. my noble-minded mother struggled hard to ward off the want that now seemed inevitable; but what availed the efforts of one woman to support a sick husband and four children? one night came when we had literally nothing to eat. i shall never forget my mother's face, and the tears which streamed down her cheeks, when one of us cried, "mother, we are very hungry!" she now resolved to apply for help to the nuns of chaillot; a step which, to her independent spirit, was a far greater trial than to brave the threats of the mob or the fury of the flames. but what is there too hard for a mother who has heard her children ask for food which she had not to give them? with sinking heart, and cheek now pale, now crimson from the struggle within her, she presented herself at the convent, and timidly made known her desire to speak with the superior. her well-known character procured her instant admission, and her tale once told, obtained for her much kindly sympathy and some relief. as she was passing through the cloisters on her way back, she was startled by a voice suddenly demanding, "art thou not madeline perrault?" my mother started; the tones of that voice found an echo in her memory, and though thirteen years had elapsed since she had heard it, she recognized it to be that of the being whom her husband was wont to call her "fairy." she turned round, and as the pale moonbeams that were now struggling through the long dim aisle fell upon the well-remembered stately form, in its black garb and flowing mantle, it seemed to madeline's excited imagination to be indeed a being of some other world. "i made thee a promise," said the unknown--"didst thou doubt my power, that thou hast never invoked my aid?" my mother crossed herself devoutly, now convinced that she was dealing with a supernatural being. the phantom smiled at her awe-struck look, and resumed, "yet fear not; you have but to name three wishes, and my promise is still sure: they shall be granted." "my husband--oh, if he were but once more well!" "i say not that to give life or healing is within my province to bestow. god alone holds in his hands the issues of life and death. say what else lies near thine heart?" "bread for my husband and children. save them and me from beggary and want!" "this is but one wish, and i would grant two more." "i ask not--wish not for more." "be it so, then, madeline perrault; hold yourself in readiness to obey the orders that shall reach you before twelve hours have passed over your head." and she disappeared from madeline's sight as suddenly as she had appeared to her. my mother returned home in considerable agitation, and told my father all that had occurred. he tried to persuade her that the whole scene had been conjured up by her own excited imagination. but my mother persisted in repeating that nothing could be real if this was but fancy; and they passed a sleepless night in bewildering conjectures. early the next day a carriage stopped at the door, and a footman announced to my mother that it was sent to convey her and her family to a place appointed by one whose summons there was good reason they should obey. no questioning could extract from him any further information. you may well fancy how long my father and mother debated as to the prudence of obeying the mysterious summons. but curiosity at last prevailed; and to the unmixed delight of the children of the party, we all got into the carriage, which took the road to paris, and drove on rapidly till we reached the rue st. jacques, where it drew up before a new house; and as the servant opened the carriage-door and let down the steps, my father perceived that it occupied the site of his house which had been burned down. our little party was met in the entrance by a deputation of the civic authorities, who welcomed my father to his house, and congratulated him on his being reinstated in the situation he had so long held with such credit to himself, and, as they were pleased to add, to themselves as members of the body to which he was such an honor. my father stood as if in a dream, while my mother shed tears of joy and gratitude. a letter was now handed to her; and, hastily breaking the seal, she read, "madeline, hast thou still a wish? speak, and it shall be gratified!" "only that i may be allowed to see my benefactress, to pour out at her feet my heart's gratitude." and at the instant the door opened, and the unknown appeared. madeline, with clasped hands, darted suddenly forward; then, as suddenly checking herself, uttered some incoherent words, broken by sobs. "madeline," said the lady, "i have paid but a small part of the debt i owe you. but for you a ferocious mob would have murdered me and my children. to you i owe lives dearer to me than my own. do not deem me ungrateful in so long appearing to have forgotten you. it has pleased our heavenly father to visit me also with heavy trials. like you, i have seen my children in want of food which i had not to give, and without a spark of fire to warm their chilled limbs. but more, my husband was traitorously put to death, and i have been myself proscribed. when you rescued me, they were hunting me like a wild beast, because i refused to take part against the son of my brother. but brighter days have dawned. my son is restored to the throne of his fathers, and henrietta of england can now pay the debt of gratitude she owes madeline perrault." "but how can poor madeline ever pay the debt she owes?" exclaimed my mother. "by sometimes coming to visit me in my retreat at chaillot; for what has a queen without a kingdom, a widow weeping for her murdered husband, a mother forever separated from her children--what has she any more to do with the world whose nothingness she has so sadly experienced? to know that amid my desolation i have made one being happy, will be soothing to me, and your children's innocent merriment perchance may beguile some lonely hours. henceforth, madeline, our intercourse will not bear the romantic character that has hitherto marked it, and which chance, in the first instance, and afterward a whim of mine, has made it assume. by accident i was led to take refuge in your house in the rue des bourdonnais, and instantly recollected it as the former abode of ruggieri, my mother's astrologer. his laboratory was the vault which doubtless you have not forgotten, and the entrance to which was as well known to me as the subterraneous passage by which i left it, and which led to the cemetery of the innocents. last night i heard all you said to the superior, and was about to inquire directly of yourself, when, seeing the effect of my sudden appearance, i was induced to play the fairy once more. the instant you left me i put in requisition the only fairy wand i possessed, and money soon placed at my disposal the house which i have the happiness of making once again your own. you now know my secret, but though no fairy, i have still some influence, and you shall ever have in me a firm friend and protectress." and from that time the queen never lost an opportunity of serving my mother and her family, and it is to her i owe the favor and patronage of the minister colbert. "and now, children," said perrault, "how do you like my last fairy tale?" [from dickens's household words.] the efforts of a gentleman in search of despair. mr. blackbrook lived in a world of his own. it was his pleasure to believe that men were phantoms of a day. for life he had the utmost contempt. he pronounced it to be a breath, a sigh, a fleeting shadow. his perpetual theme was, that we are only here for a brief space of time. he likened the uncertainty of existence to all the most frightful ventures he could conjure up. he informed timid ladies that they were perpetually on the edge of a yawning abyss; and warned little boys that their laughter might be turned to tears and lamentation, at the shortest notice. mr. blackbrook was a welcome guest in a large serious circle. from his youth he had shown a poetic leaning, of the most serious order. his muse was always in deep mourning--his poetic gum oozed only from his favorite grave-yard. he thought "l'allegro" milton's worst performance; and declared that gray's "elegy in a country church-yard" was too light and frivolous. his life was not without its cares; but, then, he reveled in his misfortunes. he was always prepossessed with a man who wore a hatband. the owl was his favorite bird. a black cat was the only feline specimen he would admit to his sombre apartment; and his garden was stocked with yew-trees. he reveled in the charm of melancholy--he would not, if he could, be gay. his meditations raised him so great a height above his family, that little sympathy could exist between them. eternity so engaged him, that his brothers and sisters--mere phantoms--did not cost him much consideration. his youthful lines to the owl, in the course of which he called the bird in question "a solemn messenger," "a dread image of the moral darkness which surrounds us," "a welcome voice," and "a mysterious visitant," indicated the peculiar turn of his mind. his determination to be miserable was nothing short of heroic. in his twenty-second year a relation left him a modest fortune. his friends flocked about him to congratulate him; but they found him in a state of seraphic sorrow, searching out a proper rhyme to the urn in which he had poetically deposited the ashes of his benefactor. on looking over the lines he had distilled from his prostrate heart, his friends, to their astonishment, discovered that he had alluded to the bequest in question in the most contemptuous strain: why leave to one thy velvet and thy dross, whose wealth is boundless, and whose velvet's moss? so ran his poetic commentary. his boundless wealth consisted of intellectual treasures exclusively, and the sweet declaration that moss was his velvet, was meant to convey to the reader the simplicity and arcadian nature of his habits. the relation who had the assurance to leave him a fortune, was dragged remorselessly through fifty lines as a punishment for his temerity. yet, in a fit of abstraction, mr. blackbrook hurried to doctors' commons to prove the will; hereby displaying his resignation to the horrible degree of comfort which the money assured to him. it was not for him, however, to forget that life was checkered with woe, that it was a vale of tears--a brief, trite, contemptible matter. the gayety of his house and relations horrified him; they interfered, at every turn, with his melancholy mood. he sighed for the fate of byron or chatterton! why was he doomed to have his three regular meals per diem; to lie, at night, upon a feather-bed, and the recognized layers of mattresses; to have a new coat when he wanted one; to have money continually in his pocket, and to be accepted when he made an offer of marriage? the fates were obviously against him. one of his sisters fell in love. how hopefully he watched the course of her passion! how fondly he lingered near, in the expectation, the happy expectation, of a lovers' quarrel. but his sister had a sweet disposition--a mouth made to distill the gentlest and most tender accents. the courtship progressed with unusual harmony on both sides. only once did fortune appear to favor him. one evening, he observed that the lovers avoided each other, and parted coldly. now was his opportunity; and in the still midnight, when all the members of his household were in bed, he took his seat in his chamber, and, by the midnight oil, threw his soul into some plaintive lines "on a sister's sorrow." he mourned for her in heart-breaking syllables; likened her lover to an adder in an angel's path; dwelt on her quiet gray eyes, her stately proportions, and her classic face. he doomed her to years of quiet despair, and saw her fickle admirer the gayest of the gay. he concluded with the consoling intelligence, that he would go hand in hand with her along the darkened passage to the grave. his sister, however, did not avail herself of this proffered companionship, but chose rather to be reconciled, and to marry her lover. mr. blackbrook found some consolation for this disappointment in the composition of an epithalamium of the most doleful character on the occasion of his sister's marriage, in the course of which he informed her that jove's thunderbolts might be hurled at her husband's head at any period of the day; that we all must die; that the bride may be a widow on the morrow of her nuptials; and other equally cheerful truths. yet at his sister's wedding-breakfast, mr. blackbrook coquetted with the choice parts of a chicken, and drowned his sorrow in a delectable jelly. when for a short time he was betrayed into the expression of any cheerful sentiment, if he ever allowed that it was a fine day, he quickly relapsed into congenial gloom, and discovered that there might be a thunder-storm within the next half-hour. his only comfort was in the reflection that his maternal uncle's family were consumptive. here he anticipated a fine field for the exercise of his poetic gifts, and, accordingly, when his aunt was gathered to her fore-fathers, her dutiful nephew laid a sheet of blank paper upon his desk, and settled himself down to write "a dirge." he began by attributing all the virtues to her--devoting about six lines to each separate virtue. her person next engaged his attention, and he discovered, though none of her friends had ever remarked her surpassing loveliness, that her step was as the breath of the summer-wind on flowers (certainly no gardener would have trusted her upon his box-borders); that she was fresh as hebe (she always breakfasted in bed); that she had pearly teeth (her dentist has maliciously informed us that they were made of the very best ivory); and, finally, that her general deportment was most charming--so charming that mr. blackbrook never dared trust himself in her seductive presence. having proceeded thus far with his melancholy duty, the poet ate a hearty supper of the heaviest cold pudding, and--we had almost written--went to bed--but we remember that mr. blackbrook always "retired to his solitary couch." he rose, betimes, on the following morning, looking most poetically pale. his dreams had been of woe, and darkness, and death; the pudding had had the desired effect. again he placed himself at his desk, and having read over the prefatory lines which we have endeavored to describe, he threw his fragrant curl from his marble forehead, and thought of the funeral-pall, the darkened hall--of grief acute, and the unstrung lute. he put his aunt's sorrowing circle in every possible position of despair. he represented his surviving uncle as threatening to pass the serene portals of reason; he discovered that a dark tide rolled at the unhappy man's feet; that the sun itself would henceforth look dark to him; that he would never smile again; and that, in all probability, the shroud would soon enwrap his manly form. he next proceeded to describe minutely the pearly tears of his cousins, and the terrible darkness that had come over their bright, young dreams. an affecting allusion to his own unfathomable grief on the occasion, was concluded by the hope that he might soon join his sainted aunt, though he had never taken the least trouble to pay her a visit while she lived in st. john's wood. this touching dirge was printed upon mourning paper, and distributed among mr. blackbrook's friends. the death of an aunt was an affecting incident, but still it fell short of the brink of despair. mr. blackbrook's natural abiding-place was the edge of a precipice. his muse must be fed on heroic sorrows, hopeless agony, and other poetical condiments of the same serious nature. the course of modern life was too level for his impetuous spirit; but in the absence of that terrible condition to which he aspired, he caught at every incident that could nerve the pinion of his muse for grander flights. a dead fly, which he found crushed between the leaves of a book, furnished him with a theme for one of his tenderest compositions. he speculated upon the probable career of the fly--opined that it had a little world of its own, a family, and a sense of the beautiful. this effusion met with such fervent praise, that he followed it up by "thoughts on cheese-dust," in which he dived into the mysteries of these animalculæ, and calculated the myriads of lives that were sacrificed to give a momentary enjoyment to the "pampered palate of man." his attention was called, however, from these minor poetic considerations, to a matter approaching in its gravity to that heroic pitch of sorrow which he had sought so unsuccessfully hitherto. his cousin was drowned by the upsetting of a pleasure-boat. at such a calamity it was reasonable to despair--to refuse comfort--to leave his hair uncombed--to look constantly on the ground--to lose all appetite--to write flowing verse. mr. blackbrook entered upon his vocation with a full sense of its heroism. at least one hundred lines would be expected from him on so tremendous an occasion. the catastrophe was so poetical! the sea-weed might have been represented entangled in the golden tresses of the poor girl, had the accident happened only a little nearer the nore; and the print of her fair form might have been faintly traced upon "the ribbed sea-sand." this was unfortunate. in reality, the "melancholy occurrence" took place at richmond. mr. blackbrook began by calling upon the willows of richmond and its immediate vicinity to dip their tender branches in the stream, in token of their grief. mr. blackbrook, felicitously remembering that pope once lived not far from richmond, next invoked that poet's shade, and begged the loan of his melodious rhythm. but the shade in question not answering to the summons, all that remained for the sorrowing poet to do was to take down his dictionary of rhymes, and tune his own lyre to its most mournful cadences. he set to work: he called the thames a treacherous stream; he christened the wherry a bark; he declared that when the pleasure-party embarked at richmond-bridge, death, the lean fellow, was standing upon the beach with his weapon upraised. asterisks described the death; and some of his friends declared this passage the best in the poem. he then went on to inform his readers that all was over; but by this expression the reader must not infer that the dirge was brought to a conclusion: by no means. mr. blackbrook had made up his mind that his state of despair required, at least, one hundred lines to give it adequate expression. he had devoted twenty to the death of a fly--surely, then, a female cousin deserved one hundred. this logical reflection spurred him on. he pulled down the blinds, and in a gloom that suited well with his forlorn state of mind, he began a picture of his condition. with the aid of his dictionary, having asserted that the shroud enwrapped a cousin's form, he reflected that he envied the place of the winding-sheet, and was jealous of the worms. he felt that he was warming into his subject. he tried to think of the condition in which the remains of his relative would speedily be; and having carefully referred to an eminent medical work as to the length of time which the human body requires to resolve itself into its original earth (for he was precise in his statements), he proceeded to describe, with heart-rending faithfulness, the various stages of this inevitable decay. that was true poetry. he declared that the worm would crawl upon those lips that the lover had fondly pressed, and that the hand which once touched the harp so magically was now motionless forever. having brought this tragic description to a conclusion, he proceeded to number the flowers that should spring from his cousin's grave, and to promise that ----from year to year, roses shall flourish, moistened by a tear. this vow evidently eased his heart a little, and enabled him to conclude the poem in a more cheerful spirit. he wound up with the reflection, that care was the lot of humanity, and that it was his duty to bear his proportion of the common load with a patient though bruised spirit. he felt that to complete his poetic destiny he ought to wander, none knew whither, and to turn up only at most unseasonable hours, and in most solemn places. but unhappily he was informed that it was necessary he should remain on the spot for the proper management of his affairs. fate would have it so. why was he not allowed to pursue his destiny? he was one day mentally bewailing the even tenor of his way, when a few kind friends suggested that he should publish his effusions. at first he firmly refused. what was fame to him--a hopeless, despairing man on the brink of the grave! his friends, however, pressed him in the end into compliance; and in due time mr. blackbrook's "life-drops from the heart" were offered to the public for the price of ten shillings--little more than one shilling per drop. an eminent critic wrote the following opinion of our friend and his poetry: "we notice mr. blackbrook as the representative of a school--the doleful school. he draws terrible pictures; but what are his materials? he does not write from the heart, inasmuch as, if he really felt that incessant agony, which is his everlasting theme, we should find in his performances some original imagery--something with an individual stamp. we rather hold mr. blackbrook to be a very deliberate, vain, and calculating being, who takes advantage of a domestic calamity to display his knack of verse-making; who composedly turns a couplet upon the coffin of his mistress; whose sympathy and sensibility are only the ingenious masks of inordinate self-esteem. his view of the poetic is only worthy of an undertaker. he sees nature through a black-crape vail. he describes graves with the minuteness of a body-snatcher; and when he would be impressive is disgusting. you see the actor, not the poet. he admits you (for he can not help it) behind the scenes. his rhymes are not the music of a poetic faculty; but rather the jingle of a parrot. he is one of a popular school, however; and while the public buy his wares, he will continue to fashion them. materialist to the back-bone, he simpers about the littleness of human dealings and human sympathies. he who pretends to be melted with pity over the fate of a fly, would use his mother's tombstone as a writing-desk. he deals in human sorrow, as his baker deals in loaves. nervous dowagers, who love tears and 'dreadful descriptions;' who enjoy 'a good cry;' and who have the peculiar faculty of seeing the dark side of every thing, enjoy his dish of verses amazingly. to sensitive young ladies there is a terrible fascination in his inventories of the tomb and its appendages; and children are afraid to walk about in the dark, after listening to one of his effusions. the followers of his school include one or two formidable young ladies, who enter into descriptions of death--that is to say, the material part of death--with a minuteness that must excite the envy even of the most ingenious auctioneer. when bent upon a fresh composition, these terrible young poetesses, having killed a child, proceed to trace its journey to the tomb--its return to earth. how they gloat over the dire changes!--how systematically the painful portrait is proceeded with! in this they rival chinese artists. and people of ill-regulated sympathy, who, containing within them all the elements of spiritual culture, are yet affected only by sensual appeals, regard these doleful effusions as the outpourings of true human suffering. "mr. blackbrook and his disciples are hapless materialists, verse-makers without a sense of the beautiful. they are patronized by those to whom they write down; and the effect of their lucubrations is to enchain the imagination, to debase the moral capacity, to weaken that spiritual faith which disdains the horrors of the church-yard. mr. blackbrook's adventures in search of despair were undertaken, to our mind, in a cold-blooded spirit. a resolute determination to discover the gloomiest phase of every earthly matter, a longing for the applause of a foolish clique, and a confused idea that chatterton was a poet because he perished miserably, while byron owed his inspiration to his domestic unhappiness--make up that picture of a verse-writer which we have endeavored to delineate. when extraordinary vanity is allied to very ordinary ability, the combination is an unwholesome, ascetic, weak, and deformed mind: such a mind has mr. blackbrook. he endeavors to drag us into a vault, when we would regard the heavenly aspect of death. ask him to solve the great mystery, and he points to the fading corpse. his tears suggest the use of onions; and his threats of self-destruction, remind us of the rouge and indian ink of an indifferent melodramatic actor. we have no respect for his misfortunes, since we find that he esteems them only as opportunities for display: we know that despair is welcome to him. he turns his back to the sun, and rejoices to see the length of shade he can throw upon the earth. nature to him is only a vast charnel-house--so constructed that he may sing a life-long requiem. he would have us journey through life with our eyes fixed upon the ground, scenting the gases of decay. but wiser men--poets of the soul--bid us look up to heaven, nor disdain, as we raise our heads, to mark the beauty of the lily--to gather, and with hearty thanks, the fragrance of the rose." my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page ._) chapter xiii. whatever may be the ultimate success of miss jemima hazeldean's designs upon dr. riccabocca, the machiavelian sagacity with which the italian had counted upon securing the services of lenny fairfield was speedily and triumphantly established by the result. no voice of the parson's, charmed he ever so wisely, could persuade the peasant-boy to go and ask pardon of the young gentleman, to whom, because he had done as he was bid, he owed an agonizing defeat and a shameful incarceration. and, to mrs. dale's vexation, the widow took the boy's part. she was deeply offended at the unjust disgrace lenny had undergone in being put in the stocks; she shared his pride, and openly approved his spirit. nor was it without great difficulty that lenny could be induced to resume his lessons at school; nay, even to set foot beyond the precincts of his mother's holding. the point of the school at last he yielded, though sullenly; and the parson thought it better to temporize as to the more unpalatable demand. unluckily lenny's apprehensions of the mockery that awaited him in the merciless world of his village were realized. though stirn at first kept his own counsel, the tinker blabbed the whole affair. and after the search instituted for lenny on the fatal night, all attempt to hush up what had passed would have been impossible. so then stirn told his story, as the tinker had told his own; both tales were very unfavorable to leonard fairfield. the pattern boy had broken the sabbath, fought with his betters, and been well mauled into the bargain; the village lad had sided with stirn and the authorities in spying out the misdemeanors of his equals: therefore leonard fairfield, in both capacities of degraded pattern boy and baffled spy, could expect no mercy; he was ridiculed in the one, and hated in the other. it is true that, in the presence of the schoolmaster, and under the eye of mr. dale, no one openly gave vent to malignant feelings; but the moment those checks were removed, popular persecution began. some pointed and mowed at him; some cursed him for a sneak, and all shunned his society; voices were heard in the hedgerows, as he passed through the village at dusk, "who was put in the stocks? baa!" "who got a bloody nob for playing spy to nick stirn? baa!" to resist this species of aggression would have been a vain attempt for a wiser head and a colder temper than our poor pattern boy's. he took his resolution at once, and his mother approved it; and the second or third day after dr. riccabocca's return to the casino, lenny fairfield presented himself on the terrace with a little bundle in his hand. "please, sir," said he to the doctor, who was sitting cross-legged on the balustrade, with his red silk umbrella over his head. "please, sir, if you'll be good enough to take me now, and give me any hole to sleep in, i'll work for your honor night and day; and as for the wages, mother says 'just suit yourself, sir.'" "my child," said the doctor, taking lenny by the hand, and looking at him with the sagacious eye of a wizard, "i knew you would come! and giacomo is already prepared for you! as to wages, we'll talk of them by-and-by." lenny being thus settled, his mother looked for some evenings on the vacant chair, where he had so long sate in the place of her beloved mark; and the chair seemed so comfortless and desolate, thus left all to itself, that she could bear it no longer. indeed the village had grown as distasteful to her as to lenny--perhaps more so; and one morning she hailed the steward as he was trotting his hog-maned cob beside the door, and bade him tell the squire that "she would take it very kind if he would let her off the six months' notice for the land and premises she held--there were plenty to step into the place at a much better rent." "you're a fool," said the good-natured steward; "and i'm very glad you did not speak to that fellow stirn instead of to me. you've been doing extremely well here, and have the place, i may say, for nothing." "nothin' as to rent, sir, but a great deal as to feeling," said the widow. "and now lenny has gone to work with the foreign gentleman, i should like to go and live near him." "ah, yes--i heard lenny had taken himself off to the casino--more fool he; but, bless your heart, 'tis no distance--two miles or so. can't he come home every night after work?" "no, sir," exclaimed the widow almost fiercely; "he shan't come home here, to be called bad names and jeered at! he whom my dead good-man was so fond and proud of. no, sir; we poor folks have our feelings, as i said to mrs. dale, and as i will say to the squire hisself. not that i don't thank him for all favors--he be a good gentleman, if let alone; but he says he won't come near us till lenny goes and axes pardin. pardin for what, i should like to know? poor lamb! i wish you could ha' seen his nose, sir--as big as your two fists. ax pardin! if the squire had had such a nose as that, i don't think it's pardin he'd ha' been axing. but i let's the passion get the better of me--i humbly beg you'll excuse it, sir. i'm no scollard, as poor mark was, and lenny would have been, if the lord had not visited us otherways. therefore just get the squire to let me go as soon as may be; and as for the bit o' hay and what's on the grounds and orchard, the new-comer will no doubt settle that." the steward, finding no eloquence of his could induce the widow to relinquish her resolution, took her message to the squire. mr. hazeldean, who was indeed rarely offended at the boy's obstinate refusal to make the _amende honorable_ to randal leslie, at first only bestowed a hearty curse or two on the pride and ingratitude both of mother and son. it may be supposed, however, that his second thoughts were more gentle, since that evening, though he did not go himself to the widow, he sent his "harry." now, though harry was sometimes austere and _brusque_ enough on her own account, and in such business as might especially be transacted between herself and the cottagers, yet she never appeared as the delegate of her lord except in the capacity of a herald of peace and mediating angel. it was with good heart, too, that she undertook this mission, since, as we have seen, both mother and son were great favorites of hers. she entered the cottage with the friendliest beam in her bright blue eye, and it was with the softest tone of her frank, cordial voice that she accosted the widow. but she was no more successful than the steward had been. the truth is, that i don't believe the haughtiest duke in the three kingdoms is really so proud as your plain english rural peasant, nor half so hard to propitiate and deal with when his sense of dignity is ruffled. nor are there many of my own literary brethren (thin-skinned creatures though we are) so sensitively alive to the public opinion, wisely despised by dr. riccabocca, as that same peasant. he can endure a good deal of contumely sometimes, it is true, from his superiors, (though, thank heaven! _that_ he rarely meets with unjustly); but to be looked down upon, and mocked, and pointed at by his own equals--his own little world--cuts him to the soul. and if you can succeed in breaking this pride, and destroying this sensitiveness, then he is a lost being. he can never recover his self-esteem, and you have chucked him half way--a stolid, inert, sullen victim--to the perdition of the prison or the convict-ship. of this stuff was the nature both of the widow and her son. had the honey of plato flowed from the tongue of mrs. hazeldean, it could not have turned into sweetness the bitter spirit upon which it descended. but mrs. hazeldean, though an excellent woman, was rather a bluff, plain-spoken one--and, after all, she had some little feeling for the son of a gentleman, and a decayed fallen gentleman, who, even by lenny's account, had been assailed without any intelligible provocation; nor could she, with her strong common sense, attach all the importance which mrs. fairfield did to the unmannerly impertinence of a few young cubs, which, she said truly, "would soon die away if no notice was taken of it." the widow's mind was made up, and mrs. hazeldean departed--with much chagrin and some displeasure. mrs. fairfield, however, tacitly understood that the request she had made was granted, and early one morning her door was found locked, the key left at a neighbor's to be given to the steward; and, on farther inquiry, it was ascertained that her furniture and effects had been removed by the errand-cart in the dead of the night. lenny had succeeded in finding a cottage, on the road-side, not far from the casino; and there, with a joyous face, he waited to welcome his mother to breakfast, and show how he had spent the night in arranging her furniture. "parson!" cried the squire, when all this news came upon him, as he was walking arm-in-arm with mr. dale to inspect some proposed improvement in the alms-house, "this is all your fault. why did not you go and talk to that brute of a boy, and that dolt of a woman? you've got 'soft sawder enough,' as frank calls it in his new-fashioned slang." "as if i had not talked myself hoarse to both!" said the parson, in a tone of reproachful surprise at the accusation. "but it was in vain! o squire, if you had taken my advice about the stocks--_quieta non movere_!" "bother!" said the squire. "i suppose i am to be held up as a tyrant, a nero, a richard the third, or a grand inquisitor, merely for having things smart and tidy! stocks, indeed!--your friend rickeybockey said he was never more comfortable in his life--quite enjoyed sitting there. and what did not hurt rickeybockey's dignity (a very gentleman-like man he is, when he pleases) ought to be no such great matter to master leonard fairfield. but 'tis no use talking! what's to be done now? the woman must not starve, and i'm sure she can't live out of rickeybockey's wages to lenny (by the way, i hope he don't board him upon his and jackeymo's leavings: i hear they dine upon newts and sticklebacks--faugh!). i'll tell you what, parson, now i think of it--at the back of the cottage which she has taken there are some fields of capital land just vacant. rickeybockey wants to have 'em, and sounded me as to the rent when he was at the hall. i only half promised him the refusal. and he must give up four or five acres of the best land round the cottage to the widow--just enough for her to manage--and she can keep a dairy. if she wants capital, i'll lend her some in your name--only don't tell stirn; and as for the rent, we'll talk of that when we see how she gets on, thankless, obstinate jade that she is! you see," added the squire, as if he felt there was some apology due for this generosity to an object whom he professed to consider so ungrateful, "her husband was a faithful servant, and so--i wish you would not stand there staring me out of countenance, but go down to the woman at once, or stirn will have let the land to rickeybockey, as sure as a gun. and hark ye, dale, perhaps you can contrive, if the woman is so cursedly stiff-backed, not to say the land is mine, or that it is any favor i want to do her--or, in short, manage it as you can for the best." still even this charitable message failed. the widow knew that the land was the squire's, and worth a good £ an acre. "she thanked him humbly for that and all favors; but she could not afford to buy cows, and she did not wish to be beholden to any one for her living. and lenny was well off at mr. rickeybockey's, and coming on wonderfully in the garden way; and she did not doubt she could get some washing--at all events, her haystack would bring in a good bit of money, and she should do nicely, thank their honors." nothing further could be done in the direct way, but the remark about the washing suggested some mode of indirectly benefiting the widow. and a little time afterward, the sole laundress in that immediate neighborhood happening to die, a hint from the squire obtained from the landlady of the inn opposite the casino such custom as she had to bestow, which at times was not inconsiderable. and what with lenny's wages (whatever that mysterious item might be), the mother and son contrived to live without exhibiting any of those physical signs of fast and abstinence which riccabocca and his valet gratuitously afforded to the student in animal anatomy. chapter xiv. of all the wares and commodities in exchange and barter, wherein so mainly consists the civilization of our modern world, there is not one which is so carefully weighed--so accurately measured--so plumbed and gauged--so doled and scraped--so poured out in _minima_ and balanced with scruples--as that necessary of social commerce called "an apology!" if the chemists were half so careful in vending their poisons, there would be a notable diminution in the yearly average of victims to arsenic and oxalic acid. but, alas, in the matter of apology, it is not from the excess of the dose, but the timid, niggardly, miserly manner in which it is dispensed, that poor humanity is hurried off to the styx! how many times does a life depend on the exact proportions of an apology! is it a hairbreadth too short to cover the scratch for which you want it? make your will--you are a dead man! a life, do i say?--a hecatomb of lives! how many wars would have been prevented, how many thrones would be standing, dynasties flourishing--commonwealths brawling round a _bema_, or fitting out galleys for corn and cotton--if an inch or two more of apology had been added to the proffered ell! but then that plaguy jealous, suspicious old vinegar-faced honor, and her partner pride--as penny-wise and pound-foolish a she-skinflint as herself--have the monopoly of the article. and what with the time they lose in adjusting their spectacles, hunting in the precise shelf for the precise quality demanded, then (quality found) the haggling as to quantum--considering whether it should be apothecary's weight or avoirdupois, or english measure or flemish--and, finally, the hullaboloo they make if the customer is not perfectly satisfied with the monstrous little he gets for his money--i don't wonder, for my part, how one loses temper and patience, and sends pride, honor, and apology, all to the devil. aristophanes, in his "comedy of _peace_," insinuates a beautiful allegory by only suffering that goddess, though in fact she is his heroine, to appear as a mute. she takes care never to open her lips. the shrewd greek knew very well that she would cease to be peace, if she once began to chatter. wherefore, o reader, if ever you find your pump under the iron heel of another man's boot, heaven grant that you may hold your tongue, and not make things past all endurance and forgiveness by bawling out for an apology! chapter xv. but the squire and his son, frank, were large-hearted, generous creatures in the article of apology, as in all things less skimpingly dealt out. and seeing that leonard fairfield would offer no plaster to randal leslie, they made amends for his stinginess by their own prodigality. the squire accompanied his son to rood hall, and, none of the family choosing to be at home, the squire, in his own hand, and from his own head, indited and composed an epistle which might have satisfied all the wounds which the dignity of the leslies had ever received. this letter of apology ended with a hearty request that randal would come and spend a few days with his son. frank's epistle was to the same purport, only more etonian and less legible. it was some days before randal's replies to these epistles were received. the replies bore the address of a village near london, and stated that the writer was now reading with a tutor preparatory to entrance at oxford, and could not, therefore, accept the invitation extended to him. for the rest, randal expressed himself with good sense, though not with much generosity. he excused his participation in the vulgarity of such a conflict by a bitter but short allusion to the obstinacy and ignorance of the village boor; and did not do what you, my kind reader, certainly would have done under similar circumstances, viz., intercede in behalf of a brave and unfortunate antagonist. most of us like a foe better after we have fought him--that is, if we are the conquering party; this was not the case with randal leslie. there, so far as the etonian was concerned, the matter rested. and the squire, irritated that he could not repair whatever wrong that young gentleman had sustained, no longer felt a pang of regret as he passed by mrs. fairfield's deserted cottage. chapter xvi. lenny fairfield continued to give great satisfaction to his new employers, and to profit, in many respects, by the familiar kindness with which he was treated. riccabocca, who valued himself on penetrating into character, had, from the first, seen that much stuff of no common quality and texture was to be found in the disposition and mind of the english village boy. on farther acquaintance, he perceived that, under a child's innocent simplicity, there were the workings of an acuteness that required but development and direction. he ascertained that the pattern boy's progress at the village-school proceeded from something more than mechanical docility and readiness of comprehension. lenny had a keen thirst for knowledge, and through all the disadvantages of birth and circumstance, there were the indications of that natural genius which converts disadvantages themselves into stimulants. still, with the germs of good qualities lay the embryos of those which, difficult to separate, and hard to destroy, often mar the produce of the soil. with a remarkable and generous pride in self-repute, there was some stubbornness; with great sensibility to kindness, there was also strong reluctance to forgive affront. this mixed nature in an uncultivated peasant's breast interested riccabocca, who, though long secluded from the commerce of mankind, still looked upon man as the most various and entertaining volume which philosophical research can explore. he soon accustomed the boy to the tone of a conversation generally subtle and suggestive; and lenny's language and ideas became insensibly less rustic and more refined. then riccabocca selected from his library, small as it was, books that, though elementary, were of a higher cast than lenny could have found within his reach at hazeldean. riccabocca knew the english language well, better in grammar, construction, and genius, than many a not ill-educated englishman; for he had studied it with the minuteness with which a scholar studies a dead language, and amidst his collection he had many of the books which had formerly served him for that purpose. these were the first works he had lent to lenny. meanwhile jackeymo imparted to the boy many secrets in practical gardening and minute husbandry, for at that day farming in england (some favored counties and estates excepted) was far below the nicety to which the art has been immemorially carried in the north of italy--where, indeed, you may travel for miles and miles as through a series of market-gardens--so that, all these things considered, leonard fairfield might be said to have made a change for the better. yet, in truth, and looking below the surface, that might be fair matter of doubt. for, the same reason which had induced the boy to fly his native village, he no longer repaired to the church of hazeldean. the old intimate intercourse between him and the parson became necessarily suspended, or bounded to an occasional kindly visit from the latter--visits which grew more rare, and less familiar, as he found his former pupil in no want of his services, and wholly deaf to his mild entreaties to forget and forgive the past, and come at least to his old seat in the parish church. lenny still went to church--a church a long way off in another parish--but the sermons did not do him the same good as parson dale's had done; and the clergyman, who had his own flock to attend to, did not condescend, as parson dale would have done, to explain what seemed obscure, and enforce what was profitable, in private talk, with that stray lamb from another's fold. now, i question much if all dr. riccabocca's sage maxims, though they were often very moral, and generally very wise, served to expand the peasant boy's native good qualities, and correct his bad, half so well as the few simple words, not at all indebted to machiavelli, which leonard had once reverently listened to, when he stood by his father's chair, yielded up for the moment to the good parson, worthy to sit in it; for mr. dale had a heart in which all the fatherless of the parish found their place. nor was this loss of tender, intimate, spiritual lore so counterbalanced by the greater facilities for purely intellectual instruction, as modern enlightenment might presume. for, without disputing the advantage of knowledge in a general way, knowledge, in itself, is not friendly to content. its tendency, of course, is to increase the desires, to dissatisfy us with what is, in order to urge progress to what may be; and, in that progress, what unnoticed martyrs among the many must fall, baffled and crushed by the way! to how large a number will be given desires they will never realize, dissatisfaction of the lot from which they will never rise! _allons!_ one is viewing the dark side of the question. it is all the fault of that confounded riccabocca, who has already caused lenny fairfield to lean gloomily on his spade, and, after looking round, and seeing no one near him, groaned out querulously: "and am i born to dig a potato-ground?" _pardieu_, my friend lenny, if you live to be seventy, and ride in your carriage; and by the help of a dinner-pill, digest a spoonful of curry, you may sigh to think what a relish there was in potatoes, roasted in ashes, after you had digged them out of that ground with your own stout young hands. dig on, lenny fairfield, dig on! dr. riccabocca will tell you that there was once an illustrious personage[ ] who made experience of two very different occupations--one was ruling men, the other was planting cabbages; he thought planting cabbages much the pleasanter of the two! chapter xvii. dr. riccabocca had secured lenny fairfield and might, therefore, be considered to have ridden his hobby in the great whirligig with adroitness and success. but miss jemima was still driving round in her car, handling the reins, and flourishing the whip, without apparently having got an inch nearer to the flying form of dr. riccabocca. indeed, that excellent and only too-susceptible spinster, with all her experience of the villainy of man, had never conceived the wretch to be so thoroughly beyond the reach of redemption as when dr. riccabocca took his leave, and once more interred himself amidst the solitudes of the casino, without having made any formal renunciation of his criminal celibacy. for some days she shut herself up in her own chamber, and brooded with more than her usual gloomy satisfaction on the certainty of the approaching crash. indeed, many signs of that universal calamity which, while the visit of riccabocca lasted, she had permitted herself to consider ambiguous, now became luminously apparent. even the newspaper, which, during that credulous and happy period, had given half a column to births and marriages, now bore an ominously-long catalogue of deaths; so that it seemed as if the whole population had lost heart, and had no chance of repairing its daily losses. the leading articles spoke, with the obscurity of a pythian, of an impending crisis. monstrous turnips sprouted out from the paragraphs devoted to general news. cows bore calves with two heads, whales were stranded in the humber, showers of frogs descended in the high-street of cheltenham. all these symptoms of the world's decrepitude and consummation, which by the side of the fascinating riccabocca might admit of some doubt as to their origin and cause, now conjoined with the worst of all, viz.--the frightfully progressive wickedness of man--left to miss jemima no ray of hope save that afforded by the reflection that she could contemplate the wreck of matter without a single sentiment of regret. mrs. dale, however, by no means shared the despondency of her fair friend, and, having gained access to miss jemima's chamber, succeeded, though not without difficulty, in her kindly attempts to cheer the drooping spirits of that female misanthropist. nor, in her benevolent desire to speed the car of miss jemima to its hymeneal goal, was mrs. dale so cruel toward her male friend, dr. riccabocca, as she seemed to her husband. for mrs. dale was a woman of shrewdness and penetration, as most quick-tempered women are; and she knew that miss jemima was one of those excellent young ladies who are likely to value a husband in proportion to the difficulty of obtaining him. in fact, my readers of both sexes must often have met, in the course of their experience, with that peculiar sort of feminine disposition, which requires the warmth of the conjugal hearth to develop all its native good qualities; nor is it to be blamed overmuch if, innocently aware of this tendency in its nature, it turns toward what is best fitted for its growth and improvement, by laws akin to those which make the sunflower turn to the sun, or the willow to the stream. ladies of this disposition, permanently thwarted in their affectionate bias, gradually languish away into intellectual inanition, or sprout out into those abnormal eccentricities which are classed under the general name of "oddity" or "character." but, once admitted to their proper soil, it is astonishing what healthful improvement takes place--how the poor heart, before starved and stinted of nourishment, throws out its suckers, and bursts into bloom and fruit. and thus many a belle from whom the beaux have stood aloof, only because the puppies think she could be had for the asking, they see afterward settled down into true wife and fond mother, with amaze at their former disparagement, and a sigh at their blind hardness of heart. in all probability, mrs. dale took this view of the subject; and certainly in addition to all the hitherto dormant virtues which would be awakened in miss jemima when fairly mrs. riccabocca, she counted somewhat upon the mere worldly advantage which such a match would bestow upon the exile. so respectable a connection with one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most popular families in the shire, would in itself give him a position not to be despised by a poor stranger in the land; and though the interest of miss jemima's dowry might not be much, regarded in the light of english pounds (not milanese _lire_), still it would suffice to prevent that gradual progress of dematerialization which the lengthened diet upon minnows and sticklebacks had already made apparent in the fine and slow-evanishing form of the philosopher. like all persons convinced of the expediency of a thing, mrs. dale saw nothing wanting but opportunities to insure its success. and that these might be forthcoming, she not only renewed with greater frequency, and more urgent instance than ever, her friendly invitations to drink tea and spend the evening, but she artfully so chafed the squire on his sore point of hospitality, that the doctor received weekly a pressing solicitation to dine and sleep at the hall. at first the italian pished and grunted, and said _cospetto_, and _per bacco_, and _diavolo_, and tried to creep out of so much proffered courtesy. but, like all single gentlemen, he was a little under the tyrannical influence of his faithful servant; and jackeymo, though he could bear starving as well as his master when necessary, still, when he had the option, preferred roast beef and plum-pudding. moreover, that vain and incautious confidence of riccabocca, touching the vast sum at his command, and with no heavier drawback than that of so amiable a lady as miss jemima--who had already shown him (jackeymo) many little delicate attentions--had greatly whetted the cupidity which was in the servant's italian nature: a cupidity the more keen because, long debarred its legitimate exercise on his own mercenary interests, he carried it all to the account of his master's! thus tempted by his enemy, and betrayed by his servant, the unfortunate riccabocca fell, though with eyes not unblinded, into the hospitable snares extended for the destruction of his--celibacy! he went often to the parsonage, often to the hall, and by degrees the sweets of the social domestic life, long denied him, began to exercise their enervating charm upon the stoicism of our poor exile. frank had now returned to eton. an unexpected invitation had carried off captain higginbotham to pass a few weeks at bath with a distant relation, who had lately returned from india, and who, as rich as croesus, felt so estranged and solitary in his native isle that, when the captain "claimed kindred there," to his own amaze "he had his claims allowed;" while a very protracted sitting of parliament still delayed in london the squire's habitual visitors in the later summer; so that--a chasm thus made in his society--mr. hazeldean welcomed with no hollow cordiality the diversion or distraction he found in the foreigner's companionship. thus, with pleasure to all parties, and strong hopes to the two female conspirators, the intimacy between the casino and hall rapidly thickened; but still not a word resembling a distinct proposal did dr. riccabocca breathe. and still, if such an idea obtruded itself on his mind, it was chased therefrom with so determined a _diavolo_ that, perhaps, if not the end of the world, at least the end of miss jemima's tenure in it, might have approached, and seen her still miss jemima, but for a certain letter with a foreign post-mark that reached the doctor one tuesday morning. chapter xviii. the servant saw that something had gone wrong, and, under pretense of syringing the orange-trees, he lingered near his master, and peered through the sunny leaves upon riccabocca's melancholy brows. the doctor sighed heavily. nor did he, as was his wont, after some such sigh, mechanically take up that dear comforter, the pipe. but though the tobacco-pouch lay by his side on the balustrade, and the pipe stood against the wall between his knees, childlike lifting up its lips to the customary caress--he heeded neither the one nor the other, but laid the letter silently on his lap, and fixed his eyes upon the ground. "it must be bad news, indeed!" thought jackeymo, and desisted from his work. approaching his master, he took up the pipe and the tobacco-pouch, and filled the bowl slowly, glancing all the while to that dark, musing face on which, when abandoned by the expression of intellectual vivacity or the exquisite smile of italian courtesy, the deep downward lines revealed the characters of sorrow. jackeymo did not venture to speak; but the continued silence of his master disturbed him much. he laid that peculiar tinder which your smokers use upon the steel, and struck the spark--still not a word, nor did riccabocca stretch forth his hand. "i never knew him in this taking before," thought jackeymo; and delicately he insinuated the neck of the pipe into the nerveless fingers of the hand that lay supine on those quiet knees--the pipe fell to the ground. jackeymo crossed himself, and began praying to his sainted namesake with great fervor. the doctor rose slowly, and, as if with effort, he walked once or twice to and fro the terrace; and then he halted abruptly, and said, "friend!" "blessed monsignore san giacomo, i knew thou wouldst hear me!" cried the servant; and he raised his master's hand to his lips, then abruptly turned away and wiped his eyes.--"friend," repeated riccabocca, and this time with a tremulous emphasis, and in the softest tone of a voice never wholly without the music of the sweet south, "i would talk to thee of my child." chapter xix. "the letter, then, relates to the signorina. she is well?" "yes, she is well now. she is in our native italy." jackeymo raised his eyes involuntarily toward the orange-trees, and the morning breeze swept by and bore to him the odor of their blossoms. "those are sweet even here, with care," said he, pointing to the trees. "i think i have said that before to the padrone." but riccabocca was now looking again at the letter, and did not notice either the gesture or the remark of his servant. "my aunt is no more!" said he, after a pause. "we will pray for her soul!" answered jackeymo, solemnly. "but she was very old, and had been a long time ailing. let it not grieve the padrone too keenly: at that age, and with those infirmities, death comes as a friend." "peace be to her dust!" returned the italian. "if she had her faults, be they now forgotten forever; and in the hour of my danger and distress, she sheltered my infant! that shelter is destroyed. this letter is from the priest, her confessor. you know that she had nothing at her own disposal to bequeath to my child, and her property passes to the male heir--mine enemy." "traitor!" muttered jackeymo; and his right hand seemed to feel for the weapon which the italians of lower rank often openly wear in their girdles. "the priest," resumed riccabocca, calmly, "has rightly judged in removing my child as a guest from the house in which my enemy enters as lord." "and where is the signorina?" "with that poor priest. see, giacomo--here, here--this is her handwriting at the end of the letter--the first lines she ever yet traced to me." jackeymo took off his hat, and looked reverently on the large characters of a child's writing. but large as they were, they seemed indistinct, for the paper was blistered with the child's tears; and on the place where they had not fallen, there was a round fresh moist stain of the tear that had dropped from the lids of the father. riccabocca renewed, "the priest recommends a convent." "to the devil with the priest!" cried the servant; then, crossing himself rapidly, he added, "i did not mean that, monsignore san giacomo--forgive me! but your excellency[ ] does not think of making a nun of his only child!" "and yet why not?" said riccabocca, mournfully; "what can i give her in the world? is the land of the stranger a better refuge than the home of peace in her native clime?" "in the land of the stranger beats her father's heart!" "and if that beat were stilled, what then? ill fares the life that a single death can bereave of all. in a convent at least (and the priest's influence can obtain her that asylum among her equals and amidst her sex) she is safe from trial and from penury--to her grave." "penury! just see how rich we shall be when we take those fields at michaelmas." "_pazzie!_" (follies) said riccabocca, listlessly. "are these suns more serene than ours, or the soil more fertile? yet in our own italy, saith the proverb, 'he who sows land reaps more care than corn.' it were different," continued the father, after a pause, and in a more irresolute tone, "if i had some independence, however small, to count on--nay, if among all my tribe of dainty relatives there were but one female who would accompany violante to the exile's hearth--ishmael had his hagar. but how can we two rough-bearded men provide for all the nameless wants and cares of a frail female child? and she has been so delicately reared--the woman-child needs the fostering hand and tender eye of a woman." "and with a word," said jackeymo, resolutely, "the padrone might secure to his child all that he needs, to save her from the sepulchre of a convent; and ere the autumn leaves fall, she might be sitting on his knee. padrone, do not think that you can conceal from me the truth, that you love your child better than all things in the world--now the patria is as dead to you as the dust of your fathers--and your heart-strings would crack with the effort to tear her from them, and consign her to a convent. padrone, never again to hear her voice--never again to see her face! those little arms that twined round your neck that dark night, when we fled fast for life and freedom, and you said, as you felt their clasp, 'friend, all is not yet lost!'" "giacomo!" exclaimed the father, reproachfully, and his voice seemed to choke him. riccabocca turned away, and walked restlessly to and fro the terrace; then, lifting his arms with a wild gesture as he still continued his long, irregular strides, he muttered, "yes, heaven is my witness that i could have borne reverse and banishment without a murmur, had i permitted myself that young partner in exile and privation. heaven is my witness that, if i hesitate now, it is because i would not listen to my own selfish heart. yet never, never to see her again--my child! and it was but as the infant that i beheld her! o friend, friend--" (and, stopping short with a burst of uncontrollable emotion, he bowed his head upon his servant's shoulder;) "thou knowest what i have endured and suffered at my hearth, as in my country; the wrong, the perfidy, the--the--" his voice again failed him; he clung to his servant's breast, and his whole frame shook. "but your child, the innocent one--think now only of her!" faltered giacomo, struggling with his own sobs. "true, only of her," replied the exile, raising his face--"only of her. put aside thy thoughts for myself, friend--counsel me. if i were to send for violante, and if, transplanted to these keen airs, she drooped and died--look, look--the priest says that she needs such tender care; or if i myself were summoned from the world, to leave her in it alone, friendless, homeless, breadless perhaps, at the age of woman's sharpest trial against temptation; would she not live to mourn the cruel egotism that closed on her infant innocence the gates of the house of god?" giacomo was appalled by this appeal; and indeed riccabocca had never before thus reverently spoken of the cloister. in his hours of philosophy, he was wont to sneer at monks and nuns, priesthood and superstition. but now, in that hour of emotion, the old religion reclaimed her empire; and the skeptical, world-wise man, thinking only of his child, spoke and felt with a child's simple faith. chapter xx. "but again, i say," murmured jackeymo, scarce audibly, and after a long silence, "if the padrone would make up his mind--to marry!" he expected that his master would start up in his customary indignation at such a suggestion--nay, he might not have been sorry so to have changed the current of feeling; but the poor italian only winced slightly, and mildly withdrawing himself from his servant's supporting arm, again paced the terrace, but this time quietly and in silence. a quarter of an hour thus passed. "give me the pipe," said p. riccabocca, passing into the belvidere. jackeymo again struck the spark, and, wonderfully relieved at the padrone's return to his usual adviser, mentally besought his sainted namesake to bestow a double portion of soothing wisdom on the benignant influences of the weed. chapter xxi. dr. riccabocca had been some little time in the solitude of the belvidere, when lenny fairfield, not knowing that his employer was therein, entered to lay down a book which the doctor had lent him, with injunctions to leave on a certain table when done with. riccabocca looked up at the sound of the young peasant's step. "i beg your honor's pardon--i did not know--" "never mind; lay the book there. i wish to speak with you. you look well, my child; this air agrees with you as well as that of hazeldean?" "oh, yes, sir." "yet it is higher ground, more exposed?" "that can hardly be, sir," said lenny; "there are many plants grow here which don't flourish at the squire's. the hill yonder keeps off the east wind, and the place lays to the south." "lies, not _lays_, lenny. what are the principal complaints in these parts?" "eh, sir?" "i mean what maladies, what diseases?" "i never heard tell of any, sir, except the rheumatism." "no low fevers? no consumption?" "never heard of them, sir." riccabocca drew a long breath, as if relieved. "that seems a very kind family at the hall." "i have nothing to say against it," answered lenny, bluntly. "i have not been treated justly. but as that book says, sir, 'it is not every one who comes into the world with a silver spoon in his mouth.'" little thought the doctor that those wise maxims may leave sore thoughts behind them. he was too occupied with the subject most at his own heart to think then of what was in lenny fairfield's. "yes; a kind, english, domestic family. did you see much of miss hazeldean?" "not so much as of the lady." "is she liked in the village, think you?" "miss jemima? yes. she never did harm. her little dog bit me once--she did not ask me to beg its pardon, she asked mine! she's a very nice young lady; the girls say she's very affable: and," added lenny with a smile, "there are always more weddings going on when she's down at the hall." "oh!" said riccabocca. then, after a long whiff, "did you ever see her play with the little children? is she fond of children, do you think?" "lord, sir, you guess every thing. she's never so pleased as when she's playing with the babies." "humph!" grunted riccabocca. "babies--well, that's womanlike. i don't mean exactly babies, but when they're older--little girls." "indeed, sir, i dare say; but," said lenny, primly, "i never as yet kept company with the little girls." "quite right, lenny; be equally discreet all your life. mrs. dale is very intimate with miss hazeldean--more than with the squire's lady. why is that, think you?" "well, sir," said leonard, shrewdly, "mrs. dale has her little tempers, though she's a very good lady; and madam hazeldean is rather high, and has a spirit. but miss jemima is so soft: any one could live with miss jemima, as joe and the servants say at the hall." "indeed! get my hat out of the parlor, and--just bring a clothes-brush, lenny. a fine sunny day for a walk." after this most mean and dishonorable inquisition into the character and popular repute of miss hazeldean, signore riccabocca seemed as much cheered up and elated as if he had committed some very noble action; and he walked forth in the direction of the hall with a far lighter and livelier step than that with which he had paced the terrace. "monsignore san giacomo, by thy help and the pipe's, the padrone shall have his child!" muttered the servant, looking up from the garden. chapter xxii. yet dr. riccabocca was not rash. the man who wants his wedding-garment to fit him must allow plenty of time for the measure. but, from that day, the italian notably changed his manner toward miss hazeldean. he ceased that profusion of compliment in which he had hitherto carried off in safety all serious meaning. for indeed the doctor considered that compliments, to a single gentleman, were what the inky liquid it dispenses is to the cuttle-fish, that by obscuring the water, sails away from its enemy. neither did he, as before, avoid prolonged conversations with that young lady, and contrive to escape from all solitary rambles by her side. on the contrary, he now sought every occasion to be in her society; and, entirely dropping the language of gallantry, he assumed something of the earnest tone of friendship. he bent down his intellect to examine and plumb her own. to use a very homely simile, he blew away that froth which there is on the surface of mere acquaintanceships, especially with the opposite sex; and which, while it lasts, scarce allows you to distinguish between small beer and double x. apparently dr. riccabocca was satisfied with his scrutiny--at all events, under that froth there was no taste of bitter. the italian might not find any great strength of intellect in miss jemima, but he found that, disentangled from many little whims and foibles--which he had himself the sense to perceive were harmless enough if they lasted, and not so absolutely constitutional but what they might be removed by a tender hand--miss hazeldean had quite enough sense to comprehend the plain duties of married life; and if the sense could fail, it found a substitute in good old homely english principles and the instincts of amiable kindly feelings. i know not how it is, but your very clever man never seems to care so much as your less gifted mortals for cleverness in his helpmate. your scholars, and poets, and ministers of state, are more often than not found assorted with exceedingly humdrum good sort of women, and apparently like them all the better for their deficiencies. just see how happily racine lived with his wife, and what an angel he thought her, and yet she had never read his plays. certainly goethe never troubled the lady who called him "mr. privy councilor" with whims about "monads," and speculations on "color," nor those stiff metaphysical problems on which one breaks one's shins in the second part of the faust. probably it may be that such great geniuses--knowing that, as compared with themselves, there is little difference between your clever woman and your humdrum woman--merge at once all minor distinctions, relinquish all attempts that could not but prove unsatisfactory, at sympathy in hard intellectual pursuits, and are quite satisfied to establish that tie which, after all, best resists wear and tear--viz., the tough household bond between one human heart and another. at all events, this, i suspect, was the reasoning of dr. riccabocca, when one morning, after a long walk with miss hazeldean, he muttered to himself, "duro con duro non fece mai buon muro." which may bear the paraphrase, "bricks without mortar would make a very bad wall." there was quite enough in miss jemima's disposition to make excellent mortar: the doctor took the bricks to himself. when his examination was concluded, our philosopher symbolically evinced the result he had arrived at by a very simple proceeding on his part--which would have puzzled you greatly if you had not paused, and meditated thereon, till you saw all that it implied. _dr. riccabocca took off his spectacles!_ he wiped them carefully, put them into their shagreen case, and locked them in his bureau: that is to say, he left off wearing his spectacles. you will observe that there was a wonderful depth of meaning in that critical symptom, whether it be regarded as a sign outward, positive, and explicit; or a sign metaphysical, mystical, and esoteric. for, as to the last--it denoted that the task of the spectacles was over; that, when a philosopher has made up his mind to marry, it is better henceforth to be short-sighted--nay, even somewhat purblind--than to be always scrutinizing the domestic felicity, to which he is about to resign himself, through a pair of cold, unillusory barnacles. and for the things beyond the hearth, if he can not see without spectacles, he is not about to ally to his own defective vision a good sharp pair of eyes, never at fault where his interests are concerned? on the other hand, regarded positively, categorically, and explicitly, dr. riccabocca, by laying aside those spectacles, signified that he was about to commence that happy initiation of courtship when every man, be he ever so much a philosopher, wishes to look as young and as handsome as time and nature will allow. vain task to speed the soft language of the eyes through the medium of these glassy interpreters! i remember, for my own part, that once on a visit to adelaide, i was in great danger of falling in love--with a young lady, too, who would have brought me a very good fortune--when she suddenly produced from her reticule a very neat pair of no. , set in tortoise-shell, and, fixing upon me their gorgon gaze, froze the astonished cupid into stone! and i hold it a great proof of the wisdom of riccabocca, and of his vast experience in mankind, that he was not above the consideration of what your pseudo-sages would have regarded as foppish and ridiculous trifles. it argued all the better for that happiness which is our being's end and aim, that, in condescending to play the lover, he put those unbecoming petrifiers under lock and key. and certainly, now the spectacles were abandoned, it was impossible to deny that the italian had remarkably handsome eyes. even through the spectacles, or lifted a little above them, they were always bright and expressive; but without those adjuncts, the blaze was soft and more tempered: they had that look which the french call _velouté_, or velvety; and he appeared altogether ten years younger. if our ulysses, thus rejuvenated by his minerva, has not fully made up his mind to make a penelope of miss jemima, all i can say is, that he is worse than polyphemus, who was only an anthropophagos. he preys upon the weaker sex, and is a gynophagite! chapter xxiii. "and you commission me, then, to speak to our dear jemima?" said mrs. dale, joyfully, and without any bitterness whatever in that "dear." dr. riccabocca.--"nay, before speaking to miss hazeldean, it would surely be proper to know how far my addresses would be acceptable to the family." mrs. dale.--"ah!" dr. riccabocca.--"the squire is of course the head of the family." mrs. dale (absent and _distrait_).--"the squire--yes, very true--quite proper." (then looking up with _naïveté_)--"can you believe me, i never thought of the squire. and he is such an odd man, and has so many english prejudices, that really--dear me, how vexatious that it should never once have occurred to me that mr. hazeldean had a voice in the matter. indeed, the relationship is so distant--it is not like being her father; and jemima is of age, and can do as she pleases; and--but as you say, it is quite proper that he should be consulted, as the head of the family." dr. riccabocca.--"and you think that the squire of hazeldean might reject my alliance! pshaw! that's a grand word indeed; i mean, that he might object very reasonably to his cousin's marriage with a foreigner, of whom he can know nothing, except that which in all countries is disreputable, and is said in this to be criminal--poverty." mrs. dale (kindly).--"you mistake us poor english people, and you wrong the squire, heaven bless him! for we were poor enough when he singled out my husband from a hundred for the minister of his parish, for his neighbor and his friend. i will speak to him fearlessly--" dr. riccabocca.--"and frankly. and now i have used that word, let me go on with the confession which your kindly readiness, my fair friend, somewhat interrupted. i said that if i might presume to think my addresses would be acceptable to miss hazeldean and her family, i was too sensible of her amiable qualities not to--not to--" mrs. dale (with demure archness).--"not to be the happiest of men--that's the customary english phrase, doctor." riccabocca (gallantly).--"there can not be a better. but," continued he, seriously, "i wish it first to be understood that i have--been married before." mrs. dale (astonished).--"married before!" riccabocca.--"and that i have an only child, dear to me--inexpressibly dear. that child, a daughter, has hitherto lived abroad; circumstances now render it desirable that she should make her home with me. and i own fairly that nothing has so attached me to miss hazeldean, nor so induced my desire for our matrimonial connection, as my belief that she has the heart and the temper to become a kind mother to my little one." mrs. dale (with feeling and warmth).--"you judge her rightly there." riccabocca.--"now, in pecuniary matters, as you may conjecture from my mode of life, i have nothing to offer to miss hazeldean correspondent with her own fortune, whatever that may be." mrs. dale.--"that difficulty is obviated by settling miss hazeldean's fortune on herself, which is customary in such cases." dr. riccabocca's face lengthened. "and my child, then?" said he, feelingly. there was something in that appeal so alien from all sordid and merely personal mercenary motives, that mrs. dale could not have had the heart to make the very rational suggestion--"but that child is not jemima's, and you may have children by her." she was touched, and replied hesitatingly--"but, from what you and jemima may jointly possess, you can save something annually--you can insure your life for your child. we did so when our poor child whom we lost was born," (the tears rushed into mrs. dale's eyes); "and i fear that charles still insures his life for my sake, though heaven knows that--that--" the tears burst out. that little heart, quick and petulant thought it was, had not a fibre of the elastic muscular tissues which are mercifully bestowed on the hearts of predestined widows. dr. riccabocca could not pursue the subject of life insurances further. but the idea--which had never occurred to the foreigner before, though so familiar to us english people, when only possessed of a life income--pleased him greatly. i will do him the justice to say, that he preferred it to the thought of actually appropriating to himself and his child a portion of miss hazeldean's dower. shortly afterward he took his leave, and mrs. dale hastened to seek her husband in his study, inform him of the success of her matrimonial scheme, and consult him as to the chance of the squire's acquiescence therein. "you see," said she, hesitatingly, "though the squire might be glad to see jemima married to some englishman, yet, if he asks who and what is this dr. riccabocca, how am i to answer him?" "you should have thought of that before," said mr. dale, with unwonted asperity; "and, indeed, if i had ever believed any thing serious could come out of what seemed to me so absurd, i should long since have requested you not to interfere in such matters." "good heavens!" continued the parson, changing color, "if we should have assisted, underhand as it were, to introduce into the family of a man to whom we owe so much, a connection that he would dislike! how base we should be! how ungrateful!" poor mrs. dale was frightened by this speech, and still more by her husband's consternation and displeasure. to do mrs. dale justice, whenever her mild partner was really either grieved or offended, her little temper vanished--she became as meek as a lamb. as soon as she recovered the first shock she experienced, she hastened to dissipate the parson's apprehensions. she assured him that she was convinced that if the squire disapproved of riccabocca's pretensions, the italian would withdraw them at once, and miss hazeldean would never know of his proposals. therefore, in that case, no harm would be done. this assurance coinciding with mr. dale's convictions as to riccabocca's scruples on the point of honor, tended much to compose the good man; and if he did not, as my reader of the gentler sex would expect from him, feel alarm lest miss jemima's affections should have been irretrievably engaged, and her happiness thus put in jeopardy by the squire's refusal, it was not that the parson wanted tenderness of heart, but experience in womankind; and he believed, very erroneously, that miss jemima hazeldean was not one upon whom a disappointment of that kind would produce a lasting impression. therefore mr. dale, after a pause of consideration, said kindly-- "well, don't vex yourself--and i was to blame quite as much as you. but, indeed, i should have thought it easier for the squire to have transplanted one of his tall cedars into his kitchen-garden, than for you to inveigle dr. riccabocca into matrimonial intentions. but a man who could voluntarily put himself into the parish stocks for the sake of experiment, must be capable of any thing! however, i think it better that i, rather than yourself, should speak to the squire, and i will go at once." chapter xxiv. the parson put on the shovel hat, which--conjoined with other details in his dress peculiarly clerical, and already, even then, beginning to be out of fashion with churchmen--had served to fix upon him, emphatically, the dignified but antiquated style and cognomen of "parson;" and took his way toward the home farm, at which he expected to find the squire. but he had scarcely entered upon the village green when he beheld mr. hazeldean, leaning both hands on his stick, and gazing intently upon the parish stocks. now, sorry am i to say that, ever since the hegira of lenny and his mother, the anti-stockian and revolutionary spirit in hazeldean, which the memorable homily of our parson had awhile averted or suspended, had broken forth afresh. for though, while lenny was present to be mowed and jeered at, there had been no pity for him, yet no sooner was he removed from the scene of trial, than a universal compassion for the barbarous usage he had received produced what is called "the reaction of public opinion." not that those who had mowed and jeered repented them of their mockery, or considered themselves in the slightest degree the cause of his expatriation. no; they, with the rest of the villagers, laid all the blame upon the stocks. it was not to be expected that a lad of such exemplary character could be thrust into that place of ignominy, and not be sensible of the affront. and who, in the whole village, was safe, if such goings-on and puttings-in were to be tolerated in silence, and at the expense of the very best and quietest lad the village had ever known? thus, a few days after the widow's departure, the stocks was again the object of midnight desecration: it was bedaubed and bescratched--it was hacked and hewed--it was scrawled all over with pithy lamentations for lenny, and laconic execrations on tyrants. night after night new inscriptions appeared, testifying the sarcastic wit and the vindictive sentiment of the parish. and perhaps the stocks themselves were only spared from ax and bonfire by the convenience they afforded to the malice of the disaffected: they became the pasquin of hazeldean. as disaffection naturally produces a correspondent vigor in authority, so affairs had been lately administered with greater severity than had been hitherto wont in the easy rule of the squire and his predecessors. suspected persons were naturally marked out by mr. stirn, and reported to his employer, who, too proud or too pained to charge them openly with ingratitude, at first only passed them by in his walks with a silent and stiff inclination of his head; and afterward gradually yielding to the baleful influence of stirn, the squire grumbled forth that "he did not see why he should be always putting himself out of his way to show kindness to those who made such a return. there ought to be a difference between the good and the bad." encouraged by this admission, stirn had conducted himself toward the suspected parties, and their whole kith and kin, with the iron-handed justice that belonged to his character. for some, habitual donations of milk from the dairy, and vegetables from the gardens, were surlily suspended; others were informed that their pigs were always trespassing on the woods in search of acorns; or that they were violating the game laws in keeping lurchers. a beer-house, popular in the neighborhood, but of late resorted to overmuch by the grievance-mongers (and no wonder, since they had become the popular party), was threatened with an application to the magistrates for the withdrawal of its license. sundry old women, whose grandsons were notoriously ill-disposed towards the stocks, were interdicted from gathering dead sticks under the avenues, on pretense that they broke down the live boughs; and, what was more obnoxious to the younger members of the parish than most other retaliatory measures, three chestnut trees, one walnut, and two cherry trees, standing at the bottom of the park, and which had, from time immemorial, been given up to the youth of hazeldean, were now solemnly placed under the general defense of "private property." and the crier had announced that, henceforth, all depredators on the fruit-trees in copse hollow would be punished with the utmost rigor of the law. stirn, indeed, recommended much more stringent proceedings than all these indications of a change of policy, which, he averred, would soon bring the parish to its senses--such as discontinuing many little jobs of unprofitable work that employed the surplus labor of the village. but there the squire, falling into the department, and under the benigner influence of his harry, was as yet not properly hardened. when it came to a question that affected the absolute quantity of loaves to be consumed by the graceless mouths that fed upon him, the milk of human kindness--with which providence has so bountifully supplied that class of the mammalia called the "bucolic," and of which our squire had an extra "yield"--burst forth, and washed away all the indignation of the harsher adam. still your policy of half-measures, which irritates without crushing its victims, which flaps an exasperated wasp-nest with a silk pocket-handkerchief, instead of blowing it up with a match and train, is rarely successful; and, after three or four other and much guiltier victims than lenny had been incarcerated in the stocks, the parish of hazeldean was ripe for any enormity. pestilent jacobinical tracts, conceived and composed in the sinks of manufacturing towns--found their way into the popular beer-house--heaven knows how, though the tinker was suspected of being the disseminator by all but stirn, who still, in a whisper, accused the papishers. and, finally, there appeared among the other graphic embellishments which the poor stocks had received, the rude _gravure_ of a gentleman in a broad-brimmed hat and top-boots, suspended from a gibbet, with the inscription beneath--"a warnin to hall tirans--mind your hi!--sighnde captin straw." it was upon this significant and emblematic portraiture that the squire was gazing when the parson joined him. "well, parson," said mr. hazeldean, with a smile which he meant to be pleasant and easy, but which was exceedingly bitter and grim, "i wish you joy of your flock--you see they have just hanged me in effigy!" the parson stared, and, though greatly shocked, smothered his emotions; and attempted, with the wisdom of the serpent and the mildness of the dove, to find another original for the effigy. "it is very bad," quoth he, "but not so bad as all that, squire; that's not the shape of your hat. it is evidently meant for mr. stirn." "do you think so!" said the squire, softened. "yet the top-boots--stirn never wears top-boots." "no more do you--except in hunting. if you look again, those are not tops--they are leggings--stirn wears leggings. besides, that flourish, which is meant for a nose, is a kind of a hook like stirn's; whereas your nose--though by no means a snub--rather turns up than not, as the apollo's does, according to the plaster cast in riccabocca's parlor." "poor stirn!" said the squire, in a tone that evinced complacency, not unmingled with compassion, "that's what a man gets in this world by being a faithful servant, and doing his duty with zeal for his employer. but you see that things have come to a strange pass, and the question now is, what course to pursue. the miscreants hitherto have defied all vigilance, and stirn recommends the employment of a regular night-watch with a lantern and bludgeon." "that may protect the stocks, certainly; but will it keep those detestable tracts out of the beer-house?" "we shall shut the beer-house up at the next sessions." "the tracts will break out elsewhere--the humor's in the blood!" "i've half a mind to run off to brighton or leamington--good hunting at leamington--for a year, just to let the rogues see how they can get on without me!" the squire's lip trembled. "my dear mr. hazeldean," said the parson, taking his friend's hand, "i don't want to parade my superior wisdom; but if you had taken my advice, _quieta non movere_. was there ever a parish so peaceable as this, or a country-gentleman so beloved as you were, before you undertook the task which has dethroned kings and ruined states--that of wantonly meddling with antiquity, whether for the purpose of uncalled-for repairs, or the revival of obsolete uses." at this rebuke the squire did not manifest his constitutional tendencies to choler; but he replied almost meekly, "if it were to do again, faith, i would leave the parish to the enjoyment of the shabbiest pair of stocks that ever disgraced a village. certainly i meant it for the best--an ornament to the green; however, now they are rebuilt, the stocks must be supported. will hazeldean is not the man to give way to a set of thankless rapscallions." "i think," said the parson, "that you will allow that the house of tudor, whatever its faults, was a determined, resolute dynasty enough--high-hearted and strong-headed. a tudor would never have fallen into the same calamities as the poor stuart did!" "what the plague has the house of tudor got to do with my stocks?" "a great deal. henry the viii. found a subsidy so unpopular that he gave it up; and the people, in return, allowed him to cut off as many heads as he pleased, besides those in his own family. good queen bess, who, i know, is your idol in history--" "to be sure!--she knighted my ancestor at tilbury fort." "good queen bess struggled hard to maintain a certain monopoly; she saw it would not do, and she surrendered it with that frank heartiness which becomes a sovereign, and makes surrender a grace." "ha! and you would have me give up the stocks?" "i would much rather they had staid as they were, before you touched them; but, as it is, if you could find a good plausible pretext--and there is an excellent one at hand--the sternest kings open prisons, and grant favors, upon joyful occasions. now a marriage in the royal family is of course a joyful occasion!--and so it should be in that of the king of hazeldean." admire that artful turn in the parson's eloquence!--it was worthy of riccabocca himself. indeed, mr. dale had profited much by his companionship with that machiavellian intellect. "a marriage--yes; but frank has only just got into long tails!" "i did not allude to frank, but to your cousin jemima!" chapter xxv. the squire staggered as if the breath had been knocked out of him, and, for want of a better seat, sate down on the stocks. all the female heads in the neighboring cottages peered, themselves unseen, through the casements. what could the squire be about?--what new mischief did he meditate? did he mean to fortify the stocks? old gaffer solomons, who had an indefinite idea of the lawful power of squires, and who had been for the last ten minutes at watch on his threshold, shook his head and said, "them as a-cut out the mon, a-hanging, as a-put in the squire's head!" "put what?" asked his grand-daughter. "the gallus!" answered solomons--"he be a-goin to have it hung from the great elm-tree. and the parson, good mon, is a-quotin scripter agin it--you see he's a-taking off his gloves, and a-putting his two han's together, as he do when he pray for the sick, jenny." that description of the parson's mien and manner, which, with his usual niceness of observation, gaffer solomons thus sketched off, will convey to you some idea of the earnestness with which the parson pleaded the cause he had undertaken to advocate. he dwelt much upon the sense of propriety which the foreigner had evinced in requesting that the squire might be consulted before any formal communication to his cousin; and he repeated mrs. dale's assurance, that such were riccabocca's high standard of honor and belief in the sacred rights of hospitality, that, if the squire withheld his consent to his proposals, the parson was convinced that the italian would instantly retract them. now, considering that miss hazeldean was, to say the least, come to years of discretion, and the squire had long since placed her property entirely at her own disposal, mr. hazeldean was forced to acquiesce in the parson's corollary remark, "that this was a delicacy which could not be expected from every english pretender to the lady's hand." seeing that he had so far cleared ground, the parson went on to intimate, though with great tact, that, since miss jemima would probably marry sooner or later, (and, indeed, that the squire could not wish to prevent her), it might be better for all parties concerned that it should be with some one who, though a foreigner, was settled in the neighborhood, and of whose character what was known was certainly favorable, than run the hazard of her being married for her money by some adventurer or irish fortune-hunter at the watering-places she yearly visited. then he touched lightly on riccabocca's agreeable and companionable qualities; and concluded with a skillful peroration upon the excellent occasion the wedding would afford to reconcile hall and parish, by making a voluntary holocaust of the stocks. as he concluded, the squire's brow, before thoughtful, though not sullen, cleared up benignly. to say truth, the squire was dying to get rid of the stocks, if he could but do so handsomely and with dignity; and if all the stars in the astrological horoscope had conjoined together to give miss jemima "assurance of a husband," they could not so have served her with the squire, as that conjunction between the altar and the stocks which the parson had effected! accordingly, when mr. dale had come to an end, the squire replied with great placidity and good sense, "that mr. rickeybockey had behaved very much like a gentleman, and that he was very much obliged to him; that he (the squire) had no right to interfere in the matter, farther than with his advice; that jemima was old enough to choose for herself, and that, as the parson had implied, after all, she might go farther and fare worse--indeed, the farther she went (that is, the longer she waited), the worse she was likely to fare. i own for my part," continued the squire, "that, though i like rickeybockey very much, i never suspected that jemima was caught with his long face; but there's no accounting for tastes. my harry, indeed, was more shrewd, and gave me many a hint, for which i only laughed at her. still i ought to have thought it looked queer when mounseer took to disguising himself by leaving off his glasses, ha--ha! i wonder what harry will say; let's go and talk to her." the parson, rejoiced at this easy way of taking the matter, hooked his arm into the squire's, and they walked amicably toward the hall. but on coming first into gardens, they found mrs. hazeldean herself, clipping dead leaves or fading flowers from her rose-trees. the squire stole slily behind her, and startled her in her turn by putting his arm round her waist, and saluting her smooth cheek with one of his hearty kisses; which, by the way, from some association of ideas, was a conjugal freedom that he usually indulged whenever a wedding was going on in the village. "fie, william!" said mrs. hazeldean coyly, and blushing as she saw the parson. "well, who's going to be married now?" "lord, was there ever such a woman?--she's guessed it!" cried the squire in great admiration. "tell her all about it, parson." the parson obeyed. mrs. hazeldean, as the reader may suppose, showed much less surprise than her husband had done; but she took the news graciously, and made much the same answer as that which had occurred to the squire, only with somewhat more qualification and reserve. "signor riccabocca had behaved very handsomely; and though a daughter of the hazeldeans of hazeldean, might expect a much better marriage, in a worldly point of view, yet as the lady in question had deferred finding one so long, it would be equally idle and impertinent now to quarrel with her choice--if indeed she should decide on accepting signor riccabocca. as for fortune, that was a consideration for the two contracting parties. still, it ought to be pointed out to miss jemima that the interest of her fortune would afford but a very small income. that dr. riccabocca was a widower was another matter for deliberation; and it seemed rather suspicious that he should have been hitherto so close upon all matters connected with his former life. certainly his manners were in his favor, and as long as he was merely an acquaintance, and at most a tenant, no one had a right to institute inquiries of a strictly private nature; but that, when he was about to marry a hazeldean of hazeldean, it became the squire at least to know a little more about him--who and what he was. why did he leave his own country? english people went abroad to save; no foreigner would choose england as a country in which to save money! she supposed that a foreign doctor was no very great things; probably he had been but a professor in some italian university. at all events, if the squire interfered at all, it was on such points that he should request information." "my dear madam," said the parson, "what you say is extremely just. as to the causes which have induced our friend to expatriate himself, i think we need not look far for them. he is evidently one of the many italian refugees whom political disturbances have driven to our shore, whose boast it is to receive all exiles, of whatever party. for his respectability of birth and family he certainly ought to obtain some vouchers. and if that be the only objection, i trust we may soon congratulate miss hazeldean on a marriage with a man who, though certainly very poor, has borne privations without a murmur; has preferred all hardship to debt; has scorned to attempt betraying her into any clandestine connection; who, in short, has shown himself so upright and honest, that i hope my dear mr. hazeldean will forgive him if he is only a doctor--probably of laws--and not, as most foreigners pretend to be, a marquis, or a baron at least." "as to that," cried the squire, "'tis the best thing i know about rickeybockey, that he don't attempt to humbug us by any such foreign trumpery. thank heaven, the hazeldeans of hazeldean were never tuft-hunters and title-mongers; and if i never ran after an english lord, i should certainly be devilishly ashamed of a brother-in-law whom i was forced to call markee or count! i should feel sure he was a courier, or runaway valley-de-sham. turn up your nose at a doctor, indeed, harry!--pshaw, good english style that! doctor! my aunt married a doctor of divinity--excellent man--wore a wig, and was made a dean! so long as rickeybockey is not a doctor of physic, i don't care a button. if he's _that_, indeed, it would be suspicious; because, you see those foreign doctors of physic are quacks, and tell fortunes, and go about on a stage with a merry-andrew." "lord, hazeldean! where on earth did you pick up that idea?" said harry, laughing. "pick it up!--why, i saw a fellow myself at the cattle fair last year--when i was buying short-horns--with a red waistcoat and a cocked hat, a little like the parson's shovel. he called himself doctor phoscophornio--wore a white wig, and sold pills! the merry-andrew was the funniest creature--in salmon-colored tights--turned head over heels, and said he came from timbuctoo. no, no; if rickeybockey's a physic doctor, we shall have jemima in a pink tinsel dress, tramping about the country in a caravan!" at this notion, both the squire and his wife laughed so heartily that the parson felt the thing was settled, and slipped away, with the intention of making his report to riccabocca. chapter xxvi. it was with a slight disturbance of his ordinary suave and well-bred equanimity that the italian received the information, that he need apprehend no obstacle to his suit from the insular prejudices or the worldly views of the lady's family. not that he was mean and cowardly enough to recoil from the near and unclouded prospect of that felicity which he had left off his glasses to behold with unblinking naked eyes:--no, there his mind was made up; but he had met with very little kindness in life, and he was touched not only by the interest in his welfare testified by a heretical priest, but by the generosity with which he was admitted into a well-born and wealthy family, despite his notorious poverty and his foreign descent. he conceded the propriety of the only stipulation, which was conveyed to him by the parson with all the delicacy that became a man professionally habituated to deal with the subtler susceptibilities of mankind--viz., that, among riccabocca's friends or kindred, some one should be found whose report would confirm the persuasion of his respectability entertained by his neighbors;--he assented, i say, to the propriety of this condition; but it was not with alacrity and eagerness. his brow became clouded. the parson hastened to assure him that the squire was not a man _qui stupet in titulis_, (who was besotted with titles), that he neither expected nor desired to find an origin and rank for his brother-in-law above that decent mediocrity of condition to which it was evident, from riccabocca's breeding and accomplishments, he could easily establish his claim. "and though," said he smiling, "the squire is a warm politician in his own country, and would never see his sister again, i fear, if she married some convicted enemy of our happy constitution, yet for foreign politics he does not care a straw: so that if, as i suspect, your exile arises from some quarrel with your government--which, being foreign, he takes for granted must be insupportable--he would but consider you as he would a saxon who fled from the iron hand of william the conqueror, or a lancastrian expelled by the yorkists in our wars of the roses." the italian smiled. "mr. hazeldean shall be satisfied," said he simply. "i see, by the squire's newspaper, that an english gentleman who knew me in my own country has just arrived in london. i will write to him for a testimonial, at least to my probity and character. probably he may be known to you by name--nay, he must be, for he was a distinguished officer in the late war. i allude to lord l'estrange." the parson started. "you know lord l'estrange?--a profligate, bad man, i fear." "profligate!--bad!" exclaimed riccabocca. "well, calumnious as the world is, i should never have thought that such expressions would be applied to one who, though i knew him but little--knew him chiefly by the service he once rendered to me--first taught me to love and revere the english name!" "he may be changed since--" the parson paused. "since when?" asked riccabocca, with evident curiosity. mr. dale seemed embarrassed. "excuse me," said he, "it is many years ago; and, in short, the opinion i then formed of the gentleman in question was based upon circumstances which i can not communicate." the punctilious italian bowed in silence, but he still looked as if he should have liked to prosecute inquiry. after a pause, he said, "whatever your impressions respecting lord l'estrange, there is nothing, i suppose, which would lead you to doubt his honor, or reject his testimonial in my favor?" "according to fashionable morality," said mr. dale, rather precisely, "i know of nothing that could induce me to suppose that lord l'estrange would not, in this instance, speak the truth. and he has unquestionably a high reputation as a soldier, and a considerable position in the world." therewith the parson took his leave. a few days afterward, dr. riccabocca inclosed to the squire, in a blank envelope, a letter he had received from harley l'estrange. it was evidently intended for the squire's eye, and to serve as a voucher for the italian's respectability; but this object was fulfilled, not in the coarse form of a direct testimonial, but with a tact and delicacy which seemed to show more than the fine breeding to be expected from one in lord l'estrange's station. it argued that most exquisite of all politeness which comes from the heart: a certain tone of affectionate respect (which even the homely sense of the squire felt, intuitively, proved far more in favor of riccabocca than the most elaborate certificate of his qualities and antecedents) pervaded the whole, and would have sufficed in itself to remove all scruples from a mind much more suspicious and exacting than that of the squire of hazeldean. but, lo and behold! an obstacle now occurred to the parson, of which he ought to have thought long before--viz., the papistical religion of the italian. dr. riccabocca was professedly a roman catholic. he so little obtruded that fact--and, indeed, had assented so readily to any animadversions upon the superstition and priestcraft which, according to protestants, are the essential characteristics of papistical communities--that it was not till the hymeneal torch, which brings all faults to light, was fairly illumined for the altar, that the remembrance of a faith so cast into the shade burst upon the conscience of the parson. the first idea that then occurred to him was the proper and professional one--viz., the conversion of dr. riccabocca. he hastened to his study, took down from his shelves long neglected volumes of controversial divinity, armed himself with an arsenal of authorities, arguments, and texts; then, seizing the shovel-hat, posted off to the casino. chapter xxvii. the parson burst upon the philosopher like an avalanche! he was so full of his subject that he could not let it out in prudent driblets. no, he went souse upon the astounded riccabocca, "tremendo. jupiter ipse ruens tumultu." the sage--shrinking deeper into his arm-chair, and drawing his dressing-robe more closely round him--suffered the parson to talk for three-quarters of an hour, till indeed he had thoroughly proved his case; and, like brutus, "paused for a reply." then said riccabocca mildly, "in much of what you have urged so ably, and so suddenly, i am inclined to agree. but base is the man who formally forswears the creed he has inherited from his fathers, and professed since the cradle up to years of maturity, when the change presents itself in the guise of a bribe;--when, for such is human nature, he can hardly distinguish or disentangle the appeal to his reason from the lure to his interests--here a text, and there a dowry!--here protestantism, there jemima. own, my friend, that the soberest casuist would see double under the inebriating effects produced by so mixing his polemical liquors. appeal, my good mr. dale, from philip drunken to philip sober!--from riccabocca intoxicated with the assurance of your excellent lady, that he is about to be "the happiest of men," to riccabocca accustomed to his happiness, and carrying it off with the seasoned equability of one grown familiar with stimulants--in a word, appeal from riccabocca the wooer to riccabocca the spouse. i may be convertible, but conversion is a slow process; courtship should be a quick one--ask miss jemima. _finalmente_, marry me first, and convert me afterward!" "you take this too jestingly," began the parson; "and i don't see why, with your excellent understanding, truths so plain and obvious should not strike you at once." "truths," interrupted riccabocca profoundly, "are the slowest growing things in the world! it took years from the date of the christian era to produce your own luther, and then he flung his bible at satan (i have seen the mark made by the book on the wall of his prison in germany), besides running off with a nun, which no protestant clergyman would think it proper and right to do nowadays." then he added, with seriousness, "look you, my dear sir--i should lose my own esteem if i were even to listen to you now with becoming attention--now, i say, when you hint that the creed i have professed may be in the way of my advantage. if so, i must keep the creed and resign the advantage. but if, as i trust--not only as a christian, but a man of honor--you will defer this discussion, i will promise to listen to you hereafter; and though, to say truth, i believe that you will not convert me, i will promise you faithfully never to interfere with my wife's religion." "and any children you may have?" "children!" said dr. riccabocca, recoiling--"you are not contented with firing your pocket-pistol right in my face; you must also pepper me all over with small-shot. children! well, if they are girls, let them follow the faith of their mother; and if boys, while in childhood, let them be contented with learning to be christians; and when they grow into men, let them choose for themselves which is the best form for the practice of the great principles which all sects have in common." "but," began mr. dale again, pulling a large book from his pocket. dr. riccabocca flung open the window, and jumped out of it. it was the rapidest and most dastardly flight you could possibly conceive; but it was a great compliment to the argumentative powers of the parson, and he felt it as such. nevertheless, mr. dale thought it right to have a long conversation, both with the squire and miss jemima herself, upon the subject which his intended convert had so ignominiously escaped. the squire, though a great foe to popery, politically considered, had also quite as great a hatred to turn-coats and apostates. and in his heart he would have despised riccabocca if he could have thrown off his religion as easily as he had done his spectacles. therefore he said, simply--"well, it is certainly a great pity that rickeybockey is not of the church of england, though, i take it, that would be unreasonable to expect in a man born and bred under the nose of the inquisition"--(the squire firmly believed that the inquisition was in full force in all the italian states, with whips, racks, and thumb-screws; and, indeed, his chief information of italy was gathered from a perusal he had given in early youth to _the one-handed monk_)--"but i think he speaks very fairly, on the whole, as to his wife and children. and the thing's gone too far now to retract. it is all your fault for not thinking of it before; and i've now just made up my mind as to the course to pursue respecting those d--d stocks!" as for miss jemima, the parson left her with a pious thanksgiving that riccabocca at least was a christian, and not a pagan, mahometan, or jew! chapter xxviii. there is that in a wedding which appeals to a universal sympathy. no other event in the lives of their superiors in rank creates an equal sensation among the humbler classes. from the moment the news had spread throughout the village that miss jemima was to be married, all the old affection for the squire and his house burst forth the stronger for its temporary suspension. who could think of the stocks at such a season? they were swept out of fashion--hunted from remembrance as completely as the question of repeal or the thought of rebellion from the warm irish heart, when the fair young face of the royal wife beamed on the sister isle. again cordial courtesies were dropped at the thresholds by which the squire passed to his home-farm; again the sun-burnt brows uncovered--no more with sullen ceremony--were smoothed into cheerful gladness at his nod. nay, the little ones began again to assemble at their ancient rendezvous by the stocks, as if either familiarized with the phenomenon, or convinced that, in the general sentiment of good-will, its powers of evil were annulled. the squire tasted once more the sweets of the only popularity which is much worth having, and the loss of which a wise man would reasonably deplore; viz., the popularity which arises from a persuasion of our goodness, and a reluctance to recall our faults. like all blessings, the more sensibly felt from previous interruption, the squire enjoyed this restored popularity with an exhilarated sense of existence; his stout heart beat more vigorously; his stalwart step trod more lightly; his comely english face looked comelier and more english than ever--you would have been a merrier man for a week to have come within hearing of his jovial laugh. he felt grateful to jemima and to riccabocca as the special agents of providence in this general _integratio amoris_. to have looked at him, you would suppose that it was the squire who was going to be married a second time to his harry! one may well conceive that such would have been an inauspicious moment for parson dale's theological scruples. to have stopped that marriage--chilled all the sunshine it diffused over the village--seen himself surrounded again by long sulky visages--i verily believe, though a better friend of church and state never stood on a hustings, that, rather than court such a revulsion, the squire would have found jesuitical excuses for the marriage if riccabocca had been discovered to be the pope in disguise! as for the stocks, their fate was now irrevocably sealed. in short, the marriage was concluded--first privately, according to the bridegroom's creed, by a roman catholic clergyman, who lived in a town some miles off, and next publicly in the village church of hazeldean. it was the heartiest rural wedding! village girls strewed flowers on the way; a booth was placed amidst the prettiest scenery of the park, on the margin of the lake--for there was to be a dance later in the day--an ox was roasted whole. even mr. stirn--no, mr. stirn was not present, so much happiness would have been the death of him! and the papisher, too, who had conjured lenny out of the stocks; nay, who had himself sate in the stocks for the very purpose of bringing them into contempt--the papisher! he had as lief miss jemima had married the devil! indeed he was persuaded that, in point of fact, it was all one and the same. therefore mr. stirn had asked leave to go and attend his uncle the pawnbroker, about to undergo a torturing operation for the stone! frank was there, summoned from eton for the occasion--having grown two inches taller since he left--for the one inch of which nature was to be thanked, for the other a new pair of resplendent wellingtons. but the boy's joy was less apparent than that of others. for jemima was a special favorite with him--as she would have been with all boys--for she was always kind and gentle, and made many pretty presents whenever she came from the watering-places. and frank knew that he should miss her sadly, and thought she had made a very queer choice. captain higginbotham had been invited; but, to the astonishment of jemima, he had replied to the invitation by a letter to herself, marked "_private and confidential_." 'she must have long known,' said the letter, 'of his devoted attachment to her; motives of delicacy, arising from the narrowness of his income, and the magnanimity of his sentiments, had alone prevented his formal proposals; but now that she was informed (he could scarcely believe his senses, or command his passions) that her relations wished to force her into a barbarous marriage with a foreigner of most forbidding appearance, and most _abject circumstances_, he lost not a moment in laying at her feet his own hand and fortune. and he did this the more confidently, inasmuch as he could not but be aware of miss jemima's secret feelings toward him, while he was _proud_ and _happy_ to say, that his dear and distinguished cousin, mr. sharpe currie, had honored him with a warmth of regard which justified the most _brilliant_ expectations--likely to be _soon_ realized--as his eminent relative had contracted a _very bad liver-complaint_ in the service of his country, and could not last long!' in all the years they had known each other, miss jemima, strange as it may appear, had never once suspected the captain of any other feelings to her than those of a brother. to say that she was not gratified by learning her mistake, would be to say that she was more than woman. indeed, it must have been a source of no ignoble triumph to think that she could prove her disinterested affection to her dear riccabocca, by a prompt rejection of this more brilliant offer. she couched the rejection, it is true, in the most soothing terms. but the captain evidently considered himself ill used; he did not reply to the letter, and did not come to the wedding. to let the reader into a secret, never known to miss jemima, captain higginbotham was much less influenced by cupid than by plutus in the offer he had made. the captain was one of that class of gentlemen who read their accounts by those corpse-lights, or will-o'-the-wisps, called _expectations_. ever since the squire's grandfather had left him--then in short clothes--a legacy of £ , the captain had peopled the future with expectations! he talked of his expectations as a man talks of shares in a tontine; they might fluctuate a little--be now up and now down--but it was morally impossible, if he lived on, but that he should be a _millionaire_ one of these days. now, though miss jemima was a good fifteen years younger than himself, yet she always stood for a good round sum in the ghostly books of the captain. she was an _expectation_ to the full amount of her £ , seeing that frank was an only child, and it would be carrying coals to newmarket to leave _him_ any thing. rather than see so considerable a cipher suddenly sponged out of his visionary ledger--rather than so much money should vanish clean out of the family, captain higginbotham had taken what he conceived, if a desperate, at least a certain, step for the preservation of his property. if the golden horn could not be had without the heifer, why, he must take the heifer into the bargain. he had never formed to himself an idea that a heifer so gentle would toss and fling him over. the blow was stunning. but no one compassionates the misfortunes of the covetous, though few perhaps are in greater need of compassion. and leaving poor captain higginbotham to retrieve his illusory fortunes as he best may among "the expectations" which gathered round the form of mr. sharpe currie, who was the crossest old tyrant imaginable, and never allowed at his table any dishes not compounded with rice, which played old nick with the captain's constitutional functions--i return to the wedding at hazeldean, just in time to see the bridegroom--who looked singularly well on the occasion--hand the bride (who, between sunshiny tears and affectionate smiles, was really a very interesting and even a pretty bride, as brides go) into a carriage which the squire had presented to them, and depart on the orthodox nuptial excursion amidst the blessings of the assembled crowd. it may be thought strange by the unreflective that these rural spectators should so have approved and blessed the marriage of a hazeldean of hazeldean with a poor, outlandish, long-haired foreigner; but, besides that riccabocca, after all, had become one of the neighborhood, and was proverbially "a civil-spoken gentleman," it is generally noticeable that on wedding occasions the bride so monopolizes interest, curiosity, and admiration, that the bridegroom himself goes for little or nothing. he is merely the passive agent in the affair--the unregarded cause of the general satisfaction. it was not riccabocca himself that they approved and blessed--it was the gentleman in the white waistcoat who had made miss jemima--madam rickeybocky! leaning on his wife's arm--(for it was a habit of the squire to lean on his wife's arm rather than she on his, when he was specially pleased; and there was something touching in the sight of that strong sturdy frame thus insensibly, in hours of happiness, seeking dependence on the frail arm of woman)--leaning, i say, on his wife's arm, the squire, about the hour of sunset, walked down to the booth by the lake. all the parish--young and old, man, woman, and child--were assembled there, and their faces seemed to bear one family likeness, in the common emotion which animated all, as they turned to his frank fatherly smile. squire hazeldean stood at the head of the long table; he filled a horn with ale from the brimming tankard beside him. then he looked round, and lifted his hand to request silence; and, ascending the chair, rose in full view of all. every one felt that the squire was about to make a speech, and the earnestness of the attention was proportioned to the rarity of the event; for (though he was not unpracticed in the oratory of the hustings) only thrice before had the squire made what could fairly be called "a speech" to the villagers of hazeldean--once on a kindred festive occasion, when he had presented to them his bride--once in a contested election for the shire, in which he took more than ordinary interest, and was not quite so sober as he ought to have been--once in a time of great agricultural distress, when, in spite of reduction of rents, the farmers had been compelled to discard a large number of their customary laborers; and when the squire had said, "i have given up keeping the hounds, because i want to make a fine piece of water, (that was the origin of the lake), and to drain all the low lands round the park. let every man who wants work come to me!" and that sad year the parish rates of hazeldean were not a penny the more. now, for the fourth time, the squire rose, and thus he spoke. at his right hand, harry; at his left, frank. at the bottom of the table, as vice-president, parson dale, his little wife behind him, only obscurely seen. she cried readily, and her handkerchief was already before her eyes. chapter xxix. the squire's speech. "friends and neighbors--i thank you kindly for coming round me this day, and for showing so much interest in me and mine. my cousin was not born among you as i was, but you have known her from a child. it is a familiar face and one that never frowned, which you will miss at your cottage doors, as i and mine will miss it long in the old hall--" here there was a sob from some of the women, and nothing was seen of mrs. dale but the white handkerchief. the squire himself paused, and brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. then he resumed, with a sudden change of voice that was electrical-- "for we none of us prize a blessing till we have lost it! now, friends and neighbors--a little time ago, it seemed as if some ill-will had crept into the village--ill-will between you and me, neighbors!--why, that is not like hazeldean!" the audience hung their heads! you never saw people look so thoroughly ashamed of themselves. the squire proceeded-- "i don't say it was all your fault; perhaps it was mine." "noa--noa--noa," burst forth in a general chorus. "nay, friends," continued the squire humbly, and in one of those illustrative aphorisms which, if less subtle than riccabocca's were more within reach of the popular comprehension; "nay--we are all human; and every man has his hobby: sometimes he breaks in the hobby, and sometimes the hobby, if it is very hard in the mouth, breaks in him. one man's hobby has an ill habit of always stopping at the public house! (laughter). another man's hobby refuses to stir a peg beyond the door where some buxom lass patted its neck the week before--a hobby i rode pretty often when i went courting my good wife here! (much laughter and applause). others have a lazy hobby, that there's no getting on; others, a runaway hobby that there's no stopping: but to cut the matter short, my favorite hobby, as you well know, is always trotted out to any place on my property which seems to want the eye and hand of the master. i hate (cried the squire warming) to see things neglected and decayed, and going to the dogs! this land we live in is a good mother to us, and we can't do too much for her. it is very true, neighbors, that i owe her a good many acres, and ought to speak well of her; but what then? i live among you, and what i take from the rent with one hand, i divide among you with the other (low, but assenting murmurs). now the more i improve my property, the more mouths it feeds. my great-grandfather kept a field-book, in which were entered, not only the names of all the farmers and the quantity of land they held, but the average number of the laborers each employed. my grandfather and father followed his example: i have done the same. i find, neighbors, that our rents have doubled since my great-grandfather began to make the book. ay--but there are more than four times the number of laborers employed on the estate, and at much better wages, too! well, my men, that says a great deal in favor of improving property, and not letting it go to the dogs. (applause). and therefore, neighbors, you will kindly excuse my hobby: it carries grist to your mill. (reiterated applause). well--but you will say, 'what's the squire driving at?' why this, my friends: there was only one worn-out, dilapidated tumble-down thing in the parish of hazeldean, and it became an eyesore to me; so i saddled my hobby, and rode at it. o ho! you know what i mean now! yes, but neighbors, you need not have taken it so to heart. that was a scurvy trick of some of you to hang me in effigy, as they call it." "it warn't you," cried a voice in the crowd, "it war nick stirn." the squire recognized the voice of the tinker; but though he now guessed at the ringleader--on that day of general amnesty, he had the prudence and magnanimity not to say, "stand forth, sprott: thou art the man." yet his gallant english spirit would not suffer him to come off at the expense of his servant. "if it was nick stirn you meant," said he, gravely, "more shame for you. it showed some pluck to hang the master; but to hang the poor servant, who only thought to do his duty, careless of what ill-will it brought upon him, was a shabby trick--so little like the lads of hazeldean, that i suspect the man who taught it to them was never born in the parish. but let by-gones be by-gones. one thing is clear, you don't take kindly to my new pair of stocks! they have been a stumbling-block and a grievance, and there's no denying that we went on very pleasantly without them. i may also say that in spite of them we have been coming together again lately. and i can't tell you what good it did me to see your children playing again on the green, and your honest faces, in spite of the stocks, and those diabolical tracts you've been reading lately, lighted up at the thought that something pleasant was going on at the hall. do you know, neighbors, you put me in mind of an old story which, besides applying to the parish, all who are married, and all who intend to marry, will do well to recollect? a worthy couple, named john and joan, had lived happily together many a long year, till one unlucky day, they bought a new bolster. joan said the bolster was too hard, and john that it was too soft. so, of course, they quarreled. after sulking all day, they agreed to put the bolster between them at night." (roars of laughter among the men; the women did not know which way to look, except, indeed, mrs. hazeldean, who, though she was more than usually rosy, maintained her innocent, genial smile, as much as to say, "there is no harm in the squire's jests.") the orator resumed, "after they had thus lain apart for a little time, very silent and sullen, john sneezed. 'god bless you!' says joan over the bolster. 'did you say god bless me?' cries john--'then here goes the bolster!'" prolonged laughter and tumultuous applause. "friends and neighbors," said the squire, when silence was restored, and lifting the horn of ale, "i have the pleasure to inform you that i have ordered the stocks to be taken down, and made into a bench for the chimney nook of our old friend gaffer solomons yonder. but mind me, lads, if ever you make the parish regret the loss of the stocks, and the overseers come to me with long faces, and say, 'the stocks must be rebuilded,' why--" here from all the youth of the village rose so deprecating a clamor, that the squire would have been the most bungling orator in the world if he had said a word further on the subject. he elevated the horn over his head, "why, that's my old hazeldean again! health and long life to you all!" the tinker had sneaked out of the assembly, and did not show his face in the village for the next six months. and as to those poisonous tracts, in spite of their salubrious labels, "the poor man's friend," or "the rights of labor," you could no more have found one of them lurking in the drawers of the kitchen-dressers in hazeldean, than you would have found the deadly nightshade on the flower-stands in the drawing-room of the hall. as for the revolutionary beer-house, there was no need to apply to the magistrates to shut it up; it shut itself up before the week was out. o young head of the great house of hapsburg, what a hazeldean you might have made of hungary!--what a "_moriamur pro rege nostro_" would have rung in your infant reign--if you had made such a speech as the squire's! (_to be continued._) footnotes: [ ] the emperor diocletian. [ ] the title of excellency does not, in italian, necessarily express any exalted rank, but is often given by servants to their masters. beauties of the law. as a happy illustration of the certainty, cheapness, and expedition of the english law, in upholding those who are in the right, we have received the following strange narrative from an esteemed correspondent, who is himself a lawyer: "the most litigious fellow i ever knew, was a welshman, named bones. he had got possession, by some means, of a bit of waste ground behind a public-house in hogwash-street. adjoining this land was a yard, belonging to the parish of st. jeremiah, which the parish trustees were fencing in with a wall. bones alleged that one corner of their wall was advanced about ten inches on his ground, and as they declined to remove it back, he kicked down the brickwork before the mortar was dry. the trustees having satisfied themselves that they were not only within their own boundary, but that they had left bones some feet of the parish land to boot, built up the wall again. bones kicked it down again. "the trustees put it up a third time under the protection of a policeman. the inexorable bones, in spite of the awful presence of this functionary, not only kicked down the wall again, but kicked the bricklayers into the bargain. this was too much, and bones was marched off to guildhall for assaulting the bricklayers. the magistrate rather pooh-poohed the complaint, but bound over bones to keep the peace. the _causa belli_, the wall, was re-edified a fourth time; but when the trustees revisited the place next morning, it was again in ruins! while they were in consultation upon this last insult, they were politely waited on by an attorney's clerk, who served them all with 'writs' in an action of trespass, at the suit of bones, for encroaching on his land. "thus war was declared about a piece of dirty land, literally not so big as a door-step, and the whole fee-simple of which would not sell for a shilling. the trustees, however, thought they ought not to give up the rights of the parish to the obstinacy of a perverse fellow, like bones, and resolved to indict bones for assaulting the workmen. accordingly, the action and the indictment went on together. "the action was tried first, and as the evidence clearly showed the trustees had kept within their own boundary, they got the verdict. bones moved for a new trial; that failed. the trustees now thought they would let the matter rest, as it had cost the parish about one hundred and fifty pounds, and they supposed bones had had enough of it. but they had mistaken their man. he brought a writ of error in the action, which carried the cause into the exchequer court, and tied it up nearly two years, and in the mean time he forced them, _nolens volens_, to try the indictment. when the trial came on, the judge said, that as the whole question had been decided in the action, there was no occasion for any further proceedings, and therefore the defendant had better be acquitted, and so make an end of it. "accordingly, bones was acquitted; and the very next thing bones did, was to sue the trustees in a new action, for maliciously instituting the indictment against him without reasonable cause! the new action went on to trial; and it being proved that one of the trustees had been overheard to say that they would punish him, this was taken as evidence of malice, and bones got a verdict for forty shillings damages besides all the costs. elated with this victory, bones pushed on his old action in the exchequer chamber to a hearing, but the court affirmed the judgment against him, without hearing the trustees' counsel. "the trustees were now sick of the very name of bones, which had become a sort of bugbear, so that if a trustee met a friend in the street, he would be greeted with an inquiry after the health of his friend mr. bones. they would have gladly let the whole matter drop into oblivion, but jupiter and bones had determined otherwise; for the indomitable briton brought a writ of error in the house of lords, on the judgment of the exchequer chamber. the unhappy trustees had caught a tartar, and follow him into the lords they must. accordingly after another year or two's delay, the case came on in the lords. their lordships pronounced it the most trumpery writ of error they had ever seen, and again affirmed the judgment, with costs, against bones. the trustees now taxed their costs, and found that they had spent not less than five hundred pounds in defending their claim to a bit of ground that was not of the value of an old shoe. but, then, bones was condemned to pay the costs. true; so they issued execution against bones; caught him, after some trouble, and locked him up in jail. the next week, bones petitioned the insolvent court, got out of prison; and, on examination of schedule, his effects appeared to be £ _s._ _d._! bones had, in fact, been fighting the trustees on credit for the last three years; for his own attorney was put down as a creditor to a large amount, which was the only satisfaction the trustees obtained from perusing his schedule. "they were now obliged to have recourse to the parish funds to pay their own law expenses, and were consoling themselves with the reflection that these did not come out of _their own pockets_, when they received the usual notification that a bill in chancery had been filed against them, at mr. bones's suit, to overhaul their accounts with the parish, and _prevent the misapplication of the parish money_ to the payment of their law costs! this was the climax. and being myself a disciple of coke, i have heard nothing further of it; being unwilling, as well, perhaps, as unqualified, to follow the case into the labyrinthic vaults of the court of chancery. the catastrophe, if this were a tale, could hardly be mended--so the true story may end here." the robber outwitted. willie bailie was a household name about a hundred years ago, in the upper parts of clydesdale. men, women, and children had heard of willie, and the greater proportion had seen him. few, in his time, could excel willie in dexterity in his profession, which consisted of abstracting money from people's pockets, and in other predatory feats. he frequented the fairs all round the district, and no man's purse was safe if willie happened to be in the market. the beautiful village of moffat, in annandale, was one of his frequent places of resort when any of its fairs happened to be held, and here, among the honest farmers, he was invariably successful; and to show his professional skill on such occasions, he has been known to rob a man and return his purse to him two or three times in the same day; but this he did only with his intimate friends, who were kind to him in providing lodgings, when plying his nominal occupation of tinker from one farm-house to another; in the case of others, it was, of course, different. his wife abetted him in all his thieving exploits, and generally sat in a place in the outskirts of the town, that had been previously fixed on, and there received in silence whatever spoil her husband might throw incidentally into her lap in the shape of her fairing. but willie was a privileged freebooter, was generous withal, and well liked by the people in the neighborhood, on whom he rarely committed any acts of plunder, and any one might have trusted what he called his "honor." willie's character was well known both to high and low, and he became renowned for a heroism which few who esteem respectability would now covet. the high estimation in which he was held as an adept in his profession, induced a scottish nobleman to lay a high bet, with an englishman of some rank, that willie would actually rob and fairly despoil a certain noted riever on the southern side of the border, who was considered one of the most daring and dexterous that frequented the highways in those dubious times, and one whose exploits the gentleman was in the habit of extolling. the scottish nobleman conferred with willie, and informed him of the project--a circumstance which mightily pleased our hero, and into which he entered with all enthusiasm. the interest which willie took in the matter was to the nobleman a guarantee of ultimate success; and, having given all the marks of the robber, and directed him to the particular place on the road where he was sure to meet with him, he left it to willie himself to arrange the subsequent mode of procedure. willie's ingenuity was instantly at work, and he concocted a scheme which fairly carried him through the enterprise. he got an old, frail-looking pony, partially lame, and with long, shaggy hair. he filled a bag of considerable dimensions with a great quantity of old buttons, and useless pieces of jingling metal. he next arrayed himself in beggarly habiliments, with clouted shoes, tattered under-garments, a cloak mended in a hundred places, and a soiled, broad-brimmed bonnet on his head. the _money_-bag he tied firmly behind the saddle; he placed a pair of pistols under his coat, and a short dagger close by his side. thus accoutred he wended his way slowly toward the border, both he and the animal apparently in the last stage of helplessness and decrepitude. the bag behind was carefully covered by the cloak, that spread its _duddy_ folds over the hinder parts of the poor lean beast that carried him. sitting in a crouching posture on the saddle, with a long beard and an assumed palsified shaking of the hand, nobody would have conceived for a moment that willie was a man in the prime of life, of a well-built, athletic frame, with more power in his arm than three ordinary men, and of an intrepid and adventurous spirit, that feared nothing, but dared every thing. in this plight, our worthy went dodging over the border, and entered the neighboring kingdom, where every person that met him regarded him as a poor, doited, half-insane body, fit only to lie down at the side of a hedge, and die unheeded, beside the crazy steed. in this way, he escaped without suspicion, and advanced without an adventure to the skirts of the wood, where he expected to encounter his professional brother. when willie entered the road that led through the dark and suspicious forest, he was all on the alert for the highwayman. every rustling among the trees and bushes arrested his attention, not knowing but a whizzing ball might in a moment issue therefrom, or that the redoubted freebooter himself might spring upon him like a tiger. neither of these, however, occurred; but a man on horseback was seen advancing slowly and cautiously on the road before him. this might be he, or it might not, but willie now recollected every particular mark given of the man with whom he expected to encounter, and he was prepared for the most vigilant observation. as the horseman advanced, willie was fully convinced that he had met with his man, and this was the critical moment, for here was the identical highwayman. "how now, old fellow?" exclaimed the robber; "what seek you in these parts? where are you bound for, with this magnificent equipage of yours?" "why, to tell you the truth, i am e'en a puir honest man frae scotland, gaen a wee bit farther south on business of some consequence, and i am glad i have met with a gentleman like you, and i would fain put myself under your protection in this dreary wood, as i am a stranger, and wadna like ony mischance to befa', considering the errand i am on." the robber eyed willie with a sort of leer, thinking he had fallen in with an old driveling fool, at whose expense he might amuse himself with impunity, and play a little on his simplicity. "what makes you afraid of this wood?" said the robber. "why, i was told that it was infested with highwaymen; and, to tell you the truth, as i take you to be an honest man and a gentleman, i hae something in this bag that i wadna like to lose, for twa reasons--baith because of its value, and because it was intrusted to my care." "what have you got, pray, that you seem so anxious to preserve? i can't conceive that any thing of great value can be intrusted to your care. why, i would not give a crown-piece, nor the half of it, for the whole equipage." "that's just the very thing. you see, i am not what i appear to be. i have ta'en this dress, and this auld, slovenly pony, for the purpose of avoiding suspicion in these precarious places. i have behind me a bag full of gold--you may hear by the jingling of the pieces when i strike here with my hand. now, i am intrusted with all this treasure, to convey it to a certain nobleman's residence in the south; and i say again, that i am glad that i have met you, to conduct me safely through the forest." at this, the robber was highly amused, and could scarcely believe that a simplicity so extreme, and bordering on insanity, could exist; and yet there was an archness in the old man's look, and a wiliness in his manner, that hardly comported with his external appearance. he said he had gold with him--he affirmed that he was not exactly what he appeared to be--not so poor as his tattered garments would indicate, and withal trustworthy, having so large a sum of money committed to his care. it might be, there was not a word of truth in his story; he might be some cunning adventurer from the border, plying a certain vocation on his own account, not altogether of a reputable cast; but, whatever the case might be, the silly old man was completely in his power, and, if he had gold in his possession, it must be seized on, and no time was to be lost. "i tell you," said the highwayman, wheeling his horse suddenly round in front of willie's pony, "i tell you, old man, that i am that same robber of whom you seem to be afraid, and i demand an instant surrender of your gold." "hoot, toot," exclaimed willie, "gae wa, gae wa! you a robber! you are an honest man, and you only want to joke me." "i tell you distinctly that i am the robber, and i hold you in my power." "and i say as distinctly," persisted willie, "that you are a true man. that face of yours is no a robber's face--there's no a bit o' a robber about ye, and sae ye maun e'en guard me through the wood, and gie me the word o' a leel-hearted englishman that ye'll no see ony ill come ower me." "no humbug!" vociferated the highwayman, in real earnest; "dismount, and deliver me that bag immediately, else i will make a riddle of your brainless skull in a trice." willie saw that it was in vain to parley, for the highwayman had his hand on the pommel of his pistol, and an unscrupulous act would lay him dead at his feet. now was the time for the wary scot to put his plan in execution. all things had happened as he wished, and he hoped the rest would follow. "weel, weel," said willie, "since it maun be, it maun be. i shall dismount, and deliver you the treasure, for life is sweet--sweeter far than even gold to the miser. i wanted to act an honest part, but, as we say on the north side of the border, 'might makes right,' and sae, as i said, it e'en maun be." willie then, with some apparent difficulty, as an old, stiff-limbed man, lifted himself from the pony, and stood staggering on the ground. "now," said he, laying his hand heavily on the money-bag, "i have a request or two to make, and all is yours. when i return to scotland, i must have some marks about my person to show that i have been really robbed, and that i have not purloined the gold to my own purposes. i will place my bonnet here on the side of the road, and you will shoot a ball through it; and then, here is this old cloak--you must send another ball exactly through here, so that i can show, when i return, what a fray i have been in, and how narrowly i have escaped." to this the robber consented, and, having alighted from his steed, made two decided perforations in the way he was desired. this was with willie a great point gained, for the robber's pistols were now empty, and restored to their place. "i have yet another request," said willie, "and then the matter will be completed. you must permit me to cut the straps that tie the bag to the saddle, and to throw it over this hedge, and then go and lift it yourself, that i may be able to swear that, in the struggle, i did what i could to conceal the money, and that you discovered the place where i had hid it, and then seized it; and thus i will stand acquitted in all points." to this also the highwayman consented. willie, accordingly, threw the heavy bag over the hedge, and obsequiously offered to hold the robber's high-spirited steed till he should return with the treasure. the bandit, suspecting nothing on the part of the driveling old man, readily committed his horse to his care, while he eagerly made his way through the hedge to secure the prize. in the mean time, however, willie was no less agile; for, having thrown off his ragged and cumbersome cloak, he vaulted upon the steed of the highwayman with as much coolness as if he had been at his own door. when the robber had pushed his way back through the hedge, dragging the bag with him, he was confounded on seeing his saddle occupied by the simpleton whose gold he had so easily come by. but he was no longer a simpleton--no longer a wayfaring man in beggar's weeds--but a tall, buirdly man, arrayed in decent garb, and prepared to dispute his part with the best. "what, ho! scoundrel! do you intend to run off with my horse? dismount instantly, or i will blow out your brains!" "the better you may," replied willie; "your pistols are empty, and your broadsword is but a reed; advance a single step nearer, and i will send a whizzing ball through your beating heart. as to the bag, you can retain its contents, and sell the buttons for what they will bring. in the mean time, farewell, and should you happen to visit my district across the border, i shall be happy to extend to you a true scotch hospitality." on this, willie applied spur and whip to the fleet steed, and in a few minutes was out of the wood, and entirely beyond the reach of the highwayman. when willie had time to consider the matter, he found a valise behind the saddle, which, he had no doubt, was crammed with spoils of robbery; nor was he mistaken, for, on examination, it contained a great quantity of gold, and other precious articles. the highwayman, on opening willie's bag, found it filled with old buttons and other trash. his indignation knew no bounds: he swore, and vociferated, and stamped with his feet, but all to no purpose; he had been outwitted by the wily scot, and, artful as he himself was, he had met with one more artful still. the scottish nobleman gained the bet, and the affair made a great noise for many a long year. daring men of this description were found in every part of the kingdom, frequenting the dark woods, the thick hedges, and the ruinous buildings by the wayside; and, what is remarkable, these desperadoes were conventionally held in high repute, and were deemed heroes. in the time of charles ii., when the english thoroughfares were so infested with such adventurers, we find that one claude duval, a highwayman, while he was a terror to all men, was at the same time a true gallant in the esteem of all the ladies. he was as popular and renowned as the greatest chieftains of his age; and, when he was at last apprehended, "dames of high rank visited him in prison, and, with tears, interceded for his life; and, after his execution, the corpse lay in state, with all the pomp of scutcheons, wax-lights, black hangings, and mutes." the order of society in the times to which we refer was vastly different from what it is now. men's habits and moral sentiments were then of the lowest grade, but, thanks to the clearer light and better teaching of christianity, the condition of all classes is vastly elevated. the gospel has effected in the community infinitely more than all law and social regulations otherwise could have accomplished. [from bentley's miscellany.] a chapter on bears, their habits, history, etc. _slender._ why do your dogs bark so? be there bears i' the town? _anne._ i think there are, sir; i heard them talked of. _slender._ i love the sport well; but i shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in england: you are afraid if you see the bear loose, are you not? _anne._ ay, indeed, sir. _slender._ that's meat and drink to me now! i have seen sackerson loose twenty times; and have taken him by the chain; but i warrant you the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed--but women, indeed can not abide 'em; they are very ill-favored, rough things.--_merry wives of windsor._ those who ramble amid the beautiful scenery of torquay, who gaze with admiration on the bold outlines of the cheddar cliffs, or survey the fertile fen district of cambridgeshire, will find it difficult to believe that in former ages these spots were ravaged by bears surpassing in size the grizzly bear of the rocky mountains, or the polar bear of the arctic regions; yet the abundant remains found in kent hole torquay, and the banwell caves, together with those preserved in the woodwardian museum at cambridge, incontestably prove that such was the case. grand indeed was the fauna of the british isles in those early days! lions--the true old british lions--as large again as the biggest african species, lurked in the ancient thickets; elephants, of nearly twice the bulk of the largest individuals that now exist in africa or ceylon, roamed here in herds; at least two species of rhinoceros forced their way through the primeval forests; the lakes and rivers were tenanted by hippopotami as bulky and with as great tusks as those of africa. these statements are not the offspring of imagination, but are founded on the countless remains of these creatures which are continually being brought to light, proving from their numbers and variety of size, that generation after generation had been born, and lived, and died in great britain.[ ] it is matter of history, that the brown bear was plentiful here in the time of the romans, and was conveyed in considerable numbers to rome, to make sport in the arena. in wales they were common beasts of chase, and in the history of the gordons, it is stated that one of that clan, so late as , was directed by his sovereign to carry three bears' heads on his banner, as a reward for his valor in killing a fierce bear in scotland. in , the sheriffs of london were commanded by the king to pay fourpence a day for "our white bear in the tower of london and his keeper;" and in the following year they were directed to provide "unum musellum et unam cathenam ferream"--_anglicè_, a muzzle and an iron chain, to hold him when out of the water, and a long and strong rope to hold him when fishing in the thames. this piscatorial bear must have had a pleasant time of it, as compared to many of his species, for the barbarous amusement of baiting was most popular with our ancestors. the household book of the earl of northumberland contains the following characteristic entry: "item, my lorde usith and accustomith to gyfe yearly when hys lordshipe is att home to his barward, when he comyth to my lorde at cristmas with his lordshippes beests, for making his lordschip pastyme the said xij days xxs." in bridgeward without there was a district called paris garden; this, and the celebrated hockley in the hole, were in the sixteenth century the great resorts of the amateurs in bear-baiting and other cruel sports, which cast a stain upon the society of that period--a society in a transition state, but recently emerged from barbarism, and with all the tastes of a semi-barbarous people. sunday was the grand day for these displays, until a frightful occurrence which took place in . a more than usually exciting bait had been announced, and a prodigious concourse of people assembled. when the sport was at its highest, and the air rung with blasphemy, the whole of the scaffolding on which the people stood gave way, crushing many to death, and wounding many more. this was considered as a judgment of the almighty on these sabbath-breakers, and gave rise to a general prohibition of profane pastime on the sabbath. soon after the accession of elizabeth to the throne, she gave a splendid banquet to the french embassadors, who were afterward entertained with the baiting of bulls and bears (may , ). the day following, the embassadors went by water to paris garden, where they patronized another performance of the same kind. hentzer, after describing from observation a very spirited and bloody baiting, adds, "to this entertainment there often follows that of whipping a blinded bear, which is performed by five or six men, standing circularly with whips, which they exercise upon him without any mercy, as he can not escape because of his chain. he defends himself with all his strength and skill, throwing down all that come within his reach and are not active enough to get out of it, and tearing their whips out of their hands and breaking them." laneham, in his account of the reception of queen elizabeth at kenilworth, in , gives a very graphic account of the "righte royalle pastimes." "it was a sport very pleasant to see the bear, with his pink eyes learing after his enemies' approach; the nimbleness and wait of the dog to take his advantage, and the force and experience of the bear again to avoid his assaults. if he were bitten in one place, how he would pinch in another to get free; that if he were taken once, then by what shift with biting, with clawing, with roaring, with tossing and tumbling he would work and wind himself from them, and when he was loose, to shake his ears twice or thrice with the blood and the slaver hanging about his physiognomy." these barbarities continued until a comparatively recent period, but are now, it is to be hoped, exploded forever. instead of ministering to the worst passions of mankind, the animal creation now contribute, in no inconsiderable degree, to the expansion of the mind and the development of the nobler feelings. zoological collections have taken the place of the southwark gardens and other brutal haunts of vice, and we are glad to say, often prove a stronger focus of attraction than the skittle ground and, its debasing society. by them, laudable curiosity is awakened, and the impression, especially on the fervent and plastic minds of young people, is deep and lasting. the immense number of persons[ ] of the lower orders, who visited the london gardens during the past season, prove the interest excited. the love of natural history is inherent in the human mind, and now for the first time the humbler classes are enabled to see to advantage, and to appreciate the beauties of animals of whose existence they were in utter ignorance, or if known, so tinctured with the marvelous, as to cause them to be regarded mainly as objects of wonder and of dread. california is hardly less remarkable for its bears than for its gold. the grizzly bear, expressively named _ursus ferox_ and _u. horribilis_, reigns despotic throughout those vast wilds which comprise the rocky mountains and the plains east of them, to latitude °. in size it is gigantic, often weighing pounds; and we ourselves have measured a skin eight feet and a half in length. governor clinton received an account of one fourteen feet long, but there might have been some stretching of this skin. the claws are of great length, and cut like a chisel when the animal strikes a blow with them. the tail is so small as not to be visible; and it is a standing joke with the indians (who with all their gravity are great wags), to desire one unacquainted with the grizzly bear to take hold of its tail. the strength of this animal may be estimated from its having been known to drag easily to a considerable distance, the carcase of a bison, weighing upward of a thousand pounds. mr. dougherty, an experienced hunter, had killed a very large bison, and having marked the spot, left the carcase for the purpose of obtaining assistance to skin and cut it up. on his return, the bison had disappeared! what had become of it he could not divine; but at length, after much search, discovered it in a deep pit which had been dug for it at some distance by a grizzly bear, who had carried it off and buried it during mr. dougherty's absence. the following incident is related by sir john richardson: "a party of voyagers, who had been employed all day in tracking a canoe up the saskatchewan, had seated themselves in the twilight by a fire, and were busy preparing their supper, when a large grizzly bear sprang over their canoe that was tilted behind them, and seizing one of the party by the shoulder, carried him off. the rest fled in terror, with the exception of a metif, named bourasso, who, grasping his gun, followed the bear as it was retreating leisurely with his prey. he called to his unfortunate comrade that he was afraid of hitting him if he fired at the bear, but the man entreated him to fire immediately, as the bear was squeezing him to death. on this he took a deliberate aim, and discharged his piece into the body of the bear, which instantly dropped his prey to follow bourasso, who however escaped with difficulty, and the bear retreated to a thicket, where it is supposed to have died." the same writer mentions a bear having sprung out of a thicket, and with one blow of his paw completely scalped a man, laying bare the skull, and bringing the skin down over the eyes. assistance coming up, the bear made off without doing him further injury; but the scalp, not being replaced, the poor man lost his sight, though it is stated the eyes were uninjured. grizzly bears do not hug, but strike their prey with their terrific paws. we have been informed by a gentleman who has seen much of these creatures (having indeed killed five with his own hand) that when a grizzly bear sees an object, he stands up on his hind legs, and gazes at it intently for some minutes. he then, if it be a man or a beast, goes straight on utterly regardless of numbers, and will seize it in the midst of a regiment of soldiers. one thing only scares these creatures, and that is the _smell_ of man. if in their charge they should cross a scent of this sort, they will turn and fly. our informant was on one occasion standing near a thicket, looking at his servant cleaning a gun. he had just dismounted, and the bridle of the thorough-bred horse was twisted round his arm. while thus engaged, a very large grizzly bear rushed out of the thicket, and made at the servant, who fled. the bear then turned short upon this gentleman, in whose hand was a rifle, carrying a small ball, forty to the pound; and as the bear rose on his hind legs to make a stroke, he was fortunate enough to shoot him through the heart. had the horse moved in the slightest at the critical moment, and jerked his master's arm, nothing could have saved him; but the noble animal stood like a rock. on another occasion, a large bear was shot mortally. the animal rushed up a steep ascent, and fell back, turning a complete somerset ere he reached the ground. the same gentleman told us two curious facts, for which he could vouch; namely, that these bears have the power of moving their claws independently. for instance, they will take up a clod of earth which excites their curiosity, and crumble it to pieces by moving their claws one on the other; and that wolves, however famished, will never touch a carcase which has been buried by a grizzly bear, though they will greedily devour all other dead bodies. the instinct of burying bodies is so strong with these bears, that instances are recorded where they have covered hunters who have fallen into their power and feigned death, with bark, grass, and leaves. if the men attempted to move, the bear would again put them down, and cover them as before, finally leaving them comparatively unhurt. the grizzly bears have their caves, to which they retire when the cold of winter renders them torpid; and this condition is taken advantage of by the most intrepid of the hunters. having satisfied themselves about the cave, these men prepare a candle from wax taken from the comb of wild bees, and softened by the grease of the bear. it has a large wick, and burns with a brilliant flame. carrying this before him, with his rifle in a convenient position, the hunter enters the cave. having reached its recesses, he fixes the candle on the ground, lights it, and the cavern is soon illuminated with a vivid light. the hunter now lies down on his face, having the candle between the back part of the cave where the bear is, and himself. in this position, with the muzzle of the rifle full in front of him, he patiently awaits his victim. bruin is soon roused by the light, yawns and stretches himself, like a person awaking from a deep sleep. the hunter now cocks his rifle, and watches the bear turn his head, and with slow and waddling steps approach the candle. this is a trying moment, as the extraordinary tenacity of life of the grizzly bear renders an unerring shot essential. the monster reaches the candle, and either raises his paw to strike, or his nose to smell at it. the hunter steadily raises his piece; the loud report of the rifle reverberates through the cavern; and the bear falls with a heavy crash, pierced through the eye, one of the few vulnerable spots through which he can be destroyed. the zoological society have at various times possessed five specimens of the grizzly bear. the first was old martin, for many years a well known inhabitant of the tower menagerie. we remember him well as an enormous brute, quite blind from cataract, and generally to be seen standing on his hind legs with open mouth, ready to receive any tit-bit a compassionate visitor might bestow. notwithstanding the length of time he was in confinement (more than twenty years), all attempts of conciliation failed, and to the last he would not permit of the slightest familiarity, even from the keeper who constantly fed him. some idea may be formed of his size, when we say that his skull (which we recently measured) exceeds in length by two inches the largest lion's skull in the osteological collection, although several must have belonged to magnificent animals. after the death of old martin, the society received two fine young bears from mr. catlin, but they soon died. their loss, however, has been amply replaced by the three very thriving young animals which have been recently added to the collection. these come from the sierra nevada, about miles from san francisco, and were brought to this country by mr. pacton. they were transported with infinite trouble across the isthmus of panama, in a box carried on men's shoulders, and are certainly the first of their race who have performed the overland journey. the price asked was £ , but they were obtained at a much less sum; since their sojourn in this country, they have greatly increased in size, and enjoy excellent health. an additional interest attaches to these animals from two of them having undergone the operation for cataract. bears are extremely subject to this disease, and of course are thereby rendered blind. their strength and ferocity forbade any thing being done for their relief, until a short time ago, when, by the aid of that wonderful agent, chloroform, it was demonstrated that they are as amenable to curative measures as the human subject. on the th of last november, the first operation of the sort was performed on one of these grizzly bears, which was blind in both eyes. as this detracted materially from his value, it was decided to endeavor to restore him to sight; and mr. white cooper having consented to operate, the proceedings were as follow: a strong leathern collar to which a chain was attached, was firmly buckled around the patient's neck, and the chain having been passed round one of the bars in front of the cage, two powerful men endeavored to pull him up, in order that a sponge containing chloroform should be applied to his muzzle by dr. snow. the resistance offered by the bear was as surprising as unexpected. the utmost efforts of these men were unavailing; and, after a struggle of ten minutes, two others were called to their aid. by their united efforts, master bruin was at length brought up, and the sponge fairly tied round his muzzle. meanwhile the cries and roarings of the patient were echoed in full chorus by his two brothers, who had been confined to the sleeping den, and who scratched and tore at the door to get to the assistance of their distressed relative. in a den on one side was the cheetah, whose leg was amputated under chloroform some months ago, and who was greatly excited by the smell of the fluid and uproar. the large sloth bear in a cage on the other side, joined heartily in the chorus, and the isabella bear just beyond, wrung her paws in an agony of woe. leopards snarled in sympathy, and laughing hyenas swelled the chorus with their hysterical sobs. the octo-basso growling of the polar bears, and roaring of the lions on the other side of the building, completed as remarkable a diapason as could well be heard. the first evidence of the action of the chloroform on the bear, was a diminution in his struggles; first one paw dropped, then the other. the sponge was now removed from his face, the door of the den opened, and his head laid upon a plank outside. the cataracts were speedily broken up, and the bear was drawn into the cage again. for nearly five minutes he remained, as was remarked by a keeper without knowledge, sense, or understanding, till at length one leg gave a kick, then another, and presently he attempted to stand. the essay was a failure, but he soon tried to make his way to his cage. it was garrick, if we remember right, who affirmed that talma was an indifferent representative of inebriation, for he was not drunk in his legs. the bear, however acted the part to perfection, and the way in which (like commodore trunnion on his way to church) he tacked, during his route to his den, was ludicrous in the extreme. at length he blundered into it, and was left quiet for a time. he soon revived, and in the afternoon ate heartily. the following morning on the door being opened, he came out, staring about him, caring nothing for the light, and began humming, as he licked his paws, with much the air of a musical amateur sitting down to a sonata on his violoncello. a group might have been dimly seen through the fog which covered the garden on the morning of the th november, standing on the spot where the proceedings above narrated took place ten days previously. this group comprised professor owen, mr. yarrell, the president of the society, count nesselrode, mr. waterhouse, mr. pickersgill, r.a., captain stanley, r.n., and two or three other gentlemen. they were assembled to witness the restoration to sight of another of the grizzly bears. the bear this time was brought out of the den, and his chain passed round the rail in front of it. diluted chloroform was used, and the operation was rendered more difficult by the animal not being perfectly under its influence. he recovered immediately after the couching needle had been withdrawn from the second eye, and walked pretty steadily to his sleeping apartment, where he received the condolences of his brethren, rather ungraciously it must be confessed, but his head was far from clear, and his temper ruffled. when the cataracts have been absorbed the animals will have sight. the wooded districts of the american continent were tenanted before civilization had made such gigantic strides, by large numbers of the well known black bear, _ursus americanus_. some years ago, black bears' skins were greatly in vogue for carriage hammer-cloths, &c.; and an idea of the animals destroyed, may be formed from the fact, that in , , skins were imported, and the numbers gradually rose to , in , since which time there has been a gradual decline. in those days, a fine skin was worth from twenty to forty guineas, but may now be obtained for five guineas. the chase of this bear is the most solemn action of the laplander; and the successful hunter may be known by the number of tufts of bears' hair he wears in his bonnet. when the retreat of a bear is discovered, the ablest sorcerer of the tribe beats the _runic_ drum to discover the event of the chase, and on which side the animal ought to be assailed. during the attack, the hunters join in a prescribed chorus, and beg earnestly of the bear that he will do them no mischief. when dead, the body is carried home on a sledge, and the rein-deer employed to draw it, is exempt from labor during the remainder of the year. a new hut is constructed for the express purpose of cooking the flesh, and the huntsmen, joined by their wives, sing again their songs of joy and of gratitude to the animal, for permitting them to return in safety. they never presume to speak of the bear with levity, but always allude to him with profound respect, as "the old man in the fur cloak." the indians, too, treat him with much deference. an old indian, named keskarrah, was seated at the door of his tent, by a small stream, not far from fort enterprise, when a large bear came to the opposite bank, and remained for some time apparently surveying him. keskarrah, considering himself to be in great danger, and having no one to assist him but his aged wife, made a solemn speech, to the following effect: "oh, bear! i never did you any harm; i have always had the highest respect for you and your relations, and never killed any of them except through necessity. pray, go away, good bear, and let me alone, and i promise not to molest you." the bear (probably regarding the old gentleman as rather a tough morsel) walked off, and the old man, fancying that he owed his safety to his eloquence, favored sir john richardson with his speech at length. the bear in question, however, was of a different species to, and more sanguinary than the black bear, so that the escape of the old couple was regarded as remarkable. the _ursus americanus_ almost invariably hybernates; and about a thousand skins have been annually imported by the hudson's bay company, from these black bears destroyed in their winter retreats. a spot under a fallen tree is selected for its den, and having scratched away a portion of the soil, the bear retires thither at the commencement of a snow-storm, and the snow soon furnishes a close warm covering. when taken young, these bears are easily tamed; and the following incident occurred to a gentleman of our acquaintance: a fine young bear had been brought up by him with an antelope of the elegant species called _furcifer_, the two feeding out of the same dish, and being often seen eating the same cabbage. he was in the habit of taking these pets out with him, leading the bear by a string. on one occasion he was thus proceeding, a friend leading the antelope, when a large fierce dog flew at the latter. the gentleman, embarrassed by his charge, called out for assistance to my informant, who ran hastily up, and in doing so accidentally let the bear loose. he seemed to be perfectly aware that his little companion was in difficulty, and rushing forward, knocked the dog over and over with a blow of his paw, and sent him off howling. the same bear would also play for hours with a bison calf, and when tired with his romps, jumped into a tub to rest; having recovered, he would spring out and resume his gambols with his boisterous playfellow, who seemed to rejoice when the bear was out of breath, and could be taken at a disadvantage, at which time he was sure to be pressed doubly hard. there was a fine bear of this description in the old tower menagerie, which long shared his den with a hyena, with whom he was on good terms except at meal-times, when they would quarrel in a very ludicrous manner, for a piece of beef, or whatever else might happen to form a bone of contention between them. the hyena, though by far the smaller was generally master, and the bear would moan most piteously in a tone resembling the bleating of a sheep, while the hyena quietly consumed the remainder of the dinner. the following is an account of an adventure which occurred to frank forester, in america. a large bear was traced to a cavern in the round mountain, and every effort made for three days without success to smoke or burn him out. at length a bold hunter, familiar with the spot, volunteered to beard the bear in his den. the well-like aperture, which, alone could be seen from without, descended for about eight feet, then turned sharp off at right angles, running nearly horizontally for about six feet, beyond which it opened into a small circular chamber, where the bear had taken up his quarters. the man determined to descend, to worm himself, feet forward, on his back, and to shoot at the eyes of the bear, as they would be visible in the dark. two narrow laths of pine wood were accordingly procured, and pierced with holes, in which candles were placed and lighted. a rope was next made fast about his chest, a butcher's knife disposed in readiness for his grasp, and his musket loaded with two good ounce bullets, well wrapped in greased buckskin. gradually he disappeared, thrusting the lights before him with his feet, and holding the musket ready cocked in his hand. a few anxious moments--a low stifled growl was heard--then a loud, bellowing, crashing report, followed by a wild and fearful howl, half anguish, half furious rage. the men above wildly and eagerly hauled up the rope, and the sturdy hunter was whirled into the air uninjured, and retaining in his grasp his good weapon; while the fierce brute rushed tearing after him even to the cavern's mouth. as soon as the man had entered the small chamber, he perceived the glaring eyeballs of the bear, had taken steady aim at them, and had, he believed, lodged his bullets fairly. painful moanings were soon heard from within, and then all was still! again the bold man determined to seek the monster; again he vanished, and his musket shot roared from the recesses of the rock. up he was whirled; but this time, the bear, streaming with gore, and furious with pain, rushed after him, and with a mighty bound, cleared the confines of the cavern! a hasty and harmless volley was fired, while the bear glared round as if undecided upon which of the group to wreak his vengeance. tom, the hunter, coolly raised his piece, but snap! no spark followed the blow of the hammer! with a curse tom threw down the musket, and, drawing his knife, rushed forward to encounter the bear single handed. what would have been his fate had the bear folded him in his deadly hug, we may be pretty sure; but ere this could happen, the four bullets did their work, and he fell; a convulsive shudder passed through his frame, and all was still. six hundred and odd pounds did he weigh, and great were the rejoicings at his destruction. the wild pine forests of scandinavia yet contain bears in considerable numbers. the general color of these european bears is dark brown, and to a great degree they are vegetable feeders, although exceedingly fond of ants and honey. their favorite food is berries and succulent plants; and in autumn, when the berries are ripe, they become exceedingly fat. toward the end of november the bear retires to his den, and passes the winter months in profound repose. about the middle of april he leaves his den, and roams about the forest ravenous for food. these bears attain a large size, often weighing above four hundred pounds; and an instance is on record of one having weighed nearly seven hundred and fifty pounds. the best information relative to the habits and pursuits of these scandinavian bears is to be found in mr. lloyd's "field sports of the north of europe," from which entertaining work we shall draw largely. when a district in sweden is infested with bears, public notice is given from the pulpit during divine service, that a sk[)a]ll or battue is to take place, and specifying the number of people required, the time and place of rendezvous, and other particulars. sometimes as many as men are employed, and these are regularly organized in parties and divisions. they then extend themselves in such a manner that a cordon is formed, embracing a large district, and all simultaneously move forward. by this means the wild animals are gradually driven into a limited space, and destroyed as circumstances admit. these sk[)a]lls are always highly exciting, and it not unfrequently happens that accidents arise, from the bears turning upon and attacking their pursuers. a bear which had been badly wounded, and was hard pressed, rushed upon a peasant whose gun had missed fire, and seized him by the shoulders with his fore paws. the peasant, for his part, grasped the bear's ears. twice did they fall, and twice get up, without loosening their holds, during which time the bear had bitten through the sinews of both arms, from the wrists upward, and was approaching the exhausted peasant's throat, when mr. falk, "öfwer jäg mästare," or head ranger of the wermeland forests, arrived, and with one shot ended the fearful conflict. jan svenson was a dalecarlian hunter of great repute, having been accessory to the death of sixty or seventy bears, most of which he had himself killed. on one occasion he had the following desperate encounter: having, with several other peasants, surrounded a very large bear, he advanced with his dog to rouse him from his lair; the dog dashed toward the bear, who was immediately after fired at and wounded by one of the peasants. this man was prostrated by the infuriated animal, and severely lacerated. the beast now retraced his steps, and came full on jan svenson, a shot from whose rifle knocked him over. svenson, thinking the bear was killed, coolly commenced re-loading his rifle. he had only poured in the powder, when the bear sprung up and seized him by the arm. the dog, seeing the jeopardy in which his master was placed, gallantly fixed on the bear's hind quarters. to get rid of this annoyance, the bear threw himself on his back, making with one paw a blow at the dog, with the other holding svenson fast in his embraces. this he repeated three several times, handling the man as a cat would a mouse, and in the intervals he was biting him in different parts of the body, or standing still as if stupefied. in this dreadful situation svenson remained nearly half an hour; and during all this time the noble dog never ceased for a moment his attacks on the bear. at last the brute quitted his hold, and moving slowly to a small tree at a few paces' distance, seized it with his teeth; he was in his last agonies, and presently fell dead to the ground. on this occasion svenson was wounded in thirty-one different places, principally in the arms and legs. this forest monster had, in the early part of the winter, mortally wounded another man, who was pursuing him, and from his great size was an object of general dread. lieutenant oldenburg, when in torp in norrland, saw a chasseur brought down from the forest, who had been desperately mangled by a bear. the man was some distance in advance of his party, and wounded the animal with a ball. the bear immediately turned on him; they grappled, and both soon came to the ground. here a most desperate struggle took place, which lasted a considerable time. sometimes the man, who was a powerful fellow, being uppermost, at other times the bear. at length, exhausted with fatigue and loss of blood, the chasseur gave up the contest, and turning on his face in the snow, pretended to be dead. bruin, on this, quietly seated himself on his body, where he remained for near half an hour. at length the chasseur's companions came up, and relieved their companion by shooting the bear through the heart. though terribly lacerated, the man eventually recovered. captain eurenius related to mr. lloyd an incident which he witnessed in wenersborg, in : a bear-hunt or sk[)a]ll was in progress, and an old soldier placed himself in a situation where he thought the bear would pass. he was right in his conjecture, for the animal soon made his appearance, and charged directly at him. he leveled his musket, but the piece missed fire. the bear was now close, and he attempted to drive the muzzle of the gun down the animal's throat. this attack the bear parried like a fencing master, wrested the gun from the man, and quickly laid him prostrate. had he been prudent all might have ended well, for the bear, after smelling, fancied him dead, and left him almost unhurt. the animal then began to handle the musket, and knock it about with his paws. the soldier seeing this, could not resist stretching out his hand and laying hold of the muzzle, the bear having the stock firmly in his grasp. finding his antagonist alive, the bear seized the back of his head with his teeth, and tore off the whole of his scalp, from the nape of the neck upward, so that it merely hung to the forehead by a strip of skin. great as was his agony, the poor fellow kept quiet, and the bear laid himself along his body. while this was going forward, captain eurenius and others approached the spot, and on coming within sixteen paces, beheld the bear licking the blood from the bare skull, and eying the people, who were afraid to fire lest they should injure their comrade. captain eurenius asserted, that in this position the soldier and bear remained for a considerable time, until at last the latter quitted his victim, and slowly began to retire, when a tremendous fire being opened, he fell dead. on hearing the shots, the wretched sufferer jumped up, his scalp hanging over his face, so as to completely blind him. throwing it back with his hand, he ran toward his comrades like a madman, frantically exclaiming, "the bear! the bear!" the scalp was separated, and the captain described it as exactly resembling a peruke. in one respect the catastrophe was fortunate for the poor soldier; it was in the old days of pipe-clay and pomatum, and every one in the army was obliged to wear his hair of a certain form, and this man being, for satisfactory reasons, unable to comply with the regulation, and a tow wig not being admissible, he immediately received his discharge. a curious circumstance is related by mr. lloyd, showing the boldness of wolves when pressed by hunger. a party were in chase of a bear, who was tracked by a dog. they were some distance behind the bear, when a drove of five wolves attacked and devoured the dog. their appetites being thus whetted, they forthwith made after the bear, and coming up with him, a severe conflict ensued, as was apparent from the quantity of hair, both of the bear and wolves, that was scattered about the spot. bruin was victorious, but was killed a few days afterward by the hunters. the wolves, however, had made so free with his fur, that his skin was of little value. on another occasion, a drove of wolves attacked a bear, who, posting himself with his back against a tree, defended himself for some time with success; but at length his opponents contrived to get under the tree, and wounded him desperately in the flank. just then some men coming up, the wolves retreated, and the wounded bear became an easy prey. it occasionally happens that cattle are attacked by bears, but the latter are not always victorious. a powerful bull was charged in the forest by a bear, when, striking his horns into his assailant, he pinned him to a tree. in this situation they were both found dead--the bull from starvation, the bear from wounds. so says the author above quoted. the hybernation of bears gives rise to a curious confusion of cause and effect in the minds of the swiss peasantry. they believe that bears which have passed the winter in the mountain caverns, always come out to reconnoitre on the d of february; and that they if the weather be then cold and winterly, return, like the dove to the ark, for another fortnight; at the end of which time they find the season sufficiently advanced to enable them to quit their quarters without inconvenience; but that, if the weather be fine and warm on the d, they sally forth, thinking the winter past. but on the cold returning after sunset, they discover their mistake, and return in a most sulky state of mind, without making a second attempt until after the expiration of six weeks, during which time man is doomed to suffer all the inclemencies consequent on their want of urbanity. thus, instead of attributing the retirement of the bears to the effects of the cold, the myth makes the cold to depend on the seclusion of the bears! the fat of bears has, from time immemorial, enjoyed a high reputation for promoting the growth of hair; but not a thousandth part of the bear's grease sold in shops comes from the animal whose name it carries. in scandinavia, the only part used for the hair is the fat found about the intestines. the great bulk of the fat, which in a large bear may weigh from sixty to eighty pounds, is used for culinary purposes. bears' hams, when smoked, are great delicacies, as are also the paws; and the flesh of bears is not inferior to our excellent beef. on a certain memorable day, in , a large hamper reached oxford, per great western railway, and was in due time delivered according to its direction, at christchurch, consigned to francis buckland, esq., a gentleman well known in the university for his fondness for natural history. he opened the hamper, and the moment the lid was removed out jumped a creature about the size of an english sheep dog, covered with long shaggy hair, of a brownish color. this was a young bear, born on mount lebanon, in syria, a few months before, who had now arrived to receive his education at our learned university. the moment that he was released from his irksome attitude in the hamper, he made the most of his liberty, and the door of the room being open, he rushed off down the cloisters. service was going on in the chapel, and, attracted by the pealing organ, or some other motive, he made at once for the chapel. just as he arrived at the door, the stout verger happened to come thither from within, and the moment he saw the impish looking creature that was rushing into his domain, he made a tremendous flourish with his silver wand, and, darting into the chapel, ensconced himself in a tall pew, the door of which he bolted. tiglath-pe-leser (as the bear was called), being scared by the silver wand, turned from the chapel, and scampered frantically about the large quadrangle, putting to flight the numerous parties of dogs, who in those days made that spot their afternoon rendezvous. after a sharp chase, a gown was thrown over tig, and he was with difficulty secured. during the struggle, he got one of the fingers of his new master into his mouth, and--did he bite it off? no, poor thing! but began vigorously sucking it, with that peculiar mumbling noise for which bears are remarkable. thus was he led back to mr. b.'s rooms, walking all the way on his hind legs, and sucking the finger with all his might. a collar was put round his neck, and tig became a prisoner. his good-nature and amusing tricks soon made him a prime favorite with the undergraduates; a cap and gown were made, attired in which (to the great scandal of the _dons_) he accompanied his master to breakfasts and wine parties, where he contributed greatly to the amusement of the company, and partook of good things, his favorite viands being muffins and ices. he was in general of an amiable disposition, but subject to fits of rage, during which his violence was extreme; but a kind word, and a finger to suck, soon brought him round. he was most impatient of solitude, and would cry for hours when left alone, particularly if it was dark. it was this unfortunate propensity which brought him into especial disfavor with the dean of christchurch, whose greek quantities and hours of rest were sadly disturbed by tig's lamentations. on one occasion he was kept in college till after the gates had been shut, and there was no possibility of getting him out without the porter seeing him, when there would have been a fine of ten shillings to pay the next morning; for during this term an edict had gone forth against dogs, and the authorities not being learned in zoology, could not be persuaded that a bear was not a dog. tig was, therefore, tied in a court-yard near his master's rooms, but that gentleman was soon brought out by his piteous cries, and could not pacify him in any other way than by bringing him into his rooms, and at bed time tig was chained to the post at the bottom of the bed, where he remained quiet till day-light, and then shuffling on to the bed, awoke his master by licking his face--he took no notice, and presently tig deliberately put his hind legs under the blankets and covered himself up; there he remained till chapel time, when his master left him, and on his return found that the young gentleman had been amusing himself during his solitude by overturning every thing he could get at in the room, and, apparently, had had a quarrel and fight with the looking-glass, which was broken to pieces and the wood work bitten all over. the perpetrator of all this havoc sat on the bed, looking exceedingly innocent, but rocking backward and forward as if conscious of guilt and doubtful of the consequences. near to tig's house there was a little monkey tied to a tree, and jacko's great amusement was to make grimaces at tig; and when the latter composed himself to sleep in the warm sunshine, jacko would cautiously descend from the tree, and, twisting his fingers in tig's long hair, would give him a sharp pull and in a moment was up the tree again, chattering and clattering his chain. tig's anger was most amusing--he would run backward and forward on his hind legs sucking his paws, and with his eyes fixed on jacko, uttering all sorts of threats and imprecations, to the great delight of the monkey. he would then again endeavor to take a nap, only to be again disturbed by his little tormentor. however, these two animals established a truce, became excellent friends, and would sit for half-an-hour together confronting each other, apparently holding a conversation. at the commencement of the long vacation, tig, with the other members of the university, retired into the country, and was daily taken out for a walk round the village, to the great astonishment of the bumpkins. there was a little shop, kept by an old dame who sold whipcord, sugar-candy, and other matters, and here, on one occasion, tig was treated to sugar-candy. soon afterward he got loose, and at once made off for the shop, into which he burst to the unutterable terror of the spectacled and high capped old lady, who was knitting stockings behind the counter; the moment she saw his shaggy head and heard the appalling clatter of his chain, she rushed up stairs in a delirium of terror. when assistance arrived the offender was discovered, seated on the counter, helping himself most liberally to brown sugar; and it was with some difficulty, and after much resistance, that he was dragged away. mr. buckland had made a promise that tig should pay a visit to a village about six miles distant, and determined that he should proceed thither on horseback. as the horse shied whenever the bear came near him, there was some difficulty in getting him mounted; but at last his master managed to pull him up by the chain while the horse was held quiet. tig at first took up his position in front, but soon walked round and stood up on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on his master's shoulders. to him this was exceedingly pleasant, but not so to the horse, who not being accustomed to carry two, and feeling tig's claws, kicked and plunged to rid himself of the extra passenger. tig held on like grim death, and stuck in his claws most successfully; for in spite of all the efforts of the horse he was not thrown. in this way the journey was performed, the country folks opening their eyes at the apparition. this reminds us of an anecdote mentioned by mr. lloyd: a peasant had reared a bear which became so tame that he used occasionally to cause him to stand at the back of his sledge when on a journey; but the bear kept so good a balance that it was next to impossible to upset him. one day, however, the peasant amused himself by driving over the very worst ground he could find, with the intention, if possible, of throwing bruin off his equilibrium. this went on for some time, till the animal became so irritated that he gave his master, who was in front of him, a tremendous thump on the shoulder with his paw, which frightened the man so much that he caused the bear to be killed immediately; this, as he richly deserved the thump, was a shabby retaliation. when term recommenced, tiglath-pe-leser returned to the university, much altered in appearance, for being of the family of silver bears of syria, his coat had become almost white; he was much bigger and stronger, and his teeth had made their appearance, so that he was rather more difficult to manage; the only way to restrain him when in a rage, was to hold him by the ears; but on one occasion having lost his temper, he tore his cap and gown to pieces. about this time the british association paid a visit to oxford, and tig was an object of much interest. the writer was present on several occasions when he was introduced to breakfast parties of eminent savants, and much amusement was created by his tricks, albeit they were a little rough. in more than one instance he made sad havoc with book-muslins and other fragile articles of female attire; on the whole, however, he conducted himself with great propriety, especially at an evening meeting at dr. daubeny's, where he was much noticed, to his evident pleasure. still, however, the authorities at christchurch, not being zoologists, had peculiar notions respecting bears; and at length, after numerous threats and pecuniary penalties, the fatal day arrived, and tig's master was informed that either "he or the bear must leave oxford the next morning." there was no resisting this, and poor dear tig was, accordingly, put into a box--a much larger one than that in which he had arrived--and sent off to the zoological gardens, regent's park; here he was placed in a comfortable den by himself; but, alas! he missed the society to which he had been accustomed, the excitement of a college life, and the numerous charms by which the university was endeared to him; he refused his food; he ran perpetually up and down his den in the vain hope to escape, and was one morning found dead, a victim to a broken heart! footnotes: [ ] see "a history of british fossil mammals," by our great zoologist, professor owen. [ ] the number of visitors to the zoological gardens, regent's park, during the past year, was very nearly , . not all alone. by alaric a. watts. not all alone; for thou canst hold communion sweet with saint and sage; and gather gems, of price untold, from many a consecrated page: youth's dreams, the golden lights of age, the poet's lore, are still thine own; then, while such themes thy thoughts engage, oh, how canst thou be all alone? not all alone; the lark's rich note, as mounting up to heaven, she sings; the thousand silvery sounds that float above, below, on morning's wings; the softer murmurs twilight brings-- the cricket's chirp, cicada's glee; all earth, that lyre of myriad strings, is jubilant with life for thee! not all alone; the whispering trees, the rippling brook, the starry sky, have each peculiar harmonies to soothe, subdue, and sanctify: the low, sweet breath of evening's sigh, for thee hath oft a friendly tone, to lift thy grateful thoughts on high, and say--thou art not all alone! not all alone; a watchful eye, that notes the wandering sparrow's fall, a saving hand is ever nigh, a gracious power attends thy call-- when sadness holds the heart in thrall, oft is his tenderest mercy shown; seek, then, the balm vouchsafed to all, and thou canst never be alone! monthly record of current events. political and general news. the united states. the public mind has been almost wholly absorbed, during the past month, in anxiety for the safety of the american steamer _atlantic_. she was known to have left liverpool on the th of december, and was seen four days out by a packet which afterward reached new york. from that time until the th of february an interval of _fifty days_, nothing whatever was known of her fate. the anxiety of the public mind was becoming intense, when, on the evening of february th, the _africa_ arrived with news of her safety. it seems that on the th of january the main shaft of her engine was broken, which rendered the engine completely unmanageable. she stood for halifax until the th, against strong head winds, when it became evident that she could not reach that port before her provisions would give out, and she accordingly put back for cork, where she arrived on the d of january. her mails and passengers came in the africa. the cambria had been chartered to bring her cargo, and was to sail february th. the atlantic was to be taken to liverpool for repairs, which would probably occupy three months. few events within our recollection have caused more general joy than the intelligence of her safety. congress, during the past month, has done but little of permanent interest to any section of the country. various important subjects have been extensively discussed, but upon none of them has any favorable or decisive action been taken. several attempts have been made, by the friends of a protective tariff in the house of representatives, to insert some provisions in the deficiency and appropriation bills which would secure an amendment of the existing tariff favorable to their views. none of these efforts, however, have been successful. a zealous discussion has also been had upon a bill to establish a branch of the united states mint in the city of new york; it met with strong opposition--especially from the city of philadelphia and was finally defeated. a bill concerning the land titles in california has also been largely discussed in the senate, and finally passed. a resolution has been adopted in that body authorizing the president of the united states to confer the brevet rank of lieutenant general; it is of course designed for application to general scott. a bill further reducing the rates of postage has passed the house of representatives. three cents was by it adopted as the uniform rate of letter postage. the bill was very greatly changed in the senate, and its fate is still doubtful. the french spoliation bill, the project for establishing a line of steamers on the coast of africa, and other bills have been before congress but no action has been had upon them. the senate has passed a bill appropriating ten millions of acres of public lands (equal to twelve millions five hundred thousand dollars) to be apportioned among the several states in an equitable ratio, for the endowment of hospitals for the indigent insane. this act is one of the most philanthropic and beneficent ever passed by any legislative body. it has been ably and zealously pressed upon the attention of congress by miss dix, whose devotion to the cause of humanity has already won for her a world-wide reputation. elections of united states senators have been held in several of the states with various results. in florida, on the th of january, mr. mallory, democrat, was elected over mr. yulee. in missouri, after a protracted effort, henry s. geyer, whig, was elected on the fortieth ballot, receiving votes against for mr. benton, and scattering. mr. geyer is a german by birth, but came to this country when he was about three years old. he is now one of the ablest lawyers and most upright men in the state which he is hereafter in part to represent. in pennsylvania, mr. broadhead, democrat, was elected without serious difficulty. in new york both branches of the legislature proceeded to nominate a senator in accordance with the law upon the subject, on the th day of february. in the assembly hamilton fish was nominated, receiving votes against for other candidates. in the senate he had votes, while senators voted each for a separate candidate, one of them, senator beekman from new york city, being a whig. after two ballotings, on mr. beekman's motion, the senate adjourned. no nomination has been made, nor can the attempt be renewed, except by the passage of a special law. in massachusetts repeated efforts to elect a senator have proved unsuccessful. charles sumner, free soil, has several times lacked but three or four votes of an election, mr. winthrop being his principal opponent. the vacancy occasioned by mr. webster's resignation has been filled by the election of hon. robert rantoul. mr. boutwell was elected governor of the state by the legislature. the effort to elect a senator for the next term will be renewed from time to time. in rhode island, after several ballotings, in which two whigs and one democrat received about an equal number of votes each, charles t. james, esq., democrat, was elected, having received a large number of whig votes. in ohio, an attempt to elect a senator to succeed mr. ewing, proved ineffectual. ten ballots were had, after which the legislature adjourned, thus abandoning the effort. in michigan general cass has been re-elected united states senator by the legislature. the legislature of north carolina has closed its session. notwithstanding the strenuous efforts that have been made to excite among the people of this state serious disaffection toward the union, the action of the legislature has been exceedingly moderate. resolutions upon the subject, calculated to inflame the public mind, were laid upon the table by a very decisive vote. a bill has been passed authorizing an agricultural, mineralogical, and botanical survey of the state. the governor is to make the appointment, and the surveyor is required personally, or by his assistants, "to visit every county in the state, and examine every thing of interest or value in either of the above departments, to ascertain the nature and character of its products, and the nature and character of its soil, as well as to give an account of its minerals." gen. quitman, governor of mississippi, has been indicted at new orleans on charge of having participated in the unlawful expedition from the united states against cuba. he has resigned his office, and given bail for his appearance in court, asking for a speedy trial. a number of others have also been indicted, one of whom, gen. henderson, has been tried. the trial lasted several days, and was conducted on both sides with great ability. the connection of the accused with the expedition seemed to have been clearly proved: the jury, however, were not able to agree on a verdict, four of them, it is said, taking the ground that the expedition was justifiable and proper. intelligence to december th has been received from the commission to survey the boundary line between mexico and the united states. the mexican commissioner, gen. conde, had joined the american commissioners at el paso. several conferences were had before a starting point could be agreed upon for the survey, as the maps of that region were very inconsistent and imperfect. throughout new mexico, according to the most recent advices, great inconvenience is sustained from indian depredations, made in spite of treaty stipulations. the arkansas legislature adjourned january , after a session of seventy-one days, which has been fruitful in acts of local importance. the governor of texas has designated the first thursday in march as a day of public thanksgiving. the fact is worthy of record here as an evidence that this new england custom is steadily making its way into the new states. accidents to steamboats on our western waters continue to challenge public attention. the steamer _john adams_ on the ohio, on the th of january, struck a snag and sunk in two minutes. one hundred and twenty-three lives were lost--mostly of emigrants. hon. george f. fort was installed into office as governor of new jersey on the st of january. his inaugural address recommends the establishment of free schools, the enactment of general incorporation laws, homestead exemption, &c., and urges a full assent to the compromise measures of the last session of congress. some attention has been attracted to a letter from gen. houston to hon. john letcher of virginia, rebuking very severely the attempt made by south carolina to induce virginia to take the lead in a scheme of secession. gen. houston speaks of the constitution as the most perfect of human instruments, and refuses to countenance any attempt to alter or amend its provisions. he says that every intelligent and disinterested observer must concede that agitation at the north is dying out, that the laws are obeyed, and that no necessity exists for resisting or dissolving the union. the letter exerts a marked influence on the political movements of the day. the house of representatives in delaware on the th of february adopted a series of resolutions very warmly approving the compromise measures of the last session of congress, and especially the law for the more effectual enforcement of the provisions of the constitution requiring the surrender of fugitive slaves. hon. d.s. kaufman, member of congress from texas, died very suddenly on the st of january. his decease was ascribed to an affliction of the heart, but it is supposed by those who knew him most intimately to have resulted from a wound received by a pistol shot some years since in a rencontre in the texas legislature. the ball had never been extracted. he was a gentleman of ability and of a very amiable disposition. a large "union meeting" was held at westchester, n.y., on the th of january. a letter was received from daniel webster, regretting his inability to attend the meeting, and warmly approving its objects. mr. clay also wrote a letter which was read at the meeting, in which he said that "two classes of disunionists threaten our country: one is that which is open and undisguised in favor of separation--the other is that which, disowning a desire of dissolution of the union, adopts a course and contends for measures and principles which must inevitably lead to that calamitous result." he considered the latter the "more dangerous, because it is deceptive and insidious." a correspondence between mr. mathew, a british consul, and the governor of south carolina, has excited some attention. mr. mathew represents the very great inconvenience occasioned by the law of south carolina requiring the imprisonment of every colored person arriving in her ports until the departure of the vessel, and the payment of expenses by her captain. the correspondence is friendly, and the subject has been referred to a committee in the south carolina legislature. the fact of a correspondence between the representative of a foreign power and one of the states of the union, in its separate capacity, excites remark and censure. from california our advices are to the th of january. the cholera had entirely disappeared. the result of the late state election had been definitely ascertained. in the senate there is a whig majority of two, and in the assembly a whig majority of nine. this result is deemed important on account of the pending election of u.s. senator in place of mr. frémont. gov. burnett has resigned, and lieut.-gov. mcdougal been installed in his place. hon. david c. broderick, formerly of new york, was chosen president of the senate. renewed difficulties have occurred with the indians, and the general impression seemed to be that no friendly arrangement could be made with them. they demand the free use of their old hunting-grounds, and will listen to no proposition which involves their surrender. the settlers, especially on the trinity and klamath rivers, suffer grievously from their marauding incursions, and have been compelled to raise and arm companies to repel them. a serious and protracted war is apprehended. the latest arrival brings the report of a discovery of gold exceeding in magnitude any before made. twenty-seven miles beyond the trinity river, it is said, is a beach seven miles in extent, bounded by a high bluff. a heavy sea, breaking upon the shore washes away the lighter sand, and that which remains is rich to an unparalleled extent. a company has been formed to proceed to this locality, and the secretary estimates the sum which each member will secure, at many millions. the whole amount of gold dust shipped at san francisco during the year , is officially stated at $ , , . at least twenty millions are supposed to have gone forward, in addition, in private hands, so that the total product of the mines during the year is estimated at nearly fifty millions. the mines in all quarters continued to yield abundant returns. mexico. we have intelligence from mexico to the th of january. congress assembled on the st. the president opened the session by a speech about an hour in length. he says that the stipulations of the treaty of peace with the united states have been faithfully observed, and have proved highly advantageous for mexico. three treaties have been concluded during his administration--one with the united states in regard to the isthmus of tehuantepec, another with the same power concerning the extradition of criminals, and another with guatemala on the same subject. domestic tranquillity has been preserved throughout the country; complaint, however, is made that the states transcend their rightful authority, and thus weaken the general government; and the necessity of providing a remedy for this abuse, in order to maintain the integrity of the federal constitution, is strongly urged. commerce and manufactures are said to have flourished, and the mining business, which is the chief resource of mexico, has been peculiarly good. their entire returns during the last year are estimated at thirty millions. the president urges the propriety of making laws to restrain the licentiousness of the press. the army has been thoroughly reformed, consisting now of only men, all of whom are characterized as "true soldiers," stationed in places where their services will be most useful to the republic. on the th, gen. arista was inaugurated president of mexico. his opening address was brief, pertinent, and patriotic. he spoke of peace as the first necessity of the republic, and promised that it should be "maintained at any cost, as the only manner in which the happiness and prosperity of the people can be secured." he says that "every thing will be done by the central authorities to enable the states to equalize the expenses and their revenues; to multiply their ways of communication; to augment their agricultural and commercial industry; in short, to make them great and powerful, attracting to their bosoms the intelligent, industrious and enlightened population which they so much need." the address was received with great satisfaction. the ceremony of the inauguration was extremely brilliant, and was witnessed by an immense concourse of people. after it was over, the president and his ministers repaired to the cathedral, where a _te deum_ was sung, and prayers offered up for the happiness of the nation. the personal popularity of gen. arista is very great, and the best hopes are indulged of his administration. mr. letcher, the american minister, left for the united states, on the th, and reached new orleans feb. th. it was supposed that he brought the tehuantepec treaty ratified with him. a revolt against the central government has occurred in guanajuato, but it was soon put down by the troops. a number of the ringleaders in it have been executed. the mexican government has granted to a company styled rubio, barron, garay, torre & co., the whole of the public lands in the state of sonora, comprising one of the most valuable tracts in the whole country. the yucatan papers complain loudly of the encroachments of the english in fortifying belize, and in otherwise interfering in the affairs of the peninsula. the american hydrographic party was busily engaged in surveying the route across the isthmus. central america. from nicaragua we have intelligence to the th of january. a rich placer of gold is said to have been discovered about eight miles from realejo. the crops throughout the country have been seriously threatened by immense flocks of locusts. in consequence of the alarm created by this menaced destruction, the government has thrown open all the ports of the country to the free admission of all kinds of grain. don jose sacasa has been elected director of nicaragua--the term of the present incumbent expiring on the st of may. the difficulties between the government of san salvador and the british charge, mr. frederick chatfield, have led to the blockade by the latter, on behalf of his government, of all the ports of san salvador. mr. chatfield resorted to this extreme measure because the government refused to comply with his demands, that they should countermand certain instructions they had given to their agents, and contradict, officially, certain statements concerning the british government made in the public prints of san salvador. the cause of this blockade was certainly somewhat singular; but the form of it was still more so; for by its terms, british vessels were excluded from its operation. mr. chatfield has also written a letter to the minister for foreign affairs of nicaragua, complaining of the unwillingness of that government to negotiate with great britain, acting on behalf of the king of mosquito, for a boundary between the territories of mosquito and those of nicaragua; and saying that, "as a proof of the conciliatory spirit of the british government," it had determined to prescribe and maintain a certain boundary line, which is designated. he adds that the british government is still willing to treat on the subject, and urges the importance of "coming to a friendly understanding with the mosquito government, since _no canal_, or any other improved mode of transit across the isthmus, can well be established before the difficulty, raised by nicaragua on this point, is put an end to." in a subsequent letter, enforcing the necessity of arranging the claims of a british house for damages, mr. chatfield makes a singular but evident allusion to the hopes entertained by the government of nicaragua of aid from the united states. he says that, "whatever assurances nicaragua may receive that the conduct of its government, however irregular it may be toward another, will at all times find support from third parties, still the government of nicaragua must feel that no reliance should be placed on such assurances, as no foreign government will compromise political and commercial interests on the behalf of a country whose rulers reject the ordinary means of settling matters open to dispute, by argument, and negotiation." from valparaiso we have intelligence to january d. the u.s. corvette vincennes had been at that port, and took the american minister, hon. bailie peyton, on a visit to the province of conception. a very destructive fire had occurred at valparaiso, at which property to the value of a quarter of a million of dollars was consumed. congress met december th, in extra session. a law had been passed authorizing the executive to reform the custom-house regulations. a law is under discussion making an appropriation of $ , annually to the pacific steam navy. by an existing law of the country, eight acres of land are given to each foreign colonist: a new law is proposed, largely increasing the grant. the sum of $ has been voted to afford temporary residences for a colony of german emigrants. these facts are important indications of the efforts made to invite foreigners into the country. henri herz, the pianist, was at valparaiso on the st of january. on the th, there was an eruption of the volcano of portillo, near santiago. great britain. it is decided that parliament is to be opened by the queen in person, on the th of february. speculation is rife as to the course of government upon the subject of the "papal aggressions," of which though there are many rumors, nothing authentic has transpired. the excitement upon this subject, though the mode of manifestation is changed, seems not to have died away. it occupies less space in the newspapers, and fewer public meetings are held; the discussion now being carried on in books and pamphlets, of which the last month has produced about one hundred, in addition to nearly two hundred before published. in the address of the english prelates to the queen, which was noticed in our last number, no mention was made of the irish church. the bishops of that country have taken the matter up, and have protested both to her majesty and to their english brethren, against any proceedings which shall imply that the two branches of the episcopal church have separate rights and interests. the church question, in various aspects, can not well fail of being the prominent one in the ensuing session of parliament. a movement has been set on foot, by the high church party with a view to a _convocation_ for the settlement of various questions in debate within the church; at a public meeting for this object speeches marked by peculiar acrimony were made. secessions to the roman church, among the higher classes and the clergy, are more frequent than at any former period. the unwonted prospect of a surplus in the revenue, has occasioned propositions for the abolition of many of the most onerous and odious taxes. among those spoken of are the window tax, the tax on paper, that on tea, and the malt tax. the paper tax seems to be the favorite of the press; but the probability is that the reduction will be made upon the window tax. the question threatens to be an embarrassing one for the ministry, who will find it difficult to decide among so many conflicting claims. the austrian government has officially demanded that punishment should be inflicted upon those persons who committed the assault upon general haynau. after a somewhat prolonged correspondence the british home secretary declined to make any inquiry into the matter, on the plea that "it could not be attended with any satisfactory result." the refusal of general haynau to enter any complaint before the authorities is assigned as the ground for this conclusion. prince schwartzenberg, in his closing dispatch, hints that the austrian government may consider it "befitting to exercise reciprocity with regard to british subjects who may happen to be in austria." in the colonies, the process of "annexation" goes on steadily. in india one or two extensive districts are in course of absorption. at the cape of good hope, the governor has deposed the most powerful of the kaffir chiefs, and appointed a british officer to assume the control of his people. in australia vehement opposition has sprung up against the transportation system; and there is reason to suppose that this outlet for the criminal population of great britain will soon be closed. the "crystal palace," is so far completed that it has been made over into the hands of the commissioners. severe storms have luckily occurred, which have proved the entire stability of the edifice, not a pane of glass, even, of which has been broken by them. mr. paxton has written a letter to lord john russell, strenuously urging that after the first fortnight, and with the exception of one day in each week, admission to the exhibition be gratis. france. from france the political intelligence is of considerable importance, not so much on its own account, as showing a deep and increasing hostility between the president and the national assembly. this feeling has been manifested by several incidents, and has caused within three weeks three separate ministries, besides an interregnum of a week. the personal adherents of the president in the assembly have never constituted more than a third of that body; but he has always succeeded in carrying his measures by dexterously pitting one party against the other: each party preferring him to their opponents. but when the president's designs for the perpetuation of his power became apparent, all parties began to look upon general changarnier as in some sort a counterpoise. a collision having arisen between the general and the ministers, the assembly took part with the former, whereupon the ministry resigned. the president, despite the remonstrances of the leaders of the assembly, made the dismissal of changarnier a _sine quâ non_ in the appointment of a new ministry. he at length succeeded in forming one that would take this step; and the general was dismissed, and the enormous military functions he had exercised were divided among a number of officers. a fierce opposition at once sprang up against the new ministry. a singular coalition was formed, mainly through the tactics of m. thiers, of conservatives, cavaignac republicans, and ultra democrats, so that a vote declaring want of confidence in the ministry passed by to ; whereupon this ministry resigned. no man of all the majority could be found who would undertake to form a ministry from its discordant elements; a like attempt to form one from the minority in the assembly was unsuccessful. at last, the president formed one of which not an individual was a member of the assembly. throughout the whole of these transactions, louis napoleon has shown a political skill and dexterity scarcely inferior to that manifested in the field by the great emperor. with vastly inferior forces at his command, he has gained every point: he has got rid of his most formidable rival, changarnier; he has convinced, apparently, the middle classes that the only hope of peace and stability lies in his possession of power; and the assembly have been driven into acts of opposition which can bear no other interpretation than that of a factious struggle for power. the position of the president is considerably strengthened by the late occurrences. germany. the dresden free conference is still in session, and matters seem as impracticable as the genius of mysticism could desire. enough has transpired to show that the minor powers have not been alarmed without good reason. the cordial understanding between austria and prussia is displayed perhaps too ostentatiously to be altogether sincere; but there can be no doubt that the two governments have combined to aggrandize themselves at the expense of the others. it seems to be determined that the new executive committee will be composed of eleven votes, of which austria and prussia are each to have two. the committee of the old confederation consisted of seventeen votes, of which those powers had one each, and even then it was complained that their influence was excessive. it is admitted on all hands that any approach to a nearer union is impracticable at present; that the dresden conference is quite as incapable of improvising a german nation, as was that assembly of pedants and pettifoggers that called itself the frankfort parliament.----hostilities have ceased in schleswig-holstein, the stadtholderate of which have yielded their functions to the commissioners of the confederation.----the first trial by jury at vienna, took place, under the new austrian constitution, on the th of january. literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. united states. the literary incidents of the month have not been very noteworthy. james, the english novelist, has been lecturing at albany to large and interested audiences. he has bought a residence at stockbridge, mass., where he will reside, in the immediate neighborhood of longfellow, the sedgwicks, and other literary celebrities. a series of valuable lectures upon art have been delivered before the artists of new york, in pursuance of a very excellent plan adopted by their association. the first of the series was delivered by henry james, esq., and was an excellent critical exposition of the nature and characteristics of art. he was followed by george w. curtis, esq., in a fine sketch of the condition and prospects of art on the continent. the leading idea of his lecture was that art never promised more abundant results than now. congress at its last session appropriated two thousand dollars to commence the purchase of a library for the use of the president of the united states. it is a little singular that a project so eminently useful should have been so long neglected. its execution has been now undertaken with spirit, under the direction of mr. charles lanman. the birth-day of burns was celebrated by a public dinner on the th of january at the astor house, in new york. the poet bryant was present as a guest, and made a very happy speech, in which he said that the fact that burns had taken a local dialect, and made it classical and given it a character of universality, was of itself sufficient to stamp him as a man of the highest order of genius. mr. hoe, celebrated for his printing presses, has just completed a new one, having eight cylinders, and thus throwing off eight sheets at each revolution, for the use of the _sun_ newspaper in new york. he was the recipient lately of a public dinner given to him by the proprietors of the paper, at which several of the most eminent literary celebrities in the country were present as guests. the occasion was one of interest: we hope it may be deemed indicative of a growing disposition to tender public honors to the benefactors, as well as to the destroyers, of their race. the literary productions of the month will be found noticed in another department of this magazine. several works of interest are promised by the leading publishers. the harpers have in press a volume of traveling sketches, entitled _nile notes_, by an american, which will be found to be one of the best of its kind. it is written with great vivacity and with very marked ability. many of its chapters are fully equal to _eothen_, and the work in its general characteristics is not at all inferior to that spirited and admirable book. the harpers have also in press a work by mr. h.m. field, giving a succinct history of the _great irish rebellion_ with biographical sketches of the most prominent of the irish confederates. it will find a wide circle of readers. the harpers are also about to publish mayhew's _london labor and the london poor in the nineteenth century_, made up of his letters in the london _morning chronicle_ upon that subject, revised and extended. these papers reveal a state of things not at all creditable to the english people or to the age in which we live. as originally published in london they excited great attention and have done much toward arousing the public sense of justice to the poor. cooper, the novelist, has a work in preparation upon the social history of this country. it will probably, however, not be published until fall. mr. putnam has in progress a new and very elegantly printed uniform edition of his novels. another new york house promise a complete edition of joanna baillie's poems, with a new edition of elizabeth barret browning. prof. agassiz, the celebrated naturalist, is making a survey of the florida reefs and keys, in the hope that he may throw some light upon their formation and growth. he is nominally attached to the coast survey. american scholars still continue their valuable contributions to classical learning. prof. drisler, of columbia college, one of the most thorough and accurate linguists in the country, is engaged upon an _english-greek lexicon_, which will be a most valuable aid to the classical student, in connection with similar works by the same author hitherto issued. in the departments of religious and theological literature, we find indications of renewed activity among the divines of our country. prof. j. addison alexander, of princeton, has a new critical and exegetical work in the course of preparation. rev. dr. spring will soon publish, through m.w. dodd, a volume under the title of _first things_, a series of lectures designed to set forth and illustrate some of the facts and moral duties earliest revealed to mankind. from rev. dr. condit, of newark, we are to have a work entitled _the christian home_, setting forth the relations, duties, and benefits of the domestic institution. rev. h.a. rowland, author of a work on the common maxims of infidelity, has in press a volume under the title of _the path of life_. the late edmond charles genet, embassador from the republic of france to this country at the close of the last century, left behind him, at his decease, a vast amount of papers, consisting of journals of his life, letters from the prominent statesmen and politicians of this country, and correspondence with his sister, the celebrated madame campan. it is understood that members of his family are arranging them with a view to publication. from the close social and political relations which m. genet, after his dismissal from the embassy, bore to the prominent politicians of the democratic party, there can be no doubt that these papers, if judiciously edited, will throw much light upon the political history of the period preceding the war of . it is known by those familiar with current continental literature, that the wife of prof. edward robinson published, some time since, in germany, under her usual pseudonym, talvi, a very full and excellent history of the early colonization of new england. this work has lately been translated from german into english by william hazlitt, and published in london. it was published originally at leipsic in . we presume it will be reprinted here. rev. h.t. cheever's _whale and his captors_ has been reprinted in london, with a preface by dr. scoresby, who commends it very highly. european. the london _leader_ destroys the romance of lamartine's visit to england. it seems, according to that paper, that he did not go for the philosophic purpose of studying the country, but to make bargains for the publication of his _history of the directory_, which he offered for five thousand pounds. the publishers, he urged, could issue it simultaneously in england, france, and germany, and so secure an enormous profit. "our countrymen," says the _leader_, "with an indifference to mammon worthy of a philosopher, declined the magnificent proposal: and lamartine returned to france and sold his work to an association of publishers for , francs, which he hopes to get." he is also to publish a new novel in the _feuilleton_ of the _siècle_. edmond texier, a french journalist, has published a very lively history of french journals and journalists. it is a small and unelaborate book, but is exceedingly readable. political writers in france, it will be remembered, are required to sign their names to their articles. the _vote universel_ recently contained a strong essay signed by gilland. the attorney-general prosecuted the paper, alleging that the article was written by george sand, and citing the bad spelling of gilland's private letters as a proof that he could not have been the writer. madame george sand peremptorily denies having written a line of the article, and avers that rousseau himself, in a single letter in her possession, makes three mistakes in spelling three lines, owing to the difficult and capricious rules of the french language. lady morgan has published a pamphlet on the roman catholic controversy. it is in the form of a letter to cardinal wiseman, and is a defense of herself against an attack upon a passage in her book on italy. in that book she had related a curious anecdote. she said that when bonaparte entered italy the enthroned chair of st. peter, contained in the magnificent shrine of bronze which closes the view of the nave in st. peter's cathedral, was brought into a better light and the cobwebs brushed off. certain curious letters were discovered on the surface, which were deciphered and found to contain the arabian formula, "there is but one god, and mahomet is his prophet." cardinal wiseman branded this story as "false, foolish, slanderous, and profligate." lady morgan gives as her authority for it the eminent _savans_ denon and champollion, who saw the inscription, deciphered it, and told its meaning in her presence. her letter is ably written, and excites attention.--lady morgan is said to be the oldest living writer who continues to write: for though miss joanna baillie is some five years, and rogers perhaps ten years her senior, neither of the latter has touched a pen in the way of authorship for a long time; whereas lady morgan, for all her blindness, has, according to the liverpool albion, for a good while back, been a regular contributor to one of the london morning journals. the british government has bestowed a pension of £ a year upon the widow of the celebrated belzoni, who died fifteen years ago. the public satisfaction at this announcement is tempered with surprise that the pension was not bestowed fifteen years ago. mr. poole, the author of "paul pry," and other literary works of a light character, has received a retiring pension of the same amount. similar pensions have been granted to george petrie, ll.d., author of "the round towers of ireland," and other antiquarian works; and to dr. kitto, editor of the "pictorial bible," "cyclopædia of biblical literature," and other works in that department of letters. dr. kitto, although deaf from an early age, in consequence of an accident, has traveled over many lands in connection with the missionary society. letters from rome announce the death in that city of mr. ritchie, the sculptor, of edinburgh. the circumstances are peculiarly melancholy. it had been the dream of mr. ritchie's life to go to rome; this year he was able to travel, and he arrived in that city in september last, with some friends as little acquainted with the nature of the malaria as himself. with these friends it appears that he made a visit to ostia; the season was dangerous; the party took no precautions, and they all caught the malaria fever. he died after a few days' illness, and was followed to the grave by most of the english and american artists in rome. austen henry layard, whose enterprise has opened a new field for historical research, was born in paris, march , . his father, who was dean of bristol, filled a high civil office in ceylon, between the years and . the early years of the future explorer of nineveh were spent in florence, where he early acquired his artistic tastes and skill as a draughtsman. on returning to england, young layard commenced the study of law, but his love of adventure rendered this profession distasteful to him, and he abandoned it. in he left england, with no very definite object in view, visited russia and the north of europe, and spent some time in germany. thence he took his course toward the danube, and visited the semi-barbarous provinces on the turkish frontier, which form the debatable ground between the orient and the occident. in montenegro he passed some time, aiding an active young chief in his efforts to ameliorate the condition of his subjects. from hence he passed into the east, where he led the life of an arab of the desert, and acquired a thorough knowledge of the languages of arabia and turkey. we next find him in persia, asia minor, and syria, where he visited almost every spot made memorable by history or tradition. he now felt an irresistible desire to penetrate to the regions beyond the euphrates, to which history and tradition point as the birth-place of the wisdom of the west. at constantinople, he fell in with the english embassador, sir stratford canning, by whom he was encouraged to undertake and carry on those excavations amid the assyrian and babylonian ruins, which have conclusively demonstrated that a gigantic civilization had passed away before what we are accustomed to call ancient civilization dawned, a civilization stretching back almost to the days when the ark rested upon ararat; a civilization which was old when the pyramids were young. and, what is still more remarkable, the relics of this civilization are more perfect and beautiful in proportion to the remoteness of their date, the earlier of these ancient sculptures being invariably the noblest in design, and the most exquisite and elaborate in execution. in , mr. layard visited england for a few months, where, notwithstanding the monthly attacks of an aguish fever contracted in the damp apartments which he was obliged to inhabit while prosecuting his excavations at nimroud, he prepared for the press the two volumes of his nineveh and its remains, executed the drawings for the hundred plates, and a volume of inscriptions in the cuneiform character for the british museum. the last survivor of cook's voyage, a sailor named john wade, is said to be now begging his bread at kingston-on-thames. he is within a few months of completing his hundredth year, having been born in new york in may, . he was with cook when he was killed on the island of hawaii; and is said to have served at the battles of cape st. vincent, teneriffe, the nile, copenhagen, camperdown, and trafalgar. an interesting collection of sketches, by members of the sketching society has been opened to the public. this society numbers among its members the two chalons, bone, christall, partridge, stump, leslie, stanfield, and uwins. what gives to the present collection a unique interest is that they are entirely impromptu productions, three hours being the limit allowed for their completion. at each meeting of the society the president announces a subject, and the drawings are made on the spot. sir roger de coverley's chaplain is familiar to the recollection of all. he has lately found an imitator. the vicar of selby announced a few weeks since, that he should that day commence reading the sermons of others, as there were many productions of the ablest divines which were altogether unknown to his parishioners; and he thought the time spent in writing so many new sermons might be more usefully employed in other matters connected with his profession. he then proceeded to read a sermon which he said he had heard preached at the university with great effect. professor owen, in , had submitted to him for examination, a fossil body, which he was enabled to identify as the tooth of some species of whale. it was subsequently discovered that certain crags upon the coast of suffolk, especially one at felixstow, contained an immense quantity of fossils of a similar character, which examinations, undertaken by owen and henslow, showed to be rolled and water-worn fragments of the skeletons of extinct species of mammals, mostly of the whale kind. this discovery has been shown by a recent trial in the english courts, to be of immense pecuniary value. a mr. lawes took out a patent for the manufacture of super-phosphate of lime, as a substitute for bone-dust, for agricultural purposes, by applying sulphuric acid to any mineral whatever, known or unknown, which might contain the phosphate of lime. it was found that these fossil remains contained of this from to per cent., and mr. lawes undertook to extend his patent so as to include the production of the super-phosphate from them. in this he was unsuccessful, the court deciding that he could not claim a monopoly of all the fossil remains in the country. it was shown on the trial, that an income of more than $ , a year has been derived from the use of this phosphate. a number of classical works of decided interest have recently been published; among them are: _platonis opera omnia_. this new edition of plato is edited by stallbaum, whose name is a sufficient guarantee for the faithful editorial care bestowed upon it. it is in one volume, small folio, uniform with the edition of aristotle by weisse, and that of cicero by nobbe.--lachmann's edition of _lucretius_ supplies a want which has been long felt of a good critical edition of the philosophical poet. the volume of the text is accompanied by a critical commentary in a separate volume.--the second part of the second volume of professor ritschl's edition of _plautus_ containing the "pseudulus," has appeared. the editor has the reputation of being the best plautinian scholar in germany. he has spent years in the preparation of this edition, having undertaken an entirely new recension of the works of the great dramatic poet.--_corpus inscriptionum græcarum._ this important work, under the editorial charge of the veteran böckh, with whom is associated franz, is rapidly approaching completion. the third part of the third volume is published. a fourth part, which will complete the work, is promised speedily. from the press of the imperial academy at st. petersburgh has appeared the first volume of a collection of _mohammedan sources for the history of the southern coasts of the caspian sea_. the volume contains pages of the persian text of the history of tabaristan, rujan, and massanderan, by seher-eddin, edited, with a german introduction, by bernhard dorn, librarian of the imperial library. it gives a history, commencing with the mythical ages and ending with the year , of the various dynasties which have ruled those regions, which have scarcely been brought within the light of authentic history, but to which we must look for the solution of many interesting problems in relation to the progress and development of the race. the editor promises forthwith a translation of the history, with annotations. professor heinrich ewald, of göttingen, has just put forth a translation of and commentary upon the gospels of matthew, mark, and luke, marked by that free dealing with the sacred text characteristic of the rationalistic school. he proposes to himself the task of separating what he supposes to be the original substance of the evangelical narrative from subsequent additions and interpolations--"to free the kernel from the mosaic husk." the author had intended to delay the publication of this commentary until after the publication of his history of the jews; but he thought he perceived in the present state of religion in germany, and especially in the alarming decline of the religious element among the masses of the people, a call upon him to furnish an antidote--such as it is. in the preface he takes occasion to make some severe criticisms upon the politics of the day, and in particular those of prussia. obituaries. john james audubon, the ornithologist, died at his residence a few miles from new york, on the th of january. he was born in louisiana, about , of french parentage, traces of which were apparent through life in the foreign intonation with which he spoke the english language, although he wrote it with great vigor and correctness. he early manifested that enthusiastic love of nature, which subsequently became his ruling passion, and the mainspring of all his endeavors through life. in the preface to his "ornithological biography," he gives a vivid sketch of the growth of his fondness for the winged creation. "none but aerial companions," says he, "suited my fancy; no roof seemed so secure to me as that formed of the dense foliage under which the feathered tribes were seen to resort, or the caves and fissures of the massy rocks to which the dark-winged cormorant and the curlew retired to rest, or to protect themselves from the fury of the tempest." with increasing years, a desire for the actual possession of his favorites grew up in his mind. but this longing was nowise satiated by the possession of them dead: with their life their charms were gone. at this period his father showed him a book of illustrations--of no very high artistic excellence, we may well believe. a bush thrown into certain solutions, in a particular state, will cause crystalization. the young enthusiast's mind was in such a state--the vague desires, the indefinite longings crystalized around that book of illustrations. he longed to be a creator. to imitate by lines and colors the beings he loved, became the passion of his life. but like all true artists, he was at first doomed to experience the disappointment of being unable to realize his ideal: his drawings so far from truly representing the originals, were even inferior to the engravings in his book. every year he made hundreds, which he regularly burned upon every succeeding birthday. in his sixteenth year he was sent to paris to pursue his education. there he studied drawing under the revolutionary painter david. but his heart was ever in his native woods, and after a stay of eighteen months he gladly returned. his father now gave him a farm near philadelphia, at the junction of the pekioming creek and the schuylkill. here he married, and entered into mercantile transactions, apparently with ill success. he was in the forests when he should have been in the counting-house, if he would succeed in business. his friends looked askance at him, as one who only made drawings when he might have made money. they were doubtless correct in their estimate of his capacity. that indomitable spirit which bore him thousands of miles through the untrodden wilderness, softened the earth or the branch of a tree for his bed; "bore bravely up his chin" when he swam the swollen stream, with his rifle and painting materials lashed above his head--was doubtless adequate, if directed to that end, to have gained any given amount of money. pegasus made an indifferent plow-horse; and audubon but a poor trader. so after ten years of this divided pursuit, one bright october morning found him floating down the ohio in a skiff in which were his wife and child, his scanty wares, and a couple of negro rowers. he set up his household gods at henderson, kentucky, where he resided for some years, and engaged again, with a partner, in trade. still he was accustomed to make long excursions, with no companion but his dog and rifle, a tin box strapped to his side containing his brushes and paints. all this while his collection of drawings, which was subsequently to constitute the "birds of america," grew under his hand; yet strange to say, the thought of publishing never entered his mind. one spring day in , a stranger entered the counting-room of audubon, presented specimens of a book he was preparing, and requested his patronage. the stranger was alexander wilson, and the book was his "american ornithology." audubon was about to subscribe for it, when his partner asked him, in french, why he did so, assuring him that his own drawings were far better, and that he must be as well acquainted with the habits of american birds as the stranger could be. wilson asked if audubon had any drawings of birds. a large portfolio was exhibited: and the veteran ornithologist could not avoid the conclusion that his own efforts were far surpassed. he became sad, and though audubon showed him every attention, loaned him drawings, and accompanied him through the neighboring woods, the thought of being excelled was more than he could bear. he departed, shaking the dust from his feet, and entered in his diary that "literature or art had not a friend in the place." the year following, we find audubon far down among the bayous of florida, still engaged in collecting materials for his work; yet still, apparently, with no definite purpose of publication. of the next ten or twelve years of his life, we have no particular accounts. but we understand that he has left behind him an autobiography, which will doubtless be made public, and which we venture to predict, will exceed in interest and adventure the lion-king cumming's african exploits, springing as audubon's did from high devotion to science, instead of the mere animal instinct of destruction. all this while his great work was growing. but in a single night the result of the labor of years was destroyed by a pair of rats, who selected a box containing two hundred drawings, with more than a thousand figures, as a place in which to rear their plundering brood. "the burning heat," says he, "which rushed through my brain was too great to be endured without affecting the whole of my nervous system. i slept not for several nights, and the days passed like days of oblivion, until the dormant powers being aroused into action through the strength of my constitution, i took up my gun, my note-book, and my pencils, and went forward to the woods as gayly as though nothing had happened." in three years his portfolios were again full. in , audubon found himself at philadelphia, on his way to the great lakes. here he was introduced to lucien bonaparte, who seems to have induced him to determine upon the publication of his work. a year and a half of happy toil ensued, enlivened by a new object. he had loved and wooed nature for her own dear self; but now he began to feel presentiments that his bride would raise him to a throne among the immortals. in he set sail for england. his first feeling was that of despondency. what was he, whose acquirements had been won by the solitary wanderings of more than a quarter of a century, amid lonely forest solitudes; what could he be in comparison with those who had been trained and taught by intercourse with civilized life? but these feelings were of brief duration. the wonderful backwoodsman was warmly welcomed by the best and wisest men of europe. cuvier was his admirer, alexander von humboldt became his cherished friend and correspondent. "the hearts of all," wrote wilson, "warmed toward audubon, who were capable of conceiving the difficulties, dangers, and sacrifices that must have been encountered, endured, and overcome, before genius could have embodied these, the glory of its innumerable triumphs." and so audubon was encouraged to publish his work. it was a vast undertaking. it would take sixteen years to accomplish it; he was now somewhat declined into the vale of years, and would be an old man when it was completed; and when the first drawings were put into the hands of the engraver he had not a single subscriber. but his heart was upborne by reliance on that power, on whom depends success. after three years spent in europe, he returned to america in , leaving his work in process of execution in edinburgh. toward the close of his first volume, containing one hundred plates, every figure of the size and colors of life, was issued. it was hailed with universal applause; royal names headed his subscription list, which, at one thousand dollars each, reached the number of , of whom eighty were americans. his name was enrolled among the members of the learned societies of great britain and the continent, and the world claimed him among her great men. in the autumn of , audubon visited washington, where he received from government letters of protection and assistance, to be used at all national ports, revenue, and naval stations. having been delayed by sickness, he proceeded upon his expedition toward the close of the following summer. he tracked the forests of maine, explored the shores of the british provinces, bringing back rich spoils; and returned to charleston, to spend the winter in the preparation of his drawings and the accompanying descriptions. in he published his second volume. the three following years were passed in exploring expeditions, mostly to the south, one of which was to florida, another to texas, in a vessel placed at his disposal by government, and in the preparation of his drawings and descriptions. at the close of this period he published the fourth and last volume of plates, and the fifth of descriptions. the whole work contained plates, comprising more than a thousand figures of birds, all drawn of the size of life, in their natural attitudes and circumstances, and colored from nature. in audubon commenced in this country the republication of the "birds of america," in seven large octavo volumes, which were issued during the succeeding five years. before the expiration of this period, however, he commenced the preparation of the "quadrupeds of america," of which he had materials for five large volumes: in the literary department of which he was assisted by dr. bachman, of charleston. this has recently been concluded, and forms a monument to his memory hardly less imposing than his earlier work. in the meanwhile, though more than sixty winters had passed over his head, he projected an expedition to the rocky mountains, with all the adventurous spirit of his youth. but he perhaps over-rated his physical capabilities; at least the expedition was not made. the concluding years of his life were passed on the beautiful estate of minniesland, upon the hudson, some ten miles from new york. for several years his health had been giving way, until the time when he passed from earth to the still land of the immortals. his was a happy life. he had found his vocation, and pursued it for long years, earnestly, faithfully, and triumphantly. the forms of beauty which won his early love, and drew him into the broad forests, he brought back to cheer us who can not follow his footsteps. he has linked himself with the undying loveliness of nature; and, therefore, his works are a possession to all men forevermore. joseph bem, the famous polish general in the late hungarian war, died at aleppo in the early part of december. it is somewhat singular that during the whole course of hostilities he declared his conviction that he should survive until the year . bem was born in at tarnow in gallicia. having completed his education at the military school in warsaw, he entered the army, and served as lieutenant of artillery in the divisions of davoust and macdonald. on the conclusion of peace, he remained with the polish army, who were now in the russian service, where he attained the rank of captain and adjutant, and was finally appointed teacher in the artillery school at warsaw. dissatisfied with his position, he applied for a discharge, which was granted; but for some unexplained cause he was summoned before a court-martial, and sentenced to an imprisonment of two months. from to the outbreak of the polish insurrection in , he resided at lemberg, where he busied himself with mechanical and mathematical studies. when the rising of the poles took place, he hastened to warsaw, was appointed major, and obtained the command of a regiment of flying artillery. for his distinguished services at the battles of igania and ostrolenka he was raised successively to the rank of lieutenant-colonel and colonel, and received the command of the polish artillery. at ostrolenka he was wounded, but as he lay upon the ground, he directed the movements of his guns. when the cause of poland was lost, he headed the first emigration to france, where the greater portion of the next eighteen years was spent. in he entered into negotiations with don pedro of portugal to raise a polish regiment for his service; but the project was unsuccessful; and bem incurred the suspicions of his fellow exiles, by one of whom an attempt was made to assassinate him. the following years he passed in france and england, where we trace him by several treatises which he published upon the organization of artillery, the manufacture of powder, the distillation of brandy, the modes of working in wood and metal, and a system of mnemonics. he also taught languages, for a time, for very scanty pay, at london and oxford, but was obliged to abandon this occupation in consequence of a surgical operation for the extraction of a bullet; for a time he was in receipt of the few shillings weekly which the polish association were able to bestow upon destitute exiles. the bread of exile which dante found so bitter, was sweet compared with that which bem, for long years, was forced to taste. he made an attempt to establish a polytechnic company, near paris, which failed from the want of adequate funds. upon the breaking out of the revolutions of , we find bem in the thick of the conflict. on the th of october he made his appearance at vienna, where he endeavored to organize the revolt in the austrian capital. here he could never have anticipated success; but he was aware that resistance in vienna would give the hungarians time to arm. finding the cause hopeless in vienna, he betook himself to kossuth, at comorn. here he had some difficulty in proving his identity; but at length bem succeeded in winning the confidence of the hungarian ruler. at pesth, where he concerted future operations with kossuth, another attempt was made to assassinate bem by a young pole who had conceived the idea that he had betrayed the popular cause at vienna. from pesth bem was dispatched by kossuth to transylvania, in order to organize the revolt against austria. the transactions in transylvania formed perhaps the most brilliant portion of the whole hungarian war. in the course of ten weeks, with a newly raised army, always inferior in force to the enemy, by a series of hard fighting and skillful manoeuvres, he placed transylvania in the hands of the hungarians. the accession of russia to the side of austria was decisive of the contest. bem, sorely pressed in transylvania, was summoned by kossuth to assume the command in chief; and at temesvar, on the th of august , he lost the last battle of hungary; though he here displayed the highest qualities of the soldier and the general. the austrians were repulsed at all points, mowed down by the terrible fire from the hungarian artillery, which bem had posted with his accustomed skill; but his troops were exhausted, and a fresh body of austrians under prince lichtenstein, decided the day. "a single draught of wine to each hussar," said guyon, "would have saved the battle." in the rout which ensued, bem, who was weakened by his wounds, was thrown from his horse, and broke his collar bone. the day following the disastrous battle of temesvar, kossuth resigned the dictatorship into the hands of görgey, who two days after, on the th of august, surrendered his whole army, consisting of , men with pieces of cannon, to the russians. bem at first made some efforts to prolong the hopeless contest; but it was in vain, and on the th of the month he bade farewell to the country from which he had hoped so much. kossuth, dembinski, bem, and some others took refuge in turkey, where their residence or extradition was made a political question by the powers of europe. in the anticipation of being given up, bem embraced mohammedanism, and entered the turkish service, under the name of murad bey. there is nothing to wonder at in this procedure. his one principle through life had been hatred to russia, and to this he would not hesitate to sacrifice any and every other consideration; his only religion was to avenge his country upon the czar; if that could be done, it mattered little to him whether it was effected under the banner of the cross or the crescent. he persisted to the last in his profession of mohammedanism, and was buried with military honors, greatly lamented by the ottoman government, into whose military organization he had introduced many beneficial reforms. bem possessed military genius of a high order; he was bold and rapid in his decisions, fertile in resources, whether to take advantage of a victory or to retrieve a defeat. he clearly perceived that the most effective arm in modern warfare is artillery, the service of which he always superintended in person. previous to a battle he appointed the positions his guns were to assume, examined and leveled them in person, whence he was nicknamed, by his german legion, "the piano-forte player." at the time of his death, he had reached his fifty-sixth year, but the severe exposures which he had undergone, and his numerous wounds, gave him the appearance of a still greater age. as a man, all who knew bem were enthusiastic in his praise. generous in disposition, gentle and modest in demeanor, he inspired deep personal attachment in all with whom he came in contact. viscount alford (john hume cust) died on the d of january. in he succeeded to the vast bridgewater estates, and assumed, by royal license, the name of egerton, in place of that of cust. he was a member of the house of commons from to . he inherited an estate from the late earl of bridgewater, under a will of very singular character. by this document it was provided that unless lord alford should, within five years, succeed in gaining a rank in the peerage higher than that of earl, the estate should go to his brother, with a like condition, which also failing, it was to pass to another branch of the family. the duke of newcastle (henry pelham fiennes pelham clinton) died jan. , at the age of . he was one of the most consistent and unbending of the tory conservative nobility of england, and a most strenuous opponent of every measure of reform. he said of himself that "on looking back to the past, i can honestly assert that i repent of nothing that i have done. _vestigia nulla retrorsum._ such has been the cradle of my opinions: time may have matured them, and given them something like authority; at all events, the sentiments that might have been doubtful, are now rootedly confirmed." thus incapable of learning by experience, of becoming wiser as a man than he was when a boy, his political career was thoroughly consistent. he was alike opposed to catholic emancipation, the repeal of the test act, and any modification of the corn laws. when lord lieutenant of nottinghamshire, he refused, in spite of the positive demand of government, to insert in the commission of the peace the names of two gentlemen who were not members of the established church. when the reform bill was in agitation, he stood up manfully for the rotten boroughs which enabled him to return six members to the house of commons, the disfranchisement of which cost him a large sum which he had invested in property of which the franchise constituted the main value. his hereditary possessions were very large, and by his wife he obtained estates to the value of £ , per annum, besides personal property to the amount of £ , ; yet, owing to extensive purchases of unproductive estates, he was embarrassed in pecuniary matters. apart from his narrow and bigoted politics, his character was marked by many noble and excellent traits. frederick bastiat, the leader of the free-trade party in france, died at rome, on the th of december. he was a member of the national assembly; and his death was hastened by his severe and protracted labors during the last session. his essays, bearing the general title of _sophismes economiques_, originally published in a periodical, the _journal des economistes_, of which he was editor, have been made known to the american public through the columns of the _evening post_, which is a sufficient guarantee of their authority with the upholders of that policy. w.h. maxwell, the irish novelist, died at musselburg, near edinburgh, december . in early life he was a captain in the british army, and noted for his social qualities. he subsequently entered the church, and obtained the benefice of prebendary of balla, a wild district in connaught, with an income, but no congregation or official duties. among his works we recollect "hector o'halloran," "story of my life," "wild sports of the west," and many humorous sketches in the periodical literature of the day. professor schumacher, the astronomer of the observatory at altona, died on the th of december, in his st year. for many years he conducted the _astronomische nachrichten_, in which capacity he was well known in the scientific world. he had been successively professor of astronomy at the university of copenhagen, and director of the observatory at manheim, in baden. from to he measured the length of the degree of longitude from copenhagen to the western coast of jutland, and that of the degree of latitude from the northern extremity of jutland to the frontiers of hanover. he subsequently executed for the english government the measure of the difference of longitude between the observatories of greenwich and altona. literary notices. _the howadji; or, nile notes_ (published by harper and brothers), is a new volume of oriental travels, by a young new-yorker, describing a voyage on the nile and the marvels of egypt, with a freshness and originality that give it all the fascination of a romance. speaking in the character of the howadji, which is the name given by the egyptians to foreign travelers, the author describes a succession of rare incidents, revealing the very heart of eastern life, and transporting us into the midst of its dim, cloud-like scenes, so as to impress us with the strongest sense of reality. he does not claim the possession of any antiquarian lore; he has no ambition to win the fame of a discoverer; nor in the slightest degree is he a collector of statistical facts. he leaves aside all erudite speculations, allowing the moot points of geography and history to settle themselves, and gives himself up to the dreamy fancies and romantic musings which cluster round the imagination in the purple atmosphere of the east. his work is, in fact, a gorgeous prose-poem, inspired by his recollections of strange and vivid experiences, and clothed in the quaint, picturesque costume which harmonizes with his glowing oriental visions. no previous traveler has been so richly imbued with the peculiar spirit of the east. his language is pervaded with its luxurious charm. bathed in the golden light of that sunny clime, his words breathe a delicious enchantment, and lull the soul in softest reveries. the descriptive portions of the book are often diversified with a vein of profound and tender reflection, and with incidental critical allusions to art, which have the merit both of acuteness and originality. from the uncommon force and freedom of mind, exhibited in this volume, with its genuine poetic inspirations, we foresee that a brilliant career in letters is opened to the author, if his ambition or tastes impel him to that sphere of activity. _crumbs from the land o' cakes_, by john knox (published by gould and lincoln), is a rapid sketch of a tour in scotland, by an enthusiastic admirer and native of that country. it makes no pretensions to originality or literary skill, but written without affectation, and from recent actual experience, it makes a very readable volume. the title is quaintly explained in the preface. "crumbs are but trifles, though a morsel of manchineel may poison a man, and the same quantity of gingerbread may tickle his palate; but the crumbs here presented do not belong to either class. all scotchmen know that the cakes for which their native land is celebrated are made of oatmeal (baked hard); which, though substantial, are very dry: this consideration will show the propriety of the title. it is also appropriate in another respect, for the writer is conscious that these fragmentary notes of travel in his native country are, in comparison to the richness of the materials and the subject, but as the crumbs to the loaf." ticknor, reed, and fields, boston, have published a third volume of de quincy's _writings_, comprising his _miscellaneous essays_ on sacred subjects, of which the quaint peculiarity of the title is suggestive of the bold, fanciful genius of the author. among them, we find "murder, considered as one of the fine arts;" "the vision of sudden death;" "dinner, real and reputed," and others, all redolent of the strange imaginative conceits, the playful toying with language, and the startling intensity of description which characterize the visions of the english opium eater. the same house have issued a neat duodecimo edition of goethe's _faust_, translated by hayward, of which the curious aesthetic and philological merits are well known to every german scholar. it is an almost literal transcript of the original into english prose, but executed with such a profound appreciation of its spirit, such nice verbal accuracy, and such exquisite handling of the delicate mechanism of language, as to present a more faithful idea of the wild and marvelous beauty of the great german poem, than the most successful translation in verse. according to mr. hayward's theory of translation, "if the english reader, not knowing german, be made to stand in the same relation to faust as the english reader, thoroughly acquainted with german stands in toward it--that is, if the same impressions be conveyed through the same sort of medium, whether bright or dusky, coarse or fine--the very extreme point of a translator's duty has been attained." the loudly-expressed verdict of competent literary judges (so far as we know without a dissenting voice), and the numerous editions it has gone through on both sides of the atlantic, are ample proofs of the felicitous and effective manner in which the translator has completed the task thus imposed upon himself. the preface and notes attached to this volume, show the vivacity of his genius, and his rich stores of choice learning. _lavengro: the scholar--the gipsy--the priest_, by george borrow (published by harper and brothers, and george p. putnam), is the title of certain portions of the unique autobiography of the erratic author of "the bible in spain." among the many things which he professes to have aimed at in this book, is the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, as well as the exposure of humbug in various forms. the incidents related are in accordance with this design. borrow's early life was filled with strange and startling adventures. with a taste from the cradle for savage freedom, he never became subject to social conventionalisms. his soul expanded in the free air, by the side of running streams, and in the mountain regions of liberty. he received the strongest impressions from all the influences of nature. he was led by a strange magnetism to intimacy with the most eccentric characters. an ample fund of material for an interesting narrative was thus provided. he has made use of them in his own peculiar and audacious manner. a more self-reliant writer is not to be found in english literature. he has no view to the effect of his words on the reader, but aims only to tell the story with which his mind teems. hence his pages are as fresh as morning dew, and often run riot with a certain gipsy wildness. his narrative has little continuity. he piles up isolated incidents, which remain in his memory, but with no regard to regular sequence or completeness. on this account he is sometimes not a little provoking. he shuts off the stream at the moment your curiosity is most strongly excited. but the joyous freedom of his spirit, his consummate skill as a story teller, and the startling eccentricities of his life, so little in accordance with the tameness and dull proprieties of english society, give an elastic vitality to his book, and make it of more interest to the reader than almost any recent issue of the english press. harper and brothers have commenced the publication of a new series of juvenile tales by jacob abbott, entitled _the franconia stories_. the first volume, called _malleville_, is a very agreeable narrative of life in new hampshire, abounding in attractive incidents, and related in the fresh and natural style for which the author is justly celebrated. this series is intended by the author to exert a kindly moral influence on the hearts and dispositions of the readers, although it will contain little formal exhortation and instruction. he has no doubt hit upon the true philosophy, in this respect, nothing being so distasteful to a young reader as the interruption of the narrative by the statement of a moral, unless he can contrive to swallow the sugar, while he rejects the medicine. mr. abbott relies on his quiet and peaceful pictures of happy domestic life, and the expression of such sentiments and feelings as it is desirable to exhibit in the presence of children. he is far more sure of the effect aimed at by this method, than by any insipid dilutions of solomon or seneca. _the practical cook-book_ (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.) is the title of a new work on gastronomic science, by a lady of boston, which brings the taste and philosophy of that renowned seat of the muses to the elucidation of the mysteries of the cuisine. the young housekeeper will be saved from many perplexities by consulting its lucid oracles. edward h. fletcher has published a new edition of the celebrated _discourse on missions_, by john foster, delivered in , before the london baptist missionary society, with a preliminary essay on the skepticism of the church, by rev. joseph p. thompson, of the broadway tabernacle. it is republished in this country with a view to counteract the impression since made by the extraordinary writer, in his critique on rev. dr. harris's popular work, "the great commission," in which foster alludes to the missionary enterprise in terms of disparagement, giving the opposers of evangelical missions and evangelical religion the sanction of his great name, and the authority of his latest opinions. in the opinion of the editor, no better refutation of his argument can be given than is contained in the missionary discourse from mr. foster's own pen. being written in the maturity of his intellect, and regarded by himself as one of his most successful efforts, it may be taken as a more authentic expression of his opinions than the letter to dr. harris, which was written in his old age: an old age rendered gloomy and morose by seclusion from the world, and by the failure of the schemes which he had fondly cherished in more ardent years. the character of the discourse is tersely summed up in a short paragraph by mr. thompson. "in the thoroughness of its discussion and the comprehensiveness of its view; in the clearness and strength of its reasoning, and the force and beauty of its diction; in the glow of its sentiment, and the sublimity of its faith, this discourse stands at the head of productions of its class, as an exhibition of the grandeur of the work of missions, and of the imperative claims of that work upon the church of christ. there is nothing in it local or temporary, but it comes to christians of this generation with all the freshness and power which thirty years ago attended its delivery." the preliminary essay by the editor is a vigorous and uncompromising attack on the prevalent skepticism of the church in respect to the obligations of the missionary enterprise. j.s. redfield has issued a work on _the restoration of the jews_, by seth lewis, in which the author maintains the doctrine of a literal return of the jews to palestine, and the second coming of christ in connection with that event. mr. lewis, whose death took place one or two years since, at an advanced old age, was one of the district judges of the state of louisiana, and highly respected for his learning and ability, as well as his exemplary private character. he was devoted to the study of the scriptures, and presents the fruits of his research with modesty and earnestness, though hardly in a manner adapted to produce a general conviction of the correctness of his views. the same publisher has issued _a practical system of modern geography_, by john f. anderson, a successful teacher of one of the public schools in this city. the leading features of this little work are brevity, clearness, and simplicity. the author has aimed to present a practical system of geography, unconnected with subjects not pertaining to the science, in a manner adapted to facilitate the rapid progress of the pupil. we think that he has met with great success in the accomplishment of his plan. tallis, willoughby, and co. continue the serial publication of _the life of christ_, by john fleetwood, which beautiful work is now brought down to the twelfth number. it is embellished with exquisite engravings, and in all respects is worthy of a place in every family. the same house are bringing out _scripture illustrations for the young_, by frederick bambridge, in a style of peculiar beauty--a work every way adapted to charm the taste and inform the mind of the juvenile reader. _the dove and the eagle_ (published by ticknor, reed, and fields, boston) is a slight satirical poem, with some clever hits at transcendentalism, socialism, teetotalism, woman's-rights-ism, and other rampant hobbies of the day. among the latest republications of robert carter and brothers, we find a neat edition of _young's night thoughts_, printed on excellent white paper, in a convenient, portable form; _the principles of geology explained_, by rev. david king, showing the relations of that science to natural and revealed religion; _the listener_, by caroline fry; the able and elaborate work on _the method of the divine government_, by james m'cosh; and _daily bible illustrations_, by john kitto, in three volumes. this last work has gained an extensive popularity in england, and has the rare merit of presenting the scenes of sacred history in a vivid and picturesque light, with a rare freedom from bombast on the one hand, and from weak common-place on the other. the carters have recently published a new edition of mrs. l.h. sigourney's popular contribution to the cause of temperance, entitled _water drops_, consisting of an original collection of stories, essays, and short poems, illustrative of the benefits of total abstinence. the eighth edition of dr. g.b. cheever's _lectures on the pilgrim's progress_, is also just issued by the same house. _the history of the united states_, by richard hildreth, vol. iv. (published by harper and brothers), commences a new series of his great historical work, embracing the period subsequent to the adoption of the federal constitution in , and reaching to the close of mr. monroe's first presidential term in . the volume now issued is devoted to the administration of washington, and gives a condensed and intelligible view of the early development of american legislation, of the gradual formation of the parties which have since borne the most conspicuous part in our national politics, and of the character and influence of the statesmen who presided over the first operations of the federal government. with a greater vivacity of style than is shown in the preceding volumes, the present exhibits the results of no less extensive research, and a more profound spirit of reflection. mr. hildreth evidently aims at a rigid impartiality in his narrative of political events, although he never affects an indifference toward the pretensions of conflicting parties. his sympathies are strongly on the side of washington, hamilton, and jay, with regard to the questions that soon embarrassed the first administration. while he presents a lucid statement of the principles at issue, he takes no pains to conceal his own predilections, always avoiding, however, the tone of a heated partisan. this portion of his work, accordingly, is more open to criticism, than his account of the earlier epochs of american history. the political devotee may be shocked at the uncompromising treatment of some of his favorites, while he can not fail to admit the ability which is evinced in the estimate of their characters. among the topics which occupy an important place in this volume, are the inauguration of the federal government, the establishment of the revenue system, the financial policy of hamilton, the growth of party divisions, the insurrection in pennsylvania, mr. jay's treaty with england, and mr. monroe's mission to france. these are handled with great fullness and clearness of detail, with a sound and discriminating judgment, and in a style which, though seldom graphic and never impassioned, has the genuine historical merits of precision, energy, and point. we rejoice to welcome this series as an admirable introduction to the political history of our republic, and shall look for its completion with impatience. lossing's _pictorial field-book of the revolution_ (published by harper and brothers) has now reached the close of the first volume. its interest has continued without diminution through the successive numbers. the liveliness of the narrative, as well as the beauty of the embellishments, has given this work a wide popularity, which we have no doubt it will fully sustain by the character of the subsequent volumes. the union of history, biographical incidents, and personal anecdotes is one of its most attractive features, and in the varied intercourse of mr. lossing with the survivors of the revolutionary struggle, and the descendants of those who have deceased, he has collected an almost exhaustless store of material for this purpose, which he has shown himself able to work up with admirable effect. _the united states: its power and progress_ (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.) is a translation by edmund l. du barry of the third paris edition of a work by m. poussin, late minister of france to the united states. it presents a systematic historical view of the early colonization of the country, with an elaborate description of the means of national defense, and of agriculture, commerce, manufactures, and education in the united states. m. poussin had some excellent qualifications for the performance of this task. residing in this country for many years, he was able to speak from experience of the practical working of republican institutions. connected with the board of engineers appointed by the american government for topographical surveys in reference to future military operations, he had attained an exact knowledge of our geographical position, and the whole organization of our internal improvements. a decided republican in feeling, his warmest sympathies were with the cause of political progress in this country. free from the aristocratic prejudices of the old world, the rapid development of social prosperity in the united states was a spectacle which he could not contemplate with indifference. hence his volume is characterized not only by breadth of information, but by fairness of judgment. if he sometimes indulges a french taste for speculative theories, he is, in general, precise and accurate in his statements of facts. his description of our organization for the defense of the coast and the frontiers is quite complete, and drawn to a great degree from personal observation, may be relied on as authentic. we can freely commend this work to the european who would attain a correct view of the social condition, political arrangements, and industrial resources of the united states, as well as to our own citizens who are often so absorbed in the practical operations of our institutions as to lose sight of their history and actual development. _salander and the dragon_, by frederic william shelton (published by george p. putnam and samuel hueston), is a more than commonly successful attempt in a difficult species of composition, and one in which the disgrace of failure is too imminent to present a strong temptation to any but aspirants of the most comfortable self-complacency. mr. shelton, however, has little to fear from the usual perils that beset this path of literary effort. he has a genius for the vocation. with such a fair fruitage, from the first experiment, we hope he will allow no rust to gather on his implements. salander is a black, or rather greenish monster of a dwarf, without bones, capable of being doubled into all shapes, like a strip of india rubber, and stretching himself out like the same. he was committed for safe-keeping to the jailer of an important fortress, called the hartz prison. the jailer, whose name was goodman, held the place under the lord of conscienza, a noble of the purest blood, and very strict toward his vassals. after suffering no slight annoyance from the pranks of the horrid imp, the jailer applied to the lord of the castle for relief, who told him that the rascally prisoner had been imposed upon him by forged orders, but now that he had him in possession, he must guard him with the strictest vigilance, and subject him to the most severe treatment. the adventures of the jailer with the infernal monster compose the materials of the allegory, which is conducted with no small skill, and with uncommon beauty of expression. the upshot of the story is to illustrate the detestable effects of slander, a vice which the author treats with a wholesome bitterness of invective, regarding it as one of the most diabolical forms of the unpardonable sin. it could not be incarnated in a more loathsome body than that of the hideous salander. we can only tolerate his presence on account of the exceeding beauty of the environment in which he is placed. geo. p. putnam has published the fifth volume of cooper's _leather-stocking tales_, containing _the prairie_, with an original introduction and notes by the author. in this volume we have the last scenes in the exciting career of leather-stocking, who has been driven from the forest by the sound of the ax, and forced to seek a desperate refuge in the bleak plains that skirt the rocky mountains. the new generation of readers, that have not yet become acquainted with this noble creation, have a pleasure in store that the veteran novel-reader may well envy. _an address_ by henry b. stanton, and _poem_ by alfred b. street pronounced before the literary societies of hamilton college, are issued in a neat pamphlet by rogers and sherman utica. mr. stanton's address presents a comparative estimate of ultraists, conservatives, and reformers, as mingled in the conflicting classes of american society, using the terms to designate forces now in operation rather than parties and with no special reference to combinations of men which have been thus denominated. his views are brought forward with vigor and discrimination, and free from the offensive tone which discussions of this nature are apt to produce. in applying the principles of his address to the subject of american literature, he forcibly maintains the absurdity of an abject dependence on the ancient classics. "i would not speak disparagingly of the languages of greece and rome. as mere inventions, pieces of mechanism, they are as perfect as human lip ever uttered, as exquisite as mortal pen ever wrote; and the study of the literature they embalm refines the taste and strengthens the mind. but while the writers of greece and rome are retained in our academic halls, they should not be allowed to exclude those authors whose researches have enlarged the boundaries of knowledge, and whose genius has added new beauties to the anglo-saxon tongue. let homer and shakspeare, virgil and milton, plato and bacon, herodotus and macaulay, livy and bancroft, xenophon and prescott, demosthenes and webster, cicero and brougham, stand on the same shelves, and be studied by the same classes." mr. street's poem is a polished and graceful description of the romantic scenery of the mohawk valley, interspersed with several striking indian legends, comparing the tranquil happiness of the present day, with the carnage and misery of the old warfare. mr. street gives a pleasing picture in the following animated verses: view the lovely valley now! villages strew, like jewels on a chain, all its bright length. whole miles of level grain, with leagues of meadow-land and pasture-field, cover its surface; gray roads wind about, o'er which the farmer's wagon clattering rolls, and the red mail-coach. bridges cross the streams, roofed, with great spider-webs of beams within. homesteads to homesteads flash their window-gleams, like friends they talk by language of the eye; upon its iron strips the engine shoots, (that half-tamed savage with its boiling heart and flaming veins, its warwhoop and its plume. that seems to fly in sullen rage along-- rage at its captors--and that only waits its time to dash its victims to quick death). swift as the swallow skims, that engine fleets through all the streaming landscape of green field and lovely village. on their pillared lines, distances flash to distances their thoughts, and all is one abode of all the joy and happiness that civilization yields. harper and brothers have republished from the english edition lord holland's _foreign reminiscences_, edited by his son, henry edward, lord holland--a book which has excited great attention from the english press, and will be read with interest by the lovers of political anecdote in this country. it is filled with rapid, gossiping notices of the principal european celebrities of the past generation, and devotes a large space to personal recollections of the emperor napoleon. lord holland writes in an easy conversational style, and his agreeable memoirs bear internal marks of authenticity. _jane bouverie_, by catherine sinclair, is a popular english novel (republished by harper and brothers), intended to sketch a portrait of true feminine loveliness, without an insipid formality and without any romantic impossibilities of perfection. the denouement has the rare peculiarity of not ending in marriage, the heroine remaining in the class of single ladies, designated by the author as par excellence "the sisters of england." _london labor and the london poor_, by henry mayhew (republished by harper and brothers), is the title of a work of the deepest interest and importance to all who wish to obtain a comprehensive view of the present condition of industry and its rewards in the metropolis of great britain. it consists of the series of papers formerly contributed by the author to the _morning chronicle_, entirely rewritten and enlarged by the addition of a great variety of facts and descriptions. the author has devoted his attention for some time past to the state of the working classes. he has collected an immense number of facts, illustrative of the subject, which are now brought to light for the first time. his evident sympathies with the poor do not blind his judgment. his statements are made after careful investigation, and show no disposition to indulge in theoretic inferences. as a vivid picture of london life, in the obscure by-ways, concerning which little is generally known, his work possesses an uncommon value. it is to be issued in successive parts, illustrated with characteristic engravings, the first of which only has yet appeared in the present edition. harper and brothers have published a new english novel by the author of _mary barton_, entitled _the moorland cottage_, a pleasing domestic story of exquisite beauty. three leaves from punch. lectures on letters. we find in a recent number of that well-known and reliable newspaper, the london punch, an interesting sketch of a new and improved system of teaching the elementary branches of education. it proceeds upon principles somewhat different from those which have generally obtained in the popular methods of instruction. it was prepared by the editor of the journal referred to, for the council of education established a few years since by the english government, for the express purpose of discussing and promoting improved methods of public teaching. in a note accompanying the work, the author states that, as soon as it was completed, he forwarded it, by the parcels conveyance company, with a polite note to the secretary of the council. [illustration: the parcels conveyance company] we regret that our limits will not permit us to present to the readers of the new monthly magazine a full description of this novel work. we can only give a slight sketch of the manner in which it proposes to teach the alphabet. the author thinks that, in the systems in general use hitherto, advantage has not been sufficiently taken of the pictorial form, as capable of connecting with the alphabet, not only agreeable associations, but many useful branches of knowledge. [illustration: oscillation illustrated] he would begin with the letter =a=, by rendering it attractive to children as a swing, and the opportunity might then be taken of leading the conversation to the swing of the pendulum, the laws which govern its oscillations, and the experiments of maupertius, clairault, and lemmonier, upon its variations in different latitudes. [illustration: legendary g] =g=, the child might be told, stands for george, and the pictorial illustrations of st. george and the dragon (the latter about to swallow its own tail) would enable the teacher to enter upon a disquisition relative to the probable eastern origin of the legendary stories of the middle ages. [illustration: historical h] =h= would naturally suggest reminiscences of modern english history. the teacher would give some account of george fox, the first quaker, and of the singular customs and opinions of the sect he founded. thence the child might be led to perceive the evils of schism, and the legitimate, and mischievous consequences of that right of private judgment still claimed by a small, but happily now an uninfluential minority in the established church. [illustration: selfish ends] =j= might introduce some profitable remarks upon natural history, when the difference could be explained between bipeds by nature, and quadrupeds who become bipeds only for selfish ends. [illustration: pneumatical k] advantage might be taken of the pictorial illustration of =k= to lay the foundation of an acquaintance both with the science of pneumatics, and with captain reid's theory of the laws affecting the course of storms. [illustration: a stilted subject] with the letter =m= the child might learn the meaning of what is termed the centre of gravity, so important to be maintained by ladies walking on stilts. [illustration: pisces] the letter =s=, reminding the teacher of _pisces_--_fishes_--one of the signs of the zodiac, would furnish him with a suitable opportunity for discoursing upon astronomy. afterward he might take up the subject of ichthyology, and speak of the five orders, _the apodal_, _the jugular_, _the abdominal_, _the thoracic_, and _cartilaginous_ species, into which the great family of fishes is divided. the editor of this work gives also a general outline of the manner in which this system was received by the council, when it was first brought to their notice. the president was so highly delighted with it, that he not only promised to give the matter still further consideration, but invited the author to bring forward certain other works for infancy, upon which, it was generally understood, he had been engaged. to this polite invitation the editor replied that he had been able as yet to complete only two works of this description, namely, the delightful poem, how doth the little busy bee, and the equally interesting and still more tragic history of cock robin. [illustration: how doth the little busy bee] [illustration: cock robin] he thought the teacher could not better follow out dr. watts's idea of "improving the shining hour," than by rendering the same lesson of industry available for a full account of the genus _apis_, taking care not to confound in the child's mind the _apis_ of entomology with _apis_ the bull, worshiped by the ancient egyptians. with regard to the historical work referred to, it was high time that the juvenile mind should be disabused of a popular error. the facts were, that a man of the name of _sparrow_ had robbed a farm-yard of its poultry, for which offense, after being taken and made to confess his guilt, he was transported. the crime and punishment were suggestive of many useful reflections upon the importance of honesty; but the facts were ludicrously distorted and deprived of all their moral force in the spurious account published by certain booksellers in st. paul's church-yard of the same transaction. a question is asked, "who kill'd cock robin?" and the following answer is given: "i says the sparrow, with my bow and arrow, i killed cock robin!!!" in continuing his account of this interview, the editor introduces the new system of musical notation, which he also brought to the notice of the council, and which they all agreed would be found exceedingly useful in assisting a pupil up the gamut. [illustration: assisting a pupil up the gamut] but into this branch of the subject we can not follow him. in fact, the editor states that, at this point of his exposition, he was constrained to desist by noticing that several members of the council had become so deeply impressed with the merits of his pictorial system, that they were illustrating it in their own persons, by throwing themselves into the form of the letter =y=. [illustration: yawning] * * * * * punch on special pleading. introduction. before administering law between litigating parties, there are two things to be done--in addition to the parties themselves--namely, first to ascertain the subject for decision, and, secondly, to complicate it so as to make it difficult to decide. this is effected by letting the lawyers state in complicated terms the simple cases of their clients, and thus raising from these opposition statements a mass of entanglement which the clients themselves might call nasty crotchets, but which the lawyers term "nice points." in every subject of dispute with two sides to it, there is a right and a wrong, but in the style of putting the contending statements, so as to confuse the right and the wrong together, the science of special pleading consists. this system is of such remote antiquity, that nobody knows the beginning of it, and this accounts for no one being able to appreciate its end. the accumulated chicanery and blundering of several generations, called in forensic language the "wisdom of successive ages," gradually brought special pleading into its present shape, or, rather, into its present endless forms. its extensive drain on the pockets of the suitors has rendered it always an important branch of legal study, while, when properly understood, it appears an instrument so beautifully calculated for distributive justice, that, when brought to bear upon property, it will often distribute the whole of it among the lawyers, and leave nothing for the litigants themselves. chapter i. of the proceedings in an action, from its commencement to its termination. actions are divided into _real_, in which there is often much sham; _personal_, in which the personality is frequently indulged in by counsel, at the expense of the witnesses; and _mixed_, in which a great deal of pure nonsense sometimes prevails. the legislature being at last sensible to the shamness of real, and the pure nonsense of mixed actions, abolished all except four, and for the learning on these subjects, now become obsolete, we must refer to the "books," which have been transferred to the shops of butter, from the shop of butterworth.[ ] there are three superior courts of common law, one of their great points of superiority being their superior expense, which saves the common law from being so common as to be positively vulgar; and its high price gives it one of the qualities of a luxury, rendering it _caviare_ to the million, or indeed to any but the _millionaire_. these courts are the queen's bench--a bench which five judges sit upon; the exchequer, whose sign is a chess or draught-board--some say to show how difficult is the game of law, while others maintain it is merely emblematic of the drafts on the pockets of the suitor; and thirdly, the common pleas, which took its title, possibly, from the fact of the lawyers finding the profits such as to make them un-common-ly pleas'd. the real and mixed actions not yet abolished, are-- st, the writ of right of dower, and d, the writ of dower; both relating to widows; but as widows are formidable persons to go to law against, these actions are seldom used. the third is the action of _quare impedit_, which would be brought against me by a parson if i kept him out of his living; but as the working parsons find it difficult to get a living, this action is also rare. the fourth is the action of ejectment, for the recovery of land, which is the only action that can not be brought without some ground. of personal actions, the most usual are debt, and a few others; but we will begin by going into debt as slightly as possible. the action of debt is founded on some contract, real or supposed, and when there has been no contract, the law, taking a contracted view of matters, will have a contract implied. debt, like every other personal action, begins with a summons, in which victoria comes "greeting;" which means, according to johnson, "saluting in kindness," "congratulating," or "paying compliments at a distance;" but, considering the unpleasant nature of a writ at all times, we can not help thinking that the word "greeting" is misapplied. the writ commands you to enter an appearance within eight days, and, by way of assisting you to make an appearance, the writ invests you, as it were, with a new suit. the action of covenant lies for breach of covenant, that is to say, a promise under seal; and under wafer it is just as binding, for you are equally compelled to stick to it like wax. the action of _detinue_ lies where a party seeks to recover what is detained from him; though it does not seem that a gentleman detaining a newspaper more than ten minutes at a coffee-house would be liable to detinue, though the action would be an ungentlemanly one, to say the least of it. the action of trespass lies for any injury committed with violence, such as assault and battery, either actual or implied; as, if a, while making pancakes, throws an egg-shell at b, the law will imply battery, though the egg-shell was empty. the action of trespass on the case lies, where a party seeks damages for a wrong to which trespass will not apply--where, in fact, a man has not been assaulted or hurt in his person, but where he has been hurt in that tender part--his pocket. of this action there are two species, called _assumpsit_, by which the law--at no time very unassuming--assumes that a person, legally liable to do a thing, has promised to do it, however unpromising such person may be; and _trover_, which seeks to recover damages for property which it is supposed the defendant found and converted, so that an action might perhaps be brought in this form, to recover from popery those who have been found and converted to the use, or rather lost and converted to the abuses, of the romish church. having gone slightly into the different forms of actions; having just tapped the reader on the shoulder with a writ in each case, which, by the way, should be personally served on him at home, though the bailiff runs the risk of getting sometimes served out, we shall proceed to trial--perhaps, of the reader's patience--in a subsequent chapter. chapter ii. of the declaration. the writ being now served, it is next to be returned, and this is sometimes done by giving it back at once to the bailiff or throwing it in his face. such quick returns as these would bring such very small profit to a plaintiff that they are not allowable, and the writ can only be returned by the sheriff bringing it back, on a certain day, into the superior court. he then gives a short account, in writing, of the manner in which the writ has been executed; but, if the bailiff has been pumped upon--as we find reported in shower--or pelted with oysters, as in shelley's case, or kicked down stairs, as he was in foot against the sheriff, it does not seem that the particulars need be set forth. if the defendant does not appear within eight days after the writ has come "greeting," as if it would say, "my service to you," the plaintiff may, in most cases, appear for him; and this shows how true it is that appearances are often deceitful and treacherous; for, when a plaintiff appears for a defendant, it is only to have an opportunity of appearing against him at the next step. the pleadings now commence, which were originally delivered orally by the parties themselves in open court, when success might depend on length of tongue; but the parties themselves being got rid of, in the modern practice, and the lawyers coming in to represent them, success usually depends on length of purse. the object of pleading, whether oral or written, is to bring the parties to an issue; which means, literally, a way out; but, in practice, the effect of getting plaintiff and defendant to an issue is to let them both regularly in. almost all pleas, except those of the simplest kind, must be signed by a barrister; who does not usually draw the plea, but he merely draws the half guinea for the use of his name. the pleading begins with the declaration, in which the plaintiff is supposed to state the cause of action; but in which he gives such an exaggerated account of his grievances, that not more than one-tenth of what he states, is to be believed. for example, if a has had his nose slightly pulled by b, the former proceeds to say that "the defendant, with force and arms, and with great force and violence, seized, laid hold of, pulled, plucked, and tore, and with his fists, gave and struck a great many violent blows, and strokes, on and about, diverse parts of the plaintiff's nose." if jones has been given into custody by smith, without sufficient reason; and jones brings an action for false imprisonment; instead of saying, "he was compelled to go to a station-house," he declares that the defendant, "with force, and arms, seized, laid hold of, and with great violence pulled, and dragged, and gave, and struck a great many violent blows and strokes, and forced, and compelled him--the plaintiff--to go in and along divers public streets and highways, to a police office; whereby the plaintiff was not only greatly hurt, bruised, and wounded, but was also kept." if snooks's dog bites thomson's pet lamb, snooks declares, "that defendant did willfully and injuriously keep a certain dog, he, the defendant, well knowing that the said dog was and continued to be fierce and mad, and accustomed to attack, bite, injure, hurt, chase, worry, harass, tear, agitate, wound, lacerate, snap at, and kill sheep and lambs, and that the said dog afterward to wit, on the -- day of ----, and divers other days, did attack (&c., &c., down to) and kill one hundred sheep and one hundred lambs of the plaintiff; whereby the said sheep and the said lambs (it will be remembered there was only one lamb), were greatly terrified, damaged, injured, hurt, deteriorated, frightened, depreciated, floored, flustered, and flabbergasted, to the damage of the plaintiff of £--, and therefore he brings his suit." the various forms of declaration are so numerous, that they fill a volume of large pages of chitty, who is quite chatty on this dry subject, so much does he find to say with regard to it. to this able and amusing writer we refer those who are curious to know how a schoolmaster may declare for "work and labor, care, diligence, and attendance of himself, his ushers and teachers, there performed and bestowed in and about the teaching, instructing, boarding, educating, lodging, flogging, enlightening, thrashing, washing, whipping, and otherwise soundly improving divers infants and persons." these, and almost all other conceivable causes of action, are dealt with fully in the pages to which we allude, and all therefore who wish the treat of going to law, are referred to the treatise alluded to. * * * * * smithfield club cattle show. (from our own protectionist.) this melancholy event came off last week, when prizes were distributed to the breeders of the very leanest stock--a brass band, the horns and ophicleides draperied with black crape, playing funeral airs at intervals. the results of free trade were never more shockingly conspicuous than in the shadowy forms of steers and oxen; while there was a pen of a dozen pigs, scarcely one of which was visible to the naked eye. we observed more than one benevolent lady weeping pearls over indefinite things that had vainly struggled to become porkers. there were sheep that were nothing but the merest bladebones, here and there covered with threads of worsted. the queen and prince albert, with two of the little princes, visited the spectacle, contemplating it with becoming gravity. the prince carried away the prize for a bull that was only visible when placed under a glass of forty opera power. occasionally, an acute ear might detect sounds that a liberal mind might interpret as ghost-like bellowings--spectral bleatings--with now and then an asthmatic attempt at a grunt. the duke of wellington's battering-ram is not to be seen when looked at in front; but only from either side. it is said to have been fed upon old drum-heads, with occasionally the ribbons of a recruiting sergeant chopped and made into a warm mash. we ought, by the way, to have remarked that the duke of richmond attended, as president, in deep mourning; and bore in his face and manner the profoundest traces of unutterable woe. however, let us proceed to give the list of prizes, all of them so many triumphant proofs of the withering influence of free-trade. oxen or steers. the duke of rutland carried away the £ prize for the thinnest steer. it had been fed on waste copies of protectionist pamphlets with the tune of "the roast beef of old england," played in a flat on a tin trumpet. some idea may be entertained of the nicety with which the animal had been brought to the lowest point of life, when we state that five minutes after the noble duke received the prize, the thing died; all the brass band braying "the roast beef of old england" for half-an-hour, in the vain hope of reviving it. the beast was distributed among the marylebone poor; all of them ordered to appear in spectacles to see, if possible, their proper quantities. long-wooled sheep. the duke of atholl bore off the first prize of £ , for an extraordinary specimen of highland sheep, that both puzzled and delighted the judges. the sheep had been reared upon highland thistles, according to the duke's well-known hospitality; and these thistles so judiciously served, that they had taken the place of the wool, growing through the animal's sides, and coating them all over with their brushy points. the rev. mr. bennett was present, and was much delighted with his wool of thistles; he is to be presented with a comforter--the thing will be very popular by christmas, to be called the atholl bosom friend--woven from the fleece. the web, in place of the vulgar linen shirt, is expected to become very general with the ladies and gentlemen who feed upon the honey hived at st. barnabas. pigs. colonel sibthorp took the prize for the pig of lead; so small a pig, that it might creep down the tube of a mordan's pencil. mr. disraeli sent the shadow of a sow; one of his practical epigrams, showing he had ceased to have even a real squeak for protection; he also sent a porker that, from its largeness of size--where smallness was the object--was deemed hopeless of any reward. however, mr. disraeli carefully removing a muzzle from the pig's snout, the animal collapsed flat as a crush-hat. the fact is, mr. disraeli had, as he afterward averred, seemingly fattened the hog upon a pair of bellows. there are, we have heard, pigs that see the wind; whether mr. disraeli's pig is of that sort, the eloquent protectionist said not. he, however, took a second prize; and next year promises to exhibit a whole litter of the smallest pigs in the world, suckled upon vials of aquafortis. cows. the leap of the cow that jumped over the moon was exhibited by the duke of richmond. this cow had been fed on the printer's ink from the _standard_ newspaper, which sufficiently accounts for the daring altitude of its flight. the duke was proffered the gold medal, but resolutely refused any such vanity. in conclusion, we are happy to say that the exhibition was well attended. the thousands of our countrymen who witnessed the wretched condition of the cattle must have carried away with them the profound conviction, that the days of free trade are numbered; and that a speedy return to protection is called for by the interests of man and brute--from dukes to steers, from parliament men to pigs. * * * * * our golden opportunities. there is so much precious ore being brought from california, that people are beginning to fear gold may become a drug as well as a metal. already gold fish are quoted at hungerford market lower than silver, the recent importations having acted even upon the finny tribe, and those with silver scales have had the balance turned in their favor. in europe, we go to great expense in watering the road to lay the dust; but the gold dust of california is so valuable, that no watering carts are employed, and when a man comes home from a dusty walk he has only to shake his coat, to shake a good round sum into his pocket. in california the housemaids stipulate for the dust as a perquisite, and the "regular dustman" of the place pays an enormous sum for the privilege of acting as "dust-contractor for the district." * * * * * universal contempt of court. it seems that any person is liable to be committed to prison for his lifetime by the court of chancery, as guilty of contempt of court, for not paying that which he has not to pay, and for not doing other impossibilities. what a number of people might be committed for contempt of the court of chancery, if we all expressed our feelings! * * * * * startling fact! [illustration: a startling fact] _oxford swell._ "do you make many of these monkey-jackets now?" _snip._ "oh dear yes, sir. there are more monkeys in oxford this term than ever, sir." early spring fashions. [illustration: fig. .--morning and evening costumes.] march is a fickle month; one day dallying with zephyrus in the warm sunlight, and promising verdure and flowers, and the next playing bo-peep with boreas at every corner, and spreading a mantle of frost or snow over the fields where the early blossoms are venturing forth. "now winter lingers in the lap of spring," and the ladies should remember the trite maxim, when preparing to lay aside their heavy garments, that "one swallow does not make a summer." a few sunny days, during this month, will allow a change of out-of-door costume, and for these fashion has already provided; but generally the winter fabrics and forms will be seasonable till near the close of the month. the promenade costumes are the same as in february, and we omit an illustration of them. in the large plate, the larger figure on the left, shows a beautiful and graceful style of morning costume. it consists of a robe of blue _brocade_; the high body opens in the front nearly to the waist. the fronts of the skirt are lined with amber satin, and a fulling of the same is placed on the edge of the fronts, graduating in width toward the top, and carried round the neck of the dress. the sleeves are very wide from the elbow, and lined with amber satin. the edge of the sleeve is left plain, but there is a _rûche_ of satin round the middle of the sleeve, just below the elbow. underdress of jaconet muslin, trimmed with lace, or embroidery. the cap is of _tulle_, with blue trimmings. the larger figure on the right, exhibits an evening dress of great elegance. a skirt of white satin, the lower part trimmed with narrow folds of the same, put on at equal distances. the sides are decorated with an elongated puffing of satin, surrounded with a fulling of narrow _blonde_. over this is worn a short round tunic of white _tulle_, encircled with a frilling of _blonde_, and decorated upon each side of the front with two small white roses, surrounded with green leaves. the body plain, pointed, draped with white _tulle_ and lace, forming short sleeves. the small figure in the group shows a pretty style of dress for a little miss. it is of dark blue cashmere, the skirt trimmed with two rows of ribbon-velvet. the cape is formed of narrow folds, open in the front, and continued across with bands of velvet. pantaloons of embroidered cambric. the bonnet is formed of narrow pink fancy ribbon. [illustration: fig. .--morning costume.] figure represents another pretty style of morning costume. it is a high dress of pale blue silk, opening in front nearly to the waist, which is long and pointed. it has a small cape, vandyked at the edge, and trimmed with a narrow fringe, having a heading of velvet; the sleeves to correspond. the skirt is long and full, with three broad flounces deeply vandyked, and edged with two rows of narrow fringe corresponding with those of the capes. the top flounce is headed by a single row of fringe. underdress and undersleeves, jaconet muslin, trimmed with lace or embroidery. the cap is black lace, with a tie and falls of the same. a full _rûche_ of white _tulle_ entirely surrounds the face. [illustration: fig. .--velvet bonnet.] in bonnets there are a great variety of new and elegant patterns. the front of the brims continue very large and open, the crowns round, low, and small. figure is rather an exception to the extreme of fashion it shows a very neat style of plain bonnets suitable for the closing winter. it is of ultramarine velvet, with a broad black lace turned back over the edge, and a deep curtain. a very fashionable style is composed of orient gray pearl, half satin, half _velours épinglé_, having a very rich effect, and decorated with _touffés marquises_ made of _marabouts_. several very light and elegant bonnets have appeared, made entirely of _blonde_, and ornamented with pink _marabouts_, and _sablés_ with silver, which droops in _touffés_ upon the inclined side of the front, while the other side is relieved with a bunch of pink velvet leaves. another style is very elegant for early spring, represented in figure . it is made of light green fluted ribbon, a plain foundation, over which, at the edge of the front and toward the crown, is the same material, vandyked in pattern. the bonnet front is waved. bonnets of white silk (figure ) trimmed with lace, quite small and ornamented in the front with small bunches of flowers, are fashionable for a carriage costume. [illustration: fig. .--ribbon bonnet.] [illustration: fig. .--white silk bonnet.] the season for balls is nearly over. dresses for these assemblies are made of light material, and with two or three skirts. one charming model is composed of white _tulle_, with three skirts trimmed all round with a broad open-worked satin ribbon; the third skirt being raised on one side, and attached with a large bouquet of flowers, while the ribbon is twisted, and ascends to the side of the waist, where it finishes. the same kind of flowers ornament the sleeves and centre of the corsage, which is also trimmed with a deep drapery of _tulle_. feather trimmings are now much in vogue, disposed on fringes of _marabout_, and placed at the edge of the double skirts of _tulle_. for head dresses, flowers and lace are in constant request. fashionable colors are of deep and mellow hues; white predominates for evening use. * * * * * transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. words surrounded by = are bold. letters with unicode diacritical markings are represented as follow: [=o] represents the letter o with a macron (straight line) mark above it; [)a] represents the letter a with a breve (u-shaped) mark above it. captions added to captionless illustrations. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "moonlight" and "moon-light"); - accents (e.g. "nüremberg" and "nuremberg"); - proper names (e.g. "leipsic" and "leipzig"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "machiavelian" and "machiavellian"). pg , word "thing" removed (one thing [thing] only). harper's new monthly magazine. no. xvii.--october, .--vol. iii. napoleon bonaparte. by john s. c. abbott. iii. first campaign in italy. the discomfiture of the insurgent sections at paris, and the energy, tact, and humanity which napoleon displayed in the subsequent government of the tumultuous city, caused his name to be as familiar as a household word in all parts of the metropolis. his slight and slender figure, so feminine and graceful in its proportions; his hand, so small and white and soft that any lady might covet it; his features, so mild and youthful in their expression, and all these combined in strange alliance with energies as indomitable, and a will as imperious as were ever enshrined in mortal form, invested the young general with a mysterious and almost supernatural fascination. famine was rioting in the streets of paris. all industry was at an end. the poor, unemployed, were perishing. the rich were gathering the wrecks of their estates, and flying from france. there was no law but such as was proclaimed by the thunders of napoleon's batteries. the national guard he immediately reorganized, and soon efficient order was established. napoleon was incessantly occupied in visiting all parts of the city, and words of kindness and sympathy with suffering he combined with the strong and inexorable arm of military rule. more than a hundred families, says the duchess of abrantes, were saved from perishing by his personal exertions. he himself climbed to the garrets of penury, and penetrated the cellars of want and woe, and, with a moistened eye, gazed upon the scenes of fearful wretchedness with which paris was filled. he caused wood and bread to be distributed to the poor, and totally regardless of ease or self-indulgence, did every thing in his power to alleviate suffering. one day when alighting from his carriage to dine at madame permon's, he was addressed by a woman who held a dead infant in her arms. grief and hunger had dried up the fountain of life in her bosom, and her unweaned child had perished of starvation. her husband was dead, and five children were mourning for food at home. "if i can not obtain relief," said the famished mother, "i must take my remaining five children and drown myself with them." napoleon questioned her very minutely, ascertained her place of residence, and giving her some money to meet her immediate wants, entered the house and sat down with the guests at the brilliant entertainment. he was, however, so deeply impressed with the scene of wretchedness which he had just witnessed, that he could not obliterate it from his mind, and all were struck with his absent manner and the sadness of his countenance. immediately after dinner he took measures to ascertain the truth of the statements which the poor woman had made to him, and finding all her assertions verified, he took the family immediately under his protection. he obtained employment for the girls in needlework among his friends, and the family ever expressed the most profound gratitude for their preserver. it was by the unceasing exhibition of such traits of character that napoleon entwined around him the hearts of the french people. there was, at this time in paris, a lady, who was rendered quite prominent in society, by her social attractions, her personal loveliness, and her elevated rank. she was a widow, twenty-eight years of age. her husband, the viscount beauharnais, had recently perished upon the scaffold, an illustrious victim of revolutionary fury. josephine tascher beauharnais, who subsequently became the world-renowned bride of napoleon, was born on the island of martinice in the west indies. when almost a child she was married to the viscount beauharnais, who had visited the island on business and was captivated by the loveliness of the fair young creole. upon entering paris she was immediately introduced to all the splendors of the court of maria-antoinette. the revolutionary storm soon burst upon her dwelling with merciless fury. she experienced the most afflictive reverses of friendlessness, bereavement, imprisonment, and penury. the storm had, however, passed over her, and she was left a widow, with two children, eugene and hortense. from the wreck of her fortune she had saved an ample competence, and was surrounded by influential and admiring friends. napoleon, in obedience to the orders of the convention, to prevent the possibility of another outbreak of lawless violence, had proceeded to the disarming of the populace of paris. in the performance of this duty the sword of m. beauharnais was taken. a few days afterward eugene, a very intelligent and graceful child, twelve years of age, obtained access to napoleon, and with most engaging artlessness and depth of emotion, implored that the sword of his father might be restored to him. napoleon had no heart to deny such a request. he sent for the sword, and speaking with kind words of commendation, presented it with his own hand to eugene. the grateful boy burst into tears and, unable to articulate a word, pressed the sword to his bosom, bowed in silence and retired. napoleon was much interested in this exhibition of filial love, and his thoughts were immediately directed to the mother who had formed the character of such a child. josephine, whose whole soul was absorbed in love for her children, was so grateful, for the kindness with which the distinguished young general had treated her fatherless eugene, that she called, in her carriage, the next day, to express to him a mother's thanks. she was dressed in deep mourning. her peculiarly musical voice was tremulous with emotion. the fervor and the delicacy of her maternal love, and the perfect grace of manner and of language, with which she discharged her mission, excited the admiration of napoleon. he soon called upon her. the acquaintance rapidly ripened into an unusually strong and ardent affection. [illustration: napoleon and eugene.] josephine was two years older than napoleon. but her form and features had resisted the encroachments of time, and her cheerfulness and vivacity invested her with all the charms of early youth. barras, now one of the five directors, who had been established in power by the guns of napoleon, was a very ardent friend of josephine. he warmly advocated the contemplated connection, deeming it mutually advantageous. napoleon would greatly increase his influence by an alliance with one occupying so high a position in society and surrounded by friends so influential. and barras clearly foresaw that the energetic young general possessed genius which would insure distinction. josephine thus speaks, in a letter to a friend, of her feelings in view of the proposed marriage. "i am urged to marry again. my friends counsel the measure, my aunt almost lays her injunctions to the same effect, and my children entreat my compliance. you have met general bonaparte at my house. he it is who would supply a father's place to the orphans of alexander beauharnais, and a husband to his widow. i admire the general's courage, the extent of his information, for on all subjects he talks equally well, and the quickness of his judgment, which enables him to seize the thoughts of others almost before they are expressed. but i confess that i shrink from the despotism he seems desirous of exercising over all who approach him. his searching glance has something singular and inexplicable, which imposes even upon our directors; judge if it may not intimidate a woman. "barras gives assurance that if i marry the general, he will secure his appointment to the command of the army of italy. yesterday, bonaparte speaking of this favor, said to me, 'think they then, that _i_ have need of _their_ protection to arrive at power? egregious mistake! they will all be but too happy, one day, should i condescend to grant them mine.' "what think you of this self-confidence? is it not a proof of excess of vanity? a general of brigade protect the heads of government! that truly is an event highly probable! i know not how it is, but sometimes this waywardness gains upon me to such a degree, that almost i believe possible whatever this singular man may take into his head to attempt. and with his imagination, who can calculate what he will not undertake." though the passion with which josephine had inspired napoleon, was ardent and impetuous in the highest degree, it interfered not in the least with his plans of towering ambition. during the day he was vigorously employed in his professional duties and in persevering study. but each evening found him at the mansion of josephine, where he met, and dazzled by his commanding genius and his brilliant conversational powers, the most distinguished and the most influential men of the metropolis. in these social entertainments, josephine testified that napoleon possessed unlimited powers of fascination, whenever he saw fit to employ them. his acquaintance and his influence was thus extended among those who would be most available in the furtherance of his plans. on the th of march, , napoleon and josephine were married, napoleon being then twenty-five years of age. it was a union of very sincere affection on both sides. it can not be doubted that next to ambition, josephine was to napoleon the dearest object of his admiration and homage. marriage had then ceased to be regarded in infidel france as a religious rite. it was a mere partnership which any persons could form or dissolve at pleasure. the revolutionary tribunals had closed the churches, banished the clergy, and dethroned god. the parties, contemplating marriage, simply recorded their intention in the state register of paris, with two or three friends to sign the record as witnesses. by this simple ceremony napoleon was united to josephine. but neither of the parties approved of this mercantile aspect of a transaction so sacred. they were both, in natural disposition serious, thoughtful, and prone to look to the guidance of a power higher than that of man. surrounded by infidelity, and by that vice with which public infidelity is invariably accompanied, they both instinctively reverenced all that is grand and imposing in the revelations of christianity. "man, launched into life," said napoleon, "asks himself, whence do i come? what am i? whither do i go? mysterious questions which draw him toward religion; our hearts crave the support and guidance of religious faith. we believe in the existence of god because every thing around us proclaims his being. the greatest minds have cherished this conviction--bossuet, newton, leibnitz. the heart craves faith as the body food; and, without doubt, we believe most frequently without exercising our reason. faith wavers as soon as we begin to argue. but even then our hearts say, 'perhaps i shall again believe instinctively. god grant it. for we feel that this belief in a protecting deity must be a great happiness; an immense consolation in adversity, and a powerful safeguard when tempted to immorality. "the virtuous man never doubts of the existence of god, for if his reason does not suffice to comprehend it, the instinct of his soul adopts the belief. every intimate feeling of the soul is in sympathy with the sentiments of religion." these are profound thoughts and it is strange that they should have sprung up in the mind of one educated in the midst of the violence, and the clangor, and the crime of battle, and accustomed to hear from the lips of all around him, every religious sentiment ridiculed as the superstition of the most weak and credulous. when at st. helena, napoleon, one evening, called for the new testament, and read to his friends the address of jesus to his disciples upon the mountain. he expressed himself as having been ever struck with the highest admiration in view of the purity, the sublimity, and the beauty of the morality which it contained. napoleon seldom spoke lightly even of the corruptions of the church. but he always declared his most exalted appreciation of the religion of jesus christ. when napoleon was crowned emperor he was privately married again by cardinal fesch, in accordance with the forms of the church which the emperor had re-established. "josephine," said napoleon, "was truly a most lovely woman; refined, affable, and charming. she was the goddess of the toilet. all the fashions originated with her. every thing she put on appeared elegant. she was so kind, so humane--she was the most graceful lady and the best woman in france. i never saw her act inelegantly during the whole time we lived together. she possessed a perfect knowledge of the different shades of my character, and evinced the most exquisite tact in turning this knowledge to the best account. for example, she never solicited any favor for eugene, or thanked me for any that i conferred upon him. she never showed any additional complaisance or assiduity when he was receiving from me the greatest honors. her grand aim was to assume that all this was _my_ affair--that eugene was _our_ son, not hers. doubtless she entertained the idea that i would adopt eugene as my successor." again, he said, of josephine, "we lived together like honest citizens in our mutual relations, and always retired together till , a period in which political events obliged me to change my habits, and to add the labors of the night to those of the day. this regularity is the best guarantee for a good establishment. it ensures the respectability of the wife, the dependence of the husband, and maintains intimacy of feelings and good morals. if this is not the case, the smallest circumstances make people forget each other. a son by josephine would have rendered me happy, and would have secured the reign of my dynasty. the french would have loved him very much better than they could love the son of maria louisa; and i never would have put my foot on that abyss covered with flowers, which was my ruin. let no one after this rely upon the wisdom of human combinations. let no one venture to pronounce, before its close, upon the happiness or misery of life. my josephine had the instinct of the future when she became terrified at her own sterility. she knew well that a marriage is only real when there is an offspring; and in proportion as fortune smiled her anxiety increased. i was the object of her deepest attachment. if i went into my carriage at midnight for a long journey, there, to my surprise, i found her, seated before me, and awaiting my arrival. if i attempted to dissuade her from accompanying me, she had so many good and affectionate reasons to urge, that it was almost always necessary to yield. in a word she always proved to me a happy and affectionate wife, and i have preserved the tenderest recollections of her. "political motives induced me to divorce josephine, whom i most tenderly loved. she, poor woman, fortunately for herself, died in time to prevent her from witnessing the last of my misfortunes. after her forcible separation from me, she avowed, in most feeling terms, her ardent desire to share with me, my exile and extolled, with many tears, both myself and my conduct to her. the english have represented me as a monster of cruelty. is this the result of the conduct of a merciless, unfeeling tyrant? a man is known by his treatment of his wife, of his family, and of those under him." just before his marriage, napoleon received the appointment, to him most gratifying, of commander-in-chief of the army of italy. his predecessor had been displaced in consequence of excessive intemperance. napoleon was but twenty-five years of age when placed in this responsible post. "you are rather young," said one of the directors, "to assume responsibilities so weighty, and to take the command over veteran generals." "in one year," napoleon replied, "i shall be either old or dead." "we can place you in the command of men alone," said carnot, "for the troops are destitute of every thing, and we can furnish you with no money to provide supplies." "give me only men enough," napoleon replied, "and i ask for nothing more. i will be answerable for the result." a few days after napoleon's marriage, he left his bride in paris, and set out for nice, the head-quarters of the army of italy. he passed through marseilles, that he might pay a short visit to his mother, whose love he ever cherished with the utmost tenderness, and on the th of march arrived at the cold and cheerless camps, where the dejected troops of france were enduring every hardship. they were surrounded by numerous foes, who had driven them from the fertile plains of italy into the barren and dreary fastnesses of the alps. the austrian armies, quartered in opulent cities, or encamped upon sunny and vine-clad hill-sides, were living in the enjoyment of security and abundance, while the troops of the distracted and impoverished republic were literally freezing and starving. but here let us pause for a moment to consider the cause of the war, and the motives which animated the contending armies. france, in the exercise of a right which few in america will question, had, in imitation of the united states, and incited by their example, renounced the monarchical form of government, and established a republic. for centuries uncounted, voluptuous kings and licentious nobles had trampled the oppressed millions into the dust. but now these millions had risen in their majesty, and driving the king from his throne and the nobles from their wide domains, had taken their own interests into their own hands. they were inexperienced and unenlightened in the science of government, and they made many and lamentable mistakes. they were terrified in view of the powerful combination of all the monarchs and nobles of europe to overwhelm them with invading armies, and in their paroxysms of fear, when destruction seemed to be coming like an avalanche upon them, they perpetrated many deeds of atrocious cruelty. they simply claimed the right of self-government, and when assailed, fell upon their assailants with blind and merciless fury. the kings of europe contemplated this portentous change with inexpressible alarm. in consternation they witnessed the uprising of the masses in france, and saw one of their brother monarchs dragged from his palace and beheaded upon the guillotine. the successful establishment of the french republic would very probably have driven every king in europe from his throne. england was agitated through all her countries. from the mud cabins of ireland, from the dark and miry mines, from the thronged streets of the city, and the crowded workshops all over the kingdom, there was a clamorous cry ascending for liberty and equality. the spirit of democracy, radiating from its soul in paris, was assailing every throne in europe. there was no alternative for these monarchs but to crush this new power, or to perish before it. there can be no monarchist whose sympathies will not beat high with the allied kings in the fearful conflict which ensued. there can be no republican who will not pray, "god speed the eagles of france." both parties believed that they were fighting in self-defense. the kings were attacked by _principles_ triumphant in france, which were undermining their thrones. the french were attacked by bayonets and batteries--by combined armies invading their territories, bombarding their cities, and endeavoring by force of arms, to compel a proud nation of thirty millions of inhabitants to reinstate, at foreign dictation, the rejected bourbons upon the throne. the allies called upon all the loyalists scattered over france to grasp their arms, to rally beneath the banner of friends coming to their rescue, and to imbrue their country in the blood of a civil war. the french, in trumpet tones, summoned the _people_ of all lands to hail the tri-colored flag, as the harbinger of their deliverance from the servitude of ages. from every city in europe which napoleon approached, with his conquering armies, the loyalists fled, while the republicans welcomed him with an adulation amounting almost to religious homage. and the troops of the allies were welcomed, in every city of france which they entered, with tears of gratitude from the eyes of those who longed for the restoration of the monarchy. it was a conflict between the spirit of republicanism on the one side, and of monarchical and ecclesiastical domination upon the other. england, with her invincible fleet, was hovering around the coasts of the republic, assailing every exposed point, landing troops upon the french territory, and arming and inspiriting the loyalists to civil war. austria had marched an army of nearly two hundred thousand men upon the banks of the rhine, to attack france upon the north. she had called into requisition all her italian possessions, and in alliance with the british navy, and the armies of the king of sardinia, and the fanatic legions of naples and sicily had gathered eighty thousand men upon the alpine frontier. this host was under the command of experienced generals, and was abundantly provided with all the munitions of war. these were the invading foes whom napoleon was to encounter in fields of blood. it was purely a war of self-defense on the part of the french people. they were contending against the bullets and the bayonets of the armies of monarchical europe, assailing them at every point. the allied kings felt that they also were engaged in a war of self-defense--that they were struggling against _principles_ which threatened to undermine their thrones. strange as the declaration to some may appear, it is extremely difficult for a candid and an impartial man severely to censure either side. it is not strange, contemplating frail human nature as it is, that the monarchs of europe, born to a kingly inheritance, should have made every exertion to retain their thrones, and to secure their kingdoms from the invasion of republican principles. it is not strange that republicanized france, having burst the chains of an intolerable despotism, should have resolved to brave all the horrors of the most desperate war rather than surrender the right of choosing its own form of government. the united states were protected from a similar onset, on the part of allied europe, only by the wide barrier of the ocean. and had the combined armies of monarchical europe crossed that barrier, and invaded our shores, to compel us to replace george iii. upon his american throne, we should have blest the napoleon, emerging from our midst, who, contending for the liberties of his country, had driven them back into the sea. when napoleon arrived at nice he found that he had but thirty thousand men with whom to repel the eighty thousand of the allies. the government was impoverished, and had no means to pay the troops. the soldiers were dejected, emaciate, and ragged. the cavalry horses had died upon the bleak and frozen summits of the mountains, and the army was almost entirely destitute of artillery. the young commander-in-chief, immediately upon his arrival, summoned his generals before him. many of them were veteran soldiers, and they were not a little chagrined in seeing a youth, whom they regarded almost as a beardless boy, placed over them in command. but in the very first hour in which he met them, his superiority was recognized; and he gained a complete and an unquestioned ascendency over all. berthier, massena, augereau, serrurier, and lannes were there, men who had already attained renown, and who were capable of appreciating genius. "this is the leader," said one, as he left this first council, "who will surely guide us to fame and fortune." the french were on the cold crests of the mountains. the allies were encamped in the warm and fertile valleys which opened into the italian plains. the untiring energy of the youthful general, his imperial mind, his unhesitating reliance upon his own mental resources, his perfect acquaintance with the theatre of war, as the result of his previous explorations, his gravity and reserve of manners, his spotless morality, so extraordinary in the midst of all the dissipated scenes of the camp, commanded the reverence of the dissolute and licentious, though brave and talented generals who surrounded him. there was an indescribable something in his manner which immediately inspired respect and awe, and which kept all familiarity at a distance. decres had known napoleon well in paris, and had been on terms of perfect intimacy with him. he was at toulon when he heard of napoleon's appointment to the command of the army of italy. "when i learned," said he, "that the new general was about to pass through the city, i immediately proposed to introduce my comrades to him, and to turn my acquaintance to the best account. i hastened to meet him full of eagerness and joy. the door of the apartment was thrown open, and i was upon the point of rushing to him with my wonted familiarity. but his attitude, his look, the tone of his voice suddenly deterred me. there was nothing haughty or offensive in his appearance or manner, but the impression he produced was sufficient to prevent me from ever again attempting to encroach upon the distance which separated us."[ ] [ ] decres was afterward elevated by napoleon to a dukedom, and appointed minister of the marine. he was strongly attached to his benefactor. at the time of napoleon's downfall, he was sounded in a very artful way as to his willingness to conspire against the emperor. happening to visit a person of celebrity, the latter drew him aside to the fire-place, and taking up a book, said, "i have just now been reading something that struck me very forcibly. montesquieu here remarks, 'when the prince rises above the laws, when tyranny becomes insupportable, the oppressed have no alternative but--'" "enough," exclaimed decres, putting his hand before the mouth of the reader, "i will hear no more. close the book." the other coolly laid down the volume, as though nothing particular had occurred, and began to talk on a totally different subject. a similar ascendency, notwithstanding his feminine stature and the extreme youthfulness of his appearance, he immediately gained over all the soldiers and all the generals of the army. every one who entered his presence was awed by the indescribable influence of his imperial mind. no one ventured to contend with him for the supremacy. he turned with disgust from the licentiousness and dissipation which ever disgraces the presence of an army, and with a sternness of morality which would have done honor to any of the sages of antiquity, secured that respect which virtue ever commands. there were many very beautiful and dissolute females in nice, opera singers and dancing girls, who, trafficking in their charms, were living in great wealth and voluptuousness. they exhausted all their arts of enticement to win the attention of the young commander-in-chief. but their allurements were unavailing. napoleon proved a samson whom no delilah could seduce. and this was the more extraordinary, since his natural temperament was glowing and impetuous in the extreme, and he had no religious scruples to interfere with his indulgences. "my extreme youth," said he, afterward, "when i took command of the army of italy, rendered it necessary that i should evince great reserve of manners and the utmost severity of morals. this was indispensable to enable me to sustain authority over men so greatly my superiors in age and experience. i pursued a line of conduct in the highest degree irreproachable and exemplary. in spotless morality i was a cato, and must have appeared such to all. i was a philosopher and a sage. my supremacy could be retained only by proving myself a better man than any other man in the army. had i yielded to human weaknesses i should have lost my power." he was temperate in the extreme, seldom allowing himself to take even a glass of wine, and never did he countenance by his presence any scene of bacchanalian revelry. for gaming, in all its branches, he manifested then, and through the whole of his life, the strongest disapproval. he ever refused to repose confidence in any one who was addicted to that vice. one day at st. helena, he was conversing with las casas, when some remark which was made led napoleon to inquire, "were you a gamester?" "alas, sire!" las casas replied, "i must confess that i was, but only occasionally." "i am very glad," napoleon rejoined, "that i knew nothing of it at the time. you would have been ruined in my esteem. a gamester was sure to forfeit my confidence. the moment i heard that a man was addicted to that vice i placed no more confidence in him." from what source did this young soldier imbibe these elevated principles? licentiousness, irreligion, gambling had been the trinity of revolutionary france--the substitute which rampant infidelity had adopted, for a benignant father, a pleading saviour, a sanctifying spirit. napoleon was reared in the midst of these demoralizing influences. and yet how unsullied does his character appear when compared with that of his companions in the camp and on the throne! napoleon informs us that to his mother he was indebted for every pure and noble sentiment which inspired his bosom. letitia, the mother of napoleon, was a woman of extraordinary endowments. she had herself hardly passed the period of childhood, being but nineteen years of age, when she heard the first wailing cry of napoleon, her second born, and pressed the helpless babe, with thanksgiving and prayer, to her maternal bosom. she was a young mother to train and educate such a child for his unknown but exalted destiny. she encircled, in protecting arms, the nursing babe, as it fondled a mother's bosom with those little hands, which, in after years, grasped sceptres, and uphove thrones, and hewed down armies with resistless sword. she taught those infant lips to lisp "papa"--"mamma"--those lips at whose subsequent command all europe was moved, and whose burning, glowing, martial words fell like trumpet-tones upon the world, hurling nation upon nation in the shock of war. she taught those feeble feet to make their first trembling essays upon the carpet, rewarding the successful endeavor with a mother's kiss and a mother's caress--those feet which afterward strode over the sands of the desert, and waded through the blood-stained snow-drifts of russia, and tottered, in the infirmities of sickness and death, on the misty, barren, storm-swept crags of st. helena. she instilled into the bosom of her son those elevated principles of honor and self-respect, which, when surrounded by every temptation earth could present, preserved him from the degraded doom of the inebriate, of the voluptuary, and of the gamester, and which made the court of napoleon, when the most brilliant court this world has ever known, also the most illustrious for the purity of its morals and the decorum of its observances. the sincere, unaffected piety of letitia rose so high above the corruptions of a corrupt and profligate church, that her distinguished son, notwithstanding the all but universal infidelity of the times, was compelled to respect a religion which had embellished a beloved mother's life. he was thus induced, in his day of power, to bring back a wayward nation of thirty millions from cheerless, brutalizing, comfortless unbelief, to all the consoling, ennobling, purifying influences of christianity. when at the command of napoleon the church bells began again to toll the hour of prayer, on every hill-side, and through every valley in france, and the dawn of the sabbath again guided rejoicing thousands in the crowded city and in the silent country to the temples of religion--when the young, in their nuptials, and the aged in their death were blessed by the solemnities of gospel ministrations, it was a mother's influence which inspired a dutiful son to make the magic change, which thus, in an hour, transformed france from a pagan to nominally a christian land. it was the calm, gentle, persuasive voice of letitia which was embodied in the consular decree. honor to letitia, the mother of napoleon! the first interview between this almost beardless youth and the veteran generals whom he was to command, must have presented a singular scene. these scarred and war-worn chiefs, when they beheld the "stripling," were utterly amazed at the folly of the directory in sending such a youth to command an army in circumstances so desperate. rampon undertook to give the young commander some advice. napoleon, who demanded obedience not advice, impatiently brushed him away, exclaiming, "gentlemen! the art of war is in its infancy. the time has passed in which enemies are mutually to appoint the place of combat, advance hat in hand and say, '_gentlemen, will you have the goodness to fire_.' we must cut the enemy in pieces, precipitate ourselves like a torrent upon their battalions, and grind them to powder. experienced generals conduct the troops opposed to us! so much the better, so much the better. it is not their experience which will avail them against me. mark my words; they will soon burn their books on tactics and know not what to do. yes, gentlemen! the first onset of the italian army will give birth to a new epoch in military affairs. as for us, we must hurl ourselves on the foe like a thunderbolt, and smite like it. disconcerted by our tactics, and not daring to put them into execution, they will fly before us as the shades of night before the uprising sun." the commanding and self-confident tone in which napoleon uttered these glowing sentences, silenced and confounded the generals. they felt that they had indeed a master. "well," said augereau, as he left the council, nodding very significantly to massena, "we have a man here who will cut out some work for government, i think." "it was necessary for me," napoleon afterward remarked, "to be a little austere, to prevent my generals from slapping me upon the shoulder." [illustration: napoleon and his generals.] the objects which napoleon had in view in this campaign were, first, to compel the king of sardinia to abandon the alliance with austria; secondly, to assail the austrians with such vigor as to compel the emperor to call to his aid the troops upon the rhine, and thus weaken the powerful hosts then marching against the republic; and, thirdly, to humble the pope, who was exerting all his spiritual power to aid the bourbons in fighting their way back to the throne of france. the pope had offered an unpardonable insult to the republic. the french embassador sent to rome, had been attacked in the streets, and chased home. the mob broke into his house and cruelly assassinated him, unarmed and unresisting. the murderers remained unpunished, and no atonement had been made for the atrocious crime. but how, with thirty thousand troops, unpaid, dejected, famished, and unprovided with the munitions of war, was mortal man to accomplish such results in the face of a foe eighty thousand strong, living in abundance, and flushed with victory! napoleon issued his first proclamation. it was read to every regiment in the army, and rang, like trumpet-tones, upon the ears of the troops. "soldiers! you are hungry and naked; the government owes you much, and can pay you nothing. your patience, your courage, in the midst of these rocks, are admirable, but they reflect no splendor upon your arms. i come to lead you into the most fertile plains the sun beholds. rich provinces, opulent cities will soon be at your disposal. there you will find abundant harvests, honor, and glory. soldiers of italy, will you fail in courage?" it is not strange that such words, from their young and fearless leader, should have inspired enthusiasm, and should have caused the hearts of the desponding to leap high with hope and confidence. the simple plan which napoleon adopted, was to direct his whole force against detached portions of the austrian army, and thus by gaining, at the point of attack, a superiority in numbers, to destroy them by piecemeal. "war," said the young soldier, "is the science of barbarians; and he who has the heaviest battalions will conquer." the whole army was instantly on the move. the generals, appreciating the wisdom and the fearlessness of their indomitable leader, imbibed his spirit and emulated his zeal. napoleon was on horseback night and day. he seemed to take no time to eat or to sleep. he visited the soldiers, sympathized with them in their sufferings, and revealed to them his plans. it was early in the spring. bleak glaciers and snow-covered ridges of the alps were between napoleon and the austrians. behind this curtain he assembled his forces. enormous sacrifices were required to enable the soldiers to move from point to point with that celerity which was essential in operations so hazardous. he made no allowance for any impediments or obstacles. at a given hour the different divisions of the army, by various roads, were to be at a designated point. to accomplish this, every sacrifice was to be made of comfort and of life. if necessary to the attainment of this end stragglers were to be left behind, baggage abandoned, artillery even to be left in the ruts, and the troops were to be, without fail, at the designated place at the appointed hour. through storms of rain and snow, over mountain and moor, by night and by day, hungry, sleepless, wet, and cold, the enthusiastic host pressed on. it seems incredible that the young napoleon, so instantaneously as it were, should have been enabled to infuse his almost supernatural energy into the whole army. he had neither mules with which to attempt the passage of the alps, nor money to purchase the necessary supplies. he therefore decided to turn the mountains, by following down the chain along the shores of the mediterranean, to a point where the lofty ridges sink almost to a plain. the army of beaulieu was divided into three corps. his centre, ten thousand strong, was at the small village of montenotte. the night of the th of april was dark and tempestuous. torrents of rain were falling, and the miry roads were almost impassable. but through the long hours of this stormy night, while the austrians were reposing warmly in their tents, napoleon and his soldiers, drenched with rain, were toiling through the muddy defiles of the mountains, wading the swollen streams, and climbing the slippery cliffs. just as the day began to dawn through the broken clouds, the young general stood upon the heights in the rear of montenotte, and looked down upon the encamped host whom he was now for the first time to encounter in decisive conflict. he had so man[oe]uvred as completely to envelop his unsuspecting enemy. allowing his weary troops not an hour for repose, he fell upon the allied austrians and sardinians like a whirlwind, attacking them, at the same moment, in front, flank, and rear. the battle was long and bloody. the details of these horrid scenes of carnage are sickening. the shout of onset, the shriek of agony; the mutilated and the mangled forms of the young and the noble, trampled beneath the iron hoofs of rushing squadrons; the wounded crushed into the mire, with their bones ground to powder as the wheels of ponderous artillery were dragged mercilessly over them, and the wailing echo of widows and orphans in their distant homes, render these battle-fields revolting to humanity. at length the austrians were broken and completely routed. they fled in dismay, leaving three thousand dead and wounded upon the field, and their cannon and colors in possession of the french. this was the first battle in which napoleon had the supreme command; the first victory in which the honor redounded to himself. "my title of nobility," said he proudly to the emperor of austria, "dates from the battle of montenotte." the austrians fled in one direction to dego, to meet reinforcements coming to their aid and to protect milan. the sardinians retreated in another direction to millesimo, to cover their own capital of turin. thus the two armies were separated as napoleon desired. the indefatigable general, allowing his exhausted and bleeding army but a few hours of repose, and himself not one, resolved, while his troops were flushed with victory, and the enemy were depressed by defeat and loss, to attack both armies at once. the th and the th of april were passed in one incessant conflict. the austrians and sardinians intrenching themselves in strong fortresses and upon craggy hill-sides, and every hour receiving reinforcements pressing on to their aid, cast showers of stones and rolled heavy rocks upon their assailants, sweeping away whole companies at a time. napoleon was every where, sharing the toil, incurring the danger, and inspiring his men with his own enthusiastic ardor and courage. in both battles the french were entirely victorious. at dego, the austrians were compelled to abandon their artillery and baggage, and escape as they could over the mountains, leaving three thousand prisoners in the hands of the conqueror. at millesimo, fifteen hundred sardinians were compelled to surrender. thus like a thunderbolt napoleon opened the campaign. in three days, three desperate battles had been fought, and three decisive victories gained. still napoleon's situation was perilous in the extreme. he was surrounded by forces vastly superior to his own, crowding down upon him. the austrians were amazed at his audacity. they deemed it the paroxysm of a madman, who throws himself single-handed into the midst of an armed host. his destruction was sure, unless by almost supernatural rapidity of marching, he could prevent the concentration of these forces and bring superior numbers to attack and destroy the detached portions. a day of inaction, an hour of hesitancy, might have been fatal. it was in the battle at dego that napoleon was first particularly struck with the gallantry of a young officer named lannes. in nothing was the genius of this extraordinary man more manifest, than in the almost intuitive penetration with which he discovered character. lannes became subsequently duke of montebello and one of the marshals of the empire.[ ] [ ] "the education of lannes had been much neglected but his mind rose to the level of his courage. he became a giant. he adored me as his protector, his superior being, his providence. in the impetuosity of his temper he sometimes allowed hasty expressions against me to escape his lips, but he would probably have broken the head of any one who had joined him in his remarks. when he died he had been in fifty-four pitched battles and three hundred combats of different kinds."--napoleon. in the midst of these marches and counter-marches and these incessant battles, there had been no opportunity to distribute regular rations among the troops. the soldiers, destitute of every thing, began to pillage. napoleon, who was exceedingly anxious to win the good-will of the people of italy and to be welcomed by them as their deliverer from proud oppressors, proceeded against the culprits with great severity, and immediately re-established the most rigid discipline in the army. he had now advanced to the summit of mt. zemolo. from that eminence the troops looked down upon the lovely plains of italy, opening, like a diorama beneath them. the poetic sensibilities of napoleon were deeply moved by the majestic spectacle. orchards and vineyards, and fertile fields and peaceful villages lay spread out, a scene of perfect enchantment, in the extended valley. majestic rivers, reflecting the rays of the sun like ribbons of silver, meandered through meadow and forest; encircling the verdant hill-sides, and bathing the streets of opulent cities. in the distance stupendous mountains, hoary with eternal ice and snow, bounded and seemed to embrace in protecting arms this land of promise. napoleon, sitting upon his horse, gazed for some time in silent and delighted admiration upon the scene. "hannibal," he exclaimed, "forced the alps; but we have turned them." [illustration: napoleon on mount zemolo.] there was, however, not a moment to be lost in rest or reverie. from every direction the austrians and sardinians were hurrying to their appointed rendezvous, to combine and destroy this audacious band, which had so suddenly and fatally plunged into their midst. the french troops rushed down the declivities of the mountains and, crossing the tanaro, rejoiced with trembling as they found themselves in the sunny plains of italy. dispatching augereau to pursue the austrian army, now effectually separated from their allies, napoleon, with indefatigable perseverance, pursued the sardinians in their flight toward turin. he came up with them on the th at ceva, where they had intrenched themselves, eight thousand strong. he immediately attacked them in their intrenchments, and during the remainder of the day the sanguinary battle raged without any decisive result. the flash and the roar of artillery and of musketry did not cease, till the darkness rendered it impossible to distinguish friend from foe. the french slept upon their arms, ready to resume the combat in the earliest dawn of the morning. in the night the sardinians fled, and again took a strong position behind the deep and foaming torrent of the carsuglia. on the evening of the ensuing day, napoleon again overtook them. a single bridge crossed the rapid torrent. the sardinians were so strongly posted that it seemed impossible that they could be dislodged. large detachments were hastening to reinforce them. the austrians were accumulating in great strength in napoleon's rear, and notwithstanding all these brilliant victories the situation of the french was perilous in the extreme. a council of war was held in the night, and it was decided, regardless of the extreme exhaustion of the troops, to make an assault upon the bridge as soon as the morning should dawn. before the first gray of the morning the french, in battle array, were moving down upon the bridge, anticipating a desperate struggle. but the sardinians, in a panic, had again fled during the night, and napoleon, rejoicing at his good fortune, passed the bridge unobstructed. the indefatigable victor pressed onward in the pursuit, and before nightfall again overtook his fugitive foes, who had intrenched themselves upon some almost inaccessible hills near mondovi. the french immediately advanced to the assault. the sardinians fought with desperation, but the genius of napoleon triumphed, and again the sardinians fled, leaving two thousand men, eight cannon, and eleven standards in the hands of the conqueror, and one thousand dead upon the field. napoleon pursued the fugitives to cherasco, and took possession of the place. he was now within twenty miles of turin, the capital of the kingdom of sardinia. all was commotion in the metropolis. there were thousands there, who had imbibed the revolutionary spirit, who were ready to welcome napoleon as their deliverer, and to implore him to aid them in the establishment of a republic. the king and the nobles were in perfect consternation. the english and austrian ministers entreated the king to adhere to the alliance, abandon his capital, and continue the conflict. they assured him that the rash and youthful victor was rushing into difficulties from which he could by no possibility extricate himself. but he, trembling for his throne and his crown, believing it to be impossible to resist so rapid a conqueror, and fearing that napoleon, irritated by a protracted conflict, would proclaim political liberty to the people, and revolutionize the kingdom, determined to throw himself into the arms of the french, and to appeal to the magnanimity of the foe, whose rights he had so unpardonably assailed. by all human rules he deserved the severest punishment. he had united with two powerful nations, england and austria, to chastise the french for preferring a republic to a monarchy, and had sent an invading army to bombard the cities of france and instigate the royalists to rise in civil war against the established government of the country. it was with lively satisfaction that napoleon received the advances of the sardinian king, for he was fully aware of the peril in which he was placed. the allied armies were still far more numerous than his own. he had neither heavy battering cannon, nor siege equipage to reduce turin, and the other important fortresses of the kingdom. he was far from home, could expect no immediate reinforcements from france, and his little army was literally in destitution and in rags. the allies, on the contrary, were in the enjoyment of abundance. they could every day augment their strength; and their resources were apparently inexhaustible. "the king of sardinia," says napoleon, "had still a great number of fortresses left; and in spite of the victories which had been gained, the slightest check, one caprice of fortune, would have undone every thing." napoleon, however, with the commissioners who had been sent to treat with him, assumed a very confident and imperious tone. he demanded, as a preliminary to any armistice, that the important fortresses of coni, tortona, and alexandria, "the keys of the alps," should be surrendered to him. the commissioners hesitated to comply with these requisitions, which would place sardinia entirely at his mercy, and proposed some modifications. "your ideas are absurd," exclaimed napoleon, sternly; "it is for me to state conditions. listen to the laws which i impose upon you, in the name of the government of my country, and obey, or to-morrow my batteries are erected, and turin is in flames." the commissioners were overawed, and a treaty was immediately concluded, by which the king of sardinia abandoned the alliance, surrendered the three fortresses, with all their artillery and military stores, to napoleon, sent an embassador to paris to conclude a definitive peace, left the victors in possession of all the places they had already taken, disbanded the militia, and dispersed the regular troops, and allowed the french free use of the military roads, to carry on the war with austria. napoleon then issued to his soldiers the following soul-stirring proclamation: "soldiers! you have gained in fifteen days six victories, taken one-and-twenty standards, fifty-five pieces of cannon, many strong places, and have conquered the richest part of piedmont. you have made fifteen thousand prisoners, and killed or wounded ten thousand men. hitherto you have fought on sterile rocks, illustrious, indeed, by your courage, but of no avail. now you rival by your services the armies of holland and of the rhine. you were utterly destitute; you have supplied all your wants. you have gained battles without cannon; passed rivers without bridges; made forced marches without shoes, bivouacked without bread. the phalanxes of the republic, the soldiers of liberty were alone capable of such sacrifices. but, soldiers! you have accomplished nothing while any thing remains to be done. neither turin nor milan is in your hands. i am told that there are some among you whose courage is failing, who wish to return to the summits of the alps and the apennines. no! i can not believe it. the conquerors of montenotte, of millesimo, of dego, of mondovi burn to carry still further the glories of the french name. but ere i lead you to conquest there is one condition you must promise to fulfill: that is to protect the people whom you liberate and to repress all acts of lawless violence. without this you would not be the deliverers, but the scourges of nations. invested with the national authority, strong in justice and law, i shall not hesitate to enforce the requisitions of humanity and of honor. i will not suffer robbers to sully your laurels. pillagers shall be shot without mercy. "people of italy! the french army advances to break your chains. the french people are the friends of all nations. in them you may confide. your property, your religion, your customs shall be respected. we will only make war as generous foes. our sole quarrel is with the tyrants who enslave you." a large majority of napoleon's soldiers and officers severely condemned any treaty of peace with a monarchical government, and were clamorous for the dethronement of the king of sardinia, and the establishment of a republic. the people thronged napoleon with the entreaty that he would lend them his countenance that they might revolutionize the kingdom. they urged that, by the banishment of the king and the nobles, they could establish a free government, which should be the natural and efficient ally of republican france. he had but to say the word and the work was done. the temptation to utter that word must have been very strong. it required no common political foresight to nerve napoleon to resist that temptation. but he had a great horror of anarchy. he had seen enough of the working of jacobin misrule in the blood-deluged streets of paris. he did not believe that the benighted peasants of italy possessed either the intelligence or the moral principle essential to the support of a well-organized republic. consequently, notwithstanding the known wishes of the directory, the demands of the army, and the entreaties of the populace, with heroic firmness he refused to allow the overthrow of the established government. he diverted the attention of his soldiers from the subject, by plunging them into still more arduous enterprises, and leading them to yet more brilliant victories. napoleon had no desire to see the reign of terror re-enacted in the cities of italy. he was in favor of reform, not of revolution. the kings and the nobles had monopolized wealth and honor, and nearly all the most precious privileges of life. the people were merely hewers of wood and drawers of water. napoleon wished to break down this monopoly and to emancipate the masses from the servitude of ages. he would do this, however, not by the sudden upheaving of thrones and the transfer of power to unenlightened and inexperienced democracy, but by surrounding the thrones with republican institutions, and conferring upon all people a strong and well-organized government, with constitutional liberty. eloquently he says, "it would be a magnificent field for speculation to estimate what would have been the destinies of france and of europe, had england satisfied herself with denouncing the murder of louis xvi., which would have been for the interests of public morality, and listened to the councils of a philanthropic policy, by accepting revolutionized france as an ally. scaffolds would not then have been erected over the whole country, and kings would not have trembled on their thrones; but their states would all have passed, more or less, through a revolutionary process, and the whole of europe, without a convulsion, would have become constitutional and free." the kingdom of sardinia was composed of the provinces of nice, piedmont, savoy, and montferrat. it contained three millions of inhabitants. the king, by extraordinary efforts and by means of subsidies from england, had raised an army of sixty thousand men, trained to service in long continued wars. his numerous fortresses, well armed and amply provisioned, situated at the defiles of all the mountains, placed his frontier in a state which was regarded as impregnable. he was the father-in-law of both of the brothers of louis xvi.; which brothers subsequently ascended the throne of france as louis xviii. and as charles x. he had welcomed them, in their flight from france to his court in turin; and had made his court a place of refuge for the emigrant noblesse, where, in fancied security, they matured their plans and accumulated their resources for the invasion of france, in connection with the armies of the allies. and yet napoleon, with thirty thousand half-starved men, had, in one short fortnight, dispersed his troops, driven the austrians from the kingdom, penetrated to the very heart of the state, and was threatening the bombardment of his capital. the humiliated monarch, trembling for his crown, was compelled to sue for peace at the feet of an unknown young man of twenty-five. his chagrin was so great, in view of his own fallen fortunes and the hopelessness of his sons-in-law ever attaining the throne of france, that he died, a few days after signing the treaty of cherasco, of a broken heart. napoleon immediately dispatched murat, his first aid-de-camp, to paris, with a copy of the armistice, and with twenty-one standards taken from the enemy. the sensation which was produced in france by this rapid succession of astonishing victories was intense and universal. the spirit of antique eloquence which imbued the proclamations of the young conqueror; the modest language of his dispatches to the directory; the entire absence of boasting respecting his own merits, and the glowing commendation of the enthusiastic bravery of his soldiers and of his generals, excited profound admiration. _bonaparte_ was a foreign, an italian name. few in france had ever heard it, and it was not easily pronounced. every one inquired, who is this young general, whose talents thus suddenly, with such meteoric splendor, have blazed upon europe? his name and his fame were upon every lip, and the eyes of all europe were concentred upon him. three times in the course of fifteen days, the council of ancients and the five hundred had decreed that the army of italy deserved well of their country, and had appointed festivals to victory in their honor. in very imposing ceremony murat presented the captured standards to the directory. several foreign embassadors were present on the occasion. the republic, thus triumphant, was invested with new dignity, and elevated, by the victories of the young general, to a position of respect and consideration which it had never attained before. while these scenes were transpiring napoleon did not forget the bride he had left in paris. though for seven days and nights he had allowed himself no quiet meal, no regular repose, and had not taken off either his coat or his boots, he found time to send frequent and most affectionate, though very short, notes to josephine. immediately after the victory of montenotte, while the thunders of the cannonade were still ringing in his ears, he dispatched a courier to josephine with the following lines, written in such haste and under such circumstances as to be scarcely legible. "my beloved friend, "my first laurel is due to my country. my second shall be yours. while pursuing the enemy i thought of france. when he was beaten i thought of josephine. your son will send you a scarf surrendered to him by colonel morback, whom he took prisoner with his own hand. you see, madame, that our eugene is worthy of his father. do not deem me altogether undeserving of having succeeded to that brave and unfortunate general, under whom i should have felt honored to have learned to conquer. i embrace you. bonaparte." this delicacy of attention napoleon ever manifested toward josephine, even after their unhappy divorce, and until the hour of her death. napoleon having, by an advantageous treaty with sardinia, secured his rear from assault, without a day's delay, commenced the pursuit of the discomfited remains of the austrian army. under their commander-in-chief, beaulieu, they had retreated behind the po, where they strongly intrenched themselves, awaiting the reinforcements which were hurrying to their aid. upon leaving the kingdom of sardinia napoleon first entered the states of parma. the duke of parma, who had united with his more powerful neighbors, in the alliance against france, reigned over a population of but about five hundred thousand, and could furnish to the allies but three thousand troops. he was of course powerless, and sent envoys to solicit the clemency of the conqueror. napoleon granted him an armistice upon his paying five hundred thousand dollars in silver, sixteen hundred artillery horses, and a large supply of corn and provisions. and here commenced one of those characteristic acts of the young general which have been greatly admired by some, and most severely censured by others. napoleon, a lover and connoisseur of the arts, conscious of the addition they contribute to the splendor of an empire, and of the effect which they produce upon the imagination of men, demanded twenty of the choicest pictures in the galleries of the duke, to be sent to the museum at paris. to save one of these works of art, the celebrated picture of st. jerome, the duke offered two hundred thousand dollars. napoleon declined the money, stating to the army, "the sum which he offers us will soon be spent; but the possession of such a master-piece, at paris, will adorn that capital for ages, and give birth to similar exertions of genius." no one objects, according to the laws of war, to the extortion of the money, the horses, the corn, and the beef, but it is represented by some as an unpardonable act of spoliation and rapacity to have taken the pictures. if conquest confers the right to the seizure of any species of property, it is difficult to conceive why works of art, which are subject to barter and sale, should claim exemption. indeed, there seems to be a peculiar propriety in taking luxuries rather than necessaries. the extortion of money only inflicted a tax upon the _people_ who were the friends of napoleon and of his cause. the selection of the paintings and the statuary deprived not the people of their food, but caused that very class in the community to feel the evils of war, who had originated the conflict. it was making requisition upon the palace and not upon the cottage. but war, with its extortion, robbery, cruelty, and blood, involves all our ideas of morality in confusion. whatever may be the decision of posterity respecting the propriety of including works of genius among the trophies of war, the occurrence surely exhibits napoleon as a man of refined and elevated tastes. an ignoble spirit, moved by avarice, would have grasped the money. napoleon, regardless of personal indulgence, sought only the glory of france. there is at least grandeur in the motive which inspired the act. the austrians were now reinforced to the amount of forty thousand men, and had intrenched themselves upon the other side of the po, having this magnificent stream flowing between them and the french. it is one of the most difficult operations in war to cross a river in the face of an opposing army. it was difficult to conceive how napoleon could effect the enterprise. he, however, marched resolutely on toward valenza, making every demonstration of his intention to cross at that point, in defiance of the foe, arrayed in vastly superior numbers to contest the passage. the austrians concentrated their strength to give him a warm reception. suddenly by night napoleon turned down the river, and with amazing celerity made a march of eighty miles in thirty-six hours, seizing every boat upon the stream as he passed along. he had timed the march of the several divisions of his army so precisely, that all of his forces met at the appointed rendezvous within a few hours of each other. rapidly crossing the river in boats, he found himself and his army, without the loss of a single man, in the plains of lombardy. this beautiful and productive country had been conquered by the austrians, and was governed by an archduke. it contained one million two hundred thousand inhabitants, and was one of the most fertile and rich provinces in the world. its inhabitants were much dissatisfied with their foreign masters, and the great majority, longing for political regeneration, were ready to welcome the armies of france. as soon as beaulieu, who was busily at work upon his fortifications at valenza, heard that napoleon had thus out-generaled him, and had crossed the river, he immediately collected all his forces and moved forward to meet him. the advanced divisions of the hostile armies soon met at fombio. the austrians stationed themselves in the steeples and at the windows and upon the roofs of the houses, and commenced a destructive fire upon the french, crowding into the streets. they hoped to arrest their progress until the commander-in-chief could arrive with the main body of the army. the french, however, rushed impetuously on with their bayonets, and the austrians were driven before them, leaving two thousand prisoners in the hands of napoleon, and the ground covered with their dead. the french pursued closely upon the heels of the austrians, from every eminence plunging cannon balls into their retreating ranks, and assailing them with the most destructive fire at every possible point of attack. in the evening of the same day, the exhausted and bleeding columns of the enemy arrived at lodi, a small town upon the banks of the adda. passing directly through the town they crossed the river, which was about two hundred yards in width, by a narrow wooden bridge, about thirty feet wide. they were there received by the main body of the army of beaulieu, which was strongly intrenched upon the opposite banks. the whole french army rushed into the town, and sheltering themselves behind the walls of the houses, from the incessant fire of the austrian batteries, awaited the commands of their youthful leader, whom they now began to think invincible. napoleon's belief in _destiny_ was so strong that he was an entire stranger to bodily fear. he immediately sallied from the town and reconnoitred the banks of the river, amidst a perfect shower of balls and grape-shot. the prospect before him would have been to most persons perfectly appalling. the austrians, sixteen thousand strong, with twelve thousand infantry and four thousand cavalry, and thirty pieces of heavy artillery were posted upon the opposite banks in battle array, with their batteries so arranged as to command the whole length of the bridge by a raking fire. batteries stationed above and below also swept the narrow passage by cross fires, while sharp-shooters, in bands of thousands, were posted at every available point, to drive a perfect storm of musket balls into the face of any who should approach the structure. beaulieu conceived his position so utterly impregnable that he had not thought it necessary to destroy the bridge, as he easily could have done. he desired nothing more earnestly than that the french might attempt the passage, for he was confident that their discomfiture would be both signal and awful. napoleon immediately placed as many guns as possible in opposition to the austrian batteries, directing with his own hands, in the midst of the hottest fire, some cannon in such a manner as to prevent the austrians from approaching to blow up the arches. he then entered the town, assembled his general officers, and informed them that he had resolved immediately to storm the bridge. the bravest of them recoiled from the undertaking, and they unanimously disapproved of the plan as impracticable. "it is impossible," said one, "that any men can force their way across that narrow bridge, in the face of such an annihilating storm of balls as must be encountered." "how! impossible!" exclaimed napoleon, "that word is not french." the self-reliant mind of the young conqueror was seldom moved by the opinions of others. regardless of the disapproval of his generals, he assembled six thousand picked troops, and addressing them in those marked tones of martial eloquence most eminently at his command, so effectually roused their pride and enthusiasm that they were clamorous to be led to the assault. he unfolded to them fully the peril which attended the enterprise, and animated them by reference to the corresponding glory which would attend the achievement. he knew that thousands must perish. but placing only a slight value upon his own life, he regarded as little the lives of others, and deemed the object to be gained worthy of the terrible price which was to be paid. there probably was not another man in either of those armies who would have ventured upon the responsibility of an enterprise apparently so desperate. secretly dispatching a large body of cavalry to cross the river at a very difficult ford, about three miles above the town, which by some inconceivable oversight the austrians had neglected to protect, he ordered them to come down the river and make the most desperate charge upon the rear of the enemy. at the same time he formed his troops in a line, under the shelter of one of the streets nearest the point of attack. it was the evening of the th of may. the sun was just sinking behind the tyrolean hills, enveloping in soft twilight the scene of rural peace and beauty and of man's depravity. not a breath of air rippled the smooth surface of the water, or agitated the bursting foliage of the early spring. the moment that napoleon perceived, by the commotion among the austrians, that the cavalry had effected the passage of the river, he ordered the trumpets to sound the charge. the line wheeled instantly into a dense and solid column, crowding the street with its impenetrable mass. emerging from the shelter, upon the full run, while rending the air with their enthusiastic shouts, they rushed upon the bridge. they were met by a murderous discharge of every missile of destruction, sweeping the structure like a whirlwind. the whole head of the column was immediately cut down like grass before the scythe, and the progress of those in the rear was encumbered by piles of the dead. still the column passed on, heedless of the terrific storm of iron and of lead, until it had forced its way into the middle of the bridge. here it hesitated, wavered, and was on the point of retreating before volcanic bursts of fire too terrible for mortal man to endure, when napoleon, seizing a standard, and followed by lannes, massena, and berthier, plunged through the clouds of smoke which now enveloped the bridge in almost midnight darkness, placed himself at the head of the troops, and shouted, "follow your general!" the bleeding, mangled column, animated by this example, rushed with their bayonets upon the austrian gunners. at the same moment the french cavalry came dashing upon the batteries in the rear, and the bridge was carried. the french army now poured across the narrow passage like a torrent, and debouched upon the plain. still the battle raged with unmitigated fury. the austrians hurled themselves upon the french with the energy of despair. but the troops of napoleon, intoxicated with their amazing achievement, set all danger at defiance, and seemed just as regardless of bullets and of shells, as if they had been snow-balls in the hands of children. in the midst of the thunders of the terrific cannonade a particular battery was producing dreadful havoc among the ranks of the french. repeated attempts had been made to storm it, but in vain. an officer rode up to napoleon in the midst of all the confusion and horror of the battle, and represented to him the importance of making another effort to silence the destructive battery. "very well," said napoleon, who was fond of speaking, as well as acting the sublime, "let it be silenced then." turning to a body of dragoons near by, he exclaimed, "follow your general." as gayly as if it were the pastime of a holiday, the dragoons followed their leader in the impetuous charge, through showers of grape shot dealing mutilation and death into their ranks. the austrian gunners were instantly sabred, and their guns turned upon the foe. lannes was the first to cross the bridge and napoleon the second. lannes in utter recklessness and desperation, spurred his maddened horse into the very midst of the austrian ranks and grasped a banner. at that moment his horse fell dead beneath him, and half a dozen swords glittered above his head. with herculean strength and agility he extricated himself from his fallen steed, leaped upon the horse of an austrian officer, behind the rider, plunged his sword through the body of the officer, and hurled him from his saddle; taking his seat he fought his way back to his followers, having slain in the mêlée six of the austrians with his own hand. this deed of demoniac energy was performed under the eye of napoleon, and he promoted lannes upon the spot. [illustration: the terrible passage of the bridge of lodi.] the austrians now retreated, leaving two thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of cannon in the hands of the victors, and two thousand five hundred men and four hundred horses dead upon the plain. the french probably lost, in dead and wounded, about the same number, though napoleon, in his report of the battle, acknowledged the loss of but four hundred. the austrians claimed that the french won the victory at the expense of four thousand men. it was, of course, the policy of the conqueror to have it understood that his troops were the executors not the victims of slaughter. "as false as a bulletin," has become a proverb. the necessity of uttering falsehood and practicing deception in all their varied forms, is one of the smallest of the innumerable immoralities attendant upon war. from time immemorial it has been declared that the weapons of deception and of courage are equally allowable to the soldier; "_an virtus, an dolos, quis ab hoste requirat_." if an enemy can be deceived by a false bulletin, there are few generals so conscientious as to reject the stratagem. napoleon certainly never hesitated to avail himself of any artifice to send dismay into the hearts of his foes. truthfulness is not one of the virtues which thrives in a camp. "it was a strange sight," says a french veteran, who was present at this battle, "to see napoleon that day, on foot on the bridge, under an _infernal_ fire, and mixed up with our tall grenadiers. he looked like a little boy." "this beardless youth," said an austrian general, indignantly, "ought to have been beaten over and over again; for who ever saw such tactics. the blockhead knows nothing of the rules of war. to-day he is in our rear, to-morrow on our flank, and the next day again in our front. such gross violations of the established principles of war are insufferable." when napoleon was in exile at st. helena, some one read an account of the battle of lodi, in which it was stated that napoleon displayed great courage in being the first to cross the bridge, and that lannes passed it after him. "before me! before me!" exclaimed napoleon, earnestly. "lannes passed first and i only followed him. it is necessary to correct that error upon the spot." the correction was made in the margin. this victory produced a very extraordinary effect upon the whole french army, and inspired the soldiers with unbounded confidence in their young leader. some of the veterans of the army, immediately after the battle, met together and jocosely promoted their general, who had so distinguished himself by his bravery, and who was so juvenile in his appearance, to the rank of corporal. when napoleon next appeared upon the field, he was greeted with enthusiastic shouts by the whole army, "long live our little corporal!" ever after this he was the perfect idol of the troops, and never lost, even in the dignity of consul and emperor, this honorary and affectionate nickname. "neither the quelling of the sections," said napoleon, "nor the victory of montenotte induced me to think myself a superior character. it was not till after the _terrible passage of the bridge of lodi_, that the idea shot across my mind that i might become a decisive actor in the political arena. then arose, for the first time, the spark of great ambition." lombardy was now at the mercy of napoleon, and the discomfited austrians fled into the tyrol. the archduke ferdinand and his duchess, with tears in their eyes, abandoned to the conqueror their beautiful capital of milan, and sought refuge with their retreating friends. as the carriages of the ducal pair, and those of their retinue passed sadly through the streets of the metropolis, the people looked on in silence, uttering not a word of sympathy or of insult. but the moment they had departed, republican zeal burst forth unrestrained. the tricolored cockade seemed suddenly to have fallen, as by magic, upon the hats and the caps of the multitude, and the great mass of the people prepared to greet the french republicans with every demonstration of joy. a placard was put upon the palace--"this house to let; for the keys apply to the french commissioner." on the fifteenth of may, just one month after the opening of the campaign at montenotte, napoleon entered milan in triumph. he was welcomed by the great majority of the inhabitants as a deliverer. the patriots, from all parts of italy, crowded to the capital, sanguine in the hope that napoleon would secure their independence, and confer upon them a republican government, in friendly alliance with france. a numerous militia was immediately organized, called the national guard, and dressed in three colors, green, red, and white, in honor of the tri-colored flag. a triumphal arch was erected, in homage of the conqueror. the whole population of the city marched out to bid him welcome; flowers were scattered in his path; ladies thronged the windows as he passed, and greeted him with smiles and fluttering handkerchiefs, and with a shower of bouquets rained down at his feet. amidst all the pomp of martial music, and waving banners, the ringing of bells, the thunders of saluting artillery, and the acclamations of an immense concourse of spectators, napoleon took possession of the palace from whence the duke had fled. "if you desire liberty," said the victor to the milanese, "you must deserve it by assisting to emancipate italy forever from austria." the wealthy and avaricious duke of modena, whose states bordered upon those of parma, dispatched envoys to sue for peace. napoleon granted him an armistice, upon the payment of two millions of dollars, twenty of his choicest pictures, and an abundant supply of horses and provisions. when in treaty with the duke of modena, the commissary of the french army came to napoleon and said, "the brother of the duke is here with eight hundred thousand dollars in gold, contained in four chests. he comes, in the name of the duke, to beg you to accept them. and i advise you to do so. the money belongs to you. take it without scruple. a proportionate diminution will be made in the duke's contribution, and he will be very glad to have obtained a protector." "i thank you," replied napoleon, coolly. "i shall not, for that sum, place myself in the power of the duke of modena." the whole contribution went into the army-chest, napoleon refusing to receive for himself a single dollar. napoleon now issued another of those spirit-stirring proclamations, which roused such enthusiasm among his own troops, and which so powerfully electrified the ardent imagination of the italians. "soldiers! you have descended like a torrent from the apennines. you have overwhelmed every thing which opposed your progress. piedmont is delivered from the tyranny of austria; milan is in your hands, and the republican standards wave over the whole of lombardy. the dukes of parma and modena owe their existence to your generosity. the army which menaced you with so much pride, can no longer find a barrier to protect itself against your arms. the po, the ticino, the adda have not been able to stop you a single day. these boasted bulwarks of italy have proved as nugatory as the alps. such a career of success has carried joy into the bosom of your country. fêtes in honor of your victories have been ordered in all the communes of the republic. there your parents, your wives, your sisters, your lovers rejoice in your achievements, and boast with pride that you belong to them. yes, soldiers! you have indeed done much, but much remains still to be done. shall posterity say that we knew how to conquer, but knew not how to improve victory? shall we find a capua in lombardy? we have forced marches to make, enemies to subdue, laurels to gather, injuries to revenge. let those who have whetted the daggers of civil war in france, who have assassinated our ministers, who have burned our ships at toulon--let those tremble. the hour of vengeance has struck. but let not the _people_ be alarmed. we are the friends of the people every where; particularly of the brutuses, the scipios, and the great men whom we have taken for our models. to re-establish the capitol; to replace the statues of the heroes who rendered it illustrious; to rouse the romans, stupefied by centuries of slavery--such will be the fruit of our victories. they will form an epoch with posterity. to you will pertain the immortal glory of changing the face of the finest portion of europe. the french people, free and respected by the whole world, will give to europe a glorious peace. you will then return to your homes, and your fellow-citizens will say, pointing to you, _he belonged to the army of italy_." such were the proclamations which napoleon dashed off, with inconceivable rapidity, in the midst of all the care, and peril, and clangor of battle. upon reading these glowing sentences over at st. helena, twenty years after they were written, he exclaimed, "and yet they had the folly to say that i could not write." he has been represented by some as illiterate, as unable to spell. on the contrary, he was a ripe and an accomplished scholar. his intellectual powers and his intellectual attainments were of the very highest order. his mind had been trained by the severest discipline of intense and protracted study. "do you write orthographically?" said he one day to his amanuensis at st. helena. "a man occupied with public business can not attend to orthography. his ideas must flow faster than his hand can trace. he has only time to place his points. he must compress words into letters, and phrases into words, and let the scribes make it out afterward." such was the velocity with which napoleon wrote. his handwriting was composed of the most unintelligible hieroglyphics. he often could not decipher it himself. lombardy is the garden of italy. the whole of the extensive valley, from the alps to the apennines, is cultivated to the highest degree, presenting in its vineyards, its orchards, its waving fields of grain, its flocks and herds, one of the most rich and attractive features earth can exhibit. milan, its beautiful capital, abounding in wealth and luxury, contained a population of one hundred and twenty thousand souls. here napoleon allowed his weary troops, exhausted by their unparalleled exertions, to repose for six days. napoleon himself was received by the inhabitants with the most unbounded enthusiasm and joy. he was regarded as the liberator of italy--the youthful hero, who had come with almost supernatural powers, to re-introduce to the country the reign of roman greatness and virtue. his glowing words, his splendid achievements, his high-toned morals so pure and spotless, the grace and beauty of his feminine figure, his prompt decisions, his imperial will, and the antique cast of his thoughts, uttered in terse and graphic language, which passed, in reiterated quotation, from lip to lip, diffused an universal enchantment. from all parts of italy the young and the enthusiastic flocked to the metropolis of lombardy. the language of italy was napoleon's mother tongue. his name and his origin were italian, and they regarded him as a countryman. they crowded his footsteps, and greeted him with incessant acclamations. he was a cato, a scipio, a hannibal. the ladies, in particular, lavished upon him adulations without any bounds. but napoleon was compelled to support his own army from the spoils of the vanquished. he could not receive a dollar from the exhausted treasury of the french republic. "it is very difficult," said he, "to rob a people of their substance, and at the same time to convince them that you are their friend and benefactor." still he succeeded in doing both. with great reluctance he imposed upon the milanese a contribution of four millions of dollars, and selected twenty paintings from the ambrosian gallery, to send to paris as the trophies of his victory. it was with extreme regret that he extorted the money, knowing that it must check the enthusiasm with which the inhabitants were rallying around the republican standard. it was, however, indispensable for the furtherance of his plans. it was his only refuge from defeat and from absolute destruction. the milanese patriots also felt that it was just that their government should defray the expenses of a war which they had provoked; that since lombardy had allied itself with the powerful and wealthy monarchies of europe, to invade the infant republic in its weakness and its poverty, napoleon was perfectly justifiable in feeding and clothing his soldiers at the expense of the invaders whom he had repelled. the money was paid, and the conqueror was still the idol of the people. his soldiers were now luxuriating in the abundance of bread, and meat, and wine. they were, however, still in rags, wearing the same war-worn and tattered garments with which they had descended from the frozen summits of the alps. with the resources thus obtained, napoleon clothed all his troops abundantly, filled the chests of the army, established hospitals and large magazines, proudly sent a million of dollars to the directory in paris, as an absent father would send funds to his helpless family; forwarded two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to moreau, who, with an impoverished army, upon the rhine, was contending against superior forces of the austrians. he also established an energetic and efficient municipal government in milan, and made immediate arrangements for the organization and thorough military discipline of the militia in all parts of lombardy. this was the work of five days, and of five days succeeding a month of such toil of body and of mind as, perhaps, no mortal ever endured before. had it not been for a very peculiar constitutional temperament, giving napoleon the most extraordinary control over his own mind, such herculean labors could not have been performed. "different affairs are arranged in my head," said he, "as in drawers. when i wish to interrupt one train of thought, i close the drawer which contains that subject, and open to that which contains another. they do not mix together, and do not fatigue me or inconvenience me. i have never been kept awake by an involuntary pre-occupation of the mind. if i wish repose, i shut up all the drawers and i am asleep. i have always slept when i wanted rest, and almost at will." after spending several successive days and nights without sleep, in preparation for a decisive conflict, he has been known repeatedly to fall asleep in the midst of the uproar and horror of the field of battle, and when the balls of the enemy were sweeping the eminence upon which he stood. "nature has her rights," said he, "and will not be defrauded with impunity. i feel more cool to receive the reports which are brought to me, and to give fresh orders when awaking in this manner from a transient slumber." while in milan, one morning, just as he had mounted his horse, a dragoon presented himself before him, bearing dispatches of great importance. napoleon read them upon the saddle; and, giving a verbal answer, told the courier to take it back with all possible dispatch. "i have no horse," the man replied, "the one i rode, in consequence of forced speed, fell dead at the gate of your palace." "take mine then," rejoined napoleon, instantly alighting. the man hesitated to mount the magnificent charger of the general-in-chief. "you think him too fine an animal," said napoleon, "and too splendidly caparisoned. never mind, comrade, there is nothing too magnificent for a french soldier." incidents like this, perpetually occurring, were narrated, with all conceivable embellishments, around the camp-fires, and they conferred upon the young general a degree of popularity almost amounting to adoration. [illustration: napoleon and the courier.] the lofty intellectual character of napoleon was also developed at the same time, in the midst of all the cares, perplexities, and perils of these most terrible conflicts, in a letter publicly addressed to oriani, the celebrated mathematician. "hitherto," he writes, "the learned in italy have not enjoyed the consideration to which they were entitled. they lived secluded in their libraries, too happy if they could escape the persecution of kings and priests. it is so no longer. religious inquisition and despotic power are at an end. thought is free in italy. i invite the literary and the scientific to consult together and propose to me their ideas on the subject of giving new life and vigor to the fine arts and sciences. all who desire to visit france will be received with distinction by the government. the citizens of france have more pride in enrolling among their citizens a skillful mathematician, a painter of reputation, a distinguished man in any class of letters, than in adding to their territories a large and wealthy city." napoleon having thus rapidly organized a government for lombardy, and having stationed troops in different places to establish tranquillity, turned his attention again to the pursuit of the austrians. but by this time the directory in paris were thoroughly alarmed in view of the astonishing influence and renown which napoleon had attained. in one short month he had filled europe with his name. they determined to check his career. kellerman, a veteran general of great celebrity, they consequently appointed his associate in command, to pursue the austrians with a part of the army, while napoleon, with the other part, was to march down upon the states of the pope. this division would have insured the destruction of the army. napoleon promptly but respectfully tendered his resignation, saying, "one bad general is better than two good ones. war, like government, is mainly decided by tact." this decision brought the directory immediately to terms. the commander-in-chief of the army of italy was now too powerful to be displaced, and the undivided command was immediately restored to him. in the letter he wrote to the directory at this time, and which must have been written with the rapidity of thought, he observes, with great force of language and strength of argument. "it is in the highest degree impolitic to divide into two the army of italy; and not less adverse to place at its head two different generals. the expedition to the papal states is a very inconsiderable matter, and should be made by divisions in echelon, ready at any moment to wheel about and face the austrians. to perform it with success both armies must be under one general. i have hitherto conducted the campaign without consulting any one. the result would have been very different if i had been obliged to reconcile my views with those of another. if you impose upon me embarrassments of various kinds; if i must refer all my steps to the commissaries of government; if they are authorized to change my movements, to send away my troops, expect no further success. if you weaken your resources by dividing your forces, if you disturb in italy the unity of military thought, i say it with grief, you will lose the finest opportunity that ever occurred of giving laws to that fine peninsula. in the present posture of the affairs of the republic it is indispensable that you possess a general who enjoys your confidence. if i do not do so i shall not complain. every one has his own method of carrying on war. kellerman has more experience, and may do it better than i. together we should do nothing but mischief. your decision on this matter is of more importance than the fifteen thousand men the emperor of austria has sent to beaulieu." on the d of may napoleon left milan, in pursuit of the austrians. beaulieu, in his retreat to the mountains of the tyrol, had thrown fifteen thousand men into the almost impregnable fortress of mantua, to arrest the progress of the conqueror. he knew that napoleon could not follow him leaving such a fortress in the possession of his enemies in his rear. austria was raising powerful reinforcements, and the defeated general intended soon to return with overwhelming numbers, and crush his foe. napoleon had hardly advanced one day's march from milan when a formidable insurrection broke out. the priests, incited by the pope, had roused the peasants, who were very much under their influence, to rise and exterminate the french. they appealed to all the motives of fanaticism which the papal church has so effectually at its command, to rouse their military ardor. they assured the ignorant peasants that austria was pouring down an overwhelming army upon the invader; that all italy was simultaneously rising in arms; that england, with her powerful fleet, was landing troops innumerable upon the coasts of sardinia; that god, and all his angels, were looking down from the windows of heaven to admire the heroism of the faithful, in ridding the earth of the enemies of the true religion, and that the destruction of napoleon was sure. the enthusiasm spread from hamlet to hamlet like a conflagration. the friends of republicanism were, for the most part, in the cities. the peasantry were generally strongly attached to the church, and looked up with reverence to the nobles. the tocsin was sounded in every village. in a day thirty thousand peasants, roused to frenzy, grasped their arms. the danger was most imminent. napoleon felt that not an hour was to be lost. he took with him twelve hundred men and six pieces of cannon, and instantly turned upon his track. he soon came up with eight hundred of the insurgents, who were intrenching themselves in the small village of banasco. there was no parleying. there was no hesitancy. the ear was closed to all the appeals of mercy. the veteran troops, inured to their work, rushed with bayonet and sabre upon the unwarlike italians, and, in a few moments, hewed the peasants to pieces. the women and children fled in every direction, carrying the tidings of the dreadful massacre. the torch was applied to the town, and the dense volumes of smoke ascending into the serene and cloudless skies, from this altar of vengeance, proclaimed, far and wide over the plains of italy, how dreadful a thing it was to incur the wrath of the conqueror. napoleon and his troops, their swords still dripping in blood, tarried not, but moving on with the sweep of a whirlwind, came to the gates of pavia. this city had become the head-quarters of the insurgents. it contained thirty thousand inhabitants. napoleon had left there a garrison of three hundred men. the insurgents, eight thousand strong, had thrown themselves into the place, and, strengthened by all of the monarchical party, prepared for a desperate resistance. napoleon sent the archbishop of milan, with a flag of truce, offering pardon to all who would lay down their arms. "may the terrible example of banasco," said he, "open your eyes. its fate shall be that of every town which persists in revolt." "while pavia has walls," the insurgents bravely replied, "we will not surrender." napoleon rejoined in the instantaneous thunders of his artillery. he swept the ramparts with grape shot, while the soldiers, with their hatchets, hewed down the gates. [illustration: the burning of banasco.] they rushed like an inundation into the city. the peasants fought with desperation from the windows and roofs of the houses, hurling down upon the french every missile of destruction. the sanguinary conflict soon terminated in favor of the disciplined valor of the assailants. the wretched peasants were pursued into the plain and cut down without mercy. the magistrates of the city were shot; the city itself given up to pillage. "the order," said napoleon to the inhabitants, "to lay the city in ashes, was just leaving my lips, when the garrison of the castle arrived, and hastened, with cries of joy, to embrace their deliverers. their names were called over and none found missing. if the blood of a single frenchman had been shed, my determination was to erect a column on the ruins of pavia, bearing this inscription, '_here stood the city of pavia!_'" he was extremely indignant with the garrison for allowing themselves to be made prisoners. "cowards," he exclaimed, "i intrusted you with a post essential to the safety of an army; and you have abandoned it to a mob of wretched peasants, without offering the least resistance." he delivered the captain over to a council of war, and he was shot. this terrible example crushed the insurrection over the whole of lombardy. such are the inevitable and essential horrors of war. napoleon had no love for cruelty. but he never hesitated to adopt any measures, however decisive and sanguinary, which he deemed essential for the accomplishment of his purposes. in such dreadful scenes he claimed to be acting upon the same principle which influences the physician to cut, with an unflinching hand, through nerves and tendons, for the humane design of saving life. if war is right this was right. this bloody vengeance was necessary for the salvation of napoleon's army. he was about to pursue the austrians far away into the mountains of the tyrol, and it was necessary to his success that, by a terrible example, he should teach those whom he left behind, that they could not rise upon him with impunity. war is necessarily a system of cruelty and of blood. napoleon was an energetic warrior. he recoiled not from any severities which he deemed indispensable to the success of his horrible mission. "a man of refined sensibilities," says the duke of wellington, "has no right to meddle with the profession of a soldier." "pavia," said napoleon, "is the only place i ever gave up to pillage. i promised that the soldiers should have it, at their mercy, for twenty-four hours. but after three hours i could bear such scenes of outrage no longer, and put an end to them. policy and morality are equally opposed to the system. nothing is so certain to disorganize and completely ruin an army." it is wonderfully characteristic of this most extraordinary man, that in the midst of these terrible scenes, and when encompassed by such perils and pressed by such urgent haste, he could have found time and the disposition to visit a literary institution. when the whole city of pavia was in consternation, he entered the celebrated university, accompanied by his splendid military suite. with the utmost celerity he moved from class to class, asking questions with such rapidity that the professors could hardly find time or breath to answer him. "what class is this?" he inquired, as he entered the first recitation room. "the class of metaphysics," was the reply. napoleon, who had but little respect for the uncertain deductions of mental philosophy, exclaimed, very emphatically, "bah!" and took a pinch of snuff. turning to one of the pupils, he inquired, "what is the difference between sleep and death?" the embarrassed pupil turned to the professor for assistance. the professor plunged into a learned disquisition upon death. the uncourteous examiner left him in the midst of his sentences, and hastened to another room. "what class is this?" he said. "the mathematical class," he was answered. it was his favorite science. his eye sparkled with pleasure, and seizing a book from one of the pupils, he hastily turned over the leaves and gave him a very difficult problem to solve. he chanced to fall upon an excellent scholar, who did the work very promptly and correctly. napoleon glanced his eye over the work and said, "you are wrong." the pupil insisted that he was right. napoleon took the slate and sat down to work the problem himself. in a moment he saw his own error, and returning the slate to the pupil, with ill-concealed chagrin, exclaimed, "yes? yes! you are right." he then proceeded to another room, when he met the celebrated volta, "the newton of electricity." napoleon was delighted to see the distinguished philosopher, and ran and threw his arms around his neck, and begged him immediately to draw out his class. the president of the university, in a very eulogistic address to the young general, said, "charles the great laid the foundations of this university. may napoleon the great give it the completion of its glory." having quelled the insurrection, in flames and blood, the only way in which, by any possibility it could have been quelled, napoleon turned proudly again, with his little band, to encounter the whole power of the austrian empire, now effectually aroused to crush him. the dominions of venice contained three millions of souls. its fleet ruled the adriatic, and it could command an army of fifty thousand men. the venetians though unfriendly to france preferred neutrality. beaulieu had fled through their territories, leaving a garrison at mantua. napoleon pursued them. to the remonstrances of the venetians he replied: "venice has either afforded refuge to the austrians, in which case it is the enemy of france, or it was unable to prevent the austrians from invading its territory, and is consequently too weak to claim the right of neutrality." the government deliberated in much perplexity, whether to throw themselves as allies into the arms of france or of austria. they at last decided, if possible, to continue neutral. they sent to napoleon twelve hundred thousand dollars, as a bribe or a present to secure his friendship. he decisively rejected it. to some friends who urged the perfect propriety of his receiving the money, he replied: "if my commissary should see me accept this money, who can tell to what lengths he might go." the venetian envoys retired from their mission deeply impressed with the genius of napoleon. they had expected to find only a stern warrior. to their surprise they met a statesman, whose profoundness of views, power of eloquence, extent of information, and promptness of decision excited both their admiration and amazement. they were venerable men, accustomed to consideration and power. napoleon was but twenty-five. yet the veterans were entirely overawed by his brilliant and commanding powers. "this extraordinary young man," they wrote to the senate, "will one day exert great influence over his country." no man ever had more wealth at his disposal than napoleon, or was more scrupulous as to the appropriation of any of it to himself. for two years he maintained the army in italy, calling upon the government for no supplies whatever. he sent more than two millions of dollars to paris to relieve the directory from its embarrassments. without the slightest difficulty he might have accumulated millions of dollars for his own private fortune. his friends urged him to do so, assuring him that the directory, jealous of his fame and power, would try to crush rather than to reward him. but he turned a deaf ear to all such suggestions, and returned to paris, from this most brilliant campaign, comparatively a poor man. he had clothed the armies of france, and replenished the impoverished treasury of the republic, and filled the museum of paris with paintings and statuary. but all was for france. he reserved neither money, nor painting, nor statue for himself. "every one," said he afterward, "has his relative ideas. i have a taste for founding not for possessing. my riches consist in glory and celebrity. the simplon and the louvre were in the eyes of the people and of foreigners more my property than any private domains could possibly have been." this was surely a lofty and a noble ambition. napoleon soon overtook the austrians. he found a division of the army strongly intrenched upon the banks of the mincio, determined to arrest his passage. though the austrians were some fifteen thousand strong, and though they had partially demolished the bridge, the march of napoleon was retarded scarcely an hour. napoleon was that day sick, suffering from a violent headache. having crossed the river and concerted all his plans for the pursuit of the flying enemy, he went into an old castle, by the river's side, to try the effect of a foot-bath. he had but a small retinue with him, his troops being dispersed in pursuit of the fugitives. he had but just placed his feet in the warm water when he heard the loud clatter of horses' hoofs, as a squadron of austrian dragoons galloped into the court-yard. the sentinel at the door shouted, "to arms! to arms! the austrians!" napoleon sprang from the bath, hastily drew on one boot, and with the other in his hand, leaped from the window, escaped through the back gate of the garden, mounted a horse and galloped to massena's division, who were cooking their dinner at a little distance from the castle. the appearance of their commander-in-chief among them in such a plight roused the soldiers from their camp-kettles, and they rushed in pursuit of the austrians, who, in their turn, retreated. this personal risk induced napoleon to establish a body guard, to consist of five hundred veterans, of at least ten years' service, who were ever to accompany him. this was the origin of that imperial guard, which, in the subsequent wars of napoleon, obtained such a world-wide renown. napoleon soon encamped before the almost impregnable fortress of mantua. about twenty thousand men composed its garrison. as it was impossible to surmount such formidable defenses by assault, napoleon was compelled to have recourse to the more tedious operations of a siege. the austrian government, dissatisfied with the generalship of beaulieu, withdrew him from the service and sent general wurmser to assume the command, with a reinforcement of sixty thousand men. napoleon's army had also been reinforced, so that he had about thirty thousand men with whom to meet the eighty thousand which would compose the austrian army when united. it would require, however, at least a month before wurmser could arrive at the gates of mantua. napoleon resolved to improve the moments of leisure in disarming his enemies in the south of italy. the kingdom of naples, situated at the southern extremity of the peninsula, is the most powerful state in italy. a bourbon prince, dissolute and effeminate, sat upon the throne. its fleet had been actively allied with the english in the attack upon toulon. her troops were now associated with the austrians in the warfare against france. the king, seeing the austrians, and his own troops united with them, driven from every part of italy except the fortress of mantua, was exceedingly alarmed, and sent to napoleon imploring peace. napoleon, not being able to march an army into his territory to impose contributions, and yet being very anxious to detach from the alliance the army of sixty thousand men which naples could bring into the field, granted an armistice upon terms so easy as to provoke the displeasure of the directory. but napoleon was fully aware of the impending peril, and decided wisely. the pope, now abandoned by naples, was in perfect consternation. he had anathematized republican france. he had preached a crusade against her, and had allowed her embassador to be assassinated in the streets of rome. he was conscious that he deserved chastisement, and he had learned that the young conqueror, in his chastisings, inflicted very heavy blows. napoleon, taking with him but six thousand men, entered the states of the pope. the provinces subject to the pope's temporal power contained a population of two and a half millions, most of whom were in a state of disgraceful barbarism. he had an inefficient army of four or five thousand men. his temporal power was nothing. it was his spiritual power alone which rendered the pope formidable. the pontiff immediately sent an embassador to bologna, to implore the clemency of the conqueror. napoleon referred the pope to the directory in paris for the terms of a permanent peace, granting him however an armistice, in consideration of which he exacted the surrender of ancona, bologna, and ferrara to a french garrison, the payment of four millions of dollars in silver and gold, and the contribution of one hundred paintings or statues and five hundred ancient manuscripts for the museum in paris. the pope, trembling in anticipation of the overthrow of his temporal power, was delighted to escape upon such easy terms. the most enlightened of the inhabitants of these degenerate and wretchedly governed states welcomed the french with the utmost enthusiasm. they hated the holy see implacably, and entreated napoleon to grant them independence. but it was not napoleon's object to revolutionize the states of italy, and though he could not but express his sympathy in these aspirations for political freedom, he was unwilling to take any decisive measures for the overthrow of the established government. he was contending simply for peace. tuscany had acknowledged the french republic, and remained neutral in this warfare. but england, regardless of the neutrality of this feeble state, had made herself master of the port of leghorn, protected by the governor of that city, who was inimical to the french. the frigates of england rode insultingly in the harbor, and treated the commerce of france as that of an enemy. napoleon crossed the apennines, by forced marches proceeded to leghorn, and captured english goods to the amount of nearly three millions of dollars, notwithstanding a great number of english vessels escaped from the harbor but a few hours before the entrance of the french. england was mistress of the sea, and she respected no rights of private property upon her watery domain. wherever her fleets encountered a merchant ship of the enemy, it was taken as fair plunder. napoleon, who regarded the land as his domain, resolved that he would retaliate by the capture of english property wherever his army encountered it upon the continent. it was robbery in both cases, and in both cases equally unjustifiable. and yet such is, to a certain degree, one of the criminal necessities of war. he seized the inimical governor, and sent him in a post-chaise to the grand duke at florence, saying, "the governor of leghorn has violated all the rights of neutrality, by oppressing french commerce, and by affording an asylum to the emigrants and to all the enemies of the republic. out of respect to your authority i send the unfaithful servant to be punished at your discretion." the neutral states were thus energetically taught that they must respect their neutrality. he left a garrison at leghorn, and then proceeded to florence, the capital of tuscany, where the duke, brother of the emperor of austria, received him with the greatest cordiality, and gave him a magnificent entertainment. he then returned to mantua, having been absent just twenty days, and in that time, with one division of his army, having overawed all the states of southern italy, and secured their tranquillity during the tremendous struggles which he had still to maintain against austria. in these fearful and bloody conflicts napoleon was contending only to protect his country from those invading armies, which were endeavoring to force upon france the despotism of the bourbons. he repeatedly made the declaration, that he wished only for peace; and in every case, even when states, by the right of conquest, were entirely in his power, he made peace, upon the most lenient terms for them, simply upon condition that they should cease their warfare against france. "such a rapid succession of brilliant victories," said las cases to napoleon at st. helena, "filling the world with your fame, must have been a source of great delight to you." "by no means," napoleon replied. "they who think so know nothing of the peril of our situation. the victory of to-day was instantly forgotten in preparation for the battle which was to be fought on the morrow. the aspect of danger was continually before me. i enjoyed not one moment of repose." we must now leave napoleon and his army, until our next number, encamped before the walls of mantua. lima and the limanians. when pizarro had completed the conquest of peru, one of his first cares was to select a site for the capital of his new empire. the situation of cuzco, far withdrawn in the depths of the cordilleras, which admirably adapted it for the metropolis under the centralizing system of the incas, rendered it unsuited for the capital of a commercial people, who were to be bound to another nation by the strict ties of colonial dependency. all the requisites of a central position, a good harbor, a fertile soil, and a delightful climate were found combined in the valley of lurigancho, through which, emptying into the bay of callao, flowed the river rimac, affording abundant facilities for irrigation, and producing exuberant fertility. here, on the th day of january, , the festival of the epiphany, the conqueror of the incas resolved to establish his capital city. he gave to it the name of _la ciudad de los reyes_--"the city of the kings," in honor of the "wise men from the east," whom catholic tradition has invested with regal dignity, who on that day, more than fifteen centuries before, had followed the star till it "stood over where the young child was." twelve days afterward, the spaniards having been gathered to the valley, the work was solemnly inaugurated by pizarro laying with his own hand the foundation of the cathedral, which was dedicated to _nuestra señora de la asuncion_--"our lady of the assumption." the work of building was pushed on with an energy characteristic of pizarro. from an hundred miles around the indians were collected, and forced to build the hated city. the stern soldiers of the conquest laid aside their armor, and assumed the character of laborious artisans. the foundations of the public edifices were laid with a solidity capable of defying the attacks of time; and almost sufficient to resist the shocks of the earthquake, which at length taught the successors of the first builders that security was only to be attained by the use of slighter materials, and a more humble and fragile mode of erection. in accordance with the old usage, which delighted to place a great city at some distance from its seaport, the spot chosen by pizarro for his capital was about two leagues from the bay, whose waters were to be whitened with the sails of its commerce. from this point the plain descends westward to the sea-shore with a gentle slope. the city was laid out in the form of a semicircle or triangle, of which the rimac formed the base. in order to secure as much shade as possible, the direction of the streets, instead of coinciding with that of the points of the compass, was made from northeast to southwest, so that both in the morning and the afternoon the shade of the buildings should fall upon the streets. lying within twelve degrees of the equator, the buildings could of course cast no shadow, at any season, from the vertical noonday sun. these principal streets were crossed at right angles by others, so that each group of houses formed a quadrangle, all of nearly equal size. the general direction of the main streets nearly coinciding with the slope of the plain and the course of the rimac, allowed the waters of the river to be conveyed through them in stone conduits, furnishing irrigation to the gardens, abundant spaces for which were left within the city. the growth of lima (for the name given by pizarro to the city was early laid aside in favor of its present appellation, derived, by a change of letters to which the limanians are still much addicted, from the name of the river upon which it stands) was as rapid as that of a tropical plant. in half a century from its foundation it is said to have contained , inhabitants; a rate of increase then unexampled in the history of colonization, and offering a striking contrast to the slow and almost imperceptible growth of the cities planted a century later upon the atlantic shores of north america, though outdone by the marvels wrought in our own days upon the pacific coasts. is their speedy rise to be followed by a like speedy decline? as the mother country declined, the prosperity of lima in like manner waned, though it is impossible, among the contradictory statements made, to arrive at any certain conclusion as to the population at different periods. but the large number of ruinous and uninhabited buildings shows a decrease of population. it is asserted upon competent authority that during the first thirty years of the present century not a single new building was erected within the walls; and it is doubtful if within the succeeding twenty years, as many buildings have been added to the city. the distant view of lima, as one approaches it from the sea is very magnificent. entering the harbor of callao, upon the right lies the bare and rugged island of san lorenzo. in front are the noble but dilapidated castles, and the white houses of callao, presenting a gay and somewhat grotesque appearance, with the flags of the foreign consuls fluttering before their residences. in the rear stretches a broad plain, sloping upward toward a crescent-shaped range of barren hills, which inclose the fertile valley of the lurigancho. at the foot of the mountains, apparently, rise the countless spires and towers of lima, drawn up in relief against their dark sides. still further in the distance are seen the giant ranges of the andes, whose snowy summits are usually vailed by thick and sombre clouds. the harbor of callao is magnificent; and the landing, at a fine mole built of stone, and surrounded by a substantial iron railing, is good. the town itself, though displaying some commercial activity, is mean and insignificant. leaving callao for lima, we pass the little village of buena vista; then half way to the city we come to a place called magdalena, consisting of a _pulperia_ or dram-shop, a convent, and a splendid church. here in the olden time the spanish viceroys, at the expiration of their five years' term of office, used to meet their successors, and deliver up their authority to them. the convent has been suppressed, and the church is deserted, but in front of it stands a ragged monk, with a tin dish in his hand, soliciting alms from the passers-by. when within about half a league from lima, we enter upon the fine road called the _alameda del callao_. it is beautifully shaded with poplars and willows, with a handsome promenade upon each side, furnished at regular distances with stone seats, and bordered with the _quintas_, or country houses of the wealthy limanians, embowered in luxuriant gardens, and surrounded with fruit-trees. by this broad avenue, we enter, through an arched gateway, into the city of lima. this _alameda_ was opened in , on the th of january, the anniversary of the foundation of the city. it was laid out by a man who filled the post of viceroy of peru, under the title of marques de osorno. the history of this man is somewhat singular. about the middle of the last century, a petty irish shopkeeper, bearing the somewhat incongruous name of don ambrosio o'higgins, occupied a little shop, which is still shown under the area of the cathedral. times went hard with don ambrosio; he failed in his petty traffic, abandoned the little shop by the cathedral, bade farewell to his old friend and brother tradesman, la reguera, and wandered to chili. it was a time of indian hostilities, and all other occupations failing, there was at least a demand for men to be shot. don ambrosio entered the army, showed himself brave and capable, gained promotion, distinguished himself, discovered the indian city of osorno, and was honored with the title of the marques of osorno. in , he returned to lima in the capacity of viceroy, where, as archbishop, he found none other than his old friend, la reguera. trade had prospered with him; he had returned to spain, studied, embraced the clerical profession, and was sent back to lima as archbishop five years before o'higgins came as viceroy. the first impression which the traveler receives upon entering lima, by no means fulfills the anticipations he had been led to form from its appearance at a distance. the entrance is by the periphery of the semicircle, upon the side furthest from the rimac. this quarter contains only dilapidated squares and filthy houses. but as he advances toward the _plaza mayor_, the appearance of the city becomes greatly improved. the general aspect of the houses strikes an american as somewhat novel, from the fact that a large proportion of them consist of but one story, very few exceeding two. this mode of building is rendered necessary by the frequency of earthquakes, which render buildings of a more imposing architecture extremely insecure. the houses of two stories have usually two doors in front, opening upon the street. one of these is the _azaguan_, which constitutes the main entrance to the house; the other leads to the _cochera_ or coach-house. the _azaguan_ opens into a spacious _patio_ or court-yard. directly opposite this entrance are two large folding-doors, which open into the _sala_ or hall of the dwelling-house, beyond which is the _cuadro_ or reception-room, furnished as splendidly as the means of the occupant will allow. adjoining the cuadro are the various rooms appropriated to the use of the family. the sala and cuadro are of the full height of the house, and the flat roof of these two apartments forms a sort of terrace, called the _azotea_, which is paved, surrounded with a railing, and covered with an awning. the second story of the remainder of the building contains rooms which open into a balcony projecting over the street. this balcony is boarded up to the height of about three feet, the remainder being composed of lattices or glazed windows, and forms the favorite lounging place of the inhabitants, where they can watch the passers-by in the streets. the peculiarity of the domestic architecture of lima, by which, with the exception of the balcony, the rooms open not upon the street, but upon the court-yard, gives the city much the appearance of an oriental town. where the houses are of but one story, the almost entire absence of windows and openings gives the street a mean and gloomy appearance, almost like continuous lines of dead walls. but where the dwellings are of two stories, the long lines of balconies and verandas gayly ornamented and trellised, projecting far over the foot-pavements, present a gay and festive aspect. in some parts of the city are houses of much greater height, and of a far more imposing architecture. but they are to a great extent ruinous and dilapidated, having been abandoned by their ancient occupants, for fear of being overwhelmed in them by earthquakes. when tenanted at all, it is principally by the poorer classes, who are willing to brave the insecurity for the sake of the saving in the rents. the outer walls are usually of _adobes_, or sun-dried brick, as far as the first floor. the second story is usually composed of a wooden frame-work, upon both sides of which canes are nailed, or fastened by leather thongs, and the whole is then plastered over, and painted to imitate stone, the deception being aided by the apparent massiveness of the construction. the division walls are also made of canes plastered over. the roofs are flat, composed of rafters, covered with mats or cane, with a layer of clay spread above them, sufficient to exclude the rays of the sun and the heavy dews. a single prolonged shower would be sufficient to dissolve the whole city; but as it never rains there, these slight walls and roofs are all that is required. lima is justified in placing her dependence in architecture upon a reed, rather than upon stone. the more solid and massy the walls, the less protection do they afford against the terrible earthquakes which are of periodical occurrence, and by which more than once the city has been reduced to a heap of ruins; while these light cane fabrics yield to the shock, and when it has passed resume their places, with little apparent injury; and even if demolished they do not occasion that fearful peril of life which results from the overthrow of more stable fabrics. there are few places the inhabitants of which present so great a diversity of complexion and physiognomy as in lima. there is every gradation and intermixture of race, from the fair creoles of unmixed european descent, who pride themselves upon the purity of their spanish blood, to the jet black negro of congo, whose unmitigated ebony hue bears testimony equally unequivocal to his pure african lineage. between these two extremes is an almost innumerable variety of mixed races, each having its own peculiar designation, indicating the precise proportion of european, indian, and negro blood in their veins, each marked with its own peculiar physical, intellectual, and moral characteristics; and each finding its chief boast in the nearness of its relation to the white race, and looking down with contempt upon those a shade darker than its own. [illustration: peruvian cavalier.] in , when the population of the city was a little more than , , it was composed of about the following proportion of the different races: white _creoles_, all of european, and mostly of spanish descent, , ; _negroes_, , ; of whom a little less than one half were slaves; indians, ; mixed races, , ; these are of every shade of complexion, from the _mestizo_, the child of a white father and an indian mother, whom only a keen and practiced eye can distinguish from a white, and to whom no higher compliment can be paid than to inquire whether he is not a spaniard, to the _zambo_ who can only show claim to a portion of white blood, on the ground that to all the vices of the negro race, he adds others peculiar to the whites. the white creoles are of slender figure, and of middling height, with features strongly marked, fair complexion, and black hair. like the descendants of the spanish race throughout all the western world, they have degenerated from the parent stock. the males have even in youth a look of premature age; as though the powers of nature were exhausted, and insufficient to develop a vigorous manhood. indolence is their predominant characteristic. they are utterly indisposed to any continuous exertion, whether of body or of mind. if poverty compels them to pursue an occupation for a livelihood, they select some petty traffic, in which, if the gains are small, there is ample leisure to gossip and smoke their perpetual cigars. those who are able abandon themselves to idleness, lounging about the streets or in the shops, at the coffee-houses or the gaming-table. the education of the creole of lima is very defective; the system of instruction pursued does little to develop his powers, and his innate indolence presents an insuperable bar to any efforts at self-cultivation. riding is a universal custom, and almost every person keeps one or more horses; these are trained by the _chalanes_ or professional horse-breakers to perform feats of every kind; one to which great value is attached, is to turn around upon the hind legs rapidly, when in full gallop. tschudi, a recent german traveler, relates an instance which came under his own observation, which shows the certainty and dexterity with which the feat is performed. a friend of his rode full gallop up to the city wall, which at the spot is about nine feet broad, leaped his horse upon it, and made him describe a segment of a circle with his fore feet beyond the edge of the wall, while standing balanced upon his hind feet. the feat was performed a number of times in rapid succession. the riding costume of a peruvian cavalier is extremely picturesque and convenient. its most striking feature is the _poncho_. this is a large fringed shawl with an opening in the centre, through which the head of the wearer passes; it then hangs gracefully over the shoulder, and falls nearly to the knee, leaving the hands and arms less embarrassed than any other species of cloak. these ponchos frequently display great brilliancy and variety; the color is often a snowy white, sometimes it is richly and fancifully embroidered; but the prevailing taste is for broad stripes of brilliant colors, such as orange, scarlet, blue, green, rose color, or combinations of all hues intermingled and diversified in every conceivable manner. the spurs used by the peruvians are of enormous magnitude; old custom ordains that they should contain a pound and a half of silver; the rowels sometimes stand out four or five inches from the heel, with spikes of one or two inches in length, or even more. a broad-brimmed sombrero of fine guayaquil grass is usually worn by equestrians. the trappings of the horses are often of a very costly description. head-gear, bridle, and crupper are sometimes seen formed of finely-wrought silver rings linked into each other. the stirrups are massy blocks of wood of a triangular shape, quaintly carved, and ornamented with silver. the saddle is frequently adorned with rich embroidery in gold, and the holster inlaid with the same precious metal. a cigar is the almost unvarying accompaniment of a peruvian of any class. basil hall relates an odd expedient made use of to reconcile the free-and-easy habit of smoking in public places, with the stately requirements of spanish etiquette of olden time, in the presence of the representatives of royalty. in the days when peru was a spanish colony, the vice-regal box at the theatre projected out somewhat into the pit, in full view of the commonalty of the city of the kings. as soon as the curtain fell between the acts of the piece, the viceroy was in the habit of retiring from the front to the rear of the box. no sooner was his back turned than, by a very convenient figure of thought, he was considered to be constructively absent. every man in the pit would then draw forth his flint and steel (this was long before the days of lucifers and loco-focos), light his cigar, and "improve" the time by puffing away at the fragrant weed. at the tinkling of the bell which announced the rising of the curtain, the representative of royalty returned to the front of the box, his constructive absence was ended, and every smoker paused in mid-puff. nothing indicates the decadence of a race more unerringly and decisively than the progressive change which comes over its tastes in its modes of amusement. indolence and brutality go together. displays of skill and courage cease to afford excitement to the jaded sensibilities; the stronger stimulus of suffering must be supplied. thus as the roman race declined, the shows of the arena grew more and more brutal. cock-fights and bull-fights are the favorite amusements of the limanians. a fondness for the latter is characteristic of the spanish race every where; but in peru the chief attraction is not the dexterity and courage of the performers, but the agony of the victims. bull-fights in spain may almost be characterized as humane exhibitions compared with those of lima. at one witnessed by hall in , the _matador_, who should have given the death-stroke to an animal of extraordinary strength and courage, missed the mortal spot, and merely buried his sword in the body of the bull; in an instant he was tossed, apparently dead, into the air, by the maddened beast, who turned upon a horseman, whom he dismounted, goring the horse so that his bowels hung upon the ground. all this threw the spectators into an agony of delight; which was still further enhanced when the sinews of the bull, having been cut from behind by a crescent-shaped instrument fixed to a long pole, the poor beast dragged himself around the arena upon his mutilated stumps. but their ecstasy amounted to frenzy when a man mounted upon the back of the bull and spurred him around the arena with strokes of a dagger, until he fell exhausted by loss of blood. bull-fights are only an occasional luxury, but cock-fights are a daily standing dish. the cock-pit (_coliseo de gallos_) is a very handsome building; here cock-fights take place every day. the natural weapons of the fowls are not sufficiently deadly to satisfy the limanian spectators; and in place of the spur of the right foot, which is cut off, is put a sharp curved blade of steel or _gaff_. whatever else may be lacking, lima can justly boast the finest amphitheatre in the world for the purpose of cock-fighting. in lima, as throughout the whole of spanish america, the females are, both intellectually and physically, far superior to the males. all visitors at lima speak in terms of warm admiration of the limeñas, as the most charming and graceful women of south america. in figure they are usually slender, and somewhat above the middle height, with fair complexions, destitute of color, large, dark brilliant eyes, and abundant black hair. the charming spanish epithet _hechicera_, by which they are designated, belongs to them in the full extent of its significance, not only on account of their rare personal beauty, but also by reason of the captivating grace of their deportment, and the natural amiability of their dispositions. the first thing which attracts one's regard in lima, is the singular and picturesque costume of the females. this costume, which resembles that of the moors, to whom it owes its origin, takes the name of the two principal parts of which it is composed--it is called the _saya y manto_. it is worn only in lima, and there only in the day time, as a walking-costume. the _saya_, as formerly worn, was a skirt or petticoat made of an elastic black silk, plaited at the top and bottom in small folds, and fitting so closely as to display the outlines of the figure, and every motion of the limbs. it was made so narrow at the bottom that the wearers were forced to take steps extremely short, which gave to their gait a mincing character more striking than modest. this, which is called the _saya ajustada_ is now rarely seen. as now worn it forms a very graceful and elegant costume; the bottom plaits are taken out, so as to cause the skirt to stand out from the figure, which is not displayed. this is called the _saya desplegada_. it is always made of a dark-colored material. the _manto_ is a thick vail of black silk, joining the saya at the back of the waist. it is brought up over the shoulders and head, and drawn over the face in such a manner as to conceal the features entirely, with the exception of one eye, which is visible through a small triangular space left open for the purpose. one hand retains the folds of the manto in their places while the other displays a richly embroidered handkerchief. over the shoulders is thrown a shawl, usually of embroidered china crape. the limeñas, effectually disguised in this national dress, to which they are enthusiastically attached, go out every where unattended. any one can address them, and they violate no usage in accosting any one. the uniformity of the costume, in materials, shape, and color, and the perfect concealment of the features, makes identification impossible, so that the street becomes a perpetual masquerade. the costume which owes its origin to marital jealousy has in lima become a most efficient aid to intrigue. [illustration: lime�a at home.] the limeña in the street, shrouded in the saya y manto, differs as widely from the same limeña at home, as the butterfly wrapped up in its chrysalis does from the same insect with wings fully expanded. at home, at the theatre, in the carriage, every where except when walking in the streets, or in church, the limeña appears dressed in the newest french fashions. there is, however, one article of european costume which they uniformly refuse to adopt, and that is the bonnet. with here and there an exception, they obstinately reject any other head-dress than a light vail and their own abundant tresses. an inordinate fondness for flowers and perfumes is also a striking characteristic of a limeña, whose presence is almost invariably announced by a vase of flowers and a flaçon of perfume, placed upon a table near which she reclines swinging in a hammock during the sultry hours of the day, amusing herself, now with examining a book of engravings, now with music, of which she is passionately fond, perhaps with embroidery--and not unfrequently with a cigar. [illustration: cholitas or indian women of peru.] if man or woman were only an animal being--and if she could always be young and physically charming--this life of the limeña might not seem so undesirable. but with her a thing of beauty is not a joy forever. if her reign is brilliant, it is brief. when her beauty fades she ceases to be a coquette, and becomes a _beata_ or devotee. she renounces the vanities of the world, attends mass several times a day, makes frequent confessions, and takes up her abode during lent in a house of penitence. she selects a confessor to whom she unburdens her conscience, and sends presents of sweetmeats and delicacies. at home she sinks into a cipher, scarcely more regarded than a piece of worn-out furniture. if a stranger, paying a visit to a young limeña, respectfully rises to make a place for an aged woman who enters the _cuadro_, nothing is more common than for the daughter to say, with the utmost coolness, _no se incommoda usted, es ma mamita_ "don't incommode yourself, it's my mamma." habit becomes a second nature, and the limeña accommodates herself to her lot without a murmur. such, with exceptions few and rare, is the lot of the _hechiceras limeñas_, so highly endowed by nature, and worthy of a better fate. besides these limeñas of european origin there is another class, descendants of the ancient peruvians, who, though not beautiful like their fair neighbors, present some remarkable characteristics. their complexion approaches the color of copper, with a pale tinge of gold. their whole aspect has in it something bizarre, but at the same time not altogether unattractive. in dress they are fond of strange combinations. a balloon-like garment of white muslin or gaudy calico; a guayaquil hat with high crown and immense brim, decorated with huge bows of ribbon on the "company side" of the head; their abundant hair carefully divided and pouring down their backs in sable cascades; and, foremost and above all, a well-fitting stocking and shoe upon a foot unimpeachably small, form their favorite costume. these _cholitas_ are admirable horsewomen, usually riding astride, cavalier fashion, and wearing the formidable peruvian spur. [illustration: coming from mass.] the saya y manto is always worn when going to church. there the absence of seats obliges each female to kneel upon the flags, unless she be provided with a servant to carry a piece of carpet upon which to kneel. to look upon them reclining immovably against the walls or the base of a column, the eyelids drooping upon the pale cheek, or the look fixed upon the tracery of the roof overhead (for in church the manto is not rigorously closed) one might imagine the limeñas to be statues of meditation. only the sign of the cross rapidly traced over the forehead shows them to belong to the breathing world. in the sanctuary no sound disturbs the harmony of the sacred offices. the incense, the pious hymns, the soft breathing of the organ, and in some of the churches, the notes of numerous birds of song caged among the crystal lustres of the candelabra, are mingled with the solemn chant of the monks. service over, and what a change! life seems to reanimate those marble limbs; those fixed looks become lively and sparkling; and noise and bustle take the place of the former silence. as the fair limeña leaves the cathedral the black musicians fill the air with the sound of their drums and clarinets, the lottery-men cry their tickets upon one side of the entrance, and upon the other a fat ecclesiastic vends the effigy of the saint who chances to be in fashion. the limeña, restored to her proper character, draws the shrouding manto over her features; makes gay and lively answers to the insipid compliments paid her by the young men lounging under the portico; and buys with one hand a lottery ticket, and with the other a relic or an image which she hopes will make her number a lucky one. the indians in lima number some ; they are active and industrious, in moral qualities far surpassing the mixed races, and fully equaling the whites, to whom, however, they are decidedly inferior in intellectual powers. they look upon europeans with the feelings always entertained by a subjugated race toward their conquerors; a compound of fear, dislike, and mistrust. in , under the lead of some of the descendants of the ancient incas, an insurrection of the indians took place in peru, which was marked by the utmost atrocities. they defeated the whites in several engagements, burned a number of towns and villages, and captured the city of sorrato, in which the surrounding inhabitants had taken refuge; of the prisoners who numbered , , only priests and monks were preserved alive. their leaders were finally betrayed into the power of the whites, and put to death. the indians then disbanded. the most rigorous measures of repression were thereupon adopted. their language, dress, music, and dances were strictly forbidden, and every effort made to extinguish their national feelings. when the war of independence broke out, the indians took part against spain, but with the secret design of reinstating the dynasty of their ancestors, and raising to the throne one of the race of the incas. in many cases they directed their hostilities against the whites indiscriminately, without distinction of parties. in one place they vowed not to leave alive so much as a dog or a fowl who bore the hated color, and even scraped the whitewash from the walls of their houses in sign of utter detestation. since the war of independence they have made great advances, especially in the military art, and have used every means to secure as many fire-arms as possible. at as late a period as , tschudi, discovered by accident eighteen muskets hidden in the hut of an indian in central peru, and upon asking for what purpose they were concealed was told that the time would come when they would be of use. the same writer also mentions incidents showing that many of the indians are in possession of the secret of the existence of silver mines, far richer than any which are now known; and that the secret is handed down inviolably from father to son, until the time when their ancient dynasty shall be restored. years of oppression and wrong under spanish rule, only partially remedied since the revolution, have wrought a great change in the character of the indians of peru. a settled distrust and melancholy have taken the place of the confiding and joyous disposition of the race who welcomed their spanish visitors. their songs, their dances, the whole tenor of their domestic life, wear a dark and sombre shade. even in dress their favorite color is dark blue, which is with them the hue of mourning. these characteristics of the indian race throughout the country, appear, though more or less modified, in the indians in lima. the negroes in lima number not far from , of whom less than half are slaves. the charter of independence provides that no person in peru shall be born a slave, but this provision has been modified by law, so as to allow a term of servitude varying from to years. slaves brought from any other country, become free the moment they touch the soil of peru. hence if a master take his slave into chili, the slave may claim his freedom on his return. runaways, however, are liable to be reclaimed. the treatment of slaves in lima is very gentle. a tribunal is erected having the special duty to protect the slaves from ill-treatment. a slave may claim his liberty upon paying his value; and in case he and his master are unable to agree upon the sum, it is fixed by the court; or he may sell himself to any other master who will pay the determined price, in spite of any opposition on the part of the owner. as the introduction of negroes from africa has been for many years prohibited, the great majority of the slaves are born in peru. these, though intellectually and physically superior to those born in africa, are held of less value; their superior intelligence rendering them less docile, and more discontented with their condition. the free negroes of lima are represented as a plague and a pest to society. as a general rule the mixed races, which constitute about a third of the population of lima, inherit the vices without the virtues of the pure races from which they sprung. perhaps the sole exceptions to this are the _mestizos_, the offspring of a white father and an indian mother. they are of mild and gentle dispositions, but are also timid and irresolute. there are few mestizos in lima; but in the interior they are numerous. there they constitute the entire population of many villages, and call themselves whites, keeping aloof from the indians. the most prominent characteristic of the mulattos, the offspring of a white and a negro, is their remarkable imitative talent, and their consequent aptitude for mechanical pursuits; but they are extremely sensual and animal in all their tastes and instincts. the _zambos_, sprung from an intermixture of the different castes of the colored race, and the _chinos_, the offspring of the colored and indian races intermixed in various degrees, are the most miserable and degraded of all the half-castes in lima. they commit the most inhuman barbarities with the utmost indifference. four-fifths of the prisoners in lima are zambos. they are usually athletic and muscular, with sunken eyes, thick lips, and noses much less depressed than that of the negro. the chinos are morally about on a level with the zambos; but physically they are much inferior. the mixed races of fairer complexion resemble the whites in moral and intellectual qualities in about the same degree that they approach them in color. the general condition of morals in lima, especially among the colored races, may be inferred from the following statement given by tschudi. in ten months of the year , the number of births was , of which , more than one half, were born out of wedlock. the number of dead children exposed during the same time was , almost one third of the whole number of births. of the illegitimate children nearly two thirds, and of those exposed a still larger proportion, were mulattos. though there can be no positive evidence of the fact, there is every reason to conjecture that the greater number of the children exposed, were murdered by their mothers. during the same period the number of deaths in the city was , exceeding the births by . it has been found that for a long series of years the deaths have exceeded the births by about a year. there is an old spanish proverb which styles lima the paradise of women, the purgatory of men, and the inferno of asses; but during the time of the carnival all claims to be considered a purgatory even, to say nothing of paradise, to man or woman, disappear. one of the favorite amusements of the season is to besprinkle passers by, from the balconies, with water, of which the purity is by no means above suspicion. the colored population assume the license of rolling the passers who do not choose to pay for exemption, in the street gutters, which offer remarkable facilities for this pleasantry, as they are ill-paved, and unswept, with a stream of water running through them. these gutters are used by the lower classes of the limanian señoras in a manner peculiar to that city; they are accustomed to wash in them the plates, glasses, and dishes from their dinner tables. another favorite amusement during the carnival is to suspend from the balconies a strong bag filled with fragments of glass and pottery. this is attached to a rope of such a length as to suffer it to fall within a few inches of the heads of the passengers. this sack is drawn up into the balcony; and when a person who has been selected as a victim passes underneath, it is flung just over his head. the rope prevents it from falling upon him, but the deafening crash which ensues within a few inches of his ears, is nowise soothing to the nerves. this practice is regularly prohibited by the police, but all attempts to suppress it have proved as unavailing as the efforts to prevent the use of fire-crackers upon our own fourth of july. there is a public lottery drawn every week in the plaza mayor, directly opposite the cathedral, where a temporary platform is erected for the purpose. a ticket costs an eighth of a dollar, and the highest prize is dollars. as the hour for drawing approaches, the square begins to fill with a motley crowd of men, women, and children; armed soldiers, shovel-hatted priests, barefoot monks, bright-eyed tapadas (so a limeña with her manto drawn over her face is called), spurred cavaliers, and ragged negroes. the numbers are placed in the wheels, and drawn out by boys belonging to the foundling hospital. to every ticket is attached a motto, which is usually an invocation to some favorite saint to accord good luck to that ticket; and when the fortunate one is ascertained this motto is read aloud for the edification of the bystanders. the lottery belongs to a society called the "beneficencia," by whom it is farmed out, and the profits appropriated to the support of hospitals and charitable institutions. it is the usual practice of the limanians to purchase tickets regularly; the negroes in particular, as elsewhere, are particularly addicted to trying their luck. instances are not uncommon in which slaves have purchased their freedom with prizes drawn in the lottery of the "beneficencia." in a small chapel belonging to the church of st. dominic, were formerly exhibited relics of st. rose, the patroness of lima. among them was a pair of dice, with which it was gravely said that, when the fair saint was exhausted by prayer and penance, the saviour would appear and revive her drooping spirits with a friendly game. of late years these uncanonical relics are not exhibited, but stevenson, the author of a standard work on south america, relates that they were shown to him in , when he kissed them with as much devotion as he would have manifested to any other pair. every morning at a quarter to nine o'clock, when the host is elevated in the cathedral, and in the evening at the hour of the angelus, the great bell of the cathedral tolls three measured strokes, which are repeated from all the many belfries of lima. every occupation is at once suspended, every hat is reverentially raised; every lip moves, uttering its whispered prayer. the evening prayer being ended, each one makes the sign of the cross, and bids the person next him _buenas noches_--"good-night." it is an act of courtesy to insist that one's neighbor shall take the precedence in the salutation; and he, not to be outdone in politeness, must waive the proffered honor. the courteous contest--"you say it," and "no, sir, you say it," is sometimes not a little amusing. lima is surrounded by a wall, now in a state of extreme dilapidation, and altogether unavailable for any purposes of defense. it is built of adobes, and dates originally from , though much of that now existing is of more recent construction. a fine stone bridge crosses the rimac, uniting the city with the suburb of san lazaro. it consists of six circular arches rising thirty-six feet from the surface of the water. the piers are of brick, resting upon stone foundations of great solidity, of which no better proof is needed than that they survived the earthquakes of and , by which almost every edifice in lima was shattered. the entrance to the bridge is through a broad arch crossing the street, used for carriages, with smaller arches on each side for foot-passengers. this archway is surmounted with turrets and spires, and presents an imposing appearance. in the parapets are semi-circular recesses provided with stone seats which furnish a favorite resort in summer evenings. the view from the bridge is of great beauty. westward the eye follows the silvery course of the rimac, its left bank lined with convents, and splendid mansions of the more wealthy limanians. the view closes with the broad pacific. in the opposite direction the view is bounded by the range of hills, beyond the avenues of the alameda del acho; while beyond and above all, when the shrouding vail of clouds is lifted, so as to permit the sight, are beheld the snowy summits of the distant cordilleras. the bridge was built in , at an expense of , dollars, from designs by villegas, an augustin monk. the cathedral is situated on the eastern side of the plaza mayor. the foundation stone was laid by pizarro himself on the th of january, , twelve days after the choice of the site of the city. ninety years after, the edifice was completed, and was solemnly dedicated on the th of october, . it has a light, ornamented façade with large folding doors in the centre, and smaller ones upon each side. from each of the two corners rises an octagonal tower to the height of about two hundred feet, exclusive of the base, which is forty feet. these towers were thrown down by the great earthquake of , by which almost the whole city was laid in ruins. they were rebuilt in . the interior is singularly magnificent. the roof, which is beautifully paneled, rests upon arches supported by a double row of square stone pillars. the grand altar is adorned with seven ionic columns, twelve feet in height, cased with pure silver, an inch and a half thick, and is surmounted with a massy crown of silver richly gilt. the tabernacle, seven feet high, is of wrought gold, studded with precious stones. on high festival days service is performed with a pomp and splendor not surpassed in any temple in christendom. many of the churches are ornamented with a profusion of silver even yet, though it is said that during the revolution a ton and a half of silver was taken in a single year from the ornaments of the churches, to supply the necessities of the state; yet such was the abundance with which the precious metal had been lavished, that this amount was hardly missed; a tale which would be incredible if related of any city other than the one which at a certain time paved with solid ingots of silver the streets through which a new viceroy was to make his entrance. in the convent of san francisco, is a small chapel containing an image of the virgin, called _del milagro_, "of the miracle." it is related that during the great earthquake of , this image, which then stood over the porch of the church looking toward the street, turned completely round, so as to face the high altar, and raised her hands in the attitude of supplication, and then implored mercy for the city, and thus saved it from utter destruction. a monk who conducted a recent traveler over the convent, related to him this miracle, and very naïvely expressed his wonder that the madonna did not repeat her gracious interposition at the time of the earthquake of , when it was no less needed. the oratorio de san felipe neri, formerly the convent of san pedro, was the principal college of the jesuits, who, at the time of their expulsion, possessed immense wealth. in a secret order was dispatched from the king of spain, directing the viceroys to arrest all the jesuits in the south american provinces, in a single night, and ship them to spain. so secret was the order that the viceroy and those officers whose assistance was to be employed, were supposed to be the only ones who knew any thing of it. the viceregal council was summoned at o'clock on the appointed night, and the royal order read to them. no one was allowed to leave the room, for fear that intelligence might be communicated to the jesuits. at midnight the officers were sent to the convent to arrest the members of the order. the door was opened at the first summons, and the officer was conducted to the great hall of the convent, where all the brethren were assembled, each with a bag containing a few requisites for the voyage. so in all the other convents of the order. the same vessel which had conveyed the royal decree, had brought instructions from the superior of the jesuits in madrid, who had gained intelligence of the secret, directed to the vicar-general at lima, commanding him to be in readiness when the arrest should be made. the brethren were sent to callao under a strong guard, and as soon as possible were put on shipboard. but when the eager officials made search for the immense wealth which was known to be in the treasury of the order in san pedro, the keys of which were laid out in readiness for them in the apartment of the superior, only a few thousand dollars were discovered. the rest had vanished like a vision. and to this day it has eluded the most vigilant search. an old negro, who was in the service of the convent, testified that for several nights he and his fellow-servants, with their eyes closely bandaged, were employed in conveying bags of treasure to the convent vaults, attended by two of the brethren of the order. he could give no clew to the place of concealment, except that he thought there was a subterranean spring near the spot. the palace of the inquisition stands upon what was formerly called the _plaza de la inquisicion_, now the square of independence (_plazuela de la independencia_). upon this same square were also situated the university and the hospital of _la caridad;_ whence it was sometimes styled the square of the three cardinal virtues: the inquisition typifying faith; the university, hope, and the hospital, charity. few traces remain to denote the fearful uses to which the edifice of the inquisition was devoted. it is now used in part as a storehouse for provisions, and in part as a prison. in the palmy days of spanish dominion, lima was the ecclesiastical metropolis of the whole pacific coast of south america, and the inquisition exercised its functions with a rigor hardly exceeded by that of spain. when the cortes abolished this tribunal in spain and its dependencies, the building was thrown open to the populace, who speedily ransacked the apartments, and destroyed the implements of the holy office. among those present was stevenson, author of a standard work on south america, who has given a detailed account of the transaction. the customary array of racks, pillories, scourges, gags, thumbscrews, and other instruments of torture was found. the crucifix in the principal hall having been accidentally thrown down, it was discovered that the head was movable, and so arranged that a man concealed behind the curtains could cause it to move in token of assent or dissent. how many a trembling victim, overawed, confounded, and bewildered at seeing the movement of the lifeless head of the redeemer, has confessed whatever the officials demanded, almost believing himself guilty of crimes he never committed. one article found was somewhat ludicrous. in one room was a large quantity of printed cotton handkerchiefs upon the centre of which was a pictorial representation of religion, bearing a cross in one hand and a chalice in the other. the manufacturer had introduced these pious devices in the hope of facilitating the sale of his wares. but the holy office discovered gross impiety in the act of blowing the nose or spitting upon the symbol of the true faith; and to guard against temptation to such a profanation, had seized upon the whole consignment. on the north side of the plaza mayor stands an unsightly edifice, now occupied by courts of justice and various government offices. this was formerly the palace of the viceroys of peru. the principal apartment bore the name of the hall of the viceroys. here were arranged forty-four panels, each destined to receive the full-length portrait of a viceroy, as he entered upon his government, commencing with pizarro. the last of these panels had been filled by the portrait of pezuela, who held the office at the time when the insurrection broke out which severed peru from the spanish dominion. there was no room in the hall for the portrait of another viceroy. a similar coincidence is recorded in venetian history. the effigy of the doge who was in office at the time when the revolution took place which overthrew the venetian oligarchy, filled the last of the niches which had been constructed to receive the effigies of the successive magistrates. this is not the palace erected by pizarro for himself. that stood on the opposite side of the square, and some remains of it are still shown in an obscure lane called the mat-sellers' alley. here, on sunday, the th of june, , eleven and a half years from the time when the foundation of the city of the kings was laid, its founder was assassinated. pizarro had been warned that a plot was formed to assassinate him on his way to mass; but he took no further precaution against it than to absent himself from divine service that day. the conspirators then resolved to murder him in his own house. as they were crossing the plaza one of them turned a little aside to avoid a pool of water. "what! afraid of wetting your feet, when you are to wade up to your knees in blood!" exclaimed the veteran juan de rada, the leader of the band. the dainty conspirator was ordered to return to his quarters as not worthy of a share in the enterprise. pizarro was sitting with his friends after dinner, when the assassins rushed into the palace, through the open gate. the guests made their escape through the corridors, by climbing down into the gardens. among them was velasquez the judge, who had boasted that pizarro could receive no harm from traitors, while he "held in his hands the rod of justice." as velasquez climbed down in making his escape, he needed both hands to aid his descent, and held his official wand in his mouth; thus verifying his boast, to the letter, if not in spirit. for a moment the assailants were held at bay by the attendants, but these were speedily dispatched. pizarro, who had vainly attempted to assume his defensive armor, wrapping a cloak about his arm, sprang against the assassins, sword in hand, with the cry, "what ho, traitors! have ye come to kill me in mine own house?" though more than three score years of age, he defended himself with desperate vigor, and had slain two of the assailants, when rada, seizing one of his own comrades, flung him against pizarro, who instantly ran him through the body. but while his weapon was thus entangled, pizarro received a stab in the throat, and fell, and the swords of several of his enemies were at once sheathed in his body. he traced a cross with his finger in the blood upon the floor, and was in the act of bending down his head to kiss the symbol of his faith, when, with the name of "jesu" upon his lips, he received a stroke which put an end to his life. no place upon the globe enjoys a climate more equable than that of lima. not only are there no sudden and violent alternations of temperature, but the variations of the seasons are hardly known. extremes of heat and cold are never experienced. the temperature at noon, in the shade in an open room, never rises above , and never falls below degrees. the rays of a vertical sun are intercepted by a thin canopy of mist, called _garuas_, which for a considerable portion of the year hang over the city, resembling in appearance the canopy of smoke above a large town. the winds blow almost constantly from points between the southwest and the southeast. when they come from the former quarter they are cooled by passing over the immense expanse of the pacific; when from the latter they have swept the vast forests toward brazil and the frozen ranges of the cordilleras. a northerly wind alone, which is of unfrequent occurrence, produces an oppressive sensation of heat. during the year, there are about days when the sun is entirely unclouded, about in which it is visible during no part of the day, and the remainder are usually cloudy in the morning, and clear in the afternoon. a shower of rain is a thing altogether unknown, but during february and march, a few large straggling drops occasionally fall about five o'clock in the afternoon. the _garuas_ overhang the city almost without intermission from april to october. during june, july, and august there will not probably be a single unclouded day, and not more than three days in each month in which the sun can be seen at all. the gray canopy begins to lift in october, and gradually becomes thinner and thinner till april, when it again begins to gather. but this equable climate, apparently so desirable, is found to be productive of great physical lassitude, and to be unfavorable to health. it has been already noticed that the number of deaths constantly and greatly exceeds that of births. among adults the most fatal disease is dysentery; then comes fever, usually intermittent; then consumption, inflammation of the lungs, and dropsy, the latter usually the result of intermittent fever. another fearful compensation for the mildness of the elements above the surface of the earth, is found in the frequency of subterranean disturbances. on an average, there are shocks of earthquakes in the course of a year. these usually occur in the months from october to january, and again in may and june. but at intervals of from to years, the valley of the rimac experiences an earthquake of far more desolating force, and by which lima has several times been reduced to a heap of rubbish. the most destructive of these, since the european conquest were those of , , , , , --two in each completed century; so that the experience of the past gives us every reason to anticipate that many years will not elapse before lima will once more become a mass of ruins. the most destructive of this regular series of great earthquakes was that of october , . a little more than an hour before midnight, the earth began to tremble, and in three minutes from the time of the first shock, the city lay in ruins. of more than houses, only escaped entire. the towers of the cathedral were overthrown. the bridge across the rimac was almost the only public work which escaped, and of that one arch, upon which stood an equestrian statue of philip v., was destroyed. but if lima was sorely shattered, callao was annihilated. the sea receded suddenly from the shore, and as suddenly rolled back with irresistible force, overwhelming the devoted city, with all its inhabitants, in number. of these, it is popularly related, that only one escaped. a spanish corvette which lay at anchor, was lifted sheer over the walls of the fortress, and deposited a full mile inshore, at a spot still designated by a cross erected to commemorate the fact. all the other vessels in the harbor were sunk. the modern town of callao stands at the distance of two miles from the site of the old town, of which not a vestige remains. it is popularly affirmed that in a clear day the ruins of the old town may still be seen beneath the waves; but travelers, whose imagination is not keener than their vision, have vainly strained their sight to discover a trace of the lost city. no familiarity with earthquakes is sufficient to do away with their terrors. the limanian who has known them from childhood, no sooner feels the first shock, than he rushes from his apartment, with the cry of "_misericordia_" upon his trembling lips, no less than the foreigner who has never before witnessed these convulsive throes of nature. the moment a shock is felt the cathedral bell begins to toll, all the belfries in lima take up the sound, and summon the affrighted population to their devotions. a change has been wrought even in the form of church service, by the ever-present apprehension of these convulsions: the word "famine" being omitted and "earthquake" inserted among the evils from which deliverance is implored. the very architecture of lima--its houses of a singly story--its plastered upper walls, its cane roofs, its towers and steeples of stuccoed wicker work--is a perpetual prayer against an evil which no human foresight can avoid, and no mortal power avert, and in respect to which the utmost that man can do, is in some degree to mitigate its consequences. ally somers.--a tale of the coast-guard. when i joined the _scorpion_ sloop of war, then ( ) on the west india station, there were a father and son among the crew whose names, as borne on the ship's books, were john somers and john _alice_ somers. the oddity in this country of giving a boy a female baptismal name had been no doubt jestingly remarked upon by those who were aware of it, but with the sailors the lad passed as _ally_ somers. the father was approaching fifty, the son could not have been more than seventeen years of age. the elder somers, who had attained to the rating of a boatswain, was a stern, hard, silent man, with a look as cold and clear as polished steel, and a cast-iron mouth, indicative of inflexible, indomitable firmness of will and resolution. the son, on the contrary, though somewhat resembling his father in outline of feature, had a mild, attractive, almost feminine aspect, and a slight graceful frame. i was not long in discovering that, obdurate and self-engrossed as the man appeared, the boy was really the idol-image in which his affections and his hopes were centred. his eye constantly followed the motions of the lad, and it appeared to be his unceasing aim and study to lighten the duties he had to perform, and to shield him from the rough usage to which youngsters in his position were generally subjected by the motley crews of those days. one day a strong instance in proof of this master-feeling occurred. ally somers some time previously, when on shore with a party dispatched to obtain a supply of water, had, during the temporary absence of the officer in command, been rather severely rope's-ended by one of the seamen for some trifling misconduct, and a few slight marks were left on the lad's back. the rage of the father, when informed of the circumstance, was extreme, and it was with difficulty that he was restrained from inflicting instant chastisement on the offender. an opportunity for partially wreaking his hoarded vengeance occurred about six weeks afterward, and it was eagerly embraced. the sailor who had ill-used young somers was sentenced to receive two dozen lashes for drunkenness and insubordination. he was ordered to strip, placed at the gratings, and the punishment began. somers the boatswain, iron or sour-tempered as he might be, was by no means harsh or cruel in his office, and his assistants, upon whom the revolting office of flogging usually devolved, influenced by him, were about the gentlest-handed boatswain's-mates i ever saw practice. on this occasion he was in another and a very different mood. two blows only had been struck, when somers, with an angry rebuke to the mate for not doing his duty, snatched the cat from his hand, and himself lashed the culprit with a ferocity so terribly effective, that captain boyle, a merciful and just officer, instantly remitted half the number of lashes, and the man was rescued from the unsparing hands of the vindictive boatswain. other instances of the intensity of affection glowing within the stern man's breast for his comparatively weak and delicate boy manifested themselves. once in action, when the lad, during a tumultuous and murderous struggle in beating off a determined attempt to carry the sloop by boarding, chanced to stumble on the slippery deck, he was overtaken before he could recover himself, and involved in the fierce assault which at the forecastle was momently successful. i was myself hotly engaged in another part of the fight; but attention being suddenly called to the forepart of the ship by the enemy's triumphant shouts, i glanced round just in time to see the boatswain leap, with the yell and bound of a tiger, into the _mêlée_, and strike right and left with such tremendous ferocity and power as instantly to check the advancing rush. our men promptly rallied, and the deck was in a few minutes cleared of every living foe that had recently profaned it. ally somers, who had received a rather severe flesh wound, and fainted from loss of blood, was instantly caught up by his father, and carried with headlong impatience below. when the surgeon, after a brief look at the hurt, said, "there is no harm done, somers," the high-strung nerves of the boatswain gave way, and he fell back upon a locker, temporarily prostrate and insensible from sudden revulsion of feeling. several times i was an unintentional auditor of scraps of conversation between the two while the lad was on the sick-list, from which i gathered that ally was the sole issue of a marriage which had left bitter memories in the mind of the father; but whether arising from the early death of his wife, or other causes, i did not ascertain. somers was, it appeared a native of the west of england, and it was quite evident had received a much better education than usually falls to individuals of his class. at the close of the war somers and his son were, with thousands of others, turned adrift from the royal service. some months after my appointment to the command of the revenue-cutter, i chanced to meet the father in the village of talton, about four miles out of southampton, on the new forest road. he had, i found re-entered the navy, but chancing to receive a hurt by the falling of a heavy block on his right knee, had been invalided with a small pension, upon which he was now living at about a hundred yards from the spot where we had accidentally met. ally, he informed me, was the skipper of a small craft, trading between guernsey and southampton. there was little change in the appearance of the man except that the crippled condition of his leg appeared to have had an effect the reverse of softening upon his stem and rugged aspect and temper. when paid off he was, i knew, entitled to a considerable sum in prize-money, the greater part of which he told me he had recently received. about two months after this meeting with the father i fell in with the son. i was strolling at about eleven in the forenoon along the front of the southampton custom-house, when my eye fell upon a young man in a seaman's dress, busily engaged with three others in loading a cart with bundles of laths which had been landed shortly before from a small vessel alongside the quay. it was ally somers sure enough; and so much improved in looks since i last saw him, that but for a certain air of fragility--inherited probably from his mother--he might have been pronounced a handsome fine young fellow. the laths, upward of two hundred bundles, which he was so busily assisting to cart, he had brought from guernsey, and were a very common importation from that island: guernsey possessing the right of sending its own produce customs free to england, a slight duty, only tantamount to what the foreign timber of which the laths were made would have been liable to, was levied upon them, and this was ascertained by the proper officer simply measuring the length and girth of the bundles. this had been done, and the laths marked as "passed." it struck me that the manner of ally somers was greatly flurried and excited, and when he saw me approaching, evidently with an intention to accost him, this agitation perceptibly increased. he turned deadly pale, and absolutely trembled with ill-concealed apprehension. he was somewhat re-assured by my frank salutation; and after a few common-place inquiries i walked away, evidently to his great relief, and he with his sailors continued their eager work of loading the cart. i could not help suspecting that something was wrong, though i could not make up my mind to verify the surmise his perturbed and hurried manner excited. once in a skirmish on shore his father, the boatswain, had saved my life by sending a timely bullet through the head of a huge negro who held me for the moment at his mercy. besides i might be wrong after all, and i had no right to presume that the officer who had passed the laths had not made a sufficient examination of them. the flurry of the young man might arise from physical weakness and the severe labor he was performing in such hot weather. these reasons, or more truly these excuses for doing nothing, were passing through my brain, when i observed the hasty approach of the collector of customs himself toward the cart, followed by several of his subordinates. young somers saw him as quickly as i did, and the young man's first impulse, it was quite plain, was flight. a thought, no doubt, of the hopelessness of such an attempt arrested his steps, and he stood quaking with terror by the side of the cart, his right hand grasping for support at one of the wheel-spokes. "one of you lend me a knife," said the collector, addressing the officers of customs. a knife was quickly opened and handed to him: he severed the strong cords which bound one of the bundles of laths together, and they flew asunder, disclosing a long tin tube of considerable diameter, closely rammed with tobacco! all the other bundles contained a similar deposit; and so large was the quantity of the heavily-taxed weed thus unexpectedly made lawful prize of, that a profit, i was assured, of not less than £ or £ would have been made by the audacious smuggler had he succeeded in his bold and ingenious attempt. the ends of the bundles had been filled up with short pieces of lath, so that, except by the process now adopted, it was impossible to detect that the cargo was not _bonâ fide_ what it had been declared to be. the penalties to which somers had rendered himself liable were immense, the vessel also was forfeited, and the unfortunate young man's liberty at the mercy of the crown. he looked the very picture of despair, and i felt assured that ruin, utter and complete, had fallen upon him. he was led off in custody, and had gone some dozen paces when he stopped shortly, appeared to make some request to the officers by whom he was escorted, and then turning round, intimated by a supplicatory gesture that he wished to speak to me. i drew near, and at my request the officers fell back out of hearing. he was so utterly prostrated by the calamity by which he had been so suddenly overtaken, that he could not for several moments speak intelligibly. i felt a good deal concerned for so mere a boy, and one too so entirely unfitted by temperament and nerve to carry through such desperate enterprises, or bear up against their failure. "this is a bad business," i said; "but the venture has not, i trust, been made with your own or your father's money? "every penny of it," he replied, in a dry, fainting voice, "was our own. father lent me all his prize-money, and we are both miserable beggars." "what in the name of madness could induce you to venture your all upon a single throw in so hazardous a game?" "i will tell you," he went on hurriedly to say in the same feeble and trembling tone; "i am not fitted for a sea-life--not strong, not hardy enough. i longed for a quiet, peaceful home ashore. a hope of one offered itself. i made the acquaintance of richard sylvester, a miller near ealing. he is a good man, but griping as far as money is concerned. i formed an attachment for his eldest daughter maria; and he consented to our union, and to taking me as a partner in his business, if i could pay down five hundred pounds. i was too eager to wait long; besides i thought that perhaps--but it boots not to speak of that now; i set more than life upon this cast; i have lost, and am now bankrupt of resource or hope! will you break this news to my father, and see--" his remaining firmness gave way as the thought he would have uttered struggled to his lips, and the meek hearted young man burst into tears, and wept piteously like a girl. a number of persons were collecting round us, and i gently urged him to walk on to the custom-house. a few minutes afterward i left him there, with a promise to comply with his request without delay. i found john somers at home, and had scarcely uttered twenty words when he jumped at once at the true conclusion. "out with it, sir!" exclaimed the steel-nerved man. "but you need not; i see it all. ally has failed--the tobacco has been seized--and he is in prison." spite of himself his breath came thick and short, and he presently added with a fierce burst, while a glance of fire leaped from his eyes; "he has been betrayed, and i think i know by whom." "your suspicion that he has been informed against is very likely correct, but you will, i think, have some difficulty in ascertaining by whom. the custom-house authorities are careful not to allow the names of their informants to leak through their office-doors." "i would find him were he hidden in the centre of the earth!" rejoined the ex-boatswain with another vengeful outcry which startled one like an explosion. "but," added the strong and fierce-willed man after a few moments' silence, "it's useless prating of the matter like a wench. we must part company at once. i thank you, sir, and will tell ally you have called." i mentioned the other request made by his son. "that is a rotten plank to hold by," he said. "ally's chance is over there, and it would be mere waste of time to call on the old man; his resolution is hard and unyielding as his own millstones. maria sylvester is gone with the five hundred pounds her father bargained for; and the girl's tears, if she shed any, will soon be dry. i warned ally of the peril of steering his course in life by the deceptive light of woman's capricious smiles and vanities; but he, poor, flexile, gentle-minded boy, heeded me not. i may not longer delay: he will be anxious to see me. good-day, sir." the consequence which i chiefly feared came to pass, even more speedily than i had apprehended. it being impossible to liquidate the penalties incurred, ally somers was imprisoned as a crown debtor; and at that period, whatever may be the case now, revenue penalties could not be got rid of by insolvent-court schedules. the prospect of an indefinite term of imprisonment, with other causes of grief and depression, broke down the always fragile health of the prisoner, and he died, ere yet his youth was well begun, after about six months' confinement only. the tidings were brought me by the old man himself. i was seated in the cabin of the _rose_ cutter when it was announced that john somers was alongside in a boat, and wished to see me. i directed that he should be allowed to come aboard, and presently the old man, with despair visible in every line of his countenance, in every glance of his restless, flaming eyes, entered the cabin. "i am come to tell you, sir, that ally is dead." "i was somewhat prepared for this bad news, mr. somers," i answered. "it's hard upon you, but it should be bravely borne with." he laughed strangely. "to be sure, to be sure," he said, "that is wise counsel--very wise; but that which i want now more than wise counsel is ten pounds--ten pounds, which i shall never be able to repay." "ten pounds!" "yes: you may remember that i once saved your life. if that piece of service was worth the sum i have mentioned, you can now discharge the obligation. i have parted with every thing, and ally's last prayer was to be buried beside his----beside a grave, an early and untimely one, like his own, many miles away." "i understand; it is a natural and pious wish, and you shall have the money." "thank you. the funeral over, i have but one more thing to do in life, and that is to assist you in securing cocquerel while running one of his most valuable cargoes." "cocquerel, the guernseyman you mean?" "ay, so he calls himself; but i fancy he at one time hailed from another port. he is the man who sold ally's secret to the revenue-officers!" "are you sure?" "as death! he was ally's only confidant, and ally's father is now in cocquerel's confidence. it is but natural," added somers, and a bitter, deadly sneer curled his ashy lips--"it is but natural, you know, that i should be eager to assist in pillaging a government which caged my son, and held him under its iron bars till life had fled. cocquerel understands this, and trusts me fully; but that which he does _not_ understand, know, or suspect," continued the fierce old man, sinking his voice to a whisper, and leaning forward with his face close to mine, "is that john somers has found out _who_ it was that sold his boy's life! did he know that, and know _me_ too, there would be sounder sleepers than he in these dark nights." "what do you mean?" "nothing more, of course," he replied in a more checked and guarded tone, "than to retort the trick he played ally something after his own fashion." "that is a fair revenge enough, and i'll not balk you. now, then, for your plan." various details were discussed, and it was settled that on that day-week somers was again to communicate with me. he then took leave. at the appointed time somers returned, and appeared to be in high but flighty spirits. every thing was, he said, arranged, and success all but certain. his scheme was then canvassed and finally agreed upon, and he again left the vessel. the arrangement for the surprise and capture of cocquerel was this:--that notorious smuggler intended running a large cargo on the coast of dorsetshire, on the north of portland, at a place where the cliffs are high, precipitous, and abrupt, and at that time very inefficiently watched by the shore-force. near the spot selected is or was a kind of cavern worn by the action of the sea in the chalky stratum, which at neap-tides was partially dry, and at the time of our enterprise would effectually conceal a boat from the observation of any one who did not actually peer in directly at its mouth. cocquerel was to leave guernsey the next day in a large boat, with two lug-sails, but chiefly depending for speed upon its sweeps. it was calculated that he would reach his destination about midnight. somers had undertaken the duty of shore-signalman, and if danger were apprehended, was to warn the smugglers that hawks were abroad by burning a blue-light. the manner of running the cargo was to be this:--somers was provided with a windlass and sufficient length of rope, with a kind of rope-cradle at the end of it, in which a man could sit, or a couple of kegs be slung, to reach the boat. the windlass he was to secure firmly at the edge of the cliff, and two or three of the men having been drawn up, other windlasses were to be fixed, by means of which it was calculated that in about half an hour the entire cargo would be safely carried off by the carts which somers had undertaken to have ready on the spot. the signal for our appearance on the scene of action, the positive old man persisted, should be that agreed upon for the warning of the smugglers--the sudden ignition of a blue-light. this did not seem the cleverest possible mode of procedure; but as the cavern in which we were to conceal ourselves was but a few yards northward of the spot marked out for the landing, and somers promised he would only give the signal when the smugglers were in full work, i had little fear that, if other accidents did not capsize our scheme, they would be able to escape us. the next afternoon the largest boat belonging to the _rose_ was fully manned; and leaving the cutter quietly at anchor in the southampton river just above calshot, we pulled with the tide--for there was but a light air, and that favorable for the smugglers, not for us--to our hiding-place, which we reached about eight o'clock in the evening. the hours crept very slowly and dismally away, amid the darkness and hoarse echoes and moanings of the cavern, into which the sea and wind, which were gradually rising, dashed and howled with much and increasing violence. occasional peeps at my watch, by the light of a lantern carefully shaded seaward, warned us that ten, eleven, twelve, one o'clock had passed, without bringing the friends we so anxiously expected, and fears of ultimate disappointment were chilling us far more than the cold night-breeze, when a man in the bow of the boat said in a whisper that he could hear the dash of oars. we all instantly listened with eager attention; but it was not till we had brought the boat to the entrance of the opening that the man's assertion was verified. there it was clear enough: and the near approach of a large boat, with the regular jerk of the oars or sweeps, was distinctly audible. the loud, clear hail of their shore-signalman, answered by the "all right" of the smugglers, left no doubt that the expected prey was within our grasp; and i had a mind to pounce upon them at once, but was withheld by a promise which i had been obliged several times to repeat, that i would not under any circumstances do so till the signal-flame sent its light over the waters. as soon as the noise and bustle of laying in the sweeps, lowering the sails, and unstepping the masts, had subsided, we heard somers hail the boat, and insist that the captain should come up before any of the others, as there was a difficulty about the carts which he alone could settle. the reply was a growl of assent, and we could hear by the click of the check to the cog-wheel of the windlass that somers was paying out the rope. presently cocquerel was heard to get into the cradle i have spoken of, to which a line was fastened in order to steady his ascent from below. the order was given to turn away, and the renewed click, click, announced that he was ascending the face of the cliff. i could hardly comprehend this man[oe]uvre, which seemed to indicate the escape of the man we were the most anxious to secure, and the order to shove off was just on my lips when a powerful blue-light flamed suddenly forth, accompanied by a fierce but indistinct shout, or roar rather, from somers. the men replied by a loud cheer, and we shot smartly out; but having, to avoid a line of reef, to row in a straight direction for about a cable's length, the smugglers, panic-stricken and bewildered as they were, had time to get way upon their lugger, and were plying their sweeps with desperate energy before the revenue-boat was fairly turned in direct pursuit. the frantic effort to escape was vain, and so was the still more frantic effort at resistance offered when we ran alongside. we did not hurt them much; one or two were knocked down by the sailors' brass-butted pistols; and after being secured, they had leisure to vent their rage in polyglot curses, part french, part english, and part guernsey _patois_, and i to look round and see what had become of cocquerel. the blue-light still shed a livid radiance all around, and to my inexpressible horror and dismay, i saw that the unfortunate man was suspended in the rope cradle, within about a fathom's length of the brow of the cliff, upon which somers was standing and gazing at his victim with looks of demoniac rage and triumph. the deadly trap contrived by the inexorable old man was instantly apparent, and to cocquerel's frenzied screams for help i replied by shouting to him to cut himself loose at once, as his only chance, for the barrel of a pistol gleamed distinctly in the hands of somers. "lieutenant warneford," cried the exulting maniac--he was nothing less--"i have caught this cocquerel nicely for you--got him swinging here in the prettiest cradle he was ever rocked in in his life--ha! ha! ha! "cut loose at once!" i again shouted; and the men, as terribly impressed as myself, with the horror of the wretched smuggler's position, swept the boat rapidly toward the spot. "somers, if you shoot that man you shall die on the gallows." "cut himself loose, do you say, lieutenant?" screamed somers, heedless of my last observation. "he can't! he has no knife--ha! ha! ha! and if he had, this pistol would be swifter than that; but i'll cut him loose presently, never fear. look here, jacques cocquerel," he continued laying himself flat down on the cliff, and stretching his right arm over it till the mouth of his pistol was within a yard of cocquerel's head, "this contains payment in full for your kindness to ally somers--a debt which i could in no other manner completely repay." at this moment the blue-light suddenly expired, and we were involved in what by contrast was total darkness. we could still, however, hear the frantic laughter and exulting gibes of the merciless old man in answer to cocquerel's shrieking appeals for mercy; and after a while, when the figures of the two men had become partially visible, we could distinguish the words, "one, two, three," followed by the report of a pistol, and a half minute afterward a dark body shot down the white face of the cliff, and disappeared beneath the waters! the body of cocquerel never reappeared, and the only tidings i ever heard of somers were contained in the following paragraph which i read some years afterward in the "hampshire telegraph," a journal at that time published at portsmouth: "the body of an aged, wretched man was found frozen to death in the church-yard on wednesday morning last, near two adjoining graves, one of which, that of alice maynard, recalls the painful circumstances connected with the sad story of the death of that ill-fated, and, as we believe, entirely innocent person. at the inquest holden on friday, it was ascertained beyond a doubt that the deceased is john maynard, who, after his wife's untimely death, assumed the name of somers, and was, we believe, the person who shot a french smuggler, with whom he had quareled, at the back of the isle of wight, under somewhat peculiar circumstances, about seven years ago. he was buried in the grave that contains the body of his son, john alice maynard, which was interred there shortly before the commission of the homicide just alluded to. there has never been to our knowledge any regular investigation of that affair, but we believe that then, as before, maynard's pistol was pointed by a frantic and causeless jealousy." [_plymouth paper._] there are several mistakes sufficiently obvious to the reader in this paragraph, but of the main fact that john somers, _alias_ maynard, perished as described in the devonshire journal, there can be no reasonable doubt. misers. by f. somner merryweather. some years ago there lived in marseilles an old man of the name of guyot; he was known to every inhabitant, and every urchin in the streets could point him out as a niggard in his dealings, and a wretch of the utmost penury in his habits of life. from his boyhood, this old man had lived in the city of marseilles; and, although the people treated him with scorn and disgust, nothing could induce him to leave it. when he walked the streets he was followed by a crowd of boys, who, hating him as a grasping miser, hooted him vociferously, insulted him with the coarsest epithets, and sometimes annoyed him by casting stones and filth at his person. there was no one to speak a kind word in his favor, no one to bestow an act of friendship, or a nod of recognition upon guyot. he was regarded by all as an avaricious, griping old miser, whose whole life was devoted to the hoarding up of gold. at last this object of universal scorn died, and it was found that, by his parsimony, he had amassed an ample fortune. what was the surprise of his executors, on opening his will, to find these remarkable words: "having observed, from my infancy, that the poor of marseilles are ill-supplied with water, which can only be procured at a great price, i have cheerfully labored the whole of my life to procure for them this great blessing, and i direct that the whole of my property shall be expended in building an aqueduct for their use!" when it was proposed to build bethlehem hospital, many benevolent individuals volunteered to solicit contributions by calling upon the inhabitants of london. two of these gentlemen went to a small house in an impoverished neighborhood; for the pence of the poor were solicited as well as the pounds of the rich. the door was open, and, as they drew nigh, they overheard an old man scolding his female servant for having thrown away a match, only one end of which had been used. although so trivial a matter, the master appeared to be much enraged, and the collectors remained some time outside the door, before the old man had finished his angry lecture. when the tones of his voice were somewhat subdued, they entered, and, presenting themselves to this strict observer of frugality and saving, explained the object of their application; but they did not anticipate much success. the miser, however, for such he was reputed in the neighborhood, no sooner understood their object, than he opened a closet, and bringing forth a well-filled bag, counted therefrom four hundred guineas, which he presented to the astonished applicants. they expressed their surprise and thankfulness, and could not refrain from telling the old gentleman that they had overheard his quarrel with his domestic, and how little they expected, in consequence, to have met with such munificence from him. "gentlemen," replied the old man, "your surprise is occasioned by my care of a thing of such little consequence: but i keep my house, and save my money in my own way; my parsimony enables me to bestow more liberally on charity. with regard to benevolent donations, you may always expect most from prudent people who keep their own accounts, and who pay attention to trifles." audley was a celebrated miser of the time of the stuarts; he amassed his wealth during the reign of the first charles, and flourished amazingly under the protectorate of cromwell. audley was originally a clerk, with only six shillings a week salary, and yet out of this scanty sum he managed to save more than half. his dinner seldom cost him any thing, for he generally made some excuse to dine with his master's clients; and, as to his other meals, a crust of bread or a dry biscuit was regarded as fare sufficient after an ample dinner. in one circumstance he was somewhat different from other misers: he was clean, if not neat, in his outward appearance. but he was thus scrupulous in his apparel from principle; for audley often asserted, that, to be thrifty, it was necessary to pay some respect to such matters. he was remarkably industrious, even when a young man. at an age when others were seeking pleasure, he was busy in lending out, and increasing his early savings. he was always ready to work when the usual hours of business were over, and would willingly sit up the whole night to obtain some trifling remuneration. he was never above soliciting trifles, and touching his hat to his master's clients. so rigid was he in his economy, and so usurious in his dealings, that in four years, during which time, however, he had never received more than a salary of six or eight shillings a week, he managed to save and amass five hundred pounds. the salary of the remaining years of his apprenticeship he sold for sixty pounds, and after a while, having made up six hundred pounds in all, he lent the whole to a nobleman for an annuity of ninety-six pounds for nineteen years, which annuity was secured upon property producing eight hundred a year. the nobleman soon died, and his heir neglected to pay the annuity. audley had execution upon the property, and by legal trickery, in which he was well versed, he managed to obtain, in the way of fines and forfeitures, about four thousand pounds' profit upon his original six hundred. his master being one of the clerks of the compter, audley had many opportunities of practicing his disreputable cunning, and of obtaining vast sums by deluding insolvent debtors, and in deceiving their creditors. he would buy bad debts for a mere trifle, and afterward compound with the poor insolvent. one instance of his avarice and villainy is so curious, that we can not refrain from giving the anecdote to our readers. a tradesman, named miller, unfortunately got into arrears with his merchant, whose name was white. many fruitless applications were made for the debt, and at last miller was sued by the merchant for the sum of two hundred pounds. he was unable to meet the demand, and was declared insolvent. audley goes to white, and offers him forty pounds for the debt, which the merchant gladly accepts. he then goes to miller, and undertakes to obtain his quittance of the debt for fifty pounds, upon condition that he entered into a bond to pay for the accommodation. the drowning man catches at a straw, and the insolvent, with many protestations of thanks, eagerly signs a contract which, without consideration, he regarded as one so light, and so easy in its terms, as to satisfy him that the promptings of benevolence and friendship could only actuate his voluntary benefactor. the contract was, that he should pay to audley some time within twenty years from that time, one penny progressively doubled, on the first day of twenty consecutive months; and, in case he failed to fulfill these easy terms, he was to pay a fine of five hundred pounds. thus acquitted of his debt of two hundred pounds, miller arranged with the rest of his creditors, and again commenced business. fortune turned, and he participated liberally in her smiles. every month added largely to his trade, and at last he became firmly established. two or three years after signing the almost forgotten contract, miller was accosted one fine morning in october by old audley, who politely demanded the first installment of the agreement. with a smile, and many renewed expressions of thankfulness, the hopeful tradesman paid his penny. on the first of the succeeding month, audley again called, and demanded twopence, and was as politely satisfied as before. on the first of december, he received a groat; the first of february, one shilling and fourpence. still miller did not see through the artifice, but paid him with a gracious smile; perhaps, however, there was something cynical in the look of audley as he left the shop this time, for the poor tradesman's suspicions were aroused, and he put his pen to paper, as he ought to have done years before, to ascertain the amount of his subsequent payments. reader, what think you would have been the amount of the payment due on the first of the twentieth month? what sum, think ye, the little penny had become? no less than two thousand one hundred and eighty pounds! and what was the aggregate sum of all these twenty monthly payments? why, the enormous sum of four thousand three hundred and sixty-six pounds, eleven shillings, and threepence? it sounds incredible; but, if you think it a fable, do as miller did, and reckon for yourselves. of course miller refused the payment of his bond, and forfeited five hundred pounds by the benevolence and charity of the miser. vandille is one of the most remarkable characters, as a miser, that is to be found among the eccentric biographies of france. his riches were immense, and his avarice and parsimony extreme. he hired a miserable garret in one of the most obscure parts of paris, and paid a poor woman a sou a day to wait upon him. excepting once a week, his diet was never varied; bread and milk for breakfast; the same for dinner, and the same for supper, all the week round. on a sunday he ventured to indulge in a glass of sour wine, and he strove to satisfy the compunctions of conscience by bestowing, in charity, a farthing every sabbath. this munificence, which incurred an expenditure of one shilling and a penny per annum, he carefully noted down; and just before his death he found, with some degree of regret, that during his life he had disbursed no less than forty-three shillings and fourpence. forty-three shillings and fourpence! prodigious generosity for the richest man in france! vandille had been a magistrate at boulogne, and while in that office he partly maintained himself, free of cost, by constituting himself milk-taster general at the market. he would munch his scrap of bread, and wash it down with these gratuitous draughts. by such parsimonious artifices, and a most penurious course of life, he succeeded in amassing an enormous fortune, and was in a position to lend vast sums of money to the french government. when he had occasion to journey from boulogne to paris, he avoided the expence of coach-fare by proceeding on foot; and, lest he should be robbed, he never carried more than threepence in his pocket, although he had a distance of a hundred and thirty miles before him. if he found this sum insufficient, he would profess poverty, and beg from the passengers on the road a trifle to help him on. in the year , vandille, the miser, was worth nearly eight hundred thousand pounds! he used to boast that this vast accumulation sprang from a single shilling. the winter of the year had been very cold and bitter, and the miser felt inclined to purchase a little extra fuel in the summer time, to provide, to some extent, against the like severity in the ensuing winter. he heard a man pass the street with wood to sell; he haggled for an unconscionable time about the price, and at last completed his bargain, at the lowest possible rate. avarice had made the miser dishonest, and he stole from the poor woodman several logs. in his eagerness to carry them away, and hide his ill-gotten store, he overheated his blood, and produced a fever. for the first time in his life, he sent for a surgeon. "i wish to be bled," said he; "what is your charge?" "half a livre," was the reply. the demand was deemed extortionate, and the surgeon was dismissed. he then sent for an apothecary, but he was also considered too high; and he at last sent for a poor barber, who agreed to open the vein for threepence a time. "but, friend," said the cautious miser, "how often will it be requisite to bleed me?" "three times," replied the barber. "three times! and pray, what quantity of blood do you intend to take from me at each operation?" "about eight ounces each time," was the answer. "let me see," said the possessor of three-quarters of a million, "that will be ninepence; too much; too much! i have determined to go a cheaper way to work; take the whole twenty-four ounces at once, and that will save me sixpence." the barber remonstrated, but the miser was firm; he was certain, he said, that the barber was only desirous to extort an extra sixpence, and he would not submit to such scandalous imposition. his vein was opened, and four-and-twenty ounces of blood were taken from him. in a few days, vandille the miser was no more. the savings of his life, the wages of his vice and avarice, he left to the king of france. a similar anecdote is related of sir william smyth, of bedfordshire. he was immensely rich, but most parsimonious and miserly in his habits. at seventy years of age he was entirely deprived of his sight, unable to gloat over his hoarded heaps of gold; this was a terrible affliction. he was persuaded by taylor, the celebrated oculist, to be couched; who was, by agreement, to have sixty guineas if he restored his patient to any degree of sight. taylor succeeded in his operation, and sir william was enabled to read and write, without the aid of spectacles, during the rest of his life. but no sooner was his sight restored, than the baronet began to regret that his agreement had been for so large a sum; he felt no joy as others would have felt, but grieved and sighed over the loss of his sixty guineas! his thoughts were now how to cheat the oculist; he pretended that he had only a glimmering, and could see nothing distinctly; for which reason, the bandage on his eyes was continued a month longer than the usual time. taylor was deceived by these misrepresentations, and agreed to compound the bargain, and accepted twenty guineas, instead of sixty. yet sir william was an old bachelor, and had no one to care or provide for. at the time taylor attended him, he had a large estate, an immense sum of money in the stocks, and six thousand pounds in the house. many years ago, there lived in a large, cheerless, and dilapidated old house in st. petersburg, a wretched miser. he confined himself to one room, and left the rest of the rambling edifice to moulder into ruin; he cared for no comfort, and deprived himself even of those things which the poorest regard as the necessaries of life; he seldom lit a fire to repel the dampness, which hung on the walls of his solitary chamber, and a few worthless objects of furniture was all that the room contained. yet to this singular being the empress catherine the second owed a million of rubles. his cellar, it was said, contained casks full of gold, and packages of silver were stowed away in the dismal corners of his ruinous mansion. he was one of the richest men in russia. he relied for the safety of his hoards upon the exertions of a huge mastiff, which he had trained to bark and howl throughout the night, to strike terror into the hearts of thieves. the miser outlived the dog; but he disliked to part with any portion of his treasure in the purchase of another cur, and he resolved to save his money by officiating as his own watch-dog. every morning, and every evening, would that insane old man wander about his dismal habitation, barking and howling in imitation of his recent sentinel. a miser of the name of foscue, who had amassed enormous wealth, by the most sordid parsimony, and the most discreditable extortion, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money, as a loan. the miser, to whom a fair interest was not inducement sufficiently strong to enable him to part with his treasured gold, declared his incapacity to meet this demand; he pleaded severe losses, and the utmost poverty. fearing, however, that some of his neighbors, among whom he was very unpopular, would report his immense wealth to the government, he applied his ingenuity to discover some effectual way of hiding his gold, should they attempt to institute a search to ascertain the truth or falsehood of his plea. with great care and secrecy, he dug a deep cave in his cellar; to this receptacle for his treasure he descended by a ladder, and to the trap-door he attached a spring lock, so that, on shutting, it would fasten of itself. by-and-by the miser disappeared; inquiries were made; the house was searched; woods were explored, and the ponds were dragged; but no foscue could they find; and gossips began to conclude that the miser had fled, with his gold, to some part where, by living incognito, he could be free from the hands of the government. some time passed on; the house in which he had lived was sold, and workmen were busily employed in its repair. in the progress of their work they met with the door of the secret cave, with the key in the lock outside. they threw back the door, and descended with a light. the first object upon which the lamp was reflected was the ghostly body of foscue the miser, and scattered around him were heavy bags of gold, and ponderous chests of untold treasure; a candlestick lay beside him on the floor. this worshiper of mammon had gone into his cave, to pay his devoirs to his golden god, and became a sacrifice to his devotion! the cricket. "far from all resort of mirth, save the cricket on the hearth."--_milton._ as it is very possible that many of our readers, who have listened with delight to the pleasant chirp of the cricket, may be ignorant of its habits and history, we purpose in the present article giving some account of them. the cricket belongs to the same family as the grasshopper and the locust, and all three are distinguished by having four wings, with the first pair leathery throughout, overlapping at the edges only, and concealing the second pair, which are folded lengthwise. there are three descriptions of cricket common in great britain--the house-cricket, the field-cricket, and the mole-cricket; of these the two first are very similar, but that the former is of a somewhat yellow shade, and the latter rather brown. their heads are very large in proportion to their bodies, and are round. they are furnished with two large eyes and three small ones, of a light yellow color, placed rather high in their heads. the female has a hard, long spine at the extremity of her body, thick at the end, and composed of two sheaths, which contain two laminæ; this implement is made use of by the cricket to enable her to sink and deposit her eggs in the ground. their hinder feet are much longer than the others, and serve them to leap. unlike mice, crickets are oftenest to be found in new houses, as they like the damp, soft mortar, which saves them much trouble, when they feel inclined to burrow and mine between the joints of the bricks or stones, and to open communications from one room to another. they are very fond of warmth, and their favorite place of resort is by the kitchen fire. in the warm, long days of summer, however, they often venture out, and appear to enjoy the heat of the mid-day sun, as may be supposed from the heated atmosphere they inhabit. crickets are a thirsty race, and, indeed, are so anxious to satisfy their inclination, that they are constantly found drowned in pans of water, milk, &c. they will even destroy damp clothes for the sake of their moisture, and woe be to the wet woolen stockings or aprons hung to dry within their reach. but the cricket is hungry as well as thirsty, and will eat voraciously any crumbs of bread, scummings of pots, &c., which happen to fall in their way. crickets are, in general, very inactive insects, and seldom use their wings, except when they are about to migrate from one habitation to another. the time they generally select for an excursion of this kind is the dusk of a summer evening, when they fly out of the windows, and over the neighboring roofs, no one knows whither; and this habit will account for the sudden manner in which they often disappear from an old haunt, as well as for their equally mysterious appearance in a new one--why they left and why they came being equally unaccountable. when flying, they move in wavelike curves, like woodpeckers, opening and shutting their wings at every stroke; they are, therefore, always either rising or falling. they often increase to such a degree as to become a perfect nuisance in a house, and then they have to be destroyed, either by gunpowder being discharged into their haunts, or else by drowning, like wasps. crickets are not fond of light; and on a candle being brought into a room where they are running about, they will just give two or three shrill chirps, as if to warn their companions of impending danger, and then quickly retreat to their lurking-holes for safety. many strange ideas are entertained concerning these insects. some imagine that they bring good luck to any house where they take up their abode, and will not on any account allow them to be killed. it is imagined, too, that they can prognosticate events, such as the death of a near relative, or the return of an absent lover. in spain, crickets are held in such estimation, that they are kept in cages like birds. the field-cricket is such a shy and timid insect, that it is exceedingly difficult to make its acquaintance, as it cautiously rejects all advances, and prudently retires backward into its burrow, where it remains until it fancies that all danger is over. in france, children amuse themselves by hunting the field-cricket. this they do by putting into its hole an ant, secured by a long hair; and, as they slowly draw it out again, it is always followed by the hapless cricket, which ventures out to know the reason of this unwarrantable intrusion into its domicile. but pliny tells us of a more easy way of capturing them. he says, that, if we thrust a long slender piece of stick into its burrow, the insect would immediately get on it for the purpose of discovering the cause of the disturbance. from this fact arose the old proverb, "_stultior grillo_," or "more foolish than a cricket," applied to any one who upon light grounds provokes his enemy, and falls into the snare laid to entrap him. it is strange that although the field-cricket is furnished with a curious apparatus of wings, and provided with long legs behind, and brawny thighs for leaping, like grasshoppers, yet they never make use of them when we would imagine they were most wanted, but suffer themselves to be captured without making any struggle for liberty, crawling along in a dull, shiftless manner. they satisfy their hunger with such herbs as happen to grow near their burrows, and rarely stir from home. they generally sit at the entrance of their caverns, and chirp away night and day, from the middle of may to the middle of july. and who does not love their pleasant song, shrill though it be? but harsh sounds are not necessarily disagreeable. much depends on the association of ideas; and the summer song of the field-cricket recalls to us our childhood's days, long since, it may be, gone by, and fills our mind with happy thoughts of our wanderings in quest of them, when all nature appeared bright, and gay, and joyous. in very hot weather, the field-cricket is most vigorous, and then the hills echo their notes, while the evening breeze carries them to a great distance, making their melody heard in the stilly hours of night. about the th of march, the crickets appear at the mouth of their cells, which they then open for the approaching summer. at that time they are all in the pupa state, and have only the rudiments of wings, which lie under a skin or coat, which must be cast off before the insect arrives at maturity. this circumstance makes naturalists believe that they seldom live a second year. they cast their skins in april, and great quantities of them may be seen at the mouth of their cells. their eggs are long and narrow, of a yellowish color, and covered with a very tough skin. the male field-cricket has a golden stripe across the shoulders of its shining coat. the female is of a brighter color, and, besides this, may be distinguished by the long, sword-shaped instrument for laying her eggs beforementioned. they always live singly, male or female, as the case may be; and when the males meet they fight fiercely. once, when mr. white of selborne placed some in a stone wall, where he was anxious to have them settle, although they appeared distressed at being removed to a new habitation, yet the first that got possession of the chinks, seized any that intruded on them, with their powerful jaws, furnished with a row of serrated fangs, formed something like the shears of a lobster's claw. if field-crickets are confined in a paper cage, placed in the sun, and supplied with plants well moistened with water, they will thrive as well as in their more natural resorts, and become so merry and noisy as to be troublesome to any one sitting in the same room. should the plants become dry, they will soon die. the mole-cricket, so called from the similarity of its habits to those of the mole, is an ugly, but very curious-looking insect. unlike the house and field-cricket, its head is very small, and of an oblong form. but the chief peculiarity of the insect is its two forefeet or legs--screws, as they are sometimes not very inappropriately called. they are very large and flat, ending outwardly in four large serrated claws, and inwardly with only two. the four claws point somewhat obliquely outward, that being the direction in which the insect digs, throwing out the earth on each side of its course. how wonderfully does he, who "preserves both man and beast," provide for the wants of each insect! the breast of the field-cricket is formed of a thick, hard, horny substance, which is further strengthened within by a double framework of strong gristle, in front of the extremities of which the shoulder-blades of the arm are firmly pointed--a structure evidently intended to prevent the breast from being injured by the powerful muscular motion of the arms in digging. while the house and field-cricket rejoice in dry and sunny banks, or revel in the glowing heat of a kitchen-hearth, the mole-cricket haunts damp meadows and marshy grounds by the river banks, where they perform all their most curious functions. they burrow and work under ground, like the mole, but raise a ridge as they proceed, instead of throwing up hillocks. they are very fond of taking up their abode in gardens situated near canals, but they are always unwelcome visitors, as they disturb the walks in making their subterranean passages, and besides this, they devour whole beds of cabbage, legumes, and other vegetables, and sometimes even commit great ravages among flowers. the nest the female mole-cricket constructs for her eggs is exceedingly curious, and well repays the trouble of hunting for them. they are about the size of an egg, neatly smoothed and rounded inside. the way leading to them is through a variety of caverns and winding passages. within the inner chamber, or nursery, are deposited about a hundred eggs, of a dirty yellow color, enveloped in a tough skin. sometimes, however, they are of a lightish green, and translucent and gelatinous. they are not placed deep under ground, but near the surface, so as to be within the genial influence of the sun. the mound of fresh-moved earth, within which they are carefully deposited, looks very like that raised by ants. like the eggs and young of most other insects those of the mole-cricket are exposed to depredation, especially from the black beetle, which burrows in similar localities. the anxious and provident mother, therefore, does not think her progeny secure, until she has defended her nest in the manner of a regularly fortified town, with ramparts, intrenchments, and covert-ways. "in some part of these defenses she posts herself as an advanced guard; and, should a beetle venture to intrude within her fortifications, she pounces on him, and, giving no quarter, kills him without mercy." when disturbed out of their nests, the mole-crickets appear dull and helpless; and during the day time they seldom use their wings, but, as night advances, they become very sprightly, and often wander on long excursions. when the weather is very fine, about the middle or end of april, as the evening draws on, they amuse themselves by making a low, dull, jarring noise, which is not very unlike the chattering of the fern-owl or goat-sucker, and which they continue without intermission for a long time. anatomists tell us, that _all_ crickets, when carefully examined, are found to possess three stomachs; a small one; behind that, a large one, wrinkled and furrowed inside; and lower down, a third. they, therefore, think it not improbable that they chew the cud, or ruminate, like the cow and many other quadrupeds. they are not, however, satisfied entirely to subsist on vegetable diet, but prey upon underground insects, and sometimes even _undermine_ plants to get at them. before taking leave of the cricket family, it may not be amiss to mention that, in various parts of england, they are called fern-crickets, churr-worms, and wee-churrs--all very appropriate names. the right one.--a lesson for lovers. "do you know, with any certainty, in what language adam declared his love to eve?" inquired i, one day, from a philologist of my acquaintance. i put my question with so much earnestness, that he answered, quite seriously, "yes, to be sure, he made his declaration of love in precisely the same language as that in which she accepted him." a profound answer! the only pity is, that i was not much wiser for it. but it is altogether a pity--a very great pity--that we know so little about the love-makings before the flood. if any body could meet with a love-story of that date, it would have more freshness and novelty in it than can be found in any of our modern novels. and really that love-making in the morning of time, in the groves of paradise, it must have been quite out of the common way! ah, there breathes still in this world--several thousand years old though it be--a gentle gale of the spring-time of paradise, through the life of every man, at the moment when he says, "i love! i am beloved!" yes. it thrills through every happy son of adam at the moment when he finds his eve. but adam himself was, in one respect, better off than any of his sons; for as there was only one eve, he could make no mistake; neither could she, on her side, have either choice or repentance. but we--our name is legion, and it is not easy for us to discover who, in the swarm of the children of adam, is the right partner for us. if every one would seriously confess his experience in this respect, it would no doubt be both instructive and amusing. and as i know no other way in which i can instruct or amuse the world, i will now sincerely confess what mistakes i made when i searched for my eve, whom i first adored in the person of rose ervan. i want words to describe her. she had fascinated me when i was but a cadet; she bewitched me before i had left the fourth class. and, of a truth, there never did exist a young lady more dangerous to a youth of lively imagination. her coquetry was so natural, so mixed with goodness and childish grace, that it was impossible to regard it as any thing more than the most angelic innocence. at the military academy, i saw in my books her name and nothing besides. if i drew plans of fortifications and fortresses, rose stood in the middle of my circles and quadrants, and the only line that i perceived clearly was the road that led to her home: the verdurous greendale. greendale was a cheerful place, where there were always guests and parties. and when the young people wished to have an excursion on the water, or any other entertainment, i it was who always planned every thing, and proposed it to the old baroness, the mother, for whom all the children entertained a very considerable and wholesome respect. on these occasions she used to say, "my dear sir, if you are with the children, i will permit it; for i trust to you, and i know that you will take care of them." "yes, to be sure," i replied, though the truth was, i could not take care of myself; and never took notice of any body, or of any thing, excepting rose. many a one was fascinated just as i was fascinated; but i persuaded myself that i was the only lucky fellow who had her preference. once i was terribly jealous. a certain mr. t. (a professor of languages, i believe) came to greendale, played, sung, and chattered french; and immediately rose forgot me, to chat, and play, and sing with mr. t., making herself altogether as charming to him as she had hitherto been to me. i was desperate; went away over meadows and fields; saw neither hedges nor gates, stumbled into ditches and brooks, and reached home furious as a blunderbuss. but, behold! mr. t. was gone, and rose was again charming to me, and i was instantly as much under her fascination as ever, fully convinced that it was all my fault, and that i was a turk, a monster--nay, quite an othello of jealousy. after i had sighed and burned a considerable time, i made up my mind to proceed to the declaration of my love. it is true i was still very young, not three-and-twenty; but i thought myself quite old enough, being a lieutenant, the son of a father who always spoke of "my wife" as the greatest happiness of his life; besides which i had derived from my home the most beautiful impressions of domestic life. hence i always represented to myself the highest good in the world under the image of "my wife." having duly considered the various forms of love proposals, i went one fine day to greendale, carrying with me, and near to my heart, a moss-rose in a garden-pot. the roads were execrable, and i was well-nigh shaken to pieces; but the smile of my beautiful rose would, i was well assured, reward me for all my trouble. in imagination i heard myself constantly asseverating "i love you!" and heard her as constantly replying, "i love you!" as regarded our domestic establishment, i had not as yet thought as much about it as one of our favorite bards, who, before he married, provided himself with a cask of flour, a coffee-pot, and a frying-pan. i thought only of "a cottage and a heart." i saw around my cottage multitudes of roses, and within it, my rose and myself. as for every thing else, all would be provided for by my excellent father. as soon as i arrived at greendale, i found there two other gentlemen quite as much in love, and quite as much enchanted by the fascinating young lady, as i was. i pitied the unfortunate youths, because they had infatuated themselves with the hope of a happiness which no one, i believed, should aspire to but myself. we were all old acquaintances; and, as it is not our habit to put our light under a bushel, i was determined to give my rivals a little hint of my advantageous prospects. i raised, therefore, somewhat the vail which had concealed my modest confidence. but then came curious revelations! my rivals, animated by my example, lifted likewise the vail from their respective prospects; and, behold, we all three stood in precisely the same position. we all sighed; we all hoped; we all had _souvenirs_ that we kissed in secret; and they all were, as it were, serpents, and bit their own tails. at these unexpected revelations we all exclaimed, "ah!" and left greendale together, each going his own way. my father was a little surprised to see me return so soon. "my dear constantine," said he, "i thought you intended to stay at greendale a much longer time?" "yes," i replied with a pensive air, taking at the same moment, a large mouthful of bread-and-butter; "yes; but i altered my mind when i got there." with this the conversation ended, and the charm was broken, once and forever. but with it was also broken one link out of the rosy time of my life. i began to regard all roses whether real or typified, with angry and suspicious looks, and to speak of the "illusions of life," and of "giving them up," &c., &c. i made a solemn vow with myself that the next object of my affections, the next choice i would make for "my wife," should, in all respects, be the very reverse of the fascinating but traitorous rose. i had been deceived, as i imagined, by the poetry of life; now i would keep to the sober prose. ah! in what a noble form did my new ideal present herself to my eyes, as one evening i entered the hospitable saloon of mrs. a., the wife of the celebrated judge. abla, her daughter, stood ready to officiate at the tea table; her features, her figure, her manners were dignified and full of propriety. she looked like personified truth, in contra-distinction to the fantastical bewitching rose. i instantly fell in love with this beautiful image of minerva, and thought of "my wife." abla, however, seemed only to think of the tea, and looked neither to the left nor the right. when tea was poured into all the cups she slowly turned her splendid head, and i heard, at the same moment, a bass-voice exclaim, "sundholm!" ah, heavens! was that her voice? was it not rather that of the angel of judgment, who, in the middle of mrs. a.'s evening party, summoned the sinner sundholm to hear his final doom? i could have believed any thing rather than that such a voice could issue from the beautiful lips of abla. but, when i beheld sundholm advance to the tea-table and receive the tea-cups on his tray, i saw that the resounding bassoon-voice belonged to no other than the sweet lady whom i had just adored, and whom i had, in my heart, already called "my wife." it required some little time before i could reconcile my mind on this point. "sundholm!" sounded awfully through my ears for many a long hour. i began to reason on the subject. if, said i, nature has bestowed a bass-voice on this beautiful young lady, is it not noble and excellent of her not to try to conceal or embellish it? does it not prove her love of truth; her strength of character, and her greatness of soul? how easy it would have been for her to cry "sundholm!" in falsetto; but she would not be false, even in this! not willing to assume a disguise, even for the sake of winning admiration, she summons sundholm in the voice which god has given her. is there not something grand in all this? one who thus calls out "sundholm," will not deceive an honest fellow with hollow words or pretended feeling, but will play an open game with him, and let him understand the truth at once. i was introduced to the handsome abla. there was no denying that the voice was not fine; but, when you were accustomed to it, it ceased to be so very disagreeable; besides which, her words were so simple and candid, and her face so beautiful, that by-and-by i was completely dazzled. my ears crept, as it were, into my eyes, and gazing, day after day, on abla's faultless profile, i was conveyed at once into the realms of love, and, ravished by my sense of sight, asked abla if she would be "my wife." she answered "yes," with a force of utterance that nearly frightened me. we were betrothed, and the nearer i gazed on her fine profile the more i was satisfied. this, however, did not last very long. the period of betrothal is a very singular one; a period of halfness and incompleteness; nevertheless it is a sensible institution--when it does not continue too long. it is the prelude to a union that nothing but death _ought_ to dissolve; and, if it should appear impossible to execute harmoniously the duet which has now commenced, there is yet time to break it off calmly. the first discord that disturbed the duet between "my wife elect" and myself, was--not her deep voice, but, alas! precisely that very thing which, at first, had reconciled me to it; viz., her love of truth, or rather, i should say, her unmerciful way of uttering it. that we all are sinners in thought, word, and deed, is a matter of fact, and nobody was more willing to admit it than myself; but to be reminded of it every moment by one's best friend is by no means agreeable; nor does it do any good, especially when the plain-speaking friend never fancies himself, or herself, capable of sinning, or being faulty in the slightest degree. and the worst of it was, that apparently abla had no faults. ah! if she had had but one; or, better still, if she would but have admitted the possibility of it, then i should have been ready to throw myself at her feet! but she was in temper and in character as unimpeachable, as regular, as perfect, as she was in figure; she was so correct and proper, that, sinner as i was, it drove me into a rage. i felt that abla's righteousness, and especially her mode of educating me, would, in time, make me a prodigious sinner; more particularly, as she would never yield to my wishes. it dawned upon me, before long, that her self-righteousness and want of charity to others was, indeed, one of the greatest conceivable faults. one fine day, therefore, i told her my mind, in good earnest terms, and the following duet occurred between us: _she._ i can not be otherwise than i am. if you do not like me, you can let it alone. _i._ if you will not be amiable toward me, i must cease to love you. _she._ that is of no consequence. i can go my own way by myself. _i._ so can i. _she._ good-by, then, sir. _i._ good-by, miss a. "thank heaven, it was not too late!" thought i to myself, as, after my dismissal, i hastened to my little farm in the country. although this abrupt termination of my second love affair caused but little pain to my heart, i felt considerable mortification, and a secret hostility sprung up in my soul toward the whole female sex. it happened, however, very luckily for me, that while i remained in this state of mind i met with one of my neighbors who was precisely in the same condition. he had been for some time divorced from a wife with whom he had lived very unhappily, and he drove about in his sulky, upon which he had had a motto inscribed in golden letters: "it is better to be alone than to be ill-accompanied." the sentiment struck me as very excellent; and my neighbor and i often met, and agreed admirably in our abuse of the ladies. in the mean time, i occupied myself with books and agriculture. i have a great esteem for books, and i bow myself to the dust before learning, but, i know not how it is, further than that i can not go; esteem and veneration i feel, but assuredly my affections never grew in that soil. my love for agriculture took me forth into nature, and nature is lovely. but adam was uneasy in paradise, and did not wake to life and happiness until eve came; and i, who did not possess a paradise, found myself very lonely and melancholy at "stenbacke." trees, after all, are wooden and dull things, when we crave for human sympathies; and echo, the voice of the rocks, is the most wearisome voice i know. no! heart to heart, eye to eye, that is the life; and to live together, a happy and healthy rural life, to work for the happiness of those who depend upon us--to regulate the home, to live, to think, to love, to rejoice together. ah! "my wife" still stood vividly before my imagination. my experience in the realms of love had, however, made me suspicious. i feared that i could never be happy, according to my ideas of happiness, which my neighbor-friend characterized as "reposing in the shade of a pair of slippers." i was in low spirits; and accordingly, one day, after having finished the last of six dozen of cigars, and quarreled with my neighbor, who bored me with his everlasting and doleful tirades against the ladies, i set off in my own sulky to amuse myself by a drive. i drove a considerable distance to the house of an old friend, who had been a fellow-student with me at the military college at carlberg, and who had often invited me to visit him. he was now married, and was, in fact, the father of eight children. a large family, i thought, at first; but not one too many, said i to myself, after a single day spent in this family, which had given me the impression of a heaven upon earth. the mistress of the house, the wife and mother, was the silent soul of all. "it is she--it is she, who is my happiness!" said the fortunate husband; but she said, "it is he! it is he!" "my dear friend," said i to him one day, "how have you managed to be so happy in your marriage?" "oh," replied he, smiling, "i have a secret to tell you." "a secret! for goodness sake, what is it?" "from my youth upward," he replied, "i have prayed god to give me a good wife." "yes," thought i to myself, "that is it! here am i unmarried, because i have never discovered this secret, without god's especial direction i may not venture to choose 'my wife.'" a younger sister of my friend's wife lived in the family. no one would have been attracted to her for her external charms, but a short time brought you completely under the spell of her kindness, the intellectual expression of her countenance, and the cheerful friendliness of her manners. all the household loved her; she was kind and amiable to all. to myself, however, it seemed that there was an exception: i thought her somewhat cold and distant. i was almost sorry when i perceived that i was grieved by this; a short time convinced me that i had really fallen in love with this young lady. there was, however, a great difference between this and my former love affairs. formerly, i had permitted external charms to lead and blind me: now, on the contrary, i was attracted to the soul, and its beauty alone had captivated my heart. but why then was so excellent a soul so cold toward me? my friend said that it was because maria had heard me represented as a fickle young fellow; one who amused himself with broken affiances. righteous heaven! was that indeed one of my faults? _i_ fickle! _i_, who felt myself created as a model of fidelity. it was impossible for me to bear patiently so cruel an injustice. no! as truly as my name was constantine, must maria do me justice. from that time, as she retired from me, so began i to walk after her. i was determined to convince her that i was not the fickle, inconstant being that i had been described. it was not, however, very easy to succeed in this, but at length i did succeed. after having put me to a trial, from which i came with flying colors, she accepted my proposals, and agreed to try me still further in--a union for life. during the period of our betrothal, she said several times, quite rapturously, "i am so glad to see that you also have faults; i feel now less humiliated, less unhappy from my own." this pleased me very much, and all the more as i perceived that maria, while she showed me my faults with kindness, did not at all fondle her own. our wedding-day was fixed; and i ordered a carriage for two persons. company was invited, and maria and i were married. nothing can be more commonplace than all this, excepting, perhaps, it be, that my wife and i agreed to understand the ceremony in an earnest and real sense, and to live accordingly. the result has been, that now, after having been married five-and-twenty years (we celebrate our _silver nuptials_ to-morrow), we love each other better, and are happier together than we were in the first hour of our union. we have, therefore, come to the conclusion, that unhappiness in marriage does not proceed from the indissolubility of marriage, as some say, but because the wedding-service is not realized in the marriage. do not speak to me of the felicity of the honey-moon. it is but the cooing of doves! no! we must walk together along thorny paths, penetrate together the most hidden recesses of life, live together in pleasure and pain, in joy and in sorrow; must forgive and be forgiven; and afterward love better and love more. and as time goes on, something marvelous occurs; we become lovely to each other, although wrinkles furrow the cheek and forehead; and we become more youthful, though we add year to year. then no longer have worldly troubles, misfortunes, and failings any power to dim the sun of our happiness, for it radiates from the eye and the heart of our friend; and when our earthly existence draws to its close, we feel indeed that our life and our love are eternal. and this supernatural feeling is quite natural after all, for the deeper and the more inwardly we penetrate into life, the more it opens in its depth of eternal beauty. many happy husbands and wives will testify to this. but, observe, husband or wife! to qualify as such a witness, you must have been at some little pains to find--"the right one." don't take the wrong one, inconsiderately. lord brougham as a judge. lord brougham, as a judge, gave much greater satisfaction than was generally expected. it was thought that his constitutional precipitancy, joined to a deficiency of chancery knowledge, would have incapacitated him for the important office. in this, however, people were mistaken. he was not so hot and hasty on the bench as he had been at the bar and in the senate--though his constitutional infirmities in this respect did occasionally show themselves even on the seat of justice. he carefully applied himself to the merits of every case which came before him, and soon showed with what rapidity he could acquire the quantity of chancery knowledge requisite to enable him to discharge the duties of his office as judge, in at least a respectable manner. perhaps no lord chancellor ever presided in chancery who applied himself more assiduously and unremittingly to the discharge of the duties which devolved upon him, than did lord brougham. the amount of physical, not to speak of mental labor, he underwent during the greater part of his chancellorship was truly astonishing. for many consecutive months did he sit from ten till four o'clock in that court, hearing and disposing of the cases before it; and, on returning home from the house of lords, after having sat four hours on the woolsack, he immediately applied all the energies of his mind to the then pending cases before the court. the best proof of this is to be found in the fact, that, though possessing, in a degree seldom equaled, and certainly never surpassed, the power of extemporaneous speaking, he wrote, on particular occasions, his judgments, and then read them in the court. i might also advert, in proof of lord brougham's extraordinary application to the duties of his office, to the fact of his having, in two or three years, got rid of the immense accumulation of arrear cases which were in the court of chancery when he was first intrusted with the great seal. it is not, however, necessary to allude particularly to this fact, as it is already so well known. lord brougham's irritable temper often led him, when lord chancellor, into squabbles with the counsel at the bar. the furious attack he made on sir edward sugden must be fresh in the memory of every body. no person can justify that attack. it was as unwarrantable in principle as it was unseemly in a court of law, and especially as coming from the highest legal authority in the country. it is but due, however, to lord brougham to say, that he often regretted these unbecoming outbreaks of temper, and that he did so in this particular case. it consists with my own private knowledge that he afterward, on pretext of speaking on matters of public business, called sir edward one day into his private room, and made a most ample apology for the attack he had made on him. sir edward was generous enough to accept the apology, thus privately given, though the offense was a public one. i may here, however, mention that, during the interval between the attack and this apology, lord brougham, on several occasions, aggravated the outrage by further annoyances of sir edward while practicing before him. i do not say that such annoyances were intentional--possibly they may have been accidental--but, whichever way the fact lay, it is not to be wondered at if sir edward, in the peculiar circumstances in which he was placed, was predisposed to regard them as intentional. on one occasion, while the learned gentleman was pleading before his lordship in a very important cause, and just in the middle of what he conceived to be the most essential part of his speech, lord brougham suddenly threw back his head on his chair, and, closing both eyes, remained in that position for some time, as if he had been asleep. sir edward sugden abruptly paused, waiting, no doubt, till his lordship should resume an attitude which would be more encouraging for him to proceed with his speech. on this, lord brougham suddenly started up from his reclining position, and, resuming that in which he usually sat when on the bench, apostrophized sir edward after the manner so peculiar to himself--"go on, sir edward; proceed, sir edward; what's the cause of the stoppage?" "my lord," answered the latter, "i thought your lordship was not attending to my argument." "you have no right to think any such thing, sir edward; it's highly improper in you to do so; go on, if you please." sir edward resumed his speech, but had not addressed the court above two or three minutes, when lord brougham, addressing the officer, said, in his usual hasty manner, "bring me some sheets of _letter_-paper directly." of the folio size always used in court, his lordship had an abundant supply before him. "yes, my lord," said the obedient officer, withdrawing for a moment to execute his lordship's commands. he returned in a few seconds, and placed some half-dozen sheets on the desk. his lordship immediately snatched up a pen, and commenced writing, as if he had been inditing a letter to some private friend. sir edward again paused in his address to the court, and leaned with his elbows on the bench before him, as if willing to wait patiently until his lordship should finish his epistolary business. "sir edward!" exclaimed the lord chancellor, in angry and ironical accents, after the learned gentleman had been silent for a few moments--"sir edward! pray, what's the matter now?" "i thought, my lord, that your lordship was temporarily engaged with some matter of your own." "really, sir edward, this is beyond endurance." "i beg your lordship's pardon; but i thought your lordship was writing some private letter." "nothing of the kind, sir edward," said his lordship, tartly; "nothing of the kind. i was taking a note of some points in your speech. see, would you like to look at it?" said he, sarcastically, at the same time holding out the sheet of paper toward sir edward. "oh, not at all, your lordship; i do not doubt your lordship's word. i must have been under a mistake." sir edward again resumed; and lord brougham, throwing his head back on his chair, looked up toward the ceiling. lord brougham had a great horror of hearing the interminable speeches which some of the junior counsel were in the habit of making, after he conceived every thing had been said which could be said on the real merits of the case before the court by the gentlemen who preceded them. his hints to them to be brief on such occasions were sometimes extremely happy. i recollect that, after listening with the greatest attention to the speeches of two counsel on one side, from ten in the morning till half-past two, a third rose to address the court on the same side. his lordship was quite unprepared for this additional infliction, and exclaimed, "what, mr. a----, are _you_ really going to speak on the same side?" "yes, my lord; i mean to trespass on your lordship's attention for a short time." "then," said his lordship, looking the orator significantly in the face--"then, mr. a----, you had better cut your speech as short as possible, otherwise you must not be surprised if you see me dozing; for really this is more than human nature can endure." the youthful barrister took the hint; he kept closely to the point at issue--a thing very rarely done by barristers--and condensed his argument into a reasonable compass. the household of sir tho^s. more.[ ] [ ] continued from the september number. libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelseiÃ� inceptvs "nulla dies sine linea." april, . a heavier charge than either of y^e above hath been got up, concerning the wicked woman of kent, with whom they accuse him of having tampered, that, in her pretended revelations and rhapsodies, she might utter words against the king's divorce. his name hath, indeed, been put in the bill of attainder; but, out of favor, he hath been granted a private hearing, his judges being, the new archbishop, the new chancellor, his grace of norfolk, and master cromwell. he tells us that they stuck not to y^e matter in hand, but began cunningly enow to sound him on y^e king's matters; and finding they could not shake him, did proceed to threats, which, he told 'em, might well enow scare children, but not him, and as to his having provoked his grace the king to sett forth in his book aught to dishonour and fetter a good christian, his grace himself well knew the book was never shewn him save for verbal criticism when y^e subject matter was completed _by the makers of y^e same_, and that he had warned his grace not to express soe much submission to the pope. whereupon they with great displeasure dismissed him, and he took boat for chelsea with mine husband in such gay spiritts, that will, not having been privy to what had passed, concluded his name to have beene struck out of y^e bill of attainder, and congratulated him thereupon soe soone as they came aland, saying, "i guess, father, all is well, seeing you thus merry." "it is indeed, son roper," returns father steadilie, repeating thereupon, once or twice, this phrase, "all is well." will, somehow mistrusting him, puts the matter to him agayn. "you are then, father, put out of the bill?" "out of the bill, good fellow?" repeats father, stopping short in his walk, and regarding him with a smile that will sayth was like to break his heart.... "wouldst thou know, dear son, why i am so joyful? in good faith, i have given the devil a foul fall, for i have with those lords gone so far, as that without great shame i can ne'er go back. the first step, will, is the worst, and that's taken." and so, to the house, with never another word, will being smote at the heart. but, this forenoon, deare will comes running in to me, with joy all bright, and tells me he hath just heard from cromwell that father's name is in sooth struck out. thereupon, we go together to him with the news. he taketh it thankfully, yet composedly, saying, as he lays his hand on my shoulder, "in faith, meg, quod differtur non aufertur." seeing me somewhat stricken and overborne, he sayth, "come, let's leave good will awhile to the company of his own select and profitable thoughts, and take a turn together by the water side." then closing his book, which i marked was plato's phædon, he steps forthe with me into the garden, leaning on my shoulder, and pretty heavilie too. after a turn or two in silence, he lightens his pressure, and in a bland, peaceifying tone commences horace his tenth ode, book second, and goes through the first fourteen or fifteen lines in a kind of lulling monotone; then takes another turn or two, ever looking at the thames, and in a stronger voice begins his favorite "justum, ac tenacem propositi virum non civium ardor," etc. on to "impavidum ferient ruinæ;" --and lets go his hold on me to extend his hand in fine, free action. then, drawing me to him agayn, presentlie murmurs, "i reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with y^e glory which shall be revealed in us.... oh no, not worthy to be compared. i have lived; i have laboured; i have loved. i have lived in them i loved; laboured for them i loved; loved them for whom i laboured; my labour has not been in vayn. to love and to labour is the sum of living, and yet how manie think they live who neither labour nor love. again, how manie labour and love, and yet are not loved; but i have beene loved, and my labour has not been in vayn. now, the daye is far spent, and the night forecloseth, and the time draweth nigh when man resteth from his labours, even from his labours of love; but still he shall love and he shall live where the spiritt sayth he shall rest from his labours, and where his works do follow him, for he entereth into rest through and to him who is life, and light, and love." then looking stedfastlie at the thames, "how quietlie," sayth he, "it flows on! this river, meg, hath its origin from seven petty springs somewhither amongst y^e gloucestershire hills, where they bubble forthe unnoted save by the herd and hind. belike, they murmur over the pebbles prettily enough; but a great river, mark you, never murmurs. it murmured and babbled too, 'tis like, whilst only a brook, and brawled away as it widened and deepened and chafed agaynst obstacles, and here and there got a fall, and splashed and made much ado, but ever kept running on towards its end, still deepening and widening; and now towards the close of its course look you how swift and quiet it is, running mostly between flats, and with the dear blue heaven reflected in its face." ... * * * * * 'twas o' wednesdaye was a week, we were quietly taking our dinner, when, after a loud and violent knocking at y^e outer door, in cometh a poursuivant, and summoneth father to appear next daye before y^e commissioners, to take y^e newly coined oath of supremacy. mother utters a hasty cry, bess turns white as death, but i, urged by i know not what suddain impulse to con the new comer's visage narrowly, did with eagerness exclaim, "here's some jest of father's; 'tis only dick halliwell!" whereupon, father burst out a laughing, hugged mother, called bess a silly puss, and gave halliwell a grout for 's payns. now, while some were laughing, and others taking father prettie sharplie to task for soe rough a crank, i fell a muzing, what c^d be y^e drift of this, and could only surmize it mighte be to harden us beforehand, as 'twere, to what was sure to come at last. and the preapprehension of this so belaboured my alreadie o'erburthened spiritts, as that i was fayn to betake myself to y^e nurserie, and lose alle thought and reflection in my little bill's prettie ways. and, this not answering, was forct to have recourse to prayer; then, leaving my closett, was able to return to y^e nurserie, and forget myselfe awhile in the mirth of the infants. hearing voyces beneathe y^e lattice, i lookt forthe, and behelde his grace of norfolk (of late a strange guest) walking beneath y^e window in earnest converse with father, and, as they turned about, i hearde him say, "by the mass, master more, 'tis perilous striving with princes. i could wish you, as a friend, to incline to the king's pleasure; for, indignatio principis mors est." "is that all?" says father; "why then there will be onlie this difference between your grace and me, that i shall die to-daye, and you to-morrow;"--which was the sum of what i caught. next morning, we were breaking our fast with peacefullness of heart, on y^e principle that sufficient for the daye is the evill thereof, and there had beene a wordy war between our two factions of the neri and bianchi, bess having defalked from y^e mancheteers on y^e ground that black bread sweetened the breath and settled the teeth, to the no small triumph of the cob-loaf party; while daisy, persevering at her crusts, sayd "no, i can cleave to the rye bread as steddilie as anie among you, but 'tis vayn of father to maintain that it is as toothsome as a manchet, or that i eat it to whiten my teeth, for thereby he robs self-deniall of its grace." father, strange to say, seemed taken at vantage, and was pausing for a retort, when hobson coming in and whispering somewhat in his ear, he rose suddainlie and went forthe of the hall with him, putting his head back agayn to say, "rest ye alle awhile where ye be," which we did, uneasilie enow. anon he returns, brushing his beaver, and says calmlie, "now, let's forthe to church," and clips mother's arme beneathe his owne and leads the way. we follow as soon as we can, and i, listing to him more than to y^e priest, did think i never hearde him make response more composedlie, nor sing more lustilie, by the which i founde myself in stouter heart. after prayers, he is shriven, after which he saunters back with us to the house, then brisklie turning on his heel, cries to my husband, "now, will, let's toward, lad," and claps the wicket after him, leaving us at t'other side without so much as casting back a parting look. though he evermore had been advised to let us companie him to the boat, and there kiss him once and agayn or ever he went, i know not that i s^d have thoughte much of this, had not daisy, looking after him keenly, exclaymed somewhat shortlie as she turned in doors, "i wish i had not uttered that quip about the cob-loaf." lord, how heavilie sped y^e day! the house, too big now for its master's diminished retinue, had yet never hitherto seemed lonesome; but now a somewhat of dreary and dreadfull, inexpressible in words, invisible to the eye, but apprehended by the inner sense, filled the blank space alle about. for the first time, everie one seemed idle; not only disinclined for businesse, but as though there were something unseemlie in addressing one's self to it. there was nothing to cry about, nothing to talk over, and yet we alle stoode agaze at each other in groups, like the cattle under y^e trees when a storm is at hand. mercy was the first to start off. i held her back and said, "what is to do?" she whispered, "pray." i let her arm drop, but bess at that instant comes up with cheeks as colourless as parchment. she sayth, "'tis made out now. a poursuivant _de facto_ fetched him forthe this morning." we gave one deep, universal sigh; mercy broke away, and i after her, to seek the same remedie, but alack, in vayn.... * * * * * how large a debt we owe you, wise and holie men of old! how ye counsel us to patience, incite us to self-mastery, cheer us on to high emprize, temper in us the heat of youth, school our inexperience, calm the o'erwrought mind, allay the anguish of disappointment, cheat suspense, and master despair.... how much better and happier ye would make us, if we would but list your teaching! bess hath fallen sick; no marvell. everie one goeth heavilie. all joy is darkened; the mirthe of the house is gone. will tells me, that as they pushed off from y^e stairs, father took him about the neck and whispered, "i thank our lord, the field is won!" sure, regulus ne'er went forthe with higher self-devotion. having declared his inabilitie to take y^e oath as it stoode, they bade him, will tells me, take a turn in the garden while they administered it to sundrie others, thus affording him leisure for reconsideration. but they might as well have bidden the neap-tide turn before its hour. when called in agayn, he was as firm as ever, so was given in ward to y^e abbot of westminster till the king's grace was informed of the matter. and now, the fool's wise saying of vindictive herodias came true, for 'twas the king's mind to have mercy on his old servant, and tender him a qualifyed oath; but queen anne, by her importunate clamours, did overrule his proper will, and at four days end, y^e full oath being agayn tendered and rejected, father was committed to y^e tower. oh, wicked woman, how could you?... sure, you never loved a father.... * * * * * in answer to our incessant applications throughout this last month past, mother hath at length obtayned access to dear father. she returned, her eyes nigh swollen to closing with weeping ... we crowded round about, burning for her report, but 'twas some time ere she coulde fetch breath or heart to give it us. at length daisy, kissing her hand once and agayn, draws forthe a disjoynted tale, somewhat after this fashion. "come, give over weeping, dearest mother; 'twill do neither him, you, nor us anie goode.... what was your first speech of him?" "oh, my first speech, sweetheart, was, 'what, my goodness, mr. more! i marvell how that you, who were always counted a wise man, s^d now soe play the fool as to lie here in this close, filthy prison, shut up with mice and rats, when you mighte be abroade and at your liberty, with y^e favour of king and council, and return to your righte fayr house, your books and gallery, and your wife, children, and household, if soe be you onlie woulde but do what the bishops and best learned of the realm have, without scruple, done alreadie.'" "and what sayd he, mother, to that?" ... "why, then, sweetheart, he chucks me under the chin and sayeth, 'i prithee, good mistress alice, to tell me one thing.' ... soe then i say, 'what thing?' soe then he sayeth, 'is not this house, sweetheart, as nigh heaven as mine own?' soe then i jerk my head away and say 'tilly-valley! tilley-valley.'" sayth bess, "sure, mother, that was cold comfort.... and what next?" "why, then i said, 'bone deus, man! bone deus! will this gear never be left? soe then he sayth, 'well then, mrs. alice, if it be soe, 'tis mighty well, but, for my part, i see no greate reason why i shoulde much joy in my gay house, or in aniething belonging thereunto, when, if i shoulde be but seven years buried underground, and then arise and come thither agayn, i shoulde not fail to find some therein that woulde bid me get out of doors, and tell me 'twas none o' mine. what cause have i then, to care so greatlie for a house that woulde soe soone forget its master?'" ... "and then, mother? and then?" "soe then, sweetheart, he sayth, 'come, tell me, mrs. alice, how long do you think we might reckon on living to enjoy it?' soe i say, 'some twenty years, forsooth.' 'in faith,' says he, 'had you said some thousand years, it had beene somewhat; and yet he were a very bad merchant that woulde put himselfe in danger to lose eternity for a thousand years ... how much the rather if we are not sure to enjoy it one day to an end?' soe then he puts me off with questions, how is will? and daisy? and rupert? and this one? and t'other one? and the peacocks? and rabbits? and have we elected a new king of the cob-loaf yet? and has tom found his hoop? and is y^e hasp of the buttery-hatch mended yet? and how goes the court? and what was the text o' sunday? and have i practised the viol? and how are we off for money? and why can't he see meg? then he asks for this book and t'other book, but i've forgot their names, and he sayth he's kept mighty short of meat, though 'tis little he eats, but his man john a wood is gay an' hungry, and 'tis worth a world to see him at a salt herring. then he gives me counsell of this and that, and puts his arm about me and says, 'come, let us pray;' but while he kept praying for one and t'other, i kept a-counting of his gray hairs; he'd none a month agone. and we're scarce off our knees, when i'm fetched away; and i say, 'when will you change your note, and act like a wise man?' and he sayth, 'when? when!' looking very profound; 'why, ... when gorse is out of blossom and kissing out of fashion.' soe puts me forthe by the shoulders with a laugh, calling after me, 'remember me over and over agayn to them alle, and let me se meg.'" ... i feel as if a string were tied tight about my heart. methinketh 'twill burst if we goe on long soe. * * * * * he hath writ us a few lines with a coal, ending with "sursum corda, dear children! up with your hearts." the bearer was dear bonvisi. * * * * * the lord begins to cut us short. we are now on very meagre commons, dear mother being obliged to pay fifteen shillings a-week for the board, poor as it is, of father and his servant. she hath parted with her velvet gown, embroidered overthwart, to my lady sand's woman. her mantle edged with coney went long ago. but we lose not heart; i think mine is becoming annealed in the furnace, and will not now break. i have writ somewhat after this fashion to him.... "what do you think, most dear father, doth comfort us at chelsea, during this your absence? surelie, the remembrance of your manner of life among us, your holy conversation, your wholesome counsells, your examples of virtue, of which there is hope that they do not onlie persevere with you, but that, by god's grace, they are much increast." i weary to see him.... yes, we shall meet in heaven, but how long first, oh lord? how long? * * * * * now that i've come back, let me seek to think, to remember.... sure, my head will clear by-and-by? strange, that feeling shoulde have the masterdom of thought and memory, in matters it is most concerned to retayn. ... i minded to put y^e haircloth and cord under my farthingale, and one or two of y^e smaller books in my pouch, as alsoe some sweets and suckets such as he was used to love. will and bonvisi were awaiting for me, and deare bess, putting forthe her head from her chamber door, cries piteously, "tell him, dear meg, tell him ... 'twas never soe sad to me to be sick ... and that i hope ... i pray ... the time may come ..." then falls back swooning into dancey's arms, whom i leave crying heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the confused medley of messages sent by every other member of y^e house. for mine owne part, i was in such a tremulous succussion as to be scarce fitt to stand or goe, but time and the tide will noe man bide, and, once having taken boat, the cool river air allayed my fevered spiritts; onlie i coulde not for awhile get ridd of y^e impression of poor dancey crying over bess in her deliquium. i think none o' the three opened our lips before we reached lambeth, save, in y^e reach, will cried to y^e steersman, "look you run us not aground," in a sharper voyce than i e'er heard from him. after passing y^e archbishop's palace, whereon i gazed full ruefullie, good bonvisi beganne to mention some rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one of his window-panes at crosby house, and would know were they father's? and was't y^e chamber father had used to sleep in? i tolde him it was, but knew nought of y^e distich, though 'twas like enow to be his. and thence he went on to this and that, how that father's cheerfulle, funny humour never forsook him, nor his brave heart quelled, instancing his fearlesse passage through the traitor's gate, asking his neighbours whether _his_ gait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him his _cap_, which he sayd was uppermost. and other such quips and passages, which i scarce noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was i of cheer. at length we stayed rowing: will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me up, and, indeede, i was in better heart then, having been quietlie in prayer a good while. after some few forms, we were led through sundrie turns and passages, and, or ever i was aware, i found myselfe quit of my companions, and in father's arms. we both cried a little at first; i wonder i wept noe more, but strength was given me in that hour. as soone as i coulde, i lookt him in the face, and he lookt at me, and i was beginning to note his hollow cheeks, when he sayd, "why, meg, you are getting freckled:" soe that made us bothe laugh. he sayd, "you shoulde get some freckle-water of the lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in plenty; and after all, meg, she'll come to the same end at last, and be as the lady all bone and skin, whose ghastlie legend used to scare thee soe when thou wert a child. don't tell that story to thy children; 'twill hamper 'em with unsavory images of death. tell them of heavenlie hosts a-waiting to carry off good men's souls in fire-bright chariots, with horses of the sun, to a land where they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy turf and among myrtle trees, and eat fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold water, fresh from y^e river of life, and have space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and, whichever way they look, meet christ's eyes smiling on them. lord, meg, who would live, that could die? one mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a nutshell as bide here. fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would be to have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or king's mistress.... let her dainty foot but set him free, he'd say, 'for this release, much thanks.' ... and how goes the court, meg?" "in faith, father, never better.... there is nothing else there, i hear, but dancing and disporting." "never better, child, sayst thou? alas, meg, it pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortlie come to. these dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but 'twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance. mark you, meg, a man that restraineth not his passions hath always something cruel in his nature, and if there be a woman toward, she is sure to suffer heaviest for it, first or last.... seek scripture precedent for't ... you'll find it as i say. stony as death, cruel as the grave. those pharisees that were, to a man, convicted of sin, yet haled a sinning woman before the lord, and woulde fain have seen the dogs lick up her blood. when they lick up mine, deare meg, let not your heart be troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to london bridge to see my head stuck on a pole. think, most dear'st, i shall then have more reason to weep for thee than thou for me. but there's noe weeping in heaven, and bear in mind, meg, distinctlie, that if they send me thither, 'twill be for obeying the law of god rather than of men. and after alle, we live not in the bloody, barbarous old times of crucifyings and flayings, and immersings in cauldrons of boiling oil. one stroke, and the affair's done. a clumsy chirurgeon would be longer extracting a tooth. we have oft agreed that the little birds struck down by the kite and hawk suffer less than if they were reserved to a naturall death. there is one sensible difference, indeed, between us. in our cases, preparation is a-wanting." hereon, i minded me to slip off y^e haircloth and rope, and give the same to him, along with the books and suckets, all which he hid away privatelie, making merry at the last. "'twoulde tell well before the council," quoth he, "that on searching the prison-cell of sir thomas more, there was founde, flagitiouslie and mysteriouslie laid up ... a piece of barley-sugar!" then we talked over sundry home-matters; and anon, having now both of us attayned unto an equable and chastened serenitie of mind, which needed not any false shows of mirth to hide y^e naturall complexion of, he sayth, "i believe, meg, they that have put me here ween they have done me a high displeasure; but i assure thee on my faith, mine own good daughter, that if it had not beene for my wife, and you, my dear good children, i would faine have beene closed up, long ere this, in as straight a room, and straighter too." thereon, he shewed me how illegal was his imprisonment, there being noe statute to authorize the imposition of y^e oath, and he delivered himself, with some displeasure, agaynst the king's ill counsellors. "and surelie, meg," quoth he, "'tis pitie that anie christian prince shoulde, by a flexible council readie to follow his affections, and by a weak clergy lacking grace to stand constantly to the truth as they learned it, be with flattery so constantly abused. the lotus fruit fabled by the ancients, which made them that ate it lose alle relish for the daylie bread of their own homes, was flattery, meg, as i take it, and nothing else. and what less was the song of the syrens, agaynst which ulysses made the sailors stop their ears, and which he, with all his wisdom, coulde not listen to without struggling to be unbound from the mast? even praise, meg, which, moderately given, may animate and cheer forward the noblest minds, yet too lavishly bestowed, will decrease and palsy their strength, e'en as an overdose of the most generous and sprightlie medicine may prove mortiferous. but flattery is noe medicine, but a rank poison, which hath slayn kings, yea, and mighty kings; and they who love it, the lord knoweth afar off; knoweth distantlie, has no care to know intimatelie, for they are none of his." thus we went on, from one theme to another, till methinketh a heavenlie light seemed to shine alle about us like as when the angel entered the prison of peter. i hung upon everie word and thought that issued from his lips, and drank them in as thirsty land sucks up the tender rain.... had the angel of death at that hour come to fetch both of us away, i woulde not have sayd him nay, i was soe passivelie, so intenselie happy. at length, as time wore on, and i knew i shoulde soone be fetcht forthe, i coulde not but wish i had the clew to some secret passage or subterreneal, of which there were doubtless plenty in the thick walls, whereby we might steal off together. father made answer, "wishes never filled a sack. i make it my businesse, meg, to wish as little as i can, except that i were better and wiser. you fancy these four walls lonesome; how oft, dost thou suppose, i here receive plato and socrates, and this and that holy saint and martyr? my jailors can noe more keep them out than they can exclude the sunbeams. thou knowest, jesus stood among his disciples when the doors were shut. i am not more lonely than st. anthony in his cave, and i have a divine light e'en here, whereby to con the lesson 'god is love.' the futility of our enemies' efforts to make us miserable was never more stronglie proven to me than when i was a mere boy in cardinal morton's service. having unwittinglie angered one of his chaplains, a choleric and even malignant-spirited man, he did, of his owne authoritie, shut me up for some hours in a certayn damp vault, which, to a lad afeard of ghosts and devilish apparitions, would have been fearsome enow. howbeit, i there cast myself on the ground with my back sett agaynst the wall, and mine arm behind my head, this fashion ... and did then and there, by reason of a young heart, quiet conscience, and quick phansy, conjure up such a lively picture of the queen o' the fairies' court, and alle the sayings and doings therein, that never was i more sorry than when my gaoler let me goe free, and bade me rise up and be doing. in place, therefore, my daughter, of thinking of me in thy night watches as beating my wings agaynst my cage bars, trust that god comes to look in upon me without knocking or bell-ringing. often in spiritt i am with you alle; in the chapel, in the hall, in the garden; now in the hayfield, with my head on thy lap, now on the river, with will and rupert at the oar. you see me not about your path, you won't see my disembodied spiritt beside you hereafter, but it may be close upon you once and agayn for alle that: maybe, at times when you have prayed with most passion, or suffered with most patience, or performed my hests with most exactness, or remembered my care of you with most affection. and now, good speed, good meg, i hear the key turn in the door.... this kiss for thy mother, this for bess, this for cecil, ... this and this for my whole school. keep dry eyes and a hopeful heart; and reflect that nought but unpardoned sin should make us weep forever." bookworms. "like caterpillar, eating his way in silence!" the natural history of the bookworm has escaped the observation of cuvier. yet the bookworm shares his habitat in common with the student, and no doubt has often rubbed shoulder with the naturalist. the haunts of the bookworm are the national libraries, the old booksellers' shops about holborn and great queen-street, long-acre, and the bookstalls generally. one will be sure to meet with him--a weary, worn, and faded personage--in the reading-room of the museum. the goodly morocco-bound tome in folio is the bookworm's _bonne bouche_. its scented binding and odorous pages form the choicest of his meals. the atmosphere of the national reading-room is close and redolent of strange smells; the bookworm, however, enjoys it with the readier zest. worm-like, he is a reproducer, and capable of spinning words by the myriad, which he deposits upon the surfaces of foolscap. the bookworm's natural disposition is gentle; but his temper is irritable. his nature is indolent. he loves to doze over a harleian manuscript, or a dusty elzevir or black letter. it is legendary that his mission upon earth is occult--_videlicet_, to discover those lost treasures the sibylline leaves, supposed to be embedded and fossilized somewhere in the forest of leaves monastic. the hiding-place of the sibyl's precious autograph, albeit, remains, like the philosopher's stone, a secret yet. it is not intended in this paper to be satirical upon bibliographical pursuits. on this point our motto is the text recorded by the learned and indefatigable mr. lowdes, in his "manual." "mankind are disposed to remember the _abuse_ rather than the _utility_ of pursuits in which few are deeply interested. and in the ridicule which the enthusiastic zeal of bibliomaniacs has cast on bibliography, they lose sight of the fact that all accurate knowledge is in a greater or less degree absolutely dependent thereon." but the eccentricities and peculiarities of bookworms are left to us to notice, without our incurring the displeasure of any liberal-minded student or book-collector. our task at present is merely to throw together some information personally relating to bookworms, hitherto hidden within the mouldering pages of cumbrous volumes, offering little inducement for the perusal of the ordinary reader. nevertheless we are not unmindful what a field of scholastic romance we have traveled through, at the cost of a somewhat dusty journey. who were the original bookworms? from what point shall our bibliographical notices date?--beyond or in advance of the monasticism? the old clerks or copyists of the convents were the primitive bookworms indubitably. their occupation has been elevated by writers to a position of moral philosophy. dr. dibdin, in his "bibliomania," says, "copying excited insensibly a love of quiet, domestic order, and seriousness. i am willing to admit every degree of merit to the manual dexterity of the cloistered student. i admire his snow-white vellum missals, emblazoned with gold, and sparkling with carmine and ultra-marine blue. by the help of the microscopic glass i peruse his diminutive penmanship, executed with the most astonishing neatness and regularity; his ink so glossy black! now and then, for a guinea or two, i purchase a specimen of such marvelous legerdemain, but the book to me is a sealed book! surely the same exquisite and unrivaled beauty would have been exhibited in copying an ode of horace or a dictum of quinctilian." with reference to this allusion to the missal, it may be here worth while mentioning that the most splendidly executed book of devotion known is the ms. volume, the bedford missal. it passed from the library of harley, earl of oxford, through various fortunes, until it finally found a resting-place in the library of the duchess of portland. this antiquity is valued at guineas. as early as the sixth century, commenced the custom in some monasteries of copying ancient books and composing new ones. in the fifteenth century, the custom of keeping up monkish libraries had ceased, at least in england. the illustrious progenitors of bookworms were such personages as the venerable bede, alfred the great, and theodore, archbishop of canterbury. friar roger bacon was also an intense bookworm. the noble book-spirit by which the lives of the oxford athenians are recorded and preserved, is now probably forgotten by the world. the student, however reveres the name of old anthony à wood. the remembrance of his researches amidst paper and parchment documents, stored up in chests and desks, and upon which the moth was "feeding sweetly," is perpetuated in bibliography. we follow in imagination his cautious step, and head bowing from premature decay, and solemn air, and sombre visage, with cane under the arm, pacing from library to library, through gothic quadrangles, or sauntering along the isis on his way to some neighboring village, where, may be, with some congenial radcliffe, he would recreate with pipe and pot. while the bodleian and ashmolean collections remain, so long will the memory of his laudable exertions continue unimpaired. anthony à wood was in person of a large, robust make, tall and thin, and had a sedate and thoughtful look, almost bordering upon a melancholy cast. beneath a strange garb and coarse exterior, lay all that acuteness of observation and retentiveness of memory, as well as inflexible integrity, which marked his intellectual character. after he had by continual drudging worn out his body, he left this world contentedly, a.d. . in the early part of the seventeenth century, lived that very curious collector of ancient popular little pieces, as well as lover of sacred, secret soul soliloquies, that "melancholy jaques," yclept robert burton. he gave a multitude of books to the bodleian library. this original, amusing, and _now popular_ author was an arrant book-hunter--a "devourer of authors." old burton's constant companion was, we read, the eccentric "harry" hastings, a bibliomaniac, yet also an ardent sportsman. just alighted from the toils of the chase, harry hastings, then in his eightieth year, would partake of a substantial dinner, tipple his tankard of ale dry, take his customary nap, wake up, rub his eyes, and behold the "anatomy of melancholy" seated before the fire, his visage buried in an opened folio! a rare old boy must have been this hastings. he is described as low of stature, but strong and active, of a ruddy complexion, with flaxen hair. his clothes were always of lincoln green. his house was of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park well stocked with game. he kept his hounds, and his great hall was commonly strewed with marrow bones. he lived to be an hundred, and never lost his eyesight nor used spectacles. richard ashmole, the founder of the ashmolean museum, was an intimate of the astrologer lilly, and one of the queerest of bookworms. his life was grotesquely checkered by family jars. he had a termagant wife, who, it appears, was continually "taking the law of him in return for neglect, cruelty," &c. whether ashmole was proof or not proof against this peculiar kind of henpecking, we can not report; but it is certain that his bodily health failed him in the course of his wife's persecution; he sought to tinker up his constitution with quack medicines, of which he became the victim. the bodleian and ashmolean collections are emulated by the harleian. harley, earl of oxford's attachment to books, and the large sums he expended in forming the collection of mss., have rendered the name celebrated. the harleian collection of mss. was purchased by government for the national library; the purchase-money amounted to £ , . harley lived in the middle of the seventeenth century. a remarkable individual of the order of bookworm, was the musical bibliomaniac, thomas britton. this curious character lived in the augustan age of queen anne. he came to london from a northern county, and, after serving an humble apprenticeship, embarked in business as a kind of costermonger; he was in the habit of actually crying his coals about the street. his attire was a guernsey frock; he carried a black sack on his shoulders, and a coal measure in his hands. in this style he was painted by woollaston. britton lived in aylesbury-street, clerkenwell, where he fitted up a concert-room, the progenitor of the great philharmonic and ancient nobility concerts of the present day. sir robert l'estrange was one of britton's first patrons, and by his reputation and example induced the fashionable world of those days to patronize britton's concerts, at which handel, phil hart, banister, dubourg the violinist, and others, performed to the genteelest of audiences. the concert-room was literally but one floor over a coal-shed; and the visitors had to climb up to it by a ladder fixed outside of the house, and to sit under a low roof, against which they could not avoid knocking their heads soundingly. britton was no composer, only a musician and book-collector. he collected works on the occult art chiefly, and on music; his library sold for a large sum of money in those times. he was quite a notoriety on account of the humble trade he so openly followed, and the refined tastes he was known to cultivate. one day passing nigh the house of woollaston the painter, in warwick-lane, britton, being in his work-a-day attire, gave out lustily his well-known cry of "small-coal." woollaston's attention was attracted, and he recognized in the voice that of his musical acquaintance britton, whom he had never seen in the pursuit of his ordinary trade. the artist at once beckoned britton in, and there and then took his portrait as he sat, a veritable itinerant coal-dealer. the portrait is most characteristic, and is now to be seen in the collection of paintings of the british museum. but we must notice the small-coal man under his bibliopolic phase. a bibliomania raged among queen anne's nobility. the earls of oxford, pembroke, sunderland, and winchelsea, and the duke of devonshire, were among the smitten. these personages, on saturdays, during the winter season, used to resort to the city, and, there separating, take several routes to the booksellers' shops in different parts of the town, to search out old volumes and mss. some time before noon, they would assemble at the shop of christopher bateman, a bookseller, at the corner of ave maria-lane, in paternoster-row (query, little britain?), where they were frequently met by other persons engaged in the same pursuits, and a conversation commenced on the subject of their inquiries. as nearly as possible to the hour of twelve by st. paul's clock, britton (uniquely, the "literary dustman" of his age), who by that time had finished his round, clad in his blue frock, and pitching his sack of small coal on the bulk of mr. bateman's shop window, used to go in and join them. after about an hour's chat, the noblemen adjourned to the mourning bush tavern at aldersgate (probably the site of the present albion tavern), where they dined, and spent the remainder of the day. poor britton was indeed a singular character, and died a death as singular as his life. he was, we are told, of an excessively nervous temperament, which rendered him the object occasionally of villainous practical jokes. unfortunately he incurred the enmity of honeyman, the ventriloquist. on a certain day, when britton gave one of his nobility concerts in aylesbury-street, honeyman attended. an opportunity occurring, a voice was heard at a distance, which announced that thomas britton's hour was near and that he had but a short time to remain in this world. poor britton was not proof against the art of the malicious mimic. he felt the ventriloquist's words as though they were a sacred augur; so deep an impression did the incident make upon him, that he died, almost as predicted, in a brief period, aged fifty-eight, . browne willis was another original of whom we are enabled to furnish a few whimsical anecdotes. but we would reserve this respectful remark, that the doctor was, notwithstanding oddities in externals and manners, nevertheless a learned antiquary, and a good man. so were they all, all learned antiquaries, and excellent men. his tastes led him chiefly to the study of ecclesiastical relics. he visited every cathedral in england and wales. to these journeys he himself gave the name of pilgrimages. browne willis lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century. he was grandson of dr. thomas willis, a celebrated physician, and the first to reduce the theory of phrenology to order and system. his person and dress are described by one who knew him well; they were "so singular that, though a gentleman of £ per annum, he was often taken for a beggar. an old leathern girdle or belt always surrounded the two or three coats he wore, and over them an old blue cloak. he wrote the worst hand of any man in england, such as he could with difficulty read himself. his boots, which he almost always appeared in, were not the least singular part of his dress. i suppose it would not be falsity to say they were forty years old, patched and vamped up at various times. they were all in wrinkles, and did not come up above half-way of his legs. he was often called, in the neighborhood of buckingham, 'old wrinkle boots.' the chariot of mr. willis was so singular, that from it he was called himself, the 'old chariot.' it was his wedding chariot, and had his arms on brass plates about it, not unlike a coffin, and painted black." this rare antiquary was satirized by dr. darrell, in some humorous and highly descriptive verses, of which the subjoined couplets are a specimen: "high on a hill his mansion stood but gloomy dark within. here mangled books, as bones and blood, lie in a giant's den: "crude, undigested, half-devoured, on groaning shelves they're thrown; such manuscripts no eye could read, nor hand write, but his own." his wife having written a serious book, browne willis wrote on his own copy of the work, "all the connection in this book is owing to the book-binder." he delighted to joke upon mrs. willis's book and her authorship. incidents of dueling. dueling has fallen into desuetude, and very properly. times have changed marvelously. fifty years ago, gentlemen by descent, by property, or by profession, were only _esquired;_ now, if you _mistered_ an attorney's clerk, the letter would be sent repudiated to the dead office. to him only who was entitled to bear arms, an appeal to arms was allowed; and had a man in trade, though worth a plum, in those days presumed to send a message to a gentleman not in trade, nor worth a penny, the odds would be considerable that the bearer of the cartel would have been horsewhipped on the spot. even liberty to share in certain amusements was considered great condescension on the part of the aristocracy to men who had founded their own fortunes, and accidental meetings at the cover-side were never supposed to warrant aught beyond a field acquaintance. a brutal, but striking anecdote which marked this then prevailing feeling of exclusiveness, is told of the too-celebrated george robert fitzgerald. one hunting day, when drawing a fox cover, he observed a well-mounted and smartly-dressed young man join the company; and on inquiring his name from the whipper, was informed that the stranger was a neighboring apothecary. "an apothecary!" exclaimed the master of hounds. "by heaven! men's impudence every day becomes more audacious! why, it would not surprise me after this, that an attorney should join our meeting next. come, it is time that this dealer in drugs should be taught that fox-hunting is a trade practiced only by gentlemen;" and riding up to the unoffending dabbler in galenicals, he savagely flogged him off the field. that dueling has been employed too frequently for bad purposes, by brave men--and for bloody ones, by blackguards, has never been denied. the page of history, in the fatal meeting between buckingham and shrewsbury, strikingly exemplifies the former assertion. for the seduction of his wife--buckingham, by the way, had seduced his _own_--the injured earl demanded, and obtained satisfaction. in accordance with the barbarous custom of the times, the seconds--two on either side--engaged; on the duke's side, jenkins was left dead; on the earl's, sir john talbot was severely wounded. buckingham, however, received no hurt beyond a scratch, and ran his antagonist through the body, thus adding murder to seduction. the fair frail one was worthy of the ducal ruffian she had attached herself to. disguised as a page, from a neighboring coppice she watched the combat, and slept with the murderer of her husband the same night, although the shirt he wore bore bloody evidence of the foul assassination he had just committed. it is reported that the last hours of the adulteress were miserable, and the felon blow that relieved the world of such an unscrupulous villain as the duke, in our poor thinking, was nothing beyond simple retribution. another, and an opposite case, both in its results and causes, occurred many years ago, when the writer of these pages was in paris. the worst and most dangerous companion upon earth is a gamester. "nemo repente fuit turpissimus;" which, according to irish translation, meaneth, that a man must be articled for five years to an attorney. as regards play, we hold a different opinion, and believe that the course of demoralization may be more rapidly effected by the _alea damnosa_ than by law. to the proof:--even at the distance of a quarter of a century, we must hold the name sacred; but there are old guardsmen who will remember "little joe." a stouter soldier never headed a company. he was kind, well-tempered, too generous probably, and every body liked him. in money matters he was careless; had an early itch for play, and a sojourn with the army of occupation confirmed a disease already rooted. in a word, he abandoned a profession he could no longer continue in, and became a regular gambler. joe was a first-rate shot, and also constitutionally pugnacious. he felt his own degradation keenly, when to remedy it was too late; and a temper naturally excitable, had now become most dangerous. is there one gamester out of twenty who, in a very few years, does not go--circumstances only considered--to ruin? joe formed no exception. he lost _caste_, and fell, and fell, "deeper and deeper still," until he reached that last degrading _status_ in society--a _chevalier d'industrie_. while engaged in his base vocation, a young citizen fell into the hands of the gang with whom joe, now a member of the body, regularly confederated. the victim was a londoner, and one, as it was represented, who would stand plucking; and that very extensively. he had crossed the channel, like the thousand and one fools who flock annually to the french capital to view parisian lions, and, as a countryman, little joe kindly undertook to play mentor to this cockney telemachus. it was not a difficult task for one who knew the world so well as captain k---- to worm himself into the confidence of a raw youth, and he easily succeeded. in every point but one the intended victim was as pliant as could be wished--but on that one he was most obstinate. he had a horror of play. he would drink, racket about, dissipate, but name a game of chance, and he started like a frightened steed. the period allotted by "the governor at home," as he, in london parlance, termed his father, had almost expired; and as plump a pigeon as ever a gambler dropped upon, was about to return to the country-house he had quitted to see the world, without losing a single feather. to the villainous confederation that thought was maddening; and, as a last resource, a decoy duck was tried--and one of the loveliest and most artful of the class, was accidentally introduced by the gallant captain to monsieur callico, as he derisively called the citizen. to describe the progress of this gambling conspiracy would be a waste of time. it was managed with consummate ability. the devoted youth became desperately enamored of this friend, of the captain; he "told his love," and then came proof positive, that greek and roman friendship are not comparable to the tremendous sacrifice of personal feeling, which you may expect from a _café_ acquaintance. damon returned in time to substitute his own neck, and stay the execution of a gentleman called pythias, while "cato the sententious lent his fair lady to his friend hortensius." now captain k----, on learning the state of the young londoner's affections, although himself a secret worshiper at the shrine of the same divinity, resigned his own pretensions, and actually undertook to plead with the fair enslaver for his friend. great was the intimacy, of course, that succeeded; and at the apartments of madame la c----, morning, noon, and night, the young englishman might have been found. play was cautiously introduced--nothing was staked excepting a mere _bagatelle_--beyond the hazard of a trifle, it was evident that any experiment would be dangerous. the day for the citizen's departure was fixed, and it was pretty certain the bird would escape the net of the fowler. could he have been but led to play he would have been cheated scientifically. that was not to be done, and nothing could succeed but bold and downright felony. madame's birthday returned, as it did some twenty times a year; and she gave a _petit souper_. k---- sent in the wine, and the citizen provided the viands. a merrier evening could not be spent. two or three ladies, and as many gentlemen of high honor, favored la c---- with their company. there was play, limited to a few francs, and on the englishman's part to gloves and garters. supper was served--all was hilarious--the wine circulated freely, and all the londoner remembered in the morning when he awoke with a burning head was, that he had become unaccountably drunk, and got home he knew not how. he strove to get up, but his temples throbbed almost to bursting. an excess in wine had never affected him so before: could this arise from simple drunkenness? the sensation was altogether new. the truth was he had not been drunk, but drugged! while rolling his aching head from side to side upon the pillow his _lacquey de place_ announced his dear friend, the captain; and next minute "little joe" was standing at his bedside. "good heaven!" exclaimed the citizen; "how awfully drunk i must have been last night! my very brain's on fire." "drunk!" returned his companion; "you were not drunk but mad--what devil possessed you to play? d--n it, you always swore you hated it, and every score of _naps_ you lost you would, though i warned you, lay it on thicker." "naps! play!" exclaimed the sick man with a stare; "why, what do you mean? i am but in sorry mood for jesting. i do remember playing for and losing some gloves and garters to the ladies." "and let me tell you, i am in still less joking humor than yourself," returned the captain, in high dudgeon; "through your cursed obstinacy, i played against my better judgment--and was cleaned by count f---- out of eighteen thousand francs. how shall i come to book? in the devil's name how can i face my creditor this evening at madame's réunion? the three hundred naps i won from you will go but a short way to meet my losses. i think i shall go mad." "and i fancy that i am mad already," groaned the sufferer from the bed; "do end this folly, k----." "did i not know you, i should fancy you intended me offense," replied the captain, rather angrily; "what, have you such a conveniency of memory as to forget that you lost three hundred naps to me, eight hundred to the count, and five-and-forty to madame la c----?" before the unhappy youth could find words to respond, the valet announced another visitor, and count f---- was shown in. "monsieur le comte," pursued the gallant captain, "are you, too, in a jesting mood? my young friend here can not be persuaded that we had a little play last night. excuse me paying but half my loss till evening; and, in the mean time, accept these _billets de banque_," and "little joe" handed the chevalier a roll of bank notes; "you will find there ten thousand francs." "gentlemen," cried the astonished citizen, "i pray you end this farce. i know i am indebted to madame heavily in gloves and ribbons." "why, fiends and furies!" exclaimed the captain, "do you pretend, sir, to assert, that you did not lose three hundred naps to me?" "or that this acknowledgment for eight hundred was not given?" the youth, astounded as he was, took the paper. it purported to be an i.o.u., but the forgery was clumsy. "that is not my writing--nor do i owe either of you a _sou_." the scene that followed may be imagined. instant payment, or a legal security for the alleged debts was demanded--or the alternative--a meeting in the bois de boulogne within two hours. half bewildered, the young dupe assented to give the latter--and at the time appointed he alighted, without friend or weapon, at the place named for the duel, by these infamous men. several other persons were on the ground, all strangers to the unfortunate young man. another attempt was made to induce him to admit the debt of honor, and it was proposed that a reconciliation should take place between him and his former friend, the captain. to do them justice, the gentlemen unknown were ardent in their endeavors to accommodate the matter, and persuade the citizen to pay the money, and they were perfectly sincere in mediation on the occasion, for they were all members of the same dishonest clique. but nothing could shake the youth's determination to repudiate the infamous demand. captain k----, irritated to madness at his total failure, demanded that the duel should instantly proceed--and the gang, as furious from the unexpected disappointment, determined to murder one who could not be persuaded to submit to bare-faced spoliation. never were two combatants more unequally opposed, than the young merchant and the desperate gambler--the one, probably, had never discharged a pistol in his life--the other, and within six months, had killed his man on the very spot the doomed youth was standing. other and fouler circumstances went to render the result of the impending duel almost a certainty. k---- fought with his own pistols--with the firing signal he was particularly familiar--his back was to the sun, and an open sky behind him. the scoundrel second, who had volunteered his services, placed the young englishman in a position where the trunk of a large beech formed a leading line of fire, and the stream of sunshine through the vista in the trees, was almost blinding. to the intentional murderer and the intended victim, the loaded weapons were delivered--a preparatory word was spoken, the signal fell. k---- coolly raised his pistol, while, by a snap-shot, the flurried englishman anticipated his executioner by a second. on that momentary advantage life or death depended. the bully, shot directly through the heart, fell on the sward, a dead man. while the bullet destined for the breast of his antagonist, cut the grass harmlessly at the foot of the fortunate survivor. never was a thoughtless youth more providentially delivered by accident from certain murder--nor a scoundrel sent to his account so justly and unexpectedly as captain k----. in riding an hour after the affair had terminated in the forest, i met the body of the dead gambler on a stretcher, _en route_ to the _morgue_. the decline of dueling, from the period it was made ancillary to swindling, or to the settlement of disputes between vulgar scoundrels, who could not lay the slightest claims to the title or privileges of gentlemen, has been rapid and progressive, and its gross abuse did more to remedy its own mischief, than moral appeals and legal enactments. what but disgust can be created against a system when prostituted to the purposes of sheer murder? when two drunken blackguards stagger from the billiard-room to the field, and, by the scoundrels who attend them, are permitted to carry a dispute, emanating in a question of scoring or not scoring a point or two, to an extent that the most flagitious injury would not warrant? a more recent case which occurred in the neighborhood, and must be still fresh in general recollection, may be adduced to prove how sadly the law of honor is brought to the lowliest estimation. i allude to the case of m----, killed by e----. a quarrel takes place in that sink of infamy, a saloon--and the parties adjourn to wimbledon to commit murder. one fire is not enough, and, though a bullet passes through the hat of m----, the seconds provide them with fresh weapons, and the wretched blackguard is, on the next fire, shot dead. the ruffian who commits the murder, sees the expiring wretch heaving his last sigh--and remarks to a casual spectator, "i have done for the ----," using an epithet too disgusting to be named. he, and the well-selected seconds, hurry off, without even taking a parting glance at the prostrate victim. the surgeon, with his friends, lugs the dead body into a cab. an inquest is held--"willful murder" is returned, and thus ends, what the papers termed "an affair of honor." and who were the blackguard actors in this cold-blooded tragedy? e---- was son of a taunton publican, and m---- a broken linen-draper. their companions were men of similar _caste_--for, unless gentility is attached to brick-making, y---- had no other claim. the first duel i ever witnessed was one which, at the expiration of forty years, is too vividly engrafted upon memory to be forgotten. i was then a satcheled schoolboy; and before six o'clock on a beautiful summer morning, was wending my way, slowly, of course, to the abiding place of the country pedagogue at whose feet i was being indoctrinated. a gentleman was sitting on a log of timber, and in him i recognized lieutenant v---- of the--th, a frequent visitor and guest at my father's house. he spoke to me, and i sate down upon the beam, and a bullet he had been rolling carelessly on the log of timber, was interchanged between him and me for five minutes. he started suddenly on perceiving three gentlemen advance from an opposite direction, put the ball in his waistcoat pocket, and bade me hastily "good-morning." i watched him--saw him join the strangers, and the whole party turned into a rope-yard. i rose from the beam--shouldered my satchel, and as i passed the place where the gentlemen had disappeared, i looked through the open gate. although not more than three or four minutes had elapsed, the preliminary preparations for a duel had been completed, and my late companion on the log of timber confronted his antagonist at the customary distance of a dozen paces. at the moment i peeped in, the seconds delivered a pistol to each combatant--stepped two or three yards back--and the words "ready, fire!" were rapidly pronounced. the reports were so simultaneous that it seemed as if one shot only had been discharged; and as, for a second or two afterward, both gentlemen remained standing, i fancied all was right; but i was fatally mistaken--the discharged weapon dropped from v----'s hand, and he tottered and fell forward. the seconds raised him to a sitting posture, and a little man hitherto concealed behind the hedge, came forward hastily. he laid his finger on v----'s pulse, and then looked at the pupil of the eye, and in a low voice muttered, "all is over!" for many a month afterward that brief sentence sounded in my ear, and the falling man was present in imagination. but before manhood came, an intimacy with some amiable young galway gentlemen at the dublin university, and a short probation in a southern militia regiment wrought a happy change. the organ of hearing, as byron says, became "more irish and less nice" and a twelvemonth's sojourn in that land of promise, which lieth between the shannon and atlantic, completed the cure. like many an unnecessary appeal to arms, this fatal affair, in which a young and gallant officer lost his life, originated in a trifling misunderstanding. in the same barrack, and at a very short time after this fatal meeting (spring of ) one of the most lamentable affairs, which in the annals of dueling is recorded, unfortunately took place. i allude to the fatal encounter between boyd and campbell. the sad story is simply told. the st were quartered in the town of newry, and the half-yearly inspection of the regiment had been made by general kerr--when, as is customary, the general and staff were entertained by the fusileers. the dinner was soon over--the staff retired--the officers went to the play--and none remained in the mess-room, excepting major campbell and captain boyd, the assistant-surgeon, and a lieutenant. campbell, in right of brevet rank, had commanded the regiment in the absence of the colonel--and an argument took place between him and captain boyd, whether a word of command that day used was correctly given. the latter was a person of disagreeable manner--the former a man whose temper was highly excitable--and each personally disliked the other, and were tenacious equally of their own opinions. campbell repudiated the charge of incorrectness and boyd as warmly maintained it. at last a crisis came, "heated with wine, and exasperated by what he conceived a professional insult, campbell left the table, hastened to his apartments, loaded his pistols, returned, sent for captain boyd, brought him to an inner mess-room, closed the door, and without the presence of a friend or witness, demanded instant satisfaction. shots were promptly interchanged, and by the first fire boyd fell, mortally wounded." thank god! for human nature--buckinghams and t----s are not common. before five minutes passed the tornado of wild passion was over, and rushing to the room where the dying man was laid, "a sorry sight!" in macbeth's words, surrounded by his frantic wife and infant family, the homicide knelt at his bed-side, implored forgiveness, and wrung from him a qualified admission that "all was fair." no attempt was made to arrest him, and that night campbell left the town and remained at chelsea with his lady and family for several months, under an assumed name. when the summer assizes were approaching, he determined to surrender and stand his trial; and although his legal advisers warned him that the step was most perilous, he would not be dissuaded, and unhappily persevered. he was, on the th of august, , arraigned for "willful murder," pleaded "not guilty" in the usual form--the fact of the homicide was admitted--and a number of officers, high in rank, attended, and gave the prisoner the highest character for humanity. i did not hear the evidence, and when i came into the court-house the jury for some time had been considering their verdict. the trial had been tedious; twilight had fallen, and the hall of justice, dull at best, was rendered gloomier still from the partial glare of a few candles placed upon the bench, where judge fletcher was presiding. a breathless anxiety pervaded the assembly, and the ominous silence that reigned throughout the court was unbroken by a single whisper. i felt an unusual dread--a sinking of the heart--a difficulty of respiration, and as i looked round the melancholy crowd, my eye rested on the judge. fletcher was a thin, billious-looking being, and his cold and marble features had caught an unearthly expression from the shading produced by the accidental disposition of the candles. i shuddered as i gazed upon him, for the fate of a fellow creature was hanging upon the first words that would issue from the lips of that stern and inflexible old man. from the judge my eyes turned to the criminal, and what a subject the contrast offered to the artist's pencil! in the front of the bar, habited in deep mourning, his arms folded and crossed upon his breast, the homicide was awaiting the word that should seal his destiny. his noble and commanding figure thrown into an attitude of calm determination, was graceful and dignified; and while on every countenance besides a sickening anxiety was visible, neither the quivering of an eyelash, nor a motion of the lip, betrayed on the prisoner's face the appearance of discomposure or alarm. just then a slight noise was heard--a door was slowly and softly opened--one by one the jury returned to their box--the customary question was asked by the clerk of the crown--and--"guilty" was faintly answered, accompanied with a recommendation to mercy. an agonizing pause succeeded--the court was as silent as the grave--the prisoner bowed respectfully to the jury, then planting his foot firmly on the floor, he drew himself up to his full height and calmly listened to his doom. slowly judge fletcher assumed the fatal cap, and all unmoved, he pronounced, and campbell listened to, his sentence. while the short address which sealed the prisoner's fate was being delivered, the silence of the court was only broken by smothered sobs; but when the sounds ceased, and, "lord have mercy on your soul!" issued from the ashy lips of the stern old man, a groan of horror burst from the auditory, and the highland soldiers, who thronged the court, ejaculated a wild "amen," while their flashing eyes betrayed how powerfully the fate of their unhappy countryman had affected them. he was removed from the bar--a doomed man--but no harsh restrictions were imposed upon him, nor was he conducted to the gloomy apartment to which condemned criminals after sentence were then consigned. from the moment the unfortunate duelist had entered the prison gates, his mild and gentlemanly demeanor had won the commiseration of all within; and the governor, confident in the honor of his prisoner, subjected him to no restraint. he occupied the apartments of the keeper, went over the building as he pleased--received his friends--held unrestricted communication with all that sought him--and, in fact, was a captive but in name. no man impersonated the grandeur of byron's beautiful couplet so happily as campbell: when the hour of trial came, "he died as sinful man should die without parade--without display," while, during the painful interval when the seat of mercy was appealed to, and when, as it was generally considered, mercy would have been extended, the most unmoved of all, as post after post brought not the welcome tidings, was campbell. one anecdote is too characteristic to be omitted. the commiseration of all classes was painfully increased by the length of time that elapsed between the trial and death of major campbell. in prison, he received from his friends the most constant and delicate attention; and one lady, the wife of captain ----, seldom left him. she read to him, prepared his meals, cheered his spirits when he drooped, and performed those gentle offices of kindness, so peculiarly the province of a woman. when intelligence arrived that mercy could not be extended, and the law must take its course, she boldly planned an escape from prison; but campbell, when she mentioned it, recoiled from a proposition that must compromise his honor with the keeper. "what," he exclaimed, when assured that otherwise his case was hopeless, "shall i break my faith with him who trusted it? i know my fate, and am prepared to meet it manfully; but never will i deceive the person who confided in my honor." two evenings before he suffered, mrs. ---- was earnestly urging him to escape. the clock struck twelve, and campbell hinted that it was time she should retire. as usual, he accompanied her to the gate; and on entering the keeper's room, they found him fast asleep. campbell placed his finger on his lip. "poor fellow," he said in a whisper, to his fair companion, "would it not be a pity to disturb him?" then taking the keys softly from the table, he unlocked the outer wicket. "campbell," said the lady, "this is the crisis of your fate; this is the moment for your deliverance! horses are in readiness, and--" the convict put his hand upon her mouth. "hush," he replied, as he gently forced her out. "would you have me violate my word of honor?" bidding her "good night," he locked the wicket carefully, replaced the keys, and retired to his chamber without awakening the sleeping jailer! his last hour was passed in prayer, and at noon he was summoned to pass the grand ordeal which concludes the history of the hero and the herdsman. the drop, as it was called, was, in the irish jails, attached to the upper story of the building, a large iron-studded door, which hung against the wall, and was only raised to a parallel position with the door from which the criminal made his last exit, when that concluding ceremony of the law was to be performed. attended by the jail chaplain--one who, in the last bitter trial, clave to the condemned soldier closer than a brother--he steadily mounted the stairs, and entered the execution room. the preliminaries of death were undergone composedly; he bade a long farewell to those around, and stepped firmly on the board. twenty-thousand lookers-on filled the green in front of the prison; and, strange accident! the highland regiment with whom, shoulder to shoulder, he had charged "the invincibles" in egypt, formed a semicircle round the prison. in the north of ireland, all is decorously conducted. when he appeared, a deep and solemn silence awed the multitude; and until he addressed the highlanders in gaelic, a whisper might have been heard in the crowd. to the simple request of "pray for me!" a low deep groan responded, and every bonnet was removed. he dropped a cambric handkerchief--down came the iron-bound door--it sounded over the heads of the silent concourse like a thunder-clap; and, in one minute, as brave a heart as ever beat upon a battle-field, had ceased to throb. peace to the ashes of the brave! if a soldier's life, a christian's end, can atone for the sad consequences of unreining an ungovernable temper, both can be honestly pleaded in extenuating poor campbell's crime. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune.[ ] [ ] continued from the september number. chapter xl. "the chateau of ettenheim." i now come to an incident in my life, of which however briefly i may speak, has left the deepest impression on my memory. i have told the reader how i left kuffstein fully satisfied that the count de marsanne was laura's lover, and that in keeping my promise to see and speak with him, i was about to furnish an instance of self-denial and fidelity that nothing in ancient or modern days could compete with. the letter was addressed, "the count louis de marsanne, chateau d'ettenheim, à bade," and thither i accordingly repaired, traveling over the arlberg to bregenz, and across the lake of constance to freyburg. my passport contained a very few words in cipher, which always sufficed to afford me free transit and every attention from the authorities. i had left the southern tyrol in the outburst of a glorious spring, but as i journeyed northward i found the rivers frozen, the roads encumbered with snow, and the fields untilled and dreary-looking. like all countries which derive their charms from the elements of rural beauty, foliage, and verdure, germany offers a sad-colored picture to the traveler in winter or wintry weather. it was thus then that the grand duchy, so celebrated for its picturesque beauty, struck me as a scene of dreary and desolate wildness, an impression which continued to increase with every mile i traveled from the high road. a long unbroken flat, intersected here and there by stunted willows, traversed by a narrow earth road, lay between the rhine and the taunus mountains, in the midst of which stood the village of "ettenheim." outside the village, about half a mile off, and on the border of a vast pine forest, stood the chateau. it was originally a hunting-seat of the dukes of baden, but, from neglect and disuse, gradually fell into ruin, from which it was reclaimed, imperfectly enough, a year before, and now exhibited some remnants of its former taste, along with the evidences of a far less decorative spirit; the lower rooms being arranged as a stable, while the stair and entrance to the first story opened from a roomy coach-house. here some four or five conveyances of rude construction were gathered together, splashed and unwashed as if from recent use; and at a small stove in a corner was seated a peasant in a blue frock smoking, as he affected to clean a bridle which he held before him. without rising from his seat he saluted me, with true german phlegm, and gave me the "guten tag," with all the grave unconcern of a "badener." i asked if the count de marsanne lived there. he said yes, but the "graf" was out hunting. when would he be back? by nightfall. could i remain there till his return? was my next question, and he stared at me, as i put it, with same surprise. "warum nicht," "why not," was at last his sententious answer, as he made way for me beside the stove. i saw at once that my appearance had evidently not entitled me to any peculiar degree of deference or respect, and that the man regarded me as his equal. it was true i had come some miles on foot, and with a knapsack on my shoulder, so that the peasant was fully warranted in his reception of me. i accordingly seated myself at his side, and, lighting my pipe from his, proceeded to derive all the profit i could from drawing him into conversation. i might have spared myself the trouble. whether the source lay in stupidity or sharpness, he evaded me on every point. not a single particle of information could i obtain about the count, his habits, or his history. he would not even tell me how long he had resided there, nor whence he had come. he liked hunting, and so did the other "herren." there was the whole i could scan, and to the simple fact that there were others with him, did i find myself limited. curious to see something of the count's "interior," i hinted to my companion that i had come on purpose to visit his master, and suggested the propriety of my awaiting his arrival in a more suitable place; but he turned a deaf ear to the hint, and dryly remarked that the "graf would not be long a-coming now." this prediction was, however, not to be verified; the dreary hours of the dull day stole heavily on, and although i tried to beguile the time by lounging about the place, the cold ungenial weather drove me back to the stove, or to the dark precincts of the stable, tenanted by three coarse ponies of the mountain breed. one of these was the graf's favorite, the peasant told me, and indeed here he showed some disposition to become communicative, narrating various gifts and qualities of the unseemly looking animal, which, in his eyes, was a paragon of horse flesh. "he could travel from here to kehl and back in a day, and has often done it," was one meed of praise that he bestowed; a fact which impressed me more as regarded the rider than the beast, and set my curiosity at work to think why any man should undertake a journey of nigh seventy miles between two such places and with such speed. the problem served to occupy me till dark, and i know not how long after. a stormy night of rain and wind set in, and the peasant, having bedded and foraged his cattle, lighted a rickety old lantern and began to prepare for bed; for such i at last saw was the meaning of a long crib, like a coffin, half-filled with straw and sheep skins. a coarse loaf of black bread, some black forest cheese, and a flask of kleinthaler, a most candid imitation of vinegar, made their appearance from a cupboard, and i did not disdain to partake of these delicacies. my host showed no disposition to become more communicative over his wine, and, indeed, the liquor might have excused any degree of reserve; and no sooner was our meal over than, drawing a great woolen cap half over his face, he rolled himself up in his sheep-skins, and betook himself to sleep, if not with a good conscience, at least with a sturdy volition that served just as well. occasionally snatching a short slumber, or walking to and fro in the roomy chamber, i passed several hours, when the splashing sound of horses' feet, advancing up the miry road, attracted me. several times before that i had been deceived by noises which turned out to be the effects of storm, but now, as i listened, i thought i could hear voices. i opened the door, but all was dark outside; it was the inky hour before daybreak, when all is wrapped in deepest gloom. the rain, too, was sweeping along the ground in torrents. the sounds came nearer every instant, and, at last, a deep voice shouted out, "jacob." before i could awaken the sleeping peasant, to whom i judged this summons was addressed, a horseman dashed up to the door and rode in; another as quickly followed him, and closed the door. "parbleu, d'egville," said the first who entered, "we have got a rare peppering!" "even so," said the other, as he shook his hat, and threw off a cloak perfectly soaked with rain; "à la guerre comme, à la guerre." this was said in french, when, turning toward me, the former said in german, "be active, master jacob; these nags have had a smart ride of it." then, suddenly, as the light flashed full on my features, he started back, and said, "how is this--who are you?" a very brief explanation answered this somewhat uncourteous question, and, at the same time, i placed the marquise's letter in his hand, saying, "the count de marsanne, i presume?" he took it hastily, and drew nigh to the lantern to peruse it. i had now full time to observe him, and saw that he was a tall and well-built man, of about seven or eight-and-twenty. his features were remarkably handsome, and, although slightly flushed by his late exertion, were as calm and composed as might be; a short black mustache gave his upper lip a slight character of scorn, but the brow, open, frank, and good-tempered in its expression, redeemed this amply. he had not read many lines when, turning about, he apologized in the most courteous terms for the manner of my reception. he had been on a shooting excursion for a few days back, and taken all his people with him, save the peasant who looked after the cattle. then, introducing me to his friend, whom he called count d'egville, he led the way up-stairs. it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to the dark and dreary coach-house than the comfortable suite of apartments which we now traversed on our way to a large, well-furnished room, where a table was laid for supper, and a huge wood fire blazed brightly on the hearth. a valet, of most respectful manner, received the count's orders to prepare a room for me, after which my host and his friend retired to change their clothes. although d'egville was many years older, and of a graver, sterner fashion than the other, i could detect a degree of deference and respect in his manner toward him, which de marsanne accepted like one well-accustomed to receive it. it was a time, however, when, in the wreck of fortune, so many men lived in a position of mere dependence that i thought nothing of this, nor had i even the time, as count de marsanne entered. from my own preconceived notions as to his being laura's lover, i was quite prepared to answer a hundred impatient inquiries about the marquise and her niece, and as we were now alone, i judged that he would deem the time a favorable one to talk of them. what was my surprise, however, when he turned the conversation exclusively to the topic of my own journey, the route i had traveled. he knew the country perfectly, and spoke of the various towns and their inhabitants with acuteness and tact. his royalist leanings did not, like those of the marquise, debar him from feeling a strong interest respecting the success of the republican troops, with whose leaders he was thoroughly acquainted, knowing all their peculiar excellences and defaults as though he had lived in intimacy with them. of bonaparte's genius he was the most enraptured admirer, and would not hear of any comparison between him and the other great captains of the day. d'egville at last made his appearance, and we sat down to an excellent supper, enlivened by the conversation of our host, who, whatever the theme, talked well and pleasingly. i was in a mood to look for flaws in his character, my jealousy was still urging me to seek for whatever i could find fault with, and yet all my critical shrewdness could only detect a slight degree of pride in his manner, not displaying itself by any presumption, but by a certain urbanity that smacked of condescension; but even this, at last, went off, and before i wished him good-night, i felt that i had never met any one so gifted with agreeable qualities, nor possessed of such captivating manners, as himself. even his royalism had its fascinations, for it was eminently national, and showed, at every moment, that he was far more of a frenchman than a monarchist. we parted without one word of allusion to the marquise or to laura! had this singular fact any influence upon the favorable impression i had conceived of him, or was i unconsciously grateful for the relief thus given to all my jealous tormentings? certain is it that i felt infinitely happier than i ever fancied i should be under his roof, and, as i lay down in my bed, thanked my stars that he was not my rival! when i awoke the next morning i was some minutes before i could remember where i was, and as i still lay, gradually recalling myself to memory, the valet entered to announce the count. "i have come to say adieu for a few hours," said he; "a very pressing appointment requires me to be at pfortzheim to-day, and i have to ask that you will excuse my absence. i know that i may take this liberty without any appearance of rudeness, for the marquise has told me all about you. pray, then, try and amuse yourself till evening, and we shall meet at supper." i was not sorry that d'egville was to accompany him, and, turning on my side, dozed off to sleep away some of the gloomy hours of a winter's day. in this manner several days were passed, the count absenting himself each morning, and returning at nightfall, sometimes accompanied by d'egville, sometimes alone. it was evident enough, from the appearance of his horses at his return, as well as from his own jaded looks, that he had ridden hard and far; but except a chance allusion to the state of the roads or the weather, it was a topic to which he never referred, nor, of course, did i ever advert. meanwhile our intimacy grew closer and franker. the theme of politics, a forbidden subject between men so separated, was constantly discussed between us, and i could not help feeling flattered at the deference with which he listened to opinions from one so much his junior, and so inferior in knowledge as myself. nothing could be more moderate than his views of government, only provided that it was administered by the rightful sovereign. the claim of a king to his throne he declared to be the foundation of all the rights of property, and which, if once shaken or disputed, would inevitably lead to the wildest theories of democratic equality. "i don't want to convert you," would he say, laughingly, "the son of an old _garde du corps_, the born gentleman, has but to live to learn. it may come a little later or a little earlier, but you'll end as a good monarchist." one evening he was unusually late in returning, and when he came was accompanied by seven or eight companions, some younger, some older than himself, but all men whose air and bearing bespoke their rank in life, while their names recalled the thoughts of old french chivalry. i remember among them was a coigny, a grammont, and rouchefoucauld--the last as lively a specimen of parisian wit and brilliancy as ever fluttered along the sunny boulevards. de marsanne, while endeavoring to enjoy himself and entertain his guests, was, to my thinking, more serious than usual, and seemed impatient at d'egville's absence, for whose coming we now waited supper. "i should not wonder if he was lost in the deep mud of those cross-roads," said coigny. "or perhaps he has fallen into the republic," said rouchefoucauld, "it's the only thing dirtier that i know of." "monsieur forgets that i wear its cloth," said i in a low whisper to him; and low as it was de marsanne overheard it. "yes, charles," cried he, "you must apologize, and on the spot, for the rudeness." rouchefoucauld reddened and hesitated. "i insist, sir," cried de marsanne, with a tone of superiority i had never seen him assume before. "perhaps," said he, with a half-sneer, "monsieur de tiernay might refuse to accept my excuses?" "in that case, sir," interposed de marsanne, "the quarrel will become mine, for he is _my_ guest, and lives here under the safeguard of _my_ honor." rouchefoucauld bowed submissively and with the air of a man severely but justly rebuked; and then advancing to me, said, "i beg to tender you my apology, monsieur, for an expression which should never have been uttered by _me_ in _your_ presence." "quite sufficient, sir," said i, bowing, and anxious to conclude a scene which for the first time had disturbed the harmony of our meetings. slight as was the incident, its effects were yet visible in the disconcerted looks of the party, and i could see that more than one glance was directed toward me with an expression of coldness and distrust. "here comes d'egville at last," said one, throwing open the window to listen; the night was starlit, but dark, and the air calm and motionless. "i certainly heard a horse's tread on the causeway." "i hear distinctly the sound of several," cried coigny; "and, if i mistake not much, so does m. de tiernay." this sudden allusion turned every eye toward me, as i stood still, suffering from the confusion of the late scene. "yes; i hear the tramp of horses, and cavalry, too, i should say, by their measured tread." "there was a trumpet call!" cried coigny; "what does that mean?" "it is the signal to take open order," said i, answering as if the question were addressed to myself. "it is a picket taking a 'reconnaissance.'" "how do you know that, sir?" said grammont, sternly. "ay! how does he know that?" cried several, passionately, as they closed around me. "you must ask in another tone, messieurs," said i calmly, "if you expect to be answered." "they mean to say how do you happen to know the german trumpet-calls, tiernay," said de marsanne, mildly, as he laid his hand on my arm. "it's a french signal," said i; "i ought to know it well." before my words were well uttered the door was thrown open, and d'egville burst into the room, pale as death, his clothes all mud-stained and disordered. making his way through the others, he whispered a few words in de marsanne's ear. "impossible!" cried the other; "we are here in the territory of the margrave?" "it is as i say," replied d'egville; "there's not a second to lose--it may be too late even now--by heavens it is!--they've drawn a cordon round the chateau." "what's to be done, gentlemen?" said de marsanne, seating himself calmly, and crossing his arms on his breast. "what do _you_ say, sir?" cried grammont, advancing to me with an air of insolent menace, "_you_, at least, ought to know the way out of this difficulty." "or, by heaven, his own road shall be one of the shortest, considering the length of the journey," muttered another, and i could hear the sharp click of a pistol cock as he spoke the words. "this is unworthy of _you_, gentlemen, and of _me_," said de marsanne, haughtily; and he gazed around him with a look that seemed to abash them, "nor is it a time to hold such disputation. there is another and a very difficult call to answer. are we agreed"--before he could finish the sentence the door was burst open, and several dragoons in french uniforms entered, and ranged themselves across the entrance, while a colonel, with, his sabre drawn, advanced in front of them. "this is brigandage," cried de marsanne, passionately, as he drew his sword, and seemed meditating a spring through them; but he was immediately surrounded by his friends and disarmed. indeed nothing could be more hopeless than resistance; more than double our number were already in the room, while the hoarse murmur of voices without, and the tramp of heavy feet, announced a strong party. at a signal from their officer, the dragoons unslung their carbines, and held them at the cock when the colonel called out, "which of you, messieurs, is the duc d'enghien?" "if you come to arrest him," replied de marsanne, "you ought to have his description in your warrant." "is the descendant of a condé ashamed to own his name?" asked the colonel, with a sneer. "but we'll make short work of it, sirs; i arrest you all. my orders are peremptory, messieurs. if you resist, or attempt to escape--" and he made a significant sign with his hand to finish. the "duc"--for i need no longer call him "de marsanne"--never spoke a word, but with folded arms calmly walked forward, followed by his little household. as we descended the stairs, we found ourselves in the midst of about thirty dismounted dragoons, all on the alert, and prepared for any resistance. the remainder of the squadron were on horseback without. with a file of soldiers on either hand we marched for about a quarter of a mile across the fields to a small mill, where a general officer and his staff seemed awaiting our arrival. here, too, a picket of gens-d'armes was stationed; a character of force significant enough of the meaning of the enterprise. we were hurriedly marched into the court of the mill, the owner of which stood between two soldiers, trembling from head to foot with terror. "which is the duc d'enghien?" asked the colonel of the miller. "that is he with the scarlet vest," and the prince nodded an assent. "your age, monsieur?" asked the colonel of the prince. "thirty-two--that is, i should have been so much in august, were it not for this visit," said he, smiling. the colonel wrote on rapidly for a few minutes, and then showed the paper to the general, who briefly said, "yes, yes; this does not concern you nor me." "i wish to ask, sir," said the prince, addressing the general, "do you make this arrest with the consent of the authorities of this country, or do you do so in defiance of them?" "you must reserve questions like that for the court who will judge you, monsieur de condé," said the officer, roughly. "if you wish for any articles of dress from your quarters, you had better think of them. my orders are to convey you to strassburg. is there any thing so singular in the fact, sir, that you should look so much astonished?" "there is, indeed," said the prince, sorrowfully. "i shall be the first of my house who ever crossed that frontier a prisoner." "but not the first who carried arms against his country," rejoined the other, a taunt the duke only replied to by a look of infinite scorn and contempt. with a speed that told plainly the character of the expedition, we were now placed, two together, on country cars, and driven at a rapid pace toward strassburg. relays of cattle awaited us on the road, and we never halted but for a few minutes during the entire journey. my companion on this dreary day was the baron de st. jacques, the aid-de-camp to the duke; but he never spoke once--indeed he scarcely lifted his head during the whole road. heaven knows it was a melancholy journey; and neither the country nor the season were such as to lift the mind from sorrow; and yet, strange enough, the miles glided over rapidly, and to this hour i can not remember by what magic the way seemed so short. the thought that for several days back i had been living in closest intimacy with a distinguished prince of the bourbon family, that we had spent hours together discussing themes and questions which were those of his own house; canvassing the chances and weighing the claims of which he was himself the asserter--was a most exciting feeling. how i recalled now all the modest deference of his manner--his patient endurance of my crude opinions--his generous admissions regarding his adversaries--and, above all, his ardent devotion to france, whatever the hand that swayed her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character, blended with an almost girlish tenderness--how princely were such traits? from these thoughts i wandered on to others about his arrest and capture, from which, however, i could not believe any serious issue was to come. bonaparte is too noble minded not to feel the value of such a life as this. men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. but what will be done with him?--what with his followers?--and lastly, not at all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of maurice tiernay, who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious company, and without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? this last thought just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of boats, and entered strassburg. chapter xli. an "ordinary" acquaintance. the duc d'enghien and his aid-de-camp were forwarded with the utmost speed to paris; the remainder of us were imprisoned at strassburg. what became of my companions i know not; but i was sent on, along with a number of others, about a month later, to nancy, to be tried by a military commission. i may mention it here, as a singular fact illustrating the secrecy of the period, that it was not till long after this time i learned the terrible fate of the poor prince de condé. had i known it, it is more than probable that i should have utterly despaired of my own safety. the dreadful story of vincennes--the mock trial, and the midnight execution--are all too well known to my readers; nor is it necessary i should refer to an event, on which i myself can throw no new light. that the sentence was determined on before his arrest--and that the grave was dug while the victim was still sleeping the last slumber before "the sleep that knows not waking"--the evidences are strong and undeniable. but an anecdote which circulated at the time, and which, so far as i know, has never appeared in print, would seem to show that there was complicity, at least, in the crime, and that the secret was not confined to the first consul's breast. on that fatal night of the th march, talleyrand was seated at a card-table at caulaincourt's house at paris. the party was about to rise from play, when suddenly the "pendule" on the chimney-piece struck two. it was in one of those accidental pauses in the conversation when any sound is heard with unusual distinctness. talleyrand started, as he heard it, and then turning to caulaincourt, whispered, "yes; 'tis all over now?" words which, accidentally overheard, without significance, were yet to convey a terrible meaning when the dreadful secret of that night was disclosed. if the whole of europe was convulsed by the enormity of this crime--the foulest that stains the name of bonaparte--the parisians soon forgot it, in the deeper interest of the great event that was now approaching--the assumption of the imperial title by napoleon. the excitement on this theme was so great and absorbing, that nothing else was spoken or thought of. private sorrows and afflictions were disregarded and despised, and to obtrude one's hardships on the notice of others seemed, at this juncture, a most ineffable selfishness. that i, a prisoner, friendless and unknown as i was, found none to sympathize with me or take interest in my fate, is, therefore, nothing extraordinary. in fact, i appeared to have been entirely forgotten; and though still in durance, nothing was said either of the charge to be preferred against me, nor the time when i should be brought to trial. giacourt, an old lieutenant of the marines, and at that time deputy-governor of the temple, was kind and good-natured toward me, occasionally telling of the events which were happening without, and giving me the hope that some general amnesty would, in all likelihood, liberate all those whose crimes were not beyond the reach of mercy. the little cell i occupied--and to giacourt's kindness i owed the sole possession of it--looked out upon the tall battlements of the outer walls, which excluded all view beyond, and thus drove me within myself for occupation and employment. in this emergency i set about to write some notices of my life--some brief memoirs of those changeful fortunes which had accompanied me from boyhood. many of those incidents which i relate now, and many of those traits of mind or temper that i recall, were then for the first time noted down, and thus graven on my memory. my early boyhood, my first experiences as a soldier, the campaign of the "schwarzwald," ireland, and genoa, all were mentioned, and, writing as i did, solely for myself and my own eyes, i set down many criticisms on the generals, and their plans of campaign, which, if intended for the inspection of others, would have been the greatest presumption and impertinence, and in this way moreau, hoche, massena, and even bonaparte, came in for a most candid and impartial criticism. how germany might have been conquered; how ireland ought to have been invaded; in what way italy should have been treated, and lastly, the grand political error of the seizure of duc d'enghein, were subjects that i discussed and determined with consummate boldness and self-satisfaction. i am almost overwhelmed with shame, even now, as i think of that absurd chronicle, with its rash judgments, its crude opinions and its pretentious decisions. so fascinated had i become with my task, that i rose early to resume it each morning, and used to fall asleep, cogitating on the themes for the next day, and revolving within myself all the passages of interest i should commemorate. a man must have known imprisonment to feel all the value that can be attached to any object, no matter how mean or insignificant, that can employ the thoughts, amuse the fancy, or engage the affections. the narrow cell expands under such magic, the barred casement is a free portal to the glorious sun and the free air; the captive himself is but the student bending over his allotted task. to this happy frame of mind had i come, without a thought or a wish beyond the narrow walls at either side of me, when a sad disaster befell me. on awaking one morning, as usual, to resume my labor, my manuscript was gone! the table and writing materials, all had disappeared, and, to increase my discomfiture, the turnkey informed me that lieutenant giacourt had been removed from his post, and sent off to some inferior station in the provinces. i will not advert to the dreary time which followed this misfortune, a time in which the hours passed on unmeasured and almost unfelt. without speculation, without a wish, i passed my days in a stupid indolence akin to torpor. had the prison doors been open, i doubt if i should have had the energy to make my escape. life itself ceased to have any value for me, but somehow i did not desire death. i was in this miserable mood when the turnkey awoke me one day as i was dozing on my bed. "get up and prepare yourself to receive a visitor," said he. "there's an officer of the staff without, come to see you;" and, as he spoke, a young, slightly-formed man entered, in the uniform of a captain, who, making a sign for the turnkey to withdraw, took his seat at my bedside. "don't get up, monsieur; you look ill and weak, so, pray, let me not disturb you," said he, in a voice of kindly meaning. "i am not ill," said i, with an effort, but my hollow utterance and my sunken cheeks contradicted my words, "but i have been sleeping; i usually doze at this hour." "the best thing a man can do in prison, i suppose," said he, smiling good-naturedly. "no, not the best," said i, catching up his words too literally. "i used to write the whole day long, till they carried away my paper and my pens." "it is just of that very thing i have come to speak, sir," resumed he. "you intended that memoir for publication!" "no; never." "then for private perusal among a circle of friends." "just as little. i scarcely know three people in the world who would acknowledge that title." "you had an object, however, in composing it?" "yes; to occupy thought; to save me from--from--" i hesitated, for i was ashamed of the confession that nearly burst from me, and, after a pause, i said, "from being such as i now am?" "you wrote it for yourself alone, then?" "yes." "unprompted; without any suggestions from another?" "is it here?" said i, looking around my cell, "is it here that i should be likely to find a fellow-laborer?" "no; but i mean to ask, were the sentiments your own, without any external influence, or any persuasions from others?" "quite my own." "and the narrative is true?" "strictly so, i believe." "even to your meeting with the duc d'enghien. it was purely accidental?" "that is, i never knew him to be the duke till the moment of his arrest?" "just so; you thought he was merely a royalist noble. then, why did you not address a memoir to that effect to the minister?" "i thought it would be useless; when they made so little of a condé, what right had i to suppose they would think much about me?" "if _he_ could have proved his innocence"--he stopped, and then in an altered voice said--"but as to this memoir, you assume considerable airs of military knowledge in it, and many of the opinions smack of heads older than yours." "they are, i repeat, my own altogether; as to their presumption, i have already told you they were intended solely for my own eye." "so that you are not a royalist?" "no." "never were one?" "never." "in what way would you employ yourself, if set at liberty to-day." i stared, and felt confused; for however easy i found it to refer to the past, and reason on it, any speculation as to the future was a considerable difficulty. "you hesitate; you have not yet made up your mind, apparently?" "it is not that; i am trying to think of liberty, trying to fancy myself free--but i can not!" said i, with a weary sigh; "the air of this cell has sapped my courage and my energy--a little more will finish the ruin!" "and yet you are not much above four or five-and-twenty years of age?" "not yet twenty!" said i. "come, come, tiernay--this is too early to be sick of life!" said he, and the kind tone touched me so that i burst into tears. they were bitter tears, too; for while my heart was relieved by this gush of feeling, i was ashamed at my own weakness. "come, i say," continued he, "this memoir of yours might have done you much mischief--happily it has not done so. give me the permission to throw it in the fire, and, instead of it, address a respectful petition to the head of the state, setting forth your services, and stating the casualty by which you were implicated in royalism. i will take care that it meets his eye, and, if possible, will support its prayer; above all, ask for reinstatement in your grade, and a return to the service. it may be, perhaps, that you can mention some superior officer who would vouch for your future conduct." "except colonel mahon." "not the colonel mahon who commanded the th cuirassiers?" "the same!" "that name would little serve you," said he, coldly, "he has been placed 'en retraite' some time back; and if your character can call no other witness than him, your case is not too favorable." he saw that the speech had disconcerted me, and soon added, "never mind--keep to the memoir; state your case, and your apology, and leave the rest to fortune. when can you let me have it?" "by to-morrow--to-night, if necessary." "to-morrow will do well, and so good-by. i will order them to supply you with writing materials;" and slapping me good-naturedly on the shoulder, he cried, "courage, my lad," and departed. before i lay down to sleep that night, i completed my "memoir," the great difficulty of which i found to consist in that dry brevity which i knew bonaparte would require. in this, however, i believe i succeeded at last, making the entire document not to occupy one sheet of paper. the officer had left his card of address, which i found was inscribed monsieur bourrienne, rue lafitte, a name that subsequently was to be well known to the world. i directed my manuscript to his care, and lay down with a lighter heart than i had known for many a day. i will not weary my reader with the tormenting vacillations of hope and fear which followed. day after day went over, and no answer came to me. i addressed two notes respectful, but urgent, begging for some information as to my demand--none came. a month passed thus, when, one morning, the governor of the temple entered my room with an open letter in his hand. "this is an order for your liberation, monsieur de tiernay," said he; "you are free." "am i reinstated in my grade?" asked i, eagerly. he shook his head, and said nothing. "is there no mention of my restoration to the service?" "none, sir." "then, what is to become of me--to what end am i liberated?" cried i, passionately. "paris is a great city, there is a wide world beyond it, and a man so young as you are must have few resources, or he will carve out a good career for himself." "say, rather, he must have few resentments, sir," cried i, bitterly, "or he will easily hit upon a bad one;" and with this, i packed up the few articles i possessed, and prepared to depart. i remember it well; it was between two and three o'clock of the afternoon, on a bright day in spring, that i stood on the quai voltaire, a very small packet of clothes in a bundle in one hand, and a cane in the other, something short of three louis in my purse, and as much depression in my heart as ever settled down in that of a youth not full nineteen. liberty is a glorious thing, and mine had been periled often enough, to give me a hearty appreciation of its blessing; but at that moment, as i stood friendless and companionless in a great thoroughfare of a great city, i almost wished myself back again within the dreary walls of the temple, for somehow it felt like home! it is true one must have had a lonely lot in life before he could surround the cell of a prison with such attributes as these! perhaps i have more of the cat-like affection for a particular spot than most men; but i do find that i attach myself to the walls with a tenacity that strengthens as i grow older, and like my brother parasite, the ivy, my grasp becomes more rigid the longer i cling. if i know of few merely sensual gratifications higher than a lounge through paris, at the flood-tide of its population, watching the varied hues and complexions of its strange inhabitants, displaying, as they do in feature, air, and gesture, so much more of character and purpose than other people, so also do i feel that there is something indescribably miserable in being alone, unknown, and unnoticed in that vast throng, destitute of means for the present, and devoid of hope for the future. some were bent on business, some on pleasure; some were evidently bent on killing time till the hour of more agreeable occupation should arrive; some were loitering along, gazing at the prints in shop-windows, or half-listlessly stopping to read at book-stalls. there was not only every condition of mankind, from wealth to mendicancy, but every frame of mind from enjoyment to utter "ennui," and yet i thought i could not hit upon any one individual who looked as forlorn and cast away as myself; however, there were many who passed me that day who would gladly have changed fortune with me, but it would have been difficult to persuade me of the fact, in the mood i then was. at the time i speak of, there was a species of cheap ordinary held in the open air on the quay, where people of the humblest condition used to dine; i need scarcely describe the fare; the reader may conceive what it was, which, wine included, cost only four sous; a rude table without a cloth; some wooden platters, and an iron rail to which the knives and forks were chained, formed the "equipage," the cookery bearing a due relation to the elegance of these "accessories." as for the company, if not polite, it was certainly picturesque; consisting of laborers of the lowest class, the sweepers of crossings, hackney-cab men out of employ, that poorest of the poor who try to earn a livelihood by dragging the seine for lost articles, and finally, the motley race of idlers who vacillate between beggary and ballad singing, with now and then a dash at highway robbery for a "distraction;" a class, be it said without paradox, which in paris includes a considerable number of tolerably honest folk. the moment was the eventful one, in which france was about once more to become a monarchy, and as may be inferred from the character of the people, it was a time of high excitement and enthusiasm. the nation, even in its humblest citizen, seemed to feel some of the reflected glory that glanced from the great achievements of bonaparte, and his elevation was little other than a grand manifestation of national self-esteem. that he knew how to profit by this sentiment, and incorporate his own with the country's glory, so that they seemed to be inseparable, is not among the lowest nor the least of the efforts of his genius. the paroxysm of national vanity, for it was indeed no less, imparted a peculiar character to the period. a vainglorious, boastful spirit was abroad; men met each other with high sounding gratulations about french greatness and splendor, the sway we wielded over the rest of europe, and the influence with which we impressed our views over the entire globe. since the fall of the monarchy there had been half-a-dozen national fevers! there was the great fraternal and equality one; there was the era of classical associations, with all their train of trumpery affectation in dress and manner. then came the conquering spirit, with the flattering spectacle of great armies; and now, as if to complete the cycle, there grew up that exaggerated conception of "france and her mission," an unlucky phrase that has since done plenty of mischief, which seemed to carry the nation into the seventh heaven of overweening self-love. if i advert to this here, it is but passingly, neither stopping to examine its causes nor seeking to inquire the consequences that ensued from it, but, as it were, chronicling the fact as it impressed me as i stood that day on the quai voltaire, perhaps the only unimpassioned lounger along its crowded thoroughfare. not even the ordinary "à quatre sous" claimed exemption from this sentiment. it might be supposed that meagre diet and sour wine were but sorry provocatives to national enthusiasm, but even they could minister to the epidemic ardor, and the humble dishes of that frugal board masqueraded under titles that served to feed popular vanity. of this i was made suddenly aware as i stood looking over the parapet into the river, and heard the rude voices of the laborers as they called for cutlets "à la caire," potatoes "en mamelouques," or roast beef "à la montenotte," while every goblet of their wine was tossed off to some proud sentiment of national supremacy. amused by the scene, so novel in all its bearings, i took my place at the table, not sorry for the excuse to myself for partaking so humble a repast. "sacre bleu," cried a rough-looking fellow with a red night-cap set on one side of the head, "make room there, we have the 'aristocrates' coming down among us." "monsieur is heartily welcome," said another, making room for me; "we are only flattered by such proofs of confidence and esteem." "ay, parbleu," cried a third. "the empire is coming, and we shall be well-bred and well-mannered. i intend to give up the river, and take to some more gentlemanlike trade than drudging for dead men." "and i, i'll never sharpen any thing under a rapier or a dress-sword for the court," said a knife-grinder; "we have been living like 'cannaille' hitherto--nothing better." "Ã� l'empire, à l'empire," shouted half-a-dozen voices in concert, and the glasses were drained to the toast with a loud cheer. directly opposite to me sat a thin, pale, mild-looking man, of about fifty, in a kind of stuff robe, like the dress of a village curate. his appearance, though palpably poor, was venerable and imposing--not the less so, perhaps, from its contrast with the faces and gestures at either side of him. once or twice, while these ebullitions of enthusiasm burst forth, his eyes met mine, and i read, or fancied that i read, a look of kindred appreciation in their mild and gentle glance. the expression was less reproachful than compassionate, as though in pity for the ignorance rather than in reprobation for the folly. now, strangely enough, this was precisely the very sentiment of my own heart at that moment. i remembered a somewhat similar enthusiasm for republican liberty, by men just as unfitted to enjoy it; and i thought to myself the empire, like the convention, or the directory, is a mere fabulous conception to these poor fellows, who, whatever may be the regime, will still be hewers of wood and drawers of water, to the end of all time. as i was pondering over this, i felt something touch my arm, and on turning perceived that my opposite neighbor had now seated himself at my side, and, in a low, soft voice, was bidding me "good-day." after one or two commonplace remarks upon the weather and the scene, he seemed to feel that some apology for his presence in such a place was needful, for he said: "you are here, monsieur, from a feeling of curiosity, that, i see well enough; but i come for a very different reason. i am the pastor of a mountain village of the ardêche, and have come to paris in search of a young girl, the daughter of one of my flock, who, it is feared, has been carried off by some evil influence from her home and her friends, to seek fortune and fame in this rich capital; for she is singularly beautiful and gifted too, sings divinely, and improvises poetry with a genius that seems inspiration." there was a degree of enthusiasm, blended with simplicity, in the poor curé's admiration for his "lost sheep" that touched me deeply. he had been now three weeks in vain pursuit, and was at last about to return homeward, discomfited and unsuccessful. "lisette" was the very soul of the little hamlet, and he knew not how life was to be carried on there without her. the old loved her as a daughter; the young were rivals for her regard. "and to me," said the père, "whom, in all the solitude of my lonely lot, literature, and especially poetry, consoles many an hour of sadness or melancholy--to me, she was like a good angel, her presence diffusing light as she crossed my humble threshold, and elevating my thoughts above the little crosses and accidents of daily life." so interested had i become in this tale, that i listened while he told every circumstance of the little locality; and walking along at his side, i wandered out of the city, still hearing of "la marche," as the village was called, till i knew the ford where the blacksmith lived, and the miller with the cross wife, and the lame schoolmaster, and pierre the postmaster, who read out the _moniteur_ each evening under the elms, even to jacques fulgeron the "tapageur," who had served at jemappes, and, with his wounded hand and his waxed mustache, was the terror of all peaceable folk. "you should come and see us, my dear monsieur," said he to me, as i showed some more than common interest in the narrative. "you, who seem to study character, would find something better worth the notice than these hardened natures of city life. come, and spend a week or two with me, and if you do not like our people and their ways, i am but a sorry physiognomist." it is needless to say that i was much flattered by this kind proof of confidence and good-will; and, finally, it was agreed upon between us that i should aid him in his search for three days, after which, if still unsuccessful, we should set out together for la marche. it was easy to see that the poor curé was pleased at my partnership in the task, for there were several public places of resort--theatres, "spectacles," and the like--to which he scrupled to resort, and these he now willingly conceded to my inspection, having previously given me so accurate a description of la lisette, that i fancied i should recognize her among a thousand. if her long black eyelashes did not betray her, her beautiful teeth were sure to do so; or, if i heard her voice, there could be no doubt then; and, lastly, her foot would as infallibly identify her as did cinderella's. for want of better, it was agreed upon that we should make the restaurant à quatre sous our rendezvous each day, to exchange our confidences and report progress. it will scarcely be believed how even this much of a pursuit diverted my mind from its own dark dreamings, and how eagerly my thoughts pursued the new track that was opened to them. it was the utter listlessness, the nothingness of my life, that was weighing me down; and already i saw an escape from this in the pursuit of a good object. i could wager that the pastor of la marche never thought so intensely, so uninterruptedly, of lisette as did i for the four-and-twenty hours that followed! it was not only that i had created her image to suit my fancy, but i had invented a whole narrative of her life and adventures since her arrival in paris. my firm conviction being that it was lost time to seek for her in obscure and out-of-the-way quarters of the city, i thought it best to pursue the search in the thronged and fashionable resorts of the gay world, the assemblies and theatres. strong in this conviction, i changed one of my three gold pieces, to purchase a ticket for the opera. the reader may smile at the sacrifice; but when he who thinks four sous enough for a dinner, pays twelve francs for the liberty to be crushed in the crowded parterre of a play-house, he is indeed buying pleasure at a costly price. it was something more than a fifth of all i possessed in the world, but, after all, my chief regret arose from thinking that it left me so few remaining "throws of the dice" for "fortune." i have often reflected since that day by what a mere accident i was present, and yet the spectacle was one that i have never forgotten. it was the last time the first consul appeared in public, before his assumption of the imperial title; and at no period through all his great career was the enthusiasm more impassioned regarding him. he sat in the box adjoining the stage--cambaceres and lebrun, with a crowd of others, standing, and not sitting, around and behind his chair. when he appeared, the whole theatre rose to greet him, and three several times was he obliged to rise and acknowledge the salutations. and with what a stately condescension did he make these slight acknowledgments!--what haughtiness was there in the glance he threw around him. i have often heard it said, and i have seen it also written, that previous to his assumption of the crown, bonaparte's manner exhibited the mean arts and subtle devices of a candidate on the hustings, dispensing all the flatteries and scattering all the promises that such occasions are so prolific of. i can not, of course, pretend to contradict this statement positively; but i can record the impression which that scene made upon me as decidedly the opposite of this assumption. i have repeatedly seen him since that event, but never do i remember his calm, cold features more impassively stern, more proudly collected, than on that night. every allusion of the piece that could apply to him was eagerly caught up. not a phrase nor a chance word that could compliment, was passed over in silence; and if greatness and glory were accorded, as if by an instinctive reverence, the vast assemblage turned toward him, to lay their homage at his feet. i watched him narrowly, and could see that he received them all as his rightful tribute, the earnest of the debt the nation owed him. among the incidents of that night, i remember one which actually for the moment convulsed the house with its enthusiasm. one of the officers of his suite had somehow ambled against bonaparte's hat, which, on entering, he had thrown carelessly beside his chair. stooping down and lifting it up, he perceived to whom it belonged, and then remarking the mark of a bullet on the edge, he showed it significantly to a general near him. slight and trivial as was the incident, it was instantly caught up by the _parterre_. a low murmur ran quickly around, and then a sudden cheer burst forth, for some one remembered it was the anniversary of marengo! and now the excitement became madness, and reiterated shouts proclaimed that the glory of that day was among the proudest memories of france. for once, and once only, did any trait of feeling show itself on that impassive face. i thought i could mark even a faint tinge of color in that sallow cheek, as in recognition he bowed a dignified salute to the waving and agitated assembly. i saw that proud face, at moments when human ambition might have seemed to have reached its limit, and yet never with a haughtier look than on that night i speak of. his foot was already on the first step of the throne, and his spirit seemed to swell with the conscious force of coming greatness. and lisette, all this time? alas, i had totally forgotten her! as the enthusiasm around me began to subside, i had time to recover myself, and look about me. there was much beauty and splendor to admire. madame junot was there, and mademoiselle de bessieres, with a crowd of others less known, but scarcely less lovely. not one, however, could i see that corresponded with my mind-drawn portrait of the peasant-beauty; and i scanned each face closely and critically. there was female loveliness of every type, from the dark-eyed beauty of spanish race, to the almost divine regularity of a raffaelite picture. there was the brilliant aspect of fashion, too; but nowhere could i see what i sought for! nowhere detect that image which imagination had stamped as that of the beauty of "la marche." if disappointed in my great object, i left the theatre with my mind full of all i had witnessed. the dreadful event of ettenheim had terribly shaken bonaparte, in my esteem; yet how resist the contagious devotion of a whole nation--how remain cold in the midst of the burning zeal of all france? these thoughts brought me to the consideration of myself. was i, or was i not, any longer a soldier of his army? or was i disqualified for joining in that burst of national enthusiasm which proclaimed that all france was ready to march under his banner? to-morrow i'll wait upon the minister of war, thought i, or i'll seek out the commanding officer of some regiment that i know, or, at least, a comrade; and so i went on, endeavoring to frame a plan for my guidance, as i strolled along the streets, which were now almost deserted. the shops were all closed; of the hotels, such as were yet open, were far too costly for means like mine; and so, as the night was calm and balmy with the fresh air of spring, i resolved to pass it out of doors. i loitered then along the champs elysees; and, at length, stretching myself on the grass beneath the trees, lay down to sleep. "an odd bedroom enough," thought i, "for one who has passed the evening at the opera, and who has feasted his ears at the expense of his stomach." i remembered, too, another night, when the sky had been my canopy in paris, when i slept beneath the shadow of the guillotine and the place de grève. "well," thought i, "times are at least changed for the better, since that day; and my own fortunes are certainly not lower." this comforting reflection closed my waking memories, and i slept soundly till morning. chapter xlii. the "count de maurepas," alias ---- there is a wide gulf between him who opens his waking eyes in a splendid chamber, and with half-drowsy thoughts speculates on the pleasures of the coming day, and him, who, rising from the dew-moistened earth, stretches his aching limbs for a second or so, and then hurries away to make his toilet at the nearest fountain. i have known both conditions, and yet, without being thought paradoxical, i would wish to say that there are some sensations attendant on the latter and the humbler lot which i would not exchange for all the voluptuous ease of the former. let there be but youth and there is something of heroism, something adventurous in the notion of thus alone and unaided breasting the wide ocean of life, and, like a hardy swimmer, daring to stem the roughest breakers without one to succor him, that is worth all the security that even wealth can impart, all the conscious ease that luxury and affluence can supply. in a world and an age like ours, thought i, there must surely be some course for one young, active, and daring as i am. even if france reject me there are countries beyond the seas where energy and determination will open a path. "courage, maurice," said i, as i dashed the sparkling water over my head, "the past has not been all inglorious, and the future may prove even better." a roll and a glass of iced water furnished my breakfast, after which i set forth in good earnest on my search. there was a sort of self-flattery in the thought that one so destitute as i was could devote his thoughts and energies to the service of another, that pleased me greatly. it was so "unselfish"--at least i thought so. alas, and alas! how egotistical are we when we fancy ourselves least so. that day i visited st. roche and notre dame at early mass, and by noon reached the louvre, the gallery of which occupied me till the hour of meeting the curé drew nigh. punctual to his appointment, i found him waiting for me at the corner of the quay, and although disappointed at the failure of all his efforts, he talked away with all the energy of one who would not suffer himself to be cast down by adverse fortune. "i feel," said he, "a kind of instinctive conviction that we shall find her yet. there is something tells me that all our pains shall not go unrewarded. have you never experienced a sensation of this kind--a species of inward prompting to pursue a road, to penetrate into a pass, or to explore a way, without exactly knowing why or wherefore?" this question, vague enough as it seemed, led me to talk about myself and my own position; a theme which, however much i might have shrunk from introducing, when once opened, i spoke of in all the freedom of old friendship. nothing could be more delicate than the priest's manner during all this time; nor even when his curiosity was highest did he permit himself to ask a question or an explanation of any difficulty that occurred; and while he followed my recital with a degree of interest that was most flattering, he never ventured on a word or dropped a remark that might seem to urge me to greater frankness. "do you know," said he, at last, "why your story has taken such an uncommon hold upon my attention. it is not from its adventurous character, nor from the stirring and strange scenes you have passed through. it is because your old pastor and guide, the père delamoy, was my own dearest friend, my school companion and playfellow from infancy. we were both students at louvain together; both called to the priesthood on the same day. think, then, of my intense delight at hearing his dear name once more; ay, and permit me to say it, hearing from the lips of another the very precepts and maxims that i can recognize as his own. "ah, yes! _mon cher_ maurice," cried he, grasping my hand in a burst of enthusiasm, "disguise it how you may, cover it up under the uniform of a 'bleu,' bury it beneath the shako of the soldier of the republic, but the head and the heart will turn to the ancient altars of the church and the monarchy. it is not alone that your good blood suggests this, but all your experience of life goes to prove it. think of poor michel, self-devoted, generous, and noble-hearted; think of that dear cottage at kuffstein, where, even in poverty, the dignity of birth and blood threw a grace and an elegance over daily life; think of ettenheim and the glorious prince--the last condé--and who now sleeps in his narrow bed in the fosse of vincennes!" "how do you mean?" said i, eagerly, for up to this time i knew nothing of his fate. "come along with me and you shall know it all," said he; and, rising, he took my arm, and we sauntered along out of the crowded street, till we reached the boulevards. he then narrated to me every incident of the midnight trial, the sentence, and the execution. from the death-warrant that came down ready-filled from paris, to the grave dug while the victim was yet sleeping, he forgot nothing; and i own that my very blood ran cold at the terrible atrocity of that dark murder. it was already growing dusk when he had finished, and we parted hurriedly, as he was obliged to be at a distant quarter of paris by eight o'clock, again agreeing to meet, as before, on the quai voltaire. from that moment till we met the following day the duc d'enghien was never out of my thoughts, and i was impatient for the priest's presence that i might tell him every little incident of our daily life at ettenheim, the topics we used to discuss, and the opinions he expressed on various subjects. the eagerness of the curé to listen stimulated me to talk on, and i not only narrated all that i was myself a witness of, but various other circumstances which were told to me by the prince himself; in particular an incident he mentioned to me one day of being visited by a stranger who came, introduced by a letter from a very valued friend; his business being to propose to the duke a scheme for the assassination of bonaparte. at first the prince suspected the whole as a plot against himself, but on further questioning he discovered that the man's intentions were really such as he professed them, and offered his services in the conviction that no price could be deemed too high to reward him. it is needless to say that the offer was rejected with indignation, and the prince dismissed the fellow with the threat of delivering him up to the government of the french consul. the pastor heard this anecdote with deep attention, and, for the first time, diverging from his line of cautious reserve, he asked me various questions as to when the occurrence had taken place, and where? if the prince had communicated the circumstance to any other than myself, and whether he had made it the subject of any correspondence. i knew little more than i had already told him: that the offer was made while residing at ettenheim, and during the preceding year, were facts, however, that i could remember. "you are surprised, perhaps," said he, "at the interest i feel in all this, but, strangely enough, there is here in paris at this moment one of the great 'seigneurs' of the ardèche; he has come up to the capital for medical advice, and he was a great, perhaps the greatest friend of the poor duke. what if you were to come and pay him a visit with me, there is not probably one favor the whole world could bestow he would value so highly. you must often have heard his name from the prince; has he not frequently spoken of the count de maurepas?" i could not remember having ever heard the name. "it is historical, however," said the curé, "and even in our own days has not derogated from its ancient chivalry. have you not heard how a noble of the court rode postillion to the king's carriage on the celebrated escape from varennes? well, even for curiosity's sake, he is worth a visit, for this is the very count henry de maurepas, now on the verge of the grave!" if the good curé had known me all my life he could not more successfully have baited a trap for my curiosity. to see and know remarkable people, men who had done something out of the ordinary route of every-day life, had been a passion with me from boyhood. hero-worship was indeed a great feature in my character, and has more or less influenced all my career, nor was i insensible to the pleasure of doing a kind action. it was rare, indeed, that one so humbly placed could ever confer a favor, and i grasped with eagerness the occasion to do so. we agreed, then, on the next afternoon, toward nightfall, to meet at the quay, and proceed together to the count's residence. i have often reflected, since that day, that lisette's name was scarcely ever mentioned by either of us during this interview; and yet, at the time, so preoccupied were my thoughts, i never noticed the omission. the chateau of ettenheim, and its tragic story, filled my mind to the exclusion of all else. i pass over the long and dreary hours that intervened, and come at once to the time, a little after sunset, when we met at our accustomed rendezvous. the curé had provided a "fiacre" for the occasion, as the count's residence was about two leagues from the city, on the way to belleville. as we trotted along, he gave me a most interesting account of the old noble, whose life had been one continued act of devotion to the monarchy. "it will be difficult," said he, "for you to connect the poor, worn-out, shattered wreck before you, with all that was daring in deed and chivalrous in sentiment; but the 'maurepas' were well upheld in all their glorious renown, by him who is now to be the last of the race! you will see him reduced by suffering and sickness, scarcely able to speak, but be assured that you will have his gratitude for this act of true benevolence." thus chatting we rattled along over the paved highway, and at length entered upon a deep clay road which conducted us to a spacious park, with a long straight avenue of trees, at the end of which stood what, even in the uncertain light, appeared a spacious chateau. the door lay open, and as we descended a servant in plain clothes received us, and, after a whispered word or two from the curé ushered us along through a suite of rooms into a large chamber furnished like a study. there were book shelves well filled, and a writing table covered with papers and letters, and the whole floor was littered with newspapers and journals. a lamp, shaded by a deep gauze cover, threw a half light over every thing, nor was it until we had been nearly a couple of minutes in the room that we became aware of the presence of the count, who lay upon a sofa covered up in a fur pelisse, although the season was far advanced in spring. his gentle "good evening, messieurs," was the first warning we had of his presence, and the curé, advancing respectfully, presented me as his young friend, monsieur de tiernay. "it is not the first time that i hear that name," said the sick man, with a voice of singular sweetness. "it is chronicled in the annals of our monarchy. ay, sir, i knew that faithful servant of his king, who followed his master to the scaffold." "my father," cried i, eagerly. "i knew him well," continued he. "i may say, without vaunting, that i had it in my power to befriend him, too. he made an imprudent marriage; he was unfortunate in the society his second wife's family threw him among. they were not his equals in birth, and far beneath him in sentiment and principle. well, well," sighed he, "this is not a theme for me to speak of, nor for you to hear; tell me of yourself. the curé says that you have had more than your share of worldly vicissitudes. there, sit down, and let me hear your story from your own lips." he pointed to a seat at his side, and i obeyed him at once, for, somehow, there was an air of command even in the gentlest tones of his voice, and i felt that his age and his sufferings were not the only claims he possessed to influence those around him. with all the brevity in my power, my story lasted for above an hour, during which time the count only interrupted me once or twice by asking to which colonel mahon i referred, as there were two of the name? and again, by inquiring in what circumstances the _emigré_ families were living as to means, and whether they appeared to derive any of their resources from france? these were points i could give no information upon, and i plainly perceived that the count had no patience for a conjecture, and that, where positive knowledge failed, he instantly passed on to something else. when i came to speak of ettenheim his attention became fixed, not suffering the minutest circumstance to escape him, and even asking for the exact description of the locality, and its distance from the towns in the neighborhood. the daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once or twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being able to travel from strassburg without a halt. i vow it puzzled me why he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more interest, but i set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought no more of them. his daily life, his conversation, the opinions he expressed about france, the questions he used to ask, were all matters he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the meditated assassination of bonaparte. this he made me tell him twice over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, i could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for the deed? this i could not; indeed i knew not if i had ever heard it. "but the prince rejected the proposal?" said he, peering at me beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brow; "he would not hear of it?" "of course not," cried i; "he even threatened to denounce the man to the government." "and do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?" asked he, slowly. "i am certain of it. the horror and disgust he expressed when reciting the story were a guarantee for what he would have done." "but yet bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race," said the count. "it is not a condé can right himself by a murder," said i as calmly. "how i like that burst of generous royalism, young man!" said he, grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. "that steadfast faith in the honor of a bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!" now, although i was not, so far as i knew of, any thing of a royalist--the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes--i did not choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless disclaimer, nor induce a discussion which must be both unprofitable and painful. "how did the fellow propose the act? had he any accomplices? or was he alone?" "i believe quite alone." "of course suborned by england? of that there can be no doubt." "the prince never said so." "well, but, it is clear enough, the man must have had means; he traveled by a very circuitous route; he had come from hamburg, probably?" "i never heard." "he must have done so. the ports of holland, as those of france, would have been too dangerous for him. italy is out of the question." i owned that i had not speculated so deeply on the matter. "it was strange," said he, after a pause, "that the duke never mentioned who had introduced the man to him." "he merely called him a valued friend." "in other words, the count d'artois," said the count; "did it not strike you so?" i had to confess it had not occurred to me to think so. "but reflect a little," said he. "is there any other living who could have dared to make such a proposal but the count? who, but the head of his house, could have presumed on such a step? no inferior could have had the audacity! it must have come from one so highly placed, that crime paled itself down to a mere measure of expediency, under the loftiness of the sanction. what think you?" "i can not, i will not think so", was my answer. "the very indignation of the prince's rejection refutes the supposition." "what a glorious gift is unsuspectfulness," said he, feelingly. "i am a rich man, and you, i believe, are not so; and yet, i'd give all my wealth, ay, ten times told, not for your vigor of health, not for the lightness of your heart, nor the elasticity of your spirits, but for that one small quality, defect though it be, that makes you trustful and credulous." i believe i would just as soon that the old gentleman had thought fit to compliment me upon any other quality. of all my acquisitions, there was not one i was so vain of as my knowledge of life and character. i had seen, as i thought, so much of life! i had peeped at all ranks and conditions of men, and it was rather hard to find an old country gentleman, a "seigneur de village," calling me credulous and unsuspecting! i was much more pleased when he told the curé that a supper was ready for us in the adjoining room, at which he begged we would excuse his absence; and truly a most admirable little meal it was, and served with great elegance. "the count expects you to stop here; there is a chamber prepared for you," said the curé, as we took our seats at table. "he has evidently taken a fancy to you. i thought, indeed i was quite certain, he would. who can tell what good fortune this chance meeting may lead to, monsieur maurice! a votre sante, mon cher!" cried he, as he clinked his champagne glass against mine, and i at last began to think that destiny was about to smile on me. "you should see his chateau in the ardêche; this is nothing to it! there is a forest, too, of native oak, and a 'chasse' such as royalty never owned!" mine were delightful dreams that night; but i was sorely disappointed on waking to find that laura was not riding at my side through a forest-alley, while a crowd of "piqueurs" and huntsmen galloped to and fro, making the air vibrate with their joyous bugles. still, i opened my eyes in a richly-furnished chamber, and a jaques handed me my coffee on a silver stand, and in a cup of costliest sèvres. (to be continued.) recollections of colton, the author of "lacon." colton was remarkable for the extent and profundity of his talents, the various mutations of fortune, self-entailed, which he underwent, and for his inordinate addiction to a vice of all others the most degrading and destructive to intellectual strength--who was yet great in intellect and purpose amidst all the strange vicissitudes of which he was the self-constituted victim, and beneath the pressure of moral and physical degradation which he would never have undergone but for the influence of one fatal and overwhelming passion. one of the very first objects of my boyish reverence and veneration was, as might be expected with a child religiously educated, the parson of the parish in the market town where i was brought up. parson c----, who, i believe, held the benefice of st. peter's in my native place, was a man whom, having once known, it was not very easy to forget. i could have been hardly six years of age when i first saw him without his canonical garb, on which occasion he was playing a trout on the end of his line under one of the weirs in the river exe. at that time the town was pretty well stocked with french prisoners. the jails were crammed with the miserable soldiery of napoleon's generals, captured in the peninsular war, then raging, and numbers of french officers on parole were installed with the housekeepers of the place in the capacity of lodgers. with these our all-accomplished divine was almost the only man in the place who could hold converse. a part of my father's house was occupied by a couple of gallic strangers, to whom the parson's visits were many and frequent. as they dined at the common table, their society, together with that of the reverend gentleman, was shared by the whole family, and we thus became more intimate with him than we otherwise should. it is said that familiarity breeds contempt. certain it is that my father's veneration for the character of his and our spiritual guide and instructor suffered considerable declension from his closer acquaintance. still, what he lost in reverence he perhaps gained in another way. his kind, agreeable, and social manners won the admiration and good-will of the whole family, and though he had a good many enemies in the town, we could not be of the number. he was a man of eccentric manners and fine genius, and, though then but young, had given proofs of talent of no mean order. he had published a rather bulky poem on the subject of hypocrisy, a subject with which his detractors were not slow to observe he ought to be very well acquainted. but he was not really a hypocrite in the true sense of the word, if indeed, as may be questioned, he deserved the imputation at all. he was rather the subject of ever-varying impulses, under the instigation of which, were they good or bad, he would instinctively proceed to act without consideration and without restraint. he would be eloquent as demosthenes in the pulpit in praise of the christian virtues, and would work himself into a passion of tears on behalf of some benevolent or charitable purpose, the claims of which he would enforce with the most irresistible appeals to the conscience; and the next day he would gallop after the fox with a pack of hounds, fish, shoot, or fight a main, in company with sporting blacklegs, bruisers, dicers, _et hoc genus omne_. but he never made any personal pretensions to religious sentiment that i am aware of, except on one occasion, which, as it tends greatly to illustrate the true character of the man, i shall relate. among the companions of his sporting pursuits was a country squire of the neighborhood, a dissolute and drunken specimen of a class of men of which, fortunately for humanity, the present generation knows but little. he had ruined his fortune and nearly beggared his family by extravagance and intemperance, when, after a long course of uninterrupted and abused health and vigor, he was laid by the heels upon a sick bed, from which the doctors had no hopes of ever releasing him. in this dilemma he sent for parson c----, who appeared forthwith in the chamber of the sick man, and was beginning to mutter over the service for the visitation of the sick, when the latter, belching forth a volley of oaths and curses, swore that he did not send for him for any such purpose; that what he wanted was an acknowledgment from the parson's own lips of the fact which all parsons' lives declared--that their religion, and all religion was a lie. this was an admission which c---- declined to make. a horrible scene ensued, of impotent rage and blasphemy on one part, and shame and confusion on the other. it ended in the death of the frantic and despairing drunkard, in the very presence of his ghostly adviser, whom he cursed with his last breath. this deplorable climax to such a scene of horror, it may be readily imagined, had a powerful effect upon the impulsive and excitable nature of poor c----. he left the chamber of such a death an altered man, and, proceeding homeward, shut himself up in his closet. on the following sunday morning he took occasion to preach impressively, from the most solemn text he could select, upon the uncertainty of life. in the course of his sermon, he called upon all present to prepare for the doom which none could escape--which, inexorable to all, might be immediate to any, and therefore demanded instant and energetic preparation. he wound up his discourse with the extraordinary declaration that he, for one, had made up his mind upon the subject; that he had seen the error of his ways, and determined to abandon them; and that he was resolved thenceforth, with god's help, to devote the rest of his remaining life to his own preparation, and theirs, for the dreaded hour. he then called upon his auditors to bear witness to the resolution he had expressed, and to aid him in carrying it out. there was something like a commotion even in the church when this announcement was concluded; and the sensation and excitement it occasioned in the town, for some time after, only subsided as the parson's resolution waned in strength, and its effects became less and less observable. for some months he held fast to his purpose with the most laudable tenacity. it was in the spring of the year that he made his public declaration; and though the old friends of his follies laughed at it, and laid heavy wagers against his perseverance, he held on his way steadily--he began a course of pastoral visitation--sought out and relieved the poor and afflicted--parted with his fishing-tackle, and commenced an enthusiastic canvass for a dispensary for the poor. of his old friends among the "ungodly," and his old enemies among the pious, few knew what to make of it. the parson c---- of old time was no more; but, in his place, a new man with the same face was every where active in the cause of charity and christian benevolence. those who knew him best doubted most of his stability and among these, i remember my father's expressing his conviction that the reformation was "too hot to hold." so it turned out in the end. three, four, five months of exemplary conduct, and then came the first symptom of declension, in the shape of the parson's gray horse harnessed to a dog-cart, with his gun and brace of pointers, in charge of a groom, the whole "turn-out" ready for starting, and waiting at the entrance of the church-yard on sunday evening, the last night of august, to carry the parson, so soon as service was over, to a celebrated shooting-ground, five-and-twenty miles off, that he might be on the spot, ready by dawn for the irresistible st of september. those who prophesied from this demonstration a return to old habits had speedy occasion to pride themselves upon their augury. the sampford ghost soon after came upon the stage, with his mysterious knockings and poundings; and defied all objurgations and exorcisms, save and except those of parson c----, at the sound of whose classical greek, or gibberish, as it might happen, he absconded to the bottom of the red sea, as in duty bound. here was food for wonder and gaping superstition, to which the reverend divine condescended to pander, by the publication of a pamphlet supporting the supernatural view of the subject, which, being on a marvelous topic, sold marvelously well, and brought grist to the clerical mill. of the subsequent career of this eccentric genius, from the time i ceased to reside in devonshire to that when i encountered him in paris i have no personal knowledge. i only know that he afterward obtained a benefice in the neighborhood of london; that in the year he published a work which has run through many editions, is in high repute with a certain class of readers, and is said by competent judges to manifest a profound practical acquaintance with the philosophy of the mind, and to contain more original views in relation to that science than any other work of equal dimensions. i have already hinted that my vocation as a teacher of english introduced me to a new order of french humanity. among the various pupils who sought my cheap assistance in the promotion of their studies was one maubert, a young fellow of four or five and twenty, who was contemplating a removal to london in the exercise of his profession, which was neither more nor less than that of a gambler. he had a relative in one of the hells at st. james's, who had offered him a lucrative engagement so soon as he was sufficiently master of english to be enabled to undertake it. i was astonished to find a person of such mild, meek, and almost effeminate manners engaged in such a pursuit, and still more to hear that he had been brought up to it from boyhood, and was but following in the steps of his father, who was employed in the same establishment in a situation of great trust and responsibility. in the course of our bilingual conversations, i made no scruple of expressing my perfect horror of gambling, at which he appeared to be heartily amused, and attributed the feeling i manifested not so much to moral principle as to constitutional peculiarity. it soon became apparent to me that he had not himself the slightest idea of disgrace or discredit as attachable to the profession of a gambler, so long as it was carried on upon principles of honesty and fair-play. "what is gambling," said he, "after all, but a species of exchange, skill for skill, or chance for chance? it is true, there is no solid merchandise in question; but, since you are determined to consider it in a moral point of view, what, let me ask, does the merchant or the shopkeeper care for the goods that pass through his hands? is not his sole object to profit by the transfer? does he not speculate to gain? and is not all speculation, morally considered, gambling? now, all the professed gamester does is to get rid of the lumbering medium of trading-speculations--to clear the game, which all men are willing to play, of the cumbrous machinery that clogs its movements when played upon commercial principles, and to bring it to a crisis and a close at once. you talk of the misery and ruin entailed upon families by gambling; but depend upon it the same men who ruin themselves and families by play would do precisely the same thing were there no such thing as play. for one frenchman ruined by hazard, ten englishmen are ruined by commerce. in fact, as a people, you gamble much more than we do, though in a different way; and when you choose to gamble _as_ we do, you do it to much greater extent, and with a recklessness to which our habits in that respect afford no parallel. there is an englishman now in paris who has repeatedly won and lost ten thousand francs at a sitting, and whom you may see, if you choose to come with me, any evening you like." "what is his name?" i demanded. "c----. he is a priest, too, i have heard, and of course, when at home, a preacher of morality." "well," said i, "with your permission, i shall be glad to have a look at him." "very well; you shall dine with me to-morrow at the salon français. meet me there at six, and then, after dinner, i will accompany you." "agreed." and so it came to pass that, about nine o'clock on the following evening--for we had dined at most gentlemanly leisure, and followed up the dinner with a complete debauch of sugared water--i entered, for the first time, one of the saloons devoted to gambling on the first floor of the palais royal. there was not so great and gorgeous display of taste and expenditure as i had expected to see; though every thing was substantial and elegant, nothing was pretentious or superb. tables arranged with a view to convenience rather than order or regularity, and covered with the means and materials of gaming, were surrounded, on three sides, by persons already engaged at the sport. we passed through several rooms thus furnished, and more or less tumultuously filled. hazard appeared to be the most favorite game; as i noticed during my stay that the tables where that was played were first in full occupation, and throughout the evening were more crowded than others. maubert led me to a room, which must have been the fifth or sixth we entered, and, pointing to a table at the further end, upon the centre of which rose a brazen dragon, with a pair of emerald eyes, a yawning, cavernous jaw, and a ridgy tail, whose voluminous folds coiled round a column of polished steel--told me that there i should find my man in the course of the evening, though i should have to wait for him, as he had not yet arrived. he informed me that i could act as i chose, without being questioned; and then took his leave, as his services were wanted in his own department. i amused myself for nearly a couple of hours in contemplating, _en philosophe_, the scene before me. i had heard and read much of gamblers and gambling, and here they were in multitudes to test the truth or falsity of my impressions. i noticed particularly that, while the younger players acted throughout as though gaming were a frolic, and welcomed both their gains and losses with a joke or a laugh, the older hands maintained a perfect silence, and accepted the decrees of fortune without betraying the least emotion. the table near which i stood was appropriated to the following purpose: a ball, or rather solid polygon, of near a hundred sides, each side colored blue, red, or black, was dropped into the mouth of the dragon; and while it was rolling audibly through the long folds of its tail, the players placed what sums they chose upon red, blue, or black-colored spaces on the table. whatever color the ball, upon emerging from the tail and finally resting, showed uppermost, was the winning color; the rest lost. the first operation of the manager, after each throw, was to rake into the bank in front of him the several amounts placed on the losing colors, after which he paid the winners, doubling the stake for black, trebling it for red, and multiplying it by five for the blue. most of the young players began upon the black; but whether they won or lost, and the chance was equal for either fate, they invariably migrated to the other colors; or, in other words, doubled or quintupled their stakes as their passions became heated by play. the old ones, on the contrary, kept mostly to one color; and, in pursuance of some cunningly-concocted plan, frequently consulted pricked or penciled cards, upon which they had perhaps made previous calculations, or chronicled the course of play as it went on. the physiognomy of these old stagers certainly afforded a rich variety of exceedingly ugly faces. disappointment, however, was not the prevailing expression; and, from what i observed of the general manifestation of their hardened visages, i was led to the conclusion that your calculating gambler, who has his passions under control, is _not_, in the long-run, a loser, but the contrary; and that the support of the bank, and the whole establishment, is derived from the swarming flights of raw, inexperienced, and uncalculating pigeons which every day brings to be plucked. one old fellow walked off with a bag of five-franc pieces, which could not have been worth less than twenty pounds english, accumulated in little more than half an hour; and others pocketed various smaller sums, and then withdrew. an english gentleman lost several five-pound notes in succession on the blue, and, continuing the stake, recovered them all with a profit. an irishman who had been playing for silver on the black, attempted to do the same; but his heart failed him, or else his pocket, after the loss of his second note, and with a guttural oath, he retired in a rage. to win at gaming, it would seem from such examples, requires but a large amount of courage and capital; and it must be from this fact alone that, where the game, whatever it be, is fairly played, the bank which has the courage to challenge all the world, and unlimited capital to support the challenge, is so largely the gainer. the natural advantage of the bank may, however, be met by calculation and cautious adherence to system in playing; and instances are not wanting where the bank, though well stocked, has been broken, and the whole funds carried off, through the success of a deep-laid scheme. while i was indulging in these speculations, in which i have no desire that the reader should place implicit faith, the personage whom my curiosity had led me hither to meet, entered the room, and made toward the place where i stood. the long interval that had elapsed since i last saw him had effected such an alteration in his appearance that it is probable, that, had i not been expecting him, he would have passed unrecognized. as it was, the first glance assured me of his identity. from added years, or from long-enduring sedentary habits, he had acquired a slight stoop, and the old sprightly elasticity of step had given place to the sober foot-fall of mature age; but the face, though of a somewhat darker hue, and now lined with faint furrows, bore the same contour and much of the same expression as of yore. there was the same classic and intellectual profile, and the same commonplace and rather sordid indications in the full face, which had formerly given rise to the saying among his flock, that "the parson had two faces, one for sundays and one for working days." he took his seat at the left-hand of the money-raker, and, presenting a paper, probably a check or foreign note, received a pile of gold and silver, which he spread before him. i had intended to watch his game, and perhaps, if occasion offered, to speak to him; but the sight of the very man from whose lips my infant ears had caught the first accents of public worship, preparing to take part in the debasing orgies of the pandemonium in which i stood, so revolted my feelings--and his action, as he bent over his pocket-book in search of something he wanted, brought so forcibly to my recollection his old gestures in the pulpit--that i resolved to spare myself the witnessing of his degradation, and accordingly walked away, and out of the accursed den, to the side of the fountain in the quadrangle, in the cool spray of which i sat for an hour, _not_ enjoying my reflections upon the past. i learnt from maubert subsequently, that, though c---- played the boldest game, he was far from being a welcome guest at some of the tables he chose to patronize. he won, occasionally, large sums; and, if he lost them again, as from his known difficulties at certain seasons it is pretty sure he did, he did not lose them at the public tables, but at some of the private gaming-houses of the nobility which he was known to frequent. that he was occasionally reduced to unpleasant straits i have reason to think; because, long after the encounter above related, i met him at a place whither i had resorted for a cheap dinner, and where we dined together on a deal table from soup and _bouilli_, for a sum not to be mentioned in connection with the repast of a gentleman. on this occasion, i somewhat alarmed him by inquiring, in a broad devonshire accent, if he could inform me of the address of m. v----, naming one of the french prisoners with whom the parson had been especially intimate in the time of the war. he stared at me fixedly for a minute, and then, with a voice like one apostrophizing a spirit, said, "you are ----, the son of thomas ----. i know you from your likeness to your father. do not know me here. let me have your address; i should like to talk to you. m. v---- is dead--dead! and your father, is he yet living?" i was going to reply to his queries, but, snatching the card i presented, he bade me hastily adieu, and disappeared. it was rumored about that he won a large sum of money previous to the breaking out of the revolution, and that, having accomplished his object, he withdrew from the gaming-table. but he had played the game of life too fast, and, in desperately acquiring the means of expenditure, had lost those of enjoyment. in the published work, to which allusion has been made, is the following sentence: "the gamester, if he die a martyr to his profession, is doubly ruined. he adds his soul to every other loss, and, by the act of suicide, renounces earth to forfeit heaven." it is wretched to think that the writer put an end to his own existence, after a life devoted to the very vice he so powerfully deprecated. he blew out his brains at fontainbleau, in --it was said, to escape the pain of a surgical operation from which no danger could be apprehended. never despair. the opal-hued and many-perfumed morn from gloom is born; from out the sullen depth of ebon night the stars shed light; gems in the rayless caverns of the earth have their slow birth; from wondrous alchemy of winter-hours come summer-flowers; the bitter waters of the restless main give gentle rain; the fading bloom and dry seed bring once more the year's fresh store; just sequences of clashing tones afford the full accord; through weary ages, full of strife and ruth, thought reaches truth; through efforts, long in vain, prophetic need begets the deed: nerve then thy soul with direst need to cope; life's brightest hope lies latent in fate's deadliest lair-- never despair! incident during the mutiny of . the nineteenth century may now be said to have attained middle age, and in the brilliant noonday of its intellect and science the important events that marked the close of its predecessor are becoming dim and indistinct, like the vanishing images of a dissolving view. progress has been so rapid since the peace that a wider chasm intervenes between and than any dividing the preceding centuries: much more than half a century appears to separate us from the eighteenth. but a stirring and troublous period lies before this interval. life, doubtless, was more rife with interest and excitement to those whose youth belonged to it than it is in this calmer age. one feels that the "old people" of to-day have more of a "history in their lives" than our age will have; and even while we acknowledge with devout gratitude the blessing of peace, it is pleasant to listen to stories of "the war-time." one evening, while sitting with a relative of our own, gazing on the waters of the channel, which were trembling and quivering beneath the rosy sunset, we expressed some such sentiments, and after agreeing in our opinion that life in those days was more animated by hope and fear than at present, he added, smiling, "for instance, in ' i narrowly escaped hanging!" we were much surprised at such a declaration from one who, at the time he spoke, was a brave and distinguished admiral, and eagerly asked the "how and why" of the adventure; and he told us. we regret that we can not recall the exact words of the animated relation, but we will try to give the substance as nearly as possible. in mutiny broke out among the seamen at spithead--an inexcusable crime in the opinion of naval men, but which he who related the story palliated in some degree, by candidly acknowledging that in those days the poor fellows who were guilty of it had great and just cause for complaint. they were not only ill-paid, but their food was of very bad quality; many captains in the navy were harsh and tyrannical--as, in consequence of the perversity of human nature, will always be the case; and the men whose blood was freely poured out in the defense of their native land were, to say the least, neglected and uncared-for by their rulers. oh happy consequence of peace and advancing knowledge! these men are now well-fed, have the means of instruction afforded them, and homes provided for them when, returning from "the dangers of the sea," they are discharged and sent on shore. the poor mutineers at spithead dreamed not of such advantages as these. admiral r---- was a junior lieutenant on board the _saturn_ when the mutiny broke out; but promotion was very rapid then, and though bearing that rank he was still only a youth in his teens. probably the mutineers had discovered, and in a measure appreciated the kindliness of his nature, for, exempting him from the thralldom of his companions, whom they had confined in the ward-room, they fixed on him to bear their propositions and their threats to the port-admiral--swearing at the same time, that if he did not bring them back a favorable answer they would hang him on the yard-arm! he was obliged to obey their will, of course, secretly resolving, however, not to give them the opportunity of fulfilling their kind intentions by returning to the ship; but the young officer calculated too much upon being his own master. he was put on shore at the point, and proceeded at once to the admiral's house in the high-street. the naval chief gave him a good-natured and cordial reception, and listened patiently to the message he delivered from the mutineers, which was to the effect that they must have an immediate advance of wages, good biscuit, pork, &c., or that they would carry their ship over to the french. "go on board again, sir," was his reply, "and tell these gentlemen that none of their demands can be listened to till they return to their duty: inform them also that the moment they attempt to weigh anchor hot shot will be fired on them from the isle of dogs, and their vessel and themselves sent to the bottom." the lieutenant bowed and left the office. outside he paused. he was going, in obedience to his superior, to certain death. it was a fearful trial of courage and professional discipline. a mother whom he idolized lived at no great distance: he would at least bid her a last farewell! but the admiral, aware of the sacrifice he exacted, so much greater than that of periling life by mounting "the deadly breach," had followed the poor boy, and lightly tapping his shoulder, told him he would walk with him to the beach. thus, even the last look at home, for which he longed, was denied him. a waterman's wherry conveyed him to the ship. it was may--a bright, glorious may, such as england used to enjoy "once upon a time;" and very sad were the feelings with which the young officer looked back upon the retreating town, and round on the glad, sunny waters and blue-tinted isle of wight, deeming that he beheld them for the last time. occasionally, also, he told us, his eyes would revert, in spite of his endeavors to forget it, to the fatal yard-arm, distinct with all its tracery of cordage against the clear blue sky. he gained the ship, was received on board, and conducted to the forecastle, where the chief mutineers had assembled. here he delivered his message. they were greatly enraged, and commanded him not to repeat the admiral's threat of sinking the ship to the crew. he replied simply that it was his duty to obey the orders of his superior officer. their looks and words threatened him at first with instant and summary vengeance; but after a short consultation they agreed to try him by a court-martial, and proceeding aft, ordered him to be brought before them. it was a fearful scene; the men were terribly excited, frightfully ignorant, and believed that their cause required a victim. the courage of the youth bore him through the trial, however, bravely. he ventured boldly to reproach them with their guilt in confounding the innocent with those whom they looked upon as their enemies; taunted them with the cowardly injustice of the deed they contemplated; and persisted, in opposition to the ringleaders' commands, in repeating the admiral's message to the crew. he was heard by the officers in the ward-room, and their loud cheers when he spoke probably gave him fresh courage. the ringleaders becoming alarmed at the effect his words and bearing might have on the british instincts of the ship's company, condemned him to be hung in two hours' time, and ordered him to prepare for death meantime in his cabin. there a new and singular scene awaited him: one of the seamen had taken possession of it, opened his lockers, and finding some brandy, had been drinking till he was perfectly intoxicated, and lay in the sleep of drunkenness on the floor, which was strewed and littered with the lieutenant's clothes, books, &c. a deep oath escaped the lips of the ringleaders at this sight. throughout the fleet the mutineers had forbidden drunkenness on pain of death; for, fully aware of the peril of their position, they kept up among themselves a terribly severe discipline. they were raising their insensible comrade in their arms, and coolly preparing to throw him overboard, when, aware from their words of their intentions, the condemned officer struck one of them to the floor, and standing over the again prostrate drunkard, declared that while he lived he would not see men who had sailed beneath the british flag guilty of murder! the mutineers paused, touched probably by this generous defense of a foe--for the insensible seaman had been peculiarly bitter against the officers--and after a muttered oath or two they left the cabin. the lieutenant remained alone with his disgusting and unwelcome visitant, and the two hours following he described as the most painful of his life. it was less the fear of death than the destined mode of it which tortured him: not that he was insensible or indifferent to the blessing of life, for he was by nature of a happy, joyous temperament, and fair prospects of advancement were before him; but in "war-time" existence was held on such a precarious tenure that the idea of death in battle would scarcely have troubled his equanimity. two hours waiting to be hanged, however, is a far different trial for courage, and we have never read or imagined any thing more painful than the description which the aged admiral gave us of that (to him) endless period of time. as if to add to the horror of his position, the silence on board was so great that it appeared as if he could hear the pulsation of his own heart, while the low snoring of the drunken man struck with painful distinctness on his ear. at last the bell struck the fatal hour, and steps were heard on the ladder. his door opened; he rose prepared to show no symptoms of faltering courage, when the leaders of the party advancing, told him "that the people had taken his case into consideration, and as they believed he individually had no ill-feeling toward them, and as he had recently given proof that he cared for the men, they had changed his sentence from death to _flogging!_ he must therefore prepare to receive three dozen on the following morning." my kinsman, with the ready humor that never deserted him, returned thanks with mock gravity for their clemency, and begged them to carry his compliments to the gentlemen who sent them, and assure them that he could not have believed he should ever have felt so much satisfaction at the prospect of a whipping. the men, always susceptible of fun, laughed. from that moment he was safe! falstaff wisely despairs of gaining the love of prince john, "because he could not make him laugh;" the young lieutenant acted as if he possessed shakspeare's knowledge of human nature when he awoke by his jest the slumbering sympathies of the sailors. he was detained a prisoner, but no further notice was taken of the threatened flogging. the mutiny subsided on the th of may, when parliament passed an act to raise the seamen's wages, and the royal pardon was bestowed on the mutineers; not, however, before some sacrifice of human life had ensued, as admiral colpoys, on the recommencement of the mutiny on board the _london_, had ordered the marines to fire on the people, and three seamen fell. the funeral of these unfortunates was described to us as a singularly impressive and touching spectacle. the townspeople were fearful of some violence or riot on the part of the sailors when they landed to bury their dead, and consequently closed their shutters and retired into their houses. the mournful procession moved therefore through deserted and silent streets on its way to the village church-yard, in which the victims were to be interred. but there was no cause for alarm. the men walked silently and solemnly, two and two, after their slain comrades, a stern, quiet sorrow legible on their weather-beaten faces; and nothing could exceed the reverence and propriety of their conduct beside the grave. it is a quiet, pretty village church-yard in which these most pardonable rebels have their resting-place, not far from which is the large grave where three hundred bodies of those who perished in the _royal george_ are buried. one can scarcely forbear wondering at the little real mischief which proceeded from this alarming mutiny. it afforded, on the whole, a noble display of the principal characteristics of the british seaman--the frolic-spirit peculiar to him manifesting itself even when he is most sadly and seriously in earnest. a captain of marines, who was especially the object of the mutineers' aversion, was brought on shore by them, and compelled to parade up the high-street to the "rogue's march," which was drummed before him. he was a tall, gaunt old man, with a singularly long neck. the day after his expulsion from his ship, the crew sent a man to his house with a message, ordering him to "come on board again and be hanged!" the unpopular veteran sent back his compliments; but considering his throat unbecomingly long _naturally_, he did not wish to have it stretched: he declined, therefore, accepting their invitation. the men went away laughing. the people and the times were both extraordinary. woman's offices and influence. by prof. j. h. agnew, university of michigan. ours is an age of stirring life, an age of notions and novelties, of invention and enterprise, of steam-motives and telegraph-wires. the ocean, for passage, has become a river. the air a medium for the flight, not only of birds, but of thoughts. distance scarce any more lends enchantment to the view, for 'tis annihilated. the ends of the earth meet, and the watchmen on her walls see eye to eye. even worlds long buried in the deep unknown are now revealed to human vision, and we almost penetrate the arcana of our own fair satellite, as she nightly looks down upon us in her beauty. and man would fain believe, too, in his wisdom, or his folly, that e'en the rappings of spirits are heard in this nether planet of ours. but what of all this? why, we live in this whirl of galvanic motion: we breathe this excited atmosphere: we revolve on this stirring sphere. and, think you, without feeling aught of its forces? we have our being, too, amid the busy scenes of a new world, a free world, a forming world. our geologic species is a conglomerate. whether it shall be of rude, unshapen masses, or of polished gems, fit not only for the pillars of this republican edifice, but for its adornment also, will depend much on the present generation, more on the women of that generation. believing that woman not only takes impressions from the age, but emphatically makes them on it too, i select for my theme woman's offices and infuluence. _to make home happy_ is one of the offices of woman. home, blessed word. thanks to our saxon fathers for it. not the name merely, but the realities it expresses. an english, an american home is a bethlehem-star in the horizon of earth's sorrows, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. "there is a magic in that little word: it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond the hallowed limit." "the tabernacle of our earthly joys and sorrows, hopes and fears--this home of ours is it not pleasant?" yes, home is the centre of all that is sweet in the sympathies, dear in the affections of the soul. there the kiss of love is impressed in its purity, the warm pressure of the hand knows no betrayal, the smile of joy plays no deceiver's part. all is candid, cordial, sincere. the faults and failings which belong to humanity fallen, are there covered by the mantle of charity, and the feeling of every member of the family is, "with all thy faults i love thee still." how the traveler climbing alpine summits, looking forth on the sublime creations of jehovah, thinks of home, and wishes the loved ones there could share his rapture. how the wrecked mariner on some desert isle longs for a mother's fond endearment, a sister's kindly care. home is in all his thoughts. it is worth the while, then, to strive to make _home_ happy; to do each his part toward rendering it the spot of all pleasant associations. in the several relations of child, sister, wife, mother, let kindness and cheerfulness reign. kindness comes over the spirit like the music of david's harp over the passion of saul. it softens and subdues. it manifests itself in a thousand nameless forms, but all beautiful. it is a crown of glory on the head of old age, a jewel on the breast of childhood. the light it diffuses is soft, the rays it emits are melting. "and oh, if those who cluster round, the altar and the hearth, have gentle words and loving smiles, how beautiful is earth." cheerfulness is another attribute of character tending to the happiness of home: and let me commend it to woman's cultivation. some there are, ever disposed to look on the dark side of life; and thus they not only becloud their own spirits, but cast a shadow over the smiling precincts of home. every single sour grape portends a cluster; every flash of lightning a riving thunderbolt. earth's actual cares are not enough; troubles must be borrowed. the present does not fill their heart with sadness; the future must be laid under contribution. all this is just the opposite of cheerfulness. that scatters wide over the soil of the household the seeds of many little joys, that the weeds of small vexations may be kept under, and ever and anon the sickle be thrust in and a harvest of good fruits be garnered for daily use. it gazes on the bright side of the picture, and throws its delighted glances upon every eye. and thus it not only augments present bliss, but in hoary years the memory of other days around the family hearth will be sweeter, and the influence on ourselves better. "cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty." "not few nor light are the burdens of life: then load it not with heaviness of spirit; sickness, and penury, and travail--these be ills enow: the tide is strong against us: struggle, thou art better for the strife, and the very energy shall hearten thee." "in thy day of grief let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of her sorrow must run off; and sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of turbid floodings. yet see, that her license hath a limit." "for empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity, pray and thou shalt prosper: trust god and tread them down." "the stoutest armor of defense is that which is worn within the bosom, and the weapon which no enemy can parry is a bold and cheerful spirit." beautiful in the family is this spirit of cheerfulness; and surely it is an office of woman to cherish it. it can be wooed and won. wherever woman goes, and especially at home, let it be as an halo of light around her head, and then shall she be a blessing to the circle in which she moves. despondency is death, cheerfulness life. but remember that levity and boisterous mirth are no essential ingredients of this wholesome cordial. its chief element is rather that which paul spake of when he said, "i have learned in whatsoever state i am, therewith to be content." another office of woman is, _to check the utilitarianism, the money-loving spirit of the day_. there is something beside bread and water to be cared for in this probationary world of ours, inhabited by living _spirits_. and yet one is almost compelled to the conclusion that the whole race, at the present day, has given itself up to the worship of mammon. that which is a _physical_ fact, which is capable of being _used_, is the _summum bonum. cui bono_, in a terrene sense, is the great question. "will it pay," the grand idea of the age. and men are hurrying along, life in hand, breathless and bootless, over the highways and byways to the great mogul's temple, where there is no spiritual divinity to revere. we almost wish the return of the old grecian's faith, who enveloped himself with a spiritual world, and this, at least, elevated his intellect, if it did not renovate his heart. to him the majestic mountain was peopled with august entities. to us it is of no account, if it do not contain in its bowels buried stores of wealth, though it may awaken the feeling of the sublime, and lift the soul up to god. to him the shady tree was the habitation of dryads, the rippling brook of naïads: to us, neither has beauty, unless the one can turn a mill, and the other furnish us fire-wood or lumber. we have made the soul slave to the body; have stripped the universe of its glory, as a reflecting mirror, pouring down upon us such rays of heaven's brilliancy as our vision can endure. god's sun is only to lighten us on our pathway of business; his mighty ocean only to bear the burden of our commerce; his magnificent lakes to carry our trade; his beautiful hills and smiling vales but to grow our corn, feed our cattle, and be the substratum for our railways. this utilitarianism of the day, too, has but little sympathy with the fine arts. it laughs at music and painting, poetry and sculpture, as things of naught, although they may tend mightily to the culture of the spirit and the refinement of humanity. classical learning it discards, because with its dusty eyes it can not just see how that can qualify man or woman for the better enjoyment of life, or how it will help us plow or measure our fields, grind our grain, or churn our butter. the mere discipline of the mind, the symmetrical development of man's higher powers, the æsthetic evolution of himself; all this, though it expand his intellect and enlarge his heart, though it impress on him more of the lineaments of the skies, and bring him nearer to his great original, is but waste of time and thought, because it falls not within the described circle of the utilitarian. shades of bacon and locke, of shakspeare and milton, of goethe and schiller, come and alight at least on the daughters of our land! here is a wide field of influence for woman. you are the vestal virgins to watch the fires on the altar of the fine arts. yours it is to check the sensuousness of man, to recall him from his ceaseless toil after the mammon of this life, his restless ambition to turn every thing to account in available funds, in bank-stocks, copper-stocks, railroad-stocks. tell your sons and your sires that there are higher sources of joy. point them away from earth's sordid gold to the brighter gems of literature. direct their energies to the intellectual and moral advancement of their age. help them to slake their quenchless thirst at the pure fountains of knowledge and religion. there is a poetry of life worth cultivating. there are spiritual entities around us to which we are linked by ethereal chains. let us not struggle to throw off those chains, but rather to bind them faster about us. and when you see a link broken, and others likely to drop, mend it. woman's office is it also _to soften political asperities in the other sex, and themselves to shun political publicity_. not that woman need be ignorant of the great questions of the age; better be familiar with them. but let her not become absorbed in them: rather keep so aloof from exciting occasions as to be better qualified to form and express a deliberate and unbiased judgment on men and measures. let her opinions be well matured, and always uttered with calmness and caution. when her dearest friends of the other sex seem embittered toward others, and in danger of forgetting the sweet charities of life amid the chafings of party rivalry, let her pour out the milk of human kindness into the cup of courtesy, and ask them to drink of it. when the waters are troubled and the billows roar, let her diffuse over them the oil of love to still the waters into a great calm. surely this is an office higher, better far, than to be pressing on, as some would have her, into the busy bustle of out-door politics. here is _influence_, and it is better than _power_. who that loves woman, that really admires her worth as _woman_, that thinks of her as the delicate, refined, tasteful, sensitive development of humanity, the incarnation of all that is lovely, gentle, modest, peaceful, and pure, the highest earthly manifestation of god as _love;_ who that remembers her as the "help-meet," can bear the thought of hurrying her out upon the theatre of politics, the platform of legislation? "woman's rights," they cry, and so loud the cry, that even woman's ambition has conquered her judgment and her delicacy, and she has gone forth, out of her appointed and fitting sphere, to be gazed on by a curious crowd, and perhaps to hear the plaudits of a noisy populace. _o tempora! o mores!_ save us from such a race of women! now woman has rights, many rights, and let them be well guarded; but she has no right to be a _man_. yet, no wonder 'tis, if amid the stirring enterprises and new discoveries of the age, some half-amazon should defy the customs of social life, and assume the right of leveling all distinctions between the sexes, walking forth _à la turk_, and becoming the gazing-stock of the street. oh, let beauteous, winning woman wear the gracefully-flowing robes of modesty; let her not be met by us "up to the eyes" in politics, nor at the ballot-box, nor the caucus, nor in the legislative hall, nor on the judicial bench, surrounded, perchance, by tobacco-chewing barristers, nor as the public haranguer, addressing promiscuous multitudes. let us rather see her in the quiet retirement of home, not doomed to the busy drudgery of hard housekeeping merely, but there the refined woman, whose pure sensibilities are shocked at the thought of a public notoriety; who shuns the wistful gaze of the crowd, and finds in her own family circle her kingdom and her _rights_, and seeks to adorn that with all that is lovely and of good report. thus will she win our admiration and secure our love. were her intellect and her eloquence displayed at the bar or on the platform, we might indeed wonder with deep amazement, but we should not love; and wanting this, both she and we were unhappy. while sensible, then, of her equality with man in the possession of a soul like his own, capable of the highest enterprises in science and literature, may she yet recognize, as the appointment of her all-wise creator, subordination to man in power, superordination in influence. be content to be _woman_. it is a province high enough. if not cherubic, it is seraphic. it is that phase of humanity we think most godlike; for if jehovah's highest expression of himself is _love_, then that form of humanity expressing most of it, is most like him. that form, in our opinion, is woman. let her not, then, strip herself of her chief glory, and depart further from her god and saviour, by shooting out from her own feminine orbit, and aiming to revolve in that of the other sex, under the false impression that it is a higher one. even if it were, it is not hers, and by thus battling with the order of nature, and swinging loose from the proper relations of her being, she might become a wandering star in the blackness of darkness forever. another evident office of woman is, _to regulate the forms and control the habits of social life_. in this land, especially, do the "lords of creation" bow with due deference to their ladies. we give them our arms, 'tis true, and we ask them to lean upon us, yet do we take step with them, and in turn lean on them, amid the trying times of life, and look to them for many of our joys, for most of our happiness. he is vulgar, even barbarous, we think, who does not appreciate her worth and respect her character. hence, every where, hers is the first place, the best place; and an american gentleman would rather suffer an agony than subject women to a discomfort. such being her relative position, hers it must be to prescribe the customs of social life, and say to man, "hitherto shalt thou go and no further." the tone of morals will be such as she makes it. man will be conformed to the model she exhibits. he seldom, if ever, rises above the level of his female associates. surround him with the vulgar, the thoughtless, the impure, and you shall not see him pure, thoughtful, refined. place him ever in the society of intelligent, dignified, christian women, and their virtues will be reflected on him. and is it so, that woman is responsible, in a great measure, for the fashions and habits of the community in which she lives? it is even so. if she discard that foolish frippery and passion for display, which occasionally characterize her own sex, it will not long live. it must be buried in its own foibles, and have no resurrection. if she frown upon him who robs woman of her jewel, he is a fugitive on the face of the earth. if she discountenance the use of intoxicating beverages, the young man will learn that abstinence on his part is the price of respect and love on hers. her office here is magnified: her influence has become a power. the other offices were guiding and directory; this is reformatory. society looks to her for its type. its virtues and its vices are of her moulding. _it is what she bids it be._ what a potency! let her wield it for her country's welfare. then shall it be a beacon light to other lands now in darkness and degradation, because there woman is still the slave of man's passions, and has never risen, under christianity, to know her dignity, and make her brutal master feel her moral equality in the scale of being. only one other office of woman shall we notice at present--_the exemplification and diffusion of christianity_--of christianity, not so much in its forms and dogmas, as in its spirit; not solely as a redeeming scheme, but also as a reforming power. to christianity woman is emphatically a debtor. it has breathed into her its breath of life, and she has become a living soul. else had she been but a dead manikin. to it she owes her present advanced position, her commanding influence. even all the literature and refinement of greece and rome could not confer on woman the boon which the religion of jesus has brought her. he was woman's son, and his religion tells it. go where that religion is not, and there woman is naught. christianity has not only broken down the wall of partition between male and female, but has opened the sealed fountains of her soul, and caused them to send forth rills of gentleness and love, which have refreshed humanity and poured out gladness on a dark and dreary world. let the cross, then, be woman's standard, jesus woman's trust, christianity woman's charter. that thrown overboard, we are wrecked. its principles abandoned, the world sinks again into barbarism, and woman to brute degradation. "the last at the cross and earliest at the sepulchre," must remember to cling to christianity as her hope, her life. let _her_ never be ashamed to confess it her ruling principle, her source of joy, nor be hesitant in disseminating its seeds, that she may every where behold its lily-flowers. can it ever be well said of woman, "she careth not if there be a god, or a soul, or a time of retribution; pleasure is the idol of her heart: she thirsteth for no purer heaven." let such an one be decked in all the gorgeous trappings of wealth, let her brow be crowned with the coronet of rank, let her girdle hold the key which unlocks the treasures of california, and yet she wants that which ennobles her sex, and would render her an object of love and a source of joy to others. "oh, what is woman, what her smile, her lip of love, her eyes of light. what is she, if her lips revile the lowly jesus? love may write his name upon her marble brow, and linger in her curls of jet: the light spring-flower may scarcely bow beneath her step--and yet--and yet-- without that meeker grace she'll be a lighter thing than vanity." never, then, let the sneer of the infidel, nor the scorn of the skeptic drive woman from compounding the spices to embalm her crucified master, nor make her ashamed to be seen early at his sepulchre. rather let her glory in the cross, and make the most of her high mission here to send its healing influences to every sick and sorrowing creature on this green earth. why should any poor, perishing mortal be left in all the degradation of idolatry, when there is in our possession a power that would lift him to heights of bliss, temporal and eternal? why should the world be left to its wailings and its woes, when christianity diffused, in its benign spirit, would convert those woes into joys, those wailings into hallelujahs? how can woman, owing her all to the religion of the bible, refrain from exerting her energies to place this word of life in the hands of every pilgrim over the deserts of time? and may she so breathe its spirit and feel its power, that it shall never again be thus written of her: "there came a stranger bright and beautiful with steps of grace, and eye of flame, and tone and look most sweetly blent to make her presence eloquent; oh, then i looked for tears. she stood before the prisoner of calvary. i saw the piercing spear--the blood-- the gall--the writhe of agony. i saw his quivering lips in prayer, 'father, forgive them'--all was there! i turned in bitterness of soul, and spake of jesus. i had thought her feelings would refuse control: for woman's heart i knew was fraught with gushing sympathies. she gazed a moment on it carelessly, then coldly curl'd her lip, and praised the high priest's garment! could it be that look was meant, dear lord, for thee!" a few words on _influence_. this is woman's power. that distinctively belongs to man, and is exercised by authority. law and penalty grow out of it. it regulates actions, it punishes crime. influence, on the other hand, awakens feeling, generates opinions, implants sentiments in the soul, silently yet emphatically; and thus it crushes vice, promotes virtue, and avoids the necessity of penal infliction. now this is pre-eminently the potent lever in the hands of woman for regenerating and reforming the political and moral world. we may stand in awe, indeed, before the exhibition of _power_, whether physical or moral, but we are not won by them to the love of truth and goodness, while _influence_ steals in upon our hearts, gets hold of the springs of action, and leads us into its own ways. it is the _inflowing_ upon others from the nameless traits of character which constitute woman's idiosyncracy. her heart is a great reservoir of love, the water-works of moral influence, from which go out ten thousand tubes, conveying off the ethereal essences of her nature, and diffusing them quietly over the secret chambers of man's inner being. even the weakness of woman softens and subdues, and thus unseals the soul for the infusion of her own sentiments. her winning smiles, her tender sympathies, her sensible expressions, her gentle ways, all influence us, flow in upon our spirits. who can be long boisterous in the presence of woman? no more can the yeasty waves dash and foam when superinfused by the mollifying touch of oil, than can the passions of man rage with impetuosity in contact with the oleaginous serenity of gentle woman. let man, then, exercise power; woman exert influence. by this will she best perform her offices, discharge her duties. thus will she most effectually make home happy, restrain utilitarianism, allay party asperities, regulate the habits of social life, and both exemplify and diffuse christianity. thus will she become _vanqueur des vanqueurs de la terre_--"conqueror of the conquerors of earth," and do more to bless the world, and make it truly happy, than all political institutions, fiscal agencies, and merely intellectual educations. surely this is a mission exalted. let no woman despise it, though it exclude her from the senator's seat and the chair of state. let her rather remember that she honors herself more, glorifies her god better, and elevates her race higher, by adorning the sphere which her very physical organization prescribes. never will she be improved in her nature, elevated in her influence, happier in her own spirit, or more potent in effecting the happiness of the world, by aiming at the proper dignities of _man_, throwing herself out upon the arena of public life, meddling and mingling in its chafings and chances. ah no! let us still hope that woman will have good sense enough to discern the wisdom of god in her proper relation, and that man shall still and ever have the privilege and the joy of admiring and loving her as gentle, retiring, delicate, yet influential _woman_. the town-ho's story.[ ] [ ] from "the whale." the title of a new work by mr. melville, in the press of harper and brothers, and now publishing in london by mr. bentley. by herman melville. the cape of good hope, and all the watery region round about there, is much like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet more travelers than in any other part. it was not very long after speaking the goney that another homeward-bound whaleman, the town-ho, was encountered. she was manned almost wholly by polynesians. in the short gam that ensued she gave us strong news of moby dick. to some the general interest in the white whale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the town-ho's story, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain wondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of god which at times are said to overtake some men. this latter circumstance, with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may be called the secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never reached the ears of captain ahab or his mates. for that secret part of the story was unknown to the captain of the town-ho himself. it was the private property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of whom, it seems, communicated it to tashtego with romish injunctions of secresy, but the following night tashtego rambled in his sleep, and revealed so much of it in that way, that when he was awakened he could not well withhold the rest. nevertheless, so potent an influence did this thing have on those seamen in the pequod who came to the full knowledge of it, and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were they governed in this matter, that they kept the secret among themselves so that it never transpired abaft the pequod's mainmast. interweaving in its proper place this darker thread with the story as publicly narrated on the ship, the whole of this strange affair i now proceed to put on lasting record. for my humor's sake, i shall preserve the style in which i once narrated it at lima, to a lounging circle of my spanish friends, one saint's eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the golden inn. of those fine cavaliers, the young dons, pedro and sebastian, were on the closer terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they occasionally put, and which are duly answered at the time. "some two years prior to my first learning the events which i am about rehearsing to you, gentlemen, the town-ho, sperm whaler of nantucket, was cruising in your pacific here, not very many days' sail eastward from the eaves of this good golden inn. she was somewhere to the northward of the line. one morning, upon handling the pumps, according to daily usage, it was observed that she made more water in her hold than common. they supposed a sword-fish had stabbed her, gentlemen. but the captain, having some unusual reason for believing that rare good luck awaited him in those latitudes; and therefore being very averse to quit them, and the leak not being then considered at all dangerous, though, indeed, they could not find it after searching the hold as low down as was possible in rather heavy weather, the ship still continued her cruisings, the mariners working at the pumps at wide and easy intervals; but no good luck came; more days went by, and not only was the leak yet undiscovered, but it sensibly increased. so much so, that now taking some alarm, the captain, making all sail, stood away for the nearest harbor, among the islands, there to have his hull hove out and repaired. "though no small passage was before her, yet, if the commonest chance favored, he did not at all fear that his ship would founder by the way, because his pumps were of the best, and being periodically relieved at them, those six-and-thirty men of his could easily keep the ship free; never mind if the leak should double on her. in truth, well nigh the whole of this passage being attended by very prosperous breezes, the town-ho had all but certainly arrived in perfect safety at her port without the occurrence of the least fatality, had it not been for the brutal overbearing of radney, the mate, a vineyarder, and the bitterly provoked vengeance of steelkilt, a lakeman and desperado from buffalo. "'lakeman!--buffalo! pray, what is a lakeman, and where is buffalo?' said don sebastian, rising in his swinging mat of grass. "on the eastern shore of our lake erie, don; but--i crave your courtesy--may be, you shall soon hear further of all that. now, gentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, well nigh as large and stout as any that ever sailed out of your old callao to far manilla; this lakeman, in the land-locked heart of our america, had yet been nurtured by all those agrarian free-booting impressions popularly connected with the open ocean. for in their interflowing aggregate, those grand fresh-water seas of ours--erie, and ontario, and huron, and superior, and michigan--possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many of the ocean's noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of races and of climes. they contain round archipelagoes of romantic isles, even as the polynesian waters do; in large part, are shored by two great contrasting nations, as the atlantic is; they furnish long maritime approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the east, dotted all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by batteries, and by the goat-like craggy guns of lofty mackinaw; they have heard the fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they yield their beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash from out their peltry wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by ancient and unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried lines of kings in gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild afric beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs give robes to tartar emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of buffalo and cleveland, as well as winnebago villages; they float alike the full-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the state, the steamer, and the beech canoe; they are swept by borean and dismasting blasts as direful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks are, for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full many a midnight ship with all its shrieking crew. thus, gentlemen, though an inlander, steelkilt was wild-ocean born, and wild-ocean nurtured; as much of an audacious mariner as any. and for radney, though in his infancy he may have laid him down on the lone nantucket beach, to nurse at his maternal sea; though in after life he had long followed our austere atlantic and your contemplative pacific; yet was he quite as vengeful and full of social quarrel as the backwoods seaman, fresh from the latitudes of buck-horn handled bowie-knives. yet was this nantucketer a man with some good-hearted traits; and this lakeman, a mariner, who though a sort of devil indeed, might yet by inflexible firmness, only tempered by that common decency of human recognition which is the meanest slave's right; thus treated, this steelkilt had long been retained harmless and docile. at all events, he had proved so thus far; but radney was doomed and made mad, and steelkilt--but, gentlemen, you shall hear. "it was not more than a day or two at the furthest after pointing her prow for her island haven, that the town-ho's leak seemed again increasing, but only so as to require an hour or more at the pumps every day. you must know that in a settled and civilized ocean like our atlantic, for example, some skippers think little of pumping their whole way across it; though of a still, sleepy night, should the officer of the deck happen to forget his duty in that respect, the probability would be that he and his shipmates would never again remember it, on account of all hands gently subsiding to the bottom. nor in the solitary and savage seas far from you to the westward, gentlemen, is it altogether unusual for ships to keep clanging at their pump-handles in full chorus even for a voyage of considerable length; that is, if it lie along a tolerably accessible coast, or if any other reasonable retreat is afforded them. it is only when a leaky vessel is in some very out of the way part of those waters, some really landless latitude, that her captain begins to feel a little anxious. "much this way had it been with the town-ho; so when her leak was found gaining once more, there was in truth some small concern manifested by several of her company; especially by radney the mate. he commanded the upper sails to be well hoisted, sheeted home anew, and every way expanded to the breeze. now this radney, i suppose, was as little of a coward, and as little inclined to any sort of nervous apprehensiveness touching his own person as any fearless, unthinking creature on land or on sea that you can conveniently imagine, gentlemen. therefore when he betrayed this solicitude about the safety of the ship, some of the seamen declared that it was only on account of his being a part owner in her. so when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was on this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they stood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear water; clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen--that bubbling from the pumps ran across the deck, and poured itself out in steady spouts at the lee scupper-holes. "now, as you well know, it is not seldom the case in this conventional world of ours--watery or otherwise; that when a person placed in command over his fellow-men finds one of them to be very significantly his superior in general pride of manhood, straightway against that man he conceives an unconquerable dislike and bitterness; and if he have a chance he will pull down and pulverize that subaltern's tower, and make a little heap of dust of it. be this conceit of mine as it may, gentlemen, at all events steelkilt was a tall and noble animal with a head like a roman, and a flowing golden beard like the tasseled housings of your last viceroy's snorting charger; and a brain, and a heart, and a soul in him, gentlemen, which had made steelkilt charlemagne, had he been born son to charlemagne's father. but radney, the mate, was ugly as a mule; yet as hardy, as stubborn, as malicious. he did not love steelkilt, and steelkilt knew it. "espying the mate drawing near as he was toiling at the pump with the rest, the lakeman affected not to notice him, but unawed, went on with his gay banterings. "'ay, ay, my merry lads, it's a lively leak this; hold a cannikin, one of ye, and let's have a taste. by the lord, it's worth bottling! i tell ye what, men, old rad's investment must go for it! he had best cut away his part of the hull and tow it home. the fact is, boys, that sword-fish only began the job; he's come back again with a gang of ship-carpenters, saw-fish, and file-fish, and what not; and the whole posse of 'em are now hard at work cutting and slashing at the bottom; making improvements, i suppose. if old rad were here now, i'd tell him to jump overboard and scatter 'em. they're playing the devil with his estate, i can tell him. but he's a simple old soul--rad, and a beauty, too. boys, they say the rest of his property is invested in looking-glasses. i wonder if he'd give a poor devil like me the model of his nose.' "'damn your eyes! what's that pump stopping for?' roared radney, pretending not to have heard the sailors' talk. 'thunder away at it!' "'ay, ay, sir,' said steelkilt, merry as a cricket. 'lively, boys, lively, now!' and with that the pump clanged like fifty fire-engines; the men tossed their hats off to it, and ere long that peculiar gasping of the lungs was heard which denotes the fullest tension of life's utmost energies. "quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the lakeman went forward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face fiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his brow. now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed radney to meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, i know not; but so it happened. intolerably striding along the deck, the mate commanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a shovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a pig to run at large. "now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship's deck at sea is a piece of household work which in all times but raging gales is regularly attended to every evening; it has been known to be done in the case of ships actually foundering at the time. such, gentlemen, is the inflexibility of sea-usages and the instinctive love of neatness in seamen; some of whom would not willingly drown without first washing their faces. but in all vessels this broom business is the prescriptive province of the boys, if boys there be aboard. besides, it was the stronger men in the town-ho that had been divided into gangs, taking turns at the pumps; and being the most athletic seaman of them all, steelkilt had been regularly assigned captain of one of the gangs; consequently he should have been freed from any trivial business not connected with truly nautical duties, such being the case with his comrades. i mention all these particulars so that you may understand exactly how this affair stood between the two men. "but there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as plainly meant to sting and insult steelkilt, as though radney had spat in his face. any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will understand this; and all this and doubtless much more, the lakeman fully comprehended when the mate uttered his command. but as he sat still for a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate's malignant eye and perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him and the slow match silently burning along toward them; as he instinctively saw all this, that strange forbearance and unwillingness to stir up the deeper passionateness in any already ireful being--a repugnance most felt, when felt at all, by really valiant men even when aggrieved--this nameless phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over steelkilt. "therefore, in his ordinary tone, only a little broken by the bodily exhaustion he was temporarily in, he answered him, saying that sweeping the deck was not his business, and he would not do it. and then, without at all alluding to the shovel, he pointed to three lads as the customary sweepers; who, not being billeted at the pumps, had done little or nothing all day. to this, radney replied with an oath, in a most domineering and outrageous manner unconditionally reiterating his command; meanwhile advancing upon the still seated lakeman, with an uplifted cooper's club hammer which he had snatched from a cask near by. "heated and irritated as he was by his spasmodic toil at the pumps, for all his first nameless feeling of forbearance the sweating steelkilt could but ill brook this bearing in the mate; but somehow still smothering the conflagration within him, without speaking he remained doggedly; rooted to his seat, till at last the incensed radney shook the hammer within a few inches of his face, furiously commanding him to do his bidding. "steelkilt rose, and slowly retreating round the windlass, steadily followed by the mate with his menacing hammer, deliberately repeated his intention not to obey. seeing, however, that his forbearance had not the slightest effect, by an awful and unspeakable intimation with his twisted hand he warned off the foolish and infatuated man; but it was to no purpose. and in this way the two went once slowly round the windlass; when, resolved at last no longer to retreat, bethinking him that he had now forborne as much as comported with his humor, the lakeman paused on the hatches and thus spoke to the officer: "'mr. radney, i will not obey you. take that hammer away, or look to yourself.' but the predestinated mate coming still closer to him, where the lakeman stood fixed, now shook the heavy hammer within an inch of his teeth; meanwhile repeating a string of insufferable maledictions. retreating not the thousandth part of an inch; stabbing him in the eye with the unflinching poniard of his glance, steelkilt, clenching his right hand behind him and creepingly drawing it back, told his persecutor that if the hammer but grazed his cheek he (steelkilt) would murder him. but, gentlemen, the fool had been branded for the slaughter by the gods. immediately the hammer touched the cheek; the next instant the lower jaw of the mate was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch spouting blood like a whale. "ere the cry could go aft steelkilt was shaking one of the backstays leading far aloft to where two of his comrades were standing their mast-heads. they were both canalers. "'canalers!' cried don pedro. 'we have seen many whaleships in our harbors, but never heard of your canalers. pardon: who and what are they?' "canalers, don, are the boatmen belonging to our grand erie canal. you must have heard of it. "'nay, senor; hereabouts in this dull, warm, most lazy, and hereditary land, we know but little of your vigorous north.' "ay? well, then, don, refill my cup. your chicha's very fine; and, ere proceeding further i will tell you what our canalers are; for such information may throw side-light upon my story. "for three hundred and sixty miles, gentlemen, through the entire breadth of the state of new york; through numerous populous cities and most thriving villages; through long, dismal, uninhabited swamps, and affluent, cultivated fields, unrivaled for fertility; by billiard-room and bar room; through the holy-of-holies of great forests; on roman arches over indian rivers; through sun and shade; by happy hearts or broken; through all the wide contrasting scenery of those noble mohawk counties; and especially by rows of snow-white chapels, whose spires stand almost like milestones, flows one continual stream of venetianly corrupt and often lawless life. there's your true ashantee, gentlemen; there howl your pagans; where you ever find them, next door to you; under the long-flung shadow, and the snug patronizing lee of churches. for by some curious fatality, as it is often noted of your metropolitan freebooters that they ever encamp around the halls of justice, so sinners, gentlemen, most abound in holiest vicinities. "'is that a friar passing?' said don pedro, looking downward into the crowded plaza, with humorous concern. "'well for our northern friend, dame isabella's inquisition wanes in lima,' laughed don sebastian. 'proceed, senor.' "'a moment! pardon!' cried another of the company. 'in the name of all us limeese, i but desire to express to you, sir sailor, that we have by no means overlooked your delicacy in not substituting present lima for distant venice in your corrupt comparison. oh! do not bow and look surprised; you know the proverb all along this coast--"corrupt as lima." it but bears out your saying, too; churches more plentiful than billiard-tables, and forever open--and "corrupt as lima." so, too, venice; i have been there; the holy city of the blessed evangelist, st. mark!--st. dominic, purge it! your cup! thanks: here i refill; now, you pour out again.' "freely depicted in his own vocation, gentlemen, the canaler would make a fine dramatic hero, so abundantly and picturesquely wicked is he. like mark antony, for days and days along his green-turfed, flowery nile, he indolently floats, openly toying with his red-cheeked cleopatra, ripening his apricot thigh upon the sunny deck. but ashore, all this effeminacy is dashed. the brigandish guise which the canaler so proudly sports; his slouched and gayly-ribboned hat betoken his grand features. a terror to the smiling innocence of the villages through which he floats; his swart visage and bold swagger are not unshunned in cities. once a vagabond on his own canal, i have received good turns from one of those canalers; i thank him heartily; would fain be not ungrateful; but it is often one of the prime redeeming qualities of your man of violence, that at times he has as stiff an arm to back a poor stranger in a strait, as to plunder a wealthy one. in sum, gentlemen, what the wildness of this canal life is, is emphatically evinced by this; that our wild whale-fishery contains so many of its most finished graduates, and that scarce any race of mankind, except sydney men, are so much distrusted by our whaling captains. nor does it at all diminish the curiousness of this matter, that to many thousands of our rural boys and young men born along its line, the probationary life of the grand canal furnishes the sole transition between quietly reaping in a christian corn-field, and recklessly ploughing the waters of the most barbaric seas." "'i see! i see!' impetuously exclaimed don pedro, spilling his chicha upon his silvery ruffles. 'no need to travel! the world's one lima. i had thought, now, that at your temperate north the generations were cold and holy as the hills. but the story.' "i left off, gentlemen, where the lakeman shook the backstay. hardly had he done so, when he was surrounded by the three junior mates and the four harpooners, who all crowded him to the deck. but sliding down the ropes like baleful comets, the two canalers rushed into the uproar, and sought to drag their man out of it toward the forecastle. others of the sailors joined with them in this attempt, and a twisted turmoil ensued; while standing out of harm's way, the valiant captain danced up and down with a whale-pike, calling upon his officers to manhandle that atrocious scoundrel, and smoke him along to the quarter-deck. at intervals, he ran close up to the revolving border of the confusion, and prying into the heart of it with his pike, sought to prick out the object of his resentment. but steelkilt and his desperadoes were too much for them all; they succeeded in gaining the forecastle deck, where, hastily slewing about three or four large casks in a line with the windlass, these sea-parisians entrenched themselves behind the barricade." "'come out of that, ye pirates!' roared the captain, now menacing them with a pistol in each hand, just brought to him by the steward. 'come out of that, ye cut-throats!' "steelkilt leaped on the barricade, and striding up and down there, defied the worst the pistols could do; but gave the captain to understand distinctly, that his (steelkilt's) death would be the signal for a murderous mutiny on the part of all hands. fearing in his heart lest this might prove but too true, the captain a little desisted, but still commanded the insurgents instantly to return to their duty. "'will you promise not to touch us, if we do?' demanded their ringleader. "'turn to! turn to!--i make no promise; to your duty! do you want to sink the ship, by knocking off at a time like this? turn to!' and he once more raised a pistol. "'sink the ship?' cried steelkilt. 'ay, let her sink. not a man of us turns to, unless you swear not to raise a rope-yarn against us. what say ye, men?' turning to his comrades. a fierce cheer was their response. "the lakeman now patrolled the barricade, all the while keeping his eye on the captain, and jerking out such sentences as these: 'it's not our fault; we didn't want it; i told him to take his hammer away; it was boys' business: he might have known me before this; i told him not to prick the buffalo; i believe i have broken a finger here against his cursed jaw; ain't those mincing knives down in the forecastle there, men? look to those handspikes, my hearties. captain, by god, look to yourself; say the word; don't be a fool; forget it all; we are ready to turn to; treat us decently, and we're your men; but we won't be flogged.' "'turn to! i make no promises: turn to, i say!' "'look ye, now,' cried the lakeman, flinging out his arm toward him, 'there are a few of us here (and i am one of them) who have shipped for the cruise, d'ye see; now as you well know, sir, we can claim our discharge as soon as the anchor is down; so we don't want a row; it's not our interest; we want to be peaceable; we are ready to work, but we won't be flogged.' "'turn to!' roared the captain. "steelkilt glanced round him a moment, and then said: 'i tell you what it is now, captain, rather than kill ye, and be hung for such a shabby rascal, we won't lift a hand against ye unless ye attack us; but till you say the word about not flogging us, we don't do a hand's turn.' "'down into the forecastle then, down with ye, i'll keep ye there till ye're sick of it. down ye go.' "'shall we?' cried the ringleader to his men. most of them were against it; but at length, in obedience to steelkilt, they preceded him down into their dark den, growlingly disappearing like bears into a cave. "as the lakeman's bare head was just level with the planks, the captain and his posse leaped the barricade, and rapidly drawing over the slide of the scuttle, planted their group of hands upon it, and loudly called for the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock belonging to the companionway. then opening the slide a little, the captain whispered something down the crack, closed it, and turned the key upon them--ten in number--leaving on deck some twenty or more, who thus far had remained neutral. "all night a wide-awake watch was kept by all the officers, forward and aft, especially about the forecastle scuttle and fore hatchway; at which last place it was feared the insurgents might emerge, after breaking through the bulkhead below. but the hours of darkness passed in peace; the men who still remained at their duty toiling hard at the pumps, whose clinking and clanking at intervals through the dreary night dismally resounded through the ship. "at sunrise the captain went forward, and knocking on the deck summoned the prisoners to work; but with a yell they refused. water was then lowered down to them, and a couple of handfuls of biscuit were tossed after it; when again turning the key upon them and pocketing it, the captain returned to the quarter-deck. twice every day for three days this was repeated; but on the fourth morning a confused wrangling, and then a scuffling was heard, as the customary summons was delivered; and suddenly four men burst up from the forecastle, saying they were ready to turn to. the fetid closeness of the air, and a famishing diet, united perhaps to some fears of ultimate retribution, had constrained them to surrender at discretion. emboldened by this, the captain reiterated his demand to the rest, but steelkilt shouted up to him a terrific hint to stop his babbling and betake himself where he belonged. on the fifth morning three others of the mutineers bolted up into the air from the desperate arms below that sought to restrain them. only three were left. "'better turn to, now!' said the captain with a heartless jeer. "'shut us up again, will ye!' cried steelkilt. "'oh! certainly,' said the captain, and the key clicked. "it was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of seven of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had last hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as black as the bowels of despair; it was then that steelkilt proposed to the two canalers, thus far apparently of one mind with him, to burst out of their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with their keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a handle at each end) run a muck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if by any devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. for himself, he would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not. that was the last night he should spend in that den. but the scheme met with no opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were ready for that, or for any other mad thing, for any thing, in short, but a surrender. and what was more, they each insisted upon being the first man on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. but to this their leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself; particularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other, in the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder would but admit one man at a time. and here, gentlemen, the foul play of these miscreants must come out. "upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own separate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece of treachery, namely: to be foremost in breaking out, in order to be the first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and thereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might merit. but when steelkilt made known his determination still to lead them to the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of villainy, mixed their before secret treacheries together; and when their leader fell into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in three sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with cords; and shrieked out for the captain at midnight. "thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he and all his armed mates and harpooners rushed for the forecastle. in a few minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still struggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious allies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been fully ripe for murder. but all three were collared, and dragged along the deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the mizen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till morning. 'damn ye,' cried the captain, pacing to and fro before them, 'the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains!' "at sunrise he summoned all hands; and separated those who had rebelled from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the former that he had a good mind to flog them all around--thought, upon the whole, he would do so--he ought to--justice demanded it; but, for the present, considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with a reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular. "'but as for you, ye carrion rogues,' turning to the three men in the rigging--'for you, i mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;' and, seizing a rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two traitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their head sideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn. "'my wrist is sprained with ye!' he cried, at last; 'but there is still rope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn't give up. take that gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself.' "for a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his cramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said, in a sort of hiss, 'what i say is this--and mind it well--if you flog me, i murder you!' "'say ye so? then see how ye frighten me'--and the captain drew off with the rope to strike. "'best not,' hissed the lakeman. "'but i must'--and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke. "steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the captain; who, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck rapidly two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope, said, 'i won't do it--let him go--cut him down: d'ye hear?' "but as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale man, with a bandaged head, arrested them--radney the chief mate. ever since the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the tumult on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the whole scene. such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly speak; but mumbling something about _his_ being willing and able to do what the captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced to his pinioned foe. "'you are a coward!' hissed the lakeman. "'so i am, but take that.' the mate was in the very act of striking, when another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. he paused: and then pausing no more, made good his word, spite of steelkilt's threat, whatever that might have been. the three men were then cut down, all hands were turned to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps clanged as before. "just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor was heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up, besieged the cabin-door, saying they durst not consort with the crew. entreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own instance they were put down in the ship's run for salvation. still, no sign of mutiny re-appeared among the rest. on the contrary, it seemed, that mainly at steelkilt's instigation, they had resolved to maintain the strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the ship reached port, desert her in a body. but in order to insure the speediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing--namely, not to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. for, spite of her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the town-ho still maintained her mast heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower for a fish that moment, as on the day his craft first struck the cruising-ground, and radney the mate was quite as ready to change his berth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the vital jaw of the whale. "but though the lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of passiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till all was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the man who had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. he was in radney the chief-mate's watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more than half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he insisted, against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the head of his watch at night. upon this, and one or two other circumstances, steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge. "during the night, radney had an unseaman-like way of sitting on the bulwarks of the quarter-deck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of the boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship's side. in this attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. there was a considerable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between this was the sea. steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his next trick at the helm would come round at two o'clock, in the morning of the third day from that in which he had been betrayed. at his leisure, he employed the interval in braiding something very carefully in his watches below. "'what are you making there?' said a shipmate. "'what do you think? what does it look like?' "'like a lanyard for your bag; but it's an odd one, seems to me.' "'yes, rather oddish,' said the lakeman, holding it at arm's length before him; 'but i think it will answer. shipmate, i haven't enough twine--have you any?' "but there was none in the forecastle. "'then i must get some from old rad;' and he rose to go aft. "'you don't mean to go a-begging to _him!_' said a sailor. "'why not? do you think he won't do me a turn, when it's to help himself in the end, shipmate?' and going to the mate, he looked at him quietly, and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. it was given him--neither twine nor lanyard was seen again; but the next night an iron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the lakeman's monkey-jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock for a pillow. twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent helm--nigh to the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready dug to the seaman's hand--that fatal hour was then to come; and in the fore-ordaining soul of steelkilt, the mate was already stark and stretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in. "but, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody deed he had planned. yet complete revenge he had, and without being the avenger. for by a mysterious fatality, heaven itself seemed to step in to take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have done. "it was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second day, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid teneriffe man, drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out, 'there she rolls! there she rolls! jesu! what a whale!' it was moby dick. "'moby dick!' cried don sebastian; 'st. dominic! sir sailor, but do whales have christenings? whom call you moby dick?' "a very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, don; but that would be too long a story. "'how? how? cried all the young spaniards, crowding. "nay, dons, dons--nay, nay! i can not rehearse that now. let me get more into the air, sirs. "'the chicha! the chicha!' cried don pedro; 'our vigorous friend looks faint; fill up his empty glass!' "no need, gentlemen; one moment, and i proceed. now, gentlemen, so suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the ship--forgetful of the compact among the crew--in the excitement of the moment, the teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. all was now a frenzy. 'the white whale--the white whale!' was the cry from captain, mates, and harpooners, who, undeterred by fearful rumors, were all anxious to capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass, that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a living opal in the blue morning sea. gentlemen, a strange fatality pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out before the world itself was charted. the mutineer was the bowsman of the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the line, at the word of command. moreover, when the four boats were lowered, the mate's got the start; and none howled more fiercely with delight than did steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. after a stiff pull, their harpooner got fast, and, spear in hand, radney sprang to the bow. he was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. and now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale's topmost back. nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate. that instant, as he fell on the whale's slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while radney was tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. he struck out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that vail, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of moby dick. but the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom--seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down. "meantime, at the first tap of the boat's bottom, the lakeman had slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly looking on, he thought his own thoughts. but a sudden, terrific, downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. he cut it; and the whale was free. but, at some distance, moby dick rose again, with some tatters of radney's red woolen shirt, caught in the teeth that had destroyed him. all four boats gave chase again; but the whale eluded them, and, finally, wholly disappeared. "in good time, the town-ho reached her port--a savage, solitary place--where no civilized creature resided. there, headed by the lakeman, all but five or six of the foremast-men deliberately deserted among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor. "the ship's company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called upon the islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving down the ship to stop the leak. but to such unresting vigilance over their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent, that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so heavy a vessel. after taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight before the wind for tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a reinforcement to his crew. "on the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which seemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. he steered away from it; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of steelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. the captain presented a pistol. with one foot on each prow of the yoked war-canoes, the lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the pistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and foam. "'what do you want of me?' cried the captain. "'where are you bound? and for what are you bound?' demanded steelkilt; 'no lies.' "'i am bound to tahiti for more men.' "'very good. let me board you a moment--i come in peace.' with that he leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale, stood face to face with the captain. "'cross your arm, sir; throw back your head. now, repeat after me. as soon as steelkilt leaves me, i swear to beach this boat on yonder island, and remain there six days. if i do not, may lightnings strike me!' "'a pretty scholar,' laughed the lakeman. 'adios, senor!' and leaping into the sea, he swam back to his comrades. "watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the roots of the cocoa-nut trees, steelkilt made sail again, and in due time arrived at tahiti, his own place of destination. there, luck befriended him; two ships were about to sail for france, and were providentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor headed. they embarked; and so forever got the start of their former captain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution. "some ten days after the french ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived, and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized tahitans, who had been somewhat used to the sea. chartering a small native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all right there, again resumed his cruisings. "where steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of nantucket, the widow of radney still turns to the sea which refuses to give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that destroyed him.... "'are you through?' said don sebastian, quietly. "i am, don. "'then i entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions, this your story is, in substance, really true? it is so passing wonderful! did you get it from an unquestionable source? bear with me if i seem to press.' "'also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in don sebastian's suit,' cried the company, with exceeding interest. "is there a copy of the holy evangelists in the golden inn, gentlemen? "'nay,' said don sebastian; 'but i know a worthy priest near by, who will quickly procure one for me. i go for it; but are you well advised? this may grow too serious.' "'will you be so good as to bring the priest also, don?' "'though there are no auto-da-fés in lima now,' said one of the company to another; 'i fear our sailor friend runs risk of the archiepiscopacy. let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. i see no need of this.' "excuse me for running after you, don sebastian; but may i also beg that you will be particular in procuring the largest sized evangelists you can.... "'this is the priest; he brings you the evangelists,' said don sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure. "let me remove my hat. now, venerable priest, further into the light, and hold the holy book before me that i may touch it. "so help me heaven, and on my honor, the story i have told ye, gentlemen, is, in substance and its great items, true. i know it to be true; it happened on this ball; i trod the ship; i knew the crew; i have seen and talked with steelkilt since the death of radney." my novel, or, varieties in english life.[ ] [ ] continued from the september number. book vii.--initial chapter. "what is courage?" said my uncle roland, rousing himself from a reverie into which he had fallen after the sixth book in this history had been read to our family circle. "what is courage?" he repeated more earnestly. "is it insensibility to fear? _that_ may be the mere accident of constitution; and, if so, there is no more merit in being courageous than in being this table." "i am very glad to hear you speak thus," observed mr. caxton, "for i should not like to consider myself a coward; yet i am very sensible to fear in all dangers, bodily and moral." "la, austin, how can you say so?" cried my mother, firing up; "was it not only last week that you faced the great bull that was rushing after blanche and the children?" blanche at that recollection stole to my father's chair, and, hanging over his shoulder kissed his forehead. mr. caxton (sublimely unmoved by these flatteries).--"i don't deny that i faced the bull, but i assert that i was horribly frightened." roland.--"the sense of honor which conquers fear is the true courage of chivalry: you could not run away when others were looking on--no gentleman could." mr. caxton.--"fiddledee! it was not on my gentility that i stood, captain. i should have run fast enough, if it had done any good. i stood upon my understanding. as the bull could run faster than i could, the only chance of escape was to make the brute as frightened as myself." blanche.--"ah, you did not think of that; your only thought was to save me and the children." mr. caxton.--"possibly, my dear--very possibly i might have been afraid for you too--but i was very much afraid for myself. however, luckily i had the umbrella, and i sprang it up and spread it forth in the animal's stupid eyes, hurling at him simultaneously the biggest lines i could think of in the first chorus of the 'seven against thebes.' i began with eledemnas pedioploktupos; and when i came to the grand howl of iô, iô, iô, iô--the beast stood appalled as at the roar of a lion. i shall never forget his amazed snort at the greek. then he kicked up his hind legs, and went bolt through the gap in the hedge. thus, armed with Ã�schylus and the umbrella, i remained master of the field; but (continued mr. caxton, ingenuously), i should not like to go through that half minute again." "no man would," said the captain, kindly. "i should be very sorry to face a bull myself, even with a bigger umbrella than yours, and even though i had Ã�schylus, and homer to boot, at my fingers' ends." mr. caxton.--"you would not have minded if it had been a frenchman with a sword in his hand?" captain.--"of course not. rather liked it than otherwise," he added, grimly. mr. caxton.--"yet many a spanish matador, who doesn't care a button for a bull, would take to his heels at the first lunge _en carte_ from a frenchman. therefore, in fact, if courage be a matter of constitution, it is also a matter of custom. we face calmly the dangers we are habituated to, and recoil from those of which we have no familiar experience. i doubt if marshal turenne himself would have been quite at his ease on the tight rope; and a rope-dancer, who seems disposed to scale the heavens with titanic temerity, might possibly object to charge on a cannon." captain roland.--"still, either this is not the courage i mean, or there is another kind of it. i mean by courage that which is the especial force and dignity of the human character, without which there is no reliance on principle, no constancy in virtue--a something," continued my uncle, gallantly, and with a half bow toward my mother, "which your sex shares with our own. when the lover, for instance, clasps the hand of his betrothed, and says, 'wilt thou be true to me, in spite of absence and time, in spite of hazard and fortune, though my foes malign me, though thy friends may dissuade thee, and our lot in life may be rough and rude?' and when the betrothed answers, 'i will be true,' does not the lover trust to her courage as well as her love?" "admirably put, roland," said my father. "but _apropos_ of what do you puzzle us with these queries on courage?" captain roland (with a slight blush).--"i was led to the inquiry (though, perhaps, it may be frivolous to take so much thought of what, no doubt, costs pisistratus so little), by the last chapters in my nephew's story. i see this poor boy, leonard, alone with his fallen hopes (though very irrational they were), and his sense of shame. and i read his heart, i dare say, better than pisistratus does, for i could feel like that boy if i had been in the same position; and, conjecturing what he and thousands like him must go through, i asked myself, 'what can save him and them?' i answered, as a soldier would answer, 'courage!' very well. but pray, austin, what is courage?" mr. caxton (prudently backing out of a reply).--"_papæ!_ brother, since you have just complimented the ladies on that quality, you had better address your question to them." blanche here leant both hands on my father's chair, and said, looking down at first bashfully, but afterward warming with the subject, "do you not think, sir, that little helen has already suggested, if not what is courage, what at least is the real essence of all courage that endures and conquers, that ennobles, and hallows, and redeems? is it not patience, father?--and that is why we women have a courage of our own. patience does not affect to be superior to fear, but at least it never admits despair." pisistratus.--"kiss me, my blanche, for you have come near to the truth which perplexed the soldier and puzzled the sage." mr. caxton (tartly).--"if you mean me by the sage, i was not puzzled at all. heaven knows you do right to inculcate patience--it is a virtue very much required in your readers. nevertheless," added my father, softening with the enjoyment of his joke--"nevertheless, blanche and helen are quite right. patience is the courage of the conqueror; it is the virtue, _par excellence_, of man against destiny--of the one against the world, and of the soul against matter. therefore this is the courage of the gospel; and its importance, in a social view--its importance to races and institutions--can not be too earnestly included. what is it that distinguishes the anglo-saxon from all other branches of the human family, peoples deserts with his children, and consigns to them the heritage of rising worlds? what but his faculty to brave, to suffer, to endure--the patience that resists firmly, and innovates slowly. compare him with the frenchman. the frenchman has plenty of valor--that there is no denying; but as for fortitude, he has not enough to cover the point of a pin. he is ready to rush out of the world if he is bit by a flea." captain roland.--"there was a case in the papers the other day, austin, of a frenchman who actually did destroy himself because he was so teased by the little creatures you speak of. he left a paper on his table, saying that 'life was not worth having at the price of such torments.'"[ ] [ ] fact. in a work by m. gibert, a celebrated french physician, on diseases of the skin, he states that that minute troublesome kind of rash, known by the name of _prurigo_, though not dangerous in itself, has often driven the individual afflicted by it to--suicide. i believe that our more varying climate, and our more heating drinks and aliments, render the skin complaint more common in england than in france, yet i doubt if any english physician could state that it had ever driven one of his _english_ patients to suicide. mr. caxton (solemnly).--"sir, their whole political history, since the great meeting of the tiers Ã�tat, has been the history of men who would rather go to the devil than be bit by a flea. it is the record of human impatience, that seeks to force time, and expects to grow forests from the spawn of a mushroom. wherefore, running through all extremes of constitutional experiment, when they are nearest to democracy they are next door to a despot; and all they have really done is to destroy whatever constitutes the foundation of every tolerable government. a constitutional monarchy can not exist without aristocracy, nor a healthful republic endure with corruption of manners. the cry of equality is incompatible with civilization, which, of necessity, contrasts poverty with wealth, and, in short, whether it be an emperor or a mob that is to rule, force is the sole hope of order, and the government is but an army. "impress, o pisistratus! impress the value of patience as regards man and men. you touch there on the kernel of the social system--the secret that fortifies the individual and disciplines the million. i care not, for my part, if you are tedious so long as you are earnest. be minute and detailed. let the real human life, in its war with circumstance, stand out. never mind if one can read you but slowly--better chance of being less quickly forgotten. patience, patience! by the soul of epictetus, your readers shall set you an example!" chapter ii. leonard had written twice to mrs. fairfield, twice to riccabocca, and once to mr. dale; and the poor proud boy could not bear to betray his humiliation. he wrote with as cheerful spirits--as if perfectly satisfied with his prospects. he said that he was well employed, in the midst of books, and that he had found kind friends. then he turned from himself to write about those whom he addressed, and the affairs and interests of the quiet world wherein they lived. he did not give his own address, nor that of mr. prickett. he dated his letters from a small coffee-house near the bookseller, to which he occasionally went for his simple meals. he had a motive in this. he did not desire to be found out. mr. dale replied for himself and for mrs. fairfield, to the epistles addressed to these two. riccabocca wrote also. nothing could be more kind than the replies of both. they came to leonard in a very dark period in his life, and they strengthened him in the noiseless battle with despair. if there be a good in the world that we do without knowing it, without conjecturing the effect it may have upon a human soul, it is when we show kindness to the young in the first barren footpath up the mountain of life. leonard's face resumed its serenity in his intercourse with his employer; but he did not recover his boyish ingenuous frankness. the under-currents flowed again pure from the turbid soil and the splintered fragments uptorn from the deep; but they were still too strong and too rapid to allow transparency to the surface. and now he stood in the sublime world of books, still and earnest as a seer who invokes the dead. and thus, face to face with knowledge, hourly he discovered how little he knew. mr. prickett lent him such works as he selected and asked to take home with him. he spent whole nights in reading; and no longer desultorily. he read no more poetry, no more lives of poets. he read what poets must read if they desire to be great--_sapere principium et fons_--strict reasonings on the human mind; the relations between motive and conduct, thought and action; the grave and solemn truths of the past world; antiquities, history, philosophy. he was taken out of himself. he was carried along the ocean of the universe. in that ocean, o seeker, study the law of the tides; and seeing chance nowhere--thought presiding over all--fate, that dread phantom, shall vanish from creation, and providence alone be visible in heaven and on earth! chapter iii. there was to be a considerable book-sale at a country house one day's journey from london. mr. prickett meant to have attended it on his own behalf, and that of several gentlemen who had given him commissions for purchase; but, on the morning fixed for his departure, he was seized with a severe return of his old foe, the rheumatism. he requested leonard to attend instead of himself. leonard went, and was absent for the three days during which the sale lasted. he returned late in the evening, and went at once to mr. prickett's house. the shop was closed; he knocked at the private entrance; a strange person opened the door to him, and in reply to his question if mr. prickett was at home, said with a long and funereal face--"young man, mr. prickett senior has gone to his long home, but mr. richard prickett will see you." at this moment a very grave-looking man, with lank hair, looked forth from the side-door communicating between the shop and the passage; and then stepped forward--"come in, sir; you are my late uncle's assistant, mr. fairfield, i suppose?" "your late uncle! heavens, sir, do i understand aright--can mr. prickett be dead since i left london?" "died, sir, suddenly last night. it was an affection of the heart; the doctor thinks the rheumatism attacked that organ. he had small time to provide for his departure, and his account books seem in sad disorder: i am his nephew and executor." leonard had now followed the nephew into the shop. there, still burned the gas lamp. the place seemed more dingy and cavernous than before. death always makes its presence felt in the house it visits. leonard was greatly affected--and yet more, perhaps, by the utter want of feeling which the nephew exhibited. in fact, the deceased had not been on friendly terms with this person, his nearest relative and heir-at-law, who was also a bookseller. "you were engaged but by the week i find, young man, on reference to my late uncle's papers. he gave you a £ a week--a monstrous sum! i shall not require your services any further. i shall move these books to my own house. you will be good enough to send me a list of those you bought at the sale, and your account of traveling expenses, &c. what may be due to you shall be sent to your address. good evening." leonard went home, shocked and saddened at the sudden death of his kind employer. he did not think much of himself that night; but, when he rose the next day, he suddenly felt that the world of london lay before him, without a friend, without a calling, without an occupation for bread. this time it was no fancied sorrow, no poetic dream disappointed. before him, gaunt and palpable, stood famine. escape!--yes. back to the village; his mother's cottage; the exile's garden; the radishes and the fount. why could he not escape? ask why civilization can not escape its ills and fly back to the wilds and the wigwam? leonard could not have returned to the cottage, even if the famine that faced had already seized him with her skeleton hand. london releases not so readily her fated stepsons. chapter iv. one day three persons were standing before an old book-stall in a passage leading from oxford-street into tottenham-court-road. two were gentlemen; the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old book-stalls. "look," said one of the gentlemen to the other, "i have discovered here what i have searched for in vain for the last ten years--the horace of , the horace of the forty commentators--a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen shillings!" "hush, norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and as it were, with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume. "what is the book, my lord?" whispered mr. norreys. his companion smiled, and replied by another question, "what is the man who reads the book?" mr. norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder. "preston's translation of boethius, _the consolations of philosophy_," he said, coming back to his friend. "he looks as if he wanted all the consolations philosophy can give him, poor boy." at this moment a fourth passenger paused at the book-stall, and, recognizing the pale student, placed his hand on his shoulder and said, "aha, young sir, we meet again. so poor prickett is dead. but you are still haunted by associations. books--books--magnets to which all iron minds move insensibly. what is this? boethius! ah, a book written in prison, but a little time before the advent of the only philosopher who solves to the simplest understanding every mystery of life--" "and that philosopher?" "is death!" said mr. burley. "how can you be dull enough to ask? poor boethius, rich, nobly born, a consul, his sons consuls--the world one smile to the last philosopher of rome. then suddenly, against this type of the old world's departing wisdom, stands frowning the new world's grim genius, force--theodoric the ostrogoth condemning boethius the schoolman; and boethius, in his pavian dungeon, holding a dialogue with the shade of athenian philosophy. it is the finest picture upon which lingers the glimmering of the western golden day, before night rushes over time." "and," said mr. norreys abruptly, "boethius comes back to us with the faint gleam of returning light, translated by alfred the great. and, again, as the sun of knowledge bursts forth in all its splendor, by queen elizabeth. boethius influences us as we stand in this passage; and that is the best of all the consolations of philosophy--eh, mr. burley?" mr. burley turned and bowed. the two men looked at each other; you could not see a greater contrast. mr. burley, his gay green dress already shabby and soiled, with a rent in the skirts, and his face speaking of habitual night-cups. mr. norreys, neat and somewhat precise in dress, with firm lean figure, and quiet, collected, vigorous energy in his eye and aspect. "if," replied mr. burley, "a poor devil like me may argue with a gentleman who may command his own price with the booksellers, i should say it is no consolation at all mr. norreys. and i should like to see any man of sense accept the condition of boethius in his prison, with some strangler or headsman waiting behind the door, upon the promised proviso that he should be translated, centuries afterward, by kings and queens, and help indirectly to influence the minds of northern barbarians, babbling about him in an alley, jostled by passers-by who never heard the name of boethius, and who don't care a fig for philosophy. your servant, sir--young man, come and talk." burley hooked his arm within leonard's, and led the boy passively away. "that is a clever man," said harley l'estrange. "but i am sorry to see yon young student, with his bright, earnest eyes, and his lip that has the quiver of passion and enthusiasm, leaning on the arm of a guide who seems disenchanted of all that gives purpose to learning, and links philosophy with use to the world. who, and what is this clever man whom you call burley?" "a man who might have been famous, if he had condescended to be respectable! the boy listening to us both so attentively interested _me_ too--i should like to have the making of him. but i must buy this horace." the shopman, lurking within his hole like a spider for flies, was now called out. and when mr. norreys had bought the horace, and given an address where to send it, harley asked the shopman if he knew the young man who had been reading boethius. "only by sight. he has come here every day the last week, and spends hours at the stall. when once he fastens on a book, he reads it through." "and never buys?" said mr. norreys. "sir," said the shopman, with a good-natured smile, "they who buy seldom read. the poor boy pays me two-pence a day to read as long as he pleases. i would not take it, but he is proud." "i have known men amass great learning in that way," said mr. norreys. "yes, i should like to have that boy in my hands. and now, my lord, i am at your service, and we shall go to the studio of your artist." the two gentlemen walked on toward one of the streets out of fitzroy-square. in a few minutes more harley l'estrange was in his element, seated carelessly on a deal table, smoking his cigar, and discussing art with the gusto of a man who honestly loved, and the taste of a man who thoroughly understood it. the young artist, in his dressing robe, adding slow touch upon touch, paused often to listen the better. and henry norreys, enjoying the brief respite from a life of great labor, was gladly reminded of idle hours under rosy skies; for these three men had formed their friendship in italy, where the bands of friendship are woven by the hands of the graces. chapter v. leonard and mr. burley walked on into the suburbs round the north road from london, and mr. burley offered to find literary employment for leonard--an offer eagerly accepted. then they went into a public house by the wayside. burley demanded a private room, called for pen, ink, and paper; and placing these implements before leonard, said, "write what you please, in prose, five sheets of letter paper, twenty-two lines to a page neither more nor less." "i can not write so." "tut, 'tis for bread." the boy's face crimsoned. "i must forget that," said he. "there is an arbor in the garden under a weeping ash," returned burley. "go there, and fancy yourself in arcadia." leonard was too pleased to obey. he found out the little arbor at one end of a deserted bowling-green. all was still--the hedgerow shut out the sight of the inn. the sun lay warm on the grass, and glinted pleasantly through the leaves of the ash. and leonard there wrote the first essay from his hand as author by profession. what was it that he wrote? his dreamy impressions of london? an anathema on its streets, and its hearts of stone? murmurs against poverty? dark elegies on fate? oh, no! little knowest thou true genius if thou askest such questions, or thinkest that there, under the weeping ash, the taskwork for bread was remembered; or that the sunbeam glinted but over the practical world, which, vulgar and sordid, lay around. leonard wrote a fairy tale--one of the loveliest you can conceive, with a delicate touch of playful humor--in a style all flowered over with happy fancies. he smiled as he wrote the last word--he was happy. in rather more than an hour mr. burley came to him, and found him with that smile on his lips. mr. burley had a glass of brandy and water in his hand; it was his third. he too smiled--he too looked happy. he read the paper aloud, and well. he was very complimentary. "you will do!" said he, clapping leonard on the back. "perhaps some day you will catch my one-eyed perch." then he folded up the ms., scribbled off a note, put the whole in one envelope--and they returned to london. mr. burley disappeared within a dingy office near fleet-street, on which was inscribed--"office of the _beehive_," and soon came forth with a golden sovereign in his hand--leonard's first fruits. leonard thought peru lay before him. he accompanied mr. burley to that gentleman's lodging in maida hill. the walk had been very long; leonard was not fatigued. he listened with a livelier attention than before to burley's talk. and when they reached the apartments of the latter, and mr. burley sent to the cookshop, and their joint supper was taken out of the golden sovereign, leonard felt proud, and for the first time for weeks he laughed the heart's laugh. the two writers grew more and more intimate and cordial. and there was a vast deal in burley by which any young man might be made the wiser. there was no apparent evidence of poverty in the apartment--clean, new, well furnished; but all things in the most horrible litter--all speaking of the huge literary sloven. for several days leonard almost lived in those rooms. he wrote continuously--save when burley's conversation fascinated him into idleness. nay, it was not idleness--his knowledge grew larger as he listened; but the cynicism of the talker began slowly to work its way. that cynicism in which there was no faith, no hope, no vivifying breath from glory--from religion. the cynicism of the epicurean, more degraded in his style than ever was diogenes in his tub; and yet presented with such ease and such eloquence--with such art and such mirth--so adorned with illustration and anecdote, so unconscious of debasement. strange and dread philosophy--that made it a maxim to squander the gifts of mind on the mere care for matter, and fit the soul to live but as from day to day, with its scornful cry, "a fig for immortality and laurels!" an author for bread! oh, miserable calling! was there something grand and holy, after all, even in chatterton's despair! chapter vi. the villainous _beehive!_ bread was worked out of it, certainly; but fame, but hope for the future--certainly not. milton's _paradise lost_ would have perished without a sound, had it appeared in the _beehive_. fine things were there in a fragmentary crude state, composed by burley himself. at the end of a week they were dead and forgotten--never read by one man of education and taste; taken simultaneously and indifferently with shallow politics and wretched essays, yet selling, perhaps, twenty or thirty thousand copies--an immense sale; and nothing got out of them but bread and brandy! "what more would you have?" cried john burley. "did not stern old sam johnson say he could never write but from want?" "he might say it," answered leonard; "but he never meant posterity to believe him. and he would have died of want, i suspect, rather than have written _rasselas_ for the _beehive!_ want is a grand thing," continued the boy, thoughtfully. "a parent of grand things. necessity is strong, and should give us its own strength; but want should shatter asunder, with its very writhings, the walls of our prison-house, and not sit contented with the allowance the jail gives us in exchange for our work." "there is no prison-house to a man who calls upon bacchus--stay--i will translate to you schiller's dithyramb. 'then see i bacchus--then up come cupid and ph[oe]bus, and all the celestials are filling my dwelling.'" breaking into impromptu careless rhymes, burley threw off a rude but spirited translation of that divine lyric. "o materialists!" cried the boy, with his bright eyes suffused. "schiller calls on the gods to take him to their heaven with him; and you would debase the gods to a gin palace." "ho, ho!" cried burley, with his giant laugh. "drink, and you will understand the dithyramb." chapter vii. suddenly one morning, as leonard sate with burley, a fashionable cabriolet, with a very handsome horse, stopped at the door--a loud knock--a quick step on the stairs, and randal leslie entered. leonard recognized him and started. randal glanced at him in surprise, and then, with a tact that showed he had already learned to profit by london life, after shaking hands with burley, approached, and said, with some unsuccessful attempt at ease, "unless i am mistaken, sir, we have met before. if you remember me, i hope all boyish quarrels are forgotten?" leonard bowed, and his heart was still good enough to be softened. "where could you two ever have met?" asked burley. "in a village green, and in single combat," answered randal, smiling; and he told the story of the battle of the stocks with a well-bred jest on himself. burley laughed at the story. "but," said he, when this laugh was over, "my young friend had better have remained guardian of the village stocks, than come to london in search of such fortune as lies at the bottom of an inkhorn." "ah," said randal, with the secret contempt which men elaborately cultivated are apt to feel for those who seek to educate themselves--"ah, you make literature your calling, sir? at what school did you conceive a taste for letters? not very common at our great public schools." "i am at school now for the first time," answered leonard, drily. "experience is the best schoolmistress," said burley; "and that was the maxim of goethe, who had book-learning enough, in all conscience." randal slightly shrugged his shoulders, and, without wasting another thought on leonard, peasant-born and self-taught, took his seat, and began to talk to burley upon a political question, which made then the war-cry between the two great parliamentary parties. it was a subject in which burley showed much general knowledge; and randal, seeming to differ from him, drew forth alike his information and his argumentative powers. the conversation lasted more than an hour. "i can't quite agree with you," said randal, taking his leave; "but you must allow me to call again--will the same hour to-morrow suit you?" "yes," said burley. away went the young man in his cabriolet. leonard watched him from the window. for five days consecutively, did randal call and discuss the question in all its bearings; and burley, after the second day, got interested in the matter, looked up his authorities--refreshed his memory and even spent an hour or two in the library of the british museum. by the fifth day burley had really exhausted all that could well be said on his side of the question. leonard, during these colloquies, had sate apart, seemingly absorbed in reading, and secretly stung by randal's disregard of his presence. for indeed that young man, in his superb self-esteem, and in the absorption of his ambitious projects, scarce felt even curiosity as to leonard's rise above his earlier station, and looked on him as a mere journeyman of burley's. but the self-taught are keen and quick observers. and leonard had remarked that randal seemed more as one playing a part for some private purpose, than arguing in earnest; and that when he rose and said, "mr. burley, you have convinced me," it was not with the modesty of a sincere reasoner, but the triumph of one who has gained his end. but so struck, meanwhile, was our unheeded and silent listener, with burley's power of generalization, and the wide surface over which his information extended, that when randal left the room the boy looked at the slovenly, purposeless man, and said aloud--"true; knowledge is _not_ power." "certainly not," said burley, drily--"the weakest thing in the world." "knowledge is power," muttered randal leslie, as, with a smile on his lip, he drove from the door. not many days after this last interview there appeared a short pamphlet; anonymous, but one which made a great impression on the town. it was on the subject discussed between randal and burley. it was quoted at great length in the newspapers. and burley started to his feet one morning, and exclaimed, "my own thoughts! my very words! who the devil is this pamphleteer?" leonard took the newspaper from burley's hand. the most flattering encomiums preceded the extracts, and the extracts were as stereotypes of burley's talk. "can you doubt the author?" cried leonard, in deep disgust and ingenuous scorn. "the young man who came to steal your brains, and turn your knowledge--" "into power," interrupted burley, with a laugh, but it was a laugh of pain. "well, this was very mean; i shall tell him so when he comes." "he will come no more," said leonard. nor did randal come again. but he sent mr. burley a copy of the pamphlet with a polite note, saying, with candid but careless acknowledgment, that "he had profited much by mr. burley's hints and remarks." and now it was in all the papers, that the pamphlet which had made so great a noise was by a very young man, mr. audley egerton's relation, and high hopes were expressed of the future career of mr. randal leslie. burley still attempted to laugh, and still his pain was visible. leonard most cordially despised and hated randal leslie, and his heart moved to burley with noble but perilous compassion. in his desire to soothe and comfort the man whom he deemed cheated out of fame, he forgot the caution he had hitherto imposed on himself, and yielded more and more to the charm of that wasted intellect. he accompanied burley now where he went to spend his evenings, and more and more--though gradually, and with many a recoil and self-rebuke--there crept over him the cynic's contempt for glory, and miserable philosophy of debased content. randal had risen into grave repute upon the strength of burley's knowledge. but, had burley written the pamphlet, would the same repute have attended _him?_ certainly not. randal leslie brought to that knowledge qualities all his own--a style simple, strong, and logical; a certain tone of good society, and allusions to men and to parties that showed his connection with a cabinet minister, and proved that he had profited no less by egerton's talk than burley's. had burley written the pamphlet, it would have showed more genius, it would have had humor and wit, but have been so full of whims and quips, sins against taste, and defects in earnestness, that it would have failed to create any serious sensation. here, then, there was something else besides knowledge, by which knowledge became power. knowledge must not smell of the brandy bottle. randal leslie might be mean in his plagiarism, but he turned the useless into use. and so far he was original. but one's admiration, after all, rests where leonard's rested--with the poor, shabby, riotous, lawless, big fallen man. burley took himself off to the brent, and fished again for the one-eyed perch. leonard accompanied him. his feelings were indeed different from what they had been when he had reclined under the old tree, and talked with helen of the future. but it was almost pathetic to see how burley's nature seemed to alter, as he strayed along the banks of the rivulet, and talked of his own boyhood. the man then seemed restored to something of the innocence of the child. he cared, in truth, little for the perch, which continued intractable, but he enjoyed the air and the sky, the rustling grass and the murmuring waters. these excursions to the haunts of youth seemed to rebaptize him, and then his eloquence took a pastoral character, and izaak walton himself would have loved to hear him. but as he got back into the smoke of the metropolis, and the gas lamps made him forget the ruddy sunset, and the soft evening star, the gross habits reassumed their sway; and on he went with his swaggering, reckless step to the orgies in which his abused intellect flamed forth, and then sank into the socket quenched and rayless. chapter viii. helen was seized with profound and anxious sadness. leonard had been three or four times to see her, and each time she saw a change in him that excited all her fears. he seemed, it is true, more shrewd, more worldly-wise, more fitted, it might be, for coarse daily life; but, on the other hand, the freshness and glory of his youth were waning slowly. his aspirings drooped earthward. he had not mastered the practical, and moulded its uses with the strong hand of the spiritual architect, of the ideal builder: the practical was overpowering himself. she grew pale when he talked of burley, and shuddered, poor little helen! when she found he was daily and almost nightly in a companionship which, with her native honest prudence, she saw so unsuited to strengthen him in his struggles, and aid him against temptation. she almost groaned when, pressing him as to his pecuniary means, she found his old terror of debt seemed fading away, and the solid healthful principles he had taken from his village were loosening fast. under all, it is true, there was what a wiser and older person than helen would have hailed as the redeeming promise. but that something was _grief_--a sublime grief in his own sense of falling--in his own impotence against the fate he had provoked and coveted. the sublimity of that grief helen could not detect: she saw only that it _was_ grief, and she grieved with it, letting it excuse every fault--making her more anxious to comfort, in order that she might save. even from the first, when leonard had exclaimed, "ah, helen, why did you ever leave me?" she had revolved the idea of return to him; and when in the boy's last visit he told her that burley, persecuted by duns, was about to fly from his present lodgings, and take his abode with leonard in the room she had left vacant, all doubt was over. she resolved to sacrifice the safety and shelter of the home assured her. she resolved to come back and share leonard's penury and struggles, and save the old room, wherein she had prayed for him, from the tempter's dangerous presence. should she burden him? no; she had assisted her father by many little female arts in needle and fancy work. she had improved herself in these during her sojourn with miss starke. she could bring her share to the common stock. possessed with this idea, she determined to realize it before the day on which leonard had told her burley was to move his quarters. accordingly she rose very early one morning; she wrote a pretty and grateful note to miss starke, who was fast asleep, left it on the table, and before any one was astir, stole from the house, her little bundle on her arm. she lingered an instant at the garden-gate, with a remorseful sentiment--a feeling that she had ill-repaid the cold and prim protection that miss starke had shown her. but sisterly love carried all before it. she closed the gate with a sigh, and went on. she arrived at the lodging-house before leonard was up, took possession of her old chamber, and, presenting herself to leonard as he was about to go forth, said (story-teller that she was)--"i am sent away, brother, and i have come to you to take care of me. do not let us part again. but you must be very cheerful and very happy, or i shall think that i am sadly in your way." leonard at first did look cheerful, and even happy; but then he thought of burley, and then of his own means of supporting her, and was embarrassed, and began questioning helen as to the possibility of reconciliation with miss starke. and helen said gravely, "impossible--do not ask it, and do not go near her." then leonard thought she had been humbled and insulted, and remembered that she was a gentleman's child, and felt for her wounded pride--he was so proud himself. yet still he was embarrassed. "shall i keep the purse again, leonard?" said helen coaxingly. "alas!" replied leonard, "the purse is empty." "that is very naughty in the purse," said helen, "since you put so much into it." "i?" "did not you say that you made, at least, a guinea a-week?" "yes; but burley takes the money; and then, poor fellow! as i owe all to him, i have not the heart to prevent his spending it as he likes." "please, i wish you could settle the month's rent," said the landlady, suddenly showing herself. she said it civilly, but with firmness. leonard colored. "it shall be paid to-day." then he pressed his hat on his head, and putting helen gently aside, went forth. "speak to _me_ in future, kind mrs. smedley," said helen with the air of a housewife. "_he_ is always in study, and must not be disturbed." the landlady--a good woman, though she liked her rent--smiled benignly. she was fond of helen, whom she had known of old. "i am so glad you are come back; and perhaps now the young man will not keep such late hours. i meant to give him warning, but--" "but he will be a great man one of these days, and you must bear with him now." and helen kissed mrs. smedley, and sent her away half inclined to cry. then helen busied herself in the rooms. she found her father's box, which had been duly forwarded. she re-examined its contents, and wept as she touched each humble and pious relic. but her father's memory itself thus seemed to give this home a sanction which the former had not; and she rose quietly and began mechanically to put things in order, sighing as she saw all so neglected, till she came to the rose-tree, and that alone showed heed and care. "dear leonard!" she murmured, and the smile re-settled on her lips. chapter ix. nothing, perhaps, could have severed leonard from burley but helen's return to his care. it was impossible for him, even had there been another room in the house vacant (which there was not), to install this noisy riotous son of the muse by bacchus, talking at random, and smelling of spirits, in the same dwelling with an innocent, delicate, timid female child. and leonard could not leave her alone all the twenty-four hours. she restored a home to him, and imposed its duties. he therefore told mr. burley that in future he should write and study in his own room, and hinted with many a blush, and as delicately as he could, that it seemed to him that whatever he obtained from his pen ought to be halved with burley, to whose interest he owed the employment, and from whose books or whose knowledge he took what helped to maintain it; but that the other half, if his, he could no longer afford to spend upon feasts or libations. he had another to provide for. burley pooh-poohed the notion of taking half his coadjutor's earnings, with much grandeur, but spoke very fretfully of leonard's sober appropriation of the other half; and, though a good-natured, warm-hearted man, felt extremely indignant against the sudden interposition of poor helen. however, leonard was firm; and then burley grew sullen, and so they parted. but the rent was still to be paid. how? leonard for the first time thought of the pawnbroker. he had clothes to spare, and riccabocca's watch. no; that last he shrank from applying to such base uses. he went home at noon, and met helen at the street-door. she too had been out, and her soft cheek was rosy red with unwonted exercise and the sense of joy. she had still preserved the few gold pieces which leonard had taken back to her on his first visit to miss starke's. she had now gone out and bought wools and implements for work; and meanwhile she had paid the rent. leonard did not object to the work, but he blushed deeply when he knew about the rent, and was very angry. he paid back to her that night what she had advanced; and helen wept silently at his pride, and wept more when she saw the next day a woeful hiatus in his wardrobe. but leonard now worked at home, and worked resolutely; and helen sate by his side, working too; so that next day, and the next, slipped peacefully away, and in the evening of the second he asked her to walk out in the fields. she sprang up joyously at the invitation, when bang went the door, and in reeled john burley--drunk:--and so drunk! chapter x. and with burley there reeled in another man--a friend of his--a man who had been a wealthy trader and once well to do, but who, unluckily, had literary tastes, and was fond of hearing burley talk. so, since he had known the wit, his business had fallen from him, and he had passed through the bankrupt court. a very shabby-looking dog he was, indeed, and his nose was redder than burley's. john made a drunken dash at poor helen. "so you are the pentheus in petticoats who defies bacchus," cried he; and therewith he roared out a verse from euripides. helen ran away, and leonard interposed. "for shame, burley!" "he's drunk," said mr. douce, the bankrupt trader--"very drunk--don't mind--him. i say, sir, i hope we don't intrude. sit still, burley, sit still, and talk, do--that's a good man. you should hear him ta--ta--talk, sir." leonard meanwhile had got helen out of the room, into her own, and begged her not to be alarmed, and keep the door locked. he then returned to burley, who had seated himself on the bed, trying wondrous hard to keep himself upright; while mr. douce was striving to light a short pipe that he carried in his button-hole--without having filled it--and, naturally failing in that attempt, was now beginning to weep. leonard was deeply shocked and revolted for helen's sake; but it was hopeless to make burley listen to reason. and how could the boy turn out of his room the man to whom he was under obligations? meanwhile there smote upon helen's shrinking ears loud jarring talk and maudlin laughter, and cracked attempts at jovial songs. then she heard mrs. smedley in leonard's room, remonstrating, and burley's laugh was louder than before, and mrs. smedley, who was a meek woman, evidently got frightened, and was heard in precipitate retreat. long and loud talk recommenced, burley's great voice predominant, mr. douce chiming in with hiccupy broken treble. hour after hour this lasted, for want of the drink that would have brought it to a premature close. and burley gradually began to talk himself somewhat sober. then mr. douce was heard descending the stairs, and silence followed. at dawn, leonard knocked at helen's door. she opened it at once, for she had not gone to bed. "helen," said he, very sadly, "you can not continue here. i must find out some proper home for you. this man has served me when all london was friendless, and he tells me that he has nowhere else to go--that the bailiffs are after him.--he has now fallen asleep. i will go and find you some lodging close at hand--for i can not expel him who has protected me; and yet you can not be under the same roof with him. my own good angel, i must lose you." he did not wait for her answer, but hurried down the stairs. the morning looked through the shutterless panes in leonard's garret, and the birds began to chirp from the elm-tree, when burley rose, and shook himself, and stared round. he could not quite make out where he was. he got hold of the water-jug which he emptied at three draughts, and felt greatly refreshed. he then began to reconnoitre the chamber--looked at leonard's mss.--peeped into the drawers--wondered where the devil leonard himself had gone to--and finally amused himself by throwing down the fire-irons, ringing the bell, and making all the noise he could, in the hopes of attracting the attention of somebody or other, and procuring himself his morning dram. in the midst of this _charivari_ the door opened softly, but as if with a resolute hand, and the small quiet form of helen stood before the threshold. burley turned round, and the two looked at each other for some moments with silent scrutiny. burley (composing his features into their most friendly expression).--"come hither, my dear. so you are the little girl whom i saw with leonard on the banks of the brent, and you have come back to live with him--and i have come to live with him too. you shall be our little housekeeper, and i will tell you the story of prince prettyman, and a great many others not to be found in _mother goose_. meanwhile, my dear little girl, here's sixpence--just run out and change this for its worth in rum." helen (coming slowly up to mr. burley, and still gazing earnestly into his face).--"ah, sir, leonard says you have a kind heart, and that you have served him--he can not ask you to leave the house: and so i, who have never served him, am to go hence and live alone." burley (moved).--"you go, my little lady?--and why? can we not all live together?" helen. "no sir. i left every thing to come to leonard, for we had met first at my father's grave. but you rob me of him, and i have no other friend on earth." burley (discomposed).--"explain yourself. why must you leave him because i come?" helen looks at mr. burley again, long and wistfully, but makes no answer. burley (with a gulp).--"is it because he thinks i am not fit company for you?" helen bowed her head. burley winced, and after a moment's pause said--"he is right." helen (obeying the impulse at her heart, springs forward and takes burley's hand).--"ah, sir," she cried, "before he knew you he was so different--then he was cheerful--then, even when his first disappointment came, i grieved and wept; but i felt he would conquer still--for his heart was so good and pure. oh, sir, don't think i reproach you; but what is to become of him if--if--no, it is not for myself i speak. i know that if i was here, that if he had me to care for, he would come home early and--work patiently--and--and--that i might save him. but now when i am gone, and you with him--you to whom he is grateful, you whom he would follow against his own conscience (you must see that, sir)--what is to become of him?" helen's voice died in sobs. burley took three or four long strides through the room--he was greatly agitated. "i am a demon," he murmured. "i never saw it before--but it is true i should be this boy's ruin." tears stood in his eyes, he paused abruptly, made a clutch at his hat, and turned to the door. helen stopped the way, and taking him gently by the arm, said--"oh, sir, forgive me--i have pained you;" and looked up at him with a compassionate expression, that indeed made the child's sweet face as that of an angel. burley bent down as if to kiss her, and then drew back--perhaps with a sentiment that his lips were not worthy to touch that innocent brow. "if i had had a sister--a child like you, little one," he muttered, "perhaps i too might have been saved in time. now--" "ah, now you may stay, sir; i don't fear you any more." "no, no; you would fear me again ere night-time, and i might not be always in the right mood to listen to a voice like yours, child. your leonard has a noble heart and rare gifts. he should rise yet, and he shall. i will not drag him into the mire. good-by--you will see me no more." he broke from helen, cleared the stairs with a bound, and was out of the house. when leonard returned he was surprised to hear his unwelcome guest was gone--but helen did not venture to tell him of her interposition. she knew instinctively how such officiousness would mortify and offend the pride of man; but she never again spoke harshly of poor burley. leonard supposed that he should either see or hear of the humorist in the course of the day. finding he did not, he went in search of him at his old haunts; but no trace. he inquired at the _beehive_ if they knew there of his new address, but no tidings of burley could be obtained. as he came home disappointed and anxious, for he felt uneasy as to the disappearance of his wild friend, mrs. smedley met him at the door. "please, sir, suit yourself with another lodging," said she. "i can have no such singings and shoutings going on at night in my house. and that poor little girl too!--you should be ashamed of yourself." leonard frowned, and passed by. chapter xi. meanwhile, on leaving helen, burley strode on; and, as if by some better instinct, for he was unconscious of his own steps, he took the way toward the still green haunts of his youth. when he paused at length, he was already before the door of a rural cottage, standing alone in the midst of fields, with a little farm-yard at the back; and far through the trees in front was caught a glimpse of the winding brent. with this cottage burley was familiar; it was inhabited by a good old couple who had known him from a boy. there he habitually left his rods and fishing-tackle; there, for intervals in his turbid, riotous life, he had sojourned for two or three days together--fancying, the first day that the country was a heaven, and convinced before the third that it was a purgatory. an old woman of neat and tidy exterior came forth to greet him. "ah, master john," said she, clasping his nerveless hand--"well, the fields be pleasant now--i hope you are come to stay a bit? do; it will freshen you: you lose all the fine color you had once, in lunnon town." "i will stay with you, my kind friend," said burley, with unusual meekness--"i can have the old room, then?" "oh yes, come and look at it. i never let it now to any one but you--never have let it since the dear beautiful lady with the angel's face went away. poor thing, what could have become of her?" thus speaking, while burley listened not, the old woman drew him within the cottage, and led him up the stairs into a room that might have well become a better house, for it was furnished with taste, and even elegance. a small cabinet pianoforte stood opposite the fire-place, and the window looked upon pleasant meads and tangled hedgerows, and the narrow windings of the blue rivulet. burley sank down exhausted, and gazed wistfully from the casement. "you have not breakfasted?" said the hostess anxiously. "no." "well, the eggs are fresh laid, and you would like a rasher of bacon, master john? and if you _will_ have brandy in your tea, i have some that you left long ago in your own bottle." burley shook his head. "no brandy, mrs. goodyer; only fresh milk. i will see whether i can yet coax nature." mrs. goodyer did not know what was meant by coaxing nature, but she said, "pray do, master john," and vanished. that day burley went out with his rod, and he fished hard for the one-eyed perch: but in vain. then he roved along the stream with his hands in his pockets, whistling. he returned to the cottage at sunset, partook of the fare provided for him, abstained from the brandy, and felt dreadfully low. he called for pen, ink, and paper, and sought to write, but could not achieve two lines. he summoned mrs. goodyer, "tell your husband to come and sit and talk." up came old jacob goodyer, and the great wit bade him tell him all the news of the village. jacob obeyed willingly, and burley at last fell asleep. the next day it was much the same, only at dinner he had up the brandy bottle, and finished it; and he did _not_ have up jacob, but he contrived to write. the third day it rained incessantly. "have you no books, mrs. goodyer?" asked poor john burley. "oh, yes; some that the dear lady left behind her; and perhaps you would like to look at some papers in her own writing?" "no, not the papers--all women scribble, and all scribble the same things. get me the books." the books were brought up--poetry and essays--john knew them by heart. he looked out on the rain, and at evening the rain had ceased. he rushed to his hat and fled. "nature, nature!" he exclaimed when he was out in the air, and hurrying by the dripping hedgerows, "you are not to be coaxed by me! i have jilted you shamefully, i own it; you are a female and unforgiving. i don't complain. you may be very pretty, but you are the stupidest and most tiresome companion that ever i met with. thank heaven, i am not married to you!" thus john burley made his way into town, and paused at the first public-house. out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he strode toward the heart of london. now he is in leicester-square, and he gazes on the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and now from yonder alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps; now through the maze of passages toward st. martin's he threads his path, and, anticipating an orgy as he nears his favorite haunts, jingles the silver in his pockets; and now the two forms are at his heels. "hail to thee, o freedom!" muttered john burley; "thy dwelling is in cities, and thy palace is the tavern." "in the king's name," quoth a gruff voice and john burley feels the horrid and familiar tap on the shoulder. the two bailiffs who dogged have seized their prey. "at whose suit?" asked john burley falteringly. "mr. cox, the wine-merchant." "cox! a man to whom i gave a check on my bankers, not three months ago!" "but it warn't cashed." "what does that signify?--the intention was the same. a good heart takes the will for the deed. cox is a monster of ingratitude; and i withdraw my custom." "sarve him right. would your honor like a jarvey?" "i would rather spend the money on something else," said john burley. "give me your arm, i am not proud. after all, thank heaven, i shall not sleep in the country." and john burley made a night of it in the fleet. chapter xii. miss starke was one of those ladies who pass their lives in the direst of all civil strife--war with their servants. she looked upon the members of that class as the unrelenting and sleepless enemies of the unfortunate householders condemned to employ them. she thought they ate and drank to their villainous utmost, in order to ruin their benefactors--that they lived in one constant conspiracy with one another and the tradesmen, the object of which was to cheat and pilfer. miss starke was a miserable woman. as she had no relations or friends who cared enough for her to share her solitary struggle against her domestic foes; and her income, though easy, was an annuity that died with herself, thereby reducing various nephews, nieces, or cousins, to the strict bounds of a natural affection--that did not exist; and as she felt the want of some friendly face amidst this world of distrust and hate, so she had tried the resource of venal companions. but the venal companions had never staid long--either they disliked miss starke, or miss starke disliked them. therefore the poor woman had resolved upon bringing up some little girl whose heart, as she said to herself, would be fresh and uncorrupted, and from whom she might expect gratitude. she had been contented, on the whole, with helen, and had meant to keep that child in her house as long as she (miss starke) remained upon the earth--perhaps some thirty years longer; and then, having carefully secluded her from marriage, and other friendship, to leave her nothing but the regret of having lost so kind a benefactress. agreeably with this notion, and in order to secure the affections of the child, miss starke had relaxed the frigid austerity natural to her manner and mode of thought, and been kind to helen in an iron way. she had neither slapped nor pinched her, neither had she starved. she had allowed her to see leonard, according to the agreement made with dr. morgan, and had laid out tenpence on cakes, besides contributing fruit from her garden for the first interview--a hospitality she did not think fit to renew on subsequent occasions. in return for this, she conceived she had purchased the right to helen bodily and spiritually, and nothing could exceed her indignation when she rose one morning and found the child had gone. as it never had occurred to her to ask leonard's address, though she suspected helen had gone to him, she was at a loss what to do, and remained for twenty-four hours in a state of inane depression. but then she began to miss the child so much that her energies woke, and she persuaded herself that she was actuated by the purest benevolence in trying to reclaim this poor creature from the world, into which helen had thus rashly plunged. accordingly, she put an advertisement into the _times_, to the following effect, liberally imitated from one by which, in former years, she had recovered a favorite blenheim: two guineas reward. strayed, from ivy cottage, highgate, a little girl, answers to the name of helen; with blue eyes and brown hair; white muslin frock, and straw hat with blue ribbons. whoever will bring the same to ivy cottage, shall receive the above reward. _n.b._--nothing more will be offered. now, it so happened that mrs. smedley had put an advertisement in the _times_ on her own account relative to a niece of hers who was coming from the country, and for whom she desired to find a situation. so, contrary to her usual habit, she sent for the newspaper, and, close by her own advertisement, she saw miss starke's. it was impossible that she could mistake the description of helen; and, as this advertisement caught her eye the very day after the whole house had been disturbed and scandalized by burley's noisy visit, and on which she had resolved to get rid of a lodger who received such visitors, the good-hearted woman was delighted to think that she could restore helen to some safe home. while thus thinking, helen herself entered the kitchen where mrs. smedley sate, and the landlady had the imprudence to point out the advertisement, and talk, as she called it, "seriously" to the little girl. helen in vain and with tears entreated her to take no step in reply to the advertisement. mrs. smedley felt it was an affair of duty, and was obdurate, and shortly afterward put on her bonnet and left the house. helen conjectured that she was on her way to miss starke's, and her whole soul was bent on flight. leonard had gone to the office of the _beehive_ with his mss.; but she packed up all their joint effects, and, just as she had done so, he returned. she communicated the news of the advertisement, and said she should be so miserable if compelled to go back to miss starke's, and implored him so pathetically to save her from such sorrow that he at once assented to her proposal of flight. luckily, little was owing to the landlady--that little was left with the maid-servant; and, profiting by mrs. smedley's absence, they escaped without scene or conflict. their effects were taken by leonard to a stand of hackney vehicles, and then left at a coach-office, while they went in search of lodgings. it was wise to choose an entirely new and remote district; and before night they were settled in an attic in lambeth. chapter xiii. as the reader will expect, no trace of burley could leonard find: the humorist had ceased to communicate with the _beehive_. but leonard grieved for burley's sake; and, indeed, he missed the intercourse of the large wrong mind. but he settled down by degrees to the simple loving society of his child companion, and in that presence grew more tranquil. the hours in the day time that he did not pass at work he spent as before, picking up knowledge at bookstalls; and at dusk he and helen would stroll out--sometimes striving to escape from the long suburb into fresh rural air; more often wandering to and fro the bridge that led to glorious westminster--london's classic land--and watching the vague lamps reflected on the river. this haunt suited the musing melancholy boy. he would stand long and with wistful silence by the balustrade--seating helen thereon, that she too might look along the dark mournful waters which, dark though they be, still have their charm of mysterious repose. as the river flowed between the world of roofs, and the roar of human passions on either side, so in those two hearts flowed thought--and all they knew of london was its shadow. chapter xiv. there appeared in the _beehive_ certain very truculent political papers--papers very like the tracts in the tinker's bag. leonard did not heed them much, but they made far more sensation in the public that read the _beehive_ than leonard's papers, full of rare promise though the last were. they greatly increased the sale of the periodical in the manufacturing towns, and began to awake the drowsy vigilance of the home office. suddenly a descent was made upon the _beehive_, and all its papers and plant. the editor saw himself threatened with a criminal prosecution, and the certainty of two years' imprisonment: he did not like the prospect, and disappeared. one evening, when leonard, unconscious of these mischances, arrived at the door of the office, he found it closed. an agitated mob was before it, and a voice that was not new to his ear, was haranguing the bystanders, with many imprecations against "tyrans." he looked, and, to his amaze, recognized in the orator mr. sprott the tinker. the police came in numbers to disperse the crowd, and mr. sprott prudently vanished. leonard learned then what had befallen, and again saw himself without employment and the means of bread. slowly he walked back. "o, knowledge, knowledge!--powerless indeed!" he murmured. as he thus spoke, a handbill in large capitals met his eyes on a dead wall--"wanted, a few smart young men for india." a crimp accosted him--"you would make a fine soldier, my man. you have stout limbs of your own." leonard moved on. "it has come back, then, to this. brute physical force after all. o mind, despair! o peasant, be a machine again." he entered his attic noiselessly, and gazed upon helen as she sate at work, straining her eyes by the open window--with tender and deep compassion. she had not heard him enter, nor was she aware of his presence. patient and still she sate, and the small fingers plied busily. he gazed, and saw that her cheek was pale and hollow, and the hands looked so thin! his heart was deeply touched, and at that moment he had not one memory of the baffled poet, one thought that proclaimed the egotist. he approached her gently, laid his hand on her shoulder--"helen, put on your shawl and bonnet, and walk out--i have much to say." in a few moments she was ready, and they took their way to their favorite haunt upon the bridge. pausing in one of the recesses or nooks, leonard then began--"helen we must part." "part?--oh, brother!" "listen. all work that depends on mind is over for me; nothing remains but the labor of thews and sinews. i can not go back to my village and say to all, 'my hopes were self-conceit, and my intellect a delusion!' i can not. neither in this sordid city can i turn menial or porter. i might be born to that drudgery, but my mind has, it may be unhappily, raised me above my birth. what, then, shall i do? i know not yet--serve as a soldier, or push my way to some wilderness afar, as an emigrant, perhaps. but whatever my choice, i must henceforth be alone; i have a home no more, but there is a home for you, a very humble one (for you, too, so well born), but very safe--the roof of--of--my peasant mother. she will love you for my sake, and--and--" helen clung to him trembling, and sobbed out, "any thing, any thing you will. but i can work; i can make money, leonard, i do, indeed, make money--you do not know how much--but enough for us both till better times come to you. do not let us part." "and i--a man, and born to labor, to be maintained by the work of an infant! no, helen, do not so degrade me." she drew back as she looked on his flushed brow, bowed her head submissively, and murmured, "pardon." "ah," said helen, after a pause, "if now we could but find my poor father's friend! i never so much cared for it before." "yes, he would surely provide for you." "for _me!_" repeated helen, in a tone of soft deep reproach, and she turned away her head to conceal her tears. "you are sure you would him remember if we met him by chance?" "oh yes. he was so different from all we see in this terrible city, and his eyes were like yonder stars, so clear and so bright; yet the light seemed to come from afar off, as the light does in yours, when your thoughts are away from all things round you. and then, too, his dog, whom he called nero--i could not forget that." "but his dog may not be always with him." "but the clear, bright eyes are! ah, now you look up to heaven, and yours seem to dream like his." leonard did not answer, for his thoughts were indeed less on earth than struggling to pierce into that remote and mysterious heaven. both were silent long; the crowd passed them by unheedingly. night deepened over the river, but the reflection of the lamplights on its waves was more visible than that of the stars. the beams showed the darkness of the strong current, and the craft that lay eastward on the tide, with sailless, spectral masts and black dismal hulks, looked death-like in their stillness. leonard looked down, and the thought of chatterton's grim suicide came back to his soul, and a pale scornful face with luminous haunting eyes seemed to look up from the stream, and murmur from livid lips, "struggle no more against the tides on the surfaces--all is calm and rest within the deep." starting in terror from the gloom of his reverie, the boy began to talk fast to helen, and tried to soothe her with descriptions of the lowly home which he had offered. he spoke of the light cares which she would participate with his mother--for by that name he still called the widow--and dwelt, with an eloquence that the contrast round him made sincere and strong, on the happy rural life, the shadowy woodlands, the rippling corn-fields, the solemn lone church-spire soaring from the tranquil landscape. flatteringly he painted the flowery terraces of the italian exile, and the playful fountain that, even as he spoke, was flinging up its spray to the stars, through serene air untroubled by the smoke of cities, and untainted by the sinful sighs of men. he promised her the love and protection of natures akin to the happy scene: the simple affectionate mother--the gentle pastor--the exile wise and kind--violante, with dark eyes full of the mystic thoughts that solitude calls from childhood--violante should be her companion. "and oh!" cried helen, "if life be thus happy there, return with me, return--return!" "alas!" murmured the boy, "if the hammer once strike the spark from the anvil, the spark must fly upward: it can not fall back to earth until life has left it. upward still, helen--let me go upward still!" chapter xv. the next morning helen was very ill--so ill that, shortly after rising, she was forced to creep back to bed. her frame shivered--her eyes were heavy--her hand burned like fire. fever had set in. perhaps she might have caught cold on the bridge--perhaps her emotions had proved too much for her frame. leonard, in great alarm, called on the nearest apothecary. the apothecary looked grave, and said there was danger. and danger soon declared itself.--helen became delirious. for several days she lay in this state, between life and death. leonard then felt that all the sorrows of earth are light, compared with the fear of losing what we love. how valueless the envied laurel seemed beside the dying rose. thanks, perhaps, more to his heed and tending than to medical skill, she recovered sense at last--immediate peril was over but she was very weak and reduced--her ultimate recovery doubtful--convalescence, at best, likely to be very slow. but when she learned how long she had been thus ill, she looked anxiously at leonard's face as he bent over her, and faltered forth, "give me my work! i am strong enough for that now--it would amuse me." leonard burst into tears. alas! he had no work himself; all their joint money had melted away; the apothecary was not like good dr. morgan; the medicines were to be paid for, and the rent. two days before, leonard had pawned riccabocca's watch; and when the last shilling thus raised was gone, how should he support helen? nevertheless he conquered his tears, and assured her that he had employment; and that so earnestly that she believed him, and sank into soft sleep. he listened to her breathing, kissed her forehead, and left the room. he turned into his own neighboring garret, and, leaning his face on his hands, collected all his thoughts. he must be a beggar at last. he must write to mr. dale for money--mr. dale, too, who knew the secret of his birth. he would rather have begged of a stranger--it served to add a new dishonor to his mother's memory for the child to beg of one who was acquainted with her shame. had he himself been the only one to want and to starve, he would have sunk inch by inch into the grave of famine, before he would have so subdued his pride. but helen, there on that bed--helen needing, for weeks perhaps, all support, and illness making luxuries themselves like necessaries! beg he must. and when he so resolved, had you but seen the proud, bitter soul he conquered, you would have said--"this which he thinks is degradation--this is heroism. oh strange human heart!--no epic ever written achieves the sublime and the beautiful which are graven, unread by human eye, in thy secret leaves." of whom else should he beg? his mother had nothing, riccabocca was poor, and the stately violante, who had exclaimed, "would that i were a man!" he could not endure the thought that she should pity him, and despise. the avenels! no--thrice no. he drew toward him hastily ink and paper, and wrote rapid lines that were wrung from him as from the bleeding strings of life. but the hour for the post had passed--the letter must wait till the next day; and three days at least must elapse before he could receive an answer. he left the letter on the table, and, stifling as for air, went forth. he crossed the bridge--he passed on mechanically--and was borne along by a crowd pressing toward the doors of parliament. a debate that excited popular interest was fixed for that evening, and many bystanders collected in the street to see the members pass to and fro, or hear what speakers had yet risen to take part in the debate, or try to get orders for the gallery. he halted amidst these loiterers, with no interest, indeed, in common with them, but looking over their heads abstractedly toward the tall funeral abbey--imperial golgotha of poets, and chiefs, and kings. suddenly his attention was diverted to those around by the sound of a name--displeasingly known to him, "how are you, randal leslie? coming to hear the debate?" said a member who was passing through the street. "yes; mr. egerton promised to get me under the gallery. he is to speak himself to-night, and i have never heard him. as you are going into the house, will you remind him?" "i can't now, for he is speaking already--and well too. i hurried from the athenæum, where i was dining, on purpose to be in time, as i heard that his speech was making a great effect." "this is very unlucky," said randal. "i had no idea he would speak so early." "m---- brought him up by a direct personal attack. but follow me; perhaps i can get you into the house; and a man like you, leslie, of whom we expect great things some day, i can tell you, should not miss any such opportunity of knowing what this house of ours is on a field night. come on!" the member hurried toward the door; and as randal followed him, a bystander cried--"that is the young man who wrote the famous pamphlet--egerton's relation." "oh, indeed!" said another. "clever man, egerton--i am waiting for him." "so am i." "why, you are not a constituent, as i am?" "no; but he has been very kind to my nephew, and i must thank him. you are a constituent--he is an honor to your town." "so he is; enlightened man!" "and so generous." "brings forward really good measures," quoth the politician. "and clever young men," said the uncle. therewith one or two others joined in the praise of audley egerton, and many anecdotes of his liberality were told. leonard listened at first listlessly, at last with thoughtful attention. he had heard burley, too, speak highly of this generous statesman, who, without pretending to genius himself, appreciated it in others. he suddenly remembered, too, that egerton was half-brother to the squire. vague notions of some appeal to this eminent person, not for charity, but employ to his mind, gleamed across him--inexperienced boy that he yet was! and while thus meditating, the door of the house opened, and out came audley egerton himself. a partial cheering, followed by a general murmur, apprised leonard of the presence of the popular statesman. egerton was caught hold of by some five or six persons in succession; a shake of the hand, a nod, a brief whispered word or two, sufficed the practiced member for graceful escape; and soon, free from the crowd, his tall erect figure passed on, and turned toward the bridge. he paused at the angle and took out his watch, looking at it by the lamp-light. "harley will be here soon," he muttered "he is always punctual; and now that i have spoken, i can give him an hour or so. that is well." as he replaced his watch in his pocket, and re-buttoned his coat over his firm, broad chest, he lifted his eyes, and saw a young man standing before him. "do you want me?" asked the statesmen, with the direct brevity of his practical character. "mr. egerton," said the young man, with a voice that slightly trembled, and yet was manly amidst emotion, "you have a great name, and great power--i stand here in these streets of london without a friend, and without employ. i believe that i have it in me to do some nobler work than that of bodily labor, had i but one friend--one opening for my thoughts. and now i have said this, i scarcely know how or why, but from despair, and the sudden impulse which that despair took from the praise that follows your success. i have nothing more to add." audley egerton was silent for a moment, struck by the tone and address of the stranger; but the consummate and wary man of the world, accustomed to all manner of strange applications, and all varieties of imposture, quickly recovered from a passing effect. "are you a native of ----?" (naming the town he represented as member.) "no, sir." "well, young man, i am very sorry for you; but the good sense you must possess (for i judge of that by the education you have evidently received) must tell you that a public man, whatever be his patronage, has it too fully absorbed by claimants who have a right to demand it, to be able to listen to strangers." he paused a moment, and, as leonard stood silent, added, with more kindness than most public men so accosted would have showed-- "you say you are friendless--poor fellow, in early life that happens to many of us, who find friends enough before the close. be honest, and well-conducted; lean on yourself, not on strangers; work with the body if you can't with the mind; and, believe me, that advice is all i can give you, unless this trifle," and the minister held out a crown piece. leonard bowed, shook his head sadly, and walked away. egerton looked after him with a slight pang. "pooh!" said he to himself, "there must be thousands in the same state in the streets of london. i can not redress these necessities of civilization. well educated! it is not from ignorance henceforth that society will suffer--it is from over-educating the hungry thousands who, thus unfitted for manual toil, and with no career for mental, will some day or other stand like that boy in our streets, and puzzle wiser ministers than i am." as egerton thus mused, and passed on to the bridge, a bugle-horn rang merrily from the box of a gay four-in-hand. a drag-coach with superb blood-horses, rattled over the causeway, and in the driver egerton recognized his nephew--frank hazeldean. the young guardsman was returning, with a lively party of men, from dining at greenwich; and the careless laughter of these children of pleasure floated far over the still river. it vexed the ear of the careworn statesman--sad, perhaps, with all his greatness, lonely amidst all his crowd of friends. it reminded him, perhaps, of his own youth, when such parties and companionships were familiar to him, though through them all he bore an ambitious, aspiring soul--"_le jeu, vaut-il la chandelle?_" said he, shrugging his shoulders. the coach rolled rapidly past leonard, as he stood leaning against the corner of the bridge, and the mire of the kennel splashed over him from the hoofs of the fiery horses. the laughter smote on his ear more discordantly than on the minister's, but it begot no envy. "life is a dark riddle," said he, smiting his breast. and he walked slowly on, gained the recess where he had stood several nights before with helen; and dizzy with want of food, and worn out for want of sleep, he sank down into the dark corner; while the river that rolled under the arch of stone muttered dirge-like in his ear; as under the social key-stone wails and rolls on forever the mystery of human discontent. take comfort, o thinker, by the stream! 'tis the river that founded and gave pomp to the city; and without the discontent, where were progress--what were man? take comfort, o thinker! wherever the stream over which thou bendest, or beside which thou sinkest, weary and desolate, frets the arch that supports thee--never dream that, by destroying the bridge, thou canst silence the moan of the wave. (to be continued.) the fortunes of the reverend caleb ellison. chapter the first. the reverend caleb ellison had an odd way of doing every thing; but he was so good a man, and so adored a clergyman, that his being in love was an interesting circumstance to a large proportion of the inhabitants of the country town in which he lived. when he looked up at the chimney-pots as he walked the streets, or went slowly skipping along the foot-pavement to the reading-room in the market-place, the elders of his congregation might wish that he would walk more like other men, and the children giggled at the sight; but the ladies, young and old, regarded these things as a part of the "originality" which they admired in him; and joanna carey would scarcely admit to herself that such freaks required forbearance. on friday evening mr. carey returned before the rest of his party from a strawberry feast, to tell his wife that their dear girl had shown him by a look, that she must now decide on her lot for life. ellison had certainly spoken. joanna must decide for herself. if she was satisfied to have the greatest blessings that a woman could have--high moral and spiritual excellence in a man who loved her--and could, for these, make light of the daily drawbacks of his oddities, it was not for any one else to object. mr. carey could not say that his own temper would bear with so eccentric a companion; but perhaps he was narrow: perhaps his wife's nice household ways for twenty-five years had spoiled him. joanna knew what she was undertaking. she knew that it was as much as the clerk and the deacons could do, to get the pastor into the pulpit in proper time every sunday, and that this would be her business now. she knew that he seldom remembered to shave, and how he had burned his marble chimney-piece black; and--well; perhaps these were trifles. perhaps it was a fault not to regard them as such. if a father was fortunate enough to have a man of eminent single-mindedness for his son-in-law, and genius to boot, he ought not, perhaps, to require common sense also; but it had always been mr. carey's belief that good sense was the greatest part of genius. by sunday evening mr. carey was little disposed to desire any thing more in his intended son-in-law than had appeared that day. joanna had engaged herself to him on saturday evening. on sunday morning there was something in the tone of his pathetic voice so unusual, in the very first verses of the psalm, that many hearers looked up; and then they saw something very unusual in his countenance. he so preached, that a stranger inquired earnestly who this mr. ellison was, and whence he came; and his admirers in the congregation said he was inspired. "joanna behaved very well, did not she?" whispered mrs. carey to her husband, as they were returning from chapel. "very well, indeed. and it was extremely fine, his preaching to-day. extremely fine!" and this particular day, the father feared as little for joanna as joanna for herself. there was no reason for delay about the marriage. mr. ellison had three hundred pounds a year from his office, and was never likely to have any more. the interest of joanna's portion--one thousand pounds--was hers whenever she married. she was four-and-twenty, and mr. ellison was five years older. they were no children; there was no reason for delay; so every body knew of the engagement immediately, and the preparations went on diligently. a pastor's marriage is always a season of great interest and amusement. in this case it was unusually diverting from the singular innocence of the gentleman about all household affairs. he showed all the solicitude of which he was capable to have every thing right and comfortable for joanna; but his ideas were so extraordinary, that his friends suspected that he had been quizzed by certain youths of his congregation, who had indeed made solemn suggestions to him about dredging-boxes and rolling-pins, and spigots, and ball-irons, and other conveniences, the names of which were strange to him. he had promised to leave the whole concern of furnishing in the hands of a discreet lady and her daughters, with a power of appeal to mrs. carey in doubtful cases; but when these mysterious names had been lying on his mind for some days, he could not help making inquiries and suggestions, which brought nothing but laughter upon him. mr. and mrs. carey thought the quizzing went rather too far; but joanna did not seem to mind it. "his head should not be stuffed with nonsense," observed mr. carey to his wife, "when business that he really ought to be attending to is left undone." "you mean the life insurance," replied she. "why do you not remind him of it?" "i believe i must. but it is not a pleasant thing to do. no man in his circumstances ought to need to be spoken to more than once. however, i have to suggest to him to insure all this pretty furniture that his friends are giving him; and while i am speaking about the fire insurance, i can easily mention the more important one." "i should feel no difficulty," observed mrs. carey. "he will be purely thankful to you for telling him what he ought to do." an opportunity soon occurred. the presents came in fast: the careys were consulted about how to stow them all. one evening at supper, the conversation naturally turned--as it probably does in every house--on what should be saved first in case of fire. mr. carey asked mr. ellison whether his landlord had not insured the cottage, and whether he himself was not thinking of insuring the furniture from fire. instant opposition arose from mr. carey's second daughter, charlotte, who declared that she could not bear to think of such a thing. she begged that nobody would speak of such a thing. indeed, she wondered that any body could. when induced to explain the emotions with which her mind was laboring, she declared her horror that any one belonging to her could feel that any money could compensate for the loss of the precious things, such as old letters, and fond memorials, which perish in a fire. "how old are you, my dear?" inquired her father. "sixteen, papa." "indeed! i should have taken you to be six years younger. i should wonder at a child of ten talking so sillily as you are doing." mr. ellison stared; for his sympathy with charlotte's sentiment was so strong, that he was looking at her with beaming eyes, and softly ejaculating, "dear charlotte! dear child!" it took some time to convince both (for young ladies of sixteen sometimes see things less clearly than six years before and ten years after that age) that, if precious papers and gifts are unhappily lost in a fire, that is no reason why tables and chairs, and fish-kettles and dredging-boxes, and carpets and house linen should not be paid for by an insurance office; but at last both young lady and pastor saw this. still, charlotte did not look satisfied; and her father invited her to utter what was in her mind. after some fencing about whether her thoughts were silly, and whether it would be silly to speak them, out came the scruple. was there not something worldly in thinking so much about money and the future? "dear charlotte! dear child!" again soliloquized mr. ellison. mr. carey did not think the apprehension silly; but, in his opinion, the danger of worldliness lay the other way. he thought the worldliness lay in a man's spending all his income, leaving wife and children to be maintained by their neighbors, in case of accidents which may happen any day to any body, and which do happen to a certain proportion of people, within an assigned time, as regularly as death happens to all. charlotte had nothing to say against life insurance, because every man knows that he shall die; and there is no speculation in the case. but she was extremely surprised to hear that there is an equal certainty, though of a narrower extent, about fire, and other accidents; that it is a fact that, out of so many householders, such and such a number will have their houses burned down. "is it indeed so?" asked joanna. "it is indeed so. moreover, out of so much property, such and such an amount will perish by fire. every householder being bound in with this state of things for his share of the risk, he owes it equally to others and to himself to secure the compensation, in case of accident. does he not?" "how to others?" "because he should contribute his share to the subscription, if you like to call it so, by which the sufferer from fire, whoever he be, is to be compensated. thus, you see, charlotte, that which seems to you an act of worldliness is a neighborly act, as well as a prudent one." when reminded, charlotte admitted that she had herself said so about the cow club at b----. she had told many people how the cottagers at b----, were now saved from all danger of ruin by the loss of a cow--a loss fatal to so many cottagers elsewhere. the farmers at b----, who could ill afford to lose from nine pounds to fifteen pounds at a stroke by the death of a cow, had joined with the cottagers in setting up a cow life-insurance. the club employed a skillful cow-doctor. the members paid in a small portion of the weekly profits of their milk-selling; and had the comfort of knowing that, whenever their cow died, they would be supplied with another, or with a part of the value of one, according to the length of time, or the yearly amount they had paid. charlotte admitted that she had been delighted with the scheme, but now asserted that she was much more pleased about the quakers and their ship. "ha! quakers?" said mr. ellison. yes; those quakers, now, were the sort of people whom charlotte admired. so unworldly! so trusting! there was a rich india ship, belonging to some quakers, lately wrecked in the channel, very near her port. the whole cargo was lost. it had been a total loss to the owners, because their principles would not allow them to insure--to put themselves out of the hands of providence, and speculate in "the stormy winds fulfilling his word." that had been their statement; and was there not something very beautiful in it? charlotte looked at her father for an answer. "tell me, first, my dear," he replied, "whether you admire tasker, the shoemaker, for refusing to have his children vaccinated, saying that it was taking them out of the hands of the lord?" charlotte could not think of poor little mary tasker, disfigured and half blind, and not wish that she had been vaccinated; and yet tasker had acted in a resigned spirit. "well: exactly as much as you admire tasker, i admire your quakers. i honor their motive, but i am sorry for their mistake--sorry that they refuse one safeguard against worldliness." "worldliness, papa!" mr. carey explained how the moral dangers of commercial pursuits are in proportion to their gambling character. large gains and great hazards must be more engrossing to the mind, and more stimulating to the passions than small and secure profits. the great drawback upon commerce with very remote countries is, or was, its gambling character, from the variety and seriousness of the risks, and the largeness of the profits laid on to cover them. by means of insurance against sea risks and other dangers, the losses are spread over so large a number that they cease to be losses, and become a mere tax, such as men may willingly pay for security. when a man has so introduced moderation into his gains and his losses, as to detach himself from "the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches," he may listen with a quiet pulse (as far as his own affairs are concerned) to the wind roaring over the sea, and need not be "afraid of evil tidings." it was quite a new view to charlotte that her quakers had been gambling, in fact, when they should have been trading safely; but she could not deny that it was so. nobody wished her to give them up, in regard to their spirit of faith and trust; but nobody could stand up for their prudence. the most striking view to charlotte was that there is nothing accidental in storms and tempests; and that it is only our ignorance which makes us call them so. the realm of meteorology is, no doubt, governed by laws as invariable as that of astronomy. we know this fact, though we, as yet, know little of these laws. something more we know: and that is, the average of shipwrecks and conflagrations, in a certain condition of society; in the same way that we know the average of men that will die, out of a certain number, in a certain time: and it is this knowledge of the averages which justifies the resource of insurance in all the three cases. when mr. ellison at length comprehended that there were thousands of prudent men now paying their mite to compensate him for the loss of his new furniture, in case of its being burned, on the simple condition of his paying his mite also, he was so struck by their neighborly conduct, that he could scarcely express his sense of it. the ladies considered it impossible that he should feel so strongly, and be heedless about the condition on his own part. mr. carey shook his head. mr. carey was right. the wedding-day came, and the insurance was not effected.--joanna did not like to tease her betrothed about worldly affairs. if the subject was mentioned, and the train of thought revived, he went into an enthusiasm about the benevolent class of insurers: but he did not become one himself. chapter the second. the wedding-day came and went. the young people were married and gone. mr. ellison's flock were assembled, almost entire, in the parish church, for the first and last time. in those days, dissenters could not marry in their own chapels, or any where but in church; and the present was an occasion when the clergyman of the parish appeared to great advantage, with his kind courtesy toward his dissenting neighbors. the whole affair was talked over from day to day, during the wedding-trip of the ellisons, in the intervals of charlotte's business in preparing their house for their return. then began her sisterly relation toward the pastor beloved by so many. her reverence for him, and her pride on joanna's account, made her consider his dignity (in spite of himself) on all occasions; from the receiving him at his own door, on the evening of arrival, to the defending him in every trifle in which he vexed her orderly father. when mr. carey complained of his being found at breakfast unshaven, and wondered how he would like to see joanna come down with her hair in papers, charlotte contended that these things mattered less in a gentleman than a lady; and that it was from a meditative turn that he forgot to shave, even as newton forgot to dine. if he fell over all his new furniture in turn, she declared it was because the affection of his friends had over-crowded his cottage with memorials of their love. if he was met half-way to the town without his hat, she looked with reverence in his face for a foretaste of his next sunday's sermon. when it came out that joanna had paid all the post boys and bills on the journey; that joanna had to go with him to the tailor's, when he was to be measured for a new coat; that joanna had to carve, because he did not know the wing of a fowl from the leg--but we will not dwell further on the foibles of a good man whose virtues were as uncommon in their degree, as his weaknesses, it may be hoped, in kind. full as the cottage was of pretty things, it was destined to be yet fuller in another year. never was there a prettier little wardrobe of tiny caps and robes, and the like, than room must be found for, the next autumn, in preparation for that prettiest of all things--a baby. half the ladies in the congregation brought their offerings of delicate work, in cambric and the softest of flannel, and most fantastical of pincushions and baskets. it was a delightful season to the whole family; and joanna was so well and bright! and when the great day was over, there were such rallyings of mr. and mrs. carey, on their being so early a grand-papa and grand-mamma; and it was so droll to see mr. ellison, who seemed never to have seen a baby, but in baptizing the little creatures, whom he had always hitherto regarded as young christians, and never as little infants! mr. carey was rather ashamed of the extent of his ignorance, shown on the first sight of his child in its sleep, by its mother's side. "ha!" he exclaimed, "a baby!" in as much surprise as if it had been the last thing he expected to see. "yes; there is your baby. how do you like her?" he gazed in silence, and at length said--"but can she walk?" "my dear ellison! at a day old!" "but can she talk?" "all in good time. you will have enough of that by-and by." "dear, dear! ha!" said he, again and again, till he was sent off to dinner, at a friend's house. he dined at some friend's house every day. on the fourth day it was at a distance of three miles. mrs. carey had gone home, in the twilight of a november day. as soon as she was gone, the nurse stepped out, very improperly, for something that she wanted, the child being asleep beside joanna. she desired the servant girl to carry up her mistress's gruel in a quarter-of-an-hour, if she was not back. the girl did so; and approached the bed, with the basin in one hand and a candle in the other. she poked the candle directly against the dimity curtains, and set the bed on fire. it was a large bed, in a small crowded room, close to two walls and near the window-curtain. the flame caught the tester instantly, and then the corner of the pillow, and the edge of the sheet. before that, the girl had thrown down the basin of hot gruel on the baby, rushed to the window, thrown up the sash, and screamed; and she next rushed out at the door, leaving it wide open, and then at the house-door, leaving that wide open too. the air streamed up the staircase, and the bed was on fire all round. poor joanna crept off the bed, and took the child in one arm, while with the other she tried to pull off a blanket. she was found weakly tugging at it. he who so found her was a sailor, who had seen the light from the road, and run up the stairs. "i see how it is, madam," said he, in a cheerful voice. "don't be alarmed; you are very safe. come in here." and he carried her into the next room--the little drawing-room--and laid her, with her baby on her arm, on the sofa. he summoned a comrade, who was in the road. they pulled up the drugget from the floor, doubled it again, laid it over her, and tucked it nicely in, as if there was no hurry. "now, madam," said he, "where shall we carry you?" she was carried through damp and dusk to her father's house. her mother was not there. such news spreads, nobody knows how. her mother was then in the streets without her bonnet, imploring every body she met to save her child. she presently encountered one of the sailors, returning to the fire. he assured her the lady and child were safe, and sent her home. mr. carey was almost as much beside himself. his first idea was, that it was mr. ellison who had, by some awkwardness, set his house on fire; and he said so, very publicly; and very sorry he was for it afterward. mr. ellison was called from the dinner-table, and told he was wanted at home. he strode along, in a bewildered state, till he saw the flames from a distance. as he stood before the cottage, which was now one blaze, nobody could tell him where his wife was. he was trying to break from many hands, and enter the house, when some one at last came up with the news of the safety of his wife and babe. as for the servant, it was some days before she was heard of; and there were serious apprehensions about her, when her aunt came in from the country, to say that the poor creature had fled to her, and would never come near the town, or see any of the family again. nobody wondered that she said she should never be happy again. joanna seemed to be really no worse for the adventure; and for some days it was confidently believed that the infant would do well, though it was severely scalded. every thing was lost--every article of clothing of all three, all the pretty gifts, all the furniture, two precious portraits, all mr. ellison's books and manuscripts. but he was so happy and thankful that his chief treasures were saved, that he never preached more nobly than on the next sunday, without a scrap of notes;--he who took such pains with his sermons, and never preached extempore! it was from the abundance of his heart that he spoke. "i have to beg your pardon, ellison," said mr. carey, "for what i said in the first moments of misery." "it was natural--it was not doing me wrong; for my mother used to say that i did awkward things sometimes; that i was not expert; and it appears to me that i really have erred." and the good man went on to blame himself for having no furniture and clothes to give joanna, no piano, no books! his landlord was no loser by the fire, while he was destitute. in short, mr. ellison was full of remorse for not having insured. all the ladies of his acquaintance were stitching away in his and his wife's behalf; but this was rather an aggravation than a comfort; and he fully intended to effect an insurance, both against fire (when he should again be settled) and on his life. still, mr. carey told his wife, with a shake of the head, that his impression was that it would never be done. all such thoughts were presently banished. the baby did not get through. after pining for ten days, she died. then it was that the pastor's fine qualities manifested themselves. he surrendered so patiently a happiness and hope which had really become very dear to his heart; he supported joanna so tenderly; he considered the whole family so much more than himself, that mr. carey vowed he would never more be vexed or ashamed at the peculiarities of such a man. chapter the third. nobody would hear of the pastor going into furnished lodgings. the pastor and his wife would not hear of mr. carey's furnishing another house for them. joanna was allowed to draw half her little fortune to buy furniture and clothes, and a few indispensable books for her husband. thus, their income was reduced by twenty-five pounds, and the half of the principal was gone. if that twenty-five pounds of lost income had been devoted to a life insurance, it would, at mr. ellison's present age, have secured one thousand pounds at his death. thus he had, by neglect, in fact, thrown away one thousand five hundred pounds of future provision for his family. the present was not the easiest moment for contracting new obligations; but the duty was clear, even to the unpractical mind of the pastor. he went to london to effect his insurances, and his wife went with him partly for change of scene and thoughts, and partly because she knew that her husband could never get through the business by himself. it was not got through, after all. one pious friend had affected them with fears, that they would find it an ensnaring bondage to worldly things to have to think of the payment of the annual premium; another thought it was speculating in god's will; another assured them that they could not spare the money, and should provide for their own household, and hospitality to neighbors, to-day, instead of taking thought for the morrow. they returned without having been near an insurance-office at all. the careys thought this a sad mistake, and pointed out to them the peace of mind they would lose by the precariousness of their fortunes, and the ease with which the business might be managed, by the trustees of the chapel being authorized to deduct the necessary sum from the pastor's salary, and the pastor's way of living being proportioned to an income of three hundred pounds a year. it was certain that mr. ellison would never lay by money in any other way than this; for he could never see a beggar without giving him whatever he had in his pocket. it may be observed, that insurance was a more onerous matter in those days than in ours. science has introduced much ease and many varieties into the process of insurance. the rates of premium in mr. ellison's younger days were higher; the methods were restricted; middle-class men drank more, and taxed their brother insurers for their accelerated mortality, though precautions were taken against obviously fatal intemperance. the "bondage," that friends talked of, was greater, and the advantages were less, than at present. if mr. ellison was wrong in his delays and hesitation, much more are family men wrong who delay and hesitate now. time went on, and joanna was made happy by the birth of a son. during the whole period of her confinement, her husband refused to leave the house, except on sundays; and he went about, many times in the day, from the attics to the cellars, with his nose in the air, trying to smell fire. there was none, however, to reward his anxious search. no accident happened. the mother and child throve without drawback; and a finer little fellow really was never seen. for two years--two precious years--all went well. then came one of those seasons of unhealthiness which occur at intervals, as if to warn men of their ignorance of the laws on which their life depends, and to rebuke their carelessness about observing such conditions of health as they do understand. no town was less prepared to encounter an onset of autumnal fever than that in which the ellisons lived. it had no right to expect health at any time: the history of the place told of plague in old times, and every epidemic which visited england became a pestilence amid its ill-drained streets, its tidal expanse of mud, and its crowded alleys. these were the times when the beloved pastor's fidelity shone out. for weeks he was, night and day, in close attendance on the poor of his flock; and any other poor who were needing help. he could not aid them in the way that a more practical man would have done; but joanna supplied that kind of ability, while the voice of her husband carried peace and support into many a household, prostrated in grief and dread. he ran far greater risks all the while than he needed, if he could have been taught common prudence. he forgot to eat, and went into unwholesome chambers with an empty stomach and an exhausted frame. in spite of his wife's watchfulness, he omitted to give himself the easy advantages of freshened air, change of clothes, and a sufficiency of wholesome food; and, for one week, he hardly came home to sleep. it was no wonder that, at last, both were down in the fever. the best care failed to save joanna. she died without having bidden farewell to husband and child. her husband was in bed delirious, and her boy was in the country, whither he had been taken for safety when the fever entered the house. mr. ellison recovered slowly, as might be expected, from the weight upon his mind. there was something strange, it appeared to his physician, in his anxiety to obtain strength to go to london. he was extremely pertinacious about this. the careys, glad to see that he could occupy himself with any project, humored this, without understanding it. they spoke as if he was going to london when he should be strong enough. they did not dream of his not waiting for this. but, in the dark, damp evening of the day when he dismissed his physician, after mrs. carey had gone home, leaving him on the sofa, and promising that her husband should call after tea, he was seen at the coach-office, in the market-place; and he made a night-journey to london. there were no railways in those days; and this journey of one hundred miles required twelve hours by the "expedition," the "highflyer," the "express," or whatever the fastest coach might be called. as soon as he arrived, mr. ellison swallowed a cup of coffee in the bar of the inn, had a coach called, and proceeded to an insurance-office to insure his life. as he presented himself, emaciated and feeble, unwashed, unshaven, with a crimson handkerchief tied over his white lips, which quivered when he uncovered them; as he told his errand, in a weak and husky voice, the clerks of the office stared at him in pitying wonder; and the directors dismissed him from their parlor, under the gentlest pretexts they could devise. he returned home immediately, and told his adventure to mr. carey. "i could not rest till i had made the effort," he said. "when dear joanna was gone, and i believed that i should follow her, it occurred to me that our child would be left destitute. i saw that i had neglected my duty; and i resolved that, if i recovered, it should be so no longer. i have made the effort; it has failed; and god's will be done!" mr. carey would not allow that the matter must be given up. in fact, there was no difficulty in effecting the insurance, in the next spring, when mr. ellison was restored to his ordinary state of health, and mr. carey was his guide and helper in the business. the interest of joanna's little portion was appropriated for the purpose, with a small addition, rendered necessary by the lapse of three years. it is well known that the most unworldly and unapt persons are the most proud of any act of prudence or skill that they may have been able to achieve. so it was in this case. when the pastor sat gazing at his child, it appeared to him a marvelous thing that he, even he, should have endowed any human being with a fortune. he was heard to say to himself, on such occasions, in a tone of happy astonishment, "a thousand pounds! ha! a thousand pounds!" we can not here follow out the curious process of that boy's rearing. we have not space to tell how tenderly he was watched by grand-mamma, and by charlotte, till her marriage gave her cares of her own:--nor what a stroke it was when mr. ellison moved to a distant city, being invited to a higher post in the ministry of his sect; nor how curiously he and his child lived in a lodging, where, notwithstanding all his efforts to fill the place of both parents, his boy was too often seen in rags; nor how the child played leap-frog and other games with little beggars and ruffians in the streets, so cleverly, that his father might be seen gazing at him from the foot-pavement, in a rapture of admiration; nor how, on the great occasion of the little lad's first going to chapel, he told every body within reach, that it was "pa" in the pulpit; nor how, when he was tired of the sermon, he was wont to scrape the sand from the floor, and powder with it the wigs of the old men who sat in the long pew before him; nor how, at length, the importunity of friends prevailed to get him sent to school; nor how comfortably his father was boarded in a private family when the lodging plan became too bad to be borne even by him. all this we must leave undescribed; and also his satisfaction when, in a later time--when his son was grown up, and prosperous, and well married--the good pastor found himself at liberty to do, if he should wish it, what he had always thought ministers had better do, leave the pulpit before they were worn out--before any body had begun to look for their wearing out. the "dear child," as he still calls the father of his grand-children, early persuaded his father to take advantage of that modern improvement by which his life insurance can be commuted into an annuity at sixty years of age, if he should attain it, or receivable in full, if that method should be preferred. a small independence being thus secured, if he lives to leave the pulpit at sixty, and a legacy to his son, if he dies before that time, mr. ellison feels more free from worldly cares than is often the case with dissenting ministers who begin the world without fortune, and with thoughts far above the lucre of gain. no one wonders that he never seemed to think of marrying again. before his removal, the name of his "dear joanna" was often on his lips. after his removal, it was never again heard, except on the rare occasions of his meeting old friends. he did not speak of her to those who had never known her; but not the less was her image understood to be ever in his thoughts. lamartine on the restoration.[ ] [ ] "history of the restoration of monarchy in france," by alphonse de lamartine. mo. harper and brothers. an able critic in a recent english journal, remarks as follows, on the last brilliant work of lamartine on "the history of the restoration:" whatever may be said of the author of this volume as a politician, and however much his capabilities for legislation may be despised, he ranks as a first class historian, and as the most brilliant foreign writer of the present day, both of his country's annals, romance, and poetry. if m. lamartine's "history of the girondists" excited immense interest, his "history of the restoration of the monarchy" is calculated to produce a much greater enthusiasm. the manner in which he details the thrilling events which succeeded the conclusion of the reign of terror in the former work, and the opening of the consulate, has been spoken of by critics of all shades of politics as unique, as perfect in style and comprehensive in detail; but we doubt very much whether it will not be universally acknowledged that in all these points the new effort surpasses the older. the praise of such a work is best accorded by extracts from its own pages. such extracts speak for themselves, and award far more valuable encomiums than any which those whose office it is to sit in judgment upon their characteristics can do. we present the following account of the arrest and murder of the young duke d'enghien, a crime which europe has very justly never forgiven, and by which the character of napoleon has been forever blasted. we had thought that a more vivid picture of this act of treachery could not by any possibility have been written than that which appears in the tale of maurice tierney, the soldier of fortune; but every thing which has been there said, or has been elsewhere written concerning that event, gives place to this vivid picture drawn by lamartine, while his opinion respecting the dark deed itself, and the villainy by which it was accomplished, will ever stamp him as a man of the most honorable mind, and as a truly noble-hearted frenchman. arrest and murder of the duke d'enghien. "ordener set out on the same night, that of the th and th of march, and arrived on the th at strassburg. he held a council on his arrival with general leval, charlot, the colonel of gendarmes, and the commissary of police, and they resolved to precede and facilitate the nocturnal expedition by a minute reconnoitring of the scene of action. an agent of police named stahl, and a non-commissioned officer of the gendarmerie, named pfersdoff, were dispatched on the instant, and marching all night, arrived at eight o'clock in the morning at ettenheim. they strolled with an affectation of indifference about the house of the prince, in order to make themselves well acquainted with the approaches to it. the prince's valet-de-chambre, concealed behind a window, observed these two strangers walking round the walls, and intently noting the objects of their mission. he called another of the servants, named cannone, and communicated his anxieties to him. cannone was an old soldier and companion of the prince from his earliest infancy. he had fought with him in all his campaigns, and had saved his life in poland, by covering him with his sabre and his person. he fancied that he remembered having somewhere seen the face of pfersdoff, and thought he recognized in him a gendarme in disguise. he hastened to inform the prince, who, with the thoughtlessness of his age, disdained to pay any attention to these symptoms of espionage. nevertheless, an officer of his army, named schmidt, went out and accosted stahl and pfersdoff, and questioned them with an appearance of unconcern, pretending that he was going their way, and accompanied them for more than a league; but at last seeing them take a road which led into the interior of germany, instead of returning toward the rhine, he felt re-assured, and returned to tranquilize the servants and retainers at ettenheim. but the anxieties of love are not so easily set at rest as those of friendship. the princess charlotte de rohan was filled with a presentiment of danger, and begged the prince would absent himself for a few days from a residence where he was so evidently watched, and possibly with a criminal intention. out of affection for her, rather than from uneasiness on his own account, the duke consented to absent himself for two or three days, and it was settled that he should set out the third morning after, on a long hunting excursion in the forests of the grand duke of baden, during which the suspicions of his betrothed would be either dissipated or verified; but it was fated that, the third morning should not dawn on him in germany.... on the evening of the th, general ordener, accompanied by general fririon, chief of general leval's staff, and by charlot, colonel of gendarmes, set out in the dark toward the ferry of rheinau on the rhine, and found there, at the appointed hour, the dragoons of the th, ferrymen, the five large boats, and, lastly, the mounted gendarmes destined to be employed in the violation of dwellings and seizure of persons, in an expedition more worthy of lictors than of soldiers. the rhine was crossed in silence at midnight, and the column, unperceived during the sleep of the german peasants on the right bank, and guided by different roads, arrived, as the day was breaking, at ettenheim. the spies, whom ordener and charlot had brought with them, pointed out to the gendarmes the houses which were to be invested.... the duke d'enghien, who had spent the evening before at the house of the prince rohan-rochefort, with the princess charlotte, had promised her to absent himself for a few days, to allow time for the plots against his safety, of which she was apprehensive, either to evaporate or be unraveled. he was accordingly about to start at sunrise, with colonel grunstein, one of his friends, on his hunting excursion for several days. he had already left his bed, and was dressing himself, and preparing his arms. grunstein, contrary to his usual custom, had slept under the same roof with the prince, that he might be the sooner ready to escort him. this companion of his own, on the battle-field and in the chase, was also half-dressed, when the tramp of horses and the sight of dragoons and gendarmes made the rest of the household start from their sleep. feron, the most familiar servant of the prince, flew to the chamber of his young master, and announced to him that the court-yard and garden were surrounded at every outlet by french soldiers, and that the officer commanding them was loudly calling on the servants to open the doors, declaring that in case of refusal, he would have them broken open with hatchets. 'well, then, we must defend ourselves,' exclaimed the undaunted young man, and saying these words, he seized his double-barreled fowling-piece, ready loaded with ball for the chase, while cannone, his other servant, animated with the same determination as his master, possessed himself of another fowling-piece, and grunstein entering the chamber at that moment, armed in a like manner, the whole then darted to the windows to fire. the prince leveled at colonel chariot, who threatened the door, and was about to stretch him dead on the threshold, when grunstein, perceiving on all sides a host of helmets and sabres, and seeing another detachment of gendarmes already masters of one of the wings of the chateau, seized the barrel of the prince's fowling-piece, and throwing the gun upward, showed the duke d'enghien, by signs, the uselessness of resistance against such overwhelming numbers, and prevented his firing. 'my lord,' he said, 'have you in any way committed yourself?'--'no,' replied the duke. 'well, then, that being the case, do not attempt a hopeless struggle. we are hemmed in by a complete wall of troops. see how their bayonets glisten on every side.' the prince was turning round to reply to these words when he beheld pfersdoff, whom he recognized as the spy of the day before, accompanied by gendarmes with presented carbines, rush into his room. he was followed by col. charlot, who, with his soldiers, seized and disarmed the prince, together with grunstein, feron, and cannone. the duke, as we have seen, was ready to set out, and was thus lost by the delay of only a few moments. he was dressed in the costume of a tyrolean hunter, wearing a handsome gold-laced cap, with long gaiters of chamois skin buckled at the knees; and the manly beauty and dauntless expression of his features, heightened by the excitement of the surprise, and determination to resist, struck the soldiers with astonishment. in the midst of such a scene, and the tramp of feet and clatter of arms in the house, the sound of a disturbance without for a moment inspired the prince and his followers with a hope of deliverance. loud cries of fire issued from the village, and these cries were re-echoed from house to house, like a tocsin of human voices. windows were thrown open, and doorways filled with the inhabitants aroused by the invasion of the french. half naked mechanics were seen running to the steeple to ring the bells, and summon the peasants to vengeance. colonel charlot, however, had them seized, and also arrested the master of the hounds of the duke of baden, who, on hearing of the disturbance, was hastening to the house of the prince, and who was told by charlot that what was taking place had been mutually agreed upon by the first consul and his sovereign. on hearing this falsehood, the excitement of the inhabitants subsided, and they submitted, with looks of sorrow and expressions of grief, to the misfortune of a young man who had rendered himself an object of the deepest regard.... the prince was dragged away from his residence, without being permitted to take a last farewell of her whom he left swooning and in tears." bonaparte had determined on the duke's death, and his ministers and judges received their instructions to that effect. the midnight trial, the despicable meanness of the tribunal, the heroic attitude of the young condé, are vividly depicted in this volume: but we pass on to the _dénouement_ of the plot. "as soon as the judgment was pronounced, and even before it was drawn up, hullin sent to inform savary and the judge advocate of the sentence of death, in order that they might take their measures for its execution. it seemed as if the time was equally pressing to the tribunal as to those who awaited their decision, and as if an invisible genius was hurrying along the acts, formalities, and hours, in order that the morning's sun might not witness the deeds of the night. hullin and his colleagues remained in the hall of council, and drew up at random the judgment they had just given; and this short and unskillfully prepared document (summing up a whole examination in two questions and two answers) terminated with the order to execute the sentence forthwith. savary had not waited for this order to be written before he prepared for its execution, and had already marked out the spot. the court and the esplanade being encumbered with troops, by the presence of the brigade of infantry, and the legion of gendarmes d'élite, no safe place could be found there in which the fire of a platoon did not run the risk of striking a soldier or a spectator. no doubt it was also feared that too great publicity would thus be given to the murder in the midst of an army; that the scene of the execution was too distant from the place of sepulture; and that feelings of pity and horror would pervade the ranks at the sight of this young man's mangled corpse. the moat of the chateau, however, offered the means of avoiding all these dangers, as it would conceal the murder as well as the victim. this place was accordingly chosen. harel received orders to give up the keys of the steps and iron gateways, which descended from the towers and opened on the foundation of the chateau to point out the different outlets and sites, and to procure a gravedigger to commence digging a grave while the man for whom it was intended still breathed. a poor working gardener of the chateau, named bontemps, was awakened, and his work pointed out to him. he was furnished with a lantern to guide him through the labyrinth of the moat, and light him while he dug it up. bontemps descended with his shovel and pickax to the bottom of the moat, and finding the ground all about dry and hard, he recollected that they had begun to dig a trench the evening before, at the foot of the queen's pavilion, in the angle formed by the tower and a little wall breast-high, for the purpose, it was said, of depositing rubbish in it. he accordingly went to the foot of the tower, marked out in paces the measure of a man's body extended at length, and dug in the earth that had been already moved a grave for the corpse they were preparing for it. the duke d'enghien could have heard from his window, over the humming noise of the troops below, the dull and regular sound of the pickax which was digging his last couch. savary, at the same time, marched down and arranged slowly in the moat the detachments of troops who were to witness this military death, and ordered the firing party to load their muskets. the prince was far from suspecting either so much rigor or so much haste on the part of his judges. he did not doubt that even a sentence of death, if awarded by the commission, would give occasion for an exhibition of magnanimity on the part of the first consul. he had granted an amnesty to emigrants taken with arms in their hands; how could it be doubted, then, that he who pardoned obscure and culpable exiles, would not honor himself by an act of justice or clemency toward an illustrious prince, beloved by all europe, and innocent of all crime? he had been taken back, after his interrogatories and his appearance before the military commission, into the room where he had slept. he entered it without exhibiting any of that fright which prisoners experience in the anxiety and uncertainty of their sentence. with a serene countenance and unoccupied mind, he conversed with his gendarmes, and played with his dog. lieutenant noirot who was on guard over him, had formerly served in a regiment of cavalry commanded by a colonel who was a friend of the prince of condé. he had also seen the duke d'enghien, when a child, sometimes accompany his father to reviews and field days of the regiment; and he reminded the prince of that period and these circumstances of his youth. the duke smiled at these reminiscences, and renewed them himself by other recollections of his infancy, which mingled with those of noirot. he inquired, with a curiosity full of interest, about the career of this officer since that epoch; of the campaigns he had made; of the battles in which he had been engaged; of the promotion he had received; of his present rank, his expectations, and his partiality for the service. he seemed to find a lively pleasure in this conversation on the past with a brave officer, who spoke to him with the accent and the heart of a man who would gladly indulge in pity, were it not for the severity of duty. a noise of footsteps, advancing slowly toward the chamber, interrupted this agreeable and last indulgence of captivity. it was the commandant of vincennes, harel, accompanied by the brigadier of the gendarmerie of the village, aufort. this friend of harel's had been permitted to remain in one of the commandant's rooms, after having ordered the prince's supper, and from thence he had heard or seen all the events of the night. harel, agitated and trembling at the mission he had to fulfill, had permitted aufort to follow and assist him in his message to the prisoner. they saluted the prince respectfully; but neither of them had the firmness to acquaint him with the truth. the dejected attitude and trembling voice of harel alone revealed to the eye and to the heart of the prince a fatal presentiment of the rigor of his judges. he thought they now came for him only to hear his sentence read. harel desired him, on the part of the tribunal, to follow him, and he went before with a lantern in his hand, through the corridors, the passages, and the courts it was necessary to cross, to arrive at the building called the 'devil's tower.' the interior of this tower contained the only staircase and the only door descending to, and opening into, the lowest moat. the prince appeared to hesitate two or three times on going into this suspicious tower, like a victim which smells the blood, and which resists and turns back its head on crossing the threshold of a slaughter-house. harel and aufort preceded the duke in silence down the steps of the narrow winding staircase, which descended to a postern through the massy walls of this tower. the prince, with an instinctive horror of the place, and of the depth beneath the soil to which the steps were leading him, began to think they were not conducting him before the judges, but into the hands of murderers, or to the gloom of a prison. he trembled in all his limbs, and convulsively drew back his foot as he addressed his guides in front: 'where are you conducting me?' he demanded, with a stifled voice. 'if it is to bury me alive in a dungeon, i would rather die this instant.' 'sir,' replied harel, turning round, 'follow me, and summon up all your courage.' the prince partly comprehended him, and followed. they at length issued from the winding staircase, through a low postern which opened on the bottom of the moat, and continued walking for some time in the dark, along the foot of the lofty walls of the fortress, as far as the basement of the queen's pavilion. when they had turned the angle of this pavilion, which concealed another part of the moat behind its walls, the prince suddenly found himself in front of the detachment of the troops drawn up to witness his death. the firing party selected for the execution was separated from the rest; and the barrels of their muskets, reflecting the dull light of some lanterns carried by a few of the attendants, threw a sinister glare on the moat, the massy walls, and the newly-dug grave. the prince stopped at a sign from his guides, within a few paces of the firing party. he saw his fate at a glance, but he neither trembled nor turned pale. a slight and chilling rain was falling from a gloomy sky, and a melancholy silence reigned throughout the moat. nothing disturbed the horror of the scene but the whispering and shuffling feet of a few groups of officers and soldiers who had collected upon the parapets above, and on the drawbridge which led into the forest of vincennes. adjutant pelle, who commanded the detachment, advanced, with his eyes lowered, toward the prince. he held in his hand the sentence of the military commission, which he read in a low, dull voice, but perfectly intelligible. the prince, listened without making an observation or losing his firmness. he seemed to have collected in an instant all his courage, and all the military heroism of his race, to show his enemies that he knew how to die. two feelings alone seemed to occupy him during the moment of intense silence which followed the reading of his sentence; one was to invoke the aid of religion to soothe his last struggle, and the other to communicate his dying thoughts to her he was going to leave desolate on the earth. he accordingly asked if he could have the assistance of a priest, but there was none in the castle; and though a few minutes would suffice to call the curé of vincennes, they were too much pressed for time, and too anxious to avail themselves of the night which was to cover every thing. the officers nearest to him made a sign that he must renounce this consolation; and one brutal fellow from the midst of a group called out in a tone of irony, 'do you wish, then, to die like a capuchin?' the prince raised his head with an air of indignation, and turning toward the group of officers and gendarmes who had accompanied him to the ground, he asked, in a loud voice, if there was any one among them willing to do him one last service. lieutenant noirot advanced from the group, and approached him, thus sufficiently evincing his intention. the prince said a few words to him in a low voice, and noirot, turning toward the side occupied by the troops, said, 'gendarmes, have any of you got a pair of scissors about you?' the gendarmes searched their cartridge-boxes, and a pair of scissors was passed from hand to hand to the prince. he took off his cap, cut off one of the locks of his hair, drew a letter from his pocket, and a ring from his finger, then folding the hair, the letter, and the ring in a sheet of paper, he gave the little packet, his sole inheritance, to lieutenant noirot, charging him, in the name of pity for his situation and his death, to send them to the young princess charlotte de rohan, at ettenheim. this love message being thus confided, he collected himself for a moment, with his hands joined, to offer up a last prayer, and in a low voice commended his soul to god. he then made five or six paces to place himself in front of the firing party, whose loaded muskets he saw glimmering at a short distance. the light of a large lantern containing several candles, placed upon the little wall that stood over the open grave, gleamed full upon him, and lighted the aim of the soldiers. the firing party retired a few paces to a proper distance, the adjutant gave the word to fire, and the young prince, as if struck by a thunderbolt, fell upon the earth, without a cry and without a struggle. at that moment the clock of the castle struck the hour of three. hullin and his colleagues were waiting in the vestibule of harel's quarters for their carriage to convey them back to paris, and were talking with some bitterness of savary's refusal to transmit their letter to his master, when an unexpected explosion, resounding from the moat of the forest gate, made them start and tremble, and taught them that judges should never reckon upon any thing but justice and their own conscience. this still small voice pursued them through their lives. the duke d'enghien was no more. his dog, which had followed him into the moat, yelled when he saw him fall, and threw himself on the body of his master. it was with difficulty the poor animal could be torn away from the spot, and given to one of the prince's servants, who took him to the princess charlotte--the only messenger from that tomb where slept the hapless victim whom she never ceased to deplore." the captain's self-devotion.[ ] [ ] translated from a new volume of tales by fanny lewald. some twenty years ago my father had a new ship launched from the stocks. a large company had assembled at our house to witness the ceremony of christening the vessel, and afterward to celebrate the marriage of the captain who was to take command of her. he had been for a long time in my father's service, had been uniformly successful in his voyages, and was just the man to take charge of a new enterprise on the western coast of africa. captain jan evers, from the time when he first went to sea as cabin-boy, had lived but little at home, with the exception of the time which he subsequently passed with his parents, while he was attending his course at the navigation school of hamburg, in order to prepare for his examination as pilot. his parents owned a bit of ground in the village of neumühlen, the long rows of houses of which stretch along the mouth of the elbe, beyond altona. after the death of the old people, the house stood for a long while uninhabited; until, in the year of which i now speak, the captain, who had returned from a voyage, concluded, at the desire of my father, not to go to sea again, until his new ship should be ready. this induced him to have the long-closed shutters of his house opened, in order to take up his own residence there; for he had never rented it. you must be aware of the extraordinary cleanliness of the northern sea-ports, and must have seen how the sailors love to have their houses as neat as their ships; and how in neumühlen, where many captains and pilots have their little estates, the houses seem to shine with the incessant care bestowed upon them, in order to comprehend how vexed jan evers was when he found his long-deserted house to have suffered sadly from neglect. the little garden-plot before the door, which is never wanting, was full of weeds; the boughs of the fine linden had run wild all about, and shaded the chambers, which had thereby grown mouldy, so that the green paint on the walls had contracted ugly yellow stains. the whole aspect of the house made a melancholy impression, and even the chinese mandarin which was still standing upon the walnut buffet, where jan used to see it when a child, seemed to nod its head gloomily when jan once more took possession of his paternal abode. the captain, who was a fresh jolly fellow of some forty years old, was no longer the same man after he had passed a couple of weeks there. he grew moody, peevish, and barely civil; and my father often lamented the impatience with which he awaited the completion of the ship, in order to be off again. one day evers came to our house at an unusual hour, and desired to see my father, who at that time of day was not usually in his counting-room, but with his family. the captain was shown in, and after we children had been sent away, at his desire, he said: "i have something to say to you which it is best your good lady should hear, too. i have just come from the dock-yard, where i have been looking at the ship. it will be two months before she will be off the stocks. then it will be too late to go to sea, even if you should have her rigged upon the stocks. i can't get off till spring; and i can't hold out so long as that. if i only had my fellows of the fortune here"--(this was the name of the vessel he had last commanded)--"if i only had them with me in neumühlen, it would be all right: but i grow down in the mouth there, it is so quiet. i'd rather be on a sand-island, alone with the seals and the sea-mews, under the open heavens, than among all those nicknacks of my little house, which must be used, and which i can't use. and so, i thought i'd ask you--" "if you couldn't be off!" interrupted my father. "surely, evers, you are not thinking of that in earnest, are you?" "no, i am not thinking of that. i have agreed to take command of the new ship; and i am in the habit of keeping my word. but i thought i would ask--" here he stopped, twirled his hat about in his hand, turned to my mother, and continued--"what you think about it--whether i hadn't better get married?" it seemed as though a great load was taken from his mind, when he had got out these words. he had his house, a pretty little property, and was a good-looking, noble fellow, and bid fair to make an excellent husband; and so my mother advised him earnestly to carry his design into execution; asking him whether he had yet found a girl whom he could wish to marry. "will you give me marie?" asked he. marie was the daughter of a woman who had attended me and my sisters, and who had long been dead. my parents had brought marie up, and she served my mother as chambermaid; but was looked upon as one of the family, and was very dear to us all. she was about four-and-twenty years old, and might be considered a very pretty girl. my mother said, that she thought a marriage between marie and the captain would be altogether proper, notwithstanding he was considerably the older; and evers begged her to be his spokeswoman with marie. "tell her," said he, "that i have liked her for many years; that always when i have returned from a voyage, i have been glad to look upon her again; that when i have been in foreign ports, and have seen other captains buying presents for their wives and children, i have often thought: could you but do so, and make others happy--but for whom? i have grieved that i was unmarried; and at sea in stormy weather, i have fallen asleep imagining myself, some time or other, reposing with my wife and children. but as soon as i came into port, i have always been obliged to set sail again forthwith, and have forgotten all about getting married, as i had to be off so soon again, and must see to getting the cargo on board. but now i have time to think about it, and i like marie very much? i will try to make her happy. you can assure her of that." marie was asked, and very gladly said yes. the captain had his house set in order; the rooms were newly painted, the garden attended to, the linden pruned; while marie arranged the stores of linen and plate left by her deceased parents-in-law, with the pleasurable feeling of ownership. and so came the day when the ship was to be launched, and the pair were to be united. we all went to the dock; my parents conveyed the young pair in a carriage, and the guests followed. we went on board the ship, the young couple preceding, then my parents, and the guests. the vessel was christened by the name of "young couple." we all burst out into loud huzzas, swung our glasses and our hats, and hurried from the stern, where the ceremony took place, to the bows, to remain there during the launch. the steps were removed; the ways in which the keel was to run were slushed with soap and tallow; the sound of the ax was heard, knocking away the last blocks; the line was cast off; one blow of an ax, and amid the huzzas of the carpenters, sailors, and spectators, the noble vessel shot into the water. suddenly a shriek was heard; the bow-line had parted, and the ship, freed from its check, shot across the river, with such momentum that it struck against the opposite shore, and stuck fast. in itself this was no great matter; for it cost little trouble or expense to tow the vessel back again. but the merriment of the occasion was interrupted by the shriek, and disturbed by the superstitious belief that any accident happening at a launch is a bad sign for the vessel. a silence fell upon the guests; marie wept, and the captain looked anxious, for all sailors are more or less superstitious. however, after the wedding, we grew cheerful again; the young pair went on to neumühlen, and the autumn and winter passed away quickly and happily. sorrowfully they watched the approach of spring, for the ship was afloat, her cargo ready, and the anchor was to be weighed as soon as the elbe was free from ice. this took place toward the end of march. for the first time in his life, the captain left hamburg with tears in his eyes, after having heartily commended to my mother the care of his wife, who was expecting her first child to be born during the course of the summer. if all went well, tidings of his arrival on the coast of africa might be looked for about the time of her confinement; and he had promised to write as soon as possible, as not only his wife, but our establishment were anxious to receive letters from him. but long after marie had given birth to a boy, no tidings had come from her husband. autumn came and was gone; winter came and went, and yet no intelligence reached us of the ship. no other vessel had spoken her; she had put in at no other port; not a trace of her could be discovered; and after a year and a day we were forced to conclude that she had gone down with all on board. the grief of the young wife was very deep, though the hope still remained that the crew might have been saved, and that her husband would return. thus passed years, until finally when all imaginable inquiries had been made in vain, marie began to grow accustomed to the idea of his loss, and to look upon herself as a widow. about this time she became acquainted with man who carried on a small business in neumühlen, and who wished to make her his wife. as evers had been absent eight years, my parents advised her to consent, especially as they perceived that such was her own inclination. but before a new marriage could be contracted, evers must be judicially pronounced to be dead. in the present case, after the usual preliminaries, there was no difficulty; and in the year , marie was married a second time; her son by the first marriage being then in his ninth year. this marriage also proved to be a very happy one; and she had two children born in the first two years; both of whom survived. one evening in the autumn of , marie was holding her youngest child in her arms, while her husband sat by her upon the sofa, enjoying his pipe. the elder boy, the son of evers, was busy at another table, near which his little sister was playing. a fierce storm was howling without; the rain and hail rattled against the windows; the night was unusually dark; and as some draught was felt, even in the well-secured apartment, marie told her eldest son to close the shutters. the lad went to the window, but quickly returned, saying that a man was standing there. "let him stand," replied the father, and the boy went back to the window to close the shutters, when he found that the man had gone. all was quiet in the room. the boy went back to his occupation; the mother laid her infant in the cradle, put the girl to bed, and had taken up her work-basket, when an old woman burst into the room half out of her wits with excitement, crying, "madame! madame! jan evers was out there!" marie, her husband, and the boy sprang up, and ran to the door. no one was to be seen. marie trembled in every limb; the boy stood near her in utter bewilderment; the husband at last so far recovered himself as to be able to inquire into the facts of the case. the old woman who had lived for some years in neumühlen, and was well acquainted with all the inhabitants, was almost as much excited and confounded as her neighbors. gazing hastily about her all the time, as though she expected every moment to see the apparition again, she said that she "was going by for to buy some stuff, and then she saw a man in a blue jacket, with a nor'wester on his head, a-staring in at your window, and then it came into my head to come and look in too; and when the stranger saw me he asked, 'who lives in this house?' and then i told him christian veltlin did. then the man went up to the window again and looked in again, and then he turned about and went away. and then i knew him by his size, and ran after him, and called out as loud as ever i could, 'jan evers! jan evers!' but he wouldn't turn his head round, but ran on as fast as he could, but i caught him at last at the stairs that lead from neumühlen up to the _chaussée_. and then i took hold of him by the sleeve, and asked him, 'jan evers, jan evers, where have you come from?' and then he pushed me away, and growled, 'i don't know nothin' about your jan everses. i'm the bo's'n of the greenlander over there!' and then he ran off and left me standing there. but 'twas him, and i ran over here to tell you all about it." you may imagine the terror, the agony, and the despair in that little house. veltlin, however, in order to soothe his wife, argued with her how improbable was the return of evers, and how easily the old woman might have been deceived. yet he was himself greatly troubled, and on the following morning, as early as possible, he and his wife came to my father to lay the matter before him, and to ask his advice. my father advised them, first and foremost, to keep silent about the whole affair; but it was too late for that, for the old woman had told all neumühlen what had happened. new inquiries were at once set on foot after the reputedly dead jan evers. but they were just as fruitless as the former ones had been; and after a while marie and veltlin began to grow composed, convinced that the old woman must have been deceived by some strange resemblance. peace and joy returned to the little household, and the marriage was never disturbed up to the time of marie's death, which took place last summer. after that event a document was transmitted to me by the magistracy of the capital, where, it seems, jan had passed his last years, under an assumed name. by this document, executed upon his death-bed, he constituted all the children of marie veltlin heirs to his little property; but with the express provision that the will should not be made public till after the death of marie. then it was known, for the first time, that the old woman was right. jan evers had most magnanimously sacrificed himself for his wife, and had lived and died alone and among strangers, although he was fully aware that a son had been born to him, who had lived to grow up. the eagle and the swan. (_from the german._) the swan. my tranquil life is passed the waves among, light ripples tracing as i glide along, and the scarce ruffled tide, as in a glass, reflects my form unaltered as i pass! the eagle. in the clefts of the rocks my wild dwelling i form, i sail through the air on the wings of the storm, 'mid dangers and combats i dart on my prey, and trust the bold pinion that bears me away! the swan. won by the charm of ph[oe]bus, in the wave of heavenly harmony i dare to lave, couched at his feet, i listen to the lays, in tempè's vale, that echo to his praise! the eagle. i perch at the right hand of jove on his throne, and the thunderbolt launch when his signal is shown, and my heavy wings droop, when in slumber i lie, o'er the sceptre that sways the wide earth from on high! the swan. _me_ charms the heaven's blue arch, serene and bland, and odorous flowers attract me to the land while basking in the sun's departing beams, i stretch my white wings o'er the purpled streams! the eagle. i exult in the tempest, triumphant and bold, when the oaks of the forest it rends from their hold, i demand of the thunder--the spheres when it shakes-- if, like me, a wild joy in destruction it takes! the swan. oft in the glassy tide the stars i view, and that blue heav'n the waves give back anew. and dim regret recalls me to the home in higher spheres, reluctant whence i roam! the eagle. with joy, from the hour that my young life begun, i have soared to the skies--i have gazed on the sun. i can not stoop down to the dust of the earth-- allied to the gods, i exult in my birth! the swan. when a calm death succeeds to tranquil life, its links detaching without pain or strife, and to my voice restores its primal power, its dying tones shall hail the solemn hour! the eagle. the soul, like the phoenix, springs forth from the pyre, all free and unvailed, to the skies to aspire, to hail the bright vision that bursts on its view, and its youth at the dark torch of death to renew! monthly record of current events. united states. a new invasion of cuba, somewhat more formidable, but less successful even, than the former, has absorbed public attention during the past month. immediately after the return of lopez from his first expedition, rumors were rife that he was making preparations for another attempt. these reports, however, attracted comparatively little attention, and no effective measures were taken to put a stop to proceedings which were so palpably in violation of our treaty engagements with spain. the reported rising of the inhabitants of cuba at puerto principe, which was noticed in our last number, and which was grossly exaggerated in public prints throughout the country, had evidently been regarded by the cubans in the united states as eminently favorable to the prosecution of their purposes. a party of about men, led by lopez himself, and commanded by subordinate officers, accordingly embarked on board the steamer pampero, at new orleans, and set out for cuba. they intended to land in the central department of the island upon the southern coast, where the disaffection had been represented as most rife, and where they were, therefore, most sure of a favorable reception. but on touching at key west for supplies, they were informed that a revolt had taken place in the vuelta de abajo, and lopez accordingly resolved to land in that district. by some mistake, the nature of which has not been clearly explained, they missed their point of destination, and landed on the northern coast of the western department of the island on the night of the th of august. the shore was deserted and they met no opposition. general lopez left colonel crittenden at this point with about men in charge of the stores and unnecessary arms, and advanced with the remainder of his command to the town of las pozas: the inhabitants, however, fled as he approached, neither joining his standard nor furnishing him with provisions or encouragement of any sort. the day after landing, col. crittenden was attacked by the spanish troops--two bodies of infantry and one company of horse. this force was too strong for them. after struggling as long as possible, they withdrew from the field, and finding that neither lopez himself, who was only three miles off, nor any of the inhabitants came to their aid, they resolved to return to the united states. they procured small boats, and had just got to sea when they were followed and captured on the th by the spanish steamer habanero. they were taken to havana, and, on the th, were shot. it was at first reported that they had no trial, but were shot immediately, and that their bodies were horribly mutilated and every possible insult offered to their remains by the cuban populace. these statements were, however, afterward contradicted. it was stated that they were properly tried, and condemned, and that after their execution they were decently interred. several of them, and colonel crittenden among the number, wrote letters to their friends at home, all of which agreed that they had been grossly deceived as to the state of public feeling in cuba, and that, so far as could be perceived, not the slightest disposition prevailed among the inhabitants of the island to overthrow the spanish government. general lopez was attacked on the th by a large body of spanish troops at las pozas; the action was severe, and the spaniards were repulsed. the loss of lopez was considerable, and among those who fell was colonel pragay, an officer who had served with distinction in hungary. he lost in all about fifty men, but retained possession of the place. he soon perceived that all his hopes of aid from the inhabitants were groundless, and that it would be impossible to maintain himself against the spanish troops; and determined to conceal himself in the mountains. on their march thither they met several spanish detachments with whom they had successive engagements, suffering severely in each, and inflicting losses more or less serious upon their opponents. among the spaniards who fell was general enna, a distinguished officer, who was buried at havana on the st, with military pomp. at martitorena on the th, while the remaining body of the invaders were breakfasting, they were surprised by an overwhelming spanish force, and completely scattered; and from that time forward they seem to have been zealously hunted by the inhabitants of all classes, and by every means. the official reports of the spanish officers state that the peasants pursued them with dogs, that the negroes aided in their capture, and that every part of the population evinced the most active and devoted loyalty to the spanish government. on the th, lopez with only six followers, was endeavoring to conceal himself and escape to the sea coast, and on the th, he was captured in the pinos de rangel, by a guide named jose antonio castañeda, with fifteen peasants. he was at once handed over to a military force under colonel ramon de sago, who had him conveyed by a night march to havana, where orders were immediately issued for his execution, which took place at o'clock on the morning of september st. he perished by the _garrote vil_, an instrument in common use among the spaniards. it consists of an iron chair, with a back, upon which, at a point even with the head of the person sitting in it, is the instrument of death. this consists of iron clasps made to fit the sides of the head, and a clasp to pass round the throat. from behind is a long iron bar attached to a screw, which put in motion by the executioner giving it a single turn, draws the throat and side pieces tight and at the same time sends an iron rod into the spinal marrow at the neck from behind, causing instantaneous death. this machine was placed upon a scaffold about ten feet high, in the middle of a large square, surrounded by troops. an eyewitness has given an account of the execution. he states that lopez behaved like a brave man throughout--and walked, surrounded by a guard, to the steps of the scaffold, as coolly as if he were at the head of his troops. he was dressed in a long white gown, and a white cap; his wrists were tied in front and above his elbows behind, with the cords held by soldiers. he ascended the steps with two civilians, friends, but without a priest. he faced round and looked upon the soldiers, and the immense throng of people outside of the square, and then turned round and knelt in prayer for about one minute. he then rose and turned toward the front, and in a clear, manly voice, and in tones loud enough to be heard by the thousands present (for it was still as night), spoke as follows:--"countrymen, i most solemnly, in this last awful moment of my life, ask your pardon for any injury i have caused you. it was not my wish to injure any one, my object was your freedom and happiness;" here he was interrupted by the commanding officer in front. he concluded, by saying, "my intention was good, and my hope is in god." he then bowed, and turned round and took his seat, apparently with as much coolness as if he were taking a chair in a room with friends. he placed his head back, between the iron grasps, the negro hangman then adjusted the iron throat clasp and tied his feet to bolts on each side of the seat. during this preparation, lopez was in conversation with his friends. the executioner, then took his place at the iron bar behind. lopez kissed the cross handed to him by his friend; the negro then gave one turn of the wrench, and lopez died instantly without the least struggle. the military at once returned to the city, the band playing a quick step; the thousands dispersed with little or no noise; and thus ended the second invasion of cuba. the intelligence of these proceedings, as it reached the united states, caused an intense excitement throughout the country. in the southern states, and especially in new orleans, where the expedition had been planned and prepared, the popular agitation was overwhelming. when the news of the execution of the fifty men under colonel crittenden reached new orleans, with the report of the indignities shown to their dead bodies, a mob destroyed the office of a spanish newspaper in that city, menaced and injured the shops of sundry spanish inhabitants, and even sacked the house of the spanish consul. large meetings were held in all the principal cities of the united states, at which the conduct of the spanish authorities was denounced, and active preparations were made for sending fresh reinforcements to the invaders. subsequent accounts, however, and the interference of the government, prevented the execution of these designs. the failure of lopez cooled the ardor of that class of our population whose opinions of the morality and legality of any action, depend upon its success or failure; while the slightest reflection was sufficient to show the great mass of our people, that without a declaration of war against spain by our government, we had no right to invade her colonies. if a revolution had existed there, our people, as in the case of texas, could have emigrated thither, and after becoming cubans and abandoning all claims to american citizenship, have taken such part as they might see fit in the affairs of the island. but no such revolution existed. lopez and those who acted with him were undoubtedly deceived as to the state of public sentiment in cuba. no one can fail to regret the loss of so many noble spirits; but they put their lives upon the hazard of the die, and expected, in case of failure, the fate which they met. about prisoners still remain in the hands of the colonial government; it is understood that their punishment will be commuted to imprisonment and transportation. political conventions have been held in several states during the past month, to nominate officers for the coming elections. in massachusetts the whigs assembled at springfield on the th of september, above one thousand delegates being in attendance. hon. robert c. winthrop was nominated for governor, receiving out of votes, and george grinnell, of greenfield county, was nominated for lieutenant-governor. edward everett, george ashmun, and seth sprague were chosen delegates from the state at large to the national convention. a series of resolutions was adopted, declaring substantially, that the constitution of the united states and the laws made in pursuance thereof, are the supreme law of the land, any thing in the constitution or laws of any state to the contrary notwithstanding, and that no citizen or state has any right to resist their execution, except in such extreme cases as justify violent resistance to the laws, on the principle of the natural and indefeasible prerogative of self-defense against intolerable oppression;--that the preservation of the union transcends in importance any and all other political questions;--that the whigs of massachusetts will faithfully perform every duty imposed upon them by the constitution of the united states, and they call upon their brethren in every section of the state to respect and observe all its provisions;--that they "cordially support the national administration in all its just and patriotic measures; in its generous sympathy with oppressed nations struggling for liberty in every part of the world; in its able and vigorous management of our foreign affairs; in its unwavering purpose to maintain inviolate our public faith with all nations; and in its sworn resolve to vindicate the integrity of the union against all assaults from whatever quarter;"--that they have undiminished confidence in the comprehensive statesmanship of daniel webster;--that they cordially approve the agreement entered into by the whigs of new york;--that they disapprove very decidedly of the present administration of state affairs in massachusetts, and that they will use every exertion to secure the election of the whig candidates put in nomination. the democratic party held their convention on the th of august. a series of resolutions was adopted declaring that "the democratic party is preëminently national, anti-sectional, and for the union as a whole union--that it has always sustained, and can only regain its supremacy in the union, by adhering to its own men and measures; reposing on its fundamental principle of excluding all tests marked by sectional lines, south or north, east or west; and by leaving to the sound sense of the people of each state and territory their domestic policy and institutions;"--that they recommend a national democratic convention to be held at baltimore in may, ;--that they "deprecate as disunion in its worst form the attempts of any party or class of men to stigmatize and denounce one portion of the union for its domestic institutions with which the constitution does not interfere, and of the propriety of which each state is its own independent judge;"--that they approve the resolutions adopted in the national democratic convention of ;--and that they "go for a faithful execution of and acquiescence in all the compromise measures settled by the last congress." charles g. greene, henry h. childs, and isaac davis were appointed delegates to the national convention. george s. boutwell was nominated for governor, and henry w. cushman for lieutenant-governor. in new york the whig convention met on the th at syracuse. only part of the state officers are to be chosen at the election this fall. george w. patterson was nominated for controller, james m. cook for treasurer, samuel a. foote for judge of the court of appeals, james c. forsyth for secretary of state, daniel ullman jr. for attorney-general, henry fitzhugh for canal commissioner, and a. h. wells for state prison inspector. four very brief resolutions were adopted, declaring that the action of the two whig state committees at albany, which was sketched in our last, was "the result of honorable and patriotic devotion to the constitution, and for the best interests of the whole people, and that it is adopted and approved by this convention;"--that to the entire completion of the erie canal and kindred public works the whig party is fully pledged;--that those who supported the canal bill rendered a service to the state of such eminent value, that it has obtained for them the gratitude of every friend of the true prosperity of the state; and that the candidates nominated for state offices deserve and will receive the united support of the whole whig party.--the democratic convention met at the same place on the th. two days were spent in effecting an organization. a series of resolutions was adopted reaffirming the views and principles set forth in the resolutions adopted by the state convention at syracuse last year. the following gentlemen were nominated as the democratic candidates for the several state offices:--john c. wright for controller; henry s. randall for secretary of state; levi s. chatfield for attorney-general; benjamin welch jr. for treasurer; horace wheaton for canal commissioner; w. j. m'alpine for state engineer; gen. storms for inspector of state prisons; and a. s. johnson for judge of the court of appeals.--in maryland p. f. thomas was nominated for controller, james murray for commissioner of the land office, and t. r. stewart for lottery commissioner, by the democratic state convention held on the th of september. a very severe storm swept over the whole southern coast of the united states and the west india islands on the th of august. the damage to vessels and other property was very great. in the island of porto rico a great number of plantations and an immense number of cattle were destroyed, and many persons lost their lives. in the middle of west florida, georgia, and alabama the gale was terribly destructive. the tobacco crop is said to have suffered severely. advices from texas give encouraging accounts of the cotton crop in that state. in both quality and quantity it will exceed that of ordinary years. a new military post has been established in the clear fork of the brazos; and in the immediate vicinity, it is said, very large deposits of iron ore and of coal have been discovered. a very large trade in cattle has sprung up of late between texas and new orleans; the net proceeds of the trade this year are estimated at $ , . the boundary commission is progressing slowly. when last heard from it was at the copper mines. the survey had been temporarily suspended, owing to an error in running the boundary, making it miles above el paso, instead of , as required by the treaty. about persons are attached to the american commission, while the mexican commission has only seven. from el paso we learn that a conflict occurred early in june between a considerable body of apache indians and a party of twelve americans, on their way to california. the affray took place near the copper mines. the americans were defeated, with a loss of two men killed and two wounded. writers in the texas papers, who have passed over the route to california from san antonio and el paso, state that it is far preferable to the usual route by way of independence, missouri. it is said to be shorter, cheaper, and less dangerous. two more cases of the surrender of fugitive slaves have occurred in the state of new york during the month. a colored person, living at poughkeepsie, and named john m. boulding, was arrested there and brought to new york. evidence was submitted to mr. nelson, a commissioner under the law of , which showed him to be the slave of mr. anderson, of south carolina, whither he was immediately sent. the other case occurred at buffalo, where a negro called daniel was brought before commissioner h. k. smith. he was claimed under the tenth section of the act of , a certified copy of the records of a court of kentucky being produced, as required by that section, to prove him the property of a mr. rust. the commissioner decided that the evidence was sufficient, but a _habeas corpus_ was granted by judge conklin of the u. s. district court, and the case was argued before him. he decided that the tenth section of the law of , could not apply to slaves who had escaped previous to the passage of the law; and as daniel was alleged to have fled before that time, the evidence provided for by that section was insufficient. he was therefore discharged. this decision is one of a good deal of importance, as it essentially modifies the operation of the law. an election was held in mississippi, on the st and d of september, for delegates to a state convention, to consider what action mississippi ought to take in regard to the action of the last congress on the question of slavery. the majority of _union_ delegates returned was very large; so decisive, indeed, was the result regarded as to the feeling of the state upon the subject, that gen. quitman, who was running against senator foote, as the secession candidate, immediately withdrew from the canvass. the american association for the advancement of education held, the last of august, a very interesting meeting at cleveland, ohio. many of the most distinguished teachers and friends of education from widely distant parts of the country were in attendance, and the discussions were of decided interest. the new system of collegiate education recently introduced in brown university, and adopted in the new university at cleveland (allowing students to select such studies as they may deem most important to prepare them for their several pursuits in life, and giving them certificates of their actual attainments, instead of the usual diplomas), was thoroughly canvassed, both by its friends and its opponents. the chief defenders of the new system were president mahan of cleveland, and prof. greene of brown university. many other important subjects were also discussed, and the proceedings of the association generally were such as are adapted to exert a wide and beneficent influence upon the cause of education. j. e. caldwell, executor of the will of elihu creswell, of new orleans, has addressed a letter to gov. hunt, of new york, asking him for suggestions as to the most desirable locality for fifty-one slaves, emancipated by mr. creswell, with directions that they should be removed to a free state. gov. hunt has published the letter of mr. caldwell, with an extract from the will, in order to elicit the desired information. the united states commissioner to the western indians, with his suite, recently arrived in galena, ill., from mendota and st. paul. the treaty with the lower sioux bands was signed on the th of august. these bands are to receive, when they have reached their destination, some $ , , to pay their debts and expenses of removal, and an annuity in money of about $ , , for fifty years. the lands treated for with the lower bands amount to some sixteen millions of acres. they lie along and west of the mississippi, from the iowa state line north to the falls of st. anthony, and above. the amount to be paid for this immense territory, when the treaties will have been fully carried out, will amount to the sum of nearly three millions. from _california_ we have news to the first of august. there is little intelligence of special interest. the excitement in regard to lynch law executions had subsided, and it was believed that the courts of law would hereafter be left to the exercise of their functions. the reports from the mining districts continue to be encouraging and the shipments of gold for august and september were likely to exceed those of any previous month. numerous canals are to be constructed for the purpose of diverting the water of streams known to be rich in gold, and abundant preparations had been made for mining the quartz rock with heavy machinery. the belief is general that this is hereafter to be the main source of profitable mining. agriculture is attracting increased attention. indian hostilities have ceased on the southern and eastern borders, and broken out on the northern frontier. a military expedition, under command of gen. j. m. estell, is to accompany the indian commissioners, in their tour of negotiation, to clear lake, thence to the sources of the sacramento. after which they will proceed to klamath river. the hostile indians on rogue's river have been dispersed but not subdued. navigation on the upper rivers is suspended on account of the low state of water. the two political parties were holding conventions in the various counties to nominate for the legislature and for county offices. the four candidates for congress have been busily engaged in canvassing. the project of dividing the state is still urged in some of the southern counties, which were once the seat of nearly all the spanish establishments in this state, but which have lost all their political importance under the new _regime_. rev. stephen olin, d.d., president of the wesleyan university, died at his residence in middletown, conn., on the th of august. his health had not been strong for many years, and an attack of epidemic dysentery proved too much for his enfeebled frame. born in vermont, on the d of march, , he received his academical education at middlebury college, where he graduated with the highest honor. in , he entered upon the ministry of the gospel, in south carolina, and soon became eminent as a pulpit orator. in , he was called to a professorship in franklin college, ga., and in to the presidency of randolph macon college, va. the years from to , he passed in an extended career of travel through europe and the east: and the fruit of his observations in the latter region, have appeared in his two excellent volumes of "travels in egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land" (harper and brothers). in , he was chosen president of the wesleyan university, and filled that office to the time of his death. dr. olin's reputation as an author must depend upon his travels, and upon his published discourses, which, it is to be hoped, will be gathered together in permanent form. the travels are marked by quick and sagacious observation, considerable power of graphic description, and sound judgment. dr. olin's account of egypt is the best, on the whole, in the language. the discourses are massive, full of thought, and yet glowing with fervor. in breadth and comprehensiveness they are perhaps equal to any thing that the american pulpit has produced. it was, indeed, as a pulpit orator that dr. olin shone pre-eminently. his power consisted, not in any single quality--in force of reasoning--or fire of imagination--or heat of declamation--but in all combined. his course of argument was always clear and strong, yet interfused throughout with passion--the two inseparably united in a torrent that overwhelmed all who listened to him. dr. olin's personal qualities were those of the highest style of man. his nature was imaginative--so full of genial kindness as to win all hearts. none could be in his company even for a few moments without feeling this fascination, and at the same time without imbibing a deep reverence for the intellectual majesty of the man. he had, in a very remarkable degree, what coleridge calls one of the highest characteristics of genius: "the power to carry forward the fresh feelings of childhood on through youth, and manhood, and age:" there was no decay of feeling, no sign of senility in failing of human interest or sympathy. with these qualities, it is not strange that he was sought for to fill high places in literary institutions, and that as president of a university, he was eminently useful and successful. he would have been equally distinguished, we are sure, in the world of letters, had not his work been hindered by lifelong disease. as it was, it is wonderful indeed that he accomplished so much. the hon. levi woodbury, of new hampshire, died at portsmouth, n. h., on the th of september, where he had suffered for a long while, under a painful disease. mr. woodbury was born at francestown, new hampshire, about the year , was graduated with a high reputation for scholarship at dartmouth college in , and was admitted to the bar in . he practiced his profession with distinguished success, and rapidly rose to a high rank in it. when the democratic party acquired the ascendency in the state, in , he was appointed secretary of state; and at the commencement of the next year, a judge of the superior court. in he removed to portsmouth, the commercial capital of new hampshire, where he resided the remainder of his life, with the exception of the intervals when his official duties called him to washington. mr. woodbury was elected governor of new hampshire in , and in a senator of the united states. general jackson appointed him secretary of the navy in , and subsequently, on the rejection of mr. taney by the senate, secretary of the treasury. he continued in the office till the close of mr. van buren's presidency, when he resumed his seat in the senate. during the administration of mr. polk, he was appointed one of the judges of the supreme court, and had withdrawn from the more active scenes of political life. james fenimore cooper, the distinguished american novelist, died at his residence at cooperstown, n. y., on the th of september. he was born at burlington, new jersey, on the th of september, . his father, a judge of some distinction, was a large landholder in otsego county, and gave his name to one of its townships. mr. cooper received the rudiments of his education under a private tutor in burlington, and entered yale college in . in he entered the navy of the united states as a midshipman, and remained in that service six years. no reader of his sea novels can fail to trace upon them the influence of this portion of his experience. in he left the navy, married, and settled in westchester county, new york, whence he soon removed to cooperstown and wrote his first novel, entitled precaution. although this work gave small promise of the brilliant literary career upon which he entered, he continued to write, and soon published that series of tales of early american life which have won for him such enviable distinction. in he sailed for europe, and remained there several years, where he wrote several of his best sea novels. since his return he has written several tales, using them chiefly as a medium of political opinions, and of course sacrificing much of the success and distinction which his previous works had acquired. some of his strictures upon the faults of american character and social life, subjected him for some years to a very warm and bitter hostility. his health had been seriously impaired for the last few months. intelligence of his death will be received with profound regret throughout the world. rev. thomas h. gallaudet, ll.d., well known as the pioneer of deaf-mute instruction in this country, died at hartford, conn., on the th of september, at the age of . dr. g. first became interested in the cause to which his after life was devoted in , having succeeded in conveying instruction to a deaf and dumb daughter of dr. cogswell in hartford; and through the efforts of that gentleman he was commissioned to visit europe for the purpose of qualifying himself to become a teacher of the deaf and dumb in this country. seven gentlemen of hartford subscribed a sufficient amount of funds to defray his expenses, and on the th of may, , mr. gallaudet sailed for europe. meanwhile, the friends of the project employed the interval of time in procuring an act of incorporation from the legislature of connecticut, which was accomplished in may, . in may, , the name of "the american asylum at hartford for the education and instruction of the deaf and dumb," was bestowed by the legislature on the first institution for the deaf-mutes established in the united states. after spending several months in the assiduous prosecution of his studies, under the abbé sicard and others, mr. gallaudet returned to this country in august, . he was accompanied by mr. laurent clerc, a deaf and dumb professor in the institution of paris, and well-known in europe as a most intelligent pupil of the abbé. mr. clerc is now living in a vigorous old age, and is still a teacher in the american asylum at hartford. the asylum was opened on the th of april, , and during the first week of its existence numbered seven pupils; it now averages annually. mr. gallaudet became the principal of the institution at its commencement, and held the office until april, , when he resigned, and has since officiated as chaplain of the retreat for the insane at hartford. his interest in the cause of deaf-mute education has always continued unabated, and his memory will be warmly cherished by that unfortunate class of our fellow beings as well as by a large circle of devoted friends. rev. sylvester graham, the founder and untiring advocate of the vegetarian system of dietetics, died at northampton, mass., on thursday, sept. . dr. graham was chiefly known for his strict adherence to the system which, for some time, bore his name. his writings on the subject were numerous and popular, and his labors, as a lecturer, were incessant. the most important of his works are, _lectures on the science of human life_, first published in boston in ; and _lectures to young men on chastity_. the "science of human life," is a work in two large volumes, containing a systematic and in some degree, a scientific exposition of the author's peculiar views, and has had a rapid sale. it passed through several editions in this country, and has lately been reprinted in england, where its sale is quite extensive. dr. graham was a native of suffield, ct., and at the time of his death was aged about . his character evinced energy and decision, and his influence on the public mind was rather beneficial than deleterious. of his theories, each will form his own judgment; the projector, at least, was undoubtedly honest and sincere in sustaining them. prof. beverly tucker, of william and mary college, virginia, died at winchester on the th ult. mr. tucker was one of the federal judges of the territory of missouri before its admission as a state; and was subsequently state judge in virginia for a number of years, when he resigned, and accepted the chair of professor of law at william and mary college. he was a member of the last nashville convention, and is known as the author of a work published fifteen years ago, entitled _the partisan leader_. mr. tucker's age was about . canada. the canadian parliament was prorogued by the governor-general on the th of august. the royal speech represents the revenue as in a satisfactory state, and refers to the grants for improving the navigation of the st. lawrence, and to the reduction of the emigrant tax. six bills were reserved for the approval of the queen, three of which relate to churches and rectories, two to the reduction of salaries, and one to the incorporation of the fort erie and buffalo suspension bridge company. the reciprocity question was left unsettled. the reductions in the civil list authorized by the imperial government have been carried out by the legislature. the salaries of the chief justices and that of the chancellor are to be reduced from $ , to $ , a year, upon the departure of the present incumbents from office. the question of seignorial tenure was discussed at this session, and although no final action was taken upon it, a bill was introduced which will probably come up again. the subject is one of great interest to the people of canada, and will not be allowed to drop. the law of promogeniture in the succession of real estate has been abolished in upper canada. this is the most democratic measure that has been passed during the present parliament, and it can not fail to exert a highly beneficial influence on the future condition of the province. a set of resolutions has been passed granting acres of land each to certain companies of enrolled military pensioners from england, whom it is intended to station in different parts of the province. it is intended that they shall be ready to act as a local police, and also be employed on the public works. south america. the arrival of the steamer georgia, on the th of september, put us in possession of later news from the pacific coast of south america. in _guayaquil_ a military outbreak, excited, so far as appears, solely by personal resentments, has resulted in a complete change of the administration. the president, gen. neuva, left querto on the th of july for the purpose of visiting his family at guayaquil. on approaching that city he was met by a military cavalcade, ostensibly for the purpose of escorting him in: but he was immediately seized by them, and hurried off to sea in a vessel lying in the river; the destination of the vessel, and the fate of the captive were unknown. gen. urbina immediately entered upon the administration of affairs. in _chili_, don manual montt has been elected president by an overwhelming majority. he was understood to be in favor of internal improvements and of a more effectual promotion of education. the copiapo railroad was to be opened in september. congress was in session the last of july, but no important business engaged its attention. in the public revenue amounted to $ , , , and the expenditures to $ , , , including over three hundred thousand dollars remitted to england to pay interest on the loan contracted there. the whole english debt is now about seven millions of dollars. a very severe storm swept the harbor of valparaiso in the early part of july. the damage to shipping, both chilian and american, was very considerable. in _bolivia_, the decree allowing foreign goods to be entered at a lower duty from vessels that had not touched at other ports, has been revoked. in _peru_, congress was still in session. the legislative and executive branches of the government are represented as being on the best of terms with each other, so that affairs are conducted with a good degree of promptness and efficiency. a bill has been urged in congress for the greater extension of the freedom of trade, and another to prohibit the circulation in that republic of bolivian money. several bills of decided local importance engaged the attention of congress. there has been during the past year a very large export from chili, chiefly of wheat and flour, amounting to two hundred thousand dollars more than during the previous year. in _new grenada_, it is said there are new disturbances. the government levied a forced loan, and further decreed that the friends of the government should be exempted from its payment. in several provinces the decree had the effect of converting nearly the whole population into a government party; but in bogota and carthagena it had the opposite effect. arrangements were in progress for an extensive revolt, and it was said that it had commenced at bogota, but with what result is not clear. from _mexico_ later advices have been received,--to august d from the capital and the th from vera cruz. the hostility of the government to the fulfillment of its treaty stipulations concerning the tehuantepec canal continues unabated; and it is stated that two vessels sent from new orleans to commence the work were seized by the mexican authorities. the financial condition of the country continues to engross attention, but no one of the numerous projects offered for its relief seems likely to be adopted. the ministerial plan calling a convention of the governors of the several provinces, meets with very little favor. the appropriation of the church property to the necessities of the government has been warmly recommended by some of the public journals. the estates of the clergy and of various religious incorporations amount to $ , , . this sum, which has been accumulating in unproductive hands for the last three centuries, it was maintained, would save the country from bankruptcy and ruin. the mexican senate has passed an act recommending a general confederation among the spanish american republics. a plan for accomplishing this object is detailed, of which the most marked features are a general congress, a uniform political system, a general act of navigation and commerce, an alliance offensive and defensive, and a tribunal for the settlement of differences. the project is a good one, but there seems to be little chance of its being carried out. in durango, a popular commotion occurred on the th of august, in consequence of the high price of corn, but it was quelled without bloodshed, by an order from the government compelling the holders of the article to reduce its price. in vera cruz, on the st, a very large number of the inhabitants, including some of the national guard, assembled to ask of the local government relief from recent and very oppressive taxes. some of the soldiers were ordered out to oppose them, when the people retired to their houses and prepared for defense. a brisk action ensued in which several were killed, but quiet was restored by the announcement that the local government had yielded to the popular demands. president arista's birthday was celebrated on the th of july. he has dissolved a club formed for the purpose of regulating the annual celebration of mexican independence, as some of its regulations did not meet his approbation. an abortive attempt at a pronunciamiento in favor of santa anna has been made at guanajuato. the plot, which probably had plunder for its chief object, was discovered before it had come to maturity, and the leaders were taken into custody. a revolution has broken out in chiapas, aiming at the abolition of the internal custom houses. col. munoz, commanding the battalion of guerrero in tehuantepec, was ordered to proceed to chiapas and aid the government party in the suppression of the rebellion. his men began to desert soon after the commencement of the march, and before he had advanced fifty miles from tehuantepec he had not more then seventy men. the revolt is headed by meldono, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the state. a good deal of excitement has been produced in mexico by the publication of the letters of payno, to the president of the committee of mexican bond-holders in london. it seems that the assertion of payno that he was chargé d'affaires of the mexican legation in london, and was commissioned to adjust certain matters pending in europe, was entirely destitute of foundation. on the publication of the letter containing these statements, and others equally untrue, a resolution was introduced into the chamber of deputies, inquiring by what authority payno had received the appointment of chargé, and how much money was appropriated to his mission. the minister replied that payno had never received the commission from the government, but that $ , had been applied to defraying the expense of the voyage. in consequence of this information, a complaint was lodged against the former minister of finance, and of foreign relations. the affair was also taken up by the senate, which has recommended lacunza as minister to england. from _montevideo_ we have intelligence to the first of july. the aspect of affairs in brazil and buenos ayres was by no means pacific. the brazilian force under admiral grenfell, the commander-in-chief, had penetrated the waters of the uraguay, and were stationed at commanding points along the north bank of the river. the disaffection of the province of entre rios had been followed by that of corrientes, warlike preparations were in train; and every thing threatened a general outbreak. the mediation of great britain had been accepted by gen. rosas. the slave-trade on the coast of brazil was at a low ebb, a deep laid scheme for its revival having been defeated by the british squadron. only slaves were landed during the first six months of , while no less than , were landed in the same period of . from the island of _hayti_ our advices are to the middle of august. every thing was then quiet. the emperor had returned to cape haytien from his tour, having crossed the dominican frontier without being molested, and it was reported that the difficulties between the dominican and haytian governments have been amicably settled. an eruption of the long dormant volcanoes of the pellée mountain, in martinique, took place on the night of august . it was accompanied with a noise similar to the approach of thunder, and with a strong vibration that was felt to a considerable distance. the town of st. pierre, as well as all the surrounding country, was covered over with gray ashes. the population of prêcheur were obliged to flee from their homes, and to take refuge in st. pierre. there was no shock of an earthquake. great britain. parliament was prorogued on the th of august by the queen in person, until the th of september. the speech of her majesty contained nothing of special interest or importance. no event in england has created more excitement, or engaged more attention, during the past month than the visit and performances of the yacht _america_, built in new york, and owned by john c. stevens, esq., who commands her. she arrived at cowes early in july, and her commander immediately offered to sail her against any vessel of a similar construction in the world, for any wager up to $ , . public attention was instantly attracted to her by the reports of pilots and others who had seen her, and she was visited by thousands and thousands of people from every part of england, but her challenge was not accepted. on the th there was a race of seventeen yachts, owned by gentlemen from every part of the kingdom, contending for the prize of the gold cup, which the queen gives every year to the best yacht in the kingdom. the _america_ was entered for the race, and won it so easily, as to excite the unbounded admiration and applause of the unsuccessful competitors. on the th there was another race, by the squadron; but the _america_ was not entered. the wind was light, and the last vessel of the squadron had been under weigh sixty-five minutes when the _america_ hoisted sail and followed. the race was round the isle of wight, and she came in only ten minutes behind the winner. mr. stephenson, the distinguished engineer, offered to sail his yacht, the _titania_, for a small wager against the _america_. the offer was accepted, and the race came off on the th of aug. the wind was fresh, and the course was forty miles out, and forty back. earl wilton was umpire. the _america_ won the race by a long distance. the queen, with prince albert and the royal family, visited the yacht on the th. the spirit of england is thoroughly roused by this unlooked-for defeat; but they are unbounded in their expressions of admiration for the vessel which has conquered them. several new cutters are to be built immediately for the express purpose of contending with the _america_. the royal commissioners of the great exhibition have resolved to close it on the th of october. a meeting of the commissioners will be held on the th, for the purpose of taking leave of the exhibitors, and immediately after they will have permission to remove their goods. the number of visitors has fallen off considerably. a great meeting was held in dublin on the th of august, of roman catholics from all parts of the kingdom, to protest against the ecclesiastical titles bill just enacted. immediately after the call was issued, a protestant clergyman, named tresham gregg, issued a notice that he would be there to confront the catholics, and summoned all true protestants to his aid. this notice, and the general excitement which prevailed, led to anticipations of violence. an immense concourse of people was present. admittance was refused to mr. gregg and his party, and the collision was thus avoided. a large number of roman catholic prelates were in attendance. the most rev. dr. cullen, archbishop of armagh, and primate of all ireland, presided, and read a long address, urging catholics every where to take measures to preserve their religion. several speeches were made by distinguished catholics, generally urging a political union of all catholics, without reference to other political questions. an ostentatious disregard of the late law was shown in the constant use of the ecclesiastical titles prohibited by it. the condition of laboring men in parts of england finds striking exemplification in an incident which occurred at a colliery in bedminster. several persons had been killed by the breaking of the rope upon which the miners daily descended feet to their work. it appeared upon the trial that the workmen knew that the rope was unsafe, but they had not dared to complain, lest they should lose their places--"poor men are tied down so tight now." one of the witnesses, a collier, after giving his testimony, said, "for the evidence i have given this day, i shall be out of work." the exhibition, and the official visit to paris, have aroused writers in england to a sense of their own clumsiness and artistic inferiority to the french. in all departments of art, and especially in the graces and elegancies of life, the english feel themselves to be far behind their neighbors. the _times_ suggests, as one step toward remedying the evil, that cleopatra's needle should be brought to london, as the luxor was to paris, and erected as a monument to sir ralph abercromby. it can be procured, and the cost of removal is estimated at £ . the english government has granted new pensions of £ a year to mr. j. silk buckingham, who is well known in this country, and the same amount to col. torrens, the author of several works on political economy. mrs. jamieson, whose admirable books upon shakspeare's female characters are universally known, has received a pension of £ . alderman salomons, the jewish representative of greenwich, whose forcible exclusion from the house of commons was noticed in our last, has been honored with a public dinner by his constituents. he declared his belief that public opinion would demand the rescinding of the obnoxious oath, but declared his purpose to commence a systematic canvass of the country for the purpose of hastening that event. he assures his constituents that, with their support, he "will not be got rid of" by the government. the management of english railways is generally supposed to be so nearly perfect that accidents never occur. though their police is, as a general thing, superior to that of the american railways, recent accounts chronicle a very large number of serious mishaps. on the great western road, a train, having broken down in a tunnel, was run into by another which was not warned of the danger. on the lancashire railway, near liverpool, part of a bridge had been taken down for the purpose of being repaired. a luggage-train was suffered to come up in the night without any notification, and of course ran into the gap. several minor accidents in various parts of the kingdom are chronicled, showing very culpable negligence on the part of the railway police. the leading authors of england have petitioned the master of the rolls for leave to examine the records of the realm gratuitously. their request has been granted. at a time when the historical records of the past enter so largely into the literary productions of the day, this is a boon of decided importance. mr. jerdan, who was for many years the editor of the london literary gazette, is said to be engaged in preparing his reminiscences of literary men, and his correspondence with them, for the press. his long connection with the literary circles of england must have given him unusual facilities for making such a work valuable and interesting. among the london announcements of new books in press we observe a novel, entitled "marian withers," by geraldine e. jewsbury, the author of _zoe;_ one of the most powerful novels of the day. the london _examiner_ states that haynau, the notorious austrian general, has taken up his residence upon a large estate which he has just purchased in hungary. it is said that he omits no opportunity of making himself popular with the magyars; that he pays assiduous court to the nobility, many of whom were sentenced by his courts-martial; that he joins the hungarians in denouncing the austrian attempt to monopolize the sale of tobacco, and says that throughout the hungarian war, he was only the tool of the austrian government. he declares that there is no country in europe he likes so well as england, and speaks of the beating he received there with perfect complacency. it is difficult to believe all these statements, though the _examiner_ vouches for their accuracy. france. the french national assembly met on the th for the last time of the session, and then adjourned until the th of november. a manifesto was at once issued by the republican members, complaining that the sovereign power was in the hands of men opposed to all reforms, but predicting a certain victory as the fruit of union, perseverance, and devotedness on the part of the people. the document declares that the constitution is the supreme law, and must be maintained inviolate; and that any attempt to re-elect bonaparte, or to prolong existing powers, will not be a crisis, but a revolution; that resistance to all such attempts will be "legitimate as right, holy as justice, sacred as liberty;" and that the republican members, under the flag of the constitution, will not fail in any of the duties which the salvation of the republic may impose upon them. preparations for the coming presidential election are in active progress. the orleanists seem to be settling down upon the prince de joinville as their candidate, and several of the most distinguished among them, recently paid a visit to the duke of nemours to ascertain the feelings of the family in regard to it. the conversation seems not to have been very satisfactory: the most that the duke would say was, that they would not be responsible for the action of their friends. the republicans have not yet fixed upon a candidate. public attention in france has been drawn to the trial at lyons of a number of persons charged with conspiracy. it seems that in november last a club was discovered there, of which a person named gent was a leading member. his plan is said to have been to give the southern provinces a thorough secret organization, so as to enable them to rise on a given signal, to secure the frontiers of switzerland and savoy as a means of assistance or retreat, and to take steps to inflame the whole country, and thus bring about a general republican movement. the trial had not been concluded at our last advices. a singular accident occurred at the funeral ceremonies of marshal sebastiani, at the invalides in paris, on the th. the flame of a wax candle was brought in contact with the hangings of the catafalque, and the whole splendid drapery of the church was speedily in a blaze. before the fire could be extinguished, nearly one half of the magnificent collection of trophies taken by the french armies were destroyed. the grand fête given by the authorities of paris to the lord mayor of london and the commissioners of the great exhibition, had a brilliant and successful termination. the mutual compliments of the visit were closed by a correspondence between m. charles dupin, the president of the french commission, and prince albert. m. dupin wrote to acknowledge the courtesies received by the committee during their visit to the exhibition, and to thank the prince for the conspicuous part he had taken in it. the constant attendance of the queen, and her success "in conquering suffrages and good wishes among the representatives of all nations, in favor of a work which she still cherished as that of the father of her children," are gracefully noticed. m. dupin, after remarking that "art, like nature, loves to scatter her gifts among the children of great national families, and that they could thus honor, on different grounds, genius, taste, imagination, reason, in nations whose brilliant variety constitutes the riches and splendor of the human race," designates the real service which the great exhibition will render the world, by saying, that "each nation, without affecting its character, may add to its well-being, its riches, its power, by judiciously borrowing from the discoveries and improvements of other nations. here," he says, "each people sees its products side by side with those of all others, and often sees them surpassed. pride, which grows while favored by isolation, is here abased, and reason profits by the opportunity. each nation, instead of dreaming of self-sufficiency and inborn superiority, vows to improve in the future. thus we shall see new efforts attempted in every country, to ameliorate the productions of the human race." prince albert, in his reply, tendered his thanks to the president for his kind expressions, and to the commissioners for their attention and care. germany and southern europe. the intelligence from germany is neither interesting nor important. the sovereigns of austria and prussia seem to be acting together for the entire suppression of every thing like constitutional rights and liberty in the german states. a proposition is about to be laid before the diet by these two powers, declaring that "the so-called fundamental rights of the german people," proclaimed in the constitutions of and , are neither valid as a law of the empire, nor binding on the several states, and they be therefore repealed, with all laws based upon them.--in the italian dominions of austria, the state of things is gloomy and ominous. arrests of compromised persons are continually made in milan and verona. in the latter city, one of the new prisoners was a lady of rank, accused of forwarding a correspondence to mazzini. a system of espionage has been adopted in the venetian provinces of austria, unparalleled for its inquisitorial and oppressive character, in the history of the most despotic states. many persons belonging to the higher classes have been arrested in verona, and nearly every night domiciliary visits are made by the police. the public mind throughout austrian italy is described as in a state of the most violent excitement, and insurrection is apprehended by government. marshal radetzky published a proclamation to the lombardo-venetian kingdom on the th of july, and from his head-quarters at monga. the lombardo-venetian kingdom is declared to be in a state of siege; the communes are made responsible for all assassinations similar to that of vandoni at milan; and the inhabitants will be severely dealt with if they do not immediately surrender all such offenders to the military. two musical artists have been made victims to the paltry prosecution of the austrian government. mdlle. anna zerr, for having visited two of the hungarian exiles resident in london, and for having consented to sing at a concert for the relief of the hungarian refugees, has, on her return to vienna, been deprived of her place of imperial chamber-singer, prohibited from appearing on the stage of the imperial theatre, where she was one of the most distinguished performers, and placed under the surveillance of the police. and leopold iansa, an eminent violinist, who has been for many years in the imperial chapel, was dismissed for a similar offense. the austrian authorities recently opened packages addressed to the united states consulate at venice. mr. flagg, the american consul, remonstrated, and was told in reply, that the government claimed the right to examine all publications introduced into the venetian states, no matter from what quarter or to what address. several communications have passed upon the subject. in _switzerland_ there have been heavy inundations which in the canton of berne alone have caused losses to the amount of about £ , . active preparations are making for the coming election, in which it is supposed the radical party will resort to extreme measures, if necessary, for the accomplishment of their purposes. dr. paulus, a distinguished german scholar, died at heidelberg, on the th of august, at the advanced age of years. in he was appointed professor of oriental languages at jena, and in succeeded to the chair of theology. his profound learning, penetrating judgment, marked courage, and unwearied assiduity, obtained for his numerous writings a very wide circulation. he was exceedingly amiable in private life and was always employed in endeavors to promote the interest of piety, virtue, and humanity. a terrible catastrophe took place at moscow, on the th july. as the monks of the convent of wladimir were setting out in procession to visit an image of the virgin at a neighboring village, a wooden bridge thrown over the moat of the convent (formerly a fortress) gave way, and out of of the monks, were drowned; the water being feet deep, and the sides of the moat perpendicular. the austrian authorities in hungary are resorting to the most unheard-of cruelties in order to crush the spirit of the people. at a peasant's wedding lately, near groswardein, the _gendarmes_ approached the bride and ordered her to take off the red, white, and green ribbons which she wore in her hair, as these colors were revolutionary. the reply was that it should be done after the ceremony. while the bride was kneeling at the altar the _gendarme_ rushed forward and cut her tresses from her head. the peasants resented the indignity, and an affray ensued, in which three of the _gendarmes_ and four of the peasantry, including the bridegroom, were killed. we mentioned last month the release of mr. brace, the american traveler in hungary, who had been arrested and thrown into prison by the austrian authorities upon the most frivolous grounds. his release was procured by mr. mccurdy, who threatened to demand his own passports, if it was not conceded. it seems that further proceedings of interest may be expected. mr. m. promised that mr. brace should present himself for trial. the london _spectator_ remarks that "this trial will be watched with interest, it will take place in the sight of europe and america, and also in the sight of hungary. the oppressed subjects of austria will see the right of personal freedom vindicated, in the person of a gentleman whose own government will do no more than insist on the strict fulfillment of the law, but will not be content with less. austria will be obliged to submit to the law, and will be forced to that hateful submission at the dictation of a distant state. it will be brought to that submission, that dictation, before the eyes of europe, even before its own subjects. it will be a very instructive trial." it is stated upon what is believed to be good authority, that the turkish government has definitively determined that kossuth shall be set at liberty on the st of september. the austrian government has warmly and steadily protested against his release, but without effect. the government of the united states has sent a national vessel to receive him upon his liberation, and his arrival in the united states may be expected by the st of november. no man living would receive a warmer welcome. the east. the english government has directed the seizure of another large _indian_ territory, part of the nizam's dominions, to enforce the payment of a large sum of money with interest. it is thought that the nizam can and will pay at the last moment; but if not, it is not probable that his sway over his own dominions will hereafter be more than nominal. at gobindpore on the th of june, seventy prisoners were chained together in a hut for safe keeping. during the night, the hut took fire and all but five perished. the news from _china_ represents the insurrection in the southern provinces as one of magnitude and great political importance. it is said that one of the leaders has assumed to himself the title of sovereign, and that the insurgents, numbering a hundred thousand, menace the city of canton. the chinese journals take very different views of the character of this disturbance, some considering it as merely the work of a few desperadoes, seeking only pillage, and others attributing to it the highest political consequence. the emperor is said to be considerably alarmed, and has sent against them his choicest troops. the london _spectator_ thinks it highly probable that the malcontents are masters of all the provinces south of the yellow river, and have seized upon the great entrepot of canton. this, it adds, would be a revolution; for pekin, which derives its supplies of provisions by the great canal from those southern provinces, would be starved into submission; and the principal seat of foreign commerce would fall into the hands of a party more bigotedly hostile to intercourse with foreigners than even the celestial government. nor is such a revolution either impossible or improbable. our knowledge of chinese history is dim and obscure; yet enough appears to show that the mantchoo authority has never been so firmly established to the south as to the north of the yellow river--that the purely chinese element of society has always preponderated in the southern provinces. in _siam_, too, changes of policy appear to be impending. the king who refused to treat with sir james brooke is dead; and a contested succession has been temporarily avoided by the simultaneous nomination of a king and a vice-king. the new king has always been remarkable for his disposition to cultivate the acquaintance and friendship of foreigners, and he is said to understand and even to write english. the institutions of the chinese and hindu-chinese nations are thus shaken and sapped at the very time when the traders of europe and america are making more vigorous and continuous efforts than at any former period to obtain a footing in them. twenty-three british seamen belonging to the ship larpent, were wrecked over a year ago upon the coast of the chinese island of formosa. they were immediately set upon by the savage inhabitants, and all but three butchered in cold blood. these three were taken into servitude, and after about eight months' captivity made their escape in a boat to an american brig which happened to be passing. editor's table. in the extreme western portion of the north american continent, and of the north american national confederacy, there are now to be found, growing side by side, two of the most singular phenomena of the age. we allude to the new social and political organization, constituting the state of california, and the new theocracy, as it is assumed to be, of the mormon commonwealth or church--the one the most decidedly secular of all known modern enterprises, the other the only example of the rise of a new religion, and of a distinctly new religious people in the th century. mormonism, it is true, has some decidedly secular elements. in this respect it easily assimilates itself to the gross spirit of worldly enterprise by which it is surrounded, and even finds itself at home in the midst of the most turbulent scenes. but this is far from accounting for its wonderful success. it is also true, on the other hand, that the present age has been marked by the division and subdivision of religious denominations. yet still, none of these come up to that idea or pretension of mormonism, which seems now to have presented itself in the world for the first time since the days of mohammed. although, therefore, acknowledging christianity and the old scriptures, just as mohammed did, it is distinctly a new religion. it claims a new revelation, and a new prophet. it has a new law, a new spiritual polity, and a new mission. instead of being merely a new interpretation of an old theology, it professes to have renewed the long-suspended intercourse with heaven and the supernatural. instead of presenting a new dispensation growing out of an old ecclesiastical history, to which it assumes to impart a new life, it has actually created a past history of its own, which, though severed from the main current of our common traditional christianity, connects it back, through passages never before suspected or explored, with the early jewish revelation--or that original fountain from which the gospel and mohammedanism may be said to have derived, the one its reality and its purity, the other the materials for its fanatical perversions. whatever may be the truth in respect to the real origin and authorship of the book of mormon, there can be no doubt of its wonderful adaptedness to the purposes to which it has been applied. we can not agree with those who would deny to the work either genius or talent. the koran bears with it that prestige of antiquity which always insures some degree of respect. it is written in a dead, and what is now regarded a learned language. it has its oriental imagery, together with frequent allusions to what most interests us in oriental romance. above all, it has had its centuries of scholiasts and commentators, extracting the aroma as well as the dust of its assumed divinity. in short, there is about it a show of learning and "venerable antiquity," and yet, we do not hesitate to say it, joe smith, or whoever was its author, has made a book superior to that of the arabian prophet; deeper in its philosophy, purer in its morality, and far more original. there are, doubtless, many faults both of style and language; but centuries hence may convert these into precious archaisms, and give to the bad anglo-saxon of the mormon book all the interest which ages of scholiasts have imparted to what was once the irregular arabic of the rude tribes of the desert. it may startle some to be told, that mormonism has actually pressed itself more upon the attention of the world than christianity had done at the same age. we carry back into the early days of the gospel's progress the clear light and outline of its later history. we can hardly realize that even for a century, or more, after its first promulgation, it was an object of little interest to the world, and that when it first began to demand a passing paragraph from the historian, it was only as an "_execrabilis superstitio_," creating a disturbance barely visible on the surface of society. of course there is no intention, by any such remark, to make any comparison between the intrinsic merits of the two systems. a true believer in jesus, and of "the truth as it is in jesus," will never suffer himself to be disturbed by any parallel, real or seeming, between christ and socrates, or christ and mohammed, or confucius, or the founder of any new religion, or of any pretended social reform, either in ancient or modern times. he can have no nervous fear of confounding the immeasurable difference between any such pretension and "that name which is above every other name." the strength and success of the counterfeit only adds lustre and assurance to the original. neither does the great idea of a revelation suffer any detraction by being associated in thought with such attempts. the koran only confirms the gospel. it never would have been what it is without it. the false prophet never would have arisen had it not been for the true. all religious imposture and fanaticism may thus be regarded as involuntary witnesses to an absolute truth, of which they are but the frenzied caricatures. the grossest delusions only show, by their very extravagance, the indestructibleness of the religious principle in the human soul, and how it clings and ever must cling to the idea of some divine revelation, some lifting of the vail, as the etymology of the word imports, which hangs so densely over man and nature. there is a more inexplicable phenomenon than mormonism or any false religion. it is the disposition manifested in some parts of the philosophical, and even professedly religious world, to depreciate, if not directly to deny the supernatural--to put as far away as possible, or to receive as the last allowable explanation of any difficulty, the thought of any direct communication from heaven to earth. it is on this principle some would even interpret, not only present phenomena, but also all that during countless ages have left their mark upon our globe. on this principle another class would unspiritualize as far as they could, even the acknowledged scriptures. but why should it be so? why this strange delight in believing in the omnipotence and unchangeableness of a blind and unrelenting nature? what comfort has it for the soul, or what enlargement even for the intellect? what happiness in the thought of being bound in such an adamantine chain, even if we are compelled to admit its stern reality! it may be, peradventure, that philosophy here is in the right, but, if we may employ the paradox, her reverence for nature must certainly seem most unnatural. nature, even our nature, longs for some divine or supernatural communications. for this "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth together until now." the wonder, then, is not that there have been in the world so many mythical accounts of divine intercourse, but that there has been so little of the reality. why does not god speak to us here? why has "_he made darkness his pavilion round about him?_" why "cometh he not out" more frequently "from the _hiding-place of his power?_" why has he ever been called--by homer, and hesiod, and orpheus, as well as in the bible--"_the dweller in the cloud?_" why does not our father's voice oftener break the fearful stillness of nature, and give us that evidence of his existence, his government, and his providence, without which nature is but a gloomy prison-house, while life is but a smothered effort to escape from its terrible immutability, and breathe the freedom of a spiritual and supernatural atmosphere? is it said that he is always speaking--that the great cause of causes is always exhibiting itself in its effects? but what comfort in this? it speaketh not to us--it manifests no knowledge of our present thought, of our present individual wants. the voice that is alike _in_ all things, and comes alike _to_ all things, we can not distinguish from nature herself. the true ground for marvel, then, is not that men are led astray by false prophets, but that such vast multitudes should be so utterly immersed in nature and worldliness, "caring for none of these things," and finding in such phenomena as millerism and mormonism, only occasion for insane merriment, instead of deep religious and philosophical inquiry. the indestructibleness of the religious principle in the human soul! this is the great lesson read to us by such events. even this nineteenth century with all its secularity, has not wholly drowned it. it breaks out in the midst of every form of worldliness. when untaught in respect to the true path, it follows the wildest imposture; and, as though in awful derision of the inability of the mere secular spirit ever to satisfy the deepest human wants, a kingdom of the saints settles itself in nearest contiguity to what would seem to be the exclusive territory of mammon. we can only call attention to this strange phenomenon without going into any discussion of the causes of its remarkable success. as we have said, it is the only case of a distinctly new religion since the days of mohammed. yet still it may be compared with other anomalous religious movements that have characterized the present century. most of these have already had their growth and decline. some that started with more enthusiasm than has ever been claimed for the mormons, have, for years, been dying out, or only manifesting an outward and formal existence. on the other hand, too, a similar fate has attended most of the schemes of socialists, and of those reformers who have relied solely on some doctrine of political economy, while ignoring, as far as they could, any recognition of a supernatural religionism. in distinction from both these, mormonism has flourished because it has possessed the element of vitality which was respectively wanting to each. the religious sects to which we have alluded (and we mean of course such as may be justly characterized as unscriptural delusions) have been too unworldly for success. they have lacked the secular element. schemes of mere social reform, on the other hand, have been dead from the beginning. they have been wanting in that vitality which alone can come from a real or pretended connection with a future life, and a supernatural world. mormonism professes to wield both powers. whatever may be thought of the first founders of the sect, the multitudes who from all parts of the united states, and from england, and even from the continent, are now crowding to the salt lake and the modern canaan, give evidence of a power of tremendous reality, however much it may be above the comprehension of the shallow witling, or the mere secular political economist. the cause must have a universality in some way corresponding to the wide effect it is producing. but be it what it may, the lesson taught is most timely as well as important. it is, we repeat--and it will bear to be repeated--_the indestructibleness of the religious principle in the human soul_. if this have not the true nourishment, it will feed on falsehood; but nourishment and life of some kind it must have. the most secular age, instead of destroying, only causes it to burst out in some new and monstrous form. and even in this idea there is light and consolation for true faith. it derives new evidence from every spurious manifestation. the religious principle can not be wholly annihilated-- merses profundo pulchrior evenit. let all worldly causes combine to drive it seemingly from the earth--let the edifice of supernatural belief be leveled with the ground, it would only be the signal for reconstruction. take away the true, or quench it in the worldly spirit, and some form of false belief will start up in its place. _there will be faith in the earth_--there will be a sacred book--there will be a ritual, or system of worship, ever maintaining itself as a symbol of the inextinguishable trust in the reality of "things unseen and eternal." the naturalizing philosophy may endure, and even be strong as the antagonist of a revealed supernaturalism. but take away the latter, and the former falls with it. its success is suicidal. its triumph is its own utter defeat. all true interest in nature and science must expire, when every where the soul ceases to acknowledge any thing higher than either. without a return to a true faith, spiritual delusions, on the one hand, or the grossest secularity and sensualism, on the other, will be the only alternative. and, if we must come to this, can any thinking mind have difficulty in deciding where we should look for the truest exhibition of human dignity--in utah or california--in the land of the saints, or in the land of gold? * * * * * and there was evening--_and there was morning--one day._ (gen. i. .) why has the inspired historian placed the night first? it must doubtless be because it actually came first in the order of our present creation. what was this first night but the long chaos of darkness that covered the face of the deep, and over which the spirit brooded when the command came forth for the first morning to appear--when god said, _let there be light_ on that dark world, and immediately _light was there?_ but still, night was first, and hence in all the traditions that have sprung from this account it has ever been an object of religious reverence. in the old mythologies night is the mother of day; and hence the epithets that poetry has ever conferred upon her--sacred night, divine night, holy night, most venerable and religious night. but not only has she been regarded as the mythological _mother_ of creation, but as ever the _nurse_ of the purest emotion and the truest thoughts. on this account the greek poets gave her that beautiful name _euphrone_--indicating the season of good feeling--the hour of hope, of calm yet joyous contemplation. it is true, the inspired description of the heavenly state says, _there shall be no night there_. but in our present imperfect being, the idea of the highest earthly bliss would be marred by its absence from the picture. as yet we can not dispense with the shade. the sacred, high, eternal noon is for beings of another order, and another life; and however much we may admire the pure sublimity of this fine line of doddridge, we feel that we must be endowed with new emotions before we could truly enjoy the never to be remitted splendor of such a state as it describes. although affected by particular circumstances, and expressed with great variety of imagery, there has been a wonderful harmony in the spiritual conceptions which the contemplation of night has ever called forth. we have, therefore, thought that it might interest our readers to present a few of the most striking night scenes from ancient and modern poets. the first from our port-folio, of course, is homer's. the selection is from the close of the eighth book of the iliad. its introduction partakes of the warlike character of the poem, but softened into that holy calmness which the scene ever assumes, whatever may be the circumstances in which it is presented. we give pope's splendid translation, although some might prefer the more accurate version of cowper. as when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, o'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, when not a breath disturbs the deep serene, and not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; around her throne the vivid planets roll, and stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole, o'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, and tip with silver every mountain's head; then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, a flood of glory bursts from all the skies. but neither pope nor cowper can be said to have caught the spirit of the original as well as the old ballad version of chapman. as when about the silver moon, when air is free from winde, and stars shine cleare to whose sweet beams high prospects and the brows of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows; and even the lowly vallies joy to glitter in their sight-- when the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light, and all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the shepherd heart. apollonius rhodius, in the _argonautica_, presents a greater diversity of imagery. he has not in view, like homer, the unity of a single scene, but calls up similar emotions by a dispersed variety of the most impressive pictures. we present a translation, which, if it have no other merit, may at least be said to be almost word for word-- now night had thrown her shadow o'er the earth. far out at sea the sailors stood and gazed, on wheeling arctos and orion's stars. the traveler longed to hear the warder's voice invite to rest; and even the mother's eyes that drowsy hour pressed downward, as she watched by her dead child--the watch-dog's voice was mute; the city's thronging noise had died away, and stillness reigned o'er all the shaded realm; save in medea's restless soul-- virgil closely imitates the greek poet in the designed contrast, if not in his scenery. as we have not troubled them with the greek, our fair readers, and others, we hope, will pardon us for putting on our page the latin. even those may appreciate its exceedingly liquid flow, who are compelled to resort to the translation for its meaning. nox erat, et placidum carpebat fessa soporem corpora per terras, sylvæque et sæva quiêrant Ã�quora: cum medio volvuntur sidera lapsu: cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres, quæque lacus late liquidos, quæque aspera dumis rura tenent, somno positæ sub node silenti, lenibant curas, et corda oblita laborum at non infelix dido-- _Ã�neid, lib._ iv. 'twas dead of night when wearied bodies close their eyes in balmy sleep, and soft repose. the winds no longer whisper through the woods, nor murmuring tides disturb the gentle floods. the stars in silent order moved around, and peace with downy wings was brooding on the ground. the flocks, and herds, and particolored fowl, which haunt the woods, or swim the seedy pool, stretched on the quiet earth securely lay, forgetting the past labors of the day. all but unhappy dido-- dryden is very far from doing justice to virgil in the translation of this passage, and yet, we must say, that the original, much as it has been praised, falls greatly short of the exquisite description by apollonius. how much does that most impressive image in the sixth line of the grecian poet exceed any effect produced by virgil's _pictæ volucres_, or "particolored fowl," however ornate the language, and liquid the melody of his highly wrought lines. but byron--shall we risk the criticism--byron, in our judgment, surpasses every example we have quoted, and even had we added, as we might have done, shakspeare and milton to the list. 'twas midnight--on the mountains brown the cold round moon shone deeply down blue rolled the waters, blue the sky spread like an ocean hung on high; bespangled with those isles of light, so widely, spiritually bright. who ever gazed upon them shining, and turned to earth without repining! the sea on either shore lay there, calm, clear, and azure as the air; and scarce the foam the pebbles shook, that murmured meekly as the brook. the winds were pillowed on the waves; the banners drooped along their staves; and that deep silence was unbroke, save where the watch his signal spoke; save where the steed neighed oft and shrill, and echo answered from the hill. _siege of corinth._ our concluding example is from the scriptures. we challenge not for it a superiority simply on the ground of its inspiration. every reader may judge for himself how immeasurably it excels any thing of the kind to be found in ancient or modern poetry. how full of _natural_ sublimity, and, at the same time, how profoundly impressive the _moral_ lesson of this night scene from job! in thoughts from visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, and made all my bones to shake. then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh rose up. it stood. an image was before mine eyes, and yet i could not discern the form thereof. there was silence-- and yet i heard a voice--saying-- shall a mortal be more just than god? shall a man be more pure than his maker? * * * * * we hear often of popular fallacies. books have been written on them. but there are also learned fallacies, and among these we know of no one more common than that which prevails respecting the word _education_. it is quite usual with lecturers and essayists to derive a profound philosophical meaning from the bare etymology of the term. it is from _educo_, they tell us, to _lead or draw out_. it means the _drawing_ out or developing the faculties. it is the bringing out the unwrought man, like the polished statue from the rough block of marble. all sorts of changes are rung upon the word. with some it is the _educing_ of the individuality, with others, of the humanity. others again talk much of _drawing out the ideas_, and that, too, without any previous exact _in_struction, or the furnishing of what might be styled the prepared material of thought--about as wise a course as to attempt to develop, or draw _out_ the faculties of a nail-making machine, without ever thinking of putting any well-wrought iron _into_ it. now, all this is pedantic nonsense. the old roman roundheads, from whom the term is derived, never dreamed of any such transcendental conception. the word, in its primary sense, simply means _nursing_, _fostering_, _rearing_. hence is it afterward applied to knowledge and discipline. it is educed from the simple conception of holding the child by the hand, and leading him forth when he first begins to walk. from the same primitive thought comes the word _pedagogue_, which simply means, _one who leads a boy_, and was first applied to the slave, or servant, who conducted the athenian child to and from school. it would, however, be hardly worth our while to show the fallacy of this very common etymological deduction, were it not sometimes made the ground of very false ideas. the old view, although it have no great philosophy, will be found to be the true one. it is to hold a child up, and lead him forth by the hand, before you set him to walk alone by himself, under pretense of developing his _faculties_, either of thinking or of locomotion. * * * * * every man has two parents, four grand-parents, eight great-grand-parents, sixteen great-great-grand-parents, &c., &c., &c. if we reckon years to a generation, and carry on the above series to the time of the norman conquest, it will be found that each one of us must have had at that period, no less than , , of ancestors. now, making all allowance for the crossing of genealogical lines, and consequently for the same person being in many of the intersections, still there will remain a number sufficient, at that period, to cover the whole norman and anglo-saxon race. whatever, therefore, was then noble, or pious, or princely, or even kingly, stands somewhere in the line of ancestry of the most ignoble and plebeian among us. each man of the present day may be almost certain of having had, not only earls (and it may be bishops), but even crowned heads among his progenitors. and so also may we be almost assured that the highest families of that period have now lineal representatives in persons so low in the social scale, that all the sounding lines of heraldry would fail to fathom the depth of their obscurity. in less than a thousand years, the blood of victoria inevitably mingles with that of some of the most ignoble of the earth. carry the calculation further back, and we soon pass beyond any population that ever existed on our globe. a thousand years from the present time brings the number up to , , , . two or three centuries more carries it beyond a thousand billions, and long before we arrive at the period of our world's creation, it would have reached a number surpassing all powers of easy enumeration. it is a consequence, too, of the same view, that a thousand years hence, each man who has now an ordinary family of children, will probably have a representative some way of his blood in each one of , , of persons; and that these will be of all conditions, high and low, rich and poor, unless, as may be the case, some system of social philosophy may long before that have swept all distinctions from our world. editor's drawer. the "monitory season" of nature has come. the faded garniture of the fields; the many-colored, gorgeous woods; the fitful winds, sighing for the flowers "whose fragrance late they bore:" the peculiar yellow-green of the sky at the horizon, in the twilight gloaming; all these proclaim that "summer is ended" and autumn is here. brainard, a poet of true tenderness and feeling, once asked, "what is there saddening in the autumn leaf?" perhaps it would be difficult to tell _what_ it is, but that it _is_ saddening, in the midst of its dying beauty, most persons have felt. one of our own poets, too early called away,[ ] wrote many years since, on the first day of october, the following sad and tender lines: "solemn, yet beautiful to view, month of my heart! thou dawnest here, with sad and faded leaves to strew the summer's melancholy bier; the moaning of thy winds i hear, as the red sunset dies afar, and bars of purple clouds appear, obscuring every western star. "thou solemn month! i hear thy voice, it tells my soul of other days, when but to live was to rejoice, when earth was lovely to my gaze oh, visions bright--oh, blessed hours, where are their living raptures now? i ask my spirit's wearied powers, i ask my pale and fevered brow. "i look to nature, and behold my life's dim emblems rustling round, in hues of crimson and of gold-- the year's dead honors on the ground. and sighing with the winds, i feel, while their low pinions murmur by, how much their sweeping tones reveal of life and human destiny. "when spring's delightsome moments shone, they came in zephyrs from the west: they bore the wood-lark's melting tone, they stirred the blue lake's glassy breast through summer, fainting in the heat, they lingered in the forest shade; but changed and strengthened now, they beat in storm, o'er mountain, glen, and glade. "how like those transports of the heart, when life is fresh and joy is new; soft as the halcyon's downy nest, and transient all as they are true! they stir the leaves in that bright wreath which hope about her forehead twines, till grief's hot sighs around it breathe, then pleasure's lip its smile resigns. "alas, for time, and death, and care, what gloom about our way they fling like clouds in autumn's gusty air, the burial-pageant of the spring the dreams that each successive year seemed bathed in hues of brighter pride, at last like withered leaves appear, and sleep in darkness, side by side!" [ ] willis gaylord clark, for many years editor of the philadelphia daily gazette, and author of the "_ollapodiana_" papers in the knickerbocker magazine. * * * * * carlyle, in his "sartor resartus," gives a condensed, but exceedingly forcible picture of the "net purport and upshot of war," by taking thirty able-bodied men from a french and english village, and making them face each other on a pleasant morning, when they blow each other's souls out, and straightway become "shells of men." we were speaking of this the other evening with a friend, who was with our army in mexico, and in the course of much chat, touching war and its accompaniments, he mentioned an anecdote of as brave a fellow as there was in his command, but who had an unfortunate and irresistible habit of occasional intoxication, whenever, by hook or by crook, he could procure a "horn" of brandy or whiskey. one evening, the day after an engagement, in which his coolness and determined bravery had won the admiration and warm commendation of his superior officers, he was brought before his commanding officer, who was on parade, in a state of beastly intoxication. remembering his services of the day before, the officer was reluctant to punish him, at least without first trying to make him ashamed of his offense by exhortation and remonstrance. "are you not ashamed of yourself?" he asked, "to be brought before me in this condition?--you that _can_ be so good a soldier? there was not a braver man in the regiment yesterday than you; and now you go and spoil all the honor you acquired, by disobeying orders, and coming before me drunk. take him away!--i'm ashamed of him!" "here--hello--hold on!" said the soldier--"hold on a minute: you've rep-rep-ri-_manded_ me some, and praised me a good deal: now look o' here, cap'n, do you expect to buy all the human virtues for seven dollars a month? it's too _cheap_, cap'n--too cheap!" he probably thought with lowell's yankee, writing from saltillo after his first engagement: "i wish that i was furder! ninepence a day for killin' folks comes kind o' low, for murder; i worked out to slaughterin' some for deacon cephas billin's, and in the hardest times there was, i allers fetch'd ten shillins!" * * * * * as we sat looking at a conjurer or necromancer performing his tricks the other evening, at which were some hundreds of other lookers-on, we fell to meditate upon the influence which any thing that is at all mysterious has upon the human mind. "to him," says dr. chatfield, "who has been sated, and perhaps disappointed by the actual and the intelligible, there is an indefinable charm in the unattainable and inscrutable." and it is so. infants stretch out their hands for the moon; children delight in puzzles and riddles, even when they can not discover their solution; and "children of a larger growth" desire, oftentimes, no better employment than to follow their example. look at the fanaticism engendered by rev. edward irving's "unknown tongues; at which," says the authority we have quoted, "we need not wonder, when we remember the confession of the pious baxter, that in order to awaken an interest in his congregation, he made it a rule, in every sermon, to say something above their capacity." there are not wanting ministers nowadays who follow the baxterian practice, with the difference only, that what they sometimes preach is as much above their _own_ comprehension as that of their audience. * * * * * is it not a "little curious" that harriet martineau, an old maid, a "benign cerulean of the second sex," as lord byron calls her class, who "never loved," or if she did, yet who, if published accounts are true, shrunk from the nuptial bonds, and left her affianced lord in the lurch at the last moment--is it not a little curious, we say, that such a woman, should have written so exquisite a picture of true love as that which ensues? we once heard a distinguished american author remark, sitting by his "dutchman's fireside," that he kept for days out of the literary lady-traveler's way when she was trying to meet him. "there she was," said he, "going about with that long india-rubber ear-trumpet of hers, taking in every thing that was offered to it, just like an elephant going round with his trunk, drawing in here an apple, there a piece of cake, now a handful of nuts, and next, perhaps, a chew of tobacco. _i_ wasn't going to contribute to _her_ trunk, nor to the lining any others, when she had got home and printed her notes!" if the authoress, however, _had_ met this unwilling host, and had told this "tale of love," doubtless he would have listened in "mute admiration." but we are forgetting the passage: "there is no other such crisis in human life as the crisis of love. the philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling perhaps as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but he knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved; be it the peasant-girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fire-side. the warrior about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. the statesman, in the moment of success, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption has come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection. and these are many: they are in all corners of every land. the statesman is the leader of a nation; the warrior is the grace of an age; the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover--where is he _not?_ wherever parents look round upon their children, there he _has_ been: wherever children are at play together there he soon _will_ be; wherever there are roofs under which men dwell, wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on--unspeakable, perchance, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse. men have been ungrateful and perverse; they have done what they could to counteract it, to debate this most heavenly influence of their life; but the laws of their maker are too strong, the benignity of their father is too patient and fervent, for their opposition to withstand; and true love continues, and _will_ continue, to send up its homage amidst the meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and the song of the morning stars." * * * * * some lively french writer, whose name has quite escaped us, once wrote a vivid sketch, entitled, "_l'homme rouge_," or "the red man." there was an under-plot of sentiment in the story, we well remember, but the great feature of the romance was, that whenever there was a fire to happen in any part of paris, whether by accident or design, there suddenly appeared "_l'homme rouge;_" sometimes in the midst of a party of revelers at a masked-ball; sometimes surprising nuns at their devotions, and not unfrequently where crime was hatching, or unnatural orgies making night hideous. but he was a good, benevolent deity, and always came to warn against or to suppress conflagration. such, it would appear, and without fable, hereafter, will be the man who can command the great "fire-annihilator," which is making such a sensation, and proving so unerringly effective in england. a man, bearing one of these easily-carried machines, enters his blazing domicil, all a-glow with a bright flame, which is curling its forked tongues around every thing which resists its progress, and touching a spring, a cloud of smoke-like vapor issues forth, before which the flame flickers, grows pale, and at once fades entirely out, and the conflagration is stopped. it has been tested in so many instances, that its success is now considered wholly infallible. a company for the sale of the "annihilator" has been formed in this country, the "central bureau" of which is in new york, the president being hon. elisha whittlesey, of the american congress. the age of rail-roads, magnetic telegraphs, and fire-exterminators, will signalize this era as one of the most remarkable in the world's history. * * * * * seneca complains that the ancients had compelled him to borrow from them what they would have taken from him, had he been lucky enough to have preceded them! "every one of my writings," says goethe, in the same candid spirit, "has been furnished to me by a thousand different persons, a thousand different things: the learned and the ignorant, the wise and the foolish, infancy and old age have come in turn, generally without having the least suspicion of it, to bring me the offering of their thoughts, their faculties, their experience. often have they sowed the harvest i have reaped. my works are an aggregation of human beings, taken from the whole of nature." it is in the power of any writer, says a commentator upon this passage, to be original, by deserting nature, and seeking the quaint and the fantastical. "when i was a young man," says goldsmith, "being anxious to distinguish myself, i was perpetually starting new propositions; but i soon gave this over, for i found that generally what was new was false." * * * * * dean swift's remark at the close of a charity-sermon, from the text "he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the lord," is well known--("if you like the security, down with your dust!") but the two following eccentricities of speech, which are attributed to him, we never saw before: "my brethren," said he, on one occasion, "there are three sorts of pride--pride of birth, of riches, and of talents. i shall not now speak of the latter, none of you being addicted or liable to that abominable vice!" "i fear," said he, on another occasion, to his flock, "i fear, when i explained to you, in my last charity-sermon, that philanthropy was the love of our species, you must have misunderstood me to say _specie_, which may account for the smallness of the collection. you will prove, i hope, by your present contributions, that you are no longer laboring under the same mistake!" a surer way of securing a good collection was recently adopted by a benevolent lecture-giver in a sister city. the audience were admitted _free;_ but when the lecture was closed, no one was permitted to pass out until he or she had disbursed twenty-five cents! * * * * * some fourteen years ago there appeared in one of the english magazines an amusing article, showing up the aristocratic stupidity of the large and costly english annuals, which were indebted almost exclusively to the nobility for their contents. until then, we had not been made aware that the duke of wellington was a poet. but it seems that we were mistaken; the "noble duke" is a master of the military sonnet, a specimen of which is subjoined. its "terse composition," the "boldness of its character," its "laconic simplicity," and martial "determination," were very highly commended by the editor: halt! shoulder arms! recover! as you were! right wheel! eyes left! attention! stand at ease! o britain! oh, my country! words like these have made thy name a terror and a fear to all the nations. witness ebro's bank assays, toulouse, nivelle, and waterloo, where the grim despot muttered, "_sauve qui peut!_" and ney fled darkling. silence in the ranks! inspired by these, amidst the iron crash of armies in the centre of his troop, the soldier stands--immovable, not rash until the forces of the foemen droop; then knock the frenchmen to eternal smash, pounding them into mummy. shoulder, hoop! thus the "conquerer of napoleon" conquers the stubborn rhyme! * * * * * "i suppose," writes a contemplative and elegant modern english author, now unnamed, but who can not long remain _stat nominis umbra_, "that it has happened to most men who observe their thoughts at all, to notice how some expression returns again and again in the course of their meditations, or, indeed, of their business, forming, as it were, a refrain to all they think or do, for any given hour. sometimes, too, this refrain has no particular concern with the thought or business of the day, but seems as if it belonged to some under-current of thought and feeling. this at least is what i experienced to-day myself, being haunted by a bit of old spanish poetry, which obtruded itself, sometimes inopportunely, sometimes not so, in the midst of all my work or play. the words were these: 'how quickly passes pleasure away how, after being granted. it gives pain: how, in our opinion, any past time was better,' (than that we passed in pleasure). it was not that i agreed with the sentiment, except as applied to vicious pleasure; being rather of sydney smith's mind, that the remembrance of past pleasure is present pleasure; but i suppose the words chimed in with reflections on the past which formed the under-current of my thoughts, as i went through the wood of beeches which bounded my walk to day.... in a moment i went back, not to the pleasures, but to the ambitious hopes and projects of youth. and when a man does reflect upon the ambitions which are as characteristic of that period of life as reckless courage or elastic step, and finds that at each stage of his journey since, some hope has dropped off as too burdensome or too romantic, till at last it is enough for him to carry only himself at all upright in this troublesome world--what thoughts come back upon him! how he meditates upon his own errors and short-comings, and sees that he has had not only the hardness, oiliness, and imperturbability of the world to contend with; but that he himself has generally been his worst antagonist. in this mood i might have thrown myself upon the mound under a great beech-tree that was near, the king of the woods, and uttered many lamentations; but instead of doing any thing of the kind, i walked sedately by it; for, as we go on in life, we find we can not afford excitement, and we learn to be parsimonious in our emotions." * * * * * one of the boston newspapers, in allusion to the great railroad festival which is about taking place, as the last sheets of our magazine are passing through the press, observes: "the canadian judiciary courts have adjourned for the whole of the next week, in order to give an opportunity to our canadian friends to be present at the great railroad jubilee, to be celebrated in our city. they are expected to arrive in great numbers on tuesday of next week. that day will be devoted to an examination of our city. on wednesday there will be a formal reception; and the city government will accompany their english guests to the bunker hill monument and _other_ places of _interest_." now we can not dissociate that word 'interest,' from the same word which forms the nucleus of an anecdote, which we will venture to relate, in illustration of the _kind_ of 'interest' which a loyal english subject might be supposed to feel in paying a visit to bunker hill. at bladensburgh battle-field, there is a very non-committal guide who shows visitors over the ground, enlightening those who are ignorant as to the character of the ground, where the different forces lay, how they advanced, and the like. the guide, however, is a 'prudent man,' for his situation depends upon being 'all things to all men' who may chance to be obliged to avail themselves of his services. if he is showing an english party over the ground, he fancies that he knows it, and therefore 'governs himself accordingly;' if an american party, he throws his 'balance of power' in the other scale. but he was sadly puzzled _once_. he could get no 'cue' from the gentleman and his friend, who had secured his services, as to whether they were english or americans--the conversation was so vague and so limited. "why was it," said one of these visitors, "that the americans _fled_ on this occasion?" "fled!" he exclaimed, as if with impromptu dignity--"_fled!_" "yes," said his interrogator, "why did the americans retreat on that occasion?--why did they run away!" "retreat!--run away!--guess _not!_ yes: well--perhaps they did. yes; i b'lieve they did. the reason was, that somehow or 'nother they _didn't seem to take no interest!_" * * * * * most readers have heard the story of the connoisseur in the fine arts who said one day to a friend, "i wish you would come down and see a picture i bought last week. i'd like to have you give me your _candid_ opinion of it. a friend of mine had the impudence to say this morning that it was not an original! i should like to hear _another_ man say that it was not an original! but you come and see it, and tell me honestly what you think of its authenticity." it strikes us that a man would not be apt to give a _very_ "candid" opinion under those circumstances. this freedom of opinion is not unlike the liberty of action said to have been granted by col. m'lane to the troops under his command, before going into winter-quarters at valley forge. they were suffering for provisions and clothing, and congress had been repeatedly petitioned for that relief which it was not in their power to bestow. under this state of things, colonel m'lane paraded his band of suffering soldiers, and thus addressed them: "fellow-soldiers, you have served your country faithfully and truly. we've fought hard fights together against our common enemy. you are in a bad way for comfortable clothes, it is true, and it grieves my very heart to see you tracking your feet in blood on the frozen ground. but congress can not help it, nor can general washington or i. but if any of you wish to return home, you can go. let such of you as would like to go home step out four paces in front--_but_ the first man that steps out, if i don't shoot him my name is not m'lane." it is perhaps needless to add, that not a solitary "volunteer" homeward was to be found. editor's easy chair. after our more severe editorial work is done--the scissors laid in our drawer, and the monthly record made as full as our pages will bear, of history, we have a way of throwing ourselves back into an old red-backed easy chair, that has long been an ornament of our dingy office, and indulging in an easy, and careless overlook of the gossiping papers of the day, and in such chit-chat with chance visitors, as keeps us informed of the drift of the town-talk, while it relieves greatly the monotony of our office hours. we have before now sailed over seas with some rollicking, red-faced captain, who, after a good day's run with his yards well braced to the wind, would, as evening began to fall, and the breezes to lull, rig out his studding-sail booms, and set new bits of canvas to catch every puff of the dying zephyrs. in like manner, we, having made our course good, out of mere whim, add to our sail, and mean to catch up in these few additional pages, those lighter whiffs from the great world of opinion, which come floating to us, as we sit here in our easy chair. nor are we altogether bent on choosing mere gossip; but, rather, we shall be on the watch for such topics or incidents as give a handle to the conversation of the town; and instead of treating them in any such philosophic fashion, as most writing men think it necessary to do, we shall try and set them down with all that gloss, and that happy lack of sequence, which makes every-day talk so much better than every-day writing. there are hundreds of monthly occurrences which go into the journals as mere skeletons of facts; and yet, if a body had but the art of embalming by language, that fleshy covering which the every-day talk is sure to wrap about them, they would prove (these facts, we mean) the cheerfullest companions in the world. and this is just the thing that we shall try to do. if the cubans, down in havanna, shoot some fifty men, we shall not be content with entering it upon our record: we shall not take up what we consider (as the daily journals consider they do) some impregnable position, and thunder away at some one else who has an equally impregnable position of precisely the opposite character; but we shall try and get hold of the actual situation of this new provision for the town maw, in that great feeding-place of the town, viz.--public talk. we shall say who are the most voracious feeders, and may possibly comment, in an amiable humor, upon the different modes of consumption. * * * * * the french have a most happy way of commuting the dull coinage of every-day facts into the most mailable matter in the world: and as we sit in our easy chair, and catch up, as we sometimes do, a leaf of a parisian journal, we find ourselves unconsciously creeping into the heart of some street-story, which, in any english journal, would have been the merest item of police! take, for instance, a single one--entered on all the commercial sheets after this fashion: "we understand that a suicide was committed under deplorable circumstances, not long since, in the rue st. george. it appears that a french gentleman, owing to pecuniary embarrassments, had long been melancholy, and last evening killed himself with the fumes of charcoal. it is reported that he had been twice married, and (_horribile dictu_) that he exhumed his first wife, previous to committing the fatal deed. he leaves a very respectable property." now look at our easy chair survey of such an unfortunate matter: "monsieur b----, a widower of great respectability, was married to his second wife several years previous to the revolution of . the embarrassments which this event occasioned to several of the most considerable of his debtors, involved him in pecuniary difficulties of a serious character. "being of a sensitive nature, and unable to meet at that period his more immediate engagements, he became the victim of an intense mortification, which no efforts of his friends could relieve, and which gradually settled into entire mental alienation. "he had still ample fortune, and lived in the enjoyment of his usual luxuries. his attentions to his new wife (who is represented as exceedingly beautiful) were, of course, less decided and punctilious than before, but there were observed no indications of any special hostility. "things wore on in this way for a year or more, when it was observed that monsieur b---- absented himself at a certain time of the day for many hours, from home, without allowing his wife to suspect his whereabouts. his man[oe]uvres to prevent pursuit, and avoid observation, were most adroit, and utterly forbade detection. "meantime the guardians of the cemetery of _père le chaise_ had observed at a certain hour of the day a well-dressed individual make his appearance at the gates, and disappear upon the heights, within the inclosure of a little gothic tomb, erected to the memory of madame b----. "the guardians having ascertained that the visitor was the husband of the deceased lady, with true parisian politeness, avoided any special observation. "it was ascertained afterward, however, that he employed these stolen hours in laboring upon the tomb--a pocket-knife, his only implement, and a single crazy hope--(which will appear in the sequel)--his only aim. having, after four or five months of daily toil, finished his work, he waited only the absence of his wife to carry into execution his plan. for this he had not long to wait; she had promised a visit to the country; and upon the very day following her departure, monsieur b---- hurried to his old rendezvous at _père le chaise_, and with the same knife with which he had worked his way into the stone sarcophagus in which the body of his first wife reposed, he severed the head from the trunk, transported it under cover of his cloak to his home; placed it before him upon the table; kindled a brazier of charcoal; wrote a last word to his living partner, and then, with his pipe in his mouth, and in face of the ghastly head from the tomb--he died upon his chair!" there is in this story, insufferable as it may seem to delicate-minded readers, strong illustration of the french love of the horrible--of french passion--and of that french spirit of dramatism, which would turn even the vulgarity of suicide into the heroism of a tragedy. * * * * * reading on, as we do, in our easy chair way, our eye falls upon another bit of french romance of a different style: it will probably never come to the eyes of half of our readers in its paris shape, so we employ a lazy interval of our weightier duties to render it into old-fashioned english: every body knows that the rage for gaming in paris, specially in private circles, has been for the last eight or ten years--excessive. and if any weak-minded american has "dined out" there, within that time, he has very likely been mulcted in a very pretty sum (after coffee was removed) at _écarte_. but, this is not to our story, which, in translating, we shall take the liberty of vamping into the easiest possible shape--for ourselves. monsieur x---- was some descendant (grandson, for aught we know) of a certain marshal of the empire of france, and inherited from him (if report spake true) a handsome fortune of some five hundred thousand francs; or, in american coinage, one hundred thousand dollars. this is quite enough to live on pleasantly in paris, or, for that matter, any where else. of course, monsieur x---- was a mark for such mammas as had marriageable daughters; and as the french mothers always manage these affairs themselves, and are, beside, very thoroughly schooled in the ways of the world, monsieur x---- stood a very poor chance of escape. in fact, he did not escape, but was married one fine morning to a very pretty mademoiselle, who had the credit of possessing rare virtues, and whom our hero (monsieur x----), for a wonder, did really and truly love. we mention this as even a greater rarity on the other side of the water, than on this; and every body of ordinary observation knows that it is rare enough with us. they lived happily through the honey-moon, and much to the surprise of his friends, for a year or two afterward. but at length it was observed that he wore very long faces, and dined frequently by himself at the café de paris, and did not even smile at the broadest of grassot's comic acting. as he was known to be a young man of very correct habits, the inference was (not always a just one, by the way) that the wife was in fault. the truth was, that with a disposition naturally amiable and yielding, she had been seduced by those married friends who knew of her husband's resources, into an intense love of cards. as a natural consequence she became ever eager for play, morose in her habit, and petulant of manner. the husband bore this all very quietly for a while, revolving in his own mind what could be done, and paying his wife's drafts upon him without a murmur. days and weeks passed by, and the change wore grievously upon his spirits. at length, he chose his course, and pursued it--after this manner. he entered with apparent gayety into his wife's amusements, and introduced her, through the interposition of a friend, into one of the most famous gambling salons of paris. as usual, she took her seat at the table where the stakes were largest. her antagonist at the play was a stout old gentleman who wore a careless manner, but who after the first round or two played with remarkable success. when madame's losses had amounted to a considerable sum, he proposed "double or quits." madame accepted and--lost. the gentleman proposed the same game: madame accepted and lost! the gentleman proposed the same trial a third and fourth time; and madame, supposing him to be an eccentric old gentleman, who was willing to furnish her with this opportunity of winning again the money, accepted each time his proposal, and uniformly--lost. still the play went on, until madame's losses had amounted to the extraordinary sum of four hundred thousand francs, when the old gentleman pleaded an engagement, and retired. madame x----, in an agony of trepidation gained her home, and throwing herself at her husband's feet, confessed and regretted the folly which had ruined them. the husband was naturally astounded: "but," said he, controlling his emotion, "the losses must be met. there will remain some seventy thousand francs of my estate, and with that we can live comfortably in the country. for myself, i do not at all regret this: but, my dear (for his old affection lingered), i fear that you may sink under the privations you must encounter." his goodness overcame her; she avowed not only her willingness but her great joy in becoming the companion of his exile. it was in an old town of brittany (we believe, for the paper is not at hand) that they lived quietly and cosily together, in a mossy old chateau. their table was frugally served, and their servants were of the neighboring peasantry: in place of the old joyous rides in the bois de boulogne, they now took strolls together under the wood that shaded the chateau. thus, for ten years they lived, growing into each other's affections, and rejoicing in the loss which had won them to a real enjoyment of life, and of each other's love. "it was indeed a happy loss," said she. "it was none at all," said the husband, and with a caress he handed her the certificates for some five hundred thousand francs, in the most available of french funds! "your antagonist," said he, "was a sure winner, but his services were purchased by your husband, and now that he has won you to his love, and to a sense of your own dignity, he makes over to you this recovered fortune." and the french chronicler goes on to paint a pretty scene as a hint for those dramatists who choose to put the affair on the stage. and he further says that the story is well authenticated, as he might prove by giving the parties' names; but upon consideration, he favors us only with an x. if the story is a lie, all we can say is, that eugene guinot must take the blame of it: and judging from his experience, we think the blame will sit lightly on him. * * * * * we have wandered so far from the town, that we had half forgotten that there was any town at all. but, after all, there lies but a step nowadays between paris and new york--a step over sea, and a step over a very narrow bridge of morals. true, we have not yet imported the salon gambling, except in a quiet club-way, where surely vagrant bachelors, it would seem, have as good right to stultify themselves, as they have in most other situations in life. it is to be doubted, however, if gaming does not presently come into the round of amusements. old methods do not last long in our growing society: and as evidence, we may note the abandonment, the present year, of the fancy balls, which, for four or five seasons back, have made the very elysium of a summer's festivities. what matter has been made of it under the new dispensation of undisguised ball costume, the papers have not much informed us: indeed it is richly observable, that when the fashions of the day withdraw from _outré_ action, and shed those enormities of feature which excite the stare of the vulgar--just so soon the public press respects their modesty, and gives them the award of silence. as a consequence (for the _sequitur_ may not appear, in the illogical order of our after-dinner arrangement) little has been said this year of the "dress balls" of saratoga and newport: and the catalogues of watering-place deities have been transferred from the flash-papers, to the roll-books of the marriageable men. a few sharp days of early september (not far from the date of our writing) will have driven our city people away from those shores, where the eastern fogs come sailing in laden with agues, and dropped them down here and there, along those sheltered hill-sides of inland repute, which bask in a summer morning, and which, by and by, will smoke with the kindling glory of an indian summer. as yet few have found their way to the town itself: and those few find the streets full of bustle, of strangers, of dust, and of cuba. it strikes a man oddly, who has been taking his siesta the summer through, under the shadow of country-grown trees, and in the hearing of birds, until he has grown into a sort of assimilation with country habit and country talk, to rebound upon a sudden, from the hard, frosted hill-sides into the very centre of this great furnace of business--and to find it all sweltering and panting with its labor, just as it did six months gone by, and just as it will do in six months to come! your country idler, with the conceit of the city on him, somehow conceives the idea, that without him there will be less noise, and less commotion: and yet he may go and come, and take his thousands, and bring his thousands, and shout at his loudest, and the great city, quite careless of it all, still sends up from her pebbled veins, and her sweeping quays, the same unceasing roar. * * * * * we have forewarned our reader, or should have done it, that we shall shift our topic in these our after-dinner musings, as easy as the turning of a leaf. our eyes have just now fallen upon a passage in mr. greeley's last letter from europe, in which he speaks of the appearance of the english women, and commends, with a little more than his usual ardor of expression, their perfection of figure. he attributes this, and very justly, to the english lady's habit of out-of-door exercise. we had thought that this fact was known: that it was known years ago, and that our fair country-women would catch a hint from it, that would throw color into their cheeks and fullness into their forms. and yet, sadly enough, our ladies still coop themselves in their heated rooms, until their faces are like lilies, and their figures--like lily stems! we have alluded to the matter now, not for the sake of pointing a satire surely, but for the sake of asking those one or two hundred thousand ladies, who every month light our pages with their looks, if they do indeed prize a little unnatural pearliness of hue, and delicacy of complexion, beyond that ruddy flush of health (the very tempter of a kiss!) and that full development of figure, which all the poets, from homer down, have made one of the chiefest beauties of a woman? if not, let them make of themselves horsewomen: or, bating that, let them make acquaintance with the sunrise: let them pick flowers with the dew upon them: let them study music of nature's own orchestra. vulgarity is not essential to health: and a lithe, elastic figure does not grow in hot-houses. for ourselves, we incline heartily to the belief, that if american women have a wish to add to the respect, the admiration, the love, and (if need be) the fear of the men, they will find an easier road toward that gain, in a little vigorous out-of-door exercise and a uniform attention to the great essentials of health, than in any new-fangled costumes, or loudly applauded "rights." we have grown unconsciously heated with the topic, and this added to the ° by fahrenheit, which is steaming at our elbow, must cut short the first installment of gossip from our red-backed easy-chair. new york, _september, _. literary notices. the oration before the phi beta kappa society of harvard university, on _the american mind_, by rev. william b. sprague, is superior to the average run of anniversary discourses. chaste, vigorous, and eloquent in expression, eminently genial and catholic in spirit, pervaded equally with a genuine love of learning, and a glowing patriotism, it abounds in wise and generous counsels, adapted to the present times, and displays frequent touches of pathos and wit. the tribute to the memory of buckminster, at the close of the oration, is an admirable specimen of classical eulogy. _the farmer's every-day book_, by rev. john l. blake (published by derby, miller, and co., auburn), is a unique collection of varieties by a veteran manufacturer of books, whose educational works have had an extensive influence on the youth of our country, and whose ripened experience is devoted to productions of practical utility for the adult mind. a mass of information is accumulated in this volume, which must be welcome to the cultivator of the soil, in his choice intervals of leisure, on a winter's evening or a rainy day. it is arranged under appropriate heads, expressed in lucid and attractive language, and combined with excellent moral suggestions. the author has derived his materials from every available source. he has shown a sound judgment in their selection. nothing is admitted which has not a real claim on the attention of the reader, while there are few topics of interest to the farmer which are not discussed with more or less detail. the articles from mr. blake's own pen are distinguished for their liveliness and good sense. his book is equally adapted to the modest farm-houses of new england, and the log-cabins of the western prairie. harper and brothers have published a sumptuous edition of _the nile boat; or, glimpses of the land of egypt_, by w. h. bartlett--another agreeable volume on the manners and customs of the orientals, with numerous sketches of their scenery. mr. bartlett's course was similar to that of which we have such a charming memorial in the "nile notes," by a howadji; and it is interesting to compare the descriptions of two travelers, who look at the same objects from such entirely different points of view. mr. bartlett's first point is alexandria, from which he departs for cairo, whence he passes up the nile, visits thebes, esneh, and edfou, ascends the cataracts, and explores the weird ruins of philae. the style of this volume is quiet and unpretending. it is illustrated with a profusion of engravings, from drawings made on the spot by the author, many of them with the camera lucida. they exhibit the principal monuments of the pharonic period, as at thebes, the later ptolemaic style, as at edfou and philae, with some of the most beautiful specimens of the arabian, at cairo, besides many others of an interesting and instructive character. the volume is an admirable specimen of typography, and deserves a place in every library. of the swarm of _annuals_ for , we have received _the iris_, edited by john s. hart, ll.d., and _the dew-drop_, a smaller volume, both published by lippincott, grambo, and co. _the iris_ is issued, with its usual splendor of embellishment and typography, with one especial feature for the present year, which can not fail to enhance its interest and value. this is a collection of drawings of some of the most remarkable objects connected with the indian traditions on this continent, made by capt. eastman, of the united state's topographical corps, who was stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the indian tribes in the vicinity of fort snelling. the traditions themselves have been wrought up into poems and tales by the wife of capt. eastman, depicting the vicissitudes of indian life, and the passions of indian character. a great part of the letter-press of the volume consists of these sketches, which, for the most part, are executed with a firm and graceful hand. besides these there are several pieces which are gems of literary excellence. "the cenotaph," by e. w. ellsworth, in memory of capt. nathan hale, who died nobly in the service of the revolution, is a quaint ballad, displaying a strange union of pathos and yankee humor. edith may, mrs. mary e. hewitt, and alice carey each contribute characteristic poetical pieces. _the dew-drop_ is exquisitely embellished, and contains selections from the writings of several of the best american authors. among them we find the names of longfellow, boker, tuckerman, stoddard, edith may, miss lynch, miss sedgwick, mrs. child, and other popular celebrities. _uncle frank's willow-lane stories_ is a budget of pleasant narratives for children, from the pen of francis c. woodworth, whose contributions to juvenile literature are always distinguished for their cordial and lifesome sympathy with the young heart. these stories are taken from country life, and are full of juvenile adventure and incident. the volume is illustrated with neat wood-cuts. (published by charles scribner). _drayton_ (published by harper and brothers), is a new american novel, presenting several fine examples of character-painting, with a plot of more than common interest. the hero, who passes from the shoemaker's bench to a high place in the legal profession, is not a bad specimen of american go-ahead-itiveness, softened down by numerous redeeming traits. we think the anonymous author has displayed a degree of ability in this volume which promises a future career of decided brilliancy. _the epoch of creation_, by eleazar lord (published by charles scribner). an elaborate volume, devoted to the defense of divine revelation against the encroachments of modern science, with especial reference to the alleged results of geological research. the leading idea of the work is expressed in the following paragraph of the introduction, of which, though by another hand, the whole treatise is an expansion and illustration. "the work of creation was necessarily a supernatural work; and hence all reasoning from the general laws of nature, which in their operation were subsequent to the work of creation, is as irrelevant in explanation of the mosaic account, as the argument drawn from universal experience in disparagement of the miracles recorded in holy writ." mr. lord, accordingly, in explaining the teachings of scripture on the work of creation, defends the literal sense of the mosaic history. he maintains that the six days of the creation are to be understood in their most obvious acceptation, and that the attempt to reconcile them with the theory of a more ancient date of the material universe, is absurd in point of philosophy, and fatal to the interests of revealed truth. in the course of his argument, the author takes occasion to present several searching criticisms of hitchcock, miller, pye smith, and other eminent geologists, who have regarded the question in a different point of view. his work will be read with interest, at the present day, when so much attention has been drawn to the religious and scientific issues in controversy. mr. lord presents an earnest and able defense of the theological view, in opposition to what may be considered as the prevailing opinion of the scientific world. he writes with clearness and force. he is master of considerable logical skill. without the vivacity of style, or the brilliancy of rhetoric which distinguishes the productions of many of his opponents, he aims mainly at the lucid expression of the arguments in the case, which he sustains with shrewdness and ability. no one can mistake his evident zeal for the interests of revelation; or accuse him of the slightest taste for scientific novelties. _the theory of human progression_ (published by b. b. mussey and co., boston). the purpose of this book, which we should suppose was written by a scotch presbyterian, is to show the natural probability of a reign of justice on the earth. it is written in a hard, dry, ultra-logical style, tinctured with the spirit of scotch and german metaphysics, and deducing the most stringent conclusions in regard to social justice from the language of the bible. the author is an original thinker. he has little respect to custom or precedent. with great acuteness and discrimination, he points out the unavoidable inferences from the premises, which he assumes, and which, in most cases, he derives from the doctrines of scripture. we rarely find such radical views of society, combined with such orthodox principles of theology. if the volume had been written with greater simplicity and liveliness of style, its effect would have been immeasurably enhanced. _forest life and forest trees_, by john s. springer (published by harper and brothers). this is a genuine american work, redolent of the pine forests of maine, and filled with fresh and glowing descriptions of the life of a new-england backwoodsman. the writer was reared in the midst of the scenes which he portrays with such distinct outlines and such natural coloring, and has spent several of what he regards as the most pleasant years of his life in the toils and adventures of a "down east" lumberman. hence he moves among the "strange, eventful" incidents of his story, like one who is perfectly at home, jotting down his exciting narrations without the slightest effort or pretension, and introducing his readers by the simplest transitions to the very heart of the remote wilderness. his work is divided into three parts, namely, the trees of america, the pine tree, or forest life, and river life. the first part is a valuable compilation selected from the most authentic materials on the dendrology of new-england, accompanied with judicious original comments. in the remaining portions of the book, we have a variety of reminiscences of a residence among the wild mountains, forests, lakes, and rivers of maine, adventures of lumbermen in the pursuit of their perilous calling, fresh pictures of the sublime scenery with which they are surrounded, and a fund of amusing anecdotes. several instructive details are given in regard to the lumber trade. the volume is illustrated with numerous wood engravings, which will give a distinct idea of many of the localities and scenes described by the author. although making no claims to literary excellence, in the technical sense of the term, we are sure this book will become a universal favorite with the "reading millions" of america, from canada to california. _service afloat and ashore, during the mexican war_, by lieut. raphael semmes (published by wm. h. moore and co., cincinnati), has already asserted a successful claim on the public favor, a large edition having been exhausted, and a second being on the eve of appearance. it is a work of standard merit, and does honor to the growing literature of the west. more substantial in its character than one would anticipate from its finical, book-making title, it presents a well-digested summary of the political history of mexico, of her relations with the united states, and the various complications that led to the war of . the author was personally engaged in the siege of vera cruz, of which terrible operation he gives a vivid description, drawn up both with military precision, and with appropriate poetical coloring. he afterward joined the army of gen. scott at jalapa, was present at the battle of churubusco as aid to gen. worth, and accompanied the victorious troops to the mexican capital. with an excellent opportunity for observation, and no small experience of military affairs, he has subjected the movements of the american army to a critical scrutiny, and presents his conclusions with soldier-like frankness and decision, though evidently aiming at impartiality. his remarks on the course of gen. scott are often severe, though he pays a warm tribute to the many admirable qualities of that eminent commander; but his deepest enthusiasm is called forth by the chivalrous and romantic character of gen. worth. whatever opinion may be formed of the correctness of his comments on delicate military questions, it must be admitted that they are put forth in fairness and good faith, and if not to be regarded as conclusive, they afford a valuable aid in deciding the judgment of the impartial reader. the style of lieut. semmes is usually chaste and vigorous. in the mere narrative of historical events it sometimes flags, calling for the application of the whip and spur; but in the description of scenes of stirring interest, of battles, and marches, and shipwrecks, it kindles up with the occasion, and becomes glowing and vehement, often presenting passages of wild and startling beauty. we congratulate the noble-spirited author on the signal success of his work, and hope that we shall again hear of his name in the field of literature, as well as in the service of his country. _the lady and the priest_, is the title of a striking english novel, reprinted by harper and brothers, founded on the romantic history of the fair rosamond, henry the second, and queen eleanor. the wily priest, thomas a becket plays an important part in the plot, presenting an expressive contrast by his ambition and cunning to the innocent, confiding, and deeply injured rosamond. as a specimen of the english historical novel, this work will compare favorably with the best recent productions of the london press. the development of the story is skillfully managed, and grows more and more interesting with each step of its progress. _vagamundo; or, the attaché in spain_, by john esaias warren. (published by charles scribner.) the title of this work is descriptive of its character. it is a good-humored record of a touch-and-go, genteel-vagabondish residence of several months in "old romantic spain," where the position of the author gave him access to much "good society," and his tastes led him into a variety of odd, rollicking adventures, which he relates with an easy audacity that becomes quite fascinating before you arrive at the close of the volume. the strength of the author lies in his cordial, careless, jovial freedom. he shows such a quintessence of frankness, such a gay, contagious good-fellowship, as to disarm our habitual sternness as critics. his book contains little wisdom, and less wit, but for a dashing, effervescing, sparkling effusion of anecdote and adventure, commend us to its hilarious pages. there are trifles here and there, indeed, at which the over-fastidious may take offense, as in duty bound; but readers who are not frightened with a little exuberance of youthful frolic will find it a tempting volume. a neat reprint of hugh miller's _scenes and legends of the north of scotland_, has been issued by wm. h. moore and co., cincinnati. it consists of a collection of interesting scotch traditions, historical episodes, and personal anecdotes, presented in the garrulous, descriptive style, which has made the author popular among numerous classes of readers. miller is a staunch, thorough-going scotchman; in his opinion, there is no country like scotland (and we too love scotland); and no man in scotland like himself (to which we demur); and this perennial self-complacency diffuses a kindly warmth over his writings, even when we find little to attract us in the dryness of his subjects. a. hart, philadelphia, has published an edition of miss benger's _memoirs of mary queen of scots_, which portrays the history of the ill-fated queen in true and vivid colors. the work contains a variety of interesting anecdotes of the court of henry ii. ticknor, reed, and fields have published an additional volume of william motherwell's _poems_, from the glasgow edition. they include songs, fragments of verse, and other pieces not contained in the former volumes. they are distinguished for the characteristic simplicity, unction, and pathos of their gifted author. a new edition of the _memoirs of the buckminsters_, father and son, by eliza buckminster lee, is issued by the same house--a volume of rare interest and beauty. its pictures of rural life in new england are drawn with exquisite grace, as well as perfect fidelity, forming an appropriate embellishment to the affecting history of the subjects of the memoir. _plymouth and the pilgrims_, by joseph banvard (published by gould and lincoln, boston), is a popular compend of the events in the colonial history of plymouth, illustrated with numerous engravings. it is intended to form the first of a series, devoted to the history of the united states, and consisting of at least twelve volumes. the narrative in this volume is derived from authentic sources, but exhibits no remarkable skill in its construction. a new treatise on the _elements of geology_, by samuel st. john, has been issued by george p. putnam, adapted to the use of students in the higher seminaries of learning. it has evidently been prepared with great care and excellent judgment. omitting the controverted and more abstruse points of theoretical geology, it aims at presenting a clear statement of the facts, which may be regarded as established in the present state of the science, and this is accomplished, we think, with the best success. _sketches of european capitals_, by william ware. (published by phillips, sampson, and co., boston). rome, florence, naples, and london, are the capitals to which this admirable volume is devoted. although passing over beaten ground, mr. ware has treated his subjects with freshness and originality. he copies no one; consults his own excellent taste in preference to any authorities; gives his impressions as they are made from his own point of view; and describes them with equal simplicity and boldness. his language is usually felicitous and choice. he is a keen dissecter of character, and has presented us with some highly-finished specimens of his skill in this kind. his remarks on the present condition of italian society are discriminating and forcible. coming from a genuine lover of freedom, they are entitled to great weight. the obstacles to the establishment of italian independence, arising from internal jealousies, and the want of national unity are exhibited in a strong light. mr. ware was not favorably affected by the manifestations of english character, which he witnessed on english soil. on this point he expresses himself without the least reserve, in a vein of acute and biting criticism. various other topics are handled in this volume, and all of them with freedom and manliness. differing from the author in many of his artistic judgments, we like the prevailing tone of his work--its honesty, its unaffectedness, its vigor, its humane spirit--to say nothing of its language, which, as we have already hinted, is a model of classical and elegant english. harper and brothers have republished the first volume of lamartine's _history of the restoration_, from which we have given several extracts among our selections. it is decidedly the most important work of its prolific author since the "history of the girondists." bold in conception, abounding in lofty speculations, colored with a rich glow of moral emotion, it displays in the highest degree of perfection, the singular power of brilliant word-painting, and the felicitous artifices of rhetoric of which lamartine is such a consummate master. _rule and misrule of the english in america_, by the author of "sam slick the clock maker" (published by harper and brothers). in the present work, judge haliburton leaves the field of humor and satire for grave political discussion. it is written in the interests of monarchical government, taking the united states as a warning against the evils of democracy. with this view, the writer traces the introduction of the popular principle into this continent, the means of its early establishment, and the provisions for its support and continuance. he endeavors to show that the success of republicanism in the united states has been owing no less to a wonderful combination of accidental causes, than to the ability, energy, and practical skill of the american people. hence he argues that this form of government is not applicable to england or france, and still less to other european countries. some of his speculations have the merit of ingenuity; they will awaken interest, as showing the effect of our institutions on an outside observer; but they can not be regarded as models of political acuteness or sagacity. phillips, sampson, and co. have published the first number of a new _life of napoleon_, by ben. perley poore, in which the author controverts the opinions of scott and other tory writers on the subject. it shows a good deal of research, and is written in an animated style. * * * * * tuckerman's _characteristics of literature_ is briefly noticed in the _london athenæum_, as a "series of suggestive papers," whose "criticisms are for the most part sound and moderate, but exhibiting no great extent of reading, nor any profound and subtle appreciation of literary beauty. sometimes they remind us of channing--of whose style mr. tuckerman is evidently an admirer; but they lack his clearness of thought and brilliancy of color, his intensity of conviction, and continual reference to fixed canons and principles." the _athenæum_ is systematically cold to american writers; nor does it do justice to mr. tuckerman in its criticism; yet it is right in tracing the influence of channing both in his style and turn of thought. no one who was conversant with that "old man eloquent" in the latter years of his life could escape all tincture of the love of moral beauty which was the master principle of his nature. his contagious influence is seen in the harmonic proportions, the clearness of expression, the equilibrium of thought, and, we may add, the sensitive timidity of opinion which mark the writings of his unconscious disciple almost as decidedly as they did his own.--dr. ungewitter's _europe, past, and present_, is spoken of in the same journal in terms of lukewarm approval. * * * * * the copyright question, so far as the english courts of law is concerned, stands thus.--the court of exchequer is at variance with the court of queen's bench:--and the case on which the next decision will be made, is that of murray _v._ bohn with respect to the copyright of certain works of washington irving. mr. routledge, against whom mr. murray had brought the law to bear, has surrendered, and admitted that he has injured the plaintiff to the extent of two thousand pounds. mr. bohn, however, stands out; and the point which he has now to prove in an english court of law is, priority of publication of mr. irving's works in america. plaintiff and defendant have each, we are informed, sent a special commissioner over to america on the subject. * * * * * the death of mr. gibbon, one of the most munificent patrons of modern british art, is announced. in the _genre_ school he has the credit of having called into existence some of the best efforts of many young artists of celebrity, by whom his liberality and protection will be gratefully remembered. to that and landscape pictures he principally confined himself as a collector, having little sympathy, so far as collection is a test, with the historical school of painting. * * * * * at clifton, on friday the st of august, died the patriarch of english authoresses--we might add of english authors--miss harriet lee, at the age of ninety-five. to most of the generation now busied with fiction, drama, and poetry, this announcement will be a surprise: so long protracted was miss lee's life, and so many years have elapsed since her last appearance in the world of imaginative creation took place. to readers of our time, miss lee is best known as having in her "german's tale" of the "canterbury tales" (a miscellany of little romances by herself and her sister), furnished lord byron with the plot of his play of "werner." more old-fashioned novel readers, who are given to weary at the philanthropy, philosophy, and preaching which threaten to turn our thousand and one tales into something more like "evening services" than "arabian nights," will find in her vigor and clearness of invention a merit which of itself deserves to keep the name of the novelist alive. miss lee's further title to mortuary honors is a play, or plays, acted with small success--and which has, or have, gone the way of hannah more's triumphant "percy," and madame d'arblay's withdrawn tragedy. harriet lee survived her sister sophia twenty-seven years: sophia having died at clifton, in .----in london on the th died lady louisa stuart--aged nearly ninety-four--the youngest daughter of the minister, earl of bute, and the grand-daughter of lady mary wortley montague--the lady to whom we owe the charming "introductory anecdotes," prefixed to the late lord wharncliffe's edition of lady mary's works. lady louisa remembered to have seen her grandmother, lady mary--when at old wortley's death that celebrated woman returned to london after her long and still unexplained exile from england. lady louisa herself was a charming letter-writer; and her correspondence with sir walter scott will, it is said, fully sustain the wortley reputation for wit, and beauty of style, while it will exhibit a poet in a very different character from that in which another poet figures in his celebrated correspondence with her grandmother, lady mary. some of scott's letters to lady louisa are included in mr. lockhart's life of sir walter. * * * * * a pert english traveler, of a class which has shared too largely in the hospitalities of facile americans, gives an amusing caricature of a new york literary soiree, to which he had by some chance gained admittance:--"i went to stay at a mr. s.'s country house, about six miles out town, and was there introduced to his father, who has one of the best collections of pictures in new york. they were kind enough to take me to a literary réunion given by one miss ----, an american authoress of some note, who always opens her house on that evening, and to point out to me many of the notabilities in the new york world of letters. many of them were real 'lions,' and not a few only wore the skin. the latter classes made themselves undesignedly very amusing, and were mostly little men, who had published and circulated a novel or two largely among their friends, which in their own opinions entitled them to turn down their shirt collars, allow their hair and beards to grow at random, and to assume the appearance of men in whom mind had become so predominant over body, as to render the latter quite a minor consideration. they did not open their lips all the evening, but were to be seen in pensive attitudes with their arms leaning on chimney pieces, and looking pleasantly at vacancy, or seated on solitary ottomans, contemplating the company with a sort of cynical stare. they wished, in fact, to be considered as living in an atmosphere of dreams, and nobody offered to disturb them. mr. n. p. willis, to whom i was introduced, afforded a very pleasant contrast to these little lions, and laughed and talked on many subjects like an ordinary being. miss ----, too, has nothing of the pedant, and very little of the professed 'blue' about her, and wound up the amusements of the evening by gracefully leading off in a polka. during the evening a 'hush' was circulated all round the room, and on inquiry i found that a herr something, very like puddlewitz, 'was going to play his thoughts,' and forthwith a foreign gentleman with as much hair as one face could conveniently carry, sat down at the piano. from the nature of the music, i should say that puddlewitz's thoughts were of a remarkably mild and sentimental nature, and not at all in keeping with his ferocious aspect. after the polka the little lions began to rouse themselves and dispel the mental web which their thoughts had been working round them for the last two or three hours, and we all gradually dispersed." * * * * * a curious instance of literary strategy is presented in the london edition of _vagamundo, or the attaché in spain_, the sprightly work of our countryman, mr. warren, which we have noticed above. it seems that he had made an arrangement with a london publisher to bring out an edition at the same time with its appearance in this country. every thing from the manuscript that could betray its american origin is eliminated, and it is thus issued apparently as a native born english production, "dyed in the wool." a start is obtained on the american publisher, and the work is put into the market two or three months before its publication in new york. our first impressions of it as a lively gossiping book were received from the english copy some time since, which surprised us as a remarkable specimen of the free and easy style, for english growth. * * * * * of andrews' latin lexicon, the _london athenæum_ speaks as follows: "it can not now be said that there is any lack of good latin and greek lexicons among us. whatever our classical deficiencies may be, they must not hereafter be attributed to the want of such a _sine qua non_. within the last twenty--even ten--years most valuable additions have been made to our lexicographical stores. entick, ainsworth, schrevelius, and a host of other worthies who long reigned over us, have at length been banished to make room for their betters. even donnegan--after a brief but successful career--has met with an inglorious fall. "besides our own dictionaries, we have those of our transatlantic brethren. some few years ago they sent us over a large latin dictionary by leverett; and now another of still higher pretensions (freund's latin-english lexicon--edited by dr. andrews) has found its way here.... whatever time, attention, and care can do toward making the work complete and correct, seems to have been done, and we all know how much the excellence of a dictionary depends upon these points,--especially when they are accompanied by competent scholarship, as we have every reason to believe they are in the present case. the result is, what might be expected, a rich repository of philological information, clearly expressed and well arranged.... "in conclusion, we are glad to have an opportunity of introducing so excellent a work to the notice of our classical and philological readers. it has all that true german _grundlichkeit_ about it which is so highly appreciated by english scholars. rarely, if ever, has so vast an amount of philological information been comprised in a single volume of the size. the knowledge it conveys of the early and later latin is not to be gathered from ordinary latin dictionaries. with regard to the manner in which it is got up, we can speak most favorably. never have we seen a better specimen of american typography. every page bears the impress of industry and care. the type is clear, neat, and judiciously varied. a pretty close inspection has not enabled us to discover any errors worth mentioning." * * * * * a contributor to the _london times_ has collected a mass of curious statistics in regard to the rise and progress of rail-road literature in england. his essay in that journal has recently been issued in a separate pamphlet. among other interesting statements, we find the following facts, which are singularly illustrative of english habits: "the gradual rise of the railway book-trade is a singular feature of our marvellous railway era. in the first instance, when the scope and capabilities of the rail had yet to be ascertained, the privilege of selling books, newspapers, &c., at the several stations, was freely granted to any who might think proper to claim it. vendors came and went when and how they chose, their trade was of the humblest, and their profits were as varying as their punctuality. when it became evident that the vendors of books and papers were deriving large sums of money from their business, the directors of the several companies resolved to make a charge for permission to carry it on; and tenders were duly advertised for, regard being had to the amount offered, and by no means to the mode in which it was proposed to prosecute the work. in some cases £ , and in others as much as £ per annum have been deemed a fair rental for the book-stall at a london terminus. at one of the most important stations in the metropolis, a bookseller, who at one time professed himself unable to contribute £ by way of rent to a benefit society established for the servants of the company, offered two years afterward £ when the privilege was put up to public auction. the extent to which literary trash has been sold at these railway book-shops, may be conceived, when it is stated that a large profit has still remained for the bookseller after paying the very large rent-charge to the company. "a movement has, however, been made on the north-western railway to put an end to this unwholesome condition of things. the stalls have been taken by a spirited bookseller and news-agent, determined to supply none but works of sterling literature; and the leading publishers have responded to this movement by the reproduction of some of their most valuable copyrights in shilling and half-crown volumes. the little reprint of lord mahon's 'narrative of the insurrection of ,' appears to have been the first step to improvement. it caught our eye, as it had already fortunately arrested the attention at more than one railway station of mr. macaulay, the historian. the sight of it suggested to that brilliant writer the idea and title of a 'traveller's library,' and at his instigation--for which we here tender him our thanks--messrs. longman commenced the cheap and popular series known by this name, and adorned by mr. macaulay's own charming productions. "as we progressed north, a wholesome change, we rejoice to say, became visible in railway book-stalls. we had trudged in vain after the schoolmaster elsewhere, but we caught him by the button at euston-square; and it is with the object of inducing him to be less partial in his walks that we now venture thus publicly to appeal to him. at the north-western terminus we diligently searched for that which required but little looking after in other places, but we poked in vain for the trash. if it had ever been there, the broom had been before us and swept it clean away. we asked for something 'highly colored.' the bookseller politely presented us with kugler's 'handbook of painting.' we shook our head and demanded a volume more intimately concerned with life and the world. we were offered 'kosmos.' 'something less universal,' said we, 'benefits the london traveler.' we were answered by 'prescott's mexico,' 'modern travel,' and 'murray's handbook of france.' we could not get rubbish, whatever price we might offer to pay for it. there was no 'eugene sues' for love or money--no cheap translations of any kind--no bribes to ignorance or unholy temptations to folly. 'you'll soon be in the _gazette_' we said commiseratingly to the bookseller. the bookseller smiled. 'you never sell those things,' we added mildly. 'constantly; we can sell nothing else.' 'what! have you nothing for the million?' 'certainly; here is 'logic for the million,' price s.; will you buy it? 'thank you, but surely books of a more chatty character----.' 'chatty--oh, yes!' 'coleridge's table talk' is a standard dish here, and never wants purchasers. "every new work of interest as it appeared was furnished to the stalls, from macaulay's 'england' down to murray's 'colonial library,' and purchasers were not slow to come for all. upon many good books, as well of recent as of more remote publication, there has been an actual run. 'macaulay' sold rapidly, 'layard' not less so. 'stokers and pokers,' a sketch of the london and north-western railway, published in murray's 'colonial library,' sold to the extent of upwards of copies. borrow's 'bible' and 'gypsies in spain,' are always in demand, and st. john's 'highland sports' keep pace with them. graver books have equally steady sale. coleridge's works are popular on the rail. 'friends in council,' 'companions of my solitude,' and similar small books grasping great subjects, and written with high philosophical aim, are continually purchased. poetry is no drug at the prosaic terminus if the price of the article be moderate. moore's 'songs and ballads,' published at _s._ each; tennyson's works, and especially 'in memoriam,' have gone off eagerly; the same remark applies to the lays of macaulay and to the scotch ballads of aytoun. "the style of books sold depends more upon the salesman than on the locality; but there are exceptions to the rule. at bangor, all books in the welsh language must have a strong dissenting and radical savor. english books at the same station must be high church and conservative. school-boys always insist upon having ainsworth's novels and any thing terrible. children's books are disdained, and left for their sisters. 'jack sheppard' is tabooed at the north-western, and great is the wrath of the boys accordingly. stations have their idiosyncracies. yorkshire is not partial to poetry. it is very difficult to sell a valuable book at any of the stands between derby, leeds, and manchester. religious books hardly find a purchaser in liverpool, while at manchester, at the other end of the line, they are in high demand." * * * * * a writer in one of the london literary journals presents a severe criticism of the "bateman children," who are now performing at st. james' theatre, under the auspices of our widely-known compatriot, mr. barnum. a part of his strictures is as follows, of which there is much more of the same kind: "mr. barnum, the american monster-monger, has opened this theatre with an exhibition which it is disagreeable to witness and impossible to treat as a matter of art. two american children, ellen and kate bateman, stated to be six and eight years of age, are here produced in the respective characters of _richard the third_ and _richmond_ in the fifth act of colley cibber's tragedy. ellen, who performs the crooked-backed tyrant, carefully made up to look like edmund kean, has evidently been drilled by some one well acquainted with the style of that great actor, and elaborately wrought into a miniature resemblance of him. not only the manner, but the voice has been tutored--tone and emphasis have been imparted, as well as gesture and deportment. to us, who recollect every phase of the style of the departed tragedian, this exact copy was something painful and revolting. similar pains had been taken with the elder girl kate--who, armed _cap-à-pie_, strutted and fretted as richmond. the delivery of the children has been enormously exaggerated in their determination to produce effect. they are strained far beyond their natural powers--and the result is, an impression of caricature and burlesque." * * * * * the dublin literary circles have recently lost the rev. dr. samuel o'sullivan--a political writer of much force and activity, and one of the leading contributors to the _dublin university magazine_. "his style was close and consecutive--and of late years was marked by a vein of reflectiveness not often found among irish writers. he was abler in attack than in defense--like most polemic authors. the most valuable of his writings are, a series of elaborate biographical essays on modern irish statesmen; which apart from their literary talent have the merit of originality of matter. for his papers on lord chancellor clare and mr. saurin he was furnished with special facts; and his chaplaincy to the ph[oe]nix park military school gave him access to several persons high in office, whose acquaintance he preserved. he was an entertaining and instructive companion--fertile in curious original anecdote. his pen exercised much influence on the irish conservative press for several years: but with the merits or demerits of political controversialists we meddle not. we hear that it was dr. o'sullivan's intention to reprint, with additional matter, his excellent essays on flood and grattan: the best pictures left us of these irish statesmen." * * * * * the hakluyt society have added to their very interesting publications, richard hakluyt's translation of the account of de soto's _discovery and conquest of florida_, with an additional account curiously corroborative of all its substantial details discovered and translated by the editor, mr. rye, of the british museum. the expedition was not without valuable results of an accidental kind, though in its main objects it failed so lamentably; and the narrative now given is extremely vivid and striking. * * * * * another volume curiously illustrative of the past, has been published with the uninviting title of _consuetudines kanciæ._ this is, in other words, a history of the gavelkind, and other remarkable customs of the county of kent. the author is a skilled antiquary, and gives many sound reasons for his belief that in not a few of those peculiar customs may be directly traced the famous and venerable laws of edward the confessor. * * * * * doctor latham has added to those researches and speculations as to races which have lately been found to explain so much of the peculiarities of national habits, customs, and laws, a sketch of the _ethnology of the british colonies and dependencies_. * * * * * dr. lingard's valuable library has been bequeathed by the late learned historian to st. cuthbert's college, ushaw. * * * * * the _deutsche allgemeine zeitung_ has been seized and confiscated by the police at leipzig, for having published, under the head of great britain, a notice, with translated extracts, of the two letters written by mr. gladstone to the earl of aberdeen on the treatment of the neapolitan state prisoners. * * * * * the death of the famous naturalist, dr. lorenz oken, whose theory of the cranial homologies effected a revolution in philosophical anatomy, and led the way to the admirable researches of owen, has recently been announced. the name of oken is most commonly associated by english readers with his "physio-philosophy," a translation of which work, by mr. tulk, was published by the ray society. it abounds in admirable generalizations, unfortunately immersed in much that is false and fantastic, and clothed in the cloudiest phraseology of german transcendental metaphysics. oken's researches and speculations (for he was as practical as he was dreamy) extended over all departments of natural history. of the value he set upon facts, and the industry with which he collected them, a lasting monument exists in the volumes of the "isis," a vast library of abstracts of the science of his time, founded and conducted by him as a periodical. few men have had greater influence on european science than oken. until forced to quit germany on account of his political opinions, he held a professorship at jena. latterly he was professor of natural history at the university of zurich, in which city he died about the last of august, at the advanced age of seventy-three years. * * * * * from halle, we hear of the death, a short time since, of a voluminous german writer, john godfrey gruber, founder and principal editor of the "universal encyclopædia of sciences and arts"--a work which was at first carried on by him conjointly with herr ersch. herr gruber was also a large contributor to the _litteratur zeitung_ and the _conversations-lexicon_. his separate works include: "the destiny of man," "the dictionary of esthetics and archæology," "researches into the greek and roman mythology," "the life of wieland," and "the dictionary of german synonymes." these are but a few of his many writings. * * * * * m. dupaty, one of the forty french academicians, died a few days ago. he was one of the most obscure of that learned corps. his literary reputation, such as it was, was based almost exclusively on vaudevilles and on the libretti of comic operas. he was held in esteem in the days of napoleon; but then literary distinction was very easily earned. the most notable event in the last twenty years of his life was being chosen (to his own great astonishment) an academician in preference to victor hugo, then at the height of his fame. * * * * * the th, th, and th volumes of the complete works of frederick the great have just been published at berlin. they are entirely occupied with his correspondence. there are letters written by him--two-thirds are in french, the other third, chiefly on military operations, are in german, and were addressed to his generals. the whole letters belong to the state archives. the edition of the great frederick's works, now in course of publication, was undertaken by order of the present king of prussia, and at his expense. * * * * * the indefatigable eugene sue, notwithstanding his daily labors as one of the law-givers of the republic are, or ought to be, rather heavy, has found time to write another romance, of which the publication has been recently commenced in one of the daily paris journals. it is called "fernand duplesis; or, the memoirs of a husband;" and is, it appears, to be an exposure of what in france it is the fashion to call the miseries and iniquities of married life. written in great haste, it will (judging from the opening chapters) be slovenly in style and negligent in language; but, _en revanche_, it will (as it seems) be of great dramatic interest, and will throw new light on parisian society--that strange and striking assemblage of intrigue and passion, of vanity and folly, of elegance and refinement, of chivalry and corruption, of much that is good, and of more that is bad. * * * * * don hannibal de gasparis, the neapolitan astronomer, who has, in the course of the last few years, discovered no less than five new planets, has, by a royal decree of the th, been named professor of astronomy at the university of naples. * * * * * in hans andersen's charming _memoirs_ we find a graphic sketch of an interview with reboul, the baker poet of nismes, celebrated in "lamartine's journey to the east."--i found him at the house, stepped into the bakehouse, and addressed myself to a man in shirt sleeves who was putting bread into the oven; it was reboul himself! a noble countenance which expressed a manly character greeted me. when i mentioned my name, he was courteous enough to say he was acquainted with it through the 'revue de paris,' and begged me to visit him in the afternoon, when he should be able to entertain me better. when i came again i found him in a little room which might be called almost elegant, adorned with pictures, casts, and books, not alone french literature, but translations of the greek classics. a picture on the wall represented his most celebrated poem, 'the dying child,' from marmier's _chansons du nord_. he knew i had treated the same subject, and i told him this was written in my school days. if in the morning i had found him the industrious baker, he was now the poet completely; he spoke with animation of the literature of his country, and expressed a wish to see the north, the scenery and intellectual life of which seemed to interest him. with great respect i took leave of a man whom the muses have not meanly endowed, and who yet has good sense enough, spite of all the homage paid him, to remain steadfast to his honest business, and prefer being the most remarkable baker in nismes to losing himself in paris, after a short triumph, among hundreds of other poets. * * * * * the writings of shakspeare would appear, from the following fact, to be read with as much avidity and delight in sweden as in england and this country. a translation of his plays by hagberg, professor of greek in the university of lund, is now in course of publication. of this, volumes have appeared; and although the first edition consisted of no less than copies, the whole have been sold off, and a second edition is in preparation. professor hagberg's translation is most favorably spoken of by those who are qualified to judge of its merits. * * * * * a new theological work by jonathan edwards, printed from his own manuscript, is announced as soon to be issued. the fame of our illustrious american theologian attaches great interest, in the religious world, to this new production from his pen. * * * * * the poem entitled "the ship of death," which floated into our editor's drawer from an unknown source, was written by thomas h. chivers, m.d., author of a volume entitled "eonchs of rubies," and other poetical works. * * * * * miss catherine hayes the celebrated irish vocalist arrived in this country a few days since. her first concert will be given while the sheets of our present number are passing through the press. she is pronounced in her own sphere to be as unequaled as jenny lind in hers; brilliancy is the peculiar characteristic of the latter, pathos of the former. those who have heard her abroad, predict for her a success not inferior to that achieved by her swedish compeer. the fact of ireland being her native land will of itself insure her a favorable hearing in america. * * * * * we are reminded that the english work entitled "how to make home unhealthy," which was ascribed to harriet martineau, in a former number of this magazine, was written by henry morley, esq. a leaf from punch. [illustration: "lor! what a most abominable glass--i declare it makes one look a perfect fright."] [illustration: "there's a bite! pull him up, charley, i've got the landing net."] * * * * * much too considerate. [illustration: _robinson._--"there, brown, my boy, that's as fine a glass of wine as you can get anywhere." _mrs. brown._--"a-hem! augustus, my de-ar. you are surely never going to take port wine. you know it never agrees with you, my love!"] [illustration: _angelina_ (_the wife of his bussom_).--"well, edwin, if you can't make the 'things,' as you call them, meet, you need not swear so. it's really quite dreadful!"] [illustration: _uncle._--"so, you've been to the crystal palace--have you, gus?" _gus._--"yes, uncle." _uncle._--"well, now, i'll give you sixpence if you will tell me what you admired most in that temple of industry?" _gus_ (_unhesitatingly._)--"veal and 'am pies, and the ginger beer. give us the sixpence!"] fashions for october. [illustration: fig. .--walking and riding dress.] october, the beautiful month, standing like a mediator between summer and winter, is the season for exercise in the open air; especially for that healthful recreation, riding on horseback. it is the season, too, of the indian summer, when the pleasures of carriage riding and promenading are greater than at any other time of the year. for the ladies it should be an _out-of-door_ month; and for them we herald the decrees of fashion, touching their appearance in the open air. walking dress.--the figure on the left represents a very pretty costume for promenade. bonnet, drawn _tulle_ with low crown. the poke is made on a skeleton of wire covered with yellow silk, and having four pieces across. under the wires are fastened small bows of gauze ribbon so as to form three well-rounded rows. a similar row of bows trims the edge of the poke inside, and the ribbons composing it are continued along flat. a gathered ribbon is laid all round and fastens with bows. the crown is of _tulle_, slightly puffed, and ornamented with five ribbon _ruches_, supported by five wires covered with silk, which slope toward each other, and meet near the curtain. the curtain is _tulle_, trimmed with a plaited ribbon, from which proceed bows astride on the edge. the shawl is of silk or other light fabric. on the body there are five cross-bands of silk, goffered and cut at the edges. the top one reaches from one shoulder-seam to the other and is - / inches wide, the other four gradually diminish down to the waist, where the last one is but little more than an inch. the trimmings goffered in small flutes are fixed under a narrow galloon; another galloon is placed a little higher, leaving an interval of about half an inch between them. a similar trimming runs round the waist and forms the lappets. the skirt has seven rows of goffered trimmings gathered like those on the body. the top one is an inch and a quarter deep, and all increase gradually down to the lowest, which is - / inches. the sleeves are open under the arm from the elbow downward, and are held together by two goffered cross bands. the under-sleeves are lace, and form a large puff, which is fastened in a worked wristband. riding dress.--the figure on the right represents a riding dress. felt hat with a terry velvet ribbon as binding for the edges, bows of the same, and a frosted feather. body of white quilting, high and tight. the skirts hold to the body without seam at the waist. they are very round and full, owing to the cut of the side and the gores. they should come well over the hips, but not sit too tight. the middle of the body is open and leaves visible a rich lace shirt-frill very deep and full, and falling back on itself, owing to its fullness. the lace collar forms a ruff with two rows. the top and bottom of the body are hooked inside, but seem to be held by three gold double buttons; these twin buttons are attached together by a small gold chain. those at bottom have a longer chain than the others. the sleeves are straight with a cuff turned up and standing out from the sleeve. shirt of plain poplin, trimmed in front with velvet ribbons nearly half an inch wide, and continued all round the bottom. [illustration: fig. .--carriage costume.] carriage costume.--dress of _glacé_ silk; body half high, and open in front; waist long and slightly pointed; the body a tight fit and trimmed with a rich fancy trimming. the short skirt is very full, rounded at the corners _a la robes_, and trimmed to correspond with the corsage. the gathers at the waist are confined by narrow rows of _guimpe_. the skirt is long and very full, with a row of silk trimming laid on the hem at the bottom. bonnet of _paille de riz;_ brim very open. feathers are placed low at the right side. lined with fulled _tulle_, ornamented with pink satin a shawl of white cachmere, with very deep fringe. [illustration: fig. .--caps and undersleeve.] caps.--the cap is almost universally worn as a part of morning costume. nos. and represent two of the latest styles, adapted for the cool mornings of autumn. those of a _negligé_ form are generally composed of muslin, embroidered _au plumetis_, or cambric, entirely covered with the richest kind of english embroidery, which sometimes resembles a splendid _guipure_. when the lappets are not formed of the same material, we see them of pink taffetas, attached to the cap, with a bunch of _coques_, composed of the same colored ribbon very full, and put on so as to replace the full bands of hair. undersleeves, so elegant with open dress sleeves, are worn by all. the style as well as material has many varieties. no. is a very neat style, made either of embroidered muslin, or lace. pelisses are becoming very fashionable, made of plain italian silk, and trimmed with a fancy ribbon three fingers in width, and bordered on either side with two narrow ones, appearing as if woven in the dress. we may cite, as a most elegant costume in this style, a redingote of pearl-gray, encircled with a ribbon of a pearl-gray ground, over which is quadrillé dark-blue velvet, having the narrow rows on either side. the front of the pelisse is closed with eight or ten rows of the same kind of ribbon, each end being turned back so as to form a point, from which depends a small blue and gray mixed tassel. the corsage is formed with broad facings, encircled to match the lower part of the sleeves. jewelry.--the _châtelaine_ is now replaced, in a measure, by waistcoat chains, attached at both ends, the middle forming a festoon. _brooches_ are very rich; the finest are cameos set round with brilliants. _ear-rings_ are composed of large stones mounted in plain rings, without pendants. _bracelets_ are of enamel, sparkling stones, and gold. the waistcoat button is now a very elegant piece of jewelry. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the oe ligature in the words manoeuvre, phoenix, etc., has been replaced with the separate letters in this text version. superscripted letters are indicated by a caret character, e.g. y^e. small capital text has sometimes been replaced with all capitals, but not where it occurs in names of individuals, footnotes, or illustrations. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired. this text contains several examples of inconsistent hyphenation, e.g. two thirds/two-thirds, and word spacing, e.g. mean time/meantime, which have been retained in this version, except for "good by" which has been normalised to "good-by". pg , question mark replaced with exclamation mark (honor to letitia, the mother of napoleon!) pg , question mark replaced with exclamation mark (extremely fine!) words and spelling pg : "women" changed to "woman" (the best woman in france) pg : "hunddred" changed to "hundred" (a population of but about five hundred thousand) pg : "limana" normalised to "limeña" (limeña at home) pg : "that" changed to "than" (much less depressed than that) pg : "insted" changed to "instead" (twenty guineas, instead of sixty) pg : "grostesquely" changed to "grotesquely" (his life was grotesquely checkered) pg : "reched" changed to "reached" (he reached that last degrading status in society) pg : "guarrantee" changed to "guarantee" (a guarantee for what he would have done) pg : "massses" changed to "masses" (rude, unshapen masses) pg : "tast" changed to "taste" (the taste of a man) pg : "scluded" changed to "secluded" (having carefully secluded her from marriage) pg : duplicated word "been" removed (have been busily engaged) pg : duplicated word "that" removed (it is intended that they shall) pg : "it" changed to "its" (derives its supplies of provisions) pg : "controversalists" changed to "controversialists" (merits or demerits of political controversialists) pg : "paile" changed to "paille" (paille de riz) transcriber's note: the following typographical errors have been corrected: page : "we bring ourselves, by its help, to face petty details that are wearisome, and heavy tasks that are almost appalling." 'appalling' amended from 'appaling'. page : "that which is truly, and deeply, and seriously an injury to our intellectual life, is the foolishness of the too common vanity." 'too' amended from 'two'. page : "the child had the defects of children, but of children born in the different countries where he lived." 'lived' amended from 'live'. page : "the girl was uneducated: it seems hopeless to try to educate the woman". 'educate' amended from 'educated'. page : "i am sure that my modern artillery captain, notwithstanding his bad manners." 'notwithstanding' amended from 'notwithstand'. page : "i know a distinguished englishman who is quite remarkable for the talent with which he arranges his intellectual friendships, so as never to be dependent on any one." 'intellectual' amended from 'inintellectual'. page : "the truth is, that to succeed well in fashionable society the higher intellectual attainments are not so useful as distinguished skill in those amusements which are the real business of the fashionable world." 'business of' amended from 'busiof'. page : "to me it appears the perfect type of that preoccupation about appearances which blinds the genteel vulgar to the true nobility of life." 'preoccupation' amended from 'pre-occupation'. page : "she moves; movement is the law of her life; yet she is as tranquil in her little cabin as any goodwife on shore." 'she' amended from 'see'. page : "i certainly think that if a good curé has an exceptional genius for sanctity." 'sanctity' amended from 'sancitity'. page (index): "dullness of general conversation." 'dullness' amended from 'dulness'. the intellectual life, by philip gilbert hamerton, author of "a painter's camp," "thoughts about art," "the unknown river," etc. new york hurst & company publishers to eugÈnie h. we have shared together many hours of study, and you have been willing, at the cost of much patient labor, to cheer the difficult paths of intellectual toil by the unfailing sweetness of your beloved companionship. it seems to me that all those things which we have learned together are doubly my own; whilst those other studies which i have pursued in solitude have never yielded me more than a maimed and imperfect satisfaction. the dream of my life would be to associate you with all i do if that were possible; but since the ideal can never be wholly realized, let me at least rejoice that we have been so little separated, and that the subtle influence of your finer taste and more delicate perception is ever, like some penetrating perfume, in the whole atmosphere around me. preface. i propose, in the following pages, to consider the possibilities of a satisfactory intellectual life under various conditions of ordinary human existence. it will form a part of my plan to take into account favorable and unfavorable influences of many kinds; and my chief purpose, so far as any effect upon others may be hoped for, will be to guard some who may read the book alike against the loss of time caused by unnecessary discouragement, and the waste of effort which is the consequence of misdirected energies. i have adopted the form of letters addressed to persons of very different position in order that every reader may have a chance of finding what concerns him. the letters, it is unnecessary to observe, are in one sense as fictitious as those we find in novels, for they have never been sent to anybody by the post, yet the persons to whom they are addressed are not imaginary. i made it a rule, from the beginning, to think of a real person when writing, from an apprehension that by dwelling in a world too exclusively ideal i might lose sight of many impediments which beset all actual lives, even the most exceptional and fortunate. the essence of the book may be expressed in a few sentences, the rest being little more than evidence or illustration. first, it appears that all who are born with considerable intellectual faculties are urged towards the intellectual life by irresistible instincts, as water-fowl are urged to an aquatic life; but the lower animals have this advantage over man, that as their purposes are simpler, so they attain them more completely than he does. the life of a wild duck is in perfect accordance with its instincts, but the life of an intellectual man is never on all points perfectly in accordance with _his_ instincts. many of the best intellectual lives known to us have been hampered by vexatious impediments of the most various and complicated kinds; and when we come to have accurate and intimate knowledge of the lives led by our intellectual contemporaries, we are always quite sure to find that each of them has some great thwarting difficulty to contend against. nor is it too much to say that if a man were so placed and endowed in every way that all his work should be made as easy as the ignorant imagine it to be, that man would find in that very facility itself a condition most unfavorable to his intellectual growth. so that, however circumstances may help us or hinder us, the intellectual life is always a contest or a discipline, and the art or skill of living intellectually does not so much consist in surrounding ourselves with what is reputed to be advantageous as in compelling every circumstance and condition of our lives to yield us some tribute of intellectual benefit and force. the needs of the intellect are as various as intellects themselves are various: and if a man has got high mental culture during his passage through life it is of little consequence where he acquired it, or how. the school of the intellectual man is the place where he happens to be, and his teachers are the people, books, animals, plants, stones, and earth round about him. the feeling almost always predominant in the minds of intellectual men as they grow older, is not so much one of regret that their opportunities were not more abundant, as of regret that they so often missed opportunities which they might have turned to better account. i have written for all classes, in the conviction that the intellectual life is really within the reach of every one who earnestly desires it. the highest culture can never be within the reach of those who cannot give the years of labor which it costs; and if we cultivate ourselves to shine in the eyes of others, to become famous in literature or science, then of course we must give many more hours of labor than can be spared from a life of practical industry. but i am fully convinced of this, convinced by the observation of living instances in all classes, that any man or woman of large natural capacity may reach the tone of thinking which may justly be called intellectual, even though that thinking may not be expressed in the most perfect language. the essence of intellectual living does not reside in extent of science or in perfection of expression, but in a constant preference for higher thoughts over lower thoughts, and this preference may be the habit of a mind which has not any very considerable amount of information. this may be very easily demonstrated by a reference to men who lived intellectually in ages when science had scarcely begun to exist, and when there was but little literature that could be of use as an aid to culture. the humblest subscriber to a mechanics' institute has easier access to sound learning than had either solomon or aristotle, yet both solomon and aristotle lived the intellectual life. whoever reads english is richer in the aids to culture than plato was, yet plato _thought_ intellectually. it is not erudition that makes the intellectual man, but a sort of virtue which delights in vigorous and beautiful thinking, just as moral virtue delights in vigorous and beautiful conduct. intellectual living is not so much an accomplishment as a state or condition of the mind in which it seeks earnestly for the highest and purest truth. it is the continual exercise of a firmly noble choice between the larger truth and the lesser, between that which is perfectly just and that which falls a little short of justice. the ideal life would be to choose thus firmly and delicately always, yet if we often blunder and fail for want of perfect wisdom and clear light, have we not the inward assurance that our aspiration has not been all in vain, that it has brought us a little nearer to the supreme intellect whose effulgence draws us whilst it dazzles? here is the true secret of that fascination which belongs to intellectual pursuits, that they reveal to us a little more, and yet a little more, of the eternal order of the universe, establishing us so firmly in what is known, that we acquire an unshakable confidence in the laws which govern what is not, and never can be, known. contents. part i. the physical basis. letter page i. to a young man of letters who worked excessively ii. to the same iii. to a student in uncertain health iv. to a muscular christian v. to a student who neglected bodily exercise vi. to an author in mortal disease vii. to a young man of brilliant ability, who had just taken his degree part ii. the moral basis. i. to a moralist who had said that there was a want of moral fibre in the intellectual, especially in poets and artists ii. to an undisciplined writer iii. to a friend who suggested the speculation "which of the moral virtues was most essential to the intellectual life" iv. to a moralist who said that intellectual culture was not conducive to sexual morality part iii. of education. i. to a friend who recommended the author to learn this thing and that ii. to a friend who studied many things iii. to the same iv. to a student of literature v. to a country gentleman who regretted that his son had the tendencies of a dilettant vi. to the principal of a french college vii. to the same viii. to a student of modern languages ix. to the same x. to a student who lamented his defective memory xi. to a master of arts who said that a certain distinguished painter was half-educated part iv. the power of time. i. to a man of leisure who complained of want of time ii. to a young man of great talent and energy who had magnificent plans for the future iii. to a man of business who desired to make himself better acquainted with literature, but whose time for reading was limited iv. to a student who felt hurried and driven v. to a friend who, though he had no profession, could not find time for his various intellectual pursuits part v. the influences of money. i. to a very rich student ii. to a genius careless in money matters iii. to a student in great poverty part vi. custom and tradition. i. to a young gentleman who had firmly resolved never to wear anything but a gray coat ii. to a conservative who had accused the author of a want of respect for tradition iii. to a lady who lamented that her son had intellectual doubts concerning the dogmas of the church iv. to the son of the lady to whom the preceding letter was addressed v. to a friend who seemed to take credit to himself, intellectually, from the nature of his religious belief vi. to a roman catholic friend who accused the intellectual class of a want of reverence for authority part vii. women and marriage. i. to a young gentleman of intellectual tastes, who, without having as yet any particular lady in view, had expressed, in a general way, his determination to get married ii. to a young gentleman who contemplated marriage iii. to the same iv. to the same v. to the same vi. to a solitary student vii. to a lady of high culture who found it difficult to associate with persons of her own sex viii. to a lady of high culture ix. to a young man of the middle class, well educated, who complained that it was difficult for him to live agreeably with his mother, a person of somewhat authoritative disposition, but uneducated part viii. aristocracy and democracy. i. to a young english nobleman ii. to an english democrat part ix. society and solitude. i. to a lady who doubted the reality of intellectual friendships ii. to a young gentleman who lived much in fashionable society iii. to the same iv. to the same v. to a young gentleman who kept entirely out of company vi. to a friend who kindly warned the author of the bad effects of solitude part x. intellectual hygienics. i. to a young author whilst he was writing his first book ii. to a student in the first ardor of intellectual ambition iii. to an intellectual man who desired an outlet for his energies iv. to the friend of a man of high culture who produced nothing v. to a student who felt hurried and driven vi. to an ardent friend who took no rest vii. to the same viii. to a friend (highly cultivated) who congratulated himself on having entirely abandoned the habit of reading newspapers ix. to an author who appreciated contemporary literature x. to an author who kept very irregular hours part xi. trades and professions. i. to a young gentleman of ability and culture who had not decided about his profession ii. to a young gentleman who had literary and artistic tastes, but no profession iii. to a young gentleman who wished to devote himself to literature as a profession iv. to an energetic and successful cotton manufacturer v. to a young etonian who thought of becoming a cotton-spinner part xii. surroundings. i. to a friend who often changed his place of residence ii. to a friend who maintained that surroundings were a matter of indifference to a thoroughly occupied mind iii. to an artist who was fitting up a magnificent new studio the intellectual life. part i. _the physical basis._ letter i. to a young man of letters who worked excessively. mental labor believed to be innocuous to healthy persons--difficulty of testing this--case of the poet wordsworth--case of an eminent living author--case of a literary clergyman--case of an energetic tradesman--instances of two londoners who wrote professionally--scott's paralysis--byron's death--all intellectual labor proceeds on a physical basis. so little is really known about the action of the nervous system, that to go into the subject from the physiological point of view would be to undertake a most difficult investigation, entirely beyond the competence of an unscientific person like your present correspondent. you will, therefore, permit me, in reference to this, to leave you to the teaching of the most advanced physiologists of the time; but i may be able to offer a few practical suggestions, based on the experience of intellectual workers, which may be of use to a man whose career is likely to be one of severe and almost uninterrupted intellectual labor. a paper was read several years ago before the members of a society in london, in which the author maintained that mental labor was never injurious to a perfectly healthy human organization, and that the numerous cases of break-down, which are commonly attributed to excessive brain-work, are due, in reality, to the previous operation of disease. this is one of those assertions which cannot be answered in a sentence. concentrated within the briefest expression it comes to this, that mental labor cannot produce disease, but may aggravate the consequences of disease which already exists. the difficulty of testing this is obvious; for so long as health remains quite perfect, it remains perfect, of course, whether the brain is used or not; and when failure of health becomes manifest, it is not always easy to decide in what degree mental labor may have been the cause of it. again, the accuracy of so general a statement cannot be proved by any number of instances in its favor, since it is universally admitted that brain-work is not the only cause of disease, and no one affirms that it is more than one amongst many causes which may impede the bodily functions. when the poet wordsworth was engaged in composing the "white doe of rylstone," he received a wound in his foot, and he observed that the continuation of the literary labor increased the irritation of the wound; whereas by suspending his work he could diminish it, and absolute mental rest produced a perfect cure. in connection with this incident he remarked that poetic excitement, accompanied by protracted labor in composition, always brought on more or less of bodily derangement. he preserved himself from permanently injurious consequences by his excellent habits of life. a very eminent living author, whose name i do not feel at liberty to mention, is always prostrated by severe illness at the conclusion of each of his works; another is unwell every sunday, because he does not write on that day, and the recoil after the mental stretch of the week is too much for him. in the case of wordsworth, the physical constitution is believed to have been sound. his health at seventy-two was excellent; the two other instances are more doubtful in this respect, yet both these writers enjoy very fair health, after the pressure of brain-work has been removed for any considerable time. a clergyman of robust organization, who does a good deal of literary work at intervals, told me that, whenever he had attempted to make it regular, the consequence had always been distressing nervous sensations, from which at other times he was perfectly free. a tradesman, whose business affords an excellent outlet for energetic bodily activity, told me that having attempted, in addition to his ordinary work, to acquire a foreign language which seemed likely to be useful to him, he had been obliged to abandon it on account of alarming cerebral symptoms. this man has immense vigor and energy, but the digestive functions, in this instance, are sluggish. however, when he abandoned study, the cerebral inconveniences disappeared, and have never returned since. two londoners who followed literature as a profession, and who both worked to excess, had cerebral attacks of a still more decided kind. one of them, after his recovery, resolved to regulate his work in future, so that it might never pass the limits of moderation. he is now living, and in possession of a remarkably clear and richly furnished intellect. the other, who returned to his old habits, died in two years from softening of the brain. i am not aware that in these cases there was any other disease than that produced by an immoderate use of the mental powers. the health of sir walter scott--we have this on his own testimony--was uncommonly robust, and there is every reason to believe that his paralysis was brought on by the excessive labor which resulted from his pecuniary embarrassments, and that without such excessive mental labor and anxiety he would have preserved his health much longer. the death of byron was due, no doubt, quite as much to habits of dissipation as to poetical excitement; still it is probable that he would have borne either of these evil influences if it had not been accompanied by the other; and that to a man whose way of life was so exhausting as byron's was, the addition of constant poetical excitement and hard work in production, may be said without exaggeration to have killed him. we know that scott, with all his facility, had a dread of that kind of excitement, and withdrew from the poetical arena to avoid it. we know, too, that the brain of southey proved ultimately unable to endure the burden of the tasks he laid upon it. difficult as it may be in some instances to ascertain quite accurately whether an overworked man had perfectly sound bodily health to begin with, obvious as it may be that in many breakdowns the final failure has been accelerated by diseases independent of mental work, the facts remain, that the excessive exercise of the mental powers is injurious to bodily health and that all intellectual labor proceeds upon a physical basis. no man can safely forget this, and act as if he were a pure spirit, superior to physical considerations. let me then, in other letters on this subject, direct your attention to the close connection which exists between intellectual production and the state of the body and the brain; not with the authority of a physician, but with the sympathy of a fellow-laborer, who has learned something from his own experience, and still more from the more varied experience of his friends. letter ii. to a young man of letters who worked excessively. mental labor rarely compatible with the best physical conditions--wordsworth's manner of composition--mr. w. f. a. delane--george sand working under pressure--sir walter scott's field-sports--physical exercise the best tranquillizer of the nervous system--eugène sue--shelley's love of boating--nervousness the affliction of brain-workers--nature's kindly warning--working by spurts--beckford--byron--indolence of men of genius fortunate--distressing nature of cerebral fatigue. it is possible that many of the worst results of intellectual labor may be nothing more than indirect results. we may suffer, not from the work itself, but from sedentary confinement, from want of exercise, from insufficient variety and amusement. mental labor is seldom compatible with the best physical conditions; it is so sometimes, however, or may be made so by an effort of will and resolution. wordsworth composed his poetry in the open air, as he walked, and so preserved himself from the evil of close confinement to the desk. mr. w. f. a. delane, who did so much for the organization of the _times_ newspaper when it was under his management, began by doing law reports for that paper, in london and on circuit. his appearance of rude health surprised other members of his profession, but he accounted for it by the care he took to compensate for the bad air and sedentary labor in the courts of law by travelling between the assize towns on horseback, and also by a more than commonly temperate way of life, since he carefully avoided the bar dinners, eating and drinking for health alone. it is possible to endure the most unhealthy labor when there are frequent intervals of invigorating exercise, accompanied by habits of strict sobriety. the plan, so commonly resorted to, of trying to get health in stock for the rest of the year by a fortnight's hurried travelling in the autumn, is not so good as mr. delane's way of getting the week's supply of health during the course of the week itself. it happened once that george sand was hurried by the proprietor of a newspaper who wanted one of her novels as a _feuilleton_. she has always been a careful and deliberate worker, very anxious to give all necessary labor in preparation, and, like all such conscientious laborers, she can scarcely endure to be pushed. however, on this occasion she worked overtime, as they say in lancashire, and to enable herself to bear the extra pressure she did part of the work at night in order to keep several hours of daylight clear for her walks in the country, where she lived. many writers, in the same situation, would have temporarily abandoned exercise, but george sand clung to it all the more at a time when it was especially necessary that she should be well. in the same way sir walter scott counterbalanced the effects of sedentary occupation by his hearty enjoyment of field-sports. it has been supposed that his outdoor exercise, which to weaker persons appears excessive, may have helped to bring on the stroke of paralysis which finally disabled him; but the fact is, that when the stroke arrived sir walter had altered his habits of life in obedience to what he believed to be his duty, and had abandoned, or nearly so, the active amusements of his happier years. i believe rather that whilst he took so much exercise his robust constitution not only enabled him to endure it without injury, but required it to keep the nervous system healthy, in spite of his hard work in literary composition. physical exercise, when the constitution is strong enough to endure it, is by far the best tranquillizer of the nervous system which has yet been discovered, and sir walter's life at abbotsford was, in this respect at least, grounded on the true philosophy of conduct. the french romancer, eugene sue, wrote till ten o'clock every morning, and passed the rest of the day, when at his country house, either in horse-exercise, or field-sports, or gardening, for all of which he had a liking which amounted to passion. shelley's delight was boating, which at once exercised his muscles and relieved his mind from the weariness of incessant invention or speculation. it will generally be found, that whenever a man of much intellectual distinction has maintained his powers in full activity, it has been by avoiding the bad effects of an entirely sedentary life. i well believe that a person naturally robust, with a clear and powerful brain, could bear twelve or fourteen hours' work every day for years together so far as the work itself is concerned, if only so large an expenditure of time left a sufficient margin for amusement, and exercise, and sleep. but the privation of exercise, by weakening the digestive and assimilative powers, reduces the flow of healthy and rich blood to the brain--the brain requires an enormous quantity of blood, especially when the cerebral matter is rapidly destroyed by intellectual labor--and usually brings on nervousness, the peculiar affliction of the over-driven mental laborer. this nervousness is nature's kindly warning, preserving us, if we attend to it in time, from much more serious consequences. the best preventive of it, and often the only cure, is plenty of moderate exercise. the customs of the upper classes in england happily provide this in the best shape, that of amusement enjoyed in society, but our middle classes in large towns do not get nearly enough of it, and the most studious are always strongly tempted to neglect it altogether. men of great imaginative power are commonly addicted to a habit which is peculiarly dangerous. they work as race-horses work, with the utmost intensity of effort during short spaces of time, taxing all their powers whilst the brilliant effort lasts. when beckford wrote the wonderful tale "vathek" in his twentieth year, he did it at a single sitting, which lasted for three days and two nights, and it cost him a serious illness. several of the best poems by byron were written, if not quite with equal rapidity, still on the same principle of composition at white heat. in cases of this kind, nature provides her own remedy in the indolence of the imaginative temperament, which leaves large spaces of time for the action of the recuperative processes. the same law governs the physical energies of the carnivora, which maintain, or recover, their capacity for extraordinary effort by intervals of absolute repose. in its long spaces of mental rest the imaginative temperament recruits itself by amusement, which in england usually includes physical exercise of some kind. this fortunate indolence of men of genius would in most instances ensure their safety if they were not impelled by necessity to labor beyond the suggestions of inclination. the exhausted brain never of itself seeks the additional exhaustion of hard work. you know very well when you are tired, and at such times the natural man in you asks plainly enough for rest and recreation. the art is so to arrange our lives that the natural man may sometimes have his way, and forget, if only for a time, the labors which lead to weariness--not to that pleasant weariness of the body which promises soundest sleep, but the distressing fatigue of the exhausted spirit which is tortured by the importunity of ideas which it is unable to express, and apprehensions that it cannot dismiss, which fights through the sleepless night the phantoms of unconquerable horror. note.--the bad effect of literary composition on the physical state which was observed by wordsworth in his own case was also noticed by shelley during the composition of the "cenci," which, he said, had been a fine antidote to nervous medicines, and kept, he believed, the pain in his side "as sticks do a fire." these influences are best observed in people whose health is delicate. although joubert, for example, had an extremely clear intellect, he could scarcely write at all on account of the physical consequences. i have come to the conclusion that literary work _acts simply as a strong stimulant_. in moderate quantities it is not only innocent, but decidedly beneficial; in excess it acts like poison on the nervous system. what constitutes excess every man has to find out by his own experience. a page was excess to joubert, a chapter was moderation to alexandre dumas. letter iii. to a student in uncertain health. habits of kant, the philosopher--objection to an over-minute regularity of habit--value of independence of character--case of an english author--case of an english resident in paris--scott an abundant eater and drinker--goethe also--an eminent french publisher--turgot--importance of good cookery--wine drinking--ale--the aid of stimulants treacherous--the various effects of tobacco--tea and coffee--case of an english clergyman--balzac--the arabia custom of coffee-drinking--wisdom of occasionally using stimulants. immanuel kant, who was a master in the art of taking care of himself, had by practice acquired a dexterous mode of folding himself up in the bed-clothes, by passing them over and under his shoulders, so that, when the operation was complete, he was shut up like the silkworm in his cocoon. "when i am thus snugly folded up in my bed," he would say to his friends, "i say to myself, can any man be in better health than i am?" there is nothing in the lives of philosophers more satisfactory than this little passage. if kant had said to himself, "can anybody be wiser, more learned, more justly deserving of immortal fame than i am?" we should have felt, that however agreeable this opinion might have been to the philosopher who held it, his private satisfaction stood in need of confirmation from without; and even if he had really been all this, we might have reflected that wisdom and learning still leave their possessor exposed to the acutest kinds of suffering. but when a philosopher rolls himself up at night, and congratulates himself on the possession of perfect health, we only think what a happy man he was to possess that first of blessings, and what a sensible man to know the value of it! and kant had a deeper happiness in this reflection than any which could spring from the mere consciousness of possessing one of the unearned gifts of nature. the excellence of his health was due in part to a sufficiently good constitution, but it was due also to his own extreme carefulness about his habits. by an unceasing observation of his own bodily life, as far as possible removed from the anxiety of hypochondriacs, he managed to keep the physical machine in such regular order, that for more than thirty years he always rose precisely at the same minute. if his object had been health for health's sake, the result would still have been well worth any sacrifices of momentary inclination that it cost him; but kant had a higher purpose. he well knew that the regularity of the intellectual life depended entirely on the regularity of the bodily functions, and, unlike the foolish men alluded to by goethe who pass the day in complaining of headache, and the night in drinking the wine that produces it, kant not only knew that regular health was necessary to his work as a philosopher, but did everything in his power to preserve it. few intellectual laborers have in this respect given evidence of such persistent strength of will. in his manner of living he did not consult custom, but the needs of his individual nature. it is not always easy for great brain-workers to follow with perfect fidelity the customs of the people about them. these usages have been gradually formed by the majority to suit the needs of the majority; but there are cases where a close adherence to them would be a serious hindrance to the highest and best activity. a good example of this is kant's intense antipathy to beer. it did not suit him, and he was right in his non-conformity to german usage on this point, but he was mistaken in believing beer to be universally injurious. there is a very general belief in england that what is called a good breakfast is the foundation of the labor of the day. kant's breakfast, which he took at five in the morning at all seasons of the year, consisted of a cup of tea and a pipe of tobacco. on this he worked eight hours, either in lecturing or writing--a long stretch of uninterrupted labor. he dined at one, and this was his only meal, for he had no supper. the single repast was a deviation from ordinary usage, but kant found that it suited him, probably because he read in the evening from six till a quarter to ten, and a second meal might have interfered with this by diminishing his power of attention. there exists a strong medical objection to this habit of taking only one meal in twenty-four hours, which indeed is almost unknown in england, though not extremely rare on the continent. i know an old gentleman who for forty years has lived as kant did, and enjoys excellent health and uncommon mental clearness. a detail which illustrates kant's attention to whatever could affect his physical life, is his rule to withdraw his mind from everything requiring effort fifteen minutes before he went to bed. his theory, which is fully confirmed by the experience of others, was, that there was a risk of missing sleep if the brain was not tranquillized before bed-time. he knew that the intellectual life of the day depended on the night's rest, and he took this precaution to secure it. the regularity of his daily walk, taken during the afternoon in all weathers, and the strict limitation of the hours of rest, also helped the soundness of his sleep. he would not walk out in company, for the whimsical reason that if he opened his mouth a colder air would reach his lungs than that which passed through the nostrils; and he would not eat alone, but always had guests to dinner. there are good physiological reasons in favor of pleasant society at table, and, besides these, there are good intellectual reasons also. by attention to these rules of his, kant managed to keep both body and mind in a working order, more uninterrupted than is usual with men who go through much intellectual labor. the solitary objection to his system is the excessive regularity of habit to which it bound him by chains of his own forging. he found a quiet happiness in this regularity; indeed, happiness is said to be more commonly found in habit that in anything else, so deeply does it satisfy a great permanent instinct of our nature. but a _minute_ regularity of habit is objectionable, because it can only be practicable at home, and is compatible only with an existence of the most absolute tranquillity. kant did not travel, and never could have travelled. he was a bachelor, and could not have ceased to be a bachelor, without a disturbance that would have been intolerable to him. he enjoyed the full benefits of his system without experiencing its disadvantages, but any considerable change of situation would have made the disadvantages apparent. few lives can be so minutely regulated without risk of future inconvenience. kant's example is a good one so far as this, that it proved a sort of independence of character which would be valuable to every student. all who need to keep their minds in the best possible condition ought to have resolution enough to regulate their living in a manner which experience, in their case, proves to be most favorable. whatever may be the authority of custom, a wise man makes himself independent of usages which are impediments to his best activity. i know an author who was always unwell about eleven o'clock in the morning--so unwell that he could do nothing but lament his miserable fate. knowing by experience the powerful effect of regimen, i inquired whether he enjoyed his breakfast. "no, he did not." "then why did he attempt to eat any breakfast?" it turned out that this foolish man swallowed every morning two cups of bad coffee and a quantity of greasy food, from a patriotic deference to the customs of his country. he was persuaded to abandon this unsuitable habit and to eat nothing till half-past ten, when his adviser prescribed a well-cooked little _déjeuner à la fourchette_, accompanied by half a bottle of sound bordeaux. the effect was magical. my friend felt light and cheerful before _déjeuner_, and worked quite happily and well, whilst after _déjeuner_ he felt like a horse that has eaten his corn. nor was the good effect a transitory one; the bad symptoms never returned and he still adheres to his new arrangement. this little reform made a wretched existence happy, and has had for its result an increase in production with a diminution of fatigue. the explanation is that the stomach did not ask for the early breakfast, and had a hard fight to overcome it, after which came exhaustion and a distaste both for food and work. there are cases where an opposite rule is the right one. an englishman living in paris found the french _déjeuner_ unsuitable for him, and discovered that he worked best on a substantial english breakfast, with strong tea, at eight in the morning, after which he went on working all day without any further nourishment till dinner at six in the evening. a friend of sir walter scott's, who had stayed with him at abbotsford, told me that sir walter ate and drank like everybody else as to times and seasons, but much more abundantly than people of less vigorous organization. goethe used to work till eleven without taking anything, then he drank a cup of chocolate and worked till one. "at two he dined. this meal was the important meal of the day. his appetite was immense. even on the days when he complained of not being hungry he ate much more than most men. puddings, sweets, and cakes were always welcome. he sat a long while over his wine. he was fond of wine, and drank daily his two or three bottles." an eminent french publisher, one of the most clear-headed and hard-working men of his generation, never touched food or drink till six in the evening, when he ate an excellent dinner with his guests. he found this system favorable to his work, but a man of less robust constitution would have felt exhausted in the course of the day. turgot could not work well till after he had dined copiously, but many men cannot think after a substantial meal; and here, in spite of the example set by scott and goethe, let me observe that nothing interferes so much with brainwork as over-eating. the intellectual workman requires nourishment of the best possible quality, but the quantity ought always to be well within the capacity of his digestive powers. the truth appears to be, that whilst the intellectual life makes very large demands upon nutrition--for cerebral activity cannot go forward without constant supplies of force, which must come ultimately from what we have eaten--this kind of life, being sedentary, is unfavorable to the work of digestion. brain-workers cannot eat like sportsmen and farmers without losing many hours in torpor, and yet they need nutrition as much as if they led active lives. the only way out of this difficulty is to take care that the food is good enough for a moderate quantity of it to maintain the physical and mental powers. the importance of scientific cookery can hardly be exaggerated. intellectual labor is, in its origin, as dependent upon the art of cookery as the dissemination of its results is dependent upon paper-making and printing. this is one of those matters which people cannot be brought to consider seriously; but cookery in its perfection--the great science of preparing food in the way best suited to our use--is really the most important of all sciences, and the mother of the arts. the wonderful theory that the most ignorant cookery is the most favorable to health is only fit for the dark ages. it is grossly and stupidly untrue. a scientific cook will keep you in regular health, when an ignorant one will offer you the daily alternative of starving or indigestion. the great question of drinks is scarcely less important. sound natural wines, not strengthened by any addition of alcohol, are known to supply both stimulus and nourishment to the brain. goethe's practice was not irrational, though he drank fifty thousand bottles in his lifetime. still it is not necessary to imitate him to this extent. the wine-drinking populations have keener and livelier wits than those who use other beverages. it is proved by long experience that the pure juice of the grape sustains the force and activity of the brain. the poets who from age to age have sung the praise of wine were not wholly either deceivers or deceived. in the lands of the vine, where the plant is looked upon as a nursing mother, men do not injure their health by drinking; but in the colder north, where the grape can never ripen, the deaths from intemperance are frequent. bread and wine are almost pure gifts of nature, though both are prepared by man after the old traditional ways. these are not poisons, but gin and absinthe are poisons, madness poured out from a bottle! kant and goethe loved the pure rhine wine, and their brains were clear and vigorous to the utmost span of life. it was not wine that ruined burns and byron, or baudelaire, or alfred de musset. notwithstanding kant's horror of beer, that honest northern drink deserves our friendly recognition. it has quite a peculiar effect upon the nervous system, giving a rest and calm which no other drink can procure for it so safely. it is said that beer drinkers are slow, and a little stupid; that they have an ox-like placidity not quite favorable to any brilliant intellectual display. but there are times when this placidity is what the laboring brain most needs. after the agitations of too active thinking there is safety in a tankard of ale. the wine drinkers are agile, but they are excitable; the beer drinkers are heavy, but in their heaviness there is peace. in that clear golden drink which england has brewed for more than a thousand octobers, and will brew for a thousand more, we may find perhaps some explanation of that absence of irritability which is the safe-guard of the national character, which makes it faithful in its affections, easy to govern, not easy to excite to violence. if i have spoken favorably of beer and wine as having certain intellectual uses, please remember that i recommend only the habitual use of them, not mad rites of bacchus, and even the habitual use only just so far as it may suit the individual constitution. the liberal regimen of scott and goethe would not answer in every case, and there are organizations, often very robust, in which intoxicating drinks of all kinds, even in the most moderate quantity, impede the brain's action instead of aiding it. two of the most able men i have ever known could not drink pure wine of any kind because it sent the blood to the head, with consequent cerebral oppression. and whilst on this subject i ought to observe, that the aid which these stimulants afford, even when the body gratefully accepts them, is often treacherous from its very acceptability. men who are over-driven--and the number of such men is unhappily very great in these days--say that without stimulants they could not get through their labor; but the stimulants often delude us as to the limits of our natural powers and encourage us to attempt too much. the help they give us is not altogether illusory; under certain limitations it is real, but many have gone farther than the reality of the assistance warranted. the ally brings to us an increase of forces, but he comes with appearances of power surpassing the reality, and we undertake tasks beyond our strength. in drinking, as in eating, the best rule for the intellectual is moderation in quantity with good quality, a sound wine, and not enough of it to foster self-delusion. the use of tobacco has so much extended itself in the present generation that we are all obliged to make a decision for ourselves on the ancient controversy between its friends and enemies. we cannot form a reasonable opinion about tobacco without bearing in mind that it produces, according to circumstances, one of two entirely distinct and even opposite classes of effects. in certain states of the body it acts as a stimulant, in other states as a narcotic. people who have a dislike to smoking affirm that it stupefies; but this assertion, at least so far as the temporary consequences are concerned, is not supported by experience. most of the really brilliant conversations that i have listened to have been accompanied by clouds of tobacco-smoke; and a great deal of the best literary composition that is produced by contemporary authors is wrought by men who are actually smoking whilst they work. my own experience is that very moderate smoking acts as a pleasant stimulus upon the brain, whilst it produces a temporary lassitude of the muscular system, not perceptible in times of rest, but an appreciable hindrance in times of muscular exertion. it is better therefore for men who feel these effects from tobacco to avoid it when they are in exercise, and to use it only when the body rests and the mind labors. pray remember, however, that this is the experience of an exceedingly moderate smoker, who has not yet got himself into the general condition of body which is brought on by a larger indulgence in tobacco. on the other hand, it is evident that men engaged in physical labor find a muscular stimulus in occasional smoking, and not a temporary lassitude. it is probable that the effect varies with individual cases, and is never precisely what our own experience would lead us to imagine. for excessive smokers, it appears to be little more than the tranquillizing of a sort of uneasiness, the continual satisfaction of a continual craving. i have never been able to ascertain that moderate smoking diminished intellectual force; but i have observed in excessive smokers a decided weakening of the will, and a preference for talking about work to the effort of actual labor. the opinions of medical men on this subject are so much at variance that their science only adds to our uncertainty. one doctor tells me that the most moderate smoking is unquestionably injurious, whilst others affirm that it is innocent. speaking simply from self-observation, i find that in my own case tea and coffee are far more perilous than tobacco. almost all english people are habitual tea-drinkers, and as the tea they drink is very strong, they may be said to use it in excess. the unpleasant symptoms which tea-poisoning produces in a patient not inured by habit, disappear in the seasoned tea-drinker, leaving only a certain exhilaration, which appears to be perfectly innocuous. if tea is a safe stimulant, it is certainly an agreeable one, and there seems to be no valid reason why brain-workers should refuse themselves that solace. i knew a worthy clergyman many years ago who from the most conscientious motives denied himself ale and wine, but found a fountain of consolation in the tea-pot. his usual allowance was sixteen cups, all of heroic strength, and the effect upon his brain seems to have been altogether favorable, for his sermons were both long and eloquent, and to this day he is preaching still, without any diminution of his powers. french people find in coffee the most efficacious remedy for the temporary torpor of the mind which results from the processes of digestion. balzac drank great quantities of coffee whilst he wrote; and this, it is believed, brought on the terrible nervous disease that accelerated his end. the best proof that tea and coffee are favorable to intellectual expression is that all nations use one or the other as aids to conversation. in mr. palgrave's travels in arabia there is never any talk without the inevitable coffee, that fragrant arabian berry prepared with such delicate cunning that it yields the perfect aroma. the wisdom of occasionally using these various stimulants for intellectual purposes is proved by a single consideration. each of us has a little cleverness and a great deal of sluggish stupidity. there are certain occasions when we absolutely need the little cleverness that we possess. the orator needs it when he speaks, the poet when he versifies, but neither cares how stupid he may become when the oration is delivered and the lyric set down on paper. the stimulant serves to bring out the talent when it is wanted, like the wind in the pipes of an organ. "what will it matter if i am even a little duller afterwards?" says the genius; "i can afford to be dull when i have done." but the truth still remains that there are stimulants and stimulants. not the nectar of the gods themselves were worth the dash of a wave upon the beach, and the pure cool air of the morning. note.--what is said in the above letter about the employment of stimulants is intended to apply only to cases in which there is no organic disease. the harm which diseased persons do to themselves by conforming to customs which are innocent for others is as lamentable as it is easily avoidable. two bottles of any natural wine grown above the latitude of lyons are a permissible daily allowance to a man whose organs are all sound; but the doctors in the wine districts unanimously forbid pure wine when there is a chronic inflammatory tendency. in these cases even the most honest bordeaux ought to be diluted with twice its volume of water. there are many chronic diseases which tobacco irritates and accelerates. both wine and tobacco are injurious to weak eyes. letter iv. to a muscular christian. muscular and intellectual tendencies in two boys--difficulty of finding time to satisfy both--plato on the influences of music and gymnastics--somnolence and digestion--neglect of literature--natural restlessness of the active temperament--case of a garibaldian officer--difficulty of taking a sufficient interest in exercise--a boar hunt. i know two little boys, sons of a near neighbor, who have from, childhood exhibited opposite tendencies. one of them is incessantly active, always out of doors in any weather, busy about horses, and farming, and game, heedless of his books, and studying only under positive compulsion. the other sits at home with his lessons or a story book, and only goes out because he is incited by the fraternal example. the two lads represent two distinct varieties of human life, the active and the intellectual. the elder is happiest during physical exertion; the younger is happiest when his brain is fully occupied. left entirely to themselves, without the equalizing influence of the outside world and the ways of living which general custom has established, they would lead the most opposite lives. the elder would inevitably become a farmer, that he might live in the country and take exercise all day long, or else he would seek adventure in wild travel, or in romantic warfare; but the younger would very quickly be taken possession of by some engrossing intellectual pursuit, and lead the life of a sedentary student. the problem which these two young lives have before them is the reconciliation of their tendencies. since they come of cultivated parents, the intellectual lad has the better chance of following his own bent. both will have to take their university degrees, and the younger has the advantage there. still there are powerful influences in favor of the elder. his activity will be encouraged by the admiration of his companions, and by the example of the country gentlemen who are his neighbors. he can ride, and row, and swim; he is beginning to shoot; at twenty he will be a sportsman. when once he has taken his degree, i wonder what will be the advances in his intellectual culture. fraternal and social influences will preserve the younger from absolute physical inaction; but there are not any influences powerful enough to keep the elder safe from intellectual rust. if you, who are a distinguished sportsman and athlete, would kindly inform us with perfect frankness of the line which your studies have followed since you quitted eton, we should be the wiser for your experience. have gymnastic exercises hardened you, as plato said they did, when pursued excessively? and do you need the musical studies which he both valued and dreaded as the most powerful of softening influences? if you have energy enough to lead both lives, pray how do you find the time? as to plato's musical influence, you invite it, and yet you treacherously elude its power. after being out all day in the pursuit of sylvan pleasures (if shooting on treeless wastes can be called a sylvan pleasure), you come home at nightfall ravenous. then you do ample justice to your dinner, and having satisfied your _faim de chasseur_, you go into the drawing-room, and ask your wife to play and sing to you. if plato could witness that pretty scene, he would approve your obedience to his counsels. he would behold an athletic englishman stretching his mighty limbs on a couch of soft repose, and letting his soul grow tender as his ears drank ravishing harmonies. if, however, the ancient sage, delighted with so sweet a picture of strength refined by song, were to dwell upon the sight as i have done, he would perceive too soon that, although your body was present indeed, your soul had become deaf in sleep's oblivion. so it happens to you night after night, and the music reaches you no more than the songs of choristers reach the dead in the graves below. and the elevating influences of literature? you have books, of course, in abundance. there is a library, amongst other luxuries of your home. but the literature your intellect feeds upon is in the columns of the _field_, your newspaper. yet this neglect of the means of culture is not due to any natural feebleness of the mind. your brain, by its nature, is as vigorous as your vigorous body. it is sleep, and weariness, and the great necessary business of digestion, that drown your intellectual energies. the work of repairing so great a destruction of muscle is nature's chief concern. since you became the mighty hunter that you are, the wear and tear have been enormous, and the necessary rapidity of reconstruction has absorbed your rich vitality. i will not question the wisdom of your choice, if there has been any deliberate choice, though perhaps the life of action that you lead may have grown rather out of circumstances determining habit than from any conscious resolution. health is so much more necessary to happiness than culture, that few who could choose between them would sacrifice it for learning, unless they were impelled by irresistible instincts. and beyond the great delight of health and strength there is a restlessness in men born to be active which must have its outlet in activity. i knew a brave italian who had followed garibaldi in all his romantic enterprises, who had suffered from privation and from wounds, who had not only faced death in the wildest adventures, but, what is even more terrible to the active temperament, had risked health from frequent exposure; and when i asked him whether it was affection to his famous chief, or faith in a political creed, or some more personal motive that had led him to this scorn of prudence, he answered that, after honest self-examination, he believed the most powerful motive to be the passion for an active life. the active temperament likes physical action for its own sake, and not as a means of health. activity renews itself and claims larger and larger satisfaction, till at last the habit of it absorbs the whole energy of the man. although such a life as yours would be incompatible with the work i have to do, it would be an unmixed benefit to me to take a greater interest in exercise. if you could but communicate that interest, how willingly would i become your pupil! the fatal law of the studious temperament is, that in exercise itself it must find some intellectual charm, so that we quit our books in the library only to go and read the infinite book of nature. we cannot go out in the country without incessantly thinking about either botany, or geology, or landscape painting, and it is difficult for us to find a refuge from the importunate habit of investigation. sport is the only refuge, but the difficulty is to care about it sufficiently to avoid _ennui_. when you have not the natural instinct, how are you to supply its place by any make-believe excitement? there is no position in the world more wearisome than that of a man inwardly indifferent to the amusement in which he is trying to take part. _you_ can watch for game with an invincible patience, for you have the natural instinct, but after the first ten minutes on the skirts of the wood i lay my gun down and begin to botanize. last week a friendly neighbor invited me to a boar-hunt. the boar was supposed to be in the middle of a great impenetrable plantation, and all i did during the whole morning was to sit in my saddle awaiting the exit of the beast, cantering from one point of the wood's circumference to another, as the cry of the dogs guided me. was it pleasure? a true hunter would have found interest enough in expectation, but i felt like a man on a railway-platform who is waiting for a train that is late. letter v. to a student who neglected bodily exercise. difficulty of conciliating the animal and the intellectual lives--bodily activity sometimes preserved by an effort of the will--necessity of faith in exercise--incompatibility between physical and intellectual living disappears in large spaces of time--franklin's theory about concentration in exercise--time an essential factor--health of a rural postman--pedestrian habits of wordsworth--pedestrian and equestrian habits of sir walter scott--goethe's wild delight in physical exercise--alexander humboldt combated early delicacy by exercise--intellectual utilities of physical action. "we have done those things which we ought not to have done; we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and there is no health in us." how applicable, my dear brother, are these words which the church, in her wisdom, has seen to be adapted to all sinners--how applicable, i say, are they to students most especially! they have quite a personal applicability to you and me. we have read all day long, and written till three o'clock in the morning; we have taken no exercise for weeks, and there is no health in us. the doctor scrutinizes our wearied eyes, and knows that our brains are weary. little do we need his warnings, for does not nature herself remind us of our disobedience, and tell us in language not to be misinterpreted, to amend the error of our ways? our digestion is sluggish and imperfect; we are as nervous as delicate ladies, and there is no health in us. how easy it is to follow one of the two lives--the animal or the intellectual! how difficult to conciliate the two! in every one of us there exists an animal which might have been as vigorous as wolves and foxes, if it had been left to develop itself in freedom. but besides the animal, there existed also a mind, and the mental activity restrained the bodily activity, till at last there is a serious danger of putting an end to it altogether. i know two men, about fifty-five years old both of them, and both of them admirably active. they tell me that their bodily activity has been preserved by an effort of the will; that if they had not resolutely kept up the habit of using legs and arms in daily work or amusement their limbs would have stiffened into uselessness, and their constitutions would have been unable to bear the call of any sudden emergency. one of them has four residences in different parts of the same county, and yet he will not keep a carriage, but is a pedestrian terrible to his friends; the other is at the head of a great business, and gives an example of physical activity to his workpeople. both have an absolute faith in habitual exercise; and both affirm that if the habit were once broken they could never afterwards resume it. we need this faith in exercise--this firm conviction of its necessity--the sort of conviction that makes a man go out in all weathers, and leave the most urgent intellectual labor for the mere discipline and hardening of the body. few students possess this faith in its purity. it is hard to believe that we shall get any good from exercise proportionate to the sacrifice of time. the incompatibility between the physical and the intellectual lives is often very marked if you look at small spaces of time only; but if you consider broader spaces, such as a lifetime, then the incompatibility is not so marked, and gives place to a manifest conciliation. the brain is clearer in vigorous health than it can be in the gloom and misery of sickness; and although health may last for a while without renewal from exercise, so that if you are working under pressure for a month the time given to exercise is so much deducted from the result, it is not so for the life's performance. health sustained for many years is so useful to the realization of all considerable intellectual undertakings, that the sacrifice to the bodily well-being is the best of all possible investments. franklin's theory about concentrating his exercise for the economy of time was founded upon a mistake. violent exertion for minutes is _not_ equivalent to moderate exercise for hours. the desire to concentrate good of various kinds into the smallest possible space is one of the commonest of _human_ wishes, but it is not encouraged by the broader economy of nature. in the exercise of the mind every teacher is well aware that time is an essential factor. it is necessary to _live_ with a study for hundreds or thousands of hours before the mind can assimilate as much of the subject as it may need; and so it is necessary to live in exercise during a thousand hours of every year to make sure of the physical benefits. even the fresh air itself requires time to renovate our blood. the fresh air cannot be concentrated; and to breathe the prodigious quantities of it which are needed for perfect energy, we must be out in it frequently and long. the inhabitants of great cities have recourse to gymnastics as a substitute for the sports of the country. these exercises have one advantage--they can be directed scientifically so as to strengthen the limbs that need development; but no city gymnasium can offer the invigorating breezes of the mountain. we require not only exercise but exposure--daily exposure to the health-giving inclemencies of the weather. the postman who brings my letters walks eight thousand miles a year, and enjoys the most perfect regularity of health. there are operatives in factories who go through quite as much bodily exertion, but they have not his fine condition. he is as merry as a lark, and announces himself every morning like a bearer of joyful tidings. what the postman does from necessity an old gentleman did as regularly, though more moderately, for the preservation of his health and faculties. he went out every day; and as he never consulted the weather, so he never had to consult the physicians. nothing in the habits of wordsworth--that model of excellent habits--can be better as an example to men of letters than his love of pedestrian excursions. wherever he happened to be, he explored the whole neighborhood on foot, looking into every nook and cranny of it; and not merely the immediate neighborhood, but extended tracts of country; and in this way he met with much of his best material. scott was both a pedestrian and an equestrian traveller, having often, as he tells us, walked thirty miles or ridden a hundred in those rich and beautiful districts which afterwards proved to him such a mine of literary wealth. goethe took a wild delight in all sorts of physical exercise--swimming in the ilm by moonlight, skating with the merry little weimar court on the schwansee, riding about the country on horseback, and becoming at times quite outrageous in the rich exuberance of his energy. alexander humboldt was delicate in his youth, but the longing for great enterprises made him dread the hindrances of physical insufficiency, so he accustomed his body to exercise and fatigue, and prepared himself for those wonderful explorations which opened his great career. here are intellectual lives which were forwarded in their special aims by habits of physical exercise; and, in an earlier age, have we not also the example of the greatest intellect of a great epoch, the astonishing leonardo da vinci, who took such a delight in horsemanship that although, as vasari tells us, poverty visited him often, he never could sell his horses or dismiss his grooms? the physical and intellectual lives are not incompatible. i may go farther, and affirm that the physical activity of men eminent in literature has added abundance to their material and energy to their style; that the activity of scientific men has led them to innumerable discoveries; and that even the more sensitive and contemplative study of the fine arts has been carried to a higher perfection by artists who painted action in which they had had their part, or natural beauty, which they had travelled far to see. even philosophy itself owes much to mere physical courage and endurance. how much that is noblest in ancient thinking may be due to the hardy health of socrates! letter vi. to an author in mortal disease. considering death as a certainty--the wisdom learned from suffering--employment of happier intervals--the teaching of the diseased not to be rejected--their double experience--ignorance of nature's spoiled children--benefit of disinterested thought--reasons for pursuing intellectual labors to the last--geoffroy saint-hilaire. when alexandre bixio lay on his death-bed, his friend labrousse visited him, and exclaimed on entering the room, "how well you are looking to-day!" to this, bixio, who was clearly aware of his condition, answered in these words:--"voyons, mon pauvre labrousse; tu viens voir un homme qui n'a plus qu'un quart d'heure a vivre, et tu veux lui faire croire qu'il a bonne mine; allons, une poignée de main, cela vaut mieux pour un homme que tous ces petits mensonges-lá." i will vex you with none of these well-meant but wearisome little falsehoods. we both of us know your state; we both know that your malady, though it may be alleviated, can never be cured; and that the fatal termination of it, though delayed by all the artifices of science, will certainly arrive at last. the cheerful courage which enables you to look this certainty in the face has also enabled you to extract from years of suffering that profoundest wisdom which (as one of the wisest of living englishmen has told us) can be learned from suffering alone. the admirable elasticity of your intellectual and moral nature has enabled you, in the intervals of physical uneasiness or pain, to cast aside every morbid thought, to enter quite fully and heartily into the healthy life of others, and to enjoy the magnificent spectacle of the universe with contented submission to its laws--those beneficent yet relentless laws which to you bring debility and death. you have continued to write notwithstanding the progress of your malady; and yet, since it has so pitilessly held you, there is no other change in the spirit of your compositions than the deepening of a graver beauty, the addition of a sweeter seriousness. not one sentence that you have written betrays either the injustice of the invalid, or his irritability. your mind is not clouded by any mist from the fever marshes, but its sympathies are far more active than they were. your pain has taught you a tender pity for all the pain that is outside of you, and a patient gentleness which was wanting to your nature in its days of barbarian health. surely it would be a lamentable error if mankind were to carry out the recommendation of certain ruthless philosophers, and reject the help and teaching of the diseased. without undervaluing the robust performance of healthy natures, and without encouraging literature that is morbid, that is fevered, impatient, and perverse, we may still prize the noble teaching which is the testament of sufferers to the world. the diseased have a peculiar and mysterious experience; they have known the sensations of health, and then, in addition to this knowledge, they have gained another knowledge which enables them to think more accurately even of health itself. a life without suffering would be like a picture without shade. the pets of nature, who do not know what suffering is, and cannot realize it, have always a certain rawness, like foolish landsmen who laugh at the terrors of the ocean, because they have neither experience enough to know what those terrors are, nor brains enough to imagine them. you who are borne along, slowly but irresistibly, to that niagara which plunges into the gulf of death,--you who, with perfect self-possession and heroic cheerfulness, are counting the last miles of the voyage,--find leisure to study and think as the boat glides onwards silently to the inevitable end. it is one of the happiest privileges of the high intellectual life that it can elevate us--at least in the intervals of relief from complete prostration or acute pain--to regions of disinterested thought, where all personal anxieties are forgotten. to feel that he is still able, even in days of physical weakness and decline, to add something to the world's inheritance of knowledge, or to bequeath to it some new and noble thought in the pearl of complete expression, is a profound satisfaction to the active mind that is lodged in a perishing body. many diseases fortunately permit this activity to the last; and i do not hesitate to affirm, that the work done in the time of physical decline has in not a few instances been the most perfect and the most permanently valuable. it is not accurately true that the mind and the body invariably fail together. physicians who know how prevalent chronic diseases are, and how many eminent men are physically inconvenienced by them, know also that minds of great spiritual energy possess the wonderful faculty of indefinitely improving themselves whilst the body steadily deteriorates. nor is there anything irrational in this persistent improvement of the mind, even to the extremest limit of material decay; for the mind of every intellectual human being is part and parcel of the great permanent mind of humanity; and even if its influence soon ceases to be traceable--if the spoken words are forgotten--if the written volume is not reprinted or even quoted, it has not worked in vain. the intellectual light of europe in this century is not only due to great luminaries whom every one can name, but to millions of thoughtful persons, now utterly forgotten, who in their time loved the light, and guarded it, and increased it, and carried it into many lands, and bequeathed it as a sacred trust. he who labors only for his personal pleasure may well be discouraged by the shortness and uncertainty of life, and cease from his selfish toil on the first approaches of disease; but whoever has fully realized the grand continuity of intellectual tradition, and taken his own place in it between the future and the past, will work till he can work no more, and then gaze hopefully on the world's great future, like geoffroy saint-hilaire, when his blind eyes beheld the future of zoology. letter vii. to a young man of brilliant ability, who had just taken his degree. a domestic picture--thoughts suggested by it--importance of the senses in intellectual pursuits--importance of hearing to madame de stael--importance of seeing to mr. buskin--mr. prescott, the historian--how blindness retarded his work--value of all the five senses--self-government indispensable to their perfection--great value of longevity to the intellectual life. it is always a great pleasure to me to pass an evening at your father's house; but on the last occasion that pleasure was very much enhanced because you were once more with us. i watched your mother's eyes as she sat in her place in the drawing-room. they followed you almost without ceasing, and there was the sweetest, happiest expression on her dear face, that betrayed her tender maternal love for you and her legitimate maternal pride. your father was equally happy in his own way; he was much more gay and talkative than i have seen him for two or three anxious years; he told amusing stories; he entered playfully into the jests of others; he had pleasant projects for the future, and spoke of them with facetious exaggeration. i sat quietly in my corner, slyly observing my old friends, and amusing myself by discovering (it did not need much perspicacity for that) the hidden sources of the happiness that was so clearly visible. they were gladdened by the first successes of your manhood; by the evidence of your strength; by the realization of hopes long cherished. watching this charming picture with a perfect sympathy, i began to have certain thoughts of my own which it is my present purpose to communicate to you without disguise. i thought, first, how agreeable it was to be the spectator of so pretty a picture; but then my eyes wandered to a painting that hung upon the walls, in which also there were a mother and her son, and this led me a long way. the painting was a hundred years old; but although the colors were not quite so fresh as when they left the palette of the artist, the beautiful youth who stood radiant like a young apollo in the centre of the composition had not lost one of the great gifts with which his cunning human creator had endowed him. the fire of his eye had not been quenched by time; the bloom of his cheek still flushed with faint vermilion; his lip was full and imperious; his limbs athletic; his bearing haughty and dauntless. all life seemed spread before him like a beautiful rich estate of which every acre was his own. how easily will he conquer fame! how easily kindle passion. who shall withstand this pink and perfection of aristocracy--this ideal of the age of fine gentlemen, with all the gifts of nature helped by all the inventions of art? then i thought farther: "that splendid young nobleman in the picture will look just as young as he does now when we shall be either superannuated or dead." and i looked at you and your mother again and thought: "it is just five minutes since i saw these two living beings, and in this little space of time they have both of them aged a little, though no human observer has enough delicacy of perception to detect so inappreciable an alteration." i went gradually on and on into the future, trying to imagine the changes which would come over yourself more especially (for it was you who were the centre of my reverie), till at last i imagined pretty accurately what you might be at sixty; but there it became necessary to stop, because it was too difficult to conceive the processes of decay. after this, one thought grew upon me and became dominant. i thought, at present he has all the senses in their perfection, and they serve him without a hitch. he is an intelligence served by organs, and the organs are all doing their duty as faithfully as a postman who brings letters. when the postman becomes too infirm to do his work he will retire on his little pension, and another will take his place and bring the letters just as regularly; but when the human organs become infirm they cannot be taken out and replaced by new ones, so that we must content ourselves to the end, with their service, such as it may be. then i reflected how useful the senses are to the high intellectual life, and how wise it is, even for intellectual purposes, to preserve them as long as possible in their perfection. to be able to see and hear well--to feel healthy sensations--even to taste and smell properly, are most important qualifications for the pursuit of literature, and art, and science. if you read attentively the work of any truly illustrious poet, you will find that the whole of the imagery which gives power and splendor to his verse is derived from nature through one or other of these ordinary channels. some philosophers have gone much farther than this, and have affirmed that the entire intellectual life is based ultimately upon remembered physical sensations; that we have no mental conception that is really independent of sensuous experience; and that the most abstract thought is only removed from sensation by successive processes of substitution, i have not space to enter into so great and mysterious a subject as this; but i desire to draw your attention to a truth very commonly overlooked by intellectual people, which is the enormous importance of the organs of sense in the highest intellectual pursuits. i will couple together two names which have owed their celebrity, one chiefly to the use of her ears, the other to the use of his eyes. madame de stael obtained her literary material almost exclusively by means of conversation. she directed, systematically, the talk of the learned and brilliant men amongst whom she lived to the subject which for the moment happened to occupy her thoughts. her literary process (which is known to us in detail through the revelations of her friends) was purposely invented to catch everything that she heard, as a net catches fish in a river. first, she threw down on paper a very brief rough draft of the intended literary project. this she showed to few, but from it she made a second "state" (as an engraver would say), which she exhibited to some of her trusted friends, profiting by their hints and suggestions. her secretary copied the corrected manuscript, incorporating the new matter, on paper with a very broad margin for farther additions. during all the time that it took to carry her work through these successive states, that ingenious woman made the best possible use of her ears, which were her natural providers. she made everybody talk who was likely to be of any use to her, and then immediately added what she had caught on the wide margin reserved for that purpose. she used her eyes so little that she might almost as well have been blind. we have it on her own authority, that were it not out of respect to custom, she would not open her window to see the bay of naples for the first time, whereas she would travel five hundred leagues to talk with a clever man whom she had never met. now since madame de stael's genius fed itself exclusively through the faculty of hearing, what an enormous difference it would have made to her if she had been deaf! it is probable that the whole of her literary reputation was dependent on the condition of her ears. even a very moderate degree of deafness (just enough to make listening irksome) might have kept her in perpetual obscurity. the next instance i intend to give is that of a distinguished contemporary, mr. ruskin. his peculiar position in literature is due to his being able to see as cultivated artists see. everything that is best and most original in his writings is invariably either an account of what he has seen in his own independent inimitable way, or else a criticism of the accurate or defective sight of others. his method of study, by drawing and taking written memoranda of what he has seen, is entirely different from madame de stael's method, but refers always, as hers did, to the testimony of the predominant sense. every one whose attention has been attracted to the subject is aware that, amongst people who are commonly supposed, to see equally well, and who are not suspected of any tendency to blindness, the degrees of perfection in this sense vary to infinity. suppose that mr. ruskin (to our great misfortune) had been endowed with no better eyes than many persons who see fairly well in the ordinary sense, his enjoyment and use of sight would have been so much diminished that he would have had little enthusiasm about seeing, and yet that kind of enthusiasm was quite essential to his work. the well-known instance of mr. prescott, the historian, is no doubt a striking proof what _may_ be accomplished by a man of remarkable intellectual ability without the help of sight, or rather helped by the sight of others. we have also heard of a blind traveller, and even of a blind entomologist; but in all cases of this kind they are executive difficulties to be overcome, such that only the most resolute natures would ever dream of encountering them. when the materials for the "reign of ferdinand and isabella" arrived in prescott's house from europe, his remaining eye had just suffered from over-exertion to such a degree that he could not use it again for years. "i well remember," he wrote in a letter to a friend, "the blank despair which i felt when my literary treasures arrived, and i saw the mine of wealth lying around me which i was forbidden to explore." and although, by a most tedious process, which would have worn out the patience of any other author, mr. prescott did at last arrive at the conclusion of his work, it cost him ten years of labor--probably thrice as much time as would have been needed by an author of equal intellectual ability without any infirmity of sight. although, of the five senses which god has given us, sight and hearing are the most necessary to the intellectual life, it may easily be demonstrated that the lower ones are not without their intellectual uses. perfect literature and art can only he produced by men who are perfect in all their natural faculties. the great creative intellects have never been ascetics; they have been rightly and healthily sensitive to every kind of pleasure. the taste of fruits and wines, the perfume of flowers are a part of the means by which the spirit of nature influences our most secret thoughts, and conveys to us suggestions, or carries us into states of feeling which have an enormous effect upon our thinking, though the manner in which the effect is produced is one of the deepest mysteries of our mysterious being. when the caliph vathek added five wings to the palace of alkoremmi, on the hill of pied horses, for the particular gratification of each of his five senses, he only did on a uselessly large scale what every properly-endowed human being does, when he can afford it, on a small one. you will not suspect me of preaching unlimited indulgence. the very object of this letter is to recommend, for intellectual purposes, the careful preservation of the senses in the freshness of their perfection, and this is altogether incompatible with every species of excess. if you are to see clearly all your life, you must not sacrifice eyesight by over-straining it; and the same law of moderation is the condition of preserving every other faculty. i want you to know the exquisite taste of common dry bread; to enjoy the perfume of a larch wood at a distance; to feel delight when a sea-wave dashes over you. i want your eye to be so sensitive that it shall discern the faintest tones of a gray cloud, and yet so strong that it shall bear to gaze on a white one in the dazzling glory of sunshine. i would have your hearing sharp enough to detect the music of the spheres, if it were but audible, and yet your nervous system robust enough to endure the shock of the guns on an ironclad. to have and keep these powers we need a firmness of self-government that is rare. young men are careless of longevity; but how precious are added years to the fulness of the intellectual life! there are lives, such as that of major pendennis, which only diminish in value as they advance--when the man of fashion is no longer fashionable, and the sportsman can no longer stride over the ploughed fields. the old age of the major pendennises is assuredly not to be envied: but how rich is the age of the hunboldts! i compare the life of the intellectual to a long wedge of gold--the thin end of it begins at birth, and the depth and value of it go on indefinitely increasing till at last comes death (a personage for whom nathaniel hawthorne had a peculiar dislike, for his unmannerly habit of interruption), who stops the auriferous processes. oh, the mystery of the nameless ones who have died when the wedge was thin and looked so poor and light! oh, the happiness of the fortunate old men whose thoughts went deeper and deeper like a wall that runs out into the sea! note.--one of the most painful cases of interruption caused by death is that of cuvier. his paralysis came upon him whilst he was still in full activity, and death prevented him from arranging a great accumulation of scientific material. he said to m. pasquier, "i had great things still to do; all was ready in my head. after thirty years of labor and research, there remained but to write, and now the hands fail, and carry with them the head." but the most lamentable instances of this kind of interruption are, from the nature of things, unknown to us. even the friends of the deceased cannot estimate the extent of the loss, for a man's immediate neighbors are generally the very last persons to become aware of the nature of his powers or the value of his acquirements. part ii. the moral basis. letter i. to a moralist who had said that there was a want of moral fibre in the intellectual, especially in poets and artists. the love of intellectual pleasure--the seeking for a stimulus--intoxication of poetry and oratory--other mental intoxications--the bishop of exeter on drudgery--the labor of composition in poetry--wordsworth's dread of it--moore--his trouble with "lalla rookh"--his painstaking in preparation--necessity of patient industry in other arts--john lewis, meissonier, mulready--drudgery in struggling against technical difficulties--water-color painting, etching, oil-painting, fresco, line-engraving--labor undergone for mere discipline--moral strength of students--giordano bruno. you told me the other day that you believed the inducement to what i called intellectual living to be merely the love of pleasure--pleasure of a higher kind, no doubt, than that which we derive from wine, yet fairly comparable to it. you went on to say that you could not, from the moral point of view, discern any appreciable difference between intoxicating oneself by means of literature or art and getting tipsy on port wine or brandy; that the reading of poetry, most especially was clearly self-intoxication--a service of venus and bacchus, in which the suggestions of artfully-ordered words were used as substitutes for the harem and the wine-flask. completing the expression of this idea, you said that the excitement produced by oratory was exactly of the same nature as the excitement produced by gin, so that mr. bright and m. gambetta--nay, even a gentleman so respectable as the late lord derby--belonged strictly to the same profession as the publicans, being dealers in stimulants, and no more. the habitual student was, in your view, nothing better than the helpless victim of unresisted appetite, to whom intellectual intoxication, having been at first a pleasure, had finally become a necessity. you added that any rational person who found himself sinking into such a deplorable condition as this, would have recourse to some severe discipline as a preservative--a discipline requiring close attention to common things, and rigorously excluding every variety of thought which could possibly be considered intellectual. it is strictly true that the three intellectual pursuits--literature, science, and the fine arts--are all of them strong stimulants, and that men are attracted to them by the stimulus they give. but these occupations are morally much nearer to the common level of other occupations than you suppose. there is no doubt a certain intoxication in poetry and painting; but i have seen a tradesman find a fully equivalent intoxication in an addition of figures showing a delightful balance at his banker's. i have seen a young poet intoxicated with the love of poetry; but i have also seen a young mechanical genius on whom the sight of a locomotive acted exactly like a bottle of champagne. everything that is capable of exciting or moving man, everything that fires him with enthusiasm, everything that sustains his energies above the dead level of merely animal existence, may be compared, and not very untruly, to the action of generous wine. the two most powerful mental stimulants--since they overcome even the fear of death--are unquestionably religion and patriotism: ardent states of feeling both of them when they are genuine; yet this ardor has a great utility. it enables men to bear much, to perform much which would be beyond their natural force if it were not sustained by powerful mental stimulants. and so it is in the intellectual life. it is because its labors are so severe that its pleasures are so glorious. the creator of intellectual man set him the most arduous tasks--tasks that required the utmost possible patience, courage, self-discipline, and which at the same time were for the most part, from their very nature, likely to receive only the most meagre and precarious pecuniary reward. therefore, in order that so poor and weak a creature might execute its gigantic works with the energy necessary to their permanence, the labor itself was made intensely attractive and interesting to the few who were fitted for it by their constitution. since their courage could not be maintained by any of the common motives which carry men through ordinary drudgery--since neither wealth nor worldly position was in their prospects, the drudgery they had to go through was to be rewarded by the triumphs of scientific discovery, by the felicities of artistic expression. a divine drunkenness was given to them for their encouragement, surpassing the gift of the grape. but now that i have acknowledged, not ungratefully, the necessity of that noble excitement which is the life of life, it is time for me to add that, in the daily labor of all intellectual workers, much has to be done which requires a robustness of the moral constitution beyond what you appear to be aware of. it is not long since the present bishop of exeter truly affirmed, in an address to a body of students, that if there were not weariness in work, that work was not so thorough-going as it ought to be. "of all work," the bishop said, "that produces results, nine-tenths must be drudgery. there is no work, from the highest to the lowest, which can be done well by any man who is unwilling to make that sacrifice. part of the very nobility of the devotion of the true workman to his work consists in the fact that a man is not daunted by finding that drudgery must be done; and no man can really succeed in any walk of life without a good deal of what in ordinary english is called pluck. that is the condition of all work whatever, and it is the condition of all success. and there is nothing which so truly repays itself as this very perseverance against weariness." you understand, no doubt, that there is drudgery in the work of a lawyer or an accountant, but you imagine that there is no drudgery in that of an artist, or author, or man of science. in these cases you fancy that there is nothing but a pleasant intoxication, like the puffing of tobacco or the sipping of claret after dinner. the bishop sees more accurately. he knows that "of _all_ work that produces results nine-tenths must be drudgery." he makes no exceptions in favor of the arts and sciences; if he had made any such exceptions, they would have proved the absence of culture in himself. real work of all descriptions, even including the composition of poetry (the most intoxicating of all human pursuits), contains drudgery in so large a proportion that considerable moral courage is necessary to carry it to a successful issue. some of the most popular writers of verse have dreaded the labor of composition. wordsworth shrank from it much more sensitively than he did from his prosaic labors as a distributor of stamps. he had that _horreur de la plume_ which is a frequent malady amongst literary men. but we feel, in reading wordsworth, that composition was a serious toil to him--the drudgery is often visible. let me take, then, the case of a writer of verse distinguished especially for fluency and ease--the lightest, gayest, apparently most thoughtless of modern minstrels--the author of "the irish melodies" and "lalla rookh." moore said--i quote from memory and may not give the precise words, but they were to this effect--that although the first shadowy imagining of a new poem was a delicious fool's paradise, the labor of actual composition was something altogether different. he did not, i believe, exactly use the word "drudgery," but his expression implied that there was painful drudgery in the work. when he began to write "lalla rookh" the task was anything but easy to him. he said that he was "at all times a far more slow and painstaking workman than would ever be guessed from the result." for a long time after the conclusion of the agreement with messrs. longman, "though generally at work with a view to this task, he made but very little real progress in it." after many unsatisfactory attempts, finding that his subjects were so slow in kindling his own sympathies, he began to despair of their ever touching the hearts of others. "had this series of disheartening experiments been carried on much further, i must have thrown aside the work in despair." he took the greatest pains in long and laboriously preparing himself by reading. "to form a storehouse, as it were, of illustrations purely oriental, and so familiarize myself with its various treasures that, quick as fancy required the aid of fact in her spiritings, the memory was ready to furnish materials for the spell-work; such was, for a long while, the sole object of my studies." after quoting some opinions favorable to the truth of his oriental coloring, he says: "whatever of vanity there may be in citing such tributes, they show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry, is that prosaic quality, industry, since it was in a slow and laborious collection of small facts that the first foundations of this fanciful romance were laid." other fine arts make equally large claims upon the industry of their professors. we see the charming result, which looks as if it were nothing but pleasure--the mere sensuous gratification of an appetite for melody or color; but no one ever eminently succeeded in music or painting without patient submission to a discipline far from attractive or entertaining. an idea was very prevalent amongst the upper classes in england, between twenty and thirty years ago, that art was not a serious pursuit, and that frenchmen were too frivolous to apply themselves seriously to anything. when, however, the different schools of art in europe came to be exhibited together, the truth began to dawn upon people's minds that the french and belgian schools of painting had a certain superiority over the rest--a superiority of quite a peculiar sort; and when the critics applied themselves to discover the hidden causes of this generally perceived superiority, they found out that it was due in great measure to the patient drudgery submitted to by those foreign artists in their youth. english painters who have attained distinction have gone through a like drudgery, if not in the public _atelier_ at least in secrecy and solitude. mr. john lewis, in reply to an application for a drawing to be reproduced by the autotype process, and published in the _portfolio_, said that his sketches and studies were all in color, but if we liked to examine them we were welcome to select anything that might be successfully photographed. not being in london at the time, i charged an experienced friend to go and see if there were anything that would answer our purpose. soon afterward he wrote: "i have just been to see john lewis, and have come away _astounded_." he had seen the vast foundations of private industry on which the artist's public work had been erected,--innumerable studies in color, wrought with the most perfect care and finish, and all for self-education merely, not for any direct reward in fame. we have all admired the extraordinary power of representation in the little pictures of meissonier; that power was acquired by painting studies _life-size_ for self-instruction, and the artist has sustained his knowledge by persistence in that practice. mulready, between the conception of a new picture and the execution of it, used to give himself a special training for the intended work by painting a study in color of every separate thing that was to form part of the composition. it is useless to go on multiplying these examples, since all great artists, without exception, have been distinguished for their firm faith in steady well-directed labor. this faith was so strong in reynolds that it limited his reasoning powers, and prevented him from assigning their due importance to the inborn natural gifts. not only in their preparations for work, but even in the work itself, do artists undergo drudgery. it is the peculiarity of their work that, more than any other human work, it displays whatever there may be in it of pleasure and felicity, putting the drudgery as much out of sight as possible; but all who know the secrets of the studio are aware of the ceaseless struggles against technical difficulty which are the price of the charms that pleasantly deceive us. the amateur tries to paint in water-color, and finds that the gradation of his sky will not come right; instead of being a sound gradation like that of the heavenly blue, it is all in spots and patches. then he goes to some clever artist who seems to get the right thing with enviable ease. "is my paper good? have my colors been properly ground?" the materials are sound enough, but the artist confesses one of the discouraging little secrets of his craft. "the fact is," he says, "those spots that you complain of happen to all of us, and very troublesome they are, especially in dark tints; the only way is to remove them as patiently as we can, and it sometimes takes several days. if one or two of them remain in spite of us, we turn them into birds." in etching, the most famous practitioners get into messes with the treacherous chemistry of their acids, and need an invincible patience. even méryon was always very anxious when the time came for confiding his work to what he called the _traitresse liqueur_; and whenever i give a commission to an etcher, i am always expecting some such despatch as the following: "plate utterly ruined in the biting. very sorry. will begin another immediately." we know what a dreadful series of mishaps attended our fresco-painters at westminster, and now even the promising water-glass process, in which maclise trusted, shows the bloom of premature decay. the safest and best known of modern processes, simple oil-painting has its own dangers also. the colors sink and alter; they lose their relative values; they lose their pearly purity, their glowing transparence--they turn to buff and black. the fine arts bristle all over with technical difficulties, and are, i will not say the best school of patience in the world, for many other pursuits are also very good schools of patience; but i will say, without much fear of contradiction from anybody acquainted with the subject, that the fine arts offer drudgery enough, and disappointment enough, to be a training both in patience and in humility. in the labor of the line-engraver both these qualities are developed to the pitch of perfect heroism. he sits down to a great surface of steel or copper, and day by day, week after week, month after month, ploughs slowly his marvellous lines. sometimes the picture before him is an agreeable companion; he is in sympathy with the painter; he enjoys every touch that he has to translate. but sometimes, on the contrary, he hates the picture, and engraves it as a professional duty. i happened to call upon a distinguished english engraver--a man of the greatest taste and knowledge, a refined and cultivated critic--and i found him seated at work before a thing which had nothing to do with fine art--a medley of ugly portraits of temperance celebrities on a platform. "ah!" he said to me sadly, "you see the dark side of our profession; fancy sitting down to a desk all day long for two years together with that thing to occupy your thoughts!" how much moral fibre was needed to carry to a successful issue so repulsive a task as that! you may answer that a stone-breaker on the roadside surpasses my line-engraver both in patience and in humility; but whereas the sensitiveness of the stone-breaker has been deadened by his mode of life, the sensitiveness of the engraver has been continually fostered and increased. an ugly picture was torture to his cultivated eye, and he had to bear the torture all day long, like the pain of an irritating disease. still even the line-engraver has secret sources of entertainment to relieve the mortal tedium of his task-work. the picture may be hideous, but the engraver has hidden consolations in the exercise of his wonderful art. he can at least entertain himself with feats of interpretative skill, with the gentle treacheries of improving here and there upon the hatefulness of the intolerable original. he may congratulate himself in the evening, that one more frightful hat or coat has been got rid of; that the tiresome task has been reduced by a space measurable in eights of an inch. the heaviest work which shows progress is not without _one_ element of cheerfulness. there is a great deal of intellectual labor, undergone simply for discipline, which shows no present result that is appreciable, and which therefore requires, in addition to patience and humility, one of the noblest of the moral virtues, faith. of all the toils in which men engage, none are nobler in their origin or their aim than those by which they endeavor to become more wise. pray observe that whenever the desire for greater wisdom is earnest enough to sustain men in these high endeavors, there must be both humility and faith--the humility which acknowledges present insufficiency, the faith that relies upon the mysterious laws which govern our intellectual being. be sure that there has been great moral strength in all who have come to intellectual greatness. during some brief moments of insight the mist has rolled away and they have beheld, like a celestial city, the home of their highest aspirations; but the cloud has gathered round them again, and still in the gloom they have gone steadily forwards, stumbling often, yet maintaining their unconquerable resolution. it is to this sublime persistence of the intellectual in other ages that the world owes the treasures which they won; it is by a like persistence that we may hope to hand them down, augmented, to the future. their intellectual purposes did not weaken their moral nature, but exercised and exalted it. all that was best and highest in the imperfect moral nature of giordano bruno had its source in that noble passion for philosophy, which made him declare that for her sake it was easy to endure labor and pain and exile, since he had found "in brevi labore diuturnam requiem, in levi dolore immensum gaudium, in angusto exilio patriam amplissimam." letter ii. to an undisciplined writer. early indocility of great workers--external discipline only a substitute for inward discipline--necessity for inward discipline--origin of the idea of discipline--authors peculiarly liable to overlook its uses--good examples--sir arthur helps--sainte-beuve--the central authority in the mind--locke's opinion--even the creative faculty may be commanded--charles baudelaire--discipline in common trades and professions--lawyers and surgeons--haller--mental refusals not to be altogether disregarded--the idea of discipline the moral basis of the intellectual life--alexander humboldt. sir arthur helps, in that wise book of his "thoughts upon government," says that "much of the best and greatest work in the world has been done by those who were anything but docile in their youth." he believes that "this bold statement applies not only to the greatest men in science, literature, and art, but also to the greatest men in official life, in diplomacy, and in the general business of the world." many of us who were remarkable for our indocility in boyhood, and remarkable for nothing else, have found much consolation in this passage. it is most agreeable to be told, by a writer very eminent both for wisdom and for culture, that our untowardness was a hopeful sign. another popular modern writer has also encouraged us by giving a long list of dunces who have become illustrious. yet, however flattering it may be to find ourselves in such excellent company, at least so far as the earlier half of life may be concerned, we cannot quite forget the very numerous instances of distinguished persons who began by submitting to the discipline of school and college, and gained honors and reputation there, before encountering the competition of the world. the external discipline applied by schoolmasters is a substitute for that inward discipline which we all so greatly need, and which is absolutely indispensable to culture. whether a boy happens to be a dunce at school or a youth of brilliant promise, his future intellectual career will depend very much on his moral force. the distinguished men who derived so little benefit from early discipline have invariably subjected themselves to a discipline of another kind which prepared them for the labor of their manhood. it may be a pure assumption to say this, but the assumption is confirmed by every instance that is known to me. many eminent men have undergone the discipline of business, many like franklin have been self-disciplined, but i have never heard of a person who had risen to intellectual eminence without voluntary submission to an intellectual discipline of some kind. there are, no doubt, great pleasures attached to the intellectual life, and quite peculiar to it; but these pleasures are the support of discipline and not its negation. they give us the cheerfulness necessary for our work, but they do not excuse us from the work. they are like the cup of coffee served to a soldier on duty, not like the opium which incapacitates for everything but dreaming. i have been led into these observations by a perusal of the new book which you sent me. it has many qualities which in a young writer are full of promise. it is earnest, and lively, and exuberant, but at the same time it is undisciplined. now i believe it may be affirmed, that although there has been much literature in former ages which was both vigorous and undisciplined, still when an age presents, as ours does, living examples of perfect intellectual discipline, whoever falls below them in this respect contents himself with the very kind of inferiority which of all inferiorities is the easiest to avoid. you cannot, by an effort of the will, hope to rival the brilliance of a genius, but you may quite reasonably expect to obtain as complete a control over your own faculties and your own work as any other highly-cultivated person. the origin of discipline is the desire to do not merely our best with the degree of power and knowledge which at the time we do actually happen to possess, but with that which we _might_ possess if we submitted to the necessary training. the powers given to us by nature are little more than a power to become, and this becoming is always conditional on some sort of exercise--what sort we have to discover for ourselves. no class of persons are so liable to overlook the uses of discipline as authors are. anybody can write a book, though few can write that which deserves the name of literature. there are great technical differences between literature and book-making, but few can clearly explain these differences, or detect, in their own case, the absence of the necessary qualities. in painting, the most perfect finish is recognized at a glance, but the mind only can perceive it in the book. it was an odd notion of the authorities to exhibit literature in the international exhibitions; but if they could have made people see the difference between sound and unsound workmanship in the literary craft, they would have rendered a great service to the higher intellectual discipline. sir arthur helps might have served as an example to english writers, because he has certain qualities in which we are grievously deficient. he can say a thing in the words that are most fit and necessary, and then leave it. sainte-beuve would have been another admirable example of self-discipline, especially to frenchmen, who would do well to imitate him in his horror of the _á peu près_. he never began to write about anything until he had cleared the ground well before him. he never spoke about any character or doctrine that he had not bottomed (to use locke's word) as far as he was able. he had an extraordinary aptitude for collecting exactly the sort of material that he needed, for arranging and classifying material, for perceiving its mutual relations. very few frenchmen have had sainte-beuve's intense repugnance to insufficiency of information and inaccuracy of language. few indeed are the french journalists of whom it might be said, as it may be truly said of sainte-beuve, that he never wrote even an article for a newspaper without having subjected his mind to a special training for that particular article. the preparations for one of his _lundis_ were the serious occupation of several laborious days; and before beginning the actual composition, his mind had been disciplined into a state of the most complete readiness, like the fingers of a musician who has been practising a piece before he executes it. the object of intellectual discipline is the establishment of a strong central authority in the mind by which all its powers are regulated and directed as the military forces of a nation are directed by the strategist who arranges the operations of a war. the presence of this strong central authority is made manifest in the unity and proportion of the results; when this authority is absent (it is frequently entirely absent from the minds of undisciplined persons, especially of the female sex), you have a chaos of complete confusion; when the authority without being absent is not strong enough to regulate the lively activity of the intellectual forces, you have too much energy in one direction, too little in another, a brigade where a regiment could have done the work, and light artillery where you want guns of the heaviest calibre. to establish this central authority it is only necessary, in any vigorous and sound mind, to exercise it. without such a central power there is neither liberty of action nor security of possession. "the mind," says locke, "should always be free and ready to turn itself to the variety of objects that occur, and allow them as much consideration as shall, for that time, be thought fit. to be engrossed so by one subject as not to be prevailed on to leave it for another that we judge fitter for our contemplation, is to make it of no use to us. did this state of mind always remain so, every one would, without scruple, give it the name of perfect madness; and whilst it does last, at whatever intervals it returns, such a rotation of thoughts about the same object no more carries us forward toward the attainment of knowledge, than getting upon a mill-horse whilst he jogs on his circular track, would carry a man on a journey." writers of imaginative literature have found in practice that even the creative faculty might be commanded. charles baudelaire, who had the poetical organization with all its worst inconveniencies, said nevertheless that "inspiration is decidedly the sister of daily labor. these two contraries do not exclude each other more than all the other contraries which constitute nature. inspiration obeys like hunger, like digestion, like sleep. there is, no doubt, in the mind a sort of celestial mechanism, of which we need not be ashamed, but we ought to make the best use of it. if we will only live in a resolute contemplation of next day's work, the daily labor will serve inspiration." in cases where discipline is felt to be very difficult, it is generally at the same time felt to be very desirable. george sand complains that although "to overcome the indiscipline of her brain, she had imposed upon herself a regular way of living, and a daily labor, still twenty times out of thirty she catches herself reading or dreaming, or writing something entirely apart from the work in hand." she adds that without this frequent intellectual _flânerie_, she would have acquired information which has been her perpetual but unrealized desire. it is the triumph of discipline to overcome both small and great repugnances. we bring ourselves, by its help, to face petty details that are wearisome, and heavy tasks that are almost appalling. nothing shows the power of discipline more than the application of the mind in the common trades and professions to subjects which have hardly any interest in themselves. lawyers are especially admirable for this. they acquire the faculty of resolutely applying their minds to the dryest documents, with tenacity enough to end in the perfect mastery of their contents; a feat which is utterly beyond the capacity of any undisciplined intellect, however gifted by nature. in the case of lawyers there are frequent intellectual repugnances to be overcome; but surgeons and other men of science have to vanquish a class of repugnances even less within the power of the will--the instinctive physical repugnances. these are often so strong as to seem apparently insurmountable, but they yield to persevering discipline. although haller surpassed his contemporaries in anatomy, and published several important anatomical works, he was troubled at the outset with a horror of dissection beyond what is usual with the inexperienced, and it was only by firm self-discipline that he became an anatomist at all. there is, however, one reserve to be made about discipline, which is this: we ought not to disregard altogether the mind's preferences and refusals, because in most cases they are the indication of our natural powers. they are not so always; many have felt attracted to pursuits for which they had no capacity (this happens continually in literature and the fine arts), whilst others have greatly distinguished themselves in careers which were not of their own choosing, and for which they felt no vocation in their youth. still there exists a certain relation between preference and capacity, which may often safely be relied upon when there are not extrinsic circumstances to attract men or repel them. discipline becomes an evil, and a very serious evil, causing immense losses of special talents to the community, when it overrides the personal preferences entirely. we are less in danger of this evil, however, from the discipline which we impose upon ourselves than from that which is imposed upon us by the opinion of the society in which we live. the intellectual life has this remarkable peculiarity as to discipline, that whilst very severe discipline is indispensable to it, that which it really needs is the obedience to an inward law, an obedience which is not only compatible with revolt against other people's notions of what the intellectual man ought to think and do, but which often directly leads to such revolt as its own inevitable result. in the attempt to subject ourselves to the inward law, we may encounter a class of mental refusals which indicate no congenital incapacity, but prove that the mind has been incapacitated by its acquired habits and its ordinary occupations. i think that it is particularly important to pay attention to this class of mental refusals, and to give them the fullest consideration. suppose the case of a man who has a fine natural capacity for painting, but whose time has been taken up by some profession which has formed in him mental habits entirely different from the mental habits of an artist. the inborn capacity for art might whisper to this man, "what if you were to abandon your profession and turn painter?" but to this suggestion of the inborn capacity the acquired unfitness would, in a man of sense, most probably reply, "no; painting is an art bristling all over with the most alarming technical difficulties, which i am too lazy to overcome; let younger men attack them if they like." here is a mental refusal of a kind which the severest self-disciplinarian ought to listen to. this is nature's way of keeping us to our specialities; she protects us by means of what superficial moralists condemn as one of the minor vices--the disinclination to trouble ourselves without necessity, when the work involves the acquisition of new habits. the moral basis of the intellectual life appears to be the idea of discipline; but the discipline is of a very peculiar kind, and varies with every individual. people of original power have to discover the original discipline that they need. they pass their lives in thoughtfully altering this private rule of conduct as their needs alter, as the legislature of a progressive state makes unceasing alterations in its laws. when we look back upon the years that are gone, this is our bitterest regret, that whilst the precious time, the irrecoverable, was passing by so rapidly, we were intellectually too undisciplined to make the best personal use of all the opportunities that it brought. those men may be truly esteemed happy and fortunate who can say to themselves in the evening of their days--"i had so prepared myself for every successive enterprise, that when the time came for it to be carried into execution my training ensured success." i had thought of some examples, and there are several great men who have left us noble examples of self-discipline; but, in the range and completeness of that discipline, in the foresight to discern what would be wanted, in the humility to perceive that it was wanting, in the resolution that it should _not_ be wanting when the time came that such knowledge or faculty should be called for, one colossal figure so far excels all others that i cannot write down their names with that of alexander humboldt. the world sees the intellectual greatness of such a man, but does not see the substantial moral basis on which the towering structure rose. when i think of his noble dissatisfaction with what he knew; his ceaseless eagerness to know more, and know it better; of the rare combination of teachableness that despised no help (for he accepted without jealousy the aid of everybody who could assist him), with self-reliance that kept him always calm and observant in the midst of personal danger, i know not which is the more magnificent spectacle, the splendor of intellectual light, or the beauty and solidity of the moral constitution that sustained it. letter iii. to a friend who suggested the speculation "which of the moral virtues was most essential to the intellectual life." the most essential virtue is disinterestedness--the other virtues possessed by the opponents of intellectual liberty--the ultramontane party--difficulty of thinking disinterestedly even about the affairs of another nation--english newspapers do not write disinterestedly about foreign affairs--difficulty of disinterestedness in recent history--poets and their readers feel it--fine subjects for poetry in recent events not yet available--even history of past times rarely disinterested--advantages of the study of the dead languages in this respect--physicians do not trust their own judgment about their personal health--the virtue consists in endeavoring to be disinterested. i think there cannot be a doubt that the most essential virtue is disinterestedness. let me tell you, after this decided answer, what are the considerations which have led me to it. i began by taking the other important virtues one by one--industry, perseverance, courage, discipline, humility, and the rest; and then asked myself whether any class of persons possessed and cultivated these virtues who were nevertheless opposed to intellectual liberty. the answer came immediately, that there have in every age been men deservedly respected for these virtues who did all in their power to repress the free action of the intellect. what is called the ultramontane party in the present day includes great numbers of talented adherents who are most industrious, most persevering, who willingly submit to the severest discipline--who are learned, self-denying, and humble enough to accept the most obscure and ill-requited duties. some of these men possess nine-tenths of the qualifications that are necessary to the highest intellectual life--they have brilliant gifts of nature; they are well-educated; they take a delight in the exercise of noble faculties, and yet instead of employing their time and talents to help the intellectual advancement of mankind, they do all in their power to retard it. they have many most respectable virtues, but one is wanting. they have industry, perseverance, discipline, but they have _not_ disinterestedness. i do not mean disinterestedness in its ordinary sense as the absence of selfish care about money. the church of rome has thousands of devoted servants who are content to labor in her cause for stipends so miserable that it is clear they have no selfish aim; whilst they abandon all those possibilities of fortune which exist for every active and enterprising layman. but their thinking can never be disinterested so long as their ruling motive is devotion to the interests of their church. some of them are personally known to me, and we have discussed together many of the greatest questions which agitate the continental nations at the present time. they have plenty of intellectual acumen; but whenever the discussion touches, however remotely, the ecclesiastical interests that are dear to them, they cease to be observers--they become passionate advocates. it is this habit of advocacy which debars them from all elevated speculation about the future of the human race, and which so often induces them to take a side with incapable and retrograde governments, too willingly overlooking their deficiencies in the expectation of services to the cause. their predecessors have impeded, as far as they were able, the early growth of science--not for intellectual reasons, but because they instinctively felt that there was something in the scientific spirit not favorable to those interests which they placed far above the knowledge of mere matter. i have selected the ultramontane party in the church of rome as the most prominent example of a party eminent for many intellectual virtues, and yet opposed to the intellectual life from its own want of disinterestedness. but the same defect exists, to some degree, in every partisan--exists in you and me so far as we are partisans. let us suppose, for example, that we desired to find out the truth about a question much agitated in a neighboring country at the present time--the question whether it would be better for that country to attempt the restoration of its ancient monarchy or to try to consolidate a republican form of government. how difficult it is to think out such a problem disinterestedly, and yet how necessary to the justice of our conclusions that we should think disinterestedly if we pretend to think at all! it is true that we have one circumstance in our favor--we are not french subjects, and this is much. still we are not disinterested, since we know that the settlement of a great political problem such as this, even though on foreign soil, cannot fail to have a powerful influence on opinion in our own country, and consequently upon the institutions of our native land. we are spectators only, it is true; but we are far from being disinterested spectators. and if you desire to measure the exact degree to which we are interested in the result, you need only look at the newspapers. the english newspapers always treat french affairs from the standpoint of their own party. the conservative journalist in england is a monarchist in france, and has no hopes for the republic; the liberal journalist in england believes that the french dynasties are used up, and sees no chance of tranquillity outside of republican institutions. in both cases there is an impediment to the intellectual appreciation of the problem. this difficulty is so strongly felt by those who write and read the sort of literature which aspires to permanence, and which, therefore, ought to have a substantial intellectual basis, that either our distinguished poets choose their subjects in actions long past and half-forgotten, or else, when tempted by present excitement, they produce work which is artistically far inferior to their best. our own generation has witnessed three remarkable events which are poetical in the highest degree. the conquest of the two sicilies by garibaldi is a most perfect subject for a heroic poem; the events which led to the execution of the emperor maximilian and deprived his empress of reason, would, in the hands of a great dramatist, afford the finest possible material for a tragedy; the invasion of france by the germans, the overthrow of napoleon iii., the siege of paris, are an epic ready to hand that only awaits its homer; yet, with the exception of victor hugo, who is far gone in intellectual decadence, no great poet has sung of these things yet. the subjects are as good as can be, but too near. neither poet nor reader is disinterested enough for the intellectual enjoyment of these subjects: the poet would not see his way clearly, the reader would not follow unreservedly. it may be added, however, in this connection, that even past history is hardly ever written disinterestedly. historians write with one eye on the past and the other on the pre-occupations of the present. so far as they do this they fall short of the intellectual standard. an ideally perfect history would tell the pure truth, and all the truth, so far as it was ascertainable. artists are seldom good critics of art, because their own practice biasses them, and they are not disinterested. the few artists who have written soundly about art have succeeded in the difficult task of detaching saying from doing; they have, in fact, become two distinct persons, each oblivious of the other. the strongest of all the reasons in favor of the study of the dead languages and the literatures preserved in them, has always appeared to me to consist in the more perfect disinterestedness with which we moderns can approach them. the men and events are separated from us by so wide an interval, not only of time and locality, but especially of modes of thought, that our passions are not often enlisted, and the intellect is sufficiently free. it may be noted that medical men, who are a scientific class, and therefore more than commonly aware of the great importance of disinterestedness in intellectual action, never trust their own judgment when they feel the approaches of disease. they know that it is difficult for a man, however learned in medicine, to arrive at accurate conclusions about the state of a human body that concerns him so nearly as his own, even although the person who suffers has the advantage of actually experiencing the morbid sensations. to all this you may answer that intellectual disinterestedness seems more an accident of situation than a virtue. the virtue is not to have it, but to seek it in all earnestness; to be ready to accept the truth even when it is most unfavorable to ourselves. i can illustrate my meaning by a reference to a matter of everyday experience. there are people who cannot bear to look into their own accounts from a dread that the clear revelation of figures may be less agreeable to them than the illusions which they cherish. there are others who possess a kind of virtue which enables them to see their own affairs as clearly as if they had no personal interest in them. the weakness of the first is one of the most fatal of intellectual weaknesses; the mental independence of the second is one of the most desirable of intellectual qualities. the endeavor to attain it, or to strengthen it, is a great virtue, and of all the virtues the one most indispensable to the nobility of the intellectual life. note.--the reader may feel some surprise that i have not mentioned honesty as an important intellectual virtue. honesty is of great importance, no doubt, but it appears to be (as to practical effects) included in disinterestedness, and to be less comprehensively useful. there is no reason to suspect the honesty of many political and theological partisans, yet their honesty does not preserve them from the worst intellectual habits, such as the habit of "begging the question," of misrepresenting the arguments on the opposite side, of shutting their eyes to every fact which is not perfectly agreeable to them. the truth is, that mere honesty, though a most respectable and necessary virtue, goes a very little way toward the forming of an effective intellectual character. it is valuable rather in the relations of the intellectual man to the outer world around him, and even here it is dangerous unless tempered by discretion. a perfect disinterestedness would ensure the best effects of honesty, and yet avoid some serious evils, against which honesty is not, in itself, a safeguard. letter iv. to a moralist who said that intellectual culture was not conducive to sexual morality. that the author does not write in the spirit of advocacy--two different kinds of immorality--byron and shelley--a peculiar temptation for the intellectual--a distinguished foreign writer--reaction to coarseness from over-refinement--danger of intellectual excesses--moral utility of culture--the most cultivated classes at the same time the most moral--that men of high intellectual aims have an especially strong reason for morality--m. taine's opinion. a critic in one of the quarterlies once treated me as a feeble defender of my opinions, because i gave due consideration to both sides of a question. he said that, like a wise commander, i capitulated beforehand in case my arguments did not come up for my relief; nay, more, that i gave up my arms in unconditional surrender. to this let me answer, that i have nothing to do with the polemical method, that i do not look upon an opponent as an enemy to be repelled, but as a torch-bearer to be welcomed for any light that he may bring; that i defend nothing, but try to explore everything that lies near enough. you need not expect me, therefore, to defend very vigorously the morality of the intellectual life. an advocate could do it brilliantly; there are plenty of materials, but so clumsy an advocate as your present correspondent would damage the best of causes by unseasonable indiscretions. so i begin by admitting that your accusations are most of them well founded. many intellectual people have led immoral lives, others have led lives which, although in strict conformity to their own theories of morality, were in opposition to the morality of their country and their age. byron is a good instance of the first, and shelley of the second. byron was really and knowingly immoral; shelley, on the other hand, hated what he considered to be immorality, and lived a life as nearly as possible in accordance with the moral ideal in his own conscience; still he did not respect the moral rule of his country, but lived with mary godwin, whilst harriet, his first wife, was still alive. there is a clear distinction between the two cases; yet both have the defect that the person takes in hand the regulation of his own morality, which it is hardly safe for any one to do, considering the prodigious force of passion. i find even in the lives of intellectual people a peculiar temptation to immorality from which others are exempt. it is in their nature to feel an eager desire for intellectual companionship, and yet at the same time to exhaust very rapidly whatever is congenial to them in the intellect of their friends. they feel a strong intellectual attraction to persons of the opposite sex; and the idea of living with a person whose conversation is believed at the time to promise an increasing interest, is attractive in ways of which those who have no such wants can scarcely form a conception. a most distinguished foreign writer, of the female sex, has made a succession of domestic arrangements which, if generally imitated by others, would be subversive of any conceivable system of morality; and yet it is clear in this case that the temptation was chiefly, if not entirely, intellectual. the successive companions of this remarkable woman were all of them men of exceptional intellectual power, and her motive for changing them was an unbridled intellectual curiosity. this is the sort of immorality to which cultivated people are most exposed. it is dangerous to the well-being of a community because it destroys the sense of security on which the idea of the family is founded. if we are to leave our wives when their conversation ceases to be interesting, the foundations of the home will be unsafe. if they are to abandon, us when we are dull, to go away with some livelier and more talkative companion, can we ever hope to retain them permanently? there is another danger which must be looked fairly in the face. when the lives of men are refined beyond the real needs of their organization, nature is very apt to bring about the most extraordinary reactions. thus the most exquisitely delicate artists in literature and painting have frequently had reactions of incredible coarseness. within the châteaubriand of atala there existed an obscene châteaubriand that would burst forth occasionally in talk that no biographer could repeat. i have heard the same thing of the sentimental lamartine. we know that turner, dreamer of enchanted landscapes, took the pleasures of a sailor on the spree. a friend said to me of one of the most exquisite living geniuses: "you can have no conception of the coarseness of his tastes; he associates with the very lowest women, and enjoys their rough brutality." these cases only prove, what i have always willingly admitted, that the intellectual life is not free from certain dangers if we lead it too exclusively. intellectual excesses, by the excitement which they communicate to the whole system, have a direct tendency to drive men into other excesses, and a too great refinement in one direction may produce degrading reactions in another. still the cultivation of the mind, reasonably pursued, is, on the whole, decidedly favorable to morality; and we may easily understand that it should be so, when we remember that people have recourse to sensual indulgences simply from a desire for excitement, whilst intellectual pursuits supply excitement of a more innocent kind and in the utmost variety and abundance. if, instead of taking a few individual instances, you broadly observe whole classes, you will recognize the moral utility of culture. the most cultivated classes in our own country are also the most moral, and these classes have advanced in morality at the same time that they have advanced in culture. english gentlemen of the present day are superior to their forefathers whom fielding described; they are better educated, and they read more; they are at the same time both more sober and more chaste. i may add that intellectual men have peculiar and most powerful reasons for avoiding the excesses of immorality, reasons which to any one who has a noble ambition are quite enough to encourage him in self-control. those excesses are the gradual self-destruction of the intellectual forces, for they weaken the spring of the mind, not leaving it well enough to face the drudgery that is inevitable in every career. even in cases where they do not immediately lead to visible imbecility, they make the man less efficient and less capable than he might have been; and all experienced wrestlers with fate and fortune know well that success has often, at the critical time, depended upon some very trifling advantage which the slightest diminution of power would have lost to them. no one knows the full immensity of the difference between having power enough to make a little headway against obstacles, and just falling short of the power which is necessary at the time. in every great intellectual career there are situations like that of a steamer with a storm-wind directly against her and an iron-bound coast behind. if the engines are strong enough to gain an inch an hour she is safe, but if they lose there is no hope. intellectual successes are so rewarding that they are worth any sacrifice of pleasure; the sense of defeat is so humiliating that fair venus herself could not offer a consolation for it. an ambitious man will govern himself for the sake of his ambition, and withstand the seductions of the senses. can he be ever strong enough, can his brain ever be lucid enough for the immensity of the task before him? "le jeune homme," says m. taine, "ignore qu'il n'y a pas de pire déperdition de forces, que de tels commerces abaissent le coeur, qu'après dix ans d'une vie pareille il aura perdu la moitié de sa volonté, que ses pensées auront un arrière-goût habituel d'amertume et de tristesse, que son ressort intérieur sera amolli ou faussé. il s'excuse à ses propres yeux, en se disant qu'un homme doit tout toucher pour tout connaître. de fait, il apprend la vie, mais bien souvent aussi il perd l'énergie, la chaleur d'âme, la capacité d'agir, et à trente ans il n'est plus bon qu'à faire un employé, un dilettante, ou un rentier." part iii. _of education._ letter i. to a friend who recommended the author to learn this thing and that. lesson learned from a cook--the ingredients of knowledge--importance of proportion in the ingredients--case of an english author--two landscape painters--the unity and charm of character often dependent upon the limitations of culture--the burden of knowledge may diminish the energy of action--difficulty of suggesting a safe rule for the selection of our knowledge--men qualified for their work by ignorance as well as by knowledge--men remarkable for the extent of their studies--franz woepke--goethe--hebrew proverb. i happened one day to converse with an excellent french cook about the delicate art which he professed, and he comprised the whole of it under two heads--the knowledge of the mutual influences of ingredients, and the judicious management of heat. it struck me that there existed a very close analogy between cookery and education; and, on following out the subject in my own way, i found that what he told me suggested several considerations of the very highest importance in the culture of the human intellect. amongst the dishes for which my friend had a deserved reputation was a certain _gâteau de foie_ which had a very exquisite flavor. the principal ingredient, not in quantity hut in power, was the liver of a fowl; but there were several other ingredients also, and amongst these a leaf or two of parsley. he told me that the influence of the parsley was a good illustration of his theory about his art. if the parsley were omitted, the flavor he aimed at was not produced at all; but, on the other hand, if the quantity of parsley was in the least excessive, then the _gâteau_ instead of being a delicacy for _gourmets_ became an uneatable mess. perceiving that i was really interested in the subject, he kindly promised a practical evidence of his doctrine, and the next day intentionally spoiled his dish by a trifling addition of parsley. he had not exaggerated the consequences; the delicate flavor entirely departed, and left a nauseous bitterness in its place, like the remembrance of an ill-spent youth. and so it is, i thought, with the different ingredients of knowledge which are so eagerly and indiscriminately recommended. we are told that we ought to learn this thing and that, as if every new ingredient did not affect the whole flavor of the mind. there is a sort of intellectual chemistry which is quite as marvellous as material chemistry, and a thousand times more difficult to observe. one general truth may, however, be relied upon as surely and permanently our own. it is true that everything we learn affects the _whole_ character of the mind. consider how incalculably important becomes the question of proportion in our knowledge, and how that which we are is dependent as much upon our ignorance as our science. what we call ignorance is only a smaller proportion--what we call science only a larger. the larger quantity is recommended as an unquestionable good, but the goodness of it is entirely dependent on the mental product that we want. aristocracies have always instinctively felt this, and have decided that a gentleman ought not to know too much of certain arts and sciences. the character which they had accepted as their ideal would have been destroyed by indiscriminate additions to those ingredients of which long experience had fixed the exact proportions. the same feeling is strong in the various professions: there is an apprehension that the disproportionate knowledge may destroy the professional nature. the less intelligent members of the profession will tell you that they dread an unprofessional use of time; but the more thoughtful are not so apprehensive about hours and days, _they_ dread that sure transformation of the whole intellect which follows every increase of knowledge. i knew an english author who by great care and labor had succeeded in forming a style which harmonized quite perfectly with the character of his thinking, and served as an unfailing means of communication with his readers. every one recognized its simple ease and charm, and he might have gone on writing with that enviable facility had he not determined to study locke's philosophical compositions. shortly afterwards my friend's style suddenly lost its grace; he began to write with difficulty, and what he wrote was unpleasantly difficult to read. even the thinking was no longer his own thinking. having been in too close communication with a writer who was not a literary artist, his own art had deteriorated in consequence. i could mention an english landscape painter who diminished the pictorial excellence of his works by taking too much interest in geology. his landscapes became geological illustrations, and no longer held together pictorially. another landscape painter, who began by taking a healthy delight in the beauty of natural scenery, became morbidly religious after an illness, and thenceforth passed by the loveliest european scenery as comparatively unworthy of his attention, to go and make ugly pictures of places that had sacred associations. for people who produce nothing these risks appear to be less serious; and yet there have been admirable characters, not productive, whose admirableness might have been lessened by the addition of certain kinds of learning. the last generation of the english country aristocracy was particularly rich in characters whose unity and charm was dependent upon the limitations of their culture, and which would have been entirely altered, perhaps not for the better, by simply knowing a science or a literature that was closed to them. abundant illustrations might be collected in evidence of the well-known truth that the burden of knowledge may diminish the energy of action; but this is rather outside of what we are considering, which is the influence of knowledge upon the intellectual and not the active life. i regret very much not to be able to suggest anything like a safe rule for the selection of our knowledge. the most rational one which has been hit upon as yet appears to be a simple confidence in the feeling that we inwardly want to know. if i feel the inward want for a certain kind of knowledge, it may perhaps be presumed that it would be good for me; but even this feeling is not perfectly reliable, since people are often curious about things that do not closely concern them, whilst they neglect what it is most important for them to ascertain. all that i venture to insist upon is, that we cannot learn any new thing without changing our whole intellectual composition as a chemical compound is changed by another ingredient; that the mere addition of knowledge may be good for us or bad for us; and that whether it will be good or bad is usually a more obscure problem than the enthusiasm of educators will allow. that depends entirely on the work we have to do. men are qualified for their work by knowledge, but they are also negatively qualified for it by their ignorance. nature herself appears to take care that the workman shall not know too much--she keeps him steadily to his task; fixes him in one place mentally if not corporeally, and conquers his restlessness by fatigue. as we are bound to a little planet, and hindered by impassable gulfs of space from wandering in stars where we have no business, so we are kept by the force of circumstances to the limited studies that belong to us. if we have any kind of efficiency, very much of it is owing to our narrowness, which is favorable to a powerful individuality. sometimes, it is true, we meet with instances of men remarkable for the extent of their studies. franz woepke, who died in , was an extraordinary example of this kind. in the course of a short life he became, although unknown, a prodigy of various learning. his friend m. taine says that he was erudite in many eruditions. his favorite pursuit was the history of mathematics, but as auxiliaries he had learned arabic, and persian, and sanskrit. he was classically educated, he wrote and spoke the principal modern languages easily and correctly;[ ] his printed works are in three languages. he had lived in several nations, and known their leading men of science. and yet this astonishing list of acquirements may be reduced to the exercise of two decided and natural tastes. franz woepke had the gift of the linguist and an interest in mathematics, the first serving as auxiliary to the second. goethe said that "a vast abundance of objects must lie before us ere we can think upon them." woepke felt the need of this abundance, but he did not go out of his way to find it. the objectionable seeking after knowledge is the seeking after the knowledge which does not belong to us. in vain you urge me to go in quest of sciences for which i have no natural aptitude. would you have me act like that foolish camel in the hebrew proverb, which in going to seek horns lost his ears? letter ii. to a friend who studied many things. men cannot restrict themselves in learning--description of a latin scholar of two generations since--what is attempted by a cultivated contemporary--advantages of a more restricted field--privilege of instant admission--many pursuits cannot be kept up simultaneously--the deterioration of knowledge through neglect--what it really is--the only available knowledge that which we habitually use--difficulty in modern education--that it is inevitably a beginning of many things and no more--the simpler education of an ancient greek--that of alcibiades--how the romans were situated as to this--the privilege of limited studies belongs to the earlier ages--they learned and we attempt to learn. it appears to be henceforth inevitable that men should be unable to restrict themselves to one or two pursuits, and you who are in most respects a very perfect specimen of what the age naturally produces in the way of culture, have studied subjects so many and so various that a mere catalogue of them would astonish your grandfather if his shade could revisit his old home. and yet your grandfather was considered a very highly cultivated gentleman according to the ideas and requirements of his time. he was an elegant scholar, but in latin chiefly, for he said that he never read greek easily, and indeed he abandoned that language entirely on leaving the university. but his latin, from daily use and practice (for he let no day slip by without reading some ancient author) and from the thoroughness and accuracy of his scholarship, was always as ready for service as the saddled steeds of branksome. i think he got more culture, more of the best effects of good literature, out of that one language than some polyglots get out of a dozen. he knew no modern tongue, he had not even the common pretension to read a little french, and in his day hardly anybody studied german. he had no scientific training of any kind except mathematics, in which i have heard him say that he had never been proficient. of the fine arts his ignorance was complete, so complete that i doubt if he could have distinguished rigaud from reynolds, and he had never played upon any musical instrument. the leisure which he enjoyed during a long and tranquil existence he gave entirely to latin and english literature, but of the two he enjoyed latin the more, not with the preference of a pedant, but because it carried him more completely out of the present, and gave him the refreshment of a more perfect change. he produced on all who knew him the impression of a cultivated gentleman, which he was. there is only an interval of one generation between you and that good latinist, but how wide is the difference in your intellectual regimen? you have studied--well, here is a little list of what you have studied, and probably even this is not complete:-- greek, latin, french, german, italian, mathematics, chemistry, mineralogy, geology, botany, the theory of music, the practice of music on two instruments, much theory about painting, the practice of painting in oil and water-color, photography, etching on copper, etc., etc., etc. that is to say, six literatures (including english), six sciences (counting mineralogy and geology as one), and five branches or departments of the fine arts. omitting english literature from our total, as that may be considered to come by nature to an englishman, though any real proficiency in it costs the leisure of years, we have here no less than sixteen different pursuits. if you like to merge the theory of music and painting in the practice of those arts, though as a branch of study the theory is really distinct, we have still fourteen pursuits, any one of which is enough to occupy the whole of one man's time. if you gave some time daily to each of these pursuits, you could scarcely give more than half an hour, even supposing that you had no professional occupation, and that you had no favorite study, absorbing time to the detriment of the rest. now your grandfather, though he would be considered quite an ignorant country gentleman in these days, had in reality certain intellectual advantages over his more accomplished descendant. in the first place, he entirely escaped the sense of pressure, the feeling of not having time enough to do what he wanted to do. he accumulated his learning as quietly as a stout lady accumulates her fat, by the daily satisfaction of his appetite. and at the same time that he escaped the sense of pressure, he escaped also the miserable sense of imperfection. of course he did not know latin like an ancient roman, but then he never met with any ancient romans to humiliate him by too rapid and half-intelligible conversation. he met the best latinists of his day; and felt himself a master amongst masters. every time he went into his study, to pass delightful hours with the noble authors that he loved, he knew that his admission into that august society would be immediate and complete. he had to wait in no antechamber of mere linguistic difficulty, but passed at once into the atmosphere of ancient thought, and breathed its delicate perfume. in this great privilege of instant admission the man of one study has always the advantage of men more variously cultivated. their misfortune is to be perpetually waiting in antechambers, and losing time in them. grammars and dictionaries are antechambers, bad drawing and bad coloring are antechambers, musical practice with imperfect intonation is an antechamber. and the worst is that even when a man, like yourself for instance, of very various culture, has at one time fairly penetrated beyond the antechamber, he is not sure of admittance a year hence, because in the mean time the door may have been closed against him. the rule of each separate hall or saloon of knowledge is that he alone is to be instantly admitted who calls there every day. the man of various pursuits does not, in any case, keep them up simultaneously; he is led by inclination or compelled by necessity to give predominance to one or another. if you have fifteen different pursuits, ten of them, at any given time, will be lying by neglected. the metaphor commonly used in reference to neglected pursuits is borrowed from the oxidation of metal; it is said that they become rusty. this metaphor is too mild to be exact. rust on metal, even on polished steel, is easily guarded against by care, and a gun or a knife does not need to be constantly used to keep it from being pitted. the gunsmith and the cutler know how to keep these things, in great quantity, without using them at all. but no one can retain knowledge without using it. the metaphor fails still more seriously in perpetuating a false conception of the deterioration of knowledge through neglect. it is not simply a loss of polish which takes place, not a loss of mere surface-beauty, but absolute disorganization, like the disorganization of a carriage when the axle-tree is taken away. a rusty thing may still be used, but a disorganized thing cannot be used until the lost organ has been replaced. there is no equivalent, amongst ordinary material losses, to the intellectual loss that we incur by ceasing from a pursuit. but we may consider neglect as an enemy who carries away the girths from our saddles, the bits from our bridles, the oars from our boats, and one wheel from each of our carriages, leaving us indeed still nominally possessors of all these aids to locomotion, but practically in the same position as if we were entirely without them. and as an enemy counts upon the delays caused by these vexations to execute his designs whilst we are helpless, so whilst we are laboring to replace the lost parts of our knowledge the occasion slips by when we most need it. the only knowledge which is available when it is wanted is that which we habitually use. studies which from their nature cannot be commonly used are always retained with great difficulty. the study of anatomy is perhaps the best instance of this; every one who has attempted it knows with what difficulty it is kept by the memory. anatomists say that it has to be learned and forgotten six times before it can be counted as a possession. this is because anatomy lies so much outside of what is needed for ordinary life that very few people are ever called upon to use it except during the hours when they are actually studying it. the few who need it every day remember is as easily as a man remembers the language of the country which he inhabits. the workmen in the establishment at saint aubin d'Écroville, where dr. auzoux manufactures his wonderful anatomical models, are as familiar with anatomy as a painter is with the colors on his palette. _they_ never forget it. _their_ knowledge is never made practically valueless by some yawning hiatus, causing temporary incompetence and delay. to have one favorite study and live in it with happy familiarity, and cultivate every portion of it diligently and lovingly, as a small yeoman proprietor cultivates his own land, this, as to study, at least, is the most enviable intellectual life. but there is another side to the question which has to be considered. the first difficulty for us is in our education. modern education is a beginning of many things, and it is little more than a beginning. "my notion of educating my boy," said a rich englishman, "is not to make him particularly clever at anything during his minority, but to make him overcome the rudimentary difficulties of many things, so that when he selects for himself his own line of culture in the future, it cannot be altogether strange to him, whatever line he may happen to select." a modern father usually allows his son to learn many things from a feeling of timidity about making a choice, if only one thing had to be chosen. he might so easily make a wrong choice! when the inheritance of the human race was less rich, there was no embarrassment of that kind. look at the education of an ancient greek, at the education of one of the most celebrated athenians, a man living in the most refined and intellectual society, himself mentally and bodily the perfect type of his splendid race, an eloquent and powerful speaker, a most capable commander both by sea and land--look at the education of the brilliant alcibiades! when socrates gave the list of the things that alcibiades had learned, alcibiades could add to it no other even nominal accomplishment, and what a meagre, short catalogue it was! "but indeed i also pretty accurately know what thou hast learned; thou wilt tell me if anything has escaped my notice. thou hast learned then thy letters ([greek: grammata]), to play on the cithara ([greek: kitharizein]) and to wrestle ([greek: palaiein]), for thou hast not cared to learn to play upon the flute. this is all that thou hast learned, unless something has escaped me." the [greek: grammata] which alcibiades had learned with a master meant reading and writing, for he expressly says later on, that as for speaking greek, [greek: hellênizein], he learned that of no other master than the people. an english education equivalent to that of alcibiades would therefore consist of reading and writing, wrestling and guitar-playing, the last accomplishment being limited to very simple music. such an education was possible to an athenian (though it is fair to add that socrates does not seem to have thought much of it) because a man situated as alcibiades was situated in the intellectual history of the world, had no past behind him which deserved his attention more than the present which surrounded him. simply to speak greek, [greek: hellênizein], was really then the most precious of all accomplishments, and the fact that alcibiades came by it easily does not lessen its value. amongst a people like the athenians, fond of intellectual talk, conversation was one of the best and readiest means of informing the mind, and certainly the very best means of developing it. it was not a slight advantage to speak the language of socrates, and have him for a companion. the cleverest and most accomplished romans were situated rather more like ourselves, or at least as we should be situated if we had not to learn latin and greek, and if there were no modern language worth studying except french. they went to greece to perfect themselves in greek, and improve their accent, just as our young gentlemen go to paris or touraine. still, the burden of the past was comparatively light upon their shoulders. an englishman who had attempted no more than they were bound to attempt might be a scholar, but he would not be considered so he might be a thorough scholar in french and english,--that is, he might possess the cream of two great literatures,--but he would be spoken of as a person of defective education. it is the fashion, for example, to speak of sir walter scott as a half-educated man, because he did not know much greek, yet sir walter had studied german with success, and with his habit of extensive reading, and his immense memory, certainly knew incomparably more about the generations which preceded him than horace knew of those which preceded the augustan era. the privilege of limiting their studies, from the beginning, to one or two branches of knowledge, belonged to earlier ages, and every successive accumulation of the world's knowledge has gradually lessened it. schoolboys in our time are expected to know more, or to have attempted to learn more, than the most brilliant intellectual leaders of former times. what english parent, in easy circumstances, would be content that his son should have the education of alcibiades, or an education accurately corresponding to that of horace, or to that which sufficed for shakespeare? yet although the burdens laid upon the memory have been steadily augmented, its powers have not increased. our brains are not better constituted than those of our forefathers, although where they learned one thing we attempt to learn six. they learned and we attempt to learn. the only hope for us is to make a selection from the attempts of our too heavily burdened youth, and in those selected studies to emulate in after-life the thoroughness of our forefathers. letter iii to a friend who studied many things. an idealized portrait--the scholars of the sixteenth century--isolated students--french students of english when isolated from englishmen--how one of them read tennyson--importance of sounds--illusions of scholarship--difficulty of appreciating the sense--that latin may still be made a spoken language--the early education of montaigne--a contemporary instance--dream of a latin island--rapid corruption of a language taught artificially. in your answer to my letter about the multiplicity of modern studies you tell me that my portrait of your grandfather is considerably idealized, and that, notwithstanding all the respect which you owe to his memory, you have convincing proof in his manuscript annotations to latin authors that his scholarship cannot have been quite so thorough as i represented it. you convey, moreover, though with perfect modesty in form, the idea that you believe your own latin superior to your grandfather's, notwithstanding the far greater variety of your studies. let me confess that i _did_ somewhat idealize that description of your grandfather's intellectual life. i described rather a life which might have been than a life which actually was. and even this "might have been" is problematical. it may be doubted whether any modern has ever really mastered latin. the most that can be said is that a man situated like your grandfather, without a profession, without our present temptation to scatter effort in many pursuits, and who made latin scholarship his unique intellectual purpose, would probably go nearer to a satisfactory degree of attainment than we whose time and strength have been divided into so many fragments. but the picture of a perfect modern latinist is purely ideal, and the prevalent notion of high attainment in a dead language is not fixed enough to be a standard, whilst if it were fixed it would certainly be a very low standard. the scholars of this century do not write latin except as a mere exercise; they do not write books in latin, and they never speak it at all. they do not use the language actively; they only read it, which is not really using it, but only seeing how other men have used it. there is the same difference between reading a language and writing or speaking it that there is between looking at pictures intelligently and painting them. the scholars of the sixteenth century spoke latin habitually, and wrote it with ease and fluency. "nicholas grouchy," says montaigne, "who wrote a book _de comitiis romanorum_; william guerente, who has written a commentary upon aristotle; george buchanan, that great scotch poet; and marc anthony muret, whom both france and italy have acknowledged for the best orator of his time, my domestic tutors (at college), have all of them often told me that i had in my infancy that language so very fluent and ready that they were afraid to enter into discourse with me." this passage is interesting for two reasons; it shows that the scholars of that age spoke latin; but it proves at the same time that they cannot have been really masters of the language, since they were "afraid to enter into discourse" with a clever child. fancy an englishman who professed to be a french scholar and yet "was afraid to enter into discourse" with a french boy, for fear he should speak too quickly! the position of these scholars relatively to latin was in fact too isolated for it to have been possible that they should reach the point of mastery. suppose a society of frenchmen, in some secluded little french village where no englishman ever penetrates, and that these frenchmen learn english from dictionaries, and set themselves to speak english with each other, without anybody to teach them the colloquial language or its pronunciation, without ever once hearing the sound of it from english lips, what sort of english would they create amongst themselves? this is a question that i happen to be able to answer very accurately, because i have known two frenchmen who studied english literature just as the frenchmen of the sixteenth century studied the literature of ancient rome. one of them, especially, had attained what would certainly in the case of a dead language be considered a very high degree of scholarship indeed. most of our great authors were known to him, even down to the close critical comparison of different readings. aided by the most powerful memory i ever knew, he had amassed such stores that the acquisitions, even of cultivated englishmen, would in many cases have appeared inconsiderable beside them. but he could not write or speak english in a manner tolerable to an englishman; and although he knew nearly all the words in the language, it was dictionary knowledge, and so different from an englishman's apprehension of the same words that it was only a sort of pseudo-english that he knew, and not our living tongue. his appreciation of our authors, especially of our poets, differed so widely from english criticism and english feeling that it was evident he did not understand them as we understand them. two things especially proved this: he frequently mistook declamatory versification of the most mediocre quality for poetry of an elevated order; whilst, on the other hand, his ear failed to perceive the music of the musical poets, as byron and tennyson. how _could_ he hear their music, he to whom our english sounds were all unknown? here, for example, is the way he read "claribel:"-- "at ev ze bittle bommess azvart ze zeeket lon at none ze veeld be ommess aboot ze most edston at meedneeg ze mon commess an lokez dovn alon ere songg ze lintveet svelless ze clirvoic-ed mavi dvelless ze fledgling srost lispess ze slombroos vav ootvelless ze babblang ronnel creespess ze ollov grot replee-ess vere claribel lovlee-ess." this, as nearly as i have been able to render it in english spelling, was the way in which a french gentleman of really high culture was accustomed to read english poetry to himself. is it surprising that he should have failed to appreciate the music of our musical verse? he did not, however, seem to be aware that there existed any obstacle to the accuracy of his decisions, but gave his opinion with a good deal of authority, which might have surprised me had i not so frequently heard latin scholars do exactly the same thing. my french friend read "claribel" in a ridiculous manner; but english scholars all read latin poetry in a manner not less ridiculous. you laugh to hear "claribel" read with a foreign pronunciation, and you see at once the absurdity of affecting to judge of it as poetry before the reader has learned to pronounce the sounds; but you do not laugh to hear latin poetry read with a foreign pronunciation, and you do not perceive that we are all of us disqualified, by our profound ignorance of the pronunciation of the ancient romans, for any competent criticism of their verse. in all poetry, in all oratory, in much of the best and most artistic prose-writing also, sound has a great influence upon sense: a great deal is conveyed by it, especially in the way of feeling. if we do not thoroughly know and practise the right pronunciation (and by the right pronunciation i mean that which the author himself _thought in_ whilst he wrote), we miss those delicate tones and cadences which are in literature like the modulations of the voice in speech. nor can we properly appreciate the artistic choice of beautiful names for persons and places unless we know the sounds of them quite accurately, and have already in our minds the associations belonging to the sounds. names which are selected with the greatest care by our english poets, and which hold their place like jewels on the finely-wrought texture of the verse, lose all their value when they are read with a vicious foreign pronunciation. so it must be with latin poetry when read by an englishman, and it is probable that we are really quite insensible to the delicate art of verbal selection as it was practised by the most consummate masters of antiquity. i know that scholars think that they hear the roman music still; but this is one of the illusions of scholarship. in each country latin scholars have adopted a conventional style of reading, and the sounds which are in conformity with that style seem to them to be musical, whilst other than the accepted sounds seem ridiculous, and grate harshly on the unaccustomed ear. the music which the englishman hears, or imagines that he hears, in the language of ancient rome, is certainly not the music which the roman authors intended to note in words. it is as if my frenchman, having read "claribel" in his own way, had affirmed that he heard the music of the verse. if he heard music at all, it was not tennyson's. permit me to add a few observations about sense. my french friend certainly understood english in a very remarkable manner for a student who had never visited our country; he knew the dictionary meaning of every word he encountered, and yet there ever remained between him and our english tongue a barrier or wall of separation, hard to define, but easy to perceive. in the true deep sense he never understood the language. he studied it, laid regular siege to it, mastered it to all appearance, yet remained, to the end, outside of it. his observations, and especially his unfavorable criticisms, proved this quite conclusively. expressions often appeared to him faulty, in which no english reader would see anything to remark upon; it may be added that (by way of compensation) he was unable to appreciate the oddity of those intentionally quaint turns of expression which are invented by the craft of humorists. it may even be doubted whether his english was of any ascertainable use to him. he might probably have come as near to an understanding of our authors by the help of translations, and he could not converse in english, for the spoken language was entirely unintelligible to him. an acquisition of this kind seems scarcely an adequate reward for the labor that it costs. compared with living englishmen my french friend was nowhere, but if english had been a dead language, he would have been looked up to as a very eminent scholar, and would have occupied a professor's chair in the university. a little more life might be given to the study of latin by making it a spoken language. boys might be taught to speak latin in their schooldays with the modern roman pronunciation, which, though probably a deviation from the ancient, is certainly nearer to it than our own. if colloquial latin were made a subject of special research, it is likely that a sufficiently rich phrase-book might be constructed from the plays. if this plan were pursued throughout europe (always adopting the roman pronunciation) all educated men would possess a common tongue which might be enriched to suit modern requirements without any serious departure from classical construction. the want of such a system as this was painfully felt at the council of the vatican, where the assembled prelates discovered that their latin was of no practical use, although the roman catholic clergy employ latin more habitually than any other body of men in the world. that a modern may be taught to think in latin, is proved by the early education of montaigne, and i may mention a much more recent instance. my brother-in-law told me that, in the spring of , a friend of his had come to stay with him accompanied by his little son, a boy seven years old. this child spoke latin with the utmost fluency, and he spoke nothing else. what i am going to suggest is a utopian dream, but let us suppose that a hundred fathers could be found in europe, all of this way of thinking, all resolved to submit to some inconvenience in order that their sons might speak latin as a living language. a small island might be rented near the coast of italy, and in that island latin alone might be permitted. just as the successive governments of france maintain the establishments of sèvres and the gobelins to keep the manufactures of porcelain and tapestry up to a recognized high standard of excellence, so this latin island might be maintained to give more vivacity to scholarship. if there were but one little corner of ground on the wide earth where pure latin was constantly spoken, our knowledge of the classic writers would become far more sympathetically intimate. after living in the latin island we should think in latin as we read, and read without translating. but this is dreaming. it is too certain that on returning from the latin island into the atmosphere of modern colleges an evil change would come over our young latinists like that which came upon the young montaigne when his father sent him to the college of guienne, "at that time the best and most flourishing in france." montaigne tells us that, notwithstanding all his father's precautions, the place "was a college still." "my latin," he adds, "_immediately grew corrupt, and by discontinuance i have since lost all manner of use of it._" if it were the custom to speak latin, it would be the custom to speak it badly; and a master of the language would have to conform to the evil usages around him. our present state of ignorance has the charm of being silent, except when old-fashioned gentlemen in the house of commons quote poetry which they cannot pronounce to hearers who cannot understand it. note.--an english orator quoted from cicero the sentence "non intelligunt homines quam magnum vectigal sit parsimonia." he made the second vowel in _vectigal_ short, and the house laughed at him; he tried again and pronounced it with the long sound of the english _i_, on which the critical body he addressed was perfectly satisfied. but if a roman had been present it is probable that, of the two, the short english _i_ would have astonished his ears the less, for our short _i_ does bear some resemblance to the southern _i_ whereas our long i resembles no single letter in any alphabet of the latin family of languages. we are scrupulously careful to avoid what we call false quantities, we are quite utterly and ignorantly unscrupulous about false sounds. one of the best instances is the well-known "veni, vidi, vici," which we pronounce very much as if it had been written _vinai_, _vaidai_, _vaisai_, in italian letters. letter iv. to a student of literature. studies, whatever they may be, always considered, by some a waste of time--the classical languages--the higher mathematics--the accomplishments--indirect uses of different studies--influence of music--studies indirectly useful to authors--what induced mr. roscoe to write the lives of lorenzo de' medici and leo x. whatever you study, some one will consider that particular study a foolish waste of time. if you were to abandon successively every subject of intellectual labor which had, in its turn, been condemned by some adviser as useless, the result would be simple intellectual nakedness. the classical languages, to begin with, have long been considered useless by the majority of practical people--and pray, what to shopkeepers, doctors, attorneys, artists, can be the use of the higher mathematics? and if these studies, which have been conventionally classed as serious studies, are considered unnecessary notwithstanding the tremendous authority of custom, how much the more are those studies exposed to a like contempt which belong to the category of accomplishments! what is the use of drawing, for it ends in a worthless sketch? why should we study music when after wasting a thousand hours the amateur cannot satisfy the ear? a _quoi bon_ modern languages when the accomplishment only enables us to call a waiter in french or german who is sure to answer us in english? and what, when it is not your trade, can be the good of dissecting animals or plants? to all questionings of this kind there is but one reply. we work for culture. we work to enlarge the intelligence, and to make it a better and more effective instrument. this is our main purpose; but it may be added that even for our special labors it is always difficult to say beforehand exactly what will turn out in the end to be most useful. what, in appearance, can be more entirely outside the work of a landscape painter than the study of ancient history? and yet i can show you how an interest in ancient history might indirectly be of great service to a landscape painter. it would make him profoundly feel the human associations of many localities which to an ignorant man would be devoid of interest or meaning; and this human interest in the scenes where great events have taken place, or which have been distinguished by the habitation of illustrious men in other ages, is in fact one of the great fundamental motives of landscape painting. it has been very much questioned, especially by foreign critics, whether the interest in botany which is taken by some of the more cultivated english landscape painters is not for them a false direction and wrong employment of the mind; but a landscape painter may feel his interest in vegetation infinitely increased by the accurate knowledge of its laws, and such an increase of interest would make him work more zealously, and with less danger of weariness and _ennui_, besides being a very useful help to the memory in retaining the authentic vegetable forms. it may seem more difficult to show the possible utility of a study apparently so entirely outside of other studies as music is: and yet music has an important influence on the whole of our emotional nature, and indirectly upon expression of all kinds. he who has once learned the self-control of the musician, the use of _piano_ and _forte_, each in its right place, when to be lightly swift or majestically slow, and especially how to keep to the key once chosen till the right time has come for changing it; he who has once learned this knows the secret of the arts. no painter, writer, orator, who had the power and judgment of a thoroughly cultivated musician, could sin against the broad principles of taste. more than all other men have authors reason to appreciate the indirect utilities of knowledge that is apparently irrelevant. who can tell what knowledge will be of most use to _them_? even the very greatest of authors are indebted to miscellaneous reading, often in several different languages, for the suggestion of their most original works, and for the light which has kindled many a shining thought of their own. and authors who seem to have less need than others of an outward help, poets whose compositions might appear to be chiefly inventive and emotional, novelists who are free from the restraints and the researches of the historian, work up what they know into what they write; so that if you could remove every line which is based on studies outside the strict limits of their art, you would blot out half their compositions. take the antiquarian element out of scott, and see how many of his works could never have been written. remove from goldsmith's brain the recollection of his wayward studies and strange experiences, and you would remove the rich material of the "traveller" and the essays, and mutilate even the immortal "vicar of wakefield." without a classical education and foreign travel, byron would not have composed "childe harold;" without the most catholic interest in the literature of all the ages, and of many different peoples from the north sea to the mediterranean, our contemporary william morris would never have conceived, and could not have executed, that strong work "the earthly paradise." it may not seem necessary to learn italian, yet mr. roscoe's celebrity as an author was due in the first place to his private fondness for italian literature. he did not learn italian in order that he might write his biographies, but he wrote about lorenzo and leo because he had mastered italian, and because the language led him to take an interest in the greatest house of florence. the way in which authors are led by their favorite studies indirectly to the great performance of their lives has never been more clearly illustrated than in this instance. when william roscoe was a young man he had for his friend francis holden, nephew of mr. richard holden, a schoolmaster in liverpool. francis holden was a young man of uncommon culture, having at the same time really sound scholarship in several languages, and an ardent enthusiasm for literature. he urged roscoe to study languages, and used especially, in their evening walks together, to repeat to him passages from the noblest poets of italy. in this way roscoe was led to attempt italian, and, having once begun, went on till he had mastered it. "it was in the course of these studies," says his biographer, "that he first formed the idea of writing the life of lorenzo de' medici." letter v. to a country gentleman who regretted that his son had the tendencies of a dilettant. inaccuracy of the common distinction between amateur pursuits and more serious studies--all of us are amateurs in many things--prince albert--the emperor napoleon iii.--contrast between general and professional education--the price of high accomplishment. i agree with you that amateurship, as generally practised, may be a waste of time, but the common distinction between amateur pursuits and serious studies is inconsistent. a painter whose art is imperfect and who does not work for money is called an amateur; a scholar who writes imperfect latin, not for money, escapes the imputation of amateurship, and is called a learned man. surely we have been blinded by custom in these things. ideas of frivolity are attached to imperfect acquirement in certain directions, and ideas of gravity to equally imperfect acquirement in others. to write bad latin poetry is not thought to be frivolous, but it is considered frivolous to compose imperfectly and unprofessionally in other fine arts. yet are we not all of us amateurs in those pursuits which constituted our education--amateurs at the best, if we loved them, and even inferior to amateurs if we disliked them? we have not sounder knowledge or more perfect skill in the ancient languages than prince albert had in music. we know something of them, yet in comparison with perfect mastery such as that of a cultivated old greek or roman, our scholarship is at the best on a level with the musical scholarship of a cultivated amateur like the prince consort. if the essence of dilettantism is to be contented with imperfect attainment, i fear that all educated people must be considered dilettants. it is narrated of the emperor napoleon iii. that in answer to some one who inquired of his majesty whether the prince imperial was a musician, he replied that he discouraged dilettantism, and "did not wish his son to be a coburg." but the emperor himself was quite as much a dilettant as prince albert; though their dilettantism did not lie in the same directions. the prince was an amateur musician and artist; the emperor was an amateur historian, an amateur scholar, and antiquary. it may be added that napoleon iii. indulged in another and more dangerous kind of amateurship. he had a taste for amateur generalship, and the consequences of his indulgence of this taste are known to every one. the variety of modern education encourages a scattered dilettantism. it is only in professional life that the energies of young men are powerfully concentrated. there is a steadying effect in thorough professional training which school education does not supply. our boys receive praise and prizes for doing many things most imperfectly, and it is not their fault if they remain ignorant of what perfection really is, and of the immensity of the labor which it costs. i think that you would do well, perhaps, without discouraging your son too much by chillingly accurate estimates of the value of what he has done, to make him on all proper occasions feel and see the difference between half-knowledge and thorough mastery. it would be a good thing for a youth to be made clearly aware how enormous a price of labor nature has set upon high accomplishment in everything that is really worthy of his pursuit. it is this persuasion, which men usually arrive at only in their maturity, that operates as the most effectual tranquillizer of frivolous activities. letter vi. to the principal of a french college. the author's dread of protection in intellectual pursuits--example from the fine arts--prize poems--governmental encouragement of learning--the bad effects of it--pet pursuits--objection to the interference of ministers--a project for separate examinations. what i am going to say will seem very strange to you, and is not unlikely to arouse as much professional animosity as you are capable of feeling against an old friend. you who are a dignitary of the university, and have earned your various titles in a fair field, as a soldier wins his epaulettes before the enemy, are not the likeliest person to hear with patience the unauthorized theories of an innovator. take them, then, as mere speculations, if you will--not altogether unworthy of consideration, for they are suggested by a sincere anxiety for the best interests of learning, and yet not very dangerous to vested interests of any kind, since they can have little influence on the practice or opinion of the world. i feel a great dread of what may be called _protection_ in intellectual pursuits. it seems to me that when the government of a country applies an artificial stimulus to certain branches of study for their encouragement by the offer of rewards in honor or in money beyond the rewards inherent in the studies themselves, or coming naturally from their usefulness to mankind, there is a great danger that men may give a disproportionate attention to those favored branches of study. let me take an example from the practice of the fine arts. a government, by medals and crosses, or by money, can easily create and foster a school of painting which is entirely out of relation to the century in which it exists, and quite incapable of working harmoniously with the contemporary national life. this has actually been done to a considerable extent in various countries, especially in france and in bavaria. a sort of classicism which had scarcely any foundation in sincerity of feeling was kept up artificially by a system of encouragement which offered inducements outside the genuine ambition of an artist. the true enthusiasm which is the life of art impels the artist to express his own feeling for the delight of others. the offer of a medal or a pension induces him to make the sort of picture which is likely to satisfy the authorities. he first ascertains what is according to the rule, and then follows it as nearly as he is able. he works in a temper of simple conformity, remote indeed from the passionate enthusiasm of creation. it is so with prize poems. we all know the sort of poetry which is composed in order to gain prizes. the anxiety of the versifier is to be safe: he tries to compose what will escape censure; he dreads the originality that may give offence. but all powerful pictures and poems have been wrought in the energy of individual feeling, not in conformity to a pattern. now, suppose that, instead of encouraging poetry or painting, a government resolves to encourage learning. it will patronize certain pursuits to the neglect of others, or it will encourage certain pursuits more liberally than others. the subjects of such a government will not follow learning exclusively for its delightfulness or its utility; another consideration will affect their choice. they will inquire which pursuits are rewarded by prizes in honor or money, and they will be strongly tempted to select them. therefore, unless the government has exercised extraordinary wisdom, men will learn what they do not really care for and may never practically want, merely in order to win some academical grade. so soon as this object has been attained, they will immediately abandon the studies by which they attained it. can it be said that in these cases the purposes of the government were fulfilled? clearly not, if it desired to form a permanent taste for learning. but it may have done worse than fail in this merely negative way; it may have diverted its youth from pursuits to which nature called them, and in which they might have effectually aided the advancement and the prosperity of the state. let us suppose that a government were to have a pet study, and offer great artificial inducements for success in it. suppose that the pet study were entomology. all the most promising youth of the country would spend ten years in emulating messrs. kirby and spence, and take their degrees as entomological bachelors. but might it not easily happen that to a majority of the young gentlemen this pursuit would have acted positively as a hindrance by keeping them from other pursuits more likely to help them in their professions? it would not only cost a great deal of valuable time, it would absorb a quantity of youthful energy which the country can ill afford to lose. the government would probably affirm that entomology, if not always practically useful in itself, was an invaluable intellectual training; but what if this training used up the early vigor which might be needed for other pursuits, and of which every human being has only a limited supply? we should be told, no doubt, that this powerful encouragement was necessary to the advancement of science, and it is true that under such a system the rudiments of entomology would be more generally known. but the vulgarization of rudiments is not the advancement of knowledge. entomology has gone quite as far in discovery, though pursued simply for its own sake, as it would have gone if it had been made necessary to a bachelor's degree. you will ask whether i would go so far as to abolish degrees of all kinds, certainly not; that is not my project. but i believe that no government is competent to make a selection amongst intellectual pursuits and say, "this or that pursuit shall be encouraged by university degrees, whilst other pursuits of intellectual men shall have no encouragement whatever." i may mention by name your present autocrat of public instruction, jules simon. he is a literary man of some eminence; he has written several interesting books, and on the whole he is probably more competent to deal with these questions than many of his predecessors. but however capable a man may be, he is sure to be biassed by the feeling common to all intellectual men which attributes a peculiar importance to their own pursuits. i do not like to see any minister, or any cabinet of ministers, settling what all the young men of a country are to learn under penalty of exclusion from all the liberal professions. what i should think more reasonable would be some such arrangement as the following. there might be a board of thoroughly competent examiners for each branch of study separately, authorized to confer certificates of competence. when a man believed himself to have mastered a branch of study, he would go and try to get a certificate for that. the various studies would then be followed according to the public sense of their importance, and would fall quite naturally into the rank which they ought to occupy at any given period of the national history. these separate examinations should be severe enough to ensure a serviceable degree of proficiency. nobody should be allowed to teach anything who had not got a certificate for the particular thing he intended to profess. in the confusion of your present system, not only do you fail to insure the thoroughness of pupils, but the teachers themselves are too frequently incompetent in some speciality which accidentally fails to their share. i think that a greek master ought to be a complete hellenist, but surely it is not necessary that he should be half a mathematician. to sum up. it seems to me that a government has no business to favor some intellectual pursuits more than others, but that it ought to recognize competent attainment in every one of them by a sort of diploma or certificate, leaving the relative rank of different pursuits to be settled by public opinion. and as to the educators themselves, i think that when a man has proved his competence in one thing, he ought to be allowed to teach that one thing in the university without being required to pass an examination in any other thing. letter vii. to the principal of a french college. loss of time to acquire an ancient language too imperfectly for it to be useful--dr. arnold--mature life leaves little time for culture--modern indifference to ancient thinking--larger experience of the moderns--the moderns older than the ancients--the author's regret that latin has ceased to be a living language--the shortest way to learn to read a language--the recent interest in modern languages--a french student of hebrew. i was happy to learn your opinion of the reform so recently introduced by the minister of public instruction, and the more so that i was glad to find the views of so inexperienced a person as myself confirmed by your wider knowledge. you went even farther than m. jules simon, for you openly expressed a desire for the complete withdrawal of greek from the ordinary school curriculum. not that you undervalue greek,--no one of your scholarship would be likely to undervalue a great literature,--but you thought it a loss of time to acquire a language so imperfectly that the literature still remained practically closed whilst thousands of valuable hours had been wasted on the details of grammar. the truth is, that although the principle of beginning many things in school education with the idea that the pupil will in maturer life pursue them to fuller accomplishment may in some instances be justified by the prolonged studies of men who have a natural taste for erudition, it is idle to shut one's eyes to the fact that most men have no inclination for school-work after they have left school, and if they had the inclination they have not the time. our own dr. arnold, the model english schoolmaster, said, "it is so hard to begin anything in after-life, and so comparatively easy to continue what has been begun, that i think we are bound to break ground, as it were, into several of the mines of knowledge with our pupils; that the first difficulties may be overcome by them whilst there is yet a power from without to aid their own faltering resolution, and that so they may be enabled, if they will, to go on with the study hereafter." the principle here expressed is no doubt one of the important principles of all early education, and yet i think that it cannot be safely followed without taking account of human nature, such as it is. everything hangs on that little parenthesis "if they will." and if they will _not_, how then? the time spent in breaking the ground has been wasted, except so far as the exercise of breaking the ground may have been useful in mental gymnastics. mature life brings so many professional or social duties that it leaves scant time for culture; and those who care for culture most earnestly and sincerely, are the very persons who will economize time to the utmost. now, to read a language that has been very imperfectly mastered is felt to be a bad economy of time. suppose the case of a man occupied in business who has studied greek rather assiduously in youth and yet not enough to read it with facility. suppose that this man wants to get at the mind of plato. he can read the original, but he reads it so slowly that it would cost him more hours than he can spare, and this is why he has recourse to a translation. in this case there is no indifference to greek culture; on the contrary, the reader desires to assimilate what he can of it, but the very earnestness of his wish to have free access to ancient thought makes him prefer it in modern language. this is the most favorable instance that can be imagined, except, of course, those exceedingly rare cases where a man has leisure enough, and enthusiasm enough, to become a hellenist. the great majority of our contemporaries do not care for ancient thought at all, it is so remote from them, it belongs to conditions of civilization so different from their own, it is encumbered with so many lengthy discussions of questions which have been settled by the subsequent experience of the world, that the modern mind prefers to occupy itself with its own anxieties and its own speculations. it is a great error to suppose that indifference to ancient thinking is peculiar to the spirit of philistinism; for the most cultivated contemporary intellects seek light from each other rather than from the ancients. one of the most distinguished of modern thinkers, a scholar of the rarest classical attainments, said to me in reference to some scheme of mine for renewing my classical studies, that they would be of no more use to me than numismatics. it is this feeling, the feeling that greek speculation is of less consequence to the modern world than german and french speculation, which causes so many of us, rightly or wrongly, to regard it as a palæontological curiosity, interesting for those who are curious as to the past of the human mind, but not likely to be influential upon its future. this estimate of ancient thinking is not often expressed quite so openly as i have just expressed it, and yet it is very generally prevalent even amongst the most thoughtful people, especially if modern science has had any conspicuous influence in the formation of their minds. tho truth is, as sydney smith observed many years ago, that there is a confusion of language in the use of the word "ancient." we say "the ancients," as if they were older and more experienced men than we are, whereas the age and experience are entirely on our side. they were the clever children, "and we only are the white-bearded, silver-headed ancients, who have treasured up, and are prepared to profit by, all the experience which human life can supply." the sense of our larger experience, as it grows in us and becomes more distinctly conscious, produces a corresponding decline in our feelings of reverence for classic times. the past has bequeathed to us its results, and we have incorporated them into our own edifice, but we have used them rather as materials than as models. in your practical desire to retain in education only what is likely to be used, you are willing to preserve latin. m. jules simon says that latin ought to be studied only to be read. on this point permit me to offer an observation. the one thing i regret about latin is that we have ceased to speak it. the natural method, and by far the most rapid and sure method of learning a language, is to begin by acquiring words in order to use them to ask for what we want; after that we acquire other words for narration and the expression of our sentiments. by far the shortest way to learn to read a language is to begin by speaking it. the colloquial tongue is the basis of the literary tongue. this is so true that with all the pains and trouble you give to the latin education of your pupils, you cannot teach them as much latin, for reading only, in the course of ten years, as a living foreigner will give them of his own language in ten months. i seriously believe that if your object is to make boys read latin easily, you begin at the wrong end. it is deplorable that the learned should ever have allowed latin to become a dead language, since in permitting this they have enormously increased the difficulty of acquiring it, even for the purposes of scholarship. no foreigner who knows the french people will disapprove of the novel desire to know the modern languages, which has been one of the most unexpected consequences of the war. their extreme ignorance of the literature of other nations has been the cause of enormous evils. notwithstanding her central position, france has been a very isolated country intellectually, much more isolated than england, more isolated even than transylvania, where foreign literatures are familiar to the cultivated classes. this isolation has produced very lamentable effects, not only on the national culture but most especially on the national character. no modern nation, however important, can safely remain in ignorance of its contemporaries. the frenchman was like a gentleman shut up within his own park-wall, having no intercourse with his neighbors, and reading nothing but the history of his own ancestors--for the romans were your ancestors, intellectually. it is only by the study of living languages, and their continual use, that we can learn our true place in the world. a frenchman was studying hebrew; i ventured to suggest that german might possibly be more useful. to this he answered, _that there was no literature in german_. "_vous avez goethe, vous avez schiller, et vous avez lessing, mais en dehors de ces trois noms il n'y a rien._" this meant simply that my student of hebrew measured german literature by his own knowledge of it. three names had reached him, only names, and only three of them. as to the men who were unknown to him he had decided that they did not exist. certainly if there are many frenchmen in this condition, it is time that they learned a little german. letter viii. to a student of modern languages. standard of attainment in living languages higher than in ancient ones--difficulty of maintaining high pretensions--prevalent illusion about the facility of modern languages--easy to speak them badly--some propositions based upon experience--expectations and disappointments. had your main purpose in the education of yourself (i do not say self-education, for you wisely accept all help from others) been the attainment of classical scholarship, i might have observed that as the received standard in that kind of learning is not a very elevated one, you might reasonably hope to reach it with a certain calculable quantity of effort. the classical student has only to contend against other students who are and have been situated very much as he is situated himself. they have learned latin and greek from grammars and dictionaries as he is learning them, and the only natural advantages which any of his predecessors may have possessed are superiorities of memory which may be compensated by his greater perseverance, or superiorities of sympathy to which he may "level up" by that acquired and artificial interest which comes from protracted application. but the student of modern languages has to contend against advantages of situation, as the gardeners of an inhospitable climate contend against the natural sunshine of the south. how easy it is to have a fruitful date-tree in arabia, how difficult in england! how easy for the florentine to speak italian, how difficult for us! the modern linguist can never fence himself behind that stately unquestionableness which shields the classical scholar. his knowledge may at any time be put to the severest of all tests, to a test incomparably more severe than the strictest university examination. the first _native_ that he meets is his examiner, the first foreign city is his oxford. and this is probably one reason why accomplishment in modern languages has been rather a matter of utility than of dignity, for it is difficult to keep up great pretensions in the face of a multitude of critics. what would the most learned-looking gown avail, if a malicious foreigner were laughing at us? but there is a deep satisfaction in the severity of the test. an honest and courageous student likes to be clearly aware of the exact value of his acquisitions. he takes his french to paris and has it tested there as we take our plate to the silversmith, and after that he knows, or may know, quite accurately what it is worth. he has not the dignity of scholarship, he is not held to be a learned man, but he has acquired something which may be of daily use to him in society, or in commerce, or in literature; and there are thousands of educated natives who can accurately estimate his attainment and help him to a higher perfection. all this is deeply satisfying to a lover of intellectual realities. the modern linguist is always on firm ground, and in broad daylight. he may impede his own progress by the illusions of solitary self-conceit, but the atmosphere outside is not favorable to such illusions. it is well for him that the temptations to charlatanism are so few, that the risks of exposure are so frequent. still there _are_ illusions, and the commonest of them is that a modern language may be very easily mastered. there is a popular idea that french is easy, that italian is easy, that german is more difficult, yet by no means insuperably difficult. it is believed that when an englishman has spent all the best years of his youth in attempting to learn latin and greek, he may acquire one or two modern languages with little effort during a brief residence on the continent. it is certainly true that we may learn any number of foreign languages so as to speak them badly, but it surely cannot be easy to speak them well. it may be inferred that this is not easy because the accomplishment is so rare. the inducements are common, the accomplishment is rare. thousands of english people have very strong reasons for learning french, thousands of french people could improve their position by learning english; but rare indeed are the men and women who know both languages thoroughly. the following propositions, based on much observation of a kind wholly unprejudiced and tested by a not inconsiderable experience will be found, i believe, unassailable. . _whenever a foreign language is perfectly acquired there are peculiar family conditions. the person has either married a person of the other nation, or is of mixed blood._ . _when a foreign language has been acquired (there are instances of this) in quite absolute perfection, there is almost always some loss in the native tongue. either the native tongue is not spoken correctly, or it is not spoken with perfect ease._ . _a man sometimes speaks two languages correctly, his father's and his mother's, or his own and his wife's, but never three._ . _children can speak several languages exactly like natives, but in succession, never simultaneously. they forget the first in acquiring the second, and so on._ . _a language cannot be learned by an adult without five years' residence in the country where it is spoken, and without habits of close observation a residence of twenty years is insufficient._ this is not encouraging, but it is the truth. happily, a knowledge which falls far short of mastery may be of much practical use in the common affairs of life, and may even afford some initiation into foreign literatures. i do not argue that because perfection is denied of us by the circumstances of our lives or the necessities of our organization we are therefore to abandon the study to every language but the mother tongue. it may be of use to us to know several languages imperfectly, if only we confess the hopelessness of absolute attainment. that which is truly, and deeply, and seriously an injury to our intellectual life, is the foolishness of the too common vanity which first deludes itself with childish expectations and then tortures itself with late regret for failure which might have been easily foreseen. letter ix. to a student of modern languages. cases known to the author--opinion of an english linguist--family conditions--an englishman who lived forty years in france--influence of children--an italian in france--displacement of one language by another. english lady married to a frenchman--an italian in garibaldi's army--corruption of languages by the uneducated when they learn more than one--neapolitan servant of an english gentleman--a scotch servant-woman--the author's eldest boy--substitution of one language for another--in mature life we lose facility--the resisting power of adults--seen in international marriages--case of a retired english officer--two germans in france--germans in london--the innocence of the ear--imperfect attainment of little intellectual use--too many languages attempted in education--polyglot waiters--indirect benefits. my five propositions about learning modern languages appear from your answer to have rather surprised you, and you ask for some instances in illustration. i am aware that my last letter was dogmatic, so let me begin by begging your pardon for its dogmatism. the present communication may steer clear of that rock of offence, for it shall confine itself to an account of cases that i have known. one of the most accomplished of english linguists remarked to me that after much observation of the labors of others, and a fair estimate of his own, he had come to the rather discouraging conclusion that it was not possible to learn a foreign language. he did not take account of the one exceptional class of cases where the family conditions make the use of two languages habitual. the most favorable family conditions are not in themselves sufficient to _ensure_ the acquisition of a language, but wherever an instance of perfect acquisition is to be found, these family conditions are always found along with it. my friend w., an english artist living in paris, speaks french with quite absolute accuracy as to grammar and choice of expression, and with accuracy of pronunciation so nearly absolute that the best french ears can detect nothing wrong but the pronunciation of the letter "_r_." he has lived in france for the space of forty years, but it may be doubted whether in forty years he could have mastered the language as he has done if he had not married a native. french has been his home language for years and more, and the perfect ease and naturalness of his diction are due to the powerful home influences, especially to the influence of children. a child is born that speaks the foreign tongue from the first inarticulate beginnings it makes its own child language, and the father as he hears it is born over again in the foreign land by tender paternal sympathy. gradually the sweet child-talk gives place to the perfect tongue and the father follows it by insensible gradations, himself the most docile of pupils, led onward rather than instructed by the winning and playful little master, incomparably the best of masters. the process here is nature's own inimitable process. every new child that is born to a man so situated carries him through a repetition of that marvellous course of teaching. the language _grows_ in his brain from the first rudiments--the real natural rudiments, not the hard rudiments of the grammarian--just as plants grow naturally from their seeds. it has not been built by human processes of piecing together, but has developed itself like a living creature. this way of learning a language possesses over the dictionary process exactly the kind of superiority which a living man, developed naturally from the foetus, possesses over the elastic anatomical man-model of the ingenious doctor auzoux. the doctor's models are remarkably perfect in construction, they have all the organs, but they have not life. when, however, this natural process of growth is allowed to go forward without watchful care, it is likely to displace the mother tongue. it is sometimes affirmed that the impressions of childhood are never effaced, that the mother tongue is _never_ forgotten. it may be that it is never wholly forgotten, except in the case of young children, but it may become so imperfect as to be practically of little use. i knew an italian who came to france as a young man and learned his profession there. he was afterwards naturalized, married a french lady, had several children, pursued a very successful career in paris, and became ultimately french ambassador at the court of victor emmanuel. his french was so perfect that it was quite impossible for any one to detect the usual italian accents. i used to count him as a remarkable and almost solitary instance of a man speaking two languages in their perfection, but i learned since then that his french had displaced his italian, and so completely that he was quite unable to speak italian correctly, and made use of french invariably when in italy. the risk of this displacement is always greatest in cases where the native tongue is not kept up by means of literature. byron and shelley, or our contemporary charles lever, would run little risk of losing english by continental residence, but people not accustomed to reading and writing often forget the mother tongue in a few years, even when the foreign one which has displaced it is still in a state of imperfection. madame l. is an english lady who married a frenchman; neither her husband nor her children speak english, and as her relatives live in one of our most distant colonies, she has been separated from them for many years. isolated thus from english society, living in a part of france rarely visited by her countrymen, never reading english, and writing it little and at long intervals, she speaks it now with much difficulty and diffidence. her french is not grammatical, though she has lived for many years with people who speak grammatically; but then her french is fluent and alive, truly her own living language now, whilst english is, if not wholly forgotten, dead almost as our latin is dead. she and i always speak french together when we meet, because it is easier for her than english, and a more natural expression. i have known some other cases of displacement of the native tongue, and have lately had the opportunity of watching a case of such displacement during its progress. a sergeant in the italian army deserted to join garibaldi in the campaign of . on the conclusion of peace it was impossible for him to return to italy, so he settled in france and married there. i found some work for him, and for some months saw him frequently. up to the date of his marriage he spoke no language but italian, which he could read and write correctly, but after his marriage the process of displacement of the native tongue began immediately by the corruption of it. he did not keep his italian safely by itself, putting the french in a place of its own as he gradually acquired it, but he mixed the two inextricably together. imagine the case of a man who, having a bottle half full of wine, gets some beer given him and pours it immediately into the wine-bottle. the beer will never be pure beer, but it will effectually spoil the wine. this process is not so much one of displacement as of corruption, it takes place readily in uncultivated minds, with feeble separating powers. another example of this was a neapolitan servant of an english gentleman, who mixed his italian twice, first with french and afterwards with english, producing a compound intelligible to nobody but himself, if indeed he himself understood it. at the time i knew him, the man had no means of communication with his species. when his master told him to do anything, he made a guess at what was likely to be for the moment his master's most probable want, and sometimes hit the mark, but more generally missed it. the man's name was alberino, and i remember on one occasion profiting by a mistaken guess of his. after a visit to alberino's master, my servant brought forth a magnificent basket of trout, which surprised me, as nothing had been said about them. however, we ate them, and only discovered afterwards that the present was due to an illusion of alberino's. his master had never told him to give me the trout, but he had interpreted some other order in that sense. when you asked him for mustard, he would first touch the salt, and then the pepper, etc., looking at you inquiringly till you nodded assent. any attempt at conversation with alberino was sure to lead to a perfect comedy of misunderstandings. he never had the remotest idea of what his interlocutor was talking about; but he pretended to catch your meaning, and answered at haphazard. he had a habit of talking aloud to himself, "but in a tongue no man could understand." it is a law that cultivated people can keep languages apart, and in their purity, better than persons who have not habits of intellectual analysis. when i lived in scotland three languages were spoken in my house all day long, and a housemaid came to us from the lowlands who spoke nothing but lowland scotch. she used to ask what was the french for this thing or that, and then what was the gaelic for it. having been answered, she invariably asked the farther question which of the three words, french, gaelic, or english, _was the right word_. she remained, to the last, entirely incapable of conceiving how all the three could be right. had she learned another language, it must have been by substitution for her own. this is exactly the natural process which takes place in the brains of children who are transferred from one country to another. my eldest boy spoke english in childhood as well as any other english child of his age. he was taken to the south of france, and in three months he replaced his english with provençal, which he learned from the servants about him. there were two ladies in the house who spoke english well, and did all in their power, in compliance with my urgent entreaties, to preserve the boy's native language; but the substitution took place too rapidly, and was beyond control. he began by an unwillingness to use english words whenever he could use provençal instead, and in a remarkably short time this unwillingness was succeeded by inability. the native language was as completely taken out of his brain as a violin is taken out of its case: nothing remained, _nothing_, not one word, not any echo of an accent. and as a violinist may put a new instrument into the case from which he has removed the old one, so the new language occupied the whole space which had been occupied by english. when i saw the child again, there was no means of communication between us. after that, he was removed to the north of france, and the same process began again. as provençal had pushed out english, so french began to push out provençal. the process was wonderfully rapid. the child heard people speak french, and he began to speak french like them without any formal teaching. he spoke the language as he breathed the air. in a few weeks he did not retain the least remnant of his provençal; it was gone after his english into the limbo of the utterly forgotten. novelists have occasionally made use of cases similar to this, but they speak of the forgotten language as being forgotten in the manner that scott forgot the manuscript of "waverley," which he found afterwards in the drawers of an old writing-desk when he was seeking for fishing-tackle. they assume (conveniently for the purposes of their art) that the first language we learn is never really lost, but may be as it were under certain circumstances _mislaid_, to be found again at some future period. now, although something of this kind may be possible when the first language has been spoken in rather advanced boyhood, i am convinced that in childhood a considerable number of languages might succeed each other without leaving any trace whatever. i might have remarked that in addition to english, provençal, and french, my boy had understood gaelic in his infancy, at least to some extent, though he did not speak it. the languages in his case succeeded each other without any cost of effort, and without any appreciable effect on health. the pronunciation of each language was quite faultless so far as foreign accent went; the child had the defects of children, but of children born in the different countries where he lived. as we grow older this facility of acquisition gradually leaves us. m. philarète chasles says that it is quite impossible for any adult to learn german: an adult may learn german as dr. arnold did for purposes of erudition, for which it is enough to know a language as we know latin, but this is not mastery. you have met with many foreign residents in england, who after staying in the country for many years can barely make themselves intelligible, and must certainly be incapable of appreciating those beauties of our literature which are dependent upon arrangements of sound. the resisting power of the adult brain is quite as remarkable as the assimilating power of the immature brain. a child hears a sound, and repeats it with perfect accuracy; a man hears a sound, and by way of imitation utters something altogether different, being nevertheless persuaded that it is at least a close and satisfactory approximation. children imitate well, but adults badly, and the acquisition of languages depends mainly on imitation. the resisting power of adults is often seen very remarkably in international marriages. in those classes of society where there is not much culture, or leisure or disposition for culture, the one will not learn the other's language from opportunity or from affection, but only under absolute necessity. it seems as if two people living always together would gain each other's languages as a matter of course, but the fact is that they do not. french people who marry foreigners do not usually acquire the foreign language if the pair remain in france; english people under similar conditions make the attempt more frequently, but they rest contented with imperfect attainment. if the power of resistance is so great in people who being wedded together for life have peculiarly strong inducements for learning each other's languages, it need surprise us little to find a like power of resistance in cases where motives of affection are altogether absent. englishmen who go to france as adults, and settle there, frequently remain for many years in a state of half-knowledge which, though it may carry them through the little difficulties of life at railway stations and restaurants, is for any intellectual purpose of no conceivable utility. i knew a retired english officer, a bachelor, who for many years had lived in paris without any intention of returning to england. his french just barely carried him through the small transactions of his daily life, but was so limited and so incorrect that he could not maintain a conversation. his vocabulary was very meagre; his genders were all wrong, and he did not know one single verb, literally not one. his pronunciation was so foreign as to be very nearly unintelligible, and he hesitated so much that it was painful to have to listen to him. i could mention a celebrated german, who has lived in or near paris for the last twenty years, and who can neither speak nor write the language with any approach to accuracy. another german, who settled in france as a master of languages, wrote french tolerably, but spoke it _in_tolerably. there are germans in london, who have lived there long enough to have families and make fortunes, yet who continue to repeat the ordinary german faults of pronunciation, the same faults which they committed years ago, when first they landed on our shores. the child hears and repeats the true sound, the adult misleads himself by the spelling. seldom indeed can the adult recover the innocence of the ear. it is like the innocence of the eye, which has to be recovered before we can paint from nature, and which belongs only to infancy and to art. let me observe, in conclusion, that although to know a foreign language perfectly is a most valuable aid to the intellectual life, i have never known an instance of very imperfect attainment which seemed to enrich the student intellectually. until you can really feel the refinements of a language, your mental culture can get little help or furtherance from it of any kind, nothing but an interminable series of misunderstandings. i think that in the education of our boys too many languages are attempted, and that their minds would profit more by the perfect acquisition of a single language in addition to the native tongue. this, of course, is looking at the matter simply from the intellectual point of view. there may be practical reasons for knowing several languages imperfectly. it may be of use to many men in commercial situations to know a little of several languages, even a few words and phrases are valuable to a traveller, but all intellectual labor of the higher kind requires much more than that. it is of use to society that there should be polyglot waiters who can tell us when the train starts in four or five languages; but the polyglot waiters themselves are not intellectually advanced by their accomplishment; for, after all, the facts of the railway time-table are always the same small facts, in however many languages they may be announced. true culture ought to strengthen the faculty of thinking, and to provide the material upon which that noble faculty may operate. an accomplishment which does neither of these two things for us is useless for our culture, though it may be of considerable practical convenience in the affairs of ordinary life. it is right to add, however, that there is sometimes an _indirect_ intellectual benefit from such accomplishments. to be able to order dinner in spanish is not in itself an intellectual advantage; but if the dinner, when you have eaten it, enables you to visit a cathedral whose architecture you are qualified to appreciate, there is a clear intellectual gain, though an indirect one. letter x. to a student who lamented his defective memory. the author rather inclined to congratulation than to condolence--value of a selecting memory--studies of the young goethe--his great faculty of assimilation--a good literary memory like a well-edited periodical--the selecting memory in art--treacherous memories--cures suggested for them--the mnemotechnic art contrary to the true discipline of the mind--two instances--the memory safely aided only by right association. so far from writing, as you seem to expect me to do, a letter of condolence on the subject of what you are pleased to call your "miserable memory," i feel disposed rather to indite a letter of congratulation. it is possible that you may be blessed with a selecting memory, which is not only useful for what it retains but for what it rejects. in the immense mass of facts which come before you in literature and in life, it is well that you should suffer from as little bewilderment as possible. the nature of your memory saves you from this by unconsciously selecting what has interested you, and letting the rest go by. what interests you is what concerns you. in saying this i speak simply from the intellectual point of view, and suppose you to be an intellectual man by the natural organization of your brain, to begin with. in saying that what interests you is what concerns you, i mean intellectually, not materially. it may concern you, in the pecuniary sense, to take an interest in the law; yet your mind, left to itself, would take little or no interest in law, but an absorbing interest in botany. the passionate studies of the young goethe, in many different directions, always in obedience to the predominant interests of the moment, are the best example of the way in which a great intellect, with remarkable powers of acquisition and liberty to grow in free luxuriance, sends its roots into various soils and draws from them the constituents of its sap. as a student of law, as a university student even, he was not of the type which parents and professors consider satisfactory. he neglected jurisprudence, he neglected even his college studies, but took an interest in so many other pursuits that his mind became rich indeed. yet the wealth which his mind acquired seems to have been due to that liberty of ranging by which it was permitted to him to seek his own everywhere, according to the maxim of french law, _chacun prend son bien où il le trouve_. had he been a poor student, bound down to the exclusively legal studies, which did not greatly interest him, it is likely that no one would ever have suspected his immense faculty of assimilation. in this way men who are set by others to load their memories with what is not their proper intellectual food, never get the credit of having any memory at all, and end by themselves believing that they have none. these bad memories are often the best, they are often the selecting memories. they seldom win distinction in examinations, but in literature and art. they are quite incomparably superior to the miscellaneous memories that receive only as boxes and drawers receive what is put into them. a good literary or artistic memory is not like a post-office that takes in everything, but like a very well-edited periodical which prints nothing that does not harmonize with its intellectual life. a well-known author gave me this piece of advice: "take as many notes as you like, but when you write do not look at them--what you remember is what you must write, and you ought to give things exactly the degree of relative importance that they have in your memory. if you forget much, it is well, it will only save beforehand the labor of erasure." this advice would not be suitable to every author; an author who dealt much in minute facts ought to be allowed to refer to his memoranda; but from the artistic point of view in literature the advice was wise indeed. in painting, our preferences select whilst we are in the presence of nature, and our memory selects when we are away from nature. the most beautiful compositions are produced by the selecting office of the memory, which retains some features, and even greatly exaggerates them, whilst it diminishes others and often altogether omits them. an artist who blamed himself for these exaggerations and omissions would blame himself for being an artist. let me add a protest against the common methods of curing what are called treacherous memories. they are generally founded upon the association of ideas, which is so far rational, but then the sort of association which they have recourse to is unnatural, and produces precisely the sort of disorder which would be produced in dress if a man were insane enough to tie, let us say, a frying-pan to one of his coat-tails and a child's kite to the other. the true discipline of the mind is to be effected only by associating those things together which have a real relation of some kind, and the profounder the relation, the more it is based upon the natural constitution of things, and the less it concerns trifling external details, the better will be the order of the intellect. the mnemotechnic art wholly disregards this, and is therefore unsuited for intellectual persons, though it may be of some practical use in ordinary life. a little book on memory, of which many editions have been sold, suggests to men who forget their umbrellas that they ought always to associate the image of an umbrella with that of an open door, so that they could never leave any house without thinking of one. but would it not be preferable to lose two or three guineas annually rather than see a spectral umbrella in every doorway? the same writer suggests an idea which appears even more objectionable. because we are apt to lose time, we ought, he says, to imagine a skeleton clock-face on the visage of every man we talk with; that is to say, we ought systematically to set about producing in our brains an absurd association of ideas, which is quite closely allied to one of the most common forms of insanity. it is better to forget umbrellas and lose hours than fill our minds with associations of a kind which every disciplined intellect does all it can to get rid of. the rational art of memory is that used in natural science. we remember anatomy and botany because, although the facts they teach are infinitely numerous, they are arranged according to the constructive order of nature. unless there were a clear relation between the anatomy of one animal and that of others, the memory would refuse to burden itself with the details of their structure. so in the study of languages we learn several languages by perceiving their true structural relations, and remembering these. association of this kind, and the maintenance of order in the mind, are the only arts of memory compatible with the right government of the intellect. incongruous, and even superficial associations ought to be systematically discouraged, and we ought to value the negative or rejecting power of the memory. the finest intellects are as remarkable for the ease with which they resist and throw off what does not concern them as for the permanence with which their own truths engrave themselves. they are like clear glass, which fluoric acid etches indelibly, but which comes out of vitriol intact. letter xi. to a master of arts who said that a certain distinguished painter was half-educated. conventional idea about the completeness of education--the estimate of a schoolmaster--no one can be fully educated--even leonardo da vinci fell short of the complete expression of his faculties--the word "education" used in two different senses--the acquisition of knowledge--who are the learned?--quotation from sydney smith--what a "half-educated" painter had learned--what faculties he had developed. an intelligent lady was lamenting to me the other day that when she heard anything she did not quite agree with, it only set her thinking, and did not suggest any immediate reply. "three hours afterwards," she added, "i arrive at the answer which ought to have been given, but then it is exactly three hours too late." being afflicted with precisely the same pitiable infirmity, i said nothing in reply to a statement you made yesterday evening at dinner, but it occupied me in the hansom as it rolled between the monotonous lines of houses, and followed me even into my bed-room. i should like to answer it this morning, as one answers a letter. you said that our friend the painter was "half-educated." this made me try to understand what it is to be three-quarters educated, and seven-eighths educated, and finally what must be that quite perfect state of the man who is whole-educated. i fear that you must have adopted some conventional idea about completeness of education, since you believe that there is any such thing as completeness, and that education can be measured by fractions, like the divisions of a two-foot rule. is not such an idea just a little arbitrary? it seems to be the idea of a schoolmaster, with his little list of subjects and his professional habit of estimating the progress of his boys by the good marks they are likely to obtain from their examiners. the half-educated schoolboy would be a schoolboy half-way towards his bachelor's degree--is that it? in the estimates of school and college this may be so, and it may be well to keep up the illusion, during boyhood, that there is such a thing attainable as the complete education that you assume. but the wider experience of manhood tends rather to convince us that no one can be fully educated, and that the more rich and various the natural talents, the greater will be the difficulty of educating the whole of them. indeed it does not appear that in a state of society so advanced in the different specialities as ours is, men were ever intended to do more than develop by education a few of their natural gifts. the only man who came near to a complete education was leonardo da vinci, but such a personage would be impossible to-day. no contemporary leonardo could be at the same time a leader in fine art, a great military and civil engineer, and a discoverer in theoretical science; the specialists have gone too far for him. born in our day, leonardo would have been either a specialist or an amateur. situated even as he was, in a time and country so remarkably favorable to the general development of a variously gifted man, he still fell short of the complete expansion of all his extraordinary faculties. he was a great artist, and yet his artistic power was never developed beyond the point of elaborately careful labor; he never attained the assured manipulation of titian and paul veronese, not to mention the free facility of velasquez, or the splendid audacity of rubens. his natural gifts were grand enough to have taken him to a pitch of mastery that he never reached, but his mechanical and scientific tendencies would have their development also, and withdrew so much time from art that every renewal of his artistic labor was accompanied by long and anxious reflection. the word "education" is used in senses so different that confusion is not always avoided. some people mean by it the acquisition of knowledge, others the development of faculty. if you mean the first, then the half-educated man would be a man who knew half what he ought to know, or who only half knew the different sciences, which the wholly educated know thoroughly. who is to fix the subjects? is it the opinion of the learned?--if so, who are the learned? "a learned man!--a scholar!--a man of erudition! upon whom are these epithets of approbation bestowed? are they given to men acquainted with the science of government? thoroughly masters of the geographical and commercial relations of europe? to men who know the properties of bodies, and their action upon each other? no: this is not learning; it is chemistry, or political economy, not learning. the distinguishing abstract term, the epithet of scholar, is reserved for him who writes on the Æolic reduplication, and is familiar with the sylburgian method of arranging defectives in [greek: ô] and [greek: mi]. the picture which a young englishman, addicted to the pursuit of knowledge, draws--his _beau idéal_ of human nature--his top and consummation of man's powers--is a knowledge of the greek language. his object is not to reason, to imagine, or to invent; but to conjugate, decline, and derive. the situations of imaginary glory which he draws for himself, are the detection of an anapæst in the wrong place, or the restoration of a dative case which cranzius had passed over, and the never-dying ernesti failed to observe." by the help of the above passage from an article written sixty-three years ago by sydney smith, and by the help of another passage in the same paper where he tells us that the english clergy bring up the first young men of the country as if they were all to keep grammar schools in little country towns, i begin to understand what you mean by a half-educated person. you mean a person who is only half qualified for keeping a grammar school. in this sense it is very possible that our friend the painter possesses nothing beyond a miserable fraction of education. and yet he has picked up a good deal of valuable knowledge outside the technical acquirement of a most difficult profession. he studied two years in paris, and four years in florence and rome. he speaks french and italian quite fluently, and with a fair degree of correctness. his knowledge of those two languages is incomparably more complete, in the sense of practical possession, than our fossilized knowledge of latin, and he reads them almost as we read english, currently, and without translating. he has the heartiest enjoyment of good literature; there is evidence in his pictures of a most intelligent sympathy with the greatest inventive writers. without having a scientific nature, he knows a good deal about anatomy. he has not read greek poetry, but he has studied the old greek mind in its architecture and sculpture. nature has also endowed him with a just appreciation of music, and he knows the immortal masterpieces of the most illustrious composers. all these things would not qualify him to teach a grammar school, and yet what greek of the age of pericles ever knew half so much? this for the acquisition of knowledge; now for the development of faculty. in this respect he excels us as performing athletes excel the people in the streets. consider the marvellous accuracy of his eye, the precision of his hand, the closeness of his observation, the vigor of his memory and invention! how clumsy and rude is the most learned pedant in comparison with the refinement of this delicate organization! try to imagine what a disciplined creature he has become, how obedient are all his faculties to the commands of the central will! the brain conceives some image of beauty or wit, and immediately that clear conception is telegraphed to the well-trained fingers. surely, if the results of education may be estimated from the evidences of skill, here are some of the most wonderful of such results. footnote: [ ] according to m. taine. i have elsewhere expressed a doubt about polyglots. part iv. the power of time. letter i. to a man of leisure who complained of want of time. necessity for time-thrift in all cases--serious men not much in danger from mere frivolity--greater danger of losing time in our serious pursuits themselves--time thrown away when we do not attain proficiency--soundness of former scholarship a good example--browning's grammarian--knowledge an organic whole--soundness the possession of essential parts--necessity of fixed limits in our projects of study--limitation of purpose in the fine arts--in languages--instance of m. louis Énault--in music--time saved by following kindred pursuits--order and proportion the true secrets of time-thrift--a waste of time to leave fortresses untaken in our rear. you complain of want of time--you, with your boundless leisure! it is true that the most absolute master of his own hours still needs thrift if he would turn them to account, and that too many _never_ learn this thrift, whilst others learn it late. will you permit me to offer briefly a few observations on time-thrift which have been suggested to me by my own experience and by the experience of intellectual friends? it may be accepted for certain, to begin with, that men who like yourself seriously care for culture, and make it, next to moral duty, the principal object of their lives, are but little exposed to waste time in downright frivolity of any kind. you may be perfectly idle at your own times, and perfectly frivolous even, whenever you have a mind to be frivolous, but then you will be clearly aware how the time is passing, and you will throw it away knowingly, as the most careful of money-economists will throw away a few sovereigns in a confessedly foolish amusement, merely for the relief of a break in the habit of his life. to a man of your tastes and temper there is no danger of wasting too much time so long as the waste is intentional; but you are exposed to time-losses of a much more insidious character. it is in our pursuits themselves that we throw away our most valuable time. few intellectual men have the art of economizing the hours of study. the very necessity, which every one acknowledges, of giving vast portions of life to attain proficiency in anything makes us prodigal where we ought to be parsimonious, and careless where we have need of unceasing vigilance. the best time-savers are the love of soundness in all we learn or do, and a cheerful acceptance of inevitable limitations. there is a certain point of proficiency at which an acquisition begins to be of use, and unless we have the time and resolution necessary to reach that point, our labor is as completely thrown away as that of a mechanic who began to make an engine but never finished it. each of us has acquisitions which remain permanently unavailable from their unsoundness, a language or two that we can neither speak nor write, a science of which the elements have not been mastered, an art which we cannot practice with satisfaction either to others or to ourselves. now the time spent on these unsound accomplishments has been in great measure wasted, not quite absolutely wasted, since the mere labor of trying to learn has been a discipline for the mind, but wasted so far as the accomplishments themselves are concerned. and even this mental discipline, on which so much stress is laid by those whose interest it is to encourage unsound accomplishment, might be obtained more perfectly if the subjects of study were less numerous and more thoroughly understood. let us not therefore in the studies of our maturity repeat the error of our youth. let us determine to have soundness, that is, accurately organized knowledge in the studies we continue to pursue, and let us resign ourselves to the necessity for abandoning those pursuits in which soundness is not to be hoped for. the old-fashioned idea about scholarship in latin and greek, that it ought to be based upon thorough grammatical knowledge, is a good example, so far as it goes, of what soundness really is. that ideal of scholarship failed only because it fell short of soundness in other directions and was not conscious of its failure. but there existed, in the minds of the old scholars, a fine resolution to be accurate, and a determination to give however much labor might be necessary for the attainment of accuracy, in which there was much grandeur. like mr. browning's grammarian, they said-- "let me know all! prate not of most or least painful or easy!" and so at least they came to know the ancient tongues grammatically, which few of us do in these days. i should define each kind of knowledge as an organic whole and soundness as the complete possession of all the essential parts. for example, soundness in violin-playing consists in being able to play the notes in all the positions, in tune, and with a pure intonation, whatever may be the degree of rapidity indicated by the musical composer. soundness in painting consists in being able to lay a patch of color having exactly the right shape and tint. soundness in the use of language consists in being able to put the right word in the right place. in each of the sciences, there are certain elementary notions without which sound knowledge is not possible, but these elementary notions are more easily and rapidly acquired than the elaborate knowledge or confirmed skill necessary to the artist or the linguist. a man may be a sound botanist without knowing a very great number of plants, and the elements of sound botanical knowledge may be printed in a portable volume. and so it is with all the physical sciences; the elementary notions which are necessary to soundness of knowledge may be acquired rapidly and at any age. hence it follows that all whose leisure for culture is limited, and who value soundness of knowledge, do wisely to pursue some branch of natural history rather than languages or the fine arts. it is well for every one who desires to attain a perfect economy of time, to make a list of the different pursuits to which he has devoted himself, and to put a note opposite to each of them indicating the degree of its unsoundness with as little self-delusion as may be. after having done this, he may easily ascertain in how many of these pursuits a sufficient degree of soundness is attainable for him, and when this has been decided he may at once effect a great saving by the total renunciation of the rest. with regard to those which remain, and which are to be carried farther, the next thing to be settled is the exact limit of their cultivation. nothing is so favorable to sound culture as the definite fixing of limits. suppose, for example, that the student said to himself "i desire to know the flora of the valley i live in," and then set to work systematically to make a herbarium illustrating that flora, it is probable that his labor would be more thorough, his temper more watchful and hopeful, than if he set himself to the boundless task of the illimitable flora of the world. or in the pursuit of fine art, an amateur discouraged by the glaring unsoundness of the kind of art taught by ordinary drawing-masters, would find the basis of a more substantial superstructure on a narrower but firmer ground. suppose that instead of the usual messes of bad color and bad form, the student produced work having some definite and not unattainable purpose, would there not be, here also, an assured economy of time? accurate drawing is the basis of soundness in the fine arts, and an amateur, by perseverance, may reach accuracy in drawing; this, at least, has been proved by some examples--not by many, certainly, but by some. in languages we may have a limited purpose also. that charming and most intelligent traveller, louis Énault, tells us that he regularly gave a week to the study of each new language that he needed, and found that week sufficient. the assertion is not so presumptuous as it appears. for the practical necessities of travelling m. Énault found that he required about four hundred words, and that, having a good memory, he was able to learn about seventy words a day. the secret of his success was the invaluable art of selection, and the strict limitation of effort in accordance with a preconceived design. a traveller not so well skilled in selection might have learned a thousand words with less advantage to his travels, and a traveller less decided in purpose might have wasted several months on the frontier of every new country in hopeless efforts to master the intricacies of grammatical form. it is evident that in the strictest sense m. Énault's knowledge of norwegian cannot have been sound, since he did not master the grammar, but it was sound in its own strictly limited way, since he got possession of the four hundred words which were to serve him as current coin. on the same principle it is a good plan for students of latin and greek who have not time to reach true scholarship (half a lifetime is necessary for that), to propose to themselves simply the reading of the original authors with the help of a literal translation. in this way they may attain a closer acquaintance with ancient literature than would be possible by translation alone, whilst on the other hand their reading will be much more extensive on account of its greater rapidity. it is, for most of us, a waste of time to read latin and greek without a translation, on account of the comparative slowness of the process; but it is always an advantage to know what was really said in the original, and to test the exactness of the translator by continual reference to the _ipsissima verba_ of the author. when the knowledge of the ancient language is not sufficient even for this, it may still be of use for occasional comparison, even though the passage has to be fought through _à coupes de dictionnaire_. what most of us need in reference to the ancient languages is a frank resignation to a restriction of some kind. it is simply impossible for men occupied as most of us are in other pursuits to reach perfect scholarship in those languages, and if we reached it we should not have time to maintain it. in modern languages it is not so easy to fix limits satisfactorily. you may resolve to read french or german without either writing or speaking them, and that would be an effectual limit, certainly. but in practice it is found difficult to keep within that boundary if ever you travel or have intercourse with foreigners. and when once you begin to speak, it is so humiliating to speak badly, that a lover of soundness in accomplishment will never rest perfectly satisfied until he speaks like a cultivated native, which nobody ever did except under peculiar family conditions. in music the limits are found more easily. the amateur musician is frequently not inferior in feeling and taste to the more accomplished professional, and by selecting those compositions which require much feeling and taste for their interpretation, but not so much manual skill, he may reach a sufficient success. the art is to choose the very simplest music (provided of course that it is beautiful, which it frequently is), and to avoid all technical difficulties which are not really necessary to the expression of feeling. the amateur ought also to select the easiest instrument, an instrument in which the notes are made for him already, rather than one which compels him to fix the notes as he is playing. the violin tempts amateurs who have a deep feeling for music because it renders feeling as no other instrument can render it, but the difficulty of just intonation is almost insuperable unless the whole time is given to that one instrument. it is a fatal error to perform on several different instruments, and an amateur who has done so may find a desirable limitation in restricting himself to one. much time is saved by following pursuits which help each other. it is a great help to a landscape painter to know the botany of the country he works in, for botany gives the greatest possible distinctness to his memory of all kinds of vegetation. therefore, if a landscape painter takes to the study of science at all, he would do well to study botany, which would be of use in his painting, rather than chemistry or mathematics, which would be entirely disconnected from it. the memory easily retains the studies which are auxiliary to the chief pursuit. entomologists remember plants well, the reason being that they find insects in them, just as leslie the painter had an excellent memory for houses where there were any good pictures to be found. the secret of order and proportion in our studies is the true secret of economy in time. to have one main pursuit and several auxiliaries, but none that are not auxiliary, is the true principle of arrangement. many hard workers have followed pursuits as widely disconnected as possible, but this was for the refreshment of absolute change, not for the economy of time. lastly, it is a deplorable waste of time to leave fortresses untaken in our rear. whatever has to be mastered ought to be mastered so thoroughly that we shall not have to come back to it when we ought to be carrying the war far into the enemy's country. but to study on this sound principle, we require not to be hurried. and this is why, to a sincere student, all external pressure, whether of examiners, or poverty, or business engagements, which causes him to leave work behind him which was not done as it ought to have been done, is so grievously, so intolerably vexatious. letter ii. to a young man of great talent and energy who had magnificent plans for the future. mistaken estimates about time and occasion--the unknown element--procrastination often time's best preserver--napoleon's advice to do nothing at all--use of deliberation and of intervals of leisure--artistic advantages of calculating time--prevalent childishness about time--illusions about reading--bad economy of reading in languages we have not mastered--that we ought to be thrifty of time, but not avaricious--time necessary in production--men who work best under the sense of pressure--rossini--that these cases prove nothing against time-thrift--the waste of tune from miscalculation--people calculate accurately for short spaces, but do not calculate so well for long ones--reason for this--stupidity of the philistines about wasted time--töpffer and claude tillier--retrospective miscalculations, and the regrets that result from them. have you ever observed that we pay much more attention to a wise passage when it is quoted, than when we read it in the original author? on the same principle, people will give a higher price to a picture-dealer than they would have given to the painter himself. the picture that has been once bought has a recommendation, and the quoted passage is both recommended and isolated from the context. trusting to this well-known principle, although i am aware that you have read everything that sir arthur helps has published, i proceed to make the following quotation from one of his wisest books. "time and occasion are the two important circumstances in human life, as regards which the most mistaken estimates are made. and the error is universal. it besets even the most studious and philosophic men. this may notably be seen in the present day, when many most distinguished men have laid down projects for literature and philosophy, to be accomplished by them in their own lifetime, which would require several men and many lifetimes to complete; and, generally speaking, if any person, who has passed the meridian of life, looks back upon his career, he will probably own that his greatest errors have arisen from his not having made sufficient allowance for the length of time which his various schemes required for their fulfilment." there are many traditional maxims about time which insist upon its brevity, upon the necessity of using it whilst it is there, upon the impossibility of recovering what is lost; but the practical effect of these maxims upon conduct can scarcely be said to answer to their undeniable importance. the truth is, that although they tell us to economize our time, they cannot, in the nature of things, instruct us as to the methods by which it is to be economized. human life is so extremely various and complicated, whilst it tends every day to still greater variety and complication, that all maxims of a general nature require a far higher degree of intelligence in their application to individual cases than it ever cost originally to invent them. any person gifted with ordinary common sense can perceive that life is short, that time flies, that we ought to make good use of the present; but it needs the union of much experience, with the most consummate wisdom, to know exactly what ought to be done and what ought to be left undone--the latter being frequently by far the more important of the two. amongst the favorable influences of my early life was the kindness of a venerable country gentleman, who had seen a great deal of the world and passed many years, before he inherited his estates, in the practice of a laborious profession. i remember a theory of his, that experience was much less valuable than is generally supposed, because, except in matters of simple routine, the problems that present themselves to us for solution are nearly always dangerous from the presence of some unknown element. the unknown element he regarded as a hidden pitfall, and he warned me that in my progress through life i might always expect to tumble into it. this saying of his has been so often confirmed since then, that i now count upon the pitfall quite as a matter of certainty. very frequently i have escaped it, but more by good luck than good management. sometimes i have tumbled into it, and when this misfortune occurred it has not unfrequently been in consequence of having acted upon the advice of some very knowing and experienced person indeed. we have all read, when we were boys, captain marryat's "midshipman easy." there is a passage in that story which may serve as an illustration of what is constantly happening in actual life. the boats of the _harpy_ were ordered to board one of the enemy's vessels; young easy was in command of one of these boats, and as they had to wait he began to fish. after they had received the order to advance, he delayed a little to catch his fish, and this delay not only saved him from being sunk by the enemy's broadside, but enabled him to board the frenchman. here the pitfall was avoided by idling away a minute of time on an occasion when minutes were like hours; yet it was mere luck, not wisdom, which led to the good result. there was a sad railway accident on one of the continental lines last autumn; a notable personage would have been in the train if he had arrived in time for it, but his miscalculation saved him. in matters where there is no risk of the loss of life, but only of the waste of a portion of it in unprofitable employment, it frequently happens that procrastination, which is reputed to be the thief of time, becomes its best preserver. suppose that you undertake an enterprise, but defer the execution of it from day to day: it is quite possible that in the interval some fact may accidentally come to your knowledge which would cause a great modification of your plan, or even its complete abandonment. every thinking person is well aware that the enormous loss of time caused by the friction of our legislative machinery has preserved the country from a great deal of crude and ill-digested legislation. even napoleon the great who had a rapidity of conception and of action so far surpassing that of other kings and commanders that it seems to us almost supernatural, said that when you did not quite know what ought to be done it was best to do nothing at all. one of the most distinguished of living painters said exactly the same thing with reference to the practice of his art, and added that very little time would be needed for the actual execution of a picture if only the artist knew beforehand how and where to lay the color. it so often happens that mere activity is a waste of time, that people who have a morbid habit of being busy are often terrible time-wasters, whilst, on the contrary, those who are judiciously deliberate, and allow themselves intervals of leisure, see the way before them in those intervals, and save time by the accuracy of their calculations. a largely intelligent thrift of time is necessary to all great works--and many works are very great indeed relatively to the energies of a single individual, which pass unperceived in the tumult of the world. the advantages of calculating time are artistic as well as economical. i think that, in this respect, magnificent as are the cathedrals which the gothic builders have left us, they committed an artistic error in the very immensity of their plans. they do not appear to have reflected that from the continual changes of fashion in architecture, incongruous work would be sure to intrude itself before their gigantic projects could be realized by the generations that were to succeed them. for a work of that kind to possess artistic unity, it ought to be completely realized within the space of forty years. how great is the charm of those perfect edifices which, like the sainte chapelle, are the realization of one sublime idea? and those changes in national thought which have made the old cathedrals a jumble of incongruous styles, have their parallel in the life of every individual workman. we change from year to year, and any work which occupies us for very long will be wanting in unity of manner. men are apt enough of themselves to fall into the most astonishing delusions about the opportunities which time affords, but they are even more deluded by the talk of the people about them. when children hear that a new carriage has been ordered of the builder, they expect to see it driven up to the door in a fortnight, with the paint quite dry on the panels. all people are children in this respect, except the workman, who knows the endless details of production; and the workman himself, notwithstanding the lessons of experience, makes light of the future task. what gigantic plans we scheme, and how little we advance in the labor of a day! three pages of the book (to be half erased to-morrow), a bit of drapery in the picture that will probably have to be done over again, the imperceptible removal of an ounce of marble-dust from the statue that seems as if it never would be finished; so much from dawn to twilight has been the accomplishment of the golden hours. if there is one lesson which experience teaches, surely it is this, to make plans that are strictly limited, and to arrange our work in a practicable way within the limits that we must accept. others expect so much from us that it seems as if we had accomplished nothing. "what! have you done only that?" they say, or we know by their looks that they are thinking it. the most illusory of all the work that we propose to ourselves is reading. it seems so easy to read, that we intend, in the indefinite future, to master the vastest literatures. we cannot bring ourselves to admit that the library we have collected is in great part closed to us simply by want of time. a dear friend of mine, who was a solicitor with a large practice, indulged in wonderful illusions about reading, and collected several thousand volumes, all fine editions, but he died without having cut their leaves. i like the university habit of making reading a business, and estimating the mastery of a few authors as a just title to consideration for scholarship. i should like very well to be shut up in a garden for a whole summer with no literature but the "faëry queene," and one year i very nearly realized that project, but publishers and the postman interfered with it. after all, this business of reading ought to be less illusory than most others, for printers divide books into pages, which they number, so that, with a moderate skill in arithmetic, one ought to be able to foresee the limits of his possibilities. there is another observation which may be suggested, and that is to take note of the time required for reading different languages. we read very slowly when the language is imperfectly mastered, and we need the dictionary, whereas in the native tongue we see the whole page almost at a glance, as if it were a picture. people whose time for reading is limited ought not to waste it in grammars and dictionaries, but to confine themselves resolutely to a couple of languages, or three at the very utmost, notwithstanding the contempt of polyglots, who estimate your learning by the variety of your tongues. it is a fearful throwing away of time, from the literary point of view, to begin more languages than you can master or retain, and to be always puzzling yourself about irregular verbs. all plans for sparing time in intellectual matters ought, however, to proceed upon the principle of thrift, and not upon the principle of avarice. the object of the thrifty man in money matters is so to lay out his money as to get the best possible result from his expenditure; the object of the avaricious man is to spend no more money than he can help. an artist who taught me painting often repeated a piece of advice which is valuable in other things than art, and which i try to remember whenever patience fails. he used to say to me, "_give it time._" the mere length of time that we bestow upon our work is in itself a most important element of success, and if i object to the use of languages that we only half know, it is not because it takes us a long time to get through a chapter, but because we are compelled to think about syntax and conjugations which did not in the least occupy the mind of the author, when we ought rather to be thinking about those things which _did_ occupy his mind, about the events which he narrated, or the characters that he imagined or described. there are, in truth, only two ways of impressing anything on the memory, either intensity or duration. if you saw a man struck down by an assassin, you would remember the occurrence all your life; but to remember with equal vividness a picture of the assassination, you would probably be obliged to spend a month or two in copying it. the subjects of our studies rarely produce an intensity of emotion sufficient to ensure perfect recollection without the expenditure of time. and when your object is not to learn, but to produce, it is well to bear in mind that everything requires a certain definite time-outlay, which _cannot_ be reduced without an inevitable injury to quality. a most experienced artist, a man of the very rarest executive ability, wrote to me the other day about a set of designs i had suggested. "if i could but get the time,"--the large capitals are his own,--"for, somehow or other, let a design be never so studiously simple in the masses, it _will_ fill itself as it goes on, like the weasel in the fable who got into the meal-tub; and when the pleasure begins in attempting tone and mystery and intricacy, _away go the hours at a gallop_." a well-known and very successful english dramatist wrote to me: "when i am hurried, and have undertaken more work than i can execute in the time at my disposal, i am always perfectly paralyzed." there is another side to this subject which deserves attention. some men work best under the sense of pressure. simple compression evolves heat from iron, so that there is a flash of fire when a ball hits the side of an ironclad. the same law seems to hold good in the intellectual life of man, whenever he needs the stimulus of extraordinary excitement. rossini positively advised a young composer never to write his overture until the evening before the first performance. "nothing," he said, "excites inspiration like necessity; the presence of a copyist waiting for your work, and the view of a manager in despair tearing out his hair by handfuls. in italy in my time all the managers were bald at thirty. i composed the overture to 'othello' in a small room in the barbaja palace, where the baldest and most ferocious of managers had shut me up by force with nothing but a dish of maccaroni, and the threat that i should not leave the place alive until i had written the last note. i wrote the overture to the 'gazza ladra' on the day of the first performance, in the upper loft of the la scala, where i had been confined by the manager, under the guard of four scene-shifters who had orders to throw my text out of the window bit by bit to copyists, who were waiting below to transcribe it. in default of music i was to be thrown out myself." i have quoted the best instance known to me of this voluntary seeking after pressure, but striking as it is, even this instance does not weaken what i said before. for observe, that although rossini deferred the composition of his overture till the evening before the first performance, he knew very well that he could do it thoroughly in the time. he was like a clever schoolboy who knows that he can learn his lesson in the quarter of an hour before the class begins; or he was like an orator who knows that he can deliver a passage and compose at the same time the one which is to follow, so that he prefers to arrange his speech in the presence of his audience. since rossini always allowed himself all the time that was necessary for what he had to do, it is clear that he did not sin against the great time-necessity. the express which can travel from london to edinburgh in a night may leave the english metropolis on saturday evening although it is due in scotland on sunday, and still act with the strictest consideration about time. the blameable error lies in miscalculation, and not in rapidity of performance. nothing _wastes_ time like miscalculation. it negatives all results. it is the parent of incompleteness, the great author of the unfinished and the unserviceable. almost every intellectual man has laid out great masses of time on five or six different branches of knowledge which are not of the least use to him, simply because he has not carried them far enough, and could not carry them far enough in the time he had to give. yet this might have been ascertained at the beginning by the simplest arithmetical calculation. the experience of students in all departments of knowledge has quite definitely ascertained the amount of time that is necessary for success in them, and the successful student can at once inform the aspirant how far he is likely to travel along the road. what is the use, to anybody, of having just enough skill to feel vexed with himself that he has no more, and yet angry at other people for not admiring the little that he possesses? i wish to direct your attention to a cause which more than any other produces disappointment in ordinary intellectual pursuits. it is this. people can often calculate with the utmost accuracy what they can accomplish in ten minutes or even in ten hours, and yet the very same persons will make the most absurd miscalculations about what they can accomplish in ten years. there is of course a reason for this: if there were not, so many sensible people would not suffer from the delusion. the reason is, that owing to the habits of human life there is a certain elasticity in large spaces of time that include nights, and mealtimes, and holidays. we fancy that we shall be able, by working harder than we have been accustomed to work, and by stealing hours from all the different kinds of rest and amusement, to accomplish far more in the ten years that are to come than we have ever actually accomplished in the same space. and to a certain extent this may be very true. no doubt a man whose mind has become seriously aware of the vast importance of economizing his time will economize it better than he did in the days before the new conviction came to him. no doubt, after skill in our work has been confirmed, we shall perform it with increased speed. but the elasticity of time is rather that of leather than that of india-rubber. there is certainly a degree of elasticity, but the degree is strictly limited. the true master of time-thrift would be no more liable to illusion about years than about hours, and would act as prudently when working for remote results as for near ones. not that we ought to work as if we were always under severe pressure. little books are occasionally published in which we are told that it is a sin to lose a minute. from the intellectual point of view this doctrine is simply stupid. what the philistines call wasted time is often rich in the most varied experience to the intelligent. if all that we have learned in idle moments could be suddenly expelled from our minds by some chemical process, it is probable that they would be worth very little afterwards. what, after such a process, would have remained to shakespeare, scott, cervantes, thackeray, dickens, hogarth, goldsmith, molière? when these great students of human nature were learning most, the sort of people who write the foolish little books just alluded to would have wanted to send them home to the dictionary or the desk. töpffer and claude tillier, both men of delicate and observant genius, attached the greatest importance to hours of idleness. töpffer said that a year of downright loitering was a desirable element in a liberal education; whilst claude tillier went even farther, and boldly affirmed that "le temps le mieux employé est celui que l'on perd." let us not think too contemptuously of the miscalculators of time, since not one of us is exempt from their folly. we have all made miscalculations, or more frequently have simply omitted calculation altogether, preferring childish illusion to a manly examination of realities; and afterwards as life advances another illusion steals over us not less vain than the early one, but bitter as that was sweet. we now begin to reproach ourselves with all the opportunities that have been neglected, and now our folly is to imagine that we might have done impossible wonders if we had only exercised a little resolution. we might have been thorough classical scholars, and spoken all the great modern languages, and written immortal books, and made a colossal fortune. miscalculations again, and these the most imbecile of all; for the youth who forgets to reason in the glow of happiness and hope, is wiser than the man who overestimates what was once possible that he may embitter the days which remain to him. letter iii. to a man of business who desired to make himself better acquainted with literature, but whose time for reading was limited. victor jacquemont on the intellectual labors of the germans--business may be set off as the equivalent to one of their pursuits--necessity for regularity in the economy of time--what may be done in two hours a day--evils of interruption--florence nightingale--real nature of interruption--instance from the apology of socrates. in the charming and precious letters of victor jacquemont, a man whose life was dedicated to culture, and who not only lived for it, but died for it, there is a passage about the intellectual labors of germans, which takes due account of the expenditure of time. "comme j'étais étonné," he says, "de la prodigieuse variété et de l'étendue de connaissances des allemands, je demandai un jour à l'un de mes amis, saxon de naissance et l'un des premiers géologues de l'europe, comment ses compatriotes s'y prenaient pour savoir tant de choses. voici sa réponse, à peu près: 'un allemand (moi excepté qui suis le plus paresseux des hommes) se lève de bonne heure, été et hiver, à cinq heures environ. il travaille quatre heures avant le déjeuner, fumant quelquefois pendant tout ce temps, sans que cela nuise à son application. son déjeuner dure une demi-heure, et il reste, après, une autre demi-heure à causer avec sa femme et à faire jouer ses enfants. il retourne au travail pour six heures; dîne sans se presser; fume une heure après le dîner, jouant encore avec ses enfants; et avant de se coucher il travaille encore quatre heures. il recommence tous les jours, ne sortant jamais.--voilà,' me dit mon ami, 'comment oersted, le plus grand physicien de l'allemagne, en est aussi le plus grand médecin; voilà comment kant le métaphysicien était un des plus savants astronomes de l'europe, et comment goethe, qui en est actuellement le premier littérateur, dans presque tous les genres, et le plus fécond, est excellent botaniste, minéralogiste, physicien.'"[ ] here is something to encourage, and something to discourage you at the same time. the number of hours which these men have given in order to become what they were, is so great as to be past all possibility of imitation by a man occupied in business. it is clear that, with your counting-house to occupy you during the best hours of every day, you can never labor for your intellectual culture with that unremitting application which these men have given for theirs. but, on the other hand, you will perceive that these extraordinary workers have hardly ever been wholly dedicated to one pursuit, and the reason for this in most cases is clear. men who go through a prodigious amount of work feel the necessity for varying it. the greatest intellectual workers i have known personally have varied their studies as kant and goethe did, often taking up subjects of the most opposite kinds, as for instance imaginative literature and the higher mathematics, the critical and practical study of fine art and the natural sciences, music, and political economy. the class of intellects which arrogate to themselves the epithet "practical," but which we call _philistine_, always oppose this love of variety, and have an unaffected contempt for it, but these are matters beyond their power of judgment. they cannot know the needs of the intellectual life, because they have never lived it. the practice of all the greatest intellects has been to cultivate themselves variously, and if they have always done so, it must be because they have felt the need of it. the encouraging inference which you may draw from this in reference to your own case is that, since all intellectual men have had more than one pursuit, you may set off your business against the most absorbing of their pursuits, and for the rest be still almost as rich in time as they have been. you may study literature as some painters have studied it, or science as some literary men have studied it. the first step is to establish a regulated economy of your time, so that, without interfering with a due attention to business and to health, you may get two clear hours every day for reading of the best kind. it is not much, some men would tell you that it is not enough, but i purposely fix the expenditure of time at a low figure because i want it to be always practicable consistently with all the duties and necessary pleasures of your life. if i told you to read four hours every day, i know beforehand what would be the consequence. you would keep the rule for three days, by an effort, then some engagement would occur to break it, and you would have no rule at all. and please observe that the two hours are to be given quite regularly, because, when the time given is not much, regularity is quite essential. two hours a day, regularly, make more than seven hundred hours in a year, and in seven hundred hours, wisely and uninterruptedly occupied, much may be done in anything. permit me to insist upon that word _uninterruptedly_. few people realize the full evil of an interruption, few people know all that is implied by it. after warning nurses against the evils of interruption, florence nightingale says:-- "these things are not fancy. if we consider that, with sick as with well, every thought decomposes some nervous matter--that decomposition as well as re-composition of nervous matter is always going on, and more quickly with the sick than with the well,--that to obtrude another thought upon the brain whilst it is in the act of destroying nervous matter by thinking, is calling upon it to make a new exertion--if we consider these things, which are facts, not fancies, we shall remember that we are doing positive injury by interrupting, by startling a 'fanciful' person, as it is called. alas, it is no fancy. "if the invalid is forced by his avocations to continue occupations requiring much thinking, the injury is doubly great. in feeding a patient suffering under delirium or stupor you may suffocate him by giving him his food suddenly, but if you rub his lips gently with a spoon and thus attract his attention, he will swallow the food unconsciously, but with perfect safety. thus it is with the brain. if you offer it a thought, especially one requiring a decision, abruptly, you do it a real, not fanciful, injury. never speak to a sick person suddenly; but, at the same time, do not keep his expectation on the tiptoe." to this you will already have answered, mentally, that you are not a patient suffering under either delirium or stupor, and that nobody needs to rub your lips gently with a spoon. but miss nightingale does not consider interruption baneful to sick persons only. "this rule indeed," she continues, "applies to the well quite as much as to the sick. _i have never known persons who exposed themselves for years to constant interruption who did not muddle away their intellects by it at last._ the process, with them, may be accomplished without pain. with the sick, pain gives warning of the injury." interruption is an evil to the reader which must be estimated very differently from ordinary business interruptions. the great question about interruption is not whether it compels you to divert your attention to other facts, but whether it compels you to tune your whole mind to another diapason. shopkeepers are incessantly compelled to change the subject; a stationer is asked for notepaper one minute, for sealing-wax the next, and immediately afterwards for a particular sort of steel pen. the subjects of his thoughts are changed very rapidly, but the general state of his mind is not changed; he is always strictly in his shop, as much mentally as physically. when an attorney is interrupted in the study of a case by the arrival of a client who asks him questions about another case, the change is more difficult to bear; yet even here the general state of mind, the legal state of mind, is not interfered with. but now suppose a reader perfectly absorbed in his author, an author belonging very likely to another age and another civilization entirely different from ours. suppose that you are reading the defence of socrates in plato, and have the whole scene before you as in a picture: the tribunal of the five hundred, the pure greek architecture, the interested athenian public, the odious melitus, the envious enemies, the beloved and grieving friends whose names are dear to us, and immortal; and in the centre you see one figure draped like a poor man, in cheap and common cloth, that he wears winter and summer, with a face plain to downright ugliness, but an air of such genuine courage and self-possession that no acting could imitate it; and you hear the firm voice saying-- [greek: timatai d' oun moi hanêr thanatou eien.][ ] you are just beginning the splendid paragraph where socrates condemns himself to maintenance in the prytaneum, and if you can only be safe from interruption till it is finished, you will have one of those minutes of noble pleasure which are the rewards of intellectual toil. but if you are reading in the daytime in a house where there are women and children, or where people can fasten upon you for pottering details of business, you may be sure that you will _not_ be able to get to the end of the passage without in some way or other being rudely awakened from your dream, and suddenly brought back into the common world. the loss intellectually is greater than any one who had not suffered from it could imagine. people think that an interruption is merely the unhooking of an electric chain, and that the current will flow, when the chain is hooked on again, just as it did before. to the intellectual and imaginative student an interruption is not that; it is the destruction of a picture. letter iv. to a student who felt hurried and driven. people who like to be hurried--sluggish temperaments gain vivacity under pressure--routine work may be done at increased speed--the higher intellectual work cannot be done hurriedly--the art of avoiding hurry consists in selection--how it was practised by a good landscape painter--selection in reading and writing--some studies allow the play of selection more than others do--languages permit it less than natural sciences--difficulty of using selection in the fulfilment of literary engagements. so you have got yourself into that pleasant condition which is about as agreeable, and as favorable to fruitful study and observation, as the condition of an over-driven cab-horse! very indolent men, who will not work at all unless under the pressure of immediate urgency, sometimes tell us that they actually like to be hurried; but although certain kinds of practical work which have become perfectly easy from habit may be got through at a great pace when the workman feels that there is an immediate necessity for effort, it is certainly not true that hurry is favorable to sound study of any kind. work which merely runs in a fixed groove may be urged on occasionally at express speed without any perceptible injury to the quality of it. a clever violinist can play a passage _prestissimo_ as correctly as if he played it _adagio_; a banker's clerk can count money very rapidly with positively less risk of error than if he counted it as you and i do. a person of sluggish temperament really gains in vivacity when he is pressed for time, and becomes during those moments of excited energy a clearer-headed and more able person than he is under ordinary circumstances. it is therefore not surprising that he should find himself able to accomplish more under the great stimulus of an immediate necessity than he is able to do in the dulness of his every-day existence. great prodigies of labor have been performed in this way to avert impending calamity, especially by military officers in critical times like those of the sepoy rebellion; and in the obscurer lives of tradesmen, immense exertions are often made to avert the danger of bankruptcy, when without the excitement of a serious anxiety of that kind the tradesman would not feel capable of more than a moderate and reasonable degree of attention to his affairs. but notwithstanding the many instances of this kind which might be cited, and the many more which might easily be collected, the truth remains that the highest kinds of intellectual labor can hardly ever be properly performed when the degree of pressure is in the least excessive. you may, for example, if you have the kind of ability which makes a good journalist, write an effective leader with your watch lying on the table, and finish it exactly when the time is up; but if you had the kind of ability which makes a good poet, you could not write anything like highly-finished poetry against time. it is equally clear that scientific discovery, which, though it may flash suddenly upon the mind of the discoverer, is always the result of long brooding over the most patient observations, must come at its own moments, and cannot be commanded. the activity of poets and discoverers would be paralyzed by exigencies which stimulate the activity of soldiers and men of business. the truth is, that intelligence and energy are beneficially stimulated by pressure from without, whereas the working of the higher intellect is impeded by it, and that to such a degree that in times of the greatest pressure the high intellectual life is altogether suspended, to leave free play to the lower but more immediately serviceable intelligence. this being so, it becomes a necessary part of the art of intellectual living so to order our work as to shield ourselves if possible, at least during a certain portion of our time, from the evil consequences of hurry. the whole secret lies in a single word--selection. an excellent landscape painter told me that whatever he had to do, he always took the greatest pains to arrange his work so as never to have his tranquillity disturbed by haste. his system, which is quite applicable to many other things than landscape painting, was based on the principle of selection. he always took care to determine beforehand how much time he could devote to each sketch or study, and then, from the mass of natural facts before him, selected the most valuable facts which could be recorded in the time at his disposal. but however short that time might be, he was always perfectly cool and deliberate in the employment of it. indeed this coolness and his skill in selection helped each other mutually, for he chose wisely because he was cool, and he had time to be cool by reason of the wisdom of his selection. in his little memoranda, done in five minutes, the lines were laid just as deliberately as the tints on an elaborate picture; the difference being in choice only, not in speed. now if we apply this art of selection to all our labors it will give us much of that landscape painter's enviable coolness, and enable us to work more satisfactorily. suppose that instead of painting and sketching we have to do a great deal of reading and writing: the art is to select the reading which will be most useful to our purpose, and, in writing, to select the words which will express our meaning with the greatest clearness in a little space. the art of reading is to skip judiciously. whole libraries may be skipped in these days, when we have the results of them in our modern culture without going over the ground again. and even of the books we decide to read, there are almost always large portions which do not concern us, and which we are sure to forget the day after we have read them. the art is to skip all that does not concern us, whilst missing nothing that we really need. no external guidance can teach us this; for nobody but ourselves can guess what the needs of our intellect may be. but let us select with decisive firmness, independently of other people's advice, independently of the authority of custom. in every newspaper that comes to hand there is a little bit that we ought to read; the art is to find that little bit, and waste no time over the rest. some studies permit the exercise of selection better than others do. a language, once undertaken, permits very little selection indeed, since you must know the whole vocabulary, or nearly so, to be able to read and speak. on the other hand, the natural sciences permit the most prudent exercise of selection. for example, in botany you may study as few plants as you choose. in writing, the art of selection consists in giving the utmost effect to expression in the fewest words; but of this art i say little, for who can contend against an inevitable trade-necessity? almost every author of ordinary skill could, when pressed for time, find a briefer expression for his thoughts, but the real difficulty in fulfilling literary engagements does not lie in the expression of the thought, it lies in the sufficiently rapid production of a certain quantity of copy. for this purpose i fear that selection would be of very little use--of no more use, in fact, than in any other branch of manufacture where (if a certain standard is kept up to) quantity in sale is more important than quality of material. letter v. to a friend who, though he had no profession, could not find time for his various intellectual pursuits. compensations resulting from the necessity for time--opportunity only exists for us so far as we have time to make use of it--this _or_ that, not this _and_ that--danger of apparently unlimited opportunities--the intellectual training of our ancestors--montaigne the essayist--reliance upon the compensations. it has always seemed to me that the great and beautiful principle of compensation is more clearly seen in the distribution and effects of time than in anything else within the scope of our experience. the good use of one opportunity very frequently compensates us for the absence of another, and it does so because opportunity is itself so dependent upon time that, although the best opportunities may apparently be presented to us, we can make no use of them unless we are able to give them the time that they require. you, who have the best possible opportunities for culture, find a certain sadness and disappointment because you cannot avail yourself of all of them; but the truth is, that opportunity only exists for us just so far as we are able to make use of it, and our power to do so is often nothing but a question of time. if our days are well employed we are sure to have done some good thing which we should have been compelled to neglect if we had been occupied about anything else. hence every genuine worker has rich compensations which ought to console him amply for his shortcomings, and to enable him to meet comparisons without fear. those who aspire to the intellectual life, but have no experience of its difficulties, very frequently envy men so favorably situated as you are. it seems to them that all the world's knowledge is accessible to you, and that you have simply to cull its fruits as we gather grapes in a vineyard. they forget the power of time, and the restrictions which time imposes. "this _or_ that, not this _and_ that," is the rule to which all of us have to submit, and it strangely equalizes the destinies of men. the time given to the study of one thing is withdrawn from the study of another, and the hours of the day are limited alike for all of us. how difficult it is to reconcile the interests of our different pursuits! indeed it seems like a sort of polygamy to _have_ different pursuits. it is natural to think of them as jealous wives tormenting some mormon prophet. there is great danger in apparently unlimited opportunities, and a splendid compensation for those who are confined by circumstances to a narrow but fruitful field. the englishman gets more civilization out of a farm and a garden than the red indian out of the space encircled by his horizon. our culture gains in thoroughness what it loses in extent. this consideration goes far to explain the fact that although our ancestors were so much less favorably situated than we are, they often got as good an intellectual training from the literature that was accessible to them, as we from our vaster stores. we live in an age of essayists, and yet what modern essayist writes better than old montaigne? all that a thoughtful and witty writer needs for the sharpening of his intellect, montaigne found in the ancient literature that was accessible to him, and in the life of the age he lived in. born in our own century, he would have learned many other things, no doubt, and read many other books, but these would have absorbed the hours that he employed not less fruitfully with the authors that he loved in the little library up in the third story of his tower, as he tells us, where he could see all his books at once, set upon five rows of shelves round about him. in earlier life he bought "this sort of furniture" for "ornament and outward show," but afterwards quite abandoned that, and procured such volumes only "as supplied his own need." to supply our own need, within the narrow limits of the few and transient hours that we can call our own, is enough for the wise everywhere, as it was for montaigne in his tower. let us resolve to do as much as that, not more, and then rely upon the golden compensations. note.--"supposing that the executive and critical powers always exist in some correspondent degree in the same person, still they cannot be cultivated to the same extent. the attention required for the development of a theory is necessarily withdrawn from the design of a drawing, and the time devoted to the realization of a form is lost to the solution of a problem."--mr. ruskin, _in the preface to the third volume of_ "_modern painters_." in the case of mr. ruskin, in that of mr. dante rossetti, and in all cases where the literary and artistic gifts are naturally pretty evenly balanced, the preponderance of an hour a day given to one or the other class of studies may have settled the question whether the student was to be chiefly artist or chiefly author. the enormous importance of the distribution of time is never more clearly manifested than in cases of this kind. mr. ruskin might certainly have attained rank as a painter, rossetti might have been as prolific in poetry as he is excellent. what these gifted men are now is not so much a question of talent as of time. in like manner the question whether ingres was to be known as a painter or as a violinist was settled by the employment of hours rather than by any preponderance of faculty. footnotes: [ ] "being astonished at the prodigious variety and at the extent of knowledge possessed by the germans, i begged one of my friends, saxon by birth, and one of the foremost geologists in europe, to tell me how his countrymen managed to know so many things. here is his answer, nearly in his own words:--'a german (except myself, who am the idlest of men) gets up early, summer and winter, at about five o'clock. he works four hours before breakfast, sometimes smoking all the time, which does not interfere with his application. his breakfast lasts half an hour, and he remains, afterwards, another half-hour talking with his wife and playing with his children. he returns to his work for six hours, dines without hurrying himself, smokes an hour after dinner, playing again with his children, and before he goes to bed he works four hours more. he begins again every day, and never goes out. this is how it comes to pass that oersted, the greatest natural philosopher in germany, is at the same time the greatest physician; this is how kant the metaphysician was one of the most learned astronomers in europe, and how goethe, who is at present the first and most fertile author in germany in almost all kinds of literature, is an excellent botanist, mineralogist, and natural philosopher.'" [ ] the man, then, judges me worthy of death. be it so. part v. _the influences of money._ letter i. to a very rich student. the author of "vathek"--the double temptation of wealth--rich men tempted to follow occupations in which their wealth is useful--pressure of social duties on the rich--the duchess of orleans--the rich man's time not his own--the rich may help the general intellectual advancement by the exercise of patronage--dr. carpenter--franz woepke. it has always seemed to me a very remarkable and noteworthy circumstance that although mr. beckford, the author of "vathek," produced in his youth a story which bears all the signs of true inventive genius, he never produced anything in after-life which posterity cares to preserve. i read "vathek" again quite recently, to see how far my early enthusiasm for it might have been due to that passion for orientalism which reigned amongst us many years ago, but this fresh perusal left an impression which only genius leaves. beckford really had invention, and an extraordinary narrative power. that such faculties, after having once revealed themselves, should contentedly have remained dormant ever afterwards, is one of the most curious facts in the history of the human mind, and it is the more curious that beckford lived to a very advanced age. beckford's case appears to have been one of those in which great wealth diminishes or wholly paralyzes the highest energy of the intellect, leaving the lower energies free to exert less noble kinds of activity. a refined self-indulgence became the habit of his life, and he developed simply into a dilettant. even his love for the fine arts did not rise above the indulgence of an elegant and cultivated taste. although he lived at the very time most favorable to the appearance of a great critic in architecture and painting, the time of a great architectural revival and of the growth of a vigorous and independent school of contemporary art, he exercised no influence beyond that of a wealthy virtuoso. his love of the beautiful began and ended in simple personal gratification; it led to no noble labor, to no elevating severity of discipline. englishman though he was, he filled his oriental tower with masterpieces from italy and holland, only to add form and color to the luxuries of his reverie, behind his gilded lattices. and when he raised that other tower at fonthill, and the slaves of the lamp toiled at it by torchlight to gratify his oriental impatience, he exercised no influence upon the confusion of his epoch more durable than that hundred yards of masonry which sank into a shapeless heap whilst as yet azrael spared its author. he to whom nature and fortune had been so prodigal of their gifts, he whom reynolds painted and mozart instructed, who knew the poets of seven literatures, culling their jewels like flowers in seven enchanted gardens--he to whom the palaces of knowledge all opened their golden gates even in his earliest youth, to whom were also given riches and length of days, for whom a thousand craftsmen toiled in europe and a thousand slaves beyond the sea,[ ]--what has this gifted mortal left as the testimony of his power, as the trace of his fourscore years upon the earth? only the reminiscence of a vague splendor, like the fast-fading recollection of a cloud that burned at sunset, and one small gem of intellectual creation that lives like a tiny star. if wealth had only pleasure to offer as a temptation from intellectual labor, its influence would be easier to resist. men of the english race are often grandly strong in resistance to every form of voluptuousness; the race is fond of comfort and convenience, but it does not sacrifice its energy to enervating self-indulgence. there is, however, another order of temptations in great wealth, to which englishmen not only yield, but yield with a satisfied conscience, even with a sense of obedience to duty. wealth carries pleasure in her left hand, but in her right she bears honor and power. the rich man feels that he can do so much by the mere exercise of his command over the labor of others, and so little by any unaided labor of his own, that he is always strongly tempted to become, not only physically but intellectually, a director of work rather that a workman. even his modesty, when he is modest, tends to foster his reliance on others rather than himself. all that he tries to do is done so much better by those who make it their profession, that he is always tempted to fall back upon his paying power as his most satisfactory and effective force. there are cases in which this temptation is gloriously overcome, where men of great wealth compel every one to acknowledge that their money is nothing more than a help to their higher life, like the charger that bore wellington at waterloo, serving him indeed usefully, but not detracting from the honor which is his due. but in these cases the life is usually active or administrative rather than intellectual. the rich man does not generally feel tempted to enter upon careers in which his command over labor is not an evident advantage, and this because men naturally seek those fields in which _all_ their superiorities tell. even the well known instance of lord rosse can scarcely be considered an exception to this rule, for although he was eminent in a science which has been followed by poor men with great distinction, his wealth was of use in the construction of his colossal telescope, which gave him a clear advantage over merely professional contemporaries. besides this natural desire to pursue careers in which their money may lessen the number of competitors, the rich are often diverted from purely intellectual pursuits by the social duties of their station, duties which it is impossible to avoid and difficult to keep within limits. the duchess of orleans (mother of the present count of paris) arranged her time with the greatest care so as to reserve a little of it for her own culture in uninterrupted solitude. by an exact system, and the exercise of the rarest firmness, she contrived to steal half an hour here and an hour there--enough no doubt, when employed as she employed them, to maintain her character as a very distinguished lady, yet still far from sufficient for the satisfactory pursuit of any great art or science. if it be difficult for the rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven, it is also difficult for him to secure that freedom from interruption which is necessary to fit him for his entrance into the intellectual kingdom. he can scarcely allow himself to be absorbed in any great study, when he reflects on all the powerful means of social influence which he is suffering to lie idle. he is sure to possess by inheritance, or to have acquired in obedience to custom, a complicated and expensive machinery for the pleasures and purposes of society. there is game to be shot; there are hunters to be exercised; great houses to be filled with guests. so much is expected of the rich man, both in business and in pleasure, that his time is not his own, and he could not quit his station if he would. and yet the intellectual life, in its fruitful perfection, requires, i do not say the complete abandonment of the world, but it assuredly requires free and frequent spaces of labor in tranquil solitude, "retreats" like those commanded by the church of rome, but with more of study and less of contemplation. it would be useless to ask you to abdicate your power, and retreat into some hermitage with a library and a laboratory, without a thought of returning to your pleasant hall in yorkshire and your house in mayfair. you will not sell all and follow the light, but there is a life which you may powerfully encourage, yet only partially share. notwithstanding the increased facilities for earning a living which this age offers to the intellectual, the time that they are often compelled to give to the satisfaction of common material necessities is so much time withdrawn from the work which they alone can do. it is a lamentable waste of the highest and rarest kind of energy to compel minds that are capable of original investigation, of discovery, to occupy themselves in that mere vulgarization of knowledge, in popular lecturing and literature, which could be done just as efficiently by minds of a common order. it is an error of the present age to believe that the time for what is called patronage is altogether passed away. let me mention two instances to the contrary: one in which kindly help would have saved fifteen years of a noble life; another in which that kindly help did actually permit a man of exceptional endowment and equally exceptional industry to pursue investigations for which no other human being was so well qualified, and which were entirely incompatible with the earning of the daily bread. dr. carpenter has lately told us that, finding it impossible to unite the work of a general practitioner with the scientific researches upon which his heart was set, he gave up nine-tenths of his time for twenty years to popular lecturing and writing, in order that he might exist and devote the other tenth to science. "just as he was breaking down from the excessive strain upon mind and body which this life involved, an appointment was offered to dr. carpenter which gave him competence and sufficient leisure for the investigations which he has conducted to such important issues." suppose that during those twenty years of struggle he _had_ broken down like many another only a little less robust--what then? a mind lost to his country and the world. and would it not have been happier for him and for us if some of those men (of whom there are more in england than in any other land), who are so wealthy that their gold is positively a burden and an encumbrance, like too many coats in summer, had helped dr. carpenter at least a few years earlier, in some form that a man of high feeling might honorably accept? the other example that i shall mention is that of franz woepke, the mathematician and orientalist. a modest pension, supplied by an italian prince who was interested in the history of mathematics, gave woepke that peace which is incompatible with poverty, and enabled him to live grandly in his narrow lodging the noble intellectual life. was not this rightly and well done, and probably a much more effectual employment of the power of gold than if that italian prince had added some rare manuscripts to his own library without having time or knowledge to decipher them? i cannot but think that the rich may serve the cause of culture best by a judicious exercise of patronage--unless, indeed, they have within themselves the sense of that irresistible vocation which made humboldt use his fortune as the servant of his high ambition. the humboldts never are too rich; they possess their gold and are not possessed by it, and they are exempt from the duty of aiding others because they themselves have a use for all their powers. letter ii to a genius careless in money matters. danger of carelessness--inconveniences of poverty unfavorable to the intellectual life--necessity advances men in industrial occupations, but disturbs and interrupts the higher intellectual life--instances in science, literature, and art--careers aided by wealth--mr. ruskin--de saussure--work spoiled by poverty in the doing--the central passion of men of ability is to do their work well--the want of money the most common hindrance to excellence of work--de sénancour--bossuet-- sainte-beuve--shelley-- wordsworth--scott--kepler--tycho brahe--schiller--goethe--case of an eminent english philosopher, and of a french writer of school-primers--loss of time in making experiments on public taste--_surtout ne pas trop écrire_--auguste comte--the reaction of the intellectual against money-making--money the protector of the intellectual life. i have been anxious for you lately, and venture to write to you about the reasons for this anxiety. you are neither extravagant nor self-indulgent, yet it seems to me that your entire absorption in the higher intellectual pursuits has produced in you, as it frequently does, a carelessness about material interests of all kinds which is by far the most dangerous of all tempers to the pecuniary well-being of a man. sydney smith declared that no fortune could stand that temper long, and that we are on the high road to ruin the moment we think ourselves rich enough to be careless. let me observe, to begin with, that although the pursuit of wealth is not favorable to the intellectual life, the inconveniences of poverty are even less favorable to it. we are sometimes lectured on the great benefits of necessity as a stimulant to exertion, and it is implied that comfortable people would go much farther on the road to distinction if they were made uncomfortable by having to think perpetually about money. those who say this confound together the industry of the industrial and professional classes, and the labors of the more purely intellectual. it is clear that when the labor a man does is of such a nature that he will be paid for it in strict proportion to the time and effort he bestows, the need of money will be a direct stimulus to the best exertion he may be capable of. in all simple industrial occupations the need of money _does_ drive a man forwards, and is often, when he feels it in early life, the very origin and foundation of his fortune. there exists, in such occupations, a perfect harmony between the present necessity and the ultimate purpose of the life. wealth is the object of industry, and the first steps towards the possession of it are steps on the chosen path. the future captain of industry, who will employ thousands of workpeople and accumulate millions of money, is going straight to his splendid future when he gets up at five in the morning to work in another person's factory. to learn to be a builder of steam-vessels, it is necessary, even when you begin with capital, to pass through the manual trades, and you will only learn them the better if the wages are necessary to your existence. poverty in these cases only makes an intelligent man ground himself all the better in that stern practical training which is the basis of his future career. well, therefore, may those who have reached distinguished success in fields of practical activity extol the teachings of adversity. if it is a necessary part of your education that you should hammer rivets inside a steam-boiler, it is as well that your early habits should not be over-dainty. so it is observed that horny hands, in the colonies, get gold into them sooner than white ones. even in the liberal professions young men get on all the better for not being too comfortably off. if you have a comfortable private income to begin with, the meagre early rewards of professional life will seem too paltry to be worth hard striving, and so you will very likely miss the more ample rewards of maturity, since the common road to success is nothing but a gradual increase. and you miss education at the same time, for practice is the best of professional educators, and many successful lawyers and artists have had scarcely any other training. the daily habit of affairs trains men for the active business of the world, and if the purpose of their lives is merely to do what they are doing or to command others to do the same things, the more closely circumstances tie them down to their work, the better. but in the higher intellectual pursuits the necessity for immediate earning has an entirely different result. it comes, not as an educator, but as an interruption or suspension of education. all intellectual lives, however much they may differ in the variety of their purposes, have at least this purpose in common, that they are mainly devoted to self-education of one kind or another. an intellectual man who is forty years old is as much at school as an etonian of fourteen, and if you set him to earn more money than that which comes to him without especial care about it, you interrupt his schooling, exactly as selfish parents used to do when they sent their young children to the factory and prevented them from learning to read. the idea of the intellectual life is an existence passed almost entirely in study, yet preserving the results of its investigations. a day's writing will usually suffice to record the outcome of a month's research. necessity, instead of advancing your studies, stops them. whenever her harsh voice speaks it becomes your duty to shut your books, put aside your instruments, and do something that will fetch a price in the market. the man of science has to abandon the pursuit of a discovery to go and deliver a popular lecture a hundred miles off, for which he gets five pounds and his railway fare. the student of ancient literature has to read some feeble novel, and give three days of a valuable life to write an anonymous review which will bring him two pounds ten. the artist has to leave his serious picture to manufacture "pot-boilers," which will teach him nothing, but only spoil his hands and vitiate the public taste. the poet suspends his poem (which is promised to a publisher for christmas, and will be spoiled in consequence by hurry at the last) in order to write newspaper articles on subjects of which he has little knowledge and in which he takes no interest. and yet these are instances of those comparatively happy and fortunate needy who are only compelled to suspend their intellectual life, and who can cheer themselves in their enforced labor with the hope of shortly renewing it. what of those others who are pushed out of their path forever by the buffets of unkindly fortune? many a fine intellect has been driven into the deep quagmire, and has struggled in it vainly till death came, which but for that grim necessity might have scaled the immortal mountains. this metaphor of the mountains has led me, by a natural association of ideas, to think of a writer who has added to our enjoyment of their beauty, and i think of him the more readily that his career will serve as an illustration--far better than any imaginary career--of the very subject which just now occupies my mind. mr. ruskin is not only one of the best instances, but he is positively the very best instance except the two humboldts, of an intellectual career which has been greatly aided by material prosperity, and which would not have been possible without it. this does not in the least detract from the merit of the author of "modern painters," for it needed a rare force of resolution, or a powerful instinct of genius, to lead the life of a severe student under every temptation to indolence. still it is true that mr. ruskin's career would have been impossible for a poor man, however gifted. a poor man would not have had access to mr. ruskin's materials, and one of his chief superiorities has always been an abundant wealth of material. and if we go so far as to suppose that the poor man might have found other materials perhaps equivalent to these, we know that he could not have turned them to that noble use. the poor critic would be immediately absorbed in the ocean of anonymous periodical literature; he could not find time for the incubation of great works. "modern painters," the result of seventeen years of study, is not simply a work of genius but of genius seconded by wealth. close to it on my shelves stand four volumes which are the monument of another intellectual life devoted to the investigation of nature. de saussure, whom mr. ruskin reverences as one of his ablest teachers, and whom all sincere students of nature regard as a model observer, pursued for many laborious years a kind of life which was not, and could not be, self-supporting in the pecuniary sense. many other patient laborers, who have not the celebrity of these, work steadily in the same way, and are enabled to do so by the possession of independent fortune. i know one such who gives a whole summer to the examination of three or four acres of mountain-ground, the tangible result being comprised in a few memoranda, which, considered as literary material, might (in the hands of a skilled professional writer) just possibly be worth five pounds. not only do narrow pecuniary means often render high intellectual enterprises absolutely impossible, but they do what is frequently even more trying to the health and character, they permit you to undertake work that would be worthy of you if you might only have time and materials for the execution of it, and then spoil it in the doing. an intellectual laborer will bear anything except that. you may take away the very table he is writing upon, if you let him have a deal board for his books and papers; you may take away all his fine editions, if you leave him common copies that are legible; you may remove his very candlestick, if you leave him a bottle-neck to stick his candle in, and he will go on working cheerfully still. but the moment you do anything to spoil the quality of the work itself, you make him irritable and miserable. "you think," says sir arthur helps, "to gain a good man to manage your affairs because he happens to have a small share in your undertaking. it is a great error. you want him to do something well which you are going to tell him to do. if he has been wisely chosen, and is an able man, his pecuniary interest in the matter will be mere dust in the balance, when compared with the desire which belongs to all such men to do their work well." yes, this is the central passion of all men of true ability, _to do their work well_; their happiness lies in that, and not in the amount of their profits, or even in their reputation. but then, on the other hand, they suffer indescribable mental misery when circumstances compel them to do their work less well than they know that, under more favorable circumstances, they would be capable of doing it. the want of money is, in the higher intellectual pursuits, the most common hindrance to thoroughness and excellence of work. de sénancour, who, in consequence of a strange concatenation of misfortunes, was all his life struggling in shallows, suffered not from the privations themselves, but from the vague feeling that they stunted his intellectual growth; and any experienced student of human nature must be aware that de sénancour was right. with larger means he would have seen more of the world, and known it better, and written of it with riper wisdom. he said that the man "who only saw in poverty the direct effect of the money-privation, and only compared, for instance, an eight-penny dinner to one that cost ten shillings, would have no conception of the true nature of misfortune, for not to spend money is the least of the evils of poverty." bossuet said that he "had no attachment to riches, and still if he had only what is barely necessary, if he felt himself narrowed, he would lose more than half his talents." sainte-beuve said, "only think a little what a difference there is in the starting point and in the employment of the faculties between a duc de luynes and a sénancour." how many of the most distinguished authors have been dependent upon private means, not simply for physical sustenance, but for the opportunities which they afforded of gaining that experience of life which was absolutely essential to the full growth of their mental faculties. shelley's writings brought him no profit whatever, and without a private income he could not have produced them, for he had not a hundred buyers. yet his _whole time_ was employed in study or in travel, which for him was study of another kind, or else in the actual labor of composition. wordsworth tried to become a london journalist and failed. a young man called raisley calvert died and left him _l._; this saved the poet in wordsworth, as it kept him till the publication of the "lyrical ballads," and afterwards other pieces of good luck happened to him, so that he could think and compose at leisure. scott would not venture to devote himself to literature until he had first secured a comfortable income outside of it. poor kepler struggled with constant anxieties, and told fortunes by astrology for a livelihood, saying that astrology as the daughter of astronomy ought to keep her mother; but fancy a man of science wasting precious time over horoscopes! "i supplicate you," he writes to moestlin, "if there is a situation vacant at tübingen, do what you can to obtain it for me, and let me know the prices of bread and wine and other necessaries of life, for my wife is not accustomed to live on beans." he had to accept all sorts of jobs; he made almanacs, and served any one who would pay him. his only tranquil time for study was when he lived in styria, on his wife's income, a tranquillity that did not last for long, and never returned. how different is this from the princely ease of tycho brahe, who labored for science alone, with all the help that the ingenuity of his age could furnish! there is the same contrast, in a later generation, between schiller and goethe. poor schiller "wasting so much of his precious life in literary hack-work, translating french books for a miserable pittance;" goethe, fortunate in his pecuniary independence as in all the other great circumstances of his life, and this at a time when the pay of authors was so miserable that they could hardly exist by the pen. schiller got a shilling a page for his translations. merck the publisher offered three pounds sterling for a drama of goethe. "if europe praised me," goethe said, "what has europe done for me? nothing. _even my works have been an expense to me._" the pecuniary rewards which men receive for their labor are so absurdly (yet inevitably) disproportionate to the intellectual power that is needed for the task, and also to the toil involved, that no one can safely rely upon the higher intellectual pursuits as a protection from money-anxieties. i will give you two instances of this disproportion, real instances, of men who are known to me personally. one of them is an eminent englishman of most remarkable intellectual force, who for many years past has occupied his leisure in the composition of works that are valued by the thinking public to a degree which it would be difficult to exaggerate. but this thinking public is not numerous, and so in the year this eminent philosopher, "unable to continue losing money in endeavoring to enlighten his contemporaries, was compelled to announce the termination of his series." on the other hand, a frenchman, also known to me personally, one day conceived the fortunate idea that a new primer might possibly be a saleable commodity. so he composed a little primer, beginning with the alphabet, advancing to a, b, _ab_; b, a, _ba_; and even going so far in history as to affirm that adam was the first man and abraham the father of the faithful. he had the wisdom to keep the copyright of this little publication, which employed (in the easiest of all imaginable literary labor) the evenings of a single week. it has brought him in, ever since, a regular income of _l._ a year, which, so far from showing any signs of diminution, is positively improving. this success encouraged the same intelligent gentleman to compose more literature of the same order, and he is now the enviable owner of several other such copyrights, all of them very valuable; in fact as good properties as house-leases in london. here is an author who, from the pecuniary point of view, was incomparably more successful than milton, or shelley, or goethe. if every intellectual man could shield his higher life by writing primers for children which should be as good as house-leases, if the proverb _qui peut le plus peut le moins_ were a true proverb, which it is not, then of course all men of culture would be perfectly safe, since they all certainly know the contents of a primer. but you may be able to write the most learned philosophical treatise and still not be able to earn your daily bread. consider, too, the lamentable loss of time which people of high culture incur in making experiments on public taste, when money becomes one of their main objects. whilst they are writing stories for children, or elementary educational books which people of far inferior attainment could probably do much better, their own self-improvement comes to a standstill. if it could only be ascertained without delay what sort of work would bring in the money they require, then there would be some chance of apportioning time so as to make reserves for self-improvement; but when they have to write a score of volumes merely to ascertain the humor of the public, there is little chance of leisure. the life of the professional author who has no reputation is much less favorable to high culture than the life of a tradesman in moderately easy circumstances who can reserve an hour or two every day for some beloved intellectual pursuit. sainte-beuve tells us that during certain years of his life he had endeavored, and had been able, so to arrange his existence that it should have both sweetness and dignity, writing from time to time what was agreeable, reading what was both agreeable and serious, cultivating friendships, throwing much of his mind into the intimate relations of every day, giving more to his friends than to the public, reserving what was most tender and delicate for the inner life, enjoying with moderation; such for him was the dream of an intellectual existence in which things truly precious were valued according to their worth. and "_above all_," he said, above all his desire was not to write too much, "_surtout ne pas trop écrire_." and then comes the regret for this wise, well-ordered life enjoyed by him only for a time. "la nécessité depuis m'a saisi et m'a contraint de renoncer à ce que je considérais comme le seul bonheur ou la consolation exquise du mélancolique et du sage." auguste comte lamented in like manner the evil intellectual consequences of anxieties about material needs. "there is nothing," he said, "more mortal to my mind than the necessity, pushed to a certain degree, to have to think each day about a provision for the next. happily i think little and rarely about all that; but whenever this happens to me i pass through moments of discouragement and positive despair, which if the influence of them became habitual _would make me renounce all my labors, all my philosophical projects, to end my days like an ass_." there are a hundred rules for getting rich, but the instinct of accumulation is worth all such rules put together. this instinct is rarely found in combination with high intellectual gifts, and the reason is evident. to advance from a hundred pounds to a thousand is not an intellectual advance, and there is no intellectual interest in the addition of a cipher at the bankers'. simply to accumulate money that you are never to use is, from the intellectual point of view, as stupid an operation as can be imagined. we observe, too, that the great accumulators, the men who are gifted by nature with the true instinct, are not usually such persons as we feel any ambition to become. their faculties are concentrated on one point, and that point, as it seems to us, of infinitely little importance. we cannot see that it signifies much to the intellectual well-being of humanity that john smith should be worth his million when he dies, since we know quite well that john smith's mind will be just as ill-furnished then as it is now. in places where much money is made we easily acquire a positive disgust for it, and the curate seems the most distinguished gentleman in the community, with his old black coat and his seventy pounds a year. we come to hate money-matters when we find that they exclude all thoughtful and disinterested conversation, and we fly to the society of people with fixed incomes, not large enough for much saving, to escape the perpetual talk about investments. our happiest hours have been spent with poor scholars, and artists, and men of science, whose words remain in the memory and make us rich indeed. then we dislike money because it rules and restrains us, and because it is unintelligent and seems hostile, so far as that which is unintelligent can be hostile. and yet the real truth is that money is the strong protector of the intellectual life. the student sits and studies, too often despising the power that shelters him from the wintry night, that gives him roof and walls, and lamp, and books, and fire. for money is simply the accumulated labor of the past, guarding our peace as fleets and armies guard the industry of england, or like some mighty fortress-wall within which men follow the most peaceful avocations. the art is to use money so that it shall be the protector and not the scatterer of our time, the body-guard of the sovereign intellect and will. letter iii. to a student in great poverty. poverty really a great obstacle--difference between a thousand rich men and a thousand poor men taken from persons of average natural gifts--the houses of parliament--the english recognize the natural connection between wealth and culture--connection between ignorance and parsimony in expenditure--what may be honestly said for the encouragement of a very poor student. as it seems to me that to make light of the difficulties which lie in the path of another is not to show true sympathy for him, even though it is done sometimes out of a sort of awkward kindness and for his encouragement, i will not begin by pretending that poverty is not a great obstacle to the perfection of the intellectual life. it _is_ a great obstacle; it is one of the very greatest of all obstacles. only observe how riches and poverty operate upon mankind in the mass. here and there no doubt a very poor man attains intellectual distinction when he has exceptional strength of will, and health enough to bear a great strain of extra labor that he imposes upon himself, and natural gifts so brilliant that he can learn in an hour what common men learn in a day. but consider mankind in the mass. look, for instance, at our two houses of parliament. they are composed of men taken from the average run of englishmen with very little reference to ability, but almost all of them are rich men; not one of them is poor, as you are poor; not one of them has to contend against the stern realities of poverty. then consider the very high general level of intellectual attainment which distinguishes those two assemblies, and ask yourself candidly whether a thousand men taken from the beggars in the streets, or even from the far superior class of our manufacturing operatives, would be likely to understand, as the two houses of parliament understand, the many complicated questions of legislation and of policy which are continually brought before them. we all know that the poor are too limited in knowledge and experience, from the want of the necessary opportunities, and too little accustomed to exercise their minds in the tranquil investigations of great questions, to be competent for the work of parliament. it is scarcely necessary to insist upon this fact to an englishman, because the english have always recognized the natural connection between wealth and culture, and have preferred to be governed by the rich from the belief that they are likely to be better informed, and better situated for intellectual activity of a disinterested kind, than those members of the community whose time and thoughts are almost entirely occupied in winning their daily bread by the incessant labor of their hands. and if you go out into the world, if you mix with men of very different classes, you will find that in a broad average way (i am not speaking just now of the exceptions) the richer classes are much more capable of entering into the sort of thinking which may be called intellectual than those whose money is less plentiful, and whose opportunities have therefore been less abundant. indeed it may be asserted, roughly and generally, that the narrowness of men's ideas is in direct proportion to their parsimony in expenditure. i do not mean to affirm that all who spend largely attain large intellectual results, for of course we know that a man may spend vast sums on pursuits which do not educate him in anything worth knowing, but the advantage is that with habits of free expenditure the germs of thought are well tilled and watered, whereas parsimony denies them every external help. the most spending class in europe is the english gentry, it is also the class most strikingly characterized by a high general average of information;[ ] the most parsimonious class in europe is the french peasantry; it is also the class most strikingly characterized by ignorance and intellectual apathy. the english gentleman has cultivated himself by various reading and extensive travel, but the french peasant will not go anywhere except to the market-town, and could not pardon the extravagance of buying a book, or a candle to read it by in the evening. between these extremes we have various grades of the middle classes in which culture usually increases very much in proportion to the expenditure. the rule is not without its exceptions; there are rich vulgar people who spend a great deal without improving themselves at all--who only, by unlimited self-indulgence, succeed in making themselves so uncomfortably sensitive to every bodily inconvenience that they have no leisure, even in the midst of an unoccupied life, to think of anything but their own bellies and their own skins--people whose power of attention is so feeble that the smallest external incident distracts it, and who remember nothing of their travels but a catalogue of trivial annoyances. but people of this kind do not generally belong to families on whom wealth has had time to produce its best effects. what i mean is, that a family which has been for generations in the habit of spending four thousand a year will usually be found to have a more cultivated one than one that has only spent four hundred. i have come to the recognition of this truth very reluctantly indeed, not because i dislike rich people, but merely because they are necessarily a very small minority, and i should like every human being to have the best benefits of culture if it were only possible. the plain living and high thinking that wordsworth so much valued is a cheering ideal, for most men have to live plainly, and if they could only think with a certain elevation we might hope to solve the great problem of human life, the reconciliation of poverty and the soul. there certainly is a slow movement in that direction, and the shortening of the hours of labor may afford some margin of leisure; but we who work for culture every day and all day long, and still feel that we know very little, and have hardly skill enough to make any effective use of the little that we know, can scarcely indulge in very enthusiastic anticipations of the future culture of the poor. still, there are some things that may be rationally and truly said to a poor man who desires culture, and which are not without a sort of spartan encouragement. you are restricted by your poverty, but it is not always a bad thing to be restricted, even from the intellectual point of view. the intellectual powers of well-to-do people are very commonly made ineffective by the enormous multiplicity of objects that are presented to their attention, and which claim from them a sort of polite notice like the greeting of a great lady to each of her thousand guests. it requires the very rarest strength of mind, in a rich man, to concentrate his attention on anything there are so many things that he is expected to make a pretence of knowing; but nobody expects _you_ to know anything, and this is an incalculable advantage. i think that all poor men who have risen to subsequent distinction have been greatly indebted to this independence of public opinion as to what they ought to know. in trying to satisfy that public opinion by getting up a pretence of various sorts of knowledge, which is only a sham, we sacrifice not only much precious time, but we blunt our natural interest in things. that interest you preserve in all its virgin force, and this force carries a man far. then, again, although the opportunities of rich people are very superior to yours, they are not altogether so superior as they seem. there exists a great equalizing power, the limitation of human energy. a rich man may sit down to an enormous banquet, but he can only make a good use of the little that he is able to digest. so it is with the splendid intellectual banquet that is spread before the rich man's eyes. he can only possess what he has energy to master, and too frequently the manifest impossibility of mastering everything produces a feeling of discouragement that ends in his mastering nothing. a poor student, especially if he lives in an out-of-the-way place where there are no big libraries to bewilder him, may apply his energy with effect in the study of a few authors. i used to believe a great deal more in opportunities and less in application than i do now. time and health are needed, but with these there are always opportunities. rich people have a fancy for spending money very uselessly on their culture because it seems to them more valuable when it has been costly; but the truth is, that by the blessing of good and cheap literature, intellectual light has become almost as accessible as daylight. i have a rich friend who travels more, and buys more costly things, than i do, but he does not really learn more or advance farther in the twelvemonth. if my days are fully occupied, what has he to set against them? only other well-occupied days, no more. if he is getting benefit at st. petersburg he is missing the benefit i am getting round my house, and in it. the sum of the year's benefit seems to be surprisingly alike in both cases. so if you are reading a piece of thoroughly good literature, baron rothschild may possibly be as well occupied as you--he is certainly not better occupied. when i open a noble volume i say to myself, "now the only croesus that i envy is he who is reading a better book than this." footnotes: [ ] this sounds like a poetical exaggeration, but it is less than the bare truth. there were fifteen hundred slaves on two west indian estates that beckford lost in a lawsuit. it is quite certain, considering his lavish expenditure, that fully a thousand men must have worked for the maintenance of his luxury in europe. so much for his command of labor. [ ] the reader will please to bear in mind that i am speaking here of broad effects on great numbers. i do not think that aristocracy, in its spirit, is quite favorable to the exceptionally highest intellectual life. part vi. custom and tradition. letter i. to a young gentleman who had firmly resolved never to wear anything but a gray coat.[ ] secret enjoyment of rebellion against custom, and of the disabilities resulting from it--penalties imposed by society and by nature out of proportion to the offence--instances--what we consider penalties not really penalties, but only consequences--society likes harmony, and is offended by dissonance--utility of rebels against custom--that they ought to reserve their power of rebellion for great occasions--uses of custom--duty of the intellectual class--best way to procure the abolition of a custom we disapprove--bad customs--eccentricity sometimes a duty. when i had the pleasure of staying at your father's house, you told me, rather to my surprise, that it was impossible for you to go to balls and dinner-parties because you did not possess such a thing as a dress-coat. the reason struck me as being scarcely a valid one, considering the rather high scale of expenditure adopted in the paternal mansion. it seemed clear that the eldest son of a family which lived after the liberal fashion of yorkshire country gentlemen could afford himself a dress-coat if he liked. then i wondered whether you disliked dress-coats from a belief that they were unbecoming to your person; but a very little observation of your character convinced me that, whatever might be your weaknesses (for everybody has some weaknesses), anxiety about personal appearance was not one of them. the truth is, that you secretly enjoy this little piece of disobedience to custom, and all the disabilities which result from it. this little rebellion is connected with a larger rebellion, and it is agreeable to you to demonstrate the unreasonableness of society by incurring a very severe penalty for a very trifling offence. you are always dressed decently, you offend against no moral rule, you have cultivated your mind by study and reflection, and it rather pleases you to think that a young gentleman so well qualified for society in everything of real importance should be excluded from it because he has not purchased a permission from his tailor. the penalties imposed by society for the infraction of very trifling details of custom are often, as it seems, out of all proportion to the offence; but so are the penalties of nature. only three days before the date of this letter, an intimate friend of mine was coming home from a day's shooting. his nephew, a fine young man in the full enjoyment of existence, was walking ten paces in advance. a covey of partridges suddenly cross the road: my friend in shouldering his gun touches the trigger just a second too soon, and kills his nephew. now, think of the long years of mental misery that will be the punishment of that very trifling piece of carelessness! my poor friend has passed, in the space of a single instant, from a joyous life to a life that is permanently and irremediably saddened. it is as if he had left the summer sunshine to enter a gloomy dungeon and begin a perpetual imprisonment. and for what? for having touched a trigger, without evil intention, a little too precipitately. it seems harder still for the victim, who is sent out of the world in the bloom of perfect manhood because his uncle was not quite so cool as he ought to have been. again, not far from where i live, thirty-five men were killed last week in a coal-pit from an explosion of fire-damp. one of their number had struck a lucifer to light his pipe: for doing this in a place where he ought not to have done it, the man suffers the penalty of death, and thirty-four others with him. the fact is simply that nature _will_ be obeyed, and makes no attempt to proportion punishments to offences: indeed, what in our human way we call punishments are not punishments, but simple consequences. so it is with the great social penalties. society _will be obeyed_: if you refuse obedience, you must take the consequences. society has only one law, and that is custom. even religion itself is socially powerful only just so far as it has custom on its side. nature does not desire that thirty-five men should be destroyed because one could not resist the temptation of a pipe; but fire-damp is highly inflammable, and the explosion is a simple consequence. society does not desire to exclude you because you will not wear evening dress; but the dress is customary, and your exclusion is merely a consequence of your nonconformity. the view of society goes no farther in this than the artistic conception (not very delicately artistic, perhaps) that it is prettier to see men in black coats regularly placed between ladies round a dinner-table than men in gray coats or brown coats. the uniformity of costume appears to represent uniformity of sentiment and to ensure a sort of harmony amongst the _convives_. what society really cares for is harmony; what it dislikes is dissent and nonconformity. it wants peace in the dining-room, peace in the drawing-room, peace everywhere in its realm of tranquil pleasure. you come in your shooting-coat, which was in tune upon the moors, but is a dissonance amongst ladies in full dress. do you not perceive that fustian and velveteen, which were natural amongst gamekeepers, are not so natural on gilded chairs covered with silk, with lace and diamonds at a distance of three feet? you don't perceive it? very well: society does not argue the point with you, but only excludes you. it has been said that in the life of every intellectual man there comes a time when he questions custom at all points. this seems to be a provision of nature for the reform and progress of custom itself, which without such questioning would remain absolutely stationary and irresistibly despotic. you rebels against the established custom have your place in the great work of progressive civilization. without you, western europe would have been a second china. it is to the continual rebellion of such persons as yourself that we owe whatever progress has been accomplished since the times of our remotest forefathers. there have been rebels always, and the rebels have not been, generally speaking, the most stupid part of the nation. but what is the use of wasting this beneficial power of rebellion on matters too trivial to be worth attention? does it hurt your conscience to appear in a dress-coat? certainly not, and you would be as good-looking in it as you are in your velveteen shooting-jacket with the pointers on the bronze buttons. let us conform in these trivial matters, which nobody except a tailor ought to consider worth a moment's attention, in order to reserve our strength for the protection of intellectual liberty. let society arrange your dress for you (it will save you infinite trouble), but never permit it to stifle the expression of your thought. you find it convenient, because you are timid, to exclude yourself from the world by refusing to wear its costume; but a bolder man would let the tailor do his worst, and then go into the world and courageously defend there the persons and causes that are misunderstood and slanderously misrepresented. the fables of spenser are fables only in form, and a noble knight may at any time go forth, armed in the panoply of a tail-coat, a dress waistcoat, and a manly moral courage, to do battle across the dinner-table and in the drawing-room for those who have none to defend them. it is unphilosophical to set ourselves obstinately against custom in the mass, for it multiplies the power of men by settling useless discussion and clearing the ground for our best and most prolific activity. the business of the world could not be carried forward one day without a most complex code of customs; and law itself is little more than custom slightly improved upon by men reflecting together at their leisure, and reduced to codes and systems. we ought to think of custom as a most precious legacy of the past, saving us infinite perplexity, yet not as an infallible rule. the most intelligent community would be conservative in its habits, yet not obstinately conservative, but willing to hear and adopt the suggestions of advancing reason. the great duty of the intellectual class, and its especial function, is to confirm what is reasonable in the customs that have been handed down to us, and so maintain their authority, yet at the same time to show that custom is not final, but merely a form suited to the world's convenience. and whenever you are convinced that a custom is no longer serviceable, the way to procure the abolition of it is to lead men very gradually away from it, by offering a substitute at first very slightly different from what they have been long used to. if the english had been in the habit of tattooing, the best way to procure its abolition would have been to admit that it was quite necessary to cover the face with elaborate patterns, yet gently to suggest that these patterns would be still more elegant if delicately painted in water-colors. then you might have gone on arguing--still admitting, of course, the absolute necessity for ornament of some kind--that good taste demanded only a moderate amount of it; and so you would have brought people gradually to a little flourish on the nose or forehead, when the most advanced reformers might have set the example of dispensing with ornament altogether. many of our contemporaries have abandoned shaving in this gradual way, allowing the whiskers to encroach imperceptibly, till at last the razor lay in the dressing-case unused. the abominable black cylinders that covered our heads a few years ago were vainly resisted by radicals in custom, but the moderate reformers gradually reduced their elevation, and now they are things of the past. though i think we ought to submit to custom in matters of indifference, and to reform it gradually, whilst affecting submission in matters altogether indifferent, still there are other matters on which the only attitude worthy of a man is the most bold and open resistance to its dictates. custom may have a right to authority over your wardrobe, but it cannot have any right to ruin your self-respect. not only the virtues most advantageous to well-being, but also the most contemptible and degrading vices, have at various periods of the world's history been sustained by the full authority of custom. there are places where forty years ago drunkenness was conformity to custom, and sobriety an eccentricity. there are societies, even at the present day, where licentiousness is the rule of custom, and chastity the sign of weakness or want of spirit. there are communities (it cannot be necessary to name them) in which successful fraud, especially on a large scale, is respected as the proof of smartness, whilst a man who remains poor because he is honest is despised for slowness and incapacity. there are whole nations in which religious hypocrisy is strongly approved by custom, and honesty severely condemned. the wahabee arabs may be mentioned as an instance of this, but the wahabee arabs are not the only people, nor is nejed the only place, where it is held to be more virtuous to lie on the side of custom than to be an honorable man in independence of it. in all communities where vice and hypocrisy are sustained by the authority of custom, eccentricity is a moral duty. in all communities where a low standard of thinking is received as infallible common sense, eccentricity becomes an intellectual duty. there are hundreds of places in the provinces where it is impossible for any man to lead the intellectual life without being condemned as an eccentric. it is the duty of intellectual men who are thus isolated to set the example of that which their neighbors call eccentricity, but which may be more accurately described as superiority. letter ii. to a conservative who had accused the author of a want of respect for tradition. transition from the ages of tradition to that of experiment--attraction of the future--joubert--saint-marc girardin--solved and unsolved problems--the introduction of a new element--inapplicability of past experience--an argument against republics--the lessons of history--mistaken predictions that have been based on them--morality and ecclesiastical authority--compatibility of hopes for the future with gratitude to the past--that we are more respectful to the past than previous ages have been--our feelings towards tradition--an incident at warsaw--the reconstruction of the navy. the astonishing revolution in thought and practice which is taking place amongst the intelligent japanese, the throwing away of a traditional system of living in order to establish in its stead a system which, for an asiatic people, is nothing more than a vast experiment, has its counterpart in many an individual life in europe. we are like travellers crossing an isthmus between two seas, who have left one ship behind them, who have not yet seen the vessel that waits on the distant shore, and who experience to the full all the discomforts and inconveniences of the passage from one sea to the other. there is a break between the existence of our forefathers and that of our posterity, and it is we who have the misfortune to be situated exactly where the break occurs. we are leaving behind us the security, i do not say the safety, but the feeling of tranquillity which belonged to the ages of tradition; we are entering upon ages whose spirit we foresee but dimly, whose institutions are the subject of guesses and conjectures. and yet this future, of which we know so little, attracts us more by the very vastness of its enigma than the rich history of the past, so full of various incident, of powerful personages, of grandeur, and suffering, and sorrow. joubert already noticed this forward-looking of the modern mind. "the ancients," he observed, "said, 'our ancestors;' we say, 'posterity.' we do not love as they did _la patrie_, the country and laws of our forefathers; we love rather the laws and the country of our children. it is the magic of the future, and not that of the past, which seduces us." commenting on this thought of joubert's, saint-marc girardin said that we loved the future because we loved ourselves, and fashioned the future in our own image; and he added, with partial but not complete injustice, that our ignorance of the past was a cause of this tendency in our minds, since it is shorter to despise the past than to study it. these critics and accusers of the modern spirit are not, however, altogether fair to it. if the modern spirit looks so much to the future, it is because the problems of the past are solved problems, whilst those of the future have the interest of a game that is only just begun. we know what became of feudalism, we know the work that it accomplished and the services that it rendered, but we do not yet know what will be the effects of modern democracy and of the scientific and industrial spirit. it is the novelty of this element, the scientific spirit and the industrial development which is a part (but only a part) of its results, that makes the past so much less reliable as a guide than it would have been if no new element had intervened, and therefore so much less interesting for us. as an example of the inapplicability of past experience, i may mention an argument against republics which has been much used of late by the partisans of monarchy in france. they have frequently told us that republics had only succeeded in very small states, and this is true of ancient democracies; but it is not less true that railways, and telegraphs, and the newspaper press have made great countries like france and the united states just as capable of feeling and acting simultaneously as the smallest republics of antiquity. the parties which rely on what are called the lessons of history are continually exposed to great deceptions. in france, what may be called the historical party would not believe in the possibility of a united germany, because fifty years ago, with the imperfect means of communication which then existed, germany was not and could not be united. the same historical party refused to believe that the italian kingdom could ever hold together. in england, the historical party predicted the dismemberment of the united states, and in some other countries it has been a favorite article of faith that england could not keep her possessions. but theories of this kind are always of very doubtful applicability to the present, and their applicability to the future is even more doubtful still. steam and electricity have made great modern states practically like so many great cities, so that manchester is like a suburb of london, and havre the piræus of paris, whilst the most trifling occasions bring the sovereign of italy to any of the italian capitals. in the intellectual sphere the experience of the past is at least equally unreliable. if the power of the catholic church had been suddenly removed from the europe of the fourteenth century, the consequence would have been a moral anarchy difficult to conceive; but in our own day the real regulator of morality is not the church, but public opinion, in the formation of which the church has a share, but only a share. it would therefore be unsafe to conclude that the weakening of ecclesiastical authority must of necessity, in the future, be followed by moral anarchy, since it is possible, and even probable, that the other great influences upon public opinion may gain strength as this declines. and in point of fact we have already lived long enough to witness a remarkable decline of ecclesiastical authority, which is proved by the avowed independence of scientific writers and thinkers, and by the open opposition of almost all the european governments. the secular power resists the ecclesiastical in germany and spain. in france it establishes a form of government which the church detests. in ireland it disestablishes and disendows a hierarchy. in switzerland it resists the whole power of the papacy. in italy it seizes the sacred territory and plants itself within the very walls of rome. and yet the time which has witnessed this unprecedented self-assertion of the laity has witnessed a positive increase in the morality of public sentiment, especially in the love of justice and the willingness to hear truth, even when truth is not altogether agreeable to the listener, and in the respect paid by opponents to able and sincere men, merely for their ability and sincerity. this love of justice, this patient and tolerant hearing of new truth, in which our age immeasurably exceeds all the ages that have preceded it, are the direct results of the scientific spirit, and are not only in themselves eminently moral, but conducive to moral health generally. and this advancement may be observed in countries which were least supposed to be capable of it. even the french, of whose immorality we have heard so much, have a public opinion which is gradually gaining a salutary strength, an increasing dislike for barbarity and injustice, and a more earnest desire that no citizen, except by his own fault, should be excluded from the benefits of civilization. the throne which has lately fallen was undermined by the currents of this public opinion before it sank in military disaster. "aussi me contenterai-je," says littré, "d'appeler l'attention sur la guerre, dont l'opinion publique ne tolère plus les antiques barbaries; sur la magistrature, qui répudie avec horreur les tortures et la question; sur la tolérance, qui a banni les persécutions religieuses; sur l'équite, qui soumet tout le monde aux charges communes; sur le sentiment de solidarité qui du sort des classes pauvres fait le plus pressant et le plus noble problème du temps présent. pour moi, je ne sais caractériser ce spectacle si hautement moral qu'en disant que l'humanité, améliorée, accepte de plus en plus le devoir et la tâche d'étendre le domaine de la justice et de la bonté." yet this partial and comparative satisfaction that we find in the present, and our larger hopes for the future, are quite compatible with gratitude to all who in the past have rendered such improvement possible for us, and the higher improvement that we hope for possible to those who will come after us. i cannot think that the present age may be accused with justice of exceptional ignorance or scorn of its predecessors. we have been told that we scorn our forefathers because old buildings are removed to suit modern conveniences, because the walls of old york have been pierced for the railway, and a tower of conway castle has been undermined that the holyhead mail may pass. but the truth is, that whilst we care a little for our predecessors, they cared still less for theirs. the mediæval builders not only used as quarries any roman remains that happened to come in their way, but they spoiled the work of their own fathers and grandfathers by intruding their new fashions on buildings originally designed in a different style of art. when an architect in the present day has to restore some venerable church, he endeavors to do so in harmony with the design of the first builder; but such humility as this was utterly foreign to the mediæval mind, which often destroyed the most lovely and necessary details to replace them with erections in the fashion of the day, but artistically unsuitable. the same disdain for the labors of other ages has prevailed until within the memory of living men, and our age is really the first that has made any attempt to conform itself, in these things, to the intentions of the dead. i may also observe, that although history is less relied upon as a guide to the future than it was formerly, it is more carefully and thoroughly investigated from an intellectual interest in itself. to conclude. it seems to me that tradition has much less influence of an authoritative kind than it had formerly, and that the authority which it still possesses is everywhere steadily declining; that as a guide to the future of the world it is more likely to mislead than to enlighten us, and still that all intellectual and educated people must always take a great interest in tradition, and have a certain sentiment of respect for it. consider what our feelings are towards the church of rome, the living embodiment of tradition. no well-informed person can forget the immense services that in former ages she has rendered to european civilization, and yet at the same time such a person would scarcely wish to place modern thought under her direction, nor would he consult the pope about the tendencies of the modern world. when in the city of warsaw erected a monument to copernicus, a scientific society there waited in the church of the holy cross for a service that was to have added solemnity to their commemoration. they waited vainly. not a single priest appeared. the clergy did not feel authorized to countenance a scientific discovery which, in a former age, had been condemned by the authority of the church. this incident is delicately and accurately typical of the relation between the modern and the traditional spirit. the modern spirit is not hostile to tradition, and would not object to receive any consecration which tradition might be able to confer, but there are difficulties in bringing the two elements together. we need not, however, go so far as warsaw, or back to the year , for examples of an unwillingness on the part of the modern mind to break entirely with the traditional spirit. our own country is remarkable both for the steadiness of its advance towards a future widely different from the past, and for an affectionate respect for the ideas and institutions that it gradually abandons, as it is forced out of them by new conditions of existence, i may mention, as one example out of very many, our feeling about the reconstruction of the navy. here is a matter in which science has compelled us to break with tradition absolutely and irrevocably; we have done so, but we have done so with the greatest regret. the ships of the line that our hearts and imaginations love are the ships of nelson and collingwood and cochrane. we think of the british fleets that bore down upon the enemy with the breeze in their white sails; we think of the fine qualities of seamanship that were fostered in our _agamemnons_, and _victories_, and _téméraires_. will the navies of the future ever so clothe their dreadful powers with beauty, as did the ordered columns of nelson, when they came with a fair wind and all sails set, at eleven o'clock in the morning into trafalgar bay? we see the smoke of their broadsides rising up to their sails like mists to the snowy alps, and high above, against heaven's blue, the unconquered flag of england! nor do we perceive now for the first time that there was poetry in those fleets of old; our forefathers felt it then, and expressed it in a thousand songs.[ ] letter iii. to a lady who lamented that her son had intellectual doubts concerning the dogmas of the church. the situation of mother and son a very common one--painful only when the parties are in earnest--the knowledge of the difference evidence of a deeper unity--value of honesty--evil of a splendid official religion not believed by men of culture--diversity of belief an evidence of religious vitality--criticism not to be ignored--desire for the highest attainable truth--letter from lady westmorland about her son, julian fane. the difference which you describe as having arisen between your son and you on the most grave and important subject which can occupy the thoughts of men, gives the outline of a situation painful to both the parties concerned, and which lays on each of them new and delicate obligations. you do not know how common this situation is, and how sadly it interferes with the happiness of the very best and most pure-minded souls alive. for such a situation produces pain only where both parties are earnest and sincere; and the more earnest both are, the more painful does the situation become. if you and your son thought of religion merely from the conventional point of view, as the world does only too easily, you would meet on a common ground, and might pass through life without ever becoming aware of any gulf of separation, even though the hollowness of your several professions were of widely different kinds. but as it happens, unfortunately for your peace (yet would you have it otherwise?), that you are both in earnest, both anxious to believe what is true and do what you believe to be right, you are likely to cause each other much suffering of a kind altogether unknown to less honorable and devoted natures. there are certain forms of suffering which affect only the tenderest and truest hearts; they have so many privileges, that this pain has been imposed upon them as the shadow of their sunshine. let me suggest, as some ground of consolation and of hope, that your very knowledge of the difference which pains you is in itself the evidence of a deeper unity. if your son has told you the full truth about the changes in his belief, it is probably because you yourself have educated him in the habit of truthfulness, which is as much a law of religion as it is of honor. do you wish this part of his education to be enfeebled or obliterated? could the church herself reasonably or consistently blame him for practising the one virtue which, in a peaceful and luxurious society, demands a certain exercise of courage? our beliefs are independent of our will, but our honesty is not; and he who keeps his honesty keeps one of the most precious possessions of all true christians and gentlemen. what state of society can be more repugnant to high religious feeling than a state of smooth external unanimity combined with the indifference of the heart, a state in which some splendid official religion performs its daily ceremonies as the costliest functionary of the government, whilst the men of culture take a share in them out of conformity to the customs of society, without either the assent of the intellect or the emotion of the soul? all periods of great religious vitality have been marked by great and open diversity of belief; and to this day those countries where religion is most alive are the farthest removed from unanimity in the details of religious doctrine. if your son thinks these things of such importance to his conscience that he feels compelled to inflict upon you the slightest pain on their account, you may rest assured that his religious fibre is still full of vitality. if it were deadened, he would argue very much as follows. he would say: "these old doctrines of the church are not of sufficient consequence for me to disturb my mother about them. what is the use of alluding to them ever?" and then you would have no anxiety; and he himself would have the feeling of settled peace which comes over a battle-field when the dead are buried out of sight. it is the peculiarity--some would say the evil, but i cannot think it an evil--of an age of great intellectual activity to produce an amount of critical inquiry into religious doctrine which is entirely unknown to times of simple tradition. and in these days the critical tendency has received a novel stimulus from the successive suggestions of scientific discovery. no one who, like your son, fully shares in the intellectual life of the times in which he lives, can live as if this criticism did not exist. if he affected to ignore it, as an objection already answered, there would be disingenuousness in the affectation. fifty years ago, even twenty or thirty years ago, a highly intellectual young man might have hardened into the fixed convictions of middle age without any external disturbance, except such as might have been easily avoided. the criticism existed then, in certain circles; but it was not in the air, as it is now. the life of mankind resembles that of a brook which has its times of tranquillity, but farther on its times of trouble and unrest. our immediate forefathers had the peaceful time for their lot; those who went before them had passed over very rough ground at the reformation. for us, in our turn, comes the recurrent restlessness, though not in the same place. what we are going to, who can tell? what we suffer just now, you and many others know too accurately. there are gulfs of separation in homes of the most perfect love. our only hope of preserving what is best in that purest of earthly felicities lies in the practice of an immense charity, a wide tolerance, a sincere respect for opinions that are not ours, and a deep trust that the loyal pursuit of truth cannot but be in perfect accordance with the intentions of the creator, who endowed the noblest races of mankind with the indefatigable curiosity of science. not to inquire was possible for our forefathers, but it is not possible for us. with our intellectual growth has come an irrepressible anxiety to possess the highest truth attainable by us. this desire is not sinful, not presumptuous, but really one of the best and purest of our instincts, being nothing else than the sterling honesty of the intellect, seeking the harmony of concordant truth, and utterly disinterested. i may quote, as an illustration of the tendencies prevalent amongst the noblest and most cultivated young men, a letter from lady westmorland to mr. robert lytton about her accomplished son, the now celebrated julian fane. "we had," she said, "several conversations, during his last illness, upon religious subjects, about which he had his own peculiar views. the disputes and animosities between high and low church, and all the feuds of religious sectarianism, caused him the deepest disgust. i think, indeed, that he carried this feeling too far. he had a horror of _cant_, which i also think was exaggerated; for it gave him a repulsion for all outward show of religious observances. he often told me that he never missed the practice of prayer, at morning and evening, and at other times. but his prayers were his own: his own thoughts in his own words. he said that he could not pray in the set words of another; nor unless he was _alone_. as to joining in family prayers, or praying at church, he found it impossible. he constantly read the new testament. he deprecated the indiscriminate reading of the bible. he firmly believed in the efficacy of sincere prayer; and was always pleased when i told him i had prayed for him." to this it may be added, that many recent conversions to the church of rome, though apparently of an exactly opposite character, have in reality also been brought about by the scientific inquiries of the age. the religious sentiment, alarmed at the prospect of a possible taking away of that which it feeds upon, has sought in many instances to preserve it permanently under the guardianship of the strongest ecclesiastical authority. in an age of less intellectual disturbance this anxiety would scarcely have been felt; and the degree of authority claimed by one of the reformed churches would have been accepted as sufficient. here again the agitations of the modern intellect have caused division in families; and as you are lamenting the heterodoxy of your son, so other parents regret the roman orthodoxy of theirs. letter iv. to the son of the lady to whom the preceding letter was addressed. difficulty of detaching intellectual from religious questions--the sacerdotal system--necessary to ascertain what religion is--intellectual religion really nothing but philosophy--the popular instinct--the test of belief--public worship--the intellect moral, but not religious--intellectual activity sometimes in contradiction to dogma--differences between the intellectual and religious lives. your request is not so simple as it appears. you ask me for a frank opinion as to the course your mind is taking in reference to very important subjects; but you desire only intellectual, and not religious guidance. the difficulty is to effect any clear demarcation between the two. certainly i should never take upon myself to offer religious advice to any one; it is difficult for those who have not qualified themselves for the priestly office to do that with force and effect. the manner in which a priest leads and manages a mind that has from the first been moulded in the beliefs and observances of his church, cannot be imitated by a layman. a priest starts always from authority; his method, which has been in use from the earliest ages, consists first in claiming your unquestioning assent to certain doctrines, from which he immediately proceeds to deduce the inferences that may affect your conduct or regulate your thoughts. it is a method perfectly adapted to its own ends. it can deal with all humanity, and produce the most immediate practical results. so long as the assent to the doctrines is sincere, the sacerdotal system may contend successfully against some of the strongest forms of evil; but when the assent to the doctrines has ceased to be complete, when some of them are half-believed and others not believed at all, the system loses much of its primitive efficiency. it seems likely that your difficulty, the difficulty of so many intellectual men in these days, is to know where the intellectual questions end and the purely religious ones can be considered to begin. if you could once ascertain that, in a manner definitely satisfactory, you would take your religious questions to a clergyman and your intellectual ones to a man of science, and so get each solved independently. without presuming to offer a solution of so complex a difficulty as this, i may suggest to you that it is of some importance to your intellectual life to ascertain what religion is. a book was published many years ago by a very learned author, in which he endeavored to show that what is vulgarly called scepticism may be intellectual religion. now, although nothing can be more distasteful to persons of culture than the bigotry which refuses the name of religion to other people's opinions, merely because they are other people's opinions, i suspect that the popular instinct is right in denying the name of religion to the inferences of the intellect. the description which the author just alluded to gave of what he called intellectual religion was in fact simply a description of philosophy, and of that discipline which the best philosophy imposes upon the heart and the passions. on the other hand, dr. arnold, when he says that by religion he always understands christianity, narrows the word as much as he would have narrowed the word "patriotism" had he defined it to mean a devotion to the interests of england. i think the popular instinct, though of course quite unable to construct a definition of religion, is in its vague way very well aware of the peculiar nature of religious thought and feeling. the popular instinct would certainly never confound religion with philosophy on the one hand, nor, on the other, unless excited to opposition, would it be likely to refuse the name of religion to another worship, such as mahometanism, for instance. according to the popular instinct, then, which on a subject of this kind appears the safest of all guides, a religion involves first a belief and next a public practice. the nature of the belief is in these days wholly peculiar to religion; in other times it was not so, because then people believed other things much in the same way. but in these days the test of religious belief is that it should make men accept as certain truth what they would disbelieve on any other authority. for example, a true roman catholic believes that the consecrated host is the body of christ, and so long as he lives in the purely religious spirit he continues to believe this; but so soon as the power of his religious sentiment declines he ceases to believe it, and the wafer appears to him a wafer, and no more. and so amongst protestants the truly religious believe many things which no person not being under the authority of religion could by any effort bring himself to believe. it is easy, for example, to believe that joshua arrested the sun's apparent motion, so long as the religious authority of the bible remains perfectly intact; but no sooner does the reader become critical than the miracle is disbelieved. in all ages, and in all countries, religions have narrated marvellous things, and the people have always affirmed that not to believe these narratives constituted the absence of religion, or what they called atheism. they have equally, in all ages and countries, held the public act of participation in religious worship to be an essential part of what they called religion. they do not admit the sufficiency of secret prayer. can these popular instincts help us to a definition? they may help us at least to mark the dividing line between religion and morality, between religion and philosophy. no one has ever desired, more earnestly and eagerly than i, to discover the foundations of the intellectual religion; no one has ever felt more chilling disappointment in the perception of the plain bare fact that the intellect gives morality, philosophy, precious things indeed, but not religion. it is like seeking art by science. thousands of artists, whole schools from generation to generation, have sought fine art through anatomy and perspective; and although these sciences did not hinder the born artists from coming to art at last, they did not ensure their safe arrival in the art-paradise; in many instances they even led men away from art. so it is with the great modern search for the intellectual religion; the idea of it is scientific in its source, and the result of it, the last definite attainment, is simply intellectual morality, not religion in the sense which all humanity has attached to religion during all the ages that have preceded ours. we may say that philosophy is the religion of the intellectual; and if we go scrupulously to latin derivations, it is so. but taking frankly the received meaning of the word as it is used by mankind everywhere, we must admit that, although high intellect would lead us inevitably to high and pure morality, and to most scrupulously beautiful conduct in everything, towards men, towards women, towards even the lower and lowest animals, still it does not lead us to that belief in the otherwise unbelievable, or to that detailed _cultus_ which is meant by religion in the universally accepted sense. it is disingenuous to take a word popularly respected and attribute to it another sense. such a course is not strictly honest, and therefore not purely intellectual; for the foundation of the intellectual life is honesty. the difficulty of the intellectual life is, that whilst it can never assume a position of hostility to religion, which it must always recognize as the greatest natural force for the amelioration of mankind, it is nevertheless compelled to enunciate truths which may happen to be in contradiction with dogmas received at this or that particular time. that you may not suspect me of a disposition to dwell continually on safe generalities and to avoid details out of timidity, let me mention two cases on which the intellectual and scientific find themselves at variance with the clergy. the clergy tell us that mankind descend from a single pair, and that in the earlier ages the human race attained a longevity counted not by decades but by centuries. alexander humboldt disbelieves the first of these propositions, professor owen disbelieves the second. men of science generally are of the same opinion. few men of science accept adam and eve, few accept methuselah. professor owen argues that, since the oldest skeletons known have the same system of teething that we have, man can never have lived long enough to require nine sets of teeth. in regard to these, and a hundred other points on which science advances new views, the question which concerns us is how we are to maintain the integrity of the intellectual life. the danger is the loss of inward ingenuousness, the attempt to persuade ourselves that we believe opposite statements. if once we admit disingenuousness into the mind, the intellectual life is no longer serene and pure. the plain course for the preservation of our honesty, which is the basis of truly intellectual thinking, is to receive the truth, whether agreeable or the contrary, with all its train of consequences, however repulsive or discouraging. in attempting to reconcile scientific truth with the oldest traditions of humanity, there is but one serious danger, the loss of intellectual integrity. of that possession modern society has little left to lose. but let us understand that the intellectual life and the religious life are as distinct as the scientific and the artistic lives. they may be led by the same person, but by the same person in different moods. they coincide on some points, accidentally. certainly, the basis of high thinking is perfect honesty, and honesty is a recognized religious virtue. where the two minds differ is on the importance of authority. the religious life is based upon authority, the intellectual life is based upon personal investigation. from the intellectual point of view i cannot advise you to restrain the spirit of investigation, which is the scientific spirit. it may lead you very far, yet always to truth, ultimately,--you, or those after you, whose path you may be destined to prepare. science requires a certain inward heat and heroism in her votaries, notwithstanding the apparent coldness of her statements. especially does she require that intellectual fearlessness which accepts a proved fact without reference to its personal or its social consequences. letter v. to a friend who seemed to take credit to himself, intellectually, from the nature of his religious belief. anecdote of a swiss gentleman--religious belief protects traditions, but does not weaken the critical faculty itself--illustration from the art of etching--sydney smith--dr. arnold--earnest religious belief of ampère--comte and sainte-beuve--faraday--belief or unbelief proves nothing for or against intellectual capacity. i happened once to be travelling in switzerland with an eminent citizen of that country, and i remember how in speaking of some place we passed through he associated together the ideas of protestantism and intellectual superiority in some such phrase as this: "the people here are very superior; they are protestants." there seemed to exist, in my companion's mind, an assumption that protestants would be superior people intellectually, or that superior people would be protestants; and this set me thinking whether, in the course of such experience as had fallen in my way, i had found that religious creed had made much difference in the matter of intellectual acumen or culture. the exact truth appears to be this. a religious belief protects this or that subject against intellectual action, but it does not affect the energy of the intellectual action upon subjects which are not so protected. let me illustrate this by a reference to one of the fine arts, the art of etching. the etcher protects a copper-plate by means of a waxy covering called etching-ground, and wherever this ground is removed the acid bites the copper. the waxy ground does not in the least affect the strength of the acid, it only intervenes between it and the metal plate. so it is in the mind of man with regard to his intellectual acumen and his religious creed. the creed may protect a tradition from the operation of the critical faculty, but it does not weaken the critical faculty itself. in the english church, for example, the bible is protected against criticism; but this does not weaken the critical faculty of english clergymen with reference to other literature, and many of them give evidence of a strong critical faculty in all matters not protected by their creed. think of the vigorous common sense of sydney smith, exposing so many abuses at a time when it needed not only much courage but great originality to expose them! remember the intellectual force of arnold, a great natural force if ever there was one--so direct in action, so independent of contemporary opinion! intellectual forces of this kind act freely not only in the church of england, but in other churches, even in the church of rome. who amongst the scientific men of this century has been more profoundly scientific, more capable of original scientific discovery than ampère? yet ampère was a roman catholic, and not a roman catholic in the conventional sense merely, like the majority of educated frenchmen, but a hearty and enthusiastic believer in the doctrines of the church of rome. the belief in transubstantiation did not prevent ampère from becoming one of the best chemists of his time, just as the belief in the plenary inspiration of the new testament does not prevent a good protestant from becoming an acute critic of greek literature generally. a man may have the finest scientific faculty, the most advanced scientific culture, and still believe the consecrated wafer to the body of jesus christ. for since he still believes it to be the body of christ under the apparent form of a wafer, it is evident that the wafer under chemical analysis would resolve itself into the same elements as before consecration; therefore why consult chemistry? what has chemistry to say to a mystery of this kind, the essence of which is the _complete_ disguise of a human body under a form in _all_ respects answering the material semblance of a wafer? ampère must have foreseen the certain results of analysis as clearly as the best chemist educated in the principles of protestantism, but this did not prevent him from adoring the consecrated host in all the sincerity of his heart. i say that it does not follow, because m. or n. happens to be a protestant, that he is intellectually superior to ampère, or because m. or n. happens to be a unitarian, or a deist, or a positivist, that he is intellectually superior to dr. arnold or sydney smith. and on the other side of this question it is equally unfair to conclude that because a man does not share whatever may be our theological beliefs on the positive side, he must be less capable intellectually than we are. two of the finest and most disciplined modern intellects, comte and sainte-beuve, were neither catholics, nor protestants, nor deists, but convinced atheists; yet comte until the period of his decline, and sainte-beuve up to the very hour of his death, were quite in the highest rank of modern scientific and literary intellect. the inference from these facts which concerns every one of us is, that we are not to build up any edifice of intellectual self-satisfaction on the ground that in theological matters we believe or disbelieve this thing or that. if ampère believed the doctrines of the church of rome, which to us seem so incredible, if faraday remained throughout his brilliant intellectual career (certainly one of the most brilliant ever lived through by a human being) a sincere member of the obscure sect of the sandemanians, we are not warranted in the conclusion that we are intellectually their betters because our theology is more novel, or more fashionable, or more in harmony with reason. nor, on the other hand, does our orthodoxy prove anything in favor of our mental force and culture. who, amongst the most orthodox writers, has a more forcible and cultivated intellect than sainte-beuve?--who can better give us the tone of perfect culture, with its love of justice, its thoroughness in preparation, its superiority to all crudeness and violence? anglican or romanist, dissenter or heretic, may be our master in the intellectual sphere, from which no sincere and capable laborer is excluded, either by his belief or by his unbelief. letter vi. to a roman catholic friend who accused the intellectual class of a want of reverence for authority. necessity for treating affirmations as if they were doubtful--the papal infallibility--the infallibility of the sacred scriptures--opposition of method between intellect and faith--the perfection of the intellectual life requires intellectual methods--inevitable action of the intellectual forces. it is very much the custom, in modern writing about liberty of thought, to pass lightly over the central difficulty, which sooner or later will have to be considered. the difficulty is this, that the freedom of the intellectual life can never be secured except by treating as if they were doubtful several affirmations which large masses of mankind hold to be certainties as indisputable as the facts of science. one of the most recently conspicuous of these affirmations is the infallibility of the pope of rome. nothing can be more certain in the opinion of immense numbers of roman catholics than the infallible authority of the supreme pontiff on all matters affecting doctrine. but then the matters affecting doctrine include many subjects which come within the circle of the sciences. history is one of those subjects which modern intellectual criticism takes leave to study after its own methods, and yet certain prevalent views of history are offensive to the pope and explicitly condemned by him. the consequence is, that in order to study history with mental liberty, we have to act practically as if there existed a doubt of the papal infallibility. the same difficulty occurs with reference to the great protestant doctrine which attributes a similar infallibility to the various authors who composed what are now known to us as the holy scriptures. our men of science act, and the laws of scientific investigation compel them to act, as if it were not quite certain that the views of scientific subjects held by those early writers were so final as to render modern investigation superfluous. it is useless to disguise the fact that there is a real opposition of method between intellect and faith, and that the independence of the intellectual life can never be fully secured unless all affirmations based upon authority are treated as if they were doubtful. this implies no change of manner in the intellectual classes towards those classes whose mental habits are founded upon obedience. i mean that the man of science does not treat the affirmations of any priesthood with less respect than the affirmations of his own scientific brethren; he applies with perfect impartiality the same criticism to all affirmations, from whatever source they emanate. the intellect does not recognize authority in any one, and intellectual men do not treat the pope, or the author of genesis, with less consideration than those famous persons who in their day have been the brightest luminaries of science. the difficulty, however, remains, that whilst the intellectual class has no wish to offend either those who believe in the infallibility of the pope, or those who believe in the infallibility of the author of genesis, it is compelled to conduct its own investigations as if those infallibilities were matters of doubt and not of certainty. why this is so, may be shown by a reference to the operation of nature in other ways. the rewards of physical strength and health are not given to the most moral, to the most humane, to the most gentle, but to those who have acted, and whose forefathers have acted, in the most perfect accordance with the laws of their physical constitution. so the perfection of the intellectual life is not given to the most humble, the most believing, the most obedient, but to those who use their minds according to the most purely intellectual methods. one of the most important truths that human beings can know is the perfectly independent working of the natural laws: one of the best practical conclusions to be drawn from the observation of nature is that in the conduct of our own understandings we should use a like independence. it would be wrong, in writing to you on subjects so important as these, to shrink from handling the real difficulties. every one now is aware that science must and will pursue her own methods and work according to her own laws, without concerning herself with the most authoritative affirmations from without. but if science said one thing and authoritative tradition said another, no perfectly ingenuous person could rest contented until he had either reconciled the two or decidedly rejected one of them. it is impossible for a mind which is honest towards itself to admit that a proposition is true and false at the same time, true in science and false in theology. therefore, although the intellectual methods are entirely independent of tradition, it may easily happen that the indirect results of our following those methods may be the overthrow of some dogma which has for many generations been considered indispensable to man's spiritual welfare. with regard to this contingency it need only be observed that the intellectual forces of humanity must act, like floods and winds, according to their own laws; and that if they cast down any edifice too weak to resist them, it must be because the original constructors had not built it substantially, or because those placed in charge of it had neglected to keep it in repair. this is their business, not ours. our work is simply to ascertain truth by our own independent methods, alike without hostility to any persons claiming authority, and without deference to them. footnotes: [ ] the title of this letter seems so odd, that it may be necessary to inform the reader that it was addressed to a real person. [ ] i had desired to say something about the uses of tradition in the industrial arts and in the fine arts, but the subject is a very large one, and i have not time or space to treat it properly here. i may observe, however, briefly, that the genuine spirit of tradition has almost entirely disappeared from english industry and art, where it has been replaced by a spirit of scientific investigation and experiment. the true traditional spirit was still in full vigor in japan a few years ago, and it kept the industry and art of that country up to a remarkably high standard. the traditional spirit is most favorable to professional skill, because, under its influence, the apprentice learns thoroughly, whereas under other influences he often learns very imperfectly. the inferiority of english painting to french (considered technically) has been due to the prevalence of a traditional spirit in the french school which was almost entirely absent from our own. part vii. _women and marriage._ letter i. to a young gentleman of intellectual tastes, who, without having as yet any particular lady in view, had expressed, in a general way, his determination to get married. how ignorant we all are about marriage--people wrong in their estimates of the marriages of others--effects of marriage on the intellectual life--two courses open--a wife who would not interfere with elevated pursuits--a wife capable of understanding them--madame ingres--difference in the education of the sexes--difficulty of educating a wife. the subject of marriage is one concerning which neither i nor anybody else can have more than an infinitesimally small atom of knowledge. each of us knows how his or her own marriage has turned out; but that, in comparison with a knowledge of marriage generally, is like a single plant in comparison with the flora of the globe. the utmost experience on this subject to be found in this country extends to about three trials or experiments. a man may become twice a widower, and then marry a third time, but it may be easily shown that the variety of his experience is more than counterbalanced by its incompleteness in each instance. for the experiment to be conclusive even as to the wisdom of one decision, it must extend over half a lifetime. a true marriage is not a mere temporary arrangement, and although a young couple are said to be married as soon as the lady has changed her name, the truth is that the real marriage is a long slow intergrowth, like that of two trees planted quite close together in the forest. the subject of marriage generally is one of which men know less than they know of any other subject of universal interest. people are almost always wrong in their estimates of the marriages of others, and the best proof how little we know the real tastes and needs of those with whom we have been most intimate, is our unfailing surprise at the marriages they make. very old and experienced people fancy they know a great deal about younger couples, but their guesses, there is good reason to believe, never _exactly_ hit the mark. ever since this idea, that marriage is a subject we are all very ignorant about, had taken root in my own mind, many little incidents were perpetually occurring to confirm it; they proved to me, on the one hand, how often i had been mistaken about other people, and, on the other hand, how mistaken other people were concerning the only marriage i profess to know anything about, namely, my own. our ignorance is all the darker that few men tell us the little that they know, that little being too closely bound up with that innermost privacy of life which every man of right feeling respects in his own case, as in the case of another. the only instances which are laid bare to the public view are the unhappy marriages, which are really not marriages at all. an unhappy alliance bears exactly the same relation to a true marriage that disease does to health, and the quarrels and misery of it are the crises by which nature tries to bring about either the recovery of happiness, or the endurable peace of a settled separation. all that we really know about marriage is that it is based upon the most powerful of all our instincts, and that it shows its own justification in its fruits, especially in the prolonged and watchful care of children. but marriage is very complex in its effects, and there is one set of effects, resulting from it, to which remarkably little attention has been paid hitherto,--i mean its effects upon the intellectual life. surely they deserve consideration by all who value culture. i believe that for an intellectual man, only two courses are open; either he ought to marry some simple dutiful woman who will bear him children, and see to the household matters, and love him in a trustful spirit without jealousy of his occupations; or else, on the other hand, he ought to marry some highly intelligent lady, able to carry her education far beyond school experiences, and willing to become his companion in the arduous paths of intellectual labor. the danger in the first of the two cases is that pointed out by wordsworth in some verses addressed to lake-tourists who might feel inclined to buy a peasant's cottage in westmorland. the tourist would spoil the little romantic spot if he bought it; the charm of it is subtly dependent upon the poetry of a simple life, and would be brushed away by the influence of the things that are necessary to people in the middle class. i remember dining in a country inn with an english officer whose ideas were singularly unconventional. we were waited upon by our host's daughter, a beautiful girl, whose manners were remarkable for their natural elegance and distinction. it seemed to us both that no lady of rank could be more distinguished than she was; and my companion said that he thought a gentleman might do worse than ask that girl to marry him, and settle down quietly in that quiet mountain village, far from the cares and vanities of the world. that is a sort of dream which has occurred no doubt to many an honorable man. some men have gone so far as to try to make the dream a reality, and have married the beautiful peasant. but the difficulty is that she does not remain what she was; she becomes a sort of make-belief lady, and then her ignorance, which in her natural condition was a charming _naïveté_, becomes an irritating defect. if, however it were possible for an intellectual man to marry some simple-hearted peasant girl, and keep her carefully in her original condition, i seriously believe that the venture would be less perilous to his culture than an alliance with some woman of our philistine classes, equally incapable of comprehending his pursuits, but much more likely to interfere with them. i once had a conversation on this subject with a distinguished artist, who is now a widower, and who is certainly not likely to be prejudiced against marriage by his own experience, which had been an unusually happy one. his view was that a man devoted to art might marry either a plain-minded woman, who would occupy herself exclusively with household matters and shield his peace by taking these cares upon herself, or else a woman quite capable of entering into his artistic life; but he was convinced that a marriage which exposed him to unintelligent criticism and interference would be dangerous in the highest degree. and of the two kinds of marriage which he considered possible he preferred the former, that with the entirely ignorant and simple person from whom no interference was to be apprehended. he considered the first madame ingres the true model of an artist's wife, because she did all in her power to guard her husband's peace against the daily cares of life and never herself disturbed it, acting the part of a breakwater which protects a space of calm, and never destroys the peace that it has made. this may be true for artists whose occupation is rather æsthetic than intellectual, and does not get much help or benefit from talk; but the ideal marriage for a man of great literary culture would be one permitting some equality of companionship, or, if not equality, at least interest. that this ideal is not a mere dream, but may consolidate into a happy reality, several examples prove; yet these examples are not so numerous as to relieve me from anxiety about your chances of finding such companionship. the different education of the two sexes separates them widely at the beginning, and to meet on any common ground of culture a second education has to be gone through. it rarely happens that there is resolution enough for this. the want of thoroughness and reality in the education of both sexes, but especially in that of women, may be attributed to a sort of policy which is not very favorable to companionship in married life. it appears to be thought wise to teach boys things which women do not learn, in order to give women a degree of respect for men's attainments, which they would not be so likely to feel if they were prepared to estimate them critically; whilst girls are taught arts and languages which until recently were all but excluded from our public schools, and won no rank at our universities. men and women had consequently scarcely any common ground to meet upon, and the absence of serious mental discipline in the training of women made them indisposed to submit to the irksomeness of that earnest intellectual labor which might have remedied the deficiency. the total lack of accuracy in their mental habits was then, and is still for the immense majority of women, the least easily surmountable impediment to culture. the history of many marriages which have failed to realize intellectual companionship is comprised in a sentence which was actually uttered by one of the most accomplished of my friends: "she knew nothing when i married her. i tried to teach her something; it made her angry, and i gave it up." letter ii. to a young gentleman who contemplated marriage. the foundations of the intellectual marriage--marriage not a snare or pitfall for the intellectual--men of culture, who marry badly, often have themselves to blame--for every grade of the masculine intellect there exists a corresponding grade of the feminine intellect--difficulty of finding the true mate--french university professors--an extreme case of intellectual separation--regrets of a widow--women help us less by adding to our knowledge than by understanding us. in several letters which have preceded this i have indicated some of the differences between the female sex and ours, and it is time to examine the true foundations of the intellectual marriage. let me affirm, to begin with, my profound faith in the natural arrangement. there is in nature so much evident care for the development of the intellectual life, so much protection of it in the social order, there are such admirable contrivances for continuing it from century to century, that we may fairly count upon some provision for its necessities in marriage. intellectual men are not less alive to the charms of women than other men are; indeed the greatest of them have always delighted in the society of women. if marriage were really dangerous to the intellectual life, it would be a moral snare or pitfall, from which the best and noblest would be least likely to escape. it is hard to believe that the strong passions which so often accompany high intellectual gifts were intended either to drive their possessors into immorality or else to the misery of ill-assorted unions. no, there _is_ such a thing as the intellectual marriage, in which the intellect itself is married. if such marriages are not frequent, it is that they are not often made the deliberate purpose of a wise alliance. men choose their wives because they are pretty, or because they are rich, or because they are well-connected, but rarely for the permanent interest of their society. yet who that had ever been condemned to the dreadful embarrassments of a _tête-à-tête_ with an uncompanionable person, could reflect without apprehension on a lifetime of such _tête-à-têtes_? when intellectual men suffer from this misery they have themselves to blame. what is the use of having any mental superiority, if, in a matter so enormously important as the choice of a companion for life, it fails to give us a warning when the choice is absurdly unsuitable? when men complain, as they do not unfrequently, that their wives have no ideas, the question inevitably suggests itself, why the superiority of the masculine intellect did not, in these cases, permit it to discover the defect in time? if we are so clever as to be bored by ordinary women, why cannot our cleverness find out the feminine cleverness which would respond to it? what i am going to say now is in its very nature incapable of proof, and yet the longer i live the more the truth of it is "borne in upon me." i feel convinced that for every grade of the masculine intellect there exists a corresponding grade of the feminine intellect, so that a precisely suitable intellectual marriage is always possible for every one. but since the higher intellects are rare, and rare in proportion to their elevation, it follows that the difficulty of finding the true mate increases with the mental strength and culture of the man. if the "mental princes," as blake called himself, are to marry the mental princesses, they will not always discover them quite so easily as kings' sons find kings' daughters. this difficulty of finding the true mate is the real reason why so many clever men marry silly or stupid women. the women about them seem to be all very much alike, mentally; it seems hopeless to expect any real companionship, and the clever men are decided by the color of a girl's eyes, or a thousand pounds more in her dowry, or her relationship to a peer of the realm. it was remarked to me by a french university professor, that although men in his position had on the whole much more culture than the middle class, they had an extraordinary talent for winning the most vulgar and ignorant wives. the explanation is, that their marriages are not intellectual marriages at all. the class of french professors is not advantageously situated; it has not great facilities for choice. their incomes are so small that, unless helped by private means, the first thing they can prudently look to in a wife is her utility as a domestic servant, which, in fact, it is her destiny to become. the intellectual disparity is from the beginning likely to be very great, because the professor is confined to the country-town where his _lycée_ happens to be situated, and in that town he does not always see the most cultivated society. he may be an intellectual prince, but where is he to find his princess? the marriage begins without the idea of intellectual companionship, and it continues as it began. the girl was uneducated: it seems hopeless to try to educate the woman; and then there is the supreme difficulty, only to be overcome by two wills at once most resolute and most persistent, namely, how to find the time. years pass; the husband is occupied all day, the wife needs to cheer herself with a little society, and goes to sit with neighbors who are not likely to add anything valuable to her knowledge or to give any elevation to her thoughts. then comes the final fixing and crystallization of her intellect, after which, however much pains and labor might be taken by the pair, she is past the possibility of change. these women are often so good and devoted that their husbands enjoy great happiness; but it is a kind of happiness curiously independent of the lady's presence. the professor may love his wife, and fully appreciate her qualities as a housekeeper, but he passes a more interesting evening with some male friend whose reading is equal to his own. sometimes the lady perceives this, and it is an element of sadness in her life. "i never see my husband," she tells you, not in anger. "his work occupies him all day, and in the evening he sees his friends." the pair walk out together twice a week. i sometimes wonder what they say to each other during those conjugal promenades. they talk about their children, probably, and the little recurring difficulties about money. he cannot talk about his studies, or the intellectual speculations which his studies continually suggest. the most extreme cases of intellectual separation between husband and wife that ever came under my observation was, however, not that of a french professor, but a highly-cultivated scotch lawyer. he was one of the most intellectual men i ever knew--a little cynical, but full of original power, and uncommonly well-informed. his theory was, that women ought not to be admitted into the region of masculine thought--that it was not good for them; and he acted so consistently up to this theory, that although he would open his mind with the utmost frankness to a male acquaintance over the evening whisky-toddy, there was not whisky enough in all scotland to make him frank in the presence of his wife. she really knew nothing whatever about his intellectual existence; and yet there was nothing in his ways of thinking which an honorable man need conceal from an intelligent woman. his theory worked well enough in practice, and his reserve was so perfect that it may be doubted whether even feminine subtlety ever suspected it. the explanation of his system may perhaps have been this. he was an exceedingly busy man; he felt that he had not time to teach his wife to know him as he was, and so preferred to leave her with her own conception of him, rather than disturb that conception when he believed it impossible to replace it by a completely true one. we all act in that way with those whom we consider _quite_ excluded from our private range of thought. all this may be very prudent and wise: there may be degrees of conjugal felicity, satisfactory in their way, without intellectual intercourse, and yet i cannot think that any man of high culture could regard his marriage as altogether a successful one so long as his wife remained shut out from his mental life. nor is the exclusion always quite agreeable to the lady herself. a widow said to me that her husband had never thought it necessary to try to raise her to his own level, yet she believed that with his kindly help she might have attained it. you with your masculine habits, may observe, as to this, that if the lady had seriously cared to attain a higher level she might have achieved it by her own private independent effort. but this is exactly what the feminine nature never does. a clever woman is the best of pupils, when she loves her teacher, but the worst of solitary learners. it is not by adding to our knowledge, but by understanding us, that women are our helpers. they understand us far better than men do, when once they have the degree of preliminary information which enables them to enter into our pursuits. men are occupied with their personal works and thoughts, and have wonderfully little sympathy left to enable them to comprehend us; but a woman, by her divine sympathy--divine indeed, since it was given by god for this--can enter into our inmost thought, and make allowances for all our difficulties. talk about your work and its anxieties to a club of masculine friends, they will give very little heed to you; they are all thinking about themselves, and they will dislike your egotism because they have so much egotism of their own, which yours invades and inconveniences. but talk in the same way to any woman who has education enough to enable her to follow you, and she will listen so kindly, and so very intelligently, that you will be betrayed into interminable confidences. now, although an intellectual man may not care to make himself understood by all the people in the street, it is not a good thing for him to feel that he is understood by nobody. the intellectual life is sometimes a fearfully solitary one. unless he lives in a great capital the man devoted to that life is more than all other men liable to suffer from isolation, to feel utterly alone beneath the deafness of space and the silence of the stars. give him one friend who can understand him, who will not leave him, who will always be accessible by day and night--one friend, one kindly listener, just one, and the whole universe is changed. it is deaf and indifferent no longer, and whilst _she_ listens, it seems as if all men and angels listened also, so perfectly his thought is mirrored in the light of her answering eyes. letter iii. to a young gentleman who contemplated marriage. the intellectual ideal of marriage--the danger of dulness--to be counteracted only by the renewal of both minds--example of lady baker--separation of the sexes by an old prejudice about education--this prejudice on the decline--influence of the late prince consort. how far may you hope to realize the intellectual ideal of marriage? have i ever observed in actual life any approximate realization of that ideal? these are the two questions which conclude and epitomize the last of your recent letters. let me endeavor to answer them as satisfactorily as the obscurity of the subject will permit. the intellectual ideal seems to be that of a conversation on all the subjects you most care about, which should never lose its interest. is it possible that two people should live together and talk to each other every day for twenty years without knowing each other's views too well for them to seem worth expressing or worth listening to? there are friends whom we know _too_ well, so that our talk with them has less of refreshment and entertainment than a conversation with the first intelligent stranger on the quarter-deck of the steamboat. it is evident that from the intellectual point of view this is the great danger of marriage. it may become dull, not because the mental force of either of the parties has declined, but because each has come to know so accurately beforehand what the other will say on any given topic, that inquiry is felt to be useless. this too perfect intimacy, which has ended many a friendship outside of marriage, may also terminate the intellectual life in matrimony itself. let us not pass too lightly over this danger, for it is not to be denied. unless carefully provided against, it will gradually extinguish the light that plays between the wedded intelligences as the electric light burns between two carbon points. i venture to suggest, however, that this evil may be counteracted by persons of some energy and originality. this is one of those very numerous cases in which an evil is sure to arrive if nothing is done to prevent it, yet in which the evil need not arrive when those whom it menaces are forewarned. to take an illustration intelligible in these days of steam-engines. we know that if the water is allowed to get very low in the boiler a destructive explosion will be the consequence; yet, since every stoker is aware of this, such explosions are not of frequent occurrence. that evil is continually approaching and yet continually averted by the exercise of human foresight. let us suppose that a married couple are clearly aware that in the course of years their society is sure to become mutually uninteresting unless something is done to preserve the earlier zest of it. what is that something? that which an author does for the unknown multitude of his readers. every author who succeeds takes the trouble to renew his mind either by fresh knowledge or new thoughts. is it not at least equally worth while to do as much to preserve the interest of marriage? without undervaluing the friendly adhesion of many readers, without affecting any contempt for fame, which is dearer to the human heart than wealth itself whenever it appears to be not wholly unattainable, may not i safely affirm that the interest of married life, from its very _nearness_, has a still stronger influence upon the mind of any thinking person, of either sex, than the approbation of unnumbered readers in distinct countries or continents? you never _see_ the effect of your thinking on your readers; they live and die far away from you, a few write letters of praise or criticism, the thousands give no sign. but the wife is with you always, she is almost as near to you as your own body; the world, to you, is a figure-picture in which there is one figure, the rest is merely background. and if an author takes pains to renew his mind for the people in the background, is it not at least equally worth your while to bring fresh thought for the renewal of your life with her? this, then, is my theory of the intellectual marriage, that the two wedded intellects ought to renew themselves continually for each other. and i argue that if this were done in earnest, the otherwise inevitable dulness would be perpetually kept at bay. to the other question, whether in actual life i have ever seen this realized, i answer yes, in several instances. not in very many instances, yet in more than one. women, when they have conceived the idea that this renewal is necessary, have resolution enough for the realization of it. there is hardly any task too hard for them, if they believe it essential to the conjugal life. i could give you the name and address of one who mastered greek in order not to be excluded from her husband's favorite pursuit; others have mastered other languages for the same object, and even some branch of science for which the feminine mind has less natural affinity than it has for imaginative literature. their remarkable incapacity for independent mental labor is accompanied by an equally remarkable capacity for labor under an accepted masculine guidance. in this connection i may without impropriety mention one englishwoman, for she is already celebrated, the wife of sir samuel baker, the discoverer of the albert nyanza. she stood with him on the shore of that unknown sea, when first it was beheld by english eyes; she had passed with him through all the hard preliminary toils and trials. she had learned arabic with him in a year of necessary but wearisome delay; her mind had travelled with his mind as her feet had followed his footsteps. scarcely less beautiful, if less heroic, is the picture of the geologist's wife, mrs. buckland, who taught herself to reconstruct broken fossils, and did it with a surprising delicacy, and patience, and skill, full of science, yet more than science, the perfection of feminine art. the privacy of married life often prevents us from knowing the extent to which intelligent women have renewed their minds by fresh and varied culture for the purpose of retaining their ascendency over their husbands, or to keep up the interest of their lives. it is done much more frequently by women than by men. they have so much less egotism, so much more adaptability, that they fit themselves to us oftener than we adapt ourselves to them. but in a quiet perfect marriage these efforts would be mutual. the husband would endeavor to make life interesting to his companion by taking a share in some pursuit which was really her own. it is easier for us than it was for our ancestors to do this--at least for our immediate ancestors. there existed, fifty years ago, a most irrational prejudice, very strongly rooted in the social conventions of the time, about masculine and feminine accomplishments. the educations of the two sexes were so trenchantly separated that neither had access to the knowledge of the other. the men had learned latin and greek, of which the women were ignorant; the women had learned french or italian, which the men could neither read nor speak. the ladies studied fine art, not seriously, but it occupied a good deal of their time and thoughts; the gentlemen had a manly contempt for it, which kept them, as contempt always does, in a state of absolute ignorance. the intellectual separation of the sexes was made as complete as possible by the conventionally received idea that a man could not learn what girls learned without effeminacy, and that if women aspired to men's knowledge they would forfeit the delicacy of their sex. this illogical prejudice was based on a bad syllogism of this kind:-- girls speak french, and learn music and drawing. benjamin speaks french, and learns music and drawing. benjamin is a girl. and the prejudice, powerful as it was, had not even the claim of any considerable antiquity. think how strange and unreasonable it would have seemed to lady jane grey and sir philip sidney! in their time, ladies and gentlemen studied the same things, the world of culture was the same for both, and they could meet in it as in a garden. happily we are coming back to the old rational notion of culture as independent of the question of sex. latin and greek are not unfeminine; they were spoken by women in athens and rome; the modern languages are fit for a man to learn, since men use them continually on the battle-fields and in the parliaments and exchanges of the world. art is a manly business, if ever any human occupation could be called manly, for the utmost efforts of the strongest men are needed for success in it. the increasing interest in the fine arts, the more important position given to modern languages in the universities, the irresistible attractions and growing authority of science, all tend to bring men and women together on subjects understood by both, and therefore operate directly in favor of intellectual interests in marriage. you will not suspect me of a snobbish desire to pay compliments to royalty if i trace some of these changes in public opinion to the example and influence of the prince consort, operating with some effect during his life, yet with far greater force since he was taken away from us. the truth is, that the most modern english ideal of gentlemanly culture is that which prince albert, to a great extent, realized in his own person. perhaps his various accomplishments may be a little embellished or exaggerated in the popular belief, but it is unquestionable that his notion of culture was very large and liberal, and quite beyond the narrow pedantry of the preceding age. there was nothing in it to exclude a woman, and we know that she who loved him entered largely into the works and recreations of his life. letter iv. to a young gentleman who contemplated marriage. women do not of themselves undertake intellectual labor--their resignation to ignorance--absence of scientific curiosity in women--they do not accumulate accurate knowledge--archimedes in his bath--rarity of inventions due to women--exceptions. before saying much about the influence of marriage on the intellectual life, it is necessary to make some inquiry into the intellectual nature of women. the first thing to be noted is that, with exceptions so rare as to be practically of no importance to an argument, women do not of themselves undertake intellectual labor. even in the situations most favorable for labor of that kind, women do not undertake it unless they are urged to it, and directed in it, by some powerful masculine influence. in the absence of that influence, although their minds are active, that activity neither tends to discipline nor to the accumulation of knowledge. women who are not impelled by some masculine influence are not superior, either in knowledge or discipline of the mind, at the age of fifty to what they were at the age of twenty-five. in other words, they have not in themselves the motive powers which can cause an intellectual advance. the best illustration of this is a sisterhood of three or four rich old maids, with all the advantages of leisure. you will observe that they invariably remain, as to their education, where they were left by their teachers many years before. they will often lament, perhaps, that in their day education was very inferior to what it is now; but it never occurs to them that the large leisure of subsequent years might, had it been well employed, have supplied those deficiencies of which they are sensible. nothing is more curiously remote from masculine habits than the resignation to particular degrees of ignorance, as to the inevitable, which a woman will express in a manner which says: "you know i am so; you know that i cannot make myself better informed." they are like perfect billiard-balls on a perfect table, which stop when no longer impelled, wherever they may happen to be. it is this absence of intellectual initiative which causes the great ignorance of women. what they have been well taught, that they know, but they do not increase their stores of knowledge. even in what most interests them, theology, they repeat, but do not extend, their information. all the effort of their minds appears (so far as an outside observer may presume to judge) to act like water on a picture, which brings out the colors that already exist upon the canvas but does not add anything to the design. there is a great and perpetual freshness and vividness in their conceptions, which is often lacking in our own. our conceptions fade, and are replaced; theirs are not replaced, but refreshed. what many women do for their theological conceptions or opinions, others do with reference to the innumerable series of questions of all kinds which present themselves in the course of life. they attempt to solve them by the help of knowledge acquired in girlhood; and if that cannot be done, they either give them up as beyond the domain of women, or else trust to hearsay for a solution. what they will _not_ do is to hunt the matter out unaided, and get an accurate answer by dint of independent investigation. there is another characteristic of women, not peculiar to them, for many men have it in an astonishing degree, and yet more general in the female sex than in the male: i allude to the absence of scientific curiosity. ladies see things of the greatest wonder and interest working in their presence and for their service without feeling impelled to make any inquiries into the manner of their working. i could mention many very curious instances of this, but i select one which seems typical. many years ago i happened to be in a room filled with english ladies, most of whom were highly intelligent, and the conversation happened to turn upon a sailing-boat which belonged to me. one of the ladies observed that sails were not of much use, since they could only be available to push the boat in the direction of the wind; a statement which all the other ladies received with approbation. now, all these ladies had seen ships working under canvas against head-winds, and they might have reflected that without that portion of the art of seamanship every vessel unprovided with steam would assuredly drift upon a lee-shore; but it was not in the feminine nature to make a scientific observation of that kind. you will answer, perhaps, that i could scarcely expect ladies to investigate men's business, and that seamanship is essentially the business of our own sex. but the truth is, that all english people, no matter of what sex, have so direct an interest in the maritime activity of england, that they might reasonably be expected to know the one primary conquest on which for many centuries that activity has depended, the conquest of the opposing wind, the sublimest of the early victories of science. and this absence of curiosity in women extends to things they use every day. they never seem to want to know the insides of things as we do. all ladies know that steam makes a locomotive go; but they rest satisfied with that, and do not inquire further _how_ the steam sets the wheels in motion. they know that it is necessary to wind up their watches, but they do not care to inquire into the real effects of that little exercise of force. now this absence of the investigating spirit has very wide and important consequences. the first consequence of it is that women do not naturally accumulate accurate knowledge. left to themselves, they accept various kinds of teaching, but they do not by any analysis of their own either put that teaching to any serious intellectual test, or qualify themselves for any extension of it by independent and original discovery. we of the male sex are seldom clearly aware how much of our practical force, of the force which discovers and originates, is due to our common habit of analytical observation; yet it is scarcely too much to say that most of our inventions have been suggested by actually or intellectually pulling something else in pieces. and such of our discoveries as cannot be traced directly to analysis are almost always due to habits of general observation which lead us to take note of some fact apparently quite remote from what it helps us to arrive at. one of the best instances of this indirect utility of habitual observation, as it is one of the earliest, is what occurred to archimedes in his bath. when the water displaced by his body overflowed, he noticed the fact of displacement, and at once perceived its applicability to the cubic measurement of complicated bodies. it is possible that if his mind had not been exercised at the time about the adulteration of the royal crown, it would not have been led to anything by the overflowing of his bath; but the capacity to receive a suggestion of that kind is, i believe, a capacity exclusively masculine. a woman would have noticed the overflowing, but she would have noticed it only as a cause of disorder or inconvenience. this absence of the investigating and discovering tendencies in women is confirmed by the extreme rarity of inventions due to women, even in the things which most interest and concern them. the stocking-loom and the sewing-machine are the two inventions which would most naturally have been hit upon by women, for people are naturally inventive about things which relieve _themselves_ of labor, or which increase their own possibilities of production; and yet the stocking-loom and the sewing-machine are both of them masculine ideas, carried out to practical efficiency by masculine energy and perseverance. so i believe that all the improvements in pianos are due to men, though women have used pianos much more than men have used them. this, then, is in my view the most important negative characteristic of women, that they do not push forwards intellectually by their own force. there have been a few instances in which they have written with power and originality, have become learned, and greatly superior, no doubt, to the majority of men. there are three or four women in england, and as many on the continent, who have lived intellectually in harness for many years, and who unaffectedly delight in strenuous intellectual labor, giving evidence both of fine natural powers and the most persevering culture; but these women have usually been encouraged in their work by some near masculine influence. and even if it were possible, which it is not, to point to some female archimedes or leonardo da vinci, it is not the rare exceptions which concern us, but the prevalent rule of nature. without desiring to compare our most learned ladies with anything so disagreeable to the eye as a bearded woman, i may observe that nature generally has a few exceptions to all her rules, and that as women having beards are a physical exception, so women who naturally study and investigate are intellectual exceptions. once more let me repudiate any malicious intention in establishing so unfortunate and _maladroite_ an association of ideas, for nothing is less agreeable than a woman with a beard, whilst, on the contrary, the most intellectual of women may at the same time be the most permanently charming. letter v. to a young gentleman who contemplated marriage. the danger of deviation--danger from increased expenditure--nowhere so great as in england--complete absorption in business--case of a tradesman--case of a solicitor--the pursuit of comfort dangerous to the intellectual life--the meanness of its results--fireside purposes--danger of deviation in rich marriages--george sand's study of this in her story of "valvèdre." amongst the dangers of marriage, one of those most to be dreaded by a man given to intellectual pursuits is the deviation which, in one way or other, marriage inevitably produces. it acts like the pointsman on a railway, who, by pulling a lever, sends the train in another direction. the married man never goes, or hardly ever goes, exactly on the same intellectual lines which he would have followed if he had remained a bachelor. this deviation may or may not be a gain; it is always a most serious danger. sometimes the deviation is produced by the necessity for a stricter attention to money, causing a more unremitting application to work that pays well, and a proportionate neglect of that which can only give extension to our knowledge and clearness to our views. in no country is this danger so great as it is in england, where the generally expensive manner of living, and the prevalent desire to keep families in an ideally perfect state of physical comfort, produce an absorption in business which in all but the rarest instances leaves no margin for intellectual labor. there are, no doubt, some remarkable examples of men earning a large income by a laborious profession, who have gained reputation in one of the sciences or in some branch of literature, but these are very exceptional cases. a man who works at his profession as most englishmen with large families have to work, can seldom enjoy that surplus of nervous energy which would be necessary to carry him far in literature or science. i remember meeting an english tradesman in the railway between paris and the coast, who told me that he was obliged to visit france very frequently, yet could not speak french, which was a great deficiency and inconvenience to him. "why not learn?" i then asked, and received the following answer: "i have to work at my business all day long, and often far into the night. when the day's work is over i generally feel very tired, and want rest; but if i don't happen to feel quite so tired, then it is not work that i need, but recreation, of which i get very little. i never feel the courage to set to work at the french grammar, though it would be both pleasant and useful to me to know french; indeed, i constantly feel the want of it. it might, perhaps, be possible to learn from a phrase-book in the railway train, but to save time i always travel at night. being a married man, i have to give my whole attention to my business." a solicitor with a large practice in london held nearly the same language. he worked at his office all day, and often brought home the most difficult work for the quiet of his own private study after the household had gone to bed. the little reading that he could indulge in was light reading. in reality the profession intruded even on his few hours of leisure, for he read many of the columns in the _times_ which relate to law or legislation, and these make at the end of a few years an amount of reading sufficient for the mastery of a foreign literature. this gentleman answered very accurately to m. taine's description of the typical englishman, absorbed in business and the _times_. in these cases it is likely that the effect of marriage was not inwardly felt as a deviation; but when culture has been fairly begun, and marriage hinders the pursuit of it, or makes it deviate from the chosen path, then there is often an inward consciousness of the fact, not without its bitterness. a remarkable article on "luxury," in the second volume of the _cornhill magazine_, deals with this subject in a manner evidently suggested by serious reflection and experience. the writer considers the effects of the pursuit of comfort (never carried so far as it is now) on the higher moral and intellectual life. the comforts of a bachelor were not what the writer meant; these are easily procured, and seldom require the devotion of all the energies. the "comfort" which is really dangerous to intellectual growth is that of a family establishment, because it so easily becomes the one absorbing object of existence. men who began life with the feeling that they would willingly devote their powers to great purposes, like the noble examples of past times who labored and suffered for the intellectual advancement of their race, and had starvation for their reward, or in some cases even the prison and the stake--men who in their youth felt themselves to be heirs of a nobility of spirit like that of bruno, of swammerdam, of spinoza, have too often found themselves in the noon of life concentrating all the energies of body and soul on the acquisition of ugly millinery and uglier upholstery, and on spreading extravagant tables to feed uncultivated guests. "it is impossible," says the writer of the article just alluded to, "it is impossible to say why men were made, but assuming that they were made for some purpose, of which the faculties which they possess afford evidence, it follows that they were intended to do many other things besides providing for their families and enjoying their society. they were meant to know, to act, and to feel--to know everything which the mind is able to contemplate, to name, and to classify; to do everything which the will, prompted by the passions and guided by the conscience, can undertake; and, subject to the same guidance, to feel in its utmost vigor every emotion which the contemplation of the various persons and objects which surround us can excite. this view of the objects of life affords an almost infinite scope for human activity in different directions; but it also shows that it is in the highest degree dangerous to its beauty and its worth to allow any one side of life to become the object of idolatry; and there are many reasons for thinking that domestic happiness is rapidly assuming that position in the minds of the more comfortable classes of englishmen.... it is a singular and affecting thing, to see how every manifestation of human energy bears witness to the shrewdness of the current maxim that a large income is a necessary of life. whatever is done for money is done admirably well. give a man a specific thing to make or to write, and pay him well for it, and you may with a little trouble secure an excellent article; but the ability which does these things so well, might have been and ought to have been trained to far higher things, which for the most part are left undone, because the clever workman thinks himself bound to earn what will keep himself, his wife, and his six or seven children, up to the established standard of comfort. what was at first a necessity, perhaps an unwelcome one, becomes by degrees a habit and a pleasure, and men who might have done memorable and noble things, if they had learnt in time to consider the doing of such things an object worth living for, lose the power and the wish to live for other than fireside purposes." but this kind of intellectual deviation, you may answer, is not strictly the consequence of marriage, _quâ_ marriage; it is one of the consequences of a degree of relative poverty, produced by the larger expenditure of married life, but which might be just as easily produced by a certain degree of money-pressure in the condition of a bachelor. let me therefore point out a kind of deviation which may be as frequently observed in rich marriages as in poor ones. suppose the case of a bachelor with a small but perfectly independent income amounting to some hundreds a year, who is devoted to intellectual pursuits, and spends his time in study or with cultivated friends of his own, choosing friends whose society is an encouragement and a help. suppose that this man makes an exceedingly prudent marriage, with a rich woman, you may safely predict, in this instance, intellectual deviations of a kind perilous to the highest culture. he will have new calls upon his time, his society will no longer be entirely of his own choosing, he will no longer be able to devote himself with absolute singleness of purpose to studies from which his wife must necessarily be excluded. if he were to continue faithful to his old habits, and shut himself up every day in his library or laboratory, or set out on frequent scientific expeditions, his wife would either be a lady of quite extraordinary perfection of temper, or else entirely indifferent in her feelings towards him, if she did not regard his pursuits with quickly-increasing jealousy. she would think, and justifiably think, that he ought to give more of his time to the enjoyment of her society, that he ought to be more by her side in the carriage and in the drawing-room, and if he loved her he would yield to these kindly and reasonable wishes. he would spend many hours of every day in a manner not profitable to his great pursuits, and many weeks of every year in visits to her friends. his position would be even less favorable to study in some respects than that of a professional man. it would be difficult for him, if an amateur artist, to give that unremitting attention to painting which the professional painter gives. he could not say, "i do this for you and for our children;" he could only say, "i do it for my own pleasure," which is not so graceful an excuse. as a bachelor, he might work as professional people work, but his marriage would strongly accentuate the amateur character of his position. it is possible that if his labors had won great fame the lady might bear the separation more easily, for ladies always take a noble pride in the celebrity of their husbands; but the best and worthiest intellectual labor often brings no fame whatever, and notoriety is a mere accident of some departments of the intellectual life, and not its ultimate object. george sand, in her admirable novel "valvèdre," has depicted a situation of this kind with the most careful delicacy of touch. valvèdre was a man of science, who attempted to continue the labors of his intellectual life after marriage had united him to a lady incapable of sharing them. the reader pities both, and sympathizes with both. it is hard, on the one hand, that a man endowed by nature with great talents for scientific work should not go on with a career already gloriously begun; and yet, on the other hand, a woman who is so frequently abandoned for science may blamelessly feel some jealousy of science. valvèdre, in narrating the story of his unhappy wedded life, said that alida wished to have at her orders a perfect gentleman to accompany her, but that he felt in himself a more serious ambition. he had not aimed at fame, but he had thought it possible to become a useful servant, bringing his share of patient and courageous seekings to the edifice of the sciences. he had hoped that alida would understand this. "'there is time enough for everything,' she said, still retaining him in the useless wandering life that she had chosen. 'perhaps,' he answered, 'but on condition that i lose no more of it; and it is not in this wandering life, cut to pieces by a thousand unforeseen interruptions, that i can make the hours yield their profit.' "'ah! we come to the point!' exclaimed alida impetuously. 'you wish to leave me, and to travel alone in impossible regions.' "'no, i will work near you and abandon certain observations which it would be necessary to make at too great a distance, but you also will sacrifice something: we will not see so many idle people, we will settle somewhere for a fixed time. it shall be where you will, and if the place does not suit you, we will try another; but from time to time you will permit me a phase of sedentary work.' "'yes, yes, you want to live for yourself alone; you have lived enough for me. i understand; your love is satiated and at an end.' "nothing could conquer her conviction _that study was her rival_, and that love was only possible in idleness. "'to love is everything,' she said; 'and he who loves has not time to concern himself with anything else. whilst the husband is intoxicating himself with the marvels of science, the wife languishes and dies. it is the destiny which awaits me; and since i am a burden to you, i should do better to die at once.' "a little later valvèdre ventured to hint something about work, hoping to conquer his wife's _ennui_, on which she proclaimed the hatred of work as a sacred right of her nature and position. "'nobody ever taught me to work,' she said, 'and i did not marry under a promise to begin again at the _a_, _b_, _c_ of things. whatever i know i have learned by intuition, by reading without aim or method. i am a woman; my destiny is to love my husband and bring up children. it is very strange that my husband should be the person who counsels me to think of something better.'" i am far from suggesting that madame valvèdre is an exact representative of her sex, but the sentiments which in her are exaggerated, and expressed with passionate plainness, are in much milder form very prevalent sentiments indeed; and valvèdre's great difficulty, how to get leave to prosecute his studies with the degree of devotion necessary to make them fruitful, is not at all an uncommon difficulty with intellectual men after marriage. the character of madame valvèdre, being passionate and excessive, led her to an open expression of her feelings; but feelings of a like kind, though milder in degree, exist frequently below the surface, and may be detected by any vigilant observer of human nature. that such feelings are very natural it is impossible even for a _savant_ to deny; but whilst admitting the clear right of a woman to be preferred by a man to science when once he has married her, let me observe that the man might perhaps do wisely, before the knot is tied, to ascertain whether her intellectual dowry is rich enough to compensate him for the sacrifices she is likely to exact. letter vi. to a solitary student. need of a near intellectual friendship in solitude--persons who live independently of custom run a peculiar risk in marriage--women by nature more subservient to custom than men are--difficulty of conciliating solitude and marriage--de sénancour--the marriages of eccentrics--their wives either protect them or attempt to reform them. isolated as you are, by the very superiority of your culture, from the ignorant provincial world around you, i cannot but believe that marriage is essential to your intellectual health and welfare. if you married some cultivated woman, bred in the cultivated society of a great capital, that companionship would give you an independence of surrounding influences which nothing else can give. you fancy that by shutting yourself up in a country house you are uninfluenced by the world around you. it is a great error. you know that you are isolated, that you are looked upon and probably ridiculed as an eccentric, and this knowledge, which it is impossible to banish from your mind, deprives your thinking of elasticity and grace. you urgently need the support of an intellectual friendship quite near to you, under your own roof. bachelors in great cities feel this necessity less. still remember, that whoever has arranged his life independently of custom runs a peculiar risk in marriage. women are by nature far more subservient to custom than we are, more than we can easily conceive. the danger of marriage, for a person of your tastes, is that a woman entering your house might enter it as the representative of that minutely-interfering authority which you continually ignore. and let us never forget that a perfect obedience to custom requires great sacrifices of time and money that you might not be disposed to make, and which certainly would interfere with study. you value and enjoy your solitude, well knowing how great a thing it is to be master of all your hours. it is difficult to conciliate solitude, or even a wise and suitable selection of acquaintances, with the semi-publicity of marriage. heads of families receive many persons in their houses whom they would never have invited, and from whose society they derive little pleasure and no profit. de sénancour had plans of studious retirement, and hoped that the "_douce intimité_" of marriage might be compatible with these cherished projects. but marriage, he found, drew him into the circle of ordinary provincial life, and he always suffered from its influences. you are necessarily an eccentric. in the neighborhood where you live it is an eccentricity to study, for nobody but you studies anything. a man so situated is fortunate when this feeling of eccentricity is alleviated, and unfortunate when it is increased. a wife would certainly do one or the other. married to a very superior woman, able to understand the devotion to intellectual aims, you would be much relieved of the painful consciousness of eccentricity; but a woman of less capacity would intensify it. so far as we can observe the married life of others, it seems to me that i have met with instances of men, constituted and occupied very much as you are, who have found in marriage a strong protection against the ignorant judgments of their neighbors, and an assurance of intellectual peace; whilst in other cases it has appeared rather as if their solitude were made more a cause of conscious suffering, as if the walls of their cabinets were pulled down for the boobies outside to stare at them and laugh at them. a woman will either take your side against the customs of the little world around, or she will take the side of custom against you. if she loves you deeply, and if there is some visible result of your labors in fame and money, she may possibly do the first, and then she will protect your tranquillity better than a force of policemen, and give you a delightful sense of reconciliation with all humanity; but many of her most powerful instincts tend the other way. she has a natural sympathy with all the observances of custom, and you neglect them; she is fitted for social life, which you are not. unless you win her wholly to your side, she may undertake the enterprise of curing your eccentricities and adapting you to the ideal of her caste. this may be highly satisfactory to the operator, but it is full of inconveniences to the patient. letter vii. to a lady of high culture who found it difficult to associate with persons of her own sex. men are not very good judges of feminine conversation--the interest of it would be increased if women could be more freely initiated into great subjects--small subjects interesting when seen in relation to central ideas--that ladies of superior faculty ought rather to elevate female society than withdraw from it--women when displaced do not appear happy. what you confided to me in our last interesting conversation has given me material for reflection, and afforded a glimpse of a state of things which i have sometimes suspected without having data for any positive conclusion. the society of women is usually sought by men during hours of mental relaxation, and we naturally find such a charm in their mere presence, especially when they are graceful or beautiful, that we are not very severe or even accurate judges of the abstract intellectual quality of their talk. but a woman cannot feel the indescribable charm which wins us so easily, and i have sometimes thought that a superior person of your sex might be aware of certain deficiencies in her sisters which men very readily overlook. you tell me that you feel embarrassed in the society of ladies, because they know so little about the subjects which interest you, and are astonished when you speak about anything really worth attention. on the other hand, you feel perfectly at ease with men of ability and culture, and most at your ease with men of the best ability and the most eminent attainments. what you complain of chiefly in women seems to be their impatience of varieties of thought which are unfamiliar to them, and their constant preference for small topics. it has long been felt by men that if women could be more freely initiated into great subjects the interest of general conversation would be much increased. the difficulty appears to lie in their instinctive habit of making all questions personal questions. the etiquette of society makes it quite impossible for men to speak to ladies in the manner which would be intellectually most profitable to them. we may not teach because it is pedantic, and we may not contradict, because it is rude. most of the great subjects are conventionally held to be closed, so that it is a sin against good taste to discuss them. in every house the ladies have a set of fixed convictions of some kind, which it is not polite in any man to appear to doubt. the consequence of these conventional rules is that women live in an atmosphere of acquiescence which makes them intolerant of anything like bold and original thinking on important subjects. but as the mind always requires free play of some kind, when all the great subjects are forbidden it will use its activity in playing about little ones. for my part i hardly think it desirable for any of us to be incessantly coping with great subjects, and the ladies are right in taking a lively interest in the small events around them. but even the small events would have a deeper interest if they were seen in their true relations to the great currents of european thought and action. it is probably the ignorance of these relations which, more than the smallness of the topics themselves, makes feminine talk fatiguing to you. very small things indeed have an interest when exhibited in relation to larger, as men of science are continually demonstrating. i have been taking note lately of the talk that goes on around me, and i find that when it is shallow and wearisome it is always because the facts mentioned bear no reference to any central or governing idea, and do not illustrate anything. conversation is interesting in proportion to the originality of the central ideas which serve as pivots, and the fitness of the little facts and observations which are contributed by the talkers. for instance, if people happened to be talking about rats, and some one informed you that he had seen a rat last week, that would be quite uninteresting: but you would listen with greater attention if he said; "the other night, as i was going up stairs very late, i followed a very fine rat who was going up stairs too, and he was not in the least hurried, but stopped after every two or three steps to have a look at me and my candle. he was very prettily marked about the face and tail, so i concluded that he was not a common rat, but probably a lemming. two nights afterwards i met him again, and this time he seemed almost to know me, for he quietly made room for me as i passed. very likely he might be easily tamed." this is interesting, because, though the fact narrated is still trifling, it illustrates animal character. if you will kindly pardon an "improvement" of this subject, as a preacher would call it, i might add that an intellectual lady like yourself might, perhaps, do better to raise the tone of the feminine talk around her than to withdraw from it in weariness. there are always, in every circle, a few superior persons who, either from natural diffidence, or because they are not very rich, or because they are too young, suffer themselves to be entirely overwhelmed by the established mediocrity around them. what they need is a leader, a deliverer. is it not in your power to render services of this kind? could you not select from the younger ladies whom you habitually meet, a few who, like yourself, feel bored by the dulness or triviality of what you describe as the current feminine conversation? there is often a painful shyness which prevents people of real ability from using it for the advantage of others, and this shyness is nowhere so common as in england, especially provincial england. it feels the want of a hardy example. a lady who talked really well would no doubt run some risk of being rather unpleasantly isolated at first, but surely, if she tried, she might ultimately find accomplices. you could do much, to begin with, by recommending high-toned literature, and gradually awakening an interest in what is truly worth attention. it seems lamentable that every cultivated woman should be forced out of the society of her own sex, and made to depend upon ours for conversation of that kind which is an absolute necessity to the intellectual. the truth is, that women so displaced never appear altogether happy. and culture costs so much downright hard work, that it ought not to be paid for by any suffering beyond those toils which are its fair and natural price. letter viii. to a lady of high culture. greatest misfortune in the intellectual life of women--they do not hear truth--men disguise their thoughts for women--cream and curaçoa--probable permanence of the desire to please women--most truth in cultivated society--hopes from the increase of culture. i think that the greatest misfortune in the intellectual life of women is that they do not hear the truth from men. all men in cultivated society say to women as much as possible that which they may be supposed to wish to hear, and women are so much accustomed to this that they can scarcely hear without resentment an expression of opinion which takes no account of their personal and private feeling. the consideration for the feelings of women gives an agreeable tone to society, but it is fatal to the severity of truth. observe a man of the world whose opinions are well known to you,--notice the little pause before he speaks to a lady. during that little pause he is turning over what he has to say, so as to present it in the manner that will please her best; and you may be sure that the integrity of truth will suffer in the process. if we compare what we know of the man with that which the lady hears from him, we perceive the immense disadvantages of her position. he ascertains what will please her, and that is what he administers. he professes to take a deep interest in things which he does not care for in the least, and he passes lightly over subjects and events which he knows to be of the most momentous importance to the world. the lady spends an hour more agreeably than if she heard opinions which would irritate, and prognostics which would alarm her, but she has missed an opportunity for culture, she has been confirmed in feminine illusions. if this happened only from time to time, the effect would not tell so much on the mental constitution; but it is incessant, it is continual. men disguise their thoughts for women as if to venture into the feminine world were as dangerous as travelling in arabia, or as if the thoughts themselves were criminal. there appeared two or three years ago in _punch_ a clever drawing which might have served as an illustration to this subject. a fashionable doctor was visiting a lady in belgravia who complained that she suffered from debility. cod-liver oil being repugnant to her taste, the agreeable doctor, wise in his generation, blandly suggested as an effective substitute a mixture of cream and curaçoa. what that intelligent man did for his patient's physical constitution, all men of politeness do for the intellectual constitution of ladies. instead of administering the truth which would strengthen, though unpalatable, they administer intellectual cream and curaçoa. the primary cause of this tendency to say what is most pleasing to women is likely to be as permanent as the distinction of sex itself. it springs directly from sexual feelings, it is hereditary and instinctive. men will never talk to women with that rough frankness which they use between themselves. conversation between the sexes will always be partially insincere. still i think that the more women are respected, the more men will desire to be approved by them for what they are in reality, and the less they will care for approval which is obtained by dissimulation. it may be observed already that, in the most intellectual society of great capitals, men are considerably more outspoken before women than they are in the provincial middle-classes. where women have most culture, men are most open and sincere. indeed, the highest culture has a direct tendency to command sincerity in others, both because it is tolerant of variety in opinion, and because it is so penetrating that dissimulation is felt to be of no use. by the side of an uncultivated woman, a man feels that if he says anything different from what she has been accustomed to she will take offence, whilst if he says anything beyond the narrow range of her information he will make her cold and uncomfortable. the most honest of men, in such a position, finds it necessary to be very cautious, and can scarcely avoid a little insincerity. but with a woman of culture equal to his own, these causes for apprehension have no existence, and he can safely be more himself. these considerations lead me to hope that as culture becomes more general women will hear truth more frequently. whenever this comes to pass, it will be, to them, an immense intellectual gain. letter ix. to a young man of the middle class, well educated, who complained that it was difficult for him to live agreeably with his mother, a person of somewhat authoritative disposition, but uneducated. a sort of misunderstanding common in modern households--intolerance of inaccuracy--a false position--a lady not easily intimidated--difficulty of arguing when you have to teach--instance about the american war--the best course in discussion with ladies--women spoilt by non-contradiction--they make all questions personal--the strength of their feelings--their indifference to matters of fact. i have been thinking a good deal, and seriously, since we last met, about the subject of our conversation, which though a painful one is not to be timidly avoided. the degree of unhappiness in your little household, which ought to be one of the pleasantest of households, yet which, as you confided to me, is overshadowed by a continual misunderstanding, is, i fear, very common indeed at the present day. it is only by great forbearance, and great skill, that any household in which persons of very different degrees of culture have to live together on terms of equality, can be maintained in perfect peace; and neither the art nor the forbearance is naturally an attribute of youth. a man whose scholarly attainments were equal to your own, and whose experience of men and women was wider, could no doubt offer you counsel both wise and practical, yet i can hardly say that i should like you better if you followed it. i cannot blame you for having the natural characteristics of your years, an honest love of the best truth that you have attained to, an intolerance of inaccuracy on all subjects, a simple faith in the possibility of teaching others, even elderly ladies, when they happen to know less than yourself. all these characteristics are in themselves blameless; and yet in your case, and in thousands of other similar cases, they often bring clouds of storm and trial upon houses which, in a less rapidly progressive century than our own, might have been blessed with uninterrupted peace. the truth is, that you are in a false position relatively to your mother, and your mother is in a false position relatively to you. she expects deference, and deference is scarcely compatible with contradiction; certainly, if there be contradiction at all, it must be very rare, very careful, and very delicate. you, on the other hand, although no doubt full of respect and affection for your mother in your heart, cannot hear her authoritatively enunciating anything that you know to be erroneous, without feeling irresistibly urged to set her right. she is rather a talkative lady; she does not like to hear a conversation going forward without taking a part in it, and rather an important part, so that whatever subject is talked about in her presence, that subject she will talk about also. even before specialists your mother has an independence of opinion, and a degree of faith in her own conclusions, which would be admirable if they were founded upon right reason and a careful study of the subject. medical men, and even lawyers, do not intimidate her; she is convinced that she knows more about disease than the physician, and more about legal business than an old attorney. in theology no parson can approach her; but here a woman may consider herself on her own ground, as theology is the speciality of women. all this puts you out of patience, and it is intelligible that, for a young gentleman of intellectual habits and somewhat ardent temperament like yourself, it must be at times rather trying to have an authority at hand ever ready to settle all questions in a decisive manner. to you i have no counsel to offer but that of unconditional submission. you have the weakness to enter into arguments when to sustain them you must assume the part of a teacher. in arguing with a person already well-informed upon the subject in dispute, you may politely refer to knowledge which he already possesses, but when he does not possess the knowledge you cannot argue with him; you must first teach him, you must become didactic, and therefore odious. i remember a great scene which took place between you and your mother concerning the american war. it was brought on by a too precise answer of yours relatively to your friend b., who had emigrated to america. you mother asked to what part of america b. had emigrated, and you answered, "the argentine republic." a shade of displeasure clouded your mother's countenance, because she did not know where the argentine republic might be, and betrayed it by her manner. you imprudently added that it was in south america. "yes, yes, i know very well," she answered; "there was a great battle there during the american war. it is well your friend was not there under jefferson davis." now, permit me to observe, my estimable young friend, that this was what the french call a fine opportunity for holding your tongue, but your missed it. fired with an enthusiasm for truth (always dangerous to the peace of families), you began to explain to the good lady that the argentine republic, though in south america, was not one of the southern states of the union. this led to a scene of which i was the embarrassed and unwilling witness. your mother vehemently affirmed that all the southern states had been under jefferson davis, that she knew the fact perfectly, that it had always been known to every one during the war, and that, consequently, as the argentine republic was in south america, the argentine republic had been under jefferson davis. rapidly warming with this discussion, your mother "supposed that you would deny next that there had ever been such a thing as a war between the north and the south." then you, in your turn, lost temper, and you fetched an atlas for the purpose of explaining that the southern division of the continent of america was not the southern half of the united states. you were landed, as people always are landed when they prosecute an argument with the ignorant, in the thankless office of the schoolmaster. you were actually trying to give your mother a lesson in geography! she was not grateful to you for your didactic attentions. she glanced at the book as people glance at an offered dish which they dislike. she does not understand maps; the representation of places in geographical topography has never been quite clear to her. your little geographical lecture irritated, but did not inform; it clouded the countenance, but did not illuminate the understanding. the distinction between south america and the southern states is not easy to the non-analytic mind under any circumstances, but when _amour propre_ is involved it becomes impossible. i believe that the best course in discussions of this kind with ladies is simply to say _once_ what is true, for the acquittal of your own conscience, but after that to remain silent on that topic, leaving the last word to the lady, who will probably simply re-affirm what she has already said. for example, in the discussion about the argentine republic, your proper course would have been to say first, firmly, that the territory in question was not a part of the seceded states and had never been in the union, with a brief and decided geographical explanation. your mother would not have been convinced by this, and would probably have had the last word, but the matter would have ended there. another friend of mine, who is in a position very like your own, goes a step farther, and is determined to agree with his mother-in-law in everything. he always assents to her propositions. she is a frenchwoman, and has been accustomed to use _algérie_ and _afrique_ as convertible terms. somebody spoke of the cape of good hope as being in africa. "then it belongs to france, as africa belongs to france." "oui, chère mère," he answered, in his usual formula; "vous avez raison." he alluded to this afterwards when we were alone together. "i was foolish enough some years since," he said, "to argue with my _belle mère_ and try to teach her little things from time to time, but it kept her in a state of chronic ill-humor and led to no good; it spoiled her temper, and it did not improve her mind. but since i have adopted the plan of perpetual assent we get on charmingly. whatever she affirms i assent to at once, and all is well. my friends are in the secret, and so no contradictory truth disturbs our amiable tranquillity." a system of this kind spoils women completely, and makes the least contradiction intolerable to them. it is better that they should at least have the opportunity of hearing truth, though no attempt need be made to force it upon them. the position of ladies of the generation which preceded ours is in many respects a very trying one, and we do not always adequately realize it. a lady like your mother, who never really went through any intellectual discipline, who has no notion of intellectual accuracy in anything, is compelled by the irresistible feminine instinct to engage her strongest feelings in every discussion that arises. a woman can rarely detach her mind from questions of persons to apply it to questions of fact. she does not think simply, "is that true of such a thing?" but she thinks, "does he love me or respect me?" the facts about the argentine republic and the american war were probably quite indifferent to your mother; but your opposition to what she had asserted seemed to her a failure in affection, and your attempt to teach her a failure in respect. this feeling in women is far from being wholly egoistic. they refer everything to persons, but not necessarily to their own persons. whatever you affirm as a fact, they find means of interpreting as loyalty or disloyalty to some person whom they either venerate or love, to the head of religion, or of the state, or of the family. hence it is always dangerous to enter upon intellectual discussion of any kind with women, for you are almost certain to offend them by setting aside the sentiments of veneration, affection, love, which they have in great strength, in order to reach accuracy in matters of fact, which they neither have nor care for. part viii. _aristocracy and democracy._ letter i. to a young english nobleman. a contrast--a poor student--his sad fate--class-sentiment--tycho brahe--robert burns--shelley's opinion of byron--charles dickens--shopkeepers in english literature--pride of aristocratic ignorance--pursuits tabooed by the spirit of caste--affected preferences in intellectual pursuits--studies that add to gentility--sincerity of interest needed for genuine culture--the exclusiveness of scholarly caste--its bad influence on outsiders--feeling of burns toward scholars--sureness of class-instinct--unforeseen effect of railways--return to nomadic life and the chase--advantages and possibilities to life in the higher classes. it is one of the privileges of authorship to have correspondents in the most widely different positions, and by means of their frank and friendly letters (usually much more frank than any oral communication) to gain a singularly accurate insight into the working of circumstances on the human intellect and character. the same post that brought me your last letter brought news about another of my friends whose lot has been a striking contrast to your own.[ ] let me dwell upon this contrast for a few minutes. all the sunshine appears to have been on your side, and all the shadow on his. born of highly cultivated parents, in the highest rank in england under royalty, you have lived from the beginning amongst the most efficient aids to culture, and nature has so endowed you that, instead of becoming indifferent to these things from familiarity, you have learned to value them more and more in every successive year. the plainest statement of your advantages would sound like an extract from one of disraeli's novels. your father's principal castle is situated amongst the finest scenery in britain, and his palace in london is filled with masterpieces of art. wherever you have lived you have been surrounded by good literature and cultivated friends. your health is steadily robust, you can travel wherever you choose, and all the benefits of all the capitals of europe belong to you as much as to their own citizens. in all these gifts and opportunities there is but one evil--the bewilderment of their multiplicity. my other correspondent has been less fortunately situated. "i began school," he says, "when six years old, was taken from it at eleven and sent to the mines to earn a little towards my own support. i continued there till fourteen, when through an unlucky incident i was made a hopeless cripple. at that day i was earning the noble sum of eightpence per day, quite as much as any boy of that age got in the lead mines. i suffered much for two years; after that, became much easier, but my legs were quite useless, and have continued so up to the present time. the right thigh-bone is decayed, has not got worse these nine years; therefore i conclude that i may live--say another thirty years. i should _like_, at all events, for life _is_ sweet even at this cost; not but what i could die quietly enough, i dare say. i have not been idle these years...." (here permit me to introduce a parenthesis. he certainly had _not_ been idle. he had educated himself up to such a point that he could really appreciate both literature and art, and had attained some genuine skill in both. his letters to me were the letters of a cultivated gentleman, and he used invariably to insert little pen-sketches, which were done with a light and refined hand.) "i can do anything almost in bed--except getting up. i am now twenty-two years old. my father was a miner, but is now unable to work. i have only one brother working, and we are about a dozen of us; consequently we are not in the most flourishing circumstances, but a friend has put it in my power to learn to etch. i have got the tools and your handbook on the subject." these extracts are from his first letter. afterwards he wrote me others which made me feel awed and humbled by the manly cheerfulness with which he bore a lot so dreary, and by the firmness of resolution he showed in his pursuits. he could not quit his bed, but that was not the worst; he could not even sit up in bed, and yet he contrived, i know not how, both to write and draw and etch on copper, managing the plaguy chemicals, and even printing his own proofs. his bed was on wheels, on a sort of light iron carriage, and he saw nature out-of-doors. all the gladness of physical activity was completely blotted out of his existence, and in that respect his prospects were without hope. and still he said that "life was sweet." o marvel of all marvels, how _could_ that life be sweet! aided by a beautiful patience and resignation the lamp of the mind burned with a steady brightness, fed by his daily studies. in the winters, however, the diseased limb gave him prolonged agony, and in the autumn of , to avoid the months of torture that lay before him, he had himself put in the railway and sent off, in his bed, to edinburgh, sleeping in a waiting-room on the way. there was no one to attend him, but he trusted, not vainly, to the humanity of strangers. just about the same time your lordship went northwards also, with many friends, to enjoy the noble scenery, and the excitement of noble sport. my poor cripple got to edinburgh, got a glimpse of scott's monument and the athenian pillars, and submitted himself to the surgeons. they rendered him the best of services, for they ended his pains forever. so i am to get no more of those wonderfully brave and cheerful letters that were written from the little bed on wheels. i miss them for the lessons they quite unconsciously conveyed. he fancied that he was the learner, poor lad! and i the teacher, whereas it was altogether the other way. he made me feel what a blessing it is, even from the purely intellectual point of view, to be able to get out of bed after the night's rest, and go from one room to another. he made me understand the value of every liberty and every power whilst at the same time he taught me to bear more patiently every limit, and inconvenience, and restriction. in comparing his letters with yours i have been struck by one reflection predominantly, which is, the entire absence of class-sentiment in both of you. nobody, not in the secret, could guess that one set of letters came from a palace and the other set from a poor miner's cottage; and even to me, who do not see the habitations except by an effort of the memory or imagination, there is nothing to recall the immensity of the social distance that separated my two friendly and welcome correspondents. it is clear, of course, that one of them had enjoyed greater advantages than the other, but neither wrote from the point of view which marks his caste or class. it was my habit to write to you, and to him, exactly in the same tone, yet this was not felt to be unsuitable by either. is it not that the love and pursuit of culture lead each of us out of his class, and that class-views of any kind, whether of the aristocracy, or of the middle class, or of the people, inevitably narrow the mind and hinder it from receiving pure truth? have you ever known any person who lived habitually in the notions of a caste, high or low, without incapacitating himself in a greater or less degree for breadth and delicacy of perception? it seems to me that the largest and best minds, although they have been born and nurtured in this caste or that, and may continue to conform externally to its customs, always emancipate themselves from it intellectually, and arrive at a sort of neutral region, where the light is colorless, and clear, and equal, like plain daylight out of doors. so soon as we attain the forgetfulness of self, and become absorbed in our pursuits for their own sakes, the feeling of caste drops off from us. it was not a mark of culture in tycho brahe, but rather of the imperfections of his culture, that he felt so strongly the difficulty of conciliating scientific pursuits with the obligations of noble birth, and began his public discourses on astronomy by telling his audience that the work was ill-suited to his social position--hesitating, too, even about authorship from a dread of social degradation. and to take an instance from the opposite extreme of human society, robert burns betrayed the same imperfection of culture in his dedication to the members of the caledonian hunt, when he spoke of his "honest rusticity," and told the gentlefolks that he was "bred to the plough, and independent." both of these men had been unfavorably situated for the highest culture, the one by the ignorance of his epoch the other by the ignorance of his class; hence this uneasiness about themselves and their social position. shelley said of byron, "the canker of aristocracy wants to be cut out;" and he did not say this from the point of view of a democrat, for shelley was not precisely a democrat, but from, the broadly human point of view, on which the finest intellects like to take their stand. shelley perceived that byron's aristocracy narrowed him, and made his sympathies less catholic than they might have been, nor can there be any doubt of the accuracy of this estimate of shelley's; if a doubt existed it would be removed by byron's alternative for a poet, "solitude, or high life." another man of genius, whose loss we have recently deplored, was narrowed by his antipathy to the aristocratic spirit, though it is necessary to add, in justice, that it did not prevent him from valuing the friendship of noblemen whom he esteemed. the works of charles dickens would have been more accurate as pictures of english life, certainly more comprehensively accurate, if he could have felt for the aristocracy that hearty and loving sympathy which he felt for the middle classes and the people. but the narrowness of dickens is more excusable than that of byron, because a kindly heart more easily enters into the feelings of those whom it can often pity than of those who appear to be lifted above pity (though this is nothing but an appearance) and also because it is the habit of aristocracies to repel such sympathy by their manners, which the poor do not. i have often thought that a sign of aristocratic narrowness in many english authors, including some of the most popular authors of the day, is the way they speak of shopkeepers. this may be due to simple ignorance; but if so, it is ignorance that might be easily avoided. happily for our convenience there are a great many shopkeepers in england, so that there is no lack of the materials for study; but our novelists appear to consider this important class of englishmen as unworthy of any patient and serious portraiture. you may remember mr. anthony trollope's "struggles of brown, jones, and robinson," which appeared in the _cornhill magazine_, under thackeray's editorship. that was an extreme instance of the way the class is treated in our literature; and then in poetry we have some disdainful verses of mr. tennyson's. it may be presumed that there is material for grave and respectful treatment of this extensive class, but our poets and novelists do not seem to have discovered, or sought to discover, the secret of that treatment. the intensity of the prejudices of caste prevents them from seeing any possibility of true gentlemanhood in a draper or a grocer, and blinds them to the æsthetic beauty or grandeur which may be as perfectly compatible with what is disdainfully called "counter-jumping" as it is admitted to be with the jumping of five-barred gates. the same caste prejudices have often kept the mass of the upper classes in ignorance of most valuable and important branches of knowledge. the poor have been ignorant, yet never proud of their ignorance; the ignorance that men are proud of belongs to caste always, not always to what we should call an aristocratic caste, but to the caste-feeling in one class or another. the pride of the feudal baron in being totally illiterate amounted to self-exclusion from all intellectual culture, and we may still find living instances of partial self-exclusion from culture, of which pride is the only motive. there are people who pass their time in what are considered amusements (that do not amuse), because it seems to them a more gentlemanly sort of life than the devotion to some great and worthy pursuit which would have given the keenest zest and relish to their whole existence (besides making them useful members of society, which they are not), but which happens to be tabooed for them by the prejudices of their caste. there are many studies, in themselves noble and useful, that a man of good family cannot follow with the earnestness and the sacrifice of time necessary to success in them, without incurring the disapprobation of his friends. if this disapprobation were visited on the breaker of caste-regulations because he neglected some other culture, there would still be something reasonable in it; but this is not the case. the caste-regulation forbids the most honorable and instructive labor when it does not forbid the most unprofitable idleness, the most utter throwing away of valuable time and faculty. tycho brahe feared to lose caste in becoming the most illustrious astronomer of his time; but he would have had no such apprehension, nor any ground for such apprehension, if instead of being impelled to noble work by a high intellectual instinct, he had been impelled by meaner passions to unlimited self-indulgence. even, in our own day these prejudices are still strong enough, or have been until very lately, to keep our upper classes in great darkness about natural knowledge of all kinds, and about its application to the arts of life. how few gentlemen have been taught to draw accurately, and how few are accurately acquainted with the great practical inventions of the age! the caste-sentiment does not, in these days, keep them ignorant of literature, but it keeps them ignorant of _things_. a friend who had a strong constructive and experimental turn, told me that, as a rule, he found gentlemen less capable of entering into his ideas than common joiners and blacksmiths, because these humble workmen, from their habit of dealing with matter, had acquired some experience of its nature. for my own part, i have often been amazed by the difficulty of making something clear to a classically educated gentleman which any intelligent mechanic would have seen to the bottom, and all round, after five or six minutes of explanation. there is a certain french nobleman whose ignorance i have frequent opportunities of fathoming, always with fresh astonishment at the depths of it, and i declare that he knows no more about the properties of stone, and timber, and metal, than if he were a cherub in the clouds of heaven! but there is something in caste-sentiment even more prejudicial to culture than ignorance itself, and that is the affectation of strong preferences for certain branches of knowledge in which people are not seriously interested. there is nothing which people will not pretend to like, if a liking for it is supposed to be one of the marks and indications of gentility. there has been an immense amount of this kind of affectation in regard to classical scholarship, and we know for a certainty that it _is_ affectation whenever people are loud in their praise of classical authors whom they never take the trouble to read. it may have happened to you, as it has happened to me from time to time, to hear men affirm the absolute necessity of classical reading to distinction of thought and manner, and yet to be aware at the same time, from close observation of their habits, that those very men entirely neglected the sources of that culture in which they professed such earnest faith. the explanation is, that as classical accomplishments are considered to be one of the evidences of gentility, whoever speaks loudly in their favor affirms that he has the tastes and preferences of a gentleman. it is like professing the fashionable religion, or belonging to an aristocratic shade of opinion in politics. i have not a doubt that all affectations of this kind are injurious to genuine culture, for genuine culture requires sincerity of interest before everything, and the fashionable affectations, so far from attracting sincere men to the departments of learning which happen to be _à la mode_, positively drive them away, just as many have become nonconformists because the established religion was considered necessary to gentility, who might have remained contented with its ordinances as a simple discipline for their souls. i dislike the interference of genteel notions in our studies for another reason. they deprive such culture as we may get from them, of one of the most precious results of culture, the enlargement of our sympathy for others. if we encourage ourselves in the pride of scholarly caste, so far as to imagine that we who have made latin verses are above comparison with all who have never exercised their ingenuity in that particular way, we are not likely to give due and serious attention to the ideas of people whom we are pleased to consider uneducated; and yet it may happen that these people are sometimes our intellectual superiors, and that their ideas concern us very closely. but this is only half the evil. the consciousness of our contempt embitters the feelings of men in other castes, and prevents them from accepting our guidance when it might be of the greatest practical utility to them. i may mention robert burns as an instance of a man of genius who would have been happier and more fortunate if he had felt no barrier of separation between himself and the culture of his time. his poetry is as good rustic poetry as the best that has come down to us from antiquity, and instead of feeling towards the poets of times past the kind of soreness which a parvenu feels towards families of ancient descent, he ought rather to have rejoiced in the consciousness that he was their true and legitimate successor, as the clergy of an authentic church feel themselves to be successors and representatives of saints and apostles who are gathered to their everlasting rest. but poor burns knew that in an age when what is called scholarship gave all who had acquired it a right to look down upon poets who had only genius as the illegitimate offspring of nature, his position had not that solidity which belonged to the scholarly caste, and the result was a perpetual uneasiness which broke out in frequent defiance. "there's ither poets, much your betters, far seen in greek, deep men o' letters, hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors a' future ages; _now moths deform in shapeless tatters, their unknown pages_." and again, in another poem-- "a set o' dull, conceited hashes confuse their brains in college classes! _they gang in stirks, and come out asses, plain truth to speak; an' syne they think to climb parnassus by dint o' greek!_" it was the influence of caste that made burns write in this way, and how unjust it was every modern reader knows. the great majority of poets have been well-educated men, and instead of ganging into college like stirks and coming out like asses, they have, as a rule, improved their poetic faculty by an acquaintance with the masterpieces of their art. yet burns is not to be blamed for this injustice; he sneered at greek because greek was the mark of a disdainful and exclusive caste, but he never sneered at french or italian. he had no soreness against culture for its own sake; it was the pride of caste that galled him. how surely the wonderful class-instinct guided the aristocracy to the kind of learning likely to be the most effectual barrier against fellowship with the mercantile classes and the people! the uselessness of greek in industry and commerce was a guarantee that those who had to earn their bread would never find time to master it, and even the strange difficult look of the alphabet (though in reality the alphabet was a gate of gossamer), ensured a degree of awful veneration for those initiated into its mysteries. then the habit our forefathers had of quoting latin and greek to keep the ignorant in their places, was a strong defensive weapon of their caste, and they used it without scruple. every year removes this passion for exclusiveness farther and farther into the past; every year makes learning of every kind less available as the armor of a class, and less to be relied upon as a means of social advancement and consideration. indeed, we have already reached a condition which is drawing back many members of the aristocracy to a state of feeling about intellectual culture resembling that of their forefathers in the middle ages. the old barbarian feeling has revived of late, a feeling which (if it were self-conscious enough) might find expression in some such words as these:-- "it is not by learning and genius that we can hold the highest place, but by the dazzling exhibition of external splendor in those costly pleasures which are the plainest evidence of our power. let us have beautiful equipages on the land, beautiful yachts upon the sea; let our recreations be public and expensive, that the people may not easily lose sight of us, and may know that there is a gulf of difference between our life and theirs. why should we toil at books that the poorest students read, we who have lordly pastimes for every month in the year? to be able to revel immensely in pleasures which those below us taste rarely or not at all, this is the best evidence of our superiority. so let us take them magnificently, like english princes and lords." even the invention of railways has produced the unforeseen result of a return in the direction of barbarism. if there is one thing which distinguishes civilization it is fixity of residence; and it is essential to the tranquil following of serious intellectual purposes that the student should remain for many months of the year in his own library or laboratory, surrounded by all his implements of culture. but there are people of the highest rank in the england of to-day whose existence is as much nomadic as that of red indians in the reserved territories of north america. you cannot ascertain their whereabouts without consulting the most recent newspaper. their life may be quite accurately described as a return, on a scale of unprecedented splendor and comfort, to the life of tribes in that stage of human development which is known as the period of the chase. they migrate from one hunting-ground to another as the diminution of the game impels them. their residences, vast and substantial as they are, serve only as tents and wigwams. the existence of a monk in the cloister, of a prisoner in a fortress, is more favorable to the intellect than theirs. and yet notwithstanding these re-appearances of the savage nature at the very summit of modern civilization, the life of a great english nobleman of to-day commands so much of what the intellectual know to be truly desirable, that it seems as if only a little firmness of resolution were needed to make all advantages his own. surrounded by every aid, and having all gates open, he sees the paths of knowledge converging towards him like railways to some rich central city. he has but to choose his route, and travel along it with the least possible hindrance from every kind of friction, in the society of the best companions, and served by the most perfectly trained attendants. might not our lords be like those brilliant peers who shone like intellectual stars around the throne of elizabeth, and our ladies like that great lady of whom said a learned italian, "che non vi aveva altra dama al mondo che la pareggiasse nella cognizione delle arti e nella notizia delle scienze e delle lingue," wherefore he called her boldly, in the enthusiasm of his admiration, "_grande anfitrite, diana nume della terra!_" letter ii. to an english democrat. the liberal and illiberal spirit of aristocracy--the desire to draw a line--substitution of external limitations for realities--the high life of nature--value of gentlemen in a state--odiousness of the narrow class-spirit--julian fane--perfect knighthood--democracies intolerant of dignity--tendency of democracies to fix one uniform type of manners--that type not a high one--a descriptive anecdote--knowledge and taste reveal themselves in manners--dr. arnold on the absence of gentlemen in france and italy--absence of a class with traditional good manners--language defiled by the vulgarity of popular taste--influence of aristocratic opinion limited, that of democratic opinion universal--want of elevation in the french _bourgeoisie_--spirit of the provincial democracy--spirit of the parisian democracy--sentiments and acts of the communards--romantic feeling towards the past--hopes for liberal culture in the democratic idea--aristocracies think too much of persons and positions--that we ought to forget persons and apply our minds to things, and phenomena, and ideas. all you say against the narrowness of the aristocratic spirit is true and to the point; but i think that you and your party are apt to confound together two states of feeling which are essentially distinct from each other. there is an illiberal spirit of aristocracy, and there is also a liberal one. the illiberal spirit does not desire to improve itself, having a full and firm belief in its own absolute perfection; its sole anxiety is to exclude others, to draw a circular line, the smaller the better, provided always that it gets inside and can keep the millions out. we see this spirit, not only in reference to birth, but in even fuller activity with regard to education and employment--in the preference for certain schools and colleges, for class reasons, without regard to the quality of the teaching--in the contempt for all professions but two or three, without regard to the inherent baseness or nobility of the work that has to be done in them: so that the question asked by persons of this temper is not whether a man has been well trained in his youth, but if he has been to eton and oxford; not whether he is honorably laborious in his manhood, but whether he belongs to the bar, or the army, or the church. this spirit is evil in its influence, because it substitutes external limitations for the realities of the intellect and the soul, and makes those realities themselves of no account wherever its traditions prevail. this spirit cares nothing for culture, nothing for excellence, nothing for the superiorities that make men truly great; all it cares for is to have reserved seats in the great assemblage of the world. whatever you do, in fairness and honesty, against this evil and inhuman spirit of aristocracy, the best minds of this age approve; but there is another spirit of aristocracy which does not always receive the fairest treatment at your hands, and which ought to be resolutely defended against you. there is really, in nature, such a thing as high life. there is really, in nature, a difference between the life of a gentleman who has culture, and fine bodily health, and independence, and the life of a sheffield dry-grinder who cannot have any one of these three things. it is a good and not a bad sign of the state of popular intelligence when the people does not wilfully shut its eyes to the differences of condition amongst men, and when those who have the opportunity of leading what is truly the high life accept its discipline joyfully and have a just pride in keeping themselves up to their ideal. a life of health, of sound morality, of disinterested intellectual activity, of freedom from petty cares, _is_ higher than a life of disease, and vice, and stupidity, and sordid anxiety. i maintain that it is right and wise in a nation to set before itself the highest attainable ideal of human life as the existence of the complete gentleman, and that an envious democracy, instead of rendering a service to itself, does exactly the contrary when it cannot endure and will not tolerate the presence of high-spirited gentlemen in the state. there are things in this world that it is right to hate, that we are the better for hating with all our hearts; and one of the things that i hate most, and with most reason, is the narrow class-spirit when it sets itself against the great interests of mankind. it is odious in the narrow-minded, pompous, selfish, pitiless aristocrat who thinks that the sons of the people were made by almighty god to be his lackeys and their daughters to be his mistresses; it is odious also, to the full as odious, in the narrow-minded, envious democrat who cannot bear to see any elegance of living, or grace of manner, or culture of mind above the range of his own capacity or his own purse. let me recommend to your consideration the following words, written by one young nobleman about another young nobleman, and reminding us, as we much need to be reminded, that life may be not only honest and vigorous, but also noble and beautiful. robert lytton says of julian fane-- "he was, i think, the most graceful and accomplished gentleman of the generation he adorned, and by this generation, at least, appropriate place should be reserved for the memory of a man in whose character the most universal sympathy with all the intellectual culture of his age was united to a refinement of social form, and a perfection of personal grace, which, in spite of all its intellectual culture, the age is sadly in want of. there is an artistry of life as well as of literature, and the perfect knighthood of sidney is no less precious to the world than the genius of spenser." it is just this "perfect knighthood" that an envious democracy sneers at and puts down. i do not say that all democracies are necessarily envious, but they often are so, especially when they first assert themselves, and whilst in that temper they are very willing to ostracize gentlemen, or compel them to adopt bad manners. i have some hopes that the democracies of the future may be taught by authors and artists to appreciate natural gentlemanhood; but so far as we know them hitherto they seem intolerant of dignity, and disposed to attribute it (very unjustly) to individual self-conceit. the personages most popular in democratic countries are often remarkably deficient in dignity, and liked the better for the want of it, whilst if on the positive side they can display occasional coarseness they become more popular still. then i should say, that although democratic feeling raises the lower classes and increases their self-respect, which is indeed one of the greatest imaginable benefits to a nation, it has a tendency to fix one uniform type of behavior and of thought as the sole type in conformity with what is accepted for "common sense," and that type can scarcely, in the nature of things, be a very elevated one. i have been much struck, in france, by the prevalence of what may be not inaccurately defined as the commercial traveller type, even in classes where you would scarcely expect to meet with it. one little descriptive anecdote will illustrate what i mean. having been invited to a stag-hunt in the côte d'or, i sat down to _déjeuner_ with the sportsmen in a good country-house or château (it was an old place with four towers), and in the midst of the meal in came a man smoking a cigar. after a bow to the ladies he declined to eat anything, and took a chair a little apart, but just opposite me. he resumed his hat and went on smoking with a _sans-gêne_ that rather surprised me under the circumstances. he put one arm on the side-board: the hand hung down, and i perceived that it was dirty (so was the shirt), and that the nails had edges of ebony. on his chin there was a black stubble of two days' growth. he talked very loudly, and his dress and manners were exactly those of a bagman just arrived at his inn. who and what could the man be? i learned afterwards that he had begun life as a distinguished pupil of the _ecole polytechnique_, that since then he had distinguished himself as an officer of artillery and had won the legion of honor on the field of battle, that he belonged to one of the principal families in the neighborhood, and had nearly _l._ a year from landed property. now, it may be a good thing for the roughs at the bottom of the social scale to level up to the bagman-ideal, but it does seem rather a pity (does it not?) that a born gentleman of more than common bravery and ability should level _down_ to it. and it is here that lies the principle objection to democracy from the point of view of culture, that its notion of life and manners is a uniform notion, not admitting much variety of classes, and not allowing the high development of graceful and accomplished humanity in any class which an aristocracy does at least encourage in one class, though it may be numerically a small class. i have not forgotten what saint-simon and la bruyère have testified about the ignorance of the old noblesse. saint-simon said that they were fit for nothing but fighting, and only qualified for promotion even in the army by seniority; that the rest of their time was passed in "the most deadly uselessness, the consequence of their indolence and distaste for all instruction." i am sure that my modern artillery captain, notwithstanding his bad manners, _knew_ more than any of his forefathers; but where was his "perfect knighthood?" and we easily forget "how much talent runs into manners," as emerson says. from the artistic and poetical point of view, behavior is an expression of knowledge and taste and feeling in combination, as clear and legible as literature or painting, so that when the behavior is coarse and unbecoming we know that the perceptions cannot be delicate, whatever may have been learned at school. when dr. arnold travelled on the continent, nothing struck him more than the absence of gentlemen. "we see no gentlemen anywhere," he writes from italy. from france he writes: "again i have been struck with the total absence of all gentlemen, and of all persons of the education and feelings of gentlemen." now, although dr. arnold spoke merely from the experience of a tourist, and was perhaps not quite competent to judge of frenchmen and italians otherwise than from externals, still there was much truth in his observation. it was not quite absolutely true. i have known two or three italian officers, and one savoyard nobleman, and a frenchman here and there, who were as perfect gentlemen as any to be found in england, but they were isolated like poets, and were in fact poets in behavior and self discipline. the plain truth is, that there is no distinct class in france maintaining good manners as a tradition common to all its members; and this seems to be the inevitable defect of a democracy. it may be observed, further, that language itself is defiled by the vulgarity of the popular taste; that expressions are used continually, even by the upper middle class, which it is impossible to print, and which are too grossly indecent to find a place even in the dictionaries; that respectable men, having become insensible to the meaning of these expressions from hearing them used without intention, employ them constantly from habit, as they decorate their speech with oaths, whilst only purists refrain from them altogether. an aristocracy may be very narrow and intolerant, but it can only exclude from its own pale, whereas when a democracy is intolerant it excludes from all human intercourse. our own aristocracy, as a class, rejects dissenters, and artists, and men of science, but they flourish quite happily outside of it. now try to picture to yourself a great democracy having the same prejudices, who could get out of the democracy? all aristocracies are intolerant with reference, i will not say to religion, but, more accurately, with reference to the outward forms of religion, and yet this aristocratic intolerance has not prevented the development of religious liberty, because the lower classes were not strictly bound by the customs of the nobility and gentry. the unwritten law appears to be that members of an aristocracy shall conform either to what is actually the state church or to what has been the state church at some former period of the national history. although england is a protestant country, an english gentleman does not lose caste when he joins the roman catholic communion; but he loses caste when he becomes a dissenter. the influence of this caste-law in keeping the upper classes within the churches of england and of rome has no doubt been very considerable, but its influence on the nation generally has been incomparably less considerable than that of some equally decided social rule in the entire mind of a democracy. had this rule of conformity to the religion of the state been that of the english democracy, religious liberty would have been extinguished throughout the length and breadth of england. i say that the customs and convictions of a democracy are more dangerous to intellectual liberty than those of an aristocracy, because, in matters of custom, the gentry rule only within their own park-palings, whereas the people, when power resides with them, rule wherever the breezes blow. a democracy that dislikes refinement and good manners can drive men of culture into solitude, and make morbid hermits of the very persons who ought to be the lights and leaders of humanity. it can cut short the traditions of good-breeding, the traditions of polite learning, the traditions of thoughtful leisure, and reduce the various national types of character to one type, that of the _commis-voyageur_. all men of refined sentiment in modern france lament the want of elevation in the _bourgeoisie_. they read nothing, they learn nothing, they think of nothing but money and the satisfaction of their appetites. there are exceptions, of course, but the tone of the class is mean and low, and devoid of natural dignity or noble aspiration. their ignorance passes belief, and is accompanied by an absolute self-satisfaction. "la fin de la bourgeoisie," says an eminent french author, "commence parcequ'elle a les sentiments de la populace. je ne vois pas qu'elle lise d'autres journaux, qu'elle se régale d'une musique différente, qu'elle ait des plaisirs plus élevés. chez l'une comme chez l'autre, c'est le même amour de l'argent, le même respect du fait accompli, le même besoin d'idoles pour les détruire, la même haine de toute supériorité, le même esprit de dénigrement, la même crasse ignorance!" m. renan also complains that during the second empire the country sank deeper and deeper into vulgarity, forgetting its past history and its noble enthusiasms. "talk to the peasant, to the socialist of the international, of france, of her past history, of her genius, he will not understand you. military honor seems madness to him; the taste for great things, the glory of the mind, are vain dreams; money spent for art and science is money thrown away foolishly. such is the provincial spirit." and if this is the provincial spirit, what is the spirit of the metropolitan democracy? is it not clearly known to us by its acts? it had the opportunity, under the commune, of showing the world how tenderly it cared for the monuments of national history, how anxious it was for the preservation of noble architecture, of great libraries, of pictures that can never be replaced. whatever may have been our illusions about the character of the parisian democracy, we know it very accurately now. to say that it is brutal would be an inadequate use of language, for the brutes are only indifferent to history and civilization, not hostile to them. so far as it is possible for us to understand the temper of that democracy, it appears to cherish an active and intense hatred for every conceivable kind of superiority, and an instinctive eagerness to abolish the past; or, as that is not possible, since the past will always _have been_ in spite of it, then at least to efface all visible memorials and destroy the bequests of all preceding generations. if any one had affirmed, before the fall of louis napoleon, that the democratic spirit was capable of setting fire to the louvre and the national archives and libraries, of deliberately planning the destruction of all those magnificent edifices, ecclesiastical and civil, which were the glory of france and the delight of europe, we should have attributed such an assertion to the exaggerations of reactionary fears. but since the year we do not speculate about the democratic temper in its intensest expression; we have seen it at work, and we know it. we know that every beautiful building, every precious manuscript and picture, has to be protected against the noxious swarm of communards as a sea-jetty against the pholas and the teredo. compare this temper with that of a marquis of hertford, a duke of devonshire, a duc de luynes! true guardians of the means of culture, these men have given splendid hospitality to the great authors and artists of past times, by keeping their works for the future with tender and reverent care. nor has this function of high stewardship ever been more nobly exercised than it is to-day by that true knight and gentleman, sir richard wallace. think of the difference between this great-hearted guardian of priceless treasures, keeping them for the people, for civilization, and a base-spirited communard setting fire to the library of the louvre. the ultra-democratic spirit is hostile to culture, from its hatred of all delicate and romantic sentiment, from its scorn of the tenderer and finer feelings of our nature, and especially from its brutish incapacity to comprehend the needs of the higher life. if it had its way we should be compelled by public opinion to cast all the records of our ancestors, and the shields they wore in battle, into the foul waters of an eternal lethe. the intolerance of the sentiment of birth, that noble sentiment which has animated so many hearts with heroism, and urged them to deeds of honor, associated as it is with a cynical disbelief in the existence of female virtue,[ ] is one of the commonest signs of this evil spirit of detraction. it is closely connected with an ungrateful indifference towards all that our forefathers have done to make civilization possible for us. now, although the intellectual spirit studies the past critically, and does not accept history as a legend is accepted by the credulous, still the intellectual spirit has a deep respect for all that is noble in the past, and would preserve the record of it forever. can you not imagine, have you not actually seen, the heir of some ancient house who shares to the full the culture and aspirations of the age in which we live, and who nevertheless preserves, with pious reverence, the towers his forefathers built on the ancestral earth, and the oaks they planted, and the shields that were carved on the tombs where the knights and their ladies rest? be sure that a right understanding of the present is compatible with a right and reverent understanding of the past, and that, although we may closely question history and tradition, no longer with childlike faith, still the spirit of true culture would never efface their vestiges. it was not michelet, not renan, not hugo, who set fire to the palace of justice and imperilled the sainte-chapelle. and yet, notwithstanding all these vices and excesses of the democratic spirit, notwithstanding the meanness of the middle classes and the violence of the mob, there is one all-powerful reason why our best hopes for the liberal culture of the intellect are centred in the democratic idea. the reason is, that aristocracies think too much of persons and positions to weigh facts and opinions justly. in an aristocratic society it is thought unbecoming to state your views in their full force in the presence of any social superior. if you state them at all you must soften them to suit the occasion, or you will be a sinner against good-breeding. observe how timid and acquiescent the ordinary englishman becomes in the presence of a lord. no right-minded person likes to be thought impudent, and where the tone of society refers everything to position, you are considered impudent when you forget your station. but what has my station to do with the truths the intellect perceives, that lie entirely outside of me? from the intellectual point of view, it is a necessary virtue to forget your station, to forget yourself entirely, and to think of the subject only, in a manner perfectly disinterested. anonymous journalism was a device to escape from that continual reference to the rank and fortune of the speaker which is an inveterate habit in all aristocratic communities. a young man without title or estate knows that he would not be listened to in the presence of his social superiors, so he holds his tongue in society and relieves himself by an article in the _times_. the anonymous newspapers and reviews are a necessity in an aristocratic community, for they are the only means of attracting attention to facts and opinions without attracting it to yourself, the only way of escaping the personal question, "who and what are you, that you venture to speak so plainly, and where is your stake in the country?" the democratic idea, by its theoretic equality amongst men, affords an almost complete relief from this impediment to intellectual conversation. the theory of equality is good, because it negatives the interference of rank and wealth in matters that appertain to the intellect or to the moral sense. it may even go one step farther with advantage, and ignore intellectual authority also. the perfection of the intellectual spirit is the entire forgetfulness of persons, in the application of the whole power of the mind to things, and phenomena, and ideas. not to mind whether the speaker is of noble or humble birth, rich or poor; this indeed is much, but we ought to attain a like indifference to the authority of the most splendid reputation. "every great advance in natural knowledge," says professor huxley, "has involved the absolute rejection of authority, the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of science holds his firmest convictions, not because the men he most venerates hold them, not because their verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because his experience teaches him that whenever he chooses to bring these convictions into contact with their primary source, nature--whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and to observation--nature will confirm them." footnotes: [ ] i think it right to inform the reader that there is no fiction in this letter. [ ] the association between the two is this. if you believe that you are descended from a distinguished ancestor, you are simple enough to believe in his wife's fidelity. part ix. _society and solitude._ letter i. to a lady who doubted the reality of intellectual friendships. that intellectual friendships are in their nature temporary, when there is no basis of feeling to support them--their freshness soon disappears--danger of satiety--temporary acquaintances--succession in friendships--free communication of intellectual results--friendships between ripe and immature men--rembrandt and hoogstraten--tradition transmitted through these friendships. i heartily agree with you so far as this, that intellectual relations will not sustain friendship for very long, unless there is also some basis of feeling to sustain it. and still there is a certain reality in the friendships of the intellect whilst they last, and they are remembered gratefully for their profit when in the course of nature they have ceased. we may wisely contract them, and blamelessly dissolve them when the occasion that created them has gone by. they are like business partnerships, contracted from motives of interest, and requiring integrity above all things, with mutual respect and consideration, yet not necessarily either affection or the semblance of it. since the motive of the intellectual existence is the desire to ascertain and communicate truth, a sort of positive and negative electricity immediately establishes itself between those who want to know and those who desire to communicate their knowledge; and the connection is mutually agreeable until these two desires are satisfied. when this happens, the connection naturally ceases; but the memory of it usually leaves a permanent feeling of good-will, and a permanent disposition to render services of the same order. this, in brief, is the whole philosophy of the subject; but it may be observed farther, that the purely intellectual intercourse which often goes by the name of friendship affords excellent opportunities for the formation of real friendship, since it cannot be long continued without revealing much of the whole nature of the associates. we do not easily exhaust the mind of another, but we easily exhaust what is accessible to us in his mind; and when we have done this, the first benefit of intercourse is at an end. then comes a feeling of dulness and disappointment, which is full of the bitterest discouragement to the inexperienced. in maturer life we are so well prepared for this that it discourages us no longer. we know beforehand that the freshness of the mind that was new to us will rapidly wear away, that we shall soon assimilate the fragment of it which is all that ever can be made our own, so we enjoy the freshness whilst it lasts, and are even careful of it as a fruiterer is of the bloom upon his grapes and plums. it may seem a hard and worldly thing to say, but it appears to me that a wise man might limit his intercourse with others before there was any danger of satiety, as it is wisdom in eating to rise from table with an appetite. certainly, if the friends of our intellect live near enough for us to anticipate no permanent separation by mere distance, if we may expect to meet them frequently, to have many opportunities for a more thorough and searching exploration of their minds, it is a wise policy not to exhaust them all at once. with the chance acquaintances we make in travelling, the case is altogether different; and this is, no doubt, the reason why men are so astonishingly communicative when they never expect to see each other any more. you feel an intense curiosity about some temporary companion; you make many guesses about him; and to induce him to tell you as much as possible in the short time you are likely to be together, you win his confidence by a frankness that would perhaps considerably surprise your nearest neighbors and relations. this is due to the shortness of the opportunity; but with people who live in the same place, you will proceed much more deliberately. whoever would remain regularly provided with intellectual friends, ought to arrange a succession of friendships, as gardeners do with peas and strawberries, so that, whilst some are fully ripe, others should be ripening to replace them. this doctrine sounds like blasphemy against friendship; but it is not intended to apply to the sacred friendship of the heart, which ought to be permanent like marriage, only to the friendship of the head, which is of the utmost utility to culture, yet in its nature temporary. i know a distinguished englishman who is quite remarkable for the talent with which he arranges his intellectual friendships, so as never to be dependent on any one, but always sure of the intercourse he needs, both now and in the future. he will never be isolated, never without some fresh and living interest in humanity. it may seem to you that there is a lamentable want of faith in this; and i grant at once that a system of this kind does presuppose the extinction of the boyish belief in the permanence of human relations; still, it indicates a large-minded confidence in the value of human intercourse, an enjoyment of the present, a hope for the future, and a right appreciation of the past. nothing is more beautiful in the intellectual life than the willingness of all cultivated people--unless they happen to be accidentally soured by circumstances that have made them wretched--to communicate to others the results of all their toil. it is true that they apparently lose nothing by the process, and that a rich man who gives some portion of his material wealth exercises a greater self-denial; still, when you consider that men of culture, in teaching others, abandon something of their relative superiority, and often voluntarily incur the sacrifice of what is most precious to them, namely, their time, i think you will admit that their readiness in this kind of generosity is one of the finest characteristics of highly-developed humanity. of all intellectual friendships, none are so beautiful as those which subsist between old and ripe men and their younger brethren in science, or literature, or art. it is by these private friendships, even more than by public performance, that the tradition of sound thinking and great doing is perpetuated from age to age. hoogstraten, who was a pupil of rembrandt, asked him many questions, which the great master answered thus:--"try to put well in practice what you already know; in so doing you will, in good time, discover the hidden things which you now inquire about." that answer of rembrandt's is typical of the maturest teaching. how truly friendly it is; how full of encouragement; how kind in its admission that the younger artist _did_ already know something worth putting into practice; and yet, at the same time, how judicious in its reserve! few of us have been so exceptionally unfortunate as not to find, in our own age, some experienced friend who has helped us by precious counsel, never to be forgotten. we cannot render it in kind; but perhaps in the fulness of time it may become our noblest duty to aid another as we have ourselves been aided, and to transmit to him an invaluable treasure, the tradition of the intellectual life. letter ii. to a young gentleman who lived much in fashionable society. certain dangers to the intellectual life--difficult to resist the influences of society--gilding--fashionable education--affectations of knowledge--not easy to ascertain what people really know--value of real knowledge diminished--some good effects of affectations--their bad effect on workers--skill in amusements. the kind of life which you have been leading for the last three or four years will always be valuable to you as a past experience, but if the intellectual ambition you confess to me is quite serious, i would venture to suggest that there are certain dangers in the continuation of your present existence if altogether uninterrupted. pray do not suspect me of any narrow prejudice against human intercourse, or of any wish to make a hermit of you before your time, but believe that the few observations i have to make are grounded simply on the desire that your career should be entirely satisfactory to your own maturer judgment, when you will look back upon it after many years. an intellectual man may go into general society quite safely if only he can resist its influence upon his serious work; but such resistance is difficult in maturity and impossible in youth. the sort of influence most to be dreaded is this. society is, and must be, based upon appearances, and not upon the deepest realities. it requires some degree of reality to produce the appearance, but not a substantial reality. gilding is the perfect type of what society requires. a certain quantity of gold is necessary for the work of the gilder, but a very small quantity, and skill in applying the metal so as to cover a large surface, is of greater consequence than the weight of the metal itself. the mind of a fashionable person is a carefully gilded mind. consider fashionable education. society imperatively requires an outside knowledge of many things; not permitting the frank confession of ignorance, whilst it is yet satisfied with a degree of knowledge differing only from avowed ignorance in permitting you to be less sincere. all young ladies, whether gifted by nature with any musical talent or not, are compelled to say that they have learned to play upon the piano; all young gentlemen are compelled to affect to know latin. in the same way the public opinion of society compels its members to pretend to know and appreciate the masterpieces of literature and art. there is, in truth, so much compulsion of this kind that it is not easy to ascertain what people do really know and care about until they admit you into their confidence. the inevitable effect of these affectations is to diminish the value, in society, of genuine knowledge and accomplishment of all kinds. i know a man who is a latin scholar; he is one of the few moderns who have really learned latin; but in fashionable society this brings him no distinction, because we are all supposed to know latin, and the true scholar, when he appears, cannot be distinguished from the multitude of fashionable pretenders. i know another man who can draw; there are not many men, even amongst artists, who can draw soundly; yet in fashionable society he does not get the serious sort of respect which he deserves, because fashionable people believe that drawing is an accomplishment generally attainable by young ladies and communicable by governesses. i have no wish to insinuate that society is wrong, in requiring a certain pretence to education in various subjects, and a certain affectation of interest in masterpieces, for these pretences and affectations do serve to deliver it from the darkness of a quite absolute ignorance. a society of fashionable people who think it necessary to be able to talk superficially about the labors of men really belonging to the intellectual class, is always sure to be much better informed than a society such as that of the french peasantry, for example, where nobody is expected to know anything. it is well for society itself that it should profess a deep respect for classical learning, for the great modern poets and painters, for scientific discoverers, even though the majority of its members do not seriously care about them. the pretension itself requires a certain degree of knowledge, as gilding requires a certain quantity of gold. the evil effects of these affectations may be summed up in a sentence. they diminish the apparent value of the realities which they imitate, and they tend to weaken our enthusiasm for those great realities, and our ardor in the pursuit of them. the impression which fashionable society produces upon a student who has strength enough to resist it, is a painful sense of isolation in his earnest work. if he goes back to the work with courage undiminished, he still clearly realizes--what it would be better for him not to realize quite so clearly--the uselessness of going beyond fashionable standards, if he aims at social success. and there is still another thing to be said which concerns you just now very particularly. whoever leads the intellectual life in earnest is sure on some points to fail in strict obedience to the exigencies of fashionable life, so that, if fashionable successes are still dear to him, he will be constantly tempted to make some such reflections as the following:--"here am i, giving years and years of labor to a pursuit which brings no external reward, when half as much work would keep me abreast of the society i live with, in everything it really cares about. i know quite well all that my learning is costing me. other men outshine me easily in social pleasures and accomplishments. my skill at billiards and on the moors is evidently declining, and i cannot ride or drive so well as fellows who do very little else. in fact i am becoming an old muff, and all i have to show on the other side is a degree of scholarship which only six men in europe can appreciate, and a speciality in natural science in which my little discoveries are sure to be either anticipated or left behind." the truth is, that to succeed well in fashionable society the higher intellectual attainments are not so useful as distinguished skill in those amusements which are the real business of the fashionable world. the three things which tell best in your favor amongst young gentlemen are to be an excellent shot, to ride well to hounds, and to play billiards with great skill. i wish to say nothing against any of these accomplishments, having an especially hearty admiration and respect for all good horsemen, and considering the game of billiards the most perfectly beautiful of games; still, the fact remains that to do these things as well as some young gentlemen do them, we must devote the time which they devote, and if we regularly give nine hours a day to graver occupations, pray, how and where are we to find it? letter iii. to a young gentleman who lived much in fashionable society. some exceptional men may live alternately in different worlds--instances--differences between the fashionable and the intellectual spirit--men sometimes made unfashionable by special natural gifts--sometimes by trifling external circumstances--anecdote of ampère--he did not shine in society--his wife's anxieties about his material wants--apparent contrast between ampère and oliver goldsmith. you ask me why there should be any fundamental incompatibility between the fashionable and the intellectual lives. it seems to you that the two might possibly be reconciled, and you mention instances of men who attained intellectual distinction without deserting the fashionable world. yes, there _have_ been a few examples of men endowed with that overflow of energy which permits the most opposite pursuits, and enables its possessors to live, apparently, in two worlds between which there is not any natural affinity. a famous french novelist once took the trouble to elaborate the portrait of a lady who passed one half of her time in virtue and churches, whilst she employed the other half in the wildest adventures. in real life i may allude to a distinguished english engraver, who spent a fortnight over his plate and a fortnight in some fashionable watering-place, alternately, and who found this distribution of his time not unfavorable to the elasticity of his mind. many hard-working londoners, who fairly deserve to be considered intellectual men, pass their days in professional labor and their evenings in fashionable society. but in all instances of this kind the professional work is serious enough, and regular enough, to give a very substantial basis to the life, so that the times of recreation are kept daily subordinate by the very necessity of circumstances. if you had a profession, and were obliged to follow it in earnest six or eight hours a day, the more society amused you the better. the danger in your case is that your whole existence may take a fashionable tone. the _esprit_ or tone of fashion differs from the intellectual tone in ways which i will attempt to define. fashion is nothing more than the temporary custom of rich and idle people who make it their principal business to study the external elegance of life. this custom incessantly changes. if your habits of mind and life change with it you are a fashionable person, but if your habits of mind and life either remain permanently fixed or follow some law of your own individual nature, then you are outside of fashion. the intellectual spirit is remarkable for its independence of custom, and therefore on many occasions it will clash with the fashionable spirit. it does so most frequently in the choice of pursuits, and in the proportionate importance which the individual student will (in his own case) assign to his pursuits. the regulations of fashionable life have fixed, at the least temporarily, the degree of time and attention which a fashionable person may devote to this thing or that. the intellectual spirit ignores these regulations, and devotes its possessor, or more accurately its _possessed_, to the intellectual speciality for which he has most aptitude, often leaving him ignorant of what fashion has decided to be essential. after living the intellectual life for several years he will know too much of one thing and too little of some other things to be in conformity with the fashionable ideal. for example, the fashionable ideal of a gentleman requires classical scholarship, but it is so difficult for artists and men of science to be classical scholars also that in this respect they are likely to fall short. i knew a man who became unfashionable because he had a genius for mechanics. he was always about steam-engines, and, though a gentleman by birth, associated from choice with men who understood the science that chiefly interested him, of which all fashionable people were so profoundly ignorant that he habitually kept out of their way. he, on his part, neglected scholarship and literature and all that "artistry of life," as mr. robert lytton calls it, in which fashionable society excels. men are frequently driven into unfashionable existence by the very force and vigor of their own intellectual gifts, and sometimes by external circumstances, apparently most trifling, yet of infinite influence on human destiny. there is a good instance of this in a letter from ampère to his young wife, that "julie" who was lost to him so soon. "i went to dine yesterday at madame beauregard's with hands blackened by a harmless drug which stains the skin for three or four days. she declared that it looked like manure, and left the table, saying that she would dine when i was at a distance. i promised not to return there before my hands were white. of course i shall never enter the house again." here we have an instance of a man of science who has temporarily disqualified himself for polite society by an experiment in the pursuit of knowledge. what do you think of the vulgarity of madame beauregard? to me it appears the perfect type of that preoccupation about appearances which blinds the genteel vulgar to the true nobility of life. were not ampère's stained hands nobler than many white ones? it is not necessary for every intellectual worker to blacken his fingers with chemicals, but a kind of rust very frequently comes over him which ought to be as readily forgiven, yet rarely is forgiven. "in his relations with the world," writes the biographer of ampère, "the authority of superiority disappeared. to this the course of years brought no alternative. ampère become celebrated, laden with honorable distinctions, the great ampère! outside the speculations of the intellect, was hesitating and timid again, disquieted and troubled, and more disposed to accord his confidence to others than to himself." intellectual pursuits did not qualify ampère, they do not qualify any one, for success in fashionable society. to succeed in the world you ought to be _of_ the world, so as to share the things which interest it without too wide a deviation from the prevalent current of your thoughts. its passing interests, its temporary customs, its transient phases of sentiment and opinion, ought to be for the moment your own interests, your own feelings and opinions. a mind absorbed as ampère's was in the contemplation and elucidation of the unchangeable laws of nature, is too much fixed upon the permanent to adapt itself naturally to these ever-varying estimates. he did not easily speak the world's lighter language, he could not move with its mobility. such men forget even what they eat and what they put on; ampère's young wife was in constant anxiety, whilst the pair were separated by the severity of their fate, as to the sufficiency of his diet and the decency of his appearance. one day she writes to him to mind not to go out in his shabby old coat, and in the same letter she entreats him to purchase a bottle of wine, so that when he took no milk or broth he would find it, and when it was all drunk she tells him to buy another bottle. afterwards she asks him whether he makes a good fire, and if he has any chairs in his room. in another letter she inquires if his bed is comfortable, and in another she tells him to mind about his acids, for he has burnt holes in his blue stockings. again, she begs him to try to have a passably decent appearance, because that will give pleasure to his poor wife. he answers, to tranquillize her, that he does not burn his things now, and that he makes chemical experiments only in his old breeches with his gray coat and his waistcoat of greenish velvet. but one day he is forced to confess that she must send him new trousers if he is to appear before mm. delambre and villars. he "does not know what to do," his best breeches still smell of turpentine, and, having wished to put on trousers to go to the society of emulation, he saw the hole which barrat fancied he had mended become bigger than ever, so that it showed the piece of different cloth which he had sown under it. he adds that his wife will be afraid that he will spoil his "_beau pantalon_," but he promises to send it back to her as clean as when he received it. how different is all this from that watchful care about externals which marks the man of fashion! ampère was quite a young man then, still almost a bridegroom, yet he is already so absorbed in the intellectual life as to forget appearances utterly, except when julie, with feminine watchfulness, writes to recall them to his mind. i am not defending or advocating this carelessness. it is better to be neat and tidy than to go in holes and patches; but i desire to insist upon the radical difference between the fashionable spirit and the intellectual spirit. and this difference, which shows itself in these external things, is not less evident in the clothing or preparation of the mind. ampère's intellect, great and noble as it was, could scarcely be considered more suitable for _le grand monde_ than the breeches that smelt of turpentine, or the trousers made ragged by aquafortis. a splendid contrast, as to tailoring, was our own dear oliver goldsmith, who displayed himself in those wonderful velvet coats and satin small-clothes from mr. filby's, which are more famous than the finest garments ever worn by prince or peer. who does not remember that bloom-colored coat which the ablest painters have studiously immortalized, made by john filby, at the harrow, in water lane (best advertised of tailors!), and that charming blue velvet suit, which mr. filby was never paid for? surely a poet so splendid was fit for the career of fashion! no, oliver goldsmith's velvet and lace were the expression of a deep and painful sense of personal unfitness. they were the fine frame which is intended to pass off an awkward and imperfect picture. there was a quieter dignity in johnson's threadbare sleeves. johnson, the most influential though not the most elegant intellect of his time, is grander in his neglect of fashion than goldsmith in his ruinous subservience. and if it were permitted to me to speak of two or three great geniuses who adorn the age in which we ourselves are living, i might add that they seem to follow the example of the author of "rasselas" rather than that of mr. filby's illustrious customer. they remind me of a good old squire who, from a fine sentiment of duty, permitted the village artist to do his worst upon him, and incurred thereby this withering observation from his metropolitan tailor: "you are _covered_, sir, but you are _not_ dressed!" letter iv. to a young gentleman who lived much in fashionable society. test of professions--mobility of fashionable taste--practical service of an external deference to culture--incompatibility between fashionable and intellectual lives--what each has to offer. your polite, almost diplomatic answer to my letter about fashionable society may be not unfairly concentrated into some such paragraph as the following:-- "what grounds have i for concluding that the professed tastes and opinions of society are in any degree insincere? may not society be quite sincere in the preferences which it professes, and are not the preferences themselves almost always creditable to the good taste and really advanced culture of the society which i suspect of a certain degree of affectation?" this is the sense of your letter, and in reply to it i give you a simple but sure test. is the professed opinion carried out in practice, when there are fair opportunities for practice? let us go so far as to examine a particular instance. your friends profess to appreciate classical literature. do they read it? or, on the other hand, do they confine themselves to believing that it is a good thing for other people to read it? when i was a schoolboy, people told me that the classical authors of antiquity were eminently useful, and indeed absolutely necessary to the culture of the human mind, but i perceived that they did not read them. so i have heard many people express great respect for art and science, only they did not go so far as to master any department of art or science. if you will apply this test to the professions of what is especially called fashionable society it is probable that you will arrive at the conclusions of the minority, which i have endeavored to express. you will find that the fashionable world remains very contentedly outside the true working intellectual life, and does not really share either its labors or its aspirations. another kind of evidence, which tells in the same direction, is the mobility of fashionable taste. at one time some studies are fashionable, at another time these are neglected and others have taken their place. you will not find this fickleness in the true intellectual world, which steadily pursues all its various studies, and keeps them well abreast, century after century. if i insist upon this distinction with reference to you, do not accuse me of hostility even to fashion itself. fashion is one of the great divine institutions of human society, and the best philosophy rebels against none of the authorities that be, but studies and endeavors to explain them. the external deference which society yields to culture is practically of great service, although (i repeat the epithet) it is _external_. the sort of good effect is in the intellectual sphere what the good effect of a general religious profession is in the moral sphere. all fashionable society goes to church. fashionable religion differs from the religion of peter and paul as fashionable science differs from that of humboldt and arago, yet, notwithstanding this difference, the profession of religion is useful to society as some restraint, at least during one day out of seven, upon its inveterate tendency to live exclusively for its amusement. and if any soul happens to come into existence in the fashionable world which has the genuine religious nature, that nature has a chance of developing itself, and of finding ready to hand certain customs which are favorable to its well-being. so it is, though in quite a different direction, with the esteem which society professes for intellectual pursuits. it is an esteem in great part merely nominal, as fashionable christianity is nominal, and still it helps and favors the early development of the genuine faculty where it exists. it is certainly a great help to us that fashionable society, which has such a tremendous, such an almost irresistible power for good or evil, does not openly discourage our pursuits, but on the contrary regards them with great external deference and respect. the recognition which society has given to artists has been wanting in frankness and in promptitude, though even in this case much may be said to excuse a sort of hesitation rather than refusal which was attributable to the strangeness and novelty of the artistic caste in england; but society has far more than a generation professed a respect for literature and erudition which has helped those two branches of culture more effectually than great subsidies of money. the exact truth seems to be that society is sincere in approving our devotion to these pursuits, but is not yet sufficiently interested in them to appreciate them otherwise than from the outside, just as a father and mother applaud their boys for reading thucydides, yet do not read him themselves, either in the original or in a translation. all that i care to insist upon is that there is a degree of incompatibility between the fashionable and the intellectual lives which makes it necessary, at a certain time, to choose one or the other as our own. there is no hostility, there need not be any uncharitable feeling on one side or the other, but there must be a resolute choice between the two. if you decide for the intellectual life, you will incur a definite loss to set against your gain. your existence may have calmer and profounder satisfactions, but it will be less amusing, and even in an appreciable degree less _human_; less in harmony, i mean, with the common instincts and feelings of humanity. for the fashionable world, although decorated by habits of expense, has enjoyment for its object, and arrives at enjoyment by those methods which the experience of generations has proved to be most efficacious. variety of amusement, frequent change of scenery and society, healthy exercise, pleasant occupation of the mind without fatigue--these things do indeed make existence agreeable to human nature, and the science of living agreeably is better understood in the fashionable society of england than by laborious students and _savans_. the life led by that society is the true heaven of the natural man, who likes to have frequent feasts and a hearty appetite, who enjoys the varying spectacle of wealth, and splendor, and pleasure, who loves to watch, from the olympus of his personal ease, the curious results of labor in which he takes no part, the interesting ingenuity of the toiling world below. in exchange for these varied pleasures of the spectator the intellectual life can offer you but one satisfaction, for all its promises are reducible simply to this, that you shall come at last, after infinite labor, into contact with some great _reality_--that you shall know, and do, in such sort that you will feel yourself on firm ground and be recognized--probably not much applauded, but yet recognized--as a fellow-laborer by other knowers and doers. before you come to this, most of your present accomplishments will be abandoned by yourself as unsatisfactory and insufficient, but one or two of them will be turned to better account, and will give you after many years a tranquil self-respect, and, what is still rarer and better, a very deep and earnest reverence for the greatness which is above you. severed from the vanities of the illusory, you will live with the realities of knowledge, as one who has quitted the painted scenery of the theatre to listen by the eternal ocean or gaze at the granite hills. letter v. to a young gentleman who kept entirely out of company. that society which is frivolous in the mass contains individuals who are not frivolous--a piece of the author's early experience--those who keep out of society miss opportunities--people talk about what they have in common--that we ought to be tolerant of dulness--the loss to society if superior men all held aloof--utility of the gifted in general society--they ought not to submit to expulsion. i willingly concede all that you say against fashionable society as a whole. it is, as you say, frivolous, bent on amusement, incapable of attention sufficiently prolonged to grasp any serious subject, and liable both to confusion and inaccuracy in the ideas which it hastily forms or easily receives. you do right, assuredly, not to let it waste your most valuable hours, but i believe also that you do wrong in keeping out of it altogether. the society which seems so frivolous in masses contains individual members who, if you knew them better, would be able and willing to render you the most efficient intellectual help, and you miss this help by restricting yourself exclusively to books. nothing can replace the conversation of living men and women; not even the richest literature can replace it. many years ago i was thrown by accident amongst a certain society of englishmen who, when they were all together, never talked about anything worth talking about. their general conversations were absolutely empty and null, and i concluded, as young men so easily conclude, that those twenty or thirty gentlemen had not half a dozen ideas amongst them. a little reflection might have reminded me that my own talk was no better than theirs, and consequently that there might be others in the company who also knew more and thought more than they expressed. i found out, by accident, after awhile, that some of these men had more than common culture in various directions; one or two had travelled far, and brought home the results of much observation; one or two had read largely, and with profit; more than one had studied a science; five or six had seen a great deal of the world. it was a youthful mistake to conclude that, because their general conversation was very dull, the men were dull individually. the general conversations of english society _are_ dull; it is a national characteristic. but the men themselves are individually often very well informed, and quite capable of imparting their information to a single interested listener. the art is to be that listener. englishmen have the greatest dread of producing themselves in the semi-publicity of a general conversation, because they fear that their special topics may not be cared for by some of the persons present; but if you can get one of them into a quiet corner by himself, and humor his shyness with sufficient delicacy and tact, he will disburden his mind at last, and experience a relief in so doing. by keeping out of society altogether you miss these precious opportunities. the wise course is to mix as much with the world as may be possible without withdrawing too much time from your serious studies, but not to expect anything valuable from the general talk, which is nothing but a neutral medium in which intelligences float and move as yachts do in sea-water, and for which they ought not to be held individually responsible. the talk of society answers its purpose if it simply permits many different people to come together without clashing, and the purpose of its conventions is the avoidance of collision. in england the small talk is heavy, like water; in france it is light as air; in both countries it is a medium and no more. society talks, by preference, about amusements; it does so because when people meet for recreation they wish to relieve their minds from serious cares, and also for the practical reason that society must talk about what its members have in common, and their amusements are more in common than their work. as m. thiers recommended the republican form of government in france on the ground that it was the form which divided his countrymen least, so a polite and highly civilized society chooses for the subject of general conversation the topic which is least likely to separate the different people who are present. it almost always happens that the best topic having this recommendation is some species of amusement; since amusements are easily learnt outside the business of life, and we are all initiated into them in youth. for these reasons i think that we ought to be extremely tolerant of the dulness or frivolity which may seem to prevail in any numerous company, and not to conclude too hastily that the members of it are in any degree more dull or frivolous than ourselves. it is unfortunate, certainly, that the art of general conversation is not so successfully cultivated as it might be, and there are reasons for believing that our posterity will surpass us in this respect, because as culture increases the spirit of toleration increases with it, so that the great questions of politics and religion, in which all are interested, may be discussed more safely than they could be at the present day, by persons of different ways of thinking. but even the sort of general conversation we have now, poor as it may seem, still sufficiently serves as a medium for human intercourse, and permits us to meet on a common ground where we may select at leisure the agreeable or instructive friends that our higher intellect needs, and without whom the intellectual life is one of the ghastliest of solitudes. and now permit me to add a few observations on another aspect of this subject, which is not without its importance. let us suppose that every one of rather more than ordinary capacity and culture were to act as you yourself are acting, and withdraw entirely from general society. let us leave out of consideration for the present the loss to their private culture which would be the consequence of missing every opportunity for forming new intellectual friendships. let us consider, this time, what would be the consequence to society itself. if all the cultivated men were withdrawn from it, the general tone of society would inevitably descend much lower even than it is at present; it would sink so low that the whole national intellect would undergo a sure and inevitable deterioration. it is plainly the duty of men situated as you are, who have been endowed by nature with superior faculties, and who have enlarged them by the acquisition of knowledge, to preserve society by their presence from an evil so surely prolific of bad consequences. if society is less narrow, and selfish, and intolerant, and apathetic than it used to be, it is because they who are the salt of the earth have not disdained to mix with its grosser and earthier elements. all the improvement in public sentiment, and the advancement in general knowledge which have marked the course of recent generations, are to be attributed to the wholesome influence of men who could think and feel, and who steadily exercised, often quite obscurely, yet not the less usefully in their time and place, the subtle but powerful attraction of the greater mind over the less. instead of complaining that people are ignorant and frivolous, we ought to go amongst them and lead them to the higher life. "i know not how it is," said one in a dull circle to a more gifted friend who entered it occasionally, "when we are left to ourselves we are all lamentably stupid, but whenever you are kind enough to come amongst us we all talk very much better, and of things that are well worth talking about." the gifted man is always welcome, if only he will stoop to conquer, and forget himself to give light and heat to others. the low philistinism of many a provincial town is due mainly to the shy reserve of the one or two superior men who fancy that they cannot amalgamate with the common intellect of the place. not only would i advocate a little patient condescension, but even something of the sturdier temper which will not be driven out. are the philistines to have all the talk to themselves forever; are they to rehearse their stupid old platitudes without the least fear of contradiction? how long, o lord? how long? let us resolve that even in general society they shall not eternally have things their own way. somebody ought to have the courage to enlighten them even at their own tables, and in the protecting presence of their admiring wives and daughters. letter vi. to a friend who kindly warned the author of the bad effects of solitude. _væ solis_--society and solitude alike necessary--the use of each--in solitude we know ourselves--montaigne as a book-buyer--compensations of solitude--description of one who loved and sought it--how men are driven into solitude--cultivated people in the provinces--use of solitude as a protection for rare and delicate natures--shelley's dislike to general society--wordsworth and turner--sir isaac newton's repugnance to society--auguste comte--his systematic isolation and unshakable firmness of purpose--milton and bunyan--the solitude which is really injurious--painters and authors--an ideal division of life. you cry to me _væ solis!_ and the cry seems not the less loud and stirring that it comes in the folds of a letter. just at first it quite startled and alarmed me, and made me strangely dissatisfied with my life and work; but farther reflection has been gradually reconciling me ever since, and now i feel cheerful again, and in a humor to answer you. _woe unto him that is alone!_ this has been often said, but the studious recluse may answer, _woe unto him that is never alone and cannot bear to be alone!_ we need society, and we need solitude also, as we need summer and winter, day and night, exercise and rest. i thank heaven for a thousand pleasant and profitable conversations with acquaintances and friends; i thank heaven also, and not less gratefully, for thousands of sweet hours that have passed in solitary thought or labor, under the silent stars. society is necessary to give us our share and place in the collective life of humanity, but solitude is necessary to the maintenance of the individual life. society is to the individual what travel and commerce are to a nation; whilst solitude represents the home life of the nation, during which it develops its especial originality and genius. the life of the perfect hermit, and that of those persons who feel themselves nothing individually, and have no existence but what they receive from others, are alike imperfect lives. the perfect life is like that of a ship of war which has its own place in the fleet and can share in its strength and discipline, but can also go forth alone in the solitude of the infinite sea. we ought to belong to society, to have our place in it, and yet to be capable of a complete individual existence outside of it. which of the two is the grander, the ship in the disciplined fleet, arranged in order of battle, or the ship alone in the tempest, a thousand miles from land? the truest grandeur of the ship is neither in one nor the other, but in the capacity for both. what would that captain merit who either had not seamanship enough to work under the eye of the admiral, or else had not sufficient knowledge of navigation to be trusted out of the range of signals? i value society for the abundance of ideas that it brings before us, like carriages in a frequented street; but i value solitude for sincerity and peace, and for the better understanding of the thoughts that are truly ours. only in solitude do we learn our inmost nature and its needs. he who has lived for some great space of existence apart from the tumult of the world, has discovered the vanity of the things for which he has no natural aptitude or gift--their _relative_ vanity, i mean, their uselessness to himself, personally; and at the same time he has learned what is truly precious and good for him. surely this is knowledge of inestimable value to a man: surely it is a great thing for any one in the bewildering confusion of distracting toils and pleasures to have found out the labor that he is most fit for and the pleasures that satisfy him best. society so encourages us in affectations that it scarcely leaves us a chance of knowing our own minds; but in solitude this knowledge comes of itself, and delivers us from innumerable vanities. montaigne tells us that at one time he bought books from ostentation, but that afterwards he bought only such books as he wanted for his private reading. in the first of these conditions of mind we may observe the influence of society; in the second the effect of solitude. the man of the world does not consult his own intellectual needs, but considers the eyes of his visitors; the solitary student takes his literature as a lonely traveller takes food when he is hungry, without reference to the ordered courses of public hospitality. it is a traditional habit of mankind to see only the disadvantages of solitude, without considering its compensations; but there are great compensations, some of the greatest being negative. the lonely man is lord of his own hours and of his own purse; his days are long and unbroken, he escapes from every form of ostentation, and may live quite simply and sincerely in great calm breadths of leisure. i knew one who passed his summers in the heart of a vast forest, in a common thatched cottage with furniture of common deal, and for this retreat he quitted very gladly a rich fine house in the city. he wore nothing but old clothes, read only a few old books, without the least regard to the opinions of the learned, and did not take in a newspaper. on the wall of his habitation he inscribed with a piece of charcoal a quotation from de sénancour to this effect: "in the world a man lives in his own age; in solitude, in all the ages." i observed in him the effects of a lonely life, and he greatly aided my observations by frankly communicating his experiences. that solitude had become inexpressibly dear to him, but he admitted one evil consequence of it, which was an increasing unfitness for ordinary society, though he cherished a few tried friendships, and was grateful to those who loved him and could enter into his humor. he had acquired a horror of towns and crowds, not from nervousness, but because he felt imprisoned and impeded in his thinking, which needed the depths of the forest, the venerable trees, the communication with primæval nature, from which he drew a mysterious yet necessary nourishment for the peculiar activity of his mind. i found that his case answered very exactly to the sentence he quoted from de sénancour; he lived less in his own age than others do, but he had a fine compensation in a strangely vivid understanding of other ages. like de sénancour, he had a strong sense of the transitoriness of what is transitory, and a passionate preference for all that the human mind conceives to be relatively or absolutely permanent. this trait was very observable in his talk about the peoples of antiquity, and in the delight he took in dwelling rather upon everything which they had in common with ourselves than on those differences which are more obvious to the modern spirit. his temper was grave and earnest, but unfailingly cheerful, and entirely free from any tendency to bitterness. the habits of his life would have been most unfavorable to the development of a man of business, of a statesman, of a leader in practical enterprise, but they were certainly not unfavorable to the growth of a tranquil and comprehensive intellect, capable of "just judgment and high-hearted patriotism." he had not the spirit of the newspapers, he did not live intensely in the present, but he had the spirit which has animated great poets, and saints, and sages, and far-seeing teachers of humanity. not in vain had he lived alone with nature, not in vain had he watched in solemn twilights and witnessed many a dawn. there is, there _is_ a strength that comes to us in solitude from that shadowy, awful presence that frivolous crowds repel! solitude may be and is sometimes deliberately accepted or chosen, but far more frequently men are driven into it by nature and by fate. they go into solitude to escape the sense of isolation which is always most intolerable when there are many voices round us in loud dissonance with our sincerest thought. it is a great error to encourage in young people the love of noble culture in the hope that it may lead them more into what is called good society. high culture always isolates, always drives men out of their class and makes it more difficult for them to share naturally and easily the common class-life around them. they seek the few companions who can understand them, and when these are not to be had within any traversable distance, they sit and work alone. very possibly too, in some instances, a superior culture may compel the possessor of it to hold opinions too far in advance of the opinions prevalent around him to be patiently listened to or tolerated, and then he must either disguise them, which is always highly distasteful to a man of honor, or else submit to be treated as an enemy to human welfare. cultivated people who live in london (their true home) need never condemn themselves to solitude from this cause, but in the provinces there are many places where it is not easy for them to live sociably without a degree of reserve that is more wearisome than solitude itself. and however much pains you take to keep your culture well in the background, it always makes you rather an object of suspicion to people who have no culture. they perceive that you are reserved, they know that very much of what passes in your mind is a mystery to them, and this feeling makes them uneasy in your presence, even afraid of you, and not indisposed to find a compensation for this uncomfortable feeling in sarcasms behind your back. unless you are gifted with a truly extraordinary power of conciliating goodwill, you are not likely to get on happily, for long together, with people who feel themselves your inferiors. the very utmost skill and caution will hardly avail to hide all your modes of thought. something of your higher philosophy will escape in an unguarded moment, and give offence because it will seem foolish or incomprehensible to your audience. there is no safety for you but in a timely withdrawal, either to a society that is prepared to understand you, or else to a solitude where your intellectual superiorities will neither be a cause of irritation to others nor of vexation to yourself. like all our instincts, the instinct of solitude has its especial purpose, which appears to be the protection of rare and delicate natures from the commonplace world around them. though recluses are considered by men of the world to be doomed to inevitable incompetence, the fact is that many of them have reached the highest distinction in intellectual pursuits. if shelley had not disliked general society as he did, the originality of his own living and thinking would have been less complete; the influences of mediocre people, who, of course, are always in the majority, would have silently but surely operated to the destruction of that unequalled and personal delicacy of imagination to which we owe what is inimitable in his poetry. in the last year of his life, he said to trelawny of mary, his second wife, "she can't bear solitude, nor i society--the quick coupled with the dead." here is a piteous prayer of his to be delivered from a party that he dreaded: "mary says she will have a party! there are english singers here, the sinclairs, and she will ask them, and every one she or you know. oh the horror! for pity go to mary and intercede for me! i will submit to any other species of torture than that of being bored to death by idle ladies and gentlemen." again, he writes to mary: "my greatest delight would be utterly to desert all human society. i would retire with you and our child to a solitary island in the sea; would build a boat, and shut upon my retreat the flood-gates of the world. i would read no reviews and talk with no authors. if i dared trust my imagination it would tell me that there are one or two chosen companions beside yourself whom i should desire. but to this i would not listen; where two or three are gathered together, the devil is among them." at marlow he knew little of his neighbors. "i am not wretch enough," he said, "to tolerate an acquaintance." wordsworth and turner, if less systematic in their isolation, were still solitary workers, and much of the peculiar force and originality of their performance is due to their independence of the people about them. painters are especial sufferers from the visits of talkative people who know little or nothing of the art they talk about, and yet who have quite influence enough to disturb the painter's mind by proving to him that his noblest thoughts are surest to be misunderstood. men of science, too, find solitude favorable to their peculiar work, because it permits the concentration of their powers during long periods of time. newton had a great repugnance to society, and even to notoriety--a feeling which is different, and in men of genius more rare. no one can doubt, however, that newton's great intellectual achievements were due in some measure to this peculiarity of his temper, which permitted him to ripen them in the sustained tranquillity necessary to difficult investigations. auguste comte isolated himself not only from preference but on system, and whatever may have been the defects of his remarkable mind, and the weakness of its ultimate decay, it is certain that his amazing command over vast masses of heterogeneous material would have been incompatible with any participation in the passing interests of the world. nothing in intellectual history has ever exceeded the unshakable firmness of purpose with which he dedicated his whole being to the elaboration of the positive philosophy. he sacrificed everything to it--position, time, health, and all the amusements and opportunities of society. he found that commonplace acquaintances disturbed his work and interfered with his mastery of it, so he resolutely renounced them. others have done great things in isolation that was not of their own choosing, yet none the less fruitful for them and for mankind. it was not when milton saw most of the world, but in the forced retirement of a man who had lost health and eyesight, and whose party was hopelessly defeated, that he composed the "paradise lost." it was during tedious years of imprisonment that bunyan wrote his immortal allegory. many a genius has owed his best opportunities to poverty, because poverty had happily excluded him from society, and so preserved him from time-devouring exigencies and frivolities. the solitude which is really injurious is the severance from all who are capable of understanding us. painters say that they cannot work effectively for very long together when separated from the society of artists, and that they must return to london, or paris, or rome, to avoid an oppressive feeling of discouragement which paralyzes their productive energy. authors are more fortunate, because all cultivated people are society for them; yet even authors lose strength and agility of thought when too long deprived of a genial intellectual atmosphere. in the country you meet with cultivated individuals; but we need more than this, we need those general conversations in which every speaker is worth listening to. the life most favorable to culture would have its times of open and equal intercourse with the best minds, and also its periods of retreat. my ideal would be a house in london, not far from one or two houses that are so full of light and warmth that it is a liberal education to have entered them, and a solitary tower on some island of the hebrides, with no companions but the sea-gulls and the thundering surges of the atlantic. one such island i know well, and it is before my mind's eye, clear as a picture, whilst i am writing. it stands in the very entrance of a fine salt-water loch, rising above two hundred feet out of the water and setting its granite front steep against the western ocean. when the evenings are clear you can see staffa and iona like blue clouds between you and the sunset; and on your left, close at hand, the granite hills of mull, with ulva to the right across the narrow strait. it was the dream of my youth to build a tower there, with three or four little rooms in it, and walls as strong as a lighthouse. there have been more foolish dreams, and there have been less competent teachers than the tempests that would have roused me and the calms that would have brought me peace. if any serious thought, if any noble inspiration might have been hoped for, surely it would have been there, where only the clouds and waves were transient, but the ocean before me, and the stars above, and the mountains on either hand, were emblems and evidences of eternity. note.--there is a passage in scott's novel, "the pirate," which illustrates what has been said in this letter about the necessity for concealing superior culture in the presence of less intellectual companions, and i quote it the more willingly that scott was so remarkably free from any morbid aversion to society, and so capable of taking a sincere interest in every human being. cleveland is speaking to minna:-- "i thought over my former story, and saw that seeming more brave, skilful, and enterprising than others had gained me command and respect, and that seeming more gently nurtured and more civilized than they had made them envy and hate me as a being of another species. _i bargained with myself then, that since i could not lay aside my superiority of intellect and education, i would do my best to disguise and to sink, in the rude seaman, all appearance of better feeling and better accomplishments._" a similar policy is often quite as necessary in the society of landsmen. part x. _intellectual hygienics._ letter i. to a young author whilst he was writing his first book. mr. galton's advice to young travellers--that we ought to interest ourselves in the _progress_ of a journey--the same rule applicable in intellectual things--women in the cabin of a canal boat--working hastily for temporary purposes--fevered eagerness to get work done--beginners have rarely acquired firm intellectual habits--knowing the range of our own powers--the coolness of accomplished artists--advice given by ingres--balzac's method of work--scott, horace vernet, john phillip--decided workers are deliberate workers. i read the other day, in galton's "art of travel," a little bit which concerns you and all of us, but i made the extract in my commonplace-book for your benefit rather than my own, because the truth it contains has been "borne in upon me" by my own experience, so that what mr. galton says did not give me a new conviction, but only confirmed me in an old one. he is speaking to explorers who have not done so much in that way as he has himself, and though the subject of his advice is the conduct of an exploring party (in the wilds of australia, for example) the advice itself is equally useful if taken metaphorically, and applied to the conduct of intellectual labors and explorations of all kinds. "interest yourself," says mr. galton, "chiefly in the progress of your journey, and do not look forward to its end with eagerness. it is better to think of a return to civilization, not as an end to hardship and a haven from ill, but as a thing to be regretted, and as a close to an adventurous and pleasant life. in this way, risking less, you will insensibly creep on, making connections, and learning the capabilities of the country as you advance, which will be found invaluable in the case of a hurried or a disastrous return. and thus, when some months have passed by, you will look back with surprise on the great distance travelled over; for if you average only three miles a day, at the end of the year you will have advanced , which is a very considerable exploration. the fable of the hare and the tortoise seems expressly intended for travellers over wide and unknown tracts." yes, we ought to interest ourselves chiefly in the progress of our work, and not to look forward to its end with eagerness. that eagerness of which mr. galton speaks has spoiled many a piece of work besides a geographical exploration, and it not only spoils work, but it does worse, it spoils life also. how am i to enjoy this year as i ought, if i am continually wishing it were over? a truly intellectual philosophy must begin by recognizing the fact that the intellectual paths are infinitely long, that there will always be new horizons behind the horizon that is before us, and that we must accept a gradual advance as the law of our intellectual life. it is our business to move forwards, but we ought to do so without any greater feeling of hurry than that which affects the most stationary of minds. not a bad example for us is a bargeman's wife in a canal-boat. she moves; movement is the law of her life; yet she is as tranquil in her little cabin as any goodwife on shore, brewing her tea and preparing her buttered toast without ever thinking about getting to the end of her journey. for if that voyage were ended, another would always succeed to it, and another! in striking contrast to the unhurried bargeman's wife in her cabin is an irritable frenchman in the corner of a diligence, looking at his watch every half-hour, and wishing that the dust and rattle were over, and he were in his own easy-chair at home. those who really lead the intellectual life, and have embraced it for better and for worse, are like the bargeman's wife; but those who live the life from time to time only, for some special purpose, wishing to be rid of it as soon as that purpose is accomplished, are like the sufferer in the purgatory of the diligence. is there indeed really any true intellectual life at all when every hour of labor is spoiled by a feverish eagerness to be at the end of the projected task? you cannot take a bit out of another man's life and live it, without having lived the previous years that led up to it, without having also the assured hopes for the years that lie beyond. the attempt is constantly made by amateurs of all kinds, and by men of temporary purposes, and it always fails. the amateur says when he awakes on some fine summer morning, and draws up his blind, and looks out on the dewy fields: "ah, the world of nature is beautiful to-day: what if i were to lead the life of an artist?" and after breakfast he seeks up his old box of watercolor and his blockbook, and stool, and white umbrella, and what not, and sallies forth, and fixes himself on the edge of the forest or the banks of the amber stream. the day that he passes there looks like an artist's day, yet it is not. it has not been preceded by the three or four thousand days which ought to have led up to it; it is not strong in the assured sense of present skill, in the calm knowledge that the hours will bear good fruit. so the chances are that there will be some hurry, and fretfulness, and impatience, under the shadow of that white parasol, and also that when the day is over there will be a disappointment. you cannot put an artist's day into the life of any one but an artist. our impatiences come mainly, i think, from an amateurish doubt about our own capacity, which is accompanied by a fevered eagerness to see the work done, because we are tormented both by hopes and fears so long as it is in progress. we have fears that it may not turn out as it ought to do, and we have at the same time hopes for its success. both these causes produce eagerness, and deprive us of the tranquillity which distinguishes the thorough workman, and which is necessary to thoroughness in the work itself. now please observe that i am not advising you to set aside these hopes and fears by an effort of the will; when you have them they are the inevitable result of your state of culture, and the will can no more get rid of them than it can get rid of an organic disease. when you have a limited amount of power and of culture, and are not quite clear in your own mind as to where the limits lie, it is natural on the one hand that you should fear the insufficiency of what you possess, and on the other that in more sanguine moments you should indulge in hopes which are only extravagant because your powers have not yet been accurately measured. you will alternate between fear and hope, according to the temporary predominance of saddening or cheerful ideas, but both these feelings will urge you to complete the work in hand, that you may see your own powers reflected in it, and measure them more exactly. this is the main cause of the eagerness of young authors, and the reason why they often launch work upon the sea of publicity which is sure to go immediately to the bottom, from the unworkmanlike haste with which it has been put together. but beyond this there is another cause, which is, that beginners in literature have rarely acquired firm intellectual habits, that they do not yet lead the tranquil intellectual life, so that such a piece of work as the composition of a book keeps them in an unwholesome state of excitement. when you feel this coming upon you, pray remember mr. galton's wise traveller in unknown tracts, or the bargeman's wife in the canal-boat. amongst the many advantages of experience, one of the most valuable is that we come to know the range of our own powers, and if we are wise we keep contentedly within them. this relieves us from the malady of eagerness; we know pretty accurately beforehand what our work will be when it is done, and therefore we are not in a hurry to see it accomplished. the coolness of old hands in all departments of labor is due in part to the cooling of the temperament by age, but it is due even more to the fulness of acquired experience, for we do not find middle-aged men so cool in situations where they feel themselves incompetent. the conduct of the most experienced painters in the management of their work is a good example of this masterly coolness, because we can see them painting in their studios whereas we cannot so easily see or so justly estimate the coolness of scientific or literary workmen. a painter of great experience will have, usually, several pictures at a time upon his easels, and pass an hour upon one, or an hour upon the other, simple as the state of the pigment invites him without ever being tempted to risk anything by hurrying a process. the ugly preparatory daubing which irritates the impatience of the beginner does not disturb _his_ equanimity; he has laid it with a view to the long-foreseen result, and it satisfies him temporarily as the right thing for the time being. if you know what is the right thing for the time being, and always do it, you are sure of the calm of the thorough workman. all his touches, except the very last touch on each work, are touches of preparation, leading gradually up to his result. ingres used to counsel his pupils to sketch always, to sketch upon and within the first sketch till the picture came right in the end; and this was strictly balzac's method in literature. the literary and artistic labors of these two men did not proceed so much upon the principle of travelling as upon that of cultivation. they took an idea in the rough, as a settler takes a tract from wild nature, and then they went over it repeatedly, each time pushing the cultivation of it a little farther. scott, horace vernet, john phillip, and many others, have worked rather on the principle of travelling, passing over the ground once, and leaving it, never coming back again to correct the mistakes of yesterday. both methods of work require deliberation, but the latter needs it in the supreme degree. all very decided workers, men who did not correct, have been at the same time very deliberate workers--rapid, in the sense of accomplishing much in the course of the year, or the life, but cautious and slow and observant whilst they actually labored, thinking out very carefully every sentence before they wrote it, every touch of paint before they laid it. letter ii. to a student in the first ardor of intellectual ambition. the first freshness--why should it not be preserved?--the dulness of the intellectual--fictions and false promises--ennui in work itself--dürer's engraving of melancholy--scott about dryden--byron, shelley, wordsworth--humboldt, cuvier, goethe--tennyson's "maud"--preventives of _ennui_--hard study for limited times--the _ennui_ of jaded faculties. i have been thinking about you frequently of late, and the burden or refrain of my thoughts has been "what a blessing he has in that first freshness, if only he could keep it!" but now i am beginning more hopefully to ask myself, "why should he not keep it?" it would be an experiment worth trying, so to order your intellectual life, that however stony and thorny your path might be, however difficult and arduous, it should at all events never be dull; or, to express what i mean more accurately, that you yourself should never feel the depressing influences of dulness during the years when they are most to be dreaded. i want you to live steadily and happily in your intellectual labors, even to the natural close of existence, and my best wish for you is that you may escape a long and miserable malady which brain-workers very commonly suffer from when the first dreams of youth have been disappointed--a malady in which the intellectual desires are feeble, the intellectual hopes are few; whose victim, if he has still resolution enough to learn anything, acquires without satisfaction, and, if he has courage to create, has neither pride nor pleasure in his creations. if i were to sing the praises of knowledge as they have been so often sung by louder harps than mine, i might avoid so dreary a theme. it is easy to pretend to believe that the intellectual life is always sure to be interesting and delightful, but the truth is that, either from an unwise arrangement of their work, or from mental or physical causes which we will investigate to some extent before we have done with the subject, many men whose occupations are reputed to be amongst the most interesting have suffered terribly from _ennui_, and that not during a week or two at a time, but for consecutive years and years. there is a class of books written with the praiseworthy intention of stimulating young men to intellectual labor, in which this danger of the intellectual life is systematically ignored. it is assumed in these books that the satisfactions of intellectual labor are certain; that although it may not always, or often, result in outward and material prosperity, its inward joys will never fail. promises of this kind cannot safely be made to any one. the satisfactions of intellectual riches are not more sure than the satisfactions of material riches; the feeling of dull indifference which often so mysteriously clouds the life of the rich man in the midst of the most elaborate contrivances for his pleasure and amusement, has its exact counterpart in the lives of men who are rich in the best treasures of the mind, and who have infinite intellectual resources. however brilliant your ability, however brave and persistent your industry, however vast your knowledge, there is always this dreadful possibility of _ennui_. people tell you that work is a specific against it, but many a man has worked steadily and earnestly, and suffered terribly from _ennui_ all the time that he was working, although the labor was of his own choice, the labor that he loved best, and for which nature evidently intended him. the poets, from solomon downwards, have all of them, so far as i know, given utterance in one page or another of their writings to this feeling of dreary dissatisfaction, and albert dürer, in his "melencolia," illustrated it. it is plain that the robust female figure which has exercised the ingenuity of so many commentators is not melancholy either from weakness of the body or vacancy of the mind. she is strong and she is learned; yet, though the plumes of her wings are mighty, she sits heavily and listlessly, brooding amidst the implements of suspended labor, on the shore of a waveless sea. the truth is that dürer engraved the melancholy that he himself only too intimately knew. this is not the dulness of the ignorant and incapable, whose minds are a blank because they have no ideas, whose hands are listless for want of an occupation; it is the sadness of the most learned, the most intelligent, the most industrious; the weary misery of those who are rich in the attainments of culture, who have the keys of the chambers of knowledge, and wings to bear them to the heaven of the ideal. if you counsel this "melencolia" to work that she may be merry, she will answer that she knows the uses of labor and its vanity, and the precise amount of profit that a man hath of all his labor which he taketh under the sun. all things are full of labor, she will tell you; and in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. can we escape this brooding melancholy of the great workers--has any truly intellectual person escaped it ever? the question can never be answered with perfect certainty, because we can never quite accurately know the whole truth about the life of another. i have known several men of action, almost entirely devoid of intellectual culture, who enjoyed an unbroken flow of animal energy and were clearly free from the melancholy of dürer; but i never intimately knew a really cultivated person who had not suffered from it more or less, and the greatest sufferers were the most conscientious thinkers and students. amongst the illustrious dead, it may be very safely answered that any poet who has described it has written from his own experience--a transient experience it may be, yet his own. when walter scott, _à-propos_ of dryden, spoke of "the apparently causeless fluctuation of spirits incident to one doomed to labor incessantly in the feverish exercise of the imagination," and of that "sinking of spirit which follows violent mental exertion," is it not evident that his kindly understanding of dryden's case came from the sympathy of a fellow-laborer who knew by his own experience the gloomier and more depressing passages of the imaginative life? it would be prudent perhaps to omit the mention of byron, because some may attribute his sadness to his immorality; and if i spoke of shelley, they might answer that he was "sad because he was impious;" but the truth is, that quite independently of conduct, and even of belief, it was scarcely possible for natures so highly imaginative as these two, and so ethereally intellectual as one of the two, to escape those clouds of gloom which darken the intellectual life. wordsworth was not immoral, wordsworth was not unorthodox, yet he could be as sad in his own sober way as byron in the bitterness of his desolation, or shelley in his tenderest wailing. the three men who seem to have been the least subject to the sadness of intellectual workers were alexander humboldt, cuvier, and goethe. alexander humboldt, so far as is known to us, lived always in a clear and cheerful daylight; his appetite for learning was both strong and regular; he embraced the intellectual life in his earliest manhood, and lived in it with an unhesitating singleness of purpose, to the limits of extreme old age. cuvier was to the last a model student, of a temper at once most unflinching and most kind, happy in all his studies, happier still in his unequalled facility of mental self-direction. goethe, as all know, lived a life of unflagging interest in each of the three great branches of intellectual labor. during the whole of his long life he was interested in literature, in which he was a master; he was interested in science, in which he was a discoverer, and in art, of which he was an ardent though not practically successful student. his intellectual activity ceased only on rare occasions of painful illness or overwhelming affliction; he does not seem to have asked himself ever whether knowledge was worth its cost; he was always ready to pay the appointed price of toil. he had no infirmity of intellectual doubt; the powerful impulses from within assured him that knowledge was good for him, and he went to it urged by an unerring instinct, as a young salmon bred in the slime of a river seeks strength in the infinite sea. and yet, being a poet and a man of strong passions, goethe did not altogether escape the green-sickness which afflicts the imaginative temperament, or he could never have written "werther;" but he cured himself very soon, and the author of "werther" had no indulgence for wertherism--indeed we are told that he grew ashamed of having written the book which inoculated the younger minds of europe with that miserable disease. in our own time an illustrious poet has given in "maud" a very perfect study of a young mind in a morbid condition, a mind having indeed the student-temper, but of a bad kind, that which comes not from the genuine love of study, but from sulky rage against the world. "thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. _i will bury myself in my books_, and the devil may pipe to his own." this kind of self-burial in one's library does not come from the love of literature. the recluse will not speak to his neighbor, yet needs human intercourse of some kind, and seeks it in reading, urged by an inward necessity. he feels no gratitude towards the winners of knowledge; his morbid ill-nature depreciates the intellectual laborers:-- "the man of science himself is fonder of glory and vain; an eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor." what is the life such a spirit will choose for itself? despising alike the ignorant and the learned, the acuteness of the cultivated and the simplicity of the poor, in what form of activity or inaction will he seek what all men need, the harmony of a life well tuned? "be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways: where, if i cannot be gay, let a passionless peace be my lot." there are many different morbid states of the mind, and this of the hero of "maud" is only one of them, but it is the commonest amongst intellectual or semi-intellectual young men. see how he has a little fit of momentary enthusiasm (all he is capable of) about a shell that suddenly and accidentally attracts his attention. how true to the morbid nature is that incident! unable to pursue any large and systematic observation, the diseased mind is attracted to things suddenly and accidentally, sees them out of all proportion, and then falls into the inevitable fit of scornful peevishness. "what is it? a learned man could give it a clumsy name: let him name it who can." the question which concerns the world is, how this condition of the mind may be avoided. the cure mr. tennyson suggested was war; but wars, though more frequent than is desirable, are not to be had always. and in your case, my friend, it is happily not a cure but a preventive that is needed. let me recommend certain precautions which taken together are likely to keep you safe. care for the physical health in the first place, for if there is a morbid mind the bodily organs are not doing their work as they ought to do. next, for the mind itself, i would heartily recommend hard study, really hard study, taken very regularly but in very moderate quantity. the effect of it on the mind is as bracing as that of cold water on the body, but as you ought not to remain too long in the cold bath, so it is dangerous to study _hard_ more than a short time every day. do some work that is very difficult (such as reading some language that you have to puzzle out _à coups de dictionnaire_) two hours a day regularly, to brace the fighting power of the intellect, but let the rest of the day's work be easier. acquire especially, if you possibly can, the enviable faculty of getting entirely rid of your work in the intervals of it, and of taking a hearty interest in common things, in a garden, or stable, or dog-kennel, or farm. if the work pursues you--if what is called unconscious cerebration, which ought to go forward without your knowing it, becomes conscious cerebration, and bothers you, then you have been working beyond your cerebral strength, and you are not safe. an organization which was intended by nature for the intellectual life cannot be healthy and happy without a certain degree of intellectual activity. natures like those of humboldt and goethe need immense labors for their own felicity, smaller powers need less extensive labor. to all of us who have intellectual needs there is a certain supply of work necessary to perfect health. if we do less, we are in danger of that ennui which comes from want of intellectual exercise; if we do more, we may suffer from that other ennui which is due to the weariness of the jaded faculties, and this is the more terrible of the two. letter iii. to an intellectual man who desired an outlet for his energies. dissatisfaction of the intellectual when they have not an extensive influence--a consideration suggested to the author by mr. matthew arnold--each individual mind a portion of the national mind, which must rise or decline with the minds of which it is composed--influence of a townsman in his town--household influence--charities and condescendences of the highly cultivated--a suggestion of m. taine--conversation with inferiors--how to make it interesting--that we ought to be satisfied with humble results and small successes. there is a very marked tendency amongst persons of culture to feel dissatisfied with themselves and their success in life when they do not exercise some direct and visible influence over a considerable portion of the public. to put the case in a more concrete form, it may be affirmed that if an intellectual young man does not exercise influence by literature, or by oratory, or by one of the most elevated forms of art, he is apt to think that his culture and intelligence are lost upon the world, and either to blame himself for being what he considers a failure, or else (and this is more common) to find fault with the world in general for not giving him a proper chance of making his abilities tell. the facilities for obtaining culture are now so many and great, and within the reach of so many well-to-do people, that hundreds of persons become really very clever in various ways who would have remained utterly uncultivated had they lived in any previous century. a few of these distinguish themselves in literature and other pursuits which bring notoriety to the successful, but by far the greater number have to remain in positions of obscurity, often being clearly conscious that they have abilities and knowledge not much, if at all, inferior to the abilities and knowledge of some who have achieved distinction. the position of a clever man who remains obscure is, if he has ambition, rather trying to the moral fibre, but there are certain considerations which might help to give a direction to his energy and so procure him a sure relief, which reputation too frequently fails to provide. the first consideration is one which was offered to me many years ago by mr. matthew arnold, and which i can give, though from memory, very nearly in his own words. the multiplicity of things which make claim to the attention of the public is in these days such that it requires either uncommon strength of will or else the force of peculiar circumstances to make men follow any serious study to good result, and the great majority content themselves with the general enlightenment of the epoch, which they get from newspapers and reviews. hence the efforts of the intellectual produce little effect, and it requires either extraordinary talent or extraordinary fanaticism to awaken the serious interest of any considerable number of readers. yet, in spite of these discouragements, we ought to remember that our labors, if not applauded by others, may be of infinite value to ourselves, and also that beyond this gain to the individual, his culture is a gain to the nation, whether the nation formally recognizes it or not. for the intellectual life of a nation is the sum of the lives of all intellectual people belonging to it, and in this sense your culture is a gain to england, whether england counts you amongst her eminent sons, or leaves you forever obscure. is it not a noble spectacle, a spectacle well worthy of a highly civilized country, when a private citizen, with an admirable combination of patriotism and self-respect, says to himself as he labors, "i know that in a country so great as england, where there are so many able men, all that i do can count for very little in public estimation, yet i will endeavor to store my mind with knowledge and make my judgment sure, in order that the national mind of england, of which my mind is a minute fraction, may be enlightened by so much, be it never so little"? i think the same noble feeling might animate a citizen with reference to his native town; i think a good townsman might say to himself, "our folks are not much given to the cultivation of their minds, and they need a few to set them an example. i will be one of those few. i will work and think, in order that our town may not get into a state of perfect intellectual stagnation." but if the nation or the city were too vast to call forth any noble feeling of this kind, surely the family is little enough and near enough. might not a man say, "i will go through a good deal of intellectual drudgery in order that my wife and children may unconsciously get the benefit of it; i will learn facts for them that they may be accurate, and get ideas for them that they may share with me a more elevated mental state; i will do something towards raising the tone of the whole household"? the practical difficulty in all projects of this kind is that the household does not care to be intellectually elevated, and opposes the resistance of gravitation. the household has its natural intellectual level, and finds it as inevitably as water that is free. cultivated men are surrounded in their homes by a group of persons, wife, children, servants, who, in their intercourse with one another, create the household tone. what is a single individual with his books against these combined and active influences? is he to go and preach the gospel of the intellect in the kitchen? will he venture to present intellectual conclusions in the drawing-room? the kitchen has a tone of its own which all our efforts cannot elevate, and the drawing-room has its own atmosphere, an atmosphere unfavorable to severe and manly thinking. you cannot make cooks intellectual, and you must not be didactic with ladies. intellectual men always feel this difficulty, and most commonly keep their intellect very much to themselves, when they are at home. if they have not an outlet elsewhere, either in society or in literature, they grow morbid. yet, although it is useless to attempt to elevate any human being above his own intellectual level unless he gradually climbs himself as a man ascends a mountain, there are nevertheless certain charities or condescendences of the highly cultivated which may be good for the lower intelligences that surround them, as the streams from the alpine snows are good for the irrigation of the valleys, though the meadows which they water must forever remain eight or ten thousand feet below them. and i believe that it would greatly add to the happiness of the intellectual portion of mankind if they could more systematically exercise these charities. it is quite clear that we can never effect by chance conversation that total change in the mental state which is gradually brought about by the slow processes of education; we cannot give to an intellect that has never been developed, and which has fixed itself in the undeveloped state, that power and activity which come only after years of labor; but we may be able on many occasions to offer the sort of help which a gentleman offers to an old woman when he invites her to get up into the rumble behind his carriage. i knew an intellectual lady who lived habitually in the country, and i may say without fanciful exaggeration that the farmers' wives round about her were considerably superior to what in all probability they would have been without the advantage of her kindly and instructive conversation. she possessed the happy art of conveying the sort of knowledge which could be readily received by her hearers, and in a manner which made it agreeable to them, so that they drew ideas from her quite naturally, and her mind irrigated their minds, which would have remained permanently barren without that help and refreshment. it would be foolish to exaggerate the benefits of such intellectual charity as this, but it is well, on the other hand, not to undervalue it. such an influence can never convey much solid instruction, but it may convey some of its results. it may produce a more thoughtful and reasonable condition of mind, it may preserve the ignorant from some of those preposterous theories and beliefs which so easily gain currency amongst them. indirectly, it may have rather an important political influence, by disposing people to vote for the better sort of candidate. and the influence of such intellectual charity on the material well being of the humbler classes, on their health and wealth, may be quite as considerable as that of the other and more common sort of charity which passes silver from hand to hand. shortly after the termination of the great franco-german conflict, m. taine suggested in the _temps_ that subscribers to the better sort of journals might do a good deal for the enlightenment of the humbler classes by merely lending their newspapers in their neighborhood. this was a good suggestion: the best newspapers are an important intellectual propaganda; they awaken an interest in the most various subjects, and supply not only information but a stimulus. the danger to persons of higher culture that the newspaper may absorb time which would else be devoted to more systematic study, does not exist in the classes for whose benefit m. taine made his recommendation. the newspaper is their only secular reading, and without it they have no modern literature of any kind. in addition to the praiseworthy habit of lending good newspapers, an intellectual man who lives in the country might adopt the practice of conversing with his neighbors about everything in which they could be induced to take an interest, giving them some notion of what goes on in the classes which are intellectually active, some idea of such discoveries and projects as an untutored mind may partially understand. for example, there is the great tunnel under the mont cenis, and there is the projected tunnel beneath the channel, and there is the cutting of the isthmus of suez. a peasant can comprehend the greatness of these remarkable conceptions when they are properly explained to him, and he will often feel a lively gratitude for information of that kind. we ought to remember what a slow and painful operation reading is to the uneducated. merely to read the native tongue is to them a labor so irksome that they are apt to lose the sense of a paragraph in seeking for that of a sentence or an expression. as they would rather speak than have to write, so they prefer hearing to reading, and they get much more good from it, because they can ask a question when the matter has not been made clear to them. one of the best ways of interesting and instructing your intellectual inferiors is to give them an account of your travels. all people like to hear a traveller tell his own tale, and whilst he is telling it he may slip in a good deal of information about many things, and much sound doctrine. accounts of foreign countries, even when you have not seen them personally, nearly always awaken a lively interest, especially if you are able to give your hearers detailed descriptions of the life led by foreigners who occupy positions corresponding to their own. peasants can be made to take an interest in astronomy even, though you cannot tell them anything about the peasants in jupiter and mars, and there is always, at starting, the great difficulty of persuading them to trust science about the motion and rotundity of the earth. a very direct form of intellectual charity is that of gratuitous teaching, both in classes and by public lectures, open to all comers. a great deal of light has in this way been spread abroad in cities, but in country villages there is little encouragement to enterprises of this kind, the intelligence of farm laborers being less awakened than that of the corresponding urban population. let us remember, however, that one of the very highest and last achievements of the cultivated intellect is the art of conveying to the uncultivated, the untaught, the unprepared, the best and noblest knowledge which they are capable of assimilating. no one who, like the writer of these pages, has lived much in the country, and much amongst a densely ignorant peasantry, will be likely in any plans of enlightenment to err far on the side of enthusiastic hopefulness. the mind of a farm laborer, or that of a small farmer, is almost always sure to be a remarkably stiff soil, in which few intellectual conceptions can take root; yet these few may make the difference between an existence worthy of a man, and one that differs from the existence of a brute in little beyond the possession of articulate language. we to whom the rich inheritance of intellectual humanity is so familiar as to have lost much of its freshness, are liable to underrate the value of thoughts and discoveries which to us have for years seemed commonplace. it is with our intellectual as with our material wealth; we do not realize how precious some fragments of it might be to our poorer neighbors. the old clothes that we wear no longer may give comfort and confidence to a man in naked destitution; the truths which are so familiar to us that we never think about them, may raise the utterly ignorant to a sense of their human brotherhood. above all, in the exercise of our intellectual charities, let us accustom ourselves to feel satisfied with humble results and small successes; and here let me make a confession which may be of some possible use to others. when a young man, i taught a drawing-class gratuitously, beginning with thirty-six pupils, who dwindled gradually to eleven. soon afterwards i gave up the work from dissatisfaction, on account of the meagre attendance. this was very wrong--the eleven were worth the thirty-six; and so long as one of the eleven remained i ought to have contentedly taught him. the success of a teacher is not to be measured by the numbers whom he immediately influences. it is enough, it has been proved to be enough in more than one remarkable instance, that a single living soul should be in unison with the soul of a master, and receive his thought by sympathy. the one disciple teaches in his turn, and the idea is propagated. letter iv. to the friend of a man of high culture who produced nothing. joubert--"not yet time," or else "the time is past"--his weakness for production--three classes of minds--a more perfect intellectual life attainable by the silent student than by authors--he may follow his own genius--saving of time effected by abstinence from writing--the unproductive may be more influential than the prolific. when i met b. at your house last week, you whispered to me in the drawing-room that he was a man of the most remarkable attainments, who, to the great regret of all his friends, had never employed his abilities to any visible purpose. we had not time for a conversation on this subject, because b. himself immediately joined us. his talk reminded me very much of joubert--not that i ever knew joubert personally, though i have lived very near to villeneuve-sur-yonne, where joubert lived; but he is one of those characters whom it is possible to know without having seen them in the flesh. his friends used to urge him to write something, and then he said, "_pas encore._" "not yet; i need a long peace." tranquillity came, and then he said that god had only given force to his mind for a limited time, and that the time was past. therefore, as sainte-beuve observed, for joubert there was no medium; either it was not yet time, or else the time was past. nothing is more common than for _other_ people to say this of us. they often say "he is too young," as napoleon said of ingres, or else "he is too old," as napoleon said of greuze. it is more rare for a man himself to shrink from every enterprise, first under the persuasion that he is unprepared, and afterwards because the time is no longer opportune. yet there does exist a certain very peculiar class of highly-gifted, diffident, delicate, unproductive minds, which impress those around them with an almost superstitious belief in their possibilities, yet never do anything to justify that belief. but may it not be doubted whether these minds _have_ productive power of any kind? i believe that the full extent of joubert's productive power is displayed in those sentences of his which have been preserved, and which reveal a genius of the rarest delicacy, but at the same time singularly incapable of sustained intellectual effort. he said that he could only compose slowly, and with an extreme fatigue. he believed, however, that the weakness lay in the instrument alone, in the composing faculties, and not in the faculties of thought, for he said that behind his weakness there was strength, as behind the strength of some others there was weakness. in saying this, it is probable that joubert did not overestimate himself. he _had_ strength of a certain kind, or rather he had quality; he had distinction, which is a sort of strength in society and in literature. but he had no productive force, and i do not believe that his unproductiveness was a productiveness checked by a fastidious taste; i believe that it was real, that he was not organized for production. sainte-beuve said that a modern philosopher was accustomed to distinguish three classes of minds-- . those who are at once powerful and delicate, who excel as they propose, execute what they conceive, and reach the great and true beautiful--a rare _élite_ amongst mortals. . a class of minds especially characterized by their delicacy, who feel that their idea is superior to their execution, their intelligence greater than their talent, even when the talent is very real; they are easily dissatisfied with themselves, disdain easily won praises, and would rather judge, taste, and abstain from producing, than remain below their conception and themselves. or if they write it is by fragments, for themselves only, at long intervals and at rare moments. their fecundity is internal, and known to few. . lastly, there is a third class of minds more powerful and less delicate or difficult to please, who go on producing and publishing themselves without being too much dissatisfied with their work. the majority of our active painters and writers, who fill modern exhibitions, and produce the current literature of the day, belong to the last class, to which we are all greatly indebted for the daily bread of literature and art. but sainte-beuve believed that joubert belonged to the second class, and i suspect that both sainte-beuve and many others have credited that class with a potential productiveness beyond its real endowments. minds of the joubert class are admirable and valuable in their way, but they are really, and not apparently, sterile. and why would we have it otherwise? when we lament that a man of culture has "done nothing," as we say, we mean that he has not written books. is it necessary, is it desirable, that every cultivated person should write books? on the contrary, it seems that a more perfect intellectual life may be attained by the silent student than by authors. the writer for the public is often so far its slave that he is compelled by necessity or induced by the desire for success (since it is humiliating to write unsaleable books as well as unprofitable) to deviate from his true path, to leave the subjects that most interest him for other subjects which interest him less, and therefore to acquire knowledge rather as a matter of business than as a labor of love. but the student who never publishes, and does not intend to publish, may follow his own genius and take the knowledge which belongs to him by natural affinity. add to this the immense saving of time effected by abstinence from writing. whilst the writer is polishing his periods, and giving hours to the artistic exigencies of mere form, the reader is adding to his knowledge. thackeray said that writers were not great readers, because they had not the time. the most studious frenchman i ever met with used to say that he so hated the pen as scarcely to resolve to write a letter. he reminded me of joubert in this; he often said, "j'ai horreur de la plume." since he had no profession his leisure was unlimited, and he employed it in educating himself without any other purpose than this, the highest purpose of all, to become a cultivated man. the very prevalent idea that lives of this kind are failures unless they leave some visible achievement as a testimony and justification of their labors, is based upon a narrow conception both of duty and of utility. men of this unproductive class are sure to influence their immediate neighborhood by the example of their life. isolated as they are too frequently in the provinces, in the midst of populations destitute of the higher culture, they often establish the notion of it notwithstanding the contemptuous estimates of the practical people around them. a single intellectual life, thus modestly lived through in the obscurity of a country-town, may leave a tradition and become an enduring influence. in this, as in all things, let us trust the arrangements of nature. if men are at the same time constitutionally studious and constitutionally unproductive, in must be that production is not the only use of study. joubert was right in keeping silence when he felt no impulses to speak, right also in saying the little that he did say without a superfluous word. his mind is more fully known, and more influential, than many which are abundantly productive. letter v. to a student who felt hurried and driven. some intellectual products possible only in excitement--byron's authority on the subject--can inventive minds work regularly?--sir walter scott's opinion--napoleon on the winning of victories--the prosaic business of men of genius--"waiting for inspiration"--rembrandt's advice to a young painter--culture necessary to inspiration itself--byron, keats, morris--men of genius may be regular as students. in my last letter to you on quiet regularity of work, i did not give much consideration to another matter which, in certain kinds of work, has to be taken into account, for i preferred to make that the subject of a separate letter. there are certain intellectual products which are only possible in hours or minutes of great cerebral excitement. byron said that when people were surprised to find poets very much like others in the ordinary intercourse of life, their surprise was due to ignorance of this. if people knew, byron said, that poetical production came from an excitement which from its intensity could only be temporary, they would not expect poets to be very different from other people when not under the influence of this excitement. now, we may take the word "poet," in this connection, in the very largest sense. all men who have the gift of invention are poets. the inventive ideas come to them at unforeseen moments, and have to be seized when they come, so that the true inventor works sometimes with vertiginous rapidity, and afterwards remains for days or weeks without exercising the inventive faculty at all. the question is, can you make an inventive mind work on the principle of measured and regular advance. is such counsel as that in my former letter applicable to inventors? scott said, that although he had known many men of ordinary abilities who were capable of perfect regularity in their habits, he had never known a man of genius who was so. the popular impression concerning men of genius is very strong in the same sense, but it is well not to attach too much importance to popular impressions concerning men of genius, for the obvious reason that such men come very little under popular observation. when they work it is usually in the most perfect solitude, and even people who live in the same house know very little, really, of their intellectual habits. the truth seems to be, first, that the moments of high excitement, of noblest invention, are rare, and not to be commanded by the will; but, on the other hand, that in order to make the gift of invention produce its full effect in any department of human effort, vast labors of preparation are necessary, and these labors may be pursued as steadily as you like napoleon i. used to say that battles were won by the sudden flashing of an idea through the brain of the commander at a certain critical instant. the capacity for generating this sudden electric spark was military genius. the spark flashed independently of the will; the general could not win that vivid illumination by labor or by prayer; it came only in the brain of genius from the intense anxiety and excitement of the actual conflict. napoleon seems always to have counted upon it, always to have believed that when the critical instant arrived the wild confusion of the battle-field would be illuminated for him by that burst of sudden flame. but if napoleon had been ignorant of the prosaic business of his profession, to which he attended more closely than any other commander, what would these moments of supreme clearness have availed him, or would they ever have come to him at all? if they had come to him, they would have revealed only the extent of his own negligence. instead of showing him _what to do_, they would have made painfully evident what _ought to have been done_. but it is more probable that these clear moments would never have occurred to a mind unprepared by study. clear military inspirations never occur to shopkeepers and farmers, as bright ideas about checkmates occur only to persons who have studied chess. the prosaic business, then, of the man of genius is to accumulate that preparatory knowledge without which his genius can never be available, and he can do work of this kind as regularly as he likes. the one fatal mistake which is committed habitually by people who have the scarcely desirable gift of half-genius is "waiting for inspiration." they pass week after week in a state of indolence, unprofitable alike to the mind and the purse, under pretext of waiting for intellectual flashes like those which came to napoleon on his battle-fields. they ought to remember the advice given by one of the greatest artists of the seventeenth century to a young painter of his acquaintance. "practise assiduously what you already know, and in course of time other things will become clear to you." the inspirations come only to the disciplined; the indolent wait for them in vain. if you have genius, therefore, or believe you have, it is admitted that you cannot be perpetually in a state of intense excitement. if you were in that state without ceasing, you would go mad. you cannot be expected to write poetry in the plodding ox-pace manner advocated for intellectual work generally in my last letter. as for that good old comparison between the hare and the tortoise, it may be answered for you, simply, that you are not a tortoise, and that what is a most wise procedure for tortoises may be impracticable for you. the actual composition of poetry, especially poetry of a fiery kind, like-- "the isles of greece, the isles of greece," of byron, is to be done not when the poet will, but when he can, or rather, when he _must_. but if you are a wise genius you will feel how necessary is culture even for work of that kind. byron would not have felt any enthusiasm for the isles of greece if he had not known something of their history. the verses are an inspiration, but they could never have occurred to a quite uncultivated person, however bright his inspirations. even more obviously was the genius of keats dependent upon his culture. he did not read greek, but from translations of greek literature and from the direct study of greek art he got the sort of material that he needed. and in our own day morris has been evidently a very diligent student of many literatures. what i insist upon is, that we could not have had the real keats, the real morris, unless they had prepared themselves by culture. we see immediately that the work they have done is _their_ work, specially, that they were specially adapted for it--inspired for it, if you will. but how evident it is that the inspiration could never have produced the work, or anything like it, without labor in the accumulation of material! now, although men of genius cannot be regularly progressive in actual production, cannot write so many verses a day, regularly, as you may spin yarn, they can be very regular as students, and some of the best of them have been quite remarkable for unflinching steadiness of application in that way. the great principle recommended by mr. galton, of not looking forward eagerly to the end of your journey, but interesting yourself chiefly in the progress of it, is as applicable to the studies of men of genius as to those of more ordinary persons. letter vi. to an ardent friend who took no rest. on some verses of goethe--man not constituted like a planet--matthew arnold's poem, "self-dependence"--poetry and prose--the wind more imitable than the stars--the stone in glen croe--rest and be thankful. "rambling over the wild moors, with thoughts oftentimes as wild and dreary as those moors, the young carlyle, who had been cheered through his struggling sadness, and strengthened for the part he was to play in life, by the beauty and the wisdom which goethe had revealed to him, suddenly conceived the idea that it would be a pleasant and a fitting thing if some of the few admirers in england forwarded to weimar a trifling token of their admiration. on reaching home mr. carlyle at once sketched the design of a seal to be engraved, the serpent of eternity encircling a star, with the words _ohne hast, ohne rast_ (unhasting, unresting), in allusion to the well-known verses-- 'wie das gestirn, ohne hast aber ohne rast drehe sich jeder um die eigne last.' (like a star, unhasting, unresting, be each one fulfilling his god-given 'hest.')"[ ] this is said so beautifully, and seems so wise, that it may easily settle down into the mind as a maxim and rule of life. had we been told in plain prose to take no rest, without the beautiful simile of the star, and without the wise restriction about haste, our common sense would have rebelled at once; but as both beauty and wisdom exist together in the gem-like stanza, our judgment remains silent in charmed acquiescence. let us ask ourselves, however, about this stella example, whether man is naturally so constituted as to be able to imitate it. a planet moves without haste, because it is incapable of excitement; and without rest, because it is incapable of fatigue. a planet makes no effort, and encounters no friction or resistance of any kind. man is so constituted as to feel frequently the stimulus of excitement, which immediately translates itself either into actual acceleration or into the desire for acceleration--a desire which cannot be restrained without an effort; and whatever man undertakes to do he encounters friction and resistance, which, for him, always sooner or later inevitably induce fatigue. man is neither constituted like a star nor situated like a star, and therefore it is not possible for him to exist as stars exist. you will object to this criticism that it handles a delicate little poem very roughly, and you may tell me that i am unfit to receive the wisdom of the poets, which is always uttered with a touch of oriental exaggeration. certainly goethe could never mean that a man should kill himself by labors literally incessant. goethe's own life is the best elucidation of his true meaning. the example of the star was held up to us to be followed only within the limits of our human nature, as a christian points to the example of christ. in the same spirit matthew arnold wrote his noble poem "self-dependence," in which he tells us to live like the stars and the sea:-- "ah, once more," i cried, "ye stars, ye waters, on my heart your mighty charm renew; still, still let me, as i gaze upon you, feel my soul becoming vast like you." from the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, over the lit sea's unquiet way, in the rustling night-air came the answer: "wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _live_ as they. "unaffrighted by the silence round them, undistracted by the sights they see, these demand not that the things without them yield them love, amusement, sympathy." the true intention of poetical teachings like these is in the influence they have over the feelings. if a star makes me steadier in my labor, less of a victim to vain agitation, in consequence of goethe's verses; if the stars and the sea together renew more fully their mighty charm upon my heart because those stanzas of arnold have fixed themselves in my memory, the poets have done their work. but the more positive _prosateur_ has his work to do also, and you, as it seems to me, need this positive help of prose. you are living a great deal too much like a star, and not enough like a human being. you do not hasten often, but you _never_ rest, except when nature mercifully prostrates you in irresistible sleep. like the stars and the sea in arnold's poem, you do not ask surrounding things to yield you love, amusement, sympathy. the stars and the sea can do without these refreshments of the brain and heart, but you cannot. rest is necessary to recruit your intellectual forces; sympathy is necessary to prevent your whole nature from stiffening like a rotifer without moisture; love is necessary to make life beautiful for you, as the plumage of certain birds becomes splendid when they pair; and without amusement you will lose the gayety which wise men try to keep as the best legacy of youth. let your rest be perfect in its season, like the rest of waters that are still. if you will have a model for your living, take neither the stars, for they fly without ceasing, nor the ocean that ebbs and flows, nor the river that cannot stay, but rather let your life be like that of the summer air, which has times of noble energy and times of perfect peace. it fills the sails of ships upon the sea, and the miller thanks it on the breezy uplands; it works generously for the health and wealth of all men, yet it claims its hours of rest. "i have pushed the fleet, i have turned the mill, i have refreshed the city, and now, though the captain may walk impatiently on the quarter-deck, and the miller swear, and the city stink, i will stir no more until it pleases me." you have learned many things, my friend, but one thing you have _not_ learned--the art of resting. that stone in glen croe ought to have impressed its lesson on the mind of many a traveller, long before earl russell gave it a newspaper celebrity. have we not rested there together, you and i, a little in advance of the coach, which the weary horses were still slowly dragging up the tedious hill? and as we sat on the turf, and looked down the misty glen, did we not read the lesson there engraven? how good and _human_ the idea was, the idea of setting up that graven stone in the wilderness; how full of sympathy is that inscription for all the weakness and weariness of humanity! once, in the ardor of youth, there shone before me a golden star in heaven, and on the deep azure around it "_ohne hast, ohne rast_," in letters of steady flame; but now i see more frequently a plain little stone set up in the earth, with the inscription, "rest, and be thankful!" is not the stone just a little like a grave-stone, my friend? perhaps it is. but if we take rest when we require it during life, we shall not need the grave's rest quite so soon. letter vii. to an ardent friend who took no rest. the regret for lost time often a needless one--tillier's doctrine about _flânerie_--how much is gained in idle hours--sainte-beuve's conviction that whatever he did he studied the infinite book of the world and of life--harness--free play of the mind necessary--the freedom of a grain of desert-sand--the freedom of the wild bee. if we asked any intellectual workman what he would do if his life were to be lived over again, i believe the answer, whatever its form, would amount ultimately to this: "i would economize my time better." very likely if the opportunity were granted him he would do nothing of the sort; very likely he would waste his time in ways more authorized by custom, yet waste it just as extravagantly as he had done after his own original fashion; but it always seems to us as if we could use the time better if we had it over again. it seems to me in looking back over the last thirty years, that the only time really wasted has been that spent in laborious obedience to some external authority. it may be a dangerous doctrine which claude tillier expressed in an immortal sentence, but dangerous or not, it is full of intellectual truth: "le temps le mieux employé est celui que l'on perd."[ ] if what we are accustomed to consider lost time could be removed, as to its effects at least, from the sum of our existence, it is certain that we should suffer from a great intellectual impoverishment. all the best knowledge of mankind, to begin with, is acquired in hours which hard-working people consider lost hours--in hours, that is, of pleasure and recreation. deduct all that we have learnt about men in times of recreation, in clubs and smoking-rooms, on the hunting-field, on the cricket-ground, on the deck of the yacht, on the box of the drag or the dog-cart, would the residue be worth very much? would it not be a mere heap of dry bones without any warm flesh to cover them? even the education of most of us, such as it is, has been in a great measure acquired out of school, as it were; i mean outside of the acknowledged duties of our more serious existence. few englishmen past forty have studied english literature either as a college exercise or a professional preparation; they have read it privately, as an amusement. few englishmen past forty have studied modern languages, or science, or the fine arts, from any obedience to duty, but merely from taste and inclination. and even if we studied these things formally, as young men often do at the present day, it is not from the formal study that we should get the _perfume_ of the language or the art, but from idle hours in foreign lands and galleries. it is superfluous to recommend idleness to the unintellectual, but the intellectual too often undervalue it. the laborious intellect contracts a habit of strenuousness which is some times a hindrance to its best activity. "i have arrived," said sainte-beuve, "perhaps by way of secretly excusing my own idleness, perhaps by a deeper feeling of the principle that all comes to the same, at the conclusion that whatever i do or do not, working in the study at continuous labor, scattering myself in articles, spreading myself about in society, giving my time away to troublesome callers, to poor people, to _rendez-vous_, in the street, no matter to whom and to what, i cease not to do one and the same thing, to read one and the same book, the infinite book of the world and of life, that no one ever finishes, in which the wisest read farthest; i read it then at all the pages which present themselves, in broken fragments, backwards, what matters it? i never cease going on. the greater the medley, the more frequent the interruption, the more i get on with this book in which one is never beyond the middle; but the profit is to have had it open before one at all sorts of different pages." a distinguished author wrote to another author less distinguished: "you have gone through a good deal of really vigorous study, but have not _been in harness_ yet." by harness he meant discipline settled beforehand like military drill. now, the advantages of drill are evident and very generally recognized, but the advantages of intellectual _flânerie_ are not so generally recognized. for the work of the intellect to be clear and healthy, a great deal of free play of the mind is absolutely necessary. harness is good for an hour or two at a time, but the finest intellects have never _lived_ in harness. in reading any book that has much vitality you are sure to meet with many allusions and illustrations which the author hit upon, not when he was in harness, but out at grass. harness trains us to the systematic performance of our work, and increases our practical strength by regulated exercise, but it does not supply everything that is necessary to the perfect development of the mind. the truth is, that we need both the discipline of harness and the abundant nourishment of the free pasture. yet may not our freedom be the profitless, choiceless, freedom of a grain of desert-sand, carried hither and thither by the wind, gaining nothing and improving nothing, so that it does not signify where it was carried yesterday or where it may fall to-morrow, but rather the liberty of the wild bee, whose coming and going are ordered by no master, nor fixed by any premeditated regulation, yet which misses no opportunity of increase, and comes home laden in the twilight. who knows where he has wandered; who can tell over what banks and streams the hum of his wings has sounded? is anything in nature freer than he is; can anything account better for a rational use of freedom? would he do his work better if tiny harness were ingeniously contrived for him? where then would be the golden honey, and where the waxen cells? letter viii. to a friend (highly cultivated) who congratulated himself on having entirely abandoned the habit of reading newspapers. advantages in economy of time--much of what we read in newspapers is useless to our culture--the too great importance which they attach to novelty--distortion by party spirit--an instance of false presentation--gains to serenity by abstinence from newspapers--newspapers keep up our daily interest in each other--the french peasantry--the newspaper-reading americans--an instance of total abstinence from newspapers--auguste comte--a suggestion of emerson's--the work of newspaper correspondents--war correspondents--mr. stanley--m. erdan, of the _temps_. your abstinence from newspaper reading is not anew experiment in itself, though it is new in reference to your particular case, and i await its effects with interest. i shall be curious to observe the consequences, to an intellect constituted as yours is, of that total cutting off from the public interests of your own century which an abstinence from newspapers implies. it is clear that, whatever the loss may be, you have a definite gain to set against it. the time which you have hitherto given to newspapers, and which may be roughly estimated at about five hundred hours a year, is henceforth a valuable time-income to be applied to whatever purposes your best wisdom may select. when an intellectual person has contrived by the force of one simple resolution to effect so fine an economy as this, it is natural that he should congratulate himself. your feelings must be like those of an able finance minister who has found means of closing a great leak in the treasury--if any economy possible in the finances of a state could ever relatively equal that splendid stroke of time-thrift which your force of will has enabled you to effect. in those five hundred hours, which are now your own, you may acquire a science or obtain a more perfect command over one of the languages which you have studied. some department of your intellectual labors which has hitherto been unsatisfactory to you, because it was too imperfectly cultivated, may henceforth be as orderly and as fruitful as a well-kept garden. you may become thoroughly conversant with the works of more than one great author whom you have neglected, not from lack of interest, but from want of time. you may open some old chamber of the memory that has been dark and disused for many a year; you may clear the cobwebs away, and let the fresh light in, and make it habitable once again. against these gains, of which some to a man of your industry are certain, and may be counted upon, what must be our estimate of the amount of sacrifice or loss? it is clear to both of us that much of what we read in the newspapers is useless to our culture. a large proportion of newspaper-writing is occupied with speculation on what is likely to happen in the course of a few months; therefore, by waiting until the time is past, we know the event without having wasted time in speculations which could not effect it. another rather considerable fraction of newspaper matter consists of small events which have interest for the day, owing to their novelty, but which will not have the slightest permanent importance. the whole press of a newspaper-reading country, like england or america, may be actively engaged during the space of a week or a fortnight in discussing some incident which everybody will have forgotten in six months; and besides these sensational incidents, there are hundreds of less notorious ones, often fictitious, inserted simply for the temporary amusement of the reader. the greatest evil of newspapers, in their effect on the intellectual life, is the enormous importance which they are obliged to attach to mere novelty. from the intellectual point of view, it is of no consequence whether a thought occurred twenty-two centuries ago to aristotle or yesterday evening to mr. charles darwin, and it is one of the distinctive marks of the truly intellectual to be able to take a hearty interest in all truth, independently of the date of its discovery. the emphasis given by newspapers to novelty exhibits things in wrong relations, as the lantern shows you what is nearest at the cost of making the general landscape appear darker by the contrast. besides this exhibition of things in wrong relations, there is a positive distortion arising from the unscrupulousness of party, a distortion which extends far beyond the limits of the empire. an essay might be written on the distortion of english affairs in the french press, or of french affairs in the english press, by writers who are as strongly partisan in another country as in their own. "it is such a grand thing," wrote an english paris correspondent in , "for adolphus thiers, son of a poor laborer of aix, and in early life a simple journalist, to be at the head of the government of france." this is a fair specimen of the kind of false presentation which is so common in party journalism. the newspaper from which i have quoted it was strongly opposed to thiers, being in fact one of the principal organs of the english bonapartists. it is not true that thiers was the son of a poor laborer of aix. his father was a workman of marseilles, his mother belonging to a family in which neither wealth nor culture had been rare, and his mother's relatives had him educated at the lycée. the art of the journalist in bringing together the two extremes of a career remarkable for its steady ascent had for its object to produce the idea of incongruity, of sudden and unsuitable elevation. not only m. thiers, however, but every human being starts from a very small beginning, since every man begins life as a baby. it is a great rise for one baby to the presidency of the french republic; it was also a great rise for other babies who have attained the premiership of england. the question is, not what thiers may have been seventy years ago, but what he was immediately before his acceptance of the highest office of the state. he was the most trusted and the most experienced citizen, so that the last step in his career was as natural as the elevation of reynolds to the presidency of the academy. it is difficult for any one who cares for justice to read party journals without frequent irritation, and it does not signify which side the newspaper takes. men are so unfair in controversy that we best preserve the serenity of the intellect by studiously avoiding all literature that has a controversial tone. by your new rule of abstinence from newspapers you will no doubt gain almost as much in serenity as in time. to the ordinary newspaper reader there is little loss of serenity, because he reads only the newspaper that he agrees with, and however unfair it is, he is pleased by its unfairness. but the highest and best culture makes us disapprove of unfairness on our own side of the question also. we are pained by it; we feel humiliated by it; we lament its persistence and its perversity. i have said nearly all that has to be said in favor of your rule of abstinence. i have granted that the newspapers cost us much time, which, if employed for great intellectual purposes, would carry us very far; that they give disproportionate views of things by the emphasis they give to novelty, and false views by the unfairness which belongs to party. i might have added that newspaper writers give such a preponderance to politics--not political philosophy, but to the everyday work of politicians--that intellectual culture is thrown into the background, and the election of a single member of parliament is made to seem of greater national importance than the birth of a powerful idea. and yet, notwithstanding all these considerations, which are serious indeed for the intellectual, i believe that your resolution is unwise, and that you will find it to be untenable. one momentous reason more than counterbalances all these considerations put together. newspapers are to the whole civilized world what the daily house-talk is to the members of a household; they keep up our daily interest in each other, they save us from the evils of isolation. to live as a member of the great white race of men, the race that has filled europe and america, and colonized or conquered whatever other territories it has been pleased to occupy, to share from day to day its cares, its thoughts, its aspirations, it is necessary that every man should read his daily newspaper. why are the french peasants so bewildered and at sea, so out of place in the modern world? it is because they never read a newspaper. and why are the inhabitants of the united states, though scattered over a territory fourteen times the area of france, so much more capable of concerted political action, so much more _alive_ and modern, so much more interested in new discoveries of all kinds and capable of selecting and utilizing the best of them? it is because the newspaper penetrates everywhere; and even the lonely dweller on the prairie or in the forest is not intellectually isolated from the great currents of public life which flow through the telegraph and the press. the experiment of doing without newspapers has been tried by a whole class, the french peasantry, with the consequences that we know, and it has also from time to time been tried by single individuals belonging to more enlightened sections of society. let us take one instance, and let us note what appear to have been the effects of this abstinence. auguste comte abstained from newspapers as a teetotaller abstains from spirituous liquors. now, auguste comte possessed a gift of nature which, though common in minor degrees, is in the degree in which he possessed it rarer than enormous diamonds. that gift was the power of dealing with abstract intellectual conceptions, and living amidst them always, as the practical mind lives in and deals with material things. and it happened in comte's case, as it usually does happen in cases of very peculiar endowment, that the gift was accompanied by the instincts necessary to its perfect development and to its preservation. comte instinctively avoided the conversation of ordinary people, because he felt it to be injurious to the perfect exercise of his faculty, and for the same reason he would not read newspapers. in imposing upon himself these privations he acted like a very eminent living etcher, who, having the gift of an extraordinary delicacy of hand, preserves it by abstinence from everything that may effect the steadiness of the nerves. there is a certain difference, however, between the two cases which i am anxious to accentuate. the etcher runs no risk of any kind by his rule of abstinence. he refrains from several common indulgences, but he denies himself nothing that is necessary to health. i may even go farther, and say that the rules which he observes for the sake of perfection in his art, might be observed with advantage by many who are not artists, for the sake of their own tranquillity, without the loss of anything but pleasure. the rules which comte made for himself involved, on the other hand, a great peril. in detaching himself so completely from the interests and ways of thinking of ordinary men, he elaborated, indeed, the conceptions of the positive philosophy, but arrived afterwards at a peculiar kind of intellectual decadence from which it is possible--probable even--that the rough common sense of the newspapers might have preserved him. they would have saved him, i seriously believe, from that mysticism which led to the invention of a religion far surpassing in unreasonableness the least rational of the creeds of tradition. it is scarcely imaginable, except on the supposition of actual insanity, that any regular reader of the _times_, the _temps_, the _daily news_, and the _saturday review_, should believe the human race to be capable of receiving as the religion of its maturity the comtist trinity and the comtist virgin mother. a trinity consisting of the great being (or humanity), the great fetish (or the earth), and the great midst (or space); a hope for the human race (how unphysiological!) that women might ultimately arrive at maternity independently of virile help,--these are conceptions so remote, not only from the habits of modern thought, but (what is more important) from its tendencies, that they could not occur to a mind in regular communication with its contemporaries. "if you should transfer the amount of your reading day by day from the newspaper to the standard authors?" to this suggestion of emerson's it may be answered that the loss would be greater than the gain. the writers of queen anne's time could educate an englishman of queen anne's time, but they can only partially educate an englishman of queen victoria's time. the mind is like a merchant's ledger, it requires to be continually posted up to the latest date. even the last telegram may have upset some venerable theory that has been received as infallible for ages. in times when great historical events are passing before our eyes, the journalist is to future historians what the african traveller is to the map-makers. his work is neither complete nor orderly, but it is the fresh record of an eye-witness, and enables us to become ourselves spectators of the mighty drama of the world. never was this service so well rendered as it is now, by correspondents who achieve heroic feats of bodily and mental prowess, exposing themselves to the greatest dangers, and writing much and well in circumstances the most unfavorable to literary composition. how vividly the english war correspondents brought before us the reality of the great conflict between germany and france! what a romantic achievement, worthy to be sung in heroic verse, was the finding of livingstone by stanley! not less interesting have been the admirable series of letters by m. erdan in the _temps_, in which, with the firmness of a master-hand, he has painted from the life, week after week, year after year, the decline and fall of the temporal power of the papacy. i cannot think that any page of roman history is better worth reading than his letters, more interesting, instructive, lively, or authentic. yet with your contempt for newspapers you would lose all this profitable entertainment, and seek instead of it the accounts of former epochs not half so interesting as this fall of the temporal power, accounts written in most cases by men in libraries who had not seen the sovereigns they wrote about, nor talked with the people whose condition they attempted to describe. you have a respect for these accounts because they are printed in books, and bound in leather, and entitled "history," whilst you despise the direct observation of a man like erdan, because he is only a journalist, and his letters are published in a newspaper. is there not some touch of prejudice in this, some mistake, some narrowness of intellectual aristocracy? letter ix. to an author who appreciated contemporary literature. miss mitford on the selfishness of authors--a suggestion of emerson's--a laconic rule of his--traces of jealousy--and of a more subtle feeling--a contradiction--necessary to resist the invasion of the present--a certain equilibrium--the opposite of a pedant--the best classics not pedants, but artists. reading the other day a letter by miss mitford, i was reminded of you as the eye is reminded of green when it sees scarlet. you, whose interest in literature has ever kept pace with the time, to whom no new thing is unwelcome if only it is good, are safe from her accusations; but how many authors have deserved them! miss mitford is speaking of a certain writer who is at the same time a clergyman, and whom it is not difficult to recognize. "i never," she says, "saw him interested in the slightest degree by the work of any other author, except, indeed, one of his own followers or of his own clique, and then only as admiring or helping him. he has great kindness and great sympathy with working people, or with a dying friend, but i profess to you i am amazed at the utter selfishness of authors. i do not know one single poet who cares for any man's poetry but his own. in general they read no books except such as may be necessary to their own writings--that is to the work they happen to be about, and even then i suspect that they only read the bits that they may immediately want. you know the absolute ignorance in which wordsworth lived of all modern works; and if, out of compliment to a visitor, he thought it needful to seem to read or listen to two or three stanzas, he gave unhesitating praise to the writer himself, but took especial care not to repeat the praise where it might have done him good--utterly fair and false." there are touches of this spirit of indifference to contemporary literature in several writers and scholars whom we know. there are distinct traces of it even in published writings, though it is much more evident in private life and habit. emerson seriously suggests that "the human mind would perhaps be a gainer if all the secondary writers were lost--say, in england, all but shakespeare, milton, and bacon, through the profounder study so drawn to those wonderful minds." in the same spirit we have emerson's laconic rule, "never read any but famed books," which suggests the remark that if men had obeyed this rule from the beginning, no book could ever have acquired reputation, and nobody would ever have read anything. the idea of limiting english literature to a holy trinity of shakespeare, milton, and bacon, and voluntarily losing all other authors, seems to me the most intense expression of the spirit of aristocracy in reading. it is as if a man were to decide in his own mind that society would be the better if all persons except the three emperors were excluded from it. there is a want of reliance upon one's own judgment, and an excess of faith in the estimates of others, when we resolve to read only those books which come to us in the splendor of a recognized intellectual royalty. we read either to gain information, to have good thinking suggested to us, or to have our imagination stimulated. in the way of knowledge the best authors are always the most recent, so that bacon could not suffice. in the way of thinking, our methods have gained in precision since milton's time, and we are helped by a larger experience than his. the one thing which shakespeare and milton can do for us quite perfectly still, is to fill our imagination richly, and give it a fine stimulus. but modern writers can render us the same service. is there not a little jealousy of contemporaries in the persistence with which some authors avoid them, and even engage others to avoid them? may not there be a shade of another feeling than jealousy, a feeling more subtle in operation, the undefined apprehension that we may find, even amongst our more obscure contemporaries, merit equal to our own? so long as we restrict our reading to old books of great fame we are safe from this apprehension, for if we find admirable qualities, we know beforehand that the world has handsomely acknowledged them, and we indulge in the hope that our own admirable qualities will be recognized by posterity with equal liberality. but it creates an unpleasant feeling of uneasiness to see quantities of obscure contemporary work, done in a plain way to earn a living by men of third or fourth-rate reputation, or of no reputation at all, which in many respects would fairly sustain a comparison with our own. it is clear that an author ought to be the last person to advise the public not to read contemporary literature, since he is himself a maker of contemporary literature; and there is a direct contradiction between the invitation to read his book, which he circulates by the act of publishing, and the advice which the book contains. emerson is more safe from this obvious rejoinder when he suggests to us to transfer our reading day by day from the newspaper to the standard authors. but are these suggestions anything more than the reaction of an intellectual man against the too prevalent customs of the world? the reading practised by most people, by all who do not set before themselves intellectual culture as one of the definite aims of life, is remarkable for the regularity with which it neglects all the great authors of the past. the books provided by the circulating library, the reviews and magazines, the daily newspapers, are read whilst they are novelties, but the standard authors are left on their shelves unopened. we require a firm resolution to resist this invasion of what is new, because it flows like an unceasing river, and unless we protect our time against it by some solid embankment of unshakable rule and resolution, every nook and cranny of it will be filled and flooded. an englishman whose life was devoted to culture, but who lived in an out-of-the-way place on the continent, told me that he considered it a decided advantage to his mind to live quite outside of the english library system, because if he wanted to read a new book he had to buy it and pay heavily for carriage besides, which made him very careful in his choice. for the same reason he rejoiced that the nearest english news-room was two hundred miles from his residence. but, on the other hand, what would be the condition of a man's mind who never read anything but the classic authors? he would live in an intellectual monastery, and would not even understand the classic authors themselves, for we understand the past only by referring it to what we know in the present. it is best to preserve our minds in a state of equilibrium, and not to allow our repugnance to what we see as an evil to drive us into an evil of an opposite kind. we are too often like those little toy-fish with a bit of steel in their mouths, which children attract with a magnet. if you present the positive pole of the magnet, the fish rushes at it at once, but if you offer the negative end it retreats continually. everything relatively to our character has this positive or negative end, and we either rush to things or rush away from them. some persons are actually driven away from the most entertaining writers because they happen to be what are called classics, because pedants boast of having read them. i know a man who is exactly the opposite of a pedant, who has a horror of the charlatanism which claims social and intellectual position as the reward for having laboriously waded through those authors who are conventionally termed "classical," and this opposition to pedantry has given him an aversion to the classics themselves, which he never opens. the shallow pretence to admiration of famous writers which is current in the world is so distasteful to the love of honesty and reality which is the basis of his character, that by an unhappy association of ideas he has acquired a repugnance to the writers themselves. but such men as horace, terence, shakespeare, molière, though they have had the misfortune to be praised and commentated upon by pedants, were in their lives the precise opposite of pedants; they were _artists_ whose study was human nature, and who lived without pretension in the common world of men. the pedants have a habit of considering these genial old artists as in some mysterious way their own private property, for do not the pedants live by expounding them? and some of us are frightened away from the fairest realms of poetry by the fences of these grim guardians. letter x. to an author who kept very irregular hours. julian fane--his late hours--regularity produced by habit--the time of the principal effort--that the chief work should be done in the best hours--physicians prefer early to late work--the practice of goethe and some modern authors--the morning worker ought to live in a tranquil neighborhood--night-work--the medical objection to it--the student's objection to day-work--time to be kept in masses by adults, but divided into small portions by children--rapid turning of the mind--cuvier eminent for this faculty--the duke of wellington--the faculty more available with some occupations than others--the slavery of a minute obedience to the clock--broad rules the best--books of agenda, good in business, but not in the higher intellectual pursuits. what you told me of your habits in the employment of your hours reminded me of julian fane. mr. lytton tells us that "after a long day of professional business, followed by a late evening of social amusement, he would return in the small hours of the night to his books, and sit, unwearied, till sunrise in the study of them. nor did he then seem to suffer from this habit of late hours. his nightly vigils occasioned no appearance of fatigue the next day.... he rarely rose before noon, and generally rose much later." but however irregular a man's distribution of his time may be in the sense of wanting the government of fixed rules, there always comes in time a certain regularity by the mere operation of habit. people who get up very late hardly ever do so in obedience to a rule; many get up early by rule, and many more are told that they ought to get up early, and believe it, and aspire to that virtue, but fail to carry it into practice. the late-risers are rebels and sinners--in this respect--to a man, and so persistently have the wise, from solomon downwards, harped upon the moral loveliness of early rising and the degradation which follows the opposite practice, that one can hardly get up after eight without either an uncomfortable sense of guilt or an extraordinary callousness. yet the late-risers, though obeying no rule, for the abandoned sinner recognizes none, become regular in their late rising from the gradual fixing power of habit. even julian fane, though he regretted his desultory ways, "and dwelt with great earnestness on the importance of regular habits of work," was perhaps less irregular than he himself believed. we are sure to acquire habits; what is important is not so much that the habits should be regular, as that their regularity should be of the kind most favorable in the long run to the accomplishment of our designs, and this never comes by chance, it is the result of an effort of the will in obedience to governing wisdom. the first question which every one who has the choice of his hours must settle for himself is at what time of day he will make his principal effort; for the day of every intellectual workman ought to be marked by a kind of artistic composition; there ought to be some one labor distinctly recognized as dominant, with others in subordination, and subordination of various degrees. now for the hours at which the principal effort ought to be made, it is not possible to fix them by the clock so as to be suitable for everybody, but a broad rule may be arrived at which is applicable to all imaginable cases. the rule is this--to do the chief work in the best hours; to give it the pick of your day; and by day i do not mean only the solar day, but the whole of the twenty-four hours. there is an important physiological reason for giving the best hours to the most important work. the better the condition of the brain and the body, and the more favorable the surrounding circumstances, the smaller will be the cost to the organization of the labor that has to be done. it is always the safest way to do the heaviest (or most important) work at the time and under the conditions which make it the least costly. physicians are unanimous in their preference of early to late work; and no doubt, if the question were not complicated by other considerations, we could not do better than to follow their advice in its simplicity. goethe wrote in the morning, with his faculties refreshed by sleep and not yet excited by any stimulant. i could mention several living authors of eminence who pursue the same plan, and find it favorable alike to health and to production. the rule which they follow is never to write after lunch, leaving the rest of their time free for study and society, both of which are absolutely necessary to authors. according to this system it is presumed that the hours between breakfast and lunch are the best hours. in many cases they are so. a person in fair health, after taking a light early breakfast without any heavier stimulant than tea or coffee, finds himself in a state of freshness highly favorable to sound and agreeable thinking. his brain will be in still finer order if the breakfast has been preceded by a cold bath, with friction and a little exercise. the feeling of freshness, cleanliness, and moderate exhilaration, will last for several hours, and during those hours the intellectual work will probably be both lively and reasonable. it is difficult for a man who feels cheerful and refreshed, and whose task seems easy and light, to write anything morbid or perverse. but for the morning to be so good as i have just described it, the workman must be quite favorably situated. he ought to live in a very tranquil neighborhood, and to be as free as possible from anxiety as to what the postman may have in reserve for him. if his study-window looks out on a noisy street, and if the day is sure, as it wears on, to bring anxious business of its own, then the increasing noise and the apprehension (even though it be almost entirely unconscious) of impending business, will be quite sufficient to interfere with the work of any man who is the least in the world nervous, and almost all intellectual laborers _are_ nervous, more or less. men who have the inestimable advantage of absolute tranquillity, at all times, do well to work in the morning, but those who can only get tranquillity at times independent of their own choice have a strong reason for working at those times, whether they happen to be in the morning or not. in an excellent article on "work" (evidently written by an experienced intellectual workman), which appeared in one of the early numbers of the _cornhill magazine_, and was remarkable alike for practical wisdom and the entire absence of traditional dogmatism, the writer speaks frankly in favor of night-work, "if you can work at all at night, one hour at that time is worth any two in the morning. the house is hushed, the brain is clear, the distracting influences of the day are at an end. you have not to disturb yourself with thoughts of what you are about to do, or what you are about to suffer. you know that there is a gulf between you and the affairs of the outside world, almost like the chasm of death; and that you need not take thought of the morrow until the morrow has come. there are few really great thoughts, such as the world will not willingly let die, that have not been conceived under the quiet stars." the medical objection to night-work in the case of literary men would probably be that the night is _too_ favorable to literary production. the author of the essay just quoted says that at night "you only drift into deeper silence _and quicker inspiration_. if the right mood is upon you, _you write on_; if not, your pillow awaits you." exactly so; that is to say, the brain, owing to the complete external tranquillity, can so concentrate its efforts on the subject in hand as to work itself up into a luminous condition which is fed by the most rapid destruction of the nervous substance that ever takes place within the walls of a human skull. "if the right mood is upon you, _you write on_;" in other words, if you have once well lighted your spirit-lamp, it will go on burning so long as any spirit is left in it, for the air is so tranquil that nothing comes to blow it out. you drift into deeper silence and "quicker inspiration." it is just this quicker inspiration that the physician dreads. against this objection may be placed the equally serious objection to day-work, that every interruption, when you are particularly anxious not to be interrupted, causes a definite loss and injury to the nervous system. the choice must therefore be made between two dangers, and if they are equally balanced there can be no hesitation, because all the _literary_ interests of an author are on the side of the most tranquil time. literary work is always sure to be much better done when there is no fear of disturbance than under the apprehension of it; and precisely the same amount of cerebral effort will produce, when the work is uninterrupted, not only better writing, but a much greater quantity of writing. the knowledge that he is working well and productively is an element of health to every workman because it encourages cheerful habits of mind. in the division of time it is an excellent rule for adults to keep it as much as possible _in large masses_, not giving a quarter of an hour to one occupation and a quarter to another, but giving three, four, or five hours to one thing at a time. in the case of children an opposite practice should be followed; they are able to change their attention from one subject to another much more easily than we can, whilst at the same time they cannot fix their minds for very long without cerebral fatigue leading to temporary incapacity. the custom prevalent in schools, of making the boys learn several different things in the course of the day, is therefore founded upon the necessities of the boy-nature, though most grown men would find that changes so frequent would, for them, have all the inconveniences of interruption. to boys they come as relief, to men as interruption. the reason is that the physical condition of the brain is different in the two cases; but in our loose way of talking about these things we may say that the boy's ideas are superficial, like the plates and dishes on the surface of a dinner-table, which may be rapidly changed without inconvenience, whereas the man's ideas, having all struck root down to the very depths of his nature, are more like the plants in a garden, which cannot be removed without a temporary loss both of vigor and of beauty, and the loss cannot be instantaneously repaired. for a man to do his work thoroughly well, it is necessary that he should dwell in it long enough at a time to get all the powers of his mind fully under command with reference to the particular work in hand, and he cannot do this without tuning his whole mind to the given diapason, as a tuner tunes a piano. some men can tune their minds more rapidly, as violins are tuned, and this faculty may to a certain extent be acquired by efforts of the will very frequently repeated. cuvier had this faculty in the most eminent degree. one of his biographers says: "his extreme facility for study, and of directing all the powers of his mind to diverse occupations of study, from one quarter of an hour to another, was one of the most extraordinary qualities of his mind." the duke of wellington also cultivated the habit (inestimably valuable to a public man) of directing the whole of his attention to the subject under consideration, however frequently that subject might happen to be changed. but although men of exceptional power and very exceptional flexibility may do this with apparent impunity, that still depends very much on the nature of the occupation. there are some occupations which are not incompatible with a fragmentary division of time, because these occupations are themselves fragmentary. for example, you may study languages in phrase-books during very small spaces of time, because the complete phrase is in itself a very small thing, but you could not so easily break and resume the thread of an elaborate argument. i suspect that though cuvier appeared to his contemporaries a man remarkably able to leave off and resume his work at will, he must have taken care to do work that would bear interruption at those times when he knew himself to be most liable to it. and although, when a man's time is unavoidably broken up into fragments, no talent of a merely auxiliary kind can be more precious than that of turning each of those fragments to advantage, it is still true that he whose time is at his own disposal will do his work most calmly, most deliberately, and therefore on the whole most thoroughly and perfectly, when he keeps it in fine masses. the mere knowledge that you have three or four clear hours before you is in itself a great help to the spirit of thoroughness, both in study and in production. it is agreeable too, when the sitting has come to an end, to perceive that a definite advance is the result of it, and advance in anything is scarcely perceptible in less than three or four hours. there are several pursuits which _cannot_ be followed in fragments of time, on account of the necessary preparations. it is useless to begin oil-painting unless you have full time to set your palette properly, to get your canvas into a proper state for working upon, to pose the model as you wish, and settle down to work with everything as it ought to be. in landscape-painting from nature you require the time to go to the selected place, and after your arrival to arrange your materials and shelter yourself from the sun. in scientific pursuits the preparations are usually at least equally elaborate, and often much more so. to prepare for an experiment, or for a dissection, takes time which we feel to be disproportionate when it leaves too little for the scientific work itself. it is for this reason more frequently than for any other that amateurs who begin in enthusiasm, so commonly, after a while, abandon the objects of their pursuit. there is a kind of slavery to which no really intellectual man would ever voluntarily submit, a minute obedience to the clock. very conscientious people often impose upon themselves this sort of slavery. a person who has hampered himself with rules of this kind will take up a certain book, for instance, when the clock strikes nine, and begin at yesterday's mark, perhaps in the middle of a paragraph. then he will read with great steadiness till a quarter-past nine, and exactly on the instant when the minute-hand gets opposite the dot, he will shut his book, however much the passage may happen to interest him. it was in allusion to good people of this kind that sir walter scott said he had never known a man of genius who could be perfectly regular in his habits, whilst he had known many blockheads who could. it is easy to see that a minute obedience to the clock is unintellectual in its very nature, for the intellect is not a piece of mechanism as a clock is, and cannot easily be made to act like one. there may be perfect correspondence between the locomotives and the clocks on a railway, for if the clocks are pieces of mechanism the locomotives are so likewise, but the intellect always needs a certain looseness and latitude as to time. very broad rules are the best, such as "write in the morning, read in the afternoon, see friends in the evening," or else "study one day and produce another, alternately," or even "work one week and see the world another week, alternately." there is a fretting habit, much recommended by men of business and of great use to them, of writing the evening before the duties of the day in a book of agenda. if this is done at all by intellectual men with reference to their pursuits, it ought to be done in a very broad, loose way, never minutely. an intellectual worker ought never to make it a matter of conscience (in intellectual labor) to do a predetermined quantity of little things. this sort of conscientiousness frets and worries, and is the enemy of all serenity of thought. footnotes: [ ] lewes's "life of goethe," book vii. chap. . [ ] the best employed time is that which one loses. part xi. _trades and professions._ letter i. to a young gentleman of ability and culture who had not decided about his profession. the church--felicities and advantages of the clerical profession--its elevated ideal--that it is favorable to noble studies--french priests and english clergymen--the professional point of view--difficulty of disinterested thinking--colored light--want of strict accuracy--quotation from a sermon--the drawback to the clerical life--provisional nature of intellectual conclusions--the legal profession--that it affords gratification to the intellectual powers--want of intellectual disinterestedness in lawyers--their absorption in professional life--anecdote of a london lawyer--superiority of lawyers in their sense of affairs--medicine--the study of it a fine preparation for the intellectual life--social rise of medical men coincident with the mental progress of communities--their probable future influence on education--the heroic side of their profession--the military and naval professions--bad effect of the privation of solitude--interruption--anecdote of cuvier--the fine arts--in what way they are favorable to thought--intellectual leisure of artists--reasoning artists--sciences included in the fine arts. it may be taken for granted that to a mind constituted as yours is, no profession will be satisfactory which does not afford free play to the intellectual powers. you might no doubt exercise resolution enough to bind yourself down to uncongenial work for a term of years, but it would be with the intention of retiring as soon as you had realized a competency. the happiest life is that which constantly exercises and educates what is best in us. you had thoughts, at one time, of the church, and the church would have suited you in many respects very happily, yet not, i think, in all respects. the clerical profession has many great felicities and advantages: it educates and develops, by its mild but regular discipline, much of our higher nature; it sets before us an elevated ideal, worth striving for at the cost of every sacrifice but one, of which i intend to say something farther on; and it offers just that mixture of public and private life which best affords the alternation of activity and rest. it is an existence in many respects most favorable to the noblest studies. it offers the happiest combination of duties that satisfy the conscience with leisure for the cultivation of the mind; it gives the easiest access to all classes of society, providing for the parson himself a neutral and independent position, so safe that he need only conduct himself properly to preserve it. how superior, from the intellectual point of view, is this liberal existence to the narrower one of a french _curé de campagne_! i certainly think that if a good _curé_ has an exceptional genius for sanctity, his chances of becoming a perfect saint are better than those of a comfortable english incumbent, who is at the same time a gentleman and man of the world, but he is not nearly so well situated for leading the intellectual life. our own clergy have a sort of middle position between the _curé_ and the layman, which without at all interfering with their spiritual vocation, makes them better judges of the character of laymen and more completely in sympathy with it. and yet, although the life of a clergyman is favorable to culture in many ways, it is not wholly favorable to it. there exists, in clerical thinking generally, just one restriction or impediment, which is the overwhelming importance of the professional point of view. of all the professions the ecclesiastical one is that which most decidedly and most constantly affects the judgment of persons and opinions. it is peculiarly difficult for a clergyman to attain disinterestedness in his thinking, to accept truth just as it may happen to present itself, without passionately desiring that one doctrine may turn out to be strong in evidence and another unsupported. and so we find the clergy, as a class, anxious rather to discover aids to faith, than the simple scientific truth; and the more the special priestly character develops itself, the more we find them disposed to use their intellects for the triumph of principles that are decided upon beforehand. sometimes this disposition leads them to see the acts of laymen in a colored light and to speak of them without strict accuracy. here is an example of what i mean. a jesuit priest preached a sermon in london very recently, in which he said that "in germany, france, italy, and england, gigantic efforts were being made to rob christian children of the blessing of a christian education." "herod, though dead," the preacher continued, "has left his mantle behind him; and i wish that the soldiers of herod in those countries would plunge their swords into the breasts of little children while they were innocent, rather than have their souls destroyed by means of an unchristian and uncatholic education." no doubt this is very earnest and sincere, but it is not accurate and just thinking. the laity in the countries the preacher mentioned have certainly a strong tendency to exclude theology from state schools, because it is so difficult for a modern state to impose any kind of theological teaching without injustice to minorities; but the laity do not desire to deprive children of whatever instruction may be given to them by the clergy of their respective communions. may i add, that to the mind of a layman it seems a sanguinary desire that all little children should have swords plunged into their breasts rather than be taught in schools not clerically directed? the exact truth is, that the powerful lay element is certainly separating itself from the ecclesiastical element all over europe, because it is found by experience that the two have a great and increasing difficulty in working harmoniously together, but the ecclesiastical element is detached and not destroyed. the quotation i have just made is in itself a sufficient illustration of that very peculiarity in the more exalted ecclesiastical temperament, which often makes it so difficult for priests and governments, in these times, to get on comfortably together. here is first a very inaccurate statement, and then an outburst of most passionate feeling, whereas the intellect desires the strictest truth and the most complete disinterestedness. as the temper of the laity becomes more and more intellectual (and that is the direction of its movement), the sacerdotal habit will become more and more remote from it. the clerical life has many strong attractions for the intellectual, and just one drawback to counterbalance them. it offers tranquillity, shelter from the interruptions and anxieties of the more active professions, and powerful means of influence ready to hand; but it is compatible with intellectual freedom and with the satisfaction of the conscience, only just so long as the priest really remains a believer in the details of his religion. now, although we may reasonably hope to retain the chief elements of our belief, although what a man believes at twenty-five is always what he will most probably believe at fifty, still, in an age when free inquiry is the common habit of cultivated people of our sex, we may well hesitate before taking upon ourselves any formal engagement for the future, especially in matters of detail. the intellectual spirit does not regard its conclusions as being at any time final, but always provisional; we hold what we believe to be the truth until we can replace it by some more perfect truth, but cannot tell how much of to-day's beliefs to-morrow will retain or reject. it may be observed, however, that the regular performance of priestly functions is in itself a great help to permanence in belief by connecting it closely with practical habit, so that the clergy do really and honestly often retain through life their hold on early beliefs which as laymen they might have lost. the profession of the law provides ample opportunities for a critical intellect with a strong love of accuracy and a robust capacity for hard work, besides which it is the best of worldly educations. some lawyers love their work as passionately as artists do theirs, others dislike it very heartily, most of them seem to take it as a simple business to be done for daily bread. lawyers whose heart is in their work are invariably men of superior ability, which proves that there is something in it that affords gratification to the intellectual powers. however, in speaking of lawyers, i feel ignorant and on the outside, because their profession is one of which the interior feelings can be known to no one who has not practised. one thing seems clear, they get the habit of employing the whole strength and energy of their minds for especial and temporary ends, the purpose being the service of the client, certainly not the revelation of pure truth. hence, although they become very acute, and keen judges of that side of human nature which they habitually see (not the best side), they are not more disinterested than clergymen.[ ] sometimes they take up some study outside of their profession and follow it disinterestedly, but this is rare. a busy lawyer is much more likely than a clergyman to become entirely absorbed in his professional life, because it requires so much more intellectual exertion. i remember asking a very clever lawyer who lived in london, whether he ever visited an exhibition of pictures, and he answered me by the counter-inquiry whether i had read chitty on contracts, collier on partnerships, taylor on evidence, cruse's digest, or smith's mercantile law? this seemed to me at the time a good instance of the way a professional habit may narrow one's views of things, for these law-books were written for lawyers alone, whilst the picture exhibitions were intended for the public generally. my friend's answer would have been more to the point if i had inquired whether he had read linton on colors, and burnet on chiaroscuro. there is just one situation in which we all may feel for a short time as lawyers feel habitually. suppose that two inexperienced players sit down to a game of chess, and that each is backed by a clever person who is constantly giving him hints. the two backers represent the lawyers, and the players represent their clients. there is not much disinterested thought in a situation of this kind, but there is a strong stimulus to acuteness. i think that lawyers are often superior to philosophers in their sense of what is relatively important in human affairs with reference to limited spaces of time, such as half a century. they especially know the enormous importance of custom, which the speculative mind very readily forgets, and they have in the highest degree that peculiar sense which fits men for dealing with others in the affairs of ordinary life. in this respect they are remarkably superior to clergymen, and superior also to artists and men of science. the profession of medicine is, of all fairly lucrative professions, the one best suited to the development of the intellectual life. having to deal continually with science, being constantly engaged in following and observing the operation of natural laws, it produces a sense of the working of those laws which prepares the mind for bold and original speculation, and a reliance upon their unfailing regularity, which gives it great firmness and assurance. a medical education is the best possible preparation for philosophical pursuits, because it gives them a solid basis in the ascertainable. the estimation in which these studies are held is an accurate meter of the intellectual advancement of a community. when the priest is reverenced as a being above ordinary humanity, and the physician slightly esteemed, the condition of society is sure to be that of comparative ignorance and barbarism; and it is one of several signs which indicate barbarian feeling in our own aristocracy, that it has a contempt for the study of medicine. the progress of society towards enlightenment is marked by the steady social rise of the surgeon and the physician, a rise which still continues, even in western europe. it is probable that before very long the medical profession will exercise a powerful influence upon general education, and take an active share in it. there are very strong reasons for the opinion that schoolmasters educated in medicine would be peculiarly well qualified to train both body and mind for a vigorous and active manhood. an immense advantage, even from the intellectual point of view, in the pursuit of medicine and surgery, is that they supply a discipline in mental heroism. other professions do this also, but not to the same degree. the combination of an accurate training in positive science with the habitual contempt of danger and contemplation of suffering and death, is the finest possible preparation for noble studies and arduous discoveries. i ought to add, however, that medical men in the provinces, when they have not any special enthusiasm for their work, seem peculiarly liable to the deadening influences of routine, and easily fall behind their age. the medical periodicals provide the best remedy for this. the military and naval professions are too active, and too much bound to obedience in their activity, for the highest intellectual pursuits; but their greatest evil in this respect is the continual privation of solitude, and the frequency of interruption. a soldier's life in the higher ranks, when there is great responsibility and the necessity for personal decision, undoubtedly leads to the most brilliant employment of the mental powers, and develops a manliness of character which is often of the greatest use in intellectual work; so that a man of science may find his force augmented, and better under control, for having passed through a military experience; but the life of barracks and camps is destructive to continuity of thinking. the incompatibility becomes strikingly manifest when we reflect how impossible it would have been for ney or massena to do the work of cuvier or comte. cuvier even declined to accompany the expedition to egypt, notwithstanding the prospects of advantage that it offered. the reason he gave for this refusal was, that he could do more for science in the tranquillity of the jardin des plantes. he was a strict economist of time, and dreaded the loss of it involved in following an army, even though his mission would have been purely scientific. how much more would cuvier have dreaded the interruptions of a really military existence! it is these interruptions, and not any want of natural ability, that are the true explanation of the intellectual poverty which characterizes the military profession. of all the liberal professions it is the least studious. let me say a word in conclusion about the practical pursuit of the fine arts. painters are often remarkable for pleasant conversational power, and a degree of intelligence strikingly superior to their literary culture. this is because the processes of their art can be followed, at least under certain circumstances, by the exercise of hand and eye, directed merely by artistic taste and experience, whilst the intellect is left free either for reflection or conversation. rubens liked to be read to when he painted; many artists like to hear people talk, and to take a share occasionally in the conversation. the truth is that artists, even when they work very assiduously, do in fact enjoy great spaces of intellectual leisure, and often profit by them. painting itself is also a fine discipline for some of the best faculties of the mind, though it is well known that the most gifted artists think least about their art. still there is a large class of painters, including many eminent ones, who _proceed intellectually_ in the execution of their works, who reason them out philosophically step by step, and exercise a continual criticism upon their manual labor as it goes forward. i find, as i know art and artists better, that this class is more numerous than is commonly suspected, and that the charming effects which we believe to be the result of pure inspiration have often been elaborately reasoned out like a problem in mathematics. we are very apt to forget that art includes a great science, the science of natural appearances, and that the technical work of painters and engravers cannot go forward safely without the profoundest knowledge of certain delicate materials, this being also a science, and a difficult one. the common tendency is to underrate (from ignorance) what is intellectual in the practice of the fine arts; and yet the artists of past times have left evidence enough that they thought about art, and thought deeply. artists are often illiterate; but it is possible to be at the same time illiterate and intellectual; as we see frequent examples of book-learning in people who have scarcely a single idea of their own. letter ii. to a young gentleman who had literary and artistic tastes, but no profession. the world only recognizes performance--uselessness of botch-work--vastness of the interval between botch-work and handicraft--delusions of the well-to-do--quotation from charles lever--indifference, and even contempt, for skill--moral contempt for skill--the contempt which comes from the pride of knowledge--intellectual value of skill and of professional discipline. it is not a graceful thing for me to say, nor pleasant for you to hear, that what you have done hitherto in art and literature is neither of any value in itself nor likely to lead you to that which is truly and permanently satisfying. i believe you have natural ability, though it would not be easy for any critic to measure its degree when it has never been developed by properly-directed work. most critics would probably err on the unfavorable side, for we are easily blind to powers that are little more than latent. to see anything encouraging in your present performance, it would need the sympathy and intelligence of the american sculptor greenough, of whom it was said that "his recognition was not limited to achievement, but extended to latent powers." the world, however, recognizes nothing short of performance, because the performance is what it needs, and promises are of no use to it. in this rough justice of the world there is a natural distribution of rewards. you will be paid, in fame and money, for all excellent work; and you will be paid, in money, though not in fame, for all work that is even simply good, provided it be of a kind that the world needs, or fancies that it needs. but you will never be paid at all for botch-work, neither in money nor in fame, nor by your own inward approval. for we all of us either know that our botch-work is worthless, or else have serious misgivings about it. that which is less commonly realized by those who have not undergone the test of professional labor is the vastness of the interval that separates botch-work from handicraft, and the difficulty of getting over it. "there are few delusions," charles lever said in "the bramleighs," "more common with well-to-do people than the belief that if 'put to it' they could earn their own livelihood in a variety of ways. almost every man has some two or three or more accomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support; and remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever been hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous dislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional, who, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own performance. augustus bramleigh was certainly not a conceited or a vain man, and yet he had often in his palmy days imagined how easy it would be for him to provide for his own support. he was something of a musician; he sang pleasingly; he drew a little; he knew something of three or four modern languages; he had that sort of smattering acquaintance with questions of religion, politics, and literature which the world calls being 'well-informed,' and yet nothing short of the grave necessity revealed to him that towards the object of securing a livelihood a cobbler in his bulk was out-and-out his master. the world has no need of the man of small acquirements, and would rather have its shoes mended by the veriest botch of a professional than by the cleverest amateur that ever studied a greek sandal." something of this illusion, which charles lever has touched so truly, may be due to a peculiarity of the english mind in its present (not quite satisfactory) stage of development, a peculiarity which i am not the first to point out, since it has been already indicated by mr. pointer, the distinguished artist; and i think that this peculiarity is to be found in very great force, perhaps in greater force than elsewhere, in that well-to-do english middle class in which you have been born and educated. it consists in a sort of indifference to skill of all kinds, which passes into something not very far from active contempt when a call is made for attention, recognition, admiration. the source of this feeling will probably be found in the inordinate respect for wealth, between which and highly developed personal skill, in anything, there is a certain antagonism or incompatibility. the men of real skill are almost always men who earn their living by their skill. the feeling of the middle-class capitalists concerning the skilful man may be expressed, not unjustly, as follows: "yes, he is very clever; he may well be clever--it is his trade; he gets his living by it." this is held to exonerate us from the burden of admiration, and there is not any serious interest in the achievements of human endeavor as evidence of the marvellous natural endowments and capabilities of the human organism. in some minds the indifference to skill is more active and grows into very real, though not openly expressed contempt. this contempt is partly moral. the skilful man always rejoices in his skill with a heaven-bestowed joy and delight--one of the purest and most divine pleasures given by god to man--an encouragement to labor, and a reward, the best reward, after his arduous apprenticeship. but there is a sour and severe spirit, hating all innocent pleasures, which despises the gladness of the skilful as so much personal vanity. there is also the contempt for skill which comes from the pride of knowledge. to attain skill _in_ anything a degree of application is necessary which absorbs more time than the acquisition of knowledge _about_ the thing, so that the remarkably skilful man is not likely to be the erudite man. there have been instances of men who possessed both skill and learning. the american sculptor greenough, and the english painter dyce, were at the same time both eminently skilful in their craft and eminently learned out of it; but the combination is very rare. therefore the possession of skill has come to be considered presumptive evidence of a want of general information. but the truth is that professional skill is knowledge tested and perfected by practical application, and therefore has a great intellectual value. professional life is to private individuals what active warfare is to a military state. it brings to light every deficiency, and reveals our truest needs. and therefore it seems to me a matter for regret that you should pass your existence in irresponsible privacy, and not have your attainments tested by the exigencies of some professional career. the discipline which such a career affords, and which no private resolution can ever adequately replace, may be all that is wanting to your development. letter iii. to a young gentleman who wished to devote himself to literature as a profession. byron's vexation at the idea of poetry being considered a profession--buffon could not bear to be called a naturalist--cuvier would not be called a hellenist--faraday's life not professional--the intellectual life frequently protected by professions outside of it--professional work ought to be plain business work--michelet's account of the incubation of a book--necessity for too great rapidity of production in professional literature--it does not pay to do your best--journalism and magazine-writing--illustration from a sister art--privilege of an author to be allowed to write little. do you remember how put out byron was when some reviewer spoke of wordsworth as being "at the head of the profession"? byron's vexation was not entirely due to jealousy of wordsworth, though that may have had something to do with it, nor was it due either to an aristocratic dislike of being in a "profession" himself, though this feeling may have had a certain influence; it was due to a proper sense of the dignity of the intellectual life. buffon could not bear to be called a "naturalist," and cuvier in the same way disliked the title of hellenist, because it sounded professional: he said that though he knew more greek than all the academy he was not a hellenist as gail was, because he did not live by greek. now, if this feeling had arisen merely from a dislike to having it supposed that one is obliged to earn his own living, it would have been a contemptibly vulgar sentiment, whoever professed it. nothing can be more honorable to a man than to earn his bread by honest industry of any kind, whether it be manual or intellectual, and still i feel with byron, and buffon, and cuvier, that the great instruments of the world's intellectual culture ought not to be, in the ordinary sense, professions. byron said that poetry, as he understood it, was "an art, an attribute," but not what is understood by a "profession." surely the same is true of all the highest intellectual work, in whatever kind. you could scarcely consider faraday's life to be what is commonly understood by a professional life. tyndall says that if faraday had chosen to employ his talents in analytical chemistry he might have realized a fortune of , _l._ now that would have been a professional existence; but the career which faraday chose (happily for science) was not professional, but intellectual. the distinction between the professional and the intellectual lives is perfectly clear in my own mind, and therefore i ought to be able to express it clearly. let me make the attempt. the purpose of a profession, of a profession pure and simple, is to turn knowledge and talent to pecuniary profit. on the other hand, the purpose of cultivated men, or men of genius, who work in an unprofessional spirit, is to increase knowledge, or make it more accurate, or else simply to give free exercise to high faculties which demand it. the distinction is so clear and trenchant that most intellectual men, whose private fortunes are not large, prefer to have a profession distinct from their higher intellectual work, in order to secure the perfect independence of the latter. mr. smiles, in his valuable book on "character," gives a list of eminent intellectual men who have pursued real professional avocations of various kinds separately from their literary or scientific activity, and he mentions an observation of gifford's which is much to my present purpose:--"gifford, the editor of the _quarterly_, who knew the drudgery of writing for a living, once observed that 'a single hour of composition, won from the business of the day, is worth more than the whole day's toil of him who works at the trade of literature: in the one case, the spirit comes joyfully to refresh itself, like a hart to the water-brooks; in the other, it pursues its miserable way, panting and jaded, with the dogs of hunger and necessity behind.'" so coleridge said that "three hours of leisure, unalloyed by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a change and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger product of what is truly genial than weeks of compulsion." coleridge's idea of a profession was, that it should be "some regular employment which could be carried on so far mechanically, that an average quantum only of health, spirits, and intellectual exertion are requisite to its faithful discharge." without in the least desiring to undervalue good professional work of any kind, i may observe that, to be truly professional, it ought to be always at command, and therefore that the average power of the man's intellect, not his rare flashes of highest intellectual illumination, ought to suffice for it. professional work ought always to be plain business work, requiring knowledge and skill, but not any effort of genius. for example, in medicine, it is professional work to prescribe a dose or amputate a limb, but not to discover the nervous system or the circulation of the blood. if literature paid sufficiently well to allow it, a literary man might very wisely consider _study_ to be his profession, and not production. he would then study regularly, say, six hours a day, and write when he had something to say, and really wanted to express it. his book, when it came out, would have had time to be properly hatched, and would probably have natural life in it. michelet says of one of his books: "cette oeuvre a du moins le caractère d'être venue comme vient toute vraie création vivante. elle s'est faite à la chaleur d'une douce incubation."[ ] it would be impossible, in so short a space, to give a more accurate description of the natural manner in which a book comes into existence. a book ought always to be "fait à la chaleur d'une douce incubation." but when you make a profession of literature this is what you can hardly ever get leave to do. literary men require to see something of the world; they can hardly be hermits, and the world cannot be seen without a constant running expenditure, which at the end of the year represents an income. men of culture and refinement really _cannot_ live like very poor people without deteriorating in refinement, and falling behind in knowledge of the world. when they are married, and have families, they can hardly let their families live differently from themselves; so that there are the usual expenses of the english professional classes to be met, and these are heavy when they have to be got out of the profits of literature. the consequence is, that if a book is to be written prudently it must be written quickly, and with the least amount of preparatory labor that can possibly be made to serve. this is very different from the "_douce incubation_" of michelet. goldsmith said of hack-writing, that it was difficult to imagine a combination more prejudicial to taste than that of the author whose interest it is to write as much as possible, and the bookseller, whose interest it is to pay as little as possible. the condition of authors has no doubt greatly improved since goldsmith's time, but still the fact remains that the most careful and finished writing, requiring extensive preparatory study, is a luxury in which the professional writer can only indulge himself at great risk. careful writing does, no doubt, occasionally pay for the time it costs; but such writing is more commonly done by men who are either independent by fortune, or who make themselves, as authors, independent by the pursuit of some other profession, than by regular men of letters whose whole income is derived from their inkstands. and when, by way of exception, the hack-writer does produce very highly-finished and concentrated work, based upon an elaborate foundation of hard study, that work is seldom professional in the strictest sense, but is a labor of love, outside the hasty journalism or magazine-writing that wins his daily bread. in cases of this kind it is clear that the best work is not done as a regular part of professional duty, and that the author might as well earn his bread in some other calling, if he still had the same amount of leisure for the composition of real literature. the fault i find with writing as a profession is that _it does not pay to do your best_. i don't mean to insinuate that downright slovenly or careless work is the most profitable; but i do mean to say that any high degree of conscientiousness, especially in the way of study and research, is a direct injury to the professional writer's purse. suppose, for example, that he is engaged in reviewing a book, and is to get _l._ _s._ for the review when it is written. if by the accident of previous accumulation his knowledge is already fully equal to the demand upon it, the review may be written rapidly, and the day's work will have been a profitable one; but if, on the other hand, it is necessary to consult several authorities, to make some laborious researches, then the reviewer is placed in a dilemma between literary thoroughness and duty to his family. he cannot spend a week in reading up a subject for the sum of _l._ _s._ is it not much easier to string together a few phrases which will effectually hide his ignorance from everybody but the half-dozen enthusiasts who have mastered the subject of the book? it is strange that the professional pursuit of literature should be a direct discouragement to study; yet it is so. there _are_ hack-writers who study, and they deserve much honor for doing so, since the temptations the other way are always so pressing and immediate. sainte-beuve was a true student, loving literature for its own sake, and preparing for his articles with a diligence rare in the profession. but he was scarcely a hack-writer, having a modest independency, and living besides with the quiet frugality of a bachelor. the truth seems to be that literature of the highest kind can only in the most exceptional cases be made a profession, yet that a skilful writer may use his pen professionally if he chooses. the production of the printed talk of the day _is_ a profession, requiring no more than average ability, and the tone and temper of ordinary educated men. the outcome of it is journalism and magazine-writing; and now let me say a word or two about these. the highest kind of journalism is very well done in england; the men who do it are often either highly educated, or richly gifted by nature, or both. the practice of journalism is useful to an author in giving him a degree of readiness and rapidity, a skill in turning his materials to immediate account, and a power of presenting one or two points effectively, which may often be valuable in literature of a more permanent order. the danger of it may be illustrated by a reference to a sister art. i was in the studio of an english landscape-painter when some pictures arrived from an artist in the country to go along with his own to one of the exhibitions. they were all very pretty and very clever--indeed, so clever were they, that their cleverness was almost offensive--and so long as they were looked at by themselves, the brilliance of them was rather dazzling. but the instant they were placed by the side of thoroughly careful and earnest work, it became strikingly evident that they had been painted hastily, and would be almost immediately exhausted by the purchaser. now these pictures were the _journalism of painting_; and my friend told me that when once an artist has got into the habit of doing hasty work like that, he seldom acquires better habits afterwards. professional writers who follow journalism for its immediate profits, are liable in like manner to retain the habit of diffuseness in literature which ought to be more finished and more concentrated. therefore, although journalism is a good teacher of promptitude and decision, it often spoils a hand for higher literature by incapacitating it for perfect finish; and it is better for a writer who has ambition to write little, _but always his best_, than to dilute himself in daily columns. one of the greatest privileges which an author can aspire to is _to be allowed to write little_, and that is a privilege which the professional writer does not enjoy except in such rare instances as that of tennyson, whose careful finish is as prudent in the professional sense as it is satisfactory to the scrupulous fastidiousness of the artist. letter iv. to an energetic and successful cotton manufacturer. two classes in their lower grades inevitably hostile--the spiritual and temporal powers--the functions of both not easily exercised by the same person--humboldt, faraday, livingstone--the difficulty about time--limits to the energy of the individual--jealousy between the classes--that this jealousy ought not to exist--some of the sciences based upon an industrial development--the work of the intellectual class absolutely necessary in a highly civilized community--that it grows in numbers and influence side by side with the industrial class. our last conversation together, in the privacy of your splendid new drawing-room after the guests had gone away and the music had ceased for the night, left me under the impression that we had not arrived at a perfect understanding of each other. this was due in a great measure to my unfortunate incapacity for expressing anything exactly by spoken words. the constant habit of writing, which permits a leisurely selection from one's ideas, is often very unfavorable to readiness in conversation. will you permit me, then, to go over the ground we traversed, this time in my own way, pen in hand? we represent, you and i, two classes which in their lower grades are inevitably hostile; but the superior members of these classes ought not to feel any hostility, since both are equally necessary to the world. we are, in truth, the spiritual and the temporal powers in their most modern form. the chief of industry and the man of letters stand to-day in the same relation to each other and to mankind as the baron and bishop of the middle ages. we are not recognized, either of us, by formally conferred titles, we are both held to be somewhat intrusive by the representatives of a former order of things, and there is, or was until very lately, a certain disposition to deny what we consider our natural rights; but we know that our powers are not to be resisted, and we have the inward assurance that the forces of nature are with us. this, with reference to the outer world. but there is a want of clearness in the relation between ourselves. you understand your great temporal function, which is the wise direction of the industry of masses, the accumulation and distribution of wealth; but you do not so clearly understand the spiritual function of the intellectual class, and you do not think of it quite justly. this want of understanding is called by some of us your philistinism. will you permit me to explain what the intellectual class thinks of you, and what is its opinion about itself? pray excuse any appearance of presumption on my part if i say we of the intellectual class and you of the industrial. my position is something like that of the clergyman who reads, "let him come to me or to some other learned and discreet minister of god's word," thereby calling himself learned and discreet. it is a simple matter of fact that i belong to the intellectual class, since i lead its life, just as it is a fact that you have a quarter of a million of money. first, i want to show that the existence of my class is necessary. although men in various occupations often acquire a considerable degree of culture outside their trade, the highest results of culture can scarcely ever be attained by men whose time is taken up in earning a fortune. every man has but a limited flow of mental energy per day; and if this is used up in an industrial leadership, he cannot do much more in the intellectual sphere than simply ascertain what has been done by others. now, although we have a certain respect, and the respect is just, for those who know what others have accomplished, it is clear that if no one did more than this, if no one made any fresh discoveries, the world would make no progress whatever; and in fact, if nobody ever had been dedicated to intellectual pursuits in preceding ages, the men who only learn what others have done, would in these days have had nothing to learn. past history proves the immensity of the debt which the world owes to men who gave their whole time and attention to intellectual pursuits; and if the existences of these men could be eliminated from the past of the human race, its present would be very different from what it is. a list has been published of men who have done much good work in the intervals of business, but still the fact remains that the great intellectual pioneers were absorbed and devoted men, scorning wealth so far as it affected themselves, and ready to endure everything for knowledge beyond the knowledge of their times. instances of such enthusiasm abound, an enthusiasm fully justified by the value of the results which it has achieved. when alexander humboldt sold his inheritance to have the means for his great journey in south america, and calmly dedicated the whole of a long life, and the strength of a robust constitution, to the advancement of natural knowledge, he acted foolishly indeed, if years, and strength, and fortune are given to us only to be well invested in view of money returns; but the world has profited by his decision. faraday gave up the whole of his time to discovery when he might have earned a large fortune by the judicious investment of his extraordinary skill in chemistry. livingstone has sacrificed everything to the pursuit of his great work in africa. lives such as these--and many resemble them in useful devotion of which we hear much less--are clearly not compatible with much money-getting. a decent existence, free from debt, is all that such men ought to be held answerable for. i have taken two or three leading instances, but there is quite a large class of intellectual people who cannot in the nature of things serve society effectively in their own way without being quite outside of the industrial life. there is a real incompatibility between some pursuits and others. i suspect that you would have been a good general, for you are a born leader and commander of men; but it would have been difficult to unite a regular military career with strict personal attention to your factories. we often find the same difficulty in our intellectual pursuits. we are not always quite so unpractical as you think we are; but the difficulty is how to find the time, and how to arrange it so as not to miss two or three distinct classes of opportunities. we are not all of us exactly imbeciles in money matters, though the pecuniary results of our labors seem no doubt pitiful enough. there is a tradition that a greek philosopher, who was suspected by the practical men of his day of incapacity for affairs, devoted a year to prove the contrary, and traded so judiciously that he amassed thereby great riches. it may be doubtful whether he could do it in one year, but many a fine intellectual capacity has overshadowed a fine practical capacity in the same head by the withdrawal of time and effort. it is because the energies of one man are so limited, and there is so little time in a single human life, that the intellectual and industrial functions must, _in their highest development_, be separated. no one man could unite in his own person your life and humboldt's, though it is possible that he might have the natural capacity for both. grant us, then, the liberty _not_ to earn very much money, and this being once granted, try to look upon our intellectual superiority as a simple natural fact, just as we look upon your pecuniary superiority. in saying in this plain way that we are intellectually superior to you and your class, i am guilty of no more pride and vanity than you when you affirm or display your wealth. the fact is there, in its simplicity. we have culture because we have paid the twenty or thirty years of labor which are the price of culture, just as you have great factories and estates which are the reward of your life's patient and intelligent endeavor. why should there be any narrow jealousy between us; why any contempt on the one side or the other? each has done his appointed work, each has caused to fructify the talent which the master gave. yet a certain jealousy _does_ exist, if not between you and me personally, at least between our classes. the men who have culture without wealth are jealous of the power and privileges of those who possess money without culture; and on the other hand, the men whose time has been too entirely absorbed by commercial pursuits to leave them any margin sufficient to do justice to their intellectual powers, are often painfully sensitive to the contempt of the cultivated, and strongly disposed, from jealousy, to undervalue culture itself. both are wrong so far as they indulge any unworthy and unreasonable feeling of this kind. the existence of the two classes is necessary to an advanced civilization. the science of accumulating and administrating material wealth, of which you yourself are a great practical master, is the foundation of the material prosperity of nations, and it is only when this prosperity is fully assured to great numbers that the arts and sciences can develop themselves in perfect liberty and with the tranquil assurance of their own permanence. the advancement of material well-being in modern states tends so directly to the advancement of intellectual pursuits, even when the makers of fortunes are themselves indifferent to this result, that it ought always to be a matter of congratulation for the intellectual class itself, which needs the support of a great public with leisure to read and think. it is easy to show how those arts and sciences which our class delights to cultivate are built upon those developments of industry which have been brought about by the energy of yours. suppose the case of a scientific chemist: the materials for his experiments are provided ready to his hand by the industrial class; the record of them is preserved on paper manufactured by the same industrial class; and the public which encourages him by its attention is usually found in great cities which are maintained by the labors of the same useful servants of humanity. it is possible, no doubt, in these modern times, that some purely pastoral or agricultural community might produce a great chemist, because a man of inborn scientific genius who came into the world in an agricultural country might in these days get his books and materials from industrial centres at a distance, but his work would still be based on the industrial life of others. no pastoral or agricultural community which was really isolated from industrial communities ever produced a chemist. and now consider how enormously important this one science of chemistry has proved itself even to our intellectual life! several other sciences have been either greatly strengthened or else altogether renewed by it, and the wonderful photographic processes have been for nature and the fine arts what printing was for literature, placing reliable and authentic materials for study within the reach of every one. literature itself has profited by the industrial progress of the present age, in the increased cheapness of everything that is material in books. i please myself with the reflection that even you make paper cheaper by manufacturing so much cotton. all these are reasons why we ought not to be jealous of you; and now permit me to indicate a few other reasons why it is unreasonable on your part to feel any jealousy of us. suppose we were to cease working to-morrow--cease working, i mean, in our peculiar ways--and all of us become colliers and factory operatives instead, with nobody to supply our places. or, since you may possibly be of opinion that there is enough literature and science in the world at the present day, suppose rather that at some preceding date the whole literary and scientific and artistic labor of the human race; had come suddenly to a standstill. mind, i do not say of englishmen merely, but of the whole race, for if any intellectual work had been done in france or germany, or even in japan, you would have imported it like cotton and foreign cereals. well, i have no hesitation in telling you that although there was a good deal of literature and science in england before the st of january, , the present condition of the nation would have been a very chaotic condition if the intellectual class had ceased on that day to think and observe and to place on record its thoughts and observations. the life of a progressive nation cannot long go forward exclusively on the thinking of the past: its thoughtful men must not be all dead men, but living men who accompany it on its course. it is they who make clear the lessons of experience; it is they who discover the reliable general laws upon which all safe action must be founded in the future; it is they who give decision to human action in every direction by constantly registering, in language of comprehensive accuracy, both its successes and its failures. it is their great and arduous labor which makes knowledge accessible to men of action at the cost of little effort and the smallest possible expenditure of time. the intellectual class grows in numbers and in influence along with the numbers and influence of the materially productive population of the state. and not only are the natural philosophers, the writers of contemporary and past history, the discoverers in science, _necessary_ in the strictest sense to the life of such a community as the modern english community, but even the poets, the novelists, the artists are necessary to the perfection of its life. without them and their work the national mind would be as incomplete as would be the natural universe without beauty. but this, perhaps, you will perceive less clearly, or be less willing to admit. letter v. to a young etonian who thought of becoming a cotton-spinner. absurd old prejudices against commerce--stigma attached to the great majority of occupations--traditions of feudalism--distinctions between one trade and another--a real instance of an etonian who had gone into the cotton-trade--observations on this case--the trade a fine field for energy--a poor one for intellectual culture--it develops practical ability--culture not possible without leisure--the founders of commercial fortunes. it is agreeable to see various indications that the absurd old prejudices against commerce are certainly declining. there still remains quite enough contempt for trade in the professional classes and the aristocracy, to give us frequent opportunities for studying it as a relic of former superstition, unhappily not yet rare enough to be quite a curiosity; but as time passes and people become more rational, it will retreat to out-of-the-way corners of old country mansions and rural parsonages, at a safe distance from the light-giving centres of industry. it is a surprising fact, and one which proves the almost pathetic spirit of deference and submission to superiors which characterizes the english people, that out of the hundreds of occupations which are followed by the busy classes of this country, only three are entirely free from some degrading stigma, so that they may be followed by a high-born youth without any sacrifice of caste. the wonder is that the great active majority of the nation, the men who by their industry and intelligence have made england what she is, should ever have been willing to submit to so insolent a rule as this rule of caste, which, instead of honoring industry, honored idleness, and attached a stigma to the most useful and important trades. the landowner, the soldier, the priest, these three were pure from every stain of degradation, and only these three were quite absolutely and ethereally pure. next to them came the lawyer and the physician, on whom there rested some traces of the lower earth; so that although the youthful baron would fight or preach, he would neither plead nor heal. and after these came the lower professions and the innumerable trades, all marked with stigmas of deeper and deeper degradation. from the intellectual point of view these prejudices indicate a state of society in which public opinion has not emerged from barbarism. it understands the strength of the feudal chief having land, with serfs or voters on the land; it knows the uses of the sword, and it dreads the menaces of the priesthood. beyond this it knows little, and despises what it does not understand. it is ignorant of science, and industry, and art; it despises them as servile occupations beneath its conception of the gentleman. this is the tradition of countries which retain the impressions of feudalism; but notwithstanding all our philosophy, it is difficult for us to avoid some feeling of astonishment when we reflect that the public opinion of england--a country that owes so much of her greatness and nearly all her wealth to commercial enterprise--should be contemptuous towards commerce. i may notice, in passing, a very curious form of this narrowness. trade is despised, but distinctions are established between one trade and another. a man who sells wine is considered more of a gentleman than a man who sells figs and raisins; and i believe you will find, if you observe people carefully, that a woollen manufacturer is thought to be a shade less vulgar than a cotton manufacturer. these distinctions are seldom based on reason, for the work of commerce is generally very much the same sort of work, mentally, whatever may be the materials it deals in. you may be heartily congratulated on the strength of mind, firmness of resolution, and superiority to prejudice, which have led you to choose the business of a cotton-spinner. it is an excellent business, and, in itself, every whit as honorable as dealing in corn and cattle, which our nobles do habitually without reproach. but now that i have disclaimed any participation in the stupid narrowness which despises trade in general, and the cotton-trade in particular, let me add a few words upon the effects of the cotton business on the mind. there appeared in one of the newspapers a little time since a most interesting and evidently genuine letter from an etonian, who had actually entered business in a cotton factory, and devoted himself to it so as to earn the confidence of his employers and a salary of _l_. a year as manager. he had waited some time uselessly for a diplomatic appointment which did not arrive, and so, rather than lose the best years of early manhood, as a more indolent fellow would have done very willingly, in pure idleness, he took the resolution of entering business, and carried out his determination with admirable persistence. at first nobody would believe that the "swell" could be serious; people thought that his idea of manufacturing was a mere freak, and expected him to abandon it when he had to face the tedium of the daily work; but the swell _was_ serious--went to the mill at six in the morning and stayed there till six at night, from monday till saturday inclusive. after a year of this, his new companions believed in him. now, all this is very admirable indeed as a manifestation of energy, and that truest independence which looks to fortune as the reward of its own manly effort, but it may be permitted to me to make a few observations on this young gentleman's resolve. what he did seems to me rather the act of an energetic nature seeking an outlet for energy, than of an intellectual nature seeking pasture and exercise for the intellect. i am far indeed from desiring, by this comparison, to cast any disparaging light on the young gentleman's natural endowments, which appear to have been valuable in their order and robust in their degree, nor do i question the wisdom of his choice; all i mean to imply is, that although he had chosen a fine large field for simple energy, it was a poor and barren field for the intellect to pasture in. consider for one moment the difference in this respect between the career which he had abandoned and the trade he had embraced. as an _attaché_ he would have lived in capital cities, have had the best opportunities for perfecting himself in modern languages, and for meeting the most varied and the most interesting society. in every day there would have been precious hours of leisure, to be employed in the increase of his culture. if an intellectual man, having to choose between diplomacy and cotton-spinning, preferred cotton-spinning it would be from the desire for wealth, or from the love of an english home. the life of a cotton manufacturer, who personally attends to his business with that close supervision which has generally conducted to success, leaves scarcely any margin for intellectual pleasure or spare energy for intellectual work. after ten hours in the mill, it is difficult to sit down and study; and even if there were energy enough, the mind would not readily cast off the burden of great practical anxieties and responsibilities so as to attune itself to disinterested thinking. the leaders of industry often display mental power of as high an order as that which is employed in the government of great empires; they show the highest administrative ability, they have to deal continually with financial questions which on their smaller scale require as much forethought and acumen as those that concern the exchequer; but the ability they need is always strictly practical, and there is the widest difference between the practical and the intellectual minds. a constant and close pressure of practical considerations develops the sort of power which deals effectually with the present and its needs but atrophies the higher mind. the two minds which we call intelligence and intellect resemble the feet and wings of birds. eagles and swallows walk badly or not at all, but they have a marvellous strength of flight; ostriches are great pedestrians, but they know nothing of the regions of the air. the best that can be hoped for men immersed in the details of business is that they may be able, like partridges and pheasants, to take a short flight on an emergency, and rise, if only for a few minutes, above the level of the stubble and the copse. without, therefore, desiring to imply any prejudiced contempt for trade, i do desire to urge the consideration of its inevitable effects upon the mind. for men of great practical intelligence and abundant energy, trade is all-sufficing, but it could never entirely satisfy an intellectual nature. and although there is drudgery in every pursuit, for even literature and painting are full of it, still there are certain kinds of drudgery which intellectual natures find to be harder to endure than others. the drudgery which they bear least easily is an incessant attention to duties which have no intellectual interest, and yet which cannot be properly performed mechanically so as to leave the mind at liberty for its own speculations. deep thinkers are notoriously absent, for thought requires abstraction from what surrounds us, and it is hard for them to be denied the liberty of dreaming. an intellectual person might be happy as a stone-breaker on the roadside, because the work would leave his mind at liberty; but he would certainly be miserable as an engine-driver at a coal-pit shaft, where the abstraction of an instant would imperil the lives of others. in a recent address delivered by mr. gladstone at liverpool, he acknowledged the neglect of culture which is one of the shortcomings of our trading community, and held out the hope (perhaps in some degree illusory) that the same persons might become eminent in commerce and in learning. no doubt there have been instances of this; and when a "concern" has been firmly established by the energy of a predecessor, the heir to it may be satisfied with a royal sort of supervision, leaving the drudgery of detail to his managers, and so secure for himself that sufficient leisure without which high culture is not possible. but the _founders_ of great commercial fortunes have, i believe, in every instance thrown their _whole_ energy into their trade, making wealth their aim, and leaving culture to be added in another generation. the founders of commercial families are in this country usually men of great mother-wit and plenty of determination--but illiterate. footnotes: [ ] the word "disinterested" is used here in the sense explained in part ii. letter iii. [ ] "this work has at any rate the character of having come into the world like every really living creation. it has been produced by the heat of a gentle incubation." part xii. _surroundings._ letter i. to a friend who often changed his place of residence. an unsettled class of english people--effect of localities on the mind--reaction against surroundings--landscape-painting a consequence of it--crushing effect of too much natural magnificence--the mind takes color from its surroundings--selection of a place of residence--charles dickens--heinrich heine--dr. arnold at rugby--his house in the lake district--tycho brahe--his establishment on the island of hween--the young humboldts in the castle of tegel--alexander humboldt's appreciation of paris--dr. johnson--mr. buckle--cowper--galileo. i find that there is a whole class of english subjects (you belong to that class) of whom it is utterly impossible to predict where they will be living in five years. indeed, as you are the worst of correspondents, i only learned your present address, by sheer accident, from a perfect stranger, and he told me, of course, that you had plans for going somewhere else, but where that might be he knew not. the civilized english nomad is usually, like yourself, a person of independent means, rich enough to bear the expenses of frequent removals, but without the cares of property. his money is safely invested in the funds, or in railways; and so, wherever the postman can bring his dividends, he can live in freedom from material cares. when his wife is as unsettled as himself, the pair seem to live in a balloon, or in a sort of noah's ark, which goes whither the wind lists, and takes ground in the most unexpected places. have you ever studied the effect of localities on the mind--on your own mind? that which we are is due in great part to the accident of our surroundings, which act upon us in one or two quite opposite ways. either we feel in harmony with them, in which case they produce a positive effect upon us, or else we are out of harmony, and then they drive us into the strangest reactions. a great ugly english town, like manchester, for instance, makes some men such thorough townsmen that they cannot live without smoky chimneys; or it fills the souls of others with such a passionate longing for beautiful scenery and rustic retirement, that they find it absolutely necessary to bury themselves from time to time in the recesses of picturesque mountains. the development of modern landscape-painting has not been due to habits of rural existence, but to the growth of very big and hideous modern cities, which made men long for shady forests, and pure streams, and magnificent spectacles of sunset, and dawn, and moonlight. it is by this time a trite observation that people who have always lived in beautiful scenery do not, and cannot, appreciate it; that too much natural magnificence positively crushes the activity of the intellect and that its best effect is simply that of refreshment for people who have not access to it every day. it happens too, in a converse way, that rustics and mountaineers have the strongest appreciation of the advantages of great cities, and thrive in them often more happily than citizens who are born in the brick streets. those who have great facilities for changing their place of residence ought always to bear in mind that every locality is like a dyer's vat, and that the residents take its color, or some other color, from it just as the clothes do that the dyer steeps in stain. if you look back upon your past life, you will assuredly admit that every place has colored your mental habits; and that although other tints from other places have supervened, so that it may be difficult to say precisely what remains of the place you lived in many years ago, still something does remain, like the effect of the first painting on a picture, which tells on the whole work permanently, though it may have been covered over and over again by what painters call scumblings and glazings. the selection of a place of residence, even though we only intend to pass a few short years in it, is from the intellectual point of view a matter so important that one can hardly exaggerate its consequences. we see this quite plainly in the case of authors, whose minds are more visible to us than the minds of other men, and therefore more easily and conveniently studied. we need no biographer to inform us that dickens was a londoner, that browning had lived in italy, that ruskin had passed many seasons in switzerland and venice. suppose for one moment that these three authors had been born in ireland, and had never quitted it, is it not certain that their production would have been different? let us carry our supposition farther still, and conceive, if we can, the difference to their literary performance if they had been born, not in ireland, but in iceland, and lived there all their lives! is it not highly probable that in this case their production would have been so starved and impoverished from insufficiency of material and of suggestion, that they would have uttered nothing but some simple expression of sentiment and imagination, some homely song or tale? all sights and sounds have their influence on our temper and on our thoughts, and our inmost being is not the same in one place as in another. we are like blank paper that takes a tint by reflection from what is nearest, and changes it as its surroundings change. in a dull gray room, how gray and dull it looks! but it will be bathed in rose or amber if the hangings are crimson or yellow. there are natures that go to the streams of life in great cities as the heart goes to the water-brooks; there are other natures that need the solitude of primæval forests and the silence of the alps. the most popular of english novelists sometimes went to write in the tranquillity of beautiful scenery, taking his manuscript to the shore of some azure lake in switzerland, in sight of the eternal snow; but all that beauty and peace, all that sweetness of pure air and color, were not seductive enough to overcome for many days the deep longing for the london streets. his genius needed the streets, as a bee needs the summer flowers, and languished when long separated from them. others have needed the wild heather, or the murmur of the ocean, or the sound of autumn winds that strip great forest-trees. who does not deeply pity poor heine in his last sad years, when he lay fixed on his couch of pain in that narrow parisian lodging, and compared it to the sounding grave of merlin the enchanter, "which is situated in the wood of brozeliande, in brittany, under lofty oaks whose tops taper, like emerald flames, towards heaven. o brother merlin," he exclaims, and with what touching pathos! "o brother merlin, i envy thee those trees, with their fresh breezes, for never a green leaf rustles about this mattress-grave of mine in paris, where from morning till night i hear nothing but the rattle of wheels, the clatter of hammers, street-brawls, and the jingling of pianofortes!" in the biography of dr. arnold, his longing for natural beauty recurs as one of the peculiarities of his constitution. he did not need very grand scenery, though he enjoyed it deeply, but some wild natural loveliness was such a necessity for him that he pined for it unhappily in its absence. rugby could offer him scarcely anything of this, "we have no hills," he lamented, "no plains--not a single wood, and but one single copse; no heath, no down, no rock, no river, no clear stream--scarcely any flowers, for the lias is particularly poor in them--nothing but one endless monotony of enclosed fields and hedgerow trees. this is to me a daily privation; it robs me of what is naturally my anti-attrition; and as i grow older i begin to feel it.... the positive dulness of the country about rugby makes it to me a mere working-place: i cannot expatiate there even in my walks." "the monotonous character of the midland scenery of warwickshire," says dr. arnold's biographer, "was to him, with his strong love of natural beauty and variety, absolutely repulsive; there was something almost touching in the eagerness with which, amidst that 'endless succession of fields and hedgerows,' he would make the most of any features of a higher order; in the pleasure with which he would cherish the few places where the current of the avon was perceptible, or where a glimpse of the horizon could be discerned; in the humorous despair with which he would gaze on the dull expanse of fields eastward from rugby. it is no wonder we do not like looking that way, when one considers that there is nothing fine between us and the ural mountains. conceive what you look over; for you just miss sweden, and look over holland, the north of germany, and the centre of russia."[ ] this dreadful midland monotony impelled dr. arnold to seek refreshment and compensation in a holiday home in the lake district, and there he found all that his eyes longed for, streams, hills, woods, and wild-flowers. nor had his belief in the value of these sweet natural surroundings been illusory; such instincts are not given for our betrayal, and the soul of a wise man knows its own needs, both before they are supplied, and after. westmorland gave him all he had hoped from it, and more. "body and mind," he wrote, "alike seem to repose greedily in delicious quiet, without dulness, which we enjoy in westmorland." and again: "at allan bank, in the summer, i worked on the roman history, and hope to do so again in the winter. it is very inspiring to write with such a view before one's eyes as that from our drawing-room at allan bank, where the trees of the shrubbery gradually run up into the trees of the cliff, and the mountain-side, with its infinite variety of rocky peaks and points upon which the cattle expatiate, rises over the tops of the trees." of all happily-situated mental laborers who have worked since the days of horace, surely tycho brahe was the happiest and most to be envied. king frederick of denmark gave him a delightful island for his habitation, large enough for him not to feel imprisoned (the circumference being about five miles), yet little enough for him to feel as snugly at home there as mr. waterton in his high-walled park. the land was fertile and rich in game, so that the scientific robinson crusoe lived in material abundance; and as he was only about seven miles from copenhagen, he could procure everything necessary to his convenience. he built a great house on the elevated land in the midst of the isle, about three-quarters of a mile from the sea, a palace of art and science, with statues and paintings and all the apparatus which the ingenuity of that age could contrive for the advancement of astronomical pursuits. uniting the case of a rich nobleman's existence with every aid to science, including special erections for his instruments, and a printing establishment that worked under his own immediate direction, he lived far enough from the capital to enjoy the most perfect tranquillity, yet near enough to escape the consequences of too absolute isolation. aided in all he undertook by a staff of assistants that he himself had trained, supported in his labor by the encouragement of his sovereign, and especially by his own unflagging interest in scientific investigation, he led in that peaceful island the ideal intellectual life. of that mansion where he labored, of the observatory where he watched the celestial phenomena, surrounded but not disturbed by the waves of a shallow sea, there remains at this day literally not one stone upon another; but many a less fortunate laborer in the same field, harassed by poverty, distracted by noise and interruption, has remembered with pardonable envy the splendid peace of uranienborg. it was one of the many fortunate circumstances in the position of the two humboldts that they passed their youth in the quiet old castle of tegel, separated from berlin by a pine-wood, and surrounded by walks and gardens. they too, like tycho brahe, enjoyed that happy combination of tranquillity with the neighborhood of a capital city which is so peculiarly favorable to culture. in later life, when alexander humboldt had collected those immense masses of material which were the result of his travels in south america, he warmly appreciated the unequalled advantages of paris. he knew how to extract from the solitudes of primæval nature what he wanted for the enrichment of his mind; but he knew also how to avail himself of all the assistance and opportunities which are only to be had in great capitals. he was not attracted to town-life, like dr. johnson and mr. buckle, to the exclusion of wild nature; but neither, on the other hand, had he that horror of towns which was a morbid defect in cowper, and which condemns those who suffer from it to rusticity. even galileo, who thought the country especially favorable to speculative intellects, and the walls of cities an imprisonment for them, declared that the best years of his life were those he had spent in padua. letter ii. to a friend who maintained that surroundings were a matter of indifference to a thoroughly occupied mind. archimedes at the siege of syracuse--geoffroy st. hilaire in the besieged city of alexandria--goethe at the bombardment of verdun--lullo, the oriental missionary--giordano bruno--unacknowledged effect of surroundings--effect of frankfort on goethe--great capitals--goethe--his garden-house--what he said about béranger and paris--fortunate surroundings of titian. there are so many well-known instances of men who have been able to continue their intellectual labors under the most unfavorable conditions, that your argument might be powerfully supported by an appeal to actual experience. there is archimedes, of course, to begin with, who certainly seems to have abstracted himself sufficiently from the tumult of a great siege to forget it altogether when occupied with his mathematical problems. the prevalent stories of his death, though not identical, point evidently to a habit of abstraction which had been remarked as a peculiarity by those about him, and it is probable enough that a great inventor in engineering would follow his usual speculations under circumstances which, though dangerous, had lasted long enough to become habitual. even modern warfare, which from the use of gunpowder is so much noisier than that which raged at syracuse, does not hinder men from thinking and writing when they are used to it. geoffrey st. hilaire never worked more steadily and regularly in his whole life than he did in the midst of the besieged city of alexandria. "knowledge is so sweet," he said long afterwards, in speaking of this experience, "that it never entered my thoughts how a bombshell might in an instant have cast into the abyss both me and my documents." by good luck two electric fish had been caught and given to him just then, so he immediately began to make experiments, as if he had been in his own cabinet in paris, and for three weeks he thought of nothing else, utterly forgetting the fierce warfare that filled the air with thunder and flame, and the streets with victims. he had sixty-four hypotheses to amuse him, and it was necessary to review his whole scientific acquirement with reference to each of these as he considered them one by one. it may be doubted, however, whether he was more in danger from the bombardment or from the intensity of his own mental concentration. he grew thin and haggard, slept one hour in the twenty-four, and lived in a perilous condition of nervous strain and excitement. goethe at the bombardment of verdun, letting his mind take its own course, found that it did not occupy itself with tragedies, or with anything suggested by what was passing in the conflict around him, but by scientific considerations about the phenomena of colors. he noticed, in a passing observation, the bad effect of war upon the mind, how it makes people destructive one day and creative the next, how it accustoms them to phases intended to excite hope in desperate circumstances, thus producing a peculiar sort of hypocrisy different from the priestly and courtly kind. this is the extent of his interest in the war; but when he finds some soldiers fishing he is attracted to the spot and profoundly occupied--not with the soldiers, but with the optical phenomena on the water. he was never very much moved by external events, nor did he take that intense interest in the politics of the day which we often find in people less studious of literature and science. raimond lullo, the oriental missionary, continued to write many volumes in the midst of the most continual difficulties and dangers, preserving as much mental energy and clearness as if he had been safe and tranquil in a library. giordano bruno worked constantly also in the midst of political troubles and religious persecutions, and his biographer tells us that "il desiderio vivissimo della scienza aveva ben più efficacia sull' animo del bruno, che non gli avvenimenti esterni." these examples which have just occurred to me, and many others that it would be easy to collect, may be taken to prove at least so much as this, that it is possible to be absorbed in private studies when surrounded by the most disturbing influences; but even in these cases it would be a mistake to conclude that the surroundings had no effect whatever. there can be no doubt that geoffroy st. hilaire was intensely excited by the siege of alexandria, though he may not have attributed his excitement to that cause. his mind was occupied with the electrical fishes, but his nervous system was wrought upon by the siege, and kept in that state of tension which at the same time enabled him to get through a gigantic piece of intellectual labor and made him incapable of rest. had this condition been prolonged it must have terminated either in exhaustion or in madness. men have often engaged in literature or science to escape the pressure of anxiety, which strenuous mental labor permits us, at least temporarily, to forget; but the circumstances which surround us have invariably an influence of some kind upon our thinking, though the connection may not be obvious. even in the case of goethe, who could study optics on a battle-field, his english biographer recognizes the effect of the frankfort life which surrounded the great author in his childhood. "the old frankfort city, with its busy crowds, its fairs, its mixed population, and its many sources of excitement, offered great temptations and great pasture to so desultory a genius. this is perhaps a case wherein circumstances may be seen influencing the direction of character.... a large continuity of thought and effort was perhaps radically uncongenial to such a temperament; yet one cannot help speculating whether under other circumstances he might not have achieved it. had he been reared in a quiet little old german town, where he would have daily seen the same faces in the silent streets, and come in contact with the same characters, his culture might have been less various, but it might perhaps have been deeper. had he been reared in the country, with only the changing seasons and the sweet serenities of nature to occupy his attention when released from study, he would certainly have been a different poet. the long summer afternoons spent in lonely rambles, the deepening twilights filled with shadowy visions, the slow uniformity of his external life necessarily throwing him more and more upon the subtler diversities of inward experience, would inevitably have influenced his genius in quite different directions, would have animated his works with a very different spirit." we are sometimes told that life in a great capital is essential to the development of genius, but frankfort was the largest town goethe ever lived in, and he never visited either paris or london. much of the sanity of his genius may have been due to his residence in so tranquil a place as weimar, where he could shut himself up in his "garden-house" and lock all the gates of the bridge over the ilm. "the solitude," says mr. lewes, "is absolute, broken only by the occasional sound of the church clock, the music from the barracks, and the screaming of the peacocks spreading their superb beauty in the park." few men of genius have been happier in their surroundings than goethe. he had tranquillity, and yet was not deprived of intellectual intercourse; the scenery within excursion-distance from his home was interesting and even inspiring, yet not so splendid as to be overwhelming. we know from his conversations that he was quite aware of the value of those little centres of culture to germany, and yet in one place he speaks of béranger in the tone which seems to imply an appreciation of the larger life of paris. "fancy," he says, "this same béranger away from paris, and the influence and opportunities of a world-city, born as the son of a poor tailor, at jena or weimar; let him run his wretched career in either of the two small cities, and see what fruit would have grown on such a soil and in such an atmosphere." we cannot too frequently be reminded that we are nothing of ourselves, and by ourselves, and are only something by the place we hold in the intellectual chain of humanity by which electricity is conveyed to us and through us--to be increased in the transmission if we have great natural power and are favorably situated, but not otherwise. a child is born to the vecelli family at cadore, and when it is nine years old is taken to venice and placed under the tuition of sebastian zuccato. afterwards he goes to bellini's school, and there gets acquainted with another student, one year his junior, whose name is barbarelli. they live together and work together in venice; then young barbarelli (known to posterity as giorgione), after putting on certain spaces of wall and squares of canvas such color as the world had never before seen, dies in his early manhood and leaves vecellio, whom we call titian, to work on there in venice till the plague stays his hand in his hundredth year. the genius came into the world, but all the possibilities of his development depended upon the place and the time. he came exactly in the right place and precisely at the right time. to be born not far from venice in the days of bellini, to be taken there at nine years old, to have giorgione for one's comrade, all this was as fortunate for an artistic career as the circumstances of alexander of macedon were for a career of conquest. letter iii. to an artist who was fitting up a magnificent new studio. pleasure of planning a studio--opinions of an outsider--saint bernard--father ravignan--goethe's study and bed-room--gustave doré's studio--leslie's painting-room--turner's opinion--habits of scott and dickens--extremes good--vulgar mediocrity not so good--value of beautiful views to literary men--montaigne--views from the author's windows. nothing in the life of an artist is more agreeable than the building and furnishing of the studio in which he hopes to produce his most mature and perfect work. it is so pleasant to labor when we are surrounded by beauty and convenience, that painters find a large and handsome studio to be an addition to the happiness of their lives, and they usually dream of it, and plan it, several years before the dream is realized. only a few days ago i was talking on this very subject with an intellectual friend who is not an artist, and who maintained that the love of fine studios is in great part a mere illusion. he admitted the necessity for size, and for a proper kind of light, but laughed at carved oak, and tapestry, and armor, and the knicknacks that artists encumber themselves with. he would have it that a mind thoroughly occupied with its own business knew nothing whatever of the objects that surrounded it, and he cited two examples--saint bernard, who travelled all day by the shore of lake leman without seeing it, and the _père_ ravignan, who worked in a bare little room with a common table of blackened pine and a cheap rush-bottomed chair. on this i translated to him, from goethe's life by lewes, a passage which was new to him and delighted him as a confirmation of his theory. the biographer describes the poet's study as "a low-roofed narrow room, somewhat dark, for it is lighted only through two tiny windows, and furnished with a simplicity quite touching to behold. in the centre stands a plain oval table of unpolished oak. no arm-chair is to be seen, no sofa, nothing which speaks of ease. a plain hard chair has beside it the basket in which he used to place his handkerchief. against the wall, on the right, is a long pear-tree table, with bookshelves, on which stand lexicons and manuals.... on the side-wall again, a bookcase with some works of poets. on the wall to the left is a long desk of soft wood, at which he was wont to write. a sheet of paper with notes of contemporary history is fastened near the door. the same door leads into a bed-room, if bed-room it can be called, which no maid-of-all-work in england would accept without a murmur: it is a closet with a window. a simple bed, an armchair by its side, and a tiny washing-table with a small white basin on it, and a sponge, is all the furniture. to enter this room with any feeling for the greatness and goodness of him who slept here, and who here slept his last sleep, brings tears into our eyes, and makes the breathing deep." when i had finished reading this passage, my friend exclaimed triumphantly, "there! don't you see that it was just because goethe had imaginative power of a strong and active kind that he cared nothing about what surrounded him when he worked? he had statues and pictures to occupy his mind when it was disengaged, but when he wrote he preferred that bare little cell where nothing was to be seen that could distract his attention for an instant. depend upon it, goethe acted in this matter either from a deliberate and most wise calculation, or else from the sure instinct of genius." whilst we were on this subject i thought over other instances, and remembered my surprise on visiting gustave doré in his painting-room in paris. doré has a gothic exuberance of imagination, so i expected a painting-room something like victor hugo's house, rather barbarous, but very rich and interesting, with plenty of carved cabinets, and tapestry, and _biblos_, as they call picturesque curiosities in paris. to my surprise, there was nothing (except canvases and easels) but a small deal table, on which tubes of oil-color were thrown in disorder, and two cheap chairs. here, evidently, the pleasure of painting was sufficient to occupy the artist; and in the room where he made his illustrations the characteristics were simplicity and good practical arrangements for order, but there was nothing to amuse the imagination. mr. leslie used to paint in a room which was just like any other in the house, and had none of the peculiarities of a studio. turner did not care in the least what sort of a room he painted in, provided it had a door, and a bolt on the inside. scott could write anywhere, even in the family sitting-room, with talk going forward as usual; and after he had finished abbotsford, he did not write in any of its rich and noble rooms, but in a simple closet with book-shelves round it. dickens wrote in a comfortable room, well lighted and cheerful, and he liked to have funny little bronzes on his writing-table. the best way appears to be to surround ourselves, whenever it can be conveniently done, with whatever we know by experience to be favorable to our work. i think the barest cell monk ever prayed in would be a good place for imaginative composition, and so too would be the most magnificent rooms in chatsworth or blenheim. a middling sort of place with a philistine character, vulgar upholstery, and vulgar pictures or engravings, is really dangerous, because these things often attract attention in the intervals of labor and occupy it in a mean way. an artist is always the better for having something that may profitably amuse and occupy his eye when he quits his picture, and i think it is a right instinct which leads artists to surround themselves with many picturesque and beautiful things, not too orderly in their arrangement, so that there may be pleasant surprises for the eye, as there are in nature. for literary men there is nothing so valuable as a window with a cheerful and beautiful prospect. it is good for us to have this refreshment for the eye when we leave off working, and montaigne did wisely to have his study up in a tower from which he had extensive views. there is a well-known objection to extensive views, as wanting in snugness and comfort, but this objection scarcely applies to the especial case of literary men. what we want is not so much snugness as relief, refreshment, suggestion, and we get these, as a general rule, much better from wide prospects than from limited ones. i have just alluded to montaigne,--will you permit me to imitate that dear old philosopher in his egotism and describe to you the view from the room i write in, which cheers and amuses me continually? but before describing this let me describe another of which the recollection is very dear to me and as vivid as a freshly-painted picture. in years gone by, i had only to look up from my desk and see a noble loch in its inexhaustible loveliness, and a mountain in its majesty. it was a daily and hourly delight to watch the breezes play about the enchanted isles, on the delicate silvery surface, dimming some clear reflection, or trailing it out in length, or cutting sharply across it with acres of rippling blue. it was a frequent pleasure to see the clouds play about the crest of cruachan and ben vorich's golden head, gray mists that crept upwards from the valleys till the sunshine suddenly caught them and made them brighter than the snows they shaded. and the leagues and leagues of heather on the lower land to the southward that became like the aniline dyes of deepest purple and blue, when the sky was gray in the evening--all save one orange-streak! ah, those were spectacles never to be forgotten, splendors of light and glory, and sadness of deepening gloom when the eyes grew moist in the twilight and secretly drank their tears. and yet, wonderful as it was, that noble and passionately beloved highland scenery was wanting in one great element that a writer imperatively needs. in all that natural magnificence humanity held no place. hidden behind a fir-clad promontory to the north, there still remained, it is true, the gray ruin of old kilchurn, and far to the south-west, in another reach of the lake, the island-fortress of ardhonnel. but there was not a visible city with spires and towers, there were only the fir-trees on the little islands and a few gravestones on the largest. beyond, were the depopulated deserts of breadalbane. here, where i write to you now, it seems as if mankind were nearer, and the legends of the ages written out for me on the surface of the world. under the shadow of jove's hill rises before me one of the most ancient of european cities, _soror et æmula romæ_. she bears on her walls and edifices the record of sixty generations. temple, and arch, and pyramid, all these bear witness still, and so do her ancient bulwarks, and many a stately tower. high above all, the cathedral spire is drawn dark in the morning mist, and often in the clear summer evenings it comes brightly in slanting sunshine against the steep woods behind. then the old city arrays herself in the warmest and mellowest tones, and glows as the shadows fall. she reigns over the whole width of her valley to the folds of the far blue hills. even so ought our life to be surrounded by the loveliness of nature--surrounded, but not subdued. footnote: [ ] how purely this is the misery of a man of culture! a peasant would not have gone so far. index. abolition of custom, how to effect, abstinence from newspaper reading, accomplishments, masculine and feminine, accumulation of preparatory knowledge, accumulators, great, of money, activity, mere, a waste of time, adult brain, the, advantages of few authors to poor, -- of experience, affectations of caste, affirmations based upon authority, african traveller and map-makers, alcibiades, education of, alphabet, greek, amateurism, ampère, profoundly scientific, -- anecdote of, amusement, necessity of, analytical observation, value of, anatomy, difficulty of study, ancients, incorrect use of word, -- and moderns compared, application and opportunities, arabia, use of coffee, archimedes in the bath, -- at syracuse, aristocracy, liberal and illiberal, -- unwritten religious law 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criticism of literature, -- tradesman, anecdote of, -- correspondent quoted, englishman, eminent, poor remuneration, engraving, _ennui_ in work, equality, theoretic, erdan, m., letters by, essential virtue, disinterestedness, chief, etchers, the woes of, etiquette of society bar to intellectual advance, european civilization, service of church, -- governments resist power of church, excesses, intellectual, dangers of, excitement, cerebral, intellectual products, exercise, bodily, need of, exeter, bishop of, quoted, experience, the lesson, -- advantages of, experiment replaces tradition, experiments on public taste, facilities for obtaining culture, facility of acquiring languages, faculty, development of, fane, julian, religion of, -- late hours, faraday, intellectual career, , -- a sandemanian, fashionable education, -- religion, fickleness of fashion, fine arts, technical difficulties, -- pursuit of, five facts regarding languages, france, invasion by germans, -- intellectual isolation, -- vulgar language of people, -- low condition of _bourgeoisie_, french monarchy, question of, -- college, to a principal of, -- cook, perfection of art, -- officer, incident of, -- peasantry, intellectual apathy, -- peasantry, parsimony, -- peasantry without newspapers, -- school of painting, -- students of english, isolated, frenchman writes a school-primer with good results, fresco-painters, troubles of, friendships of the intellect, reality of, -- succession of, future, attraction of, galton, mr., advice to travellers, garibaldi, italian follower of, generation, our, poetical events, genius, popular impression of, -- military, of napoleon, -- dependent upon culture, gentlemen, absence of, on continent, german invasion of france, germans, intellectual labor of, germany, secular power resists ecclesiastical, girardin, st. marc, "_give it time_," goethe, habits of, -- pecuniary independence, -- intellectual activity, -- interest in intellectual labor, -- production of _werther_, -- at bombardment of verdun, goldsmith, oliver, elaborate dress, good use of opportunity, -- and cheap literature, government patronage of intellectual pursuits, -- and priests lack harmony, great problem of human life, greek, general view of, -- uselessness in industry and commerce, -- alphabet, imaginary terrors, growing old, the rapidity of, habits, sure to be acquired, hack-writing, heine, last years of, helps, sir arthur, quoted, , hermit, experience of, highland scenery lacks humanity, historians, partiality of, -- future, value of journalist, historical party in england, -- party in france, honesty, importance of, _note_, -- value of, -- foundation of intellectual life, hoogstraten and rembrandt, hours of idleness, household, intellectual level of, how to learn a language, -- women help men, hugo, victor, intellectual decadence, human energy, limitation of, -- race, longevity, humboldt, alexander, intellectual greatness, humboldt, alexander, fortune servant of ambition, -- in south america, -- youth of, hurry, evil consequences of, huxley, professor, quoted, hygienics, intellectual, ideal division of life, ideas, association of, -- ratio of narrowness, idleness, hours of, -- value of, illusions, popular, concerning languages, immorality of intellectual people, inapplicability of past experience, incompatibility, fashionable and intellectual life, incongruous associations, indirect uses of study, indolent men who like to be hurried, industrial classes, results of their labor, infallibility of the pope, infraction of custom, penalties, ingres, counsel to pupils, ingres, madame, the first, inspiration, sister of daily labor, -- waiting for, instinct of accumulation, -- of solitude, intellect does not recognize authority, intellectual and religious questions, difference, -- attainments of two houses of parliament, -- class necessary, -- deviations resulting from marriage, -- kingdom, difficult entrance of the rich, -- life, inward law, intellectual requirements of, -- foundation, difficulty, -- differs from religious life, -- based upon personal investigation, -- a solitary one, -- absence of caste, -- man rebels against custom, -- two courses open in marriage, -- methods independent of tradition, -- nature of women, intellectual natures need intellectual activity, -- progress, necessity of, -- reaction against money making, -- religion, foundations of, -- religion, search and result, -- separation of the sexes, -- stupidity of amassing money, -- workers, suggestions to, international marriages, interruption, evils of, intolerance of democracies, intoxication, literary, invasion of france by germans, inventions a factor in politics, -- mainly due to men, inward law of intellectual life, irregular verbs, time-wasters, irrigation, intellectual, isolation of high culture, italian deserter, the, jacquemont, victor, letters of, japanese, revolution of thought and practice, jealousy of class, johnson, dignity of his threadbare sleeves, joubert, -- productive power, -- quoted, journalism in england, journalist, value to future historians, journals, party, injustice of, kant, immanuel, habits of, keats, genius dependent upon culture, kepler, early struggles, knight service in society, knowledge of mankind, -- selection of, labor, pecuniary rewards of, -- of previous ages, disdain for, -- dominant and subordinate, -- of preparation, _lalla rookh_, moore's trials, language, latin as a common, language, facility of acquisition, -- in france, vulgarity of, languages, popular illusions, -- five facts, -- separation of, late hours, latin, modern ignorance of, -- island, a, latinist, the modern, law, complex code of customs, -- of society, lawyers, superiority of, in certain directions, lay element of europe, powerful, legal profession, advantages of, leslie's studio, levels, intellectual, lever, charles, quoted, lewes' "life of goethe" quoted, , -- quoted, lewis, john, practice work of, life, an ideal division of, limited knowledge and experience of the poor, limitation of human energy, line-engraver, labor of, linguist, the modern, listening, the art of, literature, to a student of, -- good and cheap, -- criticism of english clergy, -- contemporary, indifference to, literary intoxication, littré quoted, locality, mental effect of, locke quoted, loitering element in liberal education, longevity, young men careless of, -- of human race, lost opportunities, louvre, wanton destruction of, love, necessity of, lullo, raimond, oriental missionary, "luxury," article in cornhill magazine, -- quoted, lytton, robert, letter of lady westmorland, -- estimate of julian fane, man unlike a planet, -- need of pluck, mankind, operations of riches and poverty, -- best knowledge of, marriage, -- true, a slow intergrowth, -- general ignorance regarding, -- complex effects, -- of intellectual men, -- a distinguished artist's views, -- ideal for man of literary culture, -- intellectual, -- how decided, -- of french professors, -- of the scotch lawyer, -- the intellectual ideal, -- the necessity of keeping up its interest, -- frequently leads to intellectual deviation, -- risk of eccentric men, -- semi-publicity, marriages, international, maximilian, emperor, execution of, mediæval builders, medicine, profession of, meissonier, practice for self-instruction, "melencolia" of albert dürer, memory, defective, advantage of, -- selecting, -- rational art of, men, how helped by women, -- disguise their thoughts from women, mental labor not injurious to healthy persons, -- may aggravate disease, mental stimulants, -- refusals should be heeded, -- powers, immoderate use, -- work, physical preparation, metaphor of the mountains, "midshipman easy," allusion to, military genius of napoleon, -- profession, -- profession, intellectual poverty of, milton, forced retirement, mind of a fashionable person, minds, three classes, miracles, belief in, miscalculation, bad results, miscellaneous reading, our debt to, mitford, miss, quoted, mobility of fashionable taste, modern education, -- inventions, power of, -- languages, to student of, -- languages, limits of soundness, -- mind looks forward, _modern painters_, result of long study, -- work of genius and wealth, money, the influences of, -- restraints of, -- the guardian of peace, -- accumulated labor of the past, -- protector of intellectual life, montaigne, early education of, -- purchases of books, -- his tower, moore's trials with "lalla rookh," moral basis, the, -- utility of culture, morality, individual theories, -- public opinion regulates, -- general advance of, morbid mind, cure for, morris, a diligent student, mother and son, difference in religious views, -- the uneducated, mulready, preparation for new picture, multiplicity of modern studies, muscular christian, to a, music, refining influence of, , -- limits of soundness, napoleon, military genius of, napoleon iii., overthrow of, national intellectual life, native tongue, results of disuse, natural connection between wealth and culture, -- gifts, development of, -- laws, independent working, nature, extraordinary reactions, -- high life in, nature, provision for intellectual life in marriage, -- _will_ be obeyed, naval profession, navy, english, reconstruction of, neapolitan servant, case of, necessity a help in industrial pursuits, -- disturbs higher intellectual life, , need of society and solitude, negative end of character, -- qualification for work, neighbors, education of, newspaper reading, abstinence from, newspapers as educators, -- daily house-talk of the world, -- in united states, -- in france, newton, desire for solitude, nervous system, physiological action, nightingale, florence, quoted, night-work, medical objection to, noblesse, old, ignorance of, nomad, english, life of, nomadic habits of higher classes, obedience to nature, necessity of, object of intellectual discipline, occasion, mistaken estimates, opposition to custom unphilosophical, -- of method between intellect and faith, oil painting, dangers of, old prejudices declining, opportunities lost, -- unlimited, danger of, -- and application, origin of discipline, orleans, duchess of, -- system of mental culture, orthodoxy no guaranty of intellectual capacity, outlet, intellectual, necessary, painters, intellectual discipline of, painting, different schools, palgrave's, mr., "travels in arabia," papacy, decline and fall of temporal power, papal infallibility, paris, siege of, parliament, houses of, high attainments, parsimony of french peasantry, party journals, injustice, past, custom a precious legacy, -- not reliable as a guide, patriotism as a stimulant, peasants, instruction of, pecuniary rewards of labor, pendennis, major, typical life, _philistine_ intellects, philosophy, popular acceptation of term, -- a truly intellectual, physical basis, the, -- repugnances of surgeons, -- preparation for mental labor, physician, social rise of, physiological action of nervous system, pioneers, intellectual, planet, dissimilarity of man to, plans should be well arranged, pluck, value of, poet, the true, poetical events of our generation, -- teachings, true intentions, political influence of culture, politics, preponderance in newspapers, polyglot waiters, poor, limited knowledge and experience, -- incompetent for work of parliament, -- independence of public opinion, -- man desirous of culture, consolation, pope of rome, affirmed infallibility, popular illusions regarding languages, -- impression regarding genius, positive end of character, poverty and peace incompatible, -- unfavorable to intellectual life, -- advantage in liberal professions, -- obstacle to intellectual perfection, power of assimilation, -- of time, practical suggestions to intellectual workers, practice, best professional as educator, -- of journalism, preference and capacity, relation, prejudices of caste, -- old, decline of, preparatory labor, prescott, mr., instance of, preservation of the senses, , priests, manner of religious teaching, -- and government not harmonious, prince consort, example and influence, problem, great, of life, products of cerebral excitement, professions, liberal, advantages of poverty, -- test of, -- and trades, -- purpose of, progress, satisfactions of, -- its debt to rebellion, -- of work, interest necessary, propositions about modern languages, protection in intellectual pursuits, public taste, experiments on, -- opinion, regulator of morality, -- opinion in france, purpose of a profession, qualifications for work, railways, unforeseen effect, rational art of memory, ravignon, _pere_, reactions of nature, reading, miscellaneous, advantage of, -- painful to uneducated, -- newspapers, abstinence from, -- practised by most people, rebellion, debt of progress to, reconciliation of poverty and the soul, refinements of a language, reform and progress of custom, refusals, mental, should be heeded, regret for lost time, regularity of work, regulated economy of time, relation between preference and capacity, -- of trivial events to great principles, religion as a stimulant, -- requires aid of custom, -- different views of mother and son, -- indefinable, -- according to popular instinct, -- intellectual foundation of, -- influence of caste-law, religious vitality, periods of, -- teaching, -- and intellectual questions, difference, -- creed does not weaken critical faculty, -- belief, test of, rembrandt, answer to hoogstraten, renan, m., charges second empire with vulgarity repugnances to be overcome, resisting power of adult brain, rest, necessary in intellectual labor, resting, the art of, restoration of french monarchy, restraints of money, retreats demanded by intellectual life, return to barbarism, rich man a director of work, -- social diversions of, -- vulgar people, road to success, commonly gradual increase, roman catholic, belief of, romans, education of, roscoe, william, italian studies, rosse, lord, colossal telescope, -- useful application of wealth, rossini, advice to young composer, ruskin, mr., value of artistic perception, -- extract from _modern painters_, -- wealth of material, -- career of, sacerdotal system, sadness of intellectual workers, sainte beuve, example of self-discipline, -- system of living, -- atheist and scientist, -- quoted, saint-bernard at lake leman, saint-hilaire, geoffroy, in blindness, saint-hilaire, geoffrey, at alexandria, sand, george, working under pressure, -- quoted, -- novel of "valvèdre," satisfactions of intellectual riches, schiller, literary hack-work of, schoolmaster, thankless office of, science, methods and laws of, -- requires heat and heroism, -- of living, scientific cookery, importance of, -- writers and thinkers, independence, -- at variance with clergy, scott, sir walter, physical exercise, -- habits of, -- writing-closet, secular power resists ecclesiastical, selection of knowledge, selfishness of authors, senses, usefulness to intellectual life, separation of languages, shelley, boating exercise, -- the morality of, -- writings unprofitable, -- desire for solitude, ships of the line, old, shopkeepers, treatment by english authors, siege of paris, silent student, attainments, simon jules, allusion to, sincerity induced by culture, skill, indifference to, skip judiciously in reading, small talk in england and france, smiles, mr., _character_ quoted, smith, sydney, quoted, -- common sense of, smoking, moderate and excessive, social diversions of the rich, society, penalties for infringing custom, -- _will be obeyed_, -- desires harmony, -- and solitude, -- fashionable demands, -- external deference to culture, solitude and society, -- traditional view of, -- effects upon man, soul and poverty, reconciliation, soundness, requisite to best success, spain, secular power resists ecclesiastical, spenser, the fables of, state schools, exclusion of theology, station fetters intellect, steam makes cities of states, stimulants, effects of, -- mental, stone in glen croe, the, structural relations of languages, student, the poor, encouragement, -- the poor, sad story, -- dangers of society, study, indirect uses of, -- of medicine, substitution of experiment for tradition, success, result of discipline, -- common road, gradual increase, sue, eugene, daily habits, surgeon, social rise of, surroundings of cultivated men, , swiss gentleman, anecdote of, systematic arrangement of work, taste, public, experiments on, tea and coffee, use of, teachings, poetical, true intentions, telescope, colossal, of lord rosse, temptations of wealth, test of religious belief, theology, exclusion from state schools, theoretic equality amongst men, thiers, antecedents of, -- elevation of, thoughts upon "government" quoted, thrift, the principle of, tillier, claude, doctrine of, time, the power of, -- loss of, -- mistaken estimates, -- regulated economy, titian, early surroundings, tobacco, use of, trade distinctions, -- contempt for, trades and professions, tradition and custom, -- rejected for experiment, -- decline of authoritative influence, -- church of rome, embodiment, -- in industrial and fine arts, _note_, training, intellectual, tranquillity conducive to intellectual success, travellers, mr. galton's advice, triumph of discipline, trivial events, relation to great principles, truth a law of religion, turner's studio, tyco brahe, princely ease, -- surroundings of, ultramontane party, undisciplined writer, to an, united states, influence of newspapers, unknown element of all problems, unproductive class, the, utility, moral, of culture, "valvèdre," extract from, variety of labor for children, various pursuits, objection to, _vathek_, written at a single sitting, -- author of, vatican, council of, vinci, leonardo da, education of, waiting for inspiration, want hinders intellectual pursuits, warsaw, monument to copernicus, wealth, double temptation of, -- an obstacle to labor, -- inordinate respect for, _werther_ indicative of goethe's _ennui_, westmorland, lady, letter to robert lytton, why men choose their wives, wine, use of, wives of french professors, women and marriage, -- how they help men, -- incapacity for solitary mental labor, -- intellectual nature of, -- absence of scientific curiosity, -- rarity of invention among, -- lack inherent force for advance, -- do not hear the truth from men, -- conversation of, wordsworth, love of pedestrian excursions, -- failure as a london journalist, -- happy results of a legacy, -- advice to tourists, work, systematic arrangement desirable, _work_, article in cornhill magazine, world recognizes performance only, woepke, franz, remarkable extent of studies, -- mathematician and orientalist, -- pension of italian prince, writing against time, -- as a profession, young men careless of longevity, means and ends of education by j. l. spalding bishop of peoria who bringeth many things, for each one something brings chicago a. c. mcclurg and company copyright by a. c. mcclurg £ co. a.d. by bishop spalding education and the higher life. mo. $ . . things of the mind. mo. $ . . means and ends of education. mo. $ . . a. c. mcclurg and co. chicago. contents. chapter i. truth and love ii. truth and love iii. the making of one's self iv. woman and education v. the scope of public-school education vi. the religious element in education vii. the higher education means and ends of education. chapter i. truth and love. none of us yet know, for none of us have yet been taught in early youth, what fairy palaces we may build of beautiful thought--proof against all adversity;--bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious and restful thoughts; which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us--houses built without hands for our souls to live in.--ruskin. stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to god and famous to all ages.--milton. a great man's house is filled chiefly with menials and creatures of ceremony; and great libraries contain, for the most part, books as dry and lifeless as the dust that gathers on them: but from amidst these dead leaves an immortal mind here and there looks forth with light and love. from the point of view of the bank president, emerson tells us, books are merely so much rubbish. but in his eyes the flowers also, the flowing water, the fresh air, the floating clouds, children's voices, the thrill of love, the fancy's play, the mountains, and the stars are worthless. not one in a hundred who buy shakspere, or milton, or a work of any other great mind, feels a genuine longing to get at the secret of its power and truth; but to those alone who feel this longing is the secret revealed. we must love the man of genius, if we would have him speak to us. we learn to know ourselves, not by studying the behavior of matter, but through experience of life and intimate acquaintance with literature. our spiritual as well as our physical being springs from that of our ancestors. freedom, however, gives the soul the power not only to develop what it inherits, but to grow into conscious communion with the thought and love, the hope and faith of the noble dead, and, in thus enlarging itself, to become the inspiration and source of richer and wider life for those who follow. as parents are consoled by the thought of surviving in their descendants, great minds are upheld and strengthened in their ceaseless labors by the hope of entering as an added impulse to better things, from generation to generation, into the lives of thousands. the greatest misfortune which can befall genius is to be sold to the advocacy of what is not truth and love and goodness and beauty. the proper translation of _timeo hominem unius libri_ is not, "i fear a man of one book," but "i dread a man of one book:" for he is sure to be narrow, one-sided, and unreasonable. the right phrase enters at once into our spiritual world, and its power becomes as real as that of material objects. the truth to which it gives body is borne in upon us as a star or a mountain is borne in upon us. kings and rich men live in history when genius happens to throw the light of abiding worlds upon their ephemeral estate. carthage is the typical city of merchants and traders. why is it remembered? because hannibal was a warrior and virgil a poet. the strong man is he who knows how and is able to become and be himself; the magnanimous man is he who, being strong, knows how and is able to issue forth from himself, as from a fortress, to guide, protect, encourage, and save others. life's current flows pure and unimpeded within him, and on its wave his thought and love are borne to bless his fellowmen. if he who gives a cup of water in the right spirit does god's work, so does he who sows or reaps, or builds or sweeps, or utters helpful truth or plays with children or cheers the lonely, or does any other fair or useful thing. take not seriously one who treats with derision men or books that have been deemed worthy of attention by the best minds. he is false or foolish. as we cherish a human being for the courage and love he inspires, so books are dear to us for the noble thoughts and generous moods they call into being. to drink the spirit of a great author is worth more than a knowledge of his teaching. he who desires to grow wise should bring his reason to bear habitually upon what he sees and hears not less than upon what he reads; for thus he soon comes to understand that whatever he thinks or feels, says or does, whatever happens within the sphere of his conscious life, may be made the means of self-improvement. "he is not born for glory," says vauvenargues, "who knows not the worth of time." the educational value of books lies in their power to set the intellectual atmosphere in vibration, thereby rousing the mind to self-activity; and those which have not this power lack vitality. if in a whole volume we find one passage in which truth is expressed in a noble and striking manner, we have not read in vain. to read with profit, we should read as a serious student reads, with the mind all alive and held to the subject; for reading is thinking, and it is valuable in proportion to the stimulus it gives to the exercise of faculty. the conversation of high and ingenuous minds is doubtless as instructive as it is delightful, but it is seldom in our power to call around us those with whom we should wish to hold discourse; and hence we go back to the emancipated spirits, who having transcended the bounds of time and space, are wherever they are desired and are always ready to entertain whoever seeks their company. genius neither can nor will discover its secret. why his thought has such a mould and such a tinge he no more knows than why the flowers have such a tint and such a perfume; and if he knew he would not care to tell. nothing is wholly manifest. in the most trivial object, as in the simplest word, there lies a world of meaning which does not reveal itself to a passing glance. if therefore thou wouldst come to right understanding, consider all things with an awakened and interested curiosity. when the mind at last finds itself rightly at home in its world, it is as delighted as children making escape from restraining walls, as full of spirit as colts newly turned upon the greensward. in the realm of truth each one is king, and what he knows is as much his own as though he were its first discoverer. however firmly thou holdest to thy opinions, if truth appears on the opposite side, throw down thy arms at once. a book has the power almost of a human being to inspire admiration or disgust, love or hatred. to be useful is a noble thing, to be necessary is not desirable. the youth has not enough ambition unless he has too much. it is difficult to give lessons in the art of pleasing without teaching that of lying. the discouraged are already vanquished. in judging the deed let not the character of the doer influence thy opinion, for good is good, evil evil, by whomsoever done. when the author is rightly inspired his words need not interpretation. they are as natural and as beautiful as the faces of children or as new-blown flowers, and their meaning is plain. the spirit and love of dogmatism is characteristic of the imperfectly educated. as there is a communion of saints, there is a communion of noble minds, living and dead. to speak of love which is not felt, of piety which is not a living sentiment within us, is to weaken both in ourselves and in those who hear us the power of faith and affection. the best that has been known and experienced by minds and hearts lies asleep in books, ready to awaken for whoever holds the magician's wand. books which at their first appearance create a breeze of excitement, are forgotten when the wind falls. a human soul rightly uttering itself, in whatever age or country, ceases to belong to any age or country, and becomes part of the universal life of man. a sprightly wit may serve only to lead us astray, and to enmesh us more hopelessly in error. deeper knowledge is the remedy for the foolishness of sciolism: like cures like. in the books in which men worth knowing have put some of the vital quality which makes them worth knowing, there is perennial inspiration. they are the form and substance of an immortal spirit which, in creating them, became itself. "i have not made my book," says montaigne, "more than my book has made me." were one to ask an acquaintance who knows men to point out the individuals whom he should make his friends, his request would probably receive an unsatisfactory reply: for how, except by trial, is it possible to say who will suit whom? those whose friendship would be valuable might, for whatever cause, be disagreeable to him, as the greatest and noblest may be unpleasant companions. many a one whom we admire as he stands forth in history, whose words and deeds thrill and uplift us, we should detest had we known him in life; and others to whom we might have been drawn would have cared nothing for us. between men and books there is doubtless a wide difference, though a good book contains the best of the life of some true man. but when we are asked to point out the books one should learn to love, we are confronted with much the same difficulty as had we been asked to name the persons whom he should make his friends. a book can have worth for us only when we have learned to love it; and since a real book, like a real man, has its proper character, it is not easy to determine whom it will please or displease. once it has taken a safe place in literature, it will, of course, be praised by everybody; but this, like the praise of men, is often meaningless. all who read know something about the great books, but their knowledge, unless it leads them to intimate acquaintance with some one or several of these books, has little worth. books are, indeed, a world which each one must discover for himself. another may tell us about them, but the truth and beauty there is in them for each one, each one must find. the value of a book, like that of a man, lies not in its freedom from fault, but in its qualities, in the good it contains. words which inspire the love of spiritual beauty and noble action cannot be false: the consent of the wise places them in the canon. the imperishable goods are truth, freedom, love, and beauty. valuable alone is that which enriches and ennobles life. there are natures for whom the lack of knowledge is as painful as the lack of food. they are ahungered and athirst for it, and their suffering impels them to ceaseless meditation and study, as the only means of relief. the self-educator's first and simplest aim should be to learn to know and do well whatever he knows and does; and to this end let him often observe and consider how rare are they who know anything thoroughly or do well any of the hundred things which are part of daily life: who talk well, or write well, or behave well. herbert spencer affirms that it is better to learn the meanings of things than the meanings of words; but he loses sight of the fact that the meanings of things become plain only when things are clothed in words, which, in truth, are things, being nothing else than the very form and body of nature as it reveals itself within the mind of man. the world is chiefly a mental fact. from mind it receives the forms of time and space, the principle of causality, color, warmth, and beauty. were there no mind, there would be no world. the end of man is the pursuit of perfection, through communion with god, his fellows, and nature, by means of knowledge and conduct, of faith, hope, admiration, and love. it is easy to praise work overmuch. like money, it is a means, not an end, and it is good or evil as it is made to help or harm the worker, for man is an end, not a means. the work which millions are still forced to do is a curse,--the trail of the serpent is over it all, and no people has the right to call itself civilized, while work which dehumanizes is not merely permitted, but encouraged. let us not teach the young to believe they are born into a world of delights and pleasures, but let us strive to enable them to realize that, upon this earth, only the wise and good and strong can make themselves really at home; that for the wicked and the weak its very delights and pleasures turn to sorrow and suffering. we pity the hard-driven beast of burden. how then is it possible to look with complacency on a world in which multitudes of human beings are condemned to the work of the ox and the ass? for the healthy man, wealth and happiness would seem to be identical, if his desires are confined to the things of which money is the equivalent. but this is a delusion, for the plenary possession of these things has never satisfied a human being. man needs virtue, knowledge, love, and to take the obvious view, he needs the power to enjoy the things money buys; and of this money deprives him. when we consider the many unworthy means men take to gain wealth and office, we are forced to believe that to reach their ends they are ready to profess to hold opinions and beliefs about which they care nothing or which they really do not accept at all. by this following of time-servers and place-hunters every noble cause is weakened and the purest faith is corrupted. to labor for those we love, to sit in the hours of rest, with wife and children about us, smiling in the blaze of the fire we have lighted, sheltered by the roof we have built, secure in the sense of protection our presence inspires, is to feel that life is good. but is it not a higher thing to turn away, in disrespect of all this peace and comfort, and to strive alone, by thought and deed, to find the way which leads to god and to be a pioneer therein for those who wander helpless and astray? the more we dwell with truth and love, the more conscious we become that they are the best, and are everlasting; and thus our immortality is revealed to us. visibly we float on the boundless stream and disappear; but inasmuch as we are truth-loving and love-cherishing, we dwell in an abiding city, and may behold our bodies carried forth by the flood, as a man sees his house swept away, while he himself remains. our thoughtlessness and indifference, our indolence and frivolousness, blind us to the infinite worth and significance of life; and they who call themselves religious often take it as lightly as worldlings and unbelievers. in the universe there is nothing which exists separate and apart from other things. the satellites hold to the planets, the planets to the suns, the suns to one another, all in obedience to the same laws which bind the body to earth, and cause the water to flow and the vapor to rise. for the senses there is separateness, but for the mind there is union and unity. communion is the law of souls as of bodies. both are immersed in a boundless world, from which if they could be drawn forth they would cease to be. the principle of this infinite harmony is love, is god. the right human bond is that which unites soul with soul; and only they are truly akin who consciously live in the same world, who think, believe, and love alike, who hope for the same things, aspire to the same ends. our mental view never reaches the ultimate nature of being, and hence our knowledge, whether of material or of spiritual things, is incomplete. faith is the effort to supply the defect which inheres in all our knowing. knowledge springs from faith, faith from knowledge, as rivers from clouds, clouds from rivers. the more we know, the more we believe; and our growing consciousness does not make us content to rest in a mechanical view of nature, but it brings home to us with increasing power the awfulness of the infinite mystery, which we more and more clearly perceive to be a spiritual rather than a material fact. if at present there is a certain failure of will and consequent discouragement in the pursuit of moral and intellectual perfection, this is a result of our passing bewilderment in the presence of the revelations of science and of the mighty forces it places in the hands of man, and not of any new knowledge which tends to inspire misgivings concerning the being of god and our kinship with him:--- from nature up to law, from law to love: this is the ascendant path in which we move, impelled by god in ways that lighten still, till all things meet in one eternal thrill. as the universe revealed by the copernican astronomy and the other natural sciences is infinitely more sublime and marvellous than such a world as the israelites, the greeks, or the romans imagined, so they who see rightly in the luminous ether of modern intelligence understand better than the ancients that human life is not an ephemeral and superficial, but an immortal and central power, enrooted in god, and drawing its substance and sustenance from him. the appeal to shame is a poor argument. the fact that men of great intellectual power and learning have held an opinion to be true does not make it so. new knowledge may have shown it to be false, or the general advance of the race may have changed the point of view. the presumption of the larger wisdom of the ancients we cannot accept: for we, not they, are the true ancients. the purest and the holiest prayer men speak is this: "thy will be done." they who utter it from the inmost soul, find peace, even as a fretful child sinks to rest upon the mother's bosom. in learning to love the will of god they come at last not merely to believe, but to feel that his will guides the universe, and that all will be well. when an utterance comes forth from the depths of our spiritual being, men cannot but hearken. it is as though we should bring to exiles tidings of a long-lost home and country. to what a weight he stoops who addresses himself with fixed resolve to the life of thought! the burden indeed is heavy, but the pathway lies through pleasant fields where great souls move to and fro in freedom and at peace. and as he grows accustomed to his labor, the world widens, the heavens break open, the dead live again, and with them he rises into the high regions where the petty cares and passions of mortals do not reach. he who would educate himself must make use of his own powers. he must observe, think, examine, read, argue, ponder; he must learn when to hold judgment in suspense, and when to give the wings of the soul free sweep through the high and serene realms of truth and beauty. the farther we dwell from the crowd, with its current opinion, the better and truer shall we and our thoughts become. they who write for multitudinous readers rise with difficulty above the dignity of mountebanks. there is a radical defect in the character of whoever works in the spirit of a trifler, however blameless his conduct. the power to inspire faith in the seriousness and goodness of life is a sufficient test of the worth of a scheme of education. no one should fill an office which he is unable to hold without hindrance to the play of mind and heart that makes him a man. the dignities we possess at the cost of knowledge and virtue are like jewels for the sake of which one goes hungry and naked; mere glittering baubles for which we barter the soul's prosperity. experience is personal, and it is largely incommunicable; but genius--and in this lies its power and charm--renders it communicable. what the poet or the painter has felt and seen, he makes all men feel and see. the difference between man and man, between the child and the youth, the youth and the adult, is chiefly a difference in feeling, in the manner in which they are impressed; and it is our nature to be drawn in admiration or reverence to those who by their words or deeds give us deeper impressions of the worth of life, and thus open for us new sources of feeling. fair thoughts rise in the heart and mind of genius, like the fragrant breath which the dewy flowers exhale in the face of the rising sun, and they utter themselves as simply as matin songs warbled by sweet-throated birds. faith in the infinite nature and worth of truth, goodness, and love, is the dawn which shall merge into the fulness of day, when, in other worlds, god looks upon the soul, reborn from out this seemingness. our position, our reputation, our wealth, our comforts, are but a vesture like the body itself. they shall fall away, and we shall remain with god. there is no liberty but obedience to the impulse of the higher nature which urges us to think nobly, to act rightly, and to love constantly. the dominion of appetite is slavery; the dominion of reason and conscience is freedom. renan somewhere says he could wish for nothing better than that a little volume of selections from his writings might commend itself to young women, whose fair faces should bend over it, and find there a reflection of their own pure souls. but where there is no god, the soul is not mirrored, and we never really love an author who weakens faith and hope. with whatever success we advance towards the wide and serene life of the pure reason, let us still cling to faith, hope, and love, the primal powers which keep watch at our birth, and which bend over our cradles, and which alone lift us into the world of enduring peace and hold us within the sheltering arms of god. in the enlightened mind, faith is a higher virtue than it can be for the ignorant, and to sustain it there is need of a nobler life. he whom neither learning nor power nor wealth can corrupt must have virtue; for learning breeds conceit, and power begets pride, and wealth debases both the mind and heart. the intellect does not recognize that conscience may forbid its exercise, since knowledge cannot be evil. if earth were a hell and life a curse and the universe but a cinder, it would still be good to know the fact. the saddest truth is better than the merriest lie. to know a thing is to be conscious of its relation to the mind. we know it, not in itself, but in and through this relation. our knowledge of god, who is the absolute, is not absolute knowledge, but a knowledge of him in so far as he is related to the mind of man. since, however, mind is reason and not unreason, there is harmony between it and things, between it and god; and hence to be conscious of its relation to god and the universe is to be conscious of a real relation, in which both the thinker and his thought are in truth what they seem to be. the ultimate reality is inferred, not directly perceived. it reveals itself to the purest faith and love, and may be hidden from one who knows all the sciences. as man's relations to his fellows make him a social and political being, so his relations to the unseen power behind and within the visible world, of whose presence he is always, however dimly, conscious, and to whom he refers whatever touches the senses, as well as the principle of life itself, make him a religious being. in identifying what seem to be our particular interests with the interests of all, we make escape from narrowness and isolation into the general life of humanity; and when we come to understand that not only mankind but all nature is a unity in the consciousness of the infinite and eternal, bound together by thought and love, we enter into the glorious liberty of the sons of god, and feel that nor height nor depth nor things past nor things to come shall separate us from the divine charity. we are akin to all that may become part of our life; and whatever we know or love or admire is spiritualized and made human. to understand the things of the spirit we must have spiritual experience. the intuitions of time and space, as well as the principle of causality, are given in the constitution of the mind. so is the idea of being, of perfection, of beauty, of eternity, of infinity, of duty. to think implies being, to perceive things as existing in time and space implies consciousness of eternity and infinity. to know the imperfect is possible only in the light of the perfect. subject is itself object, the first known and best understood, and the laws of mind are laws of being. if the constitution of mind makes the revelation of the material world possible only under the forms of time and space, intelligible only as sequence of cause and effect, the reason is to be found in the nature of things. if the constitution of mind postulates one who knows and shapes, in a world in which whatever is, is intelligible, in which there is order, proportion, and purpose, it is because such an one is given in the nature of things, and he is god. however living our faith, it is faith and not knowledge; and should it become knowledge, it would cease to be faith. there are three kinds of authors,--those who impart knowledge, those who give delight, and those who strengthen and inspire. a noble thought rightly expressed sweeps the higher nerve centres as the touch of a perfect performer the strings of an instrument; but if the instrument is poor and irresponsive, the appeal is made in vain. life has the power to propagate itself, and if the words thou utterest are living, they will strike root somewhere and bud and blossom and bear fruit; but if there is no life in them, be content to have them fall and lie amid the dust of the dead. god and the universe are what they are, and the best even genius can do is to throw over them a revealing light. he who feels that he is always in the presence of god will strive as religiously to think only what is true as he will strive to do only what is right. a phrase which leaps forth aglow with life from the heart and brain of genius, not only lives forever, but retains forever the power to awaken, when brought into contact with a brain and heart, the thrill with which it first came into being. only a few know and love the poet, but they are young and fair, and the music of high thoughts and pure love is rhythmic with the current of their blood; and if among them there be found some who are old, they are choice spirits who have risen from out the lapses of time into regions where what is true and beautiful is so forever. this little band of chosen ones accompanies him adown the centuries, and listens to the melody which wells in his heart and breaks into songs that shall give delight as long as the air of spring is pleasant and the flowers fragrant and the carollings of birds delightful; and while the poet strolls on the outskirts of time, thus loved and thus attended, the stormy and glittering favorites of the crowd drop from sight and are forgotten, or remembered but as the echo of a name. a line from homer, which sounds like a response from our own heart, is clothed with the mystery of diviner power, because it makes us feel that we were alive thousands of years ago amid the grecian isles, thus revealing to us the unreality of time and space, and the everlasting nature of truth and beauty. as it is right to admire and love whatever is good wherever it is found, it needs must be the part of wisdom to seek to know and appreciate all that is true and high in the works of genius, though there, like precious stones and metals in the mine, it be mingled with baser matter. it is but narrowness or intellectual pharisaism to turn from a great author because in his life and works there may be things of which we cannot approve. shall we abandon god because his world is full of evil, or christ because there is corruption in the church? st. paul appeals to pagan literature, st. augustine is the disciple of plato, st. thomas aquinas of aristotle, and the culture and civilization of christendom are largely due to influences which are not christian. whatever is good is from god. there is no surer mark of the lack of culture than the use of ill-natured and abusive epithets. to feel the need of injurious words to express one's opinion, merely shows that one is angry, and anger is vulgar. whatever is inspired by vanity is in bad taste. this is why a showy style is a false style, why fine writing is poor writing. the author yields to the spirit of vainglory, whereas he should be wholly bent upon uttering his thought as he knows it. it is as though he should call our attention to a costly garb when what we want to see is a man. as a plain face is better than a mask, though fine, so one's own style, though inferior, is better than any which is borrowed. true books survive without help or let of critics, by virtue of their vital quality, which attracts kindred spirits with irresistible power. when their worth becomes known, the critics set up a howl of praise, and many buy; but only a few make them their serious study, and learn to know and love them. truth is the mind's food; and, like that of the body, it is nourishment only when it has been digested and assimilated. it is, after all, but a little while since man began to think. as yet he is learning the alphabet. take heart then, and apply thy mind. as we grow older the years seem to run to months, the months to weeks, the weeks to days, the days to hours, the hours to moments, until time, like an exhalation, appears to dissolve in the inane, and become the nothing it was and is and will be for eternity. if thought were given us, like house and clothing, merely for our personal comfort, wisdom would lead us to think with and like all the world. they who are eager for the good opinion of others seem to have but weak faith in their own worth. the art of pleasing would better deserve our study were there more who are worth pleasing, or were it less difficult to please without loss of sincerity and without stooping to the service of vulgar interests. not how much or how many things thou knowest is of import. an industrious reader, of retentive memory, will easily know more things than a great philosopher compared with whom he is but a child. know thyself was the sum of what socrates taught, and each of the seven wise men rested his fame upon an apothegm. to expect the multitude to appreciate the best in life or literature, is to expect them to be what they have never been and will probably never be. would you have an ox admire the sunrise or the pearly dew, when all he feels the need of is grass? appeal to the many if you will, but if your appeal is for the highest, only the few will hearken. consider not what great men or books are worth in themselves, but what they are worth to thee; for thou art able to judge of their value only in so far as thou understandest and lovest them. if thou canst not bear trouble, sorrow, and disappointment without loss of composure, thou art poorly equipped for life's struggle. if thou mayst not lead the life thou wouldst wish, thou canst at least make the life thou leadest the means to improve thyself. if we were so constituted that thought, feeling, and imagination might have free and healthful play in ever-during darkness and isolation, life would still be good. could i live surrounded by those i love, i should feel less keenly the discontent which the consciousness of my higher needs creates; and besides, it is not easy to rest in the comforts and luxuries which make and keep us inferior, except in the company of those we love. if our ordinary power of sight were as great as that we gain with the help of the microscope, the world would become for us a place of horrors; and if we could clearly see ourselves as we are, life would be less endurable. god blurs our vision as a mother hides from her child its wound. pleasures which quickly end in revulsion of feeling are but momentary escapes from pain; and they alone are fortunate who are able to persevere in pursuits which give them pure delight. "all good," says kant, "which is not based on the highest moral principle is but empty appearance and splendid misery." sensations of color, taste, sound, smell, touch, heat and cold, perceptions of magnitude, and temporal and spatial relations, is the sum of what we know; and yet we are conscious that reason means infinitely more than this, that its proper object is the eternal world of truth, goodness, and beauty. think for thyself with a single view to truth; for so only will thy thought be of worth and service to others. we feel ourselves only in action, and hence the need of doing lest we lose ourselves and be swallowed in nothingness. and for the old and feeble even worry, i suppose, is a comfort, for it helps to keep this self-consciousness alive. it is impossible to say whence a thought comes, and it is often difficult to determine the occasion by which it has been suggested. fortunate are the children all of whose knowledge comes from man and nature in their purity, whose memory holds no words which are not the symbols of what they themselves have seen and felt, in whose minds no will-o'-the-wisp from chimera worlds flits to and fro. it is only by keeping men in ignorance and vice that it is possible to keep them from the contagion of great thoughts. they who have little are thought to have no right to anything. thus the plagiarized sayings of napoleon and other nurslings of fame pass for their own; who their real authors were, seeming to be a matter of indifference. if i am not pleased with myself, but should wish to be other than i am, why should i think highly of the influences which have made me what i am? should i publish what i believe to be true and well expressed, and competent judges should declare it to be worthless in form and substance, the verdict would be interesting to me, and i should set to work to discover why and how i had so far failed in discernment. "a thoroughly cultivated man," says fontenelle, "is informed by all the thinkers of the past, as though he had lived and continued to grow in knowledge during all the centuries." the author is rewarded when his readers are made better. the most persuasive of men are the praisers of patent medicines. their eloquence is more richly rewarded than that of all the orators, who also are paid, for the most part, in inverse ratio to the amount of truth they utter. fame, as fame, is the merest vanity. no wise man wishes to be talked and written about, living or dead, to be a theme chiefly for fools. literature is writing in which genuine thought and feeling are rightly expressed. they who content themselves with what others have uttered, learn nothing. the blind need a guide, but they who are able to see should look for themselves. there is, indeed, in the words of genius a glow which never dies; but it only dazzles and misleads, if it fails to stimulate and strengthen our own powers of vision. true speech is not idle; it is utterance of life, the mate of action, and the begetter of noble deeds. strive for knowledge and strength, but do not appear to have them. "a book," says la bruyère, "which exalts the mind and inspires high and manly thoughts, is good, and the work of a master." a phrase suffices to tell the man is ignorant or the book worthless. as the body is nourished by dead things, vegetable and animal, so the mind feeds on the thoughts of those who have ceased to live, which, it would seem, are never rightly understood until the thinkers have passed away. to be unwilling to be proved wrong is to fail in love of truth; to resent an objection is to lack culture. one may believe what cannot be demonstrated, but to grow angry because there is no proof is absurd. to do deeds and to utter thoughts which long after we have departed shall remain to cheer, to illumine, to strengthen and console, is to be like god; and the desire of noble minds is not of praise, but of abiding power for good. he who is certain of himself needs not the good opinion of men, not of those even who are competent to judge. only the vain and foolish or the designing and dishonest will wish to receive credit for more ability and virtue than they have. an exaggerated reputation may nourish conceit or win favor; but the wise and the good put away conceit, and desire not favors which are granted from mistaken notions. "i hate false words," says landor, "and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the thing." dwell not with complacency upon aught thou hast or hast achieved, but address thyself each day, like a simple-hearted child, to the task god sets thee; and remember when the last hour comes thou canst carry nothing to him but faith in his mercy and goodness. chapter ii. truth and love. truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it; the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it; and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature.--bacon. as those who have little think their little much, so those who have few ideas believe with obstinacy that they are the sum of all truth. if the world could but be made to see what they see there would be no ills. they have not even a suspicion of the unutterable complexity of the warp and woof of nature and of life; and when their opinions are combated they imagine they thereby acquire new importance, and they defend them with such zeal that they make proselytes and found sects in religion, politics, and literature. the source of the greater part of error is the absoluteness the mind attributes to its knowledge and, as part of this, the persuasion that at each stage of our mental life, we are capable of seeing things as they are. the aim of the philosopher, as of the christian, is to escape from the ephemeral self by renouncing what is petty, partial, apparent, and transitory, that the true self may unfold in the world of the permanent, of things which have an aptitude for perpetuity; but the philosopher's efforts are intellectual and moral, while the christian's source of strength is the love which is enrooted in divine faith. "the brief precept," says st. augustine, "is given there once for all,--love, and do what thou wilt. if thou art silent, be silent for love; if thou speakest, speak for love; if thou correctest, correct for love; if thou sparest, spare for love. the root of love is within, and from it only good can come." life springs from love, and love is its being, aim, and end. each soul is born of souls yearning that he be born, and he lives only so far as he leaves himself and becomes through love part of the life of god and the race of man. primordial matter, with which the physicists start, is twin brother of nothing. in every conceivable hypothesis, we assume either that nothing is the cause of something, or that from the beginning there was something or some one who is all the universe may become. if truth and love and goodness are of the essence of the highest life evolved in nature, they are of the essence of that by which nature exists and energizes. if reason is valid at all, it avails as an immovable foundation for faith in god and in man's kinship with him. the larger the world we live in, the greater the opportunities for self-education. he who knows friends and foes, who is commended and found fault with, who tastes the delights of home and breathes the air of strange lands, who is followed and opposed, who triumphs and suffers defeat, who contends with many and is left alone, who dwells with his own thoughts and in the company of the great minds of all time,--necessarily gains wisdom and power, and learns to feel himself a man. science springs from man's yearning for truth; art, from his yearning for beauty; religion, from his yearning for love: and as truth, beauty, and love are a harmony, so are science, art, and religion; and if conflicts arise, they are the results of ignorance and passion. the charm of faith, hope, and love, of knowledge, beauty, and religion, lies in their power to open life's prison, thus permitting the soul to escape to commune with the infinite and eternal, with the boundless mysterious world of being which forever draws us on and forever eludes our grasp. the higher the man, the more urgent this need of self-escape. we look upon lifelong imprisonment of the body as among the greatest of evils, but that the mind should be suffered to languish in the dungeon of ignorance, error, and prejudice, seems comparatively a slight thing. thy whole business, as a rational being, is to know and follow truth,--with gratitude and joy if possible, but, in any case, with courage and resignation. mind maketh man; and the most money and place can do, is to make millionnaires and titularies. the alpine guides, who lead travellers through the sublimest scenery in the world, are as insensible to its grandeur as the stocks they grasp; and we nearly all are as indifferent as these drudges to nature's divine spectacle, with its starlit heavens, its risings and settings of sun and moon, its storms and calms, its changes of season, its clouds and snows and breath of many-tinted flowers, its children's faces, and plumage and songs of birds. as we judge of many things by samples, a glance may suffice to show the worthlessness of a book, but the value of one that is genuine is not quickly perceived, for it reveals itself the more the oftener it is read and pondered. there is not a more certain, a purer, or a more delightful source of contentment and independence than a taste for the best literature. in the midst of occupations and cares of whatever kind it enables us to look forward to the hour when the noblest minds and most generous hearts shall welcome us to their company to be entertained with great thoughts rightly uttered and with information concerning whatever is of interest to man. in every home the best works of the great poets, historians, philosophers, orators, and story-writers should lie within reach of the young, who should be permitted, not urged, to read them. we may know a man by the company he keeps; we may know him better still by the books he loves: and if he loves none, he is not worth knowing. matthew arnold praises culture for "its inexhaustible indulgence, its consideration of circumstances, its severe judgment of actions joined to its merciful judgment of persons." when we have learned to love work, to love honest work, work well done, excellently well done, we have within ourselves the most fruitful principle of education. who shall speak ill of bodily health and vigor? herbert spencer affirms that it is man's first duty to be a good animal. but since we cannot all be athletes or be well even, let us not refuse to find consolation in the fact that much of what is greatest, whether in the world of thought or action, has been wrought by mighty souls in feeble and suffering bodies; and since men gladly risk health and life to acquire gold, shall we not be willing, if need be, to be "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," if so we may attain to truth and love? great things are accomplished only by concentration. what we ourselves think, love, and do, until it becomes a habit, is the form and substance of our life. to live in the company of those who have or seek culture is to breathe the vital air of mental health and vigor. the scientific investigator gives his whole attention to the facts before him; but the discipline of close observation, however favorable it may be to accuracy, weakens capacity for wide and profound views. on the other hand, the speculative thinker is apt to grow heedless or oblivious of facts. hence a minute observer is seldom a great philosopher, a great philosopher rarely a careful observer. "employment," says ruskin, "is the half, and the primal half of education, for it forms the habits of body and mind, and these are the constitution of man." tell me at and in what thou workest, and i will tell thee what thou art. the secret of education lies in the words of christ,--he that hath eyes to see, let him see; he that hath ears to hear, let him hear. the soul must flow through the channels of the senses until it meets the universe and clothes it with the beauty and meaning which reveal god. when i think of all the truth which still remains for me to learn, of all the good i yet may do, of all the friends i still may serve, of all the beauty i may see, life seems as fresh and fair, as full of promise, as is to loving souls the dawn of their bridal day. animals, children, savages, the thoughtless and frivolous, live in the present alone; they consequently lead a narrow, ephemeral, and superficial existence. they strike no deep roots into the past, they forebode no divine future, they enter not behind the veil where the soul finds ever-during truth and power. "the world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers." whatever sets the mind in motion may lead us to secret worlds, though it be a falling apple, as with newton, or the swing of the pendulum, as with galileo, or a boy's kite, as with franklin, or throwing pebbles into the water, as with turner. watt sat musing by the fire, and noticed the rise and fall of the lid of the boiling kettle, and the steam engine, like a vision from unknown spheres, rose before his imagination. a child, carelessly playing with the glasses that lay on the table of a spectacle-maker, gave the clew to the invention of the telescope. the pestle, flying from the hand of schwarz, told him he had found the explosive which has transformed the world. drifting plants, of a strange species, whispered to columbus of a continent that lay across the atlantic. patient observation and work are the mightiest conquerors. among the maxims, called triads, which have come down to us from the celtic bards, we find this: "the three primary requisites of genius,--an eye that can see nature; a heart that can feel nature; and boldness that dares follow nature." he who has no philosophy and no religion, no theory of life and the world, has nothing which he finds it greatly important to say or do. he lacks the impulse of genius, the educator's energy and enthusiasm. having no ideal, he has no end to which he may point and lead. to do well it is necessary to believe in the worth of what we do. the power which upholds and leads us on is faith,--faith in god, in ourselves, in life, in education. forever to be blessed and cherished is the love-inspired mother or the teacher whose generous heart and luminous mind first leads us to believe in the priceless worth of wisdom and virtue, thus kindling within the soul a quenchless fire which warms and irradiates our whole being. to be god's workman, to strive, to endure, to labor, even to the end, for truth and righteousness, this is life. "my desire," says dante, "and my will rolled onward, like a wheel in even motion, swayed by the love which moves the sun and all the stars." if there are any who shrink from wrong more than from disgrace they best deserve to be called religious. strive not to be original or profound, but to think justly and to express clearly what thou seest; and so it may happen that thy view shall pierce deeper than thou knowest. the words and deeds which are most certain to escape oblivion are those which nourish the higher life of the soul. self-love, the love of one's real self, of one's soul, is the indispensable virtue. it is this we seek when we strive to know and love truth and justice; it is this we seek, when we love god and our fellow-men. in turning from ourselves to find them, we still seek ourselves; in abandoning life we seek richer and fuller life. truth separate from love is but half truth. think of that which unites thee with thy fellows rather than of what divides thee from them. religion is the bond of love, and not a subject for a debating club. if thou wouldst refute thy adversaries, commit the task to thy life more than to thy words. read the history of controversy and ask thyself whether there is in it the spirit of christ, the meek and lowly one? its champions belong to the schools of the sophists rather than to the worshippers of god in spirit and in truth. and what has been the issue of all their disputes but hatreds and sects, persecutions and wars? if it is my duty to be polite and helpful to my neighbor, it is plainly also my duty to treat his opinions and beliefs with consideration and fairness. there is a place in south america where the whole population have the goitre, and if a stranger who is free from the deformity chances to pass among them, they jeer and cry, "there goes one who has no goitre." what could be more delightfully human? we think it a holy thing to put down duelling, the battle of one with one; but we are full of enthusiasm over battles of a hundred thousand with a hundred thousand. thus the southern slave-owners were sworn advocates of the rights of man and of popular liberty. the explanation of many provoking things is to be found in dr. johnson's words,--"ignorance, simple ignorance;" but of many more probably in these other words,--greed, simple greed. "in science," says bulwer, "read by preference the newest books; in literature, the oldest." this is wiser than emerson's saying: "never read a book which is not a year old." the facility with which it is now possible to get at whatever is known on any subject has a tendency to create the opinion that reading up in this or that direction is education, whereas such reading as is generally done, is unfavorable to discipline of mind. shall our chautauquas and summer schools help to foster this superstition? what passion can be more innocent than the passion for knowledge? and what passion gives better promise of blessings to one's self and to one's fellow-men? why desire to have force and numbers on thy side? is it not enough that thou hast truth and justice? the loss of the good opinion of one's friends is to be regretted, but the loss of self-respect is the only true beggary. zeal for a party or a sect is more certain of earthly reward than zeal for truth and religion. as it is unfortunate for the young to have abundance of money, fine clothes, and social success, so popularity is hurtful to the prosperity of the best gifts. it draws the mind away from the silence and strength of eternal truth and love into a world of clamor and noise. patience is the student's great virtue; it is the mark of the best quality of mind. it takes an eternity to unfold a universe; man is the sum of the achievements of innumerable ages, and whatever endures is slow in acquiring the virtues which make for permanence. the will to know, manifesting itself in persistent impulse, in never-satisfied yearning, is the power which urges to mental effort and enables us to attain culture. "if a thing is good," says landor, "it may be repeated. the repetition shows no want of invention; it shows only what is uppermost in the mind, and by what the writer is most agitated and inflamed." what hast thou learned to admire, to long for, to love, genuinely to hope for and believe? the answer tells thy worth and that of the education thou hast received. when we have said a thousand things in praise of education, we must, at last, come back to the fundamental fact that nearly everything depends on the kind of people of whom we are descended, and on the kind of family in which our young years have passed. nearly everything, but not everything; and it is this little which makes liberty possible, which inspires hope and courage, which, like the indefinable something that gives the work of genius its worth and stamp, makes us children of god and masters of ourselves. "wisdom is the principal thing," says solomon; "therefore get wisdom, and with all thy getting, get understanding." he who makes himself the best man is the most successful one, while he who gains most money or notoriety may fail utterly as man. with the advance of civilization our wants increase; and yet it is the business of religion and culture to raise us above the things money buys, and consequently to diminish our wants. they who are nearest to god have fewest wants; and they who know and follow truth need not place or title or wealth. to every one the tempter comes, with a thousand pretexts drawn both from the intellect and the emotional nature, promising to lull conscience to sleep that he may lead the lower life in peace; but he who hearkens becomes a victim as helpless and as wretched as the victims of alcohol and opium. in deliberate persevering action for high ends, all the subconscious forces within us, the many currents, which, like hidden water-veins, go to make our being, are taken up and turned in a deep-flowing stream into the ocean of our life. in such course of conduct the baser self is swallowed, and we learn to feel that we are part of the divine energy which moves the universe to finer issues. as life is only by moments and in narrow space, a little thing may disturb us and a little thing may take away the cause of our trouble. we are petty beings in a world of petty concerns. a little food, a little sleep, a little joy is enough to make us happy. a word can fill us with dismay, a breath can blow out the flickering flame of our self-consciousness. i often ride among graves, and think how easy it is for the fretful children of men to grow quiet. there they lie, having become weary of their toys and plays, on the breast of the great mother from whom they sprang, about whose face they frolicked and fought and cried for a day, and then fell back into her all-receiving arms, as raindrops fall into the water and mingle with it and are lost. no sight is so pathetic as that of a vast throng seeking to enjoy themselves. the hopelessness of the task is visible on all their thousand faces, athwart which, while they talk or listen or look, the shadow of care flits as if thrown from dark wings wheeling in circuits above them. the sorrow and toil and worry they have thought to put away, still lie close to them, like a burden which, having been set down, waits to be taken up again. god surely sees with love and pity his all-enduring and all-hoping children; it is his voice we hear in the words of christ, "misereor super turbam." i cannot but wish to be myself, and therefore to be happy; but when i think of god as essential to my happiness, i feel it is enough for me to know and love him; for to imagine i might be of service to him would be the fondest conceit. but he makes it possible for me to help my fellows, and in doing this, i fulfil the will of him who is the father of all. the divine reveals itself in the human; and that religion alone is true which, striking its roots deep into humanity, exerts all its power to make men more godlike by making them more human. they who in good faith inflicted the tortures of the inquisition were led not by the light of reason, or that which springs from the contemplation of the life of christ, but by the notion that the rack and fagot are instruments of mercy, if employed to save men from eternal torments; and tyrants, who are always cruel, gave encouragement and aid to the victims of fanaticism. why should the sorrow or the sin or the loss of any human being give me pleasure? is it not always the same story? in the fall of one we all are degraded, since, whoever fails, it is our common nature which suffers hurt. whether or not we have come forth from a merely animal condition, let us thank god we are human, and bend all our energies to remove the race farther and farther from the life over which thought and love and conscience have no dominion. in the presence of the mighty machine, whose wheels and arms are everywhere, whose power is drawn from the exhaustless oceans and the boundless heavens, the importance of the individual dwindles and seems threatened with extinction. at such a time it is good to know that a right human soul is greater than a universe of machinery. we feel that we are higher than all the suns and planets, because we know and love, and they do not; but when, in the light of this superiority, we turn to the thought of our own littleness, being scarcely more than nothing, such trouble rises in the soul that we throw ourselves upon god to escape doubt of the reality of life. if we believe that man is what he eats, his education is simply a question of alimentation; but if we hold that he is what he knows, and loves, and yearns, and strives for, his education is a problem of soul-nutrition. the child is made educable by its faith in the father and mother, which is nothing else than faith in their truth and love; and the educableness of the man is in proportion to his faith in the sovereign and infinite nature of truth and love, which is faith in god. it is in youth that we are most susceptible of education, because it is the privilege of youth to be free from tyrannic cares, and to be sensitive to the charm of noble and disinterested passions. if we show the young soul the way to higher worlds, he will not ask us to strew it with flowers, or pave it with gold, but he will be content to walk with bruised feet along mountain wastes, if at the summit is illumination and joy and peace. as in religion many are called but few chosen, as in the race for wealth and place many start but few win the prize, so in the pursuit of intellectual and moral excellence, of the few who begin, the most soon weary, while of the remnant, many grow infirm in purpose or in body before the goal is reached. time and space, which hold all things, separate all things; but religion and culture bind them into unity through faith in god and through knowledge, thus forming a communion of holy souls and noble minds, for whom discord and division disappear in the harmony of the divine order in which temporal and spatial conditions of separateness yield to the eternal presence of truth and love. new ideas seem at first to remain upon the surface of the soul, and generations sometimes pass before they enter into its substance and become motives of conduct; and, in the same way, sentiments may influence conduct, when the notions from which they sprang have long been rejected. the old truth must renew itself as the race renews itself; it must be re-interpreted and re-applied to the life of each individual and of each generation, if its liberating and regenerating power is to have free scope. reason and conscience are god's most precious gifts; and what does he ask but that we make use of them? right thinking, like right doing, is the result of innumerable efforts, innumerable failures, the final outcome of which is a habit of right thought and conduct. whoever believes in truth, freedom, and love, and follows after them with his whole heart, walks in god's highway, which leads to peace and blessedness. a thing may be obscure from defect of light or defect of sight; and in the same way an author may be found dull either because he is so, or because his readers are dull. the noblest book even is but dead matter until a mind akin to its creator's awakens it to life again. the appeal to the imagination has infinitely more charm than the appeal to the senses. "but when evening falls," says machiavelli, "i go home and enter my study. on the threshold i lay aside my country garments, soiled with mire, and array myself in courtly garb. thus attired, i make my entrance into the ancient courts of the men of old, where they receive me with love, and where i feed upon that food which only is my own, and for which i was born. for four hours' space i feel no annoyance, forget all care; poverty cannot frighten nor death appall me." a man of genius works for all, for he compels all to think. an enlightened mind and a generous heart make the world good and fair. where there is perfect confidence, conversation does not drag; while for those who love it is enough that they be together: if they are silent, it is well; if they speak, mere nothings suffice. the world of knowledge, all that men know, is, in truth, little and simple enough. it seems vast and intricate because we are imperfectly educated. the soul, like the body, has its atmosphere, out of which it cannot live. when opinions take the place of convictions, ideas that of beliefs, great characters become rare. the pith of virtue lies not in thinking, but in doing. a real man strives to assert himself; for whether he seeks wealth, or power, or fame, or truth, or virtue, or the good of his fellows, he knows that he can succeed only through self-assertion, through the prevalence of his own thought and life. they who abdicate the rights god gives the individual, seek in vain to preserve by constitutional enactments a semblance of liberty. if it is human to hate whom we have injured, it is not less so to despise whom we have deceived; and yet those who are easily deceived are the most innocent or the most high-minded and generous. it seems hardly a human and must therefore be a divine thing, to live and deal with men without in any way giving them trouble and annoyance. truth loves not contention, and when men fight for it, it vanishes in the noise and smoke of the combat. the controversies of the schools, whether of philosophy, theology, literature, or natural science, have been among the saddest exhibitions of ineptitude. is it conceivable that a thinker, or a believer, or a scholar, or an investigator should wrangle in the spirit of a pothouse politician? the more certain we are of ourselves and of the truth of what we hold, the easier it is for us to be patient and tolerant. wicked is whoever finds pleasure in another's pain. we can know more than we can love. hence communion with the world is wider through the mind than through the heart, though less intimate and less satisfying. it is, however, longer active, for we continue to be delighted by new truth when we have ceased to care to make new friends. learn to bear the faults of men as thou sufferest the changes of weather,--with equanimity; for impatience and anger will no more improve thy neighbors than they will prevent its being hot or cold. what men think or say of thee is unimportant--give heed to what thou thyself thinkest and sayst. if thou art ignored or reviled, remember such has been the fate of the best, while the world's favorites are often men of blood or lust or mere time-servers. he who does genuine work is conscious of the worth of what he does, and is not troubled with misgivings or discouraged by lack of recognition. if god looked away from his universe it would cease to be; and he sees him. the more we detach ourselves from crude realism, from the naive views of uneducated minds, the easier it becomes for us to lead an intellectual and religious life, for such detachment enables us to realize that the material world has meaning and beauty only when it has passed through the alembic of the spirit and become purified, fit object for the contemplation of god and of souls. they are true students who are drawn to seek knowledge by mental curiosity, by affinity with the intelligible, like that which binds and holds lover to lover, making their love all-sufficient and above all price. all that is of value in thy opinions is the truth they contain--to hold them dearer than truth is to be irrational and perverse. thy faith is what thou believest, not what thou knowest. the crowd loves to hear those who treat the tenets of their opponents with scorn, who overwhelm their adversaries with abuse, who make a mockery of what their foes hold sacred; but to vulgarity of this kind a cultivated mind cannot stoop. to do so is a mark of ignorance and inferiority; is to confuse judgment, to cloud intellect, and to strengthen prejudice. if there are any who are so absurd or so perverse as to be unworthy of fair and rational treatment, to refute them is loss of time, to occupy one's self with them is to keep bad company. with the contentious, who are always dominated by narrow and petty views and motives, enter not into dispute, but look beyond to the wide domain of reason and to the patience and charity of christ. when minds are alive and active, opposing currents of thought necessarily arise. contradiction is the salt which keeps truth from corruption. as we let the light fall at different angles upon a precious stone, and change our position from point to point to study a work of art, so it is well to give more than one expression to the same truth, that the intellectual rays falling upon it from several directions, and breaking into new tints and shades, its full meaning and worth may finally be brought clearly into view. if those with whom thou art thrown appear to thee to be hard and narrow, call to mind that they have the same troubles and sorrows as thyself, essentially too the same thoughts and yearnings; and as, in spite of all thy faults, thou still lovest thyself, so love them too, even though they be too warped and prejudiced to appreciate thy worth. the wise man never utters words of scorn, for he best knows such words are devil-born. our opponents are as necessary to us as our friends, and when those who have nobly combated us die, they seem to take with them part of our mental vigor; they leave us with a deeper sense of the illusiveness of life. freedom is found only where honest criticism of men and measures is recognized as a common right. as one man's meat is another's poison, so in the world of intelligible things what refreshes and invigorates one, may weary and depress another. what delights the child makes no impression upon the man. men and women, the ignorant and the learned, philosophers and poets, mothers and maidens, doers and dreamers, find their entertainment largely in different worlds. napoleon despised the idealogue; the idealogue sees in him but a conscienceless force. outcries against wrong have little efficacy. they alone improve men who inspire them with new confidence, new courage, who help them to renew and purify the inner sources of life. harsh zeal provokes excess, because it provokes contradiction. whoever stirs the soul to new depths, whoever awakens the mind to new thoughts and aspirations, is a benefactor. the common man sees the fruits of his toil; the seed which divine men sow, ripens for others. the counsels worldlings give to genius can only mislead. not only the truth which christ taught, but the truth which nearly all sublime thinkers have taught, has seemed to the generation to which it was announced but a beggarly lie. the powerful have sneered with pilate, while the mob have done the teachers to death. make truth thy garb, thy house, wherein thou movest and dwellest, and art comfortable and at home. if thou knowest what thou knowest and believest what thou believest, thou canst not be disturbed by contradiction, but shalt feel that thy opposers are appointed by god to confirm thee in truth. as the merchant keeps journal and ledger, so should he whose wealth is truth, take account in writing of the thoughts he gains from observation, reflection, reading, and intercourse with men. we become perfectly conscious of our impressions only in giving expression to them; hence ability to express what we feel and know is one of the chief and most important aims and ends of education. what thou mayst not learn without employing spies, or listening to the stories of the malignant or the gossip of the vulgar, be content not to know. our miseries spring from idleness and sin; and idleness is sin and the mother of sin. "to confide in one's self and become something of worth," says michelangelo, "is the best and safest course." life-weariness, when it is not the result of long suffering, comes of lack of love, for to love any human being in a true and noble way makes life good. whatever mistakes thou mayst have made in the choice of a profession and in other things, it is still possible for thee to will and do good, to know truth, and to love beauty, and this is the best life can give. think of living, and thou shalt find no time to repine. the character of the believer determines the character of his faith, whatever the formulas by which it is expressed. what we are is the chief constituent of the world in which we now live, and this must be true also of the world in which we believe and for which we hope. for the sensualist a spiritual heaven has neither significance nor attractiveness. the highest truth the noblest see has no meaning for the multitude, or but a distorted meaning. what is divinest in the teaching of christ, only one in thousands, now after the lapse of centuries, rightly understands and appreciates. it is not so much the things we believe, know, and do, as the things on which we lay the chief stress of hope and desire, that shape our course and decide our destiny. they alone receive the higher gifts, who, to obtain them, renounce the lower pleasures and rewards of life. those races are noblest, those individuals are noblest, who care most for the past and the future, whose thoughts and hopes are least confined to the world of sense which from moment to moment ceaselessly urges its claims to attention. desire fanned by imagination, when it turns to sensual things, makes men brutish; but when its object is intellectual and moral, it lifts them to worlds of pure and enduring delight. when we would form an estimate of a man, we consider not what he knows, believes, and does, but what kind of being his knowledge, faith, and works have made of him. he who makes us learn more than he teaches has genius. whoever has freed himself from envy and bitterness may begin to try to see things as they are. each one is the outcome of millions of causes, which, so far as he can see, are accidental. how ridiculous then to complain that if this or that only had not happened, all would be well. it is ignorance or prejudice to make a man's conduct an argument against the worth of his writings. byron was a bad man, but a great poet; bacon was venal, but a marvellous thinker. books, to be interesting to the many, must abound in narrative, must run on like chattering girls, and make little demand upon attention. the appeal to thought is like a beggar's appeal for alms,--heeded by one only in hundreds who pass; for, to the multitude, mental effort is as disagreeable as parting with their money. a newspaper is old the day after its publication, and there are many books which issue from the press withered and senile, but the best, like the gods, are forever young and delightful. "whatever bit of a wise man's work," says ruskin, "is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is his book or his piece of art. it is mixed always with evil fragments,--ill-done, redundant, affected work; but if you read rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and _those_ are the book." again: "no book is worth anything which is not worth much; nor is it serviceable until it has been read and re-read, and loved, and loved again; and marked so that you may refer to the passages you want in it." unity, steadfastness, and power of will mark the great workers. a dominant impulse urges them forward, and with firm tread they move on till death bids them stay. as the will succumbs to idleness and sin, it can be developed and maintained in health and vigor only by right action. if thou makest thy intellectual and moral improvement thy chief business, thou shalt not lack for employment, and with thy progress thy joy and freedom shall increase. progress is betterment of life. the accumulation of discoveries, the multiplication of inventions, the improvement of the means of comfort, the extension of instruction, and the perfecting of methods, are valuable in the degree in which they contribute to this end. the characteristic of progress is increase of spiritual force. in material progress even, the intellectual and moral element is the value-giving factor. progress begets belief in progress. as we grow in worth and wisdom, our faith in knowledge and conduct is developed and confirmed, and with more willing hearts we make ourselves the servants of righteousness and love; for in the degree in which religion and culture prevail within us, co-operation for life tends to supersede the struggle for life, which if not the dominant law, is, at least, the general course of things when left to nature's sway. catchwords, such as progress, culture, enlightenment, and liberty, are for the multitude rarely more than psittacisms, mere parrot sounds. so long as we genuinely believe in an ideal and strive to incarnate it, the spirit of hope kindles the flame of enthusiasm within the breast. its attainment, however, if the ideal is sensual or material, leads to disappointment and weariness. behold yonder worshipper at the shrine of money and pleasure, whose life is but a yawn between his woman and his wine. but if the ideal is spiritual, failure in the pursuit cannot dishearten us, and success but opens to view diviner worlds towards which we turn our thought and love with self-renewing freshness of mind. if thou seekest for beauty, it is everywhere; if for hideousness, it too is everywhere. to believe in one's self, to have genuine faith in the impressions, thoughts, hopes, loves, and aspirations which are in one's own soul, and to strive ceaselessly to come to clear knowledge of this inner world which each one bears within himself, is the secret of culture. to bend one's will day by day to the weaving this light of the mind and warmth of the heart into the substance of life, into conduct, is the secret of character. at whatever point of time or space we find ourselves, we can begin or continue the task of self-improvement; for the only essential thing is the activity of the soul, seeking to become conscious of itself, through and in god and his universe. the little bird upbuilds its nest of little things by ceaseless quest: and he who labors without rest by little steps will reach life's crest. the true reader is brought into contact with a personality which reveals itself or permits its secret to be divined. in spirit and imagination he lives the life of the author. in his book he finds the experience and wisdom of years compressed into a few pages which he reads in an hour. the vital sublimation of what made a man is thus given him in its essence to exalt or to degrade, to inspire or to deaden his soul. in looking through the eyes of another, he learns to see himself, to understand his affinities and his tendencies, his strength and his weakness. eat this volume and go speak to the children of israel, said the spirit to the prophet ezekiel. the meaning is--mentally devour, digest, and assimilate the book into the fibre and structure of thy very being, and then shalt thou be able to utter words of truth and wisdom to god's chosen ones. the world's spiritual wealth, so far as it has existence other than in the minds of individuals, is stored in literature, in books,--the great treasure-house of the soul's life, of what the best and greatest have thought, known, believed, felt, suffered, desired, toiled, and died for; and whoever fails to make himself a home in this realm of truth, light, and freedom, is shut out from what is highest and most divine in human experience, and sinks into the grave without having lived. to those who have uttered themselves in public speech, there comes at times a feeling akin to self-reproach. they have taken upon themselves the office of teacher, and yet what have they taught that is worth knowing and loving? they have lost the privacy in which so much of the charm and freedom of life consists; they have been praised or blamed without discernment; and a great part of what they have said and written seems to themselves little more than a skeleton from which the living vesture has fallen. ask them not to encourage any one to become an author. the more they have deafened the world with their voices, the more will they, like carlyle, praise the eternal silence. they have in fact been taught, by hard experience, that the worth of life lies not in saying or writing anything whatever, but in pure faith, in humble obedience, in brave and steadfast striving. the woman who sweeps a room, the mother who nurses her child, the laborer who sows and reaps, believing and feeling that they are working with god, are leading nobler lives and doing diviner things than the declaimers and theorizers, and the religion which upholds them and lightens their burdens is better than all the philosophies. chapter iii. the making of one's self. the wise man will esteem above everything and will cultivate those sciences which further the perfection of his soul.--plato. it has become customary to call these endings of the scholastic year commencements; just as the people of the civilized world have agreed to make themselves absurd by calling the ninth month the seventh, the tenth the eighth, the eleventh the ninth, and the twelfth the tenth. and, indeed, the discourses which are delivered on these occasions would be more appropriate and more effective if made to students who, having returned from the vacations with renewed physical vigor, feel also fresh urgency to exercise of mind. but now, so little is man in love with truth, the approach of the moment when you are to make escape and find yourselves in what you imagine to be a larger and freer world, occupies all your thoughts, and thrills you with an excitement which makes attention difficult; and, like the noise of crowds and brazen trumpets, prevents the soul from mounting to the serene world where alone it is free and at home. since, however, the invitation with which i have been honored directs my address to the graduates of notre dame in this her year of golden jubilee, i may, without abuse of the phrase, entitle it a commencement oration; for the day on which a graduate worthy of the name leaves his college is the commencement day of a new life of study, more earnest and more effectual than that which is followed within academic walls, because it is the result of his sense of duty alone and of his uncontrolled self-activity. and, though i am familiar with the serious disadvantages with which a reader as compared with a speaker has to contend, i shall read my address, if for no other reason, because i shall thus be able to measure my time; and if i am prolix, i shall be so maliciously, and not become so through the obliviousness which may result from the illusive enthusiasm that is sometimes produced in the speaker by his own vociferation, and which he fondly imagines he communicates to his hearers. the chief benefit to be derived from the education we receive in colleges and universities, and from the personal contact into which we are there thrown with enlightened minds, is the faith it tends to inspire and confirm in the worth of knowledge and culture, of conduct and religion; for nothing else we there acquire will abide with us as an inner impulse to self-activity, a self-renewing urgency to the pursuit of excellence. if we fail, we fail for lack of faith; but belief is communicated from person to person,--_fides ex auditu_,--and to mediate it is the educator's chief function. through daily intercourse with one who is learned and wise and noble, the young gain a sense of the reality of science and culture, of religion and morality; which thus cease to be for them vague somethings of which they have heard and read, and become actual things,--realities, like monuments they have inspected, or countries through which they have travelled. they have been taken by the hand and led where, left to themselves, they would never have gone. the true educator inspires not only faith, but admiration also, and confidence and love,--all soul-evolving powers. he is a master whose pupils are disciples,--followers of him and believers in the wisdom he teaches. he founds a school which, if it does not influence the whole course of thought and history, like that of plato or aristotle, does at least form a body of men, distinguished by zeal for truth and love of intellectual and moral excellence. to be able thus, in virtue of one's intelligence and character, to turn the generous heart and mind of youth to sympathy with what is intelligible, fair, and good in thought and life, is to be like god,--is to have power in its noblest and most human form; and its exercise is the teacher's chief and great reward. to be a permanent educational force is the highest earthly distinction. is not this the glory of the founders of religions, of the discoverers of new worlds? in stooping to the mind and heart of youth, to kindle there the divine flame of truth and love, we ourselves receive new light and warmth. to listen to the noise made by the little feet of children when at play, and to the music of their merry laughter, is pleasant; but to come close to the aspiring soul of youth, and to feel the throbbings of its deep and ardent yearnings for richer and wider life, is to have our faith in the good of living revived and intensified. it is the divine privilege of the young to be able to believe that the world can be moulded and controlled by thought and spiritual motives; and in breathing this celestial air, the choice natures among them learn to become sages and saints; or if it be their lot to be thrown into the fierce struggles where selfish and cruel passions contend for the mastery over justice and humanity, they carry into the combat the serene strength of reason and conscience; for their habitual and real home is in the unseen world, where what is true and good has the omnipotent for its defence. of this soul of youth we may affirm without fear of error-- "the soul seeks god; from sphere to sphere it moves, immortal pilgrim of the infinite." life is the unfolding of a mysterious power, which in man rises to self-consciousness, and through self-consciousness to the knowledge of a world of truth and order and love, where action may no longer be left wholly to the sway of matter or to the impulse of instinct, but may and should be controlled by reason and conscience. to further this process by deliberate and intelligent effort is to educate. hence education is man's conscious co-operation with the infinite being in promoting the development of life; it is the bringing of life in its highest form to bear upon life, individual and social, that it may raise it to greater perfection, to ever-increasing potency. to educate, then, is to work with the power who makes progress a law of living things, becoming more and more active and manifest as we ascend in the scale of being. the motive from which education springs is belief in the goodness of life and the consequent desire for richer, freer, and higher life. it is the point of union of all man's various and manifold activity; for whether he seeks to nourish and preserve his life, or to prolong and perpetuate it in his descendants, or to enrich and widen it in domestic and civil society, or to grow more conscious of it through science and art, or to strike its roots into the eternal world through faith and love, or in whatever other way he may exert himself, the end and aim of his aspiring and striving is educational,--is the unfolding and uplifting of his being. the radical craving is for life,--for the power to feel, to think, to love, to enjoy. and as it is impossible to reach a state in which we are not conscious that this power may be increased, we can find happiness only in continuous progress, in ceaseless self-development. this craving for fulness of life is essentially intellectual and moral, and its proper sphere of action is the world of thought and conduct. he who has a healthy appetite does not long for greater power to eat and drink. a sensible man who has sufficient wealth for independence and comfort does not wish for more money; but he who thinks and loves and acts in obedience to conscience feels that he is never able to do so well enough, and hence an inner impulse urges him to strive for greater power of life, for perfection. he is akin to all that is intelligible and good, and is drawn to bring himself into ever-increasing harmony with this high world. hence attention is for him like a second nature, for attention springs from interest; and since he feels an affinity with all things, all things interest him. and what is thus impressed upon his mind and heart he is impelled to utter in deed or speech or gesture or song, or in whatever way thought and sentiment may manifest themselves. attention and expression are thus the fundamental forms of self-activity, the primary and essential means of education, of developing intellectual and moral power. interest is aroused and held by need, which creates desire. if we are hungry, whatever may help us to food interests us. our first and indispensable interests relate to the things we need for self-preservation and the perpetuation of the race; and to awaken desire and stimulate effort to obtain them, instinct is sufficient, as we may see in the case of mere animals. but as progress is made, higher and more subtle wants are developed. we crave for more than food and wife and children. the social organism evolves itself; and as its complexity increases, the relations of the individual to the body of which he is a member are multiplied, and become more intricate. as we pass from the savage to the barbarous, and from the barbarous to the civilized state, intellect and conscience are brought more and more into play. mental power gains the mastery over brute force, and little by little subdues the energies of inorganic nature, and makes them serve human ends. iron is forced to become soft and malleable, and to assume every shape; the winds bear man across the seas; the sweet and gentle water is imprisoned and tortured until with its fierce breath it does work in comparison with which the mythical exploits of gods and demi-gods are as the play of children. strength of mind and character takes precedence of strength of body. hercules and samson are but helpless infants in the presence of the thinker who reads nature's secret and can compel her to do his bidding. if we bend our thoughts to this subject, we shall gain insight into the meaning and purpose of education, which is nothing else than the urging of intellect and conscience to the conquest of the world, and to the clear perception and practical acknowledgment of the primal and fundamental truth that man is man in virtue of his thought and love. instruction, which is but part of education, has for its object the development of the intellect and the transmission of knowledge. this, whether we consider the individual or society, is indispensable. it is good to know. knowledge is not only the source of many of our highest and purest joys, but without it we can attain neither moral nor material good in the nobler forms. virtue when it is enlightened gains a higher quality. and if we hold that action and not thought is the end of life, we cannot deny that action is, in some degree at least, controlled and modified by thought. nevertheless, instruction is not the principal part of education; for human worth is more essentially and more intimately identified with character and heart than with knowledge and intellect. what we will is more important than what we know; and the importance of what we know is derived largely from its influence on the will or conduct. a nation, like an individual, receives rank from character more than from knowledge; since the true measure of human worth is moral rather than intellectual. the teaching of the school becomes a subject of passionate interest, through our belief in its power to educate sentiment, stimulate will, and mould character. for in the school we do more than learn the lessons given us: we live in an intellectual and moral atmosphere, acquire habits of thought and behavior; and this, rather than what we learn, is the important thing. to imagine that youths who have passed through colleges and universities, and have acquired a certain knowledge of languages and sciences, but have not formed strongly marked characters, should forge to the front in the world and become leaders in the army of religion and civilization, is to cherish a delusion. the man comes first; and scholarship without manhood will be found to be ineffectual. the semi-culture of the intellect, which is all a mere graduate can lay claim to, will but help to lead astray those who lack the strength of moral purpose; and they whom experience has made wise expect little from young men who have bright minds and have passed brilliant examinations, but who go out into the world without having trained themselves to habits of patient industry and tireless self-activity. man is essentially a moral being; and he who fails to become so, fails to become truly human. individuals and nations are brought to ruin not by lack of knowledge, but by lack of conduct. "now that the world is filled with learned men," said seneca, "good men are wanting." he was nero's preceptor, and saw plainly how powerless intellectual culture was to save rome from the degeneracy which undermined its civilization and finally brought on its downfall. if in college the youth does not learn to govern and control himself,--to obey and do right in all things, not because he has not the power to disobey and do wrong, but because he has not the will,--nothing else he may learn will be of great service. it seems to me i perceive in our young men a lack of moral purpose, of sturdiness, of downright obstinate earnestness, in everything--except perhaps in money-getting pursuits; for even in these they are tempted to trust to speculation and cunning devices rather than to persistent work and honesty, which become a man more than crowns and all the gifts of fortune. without truthfulness, honesty, honor, fidelity, courage, integrity, reverence, purity, and self-respect no worthy or noble life can be led. and unless we can get into our colleges youths who can be made to drink into their inmost being this vital truth, little good can be accomplished there. now, it often happens that these institutions are, in no small measure, refuges into which the badly organized families of the wealthy send their sons in the vain expectation that the fatal faults of inheritance and domestic training will be repaired. in college, as wherever there are men, quality is more precious than quantity. the number of students is great enough when they are of the right kind; and the work which now lies at our hand is to make it possible that those who have talent and the will to improve themselves may enter our institutions of learning. but those who are shown to be insusceptible of education should be eliminated; for they profit not themselves, and are a hindrance to the others. gladly i turn from them to you, young gentlemen, who have persevered in the pursuit of knowledge and virtue, and to-day are declared worthy to receive the highest honor notre dame can confer. the deepest and the best thing in us is faith in reason; for when we look closely, we perceive that faith in god, in the soul, in good, in freedom, in truth, is faith in reason. individuals, nations, the whole race, wander in a maze of errors. the world of the senses is apparent and illusive, that of pure thought vague and shadowy. science touches but the form and surface; speculation is swallowed in abysses and disperses itself; ignorance darkens, passion blinds the mind; the truth of one age becomes the error of a succeeding; opinions change from continent to continent and from century to century. the more we learn, the less we know; and what we most of all desire to know eludes our grasp. but, nevertheless, our faith in reason is unshaken; and holding to this faith, we hold to god, to good, to freedom, and to truth. goodness is the radical principle; the good, the primal aim and final end of life; for the good is whatever is helpful to life. hence what is true is good, what is useful is good, what is fair is good, what is right is good; and the true, the useful, the fair, and the right are intertwined and circle about man like a noble sisterhood, to waken him to life, and to urge him toward god, the supreme good, whose being is power, wisdom, love without limit. the degree of goodness in all things is measured by their approach to this absolute being. hence the greater our strength, wisdom, and love, the greater our good, the richer and more perfect our life. there is no soul which does not bow with delight and reverence before beauty and power; and when we come to true insight, we perceive that holiness is beauty and goodness power. genuine spiritual power is from god, and compels the whole mechanic world to acknowledge its absoluteness. the truths of religion and morality are of the essence of our life; they cannot be learned from another, but must be wrought into self-consciousness by our own thinking and doing,--by habitual meditation, and constant obedience to conscience. virtue, knowledge, goodness, and greatness are their own reward: they are primarily and essentially ends, and only incidentally means. hence those who strive for perfection with the view thereby to gain recognition, money, or place, do not really strive for perfection at all. they are also unwise; for virtue, knowledge, goodness, and greatness are not the surest means to such ends, and they can be acquired only with infinite pains. the highest human qualities cease to be the highest when they are made subordinate to the externalities of office and wealth. the one aim of a mind smitten with the love of excellence is to live consciously and lovingly with whatever is true or good or fair. and such a one cannot be disturbed whether by the general indifference of men or by their praise or blame. the standpoint of the soul is: what thou art, not what others think thee. if thou art at one with thy true self, god and the eternal laws bear thee up and onward. the moral and the religious life interpenetrate each other. to sunder them is to enfeeble both. to weaken faith is to undermine character; to fail in conduct is to deprive faith of inspiration and vigor. learn to live thy religion, and thou shalt have little need or desire to argue and dispute about it. truth is mightier than its witnesses, religion greater than its saints and martyrs. learn to think, and thou shalt easily learn to live. in the presence of the highest manifestations of thought and love, of truth and beauty, nothing perfect or divine is incredible. men of genius, philosophers, poets, and saints, who by thinking and doing make this ethereal but most real world rise before us in concrete form and substance, are heavenly messengers and illuminators of the soul. had none of them lived, how should we see and understand that man is godlike and that god is truth and love? we cannot make this high world plain by telling about it. it is not a land which may be described. it is a state of soul which they alone comprehend who have been transformed by patient meditation and faithful striving. but once it is revealed, a thousand errors and obscurities fall away from us. if not educated, strive at least to be educable,--a believer in wisdom, and sensitive to all high influence, and eager to be quit of thy ignorance and hardness. as the dead cannot produce the live, so mechanical minds, however much they may be able to drill, train, and instruct, cannot educate. the secret of the mother's specific educational power lies in the fact that she is a spiritual not a mechanical force, loves and is loved by her pupils. the most ennobling and the most thoroughly satisfying sentiment of which we are capable is love. until we love we are strangers to ourselves. we are like beings asleep or lost to the knowledge of themselves and all things, till, awakening to the appeal of the pure light and the balmy air, they look upon what is not themselves; and, finding it fair and beautiful, learn in loving it to feel and know themselves. increase of the power to love is increase of life. but love needs guidance. we first awaken in the world of the senses, and are attracted by what we see and touch and taste. the aim of education is to help the soul to rise above this world, in which, if we remain, we are little better than brutes. hence the teacher seeks in many ways to reveal to the young the fact that the perfect, the best, cannot be seen or touched, cannot be grasped even by the mind; but that it is, nevertheless, that which they should strive to make themselves capable of loving above all things. and thus he prepares them to understand what is meant by the love of truth and righteousness, by the love of god. in the training of animals even, patience and gentleness are more effective than violence. how, then, shall we hope by physical constraint and harsh methods to educate human beings, who are human precisely because they are capable of love and are swayed by rational motives? there is no soul so gross, so deeply buried in matter, but it shall from some point or other make a sally to show it still bears the impress of god's image. at such points the educator will keep watch, studying how he may make this single ray of light interfuse itself with his pupil's whole being. it is not possible to know there is no god, no soul, no free will, no right or wrong; at the worst, it is only possible to doubt all this. the universe is as inconceivable as god, and theories of matter as full of difficulties as theories of spirit. it is a question of belief or unbelief; ultimately a question of health or disease, of life or death. they who have no faith in god can have little faith in the worth of life, which can be for them but an efflorescence of death, a sort of inexplicable malady of atoms dreaming they are conscious. if the age tends irresistibly to destroy belief in god, the end will be the ruin of belief in the good of life. in the mean while the doubt which weakens the springs of hope and love is not a symptom of health but of disease, pregnant with suffering and misery for all, but most of all for the young. he who is loved in a true and noble way is surrounded by an element of spiritual light in which his worth is revealed to him. in perceiving what he is to another, he comes to understand what he is or may be in himself. our self respect even is largely due to the love we receive in childhood and youth. enthusiasm springs from faith in god and in the soul, which begets in us a high and heroic belief in the divine good of life. it is thus an educational force of highest value. it calms and exalts the soul like the view of the starlit heavens and the everlasting mountains. it is, in every good and noble cause, a fountain head of endurance and perseverance. it bears us on with a sense of joy and vigor, such as is felt when, mounted on a high-mettled steed, we ride in the pleasant air of a spring morning, amid the beauties and grandeurs of nature. in the front of battle and in the presence of death it throws around the soul the light of immortal things. it gives us the plenitude of existence, the full and high enjoyment of living. on its wings the poet, the lover, the orator, the hero, and the saint are borne in rapture through worlds whose celestial glory and delightfulness cold and unmoved minds do not suspect. it is not a flame from the dry wood and withered grass, but a heat and glow from the abysmal depths of being. it makes us content to follow after truth and love in dark and narrow ways, as the miner, in central deeps where sunlight has never fallen, seeks his treasure. it keeps us fresh and young; and, like the warmer sun, reclothes the world day by day with new beauty. it teaches patience, the love of work without haste and without worry. it gives strength to hear and speak truth, and to walk in the sacred way of truth, as though we but idly strolled with pleasant friends amid fragrant flowers. it gives us deeper consciousness of our own liberty, faith in human perfectibility, which lies at the root of our noblest efforts; to which the more we yield ourselves the more we feel that we are free. it knows a thousand words of truth and might, which it whispers in gentlest tones to rightly attuned ears: since the universe is a harmony whose diapason is god, why should thy life strike a discordant note? yield not to discouragement; thou art alive, and god is in his world. the combat and not the victory proclaims the hero. if thy success had been greater, thou hadst been less. the noisy participants in great conflicts, of whatever kind, exercise less influence upon the outcome than choice spirits, who, turning aside from the thunder and smoke of battle, gain in lonely striving and meditation view of new truth by which the world is transformed. we owe more to columbus than to isabella; to descartes than to louis xiv.; to bacon than to elizabeth; to pestalozzi than to napoleon; to goethe than to blücher; to pasteur than to bismarck. if thou wouldst be persuaded and convinced, persuade and convince thyself. be thy aim not increase of happiness, but of knowledge, wisdom, power, and virtue; and thou shalt, without thinking of it, find thyself also happy. character is formed by effort, resistance, and patience. if necessity is the mother of invention, suffering is the mother of high moods and great thoughts. poets have sung to ease their sorrow-burdened or love-tortured hearts; and the travail of souls yearning with ineffable pain for truth has led to the nearest view of god. wisdom is the child of suffering, as beauty is the child of love. if a truth discourages thee, thou art not yet ripe for it; for thee it is not yet wholly true. work not like an ox at the plough, but like a setter afield; not because thou must, but because thou takest delight in thy task. only they have come of age who have learned how to educate themselves. education, like life, works from within outward: the teacher loosens the soil and removes the obstacles to light and warmth and moisture; but growth comes of the activity of the soul itself. a new century will not make new men; but if, in truth, it be a new century, it will be made so by the deeper thought and diviner love of men and women. let the old tell what they have done, the young what they are doing, and fools what they intend to do. the power to control attention, as a good rider holds his horse to the road and to his gait, is a result of education; and when it is acquired other things become easy. let not poverty or misfortune or insult or flattery or success, o seeker after truth and beauty! turn thee from thy divine task and purpose. pardon every one except thyself, and put thy trust in god and in thyself. "if i buy thee," asked one of a spartan captive, "and treat thee well, wilt thou be good?"--"i will," he replied, "if thou buy me or not; or if, having bought me, thou treat me ill." if there be anything of worth in thee, it will make thee strong and contented; it is so good for thee to have it that thou canst easily forget it is unrecognized by others. if all sufferings, sorrows, and disappointments had been left out of thy life, wouldst thou be more or less than thou art? less worthy, doubtless, and less wise. in these evils, then, there is something good. if thou couldst but bear this always in mind, thou shouldst be better able to suffer pain, whether of body or soul. there are things thou hast greatly desired which, had they been given thee, would make thee wretched. the wiser thou growest, the better shalt thou understand how little we know what is for the best. "had i but lived!" cried obermann. and a woman of genius replied: "be consoled, o obermann! hadst thou lived, thou hadst lived in vain." so it is. in the end we neither regret that pleasures have been denied us, nor feel that those we have enjoyed were a gain unless they are associated with the memory of high faith and thought and virtuous action. he who is careful to fill his mind with truth and his heart with love will not lack for retreats in which he may take refuge from the stress and storms of life. noise, popularity, and buncombe: onions, smoke, and bedbugs. be thy own rival, comparing thyself with thyself, and striving day by day to be self-surpassed. if thy own little room is well lighted the whole world is less dark. if thou art busy seeking intellectual and moral illumination and strength, thou shalt easily be contented. higher place would mean for thee less liberty, less opportunity to become thyself. the secret of progress lies in knowing how to make use, not of what we have chosen, but of what is forced upon us. to occupy one's self with trifles weans from the habit of work more effectually than idleness. perfect skill comes of talent, study, and exercise; and the study and exercise must continue through the whole course of life. to cease to learn is to lose freshness and the power to interest. we lack will rather than strength; are able to do more and better than we are inclined to do; and say we can not because we have not the courage to say we will not. the law of unstable equilibrium applies to thee, as to whatever has life. thou canst not remain what thou art, but must rise or fall. the body is under the sway of physical law, but the progress of the mind is left in a large measure to the play of free will. if thou willest what thou oughtest, thou canst do what thou willest; for obligation cannot transcend ability. happy are they who from earliest youth understand the meaning of duty, and hearken to the stern but all-reasonable voice of this daughter of god, the smile upon whose face is the fairest thing we know. he who willingly accepts the law of moral necessity is free; for in thus accepting it he transcends it, and is self-determined; while he who rebels against this law sinks to a lower plane of being than the properly human, and becomes the slave of appetite and passion. duty means sacrifice; it is a turning from the animal to the spiritual self; from the allurements of the world of manifold sensation--from ease, idleness, gain, and pleasure--to the high and lonely regions, where the command of conscience speaks in the name of god and of the nature of things. forget thyself and do thy best, as unconscious of vain-glorious thoughts as though thou wert a wind or a stream, an impersonal force in the service of god and man. obey conscience, and laugh in the face of death. convince thyself that the best thing for thee is to know truth and to make truth the law of thy life. let this faith subordinate all else, as it is, indeed, faith in reason and in god. abhorrence of lies is the test of character. hold fast by what thou knowest to be true, not doubting for a moment because thou canst not reconcile it with other truth. somewhere, somehow, truth will be matched with truth, as love mates heart with heart. a man's word is himself, his reason, his conscience, his faith, his love, his aspiration. if it is false or vain or vile, he is so. it is the expression of life as it has come to consciousness within him. it is the revelation of quality of being; it is of the man himself, his sign and symbol, the form and mould and mirror of his soul. thou thinkest to serve god with lies, thou devil-worshipper and fool! the moral value of the study of science lies in the love of truth it inspires and inculcates. he who knows science knows that liars are imbeciles. from the educator's point of view, truthfulness is the essential thing. his aim and end is to teach truth, and the love of truth, which leavens the whole mass and makes it life-giving. but the liar has no proper virtue of any kind. the doubt of an earnest, thoughtful, patient, and laborious mind is worthy of respect. in such doubt there may be found indeed more faith than in half the creeds. but the scepticism of sciolists lacks the depth and genuineness of truth. to be frivolous where there is question of all that gives life meaning and value is want of sense. the sciolist is one who has a superficial knowledge of various things, which for lack of deep views and coherent thought, for lack of the understanding of the principles of knowledge itself, he is unable to bring into organic unity. the things he knows are confused and intermingled, and thus fail either to enlighten his mind or to impel him to healthful activity. he forms opinions lightly and pronounces judgment rashly. knowing nothing thoroughly, he has no suspicion of the infinite complexity of the world of life and thought. the evil effects of this semi-culture are most disagreeable and most harmful in those whose being has been developed only on its temporal and earthly side. their spiritual and moral nature has no centre about which it may move, and they wander on the surface of things in self-satisfied conceit, proclaiming that what is beyond the senses is beyond the reach of the mind, as though our innermost consciousness were not of what is intangible and invisible. all divine things are within and about us, here and now; but we are too gross to see the celestial light, or to catch the whisperings of the heavenly voices. god is here; but we, like plants and mollusks, live in worlds of which we do not dream, upheld and nourished and borne onward by a power of whom we are but dimly conscious,--nay, of whom, for the most part, we are unconscious. there is a truth above the reach of logic, an impulse of the mind and heart which urges beyond the realms of sense, beyond the ken of the dialectician, to the infinite and eternal, before whom the material universe is but a force at whose finest touch souls awaken to the thrill of thought and love. when we are made conscious of the fact that the divine word is the light of men, we readily understand that our every true thought, our every good deed, our every deeper view of nature and of life, comes from god, who is always urging us into the glorious liberty of his children, until we become a heavenly republic in which righteousness, peace, and joy shall reign. "the restless desire of every man to improve his position in the world is the motive power of all social development, of all progress," says scherr, unable to perceive that the mightiest impulses to nobler and wider life have been given by those who were not thinking at all of improving their position, but were wholly bent upon improving themselves. make choice, o youth! between having and being. if having is thy aim, consent to be inferior; if being is thy aim, be content with having little. real students, cultivators of themselves, are not inspired by the love of fame or wealth or position, but they are driven by an inner impulse to which they cannot but yield. their enthusiasm is not a fire that blazes for an hour and then dies out; it is a heat from central depths of life, self-fed and inextinguishable. the impulse to nobler and freer life springs, never from masses of men, but always from single luminous minds and glowing hearts. the lightning of great thoughts shows the way to heroic deeds. it is better to know than to be known, to love than to be loved, to help than to be helped; for since life is action, it is better to act than to be acted upon. whosoever makes himself purer, worthier, wiser, works for his country, works for god. the belief that the might of truth is so great that it must prevail in spite of whatever opposition, needs, to say the least, interpretation; for it has often happened that truth has been overcome for whole generations and races; and the important consideration is not whether it shall finally prevail, but whether it shall prevail for us, for our own age and people. it is of the nature of spiritual gifts to work in every direction; they enrich the individual and the nation; they develop, purify, and refine the intellectual, moral, and physical worlds in which men live and strive. the state and the church are organisms; the body, the social and religious soul, under the guidance of god, creates for itself. and not only should there be no conflict between them, but there should be none between them and the free and full development of the individual. a peasant whose mental state is what it might have been a thousand years ago is for us, however moral and religious, an altogether unsatisfactory kind of man. all knowledge is pure, and all speech is so if it spring from the simple desire to utter what is seen and recognized as truth. the love of liberty is rare. it is not found in those whose life-aim is money, pleasure, and place, which enslave; but in those who love truth, which is the only liberating power. knowledge is the correlative of being, and only a high and loving soul can know what truth is or understand what christ meant when he said: "ye shall know truth, and truth shall make you free." high thinking and right loving may make enemies of those around us, but they make us godlike. how seldom in our daily experience of men do we find one who wishes to be enlightened, reformed, and made virtuous! how easy it is to find those who wish to be pleased and flattered! at no period in history has civilization been so widespread or so complex as to-day. never have the organs of the social body been so perfect. never has it been possible for so many to co-operate intelligently in the work of progress. you, gentlemen, have youth and faith and the elements of intellectual and moral culture. in the freshness and vigor of early manhood, you stand upon the threshold of the new century. you speak shakspeare's and milton's tongue; in your veins is the blood which in other lands and centuries has nourished the spirit which makes martyrs, heroes, and saints. your religion strikes its roots into the historic past of man's noblest achievements, and looks to the future with the serene confidence with which it looks to god. your country, if not old, is not without glory. its soil is as fertile, its climate as salubrious as its domain is vast. it is peopled by that aryan race, which, from most ancient days, has been the creator and invincible defender of art and science and philosophy and liberty; and with all this the divine spirit and doctrine of the son of man have been interfused. we are here in america constituted on the wide basis of universal freedom, universal opportunity, universal intelligence, universal good-will. our government is the rule of all for the welfare of all; it has stood the test of civil war, and in many ways proved itself both beneficent and strong. already we have subdued this continent to the service of man. within a hundred years we have grown to be one of the most populous and wealthy and also one of the most civilized and progressive nations of the earth. your opportunities are equal to the fullest measure of human worth and genius. in the midst of a high and noble environment it were doubly a disgrace to be low and base. in intellectual and moral processes and results the important consideration is not how much, but what and how. how much, for instance, one has read or written gives us little insight into his worth and character; but when we know what and how he has read and written, we know something of his life. when i am told that america has more schools, churches, and newspapers than any other land, i think of their kind, and am tempted to doubt whether it were not better if we had fewer. the more general and the higher the average education of the people, the more urgent is the need of thoroughly cultivated and enlightened minds to lead them wisely. the standard of our intellectual and professional education is still low; and neither from the press nor the pulpit nor legislative halls do we hear highest wisdom rightly uttered. to be an intellectual force in this age one must know--must know much and know thoroughly; for now in many places there are a few, at least, who are acquainted with the whole history of thought and discovery, who are familiar with the best thinking of the noblest minds that have ever lived; and to imagine that a sciolist, a half-educated person, can have anything new or important to impart is to delude one's self. but if you fail, you will fail like all who fail,--not from lack of knowledge, but from lack of conduct; for the burden which in the end bears us down is that of our moral delinquencies. all else we may endure, but that is a sinking and giving way of the source of life itself. it is better, in every way, that you should be true christian men than that you should do deeds which will make your names famous. and if you could believe this with all your heart, you would find peace and freedom of spirit, even though your labors should seem vain and your lives of little moment. the more reason and conscience are brought to bear upon you, the more will you be lifted into the high and abiding world, where truth and love and holiness are recognized to be man's proper and imperishable good. become all it is possible for you to become. what this is you can know only by striving day by day, from youth to age, even unto the end; leaving the issue with god and his master-workman, time. chapter iv. woman and education. progress, man's distinctive mark alone; not god's and not the beasts'; god is, they are; man partly is and wholly hopes to be.--browning. the partialness of man's life, the low level on which the race has been content to dwell, is attributable, in no small measure, to the injustice done to woman. it was assumed she was inferior, and to make the assumption true, she was kept in ignorance, dwarfed and treated as a means rather than as an end. the right to grow is the primal right; it is the right to live, to unfold our being on every side in the ceaseless striving for truth and love and beauty. in comparison with this, purely political and civil rights are unimportant. and in a free state this fundamental right must not only be acknowledged and defended, but a public opinion must be created which shall declare it to be the most sacred and inviolable. the principle is universal, and is as applicable to woman as to man. there is not a religion, a philosophy, a science, an art for man and another for woman. consequently there is not, in its essential elements at least, an education for man and another for woman. in souls, in minds, in consciences, in hearts, there is no sex. what is the best education for woman? that which will best help her to become a perfect human being, wise, loving, and strong. what is her work? whatever may help her to become herself. what is forbidden her? nothing but what degrades or narrows or warps. what has she the right to do? any good and beautiful and useful thing she is able to do without hurt to her dignity and worth as a human being. between her and man the real question is not of more and less, of inferiority and superiority, but of unlikeness. chastity is woman's great virtue; truthfulness, which is the highest form of courage, is man's; yet men and women are equally bound to be chaste and truthful. mildness and sweet reasonableness are woman's subtlest charms; wisdom and valor, man's; yet women should be wise and brave, and men should be mild and reasonable. the spiritual endowment of the sexes is much the same, but they are not equally interested in the same things. man prefers thought; woman, sentiment; he reaches his conclusions through analysis and argument; she, through feeling and intuition. he has greater power of self-control; she, of self-sacrifice. he is guided by law and principle; she, by insight and tact; he demands justice; she, equity. he wishes to be honored for wealth and position; she, for herself. for him what he possesses is a means; for her, something to which she holds and is attached. he asks for power; she, for affection. he derives his idea of duty from reason; she, from faith and love. he prefers science and philosophy; she, literature and art. his religion is a code of morality; hers, faith and hope and love and imagination. for her, things easily become persons; for him, persons are little more than things. she has greater power of self-effacement, forgetting herself wholly in her love. whether she marry or become a nun, she abandons her name, the symbol of her identity, in proof that she is dedicate to the race and to god. the arguments of infidels have less weight with her than with man, for her sense of religion is more genuine, her faith more inevitable. she passes over objections as a chaste mind passes over what is coarse or impure. she more easily finds complacency in her appearance and surroundings, but she has less pride and conceit than man. she is more grateful, too, because she loves more, and the heart makes memory true. if her greater fondness for jewelry and showy adornment proves her to be more barbarous, her greater refinement and chastity prove her to be more civilized than man. and does not her delight in dress come of her care for beauty, which in a world of coarse and ugly creatures is a virtue as fair as the face of spring? why should the flowers and the fields, the hills and the heavens, be beautiful, and man hideous, and the cities where he abides dismal? are we but cattle to be stalled and fed? are corn and beef and iron the only good and useful things? are we not human because we think and admire, and are exalted in the presence of what is infinitely true and divinely fair? faith, hope, and love are larger and more enduring powers for woman than for man. she feeds the sacred fire which never dies on the altars of home and religion and country. she lives a more interior life, and more easily retains consciousness of the soul's reality and of god's presence. if she speaks less of patriotism in peaceful times, in the hour of danger the white light flashes from her soul. it is this that makes brave men think of their mothers and wives and sisters when they march to battle. they know that those sweet hearts, however keen the pangs they suffer, would rather have them dead than craven. when woman shall grow to the full measure of her endowments, a purer flame will glow upon the hearth, and love of country will be a more genuine passion. if she gain a wider and more varied interest in life, she will become happier, more willing and more able to help the progress of the race. like man, she exists for herself and god, and in her relations to others, her duties are not to the home alone, but to the whole social body, religious and civil. whether man or woman, is a minor thing; to be wise and worthy and loving is all in all. our deeper consciousness and practical recognition of the equality of the sexes is better evidence that we are becoming christian and civilized than popular government and all our mechanical devices. we, however, still have prejudices as ridiculous and harmful as that which made it unbecoming in a woman to know anything or in a man of birth to engage in business. if we hold that every human being has the right to do whatever is fair or noble or useful, we must also hold that it is wrong to throw hindrance in the way of the complete education of any human being. we at last, however slowly, are approaching the standpoint of christ, who, with his divine eye upon the sexless soul, overlooks distinctions of sex, and placing the good of life in knowing and loving, in being and doing, makes it the privilege and duty of all to help all to know and love, to become and do. is it true? is it right? these are the immortal questions, springing from what within us is most like god, and they who deal deceitfully with them have no claim upon attention. they are jugglers and liars. what is developed is not really changed, but made more fully itself, and by giving to woman a truer education, the beauty and charm of her nature will be brought more effectively into play. none of us love "a woman impudent and mannish grown;" but knowledge and culture and strength of mind and heart and body have no tendency to produce such a caricature. whether there is question of man or woman, the aim and end of education is to bring forth in the individual the divine image of humanity as it exists in the thought of god, as it is revealed in the life of christ. "yet in the long years liker must they grow; the man be more of woman, she more of man: he gain in sweetness and in moral height, nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; she mental breadth, nor fail in childward care; more as the double-natured poet each." the apothegm, man is born to do, woman to endure, no longer commends itself to our judgment. both are born to do and to endure; and in educating girls, we now understand that it is our business to strengthen them and to stimulate them to self-activity. we strive to give them self-control, sanity, breadth of view, wide sympathies, and an abiding sense of justice. one might, indeed, be tempted to think it were well woman should retain a touch of folly, that she still may be able to believe the man she loves is half divine; but to think so one must be a man, with his genius for self-conceit. to train a girl chiefly with a view to success in society is to pervert, is to hinder from attaining to the power of free, rich, and varied life. it is to neglect education for accomplishments; it is to prefer form to substance, manner to conduct, graceful carriage and dress to thought and love. we degrade her when we consider her as little else than a candidate for matrimony. a man may remain single and become the noblest of his kind, and so may a woman. marriage is first of all for the race; the individual may stand alone and grow to the full measure of human strength and worth. the popular contempt for single women who have reached a certain age, is but a survival of the contempt for all women which is found among savages and barbarians. in the education of woman, as of man, the end is increase of power,--of the might there is in intelligence and love, of the strength there is in gentleness and sweetness and light, of the vigor there is in health, in the rhythmic pulse and in deep breathing, of the sustaining joy there is in pure affection and in devotion to high purposes. whether there is question of boys or of girls, the safe way is to strive to make them all it is possible for them to become, putting our trust for the rest in human nature and in god; for talent, like genius, is a divine gift, and to prevent its development is to sin against religion and humanity. for girls as for boys, the aim should be not knowledge, but power; not accomplishments, but faculty. nine-tenths of what we learn in school is quickly forgotten, and is valueless unless it issue in increase of moral and intellectual strength. "in whatever direction i turn my thoughts," says schleiermacher, "it seems to me that woman's nature is nobler and her life happier than man's; and if ever i play with an idle wish it is that i might be a woman." hardly any man, i imagine, would rather be a woman, and many women doubtless would rather be men; and yet there is much in schleiermacher's thought, if we believe, as the wise do believe, that love is the best, and that they who love most are the highest and, therefore, the happiest, since the noblest mind the best contentment has. what fountains to the desert are, what flowers to the fresh young spring, what heaven's breast is to the star, that woman's love to earth doth bring. whether mid deserts she is found, or girt about by happy home, where'er she treads is holy ground above which rises love's high dome. or be she mother called or wife, or sister or the soul's twin mate, she still is each man's best of life, his crown of joy, his high estate. what is our christian faith but the revelation of the supreme and infinite worth of love, as being of the essence of god himself? is it not easy to believe that to a loving soul in an all-chaste body the unseen world may lie open to view? that joan of arc saw heavenly visions and heard whisperings from higher worlds, who can doubt that has considered how her most pure womanly soul redeemed a whole people, and, by them forsaken, from midst fierce flames took its flight to god? should women vote? the rule of the people is good only when it is the rule of the good and wise among the people, and of these, women, in great numbers, are part. the leadership of the best comes near to being the leadership of god. but the question of the suffrage for women is grave; it is one on which an enlightened mind will long hold judgment in suspense. does not political life, as it exists in our democracy, tend to corrupt both voters and office-seekers? is it not largely a life of cant, pretence, and hypocrisy, of venality, corruption, and selfishness, of lying, abuse, and vulgarity? do not public men, like public women, sell themselves, though in a different way? is the professional politician, the professional caucus-manipulator, the professional voter, the type of man we can admire or respect even? the objection so frequently raised, that political life would corrupt women, has, at least, the merit of a certain grim humorousness. could it by any chance make them as bad as it makes men? to tell them they are the queens of the home, to whom the mingling with plebeians is degrading, is an insult to their intelligence. we have forsworn kings and queens, both in private and in public life, and at home women are, for the most part, drudges. what need is there of a hollow phrase when the appeal to truth is obvious? "a servant with this clause makes drudgery divine; who sweeps a room as for thy laws, makes that and the action fine." active participation in political life is not a refining, an ennobling, a purifying influence. is it desirable that the half of the people to which the interests of the home, of the heart, of the religious and moral education of the young are especially committed, should be hurled into the maelstrom of selfish passion and coarse excitement? the smartness and self-assertiveness of american women are already excessive; they lack repose, serenity, and self-restraint. if they rush into the arena of noisy and vulgar strife, will not the evil be increased? will not the political woman lose something of the sacred power of the wife and mother? are not the primal virtues, those which make life good and fair and which are a woman's glory,--are they not humble and quiet and unobtrusive? the suffrage has not emancipated the masses of men, who are still held captive in the chains of poverty and dehumanizing toil. do women themselves, those, at least, in whom the woman soul, which draws us on and upward, is most itself, desire that the vote be given them? but whatever our opinions on the subject may be, let us not lose composure. "if a great change is to be made," says edmund burke, "the minds of men will be fitted to it, the general opinions and feelings will draw that way. every fear, every hope will forward it; and then they who persist in opposing the mighty current will appear rather to resist the decrees of providence itself than the mere designs of men. they will not be resolute and firm, but perverse and obstinate." whether or not woman shall become a politician, there is no doubt that she is becoming a worker in a constantly widening field. the elementary education of the country is already intrusted to her. she is taking her position in the higher institutions of learning. she has gained admission to professional life. in the business world, her competition with man is more and more felt. in literature, in our country at least, her appreciativeness is greater than man's, and her performance not inferior to his. there is a larger number of serious students among women than among men. in the divinely imposed task of self-education, they are fast becoming the chief workers. they are the great readers of books, especially of poetry. the muse was the first school-mistress, and the love of genuine poetry is still the finest educational influence. the vulgar passions and coarse appetites which rob young men of faith in the higher life and of the power to labor perseveringly for ideal ends, have little hold upon the soul of woman. her betrayers are frivolity and vanity, and a too confiding heart; and the more she is educated the less will she take delight in what is merely external, and the greater will become her ability to bring sentiment under the control of reason and conscience. there are not two educations, then, one for man, and another for woman, but both alike we bid contend to the uttermost for completeness of life; bid both trust in human educableness, which makes possible the hope of attaining all divine things. true faith in education is ever associated with genuine humility. only they strive infinitely who feel that their lack is infinite. the power of education is as many sided and as manifold as life. there is no finest seed or flower or fruit, no most serviceable animal, which has not been brought to perfection by human thought and labor, or which, were this help withdrawn, would not degenerate; and if the highest thought and the most intelligent labor were made to bear ceaselessly upon the improvement of the race of man, we should have a new world. when we consider all the beauty, knowledge, and love which are within man's reach, how is it possible not to believe that infinitely more and higher lie beyond? call to mind whatever quality of life, physical, intellectual, or moral, and you will have little difficulty in seeing that it is a result of education. we are born, indeed, with unequal endowments; but strength of limb, ease and swiftness of motion, grace and fluency of speech, modulation of voice, distinctness of articulation, correctness of pronunciation, power of attention, fineness of ear, clearness of vision, control of hand and certainty of touch in drawing, writing, painting, playing upon instruments and operating with the knife, truth and vividness of imagination, force of will, refinement of manner, perfection of taste, skill in argument, purity of desire, rectitude of purpose, power of sympathy and love, together with whatever else goes to the making of a perfect man or woman, are all acquired through educational processes. education is the training of a human being with a view to make him all he may become; and hence it is possible to educate one's self in many ways and on many sides. refinement, grace, and cleanliness are aims and ends, as truly as are vigor and suppleness of mind and strength and purity of heart. like sunshine and flowers and the songs of birds, they help to make life pleasant and beautiful. even the fishes are not clean, but the only clean animal is here and there a man or a woman who has forsworn dirt visible and invisible. we can educate ourselves in every direction, to sleep well even, and neither physicians nor poets have told half the good there is in sleep. the bare thought of it always brings to me the memory of lulling showers, and grazing sheep, and murmuring streams, and bees at work, and the breath of flowers and cooing doves and children lying on the sward, and lazy clouds slumbering in azure skies. it is pleasant as the approach of evening, fresh and fair as the rising sun which sets all the world singing, sacred and pure as babes smiling in their dreams on the breasts of gentle mothers. if thou canst not see the divine worth in nature and in works of genius, it is because thou art what thou art. can the worm at thy feet recognize thy superiority? the blind and the heedless see nothing, o foolish maid. what i know and love is of my very being, is, in fact, my knowing and loving self. quality of knowledge and love determines quality of life, and when i know and love god i am divine. as trees are enrooted in earth, as fishes are immersed in water, and our bodies in air, that they may live, so the soul has its being in god that it may have life, that it may know and love. i become self-conscious only in becoming conscious of what is not myself; and when the not-myself is the eternal, is god, my self-consciousness is divine. the marvel and the mystery of our being is that self-consciousness should exist at all, not that it should continue to exist forever. but words cannot strengthen or explain or destroy our belief in god, in the immortality of the soul, and in the freedom of the will. the antagonism supposed to exist between scientific facts or theories and religious faith would cease to be recognized as real, were it not for the eagerness with which those who are incapable of profound and comprehensive views, catch up certain shibboleths and hurl them like firebrands upon the combustible imaginations of the unthinking. to prove, means, in the proper sense of the word, to test, to bring ideas, opinions, and beliefs to the ordeal of reason, of accepted standards of judgment. it is a criticism of the mind and its operations, and hence it may easily happen that to prove is to weaken and unsettle. in what is most vital, in belief in god, immortality, and freedom of the will, in religion and morality, our faith is stronger than any proof that may be brought in its defence; and this is not less true of our faith in the reality of nature and the laws of science; and when this is made plain by criticism, those whose mental grasp is weak or partial, are confused and tempted to doubt. they are not helped, but harmed, and our ceaseless discussions and provings, in press and pulpit, are the source of much of the unrest, religious doubt, and moral weakness of the age. the people need to be taught by those who know and believe, not by those whose skill is chiefly syllogistic and critical. philosophic speculation is like a vast mountain into which men, generation after generation, have sunk shafts in search of some priceless treasure, and have left in the materials they have thrown out the mark and evidence of failure. but the noblest minds will still be haunted by the infinite mystery which they will seek in vain to explain. their faith in reason, like that of the vulgar, cannot be shaken, nor can defeat, running through thousands of years, enfeeble their courage or dampen their ardor. let our increasing insight into nature's laws fill us with thankfulness and joy. it is good, and makes for good. let us bow with respect and reverence before the army of patient investigators who bring highly disciplined faculties to bear upon the most useful researches. let knowledge grow. a nearer and truer view of the boundless fact will not make the world less wonderful, or the soul less divine, or god less adorable. if one should declare that it is contrary to the teachings of faith to hold that conversation may be carried on by persons a thousand miles apart, it would be sufficient to reply that such conversation takes place, and that to attempt to annul fact by doctrine is absurd. there is no excuse for the controversial conflict between science and religion; for science is ascertained fact, not theory about fact, and when fact is rightly ascertained it is accepted of all men. the most certain fact, for each one, is that he knows and loves, and that this power comes to him through communion with what is higher and deeper and wider than himself,--with god. there was a time when collisions among the masses of the sidereal system were frequent, shocks of unimaginable force by which the celestial bodies were shivered into atoms, so that what now remains is but a survival of worlds which escaped destruction in the chaotic struggle when suns madly rushed on one another and rose in star-dust about the face of god, who was, and is, and shall be, eternal and forever the same. where there is no thinker, there is no thing. it is in, and through, and with him that we know ourselves and our environment; and recognize that our particular life is, in its implications, universal and divine. he is the principle of unity which is present in whatever is an object of thought, and which gives the mind the power to co-ordinate the manifold of sensation into the harmony of truth; he is the principle of goodness and beauty, which makes the universe fair, and thrills the heart of man with hope and love. amid endless change, he alone is permanent, and he is power and wisdom and love, and they only are good and wise and strong who cleave to his eternal and absolute being. but since here and now the real world of matter as distinguished from the apparent is hidden behind the veil of sense, it is vain to hope that the world of eternal life shall be made plain to the pure reason. religion, like life, is faith, hope, and love, striving and doing, not intellectual intuition and beatific vision. we find it impossible to separate our thought of god from that of infinite goodness and love; but when we look away from our own souls to nature's pitiless and fatal laws, we realize that this faith in all-embracing and all-conquering love is opposed by seemingly insurmountable difficulties. it is a mystery we believe, not a truth we comprehend. systems of philosophy, morality, and religion, however cunningly devised, cannot make men philosophers, sages, or saints. this they can become only through the communion which faith, hope, and love have power to establish with the living fountain-head of truth, wisdom, and goodness. the pursuit of knowledge, like the struggle for wealth and place, ends in disillusion, in the disappointment which results from the contrast between what we hope for and what we attain. the greater the success, the more complete the disenchantment. as the rich and famous best see the unsatisfactoriness of wealth and honor, so they who know much best understand how knowledge avails not, how it is but a cloud-built citadel, whose foundations rest upon the uncertain air, whose walls and turrets lose in substance what they gain in height. when we imagine we know all things, we awake as from a dream to find that we know nothing, that our knowing is but a believing, our science but a faith. we are little children who wander in a father's wide domain, seeing many things and understanding not anything, who imagine we are in a real and abiding world, while in truth we are but passing through the picture-gallery of the senses. faith, hope, and love:--these three are life's deep root; they reach into infinity, whence life doth shoot. but faith and hope have not attained the eternal best; while love, sweet love, the end has gained,-- in god to rest. so long as these life-begetting, life-sustaining, and life-developing powers hold mightier sway over the soul of woman than over that of man, so long will woman's heel crush the serpent's head and woman's arms bear salvation to the world. she will not worship the rising sun, or become the idolatress of success, but within her heart will cherish fallen heroes and lost causes and the memory of all the sorrows by which god humanizes the world. if we consider mankind merely as a phenomenon, the extinction of the race need give us little more concern than the disappearance of pterodactyls and ichthyosauri. what repels from such contemplation is not man's physical, but his spiritual being,--that which makes him capable of thought and love, of faith and hope. the universe is anthropomorphized, for whithersoever man looks he sees the reflection of his own countenance. what he calls things are stamped with the impress and likeness of himself, as he himself is an image of the eternal mind, in which all things are mirrored. an atheist or a materialist, an agnostic or a pessimist, may have greater knowledge, greater intellectual force than the most devout believer in god; but is it possible for him to feel so thoroughly at home in the world, to feel so deeply that, whatever happens, it is and will be well with him? in an atheistic world the spirit of man is ill at ease. he who has no god makes himself the centre of all things, and, like a spoiled child, loses the power to admire, to enjoy, and to love. genuine faith in god is such an infinite force that one may be tempted to doubt whether it is found. undisciplined minds become victims of the formulas they receive, and if what they have accepted as truth is shown to be false or incomplete, they grow discouraged and lose faith; but the wise know that the verbal vesture of truth is a symbol which has but a proximate and relative value. the spirit is alive, and ceaselessly outgrows or transmutes the body with which it is clothed. what we can do with anything,--with money, knowledge, wealth,--depends on what we are. ruskin prefers holy work to holy worship; but the antithesis is mistaken, for if worship is holy it impels to work, if work is holy it impels to worship. god's most sacred visible temple is a human body, and its profanation is the worst sacrilege. all true belief, when we come to the last analysis, is belief in god, and the teacher of religion must keep this fact always in view. the law of the struggle for life applies to opinions, beliefs, hopes, aims, ideals, just as it applies to individuals and species. whatever survives, survives through conflict, because it is fit to survive. it does not follow, however, that the best survives, though we must think that in the end this is so, since we believe in god. when serious minds grapple with problems so remote from vulgar opinion that they seem to be meaningless or insoluble, the multitude, ever ready, like a crowd of boys, to mock and jeer, break forth into insult. these men, they cry are wicked, or they are fools. in a society where it is assumed that all are equal, those who are really superior incur suspicion as though it were criminal to be different from the multitude; and hence they rarely win the favor of the crowd. the life-current of those who stir up a noise about them, runs shallow. the champion of the prize-ring or the race-course is hailed with shouts, for the crowd understand the achievement; but what can they know of the worth of a sage or a saint? the noblest struggles are of the mind and heart wrestling with unseen powers, with spirits, as st. paul says, that they may compel them to give up the secret of truth and holiness. a glimpse of truth, a thrill of love, is better than the applause of a whole city. in striving steadfastly for thy own perfection and the happiness of others thou walkest and workest with god. thy progress will help others to labor for their own, and the happiness thou givest will return to thee and become thine; and what is the will of god, if it is not the perfection and happiness of his children? to have merely enough strength to bear life's burden, to do the daily task, to face the cares which return with the sun and follow us into the night, is to be weak, is to lack the strong spirit for which work is light as play, and whose secret is heard in whispers by the hero and the saint. to be able to give joy and help to others we must have more life, wisdom, virtue, and happiness than we need for ourselves; and it is in giving joy and help to others that we ourselves receive increase of life, wisdom, virtue, and happiness. be persuaded within thy deepest soul, that moral evil can never be good, and that sin can never be gain. so act that if all men acted as thou, all would be well. if to be like others is thy aim, thou art predestined to remain inferior. to be followed and applauded is to be diverted from one's work. better alone with it in a garret than a guest in a banquet hall. let thy prayer be work and work thy prayer, as god's truth and love are everywhere, and whether by word or deed thou strive in him alone thou canst be alive. if thou hast done thy best, god will give it worth. if thou carest not for truth and love, for thee they are nothing worth; but it is because thou thyself art worthless. wisdom and virtue is all thou lackest; of other things thou hast enough. when the passion for self-improvement is strong within us, all our relations to our fellow-men and nature receive new meaning and power, as opportunities to make ourselves what it is possible for us to become; and as we grow accustomed to take this view of whatever happens, we are made aware that disagreeable things are worth as much as the pleasant, that foes are as useful as friends. the obstacle arrests attention, provokes effort, and educates. it throws the light back upon the eye, and reveals the world of color and form; from it all sounds reverberate. we grow by overcoming; the force we conquer becomes our own. we rise on difficulties we surmount. what opposes, arouses, strengthens, and disciplines the will, discloses to the mind its power, and implants faith in the efficacy of patient, persevering labor. they who shrink from the combat are already defeated. to make everything easy is to smooth the way whereby we descend. to surround the young with what they ought themselves to achieve is to enfeeble and corrupt them. happy is the poor man's son, who whithersoever he turns, sees the obstacle rise to challenge him to become a man; miserable the children of the rich, whose cursed-blessed fortune is an ever-present invitation to idleness and conceit. o mothers, you whose love is the best any of us have known, harden your sons, and urge them on, not in the race for wealth, but in the steep and narrow way wherein, through self-conquest and self-knowledge, they rise toward god and all high things. nothing that has ever been said of your power tells the whole truth, and the only argument against you is the men who are your children. education is always the result of personal influence. a mother, a father in the home, a pure and loving heart at the altar, a true man or woman in the school, a noble mind uttering itself in literature, which is personal thought and expression,--these are the forces which educate. life proceeds from life, and religion, which is the highest power of life, can proceed only from god and religious souls. not by preaching and teaching, but by living the life, can we make ourselves centres of spiritual influence. be like others, walk in the broad way, one of a herd, content to graze in a common pasture, believing equality man's highest law, though its meaning be equality with the brute. is this our ideal? it is an atheistic creed. there is no god, there is nothing but matter, but atoms, and atoms are alike and equal,--let men be so too. to struggle with infinite faith and hope for some divine good is idolatry, is to believe in god; to be one's self is the unpardonable sin. it is thy aim to rise, to distinguish thyself; this means thou wouldst have higher place, more money, a greater house than thy neighbor's. it is a foolish ambition. instead of trying to distinguish thyself, strive to become thyself, to make thyself worthy of the approval of god and wise men. "i am not to be pitied, my lord," said bayard; "i die doing my duty." god has not given his world into thy keeping, but he has given thee to thyself to fashion and complete. if thou art busy seeking money or pleasure or praise, little time will remain wherein to seek and find thyself. they who are interesting to themselves, are interesting to themselves alone. the self-absorbed are the victims of mental and moral disease. the life which flows out to others, bearing light and warmth and fragrance, feels itself in the blessings it gives; that which is self-centred, stagnates like a pool, and becomes the habitation of doleful creatures. there is a popularity which is born of the worship of noble deeds,--it is the best. there is another, which comes of the crowd's passion for what is noisy and spectacular,--it is the worst. the one is the popularity of heroes, the other that of charlatans. whatever thy chosen work, it is thy business to make thyself a man or a woman, and not a mere specialist; yet in following a specialty with enthusiasm, thou shalt go farther towards perfection and completeness of life than the multitude of pretenders, who are not in earnest about anything. every harsh and unjust sentiment, every narrow and unworthy thought consented to and entertained, remains like a stain upon character. whoever speaks or writes against freedom or knowledge or faith in god, or love of man or reverence of woman, but makes himself ridiculous; for men feel and believe that their true world is a world of high thoughts and noble sentiments, and they can neither respect nor trust those who strive to weaken their hold upon this world. become thyself; do thy work. for this, all thy days are not too many or too long. if thou and it are worthy to be known, the presentation can be made in briefest time; and it matters little though it be deferred until after thy death. besides whatever other conditions, time is necessary to bring the best things to maturity, and to imagine that excellence demands less than lifelong work, is to mistake. it is by the patient observation of the infinitesimal that science has done its best work; and it is only by unwearying attention to the thousand little things of life that we may hope to make some approach to moral and intellectual perfection. he who works with joy and cheerfulness in the field which himself has found and chosen, will acquire knowledge and skill, and his labor will be transformed into increase and newness of life. we gain a clear view of things only when we set them apart from ourselves, and contemplate them simply as objects of thought. to see them aright we must be free from emotion and behold them in the cold air of the intellect. to look on them as in some way bound up with our personal good or evil, is to have the vision blurred. study in the spirit of an investigator, who has no other than a scientific interest in what he sets himself to examine. the wise physician is wholly intent upon making a correct diagnosis, though the patient be his mother. what gain would self-delusion bring him or her he loves? things are what they are, and it is our business to know them. observe and hold thy judgment in suspense until patient looking shall have made truth so plain that to pass judgment is superfluous. the aim of mental training is clearness and accuracy of view, together with the strength to keep steadfastly looking into the world of intelligible things. what rouses desire tends to enslave; what gives delight tends to liberate; the one appeals to the senses, the other to the soul. hence, intellectual and moral pleasures alone are associated with the sense of freedom and pure joy. the lovers of freedom are as rare as the lovers of truth and of god. for most, liberty is but a trader's commodity, to be parted with for price, as their obedience is a slave's service. the chief good consists in acting justly and nobly, rather than in thinking acutely and profoundly. the free play of the mind is delightful, but the law of moral obligation is the deepest thing in us. honor, place, and wealth, which are won at the price of self-improvement, the wise will not desire. great opportunities seldom present themselves, but every moment of every hour of thy conscious life is an opportunity to improve thyself, which for thee is the best and most necessary thing. since our power over others is small, but over ourselves large, let us devote our energies to self-improvement. "nor let any man say," writes locke, "he cannot govern his passions, nor hinder them from breaking out and carrying him into action; for what he can do before a prince or great man he can do alone or in the presence of god, if he will." the sure way to happiness is to yield ourselves wholly to god, knowing that he has care of us, and at the same time to seek to draw from life whatever joy and delight it may bestow upon a high mind and a pure heart, receiving the blessing gladly, conscious all the while that what is external cannot really be ours, and is not, therefore, necessary to our contentment. that many are wiser and stronger than thou, is not a motive for discouragement; the depressing thought is, that so few are wise and strong. he who gives his whole life to what he believes he is most capable of doing, succeeds, whatever be the worth of his work. there are many who are busy with many things; but one who has a high purpose, and who devotes all his energies to its fulfillment, is not easily found; and great and interesting characters are, therefore, rare. to what better use can we put life than to employ it in ameliorating life? it is to this every wise and good man devotes himself, whether he be priest or teacher, physician or lawyer, philosopher or poet, captain of industry or statesman. chapter v. the scope of public-school education. our system of public-school education is a result of the faith of the people in the need of universal intelligence for the maintenance of popular government. does this system include moral training? since the teaching of religious doctrines is precluded, this, i imagine, is what we are to consider in discussing the scope of public-school education. the equivalents of scope are aim, end, opportunity, range of view; and the equivalents of education are training, discipline, development, instruction. the proper meaning of the word education, it seems, is not a drawing out, but a training up, as vines are trained to lay hold of and rise by means of what is stronger than themselves. my subject, then, is the aim, end, opportunity, and range of view of public-school education, which to be education at all, in any true sense, must be a training, discipline, development, and instruction of man's whole being, physical, intellectual, and moral. this, i suppose, is what herbert spencer means when he defines education to be a preparation for complete living. montaigne says the end of education is wisdom and virtue; comenius declares it to be knowledge, virtue, and religion; milton, likeness to god through virtue and faith; locke, health of body, virtue, and good manners; herbart, virtue, which is the realization in each one of the idea of inner freedom; while kant and fichte declare it to consist chiefly in the formation of character. all these thinkers agree that the supreme end of education is spiritual or ethical. the controlling aim, then, should be, not to impart information, but to upbuild the being which makes us human, to form habits of right thinking and doing. the ideal is virtually that of israel,--that righteousness is life,--though the greek ideal of beauty and freedom may not be excluded. it is the doctrine that manners make the man, that conduct is three-fourths of life, leaving but one-fourth for intellectual activity and æsthetic enjoyment; and into this fourth of life but few ever enter in any real way, while all are called and may learn to do good and avoid evil. "in the end," says ruskin, "the god of heaven and earth loves active, modest, and kind people, and hates idle, proud, greedy, and cruel ones." we can all learn to become active, modest, and kind; to turn from idleness, pride, greed, and cruelty. but we cannot all make ourselves capable of living in the high regions of pure thought and ideal beauty; and for the few even who are able to do this, it is still true that conduct is three-fourths of life. "the end of man," says büchner, "is conversion into carbonic acid, water, and ammonia." this also is an ideal, and he thinks we should be pleased to know that in dying we give back to the universe what had been lent. he moralizes too; but if all we can know of our destiny is that we shall be converted into carbonic acid, water, and ammonia, the sermon may be omitted. on such a faith it is not possible to found a satisfactory system of education. men will always refuse to think thus meanly of themselves, and in answer to those who would persuade them that they are but brutes, they will, with perfect confidence, claim kinship with god; for from an utterly frivolous view of life both our reason and our instinct turn. the scope of public-school education is to co-operate with the physical, social, and religious environment to form good and wise men and women. unless we bear in mind that the school is but one of several educational agencies, we shall not form a right estimate of its office. it depends almost wholly for its success upon the kind of material furnished it by the home, the state, and the church; and, to confine our view to our own country, i have little hesitation in affirming that our home life, our social and political life, and our religious life have contributed far more to make us what we are than any and all of our schools. the school, unless it works in harmony with these great forces, can do little more than sharpen the wits. many of the teachers of our indian schools are doubtless competent and earnest; but their pupils, when they return to their tribes, quickly lose what they have gained, because they are thrown into an environment which annuls the ideals that prevailed in the school. the controlling aim of our teachers should be, therefore, to bring their pedagogical action into harmony with what is best in the domestic, social, and religious life of the child; for this is the foundation on which they must build, and to weaken it is to expose the whole structure to ruin. hence the teacher's attitude toward the child should be that of sympathy with him in his love for his parents, his country, and his religion. his reason is still feeble, and his life is largely one of feeling; and the fountain-heads of his purest and noblest feelings are precisely his parents, his country, and his religion, and to tamper with them is to poison the wells whence he draws the water of life. to assume and hold this attitude with sincerity and tact is difficult; it requires both character and culture; it implies a genuine love of mankind and of human excellence; reverence for whatever uplifts, purifies, and strengthens the heart; knowledge of the world, of literature, and of history, united with an earnest desire to do whatever may be possible to lead each pupil toward life in its completeness, which is health and healthful activity of body and mind and heart and soul. as the heart makes the home, the teacher makes the school. what we need above all things, wherever the young are gathered for education, is not a showy building, or costly apparatus, or improved methods or text-books, but a living, loving, illumined human being who has deep faith in the power of education and a real desire to bring it to bear upon those who are intrusted to him. this applies to the primary school with as much force as to the high school and university. those who think, and they are, i imagine, the vast majority, that any one who can read and write, who knows something of arithmetic, geography, and history, is competent to educate young children, have not even the most elementary notions of what education is. what the teacher is, not what he utters and inculcates, is the important thing. the life he lives, and whatever reveals that life to his pupils; his unconscious behavior, even; above all, what in his inmost soul he hopes, believes, and loves, have far deeper and more potent influence than mere lessons can ever have. it is precisely here that we americans, whose talent is predominantly practical and inventive, are apt to go astray. we have won such marvellous victories with our practical sense and inventive genius that we have grown accustomed to look to them for aid, whatever the nature of the difficulty or problem may be. machinery can be made to do much, and to do well what it does. with its help we move rapidly; we bring the ends of the earth into instantaneous communication; we print the daily history of the world and throw it before every door; we plough and we sow and we reap; we build cities, and we fill our houses with whatever conduces to comfort or luxury. all this and much more machinery enables us to do. but it cannot create life, nor can it, in any effective way, promote vital processes. now, education is essentially a vital process. it is a furthering of life; and as the living proceed from the living, they can rise into the wider world of ideas and conduct only by the help of the living; and as in the physical realm every animal begets after its own likeness, so also in the spiritual the teacher can give but what he has. if the well-spring of truth and love has run dry within himself, he teaches in vain. his words will no more bring forth life than desert winds will clothe arid sands with verdure. much talking and writing about education have chiefly helped to obscure a matter which is really plain. the purpose of the public school is or should be not to form a mechanic or a specialist of any kind, but to form a true man or woman. hence the number of things we teach the child is of small moment. those schools, in fact, in which the greatest number of things are taught give, as a rule, the least education. the character of the roman people, which enabled them to dominate the earth and to give laws to the world, was formed before they had schools, and when their schools were most flourishing they themselves were in rapid moral and social dissolution. we make education and religion too much a social affair, and too little a personal affair. their essence lies in their power to transform the individual, and it is only in transforming him that they recreate the wider life of the community. the founder of christianity addressed himself to the individual, and gave little heed to the state or other environment. he looked to a purified inner source of life to create for itself a worthier environment, and simply ignored devices for working sudden and startling changes. they who have entered into the hidden meaning of this secret and this method turn in utter incredulity from the schemes of declaimers and agitators. the men who fill the world, each with his plan for reforming and saving it, may have their uses, since the poet tells us there are uses in adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head; but to one deafened by their discordant and clamorous voices, the good purpose they serve seems to be as mythical as the jewel in the toad's head. have not those who mistake their crotchets for nature's laws invaded our schools? have they not succeeded in forming a public opinion and in setting devices at work which render education, in the true sense of the word, if not impossible, difficult? literature is a criticism of life, made by those who are in love with life, and have the deepest faith in its possibilities; and all criticism which is inspired by sympathy and faith and controlled by knowledge is helpful. complacent thoughts are rarely true, and hardly ever useful. it is a prompting of nature to turn from what we have to what we lack, for thus only is there hope of amendment and progress. we are, to quote emerson, "built of furtherance and pursuing, not of spent deeds, but of doing." hence the wise and the strong dwell not upon their virtues and accomplishments, but strive to learn wherein they fail, for it is in correcting this they desire to labor. they wish to know the truth about themselves, are willing to try to see themselves as others see them, that self-knowledge may make self-improvement possible. they turn from flattery, for they understand that flattery is insult. now, if this is the attitude of wise and strong men, how much more should it not be that of a wise and strong people? whenever persons or things are viewed as related in some special way to ourselves, our opinions of them will hardly be free from bias. when, for instance, i think or speak of my country, my religion, my friends, my enemies, i find it difficult to put away the prejudice which my self-esteem and vanity create, and which, like a haze, ever surrounds me to color or obscure the pure light of reason. it cannot do us harm to have our defects and shortcomings pointed out to us; but to be told by demagogues and declaimers that we are the greatest, the most enlightened, the most virtuous people which exists or has existed, can surely do us no good. if it is true, we should not dwell upon it, for this will but distract us from striving for the things in which we are deficient; and if it is false, it can only mislead us and nourish a foolish conceit. it is the orator's misfortune to be compelled to think of his audience rather than of truth. it is his business to please, persuade, and convince; and men are pleased with flattering lies, persuaded and convinced by appeals to passion and interest. happier is the writer, who need not think of a reader, but finds his reward in the truth he expresses. it is not possible for an enlightened mind not to take profound interest in our great system of public education. to do this he need not think it the best system. he may deem it defective in important requisites. he may hold, as i hold, that the system is of minor importance, the kind of teacher being all important. but if he loves his country, if he loves human excellence, if he has faith in man's capacity for growth, he cannot but turn his thoughts, with abiding attention and sympathy, to the generous and determined efforts of a powerful and vigorous people to educate themselves. were our public-school system nothing more than the nation's profession of faith in the transforming power of education, it would be an omen of good and a ground for hope; and one cannot do more useful work than to help to form a public opinion which will accept with thankfulness the free play of all sincere minds about this great question, and which will cause the genuine lovers of our country to turn in contempt from the clamors politicians and bigots are apt to raise when an honest man utters honest thought on this all-important subject. i am willing to assume and to accept as a fact that our theological differences make it impossible to introduce the teaching of any religious creed into the public school. i take the system as it is,--that is, as a system of secular education,--and i address myself more directly to the question proposed: what is or should be its scope? the fact that religious instruction is excluded makes it all the more necessary that humanizing and ethical aims should be kept constantly in view. whoever teaches in a public school should be profoundly convinced that man is more than an animal which may be taught cunning and quickness. a weed in blossom may have a certain beauty, but it will bear no fruit; and so the boy or youth one often meets, with his irreverent smartness, his precocious pseudo-knowledge of a hundred things, may excite a kind of interest, but he gives little promise of a noble future. the flower of his life is the blossom of the weed, which in its decay will poison the air, or, at the best, serve but to fertilize the soil. if we are to work to good purpose we must take our stand, with the great thinkers and educators, on the broad field of man's nature, and act in the light of the only true ideal of education,--that its end is wisdom, virtue, knowledge, power, reverence, faith, health, behavior, hope, and love; in a word, whatever powers and capacities make for intelligence, for conduct, for character, for completeness of life. not for a moment should we permit ourselves to be deluded by the thought that because the teaching of religious creeds is excluded, therefore we may make no appeal to the fountain-heads which sleep within every breast, the welling of whose waters alone has power to make us human. if we are forbidden to turn the current into this or that channel, we are not forbidden to recognize the universal truth that man lives by faith, hope, and love, by imagination and desire, and that it is precisely for this reason that he is educable. we move irresistibly in the lines of our real faith and desire, and the educator's great purpose is to help us to believe in what is high and to desire what is good. since for the irreverent and vulgar spirit nothing is high or good, reverence, and the refinement which is the fruit of true intelligence, urge ceaselessly their claims on the teacher's attention. goethe, i suppose, was little enough of a christian to satisfy the demands of an agnostic cripple even, and yet he held that the best thing in man is the thrill of awe; and that the chief business of education is to cultivate reverence for whatever is above, beneath, around, and within us. this he believed to be the only philosophical and healthful attitude of mind and heart towards the universe, seen and unseen. may not the meanest flower that blows bring thoughts that lie too deep for tears? is not reverence a part of all the sweetest and purest feelings which bind us to father and mother, to friends and home and country? is it not the very bloom and fragrance, not only of the highest religious faith, but also of the best culture? let the thrill of awe cease to vibrate, and you will have a world in which money is more than man, office better than honesty, and books like "innocents abroad" or "peck's bad boy" more indicative of the kind of man we form than are the noblest works of genius. what is the great aim of the primary school, if it is not the nutrition of feeling? the child is weak in mind, weak in will, but he is most impressionable. feeble in thought, he is strong in capacity to feel the emotions which are the sap of the tree of moral life. he responds quickly to the appeals of love, tenderness, and sympathy. he is alive to whatever is noble, heroic, and venerable. he desires the approbation of others, especially of those whom he believes to be true and high and pure, he has unquestioning faith, not only in god but in great men, who, for him, indeed, are earthly gods. is not his father a divine man, whose mere word drives away all fear and fills him with confidence? the touch of his mother's hand stills his pain; if he is frightened, her voice is enough to soothe him to sleep. to imagine that we are educating this being of infinite sensibility and impressionability when we do little else than teach him to read, write, and cipher, is to cherish a delusion. it is not his destiny to become a reading, writing, and ciphering machine, but to become a man who believes, hopes, and loves; who holds to sovereign truth, and is swayed by sympathy; who looks up with reverence and awe to the heavens, and hearkens with cheerful obedience to the call of duty; who has habits of right thinking and well doing which have become a law unto him, a second nature. and if it be said that we all recognize this to be so, but that it is not the business of the school to help to form such a man; that it does its work when it sharpens the wits, i will answer with the words of william von humboldt: "whatever we wish to see introduced into the life of a nation must first be introduced into its schools." now, what we wish to see introduced into the life of the nation is not the power of shrewd men, wholly absorbed in the striving for wealth, reckless of the means by which it is gotten, and who, whether they succeed or whether they fail, look upon money as the equivalent of the best things man knows or has; who therefore think that the highest purpose of government, as of other social forces and institutions, is to make it easy for all to get abundance of gold and to live in sloven plenty; but what we wish to see introduced into the life of the nation is the power of intelligence and virtue, of wisdom and conduct. we believe, and in fact know, that humanity, justice, truthfulness, honesty, honor, fidelity, courage, integrity, reverence, purity, and self-respect are higher and mightier than anything mere sharpened wits can accomplish. but if these virtues, which constitute nearly the whole sum of man's strength and worth, are to be introduced into the life of the nation, they must be introduced into the schools, into the process of education. we must recognize, not in theory alone but in practice, that the chief end of education is ethical, since conduct is three-fourths of human life. the aim must be to make men true in thought and word, pure in desire, faithful in act, upright in deed; men who understand that the highest good does not lie in the possession of anything whatsoever, but that it lies in power and quality of being; for whom what we are and not what we have is the guiding principle; who know that the best work is not that for which we receive most pay, but that which is most favorable to life, physical, moral, intellectual, and religious; since man does not exist for work or the sabbath, but work and rest exist for him, that he may thrive and become more human and more divine. we must cease to tell boys and girls that education will enable them to get hold of the good things of which they believe the world to be full; we must make them realize rather that the best thing in the world is a noble man or woman, and to be that is the only certain way to a worthy and contented life. all talk about patriotism which implies that it is possible to be a patriot or a good citizen without being a true and good man, is sophistical and hollow. how shall he who cares not for his better self care for his country? we must look, as educators, most closely to those sides of the national life where there is the greatest menace of ruin. it is plain that our besetting sin, as a people, is not intemperance or unchastity, but dishonesty. from the watering and manipulating of stocks to the adulteration of food and drink, from the booming of towns and lands to the selling of votes and the buying of office, from the halls of congress to the policeman's beat, from the capitalist who controls trusts and syndicates to the mechanic who does inferior work, the taint of dishonesty is everywhere. we distrust one another, distrust those who manage public affairs, distrust our own fixed will to suffer the worst that may befall rather than cheat or steal or lie. dishonesty hangs, like mephitic air, about our newspapers, our legislative assemblies, the municipal government of our towns and cities, about our churches even, since our religion itself seems to lack that highest kind of honesty, the downright and thorough sincerity which is its life-breath. if the teacher in the public school may not insist that an honest man is the noblest work of god, he may teach at least that he who fails in honesty fails in the most essential quality of manhood, enters into warfare with the forces which have made him what he is, and which secure him the possession of what he holds dearer than himself, since he barters for it his self-respect; that the dishonest man is an anarchist and dissocialist, one who does what in him lies to destroy credit, and the sense of the sacredness of property, obedience to law, and belief in the rights of man. if our teachers are to work in the light of an ideal, if they are to have a conscious end in view, as all who strive intelligently must have, if they are to hold a principle which will give unity to their methods, they must seek it in the idea of morality, of conduct, which is three-fourths of life. i myself am persuaded that the real and philosophical basis of morality is the being of god, a being absolute, infinite, unimaginable, inconceivable, of whom our highest and nearest thought is that he is not only almighty, but all-wise and all-good as well. but it is possible, i think, to cultivate the moral sense without directly and expressly assigning to it this philosophical and religious basis; for goodness is largely its own evidence, as virtue is its own reward. it all depends on the teacher. life produces life, life develops life; and if the teacher have within himself a living sense of the all-importance of conduct, if he thoroughly realize that what we call knowledge is but a small part of man's life, his influence will nourish the feelings by which character is evolved. the germ of a moral idea is always an emotion, and that which impels to right action is the emotion rather than the idea. the teachings of the heart remain forever, and they are the most important; for what we love, genuinely believe in, and desire decides what we are and may become. hence the true educator, even in giving technical instruction, strives not merely to make a workman, but to make also a man, whose being shall be touched to finer issues by spiritual powers, who shall be upheld by faith in the worth and sacredness of life, and in the education by which it is transformed, enriched, purified, and ennobled. he understands that an educated man, who, in the common acceptation of the phrase, is one who knows something, who knows many things, is, in truth, simply one who has acquired habits of right thinking and right doing. the culture which we wish to see prevail throughout our country is not learning and literary skill; it is character and intellectual openness,--that higher humanity which is latent within us all; which is power, wisdom, truth, goodness, love, sympathy, grace, and beauty; whose surpassing excellence the poor may know as well as the rich; whose charm the multitude may feel as well as the chosen few. "he who speaks of the people," says guicciardini, "speaks, in sooth, of a foolish animal, a prey to a thousand errors, a thousand confusions, without taste, without affection, without firmness." the scope of our public-school education is to make common-places of this kind, by which all literature is pervaded, so false as to be absurd; and when this end shall have been attained, democracy will have won its noblest victory. how shall we find the secret from which hope of such success will spring? by so forming and directing the power of public opinion, of national approval, and of money, as to make the best men and women willing and ready to enter the teacher's profession. the kind of man who educates is the test of the kind of education given, and there is properly no other test. when we americans shall have learned to believe with all our hearts and with all the strength of irresistible conviction that a true educator is a more important, in every way a more useful, sort of man than a great railway king, or pork butcher, or captain of industry, or grain buyer, or stock manipulator, we shall have begun to make ourselves capable of perceiving the real scope of public-school education. chapter vi. the religious element in education. the theory of development, which is now widely received and applied to all things, from star dust to the latest fashion, is at once a sign and a cause of the almost unlimited confidence which we put in the remedial and transforming power of education. we no longer think of god as standing aloof from nature and the course of history. he it is who works in the play of atoms and in the throbbings of the human heart; and as we perceive his action in the evolution both of matter and of mind, we know and feel that, when with conscious purpose we strive to call forth and make living the latent powers of man's being, we are working with him in the direction in which he impels the universe. education, therefore, we look upon as necessary, not merely because it is indispensable to any high and human kind of life, but also because god has made development the law both of conscious and unconscious nature. he is in act all that the finite may become, and the effort to grow in strength, knowledge, and virtue springs from a divine impulse. although we know that the earth is not the centre of the universe, that it is but a minor satellite, a globule lost in space, our deepest thought still finds that the end of nature is the production of rational beings, of man; for the final reason for which all things exist is that the infinite good may be communicated; and since the highest good is truth and holiness, it can be communicated only to beings who think and love. hence all things are man's, and he exists that he may make himself like god; in other words, that he may educate himself; for the end of education is to fit him for completeness of life, to train all his faculties, to call all his endowments into play, to make him symmetrical and whole in body and soul. this, of course, is the ideal, and consequently the unattainable; but in the light of ideals alone do we see rightly and judge truly; and to take a lower view of the aim and end of education is to take a partial view. to hold that god is, and that man truly lives only in so far as he is made partaker of the divine life, is, by implication, to hold that his education should be primarily and essentially religious. our opinions and beliefs, however, are never the result of purely rational processes, and hence a mere syllogism has small persuasive force, or even no influence at all, upon our way of looking at things, or the motives which determine action. as it is useless to argue against the nature of things, so we generally plead in vain when our world-view is other than that of those whom we seek to convince; for those who observe from different points either do not see the same objects or do not see them in the same light. life is complex, and the springs of thought and action are controlled in mysterious ways by forces and impulses which we neither clearly understand nor accurately measure. what is called the spirit of the age, the spirit which, as the poet says, sits at the roaring loom of time and weaves for god the garment whereby he is made visible to us, exercises a potent influence upon all our thinking and doing. we live in an era of progress, and progress means differentiation of structure and specialization of function. the more perfect the organism, the more are its separate functions assigned to separate parts. as social aggregates develop, a similar differentiation takes place. offices which were in the hands of one are distributed among several. agencies are evolved by which processes of production, distribution, and exchange are carried on. trades and professions are called into existence. as enlightenment and skill increase, men become more difficult to please. they demand the best work, and the best work can be done, as a rule, only by specialists. specialization thus becomes a characteristic of civilization. the patriarch is both king and priest. in greece and rome, religion is a function of the state. in the middle age, the church and the state coalesce, and form such an intimate union that the special domain of either is invaded by both. but differentiation finally takes place, and we all learn to distinguish between the things of cæsar and the things of god. this separation has far-reaching results. in asserting its independence, the state was driven to use argument as well as force. thus learning, which in the confusion that succeeded the incursions of the barbarians was cultivated almost exclusively by ecclesiastics, grew to be of interest and importance to laymen. they began to study, and the subjects which most engaged their thoughts were not religious, in the accepted sense of the word. the protestant rebellion is but a phase of this revolution. it began with the introduction of the literature of greece into western europe. the spirit of inquiry and mental curiosity was thereby awakened in wider circles; enthusiasm for the truth and beauty to which greek genius has given the most perfect expression, was aroused; and interest in intellectual and artistic culture was called forth. new ideals were upheld to fresh and wondering minds. the contagion spread, and the thirst for knowledge was carried to ever-widening spheres. it thus came to pass that the cleric and the scholar ceased to be identical. the boundaries of knowledge were enlarged when the inductive method was applied to the study of nature, and it soon became impossible for one man to pretend to a mastery of all science. and so the principle of the division of labor was introduced into things of the intellect. of old, the prophet or the philosopher was supposed to possess all wisdom; but now it had become plain that proficiency could be hoped for only by lifelong devotion to some special branch of knowledge. this led to other developments. the business of teaching, which had been almost exclusively in the hands of ecclesiastics, was now necessarily taken up by laymen also. as feudalism fell to decay, and the assertion of popular rights began to point to the advent of democracy, the movement in opposition to privilege logically led to the claim that learning should no longer be held to be the appanage of special classes, but that the gates of the temple of knowledge should be thrown open to the whole people. to make education universal, the most ready and the simplest means was to levy a school tax; and as this could be done only by the state, the state established systems of education and assumed the office of teacher. the result of all this has been that the school, which throughout christendom is the creation of the church, has in most countries very largely passed into the control of the civil government. this transference of control need not, however, involve the exclusion of religious influence and instruction; though once the state has gained the ascendency, the natural tendency is to take a partial and secular view of the whole question of education, and to limit the functions of the school to the training of the mental faculties. and, as a matter of fact, this tendency is found in men of widely differing and even conflicting opinions and convictions concerning religion itself. it is most pronounced, however, in the educational theories and systems of positivists and agnostics. as they hold that there is no god, or that we cannot know that there is a god, they necessarily conclude that it is absurd to attempt to teach children anything about god. this view is forcibly expressed by issaurat, a french writer on education, in a recently published volume, which he calls "the evolution and history of pedagogy." "all religion," he affirms, in the concluding chapter of his book, "impedes, thwarts, misdirects, and troubles the natural education of man, the normal and harmonious development of his physical, moral, and intellectual faculties; and since educational reform is not possible without reformation in the government, it is the duty of the state, not merely to separate itself from the church, but to suppress the church and to found the science of education upon biological philosophy, upon transformism--let us say the word, upon materialism." this view is manifestly the inevitable result of issaurat's general system of thought and belief. in his opinion, matter alone really exists, and what is called spirit is but a phase of its evolution. the world of spirit, therefore, is illusory; and to bring up the young to believe that it is the infinite, essential reality, is to teach them what is false, and to give a wrong direction to the whole course of life. for practical purposes this is the view not only of materialists and positivists, but of agnostics as well, who, though they do not deny the existence of spirit, assert that only the phenomenal can be known, or become the subject-matter of teaching. they all agree in holding that the theological world-view was the primitive one, which, yielding to the metaphysical, has been finally superseded by the scientific, the sole basis of a rational philosophy. the ideas of god, substance, cause, and end, are metaphysical ideas, which, if we wish to understand nature, must be ignored; for the study of nature is the study simply of facts and their relations with one another. there is, so they think, no such thing as substance, any more than there is such a thing as a principle of gravity, heat, light, electricity, or chemical affinity. the vital principle too, which has played so great a part in physiological inquiries, must be given up; and therefore, while nearly all the philosophers, from kant to our own day, have made psychology the foundation of the science of education, there is at present a marked tendency to have it rest solely on biology. whether and to what extent these theories are true or false, is beyond the purpose of this argument. true or false, they fairly describe the views of a large number of thinkers in our day, and enable us to form a conception of their philosophy of education. "why trouble ourselves," asks professor huxley, "about matters of which, however important they may be, we do know nothing and can know nothing? with a view to our duty in this life, it is necessary to be possessed of only two beliefs: the first, that the order of nature is ascertainable by our faculties to an extent that is practically unlimited; the second, that our volition counts for something as a condition of the course of events." our volition counts as a condition, but it is after all only a part of the course of events, and, consequently, the only belief it is necessary to hold is, that the course of events is ascertainable by our faculties to a practically unlimited extent. such is the brief creed of materialists and agnostics. the order of nature is the only known god, and man's sole end and duty is to make himself acquainted with it, that through obedience he may attain the highest perfection and happiness of which he is capable. this is the one true religion, and an enlightened people should forbid that any other be taught in their schools. here we have an intelligible and well-defined position, and the one which, from the point of view of such men as issaurat and huxley, is alone tenable. every one now, who thinks at all, has some theory of the world, and hence the shades of unbelief as of belief are many; and since views of education are part of a more general system of philosophy, it is inevitable that those who disagree upon the fundamental questions of thought, disagree also in their notions as to what is the school's proper office. materialists, pantheists, positivists, secularists, and pessimists unite in denying that there is a god above and distinct from nature, while agnostics and cosmists affirm that such a being, if he exist, must necessarily lie outside the domain of knowledge. positive religious doctrines, therefore, are superstition. as these views are reflected in a more or less vague way in the writings of the multitude of those who make the current literature, public opinion becomes averse to religious dogmas. a large number of cultivated minds turn from all definite systems, whether of thought or belief. everything may be tolerated, if only the spirit of dogmatism is away. they recognize how great a thing religion is, how profoundly it touches life, how powerfully it shapes conduct. without it, civilization is hard and mechanical, art is formal and feeble, and man himself but a shrewd animal. but, from their points of view, doctrines about god and christ and the church have nothing to do with religion. to think of god as substance is to convert him into nature, to think of him as a person is to limit him. the only absolute is the moral order of the world. the religion of christ is not a theory or a system of thought; it is a view of life, and its essence is found in belief in the reality of moral ideas. the supernatural may fall away,--even the notion of a providence which rules the world in the interest of the good may be given up,--and we still have the method and the secret of jesus, all that is of value in his life and teaching. all theology is an illusion, all creeds are a mistake. religion rests upon the moral power, which is not a conclusion drawn from facts, but the fact itself,--the primal and essential fact in human life. religion is simply morality suffused by the glow and warmth of a devout and reverent temper, and to teach doctrines about god and the church will not make men religious. it is obvious to object that morality supposes belief in a personal god and in the soul of man, as law implies a law-giver. this objection is meaningless, not only for the thinkers whom i have mentioned, but for others who find little interest in the literary and religious ideas of such men as matthew arnold. morality, they claim, is independent, not only of metaphysics, but of religion as well. it is a science, as yet, indeed, imperfectly developed, but a science nevertheless, just as chemistry or physiology is a science. human acts are controlled, not by a higher will or man's freedom of choice, but by physical laws. the peculiarity of this view does not lie in the contention that ethics is a science, but in the claim that it is a science altogether independent of metaphysical and religious dogmas. all forces, it is asserted, physical, mental, and moral, are identical; and morality, like bodily vigor, is a product of organism. it is, in fact, but an elaboration of the two radical instincts of nutrition and propagation, from which springs the twofold movement of conscious life, the egoistic and the altruistic. this theory is accepted alike in the german school of materialism, in the french school of positivism, and in the english school of utilitarianism. what the influence of modern empiricism upon american opinion may be, it is difficult to determine. americans certainly are a practical people, but they are not devoid of interest in speculative views. more than any other people, possibly, they have faith in the marvellous things which science is destined to accomplish, and they willingly listen to men of science, even when they quit the regions of fact for those of opinion. thus the various theories, to which the progress of natural knowledge has given rise, are received by them, if not with implicit trust, with a kind of feeling, at least, that they may be true. there is even a disposition to treat doubts of the truth of christianity as a mark of intellectual vigor, and sometimes as a sign of religious sincerity. preoccupied with material interests, but yet finding time to read the thoughts of many minds and to hear the discussion of antagonistic opinions and systems, they find it difficult to trust with entire confidence to what they know or believe. it all seems to be relative, and another generation may see everything in a different light. problems take the place of principles, religious convictions are feeble, the grasp of christian truth is relaxed, and the result is a certain moral hesitancy and infirmity. they are not hostile to the churches, but they are more or less indifferent to their doctrines. as each sect has its peculiar creed, the dogmatic position of the church is thought to be of little moment. the important thing is to promote intelligence and virtue. the distinctively sectarian view they look upon as narrow and false, and the good which ecclesiastical organizations do is done in spite of their characteristic doctrines. the note of sectarianism is to them what the note of provincialism is to a man of culture, or lack of breeding to a gentleman. the moral fervor, which sectarians more than others feel, is, they freely grant, a power for good. it has a wholesome influence upon character, and is a support of the virtues which make free institutions possible, and which alone can make them permanent. but it has no necessary connection with theological doctrines, since it is found in earnest believers, whatever their creed. it is the child of enthusiastic faith, and is nourished and kept living by worship, not by dogmatic asseverations. as the power of the churches does not lie in their creeds, to make these creeds a school lesson cannot be desirable, especially when we reflect that the method of religion and the method of science are at variance. such, i imagine, are the views of large numbers of americans, who are not members of any church, but whose influence is strongly felt in political and commercial as well as in social and professional life. and numbers of zealous protestants are in substantial agreement with them, since they hold that faith is an emotional rather than an intellectual state of mind, and that religion is not so much a way of thinking as a way of feeling and acting. they assume, of course, as the prerequisites of religious belief, the dogmas of the existence of a personal god and of an immortal human soul; but, for the rest, they lay stress upon conduct and piety, not upon orthodox faith. a church must have a creed, as a party must have a platform; but unhesitating confidence in the truth of the doctrines which it thus formulates is not indispensable. american churches tend to ignore creeds. this is due, in a measure, to the growing desire to form a union among the several sects; but it is none the less a sign of waning belief in dogmatic religion. hence the increasing emphasis which preaching lays upon the moral, æsthetic, and emotional aspects of the religious life. hence, too, the assumption that the soul of the church may live, though the body be dead. but, apart from all theories and systems of belief and thought, public opinion in america sets strongly against the denominational school. the question of education is considered from a practical rather than from a theoretical point of view, and public sentiment on the subject may be embodied in the following words: the civilized world now recognizes the necessity of popular education. in a government of the people, such as this is, intelligence should be universal. in such a government, to be ignorant is not merely to be weak, it is also to be dangerous to the common welfare; for the ignorant are not only the victims of circumstances, they are the instruments which unscrupulous and designing men make use of, to taint the source of political authority and to thwart the will of the people. to protect itself, the state is forced to establish schools and to see that all acquire at least the rudiments of letters. this is so plain a case that argument becomes ridiculous. they who doubt the good of knowledge are not to be reasoned with, and in america not to see that it is necessary, is to know nothing of our political, commercial, and social life. but the american state can give only a secular education, for it is separate from the church, and its citizens profess such various and even conflicting beliefs, that in establishing a school system, it is compelled to eliminate the question of religion. church and state are separate institutions, and their functions are different and distinct. the church seeks to turn men from sin, that they may become pleasing to god and save their souls; the state takes no cognizance of sin, but strives to prevent crime, and to secure to all its citizens the enjoyment of life, liberty, and property. americans are a christian people. religious zeal impelled their ancestors to the new world, and when schools were first established here, they were established by the churches, and religious instruction formed an important part of the education they gave. this was natural, and it was desirable even, in primitive times, when each colony had its own creed and worship, when society was simple, and the state as yet imperfectly organized. here, as in the old world, the school was the daughter of the church, and she has doubtless rendered invaluable service to civilization, by fostering a love for knowledge among barbarous races and in struggling communities. but the task of maintaining a school system such as the requirements of a great and progressive nation demands, is beyond her strength. this is so, at least, when the church is split into jealous and warring sects. to introduce the spirit of sectarianism into the class-room would destroy the harmony and good-will among citizens, which it is one of the aims of the common school to cherish. there is, besides, no reason why this should be done, since the family and the church give all the religious instruction which children are capable of receiving. this, it seems to me, is a fair presentation of the views and ideas which go to the making of current american opinion on the question of religious instruction in state schools; and current opinion, when the subject-matter is not susceptible of physical demonstration, cannot be turned suddenly in an opposite direction. when men have grown accustomed to look at things in a certain way, they have acquired a mental habit, which no mere argument, however cogent or eloquent, is able to overcome. to what extent this view of the school question prevails is readily perceived by whoever recalls to mind that not one of the states of the union has attempted to introduce the denominational system of education, while all the political parties have bound themselves to uphold the present purely secular system. the opinion that the prosperity of the nation depends upon the intelligence and activity of the people, and to no appreciable extent upon the influence of ecclesiastical organizations, has so far prevailed, that the general feeling has come to be that the state has no direct interest in the church, which is the concern merely of individuals. the religious denominations themselves have helped to inspire this sentiment by their jealousies and rivalries. the smaller sects feel that state aid for denominational schools would accrue to the benefit chiefly of the larger; and the others are willing to forego favors which they could not receive without permitting the catholic church to participate also in the bounty of the government. the catholic view of the school question is as clearly defined as it is well known. it rests upon the general ground that man is created for a supernatural end, and that the church is the divinely appointed agency to help him to attain his supreme destiny. if education is a training for completeness of life, its primary element is the religious, for complete life is life in god. hence we may not assume an attitude toward the child, whether in the home, in the church, or in the school, which might imply that life apart from god could be anything else than broken and fragmentary. a complete man is not one whose mind only is active and enlightened; but he is a complete man who is alive in all his faculties. the truly human is found not in knowledge alone, but also in faith, in hope, in love, in pure-mindedness, in reverence, in the sense of beauty, in devoutness, in the thrill of awe, which goethe says is the highest thing in man. if the teacher is forbidden to touch upon religion, the source of these noble virtues and ideal moods is sealed. his work and influence become mechanical, and he will form but commonplace and vulgar men. and if an educational system is established on this narrow and material basis, the result will be deterioration of the national type, and the loss of the finer qualities which make men many-sided and interesting, which are the safeguards of personal purity and of unselfish conduct. religion is the vital element in character, and to treat it as though it were but an incidental phase of man's life is to blunder in a matter of the highest and most serious import. man is born to act, and thought is valuable mainly as a guide to action. now, the chief inspiration to action, and above all to right action, is found in faith, hope, and love, the virtues of religion, and not in knowledge, the virtue of the intellect. knowledge, indeed, is effectual only when it is loved, believed in, and held to be a ground for hope. man does not live on bread alone, and if he is brought up to look to material things, as to the chief good, his higher faculties will be stunted. if to do rightly rather than to think keenly is man's chief business here on earth, then the virtues of religion are more important than those of the intellect; for to think is to be unresolved, whereas to believe is to be impelled in the direction of one's faith. in epochs of doubt things fall to decay; in epochs of faith the powers which make for full and vigorous life, hold sway. the education which forms character is indispensable, that which trains the mind is desirable. the essential element in human life is conduct, and conduct springs from what we believe, cling to, love, and yearn for, vastly more than from what we know. the decadence and ruin of individuals and of societies come from lack of virtue, not from lack of knowledge. "the hard and valuable part of education," says locke, "is virtue; this is the solid and substantial good, which the teacher should never cease to inculcate till the young man places his strength, his glory, and his pleasure in it." we may, of course, distinguish between morality and religion, between ethics and theology. as a matter of fact, however, moral laws have everywhere reposed upon the basis of religion, and their sanction has been sought in the principles of faith. as an immoral religion is false, so, if there is no god, a moral law is meaningless. theorists may be able to construct a system of ethics upon a foundation of materialism; but their mechanical and utilitarian doctrines have not the power to exalt the imagination or to confirm the will. their educational value is feeble. here in america we have already passed the stage of social development in which we might hold out to the young, as an ideal, the hope of becoming president of the republic, or the possessor of millions of money. we know what sorry men presidents and millionnaires may be. we cannot look upon our country simply as a wide race-course with well-filled purses hanging at the goal for the prize-winners. we clearly perceive that a man's possessions are not himself, and that he is or ought to be more than anything which can belong to him. ideals of excellence, therefore, must be substituted for those of success. opinion governs the world, but ideals draw souls and stimulate to noble action. the more we transform with the aid of machinery the world of matter, the more necessary does it become that we make plain to all that man's true home is the world of thought and love, of hope and aspiration. the ideals of utilitarianism and secularism are unsatisfactory. they make no appeal to the infinite in man, to that in him which makes pursuit better than possession, and which, could he believe there is no absolute truth, love, and beauty, would lead him to despair. to-day, as of old, the soul is born of god and for god, and finds no peace unless it rest in him. theology, assuredly, is not religion; but religion implies theology, and a church without a creed is a body without articulation. the virtues of religion are indispensable. without them, it is not well either with individuals or with nations; but these virtues cannot be inculcated by those who, standing aloof from ecclesiastical organizations, are thereby cut off from the thought and work of all who in every age have most loved god, and whose faith in the soul has been most living. religious men have wrought for god in the church, as patriots have wrought for liberty and justice in the nation; and to exclude the representatives of the churches from the school is practically to exclude religion,--the power which more than all others makes for righteousness, which inspires hope and confidence, which makes possible faith in the whole human brotherhood, in the face even of the political and social wrongs which are still everywhere tolerated. to exclude religion is to exclude the spirit of reverence, of gentleness and obedience, of modesty and purity; it is to exclude the spirit by which the barbarians have been civilized, by which woman has been uplifted and ennobled and the child made sacred. from many sides the demand is made that the state schools exercise a greater moral influence, that they be made efficient in forming character as well as in training the mind. it is recognized that knowing how to read and write does not insure good behavior. since the state assumes the office of teacher, there is a disposition among parents to make the school responsible for their children's morals as well as for their minds, and thus the influence of the home is weakened. whatever the causes may be, there seems to be a tendency, both in private and in public life, to lower ethical standards. the moral influence of the secular school is necessarily feeble, since our ideas of right and wrong are so interfused with the principles of christianity that to ignore our religious convictions is practically to put aside the question of conscience. if the state may take no cognizance of sin, neither may its school do so. but in morals sin is the vital matter; crime is but its legal aspect. men begin as sinners before they end as criminals. the atmosphere of religion is the natural medium for the development of character. if we appeal to the sense of duty, we assume belief in god and in the freedom of the will; if we strive to awaken enthusiasm for the human brotherhood, we imply a divine fatherhood. accordingly, as we accept or reject the doctrines of religion, the sphere of moral action, the nature of the distinction between right and wrong, and the motives of conduct all change. in the purely secular school only secular morality may be taught; and whatever our opinion of this system of ethics may otherwise be, it is manifestly deficient in the power which appeals to the heart and the conscience. the child lives in a world which imagination creates, where faith, hope, and love beckon to realms of beauty and delight. the spiritual and moral truths which are to become the very life-breath of his soul he apprehends mystically, not logically. heaven lies about him; he lives in wonderland, and feels the thrill of awe as naturally as he looks with wide-open eyes. do not seek to persuade him by telling him that honesty is the best policy, that poverty overtakes the drunkard, that lechery breeds disease, that to act for the common welfare is the surest way to get what is good for one's self; for such teaching will not only leave him unimpressed, but it will seem to him profane, and almost immoral. he wants to feel that he is the child of god, of the infinitely good and all-wonderful; that in his father, divine wisdom and strength are revealed; in his mother, divine tenderness and love. he so believes and trusts in god that it is our fault if he knows that men can be base. in nothing does the godlike character of christ show forth more beautifully than in his reverence for children. shall we profess to believe in him, and yet forbid his name to be spoken in the houses where we seek to train the little ones whom he loved? shall we shut out him whose example has done more to humanize, ennoble, and uplift the race of man than all the teachings of the philosophers and all the disquisitions of the moralists? if the thinkers, from plato and aristotle to kant and pestalozzi, who have dealt with the problems of education, have held that virtue is its chief aim and end, shall we thrust from the school the one ideal character who, for nearly nineteen hundred years, has been the chief inspiration to righteousness and heroism; to whose words patriots and reformers have appealed in their struggles for liberty and right; to whose example philanthropists have looked in their labors to alleviate suffering; to whose teaching the modern age owes its faith in the brotherhood of men; by whose courage and sympathy the world has been made conscious that the distinction between man and woman is meant for the propagation of the race, but that as individuals they have equal rights and should have equal opportunities? we all, and especially the young, are influenced by example more than by precepts and maxims, and it is unjust and unreasonable to exclude from the schoolroom the living presence of the noblest and best men and women, of those whose words and deeds have created our christian civilization. in the example of their lives we have truth and justice, goodness and greatness, in concrete form; and the young who are brought into contact with these centres of influence will be filled with admiration and enthusiasm; they will be made gentle and reverent; and they will learn to realize the ever-fresh charm and force of personal purity. teachers who have no moral criteria, no ideals, no counsels of perfection, no devotion to god and godlike men, cannot educate, if the proper meaning of education is the complete unfolding of all man's powers. the school, of course, is but one of the many agencies by which education is given. we are under the influence of our whole environment,--physical, moral, and intellectual; political, social, and religious; and if, in all this, aught were different, we ourselves should be other. the family is a school and the church is a school; and current american opinion assigns to them the business of moral and religious education. but this implies that conduct and character are of secondary importance; it supposes that the child may be made subject to opposite influences at home and in the school, and not thereby have his finer sense of reverence, truth, and goodness deadened. the subduing of the lower nature, of the outward to the inner man, is a thing so arduous that reason, religion, and law combined often fail to accomplish it. if one should propose to do away with schools altogether, and to leave education to the family and the church, he would be justly considered ridiculous; because the carelessness of parents and the inability of the ministry of the church would involve the prevalence of illiteracy. now, to leave moral and religious education to the family and the churches involves, for similar reasons, the prevalence of indifference, sin, and crime. if illiteracy is a menace to free institutions, vice and irreligion are a greater menace. the corrupt are always bad citizens; the ignorant are not necessarily so. parents who would not have their children taught to read and write, were there no free schools, will as a rule neglect their religious and moral education. in giving religious instruction to the young, the churches are plainly at a disadvantage; for they have the child but an hour or two in seven days, and they get into their sunday classes only the children of the more devout. if the chief end of education is virtue; if conduct is three-fourths of life; if character is indispensable, while knowledge is only useful,--then it follows that religion--which, more than any other vital influence, has power to create virtue, to inspire conduct, and to mould character--should enter into all the processes of education. our school system, then, does not rest upon a philosophic view of life and education. we have done what it was easiest to do, not what it was best to do; and in this, as in other instances, churchmen have been willing to sacrifice the interests of the nation to the whims of a narrow and jealous temper. the denominational system of popular education is the right system. the secular system is a wrong system. the practical difficulties to be overcome that religious instruction may be given in the schools are relatively unimportant, and would be set aside if the people were thoroughly persuaded of its necessity. an objection which dr. harris, among others, insists upon, that the method of science and the method of religion are dissimilar, and that therefore secular knowledge and religious knowledge should not be taught in the same school, seems to me to have no weight. the method of mathematics is not the method of biology; the method of logic is not the method of poetry; but they are all taught in the same school. a good teacher, in fact, employs many methods. in teaching the child grammatical analysis, he has no fear of doing harm to his imagination or his talent for composition. no system, however, can give assurance that the school is good. to determine this we must know the spirit which lives in it. the intellectual, moral, and religious atmosphere which the child breathes there is of far more importance, from an educational point of view, than any doctrines he may learn by rote, than any acts of worship he may perform. the teacher makes the school; and when high, pure, devout, and enlightened men and women educate, the conditions favorable to mental and moral growth will be found, provided a false system does not compel them to assume a part and play a role, while the true self--the faith, hope, and love whereby they live--is condemned to inaction. the deeper tendency of the present age is not, i think, to exclude religion from any vital process, but rather to widen the content of the idea of religion until it embrace the whole life of man. the worship of god is not now the worship of infinite wisdom, holiness, and justice alone, but is also the worship of the humane, the beautiful, and the industriously active. whether we work for knowledge or freedom, or purity or strength, or beauty or health, or aught else that is friendly to completeness of life, we work with god and for god. in the school, as in whatever other place in the boundless universe a man may find himself, he finds himself with god, in him moves, lives, and has his being. chapter vii. the higher education.[ ] [ ] a discourse pronounced at the third plenary council of baltimore, which, being enforced by the offer of three hundred thousand dollars by miss caldwell, led to the founding of the university at washington. the subject which i have been asked to treat is the higher education of priests; which, i suppose, is the highest education of man, since the ideal of the christian priest is the most exalted, his vocation the most sublime, his office the most holy, his duties the most spiritual, and his mission--whether we consider its relation to morality, which is the basis of individual and social welfare, or to religion, which is the promise and the secret of immortal and godlike life--is the most important and the most sacred which can be assigned to a human being. religion and education--like religion and morality--are nearly related. pure religion, indeed, is more than right education; and yet it may be said with truth that it is but a part of the best education, for it co-operates with other forces--with climate, custom, social conditions, and political institutions--to develop and fashion the complete man; and the special instruction of teachers--which is the narrow meaning of the word--is modified, and to a great extent controlled, by these powers which work unseen, and are the vital agents that make possible all conscious educational efforts. the faith we hold, the laws we obey, the domestic and social customs to which our thoughts and loves are harmonized, the climate we live in, mould our characters and give to our souls a deeper and more lasting tinge than any school, though it were the best. my subject, however, does not demand that i consider these general and silent agencies by which life is influenced, but leads me to the discussion of the methods by which man, with conscious purpose, seeks to form and instruct his fellow-man; to the discussion of the special education which brings art to the aid of nature, and becomes the auxiliary and guide of the other forces which contribute to the development of our being. in this age, when all who think at all turn their thoughts to questions of education, it is needless to call attention to the interest of the subject, which, like hope, is immortal, and fresh as the innocent face of laughing childhood. is not the school for all men a shrine to which their pilgrim thoughts return to catch again the glow and gladness of a world wherein they lived by faith and hope and love when round the morning sun of life the golden purple clouds were hanging, and earth lay hidden in mist, beneath which the soul created a new paradise? to the opening mind all things are young and fair; and to remember the delight that accompanied the gradual dawn of knowledge upon our mental vision, sweet and beautiful as the upglowing of day from the bosom of night, is to be forever thankful for the gracious power of education. and is there not in all hearts a deep and abiding yearning for great and noble men, and therefore an imperishable interest in the power by which they are moulded? when fathers and mothers look upon the fair blossoming children that cling to them as the vine wraps its tendrils round the spreading bough, and when their great love fills them with ineffable longing to shield these tender souls from the blighting blasts of a cold and stormy world, and little by little to prepare them to stand alone and breast the gales of fortune, do they not instinctively put their trust in the power of education? when, at the beginning of the present century, germany lay prostrate at the feet of napoleon, the wise and the patriotic among her children yielded not to despondency, but turned with confidence to truer methods and systems of education, and assiduous teaching and patient waiting finally brought them to sedan. when, in the sixteenth century, heresy and schism seemed near to final victory over the church, pope julius iii. declared that the evils and abuses of the times were the outgrowth of the shameful ignorance of the clergy, and that the chief hope of the dawning of a brighter day lay in general and thorough ecclesiastical education. and the catholic leaders who finally turned back the advancing power of protestantism, re-established the church in half the countries in which it had been overthrown, and converted more souls in america and asia than had been lost in europe, belonged to the greatest educational body the world has ever seen. what is history but examples of success through knowledge and righteousness, and of failure through lack of understanding and of virtue? wherein lies the superiority of civilized races over barbarians if not in their greater knowledge and superior strength of character? and what but education has placed in the hands of man the thousand natural forces which he holds as a charioteer his well-reined steeds, bidding the winds carry him to distant lands, making steam his tireless, ever-ready slave, and commanding the lightning to speak his words to the ends of the earth? what else than this has taught him to map the boundless heavens, to read the footprints of god in the crust of the earth ages before human beings lived, to measure the speed of light, to weigh the imperceptible atom, to split up all natural compounds, to create innumerable artificial products with which he transforms the world and with a grain of powder marches like a conquering god around the globe? what converts the meaningless babbling of the child into the stately march of oratoric phrase or the rhythmic flow of poetic language? what has developed the rude stone and bronze implements of savage and barbarous hordes into the miraculous machinery which we use? by what power has man been taught to carve the shapeless rock into an image of ideal beauty, or with it to build his thought into a temple of god, where the soul instinctively prostrates itself in adoration? is not all this, together with whatever else is excellent in human works, the result of education, which gives to man a second nature with more admirable endowments? and is not religion itself a kind of celestial education, which trains the soul to godlike life? no progress in things divine or human is made by man except through effort, and effort is the power and the law of education. the maxim of the spiritual writers that not to struggle upward and onward is to be drawn downward, applies to every phase of our life. whence do we derive strength of soul but from the uplifting of the mind and heart to god which we call prayer? to pray is to think, to attend, to hold the mind lovingly to its object; and this is what we do when we study. hence prayer, which is the voice of religion, is a part of education,--nay, its very soul, breathing on all the chords of life, till their thousand dissonances meet in rhythmic harmony. what is the pulpit but the holiest teacher's chair that has been placed upon the earth? and as the presence of a noble character is a more potent influence than words, so sacramental communion with christ is man's chief school of faith, of hope, and love. there are worthy persons who turn, as from an unholy thought, from the emphatic announcement of the need of the best human qualities for the proper defence of the cause of god in the world. such speech seems to them to be vain and unreal; for god is all in all, and man is nothing. but in our day it is easier to go astray in the direction of self-annihilation than in that of self-assertion; since the common tendency now of all false philosophies is pantheistic, and issues in unconscious contempt of individual life. if man is but a bubble, merging forth and re-absorbed, without past or future, then indeed both he, and what he seems to do, sink into the eternal flow of matter, and are undeserving of a thought. this certainly is not the christian view, to which man is revealed as a lesser god, and co-worker with the eternal, whose thought can reach the infinite, and whose will can oppose that of the omnipotent. in christ, god co-operates with man for the salvation of the world; and in the church, man co-operates with god to this same end. the more complete the man, the more fit is he to work with god. even bodily disfigurement is looked upon as an obstacle; how much more, then, shall lack of intelligence and want of heart render us unworthy of the divine office? i certainly shall never deny that love, which the apostle exalts above faith and hope, is higher also than knowledge. the light of the mind is as that of the moon--fair and soft and soothing, without heat, without the power to call forth and nourish life; but the light of the soul, which is love, is the sunlight, whose kiss, like a word of god, makes the dead to live, and clothes the world in strength and beauty. character is more than intellect, love is more than knowledge, religion is more than morality; and a great heart brings us closer to god, nearer to all goodness, than a bright mind. education is essentially moral, and the intellectual qualities themselves, which we seek to develop, derive their chief efficacy from underlying ethical qualities upon which they rest and from which they receive their energy and the power of self-control. inequality of will is the great cause of inequality of mind; and the will is strengthened by the practice of virtue, as the body by food and exercise. if this is a general truth, with what special force must it not apply to the ministers of a religion the paramount and ceaseless aim of which is to make men holy, so that at times it has almost seemed as though the church were indifferent as to whether they are learned or beautiful or strong? she pronounces no man a doctor unless he be also a saint; and when i insist that the priest shall possess the best mental culture of his age,--that without this he fights with broken weapons, speaks with harsh voice a language men will neither hear nor understand, teaches truths which, having not the freshness and the glow of truth, neither kindle the heart nor fire the imagination,--i do not forget that, without the moral earnestness which is born of faith and purity of life, mere cultivation of mind will not give him power to unseal the fountains of living waters which refresh the garden of god. the universal harmony is felt by a pure heart better than it can be perceived by a keen intellect. to a sinless soul the darker side even of life and nature is not wholly dark, and the mental difficulties which the existence of evil involves in no way weaken the consciousness of the essential goodness that lies at the heart of all things. in the religious, as in the moral world, men trust to what we are rather than to what we say, and the teacher of spiritual truth is never strong, unless his life and character inspire a confidence which arguments alone do not create; for in questions that reach beyond the sphere of sensation, we feel that insight is better than reasons, and hence we instinctively prefer the testimony of a god-like soul to the conclusions of a cultivated mind: and indeed our blessed lord ever assumes that the obstacle to the perception of divine truth is moral and not intellectual. the pure of heart see god; the evil-doer loves darkness and shuns the light. st. paul goes even farther, and associates mental cultivation with a tendency directly opposed to religious faith, which is humble. "knowledge puffeth up." but the words of the apostle should not be stretched beyond his purpose, which is to point to pride as a special danger of the intellectual as sensuality is a danger of the ignorant. for man to have aught is to run a risk, and hence to do as little as possible is in the thought of the timid a mark of prudence. and indeed, if fear be nearer to wisdom than courage, then should we fear everything, for danger is everywhere. a breath may sow the seed of death; a look may slay the soul. in knowledge, in ignorance, in strength, in weakness, in wealth, in poverty, in genius, in stupidity, in company, in solitude, in innocence itself, danger lurks. but god does not abolish life that danger may cease to be; and they who put their trust in him will not seek to darken the mind lest knowledge lead man astray, but will rather in a righteous cause make the venture of all things, as st. ignatius preferred the hope of saving others to the certainty of his own salvation. and may we not maintain, since we hold that there is no inappeasable conflict between god and nature, between the soul and matter, between revelation and science, that the apparent antagonism lies in our apprehension, and not in things themselves, and consequently that reconcilement is to be sought for through the help of thoroughly trained minds? the poet speaks the truth, "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing." they who know but little and imperfectly, see but their knowledge, if so it may be called, and walk in innocent unconsciousness of their infinite nescience. the narrower the range of our mental vision, the greater the obstinacy with which we cling to our opinions; and the half-educated, like the weak and the incompetent, are often contentious, but whosoever is able to do his work does it, and finds no time for dispute. he who possesses a disciplined mind, and is familiar with the best thoughts that live in the great literatures, will be the last to attach undue importance to his own thinking. a sense of decency and a kind of holy shame will keep him far from angry and unprofitable controversy; nor will he mistake a crotchet for a panacea, nor imagine that irritation is enlightenment. the blessings of a cultivated mind are akin to those of religion. they are larger liberty, wider life, purer delights, and a juster sense of the relative values of the means and ends which lie within our reach. knowledge, like religion, leads us away from what appears to what is, from what passes to what remains, from what flatters the senses to that which speaks to the soul. wisdom and religion converge, as love and knowledge meet in god; and to the wise as to the religious man, no great evil can happen. into prison they both carry the sweet company of their thoughts, their faith and hope, and are freer in chains than the great in palaces. in death they are in the midst of life, for they see that what they know and love is imperishable, nor subject even to atomic disintegration. he who lives in the presence of truth yearns not for the company of men, but loves retirement as a saint loves solitude; and in times like ours, when men no longer choose the desert for a dwelling-place, the passionate desire of intellectual excellence co-operates with religious faith to guard them against dissipation and to lift them above the spirit of the age. the thinker is never lonely, as he who lives with god is never unhappy. is not the love of excellence, which is the scholar's love, a part of the love of goodness which makes the saint? and are not intellectual delights akin to those religion brings? they are pure, they elevate, they refine; time only increases their charm, and in the winter of age, when the body is but the agent of pain, contemplation still remains like the light of a higher world, to tinge with beauty the clouds that gather around life's setting. how narrow and monotonous is sensation! how wide and various is thought! they who live in the senses are fettered and ill at ease; they who live in the soul are free and joyful. and since the priest, unless he be a saint, must have, like other men, some human joy, and since he dwells not in the sacred circle of the love of wife and children, in which the multitudes find repose and contentment, what solace, what refreshment, in the midst of cares and labors, shall we offer him? if there be aught for him that is not unworthy or dangerous, except the pleasures of the mind, to me it is unknown; and though a well-trained intellect should do no more than to enable us to take delight in pure and noble objects, it would be a chief help to worthy life. and when the whole tendency of our social existence is to draw men out of themselves and to make them seek the good of life in what is external, as money, display, position, renown, is it not a gain, if, while we open their minds to the charm of intellectual beauty, we make them see that this eager striving for wealth and place is a vulgar chase? and does not the spirit of refinement in thought, in speech, in manner, add worth and fairness to him whom it inspires, though the motive which preserves him from what is low or gross be no higher than a fastidious delicacy and self-respect? to deny the moral influence of intellectual culture is as great an error as to affirm that it alone is a sufficient safeguard of morality. its tendency unquestionably is to make men gentle, amiable, fair-minded, truthful, benevolent, modest, sober. it curbs ambition and teaches resignation; chastens the imagination and mitigates ferocity; dissuades from duelling because it is barbarous, and from war because it is cruel, and from persecution because it trusts in the prevalence of reason. it seeks to fit the mind and the character to the world, to all possible circumstances, so that whatever happens we remain ourselves,--calm, clear-seeing, able to do and to suffer. at great heights, or in the presence of irresistible force, as of a mighty waterfall, we grow dizzy; and in the same way, in the midst of multitudes, in the eagerness of strife, in the whirlwind of passion, equipoise is lost, and we cease to be ourselves, to become part of an aggregate of forces that hurry us on, whither we know not. to be able to stand in the presence of such power, and to feel its influence, and yet not to lose self-possession, is to be strong; is, on proper occasion, to be great. and the aim of the best education is to teach us the secret and the method of this complete self-control; and in so far it is not only moral, but also religious, though religion walks in a more royal road, and bids us love god and trust so absolutely in him that life and death become equal, and all the ways and workings of men as the storm to one who on lofty mountain peak, amid the blue heavens, with the sunlight around him and the quiet breathing of the winds, sees far below, as in another world, the black clouds and lurid lightning flash and hears the roll of distant thunder. it is far from my thought, it is needless to say, that mental cultivation can be made to take the place or do the work of religion, even in the case of the very few for whom the best discipline of mind is possible. my aim is simply to show that the type of character which it tends to create is not necessarily at variance with religious principle and life, as is, for instance, that of the mere worldling; but that it conspires with christian faith to produce, if not the same, at least similar virtues, though its ethical influence is comparatively superficial, and the moral qualities which it produces lack consistency and the power to withstand the fire of the passions. it is enough for my purpose to point out that if intellectualism is often the foe of religious truth, there is no good reason why it should not also be its ally. no excellence, as i conceive, of whatever kind, is rejected by catholic teaching, and the perfection of the mind is not less divine than the perfection of the heart. it is good to know, as it is good to hope, to believe, to love. a cultivated intellect, an open mind, a rich imagination, with correctness of thought, flexibility of view, and eloquent expression, are among the noblest endowments of man; and though they should serve no other purpose than to embellish life, to make it fairer and freer, they would nevertheless be possessions without price, for the most nobly useful things are those which make life good and beautiful. like virtue they are their own reward, and like mercy they bear a double blessing. it is the fashion with many to affect contempt for men of superior culture, because they look upon education as simply a means to tangible ends, and think knowledge valuable only when it can be made to serve practical purposes. this is a narrow and a false view; for all men need the noble and the beautiful, and he who lives without an ideal is hardly a man. our material wants are not the most real for being the most sensible and pressing, and they who create or preserve for us models of spiritual and intellectual excellence are our greatest benefactors. which were the greater loss for england, to be without wellington and nelson, or to be without shakspeare and milton? whatever the answer be, in the one case england would suffer, in the other the whole world would feel the loss. though a thoroughly trained intellect is less worthy of admiration than a noble character, its power is immeasurably greater; for, example can influence but a few and for a short time, but when a truth or a sentiment has once found its best expression, it becomes a part of literature, and like a proverb is current forevermore; and so the kings of thought become immortal rulers, and without their help the godlike deeds of saints and heroes would be buried in oblivion. "words pass," said napoleon, "but deeds remain." the man of action exaggerates the worth of action, but the philosopher knows that to act is easy, to think, difficult; and that great deeds spring from great thoughts. there are words that never grow silent, there are words that have changed the face of the earth, and the warrior's wreath of victory is entwined by the muse's hand. the power of athens is gone, her temples are in ruins, the acropolis is discrowned, and from mars' hill no voice thunders now; but the words of socrates, the great deliverer of the mind, and the father of intellectual culture, still breathe in the thoughts of every cultivated man on earth. the glory of jerusalem has departed, the broken stones of solomon's temple lie hard by the graves that line the brook of kedron, and from the minaret of mount sion the misbeliever's melancholy call sounds like a wail over a lost world; but the songs of david still rise from the whole earth in heavenly concert, upbearing to the throne of god the faith and hope and love of countless millions. and is not the blessed saviour the eternal word? and is not the bible god's word? and is not the gospel the word, which, like an electric thrill, runs to the ends of the world? "currit verbum," says st. paul. "man lives not on bread alone, but on every word that cometh forth from the mouth of god." nay, there is life in all the true and noble thoughts that have blossomed in the mind of genius and filled the earth with fragrance and with fruit. shall i be told that the intellectual cultivation and discipline, which gives to man control of his knowledge, the perfect use of his faculties, justness of perception with ease and grace of expression, cannot bring serviceable advocacy or defence to the cause of divine truth? what does truth need but to be known? and since to reach the mind and heart of man it must be clothed in words, what is so necessary to it as the garb and vesture, the form and color, the warmth and life, which shall so mark it that to be loved it needs but be seen? and who shall so clothe it, if not he who has the freest, the most flexible, the clearest, the best disciplined mind? in the apostolic age, when the manifestations of miraculous power accompanied the announcement of christian doctrine, the lack of the persuasive words of human eloquence was not felt. let him who can drink poison and touch scorpions, and not suffer harm, despise the aid of learning; but for us, who are not so assisted, no cultivation of mind or preparation of heart can be too great; and to appear in the garb of a savage were less unseemly than to speak the holiest and the highest truths in the barbarous tongue of ignorance. our way here cannot be doubtful. either we must hold with certain peculiar heretics that learning is a hindrance to the efficacious teaching of religious truth, or, denying this, we must hold, since mental culture is serviceable, that the best is most serviceable. may we not take this for a principle,--to believe that god does everything, and then to act as though he left everything for us to do? or this: since grace supposes nature, the growth and strength of the church is not wholly independent of the natural endowments of her ministers? as a matter of fact we catholics are constantly speaking and acting upon principles of this kind. we maintain that without a proper education our children must lose the faith; and that without careful moral and mental training no man is likely to become a good priest; and all that i further insist upon is that if he is to do the best work, he must have the best intellectual discipline. in an intellectual age, at least, he cannot be the worthy minister of worship, unless he is also the accomplished teacher of truth. in vain shall we clothe him in rich symbolic vestments, place him in majestic temples, before marble altars, in the midst of solemn music, in the dim sober-tinted light, with the great and noble looking out upon him, as from a spirit world,--in vain shall all this be, if when he himself speaks, his words are felt to be but the echo of a coarse and empty mind. and hence our enemies would gladly leave us the poetry of our worship, would even enter our churches to be comforted, to be soothed, to seek the elevation and enlargement of thought and sentiment which comes upon us in the presence of what is vast, mysterious, and sublime, if we would but confess that it is only poetry, good and beautiful only as art is good and beautiful. the spirit of the time, in fact, it seems to me, is more and more disposed to grant us everything except the possession of intellectual truth. that the catholic church is a marvellous power; that her triumphs have been so enduring and so unexpected that only the foolish or the ignorant will predict her downfall; that she overcame paganism; that she saved christianity when rome fell; that she restrained the ferocity of the barbarians, protected the weak, encouraged labor, preserved the classics, maintained the unity and sanctity of marriage, defended the purity and dignity of woman, espoused the cause of the oppressed, and in a lawless and ignorant age proclaimed the supremacy of right and the worth of learning; that to these signal services must be added her power to give ease and pleasantness to the social relations of men, keeping them equally remote from puritan severity and pagan license; her eye for beauty and grace, which has made her the foster-mother of all the arts; her love of the excellent and the noble, which has enabled her to create types of character that are immortal; her practical wisdom, giving her the secret of dealing with every phase of life, so that her saints are doctors, apostles, mystics, philanthropists, artists, poets, kings, beggars, warriors, peasants, barbarians, philosophers,--all this, if i mistake not, unbelievers even are more and more willing to concede. nor are they slow to express their admiration of the strength and majesty of this single power amid the christian nations, which reaches back to the great civilizations that have perished, which has preserved its organic unity intact amid the social revolutions of two thousand years, and which is acknowledged still to be the greatest moral force in the world. but, underlying all they say and think, is the assumption that the foundations of this noble structure are crumbling; that the world of faith and thought in which it was upbuilt is become a desert where no flower blooms, no living soul is found; that the temple is beautiful only as a ruin is beautiful, where owls hoot and bats flit to and fro. "there is not a creed, we are told, which is not shaken, nor an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable; not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve." the conquests of the human mind in the realms of nature have produced a world-wide ferment of thought, an intellectual activity which is without a parallel. they have increased the power of man to an almost incredible degree, have given him control of the earth and the seas, have placed within his grasp undreamed-of forces, have opened to his view unsuspected mysteries; they have placed him on a new earth and under new heavens, and thrown a light never seen before upon the history of his race. as a part of this vast development new questions have risen, new theories have been broached, new doubts have suggested themselves; and because we have changed, all else seems to have changed also. and since, underlying all questions, there is found a question of religion, the discussion of religious and philosophic problems has, in our day, become a social necessity, and the science of criticism, together with the physical sciences, has driven the disputants upon new and difficult ground, where the battle must be fought, and where retreat is not possible. as well imagine that society will again take on the form of feudalism, as that the human mind will return to the point of view from which our ancestors looked on nature. and this world-view shapes and colors all our thinking, in theology as in other sciences, so that truths which were latent have come to light, and principles which have long been held find new and wider application. never has the defence of religion required so many and such excellent qualities of intellect as in the present day. the early apologists who contrasted the sublimity and purity of christian faith with a corrupt paganism had not a difficult task. in the middle age the intellect of the world was on the side of christ. the controversy which sprang up with the advent of protestantism was biblical and historical, and its criticism was superficial. the anti-christian schools of thought of the eighteenth century were literary rather than philosophical, and the objections they urged were founded chiefly upon political and social considerations. in all these discussions the territory in dispute was well defined and relatively small. but into what a different world are not we thrown! these earlier explorers sailed upon rivers whose banks were lined by firm-set rocky cliffs, by the overshadowing boughs of primeval forests, with here and there pleasant slopes of green where they might lie at rest amid the fragrance of wild flowers; but from our peter's bark we look out upon the dark unfathomed seas towards an unknown world whose margin ever fades and recedes as we seem to draw near the haven of our desire. as in the beginning of the twelfth century the cry, "god wills it!" rang through europe, and from all her lands armies of mailed knights sprang into battle-array and turned their faces towards the holy city, resolved to wrench from infidel hands the sacred tomb of christ, so now, from her thousand watch-towers, science sounds her clarion note with quite other intent, urging on to the attack of the citadel of god in the heart of man, renewing upon lower fields the war in which immortal spirits contended with the almighty "in dubious battle on the plains of heaven, and shook his throne." as "he jests at scars that never felt a wound," so here the lesser knowledge makes the bolder man. not that difficulties should create doubts, or that objections may not be answered, or that it is necessary to refute each hypothesis that appears and fades like a dissolving view, or to notice each unwarrantable inference from unquestioned facts, or that it is worth while to address ourselves to minds whose nebulous and shifting opinions make it impossible that they should receive correct impressions; but the field upon which attacks upon religion are now made is so vast, the confusion of thought into which new discoveries and speculations have thrown the minds of even educated men is so bewildering, the methods for the ascertainment of truth are so tangled and misapplied, the rushing on of multitudes to discuss problems which have hitherto been left to philosophers, and which they alone can rightly enunciate, is so stupefying, that those who have the clearest perception of the mental state of the modern world, and who are able to take the finest and most comprehensive view of the religious, philosophic, and scientific controversies of the day, seem loath to enter into a struggle where the ground continually changes, and where victory at the best is only partial, and but leads to further contest. it is well to remember, also, that in the intellectual arena to attack is easier than to defend, and any shallow, incoherent talker or writer can propose difficulties which the keenest thinker will find great trouble to explain. since we and our works fall to ruin and pass away, we seem instinctively to take the side of those who seek to undermine and overthrow systems of thought and belief which claim to be indestructible, and the human heart is half a traitor to the church which declares that she is indefectible and infallible. is there not indeed, however we account for it, in all nature a kind of dread and horror of the supernatural, such as one who hides within his bosom a secret of dark guilt feels in the presence of the conscience of mankind? and does not this make the world lean to the side of those who would eliminate god from nature? and yet, since man's heart is the home of contradictions, is it not also true to say that he is naturally religious? his faith in god is as deep and unwavering as his faith in the testimony of the senses; and if there are atheists there are also men who hold that all things are unreal and only appear to be; that the world is but a myriad-formed, a myriad-tinted idea, the dream of a substanceless dreamer. not only do we believe in god and in the soul, but all that we love, all that we hope for, all that gives to life charm, dignity, and sacredness, is interpenetrated, perfumed, and illumined by this faith. if men could be persuaded that the unconscious is the beginning and the end of all things, what good would have been gained? the light of heaven would fade away, and the soul's high faith be made a lie; the poor would have no friend, and the rich no heart; the wicked would be without fear, and the good without hope; success would be consecrated, and death alone would remain as the refuge of the unfortunate. even animal indulgence, in sinking out of the moral order, would lose its human charm. if then in our day there is wide-spread scepticism, a sort of vague feeling that science is undermining religion and that the most sacred beliefs are dissolving, the cause of this lies not so much in the natural tendencies of the mind and heart, as in social conditions, in passing phases of thought, in the shifting of the point of view from which men have hitherto been accustomed to look on nature; and the continuance and the progress of doubt, and consequently of indifference, is, to some extent at least, to be ascribed also to the fact that the most earnest believers in god and in christianity have, for now more than a century, been less eager to acquire the best philosophic and literary cultivation of mind than others who, having lost faith in the supernatural, seek for compensation in a wider and deeper knowledge of nature, and in the mental culture which enables them to enjoy more keenly the high thoughts and fair images which live in literature and art. as a well-trained intellect, in argument with the unskilful, easily makes the worse appear the better cause, so in an age or a country where the best discipline of mind is found chiefly among those who are not christians, or at least not catholics, public opinion will drift away from the church, until the view finally becomes general that, whatever she may have been in other times, her day is past. nor will aught external, however fair or glorious, secure her against this danger. how often in the history of nations and of religions is not outward splendor the mark of inward decay? when rome was free, a simple life sufficed; but when liberty fled, marble palaces arose. the monarch who built versailles made the scaffold on which french royalty perished; and so a dying faith, like the setting sun, may drape itself in glory. the kingdom of god is within; there is the source of life and strength, without which nor numbers nor wealth, nor stately edifices nor solemn rites, avail. nor can we be certain of men's love when we cease to have influence over their thoughts. the proper appeal is to the heart through the mind; and even a mother loses half her power when she ceases to be the intellectual superior of her children. how then shall the heavenly mother of the soul keep her place in the world, if those who speak in her name mar by imperfect and ignorant utterance the celestial harmony of her doctrines? ah! let us learn to see things as they are. in face of the modern world, that which the catholic priest most needs, after virtue, is the best cultivation of mind, which issues in comprehensiveness of view, in exactness of perception, in the clear discernment of the relations of truths and of the limitations of scientific knowledge, in fairness and flexibility of thought, in ease and grace of expression, in candor, in reasonableness; the intellectual culture which brings the mind into form gives it the control of its faculties, creates the habit of attention, and develops firmness of grasp. the education of which i speak is expansion and discipline of mind rather than learning; and its tendency is not so much to form profound dogmatists, or erudite canonists, or acute casuists, as to cultivate a habit of mind, which, for want of a better word, may be called philosophical; to enlarge the intellect, to strengthen and supple its faculties, to enable it to take connected views of things and their relations, and to see clear amid the mazes of human error and through the mists of human passion. i speak of that perfection of the intellect, which, to use the words of cardinal newman, "is the clear, calm, accurate vision and comprehension of all things as far as the finite mind can embrace them, each in its place and with its own characteristics upon it. it is almost prophetic from its knowledge of history; it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human nature; it has almost supernatural charity from its freedom from littleness and prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith because nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal order of things and the music of the spheres." this is, indeed, ideal; but they who believe not in ideals were not born to know the real worth of things: "spite of proudest boast reason, best reason is to imperfect man an effort only and a noble aim,-- a crown, an attribute of sovereign power, still to be courted, never to be won." it is plain that education of this kind aims at something quite different from the mere imparting of useful knowledge. it takes the view that it is good to know, even though knowledge should not be a means to wealth or power or any other common aim of life. it regards the mind as the organ of truth, and trains it for its own sake, without reference to the exercise of a profession. hence its distinguishing characteristic is that it is liberal and not professional. it holds cultivated faculties in higher esteem than learning, and it makes use of knowledge to improve the intellect, rather than of the intellect to acquire knowledge. hence, one may be a skilful physician, a judicious lawyer, a learned theologian, and yet be greatly lacking in mental culture. it is a common experience to find that professional men are apt to be narrow and one-sided. their mind, like the dyer's hand, is subdued to what it works in. they want comprehensiveness of view, flexibility of thought, openness to light, and freedom of mental play. they think in grooves, make the rules of their art the measure of truth, and their own methods of inquiry the only valid laws of reasoning. these same defects may be observed in those who are given exclusively to the study of physical science. when they sweep the heavens with the telescope and do not find god, they conclude that there is no god. when the soul does not reveal itself under the microscope, they argue it does not exist; and since there is no thought without nervous movement, they claim that the brain thinks. now, if it is desirable that those who are charged with the teaching and defence of divine truth should be free from this narrowness and one-sidedness, this lack of openness to light and freedom of mental play, the education of the priest must be more than a professional education; and he must be sent to a school higher and broader than the ecclesiastical seminary, which is simply a training college for the practical work of the ministry. the purpose for which it was instituted is to prepare young men for the worthy exercise of the general functions of the priestly office, and the good it has done is too great and too manifest to need commendation. but the ecclesiastical seminary is not a school of intellectual culture, either here in america or elsewhere, and to imagine that it can become the instrument of intellectual culture is to cherish a delusion. it must impart a certain amount of professional knowledge, fit its students to become more or less expert catechists, rubricists, and casuists, and its aim is to do this; and whatever mental improvement, if any, thence results, is accidental. hence its methods are not such as one would choose who desires to open the mind, to give it breadth, flexibility, strength, refinement, and grace. its text-books are written often in a barbarous style, the subjects are discussed in a dry and mechanical way, and the professor, wholly intent upon giving instruction, is frequently indifferent as to the manner in which it is imparted; or else not possessing himself a really cultivated intellect, he holds in slight esteem expansion and refinement of mind, looking upon it as at the best a mere ornament. i am not offering a criticism upon the ecclesiastical seminary, but am simply pointing to the plain fact that it is not a school of intellectual culture, and consequently, if its course were lengthened to five, to six, to eight, to ten years, its students would go forth to their work with a more thorough professional training, but not with more really cultivated minds. the test of intellect is not so much what we know as the manner in which it is known; just as in the moral world, the important consideration is not what virtues we possess, but the completeness with which they are ours. he who really believes in god, serves him, loves him, is a hero, a saint; whereas he who half believes may have a thousand good qualities, but not a great character. knowledge is not education any more than food is nutrition; and as one may eat voraciously, and yet remain without bodily health or strength, so one may have great learning, and yet be almost wholly lacking in intellectual cultivation. his learning may only oppress and confuse him, be felt as a load, and not as a vital principle, which upraises, illumines, and beautifies the mind; mentally he may still be a boy, in whom memory predominates, and whose intellect is only a receptacle of facts. memory is the least noble of the intellectual faculties, and the nearest to animal intelligence; and to know well is, in the eyes of a true educator, of quite other importance than to know much. but a memory, more or less well-stored, is nearly all a youth carries with him from the college to the seminary, and here he enters, as i have already pointed out, upon a course not of intellectual discipline, but of professional studies, whose object is not "to open the mind, to correct it, to refine it, to enable it to know, and to digest, master, rule, and use its knowledge, to give it power over its own faculties, application, flexibility, method, critical exactness, sagacity, resource, eloquent expression," but simply to impart the requisite skill for the ordinary exercise of the holy ministry. hence it is not surprising that priests who are zealous, earnest, self-sacrificing, who to piety join discretion and good sense, rarely possess the intellectual culture of which i am speaking, for the simple reason that a university and not a seminary is the school in which this kind of education is received. that the absence of such trained intellects is a most serious obstacle to the progress of the catholic faith, no thoughtful man will doubt or deny. since the mind is a power, in religion, as in every sphere of thought and life, the discipline which best develops and perfects its faculties will fit it to do its work, whatever it may be, in the most effective manner. hence, though the education of which i speak does not directly aim at being useful, it is in fact the most useful, and prepares better than any other for the business of life. it enables a man to master a subject with ease, to fill an office with honor; and whatever he does, the mark of completeness and finish will be found upon his work. he sees more clearly, judges more calmly, reasons more pertinently, speaks more seasonably than other men. the free and full possession of his faculties gives him power to turn himself to whatever may be demanded of him, whether it be to govern wisely, or to counsel judiciously, or to write gracefully, or to plead eloquently. whatever course in life he may take, whatever line of thought or investigation he may pursue, his intellectual culture will give him superiority over men who, with equal or greater talents, lack his education; and he possesses withal resources within himself, which in a measure make him independent of fortune, and which, when failure comes and the world abandons him, remain, like faith, or hope, or a friend, to make him forget his misfortunes. of the english universities, with all their shortcomings, cardinal newman says: "at least they can boast of a succession of heroes and statesmen, of literary men and philosophers, of men conspicuous for great natural virtues, for habits of business, for knowledge of life, for practical judgment, for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who have made england what it is,--able to subdue the earth, able to domineer over catholics." it is only in a university that all the sciences are brought together, their relations adjusted, their provinces assigned. there natural science is limited by metaphysics; morality is studied in the light of history; language and literature are viewed from the standpoint of ethnology; the criticism which seeks beauty and not deformity, which in the gardens of the mind takes the honey and leaves the poison, is applied to the study of eloquence and poetry; and over all religion throws the warmth and life of faith and hope, like a ray from heaven. the mind thus lives in an atmosphere in which the comparison of ideas and truths with one an other is inevitable; and so it grows, is strengthened, enlarged, refined, made pliant, candid, open, equitable. when numbers of priests will be able to bring this cultivation of intellect to the treatment of religious subjects, then will catholic theology again come forth from its isolation in the modern world; then will catholic truth again irradiate and perfume the thoughts and opinions of men; then will catholic doctrines again sink into their hearts, and not remain loose in the mind to be thrown aside, as one casts away the outworn vesture of the body; then will it be felt that the fascination of christian faith is still fresh, supreme, as far above the charm of science as the joy of a poet's soul is above the pleasures of sense. the religious view of life must forever remain the true view, since no other explains our longings and aspirations, or justifies hope and enthusiasm; and the worship of god in spirit and in truth, which christ has revealed to the world, the religion not of an age or a people, but of all time and of the human race, must eternally prevail when brought home to us in a language which we understand; for we place the testimony of reason above that of the senses. to the eye the sun rises and sets, to the mind it is stationary; and we accept, not what is seen, but what is known. is there need of stronger evidence that the power within, which is our real self, is spiritual? and is it not enough to see clearly, to perceive that in the struggle of mind with matter, which is the essential form of the conflict of spiritualism with materialism, of religion with science, the soul, in the end, will be victorious, and rest in the real world of faith and intuition, and not in the pictured world of the senses? religion, indeed, like morality, is in the nature of things, and catholic faith is una's red cross knight, on whose shield are old dints of deep wounds and cruel marks of many a bloody field, who is assailed by all the powers of earth and of the nether world, armed with whatever weapons may hurt the mind or corrupt the heart, but whom heavenly providence rescues from the jaws of monsters and leads on to victory. but what true believer thinks himself excused from effort, because christ has declared that the gates of hell shall not prevail against his church? does he not know that though, when we consider her whole course through the world, she has triumphed, so as to have become the miracle of history, yet has she at many points suffered disastrous defeat? hence, those who love her must be vigilant, and stand prepared for battle. and in an age when persecution has either died away or lost its harshness, when crying abuses have disappeared, when heresy has run its course, and the struggle of the world with the church has become almost wholly intellectual, it is not possible, assuredly, that her ministers should have too great power of intellect. and consequently it is not possible that the bishops, in whose hands the education of priests is placed, should have too great a care that they receive the best mental culture. and if this is a general truth, with what pertinency does it not come home to us here in america, who are the descendants of men who, on account of their faith, have for centuries been oppressed and thrust back from opportunities of education, and who, when persecution and robbery had reduced them to ignorance and poverty, were forced to hear their religion reproached with the crimes of her foes? and now, when at length a fairer day has dawned for us in this new world, what can be more natural than our eager desire to move out from the valleys of darkness towards the hills and mountain tops that are bathed in sunlight? what more praiseworthy than the fixed resolve to prove that not our faith, but our misfortunes made and kept us inferior. and, since we live in the midst of millions who have indeed good will towards us, but who still bear the yoke of inherited prejudices, and who, because for three hundred years real cultivation of mind was denied to catholics who spoke english, conclude that protestantism is the source of enlightenment, and the church the mother of ignorance, do not all generous impulses urge us to make this reproach henceforth meaningless? and in what way shall we best accomplish this task? surely not by writing or speaking about what the influence of the church is, or by pointing to what she has done in other ages, but by becoming what we claim her spirit tends to make us. here, if anywhere, the proverb is applicable--_verba movent, exempla trahunt_. as the devotion of american catholics to this country and its free institutions, as shown not on battle-fields alone, but in our whole bearing and conduct, convinces all but the unreasonable of the depth and sincerity of our patriotism, so when our zeal for intellectual excellence shall have raised up men who will take place among the first writers and thinkers of their day their very presence will become the most persuasive of arguments to teach the world that no best gift is at war with the spirit of catholic faith, and that, while the humblest mind may feel its force, the lofty genius of augustine, of dante, and of bossuet is upborne and strengthened by the splendor of its truth. but if we are to be intellectually the equals of others, we must have with them equal advantages of education; and so long as we look rather to the multiplying of schools and seminaries than to the creation of a real university, our progress will be slow and uncertain, because a university is the great ordinary means to the best cultivation of mind. the fact that the growth of the church here, like that of the country itself, is chiefly external, a growth in wealth and in numbers, makes it the more necessary that we bring the most strenuous efforts to improve the gifts of the soul. the whole tendency of our social life insures the increase of churches, convents, schools, hospitals, and asylums; our advance in population and in wealth will be counted from decade to decade by millions, and our worship will approach more and more to the pomp and splendor of the full ritual; but this very growth makes such demands upon our energies, that we are in danger of forgetting higher things, or at least of thinking them less urgent. few men are at once thoughtful and active. the man of deeds dwells in the world around him; the thinker lives within his mind. contemplation, in widening the view, makes us feel that what even the strongest can do is lost in the limitless expanse of space and time; and the soul is tempted to fall back upon itself and to gaze passively upon the course of the world, as though the general stream of human events were as little subject to man's control as the procession of the seasons. busy workers, on the other hand, having little taste or time for reflection, see but the present and what lies close to them, and the energy of their doing circumscribes their thinking. but the church needs both the men who act and the men who think; and since with us everything pushes to action, wisdom demands that we cultivate rather the powers of reflection. and this is the duty alike of true patriots and of faithful catholics. all are working to develop our boundless material resources; let a few at least labor to develop man. the millions are building cities, reclaiming wildernesses, and bringing forth from the earth its buried treasures; let at least a remnant cherish the ideal, cultivate the beautiful, and seek to inspire the love of moral and intellectual excellence. and since we believe that the church which points to heaven is able also to lead the nations in the way of civilization and of progress, why should we not desire to see her become a beneficent and ennobling influence in the public life of our country? she can have no higher temporal mission than to be the friend of this great republic, which is god's best earthly gift to his children. if, as english critics complain, our style is inflated, it is because we feel the promise of a destiny which transcends our powers of expression. whatever fault men may find with us, let them not doubt the world-wide significance of our life. if we keep ourselves strong and pure, all the peoples of the earth shall yet be free; if we fulfil our providential mission, national hatred shall give place to the spirit of generous rivalry, the people shall become wiser and stronger, society shall grow more merciful and just, and the cry of distress shall be felt, like the throb of a brother's heart, to the ends of the world. where is the man who does not feel a kind of religious gratitude as he looks upon the rise and progress of this nation? above all, where is the catholic whose heart is not enlarged by such contemplation? here, almost for the first time in her history, the church is really free. her worldly position does not overshadow her spiritual office, and the state recognizes her autonomy. the monuments of her past glory, wrenched from her control, stand not here to point, like mocking fingers, to what she has lost. she renews her youth, and lifts her brow, as one who, not unmindful of the solemn mighty past, yet looks with undimmed eye and unfaltering heart to a still more glorious future. who in such a presence, can abate hope, or give heed to despondent counsel, or send regretful thoughts to other days and lands? whoever at any time, in any place, might have been sage, saint, or hero, may be so here and now; and though he had the heart of francis, and the mind of augustine, and the courage of hildebrand, here is work for him to do. in whatsoever direction we turn our thoughts, arguments rush in to show the pressing need for us of a centre of life and light such as a catholic university would be. without this we can have no hope of entering as a determining force into the living controversies of the age; without this it must be an accident if we are represented at all in the literature of our country; without this we shall lack a point of union to gather up, harmonize, and intensify our scattered forces; without this our bishops must remain separated, and continue to work in random ways; without this the noblest souls will look in vain for something larger and broader than a local charity to make appeal to their generous hearts; without this we shall be able to offer but feeble resistance to the false theories and systems of education which deny to the church a place in the school; without this the sons of wealthy catholics will, in ever increasing numbers, be sent to institutions where their faith is undermined; without this we shall vainly hope for such treatment of religious questions and their relations to the issues and needs of the day, as shall arrest public attention and induce catholics themselves to take at least some little notice of the writings of catholics; without this in struggles for reform and contests for rights we shall lack the wisdom of best counsel and the courage which skilful leaders inspire. we are a small minority in the presence of a vast majority; we still bear the disfigurements and weaknesses of centuries of persecution and suffering; we cling to an ancient faith in an age when new sciences, discoveries, and theories fascinate the minds of men, and turn their thoughts away from the past to the future; we preach a spiritual religion to a people whose prodigious wealth and rapid triumphs over nature have caused them to exaggerate the value of material progress; we teach the duty of self-denial to a refined and intellectual generation, who regard whatever is painful as evil, whatever is difficult as omissible; we insist upon religious obedience to the church in face of a society where children are ceasing to reverence and obey even their parents;--if in spite of all this we are to hold our own, not to speak of larger hopes, it is plain that we may neglect nothing which will help us to put forth our full strength. i do not, of course, pretend that this higher education is all that we need, or that, of itself, it is sufficient; but what i claim is that it would be a source of strength for us who are in want of help. god works in many ways, through many agencies, and i bow in homage to the humblest effort in a righteous cause of the lowliest human being. there are diversities of graces, but the same spirit; diversities of ministries, but the same lord. _numquid omnes doctores?_ asks st. paul. but since he places teachers by the side of apostles and prophets, surely they will teach to best purpose who to the humility of faith add the luminousness of knowledge. to those who reject the idea of human co-operation in things divine i speak not; but we who believe that we are co-operators with christ cannot think that it is possible to bring to this godlike work either too great preparation of heart or too great cultivation of mind. nor must we think lightly even of refinement of thought and speech and behavior, for we know that manners come of morals, and that morals in turn are born of manners, as the ocean breathes forth the clouds and the clouds fill the ocean. let there be then an american catholic university, where our young men, in the atmosphere of faith and purity, of high thinking and plain living, shall become more intimately conscious of the truth of their religion and of the genius of their country; where they shall learn the repose and dignity which belong to their ancient catholic descent, and yet not lose the fire which glows in the blood of a new people; to which from every part of the land our eyes may turn for guidance and encouragement, seeking light and self-confidence from men in whom intellectual power is not separate from moral purpose, who look to god and his universe from bending knees of prayer, who uphold-- "the cause of christ and civil liberty as one, and moving to one glorious end." should such an intellectual centre serve no other purpose than to bring together a number of eager-hearted, truth-loving youths, what light and heat would not leap forth from the shock of mind with mind; what generous rivalries would not spring up; what intellectual sympathies, resting on the breast of faith, would not become manifest, grouping souls like atoms, to form the substance and beauty of a world? o solemn groves that lie close to louvain and to freiburg, whose air is balm and whose murmuring winds sound like the voices of saints and sages whispering down the galleries of time, what words have ye not heard bursting forth from the strong hearts of keen-witted youths, who, titan-like, believed they might storm the citadel of god's truth! how many a one, heavy and despondent, in the narrow, lonesome path of duty, has remembered you, and moved again in unseen worlds, upheld by faith and hope! who has listened to the words of your teachers and not felt the truth of the saying of pope pius ii.,--that the world holds nothing more precious or more beautiful than a cultivated intellect? the presence of such men invigorates like mountain air, and their speech is as refreshing as clear-flowing fountains. to know them is to be forever their debtor. the company of a saint is the school of saints; a strong character develops strength in others, and a noble mind makes all around him luminous. why may not eight million catholics upbuild a home for great teachers, for men who, to real learning and cultivation of mind, shall add the persuasiveness of easy and eloquent diction; whose manifest and indisputable superiority shall put to shame the self-conceit of american young men, our most familiar intellectual bane, and an insuperable obstacle to all improvement,--self-conceit, which is the beatitude of vulgar characters and shallow minds? if our students should find in such an institution but one man, who, like socrates, with ironic questioning might make for them the discovery of the new world of their own ignorance, the gain would be great enough. why may we not have a centre of light and truth which will raise up before us standards of intellectual excellence; which will enable us to see that our so-called educated men are as far from being scholars as the makers of our horrible show-bills are from being artists; which will teach us that it is not only false but vulgar to call things by pretentious names,--as, for instance, to call a politician a statesman, a declaimer an orator, or a latin school a university. ah! surely as to whether an american catholic university is desirable there cannot be two opinions among enlightened men. but is it feasible? a true university is one of the noblest foundations of the great catholic ages, when faith rose almost to the height of creative power, and it were folly in me to maintain that such an undertaking is not surrounded by many and great difficulties. to begin with the material for foundation, money is necessary, and this, i am persuaded, we may have. a noble cause will find or make generous hearts. men above all we need, for every kind of existence propagates itself only by itself. but let us bear in mind that the best teacher is not necessarily or often he who knows the most, but he who has most power to determine the student to self-activity; for in the end the mind educates itself. as distrust is the mark of a narrow intellect or a bad heart, so a readiness to believe in the ability of others is not only a characteristic of able men, but it is also the secret charm which calls around them helpers and followers. hence, a strong man who loves his work is a better educator than a half-hearted professor who carries whole libraries in his head. to bring together in familiar and daily life a number of young men, chosen for the brightness of their minds and an eager yearning for knowledge, is to create an atmosphere of intellectual warmth and light, which invigorates and inspires the master, while it stimulates his disciples. in such company it will not be difficult to form teachers. but will it be possible to find young men who will consent, when after years of study they have finally reached the priesthood, to continue in a higher institution the arduous and confining labors to the end of which they have looked as to the beginning of a new life? in other lands such students are found, and if with us there is a tendency to rush with precipitancy and insufficient preparation to whatever work we may have chosen, this is but a proof of the need of special efforts to restrain an ardor which springs from weakness and not from strength. haste is a mark of immaturity. he who is certain of himself and master of his tools, knows that he is able, and neither hurries nor worries, but works and waits. the rank weed shoots up in a day and as quickly dies; but the long-growing olive-tree stands from century to century, and drops from its gently waving boughs ripe fruit through the quiet autumn air. the church endures forever; and we american catholics, in the midst of our rapidly-moving and ever-changing society, should be the first to learn to temper energy with the patient strength which gives the courage to toil and wait through a long life, if so we make ourselves worthy to speak some fit word or do some needful deed. and to whom shall this lesson first be taught if not to the clerics, whose natural endowments single them out as future leaders of catholic thought and enterprise; and where can this lesson so well be learned as in a school whose standard of intellectual excellence shall be the highest? while we look, therefore, to the founding of a true university, we will begin, as the university of paris began in the twelfth century, and as the present university of louvain began fifty years ago, with a national school of philosophy and theology, which will form the central faculty of a complete educational organism. around this, the other faculties will take their places, in due course of time; and so the beginning which we make will grow, until like the seed planted in the earth, it shall wear the bloomy crown of its own development. and though the event be less than our hope, though even failure be the outcome, is it not better to fail than not to attempt a worthy work which might be ours? only they who do nothing derive comfort from the mistakes of others; and the saying that a blunder is worse than a crime is doubtless true for those who have no other measure of worth and success than the conventional standards of a superficial public opinion. we at least know-- "there lives a judge to whose all-pondering mind a noble aim faithfully kept is as a noble deed; in whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed." the end. harper's new monthly magazine. volume ii. december, , to may, . new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. . advertisement. in bringing the second volume of the new monthly magazine to a close, the publishers would avail themselves of the occasion, to express their profound appreciation of the favor with which it has been received, and their earnest wish to render it still more deserving of the enlightened patronage of the american community. they commenced the publication with the firm conviction that it could be made the medium of valuable information and mental enjoyment to the great mass of readers, and that it would accordingly be sustained by their generous and cordial support. nor have they been deceived in their anticipations. the magazine has found a wider circulation with every monthly issue. the encomiums with which it has been welcomed by the universal voice of the press, and the verdict of intelligent readers, are a gratifying proof that the publishers have succeeded in their endeavor to adapt it to the wants of the public mind. encouraged by the experience of the first year of this extensive literary enterprise, they are determined to spare no effort to insure the succeeding volumes of the magazine a still wider and more favorable reception among all classes of readers. they intend it to be a strictly national work. devoted to no local interests, pledged to no religious sect or political party, connected with no favorite movement of the day, except the diffusion of intelligence, virtue, and patriotism, it will continue to be conducted with the impartiality and good faith, which it is equally the duty, the inclination, and the interest of the publishers to maintain. in addition to the choicest productions of the english press, the magazine will be enriched with such original matter as in their opinion will enhance its utility and attractiveness. the embellishments will be furnished by distinguished artists, and selected no less for their permanent value as vehicles of agreeable instruction than for the gratification of an æsthetic taste. with the ample literary, artistic, and mechanical resources which the publishers have enlisted in the new monthly magazine, and their ambition to give it a character of genuine, substantial, reliable excellence in every department, they may assure its wide circle of patrons that its subsequent issues will more than justify the distinguished reputation which it has attained at this early period of its existence. contents of volume ii. actors and their salaries a death-bed. by james aldrich a dream and the interpretation thereof address to gray hair an agreeable surprise a little stimulant anecdote of a dog anecdote of a hawk anecdotes of napoleon anecdotes of serpents anecdotes of wordsworth an empty house an excellent match apology for burns bachelor's christmas beauties of the law births:--mrs. meek of a son birth of crime bona lombardi brunoro carol for the new year chapter on bears chapter on dreams chapter on shawls chapter on wolves charles wolfe cheerful views of human nature child commodore climate of canada colds and cold water conflict of love courtesy of americans crazed crisis in the affairs of mr. john bull crocodile battery crystal palace curiosities of railway traveling curran, the irish orator dangers of doing wrong darling dorel death of a goblin death of howard death of john randolph dog and deer of the army domestic life of alexander, emperor of russia edible birds'-nests of china efforts of a gentleman in search of despair encounter with an iceberg england in . by lamartine escape of queen mary from lochleven castle fair in munich fashions for december fashions for early winter fashions for later winter fashions for early spring fashions for spring fashions for may fate of a german reformer five minutes too late fidgety people flowers in the sick room freaks of nature french revolutionists, marat, robespierre, and danton gabrielle; or, the sisters gamblers of the rhine general rosas and the argentine republic german picture of the scotch ghost-stories of chapelizod give wisely! an anecdote gunpowder and chalk habits and amusements of the london costermongers haunts of genius--gray, burke, milton, dryden, and pope heart of john middleton history and mystery of the glass-house horrors of war household of sir thomas more , how to be idolized incident in the first french revolution invitation to the zoological gardens jane eccles; or, confessions of an attorney judge not lamartine on the religion of revolutionary men land, ho!--a sketch of australia leaves from punch preparatory schools for young ladies; ladies' arithmetic; netting for ladies, . a false apple-ation; a tête-à-tête; expected out soon; going down to a watering-place; attraction; th cent'ry; putting the cart before the horse; a narrow escape; division of labor; animal economy; a holiday at the public offices, . lectures on letters; punch on special pleading; smithfield club cattle show; golden opportunities; universal contempt of court; startling fact, . ; please, sir, shall i hold your horse? the affairs of grease; the war on hats; peace offering; the best law book; justice for bachelors; the weather, a drama for every-day life; a juvenile party; the kitchen range of art; reward of merit, . encouragement to book-lenders; diplomacy and gastronomy, supper at a juvenile party; one of the juveniles after the party; conversation-books for ; to find room in a crowded omnibus; a file to smooth asperities; the lowest depth of meanness; a little bit of humbug, . letters and letter writing literary notices. the salamander; spencer's pastor's sketches; abbott's madame roland; stanton's sketches of reforms and reformers; gorree's churches and sects of the united states; cenotaph to a woman of the burman mission; fleetwood's life of christ; banbridge's scripture history for the young; poems by grace greenwood, . hawthorne's grandfather's chair; the green hand; the new englander; bibliotheca sacra; maturin's lyrics of spain and erin; holmes's astræa; de quincey's essays; bigelow's jamaica in ; cantica laudis; young's translations from beranger, . andersen's tales; gem of the western world; our saviour with prophets and apostles; sacred scenes; national cook-book; smith's relations between scripture and geology, . life and works of john adams; the broken bracelet; the immortal; boyd's edition of paradise lost; general view of the fine arts; artist's chromatic hand-book, . reveries of a bachelor; richard edney; washburn's issue of philosophic thought, . the memorial; evening of life; mrs. knight's memoir of hannah more; andrews' latin lexicon, . smith's classical dictionary; mansfield's american education; the ministry of the beautiful; green's history and geography of the middle ages; christian melodies; sketch of fowell buxton; the manhattaner in new orleans, . redfield's twelve qualities of mind; winter in madeira; gems by the wayside; the world's progress; vinet's montaigne; sumner's orations; the broken bud; bardouac; fadette; memoir of alexander waugh; chanticleer, . life and times of gen. lamb; memoir of james handasyde perkins; humboldt's religious thoughts and opinions; balmes's protestantism and catholicity; tappan's university education, . gilfillan's bards of the bible; webster's dictionary, . celebrated saloons; home ballads; history of my pets; cheever's island world of the pacific; life of summerfield; greek exile; carpenter's use and abuse of alcoholic liquors; mother's recompense; the diosma; poems by s.g. goodrich, . woodbury's new method of learning german; poems by frances a. and metta v. fuller; lives of the queens of scotland; pendennis; southey's life and correspondence; murray's decline of popery; henry smeaton, . the howadji; crumbs from the land o' cakes; de quincey's miscellaneous essays; hayward's faust; lavengro, . abbott's malleville; practical cook-book; foster's discourse on missions; lewis's restoration of the jews; anderson's geography; the dove and the eagle; carter's publications, . hildreth's united states; lossing's field book; du barry's progress of the united states; salander and the dragon, . the prairie; stanton's address, and street's poem at hamilton college; lord holland's foreign reminiscences; jane bouverie; mayhew's london labor and london poor; the moorland cottage, . johnson's california and oregon, . mount hope, . parnassus in pillory, . hawthorne's twice told tales; time the avenger; porter's educational systems of the puritans and the jesuits; girlhood of shakspeare's heroines; poetry from the waverley novels; whipple's essays and reviews; loomis's geometry and calculus; the city of the silent; blunt's shipmaster's assistant, . hawthorne's house of the seven gables, . buttmann's greek grammar; lee's ecclesiastical manual; dixon's life of penn; the rangers; mulchinoch's ballads; foster's christian purity; lyra catholica, . the soldier of the cross; field's irish confederates; schmitz's history of greece; abbott's franconia stories; london labor and the london poor; dwight's roman republic; de quincey's cæsars; life on the plains of the pacific; hints to sportsmen, . curran and his contemporaries; gayarre's louisiana; monge's statics; warreniana; jung-stilling's pneumatology; tuckerman's poems; theory of effect; volcano diggings; cooper's wing and wing; irving's conquest of florida; banker's common-place book, . lively turtle lucy cawthorne lunatic asylum in palermo madame campan mathematical hermit metal founder of munich maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. by charles lever , , , michelet, the french historian milton and wordsworth mistakes in personal identity modern mummies monthly record of current events. united states. political and general news.--state of feeling on the compromise measures, . letters of washington hunt to the secession and anti-rent conventions, . meeting at castle garden; letter of mr. webster; nominations, . constitution of congress, . state convention in georgia, . meeting at macon, . state of feeling in georgia, . in south carolina, . in alabama; gov. collier declines to call a state convention; letter of mr. hilliard, . in mississippi, . in louisiana, . letters of senators downs and soulé; letter from the congressional delegation to the governor, . correspondence between isaac hill and mr. webster, . dinner to mr. clayton, . opening of congress, . message of president fillmore, . report of the secretary of war, . of the secretary of the navy, . of the postmaster general, . of the secretary of the interior, . bill for the protection of fugitives in vermont, . message of gov. ford of virginia, . of the governor of alabama, . of mississippi, . union majority in georgia, . message of gov. bell of texas, . of gov. seabrook of south carolina, . of gov. brown of florida, . the nashville convention, . various union meetings; and letters and speeches of messrs. webster, choate, stuart, woodbury, hilliard, and others, , , , . reception of mr. clay in the legislature of kentucky, . letters of messrs. hamilton, poinsett, and rush, . speech of mr. clayton, . george thompson, . general news from california, , , , . general news from oregon, . webster's reply to hulsemann, , . opening of the legislature of new york, and message of gov. hunt, . message of gov. wright of indiana, . florida resolutions, . of gov. johnston of pennsylvania, . boundary commission, , , . safety of the steamer atlantic, . progress of measures in congress, . action of the legislature of north carolina in favor of union, etc., . indictment of gov. quitman, . thanksgiving in texas, . loss of the john adams, . inaugural of gov. fort of new jersey, . letter of gen. houston in favor of union, . action for union in delaware, . union meeting at westchester, . correspondence between a british consul and the governor of south carolina respecting imprisonment of colored seamen, . indian hostilities in california, , . gold bluffs on trinity river, , . amount of gold shipped, . adjournment of congress, and notice of measures acted upon, . measures for the relief of kossuth, . the postage bill, . rescue of a fugitive slave in boston, . homestead exemption in illinois, . exemption in delaware, . free negroes in iowa, . germans in texas, . manufactures at the south, . quiet after excitement, . new york common school law, . canal enlargement bill, . legislative visit to new york, . the sergeant-at-arms and the gamblers, . ohio resolutions on the fugitive slave law, . virginia union resolutions, . general union feeling at the south, . in south carolina, . mr. hayne's disunion letter, . senator phelp's letter, . amin bey, . new constitution of ohio, . virginia constitutional convention, . socorro tragedy, . elections.--state elections in new york and new jersey, . in ohio and massachusetts, . general congressional result, . election of u.s. senators, , . mr. fish in new york, , . mexico and south america. capture of slaves at rio, . general news from mexico, , , , , . message of herera, . inauguration and speech of arista as president, . affairs in nicaragua; discovery of gold; proceedings of mr. chatfield, the british consul, . intelligence from valparaiso, . hostilities between guatemala and san salvador, . gold in new grenada, . route across the isthmus through lake nicaragua, . earthquake at carthagena, . peru, . banishment of buenos ayreans from bolivia, . prohibition of the landing of liberated slaves in brazil, . great britain. establishment of catholic sees in england; letter of dr. ullathorne, . speech of lord stanley on protection, . tenant right in ireland, . the synod of thurles, . increase of crime, . submarine telegraph, , . illumination on arthur's seat, . speech of prince albert at york, . consuming smoke at manchester, . emigration, . movements for independence in new south wales, . the exhibition, , , , , , , . bridge at westminster, . new college at glasgow, . catholic excitement, , . lord john russell's durham letter, . cardinal wiseman's appeal, . law reform, . cotton in india, . ornamental cemeteries in london, . tax on telegraphs, . general view of the state of england, . progress of the catholic excitement, . various addresses, speeches, deputations, etc., . attempts to increase the supply of cotton or to discover a substitute, . famine in the highlands, . opposition of the cunarders to the american steamers, . increased value of silver, . protest of the bishops of the episcopal church in ireland, . the surplus, . austria demands the punishment of the assailants of haynau, . disturbances at the cape of good hope, . opening of parliament; the queen's speech, . ecclesiastical titles bill; free-trade motion; unsatisfactory budget, . defeat of ministers on franchise question; resignation of ministers; attempt to form new cabinet, . queen adelaide's pension, . petition for constitution for cape of good hope, . protestants of dublin and duke of wellington, . viceroyalty of ireland, . return of cabinet to office, . ecclesiastical titles bill mutilated, . checks to ministers, . arsenic bill, . kaffir revolt, . revolutionary committee, . miss talbot and the convent bill, . public execution, . monster address, . charges against lord torrington, . coal-pit disaster, . adulteration of food, . hungarian refugees, . new expedition in search of sir john franklin, . france. pretended republican plot, . the president's attempt to secure the army, . quarrel between him and changarnier, and between the assembly and gen. hautpoul, who resigns, . opening of the assembly, and message of the president, . cavaignac and the president, . letter from the duke of nemours, . general view of the state of france, . credit passed for the army, . public baths, . bill for the observance of the sabbath, . luxury at the elysée, . progress of the quarrel between the president and the assembly; dismissal of changarnier; dissolution of the ministries; president's tactics, , . dotation to the president refused, and his consequent action, . bill for the return of the bourbons lost, . speech of m. dufraisse, . the orleanists and legitimists, . the archbishop of paris and the bishop of chartres, . censure of m. michelet, . germany, etc. hostilities in schleswig-holstein, . catastrophe at herrgott, . forest conflagration in poland, . constitutions for galicia and bukowina, . detailed statement of the german question, . warlike aspect, . general view of the continent of europe, . peace prospects; conference at dresden, . return of the elector of hesse cassel, . internal affairs of austria, . progress of affairs in the dresden conference; understanding between austria and prussia for the depreciation of the minor powers, , . dresden conference at fault, . policy of austria and prussia, . spain, italy, and portugal. address of mazzini, . overthrow of the constitution and of liberty of the press in tuscany, . brigandage in the roman states, , . general view of the state of the south of europe, . foreign troops in rome, , . the austrians in venice, . condition of sardinia, . disruption of the spanish cabinet, . conspiracy under mazzini, . archbishop hughes at rome, . liberal ministry in piedmont, . austrian movements, . proclamations against political pamphlets, . washington's birthday at rome, . protestant chapel, . the east. contributions preparing for the exhibition, . affairs in india, . mortality at hong kong, . cotton in bombay, . insurrection in china, . the hungarian refugees in turkey, . conspiracy at teheran, . collisions between the turks and christians, . persecutions in aleppo, . disturbances in syria, . canal between the mediterranean and red seas, . napier's farewell, . prospective annexations, . suppression of insurrection in china, . death of lin, . difficulties in egypt, . troubles at bagdad, . massacres in southern africa, . literary, scientific, and personal. united states.--dinner to mr. webster at his native place, . amin bey, . m. vattemare; statue of calhoun; wm. w. story; wm. d. gallagher, prof. filopanti; daniel d. barnard, . crawford's washington; bust of allen; monument to warren; movements of artists, . gift-books and annuals, . lessing's martyrdom of huss, . ehninger's etchings, . academy of design lectures, . hawthorne, . greek slave, . jenny lind, , . third ring of saturn, . cultivation of tea, . darley's outlines, . healey's portraits of calhoun and webster, . power's statue of america, . mr. webster on the mayflower, . stephenson's statue of the wounded indian, . panorama of pilgrim's progress, . mount's lucky throw, . powell's burial of fernando de soto, . prof. hart's female prose writers, . mrs. hale's female biography, . mr. putnam's new publications, . the opera, . paine's water-gas, . dembinski, . public lectures by various individuals, , , . presidential library, . burns's birthday, . dinner to mr. hoe, . books, . papers of citizen genet, . talvi, . panoramas, . arrival of tupper, . celebration of washington's birth-day, . irving to ichabod crane, . opening of exhibition of academy of design, . greenough's pioneer, . healey's calhoun, . pictures by wright, duggan, stearns, and richards, . tupper as a lion, . calhoun's life and works, . works of alexander hamilton, . taylor's el-dorado in german, . first cotton sent to liverpool, . dr. goadby's insects, . acquittal of the cuban invaders, . foreign.--miss howard's donation for hospital for widows, . sir john franklin, , . levi's commercial law, . wordsworth; mazzini; southey; sir robert peel, . idiots, . delaroche's napoleon crossing the alps, . monument to elliott; tindal, . artists at rome, . duke of wellington's sanctum, . gutzlaff, . government of the sandwich islands, . french exhibition of pictures, . theatrical censorship, . joan of arc, . madame de genlis, . the woorari, . suspension bridge across the straits of dover, . barral and bixio, . sundry german books, , . statues to thaer, gustavus adolphus, tegner, and plettenberg, . lessing's martyrdom of huss, . literary society at jerusalem, . polish literature, . ticknor's spanish literature in german, . portrait of constantine, . new locomotive, . meyerbeer, . statue of bavaria, . kinkel, . miscellanies, , , . literary pensions, , . the princess d'este and the literary fund, . french voting machine, . new aerostatic machine, . rossini; armand marrast; jehan le bel, . a common meridian, . snail telegraph, . beranger, . mock message of the president of france, . theatrical quarrels in brussels, . heinrich heine, . works of art for the king of bavaria and the emperor of russia, . written language in western africa, . earl of carlisle's lectures, . walter savage landor, . the napiers, . dr. johnson and the welsh bard, . lawrence's portrait of peel, . copyright to foreigners in england, . copying telegraph, . monument to the duke of cambridge, . london charities, . windsor reward society, . ragged schools, . sale of the effects of o'connell, . french telegraphs, . guizot on washington and monk, . toussaint louverture, . st. prix on constitutional law, . effect of the french revolution on newspapers, . cemeteries in paris, . carl ferd. becker, . bruno bauer, . brockhaus, . the leipzig book-fair, . rauch's monument to frederick the great, . tunnel under the neva, . translations into russian, . books prohibited in italy, . destruction of vase in the vatican, . oersted, . passion-play at ammergau, . life of foscolo, . d'arlincourt's l'italie rouge, . statue to olbers, . scandinavian literature, . lamartine, , . bad spelling, . st. peter's chair, . layard, . last survivor of cook's voyages, . sir roger de coverley's chaplain redivivus, . fossils as manure, . new classical works in germany, . mohammedan histories, . ewald's commentary, . miss martineau's new work, . mrs. sherwood, . knowles as a controversialist, . england as it is, . austrian view of hungarian affairs, . newton's way of living, . sundry books, . remuneration of literature, . talmudic refinements, . knight and chambers on paper-tax, . mss. of richelieu, . george the fourth, and the library in the museum, . appleyard on the kaffir language, . signals in fog, . velocity of light, . hail in india, . essence of milk, . _deutches museum_, . _causeries du lundi_, . rare old editions, . unique edition of la fontaine, . victor hugo, . new work of origen, . germania, , . yeast: a problem, . landor to duncan, . dahomey and the dahomans, . dynamical theory of the earth, . memoirs of a literary veteran, . hartley coleridge, . obituaries. richard m. johnson, . watkins; lenau; becker; rottman; thomaschek, . garnier, . henry fitzmaurice hallam, . gustav schwab; count brandenburgh; m. alexandre; m. sauve; gen. bonnemain; sir l. st. g. skeffington; mr. raphall; m. motteley; lord nugent; karl aug. espe; martin d'auche, . d.s. kaufman, . mr. ritchie, . audubon, . bem, . viscount alford; duke of newcastle; bastiat; maxwell the novelist; prof. schumacher, . commissioner lin, . marquis of northampton; john pye smith; charles coquerel; spontini, . mrs. shelley; joanna baillie, . isaac hill; mordecai m. noah, . general brooke; commodore wadsworth; samuel f. jarvis; john s. skinner, . morning with moritz retzsch my novel; or, varieties in english life. by sir edward bulwer lytton. , , , , , mysteries of a tea-kettle new phase of bee-life napoleon and the pope night of terror in a polish inn night with an earthquake not all alone notes on the nile novelty iron works; with description of marine steam engines, and their construction. by jacob abbott passion for collecting books personal appearance and habits of robert southey phantoms and realities , , pilchard fishery on the coast of cornwall plate glass plea for british reptiles prison anecdote procrastination public opinion and the press punch on birds, balloons, and boluses rattlin the reefer's dream rats and rat-killers recollections of chantrey recollections of sir robert peel reminiscence of the french revolution robber outwitted robber's revenge sailing in the air , saturday in a london-market sketches from life sketch of a miser sketch of my childhood. by de quincey , sloped for texas spring. by james thomson story of fine-ear story of giovanni belzoni story of silver-voice and her sister zoë street music in london tale of shipwreck talleyrand the broken heart; or, the well of pen-morfa the champion.--an incident in spanish history the deserted village. by goldsmith the dumb child factory boy the fairy queen the farm laborer.--the father the farm laborer.--the son the fugitive king at boscobel the ghost that appeared to mrs. wharton the gipsy in the thorn-bush the golden rule the kaffir trader the marriage settlement the queen's tobacco-pipe the stolen fruit.--a story of napoleon's childhood the talisman.--a fairy tale the traveler. by goldsmith the unlawful gift the unnamed shell the watcher the wife's stratagem the woodstream thomas harlowe uncle john; or, the rough road to riches victims of science visit to a colliery visit to a copper mine visit to an english dairy volcano girl voyage in search of sir john franklin waiting for the post washington irving waste of war what becomes of all the pins? wilberforce and chalmers william cullen bryant william penn's conversion to quakerism winter vision wordsworth and carlyle young man's counselor list of illustrations. page . portrait of goldsmith . the hawthorn bush . to spurn imploring famine from the gate . beside the bed where parting life was laid . the village master taught his little school . the village ale-house . the coy maid half willing to be press'd . as some fair female unadorned and plain . here, while the courtier glitters in brocade . the poor, houseless, shivering female lies . her fond husband strove to lend relief . as rocks resist the billows and the sky . sketch of john randolph of roanoke . visiting and ball costumes for december . evening costume . coiffure for ball . portrait of southey . vale of watenlath . southey's tomb . portrait of madame campan . portrait of bona lombardi brunoro . portrait of de quincey . preparatory school for young ladies . costumes for winter . head-dress and corsage . bonnet . or where campania's plain forsaken lies . as some lone miser visiting his store . the sports of children satisfy the child . the swiss their stormy mansions tread . breasts the air, and carols as he goes . where snow-tracks mark the way . and dance, forgetful of the noontide hour . embosom'd in the deep where holland lies . brighter streams than famed hydaspes . talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown . from their homes, a melancholy train . riding the elephant . poking fun at the bear . the pelican at feed . fellows of the zoological society . a false apple-ation . a tête-à-tête . expected out soon . going down to a watering-place . attraction . nineteenth cent'ry . putting the cart before the horse . a narrow escape . division of labor . animal economy . a holiday at the public offices . costumes for later winter . ball costume . bonnets . head-dress . come gentle spring . lend their shoulder, and begin their toil . wafts all the pomp of life into your ports . the deer rustle through the brake . blazing straw before his orchard burns . the shower is scarce to patter heard . while yet man lived in innocence . the song went round, and dance . throw nice judging the delusive fly . you gayly drag your unresisting prize . together let us tread the morning dews . gather fresh flowers to grace thy hair . a gentle pair, by fortune sunk . they weeping eye their infant train . hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream . on the aerial summit takes the gale . through hagley park, thy british tempè . on the bank thrown amid drooping lilies . in soft anguish he consumes the day . woos the bird of eve to mingle woes . still interrupted by distracted dreams . the garden to the view its vistas open . by degrees the human blossom blows . delightful task! to rear the tender thought . the parcels conveyance company . oscillation illustrated . legendary g . historical h . selfish ends . pneumatical k . a stilted subject . pisces . how doth the little busy bee . cock robin . assisting a pupil up the gamut . yawning . a startling fact . costumes for early spring . morning costume . velvet bonnet . ribbon bonnet . white silk bonnet . portrait of irving . irving's residence . portrait of bryant . bryant's residence . the great exhibition building . installing the crow's nest . surrounded by icebergs . the prince albert in danger . the arctic discovery ships at midnight . please, sir, shall i hold your horse . bachelor's bedroom . married couple's bedroom . elderly servant . youthful attendant . a juvenile party . reward of merit . costumes for spring . coiffure . satin bonnet . miss's straw bonnet . view of the novelty works . entrance to the novelty works . plan of the novelty works . view of a marine steam-engine . cutting engine . bending and punching engines . boring engine . riveting the boilers . filling the ladles . casting a cylinder . the explosion . digging out the cylinder . the forges . heating a shaft . forging a shaft . the lathes . finishing . departure of the steamer pacific . encouragement to book-lenders . supper at a juvenile party . a juvenile after the party . a little bit of humbug . promenade costumes for may . evening costume . morning promenade costume . head-dresses harper's new monthly magazine. no. vii.--december, .--vol. ii. the deserted village. by oliver goldsmith. [illustration: portrait of goldsmith] sweet auburn! loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd-- dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please-- how often have i loiter'd o'er thy green, where humble happiness endear'd each scene; how often have i paus'd on every charm-- the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church that topp'd the neighboring hill, the hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade for talking age and whispering lovers made; how often have i bless'd the coming day when toil remitting lent its turn to play, and all the village train from labor free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree-- while many a pastime circled in the shade, the young contending as the old survey'd, and many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, and sleights of art and feats of strength went round: and still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd-- the dancing pair that simply sought renown by holding out to tire each other down, the swain mistrustless of his smutted face while secret laughter titter'd round the place, the bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, the matron's glance that would those looks reprove. these were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, with sweet succession, taught even toil to please; these round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed; these were thy charms--but all these charms are fled. [illustration: the hawthorn bush] sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and desolation saddens all thy green: one only master grasps the whole domain, and half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. no more thy glassy brook reflects the day, but chok'd with sedges works its weedy way; along thy glades, a solitary guest, the hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, and tires their echoes with unvaried cries; sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, and the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; and, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, far, far away thy children leave the land. ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, where wealth accumulates and men decay; princes and lords may flourish, or may fade-- a breath can make them, as a breath has made; but a bold peasantry, their country's pride, when once destroy'd, can never be supplied. a time there was, ere england's griefs began, when every rood of ground maintain'd its man: for him light labor spread her wholesome store, just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more; his best companions, innocence and health, and his best riches, ignorance of wealth. but times are altered; trade's unfeeling train usurp the land, and dispossess the swain: along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose: and every want to opulence allied, and every pang that folly pays to pride. these gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, those calm desires that ask'd but little room, those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, liv'd in each look and brighten'd all the green-- these, far departing, seek a kinder shore, and rural mirth and manners are no more. sweet auburn! parent of the blissful hour, thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. here, as i take my solitary rounds amid thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, and, many a year elaps'd, return to view where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew-- remembrance wakes with all her busy train, swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. in all my wanderings round this world of care, in all my griefs--and god has given my share-- i still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, amid these humble bowers to lay me down; to husband out life's taper at the close, and keep the flame from wasting by repose. i still had hopes, for pride attends us still, amid the swains to show my book-learn'd skill-- around my fire an evening group to draw, and tell of all i felt, and all i saw; and as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, pants to the place from whence at first she flew, i still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, here to return--and die at home at last. o bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline, retreats from care, that never must be mine! how happy he who crowns, in shades like these, a youth of labor with an age of ease; who quits a world where strong temptations try-- and, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. for him no wretches, born to work and weep, explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep, no surly porter stands, in guilty state, to spurn imploring famine from the gate; but on he moves, to meet his latter end, angels around befriending virtue's friend-- bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, while resignation gently slopes the way-- and, all his prospects brightening to the last, his heaven commences ere the world be pass'd. [illustration: to spurn imploring famine from the gate] sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close up yonder hill the village murmur rose. there as i pass'd, with careless steps and slow, the mingling notes came soften'd from below: the swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, the sober herd that low'd to meet their young, the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, the playful children just let loose from school, the watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind-- these all in sweet confusion sought the shade and fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. but now the sounds of population fail, no cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, no busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, for all the bloomy flush of life is fled-- all but yon widow'd, solitary thing, that feebly bends beside the plashy spring, she, wretched matron--forced in age, for bread, to strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, to pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, to seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn-- she only left of all the harmless train, the sad historian of the pensive plain! near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, and still where many a garden-flower grows wild-- there, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, the village preacher's modest mansion rose. a man he was to all the country dear; and passing rich with forty pounds a year. remote from towns he ran his godly race, nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place; unpractic'd he to fawn, or seek for power by doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour. far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize-- more skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. his house was known to all the vagrant train, he chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain: the long remember'd beggar was his guest, whose beard descending swept his aged breast; the ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd. the broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away-- wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won. pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, and quite forgot their vices in their woe; careless their merits or their faults to scan, his pity gave ere charity began. thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, and even his failings lean'd to virtue's side-- but in his duty, prompt at every call, he watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all: and, as a bird each fond endearment tries to tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, he tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. beside the bed where parting life was laid, and sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, the reverend champion stood: at his control despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, and his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. [illustration: beside the bed where parting life was laid] at church with meek and unaffected grace, his looks adorn'd the venerable place; truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, and fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. the service pass'd, around the pious man, with steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; even children follow'd, with endearing wile, and pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile: his ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd. to them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, but all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: as some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread eternal sunshine settles on its head. beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, with blossom'd furze unprofitably gay-- there, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, the village master taught his little school. a man severe he was, and stern to view; i knew him well, and every truant knew: well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace the day's disasters in his morning face; full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee at all his jokes, for many a joke had he; full well the busy whisper, circling round, convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd-- yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, the love he bore to learning was in fault. the village all declar'd how much he knew; 'twas certain he could write, and cipher too, lands he could measure, terms and tides presage-- and even the story ran that he could gauge. in arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, for even though vanquish'd he could argue still; while words of learned length and thundering sound amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around-- and still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew that one small head could carry all he knew. [illustration: the village master taught his little school] but pass'd is all his fame: the very spot, where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd. where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. and news much older than their ale went round. imagination fondly stoops to trace the parlor splendors of that festive place: the whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, the varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door-- the chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day-- the pictures plac'd for ornament and use, the twelve good rules, the royal game of goose-- the hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, with aspen bows, and flowers, and fennel gay-- while broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. [illustration: the village ale-house] vain, transitory splendors! could not all reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart an hour's importance to the poor man's heart: thither no more the peasant shall repair to sweet oblivion of his daily care; no more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, no more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; no more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; the host himself no longer shall be found careful to see the mantling bliss go round; nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. [illustration: the coy maid half willing to be press'd] yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, these simple blessings of the lowly train-- to me more dear, congenial to my heart, one native charm, than all the gloss of art. spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, the soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway-- lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd; but the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, with all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, in these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, the toiling pleasure sickens into pain-- and, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, the heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey the rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay-- 'tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand between a splendid and an happy land proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, and shouting folly hails them from her shore; hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, and rich men flock from all the world around; yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name that leaves our useful product still the same. not so the loss. the man of wealth and pride takes up a space that many poor supplied-- space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; the robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth; his seat where solitary sports are seen, indignant spurns the cottage from the green; around the world each needful product flies, for all the luxuries the world supplies; while thus the land adorn'd for pleasure--all in barren splendor feebly waits the fall. as some fair female unadorn'd and plain, secure to please while youth confirms her reign slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes-- but when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail, when time advances, and when lovers fail-- she then shines forth, solicitous to bless, in all the glaring impotence of dress. thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd: in nature's simplest charms at first array'd-- but verging to decline, its splendors rise, its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; while, scourg'd by famine, from the smiling land the mournful peasant leads his humble band-- and while he sinks, without one arm to save, the country blooms--a garden and a grave. [illustration: as some fair female unadorned and plain] where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, to 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? if to some common's fenceless limits stray'd he drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, and even the bare-worn common is denied. [illustration: here, while the courtier glitters in brocade] if to the city sped--what waits him there? to see profusion that he must not share; to see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd to pamper luxury, and thin mankind; to see those joys the sons of pleasure know, extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe: here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, there the pale artist plies the sickly trade; here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, there the black gibbet glooms beside the way. the dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train-- tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, the rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy: sure these denote one universal joy! are these thy serious thoughts?--ah! turn thine eyes where the poor houseless shivering female lies. she once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, has wept at tales of innocence distress'd-- her modest looks the cottage might adorn, sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; now lost to all--her friends, her virtue fled, near her betrayer's door she lays her head-- and, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, with heavy heart deplores that luckless hour when idly first, ambitious of the town, she left her wheel, and robes of country brown. [illustration: the poor, houseless, shivering female lies] do thine, sweet auburn! thine, the loveliest train, do thy fair tribes participate her pain? even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, at proud men's doors they ask a little bread. ah, no! to distant climes, a dreary scene, where half the convex world intrudes between, through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, where wild altama murmurs to their woe. far different there from all that charm'd before, the various terrors of that horrid shore; those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, and fiercely shed intolerable day-- those matted woods where birds forget to sing but silent bats in drowsy clusters cling-- those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd where the dark scorpion gathers death around-- where at each step the stranger fears to wake the rattling terrors of the vengeful snake-- where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, and savage men more murderous still than they-- while oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. far different these from every former scene; the cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, the breezy covert of the warbling grove, that only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. good heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, that call'd them from their native walks away, when the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, and took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain for seats like these beyond the western main-- and shuddering still to face the distant deep, return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. the good old sire, the first, prepar'd to go to new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe-- but for himself, in conscious virtue brave, he only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave; his lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, the fond companion of his helpless years, silent went next, neglectful of her charms, and left a lover's for a father's arms; with louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, and bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose, and kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, and clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear-- while her fond husband strove to lend relief in all the silent manliness of grief. [illustration: her fond husband strove to lend relief] o luxury! thou curs'd by heaven's decree, how ill exchang'd are things like these for thee; how do thy potions, with insidious joy, diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, boast of a florid vigor not their own; at every draught more large and large they grow, a bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe-- till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. even now the devastation is begun, and half the business of destruction done; even now, methinks, as pondering here i stand, i see the rural virtues leave the land; down, where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, that idly waiting flaps with every gale, downward they move--a melancholy band-- pass from the shore, and darken all the strand, contented toil and hospitable care, and kind connubial tenderness, are there-- and piety with wishes plac'd above, and steady loyalty, and faithful love. and thou, sweet poetry! thou loveliest maid, still first to fly where sensual joys invade, unfit in these degenerate times of shame to catch the heart, or strike for honest fame-- dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, my shame in crowds, my solitary pride-- thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, that found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so-- thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, thou nurse of every virtue--fare thee well. farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, on tornea's cliffs or pambamarca's side, whether where equinoctial fervors glow, or winter wraps the polar world in snow, still let thy voice, prevailing over time, redress the rigors of the inclement clime. aid slighted truth: with thy persuasive strain teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, though very poor, may still be very bless'd; that trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, as ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away-- while self-dependent power can time defy, as rocks resist the billows and the sky. [illustration: as rocks resist the billows and the sky] the fugitive king at boscobel; adventures of the merry monarch. by agnes strickland. boscobel house, which has obtained so much historical celebrity, in connection with the romantic adventures of charles ii., after his defeat at worcester, is situated in shropshire, on the borders of staffordshire, lying between tong castle and brewood. it was built in the reign of james i., by john giffard, esq., a roman catholic gentleman, who, when it was completed, having invited his neighbors to a house-warming feast, requested his friend, sir basil brook, to give his new-built mansion a name. sir basil called it "boscobel," from the italian word, _boscobella_, because it was seated in the midst of many fair woods. the founder of the house had caused various places of concealment to be constructed, for the purpose of affording shelter to proscribed persons of his own religion, whom the severity of the penal laws often compelled to play at hide and seek, in queer corners. the first fugitive of note who sought refuge, in his distress, at boscobel house, was the unfortunate earl of derby, whose defeat at bolton-le-moors, near wigan, was the precursor to that of the young king at worcester, eight days later. the earl of derby, having escaped from his lost battle, with colonel roscarrock and two servants, got into the confines of shropshire and staffordshire, where he had the good luck to encounter an old friend, mr. richard snead, an honest gentleman of that country, to whom he told the news of his own overthrow, and inquired if he knew of any private house, near at hand, where he might repose himself and his company in safety, till he could find an opportunity of joining the king. mr. snead, like a good samaritan, conducted his noble friend to boscobel house, where they arrived on friday, august th, but found no one at home, except william penderel, the housekeeper, and his wife, who, on their own responsibility, ventured to receive the noble cavalier, his companion, and servants, and kindly entertained them till the sunday; and then, according to the earl's desire, conveyed them safely to gataker park, nine miles on their way to worcester, where he arrived in time to take his part in that engagement which was emphatically styled by stapylton, the roundhead, "the setting of the young king's glory." the earl of derby and colonel roscarrock were in close attendance on charles's person during the retreat from worcester. they all made a stand on kinner heath, on the road to kidderminster, as the night set in, to hold a consultation, when his majesty, being very tired, inquired of them and lord wilmot, "if they thought there was any place where he might venture to take a few hours' rest?" the earl of derby told him, "how, in his flight from wigan to worcester, he had met with that _rara avis_, a perfectly honest man, and a great convenience of concealment at boscobel house; which, nevertheless, he thought it his duty to inform his majesty, was the abode of a recusant." at another time, some of the party might have objected to the young sovereign going to such quarters, but the danger being so imminent, now it was suggested, "that these people being accustomed to persecutions and searches, were most likely to possess the most ingenious contrivances to conceal him." at all events, the king made up his mind to proceed thither. when this decision was made known to lord talbot, he called for a young kinsman of the recusant master of boscobel, mr. charles giffard, who was fortunately among the sixty cavaliers who still shared the fortunes of their fugitive king. lord talbot inquired of this gentleman, if he could conduct his majesty to boscobel. charles giffard cheerfully undertook to do so, having with him a servant of the name of yates, who understood the country perfectly. at a house about a mile beyond stourbridge, the king drank a little water, and ate a crust of bread, the house affording no better provision. after this scanty refection, his majesty rode on, discoursing apart with colonel roscarrock about boscobel house, and the security which he and the earl of derby had enjoyed at that place. another privy-council was held, in the course of the journey, between the king and his most trusty friends, at which it was agreed, that the secret of his destination was too important to be confided to more than a select few of his followers; and charles giffard was asked if it were not possible to conduct him, in the first instance, to some other house in the neighborhood, the better to mask his design of concealing himself at boscobel. the young cavalier replied, "yes, there was another seat of the giffards, about half a mile from boscobel--whiteladies; so called from its having been formerly a monastery of cistercian nuns, whose habit was white." on which the king, and about forty of the party, separating themselves from the others, proceeded thither, under his faithful guidance. they arrived at break of day; and giffard, alighting from his horse, told the king "that he trusted they were now out of immediate danger of pursuit." george penderel, who had the charge of the house, opened the doors, and admitted the king and his noble attendants; after which, the king's horse was brought into the hall, and they all entered into an earnest consultation how to escape the fury of their foes; but their greatest solicitude was for the preservation of the king, who was, for his part, both tired and hungry with his forced march. col. roscarrock immediately dispatched a boy, of the name of bartholomew martin, to boscobel, for william penderel: mr. charles giffard sent for another of these trusty brethren, richard penderel, who lived at hobbal grange, hard by. both speedily obeyed the summons, and were brought into the parlor, where they found their old acquaintance, the earl of derby, who introduced them into the inner parlor, which formed then the presence chamber of their throneless sovereign: the earl, reversing the order of courtly etiquette on this occasion, instead of presenting these two noble men, of low degree, to their royal master, he presented him to them; addressing himself in particular to william penderel, and pointing at his majesty, he said, "this is the king; thou must have a care of him, and preserve him, as thou didst me." william, in the sincerity of an honest heart, promised that he would do so, while charles giffard was at the same time exhorting richard penderel to have an especial care of his charge. the loyal associates next endeavored to effect a transformation in the personal appearance of their royal master, by subjecting him to a process very similar to that technically styled by gipsies, "cutting a horse out of his feathers." in the first place, richard penderel trimmed off his majesty's flowing black ringlets in a very blunt and irreverent fashion, using his woodman's bill, which he happened to have in his girdle, instead of scissors, none being at hand, and time being too precious to stand on ceremony. his majesty was then advised to rub his hands on the back of the chimney, and with them to besmear his face, to darken his peculiar italian-like complexion with a more swarthy tint. this done, he divested himself of his blue ribbon and jeweled badge of the garter, and other princely decorations, his laced ruff and buff coat, and put on a _noggen_ coarse shirt belonging to edward martin, a domestic living in the house, and richard penderel's green suit and leathern doublet, but had not time to be so exactly disguised as he was afterward, for both william and richard penderel warned the company to use dispatch, because there was a troop of rebels, commanded by col. ashenhurst, quartered at cotsal, but three miles distant, some of which troop arrived within half an hour after the noble company was dispersed. richard penderel conducted the king out through a back door, unknown to any of his followers, except a trusted few of the lords, who followed him into the back premises, and as far as an adjacent wood, belonging to the domain of boscobel, called spring coppice, about half a mile from whiteladies, where they took a sorrowful farewell of him, leaving him under the watchful care of three of the trusty penderel brethren--william, humphrey, and george. the earl of derby and the other gentlemen then returned to their comrades at whiteladies, where, mounting in hot haste, with the intrepid charles giffard for their conductor, they scoured off on the north road; but a little beyond newport they were surrounded by the rebels, and after some resistance, were made prisoners. charles giffard contrived to effect his escape from the inn at banbury, where they halted, but the loyal earl of derby, who had sacrificed his own personal safety by resigning to his sovereign the little city of refuge at boscobel, instead of occupying it himself, was subjected to the mockery of a pretended trial by the rebels, and beheaded, although he had only surrendered on a solemn promise of receiving quarter--promises which were never regarded by cromwell and his associates. the cool-blooded malignity with which, in his dispatch, announcing his triumph at worcester, cromwell points out the noble captives, whom the fortunes of war had placed in his magnanimous hands, to his merciless tools as "_objects of their justice_," what was it but signing their death-warrants by anticipation, before the mock trials took place of the fore-doomed victims? and how revolting, after that death-whoop, appears the pharisaical cant of his concluding sentences: "the dimensions of this mercy are above my thoughts--it is, for aught i know, a crowning mercy. i am bold humbly to beg that the fatness of these continued mercies may not occasion pride and wantonness, as formerly the like hath done to a chosen people." if cromwell had understood the true meaning of the saviour's words, "i will have mercy, and not sacrifice," he would probably have acted more like a christian and written less like a jew. "but to return," saith the quaint chronicler of boscobel, "to the duty of my attendance on his majesty in spring coppice. by that time richard penderel had conveyed him to the obscurest part of it, it was about sun-rising on thursday morning, and the heavens wept bitterly at these calamities, insomuch that the thickest tree in the wood was not able to keep his majesty dry, nor was there any thing for him to sit on; wherefore richard went to francis yates's house, a trusty neighbor, who had married his wife's sister, where he borrowed a blanket, which he folded and laid on the ground for his majesty to sit on." a three-legged stool would have been a luxury, at that comfortless period, to the throneless monarch, who claimed three realms as his rightful inheritance. richard penderel, when he borrowed the blanket of his sister-in-law, the good-wife yates, considerately begged her to provide a comfortable breakfast and bring it to him, at a place which he appointed in the wood. she presently made ready a mess of milk, and brought it, with bread, butter, and eggs, to the cold, wet, and half-famished king. charles was, at first, a little startled at her appearance, but, perceiving she came on a kindly errand, he frankly appealed to her feminine compassion in these words: "good woman, can you be faithful to a distressed cavalier?" "yes, sir," she replied; "i will die rather than discover you!" the king, well satisfied with the honest plainness of her answer, was able to eat with a hearty relish the simple fare she had brought him. in the course of that day, he made up his mind to leave his woodland retreat, and endeavor to get into wales. richard penderel, having consented to attend him in the capacity of a guide, conducted him first to his own house, hobbal grange, "where the old good-wife penderel had not only the honor to see his majesty," pursues our authority, "but to see him attended by her son." a greater honor far, it was for her to feel that she was the mother of five sons, whom all the wealth of england would not have bribed, nor all the terrors of a death of torture intimidated, to betray their fugitive sovereign to those who thirsted for his blood. cornelia, the mother of the gracchi, had less reason to feel proud of her filial jewels, than this rustic english matron of her brave shropshire lads. she had lost a sixth son, who had been slain fighting in the cause of king charles i. hobbal grange was the paternal farm where these six brethren, william, john, richard, humphrey, thomas, and george, were born. thomas, george, and john, had all enlisted in the service of the late king, and fought for him as long as he had an army in the field; william was the house steward at boscobel; humphrey was the miller at whiteladies; and richard rented a part of his mother's farm and house, hobbal grange; he also pursued the business of a woodman. at hobbal grange, the king's disguise was completed, and he was furnished with a woodman's bill, to enable him the better to act the part of richard penderel's man, and it was agreed that he should assume the name of will jones. when all these arrangements had been made, and his homely supper ended, his majesty set out at nine o'clock, with intent to walk that night to madely, in shropshire, about five miles from whiteladies, within a mile of the river severn, which he would have to cross, in order to get into wales. charles found his clouted shoes so uneasy to his feet on this pedestrian journey, that more than once he was fain to walk without, as less painful. about two miles from madely, in passing evelin mill, the king and his trusty guide got an alarm; for richard unwittingly permitting the gate to clap, the miller came out and challenged them, by asking, gruffly, "who was there?" richard, to avoid him, hastily drew the king out of the usual track, and led him through a brook, which they were compelled to ford, and the king's shoes getting full of water increased the uneasiness of his galled and blistered feet. his majesty was afterward wont, in recounting this adventure, to say, that "here he was in great danger of losing his guide, but the rustling of richard's calf-skin breeches was the best direction he had to follow him in that dark night." charles was unconscious at the time how near he was to a party of his own friends, who had just taken refuge in evelin mill, and that the honest miller who had caused him so much alarm and distress by his challenge, was only doing his duty by the fugitive cavaliers in keeping guard to prevent a surprise from skulking foes or spies. his majesty arrived at madely about midnight, in weary plight; richard conducted his royal master to the house of a loyal gentleman there, of the name of woolf, on whose integrity he knew he could rely. the family had retired to rest, but richard took the liberty of knocking till mr. woolf's daughter came to the door and inquired, "who that late comer was?" he replied, "the king." an announcement that would, doubtless, have put any young lady into a flutter at a period less disastrous to royalty but such was the tragic romance of the epoch, that persons of all classes were familiarized to the most startling events and changes; the only source of surprise to honest gentlefolks was, the circumstance of finding their heads safe on their own shoulders in the midst of the horrors of military executions, which nearly decimated that neighborhood. miss woolf neither questioned the fact, nor hesitated to imperil herself and family by receiving the proscribed fugitive within her doors. she knew the integrity of richard penderel, and appreciated the tribute he paid to her courage and her truth, by confiding such a trust to her. the king refreshed and reposed himself beneath this hospitable roof for awhile, but as the rebels kept guard upon the passage of the severn, and it was apprehended that a party of them, who were expected to pass through the town, might quarter themselves, which frequently happened, in that house, it was judged safer for the royal stranger to sleep in the adjacent barn. his majesty accordingly retired thither, attended by his trusty guide and life-guardsman, richard penderel, and remained concealed in that humble shelter the whole of the next day. the intelligence which mr. woolf procured, meantime, was such as to convince him that it would be too hazardous for the king to attempt to prosecute his journey into wales, and that the best thing he could do would be to return to boscobel house, as affording facilities for his concealment till a safer opening for his retreat could be found. the king being of the same opinion, it was resolved that he should retrace his steps the next night, and meantime, his hands not being considered sufficiently embrowned for the character he personated, mrs. woolf brought some walnut-leaves and stained them. at eleven o'clock, he and the faithful richard penderel resumed their march, but midway between madely and boscobel, charles was so completely overcome with grief, fatigue, and the pain he endured from his blistered feet, in his attempts to walk in the stiff shoes, that at last he flung himself on the ground, "declaring life was not worth the struggle of preserving, and that he would rather die than endure the misery he suffered." richard gave him such comfort as his kindly nature suggested, and bidding him be of good cheer, and wait god's time for better fortunes, at last persuaded him to make a successful effort to reach boscobel. they arrived in the immediate vicinity about three o'clock on the sunday morning; richard left his majesty in the wood, while he went to reconnoitre, not knowing whether a party of cromwell's soldiers might not have occupied the house in their absence. fortunately, he found no one there but william penderel, his wife, and the brave cavalier, colonel carlis, who had been the last man to retreat from worcester, and, having succeeded in making his escape, had been for some time concealed in boscobel wood, and had come to ask relief of william penderel, his old acquaintance. richard informed him and william penderel that the king was in the wood, and they all three went to pay their devoir, and found his majesty sitting, like melancholy jacques, on the root of a tree. he was very glad to see the colonel, and proceeded with him and the penderels to boscobel house, and there did eat bread and cheese heartily, and, as an extraordinary treat, william's wife, whom his majesty was pleased to address merrily by the title of "my dame joan," made a posset for him of thin milk and small beer--no "very dainty dish," one would think, "to set before a king;" but doubtless, in his present condition, more acceptable than the most exquisite plate of _dilligrout_ that was ever served up by the lord of the manor of bardolf, _cum privilegio_, at the coronation banquet of any of his royal predecessors. "my dame joan" also performed another charitable service for her luckless liege lord, by bringing some warm water to bathe his galled and travel-soiled feet. colonel carlis pulled off his majesty's shoes, which were full of gravel, and his wet stockings, and there being no other shoes that would fit the royal fugitive, the good wife rendered these still more stiff and uncomfortable, in her zeal to dry them, by putting hot embers in them while the colonel was washing his master's feet. when his majesty was thus refreshed, they all united in persuading him to go back into the wood, having great reason to apprehend that the roundhead troopers, who were then hunting the country round with blood-hounds, on a keen scent for their prey, would come and search boscobel house. humphrey penderel, the miller, had been to shefnal the day before, to pay some military imposts to the roundhead captain broadwaye, at whose house he encountered one of cromwell's colonels, who had just been dispatched from worcester in quest of the king. this man, having learned that the king had been at whiteladies, and that humphrey dwelt in that immediate neighborhood, examined him strictly, and laid before him both the penalty of concealing the royal fugitive "which," he said, "was death without mercy, and the reward for discovering him, which should be a thousand pounds ready money." neither threats nor bribes could overcome the loyal integrity of the stout-hearted miller, who pleaded ignorance so successfully that he was dismissed, and hastening, to boscobel, brought the alarming tidings of the vicinity of the soldiers, and the price that had been set on his majesty's head. the danger of his remaining in boscobel house being considered imminent, it was determined by the faithful brothers to conceal the king and colonel carlis, whose life was in no less danger than that of his master, in a thick spreading oak. having made choice of one which appeared to afford the greatest facility for concealment, they assisted the king and colonel carlis to ascend it, brought them such provisions as they could get, and a cushion for the king to sit on. in this unsuspected retreat they passed the day. the king having gone through much fatigue, and taken little or no rest for several nights, was so completely worn out, that having placed himself in a reclining position, with his head resting on colonel carlis's knee, he fell asleep, and slumbered away some hours--the colonel being careful to preserve him from falling. pope's popular, but long suppressed line, "angels who watched the royal oak so well," always makes me think that he must have been familiar with the following incident which my father's mother, elizabeth cotterel, who was the grand-daughter of a cadet of the old loyal family of that name, in staffordshire, and maternally descended from one of the honest penderel brothers, was accustomed to relate as a fact, derived from family tradition, connected with the perils and hair-breadth escapes of charles ii., at boscobel. "the roundhead troopers," she said, "having tracked the king, first to whiteladies, and then to boscobel forest, were led, by the keen scent of their bloodhounds, just at the twilight hour, to the very tree in which he and colonel carlis were hidden. the traitors, a sergeant and five others of the same company, made a halt under the royal oak, and began to reconnoiter it, while their dogs came baying and barking round about the trunk. suddenly the leaves began to rustle, and one of the villains cried out, "'hallo! some one is surely hidden here!--look how the branches shake.' "'it will be worth a thousand pounds to us if it be the young king,' said another. "then the sergeant asked 'who would volunteer to ascend the tree, and earn a larger share of the reward by taking the supposed prize alive;' but, as no one appeared willing to risk the chance of encountering a clapperclawing from the royal lion, dealt from a vantage height, he was just giving the word for them to fire a volley into the tree, 'when, by the grace of god,'" the old lady would add, with impressive solemnity, "a white owl flew out from the thickest covert of the branches and screeched 'fie upon them!' as well she might; whereupon the false traitors hooted out a curse as bitter as that of meroz on the poor bird, and growled to each other 'that it was she that had misled their dogs, and had stirred the leaves withal, to mock themselves; howsomever, they would have a shot at her, to teach her better manners than to screech at the soldiers of the lord.' but though five of the sorry knaves banged off their musketoons at the harmless bird, not one of them was marksman enough to hit a feather of her. lastly, the sergeant took out a printed copy of the proclamation, promising 'the reward of a thousand pounds for the apprehension of the young man, charles stuart, eldest son of the late king charles,' and fastened it on the trunk of the royal oak where his majesty was sitting in the branches above them, hearing all they said, and an eye-witness of their treason." the breathless interest which this oral chronicle was wont to excite among juvenile loyalists of the third generation may be imagined, but the old lady had another tradition, of yet more thrilling import, engraven on the tablets of her memory, "derived, like the first," as she declared, "from those who could well vouch for its authenticity." as it forms a curious sequel to the other, and is really too good to be lost, i take leave to relate it, without expecting my readers to put the same degree of faith in my grandmother's traditionary lore as i have always been dutifully accustomed to do. "the roundhead sergeant and his comrades, after they had retired from the vicinity of the royal oak, proceeded to hobbal grange, to refresh themselves at the expense of richard penderel, where, finding his wife alone, rocking the cradle of her infant boy, who was not well and very fractious, they, after she had brought out the best perry and mead the house afforded began to cross-question her about the king's previous appearance at whiteladies, and, as they had done by her brother-in-law, humphrey penderel, to ply her with alternate threats and temptations, in order to induce her to discover any thing she might have learned on the subject. the amount of the reward for the apprehension of the royal fugitive had hitherto been concealed by richard from his wife, probably from the painful consciousness of her weak point. at any rate, she heard it now with astonished ears, and the sergeant, in confirmation of his statement, displayed one of the printed copies of the proclamation to that effect. 'a thousand pounds!--a sum beyond her powers of calculation! the price of blood!--what then? some one would earn it, why should not she?' she held parley with her besetting sin, and her desire of 'the accursed thing' grew stronger. at that moment her husband appeared, followed by the disguised king, who, cramped and exhausted with sitting so many hours in the tree, was coming to her hearth to warm and refresh himself, unconscious what unwelcome guests were already in possession of the grange. the young wife hastened to richard penderel, showed him the paper, and whispered-- "'what is the king to us? a thousand pounds would make our fortunes.' "'i'll cleave thy skull next moment, woman, an' thou dost,' was richard penderel's stern rejoinder, grasping his wood-ax with a significant gesture. "he spoke in a tone which, though so low as to be audible to no other ear than hers, thrilled every vein in her body with terror. she knew he was a man who never broke his word, and she trembled lest the suspicions of the sergeant and his gang should have been excited by the emotions betrayed by her husband and herself during their brief passionate conference. she glanced at them, and saw they were watching her husband and scrutinizing the disguised king, who, yielding to the force of habit, had forgot his assumed character of richard's serving-man so far as to seat himself uninvited on the only unoccupied stool in the room. luckily, the cross baby, offended at the presence of so many strangers, set up his pipes, and began to scream and cry most lustily; at which mistress richard penderel, affecting to be in a violent passion, snatched him out of the cradle, and thrusting him into the arms of the astonished king, on whom she bestowed a sound box on the ear at the same time, exclaimed, 'thou lazy, good-for-naught fellow, wilt thou not so much as put out thy hand to rock the cradle? take the boy to thee, and quiet him; he makes such a brawling, thy betters can't hear themselves speak.' "the baby, finding himself in the hands of an unpracticed male nurse, continued to scream, and the mother to scold, till the sergeant rose up, with a peevish execration, implying that he would rather hear the roar of all the cannon that were fired at worcester, than a chorus like that; and giving the word to his company, marched off in the full persuasion that charles was the awkwardest lout in shropshire, and his mistress the bitterest shrew he had seen for many a day." after this alarm, it was judged better for the king to return to boscobel house, and betake himself to the secret place of concealment, where the earl of derby had been safely hidden before the battle of worcester. dame joan had provided some chickens that night, and cooked them in her best style for supper, for her royal guest--a dainty to which he had been unaccustomed for some time. she also put a little pallet in the secret recess for his majesty's use, who was persuaded to let william penderel shave him, and cut his hair close with a pair of scissors, according to the country fashion. colonel carlis told the king, "will was but a mean barber;" his majesty replied, "that he had never been shaved by any barber before," and bade william burn the hair he cut off. william, however, carefully preserved the royal locks, as precious memorials of this adventure, which were afterward in great request among the noble families of the neighborhood, who were eager to obtain the smallest portion of those relics. after supper, colonel carlis asked the king, "what meat he would like for his sunday's dinner?" his majesty said, "mutton, if it might be had." now, there was none in the house, and it was considered dangerous for william to go to any place to purchase it; so colonel carlis repaired to mr. william staunton's fold, chose the fattest sheep there, stuck it with his dagger, and sent will penderel to bring it home.[ ] on sunday morning, charles, finding his dormitory none of the best, rose early, and entering the gallery near it, was observed to spend some time in prayer. after the fulfillment of this duty, which was doubtless performed with unwonted fervency, "his majesty, coming down into the parlor, his nose fell a bleeding, which put his poor faithful servants in a fright," till he reassured them, by saying it was a circumstance of frequent occurrence. he was very cheerful that day, and merrily assisted in cooking some mutton-collops from the stolen sheep provided by colonel carlis, on which subject he was afterward fond of joking with that devoted companion of his perils. the penderel brothers, keeping watch and ward, in readiness to give the alarm, if any soldiers approached the mansion, the king felt himself in a state of security, "and spent some part of this lord's-day in a pretty arbor in boscobel garden, situated on a mount, with a stone table and seats within. in this place, he passed some time in reading, and commended it for its retiredness." john penderel having, meantime, brought the welcome intelligence that lord wilmot, to whom he had acted as guide when he left whiteladies, had found a safe asylum at the house of mr. whitgreave, of mosely, the king sent him back to inform those gentlemen "that he would join them there at twelve that night." the distance being about five miles, john returned to tell his majesty they would be in readiness to meet him there. the king not being yet recovered from the effect of his walk to madely and back, it was agreed that he should ride on humphrey's mill-horse, which was forthwith fetched home from grass, and accoutred with a pitiful old saddle and worse bridle. before mounting, the king bade farewell to colonel carlis, who could not safely attend him, being too well known in that neighborhood. the night was dark and rainy, dismal as the fortunes of the fugitive king, who, mounting humphrey's mare, rode toward mosely, attended by an especial body-guard of the five penderels and their brother-in-law, francis yates; each of these was armed with a bill and pikestaff, having pistols in their pockets. two marched before, one on each side their royal charge, and two came behind, a little in the rear--all resolutely determined, in case of danger, to have shown their valor in defending as well as they had done their fidelity in concealing their distressed sovereign. after some experience of the horse's paces, the king declared, "it was the heaviest, dull jade he ever bestrode." humphrey, who was the owner of the beast, wittily replied-- "my liege, can you blame the mare for going heavily when she bears the weight of three kingdoms on her back?" when they arrived at penford mill, within two miles of mr. whitgreave's house, his majesty was recommended by his guides to dismount, and proceed the rest of the way on foot, being a more private path, and nearer withal. at last, they arrived at the place appointed, which was a little grove of trees, in a close near mr. whitgreave's house, called lea soughes. there, mr. whitgreave and mr. john huddleston, the priest, met his majesty, in order to conduct him, by a private way, to the mansion, richard and john penderel, and francis yates continuing their attendance, but william, humphrey, and george returned to boscobel with the horse. charles, not quite aware of this arrangement, was going on without bidding them farewell, but turning back, he apologized to them in these words: "my troubles make me forget myself: i thank you all." and so, giving them his hand to kiss, took a gracious leave of those true liegemen. mr. whitgreave conducted the king into the secret chamber occupied by lord wilmot, who was expecting his return with great impatience, fearing lest the king should have missed his way, or been taken. as soon as wilmot saw his royal master, he knelt and embraced his knees, and charles, deeply moved, kissed him on the cheek, and asked, with much solicitude: "what has become of buckingham, cleveland, and the others?" wilmot could only answer, doubtfully, "i hope they are safe." then turning to mr. whitgreave and huddleston, to whom he had not then confided the quality of the fugitive cavalier for whom he had requested this asylum, he said: "though i have concealed my friend's name all this while, i must now tell you this is my master, your master, and the master of us all." charles gave his hand to whitgreave and huddleston for them to kiss, and after commending their loyalty, and thanking them for their fidelity to his friend, which, he assured them, he never should forget, desired to see the place of concealment he was to occupy. having seen it, and expressed his satisfaction, he returned to lord wilmot's chamber, where, his nose beginning to bleed again, he seated himself on the bedside, and drew forth such a pocket-handkerchief as was never seen in royal hands before, but it accorded with the rest of his array. charles was dressed, at that time, in an old leathern doublet, a pair of green breeches, and a peasant's upper garment, known in this country by the name of a "jump coat," of the same color; a pair of his own stockings, with the tops cut off, because they were embroidered, a pair of stirrup stockings over them, which had been lent him at madely; a pair of clouted shoes, cut and slashed, to give ease to the royal feet, an old gray, greasy hat, without a lining, and a _noggen_ shirt, of the coarsest manufacture. mr. huddleston, observing that the roughness of this shirt irritated the king's skin so much as to deprive him of rest, brought one of his own, made of smooth flaxen linen, to lord wilmot, and asked, "if his majesty would condescend to make use of it?" which charles gladly did. mr. huddleston then pulled off his majesty's wet, uncomfortable shoes and stockings, and dried his feet, when he found that some white paper, which had been injudiciously put between his stockings and his skin, having got rucked and rolled up, had served to increase, instead of alleviating the inflammation. mr. whitgreave brought up some biscuits and a bottle of sack, for the refreshment of his royal guest, who, after he had partaken of them, exclaimed, with some vivacity, "i am now ready for another march; and if it shall please god to place me once more at the head of eight or ten thousand good men, of one mind, and resolved to fight, i should not despair of driving the rogues out of my kingdom." day broke, and the king, feeling in need of repose, was conducted to the artfully concealed hiding-place, where a pallet was placed for his accommodation, for his host durst not put him into a bed in one of the chambers. after some rest taken in the hole, which was unfortunately too close and hot to allow of comfortable repose, charles rose, and seeing mr. whitgreave's mother, was pleased to greet her with great courtesy, and to honor her with a salute. his place, during the day, was a closet over the porch, where he could see, unseen, every one who came up to the house. that afternoon, a party of the roundhead soldiers arrived, with intent to arrest mr. whitgreave, having had information that he had been at worcester fight. "if," said lord wilmot to him, "they carry you off, and put you to the torture, to force you to confession, i charge you to give me up without hesitation, which may, perhaps, satisfy them, and save the king." charles was then lying on mr. huddleston's bed, but his generous host, instead of caring for his own danger, hurried him away into the secret hiding place; then, setting all the chamber doors open, went boldly down to the soldiers, and assured them that the report of his having been in the battle of worcester was untrue, for he had not been from his own home for upward of a fortnight; to which all his neighbors bearing witness, the soldiers not only left him at liberty, but departed without searching the house. the same day, only a few hours after his majesty had left boscobel, two parties of the rebels came thither in quest of him. the first, being a company of the county militia, searched the house with some civility, but the others, who were captain broadwaye's men, behaved in a very ruffianly manner, searched the house with jealous scrutiny, plundered it of every thing portable, and after devouring all the little stock of provisions, presented a pistol at william penderel, to intimidate him into giving them some information, and much frightened "my dame joan," but failed to extort any confessions touching the royal guest who had so recently departed. they also paid a second visit to whiteladies, and not only searched every corner in it, but broke down much of the wainscot, and finished by beating a prisoner severely who had been frightened into informing them that he came in company with the king from worcester to that place, and had left him concealed there. on the tuesday, old mrs. whitgreave, who did her best to amuse her royal guest, by telling him all the news she could collect, informed him that a countryman, who had been up to the house that morning, had said "that he heard that the king, on his retreat, had rallied and beaten his enemies at warrington bridge, and that three kings had come in to his assistance." "surely," rejoined charles, with a smile, "they must be the three kings of cologne come down from heaven, for i can imagine none else." looking out of his closet window, that day, charles saw two soldiers pass the gate, and told mr. huddleston, "he knew one of them to be a highlander of his own regiment, who little thought his king and colonel were so near." mr. huddleston had three young gentlemen under his care for education, staying in the same house--young sir john preston, mr. thomas patyn, and mr. francis reynolds. these he stationed at several garret windows that commanded the road, to watch and give notice if they saw any soldiers approaching, pretending to be himself in danger of arrest. the youths performed this service with diligent care all day, and when they sat down to supper, sir john said merrily to his two companions, "come, lads, let us eat heartily, for we have been upon the life-guard to-day." lord wilmot's friend, colonel lane, of bentley, had, previously to the king's arrival, offered to pass him on to bristol, as the escort of his sister, mrs. jane lane, who had fortunately obtained from one of the commanders, a passport for herself and her groom to go to bristol, to see her sister, who was near her confinement. this offer lord wilmot had actually accepted, when john penderel, bringing him word that the king was coming to mosely, he generously transferred that chance for escape to his royal master. lord wilmot, having apprised the colonel and fair mistress jane of the king's intention to personate her groom, colonel lane came, by appointment, on tuesday night, between twelve and one, to the corner of mr. whitgreave's orchard, to meet and convey his majesty to bentley. the night was dark, and cold enough to render the loan of a cloak, which mr. huddleston humbly offered for his sovereign's use, extremely acceptable. charles took his leave courteously of old mrs. whitgreave, whom he kissed, and gave many thanks for his entertainment, and used warm expressions of gratitude to her son and mr. huddleston, telling them, "that he was very sensible of the danger with which their concealing him might be attended to themselves," and considerately gave them the address of a merchant in london, who should have orders to supply them with money, and the means of crossing the sea, if they desired to do so, and promised, "if ever god were pleased to restore him to his dominions, not to be unmindful of their services to him." they knelt and kissed his hand, and prayed almighty god to bless and preserve him, then reverentially attended him to the orchard, where mr. whitgreave told colonel lane "he delivered his great charge into his hands, and besought him to take care of his majesty." charles proceeded safely to bentley with colonel lane, where, as he was to perform the part of a menial, he was under the necessity of taking a seat by the kitchen fire, next morning, to prevent suspicion. the cook, observing that he appeared an idle hand, ordered him to "have a care that the roast meat did not burn"--a command that must have reminded the incognito majesty of england of the adventure of his illustrious ancestor, alfred, in the herdsman's cottage, when he got into disgrace with the good wife by not paying a proper degree of attention to the baking of the cakes. the same morning, we are told, a person suspected of being a spy and informer, coming into colonel lane's kitchen, and casting a scrutinizing eye on the king, observed that he was a stranger, and began to ask a leading question or two, when one of the servants, who knew his royal master, and feared he would commit himself, gave him two or three blows with the basting ladle, and bade him "mind his own business, which was to keep the spit going, and not turn round to prate, or he would get basted by the cook." charles only staid at bentley, till some articles of colonel lane's livery could be prepared for his use, before he escorted mrs. jane lane to bristol, she riding on a pillion behind him, and lord wilmot following at a little distance. mistress jane conducted herself with great prudence and discretion to the royal bachelor during the journey, treating him as her master when alone, and as her servant before strangers. when they arrived at the house of her sister, mrs. norton, in bristol, the first person the king saw was one of his own chaplains sitting at the door, amusing himself with looking at some people playing at bowls. his majesty, after performing his duty as colonel lane's servant, by taking proper care of the horse which had carried him and his fair charge from bentley, left the stable, and came into the house, feigning himself sick of the ague, mrs. jane having suggested that device as an excuse for keeping his room, which she had caused to be prepared for him. the butler, who had been a royalist soldier in the service of charles i., entering the room to bring the sick stranger some refreshment, as soon as he looked in his pale woe-worn face, recognized the features of his young king, and falling on his knees, while the tears overflowed his cheeks, exclaimed, "i am rejoiced to see your majesty." "keep the secret from every one, even from your master," was the reply, and the faithful creature rendered implicit obedience. he, and mrs. jane lane, constituted charles's privy council at bristol. no ship being likely to sail from that port for a month to come, the king considered it dangerous to remain there so long. he therefore repaired to the residence of colonel wyndham, in dorsetshire, where he was affectionately welcomed by that loyal cavalier and his lady, who had been his nurse. the venerable mother of the colonel, though she had lost three sons and one grandchild in his service, considered herself only too happy to have the honor of receiving him as her guest. finally, after adventures too numerous to be recorded here, the fugitive king succeeded in securing a passage toward the end of october, in a little bark from shoreham to dieppe, where he landed in safety, more than forty persons, some of them in very humble circumstances, having been instrumental to his escape, not one of whom could be induced by the large reward offered by the parliament for his apprehension, to betray him. a certain eloquent scotch essayist, who endeavors to apologize for the conduct of algernon sidney, and other worthies of his party, in accepting the bribes of france by impugning the integrity of the english character, and goes so far as to express a doubt whether there were an honest man to be met with at that epoch, save andrew marvel, appears to have forgotten the glorious instances of stainless honesty and virtue afforded by the penderel brothers, and other noble men of all degrees, who proved themselves superior to all temptations that could be offered. when england had, by general acclamation, called home her banished king, the five shropshire brothers were summoned to attend him at whitehall, on wednesday, the th of june, , when his majesty was pleased to acknowledge their faithful services, and signified his intention of notifying his gratitude by a suitable reward, inquiring if they had any particular favor to ask. they only asked an exemption from the penal laws, with liberty for themselves and their descendants to enjoy the free exercise of their religion, being members of the romish church. this request was granted, and their names, together with those of their kinswoman mrs. yates, mr. huddleston, and mr. whitgreave, were especially exempted in the statute from the pains and penalties of recusancy. king charles granted a moderate pension to them and their descendants for ever. "the oak," says a contemporary, whose pleasant little chronicle of boscobel was published in , the year of the restoration, "is now properly called 'the royal oake of boscobel,' nor will it lose that name while it continues a tree: and since his majesty's happy restoration that those mysteries have been revealed, hundreds of people for many miles round, have flocked to see the famous boscobel, which, as you have heard, had once the honor to be the palace of his sacred majesty, but chiefly to behold the royal oake, which has been deprived of all its young boughs by the visitors of it, who keep them in memory of his majesty's happy preservation." charles himself subsequently made a pilgrimage to the scene of his past troubles: when he visited the royal oak, he was observed to gather a handful of the acorns. some of these he planted with his own hand in saint james's park. a promising young tree, which sprang from one of these acorns, which charles had planted in the queen's pleasure garden, within sight of his bed-chamber, in saint james's palace, and was accustomed to water and tend with great pleasure, was called the king's royal oak, and had become an object of interest to the people as a relic of that popular sovereign; but was destroyed by sarah, duchess of marlborough, as soon as her husband obtained the grant of the ground on which it stood, for the site of marlborough house. this was regarded as an outrage on popular feeling. of all our national commemorations, that of the restoration of monarchy, on the th of may, held the strongest hold on the affections of the people; the firmness with which they continued to observe that anniversary for a century after the expulsion of the royal line of stuart, affords a remarkable proof of the constitutional attachment of this country to the cause of legitimacy. as long as that feeling lasted, the grave of william penderel, in st. giles's church-yard, was duly decked with oaken garlands by nameless loyalists of low degree, as often as the th of may came round; and men, women, and children wore oak leaves and acorns in memory of the fact, "that penderel the miller, at risk of his blood, hid the king of the isle in the king of the wood." footnote: [ ] when honest william penderel subsequently waited on mr. staunton, and acknowledged the abstraction of the sheep, offering, at the same time, to pay for it, that loyal gentleman laughed heartily at the incident, and said, "he was glad to hear that his majesty had tasted his mutton, and much good might it do him." [from dickens's household words] gunpowder and chalk. sir valentine saltear was a worthy gentleman, who had made a large fortune by constantly exporting irish linens and lawns to france (from whence they came over to england as fine french goods), for which service to the trade of the three countries a discerning minister had obtained him the honor of knighthood. this fortune he had in part expended in building for himself a great mansion on the sea-coast of kent, commanding a fine view of the country from the back windows, and the great ocean from the front. every room on the first and second floors was furnished with a brass telescope, that could be screwed on to the window-sash, or by means of a pedestal, into the window-sill. in the front of his house was a great field, in which he and his visitors used to play at cricket. it was bounded by the high, white chalk cliffs, which descended precipitously to the sea. the cliffs, however, were unfortunately much undermined by natural caverns; so that every year, and, in fact, every time there was a storm at sea, a large portion of the chalk-rock fell down, and in the course of six or seven years he was obliged to rail off as "dangerous" a part of the already reduced field in front of his house. he could now only play at trap-ball, or battle-dore and shuttle-cock. still the sea continued its encroachments, and in a few years more the trap-ball was all over--it was too perilous, even if they had not continually lost the ball--and he and his sons were reduced to a game at long-taw, and hop-scotch. clearly perceiving that in the course of a few years more his field-sports would be limited to spinning a tee-totum before his front-door, he engaged the services of an eminent architect and civil engineer to build him a sea-wall to prevent the further encroachments of the enemy. the estimate of expense was five thousand pounds, and, as a matter of course, the work, by the time it was finished, cost ten thousand. this was nearly as much as sir valentine saltear had paid for the building of his house. but the worst part of the business was, that the very next storm which occurred at sea, and only a few weeks after, the waves dashed down, and fairly carried away the whole of this protective wall. in the morning it was clean gone, as though no such structure had been there, and a great additional gap was made in the cliff, plainly showing that the watery monster was quite bent on swallowing up sir valentine's house. he brought an action for the recovery of the money he had paid for his wall; but while this was pending, he saw his house being undermined from day to day, and in sheer despair felt himself obliged to apply to a still more eminent civil engineer. the estimate this gentleman made for the construction of a sea-wall--one that would stand--was ten thousand pounds. it might be a few pounds more or less--probably less. but the recent experience of sir valentine making him fear that it would probably be double that amount, he hesitated as to engaging the services of this gentleman. he even thought of sending over to ireland for fifty bricklayers, carpenters, and masons, and superintending the work himself. he was sure he could do it for six thousand pounds. it never once occurred to him to pull down his house, and rebuild it on high ground a quarter of a mile farther off. in this dangerous yet undecided state of affairs, sir valentine one morning, breakfasting at his club in waterloo place, read in a newspaper a notice of the grand mining operation and explosion that was to take place at seaford, the object of which was to throw down an immense mass of chalk cliff, the broken fragments whereof would, at a comparatively small cost, form a sea-wall, at an elevation of about one-fifth the height of the parent rock. why, here was sir valentine's own case! his house was upon a very high chalk rock, and a sea-wall of one-fifth the height would answer every purpose. the only difficulty was his present proximity to the edge of the cliff. still, he thought he could spare thirty feet or so, without losing his door-steps, and this width being exploded down to the base of the cliff, would constitute, by its fall, a very capital mound of protection which might last for a century or more. he therefore determined to see the explosion at seaford, and if it proved successful, to adopt the very same plan. sir valentine, accordingly, on the nineteenth of september, swallowed an early cup of chocolate, and hurried off to the brighton railway terminus, and took his place in the express train for newhaven. it was a return-ticket, first class, for which he paid the sum of one pound four shillings. an excursion train had started at nine o'clock, the return-ticket first class, being only eleven shillings; but sir valentine fearing that it would stop at every station on the way, and might not be in time for the great event, had prudently chosen the express at express price; namely, one pound four per ticket. there was some confusion in the arrangements of the terminus, apparently attributable to extensive additions and alterations in the buildings; but there was no difficulty in receiving the money. the train started; its speed, though an express, being nothing particular. when it arrived at lewes, the passengers all had to alight, and wait for another train which was to take them on. at last a train arrived. it was declared to be full! "full!" cried sir valentine, "why, i have paid for the express!--first-class--one pound four." full, however, this long train was. presently a guard shouted that there was room for three in a second-class carriage. "i secure one!" shouted sir valentine, holding up his fore-finger in a threatening manner to the guard, and jumped in. in due time, and by no means in a hurry, the "express" train arrived. out leaped sir valentine, and demanded of the first person he met how far it was to seaford? the man said he didn't know! to the utter astonishment and contempt of the excited knight. he asked the next person; who replied that he hadn't the very least idea, but they could tell him at the "tap." sir valentine looked on all sides to see if there were any cabs, flies, or vehicles of any kind, and descrying several in a group at some little distance, made toward them at long running strides--a boy who had overheard his question as to the distance, following at his heels, and bawling--"two miles as a crow flies!--four miles by the road!--two miles as a cro-o-o-o!--four by the ro-o-o-o!" arrived amidst the vehicles, the knight found nearly all of them either engaged, or full, and it was only as a matter of favor that he was admitted as "one over the number," to the inside of a small van without springs; where, beside the heat and crushing, he had to endure a thorough draught and three short pipes, all the way. the road wound round the base of a series of hills and other rising ground, and a line of vehicles might be seen all along this serpentine road, for two or three miles' distance; while a long unbroken line of pedestrians were descried winding along the pathway across the fields. after a very jolting and rumbling drive, sir valentine found himself "shot out" with the rest of the company, in front of a small "public" knocked up for the occasion, with a load or two of bricks and some boards, and crowded to excess. private carriages, flies, cabs, carts, wagons, vans, were standing around, together with booths and wheelbarrows, set out with apples, nuts, bread and cheese, and ginger-beer of a peculiarly thin stream. sir valentine having breakfasted early, hastily, and lightly, was by this time--a quarter to two--extremely sharp set; he endeavored, therefore, to make his way into the house to get a bottle of stout and some ham or cold beef for luncheon. but after ten minutes' continuous efforts, he found he was still between the door-posts, and the noisy, choked-up window of the "bar," as far from his hopes as ever. he abandoned the attempt in disgust--but not without addressing himself to a seafaring man who was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking on: "is this sense?" said the knight. "do you call this common sense? do you think you are acting with any more reason than a dog possesses, to treat the public in this way? then, your own interest--look at it!" (pointing to the crowd struggling in the door-way). "if you had any foresight, or a head for the commonest arrangements, would you not have a barrel of ale on wheels outside here?" the seafaring man swung round on his heel with a smile, and sir valentine, having made his way into the field, obtained six pennyworth of gingerbread and a dozen of small apples, with which provender he in some sort revived his exhausted frame. he now bustled on toward the foot of a broken embankment leading up to a lofty rising ground, the summit being the cliffs, a large portion of which was shortly to be detached, and thrown down by the explosion of a mine. the part to be blown off was marked out by broad belts of white, where the chalk had been thrown up, which made an imposing appearance even on the distant heights. the sun shone brightly. all over the fields and fallow ground that lay between the halting-place just described, and the foot of the steep mount, the visitors were scattered--pedestrians, with here and there a horseman; sight-seers--the old and the young--men of science from various parts of the world--infantry soldiers, sappers and miners, ladies and gentlemen, sailors, marines, country people, railway laborers, policemen, boys and girls, and--far in the rear of all, with disapproving looks--two or three old women in spectacles. renovated by his gingerbread and apples, sir valentine made his way manfully up the steep grassy ascent of the hill, chalk mountain it might be more properly termed, and, in the course of a quarter of an hour, he found himself at the spot where the explosion was to take place. it was a tolerably level surface, of some hundred yards in diameter. transverse belts of excavated chalk, with several trenches and pits half filled up, marked out the huge fragment of the solid mass which was to be separated. the boundary was further indicated by small flagstaffs, and also by sentinels, who prevented any of the visitors from trespassing on the dangerous ground, whereon, of course, they all had a half-delightful tingling wish to perambulate, and to feel themselves liable to be blown to atoms by a premature explosion. beneath the part marked off by the flagstaffs and sentinels, at a great depth in the chalk rock, were buried many thousand (the brighton herald said twenty-seven thousand!) pounds of gunpowder, distributed in different chambers and galleries, one communicating with another by means of a platina wire. this wire was carried up through the rock into a little wooden house, in which certain chemical mysteries were being secretly carried on by engineer officers. there was a little window in front, out of which the mysterious officer now and then half thrust his head, looked out, with profound gravity, upon the belts of chalk on the space before him, and, without appearing to see any of the crowding visitors, withdrew from the window. presently another officer came, and did the same. "come like shadows," muttered sir valentine, "so depart!" but wishing that they might "show his eyes" the mysterious operations in the little wooden house, however grievous it might be to his feelings, our anxious knight hurried round to the back, where, he took it for granted, there was some means of entrance, as he had seen no officer get in at the window. he was right. there was a small narrow door of planks, with a sentry standing before it, who wore a forbidding face of much importance. and now a gentleman in blue spectacles approached, and nodded to the sentinel, who tapped at the door. the door was unlocked, and the favored man of science entered. through the closing door, sir valentine caught sight of a sort of long, shapeless table, covered with chemical instruments and utensils, in short, an apparatus exciting great curiosity. the door closed, just as sir valentine handed up his card to the sentinel. the door was opened again--his card given in; somebody took it, and it seemed to fly over a row of small white porcelain painters' pallets, standing mid-deep in water, and then disappeared, as the door was suddenly closed again. a voice within was heard to say, impatiently, "i really am afraid we can't be disturbed!" "can't you!" exclaimed sir valentine, addressing himself to a servant girl, with a child in her arms, who was trying to get a peep in at the door: "can't you, indeed! what treatment do you call this? do you think gentlemen would take the trouble to come _down_ here, such a distance, and _up_ here such a height, if they did not expect to see all that could possibly be seen? is this your duty to the public who pays you? why should you conceal any thing from me? am i not a person of sufficient wealth and respectability to be allowed to know of all your doings up here! what brings you here but the public service? who is your master? tell me that!" "edward smith, of seaford," answered the girl, with an angry face; "but i don't know as it's any business of yours!" sir valentine brushed past the girl with a "pooh, pshaw!" observing it was announced, by a placard on one side of the little wooden house, that the explosion would take place at three o'clock, he took out his watch and found that it was already half-past two. it became important to decide on the most advantageous place to take up a position, in order to have the best view of the grand explosion. some of the visitors--in fact, a considerable number--had ascended to the very highest part of the rock, which swept upward, with its green coating of grass to a distance of a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards beyond the dangerous spot. another crowd took their posts at about the same distance below the fatal spot, each crowd being widely scattered, the boldest in each being nearest, the most timid the furthest off. another crowd--and this was the largest by far--had descended to the beach, to see, from below, the fall of the great mass of lofty rock. many had taken boats, and rowed, or sailed out, to behold it from a more directly opposite, yet safer position. now, sir valentine saltear, being an enthusiast in sight-seeing, had not the least doubt but the way really to _enjoy_ the thing, would be to stand upon the portion of the cliff that was to be thrown down; and, leaping from crack to crack, and from mass to mass, as it majestically descended, reach by this means the sea, into which a good dive forward would render your escape from danger comparatively safe and easy. on second thoughts, however, he saw that it was precarious, because if the charge of powder were in excess of the weight to be separated, a great mass of fragments might fly upward into the air, and who could say but one of these might be the very place on which he himself was standing? he, therefore, contented himself with advancing to the extreme edge of the cliff, and peering over upon the beach below. the height was prodigious; the crowds walking about below were of pigmy size. the boats that were hovering about on the sea looked no bigger than mussel shells. sir valentine once thought of going out in a boat, but immediately recollecting that by doing so he should lose the fine effect of the trembling of the earth, he at once abandoned the idea. if he mounted above the scene of action he should lose the grandeur of the descent of the mass; if he stood on the mount at some distance below it, he could not see the surface crack and gape, though he might be exposed to flying fragments. he, therefore, decided forthwith on going down to the beach, and accordingly he hurried along the grassy slope, and then made his way down a precipitous zig-zag fissure in the sand hill below, till he found his feet rattling and limping over the stones of the beach. here he was amid six or seven thousand people--many more than he had seen from above--some walking about, some sitting in long rows or in groups, on the damp shingles, some standing in knots--all speculating as to how soon it would now be before the great explosion. a few flagstaffs were planted, with several sentinels, to mark the line which no one was allowed to pass; and this line was very strongly marked besides by a dark crowd of the most fearless of the visitors. according to their several degrees of apprehension, the crowds were scattered over the beach at various distances, some of them being at least a mile and a half off. sir valentine, after an examination of all the bearings of the case, elected to have a place in the front row, close to the flagstaff; but, taking into consideration the possibility that the explosion might send up a great mass of fragments, which might come flying over that way, and crush numbers by their fall, he looked round to try and secure a retreat the instant he should see a black cloud of fragments in the air. the front line would not be able to retreat in time, because, being crowded, they would, in the panic of the moment, stumble over each other, and falling pell-mell, become an easy prey to the descending chalk. sir valentine, therefore, being not only an enthusiast, but also a man of foresight, took his post to the extreme right of the line, so that he could, if he saw need, retreat into the sea; to make sure of which, and, at the same time, to have an unimpeded view, he now stood half up to his knees in water. it was three o'clock--the hour of doom for the chalk in its contest with gunpowder. a bugle sounded, and a movement of the sentries on the top of the rock was discerned by the thousands of eyes looking up from the beach. many, also, who were above, suddenly thought they could better their positions by moving further off. below, on the beach, there was a hush of voices; not a murmur was heard. every body stood in his favorite attitude of expectation. all eyes were bent upon the lofty projecting cliff; and nearly every mouth was open, as if in momentary anticipation of being filled with an avalanche of chalk. again a bugle sounded--and all was silence. not a shingle moved. presently there was a low, subterranean murmur, accompanied by a trembling of the whole sea-beach--sea and all; no burst of explosion; but the stupendous cliff was seen to crack, heave outward, and separate in many places half way down; the upper part then bowed itself forward, and almost at the same instant, the cliff seemed to bend out and break at one-third of the way from the base, till, like an old giant falling upon his knees, down it sank, pitching at the same time head foremost upon the beach with a tremendous, dull, echoless roar. a dense cloud of white dust and smoke instantly rose, and obscured the whole from sight. every body kept his place a moment in silence--the front line then made a rush onward--then abruptly stopped, bringing up all those behind them with a jerk. who knows but more cliff may be coming down? in the course of half a minute the cloud of dust had sufficiently dispersed itself to render the fallen mass visible. it formed a sort of double hill, about one-fifth of the height of the rocks above, the outer hill nearest the sea (which had been the head and shoulders of the fallen giant) being by far the largest. it was made up of fragments of all sizes, from small morsels, and lumps, up to huge blocks of chalk, many of which were two or three feet in thickness, intermixed with masses of the upper crust, having grass upon the upper surface. toward this larger hill of broken masses of chalk, the front rank of the cloud below, on the beach, now rushed. but after a few yards, they again stopped abruptly, bringing every body behind them bump up against their backs. again, they moved on waveringly, when suddenly a small piece of cracked rock detached itself from above, and came rolling down. back rushed the front line--a panic took place, and thousands retreated, till they found the cliff was not coming after them, when they gradually drew up, faced about, and returned to the onset. at length it became a complete charge: the front rank made directly for the large broken mound, in the face of clouds of drifting chalk-dust, and fairly carried it by assault--mounting over blocks, or picking their way round about blocks, or between several blocks, and through soft masses of chalk, and so upward to the top--two soldiers, three sailors, a boy, and sir valentine, being the first who reached it. thereupon, they set up a shout of victory, which was echoed by thousands from below. fifty or sixty more were soon up after them; and one enthusiast, who had a very clever little brown horse, actually contrived to lead him up to the top, and then mounted him, amid the plaudits of the delighted heroes who surrounded him. every body, horse and all, was covered with the continual rain of chalk-dust. the heroes were all as white as millers. it was almost as difficult to descend as it had been to get up. however, sir valentine managed to effect this with considerable alacrity, and made his way hastily across the field to the little "public," with intent to secure a fly, or other conveyance, before they were all occupied by the numbers he had left behind him on the beach. nothing could be had: all were engaged. he walked onward hastily, and was fortunate enough to overtake a large pleasure-cart, into which he got, and, after suffering the vexation of seeing every vehicle pass them, he at length arrived at the newhaven railway station. the escape of queen mary from lochleven castle. by agnes strickland. the escape of mary queen of scots, from lochleven castle, is one of the most striking passages in the history of female royalty. the time, the place, the beauty and exalted rank of the illustrious heroine, her wrongs, and her distress, the chivalry and courage of the gallant spirits who had undertaken to effect her deliverance, the peril of the enterprise, and its success, combine all the elements of a romance. yet the adventure creates a more powerful impression related in the graphic simplicity of truth, as it really befell, than when worked up with imaginary circumstances into a tale of fiction, even by the magic pen of scott in the pages of "the abbot." the fatal concatenation of events, which had the effect of entangling the royal victim in the toils of her guileful foes, can not be developed here. the broad outline of the outward and visible facts is familiar to almost every reader, but to expose the undercurrent to view by documentary evidences, and to make manifest the hidden workings of iniquity, requires a wider field than these brief pages can afford. i must, therefore, refer the public to my long-promised "life of mary stuart," which will shortly appear in my new series of royal female biographies,[ ] based on documentary sources, for particulars which can scarcely fail of removing the obloquy with which mercenary writers, the ready tools of self-interested calumniators, have endeavored to blacken the name of this hapless lady. the confederate lords into whose hands mary, confiding in their solemn promises to treat her with all honor and reverence as their sovereign, rashly surrendered herself, at carberry-hill, not only shamelessly violated their pact, but after exposing her to the most cruel insults from the very abjects of the people, incarcerated her in the gloomy fortress of lochleven, under the jailorship of the mother of her illegitimate brother, the earl of murray, and the wardership of the sons that person had had by her late husband sir robert douglas, of lochleven, for the lady of lochleven was a married woman when the earl of murray was born.[ ] it is scarcely possible to imagine a more doleful abiding place for the fallen queen, in her affliction, than that which had been thus injuriously and by a refinement of malice, selected for her by her perfidious foes. the castle, which is of extreme antiquity, said indeed to have been founded by congal, a pictish king, is of rude architecture, consisting of a square donjon keep, flanked with turrets, and encompassed with a rampart; it is built on a small island, almost in the centre of the wild expanse of the deep, and oft-times stormy, waters of the loch, which is fifteen miles in circumference. the castle island consists of five acres, now overgrown with trees and brushwood. in the midst of this desolation tradition points out one ancient stem, of fantastic growth, said to have been planted by the royal captive as a memorial of her compulsory residence in the castle. the boughs of this tree, which is called "queen mary's thorn," are constantly broken and carried away as relics by the visitors, whom the interest attached to the memory of that unhappy princess attracts to the spot, which her sufferings have rendered an historic site of melancholy celebrity. the events of the long dreary months which mary wore away in this wave-encircled prison-house, bereft of regal state, deprived of exercise and recreation, and secluded from every friend save her two faithful ladies, and a little maiden of ten years old, the voluntary companions of her durance, as well as the occupations wherewith she endeavored to beguile her sorrowful hours, will be found very fully detailed in my biography of that unfortunate queen, with many recently-discovered facts. toward the end of march, george douglas, the youngest son of the lady of lochleven, whose manly heart had been touched with generous sympathy, or, as some assert, with a deep and enduring passion for his fair ill-fated sovereign, made a bold and almost successful attempt to convey her out of the castle, in the disguise of a laundress. the queen, however, being identified by the whiteness and delicacy of her hands, which she had raised to repel one of the rude boatmen, who endeavored to remove her hood and muffler to get a sight of her face, she was brought back, and george douglas was expelled from the castle with disgrace. but though banished from his house, he lurked concealed in the adjacent village, where he had friends and confederates, and, doubtless inspired many an honest burgher and peasant with sympathy for the wrongs of their captive sovereign, by his description of the harsh restraint to which she was subjected within the grim fortress of lochleven. at kinross he was joined by the faithful john beton, and other devoted servants of the queen, who were associated for the emancipation of their royal mistress, and had long been lurking, in various disguises, among the western lomonds, to watch for a favorable opportunity of effecting their object. douglas had left, withal, an able coadjutor within the castle, a boy of tender years, of mysterious parentage, and humble vocation, who was destined to act the part of the mouse in Æsop's beautiful fable. this unsuspected confederate was a youth of fifteen, who waited on the lady of lochleven in the capacity of page. he is known in history by the names of willie douglas, and the little douglas; in the castle he was called the lad willie, the orphan willie, and the foundling willie,[ ] for he was found, when a babe, at the castle gates. home, of godscroft, says, "he was the natural brother of george douglas,"[ ] a statement perfectly reconcileable with the story of his first introduction into the family of the late laird of lochleven. such incidents are not of unfrequent occurrence in the daily romance of life, and often has it happened that the appeal made to the parental feelings of a profligate seducer, in behalf of a guiltless child of sin and sorrow, has awakened feelings of feminine compassion in the bosom of the injured wife, and the forlorn stranger has received a home and nurture through her charity. this appears to have been the case with regard to little willie and the lady of lochleven; for, whether she suspected his connection with the laird her husband or not, he was taken in, and brought up under her auspices, and as attendant on her person. frail as she had been in her youth, and cruel and vindictive in her treatment of the lawful daughter of her royal seducer, whom it irked her pride to consider as her sovereign, it is nevertheless pleasant to trace out the evidence of some good in the harsh lady of lochleven. the foundling willie remained in the castle, after the death of the old laird, an orphan dependent in the family, but his subsequent actions prove that he had received the education of a gentleman; for not only could he read and write, but he understood enough of french and other languages to be sent on secret missions to foreign princes. to these acquirements willie added courage, firmness, and address, seldom paralleled in one of his tender years. there is not any circumstance in the course of mary stuart's career more striking than the fact that, in this dark epoch of her life, when deprived of all the attributes of royalty, oppressed, calumniated, and imprisoned, two friends like george and willie douglas should have been raised up for her in the family of her deadliest foes. the regent and his confederates, men whose hands had been soiled with english gold, had not calculated on the existence of the chivalric feelings which animated those young warm hearts with the determination of effecting the liberation of their captive queen. "mary being deprived of pen and ink at this time," says her french biographer, caussin, "wrote her instructions with a piece of charcoal, on her handkerchief, which she employed the boy willie douglas to dispatch to the lord seton." john beton, who still lay, perdue, among the hills, was the ready bearer of this missive, and arranged every thing for the reception and safe conduct of his royal mistress, in case she should be fortunate enough to reach the shore in safety. for many nights he, with lord seton, george douglas, and others, kept watch and ward on the promontory which commanded a view of the castle and the lake, in expectation of being apprised, by signal, that the project was about to be carried into effect. on sunday, the second evening in may, all things being in readiness, and the family at supper, willie douglas, who was waiting on the lady of lochleven, contrived, while changing her plate, to drop a napkin over the keys of the castle (which were always placed beside her during meals), and having thus enveloped them, succeeded in carrying them off unobserved. hastening with them to the queen, he conducted her, by a private stair, to the postern, and so to the water-gate of the castle, which he took care to lock after him; and when the boat had gained convenient distance from the shore, flung the keys into the water. these mute memorials of the adventure were found covered with rust when the loch was drained, early in the present century. they are now in the possession of the earl of morton, at dalmahoy house, where i saw them and the rude iron chain which formerly linked them together, but which, being rusted through, fell to pieces when taken out of the water. the lochleven keys are five in number, large and small, of antique workmanship, and are all carefully enshrined in a casket lined with velvet, and preserved as precious relics by the noble representatives of the chivalric george douglas. the boat which willie the orphan had adroitly secured for the service of his captive sovereign, was that belonging to the castle, and the only medium of communication for the castellan and his meiné with the shore. immediate pursuit was, therefore, almost impossible. the companions of queen mary's flight were, her faithful attendant, mary seton, ever near her in the hour of peril, and a little girl of ten years old, of whose safety her majesty appeared tenderly careful, as she led her by the hand. the other damsel, a french lady of the name of quenede, gave a remarkable proof of her personal courage and devotion to her royal mistress; for, not being quick enough to reach the castle gate till it was locked behind the retreating party, she fearlessly leaped out of the window of the queen's apartment into the loch, and swam after the boat till she was received within that little ark in her dripping garments. meantime, lord seton and his gallant associates, who were anxiously reconnoitring from their eyrie the progress of the little bark and its precious freight across the lake, remained in a state of the greatest excitement, not daring to believe that so feeble an instrument as the orphan willie had succeeded in achieving an exploit which the bravest peers in scotland might have been proud of having performed, and her own royal kinsmen, the allied princes of france and spain, had not ventured to attempt. but all doubts and fears were dispelled when they recognized the stately figure of their queen, distinguished from the other females by her superior height, rising in the boat and giving the telegraphic signal of her safety, as previously agreed, by waving her vail, which was white with a crimson border, the royal colors of scotland. the moment that auspicious ensign was displayed, fifty horsemen, who had lain concealed behind the hill, sprang to their saddles, and, with lord seton at their head, galloped down to the shore, where george douglas and beton, with another party of devoted friends, were already waiting to receive and welcome their enfranchised sovereign, as she sprang to the land. the fleetest palfreys that scotland could supply had long been provided, and concealed by george douglas's trusty confederates in the village, in anticipation of the success of this enterprise, and were now ready caparisoned for the queen and her ladies. mary mounted without delay, and, attended by the faithful companions of her perils and escape, scoured across the country at fiery speed, without halting, till she reached north queen's ferry, about twenty miles from lochleven. embarking in the common ferry-boat at that port, she and her company crossed the rough waters of the firth, and landed, tradition says, at the ancient wooden pier, which formerly jutted out into the sea, just above the town of south queen's ferry. there she was met and welcomed by lord claud hamilton, and fifty cavaliers and other loyal gentlemen, eager to renew their homage, and burning to avenge her wrongs. lord seton conducted his royal mistress to his own castle at west niddry, distant seven miles from south queen's ferry, where she partook of his hospitality, and enjoyed the repose of a few hours, after her moonlight flitting. west niddry now forms part of the fair domain of the earl of hopeton. the roofless shell of the stately castle, which afforded the first safe resting-place to the fugitive sovereign is still in existence. the changes of the last few years have conducted the railroad line between edinburgh and glasgow in close proximity to the ruins of the feudal fortress, which gave rest and shelter to the royal fugitive, after her escape from lochleven. the gray mouldering pile, in its lonely desolation, arrests for a moment the attention of the musing moralist or antiquarian among the passengers in the trains that thunder onward to their appointed goal through solitudes that recall high and chivalric visions of the past. but niddry castle should be visited in a quiet hour by the historical pilgrim, who would retrace in fancy the last bright scene of mary stuart's life, when, notwithstanding the forced abdication which had transferred the regal diadem of scotland to the unconscious brow of her baby-boy, she stood a queen once more among the only true nobles of her realm, those whom english gold had not corrupted, nor successful traitors daunted. one window in niddry castle was, within the memory of many persons in the neighborhood, surmounted with the royal arms of scotland, together with a stone entablature, which, though broken, is still in existence, in the orchard of the adjacent grange, inscribed in ancient letters with the day of the month and the date of the year, and even the age of george lord of seton, at the memorable epoch of his life when the beauteous majesty of scotland, whom he had so honorable a share in emancipating from her cruel bondage, slept beneath his roof in safety. lord seton had been an old and faithful servant of his queen. he was the master of the royal household, and had been present at her nuptials with the beloved husband of her youth, king francis ii., of france. on her return to scotland, after the death of that sovereign, mary offered to advance seton to the dignity of an earldom, but being the premier baron in parliament, he refused to be the puisne earl, giving humble thanks to her majesty for her proffered grace at the same time. mary then wrote the following extempore distich in latin and also in french: "_sunt comites ducesques denique reges; setoni dominum sit satis mihi._" which, in plain english, may be rendered thus: "though earls and dukes, and even kings there be, yet seton's noble lord sufficeth me." "after that unfortunate battle of langside, the said lord george seton was forced to fly to flanders, and was there in exile two years, and drove a wagon with four horses for his subsistence. his picture in that condition," adds the quaint, kindred biographer of the noble family of seton, "i have seen drawn, and lively painted, at the north end of the long gallery in seton, now overlaid with timber. from flanders, the said lord george went to holland, and there endeavored to seduce the two scots regiments to the spanish service, upon a design thereby to serve his sovereign the queen, the king of spain being very much her friend. which plot of his being revealed, the states of holland did imprison and condemn him to ride the cannon; but by the friendship and respect the scotch officers had to him, he was by them set at liberty, notwithstanding this decision of the states."[ ] lord seton outlived these troubles, he was preserved to enjoy the reward of his integrity after those who pursued his life had been successively summoned to render up an account of the manner in which they had acquired and acquitted themselves of their usurped authority, till all were clean swept away. it is a remarkable fact that the most relentless of the persecutors of their hapless sovereign, mary stuart, especially those who for a brief period were the most successful in their ambitious projects, murray, lennox, marr, lethington, and morton, all by violent or untimely deaths preceded their royal victim to the tomb. james vi. testified a grateful sense of the services lord seton had rendered to queen mary, by preferring him and his sons to the most honorable offices in his gift. mary herself rewarded george douglas to the utmost of her power, in various ways, but above all by facilitating his marriage with a young and beautiful french heiress of high rank, to whom he had formed an attachment, and as his poverty was the only obstacle to this alliance, she generously enabled him to make a suitable settlement on his bride out of a portion of her french estates, which she assigned to him for this purpose by deed of gift. "services like his," as she wrote to her uncle, "ought never to be forgotten." a simple black marble tablet in the chancel of edensor church, to the left of the altar, marks the grave of john beton, on which a latin inscription records the fact, "that he died at chatsworth, in his thirty-fourth year, worn out with the fatigues and hardships he had encountered in the service of his royal mistress," adding as his best and proudest epitaph, "that he had assisted in delivering that illustrious princess from her doleful prison in the laga laguina." (lochleven.) poetry is the handmaid as well as the inspiration of chivalry, and if ever the deeds of brave and loyal gentlemen deserved to live in song, surely the achievement of the loyal associates who rescued their oppressed queen from her cruel captivity in lochleven castle, ought to be thus commemorated, and their names had in remembrance long after "the marble that enshrines their mortal remains has perished, and its imagery mouldered away." footnotes: [ ] "lives of the queens of scotland, and english princesses connected with the regal succession of great britain." [ ] see many dispatches from the english envoys resident in scotland. state paper office, from to . [ ] "life of lord herries," edited by pitcairne, abbotsford club, p. . [ ] "life of james earl of morton," in the "lives of the douglases," p. . [ ] continuation of the "history of the houses of seytoun, by alexander, viscount kingston. printed for the maitland club." [from dickens's household words.] a german picture of the scotch. a new play was recently produced at the principal theatre of vienna, which illustrates the notions of scotchmen which obtain currency and credence among the germans. the scene is laid in st. petersburgh; the real hero is a little animal, known to dog-fanciers as a scotch terrier; but the nominal chief character is a banker from glasgow, named sutherland. he had failed in his native place, but in russia he became a great man, for he was the favorite money-dealer of the empress catherine. we all know the strength of a scotch constitution, but we also know the severity of a st. petersburgh winter: yet mr. sutherland presents himself to his audience, amidst the frozen scenery of that ice-bound city, in what is believed abroad to be the regular everyday costume of a citizen of glasgow; namely, a kilt, jack-boots, and a cocked hat, with a small grove of fine real feathers. mr. sutherland, despite his scanty nether costume, appears to be in excellent health and spirits. he has thriven so well in the world that, in accordance with a tolerably correct estimate of the caledonian national character, his relations at home begin to pay court to him, and to send him presents. one indulges him with the hero of the piece: the small, ugly, irate, snuffy quadruped before mentioned. the banker takes it with a good-humored "pish!" little dreaming of the important part the little wretch is destined to play. he had scarcely received the gift when the empress passes by, sees the dog, and desires to possess it, while the grateful sutherland is too glad to be able to gratify a royal caprice at so light a cost. she, in the fervency of her gratitude, named the dog after the donor--a great compliment. alas! one day, the dog, who had eaten too plentifully of _zoobrême_ (chicken stewed with truffles), was seized with apoplexy and died; though not without suspicion of having been poisoned by the prime minister, a piece of whose leg he had digested the day before. the empress sighed far more over the loss of her dog, than she would have done for that of the minister. the one might have been easily replaced: she knew at least twenty waiting open-mouthed for the vacancy. but who could replace her four-footed friend!--she mourns him as a loss utterly irreparable. she orders the greatest mark of affectionate respect it is possible to show to be performed on the dead terrier. the scene changes; it is night. the fortunate banker is seated at dessert, after an excellent dinner of "mutton rosbif," and "hot-a-meale pour-ridges, and patatas," indispensable to a north briton; his legs are crossed, his feet rest upon a monstrous fender, which he takes care to inform us he has received from england, as he sits sipping his "sherri port bier," and soliloquizing pleasantly over the various chances of his life. he is just about to finish his evening with some "croc," the english name for the pleasant invention of admiral grogram; his servant enters, to announce that the chief executioner with a file of soldiers have just dropped in, to say a word on a matter of business from the empress. the awful functionary, on stalking into the room, exclaimed, "i am come--" "well, i see you are," replied the banker, trying to be facetious, but feeling like a man with a sudden attack of ague. "by command of the empress!" "long may she live!" ejaculates sutherland, heartily. "it is really a very delicate affair," says the executioner; who, like the french samson, is a humane man; "and i do not know how to break it to you." "oh, pray, don't hesitate. what would you like to take?" asked the banker, spilling the grog he tried to hand to the horrid functionary, from sheer fright. the envoy shakes his head grimly. "it is what we must all come to some day," he adds, after a short pause. "what is? in heaven's name do not keep me longer in suspense!" cries the banker, his very visible knees knocking together with agonizing rapidity. "i have been sent," answers the awful messenger; again he stops--looks compassionately at his destined victim. "well!" "by the empress--" "i know!" "to have you--" "what?" "stuffed!" said the executioner mournfully. the banker shrieked. "stuffed!" repeats the man, laconically, pointing to a bird in a glass case, to prevent there being any mistake in sutherland's mind as to the nature of the operation he is to be called upon to undergo. the executioner now lays his hand significantly on poor sutherland's collar, and looks into his face, as if to inquire if he had any particular or peculiar fancy as to the mode in which he would like to go through the preparatory operation of being killed. "i have brought the straw," he says, "and two assistants are without. the empress can not wait; and we have not got your measure for the glass case yet." the banker looks the very picture of abject misery; but britons, in foreign comedies, are always ready to buy every thing, and the banker had lived long enough in russia to know the value of a bribe. he therefore offers one so considerable, that his grim visitor is touched, and endeavors to lull his sense of duty to sleep by a sophistry. "i was told, indeed, to have you stuffed," he reasons, "and got ready for the empress; but nothing was said about time; so i don't mind giving you half an hour if you can satisfy these gentlemen"--and he turns to his associates. it is briefly done. the banker pays like a man whose life depends on his liberality--we suppose several millions--for the executioner remarks that he can not forget that a groom in england frequently receives several thousands sterling a year; this is a very prevalent idea among the frankish and teutonic nations of the continent. we once heard a spanish general assert, in a large assembly, that the usual pay of an english ensign was five hundred pounds a month, an idea doubtless derived from some iberian dramatist; and therefore a public functionary like the executioner must be remunerated proportionably higher. the enormous pecuniary sacrifice gets for sutherland some half-hour's respite; which he wisely uses by flying to the british embassador, sir bifstik, and awaits the result with great anguish. sir bifstik goes to the empress. he is admitted. he asks if her majesty be aware of the position of a british subject named sutherland? "excellent man," says her majesty, "no! what is it?" sir bifstik bows low at the tones of the imperial voice, and now begins to explain himself with something more than diplomatic haste; thinking, perhaps, that already the fatal straw may be filling the banker's members. imperial catherine does not, of course, consider the putting to death of a mere scotch banker, and making him in reality what some of his brethren are sometimes called figuratively--a man of straw--worth this fuss; and sets the embassador down in her mind as a person of wild republican ideas, who ought to be recalled as soon as possible by his government, and placed under proper surveillance; but, nevertheless, she causes some inquiries to be made, and learns that it is in consequence of her having ordered "sutherland" to be stuffed that he is probably then undergoing that operation. sir bifstik expresses such horror and consternation at this intelligence, that the empress believes his mind to be disordered. "what possible consequence can the accidental stuffing of a scotch banker be to you, milor?" she saith. "the ac-ci-den-t-al stuff-ings of a scotcher bankers!" in a german idiom not generally used by our nobility, gasps sir bifstik, mechanically, with pale lips and bristling hair. "take him away! he is mad!" screams the empress, thinking that no sane person could be concerned about such a trifling affair, and in another moment the most sacred of international laws would have been violated (on the stage), and great britain insulted by profane hands being laid on the person of her embassador, when all at once a light breaks over the mind of her majesty--the recalling of something forgotten. she exclaims, with a russian _nonchalance_ quite cheering to behold, "oh, i remember; now it is easily explained. my poor little dog (i had forgotten him too) died yesterday, and i wished his body to be preserved. _cher chien!_ his name was the same as that of the banker, i think. alas that cruel death should take _my_ dog!" "but mr. sutherland has, perhaps, already been murdered!" gasps the embassador. "i pray that your majesty will lose no time in having him released, should he be still alive!" "ah, true! i never thought of that," returns the empress. the order is finally issued, and sutherland rescued, just as the executioner, grown angry at his unreasonable remonstrances, resolves to delay no longer in executing the imperial commands. to put the _coup-de-grace_ on the comic agony of the poor banker, his immense red crop of hair has, in that half hour of frightful uncertainty, turned white as snow! [from hogg's instructor.] the french revolutionists, marat, robespierre, and danton. by george gilfillan. one obvious effect of the upheavings of a revolution is to develop latent power, and to deliver into light and influence cast down and crushed giants, such as danton. but another result is the undue prominence given by convulsion and anarchy to essentially small and meagre spirits, who, like little men lifted up from their feet, in the pressure of a crowd, are surprised into sudden exaltation, to be trodden down whenever their precarious propping gives way. revolution is a genuine leveler: "small and great" meet on equal terms in its wide grave; and persons, whose names would otherwise have never met in any other document than a directory, are coupled together continually, divide influence, have their respective partisans, and require the stern alembic of death to separate them, and to settle their true positions in the general history of the nation and the world. nothing, indeed, has tended to deceive and mystify the public mind more than the arbitrary conjunction of names. the yoking together of men in this manner has produced often a lamentable confusion as to their respective intellects and characteristics. sometimes a mediocrist and a man of genius are thus coupled together; and what is lost by the one is gained by the other, while the credit of the whole firm is essentially impaired. sometimes men of equal, though most dissimilar intellect, are, in defiance of criticism, clashed into as awkward a pair as ever stood up together on the floor of a country dancing-school. sometimes, for purposes of moral or critical condemnation, two of quite different degrees of criminality are tied neck and heels together, as in the dread undistinguishing "marriages of the loire." sometimes the conjunction of unequal names is owing to the artifice of friends, who, by perpetually naming one favorite author along with another of established fame, hope to convince the unwary public that they are on a level. sometimes they are produced by the pride or ambition, or by the carelessness or caprice, of the men or authors themselves. sometimes they are the deliberate result of a shallow, though pretentious criticism, which sees and specifies resemblances, where, in reality, there are none. sometimes they spring from the purest accidents of common circumstances, common cause, or common abode, as if a crow and a thrush must be kindred because seated on one hedge. from these, and similar causes, have arisen such combinations as dryden and pope, voltaire and rousseau, cromwell and napoleon, southey and coleridge, rogers and campbell, hunt and hazlitt, hall and foster, paine and cobbett, byron and shelley, or robespierre and danton. in the first histories of the french revolution, the names of marat, robespierre, and danton occur continually together as a triumvirate of terror, and the impression is left that the three were of one order, each a curious compound of the maniac and the monster. they walk on, linked in chains, to common execution, although it were as fair to tie up john ings, judge jeffreys, and hercules furens. a somewhat severer discrimination has of late unloosed marat from the other two, and permitted robespierre and danton to walk in couples, simply for the purpose of pointing more strongly the contrast between the strait-laced demonism of the one, and the fierce and infuriated manhood of the other. at least, it is for this purpose that we have ranked their names together. of marat, too, however, we are tempted to say a single word--"marah," might he better have been called, for he was a water of bitterness. he reminds us of one of those small, narrow, inky pools we have seen in the wilderness, which seem fitted to the size of a suicide, and waiting in gloomy expectation of his advent. john foster remarked, of some small "malignant" or other, that he had never seen so much of the "_essence_ of devil in so little a compass." marat was a still more compact concentration of that essence. he was the prussic acid among the family of poisons. his unclean face, his tiny figure, his gibbering form, his acute but narrow soul, were all possessed by an infernal unity and clearness of purpose. on the great clock of the revolution--while danton struck the reverberating hours--while robespierre crept cautiously but surely, like the minute-hand, to his object--marat was the everlasting "tick-tick" of the smaller hand, counting, like a death-watch, the quick seconds of murder. _he_ never rested; he never slumbered, or walked through his part; he fed but to refresh himself for revolutionary action; he slept but to breathe himself for fresh displays of revolutionary fury. milder mood, or lucid interval, there was none in him. the wild beast, when full, sleeps; but marat was never full--the cry from the "worm that dieth not," within him being still, "give, give," and the flame in his bosom coming from that fire which is "never to be quenched." if, as carlyle seems sometimes to insinuate, earnestness be in itself a divine quality, then should marat have a high place in the gallery of heroes; for if an earnest angel be admirable, chiefly for his earnestness, should not an earnest imp be admirable, too? if a tiger be respectable from his unflinching oneness of object, should not a toad, whose sole purpose is to spit sincere venom, crawl amid general consideration, too? if a conflagration of infernal fire be on the whole a useful and splendid spectacle, why not honor one of its bluest and most lurid flames, licking, with peculiar pertinacity, at some proud city "sham?" but we suspect, that over carlyle's imagination the quality of greatness exerts more power than that of earnestness. a great regal-seeming ruffian fascinates him, while the petty scoundrel is trampled on. his soul rises to mate with the tiger in his power, but his foot kicks the toad before it, as it is lazily dragging its loathsomeness through the wet garden-beds. the devils, much admired as they stood on the burning marl, lose caste with him when, entering the palace of pandemonium, they shrink into miniatures of their former selves. mirabeau, with carlyle, is a cracked angel; marat, a lame and limping fiend. some one has remarked how singular it is that all the heroes of the french revolution were _ugly_. it seems as curious to us that they were either very large or very little persons. danton was a titan; mirabeau, though not so tall, was large, and carried a huge head on his shoulders; whereas marat and napoleon were both small men. but the french found their characteristic love of extremes gratified in all of them. even vice and cruelty they will not admire, unless sauced by some piquant oddity, and served up in some extraordinary dish. a little, lean corporal, like napoleon, conquering the brobdingnagian marshals and emperors of europe, and issuing from his nut-like fist the laws of nations; a grinning death's head, like voltaire, frightening christendom from its propriety, were stimulating to intoxication. but their talent was gigantic, though their persons were not; whereas, marat's mind was as mean, and his habits as low, as his stature was small, and his looks disgustful. here, then, was the requisite french ragout in all its putrid perfection. a scarecrow, suddenly fleshed, but with the heart omitted--his rags fluttering, and his arms vibrating, in a furious wind, with inflamed noddle, and small, keen, bloodshot eyes--became, for a season, the idol of the most refined and enlightened capital in europe. had we traced, as with a lover's eye, the path of some beautiful flash of lightning, passing, in its terrible loveliness, over the still landscape, and seen it omitting the church spire, which seemed proudly pointing to it as it passed--sparing the old oak, which was bending his sacrificial head before its coming--touching not the tall pine into a column of torch-like flame, but darting its arrow of wrath upon the scarecrow, in the midst of a bean-field, and, by the one glare of grandeur, revealing its "looped and ragged" similitude to a man, its aspiring beggary, and contorted weakness--it would have presented us with a fit though faint image of the beautiful avenger, the holy homicide, the daughter of nemesis by apollo--charlotte corday--smiting the miserable marat. shaft from heaven's inmost quiver, why wert thou spent upon such a work? beautiful, broad-winged bird of jove, why didst thou light on such a quarry? why not have ranged over europe, in search of more potent and pernicious tyrants, or, at least, have run thy beak into the dark heart of robespierre? why did a steel, as sharp and bright as that of brutus, when he rose "refulgent from the stroke," pierce only a vile insect on the hem of a mantle, and not at once a mantle and a man? such questions are vain; for not by chance, but by decree, it came about that a death from a hand by which a demi-god would have desired to die, befell a demi-man, and that now this strange birth of nature shines on us forever, in the light of charlotte corday's dagger and last triumphant smile. yet, even to marat, let us be merciful, if we must also be just. a monster he was not, nor even a madman; but a mannikin, of some energy and acuteness, soured and crazed to a preternatural degree, and whose fury was aggravated by pure fright. he was such a man as the apothecary in "romeo and juliet" would have become in a revolution; but he, instead of dealing out small doses of death to love-sick tailors and world-wearied seamstresses, rose by the force of desperation to the summit of revolutionary power, cried out for , heads, and died of the assaults of a lovely patriotic maiden, as of a sun-stroke. and yet shakspeare has a decided _penchant_ for the caitiff wretch he so graphically paints, and has advertised his shop to the ends of the earth. so let us pity the poor vial of prussic acid dashed down so suddenly, and by so noble a hand, whom mortals call marat. nature refuses not to appropriate to her bosom her spilt poisons, any more than her shed blooms--appropriates, however, only to mix them with kindlier elements, and to turn them to nobler account. so let us, in humble imitation, collect, and use medicinally, the scattered drops of poor acrid marat. marat was essentially of the canaille--a bad and exaggerated specimen of the class, whom his imperfect education only contributed to harden and spoil. robespierre and danton belong, by birth and training, by feelings and habits, to the middle rank--robespierre sinking, in the end, below it, through his fanaticism, and danton rising above it, through his genius and power. both were "limbs of the law," though the one might be called a great toe, and the other a huge briarean arm; and, without specifying other resemblances, while marat lost his temper and almost his reason in the _mêlée_ of the revolution, both robespierre and danton preserved to the last their self-possession, their courage, and the full command of their intellectual faculties, amidst the reelings of the wildest of revolutionary earthquakes, and the thick darkness of the deepest canopy of revolutionary night. robespierre reminds us much of one of the old covenanters. let not our readers startle at this seemingly strange assertion. we mean the _worst_ species of the old covenanter--a specimen of whom is faithfully drawn by sir walter in burley, and in our illustrious clansman--the "gifted gilfillan." such beings there did exist, and probably exist still, who united a firm belief in certain religious dogmas to the most woeful want of moral principle and human feeling, and were ready to fight what they deemed god's cause with the weapons of the devil. their cruelties were cool and systematic; they asked a blessing on their assassinations, as though savages were to begin and end their cannibal meals with prayer. such men were hopelessly steeled against every sentiment of humanity. mercy to their enemies seemed to them treason against god. no adversary could escape from them. a tiger may feed to repletion, or be disarmed by drowsiness; but who could hope to appease the _ghost of a tiger_, did such walk? ghosts of tigers, never slumbering, never sleeping, cold in their eternal hunger, pursuing relentlessly their devouring way, were the religious fanatics--the dalziels and claverhouses, as well as the burleys and mucklewraths, of the seventeenth century. to the same order of men belonged robespierre, modified, of course, in character and belief, by the influences of his period. the miscalled creed of the philosophers of france in the eighteenth century, which, with many of themselves, was a mere divertisement to their intellects, or a painted screen for their vices, sunk deep into the heart of robespierre, and became a conviction and a reality with him. so far it was well; but, alas! the creed was heartless and immoral, as well as false. laying down a wide object, it permitted every license of vice or cruelty in the paths through which it was to be gained. robespierre became, accordingly, the worst of all sinners--a _sinner upon system_--a political antinomian, glorying in his shame, to whom blood itself became at last an abstraction and a shadow; the guillotine only a tremendous shuttle, weaving a well-ordered political web; and the tidings of the fall of a thousand heads agreeably indifferent, as to the farmer the news of a cleared hay or harvest field. that robespierre had at the first any appetite for blood, is not now asserted by his bitterest foe. that he ever even acquired such a monstrous thirst, seems to us very unlikely. his only thought would be, at the tidings of another death, "another sacrifice to my _idea_; another obstacle lifted out of its way." nero's wish that his enemies had but "one neck" was, we think, comparatively a humane wish. it showed that he had no delight in the disgusting details, but only in the secure result of their destruction. _he_ is the unnatural monster who protracts the fierce luxury--who sips his deep cup of blood lingeringly, that he may know the separate flavor of every separate drop, and who, like the cyclops in the cave, leaves some select victim to the last, as a _bonne bouche_ to his sated appetite--"_noman_ shall be the last to be devoured." robespierre, no more than nero, was _up_ to such delicately infernal cruelty. carlyle frequently admits robespierre's sincerity, and yet rates him as little other than a sham. we account for this as we did in the case of marat. he is regarded as a small sincerity; and the sincerity of a small man contracts, to carlyle's eye, something of the ludicrous air in which a lilliputian warrior, shouldering his straw-sized musket, and firing his lead-drop bullets, seemed to gulliver. "bravo, my little hero!" shouts the titan, with a loud laugh, as he sees him, with "sky-blue breeches," patronizing the houseless idea of a divine being, "prop away at the tottering heavens, with that new nine-pin of thine; but why is there not rather a little nice doll of an image in those showy inexpressibles, to draw out, and complete the conversion of thy people? and why not say, 'these be thy gods, o toy and toad-worshiping france!'" to bring him to respect, while he admits, the sincerity, we would need to disprove the smallness, of our arras advocate. now, compared to truly great men, such as cromwell--or to extraordinary men, such as napoleon, mirabeau, and danton--robespierre was small enough. but surely it was no pigmy, whose voice--calm, dispassioned, and articulate--ruled lunatic france; who preserved an icy coolness amid a land of lava; who mastered, though it was only for a moment, a steed like the revolution; and who threw from his pedestal, though it was by assailing in an unguarded hour, a statue so colossal as danton's. rigid, roman-like purpose--keen, if uninspired, vision--the thousand eyes of an argus, if not the head of a jove, or the fist of a hercules--perseverance, honesty, and first-rate business qualities--we must allow to robespierre, unless we account for his influence by satanic possession, and say--either _no dunce aut diabolus_. carlyle attributes his defeat and downfall to his pertinacious pursuit of a shallow logic to its utmost consequences. probably he thus expresses, in his own way, the view we have already sought to indicate. robespierre was the sincere, consistent, unclean apostle of an unclean system--a system of deism in theology--of libertinism in morals--of mobocracy in politics--of a "gospel according to jean-jacques"--a gospel of "liberty, equality, fraternity"--a liberty ending in general bondage, an equality terminating in the despotism of unprincipled talent, a fraternity dipping its ties in blood. with faithful, unfaltering footstep, through good report and bad report, he followed the genius of revolution in all her devious, dark, dangerous, or triumphant paths, till she at last turned round in anger, like a dogged fiend, and rent him in pieces. in dealing with robespierre, we feel, more than with marat, that we are in contact with an intelligent human being, not an oddity, and mere splinter of a man. his idea _led_, and at last _dragged_ him, but did not devour nor possess him. his cruelty was more a policy, and less a raging passion; and his great moral error lay in _permitting_ a theory, opposed to his original nature, to overbear his moral sense, to drain him of humanity, and to precipitate him to his doom. if he had resisted the devil, he would have fled from him. in rising from robespierre to danton, we feel like one coming up from the lower plains of sicily into its western coast--the country of the cyclopes, with their one eye and gigantic stature; their courage, toil, ferocity, impiety, and power. danton _did_ tower titanically above his fellows, and, with little of the divine, was the strongest of the earth-born. he had an "eye," like a shield of sight, broad, piercing, and looking straight forward. his intellect was clear, intuitive, commanding, incapable of the theoretical, and abhorrent of the visionary. he was practical in mind, although passionate in temperament, and figurative in speech. his creed was atheism, not apparently wrought out by personal investigation, or even sought for as an opiate to conscience, but carelessly accepted, as the one he found fashionable at the time. his conduct, too, was merely the common licentiousness of his country, taking a larger shape from his larger constitution and stronger passions. his political faith was less definite and strict, but more progressive and practical, and more accommodated to circumstances than robespierre's. his patriotism was as sincere as robespierre's, but hung about him in more voluminous folds. it was a toga, not a tunic. a sort of lazy greatness, which seemed, at a distance, criminal indifference, characterized him when in repose. his cupidity was as cyclopean as his capacity. nothing less than a large bribe could fill such a hand. no common goblet could satisfy such a maw. greedy of money, for money's sake, he was not. he merely wished to live, and all paris knew what he meant by living. and with all the royal sops to cerberus, he remained cerberus still. never had he made the pretensions of a lord russell, or algernon sidney, and we know how they were subsidized. his "poverty, but not his will consented." had he lived in our days, a public subscription--a "danton testimonial, all subscriptions to be handed in to the ---- office of camille desmoulins," would have saved this vast needy patriot--this "giant worm of fire," from the disgrace of taking supplies from louis, and then laughing a wild laughter at his provider, as he gnawed on at the foundations of his throne. in fact, careless greatness, without principle, was the key to danton's merits and faults--his power and weakness. well did madame roland call him "sardanapalus." when he found a clover field, he rolled in it. when he had nothing to do, he did nothing; when he saw the necessity of doing something immediately, he could condense ages of action into a few hours. he was like some terrible tocsin, never rung till danger was imminent, but then arousing cities and nations as one man. and thus it was that he saved his country and lost himself, repulsed brunswick, and sunk before robespierre. it had been otherwise, if his impulses had been under the watchful direction of high religious, or moral, or even political principle. this would have secured unity among his passions and powers, and led to steady and cumulative efforts. from this conscious greatness, and superiority to the men around him, there sprung a fatal security and a fatal contempt. he sat on the mountain smiling, while his enemies were undermining his roots; and while he said, "he dares not imprison me," robespierre was calmly muttering "i will." it seemed as if even revolution were not a sufficient stimulus to, or a sufficient element for danton's mighty powers. it was only when war had reached the neighborhood of paris, and added its hoarse voice to the roar of panic from within, that he found a truly titanic task waiting for him. and he did it manfully. his words became "half battles." his actions corresponded with, and exceeded his words. he was as calm, too, as if he had created the chaos around him. that the city was roused, yet concentrated--furious as gehenna, but firm as fate, at that awful crisis, was all danton's doing. paris seemed at the time but a projectile in his massive hand, ready to be hurled at the invading foe. his alleged cruelty was the result, in a great measure, of this habitual carelessness. too lazy to superintend with sufficient watchfulness the administration of justice, it grew into the reign of terror. he was, nevertheless, deeply to blame. he ought to have cried out to the mob, "the way to the prisoners in the abbaye lies over danton's dead body;" and not one of them had passed on. he repented, afterward, of his conduct, and was, in fact, the first martyr to a milder regime. not one of his personal enemies perished in that massacre: hence the name "butcher" applied to him is not correct. he did not dabble in blood. he made but one fierce and rapid irruption into the neighborhood of the "_red sea_," and returned sick and shuddering therefrom. his person and his eloquence were in keeping with his mind and character. we figure him always after the pattern of bethlehem gabor, as godwin describes him: his stature gigantic, his hair a dead black, a face in which sagacity and fury struggle for the mastery--a voice of thunder. his mere figure might have saved the utterance of his watchword, "we must put our enemies in fear." his face was itself a "reign of terror." his eloquence was not of the intellectual, nor of the rhetorical cast. it was not labored with care, nor moulded by art. it was the full, gushing utterance of a mind seeing the real merits of the case in a glare of vision, and announcing them in a tone of absolute assurance. he did not indulge in long arguments or elaborate declamations. his speeches were cyclopean cries, at the sight of the truth breaking, like the sun, on his mind. each speech was a peroration. his imagination was fertile, rugged, and grand. terrible truth was sheathed in terrible figure. each thought was twin-born with poetry--poetry of a peculiar and most revolutionary stamp. it leaped into light, like minerva, armed with bristling imagery. danton was a true poet, and some of his sentences are the strangest and most characteristic utterances amid all the wild eloquence the revolution produced. his curses are of the streets, not of paris, but of pandemonium; his blasphemies were sublime as those heard in the trance of sicilian seer, belched up from fallen giants through the smoke of etna, or like those which made the "burning marl" and the "fiery gulf" quake and recoil in fear. such an extraordinary being was danton, resembling rather the mammoths and megatheriums of geology than modern productions of nature. there was no beauty about him why he should be desired, but there was the power and the terrible brilliance, the rapid rise and rapid subsidence of an oriental tempest. peace--the peace of a pyramid, calm-sitting and colossal, amid long desolations, and kindred forms of vast and coarse sublimity--be to his ashes! it is lamentable to contemplate the fate of such a man. newly married, sobered into strength and wisdom, in the prime of life, and with mildness settling down upon his character, like moonlight on the rugged features of the sphinx, he was snatched away. "one feels," says scott of him, "as if the eagle had been brought down by a 'mousing owl.'" more melancholy still to find him dying "game," as it is commonly called--that is, without hope and without god in the world--caracolling and exulting, as he plunged into the waters of what he deemed the bottomless and the endless night; as if a spirit so strong as his could die--as if a spirit so stained as his could escape the judgment--the judgment of a god as just as he is merciful; but also--blessed be his name!--as merciful as he is just. [from bentley's miscellany.] rattlin the reefer's dream. a tough but true yarn. by one of rattlin's old shipmates. it was about the middle of august, --, that the _old lucifer_ was cruising in the monar passage, a strait about forty miles wide, which separates the eastern end of st. domingo from the island of porto rico. i was "middy" of the morning watch: it had been dead calm all night, but the gentle trade-wind was rising with the rising sun, and morning was glorious with the magic gilding of a tropical sky. some time after eight bells,[ ] when ned rattlin, who was never very punctual or methodical in any of his movements, came on deck to relieve me, and i was about to hurry down to my breakfast of warm skilligalee, or, as our old french negro, who served as midshipmen's steward and maid-of-all-work, with true french tact for murdering the king's english, called it, "giggeragee," ralph seized me by the collar of my jacket, crying, "avast! careless, my boy; you really must not make sail for the cockpit till you have heard the horrid dream which i had last night or this morning, for i dreamt it twice over, and can not get it out of my head. i must tell it to some one, and you are the only one that i dare tell it to; i should be so confoundedly laughed at by the _servum pocus_ of the cockpit; but you and i know each other, and have some pursuits and feelings in common. we have our day-dreams and our night-dreams, and we know that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of a midshipman's berth." now, had not ralph seized hold of me by the lappel of my jacket, as before said, i should certainly have cut and run; for a reefer of sixteen, who is just relieved from the morning-watch, which he has kept for four hours, from four o'clock in the morning, and who has taken a cold bath in the wash-deck tub, is not likely to be in a humor to let his breakfast of cocoa or skilligalee grow cold. but, with the powerful grip of ralph's shoulder-of-mutton fist on my collar, there was no chance of escape without tearing my jacket from clue to earring, which i felt that i could not afford to do; for, as i have before remarked, ralph rattlin was my senior by two years at least, and overtopped me in height by a foot, or something near it. i therefore made a virtue of necessity, and said, "well, jemmy, if you'll promise not to keep me long, and allow me, first, to run down below and tell old dom to keep my burgoo[ ] warm, i'll return and hear your wonderful dream, though i fancy it's all gammon, and only manufactured to try the capacity of my swallow; because you know that, like yourself, i have a bit of hankering after the marvelous, and, as the negro methodist said of the prophet jonah, am 'a tellible fellow for fish,' though i doubt whether, like him, i could quite swallow a whale." "well, then, make sail, you little flibbertigibbet, and make haste back, that's a good fellow." the above elegant soubriquet he generally favored me with, when, in yankee parlance, i had "riled" him and got his "dander up," as was always the case when he was called jemmy caster; he being but too conscious that his long loose figure and shambling gait bore, at that time, no small resemblance to those of a waister of that name, though he afterward became a remarkably fine, handsome man, bearing a striking resemblance, not without sufficient reason, to king george the fourth. in a few minutes i had made arrangements with old dominique for the safe custody of my breakfast, and was again pacing the lee side of the quarter-deck, by the side of my gigantic messmate. "and now, my dear careless," said he, with unusual gravity, "if you can be serious for a few minutes, i will relate to you this infernal dream, which so preys upon my spirits that i do not feel like myself this morning, and must unburden my mind. i dreamt, then, that i was on the second dog-watch, as you know i shall be this evening; it was between seven and eight bells, the night pitch-dark, with the wind blowing fresh from the northeast, the ship under double-reefed topsails, and foresail close hauled on the starboard tack, running at the rate of five knots as i had found upon heaving the log. suddenly the sea became like one sheet of flame; its appearance was awfully grand; the head of every wave, as it curled over and broke, diffused itself in broad streaks and flashes of blue and white flame; and i involuntarily repeated to myself the two lines of that singular, soul-freezing rhapsody, the 'ancient mariner,' which, though descriptive of a very different state of the ocean from that now presented to my imagination, i felt to be most applicable to what i saw before me-- the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white; and then, referring to the two preceding lines of the stanzas-- about, about, in reel and rout, the death-fires danced at night. for that strangely wild and beautiful poem had taken a powerful hold on my sleeping fancy. i asked myself, with a shudder, can there be 'death-fires?' and it seemed that the question uttered half aloud, had no sooner passed my lips, than it received its answer in a most strange and fearful manner; for a voice, like no human voice that i ever yet heard, shrieked out, in a tone of horror and distress, that made my blood run cold, 'ship a-hoy--ship a-hoy!' i turned toward the lee quarter, whence the voice came; and, jumping on a carronade-slide, i saw the body of a man appearing out of the sea, from the waist upward, of gigantic size, and of most forbidding--and at the same time woeful--countenance. his body appeared covered with scales, like that of a fish, which reflected the ghastly phosphoric light of the waters in radiating hues of green and gold, and purple and violet. his ample jaws, which opened from ear to ear, and which were furnished with a triple row of saw-shaped teeth, like those of a shark, were fringed with a thick curled beard and mustache, of pale sea-green, which fell in wavy masses, mingling with long elf-locks of the same sickly hue, over his broad breast and shoulders; his deep sunk eyes flashed out with a strange unearthly light from beneath thick, overhanging eyebrows of that self-same sea-green hue, and his head was surrounded and surmounted with a waving diadem of 'green, and blue and white' flames, flashing upward, and radiating sideways, and curling over their waving tops, so as to ape the exact form of ostrich feathers. awful as the figure was, and though it made my flesh creep, yet dreaming as i was, i felt conscious that there was something of the ridiculous attached to the _bizarrerie_ of its appearance. you know my vein, careless, and will give me credit for a true exposition of my feelings, when i tell you that, though in a most awful funk, i could not help adopting the words of _trinculo_, and asking myself, half aloud, what have we here--a man or a fish? i had not, till that moment, noticed the quarter-master of the watch, a fine old weather-beaten seaman, who stood close to my side, and was, like myself, attentively watching the movements of the strange demon-like merman, who continued to follow the ship within a few fathoms of the lee quarter-gallery, with a continual bowing or nodding motion of the head, which caused his plumes of livid flame to flash and corruscate, so that, to my eyes, they appeared to assume various forms of terror, as of 'fiery flying serpents,' entwining his temples and thence shooting upward, hissing and protruding their forked tongues, and lashing the air with their wings and tails of flame; and then, again, they subsided as before into the form of gracefully-curling ostrich plumes; meanwhile he kept opening his terrific jaws, from which issued a thin blue luminous vapor, as if in act to speak, but uttered no audible sound, except that every now and then he would wring his huge hands, which appeared to be webbed to the second joint of the fingers, like the feet of a water fowl, and furnished with long, crooked nails like an eagle's claws, and utter a wailing shriek so like the cry of a drowning man, that it nearly drove me mad to hear it, and seemed to freeze my very blood in my veins. whether old bitts, the quarter-master, had really heard me quote the words of _trinculo_, or whether, as all things seem to work by supernatural influences in dreams, he had divined my question by intuition, i know not, but he answered me at once. "'no, sir; believe an old sailor, that 'ere critter is neither man nor fish; it is somebody far more terrible-like, and one that few living sailors have ever set eyes on, though, mayhap, i may have seen him before; mayhap, d'ye see, i can't tell when nor where, nor whether it were sleeping or waking; howsomedever, be that as it will, i knows him well enough, for sure that 'ere's old davy himself--old davy jones--he's come for some poor fellow's soul on board this here ship; and if you wants to get rid of him, you'd better go down at once, and call the captain up, that he may tell him to take what he wants and be off; for, till that's done, he'll keep alongside the ship, and if he's kept too long waiting, there's no saying but he may send a hurricane which may sweep the _old lucifer_ and all her officers and crew, away down into his locker.' "this hint was no sooner given, than i thought i went down into the captain's cabin, where i found captain dure seated at the cabin-table, just under the swinging lamp, as pale as death, and trembling from head to foot like an aspen-leaf. "'please, sir,' i said, touching my hat, as in duty bound, 'davy jones has come alongside, and is waiting for somebody's soul; will you please to come on deck, and tell him to take what he wants?' "'i know it,' said the captain, who seemed utterly unnerved with terror, while the presence of the unearthly visitant seemed to ---- harrow up his soul, freeze his young blood; make his two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; his knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine. "'i had a glimpse of him,' continued he, 'out of the quarter-gallery window, and that's enough for me. let the officer of the watch, or the first lieutenant, tell him to take what he wants, and get rid of him.' "now, it seemed to me in my dream that i was dreadfully annoyed at the conduct of the captain in shrinking in such a dastardly manner from his duty; for, from the moment that bitts had informed me who the stranger was and what he required, i had gone down and reported his advent to the skipper, with as much coolness and unconcern as i should have done the coming alongside of the admiral or any other great personage, and all my terror seemed, for the time, to have vanished as soon as the strange vision became connected with matters of routine or ship's duty. i, therefore, addressed the captain again, as it seemed to me, in a tone more authoritative than respectful: 'but, sir, you must come on deck; for old bill bitts says that davy jones will hearken to nobody but the captain or commander of the ship for the time being, and he knows davy of old; and says, that if you don't come up on deck soon and let him go, the old fellow will send a hurricane that will blow the _old lucifer_ out of the water, and that we shall find ourselves all, men and officers, down in davy jones's locker before you can say jack robinson. and i can tell you, sir, that the sky looks very ugly to windward.' "'well, ralph, my boy!' said the captain, apparently quite convinced by my eloquent speech, which seemed to go down capitally in my dream, though i guess i should soon be looking out for squalls at the main-top-gallant-mast head, if i were to venture to address such a cavalier harangue to the skipper in waking earnest. 'well, ralph, my boy! give me your arm, and we'll go on deck, and give old davy his due, since it must be so.' and with my assistance the captain mounted the companion-ladder, still trembling in every limb. "as soon as we came on deck, i led him over to the lee side of the quarter-deck, and begged him to mount the carronade slide, and give his unwelcome visitor the _congé d'élire_, for which he seemed waiting, still bowing his head, waving his fiery plumes, and mopping and mowing, and showing his treble row of teeth, as before. at the sight of the frightful demon, the captain seemed more dead than alive, and ready to fall from the gun-carriage, on which i was obliged to support him; he, however, plucked up courage to shriek out, in a voice that trembled with agitation, 'whoever, or whatever you are, take what you want, and begone;' and having said so, he sank powerless into my arms; upon which the creature uttered one of its strange, thrilling shrieks as of a drowning man, but which seemed mingled with a sort of shrill, demoniac laughter, and disappeared below the waves--the waving plumes of his singular head-gear flashing up half-mast high as he sank out of sight. at the same moment, my eyes were somehow mysteriously directed from it, and i saw jacob fell, the forecastle-man, fall dead into the arms of one of his watch-mates, he, whom we call cadaverous jack, and whom you christened the ancient mariner, because you said he went about his duty looking so miserable, holding his head down on one side, as if he always felt the weight of the murdered albatross hanging about his neck. immediately a heavy squall threw the ship on her beam-ends, and i awoke"--which was the singular dream related to me by my quondam friend and shipmate, with a gravity quite unusual with him, except when he wanted to play upon the credulity of some of us youngsters, when he used to assume the gravest possible countenance, though i could always, in these cases, discern the lurking devil in his eyes. in this case, however, i could discover no such appearance of fun and frolic; his looks were, on the contrary, perfectly serious, and even allied to sadness, in spite of the bravado with which he had assumed his usual careless levity of manner in certain parts of his narration. i determined, however, not to let him have the laugh against me, and therefore said, "come, come, jemmy, you should tell that dream to the marines; the sailors can't bolt it; it's rather too tough. we all of us know that you are always dreaming, but you can't catch old birds with such chaff. i am too old a sea-dog, and have sailed over too many leagues of blue water to bite at such gammon." i prided myself much on being ralph's senior in the service by a couple of years or so, and felt indignant that he should think of treating me as a youngster, because he had about the same advantage of me in age. he, however, affirmed, in the most solemn manner, that it was an actual _bonâ-fide_ dream, and that it had been reiterated on his falling asleep again, though in broken and disjointed patches, sometimes one part, sometimes another, of the previous vision being presented to his sleepy fancy; but there was always this horrible merman, with his shark's jaws and his flaming tiara, and poor jacob fell lying dead in his messmate's arms. but methinks i hear some nautical reader exclaim, "all stuff!" who ever heard of two reefers telling their dreams, and chattering on the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck of one of her majesty's frigates, like a guinea-pig and an embryo cadet on the quarter-deck of a bengal trader? pardon, my noble sea-_hossifer_, but you must remember that the _old lucifer_ was not the crack frigate--not the _eos_, six-and-thirty, but only a small frigate; and that, although she was blessed with a real martinet of a first-lieutenant, yet, in point of discipline, she was like most jackass frigates and sloops of war, _et hoc genus omne_, little better than a privateer; besides, our portuguese supernumerary lieutenant was the officer of the watch, and ralph had completely got the weather-gage of him, and could do what he liked with the "pavior." however, the dream was told me by ralph nearly in the very words in which i have given it, though, perhaps, not all on deck, for the subject was renewed over our allowance of grog in the midshipmen's berth after dinner, for nothing could drive it out of rattlin's head, and he was all that day singularly silent and _distrait_ on all other subjects. that evening i had the first dog-watch; and when rattlin came on deck at six o'clock to relieve me, the sun was setting in a red and angry-looking sky, and there was every symptom of a squally night. "well, percy," he said, "this sunset reminds me of my dream. i really think old davy will be among us before my watch is out." "very well, jemmy, i'll come on deck at seven bells and see," i replied, as i ran down the companion for an hour's snooze, for, as my nautical readers will be aware, i had the middle watch. mindful of my promise, as soon as i heard seven bells struck, i roused myself from the locker on which i had stretched myself, and went on deck, and i was immediately struck with the perfect coincidence of the weather, and all the accessories to those described by rattlin in his dream. the ship had just been put about, and was now close hauled on the starboard tack; the night pitch dark, the breeze freshening from the northeast, and the sea beginning to assume that luminous appearance so frequently observable under a dark sky and with a fresh breeze, but which, though generally attributed to myriads of luminous animalculæ, has never yet been fully and satisfactorily accounted for. i joined my friend rattlin, and said to him, in a low tone, "this looks, indeed, like your dream." "yes," he answered, looking very pale and nervous; "it does, indeed. i don't know what to make of it. davy jones will certainly lay hold of some of us to-night." at this moment the first-lieutenant came on deck, followed by the captain, whose sallow countenance, as he stood abaft the binnacle, and the light fell on his face, looked rather more ghastly than usual. "i think, mr. silva," said the former, addressing the officer of the watch, "we had better take another reef in the topsails; it looks very squally to windward; it's drawing near to eight bells, so we'll turn the hands up at once." "mr. rattlin," said silva, "all hands reef topsails." "boatswain's-mate," bawled out rattlin, going forward on to the weather gangway, "turn the hands up to reef topsails." "ay, ay, sir;" and immediately his silver call was between his lips, and after blowing a shrill prelude, his hoarse voice was heard proclaiming, "all hands reef topsails, ahoy," which was re-echoed from the main-deck by the call and voice of the boatswain's-mate of the watch below, and, finally, by those of the boatswain himself, as the men came tumbling up the fore and main hatchways, and were soon seen scampering up the rigging, or making the best of their way to their various stations. in less than five minutes the topsails were double-reefed, and the ship again dashing the spray from her bows. it being now so near the time for relieving the watch, the crew, with the exception of the idlers, all remained on deck, and the topmen scattered in groups about the gangways and forecastle. all at once the sky grew blacker than before, the breeze freshened, and the surface of the sea became like one sheet of pale blue and white flame. "now, careless," whispered rattlin, actually trembling with excitement, "my dream to the life!" the words had scarcely passed his lips, when such a shriek as i never heard before or since, seemed to come out of the very depths of the ocean, close under the ship's counter on the lee quarter. every one rushed to the lee gangway, or jumped on the quarter-deck guns, to look in the direction from whence the sound came; but nothing could be seen. once more that doleful cry arose, and it seemed now rather more distant from the ship, and then it ceased forever. "a man overboard!" cried the first lieutenant, who seemed the first to recover his senses, seizing a grating of the companion-hatchway, and flinging it over the lee bulwark, while the lieutenant of the watch did the same with its fellow. "down with helm, and heave her all aback--let go the lee braces--lay the main-topsail to the mast--square away the after-yards, my boys--lower the jolly-boat--jump into her, some of ye, and cast off her fastenings." this latter command had, however, been obeyed ere it was issued, for the captain of the mizen-top and myself had jumped into the boat, where we were soon joined by three other mizen-top-men, and had her all clear for lowering. two other seamen stood with the boat's tackle-falls in their hands. "lower away," cried i; and down we went. during her descent, i had shipped the rudder, and we were soon pulling away to leeward. in vain we pulled about for more than an hour in the short, tumbling sea, which scintillated as it broke around us, and shed a ghastly hue on our anxious countenances, while the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes from the blades of our oars at every dip as they rose again from the water. at length the stentorian voice of the first-lieutenant hailed us to come on board, and we gave up our hopeless search, bringing with us nothing but one of the gratings and the life-buoy, which had been thrown overboard to support the drowning man, had he been fortunate enough to lay hold on one or the other of them. upon passing the word forward to inquire whether any of the ship's company were missing, it was found that jacob fell, the forecastle-man, had not been seen since he had laid out with one of his watch-mates to stow the jib, which was hauled down when the topsails were reefed; the other man had left him out on the jib-boom, whence he must have fallen overboard; and it was supposed, from his thrilling and unearthly shriek, that he had been seized by a shark, as that part of the carribean sea is peculiarly infested by those voracious creatures; and thus was most singularly accomplished my shipmate rattlin's dream. footnotes: [ ] time is regulated on board a king's ship by a half-hour glass, which is placed in the binnacle, in charge of the quarter-master of the watch on deck, and who when he turns the glass, passes the word forward to strike the bell, which, in a man-of-war, is hung to the main-bitts, just over the main-hatchway, and where it is consequently heard with facility all over the ship. [ ] burgoo, or skilligalee, is the sea-term for what in scotland is called "parritch," and in ireland "stirabout," namely, oatmeal boiled in water. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] letters and letter writing. neither history nor tradition tells us aught of the first letter--who was its writer, and on what occasion; how it was transmitted, or in what manner answered. the chinese, the hindoo, and the scandinavian mythologies had each tales regarding the inventors of writing, and the rest of those that by pre-eminence may be called human arts; but concerning the beginner of mankind's epistolary correspondence, neither they nor the classic poets--who by the way, volunteered many an ingenious story on subjects far less important--have given us the least account. pope says: "heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid-- some banished lover, or some captive maid." the poet evidently refers to the letter-writing art, and it may be so, for aught we can tell; but with all submission to his superior knowledge, banished lovers and captive maids have rarely been the transmitters of such useful inventions. certainly, whoever first commenced letter-writing, the world has been long his debtor. it is long since the samaritans wrote a letter against the builders of jerusalem to artaxerxes, and it may be observed that the said letter is the earliest epistle mentioned in any history. older communications appear to have been always verbal, by means of heralds and messengers. homer, in his account of all the news received and sent between the greeks and trojans, never refers to a single letter. the scribe's occupation was not altogether unknown in those days, but it must have been brought to considerable perfection before efforts in the epistolary style were made. that ancient language of picture and symbol, in which egypt expressed her wisdom, was undoubtedly the earliest mode of writing; but, however, calculated to preserve the memory of great historical events amid the daily life, and toil, and changes of nations, it was but poorly fitted for the purpose of correspondence. how could compliments or insinuations be conveyed by such an autograph? letters must have been brief and scanty in the hieroglyphic times; yet doubtless not without some representations, for the unalphabeted of mankind have combined to hold mutual intelligence by many a sign and emblem, especially in those affairs designated of the heart, as they above all others contribute to ingenuity. hence came the eastern language of flowers, which, with oriental literature and mythology, is now partially known over the civilized world. in its native clime this natural alphabet is said to be so distinctly understood, that the most minute intimations are expressed by it; but the more frank and practical courtship of europe has always preferred the pen as its channel of communication, which, besides its greater power of enlargement, prevents those mistakes into which the imperfectly-initiated are apt to fall with flowers. for instance, there is a story of a british officer in andalusia who, having made a deep impression on the heart of a certain alcaide's daughter, in one of the small old towns of that half-moorish province, and receiving from her one morning a bouquet, the significance of which was--"my mother is in the way now, but come to visit me in the twilight," supposed in his ignorance, and perhaps presumption, that he was invited to an immediate appointment: whereupon he hurried to the house, just in time to meet the venerable signora, when the lady of his heart boxed his ears with her own fair hands, and vowed she would never again send flowers to a stupid englishman. in fine contrast to this sample of misunderstanding stands forth the dexterity with which an irish serving-maid contrived to signify, by symbols of her own invention, her pleasure, on a still more trying occasion. poor kitty, though a belle in her class, could neither read nor write; but her mistress's grown-up daughter undertook, as a labor of love, to carry on a correspondence between her and a certain hedge schoolmaster in the neighborhood, who laid siege to kitty's heart and hand on account of a small deposit in the savings' bank, and that proverbial attraction which learned men are said to find in rather illiterate ladies. the schoolmaster was, however, providently desirous of fixing on the mind of his future partner an impression of his own superiority sufficient to outlast the wear and tear of married life, and therefore wooed chiefly by long and learned letters, to which kitty responded in her best style, leaving to her volunteer secretary what she called "the grammar" of her replies; besides declaring, with many hardly-complimentary observations on the schoolmaster's person and manners, that she had not the slightest interest in the affair, but only, in her own words, "to keep up the craythur's heart." thus the courtship had proceeded prosperously through all the usual stages, when at length the question, _par excellence_, was popped (of course on paper). kitty heard that epistle read with wonted disdain; but, alas, for human confidence! there was something in her answer with which she could not trust the writer of so many; for after all her scorn, kitty intended to say, "yes," and her mode of doing so merits commemoration. in solitude that evening, beside the kitchen hearth, she sketched on a sheet of white paper, with the help of a burned stick, a rude representation of a human eye, and inclosing a small quantity of wool, dispatched it next morning to the impatient swain by the hand of his head scholar--those primitive tokens expressing to kitty's mind the important words, "i will," which the teacher, strange to say, understood in the same sense; and their wedding took place, to the unqualified amazement of kitty's amanuensis. epistolary forms and fashions have had their mutations like all other human things. the old eastern mode of securing letters was by folding them in the shape of a roll, and winding round them a thin cord, generally of silk, as the luxury of letters was known only to the rich. in the case of billets-doux--for eastern lovers did not always speak by flowers when the pen was at their command--enthusiastic ladies sometimes substituted those long silken strings which, from time immemorial, the oriental women have worn in their hair--a proceeding which was understood to indicate the deepest shade of devotedness. the mythic importance attached to these hair-strings must, indeed, have been great, as history records that a certain prince, whose dominions were threatened by mithridates, the great king of pontus--like other great men, a troublesome neighbor in his day--sent the latter a submissive epistle, offering homage and tribute, and bound with the hair-strings of his nineteen wives, to signify that he and his were entirely at the monarch's service. the custom of securing letters by cords came through the greek empire into europe in the middle ages; but the use of the seal seems still earlier, as it is mentioned in old testament history. ancient writers speak of it as an egyptian invention, together with the signet-ring, so indispensable throughout the classic world, and regarded as the special appendage of sovereignty in the feudal times. of all the letters the egyptians wrote on their papyrus, no specimens now remain, except perhaps those scrolls in the hands of mummies, referred to by early christian authors as epistles sent to deceased friends by those unreturning messengers; and they, it may be presumed, were at the best but formal letters, since no reply was ever expected. the classic formula for correspondence, "augustus to julius, greeting," is now preserved only in letters-patent, or similar documents. that brief and unvarying style has long been superseded in every language of europe by a graduated series of endearing terms, rising with the temperature of attachment, from "dear sir," or "madam," to a limit scarcely assignable, but it lies somewhere near "adored thomas" or "margery." masters of the fine arts as they were, those ancient nations came far short of the moderns in that of letter-writing. the few specimens of their correspondence that have reached us are either on matters of public business, or dry and dignified epistles from one great man to another, with little life and less gossip in them. it is probable that their practice was somewhat limited, as the facilities of the post-office were unknown to greece and rome--the entire agency of modern communication being to the classic world represented only by the post or courier, who formed part of the retinue of every wealthy family. the method of writing in the third person, so suitable for heavy business or ceremony, is evidently a classical bequest. it does not appear to have been practiced in england till about the beginning of the eighteenth century, though it was early in use among the continental nations. louis xiv. used to say, it was the only style in which a prince should permit himself to write; and in the far east, where it had been in still older repute, the chinese informed his missionaries that ever since they had been taught manners by the emperor tae sing, no inferior would presume to address a man of rank in any other form, especially as a law of the said emperor had appointed twenty blows of the bamboo for that infraction of plebeian duty. of all human writings, letters have been preserved in the smallest proportion. how few of those which the best-informed actors in great events or revolutions must have written, have been copied by elder historians or biographers! such documents are, by their nature, at once the least accessible and the most liable to destruction; private interests, feelings, and fears, keep watch against their publication; but even when these were taken out of the way, it is to be feared that the narrow-minded habit of overlooking all their wisdom deemed minute, which has made the chronicles of nations so scanty, and many a life in two volumes such dull reading, also induced learned compilers to neglect, as beneath their search, the old letters bundled up in dusty chest or corner, till they served a succeeding generation for waste paper. such mistakes have occasioned heavy losses to literature. time leaves no witnesses in the matters of history and character equal to these. how many a disputed tale, on which party controversy has raged, and laborious volumes have been written, would the preservation of one authentic note have set at rest forever? the practical learning of our times, in its search after confirmation and detail, amply recognizes the importance of old letters; and good service has been done to both history and moral philosophy by those who have given them to the press from state-paper office and family bureau. in such collections one sees the world's talked-of-and-storied people as they were in private business, in social relations, and in what might be justly designated the status of their souls. in spite of the proverbial truisms, that paper never refuses ink, and falsehood can be written as well as spoken, the correspondence of every man contains an actual portrait of the writer's mind, visible through a thousand disguises, and bearing the same relation to the inward man that a correct picture bears to the living face; without change or motion, indeed, but telling the beholder of both, and indicating what direction they are likely to take. the sayings of wits and the doing of oddities long survive them in the memory of their generation--the actions of public men live in history, and the genius of authors in their works; but in every case the individual, him or herself, lives in letters. one who carried this idea still farther, once called letter-writing the daguerreotype of mind--ever leaving on the paper its true likeness, according to the light in which it stands for the time; and he added, like the sun's painting, apt to be most correct in the less pleasant lines and lineaments. unluckily this mental portraiture, after the fashion of other matters, seems less perceptible to the most interested parties. many an unconcerned reader can at this day trace in swift's epistles the self-care and worship which neither stella nor vanessa could have seen without a change in their histories. cardinal mazarin, however, used to say that an ordinary gentleman might deceive in a series of interviews, but only a complete tactician in one of letters; "that is," observed his eminence, "if people don't deceive themselves." the cardinal's statement strikingly recalls, if it does not explain, a contemporary remark, that the most successful courtships, in the fullest sense of that word, were carried on with the help of secret proxies in the corresponding department. the count de lauson, whose days, even to a good old age, were equally divided between the bastile and the above-mentioned pursuit, in which he must have been rather at home--for though a poor gentleman, with little pretensions to family, still less to fortune, and no talents that the world gave him credit for, he contrived in his youth to marry a princess of the blood-royal of france, who had refused half the kings of europe, and been an amazon in the war of the frondé; and in his age a wealthy court belle--this count de lauson declared that he could never have succeeded in his endeavors after high matches but for a certain professional letter-writer of versailles, on whose death he is said to have poured forth unfeigned lamentations in the presence of his last lady. letters always appear to have been peculiarly powerful in the count's country. madame de genlis, whose "tales of the castle," and "knights of the swan" delighted at least the juveniles of a now-departing generation, was believed to have made a complete conquest, even before first sight, of the nobleman whose name she bears, by a single letter, addressed to a lady at whose house he was an admiring visitor, when she unadvisedly showed him the epistle. an anxiously-sought introduction and a speedy marriage followed; but the scandal-mongers of the period averred that their separation, which took place some years after, was owing, among other circumstances, to an anonymous letter received by the baron himself. frederick the great used to call the french the first letter-writers of europe, and it is probable that their national turn for clever gossip gives to their epistles a sort of general interest, for in no other country have letters formed so large a portion of published literature. this was particularly true in frederick's own age. never did a death or a quarrel take place--and the latter was not rare among the _savants_ of that period--but comfort or satisfaction was sought in the immediate publication of every scrap of correspondence, to the manifold increase of disputes and heartburnings. some of the most amusing volumes extant were thus given to the world; and madame dunoyer's, though scarcely of that description, must not be forgotten from the tale of its origin. when voltaire was a young attaché to the french embassy at the hague, with no reputation but that of being rather unmanageable by his family and confessor, he was on billet-doux terms, it seems, with madame's daughter; but madame found out that he was poor, or something like it, for in no other respect was the lady scrupulous. her veto was therefore laid on the correspondence, which nevertheless survived under interdict for some time, till voltaire left the embassy, and it died of itself; for he wrote the "oedipe," became talked of by all paris, and noticed by the marquis de vellers. gradually the man grew great in the eyes of his generation, his fame as a poet and philosopher filled all europe, not forgetting the hague; and when it had reached the zenith, madame dunoyer collected his letters to her daughter, which remained in her custody, the receiver being by this time married, and published them at her own expense in a handsomely-bound volume. whether to be revenged on fortune for permitting her to miss so notable a son-in-law, or on him for obeying her commands, it is now impossible to determine, but her book served to show the world that the early billets-doux of a great genius might be just as milk-and-watery as those of common people. indeed letter-publishing seems to have been quite the rage in the eighteenth century. the secretary la beaumelle stole all madame de maintenon's letters to her brother, setting forth her difficulties in humoring louis xiv., and printed them at copenhagen. some copies were obligingly forwarded to versailles, but madame assured the king they were beneath his royal notice, which, being confirmed by his confessor, was of course believed; but the transaction looks like retributive justice on her well-known practice of keeping sundry post-office clerks in pay to furnish a copy of every letter sent or received by the principal persons at court, not excepting even the royal family. among these were copied the celebrated letters of the dauphiness charlotte elizabeth of bavaria, which now, in good plain print, present to all readers of taste in that department a complete chronicle of all the scandal, gossip, and follies of versailles; and that princess, whose pride stood so high on her family quarterings, was gravely rebuked, and obliged to ask pardon seven years after for certain uncomplimentary passages in her epistles regarding madame when she first came to court as nursery governess to the king's children. dangerous approvers have old letters been from throne to cottage. many a specious statement, many a fair profession, ay, and many a promising friendship, have they shaken down. readers, have a care of your deposits in the post-office; they are pledges given to time. it is strange, though true, how few historical characters are benefited by the publication of their letters, surviving, as such things do, contemporary interests and prejudices, as well as personal influence. there must be something of the salt that will not lose its savor there to make them serve the writers in the eyes of posterity. what strange confidence the age of hoop and periwig put in letter-writing! divines published their volumes of controversy or pious exhortation, made up of epistles to imaginary friends. mrs. chapone's letters to her niece nourished the wisdom of british belles; while lord chesterfield's to his son were the glass of fashion for their brothers; and madame de sévigné's to her daughter, written expressly for publication, afforded models for the wit, elegance, and sentiment of every circle wherein her language was spoken. the epistolary style's inherent power of characterization naturally recommended it in the construction of their novels, and many a tale of fame and fashion in its day, besides "la nouvelle heloise," and "sir charles grandison," was ingeniously composed of presumed correspondence. chinese literature is said to possess numerous fictions in that form; but it is not to be regretted that modern novelists, whose name is more than legion, pass it by in favor of direct narrative; for, under the best arrangement, a number of letters can give but a series of views, telling the principals' tale in a broken, sketchy fashion, and leaving little room for the fortunes of second-rate people, who are not always the lowest company in the novel. tours and travels tell pleasantly in letters, supposing of course the letters to be well written; for some minds have such a wondrous affinity for the commonplace, that the most important event or exciting scene sinks to the every-day level under their pen. sir andrew mitchell, who was british embassador to prussia during the seven years' war, writes from the camp before prague concerning that great battle which turned the scale of power in germany, and served europe to talk of till the french revolution, in a style, but for quotations from the bulletin, suitable to the election of some civic alderman; and a less known traveler, writing to a friend of the glare of moscow's burning, which he saw from a russian country-house, reddening the northern night, describes it as "a very impressive circumstance, calculated to make one guard against fire." it has been remarked that, as a general rule, poets write the best, and schoolmasters the worst letters. that the former, in common with literary men of any order, should be at least interesting correspondents, seems probable; but why the instructors of youth should be generally stricken with deficiency in letter-writing is not so easy of explanation. some one has also observed that, independent of mental gifts and graces, characters somewhat cold and frivolous generally write the most finished letters, and instanced horace walpole, whose published epistles even in our distant day command a degree of attention never to be claimed by those of his superior contemporaries--the highly-gifted burke, and the profound johnson. it may be that the court gossip in and upon which horace lived has done much for the letters from strawberry hill, but the vein must have been there; and the abilities that shine in the world of action or of letters, the conversational talents or worthiness of soul, do not make the cleverest correspondent. count stadion, prime minister to the elector of mayence, according to goethe, hit on an easy method of making an impression by letters. he obliged his secretary, laroche, to practice his handwriting, which, it appears, he did with considerable success; and, says the poet in his own memoirs, being "passionately attached to a lady of rank and talent, if he stopped in her society till late at night, his secretary was, in the mean time, sitting at home, and hammering out the most ardent love-letters; the count chose one of these, and sent it that very night to his beloved, who was thus necessarily convinced of the inextinguishable fire of her passionate adorer." "hélas!" as madame d'epigny remarked, when turning over the printed epistles of a deceased friend, "one can never guess how little truth the post brings one;" but from the following tradition, it would seem the less the better. among the old-world stories of germany are many regarding a fairy chief or king, known from rustic times as number nip, or count-the-turnips. one of his pranks was played in an ancient inn of heidelberg, where, on a december night, he mixed the wine with a certain essence distilled from the flowers of elfland, which had the effect of making all who tasted it tell nothing but truth with either tongue or pen till the morning. the series of quarrels which took place in consequence round the kitchen fire belong not to the present subject; but in the red parlor there sat, all from vienna, a poet, a student, a merchant, and a priest. after supper, each of these remembered that he had a letter to write--the poet to his mistress, the merchant to his wife, the priest to the bishop of his diocese, and the student to his bachelor uncle, herr weisser of leopoldstadt, who had long declared him his heir. somehow next morning they were all at the post-office beseeching their letters back; but the mail had been dispatched, and the tale records how, after that evening's correspondence, the poet's liege lady dismissed him, the merchant and his wife were divorced, the priest never obtained preferment, and none of the letters were answered except the student's, whom herr weisser complimented on having turned out such a prudent, sensible young man, but hoped he wouldn't feel disappointed, as himself intended to marry immediately. the most curiously-characteristic letters now made public property are those of sir walter raleigh to queen elizabeth, written from the tower (to which the historian of the world was committed for wedding without her majesty's permission), and in the highest tone of desperation that a banished lover could assume; the correspondence between frederick of prussia and voltaire, then of france, after what was called their reconciliation, beginning with the grandest compliments, and ending with reminiscences of quite another kind, particularly that from the royal pen, which opens with, "you, who from the heights of philosophy look down on the weakness and follies of mankind," and concludes with the charge of appropriating candle-ends; and the epistles of rousseau during his residence in england, which alternate between discoveries of black conspiracies against his life and fame, and threats of adjournment to the workhouse, if his friends would not assist him to live in a better style than most country gentlemen of the period. there are printed samples with whose writers fame has been busy; but who can say what curiosities of letter-writing daily mingle with the mass that pours through the london post-office? can it be this continual custody and superintendence of so large a share of their fellow-creatures' wisdom, fortunes, and folly, that endows post-office functionaries in every quarter with such an amount of proverbial crustiness, if the word be admissible? do they, from the nature of their business, know too much about the public to think them worth civility, so that nobody has yet discovered a very polite postmaster or man? a strange life the latter leads in our great cities. the truest representative of destiny seems his scarlet coat, seen far through street and lane: at one door he leaves the news of failure and ruin, and at another the intelligence of a legacy. here his message is the death of a friend, while to the next neighbor he brings tidings of one long absent, or the increase of kindred; but without care or knowledge of their import, he leaves his letters at house after house, and goes his way like a servant of time and fortune, as he is, to return again, it may be, with far different news, as their tireless wheels move on. are there any that have never watched for his coming? the dwellers in palaces and garrets, large families, and solitary lodgers, alike look out for him with anxious hope or fear. strange it is for one to read over those letters so watched and waited for, when years have passed over since their date, and the days of the business, the friendship, or perhaps the wooing, to which they belong are numbered and finished! how has the world without and within been altered to the correspondents since they were written? has success or ill fortune attended the speculations by which they set such store? what have been their effects on outward circumstances, and through that certain channel, on the men? has the love been forgotten? have the friends become strange or enemies? have some of them passed to the land whose inhabitants send back no letters? and how have their places been filled? truly, if evidence were ever wanting regarding the uncertainty of all that rests on earth, it might be found in a packet of old letters. a chapter on shawls. we scarcely know a truer test of a gentlewoman's taste in dress than her selection of a shawl, and her manner of wearing it: and yet if the truth must be owned, it is the test from which few englishwomen come with triumph. generally speaking, the shawl is not their forte, in fact they are rather afraid of it. they acknowledge its comfort and convenience for the open carriage, or the sea-side promenade, but rarely recognize it for what it is, a garment capable of appearing the most feminine and graceful in the world. they are too often oppressed by a heap of false notions on the subject; have somehow an idea that a shawl is "old" or "dowdy;" and yet have a dim comprehension that the costly shawls which they more frequently hear of than see, must have some unimagined merits to prove an excuse for their price. the frenchwoman, on the contrary, has traditions about "cashmeres," and remembers no blank of ignorance on the subject. she played at dressing her doll with one, you may be sure; chronicled as an epoch in her life, her first possession of the real thing; holds it as precious as a diamond, and as something to which appertains the same sort of intrinsic value; and shrugs her shoulders with compassionate contempt at an englishwoman's ignorant indifference on this subject--just as a lover of olives pities the coarse palate which rejects them. truly the taste for the shawl is a little inherent, and a great deal acquired and cultivated; as appreciation for the highest attributes of every department of art ever must be, from a relish for canova's _chefs-d'oeuvres_ down to a relish for m. soyer's dishes. of course among those we are addressing, there is a minority who do know, and duly esteem a beautiful shawl: perhaps, from the possession of wealth, they have long been accustomed to be surrounded by objects of rare and exquisite fabric, and their practiced eyes would be quick at detecting inferiority: perhaps without great riches or the personal possession of valuable attire, a fine taste may have been cultivated by circumstances: and perhaps they are anglo-indians, or the relatives and near friends of anglo-indians, who know well a "cashmere,"--measuring every other shawl in the world by and from it--and to whom the word conjures up a host of memories half sunshine and half shadow. it was not until quite the close of the last century, that cashmeres were prized in europe. travellers' tales had mentioned them, it is true, but that was before the locomotive age, and when travelers were few, and traveling unspeakably tedious; when soldiers went to india to hold and increase their country's territory; when a few traders made princely fortunes; but when every system of interchange was narrow and exclusive, and people were taught to be content with clumsy common wares, instead of raising them to excellence by the spur of competition. it is said that in the year , the embassadors of tippoo saib left behind them at paris a few cashmere shawls--intended as gracious presents we presume--but which were regarded solely as curiosities, and not even much esteemed in that capacity, for we learn that they were employed as dressing-gowns, and even used for carpeting! not till after napoleon's expedition to egypt did they become the rage; and a solid good resulted from that campaign in the introduction of a fabric destined to be the model of one of the most famous manufactures of the french. madame emile gaudin, a lady of greek extraction and a reigning beauty, is reputed to have first worn a cashmere shawl in paris; but if we know any thing of the "consul's wife," or the "empress josephine," she was not very far behind, for her love of cashmeres was next to her love of flowers, as more than one anecdote might be called in to testify. what scenes this history of an inanimate object conjures up to the mind's eye. these leaders of fashion when the old century went out on the young republic of france, whose master was already found--who were they? the wives of men who were working out the destiny of europe, guided by a chief who, be he judged for good or evil, looms on the page of history in giant proportions! as we have said, the cashmere shawl became the rage. the farce of pretended equality in france was acted out, and the curtain dropped on it in preparation for quite a different tableau; people no longer risked their lives by dressing elegantly, and it was not now expected that the _soubrette_, the _blanchisseuse_, or the _poissonnière_ should dress precisely the same as the lady of a general officer. there was wealth, too, in the land, and the enormous sums demanded for these shawls were readily forthcoming. sums equivalent to two or three hundred pounds of our money were commonly paid even for soiled worn articles, which had done duty as turbans to mogul soldiers, or girded a bayadere's waist, or been the sacerdotal garment of an idolatrous priest--and had very frequently been thus used by more than one generation. it is true, the durability of the fabric and the lasting properties of the dyes, permitted the cleansing of these shawls with scarcely perceptible injury or deterioration, but still it was only the intrinsic merit of the thing, which could have overcome the natural repugnance which the known or suspected history of a cashmere must in many instances have occasioned. the levant traders had now large commissions, and the result was that _new_ shawls were soon more easily procurable, but still bearing an enormous price. this is readily accounted for, and a brief description of the manufacture of indian shawls will show how it is that they never can be cheap:--the wool of the thibet goat is the finest in the world, and for the best shawls only the finest even of this wool is used. the animals are shorn once a year, and a full-grown goat only produces about eight ounces of wool of this first quality. there is every reason to suppose that the climate has very much to do with the perfection of the animal, for attempts to naturalize it elsewhere have all more or less failed. the loom on which a cashmere shawl is woven is of the rudest and most primitive description, the warp being supported by two sticks, and the woof entirely worked in by the human hand. this slow laborious process permits a neatness and exactness of finish beyond the power of any machinery to rival; and when we take into account a life-long practice in the art, and--remembering the hindoo "castes," which usually limit a family to the exercise of a single craft--in most instances the family secrets and traditions which have been preserved, we cease to wonder at the perfection of the work. these asiatic weavers, temperate in their habits and readily contented, receive a wage of from three-halfpence to twopence a day; but if their wants more nearly approximated to those of an european laborer, what would an indian cashmere be worth, when we are informed that from thirty to forty men have sometimes been employed from eighteen months to two years in the manufacture of a single shawl! there is something very kindling to the imagination in the thought of these swarthy weavers, attired perhaps in our manchester calicoes, laboring patiently for weeks and months to produce a fabric worthy of rank and royalty, without other than most vague or false ideas of the scenes in which their work will be displayed. the borders of these shawls are made in several pieces, sometimes as many as from ten to twenty, and are afterward sewn together to form the pattern; and by the border an indian shawl may always be recognized from a french or paisley one, however close an imitation the latter may appear. every stitch of the border of the indian shawl being worked by the hand is distinct in itself, and may be pulled out--though it is not very easily detached--without further injury to the fabric; whereas the shawl made on a french or british loom has the border formed in one piece, whence a long thread may at any time be readily drawn. indeed there is no surer test by which a lady may know a veritable cashmere, than by examining the border; but if she have a fine eye for color this faculty will also assist her. the preparation of the dyes which the hindoos use is still a secret, of which they are very chary, removing their operations to a distance whenever they have reason to dread inquisitive lookers on. but the result in their fabrics is perceived in the peculiar richness and clearness of their hues, and at the same time absence of glare; the reds, blues, and greens, reminding one more of the harmonious tints of old stained glass than any thing else. it must not, however, be supposed that in the progressive nineteenth century, even this asiatic manufacture has remained stationary. receiving the impetus of fashion, the shawls of cashmere have become, within the last dozen years, richer and more elaborate than ever; their richness and elaboration of pattern necessitating even a firmer and more substantial groundwork than heretofore, but still the method of their manufacture remains unchanged, as might be expected from the conservatism inseparable from semi-barbarism. london is now one of the chief marts for cashmeres. it may not be generally known that london dealers send quantities of shawls to france, america, russia, and even turkey, a convincing proof of the enterprise of british merchants. they supply many other foreigners, especially finding a market among them for the gold embroidered shawls, which are frequently worn on state occasions at foreign courts. the duty on indian shawls is now only about five per cent. twice a year there are public sales, to which dealers are invited by catalogues sent to paris and other continental cities. one of the great merits of a cashmere seems that it is really never out of date; and when, comparing even the old "pine" patterns with the large long shawls, the rich borders of which sweep in graceful flowing lines into the very centre, we feel that they are still "of one family," and hold together--if the comparison be not too fanciful--rich and poor, in right clannish fashion. some of the most modern and most costly indian shawls _resemble_ in pattern that of the long french cashmere, simply however because the french have _copied_ the indian design. the gold and silver thread employed for the embroidery of cashmere shawls is usually prepared in the following manner; and the chief seat of the manufacture is at boorhampoor, a city of the deccan. a piece of the purest ore is beaten into a cylindrical form about the size of a thick reed, and then beaten out in length until it will pass through an orifice the eighth of an inch in diameter; it is drawn through still finer perforations until it is reduced to the proportion of a bobbin thread. now a different plan is pursued; the wire already produced is wound upon several reels which work upon pivots, the ends of the thread being passed through still finer holes, and then affixed to a large reel which is set rapidly in motion and still further attenuates the threads. it is afterward flattened on an anvil of highly polished steel, by a practiced and dexterous workman; and by an ingenious process, a silk thread is afterward plated, or sheathed as it were by this minute wire. it is asserted that if a lump of silver be gilt in the first instance before being drawn into wire, it will retain the gilding through all the subsequent hard usage of hammering, winding, and drawing to which it is subjected, coming out to the very last a gilded thread. it is easy to understand that gold and silver thread of this pure description, unlike tinsel finery, it is not liable to tarnish. there are few of our readers who can require telling that china crape is made entirely of silk, and that shawls manufactured of it are generally costly in proportion to the richness of the pattern. the foundation or ground of the shawls is chiefly made at nankin, and then sent to canton to be embroidered. the pattern is formed by two "needlemen," who work together, the one passing the silk _down_, and the other from beneath passing it _up_, while a third workman changes the silk for them when necessary. thus the apparent marvel of equal neatness on both sides is accounted for, by the explanation of this simple method; but we have quite failed, from examination of the work, to detect the process of fastening on and off; with such mysterious ingenuity is this needful operation performed. china crape shawls have been very fashionable of late years, and almost defying vulgar imitation, are little likely to fall into disrepute. [from tait's magazine.] a night of terror in a polish inn. journey to brczwezmcisl. i had but just quitted the university, and was a mere stripling, when i received the appointment of judge-commissary at a little town in new east prussia, as the part of poland was termed which, during the partition of that country, had fallen to the share of prussia. i will not weary the reader by giving any lengthened account of my journey; the country was but one flat throughout, the men mere boors, the officials uncouth, the accommodation execrable. yet the people all seemed happy enough. man and beast have each their allotted elements. the fish perishes when out of water--the elegance of a boudoir would prove fatal to a polish jew. well, to make my story short, i arrived one evening, a little before sunset, at a place called, i believe (but should be sorry to vouch for my accuracy), brczwezmcisl, a pleasant little town enough. when i say pleasant, to be sure i own that the streets were unpaved, the houses begrimed with soot, and the natives not over refined either in manners or person; but a man who works in a coal-mine is pleasant, after his fashion, even as the pet _figurante_ of the day after hers. i had pictured to myself brczwezmcisl, the place where i was to enter upon my functions, as far more formidable than i in fact found it, and perhaps on that account i was now prepared to term it pleasant. i remember that the first time i tried to pronounce the name of the place i very nearly brought on lock-jaw. hence, no doubt, my gloomy anticipations as to its appearance. names certainly do influence our ideas to a most marvelous extent. moreover, what mainly contributed to enhance my secret misgivings as to the town destined to enjoy the benefit of my talents was the fact that i had never yet been so far from home as to lose sight of its church steeple. i had a tolerable idea that my way did not lead me in the vicinity of the cannibal islands, or of the lands where men's heads "do grow beneath their shoulders;" but i was not without some apprehension, as i journeyed on, of receiving an occasional pistol-shot, or feeling the cold steel of a stiletto between my ribs. my heart throbbed violently as i caught the first glimpse of brczwezmcisl. it appeared, at a distance, a vast plain, covered with mud-heaps. but what mattered that to one of my imaginative powers? there was my goal, there my entering scene in life. not a soul did i know there, with the exception of an old college acquaintance, named burkhardt, who had been but recently appointed collector of taxes at brczwezmcisl. i had apprised him of my near advent, and requested him to provide me with temporary lodgings. the nearer i approached the town, the keener waxed my esteem and friendship for burkhardt, with whom i had never been on terms of intimacy; indeed, my mother enjoined me always to shun his society, seeing that his reputation for steadiness was not of the highest. but now i was his till death. he was my only rallying point in this wild polish town; he was the sole plank to which i could cling. i am not of a superstitious character, but i own to a certain belief in omens; and i had settled in my mind that it would be a lucky sign if the first person we met coming out of the town gates should prove a young woman, and the reverse if one of the other sex. as we were about to enter the town a girl, to all appearance comely and well-made, issued from the gate. damsel of happy augury! fain could i have quitted the cumbrous vehicle, and cast my travel-worn frame prostrate at your feet. i wiped my eye-glass that i might not lose one of her features, but grave them for ever in the tablets of my memory. as she came nearer, i discovered to my dismay that my brczwezmcisl venus was a thought hideous. slim she was, good sooth, but it was the slimness of one wasted by disease! shape and figure had she none. her face was a perfect surface, for some untoward accident had deprived her of her nose; and had it not been for the merest apology for lips, her head might have been taken for the skull of a skeleton. as we came yet nearer, i remarked that the fair pole was a warm patriot; for she put out her tongue at me in derision of her nation's oppressors, whose countryman i was. under these happy auspices we entered the town, and halted at the post-office, newly decorated with the prussian eagle, which would have shown to much greater advantage, in all the glories of fresh paint, had not some patriotic little street blackguards adorned it with a thick coating of mud. the old starosty.[ ] i asked the postmaster very politely where i could find mr. tax-collector burkhardt. in order, i suppose, to convince me that even in that remote corner of the globe officials were true to those habits of courtesy and attention for which they are so eminently distinguished, he suffered me to repeat my question six times ere he vouchsafed to inquire, in his gruffest tones, what i wanted; a seventh time did i reiterate my inquiry, and that, i flatter myself with a degree of politeness that would have done honor to the most finished courtier. "in the old starosty," he growled out. "might i be permitted most respectfully to inquire whereabout this same old starosty may be located?" "i have no time. peter show this person the way." and away went peter and i, while the postmaster, who had no time to answer me, lolled out of the window, with his pipe in his mouth, watching us. aha, my fine fellow, thought i, just let me catch you in the hands of justice--whose unworthy representative i have here the honor to be--and i'll make you rue the day you dared sport your churlishness upon me. peter, the polish tatterdemalion, who escorted me, understood and spoke so little german, that our conversation was extremely limited. his sallow face and sharp features rendered him particularly unprepossessing. "tell me, my worthy friend," i asked, as we waded side by side through the mud, "do you know mr. tax-collector burkhardt?" "the old starosty." "good; but what can i do in your old starosty?" "die!" "god forbid! that does not at all chime in with my arrangements." "stone-dead; die!" "why, what have i done?" "prussian--no pole." "i am a prussian, certainly." "know that." "what do you mean by dying then?" "so, and so, and so;" and the fellow thrust the air as though he clenched a dagger. he then pointed to his heart, groaned, and rolled his eyes in a manner awful to behold. i began to feel rather uncomfortable, for peter had by no means the look of one beside himself; besides, the understrappers at the post-office are seldom recruited from a lunatic asylum. "i think we are at cross purposes, my excellent friend," i at length resumed. "what do you mean by die?" "kill!" and he gave me a wild sidelong glance. "how, kill?" "when night comes." "when night comes--this very night? your wits are wool-gathering, sirrah!" "pole, yes; but no prussian." i shook my head, and desisted from any further attempt at conversation. we evidently could not make each other out. and yet there was fearful meaning in the scoundrel's words. i was well aware of the inveterate hatred felt by the poles toward the prussians, and how it had already led to fatal collisions between them. what if the dunder-headed fellow had meant to convey a warning to me? or perhaps he had involuntarily betrayed the secret of a plot for the general massacre of every prussian. i mentally resolved to divulge the whole to my friend and fellow-countryman burkhardt, as we arrived at the so-termed starosty. it was constructed of stone, evidently of some antiquity, and situate in a dull remote street. ere we reached it i observed how each passer-by cast a sly furtive glance up at its time-worn walls. my guide did the same; and pointing to the door, he shuffled off without word or gesture of salutation. it must be owned that my arrival and reception at brczwezmcisl were none of the most flattering. the discourteous damsel at the gate, the surly new east prussian postmaster, and the pole, with his unintelligible jargon, had put me on the very worst terms with my new place of sojourn and office of judge-commissary. how i congratulated myself to think that i was about to meet one who had, at least, breathed the same air as myself! to be sure, mr. burkhardt was not held in the best repute at home; but a man's character varies according to the circumstances of his position, even were he still the same as of old. better far a jovial tippler than a sickly skeleton with her projected tongue; better far a hare-brained gambler than the postmaster with his studied coarseness; ay, better the company of a vaporing hector than that of a polish malcontent. the latter phase in burkhardt's character even served to elevate him in my eyes; for, between ourselves be it observed, my gentleness and love of quiet, my steadiness and reserve, so oft the theme of praise with mamma, would stand me but in sorry stead should any rising of the people take place. some virtues become vices in certain positions. as i entered the old starosty i was puzzled to know where to find my dear and long-cherished friend burkhardt. the house was very spacious. the creaking of the rusty door-hinges resounded through the whole building, yet without bringing any one to ascertain who might be there. i discovered an apartment on my left, and knocked gently at the door. as my signal was unanswered by any friendly "come in," i knocked more loudly than before: still no answer. my knocks re-echoed through the house. i waxed impatient, and yearned to clasp burkhardt, the friend of my soul, to my heart. i opened the door and went in. in the middle of the room was a coffin. if i be always polite to the living, still more so am i to the dead. i was about to retire as gently as i could, when a parting glance at the coffin showed me that its hapless occupant was no other than the tax-collector, burkhardt, who had been called on, poor fellow, in his turn, to discharge that great tax so peremptorily demanded of us by that grim collector death. there he lay regardless alike of flagon or dice box, calm and composed as though he had never shared in the joys or cares of this life. indescribably shocked, i rushed from the chamber of death, and sought relief in the long gloomy corridor. what on earth was to become of me now? here i was, hundreds of miles from my native home and the maternal mansion, in a town whose very name i never had heard until i was sent to un-pole-ify it as judge-commissary! my sole acquaintance, the friend of my heart, had shuffled off this mortal coil. what was i to do, where lay my head, or how find the lodgings engaged for me by the dear departed? my gloomy reflections were here disturbed by the creaking of the door on its rusty hinges, whose harsh grating jarred strangely on my nerves. a pert, flippant-looking livery-servant rushed up the stairs, contemplated me with a broad stare of astonishment, and at length addressed me. my knees shook beneath me. i suffered the fellow to talk to me to his heart's delight, but for the first few moments fright deprived me of all power of reply; and even had my state of mind permitted me to speak, it would have amounted to much the same thing, seeing that the man was speaking polish. perceiving that he remained without reply, he proceeded to address me in german, which he spoke very fluently. i at length mustered up sufficient courage to tell him my whole story, and the various adventures i had met with since my arrival at the accursed town whose name it still dislocated my jaws to pronounce. as he heard my name he assumed a more respectful mien, took off his hat, and proceeded to give me the following details, which, for the reader's benefit, i have compressed into the smallest possible space. he informed me, to begin with, that his name was lebrecht; that he had served as interpreter and most faithful of domestics to mr. tax-collector, of pious memory, until the preceding night, when it had pleased heaven to remove the excellent and ever to be lamented tax-collector to another and a better world. the manner of his death was perfectly in keeping with the tenor of his life. he had been passing the evening at wine and cards with some polish gentlemen. the fumes of the wine aroused the prussian pride of my friend, while it kindled to a yet fiercer pitch the old sarmatian patriotism of his companions. words grew high, blows were exchanged, and one of the party dealt my late friend three or four blows with a knife, any one of which was of itself sufficient to have extinguished life. in order to avoid incurring the penalties of new east prussian justice, the guilty parties had taken themselves off--whither none could tell. my ever-to-be-regretted friend had, shortly before his death, made all the requisite arrangements for me, and hired a very experienced german cook, who would wait upon me at a moment's notice. in the course of his narrative, lebrecht led me to infer, from several hints that he gave me, how the poles were sworn foes to the prussians, and how i must expect to meet with such delicate attentions as those lavished on me by the damsel at the gate. he explained to me moreover, that my friend peter was a muddle-headed jackass, and that his pantomimic gestures referred, in all probability, to the fate of my hapless friend. he warned me to be constantly on my guard, as the infuriated poles were evidently hatching some plot; as for himself, he was fully determined to quit the town immediately after the funeral of his late master. this narrative terminated, he conducted me up the broad stone staircase to the apartments provided for me. passing through a suite of lofty rooms, very spacious, but very dreary to behold, we came to an apartment of large dimensions, wherein was a press bedstead, with curtains of faded yellow damask, an old table, whose feet had once been gilded, and half a dozen dusty chairs. suspended to the wall was an enormous looking-glass, almost bereft of its reflecting powers, in a quaint, old-fashioned frame, while the wall itself was garnished by parti-colored tapestry, representing scenes from the old testament. time and the moth had done their work upon it, for it hung in tatters, and waved to and fro at the slightest motion. king solomon sat headless on his throne of judgment, and the hands of the wicked elders had long since mouldered away. i felt by no means at my ease in this my lonely dwelling; far rather would i have taken up my quarters at the inn, and, oh that i had done so! but i kept my own counsel, partly from sheer nervousness, and partly because i did not wish to appear at all daunted at being in such immediate vicinity with a corpse. moreover, i entertained no doubt but that lebrecht and the experienced cook would bear me company during the night. the former lost no time in lighting the two candles that stood on the table, for it was fast getting dusk, and then took his departure for the purpose of procuring me the means of subsistence, and such like, to fetch my luggage, and to apprise the aforesaid experienced cook that the time had arrived for her to enter upon her functions. my luggage arrived in due time, likewise every requisite for my meal; but no sooner had i re-imbursed lebrecht the money he had laid out for me than he wished me good-night, and went his way forthwith. i misdoubted the fellow at once, for the moment he had swept up his money he was off. i was on the point of rushing after him, to entreat him not to leave me, but i held back for very shame. why should i make the wretch the confidant of my timidity? i had no doubt but that he would spend the night in some room or other, to keep watch over the body of his slaughtered master. the sound of the banging-to of the street-door undeceived me at once; and that sound thrilled through my very marrow. i hurried to the window, and beheld him scampering across the street, as though the foul fiend were at his heels. he was soon out of sight, leaving myself and the corpse sole tenants of the old starosty. footnote: [ ] starosts were poles of high birth, appointed as bailiffs or vice-governors of the various districts and provinces. the sentry. i do not believe in ghosts, but yet at night-time i own to being somewhat apprehensive of their appearance. this may seem to involve a paradox, but i only state the fact. the death-like stillness of all around, the time-worn tapestry that clung in fluttering shreds around that dreary chamber, the consciousness of the body of a murdered man in the room above, the deadly feud between the prussian and the pole, all conspired to fill my soul with awe and apprehension. i hungered, but could not eat. i wearied for repose, but could find none. i examined the window, to ascertain if it could afford me egress in case of need, for i should have been utterly lost in the labyrinth of chambers and corridors necessary to traverse ere i could gain the door. to my dismay strong iron bars forbade all hope of escape in that quarter. suddenly the old starosty seemed awakening to life. i heard doors open and close, steps at some little distance, and the sound of voices in animated conversation. i was at a loss how to account for this rapid change in the state of affairs, but i felt that it boded me but little good. it seemed as though i heard a warning voice saying, "'tis thou they seek! did not that blundering peter betray the secret of the intended massacre? save thyself ere it be too late." i shuddered in every limb. methought i saw the murderous band, how they thirsted for my blood, and were concerting the method of my death. i heard their footsteps approaching nearer and more near. already had they reached the ante-chamber leading to my apartment. they were muttering together in low whispers. i sprang up, and bolted and barred the door, and, as i did so, became aware that some one was endeavoring to open it on the other side. i scarce dared breathe, lest my very breath should betray me. i heard by their voices that they were poles. as my unlucky stars would have it, i must needs study a little polish, by way of qualifying myself for my official duties; and i could detect the words "blood," "death," and "prussians." my knees quaked, cold drops started to my brow. again was the attempt to open the door repeated, but it seemed as though the intruders wished to avoid confusion, for i heard them depart, or rather glide, from thence. whether it were that the poles had aimed at my life, or my property, or whether they had determined upon another mode of attack, i resolved to extinguish my candles, in order that their light might not betray me from without. how could i tell but that one of the ruffians might not fancy taking a shot at me through the windows? night is friend to no man, and man has an instinctive dread of darkness, else whence the terror of children, even before they have been scared by the tale of goblin grim and spectre dire? no sooner was i in utter obscurity than all manner of horrors, possible and impossible, crowded upon me. i flung myself upon my bed, in the hopes of sleeping, but the clothes seemed tainted with the foul odor of dead men's graves. if i sat up it was worse; for ever and anon a rustling sound, as of some one near me, caused me to shudder afresh. the form of the murdered man, with his livid brow and half-glazed eye, seemed to stalk before me. what prospects would i not have sacrificed but to be once more free! and now the bells tolled the "witching hour of night, when church-yards yawn, and hell itself looks out." each stroke vibrated upon my soul. in vain i called myself a superstitious fool, a faint-hearted dastard: it availed me nothing. unable at length to bear up any longer, and nerved either by daring or despair, i sprang from my seat, groped my way to the door, unbolted and unbarred it, and resolved, albeit at the risk of my life, to gain the street. merciful heavens! what did i behold as i opened the door! i started and staggered back. little had i looked for such a grisly sentinel. the death-throes. by the dim flickering of an old lamp placed on a side-table, i saw before me the murdered tax-collector, lying in his bier, even as i had seen him in the room above. but now i could perceive how his shirt, which had previously been concealed by a pall, was dyed with the big black gouttes of blood. i strove to rally my senses, to persuade myself that the whole was the mere phantom of my over-heated imagination; but as i stirred the coffin with my foot, till the corpse seemed as though about to move and unclose its eyes, i could no longer doubt the fearful reality of the spectacle before me. almost paralyzed by fear, i rushed to my room, and fell backward on my bed. and now a confused noise proceeded from the bier. was the dead alive? for the sound that i heard was of one raising himself with difficulty. a low and suppressed moan thrilled in my ears, and i saw before me the form of the murdered one; it strode through the door, entered my room, then stalked awhile to and fro, and disappeared. as i again summoned up my reason to my aid, the spectre, or the corpse, or the living dead, gave my reason the lie by depositing its long, lank, livid length upon my bed and across my body, its icy shoulders resting upon my neck, and nearly depriving me of breath. how i escaped with life i can not explain to this present hour. mortal dread was upon me, and i must have remained a long while in a state of unconsciousness; for as i heard from beneath my grisly burden the clock sound, instead of its striking one--the signal for spirits to vanish--it was striking two. i leave the horrors of my situation to the reader's imagination. the smell of the charnel-house in my nostrils, and a yet warm corpse struggling for breath, as though the death-rattle were upon him; while i was benumbed by terror, and the hellish weight of the burden i bore. the scenes in dante's hell fall far short of anguish such as was then mine. i was too weak or terror-stricken to disengage myself from the corpse, which seemed as if expiring a second time; for i conjectured that, while senseless from loss of blood, the wretched man had been taken for dead, and thrust forthwith, polish fashion, into a coffin, and now lay dying in good earnest. he seemed powerless alike for life and death, and i was doomed to be the couch whereon the fearful struggle would terminate. i strove to fancy that all my adventures in brczwezmcisl were but a dream, and that i was laboring under an attack of nightmare, but circumstances and surrounding objects were too strong to admit of any such conclusion; still, i verily believe i should have finally succeeded in convincing myself that it was all a vision, and nothing but a vision, had not an incident more striking than any that hitherto preceded, established, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the fact of my being broad awake. the light of day. it was day-break; not that i could perceive the light of heaven, for the shoulders of my expiring friend impeded my view, but i inferred so from the bustle in the street below. i heard the footsteps and voices of men in the room; i could not make out the subject of their conversation, as they talked in polish, but i remarked that they were busy about the coffin. now, beyond a doubt, thought i, they are looking for the dead man, and my deliverance is at hand; and so it proved, although it happened after a fashion for which i was but little prepared. one of the exploring party smote so lustily with a stout bamboo upon the extended form of the dead or dying, that he started up, and stood erect. some of the blows lighted upon my hapless person with such effect as to make me yell out most vigorously, and take up a position directly in the rear of the defunct. this old polish and new east prussian method of restoring the dead to life proved, certainly, so efficacious in the present instance, that i doubt whether the impassibility of death were not preferable to the acute perceptions of the living. i now perceived that the room was filled by men, for the most part poles. the timely castigation had been administered by a police-officer appointed to superintend the funeral. the tax-collector still slept the sleep of death in his coffin, which stood in the ante-chamber, whither it had been transported by the drunken poles, who had been ordered to convey it to what had been formerly the porter's lodge. they had, however, been pleased to select my ante-chamber as a fitting resting-place for their charge, whom they confided to the watch of one of their besotted comrades, who had slumbered at his post, and, awakened probably by my entrance, had groped his way, with all the instinct of one far gone in liquor, to my bed, and there slept off the fumes of his potations. the preceding incidents had so thoroughly unmanned me as to bring on a severe attack of fever, and for seven long weeks did i lie raving about the horrors of that fearful night; and even now, albeit, thanks to the polish insurrection, i am no longer judge-commissary at brczwezmcisl, i can scarce think on my adventure in new east prussia without a shudder. however, i am always glad to relate it, as it contains a sort of moral--to wit, that we ought not to fear that which we profess to disbelieve. england in . by lamartine. when a man is strongly preoccupied with the crisis under which his country labors, every opportunity that arises is caught at to turn to the profit of his compatriots the sights with which he is struck, and the reflections with which those sights inspire him. called by circumstances of an entirely private nature to revisit england for some time, after an absence of twenty years, it was impossible for me not to be dazzled by the immense progress made by england during that lapse of time, not only in population, in riches, industry, navigation, railroads, extent, edifices, embellishments, and the health of the capital, but also, and more especially, in charitable institutions for the people, and in associations of real religious, conservative, and fraternal socialism, between classes, to prevent explosions by the evaporation of the causes which produce them, to stifle the murmurs from below by incalculable benefits from above, and to close the mouths of the people, not by the brutalities of the police, but by the arm of public virtue. very far from feeling afflicted or humiliated at this fine spectacle of the operation of so many really popular works, which give to england at the present moment an incontestable pre-eminence in this respect over the rest of europe, and over us, i rejoiced at it. to asperse one's neighbor is to lower one's self. the rivalries between nations are paltry and shameful when they consist in denying or in hating the good that is done by our neighbors. these rivalries, on the contrary, are noble and fruitful when they consist in acknowledging, in glorifying, and in imitating the good which is done every where; instead of being jealousies, these rivalries become emulation. what does it signify whether a thing be english or french, provided it be a benefit? virtues have no country, or, rather, they are of every country; it is god who inspires them, and humanity which profits by them. let us then learn, for one, how to admire. but i am told that these practical virtues of the english to the poorer, the _proletaire_, the suffering classes, are nothing but the prudence of selfishness! even if that were the case, we ought still to applaud, for a selfishness so prudent and so provident, a selfishness which could do itself justice by so well imitating virtue, a selfishness which would corrupt the people by charity and prosperity--such a selfishness as that would be the most profound and most admirable of policies, it would be the machiavelism of virtue. but it is not given to selfishness alone to transform itself so well into an appearance of charity; selfishness restricts itself, while charity diffuses itself; without doubt there is prudence in it, but there is also virtue, without doubt old england, the veritable patrician republic under her frontispiece of monarchy, feels that the stones of her feudal edifice are becoming disjoined, and might tumble under the blast of the age, if she did not bind them together every day by the cement of her institutions in favor of her people. that is good sense, but under that good sense there is virtue; and it is impossible to remain in england for any length of time without discovering it. the source of that public virtue is the religious feeling with which that people is endowed more than many others; a divine feeling of practical religious liberty, has developed at the present moment, under a hundred forms, among them. every one has a temple to god, where every one can recognize the light of reason, and adore that god, and serve him with his brothers in the sincerity, and in the independence of his faith. yes, there is, if you will, at the same time, prudence, well-understood selfishness, and public virtue in the acts of england, in order to prevent a social war. let it be whatever you like; but would that it pleased god that plebeian and proprietary france could also see and comprehend its duty to the people! would that it pleased god that she could take a lesson from that intelligent aristocracy! would that she could, once for all, say to herself, "i perish, i tremble, i swoon in my panics. i call at one time on the monarchy, at another on the republic, at another on legitimacy, now on illegitimacy--then on the empire, now on the inquisition--then on the police, now on the sabre, and then on eloquence to save me, and no one can save me but myself. i will save myself by my own virtue." i have seen england twice in my life: the first time in . it was the period when the holy alliance, recently victorious and proud of its victories over the spirit of conquest of napoleon, struggled against the newly-born liberalism, and was only occupied in every where restoring ancient regimes and ancient ideas. the government of england, held at that time by the intelligent heirs of a great man (mr. pitt), was a veritable contradiction to the true nature of the country of liberty; it had taken up the cause of absolute sovereigns against the nations; it made of the free and proud citizens of england the support and soldier of the holy alliance; it blindly combated the revolution, with its spirit and institutions, at home and every where else. england, by no means comfortable under such a government, hardly recognized herself. she felt by instinct that she was made to play the part of the _seide_ of despotism and of the church, in place of the part of champion of independent nationalities, and of the regulated liberty of thought which mr. pitt had conceived for her. thus her tribunes, her public papers, her popular meetings, her very streets and public places rang with indignation against her government and her aristocracy. the ground trembled in london under the steps of the multitudes who assembled at the slightest appeal or opportunity; the language of the people breathed anger, their physiognomies hatred of class to class; hideous poverty hung up its tatters before the doors of the most sumptuous quarters; women in a state of emaciation, hectic children, and ghastly men were to be seen wandering with a threatening carelessness about shops and warehouses laden with riches; the constables and the troops were insufficient, after the scandalous prosecution of the queen, to bridle that perpetual sedition of discontent and of hunger. the painful consciousness of a tempest hanging over great britain was felt in the air. a cabinet, the author and victim of that false position, sank under the effort. a statesman sought in despair a refuge against the difficulties which he saw accumulating on his country, and which he could no longer dominate but by force. i avow that i myself, at that time young and a foreigner, and not yet knowing either the solidity or the elasticity of the institutions and the manners of england, was deceived, like every body else, by these sinister symptoms of a fall, and that i prognosticated, as every body else also did, the approaching decline and fall of that great and mysterious country. the ministry of mr. canning placed me happily in the wrong. i saw england again in , a few months after our revolution of july. at that time the political government of england was moderate, reasonable, and wise. it endeavored, as lord palmerston, as sir robert peel, as the duke of wellington have done, after the revolution of february, to prevent a collision on the continent between the revolution and the counter-revolution. it then refused, as it refused in , to be a party to an anti-french or anti-republican coalition. it proclaimed not only the right and independence of nationalities, but also the right and independence of revolutions. it thus humanely avoided irritating the revolutionists. it spared europe the effusion of much blood. but in it was the misery of the english and irish _proletaires_ that frightened the regards and brought consternation to the thoughts of observers. ireland was literally dying of inanition. the manufacturing districts of the three kingdoms having produced more than the world could consume during the fifteen years of peace, left an overflow of manufactures--the masses emaciated, vitiated in body and mind, and vitiated by their hatred against the class of society who possess. the manufacturers had dismissed armies of workmen without bread. these black columns were to be seen, with their mud-colored jackets, dotting the avenues and streets of london, like columns of insects whose nests had been upset, and who blackened the soil under their steps. the vices and brutishness of these masses of _proletaires_, degraded by ignorance and hunger--their alternate poverty and debaucheries--their promiscuousness of ages, of sexes, of dens of fetid straw, their bedding in cellars and garrets--their hideous clamors, to be met with at certain hours in the morning in certain lanes of the unclean districts of london--when those human vermin emerged into the light of the sun with howling groaning, or laughter that was really satanic, it would have made the masses of free creatures really envy the fate of the black slaves of our colonies--masses which are abased and flogged, but, at all events loathed! it was the recruiting of the army of marius; all that was wanting was a flag. social war was visible there with all its horrors and its furies--every body saw it, and i myself forboded it like every body else. these symptoms struck me as such evidences of an approaching overthrow for a constitution which thus allowed its vices to stagnate and mantle, that, having some portion of my patrimony in england, i hastened to remove it, and to place it where it would be sheltered from a wreck which appeared to me to be inevitable. during this time the aristocracy and the great proprietary of england appeared insensible to these prognostics of social war, scandalized the eyes of the public by the contrast of their asiatic luxury with these calamities, absented themselves from their properties during whole years, and were traveling from paris to naples and to florence, while at the same time propagating speculative or incendiary liberalism with the liberals of the continent. who would not have trembled for such a country? this time (september, ) i was struck, on visiting england, with an impression wholly opposed to the impressions which i have just depicted to you. i arrived in london, and i no longer recognized that capital, excepting by that immense cloud of smoke which that vast focus of english labor or leisure raises in the heavens, and by that overflowing without limit of houses, workshops, and chateaux, and agreeable residences, that a city of , , inhabitants casts year after year beyond its walls, even to the depths of her forests, her fields, and her hills. like a polypus with a thousand branches, london vegetates and engrafts, so to speak, on the common trunk of the city quarters on quarters, and towns upon towns. these quarters, some for labor, and others for the middle classes; some for the choice leisure of the literary classes, and others for the luxury of the aristocracy and for the splendor of the crown, not only attest the increase of that city which enlarges itself in proportion to its inhabitants, but they testify to the increase of luxury, of art, of riches, and of ease, of all which the characters are to be recognized in the disposition, in the architecture, in the ornaments, in the spaciousness, and in the comfort, sometimes splendid, sometimes modest, of the habitations of man. in the west two new towns--two towns of hotels and palaces--two towns of kings of civilization, as the embassador of carthage would have said--have sprung up. toward the green and wooded heights of hampstead--that st. cloud of london--is a new park, including pastures, woods, waters, and gardens in its grounds, and surrounded by a circle of houses of opulent and varied architecture, each of which represents a building capital that it frightens one to calculate. beyond this solitude inclosed in the capital other towns and suburbs have commenced, and are rapidly climbing these heights, step by step, and hillock after hillock. in these places arise chapels, churches, schools, hospitals, penitentiary prisons on new models, which take away from them their sinister aspect and significance, and which hold out moral health and correction to the guilty in place of punishment and branding. in these places are to be seen hedges of houses appropriated to all the conditions of life and fortune, but all surrounded by a court or a little garden, which affords the family rural recollections, the breathing of vegetation, and the feeling of nature present even in the very heart of the town. this new london, which is almost rural, creeps already up these large hills, and spreads itself, from season to season, in the fields which environ them, to go by lower, more active, and more smoky suburbs, to rejoin, as far as the eye can see, the thames, beyond which the same phenomenon is reproduced on the hills and in the plains on the other side. in surveying this the eye loses itself as if on the waves of the ocean. on every side the horizon is too narrow to embrace that town, and the town continues beyond the horizon; but every where also the sky, the air, the country, the verdure, the waters, the tops of the oaks, are mixed with that vegetation of stones, of marble, and of bricks, and appears to make of new london, not an arid and dead city, but a fertile and living province, which germinates at the same time with men and trees, with habitations and fields; a city of which the nature has not been changed, but in which, on the contrary, nature and civilization respect each other, seek for and clasp each other, for the health and joy of man, in a mutual embrace. between these two banks of the river, and between its steeples and its towers--between the tops of its oaks, respected by the constructors of these new quarters--you perceive a movable forest of masts, which ascend and descend perpetually the course of the thames, and streak it with a thousand lines of smoke, while the steamers, loaded with passengers, stream out like a river of smoke above the river of water which carries them. but it is not in the newly constructed quarters alone that london has changed its appearance, and presents that image of opulence, of comfort, and of labor, with thriving--the city itself, that furnace at the same time blackened and infect of this human ebullition, has enlarged its issues, widened its streets, ennobled its monuments, extended and straightened its suburbs, and made them more healthy. the ignoble lanes, with their suspicious taverns, where the population of drunken sailors huddled together like savages in dregs and dust, have been demolished. they have given place to airy streets, where the passers-by, coming back from the docks, those entrepôts of the four continents, pass with ease in carriages or on foot--to spacious and clean houses, to modest but decent shops, where the maritime population find, on disembarking, clothes, food, tobacco, beer, and all the objects of exchange necessary for the retail trade of seaports: those streets are now as well cleaned from filth, from drunkenness and obscenity, as the other streets and suburbs of the city. one can pass through them without pity and without disgust; one feels in them the vigilance of public morality and the presence of a police which, if it can not destroy vice, can at all events keep it at a distance from the eyes of the passer-by, and render even the _cloacæ_ inoffensive. in the country districts and secondary towns around london the same transformation is observable. the innumerable railways which run in every direction all over england have covered the land with stations, coal depôts, new houses for the persons employed, elegant offices for the administration, viaducts, bridges over the lines to private properties; and all these things impart to england, from the sea to london, the appearance of a country which is being cleared, and where the occupants are employed in running up residences for themselves. every thing is being built, and every thing is smoking, hurrying on, so perfectly alive is this soil; one feels that the people are eager to seize on the new sense of circulation which providence has just bestowed on man. such is england in a physical sense, sketched broadly. as to political england, the following are the changes which struck me. i describe them as i reviewed them, with sincerity, it is true, but not unmixed with astonishment. the appearance of the people in the streets is no longer what filled me with consternation twenty years ago. in place of those ragged bands of beggars--men, women, and children--who swarmed in the narrow and gloomy streets of the manufacturing town, you will see well-dressed workmen, with an appearance of strength and health, going to work or returning peaceably from their workshop with their tools on their shoulders; young girls issuing without tumult from the houses where they work, under the superintendence of women older than themselves, or of a father or brother, who brings them back to their home; from time to time you see numerous columns of little children of from five to eight years of age, poorly but decently clad, led by a woman, who leaves them at their own doors, after having watched over them all day. they all present the appearance of relative comfort, of most exquisite cleanliness, and of health. you will perceive few, if any, idle groups on the public ways, and infinitely fewer drunken men than formerly; the streets appear as if purged of vice and wretchedness, or only exhibit those which always remain the scum of an immense population. if you converse in a drawing-room, in a public carriage, at a public dinner table, even in the street, with men of the different classes in england; if you take care to be present, as i did, at places where persons of the most advanced opinions meet and speak; if you read the journals, those safety-valves of public opinion, you must remain struck with the extreme mildness of men's minds and hearts, with the temperance of ideas, the moderation of what is desired, the prudence of the liberal opposition, the tenderness evinced toward a conciliation of all classes, the justice which all classes of the english population render to each other, the readiness of all to co-operate, each according to his means and disposition, in advancing the general good--the employment, comfort, instruction, and morality of the people--in a word, a mild and serene air is breathed in place of the tempest blast which then raged in every breast. the equilibrium is re-established in the national atmosphere. one feels and says to one's self, "this people can come to an understanding with itself. it can live, last, prosper, and improve for a long time in this way. had i my residence on this soil, i should not any longer tremble for my hearth." i except, it must be understood, from this very general character of harmony and reconciliation, two classes of men whom nothing ever satisfies--the demagogues and the extreme aristocrats--two tyrannies which can not content themselves with any liberty, because they eternally desire to subjugate the people--the one by the intolerance of the rabble, the other by the intolerance of the little number. the newspapers of the inexorable aristocracy, and of the ungovernable radicalism, are the only ones that still contrast by their bitterness with the general mildness of opinions in great britain. but some clubs of chartists, rendered fanatical by sophistry, and some clubs of diplomatists, rendered fanatical by pride, only serve the better to show the calm and reason which are more and more prevailing in the other parts of the nation. the one make speeches to the emptiness of places where the people are invited to meet, and the others pay by the line for calumnies and invective against france and against the present age. no one listens, and no one reads. the people work on. the intelligent tories lament sir robert peel, and accept the inheritance of his conservative doctrines by means of progress. it appears that a superhuman hand carried away during that sleep of twenty years, all the venom which racked the social body of this country. if a radical procession is announced, as on the th of april, , citizens, of all opinions, appear in the streets of london as special constables, and preserve the public peace against these phantoms of another time. such is the present appearance of the public mind in england to a stranger. [from the ladies' companion.] the haunts of genius. gray, burke, milton, dryden, and pope. by mary russell mitford. two summers ago i spent a few pleasant weeks among some of the loveliest scenery of our great river. the banks of the thames, always beautiful, are nowhere more delightful than in the neighborhood of maidenhead--one side ramparted by the high, abrupt, chalky cliffs of buckinghamshire; the other edging gently away into our rich berkshire meadows, checkered with villages, villas, and woods. my own temporary home was one of singular beauty--a snug cottage at taplow, looking over a garden full of honeysuckles, lilies, and roses, to a miniature terrace, whose steps led down into the water, or rather into our little boat; the fine old bridge at maidenhead just below us; the magnificent woods of cliefden, crowned with the lordly mansion (now, alas! a second time burnt down), rising high above; and the broad majestic river, fringed with willow and alder, gay with an ever-changing variety--the trim pleasure-yacht, the busy barge, or the punt of the solitary angler, gliding by placidly and slowly, the very image of calm and conscious power. no pleasanter residence, through the sultry months of july and august, than the bridge cottage at taplow. besides the natural advantages of the situation, we were within reach of many interesting places, of which we, as strangers, contrived--as strangers usually do--to see a great deal more than the actual residents. a six-mile drive took us to the lordly towers of windsor--the most queenly of our palaces--with the adjuncts that so well become the royal residence, st. george's chapel and eton college, fitting shrines of learning and devotion! windsor was full of charm. the ghostly shadow of a tree, that is, or passes for herne's oak--for the very man of whom we inquired our way maintained that the tree was apocryphal, although in such cases i hold it wisest and pleasantest to believe--the very old town itself, with the localities immortalized by sir john and sir hugh, dame quickly and justice shallow, and all the company of the merry wives, had to me an unfailing attraction. to windsor we drove again and again, until the pony spontaneously turned his head windsor-ward. then we reviewed the haunts of gray, the house at stoke pogis, and the church-yard where he is buried, and which contains the touching epitaph wherein the pious son commemorates "the careful mother of many children, one of whom only had the misfortune to survive her." to that spot we drove one bright summer day, and we were not the only visitants. it was pleasant to see one admirer seated under a tree, sketching the church, and another party, escorted by the clergyman, walking reverently through it. stoke pogis, however, is not without its rivals; and we also visited the old church at upton, whose ivy-mantled tower claims to be the veritable tower of the "elegy." a very curious scene did that old church exhibit--that of an edifice not yet decayed, but abandoned to decay; an incipient ruin, such as probably might have been paralleled in the monasteries of england after the reformation, or in the churches of france after the first revolution. the walls were still standing, still full of monuments and monumental inscriptions; in some the gilding was yet fresh, and one tablet especially had been placed there very recently, commemorating the talents and virtues of the celebrated astronomer, sir john herschell. but the windows were denuded of their glass, the font broken, the pews dismantled, while on the tottering reading-desk one of the great prayer-books, all mouldy with damp, still lay open--last vestige of the holy services with which it once resounded. another church had been erected, but it looked new and naked, and every body seemed to regret the old place of worship, the roof of which was remarkable for the purity of its design. another of our excursions was to ockwells--a curious and beautiful specimen of domestic architecture in the days before the tudors. strange it seems to me that no one has exactly imitated that graceful front, with its steep roof terminated on either side by two projecting gables, the inner one lower than the other, adorned with oak carving, regular and delicate as that on an ivory fan. the porch has equal elegance. one almost expects to see some baronial hawking party, or some bridal procession issue from its recesses. the great hall, although its grand open roof has been barbarously closed up, still retains its fine proportions, its dais, its music gallery, and the long range of windows, still adorned with the mottos and escutcheons of the norreys's, their kindred and allies. it has long been used as a farm-house; and one marvels that the painted windows should have remained uninjured through four centuries of neglect and change. much that was interesting has disappeared, but enough still remains to gratify those who love to examine the picturesque dwellings of our ancestors. the noble staircase, the iron-studded door, the prodigious lock, the gigantic key (too heavy for a woman to wield), the cloistered passages, the old-fashioned buttery-hatch, give a view not merely of the degree of civilization of the age, but of the habits and customs of familiar daily life. another drive took us to the old grounds of lady place, where, in demolishing the house, care had been taken to preserve the vaults in which the great whig leaders wrote and signed the famous letter to william of orange, which drove james the second from the throne. a gloomy place it is now--a sort of underground ruin--and gloomy enough the patriots must have found it on that memorable occasion: the tombs of the monks (it had formerly been a monastery) under their feet, the rugged walls around them, and no ray of light, except the lanterns they may have brought with them, or the torches that they lit. surely the signature of that summons which secured the liberties of england would make an impressive picture--lord somers in the foreground, and the other whig statesmen grouped around him. a latin inscription records a visit made by george the third to the vaults; and truly it is among the places that monarchs would do well to visit--full of stern lessons! chief pilgrimage of all was one that led us first to beaconsfield, through the delightful lanes of buckinghamshire, with their luxuriance of hedge-row timber, and their patches of heathy common. there we paid willing homage to all that remained of the habitation consecrated by the genius of edmund burke. little is left, beyond gates and outbuildings, for the house has been burnt down and the grounds disparked; but still some of his old walks remained, and an old well and traces of an old garden--and pleasant it was to tread where such a man had trodden, and to converse with the few who still remembered him. we saw, too, the stalwart yeoman who had the honor not only of furnishing to sir joshua the model of his "infant hercules," but even of suggesting the subject. thus it happened. passing a few days with mr. burke at his favorite retirement, the great painter accompanied his host on a visit to his bailiff. a noble boy lay sprawling in the cradle in the room where they sat. his mother would fain have removed him, but sir joshua, then commissioned to paint a picture for the empress catherine, requested that the child might remain, sent with all speed for pallet and easel, and accomplished his task with that success which so frequently waits upon a sudden inspiration. it is remarkable that the good farmer, whose hearty cordial kindness i shall not soon forget, has kept in a manner most unusual the promise of his sturdy infancy, and makes as near an approach to the proportions of the fabled hercules as ever buckinghamshire yeoman displayed. beaconsfield, however, and even the cherished retirement of burke, was by no means the goal of our pilgrimage. the true shrine was to be found four miles farther, in the small cottage at chalfont st. giles, where milton found a refuge during the great plague of london. the road wound through lanes still shadier and hedge-rows still richer, where the tall trees rose from banks overhung with fern, intermixed with spires of purple foxglove; sometimes broken by a bit of mossy park-paling, sometimes by the light shades of a beech-wood, until at last we reached the quiet and secluded village whose very first dwelling was consecrated by the abode of the great poet. it is a small tenement of four rooms, one on either side the door, standing in a little garden, and having its gable to the road. a short inscription, almost hidden by the foliage of the vine, tells that milton once lived within those sacred walls. the cottage has been so seldom visited, is so little desecrated by thronging admirers, and has suffered so little from alteration or decay, and all about it has so exactly the serene and tranquil aspect that one should expect to see in an english village two centuries ago, that it requires but a slight effort of fancy to image to ourselves the old blind bard still sitting in that little parlor, or sunning himself on the garden-seat beside the well. milton is said to have corrected at chalfont some of the sheets of the "paradise lost." the "paradise regained" he certainly composed there. one loves to think of him in that calm retreat--to look round that poor room and think how genius ennobles all that she touches! heaven forfend that change in any shape, whether of embellishment or of decay, should fall upon that cottage! another resort of ours, not a pilgrimage, but a haunt, was the forest of old pollards, known by the name of burnham beeches. a real forest it is--six hundred acres in extent, and varied by steep declivities, wild dells, and tangled dingles. the ground, clothed with the fine short turf where the thyme and the harebell love to grow, is partly covered with luxuriant fern; and the juniper and the holly form a fitting underwood for those magnificent trees, hollowed by age, whose profuse canopy of leafy boughs seems so much too heavy for the thin rind by which it is supported. mr. grote has a house here on which we looked with reverence; and in one of the loveliest spots we came upon a monument erected by mrs. grote in memory of mendelssohn, and enriched by an elegant inscription from her pen. we were never weary of wandering among the burnham beeches; sometimes taking dropmore by the way, where the taste of the late lord grenville created from a barren heath a perfect eden of rare trees and matchless flowers. but even better than amid that sweet woodland scene did i love to ramble by the side of the thames, as it bounded the beautiful grounds of lord orkney, or the magnificent demesne of sir george warrender, the verdant lawns of cliefden. that place also is full of memories. there it was that the famous duke of buckingham fought his no less famous duel with lord shrewsbury, while the fair countess, dressed, rather than disguised, as a page, held the horse of her victorious paramour. we loved to gaze on that princely mansion--since a second time burnt down--repeating to each other the marvelous lines in which our two matchless satirists have immortalized the duke's follies, and doubting which portrait were the best. we may at least be sure that no third painter will excel them. alas! who reads pope or dryden now? i am afraid, very much afraid, that to many a fair young reader these celebrated characters will be as good as manuscript. i will at all events try the experiment. here they be: "in the first rank of these did zimri stand a man so various, that he seemed to be not one, but all mankind's epitome; stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, was every thing by starts and nothing long; but in the course of one revolving moon, was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon, then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. blest madman, who could every hour employ with something new to wish or to enjoy!" dryden. _absalom and achitophel._ now for the little hunchback of twickenham: "in the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, the walls of plaster, and the floor of dung; on once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, with tape-tied curtains never meant to draw, the george and garter dangling from that bed, where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red: great villiers lies:--but, ah, how changed from him, that life of pleasure, and that soul of whim, gallant and gay in cliefden's proud alcove, the bower of wanton shrewsbury and love! or just as gay at council 'mid the ring of mimic statesmen and their merry king! no wit to flatter left of all his store; no fool to laugh at, which he valued more; there, victor of his health, of fortune, friends and fame, the lord of useless thousands ends?" pope. _moral essays._ flowers in the sick room. among the terrors of our youth we well remember there were certain poisonous exhalations said to arise from plants and flowers if allowed to share our sleeping-room during the night, as though objects of loveliness when seen by daylight took advantage of the darkness to assume the qualities of the ghoul or the vampire. well do we remember how maternal anxiety removed every portion of vegetable life from our bedroom, lest its gases should poison us before morning! this opinion, and the cognate one that plants in rooms are always injurious, is prevalent still, and it operates most unfavorably in the case of the bed-ridden, or the invalid, by depriving them of a chamber garden which would otherwise make time put off his leaden wings, and while away, in innocent amusement, many a lagging hour. now we assure our readers that this is a popular superstition, and will endeavor to put them in possession of the grounds on which our statement is founded. in doing so, we do not put forth any opinions of our own, but the deductions of science, for the truth of which any one acquainted with vegetable physiology can vouch. plants, in a growing state, absorb the oxygen gas of the atmosphere, and throw off carbonic acid; these are facts, and as oxygen is necessary to life and carbonic acid injurious to it, the conclusion has been jumped at that plants in apartments _must_ have a deleterious influence. but there is another fact equally irrefragable, _that plants feed on the carbonic acid of the atmosphere_, and are, indeed, the grand instruments employed in the laboratory of nature for purifying it from the noxious exhalations of animal life. from the spacious forests to the blade of grass which forces itself up through the crevices of a street pavement, every portion of verdure is occupied in disinfecting the air. by means of solar light the carbonic acid, when taken in by the leaves, is decomposed, its carbon going to build up the structure of the plant and its disengaged oxygen returning to the air we breathe. it is true that this process is stopped in the darkness, and that then a very small portion of carbonic acid is evolved by plants; but as it is never necessary for a patient to sleep in a room with flowers, we need say nothing on that subject. cleanliness, and other considerations, would suggest having a bedroom as free as possible during the night, and our object is answered if we show that vegetation is not injurious in the day. that it is, on the contrary, conducive to health, is a plain corollary of science. perhaps the error we are speaking of may have originated from confounding the effects of the _odors_ of plants with a general result of their presence. now, all strong scents are injurious, and those of some flowers are specially so, and ought on no account to be patronized by the invalid. but it happens, fortunately, that a very large class of plants have either no scent at all, or so little as to be of no consequence, so that there is still room for an extensive selection. this, then, is _one_ rule to be observed in chamber gardening. another is, that the plants admitted should be in perfect health, for while growing vegetation is healthful, it becomes noxious when sickly or dead. thirdly, let the most scrupulous cleanliness be maintained; the pots, saucers, and the stands being often subjected to ablutions. under this head also we include the removal of dying leaves, and all flowers, before they have quite lost their beauty, since it is well known that the petals become unpleasant in some varieties as soon as the meridian of their brief life is passed. by giving attention to these simple regulations, a sick chamber may have its windows adorned with flowers without the slightest risk to the health of the occupant, and in saying this we open the way to some of the most gentle lenitives of pain, as well as to sources of rational enjoyment. if those who can go where they please, in the sunshine and the shade, can gather wild flowers in their natural dwellings, and cultivate extensive gardens, still find pleasure in a few favorites in-doors, how much more delight must such treasured possessions confer on those whom providence has made prisoners and who must have their all of verdure and floral beauty brought to them! [from dickens's household words.] lively turtle. a sketch of a conservative. i have a comfortable property. what i spend, i spend upon myself; and what i don't spend i save. those are my principles. i am warmly attached to my principles, and stick to them on all occasions. i am not, as some people have represented, a mean man. i never denied myself any thing that i thought i should like to have. i may have said to myself "snoady"--that is my name--"you will get those peaches cheaper if you wait till next week;" or, i may have said to myself, "snoady, you will get that wine for nothing, if you wait till you are asked out to dine;" but i never deny myself any thing. if i can't get what i want without buying it, and paying its price for it, i _do_ buy it and pay its price for it. i have an appetite bestowed upon me; and, if i balked it, i should consider that i was flying in the face of providence. i have no near relation but a brother. if he wants any thing of me, he don't get it. all men are my brothers; and i see no reason why i should make his an exceptional case. i live at a cathedral town where there is an old corporation. i am not in the church, but it may be that i hold a little place of some sort. never mind. it may be profitable. perhaps yes, perhaps no. it may, or it may not, be a sinecure. i don't choose to say, i never enlightened my brother on these subjects, and i consider all men my brothers. the negro is a man and a brother--should i hold myself accountable for my position in life, _to him_? certainly not. i often run up to london. i like london. the way i look at it, is this. london is not a cheap place, but, on the whole, you can get more of the real thing for your money there--i mean the best thing, whatever it is--than you can get in most places. therefore, i say to the man who has got the money, and wants the thing, "go to london for it, and treat yourself." when _i_ go, i do it in this manner. i go to mrs. skim's private hotel and commercial lodging house, near aldersgate-street, city (it is advertised in "bradshaw's railway guide," where i first found it), and there i pay, "for bed and breakfast, with meat, two and ninepence per day, including servants." now, i have made a calculation, and i am satisfied that mrs. skim can not possibly make much profit out of _me_. in fact, if all her patrons were like me, my opinion is, the woman would be in the gazette next month. why do i go to mrs. skim's when i could go to the clarendon, you may ask? let us argue that point. if i went to the clarendon i could get nothing in bed but sleep; could i? no. now, sleep at the clarendon is an expensive article; whereas, sleep at mrs. skim's, is decidedly cheap. i have made a calculation and i don't hesitate to say, all things considered, that it's cheap. is it an inferior article, as compared with the clarendon sleep, or is it of the same quality? i am a heavy sleeper, and it is of the same quality. then why should i go to the clarendon? but as to breakfast? you may say. very well. as to breakfast. i could get a variety of delicacies for breakfast at the clarendon, that are out of the question at mrs. skim's. granted. but i don't want to have them! my opinion is, that we are not entirely animal and sensual. man has an intellect bestowed upon him. if he clogs that intellect by too good a breakfast, how can he properly exert that intellect in meditation, during the day upon his dinner? that's the point. we are not to enchain the soul. we are to let it soar. it is expected of us. at mrs. skim's i get enough for breakfast (there is no limitation to the bread and butter, though there is to the meat), and not too much. i have all my faculties about me, to concentrate upon the object i have mentioned, and i can say to myself besides, "snoady, you have saved six, eight, ten, fifteen shillings, already to-day. if there is any thing you fancy for your dinner, have it, snoady, you have earned your reward." my objection to london, is, that it is the head-quarters of the worst radical sentiments that are broached in england. i consider that it has a great many dangerous people in it. i consider the present publication (if it's "household words") very dangerous, and i write this with the view of neutralizing some of its bad effects. my political creed is, let us be comfortable. we are all very comfortable as we are--_i_ am very comfortable as i am--leave us alone! all mankind are my brothers, and i don't think it christian--if you come to that--to tell my brother that he is ignorant, or degraded, or dirty, or any thing of the kind. i think it's abusive, and low. you meet me with the observation that i am required to love my brother. i reply, "i do." i am sure i am always willing to say to my brother, "my good fellow, i love you very much; go along with you; keep to your own road; leave me to mine; whatever is, is right; whatever isn't, is wrong; don't make a disturbance!" it seems to me, that this is at once the whole duty of man, and the only temper to go to dinner in. going to dinner in this temper in the city of london, one day not long ago, after a bed at mrs. skim's, with meat-breakfast and servants included, i was reminded of the observation which, if my memory does not deceive me, was formerly made by somebody on some occasion, that man may learn wisdom from the lower animals. it is a beautiful fact, in my opinion, that great wisdom is to be learned from that noble animal the turtle. i had made up my mind, in the course of the day i speak of, to have a turtle dinner. i mean a dinner mainly composed of turtle. just a comfortable tureen of soup, with a pint of punch, and nothing solid to follow, but a tender juicy steak. i like a tender juicy steak. i generally say to myself when i order one, "snoady, you have done right." when i make up my mind to have a delicacy, expense is no consideration. the question resolves itself, then, into a question of the very best. i went to a friend of mine who is a member of the common council, and with that friend i held the following conversation. said i to him, "mr. groggles, the best turtle is where?" says he, "if you want a basin for lunch, my opinion is, you can't do better than drop into birch's." said i, "mr. groggles, i thought you had known me better, than to suppose me capable of a basin. my intention is to dine. a tureen." says mr. groggles, without a moment's consideration, and in a determined voice. "right opposite the india house, leadenhall-street." we parted. my mind was not inactive during the day, and at six in the afternoon i repaired to the house of mr. groggles's recommendation. at the end of the passage, leading from the street into the coffee-room, i observed a vast and solid chest, in which i then supposed that a turtle of unusual size might be deposited. but, the correspondence between its bulk and that of the charge made for my dinner, afterward satisfied me that it must be the till of the establishment. i stated to the waiter what had brought me there, and i mentioned mr. groggles's name. he feelingly repeated after me, "a tureen of turtle, and a tender juicy steak." his manner, added to the manner of mr. groggles in the morning, satisfied me that all was well. the atmosphere of the coffee-room was odoriferous with turtle, and the steams of thousands of gallons, consumed within its walls, hung, in savory grease, upon their surface. i could have inscribed my name with a penknife, if i had been so disposed, in the essence of innumerable turtles. i preferred to fall into a hungry reverie, brought on by the warm breath of the place, and to think of the west indies and the island of ascension. my dinner came--and went. i will draw a vail over the meal, i will put the cover on the empty tureen, and merely say that it was wonderful--and that i paid for it. i sat meditating, when all was over, on the imperfect nature of our present existence, in which we can eat only for a limited time, when the waiter roused me with these words. said he to me, as he brushed the crumbs off the table, "would you like to see the turtle, sir?" "to see what turtle, waiter?" said i (calmly) to him. "the tanks of turtle below, sir," said he to me. tanks of turtle! good gracious! "yes!" the waiter lighted a candle, and conducted me down stairs to a range of vaulted apartments, cleanly white-washed and illuminated with gas, where i saw a sight of the most astonishing and gratifying description, illustrative of the greatness of my native country. "snoady," was my first observation to myself, "rule britannia, britannia rules the waves!" there were two or three hundred turtle in the vaulted apartments--all alive. some in tanks, and some taking the air in long dry walks littered down with straw. they were of all sizes; many of them enormous. some of the enormous ones had entangled themselves with the smaller ones, and pushed and squeezed themselves into corners, with their fins over water-pipes, and their heads downward, where they were apoplectically struggling and splashing, apparently in the last extremity. others were calm at the bottom of the tanks; others languidly rising to the surface. the turtle in the walks littered down with straw, were calm and motionless. it was a thrilling sight. i admire such a sight. it rouses my imagination. if you wish to try its effect on yours, make a call right opposite the india house any day you please--dine--pay--and ask to be taken below. two athletic young men, without coats, and with the sleeves of their shirts tucked up to the shoulders, were in attendance on these noble animals. one of them, wrestling with the most enormous turtle in company, and dragging him up to the edge of the tank, for me to look at, presented an idea to me which i never had before. i ought to observe that i like an idea. i say, when i get a new one, "snoady, book that!" my idea, on the present occasion, was--mr. groggles! it was not a turtle that i saw, but mr. groggles. it was the dead image of mr. groggles. he was dragged up to confront me, with his waistcoat--if i may be allowed the expression--toward me; and it was identically the waistcoat of mr. groggles. it was the same shape, very nearly the same color, only wanted a gold watch-chain and a bunch of seals, to be the waistcoat of mr. groggles. there was what i should call a bursting expression about him in general, which was accurately the expression of mr. groggles. i had never closely observed a turtle's throat before. the folds of his loose cravat, i found to be precisely those of mr. groggles's cravat. even the intelligent eye--i mean to say, intelligent enough for a person of correct principles, and not dangerously so--was the eye of mr. groggles. when the athletic young man let him go, and, with a roll of his head, he flopped heavily down into the tank, it was exactly the manner of mr. groggles as i have seen him ooze away into his seat, after opposing a sanitary motion in the court of common council! "snoady," i couldn't help saying to myself, "you have done it. you have got an idea, snoady, in which a great principle is involved. i congratulate you!" i followed the young man, who dragged up several turtle to the brinks of the various tanks. i found them all the same--all varieties of mr. groggles--all extraordinarily like the gentlemen who usually eat them. "now, snoady," was my next remark, "what do you deduce from this?" "sir," said i, "what i deduce from this, is, confusion to those radicals and other revolutionists who talk about improvement. sir," said i, "what i deduce from this, is, that there isn't this resemblance between the turtles and the groggleses for nothing. it's meant to show mankind that the proper model for a groggles, is a turtle; and that the liveliness we want in a groggles, is the liveliness of a turtle, and no more." "snoady," was my reply to this, "you have hit it. you are right!" i admired the idea very much, because, if i hate any thing in the world, it's change. change has evidently no business in the world, has nothing to do with it, and isn't intended. what we want is (as i think i have mentioned) to be comfortable. i look at it that way. let us be comfortable, and leave us alone. now, when the young man dragged a groggles--i mean a turtle--out of his tank, this was exactly what the noble animal expressed as he floundered back again. i have several friends besides mr. groggles in the common council, and it might be a week after this, when i said, "snoady, if i was you, i would go to that court, and hear the debate to-day." i went. a good deal of it was what i call a sound, old english discussion. one eloquent speaker objected to the french as wearing wooden shoes; and a friend of his reminded him of another objection to that foreign people, namely, that they eat frogs. i had feared, for many years, i am sorry to say, that these wholesome principles were gone out. how delightful to find them still remaining among the great men of the city of london, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty! it made me think of the lively turtle. but i soon thought more of the lively turtle. some radicals and revolutionists have penetrated even to the common council--which otherwise i regard as one of the last strongholds of our afflicted constitution; and speeches were made, about removing smithfield market--which i consider to be a part of that constitution--and about appointing a medical officer for the city, and about preserving the public health; and other treasonable practices, opposed to church and state. these proposals mr. groggles, as might have been expected of such a man, resisted; so warmly, that, as i afterward understood from mrs. groggles, he had rather a sharp attack of blood to the head that night. all the groggles party resisted them too, and it was a fine constitutional sight to see waistcoat after waistcoat rise up in resistance of them and subside. but what struck me in the sight was this, "snoady," said i, "here is your idea carried out, sir! these radicals and revolutionists are the athletic young men in shirt sleeves, dragging the lively turtle to the edges of the tank. the groggleses are the turtle, looking out for a moment, and flopping down again. honor to the groggleses! honor to the court of lively turtle! the wisdom of the turtle is the hope of england!" there are three heads in the moral of what i had to say. first, turtle and groggles are identical; wonderfully alike externally, wonderfully alike mentally. secondly, turtle is a good thing every way, and the liveliness of the turtle is intended as an example for the liveliness of man; you are not to go beyond that. thirdly, we are all quite comfortable. leave us alone! [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the unlawful gift; or, kindness rewarded. the chastened glory of a bright autumnal evening was shining upon the yellow harvest fields of bursley farm, in the vicinity of the new forest, and tinting with changeful light the dense but broken masses of thick wood which skirted the southern horizon, when ephraim lovegrove, a care-cankered, worn-out dying man, though hardly numbering sixty years, was, at his constantly and peevishly-iterated request, lifted from the bed on which for many weeks he had been gradually and painfully wasting away, and carried in an arm-chair to the door. from the cottage, situated as it was upon an eminence, the low-lying lands of bursley, and its straggling homestead, which once called him master, could be distinctly seen. the fading eyes of the old man wandered slowly over the gleaming landscape, and a faint smile of painful recognition stole upon his harsh and shriveled features. his only son, a fine handsome young fellow, stood silently, with his wife, beside him--both, it seemed, as keenly, though not, perhaps, as bitterly, impressed with the scene and the thoughts it suggested; and their child, a rosy youngster of about five years of age, clung tightly to his mother's gown, frightened and awed apparently by the stern expression he read upon his father's face. a light summer air lifted the old man's thin white locks, fanned his sallow cheeks, and momently revived his fainting spirit. "ay," he muttered, "the old pleasant home, ned, quiet, beautiful as ever. it's only we who change and pass away." "the home," rejoined the son, "of which we have been robbed--lawfully robbed." "i'm not so clear on that as i was," said ephraim lovegrove, slowly and with difficulty. "it was partly our own want of foresight--mine, i mean, of course: we ought not to have calculated on--" the old man's broken accents stopped suddenly. the strength which the sight of his former home and the grateful breeze which swept up from the valley awakened, had quickly faded; and the daughter-in-law, touching her husband's arm, and glancing anxiously at his father's changing countenance, motioned that he should be re-conveyed to bed. this was done, and a few spoonfuls of wine revived him somewhat. edward lovegrove left the cottage upon some necessary business; and his wife, after putting her child to bed, re-entered the sick-room, and seated herself with mute watchfulness by the bedside of her father-in-law. "ye are a kind, gentle creature, mary," said the dying man, whose failing gaze had been for some time fixed upon her pale, patient face; "as kind and gentle--more so, it seems to me, in this poor hovel, than when we dwelt in yon homestead, from which you, with us, have been so cruelly driven." "murmuring, father," she replied, in a low, sweet voice, "would not help us. it is surely better to submit cheerfully to a hard lot, than to chafe and fret one's life away at what can not be helped. but it's easy for me," she hastily added, fearing that her words might sound reproachfully in the old man's ear--"it's easy for me, who have health, a kind husband, and my little boy left me, to be cheerful, but it is scarcely so for you, suffering in body and mind, and tormented in a thousand ways." "ay, girl, it has been a sharp trial; but it will soon be over. in a few hours it will matter little whether old ephraim lovegrove lived and died in a pig-sty or a palace. but i would speak of you. you and ned should emigrate. there are countries, i am told, where you would be sure to prosper. that viper nichols, i remember, once offered to assist--i could never make out from what motive--from what--a little wine," he added feebly. "the evening, for the time of the year, is very chilly: my feet and legs are cold as stones." he swallowed the wine, and again addressed himself to speak, but his voice was scarcely audible. "i have often thought," he murmured, "as i lay here, that symons, nichols's clerk, from a hint he dropped, knows something of--of--your mother and--and--" the faint accents ceased to be audible; but the grasp of the dying man closed tightly upon the frightened woman's hand, as he looked wildly in her face as he drew her toward him, as if some important statement remained untold. he struggled desperately for utterance, but the strife was vain, and brief as it was fierce: his grasp relaxed, and with a convulsive groan, ephraim lovegrove fell back and expired. the storm which had made shipwreck of the fortunes of ephraim lovegrove had leveled with the earth prouder roof-trees than his. in early life he had succeeded his father as the tenant of a farm in wiltshire. he was industrious, careful, and ambitious; and aided by the sum of £ , which he received with his wife, and the high prices which agricultural produce obtained during the french war, he was enabled, at the expiration of his lease in wiltshire, to become the proprietor of bursley farm. this purchase was effected when wheat ranged from £ to £ a load, at a proportionately exorbitant price of £ . his savings amounted to about one half of this sum, and the remainder was raised by way of mortgage. matters went on smoothly enough till the peace of , and the subsequent precipitate fall in prices. lovegrove showed gallant fight, hoping against hope that exceptional legislation would ultimately bolster up prices to something like their former level. he was deceived. every day saw him sinking lower and lower; and in the sixth year of peace he was reluctantly compelled to abandon the long since desperate and hopeless struggle with adverse fortune. the interest on the borrowed money had fallen considerably in arrear, and bursley farm was sold by auction at a barely sufficient sum to cover the mortgage and accumulated interest. the stock was similarly disposed of, and stout ephraim withdrew with his family to a small cottage in the neighborhood of his old home, possessed, after his debts were discharged, of about thirty pounds in money and a few necessary articles of furniture. the old man's heart was broken: he took almost immediately to his bed, and after a long agony of physical pain, aggravated and embittered by mental disquietude and discontent, expired, as we have seen, worn out in mind and body. the future of the surviving family was a dark and anxious one. edward lovegrove, a frank, kindly-tempered young man, accustomed, in the golden days of farming, to ride occasionally after the hounds, as well equipped and mounted as any in the field, was little fitted for a struggle for daily bread with the crowded competition of the world. he had several times endeavored to obtain a situation as bailiff, but others more fortunate, perhaps better qualified, filled up every vacancy that offered, and the almost desperate man, but for the pleading helplessness of his wife and child, would have sought shelter in the ranks of the army--that grave in which so many withered prospects and broken hopes lie buried. as usual with disappointed men, his mind dwelt with daily-augmenting bitterness upon the persons at whose hands the last and decisive blows which had destroyed his home had been received. sandars the mortgagee he looked upon as a monster of perfidy and injustice; but especially nichols the attorney, who had superintended and directed the sale of the bursley homestead, was regarded by him with the bitterest dislike. other causes gave intensity to this vindictive feeling. the son of the attorney, arthur nichols, a wild, dissipated young man, had been a competitor for the hand of mary clarke, the sole child of widow clarke, and now edward lovegrove's wife. it was not at all remarkable or surprising that young nichols should admire and seek to wed pretty and gentle mary clarke, but it was deemed strange by those who knew his father's grasping, mercenary disposition, that _he_ should have been so eager for the match, well knowing, as he did, for the payments passed through his hands, that the widow's modest annuity terminated with her life. it was also known, and wonderingly commented upon, that the attorney was himself an anxious suitor for the widow's hand up to the day of her sudden and unexpected decease, which occurred about three years after her daughter's marriage with edward lovegrove. immediately after this event, as if some restraint upon his pent-up malevolence had been removed, the elder nichols manifested the most active hostility toward the lovegroves; and to his persevering enmity it was generally attributed that mr. sandars had availed himself of the power of sale inserted in the mortgage deed, to cast his unfortunate debtor helpless and homeless upon the world. sadly passed away the weary, darkening days with the young couple after the old man's death. the expenses of his long illness had swept away the little money saved from the wreck of the farm; and it required the sacrifice of edward's watch and some silver teaspoons to defray the cost of a decent funeral. at last, spite of the thriftiest economy, all was gone, and they were penniless. "you have nothing to purchase breakfast with to-morrow, have you, mary?" said the husband, after partaking of a scanty tea. the mother had feigned only to eat: little edward, whose curly head was lying in her lap as he sat asleep on a low stool beside her, had her share. "not a farthing," she replied, mildly, even cheerfully, and the glance of her gentle eyes was hopeful and kind as ever. "but, bear up, edward: we have still the furniture; and were that sold at once, it would enable us to reach london, where, you know, so many people have made fortunes, who arrived there as poor as we." "something must be done, that is certain," replied the husband. "we have not yet received an answer from salisbury about the porter's place i have applied for." "no; but i would rather, for your sake, edward, that you filled such a situation at some place further off, where you were not so well known." edward lovegrove sighed, and, presently, rising from his chair, walked toward a chest of drawers that stood at the further end of the room. his wife, who guessed his intention--for the matter had been already more than once hinted at--followed him with a tearful, apprehensive glance. her husband played tolerably well--wonderfully in the wife's opinion--upon the flute, and a few weeks after their marriage, her mother had purchased and presented him with a very handsome one with silver keys. he used, in the old time, to accompany his wife in the simple ballads she sang so sweetly--and now this last memorial of the past, linked as it was with tender and pious memories, must be parted with! edward lovegrove had not looked at it for months: his life, of late so out of tune, would have made harsh discord of its music; and as he took it from the case, and, from the mere force of habit, moistened the joints, and placed the pieces together, a flood of bitterness swelled his heart to think that this solace of "lang syne" must be sacrificed to their hard necessities. he blew a few tremulous and imperfect notes, which awakened the little boy, who was immediately clamorous that mammy should sing, and daddy play, as they used to do. "shall we try, mary," said the husband, "to please the child?" poor mary bowed her head: her heart was too full to speak. the flutist played the prelude to a favorite air several times over, before his wife could sufficiently command her voice to commence the song, and she had not reached the end of the second line when she stopped, choked with emotion, and burst into an agony of tears. "it is useless trying, mary," said edward lovegrove, soothingly, as he rose and put by the flute. "i will to bed at once, for to and from christchurch, where i must dispose of it, is a long walk." he kissed his wife and child, and went up-stairs. the mother followed soon afterward, put her boy to rest, and after looking wistfully for a few moments at the worn and haggard features of her husband as he lay asleep, re-descended the stairs, and busied herself with some necessary household work. as she was thus employed, a slight tap at the little back window struck her ear, and, looking sharply round, she recognized the pale, uncouth features of symons, lawyer nichols' deformed clerk and errand-man, who was eagerly beckoning her to open the casement. this was the person of whom ephraim lovegrove had spoken just previous to his death. symons, who had never known father or mother, had passed his infancy and early boyhood in the parish workhouse, from whence he had passed into the service of mr. nichols, who, finding him useful, and of some capacity, had retained him in his employ to the present time, but at so bare a stipend, as hardly sufficed to keep body and soul together. poor symons was a meek, enduring drudge, used to the mocks and buffets of the world; and except under the influence of strong excitement, hardly dared to rebel or murmur, even in spirit. his acquaintance with the lovegrove family arose from his being placed in possession of the furniture and stock of bursley farm, under a writ of _fi. fa._ issued by nichols. on the day the inventory was taken, in preparation for the sale, a heavy piece of timber, which he was assisting to measure, fell upon his left foot, and severely crushed it. from his master he received only a malediction for his awkwardness; but young mrs. lovegrove--not so much absorbed in her own grief as to be indifferent to the sufferings of others--had him brought carefully into the house, and herself tended his painful hurt with the gentlest care and compassion, and ultimately effected a thorough cure. this kindness to a slighted, deformed being, who, before, had scarcely comprehended the meaning of the word, powerfully effected symons; and he had since frequently endeavored, in his shy, awkward way, to testify the deep gratitude he felt toward his benefactress, of whose present extreme poverty he, in common with every other inhabitant of the scattered hamlet, had, of course, become fully cognizant. charity symons--the parish authorities had so named him, in order, doubtless that however high he might eventually rise in the world, he should never ungratefully forget his origin--beckoned, as i have said, eagerly to the lone woman, and the instant she opened the casement, he thrust a rather heavy bag into her hand. "for you," he said, hurriedly: "i got it for next to nothing of tom stares; but mind, not a word! god bless and reward you!" and before mrs. lovegrove could answer a word, or comprehend what was meant, he had disappeared. on opening the bag, the surprised and affrighted woman found that it contained a fine hen-pheasant and a hare! no wonder she was alarmed at finding herself in possession of such articles; for in those good old days game could not be lawfully sold or purchased; and unless it could be distinctly proved that it came by gift from a qualified killer, its simple possession was a punishable offense. this pheasant and hare had doubtless been poached by tom stares, a notorious offender against the game-laws; but what was to be done? spite of all the laws that were enacted upon the subject, the peasant and farmer intellect of england could never be made to attach a moral delinquency to the unauthorized killing of game. a dangerous occupation, leading to no possible good, and, eventually, sure to result in evil to the transgressor, prudent men agreed it was; but as for confounding the stealing of a wooden spoon, worth a penny, with the snaring of a hare, worth, perhaps, five shillings--that never entered any body's head. and thus it happened that mrs. lovegrove, though conscious that the hare and bird had been illegally obtained, felt nothing of the instinctive horror and shame that would have mantled her forehead, had she been made the recipient of a stolen threepenny-worth of cheese or bacon. she recalled to mind the journey her husband must take in the morning--he, weak, haggard for want of food--of which here was an abundant present supply: her boy, too, who had twice at tea-time, ere he fell asleep, asked vainly for more bread! as these bitter thoughts glanced through her brain, a sharp double rap at the door caused her to start like a guilty thing, and then hastily undo her apron, and throw it over the betraying present. the door was not locked, and the postman, impatient of delay, lifted the latch, and stepped into the room. was he soon enough to observe what was on the table? mary lovegrove would have thought so, but for the unconcerned, indifferent aspect of the man as he presented a letter, and said, "it's prepaid: all right;" and without further remark, went away. the anxious and nervous woman trembled so much, that she could hardly break the seal of the letter; and the words, as she strove to make out the cramped hand by the brilliant moonlight, danced confusedly before her eyes. at last she was able to read. the letter was from salisbury and announced that mr. brodie "regretted to say, as he had known and respected the late ephraim lovegrove, that he had engaged a person to fill the situation which had been vacant, a few hours previous to his receiving edward lovegrove's application." that plank, then, had sunk under them like all the rest! a hard world, she thought, and but little entitled to obedience or respect from the wretches trampled down in its iron course. edward should not, at all events, depart foodless on his morning's errand; neither should her boy lack breakfast. on this she was now determined, and with shaking hands and flushed cheek, she hastily set about preparing the bird for the morning meal--a weak and criminal act, if you will; but a mother seldom reasons when her child lacks food: she only feels. edward lovegrove very easily reconciled himself to the savory breakfast which awaited him in the morning; and he and his son were doing ample justice to it--the wife, though faint with hunger, could not touch a morsel--when the latch of the door suddenly lifted, and in hurried thompson the miller, and chief constable of the hundred, followed by an assistant. a faint scream escaped from mrs. lovegrove, and a fierce oath broke from her husband's lips, as they recognized the new-comers, and too readily divined their errand. "a charming breakfast, upon my word!" exclaimed the constable, laughing. "roasted pheasant--no less! our information was quite correct, it appears." "what is the meaning of this, and what do you seek here?" exclaimed edward lovegrove. "you and this game, of which we are informed you are unlawfully possessed. i hope," added the constable, a feeling, good sort of man--"i hope you will be able to prove both this half-eaten pheasant and the hare i see hanging yonder were presented to you by some person having a right to make such gifts?" a painful and embarrassing pause ensued. it would have been useless, as far as themselves were concerned, to have named charity symons, even had lovegrove or his wife been disposed to subject him to the penalties of the law and the anger of his employer. "after all," observed the constable, who saw how matters stood, "it is but a money penalty." "a money penalty!" exclaimed lovegrove. "it is imprisonment--ruin--starvation for my wife and child. look at these bare walls--these threadbare garments--and say if it can mean any thing else!" "i am sorry for it," rejoined thompson. "the penalty is a considerable one: five pounds for each head of game, with costs; and i am afraid, if sir john devereux's agent--lawyer nichols--presses the charge, in default of payment, six months' imprisonment! sir john's preserves have suffered greatly of late." "it is that rascal, that robber nichols' doing then!" fiercely exclaimed lovegrove. "i might have guessed so; but if i don't pay him off both for old and new one of these days--" "tut--tut!" interrupted the constable: "it's no use calling names, nor uttering threats we don't mean to perform. perhaps matters may turn out better than you think. in the mean time you must appear before squire digby, and so must your hare and what remains of your breakfast." arrived before the magistrate, the prisoner, taken in "_flagrant délit_," had of course no valid defense to offer. the justice remarked upon the enormity of the offense committed, and regretted, exceedingly that he could not at once convict and punish the delinquent; but as the statute required that two magistrates should concur in the conviction, the case would be adjourned till that day week, when a petty sessions would be held. in the mean time he should require bail in ten pounds for the prisoner's appearance. this would have been tantamount to a sentence of immediate imprisonment, had not the constable, who had been formerly intimate with the lovegroves, stepped forward and said, that if the prisoner would give him his word that he would not abscond, he would bail him. this was done, and the necessary formalities complete, the husband and wife took their sad way homeward. what was now to be done? their furniture, if sold at its highest value, would barely discharge the penalties incurred, and they would be homeless, penniless, utterly without resource? the wife wept bitterly, accusing herself as the cause of this utter ruin; her husband indulged in fierce and senseless abuse of nichols, and in a paroxysm of fury seized a sheet of letter-paper, tore it hastily in halves, and scribbled a letter to the attorney full of threats of the direst vengeance. this crazy epistle he signed 'a ruined man,' and without pausing to reflect on what he was doing, dispatched his little boy to the post-office with it. this mad proceeding appeared to have somewhat relieved him: he grew calmer, strove to console his wife, went out and obtained credit at the chandler's--the first time they had made such a request--for a few necessaries; and after a short interval, the unfortunate couple were once more discussing their sad prospects with calmness and partially-renewed hope. more than once edward lovegrove wished he had not sent the letter to nichols; but he said nothing to his wife about it, and she, it afterward appeared, had been so pre-occupied at the time, as not to heed or inquire to whom or of what he was writing. on the third day after edward lovegrove's appearance before the magistrate, he set off about noon for christchurch, in order to dispose of his flute--a sacrifice which could no longer be delayed. it was growing late, and his wife was sitting up in impatient expectation of his return, when an alarm of "fire" was raised, and it was announced that a wheat-rick belonging to nichols, who farmed in a small way, was in flames. many of the villagers hastened to the spot; but the fire, by the time they arrived, had been effectually got under, and after hanging about the premises a short time, they turned homeward. edward lovegrove joined a party of them, and incidently remarked that he had been to christchurch, where he had met young nichols, and had some rough words with him: on his return, the young man had passed him on horseback when about two miles distant from the elder nichols' house, and just as he (lovegrove) neared the attorney's premises, the rick burst into flames. this relation elicited very little remark at the time, and bidding his companion good-night, lovegrove hastened home. "the constables are looking for you," said a young woman, abruptly entering the chandler's shop, whither edward lovegrove had proceeded the following morning to discharge the trifling debt he had incurred. "for me?" exclaimed the startled young man. "yes, for you;" and, added the girl with a meaning look and whisper, "_if you were near the fire last night_, i would advise you to make yourself scarce for a time." her words conveyed no definite meaning to edward lovegrove's mind. the fire! constables after him! he left the shop, and took with hasty steps, his way to the cottage, distant over the fields about a quarter of a mile. "lawyer nichols' fire," he muttered as he hurried along. "surely they do not mean to accuse me of that!" the sudden recollection of the threatening letter he had sent glanced across and smote, as with the stroke of a dagger, upon his brain. "good god! to what have i exposed myself?" his agitation was excessive; and at the instant the constables, who had been to his home in search of him, turned the corner of a path, a few paces ahead, and came full upon him. in his confusion and terror he turned to flee, but so weakly and irresolutely, that he was almost immediately overtaken and secured. "i would not have believed this of you, edward lovegrove," exclaimed the constable. "believed what?" ejaculated the bewildered man. "that you would have tried to revenge yourself on lawyer nichols by such a base, dastardly trick. but it's not my business to reproach you, and the less _you_ say the better. come along." as they passed on toward the magistrate's house, an eager and curious crowd gradually collected and accompanied them; and just as they reached digby hall, a distant convulsive scream, and his name frantically pronounced by a voice which the prisoner but too well recognized, told him that his wife had heard of his capture, and was hurrying to join him. he drew back, but his captors urged him impatiently on; the hall-door was slammed in the faces of the crowd, and he found himself in the presence of the magistrate and the elder nichols. the attorney, who appeared to be strongly agitated, deposed in substance that the prisoner had been seen by his son near his premises a few minutes before the fire burst out; that he had abused and assaulted young mr. nichols but a few hours previously in the market at christchurch; and that he had himself received a threatening letter, which he now produced, only two days before, and which he believed to be in the prisoner's handwriting-- the prisoner, bewildered by terror, eagerly denied that he wrote the letter. this unfortunate denial was easily disposed of, by the production, by the constable, of a half sheet of letter-paper found in the cottage, the ragged edge of which precisely fitted that of the letter. edward lovegrove would have been fully committed at once, but that the magistrate thought it desirable that the deposition of arthur nichols should be first formally taken. this course was reluctantly acquiesced in by the prosecutor, and the prisoner was remanded to the next day. the dismay of charity symons, when he found that his well-intentioned present had only brought additional suffering upon the lovegroves, was intense and bitter; but how to help them, he knew not. he had half made up his mind to obtain--no matter by what means--a sight of certain papers which he had long dimly suspected would make strange revelations upon matters affecting mary lovegrove, when the arrest of her husband on a charge of incendiarism thoroughly determined him to risk the expedient he had long hesitatingly contemplated. the charge, he was quite satisfied in his own mind, was an atrocious fabrication, strongly as circumstances seemed to color and confirm it. the clerk, as he sat that afternoon in the office silently pursuing his ill-paid drudgery, noticed that his employer was strangely ill at ease. he was restless, and savagely impatient of the slightest delay on the most necessary question. evening fell early--it was now near the end of october, and symons with a respectful bow, left the office. a few minutes afterward, the attorney having carefully locked his desk, iron chest, &c., and placed the keys in his pocket, followed. two hours had elapsed, when symons re-entered the house by the back way, walked through the kitchen, softly ascended the stairs, and groped his way to the inner, private office. there was no moon, and he dared not light a candle; but the faint starlight fortunately enabled him to move about without stumbling or noise. he mounted the office steps, and inserted the edge of a sharp broad chisel between the lock and the lid of a heavy iron-bound box marked 'c.' the ease and suddenness with which the lid yielded to the powerful effort he applied to it, overthrew his balance, and he with difficulty saved himself from falling on the floor. the box was not locked, and on putting his hand into it, he discovered that it was entirely empty! the tell-tale papers had been removed, probably destroyed! at the moment symons made this exasperating discovery, the sound of approaching footsteps struck upon his startled senses, and shaking with fright, he had barely time to descend the steps, and coop himself up in a narrow cupboard under one of the desks, when the nicholses, father and son, entered the office--the former with a candle in his hand. "we are private here," said the father in a low, guarded voice; "and i tell you you _must_ listen to reason. "i don't like it a bit," rejoined the young man. "it's a cowardly, treacherous business; and as for swearing i saw him near the fire when it so strangely burst out, i won't do it at any price." "listen to me, you foolish, headstrong boy," retorted the elder nichols, "before you decide on beggary for yourself, and ruin--the gallows, perhaps, for me." "wh-e-e-e-w! why, what do you mean?" "i will tell you. you already know that mary woodhouse married robert clarke against his uncle's consent; you also know that robert clarke died about five years after the marriage, and that the seventy pounds a year which the uncle allowed his nephew to keep him from starvation was continued to be paid through me to his widow." "yes, i have heard all this before." "but you do _not_ know," continued the attorney in an increasingly-agitated voice, "that about six years after robert clarke's death, the uncle so far relented toward the widow and daughter--though he would never see either of them--as to increase the annuity to two hundred pounds, and that at his death, four years since, he bequeathed mrs. clarke five hundred pounds per annum, with succession to her daughter: all of which sums, i, partly on account of your riot and extravagance, have appropriated." "good heaven, what a horrible affair! what would you have me do?" "i have told you. the dread of discovery has destroyed my health, and poisoned my existence. were he once out of the country, his wife would doubtless follow him; detection would be difficult; conviction, as i will manage it, impossible." there was more said to the same effect; and the son, at the close of a long and troubled colloquy, departed, after promising to "consider of it." he had been gone but a few minutes; the elder nichols was silently meditating the perilous position in which he had placed himself, when a noiseless step approached him from behind, and a heavy hand was suddenly placed upon his shoulder. he started wildly to his feet, and confronted the stern and triumphant glance of the once humble and submissive charity symons. the suddenness of the shock overcame him, and he fainted. mary lovegrove, whose child had sobbed itself to sleep, was sitting in solitude and darkness in the lower room of the cottage, her head bowed in mute and tearless agony upon the table, when, as on a previous evening, a tap at the back window challenged her attention. it was once more charity symons. "what do you here again?" exclaimed the wretched wife with some asperity of tone: "you no doubt intended well; but you have nevertheless ruined, destroyed me." "not so," rejoined the deformed clerk, his pale, uncouth, but expressive features gleaming with wild exultation in the clear starlight. "god has at last enabled me to requite your kindness to a contemned outcast. fear not for to-morrow. your husband is safe, and you are rich." with these words he vanished. on the next morning a letter was placed in the magistrate's hands from mr. nichols, stating that circumstances had come to the writer's knowledge which convinced him that edward lovegrove was entirely innocent of the offense imputed to him; that the letter, which he had destroyed, bore quite another meaning from that which he had first attributed to it; and that he consequently abandoned the prosecution. on further inquiry, it was found that the attorney had left his house late the preceding night, accompanied by his son, had walked to christchurch, and from thence set off post for london. his property and the winding up of his affairs had been legally confided to his late clerk. under these circumstances the prisoner was of course immediately discharged; and after a private interview with symons, returned in joy and gladness to his now temporary home. he was accompanied by the noisy felicitations of his neighbors, to whom his liberation and sudden accession to a considerable fortune had become at the same moment known. as he held his passionately-weeping wife in his arms, and gazed with grateful emotion in her tearful but rejoicing eyes, he whispered, "that kind act of yours toward the despised hunchback has saved me, and enriched our child. 'blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy!'" [from dickens's household words.] the gamblers of the rhine. in literature, in science, in art, we find germany quite on a level with the present age. she has produced men and books equal to the men and books of england or france, as the names of goethe, schiller, humboldt, liebig, and a score of others bear testimony. but while in poetry, philosophy, and science, she is on a par with the best portions of modern europe; in politics--in the practical science of government--she is an indefinite number of centuries behindhand. governmentally, she is now where the english were during the saxon heptarchy, with seven or more kingdoms in a space that might be well governed by one sceptre. where she might get along very well with two, she has a dozen petty kings, and petty courts, and petty national debts, and petty pension-lists, and paltry debased and confusing coinages, and petty cabals, quarrels, and intermixture of contending interests. out of this division of territory arises, of course, a number of small poor princes; and as poor princes do not like to work hard when their pockets are low, we find them busy with the schemes, shifts, and contrivances, common from time immemorial with penniless people who have large appetites for pleasure, small stomachs for honest work--real, living, reigning dukes though they be, they have added to the royal "businesses" to which they were born, little private speculations for the encouragement of _rouge et noir_ and _roulette_. these small princes have, in fact, turned gambling house keepers--hell-keepers, in the vulgar but expressive slang of a london police court--proprietors of establishments where the vicious and the unwary, the greedy hawk and the silly pigeon, congregate, the one to plunder and the other to be plucked. that which has been expelled from huge london, as too great an addition to its vice, or, if not quite expelled, is carried on with iron-barred doors, unequal at times to protect its followers from the police and the infamy of exposure--that which has been outlawed from the palais royal and paris, as too bad even for the lax morality of a most free-living city--that huge vice which caters to the low senses of cunning and greediness, and tempts men to lose fortune, position, character, even hope, in the frantic excitements of, perhaps, one desperate night--such a vice is housed in fine buildings raised near mineral springs, surrounded by beautiful gardens, enlivened by music, and sanctioned by the open patronage of petty german princes holding sway in the valley watered by the rhine. in fact, unscrupulous speculators are found to carry on german gaming-tables at german spas, paying the sovereign of the country certain thousands of pounds a year for the privilege of fleecing the public. the weakened in body are naturally weakened in mental power. the weak in body are promised health by "taking the waters" at a german bath. the early hours, the pleasant walks, the good music, the promised economy, are inducements. the weakened mind wants more occupation than it finds, for these places are very monotonous, and the gaming-table is placed by the sovereign of the country in a noble room--the kursaal, to afford excitement to the visitor, and profits--the profits of infamy--to himself. there are grades in these great gaming-houses for europe. taking them in the order in which they are reached from cologne, it may be said that wiesbaden is the finest town, having very pleasant environs, and the least play. the grand duke of nassau, therefore, has probably the smallest share of the gaming-table booty. homburg which comes next in order, is far more out of reach, is smaller, duller--(it is indeed very, very dreary)--and has to keep its gaming-tables going all the year round, to make up the money paid by the lessees of the gambling-house to the duke. the range of the taunus is at the back of the "town" (a village about as large, imposing, and lively as hounslow), and affords its chief attraction. the rides are agreeable, if the visitor has a good horse--(a difficult thing to get in that locality)--and is fond of trotting up steep hills, and then ambling down again. in beauty of position, and other attractions, it is very far below both wiesbaden and baden. baden-baden is the third, and certainly most beautiful of these german gambling-towns. the town nestles, as it were, in a sheltered valley, opening among the hills of the black forest. in summer its aspect is very picturesque and pleasant; but it looks as if in winter it must be very damp and liable to the atmosphere which provokes the growth of _goitre_. at baden there is said to be more play than at the other two places put together. from may till the end of september, _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_--the mutter of the man who deals the cards, and the rattle of the marble--are never still. the profits of the table at this place are very large. the man who had them some years ago retired with an immense fortune; and one of his successors came from the palais royal when public gaming was forbidden in paris, and was little less successful than his predecessor. the permanent residents at baden could alone form any idea of the sums netted, and only such of those as were living near the bankers. they could scarcely avoid seeing the bags of silver, five franc pieces chiefly, that passed between the gaming-tables and the bank. a profit of one thousand pounds a fortnight was thought a sign of a bad season; and so it must have been, when it is calculated that the gambling-table keeper paid the duke a clear four thousand pounds a year as the regal share of the plunder, and agreed to spend two thousand a year in decorating the town of baden. the play goes on in a noble hall called the conversations house, decorated with frescoes and fitted up most handsomely. this building stands in a fine ornamental garden, with green lawns and fine avenues of tall trees; and all this has been paid for by the profits of _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_. seeing this, it may cause surprise that people play at all; yet the fascination is so great that, once within its influence, good resolutions and common sense seem alike unequal to resistance. all seems fair enough, and some appear to win, and then self-love suggests, "oh, my luck will surely carry me through!" the game is so arranged that some win and some lose every game, the table having, it is said, only a small percentage of chance in its favor. these chances are avowedly greater at _roulette_ than at _rouge et noir_, but at both it is practically shown that the player, in the long run, always loses. it is whispered that, contrary to the schoolboy maxim, cheating _does_ thrive at german baths; and those who have watched the matter closely, say a dutch banker won every season by following a certain plan. he waited till he saw a heavy stake upon the table, and then backed the other side. he always won. go into one of the rooms at any of these places, and whom do you see? the off-scourings of european cities--professional gamblers, ex-officers of all sorts of armies; portionless younger brothers; pensioners; old men and old women who have outlived all other excitements; a multitude of silly gulls, attracted by the waters, or the music, or the fascination of play; and a sprinkling of passing tourists, who come--"just look in on their way," generally to be disappointed--often to be fleeced. young and handsome women are not very often seen playing. gaming is a vice reserved for middle age. while hearts are to be won, dollars are not worth playing for. cards, and rouge, and dyspepsy seem to be nearly allied, if we may judge by the specimens of humanity seen at the baths of wiesbaden, homburg, and baden. the players--and player and loser are almost synonymous terms--are generally thin and anxious; the bankers, fat and stolid. as the brass whirls round, the table-keeper has the look of a quiet bloated spider, seemingly passionless, but with an eye that glances over every chance on the board. at his side see an elderly man, pale and thin, the muscles of whose lower jaw are twitching spasmodically, yet with jaded, forced resignation, he loses his last five pounds. next him is a woman highly dressed, with false hair and teeth, and a great deal of paint. she has a card in her hand, on which she pricks the numbers played, and thus flatters herself she learns the best chances to take. next to her see one of the most painful sights these places display. a father, mother, and young girl are all trying their fortune; the parents giving money to the child that they "may have her good luck," reckless of the fatal taste they are implanting in her mind. next is a jew, looking all sorts of agonies, and one may fancy he knows he is losing in an hour, what it has cost him years of cunning and self-denial to amass. and so on, round the table, we find ill-dressed and well dressed germans, french, russians, english, yankees, irish, mixed up together, in one eager crowd; thirsting to gain gold without giving value in return; risking what they have in an insane contest which they know has destroyed thousands before them; losing their money, and winning disgust, despondency, and often despair and premature death. never a year is said to go by without its complement of ruined fools and hasty suicides. the neighboring woods afford a convenient shelter; and a trigger, or a handkerchief and a bough, complete the tragedy. [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] the conflict of love--a tale of real life. in the north of france, near the belgian frontier, is situated a small, obscure town. it is surrounded by high fortifications, which seem ready to crush the mean houses in the centre. inclosed, so to speak, in a net-work of walls, the poor little town has never sent a suburb to wander on the smooth green turf outside; but as the population increased, new streets sprang up within the boundary, crowding the already narrow space, and giving to the whole the aspect of some huge prison. the climate of the north of france during half the year is usually damp and gloomy. i shall never forget the sensation of sadness which i felt when obliged by circumstances to leave the gay, sunny south, and take up my abode for a while in the town i have described. every day i walked out; and in order to reach the nearest gate, i had to pass through a narrow lane, so very steep, that steps were cut across it in order to render the ascent less difficult. traversing this disagreeable alley, it happened one day that my eyes rested on a mean-looking, gray-colored house, which stood detached from the others. seldom, indeed, could a ray of sunshine light up its small, green-paned windows, and penetrate the interior of its gloomy apartments. during the winter the frozen snow on the steps made it so dangerous to pass through the narrow alley, that its slippery pavement seemed quite deserted. i do not remember to have met a single person there in the course of my daily walk; and my eye used to rest with compassion on the silent gray house. "i hope," thought i, "that its inhabitants are old--it would be fearful to be young there!" spring came; and in the narrow lane the ice changed into moisture; then the damp gradually dried up, and a few blades of grass began to appear beneath the rampart wall. even in this gloomy passage there were tokens of awakening life, but the gray house remained silent and sad as before. passing by it, as usual, in the beginning of june, i remarked, placed on the window-sill of the open casement, a glass containing a bunch of violets. "ah," thought i, "there is a _soul_ here!" to love flowers, one must either be young, or have preserved the memories of youth. the enjoyment of their perfume implies something ideal and refined; and among the poor a struggle between the necessities of the body and the instincts of the soul. i looked at the violets with a feeling of sadness, thinking that they probably formed the single solace of some weary life. the next day i returned. even in that gloomy place the sweet rejoicing face of summer had appeared, and dissipated the chill silence of the air. birds were twittering, insects humming, and one of the windows in the old gray house was wide open. seated near it was a woman working busily with her needle. it would be difficult to tell her age, for the pallor and sadness of her countenance might have been caused as much by sorrow as by years, and her cheek was shadowed by a profusion of rich dark hair. she was thin, and her fingers were long and white. she wore a simple brown dress, a black apron, and white collar; and i remarked the sweet, though fading bunch of violets carefully placed within the folds of her kerchief. her eyes met mine, and she gently inclined her head. i then saw more distinctly that she had just reached the limit which separates youth from mature age. she had suffered, but probably without a struggle, without a murmur--perhaps without a tear. her countenance was calm and resigned, but it was the stillness of death. i fancied she was like a drooping flower, which, without being broken, bends noiselessly toward the earth. every day i saw her in the same place, and, without speaking, we exchanged a salutation. on sundays i missed her, and concluded that she walked into the country, for each monday a fresh bunch of violets appeared in the window. i conjectured that she was poor, working at embroidery for her support; and i discovered that she was not alone in the house, for one day a somewhat impatient voice called "ursula!" and she rose hastily. the tone was not that of a master, neither did she obey the summons after the manner of a servant, but with an expression of heartfelt readiness; yet the voice breathed no affection; and i thought that ursula perchance was not loved by those with whom she lived. time passed on, and our silent intimacy increased. at length each day i gathered some fresh flowers, and placed them on the window-sill. ursula blushed, and took them with a gentle, grateful smile. clustering in her girdle, and arranged within her room, they brought summer to the old gray house. it happened one evening that as i was returning through the alley a sudden storm of rain came on. ursula darted toward the door, caught my hand as i was passing, and drew me into the narrow passage which led to her room. then the poor girl clasped both my hands in hers, and murmured, softly, "thanks!" it was the first time i had heard her voice, and i entered her apartment. it was a large, low room, with a red-tiled floor, furnished with straw chairs ranged along the walls. being lighted by only one small window, it felt damp and gloomy. ursula was right to seat herself close by the casement to seek a little light and air. i understood the reason of her paleness--it was not that she had lost the freshness of youth, but that she had never possessed it. she was bleached like a flower that has blossomed in the shade. in the farthest corner of the room, seated on arm-chairs, were two persons, an old man and woman. the latter was knitting without looking at her work--she was blind. the man was unemployed: he gazed vacantly at his companion without a ray of intelligence in his face: it was evident that he had overpassed the ordinary limit of human life, and that now his body alone existed. sometimes in extreme old age the mind, as though irritated by its long captivity, tries to escape from its prison, and in its efforts, breaks the harmonious chord that links them together. it chafes against the shattered walls; it has not taken flight, but it feels itself no longer in a place of rest. these, then, were the inhabitants of the silent gray house--a blind old woman, an imbecile old man, and a young girl faded before her time by the sadness and gloom that surrounded her! her life had been a blank; each year had borne away some portion of her youth, her beauty, and her hope, and left her nothing but silence and oblivion. i often returned to visit ursula, and one day, while i sat next her in the window, she told me the simple story of her life. "i was born," said she, "in this house; and i have never quitted it; but my parents are not natives of this country--they came here as strangers, without either friends or relatives. when they married, they were already advanced in life; for i can not remember them ever being young. my mother became blind, and this misfortune rendered her melancholy and austere; so that our house was enveloped in gloom. i was never permitted to sing, or play, or make the slightest noise: very rarely did i receive a caress. yet my parents loved me: they never told me that they did; but i judged their hearts by my own, and i felt that i loved them. my days were not always as solitary as they are now; i had a sister"--her eyes filled with tears, but they did not overflow; they were wont to remain hidden in the depths of her heart. after a few moments, she continued--"i had an elder sister: like our mother, she was grave and silent, but toward me she was tender and affectionate. we loved each other dearly, and shared between us the cares which our parents required. we never enjoyed the pleasure of rambling together through the fields, for one always remained at home; but whichever of us went out, brought flowers to the other, and talked to her of the sun, and the trees, and the fresh air. in the evenings we worked together by the light of a lamp; we could not converse much, for our parents used to slumber by our side; but whenever we looked up, we could see a loving smile on each other's face; and we went to repose in the same room, never lying down without saying 'good-night! i hope, dear sister, you will sleep well!' was it not a trial to part? yet i do not murmur: martha is happy in heaven. i know not if it was the want of air and exercise, or the dull monotony of her life, which caused the commencement of martha's illness, but i saw her gradually languish and fade. i alone was disquieted by it; my mother did not see her, and she never complained. with much difficulty i at length prevailed on my sister to see a physician. alas! nothing could be done: she lingered for a time, and then died. the evening before her death, as i was seated by her bed, she clasped my hand between her trembling ones: 'adieu! my poor ursula!' she said: 'take courage, and watch well over our father and mother. they love us, ursula; they love us, although they do not often say so. take care of your health for their sake; you can not die before them. adieu! sister: don't weep for me too much, but pray to our heavenly father. we shall meet again, ursula!' three days afterward, martha was borne away in her coffin, and i remained alone with my parents. when my mother first heard of my sister's death, she uttered a loud cry, sprang up, took a few hasty steps across the room, and then fell on the ground. i raised her up, and led her back to her arm-chair. since then she has not wept, but she is more silent than before, save that her lips move in secret prayer. i have little more to tell. my father became completely imbecile, and at the same time we lost nearly the whole of our little property. i have succeeded in concealing this loss from my parents; making money for their support by selling my embroidery. i have no one to speak to since my sister's death; i love books, but i have no time for reading--i must work. it is only on sunday that i breathe the fresh air; and i do not walk far, as i am alone. some years since, when i was very young, i used to dream while i sat in this window. i peopled the solitude with a thousand visions which brightened the dark hours. now a sort of numbness has fallen on my thoughts--i dream no more. while i was young, i used to hope for some change in my destiny; now i am twenty-nine years old, and sorrow has chastened my spirit: i no longer hope or fear. in this place i shall finish my lonely days. do not think that i have found resignation without a conflict. there were times when my heart revolted at living without being loved, but i thought of martha's gentle words, 'we shall meet again, sister!' and i found peace. now i often pray--i seldom weep. and you, madam--are you happy?" i did not answer this question of ursula's. speaking to her of happiness would be like talking of an ungrateful friend to one whom he has deserted. some months afterward, on a fine autumn morning, as i was preparing to go to ursula, i received a visit from a young officer who had lately joined the garrison. he was the son of an old friend of my husband's, and we both felt a lively interest in his welfare. seeing me prepared for a walk, he offered his arm, and we proceeded toward the dwelling of ursula. i chanced to speak of her; and as the young officer, whom i shall call maurice d'erval, seemed to take an interest in her story, i related it to him as we walked slowly along. when we reached the old gray house he looked at her with pity and respect, saluted her, and withdrew. ursula, startled at the presence of a stranger, blushed slightly. at that moment she looked almost beautiful. i know not what vague ideas crossed my brain, but i looked at her, and then, without speaking, i drew the rich bands of her hair into a more becoming form, i took a narrow black velvet collar off my own neck, and passed it round hers, and i arranged a few brilliant flowers in her girdle. ursula smiled without understanding why i did so: her smile always pained me--there is nothing more sad than the smile of the unhappy. they seem to smile for others, not for themselves. many days passed without my seeing maurice d'erval, and many more before chance led us together near the old gray house. it was on our return from a country excursion with a large gay party. on entering the town, we all dispersed in different directions: i took the arm of maurice, and led him toward ursula's abode. it was one of those soft, calm autumn evenings, when the still trees are colored by the rays of the setting sun, and every thing breathes repose. it is a time when the soul is softened, when we become better, when we feel ready to weep without the bitterness of sorrow. ursula, as usual, was seated in the window. a slanting ray of sunshine falling on her head lent an unwonted lustre to her dark hair: her eyes brightened when she saw me, and she smiled her own sad smile. her sombre dress showed to advantage her slender, gracefully-bending figure, and a bunch of violets, her favorite flower, was fastened in her bosom. there was something in the whole appearance of ursula which suited harmoniously the calm, sad beauty of the evening, and my companion felt it. as we approached, he fixed his eyes on the poor girl, who, timid as a child of fifteen, hung down her head, and blushed deeply. maurice stopped, exchanged a few words with us both, and then took his leave. but from that time he constantly passed through the narrow alley, and paused each time for a moment to salute ursula. one day, accompanied by me, he entered her house. there are hearts in this world so unaccustomed to hope, that they can not comprehend happiness when it comes to them. enveloped in her sadness, which, like a thick vail, hid from her sight all external things, ursula neither saw nor understood. she remained under the eyes of maurice as under mine--dejected and resigned. as to the young man, i could not clearly make out what was passing in his mind. it was not love for ursula, at least so i thought, but it was that tender pity which is nearly allied to it. the romantic soul of maurice pleased itself in the atmosphere of sadness which surrounded ursula. gradually they began to converse; and in sympathizing with each other on the misery of life, they experienced that happiness whose existence they denied. months passed on; the pleasant spring came back again; and one evening, while walking with a large party, maurice d'erval drew me aside, and after some indifferent remarks, said, "does not the most exalted happiness consist in making others share it with you? is there not great sweetness in imparting joy to one who would otherwise pass a life of tears?" i looked at him anxiously without speaking. "yes," said he, "dear friend, go ask ursula if she will marry me!" an exclamation of joy was my reply, and i hurried toward the gray house. i found ursula, as usual, seated at her work. solitude, silence, and the absence of all excitement had lulled her spirit into a sort of drowsiness. she did not suffer; she even smiled languidly when i appeared, but this was the only sign of animation she displayed. i feared not giving a sudden shock to this poor paralyzed soul, or stirring it into a violent tumult of happiness: i wanted to see if the mental vigor was extinct, or merely dormant. i placed my chair next hers, i took both her hands in mine, and fixing my eyes on hers, i said, "ursula, maurice d'erval has desired me to ask you if you will be his wife!" the girl was struck as if with a thunderbolt; her eyes beamed through the tears that filled them, and her blood, rushing through the veins, mantled richly beneath her skin. her chest heaved, her heart beat almost audibly, and her hands grasped mine with a convulsive pressure. ursula had only slumbered, and now the voice of love awakened her. she loved suddenly: hitherto she might, perchance, have loved unwittingly, but now the vail was rent, and she _knew_ that she loved. after a few moments, she passed her hand across her forehead, and said, in a low voice, "no: it is not possible!" i simply repeated the same phrase, "maurice d'erval asks you if you will be his wife," in order to accustom her to the sound of the words, which, like the notes of a harmonious chord, formed for her, poor thing, a sweet, unwonted melody. "his wife!" repeated she with ecstasy; "his wife!" and running toward her mother, she cried, "mother, do you hear it? he asks me to be his wife!" "daughter," replied the old blind woman, "my beloved daughter, i knew that, sooner or later, god would recompense your virtues." "my god!" cried ursula, "what hast thou done for me this day? _his wife! beloved daughter!_" and she fell on her knees with clasped hands, and her face covered with tears. at that moment footsteps were heard in the passage. "it is he!" cried ursula. "he brings life!" i hastened away, and left ursula glowing with tearful happiness to receive maurice d'erval alone. from that day ursula was changed. she grew young and beautiful under the magic influence of joy, yet her happiness partook in some measure of her former character: it was calm, silent, and reserved; so that maurice, who had first loved a pale, sad woman, seated in the shade, was not obliged to change the coloring of the picture, although ursula was now happy. they passed long evenings together in the low, dull room, lighted only by the moonbeams, conversing and musing together. ursula loved with simplicity. she said to maurice, "i love you--i am happy--and i thank you for it!" the old gray house was the only scene of these interviews. ursula worked with unabated diligence, and never left her parents. but the walls of that narrow dwelling no longer confined her soul: it had risen to freedom, and taken its flight. the sweet magic of hope brightens not only the future, but the present, and through the medium of its all-powerful prism changes the coloring of all things. the old house was as mean-looking and gloomy as ever, but one feeling, enshrined in the heart of a woman, changed it to a palace. dreams of hope, although you fleet and vanish like golden clouds in the sky, yet come, come to us ever! those who have never known you, are a thousand times poorer than those who live to regret you! thus there passed a happy time for ursula. but a day came when maurice entering her room in haste, said, "dearest, we must hasten our marriage; the regiment is about to be moved to another garrison, and we must be ready to set out." "are we going far, maurice?" "does it frighten my ursula to think of seeing distant countries? there are many lands more beautiful than this." "oh, no, maurice, not for myself, but for my parents: they are too old to bear a long journey." maurice looked at his betrothed without speaking. although he well knew that, in order to share his wandering destiny, ursula must leave her parents, yet he had never reflected seriously on the subject. he had foreseen her grief, but confiding in her affection, he had thought that his devoted love would soothe every sorrow of which he was not himself the cause. it was now necessary to come to an explanation; and sad at the inevitable pain which he was about to inflict on his betrothed, maurice took her hand, made her sit down in her accustomed place, and said, gently, "dearest, it would be impossible for your father and mother to accompany us in our wandering life. until now, my ursula, we have led a loving, dreamy life, without entering soberly into our future plans. i have no fortune but my sword; and now, at the commencement of my career, my income is so small, that we shall have to submit together to many privations. i reckon on your courage; but you alone must follow me. the presence of your parents would only serve to entail misery on them, and hopeless poverty on us." "leave my father and my mother!" cried ursula. "leave them, with their little property, in this house; confide them to careful hands; and follow the fortunes of your husband." "leave my father and my mother!" repeated ursula. "but do you know that the pittance they possess would never suffice for their support--that without their knowledge, i work to increase it--and that, during many years, i have tended them alone?" "my poor ursula!" replied maurice, "we must submit to what is inevitable. hitherto you have concealed from them the loss of their little fortune; tell it to them now, as it can not be helped. try to regulate their expenditure of the little which remains; for, alas! we shall have nothing to give them." "go away, and leave them here! impossible! i tell you, i must work for them!" "ursula, my ursula!" said maurice, pressing both her hands in his, "do not allow yourself, i conjure you, to be carried away by the first impulse of your generous heart. reflect for a moment: we do not refuse to give, but we have it not. even living alone, we shall have to endure many privations." "i can not leave them," said ursula, looking mournfully at the two old people slumbering in their arm-chairs. "do you not love me, ursula?" the poor girl only replied by a torrent of tears. maurice remained long with her, pouring forth protestations of love, and repeating explanations of their actual position. she listened without replying; and at length he took his leave. left alone, ursula leaned her head on her hand, and remained without moving for many hours. alas! the tardy gloom of happiness which brightened her life for a moment was passing away: the blessed dream was fled never to return! silence, oblivion, darkness, regained possession of that heart whence love had chased them. during the long midnight hours who can tell what passed in the poor girl's mind? god knew: she never spoke of it. when day dawned, she shuddered, closed the window, which had remained open during the night, and, trembling from the chill which seized both mind and body, she took paper and pen, and wrote--"farewell, maurice! i remain with my father and my mother: they have need of me. to abandon them in their old age would be to cause their death: they have only me in the world. my sister, on her death-bed, confided them to me, saying, 'we shall meet again, ursula!' if i neglected my duties, i should never see her more. i have loved you well--i shall love you always. you have been very kind, but i know now that we are too poor to marry. farewell! how hard to write that word! farewell, dear friend--i knew that happiness was not for me, ursula." i went to the old gray house, and so did maurice; but all our representations were useless--she would not leave her parents. "i must work for them!" she said. in vain i spoke to her of maurice's love, and, with a sort of cruelty, reminded her of her waning youth, and the improbability of her meeting another husband. she listened, while her tears dropped on the delicate work at which she labored without intermission, and then in a low voice she murmured, "they would die: i must work for them!" she begged us not to tell her mother what had passed. those for whom she had sacrificed herself remained ignorant of her devotion. some slight reason was assigned for the breaking off of the marriage, and ursula resumed her place and her employment near the window, pale, dejected, and bowed down as before. maurice d'erval possessed one of those prudent, deliberating minds which never allow themselves to be carried away by feeling or by impulse. his love had a limit: he prayed and intreated for a time, but at length he grew weary, and desisted. it happened one day, while ursula was seated in her window, that she heard a distant sound of military music, and the measured trampling of many feet. it was the regiment departing. tremblingly she listened to the air, which sounded as a knell in her ears; and when the last faint notes died away in the distance, she let her work fall on her lap, and covered her face with her hands. a few tears trickled between her fingers, but she speedily wiped them away, and resumed her work: she resumed it for the rest of her life. on the evening of this day of separation--this day when the sacrifice was consummated--ursula, after having bestowed her usual care on her parents, seated herself at the foot of her mother's bed, and, bending toward her with a look, whose tearful tenderness the blind old woman could not know, the poor deserted one took her hand, and murmured softly, "mother! you love me; do you not? is not my presence a comfort to you? would you not grieve to part with me, my mother?" the old woman turned her face to the wall, and said in a fretful tone, "nonsense, ursula. i'm tired; let me go to sleep!" the word of tenderness which she had sought as her only recompense was not uttered; the mother fell asleep without pressing her daughter's hand; and the poor girl, falling on her knees, poured out her sorrows in prayer to one who could both hear and heal them. from that time ursula became more pale, more silent, more cast down than ever. the last sharp sorrow bore away all traces of her youth and beauty. "all is ended!" she used to say; and all, save duty, _was_ ended for her on earth. no tidings came of maurice d'erval. ursula had pleased his imagination, like some graceful melancholy picture, but time effaced its coloring from his memory, and he forgot. how many things are forgotten in this life! how rarely do the absent mourn each other long! one year after these events, ursula's mother began visibly to decline, yet without suffering from any positive malady. her daughter watched and prayed by her bed, and received her last benediction. "once more she is with thee, martha!" sighed ursula: "be it thine to watch over her in heaven." she knelt down, and prayed by the side of the solitary old man. she dressed him in mourning without his being conscious of it; but on the second day he turned toward the empty arm-chair next his own, and cried, "my wife!" ursula spoke to him, and tried to divert his attention; but he repeated, "my wife!" while the tears rolled down his cheeks. in the evening, when his supper was brought, he turned away from it, and fixing his eyes on the vacant chair, said, "my wife!" ursula tried every expedient that love and sorrow could suggest; but in vain. the old man continued watching the place which his wife was wont to occupy; and refusing food, he would look at ursula, and with clasped hands, in the querulous tone of a child imploring some forbidden indulgence, repeat, "my wife!" in a month afterward he died. his last movement was to raise his clasped hands, look up to heaven, and cry "my wife!" as though he saw her waiting to receive him. when the last coffin was borne away from the old gray house, ursula murmured softly, "my god! couldst thou not have spared them to me a little longer?" she was left alone; and many years have passed since then. i left the dark old town and ursula to travel into distant lands. by degrees she ceased to write to me, and after many vain efforts to induce her to continue the correspondence, i gradually lost all trace of her. i sometimes ask myself, "what has been her fate? is she dead?" alas! the poor girl was ever unfortunate: i fear she still lives! street music in london. "charming place this," said a mad lady to us while looking out of a window of the finest lunatic asylum in north britain; "so retired, so quiet, so genteel, so remote from the busy hum of men and women. the view you perceive is lovely--quite sylvan (there were two trees in the remote distance), 'silence reigns around,' as the poet says, and then you see, sir, _we do not allow street bands to come here_." on inquiry, we were told that this patient was a london literary lady. her mania, like morose in ben jonson's epicure, was against noise. she constantly prayed for deafness. she walked in list shoes, and spoke in a whisper as an example to others. the immediate cause of her confinement had not been ascertained, but we have no doubt that she had been driven stark mad by the street discord of the metropolis. we firmly believe her case is not singular. judging from our own experience of the extremest brink of insanity, to which we have been occasionally driven by the organic and pandean persecutions to which we have been subjected, we should say that much of the madness existing and wrought in this county of middlesex originates in street music. if dr. connolly can not bear us out in this opinion, we shall be rather astonished. a man of thoughtful habit, and of a timid, or nervous temperament, has only to take apartments in what lodging-house-keepers wickedly call, in their advertisements, "a quiet neighborhood," to be tolerably sure of making his next move in a strait waistcoat to an asylum for the insane. in retired streets, squares, terraces, or "rows," where the more pleasing music of cart, coach, and cab wheels does not abound, the void is discordantly filled up by peripatetic concerts, which last all day long. you are forced, each morning, to shave to the hundredth psalm groaned out from an impious organ; at breakfast you are stunned by the basses of a wretched waltz belched forth from a bass trombone; and your morning is ruined for study by the tinkling of a barrel piano-forte; at luncheon acute dyspepsia communicates itself to your vitals in the stunning _buldering_ of a big-drum; tuneless trumpets, discordant cornets, and blundering bass-viols form a running accompaniment of discord to your afternoon walk; hurdy-gurdies, peradventure, destroy your dinner; fiddles and harps squeak away the peace of your whole evening; and, when you lay your distracted head on your pillow you are robbed of sleep by a banditti of glee singers, hoarsely croaking, "up rouse ye then, my merry, merry men!" yet this is a land of liberty, and every man's house is his castle! a man may have every comfort this world can afford--the prettiest house, the sweetest wife, the most unexceptionable cook, lovely children, and a good library--but what are these when the enjoyment they afford is destroyed by an endless _charivari_; when domestic happiness is made misery by street discord; when an english gentleman is denied what is insured to every pentonville prisoner--peace; when a wise legislation has patented the silent system for convicts only, and supplies no free-born briton with a defense from hideous invasions of his inmost privacy: a legislature which, here, in london, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and fifty, where civilization is said to have made some advances--permits bag-pipes! this is a subject upon which it is impossible, without the most superhuman self-control, to write with calmness. justice is supposed in this country to be meted out with an even hand. a humane maxim says, "better let ten guilty men escape, than one innocent man suffer." yet what have the public, especially of "quiet neighborhoods," done; what crimes have we committed; what retribution have we invoked; that we are to be visited with the indiscriminating punishment, the excruciating agony, squealed and screeched into our ears out of that instrument of ineffable torture, the scotch bagpipe? if our neighbor be a slanderer, a screw, a giver of bad dinners, or any other sort of criminal for whom the law has provided no punishment and a bag-pipe serenade be your mode of revenge on him, shut him up with a piper or pipers in the padded room in bedlam, or take him out to the eddystone lighthouse; but for the love of mercy, do not make us, his unoffending neighbors, partakers of his probably just, but certainly condign punishment! we have, however, a better opinion of human nature than to believe in such extreme vindictiveness. we rather attribute these public performances of sonorous savagery to the perverted taste of a few unfortunate individuals, who pretend to relish the discords, and who actually pay the kilted executioners of harmony. the existence of such wretched amateurs might be doubted, if we did not remember that the most revolting propensities are to be found among mankind. there _are_ people who chew tobacco; a certain tribe of polynesian aborigines deem assafoetida the most delicious of perfumes; and southey, in his travels in spain, states that the gallician carters positively refused to grease their wheels because of the delight the creaking gave them. yet although the grating of wooden axles, or even the sharpening of saws, is music to the pibroch, it appears from a variety of evidence that bad taste can actually reach, even in the female mind, to the acme of encouraging and patronizing street bagpipers. do we wish to banish all music from the busy haunts of men? by no means. good music is sometimes emitted from our pavements--the kerb sends forth here and there, and now and then, sounds not unworthy of the best appointed orchestra. where these superior street performers received their musical education it is not our business to inquire; but their arrangements of some of the most popular opera music, show that their training has been strictly professional. quintette, sestette, and septette bands of brass and string are occasionally heard in the open street, whose performances show that the pieces have been regularly scored and rigidly rehearsed. "tune, time, and distance" are excellently kept; the pianos and fortes are admirably colored--there is no vamping of basses; no "fudging" of difficult passages. we look upon such players as musical missionaries who purvey the best music from the opera houses and from the saloons of the nobility to the general public, to the improvement of its musical taste. but where even these choice _pavé_ professionists have us at a disadvantage is in their discoursing their excellent music at precisely the times when we do _not_ want the sounds of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. the habitant of the "quiet neighborhood," fond as he is of _casta diva_ or the _rosen waltz_, would rather not be indulged with them just as he is commencing to study a complicated brief, or while he is computing the draft of a difficult survey. when he wants music he likes to go to it; he never wants it to come to him. [from dickens's household words.] mistakes in personal identity. there is no kind of evidence more infirm in its nature and against which jurymen on legal trials should be more on their guard, than that involving identity of person. the number of persons who resemble each other is not inconsiderable in itself; but the number is very large of persons who, though very distinguishable when standing side by side, are yet sufficiently alike to deceive those who are without the means of immediate comparison. early in life an occurrence impressed me with the danger of relying on the most confident belief of identity. i was at vauxhall gardens where i thought i saw, at a short distance, an old country gentleman whom i highly respected, and whose favor i should have been sorry to lose. i bowed to him, but obtained no recognition. in those days the company amused themselves by walking round in a circle, some in one direction, some in the opposite, by which means every one saw and was seen--i say in those days, because i have not been at vauxhall for a quarter of a century. in performing these rounds i often met the gentleman, and tried to attract his attention, until i became convinced that either his eyesight was so weakened that he did not know me, or that he chose to disown my acquaintance. some time afterward, going into the county in which he resided, i received, as usual, an invitation to dinner; this led to an explanation, when my friend assured me he had not been in london for twenty years. i afterward met the person whom i had mistaken for my old friend, and wondered how i could have fallen into the error. i can only explain it by supposing that, if the mind feels satisfied of identity, which it often does at the first glance, it ceases to investigate that question, and occupies itself with other matter; as in my case, where my thoughts ran upon the motives my friend might have for not recognizing me, instead of employing themselves on the question of whether or no the individual before my eyes was indeed the person i took him for. if i had had to give evidence on this matter my mistake would have been the more dangerous, as i had full means of knowledge. the place was well lighted, the interviews were repeated, and my mind was undisturbed. how often have i known evidence of identity acted upon by juries, where the witness was in a much less favorable position (for correct observation) than mine. sometimes, a mistaken verdict is avoided by independent evidence. rarely, however, is this rock escaped, by cross-examination, even when conducted with adequate skill and experience. the belief of the witness is belief in a matter of opinion resulting from a combination of facts so slight and unimportant, separately considered, that they furnish no handle to the cross-examiner. a striking case of this kind occurs to my recollection, with which i will conclude. a prisoner was indicted for shooting at the prosecutor, with intent to kill him. the prosecutor swore that the prisoner had demanded his money, and that upon refusal, or delay, to comply with his requisition, he fired a pistol, by the flash of which his countenance became perfectly visible; the shot did not take effect, and the prisoner made off. here the recognition was momentary, and the prosecutor could hardly have been in an undisturbed state of mind, yet the confidence of his belief made a strong impression on all who heard the evidence, and probably would have sealed the fate of the prisoner without the aid of an additional fact of very slight importance, which was, however, put in evidence, by way of corroboration, that the prisoner, who was a stranger to the neighborhood, had been seen passing near the spot in which the attack was made about noon of the same day. the judge belonged to a class now, thank god! obsolete, who always acted on the reverse of the constitutional maxim, and considered every man guilty until he was proved to be innocent. if the case had closed without witnesses on behalf of the prisoner, his life would have been gone: fortunately, he possessed the means of employing an able and zealous attorney, and more fortunately, it so happened that several hours before the attack the prisoner had mounted upon a coach, and was many miles from the scene of the crime at the hour of its commission. with great labor, and at considerable expense, all the passengers were sought out, and, with the coachman and guard, were brought into court, and testified to the presence among them of the prisoner. an _alibi_ is always a suspected defense, and by no man was ever more suspiciously watched than by this judge. but when witness after witness appeared, their names corresponding exactly with the way-bill produced by the clerk of a respectable coach-office, the most determined skepticism gave way, and the prisoner was acquitted by acclamation. he was not, however, saved by his innocence, but by his good fortune. how frequently does it happen to us all to be many hours at a time without having witnesses to prove our absence from one spot by our presence at another! and how many of us are too prone to avail ourselves of such proof in the instances where it may exist! a remarkable instance of mistake in identity, which put the life of a prisoner in extreme peril, i heard from the lips of his counsel. it occurred at the special commission held at nottingham after the riots consequent on the rejection of the reform bill by the house of lords, in . the prisoner was a young man of prepossessing appearance, belonging to what may be called the lower section of the middle rank of life, being a framework knitter, in the employment of his father, a master manufacturer in a small way. he was tried on an indictment charging him with the offense of arson. a mob, of which he was alleged to be one, had burned colwick hall, near nottingham, the residence of mr. musters, the husband of mary chaworth, whose name is so closely linked with that of byron. this ill-fated lady was approaching the last stage of consumption, when, on a cold and wet evening in autumn, she was driven from her mansion, and compelled to take refuge among the trees of her shrubbery--an outrage which probably hastened her death. the crime, with its attendant circumstances, created, as was natural, a strong sympathy against the criminals. unhappily, this feeling, so praiseworthy in itself, is liable to produce a strong tendency in the public mind to believe in the guilt of a party accused. people sometimes seem to hunger and thirst after a criminal, and are disappointed when it turns out that they are mistaken in their man, and are, consequently, slow to believe that such an error has been made. doubtless, the impression is received into the mind unconsciously; but although on that ground pardonable, it is all the more dangerous. in this case, the prisoner was identified by several witnesses as having taken an active part in setting fire to the house. he had been under their notice for some considerable space of time: they gave their evidence against him without hesitation, and probably the slightest doubt of its accuracy. his defense was an _alibi_. the frame at which he worked had its place near the entrance to the warehouse, the room frequented by the customers and all who had business to transact at the manufactory. he acted, therefore, as door-keeper, and in that capacity had been seen and spoken with by many persons, who in their evidence more than covered the whole time which elapsed between the arrival of the mob at colwick hall and its departure. the _alibi_ was believed, and the prisoner, after a trial which lasted a whole day, was acquitted. the next morning he was to be tried again on another indictment, charging him with having set fire to the castle at nottingham. the counsel for the prosecution, influenced by motives of humanity, and fully impressed with the prisoner's guilt on both charges, urged the counsel for the prisoner to advise his client to plead guilty, undertaking that his life should be spared, but observing at the same time that his social position, which was superior to that of the other prisoners, would make it impossible to extend the mercy of the crown to him unless he manifested a due sense of his offenses by foregoing the chance of escape. "you know," said they, "how rarely an _alibi_ obtains credit with a jury. you can have no other defense to-day than that of yesterday. the castle is much nearer than colwick hall to the manufactory, and a very short absence from his work on the part of the prisoner might reconcile the evidence of all the witnesses, both for him and against him; moreover, who ever heard of a successful _alibi_ twice running?" the counsel for the prisoner had his client taken into a room adjoining the court, and having explained to him the extreme danger in which he stood, informed him of the offer made by the prosecutors. the young man evinced some emotion, and asked his counsel to advise what step he should take. "the advice," he was answered, "must depend upon a fact known to himself alone--his guilt or innocence. if guilty, his chance of escape was so small, that it would be the last degree of rashness to refuse the offer; if, on the other hand, he were innocent, his counsel, putting himself in the place of the prisoner, would say, that no peril, however imminent, would induce him to plead guilty." the prisoner was further told, that in the course of a trial circumstances often arose at the moment, unforeseen by all parties, which disclosed the truth; that this consideration was in his favor, if he were innocent, but showed at the same time that there were now chances of danger, if he were guilty, the extent of which could not be calculated, nor even surmised. the youth, with perfect self-possession, and unshaken firmness, replied, "i am innocent, and will take my trial." he did so. many painful hours wore away, every moment diminishing the prisoner's chance of acquittal, until it seemed utterly extinguished, when some trifling matter, which had escaped the memory of the narrator, occurred, leading him to think it was possible that another person, who must much resemble the prisoner, had been mistaken for him. inquiry was instantly made of the family, whether they knew of any such resemblance; when it appeared that the prisoner had a cousin so much like himself, that the two were frequently accosted in the streets, the one for the other. the cousin had absconded. it is hardly credible, though doubtless true, that a family of respectable station could have been unaware of the importance of such a fact, or that the prisoner, who appeared not deficient in intelligence, and who was assuredly in full possession of his faculties, could be insensible to its value. that either he or they could have placed such reliance on his defense as to induce them to screen his guilty relative, is to the last degree improbable, especially as the cousin had escaped. witnesses, however, were quickly produced, who verified the resemblance between the two, and the counsel for the prosecution abandoned their case, expressing their belief that their witnesses had given their evidence under a mistake of identity. the narrator added, that an _alibi_ stood a less chance of favorable reception at nottingham than elsewhere, although in every place received with great jealousy. in one of the trials arising out of the outrages committed by the luddites, who broke into manufactories and destroyed all lace frames of a construction which they thought oppressive to working men, an _alibi_, he said, had been concocted, which was successful in saving the life of a man notoriously guilty, and which had therefore added to the disrepute of this species of defense. the hypothesis was, that the prisoner, at the time when the crime was committed, at loughborough, sixteen miles from nottingham, was engaged at a supper party at the latter place; and the prisoner, having the sympathy of a large class in his favor, whose battle he had been fighting, no difficulty was experienced by his friends in finding witnesses willing to support this hypothesis on their oaths; but it would have been a rash measure to have called them into the box unprepared. and when it is considered how readily a preconcerted story might have been destroyed by cross-examination, the task of preparing the witnesses so as to elude this test, was one requiring no ordinary care and skill. the danger would arise thus: every witness would be kept out of court, except the one in the box. he would be asked where he sat at the supper? where the prisoner sat, and each of the other guests; what were the dishes, what was the course of conversation, and so forth--the questions being capable of multiplication _ad infinitum_; so that, however well tutored, the witnesses would inevitably contradict each other upon some matters, on which the tutor had not foreseen that the witness would be cross-examined, or to which he had forgotten the answer prescribed. the difficulty was, however, surmounted. after the prisoner's apprehension, the selected witnesses were invited to a mackerel supper, which took place at an hour corresponding to that at which the crime was committed; and so careful was the ingenious agent who devised this conspiracy against the truth that, guided by a sure instinct, he fixed upon the same day of the week as that on which the crime had been committed, though without knowing how fortunate it would be for the prisoner that he took this precaution. when, on cross-examination, it was found that the witnesses agreed as to the order in which the guests were seated, the contents of the dishes, the conversation which had taken place, and so forth; the counsel for the crown suspected the plot, but not imagining that it had been so perfectly elaborated, they inquired of their attorneys as to whether there was any occurrence peculiar to the day of the week in question, and were told that upon the evening of such a day, a public bell was always rung, which must have been heard at the supper, if it had taken place at the time pretended. the witnesses were separately called back and questioned as to the bell. they had all heard it; and thus not only were the cross-examiners utterly baffled, but the cross-examination gave tenfold support to the examination in chief, that is, to the evidence as given by the witnesses in answer to the questions put by the prisoner's counsel in his behalf. the triumph of falsehood was complete. the prisoner was acquitted. when however the attention of prosecutors is called to the possibility of such fabrications they become less easy of management. the friends of a prisoner are often known to the police, and may be watched--the actors may be surprised at the rehearsal; a false ally may be inserted among them; in short there are many chances of the plot failing. this, however, is an age of improvement, and the thirty years which have elapsed since the days of luddism have not been a barren period in any art or science. the mystery of cookery in dishes, accounts, and _alibis_, has profited by this general advancement. the latest device which my acquaintance with courts has brought to my knowledge is an _alibi_ of a very refined and subtle nature. the hypothesis is, that the prisoner was walking from point a to point z, along a distant road, at the hour when the crime was committed. the witnesses are supposed each to see him, and some to converse with him, at points which may be indicated by many or all the letters of the alphabet. each witness must be alone when he sees him, so that no two may speak to what occurred at the same spot or moment of time; but, with this reservation, each may safely indulge his imagination with any account of the interview which he has wit to make consistent with itself, and firmness to abide by under the storm of a cross-examination. "the force of _falsehood_ can no farther go." no rehearsal is necessary. neither of the witnesses needs know of the existence of the others. the agent gives to each witness the name of the spot at which he is to place the prisoner. the witness makes himself acquainted with that spot, so as to stand a cross-examination as to the surrounding objects, and his education is complete. but as panaceas have only a fabulous existence, so this exquisite _alibi_ is not applicable to all cases; the witness must have a reason for being on the spot, plausible enough to foil the skill of the cross-examiner; and, as false witnesses can not be found at every turn, the difficulty of making it accord with the probability that the witness was where he pretends to have been on the day and at the hour in question, is often insuperable; to say nothing of the possibility and probability of its being clearly established, on the part of the prosecution, that the prisoner could not have been there. i should add, that, except in towns of the first magnitude, it must be difficult to find mendacious witnesses who have in other respects the proper qualifications to prove a concocted _alibi_, save always where the prisoner is the champion of a class; and then, according to my experience--sad as the avowal is--the difficulty is greatly reduced. these incidents illustrate the soundness of the well known proposition, that mixture of truth with falsehood, augments to the highest degree the noxious power of the venomous ingredient. that man was no mean proficient in the art of deceiving, who first discovered the importance of the liar being parsimonious in mendacity. the mind has a stomach as well as an eye, and if the bolus be neat falsehood, it will be rejected like an overdose of arsenic which does not kill. let the juryman ponder these things, and beware how he lets his mind lapse into a conclusion either for or against the prisoner. to perform the duties of his office, so that the days which he spends in the jury-box will bear retrospection, his eyes, his ears, and his intellect must be ever on the watch. a witness in the box, and the same man in common life, are different creatures. coming to give evidence, "he doth suffer a law change." sometimes he becomes more truthful, as he ought to do, if any change is necessary; but unhappily this is not always so, and least of all in the case of those whose testimony is often required. i remember a person, whom i frequently heard to give evidence quite out of harmony with the facts, but i shall state neither his name nor his profession. a gentleman who knew perfectly well the unpalatable designation which his evidence deserved, told me of his death. i ventured to think it was a loss which might be borne, and touched upon his infirmity, to which my friend replied in perfect sincerity of heart, "well! after all, i do not think he ever told a falsehood in his life--_out of the witness box_!" [from dickens's household words] the ghost that appeared to mrs. wharton. when my mother was a girl, some rumors began to steal through the town where she lived, about something having gone amiss with old mrs. wharton: for, if mrs. wharton was not known by all the townspeople, she was known and respected by so many, that it was really no trifle when she was seen to have the contracted brow, and the pinched look about the nose that people have when they are in alarm, or living a life of deep anxiety. nobody could make out what was the matter. if asked, she said she was well. her sons were understood to be perfectly respectable, and sufficiently prosperous; and there could be no doubt about the health, and the dutifulness, and the cheerfulness, of the unmarried daughter who lived with her. the old lady lived in a house which was her own property; and her income, though not large, was enough for comfort. what could it be that made her suddenly so silent and grave? her daughter was just the same as ever, except that she was anxious about the change in her mother. it was observed by one or two that the clergyman had nothing to say, when the subject was spoken of in his hearing. he rolled and nodded his head, and he glanced at the ceiling and then stuck his chin deep into his shirt-frill: but those were things that he was always doing, and they might mean nothing. when inquired of about his opinion of mrs. wharton's looks and spirits, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as he stood before the fire with his hands behind him, and said, with the sweet voice and winning manner that charmed young and old, that, as far as he knew, mrs. wharton's external affairs were all right; and, as for peace of mind, he knew of no one who more deserved it. if the course of her life, and the temper of her mind, did not entitle her to peace within, he did not know who could hope for it. somebody whispered that it would be dreadful if a shocking mortal disease should be seizing upon her: whereupon he, mr. gurney, observed that he thought he should have known if any such thing was to be apprehended. as far as a fit of indigestion went, he believed she suffered occasionally; but she did not herself admit even that. dr. robinson, who was present, said that mrs. wharton's friends might be quite easy about her health. she was not troubled with indigestion, nor with any other complaint. people could only go on to ask one another what could be the matter. one or two agreed that mr. gurney had made very skillful answers, in which he was much assisted by his curious customary gestures; but that he had never said that he did not know of any trouble being on mrs. wharton's mind. soon after this, a like mysterious change appeared to come over the daughter; but no disasters could be discovered to have happened. no disease, no money losses, no family anxieties were heard of; and, by degrees, both the ladies recovered nearly their former cheerfulness and ease of manner--nearly, but not altogether. they appeared somewhat subdued, in countenance and bearing; and they kept a solemn silence when some subjects were talked of, which often turn up by the christmas fireside. it was years before the matter was explained. my mother was married by that time, and removed from her smoky native town, to a much brighter city in the south. she used to tell us, as we grew up, the story of mrs. wharton, and what she endured; and we could, if we had not been ashamed, have gone on to say, as if we had still been little children, "tell us again." when we were going into the north to visit our grandparents, it was all very well to tell us of coal-wagons that we should see running without horses, or iron rails laid down in the roads; and of the keelmen rowing their keel-boats in the river, and, all at once, kicking up their right legs behind them, when they gave the long pull; and of the glass-houses in the town, with fire coming out of the top of the high chimneys; and of the ever-burning mounds near the mouths of the coal-pits, where blue and yellow flames leaped about, all night, through the whole year round. it was all very well to think of seeing these things; but we thought much more of walking past old mrs. wharton's house, and, perhaps, inducing mr. gurney to tell us, in his way, the story we had so often heard my mother tell in hers. the story was this: one midsummer morning mrs. wharton was so absent at breakfast, that her daughter found all attempts at conversation to be in vain. so she quietly filled the coffee-pot, which her mother had forgotten to do, and, in the middle of the forenoon, ordered dinner, which she found her mother had also forgotten. they had just such a breakfasting three times more during the next fortnight. then, on miss wharton crossing the hall, she met her mother in bonnet and shawl, about to go out, so early as half-past nine. the circumstance would not have been remarked, but for the mother's confused and abashed way of accounting for going out. she should not be gone long. she had only a little call to make, and so on. the call was on mr. gurney. he had hardly done breakfast, when he was told that mrs. wharton wished to speak with him alone. when he entered the study, mrs. wharton seemed to be as unready with her words as himself; and when he shook hands with her, he observed that her hand was cold. she said she was well, however. then came a pause during which the good pastor was shifting from one foot to the other, on the hearth-rug, with his hands behind him, though there was nothing in the grate but shavings. mrs. wharton, meantime, was putting her vail up and down, and her gloves on and off. at last, with a constrained and painful smile, she said that she was really ashamed to say what she came to say, but she must say it; and she believed and hoped that mr. gurney had known her long enough to be aware that she was not subject to foolish fancies and absurd fears. "no one further from it," he dropped, and now he fixed his eyes on her face. her eyes fell under his, when she went on. "for some time past, i have suffered from a most frightful visitation in the night." "visitation! what sort of visitation?" she turned visibly cold while she answered, "it was last wednesday fortnight that i awoke in the middle of the night--that is between two and three in the morning, when it was getting quite light, and i saw--" she choked a little, and stopped. "well!" said mr. gurney, "what did you see?" "i saw at the bottom of the bed, a most hideous--a most detestable face--gibbering, and making mouths at me." "a face!" "yes; i could see only the face (except, indeed, a hand upon the bedpost), because it peeped round the bedpost from behind the curtain. the curtains are drawn down to the foot of the bed." she stole a look at mr. gurney. he was rolling his head; and there was a working about his mouth before he asked-- "what time did you sup that night?" "now," she replied, "you are not going to say, i hope, that it was nightmare. most people would; but i hoped that you knew me better than to suppose that i eat such suppers as would occasion nightmare, or that i should not know nightmare from reality." "but, my dear mrs. wharton, what else can i say?" "perhaps you had better listen further, before you say any thing." he nodded and smiled, as much as to say that was true. "i have seen the same appearance on three occasions since." "indeed!" "yes, on three several nights, about the same hour. and, since the first appearance, my supper has been merely a little bread and butter, with a glass of water. i chose to exclude nightmare, as i would exclude any thing whatever that could possibly cause an appearance so horrible." "what sort of face is it?" "short and broad;--silly, and yet sly; and the features gibber and work--oh! fearfully!" "do you hear it come and go?" "no. when i wake--(and i never used to wake in the night)--it is there: and it disappears--to say the truth--while my eyes are covered; for i can not meet its eyes. i hear nothing. when i venture a glance, sometimes it is still there; sometimes it is gone." "have you missed any property?" "no: nor found any trace whatever. we have lost nothing; and there is really not a door or window that seems ever to have been touched: not an opening where any one could get in or out." "and if there were, what could be the object? what does your daughter say to it?" "oh!" said mrs. wharton, rising quickly, "she does not, and indeed she must not know a word of it. i ought to have said, at first, that what i am telling you is entirely in confidence. if i told my daughter, it must then go no further. we could not keep our servants a week, if it got out. and if i should want to let my house, i could not find a tenant. the value of the property would go down to nothing; and, in justice to my daughter, i must consider that; for it is to be hers hereafter. and we could never have a guest to stay with us. no one would sleep in the house a single night. indeed, you must not--" "well, well: i will not mention it. but i don't see--" he paused; and mrs. wharton replied to his thought. "it is difficult to form conjectures--to say any thing, in such a case, which does not appear too foolish to be uttered. but one must have some thoughts; and perhaps--if one can talk of possibilities--it is possible that this appearance may be meant for me alone; and therefore, if i can conceal it from my daughter ... till i am convinced whether it is meant for me alone." "i would soon try that," observed mr. gurney. seeing mrs. wharton look wistfully at him, he continued, "my advice is that you have your daughter sleep with you, after hearing your story. try whether she can see this face." "you do not think she would?" "i think she would not. my dear friend, if i were a medical man, i could tell you facts which you are little aware of--anecdotes of the strange tricks that our nerves play with us;--of delusions so like reality--" "do you think i have not considered that?" exclaimed the poor lady. "mr. gurney, i did not think that _you_ would try to persuade me out of my senses, when i tell you, that four times i have seen in daylight, and when wide awake, and in perfect health, what i have said." mr. gurney was very gentle; but, as he said, what _could_ he suggest but indigestion, or some such cause of nervous disturbance? yet his heart smote him when his old friend laid her forehead again the mantle-piece, and cried heartily. he did all he could. he tried indefatigably, though in vain, to persuade her to let her daughter share the spectacle: and he went, the same day, when miss wharton was out for her walk, and the servants were at dinner, to examine the house. he made no discovery. the gratings of the under-ground cellars were perfect. the attics had no trap-doors; and the house had no parapet. the chimneys were too high and narrow for any one to get in at the top. no window or door was ever found unfastened in the morning. mrs. wharton did not think she could engage for courage enough to get out of bed, or to look beyond the curtains. nor could she promise not to draw her curtains. the face had never appeared within them; and they seemed a sort of protection where there was no other. without having made any promises, she went so far as to start up in bed, the next time she saw the face. the eyes winked horribly at her; the head nodded--and was gone. the beating of her heart prevented her hearing any thing that time; but once or twice during the autumn she fancied she heard a light and swift footstep in the passage. she always left her room-door open, for the sake of the same sort of feeling of security that most people crave when they shut and bolt theirs. if this was a ghost, bolts would not keep it out; and she could fly the more easily through the open door if her terror should become too great to be endured alone. for the first time, she now burned a night-light in her chamber, as the nights lengthened, and not a dim, flickering rush candle, but a steady wax-light. she knew that her daughter wondered at the strange extravagance; but she could not bear darkness, or a very feeble light, when the thing might be behind the curtain. throughout october the visits were almost nightly. in the first week in november they suddenly ceased, and so many weeks passed away without a return, that mrs. wharton began to be a little alarmed about her own wits, and to ask herself whether, after all, it was not possible that this was a trick of the nerves. one night in january, that doubt, at least, was settled; for there, at the same bed-post, was the same face. mrs. wharton was now, after this interval, subdued at once. she had borne, for half-a-year, her pastor's suspicions of her digestion and of her wisdom, and now, she really wanted sympathy. she let him tell her daughter (let him, rather than tell it herself, because he could make light of it, and she could not); and she gladly agreed to let her daughter sleep with her. for long, she gained nothing by it. during the whole fortnight that the visits now continued, miss wharton never once saw the face. she tried to wake the moment her mother touched her; she tried to keep awake; but she never saw the face: and after that fortnight, it did not come again till april. one bright may dawn, she saw it. her mother pulled her wrist, and, she waked up to a sight which burned itself in upon her brain. she suppressed a shriek at the moment; but she could not tell mr. gurney of it afterward, without tears. she wanted that day to leave the house immediately; but the thought of her mother's long-suffering with this horror, the consideration of the serious consequences of declaring themselves ghost-seers in the town, and of the disastrous effect upon their property, and of the harmlessness of the ghost, induced her to summon up her courage, and bear on. she did more. when a little inured, she one night sprang out of bed, rushed round the foot of it, and out upon the landing. the stairs were still dim in the dawn; but she was confident that she saw something moving there--passing down to the hall. as soon as she could make the servants attend her, she told them she believed somebody was in the house; and all the four women--two ladies and two maids--went, armed with pokers and shovels, and examined the whole house. they found nothing, neither in the chimneys, nor under the beds, nor in any closet--nothing, from cellar to attic. and when the maids had recovered a little, they agreed what a tiresome and wearying thing it was when ladies took fancies. this was only their first night of disturbance. miss wharton called them up three times more; and then she gave the matter up. the servants thought her strangely altered, and wished she might not be going to be ill. thus matters went on for some years. the oddest thing was the periodicity of the visits. in winter they were rare; but there was generally a short series in or about january, after which they ceased till the end of march, or the beginning of april. they went on through nearly the whole summer, with one or two intervals of about a fortnight. the servants never suspected even the existence of the mystery. their ladies never mentioned it; and no article was ever displaced at night. the ladies became in time so accustomed to the appearance as to bear it almost without uneasiness. it occurred to them sometimes, how odd it was to be living under the weight of such a mystery; and they were silent when ghosts were talked about, and felt and looked very serious when they were laughed at: but their alarm had subsided. the thing never did them any harm; and they had now got merely to open drowsy eyes, to see if it was there; and to drop asleep the moment it was there no longer. this may seem strange to those who have not (and also to those who have) seen ghosts; but we none of us know what we may come to; and these two ladies reached the point of turning their heads on their pillows, without much beating of the heart, under the gibbering of a hideous ghost. one circumstance worth noting is, that the thing once spoke. after one of its mocking nods, it said, "i come to see you whenever i please." when mr. gurney was told this, he asked whether the language was english, and what sort of english it was. it must have been english, as the ladies did not observe any thing remarkable. as to the dialect, it had made no particular impression upon them, but when they came to remember and consider, they thought it must have been the broad dialect of the district, which they were accustomed to hear in the kitchen, and in the streets and shops, every day. this was all. amidst the multitude of nightly visitations, no explanation--no new evidence--occurred for several years. mr. gurney was not fond of being puzzled. his plan was to dismiss from his mind what puzzled him. he seldom inquired after the ghost; and when he did, he always received the same answer. one morning, after this lapse of years, mr. gurney called to ask the ladies if they would like to join a party to see a glass-house. the residents of manufacturing towns can not intrude in such places at their own pleasure, but (as is well known) take their opportunity when an arrival of strangers, or other such occasion, opens the doors of any manufactory. mr. gurney was the first man in the town, in regard to doing the honors of it. all strangers were introduced to him; and the doors of all show-places flew open before him. he was wont to invite his friends in turn to accompany him and his party of strangers to these show-places; and he now invited the whartons to the glass-house. miss wharton was unavoidably engaged at the school, but her mother went. when the whole party were standing near one of the furnaces, observing the coarsest kind of glass blowing--that of green-glass bottles--mrs. wharton suddenly seized mr. gurney's arm with one hand, while with the other she pointed, past the glare, to a figure on the other side of the furnace. "that's the face!" she exclaimed, in great agitation; "keep quiet, and pull down your vail," said mr. gurney in her ear. she drew back into the shadow, and let down her vail, feeling scarcely able to stand. mr. gurney did not offer her an arm; he had something else to do. "who is that man?" he inquired of the foreman, who was showman at the moment. the man inquired about looked scarcely human. he was stunted in figure, large in face, and hideous--making all allowance for the puffing out of his cheeks, as he blew vigorously at the end of the long pipe he was twirling in his baboon-like hands. "that poor fellow, sir? his name is middleton. he is a half-wit--indeed, very nearly a complete idiot. he is just able to do what you see--blow the coarsest sort of glass." mr. gurney wished to speak with him; and the poor creature was summoned. he came grinning; and he grinned yet more when he was requested to show the glass-house to the gentleman. mrs. wharton, with her vail down, hung on her friend's arm; and they followed the idiot, who was remarkably light-footed (for a wonder), to the place he was most fond of. he took them down to the annealing chamber; and then he observed that it was "a nice warm place o'nights." being asked how he knew that, he began pointing with his finger at mrs. wharton, and peeping under her bonnet. being advised to look him in the face, she raised her vail; and he sniggled and giggled, and said he had seen her many a time when she was asleep, and many a time when she was awake; and another lady, too, who was not there. he hid himself down here when the other men went away--it was so warm! and then he could go when he pleased, and see "_her_ there," and the other, when they were asleep. mr. gurney enticed him to whisper how he managed it; and then with an air of silly cunning, he showed a little square trap-door in the wall, close by the floor, through which he said he passed. it seemed too small for the purpose; but he crept in and out again. on the other side, he declared, was mrs. wharton's cellar. it was so. far distant as the glass-house seemed from her house, it ran back so far, the cellar running back also, that they met. no time was lost in sending round to the cellar; and, by a conversation held through the trap-door, it was ascertained that when mrs. wharton's stock of coals was low, that is, in summer, and before a fresh supply came in, in mid winter, middleton could get in, and did get in, almost every night. when he did not appear, it was only because the coals covered the trap-door. who shall say with what satisfaction the ladies watched the nailing up of the trap-door, and with what a sense of blissful comfort they retired to rest henceforth? who shall estimate the complacency of the good clergyman at this complete solution of the greatest mystery he had ever encountered? who will not honor the courage and fortitude of the ladies, and rejoice that their dwelling escaped the evil reputation of being a haunted house? lastly, who will not say that most of the goblin tales extant may, if inquired into, be as easily accounted for as that appertaining to the good mrs. wharton? which has this advantage over all other ghost stories--it is perfectly and literally true. [from dickens's household words.] the fate of a german reformer. a life in three pictures. picture the first. the winter of was a severe one in germany. both sides of the rhine, for many miles between coblentz and cologne, were frozen hard enough to bear a horse and cart; and even the centre, save and except a thin stream where the current persisted in displaying its urgent vitality, was covered over with thin ice, or a broken film that was constantly endeavoring to unite and consolidate its quivering flakes and particles. we were staying in bonn at this time. all the englishmen in the town, who were skaters, issued forth in pilot-coats or dreadnaught pea-jackets, and red worsted comforters, with their skates dangling over their shoulders. holding their aching noses in their left hands, they ran and hobbled through the slippery streets, and made their way out at the town-gates near the university. they were on the way to popplesdorf--a little village about a mile distant from bonn. we were among them--red comforter round neck--skates over shoulder. the one great object in this little village is a somewhat capacious and not unpicturesque edifice called the schloss, or castle, of popplesdorf. the outer works of its fortifications are a long avenue of trees, some pretty fir groves and wooded hills, numerous vineyards, and a trim series of botanic gardens. the embrasures of its walls are armed with batteries of learned tomes; its soldiers are erudite professors and doctors who have chambers there; students discourse on philosophy and art, and swords and beer, and smoke forever on its peaceful drawbridge; and, on the wide moat which surrounds it, englishmen in red comforters--at the time whereof we now speak--are vigorously skating with their accustomed gravity. this scene was repeated daily for several weeks, in the winter of . one morning, issuing forth on the same serious business of life, we perceived that the peasantry of popplesdorf, who have occasion to come to bonn every market-day, had contrived to enliven the way and facilitate the journey by the gradual construction of a series of capital long slides. we stood and contemplated these lengthy curves, and sweeps, and strange twisting stripes of silver, all gleaming in the morning sun, and soon arrived at the conviction that it was no doubt the pleasantest market-pathway we had ever seen. no one was coming or going at this moment; for popples is but a little _dorf_, and the traffic is far from numerous, even at the busiest hours. now, there was a peculiar charm in the clear shining solitude of the scene, which gave us, at once, an impression of loneliness combined with the brightest paths of life and activity. and yet we gradually began to feel we should like to see somebody--student or peasant--come sliding his way from popplesdorf. it was evidently the best, and indeed the correct mode for our own course to the frozen moat of the castle. but before we had reached the beginning of the first slide (for they are not allowed to be made quite up to the town gates), we descried a figure in the distance, which, from the course it was taking, had manifestly issued from the walls of the castle. it was not a peasant--it was not one of our countrymen; be it whom it might, he at least took the slides in first-rate style. as he advanced, we discerned the figure of a tall man, dressed in a dark, long-skirted frock coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a low-crowned hat, from beneath the broad brim of which a great mass of thick black hair fell heavily over his shoulders. under one arm he held a great book and two smaller ones closely pressed to his side, while the other hand held a roll of paper, which he waved now and then in the air, to balance himself in his sliding. some of the slides required a good deal of skill; they had awkward twirls half round a stone, with here and there a sudden downward sweep. onward he came, and we presently recognized him. it was dr. gottfried kinkel, lecturer on archæology; one of the most able and estimable of the learned men in bonn. gottfried kinkel was born in a village near bonn, where his father was a clergyman. he was educated at the gymnasium of bonn, and during the whole of that period, he was especially remarkable, among companions by no means famous for staid and orderly habits, as a very quiet, industrious young man, of a sincerely religious bent of mind, which gained for him the notice and regard of all the clergy and the most devout among the inhabitants of the town. his political opinions were liberal; but never went beyond those which were commonly entertained at the time by nearly all men of education. he studied divinity at the university, where he greatly distinguished himself in various branches of learning, and obtained the degree of doctor in philosophy. he first preached at cologne, and with great success, his oratory being considered as brilliant as his reasonings were convincing. his sermons were subsequently published, and became very popular, and he was chosen as a teacher of theology in the university of bonn. he next turned his attention to the study of the arts. on this subject he wrote and published a history, and lectured on "ancient and mediæval art," both in the university and other public institutions, with unparalleled success and applause. his labors at this period, and for a long time after, were very arduous, generally occupying thirteen hours a day. being only what is called a "privat-docent," he did not as yet receive any salary at the university; he was therefore compelled to work hard in various ways, in order to make a small income. however, he did this very cheerfully. but his abandonment of theology for these new studies, caused him the loss of most of his devout friends. they shook their heads, and feared that the change denoted a step awry from the true and severely marked line of orthodox opinions. they were right; for he soon after said that he thought the purity of religion would be best attained by a separation of church and state! dr. kinkel suffers no small odium for this; but he can endure it. he has uttered an honest sentiment, resulting from his past studies; he has become a highly applauded and deservedly esteemed lecturer on another subject; he is, moreover, one of the best sliders in bonn, and is now balancing his tall figure (as just described) with books under one arm, on his way to the university. happy gottfried kinkel!--may you have health and strength to slide for many a good winter to come!--rare doctor of philosophy, to feel so much boyish vitality after twenty years of hard study and seclusion!--fortunate lecturer on archæology, to live in a country where the simplicity of manners will allow a professor to slide his way to his class, without danger of being reproved by his grave and potent seniors, or of shocking the respectable inhabitants of his town! picture the second. the castle of popplesdorf commands the most beautiful views of some of the most beautiful parts of rhenish prussia; and the very best point from which to look at them, is the window of the room that used to be the study of dr. gottfried kinkel. that used to be--and is not now--alas, the day! but we must not anticipate evils; they will come only too soon in their natural course. in this room, his library and study, we called to see dr. kinkel. there he sat--dressing-gown, slippers, and cloud-compelling pipe. the walls were all shelves, the shelves all books--some bound, some in boards, "some in rags, and some in jags"--together with papers, maps, and scientific instruments of brass and of steel. there stood the hebrew, greek, and roman authors; in another division, the italian and french: on the other side, in long irregular ranges, the old german and the modern german; and near at hand, the anglo-saxon and english. what else, and there was much, we had not time to note, being called to look out at the window. what a window it was!--a simple wooden frame to what exquisite and various scenery! let the reader bear in mind, that it is not winter now--but a bright morning in may. close beneath the window lay the botanic gardens, with their numerous parterres of flowers, their lines and divisions of shrubs and herbs. within a range of a few miles round, we looked out upon the peaceful little villages of popplesdorf and kessenich, and the fertile plain extending from bonn to godesberg--with gentle hills, vales, and ridges, all covered with vineyards, whose young leaves gave a tender greenness and fresh look of bright and joyous childhood to the scenery. beyond them we saw the kessenicher höhe, the blue slate roofs and steeples of many a little church and chapel, and the broad, clear, serpent windings of the rhine, with the gray and purple range, in the distance, of the seven mountains, terminating with the drachenfels. over the whole of this, with the exception only of such soft, delicate shades and shadows as were needful to display the rest, there lay a clear expanse of level sunshine, so tender, bright, and moveless, as to convey an impression of bright enchantment, which grew upon your gaze, and out of which rapture you awoke as from a dream of fairy land, or from the contemplation of a scene in some ideal sphere. fortunate dr. kinkel, to have such a window as this! it was no wonder that, besides his studies in theology, in ancient and mediæval art, and in ancient and modern languages--besides writing his history of the arts, and contributing learned papers to various periodicals--besides preaching, lecturing, and public and private teaching, his soul was obliged to compose a volume of poems--and again displease the severely orthodox, by the absence of all prayers in verse, and the presence of a devout love of nature. for, here, in their placidity, learning and poesy abide; not slumbering on the unfathomed sea, yet all unconscious of the tide that urges on mortality in eddies, and in circles wide. ah, here, the soul can look abroad beyond each cold and narrow stream, enrich'd with gold from mines and ford, brought sparkling to the solar beam; yet be no miser with its hoard-- no dreamer of the common dream. thus sang dr. kinkel, in our imperfect translation thus inadequately echoed; and here he wrought hard in his vocation, amid the smiles of some of the loveliest of nature's scenes. but besides the possession of all these books, and of this wonderful window, dr. kinkel was yet more fortunate in his domestic relations. he was married to an amiable, highly educated, and accomplished lady, who endeavored, by all the means in her power, to assist his labors, and render them less onerous by her own exertions. she was a very fine musician, and a superior piano-forte player--one of the favorite pupils of moscheles, and afterward, we believe, of mendelssohn. she divided her time equally between assisting her husband, educating their child, and giving private lessons in music; and because this accomplished hard working couple did not find their energies quite worn out by toiling for thirteen hours a day, they gave a private concert at the castle once a month, at which a whole opera of mozart or weber was often gone through--both the instrumental and vocal parts being by amateurs, or pupils of madam kinkel. so, once again, we say, notwithstanding all these labors, dr. kinkel's life in the castle of popplesdorf, was that of a fortunate and happy man. at this period he was about two-and-thirty years of age. he could not have been more; probably he was less. picture the third. it is the year , and the continental revolutions are shaking all the foreign thrones. every body, not directly or indirectly in the pay of a court, feels that the lot of the people should be ameliorated. the populations of all nations have borne enormous burdens, with extraordinary patience, for a very long time--say a thousand years--and, at last, they have no more patience left. but what is all this to abstract thought, to learning and science, to poetic raptures, and picturesque ease? it has hitherto been regarded as too grossly material, or of too coarse and common a practicality for the great majority of those whose lives were passed in abstract studies and refinements. ay--but this must not continue. the world has come to a pass at which _every_ soul must awake, and should be "up and doing." dr. gottfried kinkel, now, besides his other honors and emoluments, and private earnings, is installed as a salaried professor in the university of bonn. it can not be but such a man must awake, and take an interest in these continental revolutions which are boiling up all round him. still, it is not likely he will step into the vortex or approach it. his worldly position is strong against it--all his interests are against it; moreover, he has a wife, and, besides he has now three children. howbeit, dr. kinkel does rise with these events, and his wife, so far from restraining him, feels the same enthusiastic patriotism, and exhorts him to step forward, and swell the torrent of the time. he feels strongly that prussia should have a constitution; that her intellect and sober character deserves a constitutional monarchy, like ours in england, with such improvements as ours manifestly needs, and he places himself at the head of the popular party in bonn, where he delivers public orations, the truthful eloquence and boldness of which startle, delight, and encourage his audiences. he is soon afterward elected a member of the berlin parliament. he sides with the left, or democratic party; he advocates the cause of the oppressed people and the poor, he argues manfully and perseveringly the real interests of all governments, in granting a rational amount of liberty, showing, that in the present stage of the moral world, it is the only thing to prevent violence, and to secure good order. his speeches breathe a prophetic spirit. the revolution gathers fuel, more rapidly than can be well disposed, and it takes fire at baden. the names reach near and far--many are irresistibly attracted. they have seen, and too well remember, the faithlessness and treachery of governments--they believe the moment has come to strike a blow which shall gain and establish the constitutional liberty they seek. dr. kinkel immediately leaves his professorship; he believes he ought now to join those who wield the sword, and peril their lives in support of their principles. he proposes to hasten to baden, to defend the constitution framed by the frankfort parliament. his patriotic wife consents, and, in the evening, he takes leave of her, and of his sleeping children. it must not be concealed that with this strong feeling in favor of a constitutional monarchy, there was an infusion of principles of a more sweeping character; nor would it be going too far to say that amid the insurgents of baden were some who entertained opinions not far removed from red republicanism. be this as it may, we are persuaded that dr. kinkel's political principles and aims were purely of a constitutional character, however he may have been drawn into the fierce vortex of men and circumstances which surrounded him. dr. kinkel serves for eleven days in a free corps in baden, where the army of the insurgents have assembled. at the commencement of the battle, he is wounded, and taken prisoner with arms in his hands. the sequel of these struggles is well enough known; but the fate of the prisoners who survived their wounds, must be noticed. according to the prussian law, dr. kinkel should have been sentenced to six years' confinement as a state prisoner. this sentence is accordingly passed upon the other prisoners; and with a wise and commendable clemency many are set free after a short time. but as dr. kinkel is a man of high education and celebrity, it is thought best to give him a very severe punishment, according to the old ignorance of what is called "making an example," as if this sort of example did not provoke and stimulate, rather than deter others; and, as if clemency were not only one of the noblest attributes of royalty, but one of its best safe-guards in its effect on the feelings of a people. dr. kinkel is, accordingly, sentenced to be imprisoned for life in a fortress, as a state criminal; and away he is carried. but now comes into play the anger and resentment of many of those who had once so much admired kinkel, and held him up as a religious champion, until the woeful day when he left preaching for the study of the arts; and the yet more woeful, not to call it diabolical hour, when he announced his opinion that a separation of church and state might be the best course for both. after a series of intrigues, the enemies of kinkel induce the king to alter the sentence; but in order to avoid the appearance of unusual severity, it is announced that his sentence of imprisonment in the fortress shall be _alleviated_, by transferring him to an ordinary prison. in pursuance, therefore, of these suggestions of his enemies, he is ordered to be imprisoned for life in one of the prisons appropriated to the vilest malefactors--viz., to the prison of naugard, on the baltic. dr. kinkel is dressed in sackcloth, and his head is shaved. his wedding-ring is taken from him, and every little memento of his wife and children which might afford him consolation. his bed is a sack of straw laid upon a board. he has to scour and clean his cell, and perform every other menial office. light is allowed him only so long as he toils; and, as soon as the requisite work is done, the light is taken away. such is his melancholy lot at the present moment! he who used to toil for thirteen hours a day amidst the learned languages, and the works of antiquity, in the study of theology, and of the arts--the eloquent preacher, lecturer, and tutor--is now compelled to waste his life, with all its acquirements, in spinning. for thirteen hours every day, he is doomed to spin. by this labor he earns, every day, threepence for the state, and a halfpenny for himself! this latter sum, amounting to threepence a week, is allowed him in mercy, and with it he is permitted to purchase a dried herring and a small loaf of coarse brown bread--which, furthermore, he is allowed to eat as a sunday dinner--his ordinary food consisting of a sort of odious pap in the morning (after having spun for four hours), some vegetables at noon, and some bread and water at night. for months he has not enjoyed a breath of fresh air. he is allowed to walk daily for half-an-hour in a covered passage; but even this is refused whenever the jailor is occupied with other matters, and can not attend to trifles. dr. kinkel has no books nor papers; there is nothing for him but spinning--spinning--spinning! once a month he is, by great clemency, allowed to write one letter to his wife, which has to pass through the hands of his jailor, who, being empowered to act as censor, judiciously strikes out whatever he does not choose madame kinkel to know. all sympathizing letters are strictly withheld from him, while all those which severely take him to task, and censure his political opinions and conduct, are carefully placed in his hands, when he stops to take his breath for a minute from his eternal spinning. relatives are not, by the law, allowed to see a criminal during the first three months; after that time, they may. but after having been imprisoned at naugard three months--short of a day--dr. kinkel is suddenly removed to another prison at spandau, there to re-commence a period of three months. by this device he is prevented from seeing his wife, or any friend--all in a perfectly legal way. the jailor is strictly enjoined not to afford dr. kinkel any sort of opportunity, either by writing or by any other means, of making intercession with the king to obtain pardon, or the commutation of his sentence into banishment. all these injunctions are fully obeyed by the jailor--indeed the present one is more severe than any of the others. nevertheless, the melancholy truth has oozed out--the picture has worn its tearful way through the dense stone walls--and here it is for all to see--and, we doubt not, for many to feel. gottfried kinkel, so recently one of the most admired professors of the university of bonn, one of the ornaments of the scholarship and literature of modern germany, now clothed in sackcloth, with shaven head, and attenuated frame, sits spinning his last threads. he utters no reproaches, no complaints; but bears his sufferings with a sweet resignation that savors already of the angelic abodes to which his contemplations are ever directed. he has entreated his wife to have his heart buried amidst those lovely scenes on which he so often gazed with serene rapture, from his study-window in the castle of popplesdorf. those who behold this last picture and revert to the one where the professor came happily sliding his way to his class at the university, may perchance share the emotion which makes us pass our hands across our eyes, to put aside the irrepressible tribute of sorrow which dims and confuses the page before us. his worst enemies could never have contemplated any thing so sad as this. many, indeed, have already relented--but let their interceding voices be heard before it is too late. the literary men of no country are united, or they might move the whole kingdom. still less are the literary men of different countries united, or they might move the world. but are they, therefore, without a common sympathy for one another? we are sure this is not the case; and making this appeal to the literary men of england, we believe it will not be in vain. nor are we without hope, that a strong sympathy of this kind, being duly and respectfully made known to the king of prussia, or to baron manteufel, the minister of the interior, may induce his majesty to consider that, the revolution being at an end, clemency is not only the "brightest jewel in a crown," but its noblest strength, and that, while royal power can lose nothing, it must gain honor by remitting all further punishment of one who has only shared in the political offense of thousands who are now at liberty. all that the friends, at home and abroad, of gottfried kinkel ask is--his liberation from prison, and a permission to emigrate to england or america. the death of john randolph. [illustration: sketch of john randolph of roanoke[ ]] john randolph of roanoke, as he always signed himself, one of the most remarkable men this country has produced, died in , at a hotel in philadelphia, while on his way to england for the benefit of his health. a life of him which has just been published, written by the hon. hugh a. garland, contains a very detailed and interesting account of his last days, in which the peculiarities of his character are clearly developed: when the approach of the boat to the landing of potomac creek was announced, he was brought out of the room by his servants, on a chair, and seated in the porch, where most of the stage passengers were assembled. his presence seemed to produce considerable restraint on the company; and though he appeared to solicit it, none were willing to enter into conversation; one gentleman only, who was a former acquaintance, passed a few words with him; and so soon as the boat reached the landing, all hurried off, and left him nearly alone, with his awkward servants as his only attendants. an irish porter, who seemed to be very careless and awkward in his movements, slung a trunk round and struck mr. randolph with considerable force against the knee. he uttered an exclamation of great suffering. the poor irishman was much terrified, and made the most humble apology, but mr. randolph stormed at him--would listen to no excuse, and drove him from his presence. this incident increased the speed of the by-standers, and in a few minutes not one was left to assist the dying man. dr. dunbar, an eminent physician, of baltimore, witnessing what happened, and feeling his sympathies awakened toward a man so feeble, and apparently so near his end, walked up to the chair, as the servants were about to remove their master, and said, "mr. randolph, i have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but i have known your brother from my childhood; and as i see you have no one with you but your servants--you appear to require a friend, i will be happy to render you any assistance in my power, while we are together on the boat." he looked up, and fixed such a searching gaze on the doctor as he never encountered before. but having no other motive but kindness for a suffering fellow man, he returned the scrutinizing look with steadiness. as mr. randolph read the countenance of the stranger, who had thus unexpectedly proffered his friendship, his face suddenly cleared up; and with a most winning smile, and real politeness, and with a touching tone of voice, grasping the doctor's hand, he said, "i am most thankful to you, sir, for your kindness, for i do, indeed, want a friend." he was now, with the doctor's assistance, carefully carried on board, and set down in the most eligible part of the cabin. he seemed to be gasping for breath, as he sat up in the chair, having recovered a little, he turned to the doctor, and said, "be so good, sir, if you please, as to give me your name." the doctor gave him his name, his profession, and place of residence. "ah! doctor," said he, "i am passed surgery--passed surgery!" "i hope not, sir," the doctor replied. with a deeper and more pathetic tone, he repeated, "_i am passed surgery._" he was removed to a side berth, and laid in a position where he could get air; the doctor also commenced fanning him. his face was wrinkled, and of a parched yellow, like a female of advanced age. he seemed to repose for a moment, but presently he roused up, throwing round an intense and searching gaze. the doctor was reading a newspaper. "what paper is that, doctor?" "the ---- _gazette_, sir." "a very scurrilous paper, sir--a very scurrilous paper." after a short pause, he continued, "be so good, sir, as to read the foreign news for me--the debates in parliament, if you please." as the names of the speakers were mentioned, he commented on each; "yes," said he, "i knew him when i was in england;" then went on to make characteristic remarks on each person. in reading, the doctor fell upon the word budget; he pronounced the letter _u_ short, as in _bud_--b[)u]dget. mr. randolph said quickly, but with great mildness and courtesy, "permit me to interrupt you for a moment, doctor; i would pronounce that word b_u_dget; like _oo_ in book." "very well, sir," said the doctor, pleasantly, and continued the reading, to which mr. randolph listened with great attention. mr. randolph now commenced a conversation about his horses, which he seemed to enjoy very much; gracchus particularly, he spoke of with evident delight. as he lay in his berth, he showed his extremities to the doctor, which were much emaciated. he looked at them mournfully, and expressed his opinion of the hopelessness of his condition. the doctor endeavored to cheer him with more hopeful views. he listened politely, but evidently derived no consolation from the remarks. supper was now announced; the captain and the steward were very attentive, in carrying such dishes to mr. randolph as they thought would be pleasing to him. he was plentifully supplied with fried clams, which he ate with a good deal of relish. the steward asked him if he would have some more clams. "i do not know," he replied; "doctor, do you think i could take some more clams?" "no, mr. randolph; had you asked me earlier, i would have advised you against taking any, for they are very injurious; but i did not conceive it my right to advise you." "yes, you had, doctor; and i would have been much obliged to you for doing so. steward, i can't take any more; the doctor thinks they are not good for me." after the table was cleared off, one of the gentlemen--the one referred to as a former acquaintance of mr. randolph's, observed that he should like to get some information about the boats north of baltimore. "i can get it for you, sir," replied mr. randolph. "doctor, do me the favor to hand me a little wicker-basket, among my things in the berth below." the basket was handed to him; it was full of clippings from newspapers. he could not find the advertisement he sought for. the gentleman, with great politeness, said, "don't trouble yourself, mr. randolph." several times he repeated, "don't trouble yourself, sir." at length randolph became impatient, and looking up at him with an angry expression of countenance, said, "i do hate to be interrupted!" the gentleman, thus rebuked, immediately left him. mr. randolph then showed another basket of the same kind, filled with similar scraps from newspapers, and observed that he was always in the habit, when any thing struck him in his reading, as likely to be useful for future reference, to cut it out and preserve it in books, which he had for that purpose; and that he had at home several volumes of that kind. he showed his arrangements for traveling in europe; and after a while, seeing the doctor writing, he said, "doctor, i see you are writing; will you do me the favor to write a letter for me, to a friend in richmond?" "certainly, sir." "the gentleman," he continued, "stands a, no. , among men--dr. brockenbrough, of richmond." the letter gave directions about business matters, principally, but it contained some characteristic remarks about his horses. he exulted in their having beaten the stage; and concluded, "so much for blood. now," said he, "sign it, doctor." "how shall i sign it, mr. randolph? sign it john randolph of roanoke?" "no, sir, sign it randolph of roanoke." it was done accordingly. "now, doctor," said he, "do me the favor to add a postscript." the postscript was added, "i have been so fortunate as to meet with dr. ----, of ----, on board this boat, and to form his acquaintance, and i can never be sufficiently grateful for his kind attentions to me." so soon as the letter was concluded, mr. randolph drew together the curtains of his berth; the doctor frequently heard him groaning heavily, and breathing so laboriously, that several times he approached the side of the berth to listen if it were not the beginning of the death-struggle. he often heard him, also, exclaiming, in agonized tones, "oh, god! oh, christ!" while he was engaged in ejaculatory prayer. he now became very restless, was impatient and irascible with his servants, but continued to manifest the utmost kindness and courtesy toward dr. dunbar. when the boat reached the wharf at alexandria, where the doctor was to leave, he approached the side of the berth, and said, "mr. randolph, i must now take leave of you." he begged the doctor to come and see him, at gadsby's, then, grasping his hand, he said, "god bless you, doctor; i never can forget your kind attentions to me." next day he went into the senate chamber, and took his seat in the rear of mr. clay. that gentleman happened at the time to be on his feet, addressing the senate. "raise me up," said randolph, "i want to hear that voice again." when mr. clay had concluded his remarks, which were very few, he turned round to see from what quarter that singular voice proceeded. seeing mr. randolph, and that he was in a dying condition, he left his place and went to speak to him; as he approached, mr. randolph said to the gentleman with him, "raise me up." as mr. clay offered his hand, he said, "mr. randolph, i hope you are better, sir." "no, sir," replied randolph, "i am a dying man, and i came here expressly to have this interview with you." they grasped hands and parted, never to meet more. having accomplished the only thing that weighed on his mind, having satisfied mr. clay, and the world, that, notwithstanding a long life of political hostility, no personal animosity rankled in his heart, he was now ready to continue on his journey, or to meet, with a lighter conscience, any fate that might befall him. he hurried on to philadelphia, to be in time for the packet, that was about to sail from the delaware. but he was too late; he was destined to take passage in a different boat, and to a land far different from that of his beloved england. it was monday night when he reached the city, and the storm was very high. his friends found him on the deck of the steamboat, while johnny was out hunting for a carriage. he was put into a wretched hack, the glasses all broken, and was driven from hotel to hotel in search of lodgings, and exposed all the time to the peltings of the storm. he at length drove to the city hotel, kept by mr. edmund badger. when mr. badger came out to meet him, he asked if he could have accommodations. mr. badger replied that he was crowded, but would do the best he could for him. on hearing this, he lifted up his hands, and exclaimed, "great god! i thank thee; i shall be among friends, and be taken care of!" mr. randolph was very ill. dr. joseph parish, a quaker physician, was sent for. as he entered the room, the patient said, "i am acquainted with you, sir, by character. i know you through giles." he then told the doctor that he had attended several courses of lectures on anatomy, and described his symptoms with medical accuracy, declaring he must die if he could not discharge the puriform matter. "how long have you been sick, mr. randolph?" "don't ask me that question; i have been sick all my life. i have been affected with my present disease, however, for three years. it was greatly aggravated by my voyage to russia. that killed me, sir. this russian expedition has been a pultowa, a beresina to me." the doctor now felt his pulse. "you can form no judgment by my pulse; it is so peculiar." "you have been so long an invalid, mr. randolph, you must have acquired an accurate knowledge of the general course of practice adapted to your case." "certainly, sir; at forty, a fool or a physician, you know." "there are idiosyncracies," said the doctor, "in many constitutions. i wish to ascertain what is peculiar about you." "i have been an idiosyncracy all my life. all the preparations of camphor invariably injure me. as to ether, it will blow me up. not so with opium; i can take opium like a turk, and have been in the habitual use of it, in one shape or another, for some time." before the doctor retired, mr. randolph's conversation became curiously diversified. he introduced the subject of the quakers; complimented them in his peculiar manner for neatness, economy, order, comfort--in every thing. "right," said he, "in every thing except politics--there always twistical." he then repeated a portion of the litany of the episcopal church, with apparent fervor. the following morning the doctor was sent for very early. he was called from bed. mr. randolph apologized very handsomely for disturbing him. something was proposed for his relief. he petulantly and positively refused compliance. the doctor paused and addressed a few words to him. he apologized, and was as submissive as an infant. one evening a medical consultation was proposed; he promptly objected. "in a multitude of counsel," said he, "there is confusion; it leads to weakness and indecision; the patient may die while the doctors are staring at each other." whenever dr. parish parted from him, especially at night, he would receive the kindest acknowledgments, in the most affectionate tones: "god bless you; he does bless you, and he will bless you." the night preceding his death, the doctor passed about two hours in his chamber. in a plaintive tone he said, "my poor john, sir, is worn down with fatigue, and has been compelled to go to bed. a most attentive substitute supplies his place, but neither he nor you, sir, are like john; he knows where to place his hand on any thing, in a large quantity of baggage prepared for a european voyage." the patient was greatly distressed in breathing, in consequence of difficult expectoration. he requested the doctor, at his next visit, to bring instruments for performing the operation of bronchotomy, for he could not live unless relieved. he then directed a certain newspaper to be brought to him. he put on his spectacles, as he sat propped up in bed, turned over the paper several times, and examined it carefully, then placing his finger on a part he had selected, handed it to the doctor, with a request that he would read it. it was headed "cherokee." in the course of reading, the doctor came to the word "omnipotence," and pronounced it with a full sound on the penultimate--omni_po_tence. mr. randolph checked him, and pronounced the word according to walker. the doctor attempted to give a reason for his pronunciation. "pass on," was the quick reply. the word impetus was then pronounced with the _e_ long, "imp_e_tus." he was instantly corrected. the doctor hesitated on the criticism. "there can be no doubt of it, sir." an immediate acknowledgment of the reader that he stood corrected, appeared to satisfy the critic, and the piece was concluded. the doctor observed that there was a great deal of sublimity in the composition. he directly referred to the mosaic account of creation, and repeated, "'let there be light, and there was light.' there is sublimity." next morning (the day on which he died), dr. parish received an early and an urgent message to visit him. several persons were in the room, but soon left it, except his servant john, who was much affected at the sight of his dying master. the doctor remarked to him, "i have seen your master very low before, and he revived; and perhaps he will again." "john knows better than that, sir." he then looked at the doctor with great intensity, and said in an earnest and distinct manner, "i confirm every disposition in my will, especially that respecting my slaves, whom i have manumitted, and for whom i have made provision." "i am rejoiced to hear such a declaration from you, sir," replied the doctor, and soon after, proposed to leave him for a short time, to attend to another patient. "you must not go," was the reply; "you can not, you shall not leave me. _john!_ take care that the doctor does not leave the room." john soon locked the door, and reported, "master, i have locked the door, and got the key in my pocket: the doctor can't go now." he seemed excited, and said, "if you do go, you need not return." the doctor appealed to him as to the propriety of such an order, inasmuch as he was only desirous of discharging his duty to another patient. his manner instantly changed, and he said, "i retract that expression." some time afterward, turning an expressive look, he said again, "i retract that expression." the doctor now said that he understood the subject of his communication, and presumed the will would explain itself fully. he replied, in his peculiar way, "no, you don't understand it; i know you don't. our laws are extremely particular on the subject of slaves--a will may manumit them, but provision for their subsequent support, requires that a declaration be made in the presence of a white witness; and it is requisite that the witness, after hearing the declaration, should continue with the party, and never lose sight of him, until he is gone or dead. you are a good witness for john. you see the propriety and importance of your remaining with me; your patients must make allowance for your situation. john told me this morning, 'master, you are dying.'" the doctor spoke with entire candor, and replied, that it was rather a matter of surprise that he had lasted so long. he now made his preparations to die. he directed john to bring him his father's breast button; he then directed him to place it in the bosom of his shirt. it was an old-fashioned, large-sized gold stud. john placed it in the button hole of the shirt bosom--but to fix it completely, required a hole on the opposite side. "get a knife," said he, "and cut one." a napkin was called for, and placed by john, over his breast. for a short time he lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed. he suddenly roused up and exclaimed, "remorse! remorse!" it was thrice repeated--the last time, at the top of his voice, with great agitation. he cried out, "let me see the word. get a dictionary, let me see the word." "there is none in the room, sir." "write it down, then--let me see the word." the doctor picked up one of his cards, "randolph of roanoke." "shall i write it on this card?" "yes, nothing more proper." the word _remorse_, was then written in pencil. he took the card in a hurried manner, and fastened his eyes on it with great intensity. "write it on the back," he exclaimed--it was so done and handed him again. he was extremely agitated, "remorse! you have no idea what it is; you can form no idea of it, whatever; it has contributed to bring me to my present situation--but i have looked to the lord jesus christ, and hope i have obtained pardon. now, let john take your pencil and draw a line under the word," which was accordingly done. "what am i to do with the card?" inquired the doctor. "put it in your pocket--take care of it--when i am dead, look at it." the doctor now introduced the subject of calling in some additional witnesses to his declarations, and suggested sending down stairs for edmund badger. he replied, "i have already communicated that to him." the doctor then said, "with your concurrence, sir, i will send for two young physicians, who shall remain and never lose sight of you until you are dead; to whom you can make your declarations--my son, dr. isaac parish, and my young friend and late pupil, dr. francis west, a brother of captain west." he quickly asked, "captain west of the packet?" "yes, sir, the same." "send for him--he is the man--i'll have him." before the door was unlocked, he pointed toward a bureau, and requested the doctor to take from it a remuneration for his services. to this the doctor promptly replied, that he would feel as though he were acting indelicately, to comply. he then waived the subject, by saying, "in england it is always customary." the witnesses were now sent for, and soon arrived. the dying man was propped up in the bed, with pillows, nearly erect. being extremely sensitive to cold, he had a blanket over his head and shoulders; and he directed john to place his hat on, over the blanket, which aided in keeping it close to his head. with a countenance full of sorrow, john stood close by the side of his dying master. the four witnesses--edmund badger, francis west, isaac parish, and joseph parish, were placed in a semi-circle, in full view. he rallied all the expiring energies of mind and body, to this last effort. "his whole soul," says dr. parish, "seemed concentrated in the act. his eyes flashed feeling and intelligence. pointing toward us, with his long index finger, he addressed us." "i confirm all the directions in my will, respecting my slaves, and direct them to be enforced, particularly in regard to a provision for their support." and then raising his arm as high as he could, he brought it down with his open hand, on the shoulder of his favorite john, and added these words, "especially for this man." he then asked each of the witnesses whether they understood him. dr. joseph parish explained to them, what mr. randolph had said in regard to the laws of virginia, on the subject of manumission--and then appealed to the dying man to know whether he had stated it correctly. "yes," said he, and gracefully waving his hand as a token of dismission, he added, "the young gentlemen will remain with me." the scene was now soon changed. having disposed of that subject most deeply impressed on his heart, his keen penetrating eye lost its expression, his powerful mind gave way, and his fading imagination began to wander amidst scenes and with friends that he had left behind. in two hours the spirit took its flight, and all that was mortal of john randolph of roanoke was hushed in death. at a quarter before twelve o'clock, on the th day of june, , aged sixty years, he breathed his last, in a chamber of the city hotel, no. , north third-street, philadelphia. his remains were taken to virginia, and buried at roanoke, not far from the mansion in which he lived, and in the midst of that "boundless contiguity of shade," where he spent so many hours of anguish and of solitude. he sleeps quietly now; the squirrel may gambol in the boughs above, the partridge may whistle in the long grass that waves over that solitary grave, and none shall disturb or make them afraid. footnote: [ ] this sketch is from a portrait of randolph taken during his last visit to england. it is said by those who remember him well, to present an accurate and by no means caricatured or exaggerated representation of his singular personal appearance, while walking in the streets. an agreeable surprise. the ties of relationship are held most sacred in the imperial family of austria--maria louisa had been taught to reverence them from her infancy. she was tenderly attached to every member of her family, and when the preliminaries of her marriage with napoleon were arranged, and she knew that she was about to leave all who were so dear to her, and with whom she had passed all her days, her heart sank within her, and her tears flowed incessantly. the day came: she was to leave forever the home of her childhood. she took a most affecting leave of all her family, and then shut herself up in her own apartment, where, according to etiquette, she was to remain till the french embassador who was to conduct her to paris went to hand her to the carriage. when berthier, prince de neufchatel, went into her cabinet for this purpose, he found her weeping most bitterly. for some time she was unable to speak: at length words of passionate grief found their way. "i can not help crying," she said; "every thing i look at, and that i am going to leave, is so dear to me: there are my sister's drawings, my mother herself worked this tapestry, these pictures were painted by my uncle charles." thus she went on apostrophizing every article the room contained, even the very carpets, and all her pets of whom she was so fond, so cherished, and caressed; her singing birds, that she loved to sit and listen to--these were all to be left behind--and the parrot that she herself had taught to speak; but, above all, the little faithful dog, the favorite companion, even he was not to accompany her--for it had been said that the emperor did not like pet dogs. as she caressed the little creature her tears fell faster. berthier was sensibly touched by the marks of affection bestowed by the young princess on all the objects associated with home. he told her that all would not be in readiness for their departure for a couple of hours. so the poor princess was allowed the indulgence of her grief for a little while longer. but the moment came, and she had to tear herself away from the scenes and the friends that occupied all her affection. an enthusiastic greeting awaited her from the crowds assembled to welcome her. splendor surrounded her on every side; but home and the dear friends were far away. as napoleon led her from the balcony of the tuileries, where she had been gazed at and hailed with acclamations of joy by the populace, he said-- "come, louisa, i ought to give you some little reward for the happiness which you have conferred on me--the great happiness which i have just enjoyed. nay, nay, don't be afraid to follow me," continued he, as he led her along one of the narrow corridors of the palace, lit by a single lamp; "nay, nay, don't be afraid to follow me." suddenly they stopped at the door of a room wherein a dog was making efforts to get out. the emperor opened the door--the favorite dog was there. he testified his joy at again seeing his mistress by a thousand wild pranks; bounding and jumping about her. the profusion of lamps by which the room was lit up, discovered to maria louisa that it was furnished with the very chairs and the carpets of her apartment at vienna. there were her sister's drawings, and the tapestry wrought by her mother's hands; there were the pictures painted by her uncle charles; there was her parrot, and there her singing birds; and, above all, the pet dog. louisa was greatly affected and delighted by finding herself surrounded by these dear, familiar objects. so well had berthier planned and executed this agreeable surprise for the disconsolate princess, whom he had found weeping over all that had been endeared to her by the fondest associations, that she never suspected his design in delaying their departure from vienna. "come in, berthier," said the emperor, opening a side door, "and let the empress thank you. there, louisa, thank him--embrace him who planned this pleasure for you." how frequently genius effects great ends by the simplest means! it is most interesting to see the greatest difficulties give way before its magic influence. a death-bed. by james aldrich. her suffering ended with the day, yet lived she at its close, and breathed the long, long night away, in statue-like repose. but when the sun, in all his state, illumed the eastern skies, she pass'd through glory's morning-gate and walk'd in paradise! [from blackwood's edinburgh magazine.] my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page ._) book ii.--initial chapter:--informing the reader how this work came to have initial chapters. "there can't be a doubt," said my father, "that to each of the main divisions of your work--whether you call them books or parts--you should prefix an initial or introductory chapter." pisistratus.--"can't be a doubt, sir! why so?" mr. caxton.--"fielding lays it down as an indispensable rule, which he supports by his example; and fielding was an artistical writer, and knew what he was about." pisistratus.--"do you remember any of his reasons, sir?" mr. caxton.--"why, indeed, fielding says very justly that he is not bound to assign any reason; but he does assign a good many, here and there--to find which, i refer you to _tom jones_. i will only observe, that one of his reasons, which is unanswerable, runs to the effect that thus, in every part or book, the reader has the advantage of beginning at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first--'a matter by no means of trivial consequence,' saith fielding, 'to persons who read books with no other view than to say they have read them--a more general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books and good books, but the pages of homer and virgil, of swift and cervantes have been often turned over.' there," cried my father triumphantly, "i will lay a shilling to twopence that i have quoted the very words." mrs. caxton.--"dear me, that only means skipping: i don't see any great advantage in writing a chapter, merely for people to skip it." pisistratus.--"neither do i!" mr. caxton, dogmatically.--"it is the repose in the picture--fielding calls it 'contrast'--(still more dogmatically) i say there can't be a doubt about it. besides (added my father after a pause), besides, this usage gives you opportunities to explain what has gone before, or to prepare for what's coming; or, since fielding contends with great truth, that some learning is necessary for this kind of historical composition, it allows you, naturally and easily, the introduction of light and pleasant ornaments of that nature. at each flight in the terrace, you may give the eye the relief of an urn or a statue. moreover, when so inclined, you create proper pausing places for reflection; and complete, by a separate yet harmonious ethical department, the design of a work, which is but a mere mother goose's tale if it does not embrace a general view of the thoughts and actions of mankind." pisistratus.--"but then, in these initial chapters, the author thrusts himself forward and just when you want to get on with the _dramatis personæ_, you find yourself face to face with the poet himself." mr. caxton.--"pooh! you can contrive to prevent that! imitate the chorus of the greek stage, who fill up the intervals between the action by saying what the author would otherwise say in his own person." pisistratus, slyly.--"that's a good idea, sir--and i have a chorus, and a chorægus too, already in my eye." mr. caxton, unsuspectingly.--"aha! you are not so dull a fellow as you would make yourself out to be; and, even if an author did thrust himself forward, what objection is there to that? it is a mere affectation to suppose that a book can come into the world without an author. every child has a father, one father at least, as the great condé says very well in his poem." pisistratus.--"the great condé a poet!--i never heard that before." mr. caxton.--"i don't say he was a poet, but he sent a poem to madame de montansier. envious critics think that he must have paid somebody else to write it; but there is no reason why a great captain should not write a poem--i don't say a good poem, but a poem. i wonder, roland, if the duke ever tried his hand at 'stanzas to mary,' or 'lines to a sleeping babe.'" captain roland.--"austin, i'm ashamed of you. of course the duke could write poetry if he pleased--something, i dare say, in the way of the great condé--that is something warlike and heroic, i'll be bound. let's hear!" mr. caxton, reciting-- "telle est du ciel la loi sèvère qu'il faut qu'un enfant ait un père; on dit même quelque fois tel enfant en a jusqu'á trois." captain roland, greatly disgusted.--"condé write such stuff!--i don't believe it." pisistratus.--"i do, and accept the quotation--you and roland shall be joint fathers to my child as well as myself." "tel enfant en a jusqu'á trois." mr. caxton, solemnly.--"i refuse the proffered paternity; but so far as administering a little wholesome castigation, now and then, i have no objection to join in the discharge of a father's duty." pisistratus.--"agreed; have you any thing to say against the infant hitherto?" mr. caxton.--"he is in long clothes at present; let us wait till he can walk." blanche.--"but pray whom do you mean for a hero?--and is miss jemima your heroine?" captain roland.--"there is some mystery about the--" pisistratus, hastily.--"hush, uncle; no letting the cat out of the bag yet. listen, all of you! i left frank hazeldean on his way to the casino." chapter ii. "it is a sweet pretty place," thought frank, as he opened the gate which led across the fields to the casino, that smiled down upon him with its plaster pilasters. "i wonder, though, that my father, who is so particular in general, suffers the carriage road to be so full of holes and weeds. mounseer does not receive many visits, i take it." but when frank got into the ground immediately before the house, he saw no cause of complaint as to want of order and repair. nothing could be kept more neatly. frank was ashamed of the dint made by the pony's hoofs in the smooth gravel; he dismounted, tied the animal to the wicket, and went on foot toward the glass door in front. he rang the bell once, twice, but nobody came, for the old woman-servant, who was hard of hearing, was far away in the yard, searching for any eggs which the hen might have scandalously hidden from culinary purposes; and jackeymo was fishing for the sticklebacks and minnows, which were, when caught, to assist the eggs, when found, in keeping together the bodies and souls of himself and his master. the old woman was on board wages--lucky old woman! frank rang a third time, and with the impetuosity of his age. a face peeped from the belvidere on the terrace. "diavolo!" said dr. riccabocca to himself. "young cocks crow hard on their own dunghill; it must be a cock of a high race to crow so loud at another's." therewith he shambled out of the summer-house, and appeared suddenly before frank, in a very wizard-like dressing robe of black serge, a red cap on his head, and a cloud of smoke coming rapidly from his lips, as a final consolatory whiff, before he removed the pipe from them. frank had indeed seen the doctor before, but never in so scholastic a costume, and he was a little startled by the apparition at his elbow, as he turned round. "signorino--young gentleman," said the italian, taking off his cap with his usual urbanity, "pardon the negligence of my people--i am too happy to receive your commands in person." "dr. rickeybockey?" stammered frank, much confused by this polite address, and the low yet stately bow with which it was accompanied, "i--i have a note from the hall. mamma--that is, my mother--and aunt jemima beg their best compliments, and hope you will come, sir." the doctor took the note with another bow, and, opening the glass door, invited frank to enter. the young gentleman, with a schoolboy's usual bluntness, was about to say that he was in a hurry, and had rather not; but dr. riccabocca's grand manner awed him, while a glimpse of the hall excited his curiosity--so he silently obeyed the invitation. the hall, which was of an octagon shape, had been originally paneled off into compartments, and in these the italian had painted landscapes, rich with the sunny warm light of his native climate. frank was no judge of the art displayed; but he was greatly struck with the scenes depicted: they were all views of some lake, real or imaginary--in all, dark-blue shining waters reflected dark-blue placid skies. in one, a flight of steps descended to the lake, and a gay group was seen feasting on the margin: in another, sunset threw its rose-hues over a vast villa or palace, backed by alpine hills, and flanked by long arcades of vines, while pleasure-boats skimmed over the waves below. in short, throughout all the eight compartments, the scene, though it differed in details, preserved the same general character, as if illustrating some favorite locality. the italian, did not, however, evince any desire to do the honors to his own art, but, preceding frank across the hall, opened the door of his usual sitting-room, and requested him to enter. frank did so, rather reluctantly, and seated himself with unwonted bashfulness on the edge of a chair. but here new specimens of the doctor's handicraft soon riveted attention. the room had been originally papered; but riccabocca had stretched canvas over the walls, and painted thereon sundry satirical devices, each separated from the other by scroll-works of fantastic arabesques. here a cupid was trundling a wheelbarrow full of hearts, which he appeared to be selling to an ugly old fellow, with a money-bag in his hand--probably plutus. there diogenes might be seen walking through a market-place, with his lantern in his hand, in search of an honest man, while the children jeered at him, and the curs snapped at his heels. in another place, a lion was seen half dressed in a fox's hide, while a wolf in a sheep's mask was conversing very amicably with a young lamb. here again might be seen the geese stretching out their necks from the roman capitol in full cackle, while the stout invaders were beheld in the distance, running off as hard as they could. in short, in all these quaint entablatures some pithy sarcasm was symbolically conveyed; only over the mantle-piece was the design graver and more touching. it was the figure of a man in a pilgrim's garb, chained to the earth by small but innumerable ligaments, while a phantom likeness of himself, his shadow, was seen hastening down what seemed an interminable vista; and underneath were written the pathetic words of horace, "patriæ quis exul se quoque fugit?" "what exile from his country can fly himself as well?" the furniture of the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty; yet it was arranged so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to the room. even a few plaster busts and statues, though bought of some humble itinerant, had their classical effect glistening from out stands of flowers that were grouped around them, or backed by graceful screen-works formed from twisted osiers, which, by the simple contrivance of trays at the bottom, filled with earth, served for living parasitical plants, with gay flowers contrasting thick ivy leaves, and gave to the whole room the aspect of a bower. "may i ask your permission?" said the italian, with his finger on the seal of the letter. "oh, yes," said frank with _naïveté_. riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his countenance. then he turned a little aside from frank, shaded his face with his hand, and seemed to muse. "mrs. hazeldean," said he at last, "does me very great honor. i hardly recognize her hand-writing, or i should have been more impatient to open the letter." the dark eyes were lifted over the spectacles, and went right into frank's unprotected and undiplomatic heart. the doctor raised the note, and pointed to the characters with his forefinger. "cousin jemima's hand," said frank, as directly as if the question had been put to him. the italian smiled. "mr. hazeldean has company staying with him?" "no; that is, only barney--the captain. there's seldom much company before the shooting season," added frank with a slight sigh; "and then you know the holidays are over. for my part, i think we ought to break up a month later." the doctor seemed reassured by the first sentence in frank's reply, and seating himself at the table, wrote his answer--not hastily, as we english write, but with care and precision, like one accustomed to weigh the nature of words--in that stiff italian hand, which allows the writer so much time to think while he forms his letters. he did not therefore reply at once to frank's remark about the holidays, but was silent till he had concluded his note, read it three times over, sealed it by the taper he slowly lighted, and then, giving it to frank, he said-- "for your sake, young gentleman, i regret that your holidays are so early; for mine, i must rejoice, since i accept the kind invitation you have rendered doubly gratifying by bringing it yourself." "deuce take the fellow and his fine speeches! one don't know which way to look," thought english frank. the italian smiled again, as if this time he had read the boy's heart, without need of those piercing black eyes, and said, less ceremoniously than before, "you don't care much for compliments, young gentleman?" "no, i don't indeed," said frank heartily. "so much the better for you, since your way in the world is made: it would be so much the worse if you had to make it!" frank looked puzzled: the thought was too deep for him--so he turned to the pictures. "those are very funny," said he: "they seem capitally done--who did 'em?" "signorino hazeldean, you are giving me what you refused yourself." "eh?" said frank, inquiringly. "compliments!" "oh--i--no; but they are well done, arn't they, sir?" "not particularly: you speak to the artist." "what! you painted them?" "yes." "and the pictures in the hall?" "those too." "taken from nature--eh?" "nature," said the italian sententiously, perhaps evasively, "lets nothing be taken from her." "oh!" said frank, puzzled again. "well, i must wish you good morning, sir; i am very glad you are coming." "without compliment?" "without compliment." "a _rivedersi_--good-by for the present, my young signorino. this way," observing frank make a bolt toward the wrong door. "can i offer you a glass of wine--it is pure, of our own making?" "no, thank you, indeed, sir," cried frank, suddenly recollecting his father's admonition. "good-by--don't trouble yourself, sir; i know my way now." but the bland italian followed his guest to the wicket, where frank had left the pony. the young gentleman, afraid lest so courteous a host should hold the stirrup for him, twitched off the bridle, and mounted in haste, not even staying to ask if the italian could put him in the way to rood hall, of which way he was profoundly ignorant. the italian's eye followed the boy as he rode up the ascent in the lane, and the doctor sighed heavily. "the wiser we grow," said he to himself, "the more we regret the age of our follies: it is better to gallop with a light heart up the stony hill than to sit in the summer-house and cry 'how true!' to the stony truths of machiavelli!" with that he turned back into the belvidere; but he could not resume his studies. he remained some minutes gazing on the prospect, till the prospect reminded him of the fields, which jackeymo was bent on his hiring, and the fields reminded him of lenny fairfield. he walked back to the house, and in a few moments re-emerged in his out-of-door-trim, with cloak and umbrella, relighted his pipe, and strolled toward hazeldean village. meanwhile frank, after cantering on for some distance, stopped at a cottage, and there learned that there was a short cut across the fields to rood hall, by which he could save nearly three miles. frank, however, missed the short cut, and came out into the high road: a turnpike keeper, after first taking his toll, put him back again into the short cut; and finally, he got into some green lanes, where a dilapidated finger-post directed him to rood. late at noon, having ridden fifteen miles in the desire to reduce ten to seven, he came suddenly upon a wild and primitive piece of ground, that seemed half chase, half common, with slovenly tumble-down cottages of villainous aspect scattered about in odd nooks and corners; idle dirty children were making mud pies on the road; slovenly-looking women were plaiting straw at the thresholds; a large but forlorn and decayed church, that seemed to say that the generation which saw it built was more pious than the generation which now resorted to it, stood boldly and nakedly out by the roadside. "is this the village of rood?" asked frank of a stout young man breaking stones on the road--sad sign that no better labor could be found for him! the man sullenly nodded, and continued his work. "and where's the hall--mr. leslie's?" the man looked up in stolid surprise, and this time touched his hat. "be you going there?" "yes, if i can find out where it is." "i'll show your honor," said the boor alertly. frank reined in the pony, and the man walked by his side. frank was much of his father's son, despite the difference of age, and that more fastidious change of manner which characterizes each succeeding race in the progress of civilization. despite all his eton finery, he was familiar with peasants, and had the quick eye of one country-born as to country matters. "you don't seem very well off in this village, my man?" said he, knowingly. "no; there be a deal of distress here in the winter time, and summer too, for that matter; and the parish ben't much help to a single man." "but the farmers want work here as well as elsewhere, i suppose?" "'deed, and there ben't much farming work here--most o' the parish be all wild ground loike." "the poor have a right of common, i suppose," said frank, surveying a large assortment of vagabond birds and quadrupeds. "yes; neighbor timmins keeps his geese on the common, and some has a cow--and them be neighbor jowles's pigs. i don't know if there's a right, loike; but the folks at the hall does all they can to help us, and that ben't much: they ben't as rich as some folks; but," added the peasant proudly, "they be as good blood as any in the shire." "i'm glad to see you like them, at all events." "oh, yes, i likes them well eno'; mayhap you are at school with the young gentleman?" "yes." said frank. "ah! i heard the clergyman say as how master randal was a mighty clever lad, and would get rich some day. i'se sure i wish he would, for a poor squire makes a poor parish. there's the hall, sir." chapter iii. frank looked right ahead, and saw a square house that, in spite of modern sash-windows, was evidently of remote antiquity--a high conical roof; a stack of tall quaint chimney-pots of red baked clay (like those at sutton place in surrey), dominating over isolated vulgar smoke-conductors, of the ignoble fashion of present times; a dilapidated groin-work, encasing within a tudor arch a door of the comfortable date of george iii., and the peculiarly dingy and weather-stained appearance of the small finely finished bricks, of which the habitation was built--all showed the abode of former generations adapted with tasteless irreverence to the habits of descendants unenlightened by pugin, or indifferent to the poetry of the past. the house had emerged suddenly upon frank out of the gloomy waste land, for it was placed in a hollow, and sheltered from sight by a disorderly group of ragged, dismal, valetudinarian fir-trees, until an abrupt turn of the road cleared that screen, and left the desolate abode bare to the discontented eye. frank dismounted; the man held his pony; and, after smoothing his cravat, the smart etonian sauntered up to the door, and startled the solitude of the place with a loud peal from the modern brass knocker--a knock which instantly brought forth an astonished starling who had built under the eaves of the gable roof, and called up a cloud of sparrows, tomtits, and yellow-hammers, who had been regaling themselves among the litter of a slovenly farm-yard that lay in full sight to the right of the house, fenced off by a primitive, paintless wooden rail. in process of time a sow, accompanied by a thriving and inquisitive family, strolled up to the gate of the fence, and, leaning her nose on the lower bar of the gate, contemplated the visitor with much curiosity and some suspicion. while frank is still without, impatiently swingeing his white trowsers with his whip, we will steal a hurried glance toward the respective members of the family within. mr. leslie, the _pater familias_, is in a little room called his 'study,' to which he regularly retires every morning after breakfast, rarely reappearing till one o'clock, which is his unfashionable hour for dinner. in what mysterious occupations mr. leslie passes those hours no one ever formed a conjecture. at the present moment he is seated before a little rickety bureau, one leg of which (being shorter than the other), is propped up by sundry old letters and scraps of newspapers; and the bureau is open, and reveals a great number of pigeon-holes and divisions, filled with various odds and ends, the collection of many years. in some of these compartments are bundles of letters, very yellow, and tied in packets with faded tape; in another, all by itself, is a fragment of plum-pudding stone, which mr. leslie has picked up in his walks and considered a rare mineral. it is neatly labeled "found in hollow lane, may st, , by maunder slugge leslie, esq." the next division holds several bits of iron in the shape of nails, fragments of horse-shoes, &c., which mr. leslie had also met with in his rambles, and, according to a harmless popular superstition, deemed it highly unlucky not to pick up, and, once picked up, no less unlucky to throw away. _item_, in the adjoining pigeon-hole, a goodly collection of pebbles with holes in them, preserved for the same reason, in company with a crooked sixpence: _item_, neatly arranged in fanciful mosaics, several periwinkles, blackamoor's teeth (i mean the shell so called), and other specimens of the conchiferous ingenuity of nature, partly inherited from some ancestral spinster, partly amassed by mr. leslie himself in a youthful excursion to the sea-side. there were the farm-bailiff's accounts, several files of bills, an old stirrup, three sets of knee and shoe buckles which had belonged to mr. leslie's father, a few seals tied together by a shoe-string, a shagreen toothpick case, a tortoiseshell magnifying glass to read with, his eldest son's first copybooks, his second son's ditto, his daughter's ditto, and a lock of his wife's hair arranged in a true-lover's knot, framed and glazed. there were also a small mousetrap; a patent corkscrew, too good to be used in common; fragments of a silver teaspoon, that had, by natural decay, arrived at a dissolution of its parts; a small brown holland bag, containing halfpence of various dates, as far back as queen anne, accompanied by two french _sous_, and a german _silber gros_; the which miscellany mr. leslie magniloquently called "his coins," and had left in his will as a family heirloom. there were many other curiosities of congenial nature and equal value--"_quæ nunc describere longum est_." mr. leslie was engaged at this time in what is termed "putting things to rights"--an occupation he performed with exemplary care once a week. this was his day; and he had just counted his coins, and was slowly tying them up again, when frank's knock reached his ears. mr. maunder slugge leslie paused, shook his head as if incredulously, and was about to resume his occupation, when he was seized with a fit of yawning which prevented the bag being tied for full two minutes. while such was the employment of the study--let us turn to the recreations in the drawing-room, or rather parlor. a drawing-room there was on the first floor, with a charming look-out, not on the dreary fir-trees, but on the romantic undulating forest-land, but the drawing-room had not been used since the death of the last mrs. leslie. it was deemed too good to sit in, except when there was company; there never being company, it was never sate in. indeed, now the paper was falling off the walls with the damp, and the rats, mice, and moths--those "_edaces rerum_"--had eaten, between them, most of the chair-bottoms and a considerable part of the floor. therefore the parlor was the sole general sitting-room; and being breakfasted in, dined, and supped in, and, after supper, smoked in by mr. leslie to the accompaniment of rum and water, it is impossible to deny that it had what is called "a smell"--a comfortable wholesome family smell--speaking of numbers, meals, and miscellaneous social habitation.--there were two windows: one looked full on the fir-trees; the other on the farm-yard, with the pigsty closing the view. near the fir-tree window sate mrs. leslie; before her, on a high stool, was a basket of the children's clothes that wanted mending. a work-table of rosewood inlaid with brass, which had been a wedding present, and was a costly thing originally, but in that peculiar taste which is vulgarly called "brumagem," stood at hand: the brass had started in several places, and occasionally made great havoc on the children's fingers and mrs. leslie's gown; in fact, it was the liveliest piece of furniture in the house, thanks to that petulant brass-work, and could not have been more mischievous if it had been a monkey. upon the work-table lay a housewife and thimble, and scissors and skeins of worsted and thread, and little scraps of linen and cloth for patches. but mrs. leslie was not actually working--she was preparing to work; she had been preparing to work for the last hour and a half. upon her lap she supported a novel, by a lady who wrote much for a former generation, under the name of "mrs. bridget blue mantle." she had a small needle in her left hand, and a very thick piece of thread in her right; occasionally she applied the end of the said thread to her lips, and then--her eyes fixed on the novel--made a blind vacillating attack at the eye of the needle. but a camel would have gone through it with quite as much ease. nor did the novel alone engage mrs. leslie's attention, for ever and anon she interrupted herself to scold the children; to inquire "what o'clock it was;" to observe that "sarah would never suit," and to wonder why mr. leslie would not see that the work-table was mended. mrs. leslie had been rather a pretty woman. in spite of a dress at once slatternly and economical, she has still the air of a lady--rather too much so, the hard duties of her situation considered. she is proud of the antiquity of her family on both sides; her mother was of the venerable stock of the daudlers of daudle place, a race that existed before the conquest. indeed, one has only to read our earliest chronicles, and to glance over some of those long-winded moralizing poems which delighted the thanes and ealdermen of old, in order to see that the daudlers must have been a very influential family before william the first turned the country topsy-turvy. while the mother's race was thus indubitably saxon, the father's had not only the name but the peculiar idiosyncrasy of the normans, and went far to establish that crotchet of the brilliant author of _sybil, or the two nations_ as to the continued distinction between the conquering and conquered populations. mrs. leslie's father boasted the name of montfydget; doubtless of the same kith and kin as those great barons montfichet, who once owned such broad lands and such turbulent castles. a high-nosed, thin, nervous, excitable progeny, those same montfydgets, as the most troublesome norman could pretend to be. this fusion of race was notable to the most ordinary physiognomist in the _physique_ and in the _morale_ of mrs. leslie. she had the speculative blue eye of the saxon, and the passionate high nose of the norman; she had the musing do-nothingness of the daudlers, and the reckless have-at-everythingness of the montfydgets. at mrs. leslie's feet, a little girl with her hair about her ears (and beautiful hair it was too), was amusing herself with a broken-nosed doll. at the far end of the room, before a high desk, sate frank's eton schoolfellow, the eldest son. a minute or two before frank's alarum had disturbed the tranquillity of the household, he had raised his eyes from the books on the desk, to glance at a very tattered copy of the greek testament, in which his brother oliver had found a difficulty that he came to randal to solve. as the young etonian's face was turned to the light, your first impression, on seeing it, would have been melancholy but respectful interest--for the face had already lost the joyous character of youth--there was a wrinkle between the brows; and the lines that speak of fatigue, were already visible under the eyes and about the mouth; the complexion was sallow, the lips were pale. years of study had already sown, in the delicate organization, the seeds of many an infirmity and many a pain; but if your look had rested longer on that countenance, gradually your compassion might have given place to some feeling uneasy and sinister, a feeling akin to fear. there was in the whole expression so much of cold calm force, that it belied the debility of the frame. you saw there the evidence of a mind that was cultivated, and you felt that in that cultivation there was something formidable. a notable contrast to this countenance, prematurely worn and eminently intelligent, was the round healthy face of oliver, with slow blue eyes, fixed hard on the penetrating orbs of his brother, as if trying with might and main to catch from them a gleam of that knowledge with which they shone clear and frigid as a star. at frank's knock, oliver's slow blue eyes sparkled into animation, and he sprang from his brother's side. the little girl flung back the hair from her face, and stared at her mother with a look which spoke wonder and fright. the young student knit his brows, and then turned wearily back to the books on his desk. "dear me," cried mrs. leslie, "who can that possibly be? oliver, come from the window, sir, this instant, you will be seen! juliet, run--ring the bell--no, go to the stairs, and say, 'not at home.' not at home on any account," repeated mrs. leslie nervously, for the montfydget blood was now in full flow. in another minute or so, frank's loud boyish voice was distinctly heard at the outer door. randal slightly started. "frank hazeldean's voice," said he; "i should like to see him, mother." "see him," repeated mrs. leslie in amaze, "see him!--and the room in this state!" randal might have replied that the room was in no worse state than usual; but he said nothing. a slight flush came and went over his pale face; and then he leant his cheek on his hand, and compressed his lips firmly. the outer door closed with a sullen, inhospitable jar, and a slip-shod female servant entered with a card between her finger and thumb. "who is that for? give it to me, jenny," cried mrs. leslie. but jenny shook her head, laid the card on the desk beside randal, and vanished without saying a word. "oh, look, randal, look up," cried oliver, who had again rushed to the window; "such a pretty gray pony!" randal did look up; nay, he went deliberately to the window, and gazed a moment on the high-mettled pony, and the well-dressed high-spirited rider. in that moment changes passed over randal's countenance more rapidly than clouds over the sky in a gusty day. now envy and discontent, with the curled lip and the gloomy scowl; now hope and proud self-esteem, with the clearing brow, and the lofty smile; and then all again became cold, firm, and close as he walked back to his books, seated himself resolutely, and said, half aloud, "well, knowledge is power!" chapter iv. mrs. leslie came up in fidget and in fuss; she leant over randal's shoulder and read the card. written in pen and ink, with an attempt at imitation of printed roman character, there appeared first, "mr. frank hazeldean;" but just over these letters, and scribbled hastily and less legibly in pencil, was-- "dear leslie,--sorry you are out--come and see us--_do_!" "you will go, randal?" said mrs. leslie, after a pause. "i am not sure." "yes, _you_ can go; _you_ have clothes like a gentleman; _you_ can go any where, not like those children;" and mrs. leslie glanced almost spitefully on poor oliver's coarse, threadbare jacket, and little juliet's torn frock. "what i have i owe at present to mr. egerton, and i should consult his wishes; he is not on good terms with these hazeldeans." then glancing toward his brother, who looked mortified, he added, with a strange sort of haughty kindness, "what i may have hereafter, oliver, i shall owe to myself; and then, if i rise, i will raise my family." "dear randal," said mrs. leslie, fondly kissing him on the forehead, "what a good heart you have!" "no mother; my books don't tell me that it is a good heart that gets on in the world; it is a hard head," replied randal, with a rude and scornful candor. "but i can read no more just now; come out, oliver." so saying, he slid from his mother's hand and left the room. when oliver joined him, randal was already on the common; and, without seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly and with long strides in profound silence. at length he paused under the shade of an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had escaped the ax. the tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a view of the decayed house--the old dilapidated church--the dismal, dreary village. "oliver," said randal, between his teeth, so that his voice had the sound of a hiss, "it was under this tree that i first resolved to--" he paused. "what, randal?" "read hard; knowledge is power!" "but you are so fond of reading." "i?" cried randal. "do you think, when wolsey and thomas à-becket became priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering aves? i fond of reading!" oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension. "you know," continued randal, "that we leslies were not always the beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. you know that there is a man who lives in grosvenor-square, and is very rich--very. his riches come to him from a leslie; that man is my patron, oliver, and he is very good to me." randal's smile was withering as he spoke. "come on," he said, after a pause--"come on." again the walk was quicker, and the brothers were silent. they came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over the ford dryshod. "will you pull me down that bough, oliver?" said randal, abruptly, pointing to a tree. oliver obeyed mechanically; and randal stripping the leaves, and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at the end; with this he began to remove the stepping-stones. "what are you about, randal?" asked oliver, wonderingly. "we are on the other side of the brook now; and we shall not come back this way. we don't want the stepping-stones any more! away with them!" chapter v. the morning after this visit of frank hazeldean's to rood hall, the right honorable audley egerton, member of parliament, privy councilor, and minister of a high department in the state--just below the rank of the cabinet--was seated in his library, awaiting the delivery of the post, before he walked down to his office. in the mean while he sipped his tea, and glanced over the newspapers with that quick and half-disdainful eye with which your practical man in public life is wont to regard the abuse or the eulogium of the fourth estate. there is very little likeness between mr. egerton and his half-brother; none indeed, except that they are both of tall stature, and strong, sinewy, english build. but even in this last they do not resemble each other; for the squire's athletic shape is already beginning to expand into that portly embonpoint which seems the natural development of contented men as they approach middle life. audley, on the contrary, is inclined to be spare; and his figure, though the muscles are as firm as iron, has enough of the slender to satisfy metropolitan ideas of elegance. his dress--his look--his _tout ensemble_, are those of the london man. in the first, there is more attention to fashion than is usual among the busy members of the house of commons; but then audley egerton had always been something more than a mere busy member of the house of commons. he had always been a person of mark in the best society, and one secret of his success in life has been his high reputation as a "gentleman." as he now bends over the journals, there is an air of distinction in the turn of the well-shaped head, with the dark brown hair--dark in spite of a reddish tinge--cut close behind, and worn away a little toward the crown, so as to give additional height to a commanding forehead. his profile is very handsome, and of that kind of beauty which imposes on men if it pleases women; and is therefore, unlike that of your mere pretty fellows, a positive advantage in public life. it is a profile with large features clearly cut, masculine, and somewhat severe. the expression of his face is not open like the squire's; nor has it the cold closeness which accompanies the intellectual character of young leslie's; but it is reserved and dignified, and significant of self-control, as should be the physiognomy of a man accustomed to think before he speaks. when you look at him, you are not surprised to learn that he is not a florid orator nor a smart debater--he is a "weighty speaker." he is fairly read, but without any great range either of ornamental scholarship or constitutional lore. he has not much humor; but he has that kind of wit which is essential to grave and serious irony. he has not much imagination, nor remarkable subtlety in reasoning; but if he does not dazzle, he does not _bore_: he is too much the man of the world for that. he is considered to have sound sense and accurate judgment. withal, as he now lays aside the journals, and his face relaxes its austerer lines, you will not be astonished to hear that he is a man who is said to have been greatly beloved by women, and still to exercise much influence in drawing-rooms and boudoirs. at least no one was surprised when the great heiress clementina leslie, kinswomen and ward to lord lansmere--a young lady who had refused three earls and the heir-apparent to a dukedom--was declared by her dearest friends to be dying of love for audley egerton. it had been the natural wish of the lansmeres that this lady should marry their son, lord l'estrange. but that young gentleman, whose opinions on matrimony partook of the eccentricity of his general character, could never be induced to propose, and had, according to the _on dits_ of town, been the principal party to make up the match between clementina and his friend audley; for the match required making-up despite the predilections of the young heiress. mr. egerton had had scruples of delicacy. he avowed, for the first time, that his fortune was much less than had been generally supposed, and he did not like the idea of owing all to a wife, however much he might esteem and admire her. l'estrange was with his regiment abroad during the existence of these scruples; but by letters to his father, and to his cousin clementina, he contrived to open and conclude negotiations, while he argued away mr. egerton's objections; and, before the year in which audley was returned for lansmere had expired, he received the hand of the great heiress. the settlement of her fortune, which was chiefly in the funds, had been unusually advantageous to the husband; for though the capital was tied up so long as both survived--for the benefit of any children they might have--yet, in the event of one of the parties dying without issue by the marriage, the whole passed without limitation to the survivor. in not only assenting to, but proposing this clause, miss leslie, if she showed a generous trust in mr. egerton, inflicted no positive wrong on her relations; for she had none sufficiently near to her to warrant their claim to the succession. her nearest kinsman, and therefore her natural heir, was harley l'estrange; and if he was contented, no one had a right to complain. the tie of blood between herself and the leslies of rood hall was, as we shall see presently, extremely distant. it was not till after his marriage that mr. egerton took an active part in the business of the house of commons. he was then at the most advantageous starting-point for the career of ambition. his words on the state of the country took importance from his stake in it. his talents found accessories in the opulence of grosvenor-square, the dignity of a princely establishment, the respectability of one firmly settled in life, the reputation of a fortune in reality very large, and which was magnified by popular report into the revenues of a croesus. audley egerton succeeded in parliament beyond the early expectations formed of him. he took, at first, that station in the house which it requires tact to establish, and great knowledge of the world to free from the charge of impracticability and crotchet, but which, once established, is peculiarly imposing from the rarity of its independence; that is to say, the station of the moderate man who belongs sufficiently to a party to obtain its support, but is yet sufficiently disengaged from a party to make his vote and word, on certain questions, matter of anxiety and speculation. professing toryism (the word conservative, which would have suited him better, was not then known), he separated himself from the country party, and always avowed great respect for the opinions of the large towns. the epithet given to the views of audley egerton was "enlightened." never too much in advance of the passion of the day, yet never behind its movement, he had that shrewd calculation of odds which a consummate mastery of the world sometimes bestows upon politicians--perceived the chances for and against a certain question being carried within a certain time, and nicked the question between wind and water. he was so good a barometer of that changeful weather called public opinion that he might have had a hand in the _times_ newspaper. he soon quarreled, and purposely, with his lansmere constituents--nor had he ever revisited that borough, perhaps because it was associated with unpleasant reminiscences in the shape of the squire's epistolary trimmer, and in that of his own effigies which his agricultural constituents had burned in the corn-market. but the speeches which produced such indignation at lansmere, had delighted one of the greatest of our commercial towns, which at the next general election honored him with its representation. in those days, before the reform bill, great commercial towns chose men of high mark for their members; and a proud station it was for him who was delegated to speak the voice of the princely merchants of england. mrs. egerton survived her marriage but a few years; she left no children; two had been born, but died in their first infancy. the property of the wife, therefore, passed without control or limit to the husband. whatever might have been the grief of the widower, he disdained to betray it to the world. indeed, audley egerton was a man who had early taught himself to conceal emotion. he buried himself in the country, none knew where, for some months: when he returned, there was a deep wrinkle on his brow; but no change in his habits and avocations, except that, shortly afterward, he accepted office, and thus became more busy than ever. mr. egerton had always been lavish and magnificent in money matters. a rich man in public life has many claims on his fortune, and no one yielded to those claims with an air so regal as audley egerton. but among his many liberal actions, there was none which seemed more worthy of panegyric, than the generous favor he extended to the son of his wife's poor and distant kinsfolks, the leslies of rood hall. some four generations back, there had lived a certain squire leslie, a man of large acres and active mind. he had cause to be displeased with his elder son, and though he did not disinherit him, he left half his property to a younger. the younger had capacity and spirit, which justified the paternal provision. he increased his fortune; lifted himself into notice and consideration, by public services and a noble alliance. his descendants followed his example, and took rank among the first commoners in england, till the last male, dying, left his sole heiress and representative in one daughter, clementina, afterward married to mr. egerton. meanwhile the elder son of the fore-mentioned squire had muddled and sotted away much of his share in the leslie property; and, by low habits and mean society, lowered in repute his representation of the name. his successors imitated him, till nothing was left to randal's father, mr. maunder slugge leslie, but the decayed house which was what the germans call the _stamm schloss_, or "stem hall" of the race, and the wretched lands immediately around it. still, though all intercourse between the two branches of the family had ceased, the younger had always felt a respect for the elder, as the head of the house. and it was supposed that, on her death bed, mrs. egerton had recommended her impoverished namesakes and kindred to the care of her husband. for, when he returned to town after mrs. egerton's death, audley had sent to mr. maunder slugge leslie the sum of £ , which he said his wife, leaving no written will, had orally bequeathed as a legacy to that gentleman; and he requested permission to charge himself with the education of the eldest son. mr. maunder slugge leslie might have done great things for his little property with those £ , or even (kept in the three-per-cents) the interest would have afforded a material addition to his comforts. but a neighboring solicitor having caught scent of the legacy, hunted it down into his own hands, on pretense of having found a capital investment in a canal. and when the solicitor had got possession of the £ , he went off with them to america. meanwhile randal, placed by mr. egerton at an excellent preparatory school, at first gave no signs of industry or talent; but just before he left it, there came to the school, as classical tutor, an ambitious young oxford man; and his zeal, for he was a capital teacher, produced a great effect generally on the pupils, and especially on randal leslie. he talked to them much in private on the advantages of learning, and shortly afterward he exhibited those advantages in his own person; for, having edited a greek play with much subtle scholarship, his college, which some slight irregularities of his had displeased, recalled him to its venerable bosom by the presentation of a fellowship. after this he took orders, became a college tutor, distinguished himself yet more by a treatise on the greek accent, got a capital living, and was considered on the high road to a bishopric. this young man, then, communicated to randal the thirst for knowledge; and when the boy went afterward to eton, he applied with such earnestness and resolve that his fame soon reached the ears of audley; and that person, who had the sympathy for talent, and yet more for purpose, which often characterizes ambitious men, went to eton to see him. from that time, audley evinced great and almost fatherly interest in the brilliant etonian; and randal always spent with him some days in each vacation. i have said that egerton's conduct, with respect to this boy, was more praiseworthy than most of those generous actions for which he was renowned, since to this the world gave no applause. what a man does within the range of his family connections, does not carry with it that _éclat_ which invests a munificence exhibited on public occasions. either people care nothing about it, or tacitly suppose it to be but his duty. it was true, too, as the squire had observed, that randal leslie was even less distantly related to the hazeldeans than to mrs. egerton, since randal's grandfather had actually married a miss hazeldean (the highest worldly connection that branch of the family had formed since the great split i have commemorated). but audley egerton never appeared aware of that fact. as he was not himself descended from the hazeldeans, he never troubled himself about their genealogy; and he took care to impress it upon the leslies, that his generosity on their behalf, was solely to be ascribed to his respect for his wife's memory and kindred. still the squire had felt as if his "distant brother" implied a rebuke on his own neglect of these poor leslies, by the liberality audley evinced toward them; and this had made him doubly sore when the name of randal leslie was mentioned. but the fact really was, that the leslies of rood, had so shrunk out of all notice that the squire had actually forgotten their existence, until randal became thus indebted to his brother; and then he felt a pang of remorse that any one, save himself, the head of the hazeldeans, should lend a helping hand to the grandson of a hazeldean. but having thus, somewhat too tediously, explained the position of audley egerton, whether in the world, or in relation to his young _protégé_, i may now permit him to receive and to read his letters. chapter vi. mr. egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the waste-basket. public men have such odd out-of-the-way letters, that their waste-baskets are never empty: letters from amateur financiers proposing new ways to pay off the national debt; letters from america (never free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in country villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the king's service; letters from freethinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters from bigots in reproof of freethinking; letters signed brutus redivivus, containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for tyrants, if the danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed matilda or caroline, stating that caroline or matilda has seen the public man's portrait at the exhibition, and that a heart sensible to its attractions may be found at no. -- piccadilly; letters from beggars, impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers--all food for the waste-basket. from the correspondence thus winnowed, mr. egerton first selected those on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his pocket-book; and, secondly, those of a private nature, which he as carefully put into another. of these last there were but three--one from his steward, one from harley l'estrange, one from randal leslie. it was his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his office, a few minutes afterward, he slowly took his way. many a passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black frock-coat thus worn, well became the erect air, and the deep full chest of the handsome senator. when he entered parliament-street, audley egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the cares of office. after a few observations on the last debate, this gentleman said: "by the way, can you dine with me next saturday, to meet lansmere? he comes up to town to vote for us on monday." "i had asked some people to dine with me," answered egerton, "but i will put them off. i see lord lansmere too seldom, to miss any occasion to meet a man whom i respect so much." "so seldom! true, he is very little in town; but why don't you go and see him in the country? good shooting--pleasant old-fashioned house." "my dear westbourne, his house is '_nimium vicina cremonæ_,' close to a borough in which i have been burned in effigy." "ha--ha--yes--i remember you first came into parliament for that snug little place; but lansmere himself never found fault with your votes, did he?" "he behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me his mouthpiece; and then, too, i am so intimate with l'estrange." "is that queer fellow ever coming back to england?" "he comes, generally every year, for a few days, just to see his father and mother, and then goes back to the continent." "i never meet him." "he comes in september or october, when you, of course, are not in town, and it is in town that the lansmeres meet him." "why does not he go to them?" "a man in england but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do in london, i suppose." "is he as amusing as ever?" egerton nodded. "so distinguished as he might be!" continued lord westbourne. "so distinguished as he is!" said egerton, formally; "an officer selected for praise, even in such fields as quatre bras and waterloo; a scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman, matchless!" "i like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured days," answered lord westbourne. "but, still, though l'estrange is, doubtless, all you say, don't you think he rather wastes his life--living abroad?" "and trying to be happy, westbourne? are you sure it is not we who waste our lives? but i can't stay to hear your answer. here we are at the door of my prison." "on saturday, then?" "on saturday. good-day." for the next hour, or more, mr. egerton was engaged on the affairs of the state. he then snatched an interval of leisure (while awaiting a report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him), in order to reply to his letters. those on public business were soon dispatched; and throwing his replies aside, to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew out the letters which he had put apart as private. he attended first to that of his steward: the steward's letter was long; the reply was contained in three lines. pitt himself was scarcely more negligent of his private interests and concerns than audley egerton--yet, withal, audley egerton was said, by his enemies, to be an egotist. the next letter he wrote was to randal, and that, though longer, was far from prolix: it ran thus: "dear mr. leslie--i appreciate your delicacy in consulting me, whether you should accept frank hazeldean's invitation to call at the hall. since you are asked, i can see no objection to it. i should be sorry if you appeared to force yourself there; and, for the rest, as a general rule, i think a young man who has his own way to make in life, had better avoid all intimacy with those of his own age, who have no kindred objects, nor congenial pursuits. "as soon as this visit is paid, i wish you to come to london. the report i receive of your progress at eton, renders it unnecessary, in my judgment, that you should return there. if your father has no objection, i propose that you should go to oxford, at the ensuing term. meanwhile, i have engaged a gentleman, who is a fellow of baliol, to read with you; he is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at eton, that you may at once obtain a scholarship in that college. if you do so, i shall look upon your career in life as assured. "your affectionate friend, and sincere well-wisher, "a.e." the reader will remark that, in this letter, there is a certain tone of formality. mr. egerton does not call his _protégé_ "dear randal," as would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, "dear mr. leslie." he hints, also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. is this meant to guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity may have excited? the letter to lord l'estrange was of a very different kind from the others. it was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gayly, and as with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked audley egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. yet, notwithstanding, there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the fine tact of a woman would detect. it had not that _abandon_, that hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his correspondent. but where was the evidence of the constraint? egerton is off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself--that he avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling. but perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! how can you expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are spent in downing-street, and whose nights are consumed in watching government bills through a committee, can write in the same style as an idle dreamer amidst the pines of ravenna or on the banks of como. audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had appointed to meet at two o'clock. there was no office in london at which deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which mr. egerton presided. the deputation entered--some score or so of middle-aged, comfortable-looking persons, who nevertheless had their grievance--and considered their own interests, and those of the country, menaced by a certain clause in a bill brought in by mr. egerton. the mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well--but in a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. it was a slap-dash style--unceremonious, free, and easy--an american style. and, indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of the mayor which savored of residence in the great republic. he was a very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering--the look of a man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed the liberty to speak his mind, and "wallop his own nigger!" his fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and mr. egerton had penetration enough to perceive that mr. mayor must be a rich man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the self-love of his equals. mr. egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and, though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. there was much sense and much justice in mr. mayor's arguments, and the statesman civilly promised to take them into full consideration. he then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed before it opened again, and mr. mayor presented himself alone, saying aloud to his companions in the passage, "i forgot something i had to say to mr. egerton; wait below for me." "well, mr. mayor," said audley, pointing to a seat, "what else would you suggest?" the mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then, drawing his chair close to mr. egerton's, laid his forefinger on that gentleman's arm, and said, "i think i speak to a man of the world, sir." mr. egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his arm from the touch of the forefinger. mr. mayor.--"you observe, sir, that i did not ask the members whom we return to parliament to accompany us. do better without 'em. you know they are both in opposition--out-and-outers." mr. egerton.--"it is a misfortune which the government can not remember, when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is to be served or injured." mr. mayor.--"well, i guess you speak handsome, sir. but you'd be glad to have two members to support ministers after the next election." mr. egerton, smiling.--"unquestionably, mr. mayor." mr. mayor.--"and i can do it, mr. egerton. i may say i have the town in my pocket; so i ought, i spend a great deal of money in it. now, you see, mr. egerton, i have passed a part of my life in a land of liberty--the united states--and i come to the point when i speak to a man of the world. i'm a man of the world myself, sir. and if so be the government will do something for me, why, i'll do something for the government. two votes for a free and independent town like ours--that's something, isn't it?" mr. egerton, taken by surprise.--"really, i--" mr. mayor, advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the official.--"no nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. the fact is, that i've taken it into my head that i should like to be knighted. you may well look surprised, mr. egerton--trumpery thing enough, i dare say; still, every man has his weakness, and i should like to be sir richard. well, if you can get me made sir richard, you may just name your two members for the next election--that is, if they belong to your own set, enlightened men, up to the times. that's speaking fair and manful, isn't it?" mr. egerton, drawing himself up.--"i am at a loss to guess why you should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition." mr. mayor, nodding good-humoredly.--"why, you see, i don't go all along with the government; you're the best of the bunch. and maybe you'd like to strengthen your own party. this is quite between you and me, you understand; honor's a jewel!" mr. egerton, with great gravity.--"sir, i am obliged by your good opinion; but i agree with my colleagues in all the great questions that affect the government of the country, and--" mr. mayor, interrupting him.--"ah, of course, you must say so; very right. but i guess things would go differently if you were prime minister. however, i have another reason for speaking to you about my little job. you see you were member for lansmere once, and i think you came in but by two majority, eh?" mr. egerton.--"i know nothing of the particulars of that election; i was not present." mr. mayor.--"no; but luckily for you, two relatives of mine were, and they voted for you. two votes, and you came in by two! since then, you have got into very snug quarters here, and i think we have a claim on you--" mr. egerton.--"sir, i acknowledge no such claim; i was and am a stranger to lansmere; and, if the electors did me the honor to return me to parliament, it was in compliment rather to--" mr. mayor, again interrupting the official.--"rather to lord lansmere, you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, i fancy. peer of the realm. but, never mind, i know the world; and i'd ask lord lansmere to do my affair for me, only i hear he is as proud, as lucifer." mr. egerton, in great disgust, and settling his papers before him.--"sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his majesty candidates for the honor of knighthood, and it is still less in my department to make bargains for seats in parliament." mr. mayor.--"oh, if that's the case, you'll excuse me; i don't know much of the etiquette in these matters. but i thought that, if i put two seats in your hands, for your own friends, you might contrive to take the affair into your department, whatever it was. but, since you say you agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. now, you must not suppose i want to sell the town, and that i can change and chop my politics for my own purpose. no such thing! i don't like the sitting members; i'm all for progressing, but they go _too_ much ahead for me; and, since the government is disposed to move a little, why i'd as lief support them as not. but, in common gratitude, you see (added the mayor, coaxingly), i ought to be knighted! i can keep up the dignity, and do credit to his majesty." mr. egerton, without looking up from his papers.--"i can only refer you, sir, to the proper quarter." mr. mayor, impatiently.--"proper quarter! well, since there is so much humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom i ought to go to." mr. egerton, beginning to be amused as well as indignant.--"if you want a knighthood, mr. mayor, you must ask the prime minister; if you want to give the government information relative to seats in parliament, you must introduce yourself to mr. ----, the secretary of the treasury." mr. mayor.--"and if i go to the last chap, what do you think he'll say." mr. egerton, the amusement preponderating over the indignation.--"he will say, i suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in which you have put it to me; that the government will be very proud to have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a gentleman like you, in the proud position of mayor, may well hope to be knighted on some fitting occasion. but that you must not talk about the knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the unfortunate political opinions of the town." mr. mayor.--"well, i guess that chap there would want to do me! not quite so green, mr. egerton. perhaps i'd better go at once to the fountain-head. how d'ye think the premier would take it?" mr. egerton, the indignation preponderating over the amusement.--"probably just as i am about to do." mr. egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared. "show mr. mayor the way out," said the minister. the mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. he walked straight to the door; but, suffering the attendant to precede him along the corridor, he came back with a rapid stride, and clenching his hands, and with a voice thick with passion, cried, "some day or other i will make you smart for this, as sure as my name's dick avenel!" "avenel!" repeated egerton, recoiling--"avenel!" but the mayor was gone. audley fell into a deep and musing reverie, which seemed gloomy, and lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door. he then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to harley l'estrange open on the table. he drew it toward him, and wrote, "a man has just left me, who calls himself aven--" in the middle of the name his pen stopped. "no, no," muttered the writer, "what folly to re-open the old wounds there," and he carefully erased the words. audley egerton did not ride in the park that day, as was his wont, but dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse's head toward westminster bridge, took his solitary way into the country. he rode at first slowly, as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. he was later than usual at the house that evening, and he looked pale and fatigued. but he had to speak, and he spoke well. anecdote of a dog. the lyons diligence was just going to start from geneva. i climbed on the roof, and chose my place next the postillion: there was still a vacant seat, and the porter, after closing the door of the _coupé_, called "monsieur dermann!" a tall young man, with a german style of countenance, advanced, holding in his arms a large black grayhound, which he vainly tried to place on the roof. "monsieur," said he, addressing me, "will you have the kindness to take my dog?" bending over, i took hold of the animal, and placed him on the straw at my feet. i observed that he wore a handsome silver collar, on which the following words were tastefully engraved: "_bevis--i belong to sir arthur burnley, given him by miss clary_." his owner was, therefore, an englishman; yet my fellow-traveler, who had now taken his place by my side, was evidently either a swiss or a german, and his name was dermann. trifling as was the mystery, it excited my curiosity, and, after two or three hours' pleasant conversation had established a sort of intimacy between us, i ventured to ask my companion for an explanation. "it does not surprise me," he answered, "that this collar should puzzle you; and i shall have great pleasure in telling you the story of its wearer. bevis belongs to me, but it is not many years since he owned another master whose name is on his collar. you will see why he still wears it. here bevis! speak to this gentleman." the dog raised his head, opened his bright eyes, and laying back his long ears, uttered a sound which might well pass for a salutation. m. dermann placed the animal's head on his knees, and began to unfasten the collar. instantly bevis drew back his head with a violent jerk, and darted toward the luggage on the hinder part of the roof. there, growling fiercely, he lay down, while his muscles were stiffened, and his eyes glowing with fury. "you see, monsieur, how determined he is to guard his collar; i should not like to be the man who would try to rob him of it. here, bevis!" said he, in a soft, caressing tone, "i won't touch it again, poor fellow! come and make friends!" the grayhound hesitated, still growling. at length he returned slowly toward his master, and began to lick his hands; his muscles gradually relaxed, and he trembled like a leaf. "there, boy, there," said m. dermann, caressing him. "we won't do it again, lie down now, and be quiet." the dog nestled between his master's feet, and went to sleep. my fellow-traveler then turning toward me, began: "i am a native of suabia, but i live in a little village of the sherland, at the foot of the grimsel. my father keeps an inn for the reception of travelers going to st. gothard. "about two years since, there arrived at our house one evening a young englishman, with a pale, sad countenance; he traveled on foot, and was followed by a large grayhound, this bevis, whom you see. he declined taking any refreshment, and asked to be shown to his sleeping-room. we gave him one over the common hall, where we were all seated round the fire. presently we heard him pacing rapidly up and down; from time to time uttering broken words, addressed no doubt to his dog, for the animal moaned occasionally as if replying to, and sympathizing with his master. at length we heard the englishman stop, and apparently strike the dog a violent blow, for the poor beast gave a loud howl of agony, and seemed as if he ran to take refuge under the bed. then his master groaned aloud. soon afterward he lay down, and all was quiet for the night. early next morning he came down, looking still more pale than on the previous evening, and having paid for his lodging, he took his knapsack and resumed his journey, followed by the grayhound, who had eaten nothing since their arrival, and whose master seemed to take no further notice of him, than to frown when the creature ventured to caress him. "about noon, i happened to be standing at the door looking toward the direction which the englishman had taken when i perceived a dark object moving slowly along. presently i heard howls of distress, proceeding from a wounded dog that was dragging himself toward me. i ran to him, and recognized the englishman's grayhound. his head was torn, evidently by a bullet, and one of his paws broken. i raised him in my arms, and carried him into the house. when i crossed the threshold he made evident efforts to escape; so i placed him on the ground. then, in spite of the torture he was suffering, which caused him to stagger every moment, he dragged himself up-stairs, and began to scratch at the door of the room where his master had slept, moaning at the same time so piteously, that i could scarce help weeping myself. i opened the door and with a great effort he got into the room, looked about, and not finding whom he sought he fell down motionless. "i called my father, and, perceiving that the dog was not dead, we gave him all possible assistance, taking indeed as much care of him as though he had been a child, so much did we feel for him. in two months he was cured, and showed us much affection; we found it, however, impossible to take off his collar, even for the purpose of binding up his wounds. as soon as he was able to walk, he would often go toward the mountain and be absent for hours. the second time this occurred we followed him. he proceeded as far as a part of the road where a narrow defile borders a precipice; there he continued for a long time, smelling and scratching about. we conjectured that the englishman might have been attacked by robbers on this spot, and his dog wounded in defending him. however, no event of the kind had occurred in the country, and, after the strictest search, no corpse was discovered. recollecting, therefore, the manner in which the traveler had treated his dog, i came to the conclusion that he had tried to kill the faithful creature. but wherefore? this was a mystery which i could not solve. "bevis remained with us, testifying the utmost gratitude for our kindness. his intelligence and good-humor attracted the strangers who frequented our inn, while the inscription on his collar, and the tale we had to tell of him, failed not to excite their curiosity. "one morning in autumn, i had been out to take a walk, accompanied by bevis. when i returned, i found seated by the fire, in the common-hall, a newly-arrived traveler, who looked round as i entered. as soon as he perceived bevis, he started and called him. the dog immediately darted toward him with frantic demonstrations of joy. he ran round him, smelling his clothes and uttering the sort of salutation with which he honored you just now, and finally placing his fore-paws on the traveler's knees began to lick his face. "'where is your master, bevis? where is sir arthur?' said the stranger, in english. "the noble dog howled piteously, and lay down at the traveler's feet. then the latter begged us to explain his presence. i did so; and as he listened, i saw a tear fall on the beautiful head of the grayhound, whom he bent over to caress. "'monsieur,' said he, addressing me, 'from what you tell me, i venture to hope that sir arthur still lives. we have been friends from childhood. about three years since, he married a rich heiress, and this dog was presented to him by her. bevis was highly cherished for his fidelity, a quality which unhappily was not possessed by his mistress. she left her fond and loving husband, and eloped with another man. sir arthur sued for a divorce and obtained it; then, having arranged his affairs in england, he set out for the continent, followed only by his dog. his friends knew not whither he went; but it now appears that he was here last spring. doubtless, the presence of bevis, evermore recalling the memory of her who had so cruelly wronged him, must have torn his heart, and at length impelled him to destroy the faithful creature. but the shot not having been mortal, the dog, i imagine, when he recovered consciousness, was led by instinct to seek the house where his master had last slept. now, monsieur, he is yours, and i heartily thank you for the kindness you have shown him.' "about ten o'clock the stranger retired to his room, after having caressed bevis, who escorted him to his door, and then returned to his accustomed place before the fire. my parents and the servants had retired to rest, and i prepared to follow their example, my bed being placed at one end of the common-hall. while i was undressing, i heard a storm rising in the mountains. just then there came a knocking at the door, and bevis began to growl. i asked who was there? a voice replied--'two travelers, who want a night's lodging.' i opened a small chink of the door to look out, and perceived two ragged men, each leaning on a large club. i did not like their look, and knowing that several robberies had been committed in the neighborhood, i refused them admission, telling them that in the next village they would readily find shelter. they approached the door, as though they meant to force their way in; but bevis made his voice heard in so formidable a manner, that they judged it prudent to retire. i bolted the door and went to bed. bevis, according to his custom, lay down near the threshold, but we neither of us felt inclined to sleep. "a quarter of an hour passed, when suddenly, above the wailing of the wind, came the loud shrill cry of a human being in distress. bevis rushed against the door with a fearful howl; at the same moment came the report of a gun, followed by another cry. two minutes afterward i was on the road, armed with a carbine, and holding a dark lantern; my father and the stranger, also armed, accompanied me. as for bevis, he had darted out of the house, and disappeared. "we approached the defile which i mentioned before, at the moment when a flash of lightning illumined the scene. a hundred yards in advance, we saw bevis grasping a man by the throat. we hurried on, but the dog had completed his work ere we reached him; for two men, whom i recognized as those who had sought admittance at our inn, lay dead, strangled by his powerful jaws. farther on, we discovered another man, whose bloody wounds the noble dog was licking. the stranger approached him, and gave a convulsive cry: it was sir arthur, the master of bevis!" here m. dermann paused; the recollection seemed to overcome him; and he stooped to caress the sleeping grayhound, in order to hide his emotion. after awhile, he finished his recital in a few words. "sir arthur was mortally wounded, but he lived long enough to recognize his dog, and to confess that, in a moment of desperation, he had tried to kill the faithful creature, who now avenged his death, by slaying the robbers who attacked him. he appointed the stranger his executor, and settled a large pension on bevis, to revert to the family of the inn-keeper, wishing thus to testify his repentant love toward his dog, and his gratitude to those who had succored him. "the grief of bevis was excessive; he watched by his master's couch, covering his dead body with caresses, and for a long time lay stretched on his grave, refusing to take nourishment; and it was not until after the lapse of many months that the affection of his new master seemed to console him for the death of sir arthur." as my fellow-traveler finished his recital, the diligence stopped to change horses at the little town of mantua. here m. dermann's journey ended, and having taken down his luggage, he asked me to assist the descent of his dog. i shook hands with him cordially, and then called bevis, who, seeing me on such good terms with his master, placed his large paws on my breast, and uttered a low, friendly bark. shortly afterward they both disappeared from my sight, but not from my memory, as this little narrative has proved to my readers. the domestic life of alexander, emperor of russia. by alexandre dumas, translated by miss strickland. the tragedy of which paul i. was the victim, called alexander to the throne of all the russias in the twenty-fourth year of his age. he had been carefully educated under the eye of his grandmother, the able catharine. her choice of a preceptor in la harpe, a swiss republican, who had fraternized with the revolutionists of france, was a problem the sovereigns of europe could not solve; but after all, republicanism can not be very far removed from despotism, if we may judge from its consequences, since history shows us that republics end in despotic sovereignties. catharine was doubtless aware of this fact when she gave la harpe the direction of her grandson's education. it was prudent to avoid russian ascendency in a matter so important to herself, for catharine was a foreigner and a usurper, a fact of which a native instructor might have availed himself to her disadvantage. in educating her grandsons, the great empress excluded the fine arts. she wished to make them rulers, not professors of music and painting; and she was right; la harpe inspired, it is said, his imperial pupil with lessons of generosity and truth it was no easy task to eradicate during his eventful life. the policy of catharine made her determine to give wives to her grandsons as soon as they were marriageable. her jealousy, or her profound judgment, made her overlook paul in the succession of russia, by a mental but not a public exclusion. alexander was destined by her to the throne of which she had robbed his father constantine, she proudly hoped to place on one she designed to win from the sultan, an ambitious desire which was never realized. three german princesses came to the court of st. petersburg, in order that catharine might make choice of suitable brides for her grandsons. the empress thoughtfully expected the arrival of her guests, whose approach she watched from a window of her palace. the empress, whose motions were dignified and graceful, attached great importance to deportment; she formed her opinions of young people by that standard. the destinies of these princesses were decided the instant they alighted from their traveling carriage. the first leaped down without availing herself of the step. the empress shook her head, "she will never be empress of russia, she is too precipitate," was her internal remark. the second entangled her feet in her dress, and with difficulty escaped a fall. "she is not the empress, for she is too awkward," and catharine again turned her eyes on the carriage with anxious curiosity. the third princess descended very gracefully; she was beautiful, majestic, and grave. "behold the future empress of russia," said catharine. this princess was louisa of baden. catharine introduced these ladies to her grandsons, as the children of the duchess of baden-durlack, born princess of darmstadt, her early friend, whose education she wished to finish at her court, since the possession of their country by the french had left them without a home. the great dukes saw through this artifice, and upon their return to their own palace talked much of catharine's _élèves_. "i think the eldest very pretty," said alexander. "for my part," rejoined constantine, "i consider them neither pretty nor plain. they ought to be sent to riga to the princes of courland; they are really quite good enough for them." the empress catharine was informed, that very day, of the opinion of her grandsons. the admiration of alexander for louisa of baden sympathized with her intentions. the grand duke constantine had done the personal attractions of this young princess great injustice, for louisa of baden, besides the freshness of her youth, had lovely fair ringlets, hanging in rich profusion on her magnificent shoulders, a form light and flexible as that of a fairy, and large blue eyes full of sweetness and sensibility. the following day, the empress brought the princesses to the palace of prince potemkin, which she had appointed for their residence. while they were at their toilet, she sent them dresses, jewels, and the cordon of st. catharine. after chatting with them upon the topics she considered suitable to their age, she asked to see their wardrobe, which she examined, article by article, with interest and curiosity. having finished her scrutiny, she kissed the princesses, and remarked, with an emphatic smile, "my friends, i was not so rich as you when i came to st. petersburg." in fact, catharine was very poor when she arrived in russia, but she left her adopted country a heritage in poland and the crimea. the predilection of alexander for louisa of baden was responded to by that lovely princess. the grand duke at that time was a charming young man, full of benevolence and candor, with the best temper in the world, and the young german did not attempt to disguise her tenderness for him. catharine, in announcing to them that they were destined for each other, believed she was rendering them perfectly happy. the behavior of the bride was admirably adapted to the circumstances in which she was placed. she acquired the russian language with grace and facility, and accepted a new name with the tenets of the greek religion. she received those of elizabeth alexiowena, the same borne by the imperial daughter of peter the great. notwithstanding the fortunate presages of the empress catharine, this early marriage was not one of happiness. the inconstancy of alexander, indeed, withered the nuptial garland while yet green on the brow of the bride, and made it for her a crown of thorns. the tragedy that elevated alexander to the throne, restored to the devoted wife the wandering affections of her husband. his profound grief made her sympathy necessary to him, and the young empress, almost a stranger to paul, wept for him like a true daughter. the secret tears of alexander were shed at night on the bosom of his consort, whose tender concern for him consoled him for the restraint he imposed upon his feelings during the day. the regretful remembrance of alexander for his father, outlasted the reviving affection he had during that dolorous period felt for his wife. the empress, still a young woman, was an old spouse, and the emperor had inherited the passionate and inconstant temperament of catharine. but, gracious and smiling as he always was with the ladies, or polite and friendly to the gentlemen, there crossed his brow from time to time a gloomy shadow, the mute but terrible memorial of that dreadful night, when he heard the death struggle of his father, and was conscious of his agony without the power to save him. his perpetual smile was the mask beneath which he disguised the anguish of his mind, and as he advanced in life, this profound melancholy threatened to deepen into malady. he did not yield, however, without maintaining a warfare with his remorse. he combated memory with action. his reforms, his long and laborious journeys, had but one aim. in the course of his reign, he is supposed to have traversed fifty thousand leagues. but, however rapidly he performed these journeys, he never deviated from the time he fixed for his setting off or return, even by an hour, and he undertook them without guards and without an escort. he, of course, met with many strange adventures, and was amused with rendering his personal assistance whenever he met with accidents or encountered difficulties by the wayside. in his journey to finland in company with prince pierre volkouski, the imperial carriage in traversing a sandy mountain rolled back, notwithstanding the efforts of the coachman, upon which the emperor jumped out, and literally lent his shoulder to the wheel, leaving his companion asleep. the rough motion of the carriage disturbed the slumbers of the prince, who found himself at the bottom of the carriage and alone. he looked about him with astonishment, when he perceived the emperor, with his brow bedewed with perspiration, from the effects of his toil in assisting to drag him and the vehicle to the top of the mountain, the precise point at which he had awakened from his sleep. at another time, while traversing little russia, while the horses were changing at a certain station, the emperor expressed his determination to travel on foot for a few miles, ordering his people not to hasten their arrangements, but to let him walk forward. alone, with no mark of distinction, dressed in a military great-coat, that gave no clew to the rank of the wearer, the emperor traversed the town without attracting attention, till he arrived at two roads, and found himself obliged to inquire his way of an individual who was sitting before the door of the last house smoking a pipe. this personage, like the emperor wore a military great-coat, and by his pompous air seemed to entertain no small opinion of his own consequence. "my friend, can you tell me which of these roads will bring me to ----?" asked the emperor. the man of the pipe scanned him from head to foot, apparently surprised at the presumption of a pedestrian, in speaking to such a dignitary as himself, and between two puffs of smoke he growled out very disdainfully the ungracious reply, "the right." "thank you, sir," said the emperor, raising his hat with the respect this uncivil personage seemed by his manner to command. "will you permit me to ask you another question?" "what do you want to know?" "your rank in the army, if you please." "guess," returned he of the pipe. "lieutenant, perhaps?" "go higher." "captain?" rejoined the emperor. "much higher;" and the smoker gave a consequential puff. "major, i presume?" "go on," replied the officer. "lieutenant-colonel?" "yes, you have guessed it at last, but you have taken some trouble to discover my rank." the low bow of the emperor made the man with the pipe conclude he was speaking to an inferior, so, without much ceremony, he said, "pray, who are you? for i conclude you are in the army." "guess," replied the emperor, much amused with the adventure. "lieutenant?" "go on." "captain?" "much higher." "major?" "you must still go on." "lieutenant-colonel?" "you have not yet arrived at my rank in the army." the officer took his pipe out of his mouth. "colonel, i presume." "you have not yet reached my grade." the officer assumed a more respectful attitude. "your excellency is then lieutenant-general?" "you are getting nearer the mark." the puzzled lieutenant-colonel kept his helmet in his hand, and looked stupid and alarmed. "then it appears to me that your highness is field-marshal?" "make another attempt, and perhaps you will discover my real position." "his imperial majesty!" exclaimed the officer, trembling with apprehension, and dropping the pipe upon the ground, which was broken into twenty pieces. "the same, at your service," replied the emperor, laughing. the poor lieutenant-colonel dropped upon his knees, uttering the words in a pitiful tone, "ah! sire, pardon me." "what pardon do you require?" replied the emperor. "i asked my way of you, and you pointed it out, and i thank you for that service.--good day." the good-tempered prince then took the road to the right, leaving the surly lieutenant-colonel ashamed and astonished at the colloquy he had held with his sovereign. he gave a proof of intrepidity and presence of mind during a tempest which befell him on a lake near archangel, when, perceiving the pilot overwhelmed with the responsibility his imperial rank laid upon him, he said, "my friend, more than eighteen hundred years have elapsed, since a roman general, placed in similar circumstances, said to his pilot, 'fear not, for thou hast with thee cæsar and his fortunes.' i am, however, less bold than cæsar; i therefore charge thee to think no more of the emperor than of thyself or any other man, and do thy best to save us both." the pilot took courage, and relieved from his burden by the wisdom of his sovereign, guided the helm with a firm hand, and brought the tempest-tossed skiff safely to the shore. the emperor alexander was not always so fortunate. he met with several dangerous accidents, and his last journey to the provinces of the don nearly cost him his life. a fall from his droski hurt his leg, and left him incurably lame. this misfortune was aggravated by his disregarding the advice of his medical attendant, who prescribed rest for some days; but alexander, who was a strict disciplinarian, did not choose to delay his return to st. petersburg an hour beyond the time he had fixed. erysipelas attacked the limb, and the emperor was confined to his bed for many weeks, and never recovered his lameness. the sight of his wife, pale and melancholy, whom his infidelity had injured, increased his mental despondency. that princess watched over him with the conjugal tenderness which no neglect could extinguish, but her fair face had forever lost the smile which once lighted up, like a sunbeam, every beautiful feature, and he felt himself the cause of that secret sorrow which had banished the bloom from her cheek and the smile from her lips. elizabeth had borne him two daughters, but her children had not survived their fifth and seventh years. a childless mother and forsaken wife, elizabeth the empress resembled no longer the bright louisa of baden, the object of alexander's first love, the princess who had shed tears of happiness when the joyful start and impassioned look of her lover had assured the empress catharine how willingly he accepted the hand of the princess she had destined for him. the heart of the wife had never swerved from her devotion; her love had increased with time, but she knew not how to share his affections with a rival. alexander was solitary in his habits; repose was necessary to a man who loved privacy, and hated those prestiges of power which had surrounded him from infancy. he had inherited his imperial grandmother's love for tzarsko zelo, a palace situated between three and four leagues from st. petersburg. this palace stood upon the site of a cottage formerly belonging to an old dutch-woman named sarah, a person well known to peter the great, with whom that mighty prince was accustomed to chat and drink milk. the fruitful plains covered with grass and waving corn, lately redeemed by the plow from their native sterility, pleased the legislator who was an _habitué_ at the abode of sarah, and at the death of the old woman, he presented the cottage to the empress catharine, with the surrounding lands, as a suitable situation for a farm-house. catharine, as simple in her tastes as her imperial consort, gave her architect proper directions respecting this grange. he, however, thought fit to build her a fine mansion. her daughter, the empress elizabeth, found this house too costly for a farm-house, and too mean for an imperial residence. she pulled it down and built a magnificent palace after the design of count rastreti. this russian had the barbarous taste to gild the building within and without. the bas-reliefs, statues, caryatides, roof and basement, glittered with a waste of this precious metal. the count wished to make this palace surpass versailles, and so it did in wealth undoubtedly. the empress elizabeth invited the french embassador to the fête she gave at the inauguration of her golden house, which outshone even the celebrated one built by nero. the palace of tzarsko zelo, was considered by the whole court the eighth wonder of the world. the silence of the marquis de chetardie surprised her majesty, who with some pique requested his opinion, adding, he appeared to think something was wanting. "i am seeking for the case of this jewel, madam," dryly replied the embassador; a _bon mot_ which ought to have gained him a sitting in the academy of st. petersburg, where wit was a surer passport than learning. the golden roof of tzarsko zelo was ill-calculated to stand the rigor of a russian winter. the noble architect had built it for summer. cold had been forgotten in his calculation. the expensive repairs every spring brought in its course, compelled catharine the great to sacrifice the gilding. she had scarcely issued her orders, before a customer appeared for the article she was excluding from her palace, for which a speculator offered her an immense sum. the empress thanked him for a liberal offer none but a russian sovereign would have declined, assuring him with a smile, "that she never sold her old chattels." this empress loved tzarsko zelo where she built the little palace for her grandson alexander, and surrounded it with spacious gardens, which she was aware he loved. bush, her architect, could discover no supply from whence he could obtain water in the immediate neighborhood, yet he prepared lakes, canals and fish-ponds, upon the responsibility of the empress, being sure that his reservoirs would not long be empty if she ordered water to come. his successor baner did not leave the empress to discover its source. he cast his eyes upon the estate of prince demidoff, who possessed a super-abundant quantity of the precious fluid the imperial gardens wanted. he mentioned the aridity of tzarsko zelo, and the courteous subject dutifully bestowed his superfluous moisture upon the imperial gardens. in despite of nature, copious streams rushed forward, and at the bidding of the architect rose into cascades, ran into canals, filled fish-ponds, and spread in expansive lakes. the empress consort elizabeth, upon beholding these wonders, playfully remarked, "we may fall out with all europe, but we must take care not to quarrel with prince demidoff." in fact, that obliging noble could have killed the whole court with thirst, by stopping the supply of water he allowed to the imperial family. educated at tzarsko zelo, alexander was attached to a place filled with the recollections of his infancy. he had learned there to walk; to speak, to ride, to sail, to row. he had passed there the brightest and happiest part of his life. he came with the first fine days, and only left his favorite residence when the snows of winter compelled him to take up his abode in the winter palace. even in this luxurious solitude, where the emperor wished to enjoy the repose which affords to princes the same pleasure amusement offers to persons of less exalted rank, alexander found his privacy invaded and his attention claimed by those who had the temerity to break through the invisible circle with which russian etiquette fenced round a despotic sovereign. a foreigner at st. petersburg, in the summer of , ventured to seek the emperor alexander in the delicious gardens of tzarsko zelo, in order to present a petition, with which delicate commission he had been charged by a friend. he thus relates his adventure: "after a bad breakfast at the hotel de la restauration, i entered the park, into which the sentinels permitted every body to walk without opposition. respect alone prevented the russian subject from entering the gardens, i knew, yet i was about to break this boundary and to intrude myself upon the emperor's notice. i was told he passed a great deal of his time in the shady walks, and i hoped chance would obtain for me the interview i sought. wandering about the grounds, i discovered the chinese town, a pretty group of five houses, each of which had its own ice-house and garden. in the centre of this town, which is in the form of a star, whose rays it terminates, stands a pavillion, which is used either for a ball or concert-room, which surrounds a green court, at the four corners of which are placed four mandarins, the size of life, smoking their pipes. this chinese town is inhabited by the _aid-de-camps_ of the sovereign. catharine, attended by her court, was walking in this part of her garden, when she beheld, to her surprise, the mandarins puffing forth real smoke, while their eyes appeared to ogle her, and their heads to bow in the most familiar manner in the world. she approached in order to find out the cause of this sudden animation on the part of these statues. immediately the loyal mandarins descended from their pedestals, and made chinese prostrations at her feet, reciting some complimentary verses to the imperial lady, to please whom they had transformed themselves into the images of the men with pig-tails. she smiled, and quickly recognized them for the prince de ligne, potemkin, count segur, and m. de cobentzal. "leaving the chinese town, i saw the huts of the lamas, where these inhabitants of the south are kept and acclimated to a temperature very different from that at the foot of the cordilleras. these animals were presented to the emperor by the viceroy of mexico, and their original number of nine has been reduced, by the rigor of the russian winters, to five; from which, however, a numerous race have succeeded, who bear the cold much better than the parent stock. "in the middle of the french garden stands a pretty dining-room, containing the celebrated table of olympus, imitated from a whim devised by the regent orleans; where the wishes of the guests are supplied by invisible hands from beneath. they have only to place a note in their plate expressive of their desire, when the plate disappears, and in five minutes after reappears with the article required. this magic originates in a forecast which anticipates every possible want. a beautiful lady finding her hair out of dress, wished for curling-irons, feeling assured that such an odd request would defy even the enchantment of the olympian table to procure. she was astonished at finding her plate return with a dozen pair. i saw the curious monument raised to commemorate three favorite greyhounds, pets of the empress catharine. this pyramid, erected by the french ambassador, count segur, contains two epitaphs: one, by himself, is a sort of burlesque upon the old eulogistic style so prevalent in the last century; the other is by catharine, and may be literally translated into english:-- "'here lies the duchess anderson, who bit mr. rogerson.' "i visited successively the column of gregory orloff, the pyramid erected in honor of the conqueror of tchesma, and the grotto of pausilippo, and passed four hours wandering along the borders of lakes, and traversing the plains and forests inclosed in these delicious gardens, when i met an officer in uniform, who courteously raised his hat. i asked a lad employed in taking a walk 'the name of this fine gentleman,' for such he appeared to me to be. 'it is the emperor,' was his reply. i immediately took a path which intersected that he had taken, yet, when i had advanced about twenty steps, i stopped upon perceiving him near me. "he divined, apparently, that respect to his person prevented me from crossing his walk; he therefore kept on his way, while i awaited him in the side walk, holding my hat in my hand. i perceived he limped in his gait from the wound in his leg, which had lately re-opened; and i remarked as he advanced the change that had taken place in his appearance since i had seen him at paris, nine years before. his countenance, then so open and smiling, bore the expression of that deep and devouring melancholy which it was said continually oppressed his mind, yet his sorrowful features still were impressed with a character of benevolence, which gave me courage to attempt the performance of my hazardous commission. 'sire,' said i, advancing a single step toward him. "'put on your hat, sir,' was his kind and gracious reply; 'the air is too keen for you to remain uncovered.' "'will your majesty permit--' "'cover your head, sir, then; cover your head;' but, perceiving my respect rendered me disobedient to his commands, he took my hat from my hand, and with his own imperial one replaced it on my head. 'now,' said he, 'what do you wish to say to me?' "'sire, this petition,' and i took the paper from my pocket, but the action disturbed him, and i saw him frown. "'sir, why do you pursue me here with petitions? do you know that i have left st. petersburg to be free from such annoyances?' "'yes, sire, i am aware of it, nor dare i disguise the boldness of an attempt for which i can only expect pardon from your benevolence. this, however, seems to have some claim to your majesty's consideration, since it is franked.' "'by whom?' inquired the emperor, with some quickness in his manner. "'by his imperial highness the grand duke constantine, your majesty's august brother.' "'ah!' exclaimed the emperor, putting out his hand, but as quickly withdrawing it again. "'i hope your majesty will for once infringe your custom, and will deign to accept this supplication.' "'no, sir; i will not receive it; for to-morrow, i shall have a thousand, and shall be compelled to desert these gardens, where it seems i can no longer hope to enjoy privacy.' he perceived my disappointment in my countenance, and his natural kindness would not suffer him to dismiss me with a harsh refusal. pointing with hand toward the church of st. sophia, he said--'put that petition into the post-office in the city, and i shall see it to-morrow, and the day after, you will have an answer.' "i expressed my gratitude in animated terms. "'prove it,' was his quick reply. "i declared my willingness to do any thing he required, as the test of that feeling. "'well, tell nobody that you have presented me a petition and got off with impunity,' and he resumed his walk. "i followed his advice, and posted my paper, and three days after received a favorable reply to my petition." [from eliza cook's journal.] an empty house; or, struggles of the poor. who has not seen at some time an empty house which has struck them as the picture of desolation? they may know a hundred uninhabited tenements, but they look as well kept and prosperous, as though they would soon be filled again. they do not impress the senses in the same way as that peculiar one, which appears to be condemned, like some outcast, to perpetual seclusion in the midst of happy neighbors, who mock, and flout, and taunt it with their bright windows and clean steps, and fresh paint and shining door knobs and knockers, just as mr. well-to-do, who is making money, and dresses well, and lodges luxuriously and feeds plentifully, may treat with scorn poor do-nothing, who, unable to find employment of any sort, wears a patched threadbare coat, dwells in a leaky garret, and does not know where on earth to look for to-morrow's dinner. indeed there is something more in this comparison than appears at first sight, for the world of the streets is apt to treat the empty house much as it does the poverty-stricken man. the ragged lads who play about the avenues of streets, and bask about the sunshiny nooks, draw back and cease their jokes and are decorous in the presence of mr. trim or mr. broadcloth, but they have a sarcasm or a coarse epithet for poor patch, and for poorer tatter possibly a sly pebble or a dab of mud. some years ago there was an empty house opposite to mine, which brought such thoughts as these to my mind. there was a dirty bill in one of the windows, and the remains of another upon one of the window shutters, with directions where to inquire as to rent, &c., but nobody seemed to dream of any body taking it. the neighborhood was a respectable one, and in striking contrast with this one unfortunate tenement, and happy faces at the windows of its neighbors seemed to make them crow over it, as mrs. fruitful with her half-dozen of handsome children triumphs over mrs. childless, who would give her ears to call the half of her friend's little flock her own. not that my empty house was utterly lonely either, for its door-step was, in fine weather, the chosen resort of a group of little specimens of humanity in dirt and rags, who from the seclusion of some neighboring alley brought them chalk, and pieces of tiles and slate, with which they scratched uncouth figures upon the doors and shutters as high up as they could reach; and with mud from the gutter they made their dirt pies, and left the remnants to accumulate upon the dingy sill. there was a plentiful supply of stones, too, in the macadamized road, and a large family of boys, unable to resist the tempting opportunity for mischievous "shies," paid rough attentions to the empty house with the flints, till the sunshine which had long been denied admittance, through the dusty and begrimed panes, found its way unimpeded through empty and dismantled sashes. possibly, too, in consequence of this, the very sparrows, usually so bold, which used to build under the eaves and twitter upon the window sills and house-top, forsook the ill-fated building and left it to its destiny. i do not know what it was, but there was something which powerfully attracted my attention to the place, and i often sat at my window and mused upon it. sometimes i thought it was in chancery, for it had just the look of a house which the lawyers had thoroughly riddled; and sometimes i thought it had the reputation of being haunted, for somehow or other people always give ghosts credit for the very worst taste, and seem to think them incapable of choosing any but the most uncomfortable habitations. passers-by would often stop to look at the house, and not unfrequently some of them would look over it; and then the owner or his agent would come with them, bringing the rusty key which turned with difficulty in the lock, and setting free the creaking door, which moved so lazily upon its hinges. this person was such a human likeness to the house, that i sometimes wondered he did not, out of pure sympathy, come and live there himself. he was a little battered-looking old man, whose rusty dirty suit of black just matched the doors and shutters, and i could almost fancy that his very spectacles, like the windows, were cracked and broken by boys throwing stones at him. these inquiries, however, always resulted in nothing, except the great discomfiture of the children, who held dominion over the door-step, and who were always summarily routed and driven off by peevish exclamations and feeble cuffs from the rusty little old man. i suppose most of those who came were merely actuated by curiosity. i was more than once tempted by the same motive to go and look at the inside myself, and those who really had serious designs of settling there were frightened out of them by the combined dismalness of the place, and the warder who had charge of it. at last, there really was some sign of the empty house being let. i noticed one evening that a respectable, quiet-looking young couple, with an old lady in widow's weeds, whom i immediately decided was the widowed mother of either husband or wife (for of course they were husband and wife) went to look at the empty house, attended by the little old man; and from the fact, that after looking at the premises for a longer time than visitors usually did, the party came out, and, contrary to custom, all four walked away together, i was led to suppose that i might have opposite neighbors. the next morning, before i left home for business, i saw at once that i was right as to the house having been taken. the little old man, notwithstanding he looked so rusty, must have been a diligent, as well as a quaint, old-fashioned fellow, for there were ladders and steps, and painters, plumbers, bricklayers, and laborers all at work upon the house. some were upon the top replacing cracked tiles, others were making the windows weather-proof, and others again were intent upon counteracting the ravages of chalk, sharp slates, and dirt upon the paint of the doors and window shutters. the group of children came as usual, but they did not venture to attempt to take up their old station; the apparition of the old man scared them from that, and perhaps they were altogether too much struck with astonishment at the altered character of the scene to attempt it. but they were very unwilling to give up their old sovereignty and abandon the spot. they lingered doubtfully for some days about the place, sometimes looking at the tall ladders and the workmen, and sometimes sitting upon the heaps of broken tiles and brickbats, watching the irish hodman stirring the mortar about, with much the same feelings, perhaps, as a red indian lingers about the white man's clearing, formerly the hunting-ground of his fathers. possibly the youngsters thought that all the men and ladders might be cleared away, and that they would succeed to the again vacant door-step, with the added advantages of a newly-painted door to scratch upon, and these hallucinations were not thoroughly dispelled for about a week, when they saw a charwoman scouring the passage and front steps. that sufficed to wither all their hopes; repairs they could have survived, for they remembered something of the sort once in their own alley, but scrubbing and washing were entirely unmistakable, they understood at once that somebody was "coming in," and dispersed to seek another place of resort. it may be supposed that the diligence of the little old man, who never left the laborers all day, soon had the little house fit for the reception of its new inmates, in spite of occasional damages in the glass department, till the boys became reconciled to its new smartness. he was there the first thing in the morning, sitting on a three-legged stool which i believe he brought with him, and he went to the public house with the men when they had their meals, so that they should not stay too long. under such vigilant superintendence, the last ladder and pair of steps were taken away in about a week, and the inmates--the two young folks, and the old widow lady i have already mentioned, and their household goods made their appearance. the furniture showed at a glance that both the past and the present had contributed their quotas to the household, for there were the old-fashioned, large-seated, heavy high-backed chairs of half-a-century since, with a heavy, square table, and a quaint, antique cabinet, matching well with the aged widowed mother; while the light caned seats and other modern requisites, represented the young people just entering upon life. i knew at once what afterward i found to be the case, that by probably a hasty marriage two households had been mingled into one. i was always a solitary, secluded man, given to make observations and to pick up information about those who interested me, but not to cultivate acquaintances, and so it was from what i saw from my windows and from hearsay, that i picked up what i knew of the new comers. slight as this source of information may seem to be, it is wonderful what a deal of knowledge of a certain kind is obtained in this manner; indeed, if any one were to examine the sources of his own knowledge, he would find that if not the largest, a very large proportion had been picked up from the chit-chat of society. i was peculiarly favorably situated for acquiring knowledge in this way, for my landlady, a chatty, good-tempered widow, knew the private history of most of her neighbors, and was extremely well versed in the gossip and scandal of the place; and her extensive knowledge, added to the equally diversified lore of the fat old half-laundress, half-charwoman, who had lived all her life in the vicinity (and was the very person who had scared the before-mentioned urchins by scouring the once empty house), and the tit-bits of sayings and doings, communicated by the baker, butcher, green-grocer, and milkman, furnished a stock of history which, reinforced by my own habits of observation, fully qualified me for giving the little narrative which follows; and which i am tempted to give to the world not so much for its intrinsic interest, or because it contains any record of great deeds, but because it shows industry and perseverance triumphing over the obstacles of the world, and bearing the burdens of misplaced benevolence. to begin then our tale in earnest. the head of the house opposite was thomas winthorpe, who acted as book-keeper to a large outfitting house in the city. he was a rather taciturn, grave young man, and bore these characteristics upon his face, but he was fond of knowledge, and had acquired no small portion for a man in his position. well-principled, and untiringly energetic, and industrious, he had risen from a low station more from the passive habit of steady good conduct, than the active exercise of any brilliant qualities, and he felt a pride in the fact; never hesitating, though he did not parade it, to utter the truth that he was first hired to sweep the offices, light the fires, and do other menial jobs. there was a striking similarity between him and his little wife, kate winthorpe (who had just changed her name from stevens), which you saw in their faces, for kate was grave, and habitually rather silent too. but her gravity had a shade more of pensiveness in it than thomas's, which might have told the keen observer that it had not the same origin. such indeed was the fact, for what difficulty and early poverty had done for thomas, youthful plenty and after troubles had done for kate though the bright smiles which i could now and then see chasing the shadows over kate's comely but not pretty face, as she bade her husband good-by in the morning or welcomed him home at night, told that happiness was bringing back much of her original character. the old lady, mrs. stevens, kate's mother, was a good sort of old lady, so far as i could learn, with a respectful tenderness for thomas, and a fond affection for kate, who had been the prop of her age and the solace of her troubles; but without any thing remarkable in her character beyond a meek resignation, which well supplied the place of a higher philosophy, and led her cheerfully to accept the present and be content with the past. so far as i could glean, mrs. stevens was the widow of a once affluent yeoman in one of the western counties, who lived in the "good old english style," liked his dogs, and gun, and horses, was not averse to a run with the hounds--had a partiality for parish and club dinners, and was fond of plenty of company at home. this sort of life might have done tolerably well in the palmy times of farming, when with war prices, corn was, as hood has it, "at the lord knows what per quarter;" but when lower prices came with peace, and more industry and less expenditure was required, poor stevens was one of the first to feel the altered times, and as he could not give up his old habits, difficulties began to press upon and thicken around him. after a few years, creditors became clamorous, and the landlord urgent for the payment of rent in arrear, and the result was that he was compelled to give up his farm and sell his stock, to save himself from a prison. this left him a small remnant upon which, if he had been a prudent, self-denying man, he might have begun the world afresh, but he took his downfall so much to heart, that in a few months he died of his old enemy, the gout. mrs. stevens was thus left a widow with two children, kate, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, and charles, a fine young man of three or four and twenty, who held a small farm in that neighborhood, and had hitherto depended more upon his father's purse than his own industry. little as mrs. stevens knew of the world, she felt that it would not do to depend upon charles, who was one of those jolly, good-tempered, careless fellows every body knows--men who go on tolerably well so long as all is smooth, but wanting providence and foresight, are pretty sure to founder upon the first dangerous rock ahead. to do charles justice, however, he would willingly have shared his home with his mother and sister, and for a long time managed to remit enough to them to pay their rent. when the first grief of widowhood was over, mrs. stevens and her daughter, without any very definite plan, but drawn by that strange attraction that impels alike the helpless, the inexperienced, and the ambitious to the great centres of population, came up to london with the small sum of money which, after every debt had been scrupulously discharged, was left to her. beyond that resource she had none, save the address of a first cousin who, report said, had grown very rich in trade, and to whom she hoped she might look for aid and advice. in this, however, she was speedily undeceived, for upon calling upon her cousin, and introducing herself and kate, she was received by the withered old miser very curtly, and told that as he came up to london a poor boy with five and ninepence in his pocket, and had managed to get on fairly, she with fifty pounds in her pocket could do very well without help. perhaps if the widow had let kate plead her suit she might have fared better, for the old man patted kate's back, and seemed to dip his hand in his pocket with the half intention of making her a present, but it was only a half intention, and the widow went away with a heavy heart, convinced that she must not look for assistance in that quarter. i need not tell what little i know of the efforts of mrs. stevens to find for herself a useful place in the great, busy, unfriendly, or at least, coldly-indifferent world of london-life--how she found thousands as eager and as anxious as herself--how, although she pinched and stinted, and denied herself every luxury, she saw her small stock of money silently wasting away, and no apparent means of getting more; all these things are unhappily so every-day and commonplace, such mere ordinary vulgar troubles, that every body knows them, and nobody cares to hear more about them. at last one day, after a weary walk, under a scorching sky, in search of employment, the widow and her daughter saw in the window of an outfitter's shop, the welcome announcement "good shirt hands wanted." so the widow and kate entered, and with some little trembling saw the person whose business it was to give work to the needlewomen, and made known their errand. mr. sturt, a sharp, rather rough man, who had the management of this department, said, "yes, they did want 'hands,' but they required some one to become security for the work given out." the widow's chagrin was as great now as her hopes had been high a few minutes before, and she said at once that she did not know any one who would become security, at which mr. sturt was turning coldly away; but suddenly thinking of her cousin, she said to herself that he would surely not refuse her this one favor, and she told mr. sturt that she would try and come again, and timidly gave that gentleman her address. as soon as the widow's back was turned, mr. sturt threw the address on the floor, for he was perfectly sure of having plenty of applications, and it did not matter to him whether the widow ever came again or not; but thomas winthorpe, who was employed in a different department of the business, happened to be a witness of the scene, had seen the widow's hand shake, and lips quiver with hope and disappointment, and had marked the anxious look of kate; and with that sympathy which past poverty so often begets for the poor, he picked up the "rejected address," resolving that he would inquire, and if mrs. stevens and her daughter deserved it, he would help them to the work. it was more than a year since mrs. stevens had seen her rich cousin, and when she hastened to his house to prefer her humble petition it was shut up, and all the information she could gain from the neighbors was, that mr. norton had gone no one knew whither. this was a sad blow to mrs. stevens and kate; what to do they knew not, and as they wended their way back to their now almost destitute home, their poverty appeared more hopeless than ever; for disappointment is far harder to bear than mere trouble, just as the sky never looks so dismal and threatening as when a bright ray has just departed, and the sun has sunk behind a thick, dark cloud. thomas winthorpe, however, carried his good intention into effect directly he left business, and little as he was able to glean in their neighborhood of their life and past history, he was convinced that mrs. stevens and her daughter deserved help. how, however, to afford them assistance without wounding their feelings was for some time a difficult question; but at last he determined to become surety for them at the shop without their knowledge, and then to call, as if it were a matter of business, and tell them that they could have work. the next morning accordingly, he told mr. sturt that he intended to become surety for mrs. stevens, and took no notice of that individual's shrugs, and winks, and inuendoes--which were meant to insinuate a sinister motive upon the part of thomas--further than by looking at him so fixedly and composedly, and withal with such an expression of contempt, that mr. sturt, although not a very bashful personage, was fairly confused; and in the evening thomas called and introduced himself to mrs. stevens, and told her that, in consequence of inquiries which had been made, she might have the work when she pleased. the widow and kate, who had not stirred out of the house that day, and were in the depths of despair, not knowing which way to turn for help, looked upon thomas as a preserving angel, and could have almost worshiped him for the unexpected good news of which he was the bearer; nor was their estimation of him lessened when the widow, remembering what had been said about security, questioned him as to how that obstacle had been overcome; and, after a few awkward attempts at parrying and equivocation, thomas, who was but a poor dissembler, confessed the kindly part he had acted, and was overwhelmed with their expressions of gratitude. from that moment they became intimate, and before the interview, which was a somewhat long one, concluded, thomas saw, partly from their conversation, partly from the relics of furniture they had managed to transport to london, that they had moved in a more comfortable station, and were simple country folks; and with a feeling possibly prompted by an unconscious heart-leaning to the quiet kate, and a latent wish to keep her away from the shop, he offered, as he lived close by, to take their work to and fro for them, and so to save them the trouble of going into the city, an offer which mrs. stevens who, in her depressed circumstances, shrunk from strangers, and had no wish to face the rough mr. sturt, thankfully accepted. from this time the widow and her daughter sat down earnestly to work, and though luxuries are not the lot of those who live by shirt-making, yet as the house they were employed by was a respectable one, and paid something better than slop prices, and as thomas contrived that they should have the best description of work, and charles stevens, from time to time, remitted to them sufficient to pay their rent, they, with their simple wants, soon began to feel tolerably comfortable and independent. thomas, too, who was an orphan, did not neglect his opportunities of knowing them better, and became a close and dear acquaintance, whose coming every evening was regularly looked for. at first, of course, he only made business calls, and now and then sat and chatted afterward; then he brought a few flowers for their mantle-piece, or a book, or newspaper, which he thought might amuse them; and, by-and-by, he read to them: and, at last, business, instead of being the primary object of his visits, was the last thing thought of, and left till he was going away: occasionally, too, thomas thought that they were working too hard, and that a walk would do them good, and he became the companion of their little promenades. of course the experienced reader will see in all this that thomas was in love with kate; and so he was, but thomas was a prudent man. kate was young as well as himself; he had but a small salary, and it was better to wait till he could offer kate such a home as he should like to see her mistress of. and kate, what of her? did she love thomas winthorpe, too? well, we don't know enough of the female heart to answer such a question. how should an old bachelor, indeed, get such knowledge? but, perhaps, our better informed lady friends may be enabled to form an opinion, when they are told that kate began to dress herself with more care, and to curl her luxuriant dark hair more sedulously, and that she was more fidgety than her mother as the time for thomas to call approached, and grew fonder of reading the books he brought, and the flowers of his giving. mrs. stevens, however, saw nothing of all this, and thomas never spoke of love, and kate never analyzed her feelings, so that we suppose if she was in love, she had glided into it so gently, that she did not know it herself. something like three years had passed away in this humble, but tranquilly happy state of existence, during which thomas had been silently adding to his stock of furniture, and quietly saving money out of his small salary, when a new misfortune fell upon the stevenses. the mother had had weak eyes when a child, but as she grew up to womanhood the defect had disappeared. still there was a latent tendency to disease, which it seemed close application to needlework in her declining years had developed. for a long time mrs. stevens had felt this, but concealed it from kate, till her eyes became so dim, that she could not go on any longer, and kate became aware of the truth. this was a sad blow, and kate, who had come to look instinctively to thomas for advice, took the opportunity, when her mother was out of the room for a few minutes, at his next visit, to tell him the fact, and her fears that her mother was going blind. this was their first confidence, which i have been told goes a great way in love affairs, and from that time they were drawn still closer together. thomas advised immediate medical assistance, and not liking to offer kate the fee, arranged to get an hour or two the next day but one, and accompany them to an eminent oculist. this was done, and the surgeon, after examining the widow's eyes, said that skill could do nothing for her, but that rest was indispensable, and that she must not exert her sight. the whole of the work was now thrown upon kate, and unmurmuringly did the noble girl bend herself to the task of providing for herself and her nearly blind mother. the first dawn of light saw her, needle in hand, and thomas found her at night stooping over her task. their little walks were given up, and she denied herself almost the bare necessaries of life, so that her mother might not feel the change. this could not go long without kate's health suffering, and thomas saw with grief the pale cheek, and the thinning figure, and the red tinge round the eyelids, which spoke of over-work and failing strength. these changes did not improve kate's good looks, but when did true love ever think of beauty? he saw that the poor girl must soon break down, and then there were but two courses open, either to offer his hand, which he was sure would be accepted, or to offer them assistance. from motives of prudence, thomas had rather that the time when he should become a housekeeper for himself had been longer delayed; but he did not like to offer her money, for he felt as though such an obligation would make her feel dependent, and draw her from him; and so he resolved at once to make her his wife, and save her from the fate which otherwise seemed impending over her. how the declaration was made, and where, and whether or not there were many blushes or smiles, or tears or kisses, i really do not know; but from thomas's practical manner, and kate's earnest, truthful, straightforward mind, and the length of time they had been as intimate and confidential as brother and sister, i should think that there was little of what some folk choose to call "the sentimental," although, perhaps, there was not any the less of true sentiment. but certain it is, that thomas was accepted, the widow did not object, and all the neighborhood soon knew that kate stevens and thomas winthorpe were about to be married. of course, as is usual upon such occasions, there was plenty of comment. a good many young ladies who had done their best to "set their caps" at thomas, intensely pitied poor kate for choosing such a quiet stupid sort of fellow, and not a few old ladies, who would have jumped at thomas for a son-in-law, were "sincerely" glad that it was not their daughter. and there was a universal chorus of prophecy, as to the troubles that awaited the young couple; for what (said the prophets) could they do with thomas's small salary, and kate's old mother, if they came to have a family? and so forth. kate and thomas knew nothing of all this, and if they had, it would not have affected them much, for confident in their quiet earnest affection for each other, they looked forward to the future, not as a period of easy enjoyment, but as one of effortful, though hopeful industry. the preliminaries were soon arranged; thomas had no friends to consult, and charles stevens was glad to hear that his sister was about to be married--a license was dispensed with, and the vulgarity of banns resorted to to save expense. the bride was given away by a young mechanic, a friend of thomas's, whose sister acted as bridesmaid; there was a quiet dinner at thomas's lodgings, no wedding tour, and the next day they went into the empty house, which had been done up for their reception, and suited their scanty means, and when filled with the new furniture of thomas, and the old relics of the widow, kate thought, ay, and so did thomas too, it made the most comfortable home they had ever seen. i have purposely hurried over this part of my story, because it is so very commonplace. after people have been deluged with brides in white satin and brussels lace vails, supported by a splendid train of bridesmaids, all deluging their cambric-worked handkerchiefs in sympathetic tears, what could i say for a marriage with a bride in plain white, and miss jones, in a dyed silk, for a bridesmaid, and dry pocket-handkerchiefs, into the bargain, to make it interesting? obviously nothing. yet for all that, it was, possibly, as happy a wedding as was ever solemnized at st. george's, hanover-square, and chronicled in the _morning post_, with half a dozen flourishes of trumpets. my readers now know all about the people who came into the empty house, and made it look as cheerful as it had before looked miserable. of their domestic life i, of course, knew little: they kept no servant, and kate was occasionally to be seen through the windows dusting and brushing about; but long before thomas came home she was neat, and even smart, and her ready smile as she opened the door, told me how happy they were. it made even me half romantic, and if i could have found just such another kate, i half thought that i should have renounced an old bachelor's life. of their pecuniary affairs i, of course, knew little, but i saw that their baker called regularly, and that kate went out with her market-basket, and if they had run in debt i was sure that i should have heard of it. after a little while, though, i began to notice that thomas had a habit which gave me some uneasiness for the future of the young couple. when he came home he staid for about an hour, or just long enough to have his tea, and then went out again for about two hours. it is true that he did not exhibit any symptoms of dissipation when he returned, but i did not like the habit. my mind, however, was set at rest by my landlady, who could tell me all about it. she knew young jones the cabinet-maker, who was present at the wedding, and informed me that thomas winthorpe, who was a good mechanic, employed his spare time in working with jones, and that both of them prudently put by the earnings of their leisure time as a fund for future contingencies, so that my mind was set at rest upon this point. in due time, a little kate blessed the household of my opposite neighbors, and next, a little thomas, and every thing appeared to go on as happily as ever; and the old grandmother who had only partially recovered the use of her eyes, leading her little grand-daughter, and led in her turn by kate, who also carried the baby, would often go out for a walk, leaving the servant girl in charge of the house (for thomas's salary having increased, they could afford to keep a girl now without being extravagant), and a happier family group it would not be easy to find. it was about this time, i observed a new addition to the family in the shape of a stout, ruddy young man, who wore a green coat, with bright buttons, and looked like a country farmer. i at once guessed that this was kate's brother, of whom i had heard, on a visit to his sister, and though i was right as to the person, the other part of my guess was incorrect. it was charles stevens, but he was not there upon a visit. the fact was, that charles, whose foresight never went the length of looking a year ahead, had been totally ruined by a failure in the wheat crops of his farm. all his property had been sold, and he left destitute of every thing except a few pounds in his pocket, and without any great stock of energy and intelligence to fall back upon, had sought the refuge of his brother-in-law's roof, which, no doubt, was at first cheerfully afforded him. but it was soon evident that charles was likely to bear heavily upon the winthorpes, for he did not seem disposed to exert himself to gain a livelihood. he appeared to lounge about the house all day, and toward the evening, evidently to thomas's chagrin, came out to lean on the gate and smoke his pipe in the open air, thus giving the house an air somewhat different from its former aspect of respectability. i saw, too, as i sat up late reading (a bad habit of mine) that a light burned till midnight in the winthorpes' windows, and sometimes hearing a heavy knocking, i looked out and saw at their door the bright buttons of charles stevens shining in the light of the gas lamp. so far as i could learn, thomas winthorpe never visited these offenses of the brother upon his wife, but for her sake suppressed his indignation at the careless, thoughtless, lazy habits of charles, and bore all in silence; but i heard that he talked of them to young jones and lamented the moral obligation he felt to support charles even in idleness. these feelings, we may be assured, were not lessened when kate made a third addition to the family, and passed through a long and dangerous, and, of course, expensive illness, and i was told (the gossips knew all this through miss jones, the bridesmaid) that thomas had been obliged to devote the earnings of his overtime to pay the doctor's bill, and the quarter's rent, for which he had been unable otherwise to provide. when kate got up and resumed her family duties, there were other indications of poverty in the household, one of which was that the servant girl was discharged, notwithstanding that there was more necessity than ever for her assistance. kate's morning walks were given up--she, as well as her husband, looked more careworn--the old grandmother acted the part of housemaid, and thomas wore a more threadbare coat than usual. nobody looked jolly and comfortable, except the "ne'er do well," who was the cause of these uncomfortable changes, but he looked as ruddy and careless, and smoked his pipe at the front gate as composedly as ever, disturbed only by the recollection that he had once been so much better off, and the knowledge that he had not so much money to spend as he used to have; for by this time the cash he had brought with him from the country, and of which he had never offered thomas a penny, was well-nigh gone. still, thomas, though hard-pressed, worked on patiently and perseveringly, hoping for better times, and these fortunately were close at hand. people say that "troubles never come alone," and i am inclined to think fortune also sends her favors in showers. be that as it may, just at this time, charles, who was getting disgusted at idleness without plenty of pocket-money, received and accepted an offer to go out to australia, with an old farming acquaintance; and a few days more saw his chest put into a cab, into which vehicle he followed, while kate and his mother (thomas was away at business) bade him a tearful farewell; and within a few days thomas's employers, more than satisfied with his conduct, promoted him to a post where his salary was doubled. what a change came over the house and family! the old servant girl came back, and seemed so glad and brisk that she was never tired of work, and made the place look brighter and neater than ever. the walks, too, were resumed, and thomas, justified in ceasing his evening work, made one of the party after tea. kate's cheek grew round and rosy again, and thomas's eye was brighter, and his old grave smile came back, as he enjoyed the happiness and comfort he had so well earned: and to crown all, i am told that the young winthorpes will be very rich, for that little rusty, shabby old man, who used to show the empty house, is mrs. stevens's rich cousin, whom kate had not recognized, and the old lady was too short-sighted to notice, and who had left his former house, and assumed the name of willis, so that he might not be found out and worried by his poor relations. my landlady informs me that the old man, who knew his relations from the first, was struck with thomas's punctuality in always paying the rent on the day it was due, and by his untiring industry (qualities which probably found an echo in his own nature), and that the beautiful children (strange that such a little, withered old miser should love blooming, careless children), have completed his liking for the family. thomas, however, has refused all the old man's offers of assistance, and insists on continuing to pay the rent for the house; and the old gentleman, who is now a frequent visitor, and really does not look half so rusty as he used, unable in any other way to confer obligations upon the family, has claimed to stand godfather for the third child, and has bequeathed to the youngsters all his large property, so we may fairly presume that the worst difficulties of the winthorpes are over, and that a happy future is in store for them. reader, my little tale, or, without plot as it is, you may say my long gossip, is at an end. it began about an empty house, and has run through the fortunes of a family. how like a path in life, where the first step ushers us onward we know not where; or, to compare small things with great, how like a philosopher picking up at random a simple stone, and thence being led on to the comprehension of the physical history of the world. but plotless tale, or rambling gossip, whichever it may be, i hope it has not been without its usefulness, but that it has served as one more piece of proof that integrity, charity, industry, and self-denial, if they do not always command success, give a man the best possible chance of obtaining it on the only condition which renders success worth having, namely, the preservation of self-respect. [from tait's edinburgh magazine.] colds and cold water. who has not had a cold? or rather, who has not had many colds? who does not know that malady which commences with slight chilliness, an uneasy feeling of being unwell, which does not justify abstinence from the ordinary business and occupations of the day, but deprives one of all satisfaction and enjoyment in them, and takes away all the salt and savor of life, even as it deprives the natural palate of its proper office, making all things that should be good to eat and drink vapid and tasteless? who does not know the pain in the head, the stiff neck, the stuffy nose, the frequent sneeze, the kerchief which is oftener in the hand than in the pocket? such, with a greater or less amount of peevishness, are the symptoms of the common cold in the head; which torments its victim for two or three days, or perhaps as many weeks, and then departs, and is forgotten. few people take much notice of colds; and yet let any one, who is even moderately liable to their attacks, keep an account of the number of days in each year when he has been shut out by a cold from a full perception of the pleasures and advantages of life, and he will find that he has lost no inconsiderable portion of the sum total of happy existence through their malign influence. how many speeches in parliament and at the bar, that should have turned a division or won a cause, have been marred because the orator has had a cold which has confused his powers, stifled his voice, and paralyzed all his best energies! how many pictures have failed in expressing the full thoughts of the artist, because he has had a cold at that critical stage of the work when all his faculties of head and hand should have been at their best to insure the fit execution of his design! how many bad bargains have been made, how many opportunities lost in business, because a cold has laid its leaden hand upon them, and converted into its own dull nature what might have resulted in a golden harvest! how many poems--but no: poetry can have nothing in common with a cold. the muses fly at the approach of flannel and water-gruel. it is not poems that are spoiled, but poets that are rendered of impossible existence by colds. can one imagine homer with a cold, or dante? but these were southerns, and exempt by climate from this scourge of the human race in boreal regions. but milton or shakspeare, could they have had colds? possibly some parts of "paradise regained" may have been written in a cold. possibly the use of the handkerchief in "othello," which is banished as an impropriety by the delicate critics of france from their version of the moor of venice, may have been suggested by familiarity with that indispensable accessory in a cold. colds are less common in the clear atmosphere of paris than in the thick and fog-laden air of london; and this may account for the difference of national taste, on this point. it is said of the great german mendelssohn, that he always composed sitting with his feet in a tub of cold water. this was not the musician, but his grandfather, the metaphysician, and father of that happy and contentedly obscure intermediate mendelssohn, who used to say, "when i was young, i was known as the son of the great mendelssohn; and now that i am old, i am known as the father of the great mendelssohn." but who ever was known to compose any thing while sitting with his feet in a tub of _hot_ water, and with the composing draught standing on the table at his side, to remind him that in the matter of composition he is to be a passive, and not an active subject? how many marriages may not have been prevented by colds? the gentleman is robbed of his courage, and does not use his opportunity for urging his suit; or the lady catches a cold, and appears blowing her nose, and with blanched cheeks and moist eyes: "the sapphire's blue within her eyes is seen; her lips the ruby's choicest glow disclose; her skin is like to fairest pearls i ween; but ah! the lucid crystal tips her nose." and so the coming declaration of love is effectually nipped in the bud by the unromantic realities of the present catarrh. napoleon, as is well known, lost the battle of leipsig in consequence of an indigestion brought on by eating an ill-dressed piece of mutton; and louis philippe, in february, , fled ignominiously from the capital of his kingdom because he had a cold, and could not use the faculties which at least might have secured for him as respectable a retreat to the frontier as was enjoyed by his predecessor charles the tenth. he might have shown fight; he might have thrown himself upon the army, or upon the national guard; he might have done a hundred things better for his own fame, rather than get into a hack cab and run away. but it was not to be: louis philippe had the influenza; and louis philippe with the influenza was not the same man who had shown so much craft and decision in the many previous emergencies of his long and eventful life. louis philippe, without a cold, had acquitted himself creditably in the field of battle, had taught respectably in schools, had contrived for himself and his family the succession to a kingdom, had worked and plotted through all the remarkable events with which his name is associated, and by which it will ever be remembered in the romance of history; but louis philippe, with a cold, subsided at once and ingloriously into simple john smith in a scratch-wig. of places in which colds are caught it is not necessary to be particular. for, as a late justice of the court of queen's bench laid it down in summing up to a jury, in a case of sheep-stealing, after some time had been wasted in showing that the stolen sheep had been slaughtered with a particular knife--any knife will kill a sheep--so it may be said that a cold may be caught any where: on the moor or on the loch; traveling by land or by water; by rail or by stage; or in a private carriage, or walking in the streets; or sitting at home or elsewhere, in a draught, or out of a draught, but more especially in it. upon a statistical return of the places in which colds have been caught, by persons of both sexes, and under twenty-one years of age, founded upon the answers of the patients themselves, it appears that more colds are caught upon the journey in going to school, and at church, than at the theatre and in ball-rooms. upon a similar return from persons liable to serve as jurymen in london and middlesex, it appears that a majority of colds is caught in courts of justice; to which statement, perhaps, more confidence is due than to the former, as it is not known that dr. reid has ventilated any of the churches or theatres in the metropolis. indeed, if the ancient physical philosophers, who had many disputes upon the first cause of cold, had enjoyed the advantage of living in our days and country, they might have satisfied themselves on this matter, and at the same time have become practically acquainted with the working of our system of jurisprudence, by attending in westminster hall, when they would go away perhaps with some good law, but most certainly with a very bad cold in their heads. upon the returns from ladies with grown-up daughters and nieces, it appears from their own statements, that more colds are caught at evening parties than any where else; which is in remarkable discrepancy with the statements of the young ladies themselves, as before mentioned. the same curious want of agreement is found to prevail as to the number of colds caught on water-parties, pic-nics, archery-meetings, and the like, which, according to one set of answers, never give rise to colds, but which would certainly be avoided by all prudent persons if they gave implicit belief to the other. of the remedy for colds something may now be said. as with other evils, the remedy may exist either in the shape of prevention or of cure, and of course should be most sought after, by prudent people, in the former. much ancestral wisdom has descended to us in maxims and apothegms on the prevention and management of colds. like other venerable and traditional lore which we are in the habit of receiving without questioning, it contains a large admixture of error with what is really good and true; and of the good and true much occasionally meets with undeserved disparagement and contempt. our grandmothers are right when they inculcate an active avoidance of draughts of air, when they enjoin warm clothing, and especially woolen stockings and dry feet. their recommendation of bed and slops is generally good, and their "sentence of water-gruel" in most cases is very just, and better than any other for which it could be commuted; but when they lay down the well-known and authoritative dogma, stuff a cold and starve a fever, they are no longer to be trusted. this is a pernicious saying, and has caused much misery and illness. certain lovers of antiquity, in their anxiety to justify this precept, would have us to take it in an ironical sense. they say, stuff a cold and starve a fever: that is, if you commit the absurdity of employing too generous a diet in the earlier stages of a cold, you will infallibly bring on a fever, which you will be compelled to reduce by the opposite treatment of starvation. this, however, may be rejected as mere casuistry, however well it may be intended by zealous friends of the past. our british oracles were not delivered in such terms of delphic mystery, but spoke out plain and straightforward; and even this one permits of some justification with out doing violence to the obvious meaning of the words. for every cold is accompanied with some fever, the symptoms of which are more or less obvious, and it indicates the presence in the system of something which ought not to be there, and which is seeking its escape. every facility should be given to this escape which is consistent with the general safety of the system. we may reasonably leave a window open, or a door upon the latch, to favor the retreat of a disagreeable intruder, but we should not be willing to break a hole in the wall of the house. all the remedies of hot water for the feet, warming the bed, exciting gentle perspiration, are directed to this object. occasionally, the excitement of an evening passed in society, especially if there is dancing, and in a room of somewhat elevated temperature, is sufficient to carry off an incipient cold. so a cold may be stopped, _in limine_, by the use of a few drops of laudanum; and so, perhaps, the stimulus of some slight excess in eating or drinking may operate to eject the advancing cold before it has completely lodged itself in the system. but this is dangerous practice, and the same object may be effected far more safely and surely by the common nursing and stay-at-home remedies. of all prophylactic or precautionary measures (in addition, of course, to prudent attention to dress and diet), the best is the constant use of the cold bath. it is only necessary to glance at the ironmongers' shops to see that of late years the demand for all kinds of washing and bathing apparatus has much increased, and that many persons are aware of the importance of this practice. the exact method of applying the cold element must depend on the constitution of the patient. for the very vigorous and robust, the actual plunge-bath may not be too much; but few are able to stand this, for the great abstraction of animal heat by the surrounding cold fluid taxes the calorific powers of the system severely; nor is a convenient swimming or plunge-bath generally attainable. a late lamented and eminent legal functionary, who lived near the banks of the thames, bathed in the river regularly every morning, summer and winter, and, it is said, used to have the ice broken, when necessary, in the latter season. he continued this practice to a good old age, and might have sat for the very picture of health. the shower-bath has the merit of being attainable by most persons, at any rate when at home, and is now made in various portable shapes. the shock communicated by it is not always safe; but it is powerful in its action, and the first disagreeable sensation after pulling the fatal string is succeeded by a delicious feeling of renewed health and vitality. the dose of water is generally made too large; and by diminishing this, and wearing one of the high peaked or extinguisher caps now in use, to break the fall of the descending torrent upon the head, the terrors of the shower-bath may be abated, while all the beneficial effects are retained. it has, however, the disadvantage of not being easily carried about during absence from home, and the want of it is a great inconvenience to those who are accustomed to use it. none of the forms which are really portable are satisfactory, and all occupy some time and trouble in setting up and taking down again, unless, indeed, you are reckless of how and where you fix your hooks, and of the state of the floor of the room after the flood has taken place, and perhaps benevolently wish that the occupants of the room beneath should participate in the luxury you have been enjoying. for nearly all purposes the sponge is sufficient, used with one of the round flat baths which are now so common. cold water, thus applied, gives sufficient stimulus to the skin, and the length of the bath, and the force with which the water is applied, are entirely under command. the sponging-bath, followed by friction with a rough towel, has cured thousands of that habitual tendency to catch cold which is so prevalent in this climate, and made them useful and happy members of society. the large tin sponging-bath is itself not sufficiently portable to be carried as railway luggage, but there are many substitutes. india-rubber has been for some time pressed into this service, either in the shape of a mere sheet to be laid on the floor, with a margin slightly raised to retain the water, or in a more expensive form, in which the bottom consists of a single sheet of the material, while the side is double, and can be inflated so as to become erect, in the same manner as the india-rubber air-cushions. either form may be rolled up in a small compass. the latter give a tolerably deep bath, capable of holding two or three pails of water; but it is not very manageable when it has much water in it, and must be unpopular with the housemaids. as there is no stiff part about it, it is difficult, or rather impossible, for one person to lift it for the purpose of emptying the water; and the air must be driven out before it can be packed up again, which occasions a delay which is inconvenient in rapid traveling. besides, on the continent at least, where the essential element of water is not to be had, except in small quantity, the excellence of holding much is thrown away. traveling-boxes have lately been made of that universal substance, gutta-percha, which serve the double duty of holding clothes or books on the roads, and of baths in the bed room. the top can be slipped off in a moment, and is at once available as a bath; and when ever the whole box is unpacked, both portions can be so employed. but the one disadvantage which prevents gutta-percha from being adopted for many other purposes tells against it here. it becomes soft and pliable at a very low temperature, which unfits it for hot climates, and for containing hot water in our own temperate regions. there is also the danger of burning or becoming injured by the heat, if left incautiously too near the fire. but for this drawback, it seems as if there was nothing to prevent every thing from being made of gutta-percha. it is almost indestructible, resists almost all chemical agents, and is easily moulded into any required form. but like glass, it has its one fault. glass is brittle--gutta-percha can not resist moderate heat; and but for this, these two materials might divide the world between them. it is related that a certain inventor appeared before the emperor tiberius with a crystal vessel, which he dashed on the pavement, and picked up unhurt; in fact, he had discovered malleable glass, the philosopher's stone of the useful arts. his ingenuity did not meet with the success it deserved; for the emperor, whether alarmed at the novelty, and wishing to protect the interests of the established glass-trade or wishing to possess the wonderful vase, and to transmit it in the imperial treasure-chambers as an unique specimen of the manufacture, immediately ordered his head to be cut off, and the secret perished with him. any one who rediscovered it, or could communicate to the rival vegetable product the quality of resisting heat, would make his fortune; and although he might find the patent-office slow and expensive, would nowadays be better rewarded by a discerning public than his unfortunate predecessor was by the roman tyrant. but to return to our baths: a very good portable article may be made by having a wooden traveling-box, lined with thin sheet zinc. it may be of deal or elm, and painted outside. the lid may be arranged to slip on and off, like the rudder of a boat, on eyes and pintles, or on common sliding hinges; and there may be a movable tray, three or four inches deep, to be lined also with zinc, which serves for holding the immediate dressing-apparatus, and all that need be taken out for a single night's use. this tray, together with the lid laid side by side on the floor, makes a fair enough sponging-bath; and if the box itself is placed between them, and half-filled with water, a most luxurious bathing-apparatus is at once established. the zinc lining should be painted, or, what is still better, japanned; and the lock should open on the side of the box, and be fitted with a hinged hasp, which can be turned up, out of the way, upon the side of the lid, when it is detached and in use as a bath. the lock should not open upward in the edge of the box, or the water might enter it, and damage the wards; and the hasps sticking up from the edge of the lid would be in the way. a box on this plan has been made, and has been in use for some months with perfect success, and may possibly be exhibited for the instruction of foreigners in the great exposition of . the only objection is the increased weight arising from the metallic lining; and this might be removed by employing sheet gutta-percha in its place, or by relying on good workmanship and paint alone to keep the box water-tight. the gutta-percha would, in this case, be supported by the wood of the box, and could not get out of shape; but it still would be liable to injury if used with warm water. little need be said of sponges. the best fetch a high price, but are probably most economical in the end; for a good sponge, used only with cold water, will last a long time. there is an inferior kind of sponge, very coarse, ragged and porous, which formerly was not sold for toilet use, but which is now to be found in the shops, and is sold especially for use in the sponging-bath. it is much cheaper than the fine sponge; and readily takes up, and as readily gives out again, a large quantity of water; and on the whole, may be recommended. our old friend, india-rubber, appears again as the best material of which the sponge-bag can be made. oil-skin is efficient while it lasts, but it is very easily torn; and sponges are apt to be impatiently rammed into their bags in last moments of packing. armed with his sponge and his portable bath, a man may go through life, defying some of its worst evils. self-dubbed a knight of the bath, he may look down with scorn upon the red ribbons and glittering baubles of grand crosses and commanders, and may view with that calm philosophy to which nothing so much contributes as a state of high health the chances and changes of a surrounding world of indigestions and catarrhs. with his peptic faculties, in that state of efficiency in which the daily cold effusion will maintain them, he will enjoy his own dinners; he will not grudge his richer neighbor his longer and more varied succession of dishes, and he will do his best to put his poorer one in the way to improve his humbler and less certain repast. with his head and eyes clear and free from colds, he will think and see for himself; and will discern and act upon the truth and the right, disregarding the contemptuous sneezes of those who would put him down, and the noisy coughs of those who would drown his voice when lifted up in the name of humanity and justice. sinners and sufferers; or, the villainy of high life. "then you believe in the justice of this world, after the fashion of our old nursery-tales, in which the good boy always got the plum-cake, and the bad one was invariably put in the closet?" said charles monroe, addressing at once lady annette leveson and her temporary squire, old judge naresby, as they paused in a moral disquisition, on which her ladyship had employed the greater part of their afternoon's stroll through leveson park, interrupted only by an occasional remark from her niece emma, a girl just returned from school, who hung on charles's arm, and called the party's attention to every woodland prospect and grand old tree they passed. lady annette had relations in the peerage, though they were not reckoned among the wealthiest of that body. her husband had been similarly connected, but he was long dead; and his childless widow's jointure consisted of little more than a castellated mansion, a park, renowned for the antiquity of its oaks, on the borders of one of the midland counties, and an old-fashioned house in park-lane, london. these possessions were to descend, on her death, to the orphan daughter of her husband's brother, who, having besides a dowery of some five thousand in the funds, was, by the unanimous vote of her family, placed under lady annette's guardianship. in speeding on that orphan girl's education from one boarding-school to another, in dipping a short way into all the popular philosophy of the age, and taking an easy interest in all its social improvements, lady annette had spent her limited income and quiet years, without the usual excitements of either working altar-cloths or setting up a dissenting chapel. lady annette was, of course, a sort of positivist in her way. she had an almost material faith in virtue rewarded. good for good, love for love, was the substance of her creed regarding time's returns; and being somewhat zealous in the doctrine, she had exerted all her eloquence to prove it to the satisfaction of the judge. he was a man after her own faith and fortunes--well born, as it is called, and gifted with a cool, clear head, which, just fitting him for the study of law, and no more, had calmly raised him through the intervening steps of his profession to the bench; but his experience of life had been far wider, and he had seen certain occurrences in its course which made him doubt her ladyship's philosophy. the judge's opposition had ceased, nevertheless, and lady annette remained mistress of the field when charles monroe volunteered the above interpretation. considering that, besides her title, the lady had full twenty years the start of him in life's journey, the attack was bold; but charles was known at leveson park as her scottish cousin, belonging to a poor but honorable family north of tweed, and already named as a rising barrister, though comparatively young in the profession. he had been engaged for sundry cases on the circuit which the judge had just completed--as concerned her ladyship's county, with a maiden assize, where, after white gloves and congratulations had been duly presented, the evening was devoted to a family dinner and chat with lady annette, preparatory to justice and he taking their way on the morrow to the neighboring shire. lady annette and the judge were old acquaintances, and he had come early enough to find the three among the old oaks, where it was pleasant to talk in that bright summer afternoon till the dinner-hour and the rest of the party arrived; so they found time for argument. "well, charles," said lady annette, whose habitually good temper seemed slightly ruffled by her cousin's remark, "there are sounder lessons taught men in the nursery than most of them practice in after-life; and the teaching of those tales appears to me a truth verified by every day's experience. do we not see that industry and good conduct generally bring the working-classes to comparative wealth, while the best families are reduced by extravagance and profligacy? does not even the popular mind regard virtue with honor, and vice with contempt? surely there is, even in this world, an unslumbering providence, which, eventually rewards the good and punishes the wicked?" "sometimes," said charles. "well, your response is amusing," said lady annette, smiling; "but let us hear your view of the subject." "i fear it is not very definite," said her cousin. "perhaps i am not clearsighted enough; but this life has always seemed to me full of inconsistencies and contradictions; yet, one thing i believe, that moral goodness does not always lead to good fortune, nor moral evil to bad. sometimes that for which i have no name but the ancient one of friendly stars, and sometimes a practical knowledge of men and things as they are, or the want of these, conducts us to the one, or leaves us to the other." "oh, charles, what a pity that pretty girl should be lame!" whispered emma, as they now emerged on a broad walk, which, being the most direct route to a neighboring village, had been long open to pedestrians. and a young girl, evidently of the servant class, who walked with considerable difficulty, laid down a small bundle she carried, and leant for rest against a mossy tree. the girl was not more than eighteen; her soft dark hair, fine features, and small, but graceful figure, were singularly attractive, in spite of a sickly pallor and remarkable lameness; but the face had such an expression of fearless honesty and truth as made it truly noble, and took the whole party's attention. "that's a fine face," said the judge, when they had passed. "there looks something like goodness there; and, _apropos_ of our controversy, it somehow reminds me of a case which is to be tried to-morrow, in which the principal witness is a young girl, who defended her master's house single-handed against two burglars, and actually detained one of them till he was arrested." "oh, aunt, we must go to hear the case," said young emma, earnestly. "it certainly will be interesting," said lady annette. "what a noble girl in her station too! charles, i hope you will allow there is some probability of her being rewarded?" "perhaps," said charles. "oh, never mind him," interrupted the judge, who got very soon tired of moral questions; "he debated the same subject with thornley and me t'other evening, and would have totally routed us if we had not taken refuge in whist." charles made no reply, for his attention was once more engaged by the girl, who, with a flushed cheek, and all the speed she could muster, passed them at that moment, and the judge had succeeded in diverting lady annette's thoughts to another channel. "thornley should be an able antagonist," said she, "i am told he is very clever. it was but t'other day that, in looking over one of his mother's old letters from florence, i recollected she had mentioned his italian tutor's predictions of the great figure he should make at cambridge. by the way, charles, he was your class-fellow there. how far were they fulfilled?" "the only time ever i remember him to make a figure," answered charles, vainly endeavoring to suppress a smile, "was, when he refused the challenge of a wild welsh student, on whose pranks he had been rather censorious, saying a duel was contrary to his principles; and though the welshman actually insulted him in the very streets, he preferred a formal apology to fighting." "what a high-principled young man!" exclaimed lady annette and her niece in the same breath. "yes," said the judge, "so much conscientiousness and moral courage is worth a world of talent." "it must be a comfort," continued her ladyship with enthusiasm, "to mr. thornley, to find the pains bestowed on his son's education so well repaid. do you know he would never allow him to enter a public school, saying, that knowledge in such places was paid for with both morals and manners; and edmund was educated under his own eye, by some of the best scholars in florence." "mr. thornley had great discernment," remarked the judge; "i wonder he didn't show it, more in his pecuniary affairs." "ah, what a falling off was there!" half sighed lady annette. "it vexes me to think of it, they were such old friends of ours. what a belle poor mrs. thornley was!--they tell me she has grown very old and dowdy now. and how he used to sport! and yet one might have known the estate would go to creditors. but his misfortunes improved him greatly, they say, turned his attention entirely to high subjects--italian progress, and all that. do you know, when they lived in florence, the austrian police had quite an eye upon him, and he was proud of that, poor man! i wish you had seen his letters." here her ladyship stopped short, for a figure was seen rapidly approaching, which all the party know to be that of edmund thornley. the gentleman whose education, character, and family history had been thus freely discussed, was a tall, well-proportioned man, with fair complexion, and curling auburn hair. there was something almost feminine about his small mouth and pearly teeth; but his full blue eyes and smooth white brow had no expression but those of health and youth, retaining the latter to an extreme degree, though he was rather advanced in the twenties. the story of his parentage and prospects, was already talked over by the thornleys' old friends in leveson park. an only son, born in the ranks of english gentry, but brought up in italy, to which pecuniary embarrassment had early obliged his father to retire, he had been educated, it was said, most carefully under the paternal roof, with all home influences around him--sent first to the university of cambridge, and, subsequently, to the study of english law, partly by way of scope for his talents, and partly, as the best provision for the heir of a deeply-mortgaged estate. edmund thornley was a young man for whom friends did every thing. his parents and tutors, in italy, had promised and vowed great things in his name, to his relatives in england; and, though they could not believe the report, for he had, as yet, astonished neither cambridge, nor the temple, it was proper for them to allow there was talent in him which must come out some day, and all that interest and solicitation could do, was done with the thornleys' old acquaintances, to secure patronage for their son. by that influence the judge had been induced to make choice of him for his marshal, as it is legal etiquette to style a sort of humble companion or assistant, on the circuit. hitherto, he had filled the post to his superior's entire satisfaction; but naresby, who specially understood the art of making his dependents useful, had that day left him some letters to write previous to joining lady annette's party. the hostess warmly welcomed the son of her old friends, whose doings she had just canvassed. charles received his former class-fellow with cold civility; and, warned by the dinner-bell, the company adjourned to leveson hall, in time to meet the rector and his lady, a quiet country pair, who completed their party. it was soon manifest what advantage thornley's gentle, attentive manner, gave him in the eyes of the ladies compared with the sometimes abrupt, and often careless address of their scotch cousin. emma found him particularly agreeable; and the subject of the approaching trial being renewed after dinner, both she and her aunt were charmed with the enthusiastic admiration of the young girl's courage and devotedness, which he expressed in the warmest terms; while charles merely hoped that those whom she had served so well, would not forget her poverty. "such," said lady annette, in a whispered dissertation on the contrast of the young men, while she and the judge sat at whist by themselves, "such are the natural effects of a home education, and a mother's influence." "oh, yes," responded naresby, somewhat confused by the cards which he was shuffling; "thornley is an excellent person, and very accommodating. he never troubles one with a view of his own, like other lads." on the following day there was a crowded court-house in the assize town of the neighboring county. the case to be tried had been the topic of gossip and wonder there for many a week, and lady annette and her niece were not the only members of the surrounding gentility among the audience. charles monroe had the honor of escorting them, for the first time in their lives, to a court of justice; and all his explaining powers were put in requisition by emma's whispered inquiries, till, the usual preliminaries being gone through, the prisoner was placed at the bar. he was a dark-looking, muscular fellow, whose way seemed to have laid through the wild places of low life; but when he pleaded "not guilty," in a strong welsh accent, some strange recollections appeared to strike charles, and he whispered to lady annette, "that man used to look after game-dogs for harry williams, with whom thornley wouldn't fight at cambridge; and they told me harry had been expelled." "yes," replied her ladyship, in a low, but triumphant tone, as she cast a glance of more than approbation on the marshal, now occupying his usual place near the judge; "men are even in this world rewarded according to their works." charles smiled incredulously, but his smile changed to a look of surprised recognition, for the principal witness, who just then stood up to take the oath, was none other than the girl they had met in leveson park. many a curious eye was turned on that fair honest face; the judge himself seemed to recognize her, and the marshal to forget his habitual composure, in astonishment that one so young and pretty, should be the heroine of such a tale; but, without either the vanity or the bashfulness nearly always allied to it, which would have upset most young people in her position, the girl told her story modestly and plainly, like one who felt she had done her duty, and made no display about it. her evidence was simply to the effect that her name was grace greenside, that she was a servant at daisy dell--the local designation of a property occupied by one of the better class of farmers in the shire--and had been for two years maid-of-all-work at the farm-house, which was situated in a solitary part of the country, and at some distance from the high road. on the fifth of the previous month, it being sunday, and the other three servants having gone in different directions, her mistress took their little boy and girl with them to the parish church, about a mile distant, leaving her alone in the house, with strict orders not to quit it, and admit none but special friends of the family till their return; on account, as she believed, of a considerable sum of money which her master had drawn from the bank but a few days before, for the purchase of an adjoining farm. soon after they were gone, two men, one of whom was the prisoner, knocked loudly at the front door, and demanded admission, which, owing to her orders, and their suspicious appearance, she refused, when they tried to force an entrance; but, arming herself with her master's loaded gun, she defended the premises, which were well secured--being built, as the girl described, in old fighting times--till, by sounding one of those antiquated horns, kept for similar purposes in many an old country house, she alarmed half the parish, and men were seen coming across the fields, on which the assailants fled. the prisoner, however, carried with him a fine vest of her master's, which, owing to an accident, had been spread out to dry on a hedge hard by; and, bitterly blaming herself for leaving the article within his reach, the girl pursued him in hopes of recovering it, and actually overtook, laid hold of, and detained him till the neighbors came up and completed the capture, in spite of his blows, by which she had been so seriously injured as to be confined to the house till the previous day, when she walked with great difficulty about two miles to see her relatives. her tale was confirmed by the evidence of several country people who had assisted in securing the prisoner, by that of her master, a hard-looking, worldly man, of her father, a clownish laborer, and of an ill-tempered, slatternly woman, who proved to be her stepmother. grace dropped a courtesy, and quitted the witness-box, amid a general murmur of applause. the jury, without retiring, found a unanimous verdict of "guilty;" and, after a lengthy address, equally divided between eulogy of the girl's conduct and reprobation of the criminal's, not forgetting some prophetic hints touching the future destiny of his companion who had escaped, the judge commanded sentence of death to be recorded against him, and a small sum of money to be immediately bestowed on grace, not only in testimony of the court's sense of her merits, but by way of compensation for the injuries she had received, as his lordship phrased it, "in the service of justice and good order." "a poor reward, but, perhaps, not unacceptable," thought charles, glancing at her apparel, which, though clean and neatly worn, was such as indicated almost the lowest state of feminine funds, as with a grateful countenance she stepped out to await the leisure of the court functionaries in that matter, and another case came on. "let us go now," said lady annette to her niece, "how very interesting it was, and how delighted edmund thornley seemed!" "he has just gone out, aunt," remarked emma, who had grown singularly alive to the marshal's motions; and charles, as he resumed the duties of a cavalier, silently recollected that, throughout the trial, while thornley conversed with the judge or took notes for him, according to custom, his eye had often wandered toward grace greenside, and he had left the court the first unobserved moment after she quitted it. the young barrister was, therefore, not surprised, on crossing one of the outer divisions, to find him there by her side, talking in a most animated manner. they were words of praise he had been uttering; and there was a glow on the girl's cheek, and a light in her eye, which neither the judge's encomiums nor the applause of a crowded court had called forth; yet, at their approach, a sudden confusion came over thornley for an instant, but the next he saluted the ladies with his usual courtesy, and more than his usual warmth. "you find me conversing with the heroine of daisy dell," said he; and the remnant of his speech was so low, that charles could only catch, "artless simplicity," and "mind above her station." it reached the girl's ear, nevertheless; and a wild, waking dream of hope, or passion, or it might be vanity, passed over that young face. "oh, aunt, let us speak to her," said emma, and fully conscious of the honor and reward which a few words from her patrician lips must confer on plebeian merit, lady annette stepped up, and addressed some complimentary inquiries to grace. the gratified girl replied with many a courtesy. there was an asking-leave look in young emma's face as it turned to her aunt for a moment, and then, like one determined to venture, she drew a small turquoise ring from her finger, and pressed it into the girl's hand, with a low whisper, "you have been very good and honest; take this from me." "it is the first ring i ever wore," said grace, endeavoring to force the small circlet on one finger after another, which hard work had roughened and expanded; but emma's turquoise could find rest only on the little one. "it is the lucky finger," said she, blushing to the brow; "and a thousand thanks, my lady; but it is too fine for the like of me." "may it be lucky to you, my girl!" half murmured charles, emptying his light purse almost unperceived into her other hand, while lady annette was assuring her that good conduct always had its reward; and before the girl had time to thank him, he hurried away with the delighted emma, while thornley conducted her ladyship to their carriage over the way. scarce had charles handed in his charge when one of his clients, who had litigated a garden-fence for four years past, pounced upon him with a lately-discovered evidence for his claim, which occupied some hours in explanation; and before he returned to the court-house, grace greenside had received her money, and went her way. the marshal was busy writing a note for the judge, and his lordship was passing sentence on a turnip-stealer. next day charles gained the case touching the garden-fence, according to the county newspapers, by a display of legal learning and eloquence never before equaled in that court-house; but the same evening a letter brought the hard-working barrister the joyful intelligence that a legal appointment in one of the west india islands, for which he had canvassed and despaired till it was refused by some half-dozen of the better provided, had been conferred upon him. it is doubtful if three years can pass over any spot of this inhabited earth without bringing many changes, and they had brought its share to the border of that midland county since lady annette convinced the judge, and vanquished her scotch cousin, on a great moral question, among the old trees of leveson park. leveson park and hall were lonely now in the summer-time, for another uncle had died, leaving emma some additional thousands, and her aunt removed to the house in park-lane every london season, to have her properly brought out. in the adjoining shire, trials of still greater interest (for there was a murder and two breaches of promise among them) had long superseded in the popular mind the case of daisy dell; but the neighbors for miles round that solitary farm-house still talked at intervals of grace greenside, how a fine gentleman who had spoken to her in court came many a day after the assizes privately about the fields to see her, and how she had been seen driving away with him in a chaise from the end of the green lane late one evening, when her mistress imagined she was busy in the diary. the girl's relatives said he was nephew to the judge who had been on the circuit that year, and would soon be a judge himself; that he had taken grace to london, and made a real lady of her; but their neighbors knew the way of the world too well to place entire faith in that statement, and the master of the house she had defended (it was said gratuitously) gave it as his private judgment that the girl had been ruined by being made so much of. the old house in park-lane looked as comfortable as handsome but antiquated furniture could make it. it was the height of the london season, and lady annette leveson had given a dinner-party--as it was understood, by way of welcome to her cousin, mr. monroe, who had just returned from barbadoes, with an older look, a darker complexion, and his footing made sure in government employ at home. his residence was now in london; and his near relationship, of which lady annette had grown singularly mindful of late, made him an intimate visitor at her house, where, on the present occasion, he did the honors to a number of gentlemen, still conversing over their wine; while, as british etiquette prescribes, lady annette had led the fairer portion of her company to small talk and the drawing-room. useful as charles was often pronounced by her ladyship, and a rising cousin as he had become, the assiduous attentions and quietly agreeable manner of edmund thornley made much greater way in the secret favor of both aunt and niece. edmund was by this time called to the bar. he made no great figure there, but friends were still doing for him, and he had sundry relations who took care of his interests in london. the chief of these was a brother-in-law of his father; but miss thornley had been his first wife, and a second had reigned for eleven years in her stead. mr. crainor was a barrister of the west-end, who worshiped respectability, and had no family but two married daughters. it was through him that all advices and letters of credit came from italy, where thornley senior still found it convenient to sojourn; and he was edmund's counselor in all things. being an acquaintance of emma's last bequeathing uncle, that gentleman had thought proper to make him one of his executors; he had, consequently, considerable influence at the house in park-lane, and was believed to use it in favor of his nephew-in-law, who, shrewd people said, might form an eligible connection there; but, as yet, rumor went no further on the subject. there were also those who thought charles monroe might be a successful rival, as his prospects were now more promising, and his talents known to be superior; but emma's private opinion of him was, that he looked wonderfully old, had no sensibility, and an almost vulgar way of conducting himself to ladies. he had left her a school-girl, not sixteen, and found her a graceful, accomplished woman of the harmlessly sentimental school, who shed tears at tragedies, and gave largely, considering her purse, at charity sermons, made collections of poetry, and never inquired beyond the surface of her own circle, except regarding some very romantic story of real life. edmund thornley sat on an ottoman between lady annette and her niece, turning over for their edification the leaves and plates of one of those richly got up annuals so dear to london drawing-rooms at a period within most people's memory. he never lingered long with the gentlemen, at least, in park-lane. "oh, what a lovely picture!" said emma, as a swiss scene turned up. "and that figure," she continued, pointing to one at a cottage door, "how much it reminds of the girl--i forget her name--who defended the farm-house against robbers. don't you remember, mr. thornley, how you called her the heroine of daisy dell?" "oh, yes," said edmund, after a trial of recollection. "it is like her, but i think she was not quite so pretty." "certainly not so tastefully dressed," said lady annette; "these swiss have so much the advantage of our peasantry; but she was a most interesting creature. and yet, mr. thornley," added her ladyship, who retained the taste for morality, "i fear the transaction did not turn out to her benefit. they had strange reports in that part of the country, and my niece and i have often observed her since we came to london." "oh, aunt!" interposed emma, "but she dressed and looked so--so--very properly. i am sure she has married some person of her choice, and lives happily. it would just complete her story." the mention of a story after dinner, in the height of the london season, is sufficient to wake up any drawing-room, and had its natural effect on lady annette's. "oh, pray what was it?" demanded half a dozen voices; and emma was of course obliged to relate the tale, with frequent applications for assistance to mr. thornley, whose replies, though always brief, were satisfactory, as he turned over the annual, apparently the least interested person in the room. when they had marveled sufficiently over her narrative, lady annette, being a little proud of miss leveson's sentiments, felt bound to acquaint them with the episode of the ring, which she had just finished when the first of the dining-room deserters straggled in. "the last time i saw her she looked sickly and careworn--far worse than that day we met her in the park. you recollect it, charles. we are speaking of grace greenside," said emma, addressing her aunt's cousin, as he took the nearest seat. "what of her now?" said charles, bending eagerly forward; but here mr. crainor interposed, with a petition that emma would sing them that charming song with which she enchanted lady wharton's party, as he, and in fact the whole company, was dying to hear it. in less than five minutes, which were consumed in general pressing, emma was conducted to the piano by mr. thornley. there was a deal of music, tea, chit-chat, and a breaking-up, but no more talk of grace greenside. "my dear boy," said mr. crainor, taking his nephew's arm with something of the warmth of wine in his manner, when they were fairly in the streets, it being eleven o'clock on a calm summer's night, and part of their way the same. "my dear boy, you are not aware of what injury you are doing to your best interests, as one may say, by keeping that girl so long about you. she has been notorious; and notorious people--women, i mean--are always dangerous. weren't they talking of her at lady annette's to-night? depend on it, the story will ooze out, you are so well known, and so much visited now. then people will call you dissipated, and i can't tell what. such tales always spoil a man's chances with advantageous ladies." "i was thinking of that myself," said edmund; "but it's a delicate point, and one wouldn't like a scene, you know." "true," responded his adviser; "but a little management will prevent that. captain lancer is your man, if you want to get clear off. just introduce him, and the whole business is done." "do you really think so?" said edmund, with a languid smile. "i'll stake ten to one on it," replied crainor; "lancer has tenfold your attractions for any woman, irresistible as you think yourself--a fine, forward-looking military man, who has fought half a dozen duels, not to speak of his experience. don't you know the captain is married, though he passes for a bachelor here? married an old ebony, with a whole sugar-plantation in jamaica, five years ago! that's what he sports upon; while rum, they say, consoles the lady for his absence. he told me the other day he was in want of some occupation, and i advise you to give him one; but good night," added the sage counselor, for by this time they were near edmund's lodgings; and even through the gaslight a pale face might be seen at the front window, looking anxiously out for him. sadly indeed was grace greenside altered since the day when the four passed her in the walk through leveson park. the lameness was long gone--her naturally good constitution had shaken off the effects of that fearful struggle; her dress was of somewhat better materials and a neater cut. she herself had something of a town look about her, as one whom three years' residence had made familiar with the noisy streets of london; but in the thin face and sunken eyes there were lines of care, and weary look, which told of lonely winter evenings and pining summer days. for three long years the girl had shared edmund thornley's apartments, in the strangely-blended capacities of mistress and valet. that a maid-of-all-work in a solitary farm-house, who was eighteen, could scarcely read, and had a cross stepmother, should have been induced to enter on such a course by a man so far her superior in fortune and education, not to speak of eight years' seniority, must be matter of marvel to those only whose wisdom and virtue are of the untried sort. but so it was; and farm-servant as she had been, it was wonderful how little poor grace was spoiled by her change of position. it might be that the girl was by nature too simple or too honest to take its ordinary advantages, such as they are; perhaps it was not fine things and nothing to do alone that she expected in london with edmund, when leaving behind her good name and country summers--the only good things that life had given her; at all events, she lived humble and retired days, aiming only to take care of thornley's domestic interest to the utmost of her power, and make herself generally useful to him in sickness and health. there was a suitability in that conduct to the peculiar tastes of the gentleman. like most selfish people, he was a great admirer of self-devotedness in others; and, long after the days of first fancy and flattery were over, continued to value grace as a contributor to his comfort, in the fashion of an easy chair or a good fire. did not she keep every thing in order for his comings and goings, which, with edmund thornley, were as regular as the clock on the mantle-piece, for he was a most quiet bachelor, and never forgot himself; but now the convenience might cost him too dear, and must be parted with, according to his uncle's counsel. so, with it on his mind, and the usual calm smile on his face, he received her kindly greeting, heard and repeated the intelligence of the day over a nice supper, and retired to rest. next day, mr. crainor introduced captain lancer to his nephew, at a coffee-house; and thornley brought him home to dine, and introduced him to grace, after which, as his servant remarked, "it was hextonishing how often that ansum capting called, and how many messages the master sent him home with to miss greenside; till one day he eard her speak monstrous loud up stairs, and there was a door slammed, and the capting came down looking all of a eap." the servant might also have observed that, during the day, grace looked impatiently for his master; but edmund did not come, for he and captain lancer dined together at a tavern. the nights were growing long, and the harvest moon could be seen at intervals through the fog and smoke of london. grace thought how it shone on corn-fields and laden orchards far away, and how long it was since she left them; but other and more troubled thoughts passed through her mind as she sat waiting for thornley. it was not yet eight, but that was his knock, and in another minute he stepped into the room. "edmund, dear," said the girl, eager to unburden her mind, "i have a strange story for you to-night. that captain lancer is a bad, bad man. would you believe it, edmund, he told all sorts of stories on you this day, and asked me to go with him to france, the villain!" "indeed!" said thornley, seating himself, with a look of prepared resolution. "that was a good offer, grace. the captain is very rich, and might marry you." grace stared upon him in blank astonishment. "you see," continued the unmoved edmund, "you and i can live together no longer; my character would suffer, and my prospects too, grace. you would not injure my prospects? besides, you want country air; it would be good for you to go home a little time, and i would give you something handsome, and see you off on the middlesex coach." the amazement had passed from the girl's face now; for all that she had half suspected, and tried not to believe so long, was proved true to her. "is it emma leveson you are going to marry?" she said, growing deadly pale. "perhaps," said thornley. "but, dear me, what is the matter?" as grace looked down for an instant at the ring on her little finger, then sunk down on a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "here," continued edmund, pulling out his pocket-book, which contained the only consolation known to him, "i have not much to myself, but here are two hundred pounds; it will make you live like a lady among them;" and he laid the notes in her lap. grace never looked at him or them; she sat for about a minute stiff and silent, then rose, letting the bank-paper scatter on the carpet, and walked quickly out. edmund heard her go up stairs, and come down again; there was a sound of the hall-door shutting quietly, and when he inquired after it the servant told him miss greenside had gone without saying any thing. edmund gathered up the notes, and locked them in his desk, smoked a cigar, read the _court journal_; but grace did not come back, nor did she ever again cross the threshold. when thornley told mr. crainor, on the earliest opportunity, that gentleman averred that the girl had looked out for herself before captain lancer came, and edmund said, "it was wonderful that she left the notes behind her, for all the money she could have was some savings in a little purse." one sunday, about six weeks after the event we have related, charles monroe, on search of a short way from the scotch church to his chambers, was passing through a poor but decent street, known as cowslip-court, though a cowslip had never been seen there within the memory of man, when his attention was attracted by an old woman in dingy black, looking for something on the ground, with a most rueful countenance. "what have you lost, my good woman?" inquired charles in some curiosity. "it's a ring, sir," said the dame, "was left me by a poor soul as was buried this morning. some people thought it strange to see her so young by herself, but she wor a decent creature for all that, and did what she could in honesty. first she took to sewing, sir; but that didn't do, for she was sickly, and got worse, till at last she died, all alone in my two-pair back. and i'm sure that ring wor a love-token, or something of the sort, for she used to cry over it when no one was by, and once bade me take it when she was gone, because i minded her in her sickness; and i was just going to show it to mrs. tillet, when it dropped out of my fingers. but lauk, sir, there it is!" "it's emma leveson's ring," said charles, picking up the little turquoise from among the dust at his feet. "was the woman's name grace greenside?" "just the same sir," said its new owner, clutching at the ring; "an' she was--" "a fool," added a more than half-intoxicated soldier, with a long pipe in his mouth, lolling on the steps of an empty house as if they had been a sofa. "i tell you she was a fool; and i was a gentleman once in my day, but i was unfortunate. they wouldn't let me stay at college, though i kept the gamest pack in cambridge; and after that i took--to a variety of business," said he, with another puff; "but if that girl had taken me at my word, i would have stood by her. see the foolishness of women! she would keep the old house, and transport skulking tom; he partly deserved it for hitting her so hard, and there's what's come of it." with a repetition of his last aphorism, the soldier smoked on, and charles after a minute inspection, recognized in the dirty and prematurely old man his once boisterous class-fellow, harry williams. the time for remonstrance or improvement was long past with him, and charles had grown a stranger to his memory; so, without word or sign of former acquaintance, he purchased the ring from that communicative old woman at about three times its lawful price, collected what further information he could regarding the deceased, and went his way. "ay," said charles, gazing on the ring some time after, when the whole particulars of her story were gathered, "had she been worse or wiser, poor grace would have fared better in this world;" and then he thought of the ring's first owner. but, before the period of his musings, lady annette and her niece had gone with some of their noble relations to spend the winter in italy, edmund thornley accompanying them on a visit to his father's residence; and, in her latest letter to a confidential cousin, emma had mentioned that his fine sense of propriety, and his enthusiasm for all that was great and good, made him a most delightful companion on the continent. the golden age. the father sits, and marks his child through the clover racing wild; and then as if he sweetly dream'd, he half remembers how it seem'd when he, too, was a reckless rover among the bee-beloved clover: pure airs, from heavenly places, rise breathing the blindness from his eyes, until, with rapture, grief, and awe, he sees again as then he saw. as then he saw, he sees again the heavy-loaded harvest wain, hanging tokens of its pride in the trees on either side; daisies, coming out at dawn, in constellations, on the lawn; the glory of the daffodil; the three black windmills on the hill, whose magic arms fling wildly by, with magic shadows on the rye: in the leafy coppice, lo, more wealth than miser's dreams can show, the blackbird's warm and woolly brood, with golden beaks agape for food! gipsies, all the summer seen, native as poppies to the green; winter, with its frosts and thaws, and opulence of hips and haws; the mighty marvel of the snow; the happy, happy ships that go, sailing up and sailing down, through the fields and by the town;-- all the thousand dear events that fell when days were incidents. and, then, his meek and loving mother-- oh, what speechless feelings smother in his heart at thought of her! what sacred, piercing sorrow mounts, from new or unremembered founts, while to thought her ways recur. he hears the songs she used to sing; his tears in scalding torrents spring; oh, might he hope that 'twould be given. either in this world, or in heaven, to hear such songs as those again! --but life is deep and words are vain. mark yonder hedgerow, here and there sprinkled with spring, but mainly bare; the wither'd bank beneath, where blows, in yellow crowds, the fresh primrose: what skill of color thus could smite the troubled heart-strings thro' the sight what magic of sweet speech express their primeval tenderness? can these not utter'd be, and can the day-spring of immortal man? "give wisely!" an anecdote. one evening, a short time since, the curate of b., a small village in the north of france, returned much fatigued to his humble dwelling. he had been visiting a poor family who were suffering from both want and sickness; and the worthy old man, besides administering the consolations of religion, had given them a few small coins, saved by rigid self-denial from his scanty income. he walked homewards, leaning on his stick, and thinking, with sorrow, how very small were the means he possessed of doing good and relieving misery. as he entered the door, he heard an unwonted clamor of tongues, taking the form of a by no means harmonious duet--an unknown male voice growling forth a hoarse bass, which was completely overscreeched by a remarkably high and thin treble, easily recognized by the placid curate as proceeding from the well-practiced throat of his housekeeper, the shrewish perpetua of a gentle don abbondio. "a pretty business this, monsieur!" cried the dame, when her master appeared, as with flashing eyes, and left arm a-kimbo, she pointed with the other to a surly-looking man, dressed in a blouse, who stood in the hall, holding a very small box in his hand. "this fellow," she continued, "is a messenger from the diligence, and he wants to get fifteen francs as the price of the carriage of that little box directed to you, which i'm sure, no matter what it contains, can't be worth half the money." "peace, nanette," said her master; and, taking the box from the man, who at his approach, civilly doffed his hat, he examined the direction. it was extremely heavy, and bore the stamp of san francisco, in california, together with his own address. the curate paid the fifteen francs, which left him possessed of but a few sous, and dismissed the messenger. he then opened the box, and displayed to the astonished eyes of nanette an ingot of virgin gold, and a slip of paper, on which were written the following words: "to monsieur the curate of b. "a slight token of eternal gratitude, in remembrance of august th, . "charles f----. "formerly sergeant-major in the --th regiment; now a gold-digger in california." on the th of august, , the curate was, on the evening in question, returning from visiting his poor and sick parishioners. not far from his cottage he saw a young soldier with a haggard countenance and wild bloodshot eyes, hastening toward the bank of a deep and rapid river, which ran through the fields. the venerable priest stopped him, and spoke to him kindly. at first the young man would not answer, and tried to break away from his questioner; but the curate fearing that he meditated suicide, would not be repulsed, and at length, with much difficulty, succeeded in leading him to his house. after some time, softened by the tender kindness of his host, the soldier confessed that he had spent in gambling a sum of money which had been entrusted to him as sergeant-major of his company. this avowal was made in words broken by sobs, and the culprit repeated several times, "my poor mother! my poor mother! if she only knew--" the curate waited until the soldier had become more calm, and then addressed him in words of reproof and counsel, such as a tender father might bestow on an erring son. he finished by giving him a bag containing one hundred and thirty francs, the amount of the sum unlawfully dissipated. "it is nearly all i possess in the world," said the old man, "but by the grace of god you will change your habits, you will work diligently, and some day, my friend, you will return me this money, which indeed belongs more to the poor than to me." it would be impossible to describe the young soldier's joy and astonishment. he pressed convulsively his benefactor's hand, and after a pause, said, "monsieur, in three months my military engagement will be ended. i solemnly promise that, with the assistance of god, from that time i will work diligently." so he departed, bearing with him the money and the blessing of the good man. much to the sorrow and indignation of nanette, her master continued to wear through the ensuing winter, his old threadbare suit, which he had intended to replace by warm garments; and his dinner frequently consisted of bread and _soupe maigre_. "and all this," said the dame, "for the sake of a worthless stroller, whom we shall never see or hear of again!" "nanette," said her master, with tears in his eyes, as he showed her the massive ingot, whose value was three thousand francs, "never judge hardly of a repentant sinner. it was the weeping magdalen who poured precious ointment on her master's feet; it was the outlawed samaritan leper who returned to give him thanks. our poor guest has nobly kept his word. next winter my sick people will want neither food nor medicine; and you must lay in plenty of flannel and frieze for our old men and women, nanette!" monthly record of current events. political and general news. united states. in politics the past month has been distinguished by the occurrence of elections in several of the states, and by a general agitation, in every section of the union, of questions connected with the subject of slavery. the discussions through the press and before public audiences, have been marked by great excitement and bitterness, and have thus induced a state of public feeling in the highest degree unfavorable to that calm and judicious legislation which the critical condition of the country requires. we recorded at the proper time, the passage by congress of the several measures generally known as the "peace measures" of the session--the last of which was the bill making more effectual provision for the recovery of fugitive slaves. congress had no sooner adjourned than these measures, and especially the last, became the theme of violent public controversy. in the northern states, several attempts to regain possession of fugitives from slavery in new york, boston, philadelphia, pittsburgh, and other places, were resisted with great clamor, and served to inflame public feeling to a very unhealthy extent. in our last number we mentioned some of the incidents by which this agitation was marked. it influenced greatly the elections in new york, massachusetts, and other states, where nominations for congress and state officers were made with special reference to these questions. the result of these elections is now to be recorded. in our last number we mentioned the action of the whig state convention at syracuse, the secession of forty members in consequence of the adoption of a resolution approving the course of senator seward, and their subsequent meeting at utica, and renomination of the same ticket. mr. hunt, the whig candidate for governor, wrote a letter expressing acquiescence in the peace measures of congress, but adding that the fugitive slave law contained many unjust provisions, and ought to receive essential modifications. a convention representing the anti-renters of the state afterward assembled, and nominated mr. hunt as their candidate for governor. on the d of october he wrote a letter to the committee declining to recognize the action of any organization except that of the whig party from which he had first received his nomination, and adding that, if elected, his "constitutional duties could not be changed, nor his conduct in the discharge of them influenced, by the course taken in the election by any particular class of our citizens or any organization other than the party to which he belonged." under all circumstances, he said, it would be his highest aim to execute his official trust with firmness and impartiality. he would "be actuated by an honest desire to promote justice, to uphold the supremacy of the law, to facilitate all useful reforms, to second legitimate endeavors for the redress of public grievances, and to protect the rights and advance the welfare of the whole people." in the city of new york, meantime, there had been a growing feeling of apprehension at the tone of current political discussions and at the opposition everywhere manifested at the north to the fugitive slave law, and on the th of october a very large public meeting was held at castle garden of those who were in favor of sustaining all the peace measures of congress, and of taking such measures as would prevent any further agitation of the question of slavery. mr. george wood, an eminent member of the new york bar, presided. a letter was read from mr. webster, to whom the resolutions intended to be brought forward had been sent, with an invitation to attend the meeting. the invitation was declined, but mr. webster expressed the most cordial approbation of the meeting, and of its proposed action. he concurred in "all the political principles contained in the resolutions, and stood pledged to support them, publicly and privately, now and always, to the full extent of his influence, and by the exertion of every faculty which he possessed." the fugitive slave law he said, was not such a one as he had proposed, and should have supported if he had been in the senate. but it is now "the law of the land, and as such is to be respected and obeyed by all good citizens. i have heard," he adds, "no man, whose opinion is worth regarding, deny its constitutionality; and those who counsel violent resistance to it, counsel that, which, if it take place, is sure to lead to bloodshed, and to the commission of capital offenses. it remains to be seen how far the deluded and the deluders will go in this career of faction, folly, and crime. no man is at liberty to set up, or to affect to set up, his own conscience as above the law, in a matter which respects the rights of others, and the obligations, civil, social, and political, due to others from him. such a pretense saps the foundation of all government, and is of itself a perfect absurdity; and while all are bound to yield obedience to the laws, wise and well-disposed citizens will forbear from renewing past agitation, and rekindling the names of useless and dangerous controversy. if we would continue one people, we must acquiesce in the will of the majority, constitutionally expressed; and he that does not mean to do that, means to disturb the public peace, and to do what he can to overturn the government." the resolutions adopted at the meeting, declared the purpose "to sustain the fugitive slave law and its execution by all lawful means:" and that those represented at the meeting would "support no candidate at the ensuing or any other election, for state officers, or for members of congress or of the legislature, who is known or believed to be hostile to the peace measures recently adopted by congress, or any of them, or in favor of re-opening the questions involved in them, for renewed agitation." this meeting was followed by the nomination of a ticket, intended to represent these views, and those candidates only were selected, from both the party nominees, who were known or believed to entertain them. mr. seymour (dem.) was nominated for governor; mr. cornell (whig) for lieutenant governor; mr. mather (dem.) for canal commissioner; and mr. smith (whig) for clerk of the court of appeals. this movement in new york city in favor of these candidates, caused a reaction in favor of the others in the country districts of the state. the election occurred on the th of november, and resulted as follows: _whigs._ _democrats._ _gov._ hunt , seymour , _lieut. gov._ cornell , church , _canal com._ blakely , mather , _prison ins._ baker , angel , _clerk_ smith , benton , from this it will be seen that mr. hunt was elected governor, and all the rest of the democratic ticket was successful. thirty-four members of congress were also elected, there being of each political party. the legislature is decidedly whig. in the senate, which holds over from last year, there is a whig majority of ; and of the newly elected members of assembly, are whigs, and democrats. this result derives special importance from the fact that a u.s. senator is to be chosen to succeed hon. d.s. dickinson, whose term expires on the th of march, . the vote on the repeal of the free school law was as follows: against repeal , for repeal , -------- majority against repeal , in new jersey a state election also occurred on the th of november. the candidates for governor were dr. fort, democrat, and hon. john runk, whig. the result of the canvass was as follows: fort , runk , ------- fort's majority , five members of congress were also elected, of whom were democrats, and whig. in ohio the election occurred in october, with the following result: wood, democrat , majority , . johnston, whig , smith, abolitionist , twenty-one members of congress were elected, of whom were whigs, and democrats. in massachusetts the election took place on the th of november, with the following result for governor--there being, of course, no election, as a majority of all the votes cast is requisite to a choice: briggs, whig , boutwell, democrat , phillips, free soil , of congressmen, whigs are chosen, and in districts no choice was effected. hon. horace mann, the free soil candidate, succeeded against both the opposing candidates. to the state senate whigs and of the opposition were chosen; and to the house of representatives whigs, opposition, and in districts there was no choice. the vacancies were to be filled by an election on the th of november. a u.s. senator from this state is also to be chosen, to succeed hon. r.c. winthrop, who was appointed by the governor to supply the vacancy caused by mr. webster's resignation. no more elections for members of congress will be held in any of the states (except to fill vacancies) until after march th, . the terms of senators expire on that day--of whom are whigs, and democrats. judging from the state elections already held there will be whigs and democrats chosen to fill their places. the u.s. senate will then stand thus: holding over whigs democrats. new senators " " -- -- total the house of representatives comprises members, of whom have already been chosen, politically divided as follows--compared with the delegations from each state in the present congress: . . _whig._ _dem._ _whig._ _dem._ missouri iowa vermont florida maine south carolina pennsylvania ohio new york new jersey wisconsin michigan massachusetts[ ] illinois delaware -- -- -- -- should the remaining states be represented in the next congress politically as at present, the democratic majority would be about . in reference to the contingency of the next presidential election devolving upon the house, for lack of a choice by the people, of the above states would go democratic, five of them whig, and one (the state of new york), would have no vote, its delegation being equally divided. the delegations of the same states in the present congress are as follows, viz., whig, democratic, and one (iowa) equally divided. while such have been the results of the elections in the northern states, and such the tone of public feeling there, a still warmer canvass has been going on throughout the south. we can only indicate the most prominent features of this excitement, as shown in the different southern states. in georgia a state convention of delegates is to assemble, by call of the executive, under an act of the legislature, at milledgeville, on the th of december: and delegates are to be elected. the line of division is resistance, or submission, to the federal government. a very large public meeting was held at macon, at which resolutions were adopted, declaring that, if the north would adhere to the terms of the late compromise--if they would insure a faithful execution of the fugitive slave bill, and put down all future agitation of the slavery question--then the people of the south will continue to live in the bonds of brotherhood, and unite in all proper legislative action for the preservation and perpetuity of our glorious union. hon. howell cobb, speaker of the house of representatives, made a speech in support of these resolutions. hon. a.h. stephens, r. toombs, senator berrien, and other distinguished gentlemen of both parties, have made efforts in the same direction, and public meetings have been held in several counties, at which similar sentiments were proclaimed. the general feeling in georgia seems to be in favor of acquiescence in the recent legislation of congress, provided the north will also acquiesce, and faithfully carry its acts into execution. in south carolina, the whole current of public feeling seems to be in favor of secession. at a meeting held at greenville, on the th of november, col. memminger made a speech, in which he expressed himself in favor of a confederation of the southern states, and if that could not be accomplished, then for south carolina to secede from the union, stand upon and defend her rights, and leave the issue in the hands of him who ruleth the destinies of nations. he was answered by general waddy thompson, who depicted forcibly and eloquently the ruinous results of such a course as that advised, and repelled the charges of injustice urged against the northern states. the meeting, however, adopted resolutions, almost unanimously, embodying the sentiments of col. memminger. and the tone of the press throughout the state is of the same character. in alabama public opinion is divided. a portion of the people are in favor of resistance, and called upon gov. collier to convene a state convention, to take the matter into consideration. the governor has issued an address upon the subject, in which he declines to do so, at present, until the course of other southern states shall have been indicated. he says that while all profess to entertain the purpose to resist aggression by the federal legislature on the great southern institution, public opinion is certainly not agreed as to the time or occasion when resistance should be interposed, or as to the mode or measure of it. he apprehends renewed efforts for the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia, and pertinacious exertions for the repeal of the fugitive slave law; that california will be divided into several states, and that the north will thus acquire power enough so to amend the federal constitution as to take away the right of representation for the slaves--a result which he, of course, regards as fatal to the south. he believes that any state has a right to secede from the union, at pleasure, but thinks that a large majority of the people of alabama, are strongly disinclined to withdraw from the confederation, until other measures have been unsuccessfully tried to resist further aggression. under these circumstances, he recommends the people of the state so to develop their resources, establish manufactures, schools, shipping houses, &c., as to become really independent of the north. this is the policy which, in his judgment, will prove most effectual in securing the rights, and protecting the interests of the south. hon. mr. hilliard has written a letter to the citizens of mount meigs, declaring that, though opposed to the admission of california, he sees nothing in the measures of the last session which would justify the people of the southern states in resisting them, or furnish any ground for revolution. a very large mass meeting of the citizens of montgomery county, held on the th of october, adopted resolutions, first reciting that a systematic and formidable organization is in progress in some of the southern states, having for its object some form of violent resistance to the compromise measures passed by congress at its last session; and that if this resistance is carried out according to the plans of a portion of the citizens of the southern states, it must, inevitably, lead to a dissolution of the union; and that the montgomery meeting, though they do not approve of them all, do not consider these measures as furnishing any sufficient and just cause for resistance; and then declaring, . that they will rally under the flag of the union. . that they will support no man for any office, who is in favor of disunion, or secession, on account of any existing law or act of congress. . that they acquiesce in the recent action of congress. and, . that if the compromise should be disturbed, they will unite with the south in such measures of resistance as the emergency may demand. in mississippi the contest is no less animated. it was brought on by the issuing of a proclamation by gov. quitman, calling a state convention, for the purpose of taking measures of redress. a private letter, written by gov. quitman, has also been published, in which he avows himself in favor of secession. on the last saturday in october, a mass meeting was held at raymond, at which col. jefferson davis was present, and made a speech. he was strongly in favor of resistance, but was not clear that it should be by _force_. he thought it possible to maintain the rights of the south in the union. he was willing, however, to leave the mode of resistance entirely to the people, while he should follow their dictates implicitly. mr. anderson replied to him, and insisted that the federal government had committed no unconstitutional aggression upon the rights of the south, and that they ought, therefore, to acquiesce in the recent legislation of congress. senator foote is actively engaged in canvassing the state, urging the same views. he meets very violent opposition in various sections. in louisiana indications of public sentiment are to be found in the position of the two united states senators. mr. downs, in his public addresses, takes the ground that the south might as well secede because illinois and indiana are free states as because california is. he admits that california is a large state, but he says she is not half so large as texas, a slave state, brought into the union five years ago. mr. soulÉ, the other senator, having expressed no opinion upon the subject, was addressed in a friendly note of inquiry first by hon. c.n. stanton, asking whether he was in favor of a dissolution of the union, of the establishment of a southern confederacy, or of the secession of louisiana, because of the late action of congress. mr. soulÉ, in his reply, complains bitterly of the "vile abuse" heaped upon him, charges his correspondent with seeking his political destruction, and refers him to his speeches in the senate for his sentiments upon these questions. a large number of the members of his own party then addressed to mr. soulÉ the same inquiries, saying that they did it from no feeling of unkindness, but merely to have a fair and proper comprehension of his opinions upon a most important public question. mr. s., under date of oct. , replies, refusing to answer their inquiries, and saying that their only object was to divide and distract the democratic party. senator downs, in reply to the same questions, has given a full and explicit answer in the negative: he is not in favor of disunion or secession. a letter written during the last session of congress, dated january , , from the members of congress from louisiana, to the governor of that state, has recently been published. it calls his attention to the constant agitation of the subject of slavery at the north, and to the fact that the legislature of every northern state had passed resolutions deemed aggressive by the south, and urging the governor to recommend the legislature of louisiana to join the other southern states in resisting this action. the opinion is expressed that "decisive action on the part of the southern states at the present crisis, is not only not dangerous to the union, but that it is the best, many think, the only way of saving it." among the political events of the month is the publication of a correspondence between hon. isaac hill, long a leader of the democratic party in new hampshire, and mr. webster, in regard to the efforts of the latter to preserve the peace and harmony of the union by allaying agitation on the subject of slavery. mr. hill, under date of april , wrote to mr. webster expressing his growing alarm at the progress of ill-feeling between the different sections of the country, and his conviction that "all that is of value in the sound discrimination and good sense of the american people will declare in favor of mr. webster's great speech in the senate upon that subject. its author," he adds, "may stand upon that alone, and he will best stand by disregarding any and every imputation of alleged inconsistency and discrepancy of opinion and practice, in a public career of nearly half a century." mr. webster, in acknowledging the letter, speaks of it as "an extraordinary and gratifying incident in his life," coming as it did from one who had long "belonged to an opposite political party, espoused opposite measures, and supported for high office men of very different political opinions." they had not differed, however, in their devotion to the union; and now, that its harmony is threatened, it was gratifying to see that both concurred in the measures necessary for its preservation. his effort, he says, had been and would be to cause the billows of useless and dangerous controversy to sleep and be still. he was ready to meet all the consequences which are likely to follow the attempt to moderate public feeling in highly excited times, and he cheerfully left the speech to which mr. hill had alluded, "with the principles and sentiments which it avows, to the judgment of posterity." a public dinner was given to the hon. john m. clayton on the th of november, by the whigs of delaware, at wilmington, at which mr. c. made a long and eloquent speech in vindication of the policy pursued by the late president taylor and his administration. he paid a very high tribute to the personal character, moral firmness, patriotism, and sagacity of the late president, and vindicated his course from the objections which have been urged against it. he expressed full confidence in the perpetuity of the union, and ridiculed the apprehensions that have been so widely entertained of its dissolution. a large number of guests were present, and letters were read from many distinguished gentlemen who had been invited but were unable to attend. preferences were expressed at the meeting for gen. scott as a candidate for the presidency in . colonel richard m. johnson, vice president of the united states for four years from , died at frankfort, ky., on the th of november, aged . he has been a member of congress, and senator of the united states from kentucky, and acquired distinction under general harrison in the indian war of . at the time of his death he was a member of the kentucky legislature. great britain. the event of the month which has excited most interest, has been the establishment by the pope of roman catholic jurisdiction in england. the pope has issued an apostolic letter, dated september th, which begins by reciting the steps taken hitherto for the promotion of the catholic faith in england. having before his eyes the efforts made by his predecessors, and desirous of imitating their zeal, and carrying forward to completion the work which they commenced, and considering that every day the obstacles are falling off which stood in the way of the extension of the catholic religion, pius ix. believes that the time has come when the form of government should be resumed in england such as it exists in other nations. he thinks it no longer necessary that england should be governed by vicars apostolic, but that she should be furnished with the ordinary episcopal form of government. being confirmed in these thoughts by the desires expressed by the vicars apostolic, the clergy and laity, and the great body of english catholics, and, also, by the advice of the cardinals forming the congregation for propagating the faith, the pope decrees the re-establishment in england of a hierarchy of bishops, deriving their titles from their own sees, which he constitutes in the various apostolic districts. he then proceeds to erect england into one archiepiscopal province of the romish church, and divides that province into thirteen bishoprics. the promulgation of this letter created throughout england a feeling of angry surprise, and nearly the whole of london has teemed with the most emphatic and earnest condemnation of the measure. in order somewhat to mitigate the alarm of startled protestantism, dr. ullathorne, an eminent catholic divine, has published a letter to show that the act is solely between the pope and his spiritual subjects, who have been recognized as such by the english emancipation act, and that it does not in the slightest degree interfere with the laws of england, in all temporal matters. he shows that the jurisdiction which the pope has asserted in england, is nothing more than has been exercised by every communion in the land, and that nothing can be more unfair than to confound this measure, which is really one of liberality to the catholics of england, with ideas of aggression on the english government and people. in , he says, england was divided into four vicariates. in , the four were again divided into eight; and, in , they are again divided and changed into thirteen. this has been done in consequence of efforts begun by the catholics of england, in , and continued until the present time. by changing the vicars apostolic into bishops in ordinary, the pope has given up the exercise of a portion of his power, and transferred it to the bishops. this letter, with other papers of a similar tenor, has somewhat modified the feeling of indignation with which the pope's proceeding was at first received, and attention has been turned to the only fact of real importance connected with the matter, namely, the rapid and steady increase of the roman catholics, by conversions from the english established church. the _daily news_, in a paper written with marked ability, charges this increase upon the secret catholicism of many of the younger clergy, encouraged by ecclesiastical superiors, upon the negligent administration of other clergymen, and upon the exclusive character of the universities. very urgent demands are made by the press, and by the clergy of the established church, for the interference of the government against the pope's invasion of the rights of england; but no indications have yet been given of any intention on the part of ministers to take any action upon the subject. a good deal of attention has been attracted to a speech made by lord stanley, the leader of the protectionist party in england, at a public dinner, oct. th, in which he urged the necessity, on the part of the agricultural interests of the kingdom, of adapting themselves to the free-trade policy, instead of laboring in vain for its repeal. the speech has been very widely regarded as an abandonment of the protective policy by its leading champion, and it is, of course, considered as a matter of marked importance with reference to the future policy of great britain upon this subject. the marquis of granby, on the other hand, at the annual meeting of the waltham agricultural society, held on the th of october, again urged the necessity of returning to the old system of protection, and exhorted reliance on a future parliament for its accomplishment. the subject of agriculture is attracting an unusual degree of attention, and the various issues connected with it, form a standard topic of discussion in the leading journals. the tenant right question continues to be agitated with great earnestness and ability in ireland. a deputation from the ulster tenant right provincial committee waited on the earl of clarendon during his visit to belfast to present an address. the earl declined to receive them, but wrote a letter, dated sept. , in reply to one inclosing a copy of the address. he expressed great satisfaction at the prevalence of order and at the evidence of agricultural prosperity, and assured them of the wish of the government to settle the rights of tenants on a just and satisfactory basis. a great tenant right meeting was held at meath, october th, at which some , persons are said to have been present. the committee of prelates appointed by the synod of thurles to carry into execution the project of establishing a catholic university in ireland, on the model of the catholic university at louvain, have resolved that regular monthly collections, on the plan of that for the propagation of the faith, be made throughout the kingdom by local committees, of which the parochial clergy are to be ex-officio members. they have published a long address to the catholics of ireland, insisting on the grave evils to faith and morals of separating religion from secular education, and calling loudly for support to their projected establishment. the month has been distinguished in england by an extraordinary prevalence of crime. murders, burglaries, and other offenses against the law have been frequent beyond all former experience. the details of these incidents it is not worth while to give. the household narrative gives a chapter, written after the manner of ledru rollin, in which the state of england during the month of october is presented in a most unpromising light. the writer says that, notwithstanding the gloominess of the picture, every fact stated in it is true, and every inference is false. there have also been an unusual number of accidents during the month. miss howard, of york place, has assigned over to trustees £ , , for the erection of twenty-one houses on her property at pinner, near harrow, in the form of a crescent; the centre-house for the trustees, the other twenty houses for the use of twenty widows, who are to occupy them free of rent and taxes, and also to receive £ a year clear of all deductions. the widows of naval men to have the preference, then those of military men, and, lastly, those of clergymen. this is justly chronicled as an act of munificent charity. the free grammar school at richmond, erected as a testimonial to the memory of the late canon tate, who was one of the most successful teachers in england, was opened with much ceremony on the d of october. a temperance festival was held on the th, at the london tavern. the company, between five and six hundred, were entertained with tea, speeches, and temperance melodies. the principal speaker was mr. george cruikshank, the celebrated artist, who was vehemently applauded. negotiations have been entered into with the lords of the admiralty and government authorities for the establishment of a submarine telegraph across st. george's channel, upon a similar though much more extensive scale to that now being undertaken between england and france. from the extreme western coast of ireland to halifax, the nearest telegraphic station in america, the distance is miles; and as this might be accomplished by the steamers in five or six days, it is apprehended that england, by means of telegraphic communication, may be put in possession of intelligence from america in six days, instead of as now in twelve or fourteen. the queen and prince albert have returned from their visit to scotland. they remained at balmoral till the th oct., on the morning of which day they departed for the south. they arrived at edinburgh about seven in the evening. preparations had been made to give a loyal welcome; and among the features of the demonstration, was a bonfire piled to the height of forty feet on the summit of arthur's seat. the blazing mass consisted of thirty tons of coal, a vast quantity of wood saturated with oil and turpentine, and a thousand tar-barrels. it was kindled at five o'clock, and the flames are said to have been seen by the queen for many miles of her route on both sides of the forth. the party left edinburgh next morning, and arrived in the evening at buckingham palace; and on saturday, the th, they went to osborne. intelligence has been received from the arctic expedition in search of sir john franklin. the north star, which went out as a tender-ship to the expedition of sir john clark ross a year and a half ago, returned unexpectedly to spithead on the th of september, bringing dispatches from the ships of the four expeditions which went out early this year. the prince albert, a ship dispatched in july last, under captain forsyth, to make a special search beyond brentford bay, returned to aberdeen on the th ult. dispatches from captain ommaney, captain penny, sir john ross, and captain forsyth, have been published by the admiralty; but they throw little or no light on the fate of the missing voyagers. the british government has decided to send all letters and newspapers for the united states by the first steamer, whether american or english. hitherto they have invariably been detained for a british steamer, unless specially marked for transmission by the american line. a dublin paper states that dr. wiseman, who has been made archbishop of westminster by the pope, is a native of seville, where his parents, who are natives of waterford, ireland, resided several years. his father was a wine-merchant in andalusia. the lord mayor of york gave a splendid entertainment to the lord mayor of london, on the th of october, which was attended by a great number of the leading men of england. prince albert was present, and made a very sensible and pertinent extempore speech. its leading feature was a marked and impressive eulogy on sir robert peel. in alluding to the interest taken by sir robert in the great industrial exhibition, prince albert took occasion to say that he had assurances of the most reliable character that the works in preparation for the great exhibition were "such as to dispel all apprehension for the position which british industry will maintain." at the meeting of the canford estate agricultural show on the d of october, the lady of sir john guest made a brief but most admirable speech, expressing her regard for the laboring classes of england, and her earnest desire that the utmost efforts should be made for their elevation and improvement. this unusual incident, and the admirable spirit which it evinced, elicited great applause. the town council of manchester are taking vigorous steps to compel the manufacturers of that city to consume the smoke of their furnaces, and thus to rid the city of the dense cloud which has hung over it hitherto. the process is found to be perfectly practicable, and decidedly economical. some of the heaviest manufacturing establishments in the city testify to a saving of _one-third_ in coal. the issue of the experiment will be important. the rapid increase of burglaries and thefts in birmingham has elicited from mr. d.h. hill a suggestion for the suppression of crime, which is regarded as pertinent and important by the leading journals. he proposes that whenever a jury is satisfied that an accused party is addicted to theft, he shall be compelled to prove a good character, and to show means of subsistence, on penalty of being adjudged a thief, and punished accordingly, under an old statute. emigration from ireland to the united states continues and increases. a great part of those who leave are described by the irish papers as being farmers of the most respectable class, and considerable apprehensions are expressed of the injurious effect of the movement on the prosperity of the country. a letter from brazil, written by lieut. bailey of the royal navy, details some rather prompt proceedings on his part in the capture of slavers. he was sent out to the brazil station, and arrived off rio janeiro june th, and in sight of the harbor captured a vessel engaged in slave-trading, and sank her the same night. on the th, he captured a second, and sent her to st. helena for adjudication; and on the d, he seized another, taking her out of a brazilian port, which has hitherto been contrary to law. the affair excited a good deal of feeling in brazil, and was likely to lead to a misunderstanding with the english government. the effect of such proceedings, in exasperating a government which might be induced by friendly appeals to put an end to slave-trading, is forcibly urged. the paris correspondent of the london times has developed an alleged secret plot of the red republicans, to revive the revolutionary fever throughout europe, and the substance of his statements is also given in the paris _patrie_--both accounts being evidently derived from the same source. it is asserted that the socialists have leagued themselves together and that a secret congress of their chiefs was held in paris on the d of june, where they planned a gigantic conspiracy, the ramifications of which extend to the whole of europe, and even to the heart of russia, where it is said to menace a terrible explosion. the motto which has been adopted is, "_sans pitié ni merci_," and it has been resolved that all the chiefs of states shall be assassinated. it is added that in one of the numerous secret meetings held by the initiated under the presidency of the principal agents, the death of the bonapartists was sworn, and would be the signal for the destruction of all the bourbons, and of all their friends and supporters. the threat uttered by one of the german chiefs of the conspiracy was to the effect that "on the field of battle we shall spare no one, and we will strike down our dearest friends if they are not unconditional communists." after indicating the dépôts of arms formed by the communist conspirators in all the capitals where it has established seats, enumerating the means employed to ensnare the foolish and the ambitious, and, in fact, indicating all its resources and all its plans, the document informs us that the object of the conspiracy is to arrive, by means of general confusion and a sanguinary combat, at the extermination of all those who possess a foot of land, or a coupon of _rente_, and that it has sworn the oath of hannibal against all the monarchies of europe. _plunder and assassination form the basis of the plan._ the document terminates thus, "the soil of europe is undermined, so as to render a frightful catastrophe imminent." the pretended revelation is ridiculed in nearly all quarters. on the destruction of the roman republic, the roman representatives appointed a national committee, of which mazzini was the head, with extensive political powers. this committee has just issued an address, dated at london, calling on all italians and all italian provinces to join their standard, promising them eventual success. in the course of the address they declare that they have effected such an organization of the forces of the movement as circumstances permit, and insist on the necessity of italy becoming an independent nation. we have hitherto alluded to the public agitation started in the british colony of new south wales in favor of independence, by dr. lang, who had organized an association for the purpose of accomplishing the object which he declared to be so desirable. the movement has been represented by the english papers as being unsupported by the colonists, and as, therefore, of no importance. we see, however, that dr. lang has recently been elected mayor of the city of sydney, which shows that the people there, at least, have confidence in his character and respect for his views. france. nothing important has occurred in france during the month, except a change in the war department, growing out of the supposed efforts of the president to attach the army to his interests. on the d of october the president reviewed a great body of troops near versailles. he was accompanied by the minister of war, and by general roguet, his aid-de-camp. general changarnier left paris an hour before the president. though entitled to take the command he did not do so, general neumayer acting in his room. after the review the president gave a collation to the officers and non-commissioned officers, and ordered , rations to be distributed to the soldiers. the president joined the collation given to the general officers, but general changarnier declined being present, and returned to paris. the frequency of these reviews, the manner in which the troops were feasted by the president, the manifestations made by the soldiers, and the rumor that a difference of opinion existed between the president and general changarnier on the subject, led to an extraordinary meeting of the commission of permanence. the minister of war, general hautpoul, having been called on to explain the circumstances with reference to the late reviews, replied that he wished to inform the commission that he held no command from the assembly, and that, consequently, he could deny the right of the commission to put any questions to him. he, however, waived these objections; and, in reply to the question, said that the accounts published in the papers respecting the reviews were grossly exaggerated; and that nothing whatever had occurred there of an unconstitutional or an unmilitary character. the minister further observed that it would be impossible to publish an order of the day preventing the soldiers from expressing their feelings of attachment and respect to the chief of the state, and if it were possible he would not do so. with respect to the review that was to take place on the following thursday, he pledged himself for the maintenance of the most complete tranquillity on that occasion. when the commission was about to separate, the president again addressed the minister of war, and said, "general hautpoul, i am desired by the committee to apprise you that in case general changarnier be removed from his command, or that any other steps be taken against him, we are determined to convoke, forthwith, the legislative assembly." to this the minister made no reply, and the commission adjourned. on thursday the th, the review referred to by the minister of war took place. there were , troops, chiefly cavalry. the president was accompanied by general hautpoul, the minister of war, and several other general officers, besides his usual brilliant staff. when the defiling of the troops in front of the president took place, he was loudly hailed by part of the cavalry, who cried "vive l'empereur!" "vive napoleon!" after the troops had defiled, the usual refreshments were served out to them, and the president, accompanied by his staff, paid a visit to the camp, but general changarnier left the ground. the _proces-verbal_ of the meeting of the council of permanence, held on the th, drawn up by m. dupin to the president, was to the following effect: the violation of the promises made by the minister of war, and the unconstitutional manifestations, provoked or tolerated, are severely blamed. the committee did not think proper to invite the minister of war to give further explanations. deploring the incidents of the review, it still expressed complete confidence in the loyalty of the army, and is satisfied that the cries were not spontaneous on the part of the soldiers, but instigated by certain officers. in order to avoid alarming the country in the absence of imminent peril, it has not deemed proper to convoke the assembly; but it deeply disapproves reviews so frequent, into which habits altogether unusual and foreign to military traditions have been so boldly introduced. as a sequel to these disputes, general hautpoul has found it necessary to resign his place in the government, and has gone to algeria as governor of that colony. he is succeeded as minister of war by general schramm. soon after the accession of the latter, an official notification appeared in the _moniteur_ that general neumayer had been removed from the command of the st division and appointed to the th. the reason given for this removal is said to be that general n., at the last review at satory, expressly enjoined the troops not to give utterance to any cry whatever, deeming silence to be more strictly in accordance with the regulations of the army, and in conformity, too, with the instructions he had received from the commander-in-chief. this, it is said, much displeased both louis napoleon and the minister of war. at all events, general changarnier was greatly offended at the removal, and a complete breach has occurred between him and the president. he refuses to resign until the assembly shall have passed judgment in the matter. the danish war. the war between _denmark and the duchies_ is bloody and disastrous. the army of schleswig-holstein has made several attempts to take the city of friedrichstadt by storm, none of which have been successful, and the losses sustained by general willisen have been considerable, particularly in officers. after bombarding part of the town during the whole of the th of october, the town was in the evening attacked by two battalions of infantry and a detachment of riflemen. after a desperate struggle, in which both sides must have suffered very heavy losses, the danes gave way a little, but only to seek the cover of new entrenchments and barricades thrown up in the middle of the town. the resistance which they met with here was so violent and determined, that notwithstanding the most brilliant bravery, the schleswig-holsteiners were compelled to retire at midnight. they took up a new position somewhat in advance of the old, and the conflict was renewed on the following morning, but with no better success. the fighting continued till near midnight. sixteen officers out of twenty belonging to the th battalion were slain. general christiansen covered the retreat with his battery, while the flames of the burning city cast a ghastly light upon the retiring troops. after the failure of this desperate assault, general willisen withdrew his troops from before friedrichstadt. the heavy guns were taken back to rendsburg, and the two armies were again in the same position they occupied before the th of september; the only result having been the almost total destruction of the unfortunate town, and the loss of many brave men on both sides. the danish journals of the th state that orders have been issued for the return to copenhagen of all the danish ships of war, except the smaller craft, in consequence of the advanced season of the year, and its accompanying storms, which render it nearly impossible for vessels to hold to the coast. a rumor has obtained currency through the _times_ that the aid extended to the schleswig-holsteiners by prussia, has led to the interference of russia and of france, and that these two powers have jointly proposed to england that the three powers shall peremptorily require prussia to fulfill her recent engagement with denmark, and withdraw the support she still continues to give to the schleswig-holstein army. in the event of prussia hesitating to comply with this reasonable demand, russia and france are prepared to back it, by an invasion of the silesian provinces of prussia on the one side, and the rhenish on the other. the british government, in reply, it is said, declines to join with russia and france in such a note as that described, but proposes that all three powers shall separately remonstrate with prussia on her present breach of faith with the danish government. these rumors have created a good deal of interest and anxiety, as threatening the peace of europe. india and china. the accounts from india are from bombay to october , and from calcutta to september st. great preparations were on foot for the great industrial exhibition at london. the maharajah has ordered specimens of every kind of cashmerian product to be got ready without delay. the shawls intended for the purpose are described as remarkably splendid. the heir to the throne, rajah runheer singh, having heard of the distinguished "success" at london of the nepaul envoy, is anxious to visit england himself; but the prospect of a disputed succession, in the event of his father's death, will probably keep him at home. the whole of _british india_ was tranquil, but the petty civil war on the nizam's borders still continued. the native state of _oude_ seems inclined to rival the nizam's territories in anarchy and misgovernment. some months since an english officer was killed and two guns lost in an attack on the fort of a refractory vassal of the king of oude. a second event of the same nature has occurred. the rajah of esanuggur had shown himself for some time unwilling to pay the portion of revenue due from him to the oude government, and in endeavoring to obtain these dues from him, lieut. p. orr, with a small party, had a brisk fight, each side losing a considerable number. lieut. orr was forced to retreat, and took refuge in the districts of a rival rajah. the present aspect of the _punjaub_ is most encouraging; the population, now disarmed, have settled down into their former habits of industry. the breadth of land under cultivation this season is said to be unprecedented, and the crops are every where most promising. the most important piece of intelligence from _hong-kong_ is the continuation of the fearful mortality among the british troops. this mortality was chiefly in the th regiment, which had lost ninety men in about two months. this sickness, therefore, is ascribed to the unhealthiness of the barracks and the want of sufficient sanitary precautions. the mortality, however, had begun to abate. a formidable _insurrection_ against the chinese government had broken out in the province of kwang-si. the leader, who is named li-ting-pang, is said to be at the head of , men. he has assumed the title borne by the highest tartar generals, and threatens to exterminate the present, and restore the old chinese dynasty. in bombay, the culture of cotton is rapidly extending. two years ago, the whole of the land under cultivation with american cotton in that presidency, was under twenty thousand acres. at the present moment the quantity exceeds one hundred thousand acres, and there is every certainty of a rapid increase taking place. at a court martial held in bombay, lieut. rose was found guilty of a want of spirit, in applying to the civil power for an escort of police to protect him from mr. lang, editor of the mofussilite, with whom he had a quarrel. he was sentenced to be reprimanded by sir charles napier, and to lose his staff appointment. turkey. the question as to the hungarian refugees is not yet arranged. numerous communications have taken place on this subject between the porte and the austrian internuncio, and a recent conference has been held between the british embassador and general aupick. the divan, considering itself pledged to austria by its anterior declaration, is unwilling to break, inconsiderately, an engagement of this nature, by which its relations with the court of vienna might be gravely compromised. in order, therefore, to conciliate all parties, the porte has written on this subject to its embassador at vienna, directing him to confer with the austrian cabinet on the modifications that it may be possible and desirable to make in the situation of the refugees. the russian minister affects not to interfere in this affair, but, notwithstanding this, it is obvious to every one that he is in private communication with the austrian internuncio. the turkish fleet, which had been for some time cruising in the archipelago, has returned to constantinople. tuscany. the representative constitution and the liberty of the press have been destroyed in _tuscany_. on the d sept. two decrees were promulgated; the first announced the dissolution of the chamber of deputies and declared that till a fresh convocation of the legislature, all power would be exercised by the grand duke in the council of state. the second declared that no journal or periodical should be published without first obtaining the written authorization of the minister of the interior, to whom the names and other circumstances of the director and of the proprietor of the printing establishment are to be communicated. eastern and southern europe. a frightful calamity has occurred at the place of pilgrimage called herrgott, in _austria_. at one of the public-houses the pilgrims (of whom there were assembled at herrgott) were spending the night in eating and drinking. while baking the fish the oven took fire. behind the inn were a number of stables and barns, in which hundreds of the pilgrims were reposing, and almost all perished in the flames. scarcely half of the pilgrims were saved, and those who survived have for the most part been much injured. from _poland_ there is a singular account of a forest on fire. near cracow, adjoining the line of railway, there is a large peat ground, part of which runs below an immense forest. some sparks from a locomotive engine were blown in that direction, and fell on the peat. a few days after, the ground in the forest was found to be very warm, and some rumbling and crackling noises were heard. several large trees fell as if cut down by an ax, and the leaves of others withered. as it was naturally considered that a subterranean fire must be burning under the forest, the officers charged with the inspection of it caused large trenches to be cut. this conjecture turned out to be well-founded, for the fire soon afterward burst forth, and still continued its ravages. the forest presented the appearance of a vast sea of flame, which was every day extending. the country round to the extent of six leagues was perfectly illuminated, and it has been found impossible to stop the progress of the fire. the long expected constitution for galicia has at length appeared. that crown land will have three districts, cracow, lemberg, and stanislawow--each with a separate administration. in cracow the specific polish, and in stanislawow the ruthennian element is prevalent. lemberg, the capital of galicia, is the seat of the provincial government. in the lemberg district the two branches of the same race (the sclavonic) are mixed. the constitution for the bukowina has also been published. this remote crown land is divided into six districts or captaincies, which are under the immediate control of the stadtholder of the province, who has still to be appointed. count goluchowski had been sworn in as stadtholder of galicia. letters from ravenna, in the _genoa gazette_, give appalling accounts of the progress of brigandage in the roman states. two persons, considered as spies by the bandits, had been decapitated by them in the vicinity of the above-mentioned town, and their heads placed on poles at a cross-road. the diligence of imola has lately been stopped and robbed of scudi ( f.) belonging to the pope. at lugo, three individuals carried off , f. from a bank, and passed triumphantly through the town with their booty, without any one daring to stop them. an extensive conspiracy has recently been discovered at teheran. the most influential members of the clergy were at the head of it, and its object was to overthrow the present shah, to replace him by a descendant of ali, and to drive all the turks out of persia. numerous arrests have been made at teheran, and in the principal towns. the greater number of those arrested belong to the body of ulemas. letters, science, art, public men, etc. united states. the past month has not been marked by any movements of importance in any of these departments. our publishers have generally confined their issues to works especially intended for the holiday season. most of our public men have been recruiting themselves from the fatigues of the late protracted session of congress, or preparing, by taking part in the political canvass, for the session that is at hand. mr. clay was received at lexington with abundant demonstrations of enthusiastic personal and political affection. he has remained at home during the vacation. mr. webster has been spending some weeks at his farm in marshfield, and at his native town, franklin, n.h. during his stay at the latter place a number of his old friends and neighbors paid him a visit, and sat down to an old-fashioned dinner, at which friendly greetings were exchanged with their distinguished host. the occasion was one of rare enjoyment. mr. webster's health has been very sensibly benefited by this greatly needed interval of relaxation from public duties. in some remarks made at an informal meeting with some friends in boston, mr. w. said that for six months during the last session of congress, he had not slept two hours any one night. a public dinner was recently given at boston to amin bey, the turkish envoy to the united states, by some of the merchants of boston. thomas b. curtis presided, and a large number of distinguished guests were present. amin bey replied to a toast complimentary to the sultan, by expressing his warm sense of the friendliness with which he had been received in this country, and his earnest desire for an extension of commerce and of mutual kind offices between his own government and that of the united states. mr. webster made a brief and eloquent response to a toast thanking him for his efforts in behalf of the union. in the course of his remarks he said that "the slavery question new england could only interfere with as a meddler: she had no more to do with it than she had with the municipal government of a city in the island of cuba." very eloquent speeches, breathing similar sentiments, were made by edward everett, mr. winthrop, and others and j.p. brown esq., the interpreter of amin bey, responded happily to a toast complimenting hon. george p. marsh the american minister at constantinople. mr. brown said that as a diplomatist and a scholar mr. marsh enjoyed, in an eminent degree, the respect and esteem of the enlightened young sultan of turkey, and all his ministers. m. alexandre vattemare, who is known as the founder of the system of international exchanges, has taken leave of the united states in a very warm and eloquent address, expressing his gratitude for the kindness of his reception, his brilliant anticipations of the great results which time will develop from the system to which he has devoted his life, and commending it to the favor and aid of the american people. the world has seen few instances of rarer or more disinterested devotion to high public objects than this amiable and enthusiastic gentleman has exhibited. the statue of john c. calhoun, made by powers for the city of charleston, and which was lost by shipwreck off fire island, has been recovered, and sent forward to its destination. the left arm was broken off at the elbow: with this exception it was uninjured. at a recent meeting of the academy of design in new york, it was stated by the president, mr. durand, that the institution had incurred a considerable debt beyond its resources, and mentioned a proposition that the artists connected with it should paint pictures to be disposed of for the benefit of the academy. in regard to the mode of disposing of them a raffle was suggested: but mr. cozzens, the president of the art-union, being present as an honorary member, at once offered to purchase them at such a price as might be fixed upon them by the academy. the proposition was at once accepted, and has given great and general satisfaction as an indication of good feeling between two institutions which have been sometimes represented as hostile to each other. mr. wm. d. gallagher, who is very favorably known as a literary gentleman of ability, has received the appointment of confidential clerk in the treasury department at washington. mr. william w. story, son of the late judge story, has recently returned from italy, where he has been perfecting himself in the art of sculpture, for which he abandoned the profession of law a few years since. he brought with him a number of very beautiful models made while at rome. he has executed a bust of the distinguished jurist, his father, for the inner temple, london. he will return to rome in the spring. we understand that the painting and gilding of white china, imported from england and france, is engaging considerable attention in this country, and that there is one establishment in boston where above a hundred persons are constantly employed. prof. filopanti, an italian scholar of some distinction, has been delivering a series of lectures in new york, on the influence of secret societies on the revolutions of ancient and modern rome. hon. daniel d. barnard has sailed for europe to enter upon his duties as american minister at berlin. previous to his departure his fellow citizens of albany addressed him a very complimentary letter, expressing their regret at the loss of his society, and their admiration of his character. mr. b. is one of the most cultivated and scholarly of american statesmen. it is stated, though we know not upon what authority, that col. bliss is preparing a history of the campaigns of general taylor. such a work would be of great value and interest, historically and in a literary point of view. g.p.r. james, esq., is delivering his lectures on the history of civilization in different northern cities. he intends to spend the winter at the south. he has placed one of his sons at yale college, and the other in the law school at new haven. mr. crawford, the american sculptor, is soon to commence modeling the statue of washington, which our government has commissioned him to execute. from a granite basement, in the form of a star of six rays, rises a pedestal, upon which stands the equestrian statue, in bronze, sixteen feet in height. the six points of the star are to be surmounted with six colossal figures. the casting will be executed either at paris or munich. steps have been taken to erect a suitable monument to the memory of general warren. a committee of which mr. everett was chairman have reported in favor of a statue to be placed in faneuil hall, boston. a bust of ethan allen has just been completed by a vermont artist, mr. kinney. he had a great deal of difficulty in procuring an accurate likeness; the grandson of allen, colonel hitchcock of the army, is said to bear a striking personal resemblance to the old hero. the bulletin of the american art-union contains information concerning american artists which has personal interest:-- durand has not yet removed from his residence on the hudson. kensett and champney have been sketching among the white hills of new hampshire. cropsey is at his country studio, at greenwood lake. church and gignoux have returned from the coast of maine with their portfolios well stocked with sketches. ranney continues to work upon his picture of _marion, with his army, crossing the pedee_, which will soon be completed. matteson, now residing at sherburne, has nearly finished a picture representing _a trial scene in the backwoods_, which, it is said, will advance his reputation. jones, a sculptor who has a high reputation at the west, has removed to new york; he has already modeled busts of general taylor, lewis cass, henry clay, thomas corwin, and other notabilities, and is now employed on a spirited head of general scott, at the order of some friends in detroit. edwin white is diligently pursuing his studies in paris. hall, we believe, has also gone to paris from düsseldorf. page has arrived in florence, which place he intends to make his residence for several months. he has formed a warm intimacy with powers, whose portrait he is painting. whitridge and mcconkey have lately sent home several pictures which indicate improvement, although they are somewhat tinged with the mannerism of the düsseldorf school, where these artists have been studying so long. they propose to leave germany very soon, and after visiting italy and france, to return home in the spring. leutze is at work on his great picture of _washington crossing the delaware_. the size of this painting is the same with that of those in the rotunda of the capitol, twelve feet by eighteen feet. it will probably be completed in the spring, when the artist intends to accompany it to this country, from which he has been absent now about ten years. upjohn, the architect was, by the last accounts, in venice. glass has returned to his residence at kensington, near london, from the neighborhood of haddon hall, where he has been assiduously engaged in sketching. he is at work upon a group of paintings, illustrative of scenes in the wars of the stuarts. he is an artist of decided merit and increasing reputation. great britain. in england very few books of special value or interest have been published or announced. the most important book of the month is the first part of a very able and laborious compilation on _commercial law_ by mr. leone levi. the object of the entire undertaking, is to survey the principles and administration of all the various commercial laws of foreign countries, with a view to a direct comparison with the mercantile law of great britain. mr. levi appears to have been engaged for years, with this object, in correspondence with the merchants of upward of fifty countries remarkable more or less for distinct and separate commercial usages; and to have obtained in every instance the information he sought. his ultimate object, is the establishment of a national and international code of commerce among all civilized countries, rejecting what is inconvenient or unjust in all, and retaining and codifying what is best in each. a life of wordsworth, by the rev. christopher wordsworth, is announced as in press. its appearance will be awaited with interest. m. mazzini has just republished his letters, orations, and other tracts on italy, with an eloquent and earnest appeal to the english people, in a small volume entitled _royalty and republicanism in italy_. m. mazzini repels in this book the charge so often brought against him of having distracted and divided the forces of his native country, at the time when they ought to have been concentrated on the paramount duty of driving out the austrians. a curious incident connected with american history is mentioned in the closing volume of southey's life, which has just been published in london. while jared sparks was examining the state papers in the public offices of the british government, so much matter was ferreted out that the government "wished to tell its own story," and southey adds, that his "pulse was felt," but he declined writing it on the ground that others could perform the task as well, and he had other engagements on hand. southey, in , declined a proposal from fraser to write a popular history of english literature in four volumes. it is to be regretted that he did not write such a work. in a letter to a friend, speaking of the foreign review, southey says that of its contributors, he "only knows that _an edinburgh person_, by name carlyle, has written the most striking papers on german literature." this style of reference to one who is now one of the most eminent english writers, strikes a reader as curious. in the same letter he speaks of heraud, as "a man of extraordinary powers, and not less extraordinary industry and ardor." in , sir robert peel wrote to southey, informing him that he had advised the king to "adorn the distinction of the baronetage with a name the most eminent in literature, and which had claims to respect and honor which literature alone could never confer"--that of southey himself. he accompanied this with a private letter, begging to know if there was any way in which the possession of power would enable him to be of service to mr. southey. the latter replied, in a letter marked by the utmost propriety, declining the baronetcy, as he had not the means of supporting it, and asking for an increase of his pension, which was then £ . sir robert soon after added to this a new pension of £ , on a public principle, "the recognition of literary and scientific eminence as a public claim." he conferred, at the same time, a similar pension on professor airey, of cambridge, mrs. somerville, sharon turner, and james montgomery. the _athenæum_ says that an experiment, set on foot by the liberality of a few humane persons in the vicinity of london, has proved conclusively that the number of idiots exceeds that of lunatics, and that very much may be done, not only to promote their physical comfort, but to bring the small germs of intellect which exist even in the most imbecile minds, into intelligent and useful activity. encouraged by this success, they have appealed to the public for aid in establishing an institution for the relief of that unfortunate class. they propose to erect a building suitable for three hundred patients. the proprietors of the marine telegraph between england and france propose, instead of laying a wire like the one which the storm broke recently, to have new wires inclosed in ropes of four or five inches in diameter--the first layer being made of gutta percha, and the outer one of iron wire, all chemically prepared to resist the action of water and the attacks of marine animalculæ. in each cable there will be four lines of communication, and two cables will be laid down at a distance of three miles apart, to provide for any accident that may happen to one of them. the whole, it is said, will be ready in may next, and a grand inauguration is proposed, prince albert being at one end of the wire and louis napoleon at the other. a project is on foot to reclaim from the sea, at norfolk, , acres of land, said to be of great agricultural value. the estimated expense of doing it is £ , . mr. halliwell has addressed a letter to the _times_, complaining of an unauthorized republication in london of an edition of shakspeare, with introductions and notes by himself, published with considerable success in new york. miss martineau has been exciting a good deal of mirth in england by a published account of having succeeded in mesmerizing a sick cow. dr. maitland is urging the formation of a society to bring out new editions of the most celebrated and least accessible works on church history. his plan is received with favor by the literary and religious journals. the foundations of several old walls, supposed to have formed a roman burial mound, have recently been discovered in hertfordshire, and means have been adopted to give the locality a thorough exploration. several human skeletons were found in the vicinity. new statues of newton, shakspeare, milton, and bacon, are to be set up on the four new pedestals in the british museum; models of them have been made by sir richard westmacott. an elaborate piece of sculpture has also been prepared for the tympanum of the pediment, representing the progress of man from a savage condition up to the highest state of intellectual advancement. mr. godwin has addressed a letter to the lord mayor elect of london, on the subject of improving the character of the annual city "show" on the th of november, and urging that some little invention and taste might be exercised upon it, in lieu of repeating year after year the same dull and effete routine. he thinks that so ancient a custom ought not to be abandoned, and proposes to raise it out of the monotonous and prosaic routine into which it has fallen, by the introduction, among other changes, of emblems and works of art, accordant with its ancient character, and worthy of the present time. the effect of the great industrial exhibition upon the health of london is engaging considerable attention. it is estimated that not less than a million of people will pour into the city at that time, and it is contended by medical men of eminence that, unless wise and vigorous measures be adopted, so vast and sudden an influx will create a pestilence. the remedy proposed is to secure in some way the daily distribution of the arrivals over a large area in london, and a series of cheap trains which would carry off a portion of the pressure daily, spreading the gathered millions over thirty or forty miles of movable encampment. sundry relics, ropes, canvas, bones, &c., were recently brought to england by the prince albert, which were found at cape riley, in the arctic seas, and were supposed to afford traces of sir john franklin. they were submitted by the admiralty to captain parry, sir john richardson, and others for examination, and the conclusion arrived at is, that they were left at cape riley by sir john franklin's expedition about the year . it is supposed that being stopped by ice, sir john remained there for a short time making observations, &c. the reports are elaborate, and evince careful and minute investigation. the conclusion at which they arrive is very generally credited, so that the first part of sir john's adventures in the arctic seas is supposed to be at length known. the building for the great exhibition in london has been commenced, and the work upon it goes forward with great rapidity. it is said that the exhibition will probably have the effect to create several local museums of great interest and importance. the advantages of such institutions, especially to inventors, would be very great. delaroche's great picture of "napoleon crossing the alps," has reached london, where it is on exhibition. it is described as being wonderfully exact in copying nature, but as lacking elevation of purpose and the expression of sentiment. an officer in a french costume, mounted on a mule, is conducted by a rough peasant through a dangerous pass, whose traces are scarcely discernible through the deep-lying snow--and his aid-de-camp is just visible in a ravine of the towering alps. these facts, the _athenæum_ says, are rendered with a fidelity that has not omitted the plait of a drapery, the shaggy texture of the four-footed animal, nor a detail of the harness on his back. the drifting and the imbedded snow, the pendent icicle which a solitary sun-ray in a transient moment has made--all are given with the utmost truth. but the lofty and daring genius that led the humble lieutenant of ajaccio to be the ruler and arbiter of the destinies of the largest part of europe, will be sought in vain in the countenance painted by m. delaroche. a curious discovery has been made in a collection of ancient marbles at marbury hall, in cheshire, formed at rome in the middle of the last century. a fragment of the frieze of the parthenon has been found, and is unmistakably identified by its exactly fitting the parent stone in the british museum. the people of sheffield are subscribing and soliciting subscriptions in other cities for a monument to the memory of the poet ebenezer elliott. it is not intended that the monument should be vast or expensive, but that a neat cenotaph or column, at a cost of twelve or fifteen hundred pounds, should be erected and placed in a position suitable to do honor to the genius whose memory it is to perpetuate. the statue in honor of chief justice tindal is nearly completed. the inscription for the pedestal, contributed by justice talfourd, speaks of the illustrious man in whose honor it is erected, as "a judge, whose administration of english law, directed by serene wisdom, animated by purest love of justice, endeared by unwearied kindness, and graced by the most lucid style, will be held by his country in undying remembrance." the roman government has ordered the students of art, before admission to the academies of the city, to be examined as to the state of their morals and their opinions on politics. mr. hely, an english sculptor, has been commanded to quit the roman territories; the marriage of his sister to the celebrated dr. achilli is supposed to have been the reason for this command. the london papers complain that the americans are the only people in rome who are permitted to "exhibit their political, artistic, and religious heresies with impunity;" and they cite in proof powers's emblematic statue of the republic of america trampling under its feet the kingly diadem; crawford's design for the monument to washington, which the _athenæum_ says is original and striking; and the fact, that the american residents have just obtained permission to erect a protestant church, the first ever built in the eternal city. a good deal of difficulty has been experienced in deciding on the erection of a bridge at westminster. the _athenæum_, is reminded, by the investigations, of a story told of a board of magistrates in the west of ireland who met to consider the propriety of erecting a new jail, when, after a protracted and bewildering discussion, they formally passed three resolutions; namely, that a new jail should be built--that the materials of the old jail should be used in constructing the new one--and that the prisoners should be kept as securely as possible in the old jail until the new one was ready for their reception! a new college--with peculiar features which give it general interest--is about to be established in glasgow. it is to consist of two distinct parts; the school proper and the college. in the first, as is deemed suitable in a great commercial city, youths will be grounded in the elements of a sound commercial education; in the second the senior students will go through the usual course of preparation for the universities. the college is to be self-supporting, unsectarian, and non-political. the fees are settled on a scale so low as to make the trial interesting as an experiment--and the lectures are to be open to ladies: a library and reading-room are to form parts of the establishment. the _sanctum_ of the duke of wellington at walmer castle is described as a room of but ordinary size, destitute of ornament, and with but scanty furniture, bearing very much the appearance of the apartment of a petty officer in a garrison. on the right is an ordinary camp bedstead, with a single horse-hair mattress, and destitute of curtains. over this is a small collection of books, comprising the best english classical authors, french memoirs, military reports, official publications, and parliamentary papers. in the centre of the room is an ink-stained mahogany table, at which the duke is occupied in writing some two or three hours each day; and near this is a smaller portable desk, used for reading or writing while in bed; besides these, the furniture of the room consists of some two or three chairs. the window looks out upon the sea, and a door opens upon the ramparts where, until recently, the duke was always to be found as early as six o'clock, taking his morning walk. gutzlaff, the missionary to china, presents one of the most striking examples of activity upon record. he was born in , in pyritz, a pomeranian village, and commenced his missionary labors at about thirty years of age. he is now on a journey through europe, the object of which is to establish a christian union for the evangelization of china. in person he hardly realizes the usual romantic idea of a missionary hero. he is short and stout, with a ruddy face, broad mouth, and eyelids sleepily closed. his voice is strong and not pleasant; and he gesticulates violently. it has been often remarked that persons who have long resided among the american indians, become assimilated to them in personal appearance. a similar assimilation would seem to have taken place in the person of gutzlaff. his features have assumed an aspect so thoroughly chinese, that he is usually taken by them for a fellow countryman. a correspondent of an english journal furnishes some personal sketches of the men concerned in the government of the sandwich islands, which have considerable interest. the king, tamehameha iii., according to this writer, is a man of some education, for a native, and appears to take some interest in matters of state. he was formerly addicted to intemperance, but some years since, through the influence of the missionaries, abandoned the habit; but is said lately to have returned to it. he receives an income of $ , , besides rents from his estates to the amount of probably $ , more. all the principal departments of government, with but a single exception, are filled by foreigners. the minister of finance occupies the most important post, and exercises the most powerful influence. this is mr. g.p. judd, an american, a man of good education and sound judgment, and undoubtedly the fittest man in the kingdom for the post. the minister of foreign affairs is mr. r.c. wyllie, a scotchman. he was formerly a wealthy merchant, whom a roving disposition brought into the pacific in . he is a clever, social gentleman of nearly fifty years of age, who fills the office he holds with decided ability, and resolutely declines all compensation for his services. the minister of the interior is mr. john young, a half-breed, whose father was an englishman. he is about thirty-five years of age, and is said to be the handsomest man in the islands. he does no discredit to his post, although like other half-breeds, he can hardly be considered as of equal capacity to his european colleagues. the minister of public instruction is rev. b. armstrong, until some two years ago a missionary, who is said to be the best scholar in the hawaiian language in the islands. he and mr. judd, exercise the real government of the islands, which could hardly be in better hands. the salary of the ministers is $ per annum. lord john russell has intrusted the execution of the national peel monument to mr. gibson at rome. great complaints are made of injury done to books, and other valuable works, in the british museum. among the distinguished men who have died within the last month, we notice mr. watkins, the son-in-law and biographer of ebenezer elliott; nikolaus lenau, a german poet, who died in a madhouse; c.f. becker, "the genial," whose philological works have gained him a lasting reputation in the world of letters; carl rottman, painter to the king of bavaria, one of the first artists of the day; wenzel johann tomaschek, one of the first musical composers of modern times--"the ancient master of bohemian music," as he was fondly called at prague. france. m. taboureau has discovered a method of converting the mud of the newly macadamized boulevards at paris into bricks; and so confident is the expectation of thus using it, that the government has invited bids for the privilege of using it for a series of years. "cheap as dirt" has lost its meaning. a new shell has just been invented by a chemist named lagrange, which is said to be capable of sinking a ship of guns in a few minutes. some experiments made with it in the presence of skillful officers were entirely successful. an artist named garnier died lately in paris, whose only claim to distinction lay in the incredibly long time which he spent on incredibly poor pictures. one of them representing the entrance of napoleon and marie louise into the tuileries, took him _thirty-seven_ years, and when finished was a wretched daub. a notice of his life was read in the academy. the french papers state, that a number of workmen are employed in fixing a wire from the bastile to the madeleine, as an experiment for a new company that has proposed to establish an electric telegraph throughout paris for the transmission of messages. a belgian engineer, m. laveleye, proposes to connect the seine and the rhine by means of a canal, by constructing which, navigation would be open from london to the black sea and constantinople, through the heart of the continent, and by means of the great watercourses on or near whose banks lie the materials of nearly all the internal and external trade of europe. the estimated cost is £ , , . preparations are in active progress for the grand exhibition of french pictures and sculpture at the palais national, which is to commence on the th of december. the official notification which has been issued directs artists to send in their works from the d to the th of november. the exhibitors themselves are to choose the jury of selection, each exhibitor naming any one he may think fit. the first exhibition of the kind which ever took place in france was in ; and the first time a selecting jury was formed was in . after the revolution of the jury was abolished, and every body was allowed to exhibit; but this was found to be impracticable for the future, and the present system of the artists electing the jury themselves came into operation the following year. for upward of a century, the members of the academy of painting and sculpture enjoyed the exclusive privilege of exhibiting. although the censorship on theatrical pieces in paris has been re-established in even more than its wonted strictness, the prefect of police does not think it sufficient. he has recently directed the commissaries of police (there is one in every theatre every night) to pay particular attention to every performance, and to notify him if there be any thing "in the words, style, play, or costume of the actor, or in the applause or disapprobation of the public," which may appear politically objectionable. this proceeding of the prefect has caused profound dissatisfaction in the theatrical circles. the paris "_débats_" announces two new works from the pen of m. guizot, to be published at the end of this month. the first is entitled "monk; fall of the republic, and re-establishment of the monarchy in england in ." the second is "washington; foundation of the republic of the united states of america." an experiment has been made at the arsenal of metz, of mortars, hand grenades, and bombs made of zinc, which has completely succeeded. a vessel arrived at bordeaux on the th inst. from canton, having on board a curious collection of chinese arms and costumes for the museum of paris. several works concerning joan of arc have recently been published in france. the one which attracts most attention is devoted to her martial exploits, and shows that she did not hesitate in combat to put her foe to death with her own hand. it is also cited as completely exonerating the english from the odium of having had any part in her horrid execution, since it shows that she was tried, condemned, and executed by the inquisition--that the charges against her were purely and wholly ecclesiastical; that her trial was conducted in the pure ecclesiastical form, just as those of any other suspected sorcerer, witch, or heretic; and that in virtue of ecclesiastical laws she was sentenced and burned. an article on madame de genlis and the system of education which she adopted with the late king louis philippe, written by the eminent critic and academician m. de saint-beuve, has excited some attention. the writer dwells upon the prodigious memory of louis philippe, and says that he knew a good deal of almost every possible subject, and had a great faculty of displaying this multifarious knowledge in conversation. the members of the académie des sciences, at paris, have lately been racking their brains and wearying their tongues, in an attempt to decide _what_ forms the centre of the earth--whether it be a globe of fire or a huge furnace, as some say--a perfect void, as others maintain--a solid substance, harder than granite, according to some--or a mass of water according to others: but, as might readily be anticipated, these discussions have had no practical or useful result. the subject which has excited most attention at the meetings of the academy has been the inquiry made in algiers, by bernard and pelouze, upon the fearful poison called the woorari. the composition of this deadly matter has long been kept a mysterious secret among the priests and sorcerers of the rio negro and the amazon. it was analyzed by humboldt, and the experiments that have now been made confirm his views. it is a watery extract from a plant of the genus strychnos. a weapon with the smallest point covered with the matter kills as instantaneously as prussic acid. various experiments have been tried upon animals that show how immediate is its action, and the singular changes that result in the blood, which in a moment becomes of a death-black color, and does not, after death, on exposure to air, recover its usual redness. the trials at algiers have ceased to excite any attention. there are persons accused of a conspiracy to seize the government; the reports come down to the th of september. we learn from the paris _siècle_ that the academy of sciences has at present under consideration a project of a most extraordinary character, being neither more nor less than a suspension bridge between france and england. m. ferdinand lemaitre proposes to establish an aerostatic bridge between calais and dover. for this purpose he would construct strong abutments, to which the platform would be attached. at a distance of every yards across the channel he would sink four barges, heavily laden, to which would be fixed a double iron chain, of peculiar construction. a formidable apparatus of balloons, of an elliptical form, and firmly secured, would support in the air the extremity of these chains, which would be strongly fastened to the abutments on the shore by other chains. each section of yards would cost about , f., which would make , , f. for the whole distance across. these chains, supported in the air at certain distances, would become the point of support to this fairy bridge, on which the inventor proposes to establish an atmospheric railway. this project has been developed at great length by the inventor, and seems to be discussed with great gravity by the academy. mm. barral and bixio, whose two former ascents in crazy and ill-fitted balloons we noticed some time since, are now superintending the construction of an aerial machine better adapted for enabling them to pursue a course of studies in the atmosphere. its dimensions are to be fifty-four feet by forty-five, and will be capable of carrying up twenty persons, if inflated with pure hydrogen; if with carbonated hydrogen, twelve. we may now hope that the balloon will be redeemed from the service of charlatanism, and will contribute to the advancement of science. germany, italy, etc. as a natural result of the disturbances in germany, its current literature has to a great extent assumed the form of political pamphlets and romances. among the works of more general interest, which have recently made their appearance, we note the following: the book of predictions and prophecies: a complete collection of all the writings of all the prominent prophets and seers of the present and past; to wit, of ailly, bishop müller, peter tarrel, &c., with predictions concerning jerusalem, orval, the end of the world, &c. popular history of the catholic church, brought down to the present time, by j. sporchil. the present: an encyclopædic representation of contemporary history. this, though in some respects, an independent work, may yet be considered as a supplement to the celebrated conversations-lexicon. it is published in parts, of which two or three appear each month, twelve parts forming a volume. the parts which have just been published, contain the history of the german national congress; the hungarian revolution; the local and political state of nassau; the insurrection in schleswig-holstein in ; state and town of frankfort. it is published by brockhaus, of leipzig, who also announces new dramatic poems, by oehlenschlager. history of the heretics of the middle ages, especially of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, by c.u. hahn. henrietta herz, her life and reminiscences, edited by j. furst. the authoress passed a long life on terms of intimate friendship with men of science and literature. her reminiscences, though written late in life, present a lively and good-humored picture of the society of berlin for a long course of years, embracing sketches of mirabeau, jean paul, müller, the historian, schleiermacher, humboldt, ludwig börne, and others. a bronze statue of the celebrated agriculturist, albert thaer, has just been erected at leipzig. the costume is that of a german farmer, slightly idealized, and wearing a broad mantle. the right hand is raised as if in the act of teaching; the left holds a roll, with the inscription, "national husbandry;" and upon the marble pedestal is inscribed, "the german cultivators to the honored teacher, albert thaer." at the royal foundry in munich preparations are making for casting in bronze three colossal statues: that of gustavus adolphus, for göttenburg; that of the swedish poet tegner, for stockholm; and that of walter of plettenberg, a celebrated livonian general, surnamed "the conqueror of the russians." the last statue was modeled by schwanthaler; the others are the works of two young swedish sculptors, mm. fogelberg and quarnstroem, both residing in rome. an extract of a private letter from rome states that the coliseum is in process of restoration. lessing's great picture--"the martyrdom of huss," is described at length by a düsseldorf correspondent of the leipzig _grenzboten_. it is eighteen feet by fifteen, and contains some twenty-seven figures of the size of life; which, contrary to the practice of the french painters in pictures of this size, are so carefully finished, that they can be looked at close at hand. there is not a superfluous figure in the picture--none introduced to fill a space, as is too frequently the case in large paintings. the clearness of the general idea is not marred by the effect of the separate parts: the artistic separation of the group suffers the main figure first to attract the eye. in this picture lessing has given proof of his ability in landscape as well as in figures. the next work upon which he is to be engaged is a large picture, commissioned by the king of prussia, representing the imprisonment of pope paschal by henry v. an association has been formed in jerusalem for the investigation of subjects connected with the holy land, including history, language, numismatics, statistics, manufactures, commerce, agriculture, natural history, and every other subject of literary and scientific research, with the exception of religious controversy. from the names of those engaged in the project, it is hoped that the association will make large additions to our present stores of information respecting palestine. the leipzig journals contain notices of the recent productions of polish literature, which are not without interest even in this country. a romance, by the countess ludwica offolinska, recently published at cracow, has excited considerable attention. it is entitled "the fate of sophia," and is written with great simplicity, and the deepest religious feeling. the heroine receives at home a religious training, and then is thrown out into the world. she appears in succession as the waiting-maid, and then the friend of her mistress; then as maid to a worn-out woman of fashion, and at last as governess to the children of her first beloved mistress and friend. the sound principles she had learned at her father's house, serve her as a defense amid all the perils which surround her in her career. the same authoress has put forth two comedies: "the holy christ," and "vespers in the country." vincent pol, a poet, and for a short time professor of geography in the university of cracow, is one of the most distinguished geographers of the day. his "glance at the northern waters of the carpathians and their districts," is an earnest of important contributions to geographical science from the slavic countries. f. antoniewicz, an ecclesiastic, has published "a festival-day lecture to our people," written with great eloquence. rychcicki, otherwise known as a historian, has put forth a "history of the celebrated chancellor skarga, and a description of the century in which he lived." from the warsaw press have appeared, among other works, "a lexicon of polish painters," comprising all artists who were born, or lived in poland, or whose works refer to that country. it is by rastawiecki, contains two volumes, and is ornamented with portraits. dorbrski's "a few words more about the caucasus," is a continuation of a former work. from wilna appears the "athenæum," by the prolific kraszwski. it contains from the pen of the editor a work of great value, "lithuania under witold," and a romance. "the wilna album" contains seventy sheets of views of interesting and remarkable places in that city. there are now published in russia periodicals, of which are in russian, in german, in french, polish, lettish, and italian. of these are published in st. petersburgh, in the east-sea german provinces, in moscow, in odessa, and in the remaining parts of the empire. brockhaus, the great leipzig publisher, announces a translation into german of ticknor's history of spanish literature, by dr. r.h. julius, of hamburg; with the assistance of ferdinand wolf, of vienna, and other scholars. the german editor has labored for several years in this department of literature, and will also avail himself of dozy's learned work on arabian-spanish literature, which appeared in holland in . a paragraph in the london builder states that a very curious discovery has been made in the mosque of st. sophia, at constantinople. in the course of cleansing and repairing the interior, the original decorations in mosaic have been brought to light, including, as it is said, a portrait of constantine. drawings have been made, and are on their way to england. the sultan, to prevent the necessity of removing them, as portraits are prohibited by the koran, has considerately ordered them to be covered up again. a newly invented locomotive steam engine has been tried at charleroi, with full success. the inventor, m. hector de callias, a sardinian engineer, proposes to increase the speed of locomotives, to give them an adherence four times greater than they now have, and to decrease the expense of fuel. by the pressure of only one atmosphere the wheels made, in the trial referred to, revolutions a minute, which would give a speed of leagues an hour. the belgian minister of public works has appointed a committee of engineers to report to him on the experiments which are to take place on the government lines, and has ordered every assistance to be given to the inventor to facilitate his object. meyerbeer is engaged in composing the music for the choruses of the eumenides of Æschylus, which is about to be represented at berlin, at the special request of the king of prussia, who is passionately fond of the old greek drama. interesting descriptions are given of the _volks-fest_, or great festival of the bavarian people, celebrated at munich on the first of october, in which the peasants from all the royal possessions receive from the king, in presence of the assembled multitude, prizes for the good results of their labor in rearing cattle, &c. the week this year opened with wet weather, which did not, however, prevent the attendance of an immense number of the people of all classes and conditions. the king maximilian, with his brother otho, king of greece, was present, occupying a splendid pavilion in the centre, around which were ranged boxes for the gentry and seats for the people. three days were devoted to the exhibition of cattle, grain, and agricultural products of all kinds, intermingled with various sports and gymnastic exercises, and the fourth was set apart for the unvailing of the gigantic statue of _bavaria_, the colossal gift of the ex-king ludwig to his people. this great statue was commenced in , and is now only so far finished as to warrant the removal of the wooden screens by which it has been concealed. it is fifty-four feet high, and stands upon a granite pedestal of thirty feet. it is cast in bronze, of which not less than tons were consumed, and is described as a work of imposing sublimity and profound beauty. it has for the back-ground a white marble temple, called the "hall of heroes," of doric architecture, composed of a centre and two wings, and forming a semi-circle behind the figure. to convey some idea of the size of the statue it is stated that the face is equal to the height of a man, the body twelve feet in diameter, the arm five, the index finger six inches, and two hands can not cover the nail of the great toe. the grandeur of the features is sanctified by the gracious sweetness of the expression; the clustering hair falls on either side from the noble brow, and is entwined with a circle of oak-leaves, one uplifted arm holding the fame-wreath of laurel, the other grasping a sword, beneath which sits the lion. skins clothe the vast body to the hips; solemn folds of massive drapery, passing off the large symmetry of the limbs to the feet. the material difficulties attendant upon the casting were very great. the unvailing of this great work was made the occasion for a carnival of _fun_. men of every trade brought for display gigantic specimens of their respective callings, made upon the same scale as the statue, which were exhibited with great parade and amidst magnificent music, and processions, &c. after the multitude had been collected in front, the screen was suddenly removed, and the colossal statue stood revealed, and was greeted with shoutings, and the voice of an immense band of singers. an oration in honor of the king was then pronounced by teichlein the painter, from the steps of the pedestal, after which the throng dispersed. the director of the observatory at st. petersburg, m. kuppffer has applied to the french government to establish a number of stations in different parts of the country for taking meteorological observations, with the view of aiding him in the vast studies he has been for some time past making, respecting the climates of different countries. in england and germany it appears such stations have been formed, and have proved of great utility. before complying with m. kuppffer's request, the government has requested the opinion of the academy on the subject. it can not but be favorable. it is pleasant to see the several nations of europe, in the midst of their fierce political dissensions and struggles for supremacy, thus uniting for the promotion of science. in this number of the new monthly will be found an interesting account of the character and life of the distinguished german scholar, kinkel, who is imprisoned by the prussian government for his liberal opinions. late european papers state that his friends requested permission for him to continue a work he had commenced on the fine arts among the christian nations, but it was peremptorily refused. he is not allowed pens and ink, or books of any kind, and it is said that he is treated with unusual and cruel rigor. artin bey, late prime minister of egypt, has not, as was expected, gone on to constantinople, but has retired to the mountains of lebanon, in syria, where he awaits the final result of the step he took in flying from egypt. on the th oct. prince paskiewitch completed the fiftieth year of his service in the russian army. the emperor held a grand review on that day, and presented him personally with a field marshal's baton, in acknowledgment of his fidelity. m. freiberg, the director of the opera at berlin, has brought an action against madame fiorentina, for a breach of engagement, and against lumley, of london, for engaging her; he has laid his damages at eighty thousand francs. the pope has performed a popular act of clemency, by pardoning, only an hour before the execution was to have taken place, the three individuals convicted of complicity in the attempt to assassinate col. nardonic, chief of the roman police, on the th of june last. the attempt having failed, pius ix. commuted the pain of death to that of the hulks for life, without hope of further remission. it was a political crime, the death of the odious re-actionist having been decreed in a secret democratic society. the commission appointed in rome to ascertain and estimate the damage done to the monuments of rome, buildings, and ruins, during the siege of the last year, have concluded their report, and fixed upon the sums of , francs, as the total, estimated in money, of the damage done by the besieging french forces, and , , francs, of that inflicted by the romans themselves. the rise of the nile this year has been unsatisfactory. the river has already begun to fall, and it is feared that a vast extent of land will not have been sufficiently watered, and that next year's crops will be short. a project has been started to erect a monument to columbus, at palos de maguer, opposite the convent of st. ann, whence the great discoverer set sail on his first voyage. the design proposed is a colossal statue, twenty feet high, surrounded by groups of figures, forming a base of forty feet in circumference. the lowest estimate of the expense is $ , . items of general news. a rather extraordinary contest has arisen between the manufacturers of embroidered articles at nancy and the wholesale merchants in paris. the former demand a complete prohibition of the imports of the articles which they manufacture. the merchants, on the other hand, defend the principle of the freedom of commerce, and demand that the embroidered muslins of switzerland be admitted into france. m. dumas, the minister of commerce, has pronounced in favor of the manufacturers of nancy. during the last two years and a half, the houses of families have been leveled in kilrush, ireland, and other families have been unhoused. the tide of emigration is continued as vigorously as ever. from kerry considerable numbers were proceeding to cork and limerick, to embark for the united states. preparations, it is said, are in active progress for the reorganization of the dublin trades union--a body which, some years since, possessed considerable influence in the conduct of political affairs in the metropolis. a society has been formed in london for the reform of abuses in the court of chancery. it is proposed to erect a monument in edinburgh to wallace, the scottish hero. more than members of the methodist society have been expelled at bristol, because they are in favor of a reform in the polity of their society. a sailors' home on a large scale is about to be established at plymouth. a great chess match, to be played by amateurs of all nations during the exhibition of , is being arranged for. five new whalers are to be added to the whaling fleet of peterhead next season. large purchases of wine continue to be made in the douro, at high prices. upwards of five hundred members have already joined the liverpool freehold land society. a mummy brought from thebes by sir j.e. tennent was unrolled in the museum at belfast. numerous bales of moss have lately been imported into london from cork. meyerbeer is at present at paris, and has attended several public as well as private concerts. the library left by dr. neander is to be sold by auction. there are about volumes; among them some of the best editions of the old church fathers, presented by the theological students to neander on his birth-day. an attempt is making to purchase the library for the use of the theological students at the university. the total sum demanded is not more than $ . an immense layer of sulphur has been discovered near alexandria. it can be obtained in large quantities so cheaply, that it is expected the price of the article will be reduced in europe. the english population of madrid increases in a remarkable degree. the aranjuez railroad, the gas works, the mines of guadalajara, and various other industrial enterprises, afford employment to many of them. a verdict of manslaughter has been returned by the coroner's jury against captain rowles, of the bark new liverpool, lately arrived at southampton, in which some lascar seamen had died from neglect. the madrid aeronaut, when preparing last week for his aerial voyage over europe, to convince the world that a balloon can be guided in any direction, found a large rent in the silk. the voyage has, therefore, been delayed for some weeks. a steam company is on the eve of being formed at constantinople for towing vessels through the bosphorus and the dardanelles. the capital is to be £ , , in fifteen hundred shares of £ each. the sultan and most of the ministers are on the list. a transylvanian nobleman, writing to a friend in england, speaks of the pleasure with which he read of the reception of haynau in england. he states that general count leiningen, an hour before his execution, said, "you will see our infamous murder will excite the greatest sensation in england, and i recommend haynau not to venture on a visit to england, for the people will stone him." the landed interest of the late sir robert peel was not much under £ , a year. a private in the th regiment of the line was sentenced to death by court-martial in paris for having struck a corporal. the circulation of all the paris newspapers has greatly diminished, under the operation of recent laws. about one hundred mormons passed through liverpool lately, on their way to the salt lake valley, north america. it is stated that about £ , was paid by the government of spain for the steamships hibernia and caledonia. louis napoleon has purchased fifty head of fallow deer, of mr. fuller, of england, with which to stock the park of st. cloud. leipsig fair, which has just terminated, proved very satisfactory. worsted and cotton goods of english manufacture were in good demand. a revolt has broken out in morocco, in consequence of a decree by the emperor, ordering the skins of all slaughtered animals to be considered as his exclusive property. an iron lighthouse of vast dimensions is about to be erected on the fastnett, a solitary rock several miles out in the atlantic, off the coast of cork and kerry. in london, under the patronage of the lady mayoress, a large carpet is in progress of preparation for the exhibition. it is to be thirty feet in length, twenty in width, and to consist of one hundred and fifty squares. it is stated upon good authority, that in the articles of rice and tobacco alone, a mercantile firm in liverpool will this year realize £ , , supposed to be the largest sum ever made by any mercantile house in europe in one year. the foreign merchants and shippers of london have agreed to establish a "club for all nations," to meet the requirements of the strangers, merchants and others, who will be in town during the exhibition of . the club will be provided, in addition to the usual accommodations, with interpreters acquainted with all the languages of the east and of europe, guides and commissioners, and departments for information. a committee of gentlemen, merchants of london, has been elected to carry out the undertaking. about two years ago, the scientific world was surprised by the announcement that drs. krapf and rebman, who had been zealously employed in connection with the missionary society in eastern and central africa, had discovered a mountain or mountains within one degree of the equator, and about two hundred miles distant from the sea, which were covered with perpetual snow, and which there was every reason to suppose were no other than ptolemy's "mountains of the moon." it now appears that there is no doubt of the fact. a curious exhibition is in course of preparation for the world's fair, by mr. wyld, m.p., the eminent map-engraver. he is constructing a huge globe, of fifty-six feet in diameter, which will be provided with a convenient mode of ingress and egress; the different countries of the world will be represented upon the inner, and not upon the outer surface, and the interior will be fitted up with galleries and staircases, so as to enable the visitor to make a tour of the world, and visit each of the countries whose industry or productions will be displayed in the great exhibition. the wife of mr. maclean, late m.p. for oxford, has been killed, by being thrown from her carriage at castellamare, near naples. in many of the provincial towns a strong feeling prevails in favor of making the peel monument assume the shape of useful institutions, such as libraries. a new monthly magazine, adapted to meet the wants of the advanced section of the nonconformists, has been announced. the inmates of st. luke's hospital were treated to the entertainments of music and dancing at a lunatics' ball. the success of the experiment will lead to its repetition. a new dock, called the victoria tidal harbor, has been opened at greenock. highway robbery is becoming very prevalent in the neighborhood of liverpool. a movement is in progress for the erection of a monument at newcastle to the late george stephenson, "the father of railways." the great water-works for the supply of manchester are rapidly approaching completion. the _manchester guardian_ notices the arrival at manchester of a consignment of bales of saw-ginned cotton from india. the trade of paisley continues in a satisfactory state, and weavers are in great demand. the tonnage of the port of liverpool has increased from , , tons, in , to , , in . the subscriptions of the city of london committee toward the great exhibition amount to £ , s. d. the south devon railway company lost £ , by the atmospheric bubble. the money sent by the irish emigrants in america to their starving relatives at home equals, it is said, the whole of the irish poor-rates. the prussian commissioners, on the subject of the exhibition of , have issued an address recommending a hearty co-operation in the design. the koh-i-noor diamond, or mountain of light, will, it is said, be placed among the collection of minerals at the exhibition in hyde park next year. the county expenditure for the west riding of yorkshire, was in £ , ; in it had risen to £ , ; and went on increasing until , when it had risen to £ , . a french paper, the _courrier du nord_, says that the minister of agriculture, while recently visiting the coal mines of the anzin company, at denain, discovered a rough diamond, fixed in a stone which had been extracted from the coal. an englishman, col. daniels, has left his estate of nearly two millions of dollars to a bookseller in new haven, connecticut, who was kind to him while sick and without friends in the united states. two claimants have appeared for the bequest. mr. levi h. young and mr. charles s. uhlhorn, who were in partnership at the time referred to. the hungarian exiles at constantinople, it is said, are about to issue a journal. the italians there have published flying sheets for some time past. a correspondent of a philadelphia paper writes that caricatures on american subjects abound in paris. capt. stansbury, of the topographical engineers, and party, arrived at st. louis, nov. , on their return from an exploring expedition to the great salt lake. a paris paper asserts that guizot refused a nomination as a candidate for the national assembly from the department of the cher. literary notices. john s. taylor has published the third edition of _the salamander_, the exquisite prose poem by mrs. e. oakes smith, which found such a cordial appreciation from the most genial critical tastes on its first publication. the present edition has received the title of _hugo_, from one of the principal characters in the story, though we think that a more appropriate and suggestive name might have been _the lost angel_. under whatever title, however, the work belongs to a unique and most difficult branch of literary composition. essentially poetical in its conception, it is clothed in the forms of prose, which the most consummate artistic skill can hardly mould into an adequate expression for such bold and lofty speculations as pervade the whole structure of this work. the language, which is singularly beautiful and impressive, is made the vehicle for an allegory of a very refined and subtle character, appealing but indirectly to the mass of human sympathies, and illuminated only by the dim and fitful light of the supernatural. it is no wonder that the allegorical mode should present such potent seductions to genius of the highest order. it leaves such ample scope to the imagination, allows such indulgence to the largest liberty of invention, and is so fruitful in materials for vivid and effective illustration, that it offers the most enticing charm to writers whose consciousness of power is embarrassed in the usual forms of expression. at the same time, unless like the allegories of sacred history, the import is too obvious to be mistaken, or like those of john bunyan, it lays open the secrets of universal experience, this mode of writing is too far removed from the popular mind to contain the most powerful elements of success. even in the creative hands of dante and spenser, the allegory is regarded rather as a hindrance than an aid, by the warmest admirers of their poetry. hence we consider it no discredit to the author of "hugo," that she has not entirely conquered the difficulties of this style of literary art. her production is studded with beauties of thought and phrase that betray a genius of rare vigor and versatility. she has nobly dared to deviate from the beaten track, and has thus constructed a work, which must be regarded as a gem of precious quality, for its exquisite brilliancy of coloring, its transparent beauty of texture, and the vivid and natural truthfulness with which it gives back the lights of a radiant imagination. _a pastor's sketches_, by rev. ichabod s. spencer (published by m.w. dodd), is a unique volume, presenting a highly instructive record of the experience of the author, during an active and varied pastoral intercourse. the sketches, which are all drawn from real life, describe the mental operations under the influence of strong religious emotion, in a manner equally interesting to the psychologist and the theologian. most of the instances related occurred at a period of unusual excitement, but they are free from any tincture of fanaticism, and may be studied to advantage by all who are interested in the moral and religious advancement of their fellow men. the author displays a remarkable insight into human nature, a strong attachment to the doctrines of the church in which he is a minister, a rare power of close, consecutive reasoning, which is used with great effect in disposing of skeptical objections, a fluency of language and a variety and aptness of illustration, that must always make him a master in the work of dealing with troubled, or erring, or diseased consciences. his volume can not fail to become a favorite on the table of the pastor, and, indeed, of all who are curious in the narratives of religious experience. harper and brothers have published _the history of madame roland_, by j.s.c. abbott, an agreeable compilation of the principal events in the life of that extraordinary woman, forming one of the most readable volumes of the day. baker and scribner have published a second and revised edition of _sketches of reforms and reformers_, by henry b. stanton, a work which has attained a great and deserved popularity. it is written with vigor, animation, and impartiality, presenting a lucid, systematic view of the progress of political reform in great britain, with lively portraitures of the most eminent men who have been distinguished in the movement. lewis colby has published _the churches and sects of the united states_, by rev. p. douglass gorree, giving a brief account of the origin, history, doctrines, church-government, mode of worship, usages, and statistics of the various denominations in this country. the copious information which it presents, although reduced within a narrow compass, will be found to comprise most of the essential facts concerning the different topics treated, and from the diligence and candor evinced by the author, we have no doubt of its entire reliability. the same publisher has issued _a cenotaph to a woman of the burman mission_, being a memoir of mrs. helen m. mason, whose devoted piety and modest worth eminently entitled her to this feeling commemoration by her husband. tallis, willoughby, and co. continue the serial publication of _the life of christ_, by john fleetwood, beautifully illustrated with steel engravings; and _scripture history for the young_, by frederick banbridge, profusely embellished with appropriate plates, representing the most remarkable incidents in the old and new testaments. ticknor, reed, and fields have published a new volume of _poems_ by grace greenwood, consisting of a selection from her contributions to the magazines, with several pieces which we have not before seen in print. like all the productions of that popular authoress, they are marked with strong traces of individuality, varying with the mood of the moment, now expressing a deep and melancholy pathos, and now gay with exuberant hope and native elasticity of spirit. a transparent atmosphere of intellectuality is the medium for the loftiest flights of her fancy, inspiring confidence even in her most erratic excursions, and giving a healthy tone to her glowing effusions of sentiment. we have also from ticknor, reed, and fields a new edition of _the grandfather's chair_, by nathaniel hawthorne, with _biographical stories_ from the lives of benjamin west, sir isaac newton, dr. johnson, oliver cromwell, benjamin franklin, and queen christina. mr. hawthorne's narratives for juvenile reading are no less original and attractive in their kind, than the admirable tales and descriptions by which he is known to the majority of readers. a cheap edition of the powerful sea-story, _the green hand_, has been published in one volume complete, by harper and brothers, enabling the admirers of that racy production to enjoy its flavor without making "two bites of the cherry." _the new-englander_, for november (published at new haven by j.b. carrington), is an able number of this bold and masculine periodical, discussing various topics of interest with a healthy grasp of intellect, and a fresh energy of expression, which show that it has escaped the incubus of a lifeless religionism, and breathes a free, independent, and aspiring spirit, equally removed from presumption and timidity. among the articles, is an elaborate and able reply to professor agassiz, on "the original unity of the human race," an admirable review of "tennyson's in memoriam," a paper on california, with others of no less interest. the _bibliotheca sacra_, conducted by b.b. edwards, and e.a. park, for november (andover, w.i. draper), abounds in choice and recondite learning, with a sufficient sprinkling of popular articles to attract the attention of general readers. "the life and character of de wette" gives an instructive account of the position and influence of that eminent german theologian. the whole number is highly creditable to the condition of sacred literature in this country. ticknor, reed, and fields, boston, have published _lyrics of spain and erin_, by edward maturin, a neat volume of spirited and graceful poetry, consisting of spanish ballads, legends and superstitions of ireland, and miscellaneous pieces. we have also from their press astrÆa, _a phi beta kappa poem_, by o.w. holmes, gleaming with brilliant flashes of wit, and playfully scoring some of the prevalent follies of the day; a volume of _biographical essays_, by thomas de quincey, a work of extraordinary interest, as presenting the judgment of that bold and vigorous thinker on such names as shakspeare, pope, lamb, goethe, and schiller; and _numa pompilius_, translated from the french of florian, by j.a. ferris. _jamaica in _, by john bigelow (published by geo. p. putnam), is less a book of travels than a treatise on practical economy, suggested by a short residence on that island during a part of last winter. the largest portion of the volume is devoted to a discussion of the causes to which the commercial and industrial decline of jamaica may be ascribed, and of the measures which, in the opinion of the author, would restore that delightful and fertile island to more than its ancient prosperity. the root of the evil, according to mr. bigelow, is to be found in the degradation of labor, the non-residence of the landholders, the encumbered condition of real estate, and the monopoly of the soil by a small number of proprietors. he warmly maintains the importance of developing the vast industrial resources of the island, and establishing the laboring classes in a state of personal independence. his views are set forth at considerable length, and with a variety of illustrations. the discussion is often enlivened by descriptions of local customs and manners, narratives of personal experience, and lively sketches of incident and character. mr. bigelow's style has the fluency, ease, and vivacity, with the occasional inaccuracies, which naturally proceed from the habit of perpetual and rapid composition, inseparable from the profession of a newspaper editor. some portions of this volume have already appeared in the _new york evening post_, of which mr. bigelow is one of the conductors, where they produced a very favorable impression. they lose none of their interest in the present form, and will be found to present a mass of important information in an unusually agreeable manner. messrs. tappan, whittemore, and mason have recently published _cantica laudis; or, the american book of church music_, being chiefly a selection of chaste and elegant melodies from the most classic authors, ancient and modern, with harmony parts; together with chants, anthems, and other set pieces, for choirs and schools; to which are added, tunes for congregational singing, by lowell mason and george james webb. also, by the same authors, _the melodist_, a collection of popular and social songs, original and selected, harmonized and arranged for soprano, alto, tenor, and base voices. _beranger; two hundred of his lyrical poems, done into english verse_, by william young (published by george p. putnam), is a selection from beranger's songs, of which one hundred have already appeared in a london edition, and are here reproduced, after careful revision, the remainder being now printed for the first time. on many accounts, beranger is less suited for representation in a foreign language than most poets who have gained such wide popularity among their own countrymen. many of his most brilliant effusions have a strong tincture of licentiousness; they are marked by a freedom of delineation and of language which every decent english translator would wish to avoid; and their publication in any other land than that of their origin, would be an ungracious enterprise. besides, his productions are singularly idiomatic in their style; growing out of the current events of the day; abounding in local and political allusions; and strongly impressed with the national characteristics of france. the external form of these popular lyrics seems to be the necessary costume of their spirit. you can not separate one from the other without violating the integrity of the piece. its vitality resides in the light, airy, evanescent structure of the rhythm. this delicate vase can not be broken without wasting the precious aromas which it incloses. with these formidable difficulties in the way of the translator, we must give mr. young the highest credit for the felicitous manner in which he has accomplished his task. his selections are made with an admirable balance of taste. he has excluded all pieces, that could justly be condemned on the score of grossness or a frivolous treatment of sacred things, while he has not yielded to the suggestions of an over-fastidious and morbid prudery. the translation bears the marks of pains-taking diligence and a scrupulous desire for accuracy. it is the result of a profound study and a familiar knowledge of the author. it renders the general outlines of the original with almost the fidelity of a daguerreotype. the reader who has no acquaintance with french poetry may obtain from it a sufficiently distinct idea of the costume, the movement, and the verbal harmonies of beranger. nor is this all. many of the songs are alive and tremulous with gayety and feeling. they are written as the author would have written in english. if the racy and delicious flavor of the original is not always preserved, it is no fault of the translator. literary art has not yet discovered the secret of retaining the freshness of inspiration through the process of transplanting into a foreign tongue. a neat biographical sketch of beranger is a welcome appendage to the volume. c.s. francis and co. have issued a neat edition of hans christian andersen's popular juveniles _the story teller_, _the ugly duck_, _little ellie_, and other tales, illustrated with wood-engravings. _the gem of the western world_, published by cornish, lamport, and co., is the title of a new annual for , edited by mrs. mary e. hewitt, containing several original articles from her own pen, with contributions from a variety of well-known popular writers. the admirable taste of the editress is a guarantee for the excellence of the literary matter which she has admitted into the volume. d. appleton and co. announce a magnificent collection of gift-books for the approaching holidays, which in the chaste and elevated character of their contents, and the exquisite beauty of their embellishments have not been surpassed by any similar publications in this country. _our saviour with apostles and prophets_, edited by rev. dr. wainwright, contains a series of portraits of the sacred personages described in the text, from designs by finden and other artists of acknowledged eminence in england. they are beautifully engraved on steel, presenting with great fidelity to character, the ideal traits of the prophets and martyrs, whose features they are supposed to represent. each plate is accompanied with an original essay, prepared expressly for this volume, and written with uniform propriety and good taste. the writers are among the most distinguished american divines in their respective denominations. they have performed the task assigned to them in the preparation of this elegant work, with good judgment, fidelity, and eminent success. instead of attempting to "gild the refined gold" of the sacred writers with the thin tinsel of modern rhetoric, they have preserved the decorum appropriate to the subject, and expressed the reflections which it suggests, in grave, modest, and forcible language. hence, this volume possesses an intrinsic value, as a work on scripture biography, which recommends it to the notice of the religious public, independently of the beauty and impressive character of its pictorial illustrations. we are greatly indebted both to the editor and the publishers for such a valuable addition to the tempting literature of the holidays. another of their illustrated publications, of a less expensive character, is entitled _sacred scenes_, describing various passages in the life of our saviour by artistic representations, accompanied with suitable selections from the works of distinguished english writers. _evenings at donaldson manor_ is a charming collection of tales and narratives from the pen of maria j. mcintosh, which with _midsummer fays_, by susan pindar, is adapted to the younger classes of readers, forming beautiful and appropriate gifts for the season of social congratulations and the exchanges of friendship and domestic affection. _the national cook-book_, by a lady of philadelphia, published by robert e. peterson, is a treatise adapted to american tastes and habits, and will, of course, be satisfactory to those who prefer a bill of fare in their own language. great attention has been paid to that department of cookery exclusively adapted to the sick or convalescent, most of the dishes having been prepared according to the directions of eminent physicians of philadelphia. _the relation between the holy scriptures and some parts of geological science_, is reprinted by robert e. peterson, of philadelphia, from the fourth london edition, greatly enlarged by its veteran author, john pye smith, the distinguished professor of divinity in the college at homerton. the work, which consists of a series of lectures, illustrated by copious notes, displays extensive and diligent research, uncommon strength and fairness of argument, and an animated and impressive style. it has met with brilliant success in england, and has gained a highly favorable reputation in this country. little and brown, boston, have issued the second volume of _the works of john adams, with a life of the author, notes and illustrations_, by his grandson, charles francis adams, the first volume, which has not yet made its appearance, being reserved for the life of president adams, announced on the title-page. the present volume is composed of a diary, some portions of an autobiography, and notes of the earlier debates in the provincial congress at philadelphia. the diary was commenced in , the year of the author's graduation at harvard college, and continues to , the period of his first departure for europe as envoy to the court of versailles. it presents a curious picture of the youth and early manhood of the celebrated statesman, and of the gradual development of political events till their consummation in the war of the revolution. the sketches which are also given of several of the massachusetts politicians, whose names have since become identified with the history of their country, derive a peculiar interest from the freedom and unconsciousness with which they are drawn, the writer having no idea of publicity, and intending his record of current events as merely the pastime of a leisure hour. his frank and copious details, which are published without alteration by the editor, often give an amusing illustration of the domestic life of new england, and with a few homely touches, reveal the spirit of the people which led to resistance against british aggression. the manner in which the work has been prepared for publication is in a high degree creditable to the fidelity, impartiality, and excellent judgment of the editor. he gives all necessary explanations in cases of doubt or obscurity, but never distracts the attention of the reader by a superfluity of comment. with an evident tenderness for the reputation of his venerable relative, he allows him to depict himself in genuine colors, making no attempt to gloss over his infirmities, or to place his virtues in an exaggerated light. the volume is issued in a style of great typographical elegance, with a portrait of president adams in his youth, and a very natural sketch of the primitive old yankee homestead in quincy. _the broken bracelet and other poems_ (phil., lindsay and blakiston), by mrs. c.h.w. esling, is the title of a volume of poems, which, in another form, have been favorably received by the public, and are now collected by the suggestion of the literary friends of the author, formerly miss waterman. they are justly entitled to the compliment of a reprint, on account of their true poetic sentiment, their graceful versification, their delicate appreciation of beauty, and their pure and healthy sympathies with the varied aspects of humanity. the poem, from which the volume takes its name, is a romantic italian story, abounding in natural touches of pathos, and many of the smaller pieces show a depth of feeling and versatility of expression that can not fail to make them general favorites. _the immortal; a dramatic romance, and other poems_, by james nack (published by stringer and townsend), is introduced with a memoir of the author, by george p. morris, who gives an interesting description of the circumstances which, at an early period of life, decided his future position. mr. nack was the son of a merchant in the city of new york. he soon displayed a love of study, which gave promise of future intellectual distinction. his genius for poetry received a remarkably precocious development. but he had scarcely attained his ninth year when he met with a severe accident, which resulted in the total destruction of his hearing. he was thus deprived of the power of articulation to so great a degree, that he has since confined himself to writing as the medium of intercourse with others. his natural energy and perseverance, however, have enabled him to overcome the obstacles to literary culture, which, to most persons, would have been insurmountable. the poetry in the present volume, in addition to the interest excited by the situation of the author, possesses the decided merits of a vivid imagination, great tenderness and purity of feeling, and usually a chaste and vigorous diction. baker and scribner have issued an edition of milton's _paradise lost_, in one handsome duodecimo volume, edited by professor james r. boyd, containing original, explanatory, and critical notes, with a copious selection from the commentaries of newton, todd, sir egerton brydges, stebbing, and others. the edition is illustrated by engravings from the celebrated designs of martin. _a general view of the fine arts_ (published by g.p. putnam), is the production of a lady, who, while devoting her leisure hours to its composition, was practically engaged with the pallet and colors. it is intended to diffuse a taste for the study of the fine arts, by gathering into a small compass, the information which was before diffused through many expensive and often inaccessible volumes. under the different heads of painting, sculpture, architecture, and music, the author has presented a variety of historical sketches, discussions of theoretical principles, anecdotes of celebrated artists, and descriptions of their most important productions. without making any pretensions to entire originality, the work displays a lucid arrangement, an extent of information, and a pleasing vivacity of style, which give a very favorable idea of the diligence, conscientiousness, critical judgment, and artistic enthusiasm of the anonymous author. an appropriate introduction by huntington, the distinguished american painter, accompanies the volume. g.p. putnam has published the _artist's chromatic hand-book_, by john p. ridner, a convenient practical treatise on the properties and uses of the different colors employed in painting. footnote: [ ] six vacancies. fashions for december. [illustration: fig. .--visiting and ball costumes for december] the extremely mild weather which has prevailed during the autumn, has somewhat retarded the preparations for winter; yet the _modists_ have not been unmindful of the passage of the months, and the fact that december always promises frosts and snows. from paris, the great fountain of taste in dress, elegant bonnets have been received. some are of white, lilac, pink, and green satin, covered with black lace of rich pattern; others are of black and colored velvets, trimmed with a small feather on each side; the inside trimming composed of velvet flowers and foliage, in tints harmonizing with the color of the bonnet. _pardessus_, wadded, and of the same material as the dress, are now generally worn, the patterns varying but little from those depicted in our last number. dresses, mantelets, and other articles of costume, are ornamented with braid and embroidery. embroidered silks are worn, of which the gray, shot with white, and ornamented with embroidered flowers and foliage of gray silk, the stems and tendrils being white, are most in vogue. the corsage is low, open in front, sleeves demi-long. another seasonable material for a plain walking and in-door dress, is a french fabric called _amure_, which consists of a mixture of silk and wool. it is woven in dress lengths. the figure on the left in figure , represents an elegant ball costume. the dress is composed of white crape, the skirt, which is full, being handsomely trimmed with white lace and fullings of crape put on at equal distances; the upper row of lace, reaching to a little below the waist. plain low corsage, the top part encircled with a double fall of lace, forming a kind of _berthe_, and headed with a narrow fulling of crape, similar to that on the skirt. this _berthe_ entirely conceals the plain, short sleeve; the whole is worn over a skirt of white satin. the hair is simply arranged in a cable twist, being confined at the back with a gold or silver comb. the figure on the right represents a visiting costume. the dress is a rich plaided silk, composed of a mixture of purple, red, green, and white. the skirt is made quite plain; low corsage, trimmed with a double row of white lace across the front, one row standing up, and the other drooping over the front. _pardessus_ of the same material, trimmed all round with a quilling of plain purple ribbon. this is repeated upon the lower part of the pagoda sleeves, and also serves to attach the _pardessus_ across the front of the bosom. under pagoda sleeves are of white lace. the bonnet is of _paille d'italie_, lined with white silk, and decorated with pink roses, the exterior having a doubled plaited frill of white silk, and a beautiful white ostrich feather. [illustration: fig. .--evening costume] fig. represents an evening costume. the dress is of satin, of a rich deep american primrose hue, the skirt made quite plain and very full, _en petit train_; low pointed corsage, trimmed with a fulling of satin ribbon, the same color as the dress, which is put on to form a kind of shallow cape round the back part, and descends upon each side of the front, finishing on either side of the point, and gradually narrowing from the shoulders. it is trimmed with a fall of white lace upon the lower edge, a narrower one forming a beading to the plaiting round the neck. the centre of the corsage is adorned with _noeuds_ of the same colored ribbon, placed at regular distances; the short sleeves finished with a row of fulled ribbon, similar to that on the corsage, edged with a very narrow lace. the _coiffure_ represents the front of the figure on the left. [illustration: fig. .--coiffure for ball] fig. is given chiefly to show an elegant style of _coiffure_ for a ball or evening party. a portion of the hair is brought forward in plaits, and fastened at the parting, at the top of the forehead, with a rich pearl ornament, forming a kind of festoon on each side of the head. the remainder of the front hair is disposed in a thick curl, which descends to the curve of the neck. the dress is of lilac satin; the skirt plain and full. the corsage is low, headed with white lace, and trimmed on one shoulder, with fullings of satin ribbon, of the same color as the dress, and upon the other with puffs and _noeuds_ of the same. open short sleeves composed of two deep falls of white lace. on one side a fall of lace extends from the centre of the corsage, and connects with the sleeves. fashionable colors depend entirely upon the complexion; for example, for ladies who are brunettes, with a fresh color, light blue, straw color, pink, and pale green, are most in favor; while those of a blonde complexion universally adopt black, red, and very dark hues. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. erroneous page numbers in table of content corrected. captions added or corrected to match list of illustrations. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "bag-pipe" and "bagpipe"); - accents (e.g. "dépôts" and "depôts"); - proper names (e.g. "leipzig" and "leipsig"); - capitalisation (e.g. "post-office" and "post-office"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "ambassador" and "embassador"). following corrections are by removal or addition of a word: - pg , word "of" added (the course of mary stuart's career); - pg , word "a" added (in a low, guarded voice); - pg , word "get" removed (could get [get] in); - pg , word "the" removed (surnamed [the] "the conqueror). harper's new monthly magazine. no. xi.--april, --vol. ii. [illustration: washington irving [from a daguerreotype by plumbe.]] there is a freshness about the fame and the character of mr. irving, no less than about his writings, which enables us to contemplate them with unabated delight. few men are so identified personally with their literary productions, or have combined with admiration of their genius such a cordial, home-like welcome in the purest affections of their readers. we never become weary with the repetition of his familiar name; no caprice of fashion tempts us to enthrone a new idol in place of the ancient favorite; and even intellectual jealousies shrink back before the soft brilliancy of his reputation. in the present number of our magazine, we give our readers a portrait of the cherished author, with a sketch of his sunny residence, which we are sure will be a grateful memorial of one, to whom our countrymen owe such an accumulated fund of exquisite enjoyments and delicious recollections. we will not let the occasion pass without a few words of recognition, though conscious of no wish to indulge in criticisms which at this late day might appear superfluous. the position of mr. irving in american literature is no less peculiar than it is enviable. with the exception of mr. paulding, none of our eminent living authors have been so long before the public. he commenced his career as a writer almost with the commencement of the present century. the first indications of his rich vein of humor and invention that appeared through the press, were contained in the jonathan oldstyle letters, published in the morning chronicle in , when he was in the twentieth year of his age. his health at this time having become seriously impaired, he spent a few years in european travel, and soon after his return in , he wrote the sparkling papers in salmagundi, which at once decided his position as a shrewd observer of society, a pointed and vigorous satirist, a graphic delineator of manners, and a quaint moral teacher, whose joyous humor graciously attempered the bitterness of his wit. it was not, however, till the appearance of knickerbocker, that his unique powers, in this respect, were displayed in all their vernal bloom, giving the promise of future golden harvests, which has since been more than redeemed in the richness and beauty of the varied productions of his genius. the lapse of years has brought no cloud over the early brightness of mr. irving's fame. he has sustained his reputation with an elastic vigor that shows the soundness of its elements. at the dawn of american letters, he was acknowledged to possess those enchantments of style, that betray the hand of a master. his rare genius captivated all hearts. his name was identified by our citizens with the racy chronicles of their dutch ancestors, and soon became associated with local recollections and family traditions. born in a quarter of the town, whose original features have passed away before the encroachments of business, he has witnessed the growth of his fame with the growth of the city. the memory of diedrich knickerbocker is now immortalized at the corners of the streets, and in our most crowded thoroughfares. even the dusty haunts of mammon are refreshed with the emblems of a man of genius who once trod their pavements. with his successive publications, a new phase of mr. irving's intellectual character was displayed to the public, but with no decrease of the admiration, which from the first had stamped him as a universal favorite. the sketch book, bracebridge hall, and tales of a traveler revealed a magic felicity of description, with a pathetic tenderness of sentiment, that gave a still more mellow beauty to his composition; while his elaborate historical work, the life of columbus, established his reputation for unrivaled skill in sustaining the continuous interest of a narrative, and in grouping its details with admirable picturesque effect. his later productions, illustrative of indian life, and his still more recent works on the history of mahomet and the biography of goldsmith, are marked with the characteristic traits of the author, proving that his right hand has lost none of its cunning, nor his tongue aught of its mellifluous sweetness. it is highly creditable to the tastes of the present generation, that mr. irving retains, to such a remarkable degree, his wonted ascendency. other authors of acknowledged eminence have arisen in various departments of literature, since he won his earlier laurels, and many of them since he has ceased to be a young man, but they have not enticed the more youthful class of readers from the allegiance which was paid to him by their fathers. the monarch that knew not joseph has not yet ascended the throne. indeed many of the most true-hearted admirers of mr. irving were not born until long after the sketch book had made his name a household word among the tasteful readers of english literature. this enduring popularity could not spring from any accidental causes. it must proceed from those qualities in the author, which are the pledge of a permanent fame. if a foretaste of literary immortality is desirable on earth, we may congratulate mr. irving on the possession of one of its most significant symbols, in the unfading brilliancy of his reputation for little less than half a century. we have already alluded to the use made by mr. irving of the historical legends of our country. nor is this his only claim on the american heart. he is peculiarly a national writer. he has sought his inspirations from the woods and streams, the lakes and prairies of his native land. no poet has been more successful in throwing the spell of romance around our familiar scenery. under his creative pen the lordly heights of the hudson have become classic ground. the beings of his weird fancy have peopled their forest dells, and obtained a "local habitation" as permanent as the river and the mountains. his love of country is a genial passion, inspired by the reminiscences of his youth, and quickened by the studies of his manhood. he is proud of his birthright in a land of freedom. his protracted residence abroad has never seduced him from the ardor of his first attachment to the american soil. his favorite writings are pervaded with this spirit. yet he betrays none of the prejudices of national pride. his patriotism is free from all tincture of bigotry. he scorns the narrowness of exclusive partialities. with genuine cosmopolitan tastes, he gathers up all that is precious and beautiful in the traditions, or manners, or institutions of other lands, finding materials for his gorgeous pictures in the ancestral glories of english castles, and the splendid ruins of the alhambra, as well as in the quaint legends of manhattan, and the adventures of trapper life in the far west. this singular universality has given him the freedom of the whole literary world. as he every where finds himself at home, his fame is not the monopoly of any nation. he has his circle of admirers around the hearth-stones of every cultivated people. even the english, who are slow to recognize a melody in their own language when spoken by a transatlantic tongue, have vied with his countrymen in rendering homage to his genius. his evident mastery, even in those departments of composition which have been the favorite sphere of the most popular english writers, has softened the asperity of criticism, and won a genial admiration from the worshipers of addison, goldsmith, and mackenzie. in this respect mr. irving stands alone among american writers. cherished with a glow of affectionate enthusiasm by his own countrymen, he has secured a no less beautiful fame among myriads of readers, with whom his sole intellectual tie is the spontaneous attraction of his genius. his universality is displayed with equal strength in the influence which he exerts over all classes of minds. he has never been raised to a factitious eminence by the applauses of a clique. his fame is as natural and as healthy as his character, owing none of its lustre to the gloss of flattery, or the glare of fashion. his themes have been taken, to a great extent from common life. he has derived the coloring of his pictures from the universal sentiments of humanity. he is equally free from cold, prosaic, common-place hardness of feeling and from sickly and mawkish effeminacy. he loves to deal with matters of fact, but always surrounds them with the light of his radiant imagination. he exalts and glorifies the actual, without losing it in the clouds of a vaporous ideal. refined and fastidious in feeling, he retains his sympathy with the most homely realities of life, chuckles over the luscious comforts of a dutch ménage, and professes no philosophical indifference to the savor of smoking venison in an indian lodge. with the curious felicity of his style, he uses no strange and far-fetched words. its charm depends on the beauty of its combinations, not on the rarity of its language. he employs terms that are in the mouths of the people, but weaves them up into those expressive and picturesque forms that never cease to haunt the memory of the reader. accordingly, he is cherished with equal delight by persons of every variety of culture. his fascinating volumes always formed a part of the traveling equipage of one of the most celebrated new-england judges, and they may be found with no less certainty among the household goods of the emigrant, and the resources for a rainy day on the frugal shelves of the yankee farmer. they still detain the old man from his pillow, and the schoolboy from his studies. under their potent charm, the merchant forgets his wall-street engagements; the preacher lingers over their seductive sentences till the sunday becomes an astonishment; the statesman is beguiled into oblivion of the salvation of his country; and the advocate is absorbed in the fortunes of some "roystering varlet," till his own forlorn client loses all chance of recovering his character. the writings of mr. irving are no less distinguished by the truthfulness and purity of their moral tone, than by their delightful humor, and their apt delineations of nature and society. it is small praise to say that he never panders to a vicious sentiment, that he makes no appeal to a morbid imagination, and has written nothing to encourage a false and effeminate view of life. his merits, in this respect, are of a positive character. no one can be familiar with his productions, without receiving a kindly and generous influence. his goodness of heart communicates a benignant contagion to his readers. his mild and beautiful charity, his spirit of wise tolerance, the considerateness and candor of his judgments, the placable gentleness of his temper, and the just appreciation of the infinite varieties of character and life are adapted to mitigate the harshness of the cynic, and even to quell the wild furies of the bigot. his sharpest satire never degenerates into personal abuse. it seems the efflorescence of a rich nature, susceptible to every shade of the ludicrous, rather than the overflow of a poisonous fountain, spreading blight and mildew in its course. if he laughs at the follies of the world, it is not that he has any less love for the good souls who commit them, but that with his exuberant good-nature he has no heart to use a more destructive weapon than his lambent irony. with his fine moral influence, he never affects the sternness of a reformer. he is utterly free from all didactic pedantry. we know nothing that he has written with a view to ethical effect. he reveals his own nature in the sweet flow of his delicate musings, and if he does good it is with delightful unconsciousness. he would blush to find that he had been useful when he aimed only to give pleasure, or rather to relieve his own mind of its "thick coming fancies." in describing the position of mr. irving in the field of american literature, we have incidentally touched upon the characteristics of his genius, to which he is indebted for his high and enviable fame. we need not expand our rapid sketch into a labored analysis. indeed every just criticism of his writings would only repeat the verdict that has so often been pronounced by the universal voice. nor is it exclusively as a writer that mr. irving has won such a distinguished place in the admiration of his countrymen. while proud of his successes in the walks of literature, they have regarded his personal character with affectionate delight, and lavished the heartfelt sympathies on the man which are never paid to the mere author. the purity of this offering is the more transparent, as mr. irving has never courted the favor of the public, nor been placed in those relations with his fellow-men, that are usually the conditions of general popularity. he has wisely kept himself apart from the excitements of the day; with decided political opinions, he has abstained from every thing like partisanship; no one has been able to count on his advocacy of any special interests; and with his singular fluency and grace of expression in written composition, he has never affected the arts of popular oratory. his habits have been those of the well-educated gentleman--neither cherishing the retirement of the secluded student, nor seeking a prominence in public affairs--throwing a charm over the social circles which he frequented by the brilliancy of his intellect, the amenity of his manners, and the ease of his colloquial intercourse--but never surrounded by the prestige of factitious distinction by which so many inferior men obtain an ephemeral notoriety. his appointment as minister to spain has been his sole official honor; and this was rather a tribute to his literary eminence than the reward of political services. on his return from europe in , after an absence of nearly twenty years, he was received with a spontaneous welcome by his fellow-citizens, such as has been seldom enjoyed by the most successful claimants of popular favor; and from that time to the present, no one has shown a more undisputed title to the character of the favorite son of manhattan. in his beautiful retreat at sunnyside, "as quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man could desire in which to take refuge from the cares and troubles of this world," he listens to the echoes of his fame, cheered by the benedictions of troops of friends, and enjoying the autumn maturity of life with no mists of envy and bitterness to cloud the purple splendors of his declining sun. it is understood that mr. irving is now engaged in completing the life of washington, a work of which he commenced the preparation before his residence in europe as minister to the spanish court. we are informed that it will probably be given to the public in the course of another season. it can not fail to prove a volume of national and household interest. the revered features of the immortal patriot will assume a still more benignant aspect, under the affectionate and skillful touches of the congenial artist. with his unrivaled power of individualization, his practiced ability in historical composition, and his acute sense of the moral perspective in character, he will present the illustrious subject of his biography in a manner to increase our admiration of his virtues, and to inspire a fresh enthusiasm for the wise and beneficent principles of which his life was the sublime embodiment. there is a beautiful propriety in the still more intimate connection of the name of washington irving with that of the father of his country. it is meet that the most permanent and precious memorial of the first chief of the american republic should be presented by the patriarch of american letters. it would be a fitting close of his bright career before the public--the melodious swan-song of his historic muse. [illustration: sunnyside, the residence of washington irving.] [illustration: william cullen bryant.] the birthplace of mr. bryant, in a secluded and romantic spot among the mountains of western massachusetts, seems to have been selected by nature as a fit residence for the early unfolding of high poetic genius. situated on the forest elevations above the beautiful valley of the connecticut in the old county of hampshire, surrounded by a rare combination of scenery, in which are impressively blended the wild and rugged with the soft and graceful, adorned in summer with the splendors of a rapid and luxuriant vegetation, in winter exposed to the fiercest storms from the northwest which bury the roads and almost the houses in gigantic snow-drifts, inhabited by a hardy and primitive population which exhibit the peculiar traits of new england character in their most salient form, the little town of cummington has the distinction of giving birth to the greatest american poet. it was here that he was first inspired with a sense of the glory and mystery of nature--first learned to "hold communion with her visible forms," and to lend his ear to her "various language"--first awoke to the consciousness of the "vision and the faculty divine," which he has since displayed in such manifold forms of poetic creation. it was under the shadow of his "native hills"-- "broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky with garniture of waving grass and grain, orchards, and beechen forests basking lie, while deep the sunless glens are scooped between where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen"-- in the "groves which were god's first temples," where the "sacred influences" "from the stilly twilight of the place, and from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound of the invisible breath, that swayed at once all their green tops, stole over him"-- that the spirit of the boy-poet was touched with the mystic harmonies of the universe, and received those impressions of melancholy grandeur from natural objects, which pervade the most characteristic productions of his genius. mr. bryant's vocation for poetry was marked at a very early age. the history of literature scarcely affords an example of such a precocious, and, at the same time, such a healthy development. his first efforts betray no symptoms of a forced, hot-bed culture, but seem the spontaneous growth of a prolific imagination. they are free from the spasmodic forces which indicate a morbid action of the intellect, and flow in the polished, graceful, self-sustaining tranquillity, which is usually the crowning attainment of a large and felicitous experience. among his earliest productions were several translations from different latin poets, some of which, made at ten years of age, were deemed so successful, as to induce his friends to publish them in the newspaper of a neighboring town. these were followed by a regular satirical poem, entitled "the embargo," written during the heated political controversies concerning the policy of mr. jefferson, many of whose most strenuous opponents resided at northampton (at that time the centre of political and social influence to a wide surrounding country), and from the contagion of whose intelligence and zeal, the susceptible mind of the young poet could not be expected to escape. this was published in boston, in , before the author had completed his fourteenth year. its merits were at once acknowledged; it was noticed in the principal literary review of that day; it was read with an eagerness in proportion to the warmth of party spirit; and, indeed, so strong was the impression which it made on the most competent judges, that nothing but the explicit assertions of the friends of the writer could convince them of its genuineness. it seemed, in all respects, too mature and finished a performance to have proceeded from such a juvenile pen. this point, however, was soon decided, and if any remaining doubts lingered in their minds, they might have been removed by the production of "thanatopsis," which was written about four years after, when the author was in the beginning of his nineteenth year. this remarkable poem was not published until , when it appeared in the north american review, then under the charge of mr. dana, who has himself since attained to such a signal eminence among the poets and essayists of america, and between whom and mr. bryant a singular unity of intellectual tastes laid the foundation for a cordial friendship, which has been maintained with a warmth and constancy in the highest degree honorable to the character of both parties. meanwhile, mr. bryant had established himself in the profession of the law, in the beautiful village of great barrington, exchanging the mountain wildness of his native region, for the diversified and singularly lovely scenery of the housatonic valley, where he composed the lines "to green elver," "inscription for an entrance to a wood," "to a waterfowl," and several of his other smaller poems, which have since hardly been surpassed by himself, and certainly not by any other american writer. the "thanatopsis," viewed without reference to the age at which it was produced, is one of the most precious gems of didactic verse in the whole compass of english poetry, but when considered as the composition of a youth of eighteen, it partakes of the character of the marvelous. it is, however, unjust to its rich and solemn beauty to contemplate it in the light of a prodigy. nor are we often tempted to revert to the singularity of its origin, when we yield our minds to the influence of its grand and impressive images. it seems like one of those majestic products of nature, to which we assign no date, and which suggest no emotion but that of admiration at their glorious harmony. the objection has been made to the "thanatopsis," that its consolations in view of death are not drawn directly from the doctrines of religion, and that it in fact makes no express allusion to the divine providence, nor to the immortality of the soul. these ideas are so associated in most minds with the subject matter of the poem, that their omission causes a painful sense of incongruity. but the writer was not composing a homily, nor a theological treatise. his imagination was absorbed with the soothing influences of nature under the anticipation of the "last bitter hour." in order to make the contrast more forcible, the poem opens with a cold and dreary picture of the common destiny. earth claims the body which she has nourished; man is doomed to renounce his individual being and mingle with the elements; kindred with the sluggish clod, his mould is pierced by the roots of the spreading oak. the sun shall no more see him in his daily course, nor shall any traces of his image remain on earth or ocean. but the universality of this fate relieves the desolation of the prospect. nature imparts a solace to her favorite child, glides into his darker musings with mild and healing sympathy, and gently counsels him not to look with dread on the mysterious realm, which is the final goal of humanity. no one retires alone to his eternal resting-place. no couch more magnificent could be desired than the mighty sepulchre in which kings and patriarchs have laid down to their last repose. every thing grand and lovely in nature contributes to the decoration of the great tomb of man. the dead are every where. the sun, the planets, the infinite host of heaven, have shone on the abodes of death through the lapse of ages. the living, who now witness the departure of their companions without heed, will share their destiny. with these kindly admonitions, nature speaks to the spirit when it shudders at the thought of the stern agony and the narrow house. the stately movement of the versification, the accumulated grandeur of the imagery, the vein of tender and solemn pathos, and the spirit of cheerful trust at the close, which mark this extraordinary poem, render it more effective, in an ethical point of view, than volumes of exhortation; while, regarded as a work of art, the unity of purpose with which its leading thought is presented under a variety of aspects, gives it a completeness and symmetry which remove the force of the objection to which we have alluded. in a similar style of majestic thought is the "forest hymn," from which we can not refrain from quoting an inimitable passage, descriptive of the alternation between life and death in the universe, which seems to us to open the heart of the mystery with a truthfulness of insight that has found expression in language of unsurpassable energy. "my heart is awed within me, when i think of the great miracle that still goes on in silence, round me--the perpetual work of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd forever. written on thy works, i read the lesson of thy own eternity. lo! all grow old and die--but see, again, how on the faltering footsteps of decay youth presses--ever gay and beautiful youth, in all its beautiful forms. these lofty trees wave not less proudly that their ancestors moulder beneath them. o, there is not lost one of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, after the flight of untold centuries, the freshness of her far beginning lies, and yet shall lie. life mocks the idle hate of his arch-enemy, death--yea, seats himself upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre, and of the triumphs of his ghastly foe makes his own nourishment. for he came forth from thine own bosom, and shall have no end." the soft and exquisite beauty of the lines entitled "to a waterfowl" is appreciated by every reader of taste. they belong to that rare class of poems which, once read, haunt the imagination with a perpetual charm. a more natural expression of true religious feeling than that contained in the closing stanzas, is nowhere to be met with. "thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, and shall not soon depart. "he who, from zone to zone, guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, in the long way that i must tread alone, will lead my steps aright." [illustration: bryant's residence, at roslyn, (hempstead harbor) l. i.] but we have no space to dwell upon the attractive details of mr. bryant's poetry, though it would be a grateful task to pass in review the familiar productions, of which we can weary as little as of the natural landscape. it needs no profound analysis to state their most general characteristics. bryant's descriptions of nature are no less remarkable for their minute accuracy than for the richness and delicacy of their suggestions in the sphere of sentiment. no one can ever be tempted to accuse him of obtaining his knowledge of nature at second hand. he paints nothing which he has not seen. his images are derived from actual experience. hence they have the vernal freshness of an orchard in bloom. he is no less familiar with the cheerful tune of brooks in flowery june than with the voices and footfalls of the thronged city. he has watched the maize-leaf and the maple-bough growing greener under the fierce sun of midsummer; the mountain wind has breathed its coolness on his brow; he has gazed at the dark figure of the wild-bird painted on the crimson sky; and listened to the sound of dropping nuts as they broke the solemn stillness of autumn woods. the scenes of nature which he has loved and wooed have rewarded him with their beautiful revelations in the moral world. her dim symbolism has become transparent to the anointed eye of the reverent bard, and initiated him into the mysteries which give a new significance to the material creation. it is true that the staple of his poetry is reflection, rather than passion, reminding us of the chaste severity of sculpture, and not appealing to the fancy by any sensuous or voluptuous arts of coloring. but a deep sentiment underlies the expression; and he touches the springs of emotion with a powerful hand, though he never ceases to be master of his own feelings. the apparent coldness of which some have complained, may be ascribed to the frigidity of the reader, with more truth than to the apathy of the writer. with its highly intellectual character, the poetry of mr. bryant is adapted to win a more profound and lasting admiration than if it were merely the creation of a productive fancy. it may gain a more limited circle of readers (although its universal popularity sets aside this supposition), but they who have once enjoyed its substantial reality will place it on the same shelf with milton and wordsworth, with a "sober certainty" that they will always find it instinct with a fresh and genuine vitality. the influence of this poetry is of a pure and ennobling character; never ministering to false or unhealthy sensibility, it refreshes the better feelings of our nature; inspiring a tranquil confidence in the on-goings of the universe, with whose most beautiful manifestations we are brought into such intimate communion. its most pensive tones, which murmur such sweet, sad music, never lull the soul in the repose of despair, but inspire it with a cheerful hope in the issues of the future. the "inexorable past" shall yet yield the treasures which are hidden in its mysterious depths, and every thing good and fair be renewed in "the glory and the beauty of its prime." "all shall come back, each tie of pure affection shall be knit again; alone shall evil die, and sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign." as a prose writer, mr. bryant is distinguished for signal excellencies both of thought and expression, evincing a remarkable skill in various departments of composition, from the ephemeral political essay to the high-wrought fictitious tale, and graphic recollections of foreign travel. the superior brightness of his poetic fame can alone prevent him from being known to posterity as a vigorous and graceful master of prose, surpassed by few writers of the present day. the crystal palace. in the early months of last year the great exhibition had become as nearly a "fixed fact" as any thing in the future can be. the place where and the building in which it was to be held, then became matters for grave consideration. the first point, fortunately, presented little difficulty, the south side of hyde-park, between kensington-road and rotten-row, having been early selected as the locality. the construction of the edifice, however, presented difficulties not so easily surmounted. the building committee, comprising some of the leading architects and engineers of the kingdom, among whom are mr. barry, the architect of the new houses of parliament, and mr. stephenson, the constructor of the britannia tubular bridge, advertised for plans to be presented for the building. when the committee met, they found no want of designs; their table was loaded with them, to the number of . their first task was to select those which were positively worthless, and throw them aside. by this process the number for consideration was reduced to about sixty; and from these the committee proceeded to concoct a design, which pleased nobody--themselves least of all. however, the plan, such as it was, was decided upon, and advertisements were issued for tenders for its construction. this was the signal for a fierce onslaught upon the proceedings of the committee. for the erection of a building which was to be used for only a few months, more materials were to be thrown into one of the main lungs of the metropolis, than were contained in the eternal pyramids of egypt. moreover, could the requisite number of miles of brickwork be constructed within the few weeks of time allotted? and was it not impossible that this should, in so short a time, become sufficiently consolidated to sustain the weight of the immense iron dome which, according to the design of the committee, was to rest upon it? the committee, fortunately, were not compelled to answer these and a multitude of similar puzzling interrogatories which were poured in upon them. relief was coming to them from an unexpected quarter: whence, we must go back a little to explain. on new year's day, of the year , sir robert schomburgk, the botanist, was proceeding in a native boat up the river berbice, in demerara. in a sheltered reach of the stream, he discovered resting upon the still waters an aquatic plant, a species of lily, but of a gigantic size, and of a shape hitherto unknown. seeds of this plant, to which was given the name of "victoria regia," were transmitted to england, and were ultimately committed to the charge of joseph paxton, the horticulturist at chatsworth, the magnificent seat of the duke of devonshire. the plant produced from these seeds became the occasion, and in certain respects the model, for the crystal palace. every means was adopted to place the plant in its accustomed circumstances. a tropical soil was formed for it of burned loam and peat; newcastle coal was substituted for a meridian sun, to produce an artificial south america under an english heaven; by means of a wheel a ripple like that of its native river, was communicated to the waters of the tank upon which its broad leaves reposed. amid such enticements the lily could not do otherwise than flourish; and in a month it had outgrown its habitation. the problem was therefore set before its foster-father to provide for it, within a few weeks, a new home. this was not altogether a new task for mr. paxton, who had already devoted much attention to the erection of green-houses; and within the required space of time, he had completed this house for the "victoria regia," and therein, in the sense in which the acorn includes the oak, that of the crystal palace. [illustration: the great exhibition building.] while mr. paxton was planning an abode for this brobdignagian lily, the building committee of the exhibition were poring wearily over the plans lying upon their table. they had rejected the worthless ones, and from the remainder had concocted, as we have said, with much cogitation and little satisfaction, their own design. such as it was, however, it was determined that it should be executed--if possible. this brings us down to the middle, or to be precise, to the th of june, on which day mr. paxton was sitting as chairman on a railway committee. he had previously made himself acquainted with the case laid before them, and was not therefore under the necessity of now devoting his attention to it. he took advantage of this leisure moment to work out a design for the exhibition building, which he had conceived some days previously. in ten days thereafter elevations, sections, working plans and specifications, were completed from this draft, and the whole was submitted to the inspection of competent and influential persons, by whom it was unanimously announced to be practicable, and the only practicable scheme presented. this design was then laid before the contractors, messrs. fox and henderson, who at once determined to submit a tender for the construction of a building in accordance with it. in a single week, they had calculated the amount and cost of every pound of iron, every pane of glass, every foot of wood, and every hour of labor which would be required, and were prepared with a tender and specifications for the construction of the edifice. but here arose a difficulty. the committee had advertised only for proposals for carrying out their own design; but, fortunately, they had invited the suggestion on the part of contractors, of any improvements upon it; and so mr. paxton's plan was presented simply as an "improvement" upon that of the committee, with which it had not a single feature in common. this, with certain modifications, was adopted, and the result is the crystal palace--itself the greatest wonder which the exhibition will present--the exterior of which is represented in our accompanying illustration. the building consists of three series of elevations of the respective heights of , , and feet, intersected at the centre by a transept of feet in width, having a semicircular roof rising to the height of feet in the centre. it extends in length feet from north to south, more than one-third of a mile, with a breadth of feet upon the ground; covering superficial acres, nearly double the extent of our own washington-square; and exceeding by more than one half the dimensions of the park or the battery. the whole rests upon cast-iron pillars, united by bolts and nuts, fixed to flanges turned perfectly true, so that if the socket be placed level, the columns and connecting-pieces must stand upright; and, in point of fact, not a crooked line is discoverable in the combination of such an immense number of pieces. for the support of the columns, holes are dug in the ground, in which is placed a bed of concrete, and upon this rest iron sockets of from three to four feet in length, according to the level of the ground, to which the columns are firmly attached by bolts and nuts. at the top, each column is attached by a girder to its opposite column, both longitudinally and transversely, so that the whole eighteen acres of pillars is securely framed together. the roofs, of which there are five, one to each of the elevations, are constructed on the "ridge and furrow" principle, and glazed with sheets of glass of inches in length. the construction will be at once understood by imagining a series of parallel rows of the letter v (thus, \/\/\/), extending in uninterrupted lines the whole length of the building. the apex of each ridge is formed by a wooden sash-bar with notches upon each side for holding the laths in which are fitted the edges of the glass. the bottom bar, or rafter, is hollowed at the top so as to form a gutter to carry off the water, which passes through transverse gutters into the iron columns, which are hollow, thus serving as water-pipes; in the base of the columns horizontal pipes are inserted, which convey the accumulated water into the sewers. the exhalations, from so large an extent of surface, from the plants, and from the breath of the innumerable visitors, rising and condensed against the glass, would descend from a flat roof in the form of a perpetual mist, but it is found that from glass pitched at a particular angle the moisture does not fall, but glides down its surface. the bottom bars are therefore grooved on the inside, thus forming interior gutters, by which the moisture also finds its way down the interior of the columns, through the drainage pipes, into the sewers. these grooved rafters, of which the total length is miles, are formed by machinery, at a single operation. the lower tier of the building is boarded, the walls of the upper portion being composed, like the roof, of glass. ventilation is provided for by the basement portion being walled with iron plates, placed at an angle of degrees, known as _luffer-boarding_, which admits the air freely, while it excludes the rain. a similar provision is made at the top of each tier of the building. these are so constructed that they can be closed at pleasure. in order to subdue the intense light in a building having such an extent of glass surface, the whole roof and the south side will be covered with canvas, which will also preclude the possibility of injury from hail, as well as render the edifice much cooler. in the construction of the building care has been taken to give to each part the stiffest and strongest form possible in a given quantity of material. the columns are hollow, and the girders which unite them are trellis-formed. the utmost weight which any girder will ever be likely to sustain is seven and a half tons; and not one is used until after having been tested to the extent of tons; while the breaking weight is calculated at tons. at first sight, there would seem to be danger that a building presenting so great a surface to the action of the wind, would be liable to be blown down. but from the manner in which the columns are framed together they can not be overthrown except by breaking them. experiments show that in order to break the columns on the ground floor, a force of tons must be exerted, at a height of feet. the greatest force of the wind ever known is computed at pounds to the superficial foot; assuming a possible force of pounds, and suppose a hurricane of that momentum to strike at once the whole side of the building, the total force would be less than tons--not one-fourth of the capacity of the building to sustain, independent of the bracings, which add materially to its strength. so that, if any reliance at all can be placed upon theoretical engineering, there can be no doubt as to the safety of the building. entering at the main east or west entrance, we find ourselves in a nave feet in height, in breadth, and extending without interruption the whole length of the building, one-third of a mile. parallel with this, but interrupted by the transept in the centre, are a series of side aisles of and feet in breadth, with a height of and feet. over the centre of the nave swells the semicircular roof of the transept, overarching the stately trees beneath--a brobdignagian green-house with ancient elms instead of geraniums and rose-bushes. the whole area of the ground floor is , square feet; and that of the galleries , ; making in all within a fraction of one million square feet; to which may be added , feet of hanging-space, available for the display of the products of human heads and hands. there are three refreshment rooms, one in the transept, and one near each end, around the trees which were left standing, where ices and pastry for the wealthy, and bread-and-butter and cheese for the poorer are to be furnished. no wine, spirits, or fermented liquors are to be sold; only tea, coffee, and unfermented drinks; pure water is to be furnished gratis to all comers by the lessees of the refreshment rooms. in respect to the decoration of the interior, a keen controversy has been waged. the fact of iron being the material of construction renders it necessary that it should be painted to preserve it from the action of the atmosphere. on the one hand, it is said that the fact that the structure is metallic should be indicated by the decoration, otherwise the whole will have no more appearance of stability than an arbor of wicker-work. those who take this view recommend that the interior should be bronzed. on the other hand, those to whom the decoration is intrusted affirm that the object of using color is to increase the effect of light and shade. if the whole were of one uniform dead color the effect of the innumerable parts of which the building is composed, all falling in similar lines, one before the other, would be precisely that of a plane surface; the extended lines of pillars presenting the aspect of a continuous wall. in order to bring out the distinctive features of the building various colors must be used; and experiments show that a combination of the primary colors, red, blue, and yellow, is most pleasant to the eye. the best means for using these is to place blue, which retreats, upon the concave surfaces, yellow, which advances, upon the convex ones, reserving red for plane surfaces. but as when these colors come in contact each becomes tinged with the complementary color of the other--the blue with green, the red with orange--a line of white is interposed between them. applying these principles, the shafts of the columns are to be yellow, the concave portions of their capitals blue, the under side of the girders red, and their vertical surfaces white. among all the wonders of the crystal palace nothing is more wonderful than its cheapness, and the rapidity of its construction. possession of the site was obtained on the th of july; in a period of only working-days the building was to all intents and purposes completed. as to cheapness it costs less per cubic foot than an ordinary barn. if used only for the exhibition, and at its close returned to the contractors, the cost will be nine-sixteenths of a penny a foot; or, if permanently purchased, it will be one penny and one-twelfth. thus: the solid contents are , , cubic feet; the price if returned is £ , , if retained £ , . this simple fact, that a building of glass and iron, covering eighteen acres, affording room for nine miles of tables, should have been completed in less than five months from the day when the contract was entered into, at a cost less than that of the humblest hovel, opens a new era in the science of building. as to the final destination of the crystal palace, it is the wish of the designer that it should be converted into a permanent winter-garden with drives and promenades. leaving ample space for plants, there would be two miles of walks in the galleries, and the same amount for walks upon the ground floor; in summer the removal of the upright glass would give the whole the appearance of a continuous walk or garden. [illustration: voyage in search of sir john franklin] sir john franklin, in command of the "erebus" and "terror," having on board one hundred and thirty-eight souls, set sail from england on the th of may, , in search of a northwest passage. on the th of july, sixty-eight days afterward, they were seen by a passing whaler moored to an iceberg near the centre of baffin's bay; since which time no intelligence of their fate has been received. no special anxiety was entertained respecting them until the beginning of , for the commander had intimated that the voyage would probably continue for three years, and that they might be the first to announce their own return. but as month after month passed away without bringing any tidings, an anxious and painful sympathy sprung up in the public mind, and the british government determined that searches for the missing vessels should be made in three different quarters by three separate expeditions fitted out for that purpose. one quarter, however, that region known as boothia, where there was a probability of success, was beyond the scope of these expeditions, and lady franklin determined to organize an expedition to explore that region. for this purpose she appropriated all the means under her control; and a subscription was opened to supply the deficiency. the "prince albert," a ketch of less than ninety tons burden, measuring in length about seventy-two feet, and seventeen in breadth, was purchased for the expedition. she was taken to aberdeen to be fitted up; a double planking was put upon her, by way of pea-jacket to fit her for her arctic voyage, and a crew of fourteen canny scotchmen, secured by the promise of double pay. captain forsyth, of the royal navy, proffered his gratuitous services as commander. attached to the expedition, having special charge of the stores and scientific instruments, with the express understanding that he should head one of the exploring parties to be sent out from regent's inlet, was mr. w. parker snow, from whose journal we propose to draw up some account of the pleasures of sailing through the ice. mr. snow seems to have been precisely the man for such an undertaking. he left america at three days' notice to join any expedition which might be sent out by lady franklin. with an active, hopeful temperament, never so happy as in a gale of wind, if it was only blowing the right way, he rushed to the embrace of the arctic snows with as much alacrity as though they were kinsmen as well as namesakes. he had, moreover, a happy faculty of turning his hand to every thing, and no disposition to hide his talent in a napkin. a physician had been engaged for the vessel; but when, two days before sailing, the disciple of esculapius saw the diminutive craft, he declined to proceed:--mr. snow volunteered to perform his duties; he had read a little medicine at odd hours; and by the aid of rees's guide, and smee's broadsheet, his practice was uniformly successful--either in spite of, or on account of, his informal professional training. the sailors, as might be expected from their scotch blood, were desirous of having religious worship on board:--mr. snow offered his services as chaplain, reading and expounding the scriptures, and offering up prayer. on the th of june, , the prince albert set sail from aberdeen; a fortnight brought them within two hundred miles of the shores of greenland. then came, for a week, a succession of heavy gales, which drove them back upon their course; so that in six days their progress was not more than a dozen miles. the st of july, however, found them off cape farewell. some idea of the multifarious occupations of the many-officed mr. snow, at a time when his proper duties had not commenced, may be gathered from his description of life on shipboard. "at half-past six i used to turn out; and, warm or cold, wet or dry, take an immediate ablution in the pure and natural element. for half an hour i would then walk on deck, fair or foul; and, a little before eight, examine the men's forecastle; see to their condition, and whether any of them were sick; and if so, give them medicine. at eight bells, i would then take the chronometrical time for captain forsyth, while he observed the altitude of the sun, to get our longitude. latterly i used, by his desire, to take a set of sights also myself, taking the time from a common watch, and comparing it afterward with the chronometer. the chronometers were then wound up by me, and the thermometer, barometer, &c., registered. at eight o'clock the two mates went to breakfast; the captain and i getting ours soon after them. during the forenoon i had to attend to the stores, provisions, &c.; write my accounts, journals, and other papers; and at noon worked up the ship's reckoning, the observations, and wrote the ship's log, examining our present position and future course. the mates had their dinner at noon: the captain and i at three p.m.; after which, a stroll for an hour or so on deck was taken by both of us. tea came round at six, and at eight p.m. i used to try the temperature of the air on deck, and of the sea. after that, we would read together in the stern cabin. at ten, we would take our hot grog; and, generally about eleven, when free from rough weather or the neighborhood of ice, turn in for the night. very little candle was required below at night, as there was seldom more than an hour or two's darkness during any part of our voyage, until we were returning. it was not long after this date, moreover, that we had continued daylight through the whole twenty-four hours." the principal obstruction and danger in arctic navigation arises from the ice; fields of which often occur of twenty or thirty miles in diameter, and ten or fifteen feet in thickness. from these crystal plains rise sometimes isolated, sometimes in groups, elevations of thirty or more feet in height, called _hummocks_. dr. scoresby once saw a field so free from hummocks and fissures that a coach might have traversed it for leagues in a straight direction, without obstruction. in may or june these fields begin to drift along in solemn procession to the southwestward, in which direction they hold their steady course, whether in calm or in spite of adverse winds. when these floating continents emerge from the drift ice which had hitherto protected them, they are shattered and broken up by the long, deep swell of the ocean. a ground-swell, hardly perceptible in the open sea, will break up a field in a few hours. these fields sometimes acquire a rotary motion, which gives their circumference a velocity of several miles an hour, producing a tremendous shock when one impinges upon another. "a body of more than ten thousand millions of tons in weight," says dr. scoresby, "meeting with resistance when in motion, produces consequences scarcely possible to conceive. the strongest ship is but an insignificant impediment between two fields in motion."--mr. snow gives the following account of taking the first ice. "we had come so quickly and unexpectedly upon this "stream" (not having seen it, owing to the thick weather, until close aboard of it), that promptitude of decision and movement was absolutely necessary. it was one of those moments when the _seaman_ comes forward, and by boldly acting, either in the one way or the other, shows what he is made of. in the present case the question instantly arose as to whether the vessel should at once run through the ice now before her, or wait until clearer and milder weather came. the mate, as ice-master, was asked by the captain which, in his opinion, was best. he advised _heaving to, to windward of it, and waiting_. the second mate was then asked; and he, without knowing the other's opinion, strongly urged the necessity of _running through at once_. captain forsyth, using his own judgment, very wisely decided upon the latter, and accordingly run the ship on. and a pretty sight, too, it was, as the "prince albert" under easy and working sail, in a moment or two more entered the intricate channels that were presented to her between numerous bergs and pieces of ice, rough and smooth, large and small, new and old, dark and white. it was hazy weather, snowing and raining at the time; and all hands having been summoned on deck, were wrapped in their oil-skin dresses and waterproof overcoats. standing on the topsail-yard was the second mate conning the ship; half-way up the weather rigging clung the captain, watching and directing as necessary; while aft, on the raised counter near the wheel, stood the chief mate telling the helmsman how to steer. this being the first ice in any large and continuous quantity that we had met, i looked at it with some curiosity. the moment we had entered within the outer edge of the stream the water became as smooth as a common pond on shore; and it was positively a pretty sight to see that little vessel dodging in and out and threading her way among the numerous pieces of ice that beset her proper and direct course. the ice itself presented a most beautiful appearance both in color and form, being variegated in every direction. we were soon in the very thick of it; and before five minutes had elapsed from our first taking it we could see no apparent means of either going on or retracing our steps. but it was well managed, and after about an hour's turning hither and thither, this way and that way, straight and crooked, we got fairly through, and found clear water beyond. "throughout the night the wind blew a complete hurricane, and the short high sea was perfectly furious; lashing about in all directions with the madness of a maelström, and with a violence that, apparently, nothing could resist. heavy squalls, with sharp sleet and snowstorms from the southward, added to the fearful tempest that was raging. it was impossible to see three miles ahead, the weather being so thick. occasionally an iceberg would dart out through the mist, heaving its huge body up and down in frightful motion, now advancing, next receding, and again approaching with any thing but pleasant proximity. our little vessel, however, as usual, stood it well. could we have divested ourselves of the reality of the scene, it might have been likened to a fancy picture, in which some strange and curious dance was being represented between the sea, the ice, and the ship; the latter, by the aid of the former, gallantly lifting herself to, and then declining from the other. but it was too real; and the greater danger of the land being possibly near, was too strongly impressed upon our minds, to allow any visionary feeling to possess us at the time. it was the worst and most dangerous night we had yet had, and hardly a man on board rested quietly below until the height of it was past." soon after this a boat's crew was sent ashore for water, where in a lonely spot they discovered the grave of an european, with an inscription on a rude wooden tablet at its head, stating that "john huntley of shetland, was buried there in august, ." the sailors replaced the board which had blown down; and left the solitary grave, with the humble tribute of a wish for the repose of the poor fellow's soul. a few days later while on shore, mr. snow was spectator of the overturn of an iceberg. "i was speedily awakened to reality by a sudden noise like the cracking of some mighty edifice of stone, or the bursting of several pieces of ordnance. ere the sound of that noise had vibrated on the air, a succession of reports like the continued discharge of a heavy fire of musketry, interspersed with the occasional roar of cannon, followed quickly upon one another, for the space of perhaps two minutes; when, suddenly, my eye was arrested by the oscillation of a moderate-sized iceberg not far beneath my feet, in a line away from the hill i was upon; and the next moment it tottered, and with a sidelong inclination, cut its way into the bosom of the sea upon which it had before been reclining. roar upon roar pealed in echoes from the mountain heights on every side: the wild seabird arose with fluttering wings and rapid flight as it proceeded to a quarter where its quiet would be less disturbed: the heretofore peaceful water presented the appearance of a troubled ocean after a fierce gale of wind; and, amid the varied sounds now heard, human voices from the boat came rising up on high in honest english--strangely striking on the ear--hailing to know if i had seen the 'turn,' and also whether i wanted them to join me. but an instant had not passed before the mighty mass of snow and ice which had so suddenly overturned, again presented itself above the water. this time, however, it bore a different shape. the conical and rotten surface that had been uppermost, when i had first noticed it, was gone, and a smooth, table-like plane, from which streamed numerous cascades and _jets d'eau_, was now visible. the former had sunk some hundred feet below, when the 'berg,' reversing itself, had been overturned by its extreme upper weight, and thus brought the bottom of it high above the level of the sea." northward, and still northward: thicker and more continuous grew the ice-plains, while ever and anon a sound like the discharge of heavy artillery booming along the lonely seas, announced that one iceberg after another had burst amid this freezing arctic midsummer. they now found that they were approaching the great pack, where their labors were properly to begin. due preparations were made, by laying in order ice-anchors, claws, and axes, getting tow-ropes, warps, and tracking-belts in order for instant use, and installing the crow's nest. "the 'crow's nest' is a light cask, or any similar object, appointed for the look-out man aloft to shelter himself in, and is in large ships generally at the _topmast_ head. in smaller vessels, however, it is necessary to have it as high up as possible, in order to give from it a greater scope of vision than could be attained lower down. consequently, in the _prince albert_ it was close to the 'fore-truck,' that is, completely at the mast-head. in our case, it was a long, narrow, but _light_ cask, having at the lower part of it a trap, acting like a valve, whereby any one could enter; and was open at the upper part. in length it was about four feet, so that a person on the look-out had no part of himself exposed to the weather but his head and shoulders. in the interior of it was a small seat, slung to the hinder part of the cask, and a spyglass, well secured. to reach this, a rope ladder was affixed to the bottom of it, as seen in the engraving. this is called the 'jacob's ladder,' and the boatswain may be observed attaching the lower parts of it to the foremast-head. upon the top-gallant yard are two men, busy in securing the cask to the mast, while the second mate is inside trying its strength, and giving directions concerning it. the 'crow's nest' is a favorite place with many whaling captains, who are rarely out of it for days when among the ice. i was very frequently in it myself, fair weather or foul--from six to a dozen times a day--both for personal gratification, and for the purpose of looking out. it was a favorite spot with me at midnight, when the atmosphere was clear, and the whole beauty of arctic scenery was exposed to view. it was all fresh to me: i enjoyed it; and had enough to do, admiring the enormous masses of ice we were passing, the white-topped mountains in the distance, and the strange aspect of every thing around me. it seemed, as we slowly threaded our way through the bergs, that we were about approaching some great battle-field, in which we were to be actively engaged; and that we were now, cautiously, passing through the various outposts of the mighty encampment; at other times i could almost fancy we were about to enter secretly, by the suburbs, some of those vast and wonderful cities whose magnificent ruins throw into utter insignificance all the grandeur of succeeding ages. silently, and apparently without motion, did we glide along, amidst dark hazy weather, rain, and enough wind to fill the sails and steady them, but no more." northward yet, and ever northward:--more frequent and massive grew the icebergs among which the little "prince albert" threaded its way; while far and near, to the east and north and west the eye met nothing but a uniform dazzling whiteness shot up from the glittering ice-peaks. now and then a bear was seen, sitting a grim sentinel, by some seal-hole, from which his prey was soon "expected out." as they advanced the ice closed in around them, until at last they were fairly [illustration: surrounded by icebergs.] "we were fairly 'in the ice:' but ice of which most readers have no idea. the water frozen in our ponds and lakes at home is but as a mere thin pane of glass in comparison to that which now came upon us. fancy before you miles and miles of a tabular icy rock eight feet or more, solid, thick throughout, unbroken, or only by a single rent here and there, not sufficient to separate the piece itself. conceive this icy rock to be in many parts of a perfectly even surface, but in others covered with what might well be conceived as the ruins of a mighty city suddenly destroyed by an earthquake, and the remains jumbled together in one confused mass. let there be also huge blocks of most fantastic form scattered about upon this tabular surface, and in some places rising in towering height, and in one apparently connected chain, far, far beyond the sight. take these in your view, and you will have some faint idea of what was the kind of ice presented to my eye as i gazed upon it from aloft. we had at last come to the part most dreaded by the daring and adventurous whalers. _melville's bay_, often called, from its fearful character, the 'devil's nip,' was opening to my view, and stretching away far to the northward out of sight. but neither bay nor aught else, except by knowledge of its position, could i discover. every where was ice; and the wonder to me was, how we were to get on at all through such an apparently insurmountable barrier. "our position now was becoming more and more confined as to sailing room. the channel in which we had hitherto been quietly gliding, narrowed till little better than the breadth of the ship. at ^h ^m p.m. we could get no further, a barrier of 'hummocky' ice intervening right across our passage between us and some open water, visible not above seventy yards from us. speedily the channel through which we had come began to close, and after trying in vain to force our way through the obstruction, we found ourselves at six o'clock completely beset. the _devil's thumb_, which was now plainly visible, at this time bore s.e. (compass) about thirty miles. other land was also seen topping over enormous glaciers, which were most wonderful to look at, and used to entrance my gaze for hours. at six o'clock our actual labors in the ice commenced. it was beginning to press upon us rather hard; and from the appearance of that which blocked our way, it was evident there had been a heavy squeeze here, and we were afraid of getting fixed in another. accordingly every effort was made to remove the obstacle which impeded our passage. we first began to try and _heave_ the ship through by attaching strong warps to ice anchors, which latter being fastened in the solid floe, enabled a heavy strain to be put in force. the windlass was then set to work, but to no purpose, as we hardly gained a fathom. we next tried what heaving out the pieces that were in our way would do, but this proved of no avail. the saws were then set to work to cut off some angular projections that inconveniently pressed against our side; and while this was being done, i sprung on to the hummocky pieces and examined the difficulty. the obstacle, however, was not removed; and at two in the morning a crack in the large floe to the westward of us was observed to be gradually enlarging. in less than half an hour the water appeared in larger quantities astern, and a 'lane' was opened, by a circuitous route, into the clear space ahead of us, whither we wanted to go. all hands were called to the ship, and the vessel's head turned round to the southward, any further attempt to get through the channel we had been working at being given up. sail was made to a light breeze, and some delicate manoeuvring had to be accomplished in getting the ship round and in among some heavy ice, toward the passage we wished to enter. "when i went on deck the next morning about eight, i found the weather very thick, with heavy rain. our position seemed to me but little improved from that of the past night, for numerous 'bergs' of every size and shape appeared to obstruct our path. a fresh breeze was blowing from the s.e., and our ship was bounding nimbly to it in water as smooth as a mill-pond. but no sooner did she get to the end of her course one way, than she had to retrace her steps and try it another. we seemed completely hemmed in on every side by heavy packed ice, rough uneven hummocks, or a complete fleet of enormous bergs. like a frightened hare did the poor thing seem to fly, here, there, and every where, vainly striving to escape from the apparent trap she had got into. it was a strange and novel sight. for three or four hours--indeed ever since we had entered this basin of water, we had been vainly striving to find some passage out of it, in as near a direction as possible to our proper course, but neither this way, nor any other way, nor even that in which we had entered (for the passage had again suddenly closed), could we find one. at last, about ten a.m., an opening between two large bergs was discovered to the n.w. without a moment's delay our gallant little bark was pushed into it, and soon we found ourselves threading through a complete labyrinth of ice rocks, if they may be so called, where the very smallest of them, ay, or even a fragment from one of them, if falling on us, would have splintered into ten thousand pieces the gallant vessel that had thus thrust herself among them, and would have buried her crew irretrievably. wonderful indeed was it all. numerous lanes and channels, not unlike the paths and streets of a mighty city, branched off in several directions; but our course was in those that led us most to the northward. onward we pursued our way in this manner for about two hours, when, suddenly, on turning out of a passage between some lofty bergs, we found the view opening to us, a field of ice appearing at the termination of the channel, and at the extreme end a schooner fast to a 'floe,' that is, lying alongside the flat ice, as by a quay. the wind was fair for us, blowing a moderate breeze, so that we soon ran down to her in saucy style, rounding to just ahead of her position, and making fast in like manner. to our great joy we found that, as we had suspected, and, indeed, knew, as soon as colors were hoisted, it was indeed sir john ross in the 'felix.' glad was i of an opportunity to see the gallant old veteran, whose name and writings had latterly been so frequently before me. directly we got on board, sir john ross came to meet us; i saw before me him who, for four long years and more, had been incarcerated, hopelessly, with his companions, in those icy regions to which we ourselves were bound. i was struck with astonishment! it was nothing, in comparison, for the young and robust to come on such a voyage; but that _he_, at his time of life, when men generally think it right--and right, perhaps, it is, too--to sit quietly down at home by their own firesides, should brave the hardship and danger once again, was indeed surprising. "in the evening both vessels had to move into another position, in consequence of the bergs approaching too closely toward us. to watch these mountain, icy monsters in a calm, as they slowly and silently, yet surely and determinedly, move about in the narrow sheet of water by which they chance to be encompassed, one could well imagine that it was some huge mysterious thing, possessed of life, and bent on the fell purpose of destruction. onward it almost imperceptibly glides, until reaching an opposing floe, it forces its way far through the solid ice, plowing up the pieces and throwing them aside in hilly heaps with a force and power apparently incredible. should it happen that an impetus is given to it by wind, or other causes besides those thus occasioned by the tide, or current, it is mighty in its strength, and terrific in the desolation it produces. nothing can save a ship if thus caught by one, as was the case in the memorable and fatal year of , in this very bay, when vessels were 'squeezed flat'--'reared up by the ice, almost in the position of a rearing horse! others thrown fairly over on their broadsides; and some actually overrun by the advancing floe and totally buried by it.'" the obstructions presented by the ice continued to increase so that in a whole fortnight, in spite of the most strenuous exertions, they made only twelve miles in their northward course. and even this, as they subsequently learned, was more than was performed by the government expedition, which was five weeks in advancing thirty miles. on the third of august, in melville's bay, night closed in upon [illustration: the prince albert in a dangerous position.] "there was still more danger now, on account of the heavier and worse kind of ice about us. several bergs and rugged hummocks were in very close quarters to us. at four a.m. we had again to unship the rudder; and this we could hardly do, in consequence of being completely beset. the 'felix,' was just ahead; but not a particle of water any where near or around us could be seen. several times both vessels were in extreme danger; and once we sustained a rather heavy pressure, being canted over on the starboard side most unpleasantly. but the 'prince albert' stood it well; although it was painfully evident that should the heavy outer floes still keep setting in upon those which inclosed us, nothing could save her. to describe our position at this moment it will be only necessary to observe that both vessels were as completely in the ice as if they had been dropped into it from on high, and frozen there. it had been impossible for me to sleep during the night in consequence of the constant harsh grating sound that the floes caused as they slowly and heavily moved along or _upon_ the ship's side, crushing their outer edges with a most unpleasant noise close to my ear. my sleeping berth was half under and half above the level of the water, when the ship was on an even keel. in the morning i heard the grating sound still stronger and close to me: i threw myself off the bed and went on deck. from the deck, i jumped on to the ice, and had a look how it was serving the poor little vessel. under her stern i perceived large masses crushed up in a frightful manner, and with terrific force, sufficient, i thought, to have knocked her whole counter in. my only wonder was how she stood it; but an explanation, independent of her own good strength, was soon presented to me in the fact that the floe i was standing upon was moving right round, and grinding in its progress all lesser pieces in its way. this was the cause of safety to ourselves and the 'felix.' had the heavy bodies of ice been impelled directly toward us, as we at first feared they would be, instead of passing us in an angular direction, we should both, most assuredly, have been crushed like an egg-shell. the very _bergs_, or the _floating_ ones, near which we had been fast on the previous day, were aiding in the impetus given by the tide or current to the masses now in motion; and most providential was it that no wind was blowing from the adverse quarter at the time, upon each side of the ship the floes were solid and of great thickness, and pressing closely upon her timbers. under the bow, several rough pieces had been thrown up nearly as high as the level of the bowsprit, and these were in constant change, as the larger masses drove by them. "i ascended on deck, and found all the preparations for taking to the ice, if necessary, renewed. spirits of wine, for portable fuel, had been drawn off, and placed handy; bags of bread, pemmican, &c., were all in readiness; and nothing was wanting in the event of a too heavy squeeze coming. we could perceive that, sooner or later, a collision between the two floes, the one on our larboard and the other on our starboard side, must take place, as the former had not nearly so much motion as the latter; but where this collision would occur was impossible to say. between the 'felix' and us, the passage was blocked principally by the same sort of pieces that i have mentioned as lying under our bow; and astern of us were several small bergs that might or might not be of service in breaking the collision. very fortunately they proved the former; for, presently, i could perceive the floe on our starboard hand, as it came flushing and grinding all near it, in its circular movement, catch one of its extreme corners on a large block of ice a short distance astern, and by the force of the pressure drive it into the opposite floe, rending and tearing all before it; while at the same time itself rebounded, as it were, or swerved on one side, and glided more softly and with a relaxed pressure past us. this was the last trial of the kind our little 'prince' had to endure; for afterward a gradual slackening of the whole body of ice took place, and at ten it opened to the southward. we immediately shipped the rudder, and began heaving, warping, and tracking the ship through the loose masses that lay in that, the only direction for us now to pursue, if we wished to get clear at all." on the th of august, as the sun, which now never sank below the horizon, rose above a low-lying fog-bank; one of the government expeditions was seen emerging from the mist. the expedition consisted of two screw steamers, each having a sailing vessel in tow. a strange sight it was to see these steamers--the first that ever burst into that silent sea--gliding along amid the eternal ice of the arctic circle. they proved of great service in breaking through the ice, dashing stem on against the massy barriers; then backing astern, to gain headway, and repeating the manoeuvre until a passage was forced. when the ice was too thick to be broken in this manner, a hole was drilled in it, into which a powder-cylinder was placed, the mine fired, and the fragments dragged out by the steamers. the "prince albert" and "felix" were taken in tow, for some three hundred miles by the steamers. mr. snow gives the following sketch and description of [illustration: the arctic discovery ships at midnight.] "i have before made mention of the remarkable stillness which may be observed at midnight in these regions; but not until now did it come upon me with such force, and in such a singular manner. i can not attempt to describe the mingled sensations i experienced, of constant surprise and amazement at the extraordinary occurrence then taking place in the waters i was gazing upon, and of renewed hope, mellowed into a quiet, holy, and reverential feeling of gratitude toward that mighty being who, in this solemn silence, reigned alike supreme, as in the busy hour of noon when man is eager at his toil, or the custom of the civilized world gives to business active life and vigor. save the distant humming noise of the engine working on board of the steamer towing us, there was no sound to be heard denoting the existence of any living thing, or of any animate matter. yet there we were, perceptibly, nay, rapidly, gliding past the land and floes of ice, as though some secret and mysterious power had been set to work to carry us swiftly away from those vexatious, harassing, and delaying portions of our voyage, in which we had already experienced so much trouble and perplexity. the leading vessels had passed all the parts where any further difficulty might have been apprehended, and this of course gave to us in the rear a sense of perfect security for the present. all hands, therefore, except the middle watch on deck, were below in our respective vessels; and, as i looked forward ahead of us, and beheld the long line of masts and rigging that rose up from each ship before me, without any sail set, or any apparent motion to propel such masses onward, and without a single human voice to be heard around, it did seem something wonderful and amazing! and yet, it was a noble sight: six vessels were casting their long shadows across the smooth surface of the passing floes of ice, as the sun, with mellowed light, and gentler, but still beautiful lustre, was soaring through the polar sky, at the back of melville's cape. ay, in truth it was a noble sight; and well could i look upward to the streaming pendant of my own dear country that hung listlessly from the mast-head of the 'assistance,' and feel the highest satisfaction in my breast that i, too, was one of her children, and could boast myself of being born on her own free soil, under her own revered and idolized flag. but even as i beheld that listless symbol of my country's name, pendant from the lofty truck, my glance was directed higher; and as it caught the pale blue firmament of heaven, still in this midnight hour divested of star or moon that shine by night, and brightened by the sun; my heart breathed a prayer that he, who dwells far beyond the ken of mortal eye, would deign to grant that the attempt now making should not be made in vain, but that those whom we were now on our way to seek might be found and restored to their home and sorrowing friends; and that, until then, full support and strength might be afforded them." after parting company with the other vessels, the "prince albert" stood on her way westward, until they almost reached the spot where it had been proposed to winter, and where the design of the expedition would begin to be put in execution. but they found the harbor which they had proposed to enter blocked up with ice; and so unaccountable a discouragement came over the expedition, that on the d of august a sudden resolution was taken to return forthwith. the journal of mr. snow is extremely guarded as to the reasons for this determination. the vessel had performed admirably; every preparation had been made for wintering; they were provisioned for two years; the crew were in excellent health: and yet the whole expedition, which had been fitted out at such a sacrifice, was abandoned, almost before it was fairly begun. we are led to infer that the true reason was that the officers in command had not the cool, determined courage requisite for such a charge. but we are sure that such a deficiency can not be laid to the charge of our author. from this time forth a tone of deep and bitter chagrin runs through the journal at this inglorious termination of the expedition. it was no small addition to this feeling of intense mortification, that on the very day when they determined to abandon the enterprise, and return home, the american expedition fitted out by mr. grinnell, which they had seen, a fortnight before, blocked up by ice, as they supposed, in melville's bay, but which had now overtaken them, notwithstanding their own tow by the steamers, was seen boldly pressing its way where they themselves dared not follow. notwithstanding this feeling of mortification, mr. snow has too intense a sympathy with daring and courage, ennobled by high and philanthropic purpose, to fail to do ample justice to the american relief expedition. "large pieces of ice were floating about, and setting rapidly up the inlet. we had to stand away for some distance, to round the edge of this stream; and as we approached the far end, we perceived that a vessel, which we had some time before seen, was apparently standing right in toward us. at first, we took her to be sir john ross's schooner, the 'felix,' but a few moments more settled the point, by her size and rig being different, and her colors being displayed, which proved her to be one of the 'americans!' all idea of sleep was now instantly banished from me. the american vessels already up here, when we had fancied them still in melville's bay, not far from where we had left them on the th instant! much as i knew of the enterprising and daring spirit of our transatlantic brethren, i could not help being astonished. they must have had either some extraordinary luck, or else the ice had suddenly and most effectually broken up to admit of their exit, unaided by steam or other help, in so short a time. i felt, however, a pleasure in thus finding my repeated observations concerning them so thoroughly verified; and i was not sorry for themselves that they were here. all exclusive nationality was done away with. we were all engaged in the same noble cause; we were all striving forward in the same animating and exciting race, and none should envy the other his advance therein. we showed our colors to him; and captain forsyth immediately determined to go on board of him, and see whether the same plan of search for him was laid out as for us. the boat was lowered, and in a short time we were standing on the deck of the 'advance,' lieutenant de haven, of the american navy, and most cordially received, with their accustomed hospitality, by our transatlantic friends. "the 'advance' was most extraordinarily fortified to resist any pressure of the ice, and to enable her to force her way against such impediments as those she encountered this evening. her bow was one solid mass of timber--i believe i am right in saying, from the foremast. her timbers were increased in size and number, so that she might well be said to have been doubled inside as well as out. her deck was also doubled, then felted, and again lined inside, while her cabin had, in addition, a sheathing of cork. the after-part of the vessel was remarkably strong; and a movable bulk-head, which ran across the forepart of the cabin, could at any time be unshipped to afford a free communication fore and aft when needed. the crew, if i remember rightly, lived in a strongly built 'round-house' on deck, amidships, one end of which was converted into a cook-house, called a 'galley,' and another the 'pantry.' _ten_ men formed the number of the working seamen; there were no 'ice-masters,' nor regular 'ice-men:' but most of the sailors were long accustomed to the ice. a steward and a cook completed the full complement of the ship. the officers lived in a truly republican manner. the whole cabin was thrown into one spacious room, in which captain, mates, and surgeon lived together. their sleeping berths were built around it, and appeared to possess every accommodation to make them comfortable. "the 'advance' was one of two vessels (the other being the 'rescue'--a smaller craft) that had been bought and fitted out in the most noble and generous manner, solely by one individual--henry grinnell, esq., a merchant of new york. this truly great and good man had long felt his heart yearn toward the lost ones, whom we were now seeking, and their friends; and desiring to redeem the partial pledge given by the government of the united states to lady franklin, he yielded to the strong impulses awakened by some of her private letters, which he had had the opportunity of reading, and being blest with an ample fortune, he determined to employ no small portion of it in sending out at his own expense an expedition to this quarter of the world, to aid in the search that england was making this year after her gallant children. it required, however, not a trifling sum to accomplish this, and i well know with what distrust and doubt of its fulfillment the first notice of his intentions was received in new york and elsewhere, when publicly made known. but he was not a man, it has appeared, to promise what he means not, or can not perform. at a very heavy outlay he purchased two vessels, one of, i believe, tons, and the other of tons, and had them strengthened and prepared in a most efficient manner for the service they were to enter upon. applying to congress, then assembled, he got these ships received into the naval force, and brought under naval authority. officers and crews were appointed by the board of administration for maritime affairs, and the government, moreover, agreed to pay them as if in regular service, making an additional allowance on each pay, of a grade in rank above. this having been accomplished, and all things in readiness, on the th of may, , he had the satisfaction of seeing his two ships and their brave crews depart from new york on their generous mission. he accompanied them himself for some distance, and finally bid them farewell on the th, returning in his yacht to the city, where, as he has often declared, he can sit down now in peace, and be ready to lay his head at rest forever; knowing that he has done his duty, and striven to perform the part of a faithful steward with the wealth which he enjoys. "the 'advance' was manned by sixteen persons, officers included. her commander, lieutenant de haven, a young man of about twenty-six years of age, had served in the united states exploring expedition, under commodore wilkes, in the antarctic seas. he seemed as fine a specimen of a seaman, and a rough and ready officer, as i had ever seen. nor was he at all deficient in the characteristics of a true gentleman, although the cognomen is so often misapplied and ill-understood. with a sharp, quick eye, a countenance bronzed and apparently inured to all weathers, his voice gave unmistakable signs of energy, promptitude, and decision. there was no mistaking the man. he was undoubtedly well-fitted to lead such an expedition, and i felt charmed to see it. "his second in command (for they were very differently organized from us) was still younger and more slim, but withal of equally determined and sailorlike appearance. next to him was a junior officer, of whom i saw but little; but that little was enough to tell me that the executives under captain de haven would be efficient auxiliaries to him. last of all, though not least among them, was one of whom i must be excused for saying more than a casual word or two. it was dr. kane, the surgeon, naturalist, journalist, &c., of the expedition. of an exceedingly slim and apparently fragile form and make, and with features to all appearance far more suited to a genial clime, and to the comforts of a pleasant home, than to the roughness and hardships of an arctic voyage, he was yet a very old traveler both by sea and land. his rank as a surgeon in the american navy, and his appointment, at three days' notice, to this service, were sufficient proof of his abilities, and of his being considered capable of enduring all that would have to be gone through. while our captain was talking to the american commander, dr. kane turned his attention to me, and a congeniality of sentiment and feeling soon brought us deep into pleasant conversation. i found he had been in many parts of the world, by sea and land, that i myself had visited, and in many other parts that i could only long to visit. old scenes and delightful recollections were speedily revived. our talk ran wild; and _there_, in that cold, inhospitable, dreary region of everlasting ice and snow, did we again, in fancy, gallop over miles and miles of lands far distant, and far more joyous. ever-smiling italy, and its softening life; sturdy switzerland, and its hardy sons; the alps, the apennines, france, germany, and elsewhere were rapidly wandered over. india, africa, and southern america were brought before us in swift succession. then came spain and portugal, and my own england; next appeared egypt, syria, and the desert; with all of these was he personally familiar, in all had he been a traveler, and in all could i join him, too, except the latter. rich in anecdote and full of pleasing talk, time flew rapidly as i conversed with him, and partook of the hospitality offered me. delighted at the knowledge that i had been residing for some time in new york, he tried all he could to make me enjoy the moment." after parting with the american expedition, the "prince albert" took her homeward way, reaching aberdeen on the st of october. "as it was quite dark," says mr. snow, "few witnessed our arrival, and i was not sorry for it". had we returned fortunate, it would have been different; as it was, why, the night was, i thought, better suited to our condition. the "prince albert" brought the latest tidings received of the "advance" and "rescue," when brother jonathan gives john bull "a lead." "if i had ever before doubted the daring and enterprising character of the american, what i saw and heard on board of the 'advance' would have removed such doubt; but these peculiar features in the children of the stars and stripes were always apparent to me, and admiringly acknowledged. i was given a brief history of their voyage to the present time, as also an outline of their future plans. they intended to push on wherever they could, this way or that way, as might be found best, in the direction of melville island, and parts adjacent, especially banks's land; and they meant to winter wherever they might chance to be, in the pack or out of the pack. as long as they could be moving or making any progress, in any direction that might assist in the object for which they had come, they meant still to be going on, and, with the true characteristic of the american, cared for no obstacles or impediments that might arise in their way. neither fears, nor the necessary caution which might easily be alleged as an excuse for hesitation or delay, at periods when any thing like fancied danger appeared, was to deter them. happy fellows! thought i: no fair winds nor opening prospects will be lost with you; no dissension or incompetency among your executive officers exist to stay your progress. bent upon one errand alone, your minds set upon _that_ before you embarked, no trifles nor common danger will prevent you daring every thing for the carrying out of your mission. go on, then, brave sons of america, and may at least some share of prosperity and success attend your noble exertions! "if ever a vessel and her officers were capable of going through an undertaking in which more than ordinary difficulties had to be encountered, i had no doubt it would be the american; and this was evinced to me, even while we were on board, by the apparently reckless way in which they dashed through the streams of heavy ice running off from leopold island. i happened to go on deck when they were thus engaged, and was delighted to witness how gallantly they put aside every impediment in their way. an officer was standing on the heel of the bowsprit, conning the ship and issuing his orders to the man at the wheel in that short, decisive, yet _clear_ manner, which the helmsman at once well understood and promptly obeyed. there was not a rag of canvas taken in, nor a moment's hesitation. the way was before them: the stream of ice had to be either gone through boldly or a long _detour_ made; and, despite the heaviness of the stream, _they pushed the vessel through in her proper course_. two or three shocks, as she came in contact with some large pieces, were unheeded; and the moment the last block was past the bow, the officer sung out, 'so: steady as she goes on her course;' and came aft as if nothing more than ordinary sailing had been going on. i observed our own little barky nobly following in the american's wake; and, as i afterward learned, she got through it pretty well, though not without much doubt of the propriety of keeping on in such procedure after the 'mad yankee,' as he was called by our mate." what becomes of all the pins? every body uses pins--men, women, and children. every body buys them. every body bends them, breaks them, knocks off their heads, and loses them. they enter into every operation, from the drawing-room to the scullery. go where you will, if you look sharp, you may calculate with certainty on picking up a pin--in the streets, in the cabs, on door-steps and mats, in halls and drawing-rooms, sticking in curtains and sofas, and paper-hangings, in counting-houses and lawyers' offices, keeping together old receipts and bills, and fragments of papers, in ladies' needlework, in shopkeepers' parcels, in books, bags, baskets, luggage--they are to be found every where, let them get there how they may, by accident or design. their ubiquity is astounding--and their manufacture, being in proportion to it, must be something prodigious. there is no article of perpetual use with which we are so familiar; and out of this familiarity springs indifference, for there is no article about whose final destination we are so profoundly ignorant. we know well enough the end of things (not half so useful to us) that wear out in the course of time, or that are liable to be smashed, cracked, chipped, put out of order, or otherwise rendered unavailable for further service; but of the fate of this little article, so universal in its application, so indispensable in its utility, we know nothing whatever. nobody ever thinks of asking, what becomes of the pins? for our own parts, we should be very glad to get an answer to that question, and should be very much obliged to any person who could furnish us with it. the question is by no means an idle one. if we could get at the statistics of pins, we should have some tremendous revelations. the loss in pins, strayed, stolen, and mislaid, is past all calculation. millions of billions of pins must vanish--no woman alive can tell how or where--in the course of a year. of the actual number fabricated, pointed, headed, and papered up for sale from one year's end to another (remember they are to be found in every house, large and small, within the pale of civilization), we should be afraid to venture a conjecture; but, judging from what we know of their invincible tendency to lose themselves, and our own inveterate carelessness in losing them, we apprehend that, could such a return be obtained, it would present an alarming result. think of millions of billions of pins being in course of perpetual disappearance! and that this has been going on for centuries and centuries, and will continue to go on, probably, to the world's end. a grave matter to contemplate, my masters! a pin, in its single integrity, is a trifle, atomic, in comparison with other things that are lost and never found again. but reflect for a moment upon pins in the aggregate. the grand sum-total of human life is made up of trifles--all large bodies are composed of minute particles. years are made up of months, months of weeks, weeks of days, days of hours, hours of minutes, minutes of seconds; and, coming down to the seconds, and calling in the multiplication-table to enlighten us, we shall find that there are considerably upward of thirty-one millions of them in a year. try a similar experiment with the pins. assume any given quantity of loss in any given time, and calculate what it will come to in a cycle of centuries. most people are afraid of looking into the future, and would not, if they could, acquire a knowledge of the destiny that lies before them. pause, therefore, before you embark in this fearful calculation; for the chances are largely in favor of your arriving at this harrowing conclusion, that, by the mere force of accumulation and the inevitable pressure of quantity, the great globe itself must, at no very distant period, become a vast shapeless mass of pins. as yet we have no signs or tokens of this impending catastrophe, and are entirely in the dark about the process that is insidiously conducting us to it; and hence we ask, in solemn accents, what becomes of the pins? where do they go to? how do they get there? what are the attractive and repulsive forces to which they are subject after they drop from us? what are the laws that govern their wanderings? do they dissolve and volatilize, and come back again into the air, so that we are breathing pins without knowing it? do they melt into the earth, and go to the roots of vegetables, so that every day of our lives we are unconsciously dining on them? the inquiry baffles all scholarship; and we are forced to put up with the obscure satisfaction which hamlet applies to the world of apparitions, that there are more pins in unknown places and unsuspected shapes upon the earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. lamartine on the religion of revolutionary men. i know--i sigh when i think of it--that hitherto the french people have been the least religious of all the nations of europe. is it because the idea of god--which arises from all the evidences of nature, and from the depths of reflection, being the profoundest and weightiest idea of which human intelligence is capable--and the french mind being the most rapid, but the most superficial, the lightest, the most unreflective of all european races--this mind has not the force and severity necessary to carry far and long the greatest conception of the human understanding? is it because our governments have always taken upon themselves to think for us, to believe for us, and to pray for us? is it because we are and have been a military people, a soldier-nation, led by kings, heroes, ambitious men, from battlefield to battlefield, making conquests, and never keeping them, ravaging, dazzling, charming, and corrupting europe; and bringing home the manners, vices, bravery, lightness, and impiety of the camp to the fireside of the people? i know not, but certain it is that the nation has an immense progress to make in serious thought if she wishes to remain free. if we look at the characters, compared as regards religious sentiment, of the great nations of europe, america, even asia, the advantage is not for us. the great men of other countries live and die on the scene of history, looking up to heaven; our great men appear to live and die, forgetting completely the only idea for which it is worth living and dying--they live and die looking at the spectator, or, at most, at posterity. open the history of america, the history of england, and the history of france; read the great lives, the great deaths, the great martyrdoms, the great words at the hour when the ruling thought of life reveals itself in the last words of the dying--and compare. washington and franklin fought, spoke, suffered, ascended, and descended in their political life of popularity in the ingratitude of glory, in the contempt of their fellow-citizens--always in the name of god, for whom they acted; and the liberator of america died, confiding to god the liberty of the people and his own soul. sidney, the young martyr of a patriotism, guilty of nothing but impatience, and who died to expiate his country's dream of liberty, said to his jailer--"i rejoice that i die innocent toward the king, but a victim, resigned to the king on high, to whom all life is due." the republicans of cromwell only sought the way of god, even in the blood of battles. their politics were their faith--their reign a prayer--their death a psalm. one hears, sees, feels, that god was in all the movements of these great people. but cross the sea, traverse la mancha, come to our times, open our annals, and listen to the last words of the great political actors of the drama of our liberty. one would think that god was eclipsed from the soul, that his name was unknown in the language. history will have the air of an atheist, when she recounts to posterity these annihilations, rather than deaths, of celebrated men in the greatest year of france! the victims only have a god; the tribunes and lictors have none. look at mirabeau on the bed of death--"crown me with flowers," said he; "intoxicate me with perfumes. let me die to the sound of delicious music"--not a word of god or of his soul. sensual philosopher, he desired only supreme sensualism, a last voluptuousness in his agony. contemplate madame roland, the strong-hearted woman of the revolution, on the cart that conveyed her to death. she looked contemptuously on the besotted people who killed their prophets and sibyls. not a glance toward heaven! only one word for the earth she was quitting--"oh, liberty!" approach the dungeon door of the girondins. their last night is a banquet; the only hymn, the marseillaise! follow camille desmoulins to his execution. a cool and indecent pleasantry at the trial, and a long imprecation on the road to the guillotine, were the two last thoughts of this dying man on his way to the last tribunal. hear danton on the platform of the scaffold, at the distance of a line from god and eternity. "i have had a good time of it; let me go to sleep." then to the executioner, "you will show my head to the people--it is worth the trouble!" his faith, annihilation; his last sigh, vanity. behold the frenchman of this latter age! what must one think of the religious sentiment of a free people whose great figures seem thus to march in procession to annihilation, and to whom that terrible minister--death--itself recalls neither the threatenings nor promises of god! the republic of these men without a god has quickly been stranded. the liberty, won by so much heroism and so much genius, has not found in france a conscience to shelter it, a god to avenge it, a people to defend it against that atheism which has been called glory. all ended in a soldier and some apostate republicans travestied into courtiers. an atheistic republicanism can not be heroic. when you terrify it, it bends; when you would buy it, it sells itself. it would be very foolish to immolate itself. who would take any heed? the people ungrateful and god non-existent! so finish atheist revolutions!--_bien publique._ [from dickens's household words.] thomas harlowe. all amid the summer roses in his garden, with his wife, sate the cheerful thomas harlowe, glancing backward through his life. woodlarks in the trees were singing, and the breezes, low and sweet, wafted down laburnum blossoms, like an offering, at his feet. there he sate, good thomas harlowe, living o'er the past in thought; and old griefs, like mountain summits, golden hues of sunset caught. thus he spake: "the truest poet is the one whose touch reveals those deep springs of human feeling which the conscious heart conceals. "human nature's living fountains, ever-flowing, round us lie, yet the poets seek their waters as from cisterns old and dry. "hence they seldom write, my ellen, aught so full of natural woe, as that song which thy good uncle made so many years ago. "my sweet wife, my life's companion, canst thou not recall the time when we sate beneath the lilacs, listening to that simple rhyme? "i was then just five-and-twenty, young in years, but old in sooth; hopeless love had dimmed my manhood, care had saddened all my youth. "but that touching, simple ballad, which thy uncle writ and read, like the words of god, creative, gave a life unto the dead. "and thenceforth have been so blissful all our days, so calm, so bright, that it seems like joy to linger o'er my young life's early blight. "easy was my father's temper, and his being passed along like a streamlet 'neath the willows, lapsing to the linnet's song. "with the scholar's tastes and feelings, he had all he asked of life in his books and in his garden, in his child, and gentle wife. "he was for the world unfitted; for its idols knew no love; and, without the serpent's wisdom was as guileless as the dove. "such men are the schemer's victims. trusting to a faithless guide, he was lured on to his ruin, and a hopeless bankrupt died. "short had been my father's sorrow; he had not the strength to face what was worse than altered fortune, or than faithless friends--disgrace. "he had not the strength to combat through the adverse ranks of life; in his prime he died, heart-broken, leaving unto us the strife. "i was then a slender stripling, full of life, and hope, and joy; but, at once, the cares of manhood crushed the spirit of the boy. "woman oft than man is stronger where are inner foes to quell, and my mother rose triumphant, when my father, vanquished, fell. "all we had we gave up freely, that on him might rest less blame; and, without a friend in london, in the winter, hither came. "to the world-commanding london, came as atoms, nothing worth; 'mid the strift of myriad workers, our small efforts to put forth. "oh, the hero-strength of woman, when her strong affection pleads, when she tasks her to endurance in the path where duty leads! "fair my mother was and gentle, reared 'mid wealth, of good descent, one who, till our time of trial, ne'er had known what hardship meant. "now she toiled. her skillful needle many a wondrous fabric wrought, which the loom could never equal, and which wealthy ladies bought. "meantime i, among the merchants found employment; saw them write, brooding over red-lined ledgers, ever gain, from morn till night. "or amid the crowded shipping of the great world's busy hive, saw the wealth of both the indies, for their wealthier marts, arrive "so we lived without repining, toiling, toiling, week by week; but i saw her silent sufferings by the pallor of her cheek. "love like mine was eagle sighted; vainly did she strive to keep all her sufferings from my knowledge, and to lull my fears to sleep. "well i knew her days were numbered; and, as she approached her end, stronger grew the love between us, doubly was she parent--friend! "god permitted that her spirit should through stormy floods be led, that she might converse with angels while she toiled for daily bread. "wondrous oft were her communings, as of one to life new-born, when i watched beside her pillow, 'twixt the midnight and the morn. "still she lay through one long sabbath, but as evening closed she woke, and like one amazed with sorrow, thus with pleading voice she spoke: "'god will give whate'er is needful; will sustain from day to day; this i know--yet worldly fetters keep me still a thrall to clay! "'oh, my son, from these world-shackles only thou canst set me free!' 'speak thy wish,' said i, 'my mother, lay thy lov'd commands on me!' "as if strength were given unto her for some purpose high, she spake: 'i have toiled, and--like a miser-- hoarded, hoarded for thy sake. "'not for sordid purpose hoarded, but to free from outward blame, from the tarnish of dishonor, thy dead father's sacred name, "'and i lay on thee this duty-- 'tis my last request, my son-- lay on thee this solemn duty which i die and leave undone! "'promise, that thy dearest wishes, pleasure, profit, shall be naught, until, to the utmost farthing, thou this purpose shalt have wrought!' "and i promised. all my being freely, firmly answered, yea! thus absolved, her angel-spirit, breathing blessings, passed away. "once more in the noisy, jostling human crowd; i seemed to stand, like to him who goes to battle, with his life within his hand. "all things wore a different aspect; i was now mine own no more: pleasure, wealth, the smile of woman all a different meaning bore. "thus i toiled--though young, not youthful ever mingling in the crowd, yet apart; my life, my labor, to a solemn purpose vowed. "yet even duty had its pleasure, and i proudly kept apart; lord of all my weaker feelings; monarch of my subject heart. "foolish boast! my pride of purpose proved itself a feeble thing, when thy uncle brought me hither, in the pleasant time of spring. "said he, 'thou hast toiled too closely; thou shalt breathe our country air; thou shalt come to us on sundays, and thy failing health repair!' "now began my hardest trial. what had i with love to do? loving thee was sin 'gainst duty, and 'gainst thy good uncle too! "until now my heart was cheerful; duty had been light till now, --oh that i were free to woo thee; that my heart had known no vow! "yet, i would not shrink from duty; nor my vow leave unfulfilled! --still, still, had my mother known thee, would she thus have sternly willed? "wherefore did my angel-mother thus enforce her dying prayer? --yet what right had i to seek thee, thou, thy uncle's wealthy heir! "thus my spirit cried within me; and that inward strife began, that wild warfare of the feelings which lays waste the life of man. "in such turmoil of the spirit, feeble is our human strength; life seems stripped of all its glory: --yet was duty lord at length. "so at least i deemed. but meeting toward the pleasant end of may with thy uncle, here he brought me, i who long had kept away. "he was willful, thy good uncle; i was such a stranger grown; i must go to hear the reading of a ballad of his own. "willing to be won, i yielded. canst thou not that eve recall, when the lilacs were in blossom, and the sunshine lay o'er all? "on the bench beneath the lilacs, sate we; and thy uncle read that sweet, simple, wondrous ballad, which my own heart's woe portrayed. "'twas a simple tale of nature-- of a lowly youth who gave all his heart to one above him, loved, and filled an early grave. "but the fine tact of the poet laid the wounded spirit bare, breathed forth all the silent anguish of the breaking heart's despair. "'twas as if my soul had spoken, and at once i seemed to know, through the poet's voice prophetic, what the issue of my woe. "later, walking in the evening through the shrubbery, thou and i, with the woodlarks singing round us, and the full moon in the sky; "thou, my ellen, didst reproach me, for that i had coldly heard that sweet ballad of thy uncle's, nor responded by a word. "said i, 'if that marvelous ballad did not seem my heart to touch; it was not from want of feeling, but because it felt too much.' "and even as the rod of moses called forth water from the rock; so did now thy sweet reproaches all my secret heart unlock. "and my soul lay bare before thee; and i told thee all; how strove, as in fierce and dreary conflict, my stern duty and my love. "all i told thee--of my parents, of my angel-mother's fate; of the vow by which she bound me; of my present low estate. "all i told thee, while the woodlarks filled with song the evening breeze, and bright gushes of the moonlight fell upon us through the trees. "and thou murmured'st, oh! my ellen, in a voice so sweet and low; 'would that i had known thy mother. would that i might soothe thy woe!' "ellen, my sweet, life's companion! from my being's inmost core then i blessed thee; but i bless thee, bless thee, even now, still more! "for, as in the days chivalric ladies armed their knights for strife, so didst thou, with thy true counsel, arm me for the fight of life. "saidst thou, 'no, thou must not waver, ever upright must thou stand: even in duty's hardest peril, all thy weapons in thy hand. "'doing still thy utmost, utmost; never resting till thou'rt free!-- but, if e'er thy soul is weary, or discouraged--think of me!' "and again thy sweet voice murmured, in a low and thrilling tone; 'i have loved thee, truly loved thee, though that love was all unknown! "'and the sorrows and the trials which thy youth in bondage hold, make thee to my heart yet dearer than if thou hadst mines of gold! "'go forth--pay thy debt to duty; and when thou art nobly free, he shall know, my good old uncle, of the love 'twixt thee and me!' "ellen, thou wast my good angel! once again in life i strove-- but the hardest task was easy, in the light and strength of love. "and, when months had passed on swiftly, canst thou not that hour recall-- 'twas a christmas sabbath evening-- when we told thy uncle all? "good old uncle! i can see him, with those calm and loving eyes, smiling on us as he listened, silent, yet with no surprise. "and when once again the lilacs blossom'd, in the merry may, and the woodlarks sang together, came our happy marriage day. "my sweet ellen, then i blessed thee as my young and wealthy wife, but i knew not half the blessings with which thou wouldst dower my life!" here he ceased, good thomas harlowe; and as soon as ceased his voice-- that sweet chorusing of woodlarks made the silent night rejoice. [from fraser's magazine.] phantoms and realities.--an autobiography. (_continued from page ._) part the first--morning. vii. "i am not about to relate a family history," he began; "but there are some personal circumstances to which i must allude. at nineteen, i was left the sole protector of two sisters, and of a ward of my father, whose guardianship also devolved upon me. it was a heavy responsibility at so early an age, and pressed hard upon a temperament better adapted for gayety and enjoyment. i discharged it, however, with the best judgment i could, and with a zeal that has bequeathed me, among many grateful recollections, one source of lasting and bitter repentance." "repentance, forrester?" i cried, involuntarily. "you may understand the sort of dangers to which these young creatures were exposed in the spring-tide of their beauty, protected only by a stripling, who knew little more of the world than they did themselves. upon that point, perhaps, i was too sensitive. i knew what it was to struggle against the natural feelings of youth, and was not disposed to place much trust in the gad-flies who gathered about my sisters. well--i watched every movement, and i was right. yet, with all my care, it so happened that an offense--an insult such as your heartless libertines think they may inflict with impunity on unprotected women--was offered to one of my sisters. our friendless situation was a mark for general observation, and it was necessary that society should know the terms i kept with it. my enemy--for i made him so on the instant--would have appeased me, but i was inaccessible to apologies. we met; i was wounded severely--my opponent fell. this fearful end of the quarrel affected my sister's health. she had a feeling of remorse about being the cause of that man's death, and her delicate frame sunk under it." "perhaps," said i, "there might have been other feelings, which she concealed." "that fear has cast a shadow over my whole life. but we will not talk of it. i must hasten on. there was a fatal malady in our family--the treacherous malady which is fed so luxuriously by the climate of england. my remaining sister, plunged into grief at our bereavement, became a prey to its wasting and insidious influence. you saw that the servant who opened the door was in mourning? i have mentioned these particulars that you may understand i was not alone in the world, as i am now, when the lady you have seen came to reside in my house. at that time, my sisters were living." "and she?" "was my father's ward, of whom i have spoken. during the early part of her life she lived in scotland, where she had friends. now listen to me attentively. gertrude hastings lost her mother in her childhood; and upon the death of her father, being a minor, her education and guardianship devolved upon my father, who was trustee to her fortune. at his death, which took place soon afterward, the trust came into my hands. it was thought advisable, under these circumstances, that she should have the benefit of wiser counsel than my own, and for several years she was placed in the house of her mother's sister, who lived at no great distance from the english border. it was my duty to visit her sometimes." he hesitated, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "well--i entreat you to proceed." "let me collect myself. i visited her sometimes--at first at long intervals, then more frequently. every man in his youth forms some ideal, false or true, of the woman to whom he would devote his love. such dreams visited me, but my situation forbade me to indulge in them, and i resolved to devote myself to the charge i had undertaken, and to forego all thoughts of marriage. i never found this conflict beyond my strength until i saw gertrude hastings." i was struck with horror at these words, and shuddered at what i feared was yet to come. he perceived the effect they took upon me, and went on: "you are precipitate in your judgment, and i must beg that you will hear me patiently to the end. i will be brief, for i am more pained by the disclosure than you can be. why should i prolong a confession which you have already anticipated? i loved her; and every time i saw her, i loved her more and more. i was justified by the circumstances that drew us together--the equality of our births--the connection of our families. she was free to choose--so was i. i knew of no impediment, and there was none at the time she inspired me with that fatal passion which, when it grew too strong to be concealed from her, she was unable to return." i breathed more freely; but seeing the emotion under which poor forrester was laboring, i kept silence, and waited for him to resume. "i despise what is called superstition," he said, "as much as any of those bald philosophers we are in the habit of meeting. when they, or you, or i, talk of supernatural agencies, we must each of us be judged by the measure of our knowledge. ignorance and unbelief evade the question they fear to examine by the easy process of rejecting the evidence on which it rests. if the evidence be trustworthy, if it be clear and coherent in every particular, if it be such as we should be bound to admit upon matters that come within the range of our experience, i have yet to learn upon what grounds it can be rejected when it relates to matters of which we know nothing. our inability to refute it should make us pause before we heap odium on the witnesses who vouch for its truth." forrester was proceeding in this strain, apparently under an apprehension that the disclosure he was about to make required some prologue of this kind to bespeak credit for it, little suspecting that there were incidents in my own life which rendered me too easy a recipient of such statements. but i interrupted him by an assurance that i was quite prepared to believe in things much more extraordinary than any which he could have to relate. he then returned to the narrative. "gertrude's aunt had been bred up in scotland, and was a staunch supporter of the old customs, and a stickler for the popular faith in the ceremonies that are practiced there on certain anniversaries. on one of these occasions, gertrude, whose imagination had, probably, been affected by the stories she had heard concerning them, was induced, half in play and half in earnest, to try the virtue of one of the charms prescribed for the eve of all hallows. we might safely smile at these things, if they did not sometimes, as in this instance, lead to serious results. you see i am relating it to you calmly and circumstantially, although it has blighted my existence. the charm worked out its ends to a miracle. the table was laid out with supper, the necessary incantations having been previously performed, and gertrude, hiding behind a screen, waited for the appearance of the lover who was to decide her future destiny. they say there was a long pause--at least it seemed so to her--and then a footstep was heard, and then the figure of a man entered the room, and seated himself at the table. trembling with terror, she looked out from her hiding-place, and saw him clearly within two or three yards of her. the chair had been so placed that his face was exactly opposite to her. she scanned his features so accurately, that she remembered the minutest particulars, to the color of his hair and eyes, and the exact form of his mouth, which had a peculiar expression in it. the figure moved, as if to rise from the chair, and gertrude, struck to the heart with fear, uttered a loud shriek, and fell in a swoon upon the ground. her friends, who were watching outside, rushed into the room, but it was empty." "and that figure--has she never seen it since?" "never till to-night. _she recognized you in an instant._" my amazement at this narrative nearly deprived me of the power of speech. "what followed this?" i inquired. "a delusion that has occupied her thoughts ever since. it took such complete possession of her, that all arguments were useless. when she was asked if she believed it to be real, her invariable answer was that it was real to her. i suffered her to indulge this fancy, hoping that one day or another she would recover from what i regarded as a trance of the mind; but i was mistaken. she always said she was sure of your existence; and looked forward to the realization of her destiny, like one who lived under an enchantment. by slow degrees i relinquished all hopes, and resolved to sacrifice my own happiness to hers, if the opportunity should ever arrive. after this she came to london, broken down in health, and rapidly wasting away under the influence of the protracted expectation that was destroying her. then it was i first met you. i had some misgiving about you from the beginning, and prevailed upon her to describe to me again and again the person of my spectral rival. it was impossible to mistake the portrait. my doubts were cleared up, and the duty i had to perform was obvious. but i determined to make further inquiry before i revealed to either what i knew of both, and having heard you speak of your birth-place and residence, i went into the country, satisfied myself on all points respecting you, and at the same time learned the whole particulars of your life. still i delayed from day to day my intention of bringing you together, knowing that when it was accomplished my own doom would be sealed forever. while i delayed, however, she grew worse, and i felt that it would be criminal to hesitate any longer. i have now fulfilled my part--it remains for you to act upon your own responsibility. my strength exerted for her has carried me so far--i can go no further." as he uttered these words he rose and turned away his head. i grasped his hand and tried to detain him. he stood and listened while i expressed the unbounded gratitude and admiration with which his conduct inspired me, and explained, hurriedly, the fascination that had held me in a similar trance to that which he had just described. but he made no observation on what i said. it appeared as if he had resolved to speak no more on the subject; and he exhibited such signs of weariness and pain that i thought it would be unreasonable to solicit his advice at that moment. and so we parted for the night. viii. i pondered all night upon the history related to me by forrester. in the desire to escape from the clouds which still darkened my judgment, i endeavored to persuade myself at one moment that forrester was trying to impose upon me, and at another that he must be laboring under a mental aberration. the pride of reason revolted from the incredible particulars of that extraordinary narrative; yet certain coincidences, which seemed to confirm their truth, made me hesitate in my skepticism. if i had related to him what had happened to myself, he would have had as good a right to doubt my sanity or veracity as i had to doubt his. this was what staggered me. i sifted every particle of the story, and was compelled to confess that there was nothing in it which my own experience did not corroborate. the fetch, or wraith, or whatever it was that had appeared to gertrude, was a counterpart illusion to the figure that had appeared to me. upon her memory, as upon mine, it had made so vivid an impression, that our recognition of each other was mutual and instantaneous. that fact was clear, and placed the truth of forrester's statement beyond controversy. it was competent to others, who had no personal evidence of such visitations, to treat with indifference the mysteries of the spiritual world; but i was not free, however much i desired it, to set up for a philosophical unbeliever. all that remained, therefore, was to speculate in the dark on the circumstances which were thus shaping out our destiny, and which, inscrutable as they were, commanded the submission of my reason and my senses. it occurred to me that, as gertrude's residence beyond the border might not have been distant many miles from the spot where i imagined i had seen her, it was possible--barely possible--that her appearance there might have been a reality after all. this supposition was a great relief to me, for i would gladly have accepted a natural solution of the phenomenon, and i accordingly resolved to question her upon the subject. i thought the next day would never come, yet i shuddered at its coming. i was eager to see her again, although i dreaded the interview; and i will frankly acknowledge, that when i approached the house i trembled like a man on the eve of a sentence which was to determine the issue of life or death. the blinds were down in all the windows, and the aspect of the whole was chill and dismal. where sickness is, there, too, must be cheerlessness and fear. the passion which had so long possessed me was as strong as ever, but it was dashed with a hideous terror; there was so much to explain and to be satisfied upon before either of us could rightly comprehend our situation. i knocked faintly. there was no answer. i knocked again, more loudly, but still lowly, and with increasing apprehension. the door was opened by forrester. he looked dreadfully haggard, as if he had been sitting up all night, worn by grief and watching. i spoke to him, something broken and hardly articulate: he bent his head, and, raising his hand in token of silence, beckoned me to follow him. he was evidently much agitated, and a suspicion crossed my mind that he already repented the sacrifice he had made. but i did him wrong. when we reached the door of the room in which we had seen gertrude on the preceding night forrester paused, as if to gather up his manhood for what was to follow; then, putting forward his hand, he pushed open the door. "go in--go in," he cried, in a choking voice; and hurrying me on he retreated back into the shadow, as if he wished to avoid being present at our meeting. the room was in deep twilight. the curtains were drawn together over the windows, and there was less disorder in the apartment than when i had last seen it. the evidences of illness which i had observed scattered about were removed, and the furniture was more carefully arranged. the atmosphere was heavy, and affected me painfully. but i thought nothing of these things, although the slightest incident did not escape me. gertrude still lay upon the sofa, and appeared to be more tranquil and composed. there was a solemn hush over her as she lay perfectly calm and motionless. i fancied she was asleep, and approached her gently. her hands were stretched down by her sides, and i ventured to raise one of them to my lips. i shall never forget the horror of that touch. a thrill shot through my veins, as if a bolt of ice had struck upon my heart and frozen up its current at the fountain. it was the hand of a corpse. in the first feeling of madness and despair which seized upon me i ran my hands wildly over her arms, and even touched her face and lips, doubting whether the form that lay before me was of this world. some such wild apprehension traversed my brain; but the witnesses of death in the flesh were too palpable in many ways to admit of any superstitious incredulity. the violent surprise and emotion of the night before had proved too much for her wasted strength, and she had sunk suddenly under the fearful re-action. the shock overwhelmed me. not only was she taken from me at the very instant of discovery and possession, but all hope of mutual explanation was extinguished forever. upon one point alone had i arrived at certainty, but that only rendered me more anxious to clear up the rest. i had seen her living, had spoken to her, and heard her voice; and now she was dead, the proof of her actual humanity was palpable. it was some comfort to know that she to whom i had dedicated myself under the influence of a sort of sorcery, was a being actuated by passions like my own, and subject to the same natural laws; but it was the extremity of all conceivable wretchedness to lose her just as i had acquired this consoling knowledge. the phantom had scarcely become a reality when it again faded into a phantom. a few days afterward, for the second time, i followed a hearse to the grave. the only persons to whom i had consecrated my love were gone; and this last bereavement seemed to me at the time as if it were final, and as if there was nothing left for me but to die. my reason, however, had gained some strength by my rough intercourse with the world; and even in the midst of the desolation of that melancholy scene i felt as if a burden had been taken off my mind, and i had been released from a harassing obligation. at all events i had a consciousness, that as the earth closed over the coffin of gertrude, i passed out of the region of dreams and deceptions, and that whatever lay in advance of me, for good or evil, was of the actual, toiling, practical world. the exodus of my delusion seemed to open to me a future, in which imagination would be rebuked by the presence of stern and harsh realities. i felt like a manumitted slave, who goes forth reluctantly to the hard work of freedom, and would gladly fall back, if he could, upon the supine repose which had spared him the trouble of thinking for himself. forrester bore his agony with heroic endurance. i, who knew what was in his heart, knew what he suffered. but his eyes were still and his lips were fixed, and not a single quiver of his pulses betrayed his anguish to the bystanders. when the last rites were over, and we turned away, he wrung my hand without a word of leave-taking, and departed. a few days afterward he left england. the associations connected with the scenes of his past life--with the country that contained the ashes of all he loved--embittered every hour of his life, and he wisely sought relief in exile. i was hurt at not having received some communication from him before he went away; but i knew he was subject to fits of heavy depression, and his silence, although it pained me at the time, did not diminish the respect and sympathy inspired by his conduct. i will not dwell upon the immediate effect which the dissolution of gertrude, and the phantoms connected with her, had upon my mind. shattered and subdued, i re-entered the world, which i was now resolved, out of cowardice and distrust of myself, not to leave again; taking mental exercise, as an invalid, slowly recovering from the prostration of a long illness, tests his returning strength in the open air. i had a great fear upon me of going into the country, and being once more alone. the tranquillity of nature would have thrown me back into despair, while the crowded haunts of london kept me in a state of activity that excluded the morbid influences i had so much reason to dread. of my new experiences in the second phase of my life, as different from the former as light from darkness, i shall speak with the same fidelity which i have hitherto strictly observed. part the second--noon. i. when i had deposited gertrude in the grave i was a solitary tree, singled out by the lightning, from the rest of the forest, and blasted through every part of its articulation. there was no verdure in my soul. i was dead to the world around me. i lived in what was gone--i had no interest in what was to come. i believed that the fatal spell that had exercised such a power over my thoughts and actions had accomplished its catastrophe, and that there was nothing further for me to fulfill but death. my idol had perished in her beauty and her love. she had withered before my eyes, destroyed by the supernatural passion which had bound us to each other. how then could i live, when that which was my life had vanished like a pageant in the sky? i thought i could not survive her. yet i did. and seeing things as i see them now, and knowing the supremacy of time over affliction, i look back and wonder at the thought which desolated my heart under the immediate pressure of a calamity that appeared irreparable, but for which the world offered a hundred appeasing consolations. i went again into the bustle--the strife of vanities, ambitions, passions, and interests. at first i merely suffered myself to be carried away by the tide; my plank was launched, and i drifted with the current. but in a little time i began to be excited by the roar and jubilee of the waters. for many months gertrude was ever present to me, in moments of respite and solitude. as certain as the night returned, the stillness of my chamber was haunted by her smiles. the tomb seemed to give up its tenant in the fresh bloom and sweet confidence of life, and she would come in her star-light brightness, smiling sadly, as if she had a feeling of something wanted in that existence to which death had translated her, and looking reproachfully, but sweetly down upon me for lingering so long behind her. by degrees, as time wore on, her form grew less and less distinct, and, wearied of watching and ruminating, i would fall asleep and lose her; and so, between waking and sleeping, the floating outlines vanished, and she visited me no more. at last i almost forgot the features which were once so deeply portrayed upon my heart. poor human love and grief, how soon their footprints are washed away! i resided entirely in london, without any settled plan of life, tossed about upon the living surge, and indifferent whither it swept me. i lived from hour to hour, and from day to day, upon the incidents that chanced to turn up. people thought there was something singular in my manner, and that my antecedents were ambiguous; consequently i was much sought after, and invited abroad. my table was covered with cards. i was plagued with inquiries, and found that ladies were especially anxious to know more about me than i chose to tell. my silence and reserve piqued their curiosity. had i been a romantic exile, dressed in a bizarre costume, with an interesting head of hair, and an impenetrable expression of melancholy in my face, i could not have been more flattered by their inconvenient attentions. out of this crush of civilities i made my own election of friends. my acquaintance was prodigious--my intimacies were few. wherever i went i met a multitude of faces that were quite familiar to me, and to which i was expected to bow, but very few individuals whom i really knew. i had not the kind of talent that can carry away a whole _london directory_ in its head. i could never remember the names of the mob of people i was acquainted with. i recognized their faces, and shook their hands, and was astonished to find how glibly they all had my name, although i hardly recollected one of theirs, and this round of nods and how-d'ye-do's constituted the regular routine of an extensive intercourse with society. the clatter, frivolous as it was, kept me in motion, and there was health in that; but it was very wearisome. a man with a heart in his body desires closer and more absorbing ties. but we get habituated to these superficialities, and drop into them with surprising indifference; knowing or hoping that the sympathy we long for will come at last, and that, if it never comes, it is not so bad a thing after all, to be perpetually stopped on the journey of life by lively gossips, who will shake you by the hand, and insist upon asking you how you are, just as cordially as if they cared to know. there was one family i visited more frequently than the rest of my miscellaneous acquaintance. i can hardly explain the attraction that drew me so much into their circle, for there was little in it that was lovable in itself, or that harmonized with my tastes. but antagonisms are sometimes as magnetic as affinities in the moral world. they were all very odd, and did nothing like other people. they were so changeable and eccentric that they scarcely appeared to me for two evenings in succession to be the same individuals. they were perpetually shifting the slides of character, and exhibiting new phases. their amusements and occupations resembled the incessant dazzle of a magic lantern. they were never without a novelty of some kind on hand--a new whim, which they played with like a toy till they got tired of it--a subtle joke, with a little malicious pleasantry in it--or a piece of scandal, which they exhausted till it degenerated into ribaldry. their raillery and mirth, even when they happened to be in their most good-natured moods, were invariably on the side of ridicule. they took delight in distorting every thing, and never distorted any thing twice in the same way. they laughed at the whole range of quiet, serious amiabilities, as if all small virtues were foibles and weaknesses; and held the heroic qualities in a sort of mock awe that was more ludicrous and humiliating than open scoffing and derision. in this way they passed their lives, coming out with fresh gibes every morning, and going to bed at night in the same harlequinade humor. it seemed as if they had no cares of their own, and made up for the want of them by taking into keeping the cares of their neighbors; which they tortured so adroitly that, disrelish it as you might, it was impossible to resist the infection of their grotesque satire. one of the members of this family was distinguished from the rest by peculiarities special to himself. he was a dwarf in stature, with a large head, projecting forehead, starting eyes, bushy hair, and an angular chin. he was old enough to be dealt with as a man; but from his diminutive size, and the singularity of his manners, he was treated as a boy. although his mental capacity was as stunted as his body, he possessed so extraordinary a talent for translating and caricaturing humanity, that he was looked upon as a domestic mime of unrivaled powers. he could run the circle of the passions with surprising facility, rendering each transition from the grave to the gay so clearly, and touching so rapidly, yet so truly, every shade of emotion, that your wonder was divided between the dexterity, ease, and completeness of the imitation, and the sagacious penetration into character which it indicated. acting, no doubt, is not always as wise as it looks; and the mimicry that shows so shrewd on the surface is often a mere mechanical trick. but in this case the assumptions were various, distinct, and broadly marked, and not to be confounded with the low art that paints a feeling in a contortion or a grimace. during these strange feats he never spoke a word. he did not require language to give effect or intelligence to his action. all was rapid, graphic, and obvious, and dashed off with such an air of original humor that the most serious pantomime took the odd color of a jest without compromising an atom of its grave purpose. indeed this tendency to indulge in a kind of sardonic fun was the topping peculiarity of the whole group, and the dwarf was a faithful subscriber to the family principles. i suffered myself to be most unreasonably amused by this daily extravagance. the dwarf was a fellow after my own fancy: an irresponsible fellow, headlong, irregular, misshapen, and eternally oscillating to and fro without any goal in life. he never disturbed me by attempts to show things as they were, or by over-refined reasoning upon facts, in which some people are in the habit of indulging until they wear off the sharp edge of truths, and fritter them down into commonplaces. in short, he never reasoned at all. he darted upon a topic, struck his fangs into it, and left it, depositing a little poison behind him. his singularities never offended me, because they never interfered with my own. he turned the entire structure and operations of society to the account of the absurd; and made men, not the victims of distaste as i did, but the puppets of a farce. we arrived, however, at much the same conclusion by different routes, and the dwarf and i agreed well together; although there was an unconfessed repulsion between us which prohibited the interchange of those outward tokens of harmony that telegraph the good fellowship of the crowd. from the first moment of our acquaintance i had a secret distrust about my friend the dwarf. i shrank from him instinctively when i felt his breath upon me, which was as hot as if it came from a furnace. i felt as if he was a social mephistophiles, exercising a malignant influence over my fate. yet, in spite of this feeling, we became intimate all at once. as i saw him in the first interview, i saw him ever after. we relaxed all formalities on the instant of introduction, when he broke out with a gibe that put us both at our ease at once. we were intimates in slippers and morning-gowns, while the rest of the family were as yet on full-dress ceremony with me. ii. after i had known this family a considerable time, a lady from a distant part of the country, whom i had never seen or heard of before, came on a visit to them. she was a woman of about twenty-five years of age, with a handsome person, considerable powers of conversation, and more intellect than fine women usually take the trouble to cultivate or display, preferring to trust, as she might have safely done, to the influence of their beauty. her form was grand and voluptuous; her head, with her hair bound up in fillets, had a noble classical air; and her features were strictly intellectual. she had never been married; and exhibiting, as she did at all times, a lofty superiority over the people by whom she was surrounded in this house, it opened a strange chapter of sprightly malevolence to observe how they criticised her, and picked off her feathers, whenever she happened to be out of the room. they affected the most sublime regard for her, and the way they showed it was by wondering why she remained single, and trying to account for it by sundry flattering inuendos, with a sneer lurking under each of them. the men had no taste--this was said so slily as to make every body laugh--or perhaps they were afraid of her; she was hard to please; her mind was too masculine, which made her appear more repulsive than she really was; she did not relish female society, and men are always jealous of women who are superior to themselves, and so, between the two--hem!--there was the old adage! then she aimed at eccentricity, and had some uncommon tastes; she was fond of poetry and philosophy, and blue stockings are not so marketable as hosiery of a plainer kind: in short, it was not surprising that such a woman should find it rather difficult to suit herself with a husband. but whoever did succeed in overcoming her fastidiousness would get a prize! these criticisms, probably, awakened an interest in my mind about this lady. she was evidently not understood by her critics; and it was by no means unlikely that, in attributing peculiarities to her which did not exist, they might have overlooked the true excellencies of her character. in proportion as they depreciated her, she rose in my estimation, by the rule of contrarieties. it had always been a weakness of mine to set myself against the multitude on questions of taste, and to reverse their judgment by a foregone conclusion. i then believed, and do still in a great measure believe, that persons of genius are not appreciated or comprehended by the mob; but i occasionally committed the mistake of taking it for granted that persons who were depreciated by the mob must of necessity be persons of genius. astræa--for so she was familiarly called, at first in the way of covert ridicule, but afterward from habit--was thoroughly in earnest in every thing she said and did. she could adapt herself to the passing humor of vivacity or sarcasm without any apparent effort, but her natural manner was grave and dominant. beneath the severity of her air was an unsettled spirit, which a close observer could not fail to detect. it was to carry off or hide this secret disquietude of soul (such, at least, it appeared to me), that, with a strong aversion to frivolity, she heeded all the frivolous amusements; but then it was done with an effort and excess that showed how little her taste lay in it, and that it was resorted to only as an escape from criticism. she had no skill in these relaxations, and blundered sadly in her attempts to get through them; and people tried to feel complimented by her condescension, but were never really satisfied. and when she had succeeded in getting up the group to the height of its gayety, and thought that every body was fully employed, she would take advantage of the general merriment and relapse into her own thoughts. it was then you could see clearly how little interest she took in these things. but she was too important a person to be allowed to drop out, and as she was well aware of the invidious distinction with which she was treated, she would speedily rally and mix in the frivolity again. all this was done with a struggle that was quite transparent to me. she never played that part with much tact. yet her true character baffled me, notwithstanding. there was an evident restlessness within; as if she were out of her sphere, or as if there were a void to be filled, a longing after something which was wanted to awaken her sympathies, and set her soul at repose. of that i was convinced; but all beyond was impenetrable obscurity. the mystery that hovered about her manner, her looks, her words, attracted me insensibly toward her. she was an enigma to the world as i was myself; and a secret feeling took possession of me that there were some latent points of unison in our natures which would yet be drawn out in answering harmony. this feeling was entirely exempt from passion. gertrude had absorbed all that was passionate and loving in my nature--at least, i thought so then. and the difference between them was so wide, that it was impossible to feel in the same way about gertrude first and astræa afterward. simplicity, gentleness, and timidity, were the characteristics of gertrude; while astræa was proud, grand, almost haughty, with a reserve which i could not fathom. if it be true that the individual nature can find a response only in another of a certain quality, then it would have been absurd to delude myself by any dreams of that kind about astræa. if i had really loved gertrude, i could not love astræa. they were essentially in direct opposition to each other. as for astræa, she appeared inaccessible to the weaknesses of passion; her conversation was bold, and she selected topics that invited argument, but rarely awakened emotion. energetic, lofty, and severe, her very bearing repelled the approaches of love. he would have been a brave man who should have dared to love astræa. i wondered at her beauty, which was not captivating at a glance, but full of dignity. i wondered, admired, listened, but was not enslaved. she treated me with a frankness which she did not extend to others. this did not surprise me in the circle in which i found her. it was natural enough that she should avail herself of any escape that offered from that atmosphere of _persiflage_. i was guided by a similar impulse. but the same thing occurs every day in society. people always, when they can, prefer the intercourse which comes nearest to their own standard. it does not follow, however, that they must necessarily fall in love. such a suspicion never entered my head. i soon discovered that her knowledge was by no means profound; and that her judgment was not always accurate. setting aside the showy accomplishments which go for nothing as mental culture she was self-educated. she had been an extensive reader, but without method. she touched the surface of many subjects, and carried away something from each, to show that she had been there, trusting to her vigorous intellect for the use she should make of her fragmentary acquisitions. it was only when you discussed a subject fully with her that you discovered her deficiencies. in the ordinary way, rapidly lighting upon a variety of topics, she was always so brilliant and suggestive that you gave her credit for a larger field of acquirements than she really traversed. this discovery gave me an advantage over her; and my advantage gave me courage. one evening we were talking of the mythology, one of her favorite themes. "and you seriously think," i observed, in answer to something she said, "that the story of hercules and the distaff has a purpose?" "a deep purpose, and a very obvious moral," she replied. "will you expound it to me?" "it is quite plain--the parable of strength vanquished by gentleness. there is nothing so strong as gentleness." this reply took me by surprise, and i observed, "i should hardly have expected that from you." i was thinking more of the unexpected admission of the power of gentleness from the lips of astræa, than of the truth or depth of the remark. "do you mean that as a compliment?" she inquired. "well--no. but from a mind constituted like yours, i should have looked for a different interpretation." "then you think that my mind ought to prostrate itself before a brawny development of muscles?" "no, no; remember, you spoke of gentleness." "that is the mind of woman," she answered, "taking its natural place, and asserting its moral power. for gentleness, like beauty, is a moral power." "beauty a moral power?" i exclaimed. "that is its true definition, unless you would degrade it by lowering it to the standard of the senses," she replied, kindling as she spoke. "it elevates the imagination; we feel a moral exaltation in the contemplation of it; it is the essential grace of nature; it refines and dignifies our whole being; and appreciated in this aspect, it inspires the purest and noblest aspirations." this creed of beauty was very unlike any thing i had anticipated from her. if any body in a crowded drawing-room had spoken in this style, i should have expected that she would have smiled somewhat contemptuously upon them. "your definition is imperfect," i ventured to say; "i do not dispute it as far as it goes, but it is defective in one article of faith." "oh! i am not sent from the stars--though they have voted me astræa--to convert heathens. pray, let us have your article of faith." "i believe implicitly in your religion," said i; "but believing so much, i am compelled to believe a little more. if beauty calls up this homage of the imagination, and inspires these pure and elevating aspirations, it must awaken the emotions of the heart. to feel and appreciate beauty truly, therefore, is, in other words, to love." "that is an old fallacy. if love were indispensable to the appreciation of beauty, it would cruelly narrow the pleasures of the imagination." "on the contrary," i replied, "i believe them to be inseparable." "you are talking riddles," she replied, as if she were getting tired of the subject; "but, true or false, i have no reliance upon the word love, or the use that is made of it. it means any thing or nothing." "then you must allow me to explain myself;" and so i set about my explanation without exactly knowing what it was i had to explain. "i spoke of love as an abstract emotion." she smiled very discouragingly at that phrase, and i was, therefore, bound to defend it. "certainly there is such a thing--listen to me for a moment. i was not speaking of the love of this or that particular object--a love that may grow up and then die to the root; but the love which may be described as the poetical perception and permanent enjoyment of the ideal." "we must not quarrel about the word," interrupted astræa, as if she wished to bring the conversation to a close; "we agree, possibly, in the thing, although i should have expressed it differently." "i grant," said i, trying to gather my own meaning more clearly, "love must have an object. abstractions may occupy the reason, but do not touch the heart. when beauty appeals to the heart it must take a definite shape, and the love it inspires must be addressed to that object alone." "we have changed our argument," observed astræa, quickly, "and see, we must change our seats, too, for supper is announced." i felt that i was rhapsodizing, and that, if i had gone on much further, i must have uttered a great deal that astræa would have inevitably set down as rank nonsense. i was not sorry, therefore, that the conversation was broken off at that dubious point. we were both scared out of our subtleties by the flutter and laughter that rang through the room as every body rose to go to supper; and in a few moments i found myself seated at table with astræa next to me, and my friend the dwarf seated exactly opposite. iii. the chatter of the party was, as usual, noisy and sarcastic. they were in an extraordinary flow of spirits, and indulged their unsparing raillery to an extravagant excess. the dwarf had quite a roystering fit upon him, and tossed his great shapeless head about with such outrageous fun, that one might suppose he was laboring under a sudden access of delirium, or had, at least, fallen in with a rare god-send to exercise his powers of frantic ridicule upon. these things, no doubt, presented themselves to me in an exaggerated light, for i was a little out of humor with myself; and could not help contrasting the reckless levity of the group with the stillness of astræa, who must have secretly despised the companionship into which she was thrown. whenever any body uttered a joke (and dreary and miserable jokes they were), the dwarf, who acted a sort of chorus to their obstreperous humors, would jerk his head back with a theatrical "ha!" and spread out his hands like so many coiling snakes, with an indescribable exaggeration of astonishment. then a sneer and chirrup would run round the table, rising presently into a loud laugh, which the lady of the house would discreetly suppress by lifting her finger half way to her face--a signal that was understood to imply a cessation of hostilities when the ribaldry was supposed to be going too far. i looked at astræa involuntarily on one of these occasions, and found her eyes turned at the same instant to mine. the same thought was in both our minds. we both abhorred the coarseness of the scene, and felt the same desire to be alone. the position which thus extracted the feelings that we held in common was full of peril to us; but at such moments one never thinks of peril. i asked her to take wine, pouring it into her glass at the same moment. this implied a familiarity between us which i certainly did not intend, and should not have been conscious of if i had not chanced to notice the face of the dwarf. he was looking straight at us, his mouth pursed out, and his head thrust forward as if to make way for a sudden writhing or elevation of his shoulders. it was the express image of a man who had discovered something very strange, or in whom a previous doubt had just been confirmed. i could not at all comprehend his meaning; but i knew he had a meaning, and that threw me back upon myself to find out the point of the caricature. i attributed it to the unceremonious freedom i had taken with astræa, and regretted that i had given occasion to so pitiful a jest; but i was by no means satisfied that there was not an _arrière pensée_ in the mind of the dwarf. the spiteful mirth went on in a rapid succession of vulgar inuendos, puns, and jokes. the peculiarities of one intimate friend after another were anatomized with surprising skill; nobody was spared; and the finger of the hostess was in constant requisition to check the riot, and direct the scandal-hunters after fresh quarry. as none of the people who were thus made the subjects of unmerciful ridicule were known to me or astræa, we took no part in their dissection, and imperceptibly dropped into a conversation between ourselves. we resumed our old subject, and talked in low and earnest tones. i supposed that they were all too much engaged in the personal topics that afforded them so much amusement to think about us, and had no suspicion that they were observing us closely all the time. i was apprised of the fact by the astounding expression i detected on the face of my indefatigable mephistophiles: i shall never forget it. it was a face of saturnine ecstasy, with a secret smile of pleasure in it, evidently intended for me alone, as if he rejoiced, and wondered, and congratulated me, and was in high raptures at my happiness. i was astonished and confounded, and felt myself singularly agitated; yet, i knew not why--i was not angry with him: for although his manner was inexplicable, and ought to have been taken as an offense from its grossness, still, for some unaccountable reason, it was pleasant rather than disagreeable to me. i forgot the little demon, however, in the delight of looking at astræa, and listening to her. there was such a charm in her eyes, and in the sound of her voice, that i was soon drawn again within its powerful influence. as to the subject of our conversation, it was of secondary interest to the pleasure of hearing her speak. whatever i said was but to induce her to say more. to struggle in an argument was out of the question--all i yearned for was the music of her tones. not that i quite lost the thread of our discussion, but that i was more engaged in following the new graces and embellishments it derived from her mode of treating it, than in pursuing the main topic. again i turned to the dwarf, and there he was again glaring upon us with a look of transport. but his fiery eyes no longer leaped out upon me alone; they were moved quickly from astræa to me alternately, and were lighted up with a wild satisfaction that appeared to indicate the consummation of some delirious passion. i never saw so much mad glee in a human face; all the more mad to me, since i was entirely ignorant of the source from whence it sprang. once i thought astræa observed him, but she turned aside her head, and hastily changed the conversation, apparently to defeat his curiosity. many times before i took leave that night the mime repeated his antics; and, as if to make me feel assured that i was really the object of his pantomimic raptures, he squeezed my hand significantly at parting, and with more cordiality than he had ever shown me before. as i bade astræa "good-night," she gave me her hand--in the presence of the whole family; there was nothing to conceal in her thoughts. i took it gently in mine, and, gazing for a moment intently into her face, in which i thought i perceived a slight trace of confusion, i bowed and withdrew. that was a night of strange speculation. for some time past, i had thought little of gertrude--had almost forgotten her. that night she returned, but unlike what she had ever been before. the smile, like sunlight let in upon the recesses of a young bud, no longer cleft her lips; and her eyes were cold and glassy. i felt, too, that i had recalled her by an effort of the will, and that she did not come involuntarily, as of old. there was a sense of guiltiness in this. was gertrude fading from my memory?--and was astræa concerned in the change? no, astræa was nothing to me--she was out of my way--the height on which she stood was frozen. what was it, then, that troubled and excited me, and blotted out the past? i was more unhappy than ever; yet it was an unhappiness that carried me onward, as if there was an escape for it, or a remedy. i was perplexed and disturbed. i was like a bird suddenly awakened in its cage amidst the glare of torches. i tried to think of gertrude, but it was in vain. the thought no longer appeased me. the dwarf-mime was before me with all his devilish tricks and gestures. i could not rid myself of his hideous features. they danced and gibbered in the air, and were always fastened upon me. he was like a human nightmare; and even the gray dawn, as it came through the curtains, only showed that misshapen head more clearly. what was this dwarf to me that he should haunt me thus, and become an agony to my soul. was he my fate? or was he sent to torture me to some deed of self-abandonment? i should have gone mad with this waking dream, but as the morning advanced, and the light spread, my aching eyes closed in an uneasy sleep. i was dissatisfied with myself, without exactly knowing why. i hated the dwarf, yet was fascinated by the very importunity that made me hate him. why should he meddle with me? why should he exult in any diversion of my fortunes? what was he to me, or astræa to either of us? i was an unchartered ship, in which no living person had an interest, drifting on the wide waste of waters. why should his eyes traverse the great expanse to keep watch on me? could he not let me founder on the breakers, without making mocking signals to me from the shore, where he and his stood in heartless security? my sleep was full of dreams of that malignant demon, and i awoke in a state of actual terror from their violent action on my nerves. iv. the next morning i went out, determined to dissipate these harassing reflections, and, above all things, resolved not to see astræa. i wandered about half the day, perfectly sincere in my intention of avoiding the quarter of the town in which she lived. my mind was so much absorbed, that i was quite unconscious of the route i had taken, until, raising my eyes, i saw the dwarf standing before me on the steps of his own door. i had dropped into the old track by the sheer force of habit, and have no doubt that my tormentor put the worst construction on the flush that shot into my face at seeing him. the same riotous glee was in his eyes that i had noticed, for the first time, on the evening before; but it now took something of a look of triumph that perplexed me more than ever. "ha!" he exclaimed, with a chuckle that literally palpitated through his whole body--"you are come at last. i have been looking out for you the whole morning." "indeed!" "how did you sleep last night?" he continued; "what sort of dreams had you? i'll answer for it that no dancing dervish ever went through such contortions!" "what do you mean?" i demanded. "why, there!" he replied, "you turn red and white by turns. are you hit?--are you hit? confess yourself, and i will comfort you." "come, come," said i, anxious not to provoke the explanation i panted for, yet dreaded, "this _badinage_ is sorry work for the day-light. you should keep it till the lamps are lighted!" "have at you, then," he returned, his features undergoing a comical transition into affected gravity; "i will talk proverbs with you, and look as gloomy as a mute at a funeral:" giving, at the same time, an irresistible imitation of one of those ghastly, wire-drawn, drunken faces. "mercy upon us! what ominous tokens are in that doleful countenance of yours! the candle gives out its warning-sheet for the bespoken of the grave; the sea has its sights and sounds for the doomed man who is to sup with the fishes; the cricket challenges death in the hearth; the devil gives three knocks at the door when some miserable wretch is passing through the mortal agony; and there are signs in your face of a living torture, which any man galloping by may see. what does it mean? is the leaf only turned over by the wind, and will the next blast whisk it back again? or are its fibres riven past recovery?" i could not bear this tantalizing mockery; and if i had not been afraid of exciting the malice of that fiendish nature, there must have been an explosion at this moment. i managed, however, to control myself, and spoke to him calmly, but with a resolution in my voice which admitted of no mis-construction. "now, listen to me, my friend," i said, "and understand distinctly what i am going to say. you have extraordinary talents for sarcasm, but i must ask you not to practice them upon me. i don't like to be questioned and criticised in this way. i dare say you don't intend any thing beyond an idle joke; but i don't like being made the subject of jokes. i covet no favor from you but to be spared your gibes--and that is not much for you to grant." "the hardest thing in the world to grant!" he answered. "to be spared my gibes! what is to become of us, if i'm not to have my gibes? you might as well ask me to look you straight in the face and not to see you. nonsense! you mustn't impose such a penance upon me." "but why do you jest with me in this way? do you think i am a fit object for burlesque and buffoonery?" "burlesque and buffoonery?" he returned, twitching his mouth as if he were stung to the quick; "i do not burlesque you, and i am not a buffoon." "then drop this strange humor of yours, and try to be serious with me." "do you desire me to be serious with you?" "most assuredly i do. i don't understand any thing else." "then it is a bond between us henceforth," he cried, in a tone of deep earnestness. "from this hour i jest with you no more." as he spoke he glanced at me darkly under his eyebrows, and turned into the house. i was rather taken by surprise at this new manifestation of his versatile genius, and followed him mechanically, utterly forgetful of the wise resolution with which i had set out. we went into the drawing-room. astræa was surrounded by a group o girls, some kneeling, others dispersed about her, while she was directing their employment on a piece of tapestry on a large frame. the _tableau_ was striking, and i thought astræa never looked so well her fine figure was thrown into a graceful attitude, the head slightly averted, and one hand pointing to the tracery, while the other was raised in the air, suspending some threads of the embroidery. the face that formed a circle round her were looking up, beaming with pleasure and presented an animated picture. here was astræa in a new aspect. i felt the injustice her flippant critics had committed in unsexing her, and depriving her of her domestic attributes. our entrance disturbed the group, and, springing up, they took to flight like a flock of birds. "you see, astræa," said the dwarf, in a sharp voice, meant to convey sneer through a compliment, "you are not allowed to be useful in this world. you are invaded at all your weak points: the force of you attraction will not suffer you to enjoy even your needle in private." "a truce, sir, to this folly!" exclaimed astræa, turning from him an advancing to meet me. the dwarf twirled painfully on his chair, as if the scorn had taken full effect upon him. we had both struck him in the same place. had we premeditated a plan of operations for wounding his vanity we could not have acted more completely in concert. "i hope," said i, desiring to change the subject, "you have recovered our merriment of last night?" "merriment?" interposed mephistophiles; "good! _your_ merriment you and astræa were like dull citizens yawning over a comedy, which we were fools enough to act for you. when next we play in that fashion may we have a livelier audience." "the reproach, i am afraid, is just," i observed, looking at astræa. but she was not disposed to give the vantage ground to mephistophiles. "i hope next time you may have an audience more to your liking," she observed; "tastes differ, you know, in these matters." "yes, that's quite true," returned the dwarf, dryly; "but _your_ tastes, it seems agree wonderfully." thus astræa and i were coupled and cast together by the mime, who evidently took a vindictive delight in committing us to embarrassments of that kind. to have attempted to extricate ourselves would probably have only drawn fresh imputations upon us; so we let it pass. every body has observed what important events sometimes take their spring in trifles. the destiny of a life is not unfrequently determined by an accident. i felt that there was something due to astræa or the freedom to which she was exposed on my account. yet it was an exceedingly awkward subject to touch upon. the very consciousness of this awkwardness produced or suggested other feelings that involved me in fresh difficulties. i felt that i ought to apologize for having brought this sort of observation upon her; but i also felt that explanations on such subjects are dangerous, and that it is safer to leave them unnoticed. the impulse, however, to say something was irresistible; and what i did say was not well calculated to help me out of the dilemma. "i feel," said i, quite aware at the moment i spoke that it would have been just as well to have left my feelings out of the question--"i feel that i ought to apologize to you for bringing discredit on your taste. the whole fault of the dullness lies with me." "not at all," she replied; "i am perfectly willing to take my share of it. be assured that the highest compliment is often to be extracted from some people's sarcasms." this was a "palpable hit," and i apprehended that it would rouse the dwarf to a fierce rejoinder. but he had left the room, and we were alone. there was a pause; and astræa, who had more courage under the embarrassment than i could command, was the first to speak. "they mistake me," she said slowly; "it has been my misfortune all my life to be misunderstood. perhaps the error is in myself. possibly my own nature is at cross-purposes, marring and frustrating all that i really mean to do and say. i try to adapt myself to other people, but always fail. even my motive are misinterpreted, and i can not make myself intelligible. it must be some original willfulness of my nature, that makes me seem too proud to the proud, and too condescending to the humble; but certain it is that both equally mistake me." "_i_ do not mistake you, astræa," i cried, startled by the humility of her confession. "i feel you do not," she answered. "they say you are scornful and unapproachable--not so! you are as timid at heart as the fawn trembling in its retreat at the sound of the hunter's horn. but you hold them, with whom you can not mingle, by the bond of fear. you compel them to treat you with deference, from the apprehension that they might otherwise become familiar. the translate your high intelligence into haughtiness; and because they can not reach to your height, they believe you to be proud and despotic." "i know not how that may be," she returned; "but i will acknowledge that my feelings must be touched before the mere woman's nature is awakened. they who do not know me think--" "that you are insensible to that touch," said i, supplying the unfinished sentence; "they libel you, astræa! achilles had only one vulnerable spot, but that was fatal. protected in all else, you are defenseless on one point, and when that is struck your whole nature is subjugated. do i describe you truly? when the woman is awakened, the insensibility and fortitude in which you are shut up will melt away--your power will be reduced to helplessness: absorbing devotion, unbounded tenderness, which are yearning for their release, will flow out; the conqueror will become the enslaved, living, not for victories which you despise, but for a servitude which will bring your repressed enthusiasm into action. for this you would sacrifice the world--pride, place, applause, disciples, flattery!" "not a very agreeable picture--but, i am afraid, a faithful one." "strong feelings and energy of character are not always best for our happiness," i went on; "you expected too much; you found the world cold and selfish, and your heart closed upon it. this was the action of a temperament eager and easily chilled; and it was natural enough that people who could not move your sympathies should think that your heart was dead or callous. yet there it was, watching for the being who was one day to call up its idolatry--for it is not love that will constitute your happiness, astræa--it must be idolatry. it is that for which you live--to relinquish yourself for another. all is darkness and probation with you till she who now inspires so much worship to which she is indifferent, shall herself become the worshiper. it is the instinct of your nature, the secret of the enigma, which makes you seem exactly the opposite of what you are." i might have run on i know not to what excess, for i felt my eloquence kindling and rising to an extravagant height, when i perceived astræa change color and avert her eyes. "have i offended you, astræa?" i inquired. "offended me?" she answered; "no, you have done me a service. you have shown me the error of my life--the folly and delusion of hoping for a destiny different from that of the ordinary lot." "why do you call it a delusion? you will yet find that haven of rest toward which your heart looks so tremulously. the bird whose instinct carries it over the wild seas from continent to continent sometimes droops its jaded wings and sinks, but it makes land at last." "no, no; it was a dream. there is no reality in such foolish notions." "come," said i, with increasing earnestness, "you must not speak against your convictions. you do not think it a dream--you rely confidently on the hope that the time will come--" "the thought is madness," interrupted astræa, quickly; "no--no--no--there is no such hope for me. do not misconceive me. you have read my nature as clearly as if the volume of my whole life to its inmost thoughts were laid open before you. but the dream is over. it might have been the pride and glory of my soul to have waited upon some high intelligence--to have followed its progress, cheered it patiently in secret to exertion, encouraged its ambition, and lain in the shadow of its triumphs. it is over. that may never be!" her voice shook, although she looked calmly at me as she spoke, trying to conceal her emotion. her hand accidentally lay in mine. there was a danger in it which i would not see. "and you have not found the intelligence for which you sought?" i demanded, in a voice that conveyed more than it expressed in words. "yes," she replied slowly, "i have found intelligence--original, hard, athletic; but wanting in the sympathy that alone wins the heart of woman." "astræa," i replied, "your imagination has pictured an ideal which i fear you will never find realized." "i _have_ found it!" she cried, betrayed into a transport of feeling; then, checking herself, she added, "and i have lost it. would to god i had never found it!" her head drooped--it touched my shoulder; my arm pressed her waist--i was ignorant of it; a haze swam before my eyes. tumultuous sensations beat audibly at my heart. astræa, the haughty beauty--the intellectual, proud astræa--where was her dominant power--her lofty self-possession now? subdued, bowed down by emotion, the strength of her will seemed to pass from her to me, reversing our positions, and placing in my hands the ascendency she had so lately wielded. the air seemed to palpitate with these new and agitating feelings. i made an effort to control myself and speak, but could only pronounce her name "astræa!" there were a hundred questions in the word; but she was silent, and in her silence a hundred answers. "not here, astræa," i cried; "we shall be more free to speak elsewhere--away from those vacant eyes through which no hearts find utterance for us. one word, and i will be still--one word--" she trembled violently, and pressed my hand convulsively, as if she desired that i should not ask that word. but it was no longer possible to restrain it. that word was spoken. a shudder passed over her, and as she bent her head i felt a gush of tears upon my hand. at that moment a muffled step was on the stairs, and i had scarcely time to disengage myself when our imp half opened the door, and looked in with a leer of ribaldry and suspicion that chilled me to the core. (_to be continued._) william penn's conversion to quakerism.[ ] [footnote : from a new life of penn, by hepworth dixon, in the press of blanchard and lea, philadelphia.] penn did not remain long in london. his father, anxious to keep him apart from his old puritan friends--and to sustain the habit of devotion to his temporal interests into which he seemed gradually falling, sent him again into ireland. he had no suspicion that the enemy of his peace lay in ambush at the very gates of his stronghold. but the youth had not resided more than a few months at shangarry castle before one of those incidents occurred which destroy in a day the most elaborate attempts to stifle the instincts of nature. when the admiral in england was pluming himself on the triumphs of his worldly prudence, his son, on occasion of one of his frequent visits to cork, heard by accident that thomas loe, his old oxford acquaintance, was in the city and intended to preach that night. he thought of his boyish enthusiasm at college, and wondered how the preacher's eloquence would stand the censures of his riper judgment. curiosity prompted him to stay and listen. the fervid orator took for his text the passage--"there is a faith that overcomes the world, and there is a faith that is overcome by the world." the topic was peculiarly adapted to his own situation. possessed by strong religious instincts, but at the same time docile and affectionate--he had hitherto oscillated between two duties--duty to god and duty to his father. the case was one in which the strongest minds might waver for a time. on the one side--his filial affection, the example of his brilliant friends, the worldly ambition never quite a stranger to the soul of man--all pleaded powerfully in favor of his father's views. on the other there was only the low whisperings of his own heart. but the still voice would not be silenced. often as he had escaped from thought into business, gay society, or the smaller vanities of the parade and mess-room--the moment of repose again brought back the old emotions. the crisis had come at last. under thomas loe's influence they were restored to a permanent sway. from that night he was a quaker in his heart. he now began to attend the meetings of this despised and persecuted sect, and soon learned to feel the bitter martyrdom to which he had given up all his future hopes. in no part of these islands were the quakers of that time treated as men and as brethren--and least of any where in ireland. confounded by ignorant and zealous magistrates with those sterner puritans who had lately ruled the land with a rod of iron, and had now fallen into the position of a vanquished and prostrate party--they were held up to ridicule in polite society, and pilloried by the vulgar in the market-place. on the d of september ( ), a meeting of these harmless people was being held in cork when a company of soldiers broke in upon them, made the whole congregation prisoners and carried them before the mayor on a charge of riot and tumultuous assembling. seeing william penn, the lord of shangarry castle and an intimate friend of the viceroy, among the prisoners, the worthy magistrate wished to set him at liberty on simply giving his word to keep the peace, but not knowing that he had violated any law he refused to enter into terms, and was sent to jail with the rest. from the prison he wrote to his friend the earl of ossory--lord president of munster--giving an account of his arrest and detention. an order was of course sent to the mayor for his immediate discharge; but the incident had made known to all the gossips of dublin the fact that the young courtier and soldier had turned quaker. his friends at the vice-regal court were greatly distressed at this untoward event. the earl wrote off to the admiral to inform him of his son's danger, stating the bare facts just as they had come to his knowledge. the family were thunderstruck. the father especially was seriously annoyed; he thought the boy's conduct not only mad but what was far worse in that libertine age--ridiculous. the world was beginning to laugh at him and his family:--he could bear it no longer. he wrote in peremptory terms, calling him to london. william obeyed without a word of expostulation. at the first interview between father and son nothing was said on the subject which both had so much at heart. the admiral scrutinized the youth with searching eyes--and as he observed no change in his costume, nor in his manner any of that formal stiffness which he thought the only distinction of the abhorred sect, he felt re-assured. his son was still dressed like a gentleman; he wore lace and ruffles, plume and rapier; the graceful curls of the cavalier still fell in natural clusters about his neck and shoulders: he began to hope that his noble correspondent had erred in his friendly haste. but a few days served to dissipate this illusion. he was first struck with the circumstance that his son omitted to uncover in the presence of his elders and superiors; and with somewhat of indignation and impatience in his tone demanded an interview and an explanation. william frankly owned that he was now a quaker. the admiral laughed at the idea, and treating it as a passing fancy, tried to reason him out of it. but he mistook his strength. the boy was the better theologian and the more thorough master of all the weapons of controversy. he then fell back on his own leading motives. a quaker! why, the quakers abjured worldly titles: and he expected to be made a peer! had the boy turned independent, anabaptist--any thing but quaker, he might have reconciled it to his conscience. but he had made himself one of a sect remarkable only for absurdities which would close on him every door in courtly circles. then there was that question of the hat. was he to believe that his own son would refuse to uncover in his presence? the thing was quite rebellious and unnatural. and to crown all--how would he behave himself at court? would he wear his hat in the royal presence? william paused. he asked an hour to consider his answer--and withdrew to his own chamber. this enraged the admiral more than ever. what! a son of his could hesitate at such a question! why, this was a question of breeding--not of conscience. every child uncovered to his father--every subject to his sovereign. could any man with the feelings and the education of a gentleman doubt? and this boy--for whom he had worked so hard--had won such interest--had opened such a brilliant prospect--that he, with his practical and cultivated mind, should throw away his golden opportunities for a mere whimsy! he felt that his patience was sorely tried. after a time spent in solitude and prayer, the young man returned to his father with the result of his meditation--a refusal. the indignant admiral turned him out of doors. the birth of crime--a sketch from life. he was scarce past his childhood, and yet, at a glance, i perceived that he had commenced life's warfare for himself; that necessity had, with a stern, unbending brow, pointed out to him the way he was to take, and taught him, young as he was, that his fate must be to battle for himself on the path of life. his very humble and tattered dress, the sorrowful expression which had settled on his pallid yet interesting features, told their own story, and i involuntarily sighed while observing him. "want alone," i mentally exclaimed, "has hitherto been his companion; light hearts, gamboling playmates of his own years, exuberance of the young spirit, which gives buoyancy to the foot, throws sunshine on the heart, and 'neath whose spell all things seem beautiful--he, poor boy! has never known. he knows naught of the green fields and flowers, of murmuring brooks and leafy trees, amidst whose branches sweet music dwells: in some pent-up, crowded alley is his home, and his young mind hath been awoke in confines close, amidst scenes of toil and misery." the gentle and dejected expression of his countenance first attracted my attention, and, unobserved by him, i watched his movements as he slowly advanced down the crowded street toward the spot where i stood. occasionally he paused, and after looking up and down the busy thoroughfare, apparently awaiting or looking for some expected object to come in sight, he resumed his saunter, keeping close to the wall, so as to avoid intercepting the way of the numbers who were hurrying past him. the more i saw of the boy, the more was my interest in him increased, and my desire to know what object had brought him thither. so young, could his design be criminal? had he been initiated into the craft of pocket-picking? did he thus linger amidst the bustle of the crowded pathway to mark where he could successfully seize the spoil? i looked at him more earnestly as he approached me still nearer, and i felt that in the bare suspicion i had done him an injustice. while i was thus speculating on his character, he paused within a few paces of me, and gazed earnestly down the street, where something appeared to be exciting his attention. following the direction of his earnest look, i perceived at a little distance a gentleman on horseback slowly advancing, while looking inquiringly at the houses he was passing, as though in search of one of them in particular. he had arrived within a few yards of the place where i stood, when he halted, and dismounted: in an instant the boy i have spoken of was at his side, and touching the ragged apology for a cap which he wore, evidently tendered his services to hold the horse. the horseman cast a hasty glance at the little fellow, and was apparently about to resign the reins into his hands, when the door of the house before which he was standing opened, and a servant advanced to address him. i indistinctly caught the words "from home" and "to-morrow," when the functionary retired to the house; the horseman remounted, and cantered down the street, leaving the boy disappointedly and wistfully gazing after him. yes, i saw the gleam which had irradiated the little fellow's face vanish; and fancied i heard a sigh, which his young breast heaved forth as he turned away dejectedly from the spot. thus unsuccessful, i saw him next, from some of the passers-by, ask charity; but so timidly, that i saw he feared the repulse of harsh words, which, as i watched him, in some instances met his solicitations; while others passed him without the slightest notice. apparently very tired, he now seated himself on a door-step, still looking eagerly about him, as though anxious for another opportunity to present itself, when he might, with success, offer his services. while he was thus employed, an open carriage came rattling up the street, and, pulling up, a lady alighted at the house immediately opposite to where the young street-wanderer sat. i watched the play of his features as his gaze rested upon two little fellows of apparently his own age who were in the carriage, and who, in spite of an elderly-looking nurse's efforts to restrain them, were gamboling with each other rather boisterously. in the true spirit of boyish glee and mischief, they were endeavoring with parasols to push off the hat of the footman; who, seemingly, as much amused as themselves, while standing by the carriage awaiting the lady's return, was giving them opportunities to accomplish their object. yes, right joyous were they; and with their costly dresses, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, presented a striking contrast to the little fellow, who, in rags and wretchedness, from the door-step, was earnestly observing them. i would have given much to have known his thoughts in those moments; to have read, like the pages of a book, the feelings of his heart, while watching them in their gambols. there was no envy in the expression of his countenance; but, by the fixedness of his gaze, i judged that the sight of the carriage and its young occupants, at that juncture, had given birth to a train of thoughts and ideas as new as they were, perhaps, saddening. did he think that fate had dealt hardly with him? did he in his cogitations become bewildered in a labyrinth of thought, in endeavoring to account for the why of their being so differently situated? or, did fancy in his young brain raise some strange speculation on the world and the designs of him who made it? after a short time had elapsed, the door of the house opened, and the lady came forth; she entered the carriage, the footman mounted behind, away they rattled down the street, and were soon out of sight. i turned to look at the boy; he seemed to have fallen into a reverie, sitting motionless, while his gaze rested on the part of the street where the carriage had disappeared. when i again observed him, he had left his seat, and was rapidly crossing the street, to meet a female who, attired somewhat above the common garb, was advancing on the opposite side, and bearing in her arms a rather bulky parcel, which she appeared inconveniently to carry. as i had seen him salute the horseman, the street-wanderer, in addressing her, touched his cap, and evidently tendered his services to carry the parcel. the woman paused for a moment to look at the applicant, when, either deeming him too diminutive for the burden, or actuated by a spirit of economy, with some brief but decisive remark she turned from him, and resumed her walk. at the same moment a boor of a porter, rather than diverge from his path, knocked roughly against the boy, who was standing on the pavement, and sent him staggering against the wall, continuing his heavy tread onward, without as much as turning his head to see whether or not the little fellow had fallen. thus twice had i seen the cup held to his lips and dashed away; twice had i seen him strong in hope, and twice in disappointment deep. where now, boy, is thy energy? where thy spirit, thy resolution? methinks thou needst them now. alas! thou art but a child; and at thy age the green fields, where birds are blithely singing, or the jocund playground with young kindred spirits, where sport hath its daring and its perseverance too, were more fitting place to bring forth such exalted qualities than the crowded street--where want, perhaps, spurs thee to attempt; where fortune frowns upon thee, and seems hope to whisper only to deceive! courage thou hast no more. energy, it has left thee; else wouldst thou not so dejectedly hang thy head, and creep along the street as though thou wert upon forbidden ground, or trespassing in sharing the light of the fading day and the breath of heaven with those who are heedlessly hurrying past thee. after his last unsuccessful application, i next saw the dispirited little fellow turn down a small, little-frequented street, and, with the intention of meeting and speaking to him, i made a short _détour_, soon gaining the opposite end of the street which i had seen him enter. the buildings consisted entirely of warehouses, which were all closed for the night; and knowing that he could scarcely have entered one of them, i was not a little surprised to find the street apparently deserted. advancing a few paces, however, the mystery was soon solved. nestling in the corner of a warehouse doorway, with his head resting on his little hand, my eyes fell upon the wanderer i was in search of. absorbed in his grief, i approached him unseen, unheard. ah! need i say that he was weeping bitterly? reader, the boy had a home; i saw it; a cellar, whose bare walls and brick-uncovered floor bespoke it the abode of poverty and misery. he was not an orphan; for on a heap of rags, which served her for a bed, i saw an emaciated figure which he called his mother; a brother and a sister, too, were there, younger than my guide, and in their tattered, dirty garments scarcely distinguishable from the bed of rags on which they were huddled beside the dying woman. he was not an orphan; the young street-wanderer had a father. him, too, i saw; a rude, blear-eyed drunkard, whose countenance it was fearful to look upon; for there might be seen that the worst passions of our common nature had with him obtained a perilous ascendency--a brute, whose intellect, perhaps never bright, had become more brutal under the influence of the fire-spirit, to which he bore conspicuous marks of being a groveling soul-and-body slave. to me he appeared like the demon ruin midst the wreck around. on him, now that the wife could work no more, were they dependent. need i say that there were days when they scarce tasted food, when the young wanderer had been unsuccessful in the streets? and when hungry, tired, and dejected, he gave current to his grief, as when i found him in the midst of his heart-breaking sorrow? yes, my first surmise was painfully correct. he had, indeed, commenced life's warfare for himself; young as he was, it was his fate to battle his way on the path of life, and not a soul to advise and guard him against the demon crime, whose favorite haunts are the footsteps of the ignorant and needy. reader, how many of the victims of crime who fill our prisons, were their histories known, would prove to have commenced life like this boy! not always, then, let us unpitying behold the criminal, who, in his early manhood or the prime of life, is banished from his country, or suffers the dread penalty of death, without reflecting how much those who brought him into the world were concerned with so melancholy an issue--without reflecting that, like the little fellow of whom these pages tell, he may have had a father little better than the brute of the field, and in his childish years have been turned out to get his bread--a wanderer in the streets. the household of sir tho^s. more. libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelseiÆ inceptvs. * * * * * "nulla dies sine linea." * * * * * chelsea, _june _. on asking mr. gunnel to what use i s^d put this fayr _libellus_, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note y^e more important of our domestick passages, whether of joy or griefe--my father's journies and absences--the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings, etc. "you are smart at the pen, mistress margaret," he was pleased to say; "and i woulde humblie advise your journalling in y^e same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter which soe well pleased the bishop of exeter, that he sent you a portugal piece. 'twill be well to write it in english, which 'tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt, even for the more honourable latin." methinks i am close upon womanhood.... "humblie advise," quotha! to me, that hath so oft humblie sued for his pardon, and sometimes in vayn! 'tis well to make trial of gonellus his "humble" advice: albeit, our daylie course is so methodicall, that 'twill afford scant subject for y^e pen--_vitam continet una dies._ * * * * * ... as i traced y^e last word, methoughte i heard y^e well-known tones of erasmus his pleasant voyce; and, looking forthe of my lattice, did indeede beholde the deare little man coming up from y^e river side with my father, who, because of y^e heat, had given his cloak to a tall stripling behind him to bear. i flew up stairs, to advertise mother, who was half in and half out of her grogram gown, and who stayed me to clasp her owches; so that, by y^e time i had followed her down stairs, we founde 'em alreadie in y^e hall. so soon as i had kissed their hands, and obtayned their blessings, the tall lad stept forthe, and who s^d he but william roper, returned from my father's errand over-seas! he hath grown hugelie, and looks mannish; but his manners are worsened insteade of bettered by forayn travell; for, insteade of his old franknesse, he hung upon hand till father bade him come forward; and then, as he went his rounds, kissing one after another, stopt short when he came to me, twice made as though he would have saluted me, and then held back, making me looke so stupid, that i c^d have boxed his ears for his payns. 'speciallie as father burst out a-laughing, and cried, "the third time's lucky!" after supper, we took deare erasmus entirely over y^e house, in a kind of family procession, e'en from the buttery and scalding-house to our own deare academia, with its cool green curtain flapping in y^e evening breeze, and blowing aside, as though on purpose to give a glimpse of y^e cleare-shining thames! erasmus noted and admired the stone jar, placed by mercy giggs on y^e table, full of blue and yellow irises, scarlet tiger-lilies, dog-roses, honeysuckles, moonwort, and herb-trinity; and alsoe our various desks, eache in its own little retirement,--mine own, in speciall, so pleasantly situate! he protested, with everie semblance of sincerity, he had never seene so pretty an academy. i should think not, indeede! bess, daisy, and i, are of opinion, that there is not likelie to be such another in y^e world. he glanced, too, at y^e books on our desks; bessy's being livy; daisy's, sallust; and mine, st. augustine, with father's marks where i was to read, and where desist. he tolde erasmus, laying his hand fondlie on my head, "here is one who knows what is implied in the word trust." dear father, well i may! he added, "there was no law against laughing in _his_ academia, for that his girls knew how to be merry and wise." from the house to the new building, the chapel and gallery, and thence to visitt all the dumbe kinde, from the great horned owls to cecy's pet dormice. erasmus was amused at some of theire names, and doubted whether dun scotus and the venerable bede would have thoughte themselves complimented in being made name-fathers to a couple of owls; though he admitted that argus and juno were goode cognomens for peacocks. will roper hath broughte mother a pretty little forayn animal called a marmot, but she sayd she had noe time for such-like playthings, and bade him give it to his little wife. methinks, i being neare sixteen and he close upon twenty, we are too old for those childish names now, nor am i much flattered at a present not intended for me; however, i shall be kind to the little creature, and, perhaps, grow fond of it, as 'tis both harmlesse and diverting. to return, howbeit, to erasmus; cecy, who had hold of his gown, and had alreadie, through his familiar kindnesse and her own childish heedlessness, somewhat transgrest bounds, began now in her mirthe to fabricate a dialogue, she pretended to have overhearde, between argus and juno as they stoode pearcht on a stone parapet. erasmus was entertayned with her garrulitie for a while, but at length gentlie checkt her, with "love y^e truth, little mayd, love y^e truth, or, if thou liest, let it be with a circumstance," a qualification which made mother stare and father laugh. sayth erasmus, "there is no harm in a fabella, apologus, or parabola, so long as its character be distinctlie recognised for such, but contrariwise, much goode; and y^e same hath been sanctioned, not only by y^e wiser heads of greece and rome, but by our deare lord himself. therefore, cecilie, whom i love exceedinglie, be not abasht, child, at my reproof, for thy dialogue between the two peacocks was innocent no less than ingenious, till thou wouldst have insisted that they, in sooth, sayd something like what thou didst invent. therein thou didst violence to y^e truth, which st. paul hath typified by a girdle, to be worn next the heart, and that not only confineth within due limits but addeth strength. so now be friends; wert thou more than eleven and i no priest, thou shouldst be my little wife, and darn my hose, and make me sweet marchpane, such as thou and i love. but, oh! this pretty chelsea! what daisies! what buttercups! what joviall swarms of gnats! the country all about is as nice and flat as rotterdam." anon, we sit down to rest and talk in the pavillion. sayth erasmus to my father, "i marvel you have never entered into the king's service in some publick capacitie, wherein your learning and knowledge, bothe of men and things, would not onlie serve your own interest, but that of your friends and y^e publick." father smiled and made answer, "i am better and happier as i am. as for my friends, i alreadie do for them alle i can, soe as they can hardlie consider me in their debt; and, for myself, y^e yielding to theire solicitations that i w^d putt myself forward for the benefit of the world in generall, w^d be like printing a book at request of friends, that y^e publick may be charmed with what, in fact, it values at a doit. the cardinall offered me a pension, as retaining fee to the king a little while back, but i tolde him i did not care to be a mathematical point, to have position without magnitude." erasmus laught and sayd, "i woulde not have you y^e slave of anie king; howbeit, you mighte assist him and be useful to him." "the change of the word," sayth father, "does not alter the matter; i shoulde _be_ a slave, as completely as if i had a collar rounde my neck." "but would not increased usefulnesse," says erasmus, "make you happier?" "happier?" says father, somewhat heating; "how can that be compassed in a way so abhorrent to my genius? at present, i live as i will, to which very few courtiers can pretend. half-a-dozen blue-coated serving-men answer my turn in the house, garden, field, and on the river: i have a few strong horses for work, none for show, plenty of plain food for a healthy family, and enough, with a hearty welcome, for a score of guests that are not dainty. the lengthe of my wife's train infringeth not the statute; and, for myself, i soe hate bravery, that my motto is, 'of those whom you see in scarlet, not one is happy.' i have a regular profession, which supports my house, and enables me to promote peace and justice; i have leisure to chat with my wife, and sport with my children; i have hours for devotion, and hours for philosophie and y^e liberall arts, which are absolutelie medicinall to me, as antidotes to y^e sharpe but contracted habitts of mind engendered by y^e law. if there be aniething in a court life which can compensate for y^e losse of anie of these blessings, deare desiderius, pray tell me what it is, for i confesse i know not." "you are a comicall genius," says erasmus. "as for you," retorted father, "you are at your olde trick of arguing on y^e wrong side, as you did y^e firste time we mett. nay, don't we know you can declaime backward and forwarde on the same argument, as you did on y^e venetian war?" erasmus smiled quietlie, and sayd, "what coulde i do? the pope changed his holy mind." whereat father smiled too. "what nonsense you learned men sometimes talk!" pursues father. "i--wanted at court, quotha! fancy a dozen starving men with one roasted pig betweene them;--do you think they would be really glad to see a thirteenth come up, with an eye to a small piece of y^e crackling? no; believe me, there is none that courtiers are more sincerelie respectfull to than the man who avows he hath no intention of attempting to go shares; and e'en him they care mighty little about, for they love none with true tendernesse save themselves." "we shall see you at court yet," says erasmus. sayth father, "then i will tell you in what guise. with a fool-cap and bells. pish! i won't aggravate you, churchman as you are, by alluding to the blessings i have which you have not; and i trow there is as much danger in taking you for serious when you are onlie playful and ironicall as if you were plato himself." sayth erasmus, after some minutes' silence, "i know full well that you holde plato, in manie instances, to be sporting when i accept him in very deed and truth. _speculating_ he often was; as a brighte, pure flame must needs be struggling up, and, if it findeth no direct vent, come forthe of y^e oven's mouth. he was like a man shut into a vault, running hither and thither, with his poor, flickering taper, agonizing to get forthe, and holding himself in readinesse to make a spring forward the moment a door s^d open. but it never did. 'not manie wise are called.' he had clomb a hill in y^e darke, and stoode calling to his companions below, 'come on, come on! this way lies y^e east; i am advised we shall see the sun rise anon.' but they never did. what a christian he woulde have made! ah! he is one now. he and socrates--the veil long removed from their eyes--are sitting at jesus' feet. sancte socrates, ora pro nobis!" bessie and i exchanged glances at this so strange ejaculation; but y^e subjeckt was of such interest, that we listened with deep attention to what followed. sayth father, "whether socrates were what plato painted him in his dialogues, is with me a great matter of doubte; but it is not of moment. when so many contemporaries coulde distinguishe y^e fancifulle from y^e fictitious, plato's object coulde never have beene to _deceive_. there is something higher in art than gross imitation. he who attempteth it is always the leaste successfull; and his failure hath the odium of a discovered lie; whereas, to give an avowedlie fabulous narrative a consistence within itselfe which permitts y^e reader to be, for y^e time, voluntarilie deceived, is as artfulle as it is allowable. were i to construct a tale, i woulde, as you sayd to cecy, lie with a circumstance, but shoulde consider it noe compliment to have my unicorns and hippogriffs taken for live animals. amicus plato, amicus socrates, magis tamen amica veritas. now, plato had a much higher aim than to give a very pattern of socrates his snub nose. he wanted a peg to hang his thoughts upon--" "a peg? a statue of phidias," interrupts erasmus. "a statue by phidias, to clothe in y^e most beautiful drapery," sayth father; "no matter that y^e drapery was his own, he wanted to show it to the best advantage, and to y^e honour rather than prejudice of the statue. and, having clothed y^e same, he got a spark of prometheus his fire, and made the aforesayd statue walk and talk to the glory of gods and men, and sate himself quietlie down in a corner. by the way, desiderius, why shouldst thou not submitt thy subtletie to the rules of a colloquy? set eckius and martin luther by the ears! ha! man, what sport! heavens! if i were to compound a tale or a dialogue, what crotches and quips of mine own woulde i not putt into my puppets' mouths! and then have out my laugh behind my vizard, as when we used to act burlesques before cardinall morton. what rare sporte we had, one christmas, with a mummery we called the 'triall of feasting!' dinner and supper were broughte up before my lord chief justice, charged with murder. theire accomplices were plum-pudding, mince-pye, surfeit, drunkenness, and suchlike. being condemned to hang by y^e neck, i, who was supper, stuft out with i cannot tell you how manie pillows, began to call lustilie for a confessor; and, on his stepping forthe, commenct a list of all y^e fitts, convulsions, spasms, payns in y^e head, and so forthe, i had inflicted on this one and t'other. 'alas! good father,' says i, 'king john layd his death at my door; indeede, there's scarce a royall or noble house that hath not a charge agaynst me; and i'm sorelie afrayd' (giving a poke at a fat priest that sate at my lord cardinall's elbow) 'i shall have the death of _that_ holy man to answer for.'" erasmus laughed, and sayd, "did i ever tell you of the retort of willibald pirkheimer. a monk, hearing him praise me somewhat lavishly to another, could not avoid expressing by his looks great disgust and dissatisfaction; and, on being askt whence they arose, confest he c^d not, with patience, hear y^e commendation of a man soe notoriously fond of eating fowls. 'does he steal them?' says pirkheimer. 'surely no,' says y^e monk. 'why, then,' quoth willibald, 'i know of a fox who is ten times the greater rogue; for, look you, he helps himself to many a fat hen from my roost without ever offering to pay me. but tell me now, dear father, is it then a sin to eat fowls?' 'most assuredlie it is,' says the monk, 'if you indulge in them to gluttony.' 'ah! if, if!' quoth pirkheimer. 'if stands stiff, as the lacedemonians told philip of macedon; and 'tis not by eating bread alone, my dear father, you have acquired that huge paunch of yours. i fancy, if all the fat fowls that have gone into it coulde raise their voices and cackle at once, they woulde make noise enow to drown y^e drums and trumpets of an army.' well may luther say," continued erasmus, laughing, "that theire fasting is easier to them than our eating to us; seeing that every man jack of them hath to his evening meal two quarts of beer, a quart of wine, and as manie as he can eat of spice cakes, the better to relish his drink. while i--'tis true my stomach is lutheran, but my heart is catholic; that's as heaven made me, and i'll be judged by you alle, whether i am not as thin as a weasel." 'twas now growing dusk, and cecy's tame hares were just beginning to be on y^e alert, skipping across our path, as we returned towards the house, jumping over one another, and raysing 'emselves on theire hind legs to solicitt our notice. erasmus was amused at theire gambols, and at our making them beg for vine-tendrils; and father told him there was hardlie a member of y^e householde who had not a dumb pet of some sort. "i encourage the taste in them," he sayd, "not onlie because it fosters humanitie and affords harmless recreation, but because it promotes habitts of forethought and regularitie. no child or servant of mine hath liberty to adopt a pet which he is too lazy or nice to attend to himself. a little management may enable even a young gentlewoman to do this, without soyling her hands; and to neglect giving them proper food at proper times entayls a disgrace of which everie one of 'em w^d be ashamed. but, hark! there is the vesper-bell." as we passed under a pear-tree, erasmus told us, with much drollerie, of a piece of boyish mischief of his--the theft of some pears off a particular tree, the fruit of which the superior of his convent had meant to reserve to himself. one morning, erasmus had climbed the tree, and was feasting to his great content, when he was aware of the superior approaching to catch him in y^e fact; soe, quicklie slid down to the ground, and made off in y^e opposite direction, limping as he went. the malice of this act consisted in its being the counterfeit of the gait of a poor lame lay brother, who was, in fact, smartlie punisht for erasmus his misdeede. our friend mentioned this with a kinde of remorse, and observed to my father, "men laugh at the sins of young people and little children, as if they were little sins; albeit, the robbery of an apple or cherry-orchard is as much a breaking of the eighth commandment as the stealing of a leg of mutton from a butcher's stall, and ofttimes with far less excuse. our church tells us, indeede, of venial sins, such as the theft of an apple or a pin; but, i think" (looking hard at cecilie and jack), "even the youngest among us could tell how much sin and sorrow was brought into the world by stealing an apple." at bedtime, bess and i did agree in wishing that alle learned men were as apt to unite pleasure with profit in theire talk as erasmus. there be some that can write after y^e fashion of paul, and others preach like unto apollos; but this, methinketh, is scattering seed by the wayside, like the great sower. * * * * * 'tis singular, the love that jack and cecy have for one another; it resembleth that of twins. jack is not forward at his booke; on y^e other hand, he hath a resolution of character which cecy altogether wants. last night, when erasmus spake of children's sins, i observed her squeeze jack's hand with alle her mighte. i know what she was thinking of. having bothe beene forbidden to approach a favorite part of y^e river bank which had given way from too much use, one or y^e other of em transgressed, as was proven by y^e smalle footprints in y^e mud, as well as by a nosegay of flowers, that grow not, save by the river; to wit, purple loose-strife, cream-and-codlins, scorpion-grass, water plantain, and the like. neither of them would confesse, and jack was, therefore, sentenced to be whipt. as he walked off with mr. drew, i observed cecy turn soe pale, that i whispered father i was certayn she was guilty. he made answer, "never mind, we cannot beat a girl, and 'twill answer y^e same purpose; in flogging him we flog both." jack bore the first stripe or two, i suppose, well enow, but at lengthe we hearde him cry out, on which cecy coulde not forbeare to do y^e same, and then stopt bothe her ears. i expected everie moment to hear her say, "father, 'twas i;" but no, she had not courage for that; onlie, when jack came forthe all smirked with tears, she put her arm aboute his neck, and they walked off together into the nuttery. since that hour, she hath beene more devoted to him than ever, if possible; and he, boy-like, finds satisfaction in making her his little slave. but the beauty lay in my father's improvement of y^e circumstance. taking cecy on his knee that evening (for she was not ostensiblie in disgrace), he beganne to talk of atonement and mediation for sin, and who it was that bare our sins for us on the tree. 'tis thus he turns y^e daylie accidents of our quiet lives into lessons of deepe import, not pedanticallie delivered, ex cathedrâ, but welling forthe from a full and fresh mind. this morn i had risen before dawn, being minded to meditate on sundrie matters before bess was up and doing, she being given to much talk during her dressing, and made my way to y^e pavillion, where, methought, i s^d be quiet enow; but beholde! father and erasmus were there before me, in fluent and earneste discourse. i w^d have withdrawne, but father, without interrupting his sentence, puts his arm rounde me and draweth me to him, soe there i sit, my head on 's shoulder, and mine eyes on erasmus his face. from much they spake, and other much i guessed, they had beene conversing y^e present state of y^e church, and how much it needed renovation. erasmus sayd, y^e vices of y^e clergy and ignorance of y^e vulgar had now come to a poynt, at the which, a remedie must be founde, or y^e whole fabric w^d falle to pieces. --sayd, the revival of learning seemed appoynted by heaven for some greate purpose, 'twas difficulte to say how greate. --spake of y^e new art of printing, and its possible consequents. --of y^e active and fertile minds at present turning up new ground and ferreting out old abuses. --of the abuse of monachism, and of y^e evil lives of conventualls. in special, of y^e fanaticism and hypocrisie of y^e dominicans. considered y^e evills of y^e times such, as that societie must shortlie, by a vigorous effort, shake 'em off. wondered at y^e patience of the laitie for soe manie generations, but thoughte 'em now waking from theire sleepe. the people had of late beganne to know theire physickall power, and to chafe at y^e weighte of theire yoke. thoughte the doctrine of indulgences altogether bad and false. father sayd, that y^e graduallie increast severitie of church discipline concerning minor offences had become such as to render indulgences y^e needfulle remedie for burdens too heavie to be borne.--condemned a draconic code, that visitted even sins of discipline with y^e extream penaltie.--quoted how ill such excessive severitie answered in our owne land, with regard to y^e civill law; twenty thieves oft hanging together on y^e same gibbet, yet robberie noe whit abated. othermuch to same purport, y^e which, if alle set downe, woulde too soone fill my libellus. at length, unwillinglie brake off, when the bell rang us to matins. at breakfaste, william and rupert were earneste with my father to let 'em row him to westminster, which he was disinclined to, as he was for more speede, and had promised erasmus an earlie caste to lambeth; howbeit, he consented that they s^d pull us up to putney in y^e evening, and william s^d have y^e stroke-oar. erasmus sayd, he must thank y^e archbishop for his present of a horse; "tho' i'm full faine," he observed, "to believe it a changeling. he is idle and gluttonish, as thin as a wasp, and as ugly as sin. such a horse, and such a rider!" in the evening, will and rupert made 'emselves spruce enow, with nosegays and ribbons and we tooke water bravelie--john harris in y^e stern, playing the recorder. we had the six-oared barge; and when rupert allington was tired of pulling, mr. clement tooke his oar; and when _he_ wearied, john harris gave over playing y^e pipe; but william and mr. gunnel never flagged. erasmus was full of his visitt to y^e archbishop, who, as usuall, i think, had given him some money. "we sate down two hundred to table," sayth he; "there was fish, flesh, and fowl; but wareham onlie played with his knife, and drank noe wine. he was very cheerfulle and accessible; he knows not what pride is; and yet, of how much mighte he be proude! what genius! what erudition! what kindnesse and modesty! from wareham, who ever departed in sorrow?" landing at fulham, we had a brave ramble thro' y^e meadows. erasmus noting y^e poor children a gathering y^e dandelion and milk-thistle for the herb-market, was avised to speak of forayn herbes and theire uses, bothe for food and medicine. "for me," says father "there is manie a plant i entertayn in my garden and paddock which y^e fastidious woulde cast forthe. i like to teache my children y^e uses of common things--to know, for instance, y^e uses of y^e flowers and weeds that grow in our fields and hedges. manie a poor knave's pottage woulde be improved, if he were skilled in y^e properties of y^e burdock and purple orchis, lady's-smock, brook-lime, and old man's pepper. the roots of wild succory and water arrow-head mighte agreeablie change his lenten diet; and glasswort afford him a pickle for his mouthfulle of salt-meat. then, there are cresses and wood-sorrel to his breakfast, and salep for his hot evening mess. for his medicine, there is herb-twopence, that will cure a hundred ills; camomile, to lull a raging tooth; and the juice of buttercup to cleare his head by sneezing. vervain cureth ague; and crowfoot affords y^e leaste painfulle of blisters. st. anthony's turnip is an emetic; goosegrass sweetens the blood; woodruffe is good for the liver; and bind-weed hath nigh as much virtue as y^e forayn scammony. pimpernel promoteth laughter; and poppy sleep: thyme giveth pleasant dreams; and an ashen branch drives evil spirits from y^e pillow. as for rosemarie, i lett it run alle over my garden walls, not onlie because my bees love it, but because 'tis the herb sacred to remembrance, and, therefore, to friendship, whence a sprig of it hath a dumb language that maketh y^e chosen emblem at our funeral wakes, and in our buriall grounds. howbeit, i am a schoolboy prating in presence of his master, for here is john clement at my elbow, who is the best botanist and herbalist of us all." --returning home, y^e youths being warmed with rowing, and in high spiritts, did entertayn themselves and us with manie jests and playings upon words, some of 'em forced enow, yet provocative of laughing. afterwards, mr. gunnel proposed enigmas and curious questions. among others, he woulde know which of y^e famous women of greece or rome we maidens w^d resemble. bess was for cornelia, daisy for clelia, but i for damo, daughter of pythagoras, which william roper deemed stupid enow, and thoughte i mighte have found as good a daughter, that had not died a maid. sayth erasmus, with his sweet, inexpressible smile, "now i will tell you, lads and lassies, what manner of man _i_ w^d be, if i were not erasmus. i woulde step back some few years of my life, and be half-way 'twixt thirty and forty; i would be pious and profounde enow for y^e church, albeit noe churchman; i woulde have a blythe, stirring, english wife, and half-a-dozen merrie girls and boys, an english homestead, neither hall nor farm, but betweene both; but neare enow to y^e citie for convenience, but away from its noise. i woulde have a profession, that gave me some hours daylie of regular businesse, that s^d let men know my parts, and court me into publick station, for which my taste made me rather withdrawe. i woulde have such a private independence, as s^d enable me to give and lend, rather than beg and borrow. i woulde encourage mirthe without buffoonerie, ease without negligence; my habitt and table shoulde be simple, and for my looks i woulde be neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, rubicund nor sallow, but of a fayr skin with blue eyes, brownish beard, and a countenance engaging and attractive, soe that alle of my companie coulde not choose but love me." "why, then, you woulde be father himselfe," cried cecy, clasping his arm in bothe her hands with a kind of rapture, and, indeede, y^e portraiture was soe like, we coulde not but smile at y^e resemblance. arrived at y^e landing, father protested he was wearie with his ramble, and, his foot slipping, he wrenched his ankle, and sate for an instante on a barrow, the which one of y^e men had left with his garden tools, and before he c^d rise or cry out, william, laughing, rolled him up to y^e house-door; which, considering father's weight, was much for a stripling to doe. father sayd the same, and, laying his hand on will's shoulder with kindnesse, cried, "bless thee, my boy, but i woulde not have thee overstrayned, like biton and clitobus." (_to be continued._) sketch of a miser. john overs was a miser, living in the old days when popery flourished, and friars abounded in england. some of his vices and eccentricities have been chronicled in a little tract of great rarity, entitled "the true history of the life and death of john overs, and of his daughter mary, who caused the church of st. mary overs to be built." but in giving the particulars of his life, we do not vouch for their authenticity: the tract resembles too strongly a chap book to bear the marks of honest truth; yet the anecdotes are amusing, and the tradition of the miser's pretty daughter reads somewhat romantic. john overs was a southwark ferryman, and he obtained, by paying an annual sum to the city authorities, a monopoly in the trade of conveying passengers across the river. he soon grew rich, and became the master of numerous servants and apprentices. from his first increase of wealth, he put his money out to use on such profitable terms, that he rapidly amassed a fortune almost equal to that of the first nobleman in the land; yet, notwithstanding this speedy accumulation of wealth, in his habits, housekeeping, and expenses, he bore the appearance of the most abject poverty, and was so eager after gain, that even in his old age, and when his body had become weak by unnecessary deprivations, he would labor incessantly, and allow himself no rest or repose. this most miserly wretch, it is said, had a daughter, remarkable both for her piety and beauty; the old man, in spite of his parsimonious habits, retained some affection for his child, and bestowed upon her a somewhat liberal education. mary overs had no sympathy with the avarice and selfishness of her parent: she grew up endowed with amiability, and with a true maiden's heart to love. as she approached womanhood, her dazzling charms attracted numerous suitors; but the miser refused all matrimonial offers, and even declined to negociate the matter on any terms, although some of wealth and rank were willing to wed with the ferryman's daughter. mary was kept a close prisoner, and forbidden to bestow her smiles upon any of her admirers, nor were any allowed to speak with her; but love and nature will conquer bolts and bars, as well as fear; and one of her suitors took the opportunity, while the miser was busy picking up his penny fares, to get admitted to her company. the first interview pleased well; another was granted and arranged, which pleased still better; and a third ended in a mutual plighting of their troths. during all these transactions at home, the silly old ferryman was still busy with his avocation, not dreaming but that things were as secure on land as they were on water. john overs was of a disposition so wretched and miserly, that he even begrudged his servants their necessary food. he used to buy black puddings, which were then sold in london at a penny a yard; and whenever he gave them their allowance, he used to say, "there, you hungry dogs, you will undo me with eating." he would scarcely allow a neighbor to obtain a light from his candle, lest he should in some way impoverish him by taking some of its light. he used to go to market to search for bargains: he bought the siftings of the coarsest meal, looked out eagerly for marrow-bones that could be purchased for a trifle, and scrupled not to convert them into soup if they were mouldy. he bought the stalest bread, and he used to cut it into slices, "that, taking the air, it might become the harder to be eaten." sometimes he would buy meat so tainted, that even his dog would refuse it; upon which occasions, he used to say that it was a dainty cur, and better fed than taught, and then eat it himself. he needed no cats, for all the rats and mice voluntarily left the house, as nothing was cast aside from which they could obtain a picking. it is said that this sordid old man resorted one day to a most singular stratagem, for the purpose of saving a day's provision in his establishment. he counterfeited illness, and pretended to die; he compelled his daughter to assist in the deception, much against her inclination. overs imagined that, like good catholics, his servants would not be so unnatural as to partake of food while his body was above ground, but would lament his loss, and observe a rigid fast; when the day was over, he intended to feign a sudden recovery. he was laid out as dead, and wrapt in a sheet; a candle was placed at his head, in accordance with the popish custom of the age. his apprentices were informed of their master's death; but, instead of manifesting grief, they gave vent to the most unbounded joy; hoping, at last, to be released from their hard and penurious servitude. they hastened to satisfy themselves of the truth of this joyful news, and seeing him laid out as dead, could not even restrain their feelings in the presence of death, but actually danced and skipped around the corpse; tears or lamentations they had none; and as to fasting, an empty belly admits of no delay. in the ebullition of their joy, one ran into the kitchen, and breaking open the cupboard, brought out the bread; another ran for the cheese, and brought it forth in triumph; and the third drew a flagon of ale. they all sat down in high glee, congratulating and rejoicing among themselves, at having been so unexpectedly released from their bonds of servitude. hard as it was, the bread rapidly disappeared; they indulged in huge slices of cheese, even ventured to cast aside the parings, and to take copious draughts of the miser's ale. the old man lay all this time struck with horror at this awful prodigality, and enraged at their mutinous disrespect: flesh and blood--at least, the flesh and blood of a miser--could endure it no longer; and starting up he caught hold of the funeral taper, determined to chastise them for their waste. one of them seeing the old man struggling in the sheet, and thinking it was the devil or a ghost, and becoming alarmed, caught hold of the butt end of a broken oar, and at one blow struck out his brains! "thus," says the tradition, "he who thought only to counterfeit death, occasioned it in earnest; and the law acquitted the fellow of the act, as he was the prime cause of his own death." the daughter's lover, hearing of the death of old overs, hastened up to london with all possible speed; but riding fast, his horse unfortunately threw him, just as he was entering the city, and broke his neck. this, with her father's death, had such an effect on the spirits of mary overs, that she was almost frantic, and being troubled with a numerous train of suitors, she resolved to retire into a nunnery, and to devote the whole of her wealth, which was enormous, to purposes of charity and religion. she laid the foundation of "a famous church, which at her own charge was finished, and by her dedicated to the virgin mary." this, tradition says, was the origin of st. mary overs, southwark, a name which it received in memory of its beautiful, but unfortunate foundress. on an old sepulchre, in st. saviour's church, may be seen to this day, reclining in no very easy posture, the figure of a poor, emaciated-looking being; which rumor has declared to be the figure of john overs, the ferryman. there is not much to warrant the conclusion, except, perhaps, the similarity which the mind might discover in the stone effigy and the aspect with which, in idea, we instinctively endow all such objects of penury. the figure looks thin enough for a man who lived on the pickings of stale bones, and musty bread, it must be allowed; and the countenance certainly looks miserly enough for any miser; but then the marble tablet above merely tells the passer by that the body of one william emerson lyeth there, "who departed out of this life," one day in june, in the year . the curious little tract from which we have gleaned many of the above particulars, gives a very different account of the miser's burying-place. on account, it is said, of his usury, extortion, and the general sordidness of his life, he had been excommunicated, and refused christian burial; but the daughter, by large sums of money, endeavored to bribe the friars of bermondsey abbey to get him buried. as my lord abbot happened to be away from home, the holy brothers took the money, and buried him within the cloister. the abbot on his return seeing a new grave, inquired who, in his absence, had been buried there; and on being informed, he ordered it to be immediately disinterred, and be laid on the back of an ass; then muttering some benediction, or, perhaps, an anathema, he turned the beast from the abbey gates. "the ass went with a solemn pace, unguided by any, through kent street, till it came to st. thomas-a-watering, which was then the common execution place; and then shook him off, just under the gallows, where a grave was instantly made, and, without any ceremony, he was tumbled in, and covered with earth." while we abhor the abuse, and think it well to guard others by hideous examples of its folly and vice, we can appreciate and participate in its general use. we look upon it as a solemn duty in men, whether regarded as citizens or fathers of families, to practice a prudent economy; and the man who is frugal without being avaricious--who is parsimonious without being sordid--we regard as fulfilling one of his greatest social duties. if economy is a virtue, wastefulness is a sin; and yet how many weekly glory in being thought extravagant! ruined spendthrifts will boast of their meanless prodigality and their wasteful dissipation, as if in their past liberal selfishness they could claim some forbearance for their present disrepute, or some compassion for the misfortunes into which their own heedlessness has thrown them. the learned, too, will disdain all knowledge of the dull routine of economy, and proclaim their ignorance of the affairs of life, as if the confession endowed them with a virtue; but perfection is not the privilege of any order of men, and many who ought to have been the monitors of mankind, whose talents have made their names immortal, embittered their lives, and impaired the vigor of their intellects by their thoughtless and wanton extravagance. an incident of the first french revolution. in the winter of the year , paris was agitated to the very core, by the most important public question which had yet arisen during the course of the revolution. the people had hitherto been completely triumphant in their attack on established things. they had overturned the throne, and sent its supporters by thousands to the scaffold or to exile. they had subverted the ancient constitution; and, though no new form of government had yet been arranged, all power lay for the time in the hands of their leaders, of one or another denomination of republicans. the jacobins, ultimately the dominant faction, had not yet obtained full sway, but had to contend for supremacy in the convention (or senate) of the nation, with the girondists, a section numbering in its ranks many of the most able and more moderate republicans of france. daily and bitterly did these two parties struggle at this time against one another--robespierre, danton, and marat being the virtual chiefs, whether acting in unison or otherwise, of the jacobins or violent republicans; while vergniaud, guadet, louvet, salle, petion, and others, headed the girondists or moderates. matters stood thus before the commencement of the trial of louis xvi., the question already alluded to as exceeding in importance and interest any to which the revolution had yet given birth. on the results of the process hung the life of the king; and men speculated as to the issue with anxiety, mingled with fear and wonderment. doubts existed as to what might be that issue--doubts excited chiefly by the condition of parties just described. on the whole, the chances seemed in favor of the king before the commencement of his trial, seeing that the girondists had then a decided ascendency over their rivals in the convention, and that many of them had strong leanings to the side of mercy. but the unfortunate louis xvi., whose very mildness made him the scape-goat for the errors of his predecessors, stood in mortal peril in the best view of the case. so felt his friends throughout france, and they were yet numerous, though constrained to look on in silence, and bury their feelings in their own bosoms. one evening, in the winter mentioned, before the trial of the king had opened, the convention broke up after a stormy sitting, and its members separated for their clubs or their homes, to intrigue or to recreate, as they felt inclined. the girondist leaders, vergniaud, guadet, fonfrene, and others, might then have been seen, as they left the place of sitting, to surround a young man who was speaking loudly and vehemently. his theme was robespierre; and bitter were the recriminations which he poured on that too famous individual. vergniaud and the rest attempted to check the outbursts of wrath, but, at the same time, with peals of laughter at their young colleague's angry violence. "come home with me, my good barbaroux," said vergniaud; "we shall hear you more comfortably before a good fire. it is piercingly cold, and i promise you, that, if the vines of medoc have to sustain such a season, we need not expect to drink bordeaux at a reasonable price for fifteen years to come." "fifteen years!" said guadet, in a melancholy voice; "and do you then count upon living for another fifteen years, vergniaud?" "why not?" was the answer; "am i a king that i should fear the anger of the republic?" at this moment, a little savoyard, with his stool at his back, threw himself almost betwixt the legs of vergniaud, and, holding out a letter, exclaimed, "which of you, citizens, is the representative barbaroux?" "here," said vergniaud, taking the letter from the lad, and handing it to his companion, the irritated young deputy above mentioned, "here is a billet for you, barbaroux. i should guess that it comes from some ex-marchioness, who wishes to know if the judges of the king are formed like other men, or if you have got horns on your head, and a cloven foot." barbaroux, at this time little more than twenty-seven years of age, was one of the most handsome, as well as beautiful men of his time. madame roland, in one phrase, has given us a singular idea of his personal attractions. "he had," she says, "the head of antinous upon the frame of a hercules." the young representative of marseilles (for such was his station) took the note of the savoyard, and, advancing to a lamp, opened it, and read therein the following words: "citizen, if you fear not to accede to an invitation which can not be signed, repair this evening, at nine o'clock, to the street st. honore, where you will find a coach standing in front of the house, no. . enter the vehicle without fear, and it will conduct you among old friends." turning to his companions, after reading this mystic note, barbaroux observed, "you are right, vergniaud; it is a communication from an ex-marchioness." "ah! i thought so," replied the other; "and will you accept the invitation?" "i know not," was the careless response. barbaroux was young, and, without being exactly weary of the agitated public life which he habitually led, felt any circumstance calculated to take him out of it for a time as a piece of good fortune not to be contemned. he deceived vergniaud, therefore, when he affected to treat the matter of the billet lightly. in fact, it seized upon his thoughts exclusively; and he not only spoke no more of robespierre to his friends, but quitted them upon some slight pretext soon afterward. he then returned directly to his own home; and, when there, delivered himself up to conjectures respecting the mysterious epistle which he had received. barbaroux was young, be it again observed, and of a temperament not indisposed to gallantry, though the softer concerns of life had been all but banished from his thoughts more lately. however, the anonymous billet, which came, he felt assured, from a female, directed his reflections into a train once not so unfamiliar to them, and the more so as it spoke of his meeting "old friends." with impatience, therefore, he watched the movements of his time-piece, as it indicated the gradual approach of the hour of appointment. the marseillaise representative felt no personal alarm respecting the coming adventure. he had never been an advocate of bloodshed in his public character, and knew of none likely to entertain against him sentiments of hostility, or to project snares for his life. no; he confidently assumed the object of the unknown correspondent to be friendly. enough, however, about the anticipations of barbaroux. the hour of nine came, and he hastily left his own residence, to proceed to the rue st. honore. there, opposite to no. , he found a coach in waiting. without a word, he opened the door, leaped inside, and shut himself up with his own hands. in a moment the coachman lashed his horses, and barbaroux felt himself whirled along for an hour with such rapidity, as, together with the obscurity of the evening, to prevent him completely from discerning the route taken. at length the vehicle stopped abruptly, in a petty street, and before a house of sufficiently mediocre appearance. the gate opened instantly, and the driver, descending from his seat, silently showed barbaroux into the house, after which the door was closed behind. the young man now found himself in a passage of some length, as was shown by a distant light. that light speedily increased, and the visitor perceived a young girl approaching him with a lamp in her hand--one of those old iron lamps in which the oil floats openly, and which have the wick at one of the sides. barbaroux was instantly reminded of the fisher-cots of marseilles--his own well-known marseilles--where such articles are used constantly by the fishing community. casting his eyes attentively on the girl, he saw more to remind him of the same ancient sea-port--her cap, colored kerchief, and dress generally, being such as its young women always wore. her face, too, was not a strange one. moreover the odor of tar, or that smell peculiar to well-used cordage and sails, struck forcibly on his senses, and strengthened the same associative recollections. astonished already, barbaroux felt still more so, when a once familiar voice addressed him in accents strongly provincial, or marseillaise. "charles," said the girl with the lamp, "you have made us wait. you promised this morning to be earlier here." "i promised!" cried barbaroux, with amazement, heightened by a sort of impression that he was speaking to a person who ought at the moment to be at two hundred leagues' distance. "yes! promised," continued the girl; "but no doubt, you have been at the office, or have forgotten yourself with the curate of la major, who makes you study such beautiful plants. never mind; come with me. melanie is with her uncle jean, and i, as i tell you, have been waiting for you more than an hour. come, then!" barbaroux scarcely comprehended what was said to him. he found all his senses deceiving him at once, as it were, sight, hearing, and smell; and his imagination transported from the present to the past, had some difficulty in overcoming the first shock of stupefied surprise. thereafter, he felt a kind of wish to yield himself up voluntarily to what seemed a sweet illusion. he followed the young girl as desired, but soon found new causes for astonishment. before him appeared the old screw-stair of a well-known fisher dwelling, with the narrow landing-place, chalky walls, and plastered chimney, with its tint of yellow, to him most familiar of old. he even noted on the plaster an acanthus leaf, where such a thing had been once rudely charcoaled by his own hand. in the chimney grate, he beheld an enormous log, the christmas log, sparkling above the red embers; and he then called to mind that the day was the th of december, and the evening christmas eve. "ah! you see," said the young girl, rousing him by her voice, "we are going to hold the christmas feast. come, charles, enter, and sit down opposite to uncle jean, and by the side of melanie. i will take my place on your other hand." as the girl spoke, she had opened the door of an inner apartment, and led forward barbaroux. the latter did indeed see before him uncle jean; he clasped in his own the hands of melanie. he beheld all that he had been once wont to see, in short, in the home of uncle jean, the old seaman of marseilles. the same veteran weather-glass hung on the wall; the compass was there, too, pointing still, as it pointed of yore. on the table barbaroux observed the green glasses of provence; the bottles were the peculiar bottles of uncle jean; and, amid others, he saw the yellow seals marking the prized cyprus wine of the ancient mariner of marseilles. brown dishes were there of the pottery of saint jacquerie--articles to paris unknown. edibles lay upon them too, such as marseilles draws from sunny afric: almonds and dates, with figs and raisins, alone, or compounded into cakes, after the mode of southern france. all these things confounded the young member of convention. had he made in a few hours a journey of eight days? had he retrograded in the way of existence? had he dreamt of a busy life of three years, since the time when, under the shade of the church of st. laurent of marseilles, he had courted the fair niece of uncle jean, amid scenes and sights such as now surrounded him? the deputy of marseilles, the popular conventionist, closed his eyes in doubt. dreamed he at that moment or had he dreamed for years? barbaroux was no weak-minded man, and yet it is not too much to say, that he felt positive difficulty in determining what he saw to be unreal, or, at most but an illusory revival of a former reality; and this difficulty he felt, even though he had in his pocket, and touched with his fingers, a note from madame roland, received in the convention on that very afternoon. on the other hand, the two provençal girls were assuredly by his side; and, at the sight of melanie, upsprung anew that fresh young love which politics had stifled in his heart in its very bud. was not uncle jean there, moreover, with his robust form and open features, his kindly smile, and his strong marseillaise accents? if all was a delusion, as the reason of barbaroux ever and anon told him, and if a purposed delusion, as seemed more than likely, what could that purpose be? had uncle jean and melanie thus mysteriously encompassed him with souvenirs of former and happy hours, to rekindle the love from which politics had detached him, and to lead him yet into that union once all but arranged? such might possibly be the case, and the thought tended to check the questions which rose naturally to the young man's lip. he could not, would not, bring a blush to the cheek of melanie, by asking her explanations so delicate. these would be voluntarily given, doubtless, in due time. besides, to speak the truth, he felt so happy to be again by her side, as to shrink from the idea of breaking the spell, and was contented to yield himself up to the soft intoxication of the moment. he spoke of marseilles, as if he was actually there, and as if he had no thought save of its passing interests and affairs. on these matters, uncle jean and the two girls conversed with him freely, never leaving it to be supposed for an instant, however, that they were at all conscious of being elsewhere, or that barbaroux had ever been absent from their sides. only now and then did barbaroux catch the glance of melanie, fixed on him with an unusual expression, made up of mingled tenderness and thoughtful anxiety. his observation, however, made her instantly recur to the same manner displayed by her sister and uncle, who treated him as if they had seen him but a few hours previously. the deputy, after being enlivened by the little supper and the good wine, even smiled internally to see the extent to which they carried this caution, though it mystified him the more. the window of the chamber in which they sat at their singular christmas feast, opened suddenly of its own accord. "shut that window, melanie," said uncle jean; "the air of the sea is unwholesome by night." the window was closed accordingly; but barbaroux fancied that he had actually heard through it the roll of the waves, and felt on his cheek the freshness of the ocean breeze. at length the hour of midnight sounded--the hour at which, once only in the year, the priest ascends the high altar to say mass--the hour of the saviour's birth. "it is midnight," cried the two girls; "let us proceed to mass." as they spoke, the girls rose from table, and, in doing so, overturned, by accident or intention, the two candles by which the room was lighted. barbaroux found himself a second time in the dark; but speedily his arms were seized by the girls, one on each side, and he was noiselessly led down into the dark passage by which he had entered. barbaroux had often stolen an embrace from melanie in such circumstances as the present, and he here found himself repaid by a voluntary one from herself. for a moment her arm lingered around him, and was then withdrawn in silence. the door was then opened for him, and, in another second of time, he stood alone in the street, with the coach in waiting which had brought him thither. confusedly and mechanically he entered the vehicle, and was ere long set down in the rue st. honore, at liberty to regain his own home. deeply as he was impressed by this remarkable incident, barbaroux did not think it necessary to disclose the particulars to vergniaud and his other political companions; but he made a confidant of madame roland. "it is plain," said he, concludingly to that lady, "that the whole was a purposed plan of deception or illusion. it is the story of aline put in action for my especial benefit, but surely without end, without sufficing grounds. wherefore employ such chicanery with a man like me? it would have been better to have addressed me frankly, and so have reminded me of the past, than to have resorted to a scheme which, though impressive at the time, can only move me now to a smile. yes, madame, i would say--that the issue might possibly have been more agreeable to their wishes, had they dealt with me less mysteriously. but what inducement can have made uncle jean go in with such a step, really puzzles me. he is a man who dies of ennui when out of sight of the sea for a day. besides, though he did love me once, i believe that he at heart hates the convention, with all belonging to it, and favors the bourbons." "even if the intention," replied madame roland, "was only to recall your old love to your recollection, barbaroux, there is something pretty in the idea. it is as if your melanie, in putting her home, her friends, and herself, before you in their perfect reality, had said--'this is all i can offer--all save my love.' but there is something more under it than all this, barbaroux,' pursued the lady, after reflecting gravely for some time. 'they gave you no verbal explanation, you say; but did they leave you no clew otherwise? did you wear your present dress yesterday?" "i did, madame." "have you examined its pockets?" "no," said barbaroux, "but i shall do so immediately." the young member of convention accordingly put his hands into his pockets, and was not slow to discover there, as madame roland had acutely conjectured, a complete solution of his whole enigma. he found a paper bearing his address, in which an offer was made to him of the hand of the woman he (once, at least, had) loved, with a dowry of five hundred thousand francs, and the prospect of enjoying anew all the pleasures of his happy youth, provided that he supported the appeal to the people on behalf of louis xvi.--provided, in short, that he lent his influence to save the life, at all events, of the king. that such an appeal would have saved louis from the scaffold, all men at the time believed. the jacobins obviously thought so, since they obstinately denied him any such chance of escape. it is probable that the monetary clause in this proposal would alone have prevented its entertainment by the young deputy for marseilles. be this as it may, the romantic scheme which the friendship of uncle jean, and the love of melanie, had led them to enter upon, at the instance, doubtless of the other friends of louis, for inducing barbaroux to befriend the king, and for wiling himself from the dangerous vortex of political turmoil, ended in nothing. within a few weeks--nay, a few days afterward--began that life-and-death struggle between the girondists and jacobins, which only terminated with the total fall of the former party, and the condemnation to the scaffold of all its leaders. to the honor of barbaroux, be it told that, without a bribe, he supported the appeal to the people, and had he had the power would have saved the ill-fated king from the extreme and bloody penalty of the guillotine. but the infuriate councils of robespierre and marat prevailed; and barbaroux, with five companions, fled for safety to the gironde, that southern portion of france, of which bordeaux is the capital, and whence they had derived their party name. they found there, however, no safety; they were hunted down like wild beasts by the dominant faction, and every man of them was taken and beheaded, or otherwise perished miserably, with the exception of louvet, who subsequently recorded their perils and their sufferings. barbaroux, the young, gay, handsome and brave barbaroux, died on the scaffold, while petion met the death of a wild beast in the fields--starved while in life, and mangled by wolves when no more. well had it been for barbaroux, had he yielded timeously to the loving call of melanie, made so romantically and mysteriously. it was not so destined to be.[ ] [footnote : this little story is drawn from the french. the revolutionary era was so fertile in romantic incidents, springing at once from the theatrical character of the people, and the extraordinary excitement of the period, that the adventure of barbaroux is quite within the range of probability. one vote did at last condemn louis xvi.] "judge not!" many years since, two pupils of the university at warsaw were passing through the street in which stands the column of king sigismund, round whose pedestal may generally be seen seated a number of women selling fruit, cakes, and a variety of eatables, to the passers-by. the young men paused to look at a figure whose oddity attracted their attention. this was a man apparently between fifty and sixty years of age; his coat, once black, was worn threadbare; his broad hat overshadowed a thin wrinkled face; his form was greatly emaciated, yet he walked with a firm and rapid step. he stopped at one of the stalls beneath the column, purchased a halfpenny worth of bread, ate part of it, put the remainder into his pocket, and pursued his way toward the palace of general zaionczek, lieutenant of the kingdom, who, in the absence of the czar, alexander, exercised royal authority in poland. "do you know that man?" asked one student of the other. "i do not; but judging by his lugubrious costume, and no less mournful countenance, i should guess him to be an undertaker." "wrong, my friend; he is stanislas staszic." "staszic!" exclaimed the student, looking after the man, who was then entering the palace. "how can a mean, wretched-looking man, who stops in the middle of the street to buy a morsel of bread, be rich and powerful?" "yet, so it is," replied his companion. "under this unpromising exterior is hidden one of our most influential ministers, and one of the most illustrious _savans_ of europe." the man whose appearance contrasted so strongly with his social position, who was as powerful as he seemed insignificant, as rich as he appeared poor, owed all his fortune to himself--to his labors, and to his genius. of low extraction--he left poland, while young, in order to acquire learning. he passed some years in the universities of leipsic and göttingen, continued his studies in the college of france, under brisson and d'aubanton; gained the friendship of buffon; visited the alps and the apennines; and, finally, returned to his native land, stored with rich and varied learning. he was speedily invited by a nobleman to take charge of the education of his son. afterward, the government wished to profit by his talents; and staszic, from grade to grade, was raised to the highest posts and the greatest dignities. his economical habits made him rich. five hundred serfs cultivated his lands, and he possessed large sums of money placed at interest. when did any man ever rise very far above the rank in which he was born, without presenting a mark for envy and detraction to aim their arrows against? mediocrity always avenges itself by calumny; and so staszic found it, for the good folks of warsaw were quite ready to attribute all his actions to sinister motives. a group of idlers had paused close to where the students were standing. all looked at the minister, and every one had something to say against him. "who would ever think," cried a noble, whose gray mustaches and old-fashioned costume recalled the era of king sigismund, "that _he_ could be a minister of state? formerly, when a palatin traversed the capital, a troop of horsemen both preceded and followed him. soldiers dispersed the crowds that pressed to look at him. but what respect can be felt for an old miser, who has not the heart to afford himself a coach, and who eats a piece of bread in the streets, just as a beggar would do?" "his heart," said a priest, "is as hard as the iron chest in which he keeps his gold; a poor man might die of hunger at his door, before he would give him alms." "he has worn the same coat for the last ten years," remarked another. "he sits on the ground for fear of wearing out his chairs," chimed in a saucy-looking lad, and every one joined in a mocking laugh. a young pupil of one of the public schools had listened in indignant silence to these speeches, which cut him to the heart; and at length, unable to restrain himself, he turned toward the priest and said: "a man distinguished for his generosity ought to be spoken of with more respect. what does it signify to us how he dresses, or what he eats, if he makes a noble use of his fortune?" "and pray what use _does_ he make of it?" "the academy of sciences wanted a place for a library, and had not funds to hire one. who bestowed on them a magnificent palace? was it not staszic!" "oh! yes, because he is as greedy of praise as of gold." "poland esteems, as her chief glory, the man who discovered the laws of the sidereal movement. who was it that raised to him a monument worthy of his renown--calling the chisel of canova to honor the memory of copernicus?" "it was staszic," replied the priest, "and so all europe honors for it the generous senator. but, my young friend, it is not the light of the noon-day sun that ought to illume christian charity. if you want really to know a man, watch the daily course of his private life. this ostentatious miser, in the books which he publishes groans over the lot of the peasantry, and in his vast domains he employs five hundred miserable serfs. go some morning to his house--there you will find a poor woman beseeching with tears a cold proud man who repulses her. that man is staszic--that woman his sister. ought not the haughty giver of palaces, the builder of pompous statues, rather to employ himself in protecting his oppressed serfs, and relieving his destitute relative?" the young man began to reply, but no one would listen to him. sad and dejected at hearing one who had been to him a true and generous friend, so spoken of, he went to his humble lodging. next morning he repaired at an early hour to the dwelling of his benefactor. there he met a woman weeping, and lamenting the inhumanity of her brother. this confirmation of what the priest had said, inspired the young man with a fixed determination. it was staszic who had placed him at college, and supplied him with the means of continuing there. now, he would reject his gifts--he would not accept benefits from a man who could look unmoved at his own sister's tears. the learned minister, seeing his favorite pupil enter, did not desist from his occupation, but, continuing to write, said to him: "well, adolphe, what can i do for you to-day? if you want books, take them out of my library; or instruments--order them, and send me the bill. speak to me freely, and tell me if you want any thing." "on the contrary, sir, i come to thank you for your past kindness, and to say that i must in future decline receiving your gifts." "you are, then, become rich?" "i am as poor as ever." "and your college?" "i must leave it." "impossible!" cried staszic, standing up, and fixing his penetrating eyes on his visitor. "you are the most promising of all our pupils--it must not be!" in vain the young student tried to conceal the motive of his conduct; staszic insisted on knowing it. "you wish," said adolphe, "to heap favors on me, at the expense of your suffering family." the powerful minister could not conceal his emotion. his eyes filled with tears, and he pressed the young man's hand warmly, as he said: "dear boy, always take heed to this counsel--'judge nothing before the time.' ere the end of life arrives, the purest virtue may be soiled by vice, and the bitterest calumny proved to be unfounded. my conduct is, in truth, an enigma, which i can not now solve--it is the secret of my life." seeing the young man still hesitate, he added: "keep an account of the money i give you, consider it as a loan; and when some day, through labor and study, you find yourself rich, pay the debt by educating a poor, deserving student. as to me, wait for my death, before you judge my life." during fifty years stanislas staszic allowed malice to blacken his actions. he knew the time would come when all poland would do him justice. on the th of january, , thirty thousand mourning poles flocked around his bier, and sought to touch the pall, as though it were some holy, precious relic. the russian army could not comprehend the reason of the homage thus paid by the people of warsaw to this illustrious man. his last testament fully explained the reason of his apparent avarice. his vast estates were divided into five hundred portions, each to become the property of a free peasant--his former serf. a school, on an admirable plan and very extended scale, was to be established for the instruction of the peasants' children in different trades. a reserved fund was provided for the succor of the sick and aged. a small yearly tax, to be paid by the liberated serfs, was destined for purchasing, by degrees, the freedom of their neighbors, condemned, as they had been, to hard and thankless toil. after having thus provided for his peasants, staszic bequeathed six hundred thousand florins for founding a model hospital; and he left a considerable sum toward educating poor and studious youths. as for his sister, she inherited only the same allowance which he had given her, yearly, during his life; for she was a person of careless, extravagant habits, who dissipated foolishly all the money she received. a strange fate was that of stanislas staszic. a martyr to calumny during his life, after death his memory was blessed and revered by the multitudes whom he had made happy. a mathematical hermit. during the earlier half of the last century, there lived in one of the villages on the outskirts of the moor on which a singular pile of rocks on the cornish moors called the cheese-wring stands, a stone-cutter named daniel gumb. this man was noted among his companions for his taciturn, eccentric character, and for his attachment to mathematical studies. such leisure time as he had at his command he regularly devoted to pondering over some of the problems of euclid; he was always drawing mysterious complications of angles, triangles, and parallelograms, on pieces of slate, and on the blank leaves of such few books as he possessed. but he made very slow progress in his studies. poverty and hard work increased with the increase of his family. at last he was obliged to give up his mathematics altogether. he labored early and labored late; he hacked and hewed at the hard material out of which he was doomed to cut a livelihood with unremitting diligence; but want still kept up with him, toil as he might to outstrip it, in the career of life. in short, times went on so ill with daniel, that in despair of ever finding them better he took a sudden resolution of altering his manner of living, and retreating from the difficulties that he could not overcome. he went to the hill on which the cheese-wring stands, and looked about among the rocks until he found some that had accidentally formed themselves into a sort of rude cavern. he widened this recess; he propped up a great wide slab, that made its roof, at one end where it seemed likely to sink without some additional support; he cut out in a rock that rose above this, what he called his bed-room--a mere longitudinal slit in the stone, the length and breadth of his body, into which he could roll himself sideways when he wanted to enter it. after he had completed this last piece of work, he scratched the date of the year of his extraordinary labors ( ) on the rock; and then, he went and fetched his wife and family away from their cottage, and lodged them in the cavity he had made--never to return during his life-time, to the dwellings of men! here he lived and here he worked, when he could get work. he paid no rent now: he wanted no furniture; he struggled no longer to appear to the world as his equals appeared; he required no more money than would procure for his family and himself the barest necessaries of life; he suffered no interruptions from his fellow-workmen, who thought him a madman, and kept out of his way; and--most precious privilege of his new position--he could at last shorten his hours of labor, and lengthen his hours of study, with impunity. having no temptations to spend money, no hard demands of an inexorable landlord to answer, whether he was able or not, he could now work with his brains as well as his hands, he could toil at his problems upon the tops of rocks, under the open sky, amid the silence of the great moor; he could scratch his lines and angles on thousands of stone tablets freely offered around him. the great ambition of his life was greatly achieved. henceforth, nothing moved him, nothing depressed him. the storms of winter rushed over his unsheltered dwelling, but failed to dislodge him. he taught his family to brave solitude and cold in the cavern among the rocks, as he braved them. in the cell that he had scooped out for his wife (the roof of which has now fallen in) some of his children died, and others were born. they point out the rock where he used to sit on calm summer evenings, absorbed over his tattered copy of euclid. a geometrical "puzzle," traced by his hand, still appears on the stone. when he died, what became of his family, no one can tell. nothing more is known of him than that he never quitted the wild place of his exile; that he continued to the day of his death to live contentedly with his wife and children, amid a civilized nation, and during a civilized age, under such a shelter as would hardly serve the first savage tribes of the most savage country--to live, starving out poverty and want on a barren wild; defying both to follow him among the desert rocks--to live, forsaking all things, enduring all things for the love of knowledge, which he could still nobly follow through trials and extremities, without encouragement of fame or profit, without vantage ground of station or wealth, for its own dear sake. beyond this, nothing but conjecture is left. the cell, the bed-place, the lines traced on the rocks, the inscription of the year in which he hewed his habitation out of them, are all the memorials that remain of a man, whose strange and striking story might worthily adorn the pages of a tragic yet glorious history which is still unwritten--the history of the martyrs of knowledge in humble life! a prison anecdote. in the year , a widow lady of good fortune (whom we shall call mrs. newton), resided with her daughter in one of the suburbs nearest to the metropolis. they lived in fashionable style, and kept an ample establishment of servants. a very pretty young girl, nineteen years of age, resided in this family in the capacity of lady's-maid. she was tolerably educated, spoke with grammatical correctness, and was distinguished by a remarkably gentle and fascinating address. at that time miss newton was engaged to be married to one captain jennings, r.n.; and miss newton (as many young ladies in the like circumstances have done before), employed her leisure in embroidering cambric, making it up into handkerchiefs, and sending them and other little presents of that description, to captain jennings. unhappily, but very naturally, she made charlotte mortlock, her maid, the bearer of these tender communications. the captain occupied lodgings suited to a gentleman of station, and thither charlotte mortlock frequently repaired at the bidding of her young mistress, and generally waited (as lovers are generally impatient) to take back the captain's answers. a strange sort of regard, or attachment (it is confidently believed to have been guiltless) sprung up between the captain and the maid; and the captain, who would seem to have deserved miss newton's confidence as little as her maid did, gave as presents to charlotte, some of the embroidered offerings of miss newton. it happened that a sudden appointment to the command of a ship of war, took captain jennings on a transatlantic voyage. he had not been very long gone, when the following discovery threw the family of the newtons into a state of intense agitation. in search of some missing article in the absence of her maid, miss newton betook herself to that young woman's room, and, quite unsuspiciously, opened a trunk which was left unlocked. there she found, to her horror, a number of the handkerchiefs she had embroidered for her lover. the possibility of the real truth never flashed across her mind; the dishonesty of charlotte seemed to be the only solution of the incident. "doubtless," she reasoned, "the parcels had been opened on their way to captain jennings, and their contents stolen." on the return of charlotte mortlock, she was charged with the robbery. what availed the assertion that she had received the handkerchiefs from the captain himself? it was no defense, and certainly was not calculated to soften the anger of her mistress. a policeman was summoned, the unhappy girl was charged with felony, underwent examination, was committed for trial, and, destitute of witnesses, or of any probable defense, was ultimately _convicted_. the judge (now deceased) who tried the case, was unsparingly denounced by many philanthropic ladies, for the admiration he had expressed for the weeping girl, and especially for his announcement to the jury, in passing sentence of one year's imprisonment with hard labor, "that he would not transport her, since the country could not afford to loose such beauty." it was doubtless, not a very judicial remark; but an innocent girl was, at all events, saved from a sentence that might have killed her. consigned to the county house of correction, charlotte mortlock observed the best possible conduct--was modest, humble, submissive, and industrious--and soon gained the good-will of all her supervisors. to the governor she always asserted her innocence, and told, with great simplicity, the tale of her fatal possession of those dangerous gifts. she had been in prison a few months, when the governor received a visit from a certain old baronet, who with ill-disguised reluctance, and in the blunt phraseology which was peculiar to him, proceeded to say, that "a girl named charlotte mortlock had quite bewitched his friend captain jennings, who was beyond the atlantic; and that a letter he produced would show the singular frame of mind in which the captain was, about that girl." assuredly, the letter teemed with expressions of anguish, remorse, and horror at the suffering and apparent ruin of "a dear innocent girl," the victim of his senseless and heartless imprudence. however, the baronet seemed to be any thing but touched by his friend's rhapsodies. he talked much of "human nature," and of "the weakness of a man when a pretty girl was in the case;" but, in order to satisfy his friend's mind, asked to see her, that he might write some account of her appearance and condition. accordingly, he _did_ see her, in the governor's presence. after a few inappropriate questions, he cut the interview short, and went away, manifestly disposed to account his gallant friend a fool for his excitement. the incident was not lost upon the governor, who listened with increased faith to the poor girl's protestations. in a few months more he received a stronger confirmation of them. apparently unsatisfied with the baronet's services, captain jennings wrote to another friend of his, a public functionary, formerly a captain in the renowned light division; and that officer placed in the governor's hands a letter from the captain, expressing unbounded grief for the dreadful fate of an innocent young woman. "he could not rest night or day; she haunted his imagination, and yet he was distant, and powerless to serve her." his second messenger was touched with pity, and consulted the governor as to the proper steps to pursue. however, under the unhappy circumstances of the case, captain jennings being so far away, no formal document being at hand, and the period of the poor girl's release being then almost come, it was deemed unadvisable to take any step. charlotte mortlock fulfilled the judgment of the law. she had been carefully observed, her occupation had been of a womanly character; she had never incurred a reproof, much less a punishment, in the prison; and her health had been well sustained. she, consequently, quitted her sad abode in a condition suitable for active exertion. such assistance as could be extended to her, on her departure, was afforded, and so she was launched into the wide world of london. she soon found herself penniless. happily, she did not linger in want, pawn her clothes (which were good), and gradually descend to the extreme privation which has assailed so many similarly circumstanced. she resolved to _act_, and again went to the prison gates. well attired, but deeply vailed, so as to defy recognition, she inquired for the governor. the gate porter announced that "a lady" desired to speak to him. the stranger was shown in, the vail was uplifted, and, to the governor's astonishment, there stood charlotte mortlock! her hair was neatly and becomingly arranged about her face; her dress was quiet and pretty; and altogether she looked so young, so lovely, and, at the same time, so modest and innocent, that the governor, perforce, almost excused the inconstancy (albeit attended with such fatal consequences) of captain jennings. with many tears she acknowledged her grateful obligations for the considerate and humane treatment she had received in prison. she disclosed her poverty, and her utter friendlessness; expressed her horror of the temptations to which she was exposed; and implored the governor's counsel and assistance. without a moment's hesitation, she was advised to go at once to a lady of station, whose extensive charities and zealous services, rendered to the outcasts of society at that time, were most remarkable. she cheerfully acquiesced. she found the good lady at home, related her history, met with sympathy and active aid, and, after remaining for a time, by her benevolent recommendation, in a charitable establishment, was recommended to a wealthy family, to whom every particular of her history was confided. in this service she acquitted herself with perfect trustfulness and fidelity, and won the warmest regard. the incident which had led to her unmerited imprisonment, broke off the engagement between captain jennings and miss newton; but whether the former had ever an opportunity of indemnifying the poor girl for the suffering she had undergone, the narrator has never been able to learn. this is, in every particular, a true case of prison experience. the pilchard fishery on the coast of cornwall.[ ] [footnote : from "rambles beyond railways," an interesting work by w. wilkie collins, just published in london.] if it so happened that a stranger in cornwall went out to take his first walk along the cliffs toward the south of the country, in the month of august, that stranger could not advance far in any direction without witnessing what would strike him as a very singular and alarming phenomenon. he would see a man standing on the extreme edge of a precipice, just over the sea, gesticulating in a very remarkable manner, with a bush in his hand, waving it to the right and the left, brandishing it over his head, sweeping it past his feet; in short, apparently acting the part of a maniac of the most dangerous description. it would add considerably to the startling effect of this sight on the stranger aforesaid, if he were told, while beholding it, that the insane individual before him was paid for flourishing the bush at the rate of a guinea a week. and if he, thereupon, advanced a little to obtain a nearer view of the madman, and then observed on the sea below (as he certainly might) a well-manned boat, turning carefully to right and left exactly as the bush turned right and left, his mystification would probably be complete, and his ideas on the sanity of the inhabitants of the neighborhood would at least be perplexed with grievous doubt. but a few words of explanation would soon make him alter his opinion. he would then learn that the man with the bush was an important agent in the pilchard fishery of cornwall; that he had just discovered a shoal of pilchards swimming toward the land; and that the men in the boat were guided by his gesticulations alone, in securing the fish on which they and all their countrymen on the coast depend for a livelihood. to begin, however, with the pilchards themselves, as forming one of the staple commercial commodities of cornwall. they may be, perhaps, best described as bearing a very close resemblance to the herring, but as being rather smaller in size and having larger scales. where they come from before they visit the cornish coast--where those that escape the fishermen go to when they quit it, is unknown; or, at best, only vaguely conjectured. all that is certain about them is, that they are met with, swimming past the scilly isles, as early as july (when they are caught with a drift-net). they then advance inland in august, during which month the principal, or "in-shore," fishing begins, visit different parts of the coast until october or november, and after that disappear until the next year. they may be sometimes caught off the southwest part of devonshire, and are occasionally to be met with near the southernmost coast of ireland; but beyond these two points they are never seen on any other portion of the shores of great britain, either before they approach cornwall, or after they have left it. the first sight from the cliffs of a shoal of pilchards advancing toward the land, is not a little interesting. they produce on the sea the appearance of the shadow of a dark cloud. this shadow comes on, and on, until you can see the fish leaping and playing on the surface by hundreds at a time, all huddled close together, and all approaching so near to the shore that they can be always caught in some fifty or sixty feet of water. indeed, on certain occasions, when the shoals are of considerable magnitude, the fish behind have been known to force the fish before, literally up to the beach, so that they could be taken in buckets, or even in the hand with the greatest ease. it is said that they are thus impelled to approach the land by precisely the same necessity which impels the fishermen to catch them as they appear--the necessity of getting food. with the discovery of the first shoal, the active duties of the "look-out" on the cliffs begin. each fishing-village places one or more of these men on the watch all round the coast. they are called "huers," a word said to be derived from the old french verb _huer_, to call out, to give an alarm. on the vigilance and skill of the "huer" much depends. he is, therefore, not only paid his guinea a week while he is on the watch, but receives, besides, a perquisite in the shape of a percentage on the produce of all the fish taken under his auspices. he is placed at his post, where he can command an uninterrupted view of the sea, some days before the pilchards are expected to appear; and, at the same time, boats, nets, and men are all ready for action at a moment's notice. the principal boat used is at least fifteen tons in burden, and carries a large net called the "seine," which measures a hundred and ninety fathoms in length, and costs a hundred and seventy pounds--sometimes more. it is simply one long strip, from eleven to thirteen fathoms in breadth, composed of very small meshes, and furnished, all along its length, with lead at one side and corks at the other. the men who cast this net are called the "shooters," and receive eleven shillings and sixpence a week, and a perquisite of one basket of fish each out of every haul. as soon as the "huer" discerns the first appearance of a shoal, he waves his bush. the signal is conveyed to the beach immediately by men and boys watching near him. the "seine" boat (accompanied by another small boat, to assist in casting the net) is rowed out where he can see it. then there is a pause, a hush of great expectation on all sides. meanwhile, the devoted pilchards press on--a compact mass of thousands on thousands of fish, swimming to meet their doom. all eyes are fixed on the "huer;" he stands watchful and still, until the shoal is thoroughly embayed, in water which he knows to be within the depth of the "seine" net. then, as the fish begin to pause in their progress, and gradually crowd closer and closer together, he gives the signal; the boats come up, and the "seine" net is cast, or, in the technical phrase, "shot" overboard. the grand object is now to inclose the entire shoal. the leads sink one end of the net perpendicularly to the ground--the corks buoy up the other to the surface of the water. when it has been taken all round the fish, the two extremities are made fast, and the shoal is then imprisoned within an oblong barrier of network surrounding it on all sides. the great art is to let as few of the pilchards escape as possible, while this process is being completed. whenever the "huer" observes from above that they are startled, and are separating at any particular point, to that point he waves his bush, thither the boat is steered, and there the net is "shot" at once. in whatever direction the fish attempt to get out to sea again, they are thus immediately met and thwarted with extraordinary readiness and skill. this labor completed, the silence of intense expectation that has hitherto prevailed among the spectators on the cliff, is broken. there is a great shout of joy on all sides--the shoal is secured! the "seine" is now regarded as a great reservoir of fish. it may remain in the water a week or more. to secure it against being moved from its position in case a gale should come on, it is warped by two or three ropes to points of land in the cliff, and is, at the same time, contracted in circuit, by its opposite ends being brought together, and fastened tight over a length of several feet. while these operations are in course of performance, another boat, another set of men, and another net (different in form from the "seine") are approaching the scene of action. this new net is called the "tuck;" it is smaller than the "seine," inside which it is now to be let down for the purpose of bringing the fish closely collected to the surface. the men who manage this net are termed "regular seiners." they receive ten shillings a week, and the same perquisite as the "shooters." their boat is first of all rowed inside the seine-net, and laid close to the seine-boat, which remains stationary outside, and to the bows of which one rope at one end of the "tuck-net" is fastened. the "tuck" boat then slowly makes the inner circuit of the "seine," the smaller net being dropped overboard as she goes, and attached at intervals to the larger. to prevent the fish from getting between the two nets during this operation, they are frightened into the middle of the inclosure by beating the water, at proper places, with oars, and heavy stones fastened to ropes. when the "tuck" net has at length traveled round the whole circle of the "seine," and is securely fastened to the "seine" boat, at the end as it was at the beginning, every thing is ready for the great event of the day--the hauling of the fish to the surface. now, the scene on shore and sea rises to a prodigious pitch of excitement. the merchants, to whom the boats and nets belong, and by whom the men are employed, join the "huer" on the cliff; all their friends follow them; boys shout, dogs bark madly; every little boat in the place puts off crammed with idle spectators; old men and women hobble down to the beach to wait for the news. the noise, the bustle, the agitation, increases every moment. soon the shrill cheering of the boys is joined by the deep voices of the "seiners." there they stand, six or eight stalwart, sunburnt fellows, ranged in a row in the "seine" boat, hauling with all their might at the "tuck" net, and roaring the regular nautical "yo-heave-ho!" in chorus! higher and higher rises the net, louder and louder shout the boys and the idlers. the merchant forgets his dignity, and joins them; the "huer," so calm and collected hitherto, loses his self-possession and waves his cap triumphantly--even you and i, reader, uninitiated spectators though we are, catch the infection, and cheer away with the rest, as if our bread depended on the event of the next few minutes. "hooray! hooray! yo-hoy, hoy, hoy! pull away, boys! up she comes! here they are! here they are!" the water boils and eddies; the "tuck" net rises to the surface, and one teeming, convulsed mass of shining, glancing, silvery scales; one compact crowd of thousands of fish, each one of which is madly endeavoring to escape, appears in an instant! the noise before, was as nothing compared with the noise now. boats as large as barges are pulled up in hot haste all round the net; baskets are produced by dozens: the fish are dipped up in them, and shot out, like coals out of a sack, into the boats. ere long, the men are up to their ankles in pilchards; they jump upon the rowing benches and work on, until the boats are filled with fish as full as they can hold, and the gunwales are within two or three inches of the water. even yet, the shoal is not exhausted; the "tuck" net must be let down again and left ready for a fresh haul, while the boats are slowly propelled to the shore, where we must join them without delay. as soon as the fish are brought to land, one set of men, bearing capacious wooden shovels, jump in among them; and another set bring large handbarrows close to the side of the boat, into which the pilchards are thrown with amazing rapidity. this operation proceeds without ceasing for a moment. as soon as one barrow is ready to be carried to the salting-house, another is waiting to be filled. when this labor is performed by night--which is often the case--the scene becomes doubly picturesque. the men with the shovels, standing up to their knees in pilchards, working energetically; the crowd stretching down from the salting-house, across the beach, and hemming in the boat all around; the uninterrupted succession of men hurrying backward and forward with their barrows, through a narrow way, kept clear for them in the throng: the glare of the lanterns giving light to the workmen, and throwing red flashes on the fish as they fly incessantly from the shovels over the side of the boat, all combine together to produce such a series of striking contrasts, such a moving picture of bustle and animation, as no attentive spectator can ever forget. having watched the progress of affairs on the shore, we next proceed to the salting-house, a quadrangular structure of granite, well roofed-in all round the sides, but open to the sky in the middle. here, we must prepare ourselves to be bewildered by incessant confusion and noise; for here are assembled all the women and girls in the district, piling up the pilchards on layers of salt, at three-pence an hour; to which remuneration, a glass of brandy and a piece of bread and cheese are hospitably added at every sixth hour, by way of refreshment. it is a service of some little hazard to enter this place at all. there are men rushing out with empty barrows, and men rushing in with full barrows, in almost perpetual succession. however, while we are waiting for an opportunity to slip through the doorway, we may amuse ourselves by watching a very curious ceremony which is constantly in course of performance outside it. as the filled harrows are going into the salting-house, we observe a little urchin running by the side of them, and hitting their edges with a long cane, in a constant succession of smart strokes, until they are fairly carried through the gate, when he quickly returns to perform the same office for the next series that arrive. the object of this apparently unaccountable proceeding is soon practically illustrated by a group of children, hovering about the entrance of the salting-house, who every now and then dash resolutely up to the barrows, and endeavor to seize on as many fish as they can take away at one snatch. it is understood to be their privilege to keep as many pilchards as they can get in this way by their dexterity, in spite of a liberal allowance of strokes aimed at their hands; and their adroitness richly deserves its reward. vainly does the boy officially intrusted with the administration of the cane, strike the sides of the barrow with malignant smartness and perseverance--fish are snatched away with lightning rapidity and pickpocket neatness of hand. the hardest rap over the knuckles fails to daunt the sturdy little assailants. howling with pain, they dash up to the next barrow that passes them, with unimpaired resolution; and often collect their ten or a dozen fish apiece, in an hour or two. no description can do justice to the "jack-in-office" importance of the boy with the cane, as he flourishes it about ferociously in the full enjoyment of his vested right to castigate his companions as often as he can. as an instance of the early development of the tyrannic tendencies of human nature, it is, in a philosophical point of view, quite _unique_. but now, while we have a chance, while the doorway is accidentally clear for a few moments, let us enter the salting-house, and approach the noisiest and most amusing of all the scenes which the pilchard fishery presents. first of all, we pass a great heap of fish lying in one recess inside the door, and an equally great heap of coarse, brownish salt lying in another. then, we advance further, get out of the way of every body, behind a pillar; and see a whole congregation of the fair sex screaming, talking, and--to their honor be it spoken--working at the same time, round a compact mass of pilchards which their nimble hands have already built up to a height of three feet, a breadth of more than four, and a length of twenty. here we have every variety of the "female type" displayed before us, ranged round an odoriferous heap of salted fish. here, we see crones of sixty and girls of sixteen; the ugly and the lean, the comely and the plump; the sour-tempered and the sweet--all squabbling, singing, jesting, lamenting, and shrieking at the very top of their very shrill voices for "more fish," and "more salt;" both of which are brought from the stores, in small buckets, by a long train of children running backward and forward with unceasing activity and in inextricable confusion. but, universal as the uproar is, the work never flags; the hands move as fast as the tongues; there may be no silence and no discipline, but there is also no idleness and no delay. never was three-pence an hour more joyously or more fairly earned than it is here! the labor is thus performed. after the stone floor has been swept clean, a thin layer of salt is spread on it, and covered with pilchards laid partly edgewise, and close together. then another layer of salt, smoothed fine with the palm of the hand, is laid over the pilchards; and then more pilchards are placed upon that; and so on until the heap rises to four feet, or more. nothing can exceed the ease, quickness, and regularity with which this is done. each woman works on her own small area, without reference to her neighbor; a bucketful of salt and a bucketful of fish being shot out in two little piles under her hands, for her own especial use. all proceed in their labor, however, with such equal diligence and equal skill, that no irregularities appear in the various layers when they are finished--they run as straight and smooth from one end to the other, as if they were constructed by machinery. the heap, when completed, looks like a long, solid, neatly-made mass of dirty salt; nothing being now seen of the pilchards but the extreme tips of their noses or tails, just peeping out in rows, up the sides of the pile. the fish will remain thus in salt, or, as the technical expression is, "in bulk," for five or six weeks. during this period, a quantity of oil, salt, and water drips from them into wells cut in the centre of the stone floor on which they are placed. after the oil has been collected and clarified, it will sell for enough to pay off the whole expense of the wages, food, and drink given to the "seiners"--perhaps, for some other incidental charges besides. the salt and water left behind, and offal of all sorts found with it, furnish a valuable manure. nothing in the pilchard itself, or in connection with the pilchard, runs to waste--the precious little fish is a treasure in every part of him. after the pilchards have been taken out of "bulk," they are washed clean in salt water, and packed in hogsheads, which are then sent for exportation to some large sea-port--penzance, for instance--in coast traders. the fish reserved for use in cornwall, are generally cured by those who purchase them. the export trade is confined to the shores of the mediterranean--italy and spain providing the two great foreign markets for pilchards. the home consumption, as regards great britain, is nothing, or next to nothing. some variation takes place in the prices realized by the foreign trade--their average, wholesale, is stated to about fifty shillings per hogshead. some idea of the almost incalculable multitude of pilchards caught on the shores of cornwall, may be formed from the following _data_. at the small fishing cove of trereen, hogsheads were taken in little more than one week, during august . allowing fish only to each hogshead-- would be the highest calculation--we have a result of , , pilchards, caught by the inhabitants of one little village alone, on the cornish coast, at the commencement of the season's fishing! at considerable sea-port towns, where there is an unusually large supply of men, boats, and nets, such figures as those quoted above, are far below the mark. at st. ives, for example, hogsheads were taken in the first three seine nets cast into the water. the number of hogsheads exported annually, averages , . this year, , have been secured for the foreign markets. incredible as these numbers may appear to some readers, they may nevertheless be relied on; for they are derived from trustworthy sources--partly from local returns furnished to me--partly from the very men who filled the baskets from the boat-side, and who afterward verified their calculations by frequent visits to the salting-houses. such is the pilchard fishery of cornwall--a small unit, indeed, in the vast aggregate of england's internal sources of wealth: but yet, neither unimportant nor uninteresting, if it be regarded as giving active employment to a hardy and honest race who would starve without it, as impartially extending the advantages of commerce to one of the remotest corners of our island, and--more than all--as displaying a wise and beautiful provision of nature, by which the rich tribute of the great deep is most generously lavished on the land which most needs a compensation for its own sterility. [from dickens's household words.] lucy cawthorne.--a tale by a bachelor clerk. the office of clerk of the carvers' company has been filled by members of my family for one hundred years past. my great-grandfather was elected in the year . after him, came his younger brother; and, when he died, my grandfather was chosen by nine votes out of twelve; after that, all opposition vanished: our dynasty was established. when my grandfather died, my father went through the ceremony of calling upon the members of the court of assistants, and soliciting their votes; and, afterward, the formality of a show of hands being passed, he was declared, as every one knew he would be who was aware of the existence of the carvers' company, the successor of his father. the transition from him to myself was so easy as to be hardly felt. when i threw aside my yellow breeches, and came out of the "blue-coat school," with some knowledge of greek, and very small skill in penmanship, i was at once transplanted to a stool at my father's desk; which stood railed off, in a corner of the great hall, under the stained-glass window. the master and twelve senior liverymen, who formed what is called the court of assistants, saw me there when they met together; and one patted me on the head, and prophesied great things of me, while i sat, very red in the face, wondering who had been talking to him about me. another, who had himself worn the girdle and blue-petticoats, some half a century previously, examined my classical knowledge; and, finding himself somewhat at fault, remarked that he was not fresh from school, like me. at length, my father and i attended their meetings alternately; and, as he became old and infirm, the duties devolved entirely upon me. when he died, therefore, there was no change. the twelve liverymen held up twelve of their four-and-twenty hands, and my election was recorded on the minutes. carvers' hall was a place not very easy to find out, for any but the warder and twelve liverymen: but, as few people else ever had occasion to find it out, that was not of much consequence. the portion of the city in which it stood had escaped the fire of london, which took a turn at a short distance, owing, perhaps, to a change in the wind, and left the hall and some adjacent courts untouched. in order to arrive there, it was necessary, first, to pass through a narrow passage running up from thames-street; then, along a paved yard, by the railing of a church; and, lastly, down an impassable court, at the bottom of which stood the antique gateway of carvers' hall. over the door-way was a curious carving of the resurrection, in oak, which must have cost some ancient member of the worshipful guild considerable time and trouble. there were represented graves opening, and bald-headed old men forcing up the lids of their family-vaults--some looking happy, and some with their features distorted by despair. out of others, whole families, mother, father, and several children, had just issued, and were standing hand-in-hand. some, again, were struggling, half-buried in the ground; while others, already extricated, were assisting their kinsmen in their efforts to disinter themselves. the scene was made a section, in order to give the spectator a view of an immense host of cherubim above, sitting upon a massy pile of cloud; through, which--the middle point of the picture--the summoning angel was throwing himself down, with a trumpet in his hand; which, according to the relative scale of the work, must have been several leagues, at least, in length. having passed under this gate-way, you entered a small square yard, paved with black and white stones, placed diamond-wise; and facing you was the hall itself, up three stone-steps, and with a wooden portico. this solitary building, silent and retired, though in the heart of a crowded city, has been my home for nearly sixty years. i have become assimilated to the place by long usage. i am myself silent, retired, and tenacious of old habits; though i do not think this is my natural disposition. but why do i talk of natural disposition? are we not all moulded and made what we are by time and outward influences? however, when i was at school i was a cheerful boy, though the monastic life of christ's hospital is not calculated to improve the spirits. it was only on entering my father's office that i began to be subdued to the formal being which i have since become. the portraits of my predecessors hang in the hall; they are exactly alike, both in features and in dress, except that the first two wore hair-powder. it was my father's pride that he clung to the style of dress which was prevalent when he was a young man, which he considered to be, in every way, superior to all modern inventions. i was only released from the absurd dress of the blue-coat boy to be put into garments equally provocative of remarks from impertinent boys. the family costume is, _imprimis_, a pair of knee-breeches with buckles; then a blue coat with metal buttons; and a large white cravat, spread out over the whole chest, and ornamented in the middle with a cornelian brooch. the same brooch appears in every one of the portraits. i have worn this dress all my life, with the exception of a short period, when i changed it to return to it shortly again. if happiness consists in having many friends, i ought to have been a happy man. old carvers, neighbors, pensioners of the company, every one down to the housekeeper, and tom lawton, my only clerk, spoke kindly of me. theirs was no lip-service. i knew they liked me in their hearts. the world, too, had gone smoothly with me. i knew nothing of the struggles for bread, the hardships and wrongs which other men endure. they appeared to me even fabulous when i read them. the means of getting my living were put into my hands. the company seemed almost grateful to my father for bringing me up to the office. my income was two hundred pounds per annum, as well as the house to live in, and coals and candles, which was more than i needed for my support, though i always found means of disposing of the surplus, and never saved any thing. i was not, however, a happy man. i had always the feeling of a spirit subdued to a life to which it was not suited. i do not say that in another sphere i should have led a boisterous life. my mind was, perhaps, more prone to reflection than to action, although i felt that if i had been more in the world, if i had known more of life and change, i should have been a happier man. but from my earliest days the vanity of life, and the virtue of keeping aloof from temptation, were instilled into me. "a rolling stone gathers no moss," was the first proverb which i heard from my father's mouth. these principles, implanted early, took deep root, though, perhaps, in an unfavorable soil. living also under the same roof with my father, i felt alarmed at every whispering of my own inclinations which was opposed to his wishes, and strove to subdue them, as if i were struggling with the evil portion of my nature. thus, in course of time, i became what i am; not a misanthrope, thank god, but a timid and somewhat melancholy man. we had no mirth-making in our household, except at christmas-time, when we feasted, in good earnest. my father loved at that time to display a rough hospitality. we had generally two or three nights of merry-making, at which were both young and old people--all carvers, or the children of carvers--and after his death i continued the custom. often, as i sat with my happy friends about me, some sweet young woman would give me a sly hit upon my obdurate determination to die an old bachelor; little thinking that her heedless words could give me pain, though they cut me deeply, and set me looking at the fire with a thoughtful face. i might have married, perhaps, if i had found a partner; my income was not large, but many men run the risk of a family with less means to support one than i had; but, somehow, i found myself at forty-five years of age unmarried, slim, and prim--the very type of an old bachelor. it was not from indifference, for i was by nature sensitive and affectionate. for women i had a kind of reverence. i pictured them to myself all that is noble and good: yet, in their presence, i only looked upon them timidly, speaking little, but thinking of them, perhaps, long afterward when they were gone. one result of my reputation for gravity was a number of executorships which had been imposed upon me by deceased friends. any one would have thought that there was a conspiracy abroad to overwhelm me with proofs of confidence. my stock of mourning rings is considerable. the expression, "nineteen guineas for his trouble," had to me an old familiar sound with it. at length i was obliged to hint to any old carver who waxed sickly, that my duties in that way were already as much as i could fulfill. there was, however, an old grocer of my acquaintance, named cawthorne, who would make me executor of his will, in spite of my remonstrances, relieving my scruples by assuring me that he had named another friend for my colleague, who, it was understood, was to undertake, if we survived him, the greater part of his duties, including the guardianship of his daughter lucy. we did survive him; and the other executor entered upon his office, seldom troubling me except when absolutely necessary. thus he went on for some years. the daughter had become a fine young woman of nineteen, with blue eyes and fair hair, rippled like the sunlight upon waters touched by a light wind. i saw her often in the house when he was taken ill, and thought her very beautiful. i fancied, sometimes, how she would look robed in pure white, and holding in her hand an olive branch, as i had seen some angels carved in stone. i have met her ascending the stairs with a candle in her hand, the light striking upward, like a glory on her face, and she seemed to me not to mount from step to step, but slowly to ascend without a movement of the feet. my feeling with regard to her almost amounted to a superstitious awe; for i seldom spoke many words to her, and i think, at first, she thought me harsh and cold. at length her guardian died, and although i had known from the first that in that event his duty would devolve upon me, the fact seemed to take me by surprise. i could hardly believe that henceforth, for some time, she would look to me as her sole protector. however, in a short time, the affairs of my deceased colleague were set in order, and she came to reside with me in the old hall. she soon forgot her first antipathy, and we became good friends together. i took her over the old place, and showed her the library and the paintings, and every thing there that was quaint and curious. we had a garden at the back of the hall, in which she sat at work on fine days. it was not large, but it was nevertheless a garden, and in the midst of london. it was planted with shrubs, and contained two or three large trees, as well as a rustic seat upon a grass-plot; though the grass was not very thriving, on account of the trees shutting out the sun and air. however, sitting here, the back of the hall had a picturesque look, half covered with the great leaves of a fig-tree nailed against the wall, and with its worn stone steps guarded on each side by an aloe in a green tub. this was her favorite place. she worked or read there in the morning, and in the afternoon she taught two little nieces of the housekeeper to read and write. sometimes, in the evening, i got an old book from the library, and read to her, and made her laugh at its quaintness. i remember one translation of a spanish novel in folio, printed in the seventeenth century, which amused her very much. the translation occupied one half of the book, and the prefaces the other. there was the translator's "apology for his labor;" "a declaration for the better understanding of the book;" an address "to the learned reader;" another "to the discreet and courteous reader;" and another "to the vulgar reader," with some others; and, finally, the spanish novel itself was ushered in by a number of verses in english and latin, laudatory of the book and the translator, by celebrated men of the period. on sunday we sat at church, in the same pew, and often i forgot my own devotions in listening to the earnest tones with which she said the prayers. i thought that she, of all that congregation, was best fitted to speak those words of christian love. i was vexed to hear an old overseer of the parish, whom i knew to be a bad and worldly man, in the next pew, repeating the same words in a drawling tone; and i could almost have requested him to say them to himself. thus, ours was not a very cheerful way of life for a young maiden; but she seemed always happy and contented. for myself, although i was sorry for the death of my co-executor, i blessed the day when she came into the house; and i grieved that i had objected to become her guardian from the first, that she might have grown up from childhood with me, and learnt to look up to me as a father. living with her daily, and noting all her thoughts and actions, sometimes even when she did not suspect that i observed her, i saw her purer than the purest of my own ideals. my feeling was almost an idolatry. if i had, at forty-five years of age, still any thoughts of marrying, i renounced them for her sake, and resolved to devote all my care to her, until such time as she should find a husband worthy of her. by an ancient bequest to the company, we distributed, on the day before christmas-day, to twenty-four poor people, a loaf of bread, a small log of wood, or bavin, as we call it, and the sum of two shillings and ten-pence to each person. the recipients were all old, decrepit men and women. there was an ancient regulation, still unrepealed, that they should all attend on the following court-day, at noon precisely, to "return thanks for the same;" though that performance of mechanical gratitude had been allowed to fall into disuse by a more philosophical generation. the first christmas after lucy came there, she begged me to let her distribute these gifts, and i consented. i stood at my little desk at the end of the hall, with my face resting upon my hands, watching her, and listening to her talking to the old people. next to the pleasure of hearing her speak to little children, i delighted to hear her talk with the very aged folks. there was something in the contrast of the two extremes of life--the young and beautiful maiden, and the bent and wrinkled old people--that pleased me. she heard all their oft-repeated complaints, their dreary accounts of their agues and rheumatics, and consoled them as well as she could; and, with some of the very old, she took their brown and sinewy hands in hers, and led them down the steps. i did not know what ailed me that day. i stood dreaming and musing, till i seemed to have lost that instinctive dexterity with which we perform the simple operations of our daily life. some accounts lay before me which i was anxious to cast, but several times i essayed, and seemed incapable of doing so. as the simple words of our daily language, which issue from our lips simultaneously with the thought, become vague and indistinct if we muse upon their origin, and repeat them several times to ourselves; so by dwelling long upon the idea of the work before me, it seemed to have become confused, and difficult to realize. i handed them over to my clerk, tom lawton, who sat opposite to me. poor tom lawton! i thought i saw him looking anxiously at me, several times, when i raised my eyes. no being upon earth ever loved me more than he. it is true, i had done him some acts of kindness, but i had often done as much for others, who had forgotten it since; whereas his gratitude became a real affection for me, which never failed to show itself each day that he was with me. he was a fine young man, and a great favorite with the housekeeper, who said "she liked him because he was so good to his mother, just as she thought her poor son would have been if he had lived." tom was fond of reading, and sometimes wrote verses, of which he made copies for his friends in a neat hand. he was a shrewd fellow in some things, but in others he was as simple as a child. his temper was the sweetest in the world--the children knew that. no diving into his coat-pocket ever ruffled him; no amount of pulling his hair could ever induce him to cry out. tom was to spend his christmas eve with us, and to make "toast and ale," as was our custom; so, when the gifts were all distributed, he left me, and ran home to dress himself smartly for the occasion. i stood at my desk, still musing, till the evening closed upon the short and wintry afternoon. lucy came and called me, saying the tea was on the table. "we thought you were fallen asleep," said she. "mr. lawton is come." we sat round a large fire in the old wainscoted sitting-room, while lucy made the tea--and would have made the toast, too; but tom said he would sooner burn his eyes out than suffer her to do so. the housekeeper came up, and afterward came an old carver and his daughter. we sat till after midnight. the old carver told some anecdotes of people whom my father knew; and tom told a ghost story, which kept them all in breathless terror, till it turned out, at last, to be a dream. but i was restless, and spoke little. once, indeed, i answered the old carver sharply. he had patted lucy on the head, and said he supposed she would be soon getting married, and leaving us old people. i could not endure the thought of her leaving us; though i knew that she would do so, probably, one day. she had never looked to me more interesting than she did that evening. a little child, worn out with playing, had fallen asleep, with its head upon her lap; and, as she was speaking to us, her hand was entangled in its hair. i gazed at her, and caught up every word she spoke; and when she stopped, my restlessness returned. i strove in vain to take part in their mirth. i wanted to be alone. when i sat that night in my little bedroom, i was thinking still of lucy. i heard her voice still sounding in my ear; and, when i shut my eyes, i pictured her still before me, with her dear kind face, and her little golden locket hung upon her neck. i fell asleep and dreamed of her. i woke, and waited for the daylight, thinking of her still. so we passed all the christmas holidays. sometimes it was a happy feeling which possessed me; and sometimes i almost wished that i had never seen her. i was always restless and anxious; i knew not for what. i became a different man to that which i had been before i knew her. when, at last, i concealed from myself no longer that i loved her fondly, deeply--deeper, i believe, than ever man has loved--i became alarmed. i knew what people would say, if it came to be known. she had some property, and i had nothing; but what was worse, i was forty-five years of age, and she was only twenty. i was, moreover, her guardian; and she had been consigned to my care by her dying father, in confidence, that if she came under my protection, i would act toward her as he himself would have acted, if he had lived, not dreaming that i should encourage other thoughts than those of a protector and a friend. i knew that i should have been jealous, angry, with any one who evinced a liking for her; and yet i asked myself whether it was right that i should discourage any man who might make her happy; who, perhaps, would love her nearly as much as i did, and be more suited for her, by reason of his youth and habits; not like mine, sedate and monkish. even if i eventually gained her affections, would not the world say that i had exerted the undue influence of my authority over her; or that i had kept her shut up from society; so that, in her ignorance of life, she mistook a feeling of respect for a stronger sentiment? and, again, if all these things were set aside, was it not wrong that i should take a young and beautiful girl and shut her up in that old place forever--checking the natural gayety of youth, and bringing her by slow degrees to my old ways? i saw the selfishness of all my thoughts, and resolved to strive to banish them forever. but they would not leave me. each day i saw something in her that increased my passion. i watched her as she went from room to room. i walked stealthily about the place, in the hope of seeing her somewhere unobserved, and hearing her speak, and stealing away again before she saw me. i walked on tiptoe once, and saw her through the open door, thoughtful--looking at the candle--with her work untouched beside her. i fancied to myself what thoughts possessed her: perhaps the memory of a friend, no longer of this world, had touched her suddenly, and made her mute and still; or, perhaps, the thought of some one dearer. the idea ran through me like a subtle poison, and i shuddered. i thought she started. i believe it was a fancy; but i stole away hurriedly, on tiptoe, and never looked behind me till i reached my corner in the hall. every one remarked a change in me. lucy looked at me anxiously sometimes, and asked me if i was not ill. tom lawton grieved to see me so dejected, till he became himself as grave as an old man. i sat opposite to lucy sometimes, with a book in my hand. i had ceased to read aloud; and she seeing that i took no pleasure in it, did not press me to do so. i looked at the pages, without a thought of their contents, simply to avoid her looks. i thought, at last, that she grew vexed with my neglect. one night i suddenly threw down my book, and looking at her boldly and intently, to observe the expression of her features, i said, "i have been thinking, lucy, that you grow weary of my dull ways. you do not love me now, as you did some months ago." "oh, yes!" she replied, "indeed i do. i do not know what makes you talk like this, unless i have offended you in something. but i see it now," she said. "i must have said something that has given you pain; though it was never in my thought to do so. and this is why you treat me coldly, day by day, and never let me know what i have done." she came over to me, and took my hand in hers; and, with tears in her eyes, begged me to tell her what it was. "i know," she said, "i have no friend more kind and good than you. my father died before i knew how great a friend i had in him; but, had he lived, i never could have loved him more than i love you." "well, well, lucy," said i, "i did not mean to hurt you. i know not why i reproached you. i am not well; and when i feel thus, i know not what i say." "kiss me, then," said she, "and tell me you are not angry with me; and do not think now, that i am tired of living here with you. i will do every thing to make you happy. i will not ask you to read. i will put away my work and read to you in future. i have seen you silent, looking unhappy, and have said nothing--thinking that was best, as i did not know what it was that made you so; and you have thought, perhaps, that i was vexed with you, and wished to show it by a sullen air. but now i will strive to make you cheerful. i will read and sing to you, and we will play at draughts, sometimes, as we used to do. indeed, i like this old place, and all that live in it, and never was so happy in my life as i have been since i came here." i placed my hand upon her head, and kissed her on the forehead, saying nothing. "you are trembling," she exclaimed; "this is not merely illness. you have some sorrow on your mind that haunts you. tell me what it is that ails you; perhaps i may be able to console you. i have not so much experience as you; but sometimes a young mind can advise the oldest and the most experienced. perhaps, too, you magnify your trouble by brooding over it; you think upon it, till your mind is clouded, and you can not see the remedy, which i, looking at it for the first time, might see directly. besides," she said, seeing me hesitate, "if you do not tell me, i shall always be unhappy--imagining a hundred evils, each, perhaps, more serious than the truth." "no, lucy," said i, "i am unwell; i have felt thus for some time, and to-night i feel worse. i must go to bed; i shall be better after a night's rest." i lighted a candle, and, bidding her good night, left her and stole up to bed--afraid to stay longer, lest i should be tempted to reveal my secret. oh, how could i endure the thought of her kind words, more painful to me than the coldest scorn! she had said she loved me as a father. in the midst of all her kindness, she had spoken of my age and my experience. did i, then, look so old as that? yes, i knew that it was not my years which made me old; it was my staid manners, my grave and thoughtful face, which made me look an old man, even in my prime. bitterly i complained of my father, who had shut me out from the knowledge of all that makes life beautiful; who had biased me to a belief that such a life as his was best, by hiding from me all comparison; till now, when i perceived my error, it was too late to repair it. i surveyed my antiquated garments with disgust; my huge cravat; the very hair of my head, by long training, become old-fashioned beyond all reclaiming. my whole appearance was that of a man who had slept for half a century, except that i was without a speck or soil. i believe they would have admitted me to a masquerade in such a dress, without a single alteration, and think that i had hired it for the occasion. but a new hope sprang up within me. i would change my way of life--i would try to be more cheerful; i would wear more modern clothes, and endeavor, at least, not to make myself look older than i was. i have known nothing like the peace of mind which these thoughts brought me, for many days. i wondered that what was so obvious had not occurred to me before. i had gone about dreaming in my absent way, brooding unprofitably over my troubles, instead of devising something practical and useful. but i would act differently--i would not despair. five-and-forty years was, after all, no great age. i recalled to my mind many instances of men marrying long after that time with women younger than themselves, and living afterward very happily. i remembered one of our wardens who married at sixty a young and very beautiful women, and every one saw how happy they were, and how she loved her husband for years, till a rascal, by slow and artful steps, won over her affections, and she ran away with him. but lucy would not do that; i knew too well the goodness of her nature to have any fear of such a result. then i thought how kind i would be to her--studying every way that could amuse and please a youthful mind; till she, seeing how all my life was devoted to her, would come to love me in the end. i planned out minutely our way of life. i would invite more friends to visit us, and we would go out and visit others. we would play at our old game of draughts together in the winter evenings, and sometimes i would take her to the theatre. in the summer we would go into the country--lingering all day long in quiet, shady places, and returning about dusk. sweet thoughts, that held my mind until i slept, and lingered, breeding pleasant dreams. the next day i visited my tailor, who took my orders with evident astonishment. my clothes were brought home in a few days, and i threw off my knee-breeches, as i thought, forever. i felt a little uneasy in my new attire--my legs had been so long used to feel cool and unrestrained, that the trowsers were irksome. however, i supposed i should soon become accustomed to them; and they really made me look some years younger. what would my father have said if he had visited the earth that day and seen me? my hair, however, was less manageable--in vain i parted it on the right side, and brushed it sideways, instead of backward, as i had hitherto done. for five-and-forty years it had been brushed in one direction, and it seemed as if nothing but five-and-forty years' daily brushing in the other, could ever reverse it. i descended from my room, trying to look unconscious of any thing unusual in my appearance. it was court-day: the warden and assistants stared at me, and would have laughed, no doubt, if most of them had not left off laughing for many years. some of them, however, coughed; and one addressed to me some simple questions, evidently intended to test my sanity. i felt a little vexed; for i thought it was no concern of theirs, if i chose to adopt some alterations in my dress. however, i said nothing, but went quietly through my duties. tom lawton was there. it should have been a joyful day for him; for they increased his salary at that court. but he looked at me compassionately, and evidently thought, like the rest, that i was going mad. i was, however, amply consoled--for lucy was pleased to see the change in my dress and manners. i laughed and chatted with her, and she read to me, and sang, as she had promised. thus i went on for some time; when something of my old restlessness came back. i saw how little she suspected that i loved her more than as a friend; and fearing still to let her know the truth, i felt that i might go on thus for years to little purpose. so, by degrees, i returned to my former sadness, and became again reserved and thoughtful. one night, i descended from my little room into the garden, and walked about with my hat in my hand, for i felt feverish and excited. night after night, my sleep had been broken and disturbed by dreams, that glided from my memory when i woke, but left a feeling of despondency that followed me throughout the day. sometimes, i thought, myself, that my reason was deserting me. we were very busy at that time, and tom lawton and i were to have worked together all the evening, but i had left him; utterly unable to fix my attention upon what i set before me. i paced to and fro several times, when passing by the window where i had left him at work, i heard him speaking with some one. a word, which i fancied having caught, made me curious, and i mounted upon a stone ledge and listened; for the sliding pane of glass which served to ventilate the hall had been pushed back, and i could hear distinctly when i applied my ear to the aperture. the light being inside, i could not be seen, although i could see his desk. the lamp was shaded, and the window was of stained glass, so that i did not see very clearly. but i had a quick vision for such a scene as that before me. that form standing beside tom lawton, with its hand in his, was lucy's! the blood rushed to my head. a thousand little lights were dancing before my eyes. i felt myself falling, but i made an effort, and clutched the window-sill and listened. it was lucy's voice that i heard first. "hush!" she said, "i heard a noise; there is some one coming. good-night! good-night!" "no, no," said tom, "it is the wind beating the dead leaves against the window." they seemed to listen for a moment, and then he spoke again, "oh, miss lucy, do not run away before we have talked together a little. i see you now so seldom, and when i do there are others present, and i can not speak to you of what is always uppermost in my thoughts. i think of you all day, and at night i long for the next morning, to be in the same house with you, in the hope of seeing you before i go; though i am continually disappointed. i think i am unfortunate in all but one thing, though that consoles me for the rest--i think you love me a little, lucy." "yes, tom, i do; a great deal. i have told you so many times, and i am not ashamed to repeat it. i would not hide it from any one, if you did not tell me to do so. but why do you tease yourself with fancies, and think yourself unfortunate? i do not know why we should not tell him all about it. he is the kindest being in the world, and i know he would not thwart me in any thing that could procure my happiness; and then, again, you are a favorite of his, and i am sure he would be delighted to think that we loved each other." "no, no, lucy; you must not say a word about it. what would he think of me, with nothing in the world but my small salary, encouraging such thoughts toward you, who are rich; and going on like this--laying snares, as he would say, for months, to gain your affections, and never saying a word about it; bringing, too, disgrace upon him, as your guardian, that he had suffered a poor clerk in his office to find opportunities of speaking to you alone, and at last persuading you to promise to become his wife one day?" "all this you have told me many a time; but indeed this need not be an obstacle. i wish that i had not sixpence in the world. my money is become a misfortune to us, instead of a blessing, as it should be. i wish i might give it away, or renounce it altogether. i am sure we should be as well without it, one day; and if we had to wait a long time, we should still be able to see one another openly, and not have to watch for secret opportunities, as if we were doing wrong. you do not know, tom, how unhappy the thought of all this makes me. i never had a secret before, that i feared to tell before the whole world; and now i sit, night after night, with him from whom i should conceal nothing, and feel that i am deceiving him. every time he looks at me, i fancy that he knows all about it, and thinks me an artful girl, and waits to see how long i shall play my part before him. many times i have been tempted to tell him all, in spite of your injunction, and beg him not to be angry with me because i had not dared to tell him before. i would have taken all blame upon myself, and said that i had loved you secretly before you had ever spoken to me about it--any thing i would have said rather than feel myself deceitful, as i do!" "lucy!" exclaimed tom, in a broken voice, "you must not--you must not, indeed, ever give way to such an impulse. i know not what might come of it, if he knew. it would ruin us--perhaps, be the cause of our being separated forever--make him hate us both, and never pardon me, at least, while he lives. oh, lucy! i have not told you all. something yet more serious remains behind." "tell me--what is this, tom?--you alarm me!" "come here then, and bring your ear closer. no; i will not tell you. do not ask me again. it is, perhaps, only a fancy, which has come into my head because i am anxious about you, and imagine all kinds of misfortunes that might arise to make us wretched. but, oh! if i am right, we are, indeed, unfortunate. no misfortune that could befall us could be equal to this." lucy's eyes were filled with tears. "i do not like to go back into the parlor," she said, "lest he should be there, and ask me why i have been crying. he was in his room, upstairs, i think, just now, and he may have come down, and i am sure i could not stand before him as i am. you have, indeed, made me miserable. oh! tom, tom, do tell me what this is?" "i _can not_ tell you," he replied, "it would not be right to breathe a word about it till i have surer ground for my suspicion. let me dry your eyes, and now go back into the parlor, or your absence will be observed." twice he bade her "good-night" before she left him, and each time i saw him put his arms about her, and kiss her; then he called after her, "lucy!" she turned back, and ran up to him. "i hardly know why i called you back. only, i may not see you again for some time, and it may be many, many days, before i can speak to you alone." "well?" i trembled for what he was about to say, and in my anxiety to catch his words, i put my ear closer, and, in so doing, struck the door of the ventilator. "hark! i thought i heard something moving. go, go!" said tom. "good-night! good-night!" and she glided across the hall, and was gone in a moment. in the eagerness with which i had listened to their conversation, i had not had time to feel the terrible blow which i had received. it was only when the voices ceased, that i felt how all my hopes had been shattered in a moment. i relaxed my hold; and, alighting on the ground, walked again to and fro--but more hurriedly than before. i had never dreamed of this: tom lawton! i sat down upon the garden-seat, and wept and sobbed like a child--the first time for many years. i could not help feeling angry with them both. "oh!" thought i, "tom lawton, you were right in thinking that i should never pardon you for this. you have taken away the one hope of my life. i shall hate you while i live. lucy, also, i blame; but my anger is chiefly with you. in order to shield you, she would have told me, poor child, that she only was to blame; but i know better. you have laid snares for her, and inveigled her; your heart told you that you had, when you put the words into my mouth." i walked about and sat down again several times. i groaned aloud, for my heart was swelled almost to bursting. so i continued for some time fiercely denouncing my rival to myself; but that night, upon my bed, when i was worn out with my passion, a better feeling came upon me. i grew more calm and resigned to my misfortune. i saw how useless--nay, how wrong, would be all persecution; and i felt that it was natural that the young should love the young before the old. so, with a sorrowful and humbled spirit, i resolved to encourage them and bring about their union. god knows how much the resolution cost me; but it brought with it a certain peace of mind--a consciousness of doing rightly--which sustained me in my purpose. i would not delay a day, lest my resolution should waver. in the morning i walked into the parlor, and bidding tom lawton follow me, stood there before him and lucy. tom looked pale as if he dreaded my anger. "i expect," said i, "a direct answer to what i am going to ask you. have you not given your faith to one another?" tom turned paler still; but lucy answered before he could say a word, and confessing all, said she took the blame upon herself; but tom interrupted her, exclaiming that he only was to blame. "there is no blame attached to either," said i, "except for a little concealment, for which i pardon you." thus far i had done the duty which i had set before me; but i did not feel it to be completed till they were married. about three months after i gave my permission, and the day was fixed. i saw them the happiest creatures upon earth. they never knew my secret. that tom had suspected it, and that it was to that he referred when he was speaking to lucy in the hall, i had never doubted; though the readiness with which i had befriended them had deceived him. he had taken a small house, and every thing was ready. but, on the day before their wedding, my heart failed me. i knew then that i had never ceased to love her, and i could not endure the thought of her marriage. i felt that i must go away until the day was past; so i gave out that i had suddenly received a summons to go into the country, and that it was my wish that the marriage should not be delayed on that account. that night i went away, not caring whither. i know what were my thoughts in those two days that i was absent. when i returned, the hall was silent--lucy was gone; and i was again alone in the old place. i remain there. how to be idolized. the hyperbole of being "idolized" was never, perhaps, made a literal truth in so striking a manner as is shown in the following story; for which we are indebted to a french author. in , the good ship "dido" left the mauritius, on her voyage to sumatra. she had a cargo of french manufactures on board, which her captain was to barter for coffee and spice with the nabobs of the sunda isles. after a few days' sail, the vessel was becalmed; and both passengers and crew were put on short allowance of provisions and water. preserved meats, fruits, chocolate, fine flour, and live-stock, were all exhausted, with the exception of one solitary patriarchal cock, who, perched on the main-yard, was mourning his devastated harem, like mourad bey after the battle of the pyramids. the ship's cook, neptune, a madagascar negro, received orders, one morning, to prepare this bird for dinner; and, once more, the hungry denizens of the state-cabin snuffed up the delicious odor of roast fowl. the captain took a nap, in order to cheat his appetite until dinner-time; and the chief mate hovered like a guardian-angel round the caboose, watching lest any audacious spoiler should lay violent hands on the precious dainty. suddenly, a cry of terror and despair issued from the cook's cabin, and neptune himself rushed out, the picture of affright, with both his hands twisted, convulsively, in the sooty wool that covered his head. what was the matter? alas! in an ill-starred hour the cook had slumbered at his post, and the fowl was burnt to a cinder. a fit of rage, exasperated by hunger and a tropical sun, is a fearful thing. the mate, uttering a dreadful imprecation, seized a large knife, and rushed at neptune. at that moment, one of the passengers, named louis bergaz, interposed to ward off the blow. the negro was saved, but his preserver received the point of the steel in his wrist, and his blood flowed freely. with much difficulty the other passengers succeeded in preventing him, in his turn, from attacking the mate; but, at length, peace was restored, the aggressor having apologized for his violence. as to poor neptune, he fell on his knees, and kissed and embraced the feet of his protector. in a day or two the breeze sprang up, and the "dido" speedily reached sumatra. four years afterward, it happened, one day, that louis bergaz was dining at the public table of an english boarding-house at batavia. among the guests were two learned men who had been sent out by the british government to inspect the countries lying near the equator. during dinner, the name of bergaz happening to be pronounced distinctly by one of his acquaintances at the opposite side of the table, the oldest of the _savans_ looked up from his plate, and asked, quickly, "who owns the name of bergaz?" "i do." "curious enough," said the _savant_, "you bear the same name as a god of madagascar." "have they a god called bergaz?" asked louis, smilingly. "yes. and if you like, after dinner, i will show you an article on the subject, which i published in an english scientific journal." louis thanked him; and afterward read as follows: "the population of madagascar consists of a mixture of africans, arabs, and the aboriginal inhabitants. these latter occupy the kingdom of the anas, and are governed by a queen. the malagasys differ widely from the ethiopian race, both in their physical and moral characteristics. they are hospitable and humane, but extremely warlike, because a successful foray furnishes them with slaves. it is a mistake to believe that the malagasys worship the devil, and that they have at teintingua a tree consecrated to the evil one. they have but one temple, dedicated to the god bergaz (_beer_, source, or well, in the chaldean, and _gaz_, light, in the malagasy tongue.) to this divinity they are ardently devoted, and at stated periods offer him the sacrifice of a cock, as the ancient greeks did to Æsculapius. so true it is that the languages and superstitions of all lands and ages are linked together by mysterious bonds, which neither time nor distance can destroy." louis bergaz thought the latter philosophical reflection very striking. "you can scarcely imagine," said his companion, "how important these remote analogies, traced out by us with so much labor and fatigue, are to the advancement of science!" bergaz bowed, and was silent. the cares of a busy commercial life soon caused him to forget both the philosopher and his own idol namesake. after the lapse of about two years, bergaz set out to purchase ebony at cape st. maria, in madagascar; but a violent tempest forced the vessel to stop at simpaï on the avas coast. while the crew were busy refitting the ship, bergaz started off to explore the interior of the country. there are no carnivorous wild beasts in madagascar; but, there is abundance of game to tempt the sportsman: and louis, with his gun on his shoulder, followed the chase of partridges, quails, and pheasants, for several miles, until he reached the border of a thick bamboo jungle. there, he saw a number of the natives prostrate before the entrance of a large hut. they were singing, with one accord, a monotonous sort of hymn, whose burden was the word "bergaz!" so distinctly pronounced, that louis immediately recollected the account given him by the philosopher in batavia. impelled by very natural curiosity, he stepped forward, and peeped into the temple. no attempt had been made to ornament its four walls, built of bamboo, cemented with clay; but, in the centre of the floor stood, on a pedestal, the statue of the god bergaz, and louis was greatly struck with his appearance. the idol, although far from being a finished work of art, was yet far superior in form and workmanship to the ordinary divinities of savage nations. the figure represented a man, dressed in european costume, with a wide straw hat on his head, and a striped muslin cravat round his neck. he was standing in the attitude of one who is intercepting a blow, and his right hand was stained with blood. there was even an attempt, louis bergaz thought, to imitate his own features; and the god had thick black whiskers meeting under his chin, precisely such as louis had worn in . the dress, too, resembled his own; and the cravat, marked in the corner, l. b., was one which he had given neptune the cook. in a few minutes, a procession of natives entered the temple; they kindled a fire in a sort of chafing-dish; and, placing on it a dead cock, burnt the sacrifice before their god, amid loud acclamation. bergaz, unluckily, was not able to preserve his gravity during this pious ceremonial. he burst into a fit of laughter, and was instantly seized by the offended worshipers. with shouts of rage they were about to sacrifice him to their outraged deity, when a noise of cymbals announced the approach of the chief of the tribe. the high priest met him at the door, and announced the sacrilegious conduct of the stranger. the incensed chieftain seized a malayan _crease_, and ran to take vengeance on the offender. bergaz turned and looked at him; each uttered a cry of surprise; the next moment, the chief was embracing the feet of louis. "neptune, old fellow! what is all this?" asked bergaz pointing to the figure, "bergaz is my god!" cried the negro, striking his breast. then, to the unbounded astonishment of all present, the european and the chief walked off lovingly together toward the palace of the latter. on their way thither, neptune related his history to his friend. the powerful radamas, sovereign of madagascar, had concluded a treaty of peace with his enemy réné. the wife of the latter, being a woman of genius, was named queen of the anas, by an edict of radama; and this lady was the sister of neptune, ex-cook of the dido. no sooner was she seated on the throne than she released her brother from his menial situation, and gave him absolute authority over the small province of simpaï. neptune's first act was an endeavor to manifest his gratitude, after the strange fashion of his people, to his protector bergaz; and we may fancy how cordial was the reception, how warm and affectionate the welcome, bestowed on the living benefactor, whose wooden semblance he and his people worshiped as a god. the grateful negro loaded him with presents, and sent his most skillful workmen to assist in repairing the ship. probably, to this day, the god bergaz may still be worshiped in simpaï; and the Æsculapian cock may still excite the wonder, and fill the note-books of traveling philosophers. the child commodore. after a long continental ramble, i was glad to have the prospect of getting home again; but an embargo was laid upon me at boulogne. it blew great guns from the opposite side of the channel. the genius of albion was not just then in the mood for receiving visits, or welcoming the return of absentees; and so the steam-packet lay fretting in the harbor, and rubbing her sides peevishly against the pier; while her intending passengers were distributed among the hotels and boarding-houses, venting their discontent on the good things of the table d'hôte, and mounting every now and then to the garret to throw a scowling look to windward. for my part i had been tossed about the world too long, and bumped too hard against its rocks and snags, to think much of a little compulsory tranquillity. on the second day i rather liked it. it was amusing to watch the characters of my companions stealing out from beneath the vail of conventionalism; and it was better than amusing to become actually acquainted with one or two of them, as if we were indeed men and women, and not the mere automata of society. taking them in the mass, however, a good deal of the distinction observable among them depended on the mere circumstance of age. we old gentlemen sat coolly sipping our wine after dinner, rarely alluding in conversation to our present dilemma; while the green hands, after a whirl round the billiard-table, drank their glass of brandy-and-water with vehemence, and passed a unanimous vote of censure on the captain for his breach of faith and unsailor-like timidity. "this is pleasant!" said i, smiling at one of these outbreaks, which occurred late at night--"one always meets something out of the way in traveling." "_i_ never do," replied the gentleman i had addressed; "i find the human character every where the same. you may witness the same kind of absurdity among raw lads like these every day at home; and it is only your own imagination that flings upon it here a different color. i wish i _could_ see something strange!" "perhaps, my dear sir," said i blandly, "you never look? for my part i never fail to meet with something strange, if i have only the opportunity of examining. come, let us go out into the street, and i shall undertake to prove it. let us peep under the first vail or the first slouched hat we meet, and i pledge myself that, on due inquiry, we shall light upon a tale as odd or as wild as fancy ever framed. a bottle of wine upon it?" "done!" "done, then: but hold, what's that?" "le paquebot va partir à minuit!" "hurra!" cried the young men. "the storm is not down a single breath, and it is pitch dark! the captain's a trump after all!" then there were hurrying steps and slamming doors, and flitting lights through the whole house; then hasty reckonings, and jingling coins, and bows, and shrugs, and fights with the sleeves of greatcoats; and finally, stiff moving figures mummied in broadcloth; and grim faces, half-visible between the cravat and cap; and slender forms, bonneted, yet shapeless, clinging to stout arms, as we all floated out into the night. "the diet is deserted," said my friend, "pro loco et tempore." "only the venue changed to shipboard," gasped i against the wind. "remember the first man, woman, or child that attracts our attention on deck!" and so we parted, losing one another, and ourselves lost in the unsteady crowd. the vessel had cleared the harbor before i met with my friend in the darkness and confusion of the midnight deck: and when we were thrown together, it was with such emphasis that we both came down. we fell, however, upon a bundle of something comparatively soft--something that stirred and winced at the contact--something that gave a low cry in three several cadences, as if it had three voices. it gave us, in fact, some confused idea of a mass of heads, legs, arms, and other appurtenances of the human body; but the whole was shrouded in a sort of woolly covering, the nature of which the darkness of the night and the rolling of the ship rendered it impossible to ascertain. i thought to myself for a moment that this was just the thing for my boasted demonstration; but no philosophy could keep the deck under such circumstances; and when my friend and i had gathered ourselves up, we made the best of our way--and it was no easy task--to the cabin, and crept into our berths. as i lay there in comparative coziness, my thoughts reverted to that bundle of life, composed in all probability of deck passengers, exposed to the cold night-wind and the drenching spray; but i soon fell asleep, my sympathy merging as my faculties became more dim in a grateful sense of personal comfort. as the morning advanced, the wind moderated, testifying to the weather-wisdom of our captain; and my friend and i getting up betimes, met once more upon the deck. the bundle of life was still there, just without the sacred line which deck and steerage passengers must not cross; and we saw that it was composed of human figures, huddled together without distinction, under coarse and tattered cloaks. "these persons," said i dictatorially, pointing to them with my cane, "have a story, and a strange one; and by-and-by we shall get at it." "the common story of the poor," replied my friend: "a story of hardship, perhaps of hunger: but why don't they wake up?" this question seemed to have occurred to some of the other passengers, and all looked with a sort of languid curiosity, as they passed, at the breathing bundle of rags. after a time, some motion was observed beneath the tattered cloaks, and at length a head emerged from their folds; a head that might have been either a woman's or a little girl's, so old it was in expression, and so young in size and softness. it _was_ a little girl's, as was proved by the shoulders that followed--thin, slight, childish; but so intelligent was the look she cast around, so full of care and anxiety, that she seemed to have the burden of a whole family on her back. after ascertaining by that look, as it seemed, what her present position was, and bestowing a slight, sweeping glance upon the bystanders, the ship, and the gloomy sky, she withdrew her thoughts from these extraneous matters, and with a gentle hand, and some whispered words, extracted from his bed of rags a small, pale, little boy. the boy woke up in a sort of fright, but the moment his eyes rested on his sister's face--for she _was_ his sister, that was clear--he was calm and satisfied. no smiles were exchanged, such as might have befitted their age; no remark on the novel circumstances of their situation. the boy looked at nothing but the girl; and the girl smoothed his hair with her fingers, arranged his threadbare dress, and breathing on his hands, polished them with her sleeve. this girl, though bearing the marks of premature age, could not in reality have been more than eleven, and the boy was probably four years younger. a larger figure was still invisible, except in the indefinite outline of the cloak, and my friend and i indulged in some whispered speculations as to what it might turn out. "the elder sister doubtless," said he, with one of his cold smiles; "a pretty and disconsolate young woman, the heroine of your intended romance, and the winner of my bottle of wine!" "have patience," said i, "have patience;" but i had not much myself. i wished the young woman would awake, and i earnestly hoped--i confess the fact--that she might prove to be as pretty as i was sure she was disconsolate. you may suppose, therefore, that it was with some anxiety i at length saw the cloak stir, and with some surprise i beheld emerge from it one of the most ordinary and commonplace of all the daughters of eve. she was obviously the mother of the two children, but although endowed with all her natural faculties, quite as helpless and dependent as the little boy. she held out her hand to the little girl, who kissed it affectionately in the dutiful morning fashion of fatherland; and then dropping with that action the manner of the child, resumed, as if from habit, the authority and duties of the parent. she arranged her mother's hair and dress as she had done those of her brother, dictated to her the place and posture in which she was to sit, and passed a full half hour--i can not now tell how--in quiet but incessant activity. time passed on; the other passengers had all breakfasted; but no one had seen the solitary family eat. two or three of us remarked the circumstance to each other, and suggested the propriety of our doing something. but what to do was the question, for although poor, they were obviously not beggars. i at length ventured to offer a biscuit to the little boy. he looked at it, and then at his sister, but did not stir. the proceeding, apparently, was contrary to their notions of etiquette; and i presented the biscuit to the mother "for her little son." she took it mechanically--indifferently--as if it was a thing she had no concern in, and handed it to the girl. the little girl bowed gravely, muttered some words in german, apparently of thanks, and dividing the biscuit among them, in three unequal portions, of which she kept the smallest to herself, they all began to eat with some eagerness. "hunger!" said my friend--"i told you: nothing else." "we shall see;" but i could not think of my theory just then. the family, it appeared, were starving; they had undertaken the little voyage without preparation of any kind in food, extra clothing, or money; and under such circumstances, they sat calmly, quietly, without uttering a single complaint. in a few minutes a more substantial breakfast was before them; and it was amusing to see the coolness with which the little girl-commodore accepted the providential windfall, as if it had been something she expected, although ignorant of the quarter whence it should come, and the business-like gravity with which she proceeded to arrange it on their joint laps, and distribute the shares. nothing escaped her; her sharp look was on every detail; if a fold of her mother's cloak was out of order, she stopped her till she had set it right; and when her brother coughed as he swallowed some tea, she raised his face, and patted him on the back. i admired that little creature with her wan face, and quick eyes, and thin fragile shoulders; but she had no attention to bestow on any one but the family committed to her charge. "this is comical," said my friend: "i wonder what they are. but they have done breakfast: see how carefully the little girl puts away the fragments! let us now ask them for what you call their "story," and get them to relate the romantic circumstances which have induced them to emigrate to london, to join some of their relatives in the business of selling matches or grinding organs!" we first tried the mother, but she, in addition to being of a singularly taciturn, indifferent disposition, spoke nothing but german. the little boy answered only with a negative or affirmative. the commodore of the party, however, knew some words of french, and some of english, and we were able to understand what she told us with no more difficulty than arose from the oddity of the circumstances. the following is the dialogue that took place between us, with her polyglott part translated into common english. "where are you from, my little lass?" "is it me, sir? oh, i am from new york." "from new york! what were you doing there!" "keeping my father's room, sir: he is a journeyman." "and what brings you to europe?" "my father sent me to bring over mother." "sent _you_." "yes, sir; and because my brother could not be left in the room all day when my father was out at work, i took him with me." "what! and you two little children crossed the ocean to fetch your mother?" "oh, that is nothing: the ship brought us--we did not come. it was worse when we landed in london; for there were so many people there, and so many houses, it was just as if we had to find our way, without a ship, through the waves of the sea." "and what were you to do in london." "i was to go to a countryman of ours, who would find me a passage to france. but nobody we met in the street knew him, and nobody could understand what place it was i asked for; and if we had not met a little german boy with an organ, i do not know what we should have done. but somebody always comes in time--god sends him. father told us that." "and the little german boy took you to your countryman?" "yes, and more than that! he bought some bread with a penny as we went along, and we all sat down on a step and ate it." here my friend suddenly used his handkerchief, and coughed vigorously; but the young girl went on without minding the interruption. "our countryman gave us a whole handful of copper money, and a paper to the captain of the ship. it was late before we got there, and we were so tired that i could hardly get my brother along. but the captain was so good as to let us sleep on the deck." "your mother was in germany. how did you get to her?" "oh, we walked--but not always. sometimes we got a cast in a wagon; and when we were very hungry, and would not lay out our money, we were always sure to get something given us to eat." "then you _had_ money." "oh yes, to be sure!" and the little girl gave a cunning twinkle of her eye. "we could not get mother away, you know, without money--could we, mother?" patting her on the back like one fondling a child. such was the story of the little commodore--a story which was listened to not only by my friend and myself, but by at least a score of other persons, some of whom will no doubt be pleased to see it here reproduced.[ ] a collection was made for the travelers, whose boasted funds had been exhausted at boulogne; but what became of them afterward i never knew. when we reached london, i saw them walk up the landing-place--wholly unencumbered with baggage, poor things!--the mother and the little boy clinging on either side to the commodore; and so, like the shadowy figures in the "pilgrim's progress," "they passed on their way, and i saw them no more." [footnote : the writer is in earnest; this is a true story.--ed.] for my own part, my theory had gone much further than i had thought of carrying it. my friend himself was not more surprised than i by the story of the little girl; and, like the witch of endor, when her pretended incantations were answered by the actual apparition of the prophet, i was stupefied by my own success. habits and amusements of the london costermongers.[ ] [footnote : from mayhew's "london labor and the london poor," now publishing by harper and brothers.] i find it impossible to separate these two headings; for the habits of the costermonger are not domestic. his busy life is passed in the markets or the streets, and as his leisure is devoted to the beer-shop, the dancing-room, or the theatre, we must look for his habits to his demeanor at those places. home has few attractions to a man whose life is a street-life. even those who are influenced by family ties and affections, prefer to "home"--indeed that word is rarely mentioned among them--the conversation, warmth, and merriment of the beer-shop, where they can take their ease among their "mates." excitement or amusement are indispensable to uneducated men. of beer-shops resorted to by costermongers, and principally supported by them, it is computed that there are in london. those who meet first in the beer-shop talk over the state of trade and of the markets, while the later comers enter at once into what may be styled the serious business of the evening--amusement. business topics are discussed in a most peculiar style. one man takes the pipe from his mouth and says, "bill made a doogheno[ ] hit this morning." "jem," says another, to a man just entering, "you'll stand a top o' reeb?"[ ] "on,"[ ] answers jem, "i've had a trosseno tol,[ ] and have been doing dab."[ ] if any strangers are present, the conversation is still further clothed in slang, so as to be unintelligible even to the partially initiated. the evident puzzlement of any listener is of course gratifying to the costermonger's vanity for he feels that he possesses a knowledge peculiarly his own. [footnote : first rate.] [footnote : pot of beer.] [footnote : no.] [footnote : bad luck.] [footnote : badly.] among the in-door amusements of the costermonger is card-playing, at which many of them are adepts. the usual games are all-fours, all-fives, cribbage, and put. whist is known to a few, but is never played, being considered dull and slow. of short whist they have not heard: "but," said one, whom i questioned on the subject, "if it's come into fashion, it'll soon be among us." the play is usually for beer, but the game is rendered exciting by bets both among the players and the lookers-on. "i'll back jem for a yanepatine," says one. "jack for a gen," cries another. a penny is the lowest sum laid, and five shillings generally the highest, but a shilling is not often exceeded. "we play fair among ourselves," said a costermonger to me--"ay, fairer than the aristocrats--but we'll take in any body else." where it is known that the landlord will not supply cards, "a sporting coster" carries a pack or two with him. the cards played with have rarely been stamped; they are generally dirty, and sometimes almost illegible, from long handling and spilled beer. some men will sit patiently for hours at these games, and they watch the dealing round of the dingy cards intently, and without the attempt--common among politer gamesters--to appear indifferent, though they bear their losses well. in a full room of card-players, the groups are all shrouded in tobacco-smoke, and from them are heard constant sounds--according to the games they are engaged in--of "i'm low, and ped's high." "tip and me's game." "fifteen four and a flush of five." i may remark it is curious that costermongers, who can neither read nor write, and who have no knowledge of the multiplication table, are skillful in all the intricacies and calculations of cribbage. there is not much quarreling over the cards, unless strangers play with them, and then the costermongers all take part one with another, fairly or unfairly. it has been said that there is a close resemblance between many of the characteristics of a very high class, socially, and a very low class. those who remember the disclosures on a trial a few years back, as to how men of rank and wealth passed their leisure in card-playing--many of their lives being one continued leisure--can judge how far the analogy holds when the card-passion of the costermongers is described. "shove-halfpenny" is another game played by them; so is "three-up." three halfpennies are thrown up, and when they fall all "heads" or all "tails," it is a mark; and the man who gets the greatest number of marks out of a given amount--three, or five, or more--wins. "three-up" is played fairly among the costermongers; but is most frequently resorted to when strangers are present to "make a pitch,"--which is, in plain words, to cheat any stranger who is rash enough to bet upon them. "this is the way, sir," said an adept to me; "bless you, i can make them fall as i please. if i'm playing with jo, and a stranger bets with jo, why, of course i make jo win." this adept illustrated his skill to me by throwing up three halfpennies, and, five times out of six they fell upon the floor, whether he threw them nearly to the ceiling or merely to his shoulder, all heads or all tails. the halfpence were the proper current coins--indeed, they were my own; and the result is gained by a peculiar position of the coins on the fingers, and a peculiar jerk in the throwing. there was an amusing manifestation of the pride of art in the way in which my obliging informant displayed his skill. "skittles" is another favorite amusement, and the costermongers class themselves among the best players in london. the game is always for beer, but betting goes on. a fondness for "sparring" and "boxing" lingers among the rude members of some classes of the working-men, such as the tanners. with the great majority of the costermongers this fondness is still as dominant as it was among the "higher classes," when boxers were the pets of princes and nobles. the sparring among the costers is not for money, but for beer and "a lark"--a convenient word covering much mischief. two out of every ten landlords, whose houses are patronized by these lovers of "the art of self-defense," supply gloves. some charge _d._ a night for their use; others only _d._ the sparring seldom continues long, sometimes not above a quarter of an hour; for the costermongers, though excited for a while, weary of sports in which they can not personally participate, and in the beer-shops only two spar at a time, though fifty or sixty may be present. the shortness of the duration of this pastime may be one reason why it seldom leads to quarreling. the stake is usually a "top of reeb," and the winner is the man who gives the first "noser;" a _bloody_ nose however is required to show that the blow was veritably a noser. the costermongers boast of their skill in pugilism as well as at skittles. "we are all handy with our fists," said one man, "and are matches, ay, and more than matches, for any body but regular boxers. we've stuck to the ring, too, and gone reg'lar to the fights, more than any other men." "twopenny-hops" are much resorted to by the costermongers, men and women, boys and girls. at these dances decorum is sometimes, but not often, violated. "the women," i was told by one man, "doesn't show their necks as i've seen the ladies do in them there pictures of high life in the shop-winders, or on the stage. their sunday gowns, which is their dancing gowns, ain't made that way." at these "hops" the clog-hornpipe is often danced, and sometimes a collection is made to insure the performance of a first-rate professor of that dance; sometimes, and more frequently, it is volunteered gratuitously. the other dances are jigs, "flash jigs"--hornpipes in fetters--a dance rendered popular by the success of the acted "jack sheppard"--polkas, and country-dances, the last-mentioned being generally demanded by the women. waltzes are as yet unknown to them. sometimes they do the "pipe-dance." for this a number of tobacco-pipes, about a dozen, are laid close together on the floor, and the dancer places the toe of his boot between the different pipes, keeping time with the music. two of the pipes are arranged as a cross, and the toe has to be inserted between each of the angles, without breaking them. the numbers present at these "hops" vary from to of both sexes, their ages being from to , and the female sex being slightly predominant as to the proportion of those in attendance. at these "hops" there is nothing of the leisurely style of dancing--half a glide and half a skip--but vigorous, laborious capering. the hours are from half-past eight to twelve, sometimes to one or two in the morning, and never later than two, as the costermongers are early risers. there is sometimes a good deal of drinking; some of the young girls being often pressed to drink, and frequently yielding to the temptation. from £ to £ is spent in drink at a hop; the youngest men or lads present spend the most, especially in that act of costermonger politeness--"treating the gals." the music is always a fiddle, sometimes with the addition of a harp and a cornopean. the band is provided by the costermongers, to whom the assembly is confined; but during the present and the last year, when the costers' earnings have been less than the average, the landlord has provided the harp, whenever that instrument has added to the charms of the fiddle. the other amusements of this class of the community are the theatre and the penny concert, and their visits are almost entirely confined to the galleries of the theatres on the surrey-side--the surrey, the victoria, the bower saloon, and (but less frequently) astley's. three times a week is an average attendance at theatres and dances by the more prosperous costermongers. the most intelligent man i met with among them gave me the following account. he classes himself with the many, but his tastes are really those of an educated man: "love and murder suits us best, sir; but within these few years i think there's a great deal more liking for deep tragedies among us. they set men a-thinking; but then we all consider them too long. of _hamlet_ we can make neither end nor side; and nine out of ten of us--ay, far more than that--would like it to be confined to the ghost scenes, and the funeral, and the killing off at the last. _macbeth_ would be better liked, if it was only the witches and the fighting. the high words in a tragedy we call jaw-breakers, and say we can't tumble to that barrikin. we always stay to the last, because we've paid for it all, or very few costers would see a tragedy out if any money was returned to those leaving after two or three acts. we are fond of music. nigger music was very much liked among us, but it's stale now. flash songs are liked, and sailors' songs, and patriotic songs. most costers--indeed, i can't call to mind an exception--listen very quietly to songs that they don't in the least understand. we have among us translations of the patriotic french songs. 'mourir pour la patrie' is very popular, and so is the 'marseillaise.' a song to take hold of us must have a good chorus." "they like something, sir, that is worth hearing," said one of my informants, "such as the 'soldier's dream,' 'the dream of napoleon,' or 'i 'ad a dream--an 'appy dream.'" the songs in ridicule of marshal haynau, and in laudation of barclay and perkins's draymen, were and are very popular among the costers; but none are more popular than paul jones--"a noble commander, paul jones was his name." among them the chorus of "britons never shall be slaves," is often rendered "britons always shall be slaves." the most popular of all songs with the class, however, is "duck-legged dick," of which i give the first verse. "duck-legged dick had a donkey, and his lush loved much for to swill, one day he got rather lumpy, and got sent seven days to the mill. his donkey was taken to the green-yard, a fate which he never deserved. oh! it was such a regular mean yard, that alas! the poor moke got starved. oh! bad luck can't be prevented, fortune she smiles or she frowns, he's best off that's contented, to mix, sirs, the ups and the downs." their sports are enjoyed the more, if they are dangerous and require both courage and dexterity to succeed in them. they prefer, if crossing a bridge, to climb over the parapet, and walk along on the stone coping. when a house is building, rows of coster lads will climb up the long ladders, leaning against the unslated roof, and then slide down again, each one resting on the other's shoulders. a peep-show with a battle scene is sure of its coster audience, and a favorite pastime is fighting with cheap theatrical swords. they are, however, true to each other, and should a coster, who is the hero of his court, fall ill and go to a hospital, the whole of the inhabitants of his quarter will visit him on the sunday, and take him presents of various articles so that "he may live well." among the men, rat-killing is a favorite sport. they will enter an old stable, fasten the door and then turn out the rats. or they will find out some unfrequented yard, and at night-time build up a pit with apple-case boards, and lighting up their lamps, enjoy the sport. nearly every coster is fond of dogs. some fancy them greatly, and are proud of making them fight. if when out working, they see a handsome stray, whether he is a "toy" or "sporting" dog, they whip him up--many of the class not being _very_ particular whether the animals are stray or not. their dog-fights are both cruel and frequent. it is not uncommon to see a lad walking with the trembling legs of a dog shivering under a bloody handkerchief, that covers the bitten and wounded body of an animal that has been figuring at some "match." these fights take place on the sly--the tap-room or back-yard of a beer-shop being generally chosen for the purpose. a few men are let into the secret, and they attend to bet upon the battle, the police being carefully kept from the spot. pigeons are "fancied" to a large extent, and are kept in lath cages on the roofs of the houses. the lads look upon a visit to the red-house, battersea, where the pigeon-shooting takes place, as a great treat. they stand without the boarding that incloses the ground, and watch for the wounded pigeons to fall, when a violent scramble takes place among them, each bird being valued at _d._ or _d._ so popular has this sport become, that some boys take dogs with them trained to retrieve the birds, and two lambeth costers attend regularly after their morning's work with their guns, to shoot those that escape the "shots" within. a good pugilist is looked up to with great admiration by the costers, and fighting is considered to be a necessary part of a boy's education. among them cowardice in any shape is despised as being degrading and loathsome; indeed the man who would avoid a fight, is scouted by the whole of the court he lives in. hence it is important for a lad and even a girl to know how to "work their fists well"--as expert boxing is called among them. if a coster man or woman is struck they are obliged to fight. when a quarrel takes place between two boys, a ring is formed, and the men urge them on to have it out, for they hold that it is a wrong thing to stop a battle, as it causes bad blood for life; whereas, if the lads fight it out they shake hands and forget all about it. every body practices fighting, and the man who has the largest and hardest muscle is spoken of in terms of the highest commendation. it is often said in admiration of such a man that "he could muzzle half a dozen bobbies before breakfast." to serve out a policeman is the bravest act by which a costermonger can distinguish himself. some lads have been imprisoned upward of a dozen times for this offense; and are consequently looked upon by their companions as martyrs. when they leave prison for such an act, a subscription is often got up for their benefit. in their continual warfare with the force, they resemble many savage nations, from the cunning and treachery they use. the lads endeavor to take the unsuspecting "crusher" by surprise, and often crouch at the entrance of a court till a policeman passes, when a stone or a brick is hurled at him, and the youngster immediately disappears. their love of revenge too is extreme--their hatred being in no way mitigated by time; they will wait for months, following a policeman who has offended or wronged them, anxiously looking out for an opportunity of paying back the injury. one boy, i was told, vowed vengeance against a member of the force, and for six months never allowed the man to escape his notice. at length, one night, he saw the policeman in a row outside a public-house, and running into the crowd kicked him savagely, shouting at the same time: "now, you b---- i've got you at last." when the boy heard that his persecutor was injured for life, his joy was very great, and he declared the twelvemonth's imprisonment he was sentenced to for the offense to be "dirt cheap." the whole of the court where the lad resided sympathized with the boy, and vowed to a man, that had he escaped, they would have subscribed a pad or two of dry herrings, to send him into the country until the affair had blown over, for he had shown himself a "plucky one." it is called "plucky" to bear pain without complaining. to flinch from expected suffering is scorned, and he who does so is sneered at and told to wear a gown, as being more fit to be a woman. to show a disregard for pain, a lad, when without money, will say to his pal, "give us a penny, and you may have a punch at my nose." they also delight in tattooing their chests and arms with anchors, and figures of different kinds. during the whole of this painful operation, the boy will not flinch, but laugh and joke with his admiring companions, as if perfectly at ease. five minutes too late. "miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power--the never-halting time-- lest a mere moment's putting off should make mischance almost as heavy as a crime!" we have just closed a volume of "wordsworth's poems," and the motto we have quoted, and the sonnet following it, recalled certain memories which have proved suggestive of our present subject. five minutes too late! what an awful meaning is conveyed by the last two words of that brief sentence to the children of time, over whom circumstances and death have such fearful power! they conjure before our mental vision a spectral array of consequences from which we shrink: ghosts of vain hopes, of disappointed expectations, of love closed in death, move in ghastly procession, and but for certain recollections of a more enlivening nature--(for sometimes comedy blends even with the deepest tragedy in this kaleidoscope world of ours!)--we should erase our title, and choose another theme. let it not alarm the reader, however, by the apparent threat it holds out of a homily upon the evils of procrastination. we mean to bestow no such tediousness upon his worship, deeming that the "golden-lipped" saint himself would prove powerless to exorcise that most pertinacious of demons when he has once taken possession of any human soul. no; we intend simply to give a few instances of the singular, fatal, or ludicrous effects which the loss or delay of five minutes has caused, leaving wordsworth's motto to point the moral of our gossiping. the first, and one of the most painful of these our "modern instances," was very recently related to us by the son of him whose fortunes were changed, and finally his fate sealed, by the unheeded flitting of those few sands of time, and whose family are still sufferers from this apparent trifle. the momentous five minutes to which we allude were a portion of one of the most glorious periods that ever dial or hourglass marked--that in which the trafalgar victory was won, and nelson lost. among the gallant fleet which on that day roused the echoes of the hills of spain, was a certain cutter commanded by a young lieutenant, who, possessing no naval interest, hoped for advancement only from his own gallantry and good conduct; and little doubt was there that either would prove lacking in his case. memories of the fair wife and dear babe whose fortunes were, in the expressive language of the east, "bound up in the bundle of his life," awoke every energy of his nature, and gave (for him) a double and inspiring meaning to that celebrated signal, the simple majesty of which still thrills the heart of all who owe homage to the name of our country--"england expects every man to do his duty." when the fight began, our young lieutenant did his duty gallantly; the "angel opportunity" was lacking for any very memorable achievement, but in that scene of unrivaled valor and exertion, the eye of the great commander marked the conduct of the gallant little cutter, and he noticed it to "hardy." had he lived, the fortune of the young officer would have been assured; but the life which then "set in bloody glory" bore with it the hopes of many a brave mariner "into the dim oblivion!" it is well known that the fleet which achieved this victory had, during the succeeding night and day, to contend with the fury of the elements; many ships dismasted in the battle, all shattered, and in numerous cases without an anchor to let go. it was while the storm was still raging that lord collingwood made a signal to the ---- cutter to send a boat for the dispatches which were to be conveyed to england. the office intended for her commander was a favor, as the harbinger of such intelligence was certain of promotion; but, alas! our young lieutenant, engrossed by the present scene, and excited by the recent march of events, was not heeding the signal of the _euryalus_, and it had been flying five minutes before it was reported to him. _then_ he hurried to obey the mandate--too late! another had seen the summons, and preceded him, deeming that the state of the cutter must be the cause of her commander's delay. as her boat came alongside the _euryalus_, that of his successful rival--if i may so style him--pushed off, and the officers exchanged greetings. poor y---- at that moment bade farewell to the flood-tide of his fortunes! the admiral accepted his excuses, and regretted that he had not arrived in time, giving him the only charge remaining in his power to bestow--duplicates of the dispatches--and with these he took his homeward course: but the lost five minutes had wrecked his hopes. his predecessor arrived safely, received promotion, and is now, or was very recently, an admiral, while the hero of our story obtained only a sword in commemoration of his bravery; and at the close of the war, was thrown aside, with many a gallant comrade, to waste the remainder of his life in oblivion and neglect. the disappointment of his hopes affected him deeply; the more so as his family increased, and his means of supporting and providing for them were small. what profound regret darkened the vision of trafalgar when it recurred to the old officer's memory! he was sometimes heard to say, with a playful mockery of his own ill-fortune, "that he had grown prematurely bald from the number of young men who had _walked over his head_;" but there was a pathos in the very jest. by a marvelous coincidence, his life was closed, as its prospects had been blighted, by the fatal five minutes too late. he was engaged to dine with an old brother-officer--one who hated to be kept waiting for his dinner--and by some accident, it was five minutes after the appointed time when he left his house to proceed to his amphitryon's. in his anxiety to redeem the lost time, he hurried up the hill he was compelled to ascend at a pace little befitting his age and infirmities--for he suffered from a complaint of the heart--reached the dining-room "again five minutes too late," as he remarked himself, in allusion to the unseen signal, was taken ill from the exertion, carried home, and died. "the tide" of life as well as of fortune had for him "passed the flood!" the colors of this kaleidoscope vision are of the darkest and saddest; let us shake the instrument and vary the combinations, and lo an indian bungalow rises before us seated on a mountain height; and many busy forms are moving near and about it, for the lady who dwells there is about to join a party of friends traveling to the island presidency below. her husband's regiment has been recently hurried to the seat of war, and she can no longer dwell upon the wide and pleasant plains of the deccan; moreover, the monsoon is ended, and the hot winds of the season are beginning to penetrate the screens. and now the ayah hastens her lady's preparations, by the information that the party of travelers are waiting in their palanquins without; but the "ma'am sahib" is a confirmed procrastinator, and so much has been left till this last moment unprepared and undone, that she can not obey the summons. the climate is not favorable to patience; besides, there is a "tide" to be caught at the next _bunder_, and _it_, proverbially, will wait for no one; therefore, with some few apologies, the party moved on, expressing their assurance that mrs. t---- would soon overtake them. she was of the same opinion, and bore their desertion very philosophically, insisting even on not detaining a gentleman of the group, who would fain have waited her leisure. as she entered her palanquin, she observed to her ayah--the only servant who accompanied her--that she had been, "after all, only five minutes too late." the "god's image carved in ebony," as fuller calls the dark sisterhood of our race, showed her ivory teeth good-humoredly in assent, and retired to take possession of her own conveyance, in which she was ordered to follow closely that of her mistress, deeming the loss of time of as little moment as the lady did. the hamals then began their labors, and the first portion of the descent was achieved pleasantly and safely. seated in her coffin-like carriage, mrs. t---- looked forth on a scene of almost unrivaled beauty, every turn of the mountain pathway varying its character and increasing its loveliness. revived by the recent heavy rains, the trees and herbage wore a green as vivid as if they were never scorched by the burning kisses of an eastern sun; gay wild-flowers peeped out from the long grass of the jungle; and tiny waterfalls danced and sported down the mountains' sides to their own liquid music: the tramp of the bearers, the monotonous chant into which they occasionally broke, even the shrill cry of the green parrot, had all a charm for the fair lady traveler; and she forgot the "five minutes too late" which had separated her from her companions, and the fact that there was still no appearance of rejoining them. the latter recollection had, however, occurred to her bearers, and gradually, though their burden marked it not, they slackened their pace, and held low conference among themselves. the ayah's palanquin was far behind, the travelers who preceded them far before; the road was solitary, the jungle deep and secret as the grave; the lady known to be rich in jewels, if not in gold and rupees. evening was closing in: day fades rapidly in the east, and the brief twilight is as solemn as it is soft and short. the hamals' steps fell slower and slower; and at last a vague fear awoke in the lady's mind, to which the gradually deepening gloom added force. she was imaginative, and she fancied the pretty water-jets grew larger, and foamed, and took a spectral form, like the mischievous uncle of "undine," and that the dark figures of the relay of hamals, running by the side of the palanquin, grew taller, and more fiendish-looking: she began to "see their visage" less "in their mind" than in its natural color and swart ugliness, and bitterly repented having been five minutes too late. a regret, alas! _too late_ also; for suddenly her palanquin was set upon the ground, and eight shadowy forms gathered round the door, with glittering eyes and looks from which she shrank, while one in brief phrase desired her to give him her jewel-case and her money. the request was not instantly granted. the scotswoman was courageous, and represented to her false guides that they could neither rob nor injure a woman of her race with impunity. in answer, one fellow pointed to the deep jungle, and made an expressive sign at the back of his own throat. she saw that it would be vain to refuse, and delivered the small box she had with her, and her money. they received it silently; and sitting down in her sight, coolly examined and divided their spoil. then came a fearful pause. they looked toward the palanquin; they were evidently consulting as to what they should do with her. never could she afterward forget the feeling with which her gaze encountered those terrible black eyes! the agony of suspense was more than she could bear; and as they rose simultaneously, she buried her face in her hands, and in a short, almost wordless prayer, commended her soul to her creator. at the same instant a frightful roar, echoed by a thrilling scream, or rather yell, burst on her ear. she looked up, and beheld her foes scattered on all sides, pursued by a tiger, to whose remorseless thirst one had evidently fallen a prey, for faint from the distance came a cry of mortal agony. she was saved! the five minutes they had loitered over their spoil had, through the mercy of a good providence, made crime too late to be consummated. she sat there alone, wonderfully preserved, but still in an awful situation for a female, since night was gathering round her, and the lair of the wild beast so near! her heart beat audibly, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a familiar and blessed sound: "auld lang-syne," played on her native bagpipes, stole on the silence of the evening, and, relieved from a weight of terror--from the fear of death itself--she shed large heavy tears as the clear music approached her. a highland regiment was on its night march back to the presidency, and either its approach had been perceived by the robbers who had escaped the tiger, and thus prevented their return to their victim, or their superstitious terror at the jungle tyrant had kept them from the spot. in a few minutes some of the highland officers were beside the palanquin, listening indignantly to the lady's story, and offering her every assistance in their power. she was a good horsewoman, and the adjutant resigned his steed to her. her jewels and money, found scattered on the road, were collected and given in charge to a highlander, and she was escorted in safety by the gallant -th to the bunder, from whence she could embark for bombay. if any thing could cure procrastination, the effects of such a "five minutes too late" might be expected to perform it; but, as we have said, we have no faith in even so severe a remedy, and we doubt if pretty mrs. t---- has ever put her bonnet on the quicker since her adventure on the kandallah ghauts. and now, looking back into our very early childhood, we can see a neat, quiet-looking old lady, on whose fate our ominous title had as important a result. she was the widow of a merchant-ship captain, who had left her a comfortable independence, and the care of a boy nephew--his only sister's son--a fine lad destined for the sea. the pair lived in an old-fashioned house in one of the old, narrow, dull, but respectable streets of portsea, and were introduced to our notice by the necessity of applying to mrs. martin, or, as she called herself, mrs. mar_ting_, for the character of a servant. inquiries touching the damsel's capabilities had been made by letter, but the reply was by no means as clear as could be desired; for the old lady was a very "queen of the dictionary," and played so despotically with words, and the letters which form them, that the only part of her reply at all intelligible to my mother was a kindly-expressed hope that "susan olding would _shoot_ her!" we supposed she meant _suit_; but to make assurance doubly sure, mamma called on her, and took us children with her. it was about christmas-time, and we remember distinctly how nice and _cosy_ we thought the quaint-looking old parlor into which we were ushered. the fireplace was formed of dutch tiles, commemorative of a whole bible biography: a large closet, with glass doors, exhibited to our childish peeping a quantity of valuable old china. there was a harpsichord--the only one we ever saw--open in the room. round the walls hung pieces of embroidery framed, the subjects being taken from the "faerie queen;" and above each shone the glittering leaves and scarlet berries of a holly sprig. a bright fire blazed on the hearth; and by the side of it, in an imposing-looking arm-chair, sat the mistress of the dwelling knitting--a pretty woman even in advancing years, with a kind, happy expression of countenance, that one would have felt grieved to see overshadowed by a care. from that time we became acquaintances of good mrs. martin. she met us in our walks; sometimes took us into her house to give us a piece of seed-cake and a glass of home-made wine; and finally, invited us occasionally to drink tea with her. we enjoyed those evenings exceedingly; she was so kind, and good-natured, and so ready to enter into all our games, in which we had also a blithe comrade in the young man her nephew, who had just returned from sea. he would play with us till we were tired, and then seating us round the blazing fire, would entertain us, othello-like, with his adventures, and those of his messmates, till we held our breath to listen. a very fine seaman-like youth was harry darling the midshipman, and very proud his aunt was of him. in truth she had good cause to rejoice in her affection for him, as the incident we have to relate will prove. when harry first went to sea, his adopted mother felt, as she expressed it, "very _dissolute_" (desolate?) in her deserted house, and sought refuge from her anxious thoughts by frequenting oftener the tea-tables of her neighbors, among whom her cheerful temper, to say nothing of her comfortable income and hospitality, made her very popular. at the house of one of the most intimate of her gossips, the worthy widow was in the habit of meeting, and of being partner at whist, with a tall gentleman wearing a mustache, and distinguished by the title of "count." now, if mrs. martin had a weakness, it was her love for "great people," as she phrased it; many of whose privileges were the especial objects of her envy, especially the mournful one of a funeral exhibition of heraldic honors. she always regretted that she had not been able to hang out "a hatchet" for her poor dear departed mar_ting_. now, as she never dreamed, dear guileless old body, of any one assuming a dignity not justly appertaining to them, and had no conception of the exact standard of national rank, a foreign count with a mustache like a life guardsman was as imposing a personage in her estimation as an ancient english "thane," and she treated his countship with all possible respect and attention, considering it a high honor when he favored her neat dwelling with a visit, and drank tea out of her best china. she always called him "my lord," and "your lordship," and sympathized deeply in the cruel reverses to which the revolution had subjected him, never wearying of hearing descriptions of his "cha_too_," and of his hotel in paris, though it long continued a mystery to her how a nobleman with such a fortune could have liked to keep a _hotel_, a difficulty she had at last solved by ascribing it to foreign manners. but the count became daily more intimate at her house, telling her long stories over the winter fire, or while partaking of the meal she called, in compliment to him, her "petty soupey," and gradually the usual consequences of such story-telling ensued. the unfortunate noble proposed to mrs. martin, and, quite flattered and dazzled by the honor, the widow consented to become madame la comtesse. his lady-love's assent once obtained, the frenchman was eager for the immediate celebration of their nuptials; but mrs. martin insisted on waiting till her dear harry came home from sea, his ship being daily expected. the bridegroom shrugged an unwilling assent, and consoled himself by dining occasionally, as well as drinking tea, with his lady-love. at length the battery and guard-ship guns of portsmouth greeted the expected frigate, and the next day harry darling embraced his aunt, and learned from her with much surprise, and a little vexation, that she was about to marry "a member of the french house of lords!" the boy had already seen enough of the world to take a very different view of the proposed exaltation, and to have serious fears for his kinswoman's happiness in a union with one whom he, at first sight, pronounced an adventurer; but on hinting his suspicions to her, the good lady for the first time grew angry with him, ascribing his observations to a selfish regard for his own interest, and harry finding remonstrance vain, was fain to yield a sad consent to be present at the ceremony in a week's time. the wedding-day arrived. the ceremony was to be performed at a little village church at some distance, and the carriages destined to convey the bridal party were ordered at an early hour. the bride, handsomely attired, and the bridegroom in the dignity of an entire new suit, were waiting, attended by their friends, in the parlor we have described, for the appearance of harry, who had been unable to get leave till the eventful morning, but had promised to be there in time. there is nothing more calculated to throw a gloom over persons assembled for some festive or momentous occasion, than the having to wait for an expected guest. the gossips assembled in mrs. martin's room had met with gay smiles and pleasant congratulations, but as minute after minute stole away, and no harry darling appeared, the conversation sank into silence, and the company looked grave and tired. the count became impatient, and urged his betrothed not to delay longer, as circumstances might have occurred to prevent "monsieur darling" from leaving his ship; but the widow was not to be persuaded. she loved harry with all the warmth of her affectionate nature. she had never known him break his promise; if he did not come, he must, "she was sure, be ill, or he might even have fallen overboard, and could the count think her such an inhuman monster as to go to be married while the dear child's fate was doubtful?" the gentleman internally wished "the dear child" at the bottom of spithead, but he dared not dispute the will of his despotic widow, and they waited another quarter of an hour, when, to the joy of all, the missing harry sprang across the threshold, releasing the "wedding guests" from their thralldom to a nameless kind of discomfort, and his aunt from her nervous fears. with all speed the party then drove off, and proceeded at a brisk pace to the village church; but even as the tall spire rose in sight above the leafy elms, the clock struck the hour of noon. the bridal party exchanged looks: after twelve, it is not possible to be married in england without a special license. but the bride's attendant suggested that as it could not be more than five minutes after the time, the rector might be induced to overlook the rule, and they alighted and entered the church. only the sexton was visible, in the act of closing the doors. he told them that the rev. mr. bunbury, after waiting for them till noon, had just ridden off to attend a clerical meeting at some distance; but that even had he been at home, it would have been quite impossible for him to have performed the ceremony after the appointed hour. they were therefore compelled to return unmarried, and harry received a gentle chiding from his aunt for the confusion he had occasioned, which, however, he asserted was not his fault, but that of the first lieutenant, who had detained him. to atone in some measure for the disappointment to her friends, mrs. martin invited them all to dine with her at six, and to accompany her on a similar expedition on the morrow. the invitation was accepted, and the count forgot his disappointment over a plate of turtle-soup, and indulged in delightful anticipations of the next morning which was to render him "monarch of all he surveyed." alas, there is many a slip between the cup and the lip! a five minutes too late is no such trifling matter. it was even while wit and champagne were at their height, that a knock at the street door disturbed the jovial company, and was followed by the announcement of "a lady who wished to speak to monsieur de fierville." mrs. martin, eager to please the man she delighted to honor, bade the servant usher the lady in, and a scene of confusion followed which may rather be imagined than described. it was no less a personage than the madame de fierville herself--the true and living wife of the deceitful lover--who had at length, as she informed them, been able to dispose advantageously of her business as a _modiste_, and had followed her husband to england, trusting she should find him established, according to his intention, as a hairdresser in the good town of portsea. on reaching his lodgings, however--for she had, after some difficulty, succeeded in tracing him--she learned from the mistress of the house that he had taken to himself the title of his former master--he had been valet to count f----, and an english wife, and she had come to the home of the latter to exact justice or revenge. "the count" was no match for his vehement and enraged wife, and could not deny the authenticity of the testimonials of the truth of her statement, which she produced. he was hurried, at rather uncivil speed, from the house by the enraged harry darling, and was followed thence by the angry and garrulous frenchwoman; while mrs. martin had a gentle hysteric--nothing could greatly disturb the equanimity of her temper--and sinking on her nephew's shoulder, murmured in broken sobs her thanks to providence, and, under providence, to him, "that from being five minutes too late she had escaped being made an accomplice in the crime of _burglary_!" we must turn from mrs. mar_ting_--her love passages and her blunders--to an incident in which the words of our motto were most pathetically and fatally exemplified-- "a moment's putting off has made mischance as heavy as a crime." the actors, or rather sufferers, of the story were a twin brother and sister, orphans, and dependent on the bounty of a near kinswoman, who, being of the romish persuasion, had educated the girl in the doctrines of her own faith, although, in compliance with the dying wish of her widowed sister, the boy was suffered to retain that of his country and his father. but this difference of creeds proved the cause of no diminution of affection between the children, whose love for each other equaled or surpassed those loves which scripture and poetry have made immortal. they were ever to be seen hand-in-hand; the one had no pleasure the other did not partake; their playthings, books, thoughts, joys, and infantine sorrows were shared invariably; and as the boy was educated at home, they were never separated till john had attained his seventeenth year, when his aunt's interest procured him a cadetship, and he was obliged to leave mary in order to join his regiment in india. it was a terrible separation in those days, when the subjected elements "yoked to man's iron car" had not, as in the present day, nearly fulfilled the modest wish of dryden's lovers, and "annihilated time and space!" the twins were heartbroken at the idea of parting; but john consoled his sister by the promise of sending for her as soon as he had an indian home to offer her; and mary pleaded "that it might be soon, no matter how humble that home might be!" and he assented to all her wishes, and pledged his word never to miss an opportunity of writing to her. letters from the east were then few and far between; and when received, brought in their very date a painful reminder of the time that had elapsed since the beloved hand had traced them, and a fear of all that might have chanced since their old news was written. but they were the chief comfort of mary murray-- "when seas between them broad had rolled," and for days after the arrival of one, her step would fall more lightly, and her voice take a happier tone. after the departure of her nephew, mrs. jermyn removed with her niece to france. her means were straitened, and she could live more economically on the continent; and there, after the lapse of some few years, she died, leaving mary murray all her little property, and advising her to join her brother in india as soon as she conveniently could, but to remain as boarder in a convent till arrangements to that effect could be made. the poor girl obeyed the wishes of her last and only friend, and became for a time the inmate of a cloister; but her thoughts and wishes all tended to the east, and she longed for the arrival of her brother's next letter--the answer to that in which she had made him aware of her loss, and of her wish to go to him. the mail arrived; there was no letter for _her_, but it brought news of an engagement in which john murray's regiment had fought bravely and suffered much. his name was not in the list of killed or wounded, but he was reported "missing," probably a prisoner to the enemy, or drowned in the river, on the banks of which the contest had taken place. the grief of her, who had no other tie of love in the world may be imagined; it could scarcely be described. nevertheless she was young, and the young are generally sanguine. almost without her being conscious of it, she still cherished a hope that he might be restored to her; but months rolled on, and brought no tidings. then it was that, sick at heart, and weary even of the hope that was so constantly disappointed, her thoughts turned to the cloister as a refuge from her lonely sorrow. she had no object of interest beyond the walls; the nuns were kind and good; the duties of the convent such as she loved to fulfill. she took the white vail, and at the end of the year's novitiate, the black. the service of final dedication had begun, when a stranger arrived at the convent gate, and requested to see miss murray on business of importance. he was desired by the porteress to wait till the ceremony, which had commenced about five minutes previously, was ended; and ignorant of the name of the nun who was making her profession, he of course consented to the request. in about an hour's time, a young figure, robed in black, and vailed, stood at the grate to ask his business with her. he uttered an exclamation of alarm and consternation when he perceived miss murray in the dress of a nun. then recovering himself he informed her, as cautiously as his surprise permitted, that he had come from her brother, who had been made prisoner, and was now restored to his regiment, after having endured much, and met with a number of adventures, of which a letter he then offered her would give her a full account. it ought, he acknowledged, to have been delivered a day or two earlier, but he had been much engaged since his arrival in paris, and had forgotten it till that morning, when, ashamed and sorry for his neglect, he had proceeded at an early hour to the convent. mary murray heard him with a pale cheek and quivering lip, and as she took the letter from his hand, murmured, "you came five minutes too late, sir! and to that lost time my brother's happiness and mine have been sacrificed. i am a nun now--as dead to him as if the grave had closed above me!" the young messenger was overwhelmed with regret as vain as it was agonizing. miss murray kindly endeavored to console him, but on herself the blow fell heavily. she was never seen to smile from that day; and in less than a year after, the nuns of st. agnes followed their young sister to the grave. most fitly might the beautiful epitaph in the church of santa croce have been graven beneath the holy sign her tombstone bore: "ne la plaignez pas! si vous saviez combien de peines ce tombeau l'a épargné!" the brother grieved deeply for a while, but the stream of the world bore him onward, and its waters are the true lethe for ordinary and even extraordinary sorrow. he married, and years afterward returned to england with his wife and family; and then the memory of his sister mary returned vividly and painfully to his mind, and, as a warning to his children, he told them the story of her enduring affection, and of _the fatal five minutes too late_! visit to a copper-mine.[ ] [footnote : from "rambles beyond railways," by w. wilkie collins.] we left the land's end, feeling that our homeward journey had now begun from that point; and, walking northward, about five miles along the coast, arrived at botallack, which contains the most extraordinary copper-mine in cornwall. having heard that there was some disinclination in cornwall to allow strangers to go down the mines, we had provided ourselves, through the kindness of a friend, with a proper letter of introduction, in case of emergency. we were told to go to the counting-house to present our credentials; and on our road thither, beheld the buildings and machinery of the mine, literally stretching down the precipitous face of the cliff, from the land at the top, to the sea at the bottom. this sight was striking and extraordinary. here, we beheld a scaffolding perched on a rock that rose out of the waves--there, a steam-pump was at work raising gallons of water from the mine every minute, on a mere ledge of land, half-way down the steep-cliff side. chains, pipes, conduits, protruded in all directions from the precipice; rotten-looking wooden platforms, running over deep chasms, supported great beams of timber and heavy coils of cable; crazy little boarded-houses were built, where gulls' nests might have been found in other places. there did not appear to be a foot of level space anywhere, for any part of the works of the mine to stand upon; and yet, there they were, fulfilling all the purposes for which they had been constructed, as safely and completely on rocks in the sea, and down precipices on the land, as if they had been cautiously founded on the tracts of smooth, solid ground above! the counting-house was built on a projection of earth about midway between the top of the cliff and the sea. when we got there, the agent, to whom our letter was addressed, was absent; but his place was supplied by two miners, who came out to receive us; and to one of them we mentioned our recommendation, and modestly hinted a wish to go down the mine forthwith. but our new friend was not a person who did any thing in a hurry. he was a grave, courteous, and rather melancholy man, of great stature and strength. he looked on us with a benevolent, paternal expression, and appeared to think that we were nothing like strong enough, or cautious enough, to be trusted down the mine. "did we know," he urged, "that it was dangerous work?" "yes; but we didn't mind danger!" "perhaps we were not aware that we should perspire profusely, and be dead-tired getting up and down the ladders?" "very likely; but we didn't mind that, either!" "surely we shouldn't like to strip, and put on miners' clothes?" "yes, we should, of all things!" and, pulling off coat, waistcoat, and trowsers, on the spot, we stood half-undressed already, just as the big miner was proposing another objection, which, under existing circumstances, he good-naturedly changed into a speech of acquiescence. "very well, gentlemen," said he, taking up two suits of miners' clothes; "i see you are determined to go down; and so you shall! you'll be wet through with the heat and the work before you come up again; so just put on these things, and keep your own clothes dry." the clothing consisted of a flannel shirt, flannel drawers, canvas trowsers, and a canvas jacket--all stained of a tawny copper color; but all quite clean. a white night-cap and a round hat, composed of some iron-hard substance, well calculated to protect the head from any loose stones that might fall on it, completed the equipment; to which, three tallow-candles were afterward added--two to hang at the button-hole, one to carry in the hand. my friend was dressed first. he had got a suit which fitted him tolerably, and which, as far as appearances went, made a regular miner of him at once. far different was my case. the same mysterious dispensation of fate, which always awards tall wives to short men, decreed that a suit of the big miner's should be reserved for me. he stood six feet two inches--i stand five feet six inches. i put on his flannel shirt--it fell down to my toes, like a bed-gown; his drawers--and they flowed in turkish luxuriance over my feet. at his trowsers i helplessly stopped short, lost in the voluminous recesses of each leg. the big miner, like a good samaritan as he was, came to my assistance. he put the pocket-button through the waist button-hole, to keep the trowsers up, in the first instance; then, he "hauled taut" the braces (as sailors say), until my waistband was under my armpits; and then he pronounced that i and my trowsers fitted each other in great perfection. the cuffs of the jacket were next turned up to my elbows--the white nightcap was dragged over my ears--the round hat was jammed down over my eyes. when i add to all this, that i am so near-sighted as to be obliged to wear spectacles, and that i finished my toilet by putting my spectacles on (knowing that i should see little or nothing without them), nobody, i think, will be astonished to hear that my companion seized his sketch-book, and caricatured me on the spot; and that the grave miner, polite as he was, shook with internal laughter, as i took up my tallow-candles and reported myself ready for a descent into the mine. we left the counting-house, and ascended the face of the cliff. then, walked a short distance along the edge, descended a little again, and stopped at a wooden platform built across a deep gully. here, the miner pulled up a trap-door, and disclosed a perpendicular ladder leading down to a black hole, like the opening of a chimney. "this is the shaft; i will go down first, to catch you, in case you tumble; follow me, and hold tight!" saying this, our friend squeezed himself through the trap-door, and we went after him as we had been bidden. the black hole, when we entered it, proved to be not quite so dark as it had appeared from above. rays of light occasionally penetrated it through chinks in the outer rock. but, by the time we had got some little way further down, these rays began to fade. then, just as we seemed to be lowering ourselves into total darkness, we were desired to stand on a narrow landing-place opposite the ladder, and wait there while the miner went below for a light. he soon reascended to us, bringing not only the light he had promised, but a large lump of damp clay with it. having lighted our candles, he stuck them against the front of our hats with the clay, in order, as he said, to leave both our hands free to us to use as we liked. thus strangely accoutred, like solomon eagles in the great plague, with flame on our heads, we resumed the descent of the shaft; and now, at last, began to penetrate beneath the surface of the earth in good earnest. the process of getting down the ladders was not very pleasant. they were all quite perpendicular, the rounds were placed at irregular distances, were many of them much worn away, and were slippery with water and copper-ooze. add to this, the narrowness of the shaft, the dripping-wet rock shutting you in, as it were, all round your back and sides against the ladder--the fathomless-looking darkness beneath--the light flaring immediately above you, as if your head was on fire--the voice of the miner below, rumbling away in dull echoes lower and lower into the bowels of the earth--the consciousness that if the rounds of the ladder broke, you might fall down a thousand feet or so of narrow tunnel in a moment--imagine all this, and you may easily realize what are the first impressions produced by a descent into a cornish mine. by the time we had got down seventy fathoms, or four hundred and twenty feet of ladders, we stopped at another landing-place, just broad enough to afford standing-room for us three. here, the miner, pointing to an opening yawning horizontally in the rock at one side of us, said that this was the first gallery from the surface; that we had done with the ladders for the present; and that a little climbing and crawling were now to begin. our path was a strange one, as we advanced through the rift. rough stones of all sizes, holes here, and eminences there, impeded us at every yard. sometimes, we could walk on in a stooping position--sometimes, we were obliged to crawl on our hands and knees. occasionally, greater difficulties than these presented themselves. certain parts of the gallery dipped into black, ugly-looking pits, crossed by thin planks, over which we walked dizzily, a little bewildered by the violent contrast between the flaring light that we carried above us, and the pitch-darkness beneath and before us. one of these places terminated in a sudden rising in the rock, hollowed away below, but surmounted by a narrow, projecting wooden platform, to which it was necessary to climb by cross-beams arranged at wide distances. my companion ascended to this awkward elevation without hesitating; but i came to an "awful pause" before it. fettered as i was by my brobdignag jacket and trowsers, i felt a humiliating consciousness that any extraordinary gymnastic exertion was altogether out of my power. our friend, the miner, saw my difficulty, and extricated me from it at once, with a promptitude and skill which deserves record. descending half way by the beams, he clutched with one hand that hinder part of my too voluminous nether garments, which presented the broadest superficies of canvas to his grasp (i hope the delicate reader appreciates the ingenious cleanliness of my periphrasis, when i mention in detail so coarse a subject as trowsers!). having grappled me thus, he lifted me up in an instant, as easily as a small parcel; then carried me horizontally along the loose boards, like a refractory little boy borne off by the usher to the master's birch; or, considering the candle burning on my hat, and the necessity of elevating my position by as lofty a comparison as i can make--like a flying mercury with a star on his head; and finally deposited me safely upon my legs again, on the firm rock pathway beyond. "you are but a light and a little man, my son!" says this excellent fellow, snuffing my candle for me before we go on; "only let me lift you about as i like, and you shan't come to any harm while i am with you!" speaking thus, the miner leads us forward again. after we have walked a little further in a crouching position, he calls a halt, makes a seat for us by sticking a piece of old board between the rocky walls of the gallery, and then proceeds to explain the exact subterranean position which we actually occupy. we are now four hundred yards out, _under the bottom of the sea_; and twenty fathoms, or a hundred and twenty feet, below the sea level. coast-trade vessels are sailing over our heads. two hundred and forty feet beneath us men are at work, and there are galleries deeper yet, even below that! the extraordinary position down the face of the cliff, of the engines and other works on the surface, at botallack, is now explained. the mine is not excavated like other mines under the land, but under the sea! having communicated these particulars, the miner next tells us to keep strict silence and listen. we obey him, sitting speechless and motionless. if the reader could only have beheld us now, dressed in our copper-colored garments, huddled close together in a mere cleft of subterranean rock, with flame burning on our heads, and darkness enveloping our limbs--he must certainly have imagined, without any violent stretch of fancy, that he was looking down upon a conclave of gnomes! after listening for a few moments, a distant, unearthly noise becomes faintly audible--a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never changes, that is _felt_ on the ear as well as _heard_ by it--a sound that might proceed from some incalculable distance--from some far invisible height--a sound unlike any thing that is heard on the upper ground, in the free air of heaven--a sound so sublimely mournful and still, so ghostly and impressive when listened to in the subterranean recesses of the earth, that we continue instinctively to hold our peace, as if enchanted by it, and think not of communicating to each other the strange awe and astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the very first. at last, the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us, and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. the tide is now at the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation: so the sound is low and distant just at this period. but, when storms are at their height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water on the cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down here in the mine is so inexpressibly fierce and awful, that the boldest men at work are afraid to continue their labor--all ascend to the surface to breathe the upper air and stand on the firm earth; dreading, though no such catastrophe has ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on them if they remain in the caverns below. hearing this, we get up to look at the rock above us. we are able to stand upright in the position we now occupy; and flaring our candles hither and thither in the darkness, can see the bright pure copper streaking the dark ceiling of the gallery in every direction. lumps of ooze, of the most lustrous green color, traversed by a natural network of thin red veins of iron, appear here and there in large irregular patches, over which water is dripping slowly and incessantly in certain places. this is the salt water percolating through invisible crannies in the rock. on stormy days it spirts out furiously in thin, continuous streams. just over our heads we observe a wooden plug of the thickness of a man's leg; there is a hole here, and the plug is all that we have to keep out the sea. immense wealth of metal is contained in the roof of this gallery, throughout its whole length; but it remains, and will always remain, untouched; the miners dare not take it, for it is part, and a great part, of the rock which forms their only protection against the sea; and which has been so far worked away here, that its thickness is limited to an average of three feet only between the water and the gallery in which we now stand. no one knows what might be the consequence of another day's labor with the pickax on any part of it. this information is rather startling when communicated at a depth of four hundred and twenty feet under ground. we should decidedly have preferred to receive it in the counting-house! it makes us pause for an instant, to the miner's infinite amusement, in the very act of knocking away about an inch of ore from the rock, as a memento of botallack. having, however, ventured, on reflection, to assume the responsibility of weakening our defense against the sea by the length and breadth of an inch, we secure our piece of copper, and next proceed to discuss the propriety of descending two hundred and forty feet more of ladders, for the sake of visiting that part of the mine where the men are at work. two or three causes concur to make us doubt the wisdom of going lower. there is a hot, moist, sickly vapor floating about us, which becomes more oppressive every moment; we are already perspiring at every pore, as we were told we should, and our hands, faces, jackets, and trowsers, are all more or less covered with a mixture of mud, tallow, and iron-drippings, which we can feel and smell much more accurately than is exactly desirable. we ask the miner what there is to see lower down. he replies, nothing but men breaking ore with pickaxes; the galleries of the mine are alike, however deep they may go: when you have seen one, you have seen all. the answer decides us--we determine to get back to the surface. we returned along the gallery, just as we had advanced, with the same large allowance of scrambling, creeping, and stumbling on our way. i was charitably carried along and down the platform over the pit by my trowsers, as before: our order of procession only changed when we gained the ladders again. then, our friend the miner went last instead of first, upon the same principle of being ready to catch us if we fell, which led him to precede us on our descent. except that one of the rounds cracked under his weight as we went up, we ascended without casualties of any kind. as we neared the mouth of the shaft, the daylight atmosphere looked dazzlingly white, after the darkness in which we had been groping so long; and when we once more stood out on the cliff, we felt a cold, health-giving purity in the sea-breeze, and, at the same time, a sense of recovered freedom in the power that we now enjoyed of running, jumping, and stretching our limbs in perfect security and with full space for action, which it was almost a new sensation to experience. habit teaches us to think little of the light and air that we live and breathe in, or, at most, to view them only as the ordinary conditions of our being. to find out that they are more than this, that they are a luxury as well as a necessity of life, go down into a mine, and compare what you _can_ exist in there, with what you _do_ exist in, on upper earth! on re-entering the counting-house, we were greeted by the welcome appearance of two large tubs of water, with soap and flannel placed invitingly by their sides. copious ablutions and clean clothes, are potent restorers of muscular energy. these, and a half hour of repose, enabled us to resume our knapsacks as briskly as ever, and walk on fifteen miles to the town of st. ives--our resting-place for the night. serious accidents are rare in the mines of cornwall. from the horrors of such explosions as take place in coal-mines, they are by their nature entirely free. the casualties that oftenest occur are serious falls, generally produced by the carelessness of inexperienced, or foolhardy people. of these, and of extraordinary escapes from death with which they are associated, many anecdotes are told in mining districts, which would appear to the reader exaggerated, or positively untrue, if i related them on mere hearsay evidence. there was, however, one instance of a fall down the shaft of a mine, unattended with fatal consequences, which occurred while i was in cornwall; and which i may safely adduce, for i can state some of the facts connected with the affair, as an eye-witness. i attended an examination of the sufferer by a medical man, and heard the story of the accident from the parents of the patient. on the th of august last, a boy fourteen years of age, the son of a miner, slipped into the shaft of boscaswell down mine, in the neighborhood of penzance. he fell to the depth of thirteen fathoms, or seventy-eight feet. fifty-eight feet down, he struck his left side against a board placed across the shaft, snapped it in two, and then falling twenty feet more, pitched on his head. he was of course taken up insensible; the doctor was sent for; and, on examining him, found, to his amazement, that there was actually a chance of the boy's recovery after his tremendous fall! not a bone in his body was broken. he was bruised and scratched all over, and there were three cuts--none of them serious--on his head. the board stretched across the shaft, twenty feet from the bottom, had saved him from being dashed to pieces; but had inflicted, at the same time, where his left side had struck it, the only injury that appeared dangerous to the medical man--a large, hard lump that could be felt under the bruised skin. the boy showed no symptoms of fever; his pulse, day after day, was found never varying from eighty-two to the minute; his appetite was voracious; and the internal functions of his body only required a little ordinary medicine to keep them properly at work. in short, nothing was to be dreaded but the chance of the formation of an abscess in his left side, between the hip and ribs. he had been under medical care exactly one week, when i accompanied the doctor on a visit to him. the cottage where he lived with his parents, though small, was neat and comfortable. we found him lying in bed, awake. he looked sleepy and lethargic; but his skin was moist and cool; his face displayed neither paleness, nor injury of any kind. he had just eaten a good dinner of rabbit-pie; and was anxious to be allowed to sit up in a chair, and amuse himself by looking out of the window. his left side was first examined. a great circular bruise discolored the skin, over the whole space between the hip and ribs; but on touching it, the doctor discovered that the lump beneath had considerably decreased in size, and was much less hard than it had felt during previous visits. next, we looked at his back and arms--they were scratched and bruised all over; but nowhere seriously. lastly, the dressings were taken off his head, and three cuts were disclosed, which even a non-medical eye could easily perceive to be of no great importance. such were all the results of a fall of seventy-eight feet! the boy's father reiterated to me the account of the accident, just as i had already heard it from the doctor. how it happened, he said, could only be guessed, for his son had completely forgotten all the circumstances immediately preceding the fall; neither could he communicate any of the sensations which must have attended it. most probably, he had been sitting dangling his legs idly over the mouth of the shaft, and had so slipped in. but, however the accident really happened, there the sufferer was before us--less seriously hurt than many a lad who has trodden on a piece of orange peel as he was walking along the street. we left him (humanly speaking) certain of recovery, now that the dangerous lump in his side had begun to decrease. i have since heard from his medical attendant, that in two months from the date of the accident, he was at work again as usual in the mine; at that very part of it too, where his fall had taken place! it was not the least interesting part of my visit to the cottage where he lay ill, to observe the anxious affection displayed toward him by both his parents. his mother left her work in the kitchen to hold him in her arms, while the old dressings were being taken off and the new ones applied--sighing bitterly, poor creature, every time he winced or cried out under the pain of the operation. the father put several questions to the doctor; which were always perfectly to the point; and did the honors of his little abode to his stranger visitor, with a natural politeness and a simple cordiality of manner which showed that he really meant the welcome that he spoke. nor was he any exception to the rest of his brother-workmen with whom i met. as a body of men, they are industrious and intelligent; sober and orderly; neither soured by hard work, nor easily depressed by harder privations. no description of personal experiences in the cornish mines can be fairly concluded, without a collateral testimony to the merits of the cornish miners--a testimony which i am happy to accord here; and to which my readers would cheerfully add their voices, if they ever felt inclined to test its impartiality by their own experience. saturday in a london market.[ ] [footnote : from mayhew's "london labor and the london poor," in the press of messrs. harper and brothers.] on a saturday--the coster's business day--it is computed that as many as donkey-barrows, and upward of women with shallows and head-baskets visit this market during the forenoon. about six o'clock in the morning is the best time for viewing the wonderful restlessness of the place, for then not only is the "garden" itself all bustle and activity, but the buyers and sellers stream to and from it in all directions, filling every street in the vicinity. from long acre to the strand on the one side, and from bow-street to bedford-street on the other, the ground has been seized upon by the market-goers. as you glance down any one of the neighboring streets, the long rows of carts and donkey-barrows seem interminable in the distance. they are of all kinds, from the greengrocer's taxed cart to the coster's barrow--from the showy excursion-van to the rude square donkey-cart and bricklayer's truck. in every street they are ranged down the middle and by the curb-stones. along each approach to the market, too, nothing is to be seen, on all sides, but vegetables; the pavement is covered with heaps of them waiting to be carted; the flagstones are stained green with the leaves trodden under foot; sieves and sacks full of apples and potatoes, and bundles of broccoli and rhubarb, are left unwatched upon almost every door-step; the steps of covent garden theatre are covered with fruit and vegetables; the road is blocked up with mountains of cabbages and turnips; and men and women push past with their arms bowed out by the cauliflowers under them, or the red tips of carrots pointing from their crammed aprons, or else their faces are red with the weight of the loaded head-basket. the donkey-barrows, from their number and singularity, force you to stop and notice them. every kind of ingenuity has been exercised to construct harness for the costers' steeds; where a buckle is wanting, tape or string make the fastening secure; traces are made of rope and old chain, and an old sack or cotton handkerchief is folded up as a saddle-pad. some few of the barrows make a magnificent exception, and are gay with bright brass; while one of the donkeys may be seen dressed in a suit of old plated carriage-harness, decorated with coronets in all directions. at some one of the coster conveyances stands the proprietor, arranging his goods, the dozing animal starting up from its sleep each time a heavy basket is hoisted on the tray. others, with their green and white and red load neatly arranged, are ready for starting, but the coster is finishing his breakfast at the coffee-stall. on one barrow there may occasionally be seen a solitary sieve of apples, with the horse of some neighboring cart helping himself to the pippins while the owner is away. the men that take charge of the trucks, while the costers visit the market, walk about, with their arms full of whips and sticks. at one corner a donkey has slipped down, and lies on the stones covered with the cabbages and apples that have fallen from the cart. the market itself presents a beautiful scene. in the clear morning air of an autumn day the whole of the vast square is distinctly seen from one end to the other. the sky is red and golden with the newly-risen sun, and the rays falling on the fresh and vivid colors of the fruit and vegetables, brighten up the picture as with a coat of varnish. there is no shouting, as at other markets, but a low murmuring hum is heard, like the sound of the sea at a distance, and through each entrance to the market the crowd sweeps by. under the dark piazza little bright dots of gas-lights are seen burning in the shops; and in the paved square the people pass and cross each other in all directions, hampers clash together, and excepting the carters from the country, every one is on the move. sometimes a huge column of baskets is seen in the air, and walks away in a marvelously steady manner, or a monster railway van, laden with sieves of fruit, and with the driver perched up on his high seat, jolts heavily over the stones. cabbages are piled up into stacks, as it were. carts are heaped high with turnips, and bunches of carrots, like huge red fingers, are seen in all directions. flower-girls, with large bundles of violets under their arms, run past, leaving a trail of perfume behind them. wagons, with their shafts sticking up in the air, are ranged before the salesmen's shops, the high green load railed in with hurdles, and every here and there bunches of turnips are seen flying in the air over the heads of the people. groups of apple-women, with straw pads on their crushed bonnets, and coarse shawls crossing their bosoms, sit on their porter's knots, chatting in irish, and smoking short pipes; every passer-by is hailed with the cry of "want a baskit, yer honor?" the porter, trembling under the piled-up hamper, trots along the street, with his teeth clenched, and shirt wet with the weight, and staggering at every step he takes. inside, the market is all bustle and confusion. the people walk along with their eyes fixed on the goods, and frowning with thought. men in all costumes, from the coster in his corduroy suit to the greengrocer in his blue apron, sweep past. a countryman, in an old straw hat and dusty boots, occasionally draws down the anger of a woman for walking about with his hands in the pockets of his smock-frock, and is asked, "if that is the way to behave on a market-day?" even the granite pillars can not stop the crowd, for it separates and rushes past them, like the tide by a bridge pier. at every turn there is a fresh odor to sniff at; either the bitter aromatic perfume of the herbalists' shops breaks upon you, or the scent of oranges, then of apples, and then of onions, is caught for an instant as you move along. the broccoli tied up in square packets, the white heads tinged slightly red, as it were, with the sunshine--the sieves of crimson love-apples, polished like china--the bundles of white glossy leeks, their roots dangling like fringe; the celery, with its pinky stalks and bright green tops, the dark purple pickling-cabbages, the scarlet carrots, the white knobs of turnips, the bright yellow balls of oranges, and the rich brown coats of the chestnuts--attract the eye on every side. then there are the apple-merchants, with their fruit of all colors, from the pale yellow green to the bright crimson, and the baskets ranged in rows on the pavement before the little shops. round these the customers stand examining the stock, then whispering together over their bargain, and counting their money. "give you four shillings for this here lot, master," says a coster, speaking for his three companions. "four-and-six is my price," answers the salesman. "say four, and it's a bargain," continues the man. "i said my price," returns the dealer; "go and look round, and see if you can get 'em cheaper; if not, come back. i only wants what's fair." the men, taking the salesman's advice, move on. the walnut-merchant, with a group of women before his shop, peeling the fruit, their fingers stained deep brown, is busy with the irish purchasers. the onion stores, too, are surrounded by hibernians, feeling and pressing the gold-colored roots, whose dry skins crackle as they are handled. cases of lemons in their white paper jackets, and blue grapes, just seen above the sawdust, are ranged about, and in some places the ground is slippery as ice from the refuse leaves and walnut-husks scattered over the pavement. against the railings of st. paul's church are hung baskets and slippers for sale, and near the public-house is a party of countrymen preparing their bunches of pretty colored grass--brown and glittering, as if it had been bronzed. between the spikes of the railing are piled up square cakes of green turf for larks; and at the pump, boys, who probably have passed the previous night in the baskets about the market, are washing, and the water dripping from their hair that hangs in points over the face. the curb-stone is blocked up by a crowd of admiring lads, gathered round the bird-catcher's green stand, and gazing at the larks beating their breasts against their cages. the owner, whose boots are red with the soil of the brick-field, shouts, as he looks carelessly around, "a cock linnet for tuppence," and then hits at the youths who are poking through the bars at the fluttering birds. under the piazza the costers purchase their flowers (in pots), which they exchange in the streets for old clothes. here is ranged a small garden of flower-pots, the musk and mignonnette smelling sweetly, and the scarlet geraniums, with a perfect glow of colored air about the flowers, standing out in rich contrast with the dark green leaves of the evergreens behind them. "there's myrtles, and laurels, and boxes," says one of the men selling them, "and there's a harbora witus, and lauristiners, and that bushy shrub with pink spots is heath." men and women, selling different articles, walk about under the cover of the colonnade. one has seed-cake, another small-tooth and other combs, others old caps or pig's feet, and one hawker of knives, razors, and short hatchets, may occasionally be seen driving a bargain with a countryman, who stands passing his thumb over the blade to test its keenness. between the pillars are the coffee-stalls, with their large tin cans and piles of bread and butter, and protected from the wind by paper screens and sheets thrown over clothes-horses; inside these little parlors, as it were, sit the coffee-drinkers on chairs and benches, some with a bunch of cabbages on their laps, blowing the steam from their saucers, others, with their mouths full, munching away at their slices, as if not a moment could be lost. one or two porters are there besides, seated on their baskets, breakfasting with their knots on their heads. as you walk away from this busy scene, you meet in every street barrows and costers hurrying home. the pump in the market is now surrounded by a cluster of chattering wenches quarreling over whose turn it is to water their drooping violets, and on the steps of covent garden theatre are seated the shoeless girls, tying up the halfpenny and penny bundles. the horrors of war. in a work recently published in london, entitled "lights and shades of military life," m. de vigny, the author, gives incidents from his own experience which place in a striking light some of the unutterable horrors of war. in his first march, with his ambition glowing as brightly as his maiden sword, and his hopes yet fresh as his untarnished epaulets, he falls in with an old _chef de bataillon_. he was a man of about fifty, with mustaches, tall and stout, his back curved, after the manner of old military officers who have carried the knapsack. his features were hard but benevolent, such as you often meet with in the army, indicating, at the same time, the natural goodness of the heart of the man, and the callousness induced by long use to scenes of blood and carnage. this old soldier of the empire is marching along beside a little cart, drawn by a sorry mule, in which sits a woman--a maniac--whose story he tells with a soldier's frankness, as a part of his own history. the old man had been a sailor in his youth, and at the time of the directory was captain of a merchantman. from that situation he was promoted, aristocracy being at a discount, to command the marat, a brig of war, and one of his first duties was to sail with two political prisoners, a young frenchman and his wife. he supposed that he was to land them at cayenne, to which place other exiles had previously been dispatched in other vessels; but he carried sealed orders from the directory, which were not to be opened till the vessel reached the equator. on the passage, the captain and his young passengers became greatly attached to each other, so much so that he wished to leave the service, and, with what fortune he had, share and alleviate their fate. in their youth and innocence, and earnest love for each other, the young unfortunates had twined themselves about the rough heart of the sailor, and he regarded them as his children. but there was the ominous letter, bearing the red seals of the directory, which was to decide their fate--and the time arrived for it to be opened. the seals were broken, and what was the captain's horror to find that it contained an order for him to have the young husband shot, and then to return with the wife to france. after he had read the paper, he rubbed his eyes, thinking that they must have deceived him. he could not trust his senses. his limbs trembled beneath him. he could not trust himself to go near the fair young laura, who looked so happy, with tidings that would blight her existence. what was he to do? he never seems to have thought of leaving the order unexecuted; the iron of unreasoning obedience had seared his soul too deeply for that. the horrid task, revolt at it as he might, was a _duty_, because he had been _ordered_ to do it. he communicated the order to his victim, who heard his fate with a stoicism worthy of an old roman. his only thought was for his poor young wife, so fair, and fond, and gentle. he said, with a voice as mild as usual, "i ask no favor, captain. i should never forgive myself if i were to cause you to violate your duty. i should merely like to say a few words to laura, and i beg you to protect her, in case she should survive me, which i do not think she will." it is arranged between the victim of slavish obedience, and the victim of the cruelty of the reign of terror, that poor laura should know nothing of what was to be her husband's fate. she is put into a boat at night and rowed from the ship, while the tragedy is being acted out; but she sees the flash of the muskets, her heart tells her too plainly what has happened, and her reason fails under the shock. "at the moment of firing, she clasped her hand to her head, as if a ball had struck her brow, and sat down in the boat without fainting, without shrieking, without speaking, and returned to the brig with the crew when they pleased and how they pleased." the old captain spoke to her but she did not understand him. she was mute, rubbing her pale forehead, and trembling as though she were afraid of every body, and thus she remained an idiot for life. the captain returned to france with his charge, got himself removed into the land forces, for the sea--into which he had cast innocent blood--was unbearable to him; and had continued to watch over the poor imbecile as a father over his child. m. de vigny saw the poor woman; he says, "i saw two blue eyes of extraordinary size, admirable in point of form, starting from a long, pale, emaciated face, inundated by perfectly straight fair hair. i saw, in truth, nothing but those two eyes, which were all that was left of that poor woman, for the rest of her was dead. her forehead was red, her cheeks hollow and white, and bluish on the cheek bones. she was crouched among the straw, so that one could just see her two knees rising above it, and on them she was playing all alone at dominoes. she looked at us for a moment, trembled a long time, smiled at me a little, and began to play again. it seemed to me that she was trying to make out how her right hand beat her left." it was the wreck of love and beauty, torn by the blind slave obedience, at the bidding of vengeance and hate. m. de vigny was a young and thoughtless soldier; but young and thoughtless as he was, the phantom glory must have beamed brightly indeed, to prevent him from seeing the gloomy darkness of such a shade of military life as this, and keep him from shaking the fetters of blind obedience from intellect and mercy. he never saw the old _chef_ and his charge again; but he heard of them. in speaking to a brother officer one day of the sad story, his companion in arms replied, "ah, my dear fellow, i knew that poor devil well. a brave man he was too; he was taken off by a cannon-ball at waterloo. he had, in fact, left along with the baggage a sort of crazy girl, whom we took to the hospitable of amiens on our way to the army of the loire, and who died there and raving at the end of three days." if in this story we recognize the goodness, the true nobility of heart of this old soldier, we can not fail to see in all its hideousness, the horrors and evils of a system which deadens intellect, paralyzes virtue, and dims the light of mercy--the system of slavish obedience, crushing out all individuality, and making the good and the bad alike its subservient instruments. as a pendant to the above we take a few extracts from the story of captain renaud, once a page to napoleon, of whom byron truly says: "with might unquestioned--power to save-- thine only gift hath been the grave, to those that worship'd thee." and so poor renaud found. he had the misfortune to fall under the displeasure of the emperor, and was sent from the army to serve on board that abortive flat-bottomed-boat armada, which threatened a descent upon the shores of england. here he was taken prisoner, and, after a long captivity, being exchanged, hastened to paris to throw himself at the feet of the conqueror. the reception was a strange one. it took place at the opera, and we quote a description of it. "he (napoleon) placed his left hand upon his left eye to see better, according to his custom; i perceived that he had recognized me. he turned about sharply, took no notice of any thing but the stage, and presently retired. i was already in waiting for him. he walked fast along the corridor, and, from his thick legs, squeezed into white silk stockings, and his bloated figure in his green dress, i should scarcely have known him again. he stopped short before me, and speaking to the colonel, who presented me, instead of addressing himself direct to me, 'why,' said he, 'have i never seen any thing of him? still a lieutenant?' "'he has been a prisoner ever since .' "'why did he not make his escape?' "'i was on parole!' said i, in an undertone. "'i don't like prisoners!--the fellows ought to get killed,' said he, turning his back upon me. "we remained motionless in file, and when the whole of his suite had passed: 'my dear fellow,' said the colonel, 'don't you see plainly that you are a fool? you have lost your promotion, and nobody thinks the better of you for it.'" poor obedience, blind, slavish, unreasoning; its reward was often to be spurned. "fool" indeed; a great many people will be inclined to re-echo the colonel's epithet, not because renaud had been a prisoner--not because he was not killed, or did not escape, but because this same habit of obedience had so thoroughly taken the true man out of him, that he did not cut the epaulets from his shoulders, and leave glory to find some other fool. but he was a soldier, and a soldier's first duty was obedience. he went to his regiment, and from his after-life we extract another "shade" of the horrors of war. captain renaud narrates how he surprised a detachment of russians at their post. it was a glorious achievement of course--a parallel to any of the atrocities of the north american indians. "i came up slowly, and i could not, i must confess, get the better of a certain emotion which i had never felt at the moment of other encounters. it was shame for attacking men who were asleep; i saw them wrapped in their cloaks, lighted by a close lantern, and my heart throbbed violently. but all at once, at the moment of acting, i feared that it was a weakness very like that of cowards; i was afraid that i had for once felt fear, and taking my sword, which had been concealed under my arm, i briskly entered first, setting the example to my grenadiers. i made a motion to them which they comprehended; they fell first upon the guns, then upon the men, like wolves upon a flock of sheep. oh, it was a dismal, a horrible butchery. the bayonet pierced, the butt-end smashed, the knee stifled, the hand strangled. all cries were extinguished, almost before they were uttered, beneath the feet of our soldiers; and not a head was raised without receiving the mortal blow. on entering, i had struck at random a terrible stroke at something black, which i had run through and through. an old officer, a tall stout man, whose head was covered with white hair, sprung upon his feet like a phantom, made a violent lunge at my face with a sword, and instantly dropped dead pierced by the bayonets! on my part, i fell beside him, stunned by the blow, which had struck me between the eyes, and i heard beneath me the tender and dying voice of a boy, saying, 'papa!' i then comprehended what i had done, and i looked at my work with frantic eagerness. i saw one of those officers of fourteen, so numerous in the russian armies, which invaded us at that period, and who were dragged away to this awful school. his long curling hair fell upon his bosom, as fair, as silken as that of a woman, and his head was bowed, as though he had but fallen asleep a second time. his rosy lips, expanded like those of a new-born infant, seemed to be yet moist with the nurse's milk; and his large blue eyes, half open, had a beauty of form that was fond and feminine. i lifted him upon one arm, and his cheek fell against mine, dripping with blood, as though he were burying his face in his mother's bosom to warm it again. he seemed to shrink from me, and crouch close to the ground, in order to get away from his murderer. filial affection, and the confidence and repose of a delicious sleep pervaded his lifeless face, and he seemed to say to me, 'let us sleep in peace!' "at this moment, the colonel entered, followed close by his column, whose step and arms i heard. "'bravo, my dear fellow,' said he, 'you've done that job cleverly; but you are wounded!' "'look there,' said i; 'what difference is there between me and a murderer?' "'eh! _sacre dieu!_ comrade, what would you have? 'tis our trade!'" great god! what a trade for men to give themselves up to, for considerations of all kinds, from peerages and pensions down to a shilling a day. legalized murder as a profession for the poor foster-children of passive obedience, who, when they trust themselves to think, sometimes find themselves--and upon their own showing, too--little better than murderers. poor captain renaud, however, continued in the service still. so thoroughly was the man smothered in the soldier, that neglect, contempt, contumely, and the sensations of a homicide were not sufficient to induce him to break his fetters. after napoleon's fall, he remained a soldier of the bourbons, and there was a sort of poetical justice in his death; for in the sanguinary revolution of a _gamin de paris_, a boy scarcely able to hold a horse-pistol, shot the veteran of the empire. m. de vigny closes his portion of the "lights and shades" by setting up an idol for soldiers to worship, and which is to sustain them under all their sufferings. the profession of arms has lost the attribute of apparent usefulness which once belonged to it. the star of glory is setting below the horizon of peace; and warriors, knowing themselves at once hated and feared--feeling themselves out of place in the era which is beginning--degraded from heroes into policemen--are to lean upon honor for support; but we think, that in the midst of obloquy, privation, and neglect, that sentiment will prove but a broken staff, incapable of bearing such a load of misery and wrong. the factory boy. by harriet martineau. in the middle of a dark night, joel, a boy of nine years old, heard his name called by a voice which, through his sleep, seemed miles away. joel had been tired enough when he went to bed, and yet he had not gone to sleep for some time; his heart beat so at the idea of his mother being very ill. he well remembered his father's death, and his mother's illness now revived some feelings which he had almost forgotten. his bed was merely some clothes spread on the floor, and covered with a rug; but he did not mind that; and he could have gone to sleep at once but for the fear that had come over him. when he did sleep, his sleep was sound; so that his mother's feeble voice calling him seemed like a call from miles away. in a minute joel was up and wide awake. "light the candle," he could just hear the voice say. he lighted the candle, and his beating heart seemed to stop when he saw his mother's face. he seemed hardly to know whether it was his mother or no. "shall i call--?" "call nobody, my dear. come here." he laid his cheek to hers. "mother, you are dying," he murmured. "yes, love, i am dying. it is no use calling any one. these little ones, joel." "i will take care of them, mother." "you, my child! how should that be?" "why not?" said the boy, raising himself, and standing at his best height. "look at me, mother. i can work. i promise you--" his mother could not lift her hand, but she moved a finger in a way which checked him. "promise nothing that may be too hard afterward," she said. "i promise to try then," he said; "that little sister shall live at home, and never go to the workhouse." he spoke cheerfully, though the candle-light glittered in the two streams of tears on his cheeks. "we can go on living here; and we shall be so--" it would not do. the sense of their coming desolation rushed over him in a way too terrible to be borne. he hid his face beside her, murmuring, "o mother! mother!" his mother found strength to move her hand now. she stroked his head with a trembling touch, which he seemed to feel as long as he lived. she could not say much more. she told him she had no fear for any of them. they would be taken care of. she advised him not to waken the little ones, who were sound asleep on the other side of her, and begged him to lie down himself till daylight, and try to sleep, when she should be gone. this was the last thing she said. the candle was very low; but before it went out, she was gone. joel had always done what his mother wished; but he could not obey her in the last thing she had said. he lighted another candle when the first went out; and sat thinking, till the gray dawn began to show through the window. when he called the neighbors, they were astonished at his quietness. he had taken up the children, and dressed them, and made the room tidy, and lighted the fire, before he told any body what had happened. and when he opened the door, his little sister was in his arms. she was two years old, and could walk, of course; but she liked being in joel's arms. poor willy was the most confounded. he stood with his pinafore at his mouth, staring at the bed, and wondering that his mother lay so still. if the neighbors were astonished at joel that morning, they might be more so at some things they saw afterward; but they were not. every thing seemed done so naturally; and the boy evidently considered what he had to do so much a matter of course, that less sensation was excited than about many smaller things. after the funeral was over, joel tied up all his mother's clothes. he carried the bundle on one arm, and his sister on the other. he would not have liked to take money for what he had seen his mother wear; but he changed them away for new and strong clothes for the child. he did not seem to want any help. he went to the factory the next morning, as usual, after washing and dressing the children, and getting a breakfast of bread and milk with them. there was no fire; and he put every knife, and other dangerous thing on a high shelf, and gave them some trifles to play with, and promised to come and play with them at dinner-time. and he did play. he played heartily with the little one, and as if he enjoyed it, every day at the noon hour. many a merry laugh the neighbors heard from that room when the three children were together; and the laugh was often joel's. how he learned to manage, and especially to cook, nobody knew; and he could himself have told little more than that he wanted to see how people did it, and looked accordingly, at every opportunity. he certainly fed the children well; and himself too. he knew that every thing depended on his strength being kept up. his sister sat on his knee to be fed till she could feed herself. he was sorry to give it up; but he said she must learn to behave. so he smoothed her hair, and washed her face before dinner, and showed her how to fold her hands while he said grace. he took as much pains to train her to good manners at table as if he had been a governess, teaching a little lady. while she remained a "baby," he slept in the middle of the bed, between the two, that she might have room, and not be disturbed; and when she ceased to be a baby, he silently made new arrangements. he denied himself a hat, which he much wanted, in order to buy a considerable quantity of coarse dark calico, which, with his own hands, he made into a curtain, and slung up across a part of the room; thus shutting off about a third of it. here he contrived to make up a little bed for his sister; and he was not satisfied till she had a basin and jug, and piece of soap of her own. here nobody but himself was to intrude upon her without leave; and, indeed, he always made her understand that he came only to take care of her. it was not only that willy was not to see her undressed. a neighbor or two, now and then lifted the latch without knocking. one of these one day, heard something from behind the curtain, which made her call her husband silently to listen; and they always afterward treated joel as if he were a man, and one whom they looked up to. he was teaching the child her little prayer. the earnest, sweet, devout tones by the boy, and the innocent, cheerful imitation of the little one, were beautiful to hear, the listeners said. though so well taken care of, she was not to be pampered; there would have been no kindness in that. very early, indeed, she was taught, in a merry sort of way, to put things in their places, and to sweep the floor, and to wash up the crockery. she was a handy little thing, well trained and docile. one reward that joel had for his management was, that she was early fit to go to chapel. this was a great point; as he, choosing to send willy regularly, could not go till he could take the little girl with him. she was never known to be restless; and joel was quite proud of her. willy was not neglected for the little girl's sake. in those days, children went earlier to the factory, and worked longer than they do now, and, by the time the sister was five years old, willy became a factory boy; and his pay put the little girl to school. when she, at seven, went to the factory, too, joel's life was altogether an easier one. he always had maintained them all, from the day of his mother's death. the times must have been good--work constant, and wages steady--or he could not have done it. now, when all three were earning, he put his sister to a sewing-school for two evenings in the week, and the saturday afternoons; and he and willy attended an evening-school, as they found they could afford it. he always escorted the little girl wherever she had to go: into the factory, and home again--to the school door, and home again--and to the sunday-school; yet he was himself remarkably punctual at work and at worship. he was a humble, earnest, docile pupil himself, at the sunday-school--quite unconscious that he was more advanced than other boys in the sublime science and practice of duty. he felt that every body was very kind to him; but he was unaware that others felt it an honor to be kind to him. i linger on these years, when he was a fine growing lad, in a state of high content. i linger, unwilling to proceed. but the end must come; and it is soon told. he was sixteen, i think, when he was asked to become a teacher in the sunday-school, while not wholly ceasing to be a scholar. he tried, and made a capital teacher, and he won the hearts of the children while trying to open their minds. by this he became more widely known than before. one day in the next year a tremendous clatter and crash was heard in the factory where joel worked. a dead silence succeeded, and then several called out that it was only an iron bar that had fallen down. this was true: but the iron bar had fallen on joel's head, and he was taken up dead! such a funeral as his is rarely seen. there is something that strikes on all hearts in the spectacle of a soldier's funeral--the drum, the march of comrades, and the belt and cap laid on the coffin. but there was something more solemn and more moving than all such observances in the funeral of this young soldier, who had so bravely filled his place in the conflict of life. there was the tread of comrades here, for the longest street was filled from end to end. for relics, there were his brother and sister; and for a solemn dirge, the uncontrollable groans of a heart-stricken multitude. fidgety people. there are people whom one occasionally meets with in the world, who are in a state of perpetual fidget and pucker. every thing goes wrong with them. they are always in trouble. now, it is the weather, which is too hot; or at another time, too cold. the dust blows into their eyes, or there is "that horrid rain," or "that broiling sun," or "that scotch mist." they are as ill to please about the weather as a farmer; it is never to their liking, and never will be. they "never saw such a summer," "not a day's fine weather," and they go back to antiquity for comfort--"it was not so in our younger days." fidgety people are rarely well. they have generally "a headache," or "spasms," or "nerves," or something of that sort; they can not be comfortable in their way, without trouble. most of their friends are ill; this one has the gout "_so_ bad;" another has the rheumatics; a third is threatened with consumption; and there is scarcely a family of their acquaintance whose children have not got measles, whooping-cough, scarlet fever, or some other of the thousand ills which infantine flesh is heir to. they are curiously solicitous about the health of every body; this one is exhorted "not to drink too much cold water," another "not to sit in the draught," a third is advised to "wear flannels;" and they have great doctors at their fingers' ends whom they can quote in their support. they have read buchan and culpepper, and fed their fidgets upon their descriptions of diseases of all sorts. they offer to furnish recipes for pills, draughts, and liniments; and if you would believe them, your life depends on taking their advice gratis forthwith. to sit at meals with such people is enough to give one the dyspepsia. the chimney has been smoking, and the soot has got into the soup; the fish is over-done, and the mutton is underdone; the potatoes have had the disease, the sauce is not of the right sort, the jelly is candied, the pastry is fusty, the grapes are sour. every thing is wrong. the cook must be disposed of; betty stands talking too long at the back-gate. the poultry-woman must be changed, the potato-man discarded. there will be a clean sweep. but things are never otherwise. the fidgety person remains unchanged, and goes fidgeting along to the end of the chapter; changing servants, and spoiling them by unnecessary complainings and contradictions, until they become quite reckless of ever giving satisfaction. the fidgety person has been reading the newspaper, and is in a ferment about "that murder!" every body is treated to its details. or somebody's house has been broken into, and a constant fidget is kept up for a time about "thieves!" if a cat's whisper is heard in the night, "there is a thief in the house;" if an umbrella is missing, "a thief has been in the lobby;" if a towel can not be found, "a thief must have stolen it off the hedge." you are counseled to be careful of your pockets when you stir abroad. the outer doors are furnished with latches, new bolts and bars are provided for outhouses, bells are hung behind the shutters, and all other possible expedients are devised to keep out the imaginary "thief." "oh! there is a smell of fire!" forthwith the house is traversed, down-stairs and up-stairs, and a voice at length comes from the kitchen, "it's only bobby been burning a stick." you are told forthwith of a thousand accidents, deaths, and burnings, that have come from burning sticks! bobby is petrified and horror-stricken, and is haunted by the terror of conflagrations. if bobby gets a penny from a visitor, he is counseled "not to buy gunpowder" with it, though he has a secret longing for crackers. maids are cautioned to "be careful about the clothes-horse," and their ears are often startled with a cry from above-stairs of "betty, there is surely something singeing!" the fidgety person "can not bear" the wind whistling through the key-hole, nor the smell of washing, nor the sweep's cry of "svee-eep, svee-eep," nor the beating of carpets, nor thick ink, nor a mewing cat, nor new boots, nor a cold in the head, nor callers for rates and subscriptions. all these little things are magnified into miseries, and if you like to listen, you may sit for hours and hear the fidgety person wax eloquent about them, drawing a melancholy pleasure from the recital. the fidgety person sits upon thorns, and loves to perch his or her auditor on the same raw material. not only so, but you are dragged over thorns, until you feel thoroughly unskinned. your ears are bored, and your teeth are set on edge. your head aches, and your withers are wrung. you are made to shake hands with misery, and almost long for some real sorrow as a relief. the fidgety person makes a point of getting out of humor upon any occasion, whether about private or public affairs. if subjects for misery do not offer within doors, they abound without. something that has been done in the next street excites their ire, or something done a thousand miles off, or even something that was done a thousand years ago. time and place matter nothing to the fidgety. they overleap all obstacles in getting at their subject. they _must_ be in hot water. if one question is set at rest, they start another; and they wear themselves to the bone in settling the affairs of every body, which are never settled; they "are made desperate by a too quick sense of constant infelicity." their feverish existence refuses rest, and they fret themselves to death about matters with which they have often no earthly concern. they are spendthrifts in sympathy, which in them has degenerated into an exquisite tendency to pain. they are launched on a sea of trouble, the shores of which are perpetually extending. they are self-stretched on a rack, the wheels of which are ever going round. the fundamental maxim of the fidgety is--whatever is, is wrong. they will not allow themselves to be happy, nor any body else. they always assume themselves to be the _most_ aggrieved persons extant. their grumbling is incessant, and they operate as a social poison wherever they go. their vanity and self-conceit are usually accompanied by selfishness in a very aggravated form, which only seems to make their fidgets the more intolerable. you will generally observe that they are idle persons; indeed, as a general rule, it may be said, that the fidgety class want healthy occupations. in nine cases out of ten, employment in some active pursuit, in which they could not have time to think about themselves, would operate as a cure. but, we must make an allowance. fidgets are often caused by the state of the stomach, and a fit of bad temper may not unfrequently be traced to an attack of indigestion. one of the most fidgety members of the house of commons is a martyr to dyspepsia, and it is understood that some of his most petulant and bitter diatribes have been uttered while laboring under more than usually severe attacks of this disease. he has "pitched into" some "honorable gentleman" when he should have taken blue pill. and so it is with many a man, in domestic and social life, whom we blame for his snappish and disagreeable temper, but whose stomach is the real organ at fault. indeed, the stomach is the moral no less than the physical barometer of most men; and we can very often judge of tempers, conditions, and sympathies, pretty accurately, according to its state. let us, therefore, be charitable to the fidgety, whose stomachs, rather than their hearts, may be at fault; and let us counsel them to mend them, by healthy and temperate modes of living, and by plenty of wholesome occupation and exercise. anecdotes of serpents. we need not go to the valley of diamonds with sinbad to find enormous serpents. the companions of other sailors have been swallowed up by those monstrous reptiles, as was too-clearly proved to the crew of the malay proa, who anchored for the night close to the island of celebes. one of the party went on shore to look for betel-nut, and, on returning from his search, stretched his wearied limbs to rest on the beach, where he fell asleep, as his companions believed. they were roused in the middle of the night by his screams, and hurried on shore to his assistance; but they came too late. a monstrous snake had crushed him to death. all they could do was to wreak their vengeance on his destroyer, whose head they cut off, and bore it with the body of their ship-mate to their vessel. the marks of the teeth of the serpent, which was about thirty feet in length, were impressed on the dead man's right wrist, and the disfigured corpse showed that it had been crushed by constriction round the head, neck, breast, and thigh. when the snake's jaws were extended, they admitted a body the size of a man's head. but to see the true boas in their native forests we must cross the atlantic; and those who are not familiar with the story may have no objection to learn how captain stedman fared in an encounter with one twenty-two feet and some inches in length, during his residence in surinam. captain stedman was lying in his hammock, as his vessel floated down the river, when the sentinel told him that he had seen and challenged something black, moving in the brushwood on the beach, which gave no answer. up rose the captain, manned the canoe that accompanied his vessel, and rowed to the shore to ascertain what it was. one of his slaves cried out that it was no negro, but a great snake that the captain might shoot if he pleased. the captain, having no such inclination, ordered all hands to return on board. the slave, david, who had first challenged the snake, then begged leave to step forward and shoot it. this seems to have roused the captain, for he determined to kill it himself, and loaded with ball cartridge. the master and slave then proceeded. david cut a path with a bill-hook, and behind him came a marine with three more loaded guns. they had not gone above twenty yards through mud and water, the negro looking every way with uncommon vivacity, when he suddenly called out, "me see snakee!" and, sure enough there the reptile lay, coiled up under the fallen leaves and rubbish of the trees. so well covered was it, that some time elapsed before the captain could perceive its head, not above sixteen feet from him, moving its forked tongue, while its vividly-bright eyes appeared to emit sparks of fire. the captain now rested his piece upon a branch to secure a surer aim, and fired. the ball missed the head, but went through the body, when the snake struck round with such astonishing force as to cut away all the underwood around it with the facility of a scythe mowing grass, and, flouncing with its tail, made the mud and dirt fly over their heads to a considerable distance. this commotion seems to have sent the party to the right about; for they took to their heels, and crawled into the canoe. david, however, entreated the captain to renew the charge, assuring him that the snake would be quiet in a few minutes, and that it was neither able nor inclined to pursue them, supporting his opinion by walking before the captain till the latter should be ready to fire. they now found the snake a little removed from its former station, very quiet, with its head as before, lying out among the fallen leaves, rotten bark, and old moss. stedman fired at it immediately, but with no better success than at first; and the enraged animal, being but slightly wounded by the second shot, sent up such a cloud of dust and dirt as the captain had never seen, except in a whirlwind; and away they all again retreated to their canoe. tired of the exploit, stedman gave orders to row toward the barge; but the persevering david still entreating that _he_ might be permitted to kill the reptile, the captain determined to make a third and last attempt in his company; and they this time directed their fire with such effect that the snake was shot by one of them through the head. the vanquished monster was then secured by a running-noose passed over its head, not without some difficulty, however; for, though it was mortally wounded, it continued to writhe and twist about so as to render a near approach dangerous. the serpent was dragged to the shore, and made fast to the canoe, in order that it might be towed to the vessel, and continued swimming like an eel till the party arrived on board, where it was finally determined that the snake should be again taken on shore, and there skinned for the sake of its oil. this was accordingly done; and david having climbed a tree with the end of a rope in his hand, let it down over a strong-forked bough, the other negroes hoisted away, and the serpent was suspended from the tree. then, david quitting the tree, with a sharp knife between his teeth, clung fast upon the suspended snake, still twisting and twining, and proceeded to perform the same operation that marsyas underwent, only that david commenced his work by ripping the subject up: he then stripped down the skin as he descended. stedman acknowledges, that though he perceived that the snake was no longer able to do the operator any harm, he could not, without emotion, see a naked man, black and bloody, clinging with arms and legs round the slimy and yet living monster. the skin and above four gallons of clarified fat, or rather oil, were the spoils secured on this occasion; full as many gallons more seem to have been wasted. the negroes cut the flesh into pieces, intending to feast on it; but the captain would not permit them to eat what he regarded as disgusting food, though they declared that it was exceedingly good and wholesome. the negroes were right, and the captain was wrong: the flesh of most serpents is very good and nourishing, to say nothing of the restorative qualities attributed to it. one of the most curious accounts of the benefit derived by man from the serpent race, is related by kircher (see _mus. worm._), where it is stated that near the village of sassa, about eight miles from the city of bracciano, in italy, there is a hole, or cavern, called _la grotto, delli serpi_, which is large enough to contain two men, and is all perforated with small holes like a sieve. from these holes, in the beginning of spring, issue a prodigious number of small, different-colored serpents, of which every year produces a new brood, but which seem to have no poisonous quality. such persons as are afflicted with scurvy, leprosy, palsy, gout, and other ills to which flesh is heir, were laid down naked in the cavern, and their bodies being subjected to a copious sweat from the heat of the subterraneous vapors, the young serpents were said to fasten themselves on every part, and extract by sucking every diseased or vitiated humor; so that after some repetitions of this treatment, the patients were restored to perfect health. kircher, who visited this cave, found it warm, and answering, in every way, the description he had of it. he saw the holes, heard a murmuring, hissing noise in them, and, though he owns that he missed seeing the serpents, it not being the season of their creeping out, yet he saw great numbers of their exuviæ, or sloughs, and an elm growing hard by laden with them. the discovery of this air schlangenbad, was said to have been made by a leper going from rome to some baths near this place, who, fortunately, losing his way, and being benighted, turned into this cave. finding it very warm, and being very weary, he pulled off his clothes, and fell into such a deep sleep that he did not feel the serpents about him till they had wrought his cure. such instances of good-will toward man, combined with the periodical renovation of youthful appearance, by a change of the whole external skin, and the character of the serpent for wisdom, contributed, doubtless, to raise the form to a place among the deities. their aptitude for tameness was another quality which aided their elevation. the little girl mentioned by maria edgeworth, of blessed memory, took out her little porringer daily to share her breakfast with a friendly snake that came from its hiding-place to her call; and when the guest intruded beyond the due limits, she would give it a tap on the head with her spoon, and the admonition, "eat on your own side, i say." a lad whom i knew kept a common snake in london, which he had rendered so tame that it was quite at ease with him, and very fond of its master. when taken out of its box, it would creep up his sleeve, come out at the top, wind itself caressingly about his neck and face, and when tired retire to sleep in his bosom. carver, in his travels, relates an instance of docility, which, if true, surpasses any story of the kind i ever heard. "an indian belonging to the menomonie, having taken a rattlesnake, found means to tame it; and when he had done this treated it as a deity, calling it his great father, and carrying it with him in a box wherever he went. this he had done for several summers, when mons. pinnisance accidentally met with him at this carrying place, just as he was setting off for a winter's hunt. the french gentleman was surprised one day to see the indian place the box which contained his god on the ground, and opening the door, give him his liberty; telling him, while he did it, to be sure and return by the time he himself should come back, which was to be in the month of may following. as this was but october, monsieur told the indian, whose simplicity astonished him, that he fancied he might wait long enough, when may arrived, for the arrival of his great father. the indian was so confident of his creature's obedience, that he offered to lay the frenchman a wager of two gallons of rum, that at the time appointed he would come and crawl into his box. this was agreed on, and the second week in may following fixed for the determination of the wager. at that period they both met there again, when the indian set down his box, and called for his great father. the snake heard him not; and the time being now expired, he acknowledged that he had lost. however, without seeming to be discouraged, he offered to double the bet if his father came not within two days more. this was further agreed on; when, behold, on the second day, about one o'clock the snake arrived, and of his own accord crawled into the box, which was placed ready for him. the french gentleman vouched for the truth of this story, and from the accounts i have often received of the docility of those creatures, i see no reason to doubt its veracity." the watcher.--a sketch from real life. in a dark room, in a ruined and wretched house, in one of the most filthy districts of a great city, a mother sat watching her sleeping babe. the infant was lying on a hard pallet on the floor, and the mother was sitting beside it on a broken chair, plying her needle with eager haste, and occasionally pausing to look down at her babe or to kiss it as it lay asleep. the child was pale and sickly, and in the close offensive air of the room it seemed to breathe painfully and to inhale, with every pulse of its tender heart, the insidious principles of death and dissolution. but not less pale and wan was the mother, who sat there watching; her features wore that blanched, unearthly hue, and that strange upward light was playing in her eyes, which spoke but too plainly that death was breathing on her. the room was lonely--very lonely--for there were no pictures to adorn its walls, scarcely any articles of common domestic use within it; it was bare, almost unfurnished, dismal, and cold. the mother was engaged in making shirts, and the price which she received for them averaged two-pence-halfpenny each; and it is said that by extraordinary exertions, for twenty hours out of twenty-four, the sum of three shillings may be earned weekly at such labor. well, the pale, care-worn, suffering mother continued to stitch, stitch, anxiously from hour to hour, leaving off now and then to take her dying baby in her arms and to press it fondly to her breast, until the tide of her heart's affection came stealing forth in tears; and recollecting that the next meal for herself and child must be earned by the continued labor of her jaded hands, she placed the infant on its bed, and again resumed her work. thus many hours had passed in a silence broken only by the low moaning of the child, as it turned to and fro in the feeble expression of long-continued anguish, and the deep sighs of the mother as she gazed anxiously upon its fevered face, and saw the stamp of want and misery there in an expression akin to the imbecility of years. at length the babe awoke, and the mother took it tenderly into her arms; she pressed it to her breast and kissed the cold dew from its forehead. and now she began to prepare her humble meal, she placed a few sticks of wood in the stove and lighted them, and placed an old broken kettle half filled with water upon them; and then arranged two cups and saucers on a small tray, and took a portion of a loaf from a shelf above. while waiting for the water to boil she gave her child some food; and she had scarcely begun to do this when a heavy and unsteady step was heard upon the threshold; her heart leaped with fear, and she trembled like a moonlight shadow. a creature somewhat in the semblance of a man staggered into the room, and threw himself down upon the pallet where the child had just been sleeping. "charles, charles, do not, for god's sake, treat me thus," said the mother of the child, and she sobbed loudly, and was steeped in tears. the man scowled upon her from beneath the broken brim of a slouched hat, and in a low fiendish growl, cursed her. his clothes had been respectable in their time, but now were tattered and slovenly, and his face wore the savage wildness and vacancy of long-continued dissipation. "i came home to ask you for money, so give me what you've got, and let me go, for i haven't done drinking yet," said he, while the devil-like glare of his eyes seemed to pierce the poor mother to the soul. "i spent my last penny to buy my child some food, i know not where to get another; you have never wanted a meal while i could work, and my poor fingers are wasted to the bone by midnight labor and the want of bread, and my poor child is wasting away before my face, while you, forgetting all the ties that bind a father to his offspring, or a husband to his wife, take the very bread from me and my babe, to waste it in drunkenness; oh, charles, you loved me once, but you are killing me now, and my poor dear child." "you howling, canting hypocrite, give me some money and let me go," bawled the intoxicated brute, and with a sweep of his hand, as he sat upon the child's bed, he overturned the table and scattered the miserable meal upon the floor. the heart-broken wife rushed with her babe to the opposite end of the room, and cowered down in fear. "do you hear, or do you want me to murder you?" and he rose from where he sat and reeled toward her; shrinking and shivering as she bent over her babe, she pressed its almost lifeless body to her heart, and when he stood above her, she looked up in his face in the agony of despair, and implored, in the mute utterance of her tear-worn eyes, for mercy. but he did not strike her, although she was indeed well used to that, but he put out his hand and taking from her bosom a locket, which had been a dear sister's gift, and the last thing left her but her babe and death, staggered to the door, and, after looking back with a menacing and brutal expression of his savage features, left her. although he was gone she moved not, but sat wailing like a dove whose nest has been bereft of that which made life dear, and sobbing loudly in her grief she looked upon her child, and saw the tokens of pain and want upon its meagre face, and could feel the throbbing of its little heart becoming more and more feeble, from hour to hour, as the shadow of its life was waning. and night came, and she laid her child down to rest, and again sat working and watching. she kissed it when its low cry startled her in the midnight silence, and hushed it again to sleep, for it wanted food and that she had not. the morning came, but it was still night to her, and the darkness of her woe sat hovering over her frail soul like the shadow of a great but silent misery. she hurried on in the delirium of extreme weakness that she might complete the wretched work she had, and get food for her famished child. intense suffering, long watching, hunger, cold, and cruelty had blanched a cheek which had been more fair than snow, and had carved wrinkles, like those of age, upon a youthful brow; death hovered over her like a ghastly shadow, not to her--as to those in comfort--terrible, but welcome. and thus from hour to hour, and from day to day, that mother labored for her lonely child, while he, whose heart should have beat with the devotion of love for her whom he had sworn to cherish, and whose hand should have been ever ready to defend her, deeming nothing too severe, nothing too difficult, which could bring food and comfort to a woman's constant heart, came only to rob her of her last morsel, and to add fresh agonies to her almost withered soul by imprecations and curses. one morning, after she had been toiling long in cold and hunger, she became too weak to labor more, and nature faltered. she stooped to kiss her babe and to ask a blessing on its head from him whose benedictions come even to the sorrowful and needy, and as she bent down above its little shadowy form, her sorrows overwhelmed her, and she fell down beside her child and fainted. with none to aid and soothe her--with none to nourish her in her distress of heart, and no kind hand to minister to the poor watcher in that hour of affliction, she lay in that sweet peace which comes to the aching heart when it can for a time forget its sorrows; and better too, perhaps, for her, for her babe was dying, and in the unconsciousness of temporary death, she knew it not. she awoke at last, for even the forgetfulness so dear to the wounded spirit will have an end, and the grim bitter realities become palpable once more; and as consciousness returned she was startled from her partial dream by the icy chill which fell upon her when she touched her child. she shrieked wildly, and fell upon her face in the maddening agony of despair, "my child, my child, oh, my child!" she cried, and tore her hair in frenzy. now she became more calm, and turned round to look upon the babe, whose soul had passed into that better sleep from which there is no waking. she kissed its cold wasted form, and bathed its little marble face with her scalding tears. "oh, my child," she sobbed, "my poor child, murdered by its father's hand, the victim of his cruelty; oh, father of all, father of the wicked and good, take my poor babe to thy fostering bosom, and let me die too, for my last hope is gone, the last link of my heart's affection is broken; father of mercies, listen to the supplications of a childless mother!" that step! and the blood goes back to her heart like an icy flood, and every pulse is withered, as with a bleak and desolating frost; she holds her breath, and with her dead child in her arms, crouches down in the corner on the floor, and in the silence of despair and terror asks her god to bless and protect her, and to soften his heart in such an awful moment as this. he came to the threshold of the room, and fell prostrate on the floor as he attempted to approach her; he was too much intoxicated to rise, and there he lay muttering, in broken and inarticulate words, the most horrible oaths and imprecations. the mother spake not, for although, even then she could have prayed for him in her heart, and bless him with her tongue; ay, and still labor for him with her hands, if by such she could win back the old love which had made her youthful hours glad, and which had spread the rosy atmosphere of hope before her; but which was now a thing of silent memory, of sadness, and of tears. thus passed away the morning, and at noon the drunkard arose from where he lay, and again demanded what money she had; she gave him a few halfpence from her pocket, and he snatched them from her and departed. to know that he had gone to procure the poison on which he fed, with this last remnant of the midnight toil, and when his child lay dead within its mother's arms; to know that for the veriest morsel she must toil again, sleepless and famished, and with the withered blossom of her heart's broken hope beside her; to know that the last office of affection, the burial of the child, must be performed by those who cared for neither her nor it, and who would desecrate, by the vile touch of parochial charity, that which had been more dear to her than her own life; to know that all her joys were wasted now, and that she still lived to hear him curse her in the very place where death had so lately been; and that although she sat before him with the sleeping infant in her arms, while he was too brutalized by drink to know that that sleep was one from which it would never more awake, and that her own terror made her speechless when she would have told him; all this was a torrent of sorrow, before whose overbearing force her wintered heart gave way, and she sank down upon the floor, with her dead babe in her arms, senseless. sleep came upon her like a poppy spell, and wafted her silent, soul to sweeter worlds. far away from her cold and solitary room, far away from hunger, wretchedness, and tears; far away from the keen tortures of maternal sorrow and the despair of withered love, her spirit wandered in that peaceful dream. from earth, as from a wilderness of ashes, her willing spirit went upon its upward flight, ascending and ascending. it neared the blue and shining arch above, and clapped its wings for joy, and felt within it the renovated bliss of innocent and unchanging beauty. it felt the calming influence of soft music swelling around it like sunbright waves upon a summer sea; it saw sweet spots and green peaceful valleys lying in the rosy light of heaven, as clouds at evening lie folded up in sleep. on and on her spirit went in calm and holy majesty, amid the shadowy beauty of that pleasant land. it seemed to bathe in bliss amid bright galaxies of living and rejoicing worlds, and to embrace happiness as its long-sought boon. through flowery pastures, and falling waters, perfumed gardens, and star-lighted solitudes where the soul of music dwelt and lived amid the sweet echoes of her seraph songs, that mother's new-born soul wandered in its freedom, forgetting all the pangs and tears it had so lately known. now it passed floating islands of glittering beauty where troops of cherubim were worshiping their god; and from the midst of a soft bed of twilight flowers arose an angel host of babes, soaring in their wantonness of joy to higher regions of the azure air, and singing their simple songs in harmony together. from all the gleaming lights afar came dulcet harpings of angelic wings, and all things in that sweet dream-land of beauty told of the joy which falls upon the virtuous soul. the spirit of the mother, dazzled and amazed till now, awoke from its trance of wonder, and cried aloud "my child, my child, and my husband, where, where are they?" and she sank upon a gleaming bed of purpled blooms, and from the odorous sighing of the lute-toned air the voice of her child came gladly in reply. and now a joyous troop of star-light seraphs sailed toward her, like a snowy cloud, and in the midst she sees her darling babe, clapping its little hands in laughing glee, and overjoyed once more to meet her. oh, what bliss is like the feeling of a mother, when her trusting heart is gladdened by the return of a child whom she deemed was lost; and if such joy awake within the soul amid all the harsh realities of earth, how much more so in the spirit's home, where nothing but the peaceful thought can live, and all earth's grief is banished? it was her own babe, the bud of hope she nursed and tended in the dark winter of her earthly sorrow, now wearing the same smile which gladdened her amid the gloom, but holier, fairer, and freed from all the traces of want and suffering. the spirits of the mother and the babe embraced each other in the wild joy of this happy meeting, and the mother's spirit knelt before the heaven-built temple of light which arched above, and offered the incense of its prayers for him whose wickedness of heart had steeped her earthly days in bitterness; but who was yet to her the token of a youthful hope, and the living memory of a trusting love. her earnest spirit, in the gush of its awakened affection for the child of her bosom, called upon its god to have mercy upon him, and to snatch his soul from the blackness of its guilt and the impending terrors of destruction. and the prayer went upward, and the angels sung. * * * * * the drunkard staggered to the wretched home, and reeling into the silent room gazed upon the wife and child. they spoke not, moved not; he stooped to touch, but recoiled in horror, for both of them were dead. the mother, in her sweet dream, had glided into the blissful evening land, and he, the destroyer of a wife and child, now felt in all the piercing agony of sin and shame, the scorpion stings of conscience. he fell upon his knees and prayed for mercy! his withering soul seemed struggling within him, and he gasped for breath. he had wandered into wicked paths, he had blighted a gentle heart by cruelty and neglect, he had wasted his own child's meal in drunkenness and villainy, while it lay on its mother's breast perishing for want of food. he felt all the terrors of remorse, and hell seemed gaping beneath him! he arose and wept, and the first tear he shed was carried by invisible hands upward to that world of peace, as a sacrifice of penitence to the kneeling spirit of a mother. he wandered away in silence, and where he went were the falling tears which spoke, in accents eloquent and true, the silent utterance of a repentant heart. plate glass--what it is, and how it is made. two other gentlemen occupied the railway carriage, which, on a gusty day in december, was conveying us toward gravesend, _via_ blackwall. one wore spectacles, by the aid of which he was perusing a small pocket edition of his favorite author. no sound escaped his lips; yet, his under-jaw and his disengaged hand moved with the solemn regularity of an orator emitting periods of tremendous euphony. presently, his delight exploded in a loud shutting up of the book and an enthusiastic appeal to us in favor of the writings of dr. samuel johnson. "what, for example, can be finer, gentlemen, than his account of the origin of glass-making; in which, being a drysalter, i take a particular interest. let me read the passage to you!" "but the noise of the train--" "sir, i can drown that." the tone in which the johnsonian "sir" was let off, left no doubt of it. though a small man, the reader was what his favorite writer would have denominated a stentor, and what the modern school would call a stunner. when he re-opened the book and began to read, the words smote the ear as if they had been shot out of the mouth of a cannon. to give additional effect to the rounded periods of his author, he waved his arm in the air at each turn of a sentence, as if it had been a circular saw. "who," he recited, "when he saw the first sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness of heat, melted into a metalline form, rugged with excrescences, and clouded with impurities, would have imagined, that in this shapeless lump lay concealed so many conveniences of life, as would in time constitute a great part of the happiness of the world? yet by some such fortuitous liquefaction was mankind taught to procure a body at once in a high degree solid and transparent, which might admit the light of the sun, and exclude the violence of the wind: which might extend the light of the philosopher to new ranges of existence, and charm him at one time with the unbounded extent of the material creation, and at another with the endless subordination of animal life; and, what is yet of more importance, might supply the decays of nature, and succor old age with subsidiary sight. thus was the first artificer in glass employed, though without his own knowledge or expectation. he was facilitating and prolonging the enjoyment of light, enlarging the avenues of science, and conferring the highest and most lasting pleasures; he was enabling the student to contemplate nature, and the beauty to behold herself. this passion for--" "blackwall, gents! blackwall, ladies! boat for gravesend!" we should, unquestionably, have been favored with the rest of the ninth number of the "rambler" (in which the fore-going passage occurs) but for these announcements. "there is one thing, however," said the little man with the loud voice, as we walked from the platform to the pier, "which i can _not_ understand. what does the illustrious essayist mean by the 'fortuitous liquefaction' of the sand and ashes. was glass found out by accident?" luckily, a ray of school-day classics enlightened a corner of our memory, and we mentioned the well-known story, in pliny, that some phoenician merchants, carrying saltpetre to the mouth of the river belus, went ashore; and, placing some lumps of the cargo under their kettles to cook food, the heat of the fire fused the nitre, which ran among the sand of the shore. the cooks finding this union to produce a translucent substance, discovered the art of making glass. "that," said our other companion, holding his hat to prevent the wind from blowing it aboard the gravesend steamer (which was not to start for ten minutes), "has been the stock tale of all writers on the subject, from pliny down to ure; but, sir gardiner wilkinson has put it out of the power of future authors to repeat it. that indefatigable haunter of egyptian tombs discovered minute representations of glass-blowing, painted on tombs of the time of orsirtasin the first, some sixteen hundred years before the date of pliny's story. indeed, a glass bead, bearing the name of a king who lived fifteen hundred years before christ, was found in another tomb by captain henvey, the specific gravity of which is precisely that of english crown-glass." "you seem to know all about it!" exclaimed the loud-voiced man. "being a director of a plate-glass company i have made it my business to learn all that books could teach me on the subject." "i should like to see glass made," said the vociferous admirer of dr. johnson, "especially plate-glass." to this, the other replied, with ready politeness, "if your wish be very strong, and you have an hour to spare, i shall be happy to show you the works to which i am going--those of the thames plate glass company. they are close by." "the fact is," was the reply, "mrs. bossle (i'm sorry to say mrs. bossle is an invalid) expects me down to gravesend to tea; but an hour won't matter much." "and you, sir?" said the civil gentleman, addressing me. my desire was equally strong, and the next hour equally my own; for, as the friend, whom a negligent public had driven to emigration, was not to sail until the next morning, it did not much matter whether i took my last farewell of him at gravesend early or late that evening. tracking our guide through dock gates, over narrow drawbridges, along quays; now, dodging the rigging of ships; now, tripping over cables, made "taut" to rings; now falling foul of warping-posts (for it was getting dusk); one minute, leaping over deserted timber; the next, doubling stray casks; the next, winding among the strangest ruins of dismantled steamboats, for which a regular hospital seemed established in that region of mud and water; then, emerging into dirty lanes, and turning the corners of roofless houses; we finished an exciting game of follow-my-leader, at a pair of tall gates. one of these admitted us into the precincts of the southernmost of the six manufactories of plate glass existing in this country. the first ingredient in making glass, to which we were introduced, was contained in a goodly row of barrels in full tap, marked with the esteemed brand of "truman, hanbury, buxton, and co." it is the well-known fermented extract of malt and hops, which is, it seems, nearly as necessary to the production of good plate glass, as flint and soda. to liquefy the latter materials by means of fire is, in truth, dry work; and our _cicerone_ explained, that seven pints per day, per man, of messrs. truman, hanbury, buxton, and company's entire, has been found, after years of thirsty experience, to be absolutely necessary to moisten human clay, hourly baked at the mouths of blazing furnaces. these furnaces emit a heat more intense than the most perspiring imagination can conceive, or the stanchest thermometer indicate. an attempt to ascertain the degree of heat was once made: a pyrometer (a thermometer of the superlative degree, or "fire-measurer"), was applied to the throat of a furnace--for every furnace has its mouth, its throat, and its flaming tongues; but the wretched instrument, after five minutes' scorching, made an expiring effort to mark _thirteen hundred degrees above boiling point_, cracked, was shivered into bits, and was finally swallowed up by the insatiable element whose proceedings it had presumptuously attempted to register. having, by this time, crossed a yard, we stood on the edge of a foul creek of the thames, so horribly slimy, that a crocodile or an alligator, or any scaly monster of the saurian period, seemed much more likely to be encountered in such a neighborhood than the beautiful substance that makes our modern rooms so glittering and bright; our streets so dazzling, and our windows at once so radiant and so strong. "in order to understand our process thoroughly," said the obliging director of the seven acres of factory and the four hundred operatives we had come to see, "we must begin with the beginning. this," picking up from a heap a handful of the finest of fine sand--the glittering pounce, in fact, with which our forefathers spangled their writing--"is the basis of all glass. it is the whitest, most highly pulverized flint sand that can be procured. this comes from lynn, on the coast of norfolk. its mixture with the other materials is a secret, even to us. we give the man who possesses it a handsome salary for exercising his mystery." "a secret!" cried mr. bossle. "every body, i thought, knew--at least every body in the drysaltery line understands--what glass is made of. why, i can repeat the recipe given by dr. ure, from memory: to every hundred parts of materials, there are of pure sand forty-three parts; soda twenty-five and a half (by-the-by, we have some capital carbonate coming forward _ex_ mary anne, that we could let you have at a low figure); quick-lime, four; nitre, one and a half; broken glass, twenty-six. the doctor calculates, if i remember rightly, that of the whole, thirty parts of this compound run to waste in fusing so that seventy per cent. becomes, on an average, glass." "that is all very true," was the answer; "but our glass is, we flatter ourselves, of a much better color, and stands annealing better, than that made from the ordinary admixture: from which, however, ours differs but little--only, i think, in the relative quantities. in that lies the secret." mr. bossle expressed great anxiety to behold an individual who was possessed of a secret worth several hundreds a year, paid weekly. romance invariably associates itself with mystery; and we are not quite sure from the awful way in which mr. bossle dropped his voice to a soft whisper, that he did not expect, on entering the chamber of pre-vitrified chemicals, to find an individual clothed like the hermit in "rasselas," or mingling his "elements" with the wand of hermes trismegistus. he looked as if he could hardly believe his spectacles, when he saw a plain, respectable-looking, indifferent-tempered man, not a whit more awe-inspiring--or more dusty--than a miller on a market-day. we do not insinuate that mr. bossle endeavored to "pluck out the heart of the mystery," though nothing seemed to escape the focus of his spectacles. but, although here lay, in separate heaps, the sand and soda and saltpetre and lime and _cullet_, or broken glass; while there, in a huge trough, those ingredients were mixed up (like "broken" in a confectioner's shop) ready to be pushed through a trap to fill the crucible or stomach of the furnace; yet, despite mr. bossle's sly investigations, and sonorous inquiries, he left the hall of "elements" as wise as he had entered. passing through a variety of places in which the trituration, purification, and cleaning of the materials were going on, we mounted to an upper story that reminded us of the yard in which the cunning captain of the forty thieves, when he was disguised as an oil merchant, stored his pretended merchandise. it was filled with rows and rows of great clay jars, something like barrels with their heads knocked out. each had, instead of a hoop, an indented band round the middle, for the insertion of the iron gear by which they were, in due time, to be lifted into and out of the raging furnaces. there were two sizes; one about four feet deep, and three feet six inches in diameter, technically called "pots," and destined to receive the materials for their first sweltering. the smaller vessels (_cuvettes_) were of the same shape, but only two feet six inches deep, and two feet in diameter. these were the crucibles in which the vitreous compound was to be fired a second time, ready for casting. these vessels are _built_--for that is really the process; and it requires a twelvemonth to build one, so gradually must it settle and harden, and so slowly must it be pieced together, or the furnace would immediately destroy it--of stourbridge clay, which is the purest and least silicious yet discovered. "we have now," said mr. bossle, wiping his spectacles, and gathering himself up for a loud johnsonian period, "seen the raw materials ready to be submitted to the action of the fire, and we have also beheld the vessels in which the vitrification is to take place. let us therefore witness the actual liquefaction." in obedience to this grandiloquent wish, we were shown into the hall of furnaces. it was a sight indeed. a lofty and enormous hall, with windows in the high walls open to the rainy night. down the centre, a fearful row of roaring furnaces, white-hot: to look at which, even through the chinks in the iron screens before them, and masked, seemed to scorch and splinter the very breath within one. at right angles with this hall, another, an immense building in itself, with unearthly-looking instruments hanging on the walls, and strewn about, as if for some diabolical cookery. in dark corners, where the furnaces redly glimmered on them, from time to time, knots of swarthy muscular men, with nets drawn over their faces, or hanging from their hats: confusedly grouped, wildly dressed, scarcely heard to mutter amid the roaring of the fires, and mysteriously coming and going, like picturesque shadows, cast by the terrific glare. such figures there must have been, once upon a time, in some such scene, ministering to the worship of fire, and feeding the altars of the cruel god with victims. figures not dissimilar, alas! there have been, torturing and burning, even in our saviour's name. but, happily those bitter days are gone. the senseless world is tortured for the good of man, and made to take new forms in his service. upon the rack, we stretch the ores and metals of the earth, and not the image of the creator of all. these fires and figures are the agents of civilization, and not of deadly persecution and black murder. burn fires and welcome! making a light in england that shall not be quenched by all the monkish dreamers in the world! we were aroused by a sensation like the sudden application of a hot mask to the countenance. as we instinctively placed a hand over our face to ascertain how much of the skin was peeling off, our cool informant announced that the furnace over against us had been opened to perform the _tréjetage_, or ladling of the liquid _pot à feu_ from the large pots into the smaller ones. "i must premise," he said, "that one-third of the raw materials, as put together by our secret friend, are first thrown in; and when that is melted, one-third more; on that being fused, the last third is added. the mouth of the furnace is then closed, and an enormous heat kept up by the _tiseur_ or stoker (all our terms are taken from the french), during sixteen hours. that time having now elapsed, in the case of the flaming pot before you, the furnace is opened. the man with the long ladle thrusts it, you perceive, into the pot, takes out a ladleful, and, by the assistance of two companions, throws the vitrified dough upon an iron anvil. the other two men turn it over and over, spread it upon the inverted flat-iron, and twitch out, with pliers, any speck or impurity; it is tossed again into the ladle, and thrown into a cuvette in another furnace. when the cuvettes are full, that furnace is stopped up to maintain a roaring heat for another eight hours; and, in the language of the men, 'the ceremony is performed.'" at this moment, the noise burst forth from the middle of the enormous shed, of several beats of a gong: so loud, that they even drowned the thundering inquiries with which mr. bossle was teasing one of the "teasers." in an instant the men hastened to a focus, like giants in a christmas pantomime about to perform some wonderful conjuration; and not a whisper was heard. "aha!" exclaimed the director, "they are going to cast. this way, gentlemen!" the kitchen in which the ogre threatened to cook jack and his seven brothers could not have been half so formidable an apartment as the enormous cuisine into which we were led. one end was occupied with a row of awful ovens; in the midst, stood a stupendous iron table; and upon it lay a rolling-pin, so big, that it could only be likened to half-a-dozen garden-rollers joined together at their ends. above, was an iron crane or gallows to lift the enormous messes of red-hot gruel, thick and slab, which were now to be brought from the furnaces. "stand clear!" a huge basin, white with heat, approaches, on a sort of iron hurley; at one end of which sits, triumphant, a salamander, in human form, to balance the plutonian mass, as it approaches on its wheeled car--playing with it--a game of see-saw. it stops at the foot of the iron gallows. mr. bossle approaches to see what it is, and discovers it to be a cuvette filled with molten glass, glowing from the fiery furnace. what is that man doing with a glazed mask before his face? "why, if you will believe me," exclaims mr. bossle, in the tones of a speaking-trumpet (we are at a prudent distance), "he is ladling off the scum, as composedly as if it were turtle-soup!" mr. bossle grows bold, and ventures a little nearer. rash man! his nose is assuredly scorched; he darts back, and takes off his spectacles, to ascertain how much of the frames are melted. the dreadful pot is lifted by the crane. it is poised immediately over the table; a workman tilts it; and out pours a cataract of molten opal which spreads itself, deliberately, like infernal sweet-stuff, over the iron table; which is spilled and slopped about, in a crowd of men, and touches nobody. "and has touched nobody since last year, when one poor fellow got the large shoes he wore, filled with white-hot glass." then the great rolling-pin begins to "roll it out." but, those two men, narrowly inspecting every inch of the red hot sheet as the roller approaches it--is their skin salamandrine? are their eyes fire-proof? "they are looking," we are told, "for any accidental impurity that may be still intruding in the vitrifaction, and, if they can tear it out with their long pincers before the roller has passed over it, they are rewarded. from the shape these specks assume in being torn away, they are called 'tears.'" when the roller has passed over the table, it leaves a sheet of red-hot glass, measuring some twelve feet by seven. this translucent confection is pushed upon a flat wooden platform on wheels--sparkling, as it touches the wood, like innumerable diamonds--and is then run rapidly to an oven, there to be baked or annealed. the bed or "sole" of this _carquèse_ is heated to a temperature exactly equal to that of the glass; which is now so much cooled that you can stand within a yard or so of it without fear of scorching off your eyelashes. the pot out of the furnace is cooled, too, out in the rain, and lies there, burst into a hundred pieces. it has been a good one: for it has withstood the fire seventy days. so rapidly are all these casting operations performed, that, from the moment when mr. bossle thought his spectacles were melting off his nose, to the moment when the sheet of glass is shut up in the oven, about five minutes have elapsed. the operations are repeated, until the oven is full of glass-plates. when eight plates are put into the _carquèse_, it is closed up hermetically; for the tiniest current of cold air would crack the glass. the fire is allowed to go out of its own accord, and the cooling takes place so gradually, that it is not completed until eight days are over. when drawn forth, the glass is that "rough plate" which we see let into the doors of railway stations, and forming half-transparent floors in manufactories. to make it completely transparent for windows and looking-glasses, elaborate processes of grinding and polishing are requisite. they are three in number: roughing down, smoothing, and polishing. "i perceive," said mr. bossle, when he got to the roughing-down room, where steam machinery was violently agitating numerous plates of glass, one upon the other, "that the diamond-cut-diamond principle is adopted." "exactly; the under-plate is fastened to a table by plaster-of-paris, and the upper one--quite rough--is violently rubbed by machinery upon it, with water, sand, and other grinding-powders between. the top-plate is then fastened to a table, to rough down another first plate; for the under one is always the smoother." then comes the "smoothing." emery, of graduated degrees of fineness, is used for that purpose. "until within the last month or so, smoothing could only be done by human labor. the human hand alone was capable of the requisite tenacity, to rub the slippery surfaces over each other; nay, so fine a sense of touch was requisite, that even a man's hand had scarcely sensitiveness enough for the work; hence females were, and still are employed." as our pains-taking informant spoke, he pushed open a door, and we beheld a sight that made mr. bossle wipe his spectacles, and ourselves imagine for a moment that a scene from an oriental story-book was magically revealed to us; so elegant and graceful were the attitudes into which a bevy of some fifty females--many of them of fine forms and handsome features--were unceasingly throwing themselves. now, with arms extended, they pushed the plates to one verge of the low tables, stretching their bodies as far as possible; then, drawing back, they stood erect, pulling the plate after them; then, in order to reach the opposite edge of the plane, they stretched themselves out again to an almost horizontal posture. the easy beauty of their movements, the glitter of the glass, the brilliancy of the gas-lights, the bright colors of most of the dresses, formed a _coup d'oeil_ which mr. bossle enjoyed a great deal more than mrs. bossle, had she been there, might have quite approved. the fairy scene is soon, however, to disappear. mr. blake the ingenious manager of the works, has invented an artificial female hand, by means of which, in combination with peculiar machinery, glass smoothing can be done by steam. the last process is "polishing." this art is practiced in a spacious room glowing with red. every corner of the busy interior is as rubicund as a dutch dairy. the floor is red, the walls are red, the ceiling is red, the pillars are red. the machinery is very red. red glass is attached, by red plaster of paris, to red movable tables; red rubbers of red felt, heavily weighted with red leads, are driven rapidly over the red surface. little red boys, redder than the reddest of red indians, are continually sprinkling on the reddened glass, the rouge (moistened crocus, peroxyde of iron), which converts the scene of their operations into the most gigantic of known rubrics. when polished, the glass is taken away to be "examined." a body of vigilant scrutineers place each sheet between their own eyes and a strong light: wherever a scratch or flaw appears, they make a mark with a piece of wax. if removable, these flaws are polished out by hand. the glass is then ready for the operation which enables "the beauty to behold herself." the spreading of the quicksilver at the back is, however, a separate process, accomplished elsewhere, and performed by a perfectly distinct body of workmen. it is a very simple art. the manufacture of plate-glass adds another to the thousand and one instances of the advantages of unrestricted and unfettered trade. the great demand occasioned by the immediate fall in price consequent upon the new tariff, produced this effect on the thames plate glass works. they now manufacture as much plate-glass per week as was turned out in the days of the excise, in the same time, by all the works in the country put together. the excise incubi clogged the operations of the workmen, and prevented every sort of improvement in the manufacture. they put their gauges into the "metal" (or mixed materials) before it was put into the pot. they overhauled the paste when it was taken out of the fire, and they applied their foot-rules to the sheets after the glass was annealed. the duty was collected during the various stages of manufacture half-a-dozen times, and amounted to three hundred per cent. no improvement was according to law, and the exciseman put his veto upon every attempt of the sort. in the old time, the mysterious mixer could not have exercised his secret vocation for the benefit of his employers, and the demand for glass was so small that mr. blake's admirable polishing machine would never have been invented. nor could plate-glass ever have been used for transparent flooring, or for door panels, or for a hundred other purposes, to which it is now advantageously and ornamentally applied. thanking the courteous gentlemen who had shown us over the works, we left mr. bossle in close consultation with the manager. as, in crossing the yard, we heard the word "soda!" frequently thundered forth, we concluded that the johnsonian drysalter was endeavoring to complete some transactions in that commodity, which he had previously opened with the director. but, it is not in our power to report decisively on this head, for our attention was directed to two concluding objects. first, to a row of workmen--the same we had lately seen among the fires and liquid glass--good-humoredly sitting, with perfect composure, on a log of timber, out in the cold and wet, looking at the muddy creek, and drinking their beer, as if there were no such thing as temperature known. secondly, and lastly, to the narrow passages or caves underneath the furnaces, into which the glowing cinders drop through gratings. these looked, when we descended into them, like a long egyptian street on a dark night, with a fiery rain falling. in warm divergent chambers and crevices, the boys employed in the works love to hide and sleep, on cold nights. so slept de foe's hero, colonel jack, among the ashes of the glass-house where _he_ worked. and that, and the river together, made us think of robinson crusoe the whole way home, and wonder what all the english boys who have been since his time, and who are yet to be, would have done without him and his desert island. "births:--mrs. meek, of a son."--a plea for infants. my name is meek. i am, in fact, mr. meek. that son is mine and mrs. meek's. when i saw the announcement in the times, i dropped the paper. i had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble that it overpowered me. as soon as i could compose my feelings, i took the paper up to mrs. meek's bedside. "maria jane," said i (i allude to mrs. meek), "you are now a public character." we read the review of our child, several times, with feelings of the strongest emotion; and i sent the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office, for fifteen copies. no reduction was made on taking that quantity. it is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected. in fact, it had been expected, with comparative confidence, for some months. mrs. meek's mother, who resides with us--of the name of bigby--had made every preparation for its admission to our circle. i hope and believe i am a quiet man. i will go further. i _know_ i am a quiet man. my constitution is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and, in point of stature, i have been from infancy, small. i have the greatest respect for maria jane's mamma. she is a most remarkable woman. i honor maria jane's mamma. in my opinion she would storm a town, single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry it. i have never known her to yield any point whatever, to mortal man. she is calculated to terrify the stoutest heart. still--but i will not anticipate. the first intimation i had, of any preparations being in progress, on the part of maria jane's mamma, was one afternoon, several months ago. i came home earlier than usual from the office, and, proceeding into the dining-room, found an obstruction behind the door, which prevented it from opening freely. it was an obstruction of a soft nature. on looking in, i found it to be a female. the female in question stood in the corner behind the door, consuming sherry wine. from the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the apartment, i had no doubt she was consuming a second glassful. she wore a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure. the expression of her countenance was severe and discontented. the words to which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, "oh, git along with you, sir, if _you_ please; me and mrs. bigby don't want no male parties here!" that female was mrs. prodgit. i immediately withdrew, of course. i was rather hurt, but i made no remark. whether it was that i showed a lowness of spirits after dinner, in consequence of feeling that i seemed to intrude, i can not say. but, maria jane's mamma said to me on her retiring for the night, in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that completely subdued me, "george meek, mrs. prodgit is your wife's nurse!" i bear no ill-will toward mrs. prodgit. is it likely that i, writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate animosity toward a female, so essential to the welfare of maria jane? i am willing to admit that fate may have been to blame, and not mrs. prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling. we were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes exceedingly so. but, whenever the parlor door was opened, and "mrs. prodgit!" announced (and she was very often announced), misery ensued. i could not bear mrs. prodgit's look. i felt that i was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in mrs. prodgit's presence. between maria jane's mamma, and mrs. prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret understanding--a dark mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. i appeared to have done something that was evil. whenever mrs. prodgit called, after dinner, i retired to my dressing-room--where the temperature is very low, indeed, in the wintry time of the year--and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my rack of boots: a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an exhilarating object. the length of the councils that were held with mrs. prodgit, under these circumstances, i will not attempt to describe. i will merely remark, that mrs. prodgit always consumed sherry wine while the deliberations were in progress; that they always ended in maria jane's being in wretched spirits on the sofa; and that maria jane's mamma always received me, when i was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph that too plainly said, "_now_, george meek! you see my child, maria jane, a ruin, and i hope you are satisfied!" i pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when mrs. prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the ever-memorable midnight when i brought her to my unobtrusive home in a cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. i have no objection to mrs. prodgit (aided and abetted by mrs. bigby, who i never can forget is the parent of maria jane), taking entire possession of my unassuming establishment. in the recesses of my own breast, the thought may linger that a man in possession can not be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman mrs. prodgit: but, i ought to bear a good deal, and i hope i can, and do. huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but i can bear them without complaint. they may tell in the long run; i may be hustled about, from post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, i wish to avoid giving rise to words in the family. the voice of nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of augustus george, my infant son. it is for him that i wish to utter a few plaintive household words. i am not at all angry; i am mild--but miserable. i wish to know why, when my child, augustus george, was expected in our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately on his arrival, instead of a holy babe? i wish to know why haste was made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in every direction? i wish to be informed why light and air are excluded from augustus george, like poisons? why, i ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, with miniature sheets and blankets, that i can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down under the pink hood of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of his lineaments as his nose. was i expected to be the father of a french roll, that the brushes of all nations were laid in, to rasp augustus george? am i to be told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by nature to have rashes brought out upon it, by the premature and incessant use of those formidable little instruments? is my son a nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills? am i the parent of a muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to be crimped and small-plaited? or is my child composed of paper or of linen, that impressions of the finer getting-up art, practiced by the laundress, are to be printed off, all over his soft arms and legs, as i constantly observe them? the starch enters his soul; who can wonder that he cries? was augustus george intended to have limbs, or to be born a torso? i presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual practice. then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied up? am i to be told that there is any analogy between augustus george meek, and jack sheppard. analyze castor oil at any institution of chemistry that may be agreed upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to that natural provision which it is at once the pride and duty of maria jane to administer to augustus george! yet, i charge mrs. prodgit (aided and abetted by mrs. bigby) with systematically forcing castor oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of his birth. when that medicine, in its efficient action, causes internal disturbance to augustus george, i charge mrs. prodgit (aided and abetted by mrs. bigby) with insanely and inconsistently administering opium to allay the storm she has raised! what is the meaning of this? if the days of egyptian mummies are past, how dare mrs. prodgit require, for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that would carpet my humble roof? do i wonder that she requires it? no! this morning, within an hour, i beheld this agonizing sight. i beheld my son--augustus george--in mrs. prodgit's hands, and on mrs. prodgit's knee, being dressed. he was at the moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of nature; having nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the length of his usual outer garments. trailing from mrs. prodgit's lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage--i should say, of several yards in extent. in this, i saw mrs. prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him over and over, now presenting his unconscious face upward, now the back of his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and the bandage secured by a pin, which i have every reason to believe entered the body of my only child. in this tourniquet, he passes the present phase of his existence. can i know it, and smile! i fear i have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but i feel deeply. not for myself; for augustus george. i dare not interfere. will any one? will any publication? any doctor? any parent? any body? i do not complain that mrs. prodgit (aided and abetted by mrs. bigby) entirely alienates maria jane's affections from me, and interposes an impassable barrier between us. i do not complain of being made of no account. i do not want to be of any account. but augustus george is a production of nature (i can not think otherwise) and i claim that he should be treated with some remote reference to nature. in my opinion, mrs. prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a superstition. are all the faculty afraid of mrs. prodgit? if not, why don't they take her in hand and improve her? p.s. maria jane's mamma boasts of her own knowledge of the subject, and says she brought up seven children besides maria jane. but how do _i_ know that she might not have brought them up much better? maria jane herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous indigestion. besides which, i learn from the statistical tables that one child in five dies within the first year of its life; and one child in three within the fifth. that don't look as if we could never improve in these particulars, i think! p.p.s. augustus george is in convulsions. the farm-laborer.--the father. by harriet martineau. when george banks was nearly thirty years of age, he married. he had always been happy, except for one great drawback: and now he hoped to be happier than ever; and, indeed, he was. the drawback was that his father drank. banks had been brought up to expect a little property which should make life easy to him; but, while still a youth, he gave up all thought of any property but such as he might earn. he saw every thing going to ruin at home; and he and his sister, finding that their father was irreclaimable, resolved to go out and work for themselves, and for their mother while she lived. the sister went out to service, and banks became a farm-laborer. their father's pride was hurt at their sinking below the station they were born to; but they were obliged to disregard his anger when an honest maintenance was in question. there was a smaller drawback, by the way; banks was rather deaf, and he thought the deafness increased a little; but it was not enough to stand in the way of his employment as a laborer; he could hear the sermon in church; and betsy did not mind it, so he did not. he had a good master in old mr. wilkes, a large farmer in a southern county. mr. wilkes paid him _s._ a week all the year round, and £ for the harvest month. for some years banks laid by a good deal of money; so did betsy, who was a housemaid at mr. wilkes's. when they became engaged, they had between them £ laid by. banks took a cottage of three rooms, with nearly half a rood of garden-ground. they furnished their house really well, with substantial new furniture, and enough of it. in those days of high prices it made a great cut out of their money: but they agreed that they should never repent it. banks had the privilege of a run on the common for his cow, and of as much peat as he chose to cut and carry for fuel. he had seen the consequences of intemperance in his father's case, and he was a water-drinker. he seldom touched even beer, except at harvest-time, when his wife brewed for him, that they might keep clear of the public-house. during the whole of their lives to this day (and they are now old) they have never bought any thing whatever without having the money in their hands to pay for it. if they had not the money, they no more thought of having the article than if it had been at the north pole. they paid £ a year for their cottage, and the poor rate has always been from _s._ to _s._ a year. it was war-time when they married, in ; and the dread came across them now and then, of a recruiting party appearing, or of banks being drawn for the militia; but they hoped that the deafness would save them from this misfortune. and the fear was not for long: in , peace was proclaimed. it was a merry night--that when the great bonfire was lighted for the peace. mrs. banks could not go to see it, for she was in her second confinement at the time; but her husband came to her bedside and told her all about it. she had never seen him so gay. he was always cheerful and sweet-tempered; but he was of a grave cast of character, which the deafness had deepened into a constant thoughtfulness. this night, however, he was very talkative, telling her what good times were coming, now that bonaparte was put down; how every man might stay at home at his proper business, and there would be fewer beggars and lower poor rates, and every thing would go well, with god's blessing on a nation at peace. the next year there was war again; but, almost as soon as it was known that bonaparte had reappeared, the news came of the battle of waterloo, and there was an end of all apprehension of war. in eleven years they had eleven children. there was both joy and sorrow with those children. for seven years, the eldest, little polly, was nothing but joy to her parents. she was the prettiest little girl they had ever seen; and the neighbors thought so too. she was bright and merry, perfectly obedient, very clever, and so handy that she was a helpful little maid to her mother. when three infants died, one after another, her father found comfort in taking this child on his knees in the evenings, and getting her to prattle to him. her clear little merry voice came easily to his ear, when he could not hear older people without difficulty. the next child, tom, was a blessing in his way: he was a strong little fellow of six; and he went out with banks to the field, and really did some useful work--frightening the birds, leading the horses, picking sticks, weeding, running errands, and so on. but the charm at home was little polly. when polly was seven, however, a sad accident happened. she was taking care of the little ones before the door, during her mother's confinement, and one of the boys struck her on the top of the head with a saucepan. she fell, and when she was taken up she looked so strangely that the doctor was consulted about her. after watching her for some weeks he said he feared there was some injury to the brain. banks has had many troubles in life, but none has been sorer than that of seeing the change that came over this child. it was not the loss of her beauty that made his heart ache when he looked in her face: it was the staring, uneasy expression of countenance which made him turn his eyes away in pain of heart. she grew jealous and suspicious; and, though no mood of mind remained many minutes, this was a sad contrast with the open sweetness of temper that they were never more to see. she did as she was bid; she went on learning to cook and to sew, and she could clean the house; but she never remembered from one minute to another what she was to do, and was always asking questions about things that she had known all her life. her uncle (her mother's brother), who was well off in the world, and had no children, took her home, saying that change and going to school would make all the difference in her. but she had no memory, and could learn nothing, while she lost the mechanical things she could do at home. so, after a patient trial of three years, her uncle brought her home, and took, in her stead, the bright little susan, now four years old. polly never got better. after a time, fits of languor came on occasionally, and her mother could not get her out of bed; and now she sometimes lies for many days together, as in a swoon, looking like one dying, but always reviving again, though declining on the whole; so that it is thought it can not now go on very long. tom never went to school. there was no school within reach, while he was a very little boy, and when a new clergyman's lady came and set up one, tom was thought rather too old to begin; and, besides, his father really could not spare his earnings. old mr. wilkes was dead, and his son, succeeding to the farm, complained of bad times, and reduced his laborers' wages to _s._, and then _s._, and then _s._, while the poor-rate went on increasing. tom can not read or write, and his father is very sorry for it. the boy always seemed, however, to have that sobriety of mind and good sense which education is thought necessary to give. the fact is, he has had no mean education in being the associate of his honorable-minded father. he grew up as grave as his father, thoughtful and considerate, while very clever. he is a prodigious worker, gets through more work than any other man in the neighborhood, and does it in a better manner. earning in his best days only _s._ a week, and not being sure of that, he has never married, nor thought of marrying; and a great loss that is to some good woman. the school being set up while harry was a little fellow, he was sent to it, and he remained at it till he was twelve years old. it was well meant for him--well meant by the lady and by his parents; but the schoolmistress "was not equal to her business," as the family mildly say. those years were almost entirely lost. harry was remarkably clever, always earnest in what he was about, always steady and business-like, and eager to learn; yet he came away, after all those years, barely able to spell out a chapter in the testament on sundays, and scarcely able to sign his own name. he tried to use and improve his learning, putting in, where beans and peas were sown, slips of wood with banes and pase upon them, and holding a pen with all his force when he wanted to write his name; but he felt all along that he had better have been obtaining the knowledge which the earnest mind may gain in the open fields, unless he had been really well taught. by this time there were few at home, and the home had become grave and somewhat sad. six children had died in infancy--the oldest dying under three years old. susan was at her uncle's, and not likely to come home again; for her aunt had become insane, and was subject to epilepsy to such a degree that she could not be left. some people thought susan's prospects very fine, for her uncle promised great things as to providing for her and leaving her property; but the story of her grandfather was a warning to her. her uncle was falling into drinking habits, and this young girl, supposed to be so fortunate, often found herself with her aunt on one side in an epileptic fit, and her uncle on the other helplessly or violently drunk. he was an amiable man, and always, when remonstrated with, admitted his fault and promised amendment. it ended, however, in his being reduced in his old age to the point of screwing out of susan her earnings at service, under the name of debt, and finding a home with her old father. instead of enjoying his money, she enjoys the comfort of having gloriously discharged her duty to him, and she seems to be quite content. but of the small party at home. the sons did not live at home, but they were not far off. their honest faces looked in pretty often, and they were so good that their father had a constant pride in them. it was little more than seeing them, for banks was now so deaf that conversation was out of the question. he went to church every sunday, as he had always done; but every body knew that he did not hear one word of the service. his wife, exhausted by care and grief for her children, was too feeble to be much of a companion to him; and many a long night now he was kept awake by rheumatism. yet no one ever saw a cross look in either, or heard a complaining word. their house was clean; their clothes were neat; and, somehow or other, they went on paying poor-rate. one of the daughters says, "we always live very comfortably;" and the sons were told that, if their employment failed, they were always to come to their father's for a dinner. banks worked harder and with more intenseness of mind at his garden, and they still continued to keep a pig; so they reckoned upon always having bacon and vegetables--summer vegetables, at least--upon the table. the youngest daughter lived at home, and earned a humble subsistence by stay-making and dress-making for the neighbors. she could read and write well enough to be a comfort if any letter came from a distance (an incident which, as we shall see, was hereafter to happen often), and to amuse her mother in illness with a book. lizzy was not so clever as her brothers and susan, but she was a good girl and a steady worker. but soon the second mr. wilkes died rather suddenly. banks's heart sank at the news. he had been attached to his employer, and valued by him, though his earnings had been so much reduced; and he had a misgiving that there would be a change for the worse under the young master. it was too true. the young master soon began to complain of want of money, and to turn off his laborers. he told banks to his face that being now past sixty, and rheumatic at times, it was impossible that his work could be worth what it was, and he should have no more than six shillings a week henceforth. it was a terrible blow; but there was no help for it. a deaf old man had no chance of getting work in any new place; and the choice was simply between getting six shillings a week and being turned off. if his heart was ever weak within him, it must have been now. his savings were all gone years ago; there was no security that he would not be turned off any day. his children really could give him no effectual help; for the sons could not marry, and the daughters were not fully maintaining themselves. the workhouse was an intolerable thought to one who had paid rates, as he had done ever since he married. it was a dark time now, the very darkest. yet the grave man lost nothing of his outward composure and gentleness. they were not without friends. the clergyman had his eye upon them; and mrs. wilkes, the widow, sent for mrs. banks once a year to spend two or three days with her, and talk over old times; and she always sent her guest home with a new gown. the friendship of some, and the respect of all, were as hearty as ever. some comfort was near at hand: and out of one comfort grew several. susan first found herself well placed; and soon after, and as a consequence, harry, and then, and again as a consequence, tom; and then, lizzy. about this, more will be told hereafter. the next thing that befell was a piece of personal comfort to banks himself. a deaf lady, at a distance, sent him an ear-trumpet--with little hope that it would be of use--so long, and so extremely deaf as he was. he took it to church, and heard the service for the first time for twenty years. steady and composed as he usually was, he now cried for a whole day. after that he cheered up delightfully; but nothing could make him use his trumpet on week days. it was too precious for any day but sundays. when the lady heard this, she sent him an old shabby one for every day use, and it makes a great difference in his everyday life. next, the good clergyman found himself able to do something that he had long and earnestly wished, to let out some allotments to laborers. banks obtained one immediately; a quarter of an acre of good land, at a rent of ten shillings a year. the benefit of this is very great. he is still strong enough to cultivate it well; and, by his knowledge, as well as his industry, makes it admirably productive. in the midst of this little brightening of his prospects, there is one overshadowing fear which it sickens the heart to hear of; it happened that, by an accident which need not be detailed, the fact got into print that one of the sons at a distance had sent some money to his old father. the family were immediately in terror lest the employer should hear of it, and should turn off his old servant on the plea that he had other means of subsistence than his labor. it is not credible that such a thing should be done in the face of society. it is not credible that any one should desire to do such a thing. but that the fear should exist is mournful enough, and tells a significant tale; a tale too significant to need to be spoken out. banks is, as we have said a silent man. he does not pour out his heart in speech, as some of us do who have much less in our hearts than he. and there is surely no need. we want no prompting from him to feel that wrong must exist somewhere when a glorious integrity, a dignified virtue like his, has been allied with sinking fortunes through life, and has no prospect of repose but in the grave. jane eccles; or, confessions of an attorney. the criminal business of the office was, during the first three or four years of our partnership, entirely superintended by mr. flint; he being more _au fait_, from early practice, than myself in the art and mystery of prosecuting and defending felons, and i was thus happily relieved of duties which, in the days when george iii. was king, were frequently very oppressive and revolting. the criminal practitioner dwelt in an atmosphere tainted alike with cruelty and crime, and pulsating alternately with merciless decrees of death, and the shrieks and wailings of sentenced guilt. and not always guilt! there exist many records of proofs, incontestable, but obtained too late, of innocence having been legally strangled on the gallows in other cases than that of eliza fenning. how could it be otherwise with a criminal code crowded in every line with penalties of death, nothing but--death? juster, wiser times have dawned upon us, in which truer notions prevail of what man owes to man, even when sitting in judgment on transgressors; and this we owe, let us not forget, to the exertions of a band of men who, undeterred by the sneers of the reputedly wise and _practical_ men of the world, and the taunts of "influential" newspapers, persisted in teaching that the rights of property could be more firmly cemented than by the shedding of blood--law, justice, personal security more effectually vindicated than by the gallows. let me confess that i also was, for many years, among the mockers, and sincerely held such "theorists" and "dreamers" as sir samuel romilly and his fellow-workers in utter contempt. not so my partner mr. flint. constantly in the presence of criminal judges and juries, he had less confidence in the unerring verity of their decisions than persons less familiar with them, or who see them only through the medium of newspapers. nothing could exceed his distress of mind if, in cases in which he was prosecuting attorney, a convict died persisting in his innocence, or without a full confession of guilt. and to such a pitch did this morbidly-sensitive feeling at length arrive, that he all at once refused to undertake, or in any way meddle with, criminal prosecutions, and they were consequently turned over to our head clerk, with occasional assistance from me if there happened to be a press of business of the sort. mr. flint still, however, retained a monopoly of the _defenses_, except when, from some temporary cause or other, he happened to be otherwise engaged, when they fell to me. one of these i am about to relate, the result of which, whatever other impression it produced, thoroughly cured me--as it may the reader--of any propensity to sneer or laugh at criminal-law reformers and denouncers of the gallows. one forenoon, during the absence of mr. flint in wiltshire, a mrs. margaret davies called at the office, in apparently great distress of mind. this lady, i must premise, was an old, or at all events an elderly maiden, of some four-and-forty years of age--i have heard a very intimate female friend of hers say she would never see fifty again, but this was spite--and possessed of considerable house property in rather poor localities. she found abundant employment for energies which might otherwise have turned to cards and scandal, in collecting her weekly, monthly, and quarterly rents, and in promoting, or fancying she did, the religious and moral welfare of her tenants. very barefaced, i well knew, were the impositions practiced upon her credulous good-nature in money matters, and i strongly suspected the spiritual and moral promises and performances of her motley tenantry exhibited as much discrepancy as those pertaining to rent. still, deceived or cheated as she might be, good mrs. davies never wearied in what she conceived to be well-doing, and was ever ready to pour balm and oil into the wounds of the sufferer, however self-inflicted or deserved. "what is the matter now?" i asked as soon as the good lady was seated, and had untied and loosened her bonnet, and thrown back her shawl, fast walking having heated her prodigiously. "nothing worse than transportation is, i hope, likely to befall any of those interesting clients of yours?" "you are a hard-hearted man, mr. sharp," replied mrs. davies between a smile and a cry; "but being a lawyer, that is of course natural, and, as i am not here to consult you as a christian, of no consequence." "complimentary, mrs. davies; but pray go on." "you know jane eccles, one of my tenants in bank buildings: the embroidress who adopted her sister's orphan child?" "i remember her name. she obtained, if i recollect rightly, a balance of wages for her due to the child's father, a mate, who died at sea. well, what has befallen her?" "a terrible accusation has been preferred against her," rejoined mrs. davies; "but as for a moment believing it, that is quite out of the question. jane eccles," continued the warm-hearted lady, at the same time extracting a crumpled newspaper from the miscellaneous contents of her reticule--"jane eccles works hard from morning till night, keeps herself to herself; her little nephew and her rooms are always as clean and nice as a new pin; she attends church regularly; and pays her rent punctually to the day. this disgraceful story, therefore," she added, placing the journal in my hands, "_can not_ be true." i glanced over the police news: "uttering forged bank-of-england notes, knowing them to be forged," i exclaimed, "the devil!" "there's no occasion to be spurting that name out so loudly, mr. sharp," said mrs. davies with some asperity, "especially in a lawyer's office. people have been wrongfully accused before to-day, i suppose?" i was intent on the report, and not answering, she continued, "i heard nothing of it till i read the shameful account in the paper half an hour agone. the poor slandered girl was, i daresay, afraid or ashamed to send for me." "this appears to be a very bad case, mrs. davies," i said at length. "three forged ten-pound notes changed in one day at different shops each time, under the pretense of purchasing articles of small amount, and another ten-pound note found in her pocket! all that has, i must say, a very ugly look." "i don't care," exclaimed mrs. davies, quite fiercely, "if it looks as ugly as sin, or if the whole bank of england was found in her pocket! i know jane eccles well: she nursed me last spring through the fever; and i would be upon my oath that the whole story, from beginning to end, is an invention of the devil, or something worse!" "jane eccles," i persisted, "appears to have been unable or unwilling to give the slightest explanation as to how she became possessed of the spurious notes. who is this brother of hers, 'of such highly-respectable appearance,' according to the report, who was permitted a private interview with her previous to the examination?" "she has no brother that i have ever heard of," said mrs. davies. "it must be a mistake of the papers." "that is not likely. you observed, of course, that she was fully committed--and no wonder!" mrs. davies's faith in the young woman's integrity was not to be shaken by any evidence save that of her own bodily eyes, and i agreed to see jane eccles on the morrow, and make the best arrangements for the defense--at mrs. davies's charge--which the circumstances and the short time i should have for preparation--the old bailey session would be on in a few days--permitted. the matter so far settled, mrs. margaret hurried off to see what had become of little henry, the prisoner's nephew. i visited jane eccles the next day in newgate. she was a well-grown young woman of about two or three-and-twenty--not exactly pretty, perhaps, but very well-looking. her brown hair was plainly worn, without a cap, and the expression of her face was, i thought, one of sweetness and humility, contradicted in some degree by rather harsh lines about the mouth, denoting strong will and purpose. as a proof of the existence of this last characteristic, i may here mention that when her first overweening confidence had yielded to doubt, she, although dotingly-fond of her nephew, at this time about eight years of age, firmly refused to see him, "in order," she once said to me, and the thought brought a deadly pallor to her face--"in order that, should the worst befall, her memory might not be involuntarily connected in his mind with images of dungeons, and disgrace, and shame." jane eccles had received what is called in the country "a good schooling," and the books mrs. davies had lent her she had eagerly perused. she was, therefore, to a certain extent, a cultivated person; and her speech and manners were mild, gentle, and, so to speak, religious. i generally found, when i visited her, a bible or prayer-book in her hand. this, however, from my experience, comparatively slight though it was, did not much impress me in her favor--devotional sentiment, so easily, for a brief time, assumed, being, in nine such cases out of ten, a hypocritical deceit. still she, upon the whole, made a decidedly favorable impression on me, and i no longer so much wondered at the bigotry of unbelief manifested by mrs. davies in behalf of her apparently amiable and grateful protégée. but beyond the moral doubt thus suggested of the prisoner's guilt, my interviews with her utterly failed to extract any thing from her in rebutment of the charge upon which she was about to be arraigned. at first she persisted in asserting that the prosecution was based upon manifest error; that the impounded notes, instead of being forged, were genuine bank-of-england paper. it was some time before i succeeded in convincing her that this hope, to which she so eagerly, desperately clung, was a fallacious one. i did so at last; and either, thought i, as i marked her varying color and faltering voice, "either you are a consummate actress, or else the victim of some frightful delusion or conspiracy." "i will see you, if you please, to-morrow," she said, looking up from the chair upon which, with her head bowed and her face covered with her hands, she had been seated for several minutes in silence. "my thoughts are confused now, but to-morrow i shall be more composed; better able to decide if--to talk, i mean, of this unhappy business." i thought it better to comply without remonstrance, and at once took my leave. when i returned the next afternoon, the governor of the prison informed me that the brother of my client, james eccles, quite a dashing gentleman, had had a long interview with her. he had left about two hours before, with the intention, he said, of calling upon me. i was conducted to the room where my conferences with the prisoner usually took place. in a few minutes she appeared, much flushed and excited, it seemed to be alternately with trembling joy, and hope, and doubt, and nervous fear. "well," i said, "i trust you are now ready to give me your unreserved confidence, without which, be assured, that any reasonable hope of a successful issue from the peril in which you are involved is out of the question." the varying emotions i have noticed were clearly traceable as they swept over her telltale countenance during the minute or so that elapsed before she spoke. "tell me candidly, sir," she said at last, "whether, if i owned to you that the notes were given to me by a--a person, whom i can not, if i would, produce, to purchase various articles at different shops, and return him--the person i mean--the change; and that i made oath this was done by me in all innocence of heart, as the god of heaven and earth truly knows it was, it would avail me?" "not in the least," i replied, angry at such trifling. "how can you ask such a question? we must _find_ the person who, you intimate, has deceived you, and placed your life in peril; and if that can be proved, hang him instead of you. i speak plainly, miss eccles," i added, in a milder tone; "perhaps you may think unfeelingly, but there is no further time for playing with this dangerous matter. to-morrow a true-bill will be found against you, and your trial may then come on immediately. if you are careless for yourself, you ought to have some thought for the sufferings of your excellent friend mrs. davies; for your nephew, soon, perhaps, to be left friendless and destitute." "oh, spare me--spare me!" sobbed the unhappy young woman, sinking nervelessly into a seat. "have pity upon me, wretched, bewildered as i am!" tears relieved her; and, after a while, she said: "it is useless, sir, to prolong this interview. i could not, i solemnly assure you, if i would, tell you where to search for, or find the person of whom i spoke. and," she added, while the lines about her mouth of which i have spoken grew distinct and rigid, "i would not, if i could. what, indeed, would it, as i have been told and believe, avail, but to cause the death of two deceived, innocent persons, instead of one? besides," she continued, trying to speak with firmness, and repress the shudder which crept over and shook her as with ague--"besides, whatever the verdict, the penalty will not, can not, i am sure, i know, be--be--" i understood her plainly enough, although her resolution failed to sustain her through the sentence. "who is this brother, james eccles he calls himself, whom you saw at the police-office, and who has twice been here, i understand--once to-day?" a quick start revealed the emotion with which she heard the question, and her dilated eyes rested upon me for a moment with eager scrutiny. she speedily recovered her presence of mind, and, with her eyes again fixed on the floor, said, in a quivering voice: "my brother! yes--as you say--my brother!" "mrs. davies says you have no brother!" i sharply rejoined. "good mrs. davies," she replied, in a tone scarcely above a whisper, and without raising her head, "does not know all our family." a subterfuge was, i was confident, concealed in these words; but after again and again urging her to confide in me, and finding warning and persuasion alike useless, i withdrew discomfited and angry; and withal as much concerned and grieved as baffled and indignant. on going out, i arranged with the governor that the "brother," if he again made his appearance, should be detained _bongrè malgrè_, till my arrival. our precaution was too late: he did not reappear; and so little notice had any one taken of his person, that to advertise a description of him with a reward for his apprehension was hopeless. a true bill was found, and two hours afterward jane eccles was placed in the dock. the trial did not last more than twenty minutes, at the end of which, an unhesitating verdict of guilty was returned, and she was duly sentenced to be hanged by the neck till she was dead. we had retained the ablest counsel practicing in the court, but, with no tangible defense, their efforts were merely thrown away. upon being asked what she had to say why the sentence of the law should not be carried into effect, she repeated her previous statement--that the notes had been given her to change by a person in whom she reposed the utmost confidence; and that she had not the slightest thought of evil or fraud in what she did. that person, however, she repeated once more, could not be produced. her assertions only excited a derisive smile; and all necessary forms having been gone through, she was removed from the bar. the unhappy woman bore the ordeal through which she had just passed with much firmness. once only, while sentence was being passed, her high-strung resolution appeared to falter and give way. i was watching her intently, and i observed that she suddenly directed a piercing look toward a distant part of the crowded court. in a moment her eye lightened, the expression of extreme horror which had momently darkened her countenance passed away, and her partial composure returned. i had instinctively, as it were, followed her glance, and thought i detected a tall man, enveloped in a cloak, engaged in dumb momentary communication with her. i jumped up from my seat, and hastened as quickly as i could through the thronged passages to the spot, and looked eagerly around, but the man, whosoever he might be, was gone. the next act in this sad drama was the decision of the privy council upon the recorder's report. it came. several were reprieved, but among them was _not_ jane eccles. she and nine others were to perish at eight o'clock on the following morning. the anxiety and worry inseparable from this most unhappy affair, which from mr. flint's protracted absence, i had exclusively to bear, fairly knocked me up, and on the evening of the day on which the decision of the council was received, i went to bed much earlier than usual, and really ill. sleep i could not, and i was tossing restlessly about, vainly endeavoring to banish from my mind the gloomy and terrible images connected with the wretched girl and her swiftly-coming fate, when a quick tap sounded on the door, and a servant's voice announced that one of the clerks had brought a letter which the superscription directed to be read without a moment's delay. i sprang out of bed, snatched the letter, and eagerly ran it over. it was from the newgate chaplain, a very worthy, humane gentleman, and stated that, on hearing the result of the deliberations of the privy council, all the previous stoicism and fortitude exhibited by jane eccles had completely given way, and she had abandoned herself to the wildest terror and despair. as soon as she could speak coherently, she implored the governor with frantic earnestness to send for me. as this was not only quite useless in the opinion of that official, but against the rules, the prisoner's request was not complied with. the chaplain, however, thinking it might be as well that i should know of her desire to see me, had of his own accord sent me this note. he thought that possibly the sheriffs would permit me to have a brief interview with the condemned prisoner in the morning, if i arrived sufficiently early; and although it could avail nothing as regarded her fate in this world, still it might perhaps calm the frightful tumult of emotion by which she was at present tossed and shaken, and enable her to meet the inevitable hour with fortitude and resignation. it was useless to return to bed after receiving such a communication, and i forthwith dressed myself, determined to sit up and read, if i could, till the hour at which i might hope to be admitted to the jail should strike. slowly and heavily the dark night limped away, and as the first rays of the cold wintry dawn reached the earth, i sallied forth. a dense, brutal crowd were already assembled in front of the prison, and hundreds of well-dressed sight-seers occupied the opposite windows, morbidly eager for the rising of the curtain upon the mournful tragedy about to be enacted. i obtained admission without much difficulty, but, till the arrival of the sheriffs, no conference with the condemned prisoners could be possibly permitted. those important functionaries happened on this morning to arrive unusually late, and i paced up and down the paved corridor in a fever of impatience and anxiety. they were at last announced, but before i could, in the hurry and confusion, obtain speech of either of them, the dismal bell tolled out, and i felt with a shudder that it was no longer possible to effect my object. "perhaps it is better so," observed the reverend chaplain in a whisper. "she has been more composed for the last two or three hours, and is now, i trust, in a better frame of mind for death." i turned, sick at heart, to leave the place, and in my agitation missing the right way, came directly in view of the terrible procession. jane eccles saw me, and a terrific scream, followed by frantic heart-rending appeals to me to save her, burst with convulsive effort from her white quivering lips. never will the horror of that moment pass from my remembrance. i staggered back, as if every spasmodic word struck me like a blow; and then, directed by one of the turnkeys, sped in an opposite direction as fast as my trembling limbs could carry me--the shrieks of the wretched victim, the tolling of the dreadful bell, and the obscene jeers and mocks of the foul crowd through which i had to force my way, evoking a confused tumult of disgust and horror in my brain, which, if long continued, would have driven me mad. on reaching home, i was bled freely, and got to bed. this treatment, i have no doubt, prevented a violent access of fever; for, as it was, several days passed before i could be safely permitted to re-engage in business. on revisiting the office, a fragment of a letter written by jane eccles a few hours previous to her death, and evidently addressed to mrs. davies, was placed by mr. flint, who had by this time returned, before me. the following is an exact copy of it, with the exception that the intervals which i have marked with dots, . . . . . were filled with erasures and blots, and that every word seemed to have been traced by a hand smitten with palsy: "from my death-place, _midnight_. "dear madam--no, beloved friend, mother let me call you . . . . . . oh, kind, gentle mother, i am to die . . . . . to be killed in a few hours by cruel man!--i, so young, so unprepared for death, and yet guiltless! oh, never doubt that i am guiltless of the offense for which they will have the heart to hang me . . . . . nobody, they say, can save me now; yet if i could see the lawyer . . . . i have been deceived, cruelly deceived, madam--buoyed up by lying hopes, till just now the thunder burst, and i--oh god! . . . . as they spoke, the fearful chapter in the testament came bodily before me--the rending of the vail in twain, the terrible darkness, and the opened graves! . . . . i did not write for this, but my brain aches and dazzles . . . . it is too late--too late, they all tell me! . . . . . ah, if these dreadful laws were not so swift, i might yet--but no; _he_ clearly proved to me how useless . . . . . i must not think of that . . . . . it is of my nephew, of your henry, child of my affections, that i would speak. oh, that i . . . . . but hark!--they are coming . . . . . the day has dawned . . . . . to me the day of judgment! . . . . . ." this incoherent scrawl only confirmed my previous suspicions, but it was useless to dwell further on the melancholy subject. the great ax had fallen, and whether justly or unjustly, would, i feared, as in many, very many other cases, never be clearly ascertained in this world. i was mistaken. another case of "uttering forged bank-of-england notes, knowing them to be forged," which came under our cognizance a few months afterward, revived the fading memory of jane eccles's early doom, and cleared up every obscurity connected with it. the offender in this new case was a tall, dark-complexioned, handsome man, of about thirty years of age, of the name of justin arnold. his lady mother, whose real name i shall conceal under that of barton, retained us for her son's defense, and from her and other sources we learned the following particulars: justin arnold was the lady's son by a former marriage. mrs. barton, still a splendid woman, had, in second nuptials, espoused a very wealthy person, and from time to time had covertly supplied justin arnold's extravagance. this, however, from the wild course the young man pursued, could not be for ever continued, and after many warnings, the supplies were stopped. incapable of reformation, justin arnold, in order to obtain the means of dissipation, connected himself with a cleverly-organized band of swindlers and forgers, who so adroitly managed their nefarious business, that, till his capture, they had contrived to keep themselves clear of the law--the inferior tools and dupes having been alone caught in its fatal meshes. the defense, under these circumstances necessarily a difficult, almost impossible one, was undertaken by mr. flint, and conducted by him with his accustomed skill and energy. i took a very slight interest in the matter, and heard very little concerning it till its judicial conclusion by the conviction of the offender, and his condemnation to death. the decision on the recorder's report was this time communicated to the authorities of newgate on a saturday, so that the batch ordered for execution, among whom was justin arnold, would not be hanged till the monday morning. rather late in the evening a note once more reached me from the chaplain of the prison. justin arnold wished to see me--_me_, not mr. flint. he had something of importance to communicate, he said, relative to a person in whom i had once felt great interest. it flashed across me that this justin might be the "brother" of jane eccles, and i determined to see him. i immediately sought out one of the sheriffs, and obtained an order empowering me to see the prisoner on the afternoon of the morrow (sunday.) i found that the convict expressed great anxiety lest i should decline to see him. my hoped-for visit was the only matter which appeared to occupy the mind or excite the care of the mocking, desperate young man; even the early and shameful termination of his own life on the morrow he seemed to be utterly reckless of. thus prepared, i was the less surprised at the scene which awaited me in the prisoner's cell, where i found him in angry altercation with the pale, affrighted chaplain. i had never seen justin arnold before; this i was convinced of the instant i saw him; but he knew, and greeted me instantly by name. his swarthy, excited features were flushed and angry, and after briefly thanking me for complying with his wishes, he added in a violent, rapid tone, "this good man has been teasing me. he says, and truly, that i have defied god by my life; and now he wishes me to mock that inscrutable being, on the eve of death, by words without sense, meaning, or truth!" "no, no, no!" ejaculated the reverend gentleman. "i exhorted you to true repentance, to peace, charity, to--" "true repentance, peace, charity!" broke in the prisoner with a scornful burst: "when my heart is full of rage, and bitterness, and despair! give me _time_ for this repentance which you say is so needful--time to lure back long since banished hope, and peace, and faith! poh!--you but flout me with words without meaning. i am unfit, you say, for the presence of men, but quite fit for that of god, before whom you are about to arrogantly cast me! be it so: my deeds upon my head! it is at least not my fault that i am hurled to judgment before the eternal judge himself commanded my presence there!" "he may be unworthy to live," murmured the scared chaplain, "but, oh, how utterly unfit to die!" "that is true," rejoined justin arnold with undiminished vehemence. "those, if you will, are words of truth and sense: go you and preach them to the makers and executioners of english law. in the mean time i would speak privately with this gentleman." the reverend pastor, with a mute gesture of compassion, sorrow, and regret, was about to leave the cell, when he was stayed by the prisoner, who exclaimed, "now i think of it, you had better, sir, remain. the statement i am about to make can not, for the sake of the victim's reputation, and for her friends' sake, have too many witnesses. you both remember jane eccles?" a broken exclamation from both of us answered him, and he quickly added--"ah, you already guess the truth, i see. well, i do not wonder you should start and turn pale. it _was_ a cruel, shameless deed--a dastardly murder, if there was ever one. in as few words as possible, so you interrupt me not, i will relate _my_ share in the atrocious business." he spoke rapidly, and once or twice during the brief recital the moistened eye and husky voice betrayed emotions which his pride would have concealed. "jane and i were born in hertfordshire, within a short distance of each other. i knew her from a child. she was better off then, i worse than we subsequently became--she by her father's bankruptcy, i by my mo--, by mrs. barton's wealthy marriage. she was about nineteen, i twenty-four, when i left the country for london. that she loved me with all the fervor of a trusting woman i well knew; and i had, too, for some time known that she must be either honorably wooed or not at all. that with me was out of the question, and, as i told you, i came about that time to london. you can, i daresay, imagine the rest. we were--i and my friends i mean--at a loss for agents to dispose of our wares, and at the same time pressed for money. i met jane eccles by accident. genteel, of graceful address and winning manners, she was just fitted for our purpose. i feigned reawakened love, proffered marriage, and a home across the atlantic, as soon as certain trifling but troublesome affairs which momently harassed me were arranged. she believed me. i got her to change a considerable number of notes under various pretexts, but that they were forged she had not and could not have the remotest suspicion. you know the catastrophe. after her apprehension i visited this prison as her brother, and buoyed her up to the last with illusions of certain pardon and release, whatever the verdict, through the influence of my wealthy father-in-law, of our immediate union afterward, and tranquil american home. it is needless to say more. she trusted me, and i sacrificed her--less flagrant instances of a like nature occur every day. and now, gentlemen, i would fain be alone." "remorseless villain!" i could not exclaiming under my breath as he moved away. he turned quickly back, and looking me in the face, without the slightest anger said, "an execrable villain if you like--not a remorseless one! her death alone sits near, and troubles my to all else hardened conscience. and let me tell you, reverend sir," he continued, resuming his former bitterness as he addressed the chaplain--"let me tell you that it was not the solemn words of the judge the other day, but her pale, reproachful image, standing suddenly beside me in the dock, just as she looked when i passed my last deception on her, that caused the tremor and affright, complacently attributed by that grave functionary to his own sepulchral eloquence. after all, her death can not be exclusively laid to my charge. those who tried her would not believe her story, and yet it was true as death. had they not been so confident in their own unerring wisdom, they might have doomed her to some punishment short of the scaffold, and could now have retrieved their error. but i am weary, and would, i repeat, be alone. farewell!" he threw himself on the rude pallet, and we silently withdrew. a paper embodying justin arnold's declaration was forwarded to the secretary of state, and duly acknowledged, accompanied by an official expression of mild regret that it had not been in time to save the life of jane eccles. no further notice was taken of the matter, and the record of the young woman's judicial sacrifice still doubtless encumbers the archives of the home office, forming, with numerous others of like character, the dark, sanguine background upon which the achievements of the great and good men who have so successfully purged the old draco code that now a faint vestige only of the old barbarism remains, stand out in bright relief and changeless lustre. my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page ._) book iv.--initial chapter:--comprising mr. caxton's opinions on the matrimonial state, supported by learned authorities. "it was no bad idea of yours, pisistratus," said my father, graciously, "to depict the heightened affections and the serious intentions of signior riccabocca by a single stroke--_he left off his spectacles!_ good." "yet," quoth my uncle, "i think shakspeare represents a lover as falling into slovenly habits, neglecting his person, and suffering his hose to be ungartered, rather than paying that attention to his outer man which induces signor riccabocca to leave off his spectacles, and look as handsome as nature will permit him." "there are different degrees and many phases of the passion," replied my father. "shakspeare is speaking of an ill-treated, pining, woebegone lover, much aggrieved by the cruelty of his mistress--a lover who has found it of no avail to smarten himself up, and has fallen despondently into the opposite extreme. whereas signor riccabocca has nothing to complain of in the barbarity of miss jemima." "indeed he has not!" cried blanche, tossing her head--"forward creature!" "yes, my dear," said my mother, trying her best to look stately, "i am decidedly of opinion that, in that respect, pisistratus has lowered the dignity of the sex. not intentionally," added my mother, mildly, and afraid she had said something too bitter; "but it is very hard for a man to describe us women." the captain nodded approvingly; mr. squills smiled; my father quietly resumed the thread of his discourse. "to continue," quoth he. "riccabocca has no reason to despair of success in his suit, nor any object in moving his mistress to compassion. he may, therefore, very properly tie up his garters and leave off his spectacles. what do you say, mr. squills?--for, after all, since love-making can not fail to be a great constitutional derangement, the experience of a medical man must be the best to consult." "mr. caxton," replied squills, obviously flattered, "you are quite right: when a man makes love, the organs of self-esteem and desire of applause are greatly stimulated, and therefore, of course, he sets himself off to the best advantage. it is only, as you observe, when, like shakspeare's lover, he has given up making love as a bad job, and has received that severe hit on the ganglions which the cruelty of a mistress inflicts, that he neglects his personal appearance: he neglects it, not because he is in love, but because his nervous system is depressed. that was the cause, if you remember, with poor major prim. he wore his wig all awry when susan smart jilted him; but i set it all right for him." "by shaming miss smart into repentance, or getting him a new sweetheart?" asked my uncle. "pooh!" answered squills, "by quinine and cold bathing." "we may therefore grant," renewed my father, "that, as a general rule, the process of courtship tends to the spruceness, and even foppery, of the individual engaged in the experiment, as voltaire has very prettily proved somewhere. nay, the mexicans, indeed, were of opinion that the lady, at least, ought to continue those cares of her person even after marriage. there is extant, in sahagun's _history of new spain_, the advice of an aztec or mexican mother to her daughter, in which she says--'that your husband may not take you in dislike, adorn yourself, wash yourself, and let your garments be clean.' it is true that the good lady adds--'do it in moderation; since, if every day you are washing yourself and your clothes, the world will say that you are over-delicate; and particular people will call you--tapetzon tinemaxoch!' what those words precisely mean," added my father, modestly, "i can not say, since i never had the opportunity to acquire the ancient aztec language--but something very opprobrious and horrible, no doubt." "i daresay a philosopher like signor riccabocca," said my uncle, "was not himself very _tapetzon tine_--what d'ye call it?--and a good, healthy, english wife, like that poor affectionate jemima, was thrown away upon him." "roland," said my father, "you don't like foreigners: a respectable prejudice, and quite natural in a man who has been trying his best to hew them in pieces, and blow them up into splinters. but you don't like philosophers either--and for that dislike you have no equally good reason." "i only implied that they were not much addicted to soap and water," said my uncle. "a notable mistake. many great philosophers have been very great beaux. aristotle was a notorious fop. buffon put on his best laced ruffles when he sat down to write, which implies that he washed his hands first. pythagoras insists greatly on the holiness of frequent ablutions; and horace--who, in his own way, was as good a philosopher as any the romans produced--takes care to let us know what a neat, well-dressed, dapper little gentleman he was. but i don't think you ever read the 'apology of apuleius?'" "not i--what is it about?" asked the captain. "about a great many things. it is that sage's vindication from several malignant charges--among others, and principally indeed, that of being much too refined and effeminate for a philosopher. nothing can exceed the rhetorical skill with which he excuses himself for using--tooth-powder. 'ought a philosopher,' he exclaims, 'to allow any thing unclean about him, especially in the mouth--the mouth, which is the vestibule of the soul, the gate of discourse, the portico of thought! ah, but Æmilianus [the accuser of apuleius] never opens _his_ mouth but for slander and calumny--tooth-powder would indeed be unbecoming to _him_! or, if he use any, it will not be my good arabian tooth-powder, but charcoal and cinders. ay, his teeth should be as foul as his language! and yet even the crocodile likes to have his teeth cleaned; insects get into them, and, horrible reptile though he be, he opens his jaws inoffensively to a faithful dentistical bird, who volunteers his beak for a toothpick.'" my father was now warm in the subject he had started, and soared miles away from riccabocca and "my novel." "and observe," he exclaimed--"observe with what gravity this eminent platonist pleads guilty to the charge of having a mirror. 'why, what,' he exclaims, 'more worthy of the regards of a human creature than his own image' (_nihil respectabilius homini quam formam suam!_) is not that one of our children the most dear to us who is called 'the picture of his father?' but take what pains you will with a picture, it can never be so like you as the face in your mirror! think it discreditable to look with proper attention on one's self in the glass! did not socrates recommend such attention to his disciples--did he not make a great moral agent of the speculum? the handsome, in admiring their beauty therein, were admonished that handsome is who handsome does; and the more the ugly stared at themselves, the more they became naturally anxious to hide the disgrace of their features in the loveliness of their merits. was not demosthenes always at his speculum? did he not rehearse his causes before it as before a master in the art? he learned his eloquence from plato, his dialectics from eubulides; but as for his delivery--there, he came to the mirror! "therefore," concluded mr. caxton, returning unexpectedly to the subject--"therefore it is no reason to suppose that dr. riccabocca is averse to cleanliness and decent care of the person, because he is a philosopher; and, all things considered, he never showed himself more a philosopher than when he left off his spectacles and looked his best." "well," said my mother, kindly, "i only hope it may turn out happily. but i should have been better pleased if pisistratus had not made dr. riccabocca so reluctant a wooer." "very true," said the captain; "the italian does not shine as a lover. throw a little more fire into him, pisistratus--something gallant and chivalrous." "fire--gallantry--chivalry!" cried my father, who had taken riccabocca under his special protection--"why, don't you see that the man is described as a philosopher?--and i should like to know when a philosopher ever plunged into matrimony without considerable misgivings and cold shivers. indeed, it seems that--perhaps before he was a philosopher--riccabocca _had_ tried the experiment, and knew what it was. why, even that plain-speaking, sensible, practical man, metellus numidicus, who was not even a philosopher, but only a roman censor, thus expressed himself in an exhortation to the people to perpetrate matrimony--'if, o quirites, we could do without wives, we should all dispense with that subject of care (_eâ molestiâ careremus_); but since nature has so managed it, that we can not live with women comfortably, nor without them at all, let us rather provide for the human race than our own temporary felicity." here the ladies set up a cry of such indignation, that both roland and myself endeavored to appease their wrath by hasty assurances that we utterly repudiated that damnable doctrine of metellus numidicus. my father, wholly unmoved, as soon as a sullen silence was established, recommenced--"do not think, ladies," said he, "that you were without advocates at that day: there were many romans gallant enough to blame the censor for a mode of expressing himself which they held to be equally impolite and injudicious. 'surely,' said they, with some plausibility, 'if numidicus wished men to marry, he need not have referred so peremptorily to the disquietudes of the connection, and thus have made them more inclined to turn away from matrimony than given them a relish for it.' but against these critics one honest man (whose name of titus castricius should not be forgotten by posterity) maintained that metellus numidicus could not have spoken more properly; 'for remark,' said he, 'that metellus was a censor, not a rhetorician. it becomes rhetoricians to adorn, and disguise, and make the best of things; but metellus, _sanctus vir_--a holy and blameless man, grave and sincere to wit, and addressing the roman people in the solemn capacity of censor--was bound to speak the plain truth, especially as he was treating of a subject on which the observation of every day, and the experience of every life, could not leave the least doubt upon the mind of his audience.' still riccabocca, having decided to marry, has no doubt prepared himself to bear all the concomitant evils--as becomes a professed sage; and i own i admire the art with which pisistratus has drawn the precise woman likely to suit a philosopher." pisistratus bows, and looks round complacently; but recoils from two very peevish and discontented faces feminine. mr. caxton (completing his sentence.)--"not only as regards mildness of temper and other household qualifications, but as regards the very _person_ of the object of his choice. for you evidently remembered, pisistratus, the reply of bias, when asked his opinion on marriage: [greek: Êtoi kalên hexeis, ê aischran; kai ei kalên, hexeis koinên; ei dê aischran hexeis poinên.]" pisistratus tries to look as if he had the opinion of bias by heart, and nods acquiescingly. mr. caxton.--"that is, my dears, 'the woman you would marry is either handsome or ugly; if handsome, she is koiné, viz., you don't have her to yourself; if ugly, she is poiné--that is, a fury.' but, as it is observed in aulus gellius (whence i borrow this citation), there is a wide interval between handsome and ugly. and thus ennius, in his tragedy of _menalippus_, uses an admirable expression to designate women of the proper degree of matrimonial comeliness, such as a philosopher would select. he calls this degree _stata forma_--a rational, mediocre sort of beauty, which is not liable to be either koiné or poiné. and favorinus, who was a remarkably sensible man, and came from provence--the male inhabitants of which district have always valued themselves on their knowledge of love and ladies--calls this said _stata forma_ the beauty of wives--the uxorial beauty. ennius says that women of a _stata forma_ are almost always safe and modest. now jemima, you observe, is described as possessing this _stata forma_; and it is the nicety of your observation in this respect, which i like the most in the whole of your description of a philosopher's matrimonial courtship, pisistratus, (excepting only the stroke of the spectacles) for it shows that you had properly considered the opinion of bias, and mastered all the counter logic suggested in book v. chapter xi., of aulus gellius." "for all that," said blanche, half-archly, half-demurely, with a smile in the eye, and a pout of the lip, "i don't remember that pisistratus, in the days when he wished to be most complimentary, ever assured me that i had a _stata forma_--a rational, mediocre sort of beauty." "and i think," observed my uncle, "that when he comes to his real heroine, whoever that may be, he will not trouble his head much about either bias or aulus gellius." chapter ii. matrimony is certainly a great change in life. one is astonished not to find a notable alteration in one's friend, even if he or she have been only wedded a week. in the instance of dr. and mrs. riccabocca the change was peculiarly visible. to speak first of the lady, as in chivalry bound, mrs. riccabocca had entirely renounced that melancholy which had characterized miss jemima: she became even sprightly and gay, and looked all the better and prettier for the alteration. she did not scruple to confess honestly to mrs. dale, that she was now of opinion that the world was very far from approaching its end. but, in the mean while, she did not neglect the duty which the belief she had abandoned serves to inculculate--"she set her house in order." the cold and penurious elegance that had characterized the casino disappeared like enchantment--that is, the elegance remained, but the cold and penury fled before the smile of woman. like puss-in-boots after the nuptials of his master, jackeymo only now caught minnows and sticklebacks for his own amusement. jackeymo looked much plumper, and so did riccabocca. in a word, the fair jemima became an excellent wife. riccabocca secretly thought her extravagant, but, like a wise man, declined to look at the house bills, and ate his joint in unreproachful silence. indeed, there was so much unaffected kindness in the nature of mrs. riccabocca--beneath the quiet of her manner there beat so genially the heart of the hazeldeans--that she fairly justified the favorable anticipations of mrs. dale. and though the doctor did not noisily boast of his felicity, nor, as some new married folks do, thrust it insultingly under the _nimis unctis naribus_--the turned-up noses of your surly old married folks, nor force it gaudily and glaringly on the envious eyes of the single, you might still see that he was a more cheerful and light-hearted man than before. his smile was less ironical, his politeness less distant. he did not study machiavelli so intensely--and he did not return to the spectacles; which last was an excellent sign. moreover, the humanizing influence of the tidy english wife might be seen in the improvement of his outward or artificial man. his clothes seemed to fit him better; indeed, the clothes were new. mrs. dale no longer remarked that the buttons were off the wristbands, which was a great satisfaction to her. but the sage still remained faithful to the pipe, the cloak, and the red silk umbrella. mrs. riccabocca had (to her credit be it spoken) used all becoming and wife-like arts against these three remnants of the old bachelor adam, but in vain, "_anima mia_--soul of mine," said the doctor, tenderly, "i hold the cloak, the umbrella, and the pipe, as the sole relics that remain to me of my native country. respect and spare them." mrs. riccabocca was touched, and had the good sense to perceive that man, let him be ever so much married, retains certain signs of his ancient independence--certain tokens of his old identity, which a wife, the most despotic, will do well to concede. she conceded the cloak, she submitted to the umbrella, she concealed her abhorrence of the pipe. after all, considering the natural villainy of our sex, she confessed to herself that she might have been worse off. but, through all the calm and cheerfulness of riccabocca, a nervous perturbation was sufficiently perceptible; it commenced after the second week of marriage--it went on increasing, till one bright sunny afternoon, as he was standing on his terrace gazing down upon the road, at which jackeymo was placed--lo, a stage-coach stopped! the doctor made a bound, and put both hands to his heart as if he had been shot; he then leapt over the balustrade, and his wife from her window beheld him flying down the hill, with his long hair streaming in the wind, till the trees hid him from her sight. "ah," thought she with a natural pang of conjugal jealousy, "henceforth i am only second in his home. he has gone to welcome his child!" and at that reflection mrs. riccabocca shed tears. but so naturally amiable was she, that she hastened to curb her emotion, and efface as well as she could the trace of a stepmother's grief. when this was done, and a silent, self-rebuking prayer murmured over, the good woman descended the stairs with alacrity, and, summoning up her best smiles, emerged on the terrace. she was repaid; for scarcely had she come into the open air, when two little arms were thrown round her, and the sweetest voice that ever came from a child's lips, sighed out in broken english, "good mamma, love me a little." "love you? with my whole heart!" cried the stepmother, with all a mother's honest passion. and she clasped the child to her breast. "god bless you, my wife!" said riccabocca, in a husky tone. "please take this, too," added jackeymo, in italian, as well as his sobs would let him--and broke off a great bough full of blossoms from his favorite orange-tree, and thrust it into his mistress's hand. she had not the slightest notion what he meant by it! chapter iii. violante was indeed a bewitching child--a child to whom i defy mrs. caudle herself (immortal mrs. caudle!) to have been a harsh stepmother. look at her now, as, released from those kindly arms, she stands, still clinging with one hand to her new mamma, and holding out the other to riccabocca--with those large dark eyes swimming in happy tears. what a lovely smile!--what an ingenuous candid brow! she looks delicate--she evidently requires care--she wants the mother. and rare is the woman who would not love her the better for that! still, what an innocent infantine bloom in those clear smooth cheeks!--and in that slight frame, what exquisite natural grace! "and this, i suppose, is your nurse, darling?" said mrs. riccabocca, observing a dark foreign-looking woman, dressed very strangely--without cap or bonnet, but a great silver arrow stuck in her hair, and a filagree chain or necklace resting upon her kerchief. "ah, good annetta," said violante in italian. "papa, she says she is to go back; but she is not to go back--is she?" riccabocca, who had scarcely before noticed the woman, started at that question--exchanged a rapid glance with jackeymo--and then, muttering some inaudible excuse, approached the nurse, and, beckoning her to follow him, went away into the grounds. he did not return for more than an hour, nor did the woman then accompany him home. he said briefly to his wife that the nurse was obliged to return at once to italy, and that she would stay in the village to catch the mail; that indeed she would be of no use in their establishment, as she could not speak a word of english; but that he was sadly afraid violante would pine for her. and violante did pine at first. but still, to a child it is so great a thing to find a parent--to be at home--that, tender and grateful as violante was, she could not be inconsolable while her father was there to comfort. for the first few days, riccabocca scarcely permitted any one to be with his daughter but himself. he would not even leave her alone with his jemima. they walked out together--sat together for hours in the belvidere. then by degrees he began to resign her more and more to jemima's care and tuition, especially in english, of which language at present she spoke only a few sentences (previously, perhaps, learned by heart), so as to be clearly intelligible. chapter iv. there was one person in the establishment of dr. riccabocca, who was satisfied neither with the marriage of his master nor the arrival of violante--and that was our friend lenny fairfield. previous to the all-absorbing duties of courtship, the young peasant had secured a very large share of riccabocca's attention. the sage had felt interest in the growth of this rude intelligence struggling up to light. but what with the wooing, and what with the wedding, lenny fairfield had sunk very much out of his artificial position as pupil, into his natural station of under-gardener. and on the arrival of violante, he saw, with natural bitterness, that he was clean forgotten, not only by riccabocca, but almost by jackeymo. it was true that the master still lent him books, and the servant still gave him lectures on horticulture. but riccabocca had no time nor inclination now to amuse himself with enlightening that tumult of conjecture which the books created. and if jackeymo had been covetous of those mines of gold buried beneath the acres now fairly taken from the squire (and good-naturedly added rent-free, as an aid to jemima's dower), before the advent of the young lady whose future dowry the produce was to swell--now that she was actually under the eyes of the faithful servant, such a stimulus was given to his industry, that he could think of nothing else but the land, and the revolution he designed to effect in its natural english crops. the garden, save only the orange-trees, was abandoned entirely to lenny, and additional laborers were called in for the field-work. jackeymo had discovered that one part of the soil was suited to lavender, that another would grow chamomile. he had in his heart apportioned a beautiful field of rich loam to flax; but against the growth of flax the squire set his face obstinately. that most lucrative, perhaps, of all crops, when soil and skill suit, had, it would appear, been formerly attempted in england much more commonly than it is now; since you will find few old leases which do not contain a clause prohibitory of flax, as an impoverishment of the land. and though jackeymo learnedly endeavored to prove to the squire that the flax itself contained particles which, if returned to the soil, repaid all that the crop took away, mr. hazeldean had his old-fashioned prejudices on the matter, which were insuperable. "my forefathers," quoth he, "did not put that clause in their leases without good cause; and as the casino lands are entailed on frank, i have no right to gratify your foreign whims at his expense." to make up for the loss of the flax, jackeymo resolved to convert a very nice bit of pasture into orchard ground, which he calculated would bring in £ net per acre by the time miss violante was marriageable. at this, the squire pished a little; but as it was quite clear that the land would be all the more valuable hereafter for the fruit trees, he consented to permit the "grass land" to be thus partially broken up. all these changes left poor lenny fairfield very much to himself--at a time when the new and strange devices which the initiation into book knowledge creates, made it most desirable that he should have the constant guidance of a superior mind. one evening after his work, as lenny was returning to his mother's cottage very sullen and very moody, he suddenly came in contact with sprott the tinker. chapter v. the tinker was seated under a hedge, hammering away at an old kettle--with a little fire burning in front of him--and the donkey hard by, indulging in a placid doze. mr. sprott looked up as lenny passed--nodded kindly, and said: "good evenin', lenny: glad to hear you be so 'spectably sitivated with mounseer." "ay," answered lenny, with a leaven of rancor in his recollections, "you're not ashamed to speak to me now, that i am not in disgrace. but it was in disgrace, when it wasn't my fault, that the real gentleman was most kind to me." "ar--r, lenny," said the tinker, with a prolonged rattle in that said ar--r, which was not without great significance. "but you sees the real gentleman who han't got his bread to get, can hafford to 'spise his cracter in the world. a poor tinker must be timbersome and nice in his 'sociations. but sit down here a bit, lenny; i've summat to say to ye!" "to me--" "to ye. give the neddy a shove out i' the vay, and sit down, i say." lenny rather reluctantly, and somewhat superciliously, accepted this invitation. "i hears," said the tinker in a voice made rather indistinct by a couple of nails which he had inserted between his teeth; "i hears as how you be unkimmon fond of reading. i ha' sum nice cheap books in my bag yonder--sum as low as a penny." "i should like to see them," said lenny, his eyes sparkling. the tinker rose, opened one of the panniers on the ass's back, took out a bag which he placed before lenny, and told him to suit himself. the young peasant desired no better. he spread all the contents of the bag on the sward, and a motley collection of food for the mind was there--food and poison--_serpentes avibus_--good and evil. here, milton's paradise lost, there the age of reason--here methodist tracts, there true principles of socialism--treatises on useful knowledge by sound learning actuated by pure benevolence--appeals to operatives by the shallowest reasoners, instigated by the same ambition that had moved eratosthenes to the conflagration of a temple; works of fiction admirable as robinson crusoe, or innocent as the old english baron, beside coarse translations of such garbage as had rotted away the youth of france under louis quinze. this miscellany was an epitome, in short, of the mixed world of books, of that vast city of the press, with its palaces and hovels, its aqueducts and sewers--which opens all alike to the naked eye and the curious mind of him to whom you say, in the tinker's careless phrase, "suit yourself." but it is not the first impulse of a nature, healthful and still pure, to settle in the hovel and lose itself amid the sewers; and lenny fairfield turned innocently over the bad books, and selecting two or three of the best, brought them to the tinker and asked the price. "why," said mr. sprott, putting on his spectacles, "you has taken the werry dearest: them 'ere be much cheaper, and more hinterestin'." "but i don't fancy them," answered lenny; "i don't understand what they are about, and this seems to tell one how the steam-engine is made, and has nice plates; and this is robinson crusoe, which parson dale once said he would give me--i'd rather buy it out of my own money." "well, please yourself," quoth the tinker; "you shall have the books for four bob, and you can pay me next month." "four bobs--four shillings? it is a great sum," said lenny, "but i will lay by, as you are kind enough to trust me; good evening, mr. sprott." "stay a bit," said the tinker; "i'll just throw you these two little tracks into the barging; they be only a shilling a dozen, so 'tis but tuppence--and ven you has read _those_, vy, you'll be a reglar customer." the tinker tossed to lenny nos. and of appeals to operatives, and the peasant took them up gratefully. the young knowledge-seeker went his way across the green fields, and under the still autumn foliage of the hedgerows. he looked first at one book, then at another; he did not know on which to settle. the tinker rose and made a fire with leaves and furze and sticks, some dry and some green. lenny has now opened no. of the tracts: they are the shortest to read, and don't require so much effort of the mind as the explanation of the steam-engine. the tinker has now set on his grimy glue-pot, and the glue simmers. chapter vi. as violante became more familiar with her new home, and those around her became more familiar with violante, she was remarked for a certain stateliness of manner and bearing, which, had it been less evidently natural and inborn, would have seemed misplaced in the daughter of a forlorn exile, and would have been rare at so early an age among children of the loftiest pretensions. it was with the air of a little princess that she presented her tiny hand to a friendly pressure, or submitted her calm clear cheek to a presuming kiss. yet withal she was so graceful, and her very stateliness was so pretty and captivating, that she was not the less loved for all her grand airs. and, indeed, she deserved to be loved; for though she was certainly prouder than mr. dale could approve of, her pride was devoid of egotism; and that is a pride by no means common. she had an intuitive forethought for others; you could see that she was capable of that grand woman-heroism, abnegation of self; and though she was an original child, and often grave and musing, with a tinge of melancholy, sweet, but deep in her character, still she was not above the happy genial merriment of childhood--only her silver laugh was more attuned, and her gestures more composed than those of children, habituated to many playfellows, usually are. mrs. hazeldean liked her best when she was grave, and said "she would become a very sensible woman." mrs. dale liked her best when she was gay, and said, "she was born to make many a heart ache;" for which mrs. dale was properly reproved by the parson. mrs. hazeldean gave her a little set of garden tools; mrs. dale a picture-book and a beautiful doll. for a long time the book and the doll had the preference. but mrs. hazeldean having observed to riccabocca that the poor child looked pale, and ought to be a good deal in the open air, the wise father ingeniously pretended to violante that mrs. riccabocca had taken a great fancy to the picture book, and that he should be very glad to have the doll, upon which violante hastened to give them both away, and was never so happy as when mamma (as she called mrs. riccabocca) was admiring the picture-book, and riccabocca with austere gravity dandled the doll. then riccabocca assured her that she could be of great use to him in the garden; and violante instantly put into movement her spade, hoe, and wheelbarrow. this last occupation brought her into immediate contact with mr. leonard fairfield; and that personage one morning, to his great horror, found miss violante had nearly exterminated a whole celery-bed, which she had ignorantly conceived to be a crop of weeds. lenny was extremely angry. he snatched away the hoe, and said, angrily, "you must not do that, miss. i'll tell your papa if you--" violante drew herself up, and never having been so spoken to before, at least since her arrival in england, there was something comic in the surprise of her large eyes, as well as something tragic in the dignity of her offended mien. "it is very naughty of you, miss," continued leonard, in a milder tone, for he was both softened by the eyes and awed by the mien, "and i trust you will not do it again." "_non capisco_" (i don't understand), murmured violante, and the dark eyes filled with tears. at that moment up came jackeymo; and violante, pointing to leonard, said, with an effort not to betray her emotion, "_il fanciullo e molto grossolano_" (he is a very rude boy). jackeymo turned to leonard with the look of an enraged tiger. "how you dare, scum of de earth that you are," cried he,[ ] "how you dare make cry the signorina?" and his english not supplying familiar vituperatives sufficiently, he poured out upon lenny such a profusion of italian abuse, that the boy turned red and white in a breath with rage and perplexity. [footnote : it need scarcely be observed, that jackeymo, in his conversations with his master or violante, or his conference with himself, employs his native language, which is therefore translated without the blunders that he is driven to commit when compelled to trust himself to the tongue of the country in which he is a sojourner.] violante took instant compassion upon the victim she had made, and, with true feminine caprice, now began to scold jackeymo for his anger, and, finally approaching leonard, laid her hand on his arm, and said with a kindness at once childlike and queenly, and in the prettiest imaginable mixture of imperfect english and soft italian, to which i can not pretend to do justice, and shall therefore translate: "don't mind him. i dare say it was all my fault, only i did not understand you: are not these things weeds?" "no, my darling signorina," said jackeymo, in italian, looking ruefully at the celery-bed, "they are not weeds, and they sell very well at this time of the year. but still, if it amuses you to pluck them up, i should like to see who's to prevent it." lenny walked away. he had been called "the scum of the earth," by a foreigner, too! he had again been ill-treated for doing what he conceived his duty. he was again feeling the distinction between rich and poor, and he now fancied that that distinction involved deadly warfare, for he had read from beginning to end those two damnable tracts which the tinker had presented to him. but in the midst of all the angry disturbance of his mind, he felt the soft touch of the infant's hand, the soothing influence of her conciliating words, and he was half ashamed that he had spoken so roughly to a child. still, not trusting himself to speak, he walked away, and sat down at a distance. "i don't see," thought he, "why there should be rich and poor, master and servant." lenny, be it remembered, had not heard the parson's political sermon. an hour after, having composed himself, lenny returned to his work. jackeymo was no longer in the garden; he had gone to the fields; but riccabocca was standing by the celery-bed, and holding the red silk umbrella over violante as she sat on the ground, looking up at her father with those eyes already so full of intelligence, and love, and soul. "lenny," said riccabocca, "my young lady has been telling me that she has been very naughty, and giacomo very unjust to you. forgive them both." lenny's sullenness melted in an instant; the reminiscences of tracts nos. and , "like the baseless fabrics of a vision, left not a wreck behind." he raised eyes, swimming with all his native goodness, toward the wise man, and dropped them gratefully on the face of the infant peacemaker. then he turned away his head and fairly wept. the parson was right: "o ye poor, have charity for the rich; o ye rich, respect the poor." chapter vii. now from that day the humble lenny and the regal violante became great friends. with what pride he taught her to distinguish between celery and weeds--and how proud too, was she when she learned that she was _useful_! there is not a greater pleasure you can give to children, especially female children, than to make them feel they are already of value in the world, and serviceable as well as protected. weeks and months rolled away, and lenny still read, not only the books lent him by the doctor, but those he bought of mr. sprott. as for the bombs and shells against religion which the tinker carried in his bag, lenny was not induced to blow himself up with them. he had been reared from his cradle in simple love and reverence for the divine father, and the tender saviour, whose life beyond all records of human goodness, whose death beyond all epics of mortal heroism, no being whose infancy has been taught to supplicate the merciful and adore the holy, yea, even though his later life may be entangled amidst the thorns of some desolate pyrrhonism, can ever hear reviled and scoffed without a shock to the conscience and a revolt of the heart. as the deer recoils by instinct from the tiger, as the very look of the scorpion deters you from handling it, though you never saw a scorpion before, so the very first line in some ribald profanity on which the tinker put his slack finger, made lenny's blood run cold. safe, too, was the peasant boy from any temptation in works of a gross and licentious nature, not only because of the happy ignorance of his rural life, not because of a more enduring safeguard--genius! genius, that, manly, robust, healthful as it be, is long before it lose its instinctive dorian modesty: shame-faced, because so susceptible to glory--genius, that loves indeed to dream, but on the violet bank, not the dunghill. wherefore, even in the error of the senses, it seeks to escape from the sensual into worlds of fancy, subtle and refined. but apart from the passions, true genius is the most practical of all human gifts. like the apollo, whom the greek worshiped as its type, even arcady is its exile, not its home. soon weary of the dalliance of tempé, its ascends to its mission--the archer of the silver bow, the guide of the car of light. speaking more plainly, genius is the enthusiasm for self-improvement; it ceases or sleeps the moment it desists from seeking some object which it believes of value, and by that object it insensibly connects its self-improvement with the positive advance of the world. at present lenny's genius had no bias that was not to the positive and useful. it took the direction natural to his sphere, and the wants therein, viz., to the arts which we call mechanical. he wanted to know about steam-engines and artesian wells; and to know about them it was necessary to know something of mechanics and hydrostatics; so he bought popular elementary works on those mystic sciences, and set all the powers of his mind at work on experiments. noble and generous spirits are ye, who with small care for fame, and little reward from pelf, have opened to the intellects of the poor the portals of wisdom! i honor and revere ye; only do not think ye have done all that is needful. consider, i pray ye, whether so good a choice from the tinker's bag would have been made by a boy whom religion had not scared from the pestilent, and genius had not led to the self-improving. and lenny did not wholly escape from the mephitic portions of the motley elements from which his awakening mind drew its nurture. think not it was all pure oxygen that the panting lip drew in. no; there were still those inflammatory tracts. political i do not like to call them, for politics mean the art of government, and the tracts i speak of assailed all government which mankind has hitherto recognized. sad rubbish, perhaps, were such tracts to you, o sound thinker, in your easy-chair! or to you, practiced statesman, at your post on the treasury bench--to you, calm dignitary of a learned church--or to you, my lord judge, who may often have sent from your bar to the dire orcus of norfolk's isle the ghosts of men whom that rubbish, falling simultaneously on the bumps of acquisitiveness and combativeness, hath untimely slain. sad rubbish to you! but seems it such rubbish to the poor man, to whom it promises a paradise on the easy terms of upsetting a world? for ye see, these "appeals to operatives" represent that same world-upsetting as the simplest thing imaginable--a sort of two-and-two-make-four proposition. the poor have only got to set their strong hands to the axle, and heave-a-hoy! and hurrah for the topsy-turvy! then, just to put a little wholesome rage into the heave-a-hoy! it is so facile to accompany the eloquence of "appeals" with a kind of stir-the-bile-up statistics--"abuses of the aristocracy"--"jobs of the priesthood"--"expenses of army kept up for peers' younger sons"--"wars contracted for the villainous purpose of raising the rents of the landowners"--all arithmetically dished up, and seasoned with tales of every gentleman who has committed a misdeed, every clergyman who has dishonored his cloth; as if such instances were fair specimens of average gentlemen and ministers of religion! all this passionately advanced, (and observe, never answered, for that literature admits no controversialists, and the writer has it all his own way), may be rubbish; but it is out of such rubbish that operatives build barricades for attack, and legislators prisons for defense. our poor friend lenny drew plenty of this stuff from the tinker's bag. he thought it very clever and very eloquent; and he supposed the statistics were as true as mathematical demonstrations. a famous knowledge-diffuser is looking over my shoulder, and tells me, "increase education, and cheapen good books, and all this rubbish will disappear!" sir, i don't believe a word of it. if you printed ricardo and adam smith at a farthing a volume, i still believe they would be as little read by the operatives as they are nowadays by a very large proportion of highly-cultivated men. i still believe that while the press works, attacks on the rich, and propositions for heave-a-hoys, will always form a popular portion of the literature of labor. there's lenny fairfield reading a treatise on hydraulics, and constructing a model for a fountain into the bargain; but that does not prevent his acquiescence in any proposition for getting rid of a national debt, which he certainly never agreed to pay, and which he is told makes sugar and tea so shamefully dear. no. i tell you what does a little counteract those eloquent incentives to break his own head against the strong walls of the social system--it is, that he has two eyes in that head, which are not always employed in reading. and, having been told in print that masters are tyrants, parsons hypocrites or drones in the hive, and landowners vampires and bloodsuckers, he looks out into the little world around him, and, first he is compelled to acknowledge that his master is not a tyrant (perhaps because he is a foreigner and a philosopher, and, for what i and lenny know, a republican). but then parson dale, though high church to the marrow, is neither hypocrite nor drone. he has a very good living, it is true--much better than he ought to have, according to the "political" opinions of those tracts; but lenny is obliged to confess that, if parson dale were a penny the poorer, he would do a pennyworth's less good; and, comparing one parish with another, such as rood hall and hazeldean, he is dimly aware that there is no greater civilizer than a parson tolerably well off. then, too, squire hazeldean, though as arrant a tory as ever stood upon shoe-leather, is certainly not a vampire nor bloodsucker. he does not feed on the public; a great many of the public feed upon him: and, therefore, his practical experience a little staggers and perplexes lenny fairfield as to the gospel accuracy of his theoretical dogmas. masters, parsons, landowners! having, at the risk of all popularity, just given a _coup de patte_ to certain sages extremely the fashion at present, i am not going to let you off without an admonitory flea in the ear. don't suppose that any mere scribbling and typework will suffice to answer scribbling and typework set at work to demolish you--_write_ down that rubbish you can't--_live_ it down you may. if you are rich, like squire hazeldean, do good with your money; if you are poor, like signor riccabocca, do good with your kindness. see! there is lenny now receiving his week's wages; and though lenny knows that he can get higher wages in the very next parish, his blue eyes are sparkling with gratitude, not at the chink of the money, but at the poor exile's friendly talk on things apart from all service; while violante is descending the steps from the terrace, charged by her mother-in-law with a little basket of sago, and suchlike delicacies, for mrs. fairfield, who has been ailing the last few days. lenny will see the tinker as he goes home, and he will buy a most demosthenean "appeal"--a tract of tracts, upon the "propriety of strikes," and the avarice of masters. but, somehow or other, i think a few words from signor riccabocca, that did not cost the signor a farthing, and the sight of his mother's smile at the contents of the basket, which cost very little, will serve to neutralize the effects of that "appeal," much more efficaciously than the best article a brougham or a mill could write on the subject. chapter viii. spring had come again; and one beautiful may-day, leonard fairfield sate beside the little fountain which he had now actually constructed in the garden. the butterflies were hovering over the belt of flowers which he had placed around his fountain, and the birds were singing overhead. leonard fairfield was resting from his day's work, to enjoy his abstemious dinner, beside the cool play of the sparkling waters, and, with the yet keener appetite of knowledge, he devoured his book as he munched his crusts. a penny tract is the shoeing-horn of literature: it draws on a great many books, and some too tight to be very useful in walking. the penny tract quotes a celebrated writer, you long to read him; it props a startling assertion by a grave authority, you long to refer to it. during the nights of the past winter, leonard's intelligence had made vast progress: he had taught himself more than the elements of mechanics, and put to practice the principles he had acquired, not only in the hydraulical achievement of the fountain, nor in the still more notable application of science, commenced on the stream in which jackeymo had fished for minnows, and which lenny had diverted to the purpose of irrigating two fields, but in various ingenious contrivances for the facilitation or abridgment of labor, which had excited great wonder and praise in the neighborhood. on the other hand, those rabid little tracts, which dealt so summarily with the destinies of the human race, even when his growing reason, and the perusal of works more classical or more logical, had led him to perceive that they were illiterate, and to suspect that they jumped from premises to conclusions with a celerity very different from the careful ratiocination of mechanical science, had still, in the citations and references wherewith they abounded, lured him on to philosophers more specious and more perilous. out of the tinker's bag he had drawn a translation of condorcet's _progress of man_, and another of rousseau's _social contract_. these had induced him to select from the tracts in the tinker's miscellany those which abounded most in professions of philanthropy, and predictions of some coming golden age, to which old saturn's was a joke--tracts so mild and mother-like in their language, that it required a much more practical experience than lenny's to perceive that you would have to pass a river of blood before you had the slightest chance of setting foot on the flowery banks on which they invited you to repose--tracts which rouged poor christianity on the cheeks, clapped a crown of innocent daffodillies on her head, and set her to dancing a _pas de zephyr_ in the pastoral ballet in which st. simon pipes to the flock he shears; or having first laid it down as a preliminary axiom, that "the cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself-- yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve," substituted in place thereof monsieur fourier's symmetrical phalanstere, or mr. owen's architectural parallelogram. it was with some such tract that lenny was seasoning his crusts and his radishes, when riccabocca, bending his long dark face over the student's shoulder, said abruptly-- "_diavolo_, my friend! what on earth have you got there? just let me look at it, will you?" leonard rose respectfully, and colored deeply as he surrendered the tract to riccabocca. the wise man read the first page attentively, the second more cursorily, and only ran his eye over the rest. he had gone through too vast a range of problems political, not to have passed over that venerable _pons asinorum_ of socialism, on which fouriers and st. simons sit straddling and cry aloud that they have arrived at the last boundary of knowledge! "all this is as old as the hills," quoth riccabocca irreverently; "but the hills stand still, and this--there it goes!" and the sage pointed to a cloud emitted from his pipe. "did you ever read sir david brewster on optical delusions? no! well, i'll lend it to you. you will find therein a story of a lady who always saw a black cat on her hearth-rug. the black cat existed only in her fancy, but the hallucination was natural and reasonable--eh--what do you think?" "why, sir," said leonard, not catching the italian's meaning, "i don't exactly see that it was natural and reasonable." "foolish boy, yes! because black cats are things possible and known. but who ever saw upon earth a community of men such as sit on the hearth-rugs of messrs. owen and fourier? if the lady's hallucination was not reasonable, what is his, who believes in such visions as these?" leonard bit his lip. "my dear boy," cried riccabocca kindly, "the only thing sure and tangible to which these writers would lead you, lies at the first step, and that is what is commonly called a revolution. now, i know what that is. i have gone, not indeed through a revolution, but an attempt at one." leonard raised his eyes toward his master with a look of profound respect, and great curiosity. "yes," added riccabocca, and the face on which the boy gazed exchanged its usual grotesque and sardonic expression for one animated, noble, and heroic. "yes, not a revolution for chimeras, but for that cause which the coldest allow to be good, and which, when successful, all time approves as divine--the redemption of our native soil from the rule of the foreigner! i have shared in such an attempt. and," continued the italian mournfully, "recalling now all the evil passions it arouses, all the ties it dissolves, all the blood that it commands to flow, all the healthful industry it arrests, all the madmen that it arms, all the victims that it dupes, i question whether one man really honest, pure, and humane, who has once gone through such an ordeal, would ever hazard it again, unless he was assured that the victory was certain--ay, and the object for which he fights not to be wrested from his hands amidst the uproar of the elements that the battle has released." the italian paused, shaded his brow with his hand, and remained long silent. then, gradually resuming his ordinary tone, he continued-- "revolutions that have no definite objects made clear by the positive experience of history; revolutions, in a word, that aim less at substituting one law or one dynasty for another, than at changing the whole scheme of society, have been little attempted by real statesmen. even lycurgus is proved to be a myth who never existed. they are the suggestions of philosophers who lived apart from the actual world, and whose opinions (though generally they were very benevolent, good sort of men, and wrote in an elegant poetical style) one would no more take on a plain matter of life, than one would look upon virgil's _eclogues_ as a faithful picture of the ordinary pains and pleasures of the peasants who tend our sheep. read them as you would read poets, and they are delightful. but attempt to shape the world according to the poetry--and fit yourself for a madhouse. the farther off the age is from the realization of such projects, the more these poor philosophers have indulged them. thus, it was amidst the saddest corruption of court manners that it became the fashion in paris to sit for one's picture with a crook in one's hand, as alexis or daphne. just as liberty was fast dying out of greece, and the successors of alexander were founding their monarchies, and rome was growing up to crush, in its iron grasp, all states save its own, plato withdraws his eyes from the world, to open them in his dreamy atlantis. just in the grimmest period of english history, with the ax hanging over his head, sir thomas more gives you his _utopia_. just when the world is to be the theatre of a new sesostris, the dreamers of france tell you that the age is too enlightened for war, that man is henceforth to be governed by pure reason and live in a paradise. very pretty reading all this to a man like me, lenny, who can admire and smile at it. but to you, to the man who has to work for his living, to the man who thinks it would be so much more pleasant to live at his ease in a phalanstere than to work eight or ten hours a day; to the man of talent, and action, and industry, whose future is invested in that tranquillity, and order of a state, in which talent, and action and industry are a certain capital; why, messrs. coutts, the great bankers, had better encourage a theory to upset the system of banking! whatever disturbs society, yea, even by a causeless panic, much more by an actual struggle, falls first upon the market of labor, and thence affects, prejudicially, every department of intelligence. in such times the arts are arrested; literature is neglected; people are too busy to read any thing save appeals to their passions. and capital, shaken in its sense of security, no longer ventures boldly through the land, calling forth all the energies of toil and enterprise, and extending to every workman his reward. now, lenny, take this piece of advice. you are young, clever, and aspiring: men rarely succeed in changing the world; but a man seldom fails of success if he lets the world alone, and resolves to make the best of it. you are in the midst of the great crisis of your life; it is the struggle between the new desires knowledge excites, and that sense of poverty, which those desires convert either into hope and emulation, or into envy and despair. i grant that it is an up-hill work that lies before you; but don't you think it is always easier to climb a mountain than it is to level it? these books call on you to level the mountain; and that mountain is the property of other people, subdivided among a great many proprietors, and protected by law. at the first stroke of the pick-ax, it is ten to one but what you are taken up for a trespass. but the path up the mountain is a right of way uncontested. you may be safe at the summit, before (even if the owners are fools enough to let you) you could have leveled a yard. _cospetto!_" quoth the doctor, "it is more than two thousand years ago since poor plato began to level it, and the mountain is as high as ever!" thus saying, riccabocca came to the end of his pipe, and, stalking thoughtfully away, he left leonard fairfield trying to extract light from the smoke. chapter ix. shortly after this discourse of riccabocca's, an incident occurred to leonard that served to carry his mind into new directions. one evening, when his mother was out, he was at work on a new mechanical contrivance, and had the misfortune to break one of the instruments which he employed. now it will be remembered that his father had been the squire's head-carpenter; the widow had carefully hoarded the tools of his craft, which had belonged to her poor mark; and though she occasionally lent them to leonard, she would not give them up to his service. among these, leonard knew that he should find the one that he wanted; and being much interested in his contrivance, he could not wait till his mother's return. the tools, with other little relics of the lost, were kept in a large trunk in mrs. fairfield's sleeping room; the trunk was not locked, and leonard went to it without ceremony or scruple. in rummaging for the instrument, his eye fell upon a bundle of mss.; and he suddenly recollected that when he was a mere child, and before he much knew the difference between verse and prose, his mother had pointed to these mss. and said, "one day or other, when you can read nicely, i'll let you look at these lenny. my poor mark wrote such verses--ah, he _was_ a scollard!" leonard, reasonably enough, thought that the time had now arrived when he was worthy the privilege of reading the paternal effusions, and he took forth the mss. with a keen but melancholy interest. he recognized his father's handwriting, which he had often seen before in account-books and memoranda, and read eagerly some trifling poems, which did not show much genius, nor much mastery of language and rhythm--such poems, in short as a self-educated man, with poetic taste and feeling, rather than poetic inspiration or artistic culture, might compose with credit, but not for fame. but suddenly, as he turned over these "occasional pieces," leonard came to others in a different handwriting--a woman's handwriting--small, and fine, and exquisitely formed. he had scarcely read six lines of these last, before his attention was irresistibly chained. they were of a different order of merit from poor mark's; they bore the unmistakable stamp of genius. like the poetry of women in general, they were devoted to personal feeling--they were not the mirror of a world, but reflections of a solitary heart. yet this is the kind of poetry most pleasing to the young. and the verses in question had another attraction for leonard: they seemed to express some struggle akin to his own--some complaint against the actual condition of the writer's life, some sweet melodious murmurs at fortune. for the rest, they were characterized by a vein of sentiment so elevated that, if written by a man, it would have run into exaggeration; written by a woman, the romance was carried off by so many genuine revelations of sincere, deep, pathetic feeling, that it was always natural, though true to a nature from which you would not augur happiness. leonard was still absorbed in the perusal of these poems, when mrs. fairfield entered the room. "what have you been about, lenny? searching in my box?" "i came to look for my father's bag of tools, mother, and i found these papers, which you said i might read some day." "i doesn't wonder you did not hear me when i came in," said the widow sighing. "i used to sit still for the hour together, when my poor mark read his poems to me. there was such a pretty one about the 'peasant's fireside,' lenny--have you got hold of that?" "yes, dear mother; and i remarked the allusion to you: it brought tears to my eyes. but these verses are not my father's--whose are they? they seem a woman's hand." mrs. fairfield looked--changed color--grew faint--and seated herself. "poor, poor nora!" said she, faltering. "i did not know as they were there; mark kep 'em; they got among his--" leonard.--"who was nora!" mrs. fairfield.--"who?--child--who? nora was--was my own--own sister." leonard (in great amaze, contrasting his ideal of the writer of these musical lines, in that graceful hand, with his homely uneducated mother, who can neither read nor write).--"your sister--is it possible? my aunt, then. how comes it you never spoke of her before? oh! you should be so proud of her, mother." mrs. fairfield (clasping her hands).--"we were proud of her, all of us--father, mother--all! she was so beautiful and so good, and not proud she! though she looked like the first lady in the land. oh! nora, nora!" leonard (after a pause).--"but she must have been highly educated?" mrs. fairfield.--"'deed she was!" leonard.--"how was that?" mrs. fairfield (rocking herself to and fro in her chair.)--"oh! my lady was her godmother--lady lansmere i mean--and took a fancy to her when she was that high! and had her to stay at the park, and wait on her ladyship; and then she put her to school, and nora was so clever that nothing would do but she must go to london as a governess. but don't talk of it, boy! don't talk of it!" leonard.--"why not, mother? what has become of her? where is she?" mrs. fairfield (bursting into a paroxysm of tears.)--"in her grave--in her cold grave! dead, dead!" leonard was inexpressibly grieved and shocked. it is the attribute of the poet to seem always living, always a friend. leonard felt as if some one very dear had been suddenly torn from his heart. he tried to console his mother; but her emotion was contagious, and he wept with her. "and how long has she been dead?" he asked at last, in mournful accents. "many's the long year, many; but," added mrs. fairfield, rising, and putting her tremulous hand on leonard's shoulder, "you'll just never talk to me about her--i can't bear it--it breaks my heart. i can bear better to talk of mark--come down stairs--come." "may i not keep these verses, mother? do let me." "well, well, those bits o' paper be all she left behind her--yes, keep them, but put back mark's. are _they_ all here?--sure?" and the widow, though she could not read her husband's verses, looked jealously at the mss. written in his irregular large scrawl, and, smoothing them carefully, replaced them in the trunk, and resettled over them some sprigs of lavender, which leonard had unwittingly disturbed. "but," said leonard, as his eye again rested on the beautiful handwriting of his lost aunt--"but you call her nora--i see she signs herself l." "leonora was her name. i said she was my lady's god-child. we called her nora for short--" "leonora--and i am leonard--is that how i came by the name?" "yes, yes--do hold your tongue, boy," sobbed poor mrs. fairfield; and she could not be soothed nor coaxed into continuing or renewing a subject which was evidently associated with insupportable pain. chapter x. it is difficult to exaggerate the effect that this discovery produced on leonard's train of thought. some one belonging to his own humble race had, then, preceded him in his struggling flight toward the loftier regions of intelligence and desire. it was like the mariner amidst unknown seas, who finds carved upon some desert isle a familiar household name. and this creature of genius and of sorrow--whose existence he had only learned by her song, and whose death created, in the simple heart of her sister, so passionate a grief, after the lapse of so many years--supplied to the romance awaking in his young heart the ideal which it unconsciously sought. he was pleased to hear that she had been beautiful and good. he paused from his books to muse on her, and picture her image to his fancy. that there was some mystery in her fate was evident to him; and while that conviction deepened his interest, the mystery itself, by degrees, took a charm which he was not anxious to dispel. he resigned himself to mrs. fairfield's obstinate silence. he was contented to rank the dead among those holy and ineffable images which we do not seek to unvail. youth and fancy have many secret hoards of idea which they do not desire to impart, even to those most in their confidence. i doubt the depth of feeling in any man who has not certain recesses in his soul into which none may enter. hitherto, as i have said, the talents of leonard fairfield had been more turned to things positive than to the ideal; to science and investigation of fact than to poetry, and that airier truth in which poetry has its element. he had read our greater poets, indeed, but without thought of imitating; and rather from the general curiosity to inspect all celebrated monuments of the human mind, than from that especial predilection for verse which is too common in childhood and youth to be any sure sign of a poet. but now these melodies, unknown to all the world beside, rang in his ear, mingled with his thoughts--set, as it were, his whole life to music. he read poetry with a different sentiment--it seemed to him that he had discovered its secret. and so reading, the passion seized him, and "the numbers came." to many minds, at the commencement of our grave and earnest pilgrimage, i am vandal enough to think that the indulgence of poetic taste and reverie does great and lasting harm; that it serves to enervate the character, give false ideas of life, impart the semblance of drudgery to the noble toils and duties of the active man. all poetry would not do this--not, for instance, the classical, in its diviner masters--not the poetry of homer, of virgil, of sophocles--not, perhaps, even that of the indolent horace. but the poetry which youth usually loves and appreciates the best--the poetry of mere sentiment--does so in minds already over predisposed to the sentimental, and which require bracing to grow into healthful manhood. on the other hand, even this latter kind of poetry, which is peculiarly modern, does suit many minds of another mould--minds which our modern life, with its hard positive forms, tends to produce. and as in certain climates plants and herbs, peculiarly adapted as antidotes to those diseases most prevalent in the atmosphere, are profusely sown, as it were, by the benignant providence of nature--so it may be that the softer and more romantic species of poetry, which comes forth in harsh, money-making, unromantic times, is intended as curatives and counter-poisons. the world is so much with us, nowadays, that we need have something that prates to us, albeit even in too fine an euphuism, of the moon and stars. certes, to leonard fairfield, at that period of his intellectual life, the softness of our helicon descended as healing dews. in his turbulent and unsettled ambition, in his vague grapple with the giant forms of political truths, in his bias toward the application of science to immediate practical purposes, this lovely vision of the muse came in the white robe of the peacemaker; and with upraised hand, pointing to serene skies, she opened to him fair glimpses of the beautiful, which is given to peasant as to prince--showed to him that on the surface of earth there is something nobler than fortune--that he who can view the world as a poet is always at soul a king; while to practical purpose itself, that larger and more profound invention, which poetry stimulates, supplied the grand design and the subtle view--leading him beyond the mere ingenuity of the mechanic, and habituating him to regard the inert force of the matter at his command with the ambition of the discoverer. but, above all, the discontent that was within him finding a vent, not in deliberate war upon this actual world, but through the purifying channels of song--in the vent itself it evaporated, it was lost. by accustoming ourselves to survey all things with the spirit that retains and reproduces them only in their lovelier or grander aspects, a vast philosophy of toleration for what we before gazed on with scorn or hate insensibly grows upon us. leonard looked into his heart after the enchantress had breathed upon it; and through the mists of the fleeting and tender melancholy which betrayed where she had been, he beheld a new sun of delight and joy dawning over the landscape of human life. thus, though she was dead and gone from his actual knowledge, this mysterious kinswoman--"a voice and nothing more"--had spoken to him, soothed, elevated, cheered, attuned each discord into harmony; and, if now permitted from some serener sphere to behold the life that her soul thus strangely influenced, verily, with yet holier joy, the saving and lovely spirit might have glided onward in the eternal progress. we call the large majority of human lives _obscure_. presumptuous that we are! how know we what lives a single thought retained from the dust of nameless graves may have lighted to renown? chapter xi. it was about a year after leonard's discovery of the family mss. that parson dale borrowed the quietest pad mare in the squire's stables, and set out on an equestrian excursion. he said that he was bound on business connected with his old parishioners of lansmere; for, as it has been incidentally implied in a previous chapter, he had been connected with that borough town (and, i may here add, in the capacity of curate) before he had been inducted into the living of hazeldean. it was so rarely that the parson stirred from home, that this journey to a town more than twenty miles off was regarded as a most daring adventure, both at the hall and at the parsonage. mrs. dale could not sleep the whole previous night with thinking of it; and though she had naturally one of her worst nervous headaches on the eventful morn, she yet suffered no hands less thoughtful than her own to pack up the saddlebags which the parson had borrowed along with the pad. nay, so distrustful was she of the possibility of the good man's exerting the slightest common sense in her absence, that she kept him close at her side while she was engaged in that same operation of packing up--showing him the exact spot in which the clean shirt was put, and how nicely the old slippers were packed up in one of his own sermons. she implored him not to mistake the sandwiches for his shaving-soap, and made him observe how carefully she had provided against such confusion, by placing them as far apart from each other as the nature of saddlebags will admit. the poor parson--who was really by no means an absent man, but as little likely to shave himself with sandwiches and lunch upon soap as the most common-place mortal may be--listened with conjugal patience, and thought that man never had such a wife before; nor was it without tears in his own eyes that he tore himself from the farewell embrace of his weeping carry. i confess, however, that it was with some apprehension that he set his foot in the stirrup, and trusted his person to the mercies of an unfamiliar animal. for whatever might be mr. dale's minor accomplishments as a man and parson, horsemanship was not his forte. indeed, i doubt if he had taken the reins in his hand more than twice since he had been married. the squire's surly old groom, mat, was in attendance with the pad; and, to the parson's gentle inquiry whether mat was quite sure that the pad was quite safe, replied laconically, "oi, oi, give her her head." "give her her head!" repeated mr. dale, rather amazed, for he had not the slightest intention of taking away that part of the beast's frame, so essential to its vital economy--"give her her head!" "oi, oi; and don't jerk her up like that, or she'll fall a doincing on her hind-legs." the parson instantly slackened the reins; and mrs. dale--who had tarried behind to control her tears--now running to the door for "more last words," he waved his hand with courageous amenity, and ambled forth into the lane. our equestrian was absorbed at first in studying the idiosyncrasies of the pad, and trying thereby to arrive at some notion of her general character: guessing, for instance, why she raised one ear and laid down the other; why she kept bearing so close to the left that she brushed his leg against the hedge; and why, when she arrived at a little side-gate in the fields, which led toward the home-farm, she came to a full stop, and fell to rubbing her nose against the rail--an occupation from which the parson, finding all civil remonstrances in vain, at length diverted her by a timorous application of the whip. this crisis on the road fairly passed, the pad seemed to comprehend that she had a journey before her, and giving a petulant whisk of her tail, quickened her amble into a short trot, which soon brought the parson into the high road, and nearly opposite the casino. here, sitting on the gate which led to his abode, and shaded by his umbrella, he beheld dr. riccabocca. the italian lifted his eyes from the book he was reading, and stared hard at the parson; and he--not venturing to withdraw his whole attention from the pad (who, indeed, set up both her ears at the apparition of riccabocca, and evinced symptoms of that surprise and superstitious repugnance at unknown objects which goes by the name of "shying"), looked askance at riccabocca. "don't stir, please," said the parson, "or i fear you'll alarm this creature; it seems a nervous, timid thing;--soho--gently--gently." and he fell to patting the mare with great unction. the pad thus encouraged, overcame her first natural astonishment at the sight of riccabocca and the red umbrella; and having before been in the casino on sundry occasions, and sagaciously preferring places within the range of experience to bournes neither cognate nor conjecturable, she moved gravely up toward the gate on which the italian sate; and, after eying him a moment--as much as to say, "i wish you would get off"--came to a dead lock. "well," said riccabocca, "since your horse seems more disposed to be polite to me than yourself, mr. dale, i take the opportunity of your present involuntary pause to congratulate you on your elevation in life, and to breathe a friendly prayer that pride may not have a fall!" "tut," said the parson, affecting an easy air, though still contemplating the pad, who appeared to have fallen into a quiet doze, "it is true that i have not ridden much of late years, and the squire's horses are very high fed and spirited; but there is no more harm in them than their master when one once knows their ways." "chi và piano, và sano, e chi va sano và lontano," said riccabocca, pointing to the saddle-bags. "you go slowly, therefore safely; and he who goes safely may go far. you seem prepared for a journey?" "i am," said the parson; "and on a matter that concerns you a little." "me!" exclaimed riccabocca--"concerns me!" "yes, so far as the chance of depriving you of a servant whom you like and esteem affects you." "oh," said riccabocca, "i understand: you have hinted to me very often that i or knowledge, or both together, have unfitted leonard fairfield for service." "i did not say that exactly; i said that you have fitted him for something higher than service but do not repeat this to him. and i can not yet say more to you, for i am very doubtful as to the success of my mission; and it will not do to unsettle poor leonard until we are sure that we can improve his condition." "of that you can never be sure," quoth the wise man, shaking his head; "and i can't say that i am unselfish enough not to bear you a grudge for seeking to decoy away from me an invaluable servant--faithful, steady, intelligent, and (added riccabocca, warming as he approached the climacteric adjective)--exceedingly cheap! nevertheless go, and heaven speed you. i am not an alexander, to stand between man and the sun." "you are a noble great-hearted creature, signor riccabocca, in spite of your cold-blooded proverbs and villainous books." the parson, as he said this, brought down the whip-hand with so indiscreet an enthusiasm on the pad's shoulder, that the poor beast, startled out of her innocent doze, made a bolt forward, which nearly precipitated riccabocca from his seat on the stile, and then turning round--as the parson tugged desperately at the rein--caught the bit between her teeth, and set off at a canter. the parson lost both his stirrups; and when he regained them (as the pad slackened her pace), and had time to breathe and look about him, riccabocca and the casino were both out of sight. "certainly," quoth parson dale, as he resettled himself with great complacency, and a conscious triumph that he was still on the pad's back--"certainly it is true 'that the noblest conquest ever made by man was that of the horse:' a fine creature it is--a very fine creature--and uncommonly difficult to sit on,--especially without stirrups." firmly in his stirrups the parson planted his feet; and the heart within him was very proud. chapter xii. lansmere was situated in the county adjoining that which contained the village of hazeldean. late at noon the parson crossed the little stream which divided the two shires, and came to an inn, which was placed at an angle, where the great main road branched off into two directions--the one leading toward lansmere, the other going more direct to london. at this inn the pad stopped, and put down both ears with the air of a pad who has made up her mind to bait. and the parson himself, feeling very warm, and somewhat sore, said to the pad, benignly: "it is just--thou shalt have corn and water!". dismounting, therefore, and finding himself very stiff, as soon as he had reached _terra firma_, the parson consigned the pad to the hostler, and walked into the sanded parlor of the inn, to repose himself on a very hard windsor chair. he had been alone rather more than half-an-hour, reading a county newspaper which smelt much of tobacco, and trying to keep off the flies that gathered round him in swarms, as if they had never before seen a parson, and were anxious to ascertain how the flesh of him tasted--when a stage-coach stopped at the inn. a traveler got out with his carpet-bag in his hand, and was shown into the sanded parlor. the parson rose politely, and made a bow. the traveler touched his hat, without taking it off--looked at mr. dale from top to toe--then walked to the window, and whistled a lively, impatient tune, then strode toward the fireplace and rang the bell; then stared again at the parson; and that gentleman having courteously laid down the newspaper, the traveler seized it, threw himself on a chair, flung one of his legs over the table, tossed the other up on the mantle-piece, and began reading the paper, while he tilted the chair on its hind-legs with so daring a disregard to the ordinary position of chairs and their occupants, that the shuddering parson expected every moment to see him come down on the back of his skull. moved, therefore, to compassion, mr. dale said, mildly: "those chairs are very treacherous, sir; i'm afraid you'll be down." "eh," said the traveler, looking up much astonished. "eh, down?--oh, you're satirical, sir!" "satirical, sir? upon my word, no!" exclaimed the parson, earnestly. "i think every free-born man has a right to sit as he pleases in his own house," resumed the traveler, with warmth; "and an inn is his own house, i guess, so long as he pays his score. betty, my dear!" for the chamber-maid had now replied to the bell. "i han't betty, sir; do you want she?" "no, sally--cold brandy-and-water--and a biscuit." "i han't sally, either," muttered the chamber-maid; but the traveler, turning round, showed so smart a neckcloth, and so comely a face, that she smiled, colored, and went her way. the traveler now rose, and flung down the paper. he took out a penknife, and began paring his nails. suddenly desisting from this elegant occupation, his eye caught sight of the parson's shovel-hat, which lay on a chair in the corner. "you're a clergyman, i reckon, sir," said the traveler, with a slight sneer. again mr. dale bowed--bowed in part deprecatingly--in part with dignity. it was a bow that said, "no offense, sir! but i _am_ a clergyman, and i'm not ashamed of it!" "going far?" asked the traveler. parson.--"not very." traveler.--"in a chaise or fly? if so, and we are going the same way--halves!" parson.--"halves?" traveler.--"yes, i'll pay half the damage--pikes inclusive." parson.--"you are very good, sir: but" (_spoken with pride_), "i am on horseback." traveler.--"on horseback! well, i should not have guessed that! you don't look like it. where did you say you were going?" "i did _not_ say where i was going, sir," said the parson, drily, for he was much offended at that vague and ungrammatical remark, applicable to his horsemanship, that "he did not look like it!" "close!" said the traveler, laughing; "an old traveler, i reckon!" the parson made no reply; but he took up his shovel-hat, and, with a bow more majestic than the previous one, walked out to see if his pad had finished her corn. the animal had indeed finished all the corn afforded to her, which was not much, and in a few minutes more mr. dale resumed his journey. he had performed about three miles, when the sound of wheels behind made him turn his head, and he perceived a chaise driven very fast, while out of the windows thereof dangled strangely a pair of human legs. the pad began to curvet as the post-horses rattled behind, and the parson had only an indistinct vision of a human face supplanting these human legs. the traveler peered out at him as he whirled by--saw mr. dale tossed up and down on the saddle, and cried out: "how's the leather?" "leather!" soliloquized the parson, as the pad recomposed herself. "what does he mean by that? leather! a very vulgar man. but i got rid of him cleverly!" mr. dale arrived without further adventure at lansmere. he put up at the principal inn--refreshed himself by a general ablution--and sat down with good appetite to his beef-steak and pint of port. the parson was a better judge of the physiognomy of man than that of the horse; and after a satisfactory glance at the civil, smirking landlord, who removed the cover and set on the wine, he ventured on an attempt at conversation. "is my lord at the park?" landlord, still more civilly than before: "no, sir; his lordship and my lady have gone to town to meet lord l'estrange." "lord l'estrange! he is in england, then?" "why, so i heard," replied the landlord; "but we never see him here now. i remember him a very pretty young man. every one was fond of him, and proud of him. but what pranks he did play when he was a lad! we hoped he would come in for our boro' some of these days, but he has taken to foren parts--more's the pity. i am a reg'lar blue, sir, as i ought to be. the blue candidate always does me the honor to come to the lansmere arms. 'tis only the low party puts up with the boar," added the landlord, with a look of ineffable disgust. "i hope you like the wine, sir?" "very good, and seems old." "bottled these eighteen years, sir. i had in the cask for the great election of dashmore and egerton. i have little left of it, and i never give it but to old friends like--for, i think, sir, though you be grown stout, and look more grand, i may say that i've had the pleasure of seeing you before." "that's true, i dare say, though i fear i was never a very good customer." landlord.--"ah, it _is_ mr. dale, then! i thought so when you came into the hall. i hope your lady is quite well, and the squire, too; a fine pleasant-spoken gentleman; no fault of his if mr. egerton went wrong. well, we have never seen him--i mean mr. egerton--since that time. i don't wonder he stays away; but my lord's son, who was brought up here--it an't nat'ral-like that he should turn his back on us!" mr. dale made no reply, and the landlord was about to retire, when the parson, pouring out another glass of the port, said: "there must be great changes in the parish. is mr. morgan, the medical man, still here?" "no, indeed; he took out his ploma after you left, and became a real doctor; and a pretty practice he had, too, when he took, all of a sudden, to some new-fangled way of physicking--i think they calls it homy-something--" "homoeopathy?" "that's it--something against all reason; and so he lost his practice here and went up to lunnun. i have not heard of him since." "do the avenels keep their old house?" "oh yes!--and are pretty well off, i hear say. john is always poorly; though he still goes now and then to the odd fellows, and takes his glass; but his wife comes and fetches him away before he can do himself any harm." "mrs. avenel is the same as ever." "she holds her head higher, i think," said the landlord, smiling. "she was always--not exactly proud like, but what i calls gumptious." "i never heard that word before," said the parson, laying down his knife and fork. "bumptious, indeed, though i believe it is not in the dictionary, has crept into familiar parlance, especially among young folks at school and college." "bumptious is bumptious, and gumptious is gumptious," said the landlord, delighted to puzzle a parson. "now the town beadle is bumptious and mrs. avenel is gumptious." "she is a very respectable woman," said mr. dale, somewhat rebukingly. "in course, sir, all gumptious folks are; they value themselves on their respectability, and looks down on their neighbors." parson (still philologically occupied). "gumptious--gumptious. i think i remember the substantive at school--not that my master taught it to me. 'gumption,' it means cleverness." landlord, (doggedly).--"there's gumption and gumptious! gumption is knowing; but when i say sum un is gumptious, i mean--though that's more vulgar like--sum un who does not think small beer of hisself. you take me, sir?" "i think i do," said the parson, half-smiling. "i believe the avenels have only two of their children alive still--their daughter, who married mark fairfield, and a son who went off to america?" "ah, but he made his fortune there, and has come back." "indeed! i'm very glad to hear it. he has settled at lansmere?" "no, sir. i hear as he's bought a property a long way off. but he comes to see his parents pretty often--so john tells me--but i can't say that i ever see him. i fancy dick doesn't like to be seen by folks who remember him playing in the kennel." "not unnatural," said the parson indulgently; "but he visits his parents; he is a good son, at all events, then?" "i've nothing to say against him. dick was a wild chap before he took himself off. i never thought he would make his fortune; but the avenels are a clever set. do you remember poor nora--the rose of lansmere, as they called her? ah, no, i think she went up to lunnun afore your time, sir." "humph!" said the parson drily. "well, i think you may take away now. it will be dark soon, and i'll just stroll out and look about me." "there's a nice tart coming, sir." "thank you, i've dined." the parson put on his hat and sallied forth into the streets. he eyed the houses on either hand with that melancholy and wistful interest with which, in middle life, we revisit scenes familiar to us in youth--surprised to find either so little change or so much, and recalling, by fits and snatches, old associations and past emotions. the long high-street which he threaded now began to change its bustling character, and slide, as it were gradually, into the high road of a suburb. on the left, the houses gave way to the moss-grown pales of lansmere park: to the right, though houses still remained, they were separated from each other by gardens, and took the pleasing appearance of villas--such villas as retired tradesmen or their widows, old maids, and half-pay officers, select for the evening of their days. mr. dale looked at these villas with the deliberate attention of a man awakening his power of memory, and at last stopped before one, almost the last on the road, and which faced the broad patch of sward that lay before the lodge of lansmere park. an old pollard oak stood near it, and from the oak there came a low discordant sound: it was the hungry cry of young ravens, awaiting the belated return of the parent bird. mr. dale put his hand to his brow, paused a moment, and then, with a hurried step, passed through the little garden and knocked at the door. a light was burning in the parlor, and mr. dale's eye caught through the window a vague outline of three forms. there was an evident bustle within at the sound of the knocks. one of the forms rose and disappeared. a very prim, neat, middle-aged maid-servant, now appeared at the threshold, and austerely inquired the visitor's business. "i want to see mr. or mrs. avenel. say that i have come many miles to see them; and take in this card." the maid-servant took the card, and half-closed the door. at least three minutes elapsed before she re-appeared. "missis says it's late, sir; but walk in." the parson accepted the not very gracious invitation, stepped across the little hall, and entered the parlor. old john avenel, a mild-looking man, who seemed slightly paralytic, rose slowly from his arm-chair. mrs. avenel, in an awfully stiff, clean, and calvinistical cap, and a gray dress, every fold of which bespoke respectability and staid repute--stood erect on the floor, and, fixing on the parson a cold and cautious eye, said-- "you do the like of us great honor, mr. dale--take a chair! you call upon business?" "of which i have apprised you by letter, mr. avenel." "my husband is very poorly." "a poor creature!" said john feebly, and as if in compassion of himself. "i can't get about as i used to do. but it ben't near election time, be it, sir." "no, john," said mrs. avenel, placing her husband's arm within her own. "you must lie down a bit, while i talk to the gentleman." "i'm a real good blue," said poor john; "but i ain't quite the man i was;" and, leaning heavily on his wife, he left the room, turning round at the threshold, and saying, with, great urbanity--"any thing to oblige, sir?" mr. dale was much touched. he had remembered john avenel the comeliest, the most active, and the most cheerful man in lansmere; great at glee club and cricket (though then stricken in years), greater in vestries; reputed greatest in elections. "last scene of all," murmured the parson; "and oh well, turning from the poet, may we cry with the disbelieving philosopher. 'poor, poor humanity!'"[ ] [footnote : mr. dale probably here alludes to lord bolingbroke's ejaculation as he stood by the dying pope; but his memory does not serve him with the exact words.] in a few minutes mrs. avenel returned. she took a chair, at some distance from the parson's, and, resting one hand on the elbow of the chair, while with the other she stiffly smoothed the stiff gown, she said-- "now, sir." that "now, sir," had in its sound something sinister and warlike. this the shrewd parson recognized, with his usual tact. he edged his chair nearer to mrs. avenel, and placing his hand on hers-- "yes, now then, and as friend to friend." (_to be continued._) victims of science. there is a proverb which says, "better is the enemy of well." perhaps we may go further, and say, that "well sometimes makes us regret bad." you would have confessed the truth of this latter axiom if you had known, as i did, an excellent young man named horace castillet, who had been gifted by providence with good health, powerful intellect, an amiable disposition, and many other perfections, accompanied by one single drawback. he had a distorted spine and crooked limbs, the consciousness of which defects prevented him from rushing into the gayety and vain dissipation which so often ensnare youth. forsaking the flowery paths of love and pleasure, he steadily pursued the rough, up-hill road of diligent, persevering study. he wrought with ardor, and already success crowned his efforts. doubtless bitter regrets sometimes troubled his hours of solitary study, but he was amply consoled by the prospect of fortune and well-earned fame which lay before him. so he always appeared in society amiable and cheerful, enlivening the social circle with the sallies of his wit and genius. he used sometimes to say, laughing: "fair ladies, mock me, but i will take my revenge by obliging them to admire!" one day a surgeon of high repute met horace, and said to him: "i can repair the wrong which nature has done you: profit by the late discoveries of science, and be, at the same time, a great and a handsome man." horace consented. during some months he retired from society, and when he reappeared, his most intimate friends could scarcely recognize him. "yes," said he, "it is i myself: this tall, straight, well-made man is your friend horace castillet. behold the miracle which science has wrought! this metamorphosis has cost me cruel suffering. for months i lay stretched on a species of rack, and endured the tortures of a prisoner in the inquisition. but i bore them all, and here i am, a new creature! now, gay comrades, lead me whither you will; let me taste the pleasures of the world, without any longer having to fear its raillery!" if the name of horace castillet is unspoken among those of great men--if it is now sunk in oblivion, shall we not blame for this the science which he so much lauded? deeply did the ardent young man drink of this world's poisoned springs. farewell to study, fame, and glory! Æsop, perhaps, might never have composed his fables had orthopedia been invented in his time. horace castillet lost not only his talents, but a large legacy destined for him by an uncle, in order to make him amends for his natural defects. his uncle, seeing him no longer deformed in body and upright in mind, chose another heir. after having spent the best years of his life in idleness and dissipation, horace is now poor, hopeless, and miserable. he said lately to one of his few remaining friends: "i was ignorant of the treasure i possessed. i have acted like the traveler who should throw away his property in order to walk more lightly across a plain!" the surgeon had another deformed patient, a very clever working mechanic, whose talents made him rich and happy. when he was perfectly cured, and about to return to his workshop, the conscription seized him, finding him fit to serve the state. he was sent to africa, and perished there in battle. a gentleman who had the reputation of being an original thinker, could not speak without a painful stutter; a skillful operator restored to him the free use of his tongue, and the world, to its astonishment, discovered that he was little better than a fool! hesitation had given a sort of originality to his discourse. he had time to reflect before he spoke. stopping short in the middle of a sentence had occasionally a happy effect; and a half-spoken word seemed to imply far more than it expressed. but when the flow of his language was no longer restrained, he began to listen to his own commonplace declamation with a complacency which assuredly was not shared by his auditors. one fine day a poor blind man was seated on the pont-royal in paris, waiting for alms. the passers-by were bestowing their money liberally, when a handsome carriage stopped near the mendicant, and a celebrated oculist stepped out. he went up to the blind man, examined his eyeballs, and said--"come with me; i will restore your sight." the beggar obeyed; the operation was successful; and the journals of the day were filled with praises of the doctor's skill and philanthropy. the ex-blind man subsisted for some time on a small sum of money which his benefactor had given him; and when it was spent, he returned to his former post on the pont-royal. scarcely, however, had he resumed his usual appeal, when a policeman laid his hand on him, and ordered him to desist, on pain of being taken up. "you mistake," said the mendicant, producing a paper; "here is my legal license to beg, granted by the magistrates." "stuff!" cried the official; "this license is for a _blind_ man, and you seem to enjoy excellent sight." our hero, in despair, ran to the oculist's house, intending to seek compensation for the doubtful benefit conferred on him; but the man of science had gone on a tour through germany, and the aggrieved patient found himself compelled to adopt the hard alternative of _working_ for his support, and abandoning the easy life of a professed beggar. some years since there appeared on the boards of a parisian theatre an excellent and much-applauded comic actor named samuel. like many a wiser man before him, he fell deeply in love with a beautiful girl, and wrote to offer her his hand, heart, and his yearly salary of francs. a flat refusal was returned. poor samuel rivaled his comrade, the head tragedian of the company, in his dolorous expressions of despair; but when, after a time, his excitement cooled down, he dispatched a friend, a trusty envoy, with a commission to try and soften the hard-hearted beauty. alas, it was in vain! "she does not like you," said the candid embassador; "she says you are ugly; that your eyes frighten her; and, besides, she is about to be married to a young man whom she loves." fresh exclamations of despair from samuel. "come," said his friend, after musing for a while, "if this marriage be, as i suspect, all a sham, you may have her yet." "explain yourself?" "you know that, not to mince the matter, you have a frightful squint?" "i know it." "science will remove that defect by an easy and almost painless operation." no sooner said than done. samuel underwent the operation for strabismus, and it succeeded perfectly. his eyes were now straight and handsome; but the marriage, after all, was no sham--the lady became another's, and poor samuel was forced to seek for consolation in the exercise of his profession. he was to appear in his best character: the curtain rose, and loud hissing saluted him. "samuel!" "where is samuel?" "we want samuel!" was vociferated by pit and gallery. when silence was partly restored, the actor advanced to the footlights and said--"here i am, gentlemen: i am samuel!" "out with the impostor!" was the cry, and such a tumult arose, that the unlucky actor was forced to fly from the stage. he had lost the grotesque expression, the comic mask, which used to set the house in a roar: he could no longer appear in his favorite characters. the operation for strabismus had changed his destiny: he was unfitted for tragedy, and was forced, after a time, to take the most insignificant parts, which barely afforded him a scanty subsistence. "let _well_ alone" is a wise admonition: "let _bad_ alone" may sometimes be a wiser. address to gray hair. thou silvery braid, now banded o'er my brow, before thy monitory voice i bow; obedient to thy mandate, youth forget, and strive thy word to hear without regret. why should regret attend that onward change, which tells that time is coming to its range-- its border line, which god approves and seals, as crown of glory to the man who feels content in ways of righteousness to dwell? to such gray hair does not of weakness tell; but rays of glory light its silv'ry tint, and change its summons to a gentle hint that time from all is fading fast away, but that to some its end is lasting day; and that the angels view its pure white band, as seal of glory from their master's hand, and closer draw, the near ripe fruit to shield, until to heaven its produce they can yield. monthly record of current events. political and general news. the united states. congress adjourned, as required by the constitution, on the fourth of march. the protracted character of the discussions of the session compelled final action upon nearly all the important bills at the very close of the session; and as a natural consequence many bills which have challenged a marked degree of attention, were not passed. the bill making appropriations for the improvement of rivers and harbors, which had passed the house, was sent into the senate, but was not passed by that body. the bills making appropriations in aid of the american line of steamers,--that authorizing and aiding the establishment of a line of steamers to liberia,--the bill providing for the payment of french spoliations,--the one appropriating lands to aid in the establishment of asylums for the insane, and a great number of other bills, of decided importance, but of less general interest than these, were lost. sundry valuable bills, however, were duly acted upon and passed into laws. a joint resolution was adopted authorizing the president to grant the use of a ship attached to the american squadron in the mediterranean for the use of kossuth and his companions in coming to this country, after they shall have been liberated by the turkish authorities. a very interesting letter from the secretary of state to the american minister at constantinople, in regard to the hungarian exiles, has just been published. mr. webster refers to the fact, that under the convention between austria and turkey, the term of one year for which the exiles were to be confined within the limits of the turkish empire, would soon expire: and the hope is confidently expressed that the sublime porte has not made, and will not make, any new stipulations for their detention. mr. marsh is instructed to address himself urgently, though respectfully, to the turkish government upon this question, and to convince it that no improper interference with the affairs of another nation is intended by this application. the course of the sublime porte, in refusing to allow these exiles to be seized by the austrians, although "the demand upon him was made by a government confident in its great military power, with armies in the field of vast strength, flushed with recent victory, and whose purposes were not to be thwarted, or their pursuit stayed, by any obstacle less than the interposition of an empire prepared to maintain the inviolability of its territories, and its absolute sovereignty over its own soil," is warmly applauded, and his generosity in providing for their support, is commended in the highest terms of admiration. mr. webster proceeds to say that "it is not difficult to conceive what may have been the considerations which led the sublime porte to consent to remove these persons from its frontiers, require them to repair to the interior, and there to remain for a limited time. a great attempt at revolution, against the established authorities of a neighboring state, with which the sublime porte was at peace, had only been suppressed. the chief actors in that attempt had escaped into the dominions of the porte. to permit them to remain upon its frontiers, where they might project new undertakings against that state, and into which, if circumstances favored, they could enter in arms at any time, might well have been considered dangerous to both governments; and the sublime porte, while protecting them, might certainly, also, prevent their occupying any such position in its own dominions, as should give just cause of alarm to a neighboring and friendly power. their removal to certain localities might also be rendered desirable by considerations of convenience to the sublime porte, itself, upon whose charity and generosity such numbers had suddenly become dependent. the detention of these persons for a short period of time, in order that they might not at once repair to other parts of europe, to renew their operations, was a request that it was not unnatural to make, and was certainly in the discretion of the sublime porte to grant, without any sacrifice of its dignity, or any want of kindness toward the refugees." but now all danger from this source has disappeared. the attempts of these exiles to establish for their country an independent government have been sternly crushed: their estates have been confiscated, their families dispersed, and themselves driven into exile. their only wish now is to remove from the scene of their conflict and find new homes in the vast interior of the united states. the people of the united states wait to receive these exiles on their shores, and they trust that, through the generosity of the turkish government, they may be released. a bill was also passed reducing the rates of postage on letters and newspapers throughout the united states. all letters weighing not more than half-an-ounce are charged _three_ cents if prepaid; _five_ cents if not prepaid, for all distances under three thousand miles;--over three thousand miles, they pay twice these rates. upon newspapers the imposition of postage is quite complicated. the following statement shows the rates charged to regular subscribers, who pay postage quarterly in advance, comparing, also, the new postage with the old: miles. weekly. semi- daily. weekly. under (new bill) cts. present rate over -under present rate over -under present rate over -under present rate over -under present rate over papers weighing less than an ounce and a half pay half these rates; papers measuring less than three hundred square-inches pay one-fourth. on monthly and semi-monthly papers the same rates are paid, in proportion to the number of sheets, as weekly papers. all weekly papers are free within the county where they are published. although the bill does not reduce postage quite as low as was very generally desired, it is still a decided advance upon the old law. the experience of the past has shown that reduced rates increase the revenue. the usual appropriation bills were passed, as were also bills giving the colonization society forty thousand dollars, for expenses incurred in supporting the africans recaptured from the pons; appointing appraisers at large, to look into the doings of the local appraisers; repealing constructive mileage; repaying maine money, formerly advanced to the general government; and establishing an asylum for soldiers, infirm and disabled, who have served twenty years, or been disabled by wounds or disease--the money for its support to be fines and stoppages of pay of soldiers punished by courts-martial, and one hundred thousand dollars levied by general scott in mexico. a good deal of excitement was created by the rescue at boston of a person claimed and arrested as a fugitive slave, under the law of the last session. the rescue was effected by a mob, mainly of colored men, who rushed into the room where the alleged fugitive was in custody of the officers, took him therefrom, and started him on his way to canada, where he safely arrived soon after. intelligence of the affair was transmitted by telegraph to washington. the president issued a proclamation, commanding obedience to the laws, and sent a message to congress, narrating the facts, and stating that the whole power of the government should be used to enforce the laws. the matter was referred to the judiciary committee in the senate, from which two reports were made--one by mr. bradbury, of maine, stating that the president possessed all needful power, and the other from mr. butler, of south carolina, arguing that the president could not call out either the army and navy or the militia to suppress an insurrection, without having previously issued a proclamation. no further action upon the subject was had in congress, but a great number of arrests have been made in boston of persons charged with participation in the rescue. unsuccessful attempts to elect u. s. senators have been renewed in new york, and massachusetts. in new jersey commodore r. f. stockton, democrat; and in ohio hon. benjamin f. wade, free soil whig, have been elected to the u. s. senate. in new hampshire two whig and two democratic members of congress have been elected. there is a democratic majority in the senate; in the house parties are very nearly balanced, each, at present, claiming the majority. the free soilers, apparently, hold the balance of power. the governor will be chosen by the legislature, there being no choice by the people; the regular democratic candidate has a decided plurality over either of his opponents. in virginia, the state election has been postponed from april to october. this has been done in consequence of the unsettled state of affairs growing out of the deliberations of the state constitutional convention. it is supposed that the draft of the new constitution will be completed so that it may be submitted to the people at that time. an act to exempt homesteads from sale on execution, has passed the general assembly of illinois, and is to take effect on the th of july next. it provides that in addition to property now exempt from execution, the lot of ground and buildings occupied as a residence by any debtor being a householder, shall be free from levy or forced sale for debts contracted after the above date, provided that the value shall not exceed one thousand dollars. this exemption is to continue, after the death of the owner, for the benefit of the widow and children, until the death of the widow, and until the youngest child shall reach the age of twenty-one years. provisions are made for levying upon the amount of the value of property above one thousand dollars. upon the same day, a bill to exempt from levy upon execution, bed, furniture and tools, to an amount not exceeding one hundred dollars, becomes a law in delaware. a license law, containing extremely stringent provisions, has been passed in this state. a bill has passed the legislature of iowa, prohibiting the immigration of negroes. they are required to leave the state after receiving three days' notice of the law, and in case of returning are liable to penalties. manufactures are advancing in some of the southern states, especially in georgia. a few days since a large quantity of cotton yarn was shipped from augusta to find markets in new york, philadelphia, and baltimore. emigration from the old world, and especially from germany, is setting strongly into texas, houston and galveston, with a population of , have germans. an effort is made to appropriate a considerable part of the ten millions received from the united states, to the purposes of popular education. indian depredations occur along the western frontier. two engagements, attended with loss of life on both sides, have recently taken place between the troops of the united states and the indians. an expedition is to be organized against the comanches. intelligence from the boundary commission has been received up to december st. the initial point from which the survey is to commence has been agreed upon by both sides. it is to be at a point on the rio grande in latitude degrees minutes. the precise point is to be ascertained by the astronomers, and will probably be about miles to the northward of el paso. the time of completing the survey is variously estimated at from one to three years. from california there have been three arrivals since our last, bringing an aggregate of $ , , in gold, and between and passengers. our dates are up to the st of february. the intelligence of most importance is that of desperate hostilities between the indians and the whites. the former seem to have determined upon a war of extermination, which of course meets with prompt retaliation; and the ultimate issue can be no matter of uncertainty. seventy-two miners were attacked by surprise in a gulch near rattlesnake creek, and massacred to a man. a petition for aid was dispatched to the executive of the state, and a force of men ordered out. in the instructions to the commander, directions are given studiously to avoid any act calculated unnecessarily to exasperate the indians. a daring attack was made on the th of january, by a company of or americans, upon an intrenched camp, manned by or indians. the position was so strong that a dozen whites might have defended it against thousands. of the indians were killed, and the _rancheria_ fired. many of the aged and children were burned to death. of the americans two were killed, and five or six wounded. it is reported that all the indians from oregon to the colorado are leagued together, and have sworn eternal hostility to the white race. the product of gold continues to be great. the report of the new gold bluffs, mentioned in our last number, is confirmed; but the access to them is so difficult that they will not probably be soon available. they are situated near the mouth of the klamath river, about thirty miles north of trinidad. the approach to them by land is over a plain of sand, into which the traveler sinks ankle-deep at every step. the bluffs stretch along some five or six miles, and present a perpendicular front to the ocean of from to feet in height. in ordinary weather the beach at the foot is from to feet in width, composed of a mixture of gray and black sand, the latter containing the gold in scales so fine that they can not be separated by the ordinary process of washing; so that resort must be had to chemical means. the beach changes with every tide, and sometimes no black, auriferous sand is to be seen on the surface. by digging down, it is found mixed with a gray sand, which largely predominates. the violence of the surf renders landing in boats impracticable. several tons of goods were landed from a steamer dispatched thither, by means of lines from the vessel to the shore. the pacific mining company claim a large portion of the beach, and have made preparations for working the bluffs, and are sanguine of an extremely profitable result. specimens of gold in quartz have been submitted to assay, which have proved very rich. operations in the "dry diggings" have been much retarded by the absence of rain. large quantities of sand have been thrown up, ready to take advantage of the earliest showers to wash it out. a bill to remove the state capital from san josé to vallejo has passed the senate, but has not been acted upon in the house. a project has been started for a railroad from san josé to san francisco. the receipts into the city treasury of san francisco, for the quarter ending nov. , were $ , , and the expenditures $ , . the total debt of the city was $ , . no election for u. s. senator had taken place. the choice will undoubtedly fall upon mr. frémont or t. butler king. the whigs seem confident of success. an expedition was dispatched toward the close of october to explore the colorado river from its mouth. they have been heard from about miles up the stream, to which point they had ascended without difficulty. they believe the colorado to be navigable for steamboats, during the greater portion of the year, as high as the mouth of the gila. mexico and south america. señor munguia, the new bishop of michoacan, has refused to take the oaths required by government, throwing himself upon the rights and privileges granted to the clergy, upon the first establishment of christianity in mexico.----great complaints are made of the inefficiency of the police in the capital. on the d of january a band of armed robbers attacked the promenaders on the _paseo_, rifling them of their money and valuables.----chihuahua was greatly alarmed by the report that a band of american adventurers and indians were encamped at a distance of leagues. the band is said to be well armed, having two field-pieces. from the description of the leader he is supposed to be the notorious captain french.----the affairs of yucatan are in a situation almost desperate. the indians are waging fierce hostilities, which have prevented the transportation of provisions. the treasury is exhausted, the army without pay, and almost reduced to starvation.----a poetical work, by a young mexican woman, is advertised. it is entitled the "awakener of patriotism," and narrates the history of the late war with the united states. hostilities have broken out between the central government of guatemala on the one hand, and the allied states of san salvador and honduras on the other. a battle took place on the st of january at a village called san josé, when the forces of san salvador and honduras were totally routed, and fled in every direction, closely pursued by the victors. such, at least, is the guatemalan account, which is the only one that has yet reached us. attention has recently been turned to the gold region of new grenada, portions of which have been found to be extremely productive. the districts richest in gold are said to be extremely unhealthy. from nicaragua we learn that the survey of the route from lake nicaragua to the pacific is nearly completed. the distance is miles, and the highest point only feet. the steamer director is running on the lake. a complete steam communication will in a few weeks be effected between the lake and the atlantic; a canal of miles will unite the lake with the pacific. when lines of steamers are established on both sides of the isthmus, connecting with this rout across, it is anticipated that the passage from new york to san francisco may be made in days. carthagena was visited on the th of february by a severe shock of an earthquake, which lasted nine seconds. considerable damage was done throughout the city; some houses were thrown down, and several lives lost. the city walls and the cathedral were much injured. had the shock been protracted a few seconds longer, the whole city would have been laid in ruins. on the night of the th the public squares and walks were filled with people who had left their dwellings in dread of a repetition of the shock. but up to the th none had occurred. no city in the region felt the shock so severely as did carthagena. in peru, congress was to meet march . the presidential election has terminated in favor of echenique. in bolivia there have been one or two attempts at insurrection. a decree has been issued, banishing all buenos ayreans except those married to bolivian women, and all who were known as federalists. from brazil it is officially announced that liberated slaves, not brazilian born, must not be taken to that country. by a law of , which it is announced will be rigidly enforced, a penalty of milreas, besides expenses of re-exportation, is imposed upon masters of vessels for each such person landed. great britain. we have the somewhat unexpected intelligence of the defeat and resignation of the whig ministry at the very opening of the session. parliament met on the th of february. on the preceding evening, the customary absurd farce of searching the vaults under the house, as a precaution against a second gunpowder-plot, was enacted. nothing was discovered boding any peril to the wisdom of the nation about to be assembled. the royal speech was of the usual brevity, and of more than usual tameness. the following were the only paragraphs of the least interest: "i have to lament, however, the difficulties which are still felt by that important body among my people who are owners and occupiers of land. but it is my confident hope, that the prosperous condition of other classes of my subjects will have a favorable effect in diminishing those difficulties, and promoting the interests of agriculture. "the recent assumption of certain ecclesiastical titles, conferred by a foreign power, has excited strong feelings in this country; and large bodies of my subjects have presented addresses to me, expressing attachment to the throne, and praying that such assumptions should be resisted. i have assured them of my resolution to maintain the rights of my crown, and the independence of the nation, against all encroachment, from whatever quarter it may proceed. i have, at the same time, expressed my earnest desire and firm determination, under god's blessing, to maintain unimpaired the religous liberty which is so justly prized by the people of this country. it will be for you to consider the measure which will be laid before you on this subject." there was no actual debate on the address to the queen. it consisted of a mere echo and amplification of the royal speech; and was still further amplified and diluted in the speeches of the movers and seconders. the opposition were evidently taken by surprise at the moderation with which the catholic question was referred to. they had expected something answering to the famous durham letter of the premier. lord john russell took occasion to explain that certain phrases in that letter, which catholics had assumed to be insult to their religion, were, in fact, applied to a portion of his own communion. lord camoys, in the upper, and mr. anstey, in the lower house, both catholics, most emphatically repudiated any idea of the supremacy of the pope in temporal matters; and deprecated the establishment of the catholic sees in england as ill-advised in the extreme. this would seem to be the general tone of feeling among the nobility and gentry of england. in ireland, however, the action of the pope meets with warm approbation. the campaign was fairly opened on friday, the th, when lord john russell asked leave to bring in the government bill, "to prevent the assumption of certain ecclesiastical titles in respect of places in the united kingdom." he admitted that no violation of any existing law was committed by the assumption as it had been made; and though the introduction of bulls from rome was illegal, and liable to punishment, the statute had been so long in disuse, that a prosecution would undoubtedly fail. the measure which he finally proposed seems almost ludicrous when looked upon as the sequel to the fierce controversy which has convulsed the kingdom, and caused the effusion of such torrents of ink. it contains two provisions. by the first, the provision of the catholic act, which imposes a penalty of £ upon the assumption by roman catholic prelates of any title of existing sees in the united kingdom, is to be extended, so as to include titles belonging to any city, district, or place in great britain. by the second provision, any act done by or for any prelate under such title, is absolutely null and void; so that any bequest or endowment made to him under such title falls to the crown. leave to bring in the bill was granted, by an overwhelming majority, after four nights of debate. although the bill falls so far short of what was demanded in one direction, it goes no less beyond what will be submitted to in another. the catholic prelates denounce it as persecution, and declare that they will disobey it, if passed; and defy the government to place the religious teachers of a third of the nation in a posture of conscientious opposition to the law. all the indications are, that the bill will be carried triumphantly through parliament; or if at all modified, will be rendered more stringent. this will be but the commencement of the difficulty. pending the ecclesiastical question, the ministers "lost a victory" on that of free-trade. on tuesday, the th, mr. disraeli, taking advantage of that paragraph in the royal speech which admits the existence of distress among the owners and occupiers of land, moved a resolution to the effect that it was the duty of ministers to take effectual measures for the relief of this distress. this was, in effect, a covert and dexterous attack upon the principle of free-trade in corn, and as such was met by the ministers. the leading speech, in reply, was made by sir james graham, endorsed by lord john russell. he declared that the abolition of protection upon corn had been of incalculable benefit to the people at large, and that any attempt to raise again the price of bread-stuffs by artificial protection must be a failure. the corn-law rhymer could not have taken higher ground than did the minister. he declared, that in consequence of the removal of duty, millions of quarters of grain had been introduced, and had been consumed by those who otherwise would never have tasted of wheaten bread. there was not a plowman, nor a weaver, nor a shepherd, whose condition was not made more tolerable by the repeal of the corn-law, and they knew it. the condition of the mass of the people was the true test of national prosperity. the resolution of mr. disraeli was made a test-question by government, and was lost by to , showing a ministerial majority of only . if this were to be accepted as a true indication of the state of parties in parliament on the vital question of protection, the ministers could not carry on government, and must either resign or dissolve parliament, and trust to the chances of a new election. but it is said that many members voted for mr. disraeli's resolution out of pique at the action of the ministers upon the ecclesiastical question, and that the true strength of the free-trade and protection parties is yet to be tested. at all events, the whigs are irretrievably committed against any attempt to enhance the price of bread by any artificial protection. on monday, the th, the chancellor of the exchequer, sir charles wood, presented the budget. the main difficulty here was to decide what to do with the surplus revenue. it is so long a time since any european government has had a question of this nature to deal with, that it is not to be wondered at that it caused embarrassment. official ingenuity has been well-trained to devise ways and means to supply deficiencies in revenue, by inventing new taxes, or by borrowing; but it has had no experience in dealing with an actual surplus. where every interest is burdened to the utmost, each feels itself to be the most oppressed, and demands to be first relieved. there were claims to ten times the amount to be taken off. the chancellor kept his project a profound secret from all men; no deputation could worm out of him whether he favored their own special views; when the proper time came, they should see what they should see. they did all see; and not a soul was satisfied. the surplus was estimated to be about £ , , ; one million was to be devoted to the payment of the national debt--a rate which, if kept up, would extinguish the whole debt in somewhat less than four thousand years; the remainder was proposed to be so apportioned that no interest will find itself specially benefited. for instance, the window-tax was to be nominally abolished; but a large proportion of it was to be re-imposed in the shape of a duty upon houses;--and all these proposed reductions were based upon the condition that the income-tax, which has some features making it particularly odious, involving as it does an almost inquisitorial prying into private affairs, should be continued for another three years. the debate upon the budget was fixed for friday, the st. in the mean time, however, it became apparent that the budget could not be carried. a circumstance unimportant in itself sufficiently evinced this. mr. king moved for leave to bring in a bill giving the right of voting in the counties, as well as in the boroughs, to all occupiers of tenements of the value of £ . though this was nowise a test question, lord john russell opposed it, and when the vote was taken only votes were found for the ministers, while for the motion there were . the apathy of their own party showed the ministers that they could not sustain themselves. lord john russell moved that the debate on the budget should be adjourned to monday, the th. in the mean while, on saturday the d, the ministry tendered their resignations. the defeat on the franchise was only "the last feather that broke the camel's back." the ministry fell, at the first attack, from inherent weakness. for a week the government literally went a-begging, no statesman daring to undertake the task of conducting it. the queen, as the most natural recourse, applied in the first place, to lord stanley, the recognized leader of the opposition, and head of the protectionist party. but he declined to attempt the formation of a ministry. she then fell back upon lord john russell, who endeavored in vain to reconstruct a cabinet which should secure a parliamentary majority. an unsuccessful application was then made to lord aberdeen. lord stanley was again applied to, who made an attempt to form a conservative ministry, leaving the subject of protection in abeyance; but he failed to gain the acquiescence of the leading men of his party upon other grounds, and abandoned the task. thus matters remained up to march st, the date of our latest intelligence. it is worthy of remark, how completely the existence of the house of peers has been ignored throughout the whole of these proceedings; the only point aimed at having been to secure a majority in the commons. a cool attempt to swindle the treasury out of £ , has been made in behalf of the estate of the late queen dowager. her comfortable annuity of £ , was made payable at regular quarter-days, commencing after the death of william iv. as it happened, he died ten days before the quarter-day, so that the queen received pay for a whole quarter for those ten days. she died days after the last quarterly payment; and a claim was made for payment for that time; although blending the two periods together she would have received a quarter's payment for days less than a quarter's time. the court, however, refused to grant the privilege of burning the candle at both ends; and the beggarly german heirs of the late queen fail in gaining the sum. petitions have been presented to parliament from the bishop, commissioners of parishes, and householders of capetown, stating that the legislative assembly of the colony has lost the confidence of the colonists, and presenting the details of a constitution which they pray may be granted them. certain protestants of dublin addressed a letter to the duke of wellington urging him to fulfill a pledge which they infer him to have made many years ago, when he was premier, to move the repeal of the catholic relief bill, if it should, on trial, be found not to work satisfactorily. the duke replies in one of the curtest letters in all his curt correspondence; and in terms which the liveliest imagination can not interpret as complimentary, refuses to have any thing to do with them or their request. the commissioners of the exhibition have decided upon the following rates for admission: season tickets for a gentleman will cost three guineas, for a lady, two guineas. these tickets are not transferrable, and will admit the owner at all times to the exhibition. on the day of opening those only are to be admitted who have season tickets. on the two subsequent days, the price of admittance will be twenty shillings. on the fourth day, it will be reduced to five shillings, at which sum it will continue till the d day, when it will be lowered to one shilling. after that period, the rate will be one shilling, except on fridays, when it will be two shillings and sixpence, and saturdays, when it will be five shillings. the severest tests have demonstrated the stability of the building. the proposed abolition of the vice-royalty in ireland, excites great opposition, especially in dublin. a large meeting has been held, at which the lord mayor presided, for the purpose of petitioning against the intended abolition, and protesting against the system of centralization which, it is alleged, has been so destructive of the best interests of ireland. france. the main features of interest are confined to the quarrel between the president and the assembly. bonaparte is gaining ground. the minister of finance presented the bill asking for a dotation for the president. the question was an embarrassing one for the assembly. if they granted it, it would be giving additional power to him. if they refused, he would become an object of sympathy, and still gain power. the amount asked was , , francs, in addition to his salary of , . m. de montalembert was the principal speaker in favor of the bill. he declared that the president had fulfilled his mission in restoring society and reestablishing order, and warned the majority not to persist in their course of hostility, or they would repent it in . upon taking the question, there were for the bill, and against it; so that it was lost by a majority of . in anticipation of this rejection, subscriptions were set on foot throughout the country in aid of the president; but bonaparte, by an official notice in the _moniteur_ declined to receive any such contributions, choosing, as he said, to make any personal sacrifices rather than endanger the peace of the country. he made immediate preparation to live according to his means: stopped his expensive receptions, and announced a sale of his horses. he is playing a subtle and well-considered game for re-election to the presidency; and if the constitutional prohibition can be repealed or overridden, there seems little question that he will succeed. his popularity among the middle classes is great and increasing. when the question of the revision of the constitution comes up, the great contest of parties will begin, which will decide the fate of the republic. it is almost impossible that the incongruous combination which now constitutes the formidable majority against him can hold together, against his cool and cautious policy, and with so many elements of disunion among themselves. germany. the doings of the dresden conference have not officially transpired. but enough is known to make it evident that our previous accounts are correct. in addition it is now said, and with probable truth, that austria and prussia have determined to share the executive power of the diet between them, to the absolute exclusion of the minor powers. austria brings into the confederacy the whole of her sclavic and italian possessions. this will call forth the vehement remonstrances of the other european states, who look upon it as undoing the work of the holy alliance, and disturbing the balance of power. in consideration of granting this real advantage to austria, prussia gains the empty honor of sharing the presidency in the diet, which was formerly held by austria exclusively. the pacification of schleswig-holstein and hesse is complete. in the latter the malcontents are undergoing the penalties of bavarian courts-martials. hamburg is occupied by austrian troops. well authenticated accounts of a conspiracy at vienna have been received, but the particulars are not given. the th anniversary of the erection of prussia into a kingdom was celebrated at berlin on the th of january, with great pomp. italy. there can be little doubt that an insurrection, of which mazzini is the soul and centre is in course of organization. funds to a considerable amount have been provided. the overthrow of the democratic cause throughout europe has disbanded an immense number of soldiers, who will be ready for any enterprise, and will be especially glad to fight for the old cause, against the old enemy, upon italian ground. various parts of the country are terribly infested with brigands, whose enterprises are carried on with an audacity which reminds one of the middle ages. there are reports of an approaching austrian interference in piedmont and switzerland. the pope is said to be desirous of the withdrawal of the french troops from rome, that he may place himself under the more immediate protection of austria and naples. the austrian army in italy has been considerably reinforced, to provide against the action of mazzini and the growing discontent in lombardy. archbishop hughes of this city is preaching at rome to increasing audiences. he predicts, there as well as here, the speedy downfall of protestantism, and prophesies that ere long it will have disappeared from the world as completely as the heretical sects of the arians and the manichæans. there is apparently no doubt that the archbishop will be raised to the rank of cardinal. at the sitting of the piedmontese chamber of deputies, in turin, the minister of foreign affairs delivered a speech on occasion of presenting the budget, marked by a liberality for which we are not accustomed to look to statesmen of italy. the east. in india, on the whole, tolerable tranquillity was prevalent. sir charles napier, in taking leave of the army of india, of which he was commander-in-chief, addressed a most ultra-naperian epistle to the officers. instead of reminding them of the laurels they have won, and the territories they have overrun, he berates them for their habits of lavish expenditure, and for contracting debts which they have no means or expectation of paying. an interview has been held between gholab singh, the ruler of cashmere, and the governor-general, in which the usual protestations of eternal friendship were interchanged. these interviews, since the days of hastings and clive, have betokened fresh accessions to the territories of the company. an insurrection of a formidable character which had been raging in some of the provinces of china, the object of which was the overthrow of the tartar dynasty, was, at the latest dates, entirely suppressed. the famous commissioner lin, whose energetic proceedings gave rise to the opium war, is dead. from the un-oriental energy of his character, and the salutary dread with which he had inspired his countryman, his death is a loss to the empire. difficulties are apprehended in egypt. the porte demands certain reforms of the viceroy; among which are the abatement of taxes and the reduction of the army. the viceroy refuses to comply, and is determined to offer forcible resistance, in case of an attempt to enforce the demands. the hostilities at bagdad between the turks and arabs have been renewed since the death of bem. vigorous measures, are to be taken to reduce the insurgent arabs to subjection. from southern africa, under date of sept. , we have authentic intelligence of terrible atrocities committed by the namquas upon the danish missionary station. numbers were killed; and women and children cruelly tortured. literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. united states. it is seed-time rather than harvest in the world of literature and art, as well as in that of matter. publishers are in deep consultation over projected works. the still labor of brain, eye, and hand goes on in the library of the author and the studio of the artist, the results of which, when ready for the public eye, we shall chronicle. the series of lectures before the artists' association has been brought to a very appropriate close by a lecture from huntington, the painter. his subject was "christian art." he claimed, in theory, for his art that lofty and sublime mission which he has attempted to exemplify in practice.----the most attractive series of lectures delivered in this city during the last season has undoubtedly been that of mr. lord, on the "heroes and martyrs of protestantism." those who might feel inclined to dissent from several of his views and conclusions, could not be other than pleased by the earnestness and zeal with which they were set forth and advocated. as literary productions, these lectures are deserving of high praise.----banvard's three-mile panorama of the mississippi has been the fruitful parent of a multitude of staring and impudent productions, which it were almost a libel upon art to call pictures. the "cheap side" of broadway is lined with these monstrosities, which for the most part have met with the very moderate patronage which they deserve. martin farquuhart tupper, has arrived in this country. we copy from the _evening post_ the following graceful lines, written in the harbor on the morning of his arrival: not with cold scorn or ill-dissembled sneer, ungraciously your kindly looks to greet, by god's good favor safely landed here. oh friends and brothers, face to face we meet. now for a little space my willing feet, after long hope and promise many a year, shall tread your happy shores; my heart and voice your kindred love shall quicken and shall cheer, while in your greatness shall my soul rejoice-- for you are england's nearest and most dear! suffer my simple fervors to do good, as one poor pilgrim haply may and can, who, knit to heaven and earth by gratitude, speaks from his heart, to touch his fellow man. washington's birth-day was celebrated with unusual splendor in this city. an oration was delivered by hon. h. m. foote, of mississippi. at the public dinner letters were read from president fillmore, and messrs. webster, clay, and cass. the principal speech of the evening was made by hon. edward everett, in reply to the toast of "the constitution." washington irving has written a pleasant and characteristic letter, which has been going the rounds of the papers, to jesse merwin, of kinderhook, the original ichabod crane, of the far-renowned "legend of sleepy hollow." european. among the recent issues of the london press we notice "_the mirror for maidens_," by mrs. sherwood and her daughter, mrs. streeten. the well-won reputation of the mother, acquired so many years ago, will not be enhanced by her share in this tale.--a volume of _poems_, by w. c. bennett, is made up of pieces of very unequal merit. some portions are extremely beautiful, while others are utterly devoid of expression or character. the readers of mrs. marsh's tales will remember many mottoes taken from mr. bennett, giving promise of no common degree of poetic talent.--sheridan knowles, the dramatist, has taken the field as a religious controversialist in a volume upon transubstantiation, in reply to the lectures of cardinal wiseman. he shows more familiarity with the principles and details of the controversy than could have been anticipated from his former avocations.--_england as it is_, by wm. johnston, is an attempt to point out the political, social, and industrial state of the kingdom in the middle of the nineteenth century. the author is of the opinion that, on the whole, the mechanical inventions and money-making spirit of the last fifty years have lessened the comforts and deteriorated the character of the poorer classes. the book does not seem to be written with sufficient ability to make any decided impression. _revelations of hungary_, by the baron prochazka, presents the austrian view of the question with more zeal than ability. the author details with the utmost complacency the fearful atrocities of the campaign, wondering all the while that the austrians were hated by the oppressed population. appended to the revelations is a "memoir of kossuth," designed to instruct the world as to the true character of the illustrious magyar. every good quality which has been attributed to him, from genius down to personal beauty, is vehemently disputed. the world is assured that "kossuth is by no means the handsome man his partisans represent him to be; he is of middle stature; his figure is insignificant; his hair was brown, but being bald, he wears a wig of that color." this last allegation, we fear is too true; for kossuth lost not only his hair, but his health and every thing but life, hope, and honor during his imprisonment in austrian dungeons. _the correspondence of sir isaac newton and professor cotes_, edited by j. eddleston, m.a., presents a view of all the ascertained facts in the personal and intellectual history of the great mathematician. when he was engaged in elaborating his theory respecting light and color, in order "to quicken his faculties, and fix his attention, he confined himself to a small quantity of bread during all the time, with a little sack and water, of which, without any regulation, he took as he found a craving or failure of spirits." a continuation of the _dix ans_ of louis blanc has been commenced by m. elias regnault, under the title of _l'histoire de huit ans_, - . the london _leader_ speaks of a new work by harriet martineau and mr. atkinson which is likely to excite attention. it is entitled "letters on man's nature and development." the _leader_ having read a few of the proof sheets, says that for boldness of outspeaking on subjects usually glozed over, and for power of philosophic exposition, it has few equals. the marvels of mesmerism and clairvoyance are stated with unflinching plainness, as facts admitting of no dispute. materialism is unequivocally and even eloquently avowed; and phrenology assumes quite a new aspect from the observations and discoveries here recorded. the london _critic_ contains an interesting paraagraph giving an account of the payments made to authors in france. it is said that lamartine, for the single volume of his _confidences_, received dollars. chauteaubriand, a few years before his death, contracted with a company to sell them, at the price of dollars per volume, any new works he might write and desire to print. victor hugo, by contract with the publishers, is paid dollars for each new volume with which he may furnish them. de balzac, in , entered into a contract with his publisher, delloye, by which the publisher acquired the property for fifteen years of the works of de balzac at that time published. the pecuniary consideration paid to the author, was , dollars cash, and an annuity of dollars. eugene sue sold for dollars the right of publishing and selling, during five years only, his novel called _martin the foundling, or the memoirs of a valet de chambre_. the work was already in course of publication in the _feuilleton_ of _the constitutionnel_, and the purchaser's rights were confined to france. it was the _mystères de paris_ that made the great literary name and fortune of eugene sue. previously the remuneration of his literary labors was much more modest. _la salamandre_ was disposed of at dollars per volume. _the wandering jew_, and _les mystères de paris_, were sold at , dollars the volume: and the purchaser made , by the operation. in august, , _the constitutionnel_, wishing to secure m. sue exclusively to itself, made with him a contract which was to last for thirteen years and a half. by its terms the author bound himself to furnish for publication in the _feuilleton_ of _the constitutionnel_ not less than four, nor more than six volumes of novels per annum, for which he was to be paid dollars per volume on delivery of the manuscript. lamartine seems determined to surpass the literary fecundity of james, or even, if such a thing be conceivable, that of the renowned alexandre dumas. in addition to his history of the directory, mentioned in our last number, it is announced that he has contracted to write a history of the restoration, in some eight or ten volumes. the _leader_, which is good authority on these matters, however, states that this last is substituted for the history of the directory, which lamartine abandoned in disgust when he found that garner de cassagnac had undertaken the same subject for feuilleton publication. a romance, after the manner of genevieve, is advertised to appear in the feuilleton of _la presse_. he has long been under engagements to furnish, under the title of the _conseiller du peuple_, a monthly pamphlet on current political events; and he is said to have engaged to write another similar one every fortnight. finally, he has in contemplation a history of turkey. he is, moreover, an active member of the legislative assembly, and a frequent speaker. during one of the late ministerial crises he came very near being placed at the head of the ministry. with such a number of engagements, undertaken under the pressure of pecuniary necessities, it is not to be wondered that his recent productions have been unworthy of his former reputation. dr. j. f. schrÖder has produced a unique work on talmudic and rabbinic maxims and usages. as a specimen of these, we give some of the refinements and distinctions relating to the observance of the sabbath: "hunting is totally forbidden on the sabbath, and since fly-catching is a species of hunting, it is prohibited--nay, the prohibition extends so far, that a jew must not cover vessels in which there are flies, because in this way a sort of catching might take place. fleas must first have bitten before they may be caught; and it is not allowable to kill them when caught. a louse found on the body may be killed, but not one that has taken up its abode in the outer parts of the garments. animals, on the contrary, which are tame and willingly allow themselves to be taken, may be caught even on the sabbath; some, however, consider this not allowable. an egg laid on the sabbath, or fruits which have been plucked on that day, may not be used.... if any body wishes to borrow any thing of another on the sabbath, he must not say, '_lend me this or that_;' but '_give it me, and i will give it you back_.' if a pledge is to be restored, the lender must lay it down in silence. he who wishes to have some beer or wine on a sabbath, must not say to the tavern-keeper, '_give me so much wine or beer for so much money_;' but '_give me the vessel full or half full_.' after the sabbath the vessel may be measured, and the value of the wine or beer received may be determined. letters must not be either written or opened on the sabbath; but if any one not a jew has opened them, without having received orders to do so, and one is anxious to know the contents, they may be read; but the words must not be uttered aloud. news also may be read in this way. accounts, on the contrary, bills of exchange, and such things, relating to trade, may not be read. if a leg, &c., falls out of a chair or bench on the sabbath, the injury must not be repaired on that day. should a wine-cask or any thing of that sort begin to leak, a vessel may be put under it, but the hole must not be stopped up." charles knight, the eminent publisher, in an effective pamphlet advocating the repeal of the paper-tax, presents some facts showing the bearing of that tax upon the diffusion of knowledge. he has had in contemplation a supplement to the national cyclopædia, to consist of a series of treatises upon scientific, social, and industrial progress, to extend to four volumes. to produce this as it should be done, he must secure the assistance of the most eminent men in every department of knowledge; which assistance will cost £ . to cover the outlay he must sell at least , copies; which will consume reams of paper, the duty upon which would be £ . this additional expense, adding nothing to the value of the work, makes him hesitate to embark in the enterprise, if this burden were removed he might either save it in the original cost, or expend it in adding to the value of the work. in either case he would not hesitate to carry out his design. robert chambers shows the bearing of the same tax upon labor. his miscellany of tracts was stopped as not paying, although it had a regular sale of . while published it had paid a paper-tax of £ . this publication, which might have been continued had it not been for this tax, distributed £ , a year in labor. he had since started a similar series at three halfpence, of which, owing to the increase in price, only half as many were sold as the other. it is calculated that this tax keeps out of employment, in london alone, full , people. the whole value of the paper annually manufactured in the kingdom is estimated at £ , , , upon which a duty is laid of £ , . this is levied almost entirely upon labor, the mateterial used being almost entirely without value. leopold ranke, author of the history of the popes, in the course of his researches in the national library at paris, has discovered a manuscript portion of the memoirs of the famous statesman cardinal richelieu, which has long been supposed to be lost. in the manuscript deposited at the french ministry of foreign affairs, a series of leaves is wanting. these mr. ranke found by accident in a bundle of old papers. it is thought that this discovery may throw some light upon the disputed question whether the cardinal was the actual author of the works which are attributed to him, or merely revised and corrected them. the _quarterly review_ tells a story about george iv. which reflects little credit upon the "first gentleman of europe." the noble library of george iii., in the british museum bears an inscription purporting that it was a gift to the nation from his successor. it appears, however, that the library was a purchase. george iv., in one of his frequent pecuniary straits, had negotiated for its sale to the emperor of russia, and was only prevented from completing the contract by the most urgent remonstrances, backed by the receipt of the value of the russian rubles, in sterling coin, from the droits of the admiralty. it is suggested that the inscription in the museum should be erased; as there can be no good reason why the nation should be called upon to supply by a public forgery the deficiency of worthy records left behind by that monarch. according to the _journal de la librairie_ the whole number of books and pamphlets printed in france during the past year is , of which are new publications. the publications in the french language were ; in the dialects spoken in france, ; in german, ; in english, ; in spanish, ; in greek, ; in latin, ; in portuguese, ; in polish, ; in hebrew, . a _grammar of the kaffir language_, by rev. john w. appleyard, a wesleyan missionary in british kaffraria, is another valuable contribution to science resulting from missionary labors. this language, although, of course, destitute of literary treasures, presents some features of interest to students of comparative philology. those relations of words to each other which in other languages are indicated by change of termination, are in this denoted by prefixes, which are regulated by similarity of sound. neither gender nor number has any influence upon grammatical construction, being lost sight of in the euphonic form of the word or prefix. the noun is the leading word in a sentence, the prefix to it determining that to the other words. thus, _abantu_ means "the people," and _ziyeza_, "are coming;" but a kaffir would not express "the people are coming" by _abantu ziyeza_, but by _abantu bayeza_, it being necessary that the prefixes to the verb and its subject should have a similar sound. the language is also remarkable for freedom from anomalous usages and exceptions, and for great facility of forming compound words. mr. appleyard's work contains also valuable ethnographical materials in the shape of a general classification of the south african dialects. an italian savant announces that when the fog is so thick as to prevent signals being seen from one station to another, the difficulty may be greatly diminished by placing a colored glass between the eye and the eye-piece of the telescope. the best color for those who have strong eyesight is dark red; while those who are short-sighted find light red preferable. he accounts for the fact by stating that the white color of the fog strikes too powerfully upon the eye, particularly if the glass have a large field; and the intensity of the light is diminished by the interception of a part of the rays by the colored glass, so that the eye is less wearied. _the velocity of artificial light_ has been the subject of some very ingenious experiments by m. fizean. a point of intense brightness, produced by oxy-hydrogen light, is concentrated by a lens, and being received upon a mirror placed at about two leagues distance, is reflected back again in the same line. this is effected so exactly that scarcely any deviation in the course of the two rays can be perceived, the going and returning ray appearing one within the other. behind the point of light is placed a wheel having teeth, so adjusted that the light shines between two of the teeth, so that when the wheel is at rest, an eye placed behind it receives the impression of the full ray. when the wheel is moved so that · revolutions are made in a second, the teeth of the wheel appear continuous, and half the light is obstructed. if the velocity be sufficiently accelerated all the light is cut off, and that rate shows the time necessary for the light to have traversed the two leagues and back again, for the observer sees only the returning ray. the velocity of artificial light has thus been fixed at , french leagues in a second, which agrees remarkably with that given by astronomers to solar light, , miles in a second. the english mile, it will be recollected is a trifle longer than the french mile. a paper read before the british association, describes several remarkable hail storms which have occurred in india. the weight of some masses of ice which have fallen exceeds pounds. many of these masses, under a rough external coat, contained an interior of clear ice. immense conglomerated masses of hail stones had been known to be swept down the mountain ravines by the torrents which succeeded the storms; and in one of these conglomerations a snake was found frozen up, and apparently dead; but it revived on being thawed out. a patent has been taken out for what the patentee calls the _essence of milk_. fresh milk is placed in a long, shallow copper pan, heated by steam to a temperature of degrees. a quantity of sugar is mixed with the milk, which is continually kept in motion by stirring. this is continued for about four hours, during which the milk is reduced by evaporation to one-fourth of its original bulk. it is then put into small tin cans, the tops of which are soldered on. these cans are placed for a while in boiling water, which completes the process. this preparation may be kept for a long time, in any climate. it is peculiarly adapted for use on shipboard. obituaries. the marquis of northampton (spencer joshua alwyne compton) died jan. , aged years. he early manifested a love for literature, science, and art, which he cultivated with greater assiduity than is usual among students of his social rank. among his associates at the university were many whose names have since become known in the world of mind. in he became a member of the royal society. in , when the presidency of that body was resigned by the duke of sussex, on the ground that the £ , a year, which was granted him as a prince of the blood, was an income too limited to enable him to afford the coffee and sandwiches usually furnished at the _soirées_ of the society, the marquis of northampton was selected to fill that place. if the selection was to be on the grounds of rank rather than of high scientific attainments, no better one could have been made. the _soirées_ which he gave drew together the rank and science of the country, and had a happy influence upon the scientific world. his attainments in almost every graceful branch of intellectual culture were highly respectable. he resigned the presidency of the royal society in , and was succeeded by the earl of rosse. he took no very decided part in politics, although he was always recognized as belonging to the liberal portion of the house of peers. among the large number of the higher classes who have recently died, no one, since the death of sir robert peel, is so great a loss to literature and science as the marquis of northampton. john pye smith, d.d., one of the most learned and eminent of the dissenting clergy of england died feb. , aged years. he was the author of a number of works of decided merit; the one by which he was best known was scripture and geology. his attainments in geological science procured his election as a member of the royal society. early in january a company of his friends and admirers presented him with a testimonial of their affectionate regard, in commemoration of the fiftieth year of his academic labors in the dissenting college at homerton. the sum of £ was raised, the interest of which was to be applied to his benefit during his lifetime, and the principal, after his death, to be applied to the foundation of scholarships. this testimonial to his eminent merit was only in time for an honor, but too late as a pecuniary benefit. charles coquerel, whose recent death is announced in the paris papers, was the brother of the celebrated protestant clergyman of france. he was the author of a number of works, among which we remember a history of english literature; caritas, an essay on a complete spiritual philosophy; and the history of the churches in the desert, or the history of the protestant churches of france from the revocation of the edict of nantes to the reign of louis xvi. in this last work he introduced the substance of a vast mass of private and official correspondence relative to the persecutions undergone by the french protestants. he was also distinguished for his scientific attainments, and for many years reported the proceedings of the french academy of sciences for the _courrier francaise_. he was especially interested in arago's investigations upon light, and was busied with them almost to the day of his death. gaspar spontini, composer of _la vestale_, and many other less successful operas, died recently in the roman states, at an advanced age. for many years he was chapel-master to the late king of prussia, where both himself and his music were unpopular to the last degree among artists; and it was an article in the contract of more than one _prima donna_, that she should not be required to sing spontini's music. the one great work of his life was _la vestale_, produced in . it was in rehearsal for a twelvemonth, and while in preparation was retouched and amended to such an extent, that the expense of copying the alterations is said to have amounted to , francs. mrs. shelley, wife of the poet, and daughter of godwin and the celebrated mary wolstoncroft, died in london on the th of february, aged years. she was herself an authoress of no inconsiderable repute. her wild and singular novels, among which are the last man, walpurga, and frankenstein, are unequaled in their kind. the last in particular, notwithstanding the revolting nature of the legend, is wrought up with great power, and possesses singular fascination for the lovers of the marvelous and the supernatural. joanna baillie, the most illustrious of the female poets of england, unless that place be assigned to elizabeth barrett browning, notwithstanding her many affectations and great inequalities, died at hampstead, on the d of february, at the age of years, within a few weeks. she is best known by her "plays on the passions," in which she made a bold and successful attempt to delineate the stronger passions of the mind by making each of them the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. the first volume was published in , and was followed by a second and a third in and , and in by three additional volumes. in addition to these she published at different times miscellaneous poetry, which was in collected into a volume. her career as an author thus extends over almost half a century. a complete edition of her works in one large volume has been issued within a few weeks. to miss baillie and wordsworth, more than to any others is to be attributed the redemption of our poetry from that florid or insipid sentimentalism which was its prevailing characteristic at the beginning of the present century. they boldly asserted, by precept and practice, the superiority of nature over all affectation and conventionalism. "let one simple trait of the human heart," says she in the introduction to her first volume, "one expression of passion genuine to truth and nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, while the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." her dramas are wrought wholly out from her own conceptions, and exhibit great originality and invention. her power of portraying the darker and sterner passions of the human heart has rarely been surpassed. scott eulogized "basil's love and montfort's hate" as a revival of something of the old shaksperean strain in our later and more prosaic days. but her dramas have little in common with those of shakspeare, so full of life, action, and vivacity. their spirit is more akin to the stern and solemn repose of the greek dramas. they have little of the form and pressure of real life. the catastrophe springs rather from the characters themselves than from the action of the drama. the end is seen from the beginning. over all broods a fate as gloomy as that which overhung the doomed house of atreus. her female characters are delineated with great elevation and purity. jane de montfort--with her stately form which seems gigantic, till nearer approach shows that it scarcely exceeds middle stature; her queenly bearing, and calm, solemn smile; her "weeds of high habitual state"--is one of the noblest conceptions of poetry. miss baillie was a conspicuous instance of high poetic powers existing in a mind capable of fulfilling the ordinary duties of life. among her friends were numbered most of those whose genius has adorned their day. her modest residence at hampstead was sought by visitors from all parts of europe, and especially from america, attracted by admiration of her genius, and love for her virtues. in her has set one of the last and brightest stars of that splendid constellation of genius, which arose during the early part of the present century. literary notices. lippincott, grambo & co. have issued the third edition of _california and oregon, or, sights in the gold region_, by theodore t. johnson, a work which has deservedly met with a favorable reception from the public, and which can not fail to be highly appreciated by the emigrant to the shores of the pacific. the author describes the incidents of his voyage to chagres, the journey across the isthmus, his stay at panama, and his observations in the gold regions, in a spirited and graphic style, which renders his volume no less amusing than instructive. the chapters devoted to oregon are full of valuable information, and form not the least interesting portions of the work. in the opinion of the author, oregon is destined to be the permanent seat of american empire on the pacific coast. the tide of emigration to california is now setting in with gradual but increasing force toward oregon, and of the thousands among the population of that territory who have visited the placers of the sacramento, none have become settlers, but all have returned to resume their abode in oregon. the statements embodied in this volume concerning the climate, soil, physical resources, and social condition of oregon, by hon. mr. thurston, the able representative to congress from that territory, are distinguished for their good sense and practical character, and have already made a strong impression on the public mind. they should be taken into consideration by every one who proposes to establish his residence in the farthest west. _mount hope, or, philip, king of the wampanoags_, by g. h. hollister (published by harper and brothers) is a new historical romance, founded on the scenes of indian warfare which occurred in the first century after the settlement of new england. the fruitful legends of that period, which present such rich materials to the novelist, are interwoven with the historical incidents of the day, in a tale of more than common vigor and beauty. the development of the plot is accompanied with numerous portraitures of real characters, some of which betray no mean powers of description, and predict the future distinction of the writer in this line of composition. among the historical personages who figure in the story, are whalley and goffe, the regicide judges, who found an asylum for many years in massachusetts, and who have left so many traditions of mysterious interest concerning their fate. a scene from the death-bed of the former presents a favorable specimen of the author's ability: "on a beautiful peninsula, formed by the most graceful curve which the connecticut (the loveliest of all the rivers that gleam among the hills of the north) makes in its long, winding journey to the ocean, stood the rural village of hadley. it was situated upon the very point of the peninsula, with one main street running north and south, and abutting at either extremity upon the river. the settlement was then new, and had in it few houses; but most of them indicated, from their size and neatness, as well as from the degree of culture that surrounded them, the industry and comparative opulence of the inhabitants. "on the eastern side of the street, and about midway between the arms of the river, stood the large, well-built mansion of mr. russell, the parish clergyman, almost hidden behind the branches of two magnificent elms of primitive growth. in the rear of the house was a lawn covered with apple-trees. "it was about ten o'clock in the evening of the day mentioned in the preceding chapter, when a gentleman, closely enveloped in a long cloak that perfectly concealed his person, emerged from the tall forest-trees that skirted the river, and entered the orchard. at first, his step was rapid and bold, but as he neared the house, he walked with more caution; and on arriving at the garden-gate he paused, with his hand upon the latch, and looked cautiously around him. having apparently satisfied himself that he was unnoticed, he passed noiselessly through the garden, and stepped over the little low stile that separated it from the house, stopped suddenly, and stamped his foot upon the ground. the earth beneath him returned a hollow sound, and the traveler, kneeling upon his right knee, commenced removing the rubbish that had been thrown so artfully over the spot as to elude the vigilance of any eye not acquainted with the premises. after he had cleared a space of about two feet in diameter, the clear moonlight disclosed the entire surface of a small trap-door, fastened by a strong padlock. he then pulled from his pocket a bunch of keys, tied together by a thong of deerskin, and, selecting the one that seemed to suit his purpose, applied it to the lock, which yielded readily to his hand. lifting the door upon its rusty hinges far enough to admit his person, he placed his foot upon a short ladder, letting the heavy door gently down as he descended. the pit in which he had thus voluntarily shut himself was about six feet in depth, and walled in like a well. at the west side, and near the bottom, was a narrow channel or passage, of sufficient size to admit a full-grown man, running horizontally westward with side-walls, and covered with large, flat stones. along this passage the mysterious night-wanderer crept softly until he came to another door, opening inward, and secured in a similar manner to the one that he had just passed. this he unlocked, and glided through the aperture, shutting and fastening the door carefully behind him. he was now in the cellar of the parsonage, which was so deep that he could stand upright without touching the timbers overhead. after groping about in the dark for some moments he discovered a small movable staircase standing against the wall, and leading perpendicularly upward. this he carefully ascended until he reached a third door, constructed of lighter materials than the others, which he easily raised with a slight pressure of the hand. he now found himself in a spacious closet, shut in with solid panels of oak. letting the door noiselessly down, he stood a moment, and listened. putting his ear to the wainscot, he could hear the indistinct murmur of voices in low but apparently earnest conversation. he heaved a deep sigh, and muttering to himself, 'i pray god it be not too late,' knocked distinctly with his heavy hand against the firm partition. the voices ceased, and he heard a light step cross the adjoining apartment, and then a knock against the wall corresponding to his own. "'who waits there?' inquired a voice from within. "'mr. goldsmith,' responded the stranger. "in a moment the door was partly opened from within by mr. russell, the proprietor of the mansion, who held a lighted candle in his hand, and who glanced stealthily into the closet, as if in doubt whether he could safely admit his visitor. "'thank heaven!' exclaimed the clergyman, 'my expectations have not deceived me: you are with us at last.' "'ay, my son; the wanderer has returned. but you look pale--i am too late--tell me if he yet lives?' "'he lives, but is fast sinking.' "'and his mind?' "'is still wandering; but there are intervals--i should rather say glimmerings of reason; he spoke incoherently but a moment since; but he replied not to my words, and whether he was sleeping or waking i could not tell. his eyes were closed.' "'i must see him: lead the way.' and opening wider the massive door, the gray-haired regicide entered the apartment of the invalid. "it was a small but comfortable chamber, neatly carpeted, and furnished with a table (covered with writing materials and a few books), three large oaken chairs, and two beds, in one of which, with his face turned to the wall, as if to avoid the trembling rays of light that flickered upon the table, lay an old man, apparently about eighty-five years of age. as the evening was sultry, his only covering was a single linen sheet thrown loosely over him, from which his emaciated arm and small, livid fingers had escaped, and lay languidly by his side. his high, straight forehead, and calm features, which, from their perfect outline, neither age nor disease had robbed of their serene beauty, were pale as marble. the window was partly open to admit the cool air from the river, and the night breeze fanned gently the thin, snow-white locks that still lingered about his temples. the tall form of goffe bent over him, long and silently, while he read with mournful earnestness the ravages of superannuation and disease in every lineament and furrow of the venerable face of his friend. then, turning to the clergyman, who still remained standing by the table, he asked, in a voice choked with grief, while a tear sparkled in his bright eye, 'how long is it, my son, since he spoke intelligibly? hath he inquired after me to-day?' "'about one o'clock, when i brought him his simple meal, he roused himself for a moment, and demanded of me if 'i had seen his dear major-general;' but when i sought to prolong the conversation, and asked if he would see goffe, his beloved son-in-law, he smiled, and said 'yes;' but added, soon after, 'no, no: i have no son, and goffe died long ago.'' "'alas!' replied goffe--seating himself, and motioning the clergyman to a seat that stood near him--'alas! i fear that my fruitless journey hath taken from me the privilege i most prized on earth--the administering of consolation to the last moments of this more than father.' "'you call it a fruitless journey, then? and did you hear no tidings of the long-lost son?' "'none: i have ridden over ground where the sound of my very name would have echoed treason; i have sought him out among men who, had they known the name of the seeker, would gladly have bought the royal favor by seizing and delivering over to the hands of the executioner the wasted, life-weary _regicide_. i have this very day encountered the mortal enemy of me and my race; but my arm struck down the wretch, as it has stricken down many a better man in the days of the protector. he paid the price of his mad folly in the last debt to nature.' "'an enemy! and slain! have you, then, been discovered?' "'ay, an enemy to god and man. but did i not tell thee that he was dead? death is no betrayer of secrets: the hounds that scented my blood, bore off his mutilated remains, but they will gladly leave them in the wilderness to gorge the wolf and the raven.' "'who is this fallen enemy?' "'edward randolph.' "'edward randolph! have you met and slain edward randolph?' "'i have slain him. you look wild--you shudder. dost think it a sin in the sight of heaven to stop the breath of a murderer? you start at my words, and the minister of god may well shrink from the weapons which the servants of the protector have grown old in wielding. but, russell, justice always bears a sword, and oliver only taught us to employ it as the meanest viper that crawls will use his envenomed tooth, to protect his writhing shape from the foot that crushes him.' "'the weapons of our warfare are not carnal,' interposed the clergyman. "'self-defense is the first law of our nature, russell. but self-defense, when roused against a tyrant, or the minions of a tyrant, and in behalf of a goaded and maddened people, to inspire them with hope and freedom, and lift their eyes to the pure light of heaven, is the sentiment of a christian patriot, and god will approve it. but let us awaken our aged friend, and try if we can marshal his scattered thoughts for a last conflict with the enemy of man.' "he walked the room a moment, to banish, by more tranquil thoughts, the frown that still lowered upon his brow and the gleam that had lighted his dark eye--the reflex of many a bloody field; and walking slowly up to the bed of the sick man, stooped over him, and passed his brawny hand over the pale forehead of the sleeper. 'awake, father, awake!--dost thou not know that thy son has returned? let me hear thy voice once again.' "the invalid turned his face suddenly toward the light, and, opening his eyes, stared wildly at goffe, but showed no signs of recognition. "'speak, whalley: do you know me?' "at the sound of his name, the old man started up, and rising upon his elbow, cried, in a voice that rang hollow as the echo of the sepulchre, 'who calls whalley? was it my lord cromwell? was it the lord general? tell him that i am ready with two hundred good troopers that carry pistols at their holsters and swords at their girdles.' then raising his arm, with his small attenuated hand clenched as if it grasped the weapon of which he raved, he continued with increased energy, 'up, my merry men! to horse! hew the roisterers down!--one more charge like that, and we drive them into the morass!--there again--it was well done--now they flounder man and horse in the dead pool--call off the men. they cry quarter--shame on ye--'tis murder to strike a fallen foe! but i wander. who called whalley? sure i have heard that voice ere this.' "'it is your son: it is goffe.' "'peace, man! i know thee not. there _was_ a goffe, who stood once by my side in the armies of the protector, and who sat with me in judgment upon the tyrant; but he was attainted of high-treason, and hanged--or, if not, he must have died in the tower. my memory is poor and treacherous; i am _old_, sir; but you look--" "'hear me, father. do you remember under whose charge the stuart was placed at hampton court?' "'do i _remember_ it!' quoth he. 'ay, do i, as if it were but a thing of yesterday. yesterday! better than that. sir, i have forgotten _yesterday_ already: my thoughts live only in those glorious days; they are written on the tablets of the brain as with a diamond. but what was i saying? it has escaped me.' "'the stuart, father--' "'who had the stuart in charge at hampton court? _i_ had him, and thought the game-bird would sooner have escaped from the talons of the falcon when poised on the wing, than he from me. but some knave played me false, and for love or gold let the tyrant slip through my hands. and, sir, to own the truth, he was a princely gentleman; and after his escape he wrote me a loving letter, with many thanks for my gentle courtesy and kindly care of him. yet his phantasy was ever running upon trifles: for in that very epistle he begged me to present in his name a trumpery dog as a keep-sake to the duke of richmond. had it not been for such light follies and an overweening tyranny, he might have ruled england to this hour.' "goffe now perceived that he had hit upon the right vein, and proceeded to ply him with reminiscences of his earlier manhood. "'had you e'er a wife?' "'the wife of my youth was an angel. what of her, but that she is dead, and i desolate? or who are you, that venture to thrust my grief upon me unasked. you tread upon the ashes of the dead!' "'pardon me: i wound, that i may heal. had you ever a daughter?' "'i had several, but i can not recall their names. yet i am sure there must have been more than one.' "'was not one of them made by your consent the wife of william goffe?' "'yes--why yes: frances was the wife of goffe--a gallant officer, and a faithful servant of god and the commonwealth. i mind him well now. he was a host in battle, but something rash, and of a hot temper. i thought to hear of his death at the end of every conflict with the cavaliers. he would ride a furlong in front of his troop in the rage of pursuit, if ever the enemy broke rank and fled.' "'what became of him?' "'he died--no--it has all come back to me now. he came with me to america, and here in the rocks and caverns of this wilderness he has helped to hide me, with the tenderness of a bird for its unfledged young, through this my second infancy.' "'do you not know me now?' asked goffe, affectionately taking his hand. "the old man fixed his mild blue eye, already beaming with the rays of returning intelligence, full upon the anxious face of his fellow-exile, and gazed long and intently, as if he would have read in his features some sign of an attempt to practice upon his credulity. then the color came back in a momentary glow to his cheeks, and tears flowed copiously over them, as he threw his arms around the iron form of goffe, and smiled faintly as he faltered, 'alas the day--that i should live to forget thee, my more than son!' "the empire of reason was restored: and although afterward it sometimes lost its sway in the chaos of the dim and shadowy images of the past, yet from that time to the day of his death, the jealous glance with which he followed the steps of the companion of his earlier and more prosperous days, as he moved noiselessly around the room--the warm grasp of the hand--the subdued patience of the sufferer--the oft-repeated endearing appellation 'my son--my son'--were constant witnesses to the faithfulness of memory, when kindled and kept in exercise by gratitude and love." _parnassus in pillory_, by motley manners, esq. (published by adriance, sherman, and co.), is a satire of great pretension and considerable success upon several of the most eminent living american poets. mr. manners has some sharp weapons in his armory, which he flourishes with the skill of an adroit fencing master, but in most cases, they gleam idly in the air without drawing blood. his happiest hits are usually harmless, but now and then they damage himself while his antagonist escapes. on the whole, the author's forte is poetry rather than satire, and punning more than either. in this last accomplishment, we admit his "proud pre-eminence." ticknor, reed, and fields have issued a new edition of _twice told tales_, by nathaniel hawthorne, with an original preface, and a portrait of the author. the preface is highly characteristic, and will be read with as much interest as any of the stories. mr. hawthorne presents some details of his literary autobiography, in which he relates the ill success of his first adventures as an author, with irresistible unction and naïvete. he claims to have been for a good many years the obscurest literary man in america. his stories were published in magazines and annuals, for a period comprising the whole of the writer's young manhood, without making the slightest impression on the public, or, with the exception of "the rill from the town-pump," as far as he is aware, having met with the good or evil fortune to be read by any body. when collected into a volume, at a subsequent period, their success was not such as would have gratified a craving desire for notoriety, nor did they render the writer or his productions much more generally known than before. the philosophy of this experience is unfolded by the author without the slightest affectation of concealment, or any show of querulousness on account of its existence. on the contrary, he views the whole affair with perfect good humor, and consoles himself in the failure of large popularity, with the sincere appreciation which his productions received in certain gratifying quarters. they were so little talked about that those who chanced to like them felt as if they had made a new discovery, and thus conceived a kindly feeling not only for the book but for the author. the influence of this on his future literary labors is set forth with his usual half-comic seriousness. "on the internal evidence of his sketches, he came to be regarded as a mild, shy, gentle, melancholic, exceedingly sensitive, and not very forcible man, hiding his blushes under an assumed name, the quaintness of which was supposed, somehow or other, to symbolize his personal and literary traits. he is by no means certain that some of his subsequent productions have not been influenced and modified by a natural desire to fill up so amiable an outline, and to act in consonance with the character assigned to him, nor even now could he forfeit it without a few tears of tender sensibility." _time the avenger_ is the title of mrs. marsh's last novel, reprinted by harper and brothers. it is intended as the sequel to "the wilmingtons," and like that powerful story abounds in vivid delineations of character, and natural and impressive developments of passion. with a more reflective character than most of the former productions of the author, the style is equally vigorous and sparkling with that of the admirable works which have given her such a brilliant celebrity. _the educational system of the puritans and jesuits compared_, by n. porter, professor in yale college (published by m. w. dodd) is an historical and argumentative treatise discussing the origin, influence, and prevalence in this country of the two systems. the views of the author are presented with discrimination and force, and well deserve the attention of the friends of religion and education. george p. putnam has issued the second part of _the girlhood of shakspeare's heroines_, by mary cowden clarke, containing _the thane's daughter_, in which the early history of lady macbeth is described in an ingenious and lively fiction. the story does great credit to the author's power of invention, and is executed with so much skill, as in some degree to atone for the presumptuousness of the enterprise. the volume is embellished with a neat engraving of "cawdor castle." munroe and francis, boston, have published a volume of _poetry from the waverly novels_, containing the poems scattered through the waverly novels, which are supposed to be written by sir walter scott, and which are ascribed by him to anonymous sources. the volume will be welcomed by every lover of poetry and of scott, not only for the agreeable associations which it awakens, but for the numerous delicious morceaux which it has preserved. a new edition of _essays and reviews_ by edwin p. whipple, has been issued by ticknor, reed, and fields, comprising the contents of the former edition, with a review of dana's poems and prose writings, and one or two less elaborate papers. these volumes present the character of the author as an acute and enlightened critic in a very favorable light. with a familiar knowledge of the lighter portions of english literature, a healthy relish for the racy varieties of a wide range of authors, a sensitive taste which is none the less accurate in its decisions for being catholic in its affinities, a peculiar facility in appreciating the point of view of the writers under discussion, and a richness, point, and beauty of expression rarely combined in any department of composition, mr. whipple has attained a deserved eminence as a critical authority, which is certainly not surpassed in the field of american letters, and with but few exceptions, by any writer in the english language. _elements of analytical geometry and of the differential and integral calculus_, by elias loomis, professor in the university of new york (published by harper and brothers) presents the principles of the sciences treated of, with a precision of statement and clearness of illustration, without sacrificing any thing of scientific rigor, which make it an admirable text-book for the college student, as well as a facile guide for the mathematical amateur. the happy manner in which the knotty points of the calculus are unraveled in this treatise presents a strong temptation to plunge into the time-devouring study. harper and brothers have published _wallace_ and _mary erskine_, being the second and third numbers of mr. abbott's popular series of _franconia stories_. _the city of the silent_, by w. gilmore simms, is the title of an occasional poem delivered at the consecration of magnolia cemetery, charleston, s. c. its felicitous selection of topics, and classic beauty of expression, entitle it to a high place in the current poetry of the day, and amply sustain the reputation of the distinguished author. the notes exhibit a rich store of curious erudition. _the shipmaster's assistant and commercial digest_, by joseph blunt, is published by harper and brothers, in the fifth edition, although such changes have been introduced as to render it in fact a new work. it presents a complete digest of the laws of the different states of the union, relating to subjects connected with navigation; a systematic arrangement of the acts of congress in regard to the revenue and commerce; a view of the different moneys and weights and measures of the world, besides an immense amount of information, under appropriate heads, on the various points of marine law and commercial regulations that can interest an american shipmaster. three leaves from punch. [illustration: . "please, sir, shall i hold your horse?"] * * * * * the affairs of grease. fat cattle did not sell well this year. their ever-obesity seems to have been one of the causes of their going off so heavily--which is no wonder. fat oxen can not be expected to be brisk. now, this truth has been brought home to graziers, perhaps they will abandon the system of fattening animals so enormously; which is the merest infatuation. * * * * * the war on hats. every one knows that _punch_ has lately been knocking the modern hat upon the head with his playful, but powerful _bâton_. war to the hat is happily superseding, on the continent, the rage for making war on crowns alone; and, indeed, we had so much rather see the military employed abroad in a crusade against hats than in the work of carnage, that, by way of giving employment in a good cause, to a brave soldier, we invest with full powers against hats the renowned general hatzoff. * * * * * peace offering. the crystal palace may be looked upon as a noble temple of peace, where all nations will meet, by appointment, under the same roof, and shake each other by the hand. it is very curious that one-half of mr. paxton's name should be significant of peace. we propose, therefore, that over the principal entrance there be erected in large gold letters, the following motto, so that all foreigners may read it as a friendly salute on the part of england: "pax(_ton_) vobiscum." * * * * * the best law book. we find there has been recently advertised a law book under the promising title of _broom's practice_. this is just what is wanted in the law; the broom happens to be a good one, for a little practice with such an implement may have the effect of operating a sweeping reform. * * * * * justice for bachelors. [illustration] [illustration] "dear mr. punch, "i am a bachelor, and my friends, i believe, allow that, in the main, i am a tolerably good-natured fellow--but just look here! i was invited a few days ago to spend a week at a country house, and here i am; but i must confess that i was a little put out when taken to the very top of it, and told that this was my bedroom. i have since been led to suppose that unmarried men must expect to sleep in the worst rooms there are; for see--this is the bedroom of a married couple, friends of mine. now--confound it! i say the comfort is monstrously and unfairly disproportioned. the ladies--bless them!--ought, of course, to be made as cosy as possible; no man could object to their having their nice little bit of fire, and their dear little slippers placed before it, with their couches, and their easy chairs, &c.--of course not--but that is no reason why we single men should be treated like so many shetland ponies. there is no fireplace in my room, and the only ventilation is through a broken window. as far as the shooting, the riding, the eating and drinking go, i have nothing whatever to complain of. but i want to know why--why _this_ mature female always answers my bell, and that great brute snawkins (whose mind, by-the-by, is not half so well regulated as mine)--merely because he is a married man--has his hot water brought by this little maid! i don't understand it. you may print this, if you like; only send me a few copies of _punch_, when it appears, that's a good fellow, and i will carelessly leave them about, in the hope that mrs. haycock may see them; and by jove! if the hint is not taken, and my bedroom changed--or, at least, made more comfortable--i'll--yes--(there's an uncommonly nice girl stopping here) i'll be hanged if i don't think very seriously of getting married myself. "believe me, my dear _punch_, "yours faithfully, "charles singleboy." [illustration] [illustration] dramas for every-day life. the following drama is upon a subject that will come home to the heart and tongue, the lungs and the lips, the epiglottis and the affections, of every englishman. there is not a theme in the whole range of every-day life, that so frequently furnishes the matter of conversation, and there can be none, consequently, so universal in its interest, as the one which forms the subject of the drama we are about to present to our readers. in every circle, at every hour of every day, the first point started by every one meeting with another, and taken up by that other with the keenest relish, is--the weather. the title may not appear at first sight a promising one, for the purposes of the dramatist; but if he can succeed in presenting to his countrymen a type of a drama for every-day life, divested of those common-places which long habit and an apparent exhaustion of the theme may have thrown about it, he will be content to hang up his harp on the first hat-peg of "tara's," or any one else's "hall," and repose, as well as such a substitute for a mattress will allow him, upon his already-acquired laurels. but without further prologue, we will "ring up," and let the curtain rise for the drama of the weather. * * * * * dramatis personÆ. mr. muffle { _an old friend of the late husband of_ { mrs. yawnley. mrs. muffle _wife of_ mr. muffle. mrs. shivers { _a casual acquaintance of_ mrs. yawnley, { _and knowing incidentally a little of the_ { muffles. mrs. yawnley { _a widow, whose late husband was a friend of_ { mr. muffle. servant to mrs. yawnley. _the_ scene _passes in the drawing-room of_ mrs. yawnley. _the stage represents a handsome drawing-room, elegantly furnished. there is a door at the back opening on to a hall in which is hung a weather-glass._ mrs. yawnley _(in a morning dress) discovered seated in conversation with_ mrs. shivers, _who wears her shawl and bonnet_. * * * * * _mrs. y._ it is indeed! the winter, as you say, has now set in with great severity. _mrs. s._ not that i think we've reason to complain. this is december, we should recollect. _mrs. y._ we should indeed--a very true remark: and one that never struck me till you made it. _enter_ servant, _announcing_ mr. _and_ mrs. muffle. _mrs. y._ (_rising._) dear mrs. muffle, this is very kind, to come to see me on a day like this. which i and mrs. shivers (whom you know) were just remarking was extremely cold. _mr. m._ cold--do you think! _mrs. y._ yes--pray come near the fire. _mrs. m._ oh! thank you--no--i'd really rather not. i'm very warm with walking. [_sits at a distance._ _mrs. s._ probably. but walking somehow never makes me warm. [_an awkward pause, during which_ mr. muffle _puts his fingers between the bars of a parrot's cage, as if playing with the bird, receives a savage snap, but says nothing, as the affair is not remarked by any body_.] _mrs. y._ what think you, mister muffle, will it rain? you gentlemen can always judge so well. _mr. m._ (_walking to the window, partly to conceal the pain of his finger._) why, that depends a good deal on the wind. _mrs. s._ they say that when the smoke is beaten down, rain may be looked for. _mrs. m._ i have often heard that if the birds fly very near the ground, wet is in store. look at that sparrow now, he's fairly _on_ the ground, so it _must_ rain. _mrs. y._ but now he's off again, and so it won't, those adages, i think, are often wrong. _mr. m._ one rule i've always found infallible. _mrs. s._ pray tell us what it is. _mrs. y._ do--i entreat. it would be so convenient to know. some certain rule by which to guide one's self. my glass deceives me often. _mrs. m._ (_in a mental aside._) rather say your glass tells often some unpleasant truths. _mr. m._ my weather-glass, dear madam, is my corn. _mrs. m._ why, really, mister m., you're quite absurd; have we the means of guidance such as that? you're positively rude. _mrs. y._ (_laughing._) oh, not at all; he's trod upon no tender place of mine. _mrs. s._ i've heard some story of the tails of cows 'tis said that when to the wind's quarter turn'd, they augur rain. now tell me, mr. muffle, do you believe in that? _mr. m._ i'd trust a cow's, as well as any other idle tail. _mrs. y._ that's saying very little. tell me, now, (for your opinion, really, i respect,) are mackerel-looking clouds a sign of wet? _mr. m._ i think it probable that mackerel clouds betoken wet, just as a mackerel's self puts us in mind of water. _mrs. s._ are you joking or speaking as a scientific man? _mrs. y._ you're such a wag, there's never any knowing when you are serious, or half in jest. dear mrs. muffle, you that know him best, shall we believe him? _mrs. m._ oh, i can say nothing, [_all laugh for some minutes, on and off, at the possibly intended wit of_ mr. muffle; _and the tittering having died off gradually, there is a pause_.] _mrs. m._ (_to_ mrs. y.) have you been out much lately? _mrs. y._ no, indeed, the dampness in the air prevented me. _mrs. s._ 'tis rather drier now. _mrs. y._ i think it is. i hope i shall be getting out next week, if i can find a clear and frosty day. _mr. m._ i think 'tis very probable you will. _mrs. y._ i'm quite delighted to have heard you say so; but are you quizzing us. you're such a quiz! _mr. m._ (_with serious earnestness._) believe me, mrs. yawnley, when i say i've far too much regard--too much esteem-- for one i've known as long as i've known you, to say a word intending to mislead; in friendship's solemn earnestness i said, and say again, pledging my honor on it, 'tis my belief we may, ere very long, some clear and frosty days anticipate. _mrs. y._ i know your kindness, and i feel it much; you were my poor dear husband's early friend. [_taking out her handkerchief._ mrs. s. _goes toward the window to avoid being involved in the scene._] i feel that though with cheerful badinage you now and then amuse a passing hour, when with a serious appeal addressed, you never make a frivolous reply. _mrs. m._ (_rising, and kissing_ mrs. y.) you do him justice, but we must be going. _mr. m._ (_giving his hand to_ mrs. y.) good morning, mrs. yawnley. _mrs. y._ won't you wait, and take some luncheon? _mr. m._ thank you; no, indeed; we must be getting home, i fear 'twill rain. _mrs. s._ i think you go my way--i'm in a fly, and shall be very glad to set you down. _mrs. m._ oh, thank you; that's delightful. _mrs. s._ (_to_ mrs. y.) so, i'll say good-by at once. _mrs. y._ well, if you will not stay. [mr. _and_ mrs. muffle, _and_ mrs. shivers, _exeunt by the door_. mrs. yawnley _goes to the bell_. mr. muffle _taps on the weather-glass; the bell rings; and the glass, which is going down, falls considerably at the same moment as the curtain_.] [illustration: a juvenile party. _first juvenile._--"that's a pretty girl talking to young algernon binks." _second juvenile._--"hm--tol-lol! you should have seen her some seasons ago."] the kitchen range of art. soyer, in his _modern housewife_, is quite angry that our great painters have never busied themselves with "such useful and interesting subjects" as the subjects of the kitchen, instead of "continually tracing on innumerable yards of canvas the horrors of war, the destruction of a fire by fire or water, the plague, the storm, the earthquake." for this purpose, soyer suggests some admirable historical events, connected with the _cuisine_, on which artists might, with advantage, employ their genius. among others, he mentions the following: "louis xiv., at versailles, receiving from the hands of the pacha the first cup of _café_ ever made in france." "voltaire helping frederic, on the field of potsdam, with a cup of cho-ca." "cardinal mazarin tasting, at the louvre, the first cup of chocolate." in all matters of taste (excepting his _nectar_ and his _economical soup_, which, we candidly confess, we never could stomach) we always agree with the mighty soyer. and we are so moved with his indignation at the neglect with which artists have too long visited all subjects connected with culinary art, that we go out of our way to give royal academicians the benefit of the following notions, which may have the desired effect of elevating the _cuisine_ to the same level as the conqueror's tent, or the monarch's council chamber. we see a grand historical picture in each of the following suggestions: "george the third in the old woman's cottage, wondering 'how ever the apples got inside the apple-dumpling.'" "ude tearing his hair, upon learning that the british nobleman had put salt into his soup." "the duke of norfolk conceiving the brilliant notion of rescuing a nation from starvation, by means of his celebrated curry-powder." "the immortal courage of the great unknown who swallowed the first oyster." "marie-antoinette wondering how the people could starve, when there were such nice little _gâteaux_ at three sous apiece." "napoleon eating the dish of stewed mushrooms, by which, it is said, he lost (in consequence of the indigestion), the battle of leipzig." "the resignation of soyer at the reform club." "portrait of the celebrated american oyster, that was so large, that it took three men to swallow it." "abernathy inventing his dinner-pill." "brillat savarin tasting the wonderful sauce, that was so delicious, that a person could eat his own father with it." "cÆsar, or dando, astonishing the natives." "heroic death of vatel, upon hearing that the fish had not arrived." "cann first hitting upon the glorious idea of giving in holborn 'a devilish good dinner for - / _d._'" as soon as our great painters have put into living shape the above delicious _morçeaux_, we shall be prepared to furnish them with another course of the same choice quality. [illustration: reward of merit. _ragged urchin._--"please give dad a short pipe?" _barman._--"can't do it. don't know him." _ragged urchin._--"why, he gets drunk here every saturday night." _barman._--"oh! does he, my little dear? then 'ere's a nice long 'un, with a bit of wax at the end."] spring fashions. [illustration: fig. .--promenade and evening costumes.] like coquettish april, fashion is now beginning to exchange its more sombre aspect for its sweetest smiles, and to develop its pretty flowers and delicate foliage. the darker colors and firmer textures of winter are now disappearing, and all the gay hues and lighter fabrics are taking their places. walking dresses.--silks of every color and texture are now to be seen for afternoon toilet. we may cite the following as the most general form in which they are made: first, a dress of green silk or velvet, the skirt made perfectly plain and very full; three-quarters high body, fitting close to the figure, and ornamented with _noeuds_ of velvet, to which are attached three small drops of fancy buttons, put on at regular distances, and reaching from the top of the corsage to the lower edge of the skirt. loose sleeves, made open up to the elbow at the back, and rounded, trimmed with a double frilling of narrow velvet. chemisette and full sleeves of white cambric. bonnet of a deep lilac _velours épinglé_. across the centre of the front is worked a wreath in tambour work, the edge of the front finished with a narrow fulling. the curtain is bordered to match the front, the interior of which is decorated with loops of ribbon, with _brides_ to match. such is the costume represented on the right in figure . another beautiful walking dress is of green silk, the skirt trimmed with three deep flounces, the upper one descending from the waist, and each encircled with three narrow _galons_, put on so as to represent square vandykes; high body, closing at the back, and ornamented in front of the chest with five _noeuds papillons_, and on either side three _galons_, forming _revers_. pagoda sleeves, rather short, and finished with two frillings decorated with _galons_; white sleeves of embroidered muslin, having three frillings of valenciennes lace. another pretty style is composed of _moire antique_ of a dark blue and black ground, _broché_ in light blue, and trimmed with a _chenille_ lace of a dark blue color. changeable, lilac, pale blue, and corn-color silks are now becoming fashionable for walking dresses. evening costume.--every variety of color is now fashionable for evening costume. the most favorite colors are _mauve_, amber, pink, lilac, blue, and peach. the centre figure in our first illustration exhibits a very elegant evening costume. a dress of pale pink satin, trimmed upon each side of the skirt with a broad lappet of the same, edged with a flat row of blonde, and confined at two distances with a _noeud_ of satin and two ostrich feathers shaded pink, the lower part being rounded. the centre of the pointed corsage is formed of two rows of lace, divided with fullings of satin; the cape is composed of two rows of lace, headed with a fulling of ribbon. the cap is composed of white lace and decorated with pink ribbons and feathers. [illustration: fig. .--coiffure.] coiffures.--there is a great variety of head dresses, many of them extremely rich and elegant. they are composed of light fabrics, and flowers of the rarest kind. the latter are generally intermixed with fancy ribbons, combining the most vivid hues with threads of gold or silver, while others are varied with _noeuds_ and streamers of ribbon velvet. figure represents a neat style of head dress for an evening party, showing the arrangement of the back hair. an elegant style of _coiffure_ is composed of the white thistle, intermixed with small clusters of gold berries and white gauze ribbon, richly embroidered with gold. those formed of ivy leaves, interspersed with tips of white _marabout sables d'or_, and attached with bows of green and gold ribbon, are extremely elegant. [illustration: fig. .--bonnet.] [illustration: fig. .--straw bonnet.] bonnets.--figure represents a very pretty style of bonnet, adapted for early spring. it is composed of folds of pink silk or satin, ornamented within with flowers. the front is trimmed with fullings of satin, attached to which, and frilling back, is a row of pointed lace. figure shows an elegant style of straw flat, for a little miss, trimmed, in connection with the tie, with several folds of satin ribbon. the only external ornament is a long ostrich feather, sweeping gracefully around the front of the crown, and falling upon the side of the brim. ball dresses are of almost every variety of style. narrow blondes are now much used for decorating ball dresses; they give a light and sparkling effect when arranged in narrow _rûches_ upon a dress of rich satin. sometimes the skirt is trimmed with a single flower, upon which is placed five or six _papillons_ of blonde, and sometimes upon one skirt are four flounces, made of the same material as the dress, or of lace. the figure on the left, in our first plate, represents an elegant and elaborate style. the dress is pale amber satin; the corsage low; the waist long, and _à pointe; berthe_ of _point d'alençon_; the sleeves are short and plain, and are nearly covered by the deep _berthe_; the skirt is long and full, trimmed with a double row of _dentelle de laine_, between which are bows of broad satin ribbon. the _sortie de bal_ which covers the body, is of white cachmere, finished by a deep flounce of _dentelle de laine_. across the front are placed five rows of fancy silk fringe; the top row going round the shoulders in the form of a small cape; the pelerine, or hood, is composed entirely of _dentelle de laine_; tassels at the corner in front; the sleeves very wide and trimmed with deep lace to correspond with the flounce. the hood, which, in the figure is thrown over the head, is terminated at the points with two large tassels of fancy silk. this is an elegant costume in which to leave the ball room for the carriage. transcriber's note: variant and dialect spelling have been retained. punctuation normalized without comment. italics denoted by "_". page , "passions with suprising" was changed to read "passions with surprising." page , "the wise resotion" was changed to read "the wise resolution." page , "too diminuitive for" was changed to read "too diminutive for." page , "southorn france." was changed to read "southern france." page , "he never quited" was changed to read "he never quitted." page , "spectral arrray of" was changed to read "spectral array of." page , "myrtles, and larels" was changed to read "myrtles, and laurels." page , "accompanied by selfishess" was changed to read "accompanied by selfishness." page , "measles, hooping-cough," was changed to read "measles, whooping-cough,." page , "for i havn't done" was changed to "for i haven't done." page , "for these anouncements" was changed to read "for these announcements." page , "door pannels" was changed to read "door panels." page , "if i arrrived" was changed to read "if i arrived." page , "momently harrassed me" was changed to read "momently harassed me." page , "that peried of" was changed to read "that period of." page , "his old parishoners" was changed to read "his old parishioners." page , "punished by courts martial" was changed to read "punished by courts-martial." page , "against the camanches" was changed to read "against the comanches." page , "bavarian court-martials" was changed to read "bavarian courts-martial." file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine. no. xxiii.-april, .--vol. iv. rodolphus.--a franconia story. by jacob abbott. chapter ii. i. the snow-shoes. as soon as martha had gone, ellen began to make such preparations as she thought necessary for the night. she placed the furniture of the room in order. she brought in some wood from the back room and laid it down very gently by the side of the fire, so as to have a sufficient supply of fuel at hand. she also brought the water pail and put it under the seat of the settle, in order that the water might not freeze, and by means of a long-handled tin dipper she filled the tea kettle full, in order that there might be an ample supply of hot water, should any occasion occur requiring any. she then brought a small blanket and held it to the fire, and when it was very thoroughly warm, she put it very gently under the counterpane, around her aunt's feet, fearing that her feet might be cold. in fact they were very cold. ellen extinguished the lamp, too, and put it away upon her table near the window, lest the light of it should shine upon her aunt's eyes and disturb her sleep. the light of the fire was sufficient to illuminate the room. the light of the fire, too, seemed more cheerful to ellen than that of the lamp. it flashed brightly upon the walls and ceiling, and diffused a broad and genial glow all over the floor. ellen made all these arrangements in the most quiet and noiseless manner possible. during all the time her aunt lay silent and motionless, as if in a profound slumber. after ellen had extinguished the lamp, she paused a moment, looking around the room to see if there was any thing which she had forgotten. she could not think of any thing else to do, and so she concluded to sit down and watch by her aunt until martha should return. she took a cushion from a great rocking chair which stood in a corner of the room, and put it down upon the bear skin rug. she then sat down upon the cushion and laid her head upon the pillow by the side of her aunt. she then gently took her aunt's hand and laid it upon her cheek, in the position in which her aunt herself had placed it, when ellen had laid her head down there before. she looked timidly into her aunt's face as she did this, to see whether any signs that she was awake could be observed. the eyes of the patient opened a very little, and a faint smile lighted up her pale features for a moment, and ellen thought that she could perceive a gentle pressure upon her cheek from her aunt's hand. in a moment, however, both the hand and the face returned to their state of repose, as before. ellen remained quiet in this position a few minutes, looking into the fire, and wondering when martha would come back, when she felt something gently touching her upon the shoulder. she looked round and found that it was lutie climbing up upon her. lutie had jumped up from the floor to the couch, and had crept along to where ellen was lying, and was now cautiously stepping over upon her. "ah, lutie," said she. "is it you? it is time for you to go to bed." lutie's bed was out in the back room. there was no door leading from the room where ellen was, directly into the back room. it was necessary to go into a sort of entry first, and from this entry into the back room by a separate door. all this may be clearly understood by referring to the plan. it happened, however, that there was an old window in the partition between the great room and the back room. the reason why this window was in the partition was this. the house was first built without any back room, and then the window on that side looked out upon the yard. when at last the back room was built, the window was rendered useless, but it was not closed up. there was a curtain over it, and this curtain was always left drawn. the back room was used for storage of various things, and for rough and heavy work on extraordinary occasions. lutie's bed was in a box in a corner of this room. the place is marked l in the plan. the bed was made of carpets and was very warm. lutie was always put out there every night at nine o'clock. she was not allowed to remain at the fireside all night, lest she should do some damage to the various things which were placed there on cold nights to keep them warm. lutie was accustomed to remain quietly in her bed until martha got up in the morning. she always knew when martha got up, however early it might be, for she could see the glow of the fire which martha made, shining through the old window in the partition between the rooms. when lutie saw this light she would go to the window, jump up upon the sill outside, and mew for martha to let her in. although it was not yet nine o'clock, and though ellen would have liked lutie's company as long as she remained alone with her aunt, she thought she would put her out. "i may fall asleep myself," said she, "and then you will creep along upon aunt anne, and disturb her. so you must go, lutie." she accordingly took up the kitten and carried her out. when she opened the door into the entry, she saw quite a little drift of snow, which had blown in under the edge of the door from the outer platform. "ah, it is a cold and stormy night," said she, "but you must get into bed as soon as you can, and get warm." ellen stopped a moment to listen to the sound of the storm, as it howled and roared among the trees of the forest, and then went back again to her place at the fireside. she moved her cushion and rug to the foot of the couch, and then bringing a pillow from the bedroom, she put it upon the couch, at the foot of it, so that she could sit upon the cushion, and lay her head upon her own pillow, without any danger of incommoding or disturbing her aunt. she then sat down and laid her head upon this pillow, with her face toward the fire. she determined, however, though she thus laid her head down, not to go to sleep, but to keep awake, if she possibly could, until martha or hugh should return. she did go to sleep, however, notwithstanding all her resolution. she was asleep in fifteen minutes after she had laid her head down. [illustration: ellen asleep.] lutie fell asleep too, very soon, in her bed in the back room, and ellen's aunt was asleep, so that all were asleep. there was no one watching or awake in all the house. ellen slept several hours. in the mean time the wind and storm raged more and more violently without, and the snow fell from the skies and was driven along the ground faster and faster. great drifts formed upon the roofs and around the chimneys; and below, the yards, the fences, the woodpiles were all covered. great banks of snow were formed too, behind the house, in the whirling eddy produced by the wind in turning round the corner. one of these banks rose gradually up against the windows on that side. at ten o'clock the whole lower sash of each window was covered; at half past ten the snow had risen half way up the upper sash, and at eleven one window was entirely concealed, while only a little corner of the other was left, and even that was fast disappearing. the bucket in the well was filled, and the snow was banked up against the sides of the curb, till at last the crest of the drift began to curl over at the top, as if seeking to bury up the well entirely. the fences were all hidden from view, and a cart which had been left standing in the corner of the yard, was so entirely covered, that nothing remained but a white and shapeless mound to mark the place where it lay buried. at last ellen opened her eyes again. she was at first frightened to find that she had been asleep. she feared that some mischief might have happened, while she had been insensible. the fire had burned entirely down, and the room was almost dark. ellen threw on a small stick of wood to make a little blaze, and by the light of this blaze she looked at her aunt. she was lying, she found, in the same posture as when ellen went to sleep. ellen put her ear down to listen, and found that her aunt was breathing--very gently, indeed--but still breathing. ellen looked at the clock; for there was a large clock standing in a corner of the room. it was twelve. "it is midnight," said ellen; "i did not think it was so late." ellen next put some large sticks of wood upon the fire. the room, she thought, was getting cold. the wood was dry and it blazed up very cheerfully and illuminated the whole apartment with a very cheerful light. lutie saw the light shining through the curtain, and she supposed that it was morning, and that martha had built the fire. so she stretched her paws and rubbed her face, and then after listening a moment to the sound of the storm, she stepped over the side of the box where her bed was made, walked to the window, leaped up upon the window-sill, and mewed, according to her usual custom, expecting that martha would come to let her in. ellen went and opened the window for lutie. then she went back again to the fire. she stood at the fire a minute or two, and then went to the front window of the room, to look out; she wondered what could have become of martha. she listened at the window. the storm was roaring dreadfully down the valley, but nothing could be seen. the panes of glass were half covered with the snow, which was banked up upon the sash on the outside. ellen concluded that she would go to the door, where she thought that perhaps she might see a little way down the road, and if she could not see, at least she could listen. so she put a shawl over her shoulders and went out into the porch. she shut the door leading from the porch into the room, and then unlatched the porch-door which opened to the outer air. as she opened the door a great bank of snow which had been piled up on the outside of it, fell in about her feet. ellen stepped back a little, and then, standing still, she looked out into the storm and listened. she had not listened long before she thought she heard a distant cry. it came from down the road. she listened again. there came a blustering blast of wind which rocked the trees, whirled the snow in her face, roared in the chimneys over her head, and for a moment drowned all other sounds. when this had passed, ellen listened again. she was sure that she heard a distant cry. "it is my father and mother!" she exclaimed; "they are out in the storm!" ellen's aunt had taught her to be collected and composed in all sudden and alarming emergencies, and always to take time to consider calmly what to do, however urgent the case might be. she stood for a moment, therefore, quietly where she was, and then determined to go and wake her aunt, and tell her what she had heard, and ask her what she had better do. she tried to shut the door but she could not. the snow that had fallen in prevented its closing. so she left it open and went through the porch to the inner door, and so back into the room, taking care to shut the inner door as soon as possible after she had passed through. she went to the couch, and kneeling down before it, she put her hand softly upon her aunt's cheek and said, speaking in a low and gentle tone, "aunt!--aunt anne!" there was no answer. "aunt anne!" she repeated. "wake up a moment;--i want to speak to you a moment." there was still no answer. ellen looked at her aunt's pale and beautiful face for a moment, in doubt whether to speak to her again; and then she determined to give up the attempt to awaken her, and to decide herself what to do. after a little reflection she concluded that she would go, a little way at least, and see if she could learn what the cries were that she heard. she accordingly went to a closet in her aunt's bedroom, and took down a cloak which was hanging there, and also a warm quilted hood. these she put on. she then went into the back room and got a pair of snow-shoes which hung against the wall there. she carried these snow-shoes into the porch, and put them down upon the floor.[ ] [footnote : snow-shoes are of an oval form and large and flat. they are made of basket-work or of leather straps braided together. they are worn by being fastened to the soles of the feet, and prevent the feet from sinking down into the snow.] "now," said she, "i will get the horn." the horn which she referred to was made of tin. it was kept hanging upon a nail near the back-door, and was used for calling hugh to dinner, when he was far away from the house. it was very hard to blow for one who was not accustomed to it, but when it was blown skillfully it could be heard a great way. ellen took down the horn from its nail, and went back into the porch. she fastened the snow shoes to her feet, and drawing the cloak around her, she sallied out into the storm. she could scarcely see where to go. the wind blew the snow in her face, and every thing was so covered that all the usual landmarks were concealed from view. the snow was very light, but the snow-shoes prevented her from sinking into it. she walked on toward the road, without however knowing exactly on what course she was going. in fact, in coming out of the yard, she inclined so far to the left, in her bewilderment, that instead of going out at the gateway, she passed over a corner of the fence, without knowing it--fence and gateway being both alike deeply buried in the snow. [illustration: the snow shoes.] as soon as ellen found that she was in the road, she stopped, and turning her back to the wind, blew a long and loud blast with her horn. she then immediately paused to listen, in order that she might hear if there should be any reply. she heard a reply. it sounded like one or two voices calling together. the voices were shrill. as soon as the response ceased, ellen blew her horn again. there was a second response--louder than the preceding one. ellen was very much pleased to find that her signals were heard, and she immediately began to walk on down the road, in the direction from which the sounds had proceeded. one makes but a slow and laborious progress when walking upon snow-shoes. it is true that the shoes do not sink far into the snow, but they sink a little, and they are so large and unwieldy that it is quite difficult to walk upon them. besides, the snow-shoes which ellen wore were too large for her. they were made for a man. still ellen advanced without any serious difficulty, though she was obliged to stop now and then to rest. whenever she stopped she would blow her horn again, and listen for the response. the response always came, and it became louder and louder the farther she proceeded down the valley. at length ellen arrived at the place from which the cries that she had heard proceeded. she found there a horse and sleigh almost buried in the snow, with her mother and rodolphus in the sleigh. it would be hard to say which was most astonished, ellen, to find her mother and rodolphus in such a situation, or mrs. linn, at finding ellen coming to their rescue. "why, mother!" exclaimed ellen; "is this you?" "why, ellen!" said her mother; "is it possible that this is you?" "why, mother!" said ellen, more and more astonished; "did you undertake to come up in all this storm alone, with only rodolphus?" "no," said her mother, "hugh came with us. we have been four hours getting so far as here, and when hugh found that we could not get any further, he left us and went away alone to get some help." "and you are almost frozen to death, i suppose," said ellen. "no," said her mother, "we are not very cold; we are well wrapped up in buffalo robes, and the bottom of the sleigh is filled with straw." rodolphus peeped out from beneath the mass of coverings with which he was enveloped, unharmed, but yet pale with anxiety and terror, though now overjoyed at seeing ellen. "but i don't see now what we are to do, to get home," said ellen. "there is only one pair of snow-shoes, and there are three of us to go." "we must go one at a time, then," said rodolphus. "but when one has gone, how can we get the snow-shoes back?" asked ellen. "i don't know, i am sure," said mrs. linn. "i don't know what we shall do." "why did not father come with you?" asked ellen, despondingly. "he was gone away," said her mother. "we waited for him a long time, but he did not come, and so hugh said that he would leave his team in the village for the night, and come with me. but he went away some time ago, and i don't know what can have become of him." while this consultation had been going on, the storm had continued to rage around them in all its fury. the track behind the sleigh had been wholly obliterated, the horse was half-buried, and the snow was fast rising all around the sleigh and threatening before long to overwhelm the party entirely. they were entirely at a loss to know what to do. so they paused a moment in their perplexity, and during the pause, ellen thought that she heard another cry. "hark!" said she. they all listened as well as the howling of the wind around them would allow them to listen. it was certainly a distant shout that they heard. "yes," said ellen. "it must be hugh," said her mother. ellen raised the horn to her lips, and blew a long and loud blast, turning the horn as she did so, in the direction of the voice. they all listened after the sound of the horn had ceased, and heard a reply. "yes," said ellen, "it must be hugh. i will go down to him on my snow-shoes." "no," said rodolphus, "you must not go and leave us here alone." "yes," said ellen, "i will go. i can give him the snow-shoes and then he can go and get some help for us." rodolphus declared that ellen should not go, and began to scream and cry in order to compel his mother to prevent her, but his mother said nothing, and ellen went away. she said, as she went, "i will blow the horn now and then, mother, and as long as you hear it, you will know that i am safe." ellen went toiling on down the road, stopping every few minutes to blow her horn, and to listen to the responses of the voice. she soon found that she was rapidly drawing near to the place whence the sound proceeded. she perceived that the voice was that of a man. she had no doubt that it was hugh, and that he had lost his way, and was calling for help. she still felt great anxiety, however, for she did not see, if it should prove to be hugh, what he could do with only one pair of snow-shoes for four, to extricate such a party from their perilous condition. she thought of her aunt, too, lying sick and alone upon her couch, and of the distress and anxiety which she supposed the helpless patient would feel, if she should wake up and find that both martha and ellen had gone away, and left her, sick as she was, in absolute solitude. she, however, pressed diligently forward, and at length found herself drawing nearer and nearer to the voice. presently she began to see a dark mass lying helplessly in the snow just before her. "hugh," said she, "are you here?" "i am here," replied the voice, "but it is not hugh." "why, antonio, is it you?" said ellen. she had recognized antonio's voice. "how came you to be here?" "how came _you_ to be here, is the question, i think?" rejoined antonio. "i have got snow-shoes." said ellen. "i heard cries and i came out to see. my mother and rodolphus are up the road a little way, in a sleigh, and the snow is covering them over very fast. i'll blow my horn for them." here ellen blew another long and loud blast with her horn, and immediately afterward she heard the distant call of her mother and of rodolphus answering it together. "all right," said antonio, "they answer. now the first thing to do is to get up to them. give me the snow-shoes, and i think i can carry you right along." "oh, no," said ellen, "i am too heavy." "let us try," said antonio. so saying he climbed up out of the snow, as well as he could, and put on the snow-shoes. they were very easily put on. antonio found that the snow-shoes bore him up completely, but ellen had sunk down into the drift when she was deprived of them. antonio, however, soon raised her again, and took her in his arms. enveloped as she was in her cloak, she made a rather large looking load, though she was not very heavy. still it was difficult to carry even a light load, walking with such shoes, on such a yielding surface, and in such a storm. antonio was obliged to stop very often to rest and to take breath. at such times, ellen would blow her horn, and listen for the answer. thus they gradually got back safely to the sleigh. as they had thus come up the hill, antonio, in the intervals of his conversation with ellen, had determined on the course which he would pursue. he knew that there was a snow-sled at mr. randon's house; that is, a hand sled made light and with the shoes of the runners very broad and flat. by means of this construction, the sled had, like the snow-shoes, the property of not sinking much in the snow. antonio determined to go himself up to the house on the snow-shoes--leaving ellen with rodolphus and her mother in the sleigh--and get this sled, and he hoped, by means of it, to draw them all up safely one by one. the poor horse, he thought, would have to be left in the drifts to die. antonio's plan succeeded completely. he put ellen under the buffalo robes in the sleigh and covered her entirely in, except that he allowed one little opening on one side for the horn, which he advised her to blow from time to time, as it might possibly help hugh to find his way back to them. he then left the party in the sleigh, and was soon lost from view. he went toiling up the hill to the house. he walked into the yard. he groped his way to the barns and sheds, but the doors were all blocked up with snow, so that he could not get them open. he, however, contrived to climb up upon a roof, and by that means to get into a barn window. he left his snow-shoes on the scaffold, and then groped his way down in the dark to the place where ellen had told him that the snow-sled was kept. every thing was in such perfect order that he met with no difficulty on the way. he found the sled, and carrying it back to the barn window, he contrived to heave it out there, throwing the snow-shoes out after it. he followed himself, descending as he had ascended, by the roof of the shed. as soon as he got into the road, he mounted upon his sled, and guiding himself by the sound of the horn, which he heard from time to time, and by the dark forms of the firs which grew upon the sides of the road, he slid quite rapidly down to the sleigh. to his great relief and joy he found that hugh was there. it proved that hugh had lost his way, and he would, perhaps, have perished had he not heard the sound of the horn. the horn attracted his attention just as he was about giving up in despair. he supposed that the sound came from some farmer's house, where the people were, for some reason or other, blowing a horn. he succeeded at last in making his way to the place from which the sound proceeded, and was greatly astonished to find himself back at the sleigh. antonio took hugh home first. each took the snow-shoes by turns and drew the other on the sled. when they reached the house, antonio left hugh there, and returned himself, for the others. the second time he took rodolphus, the third time, ellen. their mother insisted on being left to the last. by the time that the party were all safely conveyed to the house, hugh had got the barn-doors open, and had brought out a yoke of oxen, with a lantern and shovels. he then took the snow-shoes from antonio, and putting them upon his own feet, he walked on, to mark the way, while antonio followed with the oxen. antonio was, however, obliged to go behind the oxen in driving them, so as to walk in the path which they had broken. the snow was up to the sides of the oxen all the way, and in some places they came to drifts so deep, that antonio and hugh were obliged to shovel the snow away for a long time, before the oxen could get through. at length, however, they reached the place where the horse and sleigh had become foundered. the horse was nearly exhausted with fatigue and cold. hugh and antonio trod down and shoveled away the snow around him, and then unfastened the harness, so as to separate the horse from the sleigh. they then turned back the shafts of the sleigh, and fastened the oxen to them by a chain, turning the heads of the oxen up the hill. hugh got into the sleigh, to ride and drive the oxen. antonio walked behind, leading the horse. the road was now so broken, that though the snow was very deep, and antonio and the horse both sank down very far into it, it was possible for them to get along. they stopped two or three times to rest, and twice to shovel away the snow, but, at last, they safely reached the house, and turning into the yard, went directly to the barn. "now," said hugh, "i can take care of every thing here. you had better go into the house and see if all is right there." so antonio went into the house. ellen came out to meet him at the porch-door, weeping as if her heart would break. antonio asked her what was the matter. she said that her aunt anne was dead. antonio tried to comfort ellen as well as he could, but it was very hard to comfort her. in the course of the evening, however, she was sometimes tolerably composed, and at one such time, when she was sitting upon the settle, antonio took a seat by her side, and talked with her a little while, about her going down to her mother in the storm. "i don't know," said he, "what _she_ will think of your having saved her life by your courage and presence of mind; but you may depend, that i shall not very soon forget your having saved _mine_." ii. death. rodolphus was very much shocked and overpowered at witnessing the scene of anxiety and sorrow, into which he found himself ushered, when he arrived at the house. he sat down for a time on hugh's bench, in the corner, by the fire, until he was warm. his mother then came and undressed him and put him to bed in a sort of attic chamber over the great room. rodolphus was afraid to be left alone in the solitary chamber. the wind howled mournfully among the trees of the neighboring forest, and the snow clicked continually against the windows. rodolphus was, however, not afraid of the storm----nor was he afraid of robbers or of ghosts. in fact, he did not know what he was afraid of. still he was afraid. undutiful and disobedient boys are always afraid when they are left alone. in fact, rodolphus would have refused to go to bed altogether, had it not been that his spirit was awed and subdued by the presence of death, and by the strange situation in which he so suddenly found himself placed. notwithstanding this, however, he was upon the point of making some resistance when his mother first came to him, to take him away, but just then antonio came into the room, and perceiving that there was about to be some difficulty, he stopped and looked at rodolphus, as if to see what he was going to do. rodolphus immediately submitted, and allowed himself to be led away. he was more afraid of antonio, than he was even of being left alone in his chamber. the next morning when rodolphus awoke he found that the storm was still raging. he looked out the window, and perceived that the air was full of driving snow, while upon the ground nothing was to be seen but vast and shapeless masses of white. he rose, dressed himself, and came down stairs. he found a great fire blazing in the fire-place, but every thing was very still and solitary about the house. the body had been removed to the bedroom, and was laid out there. the bedroom door was open. hugh and antonio were out, trying to get into the barn. ellen was walking softly about the bedroom, putting away the things which had been used during the sickness, but which were now needed no longer. martha, who had got home the evening before, while ellen had been gone, and had brought some of the neighbors with her, was busy preparing the breakfast. both she, however, and ellen, and the others who were there, moved about silently, and spoke, when they spoke at all, in a subdued and gentle tone, as if they were afraid of disturbing the repose of the dead. when the breakfast was ready, martha went to call hugh and antonio and all the others, to come to the table. they all came except ellen. she remained in the bedroom to watch with the body of her aunt. her heart was full of trouble. as she sat by her aunt's bed-side, she thought bitterly of her loss, and she looked forward with many anxious forebodings to the future. she felt as if her happiness was gone forever. she loved her father and mother, it was true; but her aunt had seemed to be her best and truest friend; and now that her aunt was gone from her forever, she felt alone and desolate. after breakfast antonio went away upon the snow-shoes to see if he could obtain some assistance from the neighbors, in relation to the funeral. the storm, he said, appeared to have abated. the clouds looked thin, and at one time he could almost see the sun. in about two hours he returned, bringing with him two or three men, all upon snow-shoes; for the snow which had fallen was so deep that any other mode of traveling was impossible. the preparations for the funeral went on during the day. the third day the coffin came. it was brought upon a snow-sled, which was drawn by two men upon snow-shoes. the storm had not yet entirely abated. the wind was high, and the air was growing intensely cold. this was to be expected. it is usually much colder in such cases after the storm is over, than while the snow continues to fall. they dug the grave at some little distance from the house, under the margin of a wood where there was a little shelter. in digging it they had first to go down through the deep snow, and then with pick-axes and iron bars to dig into the frozen ground. when the grave was ready they put boards over it, to prevent its being filled up again with the snow. the funeral took place just at sunset. hugh had broken out a road to the place by means of the oxen. the men placed the coffin on a sled; it had been arranged that two of the neighbors were to draw it. they said at first that none but men could go to the grave, but ellen said that she _must_ go. "i can walk very well," said she, "i know, if you can let me have a pair of the snow-shoes. i _must_ go. my aunt loved me and always took care of me, and i must keep with her till the very last." when the men found how desirous she was to go, they said that they could take another sled and draw her. they said that if she would like to take rodolphus with her, they could draw him, too; but rodolphus said, that he did not wish to go. when all was ready, the company assembled in the great room, and antonio read a prayer which ellen found in a prayer-book that had belonged to her aunt anne. it was a prayer suitable to a funeral occasion. when the prayer had been read, the funeral procession moved mournfully from the door. the coffin went first, covered as it lay upon the sled with a black cloak for a pall, and drawn by two men. the other sled followed, drawn also by two men. ellen was seated upon the second sled, wrapped in buffalo robes. the road had been broken out, so as to be passable, but the snow was very deep, and the men made their way with great difficulty through it. they stopped once or twice on the way to rest. [illustration: the funeral.] when they arrived at the grave, they found that the sun was shining pleasantly upon the spot, and the trees sheltered it from the wind. still it seemed to ellen, as she looked down into the deep pit from the top of the snow which surrounded it, that it was a very cold grave. the men let the coffin down, and then two of them remained to fill the earth in again, while hugh and antonio drew ellen home. distressed and unhappy as ellen was at the death of her aunt, there was another blow still to come upon her. she found when she reached the house on her return from the funeral, that the whole family were in a state of consternation and terror at the tidings which had arrived from the village, that her father had perished in the storm. he had been across the river when the storm came on. in attempting to return, his horse had become exhausted in the snow, and he was forced to abandon him and attempt to find his way home alone. he lost his way and wandered about till his strength failed, and then, benumbed with the cold, and wearied with the hopeless toil, he sank down into a drift, and fell asleep. of course, he never woke again. he was found when the storm was over, by means of a small dark spot formed by a part of his shoulder, which projected above the surface of the snow. it was thus that rodolphus lost his father. iii.--consequences of bad training. one pleasant morning in the month of june, during the next summer after the great storm, rodolphus was drawing his sister annie about the yard in a little green cart which her sister ellen kept for her. there was a great elm-tree in the middle of the yard, with a path leading all around it. rodolphus was going round and round this tree. annie was playing that rodolphus was her horse, and she had reins to drive him by. she also had a little whip to whip him with when he did not go fast enough. presently ellen came to the door. she had a small hammer in one hand, and a box containing some small nails and tags of leather in the other. she was going to train up a climbing rose, which had been planted by the side of the door. ellen told rodolphus that she thought it was time for him to get ready to go to school. "oh, no," said rodolphus, "it is not time yet;" so he went prancing and galloping on around the great tree. a moment afterward his mother came to the door. "rodolphus," said she, "it is time for you to go to school." "oh no, mother, not yet," said rodolphus. "yes," said his mother, "it is quite time. come in directly." "well, mother," said rodolphus, "i will." mrs. linn stopped a moment to look at ellen's rose-tree, and to say "how pretty it looks climbing up here by the door;" and then she went in. rodolphus continued to run round the yard. presently he came prancing up to the door, and stopped to see what ellen was doing. "rodolphus," said ellen, "you ought to obey mother. she said that you must go to school." "oh, pretty soon," said rodolphus. "she is not in any hurry." "yes, rodolphus," said annie, in a very positive manner. "you ought to obey my mother. you must go to school." so saying, annie began to move as if she were going to get out of the cart, but rodolphus perceiving this, immediately began to draw the cart along, and thus prevented her. she could not get out while the cart was going. rodolphus continued to run about for some time longer. annie begged of him to stop and let her get out, but he would not. at length his mother came to the door again, and renewed her commands. she said that unless he stopped playing with the cart, and went to school immediately, she should certainly punish him. "why, mother," said rodolphus, "it is not late. besides, i am going to draw annie to school in the cart, and so we shall go very quick." "no," said his mother, "you must not take the cart to school. if you do, it will come to some damage." "oh, no," said rodolphus. "go and get me annie's books, and i will start off directly." his mother went into the house and brought out a spelling-book, and put it down on the step of the door. she called out at the same time to rodolphus, who was at that time near the great tree, telling him that there was the book, and that he must leave the cart, and take annie and the book, and go directly. the reason why mrs. linn was so solicitous for the safety of the cart, was because it was ellen's cart, and she knew that ellen prized it very highly. the way that ellen came to have such a cart was this: one day she was walking alone near the back fence of the garden, at a place where the fence was very high and close, when she heard the voices of some children on the other side, in a little green lane, where children often used to play. ellen thought she heard rodolphus's voice among the others, and there appeared to be some difficulty, as in fact there usually was, where rodolphus's voice could be heard. so ellen climbed upon a sort of trellis, which had been made there against the fence, in order that she might look over and see what was the matter. she found that there were two girls there with a small cart, and that rodolphus had got into the cart, and was insisting that the girls should draw him along. the girls looked troubled and distressed, and were not trying to draw. "pull," said rodolphus. "pull away, hearty." "no," said the girls----"we can't pull. it is too heavy----besides, you will break down our cart." "rodolphus!" said ellen. rodolphus turned his head, and saw his sister looking down upon him from the top of the fence. "ellen," said he, "is that you?" "yes," said ellen, "i would not trouble those poor girls. let them have their cart." "why, they could pull me just as well as not," said rodolphus, "if they would only try. come, girls," he added, "give one good pull, and then i will get out." the girls hesitated a moment, being obviously afraid that the cart would be broken. they looked up to ellen, as if they hoped that in some way or other she could help them, but ellen knew not what to do. so they concluded to submit to rodolphus's terms. they made a desperate effort to draw the cart along a few steps, but the result which they had feared was realized. the cart went on, staggering, as it were, under its heavy burden, for a short space, and then a crack was heard, and one side of it sank suddenly down to the ground. the axletree had broken, close to the wheel. the children seemed greatly distressed at this accident. rodolphus got out of the cart, and looked at the fracture----appearing perplexed in his turn, and not knowing what to say. the oldest girl took up the wheel, and began to examine the fracture with a very sorrowful countenance, while the youngest looked on, the picture of grief and despair. "now, mary," said the youngest child, in a very desponding tone, "i don't believe we can sell our cart at all." "do you wish to sell it?" asked ellen. "yes," said mary. "father said that we might sell it, if we could find any body that would buy it; but now it is broken, i don't suppose that any body will." "how much do you ask for it?" said ellen. "a quarter of a dollar," said mary. "well," replied ellen, "perhaps _i_ will buy it. if you will bring it round to our house this evening after tea, i will get antonio to look at it and see if it is worth a quarter of a dollar; or, rather, if it _was_ worth a quarter of a dollar before it was broken----for that will make no difference; and if he says it was, perhaps i may buy it." "well," said mary, "we will." "is beechnut coming to our house this evening?" asked rodolphus. "yes," said ellen. the girls seemed much relieved of their distress at hearing this. mary took up the broken wheel and put it into the cart, saying at the same time, "come, ally, let us carry it home." mary stooped down to take hold of one side of the cart, while her sister took hold of the other, and so they lifted it up. "rodolphus," said ellen, "i think you had better help them carry the cart home." "yes," said rodolphus, "i will." so rodolphus took the wheel out of the cart and gave it to mary to carry, and then lifting up the cart bodily, he put it upside down upon his head, as if it were a cap, and then began to run after the girls with it. they fled, filling the air with shouts of laughter, and thus the three went off together, all in high glee. the end of it was, that ellen bought the cart, and antonio made a new axletree for it, and put it, in all respects, in complete repair. he also painted it beautifully inside and out, making it look better than when it was new. ellen's motive in getting the cart was chiefly to promote annie's amusement, but still she valued it herself, very highly. she used often to lend it to rodolphus when he was playing with annie in the yard, and rodolphus would draw his sister about in it. ellen always gave him many cautions not to go too fast, and was very careful never to allow him to put any thing inside that would bruise or soil it. there was a little seat inside for annie to sit upon, with a box beneath it where a small basket of provisions could be stored, in case of an excursion. beechnut had promised, too, to make annie a whip, and ellen was going to make her a pair of reins, so that when rodolphus was drawing her she might play drive. but to return to the story. rodolphus drew the cart up to the door, and taking up the book, he put it upon annie's lap and then began to move away again. "stop," said annie; "stop, and let me get out." "no," said rodolphus, "i am going to draw you to school." "no," said annie, "my mother said that you must not take my cart to school." "oh, she won't care," said rodolphus, still going. "but she said that you must _not_," persisted annie. "that was because she thought the cart would come to some damage," said rodolphus. "but it will not come to any damage. i shall bring it home all safe at noon, and then she won't care." by this time rodolphus had got out into the road. annie looked anxious and distressed, but as rodolphus walked rapidly on, she was entirely helpless, and could do nothing but sit still, though she urged rodolphus to stop, again and again, until at last, finding that it did no good, she gave up in despair, and resigned herself to her fate. they proceeded in this way until they had got pretty near the village, when, as they were going along the road, which at this place led near the margin of the river, just below the bridge and mill, rodolphus saw two boys getting into a boat. he asked them where they were going; they said that they were going a-fishing. [illustration: the boys and the boat.] "i mean to go too," said rodolphus, looking toward annie. "no," said annie, "you must not go, for then what shall i do with my cart?" "oh, you can draw your cart along to school yourself, very well," said rodolphus, and so saying, he lifted annie hastily and roughly out of the cart, calling out at the same time to the boys to wait a minute for him. he put the handle, which was at the end of the tongue of the cart, into annie's hand, and then ran down to the water; and thus, almost before annie had time to recover from her astonishment, she found herself left alone in the road, while the boat, with rodolphus and the other boys in it, began slowly to recede from the shore. annie began to cry. rodolphus called out to her in a rough voice to go along to school. so she began to walk slowly along, drawing the cart wearily after her. on her way home from school that day, when she came to the place in the road where rodolphus had left her in the morning, she found him waiting there for her. she was coming without the cart. rodolphus asked her what she had done with it. she said that she had left it at school. the teacher had told her that it was too heavy for her to draw, and had put it in a corner, to wait till rodolphus came. rodolphus then told annie to sit down upon a stone by the side of the road till he came back, and then began to run toward the school-house. in a short time he came back bringing the cart. he put annie into it and went toward home. annie asked him where he had been all the day--but he did not answer. he seemed discontented and uneasy, and preserved a moody silence all the way home, except that once he turned and charged annie not to tell his mother or ellen that he had not been at school that day. when he reached home, he left the cart at the door, and stepping into the entry he began to call out aloud, "mother! mother!" ellen came to the door and said in a gentle voice, "mother can't come now, rolfy; she is busy." "but i want to see her a minute," said he. "mother! mother!" a moment afterward his mother appeared at her bedroom window. "what do you want, rolfy?" said she. rodolphus said nothing, but stood still, pointing to the cart, with a triumphant air. "what?" said his mother. "see!" said rodolphus. "what is it?" said she. "the cart," said rodolphus, "all safe." "well," said his mother, "what then?" "why, you said," replied rodolphus, "that if i took it to school, it would come to some damage." "well, it _might_ have come to some damage," said she, "you know. and you ought not to have taken it." so saying his mother went away from the window. * * * * * rodolphus was, in fact, a source of continual trial and trouble to his mother, though she did not know one half of his evil deeds. he concealed them from her very easily, for she never made a careful inquiry into his conduct when he was out of her sight. he played truant continually, going off to play with idle boys. he fell into bad company, and formed many evil habits. he was continually getting into mischief among the neighbors. they complained of him sometimes, to his mother, but this did no good. generally, she would not believe any thing that they said against him, and whenever any of his evil deeds were fully proved to her, she made so many excuses for him, and looked upon his misconduct with so indulgent a view, that she exercised no restraint upon him whatever. he wanted more money than his mother could furnish him with, and he gradually fell into dishonest means of obtaining it. his sister ellen had some poultry, and once a-week she used to commission him to carry the eggs into the village for sale. ellen used to go out every morning to get the eggs from her nests, but rodolphus would often go out before her, and take a part of the eggs and hide them. these he would consider his own, and so when he carried her supply to market, he would secretly add to them those he had thus purloined, so as to get more money for the eggs than he returned to her. he used to get the apples, too, from the neighbors' orchards, and once when he was in a store in a village, and saw a little money upon the counter, which a girl had laid down there to pay for some thread, and which the store-keeper had forgotten to put away, rodolphus, watching his opportunity, slipped it into his pocket and went away with it. he felt very guilty after he had done this, for several days; but still he kept the money. ellen was the only person who had any influence over rodolphus, and she had not a great deal. she was, however, herself a great help and a great source of comfort to her mother. as soon as she came home, she began in a very modest and unassuming manner, to introduce the system and order which had prevailed in her aunt's household, into that of her mother. she began with annie's and rodolphus' playthings, which, when she first came home, were scattered all over the house in disorder and confusion. she collected these playthings all together, repaired the books which were damaged, mended the broken toys, and arranged them all neatly upon a shelf which her mother allowed her to use for the purpose. then she gradually put the rooms in the house in order, one after another. she drove up nails in convenient places, to hang implements and utensils upon. she induced rodolphus to put the yard and the grounds about the house in order. every useless thing that would burn, was put upon the wood-pile, and all other rubbish cleared away. she planted the seeds of climbing plants about the gateways, and near the windows of the house, and in one corner she made a very pretty trellis, by tying poles together with a kind of very flexible wire called binding wire. antonio showed her how to do it. in fact, by means of what ellen did, the house was in a very few months entirely transformed, and became one of the neatest and pleasantest cottages in all the town; and she and her mother and annie would have lived together very happily in it, had it not been for the anxiety and trouble which rodolphus gave them. one day antonio, who often came to mrs. linn's to see if there was any thing he could do for the family, and who had often talked with rodolphus about the evil of his ways, drove up to the gate in a wagon, and proposed to rodolphus to go and take a ride with him. "yes," said rodolphus, "i will go." "go and ask your mother first," said antonio. "oh, she will let me go, i know," said rodolphus, coming at the same time toward the wagon. "go and ask her," said antonio. so rodolphus went and asked his mother, and she gave him leave. he then ran back to the wagon, climbed up into it, and took his seat by the side of antonio. in the course of this ride, antonio had a long and plain conversation with rodolphus about his evil course of life, and the sorrows and sufferings to which it would lead him, and in which it would involve his mother and sister, if he went on as he had begun. he told him, however, that if on the other hand he would make a change, if he would obey his mother, and go regularly to school, and keep away from bad company, and become industrious and honest, he would grow up to be a useful and respectable man, and would make himself and all around him happy. rodolphus heard what antonio said, patiently and attentively through to the end, and then said, "yes, beechnut, my sister ellen told me that very same thing, and i have tried to be a better boy, very hard indeed, but i can't." however, notwithstanding this, rodolphus promised antonio that he would try once more, and for several days after this conversation he was a much better boy. he went to school regularly and was more willing to help his mother and ellen about the house. this lasted for about a week. at the end of that time he was one evening working with ellen in the garden, about sunset, when he heard a sound near him by a wall. there was an old stone wall on that side of the garden, with bushes which grew upon the outside rising above it. rodolphus looked up when he heard the noise, and saw a boy's head just over the wall at an opening among the bushes. the boy held his finger to his lips in token of silence and secrecy, pointing very quickly to ellen, whose face at that instant was turned the other way, so that she did not see him; he then dropped down behind the wall out of sight again. rodolphus knew that the boy wished to speak to him, and that he was prevented from doing so because ellen was there. accordingly a moment afterward, rodolphus told ellen that she had better go in, and that he would finish the rest of the work and come in presently with the tools. ellen thanked rodolphus for what she supposed was his disinterested kindness, and went in. as soon as rodolphus was alone, the boy's head appeared above the wall again. "she's gone at last," said he. "i thought she never _would_ go." the boy then seemed to rise higher, as if he were stepping up upon a stone outside the wall. he held out his hand toward rodolphus, saying, "see there!" rodolphus looked, and saw that he had three half dollars in his hand. "where did you get that money?" said rodolphus. "ah!" said the boy, winking, and looking very mysterious, "don't you wish you knew! you'd like to find the nest that has such eggs as those in it, wouldn't you? well, i'll tell you all about it to-night. come out here after nine o'clock. i will be here to meet you. we have got plenty of money and we're going to have a good time." soon after this rodolphus carried his tools to the shed, and went in to his supper. about eight o'clock it became dark, and at half-past eight, rodolphus said that he felt rather tired and he believed that he would go to bed. feeling guilty and self-condemned as he did, he appeared absent-minded and dejected, and ellen was anxious about him. she was afraid that he was going to be sick. she lighted the lamp for him, and went up with him to his room and did all that she could to make him comfortable. at length she bade him good-night and went away. the place where rodolphus slept was in a little corner of an attic by a great chimney. the place had been partitioned off, and there was a door leading into it. this door had a hasp on the inside. there was also a small window which opened out upon the roof of a shed. it was a pretty long step from the window down to the roof of the shed, but yet rodolphus had often got down there, although his mother had repeatedly forbidden him ever to do so. [illustration: the evasion.] as soon as ellen was gone, rodolphus fastened the door and then waited a little while till all was still. then he opened the window very gently and crept out. he put out his light the last thing before he got out of the window, and crept down upon the roof of the shed. he stopped here to listen. all was still. he walked softly, with his shoes in his hand, down to the lower edge of the roof, and there he got down to the ground by means of a fence which joined the shed at one corner there. rodolphus found the boys waiting for him beyond the garden wall. he went away with them and spent the night in carousals and wickedness, under a barn in a solitary place. about one o'clock he came back to the house. he climbed up the fence and got upon the shed. he crept along the shed softly, with his shoes in his hand as before, and got into his window. when in, he shut down the window, undressed himself, and went to bed. and this was the end of all rodolphus's resolutions to reform. iv. crime. rodolphus went on in the evil way which we described, for some time, and at length he became so disorderly in his conduct and so troublesome, and caused his mother so much anxiety and care, that she finally concluded to follow the advice which all the neighbors had very frequently given her, and bind the boy out to some master to learn a trade. as soon as she had decided upon this course, she asked the assistance of mr. randon, to find a good place. mr. randon made a great many inquiries but he could not find any place that would do, in franconia; all the persons to whom he applied in the village declined taking rodolphus, giving various reasons for their refusals. some did not want any new apprentice, some had other boys in view that they were going to apply to. some said that rodolphus was too old, others that he was too young. mr. randon thought that the real reason probably was, in a great many of these cases, that the men did not like rodolphus's character. in fact, one man to whom he made application, after listening attentively to mr. randon, until he came to mention the name of the boy, said, "what! rodolphus linn. is it rodolphus linn?" "yes," said mr. randon. "hoh!" said the man. "i would not have rodolphus linn in my shop for a hundred dollars a year." at last, however, mr. randon found in another town, about twenty-five miles from franconia, a man who kept a livery stable, that said he wanted a boy. this man's name was kerber. mr. kerber said that if rodolphus was a stout and able-bodied boy, he would take him. mr. randon said that rodolphus was stout enough, but he frankly told mr. kerber that the boy was rather rude and unmanageable. "i'll take care of that," said mr. kerber. "all i want is to have him _able_ to do his duty. if he is only able to do it, you need not fear but that i'll find ways and means of seeing that it is done." mr. randon thought from this conversation, and from other indications, that mr. kerber was a very harsh man, and he thought that rodolphus might be likely to have a hard time if apprenticed to him. he concluded, therefore, that before making his report to mrs. linn, he would make some further inquiry. he found at last another man in the same town with mr. kerber, who was willing to take rodolphus. this man was a carpenter. the carpenter was a man of quiet and gentle spirit, and he bore a most excellent character among his neighbors. at first, the carpenter was unwilling to take rodolphus when he heard what his character was, but when mr. randon told him about the circumstances of the family, and explained to him that it would be a deed of great benevolence to save the boy from ruin, the carpenter said he would take him for three months upon trial, and then if he found that he should probably succeed in making him a good boy, he would take him regularly as his apprentice. so mr. randon went back to report the result of his inquiries to rodolphus's mother. mrs. linn was very anxious to have rodolphus go to the carpenter's, but rodolphus himself insisted on going to mr. kerber's. the reason why he wished to go there was, because mr. kerber kept a stable and horses. he supposed that his chief business would be to tend the horses, and to ride about. this would be much better, he thought, than to work hard all day with planes, and saws, and chisels. ellen joined her mother in begging rodolphus to go to the carpenter's, but he could not be persuaded to consent, and so it was finally settled that he should be bound apprentice to mr. kerber. mrs. linn, however, made an express stipulation that while rodolphus remained at mr. kerber's he was never on any account to be whipped. if he neglected his duty or behaved badly, mr. kerber was to find out some other way to punish him beside whipping. mr. kerber made no objection to this arrangement. he said to mr. randon, when mr. randon proposed this condition to him, that he would make any agreement of that kind that his mother desired. "i have learned," said he, "that there are various contrivances for breaking refractory colts besides silk snappers." when a boy is bound apprentice to a master, a certain paper is executed between the master on the one part, and the parent or guardian of the boy on the other, which is called the indentures. the indentures specify the name and age of the boy, and state the time for which he is bound to the master. during that time the boy is bound to work for the master, and to obey his orders. the master is bound to provide food and clothing for the boy, and to teach him the trade. he has a right to compel the boy to attend industriously to his work, and to punish him for any idleness, or disobedience, or insubordination that he may be guilty of. in a word, the master acquires, for the time that the apprenticeship continues, the same rights that the father, if the boy has a father, possessed before. according to this custom indentures of apprenticeship were regularly drawn up, binding rodolphus to mr. kerber till he was twenty-one years of age. he was then nearly twelve. the indentures were signed, and rodolphus went to live with his new master. he, however, soon began to have a pretty hard life of it. he found that his business was not to ride the horses about, but to perform the most disagreeable and servile work in the stable. he could not even ride the horses to water, for there was a great trough in one corner of the stable with a stream of water always running into it, and the horses were all watered there. rodolphus was employed in harnessing and unharnessing the horses, and rubbing them down when they came in; and in pitching down hay, and measuring out oats and corn for them. he had to work also a great deal at the house, splitting wood and carrying it in, and in bringing water for the washing. he was kept hard at work all the time, except in the evening, when he was generally allowed to roam about the streets wherever he pleased. rodolphus did not have much open difficulty with mr. kerber, for he found out very soon that it was a very dangerous business to disobey him. the first lesson that he had on that subject was as follows: one afternoon when he had been at work at the house, and had had some difficulty with mrs. kerber, he undertook to make her agree to some of his demands by threatening, as he had been accustomed to do with his mother, that if she did not let him do what he wished, he would go and jump into the pond. this pond was a small mill pond which came up to the foot of mr. kerber's garden, where the garden was bounded by a high wall. mrs. kerber took no notice of this threat at the time, but when her husband came home she told him about it at the supper table. "ah," said mr. kerber, when his wife had finished her statement; "he threatened to drown himself, then? i am afraid he does not know exactly what drowning is. i will enlighten him a little upon the subject after supper." accordingly, after supper, mr. kerber commanded rodolphus to follow him. mr. kerber led the way down to the bottom of the garden, and there he tied a rope round rodolphus's waist, and threw him off into the water, and kept him there until he was half strangled. he would pull him up a moment to recover his breath, and then plunge him in again and again, until the poor boy was half dead with exhaustion and terror. then, pulling him out upon the bank, he left him to come to himself, and to return to the house at his leisure. rodolphus, after this, was very careful not to come into any open collision with mr. kerber, or with his wife, but this kind of severity did him, after all, no real good. when a boy has grown to such an age as that of rodolphus, in habits of self-indulgence, disobedience, and insubordination, it is almost impossible to save him by any means whatever----but heartless severity like this only makes him worse. rodolphus hated his master, and he determined to do as little for him as he possibly could. mr. kerber, accordingly, was continually finding fault with his apprentice for his idleness and his neglect of duty, and he used often to punish him by putting him in what he called his _prison_. this prison was a stall in one corner of the stable, near a little room which mr. kerber used for his office and counting-room. the stall had been boarded up in front, some years before, and used to shut up a small colt in. it was half full of boxes and barrels, and there was a heap of straw in one corner of it. there was a door in front, with a great wooden button outside. when mr. kerber got out of patience with rodolphus, he used to put him into this old colt-pen and button him in, and sometimes keep him there without any thing to eat, till he was half starved. at one time mr. kerber kept him there all night. after the first half dozen times that rodolphus was shut up there, he did not suffer from hunger, for he made an arrangement with another stable boy, older than himself, to supply him with food at such times. the stable boy would get bread from the house by stealth, when rodolphus was in his prison, and bring it out to the stable in his pocket. then, watching his opportunity, when mr. kerber was not looking, he would throw it over to rodolphus. rodolphus was thus saved from suffering much through hunger, but yet he would always in such cases, when he was finally let out, _pretend_ to be half starved, in order to prevent mr. kerber's suspecting that he had been stealthily supplied with food. the prison, as mr. kerber called it, was adjoining the stable office, which was a very small room, partitioned off from the stable itself. this office had two doors, one on each side of it. one door led out into the stable, and was the one ordinarily used. the other led to a shed at one side of the stable, where the wood was kept for the office fire, which was made in a small stove that stood in one corner of the office. there was a desk in another corner of the office, and in this desk mr. kerber kept his papers and his money. one day when rodolphus was shut up in his prison, after having been there several hours, he became very tired of having nothing to do, and so, to amuse himself, he took his knife out from his pocket and began to cut into the partition which separated the colt-pen from the office. the partition was made of boards, and as rodolphus's knife was pretty sharp, he could cut into it quite easily. he heard voices in the office, and he thought that if he should cut a small hole quite through the partition he could hear what the men were saying, and see what they were doing. so he cut away very diligently for half an hour, working very slowly and carefully all the time, so as not to make a noise. at last the light began to shine through. then rodolphus worked more carefully than ever. he, however, soon had a small hole opened, and putting his eye close to it, he could see a whip hanging up against the opposite wall of the office. rodolphus gradually enlarged his hole, until he could see more. he made the hole very large on the side toward his prison, and yet kept it very small toward the office, and by this means he could change the position of his eye and so see almost all over the office, without, however, having made the opening large enough to attract attention on the inside. rodolphus saw mr. kerber and another man sitting by the desk. it was summer, and there was no fire in the stove. there were a great many whips hanging up on one side of the room, and a hammer, together with an instrument called a nut-wrench, on a shelf over the desk. the door leading out into the shed was fastened with a hasp. rodolphus, as he looked at it, thought that it would be easy for a thief, if he wished to break into the office, to go into the shed and bore into the door of the office just above the hasp, and then by putting in a slender iron rod, the hasp might be lifted up out of the staple, and the door opened. rodolphus listened to the conversation between mr. kerber and his visitor, but he could not understand it very well. it was all about business. at last the man took a large leather purse out of his pocket, and prepared to pay mr. kerber some money. mr. kerber unlocked his desk. the man counted out the money upon a small table which was there. mr. kerber counted it after him, and then took from his desk a small box, made of iron, which he called his strong box. he unlocked the strong box with a key that he took from his pocket, and put the money into it. he then locked the strong box and put it back into the desk, and finally shut down the lid of the desk, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. mr. kerber kept rodolphus confined in his prison much longer than usual that day, so long, in fact, that rodolphus became at last very impatient and very angry. at length, however, mr. kerber let him out, and sent him home to supper. that evening about nine o'clock, as rodolphus was talking with some of the bad boys with whom he was accustomed to spend his evenings, and telling them how he hated his tyrannical and cruel master, he said, among other things, that he wished he knew some thief or robber. the boys asked him why. "why, i would tell him," said rodolphus, "how he might rob old kerber, and get as much money as he wanted." among the boys who were with rodolphus at this time, was one named gilpin. gilpin was a very bad boy indeed, and considerably older than rodolphus. he was about fourteen years old. when gilpin heard rodolphus say this, he gave him a little jog with his elbow, as an intimation not to say any thing more. very soon gilpin took rodolphus away, and walked on with him alone, along a wall which extended down toward the water from the place where the boys had been playing. as soon as he had drawn rodolphus away from the other boys, he asked him what he meant by what he had said about a good chance to get some money. so rodolphus explained to gilpin how his master had shut him up in the stall, and how he had cut a hole through the partition, and what he had seen in the office. he also explained to him how the back door of the little office was fastened by a hasp, which it would be easy to open by boring a hole through the door, if the robber only had a bit and a bit-stock. "oh, we can get a bit and bit-stock, easily enough," said gilpin. "well," said rodolphus, "shall we do it?" "certainly," said gilpin, "why not we as well as any body else. i want money too much to leave any good chance for getting it to other people. you and i will get it, and go shares." "no," said rodolphus, "i don't dare to. and, besides, if we should get into the office, we could not open the desk. he keeps the desk locked." "we can pry it open with a chisel," said gilpin, "as easy as a man would open on oyster." "but then we can't open the strong box," said rodolphus. "the strong box is made of iron." "we'll carry away the strong box and all," said gilpin, "and get it open at our leisure afterward." rodolphus was at first strongly disinclined to enter into this plot, and it was in fact several days before he concluded to join in it. at length, however, he consented, and immediately commenced aiding gilpin in making the necessary preparations. he found a bit and bit-stock in an old shop belonging to mr. kerber, near his house, and also a chisel, which gilpin said would do for forcing open the desk. there was another boy almost as old as gilpin, who joined in the plan. he was a coarse and rough boy, and was generally called griff. his real name was christopher. gilpin and griff gave rodolphus a very large share of the work of making the necessary preparations for the theft. their plan was to make the attempt on saturday night they thought that by this means a whole day would intervene before the discovery would be made that the money was gone, since mr. kerber would not be likely to go to his office on sunday. they would thus, they thought, have ample time to take all the necessary means for concealing their booty. rodolphus was to go to bed as usual, and then to get up about ten o'clock, and come out of his window, over the roofs, as he used to do at home, and as he had very often done since he came to mr. kerber's. the bit and bit-stock, and the chisel were to be all ready in the shed, beforehand. rodolphus was to carry them there some time in the course of the afternoon. on descending from the roofs, rodolphus was to go to meet the other boys at a certain corn-barn, which belonged to a house which had once been a farm-house in the village. a corn-barn is a small square building, standing upon high posts at the four corners. these posts are usually about four or five feet high. the building is raised in this manner above the ground, to prevent mice and other animals from getting into it and eating the corn. the corn-barn, however, at which the boys were to meet, was not now used for the storage of grain, but as a sort of lumber-room for a tavern that stood near by. it was behind the tavern, and almost out of sight of it, at the end of a narrow lane. it was in a very secluded position. the space beneath the building where the posts were, had been boarded up on three sides, and there were various old boxes and barrels underneath it. rodolphus and the other bad boys of the village had often used this place as a rendezvous, and had carried there the various things which they had pilfered from time to time; and in summer nights they would often meet there and stay half the night, spending the time in eating and drinking, and in gambling with cards or coppers, and in other wicked amusements. there was no floor but the ground, but the boys had carried straw into the place, and spread it down where they were accustomed to sit and lie, and this made the place very comfortable. the boys were to meet at this place at ten o'clock. griff was to bring a dark lantern. this lantern was one which the boys had made themselves. it was formed of a round block of wood for the base, with a hole or socket in the middle of it, for the admission of the end of the candle. around this block there had been rolled a strip of pasteboard, so as to make of it a sort of round box, with a wooden bottom and no top. the pasteboard was kept in its place by a string, which was wound several times around it. there was a long hole cut in the pasteboard on one side, for the light to shine out of. there was another pasteboard roll which went over the whole, and closed this opening when the boys wanted the lantern to be perfectly dark. the boys met at the place of rendezvous at the time appointed. they then proceeded to the stable. they got into the shed, and there struck a light, and lighted a short candle which one of the boys had in his pocket. rodolphus held this candle, while gilpin, who was taller and stronger than either of the other boys, bored the hole in the door, in the place which rodolphus indicated. when the hole was bored, the boys inserted an iron rod into it, and running this rod under the hasp, they pried the hasp up and unfastened the door. they opened the door, and then, to their great joy, found themselves all safe in the office. [illustration: thus] they put the dark lantern down upon the table, and covered it with its screen, and then listened, perfectly whist, a minute or two, to be sure that nobody was coming. "you go and watch at the shed-door," said gilpin to rodolphus, "while we open the desk." so rodolphus went to the shed-door. he peeped out, and looked up and down the village-street, but all was still. presently he heard a sort of splitting sound within the office, which he knew was made by the forcing open of the lid of the desk. very soon afterward the boys came out, in a hurried manner----griff had the lantern and gilpin the box. "have you got it?" said rodolphus. "yes," said griff. "let's see," said rodolphus. griff held out the box to rodolphus. it was very heavy and they could hear the sound of the money within. all three of the boys seemed almost wild with trepidation and excitement. griff however immediately began to hurry them away, pulling the box from them and saying, "come, come, boys, we must not stay fooling here." "wait a minute till i hide the tools again?" said rodolphus, "and then we'll run." rodolphus hid the tools behind the wood-pile, in the shed, where they had been before, and then the boys sallied forth into the street. they crept along stealthily in the shadows of the houses and in the most dark and obscure places, until they came to the tavern, where they were to turn down the lane to the corn-barn. as soon as they got safely to this lane, they felt relieved, and they walked on in a more unconcerned manner; and when at length they got fairly in under the corn-barn they felt perfectly secure. "there," said griff, "was not that well done?" "yes," said rodolphus, "and now all that we have got to do is to get the box open." "we can break it open with stones," said griff. "no," said gilpin, "that will make too much noise. we will bury it under this straw for a few days, and open it somehow or other by-and-by, when they have given up looking for the box. you can get the real key of it for us, rodolphus, can't you?" "how can i get it?" asked rodolphus. "oh, you can contrive some way to get it from old kerber, i've no doubt. at any rate the best thing is to bury it now." [illustration: the corn-barn.] to this plan the boys all agreed. they pulled away the straw, which was spread under the corn-barn, and dug a hole in the ground beneath, working partly with sticks and partly with their fingers. when they had got the hole deep enough, they put the box in and covered it up. then they spread the straw over the place as before. during all this time the lantern had been standing upon a box pretty near by, having been put there by the boys, in order that the light might shine down upon the place where they had been digging. as soon as their work was done, the boys went softly outside to see if the way was clear for them to go home, leaving the lantern on the box; and while they were standing at the corner of the barn outside, looking up the lane, and whispering together, they saw suddenly a light beginning to gleam up from within. they ran in and found that the lantern had fallen down, and that the straw was all in a blaze. they immediately began to tread upon the fire and try to put it out, but the instant that they did so they were all thunderstruck by the appearance of a fourth person, who came rushing in among them from the outside. they all screamed out with terror and ran. rodolphus separated from the rest and crouched down a moment behind the stone wall, but immediately afterward, feeling that there would be no safety for him here, he set off again and ran across some back fields and gardens, in the direction toward mr. kerber's. he looked back occasionally and found that the light was rapidly increasing. presently he began to hear cries of fire. he ran on till he reached the house; he scrambled over the fences into the back yard, climbed up upon a shed, crept along under the chimneys to the window of his room, got in as fast as he could, undressed himself and went to bed, and had just drawn the clothes up over him, when he heard a loud knocking at the door, and mrs. kerber's voice outside, calling out to him, that there was a cry of fire in the village, and that he must get up quick as possible and help put it out. (to be continued.) napoleon bonaparte.[ ] by john s. c. abbott. the return from egypt. [footnote : entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york.] the expedition to egypt was one of the most magnificent enterprises which human ambition ever conceived. the return to france combines still more, if possible, of the elements of the moral sublime. but for the disastrous destruction of the french fleet the plans of napoleon, in reference to the east, would probably have been triumphantly successful. at least it can not be doubted that a vast change would have been effected throughout the eastern world. those plans were now hopeless. the army was isolated, and cut off from all reinforcements and all supplies. the best thing which napoleon could do for his troops in egypt was to return to france, and exert his personal influence in sending them succor. his return involved the continuance of the most honorable devotion to those soldiers whom he necessarily left behind him. the secrecy of his departure was essential to its success. had the bold attempt been suspected, it would certainly have been frustrated by the increased vigilance of the english cruisers. the intrepidity of the enterprise must elicit universal admiration. contemplate, for a moment, the moral aspects of this undertaking. a nation of thirty millions of people, had been for ten years agitated by the most terrible convulsions. there is no atrocity, which the tongue can name, which had not desolated the doomed land. every passion which can degrade the heart of fallen man, had swept with simoom blast over the cities and the villages of france. conflagrations had laid the palaces of the wealthy in ruins, and the green lawns where their children had played, had been crimsoned with the blood of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. a gigantic system of robbery had seized upon houses and lands and every species of property and had turned thousands of the opulent out into destitution, beggary, and death. pollution had been legalized by the voice of god-defying lust, and france, _la belle france_, had been converted into a disgusting warehouse of infamy. law, with suicidal hand, had destroyed itself, and the decisions of the legislature swayed to and fro, in accordance with the hideous clamors of the mob. the guillotine, with gutters ever clotted with human gore, was the only argument which anarchy condescended to use. effectually it silenced every remonstrating tongue. constitution after constitution had risen, like mushrooms, in a night, and like mushrooms had perished in a day. civil war was raging with bloodhound fury in france, monarchists and jacobins grappling each other infuriate with despair. the allied kings of europe, who by their alliance had fanned these flames of rage and ruin, were gazing with terror upon the portentous prodigy, and were surrounding france with their navies and their armies. the people had been enslaved for centuries by the king and the nobles. their oppression had been execrable, and it had become absolutely unendurable. "we, the millions," they exclaimed in their rage, "will no longer minister to your voluptuousness, and pride, and lust." "you shall, you insolent dogs," exclaimed king and nobles, "we heed not your barking." "you shall," reiterated the pope, in the portentous thunderings of the vatican. "you shall," came echoed back from the palaces of vienna, from the dome of the kremlin, from the seraglio of the turk, and, in tones deeper, stronger, more resolute, from constitutional, liberty-loving, happy england. then was france a volcano, and its lava-streams deluged europe. the people were desperate. in the blind fury of their frenzied self-defense they lost all consideration. the castles of the nobles were but the monuments of past taxation and servitude. with yells of hatred the infuriated populace razed them to the ground. the palaces of the kings, where, for uncounted centuries, dissolute monarchs had reveled in enervating and heaven-forbidden pleasures, were but national badges of the bondage of the people. the indignant throng swept through them, like a mississippi inundation, leaving upon marble floors, and cartooned walls and ceilings, the impress of their rage. at one bound france had passed from despotism to anarchy. the kingly tyrant, with golden crown and iron sceptre, surrounded by wealthy nobles and dissolute beauties, had disappeared, and a many-headed monster, rapacious and blood-thirsty, vulgar and revolting, had emerged from mines and workshops and the cellars of vice and penury, like one of the spectres of fairy tales to fill his place. france had passed from monarchy, not to healthy republicanism, but to jacobinism, to the reign of the mob. napoleon utterly abhorred the tyranny of the king. he also utterly abhorred the despotism of vulgar, violent, sanguinary jacobin misrule. the latter he regarded with even far deeper repugnance than the former. "i frankly confess," said napoleon, again and again, "that if i must choose between bourbon oppression, and mob violence, i infinitely prefer the former." such had been the state of france, essentially, for nearly ten years. the great mass of the people were exhausted with suffering, and longed for repose. the land was filled with plots and counterplots. but there was no one man of sufficient prominence to carry with him the nation. the government was despised and disregarded. france was in a state of chaotic ruin. many voices here and there, began to inquire "where is bonaparte, the conqueror of italy, the conqueror of egypt? he alone can save us." his world-wide renown turned the eyes of the nation to him as their only hope. under these circumstances napoleon, then a young man but twenty-nine years of age, and who, but three years before, had been unknown to fame or to fortune, resolved to return to france, to overthrow the miserable government, by which the country was disgraced, to subdue anarchy at home and aggression from abroad, and to rescue thirty millions of people from ruin. the enterprise was undeniably magnificent in its grandeur and noble in its object. he had two foes to encounter, each formidable, the royalists of combined europe and the mob of paris. the quiet and undoubting self-confidence with which he entered upon this enterprise, is one of the most remarkable events in the whole of his extraordinary career. he took with him no armies to hew down opposition. he engaged in no deep-laid and wide-spread conspiracy. relying upon the energies of his own mind, and upon the sympathies of the great mass of the people, he went alone, with but one or two companions, to whom he revealed not his thoughts, to gather into his hands the scattered reins of power. never did he encounter more fearful peril. the cruisers of england, russia, turkey, of allied europe in arms against france, thronged the mediterranean. how could he hope to escape them? the guillotine was red with blood. every one who had dared to oppose the mob had perished upon it. how could napoleon venture, single-handed, to beard this terrible lion in his den? it was ten o'clock at night, the d of august, , when napoleon ascended the sides of the frigate muiron, to sail for france. a few of his faithful guards, and eight companions, either officers in the army or members of the scientific corps, accompanied him. there were five hundred soldiers on board the ships. the stars shone brightly in the syrian sky, and under their soft light the blue waves of the mediterranean lay spread out most peacefully before them. the frigates unfurled their sails. napoleon, silent and lost in thought, for a long time walked the quarter deck of the ship, gazing upon the low outline of egypt as, in the dim starlight, it faded away. his companions were intoxicated with delight, in view of again returning to france. napoleon was neither elated nor depressed. serene and silent he communed with himself, and whenever we can catch a glimpse of those secret communings we find them always bearing the impress of grandeur. though napoleon was in the habit of visiting the soldiers at their camp fires, of sitting down and conversing with them with the greatest freedom and familiarity, the majesty of his character overawed his officers, and adoration and reserve blended with their love. though there was no haughtiness in his demeanor, he habitually dwelt in a region of elevation above them all. their talk was of cards, of wine, of pretty women. napoleon's thoughts were of empire, of renown, of moulding the destinies of nations. they regarded him not as a companion, but as a master, whose wishes they loved to anticipate; for he would surely guide them to wealth, and fame, and fortune. he contemplated them, not as equals and confiding friends, but as efficient and valuable instruments for the accomplishment of his purposes. murat was to napoleon a body of ten thousand horse-men, ever ready for a resistless charge. lannes was a phalanx of infantry, bristling with bayonets, which neither artillery nor cavalry could batter down or break. augereau was an armed column of invincible troops, black, dense, massy, impetuous, resistless, moving with gigantic tread wherever the finger of the conqueror pointed. these were but the members of napoleon's body, the limbs obedient to the mighty soul which swayed them. they were not the companions of his thoughts, they were only the servants of his will. the number to be found with whom the soul of napoleon could dwell in sympathetic friendship was few--very few. napoleon had formed a very low estimate of human nature, and consequently made great allowance for the infirmities incident to humanity. bourrienne reports him as saying, "friendship is but a name. i love no one; no, not even my brothers. joseph perhaps a little. and if i do love him, it is from habit, and because he is my elder. duroc! ah, yes! i love him too. but why? his character pleases me. he is cold, reserved, and resolute, and i really believe that he never shed a tear. as to myself, i know well that i have not one true friend. as long as i continue what i am, i may have as many pretended friends as i please. we must leave sensibility to the women. it is their business. men should be firm in heart and in purpose, or they should have nothing to do with war or government. i am not amiable. no; i am not amiable i never have been. but i am just." in another mood of mind, more tender, more subdued, he remarked, at st. helena, in reply to las casas, who with great severity was condemning those who abandoned napoleon in his hour of adversity: "you are not acquainted with men. they are difficult to comprehend if one wishes to be strictly just. can they understand or explain even their own characters? almost all those who abandoned me would, had i continued to be prosperous, never perhaps have dreamed of their own defection. there are vices and virtues which depend upon circumstances. our last trials were beyond all human strength! besides i was forsaken rather than betrayed; there was more of weakness than of perfidy around me. _it was the denial of st. peter._ tears and penitence are probably at hand, and where will you find in the page of history any one possessing a greater number of friends and partisans? who was ever more popular and more beloved? who was ever more ardently and deeply regretted? here, from this very rock, on viewing the present disorders in france, who would not be tempted to say that i still reign there? no; human nature might have appeared in a more odious light." las casas, who shared with napoleon his weary years of imprisonment at st. helena, says of him: "he views the complicated circumstances of his fall from so high a point that individuals escape his notice. he never evinces the least symptom of virulence toward those of whom it might be supposed he has the greatest reason to complain. his strongest mark of reprobation, and i have had frequent occasions to notice it, is to preserve silence with respect to them whenever they are mentioned in his presence. but how often has he been heard to restrain the violent and less reserved expressions of those about him?" "and here i must observe," says las casas, "that since i have become acquainted with the emperor's character, i have never known him to evince, for a single moment, the least feeling of anger or animosity against those who had most deeply injured him. he speaks of them coolly and without resentment, attributing their conduct, in some measure, to the perplexing circumstances in which they were placed, and throwing the rest to the account of human weakness." marmont, who surrendered paris to the allies, was severely condemned by las casas. napoleon replied: "vanity was his ruin. posterity will justly cast a shade upon his character, yet his heart will be more valued than the memory of his career." "your attachment for berthier," said las casas, "surprised us. he was full of pretensions and pride." "berthier was not without talent," napoleon replied, "and i am far from wishing to disavow his merit, or my partiality; but he was so undecided!" "he was very harsh and overbearing," las casas rejoined. "and what, my dear las casas," napoleon replied, "is more overbearing than weakness which feels itself protected by strength? look at women, for example." this berthier had, with the utmost meanness, abandoned his benefactor, and took his place in front of the carriage of louis xviii. as he rode triumphantly into paris. "the only revenge i wish on this poor berthier," said napoleon at the time, "would be to see him in his costume of captain of the body-guard of louis." says bourrienne, napoleon's rejected secretary, "the character of napoleon was not a cruel one. he was neither rancorous nor vindictive. none but those who are blinded by fury, could have given him the name of nero or caligula. i think that i have stated his real faults with sufficient sincerity to be believed upon my word. i can assert that bonaparte, apart from politics, was feeling, kind, and accessible to pity. he was very fond of children, and a bad man has seldom that disposition. in the habits of private life he had, and the expression is not too strong, much benevolence and great indulgence for human weakness. a contrary opinion is too firmly fixed in some minds for me to hope to remove it. i shall, i fear, have opposers; but i address myself to those who are in search of truth. i lived in the most unreserved confidence with napoleon until the age of thirty-four years, and i advance nothing lightly." this is the admission of one who had been ejected from office by napoleon, and who had become a courtier of the reinstated bourbons. it is a candid admission of an enemy. the ships weighed anchor in the darkness of the night, hoping before the day should dawn to escape the english cruisers which were hovering about alexandria. unfortunately, at midnight, the wind died away, and it became almost perfectly calm. fearful of being captured, some were anxious to seek again the shore. "be quiet," said napoleon, "we shall pass in safety." admiral gantheaume wished to take the shortest route to france. napoleon, however, directed the admiral to sail along as near as possible to the coast of africa, and to continue that unfrequented route, till the ships should pass the island of sardinia. "in the mean while," said he, "should an english fleet present itself, we will run ashore upon the sands, and march, with the handful of brave men and the few pieces of artillery we have with us, to oran or tunis, and there find means to re-embark." thus napoleon, in this hazardous enterprise, braved every peril. the most imminent and the most to be dreaded of all, was captivity in an english prison. for twenty days the wind was so invariably adverse, that the ships did not advance three hundred miles. many were so discouraged and so apprehensive of capture that it was even proposed to return to alexandria. napoleon was much in the habit of peaceful submission to that which he could not remedy. during all these trying weeks he appeared perfectly serene and contented. to the murmuring of his companions he replied, "we shall arrive in france in safety. i am determined to proceed at all hazards. fortune will not abandon us." "people frequently speak," says bourrienne, who accompanied napoleon upon this voyage, "of the good fortune which attaches to an individual, and even attends him through life. without professing to believe in this sort of predestination, yet, when i call to mind the numerous dangers which bonaparte escaped in so many enterprises, the hazards he encountered, the chances he ran, i can conceive that others may have this faith. but having for a length of time studied the 'man of destiny,' i have remarked that what was called his fortune was, in reality, his genius; that his success was the consequence of his admirable foresight--of his calculations, rapid as lightning, and of the conviction that boldness is often the truest wisdom. if, for example, during our voyage from egypt to france, he had not imperiously insisted upon pursuing a course different from that usually taken, and which usual course was recommended by the admiral, would he have escaped the perils which beset his path? probably not. and was all this the effect of chance? certainly not." [illustration: the return voyage.] during these days of suspense, napoleon, apparently as serene in spirit as the calm which often silvered the unrippled surface of the sea, held all the energies of his mind in perfect control. a choice library he invariably took with him wherever he went. he devoted the hours to writing, study, finding recreation in solving the most difficult problems in geometry, and in investigating chemistry and other scientific subjects of practical utility. he devoted much time to conversation with the distinguished scholars whom he had selected to accompany him. his whole soul seemed engrossed in the pursuit of literary and scientific attainments. he also carefully, and with most intense interest, studied the bible and the koran, scrutinizing, with the eye of a philosopher, the antagonistic systems of the christian and the moslem. the stupidity of the koran wearied him. the sublimity of the scriptures charmed him. he read again and again, with deep admiration, christ's sermon upon the mount, and called his companions, from their card-tables, to read it to them, that they might also appreciate its moral beauty and its eloquence. "you will, ere long, become devout yourself," said one of his infidel companions. "i wish i might become so," napoleon replied. "what a solace christianity must be to one who has an undoubting conviction of its truth." but practical christianity he had only seen in the mummeries of the papal church. remembering the fasts, the vigils, the penances, the cloisters, the scourgings of a corrupt christianity, and contrasting them with the voluptuous paradise and the sensual houries which inflamed the eager vision of the moslem, he once exclaimed, in phrase characteristic of his genius, "the religion of jesus is a threat, that of mohammed a promise." the religion of jesus is not a threat. though the wrath of god shall fall upon the children of disobedience, our saviour invites us, in gentle accents, to the green pastures and the still waters of the heavenly canaan; to cities resplendent with pearls and gold; to mansions of which god is the architect; to the songs of seraphim, and the flight of cherubim, exploring on tireless pinion, the wonders of infinity; to peace of conscience, and rapture dwelling in the pure heart, and to blest companionship loving and beloved; to majesty of person and loftiness of intellect; to appear as children and as nobles in the audience-chamber of god; to an immortality of bliss. no! the religion of jesus is not a threat, though it has too often been thus represented by its mistaken or designing advocates. one evening a group of officers were conversing together, upon the quarter deck, respecting the existence of god. many of them believed not in his being. it was a calm, cloudless, brilliant night. the heavens, the work of god's fingers, canopied them gloriously. the moon and the stars, which god had ordained, beamed down upon them with serene lustre. as they were flippantly giving utterance to the arguments of atheism, napoleon paced to and fro upon the deck, taking no part in the conversation, and apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. suddenly he stopped before them and said, in those tones of dignity which ever overawed, "gentlemen, your arguments are very fine. but who made all those worlds, beaming so gloriously above us? can you tell me that?" no one answered. napoleon resumed his silent walk, and the officers selected another topic for conversation. [illustration: napoleon and the atheists.] in these intense studies napoleon first began to appreciate the beauty and the sublimity of christianity. previously to this, his own strong sense had taught him the principles of a noble toleration; and jew, christian, and moslem stood equally regarded before him. now he began to apprehend the surpassing excellence of christianity. and though the cares of the busiest life through which a mortal has ever passed soon engrossed his energies, this appreciation and admiration of the gospel of christ, visibly increased with each succeeding year. he unflinchingly braved the scoffs of infidel europe, in re-establishing the christian religion in paganized france. he periled his popularity with the army, and disregarded the opposition of his most influential friends, from his deep conviction of the importance of religion to the welfare of the state. with the inimitable force of his own glowing eloquence, he said to montholon, at st. helena, "i know men, and i tell you that jesus christ is not a man! the religion of christ is a mystery, which subsists by its own force, and proceeds from a mind which is not a human mind. we find in it a marked individuality which originated a train of words and maxims unknown before. jesus borrowed nothing from our knowledge. he exhibited himself the perfect example of his precepts. jesus is not a philosopher; for his proofs are his miracles, and from the first his disciples adored him. in fact, learning and philosophy are of no use for salvation; and jesus came into the world to reveal the mysteries of heaven and the laws of the spirit. alexander, cæsar, charlemagne, and myself have founded empires. but upon what did we rest the creations of our genius? upon _force_. jesus christ alone founded his empire upon love. and at this moment millions of men would die for him. i die before my time, and my body will be given back to earth, to become food for worms. such is the fate of him who has been called the great napoleon. what an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of christ, which is proclaimed, loved, and adored, and which is extending over the whole earth! call you this dying? is it not living rather? the death of christ is the death of a god!" at the time of the invasion of egypt, napoleon regarded all forms of religion with equal respect. and though he considered christianity superior, in intellectuality and refinement, to all other modes of worship, he did not consider any religion as of divine origin. at one time, speaking of the course which he pursued in egypt, he said, "such was the disposition of the army, that in order to induce them to listen to the bare mention of religion, i was obliged to speak very lightly on the subject; to place jews beside christians, and rabbis beside bishops. but after all it would not have been so very extraordinary had circumstances induced me to embrace islamism. but i must have had good reasons for my conversion. i must have been secure of advancing at least as far as the euphrates. change of religion for private interest is inexcusable. but it may be pardoned in consideration of immense political results. henry iv. said, _paris is well worth a mass_. will it then be said that the dominion of the east, and perhaps the subjugation of all asia, were not worth a _turban and a pair of trowsers_? and in truth the whole matter was reduced to this. the sheiks had studied how to render it easy to us. they had smoothed down the great obstacles, allowed us the use of wine, and dispensed with all corporeal formalities. we should have lost only our small-clothes and hats." of the infidel rousseau, napoleon ever spoke in terms of severe reprobation. "he was a bad man, a very bad man," said he, "he caused the revolution." "i was not aware," another replied, "that you considered the french revolution such an unmixed evil." "ah," napoleon rejoined, "you wish to say that without the revolution you would not have had me. nevertheless, without the revolution france would have been more happy." when invited to visit the hermitage of rousseau, to see his cap, table, great chair, &c., he exclaimed, "bah! i have no taste for such fooleries. show them to my brother louis. he is worthy of them." probably the following remarks of napoleon, made at st. helena, will give a very correct idea of his prevailing feelings upon the subject of religion. "the sentiment of religion is so consolatory, that it must be considered a gift from heaven. what a resource would it not be for us here, to possess it. what rewards have i not a right to expect, who have run a career so extraordinary, so tempestuous, as mine has been, without committing a single crime. and yet how many might i not have been guilty of? i can appear before the tribunal of god, i can await his judgment, without fear. he will not find my conscience stained with the thoughts of murder and poisonings; with the infliction of violent and premeditated deaths, events so common in the history of those whose lives resemble mine. i have wished only for the power, the greatness, the glory of france. all my faculties, all my efforts, all my movements, were directed to the attainment of that object. these can not be crimes. to me they appeared acts of virtue. what then would be my happiness, if the bright prospect of futurity presented itself to crown the last moments of my existence." after a moment's pause, in which he seemed lost in thought, he resumed: "but, how is it possible that conviction can find its way to our hearts, when we hear the absurd language, and witness the iniquitous conduct of the greater part of those whose business it is to preach to us. i am surrounded by priests, who repeat incessantly that their reign is not of this world; and yet they lay their hands upon every thing which they can get. the pope is the head of that religion which is from heaven. what did the present chief pontiff, who is undoubtedly a good and a holy man, not offer, to be allowed to return to rome. the surrender of the government of the church, of the institution of bishops was not too much for him to give, to become once more a secular prince. "nevertheless," he continued, after another thoughtful pause, "it can not be doubted that, as emperor, the species of incredulity which i felt was beneficial to the nations i had to govern. how could i have favored equally sects so opposed to one another, if i had joined any one of them? how could i have preserved the independence of my thoughts and of my actions under the control of a confessor, who would have governed me under the dread of hell!" napoleon closed this conversation, by ordering the new testament to be brought. commencing at the beginning, he read aloud as far as the conclusion of our saviour's address to his disciples upon the mountain. he expressed himself struck with the highest admiration, in contemplating its purity, its sublimity, and the beautiful perfection of its moral code. for forty days the ships were driven about by contrary winds, and on the st of october they made the island of corsica, and took refuge in the harbor of ajaccio. the tidings that napoleon had landed in his native town swept over the island like a gale, and the whole population crowded to the port to catch a sight of their illustrious countryman. "it seemed," said napoleon, "that half of the inhabitants had discovered traces of kindred." but a few years had elapsed since the dwelling of madame letitia was pillaged by the mob, and the whole bonaparte family, in penury and friendlessness, were hunted from their home, effecting their escape in an open boat by night. now, the name of bonaparte filled the island with acclamations. but napoleon was alike indifferent to such unjust censure, and to such unthinking applause. as the curse did not depress, neither did the hosanna elate. after the delay of a few days in obtaining supplies, the ships again weighed anchor, on the th of october, and continued their perilous voyage. the evening of the next day, as the sun was going down in unusual splendor, there appeared in the west, painted in strong relief against his golden rays, an english squadron. the admiral, who saw from the enemy's signals that he was observed, urged an immediate return to corsica. napoleon, convinced that capture would be the result of such a man[oe]uvre, exclaimed, "to do so would be to take the road to england. i am seeking that to france. spread all sail. let every one be at his post. steer to the northwest. onward." the night was dark, the wind fair. rapidly the ships were approaching the coast of france, through the midst of the hostile squadron, and exposed to the most imminent danger of capture. escape seemed impossible. it was a night of fearful apprehension and terror to all on board, excepting napoleon. he determined, in case of extremity, to throw himself into a boat, and trust for safety to darkness and the oars. with the most perfect self-possession and composure of spirits, he ordered the long-boat to be prepared, selected those whom he desired to accompany him, and carefully collected such papers as he was anxious to preserve. not an eye was closed during the night. it was indeed a fearful question to be decided. are these weary wanderers, in a few hours, to be in the embrace of their wives and their children, or will the next moment show them the black hull of an english man-of-war, emerging from the gloom, to consign them to lingering years of captivity in an english prison? in this terrible hour no one could perceive that the composure of napoleon was in the slightest degree ruffled. the first dawn of the morning revealed to their straining vision the hills of france stretching along but a few leagues before them, and far away, in the northeast, the hostile squadron, disappearing beneath the horizon of the sea. the french had escaped. the wildest bursts of joy rose from the ships. but napoleon gazed calmly upon his beloved france, with pale cheek and marble brow, too proud to manifest emotion. at eight o'clock in the morning the four vessels dropped anchor in the little harbor of frejus. it was the morning of the th of october. thus for fifty days napoleon had been tossed upon the waves of the mediterranean, surrounded by the hostile fleets of england, russia, and turkey, and yet had eluded their vigilance. this wonderful passage of napoleon, gave rise to many caricatures, both in england and france. one of these caricatures, which was conspicuous in the london shop windows, possessed so much point and historic truth, that napoleon is said to have laughed most heartily on seeing it. lord nelson, as is well known, with all his heroism, was not exempt from the frailties of humanity. the british admiral was represented as guarding napoleon. lady hamilton makes her appearance, and his lordship becomes so engrossed in caressing the fair enchantress, that napoleon escapes between his legs. this was hardly a caricature. it was almost historic verity. while napoleon was struggling against adverse storms off the coast of africa, lord nelson, adorned with the laurels of his magnificent victory, in fond dalliance with his frail delilah, was basking in the courts of voluptuous and profligate kings. "no one," said napoleon, "can surrender himself to the dominion of love, without the forfeiture of some palms of glory." [illustration: the landing at frejus.] when the four vessels entered the harbor of frejus, a signal at the mast-head of the muiron informed the authorities on shore that napoleon was on board. the whole town was instantly in commotion. before the anchors were dropped the harbor was filled with boats, and the ships were surrounded with an enthusiastic multitude, climbing their sides, thronging their decks, and rending the air with their acclamations. all the laws of quarantine were disregarded. the people, weary of anarchy, and trembling in view of the approaching austrian invasion, were almost delirious with delight in receiving thus, as it were from the clouds, a deliverer, in whose potency they could implicitly trust. when warned that the ships had recently sailed from alexandria, and that there was imminent danger that the plague might be communicated, they replied, "we had rather have the plague than the austrians." breaking over all the municipal regulations of health, the people took napoleon, almost by violence, hurried him over the side of the ship to the boats, and conveyed him in triumph to the shore. the tidings had spread from farm-house to farm-house with almost electric speed, and the whole country population, men, women, and children, were crowding down to the shore. even the wounded soldiers in the hospital, left their cots and crawled to the beach, to get a sight of the hero. the throng became so great that it was with difficulty that napoleon could land. the gathering multitude, however, opened to the right and the left, and napoleon passed through them, greeted with the enthusiastic cries of "long live the conqueror of italy, the conqueror of egypt, the liberator of france." the peaceful little harbor of frejus was suddenly thrown into a state of the most unheard of excitement. the bells rang their merriest peels. the guns in the forts rolled forth their heaviest thunders over the hills and over the waves; and the enthusiastic shouts of the ever increasing multitudes, thronging napoleon, filled the air. the ships brought the first tidings of the wonderful victories of mount tabor and of aboukir. the french, humiliated by defeat, were exceedingly elated by this restoration of the national honor. the intelligence of napoleon's arrival was immediately communicated, by telegraph, to paris, which was six hundred miles from frejus. when the tidings of napoleon's landing at frejus, arrived in paris, on the evening of the th of october, josephine was at a large party at the house of m. gohier, president of the directory. all the most distinguished men of the metropolis were there. the intelligence produced the most profound sensation. some, rioting in the spoils of office, turned pale with apprehension; knowing well the genius of napoleon, and his boundless popularity, they feared another revolution, which should eject them from their seats of power. others were elated with hope; they felt that providence had sent to france a deliverer, at the very moment when a deliverer was needed. one of the deputies, who had been deeply grieved at the disasters which were overwhelming the republic, actually died of joy, when he heard of napoleon's return. josephine, intensely excited by the sudden and totally unexpected announcement, immediately withdrew, hastened home, and at midnight, without allowing an hour for repose, she entered her carriage, with louis bonaparte and hortense, who subsequently became the bride of louis, and set out to meet her husband. napoleon almost at the same hour, with his suite, left frejus. during every step of his progress he was greeted with the most extraordinary demonstrations of enthusiasm and affection. bonfires blazed from the hills, triumphal arches, hastily constructed, spanned his path. long lines of maidens spread a carpet of flowers for his chariot wheels, and greeted him with smiles and choruses of welcome. he arrived at lyons in the evening. the whole city was brilliant with illuminations. an immense concourse surrounded him with almost delirious shouts of joy. the constituted authorities received him as he descended from his carriage. the mayor had prepared a long and eulogistic harangue for the occasion. napoleon had no time to listen to it. with a motion of his hand, imposing silence, he said, "gentlemen, i learned that france was in peril, i therefore did not hesitate to leave my army in egypt, that i might come to her rescue. i now go hence. in a few days, if you think fit to wait upon me, i shall be at leisure to hear you." fresh horses were by this time attached to the carriages, and the cavalcade, which like a meteor had burst upon them, like a meteor disappeared. from lyons, for some unexplained reason, napoleon turned from the regular route to paris and took a less frequented road. when josephine arrived at lyons, to her utter consternation she found that napoleon had left the city, several hours before her arrival, and that they had passed each other by different roads. her anguish was inexpressible. for many months she had not received a line from her idolized husband, all communication having been intercepted by the english cruisers. she knew that many, jealous of her power, had disseminated, far and wide, false reports respecting her conduct. she knew that these, her enemies, would surround napoleon immediately upon his arrival, and take advantage of her absence to inflame his mind against her. lyons is miles from paris. josephine had passed over those weary leagues of hill and dale, pressing on without intermission, by day and by night, alighting not for refreshment or repose. faint, exhausted, and her heart sinking within her with fearful apprehensions of the hopeless alienation of her husband, she received the dreadful tidings that she had missed him. there was no resource left her but to retrace her steps with the utmost possible celerity. napoleon would, however, have been one or two days in paris before josephine could, by any possibility, re-enter the city. probably in all france, there was not, at that time, a more unhappy woman than josephine. secret wretchedness was also gnawing at the heart of napoleon. who has yet fathomed the mystery of human love? intensest love and intensest hate can, at the same moment, intertwine their fibres in inextricable blending. in nothing is the will so impotent as in guiding or checking the impulses of this omnipotent passion. napoleon loved josephine with that almost superhuman energy which characterized all the movements of his impetuous spirit. the stream did not fret and ripple over a shallow bed, but it was serene in its unfathomable depths. the world contained but two objects for napoleon, glory and josephine; glory first, and then, closely following, the more substantial idol. many of the parisian ladies, proud of a more exalted lineage than josephine could boast, were exceedingly envious of the supremacy she had attained in consequence of the renown of her husband. her influence over napoleon was well known. philosophers, statesmen, ambitious generals, all crowded her saloons, paying her homage. a favorable word from josephine they knew would pave the way for them to fame and fortune. thus josephine, from the saloons of paris, with milder radiance, reflected back the splendor of her husband. she, solicitous of securing as many friends as possible, to aid him in future emergencies, was as diligent in "winning hearts" at home, as napoleon was in conquering provinces abroad. the gracefulness of josephine, her consummate delicacy of moral appreciation, her exalted intellectual gifts, the melodious tones of her winning voice, charmed courtiers, philosophers, and statesmen alike. her saloons were ever crowded. her entertainments were ever embellished by the presence of all who were illustrious in rank and power in the metropolis. and in whatever circles she appeared the eyes of the gentlemen first sought for her. two resistless attractions drew them. she was peculiarly fascinating in person and in character, and, through her renowned husband, she could dispense the most precious gifts. it is not difficult to imagine the envy which must thus have been excited. many a haughty duchess was provoked, almost beyond endurance, that josephine, the untitled daughter of a west indian planter, should thus engross the homage of paris, while she, with her proud rank, her wit, and her beauty, was comparatively a cipher. moreau's wife, in particular, resented the supremacy of josephine as a personal affront. she thought general moreau entitled to as much consideration as general bonaparte. by the jealousy, rankling in her own bosom, she finally succeeded in rousing her husband to conspire against napoleon, and thus the hero of hohenlinden was ruined. some of the brothers and sisters of napoleon were also jealous of the paramount influence of josephine, and would gladly wrest a portion of it from her hands. under these circumstances, in various ways, slanders had been warily insinuated into the ears of napoleon, respecting the conduct of his wife. conspiring enemies became more and more bold. josephine was represented as having forgotten her husband, as reveling exultant with female vanity, in general flirtation; and, finally, as guilty of gross infidelity. nearly all the letters written by napoleon and josephine to each other, were intercepted by the english cruisers. though napoleon did not credit these charges in full, he cherished not a little of the pride, which led the roman monarch to exclaim, "cæsar's wife must not be suspected." napoleon was in this troubled state of mind during the latter months of his residence in egypt. one day he was sitting alone in his tent, which was pitched in the great arabian desert. several months had passed since he had heard a word from josephine. years might elapse ere they would meet again. junot entered, having just received, through some channel of jealousy and malignity, communications from paris. cautiously, but fully, he unfolded the whole budget of parisian gossip. josephine had found, as he represented, in the love of others an ample recompense for the absence of her husband. she was surrounded by admirers with whom she was engaged in an incessant round of intrigues and flirtations. regardless of honor she had surrended herself to the dominion of passion. napoleon was for a few moments in a state of terrible agitation. with hasty strides, like a chafed lion, he paced his tent, exclaiming, "why do i love that woman so? why can i not tear her image from my heart? i will do so. i will have an immediate and an open divorce--open and public divorce." he immediately wrote to josephine, in terms of the utmost severity, accusing her of "playing the coquette with half the world." the letter escaped the british cruisers, and she received it. it almost broke her faithful heart. such were the circumstances under which napoleon and josephine were to meet after an absence of eighteen months. josephine was exceedingly anxious to see napoleon before he should have an interview with her enemies. hence the depth of anguish with which she heard that her husband had passed her. two or three days must elapse ere she could possibly retrace the weary miles over which she had already traveled. in the mean time the carriage of napoleon was rapidly approaching the metropolis. by night his path was brilliant with bonfires and illuminations. the ringing of bells, the thunders of artillery, and the acclamations of the multitude, accompanied him every step of his way. but no smile of triumph played upon his pale and pensive cheeks. he felt that he was returning to a desolated home. gloom reigned in his heart. he entered paris, and drove rapidly to his own dwelling. behold, josephine was not there. conscious guilt, he thought, had made her afraid to meet him. it is in vain to attempt to penetrate the hidden anguish of napoleon's soul. that his proud spirit must have suffered intensity of woe, no one can doubt. the bitter enemies of josephine immediately surrounded him, eagerly taking advantage of her absence, to inflame, to a still higher degree, by adroit insinuations, his jealousy and anger. eugene had accompanied him in his return from egypt, and his affectionate heart ever glowed with love and admiration for his mother. with anxiety, amounting to anguish, he watched at the window for her arrival. said one to napoleon, maliciously endeavoring to prevent the possibility of reconciliation, "josephine will appear before you, with all her fascinations. she will explain matters. you will forgive all, and tranquillity will be restored." "never!" exclaimed napoleon, with pallid cheek and trembling lip, striding nervously to and fro, through the room, "never! i forgive! never!" then stopping suddenly, and gazing the interlocutor wildly in the face, he exclaimed, with passionate gesticulation, "you know me. were i not sure of my resolution, i would tear out this heart, and cast it into the fire." how strange is the life of the heart of man. from this interview, napoleon, two hours after his arrival in paris, with his whole soul agitated by the tumult of domestic woe, went to the palace of the luxembourg, to visit the directory, to form his plans for the overthrow of the government of france. pale, pensive, joyless, his inflexible purposes of ambition wavered not--his iron energies yielded not. josephine was an idol. he execrated her and he adored her. he loved her most passionately. he hated her most virulently. he could clasp her one moment to his bosom with burning kisses; the next moment he would spurn her from him as the most loathsome wretch. but glory was a still more cherished idol, at whose shrine he bowed with unwavering adoration. he strove to forget his domestic wretchedness by prosecuting, with new vigor, his schemes of grandeur. as he ascended the stairs of the luxembourg, some of the guard, who had been with him in italy, recognized his person, and he was instantly greeted, with enthusiastic shouts, "long live bonaparte." the clamor rolled like a voice of thunder through the spacious halls of the palace, and fell, like a death knell, upon the ears of the directors. the populace, upon the pavement, caught the sound and reechoed it from street to street. the plays at the theatres, and the songs at the opera, were stopped, that it might be announced, from the stage, that bonaparte had arrived in paris. men, women, and children simultaneously rose to their feet, and a wild burst of enthusiastic joy swelled upon the night air. all paris was in commotion. the name of bonaparte was upon every lip. the enthusiasm was contagious. illuminations began to blaze, here and there, without concert, from the universal rejoicing, till the whole city was resplendent with light. one bell rang forth its merry peal of greeting, and then another, and another, till every steeple was vocal with its clamorous welcome. one gun was heard, rolling its heavy thunders over the city. it was the signal for an instantaneous, tumultuous roar, from artillery and musketry, from all the battalions in the metropolis. the tidings of the great victories of aboukir and mount tabor, reached paris with napoleon. those oriental names were shouted through the streets, and blazed upon the eyes of the delighted people in letters of light. thus in an hour the whole of paris was thrown into a delirium of joy, and, without any previous arrangements, there was displayed the most triumphant and gorgeous festival. the government of france was at this time organized somewhat upon the model of that of the united states. instead of one president, they had five, called directors. their senate was called the house of ancients; their house of representatives, the council of five hundred. the five directors, as might have been expected, were ever quarreling among themselves, each wishing for the lion's share of power. the monarchist, the jacobin, and the moderate republican could not harmoniously co-operate in government. they only circumvented each other, while the administration sank into disgrace and ruin. the abbé sieyes was decidedly the most able man of the executive. he was a proud patrician, and his character may be estimated from the following anecdote, which napoleon has related respecting him: "the abbé, before the revolution, was chaplain to one of the princesses. one day, when he was performing mass before herself, her attendants, and a large congregation, something occurred which rendered it necessary for the princess to leave the room. the ladies in waiting and the nobility, who attended church more out of complaisance to her than from any sense of religion, followed her example. sieyes was very busy reading his prayers, and, for a few moments, he did not perceive their departure. at last, raising his eyes from his book, behold the princess, the nobles, and all the ton had disappeared. with an air of displeasure and contempt he shut the book, and descended from the pulpit, exclaiming, 'i do not read prayers for the rabble.' he immediately went out of the chapel, leaving the service half-finished." napoleon arrived in paris on the evening of the th of october, . two days and two nights elapsed, ere josephine was able to retrace the weary leagues over which she had passed. it was the hour of midnight on the th, when the rattle of her carriage-wheels was heard entering the court-yard of their dwelling in the rue chanteraine. eugene, anxiously awaiting her arrival, was instantly at his mother's side, folding her in his embrace. napoleon also heard the arrival, but he remained sternly in his chamber. he had ever been accustomed to greet josephine at the door of her carriage, even when she returned from an ordinary morning ride. no matter what employments engrossed his mind, no matter what guests were present, he would immediately leave every thing, and hasten to the door to assist josephine to alight and to accompany her into the house. but now, after an absence of eighteen months, the faithful josephine, half-dead with exhaustion, was at the door, and napoleon, with pallid cheek and compressed lip, and jealousy rankling in his bosom, remained sternly in his room, preparing to overwhelm her with his indignation. josephine was in a state of terrible agitation. her limbs tottered and her heart throbbed most violently. assisted by eugene, and accompanied by hortense, she tremblingly ascended the stairs to the little parlor where she had so often received the caresses of her most affectionate spouse. she opened the door. there stood napoleon, as immovable as a statue, leaning against the mantle, with his arms folded across his breast. sternly and silently, he cast a withering look upon josephine, and then exclaimed in tones, which, like a dagger pierced her heart, "madame! it is my wish that you retire immediately to malmaison." josephine staggered and would have fallen, as if struck by a mortal blow, had she not been caught in the arms of her son. sobbing bitterly with anguish, she was conveyed by eugene to her own apartment. napoleon also was dreadfully agitated. the sight of josephine had revived all his passionate love. but he fully believed that josephine had unpardonably trifled with his affections, that she had courted the admiration of a multitude of flatterers, and that she had degraded herself and her husband by playing the coquette. the proud spirit of napoleon could not brook such a requital for his fervid love. with hasty strides he traversed the room, striving to nourish his indignation. the sobs of josephine had deeply moved him. he yearned to fold her again in fond love to his heart. but he proudly resolved that he would not relent. josephine, with that prompt obedience which ever characterized her, prepared immediately to comply with his orders. it was midnight. for a week she had lived in her carriage almost without food or sleep. malmaison was thirty miles from paris. napoleon did not suppose that she would leave the house until morning. much to his surprise, in a few moments he heard josephine, eugene, and hortense descending the stairs to take the carriage. napoleon, even in his anger, could not be thus inhuman. "my heart," he said, "was never formed to witness tears without emotion." he immediately descended to the court-yard, though his pride would not yet allow him to speak to josephine. he, however, addressing eugene, urged the party to return and obtain refreshment and repose. josephine, all submission, unhesitatingly yielded to his wishes, and re-ascending the stairs, in the extremity of exhaustion and grief, threw herself upon a couch, in her apartment. napoleon, equally wretched, returned to his cabinet. two days of utter misery passed away, during which no intercourse took place between the estranged parties, each of whom loved the other with almost superhuman intensity. love in the heart will finally triumph over all obstructions. the struggle was long, but gradually pride and passion yielded, and love regained the ascendency. napoleon so far surrendered on the third day, as to enter the apartment of josephine. she was seated at a toilet-table, her face buried in her hands, and absorbed in the profoundest woe. the letters, which she had received from napoleon, and which she had evidently been reading, were spread upon the table. hortense, the picture of grief and despair, was standing in the alcove of a window. napoleon had opened the door softly, and his entrance had not been heard. with an irresolute step he advanced toward his wife, and then said, kindly and sadly, "josephine!" she started at the sound of that well-known voice, and raising her swollen eyes, swimming in tears, mournfully exclaimed, "mon ami"--_my friend_. this was the term of endearment with which she had invariably addressed her husband. it recalled a thousand delightful reminiscences. napoleon was vanquished. he extended his hand. josephine threw herself into his arms, pillowed her aching head upon his bosom, and in the intensity of blended joy and anguish, wept convulsively. a long explanation ensued. napoleon became satisfied that josephine had been deeply wronged. the reconciliation was cordial and entire, and was never again interrupted. [illustration: the reconciliation.] napoleon now, with a stronger heart, turned to the accomplishment of his designs to rescue france from anarchy. he was fully conscious of his own ability to govern the nation. he knew that it was the almost unanimous wish of the people that he should grasp the reins of power. he was confident of their cordial co-operation in any plans he might adopt. still, it was an enterprise of no small difficulty to thrust the five directors from their thrones, and to get the control of the council of ancients and of the five hundred. never was a difficult achievement more adroitly and proudly accomplished. for many days napoleon almost entirely secluded himself from observation, affecting a studious avoidance of the public gaze. he laid aside his military dress, and assumed the peaceful costume of the national institute. occasionally he wore a beautiful turkish sabre, suspended by a silk ribbon. this simple dress transported the imagination of the beholder to aboukir, mount tabor, and the pyramids. he studiously sought the society of literary men, and devoted to them his attention. he invited distinguished men of the institute to dine with him, and avoiding political discussion, conversed only upon literary and scientific subjects. moreau and bernadotte were the two rival generals from whom napoleon had the most to fear. two days after his arrival in paris napoleon said to bourrienne, "i believe that i shall have bernadotte and moreau against me. but i do not fear moreau. he is devoid of energy. he prefers military to political power. we shall gain him by the promise of a command. but bernadotte has moorish blood in his veins. he is bold and enterprising. he does not like me, and i am certain that he will oppose me. if he should become ambitious he will venture any thing. besides, this fellow is not to be seduced. he is disinterested and clever. but, after all, we have just arrived. we shall see." napoleon formed no conspiracy. he confided to no one his designs. and yet, in his own solitary mind, relying entirely upon his own capacious resources, he studied the state of affairs and he matured his plans. sieyes was the only one whose talents and influence napoleon feared. the abbé also looked with apprehension upon his formidable rival. they stood aloof and eyed each other. meeting at a dinner party, each was too proud to make advances. yet each thought only of the other. mutually exasperated, they separated without having spoken. "did you see that insolent little fellow!" said sieyes, "he would not even condescend to notice a member of the government, who, if they had done right, would have caused him to be shot." "what on earth," said napoleon, "could have induced them to put that priest in the directory. he is sold to prussia. unless you take care, he will deliver you up to that power." napoleon dined with moreau, who afterward in hostility to napoleon pointed the guns of russia against the columns of his countrymen. the dinner party was at cottier's, one of the directors. the following interesting conversation took place between the rival generals. when first introduced, they looked at each other a moment without speaking, napoleon, conscious of his own superiority, and solicitous to gain the powerful co-operation of moreau, made the first advances, and, with great courtesy, expressed the earnest desire he felt to make his acquaintance. "you have returned victorious from egypt," replied moreau, "and i from italy after a great defeat. it was the month which general joubert passed in paris, after his marriage, which caused our disasters. this gave the allies time to reduce mantua, and to bring up the force which besieged it to take a part in the action. it is always the greater number which defeats the less." "true," replied napoleon, "it is always the greater number which beats the less." "and yet," said gohier, "with small armies you have frequently defeated large ones." "even then," rejoined napoleon, "it was always the inferior force which was defeated by the superior. when with a small body of men i was in the presence of a large one, collecting my little band, i fell like lightning on one of the wings of the hostile army, and defeated it. profiting by the disorder which such an event never failed to occasion in their whole line, i repeated the attack, with similar success, in another quarter, still with my whole force. i thus beat it in detail. the general victory which was the result, was still an example of the truth of the principle that the greater force defeats the lesser." napoleon, by those fascinations of mind and manner, which enabled him to win to him whom he would, soon gained an ascendency over moreau. and when, two days after, in token of his regard, he sent him a beautiful poniard set with diamonds, worth two thousand dollars: the work was accomplished, and moreau was ready to do his bidding. napoleon gave a small and very select dinner party. gohier was invited. the conversation turned on the turquoise used by the orientals to clasp their turbans. napoleon, rising from the table took from a private drawer, two very beautiful brooches, richly set with those jewels. one he gave to gohier, the other to his tried friend desaix. "it is a little toy," said he, "which we republicans may give and receive without impropriety." the director, flattered by the delicacy of the compliment, and yet not repelled by any thing assuming the grossness of a bribe, yielded his heart's homage to napoleon. republican france was surrounded by monarchies in arms against her. their hostility was so inveterate, and, from the very nature of the case, so inevitable, that napoleon thought that france should ever be prepared for an attack, and that the military spirit should be carefully fostered. republican america, most happily, has no foe to fear, and all her energies may be devoted to filling the land with peace and plenty. but a republic in monarchical europe must sleep by the side of its guns. "do you, really," said napoleon, to gohier, in this interview, "advocate a general peace? you are wrong. the republic should never make but partial accommodations. it should always contrive to have some war on hand to keep alive the military spirit." we can, perhaps, find a little extenuation for this remark, in its apparent necessity, and in the influences of the martial ardor in which napoleon from his very infancy had been enveloped. even now, it is to be feared that the time is far distant ere the nations of the earth can learn war no more. lefebvre was commandant of the guard of the two legislative bodies. his co-operation was important. napoleon sent a special invitation for an interview. "lefebvre," said he, "will you, one of the pillars of the republic, suffer it to perish in the hands of these _lawyers_? join me and assist to save it." taking from his own aide the beautiful turkish scimitar which he wore, he passed the ribbon over lefebvre's neck, saying, "accept this sword, which i wore at the battle of the pyramids. i give it to you as a token of my esteem and confidence." "yes," replied lefebvre, most highly gratified at this signal mark of confidence and generosity, "let us throw the lawyers into the river." napoleon soon had an interview with bernadotte. "he confessed," said napoleon to bourrienne, "that he thought us all lost. he spoke of external enemies, of _internal_ enemies, and, at that word he looked steadily in my face. i also gave him a glance. but patience; the pear will soon be ripe." in this interview napoleon inveighed against the violence and lawlessness of the jacobin club. "your own brothers," bernadotte replied, "were the founders of that club. and yet you reproach me with favoring its principles. it is to the instructions of some one, _i know not who_, that we are to ascribe the agitation which now prevails." "true, general," napoleon replied, most vehemently, "and i would rather live in the woods, than in a society which presents no security against violence." this conversation only strengthened the alienation already existing between them. bernadotte, though a brave and efficient officer, was a jealous braggadocio. at the first interview between these two distinguished men, when napoleon was in command of the army of italy, they contemplated each other with mutual dislike. "i have seen a man," said bernadotte, "of twenty-six or seven years of age, who assumes the air of one of fifty; and he presages any thing but good to the republic." napoleon summarily dismissed bernadotte by saying, "he has a french head and a roman heart." there were three political parties now dividing france, the old royalist party, in favor of the restoration of the bourbons; the radical democrats, or jacobins, with barras at its head, supported by the mob of paris; and the moderate republicans led by sieyes. all these parties struggling together, and fearing each other, in the midst of the general anarchy which prevailed, immediately paid court to napoleon, hoping to secure the support of his all-powerful arm. napoleon determined to co-operate with the moderate republicans. the restoration of the bourbons was not only out of the question, but napoleon had no more power to secure that result, than had washington to bring the united states into peaceful submission to george iii. "had i joined the jacobins," said napoleon, "i should have risked nothing. but after conquering _with_ them, it would have been necessary almost immediately, to conquer _against_ them. a club can not endure a permanent chief. it wants one for every successive passion. now to make use of a party one day, in order to attack it the next, under whatever pretext it is done, is still an act of treachery. it was inconsistent with my principles." sieyes, the head of the moderate republicans, and napoleon soon understood each other, and each admitted the necessity of co-operation. the government was in a state of chaos. "our salvation now demands," said the wily diplomatist, "both a head and a sword." napoleon had both. in one fortnight from the time when he landed at frejus, "the pear was ripe." the plan was all matured for the great conflict. napoleon, in solitary grandeur, kept his own counsel. he had secured the cordial co-operation, the unquestioning obedience of all his subordinates. like the general upon the field of battle, he was simply to give his orders, and columns marched, and squadrons charged, and generals swept the field in unquestioning obedience. though he had determined to ride over and to destroy the existing government, he wished to avail himself, so far as possible, of the mysterious power of law, as a conqueror turns a captured battery upon the foe from whom it had been wrested. such a plot, so simple, yet so bold and efficient, was never formed before. and no one, but another napoleon, will be able to execute another such again. all paris was in a state of intense excitement. something great was to be done. napoleon was to do it. but nobody knew when, or what, or how. all impatiently awaited orders. the majority of the senate, or council of ancients, conservative in its tendencies, and having once seen, during the reign of terror, the horrors of jacobin domination, were ready, most obsequiously, to rally beneath the banner of so resolute a leader as napoleon. they were prepared, without question, to pass any vote which he should propose. the house of representatives or council of five hundred, more democratic in its constitution, contained a large number of vulgar, ignorant, and passionate demagogues, struggling to grasp the reins of power. carnot, whose co-operation napoleon had entirely secured, was president of the senate. lucien bonaparte, the brother of napoleon, was speaker of the house. the two bodies met in the palace of the tuileries. the constitution conferred upon the council of ancients, the right to decide upon the place of meeting for both legislative assemblies. all the officers of the garrison in paris, and all the distinguished military men in the metropolis, had solicited the honor of a presentation to napoleon. without any public announcement, each one was privately informed that napoleon would see him on the morning of the th of november. all the regiments in the city had also solicited the honor of a review by the distinguished conqueror. they were also informed that napoleon would review them early on the morning of the th of november. the council of ancients was called to convene at six o'clock on the morning of the same day. the council of five hundred were also to convene at o'clock of the same morning. this, the famous th of brumaire, was the destined day for the commencement of the great struggle. these appointments were given in such a way as to attract no public attention. the general-in-chief was thus silently arranging his forces for the important conflict. to none did he reveal those combinations, by which he anticipated a bloodless victory. [illustration: the morning levee.] the morning of the th of november arrived. the sun rose with unwonted splendor over the domes of the thronged city. a more brilliant day never dawned. through all the streets of the mammoth metropolis there was heard, in the earliest twilight of the day, the music of martial bands, the tramp of battalions, the clatter of iron hoofs, and the rumbling of heavy artillery wheels over the pavements, as regiments of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, in the proudest array, marched to the boulevards to receive the honor of a review from the conqueror of italy and of egypt. the whole city was in commotion, guided by the unseen energies of napoleon in the retirement of his closet. at eight o'clock napoleon's house, in the rue chanteraine, was so thronged with illustrious military men, in most brilliant uniform, that every room was filled and even the street was crowded with the resplendent guests. at that moment the council of ancients passed the decree, which napoleon had prepared, that the two legislative bodies should transfer their meetings to st. cloud, a few miles from paris; and that napoleon bonaparte should be put in command of all the military forces in the city, to secure the public peace. the removal to st. cloud was a merciful precaution against bloodshed. it secured the legislatures from the ferocious interference of a parisian mob. the president of the council was himself commissioned to bear the decree to napoleon. he elbowed his way through the brilliant throng, crowding the door and the apartment of napoleon's dwelling, and presented to him the ordinance. napoleon was ready to receive it. he stepped upon the balcony, gathered his vast retinue of powerful guests before him, and in a loud and firm voice, read to them the decree. "gentlemen," said he, "will you help me save the republic?" one simultaneous burst of enthusiasm rose from every lip, as drawing their swords from their scabbards they waved them in the air and shouted, "we swear it, we swear it." the victory was virtually won. napoleon was now at the head of the french nation. nothing remained but to finish his conquest. there was no retreat left open for his foes. there was hardly the possibility of a rally. and now napoleon summoned all his energies to make his triumph most illustrious. messengers were immediately sent to read the decree to the troops already assembled, in the utmost display of martial pomp, to greet the idol of the army, and who were in a state of mind to welcome him most exultingly as their chief. a burst of enthusiastic acclamation ascended from their ranks which almost rent the skies. napoleon immediately mounted his horse, and, surrounded by the most magnificent staff, whom he had thus ingeniously assembled at his house, and, accompanied by a body of fifteen hundred cavalry, whom he had taken the precaution to rendezvous near his dwelling, proceeded to the palace of the tuileries. the gorgeous spectacle burst like a vision upon astonished paris. it was napoleon's first public appearance. dressed in the utmost simplicity of a civilian's costume, he rode upon his magnificent charger, the centre of all eyes. the gleaming banners, waving in the breeze, and the gorgeous trappings of silver and gold, with which his retinue was embellished, set off in stronger relief the majestic simplicity of his own appearance. with the pomp and the authority of an enthroned king, napoleon entered the council of the ancients. the ancients themselves were dazzled by his sudden apparition in such imposing and unexpected splendor and power. ascending the bar, attended by an imposing escort, he addressed the assembly and took his oath of office. "you," said napoleon, "are the wisdom of the nation. to you it belongs to concert measures for the salvation of the republic. i come, surrounded by our generals, to offer you support. faithfully will i fulfill the task you have intrusted to me. let us not look into the past for precedents. nothing in history resembles the eighteenth century. nothing in the eighteenth century resembles the present moment." an aid was immediately sent to the palace of the luxembourg, to inform the five directors, there in session, of the decree. two of the directors, sieyes and ducos, were pledged to napoleon, and immediately resigned their offices, and hastened to the tuileries. barras, bewildered and indignant, sent his secretary with a remonstrance. napoleon, already assuming the authority of an emperor, and speaking as if france were his patrimony, came down upon him with a torrent of invective. "where," he indignantly exclaimed, "is that beautiful france which i left you so brilliant? i left you peace. i find war. i left you victories. i find but defeats. i left you the millions of italy. i find taxation and beggary. where are the hundred thousand men, my companions in glory? they are dead. this state of things can not continue. it will lead to despotism." barras was terrified. he feared to have napoleon's eagle eye investigate his peculations. he resigned. two directors only now were left, gohier and moulins. it took a majority of the five to constitute a quorum. the two were powerless. in despair of successful resistance and fearing vengeance they hastened to the tuileries to find napoleon. they were introduced to him surrounded by sieyes, ducos, and a brilliant staff. napoleon received them cordially. "i am glad to see you," said he. "i doubt not that you will both resign. your patriotism will not allow you to oppose a revolution which is both inevitable and necessary." "i do not yet despair," said gohier, vehemently, "aided by my colleague moulins, of saving the republic." "with what will you save it?" exclaimed napoleon. "with the constitution which is crumbling to pieces?" just at that moment a messenger came in and informed the directors that santerre, the brewer, who, during the reign of terror, had obtained a bloody celebrity as leader of the jacobins, was rousing the mob in the faubourgs to resistance. "general moulins," said napoleon, firmly, "you are the friend of santerre. tell him that at the very first movement he makes, i will cause him to be shot." moulins, exasperated yet appalled, made an apologetic reply. "the republic is in danger," said napoleon. "we must save it. _it is my will._ sieyes, ducos, and barras have resigned. you are two individuals insulated and powerless. i advise you not to resist." they still refused. napoleon had no time to spend in parleying. he immediately sent them both back into the luxembourg, separated them and placed them under arrest. fouché,[ ] occupying the important post of minister of police, though not in napoleon's confidence, yet anxious to display his homage to the rising luminary, called upon napoleon and informed him that he had closed the barriers, and had thus prevented all ingress or egress. "what means this folly?" said napoleon. "let those orders be instantly countermanded. do we not march with the opinion of the nation, and by its strength alone? let no citizen be interrupted. let every publicity be given to what is done." [footnote : "fouché," said napoleon, "is a miscreant of all colors, a priest, a terrorist, and one who took an active part in many bloody scenes of the revolution. he is a man who can worm all your secrets out of you, with an air of calmness and unconcern. he is very rich; but his riches have been badly acquired. he never was my confidant. never did he approach me without bending to the ground. but i never had any esteem for him. i employed him merely as an instrument."] the council of five hundred, in great confusion and bewilderment, assembled at eleven o'clock. lucien immediately communicated the decree transferring their session to st. cloud. this cut off all debate. the decree was perfectly legal. there could therefore be no legal pretext for opposition. napoleon, the idol of the army, had the whole military power obedient to his nod. therefore resistance of any kind was worse than folly. the deed was adroitly done. at eleven o'clock the day's work was accomplished. there was no longer a directory. napoleon was the appointed chief of the troops, and they were filling the streets with enthusiastic shouts of "live napoleon." the council of ancients were entirely at his disposal. and a large party in the council of five hundred were also wholly subservient to his will. napoleon, proud, silent, reserved, fully conscious of his own intellectual supremacy, and regarding the generals, the statesmen, and the multitude around him, as a man contemplates children, ascended the grand staircase of the tuileries as if it were his hereditary home. nearly all parties united to sustain his triumph. napoleon was a soldier. the guns of paris joyfully thundered forth the victory of one who seemed the peculiar favorite of the god of war. napoleon was a scholar, stimulating intellect to its mightiest achievements. the scholars of paris, gratefully united to weave a chaplet for the brow of their honored associate and patron. napoleon was, for those days of profligacy and unbridled lust, a model of purity of morals, and of irreproachable integrity. the proffered bribe of millions could not tempt him. the dancing daughters of herodias, with all their blandishments, could not lure him from his life of herculean toil and from his majestic patriotism. the wine which glitters in the cup, never vanquished him. at the shrine of no vice was he found a worshiper. the purest and the best in france, disgusted with that gilded corruption which had converted the palaces of the bourbons into harems of voluptuous sin, and still more deeply loathing that vulgar and revolting vice, which had transformed paris into a house of infamy, enlisted all their sympathies in behalf of the exemplary husband and the incorruptible patriot. napoleon was one of the most firm and unflinching friends of law and order. france was weary of anarchy and was trembling under the apprehension that the gutters of the guillotine were again to be clotted with blood. and mothers and maidens prayed for god's blessing upon napoleon, who appeared to them as a messenger sent from heaven for their protection. during the afternoon and the night his room at the tuileries was thronged with the most illustrious statesmen, generals, and scholars of paris, hastening to pledge to him their support. napoleon, perfectly unembarrassed and never at a loss in any emergency, gave his orders for the ensuing day. lannes was intrusted with a body of troops to guard the tuileries. murat, who, said napoleon, "was superb at aboukir," with a numerous cavalry and a corps of grenadiers was stationed at st. cloud, a thunderbolt in napoleon's right hand. woe betide the mob into whose ranks that thunderbolt may be hurled. moreau, with five hundred men, was stationed to guard the luxembourg, where the two refractory directors were held under arrest. serrurier was posted in a commanding position with a strong reserve, prompt for any unexpected exigence. even a body of troops were sent to accompany barras to his country seat, ostensibly as an escort of honor, but in reality to guard against any change in that venal and versatile mind. the most energetic measures were immediately adopted to prevent any rallying point for the disaffected. bills were every where posted, exhorting the citizens to be quiet, and assuring them that powerful efforts were making to save the republic. these minute precautions were characteristic of napoleon. he believed in destiny. yet he left nothing for destiny to accomplish. he ever sought to make provision for all conceivable contingencies. these measures were completely successful. though paris was in a delirium of excitement, there were no outbreaks of lawless violence. neither monarchist, republican, nor jacobin knew what napoleon intended to do. all were conscious that he would do something. it was known that the jacobin party in the council of five hundred on the ensuing day, would make a desperate effort at resistance. sieyes, perfectly acquainted with revolutionary movements, urged napoleon to arrest some forty of the jacobins most prominent in the council. this would have secured an easy victory on the morrow. napoleon, however, rejected the advice, saying, "i pledged my word this morning to protect the national representation. i will not this evening violate my oath." had the assembly been convened in paris, all the mob of the faubourgs would have risen, like an inundation, in their behalf, and torrents of blood must have been shed. the sagacious transference of the meeting to st. cloud, several miles from paris, saved those lives. the powerful military display, checked any attempt at a march upon st. cloud. what could the mob do, with murat, lannes, and serrurier, guided by the energies of napoleon, ready to hurl their solid columns upon them? [illustration: napoleon on his way to st. cloud.] the delicacy of attention with which napoleon treated josephine, was one of the most remarkable traits in his character. it is not strange that he should have won from her a love almost more than human. during the exciting scenes of this day, when no one could tell whether events were guiding him to a crown or to the guillotine, napoleon did not forget his wife, who was awaiting the result, with deep solicitude, in her chamber in the rue chanteraine. nearly every hour he dispatched a messenger to josephine, with a hastily written line communicating to her the progress of events. late at night he returned to his home, apparently as fresh and unexhausted as in the morning. he informed josephine minutely of the scenes of the day, and then threw himself upon a sofa, for an hour's repose. early the next morning he was on horseback, accompanied by a regal retinue, directing his steps to st. cloud. three halls had been prepared in the palace; one for the ancients, one for the five hundred, and one for napoleon. he thus assumed the position which he knew it to be the almost unanimous will of the nation that, he should fill. during the night the jacobins had arranged a very formidable resistance. napoleon was considered to be in imminent peril. he would be denounced as a traitor. sieyes and ducos had each a post-chaise and six horses, waiting at the gate of st. cloud, prepared, in case of reverse, to escape for life. there were many ambitious generals, ready to mount the crest of any refluent wave to sweep napoleon to destruction. bernadotte was the most to be feared. orders were given to cut down the first person who should attempt to harangue the troops. napoleon, riding at the head of this imposing military display, manifested no agitation. he knew, however, perfectly well the capriciousness of the popular voice, and that the multitude in the same hour could cry "hosanna!" and "crucify!" the two councils met. the tumult in the five hundred was fearful. cries of "down with the dictator!" "death to the tyrant!" "live the constitution!" filled the hall, and drowned the voice of deliberation. the friends of napoleon were swept before the flood of passion. it was proposed that every member should immediately take anew the oath to support the constitution. no one dared to peril his life by the refusal. even lucien, the speaker, was compelled to descend from his chair and take the oath. the ancients, overawed by the unexpected violence of this opposition in the lower and more popular house, began to be alarmed and to recede. the opposition took a bold and aggressive stand, and proposed a decree of outlawry against napoleon. the friends of napoleon, remembering past scenes of carnage, were timid and yielding. defeat seemed inevitable. victory was apparently turned into discomfiture and death. in this emergency napoleon displayed the same coolness, energy, and tact with which so often, on the field of battle, in the most disastrous hour, he had rolled back the tide of defeat in the resplendent waves of victory. his own mind was the corps de reserve which he now marched into the conflict to arrest the rout of his friends. taking with him a few aids and a band of grenadiers, he advanced to the door of the hall. on his way he met bernadotte. "you are marching to the guillotine," said his rival, sternly. "we shall see," napoleon coolly replied. leaving the soldiers, with their glittering steel and nodding plumes, at the entrance of the room, he ascended the tribune. the hush of perfect silence pervaded the agitated hall. "gentlemen," said he, "you are on a volcano. you deemed the republic in danger. you called me to your aid. i obeyed. and now i am assailed by a thousand calumnies. they talk of cæsar, of cromwell, of military despotism, as if any thing in antiquity resembled the present moment danger presses. disaster thickens. we have no longer a government. the directors have resigned. the five hundred are in a tumult. emissaries are instigating paris to revolt. agitators would gladly bring back the revolutionary tribunals. but fear not. aided by my companions in arms i will protect you. i desire nothing for myself, but to save the republic. and i solemnly swear to protect that _liberty and equality,_ for which we have made such sacrifices." "and the _constitution_!" some one cried out. napoleon had purposely omitted the _constitution_ in his oath, for he despised it, and was at that moment laboring for its overthrow. he paused for a moment, and then, with increasing energy exclaimed, "the constitution! you have none. you violated it when the executive infringed the rights of the legislature. you violated it when the legislature struck at the independence of the executive. you violated it when, with sacriligious hand, both the legislature and the executive struck at the sovereignty of the people, by annulling their elections. the constitution! it is a mockery; invoked by all, regarded by none." [illustration: napoleon in the council of five hundred.] rallied by the presence of napoleon, and by these daring words, his friends recovered their courage, and two-thirds of the assembly rose in expression of their confidence and support. at this moment intelligence arrived that the five hundred were compelling lucien to put to the vote napoleon's outlawry. not an instant was to be lost. there is a mysterious power in law. the passage of that vote would probably have been fatal. life and death were trembling in the balance. "i would then have given two hundred millions," said napoleon, "to have had ney by my side." turning to the ancients, he exclaimed, "if any orator, paid by foreigners, shall talk of outlawing me, i will appeal for protection to my brave companions in arms, whose plumes are nodding at the door. remember that i march accompanied by the god of fortune and by the god of war." he immediately left the ancients, and, attended by his military band, hastened to the council of five hundred. on his way he met augereau, who was pale and trembling, deeming napoleon lost. "you have got yourself into a pretty fix," said he, with deep agitation. "matters were worse at arcola," napoleon coolly replied. "keep quiet. all will be changed in half an hour." followed by his grenadiers, he immediately entered the hall of the five hundred. the soldiers remained near the door. napoleon traversed alone half of the room to reach the bar. it was an hour in which nothing could save him but the resources of his own mind. furious shouts rose from all parts of the house. "what means this! down with the tyrant! begone! begone!" "the winds," says napoleon, "suddenly escaping from the caverns of Ã�olus can give but a faint idea of that tempest." in the midst of the horrible confusion he in vain endeavored to speak. the members, in the wildest fray, crowded around him. the grenadiers witnessing the peril of their chief rushed to his rescue. a dagger was struck at his bosom. a soldier, with his arm, parried the blow. with their bayonets they drove back the members, and encircling napoleon, bore him from the hall. napoleon had hardly descended the outer steps ere some one informed him that his brother lucien was surrounded by the infuriated deputies, and that his life was in imminent jeopardy. "colonel dumoulin," said he, "take a battalion of grenadiers and hasten to my brother's deliverance." the soldiers rushed into the room, drove back the crowd who, with violent menaces, were surrounding lucien, and saying, "it is by your brother's commands," escorted him in safety out of the hall into the court-yard. napoleon, now mounting his horse, with lucien by his side, rode along in front of his troops. "the council of five hundred," exclaimed lucien, "is dissolved. it is i that tell you so. assassins have taken possession of the hall of meeting. i summon you to march and clear it of them." "soldiers!" said napoleon, "can i rely upon you?" "long live bonaparte," was the simultaneous response. murat took a battalion of grenadiers and marched to the entrance of the hall. when murat headed a column it was well known that there would be no child's play. "charge bayonets, forward!" he exclaimed, with imperturbable coolness. the drums beat the charge. steadily the bristling line of steel advanced. the terrified representatives leaped over the benches, rushed through the passage ways, and sprang out of the windows, throwing upon the floor, in their precipitate flight, gowns, scarfs, and hats. in two minutes the hall was cleared. as the representatives were flying in dismay across the garden, an officer proposed that the soldiers should be ordered to fire upon them. napoleon decisively refused, saying, "it is my wish that not a single drop of blood be spilt." as napoleon wished to avail himself as far as possible, of the forms of law, he assembled the two legislative bodies in the evening. those only attended who were friendly to his cause. unanimously they decreed that napoleon had deserved well of his country; they abolished the directory. the executive power they vested in napoleon, sieyes, and ducos, with the title of consuls. two committees of twenty-five members each, taken from the two councils, were appointed to co-operate with the consuls in forming a new constitution. during the evening the rumor reached paris that napoleon had failed in his enterprise. the consternation was great. the mass of the people, of all ranks, dreading the renewal of revolutionary horrors, and worn out with past convulsions, passionately longed for repose. their only hope was in napoleon. at nine o'clock at night intelligence of the change of government was officially announced, by a proclamation which the victor had dictated with the rapidity and the glowing eloquence which characterized all of his mental acts. it was read by torchlight to assembled and deeply agitated groups, all over the city. the welcome tidings were greeted with the liveliest demonstrations of applause. at three o'clock in the morning napoleon threw himself into his carriage to return to paris. bourrienne accompanied him. napoleon appeared so absorbed in thought, that he uttered not one single word during the ride. at four o'clock in the morning he alighted from his carriage, at the door of his dwelling in the rue chanteraine. josephine, in the greatest anxiety, was watching at the window for his approach. napoleon had not been able to send her one single line during the turmoil and the peril of that eventful day. she sprang to meet him. napoleon fondly encircled her in his arms, briefly recapitulated the scenes of the day, and assured her that since he had taken the oath of office, he had not allowed himself to speak to a single individual, for he wished that the beloved voice of his josephine might be the first to congratulate him upon his virtual accession to the empire of france. the heart of josephine could appreciate a delicacy of love so refined and so touching. well might she say, "napoleon is the most fascinating of men." it was then after four o'clock in the morning. the dawn of the day was to conduct napoleon to a new scene of herculean toil in organizing the republic. throwing himself upon a couch, for a few moments of repose, he exclaimed, gayly, "good-night, my josephine! to-morrow, we sleep in the palace of the luxembourg." napoleon was then but twenty-nine years of age. and yet, under circumstances of inconceivable difficulty, with unhesitating reliance upon his own mental resources, he assumed the enormous care of creating and administering a new government for thirty millions of people. never did he achieve a victory which displayed more consummate genius. on no occasion of his life did his majestic intellectual power beam forth with more brilliance. it is not to be expected that, for ages to come, the world will be united in opinion respecting this transaction. some represent it as an outrage against law and liberty. others consider it a necessary act which put an end to corruption and anarchy. that the course which napoleon pursued was in accordance with the wishes of the overwhelming majority of the french people no one can doubt. it is questionable whether, even now, france is prepared for self-government. there can be no question that then the republic had totally failed. said napoleon, in reference to this revolution, "for my part, all my share of the plot, was confined to assembling the crowd of my visitors at the same hour in the morning, and marching at their head to seize upon power. it was from the threshold of my door, and without my friends having any previous knowledge of my intentions, that i led them to this conquest. it was amidst the brilliant escort which they formed, their lively joy and unanimous ardor, that i presented myself at the bar of the ancients to thank them for the dictatorship with which they invested me. metaphysicians have disputed and will long dispute, whether we did not violate the laws, and whether we were not criminal. but these are mere abstractions which should disappear before imperious necessity. one might as well blame a sailor for waste and destruction, when he cuts away a mast to save his ship. the fact is, had it not been for us the country must have been lost. we saved it. the authors of that memorable state transaction ought to answer their accusers proudly, like the roman, 'we protest that we have saved our country. come with us and render thanks to the gods.'" with the exception of the jacobins all parties were strongly in favor of this revolution. for ten years the people had been so accustomed to the violation of the laws, that they had ceased to condemn such acts, and judged of them only by their consequences. all over france the feeling was nearly universal in favor of the new government. says alison, who surely will not be accused of regarding napoleon with a partial eye, "napoleon rivaled cæsar in the clemency with which he used his victory. no proscriptions or massacres, few arrests or imprisonments followed the triumph of order over revolution. on the contrary, numerous acts of mercy, as wise as they were magnanimous, illustrated the rise of the consular throne. the elevation of napoleon was not only unstained by blood, but not even a single captive long lamented the ear of the victor. a signal triumph of the principles of humanity over those of cruelty, glorious alike to the actors and the age in which it occurred; and a memorable proof how much more durable are the victories obtained by moderation and wisdom, than those achieved by violence and stained by blood." paradise lost. my knapsack was on my shoulder.--so said armand, a young artist, when a little company of us were sitting together the other evening.-- my knapsack was on my shoulder, my ashen stick in hand; three leagues of dusty road had whitened me like a miller. whence i came, whither i was going--what matters it? i was not twenty years of age. my starting point, therefore, was home; my goal was paradise--any earthly paradise i could find. the country was not particularly picturesque; and the weather was very hot. great undulations of harvest-laden fields rolled irregularly on all sides. here was a hamlet; there a solitary farm-house; yonder a wood; on each eminence a windmill. some peasants that were in the fields sang; and the birds chirped at them as if in mockery. one or two wagons, dragged by oxen and horses, slowly moved along the tree-bordered road. i sat down on a heap of stones. a wagoner gruffly asked me if i was tired, and offered me "a lift." i accepted; and soon i was stretched where dung had been; jolted into an uneasy half-slumber, not without its charm, with the bells of the lazy team softly jingling in my ears, until i thought fifty silver voices were calling me away to a home that must be bright, and a land that must be beautiful. i awoke in a mood sufficiently benign to receive an apology. the man had forgotten me when he turned off the high road, and had taken me half a league into the country. where was the harm, honest wagoner? i am not going any where; "i am only going to paradise." there was no village of that name in the neighborhood, he said; but he had no doubt i would be pleased to see the grounds of the chateau. of course, i had come on purpose for that. i handed him his _pour-boire_. "drink my health, good man, and injure your own. let us see these grounds.'" the man showed me through a meadow near the farm (to which he belonged) and left me, tossing the silver piece i had given him in his hard hand. i soon observed that the place was worth seeing. a hasty glance showed it to be a fragment of wild nature, occupied in its original state, and barricaded against civilization. there were woods, and solitary trees, and lakes, and streams of sufficient dimensions for grandeur; and, when once the wall disappeared amidst the heavy foliage, i could at first discern no traces whatever of the presence of man. however, on closer examination, i discovered that nature had been improved upon; that all objects which might ungraciously intercept the view, or deform a landscape, had been removed. there were no sham ruins nor artificial cascades; but the stranger's steps were led, by some ingenious process of plantation, insensibly to the best points of view. i felt, and was thankful, for the presence of the art which so industriously endeavored to conceal itself; but being, at that time, as most young men are, inclined to compare great things with small--thinking to be epigrammatic and knowing--i exclaimed aloud: "the toilet of this park has been admirably performed." "a vulgar idea, vulgarly expressed," said a clear, firm voice above me. i looked up, thinking that somebody was hidden in a tree; and, to my surprise, saw a young woman, upon a fine large horse, holding a riding-whip playfully over my head. she had approached across the turf unheard; and had heard my exclamation, which, i assure you, was meant for no ears but my own. "madam," replied i, when i had recovered from my confusion, "i think you misunderstand me. there is no vulgarity in comparing a prospect in which every superfluity is thus tastefully pruned away, to a woman who, instead of loading herself with ornaments, uses the arts of the toilet to display all her beauties to the best advantage." "the explanation will not do," she replied. "it wants frankness. your phrase simply meant that you were ashamed of the admiration this view had at first excited; and that you thought it necessary to exert the manly privilege of contempt. if i had not seen you yonder using your sketch-book, i should take you for a traveling hair-dresser." the tone and manner of my new acquaintance puzzled me exceedingly; and i was at first rather irritated by the hostile attitude she assumed on such slight grounds. it was evident she wished to provoke an intellectual contest; for, at the moment, i did not understand that her real desire was to suppress the formalities of an introduction. i returned to the charge; she replied. a broadside of repartee was fired off on either side; but insensibly we met upon common ground; affectation was discarded; and, as we streamed irregularly along the swardy avenues, or stopped at the entrance of a long vista--she gently walking her docile genet; i with my hand upon its mane--we made more advances toward familiarity and friendship in an hour than would have been possible under any other circumstances in a season. let me describe my impressions as i received them. otherwise, how will the narrative illustrate the theory? i am endeavoring to show, by example, what an immense structure of happiness may be built upon a very flimsy ground; that the material sequence of this life's events need have no correspondence with the sequence of our sentiments; that--but i must not anticipate. the lady, dressed in a green riding-habit, was remarkably handsome, as this miniature will show. and armand drew a small case from his breast. "it is made from memory; but i will answer for its exactitude." "we all know the face well enough, my friend," quoth prevost; "it re-appears in nearly all your pictures, like raphael's fornarina. last year you made it do duty for medea; this year, modified to suit the occasion, it will appear in the salon as charlotte corday. why have you so carefully avoided that type in your juliet and your heloise? one would imagine that, instead of being associated with pleasant recollections, it suggested nothing but strife, violence, and despair." "were that the case, you know," quoth armand, with feigned sprightliness, "my theory falls to the ground; and, in telling you my story, i am only impertinently taking advantage of your good-nature to make a confession, and thus ease a somewhat troubled mind. listen to the end; it is not far off." we reached a grotto on the borders of a little lake, where, to my surprise, an elegant breakfast was laid out. there were two seats placed ready; and fifine, the maid, was there to serve. we partook of the meal together, talking of every thing except of ourselves; but thinking of nothing else. once or twice a reflection on the oddity of this reception flitted across my mind; but i thought that i had fallen in with some eccentric mistress of the castle--such as one reads of in middle-age romances--who was proud to give hospitality to a wandering artist. the lady called me hector, and i called her andromache; and, under the influence of some generous wine that came in with the dessert, i went so far as to declare that my love for her was unbounded, and that she must be my bride. i was thrown into ecstasies of delight by the frank reply, that it only depended upon me to fix the day! what follies i committed i scarcely recollect; but i know that fifine scolded me; and said that, for a well-educated young man, i was dreadfully forward. what a delightful half-hour was that which succeeded! the entrance of the grotto was wreathed with vines. the ripples of the lake broke upon a little beach of sand that seemed of gold dust; the path by which we had come along ran at the foot of a precipice for about thirty yards, and then climbed a steep bank; the expanse of water--possibly it was merely a large pool, but these things magnify in memory--nestled at the feet of some lofty wooded slopes, which, with the pure blue sky, it reflected. we sat, side by side, hand in hand; but fifine, whose notions of propriety were extremely rigid, expostulated vehemently. i whispered that she ought to be sent away; and andromache was, perhaps, of my opinion; but she did not venture to agree with me aloud. thus the hour passed in silent happiness; for our hearts soon became too full for words; and i solemnly declare, that, to spend such another day, i would discount ten years of my existence. as evening drew near, and i began to dream of the delights of a twilight stroll along the margin of the lake, fifine pitilessly suggested an adjournment to the chateau. the word grated harshly on my ear. i had almost pictured to myself the lady as a dryad, or a nymph living ever amidst trees and grottoes. but prosy fifine carried her point; and, in half an hour, we were in the saloon of a most comfortable modern dwelling, furnished with parisian elegance. several very commonplace looking servants stared at me as i entered. my romantic ideas at once received a shock. five minutes afterward a post-chaise rolled up to the door, and a stout old gentleman, accompanied by a tall, handsome young man, issued therefrom. why should i give you the ludicrous details of the explanation? andromache was betrothed to monsieur hector chose; but she had never seen him. her father, a wealthy naturalist, had gone that day to meet the bridegroom at a neighboring town. the young lady (who was of a romantic disposition) had descried me in the park, and had fancied this was a pre-arranged surprise. she had got up the breakfast in the grotto; and had made my acquaintance as i have related. i answered to the name of hector; she naturally retorted andromache. this was the whole explanation of the mistake. i was overwhelmed with shame, when the father and the real hector, with vociferous laughter, undeceived me; and the young lady herself went away in tears of vexation. for a moment, i hoped that i had produced an ineffaceable impression; but i was soon undeceived. in my mortification i insulted hector. a hostile meeting was the result. i received a severe wound, and lay a long time helpless in a neighboring hamlet. still my love was not cured. even when i heard that the marriage had been celebrated, i persisted in looking upon the bride as my andromache; but when madame duclique, her cousin, came to see me, she destroyed all my illusions. andromache, she said, though with much affectation of romance, was a very matter-of-fact personage, and remembered our love-passage only as a ridiculous mistake. she had married hector, not only without repugnance but with delight. he brought her every thing she desired--a handsome person, a fine fortune, an exalted position; and she was the first to joke on the subject of "that poor counterfeit hector." this interview cured me at once. i discovered that i was strong enough to leave the paradise i had lost. madame duclique, an amiable and beautiful person, gave me a seat in her carriage, and drove me to the town of arques. i feel grateful to my andromache for having impressed upon my mind an enduring form of beauty. "let us drink her health!" the vatteville ruby. the clock of the church of besançon had struck nine, when a woman about fifty years of age, wrapped in a cotton shawl and carrying a small basket on her arm, knocked at the door of a house in the rue st. vincent, which, however, at the period we refer to, bore the name of rue de la liberté. the door opened. "it is you, dame margaret," said the porter, with a very cross look. "it is high time for you. all my lodgers have come home long since; you are always the last, and--" "that is not my fault, i assure you, my dear m. thiebaut," said the old woman in a deprecatory tone. "my day's work is only just finished, and when work is to be done--" "that's all very fine," he muttered. "it might do well enough if i could even reckon on a christmas-box at the end of the year; but as it is, i may count myself well off, if i do but get paid for taking up their letters." the old woman did not hear the last words, for with quick and firm step she had been making her way up the six flights of stairs, steep enough to make her head reel had she been ascending them for the first time. "nine o'clock!--nine o'clock! how uneasy she must be!" and as she spoke, she opened with her latch-key the door of a wretched garret, in which dimly burned a rushlight, whose flickering flame scarcely seemed to render visible the scanty furniture the room contained. "is that you, my good margaret," said a feeble and broken voice from the farther end of the little apartment. "yes, my dear lady; yes, it is i; and very sorry i am to have made you uneasy. but madame lebriton, my worthy employer, is so active herself, that she always finds the work-woman's day too short--though it is good twelve hours--and just as i was going to fold up my work, she brought me a job in a great hurry. i could not refuse her; but this time, i must own, i got well paid for being obliging, for after i had done, she said in her most good-natured way: 'here, you shall take home with you some of this nice pie, and this bottle of good wine, and have a comfortable supper with your sister.' so she always calls you, madame," added margaret, while complacently glancing at the basket, the contents of which she now laid out upon the table. "as i believe it is safest for you, i do not undeceive her, though it is easily known she can not have looked very close at us, or she might have seen that i could only be the servant of so noble-looking a lady--" the feeble voice interrupted her: "my servant--you my servant! when, instead of rewarding your services, i allow you to toil for my support, and to lavish upon me the most tender, the moat devoted affection! my poor margaret! you who have undertaken for me at your age, and with your infirmities, daily and arduous toil, are you not indeed a sister of whom i may well be proud? your nobility has a higher origin than mine. reduced by political changes, which have left me homeless and penniless, i owe every thing to you; and so tenderly do you minister to me, that even in this garret i could still almost fancy myself the noble abbess of vatteville!" as she spoke, the aged lady raised herself in her old arm-chair, and throwing back a black vail, disclosed features still beautiful, and a forehead still free from every wrinkle, and eyes now sparkling with something of their former brilliancy. she extended her hand to margaret, who affectionately kissed it; and then, apprehensive that further excitement could not but be injurious to her mistress, the faithful creature endeavored to divert her thoughts into another channel, by inviting her to partake of the little feast provided by the kindness of her employer. margaret being in the habit of taking her meals in the house where she worked, the noble lady marie anne adelaide de vatteville was thus usually left alone and unattended, to eat the scanty fare prescribed by the extreme narrowness of her resources; so that she now felt quite cheered by the novel comfort, not merely of the better-spread table, but of the company of her faithful servant; and it was in an almost mirthful tone she said, when the repast was ended; "margaret, i have a secret to confide to you. i will not--i ought not to keep it any longer to myself." "a secret, my dear mistress! a secret from me!" exclaimed the faithful creature in a slightly reproachful tone. "yes, dear margaret, a secret from you; but to be so no longer. no more henceforth of the toils you have undergone for me; they must be given up: i can not do without you. at my age, to be left alone is intolerable. when you are not near me, i get so lonely, and sometimes feel quite afraid, i can not tell of what, but i suppose it is natural to the old to fear; and often--will you believe it?--i catch myself weeping like a very child. ah! when age comes on us, we lose all strength, all fortitude. but you will not leave me any more? promise me, dear margaret." "but in that case what is to become of us?" said margaret. "this is the very thing i have to tell. and now listen to me. take this key, and in the right-hand drawer of the press you will find the green casket, where, among my letters and family papers, you will see a small case, which bring to me." margaret, not a little surprised, did as she was desired. the abbess gazed on the case for some moments in silence, and margaret thought she saw a tear glisten in her eye as she pressed the box to her lips, and kissed it tenderly and reverentially. "i have sworn," said she, "never to part with it; yet what can i do? it must be so: it is the will of god." and with a trembling hand, as if about to commit sacrilege, she opened the case, and drew from it a ruby of great brilliancy and beauty. "you see this jewel?" she said. "margaret, it is the glory of my ancient house; it is the last gem in my coronet, and more precious in my eyes than any thing in the world. my grand-uncle, the noblest of men, the archbishop of besançon, brought it from the east; and when, in guerdon for some family service, louis xiv. founded the abbey of vatteville, and made my grand-aunt the first abbess of the order, he himself adorned her cross with it. you now know the value of the jewel to me; and though i can not tell its marketable value, still, notwithstanding the pressure of the times, i can not but think it must bring sufficient to secure us, for some time at least, from want. were i to consider myself alone, i would starve sooner than touch the sacred deposit; but to allow you, margaret, to suffer, and to suffer for me--to take advantage any longer of your disinterested affection and devoted fidelity--would be base selfishness. god has at last taught me that i was but sacrificing you to my pride, and i must hasten to make atonement. i will endeavor to raise money on this jewel. you know old m. simon? notwithstanding his mean appearance and humble mode of living, i am persuaded he is a rich man; and though parsimonious in the extreme, he is good-natured and obliging whenever he can be so without any risk of loss to himself." the next day, in pursuance of her project, the abbess, accompanied by margaret, repaired to the house of m. simon. "i know, sir," she said, "from your kindness to some friends of mine, that you feel an interest in the class to which i belong, and that you are incapable of betraying a confidence reposed in you. i am the abbess of vatteville. driven forth from the plundered and ruined abbey, i am living in the town under an assumed name. i have been stripped of every thing; and but for the self-sacrificing attachment of a faithful servant, i must have died of want. however, i have still one resource, and only one. i know not if i am right in availing myself of it, but at my age the power to struggle fails. besides, i do not suffer alone; and this consideration decides me. will you, then, have the goodness to give me a loan on this jewel?" "i believe, madam, you have mistaken me for a pawnbroker. i am not in the habit of advancing money in this way. i am myself very poor, and money is now every where scarce. i should be very glad to be able to oblige you, but just at present it is quite out of the question." for a moment the poor abbess felt all hope extinct; but with a last effort to move his compassion, she said: "oh, sir, remember that secrecy is of such importance to me, i dare not apply to any one else. the privacy, the obscurity in which i live, alone has prevented me from paying with my blood the penalty attached to a noble name and lineage." "but how am i to ascertain the value of the jewel? i am no jeweler; and i fear, in my ignorance, to wrong either you or myself." "i implore you, sir, not to refuse me. i have no alternative but to starve; for i am too old to work, and beg i can not. keep the jewel as a pledge, and give me some relief." old simon, though covetous, was not devoid of feeling. he was touched by the tears of the venerable lady; and besides, the more he looked at the jewel, the more persuaded he became of its being really valuable. after a few moments' consideration, he said: "all the money i am worth at this moment is francs; and though i have my suspicions that i am making a foolish bargain, i had rather run any risk than leave you in such distress. the next time i have business in paris, i can ascertain the value of the jewel, and if i have given you too little, i will make it up to you." and with a glad and grateful heart the abbess took home the francs, thankful at having obtained the means of subsistence for at least a year. some months later, old simon went up to paris, and hastening to one of the principal jewelers, showed the ruby, and begged to know its value. the jeweler took the stone carelessly; but after a few moments' examination of it, he cast a rapid glance at the thread-bare coat and mean appearance of the possessor, and then abruptly exclaimed: "this jewel does not belong to you, and you must not leave the house till you account for its being in your possession. close the doors," he said to his foreman, "and send for the police." in vain did simon protest his innocence; in vain did he offer every proof of it. the lapidary would listen to nothing; but at every look he gave the gem, he darted at him a fresh glance of angry contempt. "you must be a fool as well as a knave," he said. "do you know, scoundrel, that this is the vatteville--the prince of rubies?--the most splendid, the rarest of gems? it might be deemed a mere creation of imagination, were it not enrolled and accurately described in the archives of our art. see here, in the _guide des lapidaires_, a print of it. mark its antique fashioning, and that dark spot!--yes, it is indeed the precious ruby so long thought lost. rest assured, fellow, you shall not quit the house until you satisfy me how you have contrived to get possession of it." "i should at once have told you, but from unwillingness to endanger the life of a poor woman who has confided in me. i got the jewel from the abbess de vatteville herself, and it is her last and only resource." and now m. simon proved, by unquestionable documents, that notwithstanding his more than humble appearance, he was a man of wealth and respectability, and received the apologies which were tendered, together with assurances that madame vatteville's secret was safe with one who, he begged to say, "knew how to respect misfortune, whenever and however presented to his notice." "but what is the jewel worth?" asked m. simon. "millions, sir! and neither i nor any one else in the trade here could purchase it, unless as a joint concern, and in case of a coronation or a marriage in one of the royal houses of europe, for such an occasion alone could make it not a risk to buy it. but, meanwhile, i will, if you wish, mention it to some of the trade." "i am in no hurry," said simon, almost bewildered by the possession of such a treasure. "i may as well wait for some such occasion, and, in the mean time, can make any necessary advances to the abbess. perhaps i may call on you again." the first day of the year had just dawned, and there was a thick and chilling fog. the abbess and her faithful servant felt this day more than usually depressed, for fifteen months had now elapsed since the francs had been received for the ruby, and there now remained provision only for a few days longer. "i have got no answer from m. simon," said the abbess; and in giving utterance to her own thought, she was replying to what was at that moment passing through margaret's mind. "i fear he has not been able to get more for the ruby than he thinks fair interest for the money he advanced to me." "it is most likely," said margaret; and both relapsed into their former desponding silence. "what a dreary new-year's day!" resumed madame de vatteville, in a melancholy tone. "oh, why can i not help you, dear mistress?" exclaimed margaret, suddenly starting from her reverie. "cheerfully would i lay down my life for you!" "and why can i not return in any way your devoted attachment, my poor margaret?" at this instant, two loud and hurried knocks at the door startled them both from their seats: and it was with a trembling hand margaret opened it to admit the old porter, and a servant with a letter in his hand. "thank you, thank you, m. thiebaut: this letter is for my mistress." but the inquisitive old man either did not or would not understand margaret's hint to him to retire, and madame de vatteville was obliged to tell him to leave the room. "not a penny to bless herself with, though she has come to a better apartment!" muttered he, enraged at the disappointment to his curiosity--"and yet as proud as an aristocrat!" the abbess approached the casement, broke the seal with trembling hand, and read as follows: "i have at length been able to treat with a merchant for the article in question, and have, after much difficulty, obtained a sum of , francs--far beyond any thing i could have hoped. but the sum is to be paid in installments, at long intervals. it may therefore be more convenient for you, under your peculiar circumstances, to accept the offer i now make of a pension of francs, to revert after your decease to the servant whom you mentioned as so devotedly attached to you. if you are willing to accept this offer, the bearer will hand you the necessary documents, by which you are to make over to me all further claim upon the property placed in my hands; and on your affixing your signature, he will pay you the first year in advance. simon." "what a worthy, excellent man!" joyfully exclaimed the abbess; for, in the noble integrity of her heart, she had no suspicion that he could take advantage of her circumstances. however simon settled the matter with his conscience, the abbess, trained in the school of adversity to be content with being preserved from absolute want, passed the remainder of her life quietly and happily with her good margaret, both every day invoking blessings on the head of him whom they regarded as a generous benefactor. madame de vatteville lived to the age of one hundred, and her faithful margaret survived only a few months the mistress to whom she had given such affecting proofs of attachment. but simon's detestable fraud proved of no use to him. after keeping his treasure for several years, he thought the emperor's coronation presented a favorable opportunity of disposing of it. unfortunately for him, his grasping avarice one morning suggested a thought which his ignorance prevented his rejecting: "since this ruby--old-fashioned and stained as it is--can be worth so much, what would be its value if freed from all defect, and in modern setting?" and he soon found a lapidary, who, for a sum of francs, modernized it, and effaced the spot, and with it the impress, the stamp of its antiquity--all that gave it value, beauty, worth! this wanting, no jeweler could recognize it: it was no longer worth a thousand crowns. it was thus that the most splendid ruby in europe lost its value and its fame; and its name is now only to be found in _the lapidaries' guide_, as that which had once been the most costly of gems. it seemed as if it could not survive the last of the illustrious house to which it owed its introduction into europe, and its name. impressions of england in . from the letters and memoranda of fredrika bremer. the cholera in london. it is two years since i first found myself in england. when i was in england in the autumn of , the cholera was there. a dense, oppressive atmosphere rested over its cities, as of a cloud pregnant with lightning. hearses rolled through the streets. the towns were empty of people; for all who had the means of doing so had fled into the country; they who had not were compelled to remain. i saw shadowy figures, clad in black, stealing along the streets, more like ghosts than creatures of flesh and blood. never before had i seen human wretchedness in such a form as i beheld it in hull and in london. wretchedness enough may be found, god knows, even in stockholm, and it shows itself openly enough there in street and market. but it is there most frequently an undisguised, an unabashed wretchedness. it is not ashamed to beg, to show its rags or its drunken countenance. it is a child of crime; and that is perhaps the most extreme wretchedness. but it is less painful to behold, because it seems to be suffering only its own deserts. one is more easily satisfied to turn one's head aside, and pass on. one thinks, "i can not help that!" in england, however, misery had another appearance; it was not so much that of degradation as of want, pallid want. it was meagre and retiring; it ventured not to look up, or it looked up with a glance of hopeless beseeching--so spirit-broken! it tried to look respectable. those men with coats and hats brushed till the nap was gone; those pale women in scanty, washed-out, but yet decent clothes--it was a sight which one could hardly bear. in a solitary walk of ten minutes in the streets of hull, i saw ten times more want than i had seen in a ten months' residence in denmark. the sun shone joyously as i traveled through the manufacturing districts; saw their groups of towns and suburbs; saw their smoking pillars and pyramids towering up every where in the wide landscape--saw glowing gorges of fire open themselves in the earth, as if it were burning--a splendid and wonderfully picturesque spectacle, reminding one of fire-worshipers, of ancient and modern times, and of their altars. but i heard the mournful cry of the children from the factories; the cry which the public voice has made audible to the world; the cry of the children, of the little ones who had been compelled, by the lust of gain of their parents and the manufacturers, to sacrifice life, and joy, and health in the workshops of machinery; the children who lie down in those beds which never are cold, the children who are driven and beaten till they sink insensibly into death or fatuity--that living death; i heard the wailing cry of the children, which elizabeth barrett interpreted in her affecting poem; and the wealthy manufacturing districts, with their towns, their fire-columns, their pyramids, seemed to me like an enormous temple of moloch, in which the mammon-worshipers of england offered up even children to the burning arms of their god--children, the hope of the earth, and its most delicious and most beautiful joy! i arrived in london. they told me there was nobody in london. it was not the season in which the higher classes were in london. besides which, the cholera was there; and all well-to-do people, who were able, had fled from the infected city. and that, indeed, might be the reason why there seemed to me to be so many out of health--why that pale countenance of want was so visible. certain it is, that it became to me as a medusa's head, which stood between me and every thing beautiful and great in that great capital, the rich life and physiognomy of which would otherwise have enchanted me. but as it was, the palaces, and the statues, and the noble parks, hampstead and piccadilly, and belgravia and westminster, and the tower, and even the thames itself, with all its everchanging life, were no more than the decorations of a great tragedy. and when, in st. paul's, i heard the great roar of the voice of london--that roar which, as it is said, never is silent, but merely slumbers for an hour between three and four o'clock in the morning--when i heard that voice in that empty church, where there was no divine worship, and looked up into its beautiful cupola, which was filled by no song of praise, but only by that resounding, roaring voice, a dark chaotic roar, then seemed i to perceive the sound of the rivers of fate rolling onward through time over falling kingdoms and people, and bearing them onward down into an immeasurable grave!--it was but for a moment, but it was a horrible dream! one sight i beheld in london which made me look up with rejoicing, which made me think "that old ygdrasil is still budding." this was the so-called metropolitan buildings; a structure of many homes in one great mass of building, erected by a society of enlightened men for the use of the poorer working class, to provide respectable families of that class with excellent dwellings at a reasonable rate, where they might possess that which is of the most indispensable importance to the rich, as well as to the poor, if they are to enjoy health both of body and soul--light, air, and water, pure as god created them for the use of mankind. the sight of these homes, and of the families that inhabited them, as well as of the newly-erected extensive public baths and wash-houses for the same class, together with the assurance that these institutions already, in the second year of their establishment, returned more than full interest to their projectors, produced the happiest impression which i at this time received of england. these were to me as the seed of the future, which gave the promise of verdant shoots in the old tree. nevertheless, when i left the shores of england, and saw thick autumnal fog enveloping them, it was with a sorrowful feeling for the old world; and with an inquiring glance of longing and hope, i turned myself to the new. two years passed on--a sun-bright, glowing dream, full of the vigor of life!--it was again autumn, and i was again in england. autumn met me there with cold, and rain, and tempest, with the most horrible weather that can be imagined, and such as i had never seen on the other side of the globe. but in social life, every where throughout the mental atmosphere, a different spirit prevailed. there, i perceived with astonishment and joy, there it was that of spring. free-trade had borne fruit, and under its banners manufacture and trade had shot forth into new life; the price of all kinds of grain had fallen, bread had become cheap. this tree of liberty, planted by cobden and peel, had, with a strong and vigorous vitality, penetrated, as it were, the life of the english people, and i heard on every hand the soughing of its leaves in the free wind. the crystal palace was its full-blown, magnificent blossom--and like swarms of rejoicing bees flew the human throng upon the wings of steam, backward and forward, to the great world's blossom; there all the nations met together, there all manufactures, there all industry, and every kind of product unfolded their flowers for the observation and the joy of all ... a cactus grandiflora, such as the world had never till then seen. i perceived more clearly every day of my stay in england, that this period is one of a general awakening to a new, fresh life. in the manufacturing districts, in liverpool, manchester, birmingham, every where i heard the same conversation among all classes; prosperity was universal and still advancing. that pale countenance of want, which had on my first visit appeared to me so appalling, i now no longer saw as formerly; and even where it was seen stealing along, like a gloomy shadow near to the tables of abundance, it appeared to me no longer as a cloud filled with the breath of cholera, darkening the face of heaven, but rather as one of those clouds over which the wind and sun have power, and which are swallowed up, which vanish in space, in the bright ether.... the ragged schools. in liverpool i visited the so-called ragged schools--the schools where are collected from the streets vagabond, neglected, and begging children, who are here taught to read and so on--who here receive the first rudiments of instruction, even in singing. these schools are, some of them evening, others day schools, and in some of them, "the industrial ragged schools," children are kept there altogether; receive food and clothing, and are taught trades. when the schools of this class were first established in liverpool, the number of children who otherwise had no chance of receiving instruction, amounted to about twenty thousand. right-minded, thinking men saw that in these children were growing up in the streets, those "dangerous classes," of which so much has been said of late times; these men met together, obtained means to cover the most necessary outlay of expense, and then, according to the eloquent words of lord ashley, that "it is in childhood that evil habits are formed and take root; it is childhood which must be guarded from temptation to crime;" they opened these ragged schools with the design of receiving the most friendless, the most wretched of society's young generation--properly, "the children of rags, born in beggary, and for beggary." i visited the industrial ragged school for boys, intended for the lowest grade of these little children, without parents, or abandoned by them to the influences of crime. there i saw the first class sitting in their rags, upon benches in a cold room, arranging, with their little frost-bitten fingers, bristles for the brush-maker. the faces of the boys were clean; many of them i remarked were handsome, and almost universally they had beautiful and bright eyes. those little fingers moved with extraordinary rapidity; the boys were evidently wishful to do their best; they knew that they by that means should obtain better clothing, and would be removed to the upper room, and more amusing employment. i observed these "dangerous classes"--just gathered up from the lanes, and the kennels, on their way to destruction; and was astonished when i thought that their countenances might have borne the stamp of crime. bright glances of childhood, for that were you never designed by the creator! "suffer little children to come unto me." these words, from the lips of heaven, are forever sounding to earth. in the upper room a great number of boys were busy pasting paper-bags for various trades, confectioners, etc., who make use of such in the rapid sale of their wares; here, also, other boys were employed in printing upon the bags the names and residences of the various tradesmen who had ordered them. the work progressed rapidly, and seemed very amusing to the children. the establishment for their residence, and their beds, were poor; but all was neat and clean, the air was fresh, and the children were cheerful. the institution was, however, but yet in its infancy, and its means were small. half-a-dozen women, in wretched clothes, sate in the entrance-room with their boys, for whom they hoped to gain admittance into the school, and were now, therefore, waiting till the directors of the establishment made their appearance. the poorer classes. a few days later i visited some different classes of poor people--namely, the wicked and the idle; they who had fallen into want through their own improvidence, but who had now raised themselves again; and the estimable, who had honorably combated with unavoidable poverty. in one certain quarter of liverpool it is that the first class is especially met with. of this class of poor, in their wretched rooms, with their low, brutalized expression, i will not speak; companion-pieces to this misery may be met with every where. most of those whom i saw were irish. it was a sunday noon, after divine service. the ale-houses were already open in this part of the town, and young girls and men might be seen talking together before them, or sitting upon the steps. of the second class i call to mind, with especial pleasure, one little household. it was a mother and her son. her means of support, a mangle, stood in the little room in which she had lived since she had raised herself up again. it was dinner-time. a table, neatly covered for two persons, stood in the room, and upon the iron stand before the fire was placed a dish of mashed potatoes, nicely browned, ready to be set on the table. the mother was waiting for her son, and the dinner was waiting for him. he was the organ-blower in the church during divine service, and he returned while i was still there. he was well dressed, but was a little, weakly man, and squinted; the mother's eyes, however, regarded him with love. this son was her only one, and her all. and he, to whom mother nature had acted as a step-mother, had a noble mother's heart to warm himself with, which prepared for him an excellent home, a well-covered table, and a comfortable bed. that poor little home was not without its wealth. as belonging to the third and highest class, i must mention two families, both of them shoe-makers, and both of them inhabiting cellars. the one family consisted of old, the other of young people. the old shoemaker had to maintain his wife, who was lame and sick, from a fall in the street, and a daughter. the young one had a young wife, and five little children to provide for; but work was scanty and the mouths many. at this house, also, it was dinner-time, and i saw upon the table nothing but potatoes. the children were clean, and had remarkably agreeable faces; but--they were pale; so was also the father of the family. the young and pretty, but very pale mother said, "since i have come into this room i have never been well, and this i know--i shall not live long?" her eyes filled with tears; and it was plain enough to see that this really delicate constitution could not long sustain the effects of the cold damp room, into which no sunbeam entered. these two families, of the same trade, and alike poor, had become friends in need. when one of the fathers of the family wanted work, and was informed by the home-missionary who visited them that the other had it, the intelligence seemed a consolation to him. gladdening sight of human sympathy, which keeps the head erect and the heart sound under the depressing struggle against competition! but little gladdening to me would have been the sight of these families in their cellar-homes, had i not at the same time been aware of the increase of those "model lodging-houses," which may be met with in many parts of england, and which will remove these inhabitants of cellars, they who sit in darkness, into the blessing of the light of life--which will provide worthy dwellings for worthy people. bee-hives. in my imagination manchester was like a colossal woman sitting at her spinning-wheel, with her enormous manufactories; her subject towns, suburbs, villages, factories, lying for many miles round, spinning, spinning, spinning clothes for all the people on the face of the earth. and there, as she sate, the queen of the spindle, with her masses of ugly houses and factories, enveloped in dense rain-clouds, as if in cobwebs, the effect she made upon me was gloomy and depressing. yet even here, also, i was to breathe a more refreshing atmosphere of life; even here was i also to see light. free trade had brought hither her emancipating spirit. it was a time of remarkable activity and prosperity. the workpeople were fully employed; wages were good, and food was cheap. even here also had ragged-schools been established, together with many institutions for improving the condition of the poor working-classes. in one of these ragged-schools the boys had a perfectly organized band of music, in which they played and blew, so that it was a pleasure--and sometimes a disadvantage to hear them. the lamenting "cry of the children" was no longer heard from the factories. government had put an end to the cruelties and oppressions formerly practiced on these little ones by the unscrupulous lust of gain. no child under ten years old can now be employed in the factories, and even such, when employed, must of necessity be allowed part of the day for school. every large factory has now generally its own school, with a paid master for the children. the boys whom i saw in the great rooms of the factories, and with whom i conversed, looked both healthy and cheerful. two ideas were impressed upon my mind at this place: how dangerous it is, even amid a high degree of social culture, to give one class of men unrestrained power over another; and how easily a free people, with a powerful public spirit and accustomed to self-government, can raise themselves out of humiliating circumstances. this spirit has done much already in england, but it has yet more to do. upon one of those large gloomy factories in manchester, i read, inscribed in iron letters, "the great beehive;" and in truth a good name for these enormous hives of human industrial toil, in which people have sometimes forgotten, and still forget, that man is any thing more than a working bee, which lives to fill its cell in the hive and die. i visited several of these huge beehives. in one of them which employed twelve hundred work-people, i saw, in a large room, above three hundred women sitting in rows winding cotton on reels. the room was clean, and so also were all the women. it did not appear to be hard work; but the steadfastly-fixed attention with which these women pursued their labor seemed to me distressingly wearisome. they did not allow themselves to look up, still less to turn their heads or to talk. their life seemed to depend upon the cotton thread. in another of these great beehives, a long low room, in which were six hundred power-looms, represented an extraordinary appearance. what a snatching to and fro, what a jingling, what an incessant stir, and what a moist atmosphere there was between floor and ceiling, as if the limbs of some absurd, unheard-of beast, with a thousand arms, had been galvanized! around us, from three to four hundred operatives, women and men, stood among the rapid machinery, watching and tending. the twelve o'clock bell rung, and now the whole throng of work-people would go forth to their various mid-day quarters; the greatest number to their respective dwellings in the neighborhood of the factory. i placed myself, together with my conductor, in the court outside the door of the room, which was on lower ground, in order that i might have a better view of the work-people as they came out. just as one sees bees coming out of a hive into the air, two, three, or four at a time--pause, as it were, a moment from the effects of open air and light, and then with a low hum, dart forth into space, each one his own way; so was it in this case. thus came they forth, men and women, youths and girls. the greater number were well dressed, looked healthy, and full of spirit. in many, however, might be seen the expression of a rude life; they bore the traces of depravity about them. the royal family. the queen and her husband stand before the people as the personation of every domestic and public virtue! the queen is an excellent wife and mother; she attends to the education of her children, and fulfills her duties as sovereign, alike conscientiously. she is an early riser; is punctual and regular in great as well as in small things. she pays ready money for all that she purchases, and never is in debt to any one. her court is remarkable for its good and beautiful morals. on their estate, she and prince albert carry every thing out in the best manner, establish schools and institutions for the good of the poor; these institutions and arrangements of theirs serve as examples to every one. their uprightness, kindness, generosity, and the tact which they under all circumstances display, win the heart of the nation. they show a warm sympathy for the great interests of the people, and by this very sympathy are they promoted. of this, the successful carrying out of free trade, and the exhibition in the crystal palace, projected in the first instance by prince albert, and powerfully seconded by the queen, furnish brilliant examples. the sympathies of the queen are those of the heart as well as of the head. when that noble statesman, the great promoter of free-trade, sir robert peel, died, the queen shut herself in for several days, and wept for him as if she had lost a father. and whenever a warm sympathy is called forth, either in public or in private affairs it is warmly and fully participated by queen victoria and prince albert. that which the english people require from their rulers, is not merely formal government, but a living interest in their affairs. birmingham and the chartists. from manchester i traveled to birmingham. i saw again the land of the fire-worshipers, their smoking altars, in tall columns and pyramids, towering above the green fields; saw again the burning gulfs yawning in the earth, and--saw them now with unmixed pleasure. i heard no longer, amid their boiling roar, the lamenting cry of the children; i heard and saw them now only as the organs of the public prosperity, and rejoiced over them as proofs of man's power over fire and water, over all the powers of nature; the victory of the gods over the giants! the sun burst forth from between rain-clouds as i arrived in birmingham, england's--nay, the world's--workshop of steel-pens, nails, steel, tin, and brass wares of all kinds. if manchester is a colossal woman at her spinning-wheel, then is birmingham a colossal smith. in birmingham i visited a steel-pen manufactory, and followed from room to room the whole process of those small metal tongues which go abroad over all the world and do so much--evil, and so much good; so much that is great, so much that is small; so much that is important, so much that is trivial. i saw four hundred young girls sitting in large, light rooms, each with her little pen-stamp, employed in a dexterous and easy work, especially fitted for women. all were well dressed, seemed healthy and cheerful, many were pretty; upon the whole, it was a spectacle of prosperity which surpassed even that of the mill-girls in the celebrated factories of lowell in north america. birmingham was at this time in a most flourishing condition, and had more orders for goods than it could supply, nor were there any male paupers to be found in the town; there was full employment for all. in birmingham i saw a large school of design. not less than two hundred young female artists studied here in a magnificent hall or rotunda, abundantly supplied with models of all kinds, and during certain hours in the week exclusively opened to these female votaries of art. a clever, respectable old woman, the porter of the school-house, spoke of many of these with especial pleasure, as if she prided herself on them in some degree. i saw in birmingham a beautiful park, with hot-houses, in which were tropical plants, open to the public; saw also a large concert-room, where twice in the week "glees" were sung, and to which the public were admitted at a low price: all republican institutions, and which seem to prosper more in a monarchical realm than in republics themselves. from birmingham i had determined to go for a few days to stratford-on-avon, before i went to london in order to secure a view of the great exhibition, the last week of which was at hand. i was, therefore, obliged to leave the manufacturing districts earlier than i wished; but before quitting them on paper, i must say a few words on their population, on their artisans, etc. these belong almost entirely to the class of what are called chartists; that is, advocates of universal suffrage. they are this, through good and through evil; and the resistance which their just desire to be more fully represented in the legislative body, has met with from that body, has brought them more and more into collision with the power of the state, more and more to base their demands in opposition, even to the higher principles of justice: for they overlook the duty of rendering themselves worthy of the franchise by sound education. but the fault here, in the first place, was not theirs. growing up amid machinery and the hum of labor, without schools, without religious or moral worth; hardened by hard labor, in continual fight with the difficulties of life, they have moulded themselves into a spirit little in harmony with life's higher educational influences, the blessings of which they had never experienced. atheism, radicalism, republicanism, socialism of all kinds will and must nourish here in concealment among the strong and daily augmenting masses of a population, restrained only by the fear of the still more mighty powers which may be turned against them, and by labor for their daily needs, so long as those powers are sufficing. and perhaps the american slave-states are right when they say, in reference to this condition of things, "england lies at our feet--england can not do without our cotton. if the manufacturers of england must come to a stand, then has she a popular convulsion at her door." perhaps it may be so; for these hosts of manufacturing workmen, neglected in the beginning by society, neglected by church and state, look upon them merely as exacting and despotic powers; and in strict opposition to them, they have banded together, and established schools for their own children, where only the elements of practical science are admitted, and from which religious and moral instruction are strictly excluded. in truth, a volcanic foundation for society, and which now, for some time past, has powerfully arrested the attention of the most thinking men of england. but into the midst of this menacing chaos light has already begun to penetrate with an organizing power; and over the dark profound hovers a spirit which can and will divide the darkness from the light, and prepare a new creation. i sought the manufacturing towns from a sense of duty, and the commands of conscience. i was anxious to see this side of human life. but this done, i thought i might do something for my own pleasure. i was in england chiefly for this purpose. i must follow the impulse of my heart; i must make a pilgrimage to the grave of shakspeare. for the older i have become, the more that i have lived and learned, the more valuable have two good artists become to me--the more have i had to thank--beethoven and shakspeare. from birmingham i traveled, on the morning of the fourth of october, by the railway to leamington, and thence, alone in a little carriage, to stratford-on-avon. true courage.--a tale of tattershall castle. in the summer vacation of -, a party of gay young collegians visited tattershall castle, in lincolnshire. this remarkably noble ruin consists of a single lofty keep, rising to the height of two hundred feet, the interior being open from summit to basement. mighty oaken beams once, however, spanned the massive walls, supporting floors which formed stories of varying height. many of these beams have fallen to the basement, completely rotten, through shameful exposure to the weather ever since the roof crumbled away; others still pertinaciously hang, more or less broken and decayed, but, in a majority of instances, seem as if a strong gust of eddying wind would send them down crashing, to mingle their fragments with those already mouldering below. the party were in high spirits. they had drunk old wines, and their young blood flowed hotly in their veins; they had laughed, joked, and talked themselves into wild excitement. about half way up to the castle turrets there is a sort of open landing, which goes along one wall of the structure; and on to this landing the party stepped from the grand spiral staircase they had hitherto been ascending, and there paused a moment to look about them. the scene was striking. a few beams sprung across just below their feet; a few thick-moted rays of sun pierced through the adjoining loop-holes; a few fleecy cloudlets flitted athwart the blue ether high overhead. startled by the noisy visitors, a number of dusky jackdaws flew out of their holes up and down the walls, and, after chattering their decided disapprobation of being disturbed, made half-a-dozen whirling circuits of the interior, rising rapidly upward, until they disappeared. immediately afterward, a great white owl projected its visage from a hole close above where one of the beams joined the opposite wall, and, frightedly peering with its great dazzled eyes, the harmless creature bewilderedly popped from its hole on to the beam, and having made a few feeble flutterings with its wings, remained quite stationary, crouched in a ball-like figure, close to the wall. "oh, deschamp," exclaimed one of the party to a friend at his side, who was plucking the long gray moss of a peculiar species, which literally clothes the castle walls inside and out, "look yonder at minerva's bird." "ha! ha!" chorused the company--"a veritable owl!" thereupon one and all began picking up bits of brick and mortar from where they stood, and threw them at the bird with various degrees of skill. one or two bits even struck it, but so far from being roused thereby, the owl merely gave one boding, long-drawn, sepulchral screech, and, contracting its ghastly outline into still smaller compass, fairly buried its broad visage between the meeting bony tips of its wings. "what a stupid creature! hoo! horoo!" shouted they, thinking by that means to induce it to fly. but the outcry only terrified the bird to such a degree, that it stuck its claws convulsively into the decayed timber, and stirred not at all. "it's the way o' them creeturs," here said the guide, who was showing the party over the castle; "they're about the stupidest things in creation, i'm a thinking!" "humph!" muttered lord swindon, a handsome, athletic young man of twenty, "with such an example before our eyes, we can not but admit your opinion to be highly philosophic and indisputable. but i say, old fellow," added he, tapping the guide familiarly on the shoulder with the light riding switch he carried in his hand, "is _that_ beam a rotten one?" "_i_ shouldn't be over-for'ard to trust myself on it, sir," replied the man--a fat dumpy personage. "_you_ wouldn't! no. i should rather think not," responded lord swindon, a smile of supreme disdain sweeping across his features, as he surveyed the "old fellow" from head to foot. "but, tell me, did you ever know _any body_ walk upon it, eh?" "oh, dear, yes. only last summer, a young oxonian ran from end to end of it, as i seed with my own eyes." "did he?" "true," put in deschamp. "i remember now, it was young manners of brazennose; and didn't he brag about it!" "him!" exclaimed lord swindon, with a toss of the head; "that fellow, poor milksop? not," continued he, hastily, "that it is any thing of a feat. pooh!" "not a feat!" murmured his companions; and, with one accord, they stretched forth their necks, and, gazing down the dim abyss, shuddered at what they beheld. well they might. the beam in question rose at a height of about one hundred feet, and naught beneath it was there but a gloomy chasm, only broken in one or two places by crumbling beams, and not one even of these was by many feet near it. "oh, swindon, how can you say so?" "i can say it, and i do," snappishly replied the fiery young man, his brain heated with wine; "and, at any rate, what that fellow manners has done, i can do. so look out!" thus speaking, he recklessly stepped on the beam, and, despite the remonstrances of his companions, was in the act of proceeding along it, when his arm was firmly grasped, and a low, deep-toned voice exclaimed, "my lord, do you court a horrible death? do not thus risk your life for naught." the individual who thus unhesitatingly interfered was evidently unknown to all present, being a casual visitor to the castle, who had just joined the group. with an imprecation, the madcap youngster jerked his arm away, and sprang forward along the beam. its surface was rough, rounded, and uneven; and as he ran along, swerving from side to side, every instant in danger of being precipitated downward, with the awful certainty of being dashed to pieces, his friends could hardly restrain themselves from shrieking with terror, though such a course would probably have had the immediate effect of discomposing the equilibrium of their rash companion, and so inducing the catastrophe they fully anticipated, without the power of prevention. had the adventurer's presence of mind one moment failed--had his self-possession and confidence wavered or forsaken him--had his brain sickened, or his eyes turned dim for a single second--had he made the least false step--had his footing slipped on the slimy surface of the beam--had he tripped against any of the knots projecting from the rotten wood which had mouldered away around them--at once would he have been hurled into dread eternity. but an unseen hand sustained him, and safely he reached the extremity of the beam, ruthlessly wrenched the trembling owl from its perch, waved it aloft in triumph, and then, with a proud ejaculation, began to retrace his steps, with it shrieking and fluttering in his hands. when he reached the centre of the frail beam, which creaked and bent terribly with his comparatively small weight, he paused, drew himself up to his full height--air above, air beneath, air all around, naught but air--and deliberately tore the head of the owl by main force from its body. having perpetrated this cruel deed, he tossed the bloody head among the breathless spectators, and sharply dashed the writhing body into the void beneath his feet. he coolly watched its descent, until it lay a shapeless mass on the stones below; then, with slow, bravadoing mien, he walked back to his terrified party, and boastingly demanded of them whether they thought "manners could beat that?" "my lord," solemnly said the stranger, "you have not performed the act either of a brave or a sane man, and you have committed a despicable deed on one of god's helpless creatures. you ought to thank him, my lord, from the depth of your soul, that he saved you from the penalty you incurred." "what do you say?" fiercely demanded lord swindon. "do you dare to insinuate cowardice against me?" and with flashing brow, he assumed a threatening attitude. "i know not, my lord, whether you are brave or not, but what i have witnessed was certainly not an exercise of true courage," was the passionless reply. "and yet i'll wager a cool thousand that you daren't do it." "true, i dare not: for i am incapable of offering a deadly insult to my maker." "fine words!" then, carried away by the excitement of the moment, he added, with an insolent look and gesture, "you are a lying coward." "listen, my lord," answered the person thus addressed, and this time his tone was even calmer than before. "one year ago, you were walking at the midnight hour on the pier at the sea-port of hull, and but one other person was upon it, and he was a stranger to you. you trod too near the edge of the pier, and fell into the sea. the tempest was howling, and the tide was high and running strongly; and, ere you could utter more than one smothered cry, it had swept you many yards away, and you were sinking rapidly. except god, none but that stranger heard your cry of agony; and, soon as it reached his ear, he looked forth upon the waters, and, catching a glimpse of your struggling form, he instantly plunged in, and, after much diving, eventually grasped you at a great depth. long did he support your helpless body, and stoutly did he buffet the stifling waves, and loudly did he call for aid. at length help came; and at the last moment, he and you were saved just in time for life to be preserved in both. is not this true, my lord?" "it is," emphatically responded the young nobleman; "but what have you to do with it? i don't know you--though it is not at all wonderful," added he, with a sneer, "that you should happen to know about the matter, for the newspapers blazoned it quite sufficiently." "my lord, one question more. did you ever learn who that stranger was who, under god, saved your life?" "no; when i recovered a little, he left me at the hotel, where he was unknown, and i have never seen him since." "then, my lord," was the startling rejoinder, "look well at me, for i am that stranger." "you?" "yes--i whom you have branded as a liar and a coward. little thought i that the life i saved at the imminent risk of my own would be madly, wickedly jeopardized for no price whatever, as i have seen it this hour. mine, my lord, was true courage; yours was false. henceforth know the difference between them. farewell." so saying, the stranger bowed, and before another word could be uttered, had left the astounded party. introduction of the potato into france. in that rational estimate of true greatness which men are daily becoming more inclined to form, names will yet rank high as those of the benefactors of mankind, which history has too long suffered to give place to those of heroes (so called), who might be better designated as the destroyers of national prosperity, the scourges of their country. among the names of such benefactors, that of antoine-augustin parmentier well deserves to be handed down to the gratitude of posterity. he was born in the little town of montdidier, in , of poor but respectable parents; and, having lost his father before he was three years old, he was brought up altogether by his mother, a woman of considerable intelligence, and in refinement of character far beyond her station; and to her he owed much of that religious feeling and steadiness of principle which stamped such value in after-life upon the ardent disposition and spirit of enterprise which were natural to him. the good curé of the place, who had long known and esteemed his parents, had an opportunity of observing the uncommon intelligence of the boy, and undertook to teach him the rudiments of latin. at sixteen, the young augustin, anxious to be no longer a burden to his mother, placed himself with an apothecary of his native town; but the following year he repaired to paris, invited thither by a relative, to study under him the profession he had chosen. it was not long before prospects of advancement opened to the young medical student. the war of hanover broke out, and, in , parmentier, attached to the medical staff, though in a very subordinate post, joined the army. it was not long before he had opportunity to prove his skill and zealous devotion to his duties. a dreadful epidemic appeared among the french soldiery, and tested to the utmost his unwearied activity and unceasing attention to his duties. his services were acknowledged by his being promoted to the rank of assistant-apothecary. his dauntless exposure of himself on the field of battle caused him to be five times taken prisoner--a misfortune to which he afterward often made mirthful allusion; extolling the dexterity with which the prussian hussars had more than once stripped him, and declaring that they were the best valets de chambre he had ever met. it was while prisoner of war on one of these occasions that parmentier first conceived the idea which was destined to give him a claim upon the gratitude of his country. the prisoners were kept in very close confinement, and fed altogether on potatoes; but parmentier, instead of joining his companions in misfortune in their indignant abuse of a food altogether new to them, was calmly and sensibly engaged in reflecting on the utility of the vegetable, and in inquiring into its nature, and the mode of cultivating it. we shall see how he kept the resolution he then formed of not letting it escape his memory, should he ever be permitted to revisit his native country. peace being declared, he was released, and came back to paris in , where he attended the abbe mollet's course of natural philosophy, the chemical course of the brothers douille, and the botanical lectures of the celebrated bernard de jussieu. at this time, however, his poverty was so great, that he had to endure the severest privations, to enable him to pay the necessary fees, and to purchase such books as he required, without interfering with the pecuniary aid which he felt it alike his duty and his privilege to afford his mother. in , he became a candidate for a situation as medical attendant at the hotel des invalides, and was almost unanimously elected. in this position, he gave the utmost satisfaction; and not only did the skill he displayed obtain for him professional reputation, but his playful, yet never satirical wit, and the charm of his gentle and affectionate disposition, made him a universal favorite. he was the object of respectful attachment to the disabled veterans, and also to the good sisters of charity who attended the hospital. in , he received, as the reward of his labors, the appointment of apothecary-in-chief, which permanently fixed him in the hotel des invalides. with a little more leisure, and comparative freedom from pecuniary care, came back the recollection of his former plans with regard to the potato. this now well-known and almost universally-used tubercle had been introduced into europe from peru early in the sixteenth century, and had at once been cultivated in italy and germany. brought from flanders into france, its culture was promoted in the southern provinces by the encouragement given by the great turgot; but the dogged pertinacity with which ignorance so often resists the introduction of any thing new, had in every other part of the kingdom interfered with its propagation. indeed, the popular prejudice against it was so high as to lead to the belief that it had a baleful effect on any soil in which it was planted, and produced in those who used it as food leprosy and other loathsome diseases. such were the absurd and groundless prejudices which parmentier had to encounter, but he prepared himself to carry on the contest with the boldness and perseverance of one who knew that, however difficult it may be to struggle with old opinions and long-established customs, yet nothing is impossible to the spirit of enterprise, guided by sound judgment, and animated by genuine philanthropy. parmentier was not unmindful that to attain his object he would, in the first instance, need high patronage; and this patronage he sought and found in no less a personage than louis xvi. himself. at his earnest solicitation, the monarch placed at his disposal, as a field for his experiment, fifty acres of the plaine des sablons. for the first time, this sterile soil was tilled by parmentier, and the plant he so ardently desired to naturalize committed to it. in due time the long-wished-for blossoms appeared. almost wondering at his success, parmentier eagerly gathered a bouquet of the flowers, more precious to him than the rarest exotic in the royal gardens, and hastened to versailles, to present them to the king. louis accepted the offering most graciously, and, notwithstanding the satirical smiles of some of his courtiers, wore them in his button-hole. from that hour the triumph of the potato was secured. the nobles and fine ladies, who had hitherto laughed at what they called "the poor man's monomania," now took their tone from the monarch, and flocked round the modest philanthropist with their congratulations. guards placed round the field excited the curiosity of the people; but as this was a precaution rather against the pressure of the crowd than against its cupidity, they were withdrawn at night, and soon it was announced to parmentier that his potatoes had been stolen. his delight at this intelligence was extreme, and he bountifully rewarded the bearer of the news; for he saw in this theft a proof of his complete success. "there can scarcely be any remaining prejudice against my poor potatoes," he said, "else they would not be stolen." a short time after he gave a dinner, every dish of which consisted of the potato disguised in some variety of form, and even the liquids used at table were extracted from it. among other celebrated persons, franklin and lavoisier were present. and thus, to the persevering efforts of one individual was france indebted for a vegetable which soon took its place in the first rank of its agricultural treasures. by naturalizing the potato in that country, parmentier diffused plenty among thousands, once the hapless victims of privation and misery during the seasons of scarcity hitherto frequently recurring to desolate its provinces. from to , parmentier occupied himself in the publication of several works of great merit upon domestic economy and agriculture. but now came on the evil days of the revolution. from prudence, natural inclination, and engrossment in other pursuits, parmentier took no part in the political storm then raging. his moderation was regarded as a protest against the principles then in the ascendant. the man who had just rendered the most signal service to the people became an object of persecution to those calling themselves the friends of the people. "talk not to me of this parmentier," said an infuriate club orator; "he would give us nothing to eat but potatoes. i ask you, was it not he that invented them?" his name was put into the list of the suspected, and he was deprived not only of the small pension allowed him by louis xvi., but also of his situation at the hotel des invalides. however, when the coalition of all europe forced france to avail herself to the utmost of her every resource, it was found expedient to reorganize the medical department of the military hospitals, and to improve the diet of the soldiery; and parmentier being fixed on for this difficult task, his success amply justified the choice. his reputation for skill and talent increasing with every test to which he was put, he was successively placed on the sanitary commission for the department of the seine, and on the general committee of civil hospitals. diplomas were sent to him by all the learned societies, and he was enrolled a member of the national institute. parmentier lived throughout the period of the empire, honored and esteemed by all classes; but, in , grief for the loss of a beloved sister added to his deep dejection at the reverses of the french arms, seriously affected his health. his patriotism could not but deeply feel the evils threatening his country from foreign invasion. he became dangerously ill, and on the th of december the cause of social progress lost by his death one of its most zealous and enlightened promoters. in a discourse pronounced on the occasion before the pharmaceutic association, cadet de gassicour dwelt principally on the two great benefits conferred by parmentier--the use of the potato, and the introduction of the sirop de raisin, thus providing, according to the benevolent boast of the philanthropist himself, "the poor man's bread, and the poor man's sugar." during his lifetime, a proposal had been made by the minister françois de neufchateau that the potato should be called _parmentière_. it is to be regretted that a proposal which would have secured a memorial as inexpensive as it was appropriate, was rejected; one which would have indissolubly linked in the minds of every frenchman the name of the benefactor with the benefit. the artist's sacrifice. on a cold evening in january--one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness--there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and two pretty children--a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. the exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness: every thing announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. a painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room. and yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature. his historical works had won for him a european celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labor. an unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, showed that his wife and daughter--this gentle child, whose large dark eyes were so full of sadness--endeavored by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts. the sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as ante-chamber and dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously coloring some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her tearful eyes toward heaven, she seemed to be thanking the almighty, and, in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to him who had blessed her with such children. soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and m. raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid. "just the same, doctor," said madame g----. the young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, while the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate. "is there no hope, doctor?" she asked, in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room. the doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. after a pause, she said: "there is one idea which haunts me continually: i should wish so much to have my husband's likeness. do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor? oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!" "unfortunately, i am not acquainted with a single artist," replied the young doctor. "i must then renounce this desire," said madame g----, sighing. the next morning henry--so the little boy was called--having assisted his mother and his sister marie in their household labors, dressed himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out. "go, my child," said his mother; "go and breathe a little fresh air: your continual work is injurious to you." the boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. when he reached the street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps toward the drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this academy. a servant opened the door, and conducted him into an elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the richest and most distinguished painters of the day. he was breakfasting alone with his wife when henry entered. "there, my dear," he said to her, as he perceived henry; "there is the cleverest pupil in the academy. this little fellow really promises to do me great credit one day. well, my little friend, what do you wish to say to me?" "sir, my father is very ill--the doctor fears that he may die: poor mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. would you, sir, be kind enough to take it? o do not, pray sir, do not refuse me!" said henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist. "impossible, henry--impossible!" replied the painter. "i am paid three thousand francs for every portrait i paint, and i have five or six at present to finish." "but, my dear," interposed his wife, "it seems to me that this portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother, whose husband will so soon be lost to her forever." "it grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my battle-piece, which is destined for versailles, must be sent to the louvre in a fortnight, for i can not miss the exposition this year. but stay, my little friend, i will give you the address of several of my pupils: tell them i sent you, and you will certainly find some one of them who will do what you wish. good-morning, henry!" "good-by, my little friend," added the lady. "i hope you may be successful." the boy took his leave with a bursting heart. henry wandered through the gardens of the luxembourg, debating with himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held in his hand. fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the drawing-school. jules proposed that they should walk together; then observing henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him. "come with me," cried jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. "my sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young. she is so kind and so fond of me, that i am very sure she will not refuse." the two boys traversed the avenue de l'observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other. when they got to the end of the avenue they entered the rue de l'ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth story of which jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor henry with him. he tapped gayly at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through the ante-chamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of emily d'orbe, the sister of jules. she appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability. her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind _à l'antique_: but she wore no ribbon, no ornament--nothing but what was necessary. the furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs, and two arm-chairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the "spasimo di sicilia" and the "three maries," alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing anna boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution. when he entered, little jules went first to embrace his sister; she tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as she returned to her easel: "now, my dear child, let me go on with my painting;" not, however, without addressing a friendly "good-morning" to henry, who, she thought, had come to play with jules. henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request. he dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word "impossible!" and he was going away, when jules took him by the hand and drew him toward emily. "sister," he said, "i have brought my friend henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him." "jules," she replied, "let me paint; you know i have very little time. you are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence." "indeed, emily, i am not jesting; you must really speak to henry. if you knew how unhappy he is!" mademoiselle d'orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued her painting: "forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to be sent to the exposition, and i have not a moment to lose, because, both for my brother's sake and my own, i wish it to do me credit. but speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that i will not refuse you any thing that is in the power of a poor artist." henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired: then jules, having related his friend's visit to their master, henry added; "but i see very well, mademoiselle, that you can not do this portrait either, and i am sorry to have disturbed you." in the mean time little jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request. mademoiselle d'orbe was painting anna boleyn: she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children. she, however, soon laid aside her pallet, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: "i will take your father's portrait," she said to henry---"that man of sorrow and of genius. your mother's wish shall be fulfilled." she had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room. she was young, pretty, and richly dressed. having announced her name, she asked mademoiselle d'orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the exposition. "it is impossible for me to have this honor, madame," replied the artist: "i have a picture to finish, and i have just promised to do a portrait to which i must give all my spare time." "you would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the catalogue would have made yours known," added the young countess. mademoiselle d'orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely withdrawn, when, taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced her brother, took henry by the hand, and said to him: "bring me to your mother, my child." henry flew rather than walked; mademoiselle d'orbe could with difficulty keep up with him. both ascended to the fifth story in the house in the rue descartes, where this poor family lived. when they reached the door, henry tapped softly at it. madame g---- opened it. "mamma," said the boy, trembling with emotion, "this lady is an artist: she is come to take papa's portrait." the poor woman, who had not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the hands of mademoiselle d'orbe, and could not find words to express her gratitude. the portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man was intense. she resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect. long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two each day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. as by degrees the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced. at length, at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about a week before the death of m. g----. at the same time that she was painting this portrait, mademoiselle d'orbe worked with ardor on her large painting, always hoping to have it ready in time. this hope did not fail her, until some days before the st of february. there was but a week longer to work: and this year she must abandon the idea of sending to the exposition. some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much; she could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. this she desired with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory which god has implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from the influence it would have on the prospects of her little jules, whom she loved with a mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able to endow with all the treasures of education. this disappointment, these long hours of toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when she looked forward to receive her reward, so depressed the young artist, that she became dangerously ill. mademoiselle d'orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and lived in great retirement; she found herself, therefore, completely left to the care of her young attendant. when jules met henry at the drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: henry informed his mother, and madame g---- immediately hastened to mademoiselle d'orbe, whom she found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been suffering for some days. the servant said that her mistress had refused to send for a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify. madame g----, terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and soon returned with dr. raymond. the invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the words--"portrait," "anna boleyn," "exposition," "fortune," "disappointed hopes;" which plainly indicated the cause of her illness, and brought tears into the eyes of madame g----. "alas!" she said, "it is on my account she suffers: i am the cause of her not finishing her picture. doctor, i am very unfortunate." "all may be repaired," replied the doctor; "if you will promise to nurse the invalid, i will answer for her recovery." in fact, madame g---- ever left the sick-bed of mademoiselle d'orbe. the doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon restored the health of the interesting artist. mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the exposition of paintings at the louvre, of which she had heard nothing--the doctor and madame g---- having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject which might pain her. she passed alone through the galleries, crowded with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which attracted the admiration of the crowd. she was thus walking sadly on, looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her anna boleyn, when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. they were unanimous in their praises "this is the best portrait in the exposition," said one. "a celebrated engraver is about to buy from the artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the author's works," said another. "we are very fortunate in having so faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as m. g----." at this name mademoiselle d'orbe raised her eyes, and recognized her own work! pale, trembling with emotion, the young artist was obliged to lean on the rail for support; then opening the catalogue, she read her name as if in a dream, and remained for some time to enjoy the pleasure of hearing the praises of her genius. when the exposition closed she hastened to madame g----, and heard that it was dr. raymond who had conceived the happy idea of sending the portrait to the louvre. "my only merit is the separating myself for a time from a picture which is my greatest consolation," added madame g----. from this day the young artist became the friend of the poor widow, whose prospects soon brightened. through the influence of some of the friends of her lost husband, she obtained a pension from government--a merited but tardy reward! the two ladies lived near each other, and spent their evenings together. henry and jules played and studied together. marie read aloud, while her mother and mademoiselle d'orbe worked. dr. raymond sometimes shared in this pleasant intercourse. he had loved the young artist from the day he had seen her renounce so much to do a generous action; but, an orphan like herself, and with no fortune but his profession, he feared to be rejected if he offered her his hand. it was therefore madame g---- who charged herself with pleading his suit with the young artist. mademoiselle d'orbe felt a lively gratitude toward the young doctor for the care and solicitude he had shown during her illness, and for sending her portrait to the exposition. thanks to him, she had become known; commissions arrived in numbers, a brilliant future opened before her and jules. madame g---- had, then, a favorable answer to give to her young friend, who soon became the husband of the interesting artist whose generous sacrifice had been the foundation of her happiness. the stolen bank notes. the newspapers of contain a few brief paragraphs--cold, bare, and partial as a tombstone, relative to a singular, and, to my thinking, instructive passage in the domestic annals of great britain, with which i happened to be very intimately acquainted. the impression it produced on me at the time was vivid and profound, and a couple of lines in a liverpool journal the other day, curtly announcing the death of a madame l'estrange, recalled each incident as freshly to memory as if graven there but yesterday; and moreover induced me to pen the following narrative, in which, now that i can do so without the risk of giving pain or offense to any one, i have given the whole affair, divested of coloring, disguise, or concealment. my father, who had influence with the late lord bexley, then mr. vansittart, procured me, three weeks after i came of age, a junior clerkship in one of the best paid of our government offices. in the same department were two young men, my seniors by about six or seven years only, of the names of martin travers and edward capel. their salaries were the same--three hundred pounds a year--and both had an equal chance of promotion to the vacancy likely soon to occur, either by the death or superannuation of mr. rowdell, an aged and ailing chief-clerk. i had known them slightly before i entered the office, inasmuch as our families visited in the same society, and we were very soon especially intimate with each other. they were, i found, fast friends, though differing greatly in character and temperament. i liked martin travers much the best of the two. he was a handsome, well-grown, frank-spoken, generous young man; and never have i known a person so full of buoyant life as he--of a temper so constantly gay and cheerful. capel was of a graver, more saturnine disposition, with lines about the mouth indicative of iron inflexibility of nerve and will; yet withal a hearty fellow enough, and living, it was suspected, _quite_ up to his income, if not to something considerably over. i had not been more than about three months in the office, when a marked change was perceptible in both. gradually they had become cold, distant, and at last utterly estranged from each other; and it was suggested by several among us, that jealousy as to who should succeed to rowdell's snug salary of six hundred a year, might have produced the evidently bad feeling between them. this might, i thought, have generated the lowering cloud hourly darkening and thickening upon capel's brow, but could scarcely account for the change in martin travers. he whose contagious gayety used to render dullness and ill-humor impossible in his presence, was now fitful, moody, irascible; his daily tasks were no longer gone through with the old cheerful alacrity; and finally--for he was morbidly impatient of being questioned--i jumped to the conclusion--partly from some half-words dropped, and partly from knowing where they both occasionally visited--that the subtle influence which from the days of helen downward--and i suppose upward--has pleased and plagued mankind, was at the bottom of the matter. i was quite right, and proof was not long waited for. i was walking early one evening along piccadilly with travers--who appeared, by-the-by, to wish me further, though he was too polite to say so--when we came suddenly upon capel. i caught his arm, and insisted that he should take a turn with us as he used to do. i thought that possibly a quiet word or two on the beauty and excellence of kindly brotherhood among men, might lead to a better feeling between them. i was deucedly mistaken. my efforts in that line--awkwardly enough made, i dare say--proved utterly abortive. capel indeed turned back, rather than, as i supposed, fussily persist in going on; but both he and travers strode on as stiffly as grenadiers on parade--their cheeks flushed, their eyes alight with angry emotion, and altogether sullen and savage as bears. what seemed odd too, when travers turned sharply round within a short distance of hyde park corner, with a scarcely-disguised intention of shaking us off, capel whirled round as quickly, as if quite as resolutely determined not to be shaken off; while i, considerably alarmed by the result of the pacific overture i had ventured upon, did, of course, the same. we stalked on in silence, till just as we reached hoby's, and a mr. hervey, with his daughter constance, turned suddenly out of st. james's-street. i was fiery hot to the tips of my ears in an instant. travers and capel stopped abruptly, stared fiercely at each other, and barely recovered presence of mind in sufficient time to lift their hats in acknowledgment of mr. hervey's brief greeting, and the lady's slight bow, as, after half-pausing, they passed on. it was all clear enough now. my two gentlemen had come to piccadilly in the hope of meeting with constance hervey, and accompanying her home; frustrated in this, they had determined not to lose sight of each other; nor did they for three mortal hours, during which, anxiety lest their rancorous ill-humor should break out into open quarrel, kept me banging about from post to pillar with them--a sullen companionship, so utterly wearisome that i had several times half a mind to propose that they should fight it out at once, or toss up which should jump for the other's benefit into the thames. at length ten o'clock struck, and it appearing to be mutually concluded that a visit to kensington was no longer possible, a sour expression of relief escaped them, and our very agreeable party separated. a very dangerous person in such a crisis was, i knew, this constance hervey, though by no means a catch in a pecuniary sense for well-connected young men with present salaries of three hundred a year, and twice as much in near expectancy. her father, who had once held his head pretty high in the commercial world, had not long since become bankrupt, and they were now living upon an annuity of little more, i understood, than a hundred pounds, so secured to mr. hervey that his creditors could not touch it. this consideration, however, is one that weighs very little with men in the condition of mind of capel and travers, and i felt that once enthralled by constance hervey's singular beauty, escape, or resignation to disappointment was very difficult and hard to bear. she was no favorite of mine, just then, by the way. i had first seen her about three years previously--and even then, while yet the light, the simplicity, the candor, of young girlhood lingered over, and softened the rising graces of the woman, i read in the full depths of her dark eyes an exultant consciousness of beauty, and the secret instinct of its power. let me, however, in fairness state that i had myself--moon-calf that i must have been--made sundry booby, blushing advances to the youthful beauty, and the half-amused, half-derisive merriment with which they were received, gave a twist, no doubt, to my opinion of the merits of a person so provokingly blind to mine. be this, however, as it may, there could be no question that constance hervey was now a very charming woman, and i was grieved only, not surprised, at the bitter rivalry that had sprung up between travers and capel--a rivalry which each successive day but fed and strengthened! capel appeared to be fast losing all control over his temper and mode of life. he drank freely--that was quite clear; gambled, it was said, and rumors of debt, protested bills, ready money raised at exorbitant interest on the faith of his succeeding to rowdell's post, flew thick as hail about the office. should he obtain the coveted six hundred a year, constance hervey would, i doubted not--first favorite as travers now seemed to be--condescend to be mrs. capel. this, not very complimentary opinion, i had been mentally repeating some dozen times with more than ordinary bitterness as i sat alone one evening after dinner in our little dining-room in golden-square, when the decision came. the governor being out, i had perhaps taken a few extra glasses of wine, and nothing, in my experience, so lights up and inflames tender or exasperating reminiscences as fine old port. "rat-tat-tat-tat." it was unmistakably travers's knock, and boisterously hilarious, too, as in the old time, before any constance herveys had emerged from pinafores and tuckers to distract and torment mankind, and more especially well-to-do government clerks. the startled maid-servant hastened to the door, and i had barely gained my feet and stretched myself, when in bounced travers--radiant--a-blaze with triumph. "hollo, travers! why, where the deuce do you spring from, eh?" "from heaven! paradise!--the presence of an angel at all events!" "there, there, that will do; i quite understand." "no, you don't ned. nobody but myself _can_ understand, imagine, guess, dream of the extent the vastness of the change that has come over my life. firstly, then--but this is nothing--rowdell is at length superannuated, and i am to have his place." he paused a moment; and i, with certainly a more than half-envious sneer, said--"and upon the strength of that piece of luck, you have proposed to constance hervey, and been accepted--of course." "_jubilate_--yes! feel how my pulse throbs! it is four hours since, and still my brain lightens and my eyes dazzle with the tumultuous joy. do not light the candles; i shall grow calmer in the twilight." "confound his raptures," was my internal ejaculation. "why the mischief couldn't he take them somewhere else?" i, however, said nothing, and he presently resumed the grateful theme. "you will be at the wedding, of course. and by-the-by, now i think of it, haven't i heard constance say she especially remembers you for something--i forget exactly what--but something pleasant and amusing--very!" my face kindled to flame, and i savagely whirled the easy chair in which i sat two or three yards back from the fire-light before speaking. "i am extremely obliged to the lady, and so i dare say is poor capel, who, it seems, has been so carelessly thrown over." "carelessly thrown over!" rejoined travers, sharply. "that is a very improper expression. if he has, as i fear, indulged in illusions, he has been only self-deceived. still, his double disappointment grieves me. it seems to cast--though there is no valid reason that it should do so--a shadow on my conscience." we were both silent for some time. i was in no mood for talking, and he sat gazing dreamily at the fire. i knew very well whose face he saw there. i have seen it myself in the same place a hundred times. "there is another drawback, ned," he at length resumed. "our marriage must be deferred six months at the least. i have but about two hundred pounds in ready money, and the lease and furniture of the house we shall require, would cost at least double that." "any respectable establishment would credit you for the furniture upon the strength of your greatly-increased salary." "so i urged; but constance has such a perfect horror of debt--arising no doubt from her father's misfortunes--that she positively insists we must wait till every thing required in our new establishment can be paid for when purchased. i could, i think, raise the money upon my own acceptance, but should constance hear that i had done so, she would, i fear, withdraw her promise." "stuff and nonsense! six hundred a year can not be picked up every day." "you do not know constance hervey. but come; i must have patience! six--nine months are not a lifetime. good-by. i knew you would be rejoiced to hear of my good fortune." "oh, of course--particularly delighted, in fact! good-evening." i have slept better than i did that night. it was sunday evening when travers called on me, and capel did not make his appearance at the office till the friday following, his excuse being urgent private business. harassing business, if that were so, it must have been, for a sharp fever could scarcely have produced a greater change for the worse in his personal appearance. he was mentally changed as greatly. he very heartily congratulated travers on his promotion, and took, moreover, the first opportunity of privately assuring him that his (capel's) transient fancy for miss hervey had entirely passed away, and he cordially complimented his former rival on having succeeded in that quarter also. this was all remarkably queer, _i_ thought; but travers, from whose mind a great load seemed taken, willingly believed him, and they were better friends than ever; capel, the more thoroughly, it seemed, to mark his acquiescent indifference, accompanying travers once or twice to the herveys'. so did i; though i would have given something the first time to have been any where else; for if a certain kneeling down, garden-arbor scene did not play about the lady's coral lips, and gleam for a moment from the corners of her bewildering eyes, my pulse was as steady and temperate just then, as it is now, after the frosts of more than sixty winters have chilled its beatings. she was, however, very kind and courteous, a shade _too_ considerately gentle and patronizing, perhaps, and i became a rather frequent visitor. an ancient aunt, and very worthy soul, lived with them, with whom i now and then took a turn at backgammon, while the affianced couple amused themselves with chess--such chess! travers was, i knew, a superior player, but on these occasions he hardly appeared to know a queen from a rook, or a bishop from a pawn. they were thus absurdly engaged one evening, when i made a discovery which, if it did not much surprise, greatly pained and somewhat alarmed me. aunt jane had left the room on some household intent, and i, partly concealed in the recess where i sat, by the window-curtain, silently contemplated the queer chess-playing, the entranced delight of the lover, and the calm, smiling graciousness of the lady. i have felt in a more enviable frame of mind--more composed, more comfortable than i did just then, but, good lord! what was my innocent little pit-pat compared with the storm of hate, and fury, and despair, which found terrific expression in the countenance that, as attracted by a slight noise, i hastily looked up, met my view! it was capel's. he had entered the room, the door being ajar, unobserved, and was gazing, as he supposed, unmarked, at the chess-players. i was so startled that i, mechanically, as it were, sprang to my feet, and as i did so, capel's features, by a strong effort of will, resumed their ordinary expression, save for the deathly pallor that remained, and a nervous quivering of the upper lip which could not be instantly mastered. i was more than satisfied as to the true nature of smooth-seeming mr. capel's sentiments toward the contracted couple, but as _they_ had observed nothing, i thought it wisest to hold my peace. i could not, however, help smiling at the confiding simplicity with which travers, as we all three walked homeward together, sought counsel of capel as to the readiest means of raising--unknown to miss hervey--the funds necessary to be obtained before prudence, as interpreted by that lady, would permit his marriage. slight help, thought i, for such a purpose, will be afforded by the owner of the amiable countenance i saw just now. it was just a week after this that thunder fell upon our office by the discovery that sixteen hundred pounds in bank of england notes, sent in by different parties, late on the previous day, had disappeared, together with a memorandum-book containing the numbers and dates. great, it may be imagined, was the consternation among us all, and a rigorous investigation, which, however, led to nothing, was immediately instituted. capel, who showed extraordinary zeal in the matter, went, accompanied by one of the chief clerks, to the parties from whom the notes had been received, for fresh lists, in order that payment might be stopped. on their return, it was given out that no accurate, reliable list could be obtained. this, it was afterward found, was a _ruse_ adopted in order to induce the thief or thieves to more readily attempt getting the notes into circulation. this occurred in the beginning of september, and about the middle of october, travers suddenly informed me that he was to be married on the following monday--this was tuesday. the lease of a house at hammersmith had, he said, been agreed for, the furniture ordered, and every thing was to be completed and paid for by the end of the present week. "and the money--the extra two hundred and odd pounds required--how has that been obtained?" "of my uncle woolridge, a marriage-_gift_, though he won't, i believe, be present at the wedding," returned the bridegroom-elect, with a joyous chuckle. i was quite sure from his manner, as well as from my knowledge of his uncle's penurious character, that this was a deception. constance hervey's scruples, i had always thought, now that it was certain his next quarter's salary would be one hundred and fifty pounds were somewhat over strained and unreasonable--still i was vexed that he had stooped to deceive her by such a subterfuge. it was, however, no especial affair of mine, and i reluctantly accepted his invitation to dine at the herveys' with him on the last day of his bachelorhood, that is, on the following sunday. capel was invited, but he refused. i also, declined, and resolutely, to attend the wedding. that would, i felt, be _un peu trop fort_ just then. a very pleasant party assembled at mr. hervey's on the afternoon of that terrible sunday, and we were cheerfully chatting over the dessert, when the servant-girl announced that four gentlemen were at the door who said they _must_ see mr. travers instantly. "_must_ see me!" exclaimed travers. "very peremptory, upon my word. with your leave, sir--and yours, constance, i will see these very determined gentlemen here. bid them walk in, susan." before susan could do so, the door opened, and in walked the strangers _without_ invitation. one of them, a square, thick-set, bullet-headed man it instantly struck me i had been in company with before. oh! to be sure! he was the officer who conducted the investigation in the matter of the stolen notes. what on earth could _he_ want there--or with travers? "you paid, mr. travers," said he, bluntly, "something over four hundred pounds to these two gentlemen, yesterday." "yes, certainly i did; no doubt about it." "will you tell us, then, if you please, where you obtained the notes in which you made those payments?" "obtained them--where i obtained them?" said travers, who did not, i think, immediately recognize the officer. "to be sure. four of them--four fifties--i have had by me for some time; and--and--" "the two one-hundred pound notes--how about them?" quietly suggested the man, seeing travers hesitate. travers, more confused than alarmed, perhaps, but white as the paper on which i am writing, glanced hurriedly round--we had all impulsively risen to our feet--till his eye rested upon constance hervey's eagerly-attentive countenance. "i received them," he stammered, repeating, i was sure, a falsehood, "from my uncle, mr. woolridge, of tottenham." "then, of course, you will have no objection to accompany us to your uncle, mr. woolridge, of tottenham?" "certainly not; but not now. to-morrow--you see i am engaged now." "i am sorry to say, mr. travers, that you _must_ go with us. those two notes were among those stolen from the office to which you belong." there was a half-stifled scream--a broken sob, and, but for me, constance hervey would have fallen senseless on the floor. travers was in the merciless grasp of the officers, who needlessly hurried him off, spite of his frantic entreaties for a brief delay. the confusion and terror of such a scene may be imagined, not described. although at first somewhat staggered, five minutes had not passed before i felt thoroughly satisfied that travers was the victim of some diabolical plot; and i pretty well guessed of whose concoction. an untruth he had no doubt been guilty of, through fear of displeasing his betrothed--but guilty of stealing money--of plundering the office!--bah!--the bare supposition was an absurdity. as soon as miss hervey was sufficiently recovered to listen, i endeavored to reason with her in this sense, but she could not sufficiently command her attention. "my brain is dizzy and confused as yet," she said; "do you follow, and ascertain, as far as possible, _all_ the truth--the worst truth. i shall be calmer when you return." "i did so, and in less than two hours i was again at kensington. travers was locked up, after confessing that his statement of having received the hundred-pound notes of his uncle woolridge, was untrue. he would probably be examined at bow-street the next day--his wedding-day, as he had fondly dreamed!" i found constance hervey--unlike her father and aunt, who were moaning and lamenting about the place like distracted creatures--perfectly calm and self-possessed, though pale as parian marble. i told her all--all i had heard and seen, and all that i suspected. her eyes kindled to intensest lustre as i spoke. "i have no doubt," she said, "that your suspicions point the right way, but proof, confronted as we shall be by that wretched falsehood, will, i fear, be difficult. but i will not despair; the truth will, i trust, ultimately prevail. and remember, thornton," she added, "that we count entirely upon you." she gave me her hand on saying this; i clutched it with ridiculous enthusiasm, and blurted out--as if i had been a warlike knight instead of a peaceable clerk--"you may, miss hervey, to the death!" in fact, at that particular moment, although by no means naturally pugnacious, and, moreover, of a somewhat delicate constitution, i think i should have proved an ugly customer had there been any body in the way to fight with. this, however, not being the case, i consulted with mr. hervey as to what legal assistance ought to be secured, and it was finally determined that i should request mr. elkins, a solicitor residing in lothbury, to take travers's instructions, and that mr. alley, the barrister, should be retained to attend at bow-street. this matter settled, i took my leave. i had a very unsatisfactory account to render on the morrow evening to the anxious family at kensington. travers's appearance at bow-street had been deferred, at the request of his solicitor, to wednesday, in order that the individual from whom the prisoner _now_ declared he had received the stolen notes might be communicated with. the explanation given by travers to the solicitor was briefly this: about seven months previously he had amassed a considerable sum in guineas--then bearing a high premium, although it was an offense at law to dispose of them for more in silver or notes than their nominal value. somebody--mr. capel, he was pretty sure, but would not be positive--mentioned to him the name of one louis brocard, of no. brewer-street, as a man who would be likely to give him a good price for his gold. travers accordingly saw brocard, who, after considerable haggling, paid him two hundred pounds in bank of england notes--four fifties--for one hundred and sixty-two guineas. that lately he, travers, had often mentioned to capel, that he wished to raise, as secretly as possible, on his own personal security, a sum of at least two hundred pounds, and that capel--this he was sure of, as not more than a month had since elapsed--capel had advised him to apply to louis brocard for assistance. he had done so, and brocard had given him the two one-hundred pound notes in exchange for a note of hand, at six months' date, for two hundred and twenty pounds. i had obtained temporary leave of absence from the office, and at the solicitor's request i accompanied him to brewer-street. brocard--a strong-featured, swarthy _emigré_ from the south of france, languedoc, i believe, who had been in this country since ' , and spoke english fluently--was at home, and i could not help thinking, from his manner, expecting and prepared for some such visit. there was a young woman with him, his niece, he said, marie deschamps, of the same cast of features as himself, but much handsomer, and with dark fiery eyes, that upon the least excitement seemed to burn like lightning. brocard confirmed travers's statement without hesitation as to the purchase of the gold and the discount of the bill. "in what money did you pay the two hundred pounds for which you received the acceptance?" asked the solicitor. "i will tell you," replied brocard, coolly. "marie, give me the pocket-book from the desk--the red one. september th," he continued, after adjusting his spectacles, "martin travers, four fifty bank of england notes," and he read off the dates and numbers, of which i possess no memoranda. "why, those are the notes," exclaimed mr. elkins, very much startled, and glancing at a list in his hand, "which you paid mr. travers for the gold, and which you and others i could name, knew he had not since parted with!" a slight flush crossed the frenchman's brow, and the niece's eyes gleamed with fierce expression at these words. the emotion thus displayed was but momentary. "you are misinformed," said brocard. "here is a memorandum made at the time (march d) of the notes paid for the gold. you can read it yourself. the largest in amount, you will see, was a twenty." "do you mean to persist in asserting," said mr. elkins, after several moments of dead silence, "that you did not pay mr. travers for his bill of exchange in two one-hundred pound notes?" "persist!" exclaimed the frenchman. "i don't understand your 'persist!' i have told you the plain truth. persist--_parbleu_!" i was dumfoundered. "pray, monsieur brocard," said the solicitor, suddenly; "do you know mr. capel?" the swarthy flush was plainer now, and not so transitory. "capel--capel," he muttered, averting his face toward his niece. "do we know capel, marie?" "no doubt your niece does, mr. brocard," said the solicitor, with a sharp sneer, "or that eloquent face of hers belies her." in truth, marie deschamps's features were a-flame with confused and angry consciousness; and her brilliant eyes sparkled with quick ire, as she retorted, "and if i do, what then?" "nothing, _perhaps_, young lady; but my question was addressed to your uncle." "i have nothing more to say," rejoined brocard. "i know nothing of the hundred pound notes; very little of mr. capel, whom now, however, i remember. and pray, sir," he added, with a cold, malignant smile, "did i not hear this morning, that martin travers informed the officers that it was a relation, an uncle, i believe, from whom he received the said notes--stolen notes, it seems? he will endeavor to inculpate some one else by-and-by, i dare say." there was no parrying this thrust, and we came away, much disturbed and discouraged. i remained late that evening at kensington, talking the unfortunate matter over; but hope, alas! of a safe deliverance for poor travers appeared impossible, should brocard persist in his statement. the prisoner's lodgings had been minutely searched, but no trace of the still missing fourteen hundred pounds had been discovered there. constance hervey appeared to be greatly struck with my account of marie deschamps's appearance and demeanor, and made me repeat each circumstance over and over again. i could not comprehend how this could so much interest her at such a time. brocard repeated his statement, on oath, at bow-street, and mr. alley's cross-examination failed to shake his testimony. the first declaration made by travers necessarily deprived his after protestations, vehement as they were, of all respect; but i could not help feeling surprise that the barrister's suggestion that it was absurd to suppose that a man in possession of the very large sum that had been stolen, would have _borrowed_ two hundred pounds at an exorbitant interest, was treated with contempt. all that, it was hinted, was a mere colorable contrivance to be used in case of detection. the prisoner feared to put too many of the notes in circulation at once, and the acceptance would have been paid for in the stolen moneys, and so on. finally, travers was committed for trial, and bail was refused. as the star of the unfortunate travers sank in disastrous eclipse, that of capel shone more brilliantly. there was no doubt that he would succeed, on his rival's conviction, to the vacated post; and some eight or nine weeks after travers had been committed, circumstances occurred which induced me to believe that he would be equally successful in another respect. i must also say that capel evinced from the first much sorrow for his old friend's lamentable fall; he treated the notion of his being guiltless with disdain, and taking me one day aside, he said he should endeavor to get brocard out of the country before the day of trial either by fair means or by tipping him the alien act. "in fact," he added, with some confusion of manner, "i have faithfully promised miss hervey, that for _her_ sake, though she can have no more doubt of his guilt than i have, that no effort shall be spared to prevent his _legal_ conviction; albeit, life, without character will be, i should think, no great boon to him." "for _her_ sake! you, edward capel, have faithfully promised miss hervey to attempt this for _her_ sake!" i exclaimed, as soon as i could speak for sheer astonishment. "ay, truly: does that surprise you, thornton?" he added, with a half-bitter, half-malvolio smile. "supremely; and if it be as your manner intimates, why then, frailty, thy name in very truth is--" "woman!" broke in capel, taking the word out of my mouth. "no doubt of it, from the days of eve till ours. but come, let us return to business." i had been for some time grievously perplexed by the behavior of constance hervey. whenever i had called at kensington, i found, that though at times she appeared to be on the point of breaking through a self-imposed restraint, all mention of travers, as far as possible, was avoided, and that some new object engrossed the mind of constance, to the exclusion of every other. what a light did this revelation of capel's throw on her conduct and its motives! and it was such a woman as that, was it, that i had enshrined in the inmost recesses of my heart, and worshiped as almost a divinity! great god! these thoughts were trembling on my lips, when a brief note was brought me: "miss hervey's compliments to mr. edward thornton, and she will be obliged if, late as it is, he will hasten to kensington immediately." i had never seen a line of hers before in my life, and it was wonderful how all my anger, suspicion, scorn, vanished--exhaled, before those little fly-stroke characters; so much so that--but no, i won't expose myself. a hack soon conveyed me to kensington; mr. hervey, constance, and good aunt jane were all there in the parlor, evidently in expectation of my arrival. miss hervey proceeded to business at once. "you have not seen marie deschamps lately, i believe?" "not i! the last time i saw her was in bow-street, whither she accompanied her scoundrel of an uncle." "well, you must see her again to-morrow. she is deeply attached to mr. capel, and expects that he will marry her as soon as martin travers is convicted; and he, capel, has secured the vacant place." "ha!" "mr. capel," continued miss hervey, and a glint of sparkling sunlight shot from her charming eyes, "has been foolish enough to prefer another person--at least so i am instructed by papa, with whom the gentleman left this note, not yet opened, addressed to me, some three hours since. i can imagine its contents, but let us see." i can not depict in words the scorn, contempt, pride--triumph, too--that swept over that beautiful countenance. "very impassioned and eloquent, upon my word," she said; "i only wonder such burning words did not fire the paper. now, mr. thornton, you must see this forsaken damsel, marie deschamps, and acquaint her with mr. capel's inconstancy. she will require proof--it shall be afforded her. in answer to this missive, i shall appoint mr. capel to see me here to-morrow evening at seven o'clock. do you bring her by half-past six, and place yourselves in yon little ante-room, where every thing done here, and every word spoken, can be distinctly seen and heard. this well managed, i am greatly deceived in those southern eyes of hers if the iniquitous plot, of which there can be no doubt she holds the clew, will not receive an unlooked-for solution." "charming! glorious! beautiful!" i was breaking into _éclats_ of enthusiastic admiration, but miss hervey, who was too earnest and excited to listen patiently to rhapsodies, cut me short with, "my dear sir, it's getting very late, and there is, you know, much to be done to-morrow." it's not pleasant to be let down so suddenly when you are so particularly stilty, but as i was by this time pretty well used to it, i submitted with the best possible grace, and, after receiving some other explanations and directions, took leave. i obtained an interview without difficulty, on the following morning, with marie deschamps, just before office hours, and in her uncle's absence. she was curious to know the object of my visit; but her manner, though free and gay, was carefully guarded and unrelenting, till i gradually and cautiously introduced the subject of capel's infidelity. it was marvelous how, as each sentence fell upon her ear, her figure stiffened into statue-like rigidity, and her eyes kindled with fiery passion. "if this be so," she said, when i ceased speaking, "he is playing with his life! is she the lady i passed a fortnight since, when with him in the park?" "describe the lady, and i will tell you." she did so; it was the exact portrait of miss hervey, and so i told her. "i had a misgiving at the time," she said; "if it prove true--but i will believe, after what has passed, only my own eyes and ears." this was all we desired; a satisfactory arrangement was agreed upon, and i left her, not without hugging self-gratulation that _i_ was not the recreant sweetheart about to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ by such a damsel. i watched capel that day with keen attention. he was much excited it was evident, and withal ill at ease: there was a nervous apprehensiveness in his manner and aspect i had never before noticed, over which, however, from time to time quick flashes of exultation glimmered, sparkled, and then vanished. is it, thought i, the shadow of a sinister catastrophe that already projects over and awes, appalls him? it might be. marie deschamps and i were ensconced punctually at the hour named, in the little slip of a closet communicating with the herveys' up-stairs sitting-room. nobody appeared there till about five minutes to seven, when constance, charmingly attired, and looking divinely--though much agitated, i could see through all her assumed firmness--entered, and seated herself upon a small couch, directly in front of the tiny window through which we cautiously peered. "no wonder," i mentally exclaimed, "that capel has been beguiled of all sense or discretion!" in reply to marie deschamps' look of jealous yet admiring surprise, i whispered, pointing to the neat but poor furniture, "capel expects, you know, soon to have six hundred a year." "ah," she rejoined, in the same tone, "and in this country gold is god!" "and all the saints in yours, i believe; but hark! there is a knock at the door; it is he, no doubt." comparatively dark as the closet was, i could see the red, swarthy color come and go on the young woman's cheeks and forehead; and i fancied i could hear the violent and hurried beating of her heart. presently mr. capel entered the apartment; his features were flushed as with fever, and his whole manner exhibited uncontrollable agitation. his first words were unintelligible, albeit their purport might be guessed. miss hervey, though much disturbed also, managed to say, after a few moment's awkward silence, and with a half-ironical yet fascinating smile, taking up as she spoke a letter which lay upon the table, "upon my word, mr. capel, this abrupt proposal of yours appears to me, under the circumstances, to be singularly ill-timed and premature, besides--" the lady's discomposure had, it struck me, dissipated a half-formed suspicion in capel's mind that some trap or mystification was preparing for him, and, throwing himself at the feet of constance, he gave way to a torrent of fervent, headlong protestation, which there could be no question was the utterance of genuine passion. marie deschamps felt this, and but that i forcibly held her back, she would have burst into the room at once: as it was she pressed her arms across her bosom with her utmost force, as if to compress, keep down, the wild rage by which she was, i saw, shaken and convulsed. miss hervey appeared affected by capel's vehemence, and she insisted that he should rise and seat himself. he did so, and after a minute or so of silence, constance again resolutely addressed herself to the task she had determined to perform. "but the lady, mr. capel, whom we saw you conversing with not long since in the park; one marie--marie, something?" "the name of such a person as marie deschamps should not sully miss hervey's lips, even in jest, ha!--" no wonder he stopped abruptly, and turned round with quick alarm. till that moment i had with difficulty succeeded in holding the said marie, but no sooner was her name thus contemptuously pronounced, than she plucked a small, glittering instrument from her bodice--the half of a pair of scissors, it seemed to me, but pointed and sharp as a dagger--and drove it into my arm with such hearty good-will, that i loosed her in a twinkling. in she burst upon the utterly astounded capel with a cry of rage and vengeance, and struck furiously at him right and left, at the same time hurling in his face the epithets of "liar!" "traitor!" "robber!" "villain!" and so on, as thick as hail, and with maniacal fury. i had instantly followed, and at the same moment mr. hervey, and the officer who arrested travers, came in by another door. i and mr. hervey placed ourselves before constance, who was terribly scared, for this stabbing business was more than we had looked or bargained for. the officer seized marie deschamps' arm, and with some difficulty wrenched the dangerous weapon she wielded with such deadly ferocity from her grasp. it was, as i supposed, a sharpened scissors-blade, and keen, as a large scar on my arm still testifies, as a poinard. capel, paralyzed, bewildered by so unexpected and furious an attack, and bleeding in several places, though not seriously hurt, staggered back to the wall, against which he supported himself, as he gazed with haggard fear and astonishment at the menacing scene before him. "and so you would marry that lady, thief and villain that you are!" continued the relentless young fury; "she shall know, then, what you are; that it was you contrived the stealing of the bank notes, which--" "marie!" shrieked capel, "dear marie! for your own sake, stop! i will do any thing--" "dog! traitor!" she broke in, with even yet wilder passion than before, if it were possible; "it is too late. i know you now, and spit at both you and your promises? it was you, i say, who brought my uncle the one-hundred pound notes by which your _friend_, martin travers, has been entrapped!" "'tis false! the passionate, mad, jealous fool lies!" shouted capel, with frantic terror. "lie, do i? then there is _not_ a thousand pounds worth of the stolen notes concealed at this moment beneath the floor of your sitting-room, till an opportunity can be found of sending them abroad! that, unmatched villain that you are, is false, too, perhaps?" she paused from sheer exhaustion, and for a brief space no one spoke, so suddenly had the blow fallen. presently the officer said, "the game is up, you see, at last, mr. capel; you will go with me;" and he stepped toward the unhappy culprit. capel, thoroughly desperate, turned, sprang with surprising agility over a dining-table, threw up a window-sash, and leapt into the street. the height was not so much, but his feet caught in some iron railing, and he fell head foremost on the pavement, fracturing his skull frightfully. before an hour had passed, he was dead. brocard contrived to escape, but the evidence of marie deschamps and the finding of the stolen notes, in accordance with her statement, fully established the innocence of travers, and he was restored to freedom and his former position in the world. he and constance hervey, to whom he owed so much, were married three months after his liberation, and i officiated, by particular desire, as bride's father. i had lost sight of marie deschamps for some twelve or thirteen years, when i accidentally met her in liverpool. she was a widow, having married and buried a m. l'estrange, a well-to-do person there, who left her in decent circumstances. we spoke together of the events i have briefly but faithfully narrated, and she expressed much contrition for the share she had taken in the conspiracy against travers. i fancied, too--it was perhaps an unjust fancy--that, knowing i had lately been promoted to four hundred a year, she wished to dazzle me with those still bright eyes of hers--a bootless effort, by whomsoever attempted. the talismanic image daguerreotyped upon my heart in the bright sunlight of young manhood, could have no rival there, and is even now as fresh and radiant as when first impressed, albeit the strong years have done their work, yet very gently, upon the original. it could scarcely be otherwise, living visibly, as she still does, in youthful grace and beauty in the person of the gay gipsy i am, please god, soon to "give away," at st. pancras church, as i did her grandmamma, more than forty years ago, at kensington. constance, _this_ constance is, as she well knows, to be my heiress. travers, her grandfather, is now a silver-haired, yet hale, jocund, old man; and so tenderly, i repeat, has time dealt with his wife--the constance hervey of this narrative--that i can sometimes hardly believe her to be more than about three or four and forty years of age. this is, however, perhaps only an illusion of the long and, whatever fools or skeptics may think, or say, elevating dream that has pursued me through youth and middle age, even unto confirmed old bachelorhood. madame l'estrange, as before stated, died a short time since at liverpool; her death, by influenza, the paper noticed, was sudden and unexpected. wonderful toys. very wonderful things are told by various writers of the power of inventive genius in expending itself upon trifles. philip camuz describes an extraordinary automaton group that was got up, regardless, of course, of expense, for the entertainment of louis the fourteenth. it consisted of a coach and horses--what a modern coachman would designate "a first-rate turn-out." its road was a table; and, at starting, the coachman smacked his whip, the horses began to prance; then, subsiding into a long trot, they continued until the whole equipage arrived opposite to where the king sat. they then stopped, a footman dismounted from the foot-board, opened the door, and handed out a lady; who, courtesying gracefully, offered a petition to his majesty, and re-entered the carriage. the footman jumped up behind--all right--the whip smacked once more; the horses pranced, and the long trot was resumed. some of the stories extant, respecting musical automata, are no less extraordinary. d'alembert gives an account, in the "_encyclopédie methodique_," of a gigantic mechanical flute-player. it stood on a pedestal, in which some of the "works" were contained; and, not only blew into the flute, but, with its lips, increased or diminished the tones it forced out of the instrument, performing the legato and staccato passages to perfection. the fingering was also quite accurate. this marvelous flautist was exhibited in paris in , and was made by jacques de vaucanson, the prince of automaton contrivers. vaucanson labored under many disadvantages in constructing this marvelous figure; among others, that of a skeptic uncle; who, for some years, laughed him out of his project. at length, fortune favored the mechanist with a severe illness; and he took advantage of it to contrive the automaton he had so long dreamt of. this was at grenoble; and, as vaucanson designed each portion of the figure, he sent it to be made by a separate workman; that no one should find out the principle of his invention. as the pieces came home, he put them together; and, when the whole was completed, he crawled out of bed, by the help of a servant who had been his go-between with the various operative mechanics, and locked his chamber door. trembling with anxiety, he wound up the works. at the first sound emitted from the flute, the servant fell on his knees, and began to worship his master as somebody more than mortal. they both embraced each other, and wept with joy to the tune which the figure was merrily playing. none of vaucanson's imitators have been able to accomplish the organization by which his figure modified the tones, by the action of the lips; although several flute-playing puppets have since been made. about forty years ago there was an exhibition in london, of two mechanical figures, of the size of life, which performed duets. incredulous visitors were in the habit of placing their fingers on the holes of the flutes, in order to convince themselves that the puppets really supplied the wind, which caused the flutes to discourse such excellent music. a full orchestra of clock-work musicians is quite possible. maelzel, the inventor of the metronome, opened an exhibition in vienna, in , in which an automaton trumpeter as large as life, performed with surprising accuracy and power. the audience first saw, on entering the room, a tent. presently the curtains opened, and maelzel appeared leading forward the trumpeter, attired in full regimentals of an austrian dragoon. he then pressed the left epaulet of the figure, and it began to sound, not only all the cavalry flails then in use for directing the evolutions of the austrian cavalry, but to play a march, and an allegro by weigl, which was accompanied by a full band of living musicians. the figure then retired; and, in a few minutes, reappeared in the dress of a trumpeter of the french guard. the inventor wound it up on the left hip; another touch on the left shoulder, and forth came from the trumpet, in succession, all the french cavalry-calls, the french cavalry march, a march by dussek, and one of pleyel's allegros; again accompanied by the orchestra. in the _journal des modes_, whence this account is derived, it is declared that the tones produced by maelzel's automaton were even fuller and richer than those got out of a trumpet by human lungs and lips; because a man's breath imparts to the inside of the instrument a moisture which deteriorates the quality of the tone. vaucanson has, however, never been outdone; after his flautist, he produced a figure which accompanied a flageolet played with one hand, with a tambourine struck with the other. but his most wonderful achievements were in imitating animals. his duck became a wonder of the world. he simulated nature in the minutest point. every bone, every fibre, every organ, were so accurately constructed and fitted, that the mechanism waddled about in search of grain; and, when it found some, picked it up with its bill and swallowed it. "this grain" (we quote from the _biographie universelle_) "produced in the stomach a species of trituration, which caused it to pass into the intestines, and to perform all the functions of digestion." the wonderful duck was not to be distinguished from any live duck. it muddled the water with its beak, drank, and quacked to the life. from men and ducks vaucanson descended to insects. when marmontel brought out his tragedy of "cleopatra," vaucanson obliged the author with a mechanical aspic, in order that the heroine might be stung with the closest imitation of nature. at the proper moment the insect darted forth from the side-scenes, and settled upon the actress, hissing all the while. a wit, on being asked his opinion of the play, answered pithily, "_i_ agree with the aspic." one never contemplates these wonders without regretting that so much mechanical genius should have been mis-expended upon objects by which mankind are no gainers beyond a little fleeting gratification. vaucanson did not, however, wholly waste himself upon ingenious trifling. he was appointed by cardinal fleury, inspector of silk manufactories, into which he introduced, during a visit to lyons, some labor-saving improvements. in return for this, the workmen stoned him out of the town; but he conveyed his opinion of their folly by constructing and setting to work a machine which produced a very respectable flower pattern in silk damask by the aid of an ass. had his genius confined itself wholly to the useful arts, it is not to be doubted that vaucanson would have advanced the productive powers of machinery, and, consequently, the prosperity of mankind, at least half a century. in point of abstract ingenuity, his useless contrivances equal, if they do not exceed in inventive power and mechanical skill, the important achievements of arkwright and watt. vaucanson's inventions died with him; those of the great english engineers will live to increase the happiness and comfort of mankind forever. single mechanical figures, including the automaton chess-player (which was scarcely a fair deception, and is too well known to need more than a passing allusion), although surprising for their special performances, were hardly more attractive than the groups of automata which have been from time to time exhibited. one of the memoirs of the french academy of sciences describes, in , a set of mechanical puppets, which were at that time performing a pantomime in five acts. in , bienfait, the show-man, brought out "the bombardment of the city of antwerp," which was performed in the most soldier-like manner, by automata; all the artillery being served and discharged with that regularity which is always attributed to clock-work. a year or two later, the same artist produced "the grand assault of bergem-op-zoom," with unequivocal success. he called his company _comédiens praticiens_. the latest notable effort of mechanical puppet manufacture is exhibited at boulogne at the present time. it is that of a jeweler, who has devoted eight years of his life to the perfection of a clock-work conjuror; which he has made a thorough master of the thimble-rig. dressed in an eastern costume, this necromancer stands behind a table, covered, as the tables of professors of legerdemain usually are, with little boxes and cabinets, from which he takes the objects he employs during the exhibition. he produces his goblets, and shows the balls under them; which vanish and reappear in the most approved style: now two or three are conjured into a spot, a moment before vacant; presently, these disappear again, and are perpetually divided and re-united. at every exclamation of the spectators, the little conjuror turns his eyes from side to side, as if looking round the house; smiles, casts his eyes modestly down, bows, and resumes his sleight-of-hand. he not only takes up the goblets from a stand, and places them over the balls, but leaves them there for a minute, and holds his hands up, to show the audience that he conceals nothing in his palm or sleeve. he then seizes the goblets again and goes on. this trick over, he puts his cups away, and shuts his cabinet. he then knocks on his table, and up starts an egg, to which he points, to secure attention; he touches the egg (which opens lengthwise) and a little bird starts into life; sings a roundelay, claps its enameled wings--which are of real hummingbirds' feathers, beyond any metallic art in lustre--and then falls back into its egg. the little conjuror nods, smiles, rolls his eyes right and left, bows as before, and the egg disappears into the table; he bows again, and then sits down to intimate that the performance is over. the height of this little gentleman is about three inches; his table and every thing else being in due proportion. he stands on a high square pedestal, apparently of marble. it is, however, of tin, painted white, and within it are all the wheels and works containing the heart of the mystery. this jeweler sold to a dealer, who re-sold to a persian prince, not long since, a marionnette flute-player; but whose fingering in the most elaborate pieces, although as accurate as if drouet or nicholson had been the performers, had no influence over the tune; which was played by a concealed musical box. it was therefore, much inferior to those mechanical flautists we have already described. the jeweler has never ceased to regret having sold this toy. he could have borne to have parted with it if it had remained in europe, but that it should have been conveyed, as he says, "to the other world," has been too cruel a blow. "_tout le monde_," he exclaims, "_sera enchanté de mon ouvrage; mais, on ne parlera pas de moi, là-bas_"--all the world will be enchanted with my work, but no one will speak of me yonder--by which distant region, he probably means ispahan. he is now perfecting a beautiful bird, which flies from spray to spray, and sings when it alights, somewhat similarly to the little swiss bird which warbled so sweetly at the great exhibition. my traveling companion. my picture was a failure. partial friends had guaranteed its success; but the hanging committee and the press are not composed of one's partial friends. the hanging committee thrust me into the darkest corner of the octagon-room, and the press ignored my existence--excepting in one instance, when my critic dismissed me in a quarter of a line as a "presumptuous dauber." i was stunned with the blow, for i had counted so securely on the £ at which my grand historical painting was dog-cheap--not to speak of the deathless fame which it was to create for me--that i felt like a mere wreck when my hopes were flung to the ground, and the untasted cup dashed from my lips. i took to my bed, and was seriously ill. the doctor bled me till i fainted, and then said, that he had saved me from a brain-fever. that might be, but he very nearly threw me into a consumption, only that i had a deep chest and a good digestion. pneumonic expansion and active chyle saved me from an early tomb, yet i was too unhappy to be grateful. but why did my picture fail? surely it possessed all the elements of success! it was grandly historical in subject, original in treatment, pure in coloring; what, then, was wanting? this old warrior's head, of true saxon type, had all the majesty of michael angelo; that young figure, all the radiant grace of correggio; no rembrandt showed more severe dignity than yon burnt umber monk in the corner; and titian never excelled the loveliness of this cobalt virgin in the foreground. why did it not succeed? the subject, too--the "finding of the body of harold by torch-light"---was sacred to all english hearts; and being conceived in an entirely new and original manner, it was redeemed from the charge of triteness and wearisomeness. the composition was pyramidal, the apex being a torch home aloft for the "high light," and the base showing some very novel effects of herbage and armor. but it failed. all my skill, all my hope, my ceaseless endeavor, my burning visions, all--all had failed; and i was only a poor, half-starved painter, in great howland-street, whose landlady was daily abating in her respect, and the butcher daily abating in his punctuality; whose garments were getting threadbare, and his dinners hypothetical, and whose day-dreams of fame and fortune had faded into the dull-gray of penury and disappointment. i was broken-hearted, ill, hungry; so i accepted an invitation from a friend, a rich manufacturer in birmingham, to go down to his house for the christmas holidays. he had a pleasant place in the midst of some iron-works, the blazing chimneys of which, he assured me, would afford me some exquisite studies of "light" effects. by mistake, i went by the express train, and so was thrown into the society of a lady whose position would have rendered any acquaintance with her impossible, excepting under such chance-conditions as the present; and whose history, as i learned it afterward, led me to reflect much on the difference between the reality and the seeming of life. she moved my envy. yes--base, mean, low, unartistic, degrading as is this passion, i felt it rise up like a snake in my breast when i saw that feeble woman. she was splendidly dressed--wrapped in furs of the most costly kind, trailing behind; her velvets and lace worth a countess's dowry. she was attended by obsequious menials; surrounded by luxuries; her compartment of the carriage was a perfect palace in all the accessories which it was possible to collect in so small a space; and it seemed as though "cleopatra's cup" would have been no impracticable draught for her. she gave me more fully the impression of luxury, than any person i had ever met with before; and i thought i had reason when i envied her. she was lifted into the carriage carefully; carefully swathed in her splendid furs and lustrous velvets; and placed gently, like a wounded bird, in her warm nest of down. but she moved languidly, and fretfully thrust aside her servants' busy hands, indifferent to her comforts, and annoyed by her very blessings. i looked into her face: it was a strange face, which had once been beautiful; but ill-health, and care, and grief, had marked it now with deep lines, and colored it with unnatural tints. tears had washed out the roses from her cheeks, and set large purple rings about her eyes; the mouth was hard and pinched, but the eyelids swollen; while the crossed wrinkles on her brow told the same tale of grief grown petulant, and of pain grown soured, as the thin lip, quivering and querulous, and the nervous hand, never still and never strong. the train-bell rang, the whistle sounded, the lady's servitors stood bareheaded and courtesying to the ground, and the rapid rush of the iron giant bore off the high-born dame and the starveling painter in strange companionship. unquiet and unresting--now shifting her place--now letting down the glass for the cold air to blow full upon her withered face, then drawing it up, and chafing her hands and feet by the warm-water apparatus concealed in her _chauffe-pied_, while shivering as if in an ague-fit--sighing deeply--lost in thought--wildly looking out and around for distraction--she soon made me ask myself whether my envy of her was as true as deep sympathy and pity would have been. "but her wealth--her wealth!" i thought. "true she may suffer, but how gloriously she is solaced! she may weep, but the angels of social life wipe off her tears with perfumed linen, gold embroidered; she may grieve, but her grief makes her joys so much the more blissful. ah! she is to be envied after all!--envied, while i, a very beggar, might well scorn my place now!" something of this might have been in my face, as i offered my sick companion some small attention--i forget what--gathering up one of her luxurious trifles, or arranging her cushions. she seemed almost to read my thoughts as her eyes rested on my melancholy face; and saying abruptly: "i fear you are unhappy, young man?" she settled herself in her place like a person prepared to listen to a pleasant tale. "i am unfortunate, madam," i answered. "unfortunate?" she said impatiently. "what! with youth and health, can you call yourself unfortunate? when the whole world lies untried before you, and you still live in the golden atmosphere of hope, can you pamper yourself with sentimental sorrows? fie upon you!--fie upon you! what are your sorrows compared with mine?" "i am ignorant of yours, madam," i said, respectfully; "but i know my own; and, knowing them, i can speak of their weight and bitterness. by your very position, you can not undergo the same kind of distress as that overwhelming me at this moment: you may have evils in your path of life, but they can not equal mine." "can any thing equal the evils of ruined health and a desolated hearth?" she cried, still in the same impatient manner. "can the worst griefs of wayward youth equal the bitterness of that cup which you drink at such a time of life as forbids all hope of after-assuagement? can the first disappointment of a strong heart rank with the terrible desolation of a wrecked old age? you think because you see about me the evidences of wealth, that i must be happy. young man, i tell you truly, i would gladly give up every farthing of my princely fortune, and be reduced to the extreme of want, to bring back from the grave the dear ones lying there, or pour into my veins one drop of the bounding blood of health and energy which used to make life a long play-hour of delight. once, no child in the fields, no bird in the sky, was more blessed than i; and what am i now?--a sickly, lonely old woman, whose nerves are shattered and whose heart is broken, without hope or happiness on the earth! even death has passed me by in forgetfulness and scorn!" her voice betrayed the truth of her emotion. still, with an accent of bitterness and complaint, rather than of simple sorrow, it was the voice of one fighting against her fate, more than of one suffering acutely and in despair: it was petulant rather than melancholy; angry rather than grieving; showing that her trials had hardened, not softened her heart. "listen to me," she then said, laying her hand en my arm, "and perhaps my history may reconcile you to the childish depression, from what cause soever it may be, under which you are laboring. you are young and strong, and can bear any amount of pain as yet: wait until you reach my age, and then you will know the true meaning of the word despair! i am rich, as you may see," she continued, pointing to her surroundings: "in truth, so rich that i take no account either of my income or my expenditure. i have never known life under any other form; i have never known what it was to be denied the gratification of one desire which wealth could purchase, or obliged to calculate the cost of a single undertaking. i can scarcely realize the idea of poverty. i see that all people do not live in the same style as myself; but i can not understand that it is from inability: it always seems to me to be from their own disinclination. i tell you, i can not fully realize the idea of poverty; and you think this must make me happy, perhaps?" she added, sharply, looking full in my face. "i should be happy, madam, if i were rich," i replied. "suffering now from the strain of poverty, it is no marvel if i place an undue value on plenty." "yet see what it does for me!" continued my companion. "does it give me back my husband, my brave boys, my beautiful girl? does it give rest to this weary heart, or relief to this aching head? does it soothe my mind or heal my body? no! it but oppresses me, like a heavy robe thrown round weakened limbs: it is even an additional misfortune, for if i were poor, i should be obliged to think of other things besides myself and my woes; and the very mental exertion necessary to sustain my position would lighten my miseries. i have seen my daughter wasting year by year and day by day, under the warm sky of the south--under the warm care of love! neither climate nor affection could save her: every effort was made--the best advice procured--the latest panacea adopted; but to no effect. her life was prolonged, certainly; but this simply means, that she was three years in dying, instead of three months. she was a gloriously lovely creature, like a fair young saint for beauty and purity--quite an ideal thing, with her golden hair and large blue eyes! she was my only girl--my youngest, my darling, my best treasure! my first real sorrow--now fifteen years ago--was when i saw her laid, on her twenty-first birthday, in the english burial-ground at madeira. it is on the grave-stone, that she died of consumption: would that it had been added--and her mother of grief! from the day of her death, my happiness left me!" here the poor lady paused, and buried her face in her hands. the first sorrow was evidently also the keenest; and i felt my own eyelids moist as i watched this outpouring of the mother's anguish. after all, here was grief beyond the power of wealth to assuage: here was sorrow deeper than any mere worldly disappointment. "i had two sons," she went on to say, after a short time--"only two. they were fine young men, gifted and handsome. in fact, all my children were allowed to be very models of beauty. one entered the army, the other the navy. the eldest went with his regiment to the cape, where he married a woman of low family--an infamous creature of no blood; though she was decently conducted for a low-born thing as she was. she was well-spoken of by those who knew her; but what _could_ she be with a butcher for a grandfather! however, my poor infatuated son loved her to the last. she was very pretty, i have heard--young, and timid; but being of such fearfully low origin, of course she could not be recognized by my husband or myself! we forbade my son all intercourse with us, unless he would separate himself from her; but the poor boy was perfectly mad, and he preferred this low-born wife to his father and mother. they had a little baby, who was sent over to me when the wife died--for, thank god! she did die in a few years' time. my son was restored to our love, and he received our forgiveness; but we never saw him again. he took a fever of the country, and was a corpse in a few hours. my second boy was in the navy--a fine, high-spirited fellow, who seemed to set all the accidents of life at defiance. i could not believe in any harm coming to _him_. he was so strong, so healthy, so beautiful, so bright: he might have been immortal, for all the elements of decay that showed themselves in him. yet this glorious young hero was drowned--wrecked off a coral-reef, and flung like a weed on the waters. he lost his own life in trying to save that of a common sailor--a piece of pure gold bartered for the foulest clay! two years after this, my husband died of typhus fever, and i had a nervous attack, from which i have never recovered. and now, what do you say to this history of mine? for fifteen years, i have never been free from sorrow. no sooner did one grow so familiar to me, that i ceased to tremble at its hideousness, than another, still more terrible, came to overwhelm me in fresh misery. for fifteen years, my heart has never known an hour's peace; and to the end of my life, i shall be a desolate, miserable, broken-hearted woman. can you understand, now, the valuelessness of my riches, and how desolate my splendid house must seem to me? they have been given me for no useful purpose here or hereafter; they encumber me, and do no good to others. who is to have them when i die? hospitals and schools? i hate the medical profession, and i am against the education of the poor. i think it the great evil of the day, and i would not leave a penny of mine to such a radical wrong. what is to become of my wealth--?" "your grandson," i interrupted, hastily: "the child of the officer." the old woman's face gradually softened. "ah! he is a lovely boy," she said; "but i don't love him--no, i don't," she repeated, vehemently. "if i set my heart on him, he will die or turn out ill: take to the low ways of his wretched mother, or die some horrible death. i steel my heart against him, and shut him out from my calculations of the future. he is a sweet boy: interesting, affectionate, lovely; but i will not allow myself to love him, and i don't allow him to love me! but you ought to see him. his hair is like my own daughter's--long, glossy, golden hair; and his eyes are large and blue, and the lashes curl on his cheek like heavy fringes. he is too pale and too thin: he looks sadly delicate; but his wretched mother was a delicate little creature, and he has doubtless inherited a world of disease and poor blood from her. i wish he was here though, for you to see; but i keep him at school, for when he is much with me, i feel myself beginning to be interested in him; and i do not wish to love him--i do not wish to remember him at all! with that delicate frame and nervous temperament, he _must_ die; and why should i prepare fresh sorrow for myself, by taking him into my heart, only to have him plucked out again by death?" all this was said with the most passionate vehemence of manner, as if she were defending herself against some unjust charge. i said something in the way of remonstrance. gently and respectfully, but firmly, i spoke of the necessity for each soul to spiritualize its aspirations, and to raise itself from the trammels of earth; and in speaking thus to her, i felt my own burden lighten off my heart, and i acknowledged that i had been both foolish and sinful in allowing my first disappointment to shadow all the sunlight of my existence. i am not naturally of a desponding disposition, and nothing but a blow as severe as the non-success of my "finding the body of harold by torch-light" could have affected me to the extent of mental prostration, as that under which i was now laboring. but this was very hard to bear! my companion listened to me with a kind of blank surprise, evidently unaccustomed to the honesty of truth; but she bore my remarks patiently, and when i had ended, she even thanked me for my advice. "and now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face?" she asked, as we were nearing birmingham. "your story can not be very long, and i shall have just enough time to hear it." i smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly: "i am an artist, madam, and i had counted much on the success of my first historical painting. it has failed, and i am both penniless and infamous. i am the 'presumptuous dauber' of the critics--despised by my creditors--emphatically a failure throughout." "pshaw!" cried the lady, impatiently; "and what is that for a grief! a day's disappointment which a day's labor can repair! to me, your troubles seem of no more worth than a child's tears when he has broken his newest toy! here is birmingham, and i must bid you farewell. perhaps you will open the door for me? good-morning: you have made my journey pleasant, and relieved my ennui. i shall be happy to see you in town, and to help you forward in your career." and with these words, said in a strange, indifferent, matter-of-fact tone, as of one accustomed to all the polite offers of good society, which mean nothing tangible, she was lifted from the carriage by a train of servants, and borne off the platform. i looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the address of "mrs. arden, belgrave-square." i found my friend waiting for me; and in a few moments was seated before a blazing fire in a magnificent drawing-room, surrounded with every comfort that hospitality could offer, or luxury invent. "here, at least, is happiness," i thought, as i saw the family assemble in the drawing-room before dinner. "here are beauty, youth, wealth, position--all that makes life valuable. what concealed skeleton can there be in this house to frighten away one grace of existence? none--none! they must be happy; and, oh! what a contrast to that poor lady i met with to-day; and what a painful contrast to myself!" and all my former melancholy returned like a heavy cloud upon my brow; and i felt that i stood like some sad ghost in a fairy-land of beauty, so utterly out of place was my gloom in the midst of all this gayety and splendor. one daughter attracted my attention more than the rest. she was the eldest, a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, or she might have been even a few years older. her face was quite of the spanish style--dark, expressive, and tender; and her manners were the softest and most bewitching i had ever seen. she was peculiarly attractive to an artist, from the exceeding beauty of feature, as well as from the depth of expression which distinguished her. i secretly sketched her portrait on my thumb-nail, and in my own mind i determined to make her the model for my next grand attempt at historical composition--"the return of columbus." she was to be the spanish queen; and i thought of myself as ferdinand; for i was not unlike a spaniard in appearance, and i was almost as brown. i remained with my friend a fortnight, studying the midnight effects of the iron-foundries, and cultivating the acquaintance of julia. in these two congenial occupations, the time passed like lightning, and i woke as from a pleasant dream, to the knowledge of the fact, that my visit was expected to be brought to a close. i had been asked, i remembered, for a week, and i had doubled my furlough. i hinted at breakfast, that i was afraid i must leave my kind friends to-morrow, and a general regret was expressed, but no one asked me to stay longer; so the die was unhappily cast. julia was melancholy. i could not but observe it; and i confess that the observation caused me more pleasure than pain. could it be sorrow at my departure? we had been daily, almost hourly, companions for fourteen days, and the surmise was not unreasonable. she had always shown me particular kindness, and she could not but have seen my marked preference for her. my heart beat wildly as i gazed on her pale cheek and drooping eyelid; for though she had been always still and gentle, i had never seen--certainly i had never noticed--such evident traces of sorrow, as i saw in her face to-day. oh, if it were for me, how i would bless each pang which pained that beautiful heart!--how i would cherish the tears that fell, as if they had been priceless diamonds from the mine!--how i would joy in her grief and live in her despair! it might be that out of evil would come good, and from the deep desolation of my unsold "body" might arise the heavenly blessedness of such love as this! i was intoxicated with my hopes; and was on the point of making a public idiot of myself, but happily some slight remnant of common sense was left me. however, impatient to learn my fate, i drew julia aside; and, placing myself at her feet, while she was enthroned on a luxurious ottoman, i pretended that i must conclude the series of lectures on art, and the best methods of coloring, on which i had been employed with her ever since my visit. "you seem unhappy to-day, miss reay," i said, abruptly, with my voice trembling like a girl's. she raised her large eyes languidly. "unhappy? no, i am never unhappy," she said, quietly. her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious. it fell like music on the air. "i have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have been able to see correctly," i answered. "to me you have appeared always calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of sorrow on you, which a child might read. it is in your voice, and on your eyelids, and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on the young rose--beautifying while vailing the dazzling glory within." "ah! you speak far too poetically for me," said julia, smiling. "if you will come down to my level for a little while, and will talk to me rationally, i will tell you my history. i will tell it you as a lesson for yourself, which i think will do you good." the cold chill that went to my soul! her history! it was no diary of facts that i wanted to hear, but only a register of feelings--a register of feelings in which i should find myself the only point whereto the index was set. history! what events deserving that name could have troubled the smooth waters of her life? i was silent, for i was disturbed; but julia did not notice either my embarrassment or my silence, and began, in her low, soft voice, to open one of the saddest chapters of life which i had ever heard. "you do not know that i am going into a convent?" she said; then, without waiting for an answer, she continued: "this is the last month of my worldly life. in four weeks, i shall have put on the white robe of the novitiate, and in due course i trust to be dead forever to this earthly life." a heavy, thick, choking sensation in my throat, and a burning pain within my eyeballs, warned me to keep silence. my voice would have betrayed me. "when i was seventeen," continued julia, "i was engaged to my cousin. we had been brought up together from childhood, and we loved each other perfectly. you must not think, because i speak so calmly now, that i have not suffered in the past. it is only by the grace of resignation and of religion, that i have been brought to my present condition of spiritual peace. i am now five-and-twenty--next week i shall be six-and-twenty: that is just nine years since i was first engaged to laurence. he was not rich enough, and indeed he was far too young, to marry, for he was only a year older than myself; and if he had had the largest possible amount of income, we could certainly not have married for three years. my father never cordially approved of the engagement, though he did not oppose it. laurence was taken partner into a large concern here, and a heavy weight of business was immediately laid on him. youthful as he was, he was made the sole and almost irresponsible agent in a house which counted its capital by millions, and through which gold flowed like water. for some time, he went on well--to a marvel, well. he was punctual, vigilant, careful; but the responsibility was too much for the poor boy: the praises he received, the flattery and obsequiousness which, for the first time, were lavished on the friendless youth, the wealth at his command, all turned his head. for a long time, we heard vague rumors of irregular conduct; but as he was always the same good, affectionate, respectful, happy laurence, when with us, even my father, who is so strict, and somewhat suspicious, turned a deaf ear to them. i was the earliest to notice a slight change, first in his face, and then in his manners. at last, the rumors ceased to be vague, and became definite. business neglected; fatal habits visible, even in the early day; the frightful use of horrible words, which once he would have trembled to use; the nights passed at the gaming-table, and the days spent in the society of the worst men on the turf--all these accusations were brought to my father by credible witnesses; and, alas! they were too true to be refuted. my father--heaven and the holy saints bless his gray head!--kept them from me as long as he could. he forgave him again and again, and used every means that love and reason could employ to bring him back into the way of right; but he could do nothing against the force of such fatal habits as those to which my poor laurence had now become wedded. with every good intention, and with much strong love for me burning sadly amid the wreck of his virtues, he yet would not refrain: the evil one had overcome him; he was his prey here and hereafter. oh, no--not hereafter!" she added, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, "if prayer, if fasting, patient vigil, incessant striving, may procure him pardon--not forever his prey! our engagement was broken off; and this step, necessary as it was, completed his ruin. he died...." here a strong shudder shook her from head to foot and i half rose, in alarm. the next instant she was calm. "now, you know my history," continued she. "it is a tragedy of real life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your own!" with a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smile--oh! so sweet, so pure and heavenly!--julia reay left me; while i sat perfectly awed--that is the only word i can use--with the revelation which she had made both of her history and of her own grand soul. "come with me to my study," said mr. reay, entering the room; "i have a world to talk to you about. you go to-morrow, you say. i am sorry for it; but i must therefore settle my business with you in good time to-day." i followed him mechanically, for i was undergoing a mental castigation which rather disturbed me. indeed, like a young fool--as eager in self-reproach as in self-glorification--i was so occupied in inwardly calling myself hard names, that even when my host gave me a commission for my new picture, "the return of columbus," at two hundred and fifty pounds, together with an order to paint himself, mrs. reay, and half-a-dozen of their children, i confess it with shame, that i received the news like a leaden block, and felt neither surprise nor joy--not though these few words chased me from the gates of the fleet, whither i was fast hastening, and secured me both position and daily bread. the words of that beautiful girl were still ringing in my ears, mixed up with the bitterest self-accusations; and these together shut out all other sound, however pleasant. but that was always my way. i went back to london, humbled and yet strengthened, having learned more of human nature and the value of events, in one short fortnight, than i had ever dreamed of before. the first lessons of youth generally come in hard shape. i had sense enough to feel that i had learned mine gently, and that i had cause to be thankful for the mildness of the teaching. from a boy, i became a man, judging more accurately of humanity than a year's ordinary experience would have enabled me to do. and the moral which i drew was this: that under our most terrible afflictions, we may always gain some spiritual good, if we suffer them to be softening and purifying, rather than hardening influences over us. and also, that while we are suffering the most acutely, we may be sure that others are suffering still more acutely; and if we would but sympathize with them more than with ourselves--live out of our own selves, and in the wide world around us--we would soon be healed while striving to heal others. of this i am convinced: the secret of life, and of all its good, is in love; and while we preserve this, we can never fail of comfort. the sweet waters will always gush out over the sandiest desert of our lives while we can love; but without it--nay, not the merest weed of comfort or of virtue would grow under the feet of angels. in this was the distinction between mrs. arden and julia reay. the one had hardened her heart under her trials, and shut it up in itself; the other had opened hers to the purest love of man and love of god; and the result was to be seen in the despair of the one, and in the holy peace of the other. full of these thoughts, i sought out my poor lady, determined to do her real benefit if i could. she received me very kindly, for i had taken care to provide myself with a sufficient introduction, so as to set all doubts of my social position at rest: and i knew how far this would go with her. we soon became fast friends. she seemed to rest on me much for sympathy and comfort, and soon grew to regard me with a sort of motherly fondness that of itself brightened her life. i paid her all the attention which a devoted son might pay--humored her whims, soothed her pains; but insensibly i led her mind out from itself---first in kindness to me, and then in love to her grandson. i asked for him just before the midsummer holidays, and with great difficulty obtained an invitation for him to spend them with her. she resisted my entreaties stoutly, but at last was obliged to yield; not to me, nor to my powers of persuasion, but to the holy truth of which i was then the advocate. the child came, and i was there also to receive him, and to enforce by my presence--which i saw, without vanity, had great influence--a fitting reception. he was a pensive, clever, interesting little fellow; sensitive and affectionate, timid, gifted with wonderful powers, and of great beauty. there was a shy look in his eyes, which made me sure that he inherited much of his loveliness from his mother; and when we were great friends, he showed me a small portrait of "poor mamma;" and i saw at once the most striking likeness between the two. no human heart could withstand that boy, certainly not my poor friend's. she yielded, fighting desperately against me and him, and all the powers of love, which were subduing her, but yielding while she fought; and in a short time the child had taken his proper place in her affections, which he kept to the end of her life. and she, that desolate mother, even she, with her seared soul and petrified heart, was brought to the knowledge of peace by the glorious power of love. prosperous, famous, happy, blessed in home and hearth, this has become my fundamental creed of life, the basis on which all good, whether of art or of morality, is rested: of art especially; for only by a tender, reverent spirit can the true meaning of his vocation be made known to the artist. all the rest is mere imitation of form, not insight into essence. and while i feel that i can live out of myself, and love others--the whole world of man--more than myself, i know that i possess the secret of happiness; ay, though my powers were suddenly blasted as by lightning, my wife and children laid in the cold grave, and my happy home desolated forever. for i would go out into the thronged streets, and gather up the sorrows of others, to relieve them; and i would go out under the quiet sky, and look up to the father's throne; and i would pluck peace, as green herbs from active benevolence and contemplative adoration. yes; love can save from the sterility of selfishness, and from the death of despair; but love alone. no other talisman has the power; pride, self-sustainment, coldness, pleasure, nothing--nothing--but that divine word of life which is life's soul! the little sisters. almsgiving takes the place of the work-house system, in the economy of a large part of europe. the giving of alms to the helpless is, moreover, in catholic countries, a religious office. the voluntary surrender of gifts, each according to his ability, as a means of grace, is more prominently insisted upon than among protestants; consequently systematic taxation for the poor is not resorted to. nor is there so great a necessity for it as in england; for few nations have so many paupers to provide for as the english are accustomed to regard as a natural element in society; and thus it happens, that when, about ten years ago, there was in france no asylum but the hospital, for aged and ailing poor, the want of institutions for the infirm but healthy was not so severe as to attract the public eye. but there was at that time a poor servant-woman, a native of the village of la croix, in brittany--jeanne sugon was her name--who was moved by the gentleness of her heart, and the fervor of her religion, to pity a certain infirm and destitute neighbor, to take her to her side as a companion, and to devote herself to her support. other infirm people earned, by their helplessness, a claim on her attention. she went about begging, when she could not work, that she might preserve life as long as nature would grant it to her infirm charges. her example spread a desire for the performance of similar good offices. two pious women, her neighbors, united with jeanne in her pious office. these women cherished, as they were able, aged and infirm paupers; nursed them in a little house, and begged for them in the vicinity. the three women, who had so devoted themselves, attracted notice, and were presently received into the order of sisters of charity, in which they took for themselves the name of "little sisters of the poor"--petites s[oe]rs des pauvres. the first house of the little sisters of the poor was opened at st. servan, in brittany. a healthy flower scatters seed around. we saw that forcibly illustrated, in the progress, from an origin equally humble, of the rauhe haus, near hamburgh: we see it now again, in the efforts of the little sisters, which flourished and fructified with prompt usefulness. on the tenth anniversary of the establishment at st. servan, ten similar houses had been founded in ten different french towns. the _petites s[oe]urs_ live with their charges in the most frugal way, upon the scraps and waste meat which they can collect from the surrounding houses. the voluntary contributions by which they support their institution, are truly the crumbs falling from the rich man's table. the nurse fares no better than the objects of her care. she lives upon equal terms with lazarus, and acts toward him in the spirit of a younger sister. the establishment at dinan, over which jeanne sugon herself presides, being under repair, and not quite fit for the reception of visitors, we will go over the sisters' house at paris, which is conducted on exactly the same plan. we are ushered into a small parlor, scantily furnished, with some scripture prints upon the walls. a sister enters to us with such a bright look of cheerfulness as faces wear when hearts beneath them feel that they are beating to some purpose in the world. she accedes gladly to our desire, and at once leads us into another room of larger size, in which twenty or thirty old women are at this moment finishing their dinner; it being friday, rice stands on the table in the place of meat. the sister moves and speaks with the gentleness of a mother among creatures who are in, or are near to the state of second childhood. you see an old dame fumbling eagerly over her snuff-box lid. the poor creatures are not denied luxuries; for, whatever they can earn by their spinning is their own money, and they buy with it any indulgences they please; among which nothing is so highly prized or eagerly coveted as a pinch of snuff. in the dormitories on the first floor, some lie bed-ridden. gentler still, if possible, is now the sister's voice. the rooms throughout the house are airy, with large windows, and those inhabited by the sisters are distinguished from the rest by no mark of indulgence or superiority. we descend now into the old men's department; and enter a warm room, with a stove in the centre. one old fellow has his feet upon a little foot-warmer, and thinly pipes out, that he is very comfortable now, for he is always warm. the chills of age, and the chills of the cold pavement remain together in his memory; but he is very comfortable now--very comfortable. an other decrepit man, with white hair and bowed back--who may have been proud, in his youth, of a rich voice for love-song, talks of music to the sister; and, on being asked to sing, blazes out with joyous gestures, and strikes up a song of béranger's in a cracked, shaggy voice, which sometimes--like a river given to flow under ground--is lost entirely, and then bubbles up again, quite thick with mud. we go into a little oratory, where all pray together nightly before they retire to rest. thence we descend into a garden for the men; and pass thence by a door into the women's court. the chapel-bell invites us to witness the assembly of the sisters for the repetition of their psalms and litanies. from the chapel we return into the court, and enter a large room, where the women are all busy with their spinning-wheels. one old soul immediately totters to the sister (not the same sister with whom we set out), and insists on welcoming her daughter with a kiss. we are informed that it is a delusion of her age to recognize in this sister really her own child, who is certainly far away, and may possibly be dead. the sister embraces her affectionately, and does nothing to disturb the pleasant thought. and now we go into the kitchen. preparation for coffee is in progress. the dregs of coffee that have been collected from the houses of the affluent in the neighborhood, are stewed for a long time with great care. the sisters say they produce a very tolerable result; and, at any rate, every inmate is thus enabled to have a cup of coffee every morning, to which love is able to administer the finest mocha flavor. a sister enters from her rounds out of doors with two cans full of broken victuals. she is a healthy, and, i think, a handsome woman. her daily work is to go out with the cans directly after she has had her morning coffee, and to collect food for the ninety old people that are in the house. as fast as she fills her cans, she brings them to the kitchen, and goes out again; continuing in this work daily till four o'clock. you do not like this begging? what are the advertisements on behalf of our own hospitals? what are the collectors? what are the dinners, the speeches, the charity sermons? a few weak women, strong in heart, without advertisement, or dinners, or charity sermons; without urgent appeals to a sympathizing public; who have no occasion to exercitate charity, by enticing it to balls and to theatrical benefits; patiently collect waste food from house to house, and feed the poor with it, humbly and tenderly. the cans are now to be emptied; the contents being divided into four compartments, according to their nature--broken meat, vegetables, slices of pudding, fish, &c. each is afterward submitted to the best cookery that can be contrived. the choicest things are set aside--these, said a sister, with a look of satisfaction, will be for our poor dear sick. the number of sisters altogether in this house engaged in attendance on the ninety infirm paupers, is fourteen. they divide the duties of the house among themselves. two serve in the kitchen, two in the laundry; one begs, one devotes herself to constant personal attendance on the wants of the old men, and so on with the others, each having her special department. the whole sentiment of the household is that of a very large and very amiable family. to feel that they console the last days of the infirm and aged poor, is all the little sisters get for their hard work. how gunpowder is made.--visit to hounslow mills. hounslow gunpowder mills are not so much like a special "town," as so many other large manufactories appear, but rather have the appearance of an infant colony--a very infant one, inasmuch as it has very few inhabitants. we never met a single man in all our rambles through the plantations, nor heard the sound of a human voice. it is like a strange new settlement, where there is ample space, plenty of wood and water, but with scarcely any colonists, and only here and there a log-hut or a dark shed among the trees. these works are distributed over some hundred and fifty acres of land, without reckoning the surface of the colne, which, sometimes broad, sometimes narrow, sometimes in a line, and sometimes coiling, and escaping by a curve out of sight, intersects the whole place. it is, in fact, a great straggling plantation of firs, over swells and declivities of land, with a branch or neck of a river meeting you unexpectedly at almost every turn. the more we have seen of this dismal settlement "in the bush," the more do we revert to our first impression on entering it. the place is like the strange and squalid plantation of some necromancer in spenser's "fairy queen." many trees are black and shattered, as if by lightning; others distorted, writhing, and partially stripped of their bark; and all of them have a sort of conscious look that this is a very precarious spot for the regular progress of vegetation. you wander up narrow winding paths, and you descend narrow winding paths; you see the broad arm of a river, with little swampy osier islands upon it, and then you enter another plantation, and come upon a narrow winding neck of river, leading up to a great black slanting structure, which you are told is a "blast-wall;" and behind this is the green embankment of a fortification, and further back you come upon one of the black, ominous-looking powder "houses." you advance along other tortuous paths, you cross small bridges, and again you enter a plantation, more or less sombre, and presently emerge upon an open space, where you see a semicircular road of red gravel, with cart-ruts deeply trenched in it; and then another narrower road down to a branch of the river, where there is another little bridge; and beyond this, on the other side, you see a huge water-wheel revolving between two black barn-like houses. you ascend a slope, by a path of mud and slush, and arriving at another larger open space, you find yourself in front of a sheet of water, and in the distance you observe one enormous wheel--the diabolical queen of all the rest--standing, black and immovable, like an antediluvian skeleton, against the dull, gray sky, with a torrent of water running in a long narrow gully from beneath its lower spokes, as if disgorged before its death. this open space is surrounded by trees, above which, high over all, there rises a huge chimney, or rather tower; and again, over all this there float clouds of black smoke, derived from charred wood, if we may judge of the effect upon our noses and eyes. at distances from each other, varying from thirty or forty to a hundred and fifty yards, over this settlement are distributed, by systematic arrangement of the intervals, and the obstructive character of the intervening ground and plantations, no less than ninety-seven different buildings. by these means, not only is the danger divided, but the loss, by an explosion, reduced to the one "house" in which the accident occurs. such, at least, is the intention, though certainly not always affording the desired protection. the houses are also, for the most part, constructed of light materials, where the nature of the operation will admit of it; sometimes extremely strong below, but very light above, like a man in armor with a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes, there will be a free way upward, and they hope to get rid of the fury with no greater loss than a light roof. in some cases the roofs are of concrete, and bomb-proof; in others, the roofs are floated with water in shallow tanks. there are five steam-engines employed, one being a locomotive; and the extraordinary number of twenty-six water-mills, as motive powers for machinery--obviously much safer than any other that could be obtained from the most guarded and covered-in engines requiring furnaces. in this silent region, amidst whose ninety-seven work-places no human voice ever breaks upon the ear, and where, indeed, no human form is seen except in the isolated house in which his allotted task is performed, there are secreted upward of two hundred and fifty work-people. they are a peculiar race; not, of course, by nature, in most cases, but by the habit of years. the circumstances of momentary destruction in which they live, added to the most stringent and necessary regulations, have subdued their minds and feelings to the conditions of their hire. there is seldom any need to enforce these regulations. some terrific explosion here, or in works of a similar kind elsewhere, leaves a fixed mark in their memories, and acts as a constant warning. here no shadow of a practical joke, or caper of animal spirits ever transpires; no witticisms, no oaths, no chaffing, or slang. a laugh is never heard; a smile seldom seen. even the work is carried on by the men with as few words as possible, and these uttered in a low tone. not that any body fancies that mere sound will awaken the spirit of combustion, or cause an explosion to take place, but that their feelings are always kept subdued. if one man wishes to communicate any thing to another, or to ask for any thing from somebody at a short distance, he must go there; he is never permitted to shout or call out. there is a particular reason for this last regulation. amidst all this silence, whenever a shout _does_ occur, every body knows that some imminent danger is expected the next moment, and all rush away headlong from the direction of the shout. as to running toward it to offer any assistance, as common in all other cases, it is thoroughly understood that none can be afforded. an accident here is immediate and beyond remedy. if the shouting be continued for some time (for a man might be drowning in the river), that might cause one or two of the boldest to return; but this would be a very rare occurrence. it is by no means to be inferred that the men are selfish and insensible to the perils of each other; on the contrary, they have the greatest consideration for each other, as well as for their employers, and think of the danger to the lives of others, and of the property at stake at all times, and more especially in all the more dangerous "houses." the proprietors of the various gunpowder mills all display the same consideration for each other, and whenever any improvement tending to lessen danger is discovered by one, it is immediately communicated to all the others. the wages of the men are good, and the hours very short; no artificial lights are ever used in the works. they all wash themselves--black, white, yellow, and bronze--and leave the mills at half-past three in the afternoon, winter and summer. after several unsuccessful attempts to effect an entrance into one of the mysterious manufactories--attributable solely to the dangers of utter destruction that momentarily hover over all works of this kind, and not in the least from any want of courtesy in the proprietors--we eventually obtained permission to inspect these mills owned by the messrs. curtis, which are among the largest works of the kind in europe. it was a very wet day, but that circumstance was rather favorable than otherwise, as our obliging companion, mr. ashbee, the manager of the works, considerately informed us. after visiting successively the mills where the charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone, are separately prepared, we plash our way over the wet path to the "incorporation mill"--a sufficiently dangerous place. having exchanged our boots for india rubber over-shoes, we enter and find the machinery--consisting of two ponderous, upright millstones, rolling round like wagon-wheels, in a small circle. in the bed beneath these huge rolling stones lies, not one, but the _three_ terrible ingredients of powdered charcoal, saltpetre, and sulphur, which are thus incorporated. the bed upon which the stones roll is of iron; from it the stones would inevitably strike sparks--and "there an end of all"--if they came in contact in any part. but between the stones and the iron bed lies the incorporating powder--forty pounds of it giving a bed of intermediate powder, of two or three inches deep; so that the explosive material is absolutely the only protection. so long as the powder lies in this bed with no part of the iron left bare, all is considered to be safe. to keep it within the bed, therefore--while the rolling twist of the stones is continually displacing it, and rubbing it outward and inward--several mechanical contrivances are adopted, which act like guides, and scoops, and scrapers; and thus restore, with regularity, the powder to its proper place, beneath the stones. a water-wheel keeps this mill in action. no workmen remain here; but the time required for the incorporating process being known, the bed of powder is laid down, the mill set in motion, and then shut up and left to itself--as it ought to be, in case of any little oversight or "hitch" on the part of the guides, scoops, or scrapers. the machinery of these mills, as may be readily credited, is always kept in the finest order. "and yet," says mr. ashbee, in a whisper; "and yet, five of them--just such mills as these--_went off_ at faversham, the other day, one after the other. nobody knew how." this seasonable piece of information naturally increases the peculiar interest we feel in the objects we are now examining, as they proceed with their work. the next house we visit, mr. ashbee assures us, is a very interesting process. to be sure, it is one of the most dangerous; and what makes this worse, is the fact that the process is of that kind which requires the constant presence of the men. they can not set the machinery to work, and leave it for a given time; they must always remain on the spot. it is the "corning house" sometimes called "graining," as it is the process which reduces the cakes and hard knobs, into which the gunpowder has been forced by hydraulic pressure, into grains--a very nice, and, it would appear, a sufficiently alarming operation. ascending by a rising pathway, we pass over a mound covered with a plantation of firs, and descending to a path by the river side, we arrive at a structure of black timber, some five-and-twenty feet high, set up in the shape of an acute angle. this is a "blast-wall," intended to offer some resistance to a rush of air in case of an explosion near at hand. there is also a similar blast-wall on the opposite side of the river. passing this structure, we arrive at a green embankment thrown up as in fortified places, and behind and beneath this stands the "corning house." it is a low-roofed, black edifice, like the rest, although, if possible, with a still more dismal appearance. we know not what causes the impression, but we could fancy it some place of torture, devoted to the service of the darkest pagan superstitions, or those of the holy inquisition. a little black vestibule, or out-house, stands on the side nearest us. the whole structure is planted on the river's edge, to which the platform in front extends. we enter the little vestibule, and here we go through the ceremony of the over-shoes. we are then permitted to advance upon the sacred platform, and we then approach the entrance. if we have received a strange and unaccountable impression of a place of torture, from the external appearance and surrounding circumstances, this is considerably borne out by the interior. the first thing that seems to justify this is a dry, strangulated, shrieking cry which continues at intervals. we discover that it is the cry of a wooden screw in torment, which in some sort reconciles us. but the sound lingers, and the impression too. the flooring is all covered with leather and hides, all perfectly black with the dust of gunpowder, and on this occasion all perfectly dry. we do not much like that: the wet sliding about was more amusing; perhaps, also, a trifle safer. the first object that seizes upon our attention is a black square frame-work, apparently suspended from the ceiling. its ugly perpendicular beams, and equally uncouth horizontal limbs would be just the thing to hang the dead bodies of tortured victims in. we can not help following up our first impression. the men here, who stand in silence looking intently at us, all wear black masks. on the left there is reared a structure of black wood reaching to within two or three feet of the roof. it is built up in several stages, descending like broad steps. each of these broad steps contains a sieve made of closely woven wire, which becomes finer as the steps get lower and lower. in this machine we noticed iron axles for the wheels, but our attention was directed to the rollers, which were of zinc. thus the friction does not induce sparks, the action being also guarded against external blows. at present the machine is not in motion; and the men at work here observe their usual silence and depressing gravity. we conjecture that the machine, when put in motion, shakes and sifts the gunpowder in a slow and most cautious manner, corresponding to the seriousness of the human workers, and with an almost equal sense of the consequences of iron mistaking for once the nature of copper and brass. "put _on_ the house!" says mr. ashbee, in the calm voice always used here, and nodding at the same time to the head corning-man. a rumbling sound is heard--the wheels begin to turn--the black sieves bestir themselves, moving from side to side; the wheels turn faster--the sieves shake and shuffle faster. we trust there is no mistake. they all get faster still. we do not wish them to put themselves to any inconvenience on our account. the full speed is laid on! the wheels whirl and buzz--iron teeth play into brass teeth--copper winks at iron--the black sieves shake their infernal sides into fury--the whole machine seems bent upon its own destruction--the destruction of us all! now--one small spark--and in an instant the whole of this house, with all in it, would be instantly swept away! nobody seems to think of this. and see!--how the gunpowder rashes from side to side of the sieves, and pours down from one stage to the other. we feel sure that all this must be much faster than usual. we do not wish it. why should pride prevent our requesting that this horror should cease? we hear, also, an extraordinary noise behind us. turning hastily round, we see the previously immovable black frame-work for the dead whirling round and round in the air with frightful rapidity, while two men with wooden shovels are shoveling up showers of gunpowder, as if to smother and suffocate its madness. nothing but shame--nothing but shame and an anguish of self-command, prevents our instantly darting out of the house--across the platform--and headlong into the river. what a house--what a workshop! it is quiet again. we have not sprung into the river. but had we been alone here, under such circumstances for the first time, we should have had no subsequent respect for our own instincts and promptitude of action if we had done any thing else. as it was, the thing is a sensation for life. we find that the whirling frame-work also contains sieves--that the invisible moving power is by a water-wheel under the flooring, which acts by a crank. but we are very much obliged already--we have had enough of "corning." we take our departure over the platform--have our over-shoes taken off--and finding that there is something more to see, we rally and recover our breath, and are again on the path by the water's edge. a man is coming down the river with a small covered barge, carrying powder from one house to another. we remark that boating must be one of the safest positions, not only as unconducive to explosion, but even in case of its occurring elsewhere. mr. ashbee coincides in this opinion, although, he adds, that some time ago, a man coming down the river in a boat--just as that one is now doing--had his right arm blown off. we see that, in truth, _no_ position is safe. one may be "blown off" any where, at any moment. thus pleasantly conversing as we walk, we arrive at the "glazing-house." the process of glazing consists in mixing black-lead with gunpowder in large grains, and glazing, or giving it a fine glossy texture. for this purpose four barrels containing the grains are ranged on an axle. they are made to revolve during four hours, to render them smooth; black-lead is then added, and they revolve four hours more. there is iron in this machinery; but it works upon brass or copper wheels, so that friction generates heat, but not fire. the process continues from eight to twenty-four hours, according to the fineness of polish required; and the revolution of the barrels sometimes causes the heat of the gunpowder within to rise to one hundred and twenty degrees--even to charring the wood of the interior of the barrels by the heat and friction. we inquire what degree of heat they may be in at the present moment? it is rather high, we learn; and the head-glazer politely informs us that we may put our hand and arm into the barrels and feel the heat. he opens it at the top for the purpose. we take his word for it. however, as he inserts one hand and arm by way of example, we feel in some sort called upon, for the honor of "household words," to do the same. it is extremely hot, and a most agreeable sensation. the faces of the men here, being all black from the powder, and shining with the addition of the black lead, have the appearance of grim masks of demons in a pantomime, or rather of real demons in a mine. their eyes look out upon us with a strange intelligence. they know the figure they present. so do we. this, added to their subdued voice, and whispering, and mute gesticulation, and noiseless moving and creeping about, renders the scene quite unique; and a little of it goes a great way. our time being now short--our hours, in fact, being "numbered"--we move quickly on to the next house, some hundred yards distant. it is the "stoving-house." we approach the door. mr. ashbee is so good as to say there is no need for us to enter, as the process may be seen from the door-way. we are permitted to stand upon the little platform outside, in our boots, dispensing with the over-shoes. this house is heated by pipes. the powder is spread upon numerous wooden trays, and slid into shelves on stands, or racks. the heat is raised to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. we salute the head stove-man, and depart. but turning round to give a "longing, lingering look behind," we see a large mop protruded from the door-way. its round head seems to inspect the place where we stood in our boots on the platform. it evidently discovers a few grains of gravel or grit, and descends upon them immediately, to expurgate the evil communication which may corrupt the good manners of the house. a great watering-pot is next advanced, and then a stern head--not unlike an old medallion we have seen of diogenes--looks round the door-post after us. the furnace, with its tall chimney, by means of which the stove-pipes of the house we have just visited, are heated, is at a considerable distance, the pipes being carried under-ground to the house. we next go to look at the "packing-house," where the powder is placed in barrels, bags, tin cases, paper cases, canisters, &c. on entering this place, a man runs swiftly before each of us, laying down a mat for each foot to step upon as we advance, thus leaving rows of mats in our wake, over which we are required to pass on returning. we considered it a mark of great attention--a kind of oriental compliment. the last of our visits is to a "charge-house." there are several of these, where the powder is kept in store. we approach it by a path through a plantation. it lies deep among the trees--a most lonely, dismal sarcophagus. it is roofed with water--that is, the roof is composed of water-tanks, which are filled by the rain; and in dry weather they are filled by means of a pump arranged for that purpose. the platform at the entrance is of water--that is to say, it is a broad wooden trough two inches deep, full of water, through which we are required to walk. we do so, and with far more satisfaction than some things we have done here to-day. we enter the house alone; the others waiting outside. all silent and dusky as an egyptian tomb. the tubs of powder, dimly seen in the uncertain light, are ranged along the walls, like mummies--all giving the impression of a secret life within. but a secret life, how different! "ah! there's the rub." we retire with a mental obeisance, and a respectful air--the influence remaining with us, so that we bow slightly on rejoining our friends outside, who bow in return, looking from us to the open door-way of the "house!" with thoughtful brows, and not in any very high state of hilarity, after the duties of the day--not to speak of being wet through to the skin, for the second time--we move through the fir groves on our way back. we notice a strange appearance in many trees, some of which are curiously distorted, others with their heads cut off; and, in some places, there are large and upright gaps in a plantation. mr. ashbee, after deliberating inwardly a little while, informs us that a very dreadful accident happened here last year. "was there an explosion?" we inquire. he says there was. "and a serious one?"--"yes."--"any lives lost?"--"yes."--"two or three?"--"more than that."--"five or six?" he says more than that. he gradually drops into the narrative, with a subdued tone of voice. there was an explosion last year. six different houses blew up. it began with a "separating house,"--a place for sizing, or sorting, the different grains through sieves. then the explosion went to a "granulating-house," one hundred yards off. how it was carried such distances, except by a general combustion of the air, he can not imagine. thence, it went to a "press house," where the powder lies in hard cakes. thence, it went in two ways--on one side to a "composition mixing-house," and, on the other, to a "glazing-house;" and thence to another "granulating-house." each of these buildings were fully one hundred yards from another; each was intercepted by plantations of fir and forest trees as a protection; and the whole took place within forty seconds. there was no tracing how it had occurred. this, then, accounts for the different gaps--some of them extending fifty or sixty yards--in the plantations and groves? mr. ashbee nods a grave assent. he adds, that one large tree was torn up by the roots, and its trunk was found deposited at such a distance, that they never could really ascertain where it came from. it was just found lying there. an iron water-wheel, of thirty feet in circumference, belonging to one of the mills, was blown to a distance of fifty yards through the air, cutting through the heads of all the trees in its way, and finally lodging between the upper boughs of a large tree, where it stuck fast, like a boy's kite. the poor fellows who were killed--(our informant here drops his voice to a whisper, and speaks in short detached fragments; there is nobody near us, but he feels as a man should feel in speaking of such things)--the poor fellows who were killed were horribly mutilated--more than mutilated, some of them--their different members distributed hither and thither, could not be buried with their proper owners, to any certainty. one man escaped out of a house, before it blew up, in time to run at least forty yards. he was seen running, when suddenly he fell. but when he was picked up, he was found to be quite dead. the concussion of the air had killed him. one man coming down the river in a boat was mutilated. some men who were missing, were never found--blown all to nothing. the place where some of the "houses" had stood, did not retain so much as a piece of timber, or a brick. all had been swept away, leaving nothing but the torn-up ground, a little rubbish, and a black hash of bits of stick, to show the place where they had been erected. we turn our eyes once more toward the immense gaps in the fir groves, gaps which here and there amount to wide intervals, in which all the trees are reduced to about half their height, having been cut away near the middle. some trees, near at hand, we observe to have been flayed of their bark all down one side; others have strips of bark hanging dry and black. several trees are strangely distorted, and the entire trunk of one large fir has been literally twisted like a corkscrew, from top to bottom, requiring an amount of force scarcely to be estimated by any known means of mechanical power. amid all this quietness, how dreadful a visitation! it is visible on all sides, and fills the scene with a solemn, melancholy weight. but we will linger here no longer. we take a parting glance around, at the plantations of firs, some of them prematurely old, and shaking their heads, while the air wafts by, as though conscious of their defeated youth, and all its once-bright hopes. the dead leaves lie thick beneath, in various sombre colors of decay, and through the thin bare woods we see the gray light fading into the advancing evening. here, where the voice of man is never heard, we pause, to listen to the sound of rustling boughs, and the sullen rush and murmur of water-wheels and mill-streams; and, over all, the song of a thrush, even while uttering blithe notes, gives a touching sadness to this isolated scene of human labors--labors, the end of which, is a destruction of numbers of our species, which may, or may not, be necessary to the progress of civilization, and the liberty of mankind. an insane philosopher. a visitor to the hanwell insane asylum, in england, will have his attention directed to one of the inmates who is at once the "pet," the peer, the philosopher, and the poet of that vast community. no one can long enjoy the privilege of his company without perceiving that he has received a first-rate classical education. his mind is remarkably clear-visioned, acute, severe, logical, and accomplished. his manners usually display the refinement, polish, and urbanity of a well-bred gentleman, though at times, it is said, they are tinged with a degree of aristocratic pride, austerity, and hauteur, especially when brought into contact with the ignorant and vulgar. in conversation, though impeded by a slight hesitation of utterance, he displays clearness and breadth of intelligence in all his views, and pours forth freely from the treasures of a well-stored memory abundance of information, anecdote, and fact. his physiognomy and physical structure are well adapted to enshrine a mind of such a calibre. in stature he is tall, rather slender, but firmly knit. the muscular development of the frame denotes considerable strength--a quality which he claims to possess in a pre-eminent degree. he boasts, probably with considerable truth, of having no equal, in this respect, in the asylum. his head, beautifully formed, after a fine intellectual type, is partially bald--the few surviving locks of hair that fringe its sides being nearly gray. the keen, twinkling, gray eye; the prominent classic brow; the boldly-chiseled aquiline nose; the thin cheeks, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" the sharp features, together with the small, firmly-compressed mouth, plainly bespeak him a man of reflection, and strong purpose. in age, he appears to have weathered about fifty stormy winters. the term of his residence in this rendezvous of afflicted strangers is somewhere about six years. his _real_ name, his early history, his human kindred, his former social status--in fact, all the antecedents of his life, previous to his admission to the asylum--are utterly unknown. on all these matters he preserves the silence of a sphinx. no remarks, so far as we know, have ever escaped his lips, calculated to afford any certain clew for the elucidation of the mystery that enshrouds him. surmise and conjecture have of course been busy with their guesses as to his probable extraction; and the organ of wonder has been sorely taxed in an effort to account for the marvelous fact, that a gentleman of such apparent distinction, it may be of noble birth and fortune, should have been lost to his friends for a space of six years, and no earnest inquiries been made to discover his fate. that he is of aristocratic descent, appears to be the general impression among the officers and inmates of the asylum--an impression justified by his elegant manners, his superior attainments, his extensive acquaintance with noble families, and many significant allusions found in his painted chamber, upon the walls of which he has faithfully daguerreotyped the images, the feelings, the recollections, and the cherished sentiments of his inner man. the _fictitious_ name by which he is known at present is that of mr. chiswick--a name commemorative of the _scene_ of that sad event which has overshadowed the afternoon, and which threatens to darken the evening, of his earthly existence. but the reader will be anxious to learn under what strange conjunction of circumstances this mysterious being--without father or mother, brothers or sisters, kinsfolk or acquaintances, and without even a local habitation or a name--obtained an introduction to this strange home. we will at once state such facts as we have been able to collect. on one sabbath-day, about six years ago, a congregation had gathered together, as was their wont, for the celebration of divine worship, in the small country church of turnham green, near chiswick. the officiating clergyman and the worshiping assembly had jointly gone through the liturgical services without the occurrence of any unusual event. as soon as the robed minister had ascended the sacred desk, and commenced his discourse, however, the eyes of a portion of the audience were attracted toward a gentleman occupying a somewhat conspicuous position in the church, whose strange and restless movements, wild and excited air, and occasional audible exclamations, indicated the presence of either a fanatic or a lunatic. these symptoms continued to increase, until, at length, as if irritated beyond endurance by some sentiment that fell from the lips of the preacher, he gave way to a perfect paroxysm of frenzy, under the influence of which he seized his hat, and flung it at the head of the minister. of course, the service was suspended until the offender was expelled. it was soon discovered that the unhappy author of this untoward disturbance was suffering under a violent fit of mania. when borne from the church, no person could recognize or identify him. he was a total stranger to all residing in the neighborhood, so that no clew could be obtained that would enable them to restore him to the custody and surveillance of his friends. under these circumstances, he was taken to the adjoining work-house at isleworth, where he was detained for some weeks under medical care, during which period the most diligent inquiries were instituted with the view of unraveling the mystery of the stranger's kinship. but without avail. no one claimed him; and even when pressed himself to impart some information on the subject, he either could not or would not divulge the secret. finding, at length, that all efforts to identify the great incognito were ineffectual, he was removed to hanwell, the asylum of the county to which he had thus suddenly become chargeable, and where he has ever since remained. mr. chiswick is treated by the magistrates and officers with great kindness and consideration. his employments are such as befit a gentleman. no menial or laborious tasks are imposed upon him. he is allowed, to a great extent, to consult his predilections, and these are invariably of a tasteful and elegant description. his time is divided chiefly between reading and painting, in which occupations he is devotedly industrious. he is an early riser, and intersperses his more sedentary pursuits with seasons of vigorous exercise. to this practice, in conjunction with strictly temperate habits, he attributes his excellent health and remarkable prowess. to a stranger, no signs of mental aberration are discernible. his aspect is so calm and collected, and his ideas are so lucidly expressed, that, if met with in any other place besides an asylum, no one would suspect that he had ever been smitten with a calamity so terrible. he would simply be regarded as eccentric. so satisfied is he of his own perfect saneness, and of his ability to secure self-maintenance by the productions of his own genius, that confinement begins to be felt by him as intolerably irksome and oppressive. the invisible fetters gall his sensitive soul, and render him impatient of restraint. on our last visit but one, he declared that he had abandoned all thoughts of doing any thing more to his painted room; he aspired to higher things than that. he was striving to cultivate his artistic talents, so that by their exercise he might henceforth minister to his own necessities. who his connections, and what his antecedents were should never be known--they were things that concerned no one; his aim was to qualify himself, by self-reliant labor, to wrestle once more with the world, and to wring from it the pittance of a humble subsistence. as soon as he felt himself competent to hazard this step, he intended to demand his immediate release; "and, should it then be refused," said he, with the solemn and impressive emphasis of a man thoroughly in earnest, "they will, on the next day, find me a _corpse_." to the superintendent in the tailoring department, he likewise remarked, a short time since, when giving instructions for a new garment: "this is the last favor i shall ever ask of you. i intend shortly to quit the asylum; for if they do not discharge me of their own accord, in answer to my request, _i will discharge myself_." on the occasion of our second visit to the asylum, we were received by mr. chiswick with great courtesy, and were favored with a long conversation on a variety of topics. besides the exercise of his brush and pencil, his genius manifests itself in other ways, some of them being rather amusing and eccentric. among these, is that of making stockings, and other articles of apparel in a very original manner. his mind, as we have remarked, is well replenished with anecdotes and illustrations suitable to whatever topic may happen to be on hand. on the present occasion, upon offering us a glass of wine, we declined his hospitality, on the true plea that we had fasted since eight o'clock in the morning, and it was then nearly five in the afternoon. upon this, he produced a piece of sweet bread, saying, "take that first, and then the wine will not hurt you. you remember the anecdote of the bride? soon after her marriage, her mother inquired,'how does your husband treat you, my dear?' oh, he loves me very much, for he gives me two glasses of white wine every morning before i am up.' 'my dear child,' said the mother, with an air of alarm, 'he means to kill you. however, do not refuse the wine, but take a piece of cake to bed with you at night, and when he is gone for the wine in the morning, do you eat the cake, then the wine will not hurt you,' the bride obeyed the mother's advice, and lived to a good old age." having sat down by the fire in the ward with a number of the patients, mr. chiswick took out his pocket-book to show us a letter which he had received from some kind but unknown friend, who had visited the asylum, and also that he might present to us a piece of poetry, which had just been printed at the asylum press. in looking for these, he accidentally dropped a greater part of the contents of his pocket-book on the floor; and when one of the lunatics hastened to scramble for some of the papers, mr. chiswick, quick as thought, pulled off the officious patient's hat, and sent it flying to the other end of the ward, bidding its owner to run after it. we offered to assist in picking up the scattered papers, but he would not allow us to touch them. "you act," we remarked, "on the principle of not allowing others to do for you any thing that you can do yourself." "exactly so," said he, "and i will tell you a good anecdote about that. there was once a bishop of gibraltar, who hired a valet; but for some time this valet had nothing to do: the bishop cleaned his own boots, and performed many other menial tasks, which the servant supposed that he had been engaged to do. at length he said--'your lordship, i should be glad to be informed what it is expected that i should do. you clean your own boots, brush your own clothes, and do a multitude of other things that i supposed would fall to my lot.' 'well,' said the bishop, 'i have been accustomed to do this, and i can do it very well; therefore, why should you do it? i act upon the principle of never allowing others to do what i can do myself. therefore, do you go and study, and i will go on as usual. i have already had opportunities to get knowledge, and you have not; and i think that will be to do to you as i should wish you to do to me.'" bleak house. by charles dickens. chapter i.--in chancery. london. michaelmas term lately over, and the lord chancellor sitting in lincoln's inn hall. implacable november weather. as much mud in the streets, as if the water had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up holborn hill. smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. dogs, undistinguishable in mire. horses scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. fog everywhere. fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. fog on the essex marshes, fog on the kentish heights. fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. fog in the eyes and throats of ancient greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongy fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and plow-boy. most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. the raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation: temple bar. and hard by temple bar, in lincoln's inn hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the lord high chancellor in his high court of chancery. never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this high court of chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds, this day, in the sight of heaven and earth. on such an afternoon, if ever, the lord high chancellor ought to be sitting here--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. on such an afternoon, some score of members of the high court of chancery bar ought to be--as here they are--mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horse-hair warded heads against walls of words, and making a pretense of equity with serious faces, as players might. on such an afternoon, the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be--as are they not?--ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it), between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained glass windows lose their color, and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the drawl languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the lord high chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it, and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! this is the court of chancery; which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every mad-house, and its dead in every church-yard; which has its ruined suitor, with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance; which gives to moneyed might the means abundantly of wearying out the right; which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope; so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart; that there is not an honorable man among its practitioners who would not give--who does not often give--the warning, "suffer any wrong that can be done you, rather than come here!" who happen to be in the lord chancellor's court this murky afternoon besides the lord chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned? there is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy-purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. these are all yawning; for no crumb of amusement ever falls from jarndyce and jarndyce (the cause in hand) which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. the short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the newspapers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when jarndyce and jarndyce comes on. their places are a blank. standing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favor. some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit; but no one knows for certain, because no one cares. she carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls her documents; principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. a sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time, to make a personal application "to purge himself of his contempt;" which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. in the meantime, his prospects in life are ended. another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from shropshire, and breaks out into efforts to address the chancellor at the close of the day's business, and who can by no means be made to understand that the chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out "my lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint, on the instant of his rising. a few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight, linger, on the chance of his furnishing some fun, and enlivening the dismal weather a little. jarndyce and jarndyce drones on. this scare-crow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated, that no man alive knows what it means. the parties to it understand it least; but it has been observed that no two chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes, without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in jarndyce and jarndyce, without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. the little plaintiff or defendant, who was promised a new rocking-horse when jarndyce and jarndyce should be settled, has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps, since old tom jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in chancery-lane; but jarndyce and jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless. jarndyce and jarndyce has passed into a joke. that is the only good that has ever come of it. it has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession. every master in chancery has had a reference out of it. every chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. good things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers, in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. the last lord chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting mr. blowers the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we get through jarndyce and jarndyce, mr. blowers;"--a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses. how many people out of the suit, jarndyce and jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt, would be a very wide question. from the master, upon whose impaling files reams of dusty warrants in jarndyce and jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes; down to the copying clerk in the six clerks' office, who has copied his tens of thousands of chancery-folio-pages under that eternal heading; no man's nature has been made the better by it. in trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretenses of all sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. the very solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that mr. chizzle, mizzle, or otherwise, was particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of jarndyce and jarndyce. the receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it, but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother, and a contempt for his own kind. chizzle, mizzle, and otherwise, have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter, and see what can be done for drizzle--who was not well used--when jarndyce and jarndyce shall be got out of the office. shirking and sharking, in all their many varieties, have been sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil, have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong, it was, in some off-hand manner, never meant to go right. thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the lord high chancellor in his high court of chancery. "mr. tangle," says the lord high chancellor, latterly something restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman. "mlud," says mr. tangle. mr. tangle knows more of jarndyce and jarndyce than any body. he is famous for it--supposed never to have read any thing else since he left school. "have you nearly concluded your argument?" "mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship," is the reply that slides out of mr. tangle. "several members of the bar are still to be heard, i believe?" says the chancellor, with a slight smile. eighteen of mr. tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a piano-forte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of obscurity. "we will proceed with the hearing on wednesday fortnight," says the chancellor. for, the question at issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to a settlement one of these days. the chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward in a hurry; the man from shropshire cries, "my lord!" maces, bags, and purses, indignantly proclaim silence, and frown at the man from shropshire. "in reference," proceeds the chancellor, "still on jarndyce and jarndyce, to the young girl----." "begludship's pardon--boy," says mr. tangle, prematurely. "in reference," proceeds the chancellor, with extra distinctness, "to the young girl and boy, the two young people." (mr. tangle crushed.) "whom i directed to be in attendance to-day, and who are now in my private room, i will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle." mr. tangle on his legs again. "begludship's pardon--dead." "with their," chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the papers on his desk, "grandfather." "begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains." suddenly a very little counsel, with a terrific bass voice, arises, fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, "will your lordship allow me? i appear for him. he is a cousin, several times removed. i am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in what exact remove he is a cousin; but he _is_ a cousin." leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog knows him no more. every body looks for him. nobody can see him. "i will speak with both the young people," says the chancellor anew, "and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their cousin. i will mention the matter to-morrow morning when i take my seat." the chancellor is about to bow to the bar, when the prisoner is presented. nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration, but his being sent back to prison; which is soon done. the man from shropshire ventures another remonstrative "my lord!" but the chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. every body else quickly vanishes too. a battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked up. if all the injustice it has committed, and all the misery it has caused, could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre--why, so much the better for other parties than the parties in jarndyce and jarndyce! chapter ii.--in fashion. it is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same miry afternoon. it is not so unlike the court of chancery, but that we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. both the world of fashion and the court of chancery are things of precedent and usage; over-sleeping rip van winkles, who have played at strange games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties, whom the knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously. it is not a large world. relatively even to this world of ours, which has its limits too (as your highness shall find when you have made the tour of it, and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a very little speck. there is much good in it; there are many good and true people in it; it has its appointed place. but the evil of it is, that it is a world wrapped up in too much jeweler's cotton and fine wool, and can not hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and can not see them as they circle round the sun. it is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air. my lady dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks; after which her movements are uncertain. the fashionable intelligence says so, for the comfort of the parisians, and it knows all fashionable things. to know things otherwise, were to be unfashionable. my lady dedlock has been down at what she calls, in familiar conversation, her "place" in lincolnshire. the waters are out in lincolnshire. an arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped and sopped away. the adjacent low-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant river, with melancholy trees for islands in it, and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. my lady dedlock's "place" has been extremely dreary. the weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's ax can make no crash or crackle as they fall. the deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, where they pass. the shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud toward the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a back-ground for the falling rain. the view from my lady dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-colored view, and a view in indian ink. the vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall, drip, drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the ghost's walk, all night. on sundays, the little church in the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient dedlocks in their graves. my lady dedlock (who is child-less), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of temper. my lady dedlock says she has been "bored to death." therefore my lady dedlock has come away from the place in lincolnshire, and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges, and pheasants. the pictures of the dedlocks past and gone seemed to vanish into the damp walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms, shutting up the shutters. and when they will next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence--which, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not the future--can not yet undertake to say. sir leicester dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier baronet than he. his family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more respectable. he has a general opinion that the world might get on without hills, but would be done up without dedlocks. he would on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not inclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on your great county families. he is a gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness, and ready, on the shortest notice, to die any death you may please to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. he is an honorable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man. sir leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my lady. he will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. he has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks a little stiffly. he is of a worthy presence, with his light gray hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. he is ceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. his gallantry to my lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him. indeed, he married her for love. a whisper still goes about, that she had not even family; howbeit, sir leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any more. but she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her upward; and for years, now, my lady dedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable tree. how alexander wept, when he had no more worlds to conquer, every body knows--or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. my lady dedlock, having conquered _her_ world, fell, not into the melting but rather into the freezing mood. an exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue, not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her victory. she is perfectly well bred. if she could be translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture. she has beauty still, and, if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its autumn. she has a fine face--originally of a character that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. her figure is elegant, and has the effect of being tall. not that she is so, but that "the most is made," as the honorable bob staples has frequently asserted upon oath, "of all her points." the same authority observes, that she is perfectly got up and remarks, in commendation of her hair especially, that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. with all her perfections on her head, my lady dedlock has come up from her place in lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable intelligence), to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her departure for paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. and at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law, and eke solicitor of the high court of chancery, who has the honor of acting as legal adviser of the dedlocks, and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name outside, as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror's trick, and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. across the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it--fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in--the old gentleman is conducted, by a mercury in powder, to my lady's presence. the old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. he is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family confidences; of which he is known to be the silent depository. there are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of mr. tulkinghorn. he is of what is called the old school--a phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young--and wears knee breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. one peculiarity of his black clothes, and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is, that they never shine. mute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. he never converses, when not professionally consulted. he is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country houses, and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent: where every body knows him, and where half the peerage stops to say "how do you do, mr. tulkinghorn?" he receives these salutations with gravity, and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge. sir leicester dedlock is with my lady, and is happy to see mr. tulkinghorn. there is an air of prescription about him which is always agreeable to sir leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. he likes mr. tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tribute in that too. it is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. it expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar of the dedlocks. has mr. tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? it may be so, or it may not; but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in every thing associated with my lady dedlock as one of a class--as one of the leaders and representatives of her little world. she supposes herself to be an inscrutable being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals--seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks so. yet, every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to the manager of the italian opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices; and lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature, as her dress-maker takes of her physical proportions. is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewelry, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new any thing, to be set up? there are deferential people, in a dozen callings, whom my lady dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage her as if she were a baby; who do nothing but nurse her all their lives; who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservience, lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off, as lemuel gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic lilliput. "if you want to address our people, sir," say blaze and sparkle the jewelers--meaning by our people, lady dedlock and the rest--"you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place." "to make this article go down, gentlemen," say sheen and gloss the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, "you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable." "if you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connection, sir," says mr. sladdery the librarian, "or if you want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connection, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connection, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me; for i have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connection, sir; and i may tell you, without vanity, that i can turn them round my finger"--in which mr. sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all. "therefore, while mr. tulkinghorn may not know what was passing in the dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may. "my lady's cause has been again before the chancellor, has it, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. "yes. it has been on again to-day," mr. tulkinghorn replies; making one of his quiet bows to my lady, who is on a sofa near the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen. "it would be useless to ask," says my lady, with the dreariness of the place in lincolnshire still upon her, "whether any thing his been done." "nothing that _you_ would call any thing has been done to-day," replies mr. tulkinghorn. "nor ever will be," says my lady. sir leicester has no objection to an interminable chancery suit. it is a slow, expensive, british, constitutional kind of thing. to be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only property my lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression that for his name--the name of dedlock--to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. but he regards the court of chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in conjunction with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of human wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of every thing. and he is, upon the whole, of a fixed opinion, that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it, would be to encourage some person of the lower orders to rise up somewhere--like wat tyler. "as a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says mr. tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as i proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause;" cautious man, mr. tulkinghorn, taking no more responsibility than necessary; "and further, as i see you are going to paris, i have brought them in my pocket." (sir leicester was going to paris too, by-the-by, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his lady.) mr. tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp. "'in chancery. between john jarndyce--'" my lady interrupts him, requesting him to miss as many of the formal horrors as he can. mr. tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles, and begins again lower down. my lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. sir leicester in a great chair looks at the fire, and appears to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as ranging among the national bulwarks. it happens that the fire is hot, where my lady sits; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless, but small. my lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table--looks at them nearer--looks at them nearer still--asks impulsively: "who copied that?" mr. tulkinghorn stops short, surprised at my lady's animation and her unusual tone. "is it what you people call law hand?" she asks, looking full at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen. "not quite. probably"--mr. tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks--"the legal character it has, was acquired after the original hand was formed. why do you ask?" "any thing to vary this detestable monotony. o, go on, do!" mr. tulkinghorn reads again. the heat is greater; my lady screens her face. sir leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, "eh? what do you say?" "i say i am afraid," says mr. tulkinghorn, who has risen hastily, "that lady dedlock is ill." "faint," my lady murmurs, with white lips, "only that; but it is like the faintness of death. don't speak to me. ring, and take me to my room!" mr. tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. mercury at last begs mr. tulkinghorn to return. "better now," quoth sir leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and read to him alone. "i have been quite alarmed. i never knew my lady swoon before. but the weather is extremely trying--and she really has been bored to death down at our place in lincolnshire." chapter iii.--a progress. i have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for i know i am not clever. i always knew that. i can remember, when i was a very little girl indeed, i used to say to my doll, when we were alone together, "now, dolly, i am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!" and so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not so much at me, i think, as at nothing--while i busily stitched away, and told her every one of my secrets. my dear old doll! i was such a shy little thing that i seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to any body else. it almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me, when i came home from school of a day, to run up stairs to my room, and say, "o you dear faithful dolly, i knew you would be expecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all i had noticed since we parted. i had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, o no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me, and thinking i should like to understand it better. i have not by any means a quick understanding. when i love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. but even that may be my vanity. i was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only i was not charming--by my godmother. at least i only knew her as such. she was a good, good woman! she went to church three times every sunday, and to morning prayers on wednesdays and fridays, and to lectures whenever there were lectures; and never missed. she was handsome; and if she had ever smiled, would have been (i used to think) like an angel--but she never smiled. she was always grave, and strict. she was so very good herself, i thought, that the badness of other people made her frown all her life. i felt so different from her, even making every allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; i felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off; that i never could be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as i wished. it made me very sorry to consider how good she was, and how unworthy of her i was; and i used ardently to hope that i might have a better heart; and i talked it over very often with the dear old doll; but i never loved my godmother as i ought to have loved her, and as i felt i must have loved her if i had been a better girl. this made me, i dare say, more timid and retiring than i naturally was, and cast me upon dolly as the only friend with whom i felt at ease. but something happened when i was still quite a little thing, that helped it very much. i had never heard my mamma spoken of. i had never heard of my papa either, but i felt more interested about my mamma. i had never worn a black frock, that i could recollect. i had never been shown my mamma's grave. i had never been told where it was. yet i had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. i had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with mrs. rachael, our only servant, who took my light away when i was in bed (another very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, "esther, good-night!" and gone away and left me. although there were seven girls at the neighboring school where i was a day boarder, and although they called me little esther summerson, i knew none of them at home. all of them were older than i, to be sure (i was the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more clever than i was, and knowing much more than i did. one of them, in the first week of my going to the school (i remember it very well), invited me home to a little party, to my great joy. but my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me, and i never went. i never went out at all. it was my birthday. there were holidays at school on other birthdays--none on mine. there were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as i knew from what i heard the girls relate to one another--there were none on mine. my birthday was the most melancholy day at home, in the whole year. i have mentioned, that, unless my vanity should deceive me (as i know it may, for i may be very vain, without suspecting it--though indeed i don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. my disposition is very affectionate; and perhaps i might still feel such a wound, if such a wound could be received more than once, with the quickness of that birthday. dinner was over, and my godmother and i were sitting at the table before the fire. the clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in the room, or in the house, for i don't know how long. i happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table, at my godmother, and i saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, "it would have been far better, little esther, had you had had no birthday; that you had never been born!" i broke out sobbing and crying, and i said, "o, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did mamma die on my birthday?" "no," she returned. "ask me no more, child!" "o, do pray tell me something of her. do now, at last, dear godmother, if you please! what did i do to her? how did i lose her? why am i so different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother? no, no, no, don't go away. o, speak to me!" i was in a kind of fright beyond my grief; and i had caught hold of her dress, and was kneeling to her. she had been saying all the while, "let me go!" but now she stood still. her darkened face had such power over me, that it stopped me in the midst of my vehemence, i put up my trembling little hand to clasp hers, or to beg her pardon with what earnestness i might, but withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. she raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said, slowly, in a cold, low voice--i see her knitted brow, and pointed finger: "your mother, esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. the time will come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. i have forgiven her;" but her face did not relent; "the wrong she did to me, and i say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know--than any one will ever know, but i, the sufferer. for yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. forget your mother, and leave all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. now, go!" she checked me, however, as i was about to depart from her--so frozen as i was!--and added this: "submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. you are different from other children, esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. you are set apart." i went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears; and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom, cried myself to sleep. imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, i knew that i had brought no joy, at anytime, to anybody's heart, and that i was to no one upon earth what dolly was to me. dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together afterward, and how often i repeated to the doll the story of my birthday, and confided to her that i would try, as hard as ever i could, to repair the fault i had been born with (of which i confusedly felt guilty and yet innocent), and would strive as i grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and win some love to myself if i could. i hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as i think of it. i am very thankful, i am very cheerful, but i can not quite help their coming to my eyes. there! i have wiped them away now, and can go on again properly. i felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which ought to have been empty, that i found her more difficult of approach, though i was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. i felt in the same way toward my school companions; i felt in the same way toward mrs. rachael, who was a widow; and o toward her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! i was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent. one sunny afternoon, when i had come home from school with my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as i was gliding up stairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlor door, and called me back. sitting with her, i found--which was very unusual indeed--a stranger. a portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger. "this," said my godmother in an under tone, "is the child." then she said, in her naturally stern way of speaking, "this is esther, sir." the gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and said, "come here, my dear!" he shook hands with me, and asked me to take off my bonnet--looking at me all the while. when i had complied, he said, "ah!" and afterward "yes!" and then, taking off his eye-glasses and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his two hands he gave my godmother a nod. upon that, my godmother said, "you may go up-stairs, esther!" and i made him my courtesy and left him. it must have been two years afterward, and i was almost fourteen, when one dreadful night my godmother and i sat at the fireside. i was reading aloud, and she was listening. i had come down at nine o'clock, as i always did, to read the bible to her; and was reading, from st. john, how our saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him. "so when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them, he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her!'" i was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head, and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite another part of the book: "'watch ye therefore! lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. and what i say unto you, i say unto all, watch!'" in an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she fell down on the floor. i had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded through the house, and been heard in the street. she was laid upon her bed. for more than a week she lay there, little altered outwardly; with her old handsome, resolute frown that i so well knew, carved upon her face. many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, i kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. no, no, no. her face was immovable. to the very last, and even afterward, her frown remained unsoftened. on the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth re-appeared. i was sent for by mrs. rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away. "my name is kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; kenge and carboy, lincoln's inn." i replied, that i remembered to have seen him once before. "pray be seated--here, near me. don't distress yourself; it's of no use. mrs. rachael, i needn't inform you, who were acquainted with the late miss barbary's affairs, that her means die with her; and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead--" "my aunt, sir!" "it really is of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained by it," said mr. kenge, smoothly. "aunt in fact, though not in law. don't distress yourself! don't weep! don't tremble! mrs. rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--jarndyce and jarndyce." "never," said mrs. rachel. "is it possible," pursued mr. kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, "that our young friend--i _beg_ you won't distress yourself!--never heard of jarndyce and jarndyce?" i shook my head, wondering even what it was. "not of jarndyce and jarndyce?" said mr. kenge, looking over his glasses at me, and softly turning the case about and about, as if he were petting something. "not of one of the greatest chancery suits known? not of jarndyce and jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument of chancery practice? in which (i would say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and over again? it is a cause that could not exist, out of this free and great country. i should say that the aggregate of costs in jarndyce and jarndyce, mrs. rachael;" i was afraid he addressed himself to her, because i appeared inattentive; "amounts at the present hour to from six-ty to seven-ty thousand pounds!" said mr. kenge, leaning back in his chair. i felt very ignorant, but what could i do? i was so entirely unacquainted with the subject, that i understood nothing about it even then. "and she really never heard of the cause!" said mr. kenge. "surprising!" "miss barbary, sir," returned mrs. rachael, "who is now among the seraphim--" ("i hope so, i am sure," said mr. kenge, politely.) "--wished esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. and she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more." "well!" said mr. kenge. "upon the whole, very proper. now to the point," addressing me. "miss barbary, your sole relation (in fact, that is; for i am bound to observe that in law you had none), being deceased, and it naturally not being to be expected that mrs. rachael--" "o dear no!" said mrs. rachael, quickly. "quite so," assented mr. kenge; "that mrs. rachael should charge herself with your maintenance and support (i beg you won't distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which i was instructed to make to miss barbary some two years ago, and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. now, if i avow that i represent, in jarndyce and jarndyce, and otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular man, shall i compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" said mr. kenge, leaning back in his chair again, and looking calmly at us both. he appeared to enjoy beyond every thing, the sound of his own voice. i couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full, and gave great importance to every word he uttered. he listened to himself with obvious satisfaction, and sometimes gently beat time to his own music with his head, or rounded a sentence with his hand. i was very much impressed by him--even then, before i knew that he formed himself on the model of a great lord who was his client, and that he was generally called conversation kenge. "mr. jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--i would say, desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a first-rate establishment; where her education shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased--shall i say providence?--to call her." my heart was filled so full, both by what he said, and by his affecting manner of saying it, that i was not able to speak, though i tried. "mr. jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition, beyond expressing his expectation, that our young friend will not at any time remove herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge and concurrence. that she will faithfully apply herself to the acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she will be ultimately dependent. that she will tread in the paths of virtue, and honor, and--the--a--so forth." i was still less able to speak than before. "now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded mr. kenge. "take time, take time! i pause for her reply. but take time!" what the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, i need not repeat. what she did say, i could more easily tell, if it were worth the telling. what she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, i could never relate. this interview took place at windsor, where i had passed (as far as i knew) my whole life. on that day week, amply provided with all necessaries, i left it, inside the stage-coach, for reading. mrs. rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but i was not so good, and wept bitterly. i thought that i ought to have known her better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a favorite with her to make her sorry then. when she gave me one cold, parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--i felt so miserable and self-reproachful that i clung to her and told her it was my fault, i knew, that she could say good-by so easily! "no, esther!" she returned. "it is your misfortune!" the coach was at the little lawn gate--we had not come out until we heard the wheels--and thus i left her, with a sorrowful heart. she went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof, and shut the door. as long as i could see the house, i looked back at it from the window, through my tears. my godmother had left mrs. rachael all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first thing in the world i had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost and snow. a day or two before, i had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl, and quietly laid her--i am half-ashamed to tell it--in the garden-earth, under the tree that shaded my own window. i had no companion left but my bird, and him i carried with me in his cage. when the house was out of sight, i sat, with my bird-cage in the straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high window; watching the frosty trees that were like beautiful pieces of spar; and the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow; and the sun so red but yielding so little heat; and the ice, dark like metal, where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. there was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat, and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings; but he sat gazing out of the other window, and took no notice of me. i thought of my dead godmother; of the night when i read to her; of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed; of the strange place i was going to; of the people i should find there, and what they would be like, and what they would say to me; when a voice in the coach gave me a terrible start. it said, "what the de-vil are you crying for?" i was so frightened that i lost my voice, and could only answer in a whisper. "me, sir?" for of course i knew it must have been the gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out of his window. "yes, you," he said, turning round. "i didn't know i was crying, sir," i faltered. "but you are!" said the gentleman. "look here!" he came quite opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed me that it was wet. "there! now, you know you are," he said. "don't you?" "yes, sir," i said. "and what are you crying for?" said the gentleman. "don't you want to go there?" "where, sir?" "where? why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman. "i am very glad to go there, sir," i answered. "well, then! look glad!" said the gentleman. i thought he was very strange, or at least that what i could see of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was almost hidden in a fur cap, with broad fur straps at the side of his head, fastened under his chin; but i was composed again, and not afraid of him. so i told him that i thought i must have been crying, because of my godmother's death, and because of mrs. rachael's not being sorry to part with me. "con-found mrs. rachael!" said the gentleman. "let her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick!" i began to be really afraid of him now, and looked at him with the greatest astonishment. but i thought that he had pleasant eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner, and calling mrs. rachael names. after a little while, he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into a deep pocket in the side. "now, look here!" he said. "in this paper," which was nicely folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on muttonchops. here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in france. and what do you suppose it's made of? livers of fat geese. there's a pie! now let's see you eat 'em." "thank you, sir," i replied; "thank you very much, indeed, but i hope you won't be offended; they are too rich for me." "floored again!" said the gentleman, which i didn't at all understand; and threw them both out of window. he did not speak to me any more, until he got out of the coach a little way short of reading, when he advised me to be a good girl, and to be studious; and shook hands with me. i must say i was relieved by his departure. we left him at a milestone. i often walked past it afterward, and never, for a long time, without thinking of him, and half-expecting to meet him. but i never did; and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind. when the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window, and said, "miss donny." "no, ma'am, esther summerson." "that is quite right," said the lady, "miss donny." i now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged miss donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her request. under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside a very small green carriage; and then miss donny, the maid, and i, got inside, and were driven away. "every thing is ready for you, esther," said miss donny; "and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, mr. jarndyce." "of ----, did you say, ma'am?" "of your guardian, mr. jarndyce," said miss donny. i was so bewildered that miss donny thought the cold had been too severe for me, and lent me her smelling-bottle. "do you know my--guardian, mr. jarndyce, ma'am?" i asked, after a good deal of hesitation. "not personally, esther," said miss donny; "merely through his solicitors, messrs. kenge and carboy, of london. a very superior gentleman, mr. kenge. truly eloquent, indeed. some of his periods quite majestic!" i felt this to be very true, but was too confused to attend to it. our speedy arrival at our destination, before i had time to recover myself, increased my confusion; and i never shall forget the uncertain and unreal air of every thing at greenleaf (miss donny's house), that afternoon! but i soon became used to it. i was so adapted to the routine of greenleaf before long, that i seemed to have been there a great while; and almost to have dreamed, rather than to have really lived, my old life at my godmother's. nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly, than greenleaf. there was a time for every thing all round the dial of the clock, and every thing was done at its appointed moment. we were twelve boarders, and there were two miss donnys, twins. it was understood that i would have to depend, by-and-by, on my qualifications as a governess; and i was not only instructed in every thing that was taught at greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in helping to instruct others. although i was treated in every other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made in my case from the first. as i began to know more, i taught more, and so in course of time i had plenty to do, which i was very fond of doing, because it made the dear girls fond of me. at last, whenever a new pupil came, who was a little downcast and unhappy, she was so sure--indeed i don't know why--to make a friend of me, that all new-comers were confided to my care. they said i was so gentle; but i am sure _they_ were! i often thought of the resolution i had made on my birth-day, to try to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and win some love if i could; and indeed, indeed, i felt almost ashamed to have done so little, and have won so much. i passed at greenleaf six happy, quiet years. i never saw in any face there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better if i had never been born. when the day came round, it brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance, that my room was beautiful with them from new-year's day to christmas. in those six years i had never been away, except on visits at holiday time in the neighborhood. after the first six months or so, i had taken miss donny's advice in reference to the propriety of writing to mr. kenge, to say that i was happy and grateful; and, with her approval, i had written such a letter. i had received a formal answer acknowledging its receipt, and saying, "we note the contents thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client." after that, i sometimes heard miss donny and her sister mention how regularly my accounts were paid; and about twice a year i ventured to write a similar letter. i always received by return of post exactly the same answer, in the same round hand; with the signature of kenge and carboy in another writing, which i supposed to be mr. kenge's. it seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about myself!--as if this narrative were the narrative of _my_ life! but my little body will soon fall into the background now. six quiet years (i find i am saying it for the second time) i had passed at greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when, one november morning, i received this letter. i omit the date. _old square, lincoln's inn._ _madam,_ _jarndyce and jarndyce._ _our clt mr. jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an order of the ct of chy, a ward of the ct in this cause, for whom he wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity._ _we have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight o'clock coach from reading, on monday morning next, to white horse cellar, piccadilly, london, where one of our clks will be in waiting to convey you to our offe as above._ _we are, madam,_ _your obed^t serv^ts,_ _kenge and carboy._ _miss esther summerson._ o, never, never, never shall i forget the emotion this letter caused in the house! it was so tender in them to care so much for me; it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures toward me; that i could hardly bear it. not that i would have had them less sorry--i am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of rapture. the letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. when every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days; and when at last the morning came, and when they took me through all the rooms, that i might see them for the last time; and when some cried "esther, dear, say good-by to me here, at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and when others asked me only to write their names, "with esther's love;" and when they all surrounded mo with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, "what shall we do when dear esther's gone!" and when i tried to tell them how forbearing, and how good they had all been to me, and how i blessed, and thanked them every one; what a heart i had! and when the two miss donnys grieved as much to part with me, as the least among them; and when the maids said, "bless you, miss, wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who i thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums, and told me i had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart i had then! and could i help it, if with all this, and the coming to the little school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a gray-headed gentleman and lady, whose daughter i had helped to teach, and at whose house i had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring for nothing but calling out "good-by, esther. may you be very happy!" could i help it if i was quite bowed down in the coach by myself, and said, "o, i am so thankful, i am so thankful!" many times over! but of course i soon considered that i must not take tears where i was going, after all that had been done for me. therefore, of course, i made myself sob less, and persuaded myself to be quiet, by saying very often, "esther! now, you really must! this _will not_ do!" i cheered myself up pretty well at last, though i am afraid i was longer about it than i ought to have been; and when i had cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for london. i was quite persuaded that we were there, when we were ten miles off; and when we really were there, that we should never get there. however, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into us and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, i began to believe that we really were approaching the end of our journey. very soon afterward we stopped. a young gentleman who had inked himself by accident, addressed me from the pavement, and said, "i am from kenge and carboy's, miss, of lincoln's inn." "if you please, sir," said i. he was very obliging; and as he handed me into a fly, after superintending the removal of my boxes, i asked him whether there was a great fire any where? for the streets were so full of dense brown smoke that scarcely any thing was to be seen. "o dear no, miss," he said. "this is a london particular." i had never heard of such a thing. "a fog, miss," said the young gentleman. "o indeed!" said i. we drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever were seen in the world (i thought), and in such a distracting state of confusion that i wondered how the people kept their senses, until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway, and drove on through a silent square, until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there was an entrance up a steep broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a church. and there really was a church-yard outside under some cloisters, for i saw the grave-stones from the staircase window. this was kenge and carboy's. the young gentleman showed me through an outer office into mr. kenge's room--there was no one in it--and politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. he then called my attention to a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail on one side, of the chimney-piece. "in case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the journey, as you're going before the chancellor. not that it's necessary, i am sure," said the young gentleman, civilly. "going before the chancellor?" i said, startled for a moment. "only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "mr. kenge is in court now. he left his compliments, and would you partake of some refreshment;" there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a small table; "and look over the paper;" which the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. he then stirred the fire, and left me. every thing was so strange--the stranger for its being night in the day-time, and the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and cold--that i read the words in the newspaper without knowing what they meant, and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. as it was of no use going on in that way, i put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room which was not half lighted, and at the shabby dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had any thing to say for themselves. then i went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until the young gentleman by-and-by brought a very dirty pair; for two hours. at last mr. kenge came. _he_ was not altered; but he was surprised to see how altered i was, and appeared quite pleased. "as you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the chancellor's private room, miss summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you should be in attendance also. you will not be discomposed by the lord chancellor, i dare say?" "no, sir," i said, "i don't think i shall." really not seeing, on consideration, why i should be. so mr. kenge gave me his arm, and we went round the corner, under a colonnade, and in at a side door. and so we came, along a passage, into a comfortable sort of room, where a young lady and a young gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. a screen was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen, talking. they both looked up when i came in, and i saw in the young lady, with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! with such rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent, trusting face! "miss ada," said mr. kenge, "this is miss summerson." she came to meet me with a smile of welcome, and her hand extended, but seemed to change her mind in a moment, and kissed me. in short, she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner, that in a few minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the fire upon us, talking together, as free and happy as could be. what a load off my mind! it was so delightful to know that she could confide in me, and like me! it was so good of her, and so encouraging to me! the young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name richard carstone. he was a handsome youth, with an ingenuous face, and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire too, talking gayly, like a light-hearted boy. he was very young; not more than nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. they were both orphans, and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had never met before that day. our all three coming together for the first time, in such an unusual place, was a thing to talk about; and we talked about it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked its red eyes at us--as richard said--like a drowsy old chancery lion. we conversed in a low tone, because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel in our case addressing the lord chancellor. he told mr. kenge that the chancellor would be up in five minutes; and presently we heard a bustle, and a tread of feet, and mr. kenge said that the court had risen, and his lordship was in the next room. the gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly, and requested mr. kenge to come in. upon that, we all went into the next room; mr. kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me now, that i can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black, and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another chair. he gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was both courtly and kind. the gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one, and turned over the leaves. "miss clare," then said the lord chancellor. "miss ada clare?" mr. kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near him. that he admired her, and was interested by her, even _i_ could see in a moment. it touched me, that the home of such a beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry official place. the lord high chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents. "the jarndyce in question," said the lord chancellor, still turning over leaves, "is jarndyce of bleak house." "jarndyce of bleak house, my lord," said mr. kenge. "a dreary name," said the lord chancellor. "but not a dreary place at present, my lord," said mr. kenge. "and bleak house," said his lordship, "is in--" "hertfordshire, my lord." "mr. jarndyce of bleak house is not married?" said his lordship. "he is not, my lord," said mr. kenge. a pause. "young mr. richard carstone is present?" said the lord chancellor, glancing toward him. richard bowed and stepped forward. "hum!" said the lord chancellor, turning over more leaves. "mr. jarndyce of bleak house, my lord," mr. kenge observed, in a low voice, "if i may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for--" "for mr. richard carstone?" i thought (but i am not quite sure) i heard his lordship say, in an equally low voice, and with a smile. "for miss ada clare. this is the young lady. miss summerson." his lordship gave me an indulgent look, and acknowledged my courtesy very graciously. "miss summerson is not related to any party in the cause, i think?" "no, my lord." mr. kenge leant over before it was quite said, and whispered. his lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look toward me again, until we were going away. mr. kenge now retired, and richard with him, to where i was, near the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again i can't help it!) sitting near the lord chancellor; with whom his lordship spoke a little apart; asking her, as she told me afterward, whether she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she would be happy under the roof of mr. jarndyce of bleak house, and why she thought so? presently he rose courteously, and released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with richard carstone; not seated, but standing, and altogether with more ease and less ceremony--as if he still knew, though he _was_ lord chancellor, how to go straight to the candor of a boy. "very well!" said his lordship aloud. "i shall make the order. mr. jarndyce of bleak house has chosen, so far as i may judge," and this was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the circumstances admit." he dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to him for being so affable and polite; by which he had certainly lost no dignity, but seemed to us to have gained some. when we got under the colonnade, mr. kenge remembered that he must go back for a moment to ask a question; and left us in the fog, with the lord chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out. "well!" said richard carstone, "_that's_ over! and where do we go next, miss summerson?" "don't you know?" i said. "not in the least," said he. "and don't _you_ know, my love?" i asked ada. "no!" said she. "don't you?" "not at all!" said i. we looked at one another, half-laughing at our being like the children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came courtesying and smiling up to us, with an air of great ceremony. "o!" said she. "the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy, i am sure, to have the honor! it is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty, when they find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it." "mad!" whispered richard, not thinking she could hear him. "right! mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was quite abashed. "i was a ward myself. i was not mad at that time," courtesying low, and smiling between every little sentence. "i had youth, and hope. i believe, beauty. it matters very little now. neither of the three served, or saved me. i have the honor to attend court regularly. with my documents. i expect a judgment. shortly. on the day of judgment. i have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the revelations is the great seal. it has been open a long time! pray accept my blessing." [illustration: the little old lady.] as ada was a little frightened, i said, to humor the poor old lady, that we were much obliged to her. "ye-es!" she said, mincingly. "i imagine so. and here is conversation kenge. with _his_ documents. how does your honorable worship do?" "quite well, quite well! now don't be troublesome, that's a good soul!" said mr. kenge, leading the way back. "by no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with ada and me. "any thing but troublesome. i shall confer estates on both--which is not being troublesome, i trust? i expect a judgment. shortly. on the day of judgment. this is a good omen for you. accept my blessing!" she stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still with a courtesy and a smile between every little sentence, "youth. and hope. and beauty. and chancery. and conversation kenge! ha! pray accept my blessing!" chapter iv.--telescopic philanthropy. we were to pass the night, mr. kenge told us when we arrived in his room, at mrs. jellyby's; and then he turned to me, and said he took it for granted i knew who mrs. jellyby was? "i really don't, sir," i returned. "perhaps mr. carstone--or miss clare--" but no, they knew nothing whatever about mrs. jellyby. "in-deed! mrs. jellyby," said mr. kenge, standing with his back to the fire, and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were mrs. jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength of character, who devotes herself entirely to the public. she has devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects, at various times, and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry--_and_ the natives--and the happy settlement, on the banks of the african rivers, of our superabundant home population. mr. jarndyce, who is desirous to aid in any work that is considered likely to be a good work, and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has i believe, a very high opinion of mrs. jellyby." mr. kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us. "and mr. jellyby, sir?" suggested richard. "ah! mr. jellyby," said mr. kenge, "is--a--i don't know that i can describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of mrs. jellyby." "a nonentity, sir?" said richard, with a droll look. "i don't say that," returned mr. kenge, gravely. "i can't say that, indeed, for i know nothing whatever _of_ mr. jellyby. i never, to my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing mr. jellyby. he may be a very superior man; but he is, so to speak, merged--merged--in the more shining qualities of his wife." mr. kenge proceeded to tell us that as the road to bleak house would have been very long, dark, and tedious, on such an evening, and as we had been traveling already, mr. jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. a carriage would be at mrs. jellyby's to convey us out of town, early in the forenoon of to-morrow. he then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in. addressing him by the name of guppy, mr. kenge inquired whether miss summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sent round." mr. guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was waiting to take us round too, as soon as we pleased. "then it only remains," said mr. kenge, shaking hands with us, "for me to express my lively satisfaction in (good-day, miss clare!) the arrangement this day concluded, and my (_good_-by to you, miss summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the (glad to have had the honor of making your acquaintance, mr. carstone!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all concerned! guppy, see the party safely there." "where _is_ 'there,' mr. guppy?" said richard, as he went down stairs. "no distance," said mr. guppy; "round in thavies' inn, you know." "i can't say i know where it is, for i come from winchester, and am strange in london." "only round the corner," said mr. guppy. "we just twist up chancery-lane, and out along holborn, and there we are in four minutes' time, as near as a toucher. this is about a london particular _now_, ain't it, miss?" he seemed quite delighted with it on my account. "the fog is very dense indeed!" said i. "not that it affects you, though, i am sure," said mr. guppy, putting up the steps. "on the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss, judging from your appearance." i knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so i laughed at myself for blushing at it, when he had shut the door and got upon the box; and we all three laughed, and chatted about our inexperience, and the strangeness of london, until we turned up under an archway, to our destination: a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. there was a confused little crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door, with the inscription, jellyby. "don't be frightened!" said mr. guppy, look-in at the coach-window. "one of the young jellybys been and got his head through the area railings!" "o poor child," said i, "let me out, if you please!" "pray be careful of yourself, miss. the young jellybys are always up to something," said mr. guppy. i made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little unfortunates i ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened, and crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a milk-man and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were endeavoring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression that his skull was compressible by those means. as i found (after pacifying him), that he was a little boy, with a naturally large head, i thought that, perhaps, where his head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward. this was so favorably received by the milk-man and beadle, that he would immediately have been pushed into the area, if i had not held his pinafore, while richard and mr. guppy ran down through the kitchen, to catch him when he should be released. at last he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to beat mr. guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner. nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a person in pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; i don't know with what object, and i don't think she did. i therefore supposed that mrs. jellyby was not at home; and was quite surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor, before ada and me, announced us as, "them two young ladies, missis jellyby!" we passed several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came into mrs. jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things fell down stairs--down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great noise. mrs. jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we could not help showing in our own faces, as the dear child's head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair--richard afterward said he counted seven, besides one for the landing--received us with perfect equanimity. she was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman, of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. as if--i am quoting richard again--they could see nothing nearer than africa! "i am very glad indeed," said mrs. jellyby, in an agreeable voice, "to have the pleasure of receiving you. i have a great respect for mr. jarndyce; and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of indifference to me." we expressed our acknowledgments, and sat down behind the door, where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. mrs. jellyby had very good hair, but was too much occupied with her african duties to brush it. the shawl in which she had been loosely muffled, dropped on to her chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of stay-lace, like a summer-house. the room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, i must say, not only very untidy, but very dirty. we were obliged to take notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled down stairs: i think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him. but what principally struck us was a jaded, and unhealthy-looking, though by no means plain girl, at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of her pen, and staring at us. i suppose nobody ever was in such a state of ink. and, from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin upward, that was in its proper condition or its right place. "you find me, my dears," said mrs. jellyby, snuffing the two great office candles in tin candle-sticks, which made the room taste strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. the african project at present employs my whole time. it involves me in correspondence with public bodies, and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. i am happy to say it is advancing. we hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of borrioboola-gha, on the left bank of the niger." as ada said nothing, but looked at me, i said it must be very gratifying. "it is gratifying," said mrs. jellyby. "it involves the devotion of all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds; and i am more confident of success every day. do you know, miss summerson, i almost wonder that _you_ never turned your thoughts to africa?" this application of the subject was really so unexpected to me, that i was quite at a loss how to receive it. i hinted that the climate-- "the finest climate in the world!" said mrs. jellyby. "indeed, ma'am?" "certainly. with precaution," said mrs. jellyby. "you may go into holborn, without precaution, and be run over. you may go into holborn with precaution, and never be run over. just so with africa." i said, "no doubt."--i meant as to holborn. "if you would like," said mrs. jellyby, putting a number of papers toward us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general subject (which have been extensively circulated), while i finish a letter, i am now dictating--to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis--" the girl at the table left off biting her pen, and made a return to our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky. "--i shall then have finished for the present," proceeded mrs. jellyby, with a sweet smile; "though my work is never done. where are you, caddy?" "presents her compliments to mr. swallow, and begs--'" said caddy. "'--and begs,'" said mrs. jellyby, dictating, "to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquiry on the african project.'--no, peepy! not on any account!" peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen down stairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which ada and i did not know which to pity most--the bruises or the dirt. mrs. jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said every thing, "go along, you naughty peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on africa again. however, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as i interrupted nothing by doing so, i ventured quietly to stop poor peepy as he was going out, and to take him up to nurse. he looked very much astonished at it, and at ada's kissing him; but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. i was so occupied with peepy that i lost the letter in detail, though i derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things, that i felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it. "six o'clock!" said mrs. jellyby. "and our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! caddy, show miss clare and miss summerson their rooms. you will like to make some change, perhaps? you will excuse me, i know, being so much occupied. o, that very bad child! pray put him down, miss summerson!" i begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all troublesome; and carried him up-stairs and laid him on my bed. ada and i had two upper rooms, with a door of communication between. they were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork. "you would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said mrs. jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain. "if it is not being troublesome," said we. "o, it's not the trouble," returned miss jellyby; "the question is, if there _is_ any." the evening was so very cold, and the rooms had such a marshy smell, that i must confess it was a little miserable; and ada was half crying. we soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking, when miss jellyby came back to say, that she was sorry there was no hot water; but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order. we begged her not to mention it, and made all the haste we could to get down to the fire again. but all the little children had come up to the landing outside, to look at the phenomenon of peepy lying on my bed; and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of noses and fingers, in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. it was impossible to shut the door of either room; for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and though the handle of ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door. therefore i proposed to the children that they should come in and be very good at my table, and i would tell them the story of little red riding hood while i dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf. when we went down stairs we found a mug, with "a present from tunbridge wells" on it, lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick; and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage, blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door with mrs. jellyby's room), and choking dreadfully. it smoked to that degree in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour; during which mrs. jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about africa. her being so employed was, i must say, a great relief to me; for richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table; and he made ada laugh so, that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner. soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner; carefully, by mrs. jellyby's advice; for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. we had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw. the young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped every thing on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. the person i had seen in pattens (who i suppose to have been the cook), frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill-will between them. all through dinner; which was long, in consequence of such accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal-skuttle, and the handle of the cork-screw coming off, and striking the young woman in the chin; mrs. jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. she told us a great deal that was interesting about borrioboola-gha and the natives; and received so many letters that richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees, or resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives; others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four times to write. she was full of business, and undoubtedly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause. i was a little curious to know who a mild, bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away, and seemed passively to submit himself to borrioboola-gha, but not to be actively interested in that settlement. as he never spoke a word, he might have been a native, but for his complexion. it was not until we left the table, and he remained alone with richard, that the possibility of his being mr. jellyby ever entered my head. but he was mr. jellyby; and a loquacious young man, called mr. quale, with large shining knobs for temples, and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who came in the evening, and told ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of mrs. jellyby with mr. jellyby the union of mind and matter. this young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about africa, and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export trade, delighted in drawing mrs. jellyby out by saying, "i believe now, mrs. jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two hundred letters respecting africa in a single day, have you not?" or, "if my memory does not deceive me, mrs. jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars from one post-office at one time?"--always repeating mrs. jellyby's answer to us, like an interpreter. during the whole evening, mr. jeilyby sat in a corner with his head against the wall, as if he were subject to low spirits. it seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when alone with richard, after dinner, as if he had something on his mind; but had always shut it again, to richard's extreme confusion, without saying any thing. mrs. jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all the evening, and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. she also held a discussion with mr. quale; of which the subject seemed to be--if i understood it--the brotherhood of humanity; and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. i was not so attentive an auditor as i might have wished to be, however, for peepy and the other children came flocking about ada and me in a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story: so we sat down among them, and told them, in whispers, puss in boots and i don't know what else, until mrs. jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed. as peepy cried for me to take him to bed, i carried him up-stairs; where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragoon, and overturned them into cribs. after that, i occupied myself in making our room a little tidy, and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted, to burn; which, at last, it did, quite brightly. on my return down stairs, i felt that mrs. jellyby looked down upon me rather, for being so frivolous; and i was sorry for it; though, at the same time, i knew that i had no higher pretensions. it was nearly midnight before we could find an opportunity of going to bed; and even then we left mrs. jellyby among her papers drinking coffee, and miss jellyby biting the feather of her pen. "what a strange house!" said ada, when we got up-stairs. "how curious of my cousin jarndyce to send us here!" "my love," said i, "it quite confuses me. i want to understand it, and i can't understand it at all." "what?" asked ada, with her pretty smile. "all this, my dear," said i. "it _must_ be very good of mrs. jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--and yet--peepy and the housekeeping!" ada laughed: and put her arm about my neck, as i stood looking at the fire; and told me i was a quiet, dear, good creature, and had won her heart. "you are so thoughtful, esther," she said, "and yet so cheerful! and you do so much, so unpretendingly! you would make a home out of even this house." my simple darling! she was quite unconscious that she only praised herself, and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made so much of me! "may i ask you a question?" said i, when we had sat before the fire a little while. "five hundred," said ada. "your cousin, mr. jarndyce. i owe so much to him: would you mind describing him to me?" shaking back her golden hair, ada turned her eyes upon me with such laughing wonder, that i was full of wonder, too--partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise. "esther!" she cried. "my dear!" "you want a description of my cousin, jarndyce?" "my dear, i never saw him." "and _i_ never saw him!" returned ada. well, to be sure! no, she had never seen him. young as she was when her mamma died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of him, and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and ada trusted it. her cousin, jarndyce, had written to her a few months ago--"a plain, honest letter," ada said--proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on, and telling her that, "in time, it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable chancery suit." she had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. richard had received a similar letter, and had made a similar response. he _had_ seen mr. jarndyce once, but only once, five years ago, at winchester school. he had told ada, when they were leaning on the screen before the fire where i found them, that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." this was the utmost description ada could give me. it set me thinking so, that when ada was asleep, i still remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about bleak house, and wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long ago. i don't know where my thoughts had wandered, when they were recalled by a tap at the door. i opened it softly, and found miss jellyby shivering there, with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, and an egg-cup in the other. "good-night!" she said, very sulkily. "good-night!" said i. "may i come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me, in the same sulky way. "certainly," said i. "don't wake miss clare." she would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face; frowning, the whole time, and looking very gloomy. "i wish africa was dead!" she said, on a sudden. i was going to remonstrate. "i do!" she said. "don't talk to me, miss summerson. i hate it and detest it. it's a beast!" i told her she was tired, and i was sorry. i put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now, but would be cool to-morrow. she still stood, pouting and frowning at me; but presently put down her egg-cup, and turned softly toward the bed where ada lay. "she is very pretty!" she said, with the same knitted brow, and in the same uncivil manner. i assented with a smile. "an orphan. ain't she?" "yes." "but knows a quantity, i suppose? can dance, and play music, and sing? she can talk french, i suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and every thing?" "no doubt," said i. "_i_ can't," she returned. "i can't do any thing hardly, except write. i'm always writing for ma. i wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon, and see me able to do nothing else. it was like your ill-nature. yet you think yourselves very fine, i dare say!" [illustration: miss jellyby.] i could see that the poor girl was near crying, and i resumed my chair without speaking, and looked at her (i hope), as mildly as i felt toward her. "it's disgraceful," she said. "you know it is. the whole house is disgraceful. the children are disgraceful. _i_'m disgraceful. pa's miserable, and no wonder! priscilla drinks--she's always drinking. it's a great shame, and a great story, of you, if you say you didn't smell her to-day. it was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner, you know it was!" "my dear, i don't know it," said i. "you do," she said, very shortly. "you sha'n't say you don't. you do!" "o, my dear!" said i, "if you won't let me speak--" "you're speaking now. you know you are. don't tell stories, miss summerson." "my dear," said i, "as long as you won't hear me out--" "i don't want to hear you out." "o yes, i think you do," said i, "because that would be so very unreasonable. i did not know what you tell me, because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but i don't doubt what you tell me, and i am sorry to hear it." "you needn't make a merit of that," said she. "no, my dear," said i. "that would be very foolish." she was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with the same discontented face) and kissed ada. that done, she came softly back, and stood by the side of my chair. her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that i greatly pitied; but i thought it better not to speak. "i wish i was dead!" she broke out. "i wish we were all dead. it would be a great deal better for us." "in a moment afterward, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. i comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, no, no; she wanted to stay there! "you used to teach girls," she said. "if you could only have taught me, i could have learned from you! i am so very miserable, and i like you so very much!" i could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do any thing but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. by degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep; and then i contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. the fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. at first i was painfully awake, and vainly tried to lose myself, with, my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. at length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. i began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. now, it was ada; now, one of my old reading friends from whom i could not believe i had so recently parted. now, it was the little mad woman worn out with courtesying and smiling; now, some one in authority at bleak house. lastly, it was no one, and i was no one. the purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog, when i opened my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me. peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bedgown and cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut them all. hunting an alligator. in the course of the year , the proprietor of halahala at manilla, in the island of luconia, informed me that he frequently lost horses and cows on a remote part of his plantation, and that the natives assured him they were taken by an enormous alligator who frequented one of the streams which run into the lake. their descriptions were so highly wrought, that they were attributed to the fondness for exaggeration to which the inhabitants of that country are peculiarly addicted, and very little credit was given to their repeated relations. all doubts as to the existence of the animal were at last dispelled by the destruction of an indian, who attempted to ford the river on horseback, although entreated to desist by his companions, who crossed at a shallow place higher up. he reached the centre of the stream and was laughing at the others for their prudence, when the alligator came upon him. his teeth encountered the saddle, which he tore from the horse, while the rider tumbled on the other side into the water and made for the shore. the horse, too terrified to move, stood trembling where the attack was made. the alligator, disregarding him, pursued the man, who safely reached the bank which he could easily have ascended, but, rendered foolhardy by his escape, he placed himself behind a tree which had fallen partly into the water, and drawing his heavy knife leaned over the tree, and on the approach of his enemy struck him on the nose. the animal repeated his assaults and the indian his blows, until the former exasperated at the resistance, rushed on the man and seizing him by the middle of the body, which was at once inclosed and crushed in his capacious jaws, swam into the lake. his friends hastened to the rescue, but the alligator slowly left the shore, while the poor wretch, writhing and shrieking in his agony, with his knife uplifted in his clasped hands, seemed, as the others expressed it, held out as a man would carry a torch. his sufferings were not long continued, for the monster sank to the bottom, and soon after reappearing alone on the surface, and calmly basking in the sun, gave to the horror-stricken spectators the fullest confirmation of the death and burial of their comrade. a short time after this event i made a visit to halahala, and expressing a strong desire to capture or destroy the alligator, my host readily offered his assistance. the animal had been seen a few days before, with his head and one of his fore-feet resting on the bank, and his eyes following the motions of some cows which were grazing near. our informer likened his appearance to that of a cat watching a mouse, and in the attitude to spring upon his prey when it should come within his reach. i may here mention as a curious fact, that the domestic buffalo, which is almost continually in the water, and in the heat of day remains for hours with only his nose above the surface, is never molested by the alligator. all other animals become his victims when they incautiously approach him, and their knowledge of the danger most usually prompts them to resort to shallow places to quench their thirst. having heard that the alligator had killed a horse, we proceeded to the place, about five miles from the house; it was a tranquil spot and one of singular beauty even in that land. the stream, which a few hundred feet from the lake narrowed to a brook, with its green bank fringed with the graceful bamboo, and the alternate glory of glade and forest spreading far and wide, seemed fitted for other purposes than the familiar haunt of the huge creature that had appropriated it to himself. a few cane huts were situated at a short distance from the river, and we procured from them what men they contained, who were ready to assist in freeing themselves from their dangerous neighbor. the terror which he had inspired, especially since the death of their companion, had hitherto prevented them from making an effort to get rid of him, but they gladly availed themselves of our preparations, and, with the usual dependence of their character were willing to do whatever example should dictate to them. having reason to believe that the alligator was in the river, we commenced operations by sinking nets upright across its mouth, three deep, at intervals of several feet. the nets which were of great strength, and intended for the capture of the buffalo, were fastened to trees on the banks, making a complete fence to the communication with the lake. my companion and myself placed ourselves with our guns on either side of the stream, while the indians with long bamboos felt for the animal. for some time he refused to be disturbed, and we began to fear that he was not within our limits, when a spiral motion of the water under the spot where i was standing, led me to direct the natives to it, and the creature slowly moved on the bottom toward the nets, which he no sooner touched than he quietly turned back and proceeded up the stream. this movement was several times repeated, till, having no rest in the inclosure, he attempted to climb up the bank. on receiving a ball in the body, he uttered a growl like that of an angry dog, and plunging into the water crossed to the other side, where he was received with a similar salutation, discharged directly into his mouth. finding himself attacked on every side, he renewed his attempts to ascend the banks; but whatever part of him appeared was bored with bullets, and finding that he was hunted, he forgot his own formidable means of attack, and sought only safety from the troubles which surrounded him. a low spot which separated the river from the lake, a little above the nets, was unguarded, and we feared that he would succeed in escaping over it. it was here necessary to stand firmly against him, and in several attempts which he made to cross it, we turned him back with spears, bamboos, or whatever came first to hand. he once seemed determined to force his way, and foaming with rage, rushed with open jaws and gnashing his teeth with a sound too ominous to be despised, appeared to have his full energies aroused, when his career was stopped by a large bamboo thrust violently into his mouth, which he ground to pieces, and the fingers of the holder were so paralyzed that for some minutes he was incapable of resuming his gun. the natives had now become so excited as to forget all prudence, and the women and children of the little hamlet had come down to the shore to share in the general enthusiasm. they crowded to the opening, and were so unmindful of their danger that it was necessary to drive them back with some violence. had the monster known his own strength and dared to have used it, he would have gone over that spot with a force which no human power could have withstood, and would have crushed or carried with him into the lake about the whole population of the place. it is not strange that personal safety was forgotten in the excitement of the scene. the tremendous brute, galled with wounds and repeated defeat, tore his way through the foaming water, glancing from side to side, in the vain attempt to avoid his foes; then rapidly plowing up the stream he grounded on the shallows, and turned back frantic and bewildered at his circumscribed position. at length, maddened with suffering and desperate from continued persecution, he rushed furiously to the mouth of the stream, burst through two of the nets, and i threw down my gun in despair, for it looked as though his way at last was clear to the wide lake; but the third net stopped him, and his teeth and legs had got entangled in all. this gave us a chance of closer warfare with lances, such as are used against the wild buffalo. we had sent for this weapon at the commencement of the attack, and found it much more effectual than guns. entering the canoe, we plunged lance after lance into the alligator, as he was struggling under the water, till a wood seemed growing from him, which moved violently above while his body was concealed below. his endeavors to extricate himself lashed the waters into foam mingled with blood, and there seemed no end to his vitality or decrease to his resistance till a lance struck him directly through the middle of the back, which an indian, with a heavy piece of wood, hammered into him as he could catch an opportunity. my companion on the other side now tried to haul him to the shore, by the nets to which he had fastened himself, but had not sufficient assistance with him. as i had more force with me, we managed, by the aid of the women and children, to drag his head and part of his body on to the little beach, and giving him the _coup de grace_, left him to gasp out the remnant of his life. this monster was nearly thirty feet in length and thirteen feet in circumference, and the head alone weighed three hundred pounds. on opening him there were found, with other parts of the horse, three legs entire, torn off at the haunch and shoulder, besides a large quantity of stones, some of them of several pounds' weight. the moor's revenge.[ ] a paraphrase from the polish of mickiewicz by epes sargent. before grenada's fated walls, encamped in proud array, and flushed with many a victory, the spanish army lay. of all grenada's fortresses but one defies their might: on alphuara's minarets the crescent still is bright. almanzor! king almanzor! all vainly you resist: your little band is fading fast away like morning mist. a direr foe than ever yet they met on battle-plain assaults life's inmost citadel, and heaps the ground with slain. one onset more of spanish ranks-- (and soon it will be made!) and alphuara's towers must reel, and in the dust be laid. "and shall the haughty infidel pollute this sacred land?" almanzor said, as mournfully he marked his dwindling band. "upon our glorious crescent shall the spaniard set his heel? and is there not one lingering hope? can heaven no aid reveal? ay, by our holy prophet, _one_ ally still remains! and i will bind him close to me,-- for better death than chains!" the victors at the banquet sat, and music lent its cheer, when suddenly a sentry's voice announced a stranger near. from alphuara had he come. with fierce, unwonted speed, and much would it import to spain the news he bore to heed. "admit him!" cry the revelers; and in the pilgrim strode, and throwing off his mantle loose, a moorish habit showed! "almanzor! king almanzor!" they cried with one acclaim: "almanzor!" said the moslem chief-- "almanzor is my name. "to serve your prophet and your king, oh, spaniards! i am here; believe, reject me, if you will-- this breast has outlived fear! no longer in his creed or cause almanzor can confide; for all the powers above, 'tis clear, are fighting on your side!" "now, welcome, welcome, gallant moor!" the spanish chieftain said; "grenada's last intrenchment now we speedily shall tread. approach, embrace; our waning feast your coming shall renew; and in this cup of foaming wine we'll drink to yours and you." right eagerly, to grasp the hands outstretched on every side, almanzor rushed, and greeted each, as bridegroom might his bride; he glued his fevered lips to theirs-- he kissed them on the cheek, and breathed on each as if his heart would all its passion wreak. but suddenly his limbs relax, a flush comes o'er his face, he reels, as with a pressure faint, he gives a last embrace; and livid, purple, grows his skin, and wild his eyeballs roll, and some great torture seems to heave the life-roots of his soul. "look, giaours! miscreants in race. and infidels in creed! look on this pale, distorted face, and tell me what ye read! these limbs convulsed, these fiery pangs, these eyeballs hot and blear-- ha! know ye not what they portend? the plague--the plague is here! and it has sealed you for its own! ay! every judas kiss i gave shall bring to you anon an agony like this! all art is vain; your poisoned blood all leechcraft will defy; like me ye shall in anguish writhe-- like me in torture die!" once more he stepped, their chief to reach and blast him with his breath; but sank, as if revenge itself were striving hard with death. and through the group a horrid thrill his words and aspect woke, when, with a proud, undaunted mien, their chief alphonzo spoke: "and deem'st thou, treacherous renegade, whatever may befall, these warriors true, these hearts of proof, death ever can appall? ay, writhe and toss, no taint of fear the sight to them can bring; their souls are shrived, and death himself for them has lost his sting! "then let him come as gory war, with life-wounds deep and red, or let him strike as fell disease with racking pains instead-- still in these spirits he shall find a power that shall defy all woe and pain that can but make the mortal body die. so, brethren, leave this carrion here-- nay, choke not with thy gall!-- and through our camp a note of cheer let every bugle call! we'll tear yon crescent from its tower ere stars are out to-night: and let death come--we'll heed him not!-- so forward! to the fight!" a groan of rage upon his lips, almanzor hid his head beneath his mantle's ample fold, and soon was with the dead. but, roused by those intrepid words, to death-defying zeal, the chieftains armed as if they longed to hear the clash of steel. the trumpets sounded merrily, while, dazzlingly arrayed, on alphuara's walls they rushed, and low the crescent laid! and of the gallant, gallant hearts, who thus grim death defied, 'mid pestilence and carnage, none of plague or battle died! [footnote : from the standard speaker; containing exercises in prose and poetry, for declamation in schools, academies, lyceums, and colleges. newly translated or compiled from the most celebrated orators, ancient and modern. by epes sargent. in press by thomas, cowperthwait & co., philadelphia.] a taste of french dungeons. an incident in the life of mrs. radcliffe. toward the middle of the year , a short time after the deplorable affair of quiberon, an english lady was taken prisoner just as she was entering france by the swiss frontier. her knowledge of french was limited to a few mispronounced words. an interpreter was soon found, and upon his interrogating her as to her motives for attempting so perilous an enterprise without passport, she replied that she had exposed herself to all these dangers for the purpose of visiting the château where the barbarous sieur de fayel had made gabrielle de vergy eat the heart of her lover. such a declaration appeared so ridiculous to those who heard it that they were compelled to doubt either the sanity or the veracity of the strange being who ventured upon it. they chose to do the latter, and forwarded the stranger to paris, with a strong escort, as an english spy. upon her arrival there, she was safely deposited in the conciergerie. public feeling just then ran very high against the english. the countrywoman of pitt was loaded with ill-usage; and her terrors, expressed in a singular jargon of english mingled with broken french, served but to augment the coarse amusement of her jailers. after exhausting every species of derision and insult upon their prisoner, they ended by throwing her into the dampest and most inconvenient dungeon they could find. the door of this den was not more than four feet high; and the light that dimly revealed the dripping walls and earthen floor, came through a horizontal opening four inches in height by fifteen in width. the sole movables of the place consisted of a rope pallet and a screen. the bed served for both couch and chair; the screen was intended as a partial barrier between the inhabitant of the dungeon and the curious gaze of the jailers stationed in the adjoining apartment, who could scrutinize at will, through a narrow opening between the cells, the slightest movements of their prisoner. the stranger recoiled with disgust, and asked whether they had not a less terrible place in which to confine a woman. "you are very bad to please, madame," replied her brutal jailer, mimicking her defective french. "you are in the palace of madame capet." and shutting behind him the massive door, barricaded with plates of iron and secured by three or four rusty bolts, he left her, to repeat his joke to his companion, and enjoy with them the consternation of madame _rosbif_. meanwhile the prisoner fell upon her knees, and gazed around her with a species of pious emotion. "what right have i," she cried, "to complain of being cast into this dungeon, once inhabited by the queen of france--the beautiful, the noble marie antoinette? i sought food for my imagination; i undertook a journey to france to visit the most celebrated sojourns of the most celebrated individuals. fortune has come to my aid. here is what is better than the château of the sieur de fayel, and the terrible history of the bleeding heart. never did a grander inspiration overflow my spirits. i will to work." she drew from her pocket a small roll of paper, that had escaped the scrutiny of the jailers; and, passing her hand across her forehead, approached the horizontal opening, in order to make the most of the little remainder of daylight; then, taking out a pencil, she rapidly covered ten or twelve pages with microscopic characters in close lines. the increasing darkness at length compelled her to pause, and she was refolding the ms. to replace it in her pocket, when a rude hand snatched it from her grasp. "ah! ah! madame rosbif," cried the jailer, triumphantly, "so you believe yourself at liberty to scribble away here, hatching plots against the republic, and holding intelligence with the enemies of the nation. _nous verrons cela!_ these papers shall be remitted this very day to monsieur tallien, and we will know all about this new attack upon liberty. _entendez-vouz?_ miserable agent of pitt and cobourg." the same evening tallien received the stranger's manuscript. being unacquainted with the english language, he rang for his secretary; but the latter was nowhere at hand, so the puzzled minister took the papers and proceeded to his wife's apartments. madame tallien was just completing her toilet for a fancy ball. leaning forward in a graceful attitude, she was in the act of twining round her slender ankle the fastenings of a purple buskin. her grecian tunic, simply clasped upon the shoulder with diamonds, and her hair, knotted like that of the polyhymnia of the louvre, harmonized admirably with the classical contour of her features. monsieur tallien, as he gazed upon her, half forgot his errand. the lady uttered a little cry of surprise. "upon what grave errand has monsieur deigned to favor me with a visit at this unaccustomed hour?" "i have here some papers," replied the minister, "that have been seized upon the person of a female spy, and are said to contain proofs of a dangerous conspiracy. they are written in english; my secretary is absent; and i must ask you to do me the favor to translate them to me." madame tallien took the ms., and looked it over. "shall i read aloud?" said she, in an amused tone of voice. her husband assented. "the wind howls mournfully through the foliage, and the descending rain falls in torrents. the terrors of my prison become every instant more fearful. phantoms arise on every side, and wave their snowy winding-sheets. misfortune, with her cold and pitiless hand, weighs heavily on my youthful brow.' "thus spoke the lovely prisoner, as she groped with her trembling hands over the humid walls of the dungeon." "here is a singular conspiracy, truly," said madame tallien, as she finished reading the above. "let me see the envelope; 'chapter xii. the dungeon of the château.' and the authoress's name. 'anne radcliffe.' _vite, citoyen._ set this woman at liberty, and bring her to me. your spy is no other than the great english romance-writer, the celebrated authoress of the 'mysteries of udolpho!" tallien now recalled the romantic intention of the stranger's hazardous journey, as confessed by herself; perceived the mistake of his agents, and laughed heartily. going quickly out, he issued orders for the immediate liberation of the prisoner, and desired the messenger to bring her straight to the presence of madame tallien. meanwhile, the beautiful frenchwoman, forgetting her toilet and the ball, paced the apartment with almost childish delight and impatience. she was about to make the acquaintance--in a manner the most piquant and unexpected--of the authoress of those romances which had so often filled her vivid imagination with ideas of apparitions, and prisoners dying of hunger in horrible dungeons. she consulted her watch perpetually, and counted the very seconds. at length there was a sound of carriage-wheels in the court-yard of the hotel. madame tallien rushed to the door; it opened, and the two celebrated females stood face to face. the minister's wife could not avoid recoiling with surprise, and some degree of consternation, before the singular figure that paused in the open doorway; for mrs. radcliffe had stopped short, dazzled and bewildered by the lights of the saloon, which wounded eyes accustomed for some hours past to the humid obscurity of a dungeon. the english authoress presented a striking contrast to the radiant being before her. dry, cold, and angular, her attire necessarily in some degree of disorder from her arrest, forced journey, and imprisonment, her whole aspect had in it something _bizarre_ and fantastic, that added to her age at least ten years. a little recovered from her first surprise, madame tallien advanced toward the stranger, gave her a cordial welcome in english, and told her how happy she esteemed herself in having been the means of setting at liberty so celebrated an authoress. the englishwoman made a polite reply to this compliment, and then they seated themselves before the fire, whose clear flame and vivifying heat were very welcome to the liberated prisoner, and quickly restored an activity of mind that appeared to have been benumbed by the coldness of her dungeon. the ensuing conversation was gay, piquant, full of charm and _abandon_, and was only interrupted by the orders given by madame tallien to her _femme de chambre_ to send the carriage away, and deny her to all visitors. mrs. radcliffe had traveled much, and related her adventures with grace and originality. hours flew by unheeded, and the englishwoman was in the very midst of some bold enterprise of her journey in switzerland, when the time-piece struck twelve. she turned pale, and a visible shuddering seized her. then pausing in her tale, she looked wildly and fearfully around, as if following the movements of some invisible being. madame tallien, struck with a species of vague terror, dared not address a single word to her visitor. the latter at length abruptly rose, opened the door, and with an imperative gesture ordered some one by the name of henry to leave the room, after which she appeared to experience a sudden relief. the lovely frenchwoman, with the tact of real kindness, appeared not to notice this strange incident, and the new-made friends soon after separated, madame tallien herself conducting her guest to the apartment provided for her, where she took leave of her with an affectionate "_au revoir!_" the following evening mrs. radcliffe appeared in her hostess's saloon, as soon as the latter had signified that she was ready to receive her. calm and composed, habited _a la française_, the english romancist appeared ten years younger than she had done the evening before, and was even not without a certain degree of beauty. she said not a word on the scene of the preceding evening; was gay, witty, amiable, and took an animated part in the conversation that followed. but as soon as the minute-hand of the time-piece pointed to half-past eleven, her color fled, a shade of pensiveness replaced her former gayety, and a few moments afterward she took her leave of the company. the same thing happened the next day, and every ensuing evening. madame tallien could not avoid a feeling of curiosity, but she had too much politeness to question the stranger confided to her hospitality. in this way a month elapsed, at the end of which time mrs. radcliffe could not avoid expressing, one evening when she found herself alone with her new friend, her disappointment at being detained a prisoner in france, without the power of returning to her own country. upon this madame tallien rose, took a paper from a desk, and handed it to the englishwoman. it was a passport dated from the same evening that mrs. radcliffe had been liberated from her dungeon. "since you wish to leave your french friends," said her lovely hostess, smiling, "go, ingrate!" "oh, no, not ungrateful!" replied the authoress, taking the beautiful hands of her friend, and carrying them to her lips; "but the year is fast waning, and a solemn duty recalls me to my native land. in the church-yard of a poor village near london are two tombs, which i visit each christmas-day with flowers and prayers. if i return not before then, this will be the first time for five years that they have been neglected. you already know all my other secrets," she continued, lowering her voice; "it is my intention to confide this secret also to your friendly ears." passing her hand across her brow, the englishwoman then proceeded to relate a strange and tragic tale, for the particulars of which we have not space in our limited sketch. suffice it to say, that it had left our authoress subject to a distressing and obstinate spectral illusion. in the reality of this appearance she firmly believed, not having sufficient knowledge of science to attribute her visitation to its true origin--a partial disarrangement of the nervous system. this visitation regularly recurred at midnight, and at once accounted for the singular behavior that had so piqued the benevolent frenchwoman's curiosity. mrs. radcliffe now returned to london, where she shortly afterward published "the italian, or the confessional of the black penitents." we can, in our day, realize to ourselves very little of the effect produced by anne radcliffe's romances at the time of their appearance. all the contemporary critics agree in testifying to their immense success, only inferior to that of the waverley novels in more recent times. now they appear nothing more than the efflux of a morbid imagination, full of hallucinations and absurdities, and insufferably tedious to our modern tastes, accustomed to the condensed writing of the present day. their unconnected plots are nevertheless not altogether devoid of a certain sort of interest, and are fraught with picturesque situations and melodramatic surprises. the living characters therein introduced present few natural features. we recognize every where the caprices of an unbridled fancy, and a prevailing vitiation of sense and taste. anne radcliffe died near london, on the th february, , at the age of . the "new monthly magazine," for may of that year, announces her decease, and affirms that her death was accompanied by singular visions, which had pursued her ever since a romantic event of her youth. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] chapter xvii.--continued. [footnote : continued from the march number.] "your flatterers will tell you, signorina, that you are much improved since then, but i liked you better as you were; not but what i hope to return some day what you then so generously pressed upon me." "pressed upon you!--i? signor, you are under some strange mistake." "alas! no; but the female heart is so capricious and fickle! you pressed it upon me, i assure you. i own that i was not loth to accept it." "pressed it? pressed, what?" "your kiss, my child," said harley; and then added with a serious tenderness, "and i again say that i hope to return it some day--when i see you, by the side of father and of husband, in your native land--the fairest bride on whom the skies of italy ever smiled! and now, pardon a hermit and a soldier for his rude jests, and give your hand in token of that pardon, to--harley l'estrange." violante, who at the first words of this address had recoiled, with a vague belief that the stranger was out of his mind, sprang forward as it closed, and in all the vivid enthusiasm of her nature, pressed the hand held out to her, with both her own. "harley l'estrange--the preserver of my father's life!" she cried, and her eyes were fixed on his with such evident gratitude and reverence, that harley felt at once confused and delighted. she did not think at that instant of the hero of her dreams--she thought but of him who had saved her father. but, as his eyes sank before her own, and his head, uncovered, bowed over the hand he held, she recognized the likeness to the features on which she had so often gazed. the first bloom of youth was gone, but enough of youth still remained to soften the lapse of years, and to leave to manhood the attractions which charm the eye. instinctively she withdrew her hands from his clasp, and, in her turn, looked down. in this pause of embarrassment to both, riccabocca let himself into the garden by his own latch-key, and, startled to see a man by the side of violante, sprang forward with an abrupt and angry cry. harley heard, and turned. as if restored to courage and self-possession by the sense of her father's presence, violante again took the hand of the visitor. "father," she said, simply, "it is he--_he_ is come at last." and then, retiring a few steps, she contemplated them both; and her face was radiant with happiness--as if something, long silently missed and looked for, was as silently found, and life had no more a want, nor the heart a void. book x.--initial chapter. it is observed by a very pleasant writer--read nowadays only by the brave, pertinacious few who still struggle hard to rescue from the house of pluto the souls of departed authors, jostled and chased as those souls are by the noisy footsteps of the living--it is observed by the admirable charron, that "judgment and wisdom is not only the best, but the happiest portion god almighty hath distributed among men; for though this distribution be made with a very uneven hand, yet nobody thinks himself stinted or ill-dealt with, but he that hath never so little is contented in _this_ respect."[ ] [footnote : translation of _charron on wisdom_. by g. stanhope, d.d., late dean of canterbury ( ). a translation remarkable for ease, vigor, and (despite that contempt for the strict rules of grammar, which was common enough among writers at the commencement of the last century) for the idiomatic raciness of its english.] and, certainly, the present narrative may serve in notable illustration of the remark so drily made by the witty and wise preacher. for whether our friend riccabocca deduce theories for daily life from the great folio of machiavel; or that promising young gentleman, mr. randal leslie, interpret the power of knowledge into the art of being too knowing for dull honest folks to cope with him; or acute dick avenel push his way up the social ascent with a blow for those before, and a kick for those behind him, after the approved fashion of your strong new man; or baron levy--that cynical impersonation of gold--compare himself to the magnetic rock in the arabian tale, to which the nails in every ship that approaches the influence of the loadstone fly from the planks, and a shipwreck per day adds its waifs to the rock: questionless, at least, it is, that each of these personages believed that providence had bestowed on him an elder son's inheritance of wisdom. nor, were we to glance toward the obscurer paths of life, should we find good parson dale deem himself worse off than the rest of the world in this precious commodity--as, indeed, he had signally evinced of late in that shrewd guess of his touching professor moss; even plain squire hazeldean took it for granted that he could teach audley egerton a thing or two worth knowing in politics; mr. stirn thought that there was no branch of useful lore on which he could not instruct the squire; and sprott, the tinker, with his bag full of tracts and lucifer matches, regarded the whole framework of modern society, from a rick to a constitution, with the profound disdain of a revolutionary philosopher. considering that every individual thus brings into the stock of the world so vast a share of intelligence, it can not but excite our wonder to find that oxenstiern is popularly held to be right when he said, "see, my son, how little wisdom it requires to govern states;"--that is, men! that so many millions of persons each with a profound assurance that he is possessed of an exalted sagacity, should concur in the ascendency of a few inferior intellects, according to a few stupid, prosy, matter-of-fact rules as old as the hills, is a phenomenon very discreditable to the spirit and energy of the aggregate human species! it creates no surprise that one sensible watch-dog should control the movements of a flock of silly, grass-eating sheep; but that two or three silly, grass-eating sheep should give the law to whole flocks of such mighty sensible watch-dog--_diavolo!_ dr. riccabocca, explain _that_ if you can! and wonderfully strange it is, that notwithstanding all the march of enlightenment, notwithstanding our progressive discoveries in the laws of nature--our railways, steam engines, animal magnetism, and electro-biology--we have never made any improvement that is generally acknowledged, since men ceased to be troglodytes and nomads, in the old-fashioned gamut of flats and sharps, which attunes into irregular social jog-trot all the generations that pass from the cradle to the grave; still, "_the desire for something we have not_" impels all the energies that keep us in movement, for good for ill, according to the checks or the directions of each favorite desire. a friend of mine once said to a _millionaire_, whom he saw forever engaged in making money which he never seemed to have any pleasure in spending, "pray, mr. ----, will you answer me one question: you are said to have two millions, and you spend £ a year. in order to rest and enjoy, what will content you?" "a little more," answered the _millionaire_. that "little more" is the mainspring of civilization. nobody ever gets it! "philus," saith a latin writer, "was not so rich as lælius; lælius was not so rich as scipio; scipio was not so rich as crassus; and crassus was not so rich--as he wished to be!" if john bull were once contented, manchester might shut up its mills. it is the "little more" that makes a mere trifle of the national debt!--long life to it! still, mend our law-books as we will, one is forced to confess that knaves are often seen in fine linen, and honest men in the most shabby old rags; and still, notwithstanding the exceptions, knavery is a very hazardous game; and honesty, on the whole, by far the best policy. still, most of the ten commandments remain at the core of all the pandects and institutes that keep our hands off our neighbors' throats, wives, and pockets; still, every year shows that the parson's maxim--_quieta non movere_--is as prudent for the health of communities as when apollo recommended his votaries not to rake up a fever by stirring the lake camarina; still people, thank heaven, decline to reside in parallelograms; and the surest token that we live under a free government is, when we are governed by persons whom we have a full right to imply, by our censure and ridicule, are blockheads compared to ourselves! stop that delightful privilege, and, by jove! sir, there is neither pleasure nor honor in being governed at all! you might as well be--a frenchman. chapter ii. the italian and his friend are closeted together. "and why have you left your home in ----shire? and why this new change of name?" "peschiera is in england." "i know it." "and bent on discovering me; and, it is said, of stealing from me my child." "he has had the assurance to lay wagers that he will win the hand of your heiress. i know that too; and therefore i have come to england--first to baffle his design--for i do not think your fears are exaggerated--and next to learn from you how to follow up a clew which, unless i am too sanguine, may lead to his ruin, and your unconditional restoration. listen to me. you are aware that, after the skirmish with peschiera's armed hirelings, sent in search of you, i received a polite message from the austrian government, requesting me to leave its italian domains. now, as i hold it the obvious duty of any foreigner, admitted to the hospitality of a state, to refrain from all participation in its civil disturbances, so i thought my honor assailed at this intimation, and went at once to vienna to explain to the minister there (to whom i was personally known), that though i had, as became man to man, aided to protect a refugee, who had taken shelter under my roof, from the infuriated soldiers at the command of his private foe, i had not only not shared in any attempt at revolt, but dissuaded, as far as i could, my italian friends from their enterprise; and that because, without discussing its merits, i believed, as a military man and a cool spectator, the enterprise could only terminate in fruitless bloodshed. i was enabled to establish my explanation by satisfactory proof; and my acquaintance with the minister assumed something of the character of friendship. i was then in a position to advocate your cause, and to state your original reluctance to enter into the plots of the insurgents. i admitted freely that you had such natural desire for the independence of your native land, that, had the standard of italy been boldly hoisted by its legitimate chiefs, or at the common uprising of its whole people, you would have been found in the van, amidst the ranks of your countrymen; but i maintained that you would never have shared in a conspiracy frantic in itself, and defiled by the lawless schemes and sordid ambition of its main projectors, had you not been betrayed and decoyed into it by the misrepresentations and domestic treachery of your kinsman--the very man who denounced you. unfortunately, of this statement i had no proof but your own word. i made, however, so far an impression in your favor, and, it may be, against the traitor, that your property was not confiscated to the state, nor handed over, upon the plea of your civil death, to your kinsman." "how!--i do not understand. peschiera has the property?" "he holds the revenues but of one-half upon pleasure, and they would be withdrawn, could i succeed in establishing the case that exists against him. i was forbidden before to mention this to you; the minister, not inexcusably, submitted you to the probation of unconditional exile. your grace might depend upon your own forbearance from farther conspiracies--forgive the word. i need not say i was permitted to return to lombardy. i found, on my arrival, that--that your unhappy wife had been to my house, and exhibited great despair at hearing of my departure." riccabocca knit his dark brows, and breathed hard. "i did not judge it necessary to acquaint you with this circumstance, nor did it much affect me. i believed in her guilt--and what could now avail her remorse, if remorse she felt? shortly afterward, i heard that she was no more." "yes," muttered riccabocca, "she died in the same year that i left italy. it must be a strong reason that can excuse a friend for reminding me even that she once lived!" "i come at once to that reason," said l'estrange, gently. "this autumn i was roaming through switzerland, and, in one of my pedestrian excursions amidst the mountains, i met with an accident, which confined me for some days to a sofa at a little inn in an obscure village. my hostess was an italian; and, as i had left my servant at a town at some distance, i required her attention till i could write to him to come to me. i was thankful for her cares, and amused by her italian babble. we became very good friends. she told me she had been servant to a lady of great rank, who had died in switzerland; and that, being enriched by the generosity of her mistress, she had married a swiss innkeeper, and his people had become hers. my servant arrived, and my hostess learned my name, which she did not know before. she came into my room greatly agitated. in brief, this woman had been servant to your wife. she had accompanied her to my villa, and known of her anxiety to see me, as your friend. the government had assigned to your wife your palace at milan, with a competent income. she had refused to accept of either. failing to see me, she had set off toward england, resolved, upon seeing yourself; for the journals had stated that to england you had escaped." "she dared!--shameless! and see, but a moment before, i had forgotten all but her grave in a foreign soil--and these tears had forgiven her," murmured the italian. "let them forgive her still," said harley, with all his exquisite sweetness of look and tone. "i resume. on entering switzerland, your wife's health, which you know was always delicate, gave way. to fatigue and anxiety succeeded fever, and delirium ensued. she had taken with her but this one female attendant--the sole one she could trust--on leaving home. she suspected peschiera to have bribed her household. in the presence of this woman she raved of her innocence--in accents of terror and aversion, denounced your kinsman--and called on you to vindicate her name and your own." "ravings indeed! poor paulina!" groaned riccabocca, covering his face with both hands. "but in her delirium there were lucid intervals. in one of these she rose, in spite of all her servant could do to restrain her, took from her desk several letters, and reading them over, exclaimed piteously, 'but how to get them to him?--whom to trust? and his friend is gone!' then an idea seemed suddenly to flash upon her, for she uttered a joyous exclamation, sate down, and wrote long and rapidly; inclosed what she wrote with all the letters, in one packet, which she sealed carefully, and bade her servant carry to the post, with many injunctions to take it with her own hand, and pay the charge on it. 'for, oh!' said she (i repeat the words as my informant told them to me)--'for, oh, this is my sole chance to prove to my husband that, though i have erred, i am not the guilty thing he believes me; the sole chance, too, to redeem my error, and restore, perhaps, to my husband his country, to my child her heritage.' the servant took the letter to the post; and when she returned, her lady was asleep, with a smile upon her face. but from that sleep she woke again delirious, and before the next morning her soul had fled." here riccabocca lifted one hand from his face, and grasped harley's arm, as if mutely beseeching him to pause. the heart of the man struggled hard with his pride and his philosophy; and it was long before harley could lead him to regard the worldly prospects which this last communication from his wife might open to his ruined fortunes. not, indeed, till riccabocca had persuaded himself, and half persuaded harley (for strong, indeed, was all presumption of guilt against the dead), that his wife's protestations of innocence from all but error had been but ravings. "be this as it may," said harley, "there seems every reason to suppose that the letters inclosed were peschiera's correspondence, and that, if so, these would establish the proof of his influence over your wife, and of his perfidious machinations against yourself. i resolved, before coming hither, to go round by vienna. there i heard with dismay that peschiera had not only obtained the imperial sanction to demand your daughter's hand, but had boasted to his profligate circle that he should succeed; and he was actually on his road to england. i saw at once that could this design, by any fraud or artifice, be successful with violante (for of your consent, i need not say, i did not dream), the discovery of this packet, whatever its contents, would be useless: his end would be secured. i saw also that his success would suffice forever to clear his name; for his success must imply your consent (it would be to disgrace your daughter, to assert that she had married without it), and your consent would be his acquittal. i saw, too, with alarm, that to all means for the accomplishment of his project he would be urged by despair; for his debts are great, and his character nothing but new wealth can support. i knew that he was able, bold, determined, and that he had taken with him a large supply of money, borrowed upon usury;--in a word, i trembled for you both. i have now seen your daughter, and i tremble no more. accomplished seducer as peschiera boasts himself, the first look upon her face, so sweet, yet so noble, convinced me that she is proof against a legion of peschieras. now, then, return we to this all-important subject--to this packet. it never reached you. long years have passed since then. does it exist still? into whose hands would it have fallen? try to summon up all your recollections. the servant could not remember the name of the person to whom it was addressed; she only insisted that the name began with a b, that it was directed to england, and that to england she accordingly paid the postage. whom, then, with a name that begins with b, or (in case the servant's memory here mislead her) whom did you or your wife know, during your visit to england, with sufficient intimacy to make it probable that she would select such a person for her confidante?" "i cannot conceive," said riccabocca, shaking his head. "we came to england shortly after our marriage. paulina was affected by the climate. she spoke not a word of english, and indeed not even french as might have been expected from her birth, for her father was poor, and thoroughly italian. she refused all society. i went, it is true, somewhat into the london world--enough to induce me to shrink from the contrast that my second visit as a beggared refugee would have made to the reception i met with on my first--but i formed no intimate friendships. i recall no one whom she could have written to as intimate with me." "but," persisted harley, "think again. was there no lady well acquainted with italian, and with whom, perhaps, for that very reason, your wife become familiar?" "ah, it is true. there was one old lady of retired habits, but who had been much in italy. lady--lady--i remember--lady jane horton." "horton--lady jane!" exclaimed harley; "again! thrice in one day--is this wound never to scar over?" then, noting riccabocca's look of surprise, he said, "excuse me, my friend; i listen to you with renewed interest. lady jane was a distant relation of my own; she judged me, perhaps, harshly--and i have some painful associations with her name; but she was a woman of many virtues. your wife knew her?" "not, however, intimately--still, better than any one else in london. but paulina would not have written to her; she knew that lady jane had died shortly after her own departure from england. i myself was summoned back to italy on pressing business; she was too unwell to journey with me as rapidly as i was obliged to travel; indeed, illness detained her several weeks in england. in this interval she might have made acquaintances. ah, now i see; i guess. you say the name began with b. paulina, in my absence, engaged a companion; it was at my suggestion--a mrs. bertram. this lady accompanied her abroad. paulina became excessively attached to her, she knew italian so well. mrs. bertram left her on the road, and returned to england, for some private affairs of her own. i forget why or wherefore; if, indeed, i ever asked or learned. paulina missed her sadly, often talked of her, wondered why she never heard from her. no doubt it was to this mrs. bertram that she wrote!" "and you don't know the lady's friends or address?" "no." "nor who recommended her to your wife?" "no." "probably lady jane horton?" "it may be so. very likely." "i will follow up this track, slight as it is." "but if mrs. bertram received the communication, how comes it that it never reached--o, fool that i am, how should it! i, who guarded so carefully my incognito!" "true. this your wife could not foresee; she would naturally imagine that your residence in england would be easily discovered. but many years must have passed since your wife lost sight of this mrs. bertram, if their acquaintance was made so soon after your marriage; and now it is a long time to retrace--long before even your violante was born." "alas! yes. i lost two fair sons in the interval. violante was born to me as the child of sorrow." "and to make sorrow lovely! how beautiful she is!" the father smiled proudly. "where, in the loftiest houses of europe, find a husband worthy of such a prize?" "you forget that i am still an exile--she still dowerless. you forget that i am pursued by peschiera; that i would rather see her a beggar's wife--than--pah, the very thought maddens me, it is so foul, _corpo di bacco_! i have been glad to find her a husband already." "already! then that young man spoke truly?" "what young man?" "randal leslie. how! you know him?" here a brief explanation followed. harley heard with attentive ear, and marked vexation, the particulars of riccabocca's connection and implied engagement with leslie. "there is something very suspicious to me in all this," said he. "why should this young man have so sounded me as to violante's chance of losing a fortune if she married an englishman?" "did he? oh, pooh! excuse him. it was but his natural wish to seem ignorant of all about me. he did not know enough of my intimacy with you to betray my secret." "but he knew enough of it--must have known enough to have made it right that he should tell you i was in england. he does not seem to have done so." "no--_that_ is strange--yet scarcely strange; for, when we last met, his head was full of other things--love and marriage. _basta!_ youth will be youth." "he has no youth left in him!" exclaimed harley, passionately. "i doubt if he ever had any. he is one of those men who come into the world with the pulse of a centenarian. you and i never shall be as old--as he was in long-clothes. ah, you may laugh; but i am never wrong in my instincts. i disliked him at the first--his eye, his smile, his voice, his very footstep. it is madness in you to countenance such a marriage: it may destroy all chance of your restoration." "better that than infringe my word once passed." "no, no," exclaimed harley; "your word is not passed--it shall not be passed. nay, never look so piteously at me. at all events, pause till we know more of this young man. if he be worthy of her without a dower, why, then, let him lose you your heritage. i should have no more to say." "but why lose me my heritage!" "do you think the austrian government would suffer your estates to pass to this english jackanapes, a clerk in a public office? oh, sage in theory, why are you such a simpleton in action!" nothing moved by this taunt, riccabocca rubbed his hands, and then stretched them comfortably over the fire. "my friend," said he, "the heritage would pass to my son--a dowry only goes to the daughter." "but you have no son." "hush! i am going to have one; my jemima informed me of it yesterday morning; and it was upon that information that i resolved to speak to leslie. am i a simpleton now?" "going to have a son," repeated harley, looking very bewildered; "how do you know it is to be a son?" "physiologists are agreed," said the sage, positively, "that where the husband is much older than the wife, and there has been a long interval without children before she condescends to increase the population of the world--she (that is, it is at least as nine to four)--she brings into the world a male. i consider that point, therefore, as settled, according to the calculations of statistics and the researches of naturalists." harley could not help laughing, though he was still angry and disturbed. "the same man as ever; always the fool of philosophy." "_cospetto!_" said riccabocca, "i am rather the philosopher of fools. and talking of that, shall i present you to my jemima?" "yes; but in turn i must present you to one who remembers with gratitude your kindness, and whom your philosophy, for a wonder, has not ruined. some time or other you must explain that to me. excuse me for a moment; i will go for him." "for him--for whom? in my position i must be cautious; and--" "i will answer for his faith and discretion. meanwhile, order dinner, and let me and my friend stay to share it." "dinner? _corpo di bacco!_--not that bacchus can help us here. what will jemima say?" "henpecked man, settle that with your connubial tyrant. but dinner it must be." i leave the reader to imagine the delight of leonard at seeing once more riccabocca unchanged, and violante so improved; and the kind jemima, too. and their wonder at him and his history, his books and his fame. he narrated his struggles and adventures with a simplicity that removed from a story so personal the character of egotism. but when he came to speak of helen, he was brief and reserved. violante would have questioned more closely; but, to leonard's relief, harley interposed. "you shall see her whom he speaks of, before long, and question her yourself." with these words, harley turned the young man's narrative into new directions; and leonard's words again flowed freely. thus the evening passed away happily to all save riccabocca. but the thought of his dead wife rose ever and anon before him; and yet when it did, and became too painful, he crept nearer to jemima, and looked in her simple face, and pressed her cordial hand. and yet the monster had implied to harley that his comforter was a fool--so she was, to love so contemptible a slanderer of herself, and her sex. violante was in a state of blissful excitement; she could not analyze her own joy. but her conversation was chiefly with leonard; and the most silent of all was harley. he sate listening to leonard's warm, yet unpretending eloquence--that eloquence which flows so naturally from genius, when thoroughly at its ease, and not chilled back on itself by hard unsympathizing hearers--listened, yet more charmed, to the sentiments less profound, yet no less earnest--sentiments so feminine, yet so noble, with which violante's fresh virgin heart responded to the poet's kindling soul. those sentiments of hers were so unlike all he heard in the common world--so akin to himself in his gone youth! occasionally--at some high thought of her own, or some lofty line from italian song, that she cited with lighted eyes, and in melodious accents--occasionally he reared his knightly head, and his lips quivered, as if he had heard the sound of a trumpet. the inertness of long years was shaken. the heroic, that lay deep beneath all the humors of his temperament, was reached, appealed to; and stirred within him, rousing up all the bright associations connected with it, and long dormant. when he rose to take leave, surprised at the lateness of the hour, harley said, in a tone that bespoke the sincerity of the compliment, "i thank you for the happiest hours i have known for years." his eye dwelt on violante as he spoke. but timidity returned to her with his words--at his look; and it was no longer the inspired muse, but the bashful girl that stood before him. "and when shall i see you again?" asked riccabocca disconsolately, following his guest to the door. "when? why, of course, to-morrow. adieu! my friend. no wonder you have borne your exile so patiently--with such a child!" he took leonard's arm, and walked with him to the inn where he had left his horse. leonard spoke of violante with enthusiasm. harley was silent. chapter iii. the next day a somewhat old-fashioned, but exceedingly patrician equipage stopped at riccabocca's garden-gate. giacomo, who, from a bedroom window, had caught sight of it winding toward the house, was seized with undefinable terror when he beheld it pause before their walls and heard the shrill summons at the portal. he rushed into his master's presence, and implored him not to stir--not to allow any one to give ingress to the enemies the machine might disgorge. "i have heard," said he, "how a town in italy--i think it was bologna--was once taken and given to the sword, by incautiously admitting a wooden horse, full of the troops of barbarossa, and all manner of bombs and congreve rockets." "the story is differently told in virgil," quoth riccabocca, peeping out of the window. "nevertheless, the machine looks very large and suspicious; unloose pompey!" "father," said violante, coloring, "it is your friend lord l'estrange; i hear his voice." "are you sure?" "quite. how can i be mistaken?" "go, then, giacomo; but take pompey with thee--and give the alarm, if we are deceived." but violante was right; and in a few moments lord l'estrange was seen walking up the garden, and giving the arm to two ladies. "all," said riccabocca, composing his dressing-robe round him, "go, my child, and summon jemima. man to man; but, for heaven's, sake woman to-woman." harley had brought his mother and helen, in compliment to the ladies of his friend's household. the proud countess knew that she was in the presence of adversity, and her salute to riccabocca was only less respectful than that with which she would have rendered homage to her sovereign. but riccabocca, always gallant to the sex that he pretended to despise, was not to be outdone in ceremony; and the bow which replied to the courtesy would have edified the rising generation, and delighted such surviving relicts of the old court breeding as may linger yet amidst the gloomy pomp of the faubourg st. germain. these dues paid to etiquette, the countess briefly introduced helen, as miss digby, and seated herself near the exile. in a few moments the two elder personages became quite at home with each other; and really, perhaps, riccabocca had never, since we have known him, showed to such advantage as by the side of his polished, but somewhat formal visitor. both had lived so little with our modern, ill-bred age! they took out their manners of a former race, with a sort of pride in airing once more such fine lace and superb brocade. riccabocca gave truce to the shrewd but homely wisdom of his proverbs--perhaps he remembered that lord chesterfield denounces proverbs as vulgar; and gaunt though his figure, and far from elegant though his dressing-robe, there was that about him which spoke undeniably of the _grand seigneur_--of one to whom a marquis de dangeau would have offered _fauteuil_ by the side of the rohans and montmorencies. meanwhile helen and harley seated themselves a little apart, and were both silent--the first, from timidity; the second, from abstraction. at length the door opened, and harley suddenly sprang to his feet--violante and jemima entered. lady lansmere's eyes first rested on the daughter, and she could scarcely refrain from an exclamation of admiring surprise; but then, when she caught sight of mrs. riccabocca's somewhat humble, yet not obsequious mien--looking a little shy, a little homely, yet still thoroughly a gentlewoman (though of your plain rural kind of that genus)--she turned from the daughter, and with the _savoir vivre_ of the fine old school, paid her first respects to the wife; respects literally, for her manner implied respect--but it was more kind, simple and cordial than the respect she had shown to riccabocca; as the sage himself had said, here, "it was woman to woman." and then she took violante's hand in both hers, and gazed on her as if she could not resist the pleasure of contemplating so much beauty. "my son," she said, softly, and with a half sigh--"my son in vain told me not to be surprised. this is the first time i have ever known reality exceed description!" violante's blush here made her still more beautiful; and as the countess returned to riccabocca she stole gently to helen's side. "miss digby, my ward," said harley, pointedly, observing that his mother had neglected her duty of presenting helen to the ladies. he then reseated himself, and conversed with mrs. riccabocca; but his bright quick eye glanced ever at the two girls. they were about the same age--and youth was all that, to the superficial eye, they seemed to have in common. a greater contrast could not well be conceived; and, what is strange, both gained by it. violante's brilliant loveliness seemed yet more dazzling, and helen's fair, gentle face yet more winning. neither had mixed much with girls of their own age; each took to the other at first sight. violante, as the less shy, began the conversation. "you are his ward--lord l'estrange's?" "yes." "perhaps you came with him from italy?" "no, not exactly. but i have been in italy for some years." "ah! you regret--nay, i am foolish--you return to your native land. but the skies in italy are so blue--here it seems as if nature wanted colors." "lord l'estrange says that you were very young when you left italy; you remember it well. he, too, prefers italy to england." "he! impossible!" "why impossible, fair skeptic?" cried harley, interrupting himself in the midst of a speech to jemima. violante had not dreamed that she could be overheard--she was speaking low; but, though visibly embarrassed, she answered distinctly-- "because in england there is the noblest career for noble minds." harley was startled, and replied, with a slight sigh, "at your age i should have said as you do. but this england of ours is so crowded with noble minds, that they only jostle each other, and the career is one cloud of dust." "so, i have read, seems a battle to the common soldier, but not to the chief." "you have read good descriptions of battles, i see." mrs. riccabocca, who thought this remark a taunt upon her daughter-in-law's studies, hastened to violante's relief. "her papa made her read the history of italy, and i believe that is full of battles." harley.--"all history is, and all women are fond of war and of warriors. i wonder why." violante (turning to helen, and in a very low voice, resolved that harley should not hear this time).--"we can guess why--can we not?" harley (hearing every word, as if it had been spoken in st. paul's whispering gallery.)--"if you can guess, helen, pray tell me." helen (shaking her pretty head, and answering with a livelier smile than usual.)--"but i am not fond of war and warriors." harley (to violante).--"then i must appeal at once to you, self-convicted bellona that you are. is it from the cruelty natural to the female disposition?" violante (with a sweet musical laugh).--"from two propensities still more natural to it." harley.--"you puzzle me: what can they be?" violante.--"pity and admiration; we pity the weak, and admire the brave." harley inclined his head and was silent. lady lansmere had suspended her conversation with riccabocca to listen to this dialogue. "charming!" she cried. "you have explained what has often perplexed me. ah, harley, i am glad to see that your satire is foiled; you have no reply to that." "no; i willingly own myself defeated--too glad to claim the signorina's pity, since my cavalry sword hangs on the wall, and i can have no longer a professional pretense to her admiration." he then rose, and glanced toward the window. "but i see a more formidable disputant for my conqueror to encounter is coming into the field--one whose profession it is to substitute some other romance for that of camp and siege." "our friend leonard," said riccabocca, turning his eye also toward the window. "true; as quevedo says wittily, 'ever since there has been so great a demand for type, there has been much less lead to spare for cannon-balls.'" here leonard entered. harley had sent lady lansmere's footman to him with a note, that prepared him to meet helen. as he came into the room, harley took him by the hand, and led him to lady lansmere. "the friend of whom i spoke. welcome him now for my sake, ever after for his own;" and then, scarcely allowing time for the countess's elegant and gracious response, he drew leonard toward helen. "children," said he, with a touching voice, that thrilled through the hearts of both, "go and seat yourselves yonder, and talk together of the past. signorina, i invite you to renewed discussion upon the abstruse metaphysical subject you have started; let us see if we can not find gentler sources for pity and admiration than war and warriors." he took violante aside to the window. "you remember that leonard, in telling you his history last night, spoke, you thought, rather too briefly of the little girl who had been his companion in the rudest time of his trials. when you would have questioned more, i interrupted you, and said 'you should see her shortly, and question her yourself.' and now what think you of helen digby? hush, speak low. but her ears are not so sharp as mine." violante.--"ah! that is the fair creature whom leonard called his child-angel? what a lovely innocent face!--the angel is there still." harley (pleased both at the praise and with her who gave it).--"you think so, and you are right. helen is not communicative. but fine natures are like fine poems--a glance at the first two lines suffices for a guess into the beauty that waits you, if you read on." violante gazed on leonard and helen as they sat apart. leonard was the speaker, helen the listener; and though the former had, in his narrative the night before, been indeed brief as to the episode in his life connected with the orphan, enough had been said to interest violante in the pathos of their former position toward each other, and in the happiness they must feel in their meeting again--separated for years on the wide sea of life, now both saved from the storm and shipwreck. the tears came into her eyes. "true," she said very softly, "there is more here to move pity and admiration than in--" she paused. harley.--"complete the sentence. are you ashamed to retract? fie on your pride and obstinacy." violante.--"no; but even here there have been war and heroism--the war of genius with adversity, and heroism in the comforter who shared it and consoled. ah! wherever pity and admiration are both felt, something nobler than mere sorrow must have gone before: the heroic must exist." "helen does not know what the word heroic means," said harley, rather sadly; "you must teach her." is it possible, thought he as he spoke, that a randal leslie could have charmed this grand creature? no heroic, surely, in that sleek young place-man. "your father," he said aloud, and fixing his eyes on her face, "sees much, he tells me, of a young man, about leonard's age, as to date; but i never estimate the age of men by the parish register; and i should speak of that so-called young man as a contemporary of my great-grandfather;--i mean mr. randal leslie. do you like him?" "like him?" said violante slowly, and as if sounding her own mind. "like him--yes." "why?" asked harley, with dry and curt indignation. "his visits seem to please my dear father. certainly, i like him." "hum. he professes to like you, i suppose?" violante laughed, unsuspiciously. she had half a mind to reply, "is that so strange?" but her respect for harley stopped her. the words would have seemed to her pert. "i am told he is clever," resumed harley. "o, certainly." "and he is rather handsome. but i like leonard's face better." "better--that is not the word. leonard's face is as that of one who has gazed so often upon heaven; and mr. leslie's--there is neither sunlight nor starlight reflected there." "my dear violante!" exclaimed harley, overjoyed; and he pressed her hand. the blood rushed over the girl's cheek and brow; her hand trembled in his. but harley's familiar exclamation might have come from a father's lips. at this moment, helen softly approached them, and looking timidly into her guardian's face, said, "leonard's mother is with him: he asks me to call and see her. may i?" "may you! a pretty notion the signorina must form of your enslaved state of pupilage, when she hears you ask that question. of course you may." "will you take me there?" harley looked embarrassed. he thought of the widow's agitation at his name; of that desire to shun him, which leonard had confessed, and of which he thought he divined the cause. and so divining, he too shrank from such a meeting. "another time, then," said he, after a pause. helen looked disappointed, but said no more. violante was surprised at this ungracious answer. she would have blamed it as unfeeling in another. but all that harley did, was right in her eyes. "can not i go with miss digby?" said she, "and my mother will go too. we both know mrs. fairfleld. we shall be so pleased to see her again." "so be it," said harley; "i will wait here with your father till you come back. o, as to my mother, she will excuse the--excuse madame ricccabocca, and you too. see how charmed she is with _your_ father. i must stay to watch over the conjugal interests of _mine_." but mrs. riccabocca had too much good old country breeding to leave the countess; and harley was forced himself to appeal to lady lansmere. when he had explained the case in point, the countess rose and said---- "but i will call myself, with miss digby." "no," said harley, gravely, but in a whisper. "no--i would rather not. i will explain later." "then," said the countess aloud, after a glance of surprise at her son, "i must insist on your performing this visit, my dear madam, and you, signorina. in truth, i have something to say confidentially to--" "to me," interrupted riccabocca. "ah, madame la comtesse, you restore me to five-and-twenty. go, quick--o jealous and injured wife; go, both of you, quick; and you, too, harley." "nay," said lady lansmere, in the same tone, "harley must stay, for my design is not at present upon destroying your matrimonial happiness, whatever it may be later. it is a design so innocent that my son will be a partner in it." here the countess put her lips to harley's ear, and whispered. he received her communication in attentive silence: but when she had done, pressed her hand, and bowed his head, as if in assent to a proposal. in a few minutes, the three ladies and leonard were on their road to the neighboring cottage. violante, with her usual delicate intuition, thought that leonard and helen must have much to say to each other; and ignorant as leonard himself was, of helen's engagement to harley, began already, in the romance natural to her age, to predict for them happy and united days in the future. so she took her step-mother's arm, and left helen and leonard to follow. "i wonder," she said musingly, "how miss digby became lord l'estrange's ward. i hope she is not very rich, nor very high-born." "la, my love," said the good jemima, "that is not like you; you are not envious of her, poor girl?" "envious! dear mamma, what a word! but don't you think leonard and miss digby seem born for each other? and then the recollections of their childhood--the thoughts of childhood are so deep, and its memories so strangely soft!" the long lashes drooped over violante's musing eyes as she spoke. "and therefore," she said; after a pause, "therefore, i hoped that miss digby might not be very rich, nor very high-born." "i understand you now, violante," exclaimed jemima, her own early passion for match-making instantly returning to her; "for as leonard, however clever and distinguished, is still the son of mark fairfield the carpenter, it would spoil all if miss digby was, as you say, rich and high-born. i agree with you--a very pretty match, a very pretty match, indeed. i wish dear mrs. dale were here now--she is so clever in settling such matters." meanwhile leonard and helen walked side by side a few paces in the rear. he had not offered her his arm. they had been silent hitherto since they left riccabocca's house. helen now spoke first. in similar cases it is generally the woman, be she ever so timid, who does speak first. and here helen was the bolder; for leonard did not disguise from himself the nature of his feelings, and helen was engaged to another; and her pure heart was fortified by the trust reposed in it. "and have you ever heard more of the good dr. morgan, who had powders against sorrow, and who meant to be so kind to us--though," she added, coloring, "we did not think so then?" "he took my child-angel from me," said leonard, with visible emotion; "and if she had not returned, where and what should i be now? but i have forgiven him. no, i have never met him since." "and that terrible mr. burley?" "poor, poor burley! he, too, is vanished out of my present life. i have made many inquiries after him; all i can hear is that he went abroad, supposed as a correspondent to some journal. i should like so much to see him again, now that perhaps i could help him as he helped me." "_helped_ you--ah!" leonard smiled with a beating heart, as he saw again the dear, prudent, warning look, and involuntary drew closer to helen. she seemed more restored to him and to her former self. "helped me much by his instructions; more, perhaps, by his very faults. you can not guess, helen--i beg pardon, miss digby--but i forgot that we are no longer children; you can not guess how much we men, and, more than all perhaps, we writers, whose task it is to unravel the web of human actions, owe even to our own past errors; and if we learn nothing by the errors of others, we should be dull indeed. we must know where the roads divide, and have marked where they lead to, before we can erect our sign-posts; and books are the sign-posts in human life." "books!--and i have not yet read yours. and lord l'estrange tells me you are famous now. yet you remember me still--the poor orphan child, whom you first saw weeping at her father's grave, and with whom you burdened your own young life, over-burdened already. no, still call me helen--you must always be to me--a brother! lord l'estrange feels _that_; he said so to me when he told me that we were to meet again. he is so generous, so noble. brother!" cried helen, suddenly, and extending her hand, with a sweet but sublime look in her gentle face--"brother, we will never forfeit his esteem; we will both do our best to repay him! will we not--say so?" leonard felt overpowered by contending and unanalyzed emotions. touched almost to tears by the affectionate address--thrilled by the hand that pressed his own--and yet with a vague fear a consciousness that something more than the words themselves was implied--something that checked all hope. and this word "brother," once so precious and so dear, why did he shrink from it now?--why could he not too say the sweet word "sister?" "she is above me now and evermore?" he thought, mournfully; and the tones of his voice, when he spoke again, were changed. the appeal to renewed intimacy but made him more distant; and to that appeal itself he made no direct answer; for mrs. riccabocca, now turning round, and pointing to the cottage which came in view, with its picturesque gable-ends, cried out, "but is that your house, leonard? i never saw any thing so pretty." "you do not remember it, then," said leonard to helen, in accents of melancholy reproach--"there where i saw you last! i doubted whether to keep it exactly as it was, and i said, 'no! the association is not changed because we try to surround it with whatever beauty we can create; the dearer the association, the more the beautiful becomes to it natural." "perhaps you don't understand this--perhaps it is only we poor poets who do." "i understand it," said helen, gently. she looked wistfully at the cottage. "so changed--i have so often pictured it to myself--never, never like this; yet i loved it, commonplace as it was to my recollection; and the garret, and the tree in the carpenter's yard." she did not give these thoughts utterance and they now entered the garden. chapter iv. mrs. fairfield was a proud woman when she received mrs. riccabocca and violante in her grand house; for a grand house to her was that cottage to which her boy lenny had brought her home. proud, indeed, ever was widow fairfield; but she thought then in her secret heart, that if ever she could receive in the drawing-room of that grand house the great mrs. hazeldean, who had so lectured her for refusing to live any longer in the humble tenement rented of the squire, the cup of human bliss would be filled, and she could contentedly die of the pride of it. she did not much notice helen--her attention was too absorbed by the ladies who renewed their old acquaintance with her, and she carried them all over the house, yea, into the very kitchen; and so, somehow or other, there was a short time when helen and leonard found themselves alone. it was in the study. helen had unconsciously seated herself in leonard's own chair, and she was gazing with anxious and wistful interest on the scattered papers, looking so disorderly (though, in truth, in that disorder there was method, but method only known to the owner), and at the venerable, well-worn books, in all languages, lying on the floor, on the chairs--any where. i must confess that helen's first tidy womanlike idea was a great desire to arrange the latter. "poor leonard," she thought to herself--"the rest of the house so neat, but no one to take care of his own room and of him!" as if he divined her thought, leonard smiled, and said, "it would be a cruel kindness to the spider, if the gentlest hand in the world tried to set its cobweb to rights." helen.--"you were not quite so bad in the old days." leonard.--"yet even then, you were obliged to take care of the money. i have more books now, and more money. my present housekeeper lets me take care of the books, but she is less indulgent as to the money." helen (archly).--"are you as absent as ever?" leonard.--"much more so, i fear. the habit is incorrigible, miss digby--" helen.--"not miss digby--sister, if you like." leonard (evading the word that implied so forbidden an affinity).--"helen, will you grant me a favor? your eyes and your smile say 'yes.' will you lay aside, for one minute, your shawl and bonnet? what! can you be surprised that i ask it? can you not understand that i wish for one minute to think you are at home again under this roof?" helen cast down her eyes, and seemed troubled; then she raised them, with a soft angelic candor in their dovelike blue, and as if in shelter from all thoughts of more warm affection, again murmured "_brother_," and did as he asked her. so there she sate, among the dull books, by his table, near the open window--her fair hair parted on her forehead--looking so good, so calm, so happy! leonard wondered at his own self-command. his heart yearned to her with such inexpressible love--his lips so longed to murmur, "ah, as now so could it be forever! is the home too mean?" but that word "brother" was as a talisman between her and him. yet she looked so at home--perhaps so at home she felt!--more certainly than she had yet learned to do in that stiff stately house in which she was soon to have a daughter's rights. was she suddenly made aware of this--that she so suddenly arose--and with a look of alarm and distress on her face-- "but--we are keeping lady lansmere too long," she said, falteringly. "we must go now," and she hastily took up her shawl and bonnet. just then mrs. fairfield entered with the visitors, and began making excuses for inattention to miss digby, whose identity with leonard's child-angel she had not yet learned. helen received these apologies with her usual sweetness. "nay," she said, "your son and i are such old friends, how could you stand on ceremony with me?" "old friends!" mrs. fairfield stared amazed, and then surveyed the fair speaker more curiously than she had yet done. "pretty, nice spoken thing," thought the widow; "as nice spoken as miss violante, and humbler-looking-like--though as to dress, i never see any thing so elegant out of a picter." helen now appropriated mrs. riccabocca's arm; and after a kind leave-taking with the widow, the ladies returned toward riccabocca's house. mrs. fairfield, however, ran after them with leonard's hat and gloves, which he had forgotten. "'deed, boy," said she, kindly, yet scoldingly, "but there'd be no more fine books, if the lord had not fixed your head on your shoulders. you would not think it, marm," she added to mrs. riccabocca, "but sin' he has left you, he's not the 'cute lad he was; very helpless at times, marm!" helen could not resist turning round, and looking at leonard, with a sly smile. the widow saw the smile, and catching leonard by the arm, whispered, "but, where before have you seen that pretty young lady? old friends!" "ah, mother," said leonard, sadly, "it is a long tale; you have heard the beginning, who can guess the end?"--and he escaped. but helen still leant on the arm of mrs. riccabocca, and, in the walk back, it seemed to leonard as if the winter had resettled in the sky. yet he was by the side of violante, and she spoke to him with such praise of helen! alas! it is not always so sweet as folks say, to hear the praises of one we love. sometimes those praises seem to ask ironically, "and what right hast thou to hope because thou lovest? _all_ love _her_." chapter v. no sooner had lady lansmere found herself alone with riccabocca and harley than she laid her hand on the exile's arm, and, addressing him by a title she had not before given him, and from which he appeared to shrink nervously, said: "harley, in bringing me to visit you, was forced to reveal to me your incognito, for i should have discovered it. you may not remember me, in spite of your gallantry. but i mixed more in the world than i do now, during your first visit to england, and once sate next to you at dinner at carlton house. nay, no compliments, but listen to me. harley tells me you have cause for some alarm respecting the designs of an audacious and unprincipled--adventurer, i may call him; for adventurers are of all ranks. suffer your daughter to come to me, on a visit, as long as you please. with me, at least, she will be safe; and if you, too, and the--" "stop, my dear madam," interrupted riccabocca, with great vivacity; "your kindness over-powers me. i thank you most gratefully for your invitation to my child; but--" "nay," in his turn interrupted harley, "no buts. i was not aware of my mother's intention when she entered this room. but since she whispered it to me, i have reflected on it, and am convinced that it is but a prudent precaution. your retreat is known to mr. leslie--he is known to peschiera. grant that no indiscretion of mr. leslie's betray the secret; still i have reason to believe that the count guesses randal's acquaintance with you. audley egerton this morning told me he had gathered that, not from the young man himself, but from questions put to himself by madame di negra; and peschiera might, and would, set spies to track leslie to every house that he visits--might and would, still more naturally, set spies to track myself. were this man an englishman, i should laugh at his machinations; but he is an italian, and has been a conspirator. what he could do, i know not; but an assassin can penetrate into a camp, and a traitor can creep through closed walls to one's hearth. with my mother, violante must be safe; that you can not oppose. and why not come yourself?" riccabocca had no reply to these arguments, so far as they affected violante; indeed, they awakened the almost superstitious terror with which he regarded his enemy, and he consented at once that violante should accept the invitation proffered. but he refused it for himself and jemima. "to say truth," said he, simply, "i made a secret vow, on re-entering england, that i would associate with none who knew the rank i had formerly held in my own land. i felt that all my philosophy was needed, to reconcile and habituate myself to my altered circumstances. in order to find in my present existence, however humble, those blessings which make all life noble--dignity and peace--it was necessary for poor, weak human nature, wholly to dismiss the past. it would unsettle me sadly, could i come to your house, renew awhile, in your kindness and respect--nay, in the very atmosphere of your society--the sense of what i have been; and then (should the more than doubtful chance of recall from my exile fail me) to awake, and find myself for the rest of life--what i am. and though, were i alone, i might trust myself perhaps to the danger--yet my wife: she is happy and contented now; would she be so, if you had once spoiled her for the simple position of dr. riccabocca's wife? should i not have to listen to regrets, and hopes, and fears that would prick sharp through my thin cloak of philosophy? even as it is, since in a moment of weakness i confided my secret to her, i have had 'my rank' thrown at me--with a careless hand, it is true--but it hits hard, nevertheless. no stone hurts like one taken from the ruins of one's own home; and the grander the home, why, the heavier the stone! protect, dear madam--protect my daughter, since her father doubts his own power to do so. but--ask no more." riccabocca was immovable here. and the matter was settled as he decided, it being agreed that violante should be still styled but the daughter of dr. riccabocca. "and now, one word more," said harley. "do not confide to mr. leslie these arrangements; do not let him know where violante is placed--at least, until i authorize such confidence in him. it is sufficient excuse, that it is no use to know unless he called to see her, and his movements, as i said before, may be watched. you can give the same reason to suspend his visits to yourself. suffer me, meanwhile, to mature my judgment on this young man. in the mean while, also, i think that i shall have means of ascertaining the real nature of peschiera's schemes. his sister has sought to know me; i will give her the occasion. i have heard some things of her in my last residence abroad, which make me believe that she can not be wholly the count's tool in any schemes nakedly villainous; that she has some finer qualities in her than i once supposed; and that she can be won from his influence. it is a state of war: we will carry it into the enemy's camp. you will promise me, then, to refrain from all further confidence to mr. leslie." "for the present, yes," said riccabocca, reluctantly. "do not even say that you have seen me, unless he first tell you that i am in england, and wish to learn your residence. i will give him full occasion to do so. pish! don't hesitate; you know your own proverb-- 'boccha chiusa, ed occhio aperto non fece mai nissun deserto.' 'the closed mouth and the open eye,' &c." "that's very true," said the doctor, much struck. "very true. '_in boccha chiusa non c'entrano mosche._' one can't swallow flies if one keeps one's mouth shut. _corpo di bacco!_ that's very true, indeed!" harley took aside the italian. "you see if our hope of discovering the lost packet, or if our belief in the nature of its contents, be too sanguine, still, in a few months it is possible that peschiera can have no further designs on your daughter--possible that a son may be born to you, and violante would cease to be in danger, because she would cease to be an heiress. indeed, it may be well to let peschiera know this chance; it would, at least, make him delay all his plans while we are tracking the document that may defeat them forever." "no, no! for heaven's sake, no!" exclaimed riccabocca, pale as ashes. "not a word to him. i don't mean to impute to him crimes of which he may be innocent. but he meant to take my life when i escaped the pursuit of his hirelings in italy. he did not hesitate, in his avarice, to denounce a kinsman; expose hundreds to the sword, if resisting--to the dungeon, if passive. did he know that my wife might bear me a son, how can i tell that his designs might not change into others still darker, and more monstrous, than those he now openly parades, though, after all, not more infamous and vile. would my wife's life be safe? not more difficult to convey poison into my house, than to steal my child from my hearth. don't despise me; but when i think of my wife, my daughter, and that man, my mind forsakes me: i am one fear." "nay, this apprehension is too exaggerated. we do not live in the age of the borgias. could peschiera resort to the risks of a murder; it is for yourself that you should fear." "for myself!--i! i!" cried the exile, raising his tall stature to its full height. "is it not enough degradation to a man who has borne the name of such ancestors, to fear for those he loves! fear for myself! is it you who ask if i am a coward?" he recovered himself, as he felt harley's penitential and admiring grasp of the hand. "see," said he, turning to the countess, with a melancholy smile, "how even one hour of your society destroys the habits of years. dr. riccabocca is talking of his ancestors!" chapter vi. violante and jemima were both greatly surprised, as the reader may suppose, when they heard, on their return, the arrangements already made for the former. the countess insisted on taking her at once, and riccabocca briefly said, "certainly, the sooner the better." violante was stunned and bewildered. jemima hastened to make up a little bundle of things necessary, with many a woman's sigh that the poor wardrobe contained so few things befitting. but among the clothes she slipped a purse, containing the savings of months, perhaps of years, and with it a few affectionate lines, begging violante to ask the countess to buy her all that was proper for her father's child. there is always something hurried and uncomfortable in the abrupt and unexpected withdrawal of any member from a quiet household. the small party broke into still smaller knots. violante hung on her father, and listened vaguely to his not very lucid explanations. the countess approached leonard, and, according to the usual mode with persons of quality addressing young authors, complimented him highly on the books she had not read, but which her son assured her were so remarkable. she was a little anxious to know how harley had met with mr. oran, whom he called his friend; but she was too high-bred to inquire, or to express any wonder that rank should be friends with genius. she took it for granted that they had formed their acquaintance abroad. harley conversed with helen.--"you are not sorry that violante is coming to us? she will be just such a companion for you as i could desire; of your own years too." helen (ingenuously).--"it is hard to think i am not younger than she is." harley.--"why, my dear helen?" helen.--"she is so brilliant. she talks so beautifully. and i--" harley.--"and you want but the habit of talking, to do justice to your own beautiful thoughts." helen looked at him gratefully, but shook her head. it was a common trick of hers, and always when she was praised. at last the preparations were made--the farewell was said. violante was in the carriage by lady lansmere's side. slowly moved on the stately equipage with its four horses and trim postillions, heraldic badges on their shoulders, in the style rarely seen in the neighborhood of the metropolis, and now fast vanishing even amidst distant counties. riccabocca, jemima, and jackeymo continued to gaze after it from the gate. "she is gone," said jackeymo, brushing his eyes with his coat sleeve. "but it is a load off one's mind." "and another load on one's heart," murmured riccabocca. "don't cry, jemima; it may be bad for you, and bad for _him_ that is to come. it is astonishing how the humors of the mother may affect the unborn. i should not like to have a son who has a more than usual propensity to tears." the poor philosopher tried to smile, but it was a bad attempt. he went slowly in and shut himself up with his books. but he could not read. his whole mind was unsettled. and though, like all parents, he had been anxious to rid himself of a beloved daughter for life, now that she was gone, but for a while, a string seemed broken in the music of home. chapter vii. the evening of the same day, as egerton, who was to entertain a large party at dinner, was changing his dress, harley walked into his room. egerton dismissed his valet by a sign, and continued his toilet. "excuse me, my dear harley, i have only ten minutes to give you. i expect one of the royal dukes, and punctuality is the stern virtue of men of business, and the graceful courtesy of princes." harley had usually a jest for his friend's aphorisms; but he had none now. he laid his hand kindly on egerton's shoulder--"before i speak of my business, tell me how you are--better?" "better--nay, i am always well. pooh! i may look a little tired--years of toil will tell on the countenance. but that matters little--the period of life has passed with me when one cares how one looks in the glass." as he spoke, egerton completed his dress, and came to the hearth, standing there, erect and dignified as usual, still far handsomer than many a younger man, and with a form that seemed to have ample vigor to support for many a year the sad and glorious burthen of power. "so now to your business, harley." "in the first place, i want you to present me, at the first opportunity, to madame di negra. you say she wished to know me." "are you serious?" "yes." "well, then, she receives this evening. i did not mean to go; but when my party breaks up--" "you can call for me at 'the travelers.' do!" "next--you knew lady jane horton better even than i did, at least in the last year of her life." harley sighed, and egerton turned and stirred the fire. "pray, did you ever see at her house, or hear her speak of, a mrs. bertram?" "of whom?" said egerton, in a hollow voice, his face still turned toward the fire. "a mrs. bertram; but heavens! my dear fellow, what is the matter? are you ill?" "a spasm at the heart--that is all--don't ring--i shall be better presently--go on talking. mrs.----; why do you ask?" "why? i have hardly time to explain; but i am, as i told you, resolved on righting my old italian friend, if heaven will help me, as it ever does help the just when they bestir themselves; and this mrs. bertram is mixed up in my friend's affairs." "his! how is that possible?" harley rapidly and succinctly explained. audley listened attentively, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and still seeming to labor under great difficulty of breathing. at last he answered, "i remember something of this mrs.--mrs.--bertram. but your inquiries after her would be useless. i think i have heard that she is long since dead; nay, i am sure of it." "dead!--that is most unfortunate. but do you know any of her relations or friends? can you suggest any mode of tracing this packet, if it came to her hands?" "no." "and lady jane had scarcely any friend that i remember, except my mother, and she knows nothing of this mrs. bertram. how unlucky! i think i shall advertise. yet, no. i could only distinguish this mrs. bertram from any other of the same name, by stating with whom she had gone abroad, and that would catch the attention of peschiera, and set him to counterwork us." "and what avails it?" said egerton. "she whom you seek is no more--no more!" he paused, and went on rapidly--"the packet did not arrive in england till years after her death--was no doubt returned to the post-office--is destroyed long ago." harley looked very much disappointed. egerton went on in a sort of set mechanical voice, as if not thinking of what he said, but speaking from the dry practical mode of reasoning which was habitual to him, and by which the man of the world destroys the hopes of an enthusiast. then starting up at the sound of the first thundering knock at the street door, he said, "hark! you must excuse me." "i leave you, my dear audley. are you better now?" "much, much--quite well. i will call for you--probably between eleven and twelve." chapter viii. if any one could be more surprised at seeing lord l'estrange at the house of madame di negra that evening than the fair hostess herself, it was randal leslie. something instinctively told him that this visit threatened interference with whatever might be his ultimate projects in regard to riccabocca and violante. but randal leslie was not one of those who shrink from an intellectual combat. on the contrary, he was too confident of his powers of intrigue, not to take a delight in their exercise. he could not conceive that the indolent harley could be a match for his own restless activity and dogged perseverance. but in a very few moments fear crept on him. no man of his day could produce a more brilliant effect than lord l'estrange, when he deigned to desire it. without much pretense to that personal beauty which strikes at first sight, he still retained all the charm of countenance, and all the grace of manner which had made him in boyhood the spoiled darling of society. madame di negra had collected but a small circle round her, still it was of the _élite_ of the great world; not, indeed, those more precise and reserved _dames du château_, whom the lighter and easier of the fair dispensers of fashion ridicule as prudes; but, nevertheless, ladies were there, as umblemished in reputation as high in rank; flirts and coquettes, perhaps--nothing more; in short, "charming women"--the gay butterflies that hover over the stiff parterre. and there were embassadors and ministers, and wits and brilliant debaters, and first-rate dandies (dandies when first-rate, are generally very agreeable men). among all these various persons, harley, so long a stranger to the london world, seemed to make himself at home with the ease of an alcibiades. many of the less juvenile ladies remembered him, and rushed to claim his acquaintance, with nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles. he had ready compliment for each. and few indeed, were there, men or women, for whom harley l'estrange had not appropriate attraction. distinguished reputation as soldier and scholar, for the grave; whim and pleasantry for the gay; novelty for the sated; and for the more vulgar natures, was he not lord l'estrange, unmarried, heir to an ancient earldom, and some fifty thousand a year? not till he had succeeded in the general effect--which, it must be owned, he did his best to create--did harley seriously and especially devote himself to his hostess. and then he seated himself by her side; and as if in compliment to both, less pressing admirers insensibly slipped away and edged off. frank hazledean was the last to quit his ground behind madame di negra's chair; but when he found that the two began to talk in italian, and he could not understand a word they said, he too--fancying, poor fellow, that he looked foolish, and cursing his eton education that had neglected, for languages spoken by the dead, of which he had learned little, those still in use among the living, of which he had learned naught--retreated toward randal, and asked wistfully, "pray, what age should you say l'estrange was? he must be devilish old, in spite of his looks. why, he was at waterloo!" "he is young enough to be a terrible rival," answered randal, with artful truth. frank turned pale, and began to meditate dreadful bloodthirsty thoughts, of which hair-triggers and lord's cricket-ground formed the staple. certainly there was apparent ground for a lover's jealousy. for harley and beatrice now conversed in a low tone, and beatrice seemed agitated, and harley earnest. randal himself grew more and more perplexed. was lord l'estrange really enamored of the marchesa? if so, farewell to all hopes of frank's marriage with her! or was he merely playing a part in riccabocca's interest; pretending to be the lover, in order to obtain an influence over her mind, rule her through her ambition, and secure an ally against her brother? was this _finesse_ compatible with randal's notions of harley's character? was it consistent with that chivalric and soldierly spirit of honor which the frank nobleman affected, to make love to a woman in mere _ruse de guerre_? could mere friendship for riccabocca be a sufficient inducement to a man, who, whatever his weaknesses or his errors, seemed to wear on his very forehead a soul above deceit, to stoop to paltry means, even for a worthy end? at this question, a new thought flashed upon randal--might not lord l'estrange have speculated himself upon winning violante?--would not that account for all the exertions he had made on behalf of her inheritance at the court of vienna--exertions of which peschiera and beatrice had both complained? those objections which the austrian government might take to violante's marriage with some obscure englishman would probably not exist against a man like harley l'estrange, whose family not only belonged to the highest aristocracy of england, but had always supported opinions in vogue among the leading governments of europe. harley himself, it is true, had never taken part in politics, but his notions were, no doubt, those of a high-born soldier, who had fought, in alliance with austria, for the restoration of the bourbons. and this immense wealth--which violante might lose if she married one like randal himself--her marriage with the heir of the lansmeres might actually tend only to secure. could harley, with all his own expectations, be indifferent to such a prize?--and no doubt he had learned violante's rare beauty in his correspondence with riccabocca. thus considered, it seemed natural to randal's estimate of human nature, that harley's more prudish scruples of honor, as regards what is due to women, could not resist a temptation so strong. mere friendship was not a motive powerful enough to shake them, but ambition was. while randal was thus cogitating, frank thus suffering, and many a whisper, in comment on the evident flirtation between the beautiful hostess and the accomplished guest, reached the ears both of the brooding schemer and the jealous lover, the conversation between the two objects of remark and gossip had taken a new turn. indeed, beatrice had made an effort to change it. "it is long, my lord," said she, still speaking italian, "since i have heard sentiments like those you address to me; and if i do not feel myself wholly unworthy of them, it is from the pleasure i have felt in reading sentiments equally foreign to the language of the world in which i live." she took a book from the table as she spoke: "have you seen this work?" harley glanced at the title-page. "to be sure i have, and i know the author." "i envy you that honor. i should so like also to know one who has discovered to me deeps in my own heart which i had never explored." "charming marchesa, if the book has done this, believe me that i have paid you no false compliment--formed no overflattering estimate of your nature; for the charm of the work is but in its simple appeal to good and generous emotions, and it can charm none in whom those emotions exist not!" "nay, that can not be true, or why is it so popular?" "because good and generous emotions are more common to the human heart than we are aware of till the appeal comes." "don't ask me to think that! i have found the world so base." "pardon me a rude question; but what do you know of the world?" beatrice looked first in surprise at harley, then glanced round the room with significant irony. "as i thought; you call this little room 'the world.' be it so. i will venture to say, that if the people in this room were suddenly converted into an audience before a stage, and you were as consummate in the actor's art as you are in all others that please and command--" "well?" "and were to deliver a speech full of sordid and base sentiments, you would be hissed. but let any other woman, with half your powers, arise and utter sentiments sweet and womanly, or honest and lofty--and applause would flow from every lip, and tears rush to many a worldly eye. the true proof of the inherent nobleness of our common nature is in the sympathy it betrays with what is noble wherever crowds are collected. never believe the world is base;--if it were so, no society could hold together for a day. but you would know the author of this book? i will bring him to you." "do." "and now," said harley, rising, and with his candid winning smile, "do you think we shall ever be friends?" "you have startled me so, that i can scarcely answer. but why would you be friends with me?" "because you need a friend. you have none." "strange flatterer!" said beatrice, smiling, though very sadly; and, looking up, her eye caught randal's. "pooh!" said harley, "you are too penetrating to believe that you inspire friendship _there_. ah, do you suppose that, all the while i have been conversing with you, i have not noticed the watchful gaze of mr. randal leslie? what tie can possibly connect you together i know not yet; but i soon shall." "indeed! you talk like one of the old council of venice. you try hard to make me fear you," said beatrice, seeking to escape from the graver kind of impression harley had made on her, by the affectation, partly of coquetry, partly of levity. "and i," said l'estrange, calmly, "tell you already, that i fear you no more." he bowed, and passed through the crowd to rejoin audley, who was seated in a corner, whispering with some of his political colleagues. before harley reached the minister, he found himself close to randal and young hazeldean. he bowed to the first, and extended his hand to the last. randal felt the distinction, and his sullen, bitter pride was deeply galled--a feeling of hate toward harley passed into his mind. he was pleased to see the cold hesitation with which frank just touched the hand offered to him. but randal had not been the only person whose watch upon beatrice the keen-eyed harley had noticed. harley had seen the angry looks of frank hazeldean, and divined the cause. so he smiled forgivingly at the slight he had received. "you are like me, mr. hazeldean," said he. "you think something of the heart should go with all courtesy that bespeaks friendship-- "the hand of douglas is his own." here harley drew aside randal. "mr. leslie, a word with you. if i wished to know the retreat of dr. riccabocca, in order to render him a great service, would you confide to me that secret?" "that woman has let out her suspicions that i know the exile's retreat," thought randal; and with rare presence of mind, he replied at once: "my lord, yonder stands a connection of dr. riccabocca's. mr. hazeldean is surely the person to whom you should address this inquiry." "not so, mr. leslie; for i suspect that he can not answer it, and that you can. well, i will ask something that it seems to me you may grant without hesitation. should you see dr. riccabocca, tell him that i am in england, and so leave it to him to communicate with me or not; but perhaps you have already done so?" "lord l'estrange," said randal, bowing low, with pointed formality, "excuse me if i decline either to disclaim or acquiesce in the knowledge you impute to me. if i am acquainted with any secret intrusted to me by dr. riccabocca, it is for me to use my own discretion how best to guard it. and for the rest, after the scotch earl, whose words your lordship has quoted, refused to touch the hand of marmion, douglas could scarcely have called him back in order to give him--a message!" harley was not prepared for this tone in mr egerton's _protégé_, and his own gallant nature was rather pleased than irritated by a haughtiness that at least seemed to bespeak independence of spirit. nevertheless, l'estrange's suspicions of randal were too strong to be easily set aside, and therefore he replied, civilly, but with covert taunt: "i submit to your rebuke, mr. leslie, though i meant not the offense you would ascribe to me. i regret my unlucky quotation yet the more, since the wit of your retort has obliged you to identify yourself with marmion, who, though a clever and brave fellow, was an uncommonly--tricky one." and so harley, certainly having the best of it, moved on, and joining egerton, in a few minutes more both left the room. "what was l'estrange saying to you?" asked frank. "something about beatrice, i am sure." "no; only quoting poetry." "then what made you look so angry, my dear fellow? i know it was your kind feeling for me. as you say, he is a formidable rival. but that can't be his own hair. do you think he wears a _toupet_? i am sure he was praising beatrice. he is evidently very much smitten with her. but i don't think she is a woman to be caught by _mere_ rank and fortune! do you? why can't you speak?" "if you do not get her consent soon, i think she is lost to you," said randal, slowly; and, before frank could recover his dismay, glided from the house. chapter ix. violante's first evening at the lansmeres, had seemed happier to her than the first evening, under the same roof, had done to helen. true that she missed her father much--jemima some what; but she so identified her father's cause with harley, that she had a sort of vague feeling that it was to promote that cause that she was on this visit to harley's parents. and the countess, it must be owned, was more emphatically cordial to her than she had ever yet been to captain digby's orphan. but perhaps the real difference in the heart of either girl was this, that helen felt awe of lady lansmere, and violante felt only love for lord l'estrange's mother. violante, too, was one of those persons whom a reserved and formal person, like the countess, "can get on with," as the phrase goes. not so poor little helen--so shy herself, and so hard to coax into more than gentle monosyllables. and lady lansmere's favorite talk was always of harley. helen had listened to such talk with respect and interest. violante listened to it with inquisitive eagerness--with blushing delight. the mother's heart noticed the distinction between the two, and no wonder that that heart moved more to violante than to helen. lord lansmere, too, like most gentlemen of his age, clumped all young ladies together, as a harmless, amiable, but singularly stupid class of the genus petticoat, meant to look pretty, play the piano, and talk to each other about frocks and sweethearts. therefore this animated, dazzling creature, with her infinite variety of look and play of mind, took him by surprise, charmed him into attention, and warmed him into gallantry. helen sat in her quiet corner, at her work, sometimes listening with almost mournful, though certainly unenvious admiration at violante's vivid, yet ever unconscious eloquence of word and thought--sometimes plunged deep into her own secret meditations. and all the while the work went on the same, under the same noiseless fingers. this was one of helen's habits that irritated the nerves of lady lansmere. she despised young ladies who were fond of work. she did not comprehend how often it is the source of the sweet, womanly mind, not from want of thought, but from the silence and the depth of it. violante was surprised, and perhaps disappointed, that harley had left the house before dinner, and did not return all the evening. but lady lansmere, in making excuse for his absence, on the plea of engagements, found so good an opportunity to talk of his ways in general--of his rare promise in boyhood--of her regret at the inaction of his maturity--of her hope to see him yet do justice to his natural powers, that violante almost ceased to miss him. and when lady lansmere conducted her to her room, and, kissing her cheek tenderly, said, "but you are just the person harley admires--just the person to rouse him from melancholy dreams, of which his wild humors are now but the vain disguise"--violante crossed her arms on her bosom, and her bright eyes, deepened into tenderness, seemed to ask, "he melancholy--and why?" on leaving violante's room, lady lansmere paused before the door of helen's; and, after musing a little while, entered softly. helen had dismissed her maid; and, at the moment lady lansmere entered, she was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped before her face. her form, thus seen, looked so youthful and child-like--the attitude itself was so holy and so touching, that the proud and cold expression on lady lansmere's face changed. she shaded the light involuntarily, and seated herself in silence, that she might not disturb the act of prayer. when helen rose, she was startled to see the countess seated by the fire; and hastily drew her hand across her eyes. she had been weeping. lady lansmere did not, however, turn to observe those traces of tears, which helen feared were too visible. the countess was too absorbed in her own thoughts; and as helen timidly approached, she said--still with her eyes on the clear low fire--"i beg your pardon, miss digby, for my intrusion; but my son has left it to me to prepare lord lansmere to learn the offer you have done harley the honor to accept. i have not yet spoken to my lord; it may be days before i find a fitting occasion to do so; meanwhile, i feel assured that your sense of propriety will make you agree with me that it is due to lord l'estrange's father, that strangers should not learn arrangements of such moment in his family, before his own consent be obtained." here the countess came to a full pause; and poor helen, finding herself called upon for some reply to this chilling speech, stammered out, scarce audibly-- "certainly, madam, i never dreamed of--" "that is right, my dear," interrupted lady lansmere, rising suddenly, and as if greatly relieved. "i could not doubt your superiority to ordinary girls of your age, with whom these matters are never secret for a moment. therefore, of course, you will not mention, at present, what has passed between you and harley, to any of the friends with whom you may correspond." "i have no correspondents--no friends, lady lansmere," said helen deprecatingly, and trying hard not to cry. "i am very glad to hear it, my dear; young ladies never should have. friends, especially friends who correspond, are the worst enemies they can have. good-night, miss digby, i need not add, by the way, that, though we are bound to show all kindness to this young italian lady, still she is wholly unconnected with our family; and you will be as prudent with her as you would have been with your correspondents--had you had the misfortune to have any." lady lansmere said the last words with a smile, and pressed a reluctant kiss (the step-mother's kiss) on helen's bended brow. she then left the room, and helen sate on the seat vacated by the stately, unloving form, and again covered her face with her hands, and again wept. but when she rose at last, and the light fell upon her face, that soft face was sad indeed, but serene--serene, as if with some inward sense of duty--sad, as with the resignation which accepts patience instead of hope. (to be continued.) pipe-clay and clay pipes. i have an eccentric friend, whom i meet occasionally. he can not be said to have an inquiring turn of mind, or usually to busy himself with the science of industrial economy. babbage is an unknown writer to him; and he has not yet contrived to "get up" any interest in the recent reports on her majesty's customs. in fact, i should not be surprised if he never opened the interesting volumes in question. he is a man with an active mind, nevertheless; but this activity is expended, as a rule, in eccentric pursuits. he has one confirmed antipathy--he hates a purpose. since he heard that i had written a paper on the wrongs of factory children, he has treated me with marked coolness. yet he is a man with an excellent heart. let me at once give the key to his character. most people have one serious object in life, therefore he is opposed to all serious objects. lately, i met him walking briskly on his way homeward, and i consented to accompany him. suddenly, he remembered that he must make a call before he entered his chambers. this call led us out of a great thoroughfare, through two or three narrow and dark streets, to the door of a dingy house. as we paused on the threshold, my companion asked me if i had ever seen a tobacco-pipe manufactory. i expressed my inexperience; and, having been cautioned against sermons on what i was about to see, followed my eccentric friend down a dark passage, which terminated in a very dirty and a very dark warehouse. a few samples of tobacco-pipes lay upon a counter, and one side of the warehouse was skirted with drawers full of "yards of clay"--my eccentric friend's ordinary expression when alluding to his pipes. in a dark corner, a strong man was savagely punching huge blocks of clay with a heavy wooden bar; in another corner lay a huge pile of clay-blocks in the rough state--apparently a heap of dirt, of little use to any body. a mild woman--the wife of the manufacturer--showed us about with a cheerful manner. my friend, who took an evident interest in all the processes we witnessed, still contrived to maintain his eccentric habit, by continually expressing his unconcern. as we looked at the skillful action of the workmen's fingers, my friend allowed that they played the fiddle well, but added that they could _only_ play the fiddle. however, i left him to pursue his eccentric way, and wandered about with unfeigned curiosity. turning from the muscular fellow who was beating the rough clay with the wooden bar, and moistening it, that it might yield to the pressure of the mould, i suddenly saw a black gaping mouth before me, that seemed to be in the agony of swallowing a dense stack of tobacco-pipes; this, i learned, was the pipe-kiln. the pipes were arranged in exact rows, and in vast quantities. i ventured to express my astonishment at the number of pipes in the capacious kiln; whereupon the clay-beater paused from his labor, and, with a smile that expressed pity for my ignorance, declared that there was a mere handful on the premises. "there are a few still, up there," he added, pointing to the roof of the warehouse. i followed the direction of his finger, and saw above me a roof of tobacco-pipes piled in regular rows on brackets. the number appeared incalculable, but the clay-beater contemptuously pronounced it insignificant. he informed me that i might see "a few more," if i would have the goodness to go up stairs. my eccentric friend vowed that the trouble was excessive--that our business was with the pipes when they had tobacco in them; and not with the people who made them; and, as he remarked (having had a sharp pecuniary altercation with the manufacturer's wife), who took particular care to charge a remunerative price for them. but he mounted the stairs, in spite of his objections, and followed me into the room where the battered clay of the beater below was undergoing other processes. here and there men seemed to be printing off pipes--the action of their arms, and the movement of their presses nearly resembling those of hand-printing. a pale woman sat in the centre of the room with a counter before her, and two or three delicate tools; but we went past her at once to the man who had a mound of soft gray clay before him. he was working briskly. he first seized two lumps of clay, each of the average size of an apple, and having carelessly kneaded them with his fingers, seemed to throw them contemptuously upon the board before him. then, with the palms of his hand he rolled them sharply out on the board, leaving one end of each lump very thick, and producing, altogether, two clay tadpoles of a large size. these he took up, and placed with others in a row, all pressed and sticking together. the apparent unconcern and indifference with which the entire operation was performed struck us particularly. when we had sufficiently noticed the manufacture of gigantic tadpoles, we crossed the room to an opposite bench where a man was working rapidly. here we found a confused heap of clay tadpoles, ready to be run through and burnt into seemly pipes. we watched the operations of the second skilled laborer with intense interest. first, with a weary air he took up a bundle of limp clay tadpoles, and threw them down close beside him. he then took a fine steel rod in his left hand, and seizing a tadpole, drew its long slender tail on to the rod. this operation was so dexterously performed, that the rod never protruded the least to the right or to the left, but was kept, by the fine touch of the right-hand fingers, exactly in the centre of the tube. the spitted tadpole was then laid flat in the lower half of the metal pipe mould; the upper part was pulled down over it, and then pressed. on lifting the mould from the press, the workman quickly cut away the superfluous clay that stood up beyond the bowl, opened the mould, and disclosed, to the undisguised admiration even of my eccentric friend, the graceful flow of his usual "yard of clay." but it was not yet ready for smoking; very far from it. it was still a damp, leaden gray pipe, with two broad seams of clay projecting from it, throughout its entire length. it was ragged too. on these deficiencies my friend began to offer a few pungent remarks; when the workman interrupted him by pointing toward an industrious woman, who seemed to be in a desperate hurry; yet she was not at all excited. my friend suggested that steam must be circulating in her nimble fingers, instead of blood. she smiled at the pleasantry; and said meekly enough, that it was custom. she was as clumsy as i should be when she began--but long, long days of experience--there, sitting before that board, and cutting incessantly those seams that curl so neatly off the rough pipes, give that dexterity, and it is well, perhaps severely, paid for. the work-woman wears a serious, dull face generally. it struck me, as i watched the repetition of her movements, that in their dreadful monotony there must be a deadening influence upon the mind and heart. i even thought that she must find it a relief now and then to break a pipe, or drop one of the glistening steel rods. first, she took up one of the rough pipes, and with a sharp steel instrument, smoothed all the rough clay about the bowl. then she smoothed the stem with a flat instrument--then she cut the mouthpiece even. having thus rapidly traveled over the moulder's work, she withdrew the fine steel rod from the tube, blew down the pipe to assure herself that the air passed from the bowl to the mouth-piece, and then carefully added it to a row, placed upon a frame beside her. the finished pipe was hardly deposited in its place before another was in her hands, and in rapid process toward completion. a roaring fire crackled in the grate, and the heat of the atmosphere was oppressive. above were more endless rows and galleries of pipes; waiting to be baked, and in a fair way, i thought, of undergoing that process where they lay. i could hear the dull, heavy sounds of the clay-beater's weapon below, and in the rooms the incessant click of the closing moulds. the workmen were proud to show their dexterity, as they well might be. our friend in the farther corner, as he talked pleasantly to us on various subjects, still carelessly made his clay tadpoles; the woman never paused from her rapid work when she exchanged occasional sentences with a boy who stood near her; and the wife of the manufacturer surveyed the busy scene with sparkling eyes. i thought once or twice of the damp clay streaming about these workpeople; and of the hard, stern work going on to provide receptacles for lazy men's tobacco. pipe-clay seemed to force itself every where; about the rafters, on the benches, on the floor, in the walls. my friend's curiosity was soon satisfied: for his anxiety to avoid contact with the raw material of his favorite manufactured article, drove every other consideration from his mind. he vowed that he did not wish to appear in the streets of london in the guise of a miller--that, generally, he preferred a black coat to a piebald one, and that not being a military man, the less pipe-clay he took away in the nap of his clothes, the better. but i had one or two questions to put to the tadpole-maker--not with the view, as my friend stoutly asserted, of writing a sermon, but perhaps with an object sufficiently laudable. i learned that a workman, "keeping to it" twelve hours, can make "four gross and a half" of pipes per day. my friend was struck with this astonishing fact; and, forthwith, began to prove from this assertion that he ought to have the half-gross he wanted at a very low price indeed. it was only when the workman paused, for the first time, from his work to discuss the beauties of various pipes, that my friend felt himself quite at home in the manufactory. hereupon, the workman placed a variety of pipes in juxtaposition, and began to talk of their relative excellences and beauties with the tact of an artist. this man was not without a shrewd sense of art; he had his ideal of a tobacco-pipe, as the political dreamer has his ideal of a model state, or a sculptor of his ideal beauty. he had shrewd, unanswerable reasons for a certain roundness in the bowl; his eye wandered critically down the graceful bend of the tube, and his hand tested nicely the finish of the surface. his skill lay, certainly, only in the manufacture of tobacco-pipes; but, still, herein his mind was active, and his taste was cultivated. "what would become of you if smoking were put down by act of parliament?" my friend asked, with a sarcastic air. but the man was a match even for the practiced eccentricity of my companion. "why, sir," said the man, "most likely more snuff would be consumed instead, and i should shut up the kiln, and take to making snuffboxes." my friend was silenced; and, as we walked away from the manufactory, down the dark, narrow streets, he allowed, in a whisper, that there was wisdom in the pipemaker's answer. and then he began to make calculations as to how many people flourish in every country on the bad habits and vices of their fellow-citizens. he wove a chain of terrible length, to show how many men were interested in the drunkenness of the country. a man reeled past us in the imbecile, singing stage of the vice. "that man," said my eccentric friend, "has done the state some service to-night. he has been helping to swell the excise returns; presently, he will create a disturbance; a policeman will gallantly walk him off to the station-house, and be promoted; his hat will be broken, to the great advantage of a hatter; his shirt front will be torn, to the benefit of some poor, lone sempstress; and there, he has broken his yard of clay, to the advantage of the manufactory we have just left. delirium tremens will come at last; and with it a surgeon; and, with the surgeon, herbs which are now growing under the burning heat of indian skies." thus my eccentric friend ran on, and i did not interrupt him; for, in his words, i detected sparks of light that led us merrily forward to our journey's end, where we found half-a-gross of "yards of clay;" "a perfect picture," according to my friend--lying, all white as snow before us, trimmed, i knew, by the serious, nimble-fingered woman we had seen at her work. and she is at it now, still cutting the seams off, and blowing down the tubes! habits and character of the dog-rib indians.[ ] [footnote : from sir john richardson's arctic "searching expedition," just published by harper and brothers.] few traces of the stoicism popularly attributed to the red races exist among the dog ribs; they shrink from pain, show little daring, express their fears without disguise on all occasions, imaginary or real, shed tears readily, and live in constant dread of enemies, bodied and disembodied. yet all, young and old, enjoy a joke heartily. they are not a morose people, but, on the contrary, when young and in a situation of security, they are remarkably lively and cheerful. the infirmities of age, which press heavily on the savage, render them querulous. they are fond of dancing, but their dance, which is performed in a circle, is without the least pretensions to grace, and is carried on laboriously with the knees and body half bent and a heavy stamping, having the effect of causing the dancers to appear as if they were desirous of sinking into the ground. it is accompanied by a song resembling a chorus of groans, or pretty nearly the deep sigh of a pavier as he brings his rammer down upon the pavement. they are great mimics, and readily ape the peculiarities of any white man; and many of the young men have caught the tunes of the canadian voyagers, and hum them correctly. the dog-ribs are practical socialists; and, as much of the misery they occasionally experience may be traced to this cause, the study of the working of such a system may be instructive in a community like this, whose members owe their condition in the social scale solely to their personal qualities, and not to inheritance, favor, or the other accidents which complicate the results in civilized life. custom has established among them a practice universally acted upon--that all may avail themselves of the produce of a hunter's energy and skill; and they do not even leave to him the distribution of his own game. when it is known in the camp that deer have been killed, the old men and women of each family sally forth with their sledges, and, tracing up the hunter's footsteps to the carcasses of the animals he has slain, proceed to divide them among themselves, leaving to the proper owner the ribs, which is all that he can claim to himself of right. he has also the tongue, which he takes care to cut out on killing the deer. it is not in the power of these people to restrain their appetites when they have abundance; and the consequence is, that when the chase is successful, all the community feast and grow fat, however little many of the men--and there are not a few idle ones--may have contributed to the common good. the hunter's wife dries the rib-pieces, after cutting out the bone, in the smoke, or over a fire, to carry to a fort for the purposes of trade; but, unless there is a superabundance, little provision is made by the party for a time of scarcity, which is sure to arrive before long; since the deer, when much hunted, move to some other district. taught by their frequent sufferings on such occasions, the more active hunters frequently withdraw themselves and their families from the knowledge of the drones of the community, leaving them at some fishing station, where, with proper industry, they may subsist comfortably. a fish diet is not, however, agreeable to the palates of these people for any length of time; and, as soon as rumors of a hunter's success reach them--which they do generally much exaggerated by the way--a longing for the flesh-pots is instantly excited, especially among the old, and a general movement to the hunting-ground ensues. if, on their march, the craving multitude discover a hoard of meat stored up by any of the hunting parties, it is devoured on the spot; but they are not always so fortunate. before they reach the scene of anticipated abundance, the deer may have gone off, followed by the hunters, with uncertain hopes of overtaking them, and nothing remains for the hungry throng, including the old and the lame, but to retrace their steps, with the prospect of many of them perishing by the way, should their stock of food have been quite exhausted. such occurrences are by no means rare; they came several times under our immediate notice during our winter residence at fort confidence, and similar facts are recorded by mr. simpson of the same tribe. this gentleman expresses his opinion that the charge made against this nation, of abandoning their infirm aged people and children, had its origin in the _sauve qui peut_ cry raised during a forced retreat from some one of these most injudicious excursions; and i am inclined fully to agree with him; for i witnessed several unquestionable instances of tenderness and affection shown by children to their parents, and of compliance with their whims, much to their own personal inconvenience. the grief they show on the loss of a parent, is often great and of long continuance, and it is the custom, both for men and women, to lament the death of relations for years, by nightly wailings. hospitality is not a virtue which is conspicuous among the dog-ribs, who differ in this respect from the eythinyuwuk, in whose encampments a stranger meets a welcome and a proffer of food. it is not customary, however, for the dog-rib to receive the traveler who enters his tent with the same show of kindness. if he is hungry, and meat hangs up, he may help himself without eliciting a remark, for the 'tinnè hold it to be mean to say much about a piece of meat; or he may exert his patience until some cookery goes on, and then join in the meal; and should there be venison at hand, he will not have long to wait, for every now and then some one is prompted to hang a kettle on the fire, or to place a joint or steak to roast before it. of the peculiarities of their religious belief i could gain no certain information. the interpreters to whom i applied for assistance disliked the task, and invariably replied, "as for these savages, they know nothing; they are ignorant people." the majority of the nation recognize a "great spirit," at least by name, but some doubt his existence, assigning, as a reason for their atheism, their miserable condition; or they say, "if there be such a being, he dwells on the lands of the white people, where so many useful and valuable articles are produced." with respect to evil spirits, their name in the dog-rib country is legion. the 'tinnè recognize them in the bear, wolf, and wolverene, in the woods, waters, and desert places; often hear them howling in the winds, or moaning by the graves of the dead. their dread of these disembodied beings, of whom they spoke to us under the general name of "enemies," is such that few of the hunters will sleep out alone. they never make any offerings to the great spirit, or pay him an act of adoration; but they deprecate the wrath of an evil being by prayer, and the sacrifice of some article, generally of little value, perhaps simply by scattering a handful of deer hair or a few feathers. monthly record of current events. the united states. in congress, during the past month, there has been copious discussion of a great variety of subjects, but no important action upon any. the influence of the approaching presidential election makes itself felt upon the debates of congress, coloring every speech and often superseding every other subject. memorials have been presented in favor of authorizing another arctic expedition in search of sir john franklin, for which mr. henry grinnell again tenders the use of his ships--asking only that the government will send a small steamer with them and men for officers and sailors. commander wilkes has also addressed congress on the subject; proposing a very large expedition--sufficient indeed to establish a permanent settlement in the arctic regions, from which the search may be prosecuted. nothing has been done with regard to either.----governor kossuth has addressed to congress a letter of thanks for the reception given him, which was presented in the senate on the th of february, and gave rise to a long debate on the proposition to print it: it was ordered to be printed by votes to against it.----in the senate a bill has been reported by commitee to establish a branch mint in the city of new york, on condition that the city donate land for a site and the state exempt it from taxation.----a good deal of the attention of the senate has been devoted to a debate upon the public land policy of the country, the question coming up on a bill granting large tracts of land to iowa to aid in the construction of certain railroads. mr. sumner, of massachusetts, spoke in favor of ceding all the public lands to the states in which they lie, mainly on the ground that the exemption of those lands from state taxation had created in those states an equitable title to them. on the th of february mr. geyer, of missouri, spoke in favor of the same policy, basing his argument in its support upon the same facts. mr. underwood offered an amendment to the effect of distributing among the seventeen states in which there are no public lands, fifteen millions of acres. he spoke in defense of it at length. no vote has been taken upon the subject.----further debate has been had upon the resolutions on the subject of non-intervention. on the th of february, mr. miller, of new jersey, spoke against the policy of intermeddling at all in the affairs of foreign nations. he represented intervention in foreigns affairs as the habitual policy of european monarchies, which washington had resisted; and he urged the duty and necessity of adhering strictly to the ground of neutrality which was adopted during the early history of this country. the subject was then postponed until the th of march, when mr. seward of new york, spoke upon it. he urged the absolute independence of every state, and the duty of all states to recognize and respect it. he entered upon a historical review of the connection of hungary and austria to show that hungary was fully entitled to this right, and that it had been grossly violated when her freedom and constitution were destroyed by the armed intervention of russia. he then urged that the united states, although recognizing the existing rule in hungary from motives of political necessity, can not be indifferent to such usurpation, and may lawfully protest against it, and especially against any new intervention should it be intended by russia. he referred to the diplomatic history of the united states to show that this principle has always been recognized and practiced by them, and insisted that there was no reason why it should now be abandoned. upon the conclusion of his speech the subject was postponed for a week.----a debate of personal rather than general interest occurred in the senate on the th and th of february, between mr. rhett of south carolina and mr. clemens of alabama. the former read a very long paper which he had prepared to expose the political inconsistencies of mr. clemens, and in which he used strong language in characterizing his course. mr. clemens replied with passionate warmth and with increased vituperation their speeches have no general interest or importance.----in the _house of representatives_ discussion, although it has comprehended various subjects, has grown mainly out of bills to appropriate public lands to certain railroads in missouri and illinois. they have been debated with a good deal of warmth, and almost every speaker has connected with them the discussion of the presidential question. in the course of the debate a letter from gen. william o. butler, addressed to a personal friend, was read, in which he declares his entire assent and approval of the compromise measures of . on the st of march, mr. fitch of iowa offered a resolution deprecating all further agitation of the questions growing out of these measures as useless and dangerous: and a vote was taken on a motion to suspend the rules so as to allow its introduction: there were ayes , nays . as two-thirds were required to pass it, the motion failed.----on the th of february a message was received from the president, transmitting, in reply to a resolution of the house, copies of the correspondence between the officers of the mississippi and the government concerning kossuth. it was quite voluminous, embracing letters from other american functionaries as well as naval officers. they show on the part of all of them a strong distrust of kossuth's plans and great dissatisfaction at the marks of respect paid to him at the various ports on the mediterranean, at which the mississippi touched. his returning thanks to the people at marseilles who cheered him, is especially censured. the month has been marked by several literary discourses of more than common interest. at the anniversary meeting of the new york historical society, held on the d of february, hon. daniel webster read an elaborate paper upon the dignity and importance of history, and making sundry detailed criticisms upon the historical writings of ancient and modern historians. he dwelt somewhat minutely upon all the great writers of greece and rome, and passed more hastily over those of england. he sketched the early history of the united states, dwelling especially upon the proceedings of the first congress after the constitution, and pronouncing a high eulogy upon the great men to whose hands the legislation of that important era was intrusted. he closed by alluding to the dangers which had recently menaced the union and the constitution, and declared himself ready to co-operate with those of every party who would rally in their defense. the discourse was heard with marked attention by an immense and intelligent audience.----on the evening of the th, a very large meeting was held in new york to testify regard for the memory of the late j. fenimore cooper. the occasion was distinguished by the attendance, as presiding officer, of mr. webster, and by the presence of a great number of distinguished literary gentlemen. mr. webster made a brief address, expressing his cordial interest in the occasion, and the high respect which he entertained for the writings of cooper, as being preeminent for their thorough american feeling and high moral tone, as well as great intellectual ability. william cullen bryant delivered a commemorative address, rehearsing mr. cooper's life, and making passing criticisms upon his successive works.----on the evening of march th, archbishop hughes read a lecture on the catholic chapter in the history of the united states, the leading purpose of which was to show that in this country no religious denomination has any claim to supremacy--that it is neither protestant nor catholic--but that the constitution prohibits all legislation upon the subject, and that all stand upon precisely the same level.----a whig state convention was held in kentucky, at frankfort, on the th of february. hon. chilton allan presided. a series of resolutions was adopted, pronouncing in favor of the compromise measures of , and of the course pursued by the president of the united states in securing the execution of the laws. they also declared in favor of public appropriations for internal improvements, against granting the public lands to the states in which they lie, and in favor of maintaining strict neutrality in the affairs of all foreign nations. the convention declared its willingness to abide by the nomination of a whig national convention, but presented president fillmore to the consideration of that body, as a "statesman of such approved prudence, experience, firmness, and wisdom as to unite the entire whig vote of kentucky."----a large public meeting was held in new york, on the th of march, of those in favor of the nomination of mr. webster for the presidency, subject to the decision of a national whig convention. mr. george griswold presided. an address was adopted rehearsing the public history of mr. webster, and referring to his services to the country in the various public offices which he has held.----a whig state convention in indiana adopted resolutions nominating general scott for the presidency.----washington's birth-day was celebrated at the national capital by a banquet, got up mainly by members of congress. senator stockton presided, and speeches were made by several gentlemen--mainly directed against the policy of intermeddling to any degree or for any purpose in the affairs of foreign nations. mr clay, whose illness prevented his attendance, wrote a letter, saying that the serious efforts made to subvert the policy of neutrality established by washington, called for energetic measures of resistance. the attempts made to induce this country to plunge, by perilous proceedings and insensible degrees, in the wars of europe, rendered it proper to recall attention to his principles by celebrating his birth-day. from california we have intelligence to the d of february. col. john b. weller (democrat) has been elected united states senator in place of col. frémont. he was once candidate for governor of ohio and more recently chief of the mexican boundary commission.----governor bigler has sent to the legislature a special message, concerning the financial affairs of the state, in which he urges upon the legislature the early adoption of measures to relieve the burden of the state's liabilities, and exhibits the amount of her indebtedness. according to the controller's report, $ , , still stands against the state from the expenses of last year's military expeditions. the aggregate indebtedness, civil and military, of the state, on the st december was $ , , . .----there had been no further disturbances from the indians, though further precautions against them had been taken by sending troops into their neighborhood.----hon. t. b. king has published a letter recommending the relinquishment of the public lands to actual settlers, and the confirmation by congress of the rules established by the miners themselves, defining the rights of those who may be employed in the collection of gold, or who may invest capital in machinery for the purpose of working the vein mines.----intelligence from the mining districts continues to be encouraging. the quartz mining companies are generally doing well, though from defects in machinery some failures have occurred. new discoveries continue to be made. from oregon our advices are to jan. . the legislature and judiciary disagree about the seat of government, part of the members meeting in the place fixed by judicial decision, and others refusing to concur in the decision and meeting elsewhere. the dispute has been transferred to the people, by the adjournment of the assembly on the st of jan. it is canvassed with great warmth and earnestness.----some doubts having arisen as to the true boundary line between oregon and california, the surveyor-general has been directed to make the necessary observations to determine it. in the territory of new mexico, from which we have news to jan. st, fresh indian outrages have occurred. an escort of united states troops, consisting of a sergeant and four men, was proceeding southward when they were attacked by a band of apaches in ambush, and four of the party were killed; the other succeeded in making his escape. four murders were perpetrated also near polvodera in the early part of january, and soon after the indians attacked a party of nine persons of whom they killed five. the scene of these outrages is the desert region called the jornada, lying on the route from santa fé to chihuahua. the daring nature of the attacks of the several tribes of indians had created great alarm throughout the country. a body of troops had been sent out to punish the indians for these murders, but returned without success.----movements are in progress in santa fé to work the gold placers known to exist in that vicinity. the chief difficulty has hitherto arisen from the want of water for washing the dust: this is now to be remedied by digging wells. a gold hunting company of forty men has left santa fé for a thorough exploration of the gila region: they expected to find others on the way to join them, so as to swell their number to a hundred and fifty which would be sufficient for self-defense. from utah the last california mail brought news that the mormons at the great salt lake city had published a declaration of independence, announcing their determination to setup a republic for themselves--that they had put the united states' authorities at defiance--that all the united states' officers had left, and the people were preparing to resist all authority, by fortifying their settlements. the delegate in congress from utah, mr. john w. bernhisel, published a card on the st of march, pronouncing the report untrue, so far as the latest intelligence from home which had reached him enabled him to give an opinion. he said he thought the rumor was merely an exaggerated statement of difficulties previously known. on the other hand, another gentleman who left california on the th of december, expresses the belief that the accounts are true. he says that the news was by no means unexpected to the people of oregon and california, as they had long been aware of their hostile and ambitious designs. for decisive intelligence we shall be obliged to wait for another arrival. from northern mexico we have news of a renewed repulse of carvajal, whom our last record left on the rio grande, recruiting his forces. general avalos fortified matamoras against an expected attack, which had created great alarm among the inhabitants. on the th of february carvajal attacked camargo with a force of over men, but he was repulsed with decided loss. he succeeded in escaping to the american side of the rio grande. of his whole force it is stated that only were mexicans. from south america we have intelligence of a later date. in _venezuela_, from which we have news to the st of february, congress opened on the th of january. the message of president monagas announces a great improvement in the financial condition of the country. all the obligations on account of the public service have been met--the expenses of the wars of and have been partially liquidated--the interest on the domestic debt, which has not been satisfied since , has been paid, and the installments on the foreign debt, which have been neglected for some years, have been promptly remitted to london--thus improving the national credit abroad.----from the _la plata_ we have intelligence of an engagement, about the st of january, between the forces of rosas and urquiza, which is said to have resulted in the victory of the former, and in the desertion to his standard of five thousand of urquiza's troops. it is not easy to say how much of this is reliable.----political offenders in _chili_ have been for some years banished to the straits of magellan. an insurrection took place among them lately, in which they killed the governor, seized the garrison, and declared themselves independent of chili. it is said that they have also seized two or three american vessels. great britain. the political events of the month in england have been of striking interest and importance. the expulsion of lord palmerston from the cabinet, mainly for offenses against etiquette--the meeting of parliament, and the subsequent defeat and retirement of the russell ministry, with the reinstatement of a protectionist cabinet, are certainly events of more consequence than are usually crowded into a single month. parliament met on the d of february, and was opened in person by the queen. her speech announced that she continued to maintain the most friendly relations with foreign powers. she had reason to believe that the treaty between germany and denmark, concluded at berlin year before last, will soon be fully executed. although tranquillity has prevailed throughout the greater part of ireland, certain parts of the counties of armagh, monaghan, and louth have been marked by the commission of outrages of the most serious description. bills have been prepared founded upon the reports of the commissioners appointed to inquire into the practice and proceedings of the superior courts of law and equity, which are commended to deliberate attention. the act of suspending the previous act which conferred representative institutions on new zealand, expires early next year; and no reason exists for its renewal. the large reductions of taxes which have taken place of late years have not been attended with a proportionate diminution of national income. the revenue of the past year has been fully adequate to the demands of the public service, while the reduction of taxation has tended greatly to the relief and comfort of the people. the queen states that it appears to her that "this is a fitting time for calmly considering whether it may not be advisable to make such amendments in the act of the late reign, relating to the representation of the commons in parliament, as may be deemed calculated to carry into more complete effect the principles upon which that law is founded." she had "the fullest confidence that, in any such consideration, parliament would firmly adhere to the acknowledged principles of the constitution, by which the prerogatives of the crown, the authority of both houses of parliament, and the rights and liberties of the people are equally secured." previous to the meeting of parliament, the public was taken completely by surprise by the retirement of lord palmerston from the ministry, and the appointment of earl granville as his successor. in the house of commons explanations took place on the first day of the session. the reply to the queen's speech was moved by sir richard bulkeley; but, before the question was taken, sir benjamin hall called upon the premier for explanations of the disruption of the ministry. lord john russell immediately entered upon the subject, and after declaring his former confidence in lord palmerston's management of foreign affairs, and stating that in , and again in and he had strongly recommended him for that department, went on to state his conception of the position of the foreign secretary toward the crown and the prime minister. he believed it to be the duty of the minister to give to the crown the most full and frank details of every measure, and either to obey the instructions he may receive, or resign. it "did so happen," he said, "that in precise terms were laid down in a communication from the queen to lord palmerston--in which her majesty required, first, that lord palmerston should distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that the queen may know as distinctly to what she is giving her royal sanction; and, secondly, that having once given her sanction to a measure, that it be not arbitrarily altered or modified by the minister. the queen further expected to be kept informed of what passes between the foreign secretary and the foreign ministers, before important decisions are taken based upon that intercourse--to receive the foreign dispatches in good time, and to have the drafts for her approval sent to her in sufficient time to make herself acquainted with their contents before they must be sent off."--in reply to this communication, lord palmerston said he would not fail to attend to the directions which it contained.--as for the prime minister, lord john russell said he considered him, in fact, responsible for the business of the department. at a meeting of the cabinet, on the d of november, lord john expressed his opinion on the situation of europe, which he deemed very critical. there was a prospect of seeing social democracy, or absolute power triumphant on the continent; and in either case the position of england would be very critical. he thought it necessary, therefore, for england to preserve a strict neutrality, and to exercise the utmost vigilance to prevent any cause of offense being given. yet very soon after that, lord palmerston received a deputation, and listened to addresses containing expressions in the highest degree offensive to sovereigns in alliance with england. still lord john said he was willing to take the responsibility for all this, as he thought the secretary had merely committed an error.--the next cause of difference occurred immediately after the usurpation of louis napoleon on the d of december. the next day a cabinet meeting was held, at which a request was presented from lord normanby, the english minister at paris, that he might be furnished with instructions as to the continuance of diplomatic relations with the new government. in conformity with the decision then made, lord palmerston, on the th, instructed him to make no change in his relations with the french government. on the th, lord normanby wrote saying that he had called on m. turgot, the french minister, and informed him of this decision, to which m. turgot replied that it was of less consequence as he had two days since heard from m. walewski, the french minister in london, that lord palmerston had expressed to him his entire approbation of the act of the president, and his conviction that he could not have acted otherwise than he had done. on seeing this dispatch, lord john asked lord palmerston for an explanation, but got no answer. on the th of december, he received a letter from the queen, requesting an explanation; but lord palmerston maintained the same disdainful silence. on the th, he received another dispatch from lord normanby to lord palmerston, complaining that lord palmerston should use one language in his instructions to him and another to the french minister in london, and that while enjoining him not to express any opinion of french politics, he should himself have expressed a very decided judgment. such a course, he added, subjected him to misrepresentation and suspicion. lord palmerston, in reply to this, stated that lord normanby's instructions related only to his conduct, and not to opinions: but that if he wished to know lord palmerston's opinion concerning french affairs, it was, that "such a state of antagonism had arisen between the president and the assembly, that it was becoming every day more clear that their coexistence could not be of long duration; and it seemed to him better for the interests of france, and through them for the interests of the rest of europe, that the power of the president should prevail, inasmuch as the continuance of his authority might afford a prospect of the maintenance of social order in france, whereas the divisions of opinions and parties in the assembly appeared to betoken that their victory over the president would be the starting-point for disastrous civil strife." lord john russell said that this dispatch contained no satisfactory explanation of lord palmerston's course; that the merits of the french government had now nothing to do with the case: but that the real question was, whether the secretary of state was entitled of his own authority, to write a dispatch, as the organ of the government, in which his colleagues had never concurred, and to which the queen had never given her sanction. he thought, therefore, that he could not without degrading the crown, advise her majesty longer to retain lord palmerston in the foreign department, and he had accordingly advised her to request his resignation, which she had done. in continuing his remarks lord john expressed his belief that the president of france had acted under a belief that the course he had taken was the one best calculated to insure the welfare of his country; and proceeded to censure the course of the english press toward louis napoleon, as calculated to excite the animosity of the french nation, and perhaps to involve the two countries in war. lord palmerston replied in a very moderate tone, substantially admitting the truth of lord john's statements, though denying the justice of his inferences. he repelled the intimation that he had abandoned the principles he had always maintained--that he had become the advocate of absolute power, or in favor of the abolition of constitutional governments. he concurred in what lord john had said of the relations that ought to exist between the foreign secretary and the crown, and said he had done nothing inconsistent with them. in regard to the deputation he had received, he admitted that he had been surprised into a false position. his delay in answering the letters of lord john russell had been entirely owing to the great pressure of business; and his expressions of opinion concerning louis napoleon were unofficial and in conversation. other members of the cabinet had expressed the same opinions, and under circumstances quite as objectionable, certainly, as those under which his own conversation was held. lord palmerston rehearsed the outlines of the policy he had pursued in managing the foreign relations of great britain, and concluded by saying that, on quitting office, he left the character and reputation of england unsullied, and standing high among the nations of the world.----in the house of lords the debates following the reading of the queen's speech, had greater incidental than direct interest. the earl of derby took occasion to speak in very strong terms of what he termed "the injudicious and unjustifiable language of a large portion of the english press upon the french government." he insisted that it was the duty of the press to maintain the same tone of moderation in discussing public affairs which is required of public men; and he styled it worse than folly for the press in one breath to provoke a french invasion, and in the next to proclaim the unpreparedness of the english people to meet it. he was followed by earl grey, who expressed his hearty concurrence in what he had said of the press, as did also lord brougham. the london journals, and among them pre-eminently the _times_ and the _examiner_, have taken up the challenge thus thrown down, and have vindicated the press from the censures of the lords in some of the ablest writing of the day. on the th, lord john russell introduced his new reform bill. its provisions may be very briefly stated. the £ franchise was to be reduced to £ ; the £ county franchise gives way to one of £ ; that of copyholders and long leaseholders is to be reduced from £ to £ ; and a new class of voters is to be created out of those who, resident in either county or borough, pay direct taxes to the amount of shillings. in boroughs additions are proposed to the electoral boundaries; the property qualification is to be abolished, and the oaths of members to be put in such a form as to create no invidious distinctions. a member taking office under the crown vacates his seat; but if he merely changes it, he may retain his representative capacity. the premier made a speech upon the subject, over an hour in length, and remarkably free from feeling of any sort. the main objections urged to the bill are that it does not concede the ballot, that it does not remedy the evils of unequal representation, and that the changes it does make in the existing law are of very little importance. notice has been given of an intention to move amendments to the bill which would remedy these defects.----on the th, lord naas proposed a resolution severely censuring the earl of clarendon's employment of the _world_ newspaper to support the government, as being "of a nature to weaken the authority of the executive, and to reflect discredit on the administration of public affairs." the earl was defended warmly by lords russell and palmerston, both of whom urged that, irregular as the proceeding might have been, it was of trifling consequence compared with his lordship's eminent services to the country. the resolution was rejected to .----on the th, lord john russell introduced a bill for the establishment of a local militia force. he gave a sketch of the recent history of the military organization of england, and set forth the reasons which, in his judgment, rendered it important that some more effectual provision should be made for the defense of the country against possible hostilities. the general provisions of the bill were that persons of the age of and years should be subject to being balloted for as militia men--that one-fifth of the whole number should be chosen--and that they should be drilled for or days each year. the entire force thus raised, he thought, would be about , the first year, , the second, and , after that; the forces could not be taken out of their own counties, without their consent, except in case of invasion or danger. the subject was very slightly discussed at that time, but came up again on the th, when lord john russell again spoke in support of the bill. lord palmerston expressed his entire concurrence in the principle of the bill, but moved as an amendment, to strike out the word _local_ from the title, in order to make the title correspond with the character of the bill itself. lord john russell said he could not understand the object of such a motion, and that he should oppose it. after some further debate the amendment was put and carried, ayes , noes , showing a majority against the ministry of . lord john russell expressed great surprise at the vote, and said that he should hold office no longer. the resignation of the ministry under such circumstances created a good deal of surprise. in the course of three or four days a new cabinet was formed under the leadership of the earl of derby--late lord stanley--which is thoroughly protectionist in its sentiments. the earl is prime minister; mr. disraeli is chancellor of the exchequer and leader in the house of commons; mr. g. f. young is vice president of the board of trade; duke of northumberland, first lord of the admiralty; lord john manners, commissioner of woods and forests; sir f. thesiger, attorney general; earl of eglintoun, lord lieutenant of ireland; duke of montrose, lord steward; lord stanley, under secretary for foreign affairs. it is supposed that the new ministry will break ground at once against the corn-law policy established by sir robert peel, hostility to which is the only bond of union among its members; and the universal belief is that the new administration will fail to be sustained by the country on that question. one of the earliest topics to which the attention of the earl of granville, lord palmerston's immediate successor, was called, was the degree of protection which england should afford to political refugees from other countries. in reply to representations on this subject from the austrian government, earl granville, in a dispatch dated january , spoke of the right of asylum which england always had granted, and could never refuse to political refugees; and added that the english government would, nevertheless, consider any intrigues, carried on there against governments with which they were at peace, as a breach of hospitality, and would not fail to watch the conduct of suspected refugees, and to prevent them from abusing the privileges afforded them by english laws. prince schwarzenberg, in reply, expressed satisfaction at the tenor of these assurances, but said, that until the words of the english government were followed by deeds, it would be necessary for austria to take measures of precaution and protection against the dangers which the ceaseless machinations of foreign refugees on english soil created. the imperial government would be especially rigid in regard to english travelers, and would, moreover, reserve the right of taking into consideration ulterior measures, if, unhappily, the need of them should still make itself felt.----a terrible disaster from floods occurred in the north of england on the th of february. several of the factories of the town of holmfrith, near huddersfield, were supplied with water by large reservoirs, in which an immense body of water had been accumulated. owing to the heavy rains one of the largest of them broke its banks, and the water poured through the town, sweeping houses away in its path and causing an immense loss of life and property. over one hundred persons were drowned. very great injury had been sustained by other towns in that vicinity. in the south of ireland also, especially in the counties of limerick and clare, much property and some lives have been lost by the swelling of the smaller streams.----the dispatches of earl grey recalling sir harry smith from the government of the cape, have been published: they show that his incompetence for the post has been the real cause of his removal, and that the policy of the government is to prosecute the war with increased vigor, so as to reduce the kaffirs and hottentots to unconditional submission.----we mentioned in our record for march, the repulse of the english slave squadron while attempting to ascend the river, to the town of lagos, on the coast of africa, contrary to the commands of the chief. later advices report the renewal of the attempt, and the overthrow of the chief's authority, though at a very heavy cost on the part of the english. the town of lagos has long been the stronghold of the slave trade on that part of the coast, and the english have directed their efforts toward the suppression of the traffic there. the chief of the town named kosoko, was actively engaged in the trade himself, in connection with portugese and brazilian dealers. he had obtained power by expelling a rival named akitoye, who sought aid against him in an alliance with the english. when kosoko, therefore, refused permission to the english to bring their armed boats to lagos, the commander of the squadron concerted an attack upon the town, with the adherents of the expelled chief. the town was defended with a good deal of skill and bravery, and the assault upon it lasted three days, at the end of which time it was found to have been deserted. the english lost killed and wounded. it is said that the destruction of this town will do much toward the suppression of the slave trade.----a new expedition in search of sir john franklin has been resolved upon by the british government, and sir edward belcher has been appointed to the command. he will leave england about the middle of april, with the four ships which composed captain austin's late expedition. his attention will first be directed to beechey island, where sir john is known to have passed the winter of - . the great object of this new expedition is to examine the upper part of wellington strait as far as possible beyond captain penny's northwest advance. france. political affairs in france remain substantially unchanged. the law organizing the legislative body has been published. the legislature is to consist of deputies, elected by the people, in the proportion of one for every , electors in the first instance, with one more deputy for every , beyond that number. algeria and the colonies are not to be represented. all electors are eligible except public functionaries. every frenchman of the age of twenty-one, who has not forfeited his civil rights, has the vote.----we mentioned in our last record the protest of the testamentary executors of louis philippe against the decree of confiscation, issued by the president. the princes of orleans--the duke de nemours, and the prince de joinville--have addressed a letter of thanks to the executors, in which they resent with becoming indignation the insults heaped upon the memory of their father, which they say are "especially odious when brought forward by a man who on two different occasions received proofs of the magnanimity of king louis philippe, and whose family never received any thing from him but benefits." to the honor of the country which they had always loyally served and would ever love, they say, "these disgraceful decrees, and their still more disgraceful preambles, have not dared to appear except under the _régime_ of a state of siege, and after the suppression of all the guaranties which protected the liberties of the nation." the duchess of orleans has also addressed the following brief and indignant protest to the president:--"monsieur--as i do not acknowledge your right to plunder my family, neither do i acknowledge your right to assign to me a dotation in the name of france. i refuse the dowry.--helena d'orleans."----the new ministry of police has been organized by decree. the minister is to have attached to his office three directors-general, who are to appoint inspector-general, special inspectors, and commissaries of police in the departments. prominent among the duties of all of these officials are those of watching and reporting every attempt to influence public opinion against the government, keeping a close eye on the press and on publications of every sort--upon theatres, prisons, schools, and political and commercial associations. they are all to be under the immediate direction and control of the minister of police. the organization spreads a complete network of precaution over every form of public opinion in france.----louis napoleon gave a magnificent entertainment to a large number of the english nobility at paris, on the st of february, at the elysée---the whole party numbering . it is stated that after the dinner was over, he took occasion to complain of the attacks upon him in the english press, and to say that he should be obliged to exclude them from france. he also spoke of the rumors that he intended to invade england as absurd.----jerome bonaparte is appointed president of the senate, with the _petit_ luxembourg as his official residence in paris, the palace of meudon for his country-seat, and a salary of , francs, besides , francs for entertaining, a year.----it is stated that madame george sand recently had an interview with the president, and made very strong representations to him of the sufferings of the peasantry in the rural districts from the immense number of arrests that had been made of suspected persons, and urgently requesting him to grant a general amnesty. the president is said to have expressed great interest in the subject, but to have declined any compliance with the request.----the decree for the regulation of the press has been promulgated. it is almost needless to say that it destroys every semblance of freedom of the press, and makes it a mere subservient tool in the hands of the government. it consists of four chapters, and the following are their provisions: ( .) no journal can be published without first obtaining permission of the government; nor can any foreign journal be admitted into france except by the same permission: and any person bringing into france an unauthorized paper will be liable to a year's imprisonment and to a fine of francs. every publisher must deposit caution-money, from , to , francs, before he can issue a paper, under heavy penalties. ( .) stamp duties are imposed upon all journals whether published in france, or introduced from other countries; and the authorities are enjoined to seize all publications violating these regulations. ( .) every violation of the article of the constitution which prohibits legislative reports, is punishable by fine of from to francs. the publication of false news subjects to a fine, and if it be of a tendency to disturb the public peace, imprisonment is added. no account of the proceedings of the senate or council of state, and no report of trials for press offenses, can be published; and in all affairs, civil, correctional, or criminal, the courts may forbid the publication of their proceedings. every editor is bound to publish official documents, relations, and rectifications which may be addressed to him by any public authority; if he fail to do so, he may be fined and his journal seized no one can carry on the bookseller's trade, or issue or sell engravings, medals, or prints of any kind, without obtaining permission of the authorities, and becoming subject to the same restrictions as are imposed upon journals. ( .) with regard to existing journals, three months are allowed for them to deposit the caution money required, and to conform to the other provisions of the new law.----the president, by decree, has abolished all fête days except the birth-day of the emperor, on the ground that their celebration recalls the remembrance of civil discord; and that the only one observed should be that which best tends to unite all minds in the common sentiment of national glory----the paris correspondent of the london _times_ reports that a correspondence of general interest has taken place between the governments of france and russia. it is said that the czar wrote to his minister in paris, expressing dissatisfaction at the adoption by the president of the emblems of the empire, stating that he saw in all these movements the preliminaries of the re-establishment of the imperial era. while he approved of the _coup d'état_ which had put an end to republicanism in france, he could only regard louis napoleon as the temporary chief, and could not approve any attempt to give another and more important character to his authority. it is said that louis napoleon replied to this note, when it was read to him, by complaining that his intentions had been misunderstood and misrepresented;--that, in re-establishing the emblems of the empire, and in reverting to the constitution of the year viii., he only meant to establish a strong authority in his hands; that the recollections of the empire constituted his strength, and invested him with popularity among the masses; that there was nothing astonishing in the fact of his seeking in the institutions of the empire what was certain to re-establish authority in france; that he had no intention of re-establishing the empire, or of making himself emperor; that he did not want either, for the accomplishment of the mission to which he had been called; that his title of president sufficed for him; that he had no reason to trouble himself about an imperial dynasty which has no existence; and that there was no reason for the emperor nicholas troubling himself about it. the relations of france to belgium are assuming a character of considerable interest and importance. the fact that most of the exiled frenchmen found refuge in belgium, excited the fears of the government that they would thence exert a dangerous influence upon french affairs. strong representations were therefore made to the belgian authorities, who have adopted every possible means of satisfying the french government, by suppressing distrusted journals, exercising strict vigilance over refugees, and ordering many of them out of the country, or away from brussels. it is also stated that the duke of bassano, the new french envoy to the belgian court, has been authorized to demand from that government the removal of the monumental lion erected by the british government to commemorate the battle of waterloo, and to demolish the other trophies. the rumors of hostile designs on the part of louis napoleon, have led to the publication of an official denial in the _moniteur_. that article states that the french government has addressed no demands whatever to foreign powers, excepting belgium, where it was necessary, in order to prevent a system of incessant aggression. it has not armed a single soldier, neither has it done any thing to awaken the least susceptibility in its neighbors. all the views of the power in france are bent upon interior improvements. "it will not depart from its calm demeanor, except on the day when an attack shall have been made on the national honor and dignity." the london _morning chronicle_ states, as a fact of considerable historical interest, that, as early as , louis napoleon distinctly solicited general changamier to join with him in such a usurpation as he has since achieved, offering to make him constable of france, with a million of francs a year and the palace of the elysée for a residence; and that he was met by a peremptory refusal. spain. an attempt to assassinate the queen of spain was made by a priest named martin marino, on the d of february. the queen was proceeding along the principal gallery of her palace toward the grand staircase, intending to go out upon a fête occasion, for which splendid preparations had been made, when she was approached by the priest, who kneeled to present a memorial. her majesty reached out her hand to take it, when he suddenly drew a dirk and made a stab at her side. her arm, however, partially averted the blow, though she was severely wounded. she leaned against the wall, and one of her aids came up just in time to prevent a second blow. the assassin was arrested and confessed the crime--saying that his object was to render a service to humanity; and denying that he had any accomplices. he was tried on the d, and sentenced to death by strangulation. on the th, he was executed by the _garote vil_. he conducted himself with the most brutal indifference, refusing any of the usual offices of religion, and abusing all who came near him. the queen suffered considerably from the wound, but was convalescent at the last accounts. several arrests had been made, of persons suspected of having been concerned as accomplices with him, but no evidence was found to implicate any. central and eastern europe. no events of special importance have occurred in any of the continental nations. all the governments seem to be more or less agitated by rumors of differences with england and france, and their policy is somewhat affected by them. the suspicion of hostile intentions on the part of louis napoleon toward belgium has enlisted a good deal of suspicion, and letters from brussels, dated the th february, state positively that a convention had been entered into, by which russia agrees to furnish , men for the defense of that territory in case it should be invaded or seriously menaced by france. prussia has also promised similar assistance, and the prince de ligne is said to be now in berlin for the purpose of arranging the details. these important statements, however, do not seem to be made on authority sufficient to command full credit. in austria, it is said, that prince schwartzenberg is preparing a general statement of the views of austria concerning the state of europe, and an indication of the line of policy which she will pursue. the mediation of austria between sardinia and the pope has also been proposed, and amicable relations are again to be established between the sardinian and austrian governments. a new treaty has been concluded, by which austria is to supply russia annually with large quantities of salt. in switzerland the only movements of importance relate to the demand made by the french government that the council should promise hereafter to expel any fugitive who might be designated as dangerous. the federal government, while firmly refusing to enter into any such engagement, avowed its readiness to take all proper and necessary precautions against the sojourn of political refugees in switzerland becoming a source of disquietude to neighboring states. an official report on the subject states that in june last there were but political refugees in the swiss states, and that they were all under the strict _surveillance_ of the police. those who had taken any active steps likely to compromise the interests of other states, had been promptly expelled. there was a great deal of public interest manifested throughout switzerland concerning the relations between their country and france, and considerable apprehension prevailed that their rights and liberties might not always be rigidly respected. the government of the duchy of holstein was formally transferred by the commissaries of prussia and austria to the commissary of denmark, count reventlow-criminil, on the th of february, in an official conference held at kiel. in both greece and turkey there have been changes of ministry. in the former country the change has no general importance. in turkey, it is significant of reaction. reschid pacha, the most liberal and enlightened minister ever placed at the head of affairs in the ottoman empire, has been dismissed, and is succeeded by raaf pacha, a man upward of eighty years of age, who was prime minister in . the negotiation in regard to the holy sepulchre has been abandoned, and the french minister was to leave constantinople forthwith. editor's table. science, it has been said, is essentially unpoetical. it must be acknowledged, nevertheless, that it not unfrequently furnishes some of our choicest similes. homer had, indeed, long ago compared thought to the lightning; but how much more definite, and, on this account, more effective, is the kindred simile drawn from the discovery of the modern electric telegraph. and yet, is there not here something more than simile? is not the communication from soul to soul literally, as well as figuratively _tele-graphic_, that is, _far-writing_, or _writing from afar_? we hope to interest our readers by a brief examination of the query we have started. an identity might, perhaps, be shown in the very medium of communication, so far as the process has a material medium. there is no difficulty, and no danger, in admitting that the electric fluid may be the agent in the cerebral and organic transmission, as well as in the galvanic battery. but it is mainly in the process itself that we may trace the striking correspondence between the two modes of intelligence. the primary element of all thought is a spiritual _emotion_. the end of all communication, mediate or immediate, is to produce the same emotion or feeling in another soul. to this every other step is subordinate. even thought is not so much an end, in itself, as is the spiritual feeling, or exercise of soul corresponding to it. this spiritual emotion, then, must first be brought under the form of a conception, or an objective picture, without which it can not be distinctly read and understood, even by the soul in which it first exists, much less communicated to another. so far the process is strikingly the same with that adopted in the telegraphic dispatch. the soul, by its own spiritual energy, first turns the emotion or feeling into a thought. it translates the thought from the abstract to the concrete, from the intuitional to the conceptive. it brings it down into the soul's chamber of imagery, and imprints it on the brain. in other words, the message is reduced to writing and given to the clerk at the station-house, who translates it into telegraphic signals. the more immediate transmitting power is now set in operation. an influence is imparted from the brain to the nerves (or wires) of the vocal organs. it is continued to the lungs, and sets in motion a current of air. this impinges on the outward atmosphere, and is carried on through successive undulations until it reaches the other station for which it was designed. it enters the office-chamber of the ear, communicates with the other cerebral battery, and then writes off from the auditory nerve or wire, the signals which, by the other logical and linguistic faculty, or the clerk at the second station, are translated into the pictorial symbols understood by all, and thus written on the second brain. the spiritual inhabitant to whom it is directed, again translates it, in a reverse order, from the verbal to the conceptive, from the conceptive to the emotional--the intuition is spiritually _seen_--the emotion is _felt_--and thus the circuit is completed. this is substantially the process every time we hold intercourse by means of speech. the operation is ever imperfect in all, and more imperfect in some than in others. we make mistakes in translating our own intuitions and emotions. we make still greater mistakes in taking off from the wires, and in re-translating the conceptual language which brings to us the feelings and intuitions of others. but there is no other way. the author of our spiritual and material constitution hath literally _shut us up_ to this, and we can not get out of the limits within which he has confined our intercourse with other spirits. clairvoyance boasts of having broken through them, or over them; but clairvoyance is yet a fact to be established. even, too, if it has any claims upon our belief, it will doubtless be found, in the end, to be only a stenographic shortening of some of the steps, without being, in reality, any more an _immediate_ action of mind upon mind than the ordinary process. spirit can only communicate with spirit through outward symbols, and by more or less steps, all of which may be regarded as _outward_ to the most interior effect. by long familiarity this circuitous chain assumes to us the appearance of directness. but in truth we never see each other; we never hear each other; if by the terms be meant our very _self_--our very spiritual form, our very spiritual voice. even to our human soul may be accommodated without irreverence the language which paul applies to the deity. even of us it may be said, although in a far lower sense, "_our invisible things are only understood by the things that are done_," even our temporal power and humanity. each soul is _shut up_ in an isolation as perfect, in one sense, as that which separates the far distant worlds in the universe. had there been round each one of us a wall of adamant a thousand feet in thickness, with only the smallest capillary apertures through which to carry the wires of telegraphic signals, we could not, as to the essential action of the spirit, be more secluded than we are at present. we say the essential, or first action of the soul--for doubtless there may be various degrees of difficulty or facility in the modes of mediate communication. but in this more spiritual sense each one of us exists by himself. we live apart in utter loneliness. the seclusion of each spirit knows no infraction. its perfect solitude has never been invaded by any foreign intrusion. to one who deeply reflects on the fact to which we have been calling attention, the first feeling, and a just feeling too, might be one of pride. the dignity of our nature would seem enhanced by such a constitution. each man's "mind is his kingdom," in which he may be as autocratic as he wills. it makes even the lowest in the scale of humanity such an absolute sovereign within his own spiritual boundaries, so perfectly secure, if he please, against all foreign intervention. it sets in so striking a light what in its physical and etymological, rather than its moral sense, may be styled the _holiness_--_the wholeness_, _hale-ness_, or _separate integrity_ of each man's essential being. it is in this point of view, too, that to every hale mind the pretensions of clairvoyance must appear so inexpressibly revolting. we allude to its assumption of having the power of committing what, for the want of a better name, we can only characterize as spiritual burglary--in other words, of breaking into our spiritual house, and taking its seat in the very shrine of the interior consciousness. what can be more degrading to our human nature than to admit that any other human power, or human will, can at any time, and from any motive, even for purposes of the most frivolous amusement, actually enter this inner sanctuary, turning the immortal spirit into a paltry show-house, and rudely invading, or pretending to invade, the soul's essential glory, its sacred and unapproachable individuality? there is, however, another aspect of the thought in which it may give rise to a very different, if not an opposite emotion. there may be, too, at times, a feeling of the deepest melancholy called out by that other consideration of our spiritual solitude, of our being so utterly alone upon the earth--a feeling which has never been set forth with so much power and, at the same time, truthful simplicity, as in the touching language of inspiration--"_the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger meddleth not with its joy._" and then, again, although we would in general shrink from it as a painful ordeal, there are periods when we long for a more searching communion with other spirits than can ever be expected from the most intimate methods of mediate intercourse. there are periods when we are irresistibly drawn out to say--o that some other soul were acquainted with us as we think we are acquainted with ourselves, not only with our fancied virtues and our mere real sins, as they appear imperfectly manifested by misinterpreted signals from within, but with our very soul itself. yes, there is sadness in the thought that we are so unknown, even to those who would be thought to know us best--unknown alike in that which makes us better as in that which makes us worse than we seem;--for we are all better, and we are all worse than we appear to our fellow-men. and here, we think, may be found an argument for the existence of deity, built on stronger and more assuring ground than is furnished by any of the ordinary positions of natural theology. it is an argument derived from one of the most interior wants of our moral constitution. there is no doubt that in our fallen state a feeling of pain--at times of intense pain--may connect itself in our minds with the recognition of the divine idea; but there is also an element of happiness, and, if cherished, of the highest and most serious happiness, in the thought that there is one great soul that does penetrate into our most interior spirituality. there is one soul that is ever as intimately present with us as our own consciousness--that holds communion with us, and with whom we may hold communion, in a manner impossible for any other. there is one that thinks our thoughts, and feels our feelings, even as we think them, and as we feel them, although, along with this, in another manner, too, of its own, that transcends our thinking "even as the heavens are high above the earth," and is as far removed from all the imperfections of our own spiritual exercises. there may seem an inconsistency in this apparent mingling of the finite and the infinite in the divine nature, but it is the belief of both which unlocks for us the meaning of the scriptures, and sheds light over every page of revelation and of providence. there is a higher soul that pervades our spiritual entity, not as an impersonal or pantheistic abstraction, but as the most distinctly personal of all personalities--not as a mere law of nature, but as a father "who careth for us," as a guardian "who numbereth the very hairs of our heads," as a judge who taketh note of every thought, and gives importance to all our forgotten sins, while he is, at the same time, present with, and caring for every other individual soul in the universe. as in some previous musings of our editorial table, we might have adverted to the divine physical power as the ever-present dynamical entity in the seeming vacuities of space, and binding together the isolated material worlds, so here we may regard the higher spiritual presence as the true bond of union among all those isolated souls that fill the spiritual universe. thus viewed, the fact of such communion would be the highest truth in philosophy, as a belief in the reality of its possible consciousness would be the highest article of faith. history is philosophy teaching by example. the thought has been deemed so profound as to give rise to some discussion respecting its origin. as a definition, however, the maxim is liable to serious objection. it presents, rather, the uses, or the chief use, of history, than the essential idea. the individual memory may also be said to be _philosophy teaching by example_; but then it becomes only another name for that experience which is but the application of remembered facts to the guidance of the future life. so history may be called the world's memory--the memory of a race--of a nation--of a collective humanity. it is in vain, then, for us to say what facts, in themselves, _ought_ to constitute history. the matter is settled. it is not what any philosophy, or any theology, or any science of history may deem _worthy_ of remembrance, but what has actually been thus remembered, or is now so entering into the common mind as to form the ground of memory in the future. the parallelism in this respect between the individual and this national, or common mind, is striking and complete. the true history of each man is not so much what he has done, as what he has thought and felt. the thought is the _form_ of the feeling, and the act merely the outward testimony by which both are revealed. it is not, therefore, every act, or _doing_, which enters into his history--not even those which have formed the greater part of his constant daily exercise--but simply such as for any reason have made the deepest impression on the inner man, and which, therefore, stand out in the records of his memory when all else has perished. what this chronicles is the man's veritable history. however important other parts of his conduct may appear externally, this is his true spiritual life. it is the record, the imperishable record of that which has reached and stirred the depths of his soul, while other acts, and other events, have had their lodgment only in the outward un-emotional existence. such memory, or such history, may not be what it ought to have been; it may not be the measure of accountability. all that we insist upon is the fact, that, whether right or wrong, it is the true history of the individual, because it is his real life. but then there are degrees of memory. it is not always, in all its parts, either present to the mind, or capable of recall at will. still, what has once in this manner truly _affected_ his soul, has by this become a part of it, and can, therefore, never be lost. like some old historical record it may be laid aside for a season, but sooner or later must it come forth, and claim its place as belonging to that individual personality into which it enters as a constituent and inseparable portion. the parallel may be traced to almost any extent. like the memory of our earliest years, so is the dawning history of a young world or nation, except so far as positive revelation has shed its light upon it. both are _mythical_. in other words, facts are remembered, not as they are in themselves, but as seen through the magnifying and coloring influence of the emotional medium with which they are ever afterward associated. like stars observed through a densely refracting atmosphere, they stand apart, each in its own seclusion, and hence they loom upon the vision without any of those mutually connecting associations that belong to our subsequent thinking. there is, too, in both cases, the same chronicler--the pure remembrance, a _tradition_ unaided by any of those outward helps that are afterward employed. at a later period more regular annals succeed this mythic handing down of isolated facts. the state has its formal remembrancer, its [greek: syngrapheus], or historical _arranger_ of events in a _connected_ story, and in their mutual relations. corresponding to this, then, arises in the individual that orderly habit of thinking which produces associations, having a similar effect in causing a stricter union between the outer and inner relations of the soul. again, there are times when the man gets to himself what may be called an _artificial_ memory. he would change the natural flow of thought, and determine what he _will_ remember, and what he _ought_ to remember--forgetting that before he can effectually do this he must be changed himself in the innermost springs of his being. he studies mnemonics. he manufactures new laws of association. but this effort ever fails in the end. nature will have her way. the old course of memory will return; and with it the spiritual history of the man will go on as before. so, too, the state or nation may have its artificial periods, and its systems of political mnemonics. the mythical, the epic, the heroic, and not only these, but the later, yet not less thrilling chronicles of stirring events that carried with them the whole heart of the national humanity, give way to statistics, and documents of trade, or tables of revenue, or in a word, to what are deemed the more important records of _political economy_. here, too, there may be an attempt to change the course of nature, and make that to be history which never can be such, except at the expense of some of those attributes, which, although liable to great and dangerous perversions, are still the noblest parts of our humanity. such artificial records of history may be highly useful in their connection with the interests of particular classes and occupations. the time also may come in which they may gather around them an antiquarian value, blending with some of the more universal emotions of our common nature. but aside from this, although they may furnish rich materials for other departments of useful knowledge, they are not history, simply because they lack that catholic element, by which alone they enter into the common memory, and thus become a part of the common national mind. some say the world has heretofore been all wrong in the matter. history has been but a record of wars, of tumultuous national movements, of theological dogmas, of religious and political excitements. it has been but the biography of monarchs and royal families, or a narrative of popular commotions as connected with them. it has presented us only with names of isolated pre-eminence. the time has now come when we "must change all that." the daily pursuits of the masses, and all the statistics of ordinary life--these ought to have been history, and good writers will henceforth make them so, not only for our times, but for the periods that are past. "the history of the world," it has been said, "is yet to be written." but, alas! for these plausible and philanthropic reforms, there are two serious obstacles in the way. in the first place, the records of such matters as they would make the grounds of history are too scanty and uncertain, because they never have had that catholic interest which would give them an abiding place in the common national memory. in the second place, it will be equally difficult to secure for them such lodgment in the universal thinking of the present age, or of ages yet to come. not that the world will always continue the same, or that there will not be ever new matters of genuine historical interest. the course of things and thinking may greatly change. wars may cease. monarchy may expire. even democracies may become obsolete. such changes may be for the better or the worse. faith may go out. those religious dogmas and discussions, which politicians and political economists have regarded as such useless and troublesome intruders into the province of history, may lose their hold upon the mind. still our essential position remains unchanged. it will not be what the masses severally _do_ but what _moves_ the masses, not their _several_ occupations and pursuits, but what has a deep and moving interest for the common national soul, that will constitute history. the wars of the white and red roses were the true history of england for that period, because they were the only subjects that could be said to occupy all minds alike. it was not because the chronicler forgot the masses, and thought only of the great, but because he wrote for the masses, and for the masses not only of his own time, but of times to come. events may have more or less of a personal connection with monarchs, but it would not follow from this that the history which records them is a history alone of kings and statesmen. it is only so far as they and their acts were the representatives of the national heart, and the national thought, that they came down in the national memory, and the national records. the separate ordinary pursuits of men may, in one sense, occupy more of our ordinary thinking, but the other or historic interest we recognize as being of a higher, a more exciting, and even a more absorbing kind, because belonging to us, and felt by us in common with multitudes of other souls. the mechanic or farmer may consult books of a professional or statistical nature, but _as history_ they will be ever unreadable. even in the workshop and in the field, although the habitual current of his thoughts may be upon what would seem to him the nearest, and therefore the more important concerns of life, these other elements of history will yet have the greater charm, and occupy a higher place both in his feelings and his intelligence. it is what he thinks _with others_ that constitutes the higher life of his being. hence the tendency of the popular mind, in all ages, to be absorbed in the recital of deeds most remote from the daily associations of ordinary life. hence the popularity of the rhapsodist, the minstrel, the chronicler, and, in our own age, of the magazine and the newspaper. hence, too, in the more free and popular governments of modern times, the universal devotion to what is called _politics_. why is the farmer more excited by an election than by the sale of his wheat? most false as well as unphilosophical is the view which would ascribe this to any calculating patriotism, to any utilitarian vigilance, or to what is commonly called an _enlightened self-interest_. the mechanic thinks more of politics than of his trade; for the same reason that led his ancestor to the crusade or the tournament. instead of being the offspring of utilitarian views, this _public spirit_ is often most blindly destructive of the _private_ interest, and most directly opposed to all the teachings of that political economy which recognizes its own utilities as alone the true and rational ends of human action. in a much higher sense, too, is all this true, when a religious element enters into the common or catholic feeling. to illustrate the view we have endeavored to present, let us select some particular date--say the th day of march, in the year of our lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy. what was the history of our own country for that day? what the masses were doing would be the answer which some of the new school would promptly make. but even could this be ascertained it would not be history. on that day the three millions of our land were engaged in the various avocations connected with their ordinary life and ordinary interests. on that day, too, there was a particular, and, perhaps, ascertainable state of agriculture, of the mechanic arts, of education, &c., such as might furnish the ground of a most valuable statistical essay. there were also, doubtless, thousands of striking incidents every where transpiring. but none of these constituted the then history of our country. this was all taking place in one narrow street of one single city, away off in one remote corner of our land. a quarrel had arisen between a few foreign soldiers and a collection of exasperated citizens, in the course of which some few of the latter were slain. in this event was centred, for the time, the whole history of the english colonies in north america, and of what afterward became the great american nation. among all the acts and states, and influences of that day, this alone was history, because it alone, whether right or not, entered into the universal national memory. it was _thought_ by all, _felt_ by all, and therefore became, for the time in which it was so thought and felt, the one common history of all. again--on the th day of april, , the one fact which afterward formed the common thought and the common memory, was the battle of lexington. on the th of july, , it was the declaration of american independence. on the d day of september, , there might have been seen, in a secluded valley of the hudson, three rustic militia men busily examining the dress of a british officer. one of them is in the act of taking a piece of paper from the prisoner's boot. this, in a most emphatic sense, was american history for that day; may we not say the history of europe also, and of the world. and so in other departments. a single man is standing before a company of statesmen and ecclesiastics. it is luther before the diet of worms. this is the one common thought which represents that momentous period in the records of the church. the subject tempts us with further illustrations, but we call to mind that our drawer and easy chair are waiting impatiently for the delivery of their contents. it is time, therefore, to exchange the prosings of the editor's table for their more varied, and, as we trust the reader will judge, more attractive materials. editor's easy chair. our _now_, when we write, stands morally as far off from what will be _now_ to our readers, when this sheet comes before them, as though the interval measured half the circumference of the ecliptic, instead of being bounded between these dull march days and the bright april morning, when our magazine will be lying by many an open window from maine to georgia. our easy chair chit-chat must take its coloring from our _now_, and not from that of our readers. * * * * * the town has just woke up from its wintry carnival of sleighs and bells, and wears much the aspect of a reveler who is paying the penalty for too free over-night potations. broadway no longer flows along like a stream of molten silver, but resembles nothing so much as the mud-river of styx--"darker far than perse" of the great florentine; and instead of the fairy-like sleighs of the month gone by, is traversed only by the lumbering omnibuses, scattering far and wide the inky fluid. to cross the street dry-shod is not to be thought of, save at one or two points where philanthropic tradesmen, mindful of the public good--and their own--have subsidized a troop of sweepers to clear a passage in front of their doors. we accept the favor with all gratitude, and do not inquire too closely into the stories of silver goblets, presented by grateful ladies to these public benefactors. under such circumstances all lighter matters of gossip are things of the past--and of the future, let us hope. * * * * * into the current of graver talk several pebbles have been thrown, which have rippled its surface into circlets wider than usual. the meeting in commemoration of cooper was a worthy tribute to the memory of one who has shed honor upon his country by adding new forms of beauty to the intellectual wealth of the world. it was singularly graceful and appropriate that the funeral discourse of the greatest american novelist, should have been pronounced by the greatest american poet--and should we say the greatest living poet who speaks the tongue of milton and shakspeare, who would dare to place another name in competition for the honor with that of bryant? * * * * * public "lectures," or the "lyceum," as one of the lecturing notabilities not very felicitously denominates the institution, had begun to assume a somewhat mythical character in the estimation of townsmen, as relics of ages long gone by, of which man's memory--the metropolitan man's, that is--takes no note. we have indeed had rumors from the "athens of america," and other far-away places, that lectures had not fallen into utter desuetude; but we were, on the whole, inclined to put little faith in the reports. during the last few weeks, however, the matter has again forced its way into the town talk. the "tabernacle" weekly opens its ponderous jaws, for the delivery of the "people's lectures," where, for the not very alarming sum of one shilling--with a deduction in cases where a gentleman is accompanied by more ladies than one--a person may listen for an hour to the mystic elocution and seer-like deliverances of emerson, or may hear kane depict the dreamy remembrances of those hyperborean regions where sunrise and sunset are by no means those every-day occurrences that they are in more equatorial regions. to us, as we sit in our easy chair, it seems as though this system of cheap popular public lectures were capable of almost indefinite expansion. why should not silliman or guyot address three thousand instead of three hundred hearers? why should they not unswathe the world from its swaddling-clothes before an audience which would fill our largest halls? why should not orville dewey discourse on the great problems of human destiny and progress before an assemblage which should people the cavernous depths of the "tabernacle," as well as before the audience, relatively small, though doubtless fit, assembled before the frescoes of the church of the messiah? we throw these suggestions out lightly, by way of hint; a graver consideration of them would belong rather to our table than to our easy chair discourses. * * * * * as a sort of pendant to the nine-days' talk of the forrest divorce case, we notice the unanimous verdict of approval which has been accorded to the exemplary damages awarded in the case of a savage and cowardly assault committed by one of the principals in that scandalous affair. though no pecuniary award can make reparation to the person who has suffered the infliction of brutal personal outrage, yet as long as there are ruffians whose only susceptible point is the pocket-nerve, we are glad to see the actual cautery applied to that sensitive point. * * * * * if things continue much longer in their present downward course, it will be necessary for any man who hopes to gain acceptance in respectable society to have it distinctly noted on his cards and letters of introduction, that he is not a member of either house of congress. the last month has been signalized at washington by several exhibitions of congressional scurrility, which in no other city in the union would have been tolerated beyond the limits of the lowest dens of infamy. in one of these affairs, the summit of impudence was crowned by one of the interlocutors, who, after giving and receiving the most abusive epithets, excused himself from having recourse to the duello, that _ultima ratio_--of fools--on the plea that he was a member of a christian church; which plea was magnanimously accepted by his no less chivalrous compeer in abuse. it would be no easy task to decide which was the most disreputable, the "satisfaction" evaded, or the means of its evasion. * * * * * this is not the place to discuss the stringent "maine liquor law," which is proposed for adoption in the empire state; but we can not avoid chronicling the almost sublime assumption of one of its opponents, who challenged its advocates to name any man of lofty genius who was not a "toddy-drinker." as this side of the measure seems sadly in want of both speakers and arguments, we consider ourselves entitled to the gratitude of the opponents of the law, for insinuating to them that the defense of punch by fielding's hero, that it was "a good wholesome liquor, nowhere spoken against in scripture," is capable of almost indefinite extension and application. * * * * * a somewhat characteristic reminiscence of john newland maffitt has been lying for a long while in our mind; and we can not do better than accord to it the honors of paper and ink. it happened years ago, when that eccentric preacher was in the height of his reputation; when he was, or at least thought he was in earnest; before the balance of his mind had been destroyed by adulation, conceit, vanity, and something worse. during these days, in one of his journeyings, he came to a place on the mississippi--perhaps its name was not _woodville_, but that shall be its designation for the occasion. now, woodville was the most notoriously corrupt place on the whole river; it was the sink into which all the filth of the surrounding country was poured; it was shunned like a pest-house, and abandoned to thieves, gamblers, desperadoes, and robbers. maffitt determined to labor in this uninviting field. he commenced preaching, and soon gathered an audience; for preaching was something new there; and besides, maffitt's silvery tones and strange flashes of eloquence would at that time attract an audience any where. those who knew the man only in his later years know nothing of him. day after day he preached, but all to no purpose. he portrayed the bliss of heaven--its purity and peace--in his most rapt and glowing manner. it was the last place which could have any charms for his woodville audience. he portrayed the strife and turmoil of the world of woe. apart from its physical torments--and they felt a sort of wild pride in defying these--they rather liked the picture. at all events, it was much more to their taste than was his description of heaven. so it went on, day after day. not a sigh of penitence; not a wet eye; not a single occupant of the anxious seat. his labors were fruitless. finally, he determined upon a change of tactics. he spoke of the decay of woodville; how it was falling behind every other town on the river--"oh!" said he, "might but the angel of mercy be sent forth from before the great white throne, commissioned to proclaim to all the region round that there was a revival in woodville, and what a change there would be! the people would flock here from every quarter; the hum of business would be heard in your streets; the steamers, whose bright wheels now go flashing past your wharf, would stay in their fleet career; these dense forests, which now lour around, would be hewn down and piled up for food for these vast leviathans; and thus a golden tide would pour in upon you; and woodville would become the wealthiest, the most beautiful, and the happiest place on the banks of the great father of waters!" a chord had been touched in the hitherto insensible hearts of the woodvillers. thought, emotion, feeling, were aroused; and soon the strange electric sympathy of mind with mind was excited. the emotion spread and increased; the anxious seats were thronged; and a powerful, and to all appearance genuine revival of religion ensued. the character of woodville was entirely changed; and from that time it has continued to be one of the most moral, quiet, thriving, and prosperous of all the minor towns upon the mississippi. * * * * * turning our eye paris-ward, our first emotion is one of sorrow--for their sakes and our own--at the present sad fate of our french brethren of the quill. the bayonet has pitted itself against the pen, and has come off victor--for the time being. the most immediate sufferers are doubtless political writers, who must stretch their lucubrations upon the procrustean bed furnished by the prince-president. but the sparkling _feuilletonists_ who blow up such brilliant bubbles of romance from the prosaic soap-and-water of every-day life, can not escape. how can fancy have free play when the fate-like shears of the _censure_ or the mace of the new press-law are suspended over its head? besides, the lynx-eye of despotism may detect a covert political allusion in the most finely-wrought romance of domestic life. the delicate touches by which the _feuilletonist_ sought to depict the fate of the deserted girl whose body was fished up from the seine, may be thought to bear too strongly upon the fate of poor libertÃ�, betrayed and deserted by her quondam adorer, the nephew of his uncle; in which case, the writer would find himself forced to repent of his pathos behind the gratings of a cell, while his publisher's pocket would suffer the forfeiture of the 'caution-money.' parisian gossip can not, under such circumstances, furnish us any thing very lively, but must content itself with chronicling the brilliant but tiresome receptions of the elysée. an occasional claw is however protruded through the velvet paws upon which french society creeps along so daintily in these critical days, showing that the propensity to scratch is not extinct, though for the present, as far as the president and his doings are concerned, "i dare not waits upon i would" in the cat-like parisian salon life. * * * * * the subject of gossip most thoroughly french in its character, which has of late days passed current, is one of which the final scene was genoa, and the prominent actor unfortunately an american. we touch upon the leading points of this as they pass current from lip to lip. our readers have no great cause of regret if they have never before heard of, or have entirely forgotten, a certain so-called "chevalier" wykoff, who, a few years since, gained an unenviable notoriety, in certain circles in this country, as the personal attendant of the famous _danseuse_, fanny elssler. since that time the chevalier has occasionally shown his head above water in connection with politics, literature, fashion, and frolic. in due course of years the chevalier grew older if not wiser, and became anxious to assume the responsibilities of a wife--provided that she was possessed of a fortune. it chanced that, about these times, a lady whom he had known for many years, without having experienced any touches of the tender passion, was left an orphan with a large fortune. the sympathizing chevalier was prompt with his condolences at her irreparable loss, and soon established himself in the character of confidential friend. the lady decides to visit the continent to recruit her shattered health. the chevalier--sympathizing friend that he is--is at once convinced that there is for him no place like the continent. having watched the pear till he supposed it fully ripe, the ex-squire to the _danseuse_ proposed to shake the tree. one evening he announced that he must depart on the morrow, and handed the lady a formidable document, which he requested her to read, and to advise him in respect to its contents. the document proved to be a letter to another lady, a friend of both parties, announcing a deliberate intention of offering his fine person, though somewhat the worse for wear, to the lady who was reading the letter addressed to her friend. this proposal in the third person met with little favor, and the chevalier received a decided negative in the second person. the chevalier, however, saw too many solid charms in the object of his passion to yield the point so easily. the lady returns to london, and lo! there is the chevalier. she flees to paris, and thither he hies. she hurries to switzerland, and one morning as she looks out of the hospice of st. bernard, she is greeted with the chevalier's most finished bow of recognition. she walks by the lake of geneva, and her shadow floats upon its waters by the side of that of her indefatigable adorer. he watches his opportunity and seizes her hand, muttering low words of love and adoration; and as a company of pleasure-seekers to whom they are known approaches, he raises his voice so as to be heard, and declares that he will not release the hand until he receives a promise of its future ownership. bewildered and confused, the lady whispers a "yes," and is for the moment set at liberty. no sooner is she fairly rid of him than she retracts her promise, and forbids her adorer the house. she again flies to the continent to avoid him. he follows upon her track, bribes couriers and servants all along her route, and finally manages at genoa to get her into a house which he declares to be full of his dependents. he locks the door, and declares that marry him she must and shall. she refuses, and makes an outcry. he seizes her and tries to _soothe_ her with chloroform. once more she is frightened into a consent. but the chevalier is now determined to make assurance doubly sure; and demands a written agreement to marry him, under penalty of the forfeiture of half her fortune, in case of refusal. to this the lady consents: and the ardent admirer leaves the room to order a carriage to convey her to her hotel. she seizes the opportunity to make her escape. on the day following, the adventurous chevalier involuntarily makes the acquaintance of the intendant of police, and finds that his "bold stroke for a wife" is like to entail upon him certain disagreeable consequences in the shape of abundant opportunity for reflection, while a compulsory guest of the public authorities of genoa. ought not the chevalier wykoff to have been a frenchman? editor's drawer. the following anecdote of a legal gentleman of missouri, was compiled many years ago from a newspaper of that state. there is a racy freshness about it that is quite delightful: being once opposed to mr. s----, then lately a member of congress, he remarked as follows to the jury, upon some point of disagreement between them: "here my brother s---- and i differ materially. now this, after all, is very natural. men seldom see things in the same light; and they may disagree in opinion upon the simplest principles of the law, and that very honestly; while, at the same time, neither, perhaps, can perceive any earthly reason why they should. and this is merely because they look at different sides of the subject, and do not view it in all its bearings. "now, let us suppose, for the sake of illustration, that a man should come into this court-room, and boldly assert that my brother s----'s head" (here he laid his hand very familiarly upon the large "chuckle-head" of his opponent) "is _a squash_! i, on the other hand, should maintain, and perhaps with equal confidence, that it was _a head_. now, here would be difference--doubtless an honest difference--of opinion. we might argue about it till doom's-day, and never agree. you often see men arguing upon subjects just as _empty_ and trifling as this! but a third person coming in, and looking at the neck and shoulders that support it, would say at once that i had reason on my side; for if it was _not_ a head, it at least occupied the _place_ of one: it stood where a head _ought_ to be!" all this was uttered in the gravest and most solemn manner imaginable, and the effect was irresistibly ludicrous. * * * * * washington irving, in one of his admirable sketches of dutch character, describes an old worthy, with a long eel-skin queue, a sort of covering that was "a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair." this was in "other times;" and here is a "tail" of that remote period: "a tale i'll tell of "other times," because i'm in the mind: you may have seen the tale before, i've seen it oft behind. "there's no detraction in this tale, nor any vile attack, or slander when 'tis told, although it goes behind one's back. "impartial auditors it had, who ne'er began to rail, because there always was an ear for both sides of the tale. "but oh, alas! i have forgot, i am not in the queue; the tale has just dropped from my head. as it was wont to do!" * * * * * a clergyman in one of our new england villages once preached a sermon, which one of his auditors commended. "yes," said a gentleman to whom it was mentioned, "it _was_ a good sermon, but he _stole_ it!" this was told to the preacher. he resented it, at once, and called upon his parishioner to retract what he had said. "i am not," replied the aggressor, "very apt to retract any thing i may have said, for i usually weigh my words before i speak them. but in this instance i will retract. i said you had stolen the sermon. i find, however, that i was wrong; for on returning home, and referring to the book whence i thought it had been taken, i found it there, word for word!" the angry clergyman "left the presence," with an apparent consciousness that he had made very little by his "motion." * * * * * we gave in a late "drawer" some rather frightful statistics concerning snuff-takers and tobacco-chewers: we have now "the honor to present" some curious characteristics of the kinds of _materiel_ which have regaled the nostrils of so many persons who were "up to snuff." lundy foot, the celebrated snuff-manufacturer, originally kept a small tobacconist's shop at limerick, ireland. one night his house, which was uninsured, was burnt to the ground. as he contemplated the smoking ruins on the following morning, in a state bordering on despair, some of the poor neighbors, groping among the embers for what they could find, stumbled upon several canisters of unconsumed but half-baked snuff, which they tried, and found so grateful to their noses, that they loaded their waistcoat pockets with the spoil. lundy foot, roused from his stupor, at length imitated their example, and took a pinch of his own property, when he was instantly struck by the superior pungency and flavor it had acquired from the great heat to which it had been exposed. treasuring up this valuable hint, he took another house in a place called "black-yard," and, preparing a large oven for the purpose, set diligently about the manufacture of that high-dried commodity, which soon became widely known as "black-yard snuff;" a term subsequently corrupted into the more familiar word, "blackguard." lundy foot, making his customers pay liberally through the nose for one of the most "distinguished" kinds of snuffs in the world, soon raised the price of his production, took a larger house in the city of dublin, and was often heard to say, "i made a very handsome fortune by being, as i supposed, utterly ruined!" * * * * * somebody has described laughter as "a faculty bestowed exclusively upon man," and one which there is, therefore, a sort of impiety in not exercising as frequently as we can. one may say, with titus, that we have "lost a day," if it shall have passed without laughing, "an inch of laugh is worth an ell of moan in any state of the market," says one of the old english "fathers." pilgrims at the shrine of mecca consider laughter so essential a part of their devotion that they call upon their prophet to preserve them from sad faces. "ah!" cried rabelais, with an honest pride, as his friends were weeping around his sick bed; "if i were to die ten times over, i should never make you cry half so much as i have made you laugh!" after all, if laughter be genuine, and consequently a means of innocent enjoyment, _can_ it be inept? * * * * * taylor, an english author, relates in his "records," that having restored to sight a boy who had been born blind, the lad was perpetually amusing himself with a hand-glass, calling his own reflection his "little man," and inquiring why he could make it do every thing he did, _except to shut its eyes_. a french lover, making a present of a mirror to his mistress, sent with it the following lines: "this mirror _my_ object of love will unfold, whensoe'er your regard it allures; oh, would, when i'm gazing, that might behold on its surface the object of _yours_!" this is very delicate and pretty; but the following old epigram, on the same subject, is in even a much finer strain: "when i revolve this evanescent state, how fleeting is its form, how short its date; my being and my stay dependent still not on my own, but on another's will: i ask myself, as i my image view, which is the real shadow of the two?" * * * * * it is a little singular, but it is true, that scarcely any native writer has succeeded better in giving what is termed the true "yankee dialect," than a foreigner, an englishman, judge haliburton, of nova scotia, "sam slick." hear him describe a pretty, heartless bar-maid, whom he met at the "liner's hotel, in liverpool:" "what a tall, well-made, handsome piece of furniture she is, ain't she, though? look at her hair--ain't it neat? and her clothes fit so well, and her cap is so white, and her complexion so clear, and she looks so good-natured, and smiles so sweet, it does one good to look at her. she's a whole team and a horse to spare, that's a fact. i go and call for three or four more glasses than i want, every day, just for the sake of talking to her. she always says, "'what will you be pleased to have, sir!' "'something,' says i, 'that i can't have,' looking at her pretty mouth--about the wickedest. "well, she laughs, for she knows well enough what i mean; and she says, "'pr'aps you'll have a glass of bitters, sir,' and off she goes to get it. "well, this goes on three or four times a day; every time the identical same tune, only with variations. it wasn't a great while afore i was there agin. "'what will you be pleased to have, sir?' said she agin, laughin'. "'something i can't git,' says i, a-laughin' too, and lettin' off sparks from my eyes like a blacksmith's chimney. "'you can't tell that till you try,' says she; 'but you can have your bitters at any rate;' and she goes agin and draws a glass, and gives it to me. "now she's seen _you_ before, and knows you very well. just you go to her and see how nicely she'll curtshy, how pretty she'll smile, and how lady-like she'll say, "'how do you do, sir? i hope you are quite well, sir? have you just arrived? here, chamber-maid, show this gentleman up to number two hundred. sorry, sir, we are so full, but to-morrow we will move you into a better room. thomas, take up this gentleman's luggage.' and then she'd curtshy agin, and smile so handsome! "don't that look well, now? do you want any thing better than that? if you do, you are hard to please, that's all. but stop a little: don't be in such an almighty, everlastin' hurry. think afore you speak. go there, agin, see her a-smilin' once more, and look clust. it's only skin-deep; just on the surface, like a cat's-paw on the water; it's nothin' but a rimple like, and no more. then look cluster still, and you'll discarn the color of it. you laugh at the 'color' of a smile, but do you _watch_, and you'll _see_ it. "look, _now_; don't you see the color of the shilling there? it's white, and cold, and silvery: _it's a boughten smile_, and a boughten smile, like an artificial flower, hain't got no sweetness into it. it's like whipt cream; open your mouth wide; take it all in, and shut your lips down tight, and it ain't nothin'. it's only a mouthful of moonshine, a'ter all." sam goes on to say that a smile can easily be counterfeited; but that the eye, rightly regarded, can not deceive. "square, the first railroad that was ever made, was made by natur. it runs strait from the heart to the eye, and it goes so almighty fast it can't be compared to nothin' but 'iled lightning. the moment the heart opens its doors, out jumps an emotion, whips into the car, and offs, like wink, to the eye. that's the station-house and terminus for the passengers, and every passenger carries a lantern in his hand, as bright as an argand lamp; you can see him ever so far off. "look to _the eye_, square: if there ain't no lamp there, no soul leaves the heart that hitch: there ain't no train runnin', and the station-house is empty. smiles can be put on and off, like a wig; sweet expressions come and go like lights and shades in natur; the hands will squeeze like a fox-trap; the body bends most graceful; the ear will be most attentive; the manner will flatter, so you're enchanted; and the tongue will lie like the devil: _but the eye never_. "but, square, there's all sorts of eyes. there's an onmeanin' eye, and a cold eye; a true eye and a false eye; a sly eye, a kickin' eye, a passionate eye, a revengeful eye, a man[oe]uvring eye, a joyous eye, and a sad eye; a squintin' eye, and the evil-eye; and more'n all, the dear little lovin' eye. they must all be studied to be larnt; but the two important ones to be known are the true eye and the false eye." an american writer, somewhat more distinguished as a philosopher and psychologist than mr. slick, contends that the "practiced eye" may often deceive the most acute observer, but that there is something in the play of the lines about the mouth, the shades of emotion developed by the least change in the expression of the lips, that defies the strictest self-control. we leave both theories with the reader. * * * * * that was a pleasant story, told of an english wit, of very pleasant memory, who was no mean proficient in "turning the tables" upon an opponent, when he found himself losing. on one occasion he was rapidly losing ground in a literary discussion, when the opposite party exclaimed: "my good friend, you are not such a rare scholar as you imagine; you are only an _every-day_ man." "well, and you are a _week_ one," replied the other; who instantly jumped upon the back of a horse-laugh, and rode victoriously over his prostrate conqueror. * * * * * we know not the author of the following lines, nor how, or at what time, they came to find a place in the "drawer;" but there is no reader who will not pronounce them very touching and beautiful: i am not old--i can not be old, though three-score years and ten have wasted away like a tale that is told, the lives of other men i am not old--though friends and foes alike have gone to their graves; and left me alone to my joys or my woes, as a rock in the midst of the waves i am not old--i can not be old, though tottering, wrinkled, and gray; though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold, call me not old to-day! for early memories round me throng, of times, and manners, and men; as i look behind on my journey so long, of three-score miles and ten. i look behind and am once more young, buoyant, and brave, and bold; and _my heart_ can sing, as of yore it sung, before they called me old. i do not see her--the old wife there-- shriveled, and haggard, and gray; but i look on her blooming, soft, and fair, as she was on her wedding-day. i do not see you, daughters and sons, in the likeness of women and men; but i kiss you now as i kissed you once my fond little children then. and as my own grandson rides on my knee, or plays with his hoop or kite, i can well recollect i was merry as he, the bright-eyed little wight! 'tis not long since--it can not be long, my years so soon were spent, since i was a boy, both straight and strong. but now i am feeble and bent. a dream, a dream--it is all a dream! a strange, sad dream, good sooth; for old as i am, and old as i seem, my heart is full of youth. eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told, and ear hath not heard it sung, how buoyant and bold, tho' it seem to grow old, is the heart forever young! forever young--though life's old age, hath every nerve unstrung; the heart, _the heart_ is a heritage, that keeps the old man young! * * * * * that is a good story told of an empty coxcomb, who, after having engrossed the attention of the company for some time with himself and his petty ailments, observed to the celebrated caustic dr. parr, that he could never go out without catching cold in his head. "no wonder," said the doctor, rather pettishly; "you always go out without any thing in it!" we have heard somewhere of another of the same stamp, who imagined himself to be a poet, and who said to "nat. lee," whose insane verse was much in vogue at the time: "it is not easy to write like a madman, as you do." "no," was the reply; "but it is very easy to write like _a fool_, as _you_ do!" there was some "method" in the "madness" that dictated that cutting rejoinder, at any rate. * * * * * "i was once a sea-faring man," said an old new york ship-master one day, to a friend in "the swamp," "and my first voyage was to the east indies. to keep me from mischief, the mate used to set me picking oakum, or ripping up an old sail for 'parceling,' as it was called. while engaged one day at this last employment, it occurred to me that a small piece of the sail would answer an admirable purpose in mending my duck over-trowsers, as they were beginning to be rather tender in certain places, owing, perhaps, to my sitting down so much. i soon appropriated a small piece, but was detected by the mate while 'stowing it away.' "he took it from me, and while he was lecturing me, the captain, a noble fellow, with a human heart in his bosom, came on deck, when the whole matter was laid before him. "'a----,' said he, 'always _ask_ for what you want; if it is _denied_ to you, then steal it, if you think proper.' "i remembered his advice; and in a short time afterward had another piece of canvas snugly 'stowed away.' i carried it forward, and gave it to my 'chummy,' an old 'salt,' who had the charge of my wardrobe (which consisted of six pairs of duck-trowsers, the same number of red-flannel shirts, a scotch woolen cap, and a fine-tooth comb), and performed my mending. "the next day i went on deck with a clean pair of trowsers on, neatly patched. as i was going forward the captain hailed me: "'you took that piece of canvas, sir!' "'yes, captain,' i replied, 'i _did_. you yourself told me to ask, and if i was refused, to do the _other_ thing. i was refused, and _did_ do the 'other thing.'' "'well,' rejoined the captain, 'i have no great objection to your having the canvas, but let me tell you that you will never make a sailor if you carry your flying-jib over the stern!' "my 'chummy,' sewing from the inside, had 'seated' my trowsers with a piece of canvas marked 'f. jib!"' * * * * * there used to be quite popular, many years ago, a species of letter-writing in poetry, in accomplishing which much ingenuity was tasked and much labor expended. the ensuing lines are a good example of this kind of composition by comic writers who have not sufficiently advanced in joking to get "out of their _letters_." the lines were addressed to miss emma vee, who had a pet jay, of which she was very fond: "your jay is fond, which well i know, he does s a to prove; and he can talk, i grant, but o! he can not talk of love. "believe me, m a, when i say, i dote to that x s, i n v even that pet j, which u sometimes caress. "though many other girls i know, and they are fair, i c, yet u x l them all, and so i love but m a v. "m a, my love can ne'er d k, except when i shall die; and if your heart _must_ say me nay, just write and tell me y!" * * * * * the following "_welsh card of invitation_" is a very amusing example of the avoidance of pronouns: "mr. walter morton, and mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys's compliments to mr. charles morgan, mrs. charles morgan, miss charles morgan, and the governess (whose name mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys do not recollect), and mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys request the favor of the company of mr. charles morgan, mrs. charles morgan, miss charles morgan, and the governess (whose name mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys do not recollect), to dinner on monday next. "_mr. walter morton_, _mrs. walter morton_, and miss sandys, beg to inform mr. charles morgan, mrs. charles morgan, miss charles morgan, and the governess (whose name mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys do not recollect), that mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys can accommodate mr. charles morgan, mrs. charles morgan, miss charles morgan, and the governess (whose name mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys do not recollect), with beds, if remaining through the night is agreeable to mr. charles morgan, mrs. charles morgan, miss charles morgan, and the governess (whose name mr. walter morton, mrs. walter morton, and miss sandys do not recollect!)" this is an exact copy of an authentic note of invitation to a dinner-party. in point of roundaboutativeness, it is on a par with the long legal papers which used to be served upon pecuniary delinquents. * * * * * if you would enjoy a bit of most natural and felicitous description, read the following by that classical and witty writer--no longer, with sorrow be it spoken, of this world--the author of "the american in paris." the passage has been in the "drawer" for many years: "there is a variety of little trades and industries which derive their chief means of life from the wants and luxuries of the street; i mean trades that are unknown in any other country than paris. you will see an individual moving about at all hours of the night, silent and active, and seizing the smallest bit of paper in the dark, where you can see nothing; and with a hook in the end of a stick, picking it up, and pitching it with amazing dexterity into a basket tied to his left shoulder; with a cat-like walk, being every where and nowhere at the same time, stirring up the rubbish of every nook and gutter of the street, under your very nose. this is the 'chiffonier.' he is a very important individual. he is in matter what pythagoras was in mind; and his transformations are scarcely less curious than those of the samian sage. the beau, by his pains, peruses once again his worn-out dicky or cravat, of a morning, in the 'magazin des modes;' while the politician has his linen breeches reproduced in the 'journal des debats;' and many a fine lady pours out her soul upon a _billet-doux_ that was once a dish-cloth. the 'chiffonier' stands at the head of the little trades, and is looked up to with envy by the others. he has two coats, and on holidays wears a chain and quizzing-glass. he rises, too, like the paris gentry, when the chickens roost, and when the lark cheers the morning, goes to bed. "all the city is divided into districts, and let out to these 'chiffoniers' by the hour; to one from ten to eleven, and from eleven to twelve to another, and so on through the night; so that several get a living and consideration from the same district. this individual does justice to the literary compositions of the day. he crams into his bag indiscriminately the last vaudeville, the last sermon of the archbishop, and the last essay of the academy. "just below the 'chiffonier' is the 'gratteur.' this artist scratches the livelong day between the stones of the pavement for old nails from horses' shoes, and other bits of iron; always in hope of a bit of silver, and even perhaps a bit of gold; more happy in his hope than a hundred others in the possession. he has a store, or 'magazin,' in the faubourgs, where he deposits his ferruginous treasure. his wife keeps this store, and is a '_marchande de fer_.' he maintains a family, like another man; one or two of his sons he brings up to scratch for a living, and the other he sends to college; and he has a lot 'in perpetuity' in père la chaise. his rank, however, is inferior to that of the 'chiffonier,' who will not give him his daughter in marriage, and he don't ask him to his _soirées_." * * * * * a sad and "harrowing" event (after the manner of "the horrid" poetical school), is recorded in the subjoined wild "fragment:" "his eye was stern and wild; his cheek was pale and cold as clay; upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay: "he mused awhile, but not in doubt; no trace of doubt was there; it was the steady, solemn pause of resolute despair! "once more he looked upon the scroll, once more its words he read; then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. "i saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue, cold-gleaming steel, and grimly try the temper'd edge he was so soon to feel! "a sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head: i could not stir, i could not cry, i felt benumbed and dead! "black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er: i closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more! * * * * * "again i looked: a fearful change across his face had passed; he seemed to rave:--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast. "he raised on high the glittering blade; then first i found a tongue: 'hold! madman! stay the frantic deed! i cried, and forth i sprung: "he heard me, but he heeded not: one glance around he gave: and ere i could arrest his hand, he had--begun to shave!" we can recall some half-dozen specimens of this style of writing; one, at least, of which, from an erratic american poet, must be familiar to the general reader. literary notices. _memoirs of margaret fuller ossoli._ (published by phillips, sampson, and co.) the subject of these volumes has left a reputation for strength and brilliancy of intellect which, we imagine, will hardly be justified hereafter by the perusal of her writings. no one, however, can read this touching tribute to her memory without perceiving that she was a remarkable woman. it at once explains the secret of her success, and of her want of general recognition. from her early childhood, she displayed a wonderful precocity of genius. this was stimulated by constant mental inebriation, produced by the excitements of an ambitious and ill-judged education. her girlish studies were devoted to subjects which demanded the mature experience of a masculine intellect. deprived of the frolic delights of childhood, a woman in cultivation while young in years, goaded to the wildest intensity of effort by the urgency of an exacting parent, and attaining an extraordinary mental development at the expense of her physical nature, she must, of course, soon have become the object of marked attention and wonder--a prodigy to her friends, and a mystery to herself. thus she was early placed in a false position. she grew up self-involved, her diseased mind preying on itself, and the consciousness of her personal importance assumed a gigantic magnitude, which threatened to overshadow all healthy manifestations of character. in this condition, she was accustomed to claim more than she could give--more than others were content to grant. the loftiness of her self-esteem was the measure of her lavish disdain. hence, with the exception of those with whom chance had made her intimate, she was more formidable than attractive to the circle of her acquaintance; her presence in society called forth aversion or terror; as she dispensed the scathing splendors of her jove-like lightnings, rather than the sweet refreshments of womanhood. but beneath this social despotism, were concealed a genuine kindliness of nature, a large sympathizing heart, a singular power of entering into the condition of others, and a weird magnetic charm which drew to her closest intimacy the most opposite characters. she was, moreover, generous and noble to an uncommon degree, in all the more sacred relations of life; with a high sense of duty; never shrinking from sacrifices; a wise and faithful counselor where her confidence was invoked; absolutely free from every trait of petty or sordid passion; the very soul of honor; and with a sense of justice that seemed to ally her with eternal truth.--in these volumes, she is left in a great measure to speak for herself. her letters and private journals present a transparent record of her character. the editorial portion, by r. w. emerson, james f. clarke, and w. h. channing, is executed with beautiful candor. the most truthful simplicity graces and fortifies their statements. with no other aim than to exhibit an honest portraiture of their friend, they have in no case, that we can discover, allowed their private feelings to gain the mastery over their sterner judgments.--her residence in italy reveals her heroism, devotion, and womanly tenderness, in a light that would almost induce the belief, on the part of those who had met her only in the antagonisms of society, that she had changed her identity. a profound, mysterious pathos hovers around her italian experience, preparing the reader for the tragic close of a life, which was itself a tragedy. the description of her last hours presents a scene of desolation, before which grief can only bow in mute tears. _charity and its fruits_, by jonathan edwards, edited by tryon edwards. a new work from the pen of the illustrious northampton pastor can not fail to be welcome to the admirers of his profound and original genius. combining a rare acuteness of metaphysical speculation, with a glowing fervor of religious sentiment, edwards has called forth the most expressive eulogiums from the philosophers of the old world, while his name is still "familiar as a household word" in the primitive homes of new england. his character presented a striking union of intellectual vigor with earnest piety. the childlike simplicity of his tastes was blended with the refined subtlety of a mediæval schoolman. the apostle of disinterested love, his soul was inspired and thrilled with contemplating the glories of redemption, and the triumphs of grace over the ruins of humanity the lectures contained in this volume are devoted to his favorite theme. they illustrate the principle of love as the foundation of the christian character, and the expression of reconciliation with the lord. in the high standard of duty which they present, in their deep and comprehensive views of human nature, and in the force and sweetness of their style, they compare favorably with the standard productions of their author, and are certainly not surpassed by any religious treatise of modern times. the manuscripts from which these lectures have been prepared were nearly ready for the press, as left by the writer. they were afterward placed in the charge of dr. hopkins and dr. bellamy, and are now for the first time given to the public by the present editor. he justly deserves the gratitude of the religious world for this valuable gift. (published by r. carter and brothers). harper and brothers have issued a neat octavo edition of sir john richardson's _arctic searching expedition_, comprising a copious journal of a boat-voyage through rupert's land and the arctic sea, in search of sir john franklin--a variety of interesting details concerning the savages of that region--and an elaborate treatise on the physical geography of north america. sir john richardson left liverpool in march, , and after landing in new york, proceeded at once to the saut ste. marie, where he arrived about the last of april. starting in a few days from the saut, he reached the mouth of the river winnipeg on the th of may, and arrived at cumberland house, on the saskatchewan, june --a distance of nearly miles from new york. his various adventures on the overland route to fort confidence, in degrees of north latitude, where the winter residence of the party was established, are related with great minuteness, presenting a lively picture of the manners of the indians, and the physical phenomena of the icy north. the history of sir john franklin's expedition, and the present state of the search for that intrepid navigator, is briefly recorded. with the prevailing interest in every thing connected with arctic discovery, this volume is a most seasonable publication, and will be read with avidity by our intelligent countrymen. _the future wealth of america_, by francis bonynge, is a volume of curious interest, describing the physical resources of the united states, and the commercial and agricultural advantages of introducing several new branches of cultivation. among the products enumerated by the author as adapted to the soil and climate of this country are tea, coffee, and indigo, the date, the orange, the peach fruit, and the guava. the work, though written in an enthusiastic spirit, is filled with practical details, and presents a variety of useful suggestions in regard to the conditions of national prosperity. mr. bonynge is familiarly acquainted with the culture of tropical products, having resided for fourteen years in india and china. his book is well-deserving the attention of the american public. the twenty-second part of copland's _dictionary of practical medicine_ is published by harper and brothers, reaching to the eight hundredth page of the third volume of the work, and to the commencement of the letter s. for laymen who have occasion to refer to a medical work, this dictionary forms a valuable book of reference, and may be consulted with convenience and profit. its merits are too well known to the profession to demand comment. _a reel in the bottle, for jack in the doldrums_, by rev. henry t. cheever. modern allegory is a dangerous species of composition. the taste of the age demands clearness, brevity, point; it prefers practical facts to mystic symbols; and, above all, rejects artificial tamperings with oriental imagery. imitations of the venerable simplicity of the bible are always offensive to a correct mind; and scarcely less so is the ancient form of allegory disguised in fashionable trappings. the volume now put forth by mr. cheever forms no exception to these remarks. he has met with but indifferent success, in an attempt where a perfect triumph would have brought little credit. the frequent sacrifices of nature and good taste, which his plan demands, illustrate his ingenuity at the expense of his judgment. he reminds us of john bunyan, whom he takes for his model, only by contrast. we should as soon expect a modern hamlet from bulwer as a second pilgrim's progress from the present author. (published by charles scribner.) _the head of the family_, by the gifted author of "the ogilvies," forms the one hundred and sixty-seventh number of harper's "library of select novels." it is distinguished for the absorbing interest of its plot, the refinement and beauty of its characterizations, and its frequent scenes of tenderness and pathos. neander's _practical exposition of the epistle of james_ has been translated by mrs. h. c. conant, and published by lewis colby. we have before spoken of the success of mrs. conant, as the translator of neander. she has accomplished her present task with equal felicity. biblical students are greatly in her debt for introducing them to the acquaintance of such a profound and sympathizing interpreter of holy writ. neander wisely avoids metaphysical subtleties. nor is he a barren, verbal critic. he brings a sound, robust common sense to the exposition of his subject, seeking to detect the living spirit of the writer, and to reproduce it with genuine vitality. a new glow breathes over the sacred page under his cordial, feeling comments, and we seem to be brought into the most intimate communion with the inspired writer. it is no small praise to say of the translator, that she has transferred this lifesome spirit, to a great degree, into her own production. redfield has published a spirited translation of arsene houssaye's work on the _men and women of the eighteenth century_ in france. a more characteristic portraiture of that egotistic and voluptuous age is not to be found in any language. it places us in the midst of the frivolous court, where the love of pleasure had triumphed over natural sentiment, where religion was lost in hypocrisy, and earnestness of character laughed out of countenance by shameless adventurers. the brilliancy of coloring in these volumes does not disguise the infamy of the persons whom it celebrates. they are displayed in all their detestable heartlessness, and present a wholesome warning to the reader by the hideous ugliness of their example. bon gaultier's _book of ballads_. these clever parodies and satires, whose cool audacity and mischievous love of fun have secured them a favorite place in the english magazines, have been republished in a neat edition by redfield. our too thin-skinned compatriots may find something to provoke their ire in the american ballads, but the sly malice of these effusions generally finds an antidote in their absurdity. for the rest, bon gaultier may be called, in yankee parlance, "a right smart chap," excelling in a species of literature which the highest genius rarely attempts. we have a new edition of walker's _rhyming_ _dictionary_ from lindsay and blakiston--a welcome aid, no doubt, to scribblers in pursuit of rhymes under difficulties. we hope it will not have the effect to stimulate the crop of bad poetry, which of late has been such a nuisance to honest readers. * * * * * miss mitford, in her _literary recollections_ gives some specimens of poetical charades by mr. praed, the most successful composer of lyrical _jeux d'esprit_ of this kind. in the review of her work by the _athenæum_, the two following charades are quoted, the latter of which, miss mitford says, is still a mystery to her, and proposes a solution to her readers: i. "come from my _first_, ay, come! the battle dawn is nigh; and the screaming trump and the thundering drum are calling thee to die! fight as thy father fought; fall as thy father fell; thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought, so; forward and farewell! "toll ye my _second_! toll! fling high the flambeau's light; and sing the hymn for a parted soul beneath the silent night! the wreath upon his head, the cross upon his breast, let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, so,--take him to his rest! "call ye my _whole_, ay, call, the lord of lute and lay; and let him greet the sable pall with a noble song to-day; go, call him by his name! no fitter hand may crave to light the flame of a soldier's fame on the turf of a soldier's grave. ii. "sir hilary charged at agincourt,-- sooth 'twas an awful day! and though in that old age of sport the rufflers of the camp and court had little time to pray, 'tis said sir hilary muttered there two syllables by way of prayer. "my _first_ to all the brave and proud who see to-morrow's sun; my _next_ with her cold and quiet cloud to those who find their dewy shroud before to-day's be done; and both together to all blue eyes that weep when a warrior nobly dies." a correspondent of the _literary gazette_ furnishes the following poetical solution of the two charades in one: "no more we hear the sentry's heavy tramp around the precincts of the drowsy _camp_; all now is hush'd in calm and sweet repose, and peaceful is the lovely evening's close; save when the village chimes the hours forth-tell, or parting souls demand the passing _bell_. would i could grasp a _campbell's_ lyric pen! i then might justice do to 'arms and men,' and sing the well-fought field of agincourt, where, hand to hand, mix'd in the bloody sport, the hosts of france, vain of superior might, by english valor were o'erthrown in fight, and bade to fame and fortune long _good night_!" * * * * * messrs. clark of edinburgh have in preparation, translations of the following works: viz.--dr. julius muller's great work on the _doctrine of sin_, translated under the superintendence of the author.--professor muston's _israel of the alps_, the latest and most complete history of the waldenses, translated with the concurrence of the author.--dorner on the _person of christ_, translated by the rev. mr. kingsford, one of the chaplains to the hon. east india company.--bengel's _gnomon of the new testament_, translated by the rev. peter holmes, of the plymouth royal grammar school. * * * * * mr. bohn announces the following important works as about to appear shortly: kirby and kidd's _bridgewater treatises_.--_coin-collector's hand-book_, by h. n. humphreys, with numerous engravings of ancient coins.--_greek anthology; or select epigrams of the greek classic poets_, literally translated into prose, with occasional parallels in verse by english poets.--oersted's _soul in nature_, and other works, translated from the danish, with life of the author.--_rome in the th century_; with maps and diagrams.--kugler's _historical manual of sculpture, painting, and architecture, ancient and modern_. * * * * * the election of the greek professor in the university of edinburgh was fixed for the d of march. the number of candidates in the field was very large, but it was thought that many would retire before the day of election. the principal struggle was supposed to be between dr. william smith, of new college, london, the learned author of the classical dictionaries; dr. price, late of rugby, the friend of dr. arnold; professor macdowall, of queen's college, belfast; and professor blackie, of aberdeen. the emoluments of the chair are upward of _l._, and the college duties extend only over about half the year, during the winter session from november to may. * * * * * professor robinson, our townsman, whose proposed expedition to palestine we lately announced, was at berlin, at the latest accounts, and expects to be at beyrout on the st of march. he intends to occupy most of his time in visiting the more remote districts of the country, and those villages off the usual routes, which are least known to travelers. toward the completion of the topography and geography of palestine, we may expect many new facts to be thus obtained. one of the american missionaries in syria, the rev. eli smith, and mr. william dickson, of edinburgh, are to join professor robinson at beyrout, and accompany him in the journey. the identification of the site of the holy sepulchre, about which there has been much dispute lately, is one object to which special attention will be given. dr. robinson was in london, on his route to the continent, and attended the meetings of the geographical and other societies. * * * * * the wife of professor robinson has recently published a protest in the london _athenæum_ against a garbled english edition of her work on the colonization of new england. mrs. robinson says, "a work appeared in london last summer with the following title: 'talvi's history of the colonization of america,' edited by william hazlitt, in two volumes. it seems proper to state that the original work was written under favorable circumstances _in german_ and published in germany. it treated only of the colonization of _new england_:--and that only stood on its title-page. the above english publication therefore, is a mere translation--and it was made without the consent or knowledge of the author. the very title is a misnomer; all references to authorities are omitted; and the whole work teems with errors, not only of the press, but also of translation--the latter such as could have been made by no person well acquainted with the german and english tongues. for the work in this form, therefore, the author can be in no sense whatever responsible." * * * * * a late number of the _london leader_ in a review of herman melville's _moby dick, or the whale_, says, "want of originality has long been the just and standing reproach to american literature; the best of its writers were but second-hand englishmen. of late some have given evidence of originality; not _absolute_ originality, but such genuine outcoming of the american intellect as can be safely called national. edgar poe, nathaniel hawthorne, and herman melville are assuredly no british off-shoots; nor is emerson--the _german_ american that he is! the observer of this commencement of an american literature, properly so called, will notice as significant that these writers have a wild and mystic love of the super-sensual, peculiarly their own. to move a horror skillfully, with something of the earnest faith in the unseen, and with weird imagery to shape these phantasms so vividly that the most incredulous mind is hushed, absorbed--to do this no european pen has apparently any longer the power--to do this american literature is without a rival. what _romance_ writer can be named with hawthorne? who knows the horrors of the seas like herman melville?" * * * * * a bill has been introduced by the lord advocate for abolishing tests in the scottish universities for all professional chairs but those of the theological faculties. at present every professor, before induction, is required by law to sign the westminster confession of faith, and the other formularies of the scottish established kirk. in many cases the signature is not actually required, or it is given as a mere matter of form. many of the most distinguished professors in scotland do not belong to the established church of that country. * * * * * count de montalembert's formal reception as a member of the académie française took place on the th of february; and as an event of literary and political importance, excited extraordinary sensation. the _salle_ of the academy was thronged to excess by the _élite_ of parisian society, and hundreds who had obtained tickets were unable to secure admission. as usual on such occasions, the count delivered an harangue, the text of which was the merits, real or supposed, of the deceased member to whose chair he succeeded--but the burden of which was an exposition of the count's opinions on things political, and things in general. as usual, also, one of the academicians replied by a complimentary discourse to the new member, and it so chanced that the respondent was no less a personage than m. guizot. these two distinguished men are what the french call "eagles of eloquence," and under any circumstance the liveliest interest would have been felt to see the two noble birds take an oratorical flight; but on this occasion it was immensely increased, by the fact that they are recognized chiefs of two different creeds in religion, the catholic and the protestant; of two hostile political parties, that of absolutism, and that of liberty; and of two contending schools in philosophy--one, which imposes authority on the mind of man, the other, which maintains his right to free examination. * * * * * cavaignac is stated to be employing the leisure of his voluntary exile in writing his own memoirs. this may be one of the mere rumors which float idly about in an age of interrupted sequence and disturbed action, but should it prove true, the public may hope for a curious and exciting narrative from the hero of june. godfrey cavaignac, his brother, was one of the wittiest and sternest of republican writers under louis philippe--and his own avowed opinions were the cause of much suspicion to the government, though his brilliant exploits in algiers rendered it impossible to keep him down. of course, however, the chief interest of his memoirs would centre in the pages devoted to his share in events subsequent to . * * * * * a letter-writer from paris to a london journal, presents some sound comments on the recent infamous law for the suppression of the freedom of the press: "president bonaparte has this day promulgated his long-expected law on the press. it is of unexampled harshness and oppression. old draco himself, if living in these days, would not have made it so atrociously severe. it ruins newspaper and periodical proprietors; it strips editors, and writers, and reporters of the means of obtaining their bread by their honest industry; it altogether annihilates the political press. and not content with this, it prohibits the entrance into france of _foreign_ political journals and periodicals, without the special authorization of the government. "a few months ago the number of daily political newspapers in paris exceeded thirty; it now does not amount to ten, and of these ten some are certain to disappear in the course of a short time. it is a very moderate computation to suppose that each one of the twenty and odd suppressed journals gave regular employment at good salaries to ten literary men, as editors, contributors, reporters, correspondents, or critics, and that each one afforded occasional employment to at least the same number of feuilletonistes. here, then, we have upward of twice two hundred men, who, as regards intelligence, are of the _élite_ of society, suddenly deprived of 'the means whereby they lived,' without any fault of their own. what is to become of them? what of their helpless wives and families? few of them have any aptitude for any other calling, and even if they had, what chance have they, in this overstocked world, of finding vacant places? the contemplation of their misery must wring every heart, and the more so as, from a certain _fierté_ they all possess, they feel it with peculiar bitterness. but, after all, they are but a small portion of the unfortunates who are ruined by the ruining of the press: there are the compositors, who must exceed two thousand in number; there are the news-venders, who must amount to hundreds, there are the distributors, and the publishers, and the clerks, and all the various dependents of a journal, who must amount to hundreds more--all, like othello, now exclaiming, 'my occupation's gone.' and then paper-makers and type-founders must surely find work slacker and wages lower, now that the newspapers are dead. and then, again, the cafés and the reading-rooms--a very legion--can they do the same amount of business when they have no newspapers to offer? i wonder whether the french dictator has ever thought of the wide-spread misery he has occasioned, and is causing, by his enmity to the press. it may be doubted--else, perhaps, he would never, from motives of personal or political convenience, have annihilated such an important branch of human industry, which gave bread to tens of thousands. it is a fine thing to have a giant's strength, but tyrannous to use it as a giant." * * * * * the german papers say that dr. meinhold, the author of the _amber witch_, has left among his papers an unfinished manuscript, entitled "hagar and the reformation"--which, they add, is now in an editor's hands, and will be shortly given to the public. * * * * * lamartine's new periodical, the _civilisateur_, is receiving fair support. the subscriptions are coming in rapidly, and the first number will appear shortly. * * * * * _the mysteries of the people_, by eugene sue, is announced to be completed immediately. the sale of this eccentric novel, to say no more, has been prodigious. eugene sue is in switzerland. * * * * * dr. neuman, professor of history in the university of munich, has completed his long-promised _history of the english empire in asia_. it is on the eve of publication. * * * * * herr hartleben, the publisher at pesth and vienna, whose meritorious efforts to familiarize his countrymen with the best works of english literature, has just published a translation of mr. dickens's _child's history of england_. a german edition of mr. warburton's _darien_ is preparing for publication. * * * * * the german letter addressed to the countess hahn-hahn on her two works--_from babylon to jerusalem_, and _in jerusalem_--in germany generally ascribed to dr. nitzsch, of berlin, has been translated and published by mr. parker. it is very clever, and will probably amuse and interest the readers of that lady's former novels. the restless longing after new sensations, and the logicless action of a vain and ambitious mind, have seldom been analyzed so well or satirized so keenly as in _babylon_ and _jerusalem_. a sharp preface from the translator also adds to the reader's zest. * * * * * gutzkow, the german critic and novelist, has just published a collected edition of his works in thirteen volumes, to which he is about to add a fourteenth volume, containing the memoirs of his earlier years. his gigantic novel, the _knights of the spirit_, has reached a second edition. * * * * * an english newspaper, _the rhenish times_, is about to be published at neuwied, on the rhine. this new organ, which has not many chances of success, is to be devoted to polite literature, politics, &c.; from the contributions of a number of "eminent english authors," now residents of neuwied and its environs. * * * * * the austrian government, in order to secure the improvement of hebrew works of devotion for its own subjects, has authorized the establishment of a special printing press at goritz, in illyrïa; and it calculates that it will henceforth be able to supply the vast demand which exists in the east. heretofore the jews of eastern europe, of asia, and of northern africa, have obtained their religious books principally from amsterdam or leghorn. * * * * * "of the language and literature of hungary," says the _literary gazette_, "little is known in england. no european nation has excited so much political interest, with so little intellectual communion, or literary intercourse with other nations. by deeds, very little by words, has hungary gained the sympathy and respect of the anglo-saxon freemen on both sides of the atlantic. few englishmen have ever heard of the names of garay, and petöfi, and kisfaludy, and vörösmartz, whose lyric strains stir the hearts of the magyars. the literature of so noble a people can not remain longer neglected in england. besides the political importance which the country will yet assume, there is beauty and originality in the language itself deserving study. of all european tongues, it has most of the oriental spirit and form in its idioms. we are glad to find that an elementary work, entitled 'the hungarian language; its structure and rules, with exercises and a vocabulary,' is in the press, by sigismund wékey, late aid-de-camp to kossuth. both in great britain and america, we have little doubt, the book will be popular." * * * * * the edinburgh papers record the death, upon the th, at the early age of forty-four, of robert blackwood, esq., the head of the firm of eminent publishers of that name. for the last two years the state of mr. blackwood's health compelled his withdrawal from a business which, for the previous fifteen years, he had conducted with admirable energy, sagacity, and success. in the discharge of the difficult duties which devolved upon him, from his position with reference to the literary men of the day, robert blackwood uniformly displayed the same strong practical sense for which his father, the founder of the magazine, was distinguished. he was respected and beloved for his simple and manly qualities by all who had the happiness to know him. his judgments were independent, clear, and decided; his attachments strong and sincere, and by many his name will be long and warmly remembered as that of a stanch and cordial friend. * * * * * the friends and admirers of the late lorenz oken, one of the most eminent anatomists and natural philosophers of modern europe, have set on foot a subscription for a monument to his memory. oken's writings have been widely read in europe and in america--and have, we believe, been translated into french, italian, and scandinavian, as well as into english. the character of the monument can not be determined until the probable amount of the subscription shall have been ascertained--but it is expected to take the form of a bust or a statue, to be set up in the platz at jena. * * * * * baron d'ohson died recently at stockholm, aged . he was a member of the academy of sciences, and president of the royal society of literature in that city. he was one of the most eminent oriental scholars of the day, and author, among other things, of an important work on the peoples of caucasus, and of a valuable history of chinese tartary, he was born at constantinople, of armenian parents, but was educated at paris. he became secretary to bernadotte, accompanied him to sweden, and subsequently fulfilled several diplomatic missions to paris, london, &c. * * * * * turin journals announce the death of serangeli, an artist of celebrity. he was born at rome, in , and became a pupil of the celebrated david. at an early age he distinguished himself by a painting in one of the annual exhibitions at paris, and commissions of importance were given to him by the government. his principal works are: _eurydice dying in the arms of orpheus_; _orpheus soliciting her release from the king of hell_; _sophocles pleading against his sons_; a _christ crucified_; and the _interview of the emperors napoleon and alexander at tilsit_. of late years he confined himself principally to portrait-painting, and his skill as an historical painter declined in consequence. three leaves from punch. [illustration: going to cover. voice in the distance.--"now, then, smith--come along!" smith.--"oh, it's all very well to say, come along! when he won't move a step, and i'm afraid he's going to lie down!"] [illustration: old gent.--"you see, my dear, that the earth turns on its own axis, and makes one revolution round the sun each year." young revolver.--"then, pa, does france turn on its own axis when it makes its revolutions?" old gent.--"no, my dear, it turns on its bayonets. however, that's not a question in astronomy."] thoughts on french affairs. (_selected from a course of lectures by_ professor punch.) the president has been elected for ten years. by the time this period has closed, it will be found that not only the term of the president's power, but the prosperity of france will be decade (_decayed_). "election," according to the dictionaries, is a synonym for "choice.'" but in louis napoleon's new political dictionary we find the significant addendum:--"'_hobson's' understood_." the two parties in france, who are the one in favor of a king and the other in favor of a commonwealth, are easily distinguished by the denominations of monarchists and republicans; but there is some difficulty in finding a denomination for those in favor of an empire, unless we adopt that of _empirics_. the president is said to be a firm believer in the _thompsonian practice_ of medicine. this is probable, from the fact that he has treated the insurgents with _cayenne_. in honor of the vote for louis napoleon "the tower of notre dame was decorated with hangings." considering the origin of the present government, which is based on so many _shootings_, a very appropriate decoration is by means of _hanging_. the french trees of liberty have been cut down and the wood given to the poor for fuel. the only liberty which the french have is--to warm themselves. the french have long been well instructed in deportment; the president is now giving them lessons in deportation. france is still quiet; she is taking her little _nap_. [illustration: early publication of a liberal paper in paris.--_time_--four a.m.] [illustration: scene from the "president's progress." (_suggested by_ hogarth's _rake's progress_.)] this plate represents the "prince president" taking possession of the effects of his deceased uncle. from an old chest he has rummaged out the imperial globe, crown, eagle, and collar. the code napoleon, a pair of military boots--too large to fit the new owner--and a bayonet, make up the remainder of the contents of the chest. the sceptre is surmounted by an expanded hand, the thumb of which comes in suspicious proximity to the nose of a bust of the uncle. from an open closet the imperial eagle, reduced to the last state of emaciation, is looking out. in the fireplace is the imperial chair, to which an old hag, who might pass for the avenging nemesis, is setting fire, probably with the wood of the trees of liberty. sundry hoards, left by the former occupant of the house, have been discovered, from which the young heir's ghostly attendant is helping himself. the new tailor, monsieur gendarme, is in the act of measuring the president for a suit of "imperial purple, first quality." mademoiselle liberte, accompanied by her mother, madame france, comes to demand the fulfillment of the promises he has made her, and has brought the wedding-ring; but he refuses to fulfill his solemnly sworn engagement; and offers money to the mother, who rejects it with an expression of countenance that brooks no good to the gay deceiver. "the characters in this picture," says heir sauerteig, "are admirably developed; the stupid brutality of the heir, the grief and shame of the poor deceived liberte, the anger of france, which, it is clear, will not be satisfied with words, the greed and avarice of the peculating priest, and the business-like air of the tailor--perfectly indifferent whether he fits his patron with an imperial robe or a convict's blouse--are worthy of the highest admiration." [illustration: lady.--"i have called, mr. squills to say that my darling dog(!) has taken all his mixture, but his cough is no better."] [illustration: master tom--"have a weed, gran'pa?" gran'pa.--"a what! sir?" master tom.--"a weed!--a cigar, you know." gran'pa.--"certainly not, sir. i never smoked in my life." master tom.--"ah! then i wouldn't advise you to begin."] [illustration: effects of a strike. upon the capitalist. upon the workman.] [illustration: mr. ----.--"so, your name is charley, is it? now, charley doesn't know who i am?" sharp little boy.--"oh yes! but i do, though." mr. ----.--"well, who am i?" sharp little boy.--"why, you're the gentleman who kissed sister sophy in the library, the other night, when you thought no one was there."] [illustration: "i say, cook, will you ask the policeman, could he step up--there's a row in the next street."] the seven wonders of a young lady. i. keeping her accounts in preference to an album. ii. generously praising the attractions of that "affected creature" who always cut her out. iii. not ridiculing the man she secretly prefers--nor quizzing what she seriously admires. iv. not changing her "dear, dear friend" quarterly--or her dress three times a day. v. reading a novel without looking at the third volume first; or writing a letter without a post-script; or taking wine at dinner without saying "the smallest drop in the world;" or singing without "a bad cold;" or wearing shoes that were not "a mile too big for her." vi. seeing a baby without immediately rushing to it and kissing it. vii. carrying a large bouquet at an evening party, and omitting to ask her partner "if he understands the language of flowers." spring fashions. [illustration: figures and .--drawing-room and ball costumes.] the sunny days of april, after our long, cold winter, are peculiarly inviting to promenaders, who have been housed for four months. fashion, always on the alert to please, and as prompt in her ministrations, as the breath of spring to the buds, is unfolding her beauties in the world of mode, and, within another month will bring forth her creations in full bloom. in the mean while, new costumes for the drawing room and the saloon are not wanting. we present our readers this month with a report of in-door costumes only, but hope to give them something acceptable in our next, concerning dresses for the carriage and the promenade. the fabrics and colors suitable for march yet prevail, with few changes. the figure on the right (fig. ) in our first illustration exhibits a full dress toilet, at once rich, chaste, and elegant. it is particularly adapted to youthful matrons, or ladies who may have doubled their teens without being caught in the noose of hymen. the head-dress is very elegant. the parting of the hair in the middle of the forehead is very short, and the whole front hair is arranged in small curls, short in front, and gradually lengthening toward the sides. a band of pearls goes all round the head above the curls, and is brought round behind to hold the back hair. dress of antique watered silk, open all the way down from top of body. the body is cut so as to form lappets and has no seam at the waist; the lappet, quite smooth, goes round behind. the skirt is put on and gathered just under the edge of the lappet. the trimming of this dress is silk net in puffed _bouillonnés_. there is some round the body, on the sleeves, and all down the fore parts of the body and the dress. the _bouillons_ on the top of the body and sleeves are confined by pearl loops. a rich brooch of pearls and diamonds, conceals the junction of the _bouillés_ at the top of the body on the breast. the _bouillonnés_ of the edges of fore part are confined by pearl cords, and at every other _bouillon_, the strings of pearls are double and go from one edge to the other. the body leaving open a space of two or three inches at the waist, just shows the bottom of an under-body of white satin. the under-skirt is satin, embroidered to represent an apron, with very rich pattern worked in white silk and with the crochet. two rows of alençon lace decorate each sleeve; a little white chemisette reaches beyond the body. the silk crochet embroidery may be replaced by one executed in silver, &c. fig. .--ball costume.--the season for balls is about closing, yet we give another illustration of a very elegant style: hair in puffed bands; wreath of roses, laid so as to follow the curve of the bands, forming a point in front, and meeting behind in the back hair. dress, white satin, covered with embroidered silk-net, and ornamented with bouquets of roses. the body is close, plain, and straight at top, and cut in three pieces in front; the point is long, the silk-net of sprigged pattern is laid even on the body, and follows its cut. the satin skirt has hollow plaits, and the net one is placed over it, so as to puff a good deal, without following the same plaits as those in the satin skirt. the effect of this black silk-net with black flowers over white satin, is very striking. in the front of the skirt, and from left to right, ten or eleven bouquets of moss roses and rose-buds are scattered at random, and this is a most appropriate occasion to apply boileau's verse, in which he says, that "fine disorder is the effect of art." the short sleeves are puffed a little, and are trimmed with _engageantes_ of scolloped-edged black blonde. fig. represents a portion of an elegant dress-toilet. over the head is seen the upper part of a rich _sortie de bal_ of white silk, trimmed with broad white galloon, watered, rather more than three inches wide. this galloon is sewed on flat about an inch from the edge. a galloon of an inch and a half begins at the waist, and comes, marking the shape of the breast, to pass over the shoulder, and form a round at the back. the galloon serves as an ornament, and it is below that the body of the garment assumes the fullness for fluting. a double trimming of white, worsted gimp, embroidered with white jet, forms a pelerine. the upper one is raised, like a _fanchon_, to cover the top of the head, without muffling the neck and chin. the bottom is also trimmed with a deep gimp, gathered, in sewing on. the dress is yellow _moire antique_, figured with a lampas pattern, reaching to the top. in the front, at the middle, by an effect of white satin, obtained in the manufacture, the imitation of a beautiful white ribbon is interwoven in the figured part, beginning at the waist, diverging on either side as it descends, and running round the bottom of the skirt. this admirable dress has received the name of _victoria_. [illustration: fig. .--dress toilet.] we denominate fig. a fancy costume for a little girl, because it has not been in vogue for the last three-fourths of a century. it represents the costume of a girl at about the time of our revolution. [illustration: fig. .--fancy costume.] it was the dress, not only of children, but of girls "in their teens." it must be admitted, we think, that fashion has not grown wise by age. in elegant simplicity this costume is far in advance of the flaunting exhibitions of finery, which little girls of our day often display. we recommend it to our bloomer friends, as a practical historical evidence that their notions are not "new-fangled," but have the consecration of age, and the sanction of the generation when our good washington flirted with the gay belles of virginia. [transcriber's note: variant spelling has been retained. minor corrections to punctuation have been made without note. oe ligature denoted by [oe] in the text version. superscript denoted with caret (^) in the text version. a table of contents has been provided for the html version. small caps replaced by all caps and italics denoted by "_" in the text version. correction of printer's errors: page : "...would to tend the horses..." changed to read "...would be to tend the horses..." page : "...the fasts, the v.gils, the penances..." changed to read "...the fasts, the vigils, the penances..." page : "...aided by my colleage, moulins..." changed to read "...aided by my colleague moulins..." page : "...that thunberbolt may be..." changed to read "...that thunderbolt may be..." page : "...sagacious transferrence of the meeting..." changed to read "...sagacious transference of the meeting ..." page : "...he said was one one of the counsel..." changed to read "...he said was one of the counsel ..." page : "...himself to borriboola-gha..." changed to read "...himself to borrioboola-gha..." page : "...made a similar responce." changed to read "...made a similar response." page : "...the utmost discription ada could give..." changed to read "...the utmost description ada could give..." page : "...it it was woman..." changed to read "...it was woman..." page : "...douglas could scarcly have called him ..." changed to read "...douglas could scarcely have called him..." page : "...the man was a a match..." changed to read "...the man was a match..." page : "...washing the dus: this is..." changed to read "...washing the dust: this is..." page : "...lord lieutenant of ireand; duke of montrose..." changed to read "...lord lieutenant of ireland; duke of montrose..." page : "...a good deal of skil and bravery..." changed to read "...a good deal of skill and bravery..." page : "...the color of the shiling there?" changed to read "...the color of the shilling there?" page : "...she was a reremarkable woman." changed to read "...she was a remarkable woman." page : "...the greek professsor in the university..." changed to read "...the greek professor in the university..."] harper's new monthly magazine volume iii. june to november, . new york: harper & brothers, publishers, nos. and pearl street, (franklin square.) . advertisement. this number closes the third volume of harper's new monthly magazine. in closing the second volume the publishers referred to the distinguished success which had attended its establishment, as an incentive to further efforts to make it worthy the immense patronage it had received:--they refer with confidence to the contents of the present volume, for proof that their promise has been abundantly fulfilled. the magazine has reached its present enormous circulation, simply because it gives _a greater amount of reading matter, of a higher quality, in better style, and at a cheaper price_ than any other periodical ever published. knowing this to be the fact, the publishers have spared, and will hereafter spare, no labor or expense which will increase the value and interest of the magazine in all these respects. the outlay upon the present volume has been from five to ten thousand dollars more than that upon either of its predecessors. the best talent of the country has been engaged in writing and illustrating original articles for its pages:--its selections have been made from a wider field and with increased care; its typographical appearance has been rendered still more elegant; and several new departments have been added to its original plan. the magazine now contains, regularly: _first._ one or more original articles upon some topic of historical or national interest, written by some able and popular writer, and illustrated by from fifteen to thirty wood engravings, executed in the highest style of art. _second._ copious selections from the current periodical literature of the day, with tales of the most distinguished authors, such as dickens, bulwer, lever, and others--chosen always for their literary merit, popular interest, and general utility. _third._ a monthly record of the events of the day, foreign and domestic, prepared with care and with the most perfect freedom from prejudice and partiality of every kind. _fourth._ critical notices of the books of the day, written with ability, candor, and spirit, and designed to give the public a clear and reliable estimate of the important works constantly issuing from the press. _fifth._ a monthly summary of european intelligence, concerning books, authors, and whatever else has interest and importance for the cultivated reader. _sixth._ an editor's table, in which some of the leading topics of the day will be discussed with ability and independence. _seventh._ an editor's easy chair or drawer, which will be devoted to literary and general gossip, memoranda of the topics talked about in social circles, graphic sketches of the most interesting minor matters of the day, anecdotes of literary men, sentences of interest from papers not worth reprinting at length, and generally an agreeable and entertaining collection of literary miscellany. the object of the publishers is to combine the greatest possible variety and interest, with the greatest possible utility. special care will always be exercised in admitting nothing into the magazine in the slightest degree offensive to the most sensitive delicacy; and there will be a steady aim to exert a healthy moral and intellectual influence, by the most attractive means. for the very liberal patronage the magazine has already received, and especially for the universally flattering commendations of the press, the publishers desire to express their cordial thanks, and to renew their assurances, that no effort shall be spared to render the work still more acceptable and useful, and still more worthy of the encouragement it has received. contents of volume iii. adventure with a grizzly bear ally somers american notabilities anecdotes of curran anecdotes of paganini application of electro-magnetism to railway transit autobiography of a sensitive spirit bear-steak blind lovers of chamouny bookworms bored wells in mississippi breton wedding brush with a bison captain's self-devotion chapter on giraffes coffee-planting in ceylon conversation in a stage coach cricket convict's tale daughter of blood deserted house eagle and swan eclipse in july, editor's drawer. preliminary; word-painting; grandiloquence; memories of childhood; good-nature, . englishman's independence; parodies; done twice; punctuation; epitaph; personification, . small courtesies; home california; grumblers; rachel baker, . take physic, doctor; moralizing; curiosity, . sabbath morning; pictures of napoleon; libraries; booing; childlike temper; pretty spry, . the sea; old eben; harvest time; long island ghosts, . alleged lunatic; musical elephant, . the bible; new use of a note of hand; the ship of death; taste in tombstones; tennyson's word-painting, . western eloquence; john bull of old; interrupting conversation, . ollapod on october; the virtues too cheap, . charms of the incomprehensible; harriet martineau on love; the fire annihilator, . originality; eccentricities of swift; the iron duke in rhyme; on reminiscences, . taking an interest; determination of the will, . in france without french; mrs. ramsbottom; the disbanded volunteer, . baron vondullbrainz; domestic remedies; dr. johnson on scotland, . hopeful pupils; lord timothy dexter; adjutant-birds, . dinner-giving; keep cool; peter funk; titles of songs; john bull as a beat-ee, . editor's easy chair. ex cathedrâ; the commercial and romantic way of telling a thing, . the winning loser, . equestrianism as a beautifyer, . advent of autumn; retrospective and prospective; hard times; the arctic expedition, . catherine hayes; madame thillon; mrs. warner; healy's webster; the art union; leutze's washington crossing the delaware; american clippers, . french gossip; borrel and his wife, . albert smith, . editor's table. the indestructibleness of the religious principle in the human soul, . night as represented by the poets: homer, apollonius rhodius, virgil, byron, job, . pedantic fallacies on education, . progression of ancestry and posterity, . westward course of empire, . marriage: the nuptial torch, woman's rights, divorces, . true charity: st. augustine thereupon, . episode in the life of john rayner escape from a mexican quicksand execution of fieschi, pepin, and morey fairy's choice faquir's curse fashions for june fashions for july fashions for august fashions for september fashions for october fashions for november feet-washing in munich floating island fortunes of the reverend caleb ellison francis's life boats and life cars. by jacob abbott french cottage cookery frenchman in london gallop for life hartley coleridge highest house in wathendale household of sir thomas more , , , , , hunter's wife ice-hill party in russia incident during the mutiny of incidents of dueling incident of indian life infirmities of genius joanna baillie jeweled watch joe smith and the mormons josephine at malmaison joys and sorrows of lumbering lamartine on the restoration last days of the emperor alexander last priestess of pele leaves from punch. tired of the world; pleasure trip of messrs. robinson and jones; a perfect wretch, . facts and comments by mr. punch; comparative love; taking the census; mysterious machine, . experimental philosophy; the interesting story; elegant and rational costume for hot weather; a wet day at a country inn; scene at the sea-side; affecting rather; real enjoyment; a taste for the beautiful; singular optical delusion; a most alarming swelling; sunbeams from cucumbers; much ado about nothing; little lessons for little ladies, . holding the mirror up to nature; a bite; much too considerate; a lesson on patience; development of taste, . brother jonathan's first lesson in shipbuilding; not a difficult thing to foretell; curiosities of medical experience; retirement, . lima and the limanians literary notices. philosophy of mathematics; life of algernon sidney; journal and letters of henry martyn; cooper's water witch, . mayhew's london labor, , , . barry's fruit garden; female jesuit; the wife's sister; poems by mrs. e.h. evans; dealings with the inquisition; opdyke's political economy; harper's new york and erie railroad guide, . tuckerman's characteristics of literature; the gold-worshipers; mrs. sigourney's letters to my pupils; maurice tiernay; willis's hurry-graphs; eastbury; episodes of insect life, , , . arthur's works, . memoirs of wordsworth; hitchcock's religion of geology; the glens; abbott's cleopatra; mrs. browning's poems, . cosmos; martin's ortheopist; the heir of west-wayland; a grandmother's recollections; ida; colton's land and sea; de felice's protestants in france; warren's para; herbert's life and writings, . caleb field; dr. spring's first things; yeast; taylor's angel's song; stuart of dunleath; shakspeare's heroines; the solitary of juan fernandez; bulwer's not so bad as we seem, . the parthenon; lady wortley's travels in america; hudson's shakspeare; abbott's josephine; fresh gleanings; lossing's field-book; the daughter of night, . james's fate; inventor's manual, ; memoirs of bickersteth; lamartine's stone-mason of saint point; true remedy for the wrongs of woman; the literature and literary men of great britain and ireland, . arthur conway; odd-fellows' offering; loomis's algebra; the christian retrospect and register; anthon's roman antiquities; hildreth's history of the united states; carpenter's travels and adventures in mexico, . sprague's phi beta kappa oration; farmer's every-day book; the nile boat; the iris; the dew-drop; willow-lane stories; drayton; lord's epoch of creation, . theory of human progression; forest life and forest trees; semme's service afloat and ashore; the lady and the priest; the attaché in spain, . scenes and legends of the north of scotland; miss benger's mary queen of scots; motherwell's poems; memoirs of the buckminsters; plymouth and the pilgrims; st. john's geology; ware's sketches of european capitals; lamartine's restoration; rule and misrule of the english in america; poore's life of napoleon, . bayard taylor's romances, lyrics, and songs; margaret; abbott's young christian; spooner's dictionary of artists; memoirs of chalmers; the bible in the family; the scalp hunters, . the human body in its connection with man; ladies of the covenant; alban; fifteen decisive battles; queens of scotland; the lily and the bee; london labor; malmiztic the toltec; the mind and the heart, . london sparrows lord brougham as a judge love and smuggling madames de genlis and de staël mary kingsford maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. by charles lever , , , , , memories of mexico mems for musical misses misers monthly record of current events. united states. political and general news.--rumored descent upon cuba; president's proclamation; arrests, . legislature of new york; the canal enlargement bill; close of the session; addresses to the political parties, . quick passages across the atlantic, , , . emigrants from abroad, , , . may anniversaries in new york, . opening of the erie railroad, . mr. webster and faneuil hall, . storm in new england, . secret ballot in massachusetts, . message of the governor of connecticut, . southern rights convention at charleston; messrs. cheves and rhett, . constitutional convention in virginia, , , , . miscellaneous intelligence from the northwest, . texas, , . new mexico, . from california: extra-judicial executions; death for larceny; tax on miners: indian hostilities; population; gold; japanese; thermal springs, . abstract of the census, . dispersion of cuban expedition, . speeches of mr. webster at buffalo and albany, . methodist book concern suit, . presbyterian general assembly at utica, . at st. louis, . ocean steamers, . extra session of the new york legislature, passage of the canal enlargement bill, . address of framers of the constitution against the bill, . riot at hoboken, . legislature of massachusetts, principal bills passed, . mr. sumner's letter of acceptance, . maine and massachusetts, . liquor-law in maine, . northern eldorado, . message of governor dinsmoore of new hampshire, . new constitution in maryland, . politics in georgia, . in south carolina, . in mississippi, . indian hostilities in texas, . from california, . from oregon, . whig and democratic conventions in vermont, . democratic state convention in new hampshire, . whig and democratic conventions in pennsylvania, . whig convention in ohio, . state rights convention in mississippi, . whig convention in california, . mr. webster's fourth of july speech at washington, . legislature of new york; canal bill; apportionment of representatives, . position of mr. fish, . legislature of rhode island, . acceptance of new constitution in ohio, . widows in kentucky to vote, . celebration of the battle of fort moultrie at charleston, . senators clemens and king of alabama, . compromise resolutions in connecticut, . legislature of michigan, . mormon trials, . mr. webster at capon springs, . from california: fire at san francisco; quartz mining; lynch law; chinamen; abortive expedition against lower california, . indian treaty in oregon, . miscellanies from the northwest, . trial of general talcott, . american traveler imprisoned in hungary, . college commencements, , . august elections, . state of parties, . cuban expedition sets out, . progress of crime, . prospects of the harvest, . indian hostilities along our frontiers, . meeting for co-operative resistance in charleston, . southern rights meeting, . new constitution of virginia, . democratic convention in ohio, . from california: new route; another conflagration; t.b. mcmanus; vigilance committee, . joint call for a whig convention in new york, . judge bronson on the canal enlargement bill, . dinner to archbishop hughes, . return of the steamer atlantic, . western railroad convention, . colored convention in indiana, . sioux treaty, . steam to ireland, . letter from kossuth, . fourth of july at turks island, . emancipation of slaves by mr. ragland, . soundings in gulf of mexico, . fugitive slaves in mexico, . expedition to cuba fails, . excitement in the united states, . whig and democratic conventions in massachusetts, . whig and democratic conventions in new york, . severe storm, . from texas: crops; trade; indian affray; boundary commission, . fugitive slave cases, . union victory in mississippi, . slaves liberated by mr. caldwell, . from california: subsidence of lynch law; mining; indians; politics, ; more executions; conflict of authorities; miscellaneous, . meeting of the new york state agricultural society, . railroad celebration at boston, . return of the arctic expedition, . legislature of vermont, . accidents and shipwrecks, . duels, . michigan conspiracy trials, . bishop in new york, . from new mexico: indians; col. sumner's command; catholic church, . elections.--mr. sumner in massachusetts, . state officers in connecticut, . congressional representatives in massachusetts, . state officers in new hampshire, . august elections for members of congress and state officers in several states, . of delegates to state convention in mississippi, . of governor and members of congress in georgia, . southern america. mexico: the revenue; indian hostilities; meditated revolution, . brazil and the argentine republic, , , , , . excitement in cuba, . hayti, . from mexico; financial difficulties; indian hostilities; claims upon the united states, . from peru: election of president; disturbances, . disturbances in chili, . central america, . financial projects in mexico, . tehuantepec survey prohibited, . chili and peru, . general rosas, . uruguay, . new constitution in bolivia, . new granada, . plot in venezuela, . proposed confederation in central america, . cholera in jamaica, . cuba, . santa cruz, . hostilities in hayti, . gloomy state of affairs in mexico, . statement of the tehuantepec question, . insurrectionary movements in new granada, , . scarcity of labor in jamaica; colored emigrants solicited, . riot at kingston, . abortive insurrection in cuba, . failure of the expedition and execution of lopez, . disturbances in guayaquil, . affairs in chili: election of montt as president; revenues; railroads; storm, . peru, . mexican affairs: financial schemes; church property; tehuantepec difficulties; proposed south american confederacy; disturbances; payno's mission to england, . decline of the slave-trade in brazil, . peace in hayti, . volcanic eruption in martinique, . continued troubles in mexico, . revolution in the northern departments, . disturbances in central america, . war between brazil and rosas, . chili and peru, . great britain. opening of the exhibition, . duke of wellington and the statuette of napoleon, . proceedings in parliament: sundry motions; jews' bill; model lodging houses, . speech of sir william molesworth on the colonies, . lord torrington as governor of ceylon, . aylesbury election vacated, . dinner to lord stanley, . troubles in the established church, . the kaffir war, , . manifesto of the chartists, . emigration, , . legal nicety, . progress of the exhibition. , , , , . american contributions, . parliamentary proceedings, . copyright decision in favor of foreigners, . protectionist meeting at tamworth, . thackeray's lectures, . mr. cobden's peace motion, . census of great britain, . steam between ireland and united states, . prince albert on the american revolution, . balloon accident, . passage of ecclesiastical titles bill, . jewish disabilities bill, . mr. salomons denied a seat in parliament, . chancery reform, . secret ballot, . bishops' revenues, . decline of the slave trade, . depopulation of ireland, . opposition to copyright decision, . the queen and the corporation of london, . mr. peabody's entertainment, . the crystal palace as a winter garden, . prerogation of parliament, . the yacht races, . catholic meeting in dublin, . condition of laboring classes, . artistic defects, . persistance of mr. salomons, . speeches of lord palmerston, bulwer, mr. hunt, and mr. disraeli, . return of the arctic expedition, . tour of the american minister in ireland, . submarine telegraph, . france. difficulties in the way of revision, . new provisional ministry formed, . newspaper politics, . troubles at lyons, . disturbances in the university, . prosecutions against the press, , . bread society, . refugee dinner, . holy week, . hostilities in algeria, . the president and abd-el-kader, . question of revision, , . defeat of the kabyles, . appointment of committee on revision, . the president at dijon, . report of the committee on revision, sketch of debate, and rejection of proposition, . censure upon and proffered resignation of ministers, . free-trade motion lost, . fête to exhibition commissioners, , . adjournment of assembly, . preparations for presidential election, . plots at lyons, . casualty at funeral of marshal sebastiani, . government and the press, . progress toward despotism, . speech of the president, . germany. resuscitation of the frankfort diet, . position of the powers, . refugee loan, . close of the dresden conference, . meeting of sovereigns, . speech of the king of prussia, . the diet, . affray at hamburg, . english and french protests against austrian projects, . press ordinance in austria, . amnesty granted in hesse cassel, . absolutism predominant, . political persecutions of musicians, . repression in hungary, . confiscation of the allgemeine zeitung, . extension of the zollverein, . progress of despotism in austria, . austrian loan, . southern europe. insurrection in portugal, and overthrow of the thomar ministry, , . dissolution of the spanish cortes, . railroad commissioners appointed, . from italy: death of _il passatore;_ books prohibited; emperor of austria at venice; anniversary of the battle of novara, . elections in spain, . concordat with rome, . disturbances in madrid, . opposition to tobacco in italy, , . the french at rome, . austrians in italy, , . banishment of count guicciardini, . mr. gladstone on political prisoners at naples, . portugal, . arrests and espionage in italy, . foreign publications examined, . inundations in switzerland, . catastrophe at moscow, . reply of the neapolitan government to mr. gladstone, . affairs at rome, . excitement in spain on the cuban question, . spanish tariff, . the east. insurrections in turkey, . hungarian exiles, . earthquake in anatolia, . railroad across the isthmus of suez, . revolt in egypt, . affairs in india, . plot against the nepaulese embassador, . insurrection in china, , , . russian losses in circassia, . hurricane in india, . the governor-general, . anti-mission movement among the hindoos, . cholera in the canary islands, . kossuth to be liberated, . annexation in india, . affairs in siam, . massacre in formosa, . release of kossuth, . difficulties between turkey and austria, . unsettled condition of turkey, . difficulties between persia and russia, . from india, . discoveries of gold in australia, . literary, scientific, and personal. united states.--visit of the president and cabinet to the north, . st. george's society, speeches of mr. bulwer, and celtic wrath, . w.l. mackenzie, . american meeting for the advancement of science, at cincinnati, . prussian medal to professor morse, . return of jenny lind, . art-union, . leutze's washington crossing the delaware, . woodville's game of chess, . power's la dorado, . mr. whitney, . golden newspaper, . philadelphia art union, . chilly mcintosh, . mr. brace arrested in hungary, . talvi, . mr. b.a. gould, . commencements of colleges, , . dinner to archbishop hughes, . the art union, . thorwaldssen's models, . statue to de witt clinton, . huntington, gray, page, . greenough's pioneer, . release of mr. brace, . indian chiefs, . first book printed in new york, . education association at cleveland, . anticipated trial of mr. brace, . kossuth to be liberated, . small lions at soirées, . literary strategy, . new work of jonathan edwards, . catherine hayes, . father mathew, . monument to cooper, . methodist book concern, . w.g. simms, . works of andrews norton, . stockhardt's agricultural chemistry, . foreign.--sir charles lyell on rain-drop impressions, . chapman on cotton in india, . artificial gems, . pensions to j.s. buckingham, col. torrens, and mrs. jameson, . mr. jerdan, . haynau at home, . notices of tuckerman and ungewitter, . present state of copyright question, . railroad literature, . estimation of andrews' latin lexicon, . the bateman children, . de soto's conquest of florida, . gavelkind, . lingard's library, . latham's ethnology, . complete works of frederick the great, . eugene sue, . gasparis, . reboul, the baker poet, . shakspeare abroad, . cayley's dante, . tupper's hymn, . thomas cooper, . thackeray's forthcoming novel, . english records, . parkman's pontiac, , . carlyle's life of stirling, . comte's philosophy, . layard's investigations, . monument to wordsworth, . achilli, mazzini, . thier's consulate, . de cassagnac, . cheap publications, . st. just, . proudhon, . spinoza, . dumas, . eugene sue, jules janin, . de maistre, . unacknowledged translations, . brentano, metternich, . monument to muller, . obituaries. philip hone, . hon. david daggett, . hon. william steele, . gen. hugh brady, . stephen, olin, d.d., . hon. levi woodbury, . james fenimore cooper, . thomas h. gallaudet, . sylvester graham, . prof. beverley tucker, . dr. paulus, . mr. gibbon, . harriet lee, . lady louisa stuart, . daniel o'sullivan, . dr. lorenz oken, . john godfrey gruber, . m. dupaty, . james richardson, . william nicol, . b.p. gibbon, . john kidd, . morbid impulses my novel; or, varieties in english life. by sir edward bulwer lytton , , , , , napoleon bonaparte. by john s.c. abbott , , , never despair new proofs of the earth's rotation our national anniversary. by benson j. lossing oriental saloons in madrid pearl divers pedestrian in holland peep at the peraharra personal habits of the walpoles phantoms and realities , , pie shops of london pools of ellendeen postal reform--cheap postage poulailler the robber race horses and horse races recollections of the author of lacon reminiscences of an attorney scene from irish life scientific fantasies seals and whales scottish revenge shots in the jungle shadow of ben jonson's mother siberia as a land of exile sight of an angel sketches of oriental life solar system somnambule somnambulism spanish bull fight stories of shipwreck story of an organ story of reynard the fox student life in paris summer. by james thomson syrian superstitions the flying artist the right one the stolen rose the town-ho's story. by herman melville the treason of benedict arnold. by benson j. lossing the two roads the usurer's gift thomas moore tobacco factory in spain village life in germany visit at mr. webster's. by lady emmeline stuart wortley visit to laplanders visit to robinson crusoe visit to the north cape warnings of the past waterspout in indian ocean weovil biscuit manufactory white silk bonnet widow of cologne woman's emancipation.--a letter from a strong-minded american woman woman's offices and influence wordsworth, byron, scott, shelley work away worship of gold list of illustrations. page . refulgent summer comes . the meek-eyed dawn appears . from some promontory's top . approach of evening . reclined beneath the shade . infancy, youth, and age . hay-making . sheep-washing . slumbers the monarch swain . a various group the flocks and herds . a thousand shapes majestic stalk . an ample chair, moss-lined . birth of the nile . from steep to steep he pours his urn . sad on the jutting eminence he sits . the mother strains her infant . pouring forth pestilence . stricken with plague . thunder-storm . young celadon and his amelia . a blackened corpse was struck the maid . the soft hour of walking . view on the thames . the sailor's farewell . shepherd and milkmaid . at eve the fairy people throng . evening yields the world to night . philosophy directs the helm . rotation of the earth--diagram . rotation of the earth--diagram . tired of the world . robinson and jones pleasuring . robinson and jones on deck . robinson before and after a voyage . a perfect wretch . costumes for early summer . evening dress . head-dress . bonnet . portraits of adams, sherman, livingston, jefferson, and franklin . portrait of earl of bute . portrait of james otis . portrait of patrick henry . independence hall, philadelphia . portrait of john hancock . portrait of robert morris . portrait of richard henry lee . portrait of john dickinson . portrait of edward rutledge . portrait of samuel adams . portrait of john witherspoon . the liberty bell . fac-simile of the signatures to the declaration of independence . hauling the life-car . the life-car--diagram . the life-car--diagram . the life-car--diagram . the life-car--diagram . seizing the cask . firing the shot . the hydraulic press . the surf-boat . climbing the rope . the tent . the eclipse of --diagram . the eclipse of --diagram . the eclipse of --diagram . the eclipse of --diagram . the eclipse of --map . the eclipse of --enlarged map . the eclipse of --digits . comparative love . taking the census . a strange machine . costumes for summer . bonnets . turkish costume . the birth-house of napoleon . the home of napoleon's childhood . napoleon at brienne . the snow fort . lieutenant bonaparte . the water-excursion . varieties of bloomers . experimental philosophy . the interesting story . costumes for the dog-days . a wet day at a country inn . scene at the sea side . affecting--rather . real enjoyment . a taste for the beautiful . singular optical delusion . a most alarming swelling . sunbeams from cucumbers . much ado about nothing . little lessons for little ladies . costumes for august . jackets . boy's dress . the attack upon the tuileries . the emigrants . the volunteer gunners . night studies . napoleon before the convention . the amazon discomfited . portrait of benedict arnold . portrait of major andrè . portrait of sir henry clinton . portrait of beverley robinson . robinson's house . smith's house . arnold's pass to andrè . map of andrè's route . place of andrè's capture . breakfast room at robinson's house . view at robinson's dock . washington's head quarters at tappan . andrè's pen-and-ink sketch of himself . andrè's monument . paulding's monument . van wart's monument . artesian wells in mississippi . the auger for boring . auger rods . the pump . bits for boring through rock . boring apparatus complete . the couter . pump-logs . section of logs . fashions for september . bonnet and head-dress . chemisette . napoleon and eugene beauharnais . napoleon and his generals . napoleon on mount zemolo . passage of the bridge of lodi . napoleon and the courier . the burning of banasco . peruvian cavalier . limeña at home . cholitas or indian women of peru . coming from mass . holding the mirror up to nature . a bite . much too considerate . a lesson on patience . development of taste . costumes for october . carriage costume . caps and under-sleeve . the encampment before mantua . the little corporal and the sentinel . the solitary bivouac . the dead soldier and his dog . the marshes of arcola . the exhausted sentinel . reynard at home . reynard as a hermit . sir tibert delivering the king's message . reynard brings forward the hare . reynard on his pilgrimage to rome . reynard attacks the rabbit . brother jonathan's first lesson in shipbuilding . not a difficult thing to foretell . curiosities of medical experience . retirement . costumes for november . opera dress . head-dresses and caps harper's new monthly magazine. no. xiii.--june, .--vol. iii. summer. by james thomson [illustration: refulgent summer comes] from brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd, child of the sun, refulgent summer comes, in pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth: he comes attended by the sultry hours, and ever-fanning breezes, on his way; while, from his ardent look, the turning spring averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies, all-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves. hence, let me haste into the mid wood shade, where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom and on the dark-green grass, beside the brink of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large, and sing the glories of the circling year. come, inspiration! from thy hermit-seat, by mortal seldom found: may fancy dare, from thy fix'd serious eye, and raptur'd glance shot on surrounding heaven, to steal one look creative of the poet, every power exalting to an ecstasy of soul. and thou, my youthful muse's early friend, in whom the human graces all unite; pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart; genius and wisdom; the gay social sense, by decency chastis'd; goodness and wit, in seldom-meeting harmony combin'd; unblemish'd honor, and an active zeal for britain's glory, liberty, and man: o dodington! attend my rural song, stoop to my theme, inspirit every line, and teach me to deserve thy just applause. with what an awful world-revolving power were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along the illimitable void! thus to remain, amid the flux of many thousand years, that oft has swept the toiling race of men and all their labor'd monuments away, firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course, to the kind-temper'd change of night and day, and of the seasons ever stealing round, minutely faithful: such the all-perfect hand that pois'd, impels, and rules the steady whole. when now no more the alternate twins are fir'd, and cancer reddens with the solar blaze, short is the doubtful empire of the night; and soon, observant of approaching day, the meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, at first faint-gleaming in the dappled east-- till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow, and, from before the lustre of her face, white break the clouds away. with quicken'd step, brown night retires. young day pours in apace, and opens all the lawny prospect wide. the dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine; and from the bladed field the fearful hare limps, awkward; while along the forest glade the wild deer trip, and often turning gaze at early passenger. music awakes, the native voice of undissembled joy, and thick around the woodland hymns arise. rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves his mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells; and from the crowded fold, in order, drives his flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. [illustration: the meek-eyed dawn appears] falsely luxurious, will not man awake; and, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy the cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour, to meditation due and sacred song? for is there aught in sleep can charm the wise? to lie in dead oblivion, losing half the fleeting moments of too short a life; total extinction of the enlighten'd soul! or else to feverish vanity alive, wilder'd, and tossing through distemper'd dreams who would in such a gloomy state remain longer than nature craves; when every muse and every blooming pleasure wait without, to bless the wildly devious morning-walk? but yonder comes the powerful king of day, rejoicing in the east. the lessening cloud, the kindling azure, and the mountain's brow illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach betoken glad. lo! now apparent all, aslant the dew-bright earth, and color'd air, he looks in boundless majesty abroad; and sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays on rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, high-gleaming from afar. prime cheerer, light! of all material beings first, and best! efflux divine! nature's resplendent robe! without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp'd in unessential gloom; and thou, o sun! soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen shines out thy maker! may i sing of thee? 'tis by thy secret, strong, attractive force, as with a chain indissoluble bound, thy system rolls entire; from the far bourn of utmost saturn, wheeling wide his round of thirty years, to mercury, whose disk can scarce be caught by philosophic eye, lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze. informer of the planetary train! without whose quickening glance their cumbrous orbs were brute unlovely mass, inert and dead, and not, as now, the green abodes of life-- how many forms of being wait on thee! inhaling spirit; from the unfetter'd mind, by thee sublim'd, down to the daily race, the mixing myriads of thy setting beam. the vegetable world is also thine, parent of seasons! who the pomp precede that waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain, annual, along the bright ecliptic-road, in world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime. meantime the expecting nations, circled gay with all the various tribes of foodful earth, implore thy bounty, or send grateful up a common hymn; while, round thy beaming car, high-seen, the seasons lead, in sprightly dance harmonious knit, the rosy-finger'd hours, the zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains, of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews, and soften'd into joy the surly storms. these, in successive turn, with lavish hand, shower every beauty, every fragrance shower, herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch, from land to land is flush'd the vernal year. nor to the surface of enliven'd earth, graceful with hills and dales, and leafy woods, her liberal tresses, is thy force confin'd-- but, to the bowel'd cavern darting deep, the mineral kinds confess thy mighty power. effulgent, hence the veiny marble shines; hence labor draws his tools; hence burnish'd war gleams on the day; the nobler works of peace hence bless mankind; and generous commerce binds the round of nations in a golden chain. the unfruitful rock itself, impregn'd by thee, in dark retirement forms the lucid stone. the lively diamond drinks thy purest rays, collected light, compact; that, polish'd bright. and all its native lustre let abroad, dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast, with vain ambition emulate her eyes. at thee the ruby lights its deepening glow, and with a waving radiance inward flames. from thee the sapphire, solid ether, takes its hue cerulean; and, of evening tinct, the purple streaming amethyst is thine. with thy own smile the yellow topaz burns; nor deeper verdure dyes the robe of spring, when first she gives it to the southern gale, than the green emerald shows. but, all combin'd, thick through the whitening opal play thy beams; or, flying several from its surface, form a trembling variance of revolving hues, as the site varies in the gazer's hand. the very dead creation, from thy touch, assumes a mimic life. by thee refin'd, in brighter mazes the relucent stream plays o'er the mead. the precipice abrupt, projecting horror on the blacken'd flood, softens at thy return. the desert joys wildly, through all his melancholy bounds. rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep, seen from some pointed promontory's top, far to the blue horizon's utmost verge, restless, reflects a floating gleam. but this, and all the much-transported muse can sing, are to thy beauty, dignity, and use, unequal far; great delegated source of light, and life, and grace, and joy below! [illustration: from some promontory's top] how shall i then attempt to sing of him, who, light himself! in uncreated light invested deep, dwells awfully retired from mortal eye, or angel's purer ken, whose single smile has, from the first of time, fill'd, overflowing, all those lamps of heaven, that beam forever through the boundless sky; but, should he hide his face, the astonish'd sun, and all the extinguish'd stars, would loosening reel wide from their spheres, and chaos come again. and yet was every faltering tongue of man, almighty father! silent in thy praise, thy works themselves would raise a general voice even in the depth of solitary woods, by human foot untrod, proclaim thy power; and to the quire celestial thee resound, the eternal cause, support, and end of all! to me be nature's volume broad-display'd; and to peruse its all-instructing page, or, haply catching inspiration thence, some easy passage, raptur'd, to translate, my sole delight; as through the falling glooms pensive i stray, or with the rising dawn on fancy's eagle-wing excursive soar. [illustration: approach of evening] now, flaming up the heavens, the potent sun melts into limpid air the high-rais'd clouds, and morning fogs, that hover'd round the hills in party-color'd bands; till wide unveil'd the face of nature shines, from where earth seems far stretch'd around, to meet the bending sphere. half in a blush of clustering roses lost, dew-dropping coolness to the shade retires, there, on the verdant turf, or flowery bed, by gelid founts and careless rills to muse; while tyrant heat, dispreading through the sky, with rapid sway, his burning influence darts on man, and beast, and herb, and tepid stream. who can, unpitying, see the flowery race, shed by the morn, their new-flush'd bloom resign, before the parching beam? so fade the fair, when fevers revel through their azure veins. but one, the lofty follower of the sun, sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, drooping all night; and, when he warm returns, points her enamor'd bosom to his ray. home, from the morning task, the swain retreats; his flock before him stepping to the fold: while the full-udder'd mother lows around the cheerful cottage, then expecting food, the food of innocence and health! the daw, the rook, and magpie, to the gray-grown oaks (that the calm village in their verdant arms, sheltering, embrace) direct their lazy flight; where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd, all the hot noon, till cooler hours arise. faint, underneath, the household fowls convene; and, in a corner of the buzzing shade, the housedog, with the vacant grayhound, lies outstretched and sleepy. in his slumbers one attacks the nightly thief, and one exults o'er hill and dale; till, waken'd by the wasp, they, starting, snap. nor shall the muse disdain to let the little noisy summer race live in her lay, and flutter through her song, not mean, though simple: to the sun allied, from him they draw their animating fire. wak'd by his warmer ray, the reptile young come wing'd abroad; by the light air upborne, lighter, and full of soul. from every chink, and secret corner, where they slept away the wintry storms--or, rising from their tombs to higher life--by myriads, forth at once, swarming they pour; of all the varied hues their beauty-beaming parent can disclose. ten thousand forms! ten thousand different tribes! people the blaze. to sunny waters some by fatal instinct fly; where, on the pool, they, sportive, wheel; or, sailing down the stream are snatch'd immediate by the quick-ey'd trout, or darting salmon. through the greenwood glade some love to stray; there lodg'd, amus'd, and fed in the fresh leaf. luxurious, others make the meads their choice, and visit every flower, and every latent herb: for the sweet task, to propagate their kinds, and where to wrap, in what soft beds, their young, yet undisclos'd, employs their tender care. some to the house, the fold, and dairy, hungry, bend their flight; sip round the pail, or taste the curdling cheese: oft, inadvertent, from the milky stream they meet their fate; or, weltering in the bowl, with powerless wings around them wrapp'd, expire. but chief to heedless flies the window proves a constant death; where, gloomily retir'd, the villain spider lives, cunning and fierce, mixture abhorr'd! amid a mangled heap of carcasses, in eager watch he sits, o'erlooking all his waving snares around. near the dire cell the dreadless wanderer oft passes, as oft the ruffian shows his front. the prey at last ensnar'd, he dreadful darts, with rapid glide, along the leaning line; and, fixing in the wretch his cruel fangs, strikes backward, grimly pleas'd: the fluttering wing, and shriller sound, declare extreme distress and ask the helping hospitable hand. resounds the living surface of the ground. nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum, to him who muses through the woods at noon; or drowsy shepherd, as he lies reclin'd, with half shut eyes, beneath the floating shade of willows gray, close-crowding o'er the brook. [illustration: reclined beneath the shade] gradual, from these what numerous kinds descend, evading even the microscopic eye! full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass of animals, or atoms organiz'd, waiting the vital breath, when parent-heaven shall bid his spirit blow. the hoary fen, in putrid streams, emits the living cloud of pestilence. through the subterranean cells. where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way, earth animated heaves. the flowery leaf wants not its soft inhabitants. secure, within its winding citadel, the stone holds multitudes. but chief the forest boughs, that dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze, the downy orchard, and the melting pulp of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed of evanescent insects. where the pool stands mantled o'er with green, invisible amid the floating verdure millions stray. each liquid, too, whether it pierces, soothes, inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste, with various forms abounds. nor is the stream of purest crystal, nor the lucid air, though one transparent vacancy it seems, void of their unseen people. these, conceal'd by the kind art of forming heaven, escape the grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds in worlds inclos'd should on his senses burst, from cates ambrosial, and the nectar'd bowl, he would abhorrent turn; and in dead night. when silence sleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise. let no presuming impious railer tax creative wisdom, as if aught was form'd in vain, or not for admirable ends. shall little haughty ignorance pronounce his works unwise, of which the smallest part exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? as if upon a full-proportion'd dome, on swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art! a critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads an inch around, with blind presumption bold, should dare to tax the structure of the whole. and lives the man whose universal eye has swept at once the unbounded scheme of things, mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, as with unfaltering accent to conclude that _this_ availeth naught? has any seen the mighty chain of beings, lessening down from infinite perfection to the brink of dreary nothing, desolate abyss! from which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns? till then, alone let zealous praise ascend, and hymns of holy wonder, to that power, whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds, as on our smiling eyes his servant-sun. thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways, upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd, the quivering nations sport; till, tempest-wing'd, fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day even so, luxurious men, unheeding pass, an idle summer-life in fortune's shine, a season's glitter! thus they flutter on from toy to toy, from vanity to vice; till, blown away by death, oblivion comes behind, and strikes them from the book of life. [illustration: infancy, youth, and age] now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead the rustic youth, brown with meridian toil, healthful and strong; full as the summer rose blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek. even stooping age is here; and infant hands trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load o'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppression roll. wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row advancing broad, or wheeling round the field, they spread the breathing harvest to the sun, that throws refreshful round a rural smell; or, as they rake the green-appearing ground, and drive the dusky wave along the mead, the russet haycock rises thick behind, in order gay: while heard from dale to dale, waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice of happy labor, love, and social glee. [illustration: hay-making] or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, they drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, and that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil, the clamor much, of men, and boys, and dogs, ere the soft fearful people to the flood commit their woolly sides. and oft the swain, on some impatient seizing, hurls them in: embolden'd, then, nor hesitating more, fast, fast they plunge amid the flashing wave, and panting labor to the farther shore. repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece has drank the flood, and from his lively haunt the trout is banish'd by the sordid stream, heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints the country fill--and, toss'd from rock to rock, incessant bleatings run around the hills. at last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd, head above head; and rang'd in lusty rows the shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. the housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, with all her gay-dress'd maids attending round. one, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd, shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king, while the glad circle round them yield their souls to festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. meantime, their joyous task goes on apace: some, mingling, stir the melted tar, and some, deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side to stamp his master's cipher ready stand; others the unwilling wether drag along; and, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. behold where bound, and of its robe bereft, by needy man, that all-depending lord, how meek, how patient, the mild creature lies! what softness in its melancholy face, what dumb, complaining innocence appears! fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife of horrid slaughter that is o'er you wav'd; no, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, who having now, to pay his annual care, borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, will send you bounding to your hills again. [illustration: sheep-washing] a simple scene! yet hence britannia sees her solid grandeur rise: hence she commands the exalted stores of every brighter clime, the treasures of the sun without his rage; hence, fervent all, with culture, toil, and arts, wide glows her land; her dreadful thunder hence rides o'er the waves sublime, and now, even now, impending hangs o'er gallia's humbled coast; hence rules the circling deep, and awes the world. 'tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun darts on the head direct his forceful rays. o'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all, from pole to pole, is undistinguish'd blaze. in vain the sight, dejected to the ground, stoops for relief; thence hot ascending streams and keen reflection pain. deep to the root of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields and slippery lawn an arid hue disclose, blast fancy's blooms, and wither even the soul. echo no more returns the cheerful sound of sharpening scythe; the mower, sinking, heaps o'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum'd; and scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard through the dumb mead. distressful nature pants. the very streams look languid from afar; or, through the unshelter'd glade, impatient, seem to hurl into the covert of the grove. all conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath! and on my throbbing temples potent thus beam not so fierce! incessant still you flow, and still another fervent flood succeeds, pour'd on the head profuse. in vain i sigh, and restless turn, and look around for night: night is far off; and hotter hours approach. thrice-happy be! who on the sunless side of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd, beneath the whole-collected shade reclines, or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought, and fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams, sits coolly calm, while all the world without, unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon. emblem instructive of the virtuous man, who keeps his temper'd mind serene, and pure, and every passion aptly harmoniz'd, amid a jarring world with vice inflam'd. welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail! ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks! ye ashes wild, responding o'er the steep! delicious is your shelter to the soul, as to the hunted hart the sallying spring, or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides laves, as he floats along the herbag'd brink. cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides; the heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye and ear resume their watch; the sinews knit; and life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs. [illustration: a various group the flocks and herds] [illustration: slumbers the monarch swain] around the adjoining brook that purls along the vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock, now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, now starting to a sudden stream, and now gently diffus'd into a limpid plain, a various group the herds and flocks compose rural confusion! on the grassy bank some ruminating lie; while others stand half in the flood, and often bending sip the circling surface. in the middle droops the strong laborious ox, of honest front, which incompos'd he shakes; and from his sides the troublous insects lashes with his tail, returning still. amid his subjects safe, slumbers the monarch swain: his careless arm thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd: here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd; there, listening every noise, his watchful dog. light fly his slumbers, if perchance a flight of angry gadflies fasten on the herd; that startling scatters from the shallow brook, in search of lavish stream. tossing the foam, they scorn the keeper's voice, and scour the plain through all the bright severity of noon; while, from their laboring breasts, a hollow moan proceeding, runs low-bellowing round the hills. oft in this season too the horse, provok'd, while his big sinews full of spirits swell, trembling with vigor, in the heat of blood, springs the high fence; and, o'er the field effus'd, darts on the gloomy flood, with steadfast eye, and heart estrang'd to fear: his nervous chest, luxuriant and erect, the seat of strength! bears down the opposing stream; quenchless his thirst, he takes the river at redoubled draughts: and with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave. still let me pierce into the midnight depth of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth; that, forming high in air a woodland quire, nods o'er the mount beneath. at every step, solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall, and all is awful listening gloom around. these are the haunts of meditation, these the scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath, ecstatic, felt: and, from this world retir'd. convers'd with angels, and immortal forms, on gracious errands bent: to save the fall of virtue struggling on the brink of vice; in waking whispers, and repeated dreams, to hint pure thought, and warn the favor'd soul for future trials fated to prepare; to prompt the poet, who devoted gives his muse to better themes; to soothe the pangs of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast (backward to mingle in detested war, but foremost when engag'd) to turn the death: and numberless such offices of love, daily and nightly, zealous to perform. [illustration: a thousand shapes majestic stalk] shook sudden from the bosom of the sky, a thousand shapes or glide athwart the dusk, or stalk majestic on. deep-rous'd, i feel a sacred terror, a severe delight, creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks. a voice, than human more, the abstracted ear of fancy strikes, "be not of us afraid, poor kindred man! thy fellow-creatures, we from the same parent-power our beings drew-- the same our lord, and laws, and great pursuit. once some of us, like thee, through stormy life toil'd tempest-beaten, ere we could attain this holy calm, this harmony of mind, where purity and peace immingle charms: then fear not us; but with responsive song, amid those dim recesses, undisturb'd by noisy folly and discordant vice, of nature sing with us, and nature's god. here frequent, at the visionary hour, when musing midnight reigns or silent noon, angelic harps are in full concert heard, and voices chanting from the wood-crown'd hill, the deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade; a privilege bestow'd by us, alone, on contemplation, or the hallow'd ear of poet, swelling to seraphic strain." and art thou, stanley, of that sacred band? alas, for us too soon! though rais'd above the reach of human pain, above the flight of human joy, yet, with a mingled ray of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must thou feel a mother's love, a mother's tender woe; who seeks thee still in many a former scene, seeks thy fair form, thy lovely beaming eyes, thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense inspir'd--where moral wisdom mildly shone without the toil of art, and virtue glow'd. in all her smiles, without forbidding pride. but, o thou best of parents! wipe thy tears; or rather to parental nature pay the tears of grateful joy--who for a while lent thee this younger self, this opening bloom of thy enlighten'd mind and gentle worth. believe the muse: the wintry blast of death kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread. beneath the heavenly beam of brighter suns, through endless ages, into higher powers. thus up the mount, in airy vision rapt, i stray, regardless whither; till the sound of a near fall of water every sense wakes from the charm of thought: swift-shrinking back, i check my steps, and view the broken scene. smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood rolls fair and placid; where collected all, in one impetuous torrent, down the steep it thundering shoots, and shakes the country round. at first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad; then whitening by degrees as prone it falls, and from the loud-resounding rocks below dash'd in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft a hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower nor can the tortur'd wave here find repose: but, raging still amid the shaggy rocks, now flashes o'er the scattered fragments, now aslant the hollow'd channel rapid darts; and falling fast from gradual slope to slope, with wild infracted course, and lessen'd roar, it gains a safer bed, and steals at last, along the mazes of the quiet vale. invited from the cliff, to whose dark brow he clings, the steep-ascending eagle soars, with upward pinions, through the flood of day, and, giving full his bosom to the blaze, gains on the sun; while all the tuneful race, smit by afflictive noon, disorder'd droop, deep in the thicket; or, from bower to bower responsive, force an interrupted strain. the stockdove only through the forest coos, mournfully hoarse; oft ceasing from his plaint, short interval of weary woe! again the sad idea of his murder'd mate, struck from his side by savage fowler's guile across his fancy comes; and then resounds a louder song of sorrow through the grove. beside the dewy border let me sit, all in the freshness of the humid air: there on that hollow'd rock, grotesque and wild, an ample chair moss-lin'd, and overhead by flowing umbrage shaded; where the bee strays diligent, and with the extracted balm of fragrant woodbine loads his little thigh. [illustration: an ample chair, moss-lined] now, while i taste the sweetness of the shade, while nature lies around deep-lull'd in noon, now come, bold fancy, spread a daring flight, and view the wonders of the torrid zone climes unrelenting! with whose rage compar'd, yon blaze is feeble, and yon skies are cool. see, how at once the bright-effulgent sun, rising direct, swift chases from the sky the short-liv'd twilight; and with ardent blaze looks gayly fierce o'er all the dazzling air: he mounts his throne; but kind before him sends, issuing from out the portals of the morn, the general breeze to mitigate his fire, and breathe refreshment on a fainting world. great are the scenes, with dreadful beauty crown'd and barbarous wealth, that see, each circling year, returning suns and double seasons pass: rocks rich in gems, and mountains big with mines, that on the high equator ridgy rise, whence many a bursting stream auriferous plays; majestic woods, of every vigorous green, stage above stage, high waving o'er the hills, or to the far horizon wide-diffus'd, a boundless deep immensity of shade. here lofty trees, to ancient song unknown, the noble sons of potent heat and floods prone-rushing from the clouds, rear high to heaven their thorny stems, and broad around them throw meridian gloom. here, in eternal prime, unnumber'd fruits, of keen, delicious taste and vital spirit, drink amid the cliffs, and burning sands that bank the shrubby vales, redoubled day; yet in their rugged coats a friendly juice to cool its rage contain. bear me, pomona! to thy citron groves; to where the lemon and the piercing lime, with the deep orange, glowing through the green, their lighter glories blend. lay me reclin'd beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes, fann'd by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit. deep in the night the massy locust sheds, quench my hot limbs; or lead me through the maze, embowering, endless, of the indian fig; or thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow, let me behold, by breezy murmurs cool'd, broad o'er my head the verdant cedar wave, and high palmettos lift their graceful shade. oh! stretch'd amid these orchards of the sun, give me to drain the cocoa's milky bowl, and from the palm to draw its freshening wine; more bounteous far than all the frantic juice which bacchus pours. nor, on its slender twigs low-bending, be the full pomegranate scorn'd; nor, creeping through the woods, the gelid race of berries. oft in humble station dwells unboastful worth, above fastidious pomp. witness, thou best ananas, thou the pride of vegetable life, beyond whate'er the poets imag'd in the golden age: quick let me strip thee of thy tufty coat, spread thy ambrosial stores, and feast with jove! from these the prospect varies. plains immense lie stretch'd below, interminable meads, and vast savannas, where the wandering eye, unfix'd, is in a verdant ocean lost. another flora there, of bolder hues and richer sweets, beyond our garden's pride, plays o'er the fields, and showers with sudden hand exuberant spring; for oft these valleys shift their green-embroidered robe to fiery brown, and swift to green again, as scorching suns, or streaming dews and torrent rains, prevail. along these lonely regions, where, retir'd from little scenes of art, great nature dwells in awful solitude, and naught is seen but the wild herds that own no master's stall, prodigious rivers roll their fattening seas; on whose luxuriant herbage, half-conceal'd, like a fall'n cedar, far diffus'd his train, cas'd in green scales, the crocodile extends. the flood disparts: behold! in plaited mail, behemoth rears his head. glanc'd from his side, the darted steel in idle shivers flies: he fearless walks the plain, or seeks the hills; where, as he crops his varied fare, the herds, in widening circle round, forget their food, and at the harmless stranger wondering gaze. peaceful, beneath primeval trees that cast their ample shade o'er niger's yellow stream. and where the ganges rolls his sacred wave, or 'mid the central depth of blackening woods high-rais'd in solemn theater around, leans the huge elephant; wisest of brutes! oh, truly wise! with gentle might endow'd, though powerful, not destructive. here he sees revolving ages sweep the changeful earth, and empires rise and fall; regardless he of what the never-resting race of men project: thrice happy! could he 'scape their guile, who mine, from cruel avarice, his steps, or with his towery grandeur swell their state, the pride of kings! or else his strength pervert, and bid him rage amid the mortal fray, astonish'd at the madness of mankind. wide o'er the winding umbrage of the floods, like vivid blossoms glowing from afar, thick-swarm the brighter birds. for nature's hand. that with a sportive vanity has deck'd the plumy nations, there her gayest hues profusely pours. but, if she bids them shine, array'd in all the beauteous beams of day, yet frugal still, she humbles them in song. nor envy we the gaudy robes they lent proud montezuma's realm, whose legions cast a boundless radiance waving on the sun, while philomel is ours; while in our shades, through the soft silence of the listening night, the sober-suited songstress trills her lay. but come, my muse, the desert-barrier burst, a wild expanse of lifeless sand and sky, and, swifter than the toiling caravan, shoot o'er the vale of sennaar, ardent climb the nubian mountains, and the secret bounds of jealous abyssinia boldly pierce. thou art no ruffian, who beneath the mask of social commerce com'st to rob their wealth, no holy fury thou, blaspheming heaven. with consecrated steel to stab their peace, and through the land, yet red from civil wounds, to spread the purple tyranny of rome. thou, like the harmless bee, may'st freely range, from mead to mead bright with exalted flowers, from jasmine grove to grove; may'st wander gay, through palmy shades and aromatic woods, that grace the plains, invest the peopled hills, and up the more than alpine mountains wave. there on the breezy summit, spreading fair for many a league; or on stupendous rocks. that from the sun-redoubling valley lift, cool to the middle air their lawny tops; where palaces, and fanes, and villas rise, and gardens smile around, and cultur'd fields; and fountains gush; and careless herds and flocks securely stray; a world within itself, disdaining all assault: there let me draw ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales. profusely breathing from the spicy groves, and vales of fragrance; there at distance hear the roaring floods, and cataracts, that sweep from disembowel'd earth the virgin gold; and o'er the varied landscape, restless, rove, fervent with life of every fairer kind. a land of wonders! which the sun still eyes with ray direct, as of the lovely realm enamor'd, and delighting there to dwell. how chang'd the scene! in blazing height of noon. the sun, oppress'd, is plung'd in thickest gloom. still horror reigns, a dreary twilight round, of struggling night and day malignant mix'd. for to the hot equator crowding fast, where, highly rarefied, the yielding air admits their stream, incessant vapors roll, amazing clouds on clouds continual heap'd; or whirl'd tempestuous by the gusty wind, or silent borne along, heavy and slow, with the big stores of steaming oceans charg'd. meantime, amid these upper seas, condens'd around the cold aerial mountain's brow, and by conflicting winds together dash'd, the thunder holds his black tremendous throne; from cloud to cloud the rending lightnings rage; till, in the furious elemental war dissolv'd, the whole precipitated mass unbroken floods and solid torrents pours. [illustration: birth of the nile] the treasures these, hid from the bounded search of ancient knowledge; whence, with annual pomp, rich king of floods! o'erflows the swelling nile. from his two springs, in gojam's sunny realm, pure-welling out, he through the lucid lake of fair dembia rolls his infant stream. there, by the naiads nurs'd, he sports away his playful youth, amid the fragrant isles that with unfading verdure smile around. ambitious, thence the manly river breaks; and gathering many a flood, and copious fed with all the mellow'd treasures of the sky, winds in progressive majesty along: through splendid kingdoms now devolves his maze; now wanders wild o'er solitary tracts of life-deserted sand: till glad to quit the joyless desert, down the nubian rocks, from thundering steep to steep, he pours his urn. and egypt joys beneath the spreading wave. [illustration: from steep to steep he pours his urn] his brother niger too, and all the floods in which the full-form'd maids of afric lave their jetty limbs; and all that from the tract of woody mountains stretch'd through gorgeous ind fall on cormandel's coast, or malabar; from menam's orient stream, that nightly shines with insect lamps, to where aurora sheds on indus' smiling banks the rosy shower; all, at this bounteous season, ope their urns, and pour untoiling harvest o'er the land. nor less thy world, columbus, drinks, refresh'd the lavish moisture of the melting year. wide e'er his isles, the branching orinoque rolls a brown deluge; and the native drives to dwell aloft on life-sufficing trees-- at once his dome, his robe, his food, and arms. swell'd by a thousand streams, impetuous hurl'd from all the roaring andes, huge descends the mighty orellana. scarce the muse dares stretch her wing o'er this enormous mass of rushing water; scarces she dares attempt the sea-like plata; to whose dread expanse, continuous depth, and wondrous length of course, our floods are rills. with unabated force, in silent dignity they sweep along; and traverse realms unknown, and blooming wilds, and fruitful deserts--worlds of solitude, where the sun smiles and seasons teem in vain, unseen and unenjoyed. forsaking these, o'er peopled plains they fair-diffusive flow, and many a nation feed, and circle safe, in their soft bosom, many a happy isle; the seat of blameless pan, yet undisturbed by christian crimes and europe's cruel sons. thus pouring on they proudly seek the deep, whose vanquish'd tide, recoiling from the shock, yields to this liquid weight of half the globe; and ocean trembles for his green domain. but what avails this wondrous waste of wealth, this gay profusion of luxurious bliss, this pomp of nature? what their balmy meads. their powerful herbs, and ceres void of pain? by vagrant birds dispers'd, and wafting winds. what their unplanted fruits? what the cool draughts, the ambrosial food, rich gums, and spicy health, their forests yield? their toiling insects what, their silky pride, and vegetable robes? ah! what avail their fatal treasures, hid deep in the bowels of the pitying earth, golconda's gems, and sad potosi's mines? where dwelt the gentlest children of the sun! what all that afric's golden rivers roll, her odorous woods, and shining ivory stores? ill-fated race! the softening arts of peace, whate'er the humanizing muses teach; the godlike wisdom of the tempered breast; progressive truth, the patient force of thought; investigation calm, whose silent powers command the world; the light that leads to heaven; kind equal rule, the government of laws, and all-protecting freedom, which alone sustains the name and dignity of man: these are not theirs. the parent sun himself seems o'er this world of slaves to tyrannize; and, with oppressive ray, the roseate bloom of beauty blasting, gives the gloomy hue, and feature gross; or worse, to ruthless deeds, mad jealousy, blind rage, and fell revenge, their fervid spirit fires. love dwells not there, the soft regards, the tenderness of life, the heart-shed tear, the ineffable delight of sweet humanity: these court the beam of milder climes; in selfish fierce desire, and the wild fury of voluptuous sense, there lost. the very brute creation there this rage partakes, and burns with horrid fire. lo! the green serpent, from his dark abode, which even imagination fears to tread, at noon forth-issuing, gathers up his train in orbs immense, then, darting out anew, seeks the refreshing fount, by which diffus'd he throws his folds; and while, with threatening tongue and dreadful jaws erect, the monster curls his flaming crest, all other thirst appall'd, or shivering flies, or check'd at distance stands, nor dares approach. but still more direful he, the small close-lurking minister of fate, whose high concocted venom through the veins a rapid lightning darts, arresting swift the vital current. form'd to humble man, this child of vengeful nature! there, sublim'd to fearless lust of blood, the savage race roam, licens'd by the shading hour of guilt, and foul misdeed, when the pure day has shut his sacred eye. the tiger, darting fierce, impetuous on the prey his glance has doom'd; the lively-shining leopard, speckled o'er with many a spot, the beauty of the waste; and, scorning all the taming arts of man, the keen hyena, fellest of the fell: these, rushing from the inhospitable woods of mauritania, or the tufted isles that verdant rise amid the libyan wild, innumerous glare around their shaggy king, majestic, stalking o'er the printed sand; and, with imperious and repeated roars, demand their fated food. the fearful flocks crowd near the guardian swain; the nobler herds, where round their lordly bull, in rural ease, they ruminating lie, with horror hear the coming rage. the awaken'd village starts; and to her fluttering breast the mother strains her thoughtless infant. from the pirate's den, or stern morocco's tyrant fang, escap'd, the wretch half-wishes for his bonds again; while, uproar all, the wilderness resounds, from atlas eastward to the frighted nile. [illustration: the mother strains her infant] [illustration: sad on the jutting eminence he sits] unhappy he! who from the first of joys, society, cut off, is left alone amid this world of death. day after day, sad on the jutting eminence he sits, and views the main that ever toils below; still fondly forming in the farthest verge, where the round ether mixes with the wave, ships, dim-discovered, dropping from the clouds. at evening, to the setting sun he turns a mournful eye, and down his dying heart sinks helpless; while the wonted roar is up, and hiss continual through the tedious night. yet here, even here, into these black abodes of monsters, unappall'd, from stooping rome, and guilty cæsar, liberty retired, her cato following through numidian wilds; disdainful of campania's gentle plains and all the green delights ausonia pours-- when for them she must bend the servile knee, and fawning take the splendid robber's boon. nor stop the terrors of these regions here. commission'd demons oft, angels of wrath, let loose the raging elements. breath'd hot from all the boundless furnace of the sky, and the wide glittering waste of burning sand, a suffocating wind the pilgrim smites with instant death. patient of thirst and toil, son of the desert! even the camel feels, shot through his wither'd heart, the fiery blast. or from the black-red ether, bursting broad, sallies the sudden whirlwind. straight the sands, commov'd around, in gathering eddies play; nearer and nearer still they darkening come, till, with the general all-involving storm swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise; and by their noonday fount dejected thrown, or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep, beneath descending hills, the caravan is buried deep. in cairo's crowded streets the impatient merchant, wondering, waits in vain, and mecca saddens at the long delay. but chief at sea, whose every flexile wave obeys the blast, the aerial tumult swells. in the dread ocean, undulating wide, beneath the radiant line that girts the globe, the circling typhon, whirl'd from point to point, exhausting all the rage of all the sky, and dire ecnephia reign. amid the heavens, falsely serene, deep in a cloudy speck compress'd, the mighty tempest brooding dwells of no regard save to the skillful eye, fiery and foul, the small prognostic hangs aloft, or on the promontory's brow musters its force. a faint deceitful calm, a fluttering gale, the demon sends before, to tempt the spreading sail. then down at once, precipitant, descends a mingled mass of roaring winds, and flame, and rushing floods. in wild amazement fix'd the sailor stands. art is too slow. by rapid fate oppress'd, his broad-wing'd vessel drinks the whelming tide, hid in the bosom of the black abyss. with such mad seas the daring gama fought, for many a day, and many a dreadful night, incessant, laboring round the _stormy cape_; by bold ambition led, and bolder thirst of gold. for then, from ancient gloom, emerg'd the rising world of trade: the genius, then, of navigation, that in hopeless sloth had slumber'd on the vast atlantic deep for idle ages, starting, heard at last the lusitanian prince; who, heaven-inspired, to love of useful glory rous'd mankind, and in unbounded commerce mixed the world. increasing still the terrors of these storms, his jaws horrific arm'd with threefold fate, here dwells the direful shark. lur'd by the scent of steaming crowds, of rank disease, and death, behold! he rushing cuts the briny flood, swift as the gale can bear the ship along; and from the partners of that cruel trade which spoils unhappy guinea of her sons, demands his share of prey--demands themselves. the stormy fates descend: one death involves tyrants and slaves; when straight their mangled limbs crashing at once, he dyes the purple seas with gore, and riots in the vengeful meal. when o'er this world, by equinoctial rains flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun, and draws the copious steam; from swampy fens, where putrefaction into life ferments, and breathes destructive myriads; or from woods, impenetrable shades, recesses foul, in vapors rank and blue corruption wrapp'd, whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot has ever dar'd to pierce--then, wasteful, forth walks the dire power of pestilent disease. a thousand hideous fiends her course attend, sick nature blasting, and a heartless woe, and feeble desolation, casting down the towering hopes and all the pride of man. such as, of late, at carthagena quench'd the british fire. you, gallant vernon, saw the miserable scene; you, pitying, saw to infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm; saw the deep-racking pang, the ghastly form, the lip pale-quivering, and the beamless eye no more with ardor bright; you heard the groans of agonizing ships, from shore to shore; heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves, the frequent corse--while on each other fix'd, in sad presage, the blank assistants seemed, silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand. [illustration: pouring forth pestilence] [illustration: stricken with plague] what need i mention those inclement skies where, frequent o'er the sickening city, plague, the fiercest child of nemesis divine, descends? from ethiopia's poison'd woods, from stifled cairo's filth, and fetid fields with locust-armies putrefying heap'd, this great destroyer sprung. her awful rage the brutes escape. man is her destin'd prey, intemperate man! and o'er his guilty domes she draws a close incumbent cloud of death; uninterrupted by the living winds, forbid to blow a wholesome breeze; and stain'd with many a mixture by the sun, suffus'd, of angry aspect. princely wisdom, then, dejects his watchful eye; and from the hand of feeble justice, ineffectual, drop the sword and balance: mute the voice of joy, and hush'd the clamor of the busy world. empty the streets, with uncouth verdure clad. into the worst of deserts sudden turn'd the cheerful haunt of men--unless escap'd from the doom'd house, where matchless horror reigns, shut up by barbarous fear, the smitten wretch, with frenzy wild, breaks loose, and loud to heaven screaming, the dreadful policy arraigns, inhuman and unwise. the sullen door, yet uninfected, on its cautious hinge fearing to turn, abhors society. dependents, friends, relations, love himself, savag'd by woe, forget the tender tie, the sweet engagement of the feeling heart. but vain their selfish care: the circling sky, the wide enlivening air is full of fate; and, struck by turns, in solitary pangs they fall, unblest, untended, and unmourn'd. thus o'er the prostrate city black despair extends her raven wing; while, to complete the scene of desolation, stretch'd around, the grim guards stand, denying all retreat, and give the flying wretch a better death. much yet remains unsung: the rage intense of brazen-vaulted skies, of iron fields, where drought and famine starve the blasted year; fir'd by the torch of noon to tenfold rage, the infuriate hill that shoots the pillar'd flame; and, rous'd within the subterranean world, the expanding earthquake, that resistless shakes aspiring cities from their solid base, and buries mountains in the flaming gulf. but 'tis enough; return, my vagrant muse: a nearer scene of horror calls thee home. behold, slow-settling o'er the lurid grove, unusual darkness broods; and growing gains the full possession of the sky, surcharg'd with wrathful vapor, from the secret beds, where sleep the mineral generations, drawn. thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery spume of fat bitumen, steaming on the day, with various-tinctur'd trains of latent flame, pollute the sky, and in yon baleful cloud, a reddening gloom, a magazine of fate, ferment; till, by the touch ethereal rous'd, the dash of clouds, or irritating war of fighting winds, while all is calm below, they furious spring. a boding silence reigns, dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound that from the mountain, previous to the storm, rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood, and shakes the forest leaf without a breath. prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes descend: the tempest-loving raven scarce dares wing the dubious dusk. in rueful gaze the cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens cast a deploring eye; by man forsook, who to the crowded cottage hies him fast, or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 'tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all: when to the startled eye the sudden glance appears far south, eruptive through the cloud; and following slower, in explosion vast, the thunder raises his tremendous voice. at first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, the tempest growls; but as it nearer comes, and rolls its awful burden on the wind, the lightnings flash a larger curve, and more the noise astounds--till overhead a sheet of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts and opens wider, shuts and opens still expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal on peal crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. [illustration: thunder-storm] down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, or prone-descending rain. wide-rent, the clouds pour a whole flood; and yet, its flame unquench'd the unconquerable lightning struggles through, ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls, and fires the mountains with redoubled rage. black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine stands a sad shatter'd trunk; and, stretch'd below, a lifeless group the blasted cattle lie: here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look they wore alive, and ruminating still in fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull, and ox half-rais'd. struck on the castled cliff, the venerable tower and spiry fane resign their aged pride. the gloomy woods start at the flash, and from their deep recess, wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shade amid caernarvon's mountains rages loud the repercussive roar; with mighty crush, into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks of penmaenmawr heap'd hideous to the sky, tumble the smitten cliffs; and snowdon's peak, dissolving, instant yields his wintry load. far-seen, the heights of heathy cheviot blaze, and thulè bellows through her utmost isles. guilt hears appall'd, with deeply troubled thought, and yet not always on the guilty head descends the fated flash. young celadon and his amelia were a matchless pair; with equal virtue form'd, and equal grace, the same, distinguish'd by their sex alone: hers the mild lustre of the blooming morn, and his the radiance of the risen day. [illustration: young celadon and his amelia] they lov'd: but such their guileless passion was, as in the dawn of time inform'd the heart of innocence, and undissembling truth. 'twas friendship heighten'd by the mutual wish, the enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow, beam'd from the mutual eye. devoting all to love, each was to each a dearer self; supremely happy in the awaken'd power of giving joy. alone, amid the shades, still in harmonious intercourse they liv'd the rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart, or sigh'd and look'd unutterable things. [illustration: a blackened corpse was struck the maid] so pass'd their life, a clear united stream, by care unruffled; till, in evil hour, the tempest caught them on the tender walk, heedless how far, and where its mazes stray'd, while, with each other bless'd, creative love still bade eternal eden smile around. heavy with instant fate, her bosom heav'd unwonted sighs, and stealing oft a look of the big gloom, on celadon her eye fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek. in vain assuring love, and confidence in heaven, repress'd her fear; it grew, and shook her frame near dissolution. he perceiv'd the unequal conflict; and, as angels look on dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, with love illumin'd high. "fear not," he said, "sweet innocence! thou stranger to offense, and inward storm! he who yon skies involves in frowns and darkness, ever smiles on thee with kind regard. o'er thee the secret shaft that wastes at midnight, or the undreaded hour of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice which thunders terror through the guilty heart, with tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine. 'tis safety to be near thee sure, and thus to clasp perfection!" from his void embrace, mysterious heaven! that moment, to the ground, a blacken'd corse, was struck the beauteous maid, but who can paint the lover, as he stood, pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life, speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe! so, faint resemblance, on the marble tomb the well-dissembled mourner stooping stands, forever silent, and forever sad. as from the face of heaven the shatter'd clouds tumultuous rove, the interminable sky sublimer swells, and o'er the world expands a purer azure. nature, from the storm, shines out afresh; and through the lighten'd air a higher lustre and a clearer calm, diffusive, tremble; while, as if in sign of danger past, a glittering robe of joy, set off abundant by the yellow ray, invests the fields, yet dropping from distress. 'tis beauty all, and grateful song around, join'd to the low of kine, and numerous bleat of flocks thick-nibbling through the clover'd vale. and shall the hymn be marr'd by thankless man, most-favor'd; who with voice articulate should lead the chorus of this lower world? shall he, so soon forgetful of the hand that hush'd the thunder, and serenes the sky, extinguish'd feel that spark the tempest wak'd, that sense of powers exceeding far his own, ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears? cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth a sandy bottom shows. awhile he stands gazing the inverted landscape, half-afraid to meditate the blue profound below; then plunges headlong down the circling flood. his ebon tresses and his rosy cheek instant emerge; and through the obedient wave, at each short breathing by his lip repell'd, with arms and legs according well, he makes, as humor leads, an easy-winding path; while, from his polish'd sides, a dewy light effuses on the pleas'd spectators round. this is the purest exercise of health, the kind refresher of the summer heats, nor, when cold winter keens the brightening flood, would i weak-shivering linger on the brink. thus life redoubles; and is oft preserved, by the bold swimmer, in the swift illapse of accident disastrous. hence the limbs knit into force; and the same roman arm that rose victorious o'er the conquer'd earth, first learned, while tender, to subdue the wave. even, from the body's purity, the mind receives a secret sympathetic aid. close in the covert of an hazel copse, where winded into pleasing solitudes runs out the rambling dale, young damon sat; pensive, and pierc'd with love's delightful pangs. there to the stream that down the distant rocks hoarse-murmuring fell, and plaintive breeze that play'd among the bending willows, falsely he of musidora's cruelty complain'd. she felt his flame; but deep within her breast, in bashful coyness, or in maiden pride, the soft return conceal'd--save when it stole in sidelong glances from her downcast eye, or from her swelling soul in stifled sighs. touched by the scene, no stranger to his vows, he fram'd a melting lay, to try her heart; and, if an infant passion struggled there, to call that passion forth. thrice-happy swain! a lucky chance, that oft decides the fate of mighty monarchs, then decided thine. for, lo! conducted by the laughing loves, this cool retreat his musidora sought: warm in her cheek the sultry season glow'd; and, rob'd in loose array, she came to bathe her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream. what shall he do? in sweet confusion lost, and dubious flutterings, he awhile remain'd. a pure ingenuous elegance of soul, a delicate refinement known to few, perplex'd his breast, and urg'd him to retire; but love forbade. ye prudes in virtue, say, say, ye severest, what would you have done? meantime, this fairer nymph than ever bless'd arcadian stream, with timid eye around the banks surveying, stripp'd her beauteous limbs to taste the lucid coolness of the flood. ah! then, not paris on the piny top of ida panted stronger, when aside the rival goddesses the vail divine cast unconfin'd, and gave him all their charms, than, damon, thou; as from the snowy leg, and slender foot, the inverted silk she drew; as the soft touch dissolv'd the virgin zone; and, through the parting robe, the alternate breast, with youth wild-throbbing, on thy lawless gaze in full luxuriance rose. but, desperate youth, how durst thou risk the soul-distracting view, as from her naked limbs, of glowing white, harmonious swell'd by nature's finest hand, in folds loose-floating fell the fainter lawn, and fair expos'd she stood--shrunk from herself, with fancy blushing, at the doubtful breeze alarm'd, and starting like the fearful fawn? then to the flood she rush'd: the parted flood its lovely guest with closing waves received, and every beauty softening, every grace flushing anew, a mellow lustre shed-- as shines the lily through the crystal mild, or as the rose amid the morning dew, fresh from aurora's hand, more sweetly glows. while thus she wanton'd now beneath the wave but ill-concealed, and now with streaming locks, that half-embrac'd her in a humid vail, rising again, the latent damon drew such maddening draughts of beauty to the soul, as for a while o'erwhelm'd his raptur'd thought with luxury too daring. check'd, at last. by love's respectful modesty, he deem'd the theft profane, if aught profane to love can e'er be deem'd, and, struggling from the shade, with headlong hurry fled; but first these lines, trac'd by his ready pencil, on the bank with trembling hand he threw: "bathe on, my fair, yet unbeheld save by the sacred eye of faithful love: i go to guard thy haunt; to keep from thy recess each vagrant foot, and each licentious eye." with wild surprise, as if to marble struck, devoid of sense, a stupid moment motionless she stood: so stands the statue that enchants the world: so bending tries to vail the matchless boast, the mingled beauties of exulting greece. recovering, swift she flew to find those robes which blissful eden knew not; and, array'd in careless haste, the alarming paper snatch'd. but when her damon's well known hand she saw her terrors vanish'd, and a softer train of mix'd emotions, hard to be describ'd, her sudden bosom seiz'd: shame void of guilt, the charming blush of innocence, esteem and admiration of her lover's flame, by modesty exalted. even a sense of self-approving beauty stole across her busy thought. at length, a tender calm hushed by degrees the tumult of her soul, and on the spreading beech, that o'er the stream incumbent hung, she with the sylvan pen of rural lovers this confession carv'd, which soon her damon kiss'd with weeping joy: "dear youth! sole judge of what these verses mean, by fortune too much favor'd, but by love, alas! not favor'd less, be still as now discreet, the time may come you need not fly." [illustration: the soft hour of walking] the sun has lost his rage; his downward orb shoots nothing now but animating warmth, and vital lustre; that, with various ray, lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of heaven incessant roll'd into romantic shapes, the dream of waking fancy! broad below cover'd with ripening fruits, and swelling fast into the perfect year, the pregnant earth and all her tribes rejoice. now the soft hour of walking comes: for him who lonely loves to seek the distant hills, and there converse with nature; there to harmonize his heart, and in pathetic song to breathe around the harmony to others. social friends, attun'd to happy unison of soul-- to whose exalting eye a fairer world, of which the vulgar never had a glimpse, displays its charms--whose minds are richly fraught with philosophic stores, superior light-- and in whose breast, enthusiastic, burns virtue the sons of interest deem romance, now call'd abroad enjoy the falling day: now to the verdant _portico_ of woods, to nature's vast _lyceum_, forth they walk; by that kind _school_ where no proud master reigns, the full free converse of the friendly heart, improving and improv'd. now from the world, sacred to sweet retirement, lovers steal, and pour their souls in transport, which the sire of love approving hears, and _calls it good_. which way, amanda, shall we bend our course? the choice perplexes. wherefore should we choose? all is the same with thee. say shall we wind along the streams? or walk the smiling mead; or court the forest glades? or wander wild among the waving harvests? or ascend, while radiant summer opens all its pride, thy hill, delightful sheen? here let us sweep the boundless landscape; now the raptur'd eye exulting swift, to huge augusta send, now to the sister-hills that skirt her plain to lofty harrow now, and now to where majestic windsor lifts his princely brow. in lovely contrast to this glorious view, calmly magnificent, then will we turn to where the silver thames first rural grows. there let the feasted eye unwearied stray; luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods that nodding hang o'er harrington's retreat, and stooping thence to ham's embowering walks, beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd, with her the pleasing partner of his heart, the worthy queensbury yet laments his gay, and polish'd cornbury woos the willing muse, slow let us trace the matchless vale of thames-- fair-winding up to where the muses haunt in twit'nam's bowers, and for their pope implore the healing god, to royal hampton's pile, to clermont's terrac'd height, and esher's groves, where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd by the soft windings of the silent mole, from courts and senates pelham finds repose. enchanting vale! beyond whate'er the muse has of achaia or hesperia sung! o vale of bliss! o softly swelling hills! on which the power of cultivation lies, and joys to see the wonders of his toil. [illustration: view on the thames] heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around, of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, and glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all the stretching landscape into smoke decays! happy britannia! where the queen of arts, inspiring vigor, liberty abroad walks, unconfin'd, even to thy farthest cots, and scatters plenty, with unsparing hand. rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime: thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float with golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks bleat numberless--while, roving round their sides, bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves. beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd against the mower's scythe. on every hand thy villas shine. thy country teems with wealth and property assures it to the swain, pleas'd and unwearied in his guarded toil. full are thy cities with the sons of art; and trade and joy, in every busy street, mingling are heard: even drudgery himself. as at the car he sweats, or dusty hews the palace-stone, looks gay. thy crowded ports, where rising masts an endless prospect yield, with labor burn, and echo to the shouts of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves his last adieu, and, loosening every sheet, resigns the spreading vessel to the wind. [illustration: the sailor's farewell] bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth by hardship sinew'd, and by danger fir'd, scattering the nations where they go; and first, or in the listed plain, or stormy seas. mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plans of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside; in genius, and substantial learning, high; for every virtue, every worth, renown'd; sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind; yet like the mustering thunder when provok'd, the dread of tyrants, and the sole resource of those that under grim oppression groan. thy sons of glory many! alfred thine, in whom the splendor of heroic war and more heroic peace, when govern'd well, combine; whose hallow'd name the virtues saint, and his own muses love--the best of kings. with him thy edwards and thy henrys shine, names dear to fame, the first who deep impress'd on haughty gaul the terror of thy arms, that awes her genius still. in statesmen thou, and patriots, fertile. thine a steady more, who, with a generous though mistaken zeal, withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage, like cato firm, like aristides just, like rigid cincinnatus nobly poor-- a dauntless soul erect, who smil'd on death. frugal and wise, a walsingham is thine; a drake, who made thee mistress of the deep, and bore thy name in thunder round the world. then flam'd thy spirit high; but who can speak the numerous worthies of the maiden-reign? in raleigh mark their every glory mix'd; raleigh, the scourge of spain; whose breast with all the sage, the patriot, and the hero burn'd. nor sunk his vigor when a coward reign the warrior fetter'd, and at last resign'd, to glut the vengeance of a vanquish'd foe. then, active still and unrestrain'd, his mind explor'd the vast extent of ages past, and with his prison-hours enrich'd the world; yet found no times, in all the long research, so glorious, or so base, as those he prov'd, in which he conquer'd, and in which he bled. nor can the muse the gallant sidney pass, the plume of war! with early laurels crown'd, the lover's myrtle, and the poet's bay. a hampden too is thine, illustrious land, wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul, who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age to slavery prone, and bade thee rise again, in all thy native pomp of freedom bold. bright, at his call, thy age of men effulg'd; of men on whom late time a kindling eye shall turn, and tyrants tremble while they read. bring every sweetest flower, and let me strew the grave where russell lies; whose temper'd blood, with calmest cheerfulness for thee resign'd, stain'd the sad annals of a giddy reign-- aiming at lawless power, though meanly sunk in loose inglorious luxury. with him his friend, the british cassius, fearless bled; of high determin'd spirit, roughly brave, by ancient learning to the enlighten'd love of ancient freedom warm'd. fair thy renown in awful sages and in noble bards soon as the light of dawning science spread her orient ray, and wak'd the muses' song. thine is a bacon, hapless in his choice; unfit to stand the civil storm of state, and through the smooth barbarity of courts, with firm but pliant virtue, forward still to urge his course. him for the studious shade kind nature form'd, deep, comprehensive, clear, exact, and elegant; in one rich soul, plato, the stagyrite, and tully join'd. the great deliverer he! who from the gloom of cloister'd monks, and jargon-teaching schools, led forth the true philosophy, there long held in the magic chain of words and forms, and definitions void: he led her forth, daughter of heaven! that slow-ascending still, investigating sure the chain of things, with radiant finger points to heaven again. the generous ashley thine, the friend of man; who scann'd his nature with a brother's eye, his weakness prompt to shade, to raise his aim, to touch the finer movements of the mind, and with the _moral beauty_ charm the heart why need i name thy boyle, whose pious search, amid the dark recesses of his works, the great creator sought? and why thy locke, who made the whole internal world his own? let newton, pure intelligence, whom god to mortals lent, to trace his boundless works from laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame in all philosophy. for lofty sense, creative fancy, and inspection keen through the deep windings of the human heart, is not wild shakspeare thine and nature's boast? is not each great, each amiable muse of classic ages, in thy milton met? a genius universal as his theme, astonishing as chaos, as the bloom of blowing eden fair, as heaven sublime. nor shall my verse that elder bard forget, the gentle spenser, fancy's pleasing son, who, like a copious river, pour'd his song o'er all the mazes of enchanted ground; nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage, chaucer, whose native manners painting verse, well moraliz'd, shines through the gothic cloud of time and language o'er thy genius thrown. may my song soften, as thy daughters i, britannia, hail! for beauty is their own, the feeling heart, simplicity of life, and elegance, and taste; the faultless form, shap'd by the hand of harmony; the cheek, where the live crimson, through the native white soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, and every nameless grace; the parted lip, like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew, breathing delight; and, under flowing jet, or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown, the neck slight-shaded, and the swelling breast, the look resistless, piercing to the soul, and by the soul informed, when dress'd in love she sits high-smiling in the conscious eye. island of bliss! amid the subject seas that thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, at once the wonder, terror, and delight of distant nations; whose remotest shore can soon be shaken by thy naval arm; not to be shook thyself, but all assaults baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave. o thou by whose almighty nod the scale of empire rises, or alternate falls, send forth the saving virtues round the land, in bright patrol: white peace, and social love; the tender-looking charity, intent on gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles undaunted truth, and dignity of mind; courage compos'd, and keen; sound temperance, healthful in heart and look; clear chastity, with blushes reddening as she moves along, disorder'd at the deep regard she draws; rough industry; activity untir'd, with copious life inform'd, and all awake; while in the radiant front, superior shines that first paternal virtue, public zeal-- who throws o'er all an equal wide survey, and, ever musing on the common weal, still labors glorious with some great design. low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, just o'er the verge of day. the shifting clouds assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train, in all their pomp attend his setting throne. air, earth, and ocean smile immense. and now as if his weary chariot sought the bowers of amphitritè and her tending nymphs, (so grecian fable sung) he dips his orb; now half immers'd; and now a golden curve; gives one bright glance, then total disappears forever running an enchanted round, passes the day, deceitful, vain, and void; as fleets the vision o'er the formful brain, this moment hurrying wild the impassion'd soul, the next in nothing lost. 'tis so to him, the dreamer of this earth, an idle blank: a sight of horror to the cruel wretch who, all day long in sordid pleasure roll'd, himself an useless load, has squander'd vile, upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheer'd a drooping family of modest worth. but to the generous still-improving mind, that gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, diffusing kind beneficence around, boastless, as now descends the silent dew-- to him the long review of order'd life is inward rapture, only to be felt. confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds, all ether softening, sober evening takes her wonted station in the middle air; a thousand shadows at her beck. first this she sends on earth; then that of deeper dye steals soft behind, and then a deeper still, in circle following circle, gathers round, to close the face of things. a fresher gale begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn; while the quail clamors for his running mate, wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, a whitening shower of vegetable down amusive floats. the kind impartial care of nature naught disdains: thoughtful to feed her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, from field to field the feather'd seeds she wings. [illustration: shepherd and milkmaid] [illustration: at eve the fairy people throng] his folded flock secure, the shepherd home hies, merry-hearted; and by turns relieves the ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail; the beauty whom perhaps his witless heart, unknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish means sincerely loves, by that best language shown of cordial glances and obliging deeds. onward they pass, o'er many a panting height, and valley sunk, and unfrequented; where at fall of eve the fairy people throng, in various game and revelry to pass the summer night, as village stories tell. but far about they wander from the grave of him, whom his ungentle fortune urg'd against his own sad breast to lift the hand of impious violence. the lonely tower is also shunn'd; whose mournful chambers hold, so night-struck fancy dreams, the yelling ghost. [illustration: evening yields the world to night] among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, the glow-worm lights his gem; and, through the dark, a moving radiance twinkles. evening yields the world to night; not in her winter robe of massy stygian woof, but loose array'd in mantle dun. a faint erroneous ray, glanc'd from the imperfect surfaces of things, flings half an image on the straining eye; while wavering woods, and villages, and streams, and rocks, and mountain tops, that long retain'd the ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, uncertain if beheld. sudden to heaven thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft the silent hours of love, with purest ray sweet venus shines; and from her genial rise when daylight sickens, till it springs afresh, unrival'd reigns, the fairest lamp of night. as thus the effulgence tremulous i drink with cherish'd gaze, the lambent lightnings shoot across the sky; or horizontal dart, in wondrous shapes--by fearful murmuring crowds portentous deem'd. amid the radiant orbs that more than deck, that animate the sky, the life-infusing suns of other worlds, lo! from the dread immensity of space returning, with accelerated course, the rushing cornet to the sun descends; and as he sinks below the shading earth, with awful train projected o'er the heavens, the guilty nations tremble. but, above those superstitious horrors that enslave the fond sequacious herd, to mystic faith and blind amazement prone, the enliven'd few, whose god-like minds philosophy exalts, the glorious stranger hail. they feel a joy divinely great: they in their powers exult, that wondrous force of thought which mounting spurns this dusky spot and measures all the sky, while from his far excursion through the wilds of barren ether, faithful to his time, they see the blazing wonder rise anew, in seeming terror clad, but kindly bent to work the will of all sustaining love; from his huge vapory train perhaps to shake reviving moisture on the numerous orbs through which his long ellipsis winds--perhaps to lend new fuel to declining suns, to light up worlds, and feed eternal fire. with thee, serene philosophy, with thee, and thy bright garland, let me crown my song! effusive source of evidence, and truth! a lustre shedding o'er the ennobled mind, stronger than summer noon; and pure as that whose mild vibrations soothe the parted soul, new to the dawning of celestial day. hence through her nourish'd powers, enlarg'd by thee, she springs aloft, with elevated pride, above the tangling mass of low desires that bind the fluttering crowd; and, angel-wing'd. the heights of science and of virtue gains, where all is calm and clear; with nature round, or in the starry regions, or the abyss, to reason's and to fancy's eye display'd: the first up-tracing, from the dreary void, the chain of causes and effects to him, the world-producing essence, who alone possesses being; while the last receives the whole magnificence of heaven and earth, and every beauty, delicate or bold, obvious or more remote, with livelier sense, diffusive painted on the rapid mind. tutor'd by thee, hence poetry exalts her voice to ages; and informs the page with music, image, sentiment, and thought, never to die! the treasure of mankind, their highest honor, and their truest joy! without thee, what were unenlighten'd man? a savage roaming through the woods and wilds, in quest of prey; and with the unfashion'd fur rough-clad; devoid of every finer art, and elegance of life. nor happiness domestic, mix'd of tenderness and care, nor moral excellence, nor social bliss, nor guardian law, were his; nor various skill to turn the furrow, or to guide the tool mechanic; nor the heaven-conducted prow of navigation bold, that fearless braves the burning line or dares the wintry pole, mother severe of infinite delights! nothing, save rapine, indolence, and guile, and woes on woes, a still revolving train! whose horrid circle had made human life than non-existence worse; but, taught by thee, ours are the plans of policy and peace: to live like brothers, and conjunctive all embellish life. while thus laborious crowds ply the tough oar, philosophy directs the ruling helm; or, like the liberal breath of potent heaven, invisible, the sail swells out, and bears the inferior world along. nor to this evanescent speck of earth poorly confin'd--the radiant tracts on high are her exalted range; intent to gaze creation through; and, from that full complex of never-ending wonders, to conceive of the sole being right, who _spoke the word_, and nature mov'd complete. with inward view thence on the ideal kingdom swift she turns her eye; and instant, at her powerful glance, the obedient phantoms vanish or appear; compound, divide, and into order shift, each to his rank, from plain perception up to the fair forms of fancy's fleeting train; to reason then, deducing truth from truth, and notion quite abstract; where first begins the world of spirits, action all, and life unfetter'd, and unmix'd. but here the cloud, so wills eternal providence, sits deep. enough for us to know that this dark state, in wayward passions lost, and vain pursuits, this infancy of being, can not prove the final issue of the works of god, by boundless love and perfect wisdom form'd, and ever rising with the rising mind. [illustration: philosophy directs the helm] the sight of an angel. 'tis to create, and in creating live a being more intense, that we endow with form our fancy, gaining as we give the life we image. the date of the year was--no matter what; the day of the month was--no matter what; when a great general undertook to perform a great victory--a great statesman undertook to pass a great political measure--a great diplomatist undertook a most important mission--a great admiral undertook the command of a great fleet; all which great undertakings were commanded by the very same great monarch of a very great nation. at the same time did a great nobleman give a great entertainment at a great house, and a great beauty made a great many great conquests. on the same day, in the same year, in a very small room, in a very small house, in a very small street, in a very small town in germany, did a very poor mason commence a very rude carving on a very rough stone. all the public journals of the day told a thousand times over the names of the great general, the great statesman, the great diplomatist, the great admiral, and the great monarch; all the fashionable papers of the day did the same of the great nobleman, the great company, and the great beauty: but none of them spoke of poor johan schmit, of the little town of ----, on the rhine. many years had passed away, and the date of the year was--no matter what; but history was telling of a great general who, with consummate wisdom, courage, and skill, and at the cost of numberless nameless lives, gained a great victory, which determined the fate and fortune of a great monarch and a great nation; consequently affecting the fate and fortunes of the world. it entered into minute detail of how his forces were disposed; where lay the right wing, where lay the left; where the cavalry advanced, and how the infantry sustained the attack; how the guns of the artillery played upon the enemy's flank and rear; and how the heavy dragoons rode down the routed forces, and how, finally, the field was covered with the enemy's dead and wounded, while so few of "our own troops" were left for the kite and the carrion crow. then did history speak of the honors that awaited and rewarded the triumphant hero, of the clamorous homage of his grateful country, and the approving smiles of his grateful monarch; of the _fêtes_, the banquets, the triumphal processions, all in his honor; of the new titles, the lands, estates, and riches poured upon him; of the state and luxury in which he lived: until the tolling of every bell throughout the kingdom, the eight-horse hearse, the mile-long procession, the dead march in "saul," and the volley over the grave, announced that a public statue, on a column a hundred feet high, in the largest square of the largest town, was all that could now record the name of the greatest general of the greatest nation in the world. history then spoke of a great statesman who on a certain day in a certain year, passed a certain most important measure, affecting the interest of a great nation, and consequently of the whole world. it spoke of his wisdom and foresight, the result of great intellect, energy and labor, giving a biographic sketch of his career from cradle to coffin; dismissing him with a long eulogium on his talents, integrity, and activity, and lamenting the loss such great men were to their country. then came the name of the great diplomatist whose services had been equally important, and who was dismissed with a similar memoir and eulogium. then the great admiral, who lived through a whole chapter all to himself, and had his name brought in throughout the whole history of the great monarch whose reign had been rendered so brilliant by the great deeds of so many great men. of the great feast given by the great nobleman, and the conquests of the great beauty, there remains to this day a record, of the former in the adulatory poems of his flatterers, though the giver was gone--no matter where; of the latter many fair portraits and many fond sonnets, though the object had gone--no matter where. but no scribe told the history, no poet made a sonnet, no artist drew the portrait of poor johan schmit, the mason, who made the rude carving on the rough stone in the little town of ----, on the rhine. this task remains for an historian as obscure as himself, who now begins a rude carving on the rough stone of a human life. after the example of the great historian already alluded to, i shall touch but lightly on the early history of my hero; merely stating that thirty years before the present date, johan schmit was born to johan schmit the elder, by his wife gretchen, after a similar presentation of five others; that he got through the usual maladies childhood is heir to, and was at the age of fifteen apprenticed to herman schwartz, a master-builder in the town of bonn. there, after some years of hod-carrying, mortar-spreading, and stone-cutting--ascending steadily, both literally and metaphorically, the ladder of his profession--honest johan took a prudent, diligent woman to wife, who lost no time in making him the father of three thriving heirs to his house and his hod. johan was in tolerably good work, lived in the small house in the small street already mentioned, and kept his family, without much pinching on the part of the thrifty gertrude, in their beer, thick bread, and sauerkraut. his work, his wife, his children, and his two companions, karl vratz, and caspar katzheim, with whom he drank very hoppy beer at the "gold apfel," just round the corner of the street, comprised the whole interests which occupied the heart and brain of johan schmit, of the little town of ----, on the rhine. johan had no other idea in his head when he rose in the morning than the day's work, the same as it was yesterday, and would be to-morrow; no other thought when he returned from it in the evening than that frudchen had his supper ready for him, that little wilhelm and johan would run to meet him, and that little rosechen, the baby, would crow out of her cradle at him, if awake, and that after his supper he would just walk down to the "gold apfel," and smoke a pipe with karl and caspar as usual. but johan went to church occasionally with his wife, going through his routine of crossings, genuflexions, and sprinklings with holy water as orderly as any man. he heard the priest speak of doing his duty and obeying the church. johan believed he did both; his duty--hard work--lay plainly before him; he was honest, sober, and kind to his family, and had certainly no idea or intention of disobeying the church. thus, in a monotonous task of hard labor for daily bread and the support of an increasing family, plodded contentedly away the life of johan schmit of the little town of ----, on the rhine. but there is an era in the life of every one, even the most plodding and homely; and so it was with johan schmit. it happened one day that he was sent for to repair a broken wall in the château of the count von rosenheim, situated not far from the town where johan lived, on the rhine; and having completed his job, the housekeeper (the count being absent) took the poor mason through the splendid rooms as a treat. here he beheld what he had never seen in his life before; velvet curtains, silken sofas, crystal mirrors, gilded frames, paintings, and sculpture; until his eyes were more dazzled than they had been since the first time he entered the cathedral of bonn. but after gazing his fill upon all this gorgeous spectacle, his eyes happened to fall upon a small bronze statuette of an angel, which the housekeeper informed him was a copy of the archangel michael, from some church, she knew not where. here was johan arrested, and here would he have stood forever; for, after looking upon this angel, he saw nothing more: every thing vanished from before him, and nothing remained but the small bronze statuette. johan had seen plenty of angels before in the churches, fresh-colored, chubby children, and he often thought his own little rosechen would look just like them if she had wings; but this was something far different. a youth under twenty, and yet it gave no more idea of either age or sex than of any other earthly condition. clad in what johan supposed would represent luminous scale-armor, something dazzling and transparent, like what he had heard the priests call the "armor of god"--the hands crossed upon the bosom, the head slightly bowed, the attitude so full of awe, obedience, and humility; and yet what attitude of human pride or defiance was half so lofty, so noble, so dignified? the sword hung sheathed by the side, the long wings folded; but the face--oh, how could he describe that face, so full of high earnestness and holy calm? so bright, so serious, so serene! he felt awed, calmed, and elevated as he looked at it. "you must go now," exclaimed madame grossenberg; and johan started from his reverie, made his bow, replaced his paper cap, and went home, with his head full of the angel instead of his work. he saw it there instead of stout frudchen and the children, who climbed about, and wondered at his abstraction. he went to bed, and dreamed of the angel--glorified it seemed to be--and, perhaps for the first time in his life, recalled his dream, and saw the beautiful vision before his waking eyes all the next day at his work--even in the "gold apfel," the most unlikely place for an angel; and again when he closed his eyes to sleep. in short, the angel became to him what his gold is to the miser, his power is to the ambitious man, and his mistress to the lover: he saw nothing else in the whole world but the angel; and this now filled the heart and brain of poor johan schmit, of the little town of ----, on the rhine. there are some things we desire to possess, and other things we desire to produce; the former is the feeling of the connoisseur and collector: the latter, of the artist. the first requires taste and money; the latter--we won't say what it requires, or what it evinces, for enough has been said on the subject already. johan schmit had no money; taste he must have had, or he could not have admired the angel; he was no artist, certainly; he had never drawn a line, or cut any thing but a stone in his life; and yet he felt he must do something about that angel. he saw it so plainly and so constantly before him, that he felt he could copy it, if he only knew how. now, as he could not draw, he could not copy it in that manner; but as he could cut stone, no matter how hard, he did not see why he might not attempt to cut the angel upon a large stone, which he procured, and brought quietly up to a small garret at the top of his house for that purpose. it was at this time that the general, the statesman, the diplomatist, and the admiral, all severally planned their great undertakings; and it was at this time that a strange thought passed through the brain of johan schmit, as he sate looking at the great rough stone before him. johan was, as we have seen, quite an uneducated man; he hardly knew enough of writing to spell his own name; and as to reading, he had never looked into a book since he left school, at the age of twelve; he therefore hardly knew the nature of his own ideas. his thoughts, never arranged, were but like vague sensations passing through his mind, which he could not define; but if he could have defined them they would have taken something like the following expression: the angel seemed to have awakened a new world within him; not that he thought of the legend of the archangel michael, which he had heard long ago, and forgotten; but of the first idea of the artist who designed that particular angel: what must have been his thoughts! what image must he have had before him as he made that form grow from the marble block into living beauty! whence could such an idea have come? it must surely have been a visitation from god--a spark of his own creative power. and how must the artist have felt as, day by day and hour by hour, he saw his work developing and perfecting before him, until at last it stood up, a sight to make men wonder and almost worship--an embodiment of all that was pure, lofty, and holy. then came the contrast of his own sordid work, so low, so slave-like, so brute-like. what human idea could be put into hod-carrying, mortar-spreading, and stone-cutting? could not an animal or a machine do as much? for the first time, perhaps, in his life, johan felt that he had a soul not to be bounded by the limits of his work or the daily necessities of existence; and in his rough way he asked himself: how can the higher aspirations of that soul be reflected in man's every-day life? and whether a human mind should be bounded by the narrow routine of plodding toil, for the supplying of common wants? and all these thoughts, vague, unformed, a dim and undefined sense of something, passed through johan's brain as he sate cutting away at the stone, and trying to form the angel in his little garret, in the little town of ----, on the rhine. patiently he labored at it after his day's work was over; patiently he bore all his failures, when he saw in the indistinct outline that the angel's arm was too short, its right leg crooked, its wings shapeless, and its head, instead of bending gracefully, stuck upon its breast like an excrescence; patiently he bore the scoldings of his wife for his dullness and abstraction, and the tricks of his children to arouse him; patiently he listened to the remonstrances of karl and caspar, for his bad companionship at the "gold apfel;" and patiently he bore the still more serious remonstrances of his master, at the careless and negligent manner in which he often performed his work, when a vision of the angel chanced to flit with more than usual vividness before him. time wore on; and if johan did not progress rapidly with his angel, gertrude was far more active and diligent in presenting him with images in another material, and urging loudly at the same time the necessity of working hard for an increasing family. poor gertrude: she was a good woman, and loved her husband without understanding him; but she had a quick temper, and was what is commonly called a shrew. she thought johan wanted rousing; and to rouse him she rated him: he bore it all patiently, and thought of the angel--it was strange how that angel soothed and consoled him! caspar, his fellow-workman, fell from a scaffold, and broke his leg. caspar, too, had a wife and children: johan undertook his work--he worked double hours, and divided his wages with caspar. karl revealed to him in confidence over his pipe at the "gold apfel," that he was in debt, and had been threatened with a jail: johan lent him the money unknown to gertrude, and worked hard to make it up; as he knew karl could never pay him. he had now no time to work at the angel; and time was going on with him. by his little broken looking-glass he could see his beard growing gray; but strange to say, the angel, though less distinct in form than when he saw it, was still firmly fixed in his memory; and though it seemed to be etherialized, he could always call up its image before him; and still, every moment he could spare, did he hasten to his garret, and cut away at the rough stone. but these hours were stolen from his natural rest, and nature punished the theft; his strength visibly declined. yet he could not abandon his work--and this not from any ambitious ideas of its success, for he never dreamed of succeeding--he felt his own inability too much to hope for it;--but there was something in the exercise of will, mind, and heart--something which seemed to elevate him in spite of himself, while at his employment, that balanced all other feelings of disappointment and weariness, making him a happier--no, that is not the word, but a nobler--man. and now johan schmit had contrived to apprentice his eldest son, send his second to school, pay the doctor's long bill for two children, and bury another; besides having helped caspar during his illness, and paid karl's debt. thrifty gertrude managed to keep things together; and in her cleaning and bustling had no time to observe the wan face and wasted frame of her husband. the stone had been gradually cut into a form which was nearly as shapeless as before johan touched it; and yet, to his eyes, it did bear some rude resemblance to the angel of his inspiration--which appeared before his eyes so vividly as he returned from an unusually-long and hard day's work to his home, that he thought he could just put one or two finishing strokes before going to bed which would recall his dimly-remembered model. without touching supper or pipe, he embraced his wife and children, and went to his garret. he looked long on the rude block before him, and then took up his hammer and chisel to complete his work. after two or three attempts, an unwonted languor stole over him; the tools dropped from his hands, and he worked no more; but the vision of the angel before his eyes grew stronger and stronger, and of something brighter and more glorious than the angel, but he did not attempt to carve it. in the early morning gertrude awoke, and was surprised not to see her husband. thinking he might have risen to his work earlier than usual, she arose and went down stairs; the door was bolted, and there were no signs of johan. she called; no answer: then, becoming alarmed, she roused the children to look for him. the small house was soon searched, but no johan discovered; when wilhelm, remembering the garret he had seen his father steal away into, ascended the ladder leading to it--and there, on his knees, his head resting on the rude block of stone, lay the lifeless body of johan schmit. the last thing his eyes beheld on earth was _that_ angel;--but who can say on what vision they opened. his wife and children removed to bonn, to her father; who had saved money, and promised to take care of them. his body was laid in the little cemetery of the little town: his widow placed a wooden cross at the head of his grave, which in time, rotted and fell down; so that the place is now left unmarked by any thing. that stone, on which a human heart had carved itself out, was broken up to mend the town wall. and thus, while a large marble slab, with a long inscription, covers the remains of the great general, the great statesman, the great diplomatist, the great admiral, the great nobleman, and the great beauty--not even a piece of wood or a block of stone tells of the mere existence of poor johan schmit, of the little town of ----, on the rhine. they could work out their idea of life, and the objects for which it was given, by their successful dedication of it to pride, ambition, vanity, and coquetry. _he_ could not; but who can tell what effect that futile effort, that unknown and profitless toil, may have had upon the fate of his soul where it now is? maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune.[ ] chapter xxix. "the breakfast at letterkenny." early the next morning, a messenger arrived from the cranagh, with a small packet of my clothes and effects, and a farewell letter from the two brothers. i had but time to glance over its contents, when the tramp of feet and the buzz of voices in the street attracted me to the window, and on looking out i saw a long line of men, two abreast, who were marching along as prisoners, a party of dismounted dragoons, keeping guard over them on either side, followed by a strong detachment of marines. the poor fellows looked sad and crest-fallen enough. many of them wore bandages on their heads and limbs, the tokens of the late struggle. immediately in front of the inn door stood a group of about thirty persons; they were the staff of the english force and the officers of our fleet, all mingled together, and talking away with the greatest air of unconcern. i was struck by remarking that all our seamen, though prisoners, saluted the officers as they passed, and in the glances interchanged i thought i could read a world of sympathy and encouragement. as for the officers, like true frenchmen, they bore themselves as though it were one of the inevitable chances of war, and, however vexatious for the moment, not to be thought of as an event of much importance. the greater number of them belonged to the army, and i could see the uniforms of the staff, artillery, and dragoons, as well as the less distinguished costume of the line. perhaps they carried the affectation of indifference a little too far, and in the lounging ease of their attitude, and the cool unconcern with which they puffed their cigars, displayed an over-anxiety to seem unconcerned. that the english were piqued at their bearing was still more plain to see; and indeed in the sullen looks of the one and the careless gayety of the other party, a stranger might readily have mistaken the captor for the captive. my two friends of the evening before were in the midst of the group. he who had questioned me so sharply now wore a general officer's uniform, and seemed to be the chief in command. as i watched him, i heard him addressed by an officer, and now saw that he was no other than lord cavan himself, while the other was a well-known magistrate and country gentleman, sir george hill. the sad procession took almost half an hour to defile; and then came a long string of country cars and carts, with sea chests and other stores belonging to our officers, and, last of all, some eight or ten ammunition wagons and gun carriages, over which an english union-jack now floated in token of conquest. there was nothing like exultation or triumph exhibited by the peasantry as this pageant passed by. they gazed in silent wonderment at the scene, looked like men that scarcely knew whether the result boded more of good or evil to their own fortunes. while keenly scrutinizing the looks and bearing of the bystanders i received a summons to meet the general and his party at breakfast. although the occurrence was one of the most pleasurable incidents of my life, which brought me once more into intercourse with my comrades and my countrymen, i should perhaps pass it over with slight mention, were it not that it made me witness to a scene which has since been recorded in various different ways, but of whose exact details i profess to be an accurate narrator. after making a tour of the room, saluting my comrades, answering questions here, putting others there, i took my place at the long table, which, running the whole length of the apartment, was indiscriminately occupied by french and english, and found myself with my back to the fire-place, and having directly in front of me a man of about thirty-three or four years of age, dressed in the uniform of a chef de brigade; light-haired and blue-eyed, he bore no resemblance whatever to those around him, whose dark faces and black beards, proclaimed them of a foreign origin. there was an air of mildness in his manner, mingled with a certain impetuosity that betrayed itself in the rapid glances of his eye, and i could plainly mark that while the rest were perfectly at their ease, he was constrained, restless, watching eagerly every thing that went forward about him, and showing unmistakably a certain anxiety and distrust widely differing from the gay and careless indifference of his comrades. i was curious to hear his name, and on asking, learned that he was the chef de brigade smith, an irishman by birth, but holding a command in the french service. i had but asked the question, when pushing back his chair from the table, he arose suddenly, and stood stiff and erect, like a soldier on the parade. "well, sir, i hope you are satisfied with your inspection of me," cried he, and sternly addressing himself to some one behind my back. i turned and perceived it was sir george hill, who stood in front of the fire, leaning on his stick. whether he replied or not to this rude speech i am unable to say, but the other walked leisurely round the table, and came directly in front of him. "you know me _now_, sir, i presume," said he, in the same imperious voice, "or else this uniform has made a greater change in my appearance than i knew of." "mr. tone!" said sir george, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "ay, sir, wolfe tone; there is no need of secrecy here; wolfe tone, your old college acquaintance in former times, but now chef de brigade in the service of france." "this is a very unexpected, a very unhappy meeting, mr. tone," said hill, feelingly; "i sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory of our past acquaintance. _my_ duty gives me no alternative." "your duty, or i mistake much, can have no concern with me, sir," cried tone, in a more excited voice. "i ask for nothing better than to be sure of this, mr. tone," said sir george, moving slowly toward the door. "you would treat me like an emigré rentré," cried tone, passionately; "but i am a french subject and a french officer." "i shall be well satisfied if others take the same view of your case, i assure you," said hill, as he gained the door. "you'll not find me unprepared for either event, sir," rejoined tone, following him out of the room, and banging the door angrily behind him. for a moment or two the noise of voices was heard from without, and several of the guests, english and french, rose from the table, eagerly inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an explanation of the scene, when suddenly the door was flung wide open, and tone appeared between two policemen, his coat off, and his wrists inclosed in handcuffs. "look here, comrades," he cried in french; "this is another specimen of english politeness and hospitality. after all," added he, with a bitter laugh, "they have no designation in all their heraldry as honorable as these fetters, when worn for the cause of freedom! good-by, comrades; we may never meet again, but don't forget how we parted!" these were the last words he uttered, when the door was closed, and he was led forward under charge of a strong force of police and military. a post-chaise was soon seen to pass the windows at speed, escorted by dragoons, and we saw no more of our comrade. the incident passed even more rapidly than i write it. the few words spoken, the hurried gestures, the passionate exclamations, are yet all deeply graven on my memory; and i can recall every little incident of the scene, and every feature of the locality wherein it occurred. with true french levity many reseated themselves at the breakfast-table; while others, with perhaps as little feeling, but more of curiosity, discussed the event, and sought for an explanation of its meaning. "then what's to become of tiernay," cried one, "if it be so hard to throw off this 'coil of englishman?' _his_ position may be just as precarious." "that is exactly what has occurred," said lord cavan; "a warrant for his apprehension has just been put into my hands, and i deeply regret that the duty should violate that of hospitality, and make my guest my prisoner." "may i see this warrant, my lord?" asked i. "certainly, sir. here it is; and here is the information on oath through which it was issued, sworn to before three justices of the peace by a certain joseph dowall, late an officer in the rebel forces, but now a pardoned approver of the crown; do you remember such a man, sir?" i bowed, and he went on. "he would seem a precious rascal; but such characters become indispensable in times like these. after all, m. tiernay, my orders are only to transmit you to dublin under safe escort, and there is nothing either in _my_ duty or in _your_ position to occasion any feeling, of unpleasantness between _us_. let us have a glass of wine together." i responded to this civil proposition with politeness, and after a slight interchange of leave-takings with some of my newly-found comrades, i set out for derry on a jaunting-car, accompanied by an officer and two policemen, affecting to think very little of a circumstance which, in reality, the more i reflected over the more serious i deemed it. chapter xxx. a scene in the royal barracks. it would afford me little pleasure to write, and doubtless my readers less to read my lucubrations, as i journeyed along toward dublin. my thoughts seldom turned from myself and my own fortunes, nor were they cheered by the scenes through which i traveled. the season was a backward and wet one, and the fields, partly from this cause, and partly from the people being engaged in the late struggle, lay untilled and neglected. groups of idle, lounging peasants stood in the villages, or loitered on the high roads, as we passed, sad, ragged-looking, and wretched. they seemed as if they had no heart to resume their wonted life of labor, but were waiting for some calamity to close their miserable existence. strongly in contrast with this were the air and bearing of the yeomanry and militia detachments, with whom we occasionally came up. quite forgetting how little creditable to some of them, at least, were the events of the late campaign, they gave themselves the most intolerable airs of heroism, and in their drunken jollity, and reckless abandonment, threatened, i know not what--utter ruin to france and all frenchmen. bonaparte was the great mark of all their sarcasms, and, from some cause or other, seemed to enjoy a most disproportioned share of their dislike and derision. at first it required some effort of constraint on my part to listen to this ribaldry in silence; but prudence, and a little sense, taught me the safer lesson of "never minding," and so i affected to understand nothing that was said in a spirit of insult or offense. on the night of the th of november we drew nigh to dublin; but instead of entering the capital, we halted at a small village outside of it called chapelizod. here a house had been fitted up for the reception of french prisoners, and i found myself, if not in company, at least under the same roof with my countrymen. nearer intercourse than this, however, i was not destined to enjoy, for early on the following morning i was ordered to set out for the royal barracks, to be tried before a court-martial. it was on a cold, raw morning, with a thin, drizzly rain falling, that we drove into the barrack-yard, and drew up at the mess-room, then used for the purposes of a court. as yet none of the members had assembled, and two or three mess-waiters were engaged in removing the signs of last night's debauch, and restoring a semblance of decorum to a very rackety-looking apartment. the walls were scrawled over with absurd caricatures, in charcoal or ink, of notorious characters of the capital, and a very striking "battle-piece" commemorated the "races of castlebar," as that memorable action was called, in a spirit, i am bound to say, of little flattery to the british arms. there were to be sure little compensatory illustrations here and there of french cavalry in egypt, mounted on donkeys, or revolutionary troops on parade, ragged as scarecrows, and ill-looking as highwaymen; but a most liberal justice characterized all these frescoes, and they treated both trojan and tyrian alike. i had abundant time given me to admire them, for although summoned for seven o'clock, it was nine before the first officer of the court-martial made his appearance, and he having popped in his head, and perceiving the room empty; sauntered out again, and disappeared. at last a very noisy jaunting-car rattled into the square, and a short, red-faced man was assisted down from it, and entered the mess-room. this was mr. peters, the deputy judge advocate, whose presence was the immediate signal for the others, who now came dropping in from every side, the president, a colonel daly, arriving the last. a few tradespeople, loungers, it seemed to me, of the barrack, and some half-dozen non-commissioned officers off duty, made up the public; and i could not but feel a sense of my insignificance in the utter absence of interest my fate excited. the listless indolence and informality, too, offended and insulted me; and when the president politely told me to be seated, for they were obliged to wait for some books or papers left behind at his quarters, i actually was indignant at his coolness. as we thus waited, the officers gathered around the fire-place, chatting and laughing pleasantly together, discussing the social events of the capital, and the gossip of the day; every thing, in fact, but the case of the individual on whose future fate they were about to decide. at length the long-expected books made their appearance, and a few well-thumbed volumes were spread over the table, behind which the court took their places, colonel daly in the centre, with the judge upon his left. the members being sworn, the judge advocate arose, and in a hurried, humdrum kind of voice, read out what purported to be the commission under which i was to be tried; the charge being, whether i had or had not acted treacherously and hostilely to his majesty, whose natural born subject i was, being born in that kingdom, and, consequently, owing to him all allegiance and fidelity. "guilty or not guilty, sir?" "the charge is a falsehood; i am a frenchman," was my answer. "have respect for the court, sir," said peters; "you mean that you are a french officer, but by birth an irishman." "i mean no such thing;--that i am french by birth, as i am in feeling--that i never saw ireland till within a few months back, and heartily wish i had never seen it." "so would general humbert, too, perhaps," said daly, laughing; and the court seemed to relish the jest. "where were you born, then, tiernay?" "in paris, i believe." "and your mother's name, what was it?" "i never knew; i was left an orphan when a mere infant, and can tell little of my family." "your father was irish, then?" "only by descent. i have heard that we came from a family who bore the title of 'timmahoo'--lord tiernay of timmahoo." "there was such a title," interposed peters; "it was one of king james's last creations after his flight from the boyne. some, indeed, assert that it was conferred before the battle. what a strange coincidence, to find the descendant, if he be such, laboring in something like the same cause as his ancestor." "what's your rank, sir?" asked a sharp, severe-looking man, called major flood. "first lieutenant of hussars." "and is it usual for a boy of your years to hold that rank; or was there any thing peculiar in your case that obtained the promotion?" "i served in two campaigns, and gained my grade regularly." "your irish blood, then, had no share in your advancement?" asked he again. "i am a frenchman, as i said before," was my answer. "a frenchman, who lays claim to an irish estate and an irish title," replied flood. "let us hear dowall's statement." and now, to my utter confusion, a man made his way to the table, and, taking the book from the judge advocate, kissed it in token of an oath. "inform the court of any thing you know in connection with the prisoner," said the judge. and the fellow, not daring even to look toward me, began a long, rambling, unconnected narrative of his first meeting with me at killala, affecting that a close intimacy had subsisted between us, and that in the faith of a confidence, i had told him how, being an irishman by birth, i had joined the expedition in the hope that with the expulsion of the english i should be able to re-establish my claim to my family rank and fortune. there was little coherence in his story, and more than one discrepant statement occurred in it; but the fellow's natural stupidity imparted a wonderful air of truth to the narrative, and i was surprised how naturally it sounded even to my own ears, little circumstances of truth being interspersed through the recital, as though to season the falsehood into a semblance of fact. "what have you to reply to this, tiernay?" asked the colonel. "simply, sir, that such a witness, were his assertions even more consistent and probable, is utterly unworthy of credit. this fellow was one of the greatest marauders of the rebel army: and the last exercise of authority i ever witnessed by general humbert was an order to drive him out of the town of castlebar." "is this the notorious town-major dowall?" asked an officer of artillery. "the same, sir." "i can answer, then, for his being one of the greatest rascals unhanged," rejoined he. "this is all very irregular, gentlemen," interposed the judge advocate; "the character of a witness can not be impugned by what is mere desultory conversation. let dowall withdraw." the man retired, and now a whispered conversation was kept up at the table for about a quarter of an hour, in which i could distinctly separate those who befriended from those who opposed me, the major being the chief of the latter party. one speech of his which i overheard made a slight impression on me, and for the first time suggested uneasiness regarding the event. "whatever you do with this lad must have an immense influence on tone's trial. don't forget that if you acquit him you'll be sorely puzzled to convict the other." the colonel promptly overruled this unjust suggestion, and maintained that in my accent, manner, and appearance, there was every evidence of my french origin. "let wolfe tone stand upon his own merits," said he, "but let us not mix this case with his." "i'd have treated every man who landed to a rope," exclaimed the major, "humbert himself among the rest. it was pure 'brigandage,' and nothing less." "i hope if i escape, sir, that it will never be my fortune to see you a prisoner of france," said i, forgetting all in my indignation. "if my voice have any influence, young man, that opportunity is not likely to occur to you," was the reply. this ungenerous speech found no sympathy with the rest, and i soon saw that the major represented a small minority in the court. the want of my commission, or of any document suitable to my rank or position in the service, was a great drawback; for i had given all my papers to humbert, and had nothing to substantiate my account of myself. i saw how unfavorably this acknowledgement was taken by the court; and when i was ordered to withdraw that they might deliberate, i own that i felt great misgivings as to the result. the deliberation was a long, and as i could overhear, a strongly disputed one. dowall was twice called in for examination, and when he retired on the last occasion, the discussion grew almost stormy. as i stood thus awaiting my fate, the public, now removed from the court, pressed eagerly to look at me; and while some thronged the door-way, and even pressed against the sentry, others crowded at the window to peep in. among these faces, over which my eye ranged in half vacancy, one face struck me, for the expression of sincere sympathy and interest it bore. it was that of a middle-aged man of an humble walk in life, whose dress bespoke him from the country. there was nothing in his appearance to have called for attention or notice, and at any other time i should have passed him over without remark, but now, as his features betokened a feeling almost verging on anxiety, i could not regard him without interest. whichever way my eyes turned, however my thoughts might take me off, whenever i looked toward him, i was sure to find his gaze steadily bent upon me, and with an expression quite distinct from mere curiosity. at last came the summons for me to reappear before the court, and the crowd opened to let me pass in. the noise, the anxiety of the moment, and the movement of the people confused me at first, and when i recovered self-possession, i found that the judge advocate was reciting the charge under which i was tried. there were three distinct counts, on each of which the court pronounced me "not guilty," but at the same time qualifying the finding by the additional words--"by a majority of two;" thus showing me that my escape had been a narrow one. "as a prisoner of war," said the president, "you will now receive the same treatment as your comrades of the same rank. some have been already exchanged, and some have given bail for their appearance to answer any future charges against them." "i am quite ready, sir, to accept my freedom on parole," said i; "of course, in a country where i am an utter stranger, bail is out of the question." "i'm willing to bail him, your worship; i'll take it on me to be surety for him," cried a coarse, husky voice from the body of the court; and at the same time a man dressed in a great coat of dark frieze pressed through the crowd and approached the table. "and who are you, my good fellow, so ready to impose yourself on the court?" asked peters. "i'm a farmer of eighty acres of land, from the black pits, near baldoyle, and the adjutant there, mr. moore, knows me well." "yes," said the adjutant, "i have known you some years, as supplying forage to the cavalry, and always heard you spoken of as honest and trust-worthy." "thank you, mr. moore; that's as much as i want." "yes; but it's not as much as _we_ want, my worthy man," said peters; "we require to know that you are a solvent and respectable person." "come out and see my place then; ride over the land and look at my stock; ask my neighbors my character; find out if there's any thing against me." "we prefer to leave all that trouble on _your_ shoulders," said peters; "show us that we may accept your surety and we'll entertain the question at once." "how much is it?" asked he, eagerly. "we demanded five hundred pounds for a major on the staff; suppose we say two, colonel, is that sufficient?" asked peters of the president. "i should say quite enough," was the reply. "there's eighty of it any way," said the farmer, producing a dirty roll of bank notes, and throwing them on the table; "i got them from mr. murphy in smithfield this morning, and i'll get twice as much more from him for asking; so if your honors will wait 'till i come back, i'll not be twenty minutes away." "but we can't take your money, my man; we have no right to touch it." "then what are ye talking about two hundred pounds for?" asked he, sternly. "we want your promise to pay in the event of this bail being broken." "oh, i see, it's all the same thing in the end; i'll do it either way." "we'll accept mr. murphy's guarantee for your solvency," said peters; "obtain that and you can sign the bond at once." "faith i'll get it sure enough, and be here before you've the writing drawn out;" said he, buttoning up his coat. "what name are we to insert in the bond?" "tiernay, sir." "that's the prisoner's name, but we want yours." "mine's tiernay too, sir, pat tiernay of the black pits." before i could recover from my surprise at this announcement he had left the court, which, in a few minutes afterward, broke up, a clerk alone remaining to fill up the necessary documents and complete the bail-bond. the colonel, as well as two others of his officers, pressed me to join them at breakfast, but i declined, resolving to wait for my name-sake's return, and partake of no other hospitality than his. it was near one o'clock when he returned, almost worn out with fatigue, since he had been in pursuit of mr. murphy for several hours, and only came upon him by chance at last. his business, however, he had fully accomplished; the bail-bond was duly drawn out and signed, and i left the barrack in a state of happiness very different from the feeling with which i had entered it that day. chapter xxxi. a brief change of life and country. my new acquaintance never ceased to congratulate himself on what he called the lucky accident that had led him to the barracks that morning, and thus brought about our meeting. "little as you think of me, my dear," said he, "i'm one of the tiernays of timmahoo myself; faix, until i saw you, i thought i was the last of them! there are eight generations of us in the church-yard at kells, and i was looking to the time when they'd lay my bones there, as the last of the race, but i see there's better fortune before us." "but you have a family i hope?" "sorrow one belonging to me. i might have married when i was young, but there was a pride in me to look for something higher than i had any right, except from blood, i mean; for a better stock than our own isn't to be found; and that's the way years went over and i lost the opportunity, and here i am now an old bachelor, without one to stand to me, barrin' it be yourself." the last words were uttered with a tremulous emotion, and on turning toward him i saw his eyes swimming with tears, and perceived that some strong feeling was working within him. "you can't suppose i can ever forget what i owe you, mr. tiernay." "call me pat, pat tiernay," interrupted he, roughly. "i'll call you what you please," said i, "if you let me add friend to it." "that's enough; we understand one another now, no more need be said; you'll come home and live with me. it's not long, maybe, you'll have to do that same; but when i go you'll be heir to what i have: 'tis more, perhaps, than many supposes, looking at the coat and the gaiters i'm wearin'. mind, maurice, i don't want you, nor i don't expect you to turn farmer like myself. you need never turn a hand to any thing. you'll have your horse to ride--two if you like it. your time will be all your own, so that you spend a little of it, now and then, with me, and as much divarsion as ever you care for." i have condensed into a few words the substance of a conversation which lasted till we reached baldoyle; and passing through that not over-imposing village, gained the neighborhood of the sea-shore, along which stretched the farm of the "black pits," a name derived, i was told, from certain black holes that were dug in the sands by fishermen in former times, when the salt tide washed over the pleasant fields where corn was now growing. a long, low, thatched cabin, with far more indications of room and comfort than pretension to the picturesque, stood facing the sea. there were neither trees nor shrubs around it, and the aspect of the spot was bleak and cheerless enough, a coloring a dark november day did nothing to dispel. it possessed one charm, however, and had it been a hundred times inferior to what it was, _that_ one would have compensated for all else--hearty welcome met me at the door, and the words, "this is your home, maurice," filled my heart with happiness. were i to suffer myself to dwell even in thought on this period of my life, i feel how insensibly i should be led away into an inexcusable prolixity. the little meaningless incidents of my daily life, all so engraven on my memory still, occupied me pleasantly from day till night. not only the master of myself and my own time, i was master of every thing around me. uncle pat, as he loved to call himself, treated me with a degree of respect that was almost painful to me, and only when we were alone together, did he relapse into the intimacy of equality. two first-rate hunters stood in my stable; a stout-built half-deck boat lay at my command beside the quay; i had my gun and my grayhounds; books, journals; every thing, in short, that a liberal purse and a kind spirit could confer--all but acquaintance. of these i possessed absolutely none. too proud to descend to intimacy with the farmers and small shopkeepers of the neighborhood, my position excluded me from acquaintance with the gentry; and thus i stood between both, unknown to either. for a while my new career was too absorbing to suffer me to dwell on this circumstance. the excitement of field sports sufficed me when abroad, and i came home usually so tired at night that i could barely keep awake to amuse uncle pat with those narratives of war and campaigning he was so fond of hearing. to the hunting-field succeeded the bay of dublin, and i passed days, even weeks, exploring every creek and inlet of the coast; now cruising under the dark cliffs of the welsh shore, or, while my boat lay at anchor, wandering among the solitary valleys of lambay; my life, like a dream full of its own imaginings, and unbroken by the thoughts or feelings of others! i will not go the length of saying that i was self-free from all reproach on the inglorious indolence in which my days were passed, or that my thoughts never strayed away to that land where my first dreams of ambition were felt. but a strange fatuous kind of languor had grown upon me, and the more i retired within myself, the less did i wish for a return to that struggle with the world which every active life engenders. perhaps--i can not now say if it were so--perhaps i resented the disdainful distance with which the gentry treated me, as we met in the hunting-field or the coursing-ground. some of the isolation i preferred may have had this origin, but choice had the greater share in it, until at last my greatest pleasure was to absent myself for weeks on a cruise, fancying that i was exploring tracts never visited by man, and landing on spots where no human foot had ever been known to tread. if uncle pat would occasionally remonstrate on the score of these long absences, he never ceased to supply means for them, and my sea store and a well-filled purse were never wanting, when the blue peter floated from "la hoche," as in my ardor i had named my cutter. perhaps at heart he was not sorry to see me avoid the capital and its society. the bitterness which had succeeded the struggle for independence was now at its highest point, and there was what, to my thinking at least, appeared something like the cruelty of revenge in the sentences which followed the state trials. i will not suffer myself to stray into the debatable ground of politics, nor dare i give an opinion on matters, where, with all the experience of fifty years superadded, the wisest heads are puzzled how to decide; but my impression at the time was, that lenity would have been a safer and a better policy than severity, and that in the momentary prostration of the country lay the precise conjuncture for those measures of grace and favor, which were afterward rather wrung from than conceded by the english government. be this as it may, dublin offered a strange spectacle at that period. the triumphant joy of one party--the discomfiture and depression of the other. all the exuberant delight of success here; all the bitterness of failure there. on one side festivities, rejoicings, and public demonstrations; on the other, confinement, banishment, or the scaffold. the excitement was almost madness. the passion for pleasure, restrained by the terrible contingencies of the time, now broke forth with redoubled force, and the capital was thronged with all its rank, riches, and fashion, when its jails were crowded, and the heaviest sentences of the law were in daily execution. the state trials were crowded by all the fashion of the metropolis; and the heart-moving eloquence of curran was succeeded by the strains of a merry concert. it was just then, too, that the great lyric poet of ireland began to appear in society, and those songs which were to be known afterwards as "the melodies," par excellence, were first heard in all the witching enchantment which his own taste and voice could lend them. to such as were indifferent to or could forget the past, it was a brilliant period. it was the last flickering blaze of irish nationality, before the lamp was extinguished for ever. of this society i myself saw nothing. but even in the retirement of my humble life the sounds of its mirth and pleasure penetrated, and i often wished to witness the scenes which even in vague description were fascinating. it was then in a kind of discontent at my exclusion, that i grew from day to day more disposed to solitude, and fonder of those excursions which led me out of all reach of companionship or acquaintance. in this spirit i planned a long cruise down channel, resolving to visit the island of valencia, or, if the wind and weather favored, to creep around the southwest coast as far as bantry or kenmare. a man and his son, a boy of about sixteen, formed all my crew, and were quite sufficient for the light tackle and easy rig of my craft. uncle pat was already mounted on his pony, and ready to set out for market, as we prepared to start. it was a bright spring morning--such a one as now and then the changeful climate of ireland brings forth, in a brilliancy of color and softness of atmosphere that are rare in even more favored lands. "you have a fine day of it, maurice, and just enough wind," said he, looking at the point from whence it came. "i almost wish i was going with you." "and why not come, then?" asked i. "you never will give yourself a holiday. do so for once, now." "not to-day, any how," said he, half sighing at his self-denial. "i have a great deal of business on my hands to-day; but the next time--the very next you're up to a long cruise, i'll go with you." "that's a bargain, then?" "a bargain. here's my hand on it." we shook hands cordially on the compact. little knew i it was to be for the last time, and that we were never to meet again. i was soon aboard, and with a free mainsail skimming rapidly over the bright waters of the bay. the wind freshened as the day wore on, and we quickly passed the kish light-ship, and held our course boldly down channel. the height of my enjoyment in these excursions consisted in the unbroken quietude of mind i felt, when removed from all chance of interruption, and left free to follow out my own fancies, and indulge my dreamy conceptions to my heart's content. it was then i used to revel in imaginings which sometimes soared into the boldest realms of ambition, and at other strayed contemplatively in the humblest walks of obscure fortune. my crew never broke in upon these musings; indeed old tom finnerty's low crooning song rather aided than interrupted them. he was not much given to talking, and a chance allusion to some vessel afar off, or some head-land we were passing, were about the extent of his communicativeness, and even these often fell on my ear unnoticed. it was thus, at night, we made the hook tower; and on the next day passed, in a spanking breeze, under the bold cliffs of tramore, just catching, as the sun was sinking, the sight of youghal bay, and the tall headlands beyond it. "the wind is drawing more to the nor'ard," said old tom, as night closed in, "and the clouds look dirty." "bear her up a point or two," said i, "and let us stand in for cork harbor, if it comes on to blow." he muttered something in reply, but i did not catch the words, nor, indeed, cared i to hear them, for i had just wrapped myself in my boat-cloak, and stretched at full length on the shingle ballast of the yawl, was gazing in rapture at the brilliancy of the starry sky above me. light skiffs of feathery cloud would now and then flit past, and a peculiar hissing sound of the sea told, at the same time, that the breeze was freshening. but old tom had done his duty in mentioning this once; and thus having disburdened his conscience, he closehauled his mainsail, shifted the ballast a little to midships, and, putting up the collar of his pilot-coat, screwed himself tighter into the corner beside the tiller, and chewed his quid in quietness. the boy slept soundly in the bow, and i, lulled by the motion and the plashing waves, fell into a dreamy stupor, like a pleasant sleep. the pitching of the boat continued to increase, and twice or thrice, struck by a heavy sea, she lay over, till the white waves came tumbling in over her gunwale. i heard tom call to his boy, something about the head-sail, but for the life of me i could not or would not arouse myself from a train of thought that i was following. "she's a stout boat to stand this," said tom, as he rounded her off, at a coming wave, which, even thus escaped, splashed over her like a cataract. "i know many a bigger craft wouldn't hold up her canvas under such a gale." "here it comes, father. here's a squall," cried the boy, and with a crash like thunder, the wind struck the sail, and laid the boy half-under. "she'd float if she was full of water," said the old man, as the craft "righted." "but maybe the spars wouldn't stand," said the boy, anxiously. "'tis what i'm thinking," rejoined the father. "there's a shake in the mast, below the caps." "tell him it's better to bear up, and go before it," whispered the lad, with a gesture toward where i was lying. "troth it's little he'd care," said the other; "besides, he's never plazed to be woke up." "here it comes again," cried the boy. but this time the squall swept past ahead of us, and the craft only reeled to the swollen waves, as they tore by. "we'd better go about, sir," said tom to me; "there's a heavy sea outside, and it's blowing hard now." "and there's a split in the mast as long as my arm," cried the boy. "i thought she'd live through any sea, tom!" said i, laughing; for it was his constant boast that no weather could harm her. "there goes the spar," shouted he, while with a loud snap the mast gave way, and fell with a crash over the side. the boat immediately came head to wind, and sea after sea broke upon her bow, and fell in great floods over us. "cut away the stays--clear the wreck," cried tom, "before the squall catches her." and although we now labored like men whose lives depended on the exertion, the trailing sail and heavy rigging, shifting the ballast as they fell, laid her completely over; and when the first sea struck her, over she went. the violence of the gale sent me a considerable distance out, and for several seconds i felt as though i should never reach the surface again. wave after wave rolled over me, and seemed bearing me downward with their weight. at last i grasped something; it was a rope--a broken halyard--but by its means i gained the mast, which floated alongside of the yawl as she now lay keel uppermost. with what energy did i struggle to reach her. the space was scarcely a dozen feet, and yet it cost me what seemed an age to traverse. through all the roaring of the breakers, and the crashing sounds of storm, i thought i could hear my comrades' voices shouting and screaming, but this was in all likelihood a mere deception, for i never saw them more. grasping with a death-grip the slippery keel, i hung on the boat through all the night. the gale continued to increase, and by day-break it blew a perfect hurricane. with an aching anxiety i watched for the light to see if i were near the land, or if any ship were in sight, but when the sun rose nothing met my eyes but a vast expanse of waves tumbling and tossing in mad confusion, while overhead some streaked and mottled clouds were hurried along with the wind. happily for me, i have no correct memory of that long day of suffering. the continual noise, but more still, the incessant motion of the sea and sky around brought on a vertigo, that seemed like madness; and although the instinct of self-preservation remained, the wildest and most incoherent fancies filled my brain. some of these were powerful enough to impress themselves upon my memory for years after, and one i have never yet been able to dispel. it clings to me in every season of unusual depression or dejection; it recurs in the half nightmare sleep of over fatigue, and even invades me when, restless and feverish, i lie for hours incapable of repose. this is the notion that my state was one of after-life punishment; that i had died, and was now expiating a sinful life by the everlasting misery of a castaway. the fever brought on by thirst and exhaustion and the burning sun which beamed down upon my uncovered head, soon completed the measure of this infatuation, and all sense and guidance left me. by what instinctive impulse i still held on my grasp i can not explain, but there i clung during the whole of that long dreadful day, and the still more dreadful night, when the piercing cold cramped my limbs, and seemed as if freezing the very blood within me. it was no wish for life; it was no anxiety to save myself that now filled me. it seemed like a vague impulse of necessity that compelled me to hang on. it was, as it were, part of that terrible sentence which made this my doom forever! an utter unconsciousness must have followed this state, and a dreary blank, with flitting shapes of suffering, is all that remains to my recollection.... probably within the whole range of human sensations, there is not one so perfect in its calm and soothing influence as the first burst of gratitude we feel when recovering from a long and severe illness! there is not an object, however humble and insignificant, that is not for the time invested with a new interest. the air is balmier, flowers are sweeter, the voices of friends, the smiles and kind looks, are dearer and fonder than we have ever known them. the whole world has put on a new aspect for us, and we have not a thought that is not teeming with forgiveness and affection. such, in all their completeness, were my feelings as i lay on the poop-deck of a large three-masted ship, which, with studding and top-gallant sails all set, proudly held her course up the gulf of st. lawrence. she was a dantzig barque, the "hoffnung," bound for quebec, her only passengers being a moravian minister and his wife, on their way to join a small german colony established near lake champlain. to gottfried kröller and his dear little wife i owe not life alone, but nearly all that has made it valuable. with means barely removed from absolute poverty, i found that they had spared nothing to assist in my recovery; for, when discovered, emaciation and wasting had so far reduced me that nothing but the most unremitting care and kindness could have succeeded in restoring me. to this end they bestowed not only their whole time and attention, but every little delicacy of their humble sea-store. all the little cordials and restoratives meant for a season of sickness or debility were lavished unsparingly on me, and every instinct of national thrift and carefulness gave way before the more powerful influence of christian benevolence. i can think of nothing but that bright morning, as i lay on a mattress on the deck, with the "pfarrer" on one side of me, and his good little wife, lyschen, on the other; he, with his volume of "wieland," and she working away with her long knitting-needles, and never raising her head save to bestow a glance at the poor sick boy, whose bloodless lips were trying to mutter her name in thankfulness. it is like the most delicious dream as i think over those hours, when, rocked by the surging motion of the large ship, hearing in half distinctness the words of the "pfarrer's" reading, i followed out little fancies--now self-originating, now rising from the theme of the poet's musings. how softly the cloud shadows moved over the white sails and swept along the bright deck! how pleasantly the water rippled against the vessel's side! with what a glad sound the great ensign flapped and fluttered in the breeze! there was light, and life, and motion on every side, and i felt all the intoxication of enjoyment. and like a dream was the portion of my life which followed. i accompanied the pfarrer to a small settlement near "crown point," where he was to take up his residence as minister. here we lived amid a population of about four or five hundred germans, principally from pomerania, on the shores of the baltic, a peaceful, thrifty, quiet set of beings, who, content with the little interests revolving around themselves, never troubled their heads about the great events of war or politics; and here in all likelihood should i have been content to pass my days, when an accidental journey i made to albany, to receive some letters for the pfarrer, once more turned the fortune of my life. it was a great incident in the quiet monotony of my life, when i set out one morning, arrayed in a full suit of coarse glossy black, with buttons like small saucers, and a hat whose brim almost protected my shoulders. i was, indeed, an object of very considerable envy to some, and i hope, also, not denied the admiring approval of some others. had the respectable city i was about to visit been the chief metropolis of a certain destination which i must not name, the warnings i received about its dangers, dissipations, and seductions, could scarcely have been more earnest or impressive. i was neither to speak with, nor even to look at, those i met in the streets. i was carefully to avoid taking my meals at any of the public eating-houses, rigidly guarding myself from the contamination of even a chance acquaintance. it was deemed as needless to caution me against theatres or places of amusement, as to hint to me that i should not commit a highway robbery or a murder, and so, in sooth, i should myself have felt it. the patriarchal simplicity in which i had lived for above a year, had not been without its effect in subduing exaggerated feeling, or controlling that passion for excitement so common to youth. i felt a kind of drowsy, dreamy languor over me, which i sincerely believed represented a pious and well-regulated temperament. perhaps in time it might have become such. perhaps with others, more happily constituted, the impression would have been confirmed and fixed; but in _my_ case it was a mere lacker that the first rubbing in the world was sure to brush off. i arrived safely at albany, and having presented myself at the bank of gabriel shultze, was desired to call the following morning, when all the letters and papers of gottfried kröller should be delivered to me. a very cold invitation to supper was the only hospitality extended to me. this i declined on pretext of weariness, and set out to explore the town, to which my long residence in rural life imparted a high degree of interest. i don't know what it may now be: doubtless a great capital, like one of the european cities; but at the time i speak of, albany was a strange, incongruous assemblage of stores and wooden houses, great buildings like granaries, with whole streets of low sheds around them, where open to the passer-by, men worked at various trades, and people followed out the various duties of domestic life in sight of the public; the daughters knitted and sewed; mothers cooked and nursed their children; men ate, and worked, and smoked, and sang, as if in all the privacy of closed dwellings, while a thick current of population poured by, apparently too much immersed in their own cares, or too much accustomed to the scene, to give it more than passing notice. it was curious how one bred and born in the great city of paris, with all its sights and sounds, and scenes of excitement and display, could have been so rusticated by time, as to feel a lively interest in surveying the motley aspect of this quaint town. there were, it is true, features in the picture very unlike the figures in "old world" landscape. a group of red men, seated around a fire in the open street, or a squaw carrying on her back a baby, firmly tied to a piece of curved bark; a southern-stater, with a spanking wagon-team, and two grinning negroes behind, were new and strange elements in the life of a city. still, the mere movement, the actual busy stir and occupation of the inhabitants, attracted me as much as any thing else; and the shops and stalls where trades were carried on were a seduction i could not resist. the strict puritanism in which i had lately lived taught me to regard all these things with a certain degree of distrust. they were the impulses of that gold-seeking passion of which gottfried had spoken so frequently; they were the great vice of that civilization, whose luxurious tendency he often deplored; and here, now, more than one-half around me were arts that only ministered to voluptuous tastes. brilliant articles of jewelry; gay cloaks, worked with wampum, in indian taste; ornamental turning, and costly weapons, inlaid with gold and silver, succeeded each other, street after street; and the very sight of them, however pleasurable to the eye, set me a-moralizing, in a strain that would have done credit to a son of geneva. it might have been, that in my enthusiasm i uttered half aloud what i intended for soliloquy: or perhaps some gesture, or peculiarity of manner, had the effect; but so it was: i found myself an object of notice; and my queer-cut coat and wide hat, contrasting so strangely with my youthful appearance and slender make, drew many a criticism on me. "he ain't a quaker, that's a fact," cried one, "for they don't wear black." "he's a down-easter--a horse jockey chap, i'll be bound," cried another. "they put on all manner of disguises and 'masqueroonings.' i know 'em!" "he's a calf preacher--a young bottle-nosed gospeller," broke in a thick, short fellow, like the skipper of a merchant ship. "let's have him out for a preachment." "ay, you're right," chimed in another. "i'll get you a sugar hogshead in no time;" and away he ran on the mission. between twenty and thirty persons had now collected; and i saw myself, to my unspeakable shame and mortification, the centre of all their looks and speculations. a little more _aplomb_ or knowledge of life would have taught me coolness enough in a few words to undeceive them: but such a task was far above me now; and i saw nothing for it but flight. could i only have known which way to take, i need not have feared any pursuer, for i was a capital runner, and in high condition; but of the locality i was utterly ignorant, and should only surrender myself to mere chance. with a bold rush, then, i dashed right through the crowd, and set off down the street, the whole crew after me. the dusk of the closing evening was in my favor; and although volunteers were enlisted in the chase at every corner and turning, i distanced them, and held on my way in advance. my great object being not to turn on my course, lest i should come back to my starting point, i directed my steps nearly straight onward, clearing apple-stalls and fruit tables at a bound; and more than once taking a flying leap over an indian's fire, when the mad shout of the red man would swell the chorus that followed me. at last i reached a network of narrow lanes and alleys, by turning and winding through which, i speedily found myself in a quiet secluded spot, with here and there a flickering candle-light from the windows, but no other sign of habitation. i looked anxiously about for an open door; but they were all safe barred and fastened; and it was only on turning a corner i spied what seemed to me a little shop, with a solitary lamp over the entrance. a narrow canal, crossed by a rickety old bridge, led to this; and the moment i had crossed over, i seized the single plank which formed the footway, and shoved it into the stream. my retreat being thus secured, i opened the door, and entered. it was a barber's shop; at least, so a great chair before a cracked old looking glass, with some well-worn combs and brushes, bespoke it; but the place seemed untenanted, and although i called aloud several times, none came or responded to my summons. i now took a survey of the spot which seemed of the poorest imaginable. a few empty pomatum pots, a case of razors that might have defied the most determined suicide, and a half-finished wig, on a block painted like a red man, were the entire stock in trade. on the walls, however, were some colored prints of the battles of the french army in germany and italy. execrably done things they were, but full of meaning and interest to my eyes in spite of that. with all the faults of drawing and all the travesties of costume, i could recognize different corps of the service, and my heart bounded as i gazed on the tall shakos swarming to a breach, or the loose jacket as it floated from the hussar in a charge. all the wild pleasures of soldiering rose once more to my mind, and i thought over old comrades who doubtless were now earning the high rewards of their bravery in the great career of glory. and as i did so, my own image confronted me in the glass, as with long, lank hair, and a great bolster of a white cravat, i stood before it. what a contrast!--how unlike the smart hussar, with curling locks and fierce mustache! was i as much changed in heart as in looks. had my spirit died out within me. would the proud notes of the bugle or the trumpet fall meaningless on my ears, or the hoarse cry of "charge!" send no bursting fullness to my temples? ay, even these coarse representations stirred the blood in my veins, and my step grew firmer as i walked the room. in a passionate burst of enthusiasm i tore off my slouched hat and hurled it from me. it felt like the badge of some ignoble slavery, and i determined to endure it no longer. the noise of the act called up a voice from the inner room, and a man, to all appearance suddenly roused from sleep, stood at the door. he was evidently young, but poverty, dissipation, and raggedness made the question of his age a difficult one to solve. a light-colored mustache and beard covered all the lower part of his face, and his long blonde hair fell heavily over his shoulders. "well," cried he, half angrily, "what's the matter; are you so impatient that you must smash the furniture?" although the words were spoken as correctly as i have written them, they were uttered with a foreign accent; and, hazarding the stroke, i answered him in french by apologizing for the noise. "what! a frenchman," exclaimed he, "and in that dress; what can that mean?" "if you'll shut your door, and cut off pursuit of me, i'll tell you every thing," said i, "for i hear the voices of people coming down that street in front." "i'll do better," said he, quickly, "i'll upset the bridge, and they can not come over." "that's done already," replied i; "i shoved it into the stream as i passed." he looked at me steadily for a moment without speaking, and then approaching close to me, said, "parbleu! the act was very unlike your costume!" at the same time he shut the door, and drew a strong bar across it. this done, he turned to me once more--"now for it: who are you, and what has happened to you?" "as to what i am," replied i, imitating his own abruptness, "my dress will almost save the trouble of explaining; these albany folk, however, would make a field-preacher of me, and to escape them i took to flight." "well, if a fellow will wear his hair that fashion, he must take the consequence," said he, drawing out my long lank locks as they hung over my shoulders. "and so you wouldn't hold forth for them; not even give them a stave of a conventical chant." he kept his eyes riveted on me as he spoke, and then seizing two pieces of stick for the firewood, he beat on the table the ran-tan-plan of the french drum. "that's the music you know best, lad, eh?--that's the air, which, if it has not led heavenward, has conducted many a brave fellow out of this world at least: do you forget it?" "forget it! no," cried i; "but who are you; and how comes it that--that--" i stopped in confusion at the rudeness of the question i had begun. "that i stand here, half-fed, and all but naked; a barber in a land where men don't shave once a month. parbleu! they'd come even seldomer to my shop if they knew how tempted i feel to draw the razor sharp and quick across the gullet of a fellow with a well-stocked pouch." as he continued to speak, his voice assumed a tone and cadence that sounded familiarly to my ears as i stared at him in amazement. "not know me yet," exclaimed he, laughing; "and yet all this poverty and squalor isn't as great a disguise as your own, tiernay. come, lad, rub your eyes a bit, and try if you can't recognize an old comrade." "i know you, yet can not remember how or where we met," said i, in bewilderment. "i'll refresh your memory," said he, crossing his arms, and drawing himself proudly up. "if you can trace back in your mind to a certain hot and dusty day, on the metz road, when you, a private in the seventh hussars, were eating an onion and a slice of black bread for your dinner, a young officer, well-looking and well-mounted, cantered up, and threw you his brandy flask. your acknowledgment of the civility showed you to be a gentleman; and the acquaintance thus opened, soon ripened into intimacy." "but he was the young marquis de saint trone," said i, perfectly remembering the incident. "or eugene santron, of the republican army, or the barber at albany, without any name at all," said he, laughing. "what, maurice, don't you know me yet?" "what, the lieutenant of my regiment! the dashing officer of hussars!" "just so, and as ready to resume the old skin as ever," cried he, "and brandish a weapon somewhat longer, and perhaps somewhat sharper, too, than a razor." we shook hands with all the cordiality of old comrades, meeting far away from home, and in a land of strangers; and although each was full of curiosity to learn the other's history, a kind of reserve held back the inquiry, till santron said, "my confession is soon made, maurice; i left the service in the meuse, to escape being shot. one day, on returning from a field manoeuvre, i discovered that my portmanteau had been opened, and a number of letters and papers taken out. they were part of a correspondence i held with old general lamarre, about the restoration of the bourbons, a subject, i'm certain, that half the officers in the army were interested in, and, even to bonaparte himself, deeply implicated in too. no matter, _my_ treason, as they called it, was too flagrant, and i had just twenty minutes' start of the order which was issued for my arrest, to make my escape into holland. there i managed to pass several months in various disguises, part of the time being employed as a dutch spy, and actually charged with an order to discover tidings of myself, until i finally got away in an antwerp schooner, to new york. from that time my life has been nothing but a struggle, a hard one, too, with actual want, for in this land of enterprise and activity, mere intelligence, without some craft or calling, will do nothing. "i tried fifty things--to teach riding, and when i mounted into the saddle, i forgot everything but my own enjoyment, and caracolled, and plunged, and passaged, till the poor beast hadn't a leg to stand on; fencing, and i got into a duel with a rival teacher, and ran him through the neck, and was obliged to fly from halifax; french, i made love to my pupil, a pretty looking dutch fraulein, whose father didn't smile on our affection; and so on i descended from a dancing-master to a waiter, a _laquais de place_, and at last settled down as a barber, which brilliant speculation i had just determined to abandon this very night; for to-morrow morning, maurice, i start for new york and france again; ay, boy, and you'll go with me. this is no land for either of us." "but i have found happiness, at least contentment, here," said i, gravely. "what! play the hypocrite with an old comrade! shame on you, maurice," cried he. "it is these confounded locks have perverted the boy," added he, jumping up; and before i knew what he was about, he had shorn my hair, in two quick cuts of the scissors, close to the head. "there," said he, throwing the cut-off hair toward me, "there lies all your saintship; depend upon it, boy, they'd hunt you out of the settlement if you came back to them cropped in this fashion." "but you return to certain death, santron," said i; "your crime is too recent to be forgiven or forgotten." "not a bit of it; fouche, cassaubon, and a dozen others now in office, were deeper than i was. there's not a public man in france could stand an exposure, or hazard recrimination. it's a thieves' amnesty at this moment, and i must not lose the opportunity. i'll show you letters that will prove it, maurice; for, poor and ill-fed as i am, i like life just as well as ever i did. i mean to be a general of division one of these days, and so will you too, lad, if there's any spirit left in you." thus did santron rattle on, sometimes of himself and his own future; sometimes discussing mine; for while talking, he had contrived to learn all the chief particulars of my history, from the time of my sailing from la rochelle for ireland. the unlucky expedition afforded him great amusement, and he was never weary of laughing at all our adventures and mischances in ireland. of humbert, he spoke as a fourth or fifth-rate man, and actually shocked me by all the heresies he uttered against our generals, and the plan of campaign; but, perhaps, i could have borne even these better than the sarcasms and sneers at the little life of "the settlement." he treated all my efforts at defense as mere hypocrisy, and affected to regard me as a mere knave, that had traded on the confiding kindness of these simple villagers. i could not undeceive him on this head; nor what was more, could i satisfy my own conscience that he was altogether in the wrong; for, with a diabolical ingenuity, he had contrived to hit on some of the most vexatious doubts which disturbed my mind, and instinctively to detect the secret cares and difficulties that beset me. the lesson should never be lost on us, that the devil was depicted as a sneerer! i verily believe the powers of temptation have no such advocacy as sarcasm. many can resist the softest seductions of vice: many are proof against all the blandishments of mere enjoyment, come in what shape it will; but how few can stand firm against the assaults of clever irony, or hold fast to their convictions when assailed by the sharp shafts of witty depreciation. i'm ashamed to own how little i could oppose to all his impertinences about our village, and its habits; or how impossible i found it not to laugh at his absurd descriptions of a life which, without having ever witnessed, he depicted with a rare accuracy. he was shrewd enough not to push this ridicule offensively, and long before i knew it i found myself regarding, with his eyes, a picture in which, but a few months back, i stood as a fore-ground figure. i ought to confess, that no artificial aid was derived from either good cheer, or the graces of hospitality; we sat by a miserable lamp, in a wretchedly cold chamber, our sole solace some bad cigars, and a can of flat, stale cider. "i have not a morsel to offer you to eat, maurice, but to-morrow we'll breakfast on my razors, dine on that old looking-glass, and sup on two hard brushes and the wig!" such were the brilliant pledges, and we closed a talk which the flickering lamp at last put an end to. a broken, unconnected conversation followed for a little time, but at length, worn out and wearied, each dropped off to sleep--eugene on the straw settle, and i in the old chair--never to awake till the bright sun was streaming in between the shutters, and dancing merrily on the tiled floor. an hour before i awoke he had completed the sale of all his little stock in trade, and, with a last look round the spot where he had passed some months of struggling poverty, out we sallied into the town. "we'll breakfast at jonathan hone's," said santron. "it's the first place here. i'll treat you to rump steaks, pumpkin pie, and a gin twister that will astonish you. then, while i'm arranging for our passage down the hudson, you'll see the hospitable banker, and tell him how to forward all his papers, and so forth, to the settlement, with your respectful compliments and regrets, and the rest of it." "but am i to take leave of them in this fashion?" asked i. "without you want _me_ to accompany you there, i think it's by far the best way," said he, laughingly. "if, however, you think that my presence and companionship will add any lustre to your position, say the word and i'm ready. i know enough of the barber's craft now to make up a head 'en puritan,' and, if you wish, i'll pledge myself to impose upon the whole colony." here was a threat there was no mistaking; and any imputation of ingratitude on my part were far preferable to the thought of such an indignity. he saw his advantage at once, and boldly declared that nothing should separate us. "the greatest favor, my dear maurice, you can ever expect at my hands is, never to speak of this freak of yours; or, if i do, to say that you performed the part to perfection." my mind was in one of those moods of change when the slightest impulse is enough to sway it, and more from this cause than all his persuasion, i yielded; and the same evening saw me gliding down the hudson, and admiring the bold kaatskills, on our way to new york. (to be continued.) footnote: [ ] continued from vol. ii. p. . anecdotes of paganini. paganini was in all respects a very singular being, and an interesting subject to study. his talents were by no means confined to his wonderful powers as a musician. on other subjects he was well-informed, acute, and conversible, of bland and gentle manners, and in society, perfectly well-bred. all this contrasted strangely with the dark, mysterious stories which were bruited abroad, touching some passages in his early life. but outward semblance and external deportment are treacherous as quicksands, when taken as guides by which to sound the real depths of human character. lord byron remarks, that his pocket was once picked by the civilest gentleman he ever conversed with, and that by far the mildest individual of his acquaintance was the remorseless ali pacha of yanina. the expressive lineaments of paganini told a powerful tale of passions which had been fearfully excited, which might be roused again from temporary slumber, or were exhausted by indulgence and premature decay, leaving deep furrows to mark their intensity. like the generality of his countrymen, he looked much older than he was. with them, the elastic vigor of youth and manhood rapidly subsides into an interminable and joyless old age, numbering as many years, but with far less both of physical and mental faculty to render them endurable, than the more equally poised gradations of our northern clime. it is by no means unusual to encounter a well developed italian, whiskered to the eye-brows, and "bearded like the pard," who tells you, to your utter astonishment, that he is scarcely seventeen, when you have set him down from his appearance as, at least, five-and-thirty. the following extract from colonel montgomery maxwell's book of military reminiscences, entitled "my adventures," dated genoa, february d, , supplies the earliest record which has been given to the public respecting paganini, and affords authentic evidence that some of the mysterious tales which heralded his coming were not without foundation. he could scarcely have been at this time thirty years old. "talking of music, i have become acquainted with the most _outré_, most extravagant, and strangest character i ever beheld, or heard, in the musical line. he has just been emancipated from durance vile, where he has been for a long time incarcerated on suspicion of murder. his long figure, long neck, long face, and long forehead; his hollow and deadly pale cheek, large black eye, hooked nose, and jet black hair, which is long, and more than half hiding his expressive jewish face; all these rendered him the most extraordinary person i ever beheld. there is something scriptural in the _tout ensemble_ of the strange physiognomy of this uncouth and unearthly figure. not that, as in times of old, he plays, as holy writ tells us, on a ten-stringed instrument; on the contrary, he brings the most powerful, the most wonderful, and the most heart-rending tones from one string. his name is paganini; he is very improvident and very poor. the d----s, and the impressario of the theatre got up a concert for him the other night, which was well attended, and on which occasion he electrified the audience. he is a native of genoa, and if i were a judge of violin playing, i would pronounce him the most surprising performer in the world!" that paganini was either innocent of the charge for which he suffered the incarceration colonel maxwell mentions, or that it could not be proved against him, may be reasonably inferred from the fact that he escaped the galleys or the executioner. in italy, there was then, _par excellence_ (whatever there may be now), a law for the rich, and another for the poor. as he was without money, and unable to buy immunity, it is charitable to suppose he was entitled to it from innocence. a nobleman, with a few _zecchini_, was in little danger of the law, which confined its practice entirely to the lower orders. i knew a sicilian prince, who most wantonly blew a vassal's brains out, merely because he put him in a passion. the case was not even inquired into. he sent half a dollar to the widow of the defunct (which, by the way, he borrowed from me, and never repaid), and there the matter ended. lord nelson once suggested to ferdinand iv. of naples, to try and check the daily increase of assassination, by a few salutary executions. "no, no," replied old nasone, who was far from being as great a fool as he looked, "that is impossible. if i once began that system, my kingdom would soon be depopulated. one half my subjects would be continually employed in hanging the remainder." among other peculiarities, paganini was an incarnation of avarice and parsimony, with a most contradictory passion for gambling. he would haggle with you for sixpence, and stake a rouleau on a single turn at _rouge et noir_. he screwed you down in a bargain as tightly as if you were compressed in a vice; yet he had intervals of liberality, and sometimes did a generous action. in this he bore some resemblance to the celebrated john elwes, of miserly notoriety, who deprived himself of the common necessaries of life, and lived on a potato skin, but sometimes gave a check for £ to a public charity, and contributed largely to private subscriptions. i never heard that paganini actually did this, but once or twice he played for nothing, and sent a donation to the mendicity, when he was in dublin. when he made his engagement with me, we mutually agreed to write no orders, expecting the house to be quite full every night, and both being aware that the "sons of freedom," while they add nothing to the exchequer, seldom assist the effect of the performance. they are not given to applaud vehemently; or, as richelieu observes, "in the right places." what we can get for nothing we are inclined to think much less of than that which we must purchase. he who invests a shilling will not do it rashly, or without feeling convinced that value received will accrue from the risk. the man who pays is the real enthusiast; he comes with a predetermination to be amused, and his spirit is exalted accordingly. paganini's valet surprised me one morning, by walking into my room, and, with many "_eccellenzas_" and gesticulations of respect, asking me to give him an order. i said, "why do you come to me? apply to your master--won't he give you one?" "oh, yes; but i don't like to ask him." "why not?" "because he'll stop the amount out of my wages!" my heart relented; i gave him the order, and paid paganini the dividend. i told him what it was, thinking, as a matter of course, he would return it. he seemed uncertain for a moment, paused, smiled sardonically, looked at the three and sixpence, and with a spasmodic twitch, deposited it in his own waistcoat pocket instead of mine. voltaire says, "no man is a hero to his valet de chambre," meaning, thereby, as i suppose, that being behind the scenes of every-day life, he finds out that marshal saxe, or frederick the great, is as subject to the common infirmities of our nature, as john nokes or peter styles. whether paganini's squire of the body looked on his master as a hero, in the vulgar acceptation of the word, i can not say, but in spite of his stinginess, which he writhed under, he regarded him with mingled reverence and terror. "a strange person, your master," observed i. "_signor_," replied the faithful sancho panza, "_e veramente grand uomo, ma da non potersi comprendere_." "he is truly a great man, but quite incomprehensible." it was edifying to observe the awful importance with which antonio bore the instrument nightly intrusted to his charge to carry to and from the theatre. he considered it an animated something, whether dæmon or angel he was unable to determine, but this he firmly believed, that it could speak in actual dialogue when his master pleased, or become a dumb familiar by the same controlling volition. this especial violin was paganini's inseparable companion. it lay on his table before him as he sat meditating in his solitary chamber; it was placed by his side at dinner, and on a chair within his reach when in bed. if he woke, as he constantly did, in the dead of night, and the sudden _estro_ of inspiration seized him, he grasped his instrument, started up, and on the instant perpetuated the conception which otherwise he would have lost forever. this marvelous cremona, valued at four hundred guineas, paganini, on his death-bed, gave to de kontski, his nephew and only pupil, himself an eminent performer, and in his possession it now remains. when paganini was in dublin at the musical festival of , the marquis of anglesea, then lord lieutenant of ireland, came every night to the concerts at the theatre, and was greatly pleased with his performance. on the first evening, between the acts, his excellency desired that he might be brought round to his box to be introduced, and paid him many compliments. lord anglesea was at that time residing in perfect privacy with his family, at sir harcourt lees' country house, near blackrock, and expressed a wish to get an evening from the great violinist, to gratify his domestic circle. the negotiation was rather a difficult one, as paganini was, of all others, the man who did nothing, in the way of business, without an explicit understanding, and a clearly-defined con-sid-e-ra-ti-on. he was alive to the advantage of honor, but he loved money with a paramount affection. i knew that he had received enormous terms, such as £ and £ for fiddling at private parties in london, and i trembled for the viceregal purse; but i undertook to manage the affair, and went to work accordingly. the aid-de-camp in waiting called with me on paganini, was introduced in due form, and handed him a card of invitation to dinner, which, of course, he received and accepted with ceremonious politeness. soon after the officer had departed, he said, suddenly, "this is a great honor, but am i expected to bring my instrument?" "oh, yes," i replied, "as a matter of course--the lord lieutenant's family wish to hear you in private." "_caro amico_," rejoined he, with petrifying composure, "_paganini con violino é paganini senza violino,--ecco due animali distinti_." "paganini with his fiddle, and paganini without it, are two very different persons." i knew perfectly what he meant, and said, "the lord lieutenant is a nobleman of exalted rank and character, liberal in the extreme, but he is not croesus; nor do i think you could, with any consistency, receive such an honor as dining at his table, and afterward send in a bill for playing two or three tunes in the evening." he was staggered; and asked, "what do you advise?" i said, "don't you think a present, in the shape of a ring, or a snuff-box, or something of that sort, with a short inscription, would be a more agreeable mode of settlement?" he seemed tickled by this suggestion, and closed with it at once. i dispatched the intelligence through the proper channel, that the violin and the _gran maestro_ would both be in attendance. he went in his very choicest mood, made himself extremely agreeable, played away, unsolicited, throughout the evening, to the delight of the whole party; and on the following morning, a gold snuff-box was duly presented to him, with a few complimentary words engraved on the lid. a year or two after this, when paganini was again in england, i thought another engagement might be productive, as his extraordinary attraction appeared still to increase. i wrote to him on the subject, and soon received a very courteous communication, to the effect, that, although he had not contemplated including ireland in his tour, yet he had been so impressed by the urbanity of the dublin public, and had, moreover, conceived such a personal esteem for my individual character, that he might be induced to alter his plans, at some inconvenience, provided always i could make him a more enticing proposal than the former one. i was here completely puzzled, as, on that occasion, i gave him a clear two-thirds of each receipt, with a bonus of £ per night, in addition, for two useless coadjutors. i replied, that having duly deliberated on his suggestion, and considered the terms of our last compact, i saw no possible means of placing the new one in a more alluring shape, except by offering him the entire produce of the engagement. after i had dispatched my letter, i repented bitterly, and was terrified lest he should think me serious, and hold me to the bargain; but he deigned no answer, and this time i escaped for the fright i had given myself. when in london, i called to see him, and met with a cordial reception; but he soon alluded to the late correspondence, and half seriously said, "that was a curious letter you wrote to me, and the joke with which you concluded it, by no means a good one." "oh," said i, laughing, "it would have been much worse if you had taken me at my word." he then laughed, too, and we parted excellent friends. i never saw him again. he returned to the continent, and died, having purchased the title of baron, with a patent of nobility, from some foreign potentate, which, with his accumulated earnings, somewhat dilapidated by gambling, he bequeathed to his only son. paganini was the founder of his school, and the original inventor of those extraordinary _tours de force_ with which all his successors and imitators are accustomed to astonish the uninitiated. but he still stands at the head of the list, although eminent names are included in it, and is not likely to be pushed from his pedestal. the household of sir tho^s more.[ ] libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelseiÆ inceptvs. "nulla dies sine linea." hearde mother say to barbara, "be sure the sirloin is well basted for y^e king's physician:" which avised me that dr. linacre was expected. in truth, he returned with father in y^e barge; and they tooke a turn on y^e river bank before sitting down to table; i noted them from my lattice; and anon, father, beckoning me, cries, "child, bring out my favorite treatyse on fisshynge, printed by wynkyn de worde; i must give the doctor my loved passage." joyning 'em with y^e book, i found father telling him of y^e roach, dace, chub, barbel, etc., we oft catch opposite y^e church; and hastilie turning over y^e leaves, he beginneth with unction to read y^e passage ensuing, which i love to y^e full as much as he:-- he observeth, if the angler's sport shoulde fail him, "he at y^e best hathe his holsom walk and mery at his ease, a swete ayre of the swete savour of y^e meade of flowers, that maketh him hungry; he heareth the melodious harmonie of fowles, he seeth y^e young swans herons, ducks, cotes, and manie other fowles, with theire broods, which me seemeth better than alle y^e noise of hounds, faukenors, and fowlers can make. and if the angler take fysshe, then there is noe man merrier than he is in his spryte." and, "ye shall not use this forsaid crafty disporte for no covetysnesse in the encreasing and sparing of your money onlie, but pryncipallie for your solace, and to cause the health of your bodie, and speciallie of your soule, for when ye purpose to goe on your disportes of fysshynge, ye will not desire greatlie manie persons with you, which woulde lett you of your game. and thenne ye may serve god devoutlie, in saying affectuouslie your customable prayer; and thus doing, ye shall eschew and voyd manie vices." "angling is itselfe a vice," cries erasmus from y^e thresholde; "for my part i will fish none, save and except for pickled oysters." "in the regions below," answers father; and then laughinglie tells linacre of his firste dialogue with erasmus, who had beene feasting in my lord mayor's cellar:--"'whence come you?' 'from below.' 'what were they about there?' 'eating live oysters, and drinking out of leather jacks.' 'either you are erasmus,' etc. 'either you are more or nothing.'" "'neither more nor less,' you should have rejoyned," sayth the doctor. "how i wish i had," says father; "don't torment me with a jest i might have made and did not make; 'speciallie to put downe erasmus." "concedo nulli," sayth erasmus. "why are you so lazy?" asks linacre; "i am sure you can speak english if you will." "soe far from it," sayth erasmus, "that i made my incapacitie an excuse for declining an english rectory. albeit, you know how wareham requited me; saying, in his kind, generous way, i served the church more by my pen than i coulde by preaching sermons in a countrie village." sayth linacre, "the archbishop hath made another remark, as much to y^e purpose: to wit, that he has received from you the immortalitie which emperors and kings cannot bestow." "they cannot even bid a smoking sirloin retain its heat an hour after it hath left the fire," sayth father. "tilly-vally! as my good alice says,--let us remember the universal doom, 'fruges consumere nati,' and philosophize over our ale and bracket." "not cambridge ale, neither," sayth erasmus. "will you never forget that unlucky beverage?" sayth father. "why, man, think how manie poore scholars there be, that content themselves, as i have hearde one of st. john's declare, with a penny piece of beef amongst four, stewed into pottage with a little salt and oatmeal; and that after fasting from four o'clock in the morning! say grace for us this daye, erasmus, with goode heart." at table, discourse flowed soe thicke and faste that i mighte aim in vayn to chronicle it--and why should i? dwelling as i doe at y^e fountayn head? onlie that i find pleasure, alreadie, in glancing over the foregoing pages whensoever they concern father and erasmus, and wish they were more faithfullie recalled and better writ. one thing sticks by me,--a funny reply of father's to a man who owed him money and who put him off with "memento morieris." "i bid you," retorted father, "memento mori Æris, and i wish you woulde take as goode care to provide for y^e one as i do for the other." linacre laughed much at this, and sayd,--"that was real wit; a spark struck at the moment; and with noe ill-nature in it, for i am sure your debtor coulde not help laughing." "not he," quoth erasmus. "more's drollerie is like that of a young gentlewoman of his name, which shines without burning." ... and, oddlie enow, he looked acrosse at _me_. i am sure he meant bess. father broughte home a strange gueste to-daye,--a converted jew, with grizzlie beard, furred gown, and eyes that shone like lamps lit in dark cavernes. he had beene to benmarine and tremeçen, to y^e holie citie and to damascus, to urmia and assyria, and i think alle over y^e knowne world; and tolde us manie strange tales, one hardlie knew how to believe; as, for example, of a sea-coast tribe, called y^e balouches, who live on fish and build theire dwellings of the bones. alsoe, of a race of his countrie-men beyond euphrates who believe in christ, but know nothing of y^e pope; and of whom were y^e magians y^t followed y^e star. this agreeth not with our legend. he averred that, though soe far apart from theire brethren, theire speech was y^e same, and even theire songs; and he sang or chaunted one which he sayd was common among y^e jews alle over y^e world, and had beene so ever since theire citie was ruinated and y^e people captivated, and yet it was never sett down by note. erasmus, who knows little or nought of hebrew, listened to y^e words with curiositie, and made him repeate them twice or thrice: and though i know not y^e character, it seemed to me they sounded thus:-- adir hu yivne bethcha beccaro, el, b'ne; el, b'ne; el, b'ne; bethcha beccaro. though christianish, he woulde not eat pig's face; and sayd swine's flesh was forbidden by y^e hebrew law for its unwholesomenesse in hot countries and hot weather, rather than by way of arbitrarie prohibition. daisy took a great dislike to this man, and woulde not sit next him. in the hay-field alle y^e evening. swathed father in a hay-rope, and made him pay y^e fine, which he pretended to resist. cecy was just about to cast one round erasmus, when her heart failed and she ran away, colouring to y^e eyes. he sayd, he never saw such pretty shame. father reclining on y^e hay, with head on my lap and his eyes shut, bess asked if he were asleep. he made answer, "yes, and dreaming." i askt, "of what?" "of a far-off future daye, meg; when thou and i shall looke back on this hour, and this hay-field, and my head on thy lap." "nay, but what a stupid dream, mr. more," says mother. "why, what woulde _you_ dreame of, mrs. alice?" "forsooth, if i dreamed at alle, when i was wide awake, it shoulde be of being lord chancellor at y^e leaste." "well, wife, i forgive thee for not saying at the _most_. lord chancellor quotha! and you woulde be dame alice, i trow, and ride in a whirlecote, and keep a spanish jennet, and a couple of grey hounds, and wear a train before and behind, and carry a jerfalcon on your fist." "on my wrist." "no, that's not such a pretty word as t'other! go to, go!" straying from y^e others, to a remote corner of the meadow, or ever i was aware, i came close upon gammer gurney, holding somewhat with much care. "give ye good den, mistress meg," quoth she, "i cannot abear to rob y^e birds of theire nests; but i knows you and yours be kind to dumb creatures, soe here's a nest o' young owzels for ye--and i can't call 'em dumb nowther, for they'll sing bravelie some o' these days." "how hast fared, of late, gammer?" quoth i. "why, well enow for such as i," she made answer; "since i lost y^e use o' my right hand, i can nowther spin, nor nurse sick folk, but i pulls rushes, and that brings me a few pence, and i be a good herbalist; and, because i says one or two english prayers and hates y^e priests, some folks thinks me a witch." "but why dost hate y^e priests?" quoth i. "never you mind," she gave answer, "i've reasons manie; and for my english prayers, they were taught me by a gentleman i nursed, that's now a saint in heaven, along with poor joan." and soe she hobbled off, and i felt kindlie towards her, i scarce knew why--perhaps because she spake soe lovingly of her dead sister, and because of that sister's name. _my_ mother's name was joan. * * * * * erasmus is gone. his last saying to father was, "they will have you at court yet;" and father's answer, "when plato's year comes round." to me he gave a copy, how precious! of his testament. "you are an elegant latinist, margaret," he was pleased to say, "but, if you woulde drink deeplie of y^e well-springs of wisdom, applie to greek. the latins have onlie shallow rivulets; the greeks, copious rivers, running over sands of gold. read plato; he wrote on marble, with a diamond; but above alle, read y^e new testament. 'tis the key to the kingdom of heaven." to mr. gunnel, he said, smiling, "have a care of thyself, dear gonellus, and take a little wine for thy stomach's sake. the wages of most scholars nowadays, are weak eyes, ill-health, an empty purse, and shorte commons. i neede only bid thee beware of the two first." to bess, "farewell, bessy; thank you for mending my bad latin. when i write to you, i will be sure to signe myselfe 'roterodamius.' farewell, sweete, cecil; let me always continue your 'desired amiable.' and you, jacky,--love your book a little more." "jack's deare mother, not content with her girls," sayth father, "was alwaies wishing for a boy, and at last she had one that means to remain a boy alle his life." "the dutch schoolmasters thoughte _me_ dulle and heavie," sayth erasmus, "soe there is some hope of jacky yet." and soe, stepped into y^e barge, which we watched to chelsea reach. how dulle the house has beene ever since! rupert and william have had me into y^e pavillion to hear y^e plot of a miracle-play they have alreadie begunne to talk over for christmasse, but it seemed to me downrighte rubbish. father sleeps in towne to-nighte, soe we shall be stupid enow. bessy hath undertaken to work father a slipper for his tender foot; and is happie, tracing for y^e pattern our three moor-cocks and colts; but i am idle and tiresome. if i had paper, i woulde beginne my projected _opus_; but i dare not ask gunnel for anie more just yet; nor have anie money to buy some. i wish i had a couple of angels. i think i shall write to father for them to-morrow; he alwaies likes to heare from us if he is twenty-four hours absent, providing we conclude not with "i have nothing more to say." * * * * * i have writ my letter to father. i almoste wish, now, that i had not sent it. rupert and will still full of theire moralitie, which reallie has some fun in it. to ridicule y^e extravagance of those who, as the saying is, carry theire farms and fields on theire backs, william proposes to come in, all verdant, with a reall model of a farm on his back and a windmill on his head. * * * * * how sweete, how gracious an answer from father! john harris has broughte me with it y^e two angels; less prized than this epistle. * * * * * july . sixteenth birthdaye. father away, which made it sadde. mother gave me a payr of blue hosen with silk clocks; mr. gunnel, an ivorie handled stylus; bess, a bodkin for my hair; daisy, a book-mark; mercy, a saffron cake; jack, a basket; and cecil, a nosegay. william's present was fayrest of alle, but i am hurte with him and myselfe: for he offered it soe queerlie and tagged it with such.... i refused it, and there's an end. 'twas unmannerlie and unkinde of me, and i've cried aboute it since. father alwaies gives us a birthdaye treat; soe, contrived that mother shoulde take us to see my lord cardinal of york goe to westminster in state. we had a merrie water-party; got goode places and saw the show; crosse-bearers, pillar-bearers, ushers and alle. himselfe in crimson engrayned sattin, and tippet of sables, with an orange in his hand helde to 's nose, as though y^e common ayr were too vile to breathe. what a pompous priest it is! the archbishop mighte well say, "that man is drunk with too much prosperitie." between dinner and supper, we had a fine skirmish in y^e straits of thermopylæ. mr. gunnel headed the persians, and will was leonidas, with a swashing buckler, and a helmet a yard high; but mr. gunnel gave him such a rap on the crest that it went over y^e wall; soe then william thought there was nothing left for him but to die. howbeit, as he had beene layd low sooner than he had reckoned on, he prolonged his last agonies a goode deal, and gave one of y^e persians a tremendous kick just as they were aboute to rifle his pouch. they therefore thoughte there must be somewhat in it they shoulde like to see; soe, helde him down in spite of his hitting righte and lefte, and pulled therefrom, among sundrie lesser matters, a carnation knot of mine. poor varlet, i wish he would not be so stupid.... after supper, mother proposed a concert; and we were alle singing a rounde, when, looking up, i saw father standing in y^e door-way, with such a happy smile on his face! he was close behind rupert and daisy, who were singing from y^e same book, and advertised them of his coming by gentlie knocking theire heads together; but i had the firste kiss, even before mother, because of my birthdaye. * * * * * it turns out that father's lateness yester-even was caused by press of businesse; a forayn mission having beene proposed to him, which he resisted as long as he could, but was at lengthe reluctantlie induced to accept. length of his stay uncertayn, which casts a gloom on alle; but there is soe much to doe as to leave little time to think, and father is busiest of alle; yet hath founde leisure to concert with mother for us a journey into y^e country, which will occupy some of y^e weeks of his absence. i am full of carefulle thoughts and forebodings, being naturallie of too anxious a disposition. oh, let me caste alle my cares on another! fecisti nos ad te, domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te. * * * * * 'tis soe manie months agone since that i made an entry in my libellus, as that my motto--"nulla dies sine linea--," hath somewhat of sarcasm in it. how manie things doe i beginne and leave unfinisht! and yet, less from caprice than lack of strength; like him of whom y^e scripture was writ--"this man beganne to build and was not able to finish." my _opus_, for instance; the which my father's prolonged absence in y^e autumn and my winter visitt to aunt nan and aunt fan gave me such leisure to carrie forward. but alack! leisure was less to seeke than learninge; and when i came back to mine olde taskes, leisure was awanting too; and then, by reason of my sleeping in a separate chamber, i was enabled to steale hours from y^e earlie morn and hours from y^e night, and, like unto solomon's virtuous woman, my candle went not out. but 'twas not to purpose y^t i worked, like y^e virtuous woman, for i was following a jack-o-lantern; having forsooke y^e straight path laid downe by erasmus for a foolish path of mine owne; and soe i toyled, and blundered, and puzzled, and was mazed; and then came on that payn in my head. father sayd, "what makes meg soe pale!" and i sayd not: and, at y^e last, i tolde mother there was somewhat throbbing and twisting in y^e back of mine head like unto a little worm that woulde not die; and she made answer, "ah, a maggot," and soe by her scoff i was shamed. then i gave over mine opus, but y^e payn did not yet goe; soe then i was longing for y^e deare pleasure, and fondlie turning over y^e leaves, and wondering woulde father be surprised and pleased with it some daye, when father himself came in or ever i was aware. he sayth, "what hast thou, meg?" i faltered and would sett it aside. he sayth, "nay, let me see;" and soe takes it from me; and after y^e firste glance throws himself into a seat, his back to me, and firste runs it hastilie through, then beginnes with methode and such silence and gravitie as that i trembled at his side, and felt what it must be to stand a prisoner at the bar, and he y^e judge. sometimes i thought he must be pleased, at others not: at lengthe, alle my fond hopes were ended by his crying, "this will never doe. poor wretch, hath this then beene thy toyl? how couldst find time for soe much labor? for here hath been trouble enow and to spare. thou must have stolen it, sweet meg, from the night, and prevented y^e morning watch. most dear'st! thy father's owne loved child;" and soe, caressing me till i gave over my shame and disappointment. "i neede not to tell thee, meg," father sayth, "of y^e unprofitable labour of sisyphus, nor of drawing water in a sieve. there are some things, most deare one, that a woman, if she trieth, may doe as well as a man; and some she can not, and some she had better not. now, i tell thee firmlie, since y^e first payn is y^e leaste sharpe, that, despite y^e spiritt and genius herein shewn, i am avised 'tis work thou canst not and work thou hadst better not doe. but judge for thyselfe; if thou wilt persist, thou shalt have leisure and quiet, and a chamber in my new building, and alle y^e help my gallery of books may afford. but thy father says, forbear." soe, what could i say, but "my father shall never speak to me in vayn!" then he gathered y^e papers up and sayd, "then i shall take temptation out of your way;" and pressing 'em to his heart as he did soe, sayth, "they are as deare to me as they can be to you;" and soe left me, looking out as though i noted (but i noted not), the clear-shining thames. 'twas twilighte, and i stoode there i know not how long, alone and lonely; with tears coming, i knew not why, into mine eyes. there was a weight in y^e ayr, as of coming thunder; the screaming, ever and anon, of juno and argus, inclined me to mellancholie, as it alwaies does: and at length i beganne to note y^e moon rising, and y^e deepening clearnesse of y^e water, and y^e lazy motion of y^e barges, and y^e flashes of light whene'er y^e rowers dipt theire oars. and then i beganne to attend to y^e cries and different sounds from acrosse y^e water, and y^e tolling of a distant bell; and i felle back on mine olde heart-sighinge, "fecisti nos ad te, domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te." or ever the week was gone, my father had contrived for me another journey to new hall, to abide with the lay nuns, as he calleth them, aunt nan and aunt fan, whom my step-mother loveth not, but whom i love and whom father loveth. indeede, 'tis sayd in essex that at first he inclined to aunt nan rather than to my mother; but that, perceiving my mother affected his companie and aunt nan affected it not, he diverted his hesitating affections unto her and took her to wife. albeit, aunt nan loveth him dearlie as a sister ought: indeed, she loveth alle, except, methinketh, herself, to whom, alone, she is rigid and severe. how holie are my aunts' lives! cloistered nuns could not be more pure, and could scarce be as usefulle. though wise, they can be gay; though noe longer young, they love the young. and theire reward is, the young love them; and i am fulle sure, in this world they seeke noe better. returned to chelsea, i spake much in prayse of mine aunts, and of single life. on a certayn evening, we maids were sett at our needles and samplers on y^e pavillion steps; and, as follie will out, 'gan talk of what we would fayn have to our lots, shoulde a good fairie starte up and grant eache a wish. daisy was for a countess's degree, with hawks and hounds. bess was for founding a college, mercy a hospital, and she spake soe experimentallie of its conditions that i was fayn to goe partners with her in the same. cecy commenced "supposing i were married; if once that i were married"--on which, father, who had come up unperceived, burst out laughing and sayth, "well, dame cecily, and what state would you keep?" howbeit as he and i afterwards paced together, juxta fluvium, he did say, "mercy hath well propounded the conditions of an hospital or alms-house for aged and sick folk, and 'tis a fantasie of mine to sett even such an one afoot, and give you the conduct of the same." from this careless speech, dropped, as 'twere, by y^e way, hath sprung mine house of refuge! and oh, what pleasure have i derived from it! how good is my father! how the poor bless him! and how kind is he, through them, to me! laying his hand kindly on my shoulder, this morning, he sayd, "meg, how fares it with thee now? have i cured the payn in thy head?" then, putting the house-key into mine hand, he laughingly added, "'tis now yours, my joy, by livery and seisin." * * * * * aug. . i wish william w^d give me back my testament. tis one thing to steal a knot or a posie, and another to borrow y^e most valuable book in y^e house and keep it week after week. he soughte it with a kind of mysterie, soe as that i forbeare to ask it of him in companie, lest i s^d doe him an ill turn; and yet i have none other occasion. the emperor, the king of france, and cardinal ximenes are alle striving which shall have erasmus, and alle in vayn. he hath refused a professor's chayr at louvain, and a sicilian bishoprick. e'en thus it was with him when he was here this spring--the queen w^d have had him for her preceptor, the king and cardinal prest on him a royall apartment and salarie, oxford and cambridge contended for him, but his saying was, "alle these i value less than my libertie, my studdies, and my literarie toyls." how much greater is he than those who woulde confer on him greatness! noe man of letters hath equall reputation or is soe much courted. * * * * * yestereven, after overlooking the men playing at loggats, father and i strayed away along thermopylæ into y^e home-field; and as we sauntered together under the elms, he sayth with a sigh, "jack, is jack, and no more ... he will never be any thing. an' 'twere not for my beloved wenches, i should be an unhappy father. but what though!--my meg is better unto me than ten sons; and it maketh no difference at harvest time whether our corn were put into the ground by a man or a woman." while i was turning in my mind what excuse i might make for john, father taketh me at unawares by a sudden change of subject; saying, "come, tell me, meg, why canst not affect will roper?" i was a good while silent, at length made answer, "he is so unlike alle i esteem and admire ... so unlike alle i have been taught to esteem and admire by you."-- "have at you," he returned laughing, "i knew not i had been sharpening weapons agaynst myself. true he is neither achilles nor hector, nor even paris, but yet well enough, meseems, as times go--smarter and comelier than either heron or dancey." i, faltering, made answer, "good looks affect me but little--'tis in his better part i feel the want. he can not ... discourse, for instance, to one's mind and soul, like unto you, dear father, or erasmus." "i should marvel if he could," returned father gravelie, "thou art mad, my daughter, to look, in a youth of will's years, for the mind of a man of forty or fifty. what were erasmus and i, dost thou suppose, at will's age? alas, meg, i should not like you to know what i was! men called me the boy-sage, and i know not what, but in my heart and head was a world of sin and folly. thou mightst as well expect will to have my hair, eyes, and teeth, alle getting y^e worse for wear, as to have the fruits of my life-long experience, in some cases full dearly bought. take him for what he is, match him by the young minds of his owne standing: consider how long and closelie we have known him. his parts are, surelie, not amiss: he hath more book-lore than dancey, more mother wit than allington." "but why need i to concern myself about him?" i exclaymed, "will is very well in his way: why s^d we cross each other's paths? i am young, i have much to learn, i love my studdies--why interrupt them with other and lesse wise thoughts?" "because nothing can be wise that is not practical," returned father, "and i teach my children philosophie to fitt them for living in y^e world, not above it. one may spend a life in dreaming over plato, and yet goe out of it without leaving y^e world a whit y^e better for our having made part of it. 'tis to little purpose we studdy, if it onlie makes us look for perfections in others which they may in vayn seek for in ourselves. it is not even necessary or goode for us to live entirelie with congeniall spiritts. the vigourous tempers the inert, the passionate is evened by the cool-tempered, the prosaic balances the visionarie. woulde thy mother suit me better, dost thou suppose, if she coulde discuss polemicks like luther or melancthon? e'en thine owne sweet mother, meg, was less affected to study than thou art--she learnt to love it for my sake, but i made her what she was." and, with a suddain burste of fond recollection, he hid his eyes on my shoulder, and for a moment or soe, cried bitterlie. as for me, i shed, oh! such salt teares!... footnote: [ ] continued from the may number. the pearl-divers. at the commencement of the last year's fishery, there was a man whom, go wherever i would, i was always certain to meet. like myself, he was a diver, and like myself moreover, he pretended to have no surname, but went simply by the name of rafael. at the cleansing-trough, beneath the surface of the sea, no matter where it was, we were always thrown together, so that we quickly became intimate; and his remarkable skill as a diver had inspired me with considerable esteem for him. alike courageous as skillful, he snapped his fingers at the sharks, declaring his power to intimidate them by a particular expression of the eye. in fine, he was a fearless diver, an industrious workman, and, above all, a most jovial comrade. matters went smoothly enough between us, till the day when a girl and her mother took up their abode at the island espiritu sante.[ ] some business that i had to transact with the dealers in this island afforded me an opportunity of seeing her. i fell desperately in love; and as i enjoyed a certain amount of reputation, neither she nor her mother looked with an unfavorable eye on my suit or my presents. when the day's work was over, and every body supposed me asleep in my hut, i swam across to the island, whence i returned about an hour after midnight without my absence being at all surmised. some days had elapsed since my first nocturnal visit to espiritu sante, when, as i was one morning going to the fishery just before daybreak, i met one of those old crones who pretend to be able to charm the sharks by their spells. she was seated near my hut, and appeared to be watching my arrival. as she perceived me, she exclaimed, "how fares it with my son, josé juan?" "good morning, mother!" i replied, and was passing on, when she approached me, and said, "listen to me, josé juan; i have to speak to you of that which nearly concerns you." "nearly concerns me!" i repeated, in great surprise. "yes. do you deny that your heart is in the island of espiritu sante, or that you cross the strait every night to see and converse with her on whom you have bestowed your love?" "how know you that?" "no matter; i know it well. josé juan, for you this voyage is fraught with a twofold peril. the foes whom my charms can hold harmless during the day only lie in wait for you each night beneath the waves; on the shore, foes more dangerous still, and over whom my arts are powerless, dog your steps. i come to offer you my aid to combat these double dangers." my only answer was by a loud laugh of contempt. the old indian's eyes sparkled with fiendish fury as she exclaimed, "and because you are without faith, you deem me without power? be it so; there are those who believe in the influence you but scoff at." as she spoke, she drew from her pocket a little case of printed cloth, and producing amid pearls of inferior value one of a large size and brilliant water, she replied, "know you aught of this?" it was one i had given to jesusita; for such was the girl's name. "how came you by it?" cried i. the witch gave me a look of hatred. "how came i by it? why, 'twas given me by a damsel the fairest that ever set foot on these shores; a damsel who would be the glory and happiness of a young man, and who came to crave my protection--that protection you hold so cheap--for one she fondly loves." "his name!" i exclaimed, with a fearful sinking at my heart. "what matters it," jeeringly returned the hag, "since _his_ name is not the one you bear?" i hardly know how i resisted the impulse to crush the cursed witch beneath my feet; but after a moment's reflection, i turned my back to her that she might not read in my face the anguish of my soul, and coolly saying, "you are a lying old dotard," i walked on to the fishery. on the evening of that day, which seemed as if it would never close, i went as usual to jesusita, and the welcome she gave me soon dispelled all lurking suspicions. i felt no doubt but that the old woman, in resentment of my contemptuous treatment, had purposely deceived me as to the name of him for whom jesusita had craved that protection which i had despised. i had utterly forgotten my scene with the witch, when, one night, i was as usual crossing the strait on my return home. the sky was dark and lowering, yet not so cloudy but that i could distinguish amid the waves something which, from its manner of swimming, i could make out to be a man. the object was alongside of me. the old crone's words rushed upon my memory, and i felt a thrill of agony convulse my frame. for an enemy i cared but little; the idea that i had a rival unnerved me at once. i determined to ascertain who the unknown might be; and not wishing to be seen, i swam under water in his direction. when, according to my calculation, we must have crossed each other, he above and i below the surface, i rose above water. the blood had rushed to my head with such violence as to render me unable for some time to distinguish aught amidst the darkness beyond the phosphorescent light that played upon the crest of the waves; unerring signs of a coming storm. nevertheless, i held on my course in the direction of espiritu sante. some few minutes elapsed ere i again beheld the swimmer's head. he clove the waves with such rapidity that i could scarce keep pace with him. but one alone among all i knew could vie with me in swiftness; i redoubled my efforts, and soon gained so much on him as obliged me to strike out less quickly. in short, i saw him land upon a rock and ascend it; and as a flash of lightning played upon sea and shore, i recognized the face of rafael. here, as elsewhere, were we doomed to cross each other's path. a feeling of hatred, deadly and intense, was busy at my heart, and methought it were well we met but once again. however, we were destined to meet on one more occasion than i had reckoned upon. at first i determined upon calling him by name and discovering my presence; but there are moments in one's life when our actions refuse to second the will. spite of myself, i suffered him to pursue his way, while i gained the eminence he had just quitted. thence was it easy for me to watch his course. i observed him take the same direction i was so wont to take, then knock at the door of that hut i knew so well. he entered, and disappeared. i fancied for one moment i heard, borne along the howling of the gale, the old witch's scoffing laugh as she croaked out, "what matters it to you, since _his_ name is not the one you bear?" and, looming amid the darkness, methought i saw her shriveled and withered arm stretched out in the direction of jesusita's dwelling; and i rushed forward, knife in hand. a few strides, and i stood before the door, and stooped down to listen; but i heard naught beyond indistinct murmurings. i had now partially recovered my _sang-froid_, and bent my whole thoughts upon revenge. i drew my knife, and passed it along a stone to assure its edge; but i did so with such carelessness or agitation that it shivered to the hilt. thus deprived of the sole weapon that i could rely upon for my revenge, i felt that i had not an instant to lose. i ran in all haste to the beach, and unmoored a boat that lay alongside. my rage renewed my energies: i crossed the strait, rushed to my hut, procured another knife, and again set out to espiritu sante. the gale increased in violence. the sea gleamed like a fiery lake. the gavista's[ ] wailing cry re-echoed along the rocks; the sea-wolf's howl was heard amid the darkness. all at once sounds of another kind broke upon my ear: they seemed to proceed from the very bosom of the ocean. i listened; but a sudden squall overpowered the confused murmurings of the waves, and i fancied my senses had deceived me, when, some seconds afterward, the cry was repeated. this time i was not mistaken: the cry i heard was that of a human being in the very extremity of anguish and despair. as the voice proceeded from the direction of the island, i at once conjectured it was rafael who was calling for help. i looked out, but looked in vain; the obscurity was too thick, and i could distinguish nothing. suddenly, i again heard the voice exclaim, "boat ahoy, for god's blessed sake!" it was rafael's voice. 'tis all very well to have sworn to do your enemy to death, to wreak your just revenge on him who has so bitterly aggrieved you; yet when, on a night murky and dark as that his tones arise from forth a sea swarming with monsters, and when those tones are uttered by a fearless man, and, albeit, wrestling in mortal peril, there is in that cry of last anguish somewhat that strikes awe to the very soul. i could not repress a shudder. but my emotion was of short duration. i heard the sounds of a strong arm buffeting the waves, and i rowed in that direction. amidst a luminous shower of spray and foam i discovered rafael. singular enough, instead of availing himself of his strength to gain the boat, he remained stationary. i quickly perceived the cause. at some distance from him, a little below the surface of the water, there was a strong phosphoric light; this light was slowly making way toward rafael. right well i knew what that light portended; it streamed from a _tintorera_[ ] of the largest size. one stroke of the oar, and i was close to rafael: he uttered a cry as he perceived me, but was too much exhausted to speak. he seized the gunwale of the boat by an effort of despair, but his arms were too wearied to enable him to raise his body. his eyes, though glazed with fear, yet bore so expressive a glance as they encountered mine, that i seized his hands in my own, and pressed them forcibly against the sides of the boat. the _tintorera_ still gradually advanced. for a moment, but one brief moment, rafael's legs hung motionless; he uttered a piercing shriek, his eyes closed, his hands let loose their hold, and the upper part of his body fell back into the sea. the shark had bitten him in two. ay! i might, perchance, have grasped his limbs too firmly in mine, possibly i prevented him from getting into the boat, but my knife was innocent of his blood; besides, was he not my rival--perchance my successful rival? however, scarcely had he disappeared than i plunged after him; for although the _tintorera_ had ridded me of a hated foe, still i bore it a grudge for its brutal proceedings in thus summarily disposing of poor rafael. besides, the honor of the corporation of divers was at stake. having once tasted human flesh, the shark would doubtless attack us in turn. well, nothing so much excites the ferocity of the _tintorera_ as such tempestuous nights as the one that bore its silent testimony to my rival's fate. a viscous substance that oozes from porous holes around the monster's mouth diffuses itself over the surface of the skin, rendering them as luminous as fire-flies, and this particularly during a thunderstorm. this luminous appearance is the more visible in proportion to the darkness of the night. by a merciful dispensation of nature, they are almost unable to see; so that the silent swimmer has at least one advantage over them. moreover, they can not seize their prey without turning on their backs; so that it is not difficult to imagine that a courageous man and a skillful swimmer has some chances in his favor. i dived to no great depth, in order to husband my wind, and also to cast a hasty glance above, beneath, and around me. the waves roared above my head, loud as a crash of thunder; fiery flakes of water drove around like dust before the winds of march; but in my immediate vicinity all was calm. a black and shapeless mass struck against me as i lay suspended in my billowy recess; 'twas all that was left of rafael. surely it was written in the book of doom that i should always find that man in my path. i surmised that the brute i was in quest of would be at no great distance, for the fiery streak i had perceived waxed larger and larger. the _tintorera_ and myself must, i inferred, be at equal depths; but the shark was preparing to rise. my breath began to fail, and i was unwilling to allow the monster to get above me, as then he could have made me share rafael's fate without troubling himself to turn on his back. my hopes of obtaining the victory over it depended upon the time it required to execute this manoeuvre. the _tintorera_ swam diagonally toward me with such rapidity that at one time i was near enough to distinguish the membrane that half-covered its eyes, and to feel its dusky fins graze my body. gobbets of human flesh still clung around the lower jaw. the monster gazed on me with its dim, glassy eye. my head had that moment attained the level of its own. i drank in the air with a gurgle i could not suppress, and struck out a lusty stroke in a parallel direction and turned round: well for me i did so. the moon lighted up for a single instant the whitish-gray colored belly of the _tintorera_--that instant was enough for as it opened its enormous mouth, bristling with its double row of long pointed teeth, i plunged the dagger i had reserved for rafael into its body, and drew it lengthwise forth. the _tintorera_, mortally wounded, sprung several feet out of the water, and fell striking out furiously with its tail, which fortunately did not reach me. for a space i struggled, half blinded by the crimson foam that beat against my face; but as i beheld the huge carcass of the enemy floating a lifeless mass upon the surface, i gave vent to a triumphant shout, which, spite of the storm, might be heard on either coast. day-light began to dawn as i gained the shore, in a state of utter exhaustion from the exertion i had undergone. the fishermen were raising their nets, and, as i arrived, the tide washed upon the coast the _tintorera_ and rafael's ghastly remains. it was soon spread abroad that i had endeavored to rescue my friend from his horrible fate, and my heroic conduct was lauded to the echo. but one person, and one alone, suspected the truth--that person is now my wife. footnotes: [ ] island in the gulf of california, famous for the quantity of oyster-beds and the quality of the pearls. [ ] seamew. [ ] species of shark most especially dreaded by divers for pearls, whose intrepidity is such that they fearlessly attack all other species. phantoms and realities.--an autobiography.[ ] part the second--noon. ix. things happen in the world every day which appear incredible on paper. individuals may secretly acknowledge to themselves the likelihood of such things, but the bulk of mankind feel it necessary to treat them openly with skepticism and ridicule. the real is sometimes too real for the line and plummet of the established criticism. it is the province of art to avoid these exceptional incidents, or to modify and adapt them so that they shall appear to harmonize with universal humanity. hence it is that fiction is often more truthful than biography; and it is obvious enough that it ought to be so, if it deal only with materials that are reconcilable with the general experience. but i am not amenable to the canons of art. i am not writing fiction. i am relating facts; and if they should appear unreasonable or improbable, i appeal, for their vindication, to the candor of the reader. every man, if he looks back into the vicissitudes of his life, will find passages which would be pronounced pure exaggeration and extravagance in a novel. when i met astræa the next morning, i could perceive those traces of deep anxiety which recent circumstances had naturally left behind, and which the flush and excitement of the preceding evening had concealed. she was very pale and nervous. she felt that the moment had come when all disguises between us must end forever, and she trembled on the verge of disclosures that visibly shook her fortitude. the day was calm and breathless. scarcely a leaf stirred in the trees, and the long shadows slept without a ruffle on the turf. the stillness of the place contrasted strangely with the tempest of emotions that was raging in my heart. i longed to get into the air. i felt the house stifling, and thought that i should breathe more freely among the branches of the little wood that looked so green and cool down by the margin of the stream. there was a rustic seat there under a canopy of drooping boughs, close upon the water and the bridge, where we could enjoy the luxury of perfect solitude. requesting her to follow me, i went alone into the wood. the interval seemed to me long before she came; and when she did come, she was paler and more agitated than before. i tried to give her confidence by repeated protestations of my devotion; and as she seemed to gather courage from the earnestness of my language, i again and again renewed the pledges which bound me to her, at any risk our position might demand. "it is that," she exclaimed, "which gives me hope and comfort. you have had time to reflect on these pledges, and weigh the consequences they involve, and you now repeat them to me with an ardor which i should do you a great wrong to doubt. i entirely trust to you. if i am deceived, i will try still to be just, and hardly blame you so much as the world, which few men can relinquish for love." there was a pause, during which she gradually recovered her self-composure. i felt that these expressions gave me a nobler motive for surrendering every thing for her sake. she seemed to make me a hero by the penalties my devotion enforced upon me; and i was eager to prove myself capable of the most heroic sacrifices. in the abyss of an overwhelming passion, where reason is imprisoned by the senses, every man is willing to be a martyr. "you have required of me, astræa," said i, "no, not required; but you have placed before me the possibility of sufferings and trials resulting from our union--loss of friends, the surrender of many things that enter into the ordinary scheme of married life, and that are considered by the world indispensable to its happiness. i am ready to relinquish them all. i have looked for this end. i know not why it should be so, nor does it give me a moment's concern. i only know that i love you passionately, and that life is desolation to me without you. let us therefore have no further delay. all impediments are now out of our path. we have our destinies in our own hands. let us knit them into one, and disappoint the scandal and malignity which, from that hour, can exercise no further influence over us." "you spoke," returned astræa, looking with a calm, clear gaze into my face, as if she penetrated my soul, "you spoke of married life." the question surprised me. it was her look more than her words that conveyed a meaning, indistinct, but full of terrible suggestions. it was a key to a thousand painful conjectures, which flashed upon me in an instant, leaving confusion and giddiness behind, and nothing certain but the fear of what was to follow. i could not answer her; or, rather, did not know how to answer her, and merely tried to reassure her with a smile, which i felt was hollow and unnatural. "one word," she proceeded, in the same tone, "must dispel that dream forever. it is not for us that serene life you speak of. it is not for me. our destinies, if they be knit together, must be cemented by our own hands, not at the altar in the church, but in the sight of heaven--a bond more solemn, and imposing a more sacred obligation." i will not attempt to describe the effect of these expressions. a cold dew crept over my body, and i felt as if a paralysis had struck my senses. yet at the same moment, and while she was speaking so quietly and deliberately, and uttering words, under the heavy weight of which the fabric i had reared in my imagination crumbled down, and fell with a crash that smote my brain--a crowd of memories came upon me--isolated words and gestures, the dark allusions of the dwarf, and the warnings of astræa herself--a crowd of things that were all dark before were now lighted up. as the stream of electricity flies along the chain, traversing link after link and mile after mile, with a rapidity that baffles calculation, so my thoughts flashed over every incident of the past. i now understood it all--the mystery that lay buried in astræa's words and abstractions--the vacant heart--the hope that looked out from her eyes, and then fled back to be quenched in silent despair--her yearnings for solitude and repose--the devotional spirit that, blighted in the world, and condemned to be shut out from seeking happiness in social conventions, had fallen back upon its own lonely strength, and made to itself a faith of passion! it was all plain to me now. but there were explanations yet to come. "astræa!" i cried, hoarsely, and i felt the echoes of the name moaning through the trees. "astræa! what is the meaning of these dreadful words? have you not pledged your faith to me?" "irrevocably!" she returned. "then what new impediment has arisen to our union?" "none that has not existed all along. have you not seen it darkening every hour of our intercourse? have you not understood it in the fear that has given such intensity to feelings which, had all been open before us, would have been calm and unperturbed?--that has imparted to love, otherwise sweet and tranquil, the wild ardor of obstructed passion? your instincts must have told you, had you allowed yourself a moment of reflection, that the woman who consents to immolate her pride, her delicacy, her fame, for the man she loves, must be fettered by ties which leave her no alternative between him and the world. why am i here alone with you?" this was not said in a tone of reproach, but it sounded like reproach, and wounded me. it was all true. i ought to have understood that suffering of her soul which, now that the clouds were rolling back from before my eyes, had become all at once intelligible. but to be surprised into such a discovery, to have misunderstood her unspoken agonies and sacrifices, jarred upon me, and made me feel as if my nature were not lofty enough to comprehend, by its own unassisted sympathies, the grandeur of her character. i imagined myself humiliated in her presence, and this consideration was paramount, for the moment, over all others. it stripped my devotion of all claim to a heroism kindred to her own, and deprived me of the only merit that could render me worthy of her love. yet in the midst of this conflict, other thoughts came flooding upon me; and voices from the world i was about to relinquish for her rung like a knell upon my ears. there were still explanations to come that might afford me some refuge from these tortures. "yes, astræa, i was conscious of some obstruction; but how could i divine what it was? even now i must confess myself bewildered. but as all necessity for further reserve is at an end, you will be candid and explicit with me. what is the impediment that stands in the way of our union?" i did not intend it, but i was aware, while i was speaking, that there was ice in my voice, and that the words issued from my lips as if they were frozen. "you mean," she replied, coldly, but in a tone that conveyed a feeling of rising scorn, "you mean our marriage?" "certainly." "i never can be your wife." as i had anticipated some such statement, i ought not to have betrayed the amazement with which i looked at her; but it was involuntary. i did not ask her to go on; seeing, however, that i expected it, she added, "i am the wife of another!" i started from my seat, and, in a paroxysm of frenzy, paced up and down before her. i did not exclaim aloud, "you have deceived me!" but my flashing eyes and flushed brow expressed it more eloquently than language. she bore this in silence for a few minutes, and then addressed me again, "i said i would try not to blame you. i blame only myself. like all men, you are strong in protestations, and feeble, timid, and vacillating in action. you are thinking now of the world, which only last night you so courageously despised. a few hours ago, you believed yourself so superior to the common weaknesses of your sex, that you were ready to make the most heroic sacrifices. what has become of that vehement resolution, that brave self-reliance? vanished on the instant you are put to the proof. believe me, you have miscalculated your own nature--all men do in such cases. a woman whose heart is her life, and who shrinks in terror from all other conflicts, is alone equal to such a struggle as this. the world is your proper sphere; do not deceive yourself. you could not sustain isolation; you would be forever looking back, as you are at this moment, for the consolations and support you had abandoned." "no, astræa!" i exclaimed; "you wrong me. my resolution is unchanged; but you must allow something for the suddenness--the shock--" "i give you credit," she resumed, "for the best intentions. it is not your fault that habit and a constitutional acquiescence in it have left you no power over your will in great emergencies. you are what the world has made you; and you should be thankful that you have found it out in time. for me, what does it matter? by coming here, i have violated obligations for which society will hold me accountable, though they pressed like prison-bars upon me, lacerating and corroding my soul. it will admit no excuse for their abandonment in the unutterable misery they entailed. i am as guilty by this one step as if i had plunged into the depths of crime. the world does not recognize the doctrine that the real crime is in the admission of the first disloyal thought; it only looks to appearances which i have outraged. i have compromised myself beyond redemption. i can not retrieve my disgrace, though i am as pure in act as if we had never met. but i have done it upon my own responsibility, and upon me alone let the penalty fall. from this hour i release you." her language, and the dignity of her manner, stung me. she seemed to tower above me in the strength of her will, and the firmness with which she went through a scene that shattered my nerves fearfully, and made me equally irresolute of speech and purpose. while i was harrowed by an agony that fluttered in every pulse, she was perfectly calm and collected, and, rising quietly from her seat, turned away to leave me. this action roused me from the stupor of indecision. the situation in which she was placed--making so new a demand upon my feelings--gave me a sort of advantage which i thought might enable me to recover the ground i had lost. by the exercise of magnanimity in such circumstances, i should vindicate myself in her estimation, and prove myself once more worthy of the opinion she had originally formed of me. it was something nobler, i thought, to embrace ruin at this moment for her sake, than if i had known it all along, and had come to that conclusion by a deliberate process of reasoning. this train of subtle sophistry, which has taken up some space to detail, struck me like a flash of light on the instant i thought i was about to lose her. i could bear all things but that, and could suffer all things to avert it. and so again i became her suitor, in a kind of proud generosity, that flattered itself by stooping to gain its own ends. how mean and selfish the human heart is when our desires are set in opposition to our duties! i sprang forward, and clasped her eagerly by the hands. i flung myself on my knees before her. tears leaped into my eyes. i told her that i had wronged her--that we had wronged each other--that i had never wavered in my faith--that we were bound to each other--and that we could commit no crime now except that of doubting, at either side, the truth of the love which had brought us there, and for which i, like her, had relinquished the world forever. she had a woman's heart, full of tenderness and pity; and it is the tendency of woman's nature to forgive and believe where the affections are interested, without exacting much proof or penalty. she bent over me, and raised me in her arms. the storm had passed away, and she trusted in me implicitly again. her history? what was it? we shall come to it presently. x. the storm had passed away; but it left traces of disorder behind, such as a tempest leaves in a garden over which it has recently swept. the collision had set us both thinking. we felt as if a mist had suddenly melted down, and enabled us, for the first time, to see clearly before us. we felt this differently, but we were equally conscious of the change. "i am the wife of another!" the words still throbbed in my brain. i could not escape from the images they conjured up. i could not rid myself of the doubts and distrusts, shapeless, but oppressive, thus forced upon me. i could not recall a single incident out of which, until these words were uttered, i could have extracted the remotest suspicion of her situation. to me, and to every person around her, astræa had always appeared a free agent. she bore no man's name. she acted with perfect independence, so far as outward action was concerned; and the only restraint that ever seemed to hang upon her was some dark memory, or heavy sorrow, that clouded her spirit. here was the mystery solved. she was a bond-woman, and had hidden her fetters from the world. in our english society, where usages are strict, and shadows upon a woman's reputation, even where there is not a solitary stain, blot it out forever, this was strange and painful. it looked like a deception, and, in the estimate of all others, it was a deception. this was the way in which it first presented itself to me. i had not emancipated myself from the influence of opinion, or habit, or prejudice, or whatever that feeling may be called which instinctively refers such questions to the social standard. the recoil was sudden and violent. yet, nevertheless, i felt rebuked by the superiority of astræa in the strength of purpose and moral courage she displayed under circumstances which would have overwhelmed most other women. her steadfastness had a kind of grandeur in it, that seemed to look down upon my misgivings as failings or weaknesses of character. and she sat silently in this pomp of a clear and unfaltering resolution, while i, fretted and chafed, exhibited too plainly my double sense alike of the injury she had inflicted on me, and of the ascendency which, even in the hour of injury, she exercised over me. it was the stronger mind, made stronger by the force of love, overawing the weaker, made weaker by the prostration of the affections. and she, too, had something to reflect upon in this moment of mutual revolt. she loved me passionately. she loved me with a devotion capable of confronting all risks and perils. the profound unselfishness and truthfulness of her love made her serene at heart, and inspired her with a calmness which enabled her to endure the worst without flinching. there was not a single doubt of herself in her own mind. her faith gave her the fortitude needful for the martyr. when a woman trusts every thing to this faith, and feels her reliance on it sufficient for the last sacrifice, she is prepared for an issue which no man contemplates, and which no man is able to encounter with an equal degree of courage or confidence in his own constancy. with her it is otherwise. by one step, the ground is closed up behind her forever; no remorse can help her, no suffering can make atonement, or propitiate reconciliation; she can not retract, she can not retreat, she can not return! no man is ever placed in this extremity, though his sin be of a ten-fold deeper dye. such is the moral justice of society. he has always a space to fall back upon--he has always room to retrieve, to recover, to reinstate himself. but she is lost! the foreknowledge of her doom, which shuts out hope, makes her strong in endurance; the magnitude of her sacrifice enhances and deepens the idolatry from which it proceeded; she clings to it, and lives in it evermore, as the air which she must breathe, or die. but he? he has ever the backward hope, the consciousness of the power of retracing his steps. the world is there behind him, as he left it, its eager tumult still floating into his ears from afar off, its reckless gayeties, its panting ambition, its occupations, and its pleasures; and he knows he can re-enter it when he lists. he, then, if he consent to commit the great treason against a confiding devotion, can afford to be bold; that boldness which has always an escape and safeguard in reserve! but it is this consideration which makes him irresolute and infirm--it is this which dashes his resolves with hesitation, and makes him temporize and play fast and loose in his thoughts, while his lips overflow with the fervid declamation of passion. he may believe himself to be sincere; but no man understands himself who believes that he has renounced the world. the world has arranged it otherwise for him. the whole conditions of her position were clear to astræa. she had not now considered them for the first time; but the mistrust, not of my love for her, but of my character, was now first awakened; and if she trembled for the consequences, it was not for her own sake, but for mine. men can not comprehend this abnegation of self in women, and, not being able to comprehend it, they do not believe in it. it requires an elevation and generosity rare in the crisis of temptation, and, perhaps, also, an entire change of surrounding circumstances and responsibilities, to enable them to estimate it justly; the power of bestowing happiness through a life-long sacrifice, instead of the privilege of receiving it at a trifling risk. when we had become a little more at our ease, and i had endeavored by a variety of commonplaces to revive her faith in me, astræa, with the most perfect frankness, entered upon her history. i will not break up the narrative by the occasional interruptions to which it was subjected by my curiosity and impatience, but preserve it as nearly entire as i can. "there is a period," said astræa, "in all our lives when we pass through delusions which an enlarged experience dispels. we too often begin by making deities, and end by total skepticism. i suppose, like every body else, i had my season of self-deception, although it has not made me an absolute infidel." and as she said this, she looked at me with a smile so full of sweetness, that i yielded myself up implicitly to the enchantment. "i was devotedly attached to my father," she continued; "he educated me, and was so proud of the faculties which his own careful tending drew into activity, that it was the greatest happiness of my life to deserve the kindness which anticipated their development. there was no task my father set to me i did not feel myself able to conquer by the mere energy of the love i bore him. the education he bestowed upon me was not the cultivation of the intellect alone--i owe him a deeper debt, fatally as i have discharged it--for it was his higher aim to educate my affections. he succeeded so well, that i would at any moment have cheerfully surrendered my own fondest desires, or have sacrificed life itself, to comply with any wish of his. you shall judge whether i have a right to say that i loved him better than i loved myself. "my mother was a beauty. a woman of whom one can say nothing more than that she was a beauty, is misplaced in the home of a man of intellect. one can never cease wondering how it is that such men marry such women; but i believe there are no men so easily ensnared by their own imaginations, or who trouble themselves so little about calculating consequences. they make an ideal, and worship it; and, as your true believers contrive to refresh their motionless saints by new draperies and tinsel, so they go on perpetually investing their idols with fictitious attributes, to encourage and sustain their devotions. but that sort of self-imposition can not last very long; and the best possible recipe for stripping the idol of its false glitter is to marry it! my father made this discovery in due time. he found that beauty without enthusiasm or intellect is even less satisfying than a picture, which is, at least, suggestive, and leaves something to the imagination. there was no sympathy between them. she existed only in company, which, from the languor of her nature, she hardly seemed to enjoy. change, and variety, and the flutter of new faces were as necessary to her as they were wearisome to him; and so gradually and imperceptibly the distance widened between them, and his whole affections were concentrated on me. this may in some measure account for the formation of my character. i was neither weakened nor benefited by maternal tenderness; and my studies and habits, shaped and regulated by my father, imparted to me a strength and earnestness which--now that they avail me nothing--may speak of as existing in the past. "it is nearly ten years since my mother died; she went out as a flower dies, drooping slowly, and retaining something of its sweetness to the end. my father outlived her several years. that was the happiest period of my life. there was not a break in the love that bound us together. but there came a struggle at last between us--a struggle in which that love was bitterly tried and tested on both sides. "i made a deity to myself, as most young people do, especially when they are flattered into the belief that they are more _spirituelle_ and capable of judging for themselves, than the rest of the world. it was a girlish fancy; all girls have such fancies, and look back upon them afterward as they look back upon their dreams, trying to collect and put together forms and colors that fade rapidly in the daylight of experience. "one of our visitors made an impression upon me; perhaps that is the best way to describe it. he had a sombre and poetical air--that was the first thing that touched me--an oval face, very pale and thoughtful, and chiseled to an excess of refinement; a sensitive mouth; dark, melancholy eyes; and black, lustrous hair. i remember he had quite a spanish or italian cast of features; and that was dangerous to a young girl steeped in the lore of history and chivalry. you think it strange, perhaps, i should make this sort of confession to _you_; you expect that i should rather suffer you to believe that, until we met, i had never been disturbed by the sentiment of love; yet you may entirely believe it. this was a mere phantasy--the prescience of what was to come--the awakening of the consciousness of a capacity of loving which, until now, was never stirred in its depths. it merely showed me what was in my nature, but did not draw it out. "the fascination was on the surface; but, while it lasted, i thought it intense; and such is the contradiction in the constitution of youth, that a little opposition from my father only helped to strengthen it. in the presence of that sad face, into which was condensed an irresistible influence, i was silent and timid, frightened at the touch of his white hands, and so confused that i could neither speak to him, nor look at him: but in my father's presence, when we talked of him, and my father hinted distrusts and antipathies, i was bold in his defense, and soared into an enthusiasm that often surprised us both. it was evident that i was in love--to speak by the card--and that the admonitions of experience were thrown away upon me. "my father was grieved at this discovery, when it really came to take a serious shape of resistance to his advice. as yet, we had only flirted round the confines of the subject, and neither of us had openly recognized it as a reality. the action of the drama was in my own brain. the hero of my fantastic reveries regarded me only as a precocious child: was amused, or, at the utmost, interested by my admiration of him, which he could not fail to detect; and it was not until he imagined he had traced a deeper sentiment in my shy and embarrassed looks, that he began to feel any emotion himself. but the emotions which spring out of vanity or compassion, which come only as a sort of generous or pitying acknowledgment of an unsought devotion, have no stability in them. it is more natural, and more likely to insure duration of love that they should originate at the other side. woman was formed to be sued and won; it is the law of our organization. men value our affection in proportion to the efforts it has cost to gain them. the rights of a difficult conquest are worn with pride and exultation, while the fruits of an easy victory are held in indifference. these things, however, were mysteries to me then. "there was a kind of love-scene between us. i can hardly recall any thing of it, except that i thought him more grand and noble than ever, and full of a magnificent patronage of my nerves and my ignorance. he was several years older than i was, which made a great distance between us, and made me look up to him with a superstitious homage. i remember nothing more about it, only that when i left him, i felt as if i had suddenly grown up into a woman. "and now came the beginning of the struggle. "we had other visitors who were better liked by my father. i could not then understand his objections to my orlando. i have understood them since, and know that he was right in that, if he erred in the rest. "among our visitors was one whom i can not speak of without a shudder. there was in him a combination of qualities calculated to inspire me with aversion, which grew from day to day into loathing. i do not believe my father really liked that man. circumstances, however, had given him an influence in our house, against which it was vain for me to contend. his family was closely connected with my mother; and my father had acquired an estate through his marriage, with which these people were mixed up as trustees; they had, in fact, a lien upon us, which it was impossible to shake off; and by this means maintained a position with us which was at once so familiar and harassing to me, that nothing but my devotion to my father restrained me from an open mutiny against them. "this man, who was not much my senior in years, but who seemed to have been born old, and to have lived centuries for every year of my life, entertained the most violent passion for me. i had no suspicion of it at first; and as the closeness of our relations threw us constantly together, i was feeding it unknowingly for a long time before i discovered it. i will spare you what i felt when i made that discovery--the horror! the despair! "when i compared this man, loathsome and hideous to me, with him who was the orlando, the bayard, the crichton of my foolish dreams, it made me sick at heart. so deep was the detestation he inspired, that, young as i was, i would have gladly renounced my own choice to have escaped from him. but there was one consideration paramount even to that; it was my father's desire that i should marry him. "by some such sorcery as wicked demons in the wise allegories of fable obtain a control over good spirits, the demon who had thus risen up in my path obtained an ascendency over my father. it was impossible that he could have persuaded my father, who was clear-sighted and sagacious, into the belief that he possessed a single attribute of goodness; it must have been by the force of a fascination, such as serpents are said to exercise over children, that he wrought his ends. and the comparison was never applied with greater justice, for my father was as guileless as a child in mere worldly affairs, while the other was a subtle compound of cunning and venom, glazed over with a most hypocritical exterior. "he worked at his purpose for months and months in the dark, by artifices which assisted his progress without betraying his aim. he adroitly avoided an abrupt disclosure of his design, for he knew, or feared, that if it came too suddenly, it would have shocked even my father. he saw that my fancy was taken up elsewhere, and the first part of his plot was, to prejudice and poison my father's mind against his rival. in this he effectually succeeded. but it was a more difficult matter to bring round his own object, and he never could have achieved it, with all his skill, had he not been so mixed up with our affairs as to have it in his power to involve my father in a net-work of embarrassments. the meshes were woven round him with consummate ingenuity, and every effort at extrication only drew them tighter and tighter. "had i known as much of the world then as i do now i might have acted differently. but i was a girl; my sensibility was easily moved; my terrors were easily alarmed; and i loved my father too passionately to be able to exercise a calm judgment where his safety was concerned. it was this devotion--impetuous and unreflecting--that gave an advantage to the fiend, of which he availed himself unrelentingly, and which threw me, bound and fettered, at his feet. "i will not dwell on these memories. my heart was harrowed by a terrible conflict. i know not how it might have been, had i not gathered a little strength from wounded pride. a circumstance came to my relief which crushed my enthusiasm, and from that instant determined my fate. "my father had often thrown out doubts of the sincerity of him to whom i looked up with so much admiration; and at last he spoke more explicitly and urgently. he told me that the hero of my dreams was merely trifling with my feelings, and amusing himself at the expense of my credulity--in short, that he was no better than a libertine. i revolted against these cruel accusations, and repelled them by asserting that he was the noblest and truest of human beings. but my father knew more of him than i did. even while these painful discussions were going on between us, news arrived that he had been detected in a heartless conspiracy to entrap and carry off a ward in chancery--a discovery which compelled him to fly the country. "i was stunned and humiliated. the dream was over. the idol was broken, and the shrine degraded forever. what resource should women have in such cases if pride did not come to their help--that pride which smiles while the heart is bleeding, and makes the world think that we do not suffer! they know not what we suffer--what we hide! our education trains us up in a mask, which is often worn to the end, when the secret that has fed upon our hearts, and consumed our lives, day by day, descends into the dark grave with us! my sufferings at the time were very great--i thought they would kill me. what mattered it to me then how they disposed of me. poor fool! i looked in on my desolated fancy, and gave myself up for lost. "it was in this mood the machinations of that man whom i abhorred triumphed over me. my father's affairs had become hopelessly entangled in his, and a proposal to avert chancery suits and settle disputed titles by a union between the families of the litigants presented the only means of adjustment. my father listened to this insidious proposal at first reluctantly; then, day by day, as difficulties thickened, he became more reconciled to it; and, at length, he broke it to me, with a deprecating gentleness that never sued in vain to the heart that idolized him. i had nothing left in the world but my father to love. under any circumstances my love for him would have made me waver. as it was, wounded and hopeless, galled, deceived, and cast off--for i felt as all girls do, and was thoroughly in earnest in my sentimental misery--my love for him lightened the sacrifice he prayed, rather than demanded at my hands. "girl as i was. i could see the change that had passed over my father. the strong man was subdued and broken down. his clear understanding had given way; even his heart was no longer as generous and impulsive as it used to be. i could not bear to witness these alterations; and when i was told that it was in my power to relieve him from the weight that pressed upon him, what could i do? "there were many violent struggles--many fits of tears and solitary remorse; but they all yielded to that imperative necessity, to that claim upon my feelings, which was paramount to every thing else. the first step was a contract of marriage, which i was simply required to sign. i was too young then to marry! this consideration was thrown in as a sort of tender forbearance to me, which, it was hoped, would propitiate my reluctant spirit. and from that hour, the demon, claiming me for his own, was incessant in his attendance upon me. i had hoped by that act to shake him off my father; but he was the old man of the waters to his drowning victim, and at every moment only clutched and clung to him more closely. "at last my father fell ill. first, he moped about the house, with a low, wearing cough. none of his old resources availed him. he couldn't read; the pleasant things he used to talk of--books, character, philosophy--no longer interested him. the placid mind was growing carped and restless. he was absorbed in his ailments. trifles vexed him, and instead of the large and genial subjects which formerly engrossed him, he was taken up with petty annoyances. oh, with what agony i watched that change from day to day! then from the drawing-room to the bed, from whence he never rose again. "it was in his last sickness--toward the close--when the wings of the angel of death were darkening his lids, and his utterance was thickening, and his vision becoming dimmer and dimmer, that he called me to his side. he knew the horror that was in my thoughts; but i was already pledged, and it was not a time for me to shrink, when he, in whom my affections were garnered up, besought me to make his death-bed happy by completing the sacrifice. there were those around us who said that it was merely to ease _his_ mind, that he might feel he did not leave me behind him alone and without a protector; that the marriage would be performed in his presence; that we should then separate, and that my husband--oh, how i have hated that word! what images of wrong and cruelty are condensed into it!--would regard that ghastly ceremony only as a guarantee that when my grief had abated, and the signs of mourning were put off, i should consent to become his wife before the world. i believed in that and trusted to it. it was all written down and witnessed, that he would not enforce this marriage till time had soothed and reconciled me to it; and as the realization of it was to depend upon myself, i thought i was secure against the worst. upon these conditions i was married beside the death-bed of my father. "the plot was deeply laid. the snare was covered with flowers. i was nominally free. i was the wife, and not the wife, of him who, when a little time had passed away, and my father was in the grave, and i was at his mercy, assumed the right of asserting over me the authority of a husband. i did not then know the full extent of my dependence. upon the failure of my consent, the whole property was to devolve upon him. of that i thought little; it was a cheap escape from a bondage i abhorred, if, by surrendering all i possessed, i _could_ escape. there was nothing left in my own hands, but the power of withholding my consent, and i did withhold it; and my aversion increased with the base, unmanly, and vindictive means he used to wring it from me. "years passed away; he was ever in my path, blighting me with threats and scoffs. my life was one continued mental slavery. he had the right, or he usurped it, of holding me in perpetual bondage--hovering about me, watching my actions, and subjecting me to a persecution which, invisible to every body else, was felt by me in the minutest trifles. and all this time my heart, shut up and stifled, felt a longing, such as prisoners feel, to breathe the free air, to find its wings and escape. i was conscious of a capacity for happiness; i felt that my existence was wasting under a hideous influence--that my situation was cruel and anomalous--that it was equally guilty to stay and feed the rebellion of my blood, that might at last drive me mad, or to fly from the evil thoughts that fascinated and beset me;--and long contemplation of this corroding misery convinced me that the greater guilt was the hourly falsehood--the constant mutiny of my soul--the sin i was committing against nature by continuing to tolerate the semblance of an obligation that made me almost doubt the justice of heaven! "again and again he renewed the subject, only to be again and again repulsed with increased bitterness and scorn. the sternness of my resolution gradually obtained a victory over his perseverance. no man, be his devotion as intense as it may, can persist in this way, when he is thoroughly assured that a woman hates or despises him; and _he_ had ample reason to know that i did both. threats failed--hints of scandal and defamation failed--prayers and entreaties failed--he tried them all; and he saw at last that my determination was irrevocable. i would not redeem my pledge. i took all the consequence of the perfidy. i submitted to the ignominy of his taunts and reproaches, and even admitted their justice, rather than stain my soul with a blacker crime. what was left to him? his arts were baffled--his pride turned to dust--his love rejected? what was left to him out of this ruin of his long cherished scheme? revenge! "although he could not force me to fulfill the contract, he could blast my life in its bloom--wither the tree to the core--make a desert round it--poison the very atmosphere that gave it nourishment and strength--and wait patient--to see it die, leaf by leaf, and branch by branch, this was his devilish project. love--if ever so sacred a passion had found its way into his soul--was transformed into hate, deadly and unrelenting; the red current had become gall; and the same slow, insatiable energy, with which he had before urged and forced his suit, was now applied to torture and distract me. i wonder it did not drive me to some act of desperation! "and all this time i moved through society like others. nobody suspected the vulture that was at my heart; and i had to endure the wretched necessity of acting a daily lie to the world. it gave a false severity to my manner--it made me seem austere and lofty, where i only meant to avert approaches which it would have been criminal to have admitted and deceived. and i had need of all that repellant armor; and it served me, and saved me--till i met you! "shall i proceed any farther? shall i tell you how a new state of existence seemed insensibly opening before me?--how the want in my heart became unconsciously filled?--and that which had been a dream to me all my life long, vague, flitting, and undefined, was now a reality, clear, fixed, and distinct? what that sympathy was it is needless to ask, which made me feel that your history was something like my own--that you, too, had some discontent with the world, that made you yearn for peace and solitude, and the refuge of love, like me. i fought bravely at first. you know not how earnestly i questioned myself--how i probed my wounded spirit, and battled with the temptation. all that was hidden from you; but it was not the less fierce and agonizing. the blessed thought and hope of freedom, of a happiness which i had never trusted myself to contemplate, was a strong and blinding fascination. i saw my wretchedness, and close at hand its perilous remedy. doomed either way, which was i to choose? the world?--my soul? all was darkness and terror to me. calamity had made me desperate; yet i was outwardly calm and self-sustained. but i was goaded too far at last; _he_ goaded me; and my resolution was taken; it was one plunge--and all was over. i fled from the misery i could no longer endure, and live; and i know the cost--i know the penalty--i see before me the retribution. let it come--my fate is sealed!" xi. this narrative occupied a longer time in the relation than in the shape to which i have reduced it, for it was frequently interrupted by questions and exclamations, which i have not thought it necessary to insert here. when she concluded, the day was already waning, and the long shadows from the woods were stretching down the stream, and the setting sun was, here and there, blazing through the trees, like focal rays caught on the surface of a burning-glass. the haze of evening was gathering round us, and settling over the little bridge which was now slowly fading into the distance. astræa had confided her whole life to me with the utmost candor. the strong emotions she exhibited throughout afforded the best proof, if any were wanted, of her perfect sincerity. there was nothing kept back--no _arrière-pensée_--no false coloring; her real character came out forcibly in this painful confession. few women would have had the requisite fortitude to submit to such an ordeal, and take their final stand upon a position which marked them out as pariahs in the eyes of the world. i felt how great the misery must have been from which she sought this terrible escape; and how much greater was the strength of will that sustained her in the resolution to embrace it. her wild sense of natural justice had risen in resistance against laws which it appeared to her more criminal to obey than to violate. it was not a paroxysm of the passions--it was not the sophistry that seeks for its own convenience to arraign the dispensations of society; it was a strong mind, contending in its own right against obligations founded on force, and violence, and wrong--asserting its claim to liberate itself from trammels to which it had never given a voluntary assent--recoiling from a life of skepticism and hypocrisy, and the frightful conflicts it entails between duty and the instincts of reason and the heart--and prepared, since no other alternative was left, to suffer in itself alone, and in the consequences of its own act, all obloquy, all vengeance the world could inflict. that there lay beneath this a grave error, undermining the foundations upon which the whole social superstructure rested, was, in a certain large and general sense, sufficiently obvious to me. but who could argue such questions against convictions based upon individual and exceptional injuries? who could require, in the very moment and agony of sacrifice, that she who had been thus wronged and tortured, and who had never, of her own free action, incurred the responsibility from which she revolted, should offer herself up a victim to laws that afforded her no protection, and condemned her to eternal strife, and the sins of a rebellious conscience? i would have saved her if i could. it was my first impulse--my most earnest desire. but of what avail was the attempt? where was she to find refuge? only one of two courses lay before her--to return and fulfil her contract, or to renounce the world: the first was doubtful, perhaps impossible; the second, she had resolved upon. even if i were to hold back on the brink of the precipice, it would not shake her determination. in this extremity and in the last resort, i felt myself bound to her by every consideration of love and honor. honor! when that element enters into our casuistry, the peril is at its height! "have you never endeavored to release yourself from this contract?" i inquired. "he would not release me." "have you explicitly demanded it of him, so that you should have the satisfaction of feeling that you had tried all other means before you broke the bond yourself?" "i have demanded and besought it of him--prayed to him--appealed to him, by his soul's hopes here and hereafter, to release me. i have laid my own perdition on his refusal--and he still refused. i gave up all; offered to leave england forever; to give him security that, be my fate what it might, neither he nor his should be troubled with me. to no purpose--he was iron. he could have procured a separation, which i could not. i gave him the means, and would have borne any humiliation to obtain my freedom. he would not release me; he held me bound, that he might gloat his vengeance upon my sufferings." "and this man--this fiend--you have not told me, astræa, who he is." while i was speaking, i observed her looking keenly through the mist that was collecting about us. some object had attracted her attention. my eyes followed the direction hers had taken, and i discerned a figure, apparently wrapped up in a cloak, about the centre of the bridge, on the near side. we watched it in silence for a space of two or three minutes, when it moved slowly from its position, and winding down among the trees, took the path that led directly to the spot where we were seated. she grasped my arm, and cried in a whisper-- "stand firm. speak not. it is my deed, not yours. the hour i have looked for through long years of anguish is come at last. fear nothing for me!" the figure approached, still enveloped in a cloak, and stood exactly opposite to us. for a moment--the most intense i ever remember--not a word was uttered. at last, the stranger spoke. "it is, then, as i expected. i have tracked you to your hiding-place, and i find you with your paramour." it was the voice of the dwarf! the blood leaped in my veins, and, hardly conscious of what i was doing, or meant to do, i sprang from my seat. astræa rose at the same moment, and interposed. "if you have the least regard or respect for me," she said, "do not interfere. for my sake, control yourself." "for _your_ sake!" echoed the dwarf. "do you glory in _his_ shame, as well as your own?" "shame!" cried astræa. "take back the foul word, and begone. you have no authority, no rights here. the shame is yours, not mine--yours, unmanly, pitiful, and mean, who have taken advantage of a contract wrung from a girl to doom the life of a woman to misery." "have i no authority?" quoth the dwarf. "listen to me--you must--you shall--if it kill you in your heroics. i am your husband--my authority is law. i can command you to my foot, and you must obey me. you think you are secure; but i will show you that you have committed an egregious mistake. believe me," he added, in a tone of supercilious mockery, for which i could have inflicted summary chastisement--"believe me, you only deceive yourself, as you have tried to deceive me." "in what have i tried to deceive you?" she demanded. "i have been so explicit with you, that none but the most contemptible of your sex would have persisted at such a sacrifice of pride and feeling. pride? you have none. where you proffered love--oh! such love!--you found aversion;--where you sought, sued, and threatened, you received nothing in return but loathing and scorn. and now, henceforth and forever, i break all bonds between us. since you will not do it, i will--i _have_ done it! obey you? i owe you no obedience. be wise; take my answer, and leave me." "not at your bidding, madam. i did not come here to visit you in your retirement, and be turned away so unceremoniously. it is not my intention to leave you. where you are, there must i be too." the insolent coolness with which this was spoken, rendered it very difficult for me to submit to the injunction astræa had imposed upon me. i began to feel that _i_, too, had rights, and that the course this husband-in-law was pursuing, was not the best calculated to induce me to surrender them. "where i am you shall never come again!" returned astræa. "that is over. a gulf yawns between us. do not tempt it any further." "i will not be critical about words with you," said the dwarf. "if i am not to come where you are, you shall come to me. it is the same thing. you are only wasting your fine speeches. i have come here to take you back to london." "to take me back?" she echoed. "are you mad? do you believe such a thing credible? i have chosen my own course; and no power, authority, or force can turn me from it. take me back! even were i willing to go--suppose i were weak enough to repent the step i have taken--can you not see--have you not eyes and understanding to see and comprehend, that it would be to your own eternal dishonor--that it would only bring upon you the contempt and derision of the world?" "it is for me to judge of that. come--we are losing time, and it is growing dark already." "then why do you stay? why do you not go as you came. i have given you my answer; and if you were to stand here forever, you will get none other. have you no particle of self-respect left?" "whatever self-respect or pride i had," returned the dwarf, in a low and bitter tone, "you have trampled upon, and raised up a demoniac spirit in this place. it might have been otherwise once. i loved you--ay! writhe under the word--i loved you; but i was ill-favored, misshapen, stunted, and loathsome to look upon. you thought that love and ambition and high thoughts could not take up with such a frame as this--that they all went with straight limbs and milky faces. nature could not condescend to endow the dwarf with the attributes of humanity. but i was a man as well as they--had the passions and hopes of a man, the capabilities of good and evil. you never sought the good; you never felt it to be your duty to seek and cultivate the better qualities which my own consciousness of my outward defects made irresolute and wayward in development. you only looked upon the surface: and in the selfishness of your heart you spurned me from you. you never thought of asking yourself whether it was in your power to redeem and elevate, for noble ends, the human soul that was pent up in this weak and distorted body. you never stopped to reflect whether, by your contumely and pride of beauty, you were not destroying the germs of all self-respect, perverting the virtuous instincts into poisonous fangs, and shattering to the core the best resolves of a human being who might be better than yourself. a word of kindness in season--a generous construction of my character--an effort to call my moral strength into action, might have raised me to the dignity of the manhood it was your pleasure to disdain and degrade--might have given me the fortitude and the compensating motive to resign you--might have saved us both! but that word was never on your lips--that effort you were not generous enough to try. what i am, then, you have made me--bitter to the dregs, engrossed by one thought, living but for one object. life is a curse to me. every new day that rises upon me, humiliation and despair are before me. do you believe i will suffer this tamely? what have i to lose? you hate me--i return you hate for hate, loaded with the recollections of years of scorn and defiance. defiance? ha! ha! it is my turn now, and no remorse shall step in between us to mitigate my vengeance!" his voice rose almost into a shriek at the close, he had worked himself up to such a height of fanatic excitement; yet, notwithstanding the denunciation with which he ended, it was impossible not to be touched with pity for the real suffering that had reduced him to this condition. a great sorrow had converted this wretched man into a human fiend; and i never before believed that there were the elements of tenderness in him which these references to the past seemed dimly to light up. astræa heard it all very calmly. "we are not answerable for our likings or antipathies," she replied; "and i am no more accountable for my feeling than you are for your shape. had you possessed the instincts you speak of--the manhood you claim for yourself, you might have long since secured, at least, my gratitude, and spared us both the ignominy of this night. but it is useless to look back. i have nothing more to say. let us part--in hate, if you will. i am indifferent alike to your opinions and your vengeance. avail yourself of whatever power the law gives you; but here we now part, never to meet again!" as she said this, she moved away, and i still lingered behind to protect her retreat, if it should be necessary. "no, madam; not so easily. we do not part. i command you to leave this place, and go with me. it is my pleasure. do not compel me to enforce it." seeing him rush forward to follow her, i placed myself between them. "i charge you," cried the dwarf, "to stand out of my path. it will be dangerous." "you have threatened me before," i exclaimed; "and it is full time that you and i should understand each other. i have an advantage over you which i do not desire to use, except in extremity; be careful, therefore, how you provoke it. advance no further, or i will not answer for the consequences!" "so, then, you champion her in her guilt," he cried. "i know of no guilt," i replied. "i have not interfered hitherto; i had no right to do so. but i will not suffer any violence to be committed toward her; she must be free to act as she pleases!" "and what right have you to interfere now?" "the right which every man has to protect a woman against outrage." "i warn you for the last time!" exclaimed the dwarf, his eyeballs flashing fire. "it is you who have done this; you who have tempted and destroyed her--destroyed us both. do not urge me to the retribution i thirst for. put your hand upon me; there is my outstretched arm--only touch it with your fingers, and put me on my defense!" astræa was standing at my side. "i charge you," she said, "to leave him, and go into the house. he will not dare to follow me!" "i will dare the depths of perdition, and follow you wherever you go. see how he shrinks from me!--this champion and bully, for whom you stand condemned and branded before the world!" "bully!" i cried, "if you were not the feeble, wretched thing you are, i would strike you to the earth. it is you, not i, that have worked out this shame for your own fiendish ends. did you not tell me that you helped and encouraged our intercourse--that you saw feelings growing up, and used all your arts to heighten them into an attachment which you knew would bring misery upon us all? for what purpose, devil as you are, did you do this?" "to break her heart--for she had broken mine!" "be content, then, with what you have done, and leave us. you have placed me in a position which no fear of consequences can induce me to abandon. i will protect her to the last. look upon us henceforth as inseparable, and rid us of your presence, lest i lose all self-command." grasping astræa's hand, and controlling myself by a violent effort, i turned from him to lead her toward the house. perhaps it was this action which suddenly infuriated the demon, who now looked more horrible in the contortions of his unbridled rage than ever; and as i turned i felt, rather than saw, that he had coiled himself up to spring upon me. relieving myself from her, i instantly faced him. his motions were as quick as light. one hand was upon my chest, and the other was fumbling under his cloak. suspecting his intention, i seized his right arm and dragged it out. there was a pistol in his hand. it was not a time to exercise much forbearance in consideration of his physical inferiority, and by desperate force i wrenched the pistol from his grasp, and, tossing it over his head, flung it into the river. in the struggle, however, it had gone off, and, by the cry of pain he uttered, i concluded that he was wounded. but i was too much heated to think of that; and, in the fierceness of the conflict between us, i lifted him up by main strength, and flung him upon the ground. leaving him there, i hastened to astræa, and we both went into the house, taking care to lock and bar the door, so that he could not follow us. the windows of the sitting-room went down close to the gravel-walk outside, upon which they opened. these were already secured, and we were safe. as we sat there, half an hour afterward, a low, piteous voice came wailing through the shutters, uttering one word, which it repeated at intervals, in a tone that pierced me to the soul. "astræa! astræa! astræa!" it was a voice so freighted with sorrow, that, had not evil passions intervened to shut our hearts to its petition, we must have relented and shown mercy to him out of whose despair it issued. but we held our breaths, hardly daring to look in each other's faces, and moved not! god! all the long night that wailing voice seemed repeating, in fainter tones, "astræa! astræa! astræa!" and she to whom it was addressed, and to whom it appealed in vain--let me not recall the memory! many years have since trampled out other recollections, but that voice still seems to vibrate on my heart, and the name still surges up as i heard it then, sobbing through tears of mortal agony! (to be continued.) footnote: [ ] continued from vol. ii. p. . madame de genlis and madame de staËl.[ ] before the revolution, i was but very slightly acquainted with madame de genlis, her conduct during that disastrous period having not a little contributed to sink her in my estimation; and the publication of her novel, "the knights of the swan" (the _first_ edition), completed my dislike to a person who had so cruelly aspersed the character of the queen, my sister in-law. on my return to france, i received a letter full of the most passionate expressions of loyalty from beginning to end; the missive being signed comtesse de genlis: but imagining this could be but a _plaisanterie_ of some intimate friend of my own, i paid no attention whatever to it. however, in two or three days it was followed by a second epistle, complaining of my silence, and appealing to the great sacrifices the writer had made in the interest of my cause, as giving her a _right_ to my favorable attention. talleyrand being present, i asked him if he could explain this enigma. "nothing is easier," replied he; "madame de genlis is unique. she has lost her own memory, and fancies others have experienced a similar bereavement." "she speaks," pursued i, "of her virtues, her misfortunes, and napoleon's persecutions." "hem! in her husband was quite ruined, so the events of that period took nothing from _him_; and as to the tyranny of bonaparte, it consisted, in the first place, of giving her a magnificent suite of apartments in the arsenal; and in the second place, granting her a pension of six thousand francs a year, upon the sole condition of her keeping him every month _au courant_ of the literature of the day." "what shocking ferocity!" replied i, laughing; "a case of infamous despotism indeed. and this martyr to our cause asks to see me!" "yes; and pray let your royal highness grant her an audience, were it only for once: i assure you she is most amusing." i followed the advice of m. de talleyrand, and accorded to the lady the permission she so pathetically demanded. the evening before she was to present herself, however, came a third missive, recommending a certain casimir, the _phénix_ of the _époque_, and several other persons besides; all, according to madame de genlis, particularly celebrated people; and the postscript to this effusion prepared me also beforehand for the request she intended to make, of being appointed governess to the children of my son the duc de berry, who was at that time not even married. just at this period it so happened that i was besieged by more than a dozen persons of every rank in regard to madame de staël, formerly exiled by bonaparte, and who had rushed to paris without taking breath, fully persuaded every one there, and throughout all france, was impatient to see her again. madame de staël had a double view in thus introducing herself to me; namely, to direct my proceedings entirely, and to obtain payment of the two million francs deposited in the treasury by her father during his ministry. i confess i was not prepossessed in favor of madame de staël, for she also, in , had manifested so much hatred toward the bourbons, that i thought all she could possibly look to from us, was the liberty of living in paris unmolested: but i little knew her. she, on her side, imagined that we ought to be grateful to her for having quarreled with bonaparte--her own pride being, in fact, the sole cause of the rupture. m. de fontanes and m. de châteaubriand were the first who mentioned her to me; and to the importance with which they treated the matter, i answered, laughing, "so madame la baronne de staël is then a supreme power?" "indeed she is, and it might have very unfavorable effects did your royal highness overlook her: for what she asserts, every one believes, and then--she has suffered _so_ much!" "very likely; but what did she make my poor sister-in-law the queen suffer? do you think i can forget the abominable things she said, the falsehoods she told? and was it not in consequence of them, and the public's belief of them, that she owed the possibility of the embassadress of sweden's being able to dare insult that unfortunate princess in her very palace?" madame de staël's envoys, who manifested some confusion at the fidelity of my memory, implored me to forget the past, think only of the future, and remember that the genius of madame de staël, whose reputation was european, might be of the utmost advantage, or the reverse. tired of disputing i yielded; consented to receive this _femme célèbre_, as they all called her, and fixed for her reception the same day i had notified to madame de genlis. my brother has said, "punctuality is the politeness of kings"--words as true and just as they are happily expressed; and the princes of my family have never been found wanting in good manners; so i was in my study waiting when madame de genlis was announced. i was astonished at the sight of a long, dry woman, with a swarthy complexion, dressed in a printed cotton gown, any thing but clean, and a shawl covered with dust, her habit-shirt, her hair even, bearing marks of great negligence. i had read her works, and remembering all she said about neatness, and cleanliness, and proper attention to one's dress, i thought she added another to the many who fail to add example to their precepts. while making these reflections, madame de genlis was firing off a volley of courtesies; and upon finishing what she deemed the requisite number, she pulled out of a great huge bag four manuscripts of enormous dimensions. "i bring," commenced the lady, "to your royal highness what will amply repay any kindness you may show to me--no. is a plan of conduct, and the project of a constitution; no. contains a collection of speeches in answer to those likely to be addressed to monsieur; no. , addresses and letters proper to send to foreign powers, the provinces, &c.; and in no. monsieur will find a plan of education, the only one proper to be pursued by royalty, in reading which, your royal highness will feel as convinced of the extent of my acquirements as of the purity of my loyalty." many in my place might have been angry; but, on the contrary, i thanked her with an air of polite sincerity for the treasures she was so obliging as to confide to me, and then condoled with her upon the misfortunes she had endured under the tyranny of bonaparte. "alas! monsieur, this abominable despot dared to make a mere plaything of _me_! and yet i strove, by wise advice, to guide him right, and teach him to regulate his conduct properly: but he would not be led. i even offered to mediate between him and the pope, but he did not so much as answer me upon this subject; although (being a most profound theologian) i could have smoothed almost all difficulties when the concordat was in question." this last piece of pretension was almost too much for my gravity. however, i applauded the zeal of this new mother of the church, and was going to put an end to the interview, when it came into my head to ask her if she was well acquainted with madame de staël. "god forbid!" cried she, making a sign of the cross: "i have no acquaintance with _such people_; and i but do my duty in warning those who have not perused the works of that lady, to bear in mind that they are written in the worst possible taste, and are also extremely immoral. let your royal highness turn your thoughts from such books; you will find in _mine_ all that is necessary to know. i suppose monsieur has not yet seen _little necker_?" "madame la baronne de staël holstein has asked for an audience, and i even suspect she may be already arrived at the tuileries." "let your royal highness beware of this woman! see in her the implacable enemy of the bourbons, and in me their most devoted slave!" this new proof of the want of memory in madame de genlis amused me as much as the other absurdities she had favored me with; and i was in the act of making her the ordinary salutations of adieu, when i observed her blush purple, and her proud rival entered. the two ladies exchanged a haughty bow, and the comedy, which had just finished with the departure of madame de genlis, recommenced under a different form when madame de staël appeared on the stage. the baroness was dressed, not certainly dirtily, like the countess, but quite as absurdly. she wore a red satin gown, embroidered with flowers of gold and silk; a profusion of diamonds; rings enough to stock a pawnbroker's shop; and, i must add, that i never before saw so low a cut corsage display less inviting charms. upon her head was a huge turban, constructed on the pattern of that worn by the cumean sibyl, which put a finishing stroke to a costume so little in harmony with her style of face. i scarcely understand how a woman of genius _can_ have such a false, vulgar taste. madame de staël began by apologizing for occupying a few moments which she doubted not i should have preferred giving to madame de genlis. "she is one of the illustrations of the day," observed she with a sneering smile--"a colossus of religious faith, and represents in her person, she fancies, all the literature of the age. ah, ah, monsieur, in the hands of _such people_ the world would soon retrograde; while it should, on the contrary, be impelled forward, and your royal highness be the first to put yourself at the head of this great movement. to you should belong the glory of giving the impulse, guided by _my experience_." "come," thought i, "here is another going to plague me with plans of conduct, and constitutions, and reforms, which i am to persuade the king my brother to adopt. it seems to be an insanity in france this composing of new constitutions." while i was making these reflections, madame had time to give utterance to a thousand fine phrases, every one more sublime than the preceding. however, to put an end to them, i asked her if there was any thing she wished to demand. "ah, dear!--oh yes, prince!" replied the lady in an indifferent tone. "a mere trifle--less than nothing--two millions, without counting the interest at five per cent.; but these are matters i leave entirely to my men of business, being for my own part much more absorbed in politics and the science of government." "alas! madame, the king has arrived in france with his mind made up upon most subjects, the fruit of twenty-five years' meditation; and i fear he is not likely to profit by your good intentions!" "then so much the worse for him and for france! all the world knows what it cost bonaparte his refusing to follow my advice, and pay me my two millions. i have studied the revolution profoundly, followed it through all its phases, and i flatter myself i am the only pilot who can hold with one hand the rudder of the state, if at least i have benjamin for steersman." "benjamin! benjamin--who?" asked i, in surprise. "it would give me the deepest distress," replied she, "to think that the name of m. le baron de rebecque benjamin de constant has never reached the ears of your royal highness. one of his ancestors saved the life of henri quatre. devoted to the descendants of this good king, he is ready to serve them; and among several _constitutions_ he has in his portfolio, you will probably find one with annotations and reflections by myself, which will suit you. adopt it, and choose benjamin constant to carry out the idea." it seemed like a thing resolved--an event decided upon--this proposal of inventing a constitution for us. i kept as long as i could upon the defensive; but madame de staël, carried away by her zeal and enthusiasm, instead of speaking of what personally concerned herself, knocked me about with arguments, and crushed me under threats and menaces; so, tired to death of entertaining, instead of a clever, humble woman, a roaring politician in petticoats, i finished the audience, leaving her as little satisfied as myself with the interview. madame de genlis was ten times less disagreeable, and twenty times more amusing. that same evening i had m. le prince de talleyrand with me, and i was confounded by hearing him say, "so your royal highness has made madame de staël completely quarrel with me now?" "me! i never so much as pronounced your name." "notwithstanding that, she is convinced that i am the person who prevents your royal highness from employing her in your political relations, and that i am jealous of benjamin constant. she is resolved on revenge." "ha, ha--and what can she do?" "a very great deal of mischief, monseigneur. she has numerous partisans; and if she declares herself bonapartiste, we must look to ourselves." "that _would_ be curious." "oh, i shall take upon myself to prevent her going so far; but she will be royalist no longer, and we shall suffer from that." at this time i had not the remotest idea what a mere man, still less a mere woman, could do in france; but now i understand it perfectly, and if madame de staël was living--heaven pardon me!--i would strike up a flirtation with her. footnote: [ ] this curious piece has recently appeared in the "gazette de france," and has excited much remark. it is given out to be the production of charles x. when monsieur, and was communicated to m. neychens by the marquis de la roche jaqueline. the two roads. it was new-year's night. an aged man was standing at a window. he raised his mournful eyes toward the deep-blue sky, where the stars were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself now moved toward their certain goal--the tomb. already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. his health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. the days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment, when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. he looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, "o youth, return! o my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that i may choose the better way!" but the days of his youth and his father had both passed away. he saw wandering lights floating far away over dark marshes, and then disappear--these were the days of his wasted life. he saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness. this was an emblem of himself; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now happy and honored on this new-year's night. the clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf. overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look toward that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "come back, my early days! come back!" and his youth _did_ return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on new-year's night. he was still young; his faults alone were real. he thanked god, fervently, that time was still his own, that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land, where sunny harvests wave. ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: "o youth, return! o give me back my early days!" stories of shipwreck. the magpie, commanded by lieutenant edward smith, was lost during a hurricane in the west indies, in . at the moment of the vessel going down, a gunner's mate of the name of meldrum struck out and succeeded in reaching a pair of oars that were floating in the water; to these he clung, and, having divested himself of a part of his clothing, he awaited, in dreadful anxiety, the fate of his companions. not a sound met his ear; in vain his anxious gaze endeavored to pierce the gloom, but the darkness was too intense. minutes appeared like hours, and still the awful silence remained unbroken: he felt, and the thought was agony, that, out of the twenty-four human beings who had so lately trod the deck of the schooner, he alone was left. this terrible suspense became almost beyond the power of endurance; and he already began to envy the fate of his companions, when he heard a voice at no great distance inquiring if there was any one near. he answered in the affirmative; and, pushing out in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, he reached a boat to which seven persons were clinging; among whom was lieutenant smith, the commander of the sloop. so far, this was a subject of congratulation; he was no longer alone; but yet the chances of his ultimate preservation were as distant as ever. the boat, which had been placed on the booms of the schooner, had, fortunately, escaped clear of the sinking vessel, and, if the men had waited patiently, was large enough to have saved them all; but the suddenness of the calamity had deprived them of both thought and prudence. several men had attempted to climb in on one side; the consequence was, the boat heeled over, became half filled with water, and then turned keel uppermost; and, when meldrum reached her, he found some stretched across the keel, and others hanging on by the sides. matters could not last long in this way; and mr. smith, seeing the impossibility of any of the party being saved if they continued in their present position, endeavored to bring them to reason, by pointing out the absurdity of their conduct. to the honor of the men, they listened with the same respect to their commander as if they had been on board the schooner; those on the keel immediately relinquished their hold, and succeeded, with the assistance of their comrades, in righting the boat. two of their number got into her, and commenced baling with their hats, while the others remained in the water, supporting themselves by the gunwales. order being restored, their spirits began to revive, and they entertained hopes of escaping from their present peril: but this was of short duration; and the sufferings which they had as yet endured were nothing in comparison with what they had now to undergo. the two men had scarcely commenced baling, when a cry was heard of "a shark! a shark!" no words can describe the consternation which ensued; it is well known the horror sailors have of these voracious animals, who seem apprised, by instinct, when their prey is at hand. all order was at an end; the boat again capsized, and the men were left struggling in the waters. the general safety was neglected, and it was every man for himself; no sooner had one got hold of the boat than he was pushed away by another, and in this fruitless contest more than one life was nearly sacrificed. even in this terrible hour, their commander remained cool and collected; his voice was still raised in words of encouragement, and, as the dreaded enemy did not make its appearance, he again succeeded in persuading them to renew their efforts to clear the boat. the night had passed away--it was about ten o'clock on the morning of the th: the baling had progressed without interruption; a little more exertion, and the boat would have been cleared, when again was heard the cry of "the sharks! the sharks!" but this was no false alarm; the boat a second time capsized, and the unhappy men were literally cast among a shoal of these terrible monsters. the men, for a few minutes, remained uninjured, but not untouched, for the sharks actually rubbed against their victims, and, to use the exact words of one of the survivors, "frequently passed over the boat and between us while resting on the gunwale." this, however, did not last long; a shriek soon told the fate of one of the men: a shark had seized him by the leg, dyeing the water with his blood; another shriek followed, and another man disappeared. but these facts are almost too horrible to dwell upon; human nature revolts from so terrible a picture; we will, therefore, hurry over this part of our tale. smith had witnessed the sufferings of his followers with the deepest distress; and, although aware that, in all probability, he must soon share the same fate, he never for a moment appeared to think of himself. there were but six men left; and these he endeavored to sustain by his example, cheering them on to further exertions. they had, once more, recommenced their labors to clear out the boat, when one of his legs was seized by a shark. even while suffering the most horrible torture, he restrained the expression of his feelings, for fear of increasing the alarm of the men; but the powers of his endurance were doomed to be tried to the utmost; another limb was scrunched from his body, and, uttering a deep groan, he was about to let go his hold, when he was seized by two of his men, and placed in the stern-sheets. yet, when his whole frame was convulsed with agony, the energies of his mind remained as strong as ever; his own pain was disregarded; he thought only of the preservation of his crew. calling to his side a lad of the name of wilson, who appeared the strongest of the remaining few, he exhorted him, in the event of his surviving, to inform the admiral that he was going to cape ontario, in search of the pirate, when the unfortunate accident occurred. "tell him," he continued, "that my men have done their duty, and that no blame is attached to them. i have but one favor to ask, and that is, that he will promote meldrum to be a gunner." he then shook each man by the hand, and bade them farewell. by degrees his strength began to fail, and at last became so exhausted that he was unable to speak. he remained in this state until the sun set, when another panic seized the men from a re-appearance of the sharks; the boat gave a lurch, and the gallant commander found an end to his sufferings in a watery grave. the anson was lost, in , off the coast of france. the ship was no longer an object of consideration; captain lydiard felt that he had done his utmost to save her, but in vain, and that now every energy must be put forth for the preservation of human life. the tempest raged with such fury, that no boat could possibly come to their aid, nor could the strongest swimmer hope to gain the shore. it appeared to captain lydiard, that the only chance of escape for any of the crew was in running the ship as near the coast as possible. he gave the necessary orders, and the master ran the vessel on the sand which forms the bar between the loe pool and the sea, about three miles from helstone. the tide had been ebbing nearly an hour when she took the ground, and she broached to, leaving her broadside heeling over, and facing the beach. the scene of horror and confusion which ensued, on the anson striking against the ground, was one which baffles all description. many of the men were washed away by the tremendous sea which swept over the deck; many others were killed by the falling of the spars, the crashing sound of which, as they fell from aloft, mingled with the shrieks of the women on board, was heard even amidst the roar of the waters and the howling of the winds. the coast was lined with crowds of spectators, who watched with an intense and painful interest the gradual approach of the ill-fated vessel toward the shore, and witnessed the subsequent melancholy catastrophe. calm and undaunted amidst the terrors of the scene, captain lydiard is described as displaying, in a remarkable degree, that self-possession and passive heroism which has been so often the proud characteristic of the commander of a british ship-of-war under similar harassing circumstances. notwithstanding the confusion of the scene, his voice was heard, and his orders were obeyed with that habitual deference which, even in danger and in death, an english seaman rarely fails to accord to his commanding officer. he was the first to restore order, to assist the wounded, to encourage the timid, and to revive expiring hope. most providentially, when the vessel struck, the mainmast, in falling overboard, served to form a communication between the ship and the shore, and captain lydiard was the first to point out this circumstance to the crew. clinging with his arm to the wheel of the rudder, in order to prevent his being washed overboard by the waves, he continued to encourage one after another as they made the perilous attempt to reach the shore. it was fated that this gallant officer should not enjoy in this world the reward of his humanity and his heroism. after watching with thankfulness the escape of many of his men, and having seen, with horror, many others washed off the mast, in their attempts to reach the land, he was about to undertake the dangerous passage himself, when he was attracted by the cries of a person seemingly in an agony of terror. the brave man did not hesitate for a moment, but turned and made his way to the place whence the cries proceeded. there he found a boy, a protégé of his own, whom he had entered on board the anson only a few months before, clinging, in despair to a part of the wreck, and without either strength or courage to make the least effort for his own preservation. captain lydiard's resolution was instantly taken: he would save the lad if possible, though he might himself perish in the attempt. he threw one arm round the boy, while he cheered him by words of kind encouragement; with the other arm, he clung to the spars and mast to support himself and his burden. but the struggle did not last long; nature was exhausted by the mental and physical sufferings he had endured; he lost his hold, not of the boy, but of the mast, the wild waves swept over them, and they perished together. joe smith and the mormons. by prof. james f.w. johnston. in the future history of mankind, if present appearances are to be trusted, the counties of wayne and ontario, n.y., are likely to derive an interest and importance, in the eyes of a numerous body of people, from a circumstance wholly unconnected either with their social progress, or with their natural productions or capabilities. in these counties lie the scenes of the early passages in the life of joe smith, the founder of the sect of the mormons. born in december, , in sharon, windsor county, state of vermont, he removed with his father, about , to a small farm in palmyra, wayne county, new york, and assisted him on the farm till . he received little education, read indifferently, wrote and spelt badly, knew little of arithmetic, and, in all other branches of learning he was, to the day of his death, exceedingly ignorant. his own account of his religious progress is, that as early as fifteen years of age he began to have serious ideas regarding the future state, that he got into occasional ecstasies, and that in , during one of these ecstasies, he was visited by an angel, who told him that his sins were forgiven--that the time was at hand when the gospel in its fullness was to be preached to all nations--that the american indians were a remnant of israel, who, when they first emigrated to america, were an enlightened people, possessing a knowledge of the true god, and enjoying his favor--that the prophets and inspired writers among them had kept a history or record of their proceedings--that these records were safely deposited--and that, if faithful, he was to be the favored instrument for bringing them to light. on the following day, according to instructions from the angel, he went to a hill which he calls cumorah, in palmyra township, wayne county, and there, in a stone chest, after a little digging, he saw the records; but it was not till four years after, in september , that "the angel of the lord delivered the records into his hands." "these records were engraved on plates which had the appearance of gold, were seven by eight inches in size, and thinner than common tin, and were covered on both sides with egyptian characters, small and beautifully engraved. they were bound together in a volume like the leaves of a book, and were fastened at one edge with three rings running through the whole. the volume was about six inches in thickness, bore many marks of antiquity, and part of it was sealed. with the records was found a curious instrument, called by the ancients urim and thummim, which consisted of two transparent stones, clear as crystal, and set in two rims of a bow"--a pair of pebble spectacles, in other words, or "helps to read" unknown tongues. the report of his discovery having got abroad, his house was beset, he was mobbed, and his life was endangered by persons who wished to possess themselves of the plates. he therefore packed up his goods, concealed the plates _in a barrel of beans_, and proceeded across the country to the northern part of pennsylvania, near the susquehannah river, where his father-in-law resided. here, "by the gift and power of god, through the means of the urim and thummim, he began to translate the record, and, being a poor writer, he employed a scribe to write the translation as it came from his mouth." in a large edition of the _book of mormon_ was published. it professes to be an abridgment of the records made by the prophet mormon, of the people of the nephites, and left to his son moroni to finish. it is regarded by the latter-day saints with the same veneration as the new testament is among christians. the church of the latter-day saints was organized on the th of april, , at manchester, in ontario county, new york. its numbers at first were few, but they rapidly increased, and in removed to the state of missouri, and purchased a large tract of land in jackson county. here their neighbors tarred and feathered some, killed others, and compelled the whole to remove. they then established themselves in clay county, in the same state, but on the opposite side of the river. from this place again, in , they removed eastward to the state of ohio, settled at kirtland, in geauga county, about twenty miles from cleveland, and began to build a temple, upon which sixty-thousand dollars were expended. at kirtland a bank was incorporated by joe and his friends, property was bought with its notes, and settled upon the saints, after which the bank failed--as many others did about the same time--and ohio became too hot for the mormons. again, therefore, the prophet, his apostles, and a great body of the saints, left their home and temple, went westward a second time to the state of missouri, purchased a large tract of land in caldwell county, in missouri, and built the city of the "far west." here difficulties soon beset them, and in august, , became so serious that the military were called in; and the mormons were finally driven, unjustly, harshly, and oppressively, by force of arms, from the state of missouri, and sought protection in the state of illinois, on the eastern bank of the mississippi. they were well received in this state, and after wandering for some time--while their leader, joe smith, was in jail--they bought a beautiful tract of land in hancock county, and, in the spring of , began to build the city and temple of nauvoo. the legislature of illinois at first passed an act giving great, and, probably, injudicious privileges to this city, which, in , was already the largest in the state, and contained a population of about twenty thousand souls. the temple, too, was of great size and magnificence--being feet long and feet high, and stood on an elevated situation, from which it was visible to a distance of or miles. in the interior was an immense baptismal font, in imitation of the brazen sea of solomon--"a stone reservoir, resting upon the backs of twelve oxen, also cut out of stone, and as large as life." but persecution followed them to illinois, provoked in some degree, no doubt, by their own behavior, especially in making and carrying into effect city ordinances, which were contrary to the laws of the state. the people of the adjoining townships rose in arms, and were joined by numbers of the old enemies of the mormons from missouri. the militia were called out; and, to prevent further evils, joe smith and one of his brothers, with several other influential saints, on an assurance of safety and protection from the governor of the state, were induced to surrender themselves for trial in respect of the charges brought against them, and were conducted to prison. here they were inconsiderately left by the governor, on the following day, under a guard of seven or eight men. these were overpowered the same afternoon by an armed mob, who killed joe smith and his brother, and then made their escape. after this, the mormons remained a short time longer in the holy city; but the wound was too deep seated to admit of permanent quiet on either part, and they were at last driven out by force, and compelled to abandon or sacrifice their property. such as escaped this last persecution, after traversing the boundless prairies, the deserts of the far west, and the rocky mountains, appear at last to have found a resting-place near the great salt lake in oregon. they are increasing faster since this last catastrophe than ever; and are daily receiving large accessions of new members from europe, especially from great britain. they form the nucleus of the new state of utah, this year erected into a territory of the united states, and likely, in the next session of congress, to be elevated to the dignity of an independent state. so rapidly has persecution helped on this offspring of ignorance, and tended to give a permanent establishment, and a bright future, to a system, not simply of pure invention, but of blasphemous impiety, and folly the most insane. the _book of mormon_, which is the written guide of this new sect, consists of a series of professedly historical books--a desultory and feeble imitation of the jewish chronicles and prophetical books--in which, for the poetry and warnings of the ancient prophets, are substituted a succession of unconnected rhapsodies and repetitions such as might form the perorations of ranting addresses by a field preacher, to a very ignorant audience. the book, in the edition i possess, consists in all of pages, of which the first contain the history of a fictitious personage called lehi and that of his descendants for the space of a thousand years. this lehi, a descendant of joseph the son of jacob, with his family left jerusalem in the beginning of the reign of zedekiah, six hundred years before christ, and, passing the red sea, journeyed eastward for eight years till they reached the shore of a wide sea. there they built a ship, and, embarking, were carried at length to the promised land, where they settled and multiplied. among the sons of lehi one was called laman and another nephi. the former was wicked, and a disbeliever in the law of moses and the prophets; the latter, obedient and faithful, and a believer in the coming of christ. under the leadership of these two opposing brothers, the rest of the family and their descendants arranged themselves, forming the lamanites and the nephites, between whom wars and perpetual hostilities arose. the lamanites were idle hunters, living in tents, eating raw flesh, and having only a girdle round their loins. the skin of laman and his followers became black; while that of nephi and his people, who tilled the land, retained its original whiteness. as with the jews, the nephites were successful when they were obedient to the law; and, when they fell away to disobedience and wickedness, the lamanites had the better, and put many to death. at the end of about four hundred years, a portion of the righteous nephites under mosiah, having left their land, traveled far across the wilderness, and discovered the city of zarahemla, which was peopled by the descendants of a colony of jews who had wandered from jerusalem when king zedekiah was carried away captive to babylon, twelve years after the emigration of lehi. but they were heathens, possessed no copy of the law, and had corrupted their language. they received the nephites warmly, however, learned their language, and gladly accepted the law of moses. this occupies pages. the history of the next two hundred years follows this new people, and that of occasional converts from the lamanites--called still by the general name of nephites in their struggles with the lamanites, and the alternations of defeat and success which accompany disobedience or the contrary. this occupies several books, and brings us to the th page, and the period of the birth of christ. this event is signified to the people of zarahemla by a great light, which made the night as light as mid-day. and thirty-three years after there was darkness for three days, and thunderings and earthquakes, and the destruction of cities and people. this was a sign of the crucifixion. soon after this, christ himself appears to this people of zarahemla in america, repeats to them in long addresses the substance of his numerous sayings and discourses, as recorded by the apostles; chooses twelve to go forth and preach and baptize; and then disappears. on occasion of a great baptizing by the apostles, however, he appears again; imparts the holy spirit to all, makes long discourses, and disappears. and, finally, to the apostles themselves he appears a third time; and addresses them in ill-assorted extracts and paraphrases of his new testament sayings. the account of these visits of our saviour to the american nephites, and of his sayings, occupies about pages. for about years, the christian doctrine and church thus planted among the nephites had various fortune; increasing at first, and prospering, but, as corruptions came in, encountering adversity. the lamanites were still their fierce enemies; and as wickedness and corrupt doctrine began to prevail among the christians, the lamanites gained more advantages. it would appear, from joe smith's descriptions, that he means the war to have begun at the isthmus of darien--where the nephites were settled, and occupied the country to the north, while the lamanites lived south of the isthmus. from the isthmus the nephites were gradually driven toward the east, till finally, at the hill of cumorah, near palmyra, in wayne county, western new york, the last battle was fought, in which, with the loss of , fighting men, the nephites were exterminated! among the very few survivors was moroni the last of the scribes, who deposited in this hill the metal plates which the virtuous joe smith was selected to receive from the hands of the angel. this occupies to the th page. but now, in the book of ether, which follows, joe becomes more bold, and goes back to the tower of babel for another tribe of fair people, whom he brings over and settles in america. at the confusion of the languages, ether and his brethren journeyed to the great sea, and, after a sojourn of four years on the shore, built boats under the divine direction, water-tight, and covered over like walnuts, with a bright stone in each end to give light! and when they had embarked in their tight boats, a strong wind arose, blowing toward the promised land, and for days it blew them along the water, till they arrived safe at the shore. here, like the sons of lehi, they increased and prospered, and had kings and prophets and wars, and were split into parties, who fought with each other. finally, shiz rose in rebellion against coriantumr, the last king, and they fought with alternate success, till two millions of mighty men, with their wives and children, had been slain! and, after this, all the people were gathered either on the one side or the other, and fought for many days, till only coriantumr alone remained alive! this foolish history is written with the professedly religious purpose of showing the punishment from the hand of god which wicked behavior certainly entails; and, with some trifling moralities of moroni, completes the _book of mormon_. joseph smith does not affect in this gospel of his to bring in any new doctrine, or to supersede the bible, but to restore "many plain and precious things which have been taken away from the first book by the abominable church, the mother of harlots." it is full of sillinesses, follies, and anachronisms; but i have not discovered, in my cursory review, any of the immoralities or positive licentiousness which he himself practiced, directly inculcated. he teaches faith in christ, human depravity, the power of the holy ghost, the doctrine of the trinity, of the atonement, and of salvation only through christ. he recommends the sacraments of baptism and the lord's supper; and, whatever his own conduct and that of his people may be, certainly in his book prohibits polygamy and priestcraft. the wickedness of his book consists in its being a lie from beginning to end, and of himself in being throughout an impostor. pretending to be a "seer"--which, he says, is greater than a prophet--he puts into the hands of his followers a work of pure invention as a religious guide inspired by god, and which, among his followers, is to take the place of the bible. though an ignorant man, he was possessed of much shrewdness. he courted persecution, though he hoped to profit, not to die by it. unfortunately, his enemies, by their inconsiderate persecution, have made him a martyr for his opinions, and have given a stability to his sect which nothing may now be able to shake. it was urged by smith himself that the new world was as deserving of a direct revelation as the old; and his disciples press upon their hearers that, as an _american revelation_, this system has peculiar claims upon their regard and acceptance. the feeling of nationality being thus connected with the new sect, weak-minded native-born americans might be swayed by patriotic motives in connecting themselves with it. but it is mortifying to learn that most numerous accessions are being made to the body in their new home by converts proceeding from england.[ ] under the name of the "latter-day saints," professing the doctrines of the gospel, the delusions of the system are hidden from the masses by the emissaries who have been dispatched into various countries to recruit their numbers among the ignorant and devoutly-inclined lovers of novelty. who can tell what two centuries may do in the way of giving a historical position to this rising heresy? footnote: [ ] it has been recently stated that the mormon emigration from liverpool alone, up to the present year, has been , , and that they have, on the whole, been superior to and better provided than the other classes of emigrants. of course, many more of his sect must have emigrated from other ports, and many even from the port of liverpool, whose faith and ultimate destination was not known. an ice-hill party in russia. the reader, i hope, will have no objection to quit his comfortable fire-side, put on his furs, and accompany me to a sledge, or ice-hill party. an army of about ten or fifteen sledges start from a house where all the party assemble, the gentlemen driving themselves, and each family taking some provisions with them. after about an hour and three-quarters' drive, the whole caravan arrives at the house of a _starosto_ (president) of the work-people employed by the foreign commercial houses in russia. the _starosto_ is usually a wealthy man, and mostly looked up to by his neighbors, as he has by some most extraordinary means acquired some few townish manners, which suit _his_ country appearance as much as glazed boots, and a polka tie would suit the true english country farmer. after having warmed themselves before a good hot russian stove, the party begin operations by getting the sledges ready, and ascending the ice-hills. the hills are made of a wooden scaffold, covered with huge bits of ice, all of an equal size, placed side-by-side, so as to fit closely together. by being constantly watered, they gradually become one solid mass, as smooth as a mirror. the hill, which usually is of a considerable height, and rather sloping, ends in a long, narrow plain of ice called the run, which is just broad enough for three narrow sledges to pass each other, and long enough to carry you to the foot of a second hill. the sledges are usually of iron, long and narrow, and covered by cushions, often embroidered by the fair hand of a lady. they are low, and so constructed that they can hold one or two persons, as the case may be. both the run and the hill are bordered by fir trees on each side, and on such evening parties are illuminated with chinese lamps placed between the branches of the trees. fancy yourself on the top of the hill looking down this illuminated avenue of firs, which is reflected in the mirror of the ice, as if determining to outshine the lights in the clear sky, and the gay laughing crowds moving up and down the hills, and you have before you the finest and most perfect picture of sorrowless enjoyment, as a striking contrast to the lifeless nature surrounding it. the briskness of the movement, and the many accidents happening to the clumsy members of the party, keep up the excitement, while the contest of young men to obtain this or the other lady for their partner on their down-hill journey (not in life), never allows the conversation or the laugh to flag for one moment. i remember once getting into what school-boys would call an awful scrape with one of the ice-hill heroes. we both started together from the second hill on a race, and i, having a faster sledge, overtook him by the length of my conveyance, and arrived at the top of the hill before him. seeing that the _belle_ of the evening was disengaged, i approached her with all the formality with which the newly-admitted youth requests the queen of a ball-room for the pleasure and honor to dance a polka with her, and asked her to go down. forgetting a previous appointment with my former antagonist, she accepted my offer, and the latter just arrived in time to see us start from the hill. in his rage he determined to do me some mischief by upsetting my sledge, as soon as he had an opportunity of doing so without any damage to another party. he soon had an occasion, but, unfortunately i had a sledge with a lady before me; passing me, he hit me, and i, hitting against the sledge before me, without being able to avoid it, at the same time getting hold of his legs, upset all three. luckily, no injury was done, as the whole lot were upset into the snow, to the great enjoyment of all spectators. gradually the time to retire approaches. the lamps begin to go out, and the hills, divested of their beauty, appear like the ruins of a magnificent city of olden times. here and there you see a single lamp peeping out from the branches of the trees, wistfully looking round in search of its brothers, as if it wanted to assure itself of the absence of any other enlightening object. the party go in to refresh themselves with tea and other warm beverages. the gentlemen wait on the ladies, and a new contest begins, as each tries to surpass the other in politeness and quickness. if it is a supper, you see these youthful and useful members of society running about with plates of sandwiches, or steering along with a cup of _bouillon_ in one and a glass of wine in the other hand, through the intricate passages formed by the numberless tables occupied by members of the fair sex. and then having, after a great deal of danger, at last arrived at their destination, they find the lady they wanted to serve already provided with every necessary comfort; and, perchance, she is so much engaged in conversation with their more fortunate rival, that she can not even give them a grateful smile for their trouble. now the ladies adjourn, and the field of action is left to the gentlemen. all restraint seems to have gone. the clatter of knives, the jingling of glasses, the hubbub of voices, all this makes such a chaos of strange and mysterious noises, that it has quite a deafening effect. at last a cry of order is heard from the top of the table. one of the directors of the party, after having requested the audience to fill their glasses, in flowery language proposes the health of the ladies, which, of course, is drunk with tremendous applause, manifested by acts, such as beating with the handles of knives and forks on the table, and clapping hands. after several other toasts, the party adjourn to join the ladies. merry-making now begins, and an hour or so is passed in social games, such as hunting the slipper, cross-questions, crooked answers, and others. at last, the parties wrap themselves up again in their furs, and prepare to go home. on their homeward tour, one of the finest phenomena in nature may, perchance, appear to them. a streak of light, suddenly appearing on the horizon, shoots like lightning up to the sky. one moment longer, and the whole sky is covered by such streaks, all of different colors amalgamating together, and constantly changing and lighting up the objects as bright as daylight. this is the aurora borealis, one of the numerous spectacles of nature, which the common people regard with astonishment, while the cultivated mind finds sermon on the glory of our maker in every object he meets on his journey through life; looks at it with admiration and reverence. the blind lovers of chamouny.[ ] it was during a second visit to the beautiful and melancholy valley of chamouny that i became acquainted with the following touching and interesting story. a complete change of ideas had become absolutely necessary for me; i sought, therefore, to kindle those emotions which must ever be awakened by the sublime scenes of nature; my wearied heart required fresh excitement to divert it from the grief which was devouring it; and the melancholy grandeur of chamouny seemed to present a singular charm to my then peculiar frame of mind. again i wandered through the graceful forest of fir-trees, which surrounds the village des bois, and, this time, with a new kind of pleasure; once more i beheld that little plain upon which the glaciers every now and then make an in-road, above which the peaks of the alps rise so majestically, and which slopes so gently down to the picturesque source of the arveyron. how i enjoyed gazing upon its portico of azure crystal, which every year wears a new aspect. on one occasion, when i reached this spot, i had not proceeded very far, when i perceived that puck, my favorite dog, was not by my side. how could this have happened, for he would not have been induced to leave his master, even for the most dainty morsel? he did not answer to my call, and i began to feel uneasy, when, suddenly, the pretty fellow made his appearance, looking rather shy and uncomfortable, and yet with caressing confidence in my affection; his body was slightly curved, his eyes were humid and beseeching, he carried his head very low--so low, that his ears trailed upon the ground, like those of zadig's dog; puck, too, was a spaniel. if you had but seen puck, in that posture, you would have found it impossible to be angry with him. i did not attempt to scold him, but, nevertheless, he continued to leave me, and return to me again; he repeated this amusement several times; while i followed in his track till i gradually came toward the point of his attraction; it appeared as if a similar kind of sympathy drew me to the same spot. upon a projection of a rock sat a young man, with a most touching and pleasing countenance; he was dressed in a sort of blue blouse, in the form of a tunic, and had a long stick of cytisus in his hand; his whole appearance reminded me strongly of poussin's antique shepherds. his light hair clustered in thick curls round his uncovered throat, and fell over his shoulders, his features wore an expression of gravity, but not of austerity, and he seemed sad, though not desponding. there was a singular character about his eyes, the effect of which i could scarcely define; they were large and liquid, but their light was quenched, and they were fixed and unfathomable. the murmur of the wind had disguised the sound of my footsteps, and i soon became aware that i was not perceived. at length, i felt sure that the young man was blind. puck had closely studied the emotions which became visible in my face; but as soon as he discovered that i was kindly disposed toward his new friend, he jumped up to him. the young man stroked puck's silky coat, and smiled good-naturedly at him. "how is it that you appear to know me," said he, "for you do not belong to the valley? i once had a dog as full of play as you, and, perhaps, as pretty; but he was a french water-spaniel, with a coat of curly wool; he has left me, like many others--my last friend, my poor puck." "how curious! was your dog called puck, too?" "ah, pardon me, sir!" exclaimed the young man, rising, and supporting himself on his stick. "my infirmity must excuse me." "pray sit down, my good friend; you are blind, i fear?" "yes, blind since my infancy." "have you never been able to see?" "ah, yes, but for so very short a time! yet, i have some recollection of the sun, and when i lift up my eyes toward the point in the heavens where it should be, i can almost fancy i see a globe, which reminds me of its color. i have, too, a faint remembrance of the whiteness of the snow, and the hue of our mountains." "was it an accident which deprived you of your sight?" "yes, an accident which was the least of my misfortunes. i was scarcely more than two years old, when an avalanche fell down from the heights of la flégère, and crushed our little dwelling. my father, who was the guide among these mountains, had spent the evening at the priory; you can easily picture to yourself his despair when he found his family swallowed up by this horrible scourge. by the aid of his comrades, he succeeded in making a hole in the snow, and was thus able to get into our cottage, the roof which was still supported on its frail props. the first thing which met his eyes was my cradle, he placed this at once in safety, for the danger was rapidly increasing; the work of the miners caused fresh masses of ice to crumble, and served rather to hasten the overthrow of our fragile abode; he pushed forward to save my mother, who had fainted, and he was afterward seen for a moment carrying her in his arms, by the light of the torches which burnt outside; and then all gave way. i was an orphan, and the next day it was discovered that my sight had been destroyed." "poor child! so you were left alone in the world, quite alone!" "in our valley, a person visited by misfortune is never quite alone, all our good chamouniers united in endeavoring to relieve my wretchedness; balmat give me shelter, simon coutet afforded me food, gabriel payot clothed me; and a good widow who had lost her children, undertook the care of me. she still performs a mother's part to me, and guides me to this spot every day in summer." "and are these all the friends you have?" "i have had more," said the young man, while he placed his finger on his lip in a mysterious manner; "but they are gone." "will they never come back again?" "i should think not, from appearances; yet a few days ago i imagined that puck would return, that he had only strayed, but nobody strays among our glaciers with impunity. i shall never feel him bound again at my side, or hear him bark at the approach of travelers," and he brushed away a tear. "what is your name?" "gervais." "listen, gervais; you must tell me about these friends whom you have lost;" at the same time i prepared to seat myself by his side, but he sprang up eagerly, and took possession of the vacant place. "not here, not here, sir; this is eulalie's seat, and since her departure nobody has occupied it." "eulalie," replied i, seating myself in the place from which he had just risen; "tell me about eulalie, and yourself; your story interests me." gervais proceeded: "i explained to you that my life had not been devoid of happiness, for heaven compensates bountifully to those in misfortune, by inspiring good people with pity for their wretchedness. i lived in happy ignorance of the extent of my deprivation; suddenly, however, a stranger came to reside in the village des bois, and formed the topic of conversation in our valley. he was only known by the name of m. robert, but the general opinion was, that he was a person of distinction, who had met with great losses, and much sorrow, and consequently had resolved to pass his latter years in perfect solitude. he was said to have lost a wife, to whom he was tenderly attached; the result of their union, a little girl, had occasioned him much grief, for she was born blind. while the father was held up as a model for his virtues, the goodness and charms of his daughter were equally extolled. my want of sight prevented me from judging of her beauty, but could i have beheld her she could not have left a more lovely impression on my mind. i picture her to myself sometimes as even more interesting than my mother." "she is dead, then?" inquired i. "dead!" replied he, in an accent in which there was a strange mixture of terror and wild joy! "dead! who told you so?" "pardon me, gervais, i did not know her; i was only endeavoring to find out the reason of your separation." "she is alive," said he, smiling bitterly, and he remained silent for a moment. "i do not know whether i told you that she was called eulalie. yes, her name was eulalie, and this was her place;" he broke off abruptly. "eulalie," repeated he, while he stretched out his hand as if to find her by his side. puck licked his fingers, and looked pityingly at him: i would not have parted from puck for a million. "calm yourself, gervais, and forgive me for opening a wound which is scarcely yet healed. i can guess the rest of your story. the strange similarity of eulalie's and your misfortune awakened her father's interest in you, and you became another child to him." "yes, i became another child to him, and eulalie was a sister to me; my kind adopted mother and i went to take up our abode in the new house, which is called the chateau. eulalie's masters were mine; together we learned those divine strains of harmony which raise the soul to heaven, and together, by means of pages printed in relief, we read with our fingers the sublime thoughts of the philosophers, and the beautiful creations of the poets. i endeavored to imitate some of their graceful images, and to paint what i had not seen. eulalie admired my verses, and this was all i desired. ah! if you had heard her sing, you would have thought that an angel had descended to entrance the valley. every day in the fine season we were conducted to this rock, which is called by the inhabitants of this part 'le rocher des aveugles;' here too the kindest of fathers guided our steps, and bestowed on us numberless fond attentions. around us were tufts of rhododendrons, beneath us was a carpet of violets and daisies, and when our touch had recognized, by its short stalk and its velvety disk, the last-named flower, we amused ourselves in stripping it of its petals, and repeated a hundred times this innocent diversion, which served as a kind of interpretation to our first avowal of love." as gervais proceeded, his face acquired a mournful expression, a cloud passed over his brow, and he became suddenly sad and silent; in his emotion he trod unthinkingly upon an alpine rose, which was, however, already withered on its stalk; i gathered it without his being aware of it, for i wished to preserve it in remembrance of him. some minutes elapsed before gervais seemed inclined to proceed with his narrative, and i did not like to speak to him; suddenly he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to drive away a disagreeable dream, and then turning toward me with an ingenuous smile, he continued. "be charitable to my weakness, for i am young, and have not yet learned to control the emotions of my heart; some day, perhaps, i shall be wiser." "i fear, my good friend," said i, "that this conversation is too fatiguing for you; do not recall to your mind circumstances which appear so painful. i shall never forgive myself for occasioning you such an hour of grief." "it is not you," replied gervais, "who bring back these recollections, for these thoughts are never absent from my mind, and i would rather that it was annihilated than that they should ever cease to occupy it; my very existence is mixed up with my sorrow." i had retained gervais's hand; he understood, therefore, that i was listening to him. "after all, my reminiscences are not entirely made up of bitterness; sometimes i imagine that my present affliction is only a dream--that my real life is full of the happiness which i have lost. i fancy that she is still near me, only, perhaps, a little further off than usual--that she is silent because she is plunged in deep meditation, of which our mutual love forms a principal part. one day we were seated as usual on this rock, and were enjoying the sweetness and serenity of the air, the perfume of our violets, and the song of the birds; upon this occasion we listened with a curious kind of pleasure to the masses of ice which, being loosened by the sun, shot hissingly down from the peaks of the mountain. we could distinguish the rushing of the waters of the arveyron. i do not know how it was, but we were both suddenly impressed with a vague sensation of the uncertainty of happiness, and at the same time with a feeling of terror and uneasiness; we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and held each other tightly, as if somebody had wished to separate us, and both of us exclaimed eagerly, 'ah, yes! let it be always thus, always thus.' i felt that eulalie scarcely breathed, and that her overwrought state of mind required to be soothed. 'yes, eulalie, let us ever be thus to one another; the world believes that our misfortune renders us objects only of pity, but how can it possibly judge of the happiness that i enjoy in your tenderness, or that you find in mine? how little does the turmoil and excitement of society affect us; we may be regarded by many as imperfect beings, and this is quite natural, for they have not yet discovered that the perfection of happiness consists in loving and in being loved. it is not your beauty which has captivated me, it is something which can not be described when felt, nor forgotten when once experienced; it is a charm which belongs to you alone--which i can discover in your voice, in your mind, in every one of your actions. oh! if ever i enjoyed sight, i would entreat god to extinguish the light of my eyes in order that i might not gaze at other women--that my thoughts might only dwell upon you. it is you who have rendered study pleasing to me--who have inspired me with taste for art; if the beauties of rossini and weber impressed me strongly, it was because you sang their glorious ideas. i can well afford to dispense with the superfluous luxuries of art, i who possess the treasure from which it would derive its highest price; for surely thy heart is mine, if not thou couldst not be happy.' "'i am happy,' replied eulalie, 'the happiest of girls.' "'my dear children,' said m. robert, while he joined our trembling hands, 'i hope you will always be equally happy, for it is my desire that you should never be separated.' "m. robert was never long absent from us, he was ever bestowing upon us marks of his tenderness. upon this occasion he had reached the spot where we were seated without our having been aware of his presence, and he had heard us without intentionally listening. i did not feel that i was in fault, and yet i was overwhelmed, embarrassed. eulalie trembled. m. robert placed himself between us, for we had withdrawn a little from each other. "'why should it not be as you wish?' said he, as he threw his arms around us, and pressed us close together, and embraced us with more than usual warmth. 'why not? am i not sufficiently rich to procure you servants and friends? you will have children who will replace your poor old father; your infirmity is not hereditary. receive my blessing, gervais, and you, my eulalie. thank god, and dream of to-morrow, for the day which will shine upon us to-morrow will be beautiful even to the blind.' "eulalie embraced her father, and then threw her arms round me; for the first time my lips touched hers. this happiness was too great to be called happiness. i thought that my heart would burst; i wished to die at that moment, but, alas! i did not die. i do not know how happiness affects others, but mine was imperfect, for it was without hope or calmness. i could not sleep, or rather i did not attempt to sleep, for it seemed to me a waste of time, and that eternity would not be sufficiently long to enjoy the felicity which was in store for me; i almost regretted the past, which, though it lacked the delicious intoxication of the present moment, was yet free from doubts and fears. at length i heard the household stirring; i got up, dressed myself, performed my morning devotions, and then went to my window, which looked out upon the arve. i opened it, stretched forth my head in the morning mists to cool my burning brow. suddenly my door opened, and i recognized a man's footstep; it was not m. robert; a hand took hold of mine--'m. maunoir!' exclaimed i. "it was a great many years since he had been to the valley; but the sound of his footstep, the touch of his hand, and something frank and affectionate in his manner, brought him back to my remembrance. "'it is indeed he,' observed m. maunoir, in a faltering voice, to some one near him, 'it is indeed my poor gervais. you remember what i said to you about it at that time.' he then placed his fingers on my eyelids, and kept them up for a few seconds. 'ah,' said he, 'god's will be done! you are happy at any rate, are you not gervais?' "'yes, very happy,' replied i. 'm. robert considers that i have profited by all his kindness; i assure you i can read as well as a person who is gifted with sight; above all, eulalie loves me.' "'she will love you, if possible, still more if she should one day be able to see you.' "'if she sees me, did you say?' "i thought he alluded to that eternal home where the eyes of the blind are opened, and darkness visits them no more. "my mother, as was her custom, brought me here, but eulalie had not arrived; she was later than usual. i began to wonder how this could have happened. my poor little puck went to meet her, but he returned to me again without her. at length he began to bark violently, and to jump so impatiently up and down on the bench, that i felt sure she must be near me, though i could not hear her myself. i stretched myself forward in the direction she would come, and presently my arms were clasped in hers. m. robert had not accompanied her as usual, and then i began at once to feel sure that his absence, and eulalie's delay in reaching our accustomed place of rendezvous, was to be attributed to the presence of strangers at the chateau. you will think it very extraordinary when i tell you that eulalie's arrival, for which i had so ardently longed, filled me with a restless sensation, which had hitherto been unknown to me. i was not at ease with eulalie as i had been the day before. now that we belonged to each other, i did not dare to make any claim on her kindness; it seemed to me that her father, in bestowing her on me had imposed a thousand restrictions; i felt as if i might not indulge in a word or caress; i was conscious that she was more than ever mine, and yet i did not venture to embrace her. perhaps she experienced the same feelings, for our conversation was at first restrained, like that of persons who are not much acquainted with each other; however, this state of things could not last long, the delicious happiness of the past day was still fresh in our minds. i drew near to eulalie, and sought her eyes with my lips, but they met a bandage. "'you are hurt, eulalie?' "'a little hurt,' replied she, 'but very slightly, since i am going to spend the day with you, as i am in the habit of doing; and that the only difference is, that there is a green ribbon between your mouth and my eyes.' "'green! green! oh, god! what does that mean? what is a green ribbon?' "'i have seen,' said she, 'i can see,' and her hand trembled in mine, as if she had apprised me of some fault or misfortune. "'you have seen,' exclaimed i, 'you will see! oh! unfortunate creature that i am! yes, you will see, and the glass which has hitherto been to you a cold and polished surface, will reflect your living image; its language, though mute, will be animated; it will tell you each day that you are beautiful! and when you return to me it will make you entertain only one feeling toward me, that of pity for my misfortunes. yet what do i say? you will not return to me; for who is the beautiful girl who would bestow her affection on a blind lover? oh! unfortunate creature that i am to be blind;' in my despair i fell to the earth; she wound her arms round me, twined her fingers in my hair, and covered me with kisses, while she sobbed like a child. "'no, no! i will never love any one but gervais. you were happy yesterday, in thinking we were blind, because our love would never be likely to change. i will be blind again, if my recovery of sight makes you unhappy. shall i remove this bandage, and cause the light of my eyes to be for ever extinguished? horrible idea, i had actually thought of it.' "'stop, stop,' cried i, 'our language is that of madness, because we are both unnerved and ill--you from excess of happiness, and i from despair. listen,' and i placed myself beside her, but my heart felt ready to break. 'listen,' continued i, 'it is a great blessing that you are permitted to see, for now you are perfect; it matters not, if i do not see, or if i die; i shall be abandoned, for this is the destiny which god has reserved for me; but promise me that you will never see me, that you will never attempt to see me; if you see me, you will, in spite of yourself, compare me to others--to those whose soul, whose thoughts may be read in their eyes, to those who set a woman fondly dreaming with a single glance of fire. i would not let it be in your power to compare me; i would be to you what i was in the mind of a little blind girl, as if you saw me in a dream. i want you to promise me that you will never come here without your green bandage; that you will visit me every week, or every month, or at least once every year;--ah! promise me to come back once more, without seeing me.' "'i promise to love you always,' said eulalie, and she wept. "i was so overcome that my senses left me, and i fell at her feet. m. robert lifted me from the ground, bestowed many kind words and embraces upon me, and placed me under the care of my adopted mother. eulalie was no longer there; she came the next day, and the day after, and several days following, and each day my lips touched the green bandage which kept up my delusion; i fancied i should continue to be the same to her as long as she did not see me. i said to myself with an insane kind of rapture, 'my eulalie still visits me without seeing me; she will never see me, and therefore i shall be always loved by her.' one day, a little while after this, when she came to visit me, and my lips sought her eyes as usual, they, in wandering about, encountered some long, silky eye-lashes beneath her green bandage. "'ah!' exclaimed i, 'if you were likely to see me.' "'i have seen you,' said she, laughingly; 'what would have been the good of sight to me, if i had not looked upon you? ah! vain fellow, who dares set limits to a woman's curiosity, whose eyes are suddenly opened to the light?' "'but it is impossible, eulalie, for you promised me.' "'i did not promise you any thing, dearest, for when you asked me to make you this promise, i had already seen you.' "'you had seen me, and yet you continued to come to me; that is well; but whom did you see first?' "'m. maunoir, my father, julie, then this great world, with its trees and mountains, the sky and the sun.' "'and whom have you seen since?' "'gabriel payot, old balmat, the good terraz, the giant cachat, and marguerite.' "'and nobody else?' "'nobody.' "'how balmy the air is this evening! take off your bandage, or you may become blind again?' "'would that grieve me so much? i tell you again and again, that the chief happiness i have in seeing, is to be able to look at you, and to love you through the medium of another sense. you were pictured in my soul as you now are in my eyes. this faculty, which has been restored to me, serves but as another link to bring me closer to your heart; and this is why i value the gift of sight.' "these words i shall never forget. my days now flowed on calmly and happily, for hope so easily seduces; our mode of life was considerably changed, and eulalie endeavored to make me prefer excitement and variety of amusement, instead of the tranquil enjoyment which had formerly charmed us. after some little time i thought i observed that the books which she selected for reading to me were of a different character to those she used to like; she seemed now to be more pleased with those writers who painted the busy scenes of the world, she unconsciously showed great interest in the description of a fête, in the numerous details of a woman's toilet, and in the preparations for, and the pomps of a ceremony. at first i did not imagine that she had forgotten that i was blind, so that though this change chilled, it did not break my heart. i attributed the alteration in her taste, in some measure, to the new aspect things had assumed at the chateau; for since m. maunoir had performed one of the miracles of his art upon eulalie, m. robert was naturally much more inclined to enjoy society and the luxuries which fortune had bestowed upon him; and as soon as his daughter was restored to him in all the perfection of her organization, and the height of her beauty, he sought to assemble, at the chateau, the numerous travelers that the short summer season brought to the neighborhood. "the winter came at length, and m. robert told me, after slightly preparing me, that he was going to leave me for a few days--for a few days at the most--he assured me that he only required time to procure and get settled in a house at geneva, before he would send for me to join them; he told me that eulalie was to accompany him; and at length, that he intended to pass the winter at geneva; the winter which would so soon be over, which had already begun. i remained mute with grief. eulalie wound her arms affectionately round my neck. i felt they were cold and hung heavily on me; if my memory still serves me she bestowed on me all kinds of endearing and touching appellations; but all this was like a dream. after some hours i was restored to my senses, and then my mother said, 'gervais, they are gone, but we shall remain at the chateau.' from that time i have little or nothing to relate. "in the month of october she sent me a ribbon with some words printed in relief, they were these: 'this ribbon is the green ribbon which i wore over my eyes--it has never left me; i send it you.' in the month of november, which was very beautiful, some servants of the house brought me several presents from her father, but i did not inquire about them. the snow sets in in december, and, oh! heavens, how long that winter was! january, february, march, april, were centuries of calamities and tempests. in the month of may the avalanches fell every where except on me. when the sun peeped forth a little, i was guided, by my wish, to the road which led to bossons, for this was the way the muleteers came; at length, one arrived, but with no news for me; and then another, and after the third i gave up all hope of hearing from my absent friends; i felt that the crisis of my fate was over. eight days after, however, a letter from eulalie was read to me; she had spent the winter at geneva, and was going to pass the summer at milan. my poor mother trembled for me, but i smiled; it was exactly what i expected. and now, sir, you know my story, it is simply this, that i believed myself loved by a woman, and i have been loved by a dog. poor puck!" puck jumped on the blind man. "ah!" said he, "you are not my puck, but i love you because you love me." "poor fellow," cried i, "you will be loved by another, though not by her, and you will love in return; but listen, gervais, i must leave chamouny, and i shall go to milan. i will see her. i will speak to eulalie, i swear to you, and then i will return to you. i, too, have some sorrows which are not assuaged; some wounds which are not yet healed." gervais sought for my hand, and pressed it fervently. sympathy in misfortune is so quickly felt. "you will, at least, be comfortably provided for; thanks to the care of your protector, your little portion of land has become very fruitful, and the good chamouniers rejoice in your prosperity. your prepossessing appearance will soon gain you a mistress, and will enable you to find a friend." "and a dog?" replied gervais. "ah! i would not give mine for your valley or mountains if he had not loved you, but now i give him to you." "your dog!" exclaimed he. "your dog ah! he can not be given away." "adieu, gervais!" i did not speak to puck, or he would have followed me; as i was moving on i saw puck looked uneasy and ashamed; he drew back a step, stretched out his paws, and bent down his head to the ground. i stroked his long silky coat, and with a slight pang at my heart, in which there was no feeling of anger, i said, so. he flew back to gervais like an arrow. gervais will not be alone at any rate, thought i. a few days afterward i found myself at milan. i was not in spirits for enjoying society, yet i did not altogether avoid mixing in it; a crowded room is, in its way, a vast solitude, unless you are so unfortunate a person as to stumble upon one of those never-tiring tourists whom you are in the habit of meeting occasionally on the boulevards, at tortoni's, or with whom you have gaped away an hour at favert's, one of those dressed-up puppies with fashionable cravat and perfumed hair, who stare through an eye-glass, with the most perfect assurance imaginable, and talk at the highest pitch of their voice. "what! are you here?" cried roberville. "is it you?" replied i. he continued to chatter, but his words were unheeded by me, for my eyes suddenly fixed upon a young girl of extraordinary beauty; she was sitting alone, and leaning against a pillar in a kind of melancholy reverie. "ah! ah!" said roberville, "i understand; your taste lies in that direction. well, well, really in my opinion you show considerable judgment. i once thought of her myself, but now i have higher views." "indeed," replied i, as i gazed at him from head to foot, "you do not say so." "come, come," said roberville, "i perceive your heart is already touched, you are occupied only with her; confess that it would have been a sad pity if those glorious black eyes had never been opened to the light." "what do you mean?" "what do i mean? why, that she was born blind. she is the daughter of a rich merchant of anvers, and his only child; he lost his wife very young, and was plunged in consequence in the profoundest grief." "do you believe it?" "i should think so, for he quitted anvers, gave up his mercantile pursuits, which had never been more profitable to him than at that time, and, after making magnificent presents to those persons employed in his service, and pensions to his servants, left his house and occupation." "and what became of him afterward?" said i, somewhat impatiently, for my curiosity was gradually increasing. "oh! it's a romance, a perfect romance. this good man retired to chamouny, where we have all been once in our life, for the sake of saying that we have been, though, for my part, i can never understand the charms of its melancholy grandeur, and there he remained several years. have you never heard him mentioned? let me see, it's a plebeian name--m. robert, that's it." "well?" said i. "well," continued he, "an occulist succeeded in restoring his daughter's sight. her father took her to geneva, and at geneva she fell in love with an adventurer, who carried her off because her father would not have him for a son-in-law." "her father felt that he was unworthy of her," said i. "yes, and he had formed a correct opinion of him, for no sooner had they reached milan than the adventurer disappeared, with all the gold and diamonds of which he had been able to possess himself; it was asserted that this gallant gentleman was already married, and that he had incurred capital punishment at padua, so that the law punished him." "and m. robert?" "oh, m. robert died of grief; but this affair did not create a great sensation, for he was a very singular man, who had some extraordinary ideas; one of the absurd plans he had formed was, to marry his daughter to a blind youth." "oh, the poor girl!" "she is not so much to be pitied either, but look at her instead of talking of her, and confess that she has many advantages, with two hundred thousand francs a year, and such a pair of eyes!" "eyes, eyes, curses rest upon her eyes, for they have been her ruin!" there is a leaven of cruelty in my composition, and i like to make those, who have caused others suffering, suffer in their turn. i fixed one of those piercing looks upon eulalie, which, when they do not flatter a woman, make her heart sink within her; she raised herself from the pillar, against which she was leaning, and stood motionless and tremblingly before me. i went up to her slowly, and whispered gervais. "who?" "gervais." "ah, gervais," replied she, while she placed her hand before her eyes. the scene was so singular that it would have shaken the nerves of the most composed person, for my appearance there was altogether so sudden, my acquaintance with her history so extraordinary. "ah, gervais," exclaimed i, vehemently seizing her at the same time by the arm, "what have you done to him?" she sank to the ground in a swoon. i never heard any more of her from that memorable night. i entered savoy by mount st. bernard, and again found myself once more in the valley of chamouny. again i sought the rock where gervais was accustomed to sit, but though it was his usual hour for sitting there, he was not to be seen. i came up to the old spot, and discovered his stick of cytisus, and perceiving that it was ornamented with a piece of green ribbon, on which were some words printed in relief, the circumstance of his leaving this behind him made me feel very uneasy. i called gervais, loudly; a voice repeated gervais; it seemed to me like an echo; i turned round; and beheld marguerite, leading a dog by a chain. they stopped, and i recognized puck, though he did not know me, for he seemed occupied by some idea; he sniffed his nose in the air, raised his ears, and stretched forth his paws, as if he was going to start off. "alas, sir," said marguerite, "have you met with gervais?" "gervais," replied i, "where is he?" puck looked at me as if he had understood what i had said, he stretched himself toward me, as far as his chain would permit; i stroked him with my hand, the poor thing licked my fingers and then remained still. "i remember now, sir, that it was you who gave him this dog to console him for one which he had lost, a little while before you came here; this poor animal had not been eight days in the valley before he lost his sight like his master." "i lifted up puck's silky head, and discovered that he was indeed blind. puck licked my hand, and then howled. "it was because he was blind," said marguerite, "that gervais would not take him with him yesterday." "yesterday, marguerite! what, has he not been home since yesterday?" "ah, sir, that is exactly what astonishes us all so much. only think on sunday, in the midst of a tremendous storm, a gentleman came to the valley; i could have declared he was an english milord; he wore a straw hat, covered with ribbons." "well, but what has all this to do with gervais?" "while i was running to fetch some fagots to make a fire for drying m. roberville's clothes, he remained with gervais. m. de roberville! yes, that was his name. i do not know what he said, but yesterday gervais was so melancholy; he, however, seemed more anxious than ever to go to the rock; indeed he was in such a hurry that i had scarcely time to throw his blue cloak over his shoulders; and i think i told you that the evening before was very cold and damp. 'mother,' said he, as we went along, 'be so kind as to prevent puck from following me, and take charge of him; his restlessness inconveniences me sometimes, and if he should pull his chain out of my hand, we should not be able to find each other again perhaps.'" "alas, gervais!" cried i, "my poor gervais!" "oh, gervais! gervais, my son! my little gervais!" sobbed the poor woman. puck gnawed his chain, and jumped impatiently about us. "if you were to set puck at liberty, perhaps he might find gervais," said i. the chain was unfastened, and before i had time to see that puck was free, he had darted off, and the next moment i heard the sound of a body falling into the depths of the arveyron. "puck! puck!" shouted i; but when i reached the spot, the little dog had disappeared, and all that could be seen was a blue mantle floating on the surface of the waters. footnote: [ ] from the french of charles nodier. the daughter of blood--a tale of spanish life. at aranjuez, some twenty years ago, there lived a youth of the poorer class, whose good nature and industry were the proverb of the village. his name was julio. his disposition was naturally indolent, morally i mean rather than physically; and although he was by no means deficient in understanding, he allowed himself to be guided by any person who, for any purpose, thought fit to undertake the task. julio delighted in doing a kindness and, as his good-nature equalled his ductility, he granted every request, whether it lay in his power or not. no one was more ready to play at the village dance than julio; and though he loved to dance himself, he never thought of indulging in this predilection until his companions, knowing his weakness, insisted on his allowing some one else to take the guitar. it was to him always that damsels resorted who had quarreled with their sweethearts, or youths who had fallen under the displeasure of their chloe; for, on behalf of the first, he was best able to soften jealousy and extort promises of future amendment, and for the latter, he would smooth matters by appropriate words, nay, often by a small gift purchased by a sacrifice of part of his own scanty store, and presented as though from the culprit. great were this charming young man's accomplishments; and not only were his companions, but the higher class of inhabitants, grieved when his facile disposition brought him into any scrape. it had always been supposed that julio was attached to a young girl, with whom he had been brought up. his patrimonial cottage adjoined to that of her parents, and he had ever seemed to court her society more than that of his other fair acquaintances. as for her, she adored him. she was much of the same disposition as himself, and undecided; but in her love for him, she had come out of herself; she would have followed him to the scaffold, and would infinitely have preferred a disagreeable death in his society, than the most agreeable life without him. as yet he had scarcely sufficiently reciprocated her attachment; he liked her society; he perhaps did not object to her devotion! nay, he wished to marry her; but she had not inspired him with the same absorbing love she herself felt; she had not sufficient command over him to draw forth his passion in its full tide; and while that passion was accumulating, pent up for some event, she was content with his simmering affection. her name was faustina. but his love was soon to be proved, and poor faustina's heart was to be sorely tried. while she confidingly looked up to him who was virtually her betrothed, she little thought how slight was the bond that attached him to her. she knew his love did not reach one tithe of that she would have wished, but she thought it infinitely more than what it eventually appeared. an italian family from madrid came to reside during the spring months at aranjuez. in their retinue came ursula, an italian _femme-de-chambre_, a woman whose name is never uttered in the _pueblo_ but with a curse. she was older than julio, who became acquainted with her while employed in the house in his trade as carpenter; but as she saw his pliable disposition, and perhaps his nascent passion, her experience and acuteness taught her to turn them to account; and in a short time she obtained such an ascendency over him, that he became a perfect plaything in her hands. he ruined himself in purchasing presents for the artful woman; he furnished her with all she required; he gave her money; in fact, had she requested his life, it would not have been considered an exorbitant demand. ursula was handsome, tall, dark, and fierce-looking flashing eyes she had, with heavy arched brows; and considering these advantages, folks wondered that she would condescend to turn her ideas so humbly; but after inquiries showed that in her own land, and in madrid, her conduct had been so very profligate, that all was now fish that came to her net, and that, to obtain the consummation of the wishes of every woman, a husband and independence, she must stoop far below what must have been her original expectations. meanwhile poor faustina wept and prayed, now scorned by julio, but pitied by the little world in which she had lived. she wept and prayed, but tears seemed to afford no relief to the maiden in her anguish, and prayers appeared to have lost their efficacy: they brought no success, nay, worse, no comfort. still julio pursued his headlong career, heedless of the past, the present, or the future. it was dreadful to see the change in him: he seemed as one possessed. the reckless passion that had been roused by the wily italian, burst all bounds, knew no restraint, no path; it was like a torrent that has been for some time dammed up, which, when set free, acknowledges no demarkation, no rule of banks or bed, but tears forward, involving in its impetuous rage the verdure and bloom that are around it. such was the state of affairs that occupied the attention of all the aranjovites, when one morning ursula the italian disappeared. julio was at work when the fact was communicated to him, which being done, he fell to the ground, as though the intelligence had struck him dead; and when he recovered from the swoon, he raved, frantic. he wandered to madrid, but could discover no intelligence of her; he visited all the neighboring towns, he inquired of the police, but no trace of the woman could be found, till at last the reaction of his spirits, after the tense excitement, the grief, the balked passion, seemed to have prostrated his senses; he walked as a spectre, taking heed of no passer-by, callous to all changes, careless of remark and of appearance, a noonday ghoul preying on his own misery. but now the prayers of the poor girl who loved him so fondly seemed to her to have been granted. she had not besought a return of his former lukewarm regard, only an opportunity of proving her own devotion; and in his dull apathy she indeed proved herself a loving woman. she followed him in his walks, she arranged his cottage, sang to him the songs she thought he best loved; nay, to cheer him, would endeavor to repeat the airs she had at times heard from the lips of her italian rival, though the attempt was but a self-inflicted wound; and in the heat of the day, she would take him often her own share of the domestic meal, or placing his unconscious head on her bosom, would tend him like a child, as he lay half sleeping, half senseless. her constancy received a qualified reward--count ----, an officer having the chief authority in the royal demesnes, hearing the story, offered to julio a good appointment in the gardens, with the proviso that he should espouse faustina. to this julio yielded without a sigh; poverty was beginning to make itself felt, and having resigned all hope of happiness he did not anticipate increased misery. his marriage did not alter his late mode of life. listless and stupid he wandered about the gardens, inspecting, with an uninterested eye, the workmen over whom he had been placed, and he would soon have lost his appointment had it not been for his wife, who, "tender and true," in addition to her household duties, executed those which had been committed to his charge, slaving night and day for him she loved, careless of suffering and of labor, her only object to win his approbation, and some, however slight, token of returned affection: but she labored in vain; julio did not see, or affected not to see, these exertions; he would enter the house or leave it, without uttering a syllable, while his wife continued her thankless office, rewarded only by her conscience. and how disheartening a task it is to practice self-denial unappreciated, to resign all for one who deigns not even to bestow a word of kind approval. but thus faustina lived her life--one uninterrupted self-sacrifice. alas! how often are such lives passed by women in every rank of life! how little can a stranger tell the heroism that occurs beneath the roofs of the noble or on the cold hearth of the beggar; at odd times, at sudden epochs, the world may hear of deeds practiced, that, of old, would have deified the performer; but often, how often, will noble acts, such as these, receive a thankless return; years passed as this, acknowledged only when too late; their premium in life, perchance, may be harsh words or curses, or transitory tears may moisten the grave when the gentle spirit passes from its earthly frame. these observations may be just, but they are somewhat trite. thus they lived for five years, one pretty little girl being the only fruit of this union; a child who, in her earliest days, was taught to suffer, and who partook her mother's disposition, nay, even her mother's character, as it appeared, tempered by the grief of womanhood; when one day, to the horror and disgust of the township, ursula, the _teterrima causa_, reappeared at aranjuez. she was grown much older in appearance--years and evident care had worn furrows in her cheeks; but the flashing eye of sin was not yet dimmed, her head not bent, nor the determination that had of old gained such a baneful influence on the mind of julio. one morning faustina, leaving her house, beheld her husband in conversation with her rival. that day had sealed her doom. morning, noon, and night, julio was at the side of ursula, as before, obeying her slightest command, groveling at her feet, like a slave; his ancient energy of passion had returned, but only to brutalize his nature; instead of cold looks to his wife, he now treated her with blows at the rare interviews he held with her; the cold apathy was changed into deep hate, and though no direct act of violence caused her death, the shock, the harshness, added to neglect, soon broke her heart. poor faustina died, blessing with her latest breath, the being who had by his cruelty killed her, and deprecating even remorse to visit him, she left the world, in which she had loved in vain. at her death, julio found himself comparatively wealthy--wealthy by her exertion; and ere another moon shone over his roof, his bride, the dark italian, beat his child on the spot where the mother had so lately died. dark rumors soon spread over the village, a scowling italian, given out by ursula as her brother, came and took up his abode in her newly-acquired house; curious neighbors whispered tales how, peeping in at night, they had beheld the three deal heavy blows to poor faustina's daughter; screams often were heard from the desecrated habitation, and the child was never seen to leave the house. julio had recovered, to a certain extent, the use of his faculties, and was enabled now himself to attend to his affairs, but his subordinates soon felt the loss of faustina's mild rule, and with the discrimination of the spanish peasantry, attributed their sufferings, not to the miserable tool, but to the fiend-hearted woman. * * * * * julio was walking in the garden alone, during the time usually devoted to the mid-day sleep; his underlings were reclining beneath the shade of the trees; and, at last, overcome by the heat, he himself gave way to slumber; his dreams were troubled, but were not of long duration; for he had not long laid himself on the sward, when he felt himself rudely shaken, and, awaking, discovered an officer of justice standing near him, who desired his society. the alguazil led him to his own abode, and, on reaching it, what did he behold? his wife, who was then with child, pinioned, between two villagers acting for the nonce as constables, one of whom held in his hand a bloody _navaja_; the brother(!), also pinioned, standing near her; and on the ground, surrounded by a knot of peasants, glad at the vengeance that was to overtake the guilty pair, he saw the child of faustina, decapitated, dismembered, discovered thus on the floor of the cottage, ere the murderous couple had been enabled to conceal the mangled remains. a workman, a near relation of julio's first wife, who had, by chance, heard a suppressed scream in passing, hastily summoning assistance, had arrived in time only to apprehend the assassins, the shedders of innocent blood. there was no flaw in the evidence, and, ere long, ursula and her paramour, for such was the true relative position in which she stood with the stranger, were sentenced to the doom they so richly deserved. i have not, however, ended, my narrative, but i will endeavor to curtail the rest of my history, to me the strangest part of it. julio was not disenchanted; by extraordinary exertions to save the mother of a child, shrewdly suspected not to be his own, he prevailed on his patron, count ----, to procure the commutation of his wife's sentence to a term of imprisonment; and though the murderer forfeited his life, the murderess escaped after some years' incarceration, having given birth to a child shortly after her trial, who, innocent, bore on her brow the mark of the instrument of her mother's crime; and, can it be credited!--julio took the woman to his home, his love unabated, his subserviency undiminished! they now live in aranjuez, and the child is left to wander about unnoticed, except with punishment; my kind-hearted landlady alone feeds the poor creature, whom all others shun: and even she feels uncomfortable in the presence of one born under such auspices. her fellow-townsfolk, as they pass the scene of virtue and of crime, bless the memory of faustina, and curse the life of ursula, praying for the peace of the first one and of her child; and, while execrating the latter, refuse shelter or relief to her innocent offspring, who, in the universal spirit of poetry that reigns in spain, is known far and near, and pointed to the stranger as _la hija de sangre_, the daughter of blood. the execution of fieschi, morey, and pepin. about one o'clock on a cold winter night in , a party of four persons were seated in the coffee-room of the hôtel meurice, at paris. it was chilly, sloppy, miserable weather; half-melted snow, mixed with the paris mud, and a driving, sleety rain hissed against the ill-fitting windows. our four convives were drinking--not the wines of sunny france, but something much more appropriate and homely--a curiously-fine sample of gin, artfully compounded into toddy, by achille, the waiter. when the clock struck one, three of the party made a show of retiring; but the fourth, a punchy gentleman from wolverhampton, entreated that the rest would not all desert him while he discussed one glass more--nay, perhaps, would join him! but here achille was inexorable: the master was in bed, and had taken the keys. our four friends have taken their candles, and are moving from the room, when a cab drives rapidly to the door--there is a smart ring at the bell, and a gentleman in full evening dress, and enveloped in a spanish cloak, hastily enters the room. "who is inclined to see fieschi's head chopped off?" said the stranger, unfolding himself from the cloak. "the execution is to take place at daylight--i had it from a peer of france, and the guillotine has been sent off an hour ago." "where?" our informant could not tell. it was known only to the police--there was an apprehension of some attempt at a rescue, and ten thousand troops were to be on the ground. it will be either the place st. jaques, or the barrière du trône--the first, most likely; let us try that to begin with, and there will be plenty of time to go on to the other afterward: but we must be early, to get a good place. we are not of those who make a practice of attending executions with a morbid appetite for such horrors. under any circumstances, the deliberate cutting off a life is a melancholy spectacle. the mortal agony, unrelieved by excitement, is painful in the extreme to witness, but worse still is reckless bravado. rarest of all is it to see the inevitable fate met with calm dignity. here, however, was a miscreant, who, to gratify a political feeling--dignified, in his opinion, with the name of patriotism--deliberately fired the contents of a battery of gun-barrels into a mass of innocent persons, many of whom, it was quite certain, would be killed, for the chance of striking down one man, and, probably, some of his family. that this family, with their illustrious father, should have escaped altogether, is an instance of good fortune as remarkable as the attempt was flagitious. but the magnitude of the crime invested the perpetrators with a terrible interest, which overcame any lingering scruples, and the whole party decided upon setting out forthwith. we made for the nearest coach-stand, which was that upon the quay, near the pont neuf. in something more than half an hour, we jingled into the place st. jaques, and, pausing at the corner, had the satisfaction to hear the sounds of hammers busily plied upon a dark mass rising in the centre of the square--it was the platform upon which to erect the guillotine. on all sides of this, workmen were busily engaged, their labor quickened by the exhortations of one who walked about, lantern in hand, upon the top. this was the executioner, who, seen by the light he carried, bore a remarkable resemblance to the great english comedian, the late mr. liston. there was the same square form of the countenance, the small nose, the long upper lip, the mirth-provoking gravity, and the same rich, husky chuckle. this curious likeness was at once acknowledged by all present, and an englishman took the liberty of interrupting the grave functionary with the information that he was the very image of _le plus grand farceur que nous avons en angleterre_, a piece of information which the french scion of the house of ketch received, after the manner of frenchmen, as a high compliment, being moved to bow and chuckle much thereat. by this time, the hammering had roused the dwellers in the place, and lights were seen rapidly moving about the windows. a café-keeper had opened his saloon, arranged his little tables, and was bustling about with his waiters attending to the wants of the guests already assembled. an execution is a godsend to the place st. jaques at any time, but the execution of three great state criminals, such as these, would go far to pay the year's rent of the houses. as cabs and _fiacres_ began to arrive, we thought it necessary to make arrangement for securing a room from whence to see the execution, and chance conducted us to the corner house, one side of which looked upon the square, directly opposite the guillotine, from which it was scarcely fifty yards distance; and the other side fronted the road by which the prisoners were to be conveyed from their prison to the scaffold. we found the situation well adapted for our purpose, though only one window looked into the square, the two others were easily made to command a view of the scaffold, which was nearly in a line with that side of the house. our host had also with much propriety made the bed, set the furniture to rights, raked up the ashes of the wood-fire, and put on another block or two; and the fact of meeting with an open fire-place instead of the eternal stove, made us feel at home at once. the wolverhampton man declared that it was dangerous to british lungs to be out in these raw mornings in a foreign country without something warm to qualify the air; so a bottle of brandy was sent for to the neighboring _café_, and our hostess had busied herself in producing hot water and tumblers, as if, through the frequenters of executions, she had arrived at considerable knowledge of the national tastes. our ancient host, being accommodated with a cigar, narrated the particulars of the many beheadings which had fallen under his observation since his occupancy of the house. one may be mentioned as exhibiting a rare instance of irresistible curiosity. the man had been guilty of an atrocious murder, either of a wife or some near relative, and when his neck was placed under the ax, he contrived to slue himself partly round to see its descent, and had a part of his chin taken off in consequence. about two hours before day-light a body of mounted municipal guards arrived, and formed round the scaffold. the object of this appeared to be to hide the proceedings as much as possible from those on foot, who could only hope for a very imperfect view between the bodies and the bear-skins of these troops. soon after the municipal guard the infantry of the line began to arrive, and were formed in a circle four deep outside the municipals, and nearly as far back as the houses of the place. a considerable crowd had also collected, though extremely orderly and good-humored; in fact, to see the general hilarity, and listen to the bursts of loud laughter, it would seem to be regarded in the light of _fête_. there was certainly no appearance of sympathy with the criminals. finding the municipals so materially interfered with the show, the people soon began to occupy the trees and lamp-posts, the adjacent walls, and the roofs of the neighboring houses; while the infantry, having piled arms, waltzed and danced to keep themselves warm. soon after daylight the hammering ceased, and the preparations appeared to be completed; and shortly afterward strong bodies of cavalry began to take up their positions in all the streets leading into the place. the first care of the officer commanding these was to clear the square entirely of all the people who had collected in rear of the infantry, and to drive them out along the adjacent streets; an order was also given to dislodge the people out of the trees, and from the walls and lamp-posts, and this caused much grumbling and swearing of all concerned. some merriment, however, was excited by the discovery of some women in the trees, and their descent, superintended by the dragoons below, gave occasion for the exercise of much not over decent wit among the troopers. it struck me that in their manner of dealing with the crowd there was much unnecessary harshness on the part of the troops, an irritability and fretfulness often exhibited by persons doubtful of their own authority, and very unlike the calm, good-humored superiority with which our own men are wont to handle the masses. presently came two general officers with their staff, and each followed by a mounted "jockey," lads dressed as english grooms, of whom one, as well by his fair complexion and honest round face, the whiteness of his tops and leathers, and the general superiority of his turn-out, as by his firm and easy seat on horseback, was evidently a native of our own country. about an hour after sun-rise three caleches came rapidly down the road, passing our windows, each carriage containing three persons, the condemned, and two police officers. the troops opened out, and the men were landed at the foot of the platform. it may be well to describe the general appearance of the scaffold. on a platform about twelve feet square, and seven feet above the ground, are erected the two upright posts, between which is suspended the ax. they somewhat resemble a narrow gallows, scarcely more than a foot between the posts. the ax, which is not unlike a hay-knife, though much heavier and broader, is drawn up to the top of the posts, between which it runs in grooves, and is held suspended by a loop in the halyards, passed over a button at the bottom. the edge of the ax, as it hangs suspended, is not horizontal, or at a right angle with the post, but diagonal, giving the instrument a fearful power, in conjunction with its weight and long fall, of shearing through a resisting substance of many times more opposing force than a human neck. on the centre of the platform stands a frame, or large box, much resembling a soldier's arm-chest, about six feet long by two and a half wide, and probably as much high. one end of this abuts upon the upright posts, at the other end is a small frame like a truck, connected about its centre with the chest by hinges, and with a strap and buckle, to make it fast to the man's body. the prisoners having dismounted, were placed in a line on the ground facing the guillotine, their arms pinioned. they were very different in appearance. fieschi had a most sinister and ferocious expression of face, rendered more so by the scars, scarcely healed apparently, inflicted by the bursting of his gun-barrels. he was plainly dressed, and appeared like a workman of the better class; his age about thirty-five. morey was a man advanced in life, perhaps seventy; his bald head was partly covered with a black cap revealing the white hairs behind, and at the sides: he was a corpulent large figure, dressed completely in black, with a mild intelligent face, and altogether a very gentlemanly air and manner. pepin was a small, thin-faced, insignificant man. pepin was chosen first for execution. having been deprived of his coat and neck-handkerchief, and the collar of his shirt turned down, he was led by the executioner up the steps of the platform. he ascended with an air of considerable bravado, shook himself, and looked round with much confidence, and spoke some words which we could not catch, and which the executioner appeared disposed to cut short. having advanced with his breast against the truck, to which his body was rapidly strapped, he was then tilted down, truck and all, upon his face; and the truck moving upon small wheels or castors in grooves upon the chest, he was moved rapidly forward, till his neck came directly under the chopper, when the rope being unhooked from the button, the ax fell with a loud and awful "chop!" the head rolling down upon the bare platform. after the separation of the head, the body moved with much convulsive energy, and had it not been made fast to what i have called the truck, and that also connected with the raised platform, would probably have rolled down on the lower stage. the executioner then held up the head to view for a moment, and i suspect, from some laughter among the troops, made a facetious remark. the lid of a large basket alongside the chest was then raised, and the body rolled into it. morey was the next victim. he ascended the steps feebly, and requiring much assistance; he was also supported during the process of strapping him. his bald head and venerable appearance made a favorable impression upon the spectators, and elicited the only expressions of sympathy observable throughout the executions. fieschi came last, and was the most unnerved of the three. he appeared throughout in a fainting condition, and hung his head in a pitiable state of prostration. very little consideration was shown him, or rather he was pushed and thrust about in a way which was indecent, if not disgusting, whatever might have been his crimes. some little difficulty occurred in placing his head conveniently under the ax, from a recoiling motion of the prisoner. he was certainly the least brave of the three. the executioner having rolled his body into the larger basket with the others, took up that containing the three heads, which having emptied upon the bodies, he gave the bottom of the basket a jocular tap, which, being accompanied with a lifting of his foot behind, and probably some funny and seasonable observation, created a good deal of merriment among the spectators. the guillotine is apparently the most merciful, but certainly the most terrible to witness, of any form of execution in civilized europe. the fatal chop, the raw neck, the spouting blood, are very shocking to the feelings, and demoralizing; as such exhibitions can not fail to generate a spirit of ferocity and a love of bloodshed among those who witness them. it was not uncommon at this period in paris to execute sheep and calves with the guillotine; and fathers of families would pay a small sum to obtain such a gratifying show for their children. in such a taste may we not trace the old leaven of the first revolution, and the germ of future ones? the fate of poor dr. guillotin was a singular one. he lived to see the machine which he had invented, from feelings of pure philanthropy, made the instrument of the most horrible butcheries, the aptness of the invention notoriously increasing the number of the victims who fell by it; and he died in extreme old age, with the bitter reflection that his name would be handed down to posterity, in connection with the most detestable ferocities which have ever stained the annals of mankind. personal habits and character of the walpoles. by eliot warburton. we are not disposed to consider the elder horace walpole a great statesman, or claim for him the consideration accorded to his mere celebrated brother; but he was superior in talent to many of his contemporaries who attained a much higher eminence; and his honesty and zeal would have rendered creditable a much less amount of political accomplishments than he could boast of. measured with the diplomatists of a more modern period, lord walpole will probably fall below par; but he had no genius for that fine subtlety which is now expected to pervade every important negotiation, and knew nothing of that scientific game of words, in which diplomatists of the new school are so eager to distinguish themselves. in appearance he was more fitted to appear as a republican representative, than as an embassador from a powerful sovereign to the most polished court in europe; his manners were so unpolished, his form so inelegant, and his address so unrefined. he rendered valuable support to the english monarchy, and won the confidence of the shrewd and calculating queen caroline, as well as the esteem of the sagacious and prudent states-general. a trustworthy authority has styled him "a great master of the commercial and political interests of this country," and accorded him the merits of unwearied zeal, industry, and capacity. with such advantages, he might well confess, without much regret, that he had never learned to dance, and could not pride himself on making a bow. though blunt and unpolished, he was extremely agreeable in conversation; abounding in pleasant anecdote, and entertaining reminiscences; fond of society, affable to every one, sumptuous in his hospitality, and not less estimable in his domestic than in his social relations. though he wrote, and printed, and spoke lessons of political wisdom, that met with the fate of entire disregard, it is impossible not to admire the unselfish zeal that would almost immediately afterward induce him to write, print, and speak similar instructive lessons, to the same set of negligent scholars. there is a statement which having found its way into such an authority as "chandler's debates," has been incorporated in works pretending to historical accuracy. on a debate arising out of the bill for the encouragement and increase of seamen, in , pitt is represented as attacking mr. horace walpole for having ventured on a reference to his youth. the fact is, that these debates were imaginary or constructed on a very slight foundation. dr. johnson, as is well known, before he had obtained his colossal reputation, drew up fictitious reports of what took place in the house of commons. mr. walpole having in a discussion been severely handled by pitt, lyttleton, and the granvilles, all of whom were much his juniors, lamented that though he had been so long in business, young men should be found so much better informed in political matters than himself. he added that he had at least one consolation in remembering that his own son being twenty years of age, must be as much the superior of pitt, lyttleton, and the granvilles, as they were wiser than himself. pitt having his youth thus mercilessly flung in his face, got up in a rage, commencing--"with the greatest reverence to the gray hairs of the gentleman," but was stopped by mr. walpole pulling off his wig, and disclosing a grizzled poll beneath. this excited very general laughter, in which pitt joined with such heartiness, as quite to forget his anger. the younger walpole always preserved a delicacy of figure, approaching effeminacy: his dress was simple: his manners studiously courteous: but his features, though agreeable, were not handsome; the most expressive portion being his eyes, which, when animated in conversation, flashed with intelligence. a close observer has stated, that "his laugh was forced and uncouth, and even his smile not the most pleasing." this may, perhaps, be attributed to the pain he habitually suffered, since the age of twenty-five, from the gout, which in the latter part of his life attacked his hands and feet with great severity. during the last half of his existence he was not only extremely abstemious, but his habits indicated a constitution that could brave alterations of temperature, from which much stronger men would shrink. his hour of rising was usually nine, and then, preceded by his favorite little dog, which was sure to be as plump as idleness and good feeding could render it, he entered the breakfast-room. the dog took his place beside him on the sofa. from the silver tea-kettle, kept at an even temperature by the lamp beneath, he poured into a cup of the rarest japan porcelain, the beverage "that cheers, but not inebriates." this was replenished two or three times, while he broke his fast on the finest bread, and the sweetest butter that could be obtained. he, at the same time, fed his four-footed favorite, and then, mixing a basin of bread and milk, he opened the window, and threw it out to the squirrels, who instantly sprang from bough to bough in the neighboring trees, and then bounded along the ground to their meal. at dinner, which was usually about four o'clock, he ate moderately of the lightest food, quenching his thirst from a decanter of water that stood in an ice-pail under the table. coffee was served almost immediately, to which he proceeded up stairs, as he dined in the small parlor or large dining-room, according to the number of his guests. he would take his seat on the sofa, and amuse the company with a current of lively gossip and scandal, relieved with observations on books and art, in illustration of objects brought from the library or any other portion of the house--for the whole might be regarded as a museum. his snuff-box, filled from a canister of _tabac d'etrennes_ from fribourg's, placed in a marble urn at one of the windows to keep it moist, was handed round, and he frequently enjoyed its pungent fragrance till his guests had departed--this was rarely till about two o'clock. if earlier, walpole was sure to be found with pen in hand, continuing whatever work he might have in progress, or communicating to some of his numerous friends the news and gossip of the day. the whole of the forenoon, till dinner-time, was often employed by him in attending upon visitors, rambling about the grounds, or taking excursions upon the river. he rarely wore a hat, his throat was generally exposed, and he was quite regardless of the dew, replying, to the earnest solicitude of his friends, "my back is the same with my face, and my neck is like my nose." sometimes of an evening he would go out to pay a visit to his neighbor, kitty clive, and then the hours passed by in a rivalry of anecdote and pleasantry; for kitty, like himself had seen a great deal of the world, and was full of its recollections. an incident of indian life. in the year i found myself traveling through the mysorean country of seringapatam, so familiar to every reader of indian history, for the rapid rise of that crafty but talented asiatic hyder ali. i had been reflecting as i passed through the country on the warlike exploits and barbarous cruelties by which it has been disfigured, and on the short space of time in which, from the first settlement by a few enterprising merchants at surat, in the year , the english had, either by force or diplomacy, possessed themselves of the entire territory from cape comorin to the himalaya mountains; and, by an anomaly of which history furnishes no parallel, holding and enforcing their authority in great measure by means of the very natives and troops they have conquered, and who now lend themselves to enslave their own country, and rivet the shackles of bondage on their fatherland. i asked myself the question--was the time approaching when their fame, colonies, and possessions would be among the things that were? would they in process of development be swept away before some nation not yet cradled, or only in its infancy; or--proving an exception to the whole experience of ages--would they remain imperishably great and renowned till the final dissolution of nature? bewildered at last with these reflections, i left my palanquin; and, walking forward, with a manton across my shoulder, accompanied by a coolie carrying a double-barreled rifle, was soon busily engaged peering into the thick grass and underwood that lay on each side of the path, intent only on scattering destruction among some innocent and tender little bipeds, with the laudable design of furnishing some trifling addition to natural history, and a distant hope of perhaps securing a shot among a herd of deer faintly discernible in the outline. in the incautious pursuit of a wild boar that had crossed my path, i at length found myself in the midst of a dense jungle--not the most secure position in the world, with only a single ebony gentleman at your side--for on the least indication of danger, this representative of lucifer judiciously prefers present safety to future reputation, and performs a retrograde movement with undignified rapidity, leaving you alone to apologize for your intrusion to a brute that can not be persuaded to adopt polite manners, but evinces an unmistakable desire to exhibit his gratitude for your visit by a passionate and unceremonious embrace. the tendency of long ages of lost liberty and slavish superstition to produce national degradation is forcibly exemplified in the lower castes of the natives, who may truthfully be said to have acquired all the vices of their various conquerors, without any of their redeeming qualities. to return:--tired at last with my exertions and the intensity of the heat, i dispatched my sable attendant in quest of that peculiar indian luxury, the palanquin; and looking round for some sheltered spot to await its coming up, perceived a wide-spreading banyan tree. trusting to its friendly shelter, i was soon stretched beneath a canopy of densely-clustered foliage, sufficient to exclude all direct rays of the solar star; and, lighting one of my best indian pipes, resigned myself to what brother jonathan terms a "tarnation smoke." the scene before me was such as that which johnson in one of his rich and genial moods would delight to portray--the image of beauty reposing in the lap of sublimity was never more aptly applied. the sun had attained its culminating point, and was showering down its fervid rays with a scorching influence; not a breath stirred the forest air: all was hushed in repose, and silent as the last breathings of the departing soul--while a foreboding sensation o'ershadowed the whole, as that beautiful couplet in campbell's "lochiel" ominously crowded on my memory, 'tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, and coming events cast their shadows before. i could not account for the oppressive silence, for often before i had reclined at the foot of some forest giant, and experienced widely different feelings; all here seemed indescribably grand and ennobling. the various tribes of baboons, monkeys, and apes, screeching, chattering and grinning overhead, anon leaping from tree to tree, luxuriating in all the enjoyment of freedom and revelry; while the jay, the parrot, the peacock, with minor and sweeter minstrels in every splendid variety of tropical plumage, might be seen soaring or darting amidst the foliage of forest verdure, combined with the beauty and number of parasitical plants and wild flowers. such a scene of loveliness and life had often enraptured me, till a second eden seemed realized; when, as if its aspect were too beautiful for sinful earth, the illusion was dissipated on observing the slender and graceful form of a snake gliding swiftly in mazy folds through the long grass--by that curious association of ideas, suggesting at once the primal fall, and the probable vicinity of a cobra couched on the branch of a tree overhead, whose color so closely approximates its tinge, that it is almost impossible, without careful scrutiny, to detect its presence, and if unconsciously disturbed in its leafy cradle, the oscillation is resented by darting its poisoned fang in the invader's face. these insidious foes, and the probability of a struggle with some carnivorous denizen of the glen, suggest strong doubts as to the security of your woodland abode, and damp the pleasure the scene otherwise might afford. and thus surely do we find that, in nature as in life, under the most lovely and entrancing aspects often lurk the most seductive and deadly influences. the prospect loses nothing at night, when effulgent with the pensive moonbeams, and the myriads of fire-flies like living stars broke loose from the dominion of old night, delighted with their new-found liberty, and dancing in a perfect jubilee of joyous light through the embowering arcades, illuminating every note of forest life; and on the one side is heard the amorous roar of the antelope's midnight suitor, as pending to the crashing march of the gregarious elephant; and on the other the nightly concert of a pack of jackalls, resembling so closely the music of those "delightful" babies, that it is only by continuous rehearsals the ear can receive them with indifference--render the whole indescribably magnificent, though rather trying to delicate nerves. all such sublimity and active life, however, were now absent; not a living creature was to be seen, and actuated by some indefinable impulse, i involuntarily clutched my rifle. scarcely had i done so, when an agonizing shriek re-echoed through the forest; rushing in the direction, i encountered a sight that struck me with horror and dismay--for a moment i stood paralyzed! a brahmin, with his wife and only daughter, were making a pilgrimage to the banks of the sacred ganges. with the characteristic indifference of their caste, they had incautiously halted in the midst of the jungle to cook some rice. the little girl, while the mother was occupied in preparing the frugal meal, had thoughtlessly wandered into the long grass in quest of some gaudy insect flitting past: on a sudden the father, who had thrown himself on the ground to snatch a few moments' repose, was aroused by the screams of his child, and, regaining his feet, perceived a full-grown cheetah in the act of springing on his tender girl. to see, and rush to her rescue, armed only with a knife, was the work of an instant; he arrived too late to arrest the tiger as he made his rarely missing, and in this case fatal spring on the beautiful and dark-bosomed maid. a terrible struggle now ensued, the infuriated animal relaxed its grasp of the child, and fastened on the father. the tender and loving wife, only now fully awakened to the extent of the danger, forgetting her sex, insensible to aught but her husband's peril, recklessly rushed forward; but ere she could reach the spot to become a third victim to the insatiate monster, the providential flight of a bullet from a stranger's rifle, penetrating the animal's brain, stretched him dead at her feet. the brave husband, on approaching the spot, lay extended on the grass in the last agonies of death, dreadfully mangled, the brute having torn away the greater part of his brain and face. the little girl had already expired. never can i forget the calmness and apparently stoical indifference of this indian woman while her husband lay extended before her, gasping his last. she supported his head, gently wiping the blood from his face and lips; no sign of her feelings could be detected in her features. i gazed upon her with astonishment; but no sooner was it evident that death had effectually terminated the loved one's sufferings, than she gave way to the most frantic and heart-rending expressions of grief. the anguish of that woman death alone can obliterate from my memory--words can not picture it. i see her before me as i write, alternately embracing the lifeless and bloody bodies of her husband and child, lavishing over them the most tender, endearing invocations of affection, then as suddenly turning round and seizing the crimson knife of her heroic husband, plunged it again and again into the body of the insensible animal, uttering all the time the most fearful and violent imprecations of despair and anguish. it was with the greatest difficulty she could at length be removed from the tragic scene, and confided to the care of some neighboring villagers. i had occasion to revisit the same scenes some few months after, and found the bereaved wife, but, indeed, how changed! i could hardly recognize her. day and night, i was informed, she wandered about, calling on her husband and child. a deep, settled gloom, beyond any thing i ever witnessed, was upon her features; her eyes had a wandering, restless expression. she knew me immediately, and talked in the most pathetic strain of her hapless child and husband. poor creature! i tried to console her, but in vain. she said, her only wish was, as soon as the monsoon, or rainy season abated, to prosecute her journey to the ganges, and die by its sacred stream. i remonstrated with her on this folly, and, explained to her the divine truths of christianity. all in vain! she was fixed in her resolution; and when i pointed to the heavens, and spoke of the mercies of god and his power, she replied, "that were he powerful, he could not be merciful, or he would not have taken her husband and child away without taking her also." all i could say made no impression, nor seemed to abate her determination, and time would not permit my stay, nor did i ever chance again to traverse the same scenes; but i have no doubt, from my knowledge of indian character, she subsequently carried her resolution into effect. coffee planting in ceylon. in two chapters.--chapter the first. in the month of september, , i started from kandy, the ancient capital of ceylon, to visit a friend who was in charge of one of the many new coffee clearings then in progress. i was accompanied by a young planter well acquainted with the country and the natives, and who had offered to act as my guide. the clearing was distant about twenty-five miles. the route we took has since become famous. rebellion and martial law have stalked over it; and concerning it, the largest blue books of last session have been concocted. we mounted our horses a good hour before day-break, so as to insure getting over the most exposed part of our journey before the sun should have risen very high, an important matter for man and beast in tropical countries. toward noon, we pulled up at a little bazaar, or native shop, and called for "_hoppers and coffee_." i felt that i could have eaten almost any thing, and, truly, one needs such an appetite to get down the dreadful black-draught which the cingalese remorselessly administer to travelers, under the name of coffee. the sun was high in the horizon when we found ourselves suddenly, at a turn of the road, in the midst of a "clearing." this was quite a novelty to me; so unlike any thing one meets with in the low country, or about the vicinity of kandy. the present clearing lay at an elevation of fully three thousand feet above the sea-level, while the altitude of kandy is not more than sixteen hundred feet. i had never been on a hill estate, and the only notions formed by me respecting a plantation of coffee, were of continuous, undulating fields, and gentle slopes. here it was not difficult to imagine myself among the recesses of the black forest. pile on pile of heavy, dark jungle, rose before my astonished sight, looking like grim fortresses defending some hidden city of giants. the spot we had opened upon was at the entrance of a long valley of great width, on one side of which lay the young estate we were bound to. before us were, as near as i could judge, fifty acres of felled jungle in thickest disorder; just as the monsters of the forest had fallen, so they lay, heap on heap, crushed and splintered into ten thousand fragments. fine brawny old fellows some of them; trees that had stood many a storm and thunder-peal; trees that had sheltered the wild elephant, the deer, and the buffalo, lay there prostrated by a few inches of sharp steel. the "fall" had taken place a good week before, and the trees would be left in this state until the end of october, by which time they would be sufficiently dry for a good "burn." struggling from trunk to trunk, and leading our horses slowly over the huge rocks that lay thickly around, we at last got through the "fall," and came to a part of the forest where the heavy, quick click of many axes told us there was a working-party busily employed. before us, a short distance in the jungle, were the swarthy, compact figures of some score or two of low country cingalese, plying their small axes with a rapidity and precision that was truly marvelous. it made my eyes wink again, to see how quickly their sharp tools flew about, and how near some of them went to their neighbors' heads. in the midst of these busy people i found my planting friend, superintending operations, in full jungle costume. a sort of wicker helmet was on his head, covered with a long padded white cloth, which hung far down his back, like a baby's quilt. a shooting-jacket and trowsers of checked country cloth; immense leech-gaiters fitting close inside the roomy canvas boots; and a chinese-paper umbrella, made up his curious outfit. to me it was a pretty, as well as a novel sight, to watch the felling work in progress. two ax-men to small trees; three, and sometimes four, to larger ones; their little bright tools flung far back over their shoulders with a proud flourish, and then, with a "whirr," dug deep in the heart of the tree, with such exactitude and in such excellent time, that the scores of axes flying about me seemed impelled by some mechanical contrivance, and sounding but as one or two instruments. i observed that in no instance were the trees cut through, but each one was left with just sufficient of the heart to keep it upright; on looking around, i saw that there were hundreds of them similarly treated. the ground on which we were standing was extremely steep and full of rocks, between which lay embedded rich veins of alluvial soil. where this is the case, the masses of stone are not an objection; on the contrary, they serve to keep the roots of the young coffee plants cool during the long dry season, and, in the like manner, prevent the light soil from being washed down the hill-side by heavy rains. my planter-friend assured me that, if the trees were to be at once cut down, a few at a time, they would so encumber the place as to render it impossible for the workmen to get access to the adjoining trees, so thickly do they stand together, and so cumbersome are their heavy branches. in reply to my inquiry as to the method of bringing all these cut trees to the ground, i was desired to wait until the cutting on the hill-side was completed, and then i should see the operation finished. the little axes rang out a merry chime--merrily to the planter's ear, but the death-knell of many a fine old forest tree. in half an hour the signal was made to halt, by blowing a conch shell; obeying the signal of the superintendent, i hastened up the hill as fast as my legs would carry me, over rocks and streams, halting at the top, as i saw the whole party do. then they were ranged in order, axes in hand, on the upper side of the topmost row of cut trees. i got out of their way, watching anxiously every movement. all being ready, the manager sounded the conch sharply: two score voices raised a shout that made me start again; forty bright axes gleamed high in air, then sank deeply into as many trees, which at once yielded to the sharp steel, groaned heavily, waved their huge branches to and fro, like drowning giants, then toppled over, and fell with a stunning crash upon the trees below them. these having been cut through previously, offered no resistance, but followed the example of their upper neighbors, and fell booming on those beneath. in this way the work of destruction went rapidly on from row to row. nothing was heard but groaning, crackling, crashing, and splintering; it was some little time before i got the sounds well out of my ears. at the time it appeared as though the whole of the forest-world about me was tumbling to pieces; only those fell, however, which had been cut, and of such not one was left standing. there they would lie until sufficiently dry for the torch that would blacken their massive trunks, and calcine their many branches into dusty heaps of alkali. by the time this was completed, and the men put on to a fresh "cut," we were ready for our mid-day meal, the planter's breakfast. away we toiled toward the _bungalow_. passing through a few acres of standing forest, and over a stream, we came to a small cleared space well sheltered from wind, and quite snug in every respect. it was thickly sown with what i imagined to be young lettuces, or, perhaps, very juvenile cabbage-plants, but i was told this was the "nursery," and those tiny green things were intended to form the future soolookande estate. on learning that we had reached the "bungalow," i looked about me to discover its locality, but in vain; there was no building to be seen; but presently my host pointed out to me what i had not noticed before--a small, low-roofed, thatched place, close under a projecting rock, and half hid by thorny creepers. i imagined this to be his fowl-house, or, perhaps, a receptacle for tools; but was not a little astonished when i saw my friend beckon me on, and enter at the low, dark door. this miserable little cavern could not have been more than twelve feet long by about six feet wide, and as high at the walls. this small space was lessened by heaps of tools, coils of string, for "lining" the ground before planting, sundry boxes and baskets, an old rickety table, and one chair. at the farther end--if any thing could be far in that hole--was a jungle bedstead, formed by driving green stakes in the floor and walls, and stretching rope across them. i could not help expressing astonishment at the miserable quarters provided for one who had so important a charge, and such costly outlay to make. my host, however, treated the matter very philosophically. every thing, he observed, is good or bad by comparison; and wretched as the accommodation appeared to me, who had been accustomed to the large, airy houses of colombo, he seemed to be quite satisfied; indeed, he told me, that when he had finished putting up this little crib, had moved in his one table and chair, and was seated, cigar in mouth, inside the still damp mud walls, he thought himself the happiest of mortals. i felt somewhat curious to know where he had dwelt previous to the erection of this unique building--whether he had perched up in the forest trees, or in holes in the rocks, like the wild veddahs of bintenne. i was told that his first habitation, when commencing work up there, was then suspended over my head. i looked up to the dark, dusty roof, and perceived a bundle of what i conceived to be old dirty, brown paper, or parchment-skin. perceiving my utter ignorance of the arrangement, he took down the roll, and spread it open outside the door. it turned out to be a huge _talipot-leaf_, which he assured me was the only shelter he had possessed for nearly two months, and that, too, during the rainy season. it might have measured ten feet in length, and possibly six in width; pretty well for a leaf; it was used by fastening a stout pole lengthways to two stakes driven in the ground; the leaf was hung across this ridgepole, midway, and the corners of it made fast by cords: common mats being hung at each end, and under the leaf. the "lines," a long row of mud huts for the coolies, appeared to be much more comfortable than their master's dwelling. but this is necessarily the case, for, unless they be well-cared for, they will not remain on a remote estate, such as this one was then considered. the first thing a good planter sees to is a roomy and dry set of "lines" for the people: then the "nursery" of coffee plants; and, thirdly, a hut for himself. the superintendent assured me that none but those who had opened an estate in a remote district, could form any idea of the difficulties and privations encountered by the planter. "folks may grumble as they like, down in colombo, or in england," said my friend, "about the high salaries paid to managers, but if some of them had only a month of it up here, in the rains, i suspect they'd change their notions." he had had the greatest difficulty at first in keeping but a dozen men on the place to clear ground for lines and nurseries: so strong is the objection felt by malabars to new and distant plantations. on one occasion he had been quite deserted: even his old cook ran away, and he found himself with only a little cingalese boy, and his rice, biscuit, and dried fish, all but exhausted. as for meat, he had not tasted any for many days. there was no help for it, he saw, but to send off the little boy to the nearest village, with a rupee, to buy some food, and try to persuade some of the village people to come up and assist him. when evening came on, there was no boy back, and the lonely planter had no fire to boil his rice. night came on and still he was alone: hungry, cold, and desolate. it was a sabbath evening, and he pointed out to me the large stone on which he had sat down to think of his friends in the old country; the recollection of his distance from them, and of his then desolate, crusoe-like, position, came so sadly upon him that he wept like a child. i almost fancied i saw a tear start to his large eye as he related the circumstance. ceylon planters are proverbially hospitable: the utmost stranger is at all times sure of a hearty welcome for himself and his horse. on this occasion, my jungle friend turned out the best cheer his small store afforded. it is true we had but one chair among us, but that only served to give us amusement in making seats of baskets, boxes, and old books. a dish of rice, and curry, made of dry salt fish, two red herrings, and the only fowl on the estate, formed our meal; and, poor as the repast may appear to those who have never done a good day's journey in the jungles of ceylon, i can vouch for the keen relish with which we all partook of it. in the afternoon we strolled out to inspect the first piece of planting on the soolookande estate. it was in extent about sixty acres, divided into fields of ten acres by narrow belts of tall trees. this precaution was adopted, i learnt, with a view to protect the young plants from the violence of the wind, which at times rushes over the mountains with terrific fury. unless thus sheltered by belts or "staking," the young plants get loosened, or are whirled round until the outer bark becomes worn away, and then they sicken and die, or if they live, yield no fruit. "staking" is simply driving a stout peg in the ground, and fastening the plant steadily to it; but it is an expensive process. the young trees in these fields had been put out during the previous rains of july, and though still very small, looked fresh and healthy. i had always imagined planting out to be a very easy and rough operation; but i now learnt that exceeding care and skill are required in the operation. the holes to receive the young coffee-plant must be wide and deep--they can scarcely be too large; the earth must be kept well about the roots of the seedling in removing it; and care must be taken that the _tap-root_ be neither bent, nor planted over any stone or other hard substance; neglect of these important points is fatal to the prosperity of the estate. the yellow drooping leaves, and stunted growth, soon tell the proprietor that his superintendent has done his work carelessly; but, alas! it is then too late to apply any remedy, save that of re-planting the ground. i left this estate impressed with very different notions concerning the life and trials of a planter in the far jungle, from those i had contracted below from mere colombo gossip; and i felt that superintendents were not so much overpaid for their skill, patience, privations, and hard work. chapter the second. having seen almost the commencement of the soolookande coffee estate, i felt a strong desire toward the end of the year , to pay it a second visit, while in its full vigor. i wished to satisfy myself as to the correctness of the many reports i had heard of its heavy crops, of its fine condition, its excellent works, and, not least, of the good management during crop-time. my old acquaintance was no longer in charge; he had been supplanted by a stranger. however, i went armed with a letter from the colombo agents, which would insure more attention than a bed and a meal. i journeyed this time by another and rather shorter route. instead of taking the matelle road, i struck off to the right, past davy's tree, celebrated as the scene of the massacre of a large body of british officers and troops by the treacherous kandians, and crossing the mahavilla ganga, at davy's ferry, made the best of my way across the beautiful vale of dombera, and thence toward the long range of mountains forming one flank of the kallibokke valley. at the period of my former excursion this long tract of fertile country was one unbroken mass of heavy jungle; now a dozen large estates, with bungalows and extensive works, were to be seen, enlivening the journey, and affording a much readier passage for the horseman; for wherever plantations are formed, good jungle paths are sure to be made. the ride was a most interesting one; mile upon mile of coffee lay before and around me, in various stages of growth, from the young seedling just put out, to the full-bearing bush, as heavily laden with red, ripe coffee berries as any currant-bush in england with its fruit. it was then the middle of november, and the very height of the planter's harvest. all appeared busy as i rode along, gathering on the old properties; weeding and "supplying," or filling up failures on the young estates. i halted but once for a cup of good, wholesome coffee, and gladly pushed on, so as to reach my destination in good time for breakfast. the many lovely prospects opening before me caused some little delay in admiration; and, by the time i had ridden through the last piece of jungle, and pulled up at the upper boundary of "soolookande," it was not far from mid-day. the sun was blazing high above me, but its rays were tempered by a cool breeze that swept over from the neighboring mountain-tops. the prospect from that lofty eminence was lovely in the extreme: steep ridges of coffee extended in all directions, bounded by piles of mossy forest; white spots, here and there, told of bungalows and stores; a tiny cataract rushed down some cleft rock, on one side; on the other, a rippling stream ran gently along, thickly studded with water-cresses. before me, in the far distance, lay outstretched, like a picture-scroll, the matelle district, with its paddy fields, its villages, and its vihares, skirted by a ridge of mountains and terminated by the cave rocks of dambool. at my feet, far below, lay the estate, bungalow, and works, and to them i bent my way by a narrow and very steep bridle-path. so precipitous was the land just here, that i felt rather nervous on looking down at the white buildings. the pathway, for a great length, was bordered by rose-bushes, or trees, in fullest blossom, perfuming the air most fragrantly: as i approached the bungalow, other flowering shrubs and plants were mingled with them, and in such excellent order was every thing there that the place appeared to me more like a magnified garden than an estate. how changed since my former visit! i could scarcely recognize it as the same property. the bungalow was an imposing-looking building, the very picture of neatness and comfort. how different to the old talipot-leaf, and the dirty little mud hut! the box of a place i had slept in six years before would have stood, easily, on the dining-table in this bungalow. a wide verandah surrounded the building, the white pillars of which were polished like marble. the windows were more like doors; and, as for the doors, one may speak of them as lawyers do of acts of parliament, it would be easy to drive a coach-and-six through them. the superintendent was a most gentlemanly person, and so was his bengalee servant. the curry was delightfully hot; the water was deliciously cool. the chairs were like sofas; and so exquisitely comfortable, after my long ride, that, when my host rose and suggested a walk down to the works, i regretted that i had said any thing about them, and had half a mind to pretend to be poorly. the store was a zinc-roofed building, one hundred feet in length, by twenty-five wide; it was boarded below, but the sides upward were merely stout rails, for insuring a thorough circulation of air through the interior. it presented a most busy appearance. long strings of malabar coolies were flocking in, along narrow paths, from all sides, carrying bags and baskets on their heads, filled with the ripe coffee. these had to pass in at one particular door of the store, into the receiving-floor, in the upper part of the building. a canghany was stationed there to see each man's gathering fairly measured; and to give a little tin ticket for every bushel, on the production of which the coolies were paid, at the end of the month. many coolies, who had their wives and children to assist them in the field, brought home very heavy parcels of coffee. passing on to the floor where the measuring was in progress, i saw immense heaps of ripe, cherry-looking fruit, waiting to be passed below to the pulpers. all this enormous pile must be disposed of before the morning, or it will not be fit for operating on, and might be damaged. i saw quantities of it already gliding downward, through little openings in the floor, under which i could hear the noise of some machinery in rapid motion, but giving out sounds like sausage-machines in full "chop." following my guide, i descended a ladder, between some ugly-looking wheels and shafting, and landed safely on the floor of the pulping-room. "pulping" is the operation of removing the outer husk, or "cherry," which incloses the parchment-looking husk containing the pair of coffee beans. this is performed by a machine called a "pulper." it is a stout wooden or iron frame, supporting a fly-wheel and barrel of wood, covered with sheet copper, perforated coarsely outward, very like a huge nutmeg-grater. this barrel is made to revolve rapidly, nearly in contact with two chocks of wood. the coffee in the cherry being fed on to this by a hopper, is forced between the perforated barrel and the chocks; the projecting copper points tear off the soft cherry, while the coffee beans, in their parchment case, fall through the chocks into a large box. these pulpers (four in number) were worked by a water-wheel of great power, and turned out in six hours as much coffee as was gathered by three hundred men during the whole day. from the pulper-box the parchment coffee is shoveled to the "cisterns"--enormous square wooden vats. in these the new coffee is placed, just covered with water, in which state it is left for periods varying from twelve to eighteen hours, according to the judgment of the manager. the object of this soaking is to produce a slight fermentation of the mucilaginous matter adhering to "the parchment," in order to facilitate its removal, as otherwise it would harden the skin, and render the coffee very difficult to peel or clean. when i inspected the works on soolookande, several cisterns of fermented coffee were being turned out, to admit other parcels from the pulper, and also to enable the soaked coffee to be washed. coolies were busily employed shoveling the berries from one cistern to another; others were letting on clean water. some were busy stirring the contents of the cisterns briskly about; while some, again, were letting off the foul water; and a few were engaged in raking the thoroughly-washed coffee from the washing platforms to the barbecues. the barbecues on this property were very extensive: about twenty thousand square feet, all gently sloped away from their centres, and smooth as glass. they were of stone, coated over with lime well polished, and so white, that it was with difficulty i could look at them with the sun shining full upon their bright surfaces. over these drying grounds the coffee, when quite clean and white, is spread, at first thickly, but gradually more thinly, until, on the last day, it is placed only one bean thick. four days' sunning are usually required, though occasionally many more are necessary before the coffee can be heaped away in the store without risk of spoiling. all that is required is to dry it sufficiently for transport to kandy, and thence to colombo, where it undergoes a final curing previous to having its parchment skin removed, and the faulty and broken berries picked out. scarcely any estates are enabled to effectually dry their crops, owing to the long continuance of wet weather on the hills. the "dry floor" of this store resembled very much the inside of a malting-house. it was nicely boarded, and nearly half full of coffee, white and in various stages of dryness. some of it, at one end, was being measured into two bushel bags, tied up, marked and entered in the "packed" book, ready for dispatch to kandy. every thing was done on a system; the bags were piled up in tens; and the loose coffee was kept in heaps of fixed quantities as a check on the measuring. bags, rakes, measures, twine, had all their proper places allotted them. each day's work must be finished off-hand at once; no putting off until to-morrow can be allowed, or confusion and loss will be the consequence. any heaps of half dried coffee, permitted to remain unturned in the store, or not exposed on the "barbecue," will heat, and become discolored, and in that condition is known among commercial men as "country damaged." the constant ventilation of a coffee store is of primary importance in checking any tendency to fermentation in the uncured beans; an ingenious planter has recently availed himself of this fact, and invented an apparatus which forces an unbroken current of dry, warm air, through the piles of damp coffee, thus continuing the curing process in the midst of the most rainy weather. when a considerable portion of the gathering is completed, the manager has to see to his means of transport before his store is too crowded. a well conducted plantation will have its own cattle to assist in conveying the crop to kandy; it will have roomy and dry cattle-pens, fields of guinea-grass, and pasture grounds attached, as well as a manure-pit, into which all refuse and the husks of the coffee are thrown, to be afterward turned to valuable account. the carriage of coffee into kandy is performed by pack-bullocks, and sometimes by the coolies, who carry it on their heads, but these latter can seldom be employed away from picking during the crop time. by either means, however, transport forms a serious item in the expenses of a good many estates. from some of the distant hill-estates possessing no cattle, and with indifferent jungle-paths, the conveyance of their crops to kandy will often cost fully six shillings the hundred weight of clean coffee, equal to about three pence per mile. from kandy to colombo, by the common bullock-cart of the country, the cost will amount to about two or three shillings the clean hundred weight, in all, eight or nine shillings the hundred weight from the plantation to the port of shipment, being twice as much for conveying it less than a hundred miles, as it costs for freight to england, about sixteen thousand miles. one would imagine that it would not require much sagacity to discern that, in such a country as this, a railroad would be an incalculable benefit to the whole community. to make this apparent even to the meanest cingalese capacity, we may mention that, even at the present time, transit is required from the interior of the island to its seaports, for enough coffee for shipment to great britain alone, to cause a railroad to be remunerative. the quantity of coffee imported from british possessions abroad in , was upward of forty millions of pounds avoirdupois; and a very large proportion of this came from ceylon. what additional quantities are required for the especially coffee-bibbing nations which lie between ceylon and this country, surpass all present calculation; enough, we should think, sails away from this island in the course of every year, the transit of which to its sea-board, would pay for a regular net-work of railways. a breton wedding. the customs and habits of the bretons bear a close and striking resemblance to those of their kindred race[ ] in the principality of wales. when a marriage in lower brittany has been definitely resolved upon, the bride makes choice of a bridesmaid, and the bridegroom of a groomsman. these, accompanied by an inviter, or "bidder," as the personage is called in wales, bearing a long white wand, invite the members of their respective families to the wedding. on so important and solemn an occasion, no one is forgotten, however humble his condition in life may happen to be; and in no country in the world are the ties of kindred so strong as in lower brittany. these consequently include a very large circle; and it happens that the task of "bidding" very frequently occupies many days. a thousand persons have been known to assist at the wedding of a prosperous farmer. on the sunday preceding the wedding-day, every one who has accepted the invitation must send some present to the youthful pair, by one of their farm servants, who has been very carefully dressed, in order to produce a high idea of their consequence. these gifts are sometimes of considerable value, but for the most part confined to some article of domestic use, or of consumption on the wedding-day, which is usually fixed for the following tuesday. at an early hour of that day the young men assemble in a village near to the residence of the bride, where the bridegroom meets them. as soon as they are collected in sufficiently imposing numbers, they depart in procession, preceded by the _basvalan_ (embassador of love), with a band of music, of which the bagpipe is a conspicuous instrument, to take possession of the bride. on arriving at the farm, every thing, save the savage wolf-dogs, is in the most profound silence. the doors are closed, and not a soul is to be seen; but on closely surveying the environs of the homestead, there is sufficient indication of an approaching festivity, chimneys and caldrons are smoking, and long tables ranged in every available space. the _basvalan_ knocks loudly and repeatedly at the door, which at length brings to the threshold the _brotaër_ (envoy of the bride's family), who, with a branch of broom in his hand, replies in rhyme, and points out to some neighboring chateau, where he assures the _basvalan_ such a glorious train as his is sure to find welcome on account of its unparalleled splendor and magnificence. this excuse having been foreseen, the _basvalan_ answers his rival, verse for verse, compliment for compliment, that they are in search of a jewel more brilliant than the stars, and that it is hidden in that "palace." the _brotaër_ withdraws into the interior; but presently leads forth an aged matron, and presents her as the only jewel which they possess. "of a verity," retorts the _basvalan_, "a most respectable person; but it appears to us that she is past her festal time; we do not deny the merit of gray hair, especially when it is silvered by age and virtue; but we seek something far more precious. the maiden we demand is at least three times younger--try again--you can not fail to discover her from the splendor which her unequaled beauty sheds around her." the _brotaër_ then brings forth, in succession, an infant in arms, a widow, a married woman, and the bridesmaid; but the embassador always rejects the candidates, though without wounding their feelings. at last the dark-eyed blushing bride makes her appearance in her bridal attire. the party then enters the house, and the _brotaër_, falling on his knees, slowly utters a _pater_ for the living, and a _de profundis_ for the dead, and demands the blessing of the family upon the young maiden. then the scene, recently so joyous, assumes a more affecting character, and the _brotaër_ is interrupted by sobs and tears. there is always some sad episode in connection with all these rustic but poetic festivals in brittany. how many sympathies has not the following custom excited? at the moment of proceeding to church, the mother severs the end of the bride's sash, and addresses her: "the tie which has so long united us, my child, is henceforward rent asunder, and i am compelled to yield to another the authority which god gave me over thee. if thou art happy--and may god ever grant it--this will be no longer thy home; but should misfortune visit thee, a mother is still a mother, and her arms ever open for her children. like thee, i quitted my mother's side to follow a husband. thy children will leave thee in their turn. when the birds are grown, the maternal nest can not hold them. may god bless thee, my child, and grant thee as much consolation as he has granted me!" the procession is then formed, and the cavalcade proceeds to the parish church; but every moment it is interrupted in its progress by groups of mendicants, who climb up the slopes bordering the roads--which are extremely deep and narrow--to bar the passage by means of long briars, well armed with prickly thorns, which they hold up before the faces of the wedding party. the groomsman is the individual appointed to lower these importunate barriers; which he does by casting among the mendicants small pieces of money. he executes his commission with good temper, and very frequently with liberality; but when the distance is great, these fetters become so numerous that his duties grow exceedingly wearisome and expensive. after the religious ceremony, comes the feast; which is one of the most incredible things imaginable. nothing can give an idea of the multitude of guests, of all ages, and of each sex; they form a lively, variegated, and confused picture. the tables having been laid out the previous day, at the coppers, which are erected in the open air, all the neighbors, and the invited, who have any pretension to the culinary art, are ready with advice and assistance. it is curious to see them, in the blazing atmosphere of the huge fires, watching enormous joints of meat and other comestibles cooking in the numerous and vast utensils; nevertheless, however zealous they may be, there are few who do not desert their post when the firing of guns and the distant sound of the bagpipes announce the return of the wedding procession. the newly married couple are at the head of the train, preceded by pipers, and fiddlers, and single-stick players, who triumphantly lead the way; the nearest relatives of the young pair next follow; then the rest of the guests without order, rushing on helter-skelter, each in the varied and picturesque costume of his district; some on foot, some on horseback, most frequently two individuals on the same beast, the man seated upon a stuffed pad which serves as a saddle, and the wife, with arm around his waist, seated upon the crupper;--an every-day sight, not many years ago, in the rural districts of england, when roads were bad, and the gig and taxed-cart uninvented. the mendicants follow at their heels by hundreds, to share the remnants of the feast. as soon as the confusion occasioned by the arrival of such a multitude has subsided, the guests place themselves at the tables. these are formed of rough and narrow planks, supported by stakes driven into the ground, the benches constructed after the same fashion; and they are raised in proportion to the height of the tables, so that you may have your knees between your plate and yourself; if, in a real breton wedding, you happen to be supplied with such an article--for a luxury of this description has not yet reached very far into brittany: the soup is eaten out of a wooden bowl, and the meat cut up and eaten in the hand, or, as the phrase goes, "upon the thumb." every individual, as a matter of course, carries his own case or pocket knife; the liquids are served in rude earthenware, and each drinks out of a cup apportioned to five or six individuals. it is the height of civility to hand one's cup to a neighbor, so that he may assist in emptying it; and a refusal would be considered extremely rude and insolent. the husband and his immediate relatives are in waiting, and anticipate every one's wants and wishes--pressing each to take care of himself: they themselves share in no part of the entertainment, save the compliments which are showered, and the cups of cider and wine which civility obliges them to accept. after each course music strikes up, and the whole assembly rise from the tables. one party gets up a wrestling-match; the bretons are as famous as their cousins in cornwall at this athletic game--or a match at single-stick; another a foot-race, or a dance; while the dishes are collected together, and handed to the hungry groups of mendicants who are seated in adjoining paddocks. from the tables to rustic games, reels, gavottes, and jabadoos; then to the tables again; and they continue in this manner till midnight announces to the guests that it is time to retire. the company having diminished by degrees, at length leave the groomsman and the bridesmaid the only strangers remaining, who are bound to disappear the last, and put the bride and bridegroom, with due and proper solemnity, to rest: they then retire singing "veni creator." in some districts they are compelled, by custom, to watch during the whole night in the bridal chamber; in others, they hold at the foot of the bed a lighted candle, between the fingers, and do not withdraw until the flame has descended to the palm of the hand. in another locality the groom's-man is bound during the whole long night to throw nuts at the husband, who cracks them, and gives the kernel to his bride to eat. the festivity which a marriage occasions generally lasts three days, and, on friday, the youthful wife embraces the companions of her childhood and bids them farewell, as if she never meant to return. indeed, from the period of marriage, a new life commences for the breton, whose days of single blessedness have been days of festivity and freedom; and it would seem that when once the wedding-ring has been placed upon the finger, her only business is the care of her household--her only delight, the peace of her domestic hearth. footnote: [ ] pitre-chevalier says, in his "brittany," ("_la brètagne_") "we celts of lower brittany require nothing more to recognize as brothers the primitive inhabitants of wales, than the ability to salute them in their maternal tongue, after a separation of more than a thousand years." [from chambers's edinburgh journal.] joanna baillie. joanna baillie was born in the year , at the manse of bothwell, in lanarkshire. her father had just been translated from the parish of shotts to that of bothwell; and on the very first day of the family's removal into the new manse, while the furniture still lay tied up in bundles on the floors, mrs. baillie was taken ill, probably from over-fatigue, and was prematurely brought to bed of twin-daughters, one of whom died in the birth, and the other, named joanna--after her maternal uncle, the celebrated john hunter--lived for eighty-nine years, and became the most celebrated of her race, and one of the most celebrated women of her time. those who like to trace the descent of fine qualities, will be interested to know that joanna's mother--herself a beautiful and agreeable woman--was the only sister of those remarkable men, william and john hunter; and that her father, a clergyman of respectable abilities, was of the same descent with that baillie of jarviswood who nobly suffered for the religion and independence of his country. although mrs. baillie was forty years of age when she married, she gave birth to five children. of these, three grew up: the eldest, agnes who still survives; the celebrated matthew physician to george iii.; and joanna. when joanna was seven years old, her father removed to hamilton. there he was colleague to the rev. mr. miller, father to the well-known professor of law at glasgow of that name, whose daughters were throughout life among joanna's most intimate and cherished friends. all that is known of her before she quitted bothwell seems to be, that she was an active, sprightly child, fond of play, and very unfond of lessons--the difficulty of fixing her attention long enough to enable her to learn the alphabet having been in her case rather greater than it is with ordinary children. at twelve years of age, though still no scholar, she was a clever, lively, shrewd girl, and even then showed something of the creative power for which she was afterward so remarkable. miss miller well recollects being closeted with her and other young companions for the purpose of hearing her narrate little stories of her own invention, which she did in a graphic and amusing manner. after being seven years at hamilton, mr. baillie was promoted to the chair of divinity in the university of glasgow. there joanna attended miss m'intosh's boarding-school, and made some proficiency in the accomplishments of music and drawing; for both of which she had a fine taste, though it was never fully cultivated. a constant residence in the crowded and smoky town of glasgow would have proved very irksome to those accustomed, like the baillies, to the sweet, healthful seclusion of a country manse; but they were never condemned to it. william hunter, then accoucheur to queen charlotte, and in good general practice as a physician, was in possession of the little family property of long calderwood in lanarkshire; and being himself confined to london by his professional duties, he invited his sister and her family to reside at his house there during the summer months. nothing could have been more agreeable or beneficial to joanna than this manner of life, had it continued. her father had now a sufficiently large income to enable him to give his children the full advantage of the best teaching, and he was most anxious that they should enjoy it. unfortunately, he only survived his removal to glasgow two years; and by his premature death, his widow and family were left not only entirely unprovided for, but in very involved circumstances. the living at hamilton had been too small to admit of any thing being saved from it; and the expense of removing, the purchase of furniture suitable to their new position, the repairing and furnishing of the house at long calderwood, besides the increased cost of living in a town, had in combination brought their family into an expenditure which two years of an enlarged income were by no means sufficient to meet. dr. william hunter came immediately to their assistance. he was at that time fast acquiring the large fortune which enabled him to leave behind him so noble a monument as the hunterian museum in glasgow. he generously settled an adequate income on his sister and her family, and offered to relieve her mind by entirely discharging her husband's liabilities. here the widow and her high-spirited young people had the opportunity of manifesting the true delicacy and respectable pride which have ever distinguished the family. they carefully avoided disclosing to their generous relative any thing more than was unavoidable of these obligations, preferring, with noble self-denial, and at the expense of being looked down upon as niggardly and poor-spirited by neighbors who knew nothing of their motives, to pay the remainder out of their moderate income. such a trait as this is surely well worth being recorded. even after they were clear with the world, mrs. baillie and her daughters continued to live in the strictest seclusion at long calderwood. soon after his father's death, young matthew obtained a glasgow exhibition to oxford; and having studied successfully there for some years, joined his uncle william in london, for the purpose of assisting him in his lectures. john hunter, who had been originally intended for a humbler occupation, had long before this time been called to london by the successful william--had been brought forward by him in the medical profession--and had, in a few months, acquired such a knowledge of anatomy, as to be capable of demonstrating to the pupils in the dissecting-room. his health having been impaired by intense study, he had gone abroad for a year or two as staff-surgeon, and served in portugal. on his return to london, he had devoted his powerful energies to the study of comparative anatomy, and before matthew baillie came to london, had erected a menagerie at brompton for carrying on that useful branch of science. by his extraordinary genius, he subsequently rose to be inspector-general of hospitals and surgeon-general, and became one of the most famous men of his age. agnes, the elder sister--joanna's faithful and beloved companion through a long life; and to whom, on entering her seventieth year, she addressed the exquisite poem of the "birthday"--which no one will ever read unmoved--was very early an accomplished girl. unlike joanna, she had always been a diligent, attentive scholar; and unlike her also, was possessed of a remarkably retentive memory. in her companionship, and in the entire leisure of her six years' seclusion among the picturesque scenery of long calderwood, it may be supposed that joanna's powerful intellect would have been awakened, and her wonderfully fertile imagination begun to assume some of those varied forms of truth and beauty which have since impressed themselves so vividly on the hearts and minds of her contemporaries. but like the graceful forms which the eye of the young sculptor has only yet seen in vision, those divine creations of her genius, before which the world was afterward to bow, still slumbered in the marble. her genius partook of the slow growth, as well as the hardy vigor, of the pine-tree of her native rocks; but it had inherent power to shoot its roots deep down in the human heart, and to spread its branches toward the heavens in green and enduring beauty. in these years (from her sixteenth to her twenty-second), the only tendency she showed toward what afterward became the master-current of her mind, was in being a fervent worshiper of shakspeare. she carefully studied select passages; delighted in getting her two favorite young friends--miss miller, and the lively miss graham of gairbraid--to take different parts with her, and would so spout through a whole play with infinite satisfaction. still she was no general student; and we are doubtful if at any time of her life she can be considered to have been a _great_ reader. about a dozen years previous to his death, which took place in , dr. william hunter had completed his house in great windmill-street. he had attached to it an anatomical theatre, apartments for lectures and dissections, and a magnificent room as a museum. at his death, the use of this valuable museum, which was destined ultimately to enrich the city of glasgow, was bequeathed for the term of twenty years to his nephew matthew, who had for some time past assisted him ably in his anatomical lectures. besides this valuable bequest, the small family property of long calderwood was also left to matthew baillie, instead of his uncle, john hunter, who was the heir-at-law. william had taken offense at his brother's marriage--not finding fault with his bride, who was an estimable woman, the sister of dr., afterward sir everard home--but, as it was whimsically said--disapproving of a philosopher marrying at all! but, however this may have been, young matthew, with characteristic generosity, disliking to be enriched at the expense of those among his kindred who seemed to him to have a nearer claim, absolutely refused to take advantage of the bequest. the rejected little property thus, after all, fell legally to john; and only on the death of his son and daughter, a few years ago (without children), descended to william, the only son of dr. matthew baillie, as their heir. soon after his uncle's death, matthew, who had succeeded him as lecturer on anatomy, and was rising fast in the esteem of his professional brethren, prevailed on his mother and sisters to join him in london. their uncle had left them all a small independence, and there they lived most happily with their brother in the house adjoining the museum, from about the year to , when he married miss denman, daughter of dr. denman, and sister of lord denman, the late admirable lord chief-justice. this marriage was productive of great happiness to joanna, as well as to her brother and the rest of the family. throughout their lives the most tender affection subsisted among them all. mrs. baillie and her daughters now retired to the country--at first a little way up the thames, then to hythe, near dover; but they did not settle any where permanently till they located themselves in a pretty cottage at hampstead--that flowery, airy, charming retreat with which joanna's name has now been so long and so intimately associated. how long she there courted the muses in secret is not known. her reserved nature and scottish prudence at all events secured her from making any display of their crude favors. toward the end of the century she first appears to have been quietly feeling her way toward the light. in sending some books to scotland, to her ever-dear friend miss graham, she slipped into the parcel a small volume of poems, but without a hint as to the authorship. the poems were chiefly of a light, unassuming, and merry cast. they were read by miss graham, and others of her early associates--freely discussed and criticised among them, and certainly not much admired. though light mirth and humor seem to have been more the characteristics of her mind then than they were afterward, and though miss graham remarked that there was a something in the little poems that brought joanna to her remembrance, still so improbable did it seem, that no suspicion of their true origin suggested itself to any of their thoughts. the authorship of this little volume was never claimed by her; but some of the best poems and songs it contained, which were afterward published in one of her works, at last disclosed the secret. in , her thirty-eighth year, she gave to the world her first volume of plays on the passions. it contained her two great tragedies on love and on hatred--"basil" and "de montfort;" and one comedy, also on love--the "tryal." they were prefaced by a long, plausible introductory discourse, in which she explained that these formed but a small portion of an extensive plan she had in view, hitherto unattempted in any language, and for the accomplishment of which a lifetime would be limited enough. her project we must very shortly describe as a design to write a series of plays, the chief object of which should be the delineation of all the higher passions of the human breast--each play exhibiting in the principal character some one great passion in all the stages of its development, from its origin to its final catastrophe; and in which, in order to produce the strongest moral effect, the aim should be the expression and delineation of just sentiments and characteristic truth, rather than of marvelous incident, novel situation, or beautiful and sublime thought. although published anonymously, this volume excited an immediate sensation. in spite of theoretical limitations, it was found to be as full of original power, and delicate poetical beauty, as of truth and moral sentiment. of course the authorship was keenly inquired into. as the publication had been negotiated by the accomplished mrs. john hunter--herself a follower of the muses, and the author of several lyrical poems of great sweetness and beauty, which were set to music by haydn--the credit was at first naturally given to her. but joanna's incognito could not be long preserved; and the impression already made was deepened by the discovery, that this skillful anatomist of the heart of man, who had bodied forth creations bearing the stamp of lofty intellect and most original power, was a woman still young, unlearned, and so inexperienced in the world that it must have been chiefly to her own imagination and feeling she owed the materials which, by the force of her genius, she had thus so wonderfully combined into striking and lifelike portraits. the band of distinguished persons--poets, wits, and philosophers--with which the beginning of the century was enriched, now crowded eagerly to welcome to their ranks this new and highly-gifted sister, and were received by her with simple but dignified frankness. the gay and fashionable also would fain have wooed her to lionize in their fevering circles; but her well-balanced mind, and intuitive sense of what is really best and most favorable to human happiness and progress, seem from the first to have secured her youthful female heart from being inflated by the incense offered to her on all sides. though touched, and deeply gratified by the warmly-expressed approbation of those among her great contemporaries whose applause was fame, she could not be won from the quiet healthful privacy of her life to join frequently even in the brilliant society which now so gladly claimed her as one of its brightest ornaments. equally unspoiled and undistracted, she kept the even tenor of her way. the tragedies contained in her first volume--among the greatest efforts of her genius--were undoubtedly written by her in the fond hope of their being acted. "to receive the approbation of an audience of her countrymen," she confesses in the preface, "would be more grateful to her than any other praise." believing that it is in the nature of man to delight in representations of passion and character, she regarded the stage, when properly managed, as an admirable organ for the instruction of the multitude; and that the poetical teacher of morality and virtue could not better employ his high powers than in supplying it with pieces the tendency of which would be, while pleasing and amusing, to refine and elevate the mind. mrs. siddons was then in the very zenith of her power; and it was a glimpse of that splendid presence-- "so queenly, so commanding, and so noble"-- as it accidentally flashed upon her in turning the corner of a street, to which miss baillie has always fondly ascribed her first conception of the character of the pure, elevated, and noble jane de montfort. in , the tragedy of "de montfort" was adapted to the stage by john kemble, and brought out at drury-lane theatre; and the gratification may well be imagined with which the high-hearted poetess must have listened to "thoughts by the soul brought forth in silent joy-- words often muttered by the timid voice, tried by the nice ear delicate of choice;" as with their loftiest meanings heightened and spiritualized, she now heard them poured forth in the deep eloquent tones of that incomparable brother and sister! her second volume of plays on the passions appeared in , and with her name. it contained four plays: "the election," a comedy upon hatred; and two tragedies and a comedy on ambition--"ethwald," in two parts, and the "second marriage." hitherto the fair authoress had received almost unqualified praise. she was now to undergo the other ordeal of almost unqualified censure. since the publication of her first volume, the "edinburgh review" had been established, and its brilliant young editor had been suddenly, and almost by universal consent, promoted to the chair, as the first of critics. jeffrey's real gentleness of heart, and lively sensibility to every form of literary beauty and excellence, are now too generally admitted to require vindication here; but the lamblike heart and kindly-indulgent feelings which in his middle and declining years seemed to warm and brighten the very atmosphere in which he lived, were at the beginning of his literary censorship carefully, and only too successfully, concealed under the formidable beak and claws, as well as the keen eye of the eagle. starting with the idea that, above all things, it was his duty to guard against false principles, the hymn of a seraph would probably have jarred upon his ear if composed upon what he supposed to be mistaken rules of art. he regarded miss baillie's project of confining the interest of every piece to the development of a single passion as a vicious system, by which her young and promising genius was likely to be cabined and confined; and that if such fallacy in one so well calculated to adorn the field of literature were met with indulgence, the result might be to narrow and degrade it. it seemed to him little better than a return to that barbarism which could unscrupulously extinguish the eyesight, that the hearing might be more acute. his faith was too catholic to brook the sectarian limitations which were involved in the theory she had so boldly propounded. he therefore waged war against the formidable heresy, cruelly, unsparingly; and if with something of the heat and petulance of a boy, yet with an unerring dexterity of aim, and a subtle poignancy of weapon, that could not fail to inflict both pain and injury. gentler practice would probably have been followed by a better result. it is certain that miss baillie was hurt and offended by the uncourteous castigation inflicted on her by her countryman, rather than convinced by it that her notions were wrong. but the time happily came when--with that clairvoyance which, though it may be denied for a season, time and experience of life seldom fail to bestow in full measure upon true genius--these two fine spirits were able to read each other more clearly. a single volume of miscellaneous plays containing two tragedies and a comedy by miss baillie's pen, appeared in . these dramas--"rayner," "the country inn," and "constantine paleologus"--had been offered singly to the theatres for representation, and been rejected. though full of eloquence, knowledge of human nature, and tragic power, they were found, like all her plays, deficient in the lifelike movement and activity indispensable to that perfectly successful theatrical effect which, without an experimental acquaintance with the whole nature and artifices of the stage has never been attained to even by the most gifted of pens. the first time miss baillie revisited her native country after her name had become known to fame was in . after exploring with a full heart the often-recalled scenery of the clyde, and the still dearer haunts of the sweet calder water, she passed a couple of months in edinburgh, dividing her time between her old friends miss maxwell and mrs. john thomson. she was somewhat changed since these friends had seen her last. her manner had become more silent and reserved. mere acquaintances, or strangers who had not the art of drawing forth the rich stream--ever ready to flow if the rock were rightly struck--found her cold and formidable. in external appearance the change was for the better. her early youth had neither bloomed with physical nor intellectual beauty; but now, in her fine, healthy middle life, to the exquisite neatness of form and limb, the powerful gray eye, and well-defined, noticeable features she had always possessed, were added a graceful propriety of movement, and a fine elevated, spiritual expression, which are far beyond mere beauty. she had now the happiness of being personally made known to sir walter scott, who had always been an enthusiastic admirer of her genius, as she of his. they had been too long congenial spirits not to become immediately dear, personal friends. his noble poem of "marmion," which appeared during her stay, was read aloud by her for the first time to her two friends miss miller and miss maxwell. in the introduction to the third canto occurs that splendid tribute to her genius which, well-known as it is, we can not resist quoting once more. the bard describes himself as advised by a friend, since he will lend his hours to thriftless rhyme, to "restore the ancient tragic line, and emulate the notes that rung from the wild harp, which silent hung by silver avon's holy shore, till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; when she, the bold enchantress, came, with fearless hand and heart on flame! from the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, and swept it with a kinder measure, till avon's swans, while rung the grove with montfort's hate and basil's love, awakening at the inspired strain, deem'd their own shakspeare lived again." deeply gratified and touched as she must have been, the strong-minded poetess was able to read these exquisite lines unfalteringly to the end, and only lost her self-possession when one of her affectionate friends rising, and throwing her arms round her, burst into tears of delight. as she did not refuse to go into company, she could not be long in edinburgh without encountering francis jeffrey, the foremost man in the bright train of _beaux-esprits_ which then adorned the society of the scottish capital. he would gladly have been presented to her; and if she had permitted it, there is little doubt that in the eloquent flow of his delightful and genial conversation, enough of the admiration he really felt for her poetry must have been expressed, to have softened her into listening at least with patience to his suggestions for her improvement. but in vain did the friendly mrs. betty hamilton (authoress of "the cottagers of glenburnie") beg for leave to present him to her when they met in her hospitable drawing-room; and equally in vain were the efforts made by the good-natured duchess of gordon to bring about an introduction which she knew was desired at least by one of the parties. it was civilly but coldly declined by the poetess; and though the dignified reason assigned was the propriety of leaving the critic more entirely at liberty in his future strictures than an _acquaintance_ might perhaps feel himself, there seems little reason to doubt that soreness and natural resentment had something to do with the refusal. in her highland play, the "family legend"--a tragedy founded on a story of one of the m'leans of appin--was successfully produced in the edinburgh theatre. sir walter scott, who took a lively interest in its success, contributed the prologue, and henry mackenzie (the "man of feeling") the epilogue. it was acted with great applause for fourteen successive nights, and gave occasion for the passage of many pleasant letters between sir walter and the authoress, afterward published by mr. lockhart. in followed the third and last volume of her plays illustrative of the higher passions of the mind. it contained four plays--one in verse and one in prose on fear ("orra" and the "dream"); the "siege," a comedy on the same passion; and "the beacon," a serious musical drama--perhaps the most faultless of miss baillie's productions, and generally allowed to be one of the most exquisite dramatic poems in the english language. this fresh attempt, at the end of nine years, to follow out, against all warning and advice, her narrow and objectionable system of dramatic art, was certainly ill-judged. of course it brought upon the pertinacious theorist another tremendous broadside from the provoked reviewer. but though we can sympathize in a considerable degree with him in denouncing her whole scheme--and more bitterly than ever--as perverse, fantastic, and utterly impracticable--it is not easy to forgive the accusation so liberally added as to the execution--of poverty of incident and diction, want of individual reality of character, and the total absence of wit, humor, or any species of brilliancy. that miss baillie's plays are better suited to the sober perusal of the closet than the bustle and animation of the theatre must at once be admitted; but we think nobody can read even a single volume of these remarkable works, without finding in it, besides the good sense, good feeling, and intelligent morality to which her formidable critic is fretted into limiting her claims, abundant proof of that deep and intuitive knowledge of the mystery of man's nature, which can alone fit its possessor for the successful delineation of either wayward passion or noble sacrifice--of skillful and original creative power--of delicate discrimination of character--and of a command of simple, forcible, and eloquent language, that has not often been equaled, and, perhaps, never surpassed. but our limits forbid us to linger, and a mere enumeration of her remaining productions is all they will permit. this is the less to be regretted, that our object is rather to give a sketch, however slight and imperfect, of her long and honored life, than to attempt a studied analysis of works to which the world has long ago done justice. in were published her "metrical legends of exalted character," the subjects of which were--"wallace, the scottish chief," "columbus," and "lady griseld baillie." they are written in irregular verse, avowedly after the manner of scott, and are among the noblest of her productions. some fine ballads complete the volume. in appeared a volume of "poetical miscellanies," which had been much talked of beforehand. it included, besides some slight pieces by mrs. hemans and miss catherine fanshaw, scott's fine dramatic sketch of "macduff's cross." "the martyr," a tragedy on religion, appeared in . it was immediately translated into the cingalese language; and, flattered by the appropriation, miss baillie, in , published another tragedy--"the bride," a story of ceylon, and dedicated in particular to the cingalese. of the three volumes of dramas written many years before, but not published till --though they were eagerly welcomed by the public, and greatly admired as dramatic poems--only two, the tragedies of "henriquez" and "the separation," have ever been acted. these, besides many charming songs, sung by our greatest minstrels, and always listened to with delight by the public, and a small volume of "fugitive verses," complete the long catalogue of her successful labors. they were collected by herself, and published, with many additions and corrections, in the popular form of one monster volume, only a few weeks before her death. to return, for a brief space, to the course of her life. it was in the autumn of that miss baillie paid her last visit to scotland, and passed those delightful days with sir walter scott at abbotsford, the second of which is so pleasantly given in mr. lockhart's life of the bard. her friends again perceived a change in her manners. they had become blander, and much more cordial. she had probably been now too long admired and reverently looked up to, not to understand her own position, and the encouragement which, essentially unassuming as she was, would be necessary from her to reassure the timid and satisfy the proud. she had magnanimously forgiven and lived down the unjust severity of her edinburgh critic, and now no longer refused to be made personally known to him. he was presented to her by their mutual friend, the amiable dr. morehead. they had much earnest and interesting talk together, and from that hour to the end of their lives entertained for each other a mutual and cordial esteem. after this jeffrey seldom visited london without indulging himself in a friendly pilgrimage to the shrine of the secluded poetess; and it is pleasing to find him writing of her in the following cordial way in later years: "_london, april_ , .--i forgot to tell you that we have been twice out to hampstead to hunt out joanna baillie, and found her the other day as fresh, natural, and amiable as ever--and as little like a tragic muse. since old mrs. brougham's death, i do not know so nice an old woman." and again, in january , --"we went to hampstead, and paid a very pleasant visit to joanna baillie, who is marvelous in health and spirits, and youthful freshness and simplicity of feeling, and not a bit deaf, blind, or torpid." about two years after her last visit to scotland, miss baillie had the grief of losing her brother and beloved friend, dr. matthew baillie, who, after a life of remarkable activity and usefulness, died full of honors in . he left, besides a widow, who long survived him, a son and daughter, who with their families have been the source of much delightful and affectionate interest to the declining years of the retired sisters. in the composition and careful revisal of her numerous and varied works--in receiving at her modest home the friends she most loved and respected, a list of whom would include many of the best-known names of her time for talent and genius--in the active exercise of friendship, benevolence, and charity--ever contented with the lot assigned to her, and as grateful for the enjoyment of god's blessings as she was submissive to his painful trials--her unusually complete life glided calmly on, and was peacefully closed on the d of february last. it will be easily believed, that in spite of all the natural modesty and reserve of miss baillie's character, the impression made by the appearance of one so highly gifted on those who had the happiness of being admitted to her intimacy, was neither slight nor evanescent. "dear, venerable joanna!" writes one of those, "i wish i could, for my own or others' benefit, recall, and in any way fix, the features of your countenance and mind! the ever-thoughtful brow--the eye that in old age still dilated with expression, or was suffused with a tear. i never felt afraid of her. how could i, having experienced nothing but the most constant kindness and indulgence? i had heard of the 'awful stillness of the hampstead drawing-room;' and when i first saw her in her own quiet home (she must have been then bordering on seventy, and i on twenty), i remember likening myself to the devil in milton. i felt 'how awful goodness is--and virtue in her shape, how lovely!' one could not help feeling a constant reverence for her worth, even more than an admiration of her intellectual gifts. there was something, indeed, in her appearance that quite contrasted with one's ideas of authorship, which made one forget her works in her presence--nay, almost wonder if the neat, precise old maid before one could really be the same person who had painted the warm passion of a basil, or soared to and sympathized with the ambition of a mohammed or a paleologus." in a little tract, published about twenty years before her death, she indicates her religious creed. after studying the scriptures carefully--examining the gospels and epistles, and comparing them with one another, which she thinks is all the unlearned can do--she faithfully sets down every passage relating to the divinity and mission of christ; and, looking to the bearing of the whole, is able to rest her mind upon the arian doctrine, which supposes him to be "a most highly-gifted being, who was with god before the creation of the world, and by whose agency it probably was created, by power derived from almighty god." that she was no bigoted sectarian in religion, whatever she may once have been in poetry, is pleasingly shown by the following sentences. they occur in a letter to her ever esteemed and admired friend mrs. siddons, to whom she had sent a copy of this tract. they do honor to both the ladies:--"you have treated my little book very handsomely, and done all that i wish people to do in regard to it; for you have read the passages from scripture, i am sure, with attention, and have considered them with candor. that after doing so, your opinions, on the main point, should be different from mine, is no presumption that either of us is in the wrong, or that our humble, sincere faith, though different, will not be equally accepted by the great father and master of us all. indeed, this tract was less intended for christians, whose faith is already fixed, than for those who, supposing certain doctrines to be taught in scripture (which do not, when taken in one general view, appear to be taught there), and which they can not bring their minds to agree to, throw off revealed religion altogether. no part of your note, my dear madam, has pleased me more than that short parenthesis ('for i still hold fast my own faith without wavering'), and long may this be the case! the fruits of that faith, in the course of your much-tried and honorable life, are too good to allow any one to find fault with it." a visit at mr. webster's.[ ] we have been much charmed with our visit to green harbor, marshfield, the beautiful domain of mr. webster. it is a charming and particularly enjoyable place, almost close to the sea. the beach here is something marvelous, eight miles in breadth, and of splendid, hard, floor-like sand, and when this is covered by the rolling atlantic, the waves all but come up to the neighboring green, grassy fields. very high tides cover them. this house is very prettily fitted up. it strikes me as being partly in the english and partly in the french style, exceedingly comfortable, and with a number of remarkably pretty drawing-rooms opening into one another, which always is a judicious arrangement i think; it makes a party agreeable and unformal. there are a variety of pictures and busts by american artists, and some of them are exceedingly good. there is a picture in the chief drawing-room of mr. webster's gallant son, who was killed in the mexican war. the two greatest of america's statesmen each lost a son in that war, mr. clay and mr. webster. there is also a fine picture of mr. webster himself, which, however, though a masterly painting, does not do justice to the distinguished original. it was executed some years ago; but i really think it is not so handsome as the great statesman is now, with his olympus-like brow, on which are throned such divinities of thought, and with that wonderful countenance of might and majesty. the dining-room here is a charming apartment, with all its windows opening to the ground, looking on the garden; and it is deliciously cool, protected from the sun by the overshadowing masses of foliage of the most magnificent weeping (american) elms. these colossal trees stand just before the house, and are pre-eminently beautiful: they seem to unite in their own gigantic persons the exquisite and exceeding grace of the weeping willow, with the strength and grandeur of the towering elm. i was told a curious fact last night. every where, through the length and breadth of the states, the sycamore trees this year are blighted and dying. the walls of the dining-room are adorned chiefly with english engravings, among which there is one of my father. my bed-room is profusely decorated with prints of different english country houses and castles. the utmost good taste and refinement are perceptible in the arrangements of the house, and a most enchanting place of residence it is. all the domestics of the house are colored persons, which is very seldom indeed the case in this part of the united states. mr. webster tells me he considers them the best possible servants, much attached, contented, and grateful, and he added, he would "fearlessly trust them with _untold gold_." they certainly must be good ones, to judge by the exquisite neatness and order of every thing in the establishment. mr. webster's farm here consists of one thousand five hundred acres: he has a hundred head of cattle. mr. f. webster has been a good deal in india, and he was mentioning the other evening that he was struck, in several of the english schools in that country, by the tone of some political lessons that were taught there. for instance, with regard to freedom and representation of the people, &c.; the natives were forcibly reminded of their own unrepresented state, by questions bearing on the subject--the united states being instanced as an example of almost universal suffrage; great britain itself of a less extensive elective franchise; france, of whatever france was then; and hindostan _especially_ pointed out as having nothing of the kind, as if they really wished to make the poor hindoos discontented with their present state. to be sure they might as well go to persia and turkey for their examples. mr. f. webster seemed to think the hindoos were beginning a little to turn their thoughts to such political subjects. while we were at dinner a day or two ago, a new guest, who had arrived rather late from new york, walked in, being announced as a general. he was a very military-looking man, indeed, with a formidable pair of mustaches. some turn in the conversation reminding me of the mexican war, i asked if general ---- had served in mexico. mr. ---- laughed, and told me he was in the militia, and had never smelt powder in his life. what enterprising travelers american ladies sometimes are! my atlantic-crossing performances seem very little in comparison with some of their expeditions. it would not surprise me that any who have ever gone to settle in the far-off portions of the country, and been doomed to undergo such rugged experiences as those described in the american work (by a lady) called "a new home, who'll follow?" should laugh at hardships and discomforts which might reasonably deter less seasoned and experienced travelers; but it must be a very different case with those habituated only to refinements and luxuries. mr. webster had told me he had expected for some little time past the arrival of a lady, a relative of his, who had lately left china for the united states; she was to leave her husband in the celestial flowery land, her intention being, i believe, to see her relatives and friends at home, and then to rejoin him in the course of some months in china. like the gallant chieftain spoken of before, he arrived late, and during dinner the doors were thrown open and "mrs. p----, from china," was announced. she came in, and met her relatives and friends, as quietly as if she had merely made a "petite promenade de quinze jours" (as the french boasted they should do when they went to besiege antwerp). she seated herself at table, when a few questions were asked relative to her voyage. "had you a good passage?" "very--altogether." "how long?" "about one hundred and three days" (i think this is correct, but i can not answer to a day). "pleasant companions?" "very much so, and with books the time passed very agreeably." all this was as quietly discussed as if the passage had been from dover to boulogne, and the length of the time of absence a fortnight. mr. webster was good enough to drive me out yesterday, and a most splendid drive we had. at one part, from a rather high eminence, we had a glorious panoramic view: it was really sublime: ocean, forest, hill, valley, promontory, river, field, glade, and hollow, were spread before us; altogether they formed a truly magnificent prospect. one almost seemed to be looking into boundless space. we paused at this spot a little while to admire the beautiful scene. how meet a companion the giant atlantic seemed for that mighty mind, to some of whose noble sentiments i had just been listening with delight and veneration, and yet how far beyond the widest sweep of ocean, is the endless expanse of the immortal intellect--time-overcoming--creation-compelling! however, while i was thus up in the clouds, they (condescendingly determining, i suppose, to return my call) suddenly came down upon us, and unmercifully. st. swithin! what a rain it was! the atlantic is a beautiful object to look at, but when either he, or some cousin-german above, takes it into his head to act the part of shower-bath-extraordinary to you, it is not so pleasant. my thoughts immediately fled away from ocean (except the _descending_ one), forest, hill, dale, and all the circumjacent scenery, to centre ignominiously on my bonnet, to say nothing of the tip of my nose, which was drenched and drowned completely in a half second. my vail--humble defense against the fury of the elements!--accommodated its dripping self to the features of my face, like the black mask of some desperate burglar, driven against it, also, by the wind, that blew a "few," i can assure the reader. how mr. webster contrived to drive, i know not, but drive he did, at a good pace too, for "after us," indeed, was "the deluge;" i could scarcely see him; a wall of water separated us, but ever and anon i heard faintly, through the hissing, and splashing, and lashing, and pattering of the big rain, his deep, sonorous voice, recommending me to keep my cloak well about me, which no mortal cloak of any spirit will ever allow you to do at such needful moments--not it! "my kingdom for a pin." when we arrived at green harbour, we found mrs. webster very anxious for the poor rain-beaten wayfarers. she took every kind care of me, and, except a very slight _soupçon_ of a cold, the next morning, i did not suffer any inconvenience. mr. webster had complained of not being very well before (i think a slight attack of hay-asthma), but i was glad to meet him soon afterward at dinner, not at all the worse for the tempestuous drive; and for my part, i could most cordially thank him for the glorious panorama he had shown me, and the splendid drive through what seemed almost interminable woods: and (since we had got safely through it), i was not sorry to have witnessed the very excellent imitation of the flood which had been presented before (and some of it into) my astonished eyes. mr. webster told me the drive through the woods would have been extended, but for the rain, ten miles! i can not describe to you the almost adoration with which mr. webster is regarded in new england. the newspapers chronicle his every movement, and constantly contain anecdotes respecting him, and he invariably is treated with the greatest respect by everybody, and, in fact, his intellectual greatness seems all but worshiped. massachusetts boasts, with a commendable pride and exultation, that he is one of her children. a rather curious anecdote has been going the round of the papers lately. it appears mr. webster was at martha's vineyard a short time ago, and he drove up to the door of the principal hotel, at edgartown, the capital, accompanied by some of his family, and attended, as usual, by his colored servants. now, it must be observed that mr. webster has a swarthy, almost south-spanish complexion, and when he put his head out of the window and inquired for apartments, the keeper of the hotel, casting dismayed glances, first at the domestics of different shades of sable and mahogany, and then at the fine dark face of mr. webster, excused himself from providing them with accommodation, declaring he made it a rule never to receive any _colored persons_. (this in new england, if the tale be true!). the great statesman and his family were about to seek for accommodation elsewhere--thinking the hotel-keeper alluded to his servants--when the magical name of "glorious dan" becoming known, mine host, penitent and abashed, after profuse apologies, intreated him to honor his house with his presence. "all's well that ends well." one can not wonder at the americans' extreme admiration of the genius and the statesman-like qualities of their distinguished countryman, his glorious and electrifying eloquence, his great powers of ratiocination, his solid judgment, his stores of knowledge, and his large and comprehensive mind--a mind of that real expansion and breadth which, heaven knows, too few public men can boast of. footnote: [ ] from lady emeline stuart wortley's "travels in the united states in - ," in the press of harper and brothers. the jeweled watch. among the many officers who, at the close of the peninsular war, retired on half-pay, was captain dutton of the --th regiment. he had lately married the pretty, portionless daughter of a deceased brother officer; and filled with romantic visions of rural bliss and "love in a cottage," the pair, who were equally unskilled in the practical details of housekeeping, fancied they could live in affluence, and enjoy all the luxuries of life, on the half-pay which formed their sole income. they took up their abode near a pleasant town in the south of england, and for a time got on pretty well; but when at the end of the first year a sweet little boy made his appearance, and at the end of the second an equally sweet little girl, they found that nursemaids, baby-linen, doctors, and all the etceteras appertaining to the introduction and support of these baby-visitors, formed a serious item in their yearly expenditure. for a while they struggled on without falling into debt; but at length their giddy feet slipped into that vortex which has engulfed so many, and their affairs began to assume a very gloomy aspect. about this time an adventurer named smith, with whom captain dutton became casually acquainted, and whose plausible manners and appearance completely imposed on the frank, unsuspecting soldier, proposed to him a plan for insuring, as he represented it, a large and rapid fortune. this was to be effected by embarking considerable capital in the manufacture of some new kind of spirit-lamps, which smith assured the captain would, when once known, supersede the use of candles and oil-lamps throughout the kingdom. to hear him descant on the marvelous virtues and money-making qualities of his lamp, one would be inclined to take him for the lineal descendant of aladdin, and inheritor of that scampish individual's precious heirloom. our modern magician, however, candidly confessed that he still wanted the "slave of the lamp," or, in other words, ready money, to set the invention a-going; and he at length succeeded in persuading the unlucky captain to sell out of the army, and invest the price of his commission in this luminous venture. if captain dutton had refused to pay the money until he should be able to pronounce correctly the name of the invention, he would have saved his cash, at the expense probably of a semi-dislocation of his jaws; for the lamp rejoiced in an eight syllabled title, of which each vocable belonged to a different tongue--the first being greek, the fourth syriac, and the last taken from the aboriginal language of new zealand; the intervening sounds believed to be respectively akin to latin, german, sanscrit, and malay. notwithstanding, however, this _prestige_ of a name, the lamp was a decided failure: its light was brilliant enough; but the odor it exhaled in burning was so overpowering, so suggestive of an evil origin, so every way abominable, that those adventurous purchasers who tried it once, seldom submitted their olfactory nerves to a second ordeal. the sale and manufacture of the lamp and its accompanying spirit were carried on by mr. smith alone in one of the chief commercial cities of england, he having kindly arranged to take all the trouble off his partner's hands, and only requiring him to furnish the necessary funds. for some time the accounts of the business transmitted to captain dutton were most flourishing, and he and his gentle wife fondly thought they were about to realize a splendid fortune for their little ones; but at length they began to feel anxious for the arrival of the cent.-per-cent. profits which had been promised, but which never came; and mr. smith's letters suddenly ceasing, his partner one morning set off to inspect the scene of operations. arrived at l----, he repaired to the street where the manufactory was situated, and found it shut up! mr. smith had gone off to america, considerably in debt to those who had been foolish enough to trust him; and leaving more rent due on the premises than the remaining stock in trade of the unpronounceable lamp would pay. as to the poor ex-captain, he returned to his family a ruined man. but strength is often found in the depths of adversity, courage in despair; and both our hero and his wife set resolutely to work to support themselves and their children. happily they owed no debts. on selling out, captain dutton had honorably paid every farthing he owed in the world before intrusting the remainder of his capital to the unprincipled smith; and now this upright conduct was its own reward. he wrote a beautiful hand, and while seeking some permanent employment, earned a trifle occasionally by copying manuscripts, and engrossing in an attorney's office. his wife worked diligently with her needle; but the care of a young family, and the necessity of dispensing with a servant, hindered her from adding much to their resources. notwithstanding their extreme poverty, they managed to preserve a decent appearance, and to prevent even their neighbors from knowing the straits to which they were often reduced. their little cottage was always exquisitely clean and neat; and the children, despite of scanty clothing, and often insufficient food, looked as they were, the sons and daughters of a gentleman. it was mrs. dutton's pride to preserve the respectable appearance of her husband's wardrobe; and often did she work till midnight at turning his coat and darning his linen, that he might appear as usual among his equals. she often urged him to visit his former acquaintances, who had power to befriend him, and solicit their interest in obtaining some permanent employment; but the soldier, who was as brave as a lion when facing the enemy, shrank with the timidity of a girl from exposing himself to the humiliation of a refusal, and could not bear to confess his urgent need. he had too much delicacy to press his claims; he was too proud to be importunate; and so others succeeded where he failed. it happened that the general under whom he had served, and who had lost sight of him since his retirement from the service, came to spend a few months at the watering-place near which the duttons resided, and hired for the season a handsome furnished house. walking one morning on the sands, in a disconsolate mood, our hero saw, with surprise, his former commander approaching; and with a sudden feeling of false shame, he tried to avoid a recognition. but the quick eye of general vernon was not to be eluded, and intercepting him with an outstretched hand, he exclaimed--"what, dutton! is that you? it seems an age since we met. living in this neighborhood, eh?" "yes, general; i have been living here since i retired from the service." "and you sold out, i think--to please the mistress, i suppose, dutton? ah! these ladies have a great deal to answer for. tell mrs. dutton i shall call on her some morning, and read her a lecture for taking you from us." poor dutton's look of confusion, as he pictured the general's visit surprising his wife in the performance of her menial labors, rather surprised the veteran; but its true cause did not occur to him. he had had a great regard for dutton, considering him one of the best and bravest officers under his command, and was sincerely pleased at meeting him again; so, after a ten minutes' colloquy, during the progress of which the ex-soldier, like a war-horse who pricks up his ears at the sound of the trumpet, became gay and animated, as old associations of the camp and field came back on him, the general shook him heartily by the hand, and said--"you'll dine with me to-morrow, dutton, and meet a few of your old friends? come, i'll take no excuse; you must not turn hermit on our hands." at first dutton was going to refuse, but on second thoughts accepted the invitation, not having, indeed, any good reason to offer for declining it. having taken leave of the general, therefore, he proceeded toward home, and announced their rencontre to his wife. she, poor woman, immediately took out his well-saved suit, and occupied herself in repairing, as best she might, the cruel ravages of time; as well as in starching and ironing an already snowy shirt to the highest degree of perfection. next day, in due time, he arrived at general vernon's handsome temporary dwelling, and received a cordial welcome. a dozen guests, civilians as well as soldiers, sat down to a splendid banquet. after dinner, the conversation happened to turn on the recent improvements in arts and manufactures; and comparisons were drawn between the relative talent for invention displayed by artists of different countries. watch-making happening to be mentioned as one of the arts which had during late years been wonderfully improved, the host desired his valet to fetch a most beautiful little watch, a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of workmanship, which he had lately purchased in paris; and which was less valuable for its richly jeweled case, than for the exquisite perfection of the mechanism it enshrined. the trinket passed from hand to hand, and was greatly admired by the guests; then the conversation turned on other topics, and many subjects were discussed, until they adjourned to the drawing-room to take coffee. after sitting there a while, the general suddenly recollected his watch, and ringing for his valet, desired him to take it from the dining-room table, where it had been left, and restore it to its proper place. in a few moments the servant returned, looking somewhat frightened: he could not find the watch. general vernon, surprised, went himself to search, but was not more fortunate. "perhaps, sir, you or one of the company may have carried it by mistake into the drawing-room?" "i think not; but we will try." another search, in which all the guests joined, but without avail. "what i fear," said the general, "is that some one by chance may tread upon and break it." general vernon was a widower, and this costly trinket was intended as a present to his only child, a daughter, who had lately married a wealthy baronet. "we will none of us leave this room until it is found!" exclaimed one of the gentlemen with ominous emphasis. "that decision," said a young man, who was engaged that night to a ball, "might quarter us on our host for an indefinite time. i propose a much more speedy and satisfactory expedient: let us all be searched." this suggestion was received with laughter and acclamations; and the young man, presenting himself as the first victim, was searched by the valet, who, for the nonce, enacted the part of custom-house officer. the general, who at first opposed this piece of practical pleasantry, ended by laughing at it; and each new inspection of pockets produced fresh bursts of mirth. captain dutton alone took no share in what was going on: his hand trembled, his brow darkened, and he stood as much apart as possible. at length his turn came; the other guests had all displayed the contents of their pockets, so with one accord, and amid renewed laughter, they surrounded him, exclaiming that he must be the guilty one, as he was the last. the captain, pale and agitated, muttered some excuses, unheard amid the uproar. "now for it, johnson!" cried one to the valet. "johnson, we're watching you!" said another; "produce the culprit." the servant advanced; but dutton crossing his arms on his breast, declared in an agitated voice, that, except by violence, no one should lay a hand on him. a very awkward silence ensued, which the general broke by saying: "captain dutton is right; this child's play has lasted long enough. i claim exemption for him and for myself." dutton, trembling and unable to speak, thanked his kind host by a grateful look, and then took an early opportunity of withdrawing; general vernon did not make the slightest remark on his departure, and the remaining guests, through politeness, imitated his reserve; but the mirth of the evening was gone, every face looked anxious, and the host himself seemed grave and thoughtful. captain dutton spent some time in wandering restlessly on the sands before he returned home. it was late when he entered the cottage, and his wife could not repress an exclamation of affright when she saw his pale and troubled countenance. "what has happened?" cried she. "nothing," replied her husband, throwing himself on a chair, and laying a small packet on the table. "you have cost me very dear," he said, addressing it. in vain did his wife try to soothe him, and obtain an explanation. "not now, jane," he said; "to-morrow we shall see. to-morrow i will tell you all." early next morning he went to general vernon's house. although he walked resolutely, his mind was sadly troubled. how could he present himself? in what way would he be received? how could he speak to the general without risking the reception of some look or word which he could never pardon? the very meeting with johnson was to be dreaded. he knocked; another servant opened the door, and instantly gave him admission. "_this_ man, at all events," he thought, "knows nothing of what has passed." will the general receive him? yes; he is ushered into his dressing-room. without daring to raise his eyes, the poor man began to speak in a low hurried voice. "general vernon, you thought my conduct strange last night; and painful and humiliating as its explanation will be, i feel it due to you and to myself to make it--" his auditor tried to speak, but dutton went on, without heeding the interruption. "my misery is at its height: that is my only excuse. my wife and our four little ones are actually starving!" "my friend!" cried the general with emotion. but dutton proceeded. "i can not describe my feelings yesterday while seated at your luxurious table. i thought of my poor jane, depriving herself of a morsel of bread to give it to her baby; of my little pale thin annie, whose delicate appetite rejects the coarse food which is all we can give her; and in an evil hour i transferred two _patés_ from my plate to my pocket, thinking they would tempt my little darling to eat. i should have died of shame had these things been produced from my pocket, and your guests and servant made witnesses of my cruel poverty. now, general, you know all; and but for the fear of being suspected by you of a crime, my distress should never have been known!" "a life of unblemished honor," replied his friend, "has placed you above the reach of suspicion; besides, look here!" and he showed the missing watch. "it is i," continued he, "who must ask pardon of you all. in a fit of absence i had dropped it into my waistcoat pocket, where, in johnson's presence, i discovered it while undressing." "if i had only known!" murmured poor dutton. "don't regret what has occurred," said the general, pressing his hand kindly. "it has been the means of acquainting me with what you should never have concealed from an old friend, who, please god, will find some means to serve you." in a few days captain dutton received another invitation to dine with the general. all the former guests were assembled, and their host, with ready tact, took occasion to apologize for his strange forgetfulness about the watch. captain dutton found a paper within the folds of his napkin: it was his nomination to an honorable and lucrative post, which insured competence and comfort to himself and his family. new proof of the earth's rotation. "the earth does move notwithstanding," whispered galileo, leaving the dungeon of the inquisition: by which he meant his friends to understand, that if the earth did move, the fact would remain so in spite of his punishment. but a less orthodox assembly than the conclave of cardinals might have been staggered by the novelty of the new philosophy. according to laplace, the apparent diurnal phenomena of the heavens would be the same either from the revolution of the sun or the earth; and more than one reason made strongly in favor of the prevalent opinion that the earth, not the sun, was stationary. first, it was most agreeable to the impression of the senses; and next, to disbelieve in the fixity of the solid globe, was not only to eject from its pride of place our little planet, but to disturb the long-cherished sentiment that we ourselves are the centre--the be-all and end-all of the universe. however, the truth will out; and this is its great distinction from error, that while every new discovery adds to its strength, falsehood is weakened and at last driven from the field. that the earth revolves round the sun, and rotates on its polar axis, have long been the settled canons of our system. but the rotation of the earth has been rendered _visible_ by a practical demonstration, which has drawn much attention in paris, and is beginning to excite interest in this country. the inventor is m. foucault; and the following description has been given of the mode of proof: "at the centre of the dome of the panthéon a fine wire is attached, from which a sphere of metal, four or five inches in diameter, is suspended so as to hang near the floor of the building. this apparatus is put in vibration after the manner of a pendulum. under and concentrical with it, is placed a circular table, some twenty feet in diameter, the circumference of which is divided into degrees, minutes, &c., and the divisions numbered. now, supposing the earth to have the diurnal motion imputed to it, and which explains the phenomena of day and night, the plane in which this pendulum vibrates will not be affected by this motion, but the table over which the pendulum is suspended will continually change its position in virtue of the diurnal motion, so as to make a complete revolution round its centre. since, then, the table thus revolves, and the pendulum which vibrates over it does not revolve, the consequence is, that a line traced upon the table by a point projecting from the bottom of the ball will change its direction relatively to the table from minute to minute and from hour to hour, so that if such point were a pencil, and that paper were spread upon the table, the course formed by this pencil would form a system of lines radiating from the centre of the table. the practiced eye of a correct observer, especially if aided by a proper optical instrument, may actually see the motion which the table has in common with the earth under the pendulum between two successive vibrations. it is, in fact, apparent that the ball, or rather the point attached to the bottom of the ball, does not return precisely to the same point of the circumference of the table after two successive vibrations. thus is rendered visible the motion which the table has in common with the earth." crowds are said to flock daily to the panthéon to witness this interesting experiment. it has been successfully repeated at the russell institution, and preparations are being made in some private houses for the purpose. a lofty staircase or room twelve or fourteen feet high would suffice; but the dome of st. paul's, or, as suggested by mr. sylvestre in the _times_, the transept of the crystal palace, offers the most eligible site. the table would make its revolution at the rate of ° per hour. explanations, however, will be necessary from lecturers and others who give imitations of m. foucault's ingenuity, to render it intelligible to those unacquainted with mathematics, or with the laws of gravity and spherical motion. for instance, it will not be readily understood by every one why the pendulum should vibrate in the same plane, and not partake of the earth's rotation in common with the table; but this could be _shown_ with a bullet suspended by a silk-worm's thread. next, the apparent horizontal revolution of the table round its centre will be incomprehensible to many, as representative of its own and the earth's motion round its axis. perhaps mr. wyld's colossal globe will afford opportunities for simplifying these perplexities to the unlearned. the pendulum is indeed an extraordinary instrument, and has been a useful handmaid to science. we are familiar with it as the time-regulator of our clocks, and the ease with which they may be made to go faster or slower by adjusting its length. but neither this nor the panthéon elucidation constitutes its sole application. by it the latitude maybe approximately ascertained, the density of the earth's strata in different places, and its elliptical eccentricity of figure. the noble florentine already quoted was its inventor; and it is related of galileo, while a boy, that he was the first to observe how the height of the vaulted roof of a church might be measured by the times of the vibration of the chandeliers suspended at different altitudes. were the earth perforated from london to our antipodes, and the air exhausted, a ball dropped through would at the centre acquire a velocity sufficient to carry it to the opposite side, whence it would again descend, and so oscillate forward and backward from one side of the globe's surface to the other in the manner of a pendulum. very likely the cardinals of the vatican would deem this heresy, or "flat blasphemy." to clearly appreciate the following popular explanation, it will be necessary for the reader to convince himself of one property of the pendulum, viz., that of constantly vibrating in the same plane. let it be imagined that a pendulum is suspended over a common table, _the parts bearing the pendulum being also attached to the table_. suppose, also, that the table can move freely on its centre like a music-stool: the pendulum being put in motion will continue to move in the same plane between the eye and any object on the walls of the room, although the table is made to revolve, and during one revolution will have _radiated_ through the whole circumference. a few moments' reflection are only necessary to prove this. [illustration: figure . rotation of the earth--diagram ] the above figure represents a plane or table on the top of a globe, or at the north pole of the earth. to this table are fixed two rods, from which is suspended a pendulum, moving freely in any direction. the pendulum is made to vibrate in the path _a b_; it will continue to vibrate in this line, and have no apparent circular or angular motion until the globe revolves, when it will appear to have vibrated through the entire circle, _to an object fixed on the table and moving with it_. it is scarcely necessary to say the circular motion of the pendulum is only apparent, since it is the table that revolves--the apparent motion of the pendulum in a circle being the same as the apparent motion of the land to a person on board ship, or the recession of the earth to a person in a balloon. the pendulum vibrates always in the same plane at the pole, and in planes parallel to each other at any intermediate point. [illustration: fig. . rotation of the earth--diagram ] fig. represents the earth or a globe revolving once in twenty-four hours on its axis (s n). it is divided, on its upper half, by lines parallel to each other, representing the latitudes degrees, degrees, and the equator, where the latitude is nothing. the lines _a b_, at , , , and represent the planes of those latitudes; or, in more familiar terms, tables, over which a pendulum is supposed to vibrate, and moving with them in their revolutions round the axis (s n). this being clearly understood, the next object is to show how the pendulum moves round the tables, for each of the latitudes; also to show the gradual diminution of its circular motion as it approaches the equator (e e), where, as was before observed, the latitude is nothing. a pendulum vibrating over the plane, or table (_a b_), on the top of the globe, has been already shown (by fig. ) to go round the entire circle in twenty-four hours; or to have an angular velocity of , or quarter of a circle, in six hours. the plane (_a b_), at , has an inclination to the axis (s n), which will cause a pendulum vibrating over it to move through its circumference at a diminished rate. this will be shown by reference to the figure. the globe is revolving in the direction from left to right; the pendulum is vibrating over the line _a b_, which, at all times during its course, is parallel with the first path of vibration. the plane may now be supposed to have moved during six hours, or to have gone through a quarter of an entire revolution, equal to ; but the pendulum has only moved from _c_ to _a_, considerably less than . again, if the plane is carried another six hours, making together , the figure shows the pendulum to have moved only from _c_ to _a_, considerably less than . the same remarks apply to the lower latitude of , where, it will be seen, the circular, or angular motion of the pendulum, is considerably slower than in the latitude of , continuing to diminish, until it becomes nothing at the equator, where it is clearly shown by the figure to be always parallel to itself, and constant over its path of vibration through the entire circle. adventure with a grizzly bear.[ ] i now took a long farewell of the horses, and turned northward, selecting a line close in by the base of the hills, going along at an improved pace, with a view of reaching the trading-post the same night; but stopping in a gully to look for water, i found a little pool, evidently scratched out by a bear, as there were foot-prints and claw-marks about it; and i was aware instinct prompts that brute where water is nearest the surface, when he scratches until he comes to it. this was one of very large size, the foot-mark behind the toes being full nine inches; and although i had my misgivings about the prudence of a _tête-à-tête_ with a great grizzly bear, still the "better part of valor" was overcome, as it often is, by the anticipated honor and glory of a single combat, and conquest of such a ferocious beast. i was well armed, too, with my favorite rifle, a colt's revolver, that never disappointed me, and a non-descript weapon, a sort of cross betwixt a claymore and a bowie-knife; so, after capping afresh, hanging the bridle on the horn of the saddle, and, staking my mule, i followed the trail up a gully, and much sooner than i expected came within view and good shooting distance of bruin, who was seated erect, with his side toward me, in front of a manzanita bush, making a repast on his favorite berry. the sharp click of the cock causing him to turn quickly round, left little time for deliberation; so, taking a ready good aim at the region of the heart, i let drive, the ball (as i subsequently found) glancing along the ribs, entering the armpit, and shattering smartly some of the shoulder bones. i exulted as i saw him stagger and come to his side; the next glance, however, revealed him, to my dismay, on all fours, in direct pursuit, but going lame; so i bolted for the mule, sadly encumbered with a huge pair of mexican spurs, the nervous noise of the crushing brush close in my rear convincing me he was fast gaining on me; i therefore dropped my rifle, putting on fresh steam, and reaching the rope, pulled up the picket-pin, and springing into the saddle with merely a hold of the lariat, plunged the spurs into the mule, which, much to my affright produced a kick and a retrograde movement; but in the exertion having got a glimpse of my pursuer, uttering; snort of terror, he went off at a pace i did not think him capable of, soon widening the distance betwixt us and the bear; but having no means of guiding his motions, he brought me violently in contact with the arm of a tree, which unhorsed and stunned me exceedingly. scrambling to my feet as well as i could, i saw my relentless enemy close at hand, leaving me the only alternative of ascending a tree; but, in my hurried and nervous efforts, i had scarcely my feet above his reach, when he was right under, evidently enfeebled by the loss of blood, as the exertion made it well out copiously. after a moment's pause, and a fierce glare upward from his blood-shot eyes, he clasped the trunk; but i saw his endeavors to climb were crippled by the wounded shoulder. however, by the aid of his jaws, he just succeeded in reaching the first branch with his sound arm, and was working convulsively to bring up the body, when, with a well-directed blow from my cutlass, i completely severed the tendons of the foot, and he instantly fell with a dreadful souse and horrific growl, the blood spouting up as if impelled from a jet; he rose again somewhat tardily, and limping round the tree with upturned eyes, kept tearing off the bark with his tusks. however, watching my opportunity, and leaning downward, i sent a ball from my revolver with such good effect immediately behind the head, that he dropped; and my nerves being now rather more composed, i leisurely distributed the remaining five balls in the most vulnerable parts of his carcase. by this time i saw the muscular system totally relaxed, so i descended with confidence, and found him quite dead, and myself not a little enervated with the excitement and the effects of my wound, which bled profusely from the temple; so much so, that i thought an artery was ruptured. i bound up my head as well as i could, loaded my revolver anew, and returned for my rifle; but as evening was approaching, and my mule gone, i had little time to survey the dimensions of my fallen foe, and no means of packing much of his flesh. i therefore hastily hacked off a few steaks from his thigh, and hewing off one of his hind feet as a sure trophy of victory, i set out toward the trading-post, which i reached about midnight, my friend and my truant mule being there before me, but no horses. i exhibited the foot of my fallen foe in great triumph, and described the conflict with due emphasis and effect to the company, who arose to listen; after which i made a transfer of the flesh to the traders, on condition that there was not to be any charge for the hotel or the use of the mule. there was an old experienced french trapper of the party, who, judging from the size of the foot, set down the weight of the bear at lbs., which, he said they frequently over-run, he himself, as well as colonel frémont's exploring party, having killed several that came to lbs. he advised me, should i again be pursued by a bear, and have no other means of escape, to ascend a small-girthed tree, which they can not get up, for, not having any central joint in the fore-legs, they can not climb any with a branchless stem that does not fully fill their embrace; and in the event of not being able to accomplish the ascent before my pursuer overtook me, to place my back against it, when, if it and i did not constitute a bulk capable of filling his hug, i might have time to rip out his entrails before he could kill me, being in a most favorable posture for the operation. they do not generally use their mouth in the destruction of their victims, but, hugging them closely, lift one of the hind-feet, which are armed with tremendous claws, and tear out the bowels. the frenchman's advice reads rationally enough, and is a feasible theory on the art of evading unbearable compression; but, unfortunately, in the haunts of that animal those slim juvenile saplings are rarely met with, and a person closely confronted with such a grizzly _vis-à-vis_ is not exactly in a tone of nerve for surgical operations. footnote: [ ] from kelly's "excursion to california." a visit to the north cape. having hired an open boat and a crew of three hands, i left hammerfest at nine p.m., july , , to visit the celebrated nordkap. the boat was one of the peculiar nordland build--very long, narrow, sharp, but strongly built, with both ends shaped alike, and excellently adapted either for rowing or sailing. we had a strong head-wind from northeast at starting, and rowed across the harbor to the spot where the house of the british consul, mr. robertson, a scotchman, is situated, near to the little battery (_fæstning_) which was erected to defend the approach to hammerfest, subsequently to the atrocious seizure of the place by two english ships during the last war. mr. robertson kindly lent me a number of reindeer skins to lie on at the bottom of the boat; and spreading them on the rough stones we carried for ballast, i was thus provided with an excellent bed. i have slept for a fortnight at a time on reindeer skins, and prefer them to any feather bed. mr. robertson warned me that i should find it bitterly cold at sea, and expressed surprise at my light clothing; but i smiled, and assured him that my hardy wandering life had habituated me to bear exposure of every kind with perfect impunity. by an ingenious contrivance of a very long tiller, the pilot steered with one hand and rowed with the other, and we speedily cleared the harbor, and crept round the coast of qual oe (whale-island), on which hammerfest is situated. about midnight, when the sun was shining a considerable way above the horizon, the view of a solitary little rock, in the ocean ahead, bathed in a flood of crimson glory, was most impressive. we proceeded with a tolerable wind until six in the morning, when heavy squalls of wind and torrents of rain began to beat upon us, forcing us to run, about two hours afterward, into havösund; a very narrow strait between the island of havöe and the mainland of finmark. as it was impossible to proceed in such a tempest, we ran the boat to a landing-place in front of the summer residence of herr ulich, a great magnate in finmark. this is undoubtedly the most northern gentleman's house in the world. it is a large, handsome, wooden building, painted white, and quite equal in appearance to the better class of villas in the north. the family only reside there during the three summer months; and extensive warehouses for the trade in dried cod or stockfish, &c. are attached. my crew obtained shelter in an outbuilding, and i unhesitatingly sought the hospitality of the mansion. herr ulich himself was absent, being at his house at hammerfest, but his amiable lady, and her son and two daughters, received me with a frank cordiality as great as though i were an old friend; and in a few minutes i was thoroughly at home. here i found a highly accomplished family, surrounded with the luxuries and refinements of civilization, dwelling amid the wildest solitudes, and so near the north cape, that it can be distinctly seen from their house in clear weather. madame ulich and her daughters spoke nothing but norwegian; but the son, a very intelligent young man of about nineteen, spoke english very well. he had recently returned from a two years' residence at archangel, where the merchants of finmark send their sons to learn the russian language, as it is of vital importance for their trading interests--the greater portion of the trade of finmark being with the white-sea districts, which supply them with meal and other necessaries in exchange for stockfish, &c. near as they were to the north cape, it was a singular fact that herr ulich and his son had only once visited it; and the former had resided ten years at havösund--not more than twenty-five miles distant--ere that visit took place! they said that very few travelers visited the cape; and, strange to say, the majority are french and italians. i declined to avail myself of the pressing offer of a bed, and spent the morning in conversation with this very interesting family. they had a handsome drawing-room, containing a grand colossal bust in bronze of louis-philippe, king of the french. the ex-king, about fifty-five years ago, when a wandering exile (under the assumed name of müller) visited the north cape. he experienced hospitality from many residents in finmark, and he had slept in this very room; but the house itself then stood on maas island, a few miles further north. many years ago, the present proprietor removed the entire structure to havöe; and his son assured me the room itself was preserved almost exactly as it was when louis philippe used it, though considerable additions and improvements have been made to other parts of the house. about sixteen years ago, paul garnard, the president of the commission shortly afterward sent by the french government to explore greenland and iceland, called on herr ulich, and said he was instructed by the king to ask what present he would prefer from his majesty as a memorial of his visit to the north. a year afterward, the corvette of war, _la recherche_, on its way to iceland, &c. put into havösund, and left the bust in question, as the express gift of the king. it is a grand work of art, executed in the finest style, and is intrinsically very valuable, although of course the circumstances under which it became herr ulich's property add inestimably to its worth in his eyes. the latter gentleman is himself a remarkable specimen of the highly-educated norwegian. he has traveled over all europe, and speaks, more or less, most civilized languages. on my return to hammerfest i enjoyed the pleasure of his society, and his eager hospitality; and he favored me with an introduction for the norwegian states minister at stockholm. i merely mention these things to show the warm-hearted kindness which even an unintroduced, unknown traveler may experience in the far north. herr ulich has resided twenty-five years at havösund; and he says he thinks that not more than six english travelers have visited the north cape within twenty years--that is to say, by way of hammerfest; but parties of english gentlemen occasionally proceed direct in their yachts. fain would my new friends have delayed my departure; but, wind and tide serving, i resumed my voyage at noon, promising to call on my return. in sailing through the sound, i noticed a neat little wooden church, the most northern in finmark. a minister preaches in it to the fins and laps at intervals, which depend much on the state of the weather; but i believe once a month in summer. the congregation come from a circle of immense extent. if i do not err, mr. robert chambers mentions in his tour having met with the clergyman of this wild parish. passing maas oe, we sailed across an open arm of the sea, and reached the coast of mager oe, the island on which the north cape is situated. mager oe is perhaps twenty miles long by a dozen broad, and is separated from the extreme northern mainland of finmark by magerösund. although a favorable wind blew, my crew persisted in running into a harbor here, where there is a very extensive fish-curing establishment, called gjesvohr, belonging to messrs agaard of hammerfest. there are several houses, sheds, &c. and immense tiers of the split stockfish drying across horizontal poles. at this time about two hundred people were employed, and one or two of the singular three-masted white-sea ships were in the harbor, with many finmark fishing-boats. the water was literally black with droves of young cod, which might have been killed by dozens as they basked near the surface. my men loitered hour after hour; but as i was most anxious to visit the north cape when the midnight sun illumined it, i induced them to proceed. on resuming our voyage, we coasted along the shore, which was one mass of savage, precipitous rock, until the black massive cape loomed very distinctly in the horizon. i landed at a bluff headland called tunoes, and collected a few flowers growing in crevices in the rock. a little beyond that, in sandbugt, a fragment of wreck was discernible, and i ordered the boat to be pulled toward it. it proved to be a portion of the keel of a large ship, about fifty feet long, and much worn. it had evidently been hauled on the reefs by some fishermen, and the fortunate salvors had placed their rude marks upon it. i mused over this fragment of wreck, which was mutely eloquent with melancholy suggestiveness. how many prayers had gone forth with the unknown ship! how many fathers, brothers, sisters, lovers, and unconscious widows and orphans, might at that moment be hoping against hope for her return! to what port did she belong? in what remote ocean had she met her doom? perchance this keel had been borne by wind and tide from some region of thick-ribbed ice, and was the only relic to tell of the dark fate of a gallant bark and brave crew! alas, what a thrilling history might that weed-tangled piece of wood be linked with, and what food did it supply for the wanderer's imagination! resuming the voyage, we came to a long promontory of solid rock, stretching far into the sea, where it tapers down to the level of the water. it is called kniuskjoerodden; and i particularly draw attention to it for the following reason: at hammerfest the consul favored me with an inspection of the charts recently published by the norwegian government, from express surveys by scientific officers of their navy. the instant i cast my eye over the one containing mager oe, i perceived that kniuskjoerodden was set down _further north than the north cape itself_! the consul said that such was the actual fact, though he will not consent to its disputing the legitimacy of the ancient fame which the cape worthily enjoys; since it is merely a low, narrow projection, of altogether insignificant character. i walked to its extremity, and narrowly escaped being washed by the roaring breakers into the deep transparent sea. rounding kniuskjoerodden, the north cape burst in all its sunlit grandeur on my delighted view. it was now a dead calm, and my vikings pulled very slowly across the grand bay of kniusvoerig, to afford me an opportunity of sketching the object, which is one enormous mass of solid rock, upward of a thousand feet in elevation. i can compare it to nothing more fitly than the keep of a castle of a tremendous size; for it very gently tapers upward from the base, and presents a surface marvelously resembling time-worn masonry. the front approaches the perpendicular, and so does much of the western side also. the color of this mighty rock is a dark, shining, speckled gray, relieved by dazzling masses of snow lying in the gigantic fissures, which seem to have been riven by some dread convulsion. the impression i felt as the boat glided beneath its shadow was one of thrilling awe; for its magnificent stern proportions--its colossal magnitude--its position as the lonely, unchanging sentinel of nature, which for countless ages has stood forth as the termination of the european continent, frowning defiance to the maddening fury of the mystic arctic queen--all combine to invest it with associations and attributes of overpowering majesty. my ideas of its sublimity were more than realized; and as i landed on its base, in the blaze of the midnight sun, i felt an emotion of proud joy, that my long-feasted hope of gazing upon it at such an hour, and under such circumstances, was literally fulfilled. the only place where a landing can be effected is on the western side, about a mile and a half from the head of the cape; and it is usual for those who ascend it to go many miles round from this starting-place to gain the summit, because a direct upward ascent is considered impracticable. but having much confidence in my climbing capabilities, i resolved to adventure the latter feat; and although burdened with my sea-cloak and other things, i instantly commenced the task, leaving the crew to slumber in the boat until my return. i found the whole of the western side, opposite the landing-place, clothed with the most luxuriant vegetation to the height of about a hundred yards. there were myriads of flowers, including exquisite white violets with hairy stems; purple, red, and white star-flowers; the beautiful large yellow cup-flower, growing on stems two feet high, and called by the norwegians _knap-sul-len-öie-blomster_ (literally, button-sun-eye-flower); and many other varieties of species unknown to me. there were also several kinds of dwarf shrubs, including the juniper, then in green berry. butterflies and insects flitted gayly from flower to flower. after resting on a ledge of rock to take breath, and look down on the glassy waters and the boat at my feet--now dwindled to a speck--i resumed my clambering; but to my extreme mortification, when i had ascended two-thirds of the way, at no small risk to my bones, i was mastered by overhanging masses of rock, all trickling with slimy moisture from the congealed snow above. here i had a narrow escape from being killed by a fragment of loose rock giving way beneath me, and drawing down other pieces after it; but i clung tenaciously to a firm part, and the heavy stones bounded harmlessly over my head. i descended with difficulty; and after carefully surveying the face of the rocks, tried at a more favorable place, and even then i was above an hour in gaining the summit. i understand that i am the first adventurer who has scaled the cape at that place; and i certainly was thankful when i could throw my weary frame down, and eat some frugal fare, slaking my thirst with a handful of snow from the solid patch by my side. though i had been more than forty-eight hours without rest, bodily fatigue was little felt. i could behold from my airy elevation many miles of the surface of the island. the higher peaks and the sheltered hollows were clothed with snow, glittering in the midnight sun, and several dark lakes nestled amid the frowning rocks. resuming my progress, i passed over the surface of the cape. it is covered with slaty _débris_, and, what struck me as very remarkable, quantities of a substance resembling coarse white marble, totally different from the cape itself. the only vegetation on the summit is a species of moss, which bears most beautiful flowers, generally of a purple hue, blooming in hundreds and thousands together. these dumb witnesses of nature's benevolent handiwork filled my soul with pleasing, grateful thoughts, and uplifted it to the divine being who maketh flowers to bloom and waters to gush in the most desolate regions of the earth. in the bed of a ravine, crossed in my way toward the end of the cape, i found a rapid stream of the purest water, which proved deliciously refreshing. i wandered along; and, after skirting much of the western precipice, drew nigh the bourne of my pilgrimage. the cape terminates in a shape approaching a semicircle, but the most northern part swells out in a clear appreciable point. about a hundred yards from the latter i came upon a circle of stones, piled nearly breast high, inclosing a space some dozen feet in diameter. this had evidently been erected by a party of visitors as a shelter from the winds. not far distant, a block of black rock rises above the level, which is otherwise smooth as a bowling-green, and covered with minute fragments of rock. within two or three yards of the extreme point is a small pole, sustained in the centre of a pile of stones. i found several initials and dates cut on this very perishable register, and added my own. i believe it was set up by the government expedition three or four years ago as a signal-post for their trigonometrical survey. i can not adequately describe the tide of emotion which filled my soul as i walked up to the dizzy verge. i only know that, after standing a moment with folded arms, beating heart, and tear-dimmed eye, i knelt, and with lowly-bowed head, returned thanks to god for permitting me to thus realize one darling dream of my boyhood! despite the wind, which here blew violently, i sat down by the side of the pole, and wrapping my cloak around me, long contemplated the grand spectacle of nature in one of her sublimest aspects. i was truly alone. not a living being was in sight: far beneath was the boundless expanse of ocean, with a sail or two on its bosom, at an immense distance; above was the canopy of heaven, flecked with snowy cloudlets; the sun was gleaming through a broad belt of blood-red horizon; the only sounds were the whistling of the wind, and the occasional plaintive scream of hovering sea-fowl. my pervading feeling was a calm though deep sense of intellectual enjoyment and triumph--very natural to an enthusiastic young wanderer upon achieving one of the long-cherished enterprises of his life. with reluctant and wildly-devious steps, i bade what is probably an eternal adieu to the wondrous cape, and effected a comparatively easy descent to the place whence i had started. my men had dropped grapnel a considerable distance from the rock; and being unwilling to disturb their slumber, i spent some further time in exploring the western base. there is a very curious cavernous range of rock washed out by the terrific beating of wintry storms, so as to form a species of arcade. the sides are of immense thickness, but the sea has worn them open at the top. the water here, as along the whole coast of norway and finmark, is marvelously transparent. weeds and fish may be seen at a prodigious depth clearly as in a mirror. on the return voyage, we ran into a creek near sandbugt, and the crew went ashore to a lap _gamme_ (hut) to sleep; but as i had no desire to furnish a dainty fresh meal to the vermin with which every gamme swarms, i slept soundly on my reindeer skins in the boat, although it was now rainy and intensely cold. after the lapse of a few hours i joined them at the gamme, and bought a fine _poesk_ or tunic of reindeer skin from an old lap; and learning that his herd of reins was in the vicinity, i had a long ramble in search of them, but without avail; for they had wandered far away, influenced by that remarkable instinct which impels reindeer to invariably run _against_ the wind. i gathered some fine specimens of sponge in marshy hollows. in the course of our subsequent voyage, i made another pause of a few hours at giesvohr, where i examined the works for curing the fish and extracting the oil, but declined taking any repose. next morning, being favored with a powerful wind, our little craft fairly leaped over the waves; and i noted her dextrous management with the eye of an amateur receiving a valuable lesson. the old pilot kept the sheet of the lug-sail constantly ready to slip, and another hand stood by the greased halyard to let all go by the run; for there are frequent eddies and squalls of wind along this very dangerous coast, which would upset a boat in an instant, were not great tact and unremitting vigilance exercised. the sea ran exceedingly high, and we shipped water from stem to stern every time we settled in its trough, in such a way that the baling never ceased. safely, however, did we run into havösund once more at about eight o'clock. young ulich welcomed my unexpectedly early return at the landing-place, and i was delighted to again become the eagerly-welcomed guest of his house. happily, and only too quickly, did the time speed. i chatted in my sadly-broken norwegian--the first to laugh at my own comical blunders; and the eldest young lady sweetly sang to me several of the most ancient and popular of her native ballads, accompanying them on her guitar--the fashionable instrument of music in the north, where many things which have fallen into desuetude with us universally flourish. as she could understand no other language, i in return did my best to chant the celebrated national danish song, _den tappre landsoldat_, the fame of which has penetrated to the far north. so popular is this song in denmark, that its author and composer have both recently received an order of knighthood for it. in the library were translations of marryat, and other english novelists; and they showed me a copy of--cruikshank's _bottle_! i thought that if that gifted artist could have thus beheld how his fame and a genuine copy of his greatest work has penetrated, and is highly appreciated in the vicinity of the north cape, he would have experienced a glow of enviable, and not undeserved satisfaction. the only teetotaller, by the way, whom i ever met with in scandinavia, was one of the crew of the boat with me. he invariably declined the _brændiviin_, as i passed it round from time to time, and assured me he drank only water and milk. the young ladies had about a score of pretty tame pigeons; and to my extreme regret a couple were killed, to give me an additional treat at a dinner served in a style which i should rather have expected to meet with in an english hotel than at a solitary house on an arctic island. they afterward conducted me to their--garden! yes, a veritable garden, the fame of which has extended far and wide in finmark; for there is nothing to compare to it for at least four hundred miles southward. it is of considerable size, inclosed by high wooden walls, painted black to attract the sun's rays, which are very fervid in the latter end of summer. potatoes, peas, and other table vegetables, were in a thriving state, but only come to maturity in favorable seasons. i had some radishes at dinner, and excellent they were. glazed frames protected cucumber and other plants, and many very beautiful and delicate flowers bloomed in the open air. the young ladies gathered some of the finest specimens of these, including large blue forget-me-nots, and placed them within the leaves of my bible. highly do i treasure them, for they will ever vividly recall a host of pleasant and romantic associations. most pressing were they all to induce me to stay some days with them, and gladly indeed would i have complied had circumstances permitted; but i felt compelled to hasten back to hammerfest. in the afternoon, therefore, i bade adieu to a family which had shown me a degree of engaging kindness greater than any i had experienced since i left my warmly-attached danish friends. the remainder of our return voyage was wet and tempestuous. we sailed and rowed all night, and reached hammerfest at eight a.m. on july , much to the astonishment of the good folks there, who had not anticipated seeing us again in less than a week or ten days. the consul and many others assured me that my voyage had been performed with unprecedented speed, the whole time occupied being not quite three and a half days. a conversation in a kentucky stage coach.[ ] i can not refrain from giving a conversation which i heard as we came by the coach to louisville. one of the speakers was a very agreeable and apparently well-informed gentleman, who seemed to have seen a great deal of the world. when he first entered the "stage," it would seem it was with the benignant intention of giving a sort of _converzatione_ in the coach, in which, after a few preliminary interrogatories to the various passengers (as if to take the size and measure of their capacities), he sustained all the active part, not calling upon them for the slightest exercise of their conversational powers. he varied the entertainment occasionally, by soliloquizing and monopolyguizing; and ever and anon it appeared as if he addressed the human race generally, or was speaking for posterity in a very elevated tone indeed, and seemingly oblivious of that fraction of the contemporaneous generation who were then largely benefiting by his really most animated and amusing discourse--for he was thoroughly original and very shrewd and entertaining. where had he not been? what had he not seen? what not met, tried, suffered, sought, found, dared, done, won, lost, said? the last we could give the most implicit credence to, no matter how large the demand. now he told us, or the ceiling of the coach, how he had been eighteen months in the prairies (which keep very open house for all visitors), shooting herds of buffaloes, and with his cloak for his only castle, and all his household furniture, and how he had been all this time without bed or bread: and he described the longing for the last, much in the way mr. ruxton does in his account of prairie excursions; and now--but i will not attempt to follow him in all his wondrous adventures. suffice it to say, robinson crusoe, placed in juxtaposition with him, was a mere fire-side stay-at-home sort of personage, one who had never left his own comfortable arm-chair, in comparison. in short, the adventures were marvelous and manifold, and all told in the same agreeable, lively, scheherezade-like sort of a manner--so agreeable, indeed, that i am sure had judge lynch himself had any little account to settle with him, he would have postponed--_à la_ sultan of the indies--any trifling beheading or strangling, or unpleasant little operation of the sort, to hear the end of the tale. after these narratives and amusing lectures had been poured forth continuously for a length of time, it chanced that a quiet countryman-like person got into the coach, bundle and stick in hand. after a few questions to this rustic wayfarer, our eloquent orator left off his historic and other tales, and devoted himself to drawing out, and "squeezing the orange of the brains" of this apparently simple-minded and unlettered man. the discourse that ensued was a singular one--to take place, too, in the united states between americans. the new-comer was a kentuckian by birth, who had not very long ago gone to settle in indiana. he called himself a mechanic--these facts came out in answer to the queries put to him by our unwearied talker--but he had, as i have said, much more the appearance of a respectable country farming man--and, indeed, i believe, mechanic means here, in a general sense, a laborer. he seemed a fine, honest-hearted, straight-forward, noble-spirited son of the plow; and his lofty, earnest, generous sentiments were spoken in somewhat unpolished but energetic and good language; and what particularly struck me was a really beautiful and almost child-like simplicity of mind and manner, that was combined with the most uncompromising firmness and unflinching adherence in argument, to what he conceived to be right. his features were decidedly plain, but the countenance was very fine, chiefly characterized by great ingenuousness, commingled with gentleness and benevolence; and yet bearing evident traces of strength, determination, and energetic resolution. it was rather a complicated countenance, so to say, notwithstanding its great openness and expression of downright truth and goodness. after opening the conversation with him, as you would an oyster, by the introduction of a pretty keen knife of inquisitorial questions, the chief speaker began to hold forth, capriciously enough, on the essentials and distinguishing attributes of a gentleman. he declared, emphatically, that one qualification alone was necessary, and that money only made a gentleman, according to the world, and, above all, in the united states (quite a mistake is this, i fully believe). "let a man," said he, "be dressed here in every thing of the best, with splendid rings on his fingers, and plenty of money to spend at the ends of them, and he may go where he will, and be received as a gentleman; ay, though he may be a gambler, a rogue, or a swindler, and you, now, _you_ may be a good honest mechanic; but _he_ will at once get into the best society in these parts, which you would never dream even of attempting to accomplish--" "but he would not be a gentleman," broke in the kentuckian, indignantly. "no, sir; nor will i ever allow that money only makes the gentleman: it is the principle, sir, and the inner feeling, and the mind--and no fine clothes can ever make it; and no rough ones unmake it, that's a fact. and, sir, there's many a better gentleman following the plow in these parts than there is among the richer classes: i mean those poor men who're contented with their lot, and work hard and try no mean shifts and methods to get on an' up in the world; for there's little some 'ill stick at to get at money; and such means a true gentleman (what _i_ call a gentleman) will avoid like poison, and scorn utterly." "now, that's all very well for you to talk so here just now; but you know yourself, i don't doubt, that _your own_ object, as well as all the world's around you, is to make money. it is with that object that you work hard and save up: you do not work only to live, or make yourself more comfortable, but to get money: and money is the be-all and end-all of all and every body; and that only commands consideration and respect." "that _only_, sir, would never command _mine_, and--" "why, how you talk now! if you meet a fine dressed-out gentleman in one of these stages, you look on him as one directly--you don't ask him did he _make_ or _take_ his money--what's that to you?--there he is, and it is not for you to busy or bother yourself to find out all the private particulars of his history; and if you find him, as i say, well dressed in superfine, and he acts the gentleman to you, he may be the greatest rogue in existence, but he will be treated by you like a gentleman--yes, even by you." "yes, sir, that maybe while i know nothing of him--while, as you say, he acts the gentleman to me; but let me _once find out_ what he is, and i would never show him respect more--no! though he had all the gold of california." "ah, california! just look at _that_ now--look at people by scores and thousands, leaving their families, and friends, and homes--and what for but for gold? people with a comfortable competence already; but it's fine talking. why, what are _you_ taking this very journey for?--why, i can answer for you--for gold, i doubt not; and every other action of your life is for that object: confess the real truth now." "i will, sir--i am come here from indiana, for though i'm a kentucky man, i live in the hoosier state. i'm come here to see a dear brother; and instead of _gaining_ money i'm _spending_ it in these stages to get to see him and 'old kentuck' agin. so you see, sir, i love my brother--i do, more than money, poor man as i am; ay, and that i do, too." "well, i dare say you do; but come now, just tell me--haven't you a little bit of a _speculation_, now, here, that you're come after, as well as your brother--some trifle of a speculation afoot? you know you have now. you _must_ have. some horse, perhaps--" it was quite delightful to see and hear the indignant burst of eager denial which this elicited from the ingenuous kentuckian. "no, sir! _no_, i have _not_--none whatever, indeed i have not:" his voice quivered with emotion; the earnest expression of his countenance was more than eloquent. if his interrogator had accused him of a serious crime he could hardly more anxiously and more earnestly have disclaimed it. to him, i thought the bare suspicion seemed like a coarse desecration of his real motives, a kind of undervaluing even of his "dear brother," to suppose he must have had a "little speculation on hand" to make it worth his while to go to see _him_. he went on in an agitated, eager tone: "and look ye here; i am _leaving off_ my work and money-making for some days on purpose--only for that, and spending money at it, too!" his somewhat case-hardened antagonist looked the least in the world discomfited; for that angry denial was a magnificent burst, and uttered in a tone that actually seemed to give an additional jolt to the rough coach; and i might say it had really a splendid theatrical effect, but that i should hesitate to use that expression with reference to one of the most beautiful natural exhibitions of deep feeling and generous sentiment i ever witnessed. "where are you going to?" at last inquired the other, apparently about to commence a little cross-examination. "about twenty miles beyond munsfordville," replied kentucky, in his simple direct manner, "to"--i forget the name. "why, you're come by the wrong stage, then," exclaimed the other, "you should have waited till to-morrow, and then taken the stage to ----, and then you would have gone direct." "well, yes, sir; it's true enough, sir; but you see--in short, i couldn't _wait_--no, that i couldn't. i was so anxious, and i felt so like seeing my brother; and i was in such a mortal hurry to get to him." "hurry, man! why how will you see him any sooner by this? why, you might as well have walked up and down main-street till to-morrow; it would have advanced you just as much on your journey." "you're right, sir, i know that; but i really _couldn't_ wait: i wanted to feel i was going ahead, and getting _nearer_ my brother at any rate; i got so impatient-like. no, sir; i couldn't have staid till the morning any how you could fix it." "you'll have to walk for your folly, for you'll get no conveyance this way, i tell you." "i'll have to walk the twenty miles to-night, i suppose," said kentucky, with the most imperturbable smiling composure; "but never mind that! i shall be getting near my brother, then. ha," he said, after a pause, "you see i _do_ love my brother, sir, and i don't regard trouble for him. i'll have to walk the twenty miles to-night with my bundle, i dare say, and spending money at that, too, perhaps, for a bit of food; but i couldn't have _waited_--no! not another hour at louisville--i felt so like getting _nearer_ to my brother." at the end of the argument about money-making being the all in all, one or two of us signified briefly that we thought kentucky was right. you never saw any body so surprised. he had evidently entertained a deep conviction that all in the stage-coach were opposed to his opinions, and that he stood alone in his view on the matter. he replied he was glad any body thought as he did, and reiterated with strong emphasis to his opponent: "i'm sure, sir, i'm right; it is the principle, and the manners, and the mind, and _not_ money that makes a gentleman. no, no; money can never make half a one." i shall feel a respect for "old kentucky" forever after for his sake. footnote: [ ] from lady emeline stuart wortley's "travels in the united states in - ," in the press of harper and brothers. anecdotes of john philpot curran.[ ] curran's start in life. after toiling for a very inadequate recompense at the sessions of cork, and wearing, as he said himself, his teeth almost to their stumps, curran proceeded to the metropolis, taking for his wife and young children a miserable lodging upon _hay hill_. term after term, without either profit or professional reputation, he paced the hall of the four courts. among those who had the discrimination to appreciate, and the heart to feel for him, luckily for curran, was mr. arthur wolfe, afterward the unfortunate but respected lord kilwarden. the first fee of any consequence which he received was through his recommendation; and his recital of the incident can not be without its interest to the young professional aspirant whom a temporary neglect may have sunk into dejection. "i then lived," said he, "upon hay hill; my wife and children were the chief furniture of my apartments; and as to my rent, it stood pretty much the same chance of liquidation with the national debt. mrs. curran, however, was a barrister's lady, and what she wanted in wealth she was well determined should be supplied by dignity. the landlady, on the other hand, had no idea of any gradation except that of pounds, shillings, and pence. i walked out one morning to avoid the perpetual altercations on the subject, with my mind, you may imagine, in no very enviable temperament. i fell into the gloom to which, from my infancy, i had been occasionally subject. i had a family for whom i had no dinner, and a landlady for whom i had no rent. i had gone abroad in despondence--i returned home almost in desperation. when i opened the door of my study, where _lavater_ alone could have found a library, the first object which presented itself was an immense folio of a brief, twenty golden guineas wrapped up beside it, and the name of _old bob lyons_ marked upon the back of it. i paid my landlady--bought a good dinner--gave bob lyons a share of it--and that dinner was the date of my prosperity." such was his own exact account of his professional advancement. singular attempt upon curran's life. in one of curran's professional excursions, a very singular circumstance had almost rendered this the termination of his biography. he was on a temporary visit to the neighboring town of sligo, and was one morning standing at his bedroom window, which overlooked the street, occupied, as he told me, in arranging his portmanteau, when he was stunned by the report of a blunderbuss in the very chamber with him, and the panes above his head were all shivered into atoms. he looked suddenly around in the greatest consternation. the room was full of smoke, the blunderbuss on the floor just discharged, the door closed, and no human being but himself discoverable in the apartment! if this had happened in his rural retreat, it could readily have been reconciled through the medium of some offended spirit of the village mythology; but, as it was, he was in a populous town, in a civilized family, among christian doctrines, where the fairies had no power, and their gambols no currency; and, to crown all, a poor cobbler, into whose stall on the opposite side of the street the slugs had penetrated, hinted in no very equivocal terms that the whole affair was a conspiracy against his life. it was by no means a pleasant addition to the chances of assassination to be loudly declaimed against by a crazed mechanic as an assassin himself. day after day passed away without any solution of the mystery; when one evening, as the servants of the family were conversing round the fire on so miraculous an escape, a little urchin, not ten years old, was heard so to wonder how _such an aim_ was missed, that a universal suspicion was immediately excited. he was alternately flogged and coaxed into a confession, which disclosed as much precocious and malignant premeditation as perhaps ever marked the annals of juvenile depravity. this little miscreant had received a box on the ear from mr. curran for some alleged misconduct a few days before; the moor's blow did not sink into a mind more furious for revenge, or more predisposed by nature for such deadly impressions. he was in the bedroom by mere chance when mr. curran entered; he immediately hid himself in the curtains till he observed him too busy with his portmanteau for observation; he then leveled at him the old blunderbuss, which lay charged in the corner, the stiffness of whose trigger, too strong for his infant fingers, alone prevented the aim which he confessed he had taken, and which had so nearly terminated the occupations of the cobbler. the door was ajar, and, mid the smoke and terror, he easily slipped out without discovery. i had the story verbatim a few months ago from mr. curran's lips, whose impressions on the subject it was no wonder that forty years had not obliterated. curran as a cross-examiner. at cross-examination, the most difficult and by far the most hazardous part of a barrister's profession, curran was quite inimitable. there was no plan which he did not detect, no web which he did not disentangle; and the unfortunate wretch, who commenced with all the confidence of preconcerted perjury, never failed to retreat before him in all the confusion of exposure. indeed, it was almost impossible for the guilty to offer a successful resistance. he argued, he cajoled, he ridiculed, he mimicked, he played off the various artillery of his talent upon the witness; he would affect earnestness upon trifles, and levity upon subjects of the most serious import, until at length he succeeded in creating a security that was fatal, or a sullenness that produced all the consequences of prevarication. no matter how unfair the topic, he never failed to avail himself of it; acting upon the principle that, in law as well as in war, every stratagem was admissible. if he was hard pressed, there was no peculiarity of person, no singularity of name, no eccentricity of profession at which he would not grasp, trying to confound the self-possession of the witness by the, no matter how excited, ridicule of the audience. to a witness of the name of _halfpenny_ he once began: "halfpenny, i see you're a _rap_, and for that reason you shall be nailed to the counter." "halfpenny is _sterling_," exclaimed the opposite counsel. "no, no," said he, "he's exactly like his own conscience--only _copper washed_." this phrase alluded to an expression previously used on the trial. to _lundy foot_, the celebrated tobacconist, once hesitating on the table: "lundy, lundy--that's a poser--_a devil of a pinch_." this gentleman applied to curran for a motto when he first established his carriage. "give me one, my dear curran," said he, "of a serious cast, because i am afraid the people will laugh at a tobacconist setting up a carriage, and, _for the scholarship's sake_, let it be in latin." "i have just hit on it," said curran; "it is only two words, and it will at once explain your profession, your elevation, and your contempt for their ridicule, and it has the advantage of being in two languages, latin or english, just as the reader chooses. put up '_quid rides_' upon your carriage." inquiring his master's age from a horse-jockey's servant, he found it almost impossible to extract an answer. "come, come, friend, has he not lost his teeth?" "do you think," retorted the fellow, "that i know his age, as he does his horse's, by _the mark of mouth_?" the laugh was against curran, but he instantly recovered: "you were very right not to try, friend, for you know your master's a _great bite_." having one day a violent argument with a country schoolmaster on some classical subject, the pedagogue, who had the worst of it, said, in a towering passion, that he would lose no more time, and must go back to his scholars. "do, my dear doctor," said curran, "but _don't indorse my sins upon their backs_." curran was told that a very stingy and slovenly barrister had started for the continent with a shirt and a guinea: "he'll not change either till he comes back," said he. it was well known that curran entertained a dislike and a contempt for downes. "bushe," said he, "came up to me one day with a very knowing look, and said, 'do you know, curran, i have just left the pleasantest fellow i ever met?' 'indeed! who is he?' 'the chief justice,' was the answer. my reply was compendious and witty. i looked into his eye, and said '_hum_.' it required all his oil to keep his countenance smooth." a very stupid foreman once asked a judge how they were to ignore a bill. "why, sir," said curran, "when you mean to find a _true_ one, just write _ignoramus_ for self and fellows on the back of it." a gentleman just called to the bar took up a pauper case. it was remarked upon. "the man's right," said curran; "a barber begins on a beggar, that when he arrives at the dignity he may know how to shave a duchess." he was just rising to cross-examine a witness before a judge who could not comprehend any jest that was not written in _black letter_. before he said a single word, the witness began to laugh. "what are you laughing at, friend--what are you laughing at? let me tell you that a laugh without a joke is like--is like--" "like what, mr. curran?" asked the judge, imagining he was nonplused. "just exactly, my lord, like a _contingent remainder_ without any particular _estate_ to support it." i am afraid that none but my legal readers will understand the admirable felicity of the similitude, but it was quite to his lordship's fancy, and rivaled with him all "the wit that rabelais ever scattered." examining a country squire who disputed a collier's bill: "did he not give you the _coals_, friend?" "he did, sir, but--" "but what? on your oath, wasn't your payments _slack_?" it was thus that, in some way or other, he contrived to throw the witnesses off their centre, and he took care they seldom should recover it. "my lard, my lard!" vociferated a peasant witness, writhing under this mental excruciation, "i can't answer yon little gentleman, _he's putting me in such a doldrum_." "a doldrum! mr. curran, what does he mean by a doldrum!" exclaimed lord avonmore. "oh! my lord, it's a very common complaint with persons of this description: it's merely a _confusion of the head arising from the corruption of the heart_." to the bench he was at times quite as unceremonious; and if he thought himself reflected on or interfered with, had instant recourse either to ridicule or invective. there is a celebrated reply in circulation of mr. dunning to a remark of lord mansfield, who curtly exclaimed at one of his legal positions, "o! if that be law, mr. dunning, i may _burn_ my law-books!" "better _read_ them, my lord," was the sarcastic and appropriate rejoinder. in a different spirit, but with similar effect, was mr. curran's retort upon an irish judge, quite as remarkable for his good-humor and raillery as for his legal researches. he was addressing a jury on one of the state trials in , with his usual animation. the judge, whose political bias, if any judge can have one, was certainly supposed not to be favorable to the prisoner, _shook his head_ in doubt or denial of one of the advocate's arguments. "i see, gentlemen," said mr. curran, "i see the motion of his lordship's head; common observers might imagine that implied a difference of opinion, but they would be mistaken: it is merely accidental. believe me, gentlemen, if you remain here many days, you will, yourselves perceive that, when his lordship _shakes his head_, there's _nothing in it_!" personal appearance and habits of grattan. grattan was short in stature, and unprepossessing in appearance. his arms were disproportionably long. his walk was a stride. with a person swaying like a pendulum, and an abstracted air, he seemed always in thought, and each thought provoked an attendant gesticulation. such was the outward and visible form of one whom the passenger would stop to stare at as a droll, and the philosopher to contemplate as a study. how strange it seems that a mind so replete with grace and symmetry, and power and splendor, should have been allotted such a dwelling for its residence. yet so it was; and so also was it one of his highest attributes, that his genius, by its "excessive light," blinded the hearer to his physical imperfections. it was the victory of mind over matter. the man was forgotten in the orator. mr. grattan, whose father represented the city of dublin in parliament, and was also its recorder, was born in the year . he entered the middle temple in and was called to the irish bar in . in the university of dublin he was eminently distinguished, sharing its honors, in _then_ amicable contention, with fitzgibbon--not merely the antagonist, but the enemy, and the bitter one of an after day. we have a record, more authentic than usual, of his pursuits while at the temple. the study of the law occupied but little of his attention. he never relished it, and soon abandoned the profession altogether. of the theatre he was very fond--little wonder in the zenith of garrick--and it was a taste he indulged in to the last. i well remember, somewhere about the year , being in crow-street when he entered with catalani leaning on his arm. the house was crowded, and he was hailed with acclamations. in vain he modestly consigned them to the lovely siren his companion. his name rang wildly through the theatre. i think i still hear the shouts when his person was recognized, and still behold his venerable figure bowing its awkward gratitude. no one knew better the true value of that bubble tribute. another of his amusements, if indeed it was not something more, when he was at the temple, seems to have been a frequent attendance in both houses of parliament. he sketched the debates and the speakers by whom he was most attracted. o'connell's duel. living, as he did, in constant turmoil, and careless, as he was, to whom he gave offense, o'connell of course had a multitude of enemies. of this, himself the cause, he had no right to complain; but he had a right to complain of the calumnies they circulated. most rife of these was a charge of want of courage--in ireland a rare and very detrimental accusation. o'connell, during his latter years, declined dueling, and publicly avowed his determination. the reason given, and given in the house of commons, was, that having "blood upon his hands, he had registered a vow in heaven." to this there could have been no possible objection had he included in the registry a vow not to offend. the real charge to which he made himself amenable was his perseverance at once in insult and irresponsibility. the truth is, o'connell's want of courage consisted in his fighting the duel in which the vow originated. the facts of the case are few and simple. in one of his many mob speeches he called the corporation of dublin a "beggarly corporation." a gentleman named d'esterre affected to feel this as a personal affront, he being one of that very numerous body, and accordingly fastened a quarrel on the offender. it is quite true that o'connell endeavored to avoid the encounter. he did not do enough. he should have summoned d'esterre before the tribunals of the country, after failing to appease him by a repeated declaration that he meant him no personal offense, and could not, he being a total stranger to him. however, in an evil hour, he countenanced a savage and anti-christian custom--the unfortunate d'esterre paid for his perverseness with his life, and the still more unfortunate o'connell expiated his moral timidity with much mental anguish to the day of his death. the perpetration of a duel appears to me no proof whatever of personal courage; the refusal, in the then state of society, would have shown much more. however, on the occasion in question he showed a total absence of what is vulgarly called fear; indeed, his frigid determination was remarkable. let those who read the following anecdote remember that he most reluctantly engaged in the combat; that he was then the father of seven children; and that it was an alternative of life or death with him, d'esterre being reputed an unerring marksman. being one of those who accompanied o'connell, he beckoned me aside to a distant portion of the very large field, which had a slight covering of snow. "phillips," said he, "this seems to me not a personal, but a political affair. i am obnoxious to a party, and they adopt a false pretense to cut me off. i shall not submit to it. they have reckoned without their host, i promise you. i am one of the best shots in ireland at a mark, having, as a public man, considered it a duty to prepare, for my own protection, against such unprovoked aggression as the present. now, remember what i say to you. i may be struck myself, and then skill is out of the question; but if i am not, my antagonist may have cause to regret his having forced me into this conflict." the parties were then very soon, placed on the ground, at, i think, twelve paces distance, _each_ having a case of pistols, with directions to fire when they chose after a given signal. d'esterre rather agitated himself by making a short speech, disclaiming all hostility to his roman catholic countrymen, and took his ground, somewhat theatrically crossing his pistols upon his bosom. they fired almost together, and instantly on the signal. d'esterre fell, mortally wounded. there was the greatest self-possession displayed by both. it seemed to me a duty to narrate these details in o'connell's lifetime wherever i heard his courage questioned, and justice to his memory now prompts me to record them here. footnote: [ ] from "curran and his contemporaries" by charles phillips, just published by harper and brothers. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] book v.--initial chapter. "i hope, pisistratus," said my father, "that you do not intend to be dull!" "heaven forbid, sir! what could make you ask such a question? _intend!_ no! if i am dull it is from innocence." "a very long discourse upon knowledge!" said my father; "very long. i should cut it out!" i looked upon my father as a byzantian sage might have looked on a vandal. "cut it out!" "stops the action, sir!" said my father, dogmatically. "action! but a novel is not a drama." "no, it is a great deal longer--twenty times as long, i dare say," replied mr. caxton, with a sigh. "well, sir--well! i think my discourse upon knowledge has much to do with the subject--is vitally essential to the subject; does not stop the action--only explains and elucidates the action. and i am astonished, sir, that you, a scholar, and a cultivator of knowledge--" "there--there!" cried my father, deprecatingly. "i yield--i yield. what better could i expect when i set up for a critic! what author ever lived that did not fly into a passion--even with his own father, if his father presumed to say--'cut out!' _pacem imploro_--" mrs. caxton.--"my dear austin, i am sure pisistratus did not mean to offend you, and i have no doubt he will take your--" pisistratus (hastily).--"advice _for the future_, certainly. i will quicken the action, and--" "go on with the novel," whispered roland, looking up from his eternal account-book. "we have lost £ by our barley!" therewith i plunged my pen into the ink, and my thoughts into the "fair shadowland." chapter ii. "halt!" cried a voice; and not a little surprised was leonard when the stranger who had accosted him the preceding evening got into the chaise. "well," said richard, "i am not the sort of man you expected, eh? take time to recover yourself." and with these words richard drew forth a book from his pocket, threw himself back, and began to read. leonard stole many a glance at the acute, hardy, handsome face of his companion, and gradually recognized a family likeness to poor john, in whom, despite age and infirmity, the traces of no common share of physical beauty were still evident. and with that quick link in ideas which mathematical aptitude bestows, the young student at once conjectured that he saw before him his uncle richard. he had the discretion, however, to leave that gentleman free to choose his own time for introducing himself, and silently revolved the new thoughts produced by the novelty of his situation. mr. richard read with notable quickness--sometimes cutting the leaves of the book with his penknife, sometimes tearing them open with his forefinger, sometimes skipping whole pages altogether. thus he galloped to the end of the volume--flung it aside--lighted his cigar, and began to talk. he put many questions to leonard relative to his rearing, and especially to the mode by which he had acquired his education; and leonard, confirmed in the idea that he was replying to a kinsman, answered frankly. richard did not think it strange that leonard should have acquired so much instruction with so little direct tuition. richard avenel himself had been tutor to himself. he had lived too long with our go-ahead brethren, who stride the world on the other side the atlantic with the seven-leagued boots of the giant-killer, not to have caught their glorious fever for reading. but it was for a reading wholly different from that which was familiar to leonard. the books he read must be new; to read old books would have seemed to him going back in the world. he fancied that new books necessarily contained new ideas--a common mistake--and our lucky adventurer was the man of his day. tired with talking, he at length chucked the book he had run through to leonard, and, taking out a pocket-book and pencil, amused himself with calculations on some detail of his business, after which he fell into an absorbed train of thought--part pecuniary, part ambitious. leonard found the book interesting; it was one of the numerous works, half-statistic, half-declamatory, relating to the condition of the working classes, which peculiarly distinguish our century, and ought to bind together rich and poor, by proving the grave attention which modern society bestows upon all that can affect the welfare of the last. "dull stuff--theory--claptrap," said richard, rousing himself from his reverie at last: "it can't interest you." "all books interest me, i think," said leonard, "and this especially; for it relates to the working class, and i am one of them." "you were yesterday, but you mayn't be to-morrow," answered richard, good-humoredly, and patting him on the shoulder. "you see, my lad, that it is the middle class which ought to govern the country. what the book says about the ignorance of country magistrates is very good; but the man writes pretty considerable trash when he wants to regulate the number of hours a free-born boy should work at a factory--only ten hours a day--pooh! and so lose two to the nation! labor is wealth: and if we could get men to work twenty-four hours a day, we should be just twice as rich. if the march of civilization is to proceed," continued richard, loftily, "men, and boys, too, must not lie a-bed doing nothing _all night_, sir." then with a complacent tone--"we shall get to the twenty-four hours at last; and, by gad, we must, or we shan't flog the europeans as we do now." on arriving at the inn at which richard had first made acquaintance with mr. dale, the coach by which he had intended to perform the rest of the journey was found to be full. richard continued to perform the journey in post-chaises, not without some grumbling at the expense, and incessant orders to the post-boys to make the best of the way. "slow country this, in spite of all its brag," said he--"very slow. time is money--they know that in the states; for why, they are all men of business there. always slow in a country where a parcel of lazy, idle lords, and dukes, and baronets, seem to think 'time is pleasure.'" toward evening the chaise approached the confines of a very large town, and richard began to grow fidgety. his easy cavalier air was abandoned. he withdrew his legs from the window, out of which they had been luxuriously dangling; pulled down his waistcoat; buckled more tightly his stock: it was clear that he was resuming the decorous dignity that belongs to state. he was like a monarch who, after traveling happy and incognito, returns to his capital. leonard divined at once that they were nearing their journey's end. humble foot-passengers now looked at the chaise, and touched their hats. richard returned the salutation with a nod--a nod less gracious than condescending. the chaise turned rapidly to the left, and stopped before a smart lodge, very new, very white, adorned with two doric columns in stucco, and flanked by a large pair of gates. "hollo!" cried the post-boy, and cracked his whip. two children were playing before the lodge, and some clothes were hanging out to dry on the shrubs and pales round the neat little building. "hang those brats! they are actually playing," growled dick. "as i live, the jade has been washing again! stop, boy." during this soliloquy, a good-looking young woman had rushed from the door--slapped the children as, catching sight of the chaise, they ran toward the house--opened the gates, and, dropping a courtesy to the ground, seemed to wish that she could drop into it altogether, so frightened and so trembling seemed she to shrink from the wrathful face which the master now put out of the window. "did i tell you, or did i not," said dick, "that i would not have these horrid disreputable cubs of yours playing just before my lodge gates?" "please, sir--" "don't answer me. and did i tell you, or did i not, that the next time i saw you making a drying-ground of my lilacs, you should go out, neck and crop--" "oh, please, sir--" "you leave my lodge next saturday: drive on, boy. the ingratitude and insolence of those common people are disgraceful to human nature," muttered richard, with an accent of the bitterest misanthropy. the chaise wheeled along the smoothest and freshest of gravel roads, and through fields of the finest land, in the highest state of cultivation. rapid as was leonard's survey, his rural eye detected the signs of a master in the art agranomial. hitherto he had considered the squire's model farm as the nearest approach to good husbandry he had seen: for jackeymo's finer skill was developed rather on the minute scale of market-gardening than what can fairly be called husbandry. but the squire's farm was degraded by many old-fashioned notions, and concessions to the whim of the eye, which would not be found in model farms nowadays--large tangled hedgerows, which, though they constitute one of the beauties most picturesque in old england, make sad deductions from produce; great trees, overshadowing the corn, and harboring the birds; little patches of rough sward left to waste; and angles of woodland running into fields, exposing them to rabbits, and blocking out the sun. these and suchlike blots on a gentleman farmer's agriculture, common-sense and giacomo had made clear to the acute comprehension of leonard. no such faults were perceptible in richard avenel's domain. the fields lay in broad divisions, the hedges were clipped and narrowed into their proper destination of mere boundaries. not a blade of wheat withered under the cold shade of a tree: not a yard of land lay waste; not a weed was to be seen, not a thistle to waft its baleful seed through the air: some young plantations were placed, not where the artist would put them, but just where the farmer wanted a fence from the wind. was there no beauty in this? yes, there was beauty of its kind--beauty at once recognizable to the initiated--beauty of use and profit--beauty that could bear a monstrous high rent. and leonard uttered a cry of admiration which thrilled through the heart of richard avenel. "this _is_ farming!" said the villager. "well, i guess it is," answered richard, all his ill-humor vanishing. "you should have seen the land when i bought it. but we new men, as they call us--(damn their impertinence)--are the new blood of this country." richard avenel never said any thing more true. long may the new blood circulate through the veins of the mighty giantess; but let the grand heart be the same as it has beat for proud ages. the chaise, now passed through a pretty shrubbery, and the house came into gradual view--a house with a portico--all the offices carefully thrust out of sight. the post-boy dismounted and rang the bell. "i almost think they are going to keep me waiting," said mr. richard, well-nigh in the very words of louis xiv. but that fear was not realized--the door opened; a well-fed servant out of livery presented himself. there was no hearty welcoming smile on his face, but he opened the chaise-door with demure and taciturn respect. "where's george? why does not he come to the door?" asked richard, descending from the chaise slowly, and leaning on the servant's outstretched arm with as much precaution as if he had had the gout. fortunately, george here came into sight, settling himself hastily into his livery coat. "see to the things, both of you," said richard, as he paid the post-boy. leonard stood on the gravel sweep, gazing at the square white house. "handsome elevation--classical, i take it--eh?" said richard, joining him. "but you should see the offices." he then, with familiar kindness, took leonard by the arm, and drew him within. he showed him the hall, with a carved mahogany stand for hats; he showed him the drawing-room, and pointed out its beauties--though it was summer the drawing-room looked cold, as will look rooms newly furnished, with walls newly papered, in houses newly built. the furniture was handsome, and suited to the rank of a rich trader. there was no pretense about it, and therefore no vulgarity, which is more than can be said for the houses of many an honorable mrs. somebody in mayfair, with rooms twelve feet square, chokeful of buhl, that would have had its proper place in the tuileries. then richard showed him the library, with mahogany book-cases and plate glass, and the fashionable authors handsomely bound. your new men are much better friends to living authors than your old families who live in the country, and at most subscribe to a book-club. then richard took him up-stairs, and led him through the bedrooms--all very clean and comfortable, and with every modern convenience; and, pausing in a very pretty single gentleman's chamber, said, "this is your den. and now, can you guess who i am?" "no one but my uncle richard could be so kind," answered leonard. but the compliment did not flatter richard. he was extremely disconcerted and disappointed. he had hoped that he should be taken for a lord at least, forgetful of all that he had said in disparagement of lords. "pish!" said he at last, biting his lip--"so you don't think that i look like a gentleman! come, now, speak honestly." leonard wonderingly saw he had given pain, and with the good breeding which comes instinctively from good-nature, replied--"i judged you by your heart, sir, and your likeness to my grandfather--otherwise i should never have presumed to fancy we could be relations." "hum!" answered richard. "you can just wash your hands, and then come down to dinner; you will hear the gong in ten minutes. there's the bell; ring for what you want." with that, he turned on his heel; and descending the stairs, gave a look into the dining-room, and admired the plated salver on the sideboard, and the king's pattern spoons and forks on the table. then he walked to the looking-glass over the mantle-piece; and wishing to survey the whole effect of his form, mounted a chair. he was just getting into an attitude which he thought imposing, when the butler entered, and being london bred, had the discretion to try to escape unseen; but richard caught sight of him in the looking-glass, and colored up to the temples. "jarvis," said he mildly, "jarvis, put me in mind to have these inexpressibles altered." chapter iii. apropos of the inexpressibles, mr. richard did not forget to provide his nephew with a much larger wardrobe than could have been thrust into dr. riccabocca's knapsack. there was a very good tailor in the town, and the clothes were very well made. and, but for an air more ingenuous, and a cheek that, despite study and night vigils, retained much of the sunburnt bloom of the rustic, leonard fairfield might now have almost passed, without disparaging comment, by the bow-window at white's. richard burst into an immoderate fit of laughter when he first saw the watch which the poor italian had bestowed upon leonard; but, to atone for the laughter, he made him a present of a very pretty substitute, and bade him "lock up his turnip." leonard was more hurt by the jeer at his old patron's gift than pleased by his uncle's. but richard avenel had no conception of sentiment. it was not for many days that leonard could reconcile himself to his uncle's manner. not that the peasant could pretend to judge of its mere conventional defects; but there is an ill breeding to which, whatever our rank and nurture, we are almost equally sensitive--the ill breeding that comes from want of consideration for others. now, the squire was as homely in his way as richard avenel, but the squire's bluntness rarely hurt the feelings: and when it did so, the squire perceived and hastened to repair his blunder. but mr. richard, whether kind or cross, was always wounding you in some little delicate fibre--not from malice, but from the absence of any little delicate fibres of his own. he was really, in many respects, a most excellent man and certainly a very valuable, citizen. but his merits wanted the fine tints and fluent curves that constitute beauty of character. he was honest, but sharp in his practice, and with a keen eye to his interests. he was just, but as a matter of business. he made no allowances, and did not leave to his justice the large margin of tenderness and mercy. he was generous, but rather from an idea of what was due to himself than with much thought of the pleasure he gave to others; and he even regarded generosity as capital put out to interest. he expected a great deal of gratitude in return, and, when he obliged a man, considered that he had bought a slave. every needy voter knew where to come, if he wanted relief or a loan; but woe to him if he had ventured to express hesitation when mr. avenel told him how he must vote. in this town richard had settled after his return from america, in which country he had enriched himself--first, by spirit and industry--lastly, by bold speculation and good luck. he invested his fortune in business--became a partner in a large brewery--soon bought out his associates--and then took a principal share in a flourishing corn-mill. he prospered rapidly--bought a property of some two or three hundred acres, built a house, and resolved to enjoy himself, and make a figure. he had now become the leading man of the town, and the boast to audley egerton that he could return one of the members, perhaps both, was by no means an exaggerated estimate of his power. nor was his proposition, according to his own views, so unprincipled as it appeared to the statesman. he had taken a great dislike to both the sitting members--a dislike natural to a sensible man of modern politics, who had something to lose. for mr. slappe, the active member--who was head-over-ears in debt--was one of the furious democrats rare before the reform bill--and whose opinions were held dangerous even by the mass of a liberal constituency; while mr. sleekie, the gentleman member, who laid by £ every year from his dividends in the funds, was one of those men whom richard justly pronounced to be "humbugs"--men who curry favor with the extreme party by voting for measures sure not to be carried; while, if there were the least probability of coming to a decision that would lower the money-market, mr. sleekie was seized with a well-timed influenza. those politicians are common enough now. propose to march to the millennium, and they are your men. ask them to march a quarter of a mile, and they fall to feeling their pockets, and trembling for fear of the foot-pads. they are never so joyful as when there is no chance of a victory. did they beat the minister, they would be carried out of the house in a fit. richard avenel--despising both these gentlemen, and not taking kindly to the whigs since the great whig leaders were lords--looked with a friendly eye to the government as it then existed, and especially to audley egerton, the enlightened representative of commerce. but in giving audley and his colleagues the benefit of his influence, through conscience, he thought it all fair and right to have a _quid pro quo_, and, as he had so frankly confessed, it was his whim to rise up "sir richard." for this worthy citizen abused the aristocracy much on the same principle as the fair olivia depreciated squire thornhill--he had a sneaking affection for what he abused. the society of screwstown was like most provincial capitals, composed of two classes--the commercial and the exclusive. these last dwelt chiefly apart, around the ruins of an old abbey; they affected its antiquity in their pedigrees, and had much of its ruin in their finances. widows of rural thanes in the neighborhood--genteel spinsters--officers retired on half-pay--younger sons of rich squires, who had now become old bachelors--in short, a very respectable, proud, aristocratic set--who thought more of themselves than do all the gowers and howards, courtenays and seymours, put together. it had early been the ambition of richard avenel to be admitted into this sublime coterie, and, strange to say, he had partially succeeded. he was never more happy than when he was asked to their card-parties, and never more unhappy than when he was actually there. various circumstances combined to raise mr. avenel into this elevated society. first, he was unmarried, still very handsome, and in that society there was a large proportion of unwedded females. secondly, he was the only rich trader in screwstown who kept a good cook, and professed to give dinners, and the half-pay captains and colonels swallowed the host for the sake of the venison. thirdly, and principally, all these exclusives abhorred the two sitting members, and "idem nolle idem velle de republica, ea firma amicitia est;" that is, congeniality in politics pieces porcelain and crockery together better than the best diamond cement. the sturdy richard avenel--who valued himself on american independence--held these ladies and gentlemen in an awe that was truly brahminical. whether it was that in england, all notions, even of liberty, are mixed up historically, traditionally, socially, with that fine and subtle element of aristocracy which, like the press, is the air we breathe; or whether richard imagined that he really became magnetically imbued with the virtues of these silver pennies and gold seven-shilling pieces, distinct from the vulgar coinage in popular use, it is hard to say. but the truth must be told--richard avenel was a notable tuft-hunter. he had a great longing to marry out of this society; but he had not yet seen any one sufficiently high-born and high-bred to satisfy his aspirations. in the mean while, he had convinced himself that his way would be smooth could he offer to make his ultimate choice "my lady;" and he felt that it would be a proud hour in his life when he could walk before stiff colonel pompley to the sound of "sir richard." still, however disappointed at the ill-success of his bluff diplomacy with mr. egerton, and however yet cherishing the most vindictive resentment against that individual--he did not, as many would have done, throw up his political convictions out of personal spite. he resolved still to favor the ungrateful and undeserving administration; and as audley egerton had acted on the representations of the mayor and deputies, and shaped his bill to meet their views, so avenel and the government rose together in the popular estimation of the citizens of screwstown. but duly to appreciate the value of richard avenel, and in just counterpoise to all his foibles, one ought to have seen what he had effected for the town. well might he boast of "new blood;" he had done as much for the town as he had for his fields. his energy, his quick comprehension of public utility, backed by his wealth, and bold, bullying, imperious character, had sped the work of civilization as if with the celerity and force of a steam-engine. if the town were so well paved and so well lighted--if half-a-dozen squalid lanes had been transformed into a stately street--if half the town no longer depended on tanks for their water--if the poor-rates were reduced one-third--praise to the brisk new blood which richard avenel had infused into vestry and corporation. and his example itself was so contagious! "there was not a plate-glass window in the town when i came into it," said richard avenel; "and now look down the high-street!" he took the credit to himself, and justly; for, though his own business did not require windows of plate-glass, he had awakened the spirit of enterprise which adorns a whole city. mr. avenel did not present leonard to his friends for more than a fortnight. he allowed him to wear off his rust. he then gave a grand dinner, at which his nephew was formally introduced, and, to his great wrath and disappointment, never opened his lips. how could he, poor youth, when miss clarina mowbray only talked upon high life, till proud colonel pompley went in state through the history of the siege of seringapatam. chapter iv while leonard accustoms himself gradually to the splendors that surround him, and often turns with a sigh to the remembrance of his mother's cottage and the sparkling fount in the italian's flowery garden, we will make with thee, o reader, a rapid flight to the metropolis, and drop ourselves amidst the gay groups that loiter along the dusty ground, or loll over the roadside palings of hyde park. the season is still at its height; but the short day of fashionable london life, which commences two hours after noon, is in its decline. the crowd in rotten-row begins to thin. near the statue of achilles, and apart from all other loungers, a gentleman, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, and the other resting on his cane, gazed listlessly on the horsemen and carriages in the brilliant ring. he was still in the prime of life, at the age when man is usually the most social--when the acquaintances of youth have ripened into friendship, and a personage of some rank and fortune has become a well-known feature in the mobile face of society. but though, when his contemporaries were boys scarce at college, this gentleman had blazed foremost among the princes of fashion, and though he had all the qualities of nature and circumstance which either retain fashion to the last, or exchange its false celebrity for a graver repute, he stood as a stranger in that throng of his countrymen. beauties whirled by to the toilet--statesmen passed on to the senate--dandies took flight to the clubs; and neither nods, nor becks, nor wreathed smiles, said to the solitary spectator, "follow us--thou art one of our set." now and then, some middle-aged beau, nearing the post of the loiterer, turned round to look again; but the second glance seemed to dissipate the recognition of the first, and the beau silently continued his way. "by the tombs of my fathers!" said the solitary to himself, "i know now what a dead man might feel if he came to life again, and took a peep at the living." time passed on--the evening shades descended fast. our stranger in london had well-nigh the park to himself. he seemed to breathe more freely as he saw that the space was so clear. "there's oxygen in the atmosphere now," said he, half aloud; "and i can walk without breathing in the gaseous fumes of the multitude. o those chemists--what dolts they are! they tell us crowds taint the air, but they never guess why! pah! it is not the lungs that poison the element--it is the reek of bad hearts. when a periwig-pated fellow breathes on me, i swallow a mouthful of care. _allons!_ my friend nero; now for a stroll." he touched with his cane a large newfoundland dog, who lay stretched near his feet; a dog and man went slow through the growing twilight, and over the brown dry turf. at length our solitary paused, and threw himself on a bench under a tree. "half-past eight!" said he, looking at his watch--"one may smoke one's cigar without shocking the world." he took out his cigar-case, struck a light, and in another moment, reclined at length on the bench, seemed absorbed in regarding the smoke, that scarce colored ere it vanished into air. "it is the most barefaced lie in the world, my nero," said he, addressing his dog--"this boasted liberty of man! now, here am i, a freeborn englishman, a citizen of the world, caring--i often say to myself--caring not a jot for kaisar or mob; and yet i no more dare smoke this cigar in the park at half-past six, when all the world is abroad, than i dare pick my lord chancellor's pocket, or hit the archbishop of canterbury a thump on the nose. yet no law in england forbids me my cigar, nero! what is law at half-past eight, was not crime at six and a half! britannia says, 'man, thou art free,' and she lies like a commonplace woman. o nero, nero! you enviable dog!--you serve but from liking. no thought of the world costs you one wag of the tail. your big heart and true instinct suffice you for reason and law. you would want nothing to your felicity, if in these moments of ennui you would but smoke a cigar. try it, nero!--try it!" and, rising from his incumbent posture, he sought to force the end of the weed between the teeth of the dog. while thus gravely engaged, two figures had approached the place. the one was a man who seemed weak and sickly. his threadbare coat was buttoned to the chin, but hung large on his shrunken breast. the other was a girl of about fourteen, on whose arm he leant heavily. her cheek was wan, and there was a patient sad look on her face, which seemed so settled that you would think she could never have known the mirthfulness of childhood. "pray rest here, papa," said the child softly; and she pointed to the bench, without taking heed of its pre-occupant, who now, indeed, confined to one corner of the seat, was almost hidden by the shadow of a tree. the man sate down, with a feeble sigh; and then, observing the stranger, raised his hat, and said, in that tone of voice which betrays the usages of polished society, "forgive me, if i intrude on you, sir." the stranger looked up from his dog, and seeing that the girl was standing, rose at once as if to make room for her on the bench. but still the girl did not heed him. she hung over her father, and wiped his brow tenderly with a little kerchief which she took from her own neck for the purpose. nero, delighted to escape the cigar, had taken to some unwieldy curvets and gambols, to vent the excitement into which he had been thrown; and now returning, approached the bench with a low look of surprise, and sniffed at the intruders on his master's privacy. "come here, sir," said the master. "you need not fear him," he added, addressing himself to the girl. but the girl, without turning round to him, cried in a voice rather of anguish than alarm, "he has fainted! father! father!" the stranger kicked aside his dog, which was in the way, and loosened the poor man's stiff military stock. while thus charitably engaged, the moon broke out, and the light fell full on the pale care-worn face of the unconscious sufferer. "this face seems not unfamiliar to me, though sadly changed," said the stranger to himself; and bending toward the girl, who had sunk on her knees and was chafing her father's hands, he asked, "my child, what is your father's name?" the child continued her task, too absorbed to answer. the stranger put his hand on her shoulder, and repeated the question. "digby," answered the child, almost unconsciously; and as she spoke the man's senses began to return. in a few minutes more he had sufficiently recovered to falter forth his thanks to the stranger. but the last took his hand, and said, in a voice at once tremulous and soothing, "is it possible that i see once more an old brother in arms? algernon digby, i do not forget you; but it seems england has forgotten?" a hectic flush spread over the soldier's face, and he looked away from the speaker as he answered-- "my name is digby, it is true, sir; but i do not think we have met before. come, helen, i am well now--we will go home." "try and play with that great dog, my child," said the stranger--"i want to talk with your father." the child bowed her submissive head, and moved away; but she did not play with the dog. "i must re-introduce myself, formally, i see," quoth the stranger. "you were in the same regiment with myself, and my name is l'estrange." "my lord," said the soldier, rising, "forgive me that--" "i don't think that it was the fashion to call me 'my lord' at the mess-table. come, what has happened to you?--on half-pay?" mr. digby shook his head mournfully. "digby, old fellow, can you lend me £ ?" said lord l'estrange, clapping his _ci-devant_ brother officer on the shoulder, and in a tone of voice that seemed like a boy's--so impudent was it, and devil-me-carish. "no! well, that's lucky, for i can lend it to you." mr. digby burst into tears. lord l'estrange did not seem to observe the emotion. "we were both sad extravagant fellows in our day," said he, "and i dare say i borrowed of you pretty freely." "me! oh, lord l'estrange?" "you have married since then, and reformed, i suppose. tell me, old friend, all about it." mr. digby, who by this time had succeeded in restoring some calm to his shattered nerves, now rose, and said in brief sentences, but clear firm tones, "my lord, it is idle to talk of me--useless to help me. i am fast dying. but, my child there, my only child (he paused an instant, and went on rapidly). i have relations in a distant country, if i could but get to them--i think they would at least provide for her. this has been for weeks my hope, my dream, my prayer. i can not afford the journey except by your help. i have begged without shame for myself; shall i be ashamed, then, to beg for her?" "digby," said l'estrange, with some grave alteration of manner, "talk neither of dying, nor begging. you were nearer death when the balls whistled round you at waterloo. if soldier meets soldier and says, 'friend, thy purse,' it is not begging, but brotherhood. ashamed! by the soul of belisarius! if i needed money, i would stand at a crossing with my waterloo medal over my breast, and say to each sleek citizen i had helped to save from the sword of the frenchman, 'it is your shame if i starve.' now, lean upon me; i see you should be at home--which way?" the poor soldier pointed his hand toward oxford-street, and reluctantly accepted the proffered arm. "and when you return from your relations, you will call on me? what!--hesitate? come, promise." "i will." "on your honor." "if i live, on my honor." "i am staying at present at knightsbridge, with my father; but you will always hear of my address at no. -- grosvenor-square, mr. egerton's. so you have a long journey before you?" "very long." "do not fatigue yourself--travel slowly. ho, you foolish child!--i see you are jealous of me. your father has another arm to spare you." thus talking, and getting but short answers, lord l'estrange continued to exhibit those whimsical peculiarities of character, which had obtained for him the repute of heartlessness in the world. perhaps the reader may think the world was not in the right. but if ever the world does judge rightly of the character of a man who does not live for the world, nor talk for the world, nor feel with the world, it will be centuries after the soul of harley l'estrange has done with this planet. chapter v. lord l'estrange parted company with mr. digby at the entrance of oxford-street. the father and child there took a cabriolet. mr. digby directed the driver to go down the edgeware-road. he refused to tell l'estrange his address, and this with such evident pain, from the sores of pride, that l'estrange could not press the point. reminding the soldier of his promise to call, harley thrust a pocket-book into his hand, and walked off hastily toward grosvenor-square. he reached audley egerton's door just as that gentleman was getting out of his carriage; and the two friends entered the house together. "does the nation take a nap to-night?" asked l'estrange. "poor old lady! she hears so much of her affairs, that she may well boast of her constitution: it must be of iron." "the house is still sitting," answered audley seriously, and with small heed of his friend's witticism. "but it is not a government motion, and the division will be late, so i came home; and if i had not found you here, i should have gone into the park to look for you." "yes--one always knows where to find me at this hour. o'clock p.m.--cigar--hyde park. there is not a man in england so regular in his habits." here the friends reached a drawing-room in which the member of parliament seldom sat, for his private apartments were all on the ground floor. "but it is the strangest whim of yours, harley," said he. "what?" "to affect detestation of ground-floors." "affect! o sophisticated man, of the earth, earthy! affect!--nothing less natural to the human soul than a ground-floor. we are quite far enough from heaven, mount as many stairs as we will, without groveling by preference." "according to that symbolical view of the case," said audley, "you should lodge in an attic." "so i would, but that i abhor new slippers. as for hair-brushes, i am indifferent!" "what have slippers and hair-brushes to do with attics?" "try! make your bed in an attic, and the next morning you will have neither slippers nor hair-brushes!" "what shall i have done with them?" "shied them at the cats!" "what odd things you do say, harley!" "odd! by apollo and his nine spinsters! there is no human being who has so little imagination as a distinguished member of parliament. answer me this, thou solemn right honorable--hast thou climbed to the heights of august contemplation? hast thou gazed on the stars with the rapt eye of song? hast thou dreamed of a love known to the angels, or sought to seize in the infinite the mystery of life?" "not i indeed, my poor harley." "then no wonder, poor audley, that you can not conjecture why he who makes his bed in an attic, disturbed by base catterwauls, shies his slippers at cats. bring a chair into the balcony. nero spoiled my cigar to-night. i am going to smoke now. you never smoke. you can look on the shrubs in the square." audley slightly shrugged his shoulders, but he followed his friend's counsel and example, and brought his chair into the balcony. nero came too, but at sight and smell of the cigar prudently retreated, and took refuge under the table. "audley egerton, i want something from government." "i am delighted to hear it." "there was a cornet in my regiment, who would have done better not to have come into it. we were, for the most part of us, puppies and fops." "you all fought well, however." "puppies and fops do fight well. vanity and valor generally go together. cæsar, who scratched his head with due care of his scanty curls, and, even in dying, thought of the folds in his toga; walter raleigh, who could not walk twenty yards, because of the gems in his shoes; alcibiades, who lounged into the agora with doves in his bosom, and an apple in his hand; murat, bedizened in gold-lace and furs; and demetrius, the city-taker, who made himself up like a french _marquise_--were all pretty good fellows at fighting. a slovenly hero like cromwell is a paradox in nature, and a marvel in history. but to return to my cornet. we were rich; he was poor. when the pot of clay swims down the stream with the brass-pots, it is sure of a smash. men said digby was stingy; i saw he was extravagant. but every one, i fear, would be rather thought stingy than poor. _bref._--i left the army, and saw him no more till to-night. there was never shabby poor gentleman on the stage more awfully shabby, more pathetically gentleman. but, look ye, this man has fought for england. it was no child's play at waterloo, let me tell you, mr. egerton; and, but for such men, you would be at best a _sous-prefet_, and your parliament a provincial assembly. you must do something for digby. what shall it be?" "why, really, my dear harley, this man was no great friend of yours--eh?" "if he were, he would not want the government to help him--he would not be ashamed of taking money from me." "that is all very fine, harley; but there are so many poor officers, and so little to give. it is the most difficult thing in the world that which you ask me. indeed, i know nothing can be done; he has his half-pay." "i think not; or, if he has it, no doubt it all goes on his debts. that's nothing to us: the man and his child are starving." "but if it is his own fault--if he has been imprudent?" "ah--well, well; where the devil is nero?" "i am so sorry i can't oblige you. if it were any thing else--" "there is something else. my valet--i can't turn him adrift--excellent fellow, but gets drunk now and then. will you find him a place in the stamp office?" "with pleasure." "no, now i think of it--the man knows my ways: i must keep him. but my old wine-merchant--civil man, never dunned--is a bankrupt. i am under great obligations to him, and he has a very pretty daughter. do you think you could thrust him into some small place in the colonies, or make him a king's messenger, or something of the sort?" "if you very much wish it, no doubt i can." "my dear audley, i am but feeling my way: the fact is, i want something for myself." "ah, that indeed gives me pleasure!" cried egerton, with animation. "the mission to florence will soon be vacant--i know it privately. the place would quite suit me. pleasant city; the best figs in italy--very little to do. you could sound lord ---- on the subject." "i will answer beforehand. lord ---- would be enchanted to secure to the public service a man so accomplished as yourself, and the son of a peer like lord lansmere." harley l'estrange sprang to his feet, and flung his cigar in the face of a stately policeman, who was looking up at the balcony. "infamous and bloodless official!" cried harley l'estrange; "so you could provide for a pimpled-nosed lackey--for a wine-merchant who has been poisoning the king's subjects with white lead or sloe-juice--for an idle sybarite, who would complain of a crumpled rose-leaf; and nothing in all the vast patronage of england for a broken down soldier, whose dauntless breast was her rampart." "harley," said the member of parliament, with his calm, sensible smile, "this would be very good clap-trap at a small theatre; but there is nothing in which parliament demands such rigid economy as the military branch of the public service; and no man for whom it is so hard to effect what we must plainly call a job, as a subaltern officer, who has done nothing more than his duty--and all military men do that. still, as you take it so earnestly, i will use what interest i can at the war office, and get him, perhaps, the mastership of a barrack." "you had better; for, if you do not, i swear i will turn radical, and come down to your own city to oppose you, with hunt and cobbett to canvass for me." "i should be very glad to see you come into parliament, even as a radical, and at my expense," said audley, with great kindness. "but the air is growing cold, and you are not accustomed to our climate. nay, if you are too poetic for catarrhs and rheums, i'm not--come in." chapter vi. lord l'estrange threw himself on a sofa, and leaned his cheek on his hand thoughtfully. audley egerton sat near him, with his arms folded, and gazed on his friend's face with a soft expression of aspect, which was very unusual to the firm outline of his handsome features. the two men were as dissimilar in person as the reader will have divined that they were in character. all about egerton was so rigid, all about l'estrange so easy. in every posture of harley's there was the unconscious grace of a child. the very fashion of his garments showed his abhorrence of restraint. his clothes were wide and loose; his neckcloth, tied carelessly, left his throat half bare. you could see that he had lived much in warm and southern lands, and contracted a contempt for conventionalities; there was as little in his dress as in his talk of the formal precision of the north. he was three or four years younger then audley, but he looked at least twelve years younger. in fact, he was one of those men to whom old age seems impossible--voice, look, figure, had all the charm of youth; and, perhaps it was from this gracious youthfulness--at all events, it was characteristic of the kind of love he inspired--that neither his parents, nor the few friends admitted into his intimacy, ever called him, in their habitual intercourse, by the name of his title. he was not l'estrange with them, he was harley; and by that familiar baptismal i will usually designate him. he was not one of those men whom author or reader wish to view at a distance, and remember as "my lord"--it was so rarely that he remembered it himself. for the rest, it had been said of him by a shrewd wit--"he is so natural that every one calls him affected." harley l'estrange was not so critically handsome as audley egerton; to a commonplace observer he was, at best, rather good-looking than otherwise. but women said that he had "a beautiful countenance," and they were not wrong. he wore his hair, which was of a fair chestnut, long, and in loose curls; and instead of the englishman's whiskers, indulged in the foreigner's mustache. his complexion was delicate, though not effeminate; it was rather the delicacy of a student, than of a woman. but in his clear gray eye there was wonderful vigor of life. a skillful physiologist, looking only into that eye, would have recognized rare stamina of constitution--a nature so rich that, while easily disturbed, it would require all the effects of time, or all the fell combinations of passion and grief, to exhaust it. even now, though so thoughtful, and even so sad, the rays of that eye were as concentred and steadfast as the light of the diamond. "you were only, then, in jest," said audley, after a long silence, "when you spoke of this mission to florence. you have still no idea of entering into public life." "none." "i had hoped better things when i got your promise to pass one season in london. but, indeed, you have kept your promise to the ear to break it to the spirit. i could not presuppose that you would shun all society, and be as much of a hermit here as under the vines of como." "i have sate in the strangers' gallery, and heard your great speakers; i have been in the pit of the opera, and seen your fine ladies; i have walked your streets, i have lounged in your parks, and i say that i can't fall in love with a faded dowager, because she fills up her wrinkless with rouge." "of what dowager do you speak?" asked the matter-of-fact audley. "she has a great many titles. some people call her fashion, you busy men, politics: it is all one--tricked out and artificial. i mean london life. no, i can't fall in love with her, fawning old harridan!" "i wish you could fall in love with something." "i wish i could, with all my heart." "but you are so _blasé_." "on the contrary, i am so fresh. look out of the window--what do you see?" "nothing!" "nothing--" "nothing but houses and dusty lilacs, my coachman dozing on his box, and two women in pattens crossing the kennel." "i see none of that where i lie on the sofa. i see but the stars. and i feel for them as i did when i was a schoolboy at eton. it is you who are _blasé_, not i--enough of this. you do not forget my commission, with respect to the exile who has married into your brother's family?" "no; but here you set me a task more difficult than that of saddling your cornet on the war office." "i know it is difficult, for the counter influence is vigilant and strong; but on the other hand, the enemy is so damnable a traitor that one must have the fates and the household gods on one's side." "nevertheless," said the practical audley, bending over a book on the table, "i think that the best plan would be to attempt a compromise with the traitor." "to judge of others by myself," answered harley with spirit, "it were less bitter to put up with wrong than to palter with it for compensation. and such wrong! compromise with the open foe--that may be done with honor; but with the perjured friend--that were to forgive the perjury!" "you are too vindictive," said egerton; "there may be excuses for the friend, which palliate even--" "hush! audley, hush! or i shall think the world has indeed corrupted you. excuse for the friend who deceives, who betrays! no, such is the true outlaw of humanity; and the furies surround him even while he sleeps in the temple." the man of the world lifted his eye slowly on the animated face of one still natural enough for the passions. he then once more returned to his book, and said, after a pause, "it is time you should marry, harley." "no," answered l'estrange, with a smile at this sudden turn in the conversation--"not time yet; for my chief objection to that change in life is, that all the women nowadays are too old for me, or i am too young for them; a few, indeed, are so infantine that one is ashamed to be their toy; but most are so knowing that one is a fool to be their dupe. the first, if they condescend to love you, love you as the biggest doll they have yet dandled, and for a doll's good qualities--your pretty blue eyes, and your exquisite millinery. the last, if they prudently accept you, do so on algebraical principles; you are but the x or the y that represents a certain aggregate of goods matrimonial--pedigree, title, rent-roll, diamonds, pin-money, opera-box. they cast you up with the help of mamma, and you wake some morning to find that _plus_ wife _minus_ affection equals--the devil!" "nonsense," said audley, with his quiet grave laugh. "i grant that it is often the misfortune of a man in your station to be married rather for what he has, than for what he is; but you are tolerably penetrating, and not likely to be deceived in the character of the woman you court." "of the woman i _court_?--no! but of the woman i _marry_, very likely indeed. woman is a changeable thing, as our virgil informed us at school; but her change _par excellence_ is from the fairy you woo to the brownie you wed. it is not that she has been a hypocrite, it is that she is a transmigration. you marry a girl for her accomplishments. she paints charmingly, or plays like st. cecilia. clap a ring on her finger, and she never draws again--except perhaps your caricature on the back of a letter, and never opens a piano after the honeymoon. you marry her for her sweet temper; and next year, her nerves are so shattered that you can't contradict her but you are whirled into a storm of hysterics. you marry her because she declares she hates balls and likes quiet; and ten to one but what she becomes a patroness at almacks, or a lady in waiting." "yet most men marry, and most men survive the operation." "if it were only necessary to live, that would be a consolatory and encouraging reflection. but to live with peace, to live with dignity, to live with freedom, to live in harmony with your thoughts, your habits, your aspirations--and this in the perpetual companionship of a person to whom you have given the power to wound your peace, to assail your dignity, to cripple your freedom, to jar on each thought and each habit, and bring you down to the meanest details of earth, when you invite her, poor soul, to soar to the spheres--that makes the to be, or not to be, which is the question." "if i were you, harley, i would do as i have heard the author of _sandford and merton_ did--choose out a child and educate her yourself after your own heart." "you have hit it," answered harley, seriously. "that has long been my idea--a very vague one, i confess. but i fear i shall be an old man before i find even the child." "ah," he continued, yet more earnestly, while the whole character of his varying countenance changed again--"ah! if indeed i could discover what i seek--one who with the heart of a child has the mind of a woman; one who beholds in nature the variety, the charm, the never feverish, ever healthful excitement that others vainly seek in the bastard sentimentalities of a life false with artificial forms; one who can comprehend, as by intuition, the rich poetry with which creation is clothed--poetry so clear to the child when enraptured with the flower, or when wondering at the star! if on me such exquisite companionship were bestowed--why, then"--he paused, sighed deeply, and, covering his face with his hand, resumed in faltering accents, "but once--but once only, did such visions of the beautiful made human rise before me--amidst 'golden exhalations of the dawn.' it beggared my life in vanishing. you know only--you only--how--how--" he bowed his head, and the tears forced themselves through his clenched fingers. "so long ago!" said audley, sharing his friend's emotion. "years so long and so weary, yet still thus tenacious of a mere boyish memory." "away with it, then!" cried harley, springing to his feet, and with a laugh of strange merriment. "your carriage still waits; set me home before you go to the house." then laying his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder, he said, "is it for you, audley egerton, to speak sneeringly of boyish memories? what else is it that binds us together? what else warms my heart when i meet you? what else draws your thoughts from blue-books and beer-bills, to waste them on a vagrant like me? shake hands. oh, friend of my boyhood! recollect the oars that we plied and the bats that we wielded in the old time, or the murmured talk on the moss-grown bank, as we sate together, building in the summer air castles mightier than windsor. ah! they are strong ties, those boyish memories, believe me! i remember as if it were yesterday my translation of that lovely passage in persius, beginning--let me see--ah!-- "quum primum pavido custos mihi purpura cessit," that passage on friendship which gushes out so livingly from the stern heart of the satirist. and when old ---- complimented me on my verses, my eye sought yours. verily, i now say as then, "nescio quod, certe est quod me tibi temperet astrum."[ ] audley turned away his head as he returned the grasp of his friend's hand; and while harley, with his light elastic footstep, descended the stairs, egerton lingered behind, and there was no trace of the worldly man upon his countenance when he took his place in the carriage by his companion's side. two hours afterward, weary cries of "question, question!" "divide, divide!" sank into reluctant silence as audley egerton rose to conclude the debate--the man of men to speak late at night, and to impatient benches: a man who would be heard; whom a bedlam broke loose would not have roared down; with a voice clear and sound as a bell, and a form as firmly set on the ground as a church-tower. and while, on the dullest of dull questions, audley egerton thus, not too lively himself, enforced attention, where was harley l'estrange? standing alone by the river at richmond, and murmuring low fantastic thoughts as he gazed on the moonlit tide. when audley left him at home, he had joined his parents, made them gay with his careless gayety, seen the old-fashioned folks retire to rest, and then--while they, perhaps, deemed him once more the hero of ball-rooms and the cynosure of clubs--he drove slowly through the soft summer night, amidst the perfumes of many a garden and many a gleaming chestnut grove, with no other aim before him than to reach the loveliest margin of england's loveliest river, at the hour the moon was fullest and the song of the nightingale most sweet. and so eccentric a humorist was this man, that i believe, as be there loitered--no one near to cry "how affected!" or "how romantic!"--he enjoyed himself more than if he had been exchanging the politest "how-d'ye-do's" in the hottest of london drawing-rooms, or betting his hundreds on the odd trick with lord de r---- for his partner. (to be continued.) footnotes: [ ] continued from the may number. [ ] "what was the star i know not, but certainly some star it was that attuned me unto thee." mary kingsford. recollections of a police-officer. toward the close of the year , i was hurriedly dispatched to liverpool for the purpose of securing the person of one charles james marshall, a collecting clerk, who, it was suddenly discovered, had absconded with a considerable sum of money belonging to his employers. i was too late--charles james marshall having sailed in one of the american liners the day before my arrival in the northern commercial capital. this fact well ascertained, i immediately set out on my return to london. winter had come upon us unusually early; the weather was bitterly cold; and a piercing wind caused the snow, which had been falling heavily for several hours, to gyrate in fierce, blinding eddies, and heaped it up here and there into large and dangerous drifts. the obstruction offered by the rapidly-congealing snow greatly delayed our progress between liverpool and birmingham; and at a few miles only distant from the latter city, the leading engine ran off the line. fortunately, the rate at which we were traveling was a very slow one, and no accident of moment occurred. having no luggage to care for, i walked on to birmingham, where i found the parliamentary train just on the point of starting, and with some hesitation, on account of the severity of the weather, i took my seat in one of the then very much exposed and uncomfortable carriages. we traveled steadily and safely, though slowly along, and reached rugby station in the afternoon, where we were to remain, the guard told us, till a fast down-train had passed. all of us hurried as quickly as we could to the large room at this station, where blazing fires and other appliances soon thawed the half-frozen bodies, and loosened the tongues of the numerous and motley passengers. after recovering the use of my benumbed limbs and faculties, i had leisure to look around and survey the miscellaneous assemblage about me. two persons had traveled in the same compartment with me from birmingham, whose exterior, as disclosed by the dim light of the railway carriage, created some surprise that such finely-attired, fashionable gentlemen should stoop to journey by the plebeian penny-a-mile train. i could now observe them in a clearer light, and surprise at their apparent condescension vanished at once. to an eye less experienced than mine in the artifices and expedients familiar to a certain class of "swells," they might perhaps have passed muster for what they assumed to be, especially amidst the varied crowd of a "parliamentary;" but their copper finery could not for a moment impose upon me. the watch-chains were, i saw, mosaic; the watches, so frequently displayed, gilt; eye-glasses the same; the coats, fur-collared and cuffed, were ill-fitting and second-hand; ditto of the varnished boots and renovated velvet waistcoats; while the luxuriant mustaches and whiskers, and flowing wigs, were unmistakably mere _pièces d'occasion_--assumed and diversified at pleasure. they were both apparently about fifty years of age; one of them perhaps one or two years less than that. i watched them narrowly, the more so from their making themselves ostentatiously attentive to a young woman--girl rather she seemed--of a remarkably graceful figure, but whose face i had not yet obtained a glimpse of. they made boisterous way for her to the fire, and were profuse and noisy in their offers of refreshment--all of which, i observed, were peremptorily declined. she was dressed in deep, unexpensive mourning; and from her timid gestures and averted head, whenever either of the fellows addressed her, was, it was evident, terrified as well as annoyed by their rude and insolent notice. i quietly drew near to the side of the fire-place at which she stood, and with some difficulty obtained a sight of her features. i was struck with extreme surprise--not so much at her singular beauty, as from an instantaneous conviction that she was known to me, or at least that i had seen her frequently before, but where or when i could not at all call to mind. again i looked, and my first impression was confirmed. at this moment the elder of the two men i have partially described placed his hand, with a rude familiarity, upon the girl's shoulder, proffering at the same time a glass of hot brandy-and-water for her acceptance. she turned sharply and indignantly away from the fellow; and looking round as if for protection, caught my eagerly-fixed gaze. "mr. waters!" she impulsively ejaculated. "oh, i am so glad!" "yes," i answered, "that is certainly my name; but i scarcely remember--stand back, fellow!" i angrily continued, as her tormentor, emboldened by the spirits he had drunk, pressed with a jeering grin upon his face, toward her, still tendering the brandy and water. "stand back!" he replied by a curse and a threat. the next moment his flowing wig was whirling across the room, and he standing with his bullet-head bare but for a few locks of iron-gray, in an attitude of speechless rage and confusion, increased by the peals of laughter which greeted his ludicrous, unwigged aspect. he quickly put himself in a fighting attitude, and, backed by his companion, challenged me to battle. this was quite out of the question; and i was somewhat at a loss how to proceed, when the bell announcing the instant departure of the train rang out, my furious antagonist gathered up and adjusted his wig, and we all sallied forth to take our places--the young woman holding fast by my arm, and in a low, nervous voice, begging me not to leave her. i watched the two fellows take their seats, and then led her to the hind-most carriage, which we had to ourselves as far as the next station. "are mrs. waters and emily quite well?" said the young woman, coloring, and lowering her eyes beneath my earnest gaze, which she seemed for a moment to misinterpret. "quite--entirely so," i almost stammered. "you know us then?" "surely i do," she replied, reassured by my manner. "but you, it seems," she presently added, with a winning smile, "have quite forgotten little mary kingsford." "mary kingsford!" i exclaimed, almost with a shout. "why, so it is! but what a transformation a few years have effected!" "do you think so? not _pretty_ mary kingsford now, then, i suppose?" she added, with a light, pleasant laugh. "you know what i mean, you vain puss you!" i replied, quite gleefully, for i was overjoyed at meeting with the gentle, well remembered playmate of my own eldest girl. we were old familiar friends--almost father and daughter--in an instant. little mary kingsford, i should state, was, when i left yorkshire, one of the prettiest, most engaging children i had ever seen; and a petted favorite not only with us, but of every other family in the neighborhood. she was the only child of philip and mary kingsford--a humble, worthy, and much respected couple. the father was gardener to sir pyott dalzell, and her mother eked out his wages to a respectable maintenance by keeping a cheap children's school. the change which a few years had wrought in the beautiful child was quite sufficient to account for my imperfect recognition of her; but the instant her name was mentioned, i at once recognized the rare comeliness which had charmed us all in her childhood. the soft brown eyes were the same, though now revealing profounder depths, and emitting a more pensive expression; the hair, though deepened in color, was still golden; her complexion, lit up as it now was by a sweet blush, was brilliant as ever; while her child-person had become matured and developed into womanly symmetry and grace. the brilliancy of color vanished from her cheek as i glanced meaningly at her mourning dress. "yes," she murmured, in a sad, quivering voice--"yes, father is gone! it will be six months come next thursday that he died! mother is well," she continued more cheerfully, after a pause, "in health, but poorly off; and i--and i," she added, with a faint effort at a smile, "am going to london to seek my fortune!" "to seek your fortune!" "yes; you know my cousin, sophy clarke? in one of her letters, she said she often saw you." i nodded without speaking. i knew little of sophia clarke, except that she was the somewhat gay, coquettish shopwoman of a highly respectable confectioner in the strand, whom i shall call by the name of morris. "i am to be sophy's fellow shop-assistant," continued mary kingsford; "not, of course, at first at such good wages as she gets. so lucky for me, is it not, since i must go to service? and so kind, too, of sophy, to interest herself for me!" "well, it may be so. but surely i have heard--my wife at least has--that you and richard westlake were engaged?--excuse me, mary, i was not aware the subject was a painful or unpleasant one." "richard's father," she replied with some spirit, "has higher views for his son. it is all off between us now," she added; "and perhaps it is for the best that it should be so." i could have rightly interpreted these words without the aid of the partially-expressed sigh which followed them. the perilous position of so attractive, so inexperienced, so guileless a young creature, amidst the temptations and vanities of london, so painfully impressed and preoccupied me, that i scarcely uttered another word till the rapidly-diminishing rate of the train announced that we neared a station, after which it was probable we should have no further opportunity for private converse. "those men--those fellows at rugby--where did you meet with them?" i inquired. "about thirty or forty miles below birmingham, where they entered the carriage in which i was seated. at birmingham i managed to avoid them." little more passed between us till we reached london. sophia clarke received her cousin at the euston station, and was profuse of felicitations and compliments upon her arrival and personal appearance. after receiving a promise from mary kingsford to call and take tea with my wife and her old playmate on the following sunday, i handed the two young women into a cab in waiting, and they drove off. i had not moved away from the spot when a voice a few paces behind me, which i thought i recognized, called out, "quick, coachee, or you'll lose sight of them!" as i turned quickly round, another cab drove smartly off, which i followed at a run. i found, on reaching lower seymour-street, that i was not mistaken as to the owner of the voice, nor of his purpose. the fellow i had unwigged at rugby thrust his body half out of the cab window, and, pointing to the vehicle which contained the two girls, called out to the driver "to mind and make no mistake." the man nodded intelligence, and lashed his horse into a faster pace. nothing that i might do could prevent the fellows from ascertaining mary kingsford's place of abode; and as that was all that, for the present at least, need be apprehended, i desisted from pursuit, and bent my steps homeward. mary kingsford kept her appointment on the sunday, and in reply to our questioning, said she liked her situation very well. mr. and mrs. morris were exceedingly kind to her; so was sophia. "her cousin," she added in reply to a look which i could not repress, "was perhaps a little gay and free of manner, but the best-hearted creature in the world." the two fellows who had followed them had, i found, already twice visited the shop; but their attentions appeared now to be exclusively directed toward sophia clarke, whose vanity they not a little gratified. the names they gave were hartley and simpson. so entirely guileless and unsophisticated was the gentle country maiden, that i saw she scarcely comprehended the hints and warnings which i threw out. at parting, however, she made me a serious promise that she would instantly apply to me should any difficulty or perplexity overtake her. i often called in at the confectioner's, and was gratified to find that mary's modest propriety of behavior, in a somewhat difficult position, had gained her the goodwill of her employers, who invariably spoke of her with kindness and respect. nevertheless, the cark and care of a london life, with its incessant employment and late hours, soon, i perceived, began to tell upon her health and spirits; and it was consequently with a strong emotion of pleasure i heard from my wife that she had seen a passage in a letter from mary's mother, to the effect that the elder westlake was betraying symptoms of yielding to the angry and passionate expostulations of his only son, relative to the enforced breaking off of his engagement with mary kingsford. the blush with which she presented the letter was, i was told, very eloquent. one evening, on passing morris's shop, i observed hartley and simpson there. they were swallowing custards and other confectionary with much gusto; and, from their new and costly habiliments, seemed to be in surprisingly good case. they were smirking and smiling at the cousins with rude confidence; and sophia clarke, i was grieved to see, repaid their insulting impertinence by her most elaborate smiles and graces. i passed on; and presently meeting with a brother-detective, who, it struck me, might know something of the two gentlemen, i turned back with him, and pointed them out. a glance sufficed him. "hartley and simpson you say?" he remarked after we had walked away to some distance: "those are only two of their numerous _aliases_. i can not, however, say that i am as yet on very familiar terms with them; but as i am especially directed to cultivate their acquaintance, there is no doubt we shall be more intimate with each other before long. gamblers, blacklegs, swindlers i already know them to be; and i would take odds they are not unfrequently something more, especially when fortune and the bones run cross with them." "they appear to be in high feather just now," i remarked. "yes: they are connected, i suspect, with the gang who cleaned out young garslade last week in jermyn-street. i'd lay a trifle," added my friend, as i turned to leave him, "that one or both of them will wear the queen's livery, gray turned up with yellow, before many weeks are past. good-by." about a fortnight after this conversation, i and my wife paid a visit to astley's, for the gratification of our youngsters, who had long been promised a sight of the equestrian marvels exhibited at that celebrated amphitheatre. it was the latter end of february; and when we came out of the theatre, we found the weather had changed to dark and sleety, with a sharp, nipping wind. i had to call at scotland-yard; my wife and children consequently proceeded home in a cab without me; and after assisting to quell a slight disturbance originating in a gin-palace close by, i went on my way over westminster bridge. the inclement weather had cleared the streets and thoroughfares in a surprisingly short time; so that, excepting myself, no foot-passenger was visible on the bridge till i had about half-crossed it, when a female figure, closely muffled up about the head, and sobbing bitterly, passed rapidly by on the opposite side. i turned and gazed after the retreating figure: it was a youthful, symmetrical one; and after a few moments' hesitation, i determined to follow at a distance, and as unobservedly as i could. on the woman sped, without pause or hesitation, till she reached astley's, where i observed her stop suddenly, and toss her arms in the air with a gesture of desperation. i quickened my steps, which she observing, uttered a slight scream, and darted swiftly off again, moaning and sobbing as she ran. the slight momentary glimpse i had obtained of her features beneath the gas-lamp opposite astley's, suggested a frightful apprehension, and i followed at my utmost speed. she turned at the first cross-street, and i should soon have overtaken her, but that in darting round the corner where she disappeared, i ran full butt against a stout, elderly gentleman, who was hurrying smartly along out of the weather. what with the suddenness of the shock and the slipperiness of the pavement, down we both reeled; and by the time we had regained our feet, and growled savagely at each other, the young woman, whoever she was, had disappeared, and more than half an hour's eager search after her proved fruitless. at last i bethought me of hiding at one corner of westminster bridge. i had watched impatiently for about twenty minutes, when i observed the object of my pursuit stealing timidly and furtively toward the bridge on the opposite side of the way. as she came nearly abreast of where i stood, i darted forward; she saw, without recognizing me, and uttering an exclamation of terror, flew down toward the river, where a number of pieces of balk and other timber were fastened together, forming a kind of loose raft. i followed with desperate haste, for i saw that it was indeed mary kingsford, and loudly called to her by name to stop. she did not appear to hear me, and in a few moments the unhappy girl had gained the end of the timber-raft. one instant she paused with clasped hands upon the brink, and in another had thrown herself into the dark and moaning river. on reaching the spot where she had disappeared, i could not at first see her, in consequence of the dark mourning dress she had on. presently i caught sight of her, still upborne by her spread clothes, but already carried by the swift current beyond my reach. the only chance was to crawl along a piece of round timber which projected farther into the river and by the end of which she must pass. this i effected with some difficulty; and laying myself out at full length, vainly endeavored, with outstretched, straining arms, to grasp her dress. there was nothing left for it but to plunge in after her. i will confess that i hesitated to do so. i was encumbered with a heavy dress, which there was no time to put off, and moreover, like most inland men, i was but an indifferent swimmer. my indecision quickly vanished. the wretched girl, though gradually sinking, had not yet uttered a cry, or appeared to struggle; but when the chilling waters reached her lips, she seemed to suddenly revive to a consciousness of the horror of her fate: she fought wildly with the engulphing tide, and shrieked piteously for help. before one could count ten, i had grasped her by the arm, and lifted her head above the surface of the river. as i did so, i felt as if suddenly encased and weighed down by leaden garments, so quickly had my thick clothing and high boots sucked in the water. vainly, thus burdened and impeded, did i endeavor to regain the raft; the strong tide bore us outward, and i glared round, in inexpressible dismay, for some means of extrication from the frightful peril in which i found myself involved. happily, right in the direction the tide was drifting us, a large barge lay moored by a chain-cable. eagerly i seized and twined one arm firmly round it, and thus partially secure, hallooed with renewed power for assistance. it soon came: a passer-by had witnessed the flight of the girl and my pursuit, and was already hastening with others to our assistance. a wherry was unmoored: guided by my voice, they soon reached us; and but a brief interval elapsed before we were safely housed in an adjoining tavern. a change of dress, with which the landlord kindly supplied me, a blazing fire, and a couple of glasses of hot brandy and water, soon restored warmth and vigor to my chilled and partially-benumbed limbs; but more than two hours elapsed before mary, who had swallowed a good deal of water, was in a condition to be removed. i had just sent for a cab, when two police-officers, well known to me, entered the room with official briskness. mary screamed, staggered toward me, and clinging to my arm, besought me with frantic earnestness to save her. "what _is_ the meaning of this?" i exclaimed, addressing one of the police-officers. "merely," said he, "that the young woman that's clinging so tight to you has been committing an audacious robbery--" "no--no--no!" broke in the terrified girl. "oh! of course you'll say so," continued the officer. "all i know is, that the diamond brooch was found snugly hid away in her own box. but come, we have been after you for the last three hours; so you had better come along at once." "save me! save me!" sobbed poor mary, as she tightened her grasp upon my arm and looked with beseeching agony in my face. "be comforted," i whispered; "you shall go home with me. calm yourself, miss kingsford," i added in a louder tone: "i no more believe you have stolen a diamond brooch than that i have." "bless you! bless you!" she gasped in the intervals of her convulsive sobs. "there is some wretched misapprehension in this business, i am quite sure," i continued; "but at all events i shall bail her--for this night at least." "bail her! that is hardly regular." "no; but you will tell the superintendent that mary kingsford is in my custody, and that i answer for her appearance to-morrow." the men hesitated, but i stood too well at head-quarters for them to do more than hesitate; and the cab i had ordered being just then announced, i passed with mary out of the room as quickly as i could, for i feared her senses were again leaving her. the air revived her somewhat, and i lifted her into the cab, placing myself beside her. she appeared to listen in fearful doubt whether i should be allowed to take her with me; and it was not till the wheels had made a score of revolutions that her fears vanished; then throwing herself upon my neck in an ecstasy of gratitude, she burst into a flood of tears, and continued till we reached home sobbing on my bosom like a broken-hearted child. she had, i found, been there about ten o'clock to seek me, and being told that i was gone to astley's, had started off to find me there. mary still slept, or at least she had not risen, when i left home the following morning to endeavor to get at the bottom of the strange accusation preferred against her. i first saw the superintendent, who, after hearing what i had to say, quite approved of all that i had done, and intrusted the case entirely to my care. i next saw mr. and mrs. morris and sophia clarke, and then waited upon the prosecutor, a youngish gentleman of the name of saville, lodging in essex street, strand. one or two things i heard necessitated a visit to other officers of police, incidentally, as i found, mixed up with the affair. by the time all this was done, and an effectual watch had been placed upon mr. augustus saville's movements, evening had fallen, and i wended my way homeward, both to obtain a little rest, and hear mary kingsford's version of the strange story. the result of my inquiries may be thus briefly summed up. ten days before, sophia clarke told her cousin that she had orders for covent-garden theatre; and as it was not one of their busy nights, she thought they might obtain leave to go. mary expressed her doubt of this, as both mr. and mrs. morris, who were strict, and somewhat fanatical dissenters, disapproved of play-going, especially for young women. nevertheless sophia asked, informed mary that the required permission had been readily accorded, and off they went in high spirits; mary especially, who had never been to a theatre in her life before. when there, they were joined by hartley and simpson, much to mary's annoyance and vexation, especially as she saw that her cousin expected them. she had, in fact, accepted the orders from them. at the conclusion of the entertainments, they all four came out together when suddenly there arose a hustling and confusion, accompanied with loud outcries, and a violent swaying to and fro of the crowd. the disturbance was, however, soon quelled; and mary and her cousin had reached the outer-door, when two police-officers seized hartley and his friend, and insisted upon their going with them. a scuffle ensued; but other officers being at hand, the two men were secured, and carried off. the cousins, terribly frightened, called a coach, and were very glad to find themselves safe at home again. and now it came out that mr. and mrs. morris had been told that they were going to spend the evening at _my_ house, and had no idea they were going to the play! vexed as mary was at the deception, she was too kindly-tempered to refuse to keep her cousin's secret; especially knowing as she did that the discovery of the deceit sophia had practiced would in all probability be followed by her immediate discharge. hartley and his friend swaggered on the following afternoon into the shop, and whispered to sophia that their arrest by the police had arisen from a strange mistake, for which the most ample apologies had been offered and accepted. after this, matters went on as usual, except that mary perceived a growing insolence and familiarity in hartley's manner toward her. his language was frequently quite unintelligible, and once he asked her plainly "if she did not mean that he should go _shares_ in the prize she had lately found?" upon mary replying that she did not comprehend him, his look became absolutely ferocious, and he exclaimed, "oh, that's your game, is it? but don't try it on with me, my good girl, i advise you!" so violent did he become, that mr. morris was attracted by the noise, and ultimately bundled him, neck and heels, out of the shop. she had not seen either him or his companion since. on the evening of the previous day, a gentleman whom she never remembered to have seen before, entered the shop, took a seat, and helped himself to a tart. she observed that after awhile he looked at her very earnestly, and, at length, approaching quite close, said, "you were at covent-garden theatre last tuesday evening week." mary was struck, as she said, all of a heap, for both mr. and mrs. morris were in the shop, and heard the question. "oh, no, no! you mistake," she said, hurriedly, and feeling at the same time her cheeks kindle into flame. "nay, but you were, though," rejoined the gentleman. and then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, "and let me advise you, if you would avoid exposure and condign punishment, to restore me the diamond brooch you robbed me of on that evening." mary screamed with terror, and a regular scene ensued. she was obliged to confess she had told a falsehood in denying she was at the theatre on the night in question, and mr. morris after that seemed inclined to believe any thing of her. the gentleman persisted in his charge; but at the same time vehemently iterating his assurance that all he wanted was his property; and it was ultimately decided that mary's boxes, as well as her person, should be searched. this was done; and, to her utter consternation, the brooch was found concealed, they said, in a black-silk reticule. denials, asseverations, were vain. mr. saville identified the brooch, but once more offered to be content with its restoration. this mr. morris, a just, stern man, would not consent to, and he went out to summon a police-officer. before he returned, mary, by the advice of both her cousin and mrs. morris, had fled the house, and hurried, in a state of distraction, to find me, with what result the reader already knows. "it is a wretched business," i observed to my wife, as soon as mary kingsford had retired to rest, at about nine o'clock in the evening. "like you, i have no doubt of the poor girl's perfect innocence; but how to establish it by satisfactory evidence is another matter. i must take her to bow-street the day after to-morrow." "good god, how dreadful! can nothing be done? what does the prosecutor say the brooch is worth?" "his uncle," he says, "gave a hundred and twenty guineas for it. but that signifies little; for were its worth only a hundred and twenty farthings, compromise is out of the question." "i did not mean that. can you show it me? i am a pretty good judge of the value of jewels." "yes, you can see it." i took it out of the desk in which i had locked it up, and placed it before her. it was a splendid emerald, encircled by large brilliants. my wife twisted and turned it about, holding it in all sorts of lights, and at last said--"i do not believe that either the emerald or the brilliants are real--that the brooch is, in fact, worth twenty shillings intrinsically." "do you say so?" i exclaimed as i jumped up from my chair, for my wife's words gave color and consistence to a dim and faint suspicion which had crossed my mind. "then this saville is a manifest liar; and perhaps confederate with--but give me my hat; i will ascertain this point at once." i hurried to a jeweler's shop, and found that my wife's opinion was correct; apart from the workmanship, which was very fine, the brooch was valueless. conjectures, suspicions, hopes, fears, chased each other with bewildering rapidity through my brain; and in order to collect and arrange my thoughts, i stepped out of the whirl of the streets into dolly's chop-house, and decided, over a quiet glass of negus, upon my plan of operations. the next morning there appeared at the top of the second column of the 'times' an earnest appeal, worded with careful obscurity, so that only the person to whom it was addressed should easily understand it, to the individual who had lost or been robbed of a false stone and brilliants at the theatre, to communicate with a certain person--whose address i gave--without delay, in order to save the reputation, perhaps the life, of an innocent person. i was at the address i had given by nine o'clock. several hours passed without bringing any one, and i was beginning to despair, when a gentleman of the name of bagshawe was announced: i fairly leaped for joy, for this was beyond my hopes. a gentleman presently entered, of about thirty years of age, of a distinguished, though somewhat dissipated aspect. "this brooch is yours?" said i, exhibiting it without delay or preface. "it is; and i am here to know what your singular advertisement means?" i briefly explained the situation of affairs. "the rascals!" he broke in almost before i had finished; "i will briefly explain it all. a fellow of the name of hartley, at least that was the name he gave, robbed me, i was pretty sure, of this brooch. i pointed him out to the police, and he was taken into custody; but nothing being found upon him, he was discharged." "not entirely, mr. bagshawe, on that account. you refused, when arrived at the station-house, to state what you had been robbed of; and you, moreover, said, in presence of the culprit, that you were to embark with your regiment for india the next day. that regiment, i have ascertained, did embark, as you said it would." "true; but i had leave of absence, and shall take the overland route. the truth is, that during the walk to the station-house, i had leisure to reflect that if i made a formal charge, it would lead to awkward disclosures. this brooch is an imitation of one presented to me by a valued relative. losses at play--since, for this unfortunate young woman's sake, i _must_ out with it--obliged me to part with the original; and i wore this, in order to conceal the fact from my relative's knowledge." "this will, sir," i replied, "prove, with a little management, quite sufficient for all purposes. you have no objection to accompany me to the superintendent?" "not in the least: only i wish the devil had the brooch as well as the fellow that stole it." about half-past five o'clock on the same evening, the street door was quietly opened by the landlord of the house in which mr. saville lodged, and i walked into the front-room on the first floor, where i found the gentleman i sought languidly reclining on a sofa. he gathered himself smartly up at my appearance, and looked keenly in my face. he did not appear to like what he read there. "i did not expect to see you to-day," he said at last. "no, perhaps not: but i have news for you. mr. bagshawe, the owner of the hundred-and-twenty guinea brooch your deceased uncle gave you, did _not_ sail for india, and--" the wretched cur, before i could conclude, was on his knees begging for mercy with disgusting abjectness. i could have spurned the scoundrel where he crawled. "come, sir!" i cried, "let us have no sniveling or humbug: mercy is not in my power, as you ought to know. strive to deserve it. we want hartley and simpson, and can not find them: you must aid us." "oh, yes; to be sure i will!" eagerly rejoined the rascal. "i will go for them at once," he added, with a kind of hesitating assurance. "nonsense! _send_ for them, you mean. do so, and i will wait their arrival." his note was dispatched by a sure hand; and meanwhile i arranged the details of the expected meeting. i, and a friend, whom i momently expected, would ensconce ourselves behind a large screen in the room, while mr. augustus saville would run playfully over the charming plot with his two friends, so that we might be able to fully appreciate its merits. mr. saville agreed. i rang the bell, an officer appeared, and we took our posts in readiness. we had scarcely done so, when the street-bell rang, and saville announced the arrival of his confederates. there was a twinkle in the fellow's green eyes which i thought i understood. "do not try that on, mr. augustus saville," i quietly remarked; "we are but two here certainly, but there are half-a-dozen in waiting below." no more was said, and in another minute the friends met. it was a boisterously-jolly meeting, as far as shaking hands and mutual felicitations on each other's good looks and health went. saville was, i thought, the most obstreperously gay of all three. "and yet now i look at you, saville, closely," said hartley, "you don't look quite the thing. have you seen a ghost?" "no; but this cursed brooch affair worries me." "nonsense!--humbug!--it's all right; we are all embarked in the same boat. it's a regular three handed game. i prigged it; simmy here whipped it into pretty mary's reticule, which she, i suppose, never looked into till the row came; and _you_ claimed it--a regular merry-go-round, ain't it, eh? ha! ha! ha!--ha!" "quite so, mr. hartley," said i, suddenly facing him, and at the same time stamping on the floor; "as you say, a delightful merry-go-round; and here, you perceive," i added, as the officers entered the room, "are more gentlemen to join in it." i must not stain the paper with the curses, imprecations, blasphemies, which for a brief space resounded through the apartment. the rascals were safely and separately locked up a quarter of an hour afterward; and before a month had passed away, all three were transported. it is scarcely necessary to remark, that they believed the brooch to be genuine, and of great value. mary kingsford did not need to return to her employ. westlake the elder withdrew his veto upon his son's choice, and the wedding was celebrated in the following may with great rejoicing; mary's old playmate officiating as bride-maid, and i as bride's-father. the still young couple have now a rather numerous family, and a home blessed with affection, peace, and competence. it was some time, however, before mary recovered from the shock of her london adventure; and i am pretty sure that the disagreeable reminiscences inseparably connected in her mind with the metropolis will prevent at least _one_ person from being present at the world's great fair.--_chambers's journal._ monthly record of current events. political and general news. united states. reports of the same general tendency, although somewhat vague and contradictory in details, indicate that plans are on foot to organize another expedition for a descent upon cuba. new orleans, savannah, and various places on the coast of florida, would appear to be the centres to which the parties tend. it is supposed that funds to a large amount have been furnished from cuba. the design seems to be to proceed in separate parties to some point beyond the jurisdiction of the united states before effecting any formal organization. the president, under date of april , issued his proclamation, attributing the project mainly to foreigners, "who have dared to make our shores the scenes of guilty and hostile preparations against a friendly power." these expeditions, he says, can only be regarded as adventures for plunder and robbery, undertaken in violation alike of the law of nations and of this country; by the latter of which they are punishable by fine and imprisonment. he warns all citizens of the united states who connect themselves with such expeditions, that they thereby "forfeit all claims to the protection of this government, or any interference on their behalf, no matter to what extremities they may be reduced in consequence of their illegal conduct;" and calls upon every civil and military officer of the government to use his efforts for the arrest of all who thus offend against the laws of their country. in new york, information was given to the united states marshal that a vessel had been chartered by persons concerned in the proposed expedition, and was anchored in the bay, provided with munitions of war, and waiting for the arrival of a large number of men. on searching the harbor, no vessel answering this description was found, but a steamboat lying at a pier on the north river fell under suspicion, and was seized by the united states authorities. this was the cleopatra, a large boat, formerly employed on long island sound, and now in such a decayed condition as to be nearly unfit for service, having been built upward of fourteen years. nothing was found on board to indicate the purpose for which she was destined. the forward hold and boiler room were filled with coal, of which a large quantity also covered the forward deck. she had on board a great number of empty water casks, but no firearms or gunpowder were discovered. she was placed in charge of a guard of marines from the navy yard, and no communication was permitted with persons on shore. the final disposition of the steamer has not yet been determined, but orders have been given by the government to deliver her cargo to any claimant who could show evidence of proprietorship. soon after the seizure of the cleopatra, the collector of this port received notice that a vessel engaged for the transportation of emigrants from south amboy to sandy hook, was lying at her wharf, in the former place, under suspicious circumstances. officers were immediately dispatched to the spot; the vessel was seized and ordered to anchor at perth amboy; and intelligence was obtained which resulted in the arrest of five persons, who were held to bail in the sum of $ each to appear for examination. these were john l. o'sullivan, formerly editor of the _democratic review_, captain lewis, formerly of the steamer creole, pedro sanches, a spanish resident of new york, dr. d.h. burnett, and major louis schlesinger of the hungarian patriots. the offense with which they were charged was the violation of the neutrality act of april , , in preparing the means for a military expedition against cuba. in consequence of various rumors which prevailed in the city of savannah, concerning the invasion of cuba, the united states marshal chartered a steamboat for an exploring trip to the south. he proceeded as far as jacksonville, florida, and returned after a cruise of three or four days. throughout the whole line of his route, he was met with accounts of encampments of armed men, but they proved to be without foundation, and no discoveries, pointing to any overt acts, were made. it was the general belief, among all with whom he conversed, that a movement of importance had been projected against the island of cuba, but that from causes which have not transpired, the organization had been broken up, and the men connected with it had entirely dispersed. between savannah and jacksonville, public opinion was found to be decidedly favorable to the expedition, the great majority of the people sympathizing with the cubans, and ready to aid them in a struggle for independence. the session of the legislature of new york came to a sudden and unexpected close on the th of april, two days after the conclusion of our last monthly record. it being apparent that the bill for the enlargement of the erie canal, which had already passed the house by a large majority, would likewise pass the senate, twelve of the fifteen democratic senators resigned their seats. one other senator announced his intention to resign if the proposed measure were pressed; in which case there would be only nineteen members remaining; the constitution requiring three-fifths of the whole, or twenty senators, to form a quorum. when the bill came up for a third reading, there were votes in its favor, and against it. no quorum being present, the bill was laid upon the table. the senate thereupon voted to adjourn _sine die_; in which resolution the house concurred. on the same day the democratic members of the legislature, comprising fifteen senators and forty representatives, issued an address to the democratic republican electors of the state, in justification of their procedure. they bring severe charges against their opponents of mal-administration of the financial affairs of the state; and denounce the proposed measure as a palpable violation of the express provisions of the constitution, and as an expedient to secure to their opponents the political supremacy in the state. the whig members also issued a long address to the people of the state of new york, in which they denounce the conduct of the resigning senators as a willful violation of the constitution which they had sworn to support and as an outrage upon the fundamental principle of a republican government--the right of the majority to rule. they defend the course of adjournment adopted by the majority, on the ground that two-fifths of the state was unrepresented in the senate; that for various important purposes for which the assent of two-thirds of the members elected is requisite, there was virtually no senate at all; that it was in the power of a single member of that body, by a threat of resignation, to dictate upon any legislative question; and that one member had threatened, unless the order of business fixed by the senate should be laid aside, that he would vacate his seat, and thus render any legislation impossible. they proceed to argue at great length the constitutionality and expediency of the bill. the governor has issued his proclamation, convoking an extra session of the legislature on the th june, and appointing an election to be held on the th of may, to fill the vacancies occasioned by the resignations of the senators. contrary opinions as to the constitutionality of the bill in question have been furnished by the ablest counsel. among others mr. chatfield, the attorney general of the state, pronounces it to be unconstitutional; while mr. webster argues in favor of the opposite opinion. the steamer pacific, which sailed from liverpool april , accomplished the passage to new york in days and hours, being the shortest westerly passage ever made. the greatest distance run in a single day was , the least miles. the shortest westerly passage previously made was by the same vessel, which was days hours. the shortest similar passage by a cunarder was by the asia, days and hours. the number of passengers from foreign countries who arrived at the port of new york within the four months ending may , was above , , being an increase of more than , over the arrivals of last year. during the month of april the arrivals were , , of which , were from ireland, from germany, and from england. the anniversaries of the principal religious and benevolent societies were celebrated as usual in new york in the early part of may. the occasion drew together a large attendance of persons from every section of the country. _the seaman's friend's society_ maintains chaplains in the sandwich islands, south america, california, the west indies, france, and sweden. at the sailor's home in new york, there have been, during the year, sailor boarders. a single bank has upon deposit, bearing interest, more than a million of dollars belonging to seamen. the receipts of the society for the year were $ , ; the expenditures $ , .--_the american and foreign christian union_ has for its object opposition to romanism, by acting upon both catholics and protestants at home and abroad. it has during the past year employed at home, for greater or less portions of time, missionaries, of whom the greater number are foreigners, preaching in seven different languages, and belonging to almost all the branches of the protestant church. it also employs missionaries in foreign countries. the society received during the year $ , , and expended $ , .--_the american tract society_ has issued during the year , volumes, , , publications; of its almanacs have been circulated , copies; of the _american messenger_ , , and of the _german messenger_ , copies are published monthly. it has employed colporteurs, of whom are students in colleges and seminaries. the receipts of the society exceed those of any other kindred institution in the country. for the past year they were $ , , of which $ , were the proceeds of the sales of publications, the remainder being donations. the expenditures were, for publishing, $ , ; for colportage, $ , ; donations to foreign countries, $ , ; miscellaneous expenses, $ , , in all, $ , .--_the american home missionary society_ has had in its service during the year ministers, who have performed an amount of labor equal to years; these have been employed in twenty-six states and territories: in new england, ; in the middle states, ; in the western states and territories, ; in the southern states, . the resources of the society for the year were $ , ; the liabilities, $ , .--_the american and foreign anti-slavery society_ presented at its anniversary no statistics of its operations.--_the american anti-slavery society_ (known as the garrison society), whose meetings last year were violently interrupted, was unable to procure a place of meeting in this city. its anniversary was accordingly held in syracuse.--_the american board of commissioners for foreign missions_ have received for nine months of the current year $ , , being an increase above the receipts of last year, of $ , .--_the_ ("old school") _presbyterian board of missions_ have sent out during the past year laborers. the operations of this board are carried on mainly among the indians and jews of our country, in western africa, northern india, siam, china, and catholic europe. the board has received and expended a trifle more than $ , during the year.--_the american bible society_ has issued during the year , bibles and testaments, making a total, since the formation of the society, of , , copies. in addition to new editions of the english scriptures, they have issued the testament in swedish and english in parallel columns, and have in preparation a similar testament in french and english. they have also prepared a spanish bible, conformed to the hebrew and greek originals. a translation executed by rev. mr. payne, a missionary to western africa, of the books of genesis and acts into the grebo language, has been published at the society's house. the receipts of the society for the year past have been $ , , which is somewhat less than those of the preceding year, when they were swelled by unusually large amounts given by way of legacy.--the anniversaries of those noble charities the _institution for the deaf and dumb_ and the _new york institution for the blind_ were, as usual, of the utmost interest, and attracted large and delighted audiences. in the former of these are pupils, of whom are supported by the state, by their friends or by other states, and are maintained by the institution. the institution for the blind contains pupils, of whom are males and females; there are besides connected with it other blind persons, in various capacities.--the meetings of several of the minor associations presented some interesting features. among these we specify that of the new york colonization society, at which a letter was read from hon. edward everett, describing the great benefits conferred by the colonization of africa, in introducing civilization, and suppressing the slave-trade.--the total receipts of eleven of the principal religious societies of the country for the past year were $ , , , exceeding those of the preceding year by about $ , . the erie railroad is now completed, from the hudson river to dunkirk, miles from new york. a train having on board the directors of the road, went over the whole distance on the th and th of april. at the commencement of the enterprise, the state loaned to the road its bonds to the amount of three millions of dollars. subsequently, an act was passed relieving the company from the lien imposed by these bonds, on condition that a single track was completed, and engines passed over it, from the hudson to lake erie, before the middle of may. on the day, therefore, in which the first train passed over the road, the earnings of the company were three millions of dollars. the formal celebration of the opening of the road took place on the th of may, and was attended by the president of the united states and a portion of the cabinet, as will be seen by a somewhat detailed account in another page of our magazine. in massachusetts, the hon. charles sumner has at length been elected to the united states senate, for the full term of six years. he has taken no prominent part in politics, but is widely known as a scholar and philanthropist.--soon after the decision of an exciting fugitive slave case in boston, a number of citizens who had invited mr. webster to address them on the political condition of the country, petitioned the board of aldermen for the use of faneuil hall on that occasion. a similar petition having been previously denied to the opponents of the fugitive slave law, that of the friends of mr. webster was not granted. the board subsequently reconsidered their action, and passed a vote concurring with the common council in raising a joint committee to invite an address from mr. webster, and tendering the use of the hall for the purpose. the invitation was not accepted.--a violent storm commenced on the th of april, and raged for more than a week along the whole extent of the atlantic coast. during the night of the th, the light-house on minot's ledge, near cohasset, was swept away; two assistant keepers who were in the structure were lost.--the secret-ballot law has passed both branches of the legislature. it provides that the ballots of voters shall be inclosed in envelopes previously to being deposited in the ballot boxes. in connecticut there was no choice by the people of state officers at the late election. hon. thomas h. seymour, the democratic candidate, has been re-elected as governor by the legislature. the democratic candidates for secretary and comptroller, and the whig candidates for lieutenant-governor and treasurer, were elected by the legislature. in his message the governor represents the finances of the state to be in a prosperous condition; recommends the passage of general corporation and banking laws; and of a law limiting the hours of labor, to contain a provision making it a misdemeanor to work children under fourteen years of age more than eight hours a day. he speaks in favor of the compromise measures, which he says must be supported in good faith, or we can not hope to see this form of government continue. "whatever action then," he adds, "the legislature may feel called upon to take, upon any of the questions to which reference has been made, i feel at liberty to indulge the hope that its course will be such as to place the state of connecticut on patriotic and dignified ground in the presence of sister states and the nation, and the world." a convention of the southern rights association assembled at charleston, may . there were between three and four hundred members in attendance. ex-governor j.p. richardson acted as president. in his address upon taking the chair, he said that the question was simply as to the time and manner of resistance. he spoke strongly of the want of affinity between the two sections of the country, and declared that no one should join together those whom god and nature have put asunder. a letter from hon. langdon cheves was read, deprecating separate action on the part of south carolina, which ought to wait awhile longer for the action of other states. an address and resolutions advocating the right and expediency of secession, were adopted. mr. rhett, one of the united states senators from this state, has developed what he supposes to be the results of the policy of secession. free trade would be proclaimed with all states south and west of the potomac, and a duty of ten per cent. levied upon goods from the other states and from foreign countries. the result would be that goods would be twenty per cent. cheaper in charleston than in new york. the trade of georgia and north carolina would be carried on with south carolina; and it would not be in the power of the general government to prevent it, by a line of custom-houses along the frontier. he declared the idea of a blockade of the ports of south carolina to be ridiculous. blockade was war, and congress alone could declare war; and congress must either let them go peaceably out of the union or fight; and fight they would in defense of their rights, liberties, and institutions; and even if south carolina should be subdued, the union was not preserved; other southern states would join in the contest. should that state secede and remain for five years an independent state, a southern confederacy must be the result, or the south would have enforced the guarantees to which she is entitled. "i have been battling," he says, "in this cause for twenty-five years, and have now but a few more years to give to your service. as a citizen of south carolina, i demand that she make me free. my counsel is, secede from the union of these united states. at every hazard, and to the last extremity secede. if i was about to draw my last breath, with that breath i would exhort you to secede." in the virginia constitutional convention some votes have been taken, which afford indications that the mixed basis proposition in a somewhat modified form, will prevail. the motion to strike out the proposition apportioning representation on the basis of the white population was carried by a vote of to . four eastern men, among whom was hon. henry a. wise, voted with the west. one of the mixed basis propositions failed by a single vote. from the mining region of lake superior, the latest intelligence is highly favorable; large quantities of copper are preparing for market.--the president has directed that the lands occupied by the hungarian exiles in iowa shall not be offered for sale previous to the meeting of congress, when a petition will be presented for the grant of them to the exiles.--a riot occurred lately at milwaukie upon occasion of a lecture upon catholicism by mr. leahy, who claims to have once been a trappist monk. more than a score of persons were seriously injured, and considerable damage was done to the methodist church in which the lecture was given. the principal catholic laity and the clergy published a card in which they express their unqualified condemnation of the conduct of the rioters, and engage to make good the pecuniary injury inflicted.--the central railroad of michigan has for some time been annoyed by a gang, which has at length been brought to light. their detection was effected by an agent of the railroad, who in order to secure their confidence undertook to set fire to the dépôt; after, however, taking precautions to prevent any serious injury. nearly fifty persons have been arrested and indicted; among whom are a judge, justices of the peace, constables, and professional men. the trial will come on in june.--the legislature of wisconsin have passed a bill for the protection of seventh day baptists. it provides that any civil process issued against a person who habitually observes the seventh day as a day of rest, which is made returnable on that day, may be laid over until the monday following, as though that were the return-day of the writ.--the small pox is raging with fearful violence among the sioux indians upon the upper missouri. it is also extending down the river, among the sacs and foxes. several hundred are reported to have already died. the governor of texas has issued an order for the arrest of the members of the boundary commission who took part in the recent summary executions of the desperadoes at socorro. they are probably beyond the jurisdiction of texas. severe charges are in circulation against the officers at the head of the commission; public opinion will, however, remain undecided until both sides are heard.--the population of new mexico, according to the recent census, is , , of whom are americans. of the mexican population above the age of twenty, only one in is able to read.--a treaty has been concluded with the apache chief chacon, who binds himself to keep the peace, under penalty of forfeiting his life.--an attempt is to be made to diminish the enormous expense of the military occupation of new mexico. colonel sumner, the new commander, will take out with him seed, grains, stock, and farming utensils, and every effort will be made to develop the agricultural resources of the territory. the head-quarters of the army will probably be removed from santa fé to los vegos. from california the most striking feature of intelligence is the unexampled frequency of extra-judicial punishment for crime. the newspapers are filled with accounts of summary executions, not only for murder but for robbery and theft. under the peculiar state of things occasioned by the great temptations to crime, and the utter want of all the ordinary apparatus of justice, during the earlier periods of the settlement of california, this was unavoidable. but instances of this sort, instead of becoming more unfrequent, seem to be rapidly increasing. a bill has passed the legislature, and become a law, inflicting the punishment of death, at the discretion of the jury, upon the crime of grand larceny. this measure was insisted upon by the mining counties on the ground that, owing to the unexampled influx of desperadoes and criminals from all parts of the world, thefts and robberies had become so frequent, while prisons and places of detention were so few, that the only possible punishment was death; and the people had become so exasperated that the punishment would and must be inflicted, either by or against the law. the law imposing a tax upon foreign miners has been repealed, having been found to work most disastrously. it drove out of the country many thousands of the most industrious miners, especially mexicans and chilians, whose labors the state could ill spare. indian hostilities have nearly ceased. a number of the tribes have signified a willingness to accept of fixed localities, and to enter into a treaty. the legislature having granted to the governor authority to call out men to repress indian hostilities in the mariposa region, he made a tour of inspection, and came to the conclusion that the force was unnecessary. the population of the state is estimated at , , of whom about , are supposed to be engaged in mining; and the whole amount of gold produced in the course of last year is estimated at about one hundred millions of dollars, giving about three and one-third dollars a day to each individual. it is anticipated that the amount produced the ensuing year will not fall short of one hundred and fifty millions. the recent accounts of the lately discovered gold bluffs are encouraging, and promise a large amount of gold from that source. a mine of quicksilver, stated to be the richest in the world, has been discovered about twelve miles from san josé. in the case of a slave brought into the state by his master, it has been decided that he can not be removed against his will. a vessel has arrived at san francisco having on board seventeen japanese, who were picked up at sea from a wreck. it is supposed that they will be conveyed to their native country in a government vessel. they are thought to be the first japanese who have ever set foot upon the american continent. a rich coal mine is stated to have been discovered about eight miles from benicia. the quantity of land under cultivation has greatly increased. professor forrest shepard, of new haven, has made some remarkable discoveries of thermal action. in one place, where there was nothing on the surface to excite attention, on digging down the heat increased so rapidly that at the depth of two feet he could not bear his hand in the earth, and the thermometer indicated a temperature of degrees. at another place, after wandering for four days through dense thickets, he came upon a chasm a thousand feet deep, through which followed a stream, the banks of which, on the th of february, were covered with vegetation. following up the stream, the earth grew so hot as to burn the feet through the boots. there was no appearance of lava, and the rocks were being dissolved by a powerful _catalytic_ action. from innumerable orifices steam was forced to the height of two hundred feet. the number of spouting geysers and boiling springs, on a half mile square, exceeded two hundred. the professor, in the course of a lecture on the mineral resources of california, delivered in the senate chamber at san josé, said that he did not doubt that silver, lead, and iron abounded in california. southern america. in mexico the finances are in a most deplorable condition. the revenue had fallen to about eight and a half millions of dollars, while the expenses exceed twelve millions. the indemnity paid by our government can afford only temporary relief in the face of so alarming a deficiency. the minister of finance has resigned his post, and has prepared a memoir on the condition of the department. the government has made a formal complaint against that of the united states for failure in carrying out the provisions of the treaty in relation to the suppression of indian depredations on the frontier; and assigns this failure as a ground for refusing to ratify the tehuantepec treaty. the commissioners of public works have been directed to ascertain the names, employment, and places of nativity of foreigners residing in the city. several projects for a change of government are entertained. one party are desirous of returning to the dominion of spain; another is in favor of annexation to the united states; the return of santa anna is desired by another. the northern states are still harassed by indian depredations. the hostilities in yucatan are supposed to be nearly at an end. the municipality of the capital have petitioned for the suppression of bull-fights throughout the state. hostilities are brooding between brazil and the argentine republic; but it is hoped that war may be averted. the dissentions in the latter state are favorable to the recognition of the claims of brazil. government is endeavoring to suppress the slave-trade, and its efforts meet with some success. in peru the eligibility of echenique for the presidency is disputed, on the ground that he is not a native of that republic. an especial congress has been summoned to decide the question, but so violent is party spirit between his partisans and those of vivanco, that apprehensions of a civil war are entertained. cuba is in a state of intense excitement in regard to the anticipated invasion. the flower of the spanish army, to the number, as it is said, of , men, are concentrated on the island, which is encircled by the entire disposable naval forces of spain. the steamer georgia, on her late trip, had the misfortune to run aground at the mouth of the mississippi, by which she suffered a considerable detention. it was reported and believed at havana that she was lying off for the purpose of taking on board the marauding expedition. on the day of her arrival, a man was executed for having endeavored to procure pilots for lopez. he had been previously subjected to torture, in order to extort a confession. this is the first public execution that has taken place for political offenses. from hayti we have the particulars of a conspiracy against the emperor soulouque, in which a number of officers of the government were implicated. many arrests and some executions have taken place in consequence. the attempt of the american commissioner and the french and english consuls to settle the controversy between the haytians and dominicans, is supposed to have been unsuccessful. the government has declined to pay the claims of certain american merchants to which our government has repeatedly called its attention. great britain. the event of the month has been the opening of the great exhibition. as if to concentrate attention upon it, all other affairs of interest have been withdrawn from the stage. no little surprise and indignation were aroused by the announcement made on the th of april, that the queen would open the exhibition in person, but that the holders of tickets and exhibitors would be excluded from the ceremony. those who had purchased tickets for the express purpose of being present at the opening, were naturally indignant at losing the most interesting part of the show. the press was unanimous in condemnation of the contemplated exclusion. it was denounced as an unworthy insinuation that the person of the queen would not be secure in public; and as giving countenance to certain absurd rumors of a projected insurrection. the opposition was so general that the offensive announcement was withdrawn, and a new programme substituted, in accordance with which holders of season tickets were allowed to be present. the rush for these was so great, that the commissioners immediately raised the price another guinea. the queen proved a greater attraction than jenny lind had ever been. we can only glance at the opening ceremonies. early in the morning the exhibitors took their places at their stands; and the spectators came trooping in. at half-past eleven the commissioners, foreign and domestic, stationed themselves in front of a platform of state, under the arch of the transept. upon the platform were the archbishop of canterbury, the ministers and great officers of state, the embassadors and ministers from foreign powers, in full dress. at high noon, the royal cortège entered the crystal palace, the choir upraising the national anthem of "god save the queen." then came addresses to the queen from the commissioners and the foreign embassadors, to which the queen read answers handed to her by the secretary of state; then followed a prayer pronounced by the archbishop of canterbury, and an anthem; a marching in procession along the nave; a return to the platform, and the announcement by the queen that the exhibition was opened, proclaimed to the thousands without by a flourish of trumpets and a royal salute from the park. among the visitors to the crystal palace during the preparations, was the duke of wellington. once as he entered the french department, the workmen uncovered two small silver statuettes of the duke himself and his great rival napoleon. the bearded foreigners raised their hats to the conqueror of waterloo, who, returning a military salute, passed on. the proceedings of parliament are not wholly destitute of interest. a motion was offered by mr. disraeli to the effect, that in the re-adjustment of taxation, due regard should be had to the distressed condition of the agricultural classes. this was looked upon as a covert attack upon the principle of free-trade and upon the ministers. the ministers had a majority of only in a house of .--the income-tax has been renewed for the third time, by a vote of to .--mr. locke king's bill for extending the franchise, upon the first reading of which, in february, the ministers suffered the defeat which led to their resignation, came up for a second reading, april . it was lost by an overwhelming majority-- to .--lord john russell introduced a motion that the house should resolve itself into a committee to consider the mode of administering the oath of abjuration to persons professing the jewish religion. it was a simple question whether religious belief should disqualify men for the exercise of civil rights and political power. the proposed alteration consists merely in omitting from the oath, when tendered to jews, the words, "on the true faith of a christian." the motion was vehemently opposed by one or two ultra members. sir robert inglis took occasion to remind the house that "the jews regarded him whom we regarded as our redeemer, as a crucified impostor." mr. newdegate thought that the pope might well think it safe to adopt the course he had recently pursued, when he saw the british government and one branch of the legislature ready to put an end to the last remnant which distinguished it as a christian assembly. the motion prevailed by a vote of to . it will pass the commons, but be lost in the house of peers; and baron rothschild be as far as ever from his seat in parliament.--lord ashley proposed a bill to encourage the establishment of lodging-houses for the laboring classes. it empowers the authorities of cities and towns to erect buildings for this purpose and to levy a small tax to defray the cost. when the sum expended shall have been met by the proceeds of the rents, the surplus rental, after defraying expenses and the cost of repairs, is to be applied in aid of the poor rates of the place. startling statistics are presented, setting forth the condition of the laboring classes in this respect, and the consequent disease and immorality.--the subject of the management of the colonies excites no small interest. a most elaborate speech has been made on this subject in the house of commons by sir william molesworth. he proposes that all the colonies, with the exception of those which possess a peculiar value as military stations, such as gibraltar and st. helena, and the penal colonies, should be made to pay the expense of their own government and protection; and that ample powers of self-government should be given them. the speech, which discussed all the details of the subject, was listened to with great attention. lord john russell, in reply, contended that difference in race would of itself prevent the colonies from profiting by free constitutions; and if the national troops were withdrawn, the colonies would fall into hands hostile to the mother country. lord torrington, whose course as governor of ceylon, had been brought into question in the commons, defended himself in the house of peers in a labored speech. his conduct in declaring and enforcing rigid martial law, during a native insurrection, was defended by earl grey, who referred to the duke of wellington as having been obliged, under similar circumstances, to adopt measures of great severity. the "iron duke" sharply protested against being brought into comparison, and denied that he had ever been placed in similar circumstances; as he had never been suspected of acting as lord torrington was charged with having done. to govern by martial law was to do so by the sole authority of the military commander; but in such circumstances he had always acted on the principle, that the government should be conducted in accordance with the laws of the country itself. the election of member from aylesbury, to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of the late lord nugent, the biographer of hampden, has been declared void, on account of bribery by mr. calvert, the successful candidate. a new election was ordered. a dinner has been given to lord stanley by a large number of members of parliament, in the course of which he made a speech which derives some importance from the great probability that he will in a few months be placed at the head of the government. the gist of the speech was the assertion of the principle of "moderate duties on foreign imports, at once to afford a certain check to the unlimited importation of foreign articles, and at the same time to obtain from foreigners, in imitation of all other nations, a contribution toward the revenue of the state, and enable us to take off other taxes." this points to a renewal of the corn-laws. he also criticised the conduct of government in relation to the "papal aggression," ridiculing the bill proposed as a "little microscopic measure." there is rather more trouble than usual in the established church. more secessions to rome are announced, some of them being men of rank. one clergyman falls into an unseemly dispute at the font with the nurse and parents of an infant brought for baptism, as to whether the child's cap shall be removed. neither will yield, and the ceremony is left unfinished. another is suspended for addressing cardinal wiseman as "your eminence." another will not read the burial service over the corpse of a dissenter. the vigilant bishop of exeter in a pastoral letter charges the archbishop of york with a multiplicity of heretical statements; and summons the clergy of his diocese to express or refuse their concurrence with him in a declaration of adherence to the article of the creed respecting baptism, which, he says, was virtually denied in the decision of the gorham case, and more than hints at secession from the established church. the archbishops and twenty two of the bishops have issued a letter to their clergy, exhorting them to peace and unity on the subject of ritual observances, deprecating all innovations, and recommending them in case of doubt to have resort to the decision of their bishop. the general opinion is that the kaffir war will be protracted and costly. the savages have committed the most frightful ravages in the colony. the governor has issued a second proclamation, demanding a levy _en masse_. he declares that unless the well-affected and able-bodied men between the ages of and , turn out as before called upon, the rebellion can not be checked, and if allowed to extend itself, will be the means of occasioning the most serious evils. whenever an action can be brought about the kaffirs are invariably worsted; but these actions are so little decisive, that the policy pursued by the united states in the case of the seminoles in florida, of ravaging their country, and destroying the crops, seems likely to be adopted. the colonists are debating the question whether they must defray the expenses of the war; they deny that they are liable, as they had no voice in the policy which occasioned the outbreak. the chartists have issued a new manifesto setting forth their doctrines and principles. they affirm that the soil is the inalienable inheritance of all mankind, and the monopoly of it repugnant to the laws of god and nature, and its nationalization the true source of national prosperity. they propose a scheme by which the state shall gradually assume possession of the soil, for the purpose of locating upon it the surplus population. of taxation and the national debt they say: "taxation on industry represses the production of wealth; on luxuries, encourages government in fostering excess; on necessary commodities, acts injuriously on the people's health and comfort. all taxes, therefore, ought to be levied on land and accumulated property." "the national debt having been incurred by a class government, for class purposes, can not be considered as legally contracted by the people. it is, moreover, absurd that future generations should be mortgaged to eternity for the follies or misfortunes of their ancestors, and the debt be thus repaid several times over. the national debt, therefore, ought to be liquidated by the money now annually paid as interest, applied as repayment of the capital, until such payment is completed." the papers are filled with notices of the great increase of emigration, especially to america. the emigrants are uniformly of a better class than those who have hitherto decided to leave their country. from ireland especially, emigration is almost an epidemic, in the case of those who have any thing to lose. a singular instance of legal nicety occurred in a recent trial of a man charged with threatening to burn the house and ricks of a neighbor. he wrote, "perhaps you may have read of samson and the philistines. if no foxes are to be bought there may be something instead." in defence it was urged that in the passage from the book of judges referred to, it is said that samson "burnt up the shocks and also the standing corn;" but no allusion was made to houses or stacks. the prisoner could only have intended to do what samson did. now it was no offense under the statute to set fire to standing corn; and so an acquittal was demanded. the judge decided that the plea was valid, and directed the jury to bring in a verdict of acquittal. they being less perspicacious than the judge, hesitated for a while, but finally complied. france. affairs continue to present a critical aspect. it is difficult to see how bonaparte can be removed from the presidency; and still more difficult to see how he can be continued. the constitution forbids his re-election until after an interval of four years from the expiration of his term. a revisal of the constitution can be legally effected only by a constituant assembly called by three-fourths of the present legislative assembly; and a bill summoning a constituant assembly can only pass after three readings, with three months intervening between the readings; and then does not go into effect until two months after the last reading. eleven months is therefore the shortest period in which the alteration can be effected, supposing not a day were lost in deliberation. in eleven months the election must take place. meanwhile a new ministry has been formed to take the place of the avowedly provisional one which has carried on the government for some months. it is composed as follows: foreign affairs, m. baroche; justice, m. rouher; finances, m. fould; interior, m. léon faucher; commerce and agriculture, m. buffet; marine, m. chasseloup-laubat; public instruction, m. de crousseillies; war, general randon; public works, m. magne. the last two were members of the transition ministry just displaced. mm. baroche, rouher, fould, and buffet, belonged to the ministry which was broken up by the assembly during the changarnier difficulties. m. léon faucher was minister of the interior for a short time, in , but resigned in consequence of a vote of censure from the assembly. the other two are new men. what measures this ministry proposes nobody is able to say. m. léon faucher, who has the reputation of firmness and ability and who seems to be the master spirit of the ministry, presented the official programme to the assembly. it only stated that the new cabinet would defend order, would endeavor to unite the fractions of the majority, and hoped to be able to calm the public mind, restore confidence, and promote commerce and manufactures. m. de saint beauve, proposed a vote of want of confidence in the ministry, which was lost by to , showing a ministerial majority of . a reconciliation between the president and general changarnier is thought to be probable. leading political men are endeavoring to secure the control of a newspaper to advocate their views. m. guizot assumes the direction of the _assemblée nationale_, in which he advocates the cause of bourbon and orleans; the fusion of whose interests is by no means abandoned. lamartine has added to his multifarious avocations the editorship in chief of _la pays_, in which he urges a strict adherence to the constitution. cavaignac has attached himself to _la siècle_, to uphold republicanism. the _constitutionnel_, the acknowledged organ of the bonapartists, suggests that lists should be opened in the several departments for consulting the wishes of the citizens as to an immediate revision of the constitution; each citizen to attach to his signature a simple _yes_ or _no_; and the lists to be verified by the municipal authorities. the five departments of which lyons is the centre, are the most unquiet of any in the country. the malcontents are organized into secret societies, and take occasion of the funerals of any of their confederates to parade in great numbers. on some occasions from , to , have been present. the military commandant has forbidden the assemblage of more than persons at any funeral. this has called forth a general expression of indignation from the republican press. the students of the university of paris have made some demonstrations of sympathy in favor of m. michelet. one of their meetings was dispersed by the police, and a number of the students were arrested and thrown into prison. the printer and publisher of the report of a banquet of the french refugees in london have been sentenced to a fine of francs each, and imprisonment for three and six months. the editor of the _courrier de la somme_ has been tried for publishing an article, expressing a wish that france, by a signal act of her sovereign will, "should efface from her brow the lowest stigma, the name of republic;" and predicting that the time would come when the inhabitants would offer up thanks to god upon the grave of the republic. he was acquitted.--a society has been formed in paris, under the patronage of the archbishop, for the purpose of supplying the poor with bread below the cost price.--a public dinner has been given by the polish refugees to dembinski and chryzanowski, who have recently arrived, the former from turkey, the latter from italy. toasts were drank to the sclavic fraternity and to the memory of bem. warm gratitude was expressed to the sultan abdul medjid, to whose firmness it was owing that dembinski was not then immured in a dungeon.--at the celebration of holy week various sacred relics were exposed to view in the cathedral of nôtre dame; among them, if tradition is to be believed, are several fragments of the true cross, portions of the crown of thorns, and portions of the nails used at the crucifixion.--an engagement took place on the th of april at oued-sahel, in algeria, between the french troops and a body of natives; a number of the latter were killed, and the remainder put to flight. the victors set fire to and destroyed the village of selloum. the french had eleven men killed, and thirty-seven wounded.--the marquis of londonderry, who once made a similar attempt in favor of louis napoleon when a prisoner at ham, has addressed a letter to the president to induce him to use his influence for the liberation of abd-el-kader, or at least to grant him a personal audience. the ex-prisoner of ham replies that the captivity of the arab chief weighs upon his heart, and that he is studying the means to effect his liberation. he would be most happy to see the emir, but could only do so to announce good news; and can not therefore accede to the request for an interview until that period arrives. germany. it seems to be settled, if we may speak with confidence of any thing in the present state of german politics, that the old frankfort diet is to be resuscitated. all that has been attempted during the last three years, is to be set aside. the frankfort parliaments, erfurt congresses, and dresden conferences have shown that people and princes are alike incapable of accomplishing anything; and so they fall back upon the system formed five-and-thirty years ago by the holy alliance. prussia, who not six months ago brought half a million soldiers into the field rather than concede to the recognition of the diet, is now the first to demand its restoration. austria, who was in arms to enforce the decrees of the diet, at first coyly hesitated; but by the latest intelligence, does not seem inclined to oppose it. it still remains doubtful whether she will persist in the claim for the incorporation of her sclavic and italian possessions into the german confederation, in spite of the remonstrances of england and france, who maintain that as the german confederation was established, and its limits defined by the powers of europe, for the express purpose of settling the balance of power, the extending of the limits of the confederation is properly a european question. austria, that seemed two years ago on the point of dissolution, has gained new vigor, and presents a front apparently stronger than ever. the democratic journals of europe, however, maintain that all the appearance of prosperity is unreal; that discontent is growing deeper and deeper throughout her vast and heterogeneous population; that her immense armies are maintained at a cost far beyond the means of the empire to defray; and that national and individual bankruptcy is impending over her. the minor german states have no choice but to follow the lead of the two great powers, and from them we have accounts of petty quarrels between princes and people, but they are hardly worth the trouble of chronicling. the german refugees, in imitation of mazzini and the italians, have issued notes by way of raising a loan; the name of kinkel heads the committee. southern europe. in portugal an insurrection has broken out, the result of which is still undecided. the marquis of saldanha took up arms for the overthrow of the ministry of the count of thomar. his attempt met at first with so little success, that the marquis was on the point of abandoning it, and taking refuge in england. subsequently, however, the garrison of oporto declared in his favor, and he was recalled. the inhabitants of oporto likewise declared for the insurgents. from spain we hear of ministerial crises and changes, dissolution of cortes, and political movements of various kinds, all growing out of the impossibility of making the revenues of the kingdom meet the expenditures. a royal decree has been issued appointing commissioners to examine and report on the railroads of france, germany, belgium, and england, with a view to the introduction of similar works in the peninsula. in italy the states of the church have been relieved from one great annoyance by the death of _il passatore_, the leader of a band half brigands half revolutionists, who was surprised and shot by the soldiery. the list of prohibited books has received a few recent additions, among which are d'harmonville's dictionary of dates, whately's logic, and seymour's pilgrimage to rome. on the th of march, the young emperor of austria reached venice, on a tour through his dominions, when he immediately gave orders, at the instance of radetsky, it is said, for the restoration of the freedom of the port of that city. the d of march, the anniversary of the battle of novara, so fatal to the dreams of italian unity, has been solemnized in various parts of italy under the very eyes of the austrians, by chanting the _de profundis_ and other funeral ceremonies. some students have suffered punishment for taking part in the solemnities. the east. in turkey a series of insurrectionary movements has taken place in the wild districts along the russian and austrian frontiers. the latest intelligence indicates the subjection of the insurgents. austria is suspected of complicity in the outbreak, which has no tendency to render the porte more contented with the task of acting as jailer to the remainder of the hungarian exiles. austria and russia seem determined to push their imperial justice to the utmost, and insist that the refugees shall be detained two years longer; within which time it is supposed that death must intervene, to spare any further discussion. the sultan is inclined to refuse their demand, and throw himself upon the protection of france and england. severe shocks of an earthquake occurred in various parts of the empire, from february , to march . at macri, in anatolia, the upper part of the castle was thrown down, overwhelming the offices of the austrian lloyd steam navigation company. the fortifications and houses likewise suffered great damage. fissures were opened in the streets from which poured forth bituminous gases; springs were stopped up, and new ones opened. a number of towns are mentioned as having been destroyed. livessy, containing some houses, was utterly overthrown, not a dwelling being left standing, and of the inhabitants were buried under the ruins. from egypt we learn that a railroad across the isthmus of suez is to be commenced forthwith, apparently to be constructed mainly by english capital and engineers. a revolt had broken out in the district of senaar. troops were to be dispatched from cairo to the scene of insurrection; but the efforts of the pacha were seriously shackled by the exhausted condition of the country, and the apprehended difficulties with the porte. in india, the frontiers of the company's possessions are infested with the incursions of the hill robbers, who commit their depredations almost within gun-shot of the british camps. it is difficult to devise effectual means of dealing with these plunderers. regular military operations are altogether useless, for the robbers will not risk a contest, except in rare cases. it has been proposed to make the head man of each village responsible for all outrages committed within its limits. a number of railroads are in course of construction in different parts of the country. a plot has been frustrated in nepaul for the destruction of jung bahadoor, the nepaulese embassador, who excited so much attention in england a few months ago; he acted with most un-asiatic decision and promptitude in the suppression of the conspiracy. the embassador has refused admittance into nepaul of a scientific expedition, having discovered that the entrance of english travelers and explorers is often followed in india by the appearance of troops. disturbances have recommenced in china. the insurgents were assembled at late dates at a distance of about sixty miles from canton, with the avowed object of overthrowing the present dynasty. the _friend of china_ says, "his imperial majesty's continued possession of the throne, is quite a matter of uncertainty." literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. the president of the united states accompanied by secretaries webster, and graham, attorney-general crittenden, and postmaster-general hall, are at the time when we are obliged to close our record for the month, upon a tour to the north. the main reason of this journey is to take part in the ceremonies which celebrated the successful completion of the new york and erie railroad--the second of those great links which bind the interior with the seaboard, the great lakes and the west with the atlantic and the east. they left washington on the morning of may ; the affairs of government being temporarily committed to the charge of the secretaries of the interior, of the treasury, and of war. at various places on the route they were welcomed with appropriate ceremonies, and reached philadelphia in the afternoon of the same day. here mr. fillmore briefly addressed the crowd from the piazza of his hotel; and mr. webster, yielding to repeated calls, made a speech in which he spoke of the influences that surrounded him in the state where the declaration of independence was pronounced, and the constitution framed. the union which was then formed, he said, would last until it had spread from the pole to the equator; and notwithstanding the dangers through which it had passed, it was now safe. on the morning of the th, the president and cabinet set out for new york. at amboy, they were received by the president and directors of the erie railroad company, in whose name charles m. leupp, esq., delivered an appropriate address welcoming the chief magistrate of the nation, to an examination of the great work which would so largely develop the resources of the country, and continue to bind still more closely distant portions of the union. mr. fillmore, in reply, spoke of the work on the completion of which he hoped soon to congratulate his native state, as one of the most important enterprises in the world. passing up the magnificent harbor, the president and suite were received at castle garden as the guests of the city, by the authorities of new york; the mayor in his address alluding to the fact that this was the first moment that the president had trod the soil of his native state as the chief magistrate of the nation. from castle garden a procession was formed, passing up broadway and down the bowery to the city hall, amid the warmest demonstrations of welcome. the nature of the occasion deprived the celebration of all partisan character; the general committees of the two great political parties occupied prominent parts of the procession. at one time there were not less than a hundred thousand spectators between the battery and the park. on the th, in company with invited guests, among whom were senator fish, ex-governor marcy, and a large number of the members of the legislature, the president and suite left the city by a special train. all along the route, the utmost enthusiasm was displayed. at elmira, where the train arrived at p.m., the night was spent; and the following day they proceeded to dunkirk, the terminus of the road, where extraordinary preparations had been made to celebrate the event which must result in building a large and flourishing town upon that spot. at the annual meeting of the _st. george's society_, the british embassador, mr. bulwer was the principal speaker. in the course of one of his speeches he alluded to a forgery published in the _american celt_, a paper published at boston, purporting to be a copy of an intercepted dispatch from him to his government. he used certain expressions which a portion of the residents of this city, of celtic origin, construed into an insult to themselves and their race; whereupon they held a public meeting, and prepared a request to be transmitted to the president, asking him to procure the recall of the offending minister. wm. l. mackenzie, who took a very prominent part in the canadian rebellion of , and subsequently resided for some years as an exile in this city, has been elected a member of the canadian parliament, beating the candidate supported by government. the american association for the advancement of science held during the past month a very interesting meeting at cincinnati. among the papers read was one upon the "azoic system of lake superior," by messrs. foster and whitney, united states geologists. this system derives its name from the entire absence in its structure of organic remains, and comprises the most ancient of the strata constituting the crust of the globe. professor agassiz characterized these investigations as conclusive evidence that we had reached the commencement of animal life, and had a starting-point from which to proceed. the only event of higher interest would be the discovery of the skeleton of the first man. col. whittlesey presented two skulls found in a bed of marl in ohio. they are characterized by great deficiency in the development of the intellectual organs. the age of the skulls is calculated, from indications surrounding them, at two thousand years; thus establishing the fact of the peopling of america at a period much earlier than that usually assigned. professor pierce read a paper on "the constitution of saturn's rings," in which he argued that these were not solid but liquid; and that no irregularities, or combination of irregularities, consistent with an actual ring, would permit a solid ring to be permanently maintained by the primary planet; and that a fluid ring could not be retained by the direct action of its primary. saturn's rings are maintained by the constant disturbing force of its satellites; and no planet can have a ring unless, like saturn, it have a sufficient number of properly arranged satellites. one of the most interesting papers read was the report of the committee upon professor mitchel's system of observing declinations and right ascensions. the statements of the distinguished western astronomer, made last year at new haven, were received with considerable doubt by the members of the association. among the foremost of the doubters was professor pierce, who, at the solicitation of mr. mitchel, was appointed chairman of the investigating committee. this committee, composed of the leading names in astronomical science, after examining his methods and apparatus, made a partial report, in which the highest and most unqualified approbation is bestowed upon the entire system adopted by professor mitchel. this triumph was honorable alike to the professor and his late opponents; and the victor bore his honors with the modesty appropriate to a lover of science for its own sake. professor agassiz read a paper upon the coral reefs of florida, embodying the results of recent investigations made by him, under the auspices of the united states coast survey. professor morse has received from the prussian government the "prussian gold medal of scientific merit," as a testimonial for his improvements in the magnetic telegraph. according to the report of the prussian commissioner charged with the construction of telegraphic lines, morse's telegraph has been found most efficient for great distances. jenny lind has returned to new york after a southern and western tour of unexampled success. so meekly has she borne her honors, that even envy would not wish them less. castle garden, the scene of her earliest transatlantic triumphs, is thronged at each successive concert by appreciative audiences. the gallery of the art-union is now open. subscribers for the ensuing year will receive a large engraving from woodville's picture of _mexican news_, and the second part of the _gallery of american art_, comprising engravings after cropsey's _harvesting_, kensett's _mount washington_, woodville's _old seventy-six and young forty-eight_, ranney's _marion crossing the pedee_, and mount's _bargaining for a horse_. the _bulletin_ of the union, to which members are also entitled, in addition to much valuable information on matters relating to art, will contain original etchings and wood-cuts. the number for april is embellished with a cut from cropsey's _temple of the sibyl_, drawn on wood by c.e. dÖpler, to whom we are indebted for the drawings illustrative of the novelty works in our last number. it also contains one of darley's spirited outlines, illustrative of a scene from cooper's prairie. leutze has nearly completed his second picture of _washington crossing the delaware_, the original of which was destroyed by fire last january. it has been purchased by goupil and vibert, of paris, for about $ . it will be exhibited in europe and the united states, and will also be engraved by françois, who has so admirably rendered some of the works of delaroche. the picture in its unfinished state has been warmly praised by german critics. we transfer from the art-union _bulletin_ a notice of the _game of chess_, a picture of great merit, recently painted by woodville in paris. it has been purchased by the union, and is now in its gallery. "this is an exquisitely finished cabinet-piece, which in technical qualities is probably superior to any thing he has done excepting the _old captain_. it represents the interior of the sitting-room of a noble mansion in the days of the tudors. on the right rises the immense fire-place, with its frontispiece of variegated marbles, supported by statues and richly carved in the style of the rennaissance. on the right of this, in the immediate fore-ground, is a lecturn, upon which rests a book and a lady's 'kerchief. standing with his back to the fire, before the chimney, is a portly gentleman--probably the father of the family about going forth for a ride, as he has his cap on his head, wears high boots of buff leather, with spurs, and an outer-coat of velvet trimmed with fur. he stands with his hands behind him in an easy attitude, overlooking a game of chess which a visitor is playing with the daughter of the house. the visitor is on the left of the picture, and sits with his back to the spectator; and in front is a table which supports the chess-board. on the other side is the young lady, whose eyes are fixed upon the game, while the cavalier is lifting a piece with his hand and looking toward the father as if for approbation of his move. the mother, and a page, complete the group. this is a tranquil, pleasant picture, in which the characters of the personages are very nicely indicated. it places the spectator in the very midst of the domestic life of the times it portrays. it is, however, in the distribution of light and shadow, and the wonderful fidelity of its imitations, that the work is most remarkable. the effect of the light upon the carved marble is done with wonderful skill, and the representation of violet, fur, satin, and metals, worthy of a micris or a metzu." powers, writing from florence, thus describes the statue of california, upon which he is engaged: "i am now making a statue of 'la dorado,' or california, an indian figure surrounded with pearls and precious stones. a kirtle surrounds her waist, and falls with a feather fringe down to just above the knees. the kirtle is ornamented with indian embroidery, with tracings of gold, and her sandals are tied with golden strings. at her side stands an inverted cornucopia, from which is issuing at her feet lumps and grains of native gold, to which she points with her left hand, which holds the divining rod. with her right hand she conceals behind her a cluster of thorns. she stands in an undecided posture--making it doubtful whether she intends to advance or retire--while her expression is mystical. the gold about her figure must be represented, of course, by the color as well as the form. she is to be the genius of california." mr. whitney, the projector of the railroad to the pacific is now in london to urge upon government to undertake the construction of the road through the british possessions. mr. gilbert, member of congress from california, himself a printer, has presented to the typographical society of new york a double number of the _alta california_ newspaper, printed upon white satin in letters of gold. the _philadelphia art union_ has contracted for an original painting by rothermel, which is to be engraved for distribution to its subscribers the present year. it has likewise provided a portfolio of sketches from which subjects for commissions may be selected. the plan of this association differs from that of the art union of this city, in that it distributes prizes, not pictures, allowing those who draw the prizes to select their own subjects. chilly mcintosh, head war-chief of the choctaw nation, has been ordained as a clergyman, and is now preaching in connection with the baptist board. sir charles lyell has delivered a lecture before the royal institution on impressions of rain drops in ancient and modern strata. these impressions were first observed in , by dr. buckland. a close analogy was discovered between the impressions on the rocks, and those made by showers of rain upon soft mud. in conclusion, the lecturer remarked on the important inferences deducible from the discovery of rain-prints in rocks of remote antiquity. they confirm the ideas entertained of the humid climate of the carboniferous period, the forests of which we know were continuous over areas several miles in diameter. the average dimensions of the drops indicate showers of ordinary force, and show that the atmosphere corresponded in density, as well as in the varying temperature of its different currents, with that which now invests the globe. the triassic hail (indicated by indentations deeper than those made by rain-drops) implies that some regions of the atmosphere were at this period intensely cold; and, coupled with footprints, worm-tracks, and casts of cracks formed by the drying of mud, which were often found upon the same slabs, these impressions of rain clearly point to the existence of sea-beaches where tides rose and fell, and therefore lead us to presume the joint influence of the moon and the sun. hence we are lead on to infer that at this ancient era, the earth with its attendant satellite was revolving as now around the sun, as the centre of our system, which probably belonged then as now to one of those countless clusters of stars with which space is filled. john chapman, manager of the peninsular railway company in india, has published a pamphlet on the supply of cotton which india may be made to furnish, in which he undertakes to show, that cotton of a quality which can be used for three fourths of the manufactures of england, such as is worth there from three to five pence a pound, can be produced in any required quantity for from one and one-fourth to one and three-fourths of a penny per pound. he says it is the difficulty of transportation which prevents the extensive culture of cotton in india. m. eoelmen, the director of the national porcelain manufactory of sèvres, has succeeded in producing crystalized minerals, resembling very closely those produced by nature--chiefly precious and rare stones employed by jewelers. to obtain this result, he has dissolved, in boric acid, alum, zinc, magnesia, oxydes of iron, and chrome, and then subjecting the solution to evaporation during three days, has obtained crystals of a mineral substance, equaling in hardness, and in beauty, and clearness of color, the natural stones. with chrome m. eoelmen has made most brilliant rubies, from two to three millimetres in length, and about as thick as a grain of corn. if rubies can be artificially made, secrets which the old alchymists pursued can not be far off. obituaries. philip hone for many years an eminent merchant and prominent citizen of new york, died may , in the st year of his age. having at an unusually early period accumulated what he regarded as a competent fortune, he withdrew from the distinguished mercantile house of which he was one of the founders, and devoted his time and means to intellectual pursuits, dignified and generous hospitality, and the promotion of all enterprises designed to benefit and honor the city, of which he was proud to be a citizen. possessed of a warm and social disposition, a ready wit, great intelligence, and no ordinary acquirements he gathered around him a fine library and beautiful works of art, without ever withdrawing his interest from public affairs. in - he was chosen mayor of new york, and discharged the duties of that post with a decision, energy, and promptitude which have rarely been equaled. but his most useful services to the community were in connection with various associations formed for the public good. he was president of the first bank for savings, and one of the original board of trustees, of which there are now only three surviving members; and one of the earliest and most efficient friends of the mercantile library association. a marble bust of him, which adorns the library of that noble institution, sculptured at the request of the members, testifies to their appreciation of his character and services. some few years since his fortune was considerably impaired by pecuniary reverses, which befell a near relative; and, although mr. hone was not legally responsible for his obligations, his high sense of mercantile honor impelled him to discharge them in full. at the accession of general taylor, mr. hone was appointed naval officer of the port of new york, which office he held at the time when, beloved, prized, and honored by all who knew him, having honorably maintained through life the character of an high-minded american merchant, he sank to rest calmly and in full possession of his faculties. commodore james barron, senior officer in the united states navy, died at norfolk, virginia, april , at the age of years. he commenced his naval career under the auspices of his father, who commanded the naval forces of the commonwealth of virginia during the revolutionary war. in young barron entered the navy of the united states, with the rank of lieutenant, and served in the brief war with france. in the year following he received his commission of captain, and was ordered to the mediterranean. in , going out as commander of the mediterranean squadron, he was on board the frigate chesapeake, when she was treacherously attacked, in a time of profound peace, in our own waters, by a british vessel of superior force. he was acquitted by a court martial, from all blame in the affair. his subsequent services were rendered on shore, mostly at philadelphia and norfolk. he early acquired the reputation of one of the most accomplished and efficient officers in the service. he originated the first code of signals introduced into the american navy. david daggett, ll.d., late chief justice of connecticut, died april , aged years. he was born in attleboro, mass., on the last day of the year, . after graduating at yale college, he studied law, and was admitted to the bar in . in he was elected to the house of representatives of the state, of which he was chosen speaker in , at the early age of . he continued a member of one of the legislative houses almost constantly till , when he was elected to the senate of the united states. in he was chosen kent professor of law in yale college, which post he continued to occupy until the infirmities of age compelled him to resign. in he was appointed associate judge of the superior court of the state by a legislature, a majority of whom were opposed to him in politics. six years after he was made chief justice of the supreme court. this office he held until december, , when, having reached the age of years, he vacated it in accordance with the provisions of the constitution. thus for forty years, from the close of his th to the completion of his th year, was mr. daggett almost continually engaged in public service. hon. william steele died at big flats, steuben county, n.y., on the th of april. he was born at new york in , and was actively engaged during the closing years of the revolution. in he was on board the gun-ship aurora, which was captured by the british brig iris, bearing the news of the surrender of charleston to the british. on this occasion he was severely wounded, and detained a prisoner of war for some months. in he was appointed clerk in the treasury board. in he commanded a troop of horse which took part in the suppression of the pennsylvania insurrection. he resided in new jersey till , when he removed to the western part of the state of new york. gen. hugh brady, one of the oldest officers in the army of the united states, was killed at detroit by a fall from his carriage, at the age of years. he was born in northumberland county, penn., and entered the army in , as an ensign. in he was appointed colonel of the d infantry. at battle of chippewa his regiment was almost annihilated and he himself severely wounded. he received the rank of brevet brigadier-general in . during the disturbances in canada he did much to preserve the peace of the frontier. a few years ago his native state presented him with a splendid sword, as an acknowledgment of his character and services. literary notices _the philosophy of mathematics_ (published by harper and brothers), is a translation by professor w.h. gillespie, of union college, of that portion of comte's "course of positive philosophy" which treats of the theory of the higher mathematics. the treatise, in the original, forms about two-thirds of the first volume of his great work, the whole of which extends to six large octavo volumes, of six or seven hundred pages each. the magnitude of this work is alone sufficient to account for the slow progress which it has made among american mathematical students, to many of whom it is probably known only by name. in the present form, it is made accessible to every reader. its publication will constitute a new epoch in the mathematical culture of this country, as the original has done in the development of european science. the opinion of its merits, expressed by the translator, is by no means extravagant. "clearness and depth, comprehensiveness and precision have never, perhaps, been so remarkably united as in auguste comte. he views his subject from an elevation which gives to each part of the complex whole its true position and value, while his telescopic glance loses none of the needful details, and not only itself pierces to the heart of the matter, but converts its opaqueness into such transparent crystal, that other eyes are enabled to see as deeply into it as his own." the opinion of the translator is supported by the emphatic testimonials of several competent english authorities. mill, in his "logic," calls the work of m. comte, "by far the greatest yet produced on the philosophy of the sciences," and adds, "of this admirable work, one of the most admirable portions is that in which he may truly be said to have created the philosophy of the higher mathematics." moreil, in his "speculative philosophy of europe," remarks that, "the classification given of the sciences at large, and their regular order of development is unquestionably a master-piece of scientific thinking, as simple as it is comprehensive." lewes, in his "biographical history of philosophy," speaks of comte as "the bacon of the nineteenth century," and adds, "i unhesitatingly record my conviction that this is the greatest work of our age." with his remarkable profoundness and lucidity of thought, m. comte does not combine a mastery of language in equal proportion. his style is never flowing, and often harsh and complicated. it is difficult to render his peculiar phraseology in an adequate translation. prof. gillespie has evidently performed his task with conscientious diligence, and has succeeded as well as the nature of the case permits, in doing justice to his author. he has conferred an important benefit on the cause of science by the reproduction of this great master-piece of philosophical discussion, and will, no doubt, receive a grateful appreciation from his scientific countrymen. charles scribner has published an original _life of algernon sidney_, by g. van santvoord, including copious sketches of several of the distinguished republicans who were his fellow-laborers in the cause of political freedom. among the biographical portraits introduced by the author, are those of cromwell, milton, sir henry vane, bradshaw, marten, scot, and others. they are drawn with considerable spirit, and evident historical fidelity. the character of sidney is described in terms of warm appreciation, though the partialities of the author have not clouded the fairness of his judgment. devoted with enthusiastic admiration to the memory of the english martyrs for freedom, in the investigation of their history, he has not neglected the sound principles of critical research. his volume hears internal marks of authenticity; its opinions are expressed with discretion and gravity; its tone partakes of the dignity of its subject; and its style, though not sparkling with the adornments of rhetoric, is sincere and forcible, and presents occasional specimens of chaste beauty. the first american edition of _the journal and letters of the rev. henry martyn_, edited by rev. s. wilberforce, has been published by m.w. dodd, containing a variety of interesting matter, which now appears for the first time in this country. the original english edition is reduced by the omission of certain portions, which seemed to be of less value to the general reader, but no change has been made in the passages retained, which are a faithful transcript of the language which fell from the pen of the author. they were written in moments of intimate self-communion, or in the freedom of familiar correspondence, revealing the hidden experience of the heart, with the most child-like simplicity; while every expression betrays the intensity of humiliation and the yearnings after holiness, which were so deeply inwrought into the character of the distinguished missionary. with an acute and cultivated intellect, which enabled him to bear away the highest university honors, henry martyn combined a fervor of devotion, an unworldly forgetfulness of self, and a passion for the spiritual welfare of his fellow-men, which in another age would not have failed to win him the canonization of a saint. the transparent confessions of such a man, describing the struggles and triumphs of the interior life, must be welcomed by every religious reader. nor are they less valuable as an illustration of the workings of human nature, when under the influence of the strong emotions engendered by the austere and sublime faith with which the subject identified his conceptions of christianity. the american editor appropriately commends the work to young men in our colleges and seminaries of learning, with the remark that "martyn was a scholar of varied and profound attainments, but he counted it his highest honor to lay his laurels at his saviour's feet, and could all the young men in our colleges go forth in his spirit, the strongholds of error and sin would be speedily shaken." _the water witch_ forms the last volume of j. fenimore cooper's collective works, in geo. p. putnam's tasteful and convenient edition. the opinion of the author on the comparative merits of this novel is briefly stated in the preface. "the book has proved a comparative failure. the facts of this country are all so recent and so familiar, that every innovation on them, by means of the imagination is coldly received, if it be not absolutely frowned upon. nevertheless this is probably the most imaginative book ever written by the author. its fault is in blending too much of the real with the purely ideal. halfway measures will not do in matters of this sort; and it is always safer to preserve the identity of a book by a fixed and determinate character, than to make the effort to steer between the true and the false." in another passage, mr. cooper gives utterance to the fears which haunt his imagination, in regard to the innovating tendencies of the present day. "as for the patroons of kinderbook, the genus seems about to expire among us. not only are we to have no more patroons, but the decree has gone forth from the virtuous and infallible voters that there are to be no more estates. 'all the realm shall be in common, and in cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass.' the collected wisdom of the state has decided that it is true policy to prevent the affluent from converting their money into land. the curse of mediocrity weighs upon us, and its blunders can be repaired only through the hard lessons of experience." mr. cooper alludes to the great number of typographical errors which are found in the former editions of this work. it was written in italy and first printed in germany. the american compositor, conceiving that he had a right to correct the blunders of a foreigner, took the law into his own hands, and exercised a sovereign power over the author's orthography. he has endeavored to do himself justice in this particular, and accordingly claims a greater degree of improvement for the water witch in the present edition, than for any other work which has passed through his hands. the serial publication of _london labor_, by henry mayhew, from the press of harper and brothers, has reached its fifth number, and thus far, we discover no diminution of interest in its contents. mr. mayhew has plunged into the thick of what he appropriately styles the nomadic life of london, and brings up its startling revelations to the light of day, without the slightest disguise or embellishment. his work contains the stuff for many novels of real life, which, in the hands of a master, would rival the creations of dickens or thackeray. some of the most interesting scenes, which he describes, are related in the words of the parties concerned, with whom the author appears to have had a perfectly good understanding. as a contribution to the history of social development in the nineteenth century, we regard this work as one of the most important of the day. _the fruit garden_, by p. barry (published by charles scribner), is a practical treatise on the cultivation of fruit-trees, with over one hundred and fifty illustrations, representing the different parts of trees, all practical operations, designs for plantations, and other important points in this branch of arboriculture. the extent and variety of information which it presents, with the clearness of its practical directions, and its adaptation to american cultivation, will make it a standard work of reference with intelligent fruit growers. _the female jesuit_ (published by m.w. dodd), is the title of a narrative, purporting to be the history of a religious impostor, who, after a complicated career of intrigue and duplicity in england, was at length detected in her plots, although no light is thrown on their origin and purposes. the work is issued with the conviction on the part of the english editors, that she was the agent of some great system in the catholic interest, that may have been brought into action far more widely than protestants are aware. in the absence of positive proof, they hesitate to charge her deception on the jesuits, but they are evidently of opinion that the suspicion is warranted by the facts in the case. the volume, it must be confessed has too much the air of a romance to command implicit reliance. we should have greater confidence in it as a history, if it did not show such a studious concealment of responsible names, with the omission of other circumstances that are essential to authentic investigation. _the wife's sister; or, the forbidden marriage_ is the title of a novel by mrs. hubback, niece of miss austen (published by harper and brothers), written with more than common graphic power, and unfolding a plot of great intensity of passion. it was written previously to the great agitation on the question of the law of marriage in england, and was published without reference to that much debated subject, although it presents a vivid illustration of the possible effects of the enactment alluded to, both in its social and personal bearings. apart from these considerations, however, it is a story of remarkable interest, and is well worth perusal by all who have an appetite for a good novel. a new volume of _poems_, by mrs. e.h. evans, has been published by lippincott, grambo, and co., with an introduction by her brother, the distinguished pulpit orator, rev. t.h. stockton. the volume consists principally of effusions marked by a strong religious spirit, and a vein of modest and tender domestic sentiment. many of them indicate a true poetic imagination, but without sufficient affluence or aptness of diction to do it justice in expression. _dealings with the inquisition_, by dr. giacinto achilli (published by harper and brothers), is a work that has attracted great attention in england, on account of its relation to the roman catholic controversy, and for the same reason, will find many readers in this country. falling under the suspicion of heresy, the author was subjected to the power of the inquisition, which, though kept in the back-ground, appears, from his statements, to have lost none of its vitality with the lapse of ages. his book is full of curious disclosures, which are apparently sustained by competent authority. geo. p. putnam has issued _a treatise on political economy_, by george opdyke, in which the author undertakes to present a system in perfect harmony with the other portions of our political edifice--a system grounded on the broad principles of justice and equality, and in all its doctrines and legislative applications solely designed to illustrate and enforce those principles. maintaining the policy of freedom in its broadest sense--freedom of industry, freedom of trade, and freedom of political institutions, the volume has been especially prompted by the desire of the author to disseminate his peculiar views on the subject of money. he claims to have discovered a plan for furnishing a paper currency, which, although irredeemable, and therefore free from the cost of production, he believes will perform the offices of money much better than either bank-notes or coin. he sustains his theories with considerable force of argument, and in a lucid and compact style; but he has not succeeded in freeing them from difficulties, which must embarrass their reception by cautious thinkers on the complicated science to which his work is devoted. _harper's new york and erie railroad guide_, by william macleod, is a seasonable publication, which will form an indispensable appendage to the preparations of the pleasure-hunter, who is about to view, for the first time, the magnificent scenery on this great public avenue. it contains nearly a hundred and fifty engravings, from original sketches made expressly for the work, and executed in the usual admirable style of lossing and barritt. the letter-press descriptions are written in a lively and pleasing style, and furnish a great amount of geographical and local information, with regard to the interior of the empire state. every traveler on this route, which is destined to be the favorite choice of the lover of the grand and imposing in american scenery, no less than of the hurried business-man with whom time is money, will find the enjoyment of his tour greatly enhanced by the cheerful and instructive companionship of this agreeable volume. lindsay and blakiston have published a second series of _characteristics of literature_, by henry t. tuckerman, containing essays on manzoni, steele, humboldt, madame de sévigné, horne tooke, wilson, talfourd, beckford, hazlitt, everett, and godwin. they are written in the style of polished elegance and graceful facility which has given the author such a high reputation with most cultivated readers. free from extravagance of conception or diction, pervaded with a tone of natural and manly feeling, and thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the best literary productions, they claim a favorable reception from the public on the ground of their purity of taste, their refinement of expression, and their genial and appreciative principles of criticism. the essays on humboldt and horne tooke, in particular, are, in a high degree, original and suggestive, and present a very favorable specimen of a kind of discussion in which the author excels. _the gold-worshipers_ (published by harper and brothers), is the title of a brilliant satirical novel illustrating the mania for speculation, and the extravagance of fashionable life, which have recently exhibited such remarkable developments in the highest english society. the characters are drawn with amusing life-likeness, and must have been copied from well-known originals. a more spirited and sparkling commentary on the times has not been issued by the london press. robert carter and brothers have issued a new volume by mrs. l.h. sigourney, entitled _letters to my pupils_, comprising a selection from her correspondence with the young ladies of her different classes, during their course of instruction at her private seminary in connecticut. they are filled with valuable counsels, marked with the good sense, affectionate feeling, and practical tendency which are conspicuous features of the author's mind. in addition to the letters, the volume contains some pleasing reminiscences of mrs. sigourney's experience as a teacher, with sketches of the character and personal history of several of her more distinguished pupils, now deceased. the work will be found to offer a variety of attractive and useful matter for family reading. _maurice tiernay_, by charles lever, has been issued by harper and brothers in their library of select novels. the readers of this magazine will no doubt welcome in a permanent shape this favorite story, which has formed such an agreeable feature in our pages. charles scribner has published a new volume by n.p. willis, with the characteristic title of _hurry-graphs_, containing sketches of scenery, celebrities, and society, taken from life. it is marked with the nice, microscopic observation of character and manners which, in the department of natural science, would make the fortune of an entomologist, and which, as employed by the author, has given him an unrivaled reputation as the delineator of the minutest phases of society. the verbal felicity of his expositions is no less remarkable than the subtlety of his insight, and so gracefully does he trample on the received usages of language, that the most obstinate adherent to the dictionary can not grudge him the words, which he combines in such bright and fanciful forms in his unlicensed kaleidoscope. in the present volume, which is filled with all sorts of enticements, we prefer the descriptions of nature to the sketches of character. even the dusty road-side grows delightful under the touches of willis's blossom-dropping pen, and when we come to the mountain and lake, it is like reveling in all the fragrant odors of paradise. here the author feels genially at home, and abandons himself to the natural, joyous, unreflective impulses of the scene; while, in his portraitures of character, which are usually more elaborate, he betrays the consciousness of an obligation to say something, which, if not original, shall at least astonish the reader with its appearance of novelty. his judgments, however, are often strikingly acute, and show his ready perception of individual life, no less than of the motley aspects of society. in this work they are singularly free from any tincture of bitterness, the result of a catholic appreciation of character, rather than of any milky sweetness of temperament. _eastbury_ is the title of a recent english novel (published by harper and brothers), which even the opponents of fictitious literature must commend for its elevated moral tendency, and its pure religious spirit. it is free from the exaggerated views of life, and the morbid, inflated sentiment which form the staple of so many fashionable novels. with its reserved and quiet tone, it may at first disappoint the reader accustomed to a higher stimulus, but its cool domestic pictures, its fine illustrations of character, and its truthfulness and beauty of feeling will win the admiration of the most intelligent judges. one of the most beautiful books of the season has been issued by j.s. redfield, entitled _episodes of insect life_, with copious engravings illustrative of the department of natural history to which it is devoted. the anonymous author is a passionate lover of nature, and describes the results of personal observation in glowing and picturesque language. since the elaborate work of kirby and spence, nothing has proceeded from the english press more eminently adapted to inspire a taste for entomological researches, or treating the curious phenomena of insect economy with more animation and beauty of style. the fruits of accurate investigation are embellished with the charm of a lively fancy, making a volume no less delightful than instructive. lippincott, grambo, and co. have commenced a new serial publication, entitled _arthur's library for the household_, consisting of original tales and sketches by t.s. arthur. the two volumes already published contain _woman's trials_ and _married life_. they will speedily be followed by other volumes, to the number of twelve, printed in uniform style, and with great typographical neatness. the chaste and elevated tone of mr. arthur's writings, with his uncommon skill in describing the scenes of real life, has deservedly made him a favorite with a large class of readers, and will, we have no doubt, guarantee a wide success to the present publication. a cheap edition of arthur's _works_ is now passing through the press of t.b. peterson, phil., and commands an extensive circulation. the last volume issued is _the banker's wife_, a tale illustrative of american society, and conveying an admirable moral. a leaf from punch. [illustration: tired of the world. _grandmamma._--"why what's the matter with my pet?" _child._--"why, grandma, after giving the subject every consideration, i have come to the conclusion that--the world is hollow, and my doll is stuffed with sawdust, so--i--should--like--if you please, to be a nun?"] * * * * * pleasure trip of messrs. robinson and jones. [illustration: it is cold on deck, and they think it would be better to lie down below. robinson and jones are here represented at the moment of entering the cabin. it is inconveniently full already, and every body is snoring.] [illustration: robinson before and after a sea voyage.] [illustration: robinson returns to the deck, and, in despair, seats himself upon what he considers a pile of cable, coats, canvas, luggage, &c. how is he to know that it is a lady and gentleman?] * * * * * [illustration: a perfect wretch. _wife._--"why, dear me, william; how time flies! i declare we have been married ten years to-day." _wretch._--"have we, love? i am sure i thought it had been a great deal longer."] fashions for early summer. [illustration: fig. .--visiting and carriage costumes.] the early days of june often exhibit the coyness of her sister, may; and while the leaves are broadly expanding, and the buds are every where bursting into blossom, in full exuberance, cool breezes from the north, or chilling vapors from the east, sometimes remind those who are riding or walking, of the breath of winter. it is not safe permanently to employ the thin dress fabrics of flowing summer before the middle of the month. silks form the most suitable material for out-of-door costume, and mantelets are more in vogue than the gossamer-like shawls of july. mantelets.--those composed of _glacé_ silks are greatly in favor, being of moderate size, loose, and rather short; they have, nevertheless, a novel appearance, the variety in their style depending greatly upon their trimmings. the waist and shoulders are gracefully marked. the principal trimmings consist of frillings, or flounces, cut _falbalas_ and _passamenteries arachneés_. these decorations are intended principally for morning or demi-toilets, those of a more full-dress description being trimmed with a very deep fall of black lace, or two or three frillings equally deep and ample. dresses.--plain bodies, slightly stiffened, are much in fashion. those intended for pelisses are of the waistcoat form, cut in the amazonian shape, somewhat like that seen in figure of our first illustration. among other elegant styles, is a _robe à la myon_ of gray taffeta, having the corsage formed of narrow plaits, in style resembling that in figure of the above illustration. it forms a kind of fan back; in front, the folds are made deep upon the top, and descend in a straight line toward the lower part of the waist. figure in our first illustration represents an elegant style of visiting dress. it is of light blue silk; the skirt trimmed with three rather narrow flounces, waved at the edge, and caught up in a point up the centre of the front, where they are each confined with a small _noeud_ of ribbon, the same color of the dress. the high, close-fitting corsage is entirely formed of narrow folds placed close together; the opening up the front being concealed by a fluting of ribbon, gradually narrowing toward the lower part of the waist. long plain sleeves, ornamented round the top with a puffing of silk, forming an epaulette. the sleeves are open up the front of the arm as far as the bend, and caught across at regular intervals, so as to admit of the under full white sleeves showing through and forming puffings. bonnet of white silk or satin: the exterior decorated with two white ostrich feathers, and the interior with a wreath of white rose-buds. figure in our first picture, represents a beautiful carriage costume. plain high dress of violet silk; the body fitting tight has a small jacket trimmed round with a narrow _rûche_. the body opens in the front and has a fulling of white lace to give the appearance of the frill of the habit shirt. the sleeves are not very wide, and are three-quarters length. they have cuffs cut in points, turned back, and edges with a narrow _rûche_. the skirt is long and fall, trimmed with rosettes of ribbon, from which hang two small tassels. _mantilla_ of rich silk, trimmed with broad black lace, lined with white silk. bonnet of _paille de riz_, decorated with splendid drooping flowers on the right, of a primrose color. [illustration: fig. .--evening dress.] figure represents an evening costume. dress of pink _crèpe_: the corsage low; the waist pointed, and of a moderate length. the cape pointed in the front, falls deep on the shoulders, entirely covering the plain short sleeves. the cape and the front of the skirt, are trimmed with white _tûlle_ and roses. the skirt is long and full, the trimming, _en tabliére_, corresponds with the cape. jupe of rich white silk is worn underneath. shoes of pink satin. [illustration: fig. .--head-dress.] figure shows a neat style of head-dress for a morning costume, which is composed of folds of ribbon, partly covering a braid of hair on one side. the dress is high, edged with a lace collar, with a ribbon hanging in loops in front. the sleeves in morning costumes are generally very wide from the elbow, three-quarters length, and trimmed to correspond. the skirt is long and full, bias on each side, the front breadth turned back; trimmed with _guimpe_. [illustration: fig. .--bonnet.] bonnets are generally of white silk, formed in various designs, decorated with different sorts of violets and lilacs of the most opposite shades. they are very gay, yet very simple. they are generally somewhat small, having the front rather open at the sides, allowing the hair to be arranged in full bands, with becoming and fanciful ears in the interior. figure represents a bonnet of white satin, covered with two rows of white lace, divided with a double row of fancy light green ribbon, and decorated with white daisies in the interior. bonnets composed of _crèpe_ and _paille_, are decorated with bunches of flowers composed of the wild violet, with grass and delicate herbs. a very elegant style of bonnet is composed partly of blonde and fillings of light green _velours épinglé_, ornamented in a fanciful manner with marabouts. caps are extremely pretty and light in appearance. some formed of inlet, relieved with drawings, through which is passed a narrow satin ribbon, and decorated with _coques_, placed sidewise, are very pretty. a very charming style of morning caps are those formed of muslin, surmounted with four small _torsades_ of lilac silk drooping over the forehead, and encircling the ears. upon each side is placed a very large _noeud_ of silk, and at the back two _rachons_ of embroidered muslin, headed with _torsades_ of ribbon. another style forms upon the summit of the head, advancing a little in front, "à la marie stuart," having three papillons of brussels point lace, divided with pink ribbons. on the sides tufts of lace, and black and pink ribbons in corkscrews, hanging low. * * * * * transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. letters preceded by ^ are superscripts. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. titles added to table of content and list of illustrations. erroneous page numbers in table of content corrected. captions added to captionless illustrations. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "clap-trap" and "claptrap"); - accents (e.g. "château" and "chateau"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "diversion" and "divarsion"). following proper names have been corrected: - in the table of content: "novarra" corrected to be "novara" (battle of novara), "paginini" corrected to be "paganini" (anecdotes of paganini), "waterwitch" corrected to be "water witch" (cooper's "water witch"); - pg , "penmaen mawr" corrected to be "penmaenmawr" (of penmaenmawr); - pg , "gunnell" corrected to be "gunnel" (to mr. gunnel); - pg , "fanueil" corrected to be "faneuil" (faneuil hall). pg , word "the" removed (attacks the <the> nightly thief). pg , word "a" removed (as if <a> upon). pg , word "him" removed (have made him <him> a martyr). pg , word "to" added (whispered to sophia). pg , word "april" corrected to "february" (from february ). harper's new monthly magazine. no. xvi.--september, --vol. iii. napoleon bonaparte. by john s.c. abbott. ii. dawning greatness. while napoleon was spending his few months of furlough in corsica, he devoted many hours every day to the careful composition, after the manner of plutarch, of the lives of illustrious corsicans. though he had made considerable progress in the work, it was lost in the subsequent disorders of those times. he also established a debating club, composed of the several officers in the army upon the island, to discuss the great political questions which were then agitating europe. these subjects he studied with most intense application. in this club he was a frequent speaker, and obtained much distinction for his argumentative and oratorical powers. napoleon, at this time, warmly espoused the cause of popular liberty, though most sternly hostile to lawless violence. as the reign of terror began to shed its gloom on paris, and each day brought its tidings of jacobin cruelty and carnage, napoleon imbibed that intense hatred of anarchy which he ever after manifested, and which no temptation could induce him to disguise. one day he expressed himself in the club so vehemently, that an enemy, salicetti, reported him to the government as a traitor. he was arrested, taken to paris, and obtained a triumphant acquittal. some years after he had an opportunity to revenge himself, most magnanimously, upon his enemy who had thus meanly sought his life, and whom he could not but despise. salicetti, in his turn, became obnoxious to the jacobins, and was denounced as an outlaw. the officers of police were in pursuit of him, and the guillotine was ravenous for his blood. he ungenerously sought concealment under the roof of madame permon, the mother of the young lady who had suggested to napoleon the idea of "puss in boots." by this act he exposed to the most imminent peril the lives of madame permon and of all the members of her household. napoleon was on terms of familiar intimacy with the family, and salicetti was extremely apprehensive that he might discover his retreat, and report him to the police. madame permon also, knowing the hatred with which salicetti had sought napoleon's life, participated in these fears. the very next morning napoleon made his appearance in the saloon of madame permon. "well, madame permon," said he, "salicetti will now in his turn be able to appreciate the bitter fruits of arrest. and to him they ought to be the more bitter, since he aided, with his own hand, to plant the trees which bear them." "how!" exclaimed madame permon, with an air of affected astonishment, "is salicetti arrested?" "and is it possible," replied napoleon, "that you do not know that he has been proscribed. i presumed that you were aware of the fact, since it is in your house that he is concealed." "concealed in my house!" she cried, "surely, my dear napoleon, you are mad. i entreat you do not repeat such a joke in any other place. i assure you it would peril my life." napoleon rose from his seat, advanced slowly toward madame permon, folded his arms upon his breast, and fixing his eyes in a steadfast gaze upon her, remained for a moment in perfect silence. "madame permon!" he then said, emphatically, "salicetti is concealed in your house. nay--do not interrupt me. i know that yesterday at five o'clock he was seen proceeding from the boulevard in this direction. it is well known that he has not in this neighborhood any acquaintances, you excepted, who would risk their own safety, as well as that of their friends by secreting him." "and by what right," madame permon replied, with continued duplicity, "should salicetti seek an asylum here? he is well aware that our political sentiments are at variance, and he also knows that i am on the point of leaving paris." "you may well ask," napoleon rejoined, "by what right he should apply to you for concealment. to come to an unprotected woman, who might be compromised by affording a few hours of safety to an outlaw who merits his fate, is an act of baseness to which no consideration ought to have driven him." "should you repeat abroad this assertion," she replied, "for which there is no possible foundation, it would entail the most serious consequences upon me." again napoleon, with much apparent emotion, fixed his steadfast gaze upon madame permon, and exclaimed, "you, madame, are a generous woman, and salicetti is a villain. he was well aware that you could not close your doors against him, and he would selfishly allow you to peril your own life and that of your child, for the sake of his safety. i never liked him. now i despise him." with consummate duplicity madame permon took napoleon's hand, and fixing her eye unquailing upon his, firmly uttered the falsehood, "i assure you, napoleon, upon my honor, that salicetti is not in my apartments. but stay--shall i tell you all?" "yes! all! all!" he vehemently rejoined. "well, then," she continued, with great apparent frankness, "salicetti was, i confess, under my roof yesterday at six o'clock; but he left in a few hours after. i pointed out to him the moral impossibility of his remaining concealed with me, living as publicly as i do. salicetti admitted the justice of my objection, and took his departure." napoleon, with hurried step, traversed the room two or three times, and then exclaimed, "it is just as i suspected. he was coward enough to say to a woman, 'expose your life for mine.' but," he continued, stopping before madame permon, and fixing a doubting eye upon her, "you really believe, then, that he left your house and returned home!" "yes!" she replied, "i told him that since he must conceal himself in paris, it were best to bribe the people of his own hotel, because that would be the last place where his enemies would think of searching for him." napoleon then took his leave, and madame permon opened the door of the closet where salicetti was concealed. he had heard every word of the conversation, and was sitting on a small chair, his head leaning upon his hand, which was covered with blood, from a hemorrhage with which he had been seized. preparations were immediately made for an escape from paris, and passports were obtained for salicetti as the valet de chambre of madame permon. in the early dawn of the morning they left paris, salicetti as a servant, seated upon the box of the carriage. when they had arrived at the end of the first stage, several miles from the city, the postillion came to the window of the coach, and presented madame pennon with a note, which, he said, a young man had requested him to place in her hands at that post. it was from napoleon. madame permon opened it and read as follows: "i never like to be thought a dupe. i should appear to be such to you, did i not tell you that i knew perfectly well of salicetti's place of concealment. "you see, then, salicetti, that i might have returned the ill you did to me. in so doing i should only have avenged myself. but you sought my life when i never had done aught to harm you. which of us stands in the preferable point of view at the present moment? i might have avenged my wrongs; but i did not. perhaps you may say, that it was out of regard to your benefactress that i spared you. that consideration, i confess, was powerful. but you, alone, unarmed and an outlaw, would never have been injured by me. go in peace, and seek an asylum where you may cherish better sentiments. on your name my mouth is closed. repent and appreciate my motives. "madame permon! my best wishes are with you and your child. you are feeble and defenseless beings. may providence and a friend's prayers protect you. be cautious, and do not tarry in the large towns through which you may have to pass. adieu." having read the letter, madame permon turned to salicetti, and said, "you ought to admire the noble conduct of bonaparte. it is most generous." "generous!" he replied, with a contemptuous smile, "what would you have had him do? would you have wished him to betray me?" the indignant woman looked upon him with disgust, and said, "i do not know what i might expect _you_ to do. but this i do know, that it would be pleasant to see you manifest a little gratitude." when they arrived at a seaport, as salicetti embarked on board a small vessel which was to convey him to italy, he seemed for a moment not to be entirely unmindful of the favors he had received. taking madame permon's hands in his, he said, "i should have too much to say, were i to attempt to express to you my gratitude by words. as to bonaparte, tell him i thank him. hitherto i did not believe him capable of generosity. i am now bound to acknowledge my mistake. i thank him." napoleon, after his acquittal from the charges brought against him by salicetti, remained in paris for two or three months. he lived in the most frugal manner, spending no money or time in dissipation or amusements. he passed most of his hours in the libraries, reading volumes of solid worth, and seeking the conversation of distinguished men. without any exhibition of vanity, he seemed to repose great reliance upon his own powers, and was never abashed in the slightest degree by the presence of others, of whatever rank or attainments. indeed he seemed, even then, to be animated by the assurance that he was destined for some great achievements. his eye was surveying the world. he was meditating upon the rise and fall of empires. france, europe even, seemed too small for his majestic designs. he studied with intense interest the condition of the countless myriads of men who swarm along the rivers and the hill-sides of internal asia; and dreamed of being himself the founder of an empire there, in comparison with which the dynasties of europe should be insignificant. indeed he never, in all his subsequent career, manifested the least surprise in view of his elevation. he rose from step to step, regarding each ascent as a matter of course, never shrinking in the least degree from assuming any weight of responsibility, and never manifesting the slightest embarrassment in taking the command from the hands of gray-headed veterans. while in paris, he was, on the famous morning of the th of june, , walking with his friend bourrienne, along the banks of the seine, when he saw a vast mob of men, women, and boys, with hideous yells and frantic gestures, and brandishing weapons of every kind, rolling like an inundation through the streets of the metropolis, and directing their steps toward the palace of the imprisoned monarch. napoleon ran before them that he might witness their proceedings. climbing, by an iron fence, upon the balustrade of a neighboring building, he saw the squalid mass of thirty thousand miscreants break into the garden of the tuileries, swarm through the doors of the regal mansion, and, at last, compel the insulted and humiliated king, driven into the embrasure of a window, to put the filthy red cap of jacobinism upon his brow. this triumph of the drunken vagrants, from the cellars and garrets of infamy, over all law and justice, and this spectacle of the degradation of the acknowledged monarch of one of the proudest nations on the globe, excited the indignation of napoleon to the highest pitch. he turned away from the sight as unendurable, exclaiming, "the wretches! how could they suffer this vile mob to enter the palace! they should have swept down the first five hundred with grape shot, and the rest would have soon taken to flight." [illustration: the attack upon the tuileries] new scenes of violence were now daily enacted before the eyes of napoleon in the streets of paris, until the dreadful th of august arrived. he then again saw the triumphant and unresisted mob sack the palace of the tuileries. he witnessed the king and the royal family driven from the halls of their ancestors, and followed by the frenzied multitude, with hootings, and hissings, and every conceivable insult, in momentary peril of assassination, until they took refuge in the assembly. he saw the merciless massacre of the faithful guards of the king, as they were shot in the garden, as they were pursued and poniarded in the streets, as they were pricked down with bayonets, from the statues upon which they had climbed for protection, and in cold blood butchered. he saw, with his bosom glowing with shame and indignation, the drunken rioters marching exultingly through the streets of the metropolis, with the ghastly heads of the slaughtered guards borne aloft, upon the points of their pikes, as the trophies of their victory. these hideous spectacles wrought quite a revolution in the mind of napoleon. they effectually arrested the progress of all his tendencies toward democracy. he had been a great admirer of constitutional liberty in england, and a still greater admirer of republican liberty in america. he now became convinced that the people of france were too ignorant and degraded for self-government, that they needed the guidance and control of resistless law. he hated and despised the voluptuousness, the imbecility, and the tyranny of the effete monarchy. he had himself suffered most keenly from the superciliousness of the old nobility who grasped at all the places of profit and honor, merely to gratify their own sensuality, and left no career open to merit. napoleon had his own fortune to make, and he was glad to see all these bulwarks battered down, which the pride and arrogance of past ages had reared to foster a worthless aristocracy; and to exclude the energetic and the aspiring, unaided by wealth and rank, from all the avenues of influence and celebrity. on the other hand the dominion of the mob appeared to him so execrable that he said, "i frankly declare that if i were compelled to choose between the old monarchy and jacobin misrule, i should infinitely prefer the former." openly and energetically, upon all occasions, fearless of consequences, he expressed his abhorrence of those miscreants who were trampling justice and mercy beneath their feet, and who were, by their atrocities, making france a by-word among all nations. this is a key to the character of napoleon. those opposing forces guided his future career. he ever, subsequently, manifested the most decisive resolution to crush the jacobins. he displayed untiring energy in reconstructing in france a throne invincible in power, which should govern the people, which should throw every avenue to greatness open to all competitors, making wealth, and rank, and influence, and power the reward of merit. napoleon openly avowed his conviction that france, without education and without religion, was not prepared for the republicanism of the united states. in this sentiment la fayette and most of the wisest men of the french nation fully concurred. with an arm of despotic power he crushed every lawless outbreak. and he gathered around his throne eminent abilities, wherever he could find them, in the shop of the artisan, in the ranks of the army, and in the hut of the peasant. in france at this time, there was neither intelligence, religion, nor morality, among the masses. there was no reverence for law either human or divine. napoleon expressed his high approval of the constitutional monarchy of england, and declared that to be the model upon which he would have the new government of france constructed. he judged that france needed an imposing throne, supported by an illustrious nobility and by a standing army of invincible power, with civil privileges cautiously and gradually disseminated among the people. and though in the pride of subsequent success he was disposed to gather all power into his own hands, few persons could have manifested during so long a reign, and through the temptations of so extraordinary a career, more unwavering consistency. one evening he returned home from a walk, through the streets of the tumultuous metropolis, in which his ears had been deafened by the shouts of the people in favor of a new republican constitution. it was in the midst of the reign of terror, and the guillotine was drenched in blood. "how do you like the new constitution?" said a lady to him. he replied, hesitatingly, "why, it is good in one sense, to be sure; but, all that is connected with carnage, is bad," and then, as if giving way to an outburst of sincere feeling, he exclaimed, emphatically, "_no! no! no! away with this constitution. i do not like it!_" the republicanism of the united states is founded on the intelligence, the christianity, and the reverence for law so generally prevalent throughout the whole community. and should that dark day ever come, in which the majority of the people will be unable to read the printed vote which is placed in their hands, and lose all reverence for earthly law, and believe not in god, before whose tribunal they must finally appear, it is certain that the republic can not stand for a day. anarchy must ensue, from which there can be no refuge but in a military despotism. in these days of pecuniary embarrassment napoleon employed a bootmaker, a very awkward workman, but a man who manifested very kindly feelings toward him, and accommodated him in his payments. when dignity and fortune were lavished upon the first consul and the emperor, he was frequently urged to employ a more fashionable workman. but no persuasions could induce him to abandon the humble artisan who had been the friend of his youthful days. instinctive delicacy told him that the man would be more gratified by being the shoemaker of the emperor, and that his interests would thus be better promoted than by any other favors he could confer. a silversmith, in one of napoleon's hours of need, sold him a dressing-case upon credit. the kindness was never forgotten. upon his return from the campaign of italy, he called, rewarded him liberally, and ever after employed him, and also recommended him to his marshals and to his court in general. in consequence the jeweler acquired an immense fortune. effects must have their causes. napoleon's boundless popularity in the army and in the nation, was not the result of accident, the sudden outbreak of an insane delusion. these exhibitions of an instinctive and unstudied magnanimity won the hearts of the people as rapidly as his transcendent abilities and herculean toil secured for him renown. napoleon with his political principles modified by the scenes of lawless violence which he had witnessed in paris, returned again to corsica. soon after his return to his native island, in february, , he, being then years of age, was ordered, at the head of two battalions, in co-operation with admiral turget, to make a descent upon the island of sardinia. napoleon effected a landing and was entirely successful in the accomplishment of his part of the expedition. the admiral, however, failed, and napoleon, in consequence, was under the necessity of evacuating the positions where he had entrenched himself, and of returning to corsica. he found france still filled with the most frightful disorders. the king and queen had both fallen upon the scaffold. paoli, disgusted with the political aspect of his own country, treasonably plotted to surrender corsica, over which he was the appointed governor, to the crown of england. it was a treacherous act, and was only redeemed from utter infamy by the brutal outrages with which france was disgraced. a large party of the corsicans rallied around paoli. he exerted all the influence in his power to induce napoleon, the son of his old friend and comrade, and whose personal qualities he greatly admired, to join his standard. napoleon, on the other hand, with far greater penetration into the mysteries of the future, entreated paoli to abandon the unpatriotic enterprise. he argued that the violence with which france was filled was too terrible to be lasting, and that the nation must soon return again to reason and to law. he represented that corsica was too small and feeble to think of maintaining independence in the midst of the powerful empires of europe; that in manners, language, customs, and religion it never could become a homogeneous part of england; that the natural connection of the island was with france, and that its glory could only be secured by its being embraced as a province of the french empire. and above all, he argued that it was the duty of every good citizen, in such hours of peril, to cling firmly and fearlessly to his country, and to exert every nerve to cause order to emerge from the chaos into which all things had fallen. these were unanswerable arguments, but paoli had formed strong attachments in england, and remembered, with an avenging spirit, the days in which he had fled before the armies of conquering france. the last interview which took place between these distinguished men, was at a secluded convent in the interior of the island. long and earnestly they argued with each other, for they were devoted personal friends. the veteran governor was eighty years of age, napoleon was but twenty-two. it was with the greatest reluctance that either of them could consent to draw the sword against the other. but there was no alternative. paoli was firm in his determination to surrender the island to the english. no persuasions could induce napoleon to sever his interests from those of his native country. sadly they separated to array themselves against each other in civil war. as napoleon, silent and thoughtful, was riding home alone, he entered a wild ravine among the mountains, when suddenly he was surrounded by a party of mountaineers, in the employ of paoli, and taken prisoner. by stratagem he effected his escape, and placed himself at the head of the battalion of national guards over which he had been appointed commander. hostilities immediately commenced. the governor, who with his numerous forces had possession of the town of ajaccio, invited the english into the harbor, surrendering to them the island. the english immediately took possession of those heights on the opposite side of the gulf, which, it will be remembered, that napoleon had previously so carefully examined. the information he gained upon this occasion was now of special service to him. one dark and stormy night he embarked in a frigate, with a few hundred soldiers, landed near the entrenchments, guided the party in the darkness, over the ground, with which he was perfectly familiar, surprised the english in their sleep, and, after a short but sanguinary conflict, took possession of the fort. the storm, however, increased to a gale, and when the morning dawned, they strained their eyes in vain through the driving mist to discern the frigate. it had been driven by the tempest far out to sea. napoleon and his little band were immediately surrounded by the allied english and corsicans, and their situation seemed desperate. for five days they defended themselves most valiantly, during which time they were under the necessity of killing their horses for food to save themselves from starvation. at last the frigate again appeared. napoleon then evacuated the town in which he had so heroically contended against vastly outnumbering foes, and, after an ineffectual attempt to blow up the fort, succeeded in safely effecting an embarkation. the strength of paoli was daily increasing, and the english in greater numbers crowding to his aid. napoleon saw that it was in vain to attempt further resistance, and that corsica was no longer a safe residence for himself or for the family. he accordingly disbanded his forces and prepared to leave the island. paoli called upon madame letitia, and exhausted his powers of persuasion in endeavoring to induce the family to unite with him in the treasonable surrender of the island to the english. "resistance is hopeless," said he, "and by this perverse opposition, you are bringing irreparable ruin and misery on yourself and family." "i know of but two laws," replied madame letitia, heroically, "which it is necessary for me to obey, the laws of honor and of duty." a decree was immediately passed banishing the family from the island. one morning napoleon hastened to inform his mother that several thousand peasants, armed with all the implements of revolutionary fury, were on the march to attack the house. the family fled precipitately, with such few articles of property as they could seize at the moment, and for several days wandered, houseless and destitute, on the sea-shore, until napoleon could make arrangements for their embarkation. the house was sacked by the mob, and the furniture entirely destroyed. it was midnight when an open boat manned by four strong rowers, with muffled oars, approached the shore in the vicinity of the pillaged and battered dwelling of madame letitia. a dim lantern was held by an attendant, as the whole bonaparte family, in silence and in sorrow, with the world, its poverty and all its perils, wide before them, entered the boat. a few trunks and bandboxes, contained all their available property. the oarsmen pulled out into the dark and lonely sea. earthly boat never before held such a band of emigrants. there sat madame letitia, joseph, napoleon, lucien, louis, jerome, eliza, pauline, and caroline. little did those poor and friendless fugitives then imagine that all the thrones of europe were to tremble before them, and that their celebrity was to fill the world. napoleon took his stand at the bows, for although the second son, he was already the commanding spirit of the family. they soon ascended the sides of a small vessel which was waiting for them in the offing, with her sails fluttering in the breeze, and when the morning sun arose over the blue waters of the mediterranean, they were approaching the harbor of nice. here they remained but a short time, when they removed to marseilles, where the family resided in great pecuniary embarrassment until relieved by the rising fortunes of napoleon. [illustration: the emigrants.] the english immediately took possession of the island, and retained it for two years. the fickle corsicans soon grew weary of their new masters, in whose language, manners, and religion they found no congeniality, and a general rising took place. a small force from france effected a landing, notwithstanding the vigilance of the english cruisers. beacon fires, the signals of insurrection, by previous concert, blazed from every hill, and the hoarse sound of the horn, echoing along the mountain sides and through the ravines, summoned the warlike peasants to arms. the english were driven from the island with even more precipitation than they had taken possession of it. paoli retired with them to london, deeply regretting that he had not followed the wise counsel of young napoleon. bonaparte never visited corsica again. he could not love the _people_ in whose defense he had suffered such injustice. to the close of life, however, he retained a vivid recollection of the picturesque beauties of his native island, and often spoke, in most animating terms, of the romantic glens, and precipitous cliffs, and glowing skies endeared to him by all the associations of childhood. the poetic and the mathematical elements were both combined in the highest degree in the mind of napoleon, and though his manly intellect turned away in disgust from mawkish and effeminate sentimentalism, he enjoyed the noble appreciation of all that is beautiful, and all that is sublime. his retentive memory was stored with the most brilliant passages from the tragedies of corneille, racine, and voltaire, and no one could quote them with more appropriateness. we now approach more eventful scenes in the life of this extraordinary man. all the monarchies of europe were allied, in arms, against the french revolution, and slowly, but resistlessly, their combined armies were marching upon paris. the emigrant nobles and monarchists, many thousands in number, were incorporated into the embattled hosts of these allies. the spirit of insurrection against the government began to manifest itself very strongly in several important cities. toulon, on the shores of the mediterranean, was the great naval dépôt and arsenal of france. it contained a population of about twenty-five thousand inhabitants. more than fifty ships-of-the-line and frigates were riding at anchor in its harbor, and an immense quantity of military and naval stores, of every description, was collected in its spacious magazines. the majority of the inhabitants of this city were friends of the old monarchy. some ten thousand of the royalists of marseilles, lyons, and other parts of the south of france, took refuge within the walls of toulon, and, uniting with the royalist inhabitants, surrendered the city, its magazines, its ships, and its forts to the combined english and spanish fleet, which was cruising outside of its harbor. the english ships sailed triumphantly into the port, landed five thousand english troops, and eight thousand spaniards, neapolitans, and piedmontese, took full possession of the place. this treacherous act excited to the highest pitch the alarm and the indignation of the revolutionary government; and it was resolved that, at all hazards, toulon must be retaken, and the english driven from the soil of france. but the english are not easily expelled from the posts which they once have occupied; and it was an enterprise of no common magnitude to displace them, with their strong army and their invincible navy, from fortresses so impregnable as those of toulon, and where they found stored up for them, in such profuse abundance, all the munitions of war. two armies were immediately marched upon toulon, the place invested, and a regular siege commenced. three months had passed away, during which time no apparent progress had been effected toward the capture of the town. every exertion was made by the allied troops and the royalist inhabitants to strengthen the defenses, and especially to render impregnable a fort called the little gibraltar, which commanded the harbor and the town. the french besieging force, amounting to about forty thousand men, were wasting their time outside of the entrenchments, keeping very far away from the reach of cannon balls. the command of these forces had been intrusted to gen. cartaux, a portrait-painter from paris, as ignorant of all military science, as he was self-conceited. matters were in this state when napoleon, whose commanding abilities were now beginning to attract attention, was promoted to the rank of brigadier-general, and invested with the command of the artillery train at toulon. he immediately hastened to the scene of action, and beheld, with utter astonishment, the incapacity with which the siege was conducted. he found batteries erected which would not throw their balls one half the distance between the guns and the points they were designed to command. balls also were heated in the peasants' houses around, at perfectly ridiculous distances from the guns, as if they were articles to be transported at one's leisure. napoleon requested the commander-in-chief, at whose direction these batteries were reared, to allow him to witness the effect of a few discharges from the guns. with much difficulty he obtained consent. and when the general saw the shot fall more than half-way short of the mark, he turned upon his heel, and said, "these aristocrats have spoiled the quality of the powder with which i am supplied." napoleon respectfully but firmly made his remonstrance to the convention, assuring them that the siege must be conducted with far more science and energy if a successful result was to be expected. he recommended that the works against the city itself should be comparatively neglected, and that all the energies of the assaults should be directed against little gibraltar. that fort once taken, it was clear to his mind that the english fleet, exposed to a destructive fire, must immediately evacuate the harbor, and the town would no longer be defensible. in fact, he pursued precisely the course by which washington had previously driven the british from boston. the distinguished american general turned aside from the city itself, and by a masterly movement planted his batteries on dorchester heights, from which he could rain down a perfect tempest of balls upon the decks of the english ships. the invaders were compelled to fly, and to take with them their tory allies. napoleon did the same thing at toulon. the enterprise was, however, vastly more arduous, since the english had foreseen the importance of that port, and had surrounded it with works so unapproachable that they did not hesitate to call it their _little gibraltar_. napoleon, then but twenty-three years of age, undertook their dislodgment. dugommier, a scarred and war-worn veteran, was now placed in the supreme command, and cordially sympathized with his young artillery officer in all his plans. the agents of the convention, who were in the camp as spies to report proceedings to the government, looked with much incredulity upon this strange way of capturing toulon. one morning some of these commissioners ventured to criticise the direction of a gun which napoleon was superintending. "do you," he tartly replied, "attend to your duty as a national commissioner, and i will be answerable for mine with my head." napoleon's younger brother, louis, visited him during the siege. they walked out one morning to a place where an unavailing assault had been made by a portion of the army, and two hundred mangled bodies of frenchmen were strewn over the ground. on beholding the slaughter which had taken place, napoleon exclaimed, "all those men have been needlessly sacrificed. had intelligence commanded here none of these lives need have been lost. learn from this, my brother, how indispensable and imperatively necessary it is, that those should possess knowledge who aspire to assume the command over others." napoleon, with an energy which seemed utterly exhaustless, devoted himself to the enterprise he had undertaken. he shared all the toils and all the perils of his men. he allowed himself but a few hours' sleep at night, and then wrapped in his cloak, threw himself under the guns. by the utmost exertions he soon obtained, from all quarters, a train of two hundred heavy battering cannon. in the midst of a storm of shot and shells incessantly falling around him, he erected five or six powerful batteries, within point-blank range of the works he would assail. one battery in particular which was masked by a plantation of olives, he constructed very near the entrenchments of the enemy. he seemed utterly regardless of his own safety, had several horses shot from under him, and received from an englishman so serious a bayonet wound in his left thigh that for a time he was threatened with the necessity of amputation. all these operations were carried on in the midst of the storms of battle. there were daily and nightly skirmishes and sallies, and deadly assaults, and the dreadful tide of successful and unsuccessful war ever ebbed and flowed. one day an artillery man was shot down by his side, and the ramrod which he was using was drenched with blood. napoleon immediately sprung into the dead man's place, seized the rod, and to the great encouragement of the soldiers, with his own hand, repeatedly charged the gun. while the siege was in progress, one day, fifteen carriages, from paris, suddenly made their appearance in the camp, and about sixty men alighting from them, dressed in gorgeous uniform, and with the pomp and important air of embassadors from the revolutionary government, demanded to be led into the presence of the commander-in-chief. "citizen general," said the orator of the party. "we come from paris. the patriots are indignant at your inactivity and delay. the soil of the republic has been violated. she trembles to think that the insult still remains unavenged. she asks, why is toulon not yet taken? why is the english fleet not yet destroyed? in her indignation she has appealed to her brave sons. we have obeyed her summons and burn with impatience to fulfill her expectations. we are volunteer gunners from paris. furnish us with arms. to-morrow we will march against the enemy." the general was not a little disconcerted by this pompous and authoritative address. but napoleon whispered to him, "turn those gentlemen over to me. i will take care of them." they were very hospitably entertained, and the next morning, at daybreak, napoleon conducted them to the sea-shore, and gave them charge of several pieces of artillery, which he had placed there during the night, and with which he requested them to sink an english frigate whose black and threatening hull was seen, through the haze of the morning, at anchor some distance from the shore. the trembling volunteers looked around with most nervous uneasiness in view of their exposed situation, and anxiously inquired if there was no shelter behind which they could stand. just then john bull uttered one of his most terrific roars, and a whole broadside of cannon balls came whistling over their heads. this was not the amusement they had bargained for, and the whole body of braggadocios took to precipitate flight. napoleon sat quietly upon his horse, without even a smile moving his pensive and marble features as he contemplated, with much satisfaction, the dispersion of such troublesome allies. [illustration: the volunteer gunners.] upon another occasion, when the enemy were directing their fire upon the works which he was constructing, having occasion to send a dispatch from the trenches, he called for some one who could write, that he might dictate an order. a young private stepped out from the ranks and, resting the paper upon the breastwork, began to write, as he dictated. while thus employed, a cannon ball, from the enemy's battery, struck the ground but a few feet from them, covering their persons and the paper with the earth. "thank you," said the soldier, gayly, "we shall need no more sand upon this page." the instinctive fearlessness and readiness thus displayed arrested the attention of napoleon. he fixed his keen and piercing eye upon him for a moment, as if scrutinizing all his mental and physical qualities, and then said, "young man! what can i do for you?" the soldier blushed deeply, but promptly replied, "every thing," and then touching his left shoulder with his hand, he added, "you can change this worsted into an epaulet." a few days after, napoleon sent for the same soldier, to reconnoitre the trenches of the enemy, and suggested that he should disguise his dress, as his exposure would be very great. "never," replied the soldier; "do you take me for a spy? i will go in my uniform, though i should never return." he set out immediately, and fortunately escaped unharmed. these two incidents revealed character, and napoleon immediately recommended him for promotion. this was junot, afterward duke of abrantes, and one of the most efficient friends of napoleon. "i love napoleon," said junot afterward, most wickedly, "as my god. to him i am indebted for all that i am."[ ] at last the hour arrived when all things were ready for the grand attempt. it was in the middle watches of the night of the th of december, , when the signal was given for the assault. a cold storm of wind and rain was wailing its midnight dirges in harmony with the awful scene of carnage, destruction, and woe, about to ensue. the genius of napoleon had arranged every thing and inspired the desperate enterprise. no pen can describe the horrors of the conflict. all the energies of both armies were exerted to the utmost in the fierce encounter. to distract the attention of the enemy, the fortifications were every where attacked, while an incessant shower of bomb-shells were rained down upon the devoted city, scattering dismay and death in all directions. in the course of a few hours eight thousand shells from the effective batteries of napoleon were thrown into little gibraltar, until the massive works were almost one pile of ruins. in the midst of the darkness, the storm, the drenching rain, the thunder of artillery, and the gleaming light of bomb-shells, the french marched up to the very muzzles of the english guns, and were mown down like grass before the scythe by the tremendous discharges of grape-shot and musketry. the ditches were filled with the dead and the dying. again and again the french were repulsed, only to return again and again to the assault. napoleon was every where present, inspiring the onset, even more reckless of his own life than of the lives of his soldiers. for a long time the result seemed very doubtful. but the plans of napoleon were too carefully laid for final discomfiture. his mangled, bleeding columns rushed in at the embrasures of the rampart, and the whole garrison were in a few moments silent and still in death. "general," said bonaparte to dugommier, broken down by fatigue and age, as he raised the tricolored flag over the crumbling walls of the rampart, "go and sleep. we have taken toulon." "it was," says scott, "upon this night of terror, conflagration, tears, and blood, that the star of napoleon first ascended the horizon, and though it gleamed over many a scene of horror ere it set, it may be doubted whether its light was ever blended with that of one more dreadful." though little gibraltar was thus taken, the conflict continued all around the city until morning. shells were exploding, and hot shot falling in the thronged dwellings. children in the cradle, and maidens in their chambers had limb torn from limb by the dreadful missiles. conflagrations were continually bursting forth, burning the mangled and the dying, while piercing shrieks of dismay and of agony rose even above the thunders of the terrific cannonade. the wind howled in harmony with the awful scene, and a cold and drenching rain swept the streets. one can not contemplate such a conflict without wondering that a god of mercy could have allowed his children thus brutally to deform this fair creation with the spirit of the world of woe. for the anguish inflicted upon suffering humanity that night a dread responsibility must rest somewhere. a thousand houses were made desolate. thousands of hearts were lacerated and crushed, with every hope of life blighted forever. the english government thought that they did right, under the circumstances of the case, to send their armies and take possession of toulon. napoleon deemed that he was nobly discharging his duty, in the herculean and successful endeavors he made to drive the invaders from the soil of france. it is not easy for man, with his limited knowledge, to adjust the balance of right and wrong. but here was a crime of enormous magnitude committed--murder, and robbery, and arson, and violence--the breaking of every commandment of god upon the broadest scale; and a day of judgment is yet to come in which the responsibility will be with precise and accurate justice awarded. the direful tragedy was, however, not yet terminated. when the morning sun dawned dimly and coldly through the lurid clouds, an awful spectacle was revealed to the eye. the streets of toulon were red with blood, while thousands of the mangled and the dead, in all the most hideous forms of mutilation, were strewed through the dwellings and along the streets. fierce conflagrations were blazing in many parts of the city, while mouldering ruins and shattered dwellings attested the terrific power of the midnight storm of man's depravity. the cannonade was still continued, and shells were incessantly exploding among the terrified and shrieking inhabitants. napoleon, having accomplished the great object of his exertions, the capture of little gibraltar, allowed himself not one moment for triumph, or repose, or regret; but, as regardless of the carnage around him, as if he were contemplating a field over which the scythe of the mower had passed, immediately prepared his guns to throw their plunging balls into the english ships, and to harass them at every point of exposure. no sooner did lord howe see the tricolored flag floating from the parapets of little gibraltar, than, conscious that the city was no longer tenable, he made signal for the fleet to prepare for immediate evacuation. the day was passed by the english in filling their ships with stores from the french arsenals, they having determined to destroy all the munitions of war which they could not carry away. the victorious french were straining every nerve in the erection of new batteries, to cripple and, if possible, to destroy the retiring foe. thus passed the day, when another wintry night settled gloomily over the beleaguered and woe-exhausted city. the terror of the royalists was dreadful. they saw, by the embarkation of the british sick and wounded, the indications that the english were to evacuate the city, and that they were to be left to their fate. and full well they knew what doom they, and their wives and their children, were to expect from republican fury in those days of unbridled violence. the english took as many of the french ships of the line as could be got ready for sea, to accompany them in their escape. the rest, consisting of fifteen ships of the line and eight frigates, were collected to be burned. a fire-ship, filled with every combustible substance, was towed into their midst, and at ten o'clock the torch was applied. the night was dark and still. the flames of the burning ships burst forth like a volcano from the centre of the harbor, illumining the scene with lurid and almost noonday brilliance. the water was covered with boats, crowded with fugitives, hurrying, frantic with despair, in the abandonment of homes and property, to the english and spanish ships. more than twenty thousand loyalists, men, women, and children, of the highest rank, crowded the beach and the quays, in a state of indescribable consternation, imploring rescue from the infuriate army of the republicans howling like wolves around the walls of the city, eager to get at their prey. in increase of the horror of the scene, a most furious cannonade was in progress all the time from every ship and every battery. cannon balls tore their way through family groups. bombs exploded upon the thronged decks of the ships, and in the crowded boats. many boats were thus sunk, and the shrieks of drowning women and children pierced through the heavy thunders of the cannonade. husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters were separated from each other, and ran to and fro upon the shore in delirious agony. the daughter was left mangled and dying upon the beach; the father was borne by the rush into one boat, the wife into another, and no one knew who was living, and who, mercifully, was dead. the ships, the magazines, the arsenals were all now in flames. the jacobins of toulon began to emerge from garrets and cellars, and frenzied with intoxication, like demons of darkness, with torch and sword, rioted through the city, attacked the flying royalists, tore their garments from their backs, and inflicted upon maids and matrons every conceivable brutality. a little after midnight two frigates, each containing many thousand barrels of gunpowder, blew up, with an explosion so terrific, that it seemed to shake, like an earthquake, even the solid hills. as at last the rear-guard of the english abandoned the ramparts and hurried to their boats, the triumphant republican army, nearly forty thousand strong, came rushing into the city at all points. the allied fleet, with favoring winds, spread its sails, and soon disappeared beneath the horizon of the silent sea, bearing away nearly twenty thousand wretched exiles to homelessness, penury, and a life-long woe. dugommier, the commander of the republican army, notwithstanding all his exertions, found it utterly impossible to restrain the passions of his victorious soldiers, and for many days violence and crime ran rampant in the doomed city. the crime of having raised the flag of royalty, and of having surrendered the city and its stores to the foe, was one not to be forgiven. the jacobin government in paris sent orders for a bloody and a terrible vengeance, that the loyalists all over france might be intimidated from again conspiring with the enemy. napoleon did every thing in his power to protect the inhabitants from the fury which was wreaked upon them. he witnessed, with anguish, scenes of cruelty which he could not repress. an old merchant, eighty-four years of age, deaf and almost blind, was guilty of the crime of being worth five millions of dollars. the convention, coveting his wealth, sentenced him to the scaffold. "when i witnessed the inhuman execution of this old man," said napoleon, "i felt as if the end of the world was at hand." he exposed his own life to imminent peril in his endeavors to save the helpless from jacobin rage. one day a spanish prize was brought into the harbor, on board of which had been taken the noble family of chabrillant, well known loyalists, who were escaping from france. the mob, believing that they were fleeing to join the emigrants and the allied army in their march against paris, rushed to seize the hated aristocrats, and to hang them, men and women, at the nearest lamp-posts. the guard came up for their rescue and were repulsed. napoleon saw among the rioters several gunners who had served under him during the siege. he mounted a platform, and their respect for their general secured him a hearing. he induced them, by those powers of persuasion which he so eminently possessed, to intrust the emigrants to him, to be tried and sentenced the next morning. at midnight he placed them in an artillery wagon, concealed among barrels of powder and casks of bullets, and had them conveyed out of the city as a convoy of ammunition. he also provided a boat to be in waiting for them on the shore, and they embarked and were saved. though the representatives of the convention made no allusion to napoleon in their report, he acquired no little celebrity among the officers in the army by the energy and skill he had manifested. one of the deputies, however, wrote to carnot, "i send you a young man, who distinguished himself very much during the siege, and earnestly recommend to you to advance him speedily. if you do not, he will most assuredly advance himself." soon after the capture of toulon, napoleon accompanied general dugommier to marseilles. he was in company with him there, when some one, noticing his feminine figure, inquired, "who is that little bit of an officer, and where did you pick him up?" "that officer's name," gravely replied general dugommier, "is napoleon bonaparte. _i picked him up_ at the siege of toulon, to the successful termination of which he eminently contributed. and you will probably one day see that this _little bit of an officer_ is a _greater man_ than any of us." napoleon was immediately employed in fortifying the maritime coast of southern france, to afford the inhabitants protection against attacks from the allied fleet. with the same exhaustless, iron diligence which had signalized his course at toulon, he devoted himself to this new enterprise. he climbed every headland, explored every bay, examined all soundings. he allowed himself no recreation, and thought not of repose. it was winter, and cold storms of wind and rain swept the bleak hills. but the energies of a mind more intense and active than was perhaps ever before encased in human flesh, rendered this extraordinary man, then but twenty-three years of age, perfectly regardless of all personal indulgences. drenched with rain, living upon such coarse fare as he chanced to meet in the huts of fishermen and peasants; throwing himself, wrapped in his cloak, upon any poor cot, for a few hours of repose at night, he labored, with both body and mind, to a degree which no ordinary constitution could possibly have endured, and which no ordinary enthusiasm could have inspired. in a few weeks he accomplished that to which others would have devoted years of energetic action. it seems incredible that a human mind, in so short a time, could have matured plans so comprehensive and minute, and could have achieved such vast results. while other young officers, of his age, were sauntering along the windings of mountain streams with hook and line, or strolling the fields with fowling-pieces, or, in halls of revelry, with mirthful maidens, were accomplishing their destiny in cotillions and waltzes, napoleon, in herculean toil, was working day and night, with a sleepless energy, which never has been surpassed. he divided the coast batteries into three classes: those for the defense of men-of-war in important harbors; those for the protection of merchant vessels, and those reared upon promontories and headlands, under whose guns the coasting trade could hover. having accomplished this vast undertaking in the two wintry months of january and february, early in march, , he joined the head-quarters of the army of italy in nice, promoted to the rank of brigadier-general of artillery. the personal appearance of napoleon, at this time, was any thing but prepossessing. he was diminutive in stature, and thin and emaciated in the extreme. his features were angular and sharp, and his complexion sallow. his hair, contrary to the fashion of the times, was combed straight over his forehead. his hands were perfectly feminine in their proportions. quite regardless of the display of dress, he usually appeared without gloves, which, he said, were a useless luxury, in a plain round hat, with boots clumsily fitted to his feet, and with that gray great-coat, which afterward became as celebrated as the white plume of henry iv. his eye, however, was brilliant, and his smile ever peculiarly winning. [illustration: night studies.] napoleon, upon his arrival at nice, found the french army idly reposing in their intrenchments among the maritime alps, and surrounded by superior forces of austrians and sardinians. general dumerbion, who was in command, was a fearless and experienced soldier, but aged and infirm, and suffering severely from the gout. the sun of returning spring was causing the hills and the valleys to rejoice. mild airs from the south were breathing gently over the opening foliage, and the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers lured to listless indulgence. napoleon was pale and emaciate from the toils of his batteries at toulon, and from his sleepless exertions in fortifying the coast. he now had an opportunity for repose, and for the recruiting of his apparently exhausted frame. he, however, did not allow himself one single day of recreation or of rest. the very hour of his arrival found him intensely occupied in informing himself respecting all the particulars of the numbers, positions, the organization, and the available resources of the two armies. he carefully examined every outpost of the french, and reconnoitred with the most scrutinizing attention the line occupied by the opposing hosts. he studied the map of the country. he galloped hour after hour, and day after day through the ravines and over the mountains, to make himself perfectly familiar with all the localities of the region. after a day of incessant toil he would spend the night with his maps and charts before him, with every meandering stream, every valley, every river carefully laid down, and with pins, the heads of some covered with red sealing-wax to represent the french, and others with blue to designate the enemy, he would form all possible combinations, and study the advantages or the perils of the different positions which the republican army might assume. having thrown himself upon his cot for a few hours of repose, the earliest dawn of the morning would find him again upon his horse's back, exploring all the intricate and perilous fastnesses of the alps. a large force of austrians were intrenched near saorgia, along the banks of the fertile roya, in the enjoyment of ease and abundance, and dreaming not of peril. napoleon, with great deliberation, formed his plan. he had foreseen all probable contingencies, and guarded against every conceivable danger. a council was assembled. he presented his suggestions so forcibly and so clearly, as to insure their immediate adoption. massena,[ ] with fifteen thousand men, secretly and rapidly was to ascend the banks of the oreglia, a stream running parallel with the roya, till, far up near the sources of the two rivers, crossing over to the roya, he was to descend that valley, and fall unexpectedly upon the austrians in the rear. at the same time general dumerbion, the commander-in-chief, with ten thousand men, was to assail the enemy in front. napoleon, with ten thousand men, marching nearer to the mediterranean coast, was to seize the important posts there, and cut off, from the fertile plains of the south, the retreat of the enemy. thus, in three weeks after napoleon had made his appearance at the head-quarters of the army in nice, the whole force of the french was in motion. the energy of the youthful general was immediately communicated to the entire army. desperate and sanguinary conflicts ensued, but the plan was triumphantly successful. the piedmontese troops, twenty thousand strong, amazed at the storm thus suddenly bursting upon them, precipitately fled. saorgia, the principal dépôt of the allied forces, and well stored with provisions and ammunition of every kind, was taken by the french. before the end of may the french were masters of all the passes of the maritime alps, and their flags were waving in the breeze from the summits of mt. cenis, mt. tende, and mt. finisterre. the news of these sudden and unexpected victories went with electric speed through france. with the nation in general the honor redounded to dumerbion alone, the commander-in-chief. but in the army it was well understood to whose exertions and genius the achievements were to be attributed. though as yet the name of napoleon had hardly been pronounced in public, the officers and soldiers in the army were daily contemplating, with increasing interest, his rising fame. indeed general dumerbion was so deeply impressed by the sagacity and military science displayed by his brigadier-general, that he unresistingly surrendered himself to the guidance of the mind of napoleon. an incident occurred, during this brief campaign, which strikingly illustrates the criminal disregard which napoleon entertained for human life. it was then the custom with the convention at paris always to have representatives in the army to report proceedings. the wife of one of these representatives, a virtuous and beautiful woman, fully appreciated the intellectual superiority of napoleon, and paid him very marked attention. napoleon, naturally of a grateful disposition, became strongly but fraternally attached to her. one day walking out with her to inspect some of the positions of the army, merely to give her some idea of an engagement he ordered an attack upon one of the advanced posts of the enemy. a brisk skirmish immediately ensued, and the roar of artillery and the crackling of musketry reverberated sublimely through the alps. the lady, from a safe eminence, looked down with intensest interest upon the novel scene. many lives were lost on both sides, though the french were entirely victorious. it was, however, a conflict which led to no possible advantage, and which was got up merely for the entertainment of the lady. napoleon subsequently often alluded to this wanton exposure of life as one of his most inexcusable acts. he never ceased to regret it. some years after, when napoleon was first consul, this lady, then a widow, friendless, and reduced to poverty, made her appearance at st. cloud, and tried to gain access to napoleon. he was, however, so hedged in by the etiquette of royalty, that all her exertions were unavailing. one day he was riding on horseback in the park, conversing with some members of his court, when he alluded to this event, which he so deeply deplored. he was informed that the lady was then at st. cloud. he immediately sent for her, and inquired with most brotherly interest into all of her history during the years which had elapsed since they parted. when he heard her sad tale of misfortune, he said, "but why did you not sooner make your wants known to me." "sire," she replied, "i have for many weeks been in vain seeking to obtain an audience." "alas!" he exclaimed, "such is the misfortune of those who are in power." he immediately made ample provision for her future comfort. the summer months rapidly passed away, while the french, upon the summits of the mountains, were fortifying their positions, to resist the attacks of a formidable army of austrians and piedmontese combining to displace them. napoleon was still indefatigable in obtaining a familiar acquaintance with all the natural features of the country, in studying the modes of moving, governing, and provisioning armies, and eagerly watching for opportunities to work out his destiny of renown, for which he now began to believe that he was created. but suddenly he was arrested on the following extraordinary charge, and narrowly escaped losing his head on the guillotine. when napoleon, during the preceding winter, was engaged in the fortification of the maritime frontier, he proposed repairing an old state prison at marseilles, that it might serve as a powder magazine. his successor on that station, proceeded to the execution of this plan, so evidently judicious. some disaffected persons represented this officer to the committee of public safety, as building a second bastile, in which to imprison patriotic citizens. he was accordingly at once arrested and brought before the revolutionary tribunal. here he so clearly proved that the plan was not his own, but that he was merely carrying out the suggestions of his predecessor, that he was released, and orders were sent for the arrest of napoleon. he was seized, and for fifteen days held under arrest. an order, however, soon came from paris for his release. an officer entering his room, a couple of hours after midnight, to communicate the tidings, found, much to his astonishment, napoleon dressed and seated before his table, with maps, books, and charts spread out before him. "what!" inquired his friend, "are you not in bed yet?" "in bed!" napoleon replied. "i have had my sleep and am already risen." "what, so early'!" the other rejoined. "yes," continued napoleon, "so early. two or three hours of sleep are enough for any man." though the representatives of the government, conscious of the value of napoleon's services, had written to the convention, making such an explanation of the facts that he was immediately set at liberty, still they saw fit, in an ungenerous attempt at self-justification, to deprive him of his rank as general of artillery, and to assign him a post in the infantry in its stead. napoleon, regarding this transfer as an insult, threw up his commission in disgust, and retired, in comparative indigence, to join his mother and the rest of the family, who were now residing at marseilles. this was in the autumn of , napoleon being then years of age. he spent the winter in comparative inaction, but carefully studying the convulsions of the times, the history of past revolutions, and the science of government. tired of inactivity, early in may he proceeded to paris, to seek employment. he was, however, unsuccessful. the government had its favorites to reward and promote, and napoleon, deeply chagrined and mortified, found all his offers of service rejected. an old officer of artillery, who had seen but little active service, was president of the military committee. rather superciliously he remarked to napoleon, whose feminine and youthful appearance did not indicate that he was born to command, "you are too young to occupy stations of such responsibility as you seek." napoleon imprudently retorted, "presence in the field of battle, sir, ought to anticipate the claim of years." this personal reflection so annoyed the president that he sought rather to obstruct than to aid the aspirations of the young officer. his situation became daily more painful, as his scanty funds were rapidly failing. he even formed the plan of going to turkey to offer his services to the grand seignior. "how singular it would be," said he, at this time, to a companion, "if a little corsican officer were to become king of jerusalem!" one gloomy night at st. helena, when napoleon, unable to sleep, was endeavoring to beguile the weary hours by conversation, he narrated the following anecdote, illustrative of his destitution and his distress in these early days of adversity. "i was, at this period, on one occasion suffering from that extreme depression of spirits which suspend the faculties of the brain, and render life a burden too heavy to be borne. i had just received a letter from my mother, revealing to me the utter destitution into which she was plunged. she had been compelled to flee from the war with which corsica was desolated, and was then at marseilles, with no means of subsistence, and having naught but her heroic virtues to defend the honor of her daughters against the misery and the corruption of all kinds existing in the manners of that epoch of social chaos. i also, deprived of my salary and with exhausted resources, had but one single dollar in my pocket. urged by animal instinct to escape from prospects so gloomy and from sorrows so unendurable, i wandered along the banks of the river, feeling that it was unmanly to commit suicide, and yet unable to resist the temptation to do so. in a few more moments i should have thrown myself into the water, when i ran against an individual, dressed like a simple mechanic, who, recognizing me, threw himself upon my neck, and cried, 'is it you, napoleon? how glad i am to see you again!' it was démasis, an old friend and former comrade of mine in the artillery regiment. he had emigrated, and had afterward returned to france, in disguise, to see his aged mother. "he was about to leave me, when stopping, he exclaimed, 'but what is the matter, napoleon? you do not listen to me! you do not seem glad to see me! what misfortune threatens you? you look to me like a madman about to kill himself.' this direct appeal to the feelings which had seized upon me, produced such an effect upon my mind, that, without hesitation, i revealed to him every thing. 'is that all?' said he, unbuttoning his coarse waistcoat, and detaching a belt which he placed in my hands. 'here are six thousand dollars in gold, which i can spare without any inconvenience. take them and relieve your mother.' i can not to this day explain to myself how i could have been willing to receive the money, but i seized the gold as by a convulsive movement, and, almost frantic with excitement, ran to send it to my distressed mother. it was not until the money had left my hands and was on its way to marseilles that i reflected upon what i had done. i hastened back to the spot where i had left démasis, but he was no longer there. for several days continuously, i went out in the morning and returned not till evening, searching every place in paris where i could hope to find him. all the researches i then made, as well as those i made after my accession to power, were in vain. it was not till the empire was approaching its fall that i again discovered démasis. it was now my turn to question him, and to ask him what he had thought of my strange conduct, and why i had never heard even his name for fifteen years. he replied that as he had been in no need of money he had not asked me to repay the loan, although he was well assured that i should find no difficulty in reimbursing him. but he feared that if he made himself known, that i should force him to quit the retirement in which he lived happily, occupying himself with horticulture. i had very great difficulty in making him accept sixty thousand dollars as an imperial reimbursement for the six thousand lent to his comrade in distress. i also made him accept the office of director-general of the crown gardens, with a salary of six thousand dollars a year, and the honors of an officer of the household. i also provided a good situation for his brother. "two of my comrades in the military school, and the two to whom i was most closely united by the sympathies of early friendship, had, by one of those mysteries of providence which we often witness, an immense influence upon my destiny. démasis arrested me at the moment when i was about to commit suicide; and philippeau prevented my conquest of st. jean d'acre. had it not been for him i should have been master of this key of the east. i should have marched upon constantinople, and have established an empire in asia." but reverses began now to attend the army in italy. defeat followed defeat. they were driven by the austrians from the posts to which napoleon had conducted them, and were retreating before their foes. the committee of public safety were in great trepidation. in their ignorance they knew not what orders to issue. some one who had heard of napoleon's achievements among the alps suggested his name. he was called into the meetings of the committee for advice. the local and technical information he had acquired, his military science, and the vast resources of his highly cultivated mind, placed him immediately at the head of the committee. though young in years, and still more youthful in appearance, his gravity, his serious and pensive thoughtfulness, gave oracular weight to his counsels, and his plans were unhesitatingly adopted. he had studied the topography of the maritime alps with the most enthusiastic assiduity, and was familiar with the windings and characteristics of every stream, and the course of mountain ranges, and with the military capabilities of the ravines and glens. the judicious dispositions which he proposed of the various divisions of the army arrested the tide of austrian conquest, and enabled the french, though much inferior in number to their allied foes, to defend the positions they had been directed to occupy. during all this time, however, while napoleon, in the committee-room in paris, was guiding the movements of the army in italy, he was studying in the public libraries, during every leisure moment, with an assiduity so intense and inexhaustible that it could not have been surpassed had he been inspired with the highest ambition for literary and scientific honors. in his occasional evening saunterings along the boulevards, as he saw the effeminate young men of that metropolis, rolling in luxury, and, in affected speech, criticising the tones of an opera singer, or the exquisite moulding of a dancer's limbs, he could not refrain from giving utterance to his contempt. when he was thus one evening treading the dusty thoroughfares and looking upon such a spectacle, he impatiently exclaimed, "can it be, that upon such creatures fortune is willing to lavish her favors! how contemptible is human nature." though napoleon secluded himself entirely from haunts of revelry and scenes of dissipation, and from all those dissolute courses into which the young men of those days so recklessly plunged, he adopted this course, not apparently from any conscientious desire to do that which was right in the sight of god, but from what has been called "the expulsive power of new affection." ambition seemed to expel from his mind every other passion. the craving to obtain renown by the performance of great and glorious deeds; the desire to immortalize his name, as one of the distinguished men and illustrious benefactors of the human race, had infused itself so intensely throughout his whole nature, that animal passion even was repressed, and all the ordinary pursuits of worldly pleasure became in his view frivolous and contemptible. his ambition needed but the spirit of religion to sanctify it, to make it as noble an ambition as ever glowed in a human bosom. but alas! it all centred in himself. he wished to benefit the human race, not because he loved his fellow man, but that he might immortalize his own name. at this time it can hardly be said that there was any religion in france. christianity had been all but universally discarded. the priests had been banished; the churches demolished or converted into temples of science or haunts of merriment; the immortality of the soul was denied, and upon the gateways of the grave-yards there was inscribed, "death is an eternal sleep." napoleon was consequently deprived of all the influences of religion in the formation of his character. and yet his mind was naturally, if it be proper so to speak, a devotional mind. his temperament was serious, thoughtful, and pensive. the grand and the mysterious engrossed and overawed him. even his ambition was not exulting and exhilarating, but sombre, majestic, and sublime. he thought of herculean toil and sleepless labor, and heroic deeds. for ease, and luxury, and self-indulgence, he had no desire, but he wished to be the greatest of men by accomplishing more than any other mortal had ever accomplished. even in youth life had but few charms for him, and he took a melancholy view of man's earthly pilgrimage, after asserting that existence was not a blessing. and when drawing near to the close of life he asserted that he had known but few happy moments upon earth, and that for those few he was indebted to the love of josephine. the national convention now prepared another constitution for the adoption of the people of france. the executive power, instead of being placed in the hands of one king, or president, was intrusted to five chiefs, who were to be called directors. the legislative powers were committed to two bodies, as in the united states. the first, corresponding to the united states senate, was to be called the _council of ancients_. it was to consist of two hundred and fifty members, each of whom was to be at least forty years of age, and a married man or a widower. an unmarried man was not considered worthy of a post of such responsibility in the service of the state. the second body was called the _council of five hundred_, from the number of members of which it was to be composed. it corresponded with our house of representatives, and each of its members was to be at least thirty years of age. this constitution was far superior to any other which had yet been formed. it was framed by the moderate republicans, who wished to establish a republican government, protecting france on the one hand from the royalists, who would reestablish the bourbons upon the throne, and on the other hand from the misrule of the violent jacobins, who wished to perpetuate the reign of terror. this constitution was sent down to the primary assemblies of the people, for their adoption or rejection. it was accepted promptly in nearly all the rural districts, and was adopted by acclamation in the army. the city of paris was divided into ninety-six sections, or wards, in each of which, as in our cities, the inhabitants of that particular ward assembled at the polls. when the constitution was tendered to these several sections of paris, forty-eight of them voted in its favor, while forty-six rejected it. the royalists and the jacobins, the two extremes, united in the opposition, each party hoping that by the overthrow of the convention their own views might obtain the precedence. the convention declared that the majority of the nation had every where pronounced in favor of the new constitution, and they prepared to carry its provisions into effect. the opposing sections, now thoroughly aroused, began to arm, resolved upon violent resistance. the parisian mob, ever ready for an outbreak, joined most heartily with their more aristocratic leaders, and all paris seemed to be rousing to attack the convention. the national guard, a body of soldiers corresponding with the american militia, though far better officered, equipped, and drilled, joined promptly the insurgents. the insurrection-gun was fired, the tocsin tolled, and the gloomy, threatening masses, marshaled under able leaders, swarmed through the streets. the convention was in the utmost state of trepidation; for in those days of anarchy, blood flowed like water, and life had no sacredness. it was not a mob of a few hundred straggling men and boys who were to surround their hall with hootings and to break their windows; but a formidable army of forty thousand men, in battle array, with artillery and musketry, headed by veteran generals, who had fought the battles of the old monarchy, with gleaming banners and trumpet tones, were marching down from all quarters of the city, upon the tuileries. to meet this foe the convention had at its command but five thousand regular troops; and it was uncertain but that they, in the moment of peril, might fraternize with the insurgents. general menou was appointed, by the convention, to quell the insurrection. he marched to meet the enemy. napoleon, intensely interested in the passing scenes, followed the solid columns of menou. but the general, a mild and inefficient man, with no nerve to meet such a crisis, was alarmed in view of the numbers and the influence of his antagonists, and retired before them. shouts of victory resounded from the national guard, through all the streets of paris. they were greatly emboldened by this triumph, and felt confident that the regular troops would not dare to fire upon the citizens. the shades of night were now settling down over the agitated city. napoleon having witnessed the unsuccessful mission of menou, ran through the streets to the tuileries, and ascending the gallery where the convention was assembled, contemplated, with a marble brow and a heart apparently unagitated, the scene of consternation there. it was now eleven o'clock at night, and the doom of the convention seemed sealed. in the utmost alarm menou was dismissed, and the unlimited command of the troops intrusted to barras. the office was full of peril. successful resistance seemed impossible, and unsuccessful was certain death. barras hesitated, when suddenly he recollected napoleon, whom he had known at toulon, and whose military science and energy, and reckless disregard of his own life, and of the lives of all others, he well remembered. he immediately exclaimed, "i know the man who can defend us, if any one can. it is a young corsican officer, napoleon bonaparte, whose military abilities i witnessed at toulon. he is a man who will not stand upon ceremony." napoleon was in the gallery at the time, and it is not impossible that the eye of barras chancing to light upon him, caused the suggestion. he was immediately introduced to the convention. they expected to see a man of gigantic frame and soldierly bearing, brusque and imperious. to their surprise there appeared before them a small, slender, pale-faced, smooth-cheeked young man, apparently about eighteen years of age. the president said, "are you willing to undertake the defense of the convention?"--"yes!" was the calm, laconic reply. after a moment's hesitation, the president continued, "are you aware of the magnitude of the undertaking?" napoleon fixed that eagle glance upon him, which few could meet, and not quail before it, and replied, "perfectly; and i am in the habit of accomplishing that which i undertake." there was something in the tone and the manner of this extraordinary man, which secured for him immediately the confidence of all the members of the house. his spirit so calm and imperturbable, in the midst of a scene so exciting, impressed them with the conviction that they were in the presence of one of no common powers. after the exchange of a few more words, napoleon said, "one condition is indispensable. i must have the unlimited command, entirely untrammeled by any orders from the convention." it was no time for debate, and there was unhesitating acquiescence in his demand. [illustration: napoleon before the convention.] the promptness, energy, and unfailing resources of napoleon, were now most conspicuously displayed. at sablons, about five miles from paris, there was a powerful park of artillery, consisting of fifty heavy guns. napoleon instantly dispatched murat, with a party of dragoons to take those guns, and bring them to the tuileries. they were seized by the mounted troops, but a few moments before a party of infantry arrived from the sections, for the same purpose. the insurgents, though more numerous, dared not attack the dragoons, and the guns were taken in safety to napoleon; and he disposed them, heavily charged with grape shot, in such a way as to sweep all the avenues leading to the convention. the activity of the young general knew not a moment's intermission. he was every where during the night, giving directions, infusing energy, and inspiring courage. he was well aware of the fearful odds against him; for with five thousand troops he was to encounter forty thousand men, well armed, well disciplined, and under experienced officers. they could easily besiege him, and starve him into surrender. they could, from behind barricades, and from housetops and chamber windows, soon so thin out his ranks, that resistance would be hopeless. the officers of the national guard, however, had no conception of the firm, indomitable, unflinching spirit which they were to encounter. they did not believe that any one would dare to fire upon the citizens of paris. the convention were aroused to a most lively sense of the serious aspect of affairs, when in the gloom of night eight hundred muskets were brought in with an abundant supply of cartridges, by order of napoleon, to arm the members as a corps of reserve. this precaution indicated to them the full extent of the danger, and also the unwavering determination of the one who was intrusted with their defense. as the light of morning dawned upon the city, the tuileries presented the aspect of an intrenched camp. napoleon had posted his guns so as to sweep all the bridges and all the avenues, through which an opposing force could approach the capital. his own imperturbable calmness and firmness and confidence, communicated itself to the troops he commanded. the few laconic words with which he addressed them, like electric fire penetrated their hearts, and secured devotion, even to death, to his service. the alarm bells were now ringing, and the _générale_ beating in all parts of the city. the armed hosts, in dense black masses, were mustering at their appointed rendezvous, and preparing to march in solid columns upon the convention. the members in their seats, in silence and awe, awaited the fearful assault, upon whose issue their lives were suspended. napoleon, pale and solemn, and perfectly calm, imperturbable and determined, had completed all his arrangements, and was waiting, resolved that the responsibility of the first blow should fall upon his assailants, and that he would take the responsibility of the second. soon the enemy were seen advancing from every direction, in masses which perfectly filled the narrow streets of the city. with exultant music and waving banners, they marched proudly on to attack the besieged band upon every side, and confident, from their overpowering numbers, of an easy victory. they did not believe that the few and feeble troops of the convention would dare to resist the people, but cherished the delusion that a very few shots, from their own side, would put all opposition to flight. thus, unhesitatingly, they came within the sweep of the grape-shot, with which napoleon had charged his guns to the muzzle. but seeing that the troops of the convention stood firm, awaiting their approach, the head of one of the advancing columns leveled their muskets and discharged a volley of bullets at their enemies. it was the signal for an instantaneous discharge, direct, sanguinary, merciless from every battery. in quick succession explosion followed explosion, and a perfect storm of grape-shot swept the thronged streets. the pavements were covered with the mangled and the dead. the columns wavered--the storm still continued; they turned--the storm still raged unabated; they fled in utter dismay in every direction; the storm still pursued them. then napoleon commanded his little division impetuously to follow the fugitives, and to continue the discharge, but with blank cartridges. as the thunder of these heavy guns reverberated along the streets, the insurgents dispersed through every available lane and alley, and in less than an hour the foe was nowhere to be found. napoleon sent his division into every section and disarmed the inhabitants, that there could be no re-gathering. he then ordered the dead to be buried, and the wounded to be conveyed to the hospitals, and then, with his pale and marble brow as unmoved as if no event of any great importance had occurred, he returned to his head-quarters at the tuileries. "how _could you_," said a lady, "thus mercilessly fire upon your own countrymen?" "a soldier," he coolly replied, "is but a machine to obey orders. this is _my seal_, which i have impressed upon paris." subsequently napoleon never ceased to regret the occurrence; and tried to forget, and to have others forget that he had ever deluged the streets of paris with the blood of frenchmen. thus napoleon established the new government of france called the directory, from the five directors, who composed its executive. but a few months passed away before napoleon, by moral power, without the shedding of a drop of blood, overthrew the constitution which his unpitying artillery had thus established. immediately after the quelling of the sections, napoleon was triumphantly received by the convention. it was declared, by unanimous resolve, that his energy had saved the republic. his friend barras, became one of the directors, and napoleon was appointed commander-in-chief of the army of the interior, and intrusted with the military defense and government of the metropolis. the defeat of the insurgents was the death-blow to all the hopes of the royalists, and seemed to establish the republic upon a permanent foundation. napoleon manifested the natural clemency of his disposition very strongly in this hour of triumph. when the convention would have executed menou as a traitor, he pleaded his cause and obtained his acquittal. he urged, and successfully, that as the insurgents were now harmless, they should not be punished, but that a vail of oblivion should be thrown over all their deeds. the convention, influenced not a little by the spirit of napoleon, now honorably dissolved itself, by passing an act of general amnesty for all past offenses, and surrendering the government to the directory. the situation of napoleon was now flattering in the extreme. he was but twenty-five years of age. the distinguished services he had rendered; the high rank he had attained, and the ample income at his disposal, gave him a very elevated position in the public view. the eminence he had now attained was not a sudden and accidental outbreak of celebrity. it was the result of long years of previous toil. he was now reaping the fruit of the seed which he had sown in his incessant application to study in the military school; in his continued devotion to literary and scientific pursuits, after he became an officer; in his energy, and fearlessness, and untiring assiduity at toulon; in his days of wintry exposure, and nights of sleeplessness in fortifying the coast of france, and in his untiring toil among the fastnesses of the alps. never was reputation earned and celebrity attained by more herculean labor. if napoleon had extraordinary genius, as unquestionably he had, this genius stimulated him to extraordinary exertions. immediately upon the attainment of this high dignity and authority, with the ample pecuniary resources accompanying it, napoleon hastened to marseilles, to place his mother in a position of perfect comfort. and he continued to watch over her with most filial assiduity, proving himself an affectionate and dutiful son. from this hour the whole family, mother, brothers, and sisters were taken under his protection, and all their interests blended with his own. the post which napoleon now occupied was one of vast responsibility, demanding incessant care, and moral courage, and tact. the royalists and the jacobins were exceedingly exasperated. the government was not consolidated, and had obtained no command over the public mind. paris was filled with tumult and disorder. the ravages of the revolution had thrown hundreds of thousands out of employment, and starvation was stalking through the streets of the metropolis. it became necessary for the government, almost without means or credit, to feed the famishing. napoleon manifested great skill and humanity, combined with unflinching firmness in repressing disorders. it was not unfrequently necessary to appeal to the strong arm of military power to arrest the rising array of lawless passion. often his apt and pithy speeches would promote good-nature and disperse the crowd. on one occasion a fish-woman of enormous rotundity of person, exhorted the mob, with most vehement volubility, not to disperse, exclaiming, "never mind these coxcombs with epaulets upon their shoulders; they care not if we poor people all starve, if they can but feed well and grow fat." napoleon, who was as thin and meagre as a shadow, turned to her and said, "look at me, my good woman, and tell me which of us two is the fatter." the amazon was completely disconcerted by this happy repartee; and the crowd in good-humor dispersed. [illustration: the amazon discomfited.] [footnote : it is pleasant to witness manifestations of gratitude. god frowns upon impiety. the wealthy, illustrious, and miserable junot, in a paroxysm of insanity, precipitated himself from his chamber window, and died in agony upon the pavement.] [footnote : andrè massena rose from a common soldier to the rank of a commander, and became duke of rivoli and marshal of france. "he was," said napoleon, "a man of superior talent. he generally, however, made bad dispositions previously to a battle. it was not until the dead began to fall about him that he began to act with that judgment which he ought to have displayed before. in the midst of the dying and the dead, and of balls sweeping away those who encircled him, he gave his orders, and made his dispositions with the most perfect coolness and judgment. it was truly said of him, that he never began to act with skill until the battle was going against him. he was, however, _a robber_. he went halves with the contractors and commissaries of the army. i signified to him often, that if he would discontinue his peculations i would make him a present of a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand dollars, but he had acquired such a habit that he could not keep his hands from money. on this account he was hated by the soldiers, who mutinied against him three or four times. however, considering the circumstances of the times, he was precious. had not his bright parts been sullied by avarice, he would have been a great man." massena lived through all the wars of napoleon, and died of chagrin, when the master, whom he adored, was an exile at st. helena.] the treason of benedict arnold. by benson j. lossing. [illustration: benedict arnold.] [the engravings which illustrate this article, are from lossing's _pictorial field-book of the revolution_, now in course of publication by harper and brothers.] the defection of arnold, and his attempt to betray the strong post of west point and its dependencies into the power of the british army, was the ripened head of faction which had been festering in the legislature and the camp for more than three years. the stern and disinterested patriotism which marshaled a beleaguering army around boston, and declared, in solemn council, the thirteen anglo-american colonies to be free and independent states, had become diluted by the commingling of selfish ambition. already church, duché, galloway, zubley, and other smaller traitors who, like peter, were courageous when danger appeared remote, and boasted loudly of their love for the patriot cause, until the hour of its trial came, had denied their allegiance to the new faith by words or deeds, and gave countenance to multitudes of the weak, timid, and unprincipled, who openly espoused the cause of the king. as the contest advanced, and the night of the revolution grew darker, ambitious men became bolder; and, already, general officers and their minions had secretly plotted against the good washington, and found abettors in congress. arnold, however, had nothing to do with these intrigues, for none made him a confidant, and he seldom confided in others. yet it was not until his bolder act alarmed the whole people, and awakened them to vigilance and the keenest scrutiny of the conduct of their officers in the field, that the factious spirit was abashed. in his treason it culminated--it came to a head; in his failure it waned--it discharged its impurities, and healthier action ensued. the time when arnold's defection was discovered, in the autumn of , was the gloomiest period of the war. public credit had sunk to the lowest point of distrust. no prestige of a great achievement during the campaign, like that of the capture of burgoyne, could secure loans abroad. the people of america were impoverished and discouraged. the whole business of the country was controlled by heartless speculators. the continental bills had so depreciated that seven hundred dollars in paper sold for one dollar in specie. the governmental machinery of the confederation worked inefficiently. new york city, the virginia sea board, and almost the whole of the carolinas and georgia were in possession of the enemy, and the french army under rochambeau, whose advent gave such joy and hope to the patriots, was lying idle at newport, unwilling to engage in a campaign till another spring. in this hour of its weakness and distress, arnold sought the utter ruin of his country, for the wicked purpose of gratifying petty spite; for the base consideration of paltry, perishing gold! arnold was innately wicked and treacherous. the mother who bore him was an exemplar of piety and sweetness of character, and daily counseled her boy with words of heavenly wisdom. yet, from earliest childhood he was wayward, disobedient, reckless, and profane. a stranger to physical fear, and always heedless of the consequences resulting from action, his hands were ever ready to do the bidding of a perverse nature or the impulses of circumstances. when the tocsin of freedom was sounded at lexington and concord, his impetuous spirit was aroused, and his feelings assumed the character of the most zealous patriotism. he was doubtless sincere, and went into the contest with a soul filled with desires to cast back the surges of despotism, which were beating higher and higher against the liberties of his country. his brave exploits on lake champlain; his wondrous journey through the wilderness from the kennebeck to the st. lawrence; his assault on the capital of the canadas, and his brilliant deeds at ridgefield, compo, and saratoga excited the astonishment and admiration of his countrymen. congress awarded him special honors, and the name of arnold was a host in the northern department. as a soldier and leader he was the bravest of the brave, skillful and high-souled; but in his social relations he was a moral coward, deceptive, mean-spirited, and debased. washington admired his military genius, but despised his avarice, selfishness, and profligacy. he was ever distrustful of his patriotism, because he lacked the essential elements of that virtue, except personal courage. he was disliked by the leading men in the army, for he quarreled with all his peers, and was reserved toward his subordinates. his avarice was notorious. "money is this man's god, and to get enough of it, he would sacrifice his country," said colonel brown, in a hand-bill, almost four years before arnold's defection. from the hour when temptation lured him at montreal and st. john's, till the termination of his command in philadelphia, he was guilty of peculations, fraudulent, and unworthy acts, which dimmed the lustre of his military fame. justice, however, demands some light touches upon this dark picture. envy, the bane of happiness, and the sure accompaniment of honors, was rank among his fellow-officers. the brilliancy of arnold's personal acts eclipsed their achievements, and doubtless the jealous feelings excited thereby were powerful and not very remote causes of his defection. at the outset, when, in company with ethan allen, he assisted in the capture of ticonderoga, he felt aggrieved by the seeming neglect of the civil authorities of connecticut and massachusetts; and during the five years succeeding, fresh instances of neglect occurred, and obstacles were continually placed in the way of his advancement and popularity, by those who hoped to shine in proportion to the waning of his fame. the very men who conspired against washington, were most prominent in opposition to arnold, and that officer saw no hope of justice, real or shadowy, at the hands of congress, for faction was as rife there as in the army. with contracted vision he beheld, in the conduct of its political representatives, the ingratitude and injustice of his country; and the hatred which he fostered for the few was extended to the _cause_, of which they were the accredited supporters. this feeling, and the hope of large pecuniary reward, by which he might relieve himself of heavy and increasing embarrassments, extinguished his patriotism, and beckoned him to the bad pre-eminence of a mercenary traitor. from cain to catiline, the world hath seen her traitors--vaunted votaries of crime-- caligula and nero sat alone upon the pinnacle of vice sublime; but they were moved by hate, or wish to climb the rugged steeps of fame, in letters bold to write their names upon the scroll of time; therefore their crimes some virtue did enfold-- but, arnold! thine had none; 'twas all for sordid gold. estelle anna lewis. in consequence of a bad wound received in his leg while gallantly fighting at saratoga (and which was yet unhealed), arnold was not fit for active service when the british evacuated philadelphia in the spring of . washington, desirous of keeping him employed, appointed him military governor of that city, in command of a small corps of soldiers. fond of show, and feeling the importance of his station, arnold adopted a style of living incompatible with his resources and the character of a republican. he made the fine old mansion of william penn his residence; kept a coach-and-four; gave splendid soirées and banquets, and charmed the gayer portion of philadelphia society with his princely displays. his station, and the splendor of his equipage, captivated the daughter of edward shippen, a leading loyalist, and afterward chief justice of the state. her beauty and accomplishments won the heart of the widower of forty. she had bloomed but eighteen summers, and admirers of every degree coveted her smiles; yet she gave her hand to arnold, and they were married. stanch whigs shook their heads in distrust, and the equally stanch loyalists were gratified. to the former, this union augured of evil; to the latter, it had promises of hope. both were right interpreters. arnold's extravagance soon brought importunate creditors to his door. rather than retrench his expenses, he procured money by a system of fraud and prostitution of his official power. the city being under martial law, his power was supreme. he forbade shopkeepers selling certain articles, and then, through agents, he trafficked in those very articles, and sold them at enormous profits. the people were incensed, and a deputation went before the president and council of pennsylvania, and preferred charges against him. these were laid before congress, and that body referred the whole matter to washington, to be adjudicated by a military tribunal. after a delay of more than a year arnold was tried, and found guilty of two of four charges preferred against him. the court pronounced the mildest sentence in its power--a mere reprimand by the commander-in-chief. washington performed the duty with the greatest delicacy. "our profession," he said, "is the chastest of all. even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the lustre of our finest achievements. the least inadvertence may rob us of the public favor, so hard to be acquired. i reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you had rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment toward your fellow-citizens. exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed you on the list of our most valued commanders. i will myself furnish you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities of regaining the esteem of your country." what punishment could have been lighter! yet arnold was greatly irritated. he had anticipated a full acquittal, and a triumphant vindication of his honor. even this slight punishment deeply wounded his pride, and instead of receiving it with the generous feelings of true honor and dignity, he resented it as a meditated wrong. the rank weed of treason was already growing luxuriantly in his heart, for he had been for nine months in secret correspondence with the enemy in new york; now it bloomed, and its fruit expanded under the genial heat of intense hatred, fed by mortified pride, foiled ambition, the pressure of embarrassments, the want of employment, intercourse with loyalists, and a sense of public injustice. when the great fête, called the _mischianza_ was given in philadelphia in honor of general sir william howe, on his departure from america in the spring of , captain john andrè was the most active and talented officer engaged in its preparation. he was a wit, a poet, and a painter. thwarted in an engagement of marriage with the charming honora sneyd, by the unwise scruples of her father, on account of the suitor's youth and obscurity, andrè placed in his bosom the miniature of his idol, painted by his own hands, joined the army, and came to america to seek, in the excitement of the camp, an alleviation of sufferings inflicted by disappointed love. he landed in canada; was captured at st. john's on the sorel, where he saved the picture of honora by concealing it in his mouth; was taken to pennsylvania; was exchanged, and finally rejoined the army in new york. [illustration: john andrÃ�.] [illustration: sir henry clinton.] among the young ladies of philadelphia who graced the _mischianza_, was the gay and brilliant margaret shippen, who afterward became the wife of arnold. andrè was a frequent guest at her father's table, and margaret continued her acquaintance with him, by epistles, even after her marriage. through this channel her husband opened a correspondence with sir henry clinton, the commander-in-chief of the british forces in america, and then quartered in new york. for a long time arnold's letters were vague. his advances were slow and cautious. he assumed the name of _gustavus_, and couched his letters in commercial phrases. profound secrecy was observed by both. arnold's wife, it is believed, was ignorant of the true intent of her husband's letters, and clinton had no other confidant than andrè and colonel beverly robinson. the latter was the son-in-law of frederick phillipse, one of the largest landholders in america. twenty years before, washington, then a virginia colonel, had enjoyed the hospitalities of his house, and there became enamored of mary phillipse, the betrothed of roger morris, his old companion in arms in the battle of monongahela. of course his suit was rejected, and the young soldier gave his heart and hand to a charming widow of his own province. robinson had an extensive acquaintance among the american officers. he early espoused the patriot cause, even as early as the era of the stamp act; but when the declaration of independence was promulgated, he was unwilling to accede to so bold a measure as the dismemberment of the british empire, and he took up arms for the king. [illustration: bev. robinson] west point, on the hudson, fifty miles above new york, made strong by nature, and strengthened by art, was an object of covetous desire to sir henry clinton. it was the key to the northern country and the route to canada, and the strong link of co-operation between the patriots of the eastern and middle states. arnold knew its value to both parties, and he resolved to make its betrayal the equivalent for personal honors and a large sum of money. when his determination was fixed, and his plans were arranged, his deportment was suddenly changed. hitherto he had been sullen and indifferent; now his patriotism glowed with all the apparent ardor of his earlier career. hitherto he had pleaded the bad state of his wounds as an excuse for inaction; now they healed rapidly. he was now anxious to join his old companions in arms, and to general schuyler, robert r. livingston, and other influential men in congress, he expressed his impatience to be in the camp or the field. rejoiced at the change, and believing him sincere, they wrote letters to washington commendatory of arnold, and, in pursuance of his intimation, suggested his appointment to the command of west point. at the same time arnold visited the camp to pay his respects to the commander-in-chief, and expressed his desire to have a command, like that at west point, for his wounds would not now allow him to perform active service on horseback in the field. washington was surprised, but, unsuspicious of wrong, acceded to his request, and on the d of august, , gave him written instructions. his command included west point and its dependencies from stony point to fishkill. [illustration: robinson's house.] upon a fertile plateau, high above the river, and at the foot of a range of lofty hills, nearly opposite west point, was the confiscated country seat of colonel beverly robinson, a spacious mansion for the times, and now a pleasant residence. there arnold established his quarters, and elaborated his wicked scheme; and there he was joined by his wife and infant son, when his plans were ripe, and his treason almost consummated. it was a part of washington's plan for the autumn campaign, to make an attack upon the city of new york, with the combined french and american forces, the former to approach by the way of long island, and the other by crossing kingsbridge at the head of york, or manhattan island. arnold communicated the details of this plan to sir henry clinton, and proposed that when the assailants approached, a large british force should proceed up the hudson to the highlands in a flotilla under admiral rodney, when the traitor should surrender west point and its dependencies, excusing himself with the plea of a weak garrison. the anticipated result was a retreat of washington toward the highlands to regain the fortress and save his ample stores and the probable capture of the french army. sir henry clinton was delighted with the plan, and eagerly sought to carry it out. hitherto he was not certified of the real name and character of _gustavus_, although for some months he had suspected him to be general arnold. unwilling to proceed further upon uncertainties, he proposed sending an officer to some point near the american lines to have a personal interview with his correspondent. arnold consented, and insisted that young andrè, now the adjutant-general of the british army, and high in the confidence of sir henry clinton, should be the officer sent. they agreed to meet at dobb's ferry, upon the neutral ground, some twenty miles above new york. thither andrè, accompanied by colonel robinson, proceeded; but the vigilance of the british water-guard prevented the approach of arnold, and the conference was deferred. sir henry clinton, anxious to effect definite arrangements with arnold, sent the vulture sloop-of-war up the river, as far as teller's point, nearly opposite haverstraw, with colonel robinson on board. that officer, under pretense of making inquiries respecting his confiscated property, communicated with arnold, who, in an ambiguous answer, informed him that a flag and a boat would be sent to the vulture on the night of the twentieth, to be used as circumstances might require. this fact was communicated to clinton, and on the morning of that day, major andrè, after singing a song and taking wine with some fellow-officers, at kip's bay, proceeded by land to dobb's ferry, and from thence in a barge to the vulture. he was instructed not to change his dress, go within the american lines, receive papers, or in any other way act as a spy. it was supposed that arnold himself would come to the vulture, and that there the whole plan would be arranged. the wily general was not to be caught, and he chose a meeting place which involved less personal hazard. about half way between stony point and haverstraw, lived joshua hett smith, a brother of the tory chief justice of new york. to his house arnold repaired, and employed him to proceed to the vulture, at night, and bring a gentleman to the western shore of the hudson. smith was an active man, of considerable influence in his neighborhood, and is supposed to have been the _dupe_, not the voluntary aid of arnold in his treasonable preparations. unable to procure oarsmen, smith did not proceed to the vulture until the night of the twenty-first. as soon as the moon went down, he glided silently out of haverstraw creek, with muffled oars, and at a little past midnight reached the vessel anchored in the middle of the river. it was a serene, starry night, and not a ripple was upon the bosom of the waters. cautiously he approached the vulture, and, by proper signal, obtained admission on board. his oarsmen waited but a few minutes, when smith, accompanied by a british officer, descended into the boat. the latter was dressed in the scarlet uniform of the royal army, but all was covered with a long blue surtout, buttoned to the chin, and a plain cocked hat covered his head. not a word was spoken as they moved noiselessly toward a deep-shaded estuary at the foot of long clove mountain, a little below haverstraw. smith led the officer, in the gloom, to a thicket near by, and there, in a low whisper, introduced john anderson (the name assumed by major andrè in his correspondence) to general arnold, and then retired. the conspirators were left alone. there, in the deep shadows of night, concealed from human cognizance, they discussed their dark plans, and plotted the utter ruin of the patriot cause. there the arch-traitor, eager for the coveted gold of a royal purchaser, higgled with the king's broker about the price of his infamy; there the perjured recusant, satisfied with the _word_ of an honest man (for he dared not accept a written bond), "sold his birth-right for a mess of pottage." [illustration: smith's house.] the hour of dawn approached, and their conference was not ended. smith came, and urged the necessity for haste, for the water-guard would soon be on the alert, and it would be difficult to return to the vulture. much was yet to be done, and andrè reluctantly consented to accompany arnold to smith's house, nearly four miles distant, and await the darkness of another night to return to the vessel. expecting a protracted interview, arnold had brought two horses with him. while it was yet dark they mounted, and as they passed in the rear of haverstraw, in the dim twilight of earliest dawn, the voice of a sentinel gave andrè the first intimation that he was within the american lines. he perceived the danger, but it was too late to recede. they reached smith's house before sunrise, and at that moment the boom of a cannon came up from the bosom of the bay. several discharges quickly succeeded each other, and soon the vulture, galled by an iron four-pounder upon teller's point, weighed anchor, and dropped down the river beyond the vision of the conspirators. deep inquietude stirred the soul of andrè. he was within the enemy's lines, without flag or pass. if detected, he would be called a spy--a name he hated as much as that of traitor. the ingenious sophistry of arnold allayed his apprehensions, and in an upper room of smith's house, the plan of operations was determined, and there andrè passed a day of great solicitude. the plan was simple. washington had gone to hartford, to confer with the french officers. it was agreed to consummate the scheme during the absence of the commander-in-chief, instead of waiting for the uncertain movements of the armies. the garrison at west point was to be weakened by dispersion, and clinton was to sail up the river with a strong force, and take possession. at noon, the whole plan being arranged, arnold placed in andrè's possession, several papers, explanatory of the condition of west point and its dependencies. zealous in the service of his king and country, andrè disobeyed the commands of his general, and received them. at arnold's suggestion, he placed them in his stockings under his feet, and receiving a pass from the traitor (printed on the next page), waited impatiently for the approach of night. fully believing that no obstacle now interposed in the way of success, arnold prepared for the reception of rodney's flotilla with a strong force under clinton. pretending that it needed repairing, a link from the great iron chain which spanned the hudson at west point, was taken out and sent to the smith, and the garrison at fort clinton, on the point, was weakened by scattering the troops in detachments among the several redoubts in the vicinity. colonel lamb, who commanded the garrison, wondered at the movement, but did not suspect his chief. so skillfully had arnold managed all his plans, that no suspicion of his defection was abroad; and washington held his conference with rochambeau and ternay, satisfied that west point was in safe hands. [illustration: copy of pass for john anderson] when night approached, smith positively refused to convey andrè back to the vulture, but offered to accompany him to the borders of the neutral ground on the east side of the hudson. andrè remonstrated in vain. there was no alternative but to remain. he exchanged his uniform for a citizen's dress, and at twilight, mounted on good horses, and accompanied by a negro servant, smith and andrè crossed king's ferry (now verplanck's point), and turned their faces toward white plains. andrè was moody, for he felt uneasy. they met with no interruption, until near the little village of crompond, eight miles from king's ferry, when they were hailed by a sentinel. arnold's pass was examined, known to be genuine, and the travelers were about to pass on, when the officer of the post magnified the dangers of the road, and persuaded them to halt for the night. sleep was a stranger to the eyes of andrè, and at dawn they were in the saddle. when they approached pine's bridge, and he was assured that he was upon neutral ground, beyond the american lines, his gloomy taciturnity was exchanged for cheerful garrulity, and he conversed in an almost playful manner upon poetry, the arts, literature, and common topics. a mile above the bridge, smith handed him a small sum in continental bills, and they parted, the former to proceed to arnold's quarters and report his success, the latter to hasten toward new york. andrè, being told that the _cow-boys_[ ] were more numerous on the tarrytown road, took that direction, contrary to the advice of smith and others, who directed him to proceed by the way of white plains. andrè was anxious to be among his friends, and as these marauders were such, he concluded that the tarrytown road would be the safer for him, for if he fell into their hands, he would be taken to new york, whither he was hastening. this was his fatal mistake. on the morning when andrè left pine's bridge, a little band of seven young volunteers, went out near tarrytown to watch the movements of the _cow-boys_ and other depredators. four of them (john yorks, john dean, james romez, and abraham william) agreed to tarry upon a hill which commanded an extensive view of the highway, while the remaining three (john paulding, isaac van wart, and david williams) were to be concealed in the bushes on the bank of a small stream, near the road. at ten o'clock in the morning, while engaged in playing cards, the young men saw a horseman approach from the direction of sleepy hollow. they confronted him, and demanded a knowledge of his business and destination. "i hope, gentlemen, that you belong to our party," said the traveler. "what party?" inquired williams, who had presented his firelock to his breast. "the lower party" (meaning the british), quickly replied the horseman. [illustration: map showing andrÃ�'s whole route. (_the fine lines indicate the highways he traveled_.)] "i am a british officer, out upon urgent business. i hope you will not detain me a minute." he was ordered to dismount, when he instantly discovered his fatal mistake. "my god!" he exclaimed, half laughing, "we must do anything to get along;" and then showed them arnold's pass, for the traveler was major andrè. the young militia men were not as easily satisfied as the sentinel at crompond. they insisted upon searching him. they made him strip; ripped up the housings of his saddle, and finally ordered him to pull off his boots. he reluctantly obeyed, and beneath his feet were the papers given him by arnold. [illustration: present appearance of the place where andrÃ� was captured.] andrè offered his captors tempting bribes of money and merchandise, if they would allow him to pass on, but their patriotism was too dear to be bought with a price. they conducted him to the quarters of colonel jameson at north castle, the nearest post, and delivered him up. that officer, with obtuseness of perception most extraordinary, resolved to send him immediately to general arnold! major tallmadge, with better judgment, boldly expressed his belief that arnold was a traitor, and finally induced jameson to send the prisoner to colonel sheldon's quarters at north salem, until more should be known respecting him, for, they had no suspicion of the rank and character of the young man in their custody. jameson, however, would not suspect the fidelity of his general, and actually sent a letter to inform him that "a mr. john anderson" was a prisoner in his hands. on the morning of the th of september, the day fixed upon by the conspirators for the surrender of the fort, washington returned from hartford. it was two days earlier than arnold expected him. the traitor was astounded when a messenger rode up, a little after sunrise, and announced the intention of the commander-in-chief to breakfast with him. on approaching arnold's quarters, washington directed la fayette and hamilton, who were with him, to go on and breakfast with mrs. arnold, while he turned down a lane to the river to inspect a redoubt upon the bank. [illustration: the breakfast room.] arnold and his guests were at breakfast when a messenger came in haste with a letter for the general. it was from jameson, announcing the arrest of andrè, instead of the expected intelligence that the enemy were moving up the river. agitated, but not sufficiently to excite the special notice of his guests, he arose from the table, hastened to the room of his wife, kissed his sleeping babe, and telling his spouse in hurried words that they must part, perhaps forever, left her in a swoon, mounted the horse of one of his aids standing at the door, dashed across the fields and down a declivity to a narrow pathway on the borders of a morass to a dock built by colonel robinson, and throwing himself into his barge, nerved the oarsmen with promises of large rewards of rum and money for swiftness of speed, and was soon sweeping through the race at fort montgomery. the old dock from whence the traitor escaped, is still there, but the hudson river railway has spanned the mouth of the swale, and cleft the rocky point, so that little of the original features of the scenery remain. [illustration: view at robinson's dock.] washington went over to west point before going to arnold's quarters. he was surprised when informed by lamb that the general had not been at the garrison for two days. he recrossed the river, and when he approached robinson's house, hamilton, greatly excited, met him, and revealed the dreadful secret of arnold's guilt and flight. his guilt was made manifest by the arrival of the papers taken from andrè, and his flight confirmed the dark tale which they unfolded. with these papers came a letter from andrè to washington, frankly avowing his name and character. "whom can we trust now?" said the chief with calmness, while feelings of the deepest sorrow were evidently at work in his bosom, as he laid before la fayette, hamilton, and knox the evidences of treason. the condition of mrs. arnold excited washington's liveliest sympathy. but one year a mother and not two a bride, the poor young creature had received a blow of the most appalling nature. she raved furiously and mourned piteously, alternately. the tenderest care was bestowed upon her, and she was soon sent in safety to new york, whither her fallen husband had escaped. pursuit of the traitor was unavailing. he had four hours the start. the vulture was yet lying below teller's point, awaiting the return of andrè, and to the security of her bulwarks arnold escaped. she proceeded to new york that evening, and sir henry clinton, informed of the failure of the scheme, was unwilling to hazard an attack upon the highland fortresses, now that the patriots were thoroughly awake. the main body of the american army was lying at tappan, on the west side of the hudson, near the present terminus of the new york and erie railroad. thither andrè was conveyed, after being brought to west point, and in a stone house, near the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief, he was strongly guarded. on the twenty-ninth of september a court martial was convened near by, for his trial, and, after a patient investigation, it being proven, and confessed by the prisoner himself, that he was in the american lines (though not voluntarily) without a flag, they gave it as their opinion that he ought to suffer death as a spy. all hearts were alive with sympathy for the condemned, and washington would gladly have saved his life; but the stern demands of the cruel and uncompromising rules of war, denied the petitions of mercy, and the commander-in-chief was obliged to sign his death-warrant. he was sentenced to be hung on the afternoon of the first of october. [illustration: washington's head-quarters at tappan.] andrè exhibited no fear of death, and to the last the workings of his genius were displayed. on the morning of the day appointed for his execution, he sketched a likeness of himself with a pen and ink, and conversed cheerfully with those around him upon the pleasures of painting and kindred arts. but the _manner_ of his death disturbed his spirit. he pleaded earnestly to be _shot_ as a soldier, not _hung_ as a spy. but even this poor boon could not be allowed, for the rules of war demanded death by a cord and not by a bullet. his execution was delayed one day in consequence of the intercession of sir henry clinton, and a hope that arnold might be obtained and righteously suffer in his stead. all was unavailing, and major andrè, in the bloom of manhood, was hung at tappan on the second of october, , at the age of twenty-nine years. [illustration: andrÃ�'s pen-and-ink sketch of himself.] the youth, accomplishments, and gentleness of manners of the young soldier, endeared him to all, and his fate was deeply regretted on both sides of the atlantic. his king caused a mural monument, of elegant device, to be erected to his memory in westminster abbey; and in , the duke of york had his remains removed from tappan and taken to london, where they now repose beneath his marble memorial, among those of many heroes and poets of old england. a halo of melancholy sweetness surrounds the name and character of the unfortunate youth which increases in glory with the flight of time. [illustration: andrÃ�'s monument in westminster abbey.] the traitor, though unsuccessful, received ten thousand guineas from the british treasury, and the commission of a brigadier from the king. he served his new master faithfully. with the spirit of a demon he desolated, with fire and sword, the beautiful country near the mouth of the thames, in connecticut, almost in sight of the roof which sheltered his infancy; and with augmented ferocity he spread distress and ruin, to the extent of his power, upon the virginia shores of the chesapeake, and along the fertile borders of the james and the appomattox. hated and despised by his new companions in arms, and insulted and contemned in public places after the war, arnold became an outcast like cain, and like esau he found no place for repentance, though he sought it diligently with tears. he died in obscurity in the british metropolis, in , and who knows the place of his grave? [illustration: paulding's monument and st. peter's church.] the captors of andrè were highly applauded by the people, and honored and rewarded by congress. that body awarded to each a silver medal, having on one side the word fidelity, and on the other, vincit amor patrÃ�; "the love of country conquers." they were also allowed each an annual pension of two hundred dollars, during their lives. public esteem for their services has erected monuments over the remains of two of them. paulding's mortality sleeps beneath a chaste marble cenotaph in the old st. peter's church-yard, two miles eastward of peekskill; and over the dust of van wart, in the greenburgh church-yard, near the banks of the beautiful nepara, in westchester county, stands a plain monument of white marble. the former was erected by the corporation of the city of new york; the latter by citizens of westchester county. no public memorial yet marks the place of rest of david williams in the church-yard at livingstonville, in schoharie county. [illustration: van wart's monument.] the traitor and his victim, the captors, judges, and executioner, have all gone to the spirit-land whither the ken of the historian and the moralist may not follow; and the myriads of hearts which beat with sympathy or indignation, as the sad intelligence of the tragedy at tappan winged its way over our land, or sped to the abodes of intelligent men in the old world, are pulseless and forgotten. charity would counsel tenderly respecting each, "no farther seek his merits to disclose, or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (there they alike in trembling hope repose) the bosom of his father, and his god." gray. yet it is well, occasionally, to lift the vail from past events, though they may be dark and forbidding in aspect, for to the wise and thoughtful they convey lessons of wisdom, and to the foolish and inconsiderate, the wayward and the wicked, they may speak a word of warning in season to curb an evil spirit and promote righteousness. [footnote : the _cow-boys_ were a set of people mostly, if not wholly refugees, belonging to the british side, and engaged in plundering cattle near the lines and driving them to new york. the name indicates their vocation. there was another description of banditti called _skinners_, who lived for the most part within the american lines, and professed attachment to the american cause; but in reality they were more unprincipled, perfidious, and inhuman than the _cow-boys_ themselves; for these latter exhibited some symptoms of fellow-feeling for their friends, whereas the _skinners_ committed their depredations equally upon friends and foes. by a law of the state of new york, every person refusing to take an oath of fidelity to the state, was considered as forfeiting his property. the large territory between the american and british lines, extending nearly thirty miles from north to south, and embracing westchester county, was populous and highly cultivated. this was the famous neutral ground. a person living within that space, who took the oath of fidelity, was sure to be plundered by the _cow-boys_; and if he did not take it, the _skinners_ would come down upon him, call him a tory, and seize his property as confiscated by the state. thus the execution of the laws was assumed by robbers, and the innocent and guilty were involved in a common ruin. it is true, the civil authority endeavored to guard against these outrages, as far as it could, by legislative enactments and executive proclamations; but, from the nature of the case, this formidable conspiracy against the rights and claims of humanity could be crushed only by a military arm. the detachments of continental troops and militia, stationed near the lines, did something to lessen the evil; yet they were not adequate to its suppression, and frequently this force was so feeble as not to afford any barrier against the inroads of the banditti. the _skinners_ and _cow-boys_ often leagued together. the former would sell their plunder to the latter, taking in exchange contraband articles from new york. it was not uncommon for the farce of a skirmish to be acted near the american lines, in which the _skinners_ never failed to come off victorious; and then they would go boldly into the interior with their booty, pretending it had been captured from the enemy while attempting to smuggle it across the lines.--_sparks_.] memories of mexico. the first action fought by the american army in the valley of mexico, on the th august, , was at contreras. it was an attack upon a fortified camp, in which lay general valencia with mexicans, composed of the remnant of the army beaten by taylor, on the hills of buena vista. it was styled "the army of the north;" most of the soldiers composing it being from the northern departments--the hardy miners of zacatecas and san luis potosi--and they were esteemed "the flower of the mexican army." on the previous day powder enough was burned to have cured the atmosphere for twenty miles around, yet there was nothing done. we held the ground, however, in mud up to our ankles. in this we lay shivering under a cold drizzle until the morning. by daylight we were at it in earnest. during the night two of our best brigades had crept, unperceived, through the clay "barrancas" close up to the rear of the enemy's camp, ready to spring. at daybreak old riley shouted, "_forward and give them h-ll!_" and before our foes--not expecting us from that quarter--could bring their artillery to bear upon us, we were in the midst of them. the action lasted just seventeen minutes. at the end of that time we had laid our hands upon thirty of valencia's cannon, and taken about a thousand prisoners; and had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of them, in their long yellow mantles, disappearing through the fissures of the lava fields, in rapid flight along the road to mexico. we followed, of course, but as our cavalry had not been able to cross the pedregal, and the enemy were our superiors in retreat, we were soon distanced. as we came down upon the village of san angel, the occasional blast of a light infantry bugle, with the "crack--crack--cr-r-r-ack" of our rifles in front, told us that we had still more work to do before entering the halls of the montezumas. we were, in fact, driving in the light troops of santa anna's main army, lying we knew not where, but somewhere between us and the far-famed city. it is not my intention to give an account of the battle that followed, nor should i have entered into these details of the fight at contreras, but to put the reader in possession of "situations," and, moreover, to bring to his notice an incident that occurred, during that action, to a friend--the hero of this narrative--whom i will now introduce. i was then a sub., and my friend, richard l----, was the captain of my company; young as myself, and full as ardent in pursuit of the red glory of war. we had long known each other, had gone through the campaign together, and, more than once, had stood side by side under the leaden shower. i need not say how a juxtaposition of this kind strengthens the ties of friendship. we had come out of resaca and monterey unscathed. we had passed through cerro gordo with "only a scratch." so far we had been fortunate, as i esteemed it. not so my friend; he wished to get a wound, for the honor of the thing. he was accommodated at contreras; for the bullet from an escopette had passed through his left arm below the elbow-joint. it appeared to be only a flesh wound; and as his sword-arm was still safe, he disdained to leave the field until the "day was done." binding the wounded limb with a rag from his shirt, and slinging it in his sash, he headed his company in the pursuit. by ten o'clock we had driven the enemy's skirmishers out of san angel, and taken possession of the village. our commander-in-chief was as yet ignorant of the position of the mexican army; and we halted, to await the necessary reconnoisance. notwithstanding the cold of the preceding night, the day had become hot and oppressive. the soldiers, wearied with watching, marching, and the fight, threw themselves down in the dusty streets. hunger kept many awake, for they had eaten nothing for twenty hours. a few houses were entered, and the _tortillas_ and _tasajo_ drawn forth; but there is but little to be found, at any time, in the larder of a mexican house; and the jail-like doors of most of them were closely barred. the unglazed windows were open; but the massive iron railings of the "reja" defended them from intrusion. from these railings various flags were suspended--french, german, spanish, and portuguese--signifying that the inmates were foreigners in the country, and therefore entitled to respect. where no excuse for such claim existed, a white banner, the emblem of peace, protruded through the bars; and perhaps this was as much respected as the symbols of neutrality. it was the season when fashion deserts the alameda of mexico, and betakes itself to _montè_, cock-fighting, and intriguing, in the romantic "pueblos" that stud the valley. san angel is one of these pueblos, and at that moment many of the "familias principales" of the city were domiciled around us. through the rejas we could catch an occasional glimpse of the inmates in the dark apartments within. it is said that, with woman, curiosity is stronger than fear. it appeared to be so in this case. when the inhabitants saw that pillage was not intended, beautiful and stylish women showed themselves in the windows and on the "balcons," looking down at us with a timorous yet confiding wonder. this was strange, after the stories of our barbarity, in which they had been so well drilled; but we had become accustomed to the high courage of the mexican females, and it was a saying among us, that "the women were the best men in the country." jesting aside, i am satisfied, that had they taken up arms instead of their puny countrymen, we should not have boasted so many easy victories. our bivouac lasted about an hour. the reconnoisance having been at length completed, the enemy was discovered in a fortified position around the convent and bridge of churubusco. twiggs' division was ordered forward to commence the attack, just as the distant booming of cannon across the lava fields, told us that our right wing, under worth, had sprung the enemy's left at the hacienda of san antonio, and was driving it along the great national road. both wings of our army were beautifully converging to a common focus--the pueblo of churubusco. the brigade to which i was attached still held the position where it had halted in san angel. we were to move down to the support of twiggs' division, as soon as the latter should get fairly engaged. our place in the line had thrown us in front of a house somewhat retired from the rest, single-storied, and, like most of the others, flat-roofed, with a low parapet around the top. a large door and two windows fronted the street. one of the windows was open, and knotted to the reja was a small white handkerchief embroidered along the borders, and fringed with fine lace. there was something so delicate, yet striking in the appeal, that it at once attracted the attention of l---- and myself. it would have touched the compassion of a cossack; and _we_ felt at the moment that we would have protected that house against a general's order to pillage. we had seated ourselves on the edge of the banquette, directly in front of the window. a bottle of wine by some accident had reached us; and as we quaffed its contents, our eyes constantly wandered upon the open reja. we could see no one. all was dark within; but we could not help thinking that the owner of the kerchief--she who had hurriedly displayed that simple emblem of truce--could not be otherwise than an interesting and lovely creature. at length the drums beat for twiggs' division to move forward, and, attracted by the noise, a gray-haired old man appeared at the window. with feelings of disappointment, my friend and i turned our glances upon the street, and for some moments watched the horse artillery as it swept past. when our gaze was again directed to the house, the old man had a companion--the object of our instinctive expectation; yet fairer even than our imagination had portrayed. the features indicated that she was a mexican, but the complexion was darker than the half-breed, the aztec blood predominated. the crimson, mantling under the bronze of her cheeks, gave to her countenance that picture-like expression of the mixed races of the western world. the eye, black, with long fringing lash, and a brow upon which the jetty crescent seemed to have been painted. the nose slightly aquiline, curving at the nostril; while luxuriant hair, in broad plaits, fell far below her waist. as she stood on the sill of the low window, we had a full view of her person--from the satin slipper to the _reboso_ that hung loosely over her forehead. she was plainly dressed in the style of her country. we saw that she was not of the aristocracy, for, even in this remote region, has paris fashioned the costume of that order. on the other hand, she was above the class of the "poblanas," the demoiselles of the showy "naguas" and naked ankles. she was of the middle rank. for some moments my friend and myself gazed upon the fair apparition in silent wonder. she stood awhile, looking out upon the street, scanning the strange uniforms that were grouped before her. at length her eye fell upon us; and as she perceived that my comrade was wounded, she turned toward the old man. "look, father, a wounded officer! ah, what a sad thing, poor officer." "yes, it is a captain, shot through the arm." "poor fellow! he is pale--he is weary. i shall give him sweet water, shall i, father?" "very well, go, bring it." the girl disappeared from the window; and in a few moments returned with a glass, containing an amber-colored liquid--the essence of the pine-apple. making a sign toward l----, the little hand that held the glass was thrust through the bars of the reja. being nearer, i rose, and taking the glass, handed it to my friend. l---- bowed to the window, and acknowledging his gratitude in the best spanish he could muster, drank off the _agua dulce_. the glass was returned; and the young girl took her station as before. we did not enter into conversation, neither l---- nor myself; but i noticed that the incident had made an impression upon my friend. on the other hand, i observed the eyes of the girl, although at intervals wandering away, always return, and rest upon the features of my comrade. l---- was handsome; besides, he bore upon his person the evidence of a higher quality--courage; the quality that, before all others, will win the heart of a woman. all at once, the features of the girl changed their expression, and she uttered a scream. turning toward my friend, i saw the blood dripping through the sash. his wound had re-opened. i threw my arms around him, as several of the soldiers rushed forward; but before we could remove the bandage l---- had swooned. "may i beseech you to open the door?" said i, addressing the young girl and her father. "_si--si, señor_," cried they together, hurrying away from the window. at that moment the rattle of musketry from coyoacan, and the roar of field artillery, told us that twiggs was engaged. the long roll echoed through the streets, and the soldiers were speedily under arms. i could stay no longer, for i had now to lead the company; and leaving l---- in charge of two of the men, i placed myself at its head. as the "forward" was given, i heard the great door swing upon its hinges; and looking back as we marched down the street, i saw my friend conducted into the house. i had no fears for his safety, as a regiment was to remain in the village.... in ten minutes after i was upon the field of battle, and a red field it was. of my own small detachment every second soldier "bit the dust" on the plain of portales. i escaped unhurt, though my regiment was well peppered by our own artillerists from the _tête de pont_ of churubusco. in two hours we drove the enemy through the _garita_ of san antonio de abad. it was a total rout; and we could have entered the city without firing another shot. we halted, however, before the gates--a fatal halt, that afterward cost us nearly men, the flower of our little army. but, as i before observed, i am not writing a history of the campaign. an armistice followed, and gathering our wounded from the fields around churubusco, the army retired into the villages. the four divisions occupied respectively the pueblos of tacubaya, san angel, mixcoac, and san augustin de les cuevas. san angel was our destination; and the day after the battle my brigade marched back, and established itself in the village. i was not long in repairing to the house where i had left my friend. i found him suffering from fever, burning fever. in another day he was delirious; and in a week _he had lost his arm_; but the fever left him, and he began to recover. during the fortnight that followed, i made frequent visits; but a far more tender solicitude watched over him. rafaela was by his couch; and the old man--her father--appeared to take a deep interest in his recovery. these, with the servants, were the only inmates of the house. the treacherous enemy having broken the armistice, the storming of the palace-castle of chapultepec followed soon after. had we failed in the attempt not one of us would ever have gone out from the valley of mexico. but we _took the castle_, and our crippled forces entered the captured city of the montezumas, and planted their banners upon the national palace. i was not among those who marched in. three days afterward i was _carried in_ upon a stretcher, with a bullet hole through my thigh, that kept me within doors for a period of three months. during my invalid hours l---- was my frequent visitor; he had completely recovered his health, but i noticed that a change had come over him, and his former gayety was gone. fresh troops arrived in mexico, and to make room, our regiment, hitherto occupying a garrison in the city, was ordered out to its old quarters at san angel. this was welcome news for my friend, who would now be near the object of his thoughts. for my own part, although once more on my limbs, i did not desire to return to duty in that quarter; and on various pretexts, i was enabled to lengthen out my "leave" until the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo. once only i visited san angel. as i entered the house where l---- lived, i found him seated in the open _patio_, under the shade of the orange trees. rafaela was beside him, and his only hand was held in both of hers. there was no surprise on the part of either, though i was welcomed cordially by both--by her, as being the friend of the man she loved. yes, she loved him. "see," cried l----, rising, and referring to the situation in which i had found them. "all this, my dear h., in spite of my misfortunes!" and he glanced significantly at his armless sleeve. "who would not love her?" the treaty of guadalupe was at length concluded, and we had orders to prepare for the route homeward. the next day i received a visit from l----. "henry," said he, "i am in a dilemma." "well, major," i replied, for l---- as well as myself had gained a "step." "what is it?" "you know i am in love, and with whom you know. what am i to do with her?" "why, marry her, of course. what else?" "i dare not." "dare not!" "that is--not now." "why not? resign your commission, and remain here. you know our regiment is to be disbanded; you can not do better." "ah! my dear fellow, that is not the thing that hinders me." "what then?" "should i marry her, and remain, our lives would not be safe one moment after the army had marched. papers containing threats and ribald jests have from time to time been thrust under the door of her house--to the effect that, should she marry 'el official americano'--so they are worded--both she and her father will be murdered. you know the feeling that is abroad in regard to those who have shown us hospitality." "why not take her with you, then?" "her father, he would suffer." "take him, too." "that i proposed, but he will not consent. he fears the confiscation of his property, which is considerable. i would not care for that, though my own fortune, as you know, would be small enough to support us. but the old man will go on no terms, and she will not leave him." the old man's fears in regard to the confiscation were not without good foundation. there was a party in mexico, while we occupied the city, that had advocated "annexation"--that is, the annexing of the whole country to the united states. this party consisted chiefly of pure spaniards, "ricos" of the republic, who wanted a government of stability and order. in the houses of these many of our officers visited, receiving those elegant hospitalities that were in general denied us by mexicans of a more patriotic stamp. our friends were termed "ayankeeados," and were hated by the populace. but they were "marked" in still higher quarters. several members of the government, then sitting at queretaro--among others a noted minister--had written to their agents in the city to note down all those who, by word or act, might show kindness to the american army. even those ladies who should present themselves at the theatre were to be among the number of the proscribed. in addition to the ayankeeados were many families--perhaps not otherwise predisposed to favor us--who by accident had admitted us within their circle--such accident as that which had opened the house and heart of rafaela to my friend l----. these, too, were under "compromisa" with the rabble. my comrade's case was undoubtedly what he had termed it--a dilemma. "you are not disposed to give her up, then?" said i, smiling at my anxious friend, as i put the interrogation. "i know you are only jesting, henry. you know me too well for that. no! rather than give her up, i will stay and risk every thing--even life." "come, major," said i, "there will be no need for you to risk any thing, if you will only follow my advice. it is simply this--come home with your regiment; stay a month or two at new orleans, until the excitement consequent upon our evacuation cools down. shave off your mustache, put on plain clothes; come back and marry rafaela." "it is terrible to think of parting with her. oh!--" "that may all be; i doubt it not; but what else can you do?" "nothing--nothing. you are right. it is certainly the best--the only plan. i will follow it," and l---- left me. i saw no more of him for three days, when the brigade to which he belonged entered the city on its road homeward. he had detailed his plans to rafaela, and bade her for a time farewell. the other three divisions had already marched. ours was to form the rear-guard, and that night was to be our last in the city of mexico. i had retired to bed at an early hour, to prepare for our march on the morrow. i was about falling asleep when a loud knock sounded at my door. i rose and opened it. it was l----. i started as the light showed me his face--it was ghastly. his lips were white, his teeth set, and dark rings appeared around his eyes. the eyes themselves glared in their sockets, lit up by some terrible emotion. "come!" cried he, in a hoarse and tremulous voice. "come with me, henry, i need you." "what is it, my dear l----? a quarrel? a duel?" "no! no! nothing of the sort. come! come! come! i will show you a sight that will make a wolf of you. haste! for god's sake, haste!" i hurried on my clothes. "bring your arms!" cried l----, "you may require them." i buckled on my sword and pistol-belt, and followed hastily into the street. we ran down the calle correo toward the alameda. it was the road to the convent of san francisco, where our regiment had quartered for the night. as yet i knew not for what i was going. could the enemy have attacked us? no--all was quiet. the people were in their beds. what could it be? l---- had not, and would not explain; but to my inquiries, continually cried, "haste--come on!" we reached the convent, and, hastily passing the guard, made for the quarters occupied by my friend. as we entered the room--a large one--i saw five or six females, with about a dozen men, soldiers and officers. all were excited by some unusual occurrence. the females were mexicans, and their heads were muffled in their rebosos. some were weeping aloud, others talking in strains of lamentation. among them i distinguished the face of my friend's betrothed. "dearest rafaela!" cried l----, throwing his arms around her--"it is my friend. here, henry, look here! look at this!" as he spoke, he raised the reboso, and gently drew back her long black hair. i saw blood upon her cheek and shoulders! i looked more closely. it flowed from her ears. "her ears! _o god! they have been cut off!_" "ay, ay," cried l----, hoarsely; and dropping the dark tresses, again threw his arms around the girl, and kissed away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks--while uttering expressions of endearment and consolation. i turned to the other females; they were all similarly mutilated; some of them even worse, for their foreheads, where the u.s. had been freshly burned upon them, were red and swollen. excepting rafaela, they were all of the "poblana" class--the laundresses--the mistresses of the soldiers. the surgeon was in attendance, and in a short time all was done that could be done for wounds like these. "come!" cried l----, addressing those around him, "we are wasting time, and that is precious; it is near midnight. the horses will be ready by this, and the rest will be waiting; come, henry, you will go? you will stand by us?" "i will, but what do you intend?" "do not ask us, my friend, you will see presently." "think, my dear l----," said i in a whisper, "do not act rashly." "rashly! there is no rashness about me--you know that. a cowardly act, like this, can not be revenged too soon. revenge! what am i talking of! it is not revenge, but justice. the men who could perpetrate this fiendish deed are not fit to live on the earth, and, by heavens! not one of them shall live by the morning. ha, dastards! they thought we were gone; they will find their mistake. mine be the responsibility--mine the revenge. come, friends! come!" and so saying, l---- led the way, holding his betrothed by the hand. we all followed out of the room, and into the street. on reaching the alameda a group of dark objects was seen among the trees. they were horses and horsemen; there were about thirty of the latter, and enough of the former to mount the party who were with l----. i saw from their size that the horses were of our own troops, with dragoon saddles. in the hurry l---- had not thought of saddles for our female companions, but the oversight was of no consequence. _their_ habitual mode of riding was _à la duchess de berri_, and in this way they mounted. before summoning me, l---- had organized his band--they were picked men. in the dim light i could see dragoon and infantry uniforms, men in plain clothes, followers of the army, gamblers, teamsters, texans, desperadoes, ready for just such an adventure. here and there i could distinguish the long-tailed frock--the undress of the officer. the band in all mustered more than forty men. we rode quietly through the streets, and, issuing from the gate of nino perdido, took the road for san angel. as we proceeded onward, i gathered a more minute account of what had transpired at the village. as soon as our division had evacuated, a mob of thirty or forty ruffians had proceeded to the houses of those whom they termed "ayankeeados," and glutted their cowardly vengeance on their unfortunate victims. some of these had been actually killed in attempting to resist; others had escaped to the pedregal which runs close to the village; while a few--rafaela among the number--after submitting to a terrible atrocity, had fled to the city for protection. on hearing the details of these horrid scenes, i no longer felt a repugnance in accompanying my friend. i felt as he did, that men capable of such deeds were "not fit to live," and we were proceeding to execute a sentence that was just though illegal. it was not our intention to punish all; we could not have accomplished this, had we so willed it. by the testimony of the girls, there were five or six who had been the promoters and ringleaders of the whole business. these were well known to one or other of the victims, as in most instances it had been some old grudge for which they had been singled out as objects of this cowardly vengeance. in rafaela's case it was a ruffian who had once aspired to her hand, and been rejected. jealousy had moved the fiend to his terrible revenge. it is three leagues from mexico to san angel. the road runs through meadows and fields of magueys. except the lone _pulqueria_, at the corner where a cross-path leads to the hacienda of narvarte, there is not a house before reaching the bridge of coyoacan. here there is a cluster of buildings--"fabricas"--that, during the stay of our army, had been occupied by a regiment. before arriving at this point we saw no one; and here only people who, waked from their sleep by the tread of our horses, had not the curiosity to follow us. san angel is a mile further up the hill. before entering the village we divided into five parties, each to be guided by one of the girls. l----'s vengeance was especially directed toward the _ci-devant_ lover of his betrothed. she herself, knowing his residence, was to be our guide. proceeding through narrow lanes, we arrived in a suburb of the village, and halted before a house of rather stylish appearance. we had dismounted outside the town, leaving our horses in charge of a guard. it was very dark, and we clustered around the door. one knocked--a voice was heard from within--rafaela recognized it as that of the ruffian himself. the knock was repeated, and one of the party who spoke the language perfectly, called out: "open the door! open, don pedro!" "who is it?" asked the voice. "_yo_," (i) was the simple reply. this is generally sufficient to open the door of a mexican house, and don pedro was heard within, moving toward the "saguan." the next moment the great door swung back on its hinges, and the ruffian was dragged forth. he was a swarthy, fierce-looking fellow--from what i could see in the dim light--and made a desperate resistance, but he was in the hands of men who soon overpowered and bound him. we did not delay a moment, but hurried back to the place where we had left our horses. as we passed through the streets, men and women were running from house to house, and we heard voices and shots in the distance. on reaching our rendezvous, we found our comrades, all of whom had succeeded in making their capture. there was no time to be lost; there might be troops in the village--though we saw none--but whether or not, there were "leperos" enough to assail us. we did not give them time to muster. mounting ourselves and our prisoners we rode off at a rapid pace, and were soon beyond the danger of pursuit. those who have passed through the gate of nino perdido will remember that the road leading to san angel runs, for nearly a mile, in a straight line, and that, for this distance, it is lined on both sides with a double row of large old trees. it is one of the drives (_paseos_) of mexico. where the trees end, the road bends slightly to the south. at this point a cross road strikes off to the pueblito of piedad, and at the crossing there is a small house, or rather a temple, where the pious wayfarer kneels in his dusty devotions. this little temple, the residence of a hermitical monk, was uninhabited during our occupation of the valley, and, in the actions that resulted in the capture of the city, it had come in for more than its share of hard knocks. a battery had been thrown up beside it, and the counter-battery had bored the walls of the temple with round shot. i never passed this solitary building without admiring its situation. there was no house nearer it than the aforementioned "tinacal" of narvarte, or the city itself. it stood in the midst of swampy meadows, bordered by broad plats of the green maguey, and this isolation, together with the huge old trees that shadowed and sang over it, gave the spot an air of romantic loneliness. on arriving under the shelter of the trees, and in front of the lone temple, our party halted by order of their leader. several of the troopers dismounted, and the prisoners were taken down from their horses. i saw men uncoiling ropes that had hung from their saddle-bows, and i shuddered to think of the use that was about to be made of them. "henry," said l----, riding up to me, and speaking in a whisper, "_they_ must not see this."--he pointed to the girls.--"take them some distance ahead and wait for us, we will not be long about it, i promise." glad of the excuse to be absent from such a scene, i put spurs to my horse, and rode forward, followed by the females of the party. on reaching the circle near the middle of the paseo i halted. it was quite dark, and we could see nothing of those we had left behind us. we could hear nothing--nothing but the wind moaning high up among the branches of the tall poplars; but this, with the knowledge i had of what was going on so near me, impressed me with an indescribable feeling of sadness. l---- had kept his promise; he was not long about it. in less than ten minutes the party came trotting up, chatting gayly as they rode, but _their prisoners had been left behind_!... as the american army moved down the road to vera cruz, many traveling carriages were in its train. in one of these were a girl and a gray-haired old man. almost constantly during the march a young officer might be seen riding by this carriage, conversing through the windows with its occupants within. a short time after the return-troops landed at new orleans, a bridal party were seen to enter the old spanish cathedral; the bridegroom was an officer who had lost an arm. his fame, and the reputed beauty of the bride, had brought together a large concourse of spectators. "she loved me," said l---- to me on the morning this his happiest day; "she loved me in spite of my mutilated limb, and should i cease to love her because she has--no, i see it not; she is to me the same as ever." and there were none present who saw it; few were there who knew that under those dark folds of raven hair were the _souvenirs_ of a terrible tragedy.... the mexican government behaved better to the ayankeeados than was expected. they did not confiscate the property; and l---- is now enjoying his fortune in a snug hacienda, somewhere in the neighborhood of san angel. the pools of ellendeen. joel jerdan was a thriving retail hosier, in a close street at the eastern end of the vast metropolis. he had a snug little shop, and a nice, snug little wife, together with an annually increasing nice little family; and joel himself, if we except one weakness, was the most diligent and steady little fellow to be found within the circuit where the musical bells of bow are heard. small in person, pleasing in exterior, and scrupulously neat in his attire, joel jerdan was always considered a peculiarly dapper, civil, smart tradesman. his father had pursued the same business in the same house; and though there were not large profits, there was certainly contentment, which joel very wisely judged was far better. it did not require any vivid stretch of imagination to form a comparison between the venerable izaak walton, of piscatorial celebrity, and our hosier; for, like that immortal angler, joel was devoted to his calling and usually confined to precincts of no large dimensions, but making his escape whenever he could to enjoy the sole recreation of his existence--that recreation being the sport with which izaak's name is ever associated. joel jerdan was a worthy disciple of this renowned piscator--at least, he would have been had he strictly followed that master's injunctions; but, if truth must be all confessed, the _one_ weakness already alluded to in our little hosier, consisted of indulgence beyond the bounds of strict sobriety, when any prolonged or favorable "sport" more than usually elated his spirits. on such occasions, patty, his faithful wife, of course lectured the recreant hosier most severely; while he, shocked and humbled, meekly promised "never to do so any more," and kept his word until betrayed into temptation again. being a water-drinker at home, from motives of prudence, not to say necessity, it did not require much in the way of stimulus to render poor little joel addle-headed. whenever he could spare an hour or two on the long summer evenings, after the business of the day was pretty well over, leaving the shop to patty's care, away sallied joel to the docks, there to watch his float and forget his cares, until night's sombre shadows warned him that all sober citizens were retiring bedward. it was only at rare intervals that joel enjoyed a whole day's fishing; for, in the first place, he could not absent himself from pressing daily duties, and, in the second, he had no friend resident in the country within easy access, to whom he could resort for an introduction to babbling streams and flowery meads. he had toiled early and late, as his excellent father had done before him; and when patty's brother retired from official life (he was a nobleman's butler), and became proprietor of a small public-house about fifty miles from london, situated on the banks of a river much resorted to by anglers, and sent a hearty invitation to joel to come and visit him, what words may paint the bright anticipations of the exulting hosier? he had not been well of late--needed summer holidays; and, in short joel could not resist the tempting offer. patty urged her husband with affectionate solicitude, to "keep watch" over himself; but she loved him too well, and was too unselfish, to object to his accepting her brother's hospitality. "make hay while the sun shines, my dear," she said; "you may never have such another opportunity. business is slack just now--besides, baby is weaned, and i can mind the shop with charlie; only--" here there was a private whispered admonition, the tenor of which may be inferred from joel's answer, accompanied by a hearty kiss: "i promise you, my ducky, that i will never taste a drop, except when i get wet-footed, and _then_ only just enough to keep the cold out." "ah, that cold, joel!" replied patty, "it's a queer thing, _that cold is!_ always trying to gain a footing; and nothing but a sip of brandy to keep it out!" and the wife shook her head. it was too much felicity for joel jerdan!--the gathering together his scanty assortment of rods and tackle--the laying out his hard-earned money to purchase more--the packing his portmanteau and setting out on a gay summer's morning! yet his dreams fell short of reality when joel first beheld the paradise of greenerie wherein "the swan" nestled on the picturesque beauties of wood end. here he could fish off the bank from a variegated flower-garden, whose roses hung over the broad, deep waters, where monsters of the finny tribes abounded. here he _did_ fish off the emerald bank; but, alas! the fish were strangely shy or cunning. joel labored most assiduously; but somehow, he caught nothing. there was always _something_ wrong; either it was too hot, or the water was too clear, or the fish wouldn't take the particular bait at that particular spot, and they must be sought up or down stream for miles. and so joel followed the river's course patiently, day by day striving most manfully to ensnare the wary inhabitants of the treacherous element, on whose tranquil bosom wan lilies reposed as peacefully as primroses on the hill-side graves reflected nigh. "try the pools of ellendeen," said one; and "try the pools of ellendeen," said another, until joel determined he _would_ try these far-famed still waters, though it was a good way up stream to reach them. however, a farmer offered to give him a lift in his cart, and drop him on the road to market, leaving joel to work his way back to wood end as might suit his sport or inclination; and well supplied with refreshing viands, stowed away in his basket, slung across his shoulder sportsman-like with leathern belt, joel set forth to try his luck in the "bottomless pit," for so the deepest pool of ellendeen was significantly named by the peasant-folk, with whom the domain bounding the water was in ill-repute. solemn and stately were the neighboring woods, and a gray castellated mansion frowned on the summit of a high hill overhanging the water. it was uninhabited now, the family were extinct, and, of course, there was a legend attached. a former lord of ellendeen was most anxious for a son and heir; but on his unhappy lady presenting him with nothing but daughters, he swore that on the birth of the next he would throw it into the pool beside the wood. he did so with his own wicked hands more than once; and tradition said that no less than four baby daughters of the ancient race of ellendeen were engulfed in those deep, dismal waters, which refused to yield their dead, and, in short, proved to be "bottomless." however, whether it was that they were left very much to themselves, or that the fish in ellendeen pools were really finer than elsewhere, report had not exaggerated their abundance and size; and joel, to his infinite satisfaction, managed to capture some "splendid fellows," according to his own phrase. it was a solitary place. the river here was dark and sleeping; it was a fitting scene for the enactment of the baby tragedy. the air was sultry, as if a storm were brewing, clouds were lowering, and the heat was intense. there was "no cold" to keep out, and joel's feet were perfectly dry, but so was his throat; and edwards, his kindly brother-in-law, had placed a flask of brandy in the basket, saying he might like "a little in water by-and-by." joel was very thirsty and he drank a vast deal of water out of a horn cup, pouring in just enough spirit to take the "chill off," which in his heated condition, was not safe or pleasant. "i'll not forget my promise to my dear little patty," said joel to himself, as he sipped. "not one drop of brandy _alone_ will i touch. ah, bless me! how her precious heart would ache if she were to hear this tale of the wicked lord and those dear innocents? she'd most think she could see their pretty upturned faces in the water. _i_ wonder, now, if there's any truth in such a queer story." and joel fell into a reverie as he wondered; and, sitting down on the bank, he fell asleep, and dreamt that instead of hooking a fine heavy fish he had pulled out a baby girl! great was his horror, and he awoke with a start, to find that darkness was rapidly gathering round him, while a few pattering drops now and then betokened the approach of a storm, as the grumbling thunder faintly died away in the distance. one draught to fortify himself, and joel commenced his homeward route--a rather difficult undertaking, seeing that he was a stranger, and obliged to diverge frequently from the immediate proximity of the river, which, however, was a sure guide, as it flowed past "the swan's" very door. but rivers are stray, winding things; and after an hour's hard toiling over uneven paths, moving slowly and carefully, for caution was extremely necessary on the river's bank, poor little joel jerdan became thoroughly nervous and exhausted, as the rain pelted down and the thunder burst over head. wet through in a trice, he had recourse to his brandy-flask. "even patty would recommend it now," said he; and his thoughts reverted to his snug little room behind the shop, where, beside a comfortable fire, he was wont to enjoy a frugal supper with his beloved helpmate. now, here he was, wandering and houseless, uncertain of the way, wet through, and no sight or sound of human kind to greet his longing eyes or ears. no. he only heard the rushing of waters, the wailing of winds, and those strange, mysterious noises which issue from desolate woods by night. it was enough to appall a stouter heart than joel jerdan's; no wonder he had recourse to the brandy-flask! "catch me a-going a-fishing in a strange place again!" murmured he to himself; "only catch me at it, that's all!" an impression that he was trespassing on haunted ground, and that, at the same time, his basket became heavier and heavier, oppressed joel jerdan with a sensation almost approaching to suffocation; and he ejaculated aloud, as if to increase his courage--talking _at_ himself _to_ himself--"who says that joel is tipsy? who dares to say so is--is--a reprobate. who dares to say that joel jerdan carries a basket full of dead babies instead of fish?" but just as the reeling piscator came to this portion of his argument, a light appeared but a short distance off, and, as he made toward it, a low, dull sound, as of monotonous knocking, fell on his ear, notwithstanding his perceptions were not particularly acute. joel staggered onward until he reached a building from whence the sounds appeared to proceed; and, creeping slowly toward an aperture, peeped in with a remarkably sagacious expression of countenance, no doubt, had the darkness permitted it to be visible. what he beheld there caused him to start backward so suddenly that, coming in contact with a felled tree, whose bared trunk was stretched along the ground, he fell violently on his face, the blood spurting from his nose, and a cry escaping at the same moment from the hapless intruder. joel jerdan had seen three spectral-looking men working at a coffin, engaged in finishing the dismal receptacle with all their might, as if it was wanted in a hurry. when he recovered from temporary stupor occasioned by his fall, the scared little man in vain essayed to speak or move; for his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his legs were powerless to sustain his own slight weight. once, indeed, he thickly muttered, "brandy, more brandy!" but immediately sank back helpless and hopeless, for he heard a voice say, "we'll put him in when it is finished; it is just done. we're in good time, and it'll be the safest place for the drunken rascal." poor joel jerdan! to be put in a coffin alive at the suggestion of one whom he considered an evil spirit! he heard another one say, "halloo! let's have a look into his basket! ho, ho, they are fine plump ones. put them in with him, and let's be off at once." off at once! _where?_ thought the terrified and miserable man--where are they off to? to the "bottomless pit" of ellendeen, said conscience, and for stealing the dread secrets of the haunted pool, in the shape of the long sought-for ellendeen babies! as to the brandy-drinking, _that_ was nothing--ghostly beings never interfered with such terrestrial matters! the knocking discontinued, a tramping of feet was heard, a bustle as of preparation, and joel felt himself lifted up and laid in what he felt by instinct to be--a coffin! oh, it was most horrible! and, with a violent effort, he jerked aside the lid which was placed lightly over him, half raising himself as he did so. "if he turns restive," said an authoritative, stern voice, "we must secure him better, or he'll be in the water before his time comes, and make food for the fishes instead of sport for beelzebub." so they _were_ conveying him to his nameless majesty, dead babies and all, perhaps mistaking him for the wicked defunct lord of ellendeen himself! oh, as to his fishing in the still, deep pools, what had it done for him? whither had it led him? joel retained sense to be aware that his impotent struggles only rendered things worse; for he was in powerful hands, and they tossed him about like a feather. could his dear wife behold her husband in a coffin, what would her feelings be? and as joel thought of this, his tears began to flow copiously. he sobbed and wailed like an infant, whining, and in a sickly maudlin tone; but it had a lulling effect, and he fell off into a sleep just as he was conscious of being lifted into a boat, and, amid gleaming torches, rowed rapidly from land, but whether "up" or "down" stream he could not tell. but of course they are taking me to the "bottomless pit," and there they will cast me in with my unhallowed load, he thought. could it be the brandy that made joel jerdan confound the fish he had caught with the ellendeen heiresses, who had slumbered beneath the wave for upward of a century? with a stifled cry for pardon on his lips, insensibility succeeded; and when joel awoke next day at noon, in his own cosy bed at "the swan," with the sun's bright beams streaming in through the chinks of closely-drawn curtains, he shuddered at the remembrance of his horrible adventure, much wondering how he came _there_, and also how he had come by a bandaged cheek, from which the blood was still streaming, and a head which throbbed to agony at every breath he drew. "what a terrific vision!" he exclaimed feebly, but aloud. "demons rowing me in a coffin to the bottomless pool of ellendeen! joel jerdan! joel jerdan! it is a warning to prepare for thy latter end!" "nay, nay, brother joel!" exclaimed the cheerful voice of his brother-in-law; "it isn't a death-warning, but only a gentle hint not to attack the brandy-flask too often; your head is none of the strongest, and won't bear it. however, be comforted, for you have brought back four as fine fish as have been caught hereabouts for long and many a day, though both they and you came to wood end in _rayther_ a queer sort, it must be owned--all packed up in a coffin together." "brother edwards," murmured joel, solemnly, "they were _not_ fish; they were the babes of ellendeen!" "poor fellow, so he is wandering again! there must be another blister on!" exclaimed mr. edwards, compassionately. and by the time another blister was put on, and more drugs had been administered, joel's fever was so far reduced that he was able to collect his thoughts and attempt a description of the prodigious scenes he had gone through. "why, that was old matthew filkins and his two big sons whom you took for demons," shouted mr. edwards, as he listened attentively to joel's account of his midnight adventures. "mat is a teetotaller, and thinks nothing of parceling a man to beelzebub if he gets drunk; and between ourselves, brother joel, i do not think that matthew is far wrong, for drunkenness is the high-road to ruin at all times." "yes, yes, i know that," groaned joel. "but they put me in a coffin, and rowed me away. how do i come _here_? oh, i am a doomed man! i am a doomed man! i shall not be long out of my real coffin!" "not if you go on like this, my brother," replied mr. edwards, impressively, and with a serious air. "you have received a severe contusion on the head, besides other injuries; and it is absolutely necessary that you be kept quiet, and discard these foolish fancies. old matthew filkins is our only undertaker hereabouts; his workshop and wood-yard are close to the river side, and by water he frequently conveys his dismal but needful burdens. the wooden box in which he laid you for safety was required urgently for the body of a poor lad who died of infectious fever, and was laid in his mother's hovel midst living brothers and sisters. mat is a kind-hearted man, and he did that for the poor widow which he would have scrupled to do for a rich one; though night or day on the river is all the same to him, for he could guide a boat blindfold: man and boy, for seventy years, matthew filkins has journeyed on that highway. he thought that he was doing best by you; he found, by a letter in your coat-pocket, that you came from 'the swan,' wood end, and, as he dropped down stream past our door, he deposited _you_, brother joel, on the threshold where we found you, in a sad state indeed. i believe old mat considered his dismal box tainted from having had one in your state in it, far more so than when it contained the remains of the poor boy for whom it was destined." "and so it was, so it was, brother edwards," exclaimed the penitent and humbled joel; "and before i am put in a coffin again, i deserve to be buried alive if i am not a reformed man. when i get drunk _again_, may i be hurled into the pools of ellendeen, along with the little misses of respected memory. but i say, brother, we must keep this mishap a secret from patty, for she would be hard of belief as to it's being a reality, as you say it is; she would stick to the warning, and make sure i was a doomed man." very grateful and pleased was patty, as time progressed and temptations multiplied, to find that her dear husband was proof against the strongest. never was he known to be in the least degree inebriated after his return from the memorable expedition to wood end; and not even to keep the "cold out," would he sip a drop of "fire-water" undiluted. the "warning" had not been in vain; and a long while after the events recorded had taken place, when patty was made acquainted with them by her loving husband, who detested all concealments from the partner of his cares, she exclaimed in pitying tones, "it was very natural, my dear, that your thoughts should run on the terrible story about those precious babies, you that have little ones of your own. for _my_ part, nothing in the wide world would tempt _me_ to go a-fishing in those deep dark pools of ellendeen; i should expect, every time i pulled up a heavy weight to see a dear baby instead of a fish!" "but my dear," deprecatingly returned joel, "even if the tale be true, it happened a century back, you know." "ah, jo, jo!" cried patty, with a sly smile, "if i had a brandy-flask in my basket, _perhaps_ i might forget _that_ important fact." a waterspout in the indian ocean. one of the noblest and most beautiful sights in the world is a gallant, symmetrical, full-rigged ship, clothed with mighty wings from keel to truck, cleaving through the waves under the influence of a "right merrie" wind abeam. there is something exceedingly grand, to behold it steadily gliding along, like a thing instinct with life; to see its towering pyramidal sails swelling to the generous breeze; to glance from its fluttering ensigns, and bright sides, and snowy canvas, to the contrasting deep blue sea, sparkling beneath the vertical rays of the tropical sun; to hastily run over in one's mind a few only of the spirit-stirring associations conjured by the object. but it is not with a ship in this exhilarating position that i have now to deal; to the reverse--it is with one which lay like "a painted ship upon a painted ocean"--being a large east indiaman, chartered to convey troops to the bombay presidency, and lying totally becalmed not far from the tropics. i was languidly swinging in my hammock, one sultry morning, when not a breath of air was stirring strong enough "to blow a lady's curl aside," when i heard a sound which convinced me that something unusual had occurred to arouse the listless idlers lounging on the upper deck. it speedily increased to such a degree that all between decks who were able (myself included) rushed up, pell-mell, to discover the reason, and soon there were none left below but the miserable sick, who could not crawl from their stifling berths. "what's the kick-up?" roared the gigantic corporal of the grenadier company, the moment he got his head above the combing of the hatchway. "niver sighted sich a jamb sin' the meet at ballyshannon!" echoed a voluble irish comrade. "maybe a tu-an'-thirty-punder wouldn't mak' buthermilk of us all just now." "can ye no kape that long red rope i' yer own impty hid, but ye must let every body know ye're a gomulah? ain't it a watherspout, eh?" fiercely responded a brother emeralder. "a watherspout! an' what's that, avick? summat to ate?" "ate! ye gossoon! ay, it's summat as'll soon ate _yer_, big and ugly as yer are." some few happy-go-lucky reprobates laughed at pat's sapience, but the majority felt the matter to be far too serious to permit their indulging in senseless merriment, and strove, with uncontrollable interest, to secure some position whence they could behold an object of which they had heard or read highly-colored accounts. i myself instantly sprang into the shrouds, and the whole spectacle then burst full upon me in all its novel grandeur. as already mentioned, not a breath of air was stirring, and the vessel herself lay sluggishly on the briny ocean, the sails hanging in bags, or clewed up in festoons to the yards, and the masts motionless as pompey's pillar. at the distance of very little more than the ship's length, the sea was bubbling up in the shape of spiral cones of varying height and sizes, all of them springing from within a circle, the circumference of which might be equal to that of the ring of an equestrian circus. the vertical rays of the sun invested the falling spray with an indescribable beauty, but the level water appeared of a dull, strong, white color. the phenomenon was attended by a very loud and long-continued hissing noise, of a peculiar and terrifying kind. this was but the commencement of a waterspout. every moment we expected to see the several columns unite in one; and, from their contiguity, there would, in such a case, be no hope of final escape. either the ship would be totally engulfed, or every atom of mast, rigging, and all above deck, would be whirled a hundred fathoms through the air. travelers say that the serpent possesses the basilisk power of fascinating its prey by the glare of its eye, and certainly a waterspout is equal in that terrible attribute, for scarcely a man in the ship that saw it was able to withdraw his gaze from the fearful spectacle. all other faculties seemed to be absorbed, and even had they had the opportunity to flee, few would have been able to move a foot. many on board were personally cognizant that any extraordinary concussion of the air, as that produced by the firing of guns, had been known to cause waterspouts to subside, and the captain of our ship had given orders to train two of the main-deck large carronades (for we were armed _en flute_) upon it, with heavy charges. but so riveted and entranced were all, that it was with extreme difficulty that either soldiers or sailors could be got to move; and only when some of the officers literally placed their own shoulders to the wheel, and exhorted, and even struck the gaping, bewildered men, were the guns charged and trained in the waist of the ship. scarcely was this done, when five or six of the largest columns suddenly joined together, as though by a species of magnetic attraction, and formed one of colossal magnitude, high as the maintopsail-yard, the spiral motion rapidly increasing, and the whole body seeming to near the ship. "we shall soon know our fate," exclaimed the captain. "now, tom," said he, to the old man-o'-war's gunner, "do your best--your very best." "ay, ay, sir!" replied the tough old salt, in that muttering, indistinct manner, common to old seamen when much excited. "avast a minute!" grumbled he to an assistant, who was busy with the chocks. "hand me that monkey's tail!" eagerly clutching with his fish-hooks of fingers the short iron crowbar so denominated, he rammed it as far as he could down the ample mouth of the piece, in a peculiar direction. "away, skylarkers! sea-room, ye red-coats! there: _de_-press a little--more--so, avast!" he took a quick squint down the short but deadly tube, and then turned to the artillery-man presiding over the other carronade, with "ship mate, are you all clear for a run?" "all ready?" inquired the captain. "all ready, sir," repeated the veteran tar. "very good," was the reply; and, springing on the capstan-head, the latter sang out at the top of his voice, "now men, i want every one of you--red-coats and blue-jackets--to try your lungs! they're strong enough on most occasions, and don't be behindhand now. our lives depend upon it." here he paused; and, pointing significantly to the tremendous spout, which enlarged and neared the ship every moment, he impressively demanded, "do you see yon big fellow?" "ay, ay," said the tarry-jackets. "yes," said the red-coats. "very well, then, all i've got to say, is, that if we don't thrash him, he will thrash us! so no demi-semi-quavers, but give three hearty cheers to frighten him away, for he's a real coward. hats off, and up at arm's length!" they obeyed. "now, my hearties," continued he, well knowing in what strain to address them, "let us try if our throats can not drown the bark of these two bull-dogs of ours! why, we're good-for-nothing, if we can't make as much din as a couple of rusty iron candlesticks! hu-r-r-ah!" as the gallant commander waved his hat aloft, the keen eye of the old gunner glistened with uncommon ardor, and, squirting a long stream of suspicious-looking fluid some odd fathoms from the ship's side, he muttered, "here goes a re'g'lar wide-awaker"--applied the match to the priming--bang! bang! the two "candlesticks" blended into one simultaneous roar, accompanied by hurrahs which of themselves shook the sultry air. the steady state of the ship was highly favorable to the marksmen, and the skill of the old gunner produced a result equal to his most sanguine expectations, for the "monkey's tail" struck fairly athwart the spout at an elevation of some fifteen feet, and the whole immense body immediately fell with a crash like that of a steeple, and before the cheering ended, all had subsided--old neptune's face became unwrinkled as heretofore, ship and shadow again became double, rainbow-hued dolphins again glided like elfin shadows just beneath the translucent surface, flying-fish again skipped along it with redoubled zest, the huge albatross again inertly stretched its immense wings, the screaming sea-hawk again descended from the regions of immensity, where it had been soaring at an elevation far beyond the pierce of human vision, the white side of the insatiate shark again glanced in fearful proximity to the imprisoned ship; aboard which ship hearts rose as the waves fell, fear was indignantly kicked out of its brief abiding-place, tongues were again in active commission, feet were again pattering, and arms again swinging about, shrill orders were again bandied, the pet monkey ran chattering aloft to complete its lately suspended dissection of the marine's cap, tarry-jackets again freshened their quids, hitched their voluminous trowsers, and made vigorous renewed allusion to their precious eyes and limbs, and red-coats once more found themselves at the usual discount. so heavily had the guns been charged, that they rebounded across the deck, overturning a score of the very "finest pisantry in the world," who one and all vehemently asserted in the rich brogue, and with the lively gesticulations of their native land, that they were "kilt intirely, an' no misthake, at all, at all!" i have only to add, that a glorious spanking breeze followed within a few hours; and many a poor fellow blessed the waterspout, from a vague notion that to its agency we were indebted for the grateful change. but what mysterious affinity there could be between a waterspout in a calm, and a breeze springing up soon afterward, i leave my scientific friends to discover and explain. such things are above a plain seaman's philosophy. maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. [continued from the august number.] chapter xxxviii. a royalist "de la vieille roche." on a hot and sultry day of june, i found myself seated in a country cart, and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way toward kuffstein, a tyrol fortress, to which i was sentenced as a prisoner. a weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts, i had to contend against an attack of ague, which i had just caught, and which was then raging like a plague in the austrian camp. one solitary reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period. we had halted on the outskirts of a little village called "broletto," for the siesta; and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. the corporal who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and soon returned with the tidings that "a great victory had been gained over the french, commanded by bonaparte in person; that the army was in full retreat; and this was the dispatch an officer of melas's staff was now hastening to lay at the feet of the emperor." "i thought several times this morning," said the corporal, "that i heard artillery; and so it seems i might, for we are not above twenty miles from where the battle was fought." "and how is the place called?" asked i, in a tone skeptical enough to be offensive. "marengo," replied he; "mayhap the name will not escape your memory." how true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he uttered it! but so it was; even as late as four o'clock the victory was with the austrians. three separate envoys had left the field with tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the general, exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to tell his master that "italy was lost." i have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that i set down for myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet i have not wandered--i mean, not to dwell upon events wherein i was not myself an actor; but i am determined still to adhere to my rule; and leaving that glorious event behind me, plod wearily along my now sad journey. day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance; vast plains of corn and maize, olives, and vines every where: on the mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading their tangled networks over cottages, and yet every where poverty, misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a half-naked, starving populace, met the eye at every turn. there was the stamp of slavery on all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air of their rulers. i say this in sad spirit; for within a year from the day in which i write these lines, i have traveled the self-same road, and with precisely the self-same objects before me. changed in nothing, save what time changes, in ruin and decay! there was the dreary village as of yore; the unglazed windows closed with some rotten boarding, or occupied by a face gaunt with famine. the listless, unoccupied group still sat or lay on the steps before the church; a knot of nearly naked creatures sat card-playing beside a fountain, their unsheathed knives alongside of them; and, lastly, on the wall of the one habitation which had the semblance of decency about it, there stared out the "double-headed eagle," the symbol of their shame and their slavery! it never can be the policy of a government to retard the progress and depress the energies of a people beneath its rule. why, then, do we find a whole nation, gifted and capable as this, so backward in civilization? is the fault with the rulers? or are there, indeed, people, whose very development is the obstacle to their improvement; whose impulses of right and wrong will submit to no discipline; and who are incapable of appreciating true liberty? this would be a gloomy theory; and the very thought of it suggests darker fears for a land to which my sympathies attach me more closely! if any spot can impress the notion of impregnability, it is kuffstein. situated on an eminence of rock over the inn, three sides of the base are washed by that rapid river, a little village occupies the fourth; and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above, by cranes and pulleys; the only approach being by a path wide enough for a single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his carrying any burden, however light. all that science and skill could do is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every surface of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and mortars show resources of defense it would seem madness to attack. three thousand men, under the command of general urleben, held this fortress at the time i speak of; and by their habits of discipline and vigilance, showed that no over-security would make them neglect the charge of so important a trust. i was the first french prisoner that had ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform was i indebted for this distinction. i have mentioned that in genoa they gave me a staff-officer's dress and appointments, and from this casual circumstance it was supposed that i should know a great deal of massena's movements and intentions, and that by judicious management i might be induced to reveal it. general urleben, who had been brought up in france, was admirably calculated to have promoted such an object, were it practicable. he possessed the most winning address, as well as great personal advantages; and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of the handsomest men in austria. he at once invited me to his table, and having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the view extended four miles along the inn, he sent me stores of books, journals, and newspapers, french, english, and german, showing by the very candor of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and trust. if imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to have been so. my mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my after life, than without such associations they would ever have been. then i used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird's-eye views, prisoner's glimpses, of the glorious tyrol scenery below us. early in the afternoon came dinner, and then, with the general's pleasant converse, a cigar, and a chess-board, the time wore smoothly on till nightfall. an occasional thunder-storm, grander and more sublime than any thing i have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm but not unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on the way to or from vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac told me it was autumn, i could scarcely believe a single month had glided over. i will not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and vigor, and energy, were highest within me, was a grievous privation; but, except in these regrets, i could almost call this time a happy one. the unfortunate position in which i started in life, gave me little opportunity, or even inclination, for learning. except the little père michel had taught me, i knew nothing. i need not say that this was but a sorry stock of education, even at that period; when i must say, the sabre was more in vogue than the grammar. i now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. general urleben lent me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and at times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and advice. to history generally, but particularly that of france, he made me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of france when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns. i had told him all that i knew myself of my birth and family, and frequently would he allude to the subject of my reading, by saying, "the son of an old 'garde du corps' needs no commentary when perusing such details as these. your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants of a monarchy bore themselves--what chivalry lived at that time in men's hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty." such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time to time; nor was their impression the less deep, when supported by the testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. even in deeds of military glory, the monarchy could compete with the republic, and urleben took care to insist upon a fact i was never unwilling to concede--that the well-born were ever foremost in danger, no matter whether the banner was a white one or a tricolor. "_le bon sang ne peut meutir_" was an adage i never disputed, although certainly i never expected to hear it employed in the disparagement of those to whom it did not apply. as the winter set in i saw less of the general. he was usually much occupied in the mornings, and at evening he was accustomed to go down to the village, where, of late, some french emigré families had settled--unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend against! many such were scattered through the tyrol at that period, both for the security and the cheapness it afforded. of these urleben rarely spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them. one morning, as i sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me, and said, "strange enough, tiernay, last night i was looking at a view of this very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were correct, accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar--what a singular illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions. the sketch i speak of was made by a young countrywoman of yours--a highly gifted lady, who little thought that the accomplishments of her education were one day to be the resources of her livelihood. even so," said he, sighing, "a marquise of the best blood of france is reduced to sell her drawings!" as i expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered to make the request, if i would send some of mine in return, and thus accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the strangers, which gradually extended to books, and music, and, lastly, to civil messages and inquiries of which the general was ever the bearer. what a boon was all this to me! what a sun-ray through the bars of a prisoner's cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! the very similarity of our pursuits, too, had something inexpressibly pleasing in it, and i bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that i knew to whose eyes it would be submitted. "do you know, tiernay," said the general to me, one day, "i am about to incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf--i am going to contravene the strict orders of the war office, and take you along with me this evening down to the village." i started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a word. "i know perfectly well," continued he, "that you will not abuse my confidence. i ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will not make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and i desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as a prisoner well may." i readily gave the pledge required, and he went on-- "i have no cautions to give you, nor any counsels. madame d'aigreville is a royalist." "she is madame, then!" said i, in a voice of some disappointment. "yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried," said he, smiling at my eagerness. i affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a burning flush covered my cheek, and i felt as uncomfortable as possible. i dined that day as usual with the general; adjourning after dinner to the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. never did he appear to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in his digressions, as that evening. he halted at every move--he had some narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our game to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he fancied there was a thunder-storm brewing, and that we should do well to put off our visit to a more favorable opportunity. "it is little short of half a league," said he, "to the village, and in bad weather is worse than double the distance." i did not dare to controvert his opinion, but, fortunately, a gleam of sunshine shot, the same moment, through the window, and proclaimed a fair evening. heaven knows i had suffered little of a prisoner's durance--my life had been one of comparative freedom and ease; and yet, i can not tell the swelling emotion of my heart with which i emerged from the deep archway of the fortress, and heard the bang of the heavy gate, as it closed behind me. steep as was the path, i felt as if i could have bounded down it without a fear! the sudden sense of liberty was maddening in its excitement, and i half suspect that had i been on horseback in that moment of wild delight, i should have forgotten all my plighted word and parole, though i sincerely trust that the madness would not have endured beyond a few minutes. if there be among my readers one who has known imprisonment, he will forgive this confession of a weakness, which to others of less experience will seem unworthy, perhaps dishonorable. dorf kuffstein was a fair specimen of the picturesque simplicity of a tyrol village. there were the usual number of houses, with carved galleries and quaint images in wood, the shrines and altars, the little "platz," for sunday recreation, and the shady alley for rifle practice. there were also the trelliced walks of vines, and the orchards, in the midst of one of which we now approached a long, low farm-house, whose galleries projected over the river. this was the abode of madame d'aigreville. a peasant was cleaning a little mountain pony, from which a side-saddle had just been removed as we came up, and he, leaving his work, proceeded to ask us into the house, informing us as he went, that the ladies had just returned from a long ramble, and would be with us presently. the drawing-room into which we were shown was a perfect picture of cottage elegance; all the furniture was of polished walnut wood, and kept in the very best condition. it opened by three spacious windows upon the terrace above the river, and afforded a view of mountain and valley for miles on every side. an easel was placed on this gallery, and a small sketch in oils of kuffstein was already nigh completed on it. there were books, too, in different languages, and, to my inexpressible delight, a piano! the reader will smile, perhaps, at the degree of pleasure objects so familiar and every-day called forth; but let him remember how removed were all the passages of my life from such civilizing influences--how little of the world had i seen beyond camps and barrack-rooms, and how ignorant i was of the charm which a female presence can diffuse over even the very humblest abode. before i had well ceased to wonder, and admire these objects, the marquise entered. a tall and stately old lady, with an air at once haughty and gracious, received me with a profound courtesy, while she extended her hand to the salute of the general. she was dressed in deep mourning, and wore her white hair in two braids along her face. the sound of my native language, with its native accent, made me forget the almost profound reserve of her manner, and i was fast recovering from the constraint her coldness imposed, when her niece entered the room. mademoiselle, who was, at that time, about seventeen, but looked older by a year or two, was the very ideal of "brunette" beauty; she was dark-eyed and black-haired, with a mouth the most beautifully formed; her figure was light, and her foot a model of shape and symmetry. all this i saw in an instant, as she came, half-sliding, half-bounding, to meet the general: and then turning to me, welcomed me with a cordial warmth, very different from the reception of madame la marquise. whether it was the influence of her presence, whether it was a partial concession of the old lady's own, or whether my own awkwardness was wearing off by time, i can not say--but gradually the stiffness of the interview began to diminish. from the scenery around us we grew to talk of the tyrol generally, then of switzerland, and lastly of france. the marquise came from auvergne, and was justly proud of the lovely scenery of her birth-place. calmly and tranquilly as the conversation had been carried on up to this period, the mention of france seemed to break down the barrier of reserve within the old lady's mind, and she burst out in a wild flood of reminiscences of the last time she had seen her native village. "the blues," as the revolutionary soldiers were called, had come down upon the quiet valley, carrying fire and carnage into a once peaceful district. the chateau of her family was razed to the ground; her husband was shot upon his own terrace; the whole village was put to the sword; her own escape was owing to the compassion of the gardener's wife, who dressed her like a peasant boy, and employed her in a menial station, a condition she was forced to continue so long as the troops remained in the neighborhood. "yes," said she, drawing off her silk mittens, "these hands still witness the hardships i speak of. these are the marks of my servitude." it was in vain the general tried at first to sympathize, and then withdraw her from the theme; in vain her niece endeavored to suggest another topic, or convey a hint that the subject might be unpleasing to me. it was the old lady's one absorbing idea, and she could not relinquish it. whole volumes of the atrocities perpetrated by the revolutionary soldiery came to her recollection; each moment, as she talked, memory would recall this fact or the other, and so she continued rattling on with the fervor of a heated imagination, and the wild impetuosity of a half-crazed intellect. as for myself, i suffered far more from witnessing the pain others felt for me, than from any offense the topic occasioned me directly. these events were all "before my time." i was neither a blue by birth nor adoption; a child during the period of revolution, i had only taken a man's part when the country, emerging from its term of anarchy and blood, stood at bay against the whole of europe. these consolations were, however, not known to the others, and it was at last, in a moment of unendurable agony, that mademoiselle rose and left the room. the general's eyes followed her as she went, and then sought mine with an expression full of deep meaning. if i read his look aright, it spoke patience and submission; and the lesson was an easier one than he thought. "they talk of heroism," cried she, frantically--"it was massacre! and when they speak of chivalry, they mean the slaughter of women and children!" she looked round, seeing that her niece had left the room, suddenly dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, "think of her mother's fate; dragged from her home, her widowed, desolate home, and thrown into the temple, outraged and insulted, condemned on a mock trial, and then carried away to the guillotine! ay, and even then, on that spot, which coming death might have sanctified, in that moment, when even fiendish vengeance can turn away, and leave its victim at liberty to utter a last prayer in peace, even then, these wretches devised an anguish greater than all death could compass. you will scarcely believe me," said she, drawing in her breath, and talking with an almost convulsive effort, "you will scarcely believe me in what i am now about to tell you, but it is the truth--the simple but horrible truth. when my sister mounted the scaffold there was no priest to administer the last rites. it was a time, indeed, when few were left; their hallowed heads had fallen in thousands before that. she waited for a few minutes, hoping that one would appear; and when the mob learned the meaning of her delay, they set up a cry of fiendish laughter, and with a blasphemy that makes one shudder to think of, they pushed forward a boy, one of those blood-stained 'gamins' of the streets, and made him gabble a mock litany! yes, it is true: a horrible mockery of our service, in the ears and before the eyes of that dying saint." "when? in what year? in what place was that?" cried i, in an agony of eagerness. "i can give you both time and place, sir," said the marquise, drawing herself proudly up, for she construed my question into a doubt of her veracity. "it was in the year , in the month of august; and as for the place, it was one well seasoned to blood--the place de grève, at paris." a fainting sickness came over me as i heard these words; the dreadful truth flashed across me that the victim was the marquise d'estelles, and the boy, on whose infamy she dwelt so strongly, no other than myself. for the moment, it was nothing to me that she had not identified me with this atrocity; i felt no consolation in the thought that i was unknown and unsuspected. the heavy weight of the indignant accusation almost crushed me. its falsehood i knew, and yet, could i dare to disprove it? could i hazard the consequences of an avowal, which all my subsequent pleadings could never obliterate. even were my innocence established in one point, what a position did it reduce me to in every other. these struggles must have manifested themselves strongly in my looks, for the marquise, with all her self-occupation, remarked how ill i seemed. "i see, sir," cried she, "that all the ravages of war have not steeled your heart against true piety; my tale has moved you strongly." i muttered something in concurrence, and she went on. "happily for you, you were but a child when such scenes were happening! not, indeed, that childhood was always unstained in those days of blood; but you were, as i understand, the son of a garde du corps, one of those loyal men who sealed their devotion with their life. were you in paris then?" "yes, madam," said i, briefly. "with your mother, perhaps?" "i was quite alone, madam; an orphan on both sides." "what was your mother's family-name?" here was a puzzle; but at a hazard i resolved to claim her who should sound best to the ears of la marquise. "la lasterie, madam," said i. "la lasterie de la vignoble--a most distinguished house, sir. provençal, and of the purest blood. auguste de la lasterie married the daughter of the duke de miriancourt, a cousin of my husband's, and there was another of them who went as embassador to madrid." i knew none of them, and i supposed i looked as much. "your mother was, probably, of the elder branch, sir;" asked she. i had to stammer out a most lamentable confession of my ignorance. "not know your own kinsfolks, sir; not your nearest of blood!" cried she, in amazement. "general, have you heard this strange avowal? or is it possible that my ears have deceived me?" "please to remember, madam," said i, submissively, "the circumstances in which i passed my infancy. my father fell by the guillotine." "and his son wears the uniform of those who slew him!" "of a french soldier, madam, proud of the service he belongs to; glorying to be one of the first army in europe." "an army without a cause is a banditti, sir. your soldiers, without loyalty, are without a banner." "we have a country, madam." "i must protest against this discussion going further," said the general, blandly, while in a lower tone he whispered something in her ear. "very true, very true," said she; "i had forgotten all that. monsieur de tiernay, you will forgive me this warmth. an old woman, who has lost nearly every thing in the world, may have the privilege of bad temper accorded her. we are friends now, i hope," added she, extending her hand, and, with a smile of most gracious meaning, beckoning to me to sit beside her on the sofa. once away from the terrible theme of the revolution, she conversed with much agreeability; and her niece having reappeared, the conversation became animated and pleasing. need i say with what interest i now regarded mademoiselle; the object of all my boyish devotion; the same whose pale features i had matched for many an hour in the dim half light of the little chapel; her whose image was never absent from my thoughts waking or sleeping; and now again appearing before me in all the grace of coming womanhood! perhaps to obliterate any impression of her aunt's severity--perhaps it was mere manner--but i thought there was a degree of anxiety to please in her bearing toward me. she spoke, too, as though our acquaintance was to be continued by frequent meetings, and dropped hints of plans that implied constant intercourse. even excursions into the neighborhood she spoke of; when, suddenly stopping, she said, "but these are for the season of spring, and before that time monsieur de tiernay will be far away." "who can tell that?" said i. "i would seem to be forgotten by my comrades." "then you must take care to do that which may refresh their memory," said she, pointedly; and, before i could question her more closely as to her meaning, the general had risen to take his leave. "madame la marquise was somewhat more tart than usual," said he to me, as we ascended the cliff; "but you have passed the ordeal now, and the chances are, she will never offend you in the same way again. great allowances must be made for those who have suffered as she has. family--fortune--station--even country--all lost to her; and even hope now dashed by many a disappointment." though puzzled by the last few words, i made no remark on them, and he resumed, "she has invited you to come and see her as often as you are at liberty; and, for my part, you shall not be restricted in that way. go and come as you please, only do not infringe the hours of the fortress; and if you can concede a little now and then to the prejudices of the old lady, your intercourse will be all the more agreeable to both parties." "i believe, general, that i have little of the jacobin to recant," said i, laughing. "i shall go farther, my dear friend, and say none," added he. "your uniform is the only tint of 'blue' about you." and thus chatting, we reached the fortress, and said good-night. i have been particular, perhaps tiresomely so, in retailing these broken phrases and snatches of conversation; but they were the first matches applied to a train that was long and artfully laid. chapter xxxix. "a sorrowful parting." the general was as good as his word, and i now enjoyed the most unrestricted liberty; in fact the officers of the garrison said truly, that they were far more like prisoners than i was. as regularly as evening came, i descended the path to the village, and, as the bell tolled out the vespers, i was crossing the little grass plot to the cottage. so regularly was i looked for, that the pursuits of each evening were resumed as though only accidentally interrupted. the unfinished game of chess, the half read volume, the newly begun drawing, were taken up where we had left them, and life seemed to have centred itself in those delightful hours between sunset and midnight. i suppose there are few young men who have not, at some time or other of their lives, enjoyed similar privileges, and known the fascination of intimacy in some household, where the affections became engaged as the intellect expanded; and, while winning another's heart, have elevated their own. but to know the full charm of such intercourse, one must have been as i was--a prisoner--an orphan--almost friendless in the world--a very "waif" upon the shore of destiny. i can not express the intense pleasure these evenings afforded me. the cottage was my home, and more than my home. it was a shrine at which my heart worshiped--for i was in love! easy as the confession is to make now, tortures would not have wrung it from me then! in good truth, it was long before i knew it; nor can i guess how much longer the ignorance might have lasted, when general urleben suddenly dispelled the clouds, by informing me that he had just received from the minister of war at vienna a demand for the name, rank, and regiment of his prisoner, previous to the negotiation for his exchange. "you will fill up these blanks, tiernay," said he, "and within a month, or less, you will be once more free, and say adieu to kuffstein." had the paper contained my dismissal from the service, i shame to own it would have been more welcome! the last few months had changed all the character of my life, suggested new hopes and new ambitions. the career i used to glory in had grown distasteful; the comrades i once longed to rejoin were now become almost repulsive to my imagination. the marquise had spoken much of emigrating to some part of the new world beyond seas, and thither my fancy alike pointed. perhaps my dreams of a future were not the less rose-colored, that they received no shadow from any thing like a "fact." the old lady's geographical knowledge was neither accurate nor extensive, and she contrived to invest this land of promise with odd associations of what she once heard of pondicherry--with certain features belonging to the united states. a glorious country it would, indeed, have been, which, within a month's voyage, realized all the delights of the tropics, with the healthful vigor of the temperate zone, and where, without an effort beyond the mere will, men amassed enormous fortunes in a year or two. in a calmer mood, i might, indeed must, have been struck with the wild inconsistency of the old lady's imaginings, and looked with somewhat of skepticism on the map for that spot of earth so richly endowed; but now i believed every thing, provided it only ministered to my new hopes. laura, evidently, too, believed in the "canaan" of which, at last, we used to discourse as freely as though we had been there. little discussions, would, however, now and then vary the uniformity of this creed, and i remember once feeling almost hurt at laura's not agreeing with me about zebras, which i assured her were just as trainable as horses, but which the marquise flatly refused ever to use in any of her carriages. these were mere passing clouds; the regular atmosphere of our wishes was bright and transparent. in the midst of these delicious day dreams, there came one day a number of letters to the marquise by the hands of a courier on his way to naples. what were their contents i never knew, but the tidings seemed most joyful, for the old lady invited the general and myself to dinner, when the table was decked out with white lilies on all sides; she herself, and laura also, wearing them in bouquets on their dresses. the occasion had, i could see, something of a celebration about it. mysterious hints of circumstances i knew nothing of were constantly interchanged, the whole ending with a solemn toast to the memory of the "saint and martyr;" but who he was, or when he lived, i knew not one single fact about. that evening--i can not readily forget it--was the first i had ever an opportunity of being alone with laura! hitherto the marquise had always been beside us; now she had all this correspondence to read over with the general, and they both retired into a little boudoir for the purpose, while laura and myself wandered out upon the terrace, as awkward and constrained as though our situation had been the most provoking thing possible. it was on that same morning i had received the general's message regarding my situation, and i was burning with anxiety to tell it, and yet knew not exactly how. laura, too, seemed full of her own thoughts, and leaned pensively over the balustrade and gazed on the stream. "what are you thinking of so seriously?" asked i, after a long pause. "of long, long ago," said she sighing, "when i was a little child. i remember a little chapel like that yonder, only that it was not on a rock over a river, but stood in a small garden; and though in a great city, it was as lonely and solitary as might be--the chapelle de st. blois." "st. blois, laura," cried i; "oh, tell me about that!" "why you surely never heard of it before," said she, smiling. "it was in a remote quarter of paris, nigh the outer boulevard, and known to but a very few! it had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there were chateaux and country houses within that space, which then was part of paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there! how well i remember it all! the dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the poor curé." "can you remember all this so well, laura?" asked i, eagerly, for the theme was stirring my very heart of hearts. "all--everything--the straggling weed-grown garden, through which we passed to our daily devotions--the congregation standing respectfully to let us walk by, for my mother was still the great marquise d'estelles, although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. they who had known us in our prosperity, were as respectful and devoted as ever; and poor old richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my mother's bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how every thing stands out clear and distinct before my memory! nay, maurice, but i can tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. there was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve the mass with the père, and he always came to place a footstool or a cushion for my mother. poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was, changing color at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when he had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands crossed on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of the church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder and pleasure! yes, i think i see his dark eyes glistening through the gloom, ever fixed on me! i am sure, maurice, that little fellow fancied he was in love with me!" "and why not, laura; was the thing so very impossible? was it even so unlikely?" "not that," said she archly, "but think of a mere child; we were both mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house, perhaps; of course he must have been _that_, raising his eyes to the daughter of the great 'marquise;' what energy of character there must have been to have suggested the feeling; how daring he was, with all his bashfulness!" "you never saw him afterward?" "never!" "never thought of him, perhaps?" "i'll not say that," said she, smiling. "i have often wondered to myself, if that hardihood i speak of had borne good or evil fruit. had he been daring or enterprising in the right, or had he, as the sad times favored, been only bold and impetuous for the wrong!" "and how have you pictured him to your imagination?" said i, as if merely following out a fanciful vein of thought. "my fancy would like to have conceived him a chivalrous adherent to our ancient royalty, striving nobly in exile to aid the fortunes of some honored house, or daring, as many brave men have dared, the heroic part of la vendée. my reason, however, tells me, that he was far more likely to have taken the other part." "to which you will concede no favor, laura; not even the love of glory." "glory, like honor, should have its fountain in a monarchy," cried she proudly. "the rude voices of a multitude can confer no meed of praise. their judgments are the impulses of the moment. but why do we speak of these things, maurice? nor have _i_, who can but breathe my hopes for a cause, the just pretension to contend with _you_, who shed your blood for its opposite." as she spoke, she hurried from the balcony, and quitted the room. it was the first time, as i have said, that we had ever been alone together, and it was also the first time she had ever expressed herself strongly on the subject of party. what a moment to have declared her opinions, and when her reminiscences, too, had recalled our infancy! how often was i tempted to interrupt that confession, by declaring myself, and how strongly was i repelled by the thought that the avowal might sever us forever. while i was thus deliberating, the marquise, with the general entered the room, and laura followed in a few moments. the supper that night was a pleasant one to all save me. the rest were gay and high-spirited. allusions, understood by _them_, but not by _me_, were caught up readily, and as quickly responded to. toasts were uttered, and wishes breathed in concert, but all was like a dream to me. indeed my heart grew heavier at every moment. my coming departure, of which i had not yet spoken, lay drearily on my mind, while the bold decision with which laura declared her faith showed that our destinies were separated by an impassable barrier. it may be supposed that my depression was not relieved by discovering that the general had already announced my approaching departure, and the news, far from being received with any thing like regret, was made the theme of pleasant allusion, and even congratulation. the marquise repeatedly assured me of the delight the tidings gave her, and laura smiled happily toward me, as if echoing the sentiment. was this the feeling i had counted on? were these the evidences of an affection, for which i had given my whole heart? oh, how bitterly i reviled the frivolous ingratitude of woman! how heavily i condemned their heartless, unfeeling nature. in a few days, a few hours, perhaps, i shall be as totally forgotten here, as though i had never been, and yet these are the people who parade their devotion to fallen monarchy, and their affection for an exiled house! i tried to arm myself with every prejudice against royalism. i thought of santron and his selfish, sarcastic spirit. i thought of all the stories i used to hear of cowardly ingratitude, and noble infamy, and tried to persuade myself that the blandishments of the well-born were but the gloss that covered cruel and unfeeling natures. for very pride sake, i tried to assume a manner cool and unconcerned as their own. i affected to talk of my departure as a pleasant event, and even hinted at the career that fortune might hereafter open to me. in this they seemed to take a deeper interest than i anticipated, and i could perceive that more than once the general exchanged looks with the ladies most significantly. i fear i grew very impatient at last. i grieve to think that i fancied a hundred annoyances that were never intended for me, and when we arose to take leave, i made my adieux with a cold and stately reserve, intended to be strongly impressive, and cut them to the quick. i heard very little of what the general said as we ascended the cliff. i was out of temper with him, and myself, and all the world; and it was only when he recalled my attention to the fact, for the third or fourth time, that i learned how very kindly he meant by me in the matter of my liberation, for while he had forwarded all my papers to vienna, he was quite willing to set me at liberty on the following day, in the perfect assurance that my exchange would be confirmed. "you will thus have a full fortnight at your own disposal, tiernay," said he, "since the official answer can not arrive from vienna before that time, and you need not report yourself in paris for eight or ten days after." here was a boon now thrown away! for my part, i would a thousand times rather have lingered on at kuffstein than have been free to travel europe from one end to the other. my outraged pride, however, put this out of the question. la marquise and her niece had both assumed a manner of sincere gratification, and i was resolved not to be behindhand in my show of joy! i ought to have known it, said i again and again. i ought to have known it. these antiquated notions of birth and blood can never co-exist with any generous sentiment. these remnants of a worn-out monarchy can never forgive the vigorous energy that has dethroned their decrepitude! i did not dare to speculate on what a girl laura might have been under other auspices; how nobly her ambition would have soared; what high-souled patriotism she could have felt; how gloriously she would have adorned the society of a regenerated nation. i thought of her as she was, and could have hated myself for the devotion with which my heart regarded her! i never closed my eyes the entire night. i lay down and walked about alternately, my mind in a perfect fever of conflict. pride, a false pride, but not the less strong for that, alone sustained me. the general had announced to me that i was free. be it so; i will no longer be a burden on his hospitality. la marquise hears the tidings with pleasure. agreed, then--we part without regret! very valorous resolutions they were, but come to, i must own, with a very sinking heart and a very craven spirit. instead of my full uniform, that morning i put on half dress, showing that i was ready for the road; a sign, i had hoped, would have spoken unutterable things to la marquise and laura. immediately after breakfast, i set out for the cottage. all the way, as i went, i was drilling myself for the interview, by assuming a tone of the coolest and easiest indifference. they shall have no triumph over me in this respect, muttered i. let us see if i can not be as unconcerned as they are! to such a pitch had i carried my zeal for flippancy, that i resolved to ask them whether they had no commission i could execute for them in paris or elsewhere. the idea struck me as excellent, so indicative of perfect self-possession and command. i am sure i must have rehearsed our interview at least a dozen times, supplying all the stately grandeur of the old lady, and all the quiet placitude of laura. by the time i reached the village i was quite strong in my part, and as i crossed the platz i was eager to begin it. this energetic spirit, however, began to waver a little as i entered the lawn before the cottage, and a most uncomfortable throbbing at my side made me stand for a moment in the porch before i entered. i used always to make my appearance unannounced, but now i felt that it would be more dignified and distant were i to summon a servant, and yet i could find none. the household was on a very simple scale, and in all likelihood the labors of the field or the garden were now employing them. i hesitated what to do, and after looking in vain around the "cour" and the stable-yard, i turned into the garden to seek for some one. i had not proceeded many paces along a little alley, flanked by two close hedges of yew, when i heard voices, and at the same instant my own name uttered. "you told him to use caution, laura, that we know little of this tiernay beyond his own narrative--" "i told him the very reverse, aunt. i said that he was the son of a loyal garde du corps, left an orphan in infancy, and thrown by force of events into the service of the republic; but that every sentiment he expressed, every ambition he cherished, and every feeling he displayed was that of a gentleman; nay, farther--" but i did not wait for more, for, striking my sabre heavily on the ground to announce my coming, i walked hurriedly forward toward a small arbor where the ladies were seated at breakfast. i need not stop to say how completely all my resolves were routed by the few words i had overheard from laura, nor how thoroughly i recanted all my expressions concerning her. so full was i of joy and gratitude, that i hastened to salute her before ever noticing the marquise, or being conscious of her presence. the old lady, usually the most exacting of all beings, took my omission in good part, and most politely made room for me between herself and laura at the breakfast-table. "you have come most opportunely, monsieur de tiernay," said she, "for not only were we just speaking of you, but discussing whether or not we might ask of you a favor." "does the question admit of a discussion, madame?" said i, bowing. "perhaps not, in ordinary circumstances, perhaps not; but--" she hesitated, seemed confused, and looked at laura, who went on, "my aunt would say, sir, that we may be possibly asking too much--that we may presume too far." "not on my will to serve you," broke i in, for her looks said much more than her words. "the matter is this, sir," said the aunt, "we have a very valued relative--" "friend," interposed laura, "friend, aunt." "we will say friend, then," resumed she; "a friend in whose welfare we are deeply interested, and whose regard for us is not less powerful, has been for some years back separated from us by the force of those unhappy circumstances which have made so many of us exiles! no means have existed of communicating with each other, nor of interchanging those hopes or fears for our country's welfare which are so near to every french heart! he in germany, we in the wild tyrol, one half the world apart! and dare not trust to a correspondence the utterance of those sympathies which have brought so many to the scaffold!" "we would ask of you to see him, monsieur de tiernay, to know him," burst out laura; "to tell him all that you can of france--above all, of the sentiments of the army; he is a soldier himself, and will hear you with pleasure." "you may speak freely and frankly," continued the marquise; "the count is man of the world enough to hear the truth even when it gives pain. your own career will interest him deeply; heroism has always had a charm for all his house. this letter will introduce you; and, as the general informs us, you have some days at your own disposal, pray give them to our service in this cause." "willingly, madame," replied i, "only let me understand a little better--" "there is no need to know more," interrupted laura; "the count de marsanne will himself suggest every thing of which you will talk. he will speak of us, perhaps--of the tyrol--of kuffstein; then he will lead the conversation to france--in fact, once acquainted you will follow the dictates of your own fancy." "just so, monsieur de tiernay, it will be a visit with as little of ceremony as possible--" "aunt!" interrupted laura, as if recalling the marquise to caution, and the old lady at once acknowledged the hint by a significant look. i see it all, thought i, de marsanne is laura's accepted lover, and i am the person to be employed as a go-between. this was intolerable, and when the thought first struck me i was out of myself with passion. "are we asking too great a favor, monsieur de tiernay?" said the marquise, whose eyes were fixed upon me during this conflict. "of course not, madam," said i, in an accent of almost sarcastic tone. "if i am not wrong in my impressions the cause might claim a deeper devotion; but this is a theme i would not wish to enter upon." "we are aware of that," said laura, quickly, "we are quite prepared for your reserve, which is perfectly proper and becoming." "your position being one of unusual delicacy," chimed in the marquise. i bowed haughtily and coldly, while the marquise uttered a thousand expressions of gratitude and regard to me. "we had hoped to have seen you here a few days longer, monsieur," said she, "but perhaps, under the circumstances, it is better as it is." "_under the circumstances_, madam," repeated i, "i am bound to agree with you;" and i turned to say farewell. "rather _au revoir_, monsieur de tiernay," said the marquise, "friendship, such as ours, should at least be hopeful; say then '_au revoir_.'" "perhaps monsieur de tiernay's hopes run not in the same channel as our own, aunt," said laura, "and perhaps the days of happiness that _we_ look forward to, would bring far different feelings to _his_ heart." this was too pointed--this was insupportably offensive! and i was only able to mutter, "you are right, mademoiselle;" and then, addressing myself to the marquise, i made some blundering apologies about haste and so forth; while i promised to fulfill her commission faithfully and promptly. "shall we not hear from you?" said the old lady, as she gave me her hand. i was about to say, "under the circumstances, better not," but i hesitated, and laura, seeing my confusion, said, "it might be unfair, aunt, to expect it; remember how he is placed." "mademoiselle is a miracle of forethought and candor too," said i. "adieu! adieu forever!" the last word i uttered in a low whisper. "adieu, maurice," said she, equally low, and then turned away toward the window. from that moment until the instant when, out of breath and exhausted, i halted for a few seconds on the crag below the fortress, i knew nothing; my brain was in a whirl of mad, conflicting thought. every passion was working within me, and rage, jealousy, love, and revenge were alternately swaying and controlling me. then, however, as i looked down for the last time on the village and the cottage beside the river, my heart softened, and i burst into a torrent of tears. there, said i, as i arose to resume my way, there is one illusion dissipated; let me take care that life never shall renew the affliction! henceforth i will be a soldier, and only a soldier. (to be continued.) the autobiography of a sensitive spirit. my earliest recollections are of a snug, modest-looking cottage, far away in the country, whose shady garden was full of the sweet breath of roses, and honeysuckle, and many other flowers. this house and this garden were, to my tiny apprehension, the sum and substance of all delight; and, truly, never was a scene more calculated to strike on the young soul in its bud of being, and to touch those mysterious chords yet unjarred by the world's rough hand. my father was an humble and unpretending country pastor, void of ambition, except as he could train the soul for heaven. alike removed from envying the powerful or scorning the poor, he, with calm dignity of mien and tenderness of heart, pursued the duties of his sacred calling. it seems so far back, that i can scarcely say whether it be a recollection of this life or a dream of some other but there we sit, on the evening of a summer's day, in our shady alcove, my father reading aloud, my mother at her work, little edward and myself at their feet. we little ones are playing with some wild flowers, and form these into a variety of devices. suddenly i break off, and look up in my father's face. he is not reading now. his eyes are resting on some object in the distance. his face wears a strange expression--a kind of faded, unearthly look. i did not know what this was then--i know it now. i am fascinated by this shadow on the beloved face, till i feel a strange pang at my heart, the first that has ever visited it. my father at last looks down, kindly pats my curly head, and says, "why, how quiet we all are!" upon this, i look at my mother, and see that her blue eyes are full of tears. she hurries into the house; my father follows; and i, finding my little brother fast asleep on his flowers, bury my face in my hands, and burst into a passion of weeping. i can not tell why i wept, but a shadow had come into my gay young heart; and, clasping little edward in my arms, at last i sobbed myself to sleep also. yet another evening, and we sit in our humble parlor. we youngsters have had a merry day of it, for some little friends have been taking tea with us. the spirit of our exuberant glee has not yet died away, but we are quiet now, for it is the hour of prayer. sally, our sole domestic, with her red arms, and red, good-humored face, tries to look demurely at us--which, in truth, she can not accomplish--and, by various telegraphic nods and shakes of the head, secures our good behavior. my mother plays on the piano, and we sing a hymn. we all join, in our way, sally's rough voice setting off my mother's wonderfully. i wonder if the angels in heaven sing as sweetly as she. i believe, in my small mind, that my father thinks so, for sometimes he does not sing, but listens to her, and looks at her, in a kind of rapt, admiring way. the hymn over, we listen to a portion of the holy book--god's book--for that is the name by which we know it. then my father prays, and we pray, in our simple manner, to the great father above the blue sky. the religion of our dear home is neither morose nor sullen. all pleasant, simple delights are ours. our merry laugh is not chidden, and we are early taught to minister to others. thus it follows that we, unasked, give our weekly pence to the poor little boy whose father died last week, of whose desolate condition, and that of his mother, we hear our parents speak. we know very well, though none ever told us, that these same dear parents are ministering angels to the afflicted and distressed. we do sometimes wonder where the money comes from that helps the poor; for when i, seized with an envious fit, ask why i can not have gay apparel, like one of my little friends--why i must wear an old frock, while she displays a new one--my father shakes his head, and says, "my dear mary, i can not afford finery for my children." then a light breaks upon me, and i know that father is careful, and mother is careful, and that we must be careful, too, that we may give to the poor. and now, after the lapse of some months, i observe again the old look on my father's face. he has a short cough, and seems tired with doing very little. his deep, dark eyes have a strange shadow about them, and there is a peculiar tenderness in his whole manner. somehow, we children are more silent than we used to be. we do not feel so much inclined to be noisy and boisterous as heretofore. days and weeks pass on. the shadow deepens on the beloved face. we are now told that our father is very ill, and urged to be quiet. in these days, we do much as we like--wander about the field at the back of our house, and through the shady garden, but the spirit of gladness has left our young hearts, and we go hither and thither with a strange weight resting on us. fatigued, we sit beneath the aged elm. the happy birds sing in its branches. far off, the cattle are lowing in the meadows, and sheep bleating on the hill-side. the busy hum of haymakers comes to us, but it does not make us merry as once it did. then come times of deeper gloom. we all tread on tiptoe. we just step within our father's room. his breath is very short and quick, and his eyes are bright--oh, how bright! he places his hand upon our heads, and, in trembling accents, commits us to our heavenly father. we hear him say he is tired, and will sleep. all is hushed. he closes his eyes. we watch long to see him wake, but he is now a pure seraph in the presence of his god; and, through life's pilgrimage, he is henceforth to be to those who love him a memory, a dream of other days, and yet a burning and shining light, whose rays penetrate not the less, because they are mild and benign. for some time after this event all seems a blank. there is a sale at our house. our cherished things are going to be taken from us. then i understand that we are poor. my mother has a little, but not enough for our support; so she is fain to accept an offer that has been made her by a distant relative, who keeps a boarding-school for young ladies in a distant county. my mother is to assist in the school. she does not much like the scheme. she is telling all to a sympathizing friend. she speaks rather in a shuddering way of her relative, whom she describes as overbearing and tyrannical. henceforth i look on this lady as a kind of dragon, and my state of mind toward her is not such as to insure her regard. i can not now speak of the tokens of affection we receive from our loving friends. now the children call with nosegays of wild flowers. now my little brother has a rabbit given him; i a canary. now cakes and sweetmeats are thrust into our hands from humble donors, with tears and blessings. now my mother receives anonymous gifts, from a £ note, down to a pair of knitted stockings to travel in, accompanied by an ill-spelt, ill-written blessing and prayer, "that the almighty will set his two eyes on the purty lady and her children, and make his honor's bed in heaven, although he did not worshyp the blessed vargin." my mother smiles through her tears, for she knows this is from old judy, our romish neighbor, whom, in a fit of illness, she befriended, long ago. and so, after much loving leave-taking, we depart, and at length reach our destination. and now we alight from the hackney-coach, and take a timid survey of our new abode. it is a gaunt brick building, large and stately, with "miss ----'s establishment for young ladies," inscribed on a brass plate on the door. i hold my mother's hand, and feel that it trembles, as we are ushered into a stark, staring room, which, at this cool season of the year, is without fire. the door opens, and our relative appears. she imprints a fashionable kiss on my mother's pale cheek, and notices our presence by the words, "fine children, but very countrified, my dear cousin." we have tea in a small parlor, where is a fire, but i observe that my mother can not eat; and little edward bursting into a fit of crying, with the words, "i do not like this house--i want to go home," we are all dissolved together, at which miss ---- frowns mentally, ejaculating, "no spirit, no energy--a bad beginning, truly." i wonder, in my simple soul, what this energy means, of which my mother has been said to be deficient. it can not be that she has done wrong in letting those tears flow which have filled her eyes so often during the day, for i have often seen people weep at our house in the olden time, when they have been relating their troubles, when my father's gentle eye would grow more kind, his voice more soft. he would then speak another language, which now i know to be the language of promise, breathed by the great eternal himself in the ear of his suffering ones. i pass over some weeks, during which my mother has been duly installed into her office of teacher--rising early, to give lessons before breakfast; afterward walking out with the young people; then teaching all through the livelong day, till evening brings some repose. she always puts us to bed herself, and this is not a very hurried operation, for we clasp her round the neck, call her "dear mamma," and tell her how much we love her. she will then listen to our simple devotions, and tear herself away. then we hear her in a room adjoining, pouring forth her soul in song. she sings the old lays, but there is another tone mingling with them--one that affects the listener to tears; for, stealing out of bed and opening the door, i have met other listeners, whose gay young faces showed that those saddened melodies had touched some mysterious chord, awaking it to sadness and tears. my mother was greatly beloved by the young people. i soon found out that this fact was any thing but pleasing in the eyes of the lady superior, who could not imagine how a person so devoid of energy, as she termed it, could possess so much influence. nevertheless, this best of all influence--the influence of affection--was possessed in no common degree. with what zest and pleasure was every little office rendered--with what sweetmeats were we feasted--what bouquets were placed on my mother's table--what numerous presents of needlework were made her--how her wishes were anticipated--i know well. i know, too, how much my dear parent suffered in this house--how unequal her strength was to her labors--how the incessant small tyranny to which she was subjected ate out all the life of her spirit. still she never complained; but i could hear her sometimes, in the silence of night, weeping bitterly, and calling on her beloved dead, who, when on earth, had never allowed one shadow to cross her path which he could avert. thus four years were passed, during which my brother died. this second blow pierced me to the heart, but, strange to say, mamma bore it calmly. i wondered at her, till i noticed how very thin she had become--how very trembling and frightened with every little thing--and how attentive the young people were to her wishes. then the old agony came over my heart, and i knew all. about this time, a gentleman, who had known and loved my father, dying, left my mother a legacy of £ . this sum enabled her to take a lodging near our old home, and here, some two months after our return, she died, in the full assurance of faith. our faithful old sally was now married to an honest yeoman, and from this good creature we received much kind attention.... i pass over some years, in which i experienced all the trials of a shabby-genteel life at a large school, where i was placed by the kindness of a distant friend. after trials and vicissitudes of no ordinary kind, i found myself, by the death of a relative in india, whose name i had never heard, entitled to the sum of £ . with this wealth, which to my young imagination seemed boundless, i retired to my native village, in the quiet shades to enjoy the peace for which i had long sighed.... a stranger hand writes that mary---- resided for some time in the retreat she had chosen, the idolized of the poor, the friend of the afflicted, more like an angel than aught belonging to this lower sphere, yet showing that she was of the earth, by the look of tender melancholy which haunted her cheek, and said how surely, "early griefs a lengthened shadow fling." she died in her youthful bloom, and the bitter sobs and lamentations of the poor testified to her worth. her money still remains for them in perpetuity, but the meek, dove-like eyes are darkened, and gone the voice whose music made many glad. so have we seen a stream suddenly dried up, whose presence was only known by the verdure on its margin, scarcely known, scarcely cared for, except by the humble floweret, but, when gone, its absence was deplored by the sterility where once were bloom and freshness. escape from a mexican quicksand. by capt. mayne reid a few days afterward, another "adventure" befell me; and i began to think that i was destined to become a hero among the "mountain men." a small party of the traders--myself among the number--had pushed forward ahead of the caravan. our object was to arrive at santa fé, a day or two before the wagons, in order to have every thing arranged with the governor for their entrance into that capital. we took the route by the cimmaron. our road, for a hundred miles or so, lay through a barren desert, without game, and almost without water. the buffalo had already disappeared, and deer were equally scarce. we had to content ourselves on the dried meat which we had brought from the settlements. we were in the deserts of the _artemisia_. now and then we could see a stray antelope bounding away before us, but keeping far out of range. they, too, seemed to be unusually shy. on the third day after leaving the caravan, as we were riding near the cimmaron, i thought i observed a pronged head disappearing behind a swell in the prairie. my companions were skeptical, and would none of them go with me; so, wheeling out of the trail, i started alone. one of the men--for godé was behind--kept charge of my dog, as i did not choose to take him with me, lest he might alarm the antelopes. my horse was fresh and willing; and whether successful or not, i knew that i could easily overtake the party by camping time. i struck directly toward the spot where i had seen the object. it appeared to be only half a mile or so from the trail. it proved more distant--a common illusion in the crystal atmosphere of these upland regions. a curiously-formed ridge--_a couteau des prairies_, on a small scale--traversed the plain from east to west. a thicket of cactus covered part of its summit. toward this thicket i directed myself. i dismounted at the bottom of the slope, and leading my horse silently up among the cacti-plants, tied him to one of their branches. i then crept cautiously through the thorny leaves, toward the point where i fancied i had seen the game. to my joy, not one antelope, but a brace of those beautiful animals, was quietly grazing beyond; but alas! too far off for the carry of my rifle. they were fully three hundred yards distant, upon a smooth, grassy slope. there was not even a sage-bush to cover me, should i attempt to "approach" them. what was to be done? i lay for several minutes, thinking over the different tricks known in hunter-craft for taking the antelope. should i imitate their call? should i hoist my handkerchief, and try to lure them up? i saw that they were too shy; for, at short intervals, they threw up their graceful heads, and looked inquiringly around them. i remembered the red blanket on my saddle. i could display this upon the cactus-bushes--perhaps it would attract them. i had no alternative; and was turning to go back for the blanket; when, all at once, my eye rested upon a clay-colored line running across the prairie, beyond where the animals were feeding. it was a break in the surface of the plain--a buffalo-road--or the channel of an _arroyo_--in either case the very cover i wanted--for the animals were not a hundred yards from it; and were getting still nearer to it as they fed. creeping back out of the thicket, i ran along the side of the slope toward a point, where i had noticed that the ridge was depressed to the prairie level. here, to my surprise, i found myself on the banks of a broad arroyo, whose water--clear and shallow--ran slowly over a bed of sand and gypsum. the banks were low--not over three feet above the surface of the water--except where the ridge impinged upon the stream. here there was a high bluff; and, hurrying around its base, i entered the channel; and commenced wading upward. as i had anticipated, i soon came to a bend, where the stream, after running parallel to the ridge, swept round and _cañoned_ through it. at this place i stopped; and looked cautiously over the bank. the antelopes had approached within less than rifle range of the arroyo; but they were yet far above my position. they were still quietly feeding, and unconscious of danger. i again bent down, and waded on. it was a difficult task proceeding in this way. the bed of the creek was soft and yielding, and i was compelled to tread slowly and silently, lest i should alarm the game; but i was cheered in my exertions by the prospect of fresh venison for my supper. after a weary drag of several hundred yards, i came opposite to a small clump of wormwood-bushes, growing out of the bank. "i may be high enough," thought i, "these will serve for cover." i raised my body gradually, until i could see through the leaves. i was in the right spot. i brought my rifle to a level; sighted for the heart of the buck; and fired. the animal leaped from the ground, and fell back lifeless. i was about to rush forward, and secure my prize, when i observed the doe--instead of running off as i had expected--go up to her fallen partner, and press her tapering nose to his body. she was not more than twenty yards from me; and i could plainly see that her look was one of inquiry, and bewilderment! all at once, she seemed to comprehend the fatal truth; and throwing back her head, commenced uttering the most piteous cries--at the same time running in circles around the body! i stood wavering between two minds. my first impulse had been to reload, and kill the doe; but her plaintive voice entered my heart, disarming me of all hostile intentions. had i dreamed of witnessing this painful spectacle, i should not have left the trail. but the mischief was now done. "i have worse than killed her," thought i, "it will be better to dispatch her at once." actuated by these principles of a common, but to her fatal, humanity, i rested the butt of my rifle, and reloaded. with a faltering hand, i again leveled the piece, and fired. my nerves were steady enough to do the work. when the smoke floated aside, i could see the little creature bleeding upon the grass--her head resting against the body of her murdered mate! i shouldered my rifle; and was about to move forward, when, to my astonishment, i found that i was caught by the feet! i was held firmly, as if my legs had been screwed in a vice! i made an effort to extricate myself--another, more violent, and equally unsuccessful--and, with a third, i lost my balance, and fell back upon the water! half-suffocated, i regained my upright position; but only to find that i was held as fast as ever! again i struggled to free my limbs. i could neither move them backward nor forward--to the right nor the left; and i became sensible that i was gradually going down. then the fearful truth flashed upon me--_i was sinking in a quicksand_! a feeling of horror came over me. i renewed my efforts with the energy of desperation. i leaned to one side, then to the other, almost wrenching my knees from their sockets. my feet remained fast as ever. i could not move them an inch! the soft clingy sand already overtopped my horse-skin boots, wedging them around my ankles, so that i was unable to draw them off; and i could feel that i was still sinking, slowly but surely, as though some subterraneous monster were leisurely dragging me down! this very thought caused me a fresh thrill of horror; and i called aloud for help! to whom! there was no one within miles of me--no living thing. yes! the neigh of my horse answered me from the hill, mocking my despair! i bent forward, as well as my constrained position would permit; and, with frenzied fingers, commenced tearing up the sand. i could barely reach the surface; and the little hollow i was able to make, filled up almost as soon as it had been formed. a thought occurred to me. my rifle might support me, placed horizontally. i looked around for it. it was not to be seen. it had sunk beneath the sand! could i throw my body flat, and prevent myself from sinking deeper? no. the water was two feet in depth. i should drown at once! this last hope left me as soon as formed. i could think of no plan to save myself. i could make no further effort. a strange stupor seized upon me. my very thoughts became paralyzed. i knew that i was going mad. for a moment _i was mad_! after an interval, my senses returned. i made an effort to rouse my mind from its paralysis, in order that i might meet death--which i now believed to be certain--as a man should. i stood erect. my eyes had sunk to the prairie level, and rested upon the still bleeding victims of my cruelty. my heart smote me at the sight. was i suffering a retribution of god? with humbled and penitent thoughts, i turned my face to heaven, almost dreading that some sign of omnipotent anger would scowl upon me from above. but no. the sun was shining as bright as ever; and the blue canopy of the world was without a cloud. i gazed upward, and prayed, with an earnestness known only to the hearts of men in positions of peril like mine. as i continued to look up, an object attracted my attention. against the sky, i distinguished the outlines of a large dark bird. i knew it to be the obscene bird of the plains--the buzzard-vulture. whence had it come? who knows? far beyond the reach of human eye, it had seen, or scented, the slaughtered antelopes; and, on broad silent wing, was now descending to the feast of death. presently another, and another, and many others, mottled the blue field of the heavens, curving and wheeling silently earthward. then, the foremost swooped down upon the bank; and, after gazing around for a moment, flapped off toward its prey. in a few seconds the prairie was black with filthy birds, who clambered over the dead antelopes; and beat their wings against each other, while they tore out the eyes of the quarry with their fetid beaks. and now came gaunt wolves--sneaking and hungry--stealing out of the cactus-thicket; and loping, coward-like, over the green swells of the prairie. these, after a battle, drove away the vultures; and tore up the prey--all the while growling and snapping vengefully at each other. "thank heaven! i shall at least be saved from this!" i was soon relieved from the sight. my eyes had sunk below the level of the bank. i had looked my last on the fair green earth. i could now see only the clayey walls that contained the river, and the water that ran unheeding past me. once more i fixed my gaze upon the sky; and, with prayerful heart, endeavored to resign myself to my fate. in spite of my endeavors to be calm, the memories of earthly pleasures, and friends, and home, came over me--causing me, at intervals, to break into wild paroxysms, and make fresh though fruitless struggles. again i was attracted by the neighing of my horse. a thought entered my mind, filling me with fresh hopes. "perhaps my horse--" i lost not a moment. i raised my voice to its highest pitch; and called the animal by name. i knew that he would come at my call. i had tied him but slightly. the cactus-limb would snap off. i called again, repeating words that were well known to him. i listened with a bounding heart. for a moment there was silence. then i heard the quick sounds of his hoof, as though the animal was rearing and struggling to free himself. then i could distinguish the stroke of his heels, in a measured and regular gallop! nearer came the sounds--nearer and clearer, until the gallant brute bounded out on the bank above me. there he halted, and flinging back his tossed mane, uttered a shrill neigh. he was bewildered, and looked upon every side, snorting loudly! i knew that, having once seen me, he would not stop until he had pressed his nose against my cheek--for this was his usual custom. holding out my hands, i again uttered the magic words. now looking downward he perceived me; and, stretching himself, sprang out into the channel. the next moment i held him by the bridle! there was no time to be lost. i was still going down; and my armpits were fast nearing the surface of the quicksand. i caught the lariat; and, passing it under the saddle-girths, fastened it in a tight, firm knot. i then looped the trailing end, making it secure around my body. i had left enough of the rope, between the bit-ring and the girths, to enable me to check and guide the animal--in case the drag upon my body should be too painful. all this while the dumb brute seemed to comprehend what i was about. he knew, too, the nature of the ground on which he stood; for, during the operation, he kept lifting his feet alternately to prevent himself from sinking. my arrangements were at length completed; and, with a feeling of terrible anxiety, i gave my horse the signal to move forward. instead of going off with a start, the intelligent animal stepped away slowly, as though he understood my situation! the lariat tightened--i felt my body moving, and, the next moment, experienced a wild delight--a feeling i can not describe--as i found myself dragged out of the sand! i sprang to my feet with a shout of joy. i rushed up to my steed; and, throwing my arms around his neck, kissed him with as much delight as i would have kissed a beautiful girl. he answered my embrace with a low whimper, that told me i was understood. i looked for my rifle. fortunately it had not sunk deeply, and i soon found it. my boots were behind me, but i staid not to look for them--being smitten with a wholesome dread of the place where i had left them. i was not long in retreating from the arroyo; and, mounting, i galloped back to the trail. it was sundown before i reached camp; where i was met by the inquiries of my wondering companions: "did you come across the 'goats?'" "where's your boots?" "whether have you been hunting or fishing?" i answered all these questions by relating my adventures; and, for that night, i was again the hero of the camp-fire. the bear-steak. a gastronomic adventure. the englishman's predilection for a beef-steak is almost proverbial; but we fancy it would take some time to reconcile john bull in general to a bear-steak, however much we might expatiate to him on its excellence and the superiority of its flavor over that of his old-established favorite, however confidently we might assure him that the bear was a most delicate feeder, selecting the juiciest fruits of the forest and the most esculent roots of the earth for his ordinary nourishment. it might be supposed that this dislike to bear's flesh as an article of food arose from our national aversion to every thing that is outlandish; but the following gastronomic adventure, related in the pages of a modern french traveler, proves that our frog-eating neighbors find it just as difficult to surmount their aversion to feeding on the flesh of master bruin, as the most sturdy and thoroughbred englishman among us. m. alexandre dumas, after a long mountainous walk, arrived about four o'clock one fine autumn afternoon at the inn at martigny. exercise and the keen mountain air had combined to sharpen his appetite, and he inquired from the host, with some degree of eagerness, at what hour the _table-d'hôte_ dinner was usually served. "at half past five," replied the host. "that will do very well," rejoined m. dumas; "i shall then have time to visit the old castle before dinner." punctual to the appointed hour the traveler returned, but found to his dismay that every seat at the long table was already occupied. the host, however, who appeared to have taken m. dumas, even at first sight, into his especial favor, approached him with a courteous smile, and, pointing to a small side-table carefully laid out, said: "here, sir, this is your place. i had not enough of bear-steak left to supply the whole _table d'hôte_ with it; and, besides, most of my guests have tasted this bear already, so i reserved my last steak for you: i was sure you would like it." so saying, the good-natured host placed in the centre of the table a fine, juicy-looking steak, smoking hot, and very tempting in appearance; but glad would the hungry traveler have been could he only have believed that it was a beef, and not a bear-steak, which now lay before him. visions of the miserable-looking animals he had seen drowsily slumbering away existence in a menagerie, or covered with mud, and led about by a chain, for the amusement of the multitude, presented themselves to the traveler's eyes, and he would fain have turned away from the proffered treat. but he could not find it in his heart to be so ungracious as to express a dislike to food which the host evidently considered as the choicest delicacy the country could afford. he accordingly took his seat at the table, and cut off a small slice of the steak; then screwing his courage to the sticking-point, and opening his mouth wide, as if about to demolish a bolus, he heroically gulped the dreaded morsel. _ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute._ he had no sooner achieved this feat than he began to think that bear-flesh was, after all, not quite so bad a thing as he had expected. he swallowed a second morsel. "it was really the tenderest and most juicy steak he had ever tasted." "are you sure this is a bear-steak?" he inquired of the landlord. "yes, sir, i can assure you it is," replied the good-natured bustling man as he hurried off to attend upon his other guests at the _table-d'hôte_. before he returned to m. dumas at the side-table, three-quarters of the steak had disappeared; and, highly gratified at finding his favorite dish was so much approved of, he renewed the conversation by observing: "that was a famous beast, i can tell you; it weighed three hundred and twenty pounds." "a fine fellow indeed he must have been," rejoined the traveler. "it cost no small trouble to kill him." "i can well believe that," rejoined m. dumas, at the same time raising the last morsel to his mouth. "he devoured half the huntsman who shot him!" added the loquacious landlord. hastily flinging aside the loathed morsel which he had just placed within his lips, the traveler indignantly exclaimed: "how dare you pass such jokes upon a man when he is in the middle of his dinner?" "i can assure you, sir, i am not joking," replied the landlord: "i am only telling you the simple truth." the traveler, whose appetite for further food of any description whatever was by this time effectually destroyed, rose from table, and with a look of horror, begged that the host would acquaint him with the particulars of the tragedy which had now acquired in his eyes so painful an interest. the good man, nothing loth to hear himself talk, yielded a ready acquiescence to this request, and continued his story as follows: "you must know, sir, the man who killed this bear was a poor peasant belonging to the village of foula, and named william mona. this animal, of which there now only remains the small morsel you have left upon your plate, used to come every night and steal his pears, giving a special preference to the fruit of one fine pear-tree laden with bergamottes. now it so happened that william mona unfortunately also preferred the bergamottes to all other fruit. he at first imagined it was some of the children of the village who committed these depredations in his orchard, and having consequently loaded his gun with powder only, he placed himself in ambush that he might give them a good fright. toward eleven o'clock at night he heard a distant growl. 'ho, ho!' said he, 'there is a bear somewhere in the neighborhood.' ten minutes afterward a second growl was heard; but this time it was so loud and so near at hand that he began to fear he should scarcely have time to reach a place of refuge, and threw himself flat upon the ground, in the earnest hope that the bear would be satisfied with taking his pears instead of devouring himself. a few moments of anxious suspense ensued, during which the bear, passing within ten paces of the terrified peasant, advanced in a straight line toward the pear-tree in question. he climbed it with the utmost agility, although its branches creaked beneath the weight of his ponderous body; and having secured for himself a comfortable position, committed no small havoc among the luscious bergamottes. having gorged himself to his heart's content, he slowly descended from the tree, and returned in tranquil dignity toward his mountain-home. all this had occupied about an hour, during which time had appeared to travel at a much slower pace with the man than it did with the bear. "william mona was, however, at heart a brave and resolute man, and he said to himself, as he watched his enemy's retiring steps: 'he may go home _this_ time, if he pleases, but, master bruin, we shall meet again.' the next day one of his neighbors, who came to visit him, found him sawing up the teeth of a pitchfork, and transforming them into slugs. "'what are you about there?' he asked. "'i am amusing myself,' replied william. the neighbor, taking up one of the pieces of iron, turned it over and over in his hand, like a man who understood such things, and then said quietly: "'if you were to own the truth, william, you would acknowledge that these little scraps of iron are destined to pierce a tougher skin than that of the chamois.' "'perhaps they may,' replied william. "'you know that i am an honest fellow,' resumed francis (for so was the neighbor called): 'well, if you choose, we will divide the bear between us; two men in such a case are better than one.' "'that's as it may be,' replied william, at the same time cutting his third slug. "'i'll tell you what,' continued francis, 'i will leave you in full possession of the skin, and we will only share the flesh between us, together with the bounty offered by government for every bear that is killed, and which will give us forty francs apiece.' "'i should prefer having the whole myself,' replied william. "'but you can not prevent me from seeking the bear's track in the mountain, and placing myself in ambush on his passage.' "'you are free to do that, if you please.' so saying, william, who had now completed the manufacture of his slugs, began to measure out a charge of powder double in amount to that usually placed in a carabine. "'i see you intend to use your musket?' said francis. "'yes, of course i do; three iron slugs will do their work more surely than a leaden bullet.' "'they will spoil the skin.' "'never mind that, if they do their work more effectually.' "'and when do you intend to commence your chase?' "'i will tell you that to-morrow.' "'once more, then--are you quite determined not to let me share the chance with you?' "'yes, i prefer managing the whole matter myself, and sharing neither the danger nor the profit--_chacun pour soi_.' "'farewell, then, neighbor--i wish you success.' "in the evening, as francis was passing mona's dwelling, he saw the huntsman quietly seated on the bench before his door, engaged in smoking his pipe. he once more approached him and said: "'see, i bear you no ill-will--i have discovered the bear's track, therefore i might lie in wait for him and shoot him, if i pleased, without your help; but i have come once more to you, to propose that we should attack him together.' "'each one for himself,' replied william, as before. "francis knew nothing of mona's proceedings during the remainder of that evening, except that his wife saw him take up his musket at about half-past ten o'clock, roll up a bag of gray sack-cloth, place it under his arm, and leave the house. she did not venture to ask him what he was about; for mona, in such cases, was apt to tell her to hold her tongue, and not trouble herself about matters which did not concern her. "francis had really in the mean time tracked the bear, as he had said he would. he had followed its traces as far as the border of william's orchard, and, not liking to trespass upon his neighbor's territory, he then took up his post on the borders of the pine-wood which lay on the slope of the hill overhanging mona's garden. "as it was a clear night, he could observe with ease from this spot all that was going on below. he saw the huntsman leave his house, and advance toward a gray rock, which had rolled down from the adjoining heights into the centre of his little inclosure, and now stood at the distance of about twenty paces from his favorite pear-tree. there mona paused, looked round as if to ascertain that he was quite alone, unrolled his sack, and slipped into it, only allowing his head and his two arms to emerge above the opening. having thus in a great measure concealed his person, he leaned back against the rock, and remained so perfectly still that even his neighbor, although he knew him to be there, could not distinguish him from the lifeless stone. a quarter of an hour thus elapsed in patient expectation. at last a distant growl was heard, and in less than five minutes afterward the bear appeared in sight. but whether by accident, or whether it were that he had scented the second huntsman, he did not on this occasion follow his usual track, but diverging toward the right, escaped falling into the ambush which francis had prepared for him. "william, in the meantime, did not stir an inch. it might have been imagined that he did not even see the savage animal for which he was lying in wait, and which seemed to brave him by passing so closely within the reach of his gun. the bear, on his side, appeared quite unconscious of an enemy's presence, and advanced with rapid strides toward the tree. but at the moment when he rose upon his hind legs, in order to clasp the trunk with his fore-paws, thus leaving his breast exposed, and no longer protected by his broad and massive shoulders, a bright flash of light illuminated the face of the rock, and the whole valley re-echoed with the report of the doubly-loaded gun, together with the loud howl which proceeded from the wounded animal. the bear fled from the fatal spot, passing once more within ten paces of william without perceiving him. the latter had now taken the additional precaution of drawing the sack over his head, and rested motionless as before against the face of the rock. "francis, with his musket in his hand, stood beneath the shelter of the wood, a silent and breathless spectator of the scene. he is a bold huntsman, but he owned to me that he fairly wished himself at home when he saw the enormous animal, furious from its wound, bearing straight down upon the spot where he stood. he made the sign of the cross (for our hunters, sir, are pious men), commended his soul to god, and looked to see that his gun was well loaded. already was the bear within a few paces of the pine-wood; in two minutes more a deadly encounter must take place, in which francis was well aware that either he or the bear _must_ fall, when suddenly the wounded animal paused, raised his nostrils in the air, as if catching some scent which was borne by the breeze, and then uttering one furious growl, he turned hastily round, and rushed back toward the orchard. "'take care of yourself, william--take care!' exclaimed francis, at the same time darting forward in pursuit of the bear, and forgetting every thing else in his anxiety to save his old comrade from the terrible danger which threatened him; for he knew well that if william had not had time to reload his gun, it was all over with him--the bear had evidently scented him. but suddenly a fearful cry--a cry of human terror and human agony--rent the air: it seemed as though he who uttered it had concentrated every energy in that one wild, despairing cry--an appeal to god and man--'help! oh, help, help!' a dead silence ensued: not even a single moan was heard to succeed that cry of anguish. francis flew down the slope with redoubled speed, and as he approached the rock, he began yet more clearly to distinguish the huge animal, which had hitherto been half-concealed beneath its shade, and perceived that the bear was trampling under foot, and rending to pieces, the prostrate form of his unfortunate assailant. "francis was now close at hand; but the bear, still intent upon his prey, did not even seem aware of his presence. he did not venture to fire, for terror and dismay had unnerved his arm, and he feared that he might miss his aim, and perhaps shoot his unhappy friend, if indeed he yet continued to breathe. he took up a stone and threw it at the bear. the infuriated animal turned immediately upon this new and unexpected foe, and raising himself upon his hind legs, prepared to give him that formidable hug, which the experienced huntsman well knew would prove a _last embrace_. paralyzed with fear, his presence of mind had well-nigh deserted him, when all of a sudden he became conscious that the animal was pressing the point of his gun with its shaggy breast. mechanically almost he placed his finger upon the lock, and pulled the trigger. the bear fell backward--the ball had this time done its work effectually. it had pierced through his breast, and shattered the spinal bone. the huntsman, leaving the expiring animal upon the ground, now hastened to his comrade's side. but, alas! it was too late for human assistance to be of any avail. the unfortunate man was so completely mutilated, that it would have been impossible even to recognize his form. with a sickening heart, francis hastened to call for help; for he could perceive by the lights which were glancing in the cottage-windows that the unwonted noise had roused many of the villagers from their slumbers. "before many moments had elapsed, almost all the inhabitants of the village were assembled in poor mona's orchard, and his wife among the rest. i need not describe the dismal scene. a collection was made for the poor widow through the whole valley of the rhone, and a sum of seven hundred francs was thus raised. francis insisted upon her receiving the government bounty, and sold the flesh and the skin of the bear for her benefit. in short, all her neighbors united to assist her to the utmost of their power. we innkeepers also agreed to open a subscription-list at our respective houses, in case any travelers should wish to contribute a trifle; and in case you, sir, should be disposed to put down your name for a small sum, i should take it as a great favor." "most assuredly," replied m. dumas, as he rose from the table, and cast a parting glance of horror at the last morsel of the bear-steak, inwardly vowing never again to make experiments in gastronomy. weovil biscuit manufactory. at weovil, in the south of england, are produced biscuits for the royal navy. there the motive power is a large steam-engine, whose agency is visible in all parts of the establishment. the services of this engine commence with the arrival of a cargo of wheat under the walls of the building; and we should have a very imperfect notion of the ingenuity displayed in the establishment if we did not examine some of the earlier processes. let us, then, begin with the beginning; and having observed that the wheat is lifted by a steam-worked crane from the lighter to the uppermost floor, let us descend to the floor below, and examine the first process to which it is submitted--that of cleaning. the grain supplied from above flows in a continual stream into one end of a cylinder of fine wirework, about two feet in diameter and ten in length which revolves steadily in a horizontal position. a spiral plate runs through the interior of this cylinder, dividing it into several sections, and thus forming a sort of archimedean screw. the revolutions of this cylinder carry the grain onward through its whole length, so that in the passage any particles of dirt that may have been mixed with it fall through the interstices of the wirework. the effectual character of this operation is exemplified by the quantities of dirt deposited from wheat which to all appearance was clean before entering the cylinder; the grain thus thoroughly cleansed, descends another stage to the grinding-room (for the wheat is ground on the premises), where ten pairs of millstones are worked by the same steam-power. there is nothing peculiar in the process of grinding; but the manner in which the flour is afterward collected deserves notice. as it flows from the several stones, it is led into horizontal troughs, along which it is propelled by the action of perpetual screws working in each trough. the contents of all the troughs are brought to one point, whence, by means of a succession of plates or buckets revolving round a wheel, on the principle of a chain-pump or dredging-machine, the flour is lifted to the story above, where it is cooled, sifted, and put into sacks, for removal to the bakehouse. it is not long since we observed in a newspaper the announcement of an invention for collecting and saving the impalpable powder, which flies off in the process of grinding corn, and which, containing the purest portions of the flour, has hitherto been wasted. this saving has not yet been effected at weovil, as our whitened appearance on leaving the millroom sufficiently testified; but doubtless, the zeal and ingenuity that has introduced the improvements we are describing will not stop short while any thing remains to be done. we now arrive at the bakehouse, the principal theatre of mr. grant's ingenuity. we are in a large room on the ground floor--it may be one hundred and twenty feet in length, lofty, and well lighted, the centre portions of which are occupied by machinery of no very complex aspect; and it may be a dozen men and boys slip-shod and bare-armed, are moving here and there among it. there is no bustle, no confusion; and notwithstanding the unceasing movements of the machinery, very little noise. we are at once sensible that we are witnessing a scene of well-organized industry; but we can hardly persuade ourselves that we see the whole staff employed in converting flour into biscuit at the rate of one hundred sacks per day. in the midst of the general activity, the eye is caught by the figure of one man whose attitude of repose contrasts strangely with the movements going on all round him. he seems to have nothing to do but to lean listlessly with one or both of his elbows on the top of a sort of box or chest, much resembling an ordinary stable corn-bin, which stands against the wall at the left of the entrance; yet that occupation will not account for the mealy state of his bare arms; let us look into the bin, and see if we can discover any thing. the bottom of it is filled with water, just above the surface of which, extending from end to end, we see a circular shaft, armed with iron blades, crossing it at intervals of two inches apart, and protruding six inches or more on each side of the axle, at right angles with it, and with each other. in one corner of the bin is the mouth of a pipe, which, even while we look, discharges an avalanche of flour into the water; at the same moment some invisible power causes the shaft to revolve--slowly at first, that the light dust may not entirely blind us; then, as the flour becomes more and more saturated with water, rapidly and more rapidly, until the whole is thoroughly mixed up together; and in the space of four and a half minutes, one hundred-weight of flour is converted into dough. the revolutions of the shaft now cease, and our hitherto inactive friend proceeds to transfer the contents of the bin to a board placed to receive them, in masses resembling in shape brobdignag pieces of pulled bread. again, we see that the surface which a moment since was free from mark or indentation, is now scored all over in hexagonal figures. the lower side of the plate, in fact, consists of a bed of sharp-edged punches of hexagonal form, reminding us in appearance of a gigantic honey-comb, which at one blow divides the dough into single biscuits, leaving no superfluous material except the trifling inequalities of the outer edges. twenty-four whole biscuits, with a due complement of halves, are cut out at one stroke, each of which is at the same time impressed with the broad arrow of her most gracious majesty. we now see why the old circular form of the biscuit has given way to the hexagonal. the latter shape manifestly economizes labor in the manufacture and space in stowage, while it is hardly more liable than the former to waste by breakage. when it is borne in mind that before the introduction of this machinery every single biscuit was separately kneaded, shaped, and stamped by hand, the extent to which the productive powers of the establishment have been increased may be imagined. we have now arrived at the last stage of the process, and must, for a time, lose sight of the biscuits; but we will accompany them to the mouth of the oven. a range of nine ovens occupies one side of the building, but only four of them are ordinarily in use. we are informed that one man attends to two ovens. we notice that the fires by which they are heated are continually burning in one corner of them, even while the baking goes on; so that as soon as one batch of biscuits is withdrawn, the floor is ready for another. a light frame, on which are deposited the trays of biscuits as they issue from the stamp-office, is wheeled up to the oven; the trays are transferred by the baker to the mouth, and thence, by means of a long pole, armed with a hook, pushed to the farthest recesses of the oven, where they are carefully ranged, side by side, to the number of twelve, when the cargo is complete, and the door is shut upon them. formerly it was the work of two men to charge the oven; one wielded the peel, which the other supplied with single biscuits; and we have watched with much amusement the unerring accuracy with which constant practice had enabled the latter to hit the mark from a distance of several feet. the new mode is perhaps more prosaic: but not only is the saving of labor great, but it is easy to conceive that the action of the heat can be regulated with more uniformity under it than under the tedious system of introducing and removing the biscuits singly. in fourteen minutes the baking is completed; and thus, in twenty-eight minutes from the first admixture with water, we have a sack of flour weighing one hundred weight, converted into the like weight of biscuits, fit for immediate consumption. a subsequent exposure of two or three days to the high temperature of a room over the ovens, is all that is required to render them fit for packing and storing. we have stated that at present four only out of nine ovens are in use; and the hours of working are from a.m. to p.m. even this limited amount of work is more than sufficient to keep up the requisite supply of bread for the navy; and it is frequently found necessary to stop on alternate days, to prevent the stores accumulating beyond what is desirable. if the whole force of the establishment were set in motion, it would easily, our guide informs us, supply , men with half a pound of meal and half a pound of biscuit per day. the quality also of the bread is improved, by the uniformity with which all the processes of making it are conducted under the operation of the machinery. we do not know whether the apparatus we have been describing is in use in any other establishment; probably it is. there seems no reason why it should not be brought into general operation. though few, if any bakeries can have to supply so large a demand as that of the royal navy, there must be many of sufficient extent to make it worth while saving labor at the cost of the machinery; and though at weovil it is only applied to making biscuit, the principle of it would seem applicable to the manufacture of any kind of bread. the great labor of the baker is in kneading. the process that effectually kneads flour and water would work equally well if other ingredients were mixed with those primary elements. due regard being had to the rights of the inventor, we would wish to see his machinery widely employed in private as well as public establishments. it might prove a powerful ally in the cause of cheap bread. it might also be worth the consideration of brickmakers whether the machinery here described might not be advantageously applied to the purposes of their business. there seems a sufficient similarity in the two processes to render such an application of it very practicable. mems for musical misses. sit in a simple, graceful, unconstrained posture. never turn up the eyes, or swing about the body: the expression you mean to give, if not heard and felt, will never be understood by those foolish motions which are rarely resorted to but by those who do not really feel what they play. brilliancy is a natural gift, but great execution may be acquired: let it be always distinct, and however loud you wish to be, never thump. _practice_ in private music far more difficult than that you play in general society, and aim more at pleasing than astonishing. never bore people with ugly music merely because it is the work of some famous composer, and do not let the pieces you perform before people not professedly scientific be too long. if you mean to play at all, do so at once when requested: those who require much pressing are generally more severely criticised than others who good-humoredly and unaffectedly try to amuse the company by being promptly obliging. never carry books about with you unasked; learn by heart a variety of different kinds of music to please all tastes. be above the vulgar folly of pretending that you can not play for dancing; for it proves only that if not disobliging, you are stupid. the chief rule in performing this species of music is to be strictly accurate as to time, loud enough to be heard amid the dancers' feet, and always particularly distinct--_marking_ the time: the more expression you give, the more life and spirit, the better will your performance be liked: good dancers can not dance to bad music. in waltzes the first note in the bass of every bar must be strongly accented. in quadrilles the playing, like the dancing, must be gliding. in reels and strathspeys the bass must _never_ be running--always octaves--struck with a strong staccato touch; and beware of playing too quick. in performing simple airs, which very few people can do fit to be listened to, study the _style_ of the different nations to which the tunes belong. let any little grace be clearly and neatly executed, which is never done brilliantly or well by indifferent performers of a higher style of merit. make proper pauses; and although you must be strictly accurate as to time, generally speaking, it should sometimes be relaxed to favor the expression of irish and scotch airs. beware of being too sudden and abrupt in your _nationalities_--caricaturing them as it were--which ignorant and sometimes indeed scientific performers often do, totally spoiling by those "quips and cranks" what would otherwise be pleasing, and which sounds also to those who really understand the matter very ridiculous. do not _alter_ national airs; play them simply, but as _full_ as you please, and vary the bass. in duets, communicate your several ideas of the proper expression to your fellow-performer, so that you may play into one another's hands--give and take, if i may so express myself; and should a mistake occur, do not pursue your own track, leaving your unfortunate companion in difficulties which will soon involve yourself; but cover it as well as you can, and the generality of listeners will perhaps never discover that one was made, while the more sapient few will give you the credit you deserve. as regards singing, practice two or three times a day, but at first not longer than ten minutes at a time, and let one of these times be before breakfast. exercise the extremities of the voice, but do not dwell long upon those notes you touch with difficulty. open the mouth at all times, in the higher notes especially, open it to the ears, as if smiling. never dwell upon consonants. be distinct from one note to another, yet carry them on glidingly. never sing with the slightest cold or sore throat. vocalize always upon a, and be careful to put no b's before it. never take breath audibly. begin to shake _slowly_ and steadily. practice most where the _voce di petto_ and the _voce di gola_ join, so as to attain the art of making the one glide imperceptibly into the other. the greatest sin a singer can commit is to sing out of tune. be clear, but not shrill; deep, but not coarse. when you intend to sing, read the words, and see that you understand them, so as to give the proper expression. let all your words be heard: it is a great and a common fault in english singers to be indistinct. study flexibility. practice both higher, louder, and lower than you sing in public; and when practicing, open your mouth wider than it would be graceful to do in company. do not change the sound of the letters; sing as like speaking as you can. it is better to sing _quite plain_ than to make too many turns and trills: these, when attempted at all, should be executed very neatly. study simplicity: it is better to give no expression than false expression. never appear to sing with effort or grimace; avoid affectation and every peculiarity. never sit when you sing, if you can possibly help it, but stand _upright_. give more strength in ascending than in descending. do not suffer yourself to be persuaded to sing soon after eating. accidental sharps ought to be sung with more emphasis than accidental flats. the italian vowels _a_ and _i_ have always the same sound, but _e_ has two different ones: the first like the _ai_ in _pain_; the other like _ea_ in _tear_, _wear_, or _swear_. _o_ has also two sounds: one like _o_ in _tone_; the other like the _au_ in _gaudy_. articulate strongly your _double_ consonants when singing french or italian. the voice is said to be at its best at eight-and-twenty, and to begin to decline soon after forty, when the more you strain and try to reach the higher notes that are beginning to fail you, the quicker you hasten the decay of your powers. children should never be allowed to sing much, or to strain their voices: fifteen or sixteen is soon enough to begin to practice constantly and steadily the two extremities of the voice; before that age, the middle notes only should be dwelt upon, or you run the risk of _cracking_, as it is termed, the tones. never force the voice in damp weather, or when in the least degree unwell; many often sing out of tune at these times who do so at no other. take nothing to clear the voice but a glass of cold water; and always avoid pastry, rich cream, coffee, and cake, when you intend to sing. poulailler, the robber. cartouche had been arrested, tried, condemned, and executed, some seven or eight years, and no longer occupied the attention of the good people of paris, to whom his almost melo-dramatic life and death had afforded a most interesting and enduring topic. they were languishing, like the athenians of old, for something new, when there arose a rumor that another robber, more dextrous, more audacious, more extraordinary, ay, and more cruel than cartouche, was roaming about the streets of their city. what was his name?--whence did he come?--were questions in the mouth of every one, as each of his numerous daring acts was made public--questions which no one could answer. in vain was every arm of the police put in requisition, crime after crime was committed with impunity, and terror reigned supreme. at last the criminal himself disdained concealment, and all paris--nay, a considerable portion of europe--trembled at the name of poulailler. he appeared about the year , and astonished the world by deeds, some of them so shocking, and at the same time so wonderful, that they gave some color to the belief of many, that he was aided by supernatural agency. this belief was supported by a history of the circumstances attending his birth. there lived in a village on the coast of brittany a man, poor but of good repute and well-beloved by his neighbors, an intrepid mariner, but as poor as job himself when his friends came to comfort him. a robust and well-knit frame, combined with a fine, frank countenance, well-bronzed by the sea breezes, was looked on favorably by all, and by none more than by the young lasses, whose furtive glances rested with pleasure on the manly form and gallant bearing of jacques poulailler. his strength was prodigious, and his temerity upon the ocean incredible. such qualities are appreciated in every country; and among the beauties of the village, one remarkable for her superiority in wealth, as well as natural gifts, was attracted by them, and jacques poulailler had the good fortune to find favor in the eyes of her who was known in her little world as _la belle isabeau colomblet_. at no great distance from this maritime village, on the crest of a rock lashed by the waves, which at high tides was perfectly insulated, dwelt a personage of whose origin every one was ignorant. the building where he had established himself had long been of evil fame throughout the country, and was only known as _la tour maudite_. the firesides resounded with tales of terror enacted in this lonely and ominous theatre. fiends, in the olden time, had made it their abode, as was currently reported, and believed. from that time, it was asserted, that no human being could dwell there without having previously entered into a compact with the evil one. the isolation of the place, the continued agitation of the waves at its base, the howlings of the wind around its frowning battlements, the traces of the thunder-bolts which from time to time had blackened and almost charred its walls, the absence of bush or tree, or any thing in the shape of blossom or verdure--for neither wall-flower, nor even moss, would grow there--had produced their effect on the superstitious spirit of the neighbors, and the accursed place had remained untenanted by any thing earthly for forty or fifty years. one gloomy day, however, a man was seen prowling about its vicinity: he came and went over the sands; and, just as the storm was rising, he threw himself into a boat, gained the offing, and disappeared. every one believed that he was lost; but next morning there he was. surprised at this, the neighbors began to inquire who he could be; and, at last, learned that he had bought the tower of the proprietor, and had come to dwell there. this was all the information that their restless curiosity could obtain. whence did he come?--what had he done? in vain were these questions asked. all were querists, and none found a respondent. two or three years elapsed before his name transpired. at last it was discovered, nobody knew how, that his name was roussart. he appeared to be a man about six feet in height, strongly built, and apparently about thirty years of age. his countenance was all but handsome, and very expressive. his conduct was orderly and without reproach, and, proving himself to be an experienced fisherman, he became of importance in that country. no one was more weather-wise than roussart, and no one turned his foreknowledge to such good account. he had been seen frequently to keep the sea in such fearful tempests, that all agreed that he must have been food for fishes if he had not entered into some agreement with satan. when the stoutest hearts quailed, and ordinary men considered it suicidal to venture out, roussart was to be seen braving the tumult of winds and waves, and always returned to the harbor safe and sound. people began to talk about this, and shook their heads ominously. little cared roussart for their words or gestures; but he was the only one in the commune who never went to church. the curé at last gave out that he was excommunicated; and from that time his neighbors broke off all communication with him. things had arrived at this point, when it was rumored in the village that the gallant fisherman, jacques poulailler, had touched the heart of _la belle isabeau_. soon their approaching marriage became the topic of the village; and, finally, one sunday, after mass, the bans were first published by the vicar. the lads of the village, congregated on the shore, were congratulating poulailler on the auspicious event, when roussart suddenly appeared among them. his presence was a surprise: he had always avoided the village meetings as much as others had sought them; and this sudden change in his habits gave a new impulse to curiosity. the stranger appeared to seek some one with his eyes, and presently walked straight up to the happy jacques, who, intoxicated with joy, was giving and receiving innumerable shakes of the hand. "master poulailler," said roussart, "you are going to be married, then?" "that seems sure," replied poulailler. "not more sure than that your first-born will belong to the evil one. i, roussart, tell you so." with that he turned on his heel, and regained his isolated dwelling, leaving his auditors amazed at his abrupt and extraordinary announcement, and poor jacques more affected by it than any one else. from that moment roussart showed himself no more in the neighborhood, and soon disappeared altogether, without leaving a trace to indicate what had become of him. most country people are superstitious--the bretons eminently so, and jacques poulailler never forgot the sinister prophecy of roussart. his comrades were not more oblivious; and when, a year after his marriage, his first-born came into the world, a universal cry saluted the infant boy as devoted to satan. _donné au diable_ were the words added to the child's name whenever it was mentioned. it is not recorded whether or no he was born with teeth, but the gossips remarked that during the ceremony of baptism the new-born babe gave vent to the most tearful howlings. he writhed, he kicked, his little face exhibited the most horrible contortions; but as soon as they carried him out of the church, he burst out into laughter as unearthly as it was unnatural. after these evil omens, every body expected that the little pierre poulailler would be ugly and ill-formed. not a bit of it: on the contrary, he was comely, active, and bold. his fine, fresh complexion, and well-furnished mouth, were set off by his brilliant black eyes and hair, which curled naturally all over his head. but he was a sad rogue, and something more. if an oyster-bed, a warren, or an orchard was robbed, pierre poulailler was sure to be the boy accused. in vain did his father do all that parent could to reform him: he was incorrigible. monsieur le curé had some difficulty to bring him to his first communion. the master of the village exhausted his catalogue of corrections--and the catalogue was not very short--without succeeding in inculcating the first notions of the christian faith and the doctrine of the cross. "what is the good of it?" would the urchin say. "am not i devoted to the devil, and will not that be sufficient to make my way?" at ten years of age, pierre was put on board a merchant-ship, as cabin-boy. at twelve, he robbed his captain, and escaped to england with the spoil. in london he contrived to pass for the natural son of a french duke; but his numerous frauds forced him again to seek his native land, where, in his sixteenth year, he enlisted as a drummer in the regiment of champagne, commanded by the count de variclères. before he had completed his eighteenth year he deserted, joined a troop of fortune-telling gipsies, whom he left to try his fortune with a regular pilferer, and finally engaged himself to a rope-dancer. he played comedy, sold orvietan with the success of doctor dulcamara himself; and, in a word, passed through all the degrees which lead to downright robbery. once his good angel seemed to prevail. he left his disreputable companions, and entered the army honorably. for a short time there were hopes of him; it was thought that he would amend his life, and his superiors were satisfied with his conduct. but the choicest weapon in the armory of him to whom he had been devoted, was directed against him. a _vivandière_--the prettiest and most piquante of her tribe--raised a flame in his heart that burnt away all other considerations; but he might still have continued in a comparatively respectable course, if the sergeant-major had not stood forward as his rival. the coquette had in her heart a preference for pierre; and, the sergeant taking advantage of his rank, insulted his subordinate so grossly, that he was repaid by a blow. the sergeant's blood was up, and as he rushed to attack pierre, the soldier, drawing his sabre, dangerously wounded his superior officer, who, after lingering a few days, went the way of all flesh. pierre would have tasted the tender mercies of the provost-marshal; but fortunately, the regiment was lying near the frontier, which our hero contrived to cross, and then declared war against society at large. the varied knowledge and acquirements of the youth--his courage, true as steel, and always equal to the occasion--the prudence and foresight with which he meditated a _coup de main_--the inconceivable rapidity of his execution--his delicate and disinterested conduct toward his comrades all contributed to render him famous, in the _famosus_ sense, if you will, and to raise him to the first place. germany was the scene of his first exploits. the world had condemned him to death, and he condemned the world to subscribe to his living. at this period, he had posted himself in ambush on the crest of a hill, whence his eye could command a great extent of country; and certainly the elegance of his mien, his graceful bearing, and the splendor of his arms, might well excuse those who did not take him for what he really was. he was on the hill-side when two beautiful young women appeared in sight. he lost no time in joining them; and, as youth is communicative, soon learnt, in answer to his questions, that, tired of remaining in the carriage, they had determined to ascend the hill on foot. "you are before the carriage, then, mademoiselle?" "yes, sir; can not you hear the whip of the postillions?" the conversation soon became animated, and every moment made a deeper inroad into the heart of our handsome brigand: but every moment also made the situation more critical. on the other side of the hill was the whole band ranged in order of battle, and ready to pounce upon the travelers. having ascertained the place of abode of his fair companions, and promised to avail himself of the first opportunity to pay his compliments to them there, he bade them politely adieu, and having gained a path cut through the living rock, known but to few, descended with the agility of a chamois to his party whom he implored not to attack the carriage which was approaching. but if poulailler had his reasons for this chivalrous conduct, his band were actuated by no such motives, and they demurred to his prayer. he at once conquered their hesitation by bidding them name the value that they put on their expected booty, purchased the safety of the travelers by the sum named, and the two fair daughters of the baron von kirbergen went on their way full of the praises of the handsome stranger whose acquaintance they had made, and in blissful ignorance of the peril they had passed. that very day, poulailler left his lieutenant in the temporary command of the band, mounted his most beautiful horse, followed his beloved to the castle of her father, and introduced himself as the count petrucci of sienna, whom he had lately robbed, and whose papers he had taken care to retain, with an eye to future business. his assumed name, backed by his credentials, secured for him a favorable reception, and he well knew how to improve the occasion. an accomplished rider, and bold in the chase, he won the good opinion of the baron; while his musical and conversational talent made him the pet of the drawing-room. the young and charming wilhelmina surrendered her heart to the gay and amiable cavalier; and all went merrily, till one fine morning fortune, whose wheel is never stationary, sent the true count to the castle. it was no case of the two sosias, for no two persons could well be more unlike; and as soon as the real personage saw his representative, he recognized him as the robber who had stolen his purse as well as his name. here was a pretty business. most adventurers would have thrown up the game as desperate; but our hero, with a front worthy of fathom himself, boldly proclaimed the last visitor to be an impostor, and argued the case so ably, and with such well-simulated indignation at the audacity of the new-comer, that the baron was staggered, and dispatched messengers to the partners of a mercantile house at florence, to whom the true petrucci was well known. to wait for the result of the inquiry would have been a folly of which poulailler was not likely to be guilty; so he made a moonlight flitting of it that very night--but not alone. poor wilhelmina had cast in her lot with her lover for good or for evil, and fled with him. the confusion that reigned in the best of all possible castles, the next morning, may be conceived; but we must leave the baron blaspheming, and the baroness in hysterics, to follow the fugitives, who gained france in safety, and were soon lost in the labyrinths of paris. there he was soon joined by his band, to the great loss and terror of the honest people of the good city. every day, m. hérault, the lieutenant of police, was saluted by new cases of robbery and violence, which his ablest officers could neither prevent nor punish. the organization of the band was so complete, and the head so ably directed the hands, that neither life nor property was considered safe from one moment to another. nor were accounts of the generosity of the chief occasionally wanting to add to his fame. one night, as poulailler was traversing the roofs with the agility of a cat, for the purpose of entering a house whose usual inmates were gone into the country, he passed the window of a garret whence issued a melancholy concert of sobs and moans. he stopped, and approached the apartment of a helpless family, without resources, without bread, and suffering the pangs of hunger. touched by their distress, and remembering his own similar sufferings before fortune favored him, he was about to throw his purse among them, when the door of the chamber opened violently, and a man, apparently beside himself, rushed in with a handful of gold, which he cast upon the floor. "there," cried he, in a voice broken by emotion--"there, take--buy--eat; but it will cost you dear. i pay for it with my honor and peace of mind. baffled in all my attempts to procure food for you honestly, i was on my despairing return, when i beheld, at a short distance from me, a tall, but slight-made man, who walked hurriedly, but yet with an air as if he expected some one. ah! thought i, this is some lover; and yielding to the temptation of the fiend, i seized him by the collar. the poor creature was terrified, and, begging for mercy, put into my hands this watch, two gold snuff-boxes, and those louis, and fled. there they are; they will cost me my life. i shall never survive this infamy." the starving wife re-echoed these sentiments, and even the hungry children joined in the lamentations of the miserable father. all this touched pierre to the quick. to the great terror of the family, he entered the room, and stood in the midst. "be comforted," said he to the astonished husband; "you have robbed a robber. the infamous coward who gave up to you this plunder, is one of poulailler's sentinels. keep it; it is yours." "but who are you?" cried the husband and wife; "who are you, and by what right is it that you thus dispose of the goods of another?" "by the right of a chief over his subalterns. i am poulailler." the poor family fell on their knees, and asked what they could do for him. "give me a light," said pierre, "that i may get down into the street without breaking my neck." this reminds one of the answer which rousseau gave to the duc de praslin, whose danish dog, as it was running before the carriage, had upset the peripatetic philosopher. "what can i do for you?" said the duke to the fallen author of _la nouvelle heloïse_, whose person he did not know. "you can tie up your dog," replied jean-jacques, gathering himself up, and walking away. poulailler having done his best to render a worthy family happy, went his way, to inflict condign punishment on the poltroon who had so readily given up the purse and the watches. the adventures of this accomplished robber were so numerous and marvelous, that it is rather difficult to make a selection. one evening, at the _bal de l'opéra_, he made the acquaintance of a charming woman, who, at first, all indignation, was at length induced to listen to his proposal, that he should see her home; and promised to admit him, "if monseigneur should not be there." "but who is this monseigneur?" inquired pierre. "don't ask," replied the fair lady. "who is he, fairest?" "well, how curious you are; you make me tell all my secrets. if you must know, he is a prince of the church, out of whose revenues he supports me; and i can not but show my gratitude to him." "certainly not; he seems to have claims which ought to be attended to." by this time they had arrived at an elegantly furnished house, which they entered, the lady having ascertained that the coast was clear; and poulailler had just installed himself, when up drove a carriage--monseigneur in person. the beauty, in a state of distraction, threw herself at the feet of her spark, and implored him to pass into a back cabinet. poulailler obeyed, and had hardly reached his hiding-place, when he beheld, through the glazed door, monseigneur, who had gone to his semele in all his apostolical magnificence. a large and splendid cross of diamonds, perfect in water, shot dazzling rays from his breast, where it was suspended by a chain of cat's-eyes, of great price, set in gold; the button and loop of his hat blazed with other precious stones; and his fingers sparkled with rings, whose brilliants were even greater and more beautiful than those that formed the constellation of his cross. it is very seldom that the human heart, however capacious, has room for two grand passions in activity at the same time. in this instance, poulailler no sooner beheld the rich and tempting sight, than he found that the god of love was shaking his wings and flying from his bosom, and that the demon of cupidity was taking the place of the more disinterested deity. he rushed from his hiding-place, and presented himself to the astonished prelate with a poniard in one hand and a pistol in the other, both of which he held to the sacred breast in the presence of the distracted lady. the bishop had not learned to be careless of life, and had sufficient self-possession in his terror not to move, lest he should compromise his safety, while poulailler proceeded to strip him with a dexterity that practice had rendered perfect. diamonds, precious stones, gold, coined and ornamental, rings, watch, snuff-box, and purse, were transferred from the priest to the robber with marvelous celerity; then turning to the lady, he made her open the casket which contained the price of her favors, and left the house with the plunder and such a laugh as those only revel in who win. the lieutenant of police began to take the tremendous success of our hero to heart, and in his despair at the increasing audacity of the robber, caused it to be spread among his spies, archers, and sergeants, that he who should bring poulailler before him should be rewarded with one hundred pistoles, in addition to a place of two thousand livres a year. m. hérault was seated comfortably at his breakfast, when the count de villeneuve was announced. this name was--perhaps is--principally borne by two celebrated families of provence and languedoc. m. hérault instantly rose and passed into his cabinet, where he beheld a personage of good mien, dressed to perfection, with as much luxury as taste, who in the best manner requested a private interview. orders were immediately issued that no one should venture to approach till the bell was rung; and a valet was placed as a sentinel in an adjoining gallery to prevent the possibility of interruption. "well, monsieur le compte, what is your business with me?" "oh, a trifle; merely a thousand pistoles, which i am about to take myself from your strong box, in lieu of the hundred pistoles and the snug place which you have promised to him who would gratify you by poulailler's presence. i am poulailler, who will dispatch you to the police of the other world with this poisoned dagger, if you raise your voice or attempt to defend yourself. nay, stir not--a scratch is mortal." having delivered himself of this address, the audacious personage drew from his pockets some fine but strong whipcord, well hackled and twisted, and proceeded to bind the lieutenant of police hand and foot, finishing by making him fast to the lock of the door. then the robber proceeded to open the lieutenant's secrétaire, the drawers of which he well rummaged, and having filled his pockets with the gold which he found there, turned to the discomfited lieutenant with a profound bow, and after a request that he would not take the trouble to show him out, quietly took his departure. there are some situations so confounding, that they paralyze the faculties for a time; and the magistrate was so overcome by his misfortune, that, instead of calling for aid, as he might have done when the robber left him, he set to work with his teeth in vain endeavors to disengage himself from the bonds which held him fast. an hour elapsed before any one ventured to disturb m. hérault, who was found in a rage to be imagined, but not described, at this daring act. the loss was the least part of the annoyance a cloud of epigrams flew about, and the streets resounded with the songs celebrating poulailler's triumph and the defeat of the unfortunate magistrate, who dared not for some time to go into society, where he was sure to find a laugh at his expense. but ready as the good people of paris were with their ridicule, _they_ were by no means at their ease. the depredations of poulailler increased with his audacity, and people were afraid to venture into the streets after nightfall. as soon as the last rays of the setting sun fell on the boulevards, the busy crowds began to depart; and when that day-star sank below the horizon, they were deserted. nobody felt safe. the hôtel de brienne was guarded like a fortress; but difficulty seemed to give additional zest to poulailler. into this hotel he was determined to penetrate, and into it he got. while the carriage of the princess of lorraine was waiting at the opera, he contrived to fix leathern bands, with screws, under the outside of the bottom of the body, while his associates were treating the coachman and footman at a _cabaret_, slipped under the carriage in the confusion of the surrounding crowd when it drew up to the door of the theatre, and, depending on the strength of his powerful wrists, held on underneath, and was carried into the hotel under the very nose of the swiss cerberus. when the stable-servants were all safe in their beds, poulailler quitted his painful hiding-place, where the power of his muscles and sinews had been so severely tested, and mounted into the hay-loft, where he remained concealed three nights and four days, sustaining himself on cakes of chocolate. no one loved good cheer better than he, or indulged more in the pleasures of the table; but he made himself a slave to nothing, save the inordinate desire of other men's goods, and patiently contented himself with what would keep body and soul together till he was enabled to make his grand _coup_. at last, madame de brienne went in all her glory to the princess de marsan's ball, and nearly all the domestics took advantage of the absence of their mistress to leave the hotel in pursuit of their own pleasures. poulailler then descended from the hay-loft, made his way to the noble dame's cabinet, forced her secrétaire, and possessed himself of two thousand louis d'or and a portfolio, which he doubtless wished to examine at his ease; for, two days afterward, he sent it back (finding it furnished with such securities only as he could not negotiate with safety), and a polite note signed with his name, in which he begged the princess graciously to receive the restitution, and to accept the excuses of one who, had he not been sorely pressed for the moderate sum which he had ventured to take, would never have thought of depriving the illustrious lady of it; adding, that when he was in cash, he should be delighted to lend her double the amount, should her occasions require it. this impudent missive was lauded as a marvel of good taste at versailles, where, for a whole week, every one talked of the consummate cleverness, and exquisite gallantry of the _chevalier_ de poulailler. this title of honor stuck, and his fame seemed to inspire him with additional ardor and address. his affairs having led him to cambray, he happened to have for a traveling companion, the dean of a well-known noble belgian chapter. the conversation rolled on the notorieties of the day, and poulailler was a more interesting theme than the weather. but our chevalier was destined to listen to observations that did not much flatter his self-esteem, for the dean, so far from allowing him any merit whatever as a brigand, characterized him as an infamous and miserable cut-purse, adding, that at his first and approaching visit to paris, he would make it his business to see the lieutenant of police, and reproach him with the small pains he took to lay so vile a scoundrel by the heels. the journey passed off without the occurrence of any thing remarkable; but, about a month after this colloquy, m. hérault received a letter, informing him, that on the previous evening, m. de potter, _chanoine-doyen_ of the noble chapter of brussels, had been robbed and murdered by poulailler, who, clad in the habits of his victim, and furnished with his papers, would enter the barrier st. martin. this letter purported to be written by one of his accomplices, who had come to the determination of denouncing him, in the hope of obtaining pardon. the horror of m. hérault at the death of this dignified ecclesiastic, who was personally unknown to him, was, if the truth must be told, merged in the delight which that magistrate felt in the near prospect of avenging society and himself on this daring criminal. a cloud of police officers hovered in ambush at each of the barriers, and especially at that which bore the name of the saint who divided his cloak with the poor pilgrim, with directions to seize and bring into the presence of m. hérault a man habited as an ecclesiastic, and with the papers of the dean of the brussels chapter. toward evening the lille coach arrived, was surrounded, and escorted to the hôtel des messageries; and, at the moment when the passengers descended, the officers pounced upon the personage whose appearance and vestments corresponded with their instructions. the resistance made by this personage only sharpened the zeal of the officers who seized him, and, in spite of his remonstrances and cries, carried him to the hôtel of the police, where m. hérault was prepared with the proofs of poulailler's crimes. two worthy citizens of brussels were there, anxious to see the murderer of their friend, the worthy ecclesiastic, whose loss they so much deplored: but what was their joy, and, it must be added, the disappointment of m. hérault, when the supposed criminal turned out to be no other than the good dean de potter himself, safe and sound, but not a little indignant at the outrage which he had sustained. though a man of peace, his ire so far ruffled a generally calm temper, that he could not help asking m. hérault whether poulailler (from whom a second letter now arrived, laughing at their beards) or he, m. hérault, was the chief director of the police? william of deloraine, good at need-- by wily turns, by desperate bounds, had baffled percy's best bloodhounds. five times outlawed had he been, by england's king and scotland's queen. but he was never taken, and had no occasion for his neck-verse at hairibee, even if he could have read it. poulailler was arrested no less than five times, and five times did he break his bonds. like jack sheppard and claude du vall, he owed his escape in most instances to the frail fair ones, who would have dared any thing in favor of their favorite, and who, in jack's case, joined on one occasion without jealousy in a successful effort to save him. poulailler was quite as much the pet of the petticoats as either of these hempen heroes. with a fine person and accomplished address, he came, saw, and overcame, in more instances than that of the fair daughter of the baron von kirbergen; but, unlike john sheppard or claude du vall, poulailler was cruel. villains as they were, john and claude behaved well, after their fashion, to those whom they robbed, and to the unhappy women with whom they associated. in their case, the "ladies" did their utmost to save them, and men were not wanting who endeavored to obtain a remission of their sentence. but poulailler owed his fall to a woman whom he had ruined, ill-treated, and scorned. the ruin and ill-treatment she bore, as the women, poor things, will bear such atrocities; but the scorn roused all the fury which the poets, latin and english, have written of; and his cruelties were so flagrant, that he could find no man to say, "god bless him." wilhelmina von kirbergen had twice narrowly escaped from a violent death. poulailler, in his capricious wrath, once stabbed her with such murderous will, that she lay a long time on the verge of the grave, and then recovered to have the strength of her constitution tried by the strength of a poison which he had administered to her in insufficient quantities. henry the eighth forwarded his wives, when he was tired of them, to the other world, by form of what was, in his time, english law; but when poulailler "felt the fullness of satiety," he got rid of his mistresses by a much more summary process. but it was not till this accomplished scoundrel openly left wilhelmina for a younger and more beautiful woman, that she, who had given up station, family, and friends, to link herself with his degrading life, abandoned herself to revenge. she wrote to him whom she had loved so long and truly, to implore that they might once more meet before they parted in peace forever. poulailler, too happy to be freed on such terms, accepted her invitation, and was received so warmly, that he half repented his villainous conduct, and felt a return of his youthful affection. a splendid supper gave zest to their animated conversation; but toward the end of it poulailler observed a sudden change in his companion, who manifested evident symptoms of suffering. poulailler anxiously inquired the cause. "not much," said she; "a mere trifle. i have poisoned myself, that i may not survive you." "quoi! coquine, m'aurais-tu fait aussi avaler le boucon?" cried the terrified robber. "that would not have sufficiently avenged me. your death would have been too easy. no, my friend, you will leave this place safe and well; but it will be to finish the night at the conciergerie; and, to-morrow, as they will only have to prove your identity, you will finish your career on the wheel in the place de grève." so saying, she clapped her hands, and, in an instant, before he had time to move, the philistines were upon him. archers and other officers swarmed from the hangings, door, and windows. for a few moments, surrounded as he was, his indomitable courage seemed to render the issue doubtful; but what could one man do against a host armed to the teeth? he was overpowered, notwithstanding his brave and vigorous resistance. his death, however, was not so speedy as his wretched mistress prophesied that it would be. the love of life prevailed, and in the hope of gaining time which he might turn to account in effecting his escape, he promised to make revelations of consequence to the state. the authorities soon found out that he was trifling with them, and the _procureur-général,_ after having caused him to be submitted to the most excruciating torture, left him to be broken on the wheel alive. he was executed with all the accursed refinement of barbarity which disgraced the times; and his tormentors, at last, put the finishing stroke to his prolonged agonies, by throwing him alive into the fire that blazed at his feet. nothing can justify such penal atrocities. if any thing could, poulailler, it must be admitted, had wrought hard to bring down upon himself the whole sharpness of the law of retaliation. upward of one hundred and fifty persons had been murdered by him and his band. resistance seemed to rouse in him and them the fury of devils. nor was it only on such occasions that his murderous propensities were glutted. at the village of st. martin, he caused the father, the mother, two brothers, a newly-married sister, her husband, and four relations, or friends, to be butchered in cold blood. one of his band was detected in an attempt to betray him. poulailler had him led to a cellar. the traitor was placed upright in an angle of the wall, gagged, and there they built him in alive. poulailler, with his own hand, wrote the sentence and epitaph of the wretch on the soft plaster; and there it was found some years afterward, when the cellar in which this diabolical act of vengeance was perpetrated passed into the hands of a new proprietor. it was current in the country where poulailler first saw the light, and where his father, mother, brethren, and sisters still lived an honorable life, embittered only by the horrible celebrity of their relation, that, on the night which followed the day of pierre's execution, the isolated tower, which had been uninhabited since its last occupier so mysteriously disappeared, seemed all on fire, every window remaining illuminated by the glowing element till morning dawned. during this fearful nocturnal spectacle, it was affirmed, that infernal howlings and harrowing cries proceeded from the apparently burning mass, and some peasants declared that they heard pierre poulailler's name shouted from the midst of the flames in a voice of thunder. the dawn showed the lonely tower unscathed by fire, but a fearful tempest arose, and raged with ceaseless fury for thrice twenty-four hours. the violence of the hurricane was such, that it was impossible during that time for any vessel to keep the sea; and when at length the storm subsided, the coast was covered with pieces of wreck, while the waves continued for many days to give up their dead at the base of the rock, from whose crest frowned _la tour maudite_. scientific fantasies. a re-installation and a drama. [translated from berthoud by b. harrison.] i. with animals it is the same as with men; some enjoy an unmerited reputation, while others find themselves the subjects of an undeserved opprobrium. among the victims of popular prejudice, i would mention the toad. yes! at this name alone, you begin to exclaim against the ugliness of the animal, the venom he ejaculates, and a thousand other calumnies with which the poor beast is very unjustly charged. i will not seek to disguise the fact--granted, the toad is ugly; but, then, i do not think that ugliness hinders those who are afflicted with it from possessing a crowd of excellent qualities and virtues. the negro eustache and m. de monthyon were not handsome, and yet the former, with the acclamations of all france, has been crowned by the academy; the latter has consecrated his immense fortune to charitable institutions. we could further cite, in support of our opinion, a great number of politicians, nay even of artists, who have attained renown far otherwise than by the regularity of their features or by their personal attractions; but we would not pain any one. now, as to the toad, though he is ugly and calumniated he does not the less possess a multitude of domestic virtues, which ought to place him far higher in the esteem of impartial persons, than the dove, whom we cite so often as a model of tenderness, yet who, let it be noticed in passing, employs one half of her life in quarreling with her mate, and the other in exchanging with him blows of the beak, often bloody. if you doubt the truth of my assertions, be kind enough to follow me into the forest of meudon, where toads are found in greater abundance perhaps than any where else in the environs of paris. and first, do you hear in the distance that strange chant which is not wanting in melody and charm, when it rises afar in the air, like the plaint of love? that little cry, flute-like, short, monotonous, repeated several times in succession, at brief intervals, varies in such a manner, that one seems to hear it retire and approach on one side or another, like the sound of a trumpet by which the motions of a flag are directed. the greater part of the time one can not determine whence proceeds this strange music, often attributed to some bird, and without our being willing to acknowledge the obscure and unknown singer who produces it. it is the announcement of the betrothal--it is the love-song of the batrachian. never was love more sincere, or more devoted. when once the toad has pledged his faith to a spouse, not only does he exhibit toward her a romantic fidelity, but he, moreover, protects her at the peril, and often even at the sacrifice of his life. if any one attacks a female, the male rushes in front of the aggressor, provokes him swells himself out in sign of defiance, and endeavors to irritate him, in order to give his companion time to fly, and take refuge in a safe asylum. if, on the other hand, nothing disturbs him, he quits not his spouse for a moment; he surrounds her with anxious and tender attentions, lays before her the most delicate morsels of the prey he hunts for her, only eats after she has finished, and altogether acts in a manner, that might make many a parisian husband blush. further, he is fiery, jealous; he permits no rival to approach her to whom he is united. woe to the audacious one who would seek to win her affection! almost invariably he pays with his life for his impudent endeavors. this model husband, when he becomes a father has no less tenderness for his children than for their mother. when the hour, dear to the ancient lucina, arrives, it is he who performs for his companion, the tender duties of the occasion; he takes the eggs in his arms, and places them along the body of the female, to which they remain attached till the period of hatching. at this epoch alone, the female approaches the water, in it she deposits her eggs, and therein the eggs undergo the different transformations peculiar to the batrachians. then the double mission of father and mother is ended. you see, that in writing an eulogium on the toad, and in seeking to _re-install_ him in public favor, we have not been utopian. besides, the toad is a very sociable animal, and readily becomes the companion and the friend of man. often, he establishes his dwelling in our houses. pennant relates the history of a toad, who took up his abode under a staircase, and who, every evening as soon as he saw the lights, came into the dining-room. he suffered himself to be taken up and placed on the table, where they fed him with worms, flies, and wood-lice. he took these insects delicately, inflated himself to express his gratitude, and knew very well how to ask them to put him on the table, when they pretended not to be willing to do so. this toad lived thirty-six years, and then was the victim of an accident. ii. another being, no less contemptuously regarded than the toad, is the spider; and yet the study of the spider's habits, would render him, who gave himself up to it, witness of fantastic and tragic dramas, often of a nature to throw into the shade all that our gloomiest melodramatists invent, even of the most sinister and most affecting kind. one day, a spider fell into a large glass vase, forgotten for a long time in a library. how, and by what course of peripatetics this accident happened, i know not. i can only tell you, that it was a large domestic spider, with an enormous oval abdomen, and its back of a blackish color, on which were marked two longitudinal lines of yellow spots. the animal caught in this transparent snare, as a wolf in a pitfall, set to work, running round the bottom of the vase, with all the speed his eight legs could achieve. when he had satisfied himself that no outlet was to be found on the ground-floor, he attempted to scale the glassy sides, which formed around him a circle of slippery and invisible walls; but his claws, sharp and bent like the tiger's, slipped on the hard, bare crystal, and after a quarter of an hour spent in the useless struggle, he fell back fatigued, discouraged, and panting into the middle of the vase. there he rolled and gathered his limbs together, resigned to die, as a gladiator of old kneeled in the midst of the arena, when he saw the roman ladies raise their white hands and depress their delicate thumbs, to demand the death of the victim. a witness of the captive's efforts, feeling curious to know what would be the other acts of the drama now begun, took the glass vase and placed it in his cabinet, where there was the least light, so that he might be able to watch the spider without disturbing it. the latter remained immovable, rolled up, and dead to all appearance, until night closed in. then, the observer, carelessly stretched in his easy chair, heard a movement, imperceptible, but which sounded at the bottom of the vase. he drew near to it with a light--immediately the spider feigned death. he was obliged, therefore, for that evening, to give up knowing all that took place, and the prisoner remained free from _surveillance_ till the next day morning. then it was seen that the bottom of the vase was diapered all round, and about an inch up, with myriads of little whitish points, placed at distances almost geometrically regular. the spider slept in the middle. the next day silver threads were found, starting from each of these points to those opposite; these formed the warp of the web. the third day, the woof enlaced the threads of the warp, and thus a vast net was made to outstretch above the bottom of the glass vase; and some threads, arranged at equal distances, fixed this elastic floor, and rendered it firm. the spider, notwithstanding these gigantic labors, remained still in view, and wanted a dwelling. it had indeed a floor, or rather a carpet, on which it could walk without wearing or breaking its claws; the nets for hunting were stretched, but there was need of an apartment where it could find shelter and concealment, besides, it had no bed to sleep on. with difficulty and unheard-of trouble, it succeeded in fixing, at some distance above the net, thirty of the white points, of which i told you before. these served as fixtures for a roof, which was constructed down to the net, rounded, fashioned little by little like a horn, furnished with threads finer, silkier, more closely woven, and more deeply colored, and thus became a nest impenetrable to the eye, and impervious to moisture. some drops of water poured on this dwelling glided down its walls without penetrating them the least in the world, fell in trembling pearls through the net, and stopped at the bottom of the vase, where they evaporated. the spider had drawn the threads, which an approximative calculation might estimate, without exaggeration, at two thousand feet in length, from six spinners attached to the abdomen, and which secrete a grayish fluid, instantly transformed, by contact with the air, into silky threads, and of astonishing strength, if we consider their tenuity! a single spider's-thread, if not broken by a shock, will sustain a weight of grains! once his establishment finished, the spider took to passing the days and nights on the threshold of his dwelling, waiting with unexampled patience until chance should bring him some prey. this, however, did not happen; flies were yet scarce, and there was nothing in the vase of a kind to attract them. two months rolled by, during which the poor animal grew remarkably thin. at last, one day, moved by compassion, the observer threw a fly to the famished creature. the little insect fell on the net, caught its wings in the invisible meshes, which covered the principal tissue, and struggled violently. immediately the spider ran up, quickly but heavily, seized its prey with its eight feet at once, griped it with its formidable jaws, shaped like a hook, and dragged the body into his nest. an hour after he brought out of his house the remains of the fly, and threw them into the obscurest corner, the one most distant from his web, nor did he leave them without covering them with tissue, so as to hide entirely from sight the aspect of his charnel-house. thus brutus cast his mantle over the body of cæsar. every day, at the same hour, the observer threw a fly into the vase. it was not long before he perceived that the spider, as soon as the time for its repast arrived, came out of its retreat, advanced over the web, watched for the fall of the fly, and was no more frightened at the movement, which before caused it to fly and return to its dwelling, when the provider's hand brought its dinner. a short time later, instead of waiting until he had withdrawn, it ran immediately and with boldness to the fly, and did not even take the trouble to drag it within to eat it. curious to know how far this familiarity might be carried, he took a fly by one of its wings and presented it to the spider. the first time it returned frightened to its nest, and remained there closely concealed; but the next day, pressed by hunger, it rushed on the fly with the speed of an arrow, seized it, and hurried away with it to the recesses of its apartments. once and again and again, the observer repeated this trial. at the end of this time, the spider fed on the fly in the fingers of the observer. it went so far even as to come out of the vase by the help of the finger its master presented. thus free, it ran along the wrist, the arm, and the breast of the naturalist to get a fly which he held in his other hand as far off as possible. the observer took a lively interest in his pensioner, and loved it almost as much as pelisson did his. he procured then some books on natural history, in order to find out to which sex the spider of the glass vase belonged. he ascertained that it was a female by the filiform pulps which were lengthened near her jaws, and by the legs of the thorax being shorter and broader than those of the abdomen. having made this discovery, he resolved to marry the recluse, and for this purpose sought a male of handsome appearance and worthy of the tenderness of so lovely a conquest. he had little difficulty; for it was spring time, and love moved the arachnides as well as the rest of nature. once in possession of a fine male with pulps well swelled, limbs long and slender, eight bright eyes, and a conquering and off-hand address, he brought it in triumph to his guest. he laid him softly on the web, at the extremity opposite the spider's nest, and withdrew to a little distance, yet so that he could still observe all that took place. soon he saw the coquette come out of her boudoir, and advance toward the stranger with that voluptuous movement which imparts such a lively charm to the walk of spanish ladies, and which fanny ellsler reproduced with so much grace, poetry, and felicity in those days, already growing distant, when she danced at the opera. i assure you that to see her thus, this hideous creature was beautiful, gilded by the glorious beams of her passion, and glistening with the halo of love. for his part, the male did not show himself awkward, but made proof of his fashion and gallantry his fore-feet caressed in a subduing manner the demi-curves formed by his legs; a sub-lieutenant of hussars could not put more foppery into the twisting of the conquering bends of his curled mustache. he advanced toward her at a rapid pace, stamping with his feet, strutting, fluttering; the lady recoiled and fled, but in such a manner as to let him divine that she wished to be followed. the happy lover sped on after her retreating steps. nevertheless he began to exhibit a singular reserve and fear, the evidence of which, however, was unmistakable. on her part, the female waited for him with a cunning which gave her eyes a strange expression. at length she turned her head and walked right before him, preoccupied as it appeared, in getting rid of some threads in which her feet were caught. then the male bounded on her, seized her in his arms, gave her a kiss, and took to flight--she turned. it was no longer a bold coquette that walked, it was a lioness that chases her prey; it was diana before actæon. the male, all trembling, sought to fly; he attempted to climb the sides of the vase. vain efforts! margaret of burgundy advanced to her victim; fascinated him; stopped him. the unfortunate one betook himself to a corner trembling. she, her claw high and threatening as a poinard, struck him, slew him, and, after having contemplated him, who was but ere now her husband, she devoured him. the observer, curious to learn the motives of so much barbarity, wished to ascertain if the death of the poor male was the chastisement of a personal fault, or the result of a system of assassination. he therefore put another male into the vase. alas! no room was left for doubt! the crime of this cruel wife was without excuse, without extenuating circumstances; the most humane jury must have condemned her with all the aggravations foreseen by the law! the second victim shared the same fate as the first. to this wretch, murder was a necessity after love. during a whole month she lived on the corpses of her husbands. while this month rolled on she was contented with devouring nothing but the male spiders, which were thrown in. soon after, however, she found this dish palling and insipid, refused to eat, but not to kill them, and returned to flies with an evident pleasure. notwithstanding so many murders, the spider continued always to lead a peaceful life, undisturbed by remorse, in her vase of glass. one day the window of the apartment, where the vase was, was left open; a swallow entered the room, saw the spider, and with a single blow of his beak, avenged all the victims of the murderess, so well, that the vase was found and may to this day be found empty and without a guest. we promised you _a re-installation and a drama_! have we not kept our promise? the household of sir thos. more. [continued from the august number.] libellus a margareta more, quindecim annos nata, chelseiÃ� inceptvs. "nulla dies sine linea." who coulde have thoughte that those ripe grapes whereof dear gaffer ate soe plentifullie, should have ended his dayes? this event hath filled ye house with mourning. he had us all about his bed to receive his blessing; and 'twas piteous to see father fall upon his face, as joseph on the face of jacob, and weep upon him and kiss him. like jacob, my grandsire lived to see his well-beloved son attain to ye height of earthlie glory, his heart unspoyled and untouched. * * * * * the days of mourning for my grandsire are at an end; yet father still goeth heavilie. this forenoon, looking forthe of my lattice, i saw him walking along the river side, his arm cast about will's neck; and 'twas a dearer sight to my soul than to see the king walking there with his arm around father's neck. they seemed in such earnest converse, that i was avised to ask will, afterwards, what they had been saying. he told me that, after much friendly chat together on this and that, father fell into a muse, and presently, fetching a deep sigh, says: "would to god, son roper, on condition three things were well established in christendom, i were put into a sack, and cast presently into the thames." will sayth: "what three soe great things can they be, father, as to move you to such a wish?" "in faith, will," answers he, "they be these: first, that whereas the most part of christian princes be at war, they were at universal peace. next, that whereas the church of christ is at present sore afflicted with divers errors and heresies, it were well settled in a godly uniformity. last, that this matter of the king's marriage were, to the glory of god, and the quietness of alle parties, brought to a good conclusion." indeed, this last matter preys on my father's soul. he hath even knelt to the king to refrain from exacting compliance with his grace's will concerning it; movingly reminding him, even with tears, of his grace's own words to him on delivering the great seal, "first look unto god, and, after god, unto me." but the king is heady in this matter; stubborn as a mule or wild ass's colt, whose mouths must be held with bit and bridle if they be to be governed at alle; and the king hath taken ye bit between his teeth, and there is none dare ride him. all for love of a brown girl, with a wen on her throat, and an extra finger. * * * * * how short a time agone it seemeth, that in my prosperity i sayd, "we shall never be moved; thou, lord, of thy goodness hast made our hill soe strong!" ... thou didst turn away thy face, and i was troubled! * * * * * thus sayth plato: of him whom he soughte, but hardly found: "truth is his body, and light his shadow." a marvelous saying for a heathen. hear also what st. john sayth: "god is light; and in him is no darkness at all." "and the light was the life of men: and the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not." hear also what st. augustine sayth: "they are the most uncharitable towards error who have never experienced how hard a matter it is to come at the truth." hard, indeed. here's father agaynst will, and agaynst erasmus, of whom he once could not speak well enough; and now he says that if he upholds such and such opinions, his dear erasmus may be the devil's erasmus for what he cares. and here's father at issue with half ye learned heads in christendom concerning ye king's marriage. and yet, for alle that, i think father is in the right. he taketh matters soe to heart that e'en his appetite fails. yesterday he put aside his old favorite dish of brewis, saying, "i know not how 'tis, good alice; i've lost my stomach, i think, for my old relishes" ... and this, e'en with a tear in his eye. but 'twas not the brewis, i know, that made it start. * * * * * he hath resigned the great seal! and none of us knew e'en of his meditating it, nor of his having done soe, till after morning prayers to-day, when, insteade of one of his gentlemen stepping up to my mother in her pew with the words, "madam, my lord is gone," he cometh up to her himself, with a smile on's face, and sayth, low bowing as he spoke, "madam, my lord is gone." she takes it for one of the manie jests whereof she misses the point; and 'tis not till we are out of church, in ye open air, that she fully comprehends my lord chancellor is indeed gone, and she hath onlie her sir thomas more. a burst of tears was no more than was to be lookt for from poor mother; and, in sooth, we alle felt aggrieved and mortyfide enough; but 'twas a short sorrow; for father declared that he had cast pelion and ossa off his back into the bottomless pit; and fell into such funny antics that we were soon as merry as ever we were in our lives. patteson, so soon as he hears it, comes leaping and skipping across the garden, crying, "a fatted calf! let a fatted calf be killed, masters and mistresses, for this my brother who was dead is alive again!" and falls a-kissing his hand. but poor patteson's note will soon change; for father's diminished state will necessitate ye dismissal of all extra hands; and there is manie a servant under his roof whom he can worse spare than the poor fool. in the evening he gathers us alle about him in the pavillion, where he throws himself into his old accustomed seat, casts his arm about mother, and cries, "how glad must cincinnatus have been to spy out his cottage again, with racilia standing at the gate!" then, called for curds and cream; sayd how sweet ye soft may air was coming over the river, and bade cecil sing "the king's hunt's up." after this, one ballad after another was called for, till alle had sung their lay, ill or well, he listing the while with closed eyes, and a composed smile about his mouth; the two furrows between his brows relaxing graduallie till at length they could no more be seene. at last he says, "who was that old prophet that could not or would not prophesy for a king of judah till a minstrel came and played unto him? sure, he must have loved as i do, the very lovely song of one that playeth well upon an instrument, yclept the human heart; and have felt, as i do now, the spirit given him to speak of matters foreign to his mind. 'tis of res angusta domæ, dear brats, i must speak; soe, the sooner begun, the sooner over. here am i, with a dear wife and eight loved children ... for my daughters' husbands and my son's wife are my children as much as any; and mercy giggs is a daughter too ... nine children, then, and eleven grandchildren, and a swarm of servants to boot, all of whom have as yet eaten what it pleased them, and drunken what it suited them at my board, without its being any one's business to say them nay. 'twas the dearest privilege of my lord chancellor; but now he's dead and gone, how shall we contract the charges of sir thomas more?" we looked from one to another, and were silent. "i'll tell ye, dear ones," he went on, "i have been brought up at oxford, at an inn of chancery, at lincoln's inn, and at the king's court; from the lowest degree, that is, to the highest; and yet have i in yearly revenues at this present, little above one hundred pounds a-year; but then, as chilo sayth, 'honest loss is preferable to dishonest gain: by the first, a man suffers once; by the second, forever;' and i may take up my parable with samuel, and say: 'whose ox have i taken? whose ass have i taken? whom have i defrauded? whom have i oppressed? of whose hand have i received any bribe to blinde mine eyes therewith?' no, my worst enemies can not lay to my charge any of these things, and my trust in you is, that, rather than regret i should not have made a purse by any such base methods, you will all cheerfully contribute your proportions to the common fund, and share and share alike with me in this my diminished state." we all gat about him, and by our words and kisses gave warrant that we would. "well, then," quoth he, "my mind is, that since we are all of a will to walk down-hill together, we will do soe at a breathing pace, and not drop down like a plummet. let all things be done decently and in order: we won't descend to oxford fare first, nor yet to the fare of new inn. we'll begin with lincoln's inn diet, whereon many good and wise men thrive well; if we find this draw too heavily on the common purse, we will, next year, come down to oxford fare, with which many great and learned doctors have been conversant; and, if our purse stretch not to cover e'en this, why, in heaven's name! we'll go begging together, with staff and wallet, and sing a salve regina at every good man's door, whereby we shall still keep company, and be merry together!" * * * * * now that the first surprise and grief, and the first fervour of fidelity and self-devotion have passed off, we have subsided into how deep and holy a quiet! we read of the desertion of the world as a matter of course; but, when our own turn comes, it does seem strange, to find ourselves let fall down the stream without a single hand outstretched to help us; forgotten, in a moment, as though we had never been, by those who lately ate and laughed at our table. and this, without any fault or offense of ours, but merely from our having lost the light of the king's countenance. i say, it does seem strange; but how fortunate, how blessed are those to whom such a course of events only seems strange, unaccompanied by self-reproach and bitterness! i could not help feeling this, in reading an affectionate letter deare father writ this forenoon to erasmus, wherein he sayd, "i have now obtained what, from a child, i have continually wished! that, being entirely quit of businesse and all publick affairs, i might live for a time only to god and myself." having no hankering after the old round he soe long hath run, he now, in fact, looks younger every day; and yet, not with the same kind of youth he had before his back was bowed under the chancellorship. 'tis a more composed, chastised sort of rejuvenescence: rather the soft warmth of autumn, which sometimes seems like may, than may itself: the enkindling, within this mortal tabernacle, of a heavenly light that never grows dim, because it is immortal; and burns the same yesterday, to-day, and forever: a youthfulness of soul and mind characterised by growth; something with which this world and its fleeting fancies has nothing to do; something that the king can neither impart nor take away. we have had a tearfull morning ... poor patteson has gone. my father hath obtained good quarters for him with my lord mayor, with a stipulation that he shall retain his office with the lord mayor for the time being, as long as he can fill it at all. this suits patteson, who says he will sooner shift masters year by year, than grow too fond of any man again, as he hath of father; but there has been sad blubbering and blowing of noses. * * * * * this afternoon, coming upon mercy seated in ye alcove, like unto the image of some saint in a niche, her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes steadfastly agaze on the setting sun, i could not but mark how years were silentlie at work upon her, as doubtless upon us alle; the tender, fearfulle girl having thus graduallie changed into the sober, high-minded woman. she is so seldom seene in repose, so constantly astir and afoot in this or that kind office, mostly about the children, that i had never thought upon it before; but now i was alle at once avised to marvel that she who had so long seemed fitter for heaven than earth, shoulde never literallie have vowed herself ye spouse of christ, more in especiall as all expectation of being ye spouse of anie else must long since have died within her. i sayd, "mercy, thou lookst like a nun: how is't thou hast ne'er become one in earnest?" she started; then sayd, "could i be more usefull? more harmless? less exposed to temptation? or half so happy as i am now? in sooth, meg, the time has been when methought, how sweet ye living death of the cloister! how good that must needs be which had the suffrages of chrysostom the golden-mouthed, and holy ambrose, and our own anselm! how peacefull, to take wing like ye dove, and fly away from a naughty world, and be at rest! how brave, to live alone, like st. antony, in the desert! only, i would have had some books with me in my cave, and 'tis uncertayn whether st. antony had knowledge of letters, beyond ye heaven-taught lesson, 'god is love' ... for methought so much reflection and no action would be too much for a woman's mind to bear--i might goe mad: and i remembered me how the dove that gladly flew away from the ark, gladly flew back, and abode in ye ark till such time as a new home was ready for her. and methought, cannot i live apart from sin here, and now; and as to sorrow, where can we live apart from that? sure, we may live on ye skirts of the world in a spiritt as truly unwordlie as though we were altogether out of it: and here i may come and go, and range in the fresh air, and love other folks' children, and read my psalter, and pore over the sayings of the wise men of old, and look on the faces i love, and sit at the feet of sir thomas more. soe, there, meg, are my poor reasons for not caring to be a nun. our deare lord is in himself all that our highest, holiest affections can seek or comprehend; for he made these our hearts; he gave us these our affections; and through them the spirit speaks. aspiring to their source, they rise up like the white smoke and bright flame; while, on earth, if left unmastered, they burn, suffocate, and destroy. yet they have their naturall and innocent outlets even here; and a woman may warm herself by them without scorching, and yet be neither a wife nor a nun." * * * * * ever since father's speech to us in ye pavillion, we have beene of one heart and one soul; neither have any of us said that aught of the things we possessed were our own, but we have had all things in common. and we have eaten our meat with gladness and singleness of heart. this afternoon, expressing to father my gratefull sense of our present happiness.... "yes, meg," returns he, "i, too, am deeply thankful for this breathing space." "do you look on it as no more, then?" i sayd. "as no more, meg: we shall have a thunder-clap by-and-by. look out on the thames. see how unwontedlie clear it is, and how low the swallows fly.... how distinctlie we see the green sedges on battersea bank, and their reflected images in the water. we can almost discern the features of those poor knaves digging in the cabbage gardens, and hear 'em talk, so still is ye air. have you ne'er before noted these signs?" "a storm is brewing," i sayd. "aye, we shall have a lightning-flash anon. so still, meg, is also our moral atmosphere just now. god is giving us a breathing space, as he did to the egyptians before the plague of hail, that they might gather their live stock within doors. let us take for example them that believed and obeyed him; and improve this holy pause." just at this moment, a few heavie drops fell agaynst the window pane, and were seene by both. our eyes met; and i felt a silent pang. "five days before the passover," resumed father, "all seemed as still and quiet as we are now; but jesus knew his hour was at hand. e'en while he yet spake familiarly among the people, there came a sound from heaven, and they that stood by said it thundered; but _he_ knew it for the voice of his dear father. let us, in like manner, when the clap cometh, recognise in it the voice of god, and not be afraid with any amazement." * * * * * gammer gurney is dead, and i must say i am glad of it. the change, to her, must be blessed, and there seemed some danger lest, after having escaped being ducked for a witch, she shoulde have been burnt for a heretic. father looked on her as an obstinate old woman; will counted her little short of a saint and prophetess, and kept her well supplied with alle she could need. latterly she was stone deaf; so 'tis a happy release. the settled purpose of father's soul, just now, is to make up a marriage between mercy and dr. clement. 'tis high advancement for her, and there seems to have been some old liking between 'em we never knew of. * * * * * though some months have passed since my father uttered his warning voice, and all continues to go quiet, i cannot forbear, now and then, to call his monition to mind, and look about for the cloud that is to bring the thunder-clap; but the expectation sobers rather than saddens me. this morning, leaning over the river wall, i was startled by the cold, damp hand of some one from behind being laid on mine. at the same time a familiar voice exclaimed, "canst tell us, mistress, why fools have hot heads and hands icy cold?" i made answer, "canst tell me, patteson, why fools should stray out of bounds?" "why, that's what fools do every day," he readily replied; "but this is all fools' day, mine own special holiday; and i told my lord mayor overnight, that if he lookt for a fool this morning, he must look in the glass. in sooth, mistress meg, i should by rights wear the gold chain and he the motley; for a proper fool he is, and i shall be glad when his year's service to me is out. the worst o' these lord mayors is, that we can't part with 'em till their time's up. why now, this present one hath not so much under standing as would foot an old stocking; 'twas but yesterday when, in quality of my taster, he civilly enough makes over to me a half-eaten plate of gurnet, which i wave aside, thus, saying, i eat no fish of which i cannot affirm 'rari sunt boni,' few are the bones ... and i protest to you he knew it not for fool's latin. thus i'm driven, from mere discouragement, to leave prating for listening, which thou knowest, mistress, is no fool's office; and among ye sundrie matters i hear at my lord's table ... for he minds not what he says before his servants, thereby giving new proof 'tis he shoulde wear the motley ... i note his saying that ye king's private marriage will assuredlie be made publick this coming easter, and my lady anne will be crowned ... more by token, he knows ye merchant that will supply the genoa velvet and cloth of gold, and the masquers that are to enact the pageant. for the love o' safety, then, mistress meg, bid thy good father e'en take a fool's advice, and eat humble pie betimes, for, doubt not this proud madam to be as vindictive as herodias, and one that, unless he appease her full early, will have his head set before her in a charger. i've said my say." * * * * * three bishops have been here this forenoon, to bid father to ye coronation, and offer him twenty pounds to provide his dress; but father hath, with courtesie, declined to be present. after much friendly pressing, they parted, seemingly on good terms; but i have misgivings of ye issue. * * * * * a ridiculous charge hath been got up 'gainst dear father; no less than of bribery and corruption. one parnell complaineth of a decree given agaynst him in favour of one vaughan, whose wife, he deponeth, gave father a gilt flaggon. to ye noe small surprise of the council, father admitted that she had done soe: "but, my lords," proceeded he, when they had uttered a few sentences of reprehension somewhat too exultantlie, "will ye list the conclusion of the tale? i bade my butler fill the cup with wine, and having drunk her health, i made her pledge me, and then restored her the gift, and would not take it again." as innocent a matter, touching the offering him a pair of gloves containing forty pounds, and his taking the first and returning the last, saying he preferred his gloves without lining, hath been made publick with like triumph to his own good fame; but alack! these feathers show which way sets the wind. wordsworth, byron, scott, and shelley. william wordsworth is generally allowed to have exercised a deeper and more permanent influence upon the literature and modes of thinking of our age, than any of the great poets who lived and wrote during the first quarter of the present century. in proportion as his fame was of slower growth, and his poems were longer in making their way to the understanding and affections of his countrymen, so their roots seem to have struck deeper down, and the crown of glory that encircles his memory is of gold, that has been purified and brightened by the fiery ordeal through which it has passed. tennyson says of the laureate wreath which he so deservedly wears, that it is greener from the brows of him who uttered nothing base. and this, which seems at first sight negative praise, is, in reality, a proof of exquisite discernment; for it is just that which constitutes the marked distinction between wordsworth and the other really original poets who are likely to share with him the honor of representing poetically to posterity the early part of the nineteenth century. in their crowns there is alloy, both moral and intellectual. his may not be of so imperial a fashion; the gems that stud it may be less dazzling, but the gold is of ethereal temper, and there is no taint upon his robe. weakness, incompleteness, imperfection he had, for he was a mortal man of limited faculties, but spotless purity is not to be denied him--he uttered nothing base. our readers will anticipate us in ranking with him, as the representative poets of their age, byron, scott, and shelley. of each of these we shall say a few words, especially in this representative character. lord byron's poems are the actual life-experience of a man whose birth and fortune enabled him to mix with the highest society, and whose character led him to select for his choice that portion of it which pursued pleasure as the main if not the sole object of existence. under a thin disguise of name, country, and outward incident, they present us with the desires which actuated, the passions which agitated, and the characters which were the ideals of the fashionable men and women of the earlier part of this century. limited and monotonous as they are in their essential nature, ringing perpetual changes upon one passion and one phase of passion, the brilliance of their diction, the voluptuous melody of their verse, the picturesque beauty of their scenery, well enough represent that life of the richer classes, which chases with outstretched arms all the protean forms of pleasure, only to find the subtle essence escape as soon as grasped, leaving behind in its place weariness, disappointment, and joyless stagnation. the loftiest joys they paint are the thrillings of the sense, the raptures of a fine nervous organization; their pathos is the regret, and their wisdom the languor and the satiety of the jaded voluptuary. these form the staple, the woof of lord byron's poetry, and with it is enwoven all that which gives outward variety and incessant stimulating novelty to the pursuits of an englishman of fashion. these pursuits are as numerous, as absorbing, and demand as much activity of a kind as those of the student or the man of business. among them will be found those upon which the student and the man of business are employed, though in a different spirit, and with a different aim. thus we frequently see among the votaries of pleasure men who are fond of literature, of art, of politics, of foreign travel, of all manly and active enterprise but all these will be pursued, not as duties to be done, in an earnest, hopeful, self-sacrificing spirit, "that scorns delights and lives laborious days," but for amusement, for immediate pleasure to be reaped, as a resource against ennui and vacuity, to which none but the weakest and most effeminate nature will succumb. this difference of object and of motive necessitates a difference in the value of the results. the soil, which is plowed superficially, and for a quick return, will bear but frail and fading flowers; the planter of oaks must toil in faith and patience, and sublime confidence in the future. and so, into whatever field the wide and restless energies of men like lord byron carry them, they bring home no treasures that will endure--no marble of which world-lasting statue or palace may be hewn or built--no iron, of which world-subduing machines may be wrought. poems, pictures, history, science, the magnificence and loveliness of nature, cities of old renown, adventures of desperate excitement, new manners, languages, and characters, supply them with an ever fresh flow of sensation and emotion, keep the senses and the faculties cognate with sense in a pleasant activity, but no well-based generalization is gained for the understanding; facts are not even carefully observed and honestly studied; pleasant sensation was the object, and that once obtained, there is no more worth in that which produced it, though in it may lie a law of god's manifestation, one of those spiritual facts, to know and obey which would seem the chief purpose of man's existence, to discover and make them known, the noblest glory and highest function of genius. it is in this spirit that lord byron has questioned life: "oh! where can pleasure be found?" and life, echo-like, would only answer, "where!" it is because he put that question more earnestly, lived up to its spirit more fearlessly, and more faithfully and experimentally reported the answer, that he is so eminently a representative poet--representative of what a large and important class in every country actually is, of what a far larger class aspires to be. it is in his fearless attempt at solving the problem of life in his own way, his complete discomfiture, and his unshrinking exhibition of that discomfiture, that the absolute and permanent value of his social teaching consists. for he was endowed with such gifts of nature and of fortune, so highly placed, so made to attract and fascinate, adorned with such beauty and grace, with such splendor of talents, with such quick susceptibility to impressions, with such healthy activity of mind, with such rich flow of speech, with such vast capacity of enjoyment, that no one is likely to make the experiment he made from a higher vantage-ground, with more chances of success. and the result of his experience he has given to the world, and has thrown over the whole the charm of a clear, vigorous, animated style, at once masculine, and easy, and polished, sparkling with beauty, instinct with life, movement, and variety; by turns calm, voluptuous, impassioned, enthusiastic, terse, and witty, and always most prominent that unstudied grace, that rubens-like facility of touch, which irresistibly impresses the reader with a sense of power, of strength not put fully forth, of resources carelessly flowing out with exhaustless prodigality, not husbanded with timid anxiety, and exhibited with pompous ostentation. it is the combination of these qualities of the artist, with his peculiar fearlessness and honesty of avowal--his plain, unvarnished expression of what he found pleasant, and chose for his good, that will ever give him a high, if not almost the highest place among the poets of the nineteenth century, even with those readers who perceive and lament the worthlessness of his matter, the superficiality and scantiness of his knowledge, the want of purity and elevation in his life and character. those will best appreciate his wonderful talents who are acquainted with the works of his countless imitators, who have admirably succeeded in re-producing his bad morality, his superficial thoughts, and his characterless portraits, without the fervor of his feeling, the keenness of his sensations, the ease and vigor of his language, the flash of his wit, or the knowledge of the world, and the manly common-sense which redeemed and gave value to what else had been entirely worthless. if the name of lord byron naturally links itself with the fashionable life of great cities; with circles where men and women live mutually to attract and please each other; where the passions are cherished as stimulants and resources against ennui, are fostered by luxurious idleness, and heightened by all the aids that an old and elaborate material civilization can add to the charms of beauty, and the excitements of brilliant assemblies; where art and literature are degraded into handmaids and bondslaves of sensuality; where the vanity of social distinction fires the tongue of the eloquent speaker, wakens the harp of the poet, colors the canvas of the painter, moulds the manners and sways the actions, directs even the loves and the hatreds of all; no less naturally does the name of sir walter scott stand as the symbol and representative of the life and tastes of the country aristocracy, who bear the titles and hold the lands of the feudal barons, and of the country gentlemen whose habits and manners are in such perfect contrast to those of the squire westerns to whose places they have succeeded. possessing in a high degree the active and athletic frame, the robust health, the hardy training, the vigorous nerve, the bold spirit, the frank bearing, and the genial kindness of the gentlemen of the olden time, he could heartily appreciate and unhesitatingly approve all that time and revolution had spared of feudal dominion and territorial grandeur. the ancient loyalty, so happily tempering the firmness of a principle with the fervor of a feeling, never beat higher in the heart of a cavalier of the seventeenth than in that of the scottish advocate of the nineteenth century. every one will remember that he refused to write a life of mary queen of scots, because in reference to her conduct, his feelings were at variance with his judgment. and in painting those old times in which his imagination delighted to revel, all that would most have revolted our modern mildness of manners, and shocked our modern sense of justice, was softened down or dropped out of sight, and the nobler features of those ages, their courage, their devotion, their strength and clearness of purpose, their marked individuality of character, their impulses of heroism and delicacy, their manly enterprise, their picturesque costumes and manners of life, were all brought into bold relief, and placed before the reader with such fullness of detail, in such grandeur of outline, in such bright and vivid coloring, as gave even to the unimaginative a more distinct conception of, and a more lively sympathy with the past than they could gain for themselves of the present, as it was whirling and roaring round them, confusing them with its shifting of hues and forms, and stunning them with its hurricane of noises. and apart from the fascination which history, so presented, must have for the descendants of men and classes of historical renown, for the hereditary rulers and the privileged families of a great country, and though probably the creator of the splendid pageantry was definitely conscious of no such purpose, yet there must have mingled with this fascination, and have infused into it a deeper and more personal feeling, the regretful sense that the state of society so glowingly depicted had passed away--a foreboding that even its last vestiges were fast disappearing before the wave of democratic equality, and the uprising of a new aristocracy of wealth and intellect. if at the time those famous verse and prose romances came upon the world in a marvelously rapid succession, all that the public were conscious of was a blind pleasure and unreflecting delight, it is no less true that in an age of revolution they raised up before it in a transformed and glorified life the characters, the institutions, the sentiments and manners of an age of absolute government by the strong arm or by divine right--of an age of implicit belief, inspiring heroic action, sanctioning romantic tenderness, harmonizing and actuating all the virtues that adorn and elevate fallen humanity; and that since then there has arisen in our country a thoughtful reverence and love for the past--a sense of the livingness and value of our history--a desire and a determination to appreciate and comprehend, and so not forfeit, the inheritance of wisdom, forethought, brave action, and noble self-denial, which our ancestors have bequeathed to us. how many false and puerile forms this feeling has taken it does not fall within our present scope to notice. in spite of white waistcoat politics and pugin pedantries, the feeling is a wise and a noble one--one which is the surety and the safeguard of progress; and that much of it is owing to the interest excited so widely and so deeply by sir walter scott's writings, those will be least disposed to deny who have thought most on the causes which mould a nation's character, and the influences which work out a nation's destiny. it is in no fanciful or arbitrary spirit of system that, while we assign to byron the empire over the world of fashion and of pleasure, and seek the mainspring of scott's popularity in the sway of old historical traditions over a landed aristocracy, and the longing regret with which they look back to a state of society passed or rapidly passing away, we should regard shelley as the poetical representative of those whose hopes and aspirations and affections rush forward to embrace the great hereafter, and dwell in rapturous anticipation on the coming of the golden year, the reign of universal freedom, and the establishment of universal brotherhood. by nature and by circumstance he was marvelously fitted for his task--gentle, sensitive, and fervid, he shrank from the least touch of wrong, and hated injustice with the zeal and passion of a martyr; while, as if to point him unmistakably to his mission, and consecrate him by the divine ordination of facts, he was subjected at his first entrance into life to treatment, both from constituted authority and family connection, so unnecessarily harsh, so stupidly cruel, as would have driven a worse man into reckless dissipation, a weaker man into silent despair. "most men," he says himself, "are cradled into poetry by wrong; they learn in suffering what they teach in song." whether this be the best or most usual training for the poet may well be doubted, but it is quite indubitable that such discipline will soonest open a man's eyes to the evils of existing institutions, and the vices of old societies; and will lend to his invectives that passion which raises them above satire--to his schemes, that enthusiasm which redeems them from being crotchets; will turn his abstract abhorrence of oppression into hatred against the oppressors--his loathing of corruption into a withering scorn and contempt for tyrants and their tools, the knaves and hypocrites who use holy names and noble offices to promote their selfish ends, and to fetter and enslave their brother men. and so it happened with shelley. the feelings of poignant anguish and bitter indignation, which had been roused in him by cruelty and injustice toward himself, colored all his views of society, and at once sharpened his hostility to the civil and religious institutions of his country, and lent more glowing colors to the rainbow of promise that beamed upon him from the distance, through the storm of bloodshed and revolution. add to to this, that his mind was ill-trained, and not well furnished with facts; that he reveled with the delight of an eagle on the wing in the most audacious speculations, and was drawn on by the force of mental gravitation toward the boldest and most startling conclusions; that he was at once pure and impassioned--sensuous and spiritual; that he could draw from form, color, and sound a voluptuous enjoyment, keener and more intense than the grosser animal sensations of ordinary men; that his intellect hungered and thirsted after absolute truth, after central being, after a living personal unity of all things. thus he united in himself many of the mightiest tendencies of our time--its democratic, its skeptical, its pantheistic, its socialistic spirit; and thus he has become the darling and the watchword of those who aim at reconstructing society, in its forms, in its principles, and in its beliefs--who regard the past as an unmitigated failure, as an entire mistake--who would welcome the deluge for the sake of the new world that would rise after the subsidence of the waters. nor has their affectionate admiration been ill-bestowed. with one exception, a more glorious poet has not been given to the english nation; and if we make one exception, it is because shakspeare was a man of profounder insight, of calmer temperament, of wider experience, of more extensive knowledge; a greater philosopher, in fact, and a wiser man; not because he possessed more vital heat, more fusing, shaping power of imagination, or a more genuine poetic impulse and inspiration. after the passions and the theories, which supplied shelley with the subject-matter of his poems have died away and become mere matters of history, there will still remain a song, such as mortal man never sung before, of inarticulate rapture and of freezing pain--of a blinding light of truth and a dazzling weight of glory, translated into english speech, as colored as a painted window, as suggestive, as penetrating, as intense as music. we have assigned to three great poets of our age the function of representing three classes, distinct in character, position, and taste. but as these classes intermingle and become confused in life, so that individuals may partake of the elements of all three, and, in fact, no one individual can be exactly defined by his class type, so the poets that represent them have, of course an influence and a popularity that extend far beyond the classes to whose peculiar characteristics and predominant tastes we have assumed them to have given form and expression. men read for amusement, to enlarge the range of their ideas and sympathies, to stimulate the emotions that are sluggish or wearied out: and thus the poet is not only the interpreter of men and of classes to themselves, but represents to men characters, modes of life, and social phenomena with which they are before unacquainted, excites interest, and arouses sympathy, and becomes the reconciler, by causing misunderstandings to vanish, as each man and each class comprehends more fully the common humanity that lies under the special manifestation, the same elemental passions and affections, the same wants, the same desires, the same hopes, the same beliefs, the same duties. it is thus especially that poets are teachers, that they aid in strengthening and civilizing nations, in drawing closer the bonds of brotherhood. wordsworth has said of himself, "the poet is a teacher. i wish to be considered as a teacher, or as nothing." if we are asked wherein lay the value of his teaching, we reply, that it lay mainly in the power that was given him of unfolding the glory and the beauty of the material world, and in bringing consciously before the minds of men the high moral function that, belonged in the human economy to the imagination, and in thereby redeeming the faculties of sense from the comparatively low and servile office of ministering merely to the animal pleasures, or what mr. carlyle has called "the beaver inventions." that beside, and in connection with this, he has shown the possibility of combining a state of vivid enjoyment, even of intense passion, with the activity of thought, and the repose of contemplation. he has, moreover, done more than any poet of his age to break down and obliterate the conventional barriers that, in our disordered social state, divide rich and poor into two hostile nations; and he has done this, not by bitter and passionate declamations on the injustice and vices of the rich, and on the wrongs and virtues of the poor, but by fixing his imagination on the elemental feelings, which are the same in all classes, and drawing out the beauty that lies in all that is truly natural in human life. dirt, squalor, disease, vice, and hard-heartedness, are not natural to any grade of life; where they are found, they are man's work, not god's; and the poet's business is not with the misery of man's making, but with the escape from that misery revealed to those that have eyes to see, and ears to hear--we mean, that no true poet will be merely a painter of that which is low, deformed, essentially inhuman, as his ultimate and highest aim, though, as means, he may, as the greatest poets have done, use them to move and rouse the sleeping soul. this, we say, in answer to those that asserted that wordsworth was not a true painter of manners and character from humble life: we say he was, for that he painted, as minutely as served his aim, that which was essential to its occupations and its general outward condition--that which it must be, if christian men are to look upon the inequalities of wealth and station as a permanent element in society. and all this which he taught in his writings, he taught equally by his life. and furthermore, he manifested a deep sense of the sacredness of the gift of genius, and refused to barter its free exercise for aught that the world could hold out to him, either to terrify or to seduce; and he lived to prove, not only that the free exercise of poetic genius is its own exceeding great reward, bringing a rich harvest of joy and peace, and the sweet consciousness of duty well discharged, and god's work done; but, what was quite as much needed in our time, he showed that for the support and nourishment of poetic inspiration, no stimulants of social vanity, vicious sensuality, or extravagant excitement, were requisite, and that it could flourish in the highest vigor on the simple influence of external nature, and the active exercise of the family affections. the last days of the emperor alexander. [translated from the french of alexandre dumas with omissions and additions, by miss jane strickland.] the knowledge of an extensively organized conspiracy embittered the last years of the emperor alexander, and increased his constitutional melancholy. his attachment to tzarsko zelo made him linger longer at his summer palace than was prudent in a man subject to erysipelas. the wound in his leg re-opened with very unfavorable symptoms, and he was compelled to leave his favorite residence in a closed litter for st. petersburgh; and the skill and firmness of mr. wyllie, his scotch surgeon, alone saved the diseased limb from amputation. as soon as he was cured, he returned again to tzarsko zelo, where the spring found him as usual alone, without a court or chamberlain, only giving audience to his ministers twice a week. his existence resembled rather that of an anchorite weeping for the sins of his youth, than that of a great emperor who makes the happiness of his people. he regulated his time in the following manner: in summer he rose at five, and in winter at six o'clock every morning, and as soon as the duties of the toilet were ended, entered his cabinet, in which the greatest order was observed. he found there a cambric handkerchief folded, and a packet of new pens. he only used these pens in signing his name, and never made use of them again. as soon as he had concluded this business, he descended into the garden, where, notwithstanding the report of a conspiracy which had existed two years against his life and government, he walked alone, with no other guards than the sentinels always stationed before the palace of alexander. at five he returned, to dine alone, and after his solitary meal was lulled to sleep by the melancholy airs played by the military band of the guard regiment on duty. the selection of the music was always made by himself, and he seemed to sink to repose, and to awake, with the same sombre dispositions and feelings which had been his companions throughout the day. his empress, elizabeth, lived like her consort, in profound solitude, watching over him like an invisible angel. time had not extinguished in her heart the profound passion with which the youthful czarowitz had inspired her at first sight, and which she had preserved in her heart, pure and inviolate. his numerous and public infidelities could not stifle this holy and beautiful attachment, which formed at once the happiness and misery of a delicate and sensitive woman. at this period of her life, the empress at five-and-forty retained her fine shape and noble carriage, while her countenance showed the remains of considerable beauty, more impaired by sorrow than time. calumny itself had never dared to aim her envenomed shafts at one so eminently chaste and good. her presence demanded the respect due to virtue, still more than the homage proper to her elevated rank. she resembled indeed more an angel exiled from heaven, than the imperial consort of a prince who ruled a large portion of the earth. in the summer of , the last he was destined to see, the physicians of the emperor unanimously recommended a journey to the crimea, as the best medicine he could take. alexander appeared perfectly indifferent to a measure which regarded his individual benefit, but the empress, deeply interested in any event likely to restore her husband's health, asked and obtained permission to accompany him. the necessary preparations for this long absence overwhelmed the emperor with business, and for a fortnight he rose earlier, and went to bed later, than was customary to him. in the month of june, no visible alteration was observed in his appearance, and he quitted st. petersburgh after a service had been chanted, to bring down a blessing from above on his journey. he was accompanied by the empress, his faithful coachman ivan, and some officers belonging to the staff of general diebitch. he stopped at warsaw a few days, in order to celebrate the birthday of his brother, the grand-duke constantine, and arrived at tangaroff in the end of august, . both the illustrious travelers found their health benefited by the change of scene and climate. alexander took a great liking to tangaroff, a small town on the borders of the sea of azof, comprising a thousand ill-built houses, of which a sixth-part alone are of brick and stone, while the remainder resemble wooden cages covered with dirt. the streets are large, but then they have no pavement, and are alternately loaded with dust, or inundated with mud. the dust rises in clouds, which conceals alike man and beast under a thick vail, and penetrates every where the carefully closed jalousies with which the houses are guarded and covers the garments of their inhabitants. the food, the water, are loaded with it; and the last can not be drunk till previously boiled with salt of tartar, which precipitates it; a precaution absolutely necessary to free it from this disagreeable and dangerous deposit. the emperor took possession of the governor's house, where he sometimes slept and took his meals. his abode there in the day-time rarely exceeded two hours. the rest of his time was passed in wandering about the country on foot, in the hot dust or wet mud. no weather put any stop to his out-door exercise, and no advice from his medical attendant nor warning from the natives of tangaroff, could prevail upon him to take the slightest precaution against the fatal autumnal fever of the country. his principal occupation was planning and planting a great public garden, in which undertaking he was assisted by an englishman whom he had brought with him from st. petersburgh for that purpose. he frequently slept on the spot on a camp-bed, with his head resting upon a leather pillow. if general report may be credited, planting gardens was not the principal object that engrossed the russian emperor's attention. he was said to be employed in framing a new constitution for russia, and unable to contend at st. petersburgh with the prejudices of the aristocracy, had retired to this small city, for the purpose of conferring this benefit upon his enslaved country. however this might be, the emperor did not stay long at a time at tangaroff, where his empress, unable to share with him the fatigues of his long journeys, permanently resided, during his frequent absences from his head-quarters. alexander, in fact, made rapid excursions to the country about the don, and was sometimes at tcherkask, sometimes at donetz. he was on the eve of departure for astracan, when count woronzoff in person, came to announce to his sovereign, the existence of the mysterious conspiracy which had haunted him in st. petersburgh, and which extended to the crimea, where his personal presence could alone appease the general discontent. the prospect of traversing three hundred leagues appeared a trifle to alexander, whom rapid journeys alone diverted from his oppressive melancholy. he announced to the empress his departure, which he only delayed till the return of a messenger he had sent to alapka. the expected courier brought new details of the conspiracy, which aimed at the life, as well as the government of alexander. this discovery agitated him terribly. he rested his aching head on his hands, gave a deep groan, and exclaimed, "oh, my father, my father!" though it was then midnight, he caused count diebitch to be roused from sleep and summoned into his presence. the general, who lodged in the next house, found his master in a dreadfully excited state, now traversing the apartment with hasty strides, now throwing himself upon the bed with deep sighs and convulsive starts. he at length became calm, and discussed the intelligence conveyed in the dispatches of count woronzoff. he then dictated two, one addressed to the viceroy of poland, the other to the grand-duke nicholas. with these documents, all traces of his terrible agitation disappeared. he was quite calm, and his countenance betrayed nothing of the emotion that had harassed him the preceding night. count woronzoff, notwithstanding this apparent calmness, found him difficult to please, and unusually irritable, for alexander was constitutionally sweet-tempered and patient. he did not delay his journey on account of this internal disquiet, but gave orders for his departure from tangaroff, which he fixed for the following day. his ill-humor increased during the journey; he complained of the badness of the roads and the slowness of the horses. he had never been known to grumble before. his irritation became more apparent when sir james wyllie, his confidential medical attendant, recommended him to take some precaution against the frozen winds of the autumn; for he threw away with a gesture of impatience the cloak and pelisse he offered, and braved the danger he had been entreated to avoid. his imprudence soon produced consequences. that evening he caught cold, and coughed incessantly, and the following day on his arrival at orieloff, an intermittent fever appeared, which soon after, aggravated by the obstinacy of the invalid, turned to the remittent fever common to tangaroff and its environs in the autumn. the emperor, whose increasing malady gave him a presage of his approaching death, expressed a wish to return to the empress, and once more took the route to tangaroff; contrary to the prayers of sir james wyllie, he chose to perform a part of the journey on horseback, but the failure of his strength finally forced him to re-enter his carriage. he entered tangaroff on the fifth of november, and swooned the moment he came into the governor's house. the empress, who was suffering with a complaint of the heart, forgot her malady, while watching over her dying husband. change of place only increased the fatal fever which preyed upon his frame, which seemed to gather strength from day to day. on the eighth, wyllie called in dr. stephiegen, and on the thirteenth they endeavored to counteract the affection of the brain, and wished to bleed the imperial patient. he would not submit to the operation, and demanded iced-water, which they refused. their denial irritated him, and he rejected every thing they offered him, with displeasure. these learned men were unwise to deprive the suffering prince of the water, a safe and harmless beverage in such fevers. in fact, nature herself sometimes, in inspiring the wish, provides the remedy. the emperor, on the afternoon of that day wrote and sealed a letter, when, perceiving the taper remained burning he told his attendant to extinguish it, in words that plainly expressed his feelings in regard to the dangerous nature of his malady. "put out that light, my friend, or the people will take it for a bier candle, and will suppose i am already dead." on the fourteenth of november, the physicians again urged their refractory patient to take the medicines they prescribed, and were seconded by the prayers of the empress. he repulsed them with some haughtiness, but quickly repenting of his hastiness of temper, which in fact was one of the symptoms of the disease, he said, "attend to me, stephiegen, and you too, sir andrew wyllie. i have much pleasure in seeing you, but you plague me so often about your medicine, that really i must give up your company if you will talk of nothing else." he however was at last induced to take a dose of calomel. in the evening, the fever had made such fearful progress that it appeared necessary to call in a priest. sir andrew wyllie, at the instance of the empress, entered the chamber of the dying prince, and approaching his bed with tears in his eyes, advised him "to call in the aid of the most high, and not to refuse the assistance of religion as he had already done that of medicine." the emperor instantly gave his consent. upon the fifteenth, at five o'clock in the morning, a humble village priest approached the imperial bed to receive the confession of his expiring sovereign. "my father, god must be merciful to kings," were the first words the emperor addressed to the minister of religion; "indeed they require it so much more than other men." in this sentence all the trials and temptations of the despotic ruler of a great people--his territorial ambition, his jealousy, his political ruses, his distrusts, and over-confidences, seem to be briefly comprehended. then, apparently perceiving some timidity in the spiritual confessor his destiny had provided for him, he added, "my father, treat me like an erring man, not as an emperor." the priest drew near the bed, received the confession of his august penitent, and administered to him the last sacraments. then having been informed of the emperor's pertinacity in rejecting medicine, he urged him to give up this fatal obstinacy, remarking, "that he feared god would consider it absolutely suicidal." his admonitions made a deep impression upon the mind of the prince, who recalled sir andrew wyllie, and, giving him his hand, bade him do what he pleased with him. wyllie took advantage of this absolute surrender, to apply twenty leeches to the head of the emperor, but the application was too late, the burning fever continually increased, and the sufferer was given over. the intelligence filled the dying chamber with weeping domestics, who tenderly loved their master. the empress still occupied her place by the bed-side, which she had never quitted but once, in order to allow her dying husband to unbosom himself in private to his confessor. she returned to the post assigned her by conjugal tenderness directly the priest had quitted it. two hours after he had made his peace with god, alexander experienced more severe pain than he had yet felt; "kings," said he, "suffer more than others." he had called one of his attendants to listen to this remark, with the air of one communicating a secret. he stopped, and then as if recalling something he had forgotten, said in a whisper, "they have committed an infamous action." what did he mean by those words? was he suspicious that his days had been shortened by poison? or did he allude, with the last accents he uttered, to the barbarous assassination of the emperor paul? eternity can alone reveal the secret thoughts of alexander i. of russia. during the night, the dying prince lost consciousness. at two o'clock in the morning, count diebitch came to the empress, to inform her that an old man, named alexandrowitz, had saved many tartars in the same malady. a ray of hope entered the heart of the imperial consort at this information, and sir andrew wyllie ordered him to be sought for with haste. this interval was passed by the empress in prayer, yet she still kept her eyes fixed upon those of her husband, watching with intense attention the beams of life and light fading in their unconscious gaze. at nine in the morning, the old man was brought into the imperial chamber almost by force. the rank of the patient, perhaps, inspiring him with some fear respecting the consequences that might follow his prescriptions, caused his extreme unwillingness. he approached the bed, looked at his dying sovereign, and shook his head. he was questioned respecting this doubtful sign. "it is too late to give him medicine; besides, those i have cured were not sick of the same malady." with these words of the peasant physician, the last hopes of the empress vanished; but if pure and ardent prayers could have prevailed with god, alexander would have been saved. on the sixteenth of november, according to the usual method of measuring time, but on the first of december, if we follow the russian calendar, at fifty minutes after ten in the morning, alexander paulowitz, emperor of all the russias, expired. the empress, bending over him felt the departure of his last breath. she uttered a bitter cry, sank upon her knees, and prayed. after some minutes passed in communion with heaven, she rose, closed the eyes of her deceased lord, composed his features, kissed his cold and livid hands, and once more knelt and prayed. the physicians entreated her to leave the chamber of death, and the pious empress consented to withdraw to her own. the autopsy exhibited the same appearance generally discovered in those subjects whose death has been caused by the fever of the country: the brain was watery, the veins of the head were gorged, and the liver was soft. no signs of poison were discovered; the death of the emperor was in the course of nature. the body of the emperor lay in state, on a platform raised in an apartment of the house where he died. the presence-chamber was hung with black, and the bier was covered with a cloth of gold. a great many wax tapers lighted up the gloomy scene. a priest at the head of the bier prayed continually for the repose of his deceased sovereign's soul. two sentinels, with drawn swords, watched day and night beside the dead, two were stationed at the doors, and two stood on each step leading to the bier. every person received at the door a lighted taper, which he held while he remained in the apartment. the empress was present during these masses, but she always fainted at the conclusion of the service. crowds of people united their prayers to hers, for the emperor was adored by the common people. the corpse of alexander i. lay in state twenty-one days before it was removed to the greek monastery of st. alexander, where it was to rest before its departure for interment in st. petersburgh. upon the th december, the remains of the emperor were placed on a funeral car drawn by eight horses, covered to the ground with black cloth ornamented with the escutcheons of the empire. the bier rested on an elevated dais, carpeted with cloth of gold; over the bier was laid a flag of silver tissue, charged with the heraldic insignia proper to the imperial house. the imperial crown was placed under the dais. four major-generals held the cords which supported the diadem. the persons composing the household of the emperor and empress, followed the bier dressed in long black mantles, bearing in their hands lighted torches. the cossacks of the don every minute discharged their light artillery, while the sullen booming of the cannon added to the solemnity of the imposing scene. upon its arrival at the church, the body was transferred to a catafalco covered with red cloth, surmounted by the imperial arms in gold, displayed on crimson velvet. two steps led up to the platform on which the catafalco was placed. four columns supported the dais upon which the imperial crown, the sceptre, and the globe rested. the catafalco was surrounded by curtains of crimson velvet and cloth of gold, and four massy candelabra, at the four corners of the platform, bore wax tapers sufficient to dispel the darkness, but not to banish the gloom pervading the church, which was hung with black, embroidered with white crosses. the empress made an attempt to assist at this funeral service, but her feelings overpowered her, and she was borne back to the palace in a swoon; but as soon as she came to herself, she entered the private chapel, and repeated there the same prayers then reciting in the church of st. alexander. while the remains of the emperor alexander were on their way to their last home, the report of his dangerous state which had been forwarded officially to the grand-duke nicholas, was contradicted by another document, which bore date of the th of november, announcing that considerable amendment had taken place in the emperor's health, who had recovered from a swoon of eight hours' duration, and had not only appeared collected, but declared himself improved in health. whether this was a political ruse of the conspirators or the new emperor, remains quite uncertain; however, a solemn _te deum_ was ordered to be celebrated in the cathedral of casan, at which the empress-mother and the grand-dukes nicholas and michael were present. the joyful crowds assembled at this service scarcely left the imperial family and their suite a free space for the exercise of their devotions. toward the end of the _te deum_, while the sweet voices of the choir were rising in harmonious concert to heaven, some official person informed the grand-duke nicholas, that a courier from tangaroff had arrived with the last dispatch, which he refused to deliver into any hand but his own. nicholas was conducted into the sacristy, and with one glance at the messenger divined the nature of the document of which he was the bearer. the letter he presented was sealed with black. nicholas recognized the handwriting of the empress-consort, and hastily opening it, read these words: "our angel is in heaven; i still exist on earth, but i hope soon to be re-united to him." the bishop was summoned into the sacristy by the new emperor, who gave him the letter, with directions to break the fatal tidings it contained to the empress-mother with the tenderest care. he then returned to his place by the side of his august parent, who alone, of the thousands assembled there, had perceived his absence. an instant after, the venerable bishop re-entered the choir, and silenced the notes of praise and exultation with a motion of his hand. every voice became mute, and the stillness of death reigned throughout the sacred edifice. in the midst of the general astonishment and attention he walked slowly to the altar, took up the massy silver crucifix which decorated it, and throwing over that symbol of earthly sorrow and divine hope, a black vail, he approached the empress-mother, and gave her the crucifix in mourning to kiss. the empress uttered a cry, and fell with her face on the pavement; she comprehended at once that her eldest son was dead. the empress elizabeth soon realized the sorrowful hope she had expressed. four months after the death of her consort she died on her way from tangaroff, at beloff, and soon rejoined him she had pathetically termed, "_her_ angel in heaven." the historical career of the emperor alexander is well known to every reader, but the minor matters of every-day life mark the man, while public details properly denote the sovereign. the faults of alexander are comprised in his infidelity to a beautiful, accomplished, and affectionate wife. he respected her even while wounding her delicate feelings by his criminal attachments to other women. after many years of mental pain, the injured elizabeth gave him the choice of giving her up, or banishing an imperious mistress, by whom the emperor had a numerous family. alexander could not resolve to separate forever from his amiable and virtuous consort--he made the sacrifice she required of him. his gallantry sometimes placed him in unprincely situations, and brought him in contact with persons immeasurably beneath him. he once fell in love with a tailor's wife at warsaw, and not being well acquainted with the character of the pretty grisette, construed her acceptance of the visit he proposed making her, into approbation of his suit. the fair pole was too simple, and had been too virtuously brought up, to comprehend his intentions. her husband was absent, so she thought it would not be proper to receive the imperial visit alone; she made, therefore, a re-union of her own and her husband's relations--rich people of the bourgeoise class--and when the emperor entered her saloon, he found himself in company with thirty or forty persons, to whom he was immediately introduced by his fair and innocent hostess. the astonished sovereign was obliged to make himself agreeable to the party, none of whom appear to have divined his criminal intentions. he made no further attempt to corrupt the innocence of this beautiful woman, whose simplicity formed the safeguard of her virtue. a severe trial separated him forever from his last mistress, who had borne him a daughter this child was the idol of his heart, and to form her mind was the pleasure of his life. at eighteen the young lady eclipsed every woman in his empire by her dazzing beauty and graceful manners. suddenly she was seized with an infectious fever, for which no physician in st. petersburgh could find a remedy. her mother, selfish and timid, deserted the sick chamber of the suffering girl, over whom the bitter tears of a father were vainly shed, while he kept incessant vigils over one whom he would have saved from the power of the grave at the expense of his life and empire. the dying daughter asked incessantly for her mother upon whose bosom she desired to breathe her last sigh, but neither the passionate entreaties nor the commands of her imperial lover could induce the unnatural parent to risk her health by granting the interview for which her poor child craved, and she expired in the arms of her father, without the consolation of bidding her mother a last adieu. some days after the death of his natural daughter, the emperor alexander entered the house of an english officer, to whom he was much attached. he was in deep mourning, and appeared very unhappy. "i have just followed to the grave." he said, "as a private person, the remains of my poor child, and i can not yet forgive the unnatural woman who deserted the death-bed of her daughter. besides, my sin, which i never repented of, has found me out, and the vengeance of god has fallen upon its fruits. yes, i deserted the best and most amiable of wives, the object of my first affection, for women who neither possessed her beauty nor merit. i have preferred to the empress even this unnatural mother, whom i now regard with loathing and horror. my wife shall never again have cause to reproach my broken faith." devotion and his strict adherence to his promise balmed the wound, which, however, only death could heal. to the secret agony which through life had haunted the bosom of the son was added that of the father, and the return of alexander to the paths of virtue and religion originated in the loss of this beloved daughter, smitten, he considered, for his sins. the friendship of this prince for madame krudener had nothing criminal in its nature, though it furnished a theme for scandal to those who are apt to doubt the purity of platonic attachments between individuals of opposite sexes. in regard to this emperor's political career, full of ambition and stratagem, we can only re-echo his dying words to his confessor: "god must be merciful to kings!" his career, however, varied by losses on the field, or humiliated by treaties, ended triumphantly with the laurels of war and the olives of peace; and he bore to his far northern empire the keys of paris as a trophy of his arms. his moderation demands the praise of posterity, and excited the admiration of the french nation at large. his immoral conduct as a man and a husband was afterward effaced by his sincere repentance, and he died in the arms of the most faithful and affectionate of wives, who could not long survive her irreparable loss. his death was deeply lamented by his subjects, who, if they did not enroll his name among the greatest of their rulers, never have hesitated to denote him as the best and most merciful sovereign who ever sat upon the russian throne. an episode in the life of john rayner. i. it was the strangest and most beautiful sight in the world--certainly the most beautiful they had ever seen or dreamt of; and the party, after surmounting the perils of the ascent, stood gazing in astonished amazement. "the falls of niagara may be very grand," observed they; not that they could speak from experience, never having crossed the atlantic to view them; the sight of the pyramids of egypt, worth a pilgrimage thither, and all the other known wonders of the earth, natural and artificial, equally imposing and sublime, but it was scarcely to be conceived that any one of them could vie in beauty with the glaciers of switzerland. the party, some half-dozen in number, and of the english nation, had arrived at chamouny in the night, later by some hours than they ought to have done, owing to the break-down of their nondescript vehicle, called a char-à-banc, just after they had quitted st. martin, a quiet little village, whence the view of mont blanc is splendid in the extreme. they were weary with traveling, and sought their beds at once, the earliest riser among them--and he not until the sun was up--rushing to his window, before his eyes were half open, to see if any view was to be obtained. he pulled aside the curtain, and stood transfixed; utterly regardless of the bipeds, male and female, human and animal, whose attention might be attracted upward by the unusual apparition of a gentleman exhibiting himself at the open window in his costume _de nuit_, his tasseled nightcap stretching a yard into the air. but john rayner was a man much more accustomed to act from impulse than from reflection, and it is possible that in this instance the scene he beheld excused it. the glacier de bosson was before him--the large, unbroken glacier de bosson--with its color of bright azure, and its shining peaks of gold, rising to a sky more deeply blue than we ever see it in england, glittering along as far as the eye could reach. a glimpse of the mer de glace was caught in the distance, its white surface presenting a contrast to the blue of the glaciers. john rayner soon summoned his party; and, after a hasty breakfast, they commenced preparations for a visit to the mer de glace. they were soon ready--considering that some of the party were ladies, and one a staid damsel of five-and-forty, methodical and slow: another, a fair young bride, indulged in every wish and whim. the usual appendage of mules and guides accompanied them, and they were a long while ascending the mountain--five hours at the least--but the road was sufficiently exciting, and to some minds sufficiently dangerous, to keep away ennui. the young girl, too, and indeed she was little more, was perpetually throwing them into a state of agitation with her sudden screams of terror, although the guides, with their alpenstocks, seeing her fears, were more attentive to her than to all the rest of them put together. once they thought she had certainly gone over, mule and all: it was when a descending party appeared almost right above their heads, advancing toward them, and she was just at a broken and rugged corner, where there was scarcely room for one mule to step, without being precipitated into the depths below. but the danger was surmounted, and on they went, the mules nearly on end; for it is scarcely possible to conceive a more perpendicular ascent. part of the way lay through groves of tall pine-trees, and flowers and wild strawberries were growing around. but now they gained the height, and how strangely beautiful was the scene that broke upon them! it certainly, as the gazers observed, could have no rival in nature. it was one of the sunniest days, too, that ever rose on that picturesque land: had it been less fine, the greater part of the scene's beauty would probably have been lost. the azure-tinted plains of ice, in their rugged sublimity, were stretched out broad and large, their surface glittering as if all sorts of precious stones were thrown there. the bright-green emerald, the pale sapphire, the gay amber, the purer topaz, the sweet-tinted amethyst, the richer garnet, the blue turquoise, the darker lapis lazuli, the rare jacinth, the elegant onyx, the delicate opal, the gaudy gold, and the brilliant diamond. all gay and glittering colors were there, presenting a dazzling profusion of tints such as the eye had never yet rested on. pinnacles of snow rose up to the heavens, and frozen torrents, arrested midway in their course, hung over the waves of ice below. plains, plains of ice, were extended there, clear and transparent; masses of white, shining snow, in all fanciful shapes, were crowded, as if they were rocks, one above another, and magnificent pinnacles, or aiguilles, as they are appropriately termed, raised their golden tops to the dark blue sky, numbers of them upon numbers, as far away in the distance as the eye could reach. it is impossible to do justice in description to the exquisite coloring of these heaps or rocks of ice, between each of which yawned a fissure or abyss, fearful to look down upon. you may have witnessed the blue of a southern sky, and the rich blue of the rhone's waters--wondrously dark and rich as they roll on from geneva's lake; you may have seen the bright plumage of rare birds, rivaling the exquisite tint that is known as "ultramarine," but never, never have you imagined any thing so lovely as the transparent azure of portions of these masses of ice. there are more things in heaven and earth, hamlet tells us, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. it is very probable; and there are certainly more places. when john rayner's geographical master at school expounded to him the dreamy, repellant attributes of the icy sea, making him shiver as he listened, he little thought there was _another_ icy sea nearer home, one that he might some time visit, and whose strangely magnificent beauty would cling to his recollections for all his future years. the guides began pointing out to him some of the glistening peaks by name: the aiguilles rouges, the col de baume, the grands periades, the grands mulets, the egralets, and others. and--strange, strange scene! in the midst of this region of petrifaction, this enduring ice of ages, the green banks, verdant as our plains in the spring-time, lay on the edge of the white waters; causing them to think of the blending of climes that they would never see blended--the smiling pastures of arcadia in the midst of the desolation of the north pole. they were gathered in a group close to the little châlet, as it is called, partaking of the refreshments they had brought with them, all save that pretty plaything the young bride, who, her terrors subsided, sat twisting some wood-strawberries round her straw-bonnet, much to the staining and detriment of its white ribbons, as john rayner's staid aunt kept assuring her, when some fresh comers appeared upon the scene. they consisted of a lady and gentleman, a man servant, in undress livery, and some guides. he, the gentleman, was young and remarkably handsome, aristocratic to the last degree, and there was an air of reserve and hauteur about him, conspicuous at the first glance. but he was forgotten when his companion, whom he had assisted from her mule and placed upon his arm, turned her countenance to their view. seldom has a human face been formed so classically faultless, and though there was not the slightest coloring in her features, the delicate beauty of their form was such, that could a painter have transferred them to canvas, he would need to toil for fame no more. her hair was of the deepest shade, next to black, and her eyes were blue, but such a blue--dark and lovely as were the edges of the masses of ice she was looking at. they did not advance toward our party, preferring, no doubt, to shroud themselves in their habits of aristocratic reserve, and keep themselves aloof from promiscuous travelers. once she withdrew her arm from his, and began slipping about on the waves of ice, trying hard to climb them; and, as she thus amused herself, he strolled away and approached nearer the other party. but he took no notice of it, save one or two involuntary glances of admiration which shot from his eyes as they fell upon the fair young wife before mentioned, who still sat weaving her strawberries, not quite consistent, as john rayner's maiden aunt stiffly observed, with his devotion to _his_ young wife down there. "i wonder if they are english?" quoth miss rayner--the first "wonder" an englishwoman expresses, and that invariably, when strangers appear in sight in a foreign land. "english! of course not!" retorted her young lady-relative, pushing up the wreath to see how many stains she could count upon her bonnet, and who, since she crossed the channel, had been pleased to express a mania for every body and every thing that was foreign. but the day at length wore away, with its pleasure, toil, and excitement; and not sorry were they, after their perpendicular descent, to find themselves safe in the inn at chamouny. early the next morning they went out to visit the source of the arveyron; but it calls for little notice here, and its description would scarcely be read after that of the icy sea. they were standing by the grove of pines that skirts the rivulet, bargaining with some little children for the minerals they so anxiously displayed, when the same couple they had seen the day before, amid the glaciers, advanced toward them, but this time quite unattended. the gentleman was attired in a sort of shooting-coat, his tall slender form appearing to advantage in this mode of dress; and the young lady was enveloped in a cashmere, her lovely features colorless as ever; but she hastily shook her vail over them as she neared the strangers. they had scarcely passed, when the gentleman, in drawing something from his pocket--a sketch-book it looked like--let fall a gold pencil-case, probably out of the book. it was unperceived by him, and he continued his way, the pencil-case rolling to the feet of john rayner. he picked it up, and stepping after the stranger, returned it into his hand. he proffered his thanks politely and very courteously. there was something extremely prepossessing in his manner when he spoke, and in his smile also, in spite of the hauteur visible in his features when they were at rest. "he is an englishman, then!" cried john's good aunt, who had been watching and listening. "and a nobleman to boot," added john. on the blood-red stone of the chased pencil-case was engraved an elaborate coat-of-arms, surmounted by a viscount's coronet. during their quiet journey back to st. martin, in the char-à-banc, they, having nothing better to do, began discussing the episode, as john rayner himself named it. miss rayner, who, many years before, had owned a real countess for a godmother, and still boasted of a cousin--she did not say how many removes--in an embassador's lady, had, as a matter of course, all the peerage at her fingers' ends, and knew the names and ages of every body in it, as well as she did the church catechism. so she began speculating upon which of the peers' sons it was, and trying to recollect who among them had recently wedded. "i have it!" she cried at last, "it is lord l----. he was married just before we left england--to that old admiral's daughter, you know, john, with the wooden leg: he is something at the admiralty. an exceedingly fine young man is viscount l----, but so was his father before him, though i dare say he is altered now. he stood for our county in early life, and i saw him ride round the town the day of his election." "my good madam," interrupted a gentleman, leaning down from his seat by the driver to speak, "the party we saw this morning is just as much like lord l---- as you are like me. he is a regular dwarf, is l----; stands five feet one in his boots." "how do _you_ know viscount l----?" snappishly demanded the lady, vexed at finding herself, with all her aristocratic lore, at fault. "i was at college with him," was the reply, as the speaker threw away the end of his cigar. "it is useless to discuss the matter further," observed john rayner. "we have seen the last of them, and the prospect here is worth all the coronets in europe." they were leaving the glacier de bosson, with its form of grace, and its color of brilliant blue shading itself off above to snowy whiteness; but shining cataracts, silvery and beautiful, were rushing down from the heights, amid the trees, the rocks, and the green, green banks. and further on, as the char-à-banc continued its way out of the valley, the snowy range of mountains appeared, their outline sharply cut against the clear summer sky, and the pinnacles, domes, and obelisks, as they might be fancied, shooting up to it; with mont blanc--mont blanc so splendidly radiant--seen from thence, standing forth in all its glory. ii. it may have been several months prior to the date of the events recorded above, that a family-party were gathered one evening in the drawing-room of a handsome house, situated near to one of those parts of london much frequented by lawyers. a lady of advancing years sat in an easy-chair; the worsted-work with which she had been occupied was thrown aside, and she had placed her hand fondly upon the head of a young girl, who knelt before the recently-lighted fire, enjoying its blaze, for the autumn evenings were growing chilly. a stranger would have been struck at once with the girl's beauty. had a masterly hand sculptured out her features from marble, they could not have been more exquisitely moulded, and they were pale as the purest ivory. she seemed to be about eighteen, and a cherished, petted child. two ladies, each more than thirty years of age, sat also in the apartment. they were quiet-looking women, dressed with a plainness which formed a contrast to the elegant attire of the younger lady. one sat before her desk, the other--having drawn close to the window, for she was near-sighted--sat reading attentively. "louisa, my dear," observed the mother, removing her hand from her youngest daughter's head, "i think you should put your writing aside: it is getting too late to see." "in a few minutes, mother: my epistle is just finished, and i want to send it by to-night's post." "is it for the convent?" inquired the youngest girl. "it is." "as a matter of certainty," she rejoined; a saucy smile--in which might be traced a dash of derision--illuminating her features. the expression was observed, and a deep sigh broke from the two elder sisters; the one looking up from her book, which was a roman-catholic edition of the "lives of the saints," to give vent to it. at the same moment a servant entered, and presented a salver to his mistress. she took a note from it, and broke the seal. the man quitted the room, and frances, like a spoiled child, leaned her head upon her mother's lap to look at the handwriting. "it is from your papa, my dearest, written from the office; but a couple of lines. he says he shall bring home a client to dinner--a nobleman, who will probably take a bed at our house. it may be as well, perhaps, that i order some trifling additions to the table." "the dinner is very well, madam," meekly observed one of her elder daughters. "it is handsome and good: will not the enlarging of it savor much of worldly vanity?" "additions! to be sure, mamma!" cried frances. "what are you dreaming of, mary? it is a nobleman who is coming, did you not hear?" and bending forward, she pulled hastily the bell, that mrs. hildyard might issue her orders. but while they are up-stairs dressing, it may be as well to give a short intimation of who the parties are. mr. hildyard was an eminent lawyer, ranking high in his profession, of unblemished character, and of great wealth. he was of the roman catholic persuasion. his family consisted but of the three daughters we have already seen. the two elder ones, louisa and mary, had been placed in early childhood at a convent in one of the midland counties. merry-hearted girls they were when they entered it; but at their departure, after a sojourn there of several years, their joyous spirits had been subdued to gloom. the world and all its concerns was to them a sin; and they decidedly deemed that no person was worthy to live in it, save those who were continually out of it "in the spirit," and whose time was passed in the offices of religion, and in ecclesiastical acerbities. they returned home young women, while their little sister, the willful child, frances, was but eight years of age. most passionately fond of this child, coming to them so many years after the birth of the others, were mr. and mrs. hildyard; and, like too many fond parents, they merged her future well-being in present indulgence. oh! better had it been for frances hildyard to have turned into stone her heart's best feelings, and to have lived a life of contented gloom as her sisters did, than to have grown up the vain, self-willed girl which she had done, reveling in the world and its vanities as if it were to be her resting-place forever. it is impossible to tell you how frances hildyard was idolized--how indulged. this is no ideal story, and i speak but of things as they were. when only seven years of age, she dined at table with her parents, at their late dinner-hour. her will was law in the house; the very servants, taking their tone from their superiors, made her their idol, or professed to do so. the most insidious flatteries were poured into her ear, and every hour in the day, one eagerly drank-in theme was whispered there--the beauty of miss frances. this indulgence, coupled with that fostered vanity, brought forth its fruits--and can you wonder at it? good seeds were in her heart--good, holy seeds, planted in it by god, as they are in the heart of all; but in lieu of being carefully fostered and pruned, they were let run to waste, and the baneful weeds overgrew them. a governess was provided for her, a kind, judicious catholic woman. send frances to the convent, indeed! what object would mr. and mrs. hildyard have had to doat upon had their precious child been removed from their sight? mrs. mainwaring was anxious for the welfare of her charge, and to do her duty; but frances was the most rebellious pupil. the governess appealed to the mother, and mrs. hildyard, with showers of kisses and presents, implored frances to be more attentive; but frances heard her whisper to the governess not to be harsh with her darling child. it was a continued scene of struggle for mastery, and mrs. mainwaring threw up her engagement. a french lady was procured in her place, who had the accommodation, to use no more reprehensible term, to assimilate her views to those of miss frances. and so she grew up; her extreme beauty palliating to the household all her little willful faults, and the admiration she excited filling the very crevices of her heart. to hear the echo of the word "beautiful" coupled with frances hildyard, was of itself, to her, worth living for. but soon one was to come, for whose admiration she would alone care, one for whose step she would learn to listen, and in whose absence existence would be irksome. she was the first, on the evening which has been mentioned, to enter the drawing-room, after dressing for dinner. her attire proved she had not forgotten that a noble stranger was to partake of their hospitality. mr. hildyard was standing before the fire with a gentleman. they both moved as she advanced, and her father, taking her hand, said, "my love, allow me to introduce lord winchester. your lordship sees my youngest daughter, miss frances hildyard." she saw that he was young and handsome--she saw that he was noble and courteous beyond any that she had hitherto formed acquaintance with, but she saw not the whole of his fascinations then. he led mrs. hildyard in to dinner, and sat next to her; frances was on his other hand. the two elder sisters, in their quiet gray silk dresses, sat opposite, and mr. hildyard occupied his customary place at the foot of the table. vain girl! she was looking her very best, and she tried to look it. she was conscious that he regarded her with no common admiration. she was used to that; but she was _not_ used to this homage from a nobleman. the secret of his visit was made known to the family--to no one else. viscount winchester, but following the example set him by many another noble viscount, had got himself into a scrape: plainly speaking, he had run headlong into debt, and was in the hands of the jews. the respectable old earl, his father, shocked and astonished, had, in the first flush of anger, refused to assist him, and the viscount, threatened with arrest, and not daring to apply to the family-solicitor, had flown to mr. hildyard, of whom he had a slight knowledge. so here he was located, _en famille_, in the lawyer's house; it may be said, secreted, for the servants were left in ignorance of his name and rank, and the family were denied to visitors. upon frances chiefly devolved the care of entertaining him. louisa and mary--even had the necessity of any task so vain and useless as that of amusing a handsome young gentleman occurred to their minds--possessed not the time to attend to it, what with their voluminous correspondence kept up with the convent, and their multifarious religious duties at home, and its ceremonies abroad; and mrs. hildyard was in delicate health, and rarely descended from her apartments until late in the day. it was nearly a week before he left the house. for four days the earl had continued obstinate; and after he relented, it took two more to arrange matters, so that lord winchester might be free again. he and frances had become very friendly with each other; it is too early yet to say, attached--but the seeds for that were sown. he quitted the house, but not to remain absent from it forever--now a morning visit, now a friendly dinner with them. neither did it seem any thing but a natural occurrence that he should frequently return to his friends from whom he had received so much kindness. but it needed not his whisperings to frances, to convince her that she was the magnet that drew him thither, for she saw it in every look, and traced it in every action. iii. the winter had come. frost and snow lay chillingly upon the ground, when one afternoon the visiting-carriage of mrs. hildyard drew up to her house, and frances, followed by her mother, leaped lightly out of it. a radiant smile of happiness was on her beautiful face, for a well-known cab, elegant in all its appurtenances, was in waiting at the door, giving sure token that its owner was within. lord winchester's visits had been frequent and constant; and oh, the change that had come over the feelings of frances hildyard--over her whole life! she had learned to love; but few could imagine how wildly and passionately. there he was, as she entered the morning-room, striding up and down it impatiently. a hasty embrace, while they were yet uninterrupted, and lord winchester walked forward to shake hands with mrs. hildyard. "so, frances," he whispered, when an opportunity, offered and others were in the room to draw off attention from them, "you are tiring already of your conquest?" tiring of him! a faint blush upon her pure cheek, and a look of inquiry, formed her only answer. "it was unkind not to reply to my note, when i so earnestly urged it." "what note?" she asked. "the one i sent you yesterday." "i had no letter from you yesterday." "think again, my love. james tells me he delivered it as usual into the hands of your own maid." "then she never gave it me," answered frances, earnestly. "some negligence!" ejaculated lord winchester. but the visitors who had been present were leaving, and their conversation was interrupted. as soon as she was at liberty, frances hastened to her room, and ringing for her maid, a chattering french girl, demanded if she had not received a note for her on the previous day. "most certainly," answered the girl, jabbering on with her false accent, and occasionally introducing a word of her native language. "it came when you were out, mademoiselle, and i placed it here on your toilet-table." "then where is it?" inquired frances. "mais--i supposed you took it," replied the attendant, looking puzzled; and she was beginning to scan the ground, as if thinking it might have fallen there, when miss louisa hildyard entered the apartment, and the servant was dismissed. "i--i took the liberty, frances," began miss hildyard, clearing her throat, and speaking in the mild, monotonous manner which distinguished her and her sister, "to open a letter yesterday which was addressed to you." the thoughts of frances reverted to the lost note, and the impetuous flush of anger rose to her brow. her answer was delivered in a tone of the utmost astonishment: "you--opened--a--letter--addressed--to--me!" was her exclamation, with a pause between every word. "i did," meekly replied miss louisa. "and you presumed--was it from here? did you find it here?" reiterated frances, pointing to the dressing-table. "it was--- i did," responded the elder lady, scarcely above a whisper, "and i am now come to converse--" but frances, with a perfect torrent of passion, overwhelmed her words. "and how could you--how dared you break the seal of a letter which bore my address? how dare you presume to stand in my presence and assert it?" "the superscription was in viscount winchester's handwriting, and the seal bore his arms," was the placid reply. "a sufficient warranty for my proceeding, for i had suspected there was a private understanding going on between you, and deemed it my duty to look into it." "and don't you know," exclaimed frances, stamping her foot in her passion, "that the act you have been guilty of is so vile, that, but recently, one committing it was deemed worthy of a felon's death upon the scaffold? that degradation so utter can have been committed by my father's child!" "this storm of passion and violence is very bad," deplored miss louisia hildyard, crossing her hands upon her chest. "may the virgin bring your mind to habitual meekness!" "may the virgin bring you to a sense of the shameful act you have stooped to, and keep you out of my apartments for the future!" retorted the exasperated girl, who, in truth to say, was looked upon as little better than a heathen, in religious matters, by her pious sisters. miss louisa took a small ivory crucifix from her bosom, kissed it, and crossed herself, while ejaculating audible aspirations for patience. "retire from my presence," resumed frances, haughtily, "and return to my maid, whom i will send after you, the letter you have robbed me of." "it is no longer in my possession," sighed miss louisa, coolly taking a seat as if in open defiance of her sister's imperious command. "i am in the habit of consulting sister mildred, my dear old preceptress at the convent, upon all points, and i submitted lord winchester's communication to her by last night's post, requesting her advice as to what course we ought to pursue with you upon this deplorable matter." frances turned quite wild. "you eavesdropper--you impersonation of all jealousy--- how dared you do so? this is worse and worse! consult the nuns about yourselves and your own concerns; go and live with them and stop with them if you like; but who gave you right or power over mine? "the right and the power that one soul has to concern itself for the well-being of another. had viscount winchester--" "had viscount winchester come with his coronet in hand, and laid it at _your_ feet," interrupted frances, vehemently, "you would have grasped at the offer--unsuitable to him as you would be in years. we should have had no saintly appeals to the convent then." miss louisa gave a faint scream, and nearly fainted. to do her justice, it was not so much her sister's ill-judged words that affected her--not even the irreverent allusion to her age--as the coupling her holy and catholic person, though only in idea, in union with one who was a sworn enemy to the true faith. "oh, that you had been reared among our pious sisterhood!" she aspirated, looking on frances with compassion, "you would then know the terrible sin you have been guilty of in encouraging the addresses of this lost man." "i wish the pious sisterhood had been in the sea before they had taught you these disgraceful tricks," retorted the young lady. "why don't you attend to your priests, and your visitings, and your week-day masses, and your holy robes, and leave rational people to pursue their way unmolested?" this last was a hint at her sister's embroidery; they never were without a "holy robe" in hand, intended for the decoration of some priest or another. "thanks be to the saints and to their blessed servants who tutored me, you can not provoke me to anger, frances. what i have done, i have done for your good. it is incumbent on us to stop this affair in the bud, rather than suffer you to become deeply attached to this young nobleman. alas! that hearts still dead to the spirit, _should_ be guilty of passion so reprehensible for a fellow-creature!" "whatever attachment there may be between me and lord winchester, it does not concern you." "you can never marry him." "i shall not ask your consent." miss louisa hildyard fell upon one knee when she heard these words, and prayed for reformation to the sinful heart of her young sister. "you might as well marry the--the--" she seemed to hesitate for a mild expression, "the person down below who is not an angel," she continued, tapping the floor with her foot, lest frances should mistake her meaning; "you might as well marry _him_, as a man professing the religion they call protestant." the pale face of frances bore a tinge of red--always a sign in her of deep emotion. she liked not the turn the discussion was taking, for she had been nurtured in the doctrines of the romish faith, and even she, careless as she was of fulfilling the duties of her religion, owned to prejudices against those of an opposite creed, though her all-potent love for lord winchester willingly buried in his case these prejudices in oblivion. "oh, frances! think of your soul! how can that be saved if you willfully ally yourself with one who can never enter into the fold of christ?" "have you increased my obligations to you," interrupted frances, trying to smother her sister's words, "by informing papa that you are a breaker-open of other people's letters?" "my lips are sealed upon the subject until the arrival of the answer of sister mildred," replied miss hildyard. "i shall be guided, as i ever am, by her advice." iv. the answer of "sister mildred" was not long in coming. it was a voluminous epistle, partly consisting of pathetic lamentations over the "stray lamb who seemed prone to wonder;" and earnestly urging, nay, commanding her dear daughter louisa to consult at once with her confessor, and to let him see and explain the danger to mr. hildyard. mr. and mrs. hildyard were sufficiently confounded when the unwelcome news was made known to them. that they were taken with lord winchester as a fascinating man and pleasing companion, could not be denied; but that their greatly-beloved daughter should have become attached to one lying under the ban of their faith, was an overwhelming blow. the first time that mr. hildyard entered his drawing-room, after hearing the tale, appearances seemed to confirm it, for there sat frances at the piano, playing ever and anon a few bars with one hand, and his lordship was leaning over her and speaking in whispers. mrs. hildyard had dozed asleep upon the sofa, her frequent habit after dinner, and miss mary hildyard sat at the table underneath the light of the great chandelier, forming a wreath of flowers, intended, when worked, to ornament a vail for the profession of a young friend, who was about to become a nun. altogether, what with the old lady's doze, and the younger one's preoccupation, they had it pretty much to themselves, and mr. hildyard walked across the well-carpeted room without being perceived, in time to see the viscount toying with his daughter's ringlets. frances started up when she saw her father. "what do you do, frances, so far from the fire?" he cried with asperity, the first time in her life she ever remembered harsh tones used to her. "is it so cold a night?" inquired the young man. "very cold, my lord," was the short reply. "this room is warm any where," observed frances, as she slowly approached the table where her sister was sitting. "shall i sing you your favorite songs to-night, papa?" she inquired. "no. i am in no mood for singing?" "will you give me my revenge at chess?" asked the viscount of mr. hildyard. "if your lordship will excuse me, i shall feel obliged." so with this chilling reception of course his lordship soon walked himself off, and then mr. hildyard spoke to frances. kindly and cautiously he pointed out to her how impossible it was that she could ever marry lord winchester, or any one save a professor of her own creed. he told her to choose from the whole world--that he and her mother had but her happiness at heart, but she must choose a roman catholic. "i hope," he continued, "that a mistake has arisen upon this point, and that you do not love lord winchester--that it will be no pain to you not to see him again." her heart beat tumultuously, and a film gathered before her eyes; but she turned her face, with its agitation, away from their view, and gave an evasive answer. "because to-morrow i shall write to him," proceeded mr. hildyard, "that a stop may be put to this at once, and forever." v. astonished as mr. and mrs. hildyard may have been, that was nothing compared with the indignant amazement of the earl when the affair broke upon him. for mr. hildyard, not contented with writing fully to lord winchester, had dropped an explanatory note to the earl, intimating his hope that the latter would urge upon his son the futility of the expectation that miss frances hildyard could ever become viscountess winchester. that the viscount admired frances was beyond a doubt; nay, that he loved her; but that he had entertained any serious thoughts of making her his wife, was a mistake. he was not so ready to give up the attractions of bachelorship. he had passed his leisure hours most agreeably by the side of frances, without any ultimate end in view, and without giving a thought to one. what commotion there was in the house when the supercilious letter of the haughty old peer arrived at mr. hildyard's. a lawyer's daughter a fit mate for the heir to one of the most ancient earldoms! had mr. hildyard and his wife ever entertained so aspiring a thought, they were now plainly undeceived. lord winchester was forbidden the house; all intercourse with him, even but a passing nod, should they meet in public, was denied to frances; and she who had never been chidden or crossed, who did not know what control was, had her mother and sisters constantly peeping and peering over her, night and day. but their vigilance was sometimes eluded. there were servants in the house, who, devoted to frances's interests or to the viscount's bribery, frequently passed letters from one to the other, and even contrived to bring about interviews between them. one unlucky evening, however, that frances was missing from the sitting-room, her eldest sister bethought herself to go in search of her--a suspicion, it may have been, rife in her heart. reception-rooms and other chambers were searched in vain, and the lady stealthily made her way to the apartments of the servants, scaring one that she met on the road by her unusual appearance there. the housekeeper's parlor was at the end of a passage, and miss hildyard advanced to it, and turned the handle of the door, and--she did not faint, but sank down upon a chair with a succession of groans so loud, that they might have been heard at any given place within three miles--lord winchester stood there, clasping her sister in his arms, and, to use poor miss louisa's expression to her mother afterward, actually kissing her!--kissing her cheek as fast as he could kiss. the retiring miss louisa had never in all her life received such a shock. it was enough to turn her hair gray. such a thing had never been heard of in the convent. and that she should witness a young sister of hers, almost an infant it might be said, quietly suffering herself to be upon such dreadfully familiar terms with one of the other sex--and he _not_ a holy priest, or even a catholic! what a humiliating confession she should have for her spiritual director the next day!--what an octavo budget for sister mildred and the nuns! lord winchester, instead of sinking through the floor with contrition, appeared little daunted. he raised his head proudly up, and placing frances's hand within his arm, demanded of miss louisa if she had any commands for him. this hardihood put the finishing stroke upon miss louisa's agitation. she fell into hysterics, and screamed so loud, that the housekeeper, followed by the servants, came rushing in. but the scene next day was terrible. mr. hildyard had been at a political meeting, but the next morning he assembled the whole of the family in conclave. "will you," he cried to frances, after an hour spent in fruitless discussion and recrimination, "will you, or will you not, give up this man?" "i will not," she murmured. "frances, do you remember how i and your mother--there she stands--have cherished you? do you know that you are entwined round our hearts as never child was yet entwined? will you outrage this affection of years for the sake of a stranger--and he an apostate?" ah! mr. and mrs. hildyard, you now see the effects of your woefully indulgent training. what response does frances make? why, she turns away her head, and makes none. "frances, for the last time," continued her father, "will you undertake to renounce all friendship with viscount winchester--that he shall be to you henceforth as if you had never met? it must be sworn upon the crucifix." the faint crimson shone in her cheek, and her voice and hands trembled as she replied, in a low tone, "i will never promise it." vi. "if any thing can recall her to a sense of her duty," remarked miss louisa hildyard, as she consulted that night alone with her father and mother, the family priest being alike present, "it will be a prolonged residence in that blessed convent. there her mind may be led to peace. oh, that she had been brought up in it!" "you say right, my daughter," acquiesced the priest. "i see no other way to reclaim her; for here, alas! the temptations of worldly life must ever interfere, and counteract all good effects that might be wrought. place her in the convent. i myself will be her conductor thither, and will offer up my prayers that the step may conduce to her spiritual welfare." mr. and mrs. hildyard started, and the former smoothed his hand across his brow, as if pain had settled there. "your inclinations may be at variance with this counsel," continued the holy father, breaking the silence which had followed, "but will you oppose them to the salvation of her immortal soul? _i see no other way to save it._" and so it was decided; but not until the night hours had grown into morning. "oh, the holy work that will have been wrought, should the heart of this erring lamb be won over to a peaceful life, and embrace the vail!" uttered the priest in the ear of miss louisa, as he bestowed upon her the night benediction, ere retiring from the council. "we shall say then that that carnal-minded apostate was sent to this house in mercy." vii. but three days had elapsed, when a traveling-carriage drove into the outer yard of the convent of the nuns of the visitation in ---- shire. a young lady descended from it, and those in attendance gently led her forward, now through one court-yard, now through another, until the interior of the convent was gained. then the great gates closed with a bang that almost shook the building, and frances hildyard was shut out from the world she had so idolized. joys and perils of lumbering. [from "forest life and forest trees," by j.s. springer--a unique and truly american work, in the press of harper and brothers.] lumbermen not only cut and haul from clumps and communities, but reconnoitre the forest, hill, vale, and mountain side for scattering trees; and when they are deemed _worth_ an _effort_, no location in which they may be found, however wild or daring, can oppose the skill and enterprise of our men. for taking logs down mountain sides, we adopt various methods, according to the circumstances. sometimes we construct what are termed dry sluice-ways, which reach from the upper edge of a precipice down to the base of the hill. this is made by laying large poles or trunks of straight trees together the whole distance, which is so constructed as to keep the log from running off at the sides. logs are rolled into the upper end, the descent or dip often being very steep; the log passes on with lightning-like velocity, quite burying itself in the snow and leaves below. from the roughness of the surfaces, the friction is very great, causing the bark and smoke to fly plentifully. at other times, when the descent is more gradual, and not too steep, and when there is not a sufficient quantity to pay the expense of a sluice-way, we fell a large tree, sometimes the hemlock, trim out the top, and cut the largest limbs off a foot, more or less, from the trunk. this is attached to the end of the log by strong chains, and as the oxen draw the load, this drag thrusts its stumpy limbs into the snow and frozen earth, and thus prevents the load from forcing the team forward too rapidly. should the chain give way which attaches the hold-back to the load, nothing could save the team from sudden destruction. there is a mountain on the "west branch" of the penobscot where pine-trees of excellent quality stand far up its sides, whose tops appear to sweep the very clouds. the side which furnishes timber rises in terraces of gigantic proportions, forming a succession of abrupt precipices and shelving table-land. there are three of these giant mountain steps, each of which produces lumber which challenges the admiration and enterprise of the log-men. the ascent to these alpine groves is too abrupt to allow the team to ascend in harness; we therefore unyoke and drive the oxen up winding pathways. the yokes and chains are carried up by the workmen, and also the bob-sled in pieces, after taking it apart. ascending to the uppermost terrace, the oxen are re-yoked and the sled adjusted. the logs being cut and prepared as usual, are loaded, and hauled to the edge of the first precipice, unloaded, and rolled off to the table of the second terrace, where they are again loaded, hauled, and tumbled off as before, to the top of the first rise, from which they are again pitched down to the base of the mountain, where for the last time they are loaded, and hauled to the landing. to obtain logs in such romantic locations was really as hazardous as it was laborious, varying sufficiently from the usual routine of labor to invest the occasion with no ordinary interest. it was, indeed, an exhibition well calculated to awaken thrilling emotions to witness the descent of those massive logs, breaking and shivering whatever might obstruct their giddy plunge down the steep mountain side, making the valleys reverberate and ring merrily with the concussion. in other instances loads are eased down hill sides by the use of "tackle and fall," or by a strong "warp," taking a "bight" round a tree, and hitching-to one yoke of the oxen. in this manner the load is "tailed down" steeps where it would be impossible for the "tongue oxen" to resist the pressure of the load. sometimes the warp parts under the test to which it is thus subjected, when the whole load plunges onward like an avalanche, subjecting the poor oxen to a shocking death. but the circumstance which calls forth the most interest and exertion is the "rival load." when teams are located with sufficient proximity to admit of convenient intercourse, a spirit of rivalry is often rife between the different crews on various points. the "largest tree," the "smartest chopper," the "best cook," the "greatest day's work," and a score of other superlatives, all invested with attractions the greater from the isolated circumstances of swamp life. the "crack" load is preceded by all needful preliminaries. all defective places in the road are repaired. new "skids" are nicely peeled by hewing off the bark smoothly, and plentifully as well as calculatingly laid along the road. all needful repairs are made on the bob-sled, and the team put in contending plight. the trees intended for the "big load" are carefully prepared, and hauled to some convenient place on the main road singly, where they are reloaded, putting on two and sometimes three large trees. all things in readiness, the men follow up with handspikes and long levers. then comes the "tug of war;" rod by rod, or foot by foot, the whole is moved forward, demanding every ounce of strength, both of men and oxen united, to perform the feat of getting it to the landing. were life and fortune at stake, more could not be done under the circumstances. the surveyor applies the rule, and the result gives either the one or the other party "whereof to glory." if not "teetotalers," the vanquished "pay the bitters" when they get down river. men love and will have excitement; with spirits never more buoyant, every thing, however trifling, adds to the stock of "fun alive" in the woods. every crew has its "jack," who, in the absence of other material, either from his store of "mother-wit" or "greenness," contributes to the merry shaking of sides, or allows himself to be the butt of good-natured ridicule. but while the greater part of swamp life is more or less merry, there are occasional interruptions to the joyousness that abounds. logging roads are generally laid out with due regard to the conveniences of level or gently descending ground. but in some instances the unevenness of the country admits only of unfavorable alternatives. sometimes there are moderate rises to ascend or descend on the way to the landing; the former are hard, the latter dangerous to the team. i knew a teamster to lose his life in the following shocking manner: on one section of the main road there was quite a "smart pitch" of considerable length, on which the load invariably "drove" the team along on a forced trot. down this slope our teamster had often passed without sustaining any injury to himself or oxen. one day, having, as usual, taken his load from the stump, he proceeded toward the landing, soon passing out of sight and hearing. not making his appearance at the expiration of the usual time, it was suspected that something more than usual had detained him. obeying the impulses of a proper solicitude on his behalf, some of the hands started to render service if it were needed. coming to the head of the hill down which the road ran, they saw the team at the foot of it, standing with the forward oxen faced about up the road, but no teamster. on reaching the spot, a most distressing spectacle presented itself; there lay the teamster on the hard road, with one of the sled-runners directly across his bowels, which, under the weight of several tons of timber, were pressed down to the thickness of a man's hand. he was still alive, and when they called out to him, just before reaching the sled, he spoke up as promptly as usual, "here am i," as if nothing had been the matter. these were the only and last words he ever uttered. a "pry" was immediately set, which raised the deadfall from his crushed body, enabling them to extricate it from its dreadful position. shortly after, his consciousness left him, and never more returned. he could give no explanation; but we inferred, from the position of the forward oxen, that the load had forced the team into a run, by which the tongue cattle, pressed by the leaders, turning them round, which probably threw the teamster under the runner, and the whole load stopped when about to poise over his body. he was taken to the camp, where all was done that could be done under the circumstances to save him but to no purpose. his work was finished. he still lingered, in an apparently unconscious state, until midnight, when his spirit, forsaking its bruised and crushed tenement, ascended above the sighing pines, and entered the eternal state. the only words he uttered were those in reply to the calling of his name. as near as we could judge, he had lain two hours in the position in which he was found. it was astonishing to see how he had gnawed the rave[ ] of the sled. it was between three and four inches through. in his agony he had bitten it nearly half off. to do this, he must have pulled himself up with his hands, gnawed a while, then fallen back again through exhaustion and despair. he was taken out to the nearest settlement, and buried. at a later period, we lost our teamster by an accident not altogether dissimilar. it was at the winding up our winter's work in hauling. late in the afternoon we had felled and prepared our final tree, which was to finish the last of the numerous loads which had been taken to the well-stowed landing. wearied with the frequency of his travels on the same road for the same purpose, this last load was anticipated with no ordinary interest; and when the tree was loaded, he seemed to contemplate it with profound satisfaction. "this," said he, "is my last load." for the last time the team was placed in order, to drag from its bed the tree of a hundred summers. onward it moved at the signal given, and he was soon lost to view in the frequent windings of the forest road. it was nearly sundown, and, had it not been for closing up the winter's work that day, the hauling would have been deferred until next morning. the usual preparations for our evening camp-fire had been made, and the thick shadows of evening had been gathering for an hour, and yet he did not come. again and again some one of the crew would step out to listen if he could catch the jingling of the chains as they were hauled along; but nothing broke upon the ear in the stillness of the early night. unwilling longer to resist the solicitude entertained for his safety, several of us started with a lantern for the landing. we continued to pass on, every moment expecting to hear or meet him, until the landing was finally reached. there, quietly chewing the cud, the oxen were standing, unconscious of the cause that detained them, or that for the last time they had heard the well-known voice of their devoted master. hastening along, we found the load properly rolled off the sled, but heavens! what a sight greeted our almost unbelieving vision! there lay the poor fellow beneath that terrible pressure. a log was resting across his crushed body. he was dead. from appearances, we judged that, after having knocked out the "fid," which united the chain that bound the load, the log rolled suddenly upon him. thus, without a moment's warning, he ceased in the same instant to work and live. it proved, indeed, his "last load." to contemplate the sameness of the labor in passing to and fro from the swamp to the landing several times a day, on a solitary wilderness-road, for a term of several months, with only those respites afforded in stormy weather and on sundays, one might think himself capable of entering into the feelings of a teamster, and sympathetically share with him the pleasurable emotions consequent upon the conclusion of his winter's work. while it must be conceded that, of things possessing every element capable of contributing pleasure, we sometimes weary through excess, let it not be supposed that our knight of the goad has more than usual occasion to tire, or sigh for the conclusion of the hauling-season to be sure, "ta and fra" the livelong winter, now with a load wending along a serpentine road, as it winds through the forest, he repeats his visits to the swamp, and then the landing; but he is relieved by the companionship of his dumb but docile oxen, for whom he contracts an affection, and over whom he exercises the watchful vigilance of a faithful guardian, while he exacts their utmost service. he sees that each performs his duty in urging forward the laboring sled. he watches every hoof, the clatter of shoes, the step of each ox, to detect any lameness. he observes every part and joint of the bob-sled while it screeches along under the massive log bound to it. he examines the chains, lest they should part, and, above all, the objects more watched than any others, the "fid-hook" and the "dog-hook," the former that it does not work out, the latter that it loose not its grappling hold upon the tree. sometimes his little journeys are spiced with the infinite trouble which a long, sweeping stick will give him, by suddenly twirling and oversetting the sled every time it poises over some abrupt swell in the road. there is really too much to be looked after, thought of, and cared for, in his passage to the landing, to allow much listlessness or burdensome leisure. as well might a pilot indulge irresponsible dormancy in taking a fine ship into port, as for a teamster to be listless under his circumstances. no: the fact is, that, with the excitement attendant upon each load as it moves to the landing, ten times the number of tobacco quids are required that abundantly suffice him on his return. then look at the relaxation and comfort of the return. the jingling chains, as they trail along on the hard-beaten way, discourse a constant chorus. with his goad-stick under his arm or as a staff, he leisurely walks along, musing as he goes, emitting from his mouth the curling smoke of his unfailing pipe, like a walking chimney or a locomotive; anon whistling, humming, or pouring forth with full-toned voice some favorite air or merry-making ditty. he varies the whole exercise by constant addresses to the oxen, individually and collectively: "haw, bright!" "ge, duke!" "whoap! whoap!" "what ye 'bout there, you lazy----" "if i come there, i'll tan your old hides for you!" "pschip, pschip, go along there!" knowing him not half in earnest, unless it happens to be a sharp day, the oxen keep on the even tenor of their way, enjoying the only apparent comfort an ox can enjoy while away from his crib--chewing the cud. recently, however, the wolves have volunteered their services, by accompanying the teams, in some places, on their way to and from the landing, contributing infinitely more to the fears than conscious security of the teamsters. three teams, in the winter of , all in the same neighborhood, were beset with these ravenous animals. they were of unusually large size, manifesting a most singular boldness, and even familiarity, without the usual appearance of ferocity so characteristic of the animal. sometimes one, and in another instance three, in a most unwelcome manner volunteered their attendance, accompanying the teamster a long distance on his way. they would even jump on the log and ride, and approach very near the oxen. one of them actually jumped upon the sled, and down between the bars, while in motion. some of the teamsters were much alarmed, keeping close to the oxen, and driving on as fast as possible. others, more courageous, would run toward and strike at them with their goad-sticks; but the wolves sprang out of the way in an instant. but, although they seemed to act without a motive, there was something so cool and impudent in their conduct that it was trying to the nerves--even more so than an active encounter. for some time after this, fire-arms were a constant part of the teamster's equipage. no further molestation, however, was had from them that season. one of my neighbors related, in substance, the following incidents: "a short time since," said he, "while passing along the shores of mattawamkeag river in the winter, my attention was suddenly attracted by a distant howling and screaming--a noise which might remind one of the screeching of forty pair of old cart-wheels (to use the figure of an old hunter in describing the distant howling of a pack of wolves). presently there came dashing from the forest upon the ice, a short distance from me, a timid deer, closely pursued by a hungry pack of infuriated wolves. i stood and observed them. the order of pursuit was in single file, until they came quite near their prey, when they suddenly branched off to the right and left, forming two lines; the foremost gradually closed in upon the poor deer, until he was completely surrounded, when, springing upon their victim, they instantly bore him to the ice, and in an incredibly short space of time devoured him, leaving the bones only; after which they galloped into the forest and disappeared." on the same river a pack of these prowling marauders were seen just at night, trailing along down the river on the ice. a family living in a log house near by happened to have some poison, with which they saturated some bits of meat, and then threw them out upon the ice. next morning early the meat was missing, and, on making a short search in the vicinity, six wolves were found "dead as hammers," all within sight of each other. every one of them had dug a hole down through the snow into the frozen earth, in which they had thrust their noses, either for water to quench the burning thirst, or to snuff some antidote to the fatal drug. a bounty was obtained on each of ten dollars, besides their hides, making a fair job of it, as well as ridding the neighborhood of an annoying enemy. the following account of a wolf chase will interest the reader: "during the winter of , being engaged in the northern part of maine, i had much leisure to devote to the wild sports of a new country. to none of these was i more passionately addicted than that of skating. the deep and sequestered lakes of this northern state, frozen by intense cold, present a wide field to the lovers of this pastime. often would i bind on my rusty skates, and glide away up the glittering river, and wind each mazy streamlet that flowed on toward the parent ocean, and feel my very pulse bound with joyous exercise. it was during one of these excursions that i met with an adventure which, even at this period of my life, i remember with wonder and astonishment. "i had left my friend's house one evening, just before dusk, with the intention of skating a short distance up the noble kennebeck, which glided directly before the door. the evening was fine and clear. the new moon peered from her lofty seat, and cast her rays on the frosty pines that skirted the shore, until they seemed the realization of a fairy-scene. all nature lay in a quiet which she sometimes chooses to assume, while water, earth, and air seemed to have sunken into repose. "i had gone up the river nearly two miles, when, coming to a little stream which emptied into the larger, i turned in to explore its course. fir and hemlock of a century's growth met overhead, and formed an evergreen archway, radiant with frost-work. all was dark within; but i was young and fearless, and as i peered into the unbroken forest, that reared itself to the borders of the stream, i laughed in very joyousness. my wild hurra rang through the woods, and i stood listening to the echo that reverberated again and again, until all was hushed. occasionally a night-bird would flap its wings from some tall oak. "the mighty lords of the forest stood as if naught but time could bow them. i thought how oft the indian-hunter concealed himself behind these very trees--how oft the arrow had pierced the deer by this very stream, and how oft his wild halloo had rung for his victory. i watched the owls as they fluttered by, until i almost fancied myself one of them, and held my breath to listen to their distant hooting. "all of a sudden a sound arose; it seemed from the very ice beneath my feet. it was loud and tremendous at first, until it ended in one long yell. i was appalled. never before had such a noise met my ears. i thought it more than mortal--so fierce, and amid such an unbroken solitude, that it seemed a fiend from hell had blown a blast from an infernal trumpet. presently i heard the twigs on the shore snap, as if from the tread of some animal, and the blood rushed back to my forehead with a bound that made my skin burn, and i felt relieved that i had to contend with things of earthly and not spiritual mould, as i first fancied. my energies returned, and i looked around me for some means of defense. the moon shone through the opening by which i had entered the forest, and considering this the best means of escape, i darted toward it like an arrow. it was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow could scarcely excel my desperate flight; yet, as i turned my eyes to the shore, i could see two dark objects dashing through the underbrush at a pace nearly double that of my own. by their great speed, and the short yells which they occasionally gave, i knew at once that they were the much-dreaded gray wolf. "i had never met with these animals, but, from the description given of them, i had but little pleasure in making their acquaintance. their untamable fierceness, and the untiring strength which seems to be a part of their nature, render them objects of dread to every benighted traveler. "'with their long gallop, which can tire the hound's deep hate, the hunter's fire,' they pursue their prey, and naught but death can separate them. the bushes that skirted the shore flew past with the velocity of light as i dashed on in my flight. the outlet was nearly gained; one second more, and i would be comparatively safe, when my pursuers appeared on the bank directly above me, which rose to the height of some ten feet. there was no time for thought; i bent my head and dashed wildly forward. the wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed, sprang behind, while their intended prey glided out into the river. "nature turned me toward home. the light flakes of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and i was now some distance from my pursuers, when their fierce howl told me that i was again the fugitive. i did not look back; i did not feel sorry or glad; one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they should never again see me, and then every energy of mind and body was exerted for my escape. i was perfectly at home on the ice. many were the days i spent on my skates, never thinking that at one time they would be my only means of safety. every half minute an alternate yelp from my pursuers made me but too certain they were close at my heels. nearer and nearer they came; i heard their feet pattering on the ice nearer still, until i fancied i could hear their deep breathing. every nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the utmost tension. "the trees along the shore seemed to dance in the uncertain light, and my brain turned with my own breathless speed; yet still they seemed to hiss forth with a sound truly horrible, when an involuntary motion on my part turned me out of my course. the wolves close behind, unable to stop and as unable to turn, slipped, fell, going on far ahead, their tongues lolling out, their white tusks gleaming from their bloody mouths, their dark, shaggy breasts freckled with foam; and as they passed me their eyes glared, and they howled with rage and fury. the thought flashed on my mind that by this means i could avoid them, viz., by turning aside whenever they came too near; for they, by the formation of their feet, are unable to run on ice except on a right line. "i immediately acted on this plan. the wolves, having regained their feet, sprang directly toward me. the race was renewed for twenty yards up the stream; they were already close on my back, when i glided round and dashed past my pursuers. a fierce growl greeted my evolution, and the wolves slipped upon their haunches and sailed onward, presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and baffled rage. thus i gained nearly a hundred yards each turning. this was repeated two or three times, every moment the wolves getting more excited and baffled, until, coming opposite the house, a couple of stag-hounds, aroused by the noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. the wolves, taking the hint, stopped in their mad career, and after a moment's consideration turned and fled. i watched them till their dusky forms disappeared over a neighboring hill; then, taking off my skates, i wended my way to the house, with feelings better to be imagined than described." such annoyances from these migrating beasts, in the vicinity of logging berths as above named, are of recent date. up to i had been much in the wild forests of the northeastern part of maine, clearing wild land during the summer and logging in the winter, and up to this period had never seen a satisfactory evidence of their presence. but since this period they have often been seen, and in such numbers and of such size as to render them objects of dread. [footnote : "rave," the railing of the sled.] the highest house in wathendale. chapter the first. high up among the mountains of westmoreland, there is a valley which we shall call wathendale. the lowest part of this valley, is some hundreds of feet above the heads of the dwellers on the nearest mail-road; and yet, as if such a place of abode was not near enough to the sky, there are houses as high up as they can well be put, in the hollows of the mountains which overlook the dale. one of these small farmsteads is as old-fashioned a place as can be seen; and well it may be so; for the last owners were fond of telling that the land had been in their family for five hundred years. a stranger might wonder what could carry any body up to such a place five hundred years ago; but the wonder would only show that the stranger did not know what was doing in the district in those days. those were the days when the tenants of the abbots of furness used to hold land in the more fertile spots, in companies of four--one of whom was always to be ready to go forth to fight in the border wars. and those were the days when the shepherds and herdsmen in the service of the abbey used to lead their sheep and cattle as far up the mountains as they could find food--to be the better out of the way of the marauders from the north. besides the coarse grass of these uplands, there were the sprouts of the ash and holly, which were a good food for the beasts. to be sure, there were wolves, up in those lonely places; but they were kept out by rough stone walls, which were run up higher and higher on the mountain side, as the woods receded before the tillage of new settlers. the first of the fells, who made their boast of a proprietorship of five hundred years, was probably a shepherd of the abbots of furness; who, having walled in some of the sprouting and sheltering wood on this upland, and built himself a hut of stones in the midst, became regarded as the tenant first, and then the proprietor, like many of the dwellers in the vales below. when the woods were decayed and gone, the croft came under tillage; and no tradition has told of the time when the fells did not yearly crop, in one way or another, the three fields which were seen from below, like little patches of green beside the fissure which contained the beck (or brook) that helped to feed the tarn (or mountain pond) a quarter of a mile below. there was grumbling in this mountain nest about the badness of our times in comparison with the old days; grumbling in a different dialect from that which is heard in our cities; but in much the same spirit. in this house, people were said to be merrier formerly--the girls spinning and weaving, and the lads finding plenty to do in all weathers; while the land produced almost every thing that the family wanted--with the help of the hill-side range for the cows and sheep. a man had not to go often to market then; and very rarely was it necessary to buy any thing for money, though a little bartering might go forward among the dalesmen on occasion. now--but we shall see how it was "now." mrs. fell and her daughter janet were making oaten bread one december day;--a work which requires the full attention of two persons. the cow-boy appeared at the door, with a look of excitement very unusual in him. he said somebody was coming; and the somebody was backhouse, the traveling merchant. the women could not believe it--so late in the year; but they left their baking to look out; and there, sure enough, was the peddler, with his pack on his shoulders, toiling up the steep. they saw him sit down beside the barn, and wipe his brows, though it was december. they saw him shoulder his pack again; and then the women entered into consultation about something very particular that they had to say to him. as people who live in such places grow dull, and get to think and speak with extraordinary slowness, the plot was not complete when the peddler appeared at the door. he explained himself quickly enough; had thought he would make one more round, as the season was mild--did not know how long the snow might lie when it did come--believed people liked to wear something new at christmas; so here he was. when would he take his next round? o! when the weather should allow of his bringing his stock of spring goods. he detected some purpose under the earnestness with which he was pressed to say when he would come. he would come when the fells pleased, and bring what they pleased. he must come before the first of april, and must bring a bunch of orange flowers, and a white shawl, and-- "two sets of the orange flowers," said janet. "what! two brides!" exclaimed backhouse. "are they to be both married in one day?" mrs. fell explained that there was to be a bride's maid, and that janet wished that her friend should be dressed exactly like herself. backhouse endeavored to prove that only brides should wear orange flowers; but janet was sure her friend would be best pleased to wear what she wore; and the peddler remembered that nobody within call of the chapel bell would know any better; so he promised all that was desired. and next, he sold half the contents of his pack, supplying the women with plenty of needlework for the winter evenings. brides enjoy having a new wardrobe as much in the mountains as in towns--perhaps more. whenever the young carpenter, raven, came up to see his betrothed, he found her sewing, and some pretty print, or muslin, or bit of gay silk lying about. it was all very pleasant. the whole winter went off pleasantly, except for some shadow of trouble now and then, which soon passed away. for instance, raven was once absent longer than usual, by full three days; and when he did come, there were marks left which told that he had staid away because he had been ashamed of two black eyes. "he had been drinking, i dare say," said mrs. fell to janet afterward, with the air of indifference with which drunkenness is apt to be spoken of in the district. "i don't wonder he did not like to show himself." "i don't think it is his way," observed janet. "no; it is not a habit with him; and they all do get too much, now and then--two or three times a year--and it will be seldomer than that when he comes to live up here." raven was to be adopted as a son, on marrying the only child, and it was very right; for fell was growing old; and he was more feeble than his years warranted. rheumatism plagued him in the winter, and he was overworked in the summer. raven would help to manage the little farm, and he would do all the carpentering work, and put the whole place in repair, outside and in. every thing was to go well after the wedding. sally, the bridesmaid, came in good time to put the orange flowers into her coarse dunstable bonnet, which streamed with white ribbons. it was a fine april morning, when the party set off down the mountain for their walk of three miles to the chapel. the mother remained at home when fell returned, he told her it had gone off extremely well, and the clergyman had spoken very kindly; and that fleming's cart was ready, as had been promised, to take the young people to the town where they were to be entertained at dinner. it was all right, and very pleasant. and the old people sat down to dinner, dressed in their best, and saying, many times over, that it was all right with them, and very pleasant. the only thing was--if raven's name had but been fell! the fells having lived here for five hundred years-- "the family, but not always the name," the wife observed. there was a bell that lived here once; and the land would be in the family still, in the best way it could, as they had no children but janet. well; that was true, fell agreed; and it was all right, and very pleasant. chapter the second. that evening, three ladies went up to the chapel to see the sunset from the church-yard, which commanded an exquisite view. it was a place in which, at such an hour, it was easy to forget, even with the graves before their eyes, that there was sin or sorrow in the world. the ladies sat on the steps till the last glow had faded from the clouds, and the mountains stood up, clear and solemn, against a green sky, from which every tinge of sunset had vanished; and then they came down, with thoughts as bright and calm as the stars which were beginning to come out overhead. when they entered on a long stretch of straight road, they saw before them an odd-looking group. in the dusk it seemed as if a man and a woman were carrying something very heavy--moving toward them at a pace hopelessly slow. a woman was some way in advance of them--loitering and looking back. when they came up to her, it was a young woman, with orange flowers in her bonnet, and a smart white shawl on her shoulders. she was carrying a man's hat, new, but half covered with mud. it was now too clear that the heavy thing which the other two were trying to haul along was a man. never did man look more like a brute. his face, when it could be seen, was odious; swollen, purple, without a trace of reason or feeling left in it; but his head hung so low, with his long black hair dipping on the ground, that it was not easy to see his face. his legs trailed behind him, and his new clothes were spattered with dirt. "it looks like apoplexy," said, the elder lady to her companions: and she asked the young woman who was carrying the hat, whether the man was in a fit. "no, ma'am; he has only been overcome. it is his wedding. he was married this morning." "married this morning! and is that his wife?" "yes, ma'am; and the other is bridegroom's man." it would have touched any heart to see poor janet, as the ladies passed--her honest, sun-burned face, all framed in orange flowers, grave and quiet, while she put forth her utmost strength (which was not small) to hold up her wretched husband from the dirt of the road. the other man was a comely youth, dressed in his best, with a new plaid fastened across his breast. the ladies looked back, and saw that it would never do. the elder lady returned, and laying her hand on the poor young woman's shoulder, said, "this is no work for you. it is too much for you. let him lie, while i speak to the people at this farm-house. i know them; and they will send a man to take him into the house." poor janet spoke very calmly when she said they could take him a little further; but her lips quivered slightly. the lady spoke to a man who was feeding calves in a stable; and asked him to help to dip the bridegroom's head in a cistern by the road-side, and then take him into the house. "how far is it from his home?" the lady inquired of sally. "the high house in wathendale! you will not get him there to-night at this rate." the farm-house people promised a cart, if the party could wait till it came by. "how could such a thing happen?" said the lady. "is there no one to teach this man his duty better than this? does he know the clergyman?" "yes, ma'am," said sally, adding very simply, "but there would be no use in the clergyman speaking to him now, he would not understand." "no, indeed," replied the lady. "but he will feel ill enough to-morrow, and then i hope somebody that he respects will speak to him in a way that he will remember." "to think," she said to her companions, as they walked away past the cistern where the groveling bridegroom was undergoing his ducking, "that that is the creature whom the poor girl bound herself this morning to love, cherish, and obey! what a beginning of the cherishing!" fell and his wife had not expected the young people home early; but it was much later than the latest time they had fixed, before they heard any thing of them. when at last the party appeared, emerging from the night mist, all the three sober ones were dreadfully weary. the ascent had been terrible; for raven had not yet begun to recover. no fine sentiment was wasted upon the occasion; for the indifference which had rather shocked the ladies, was the real state of mind of people too much accustomed to the spectacle of intemperance. mrs. fell declared she was vexed with him--that she was; and then she put on her bedgown, in order to sit up with her daughter, for raven was now so sick that he must be waited on all night. mrs. fell said repeatedly, as so often before, that all men were apt to take too much now and then; and it would happen less often now he had come to live up here. yet, her husband's words would run in her head, that it was all right, and very pleasant. when, in the dawn of the morning, her daughter made her go to bed, she dropped asleep with those words in her ears; while poor janet, chilly, sick at heart, and worn out, was at length melting into tears. when, the next afternoon, her husband sat nursing his aching head beside the fire-place, he was struck with some compunction at the sight of her red eyes. of course, he declared, as drunkards always do, it should never happen again. of course, he laid the blame, as drunkards always do, on other people. of course, he said, as drunkards always do, that it was no habit of his; and that this was an accident--for once and away. of course, his wife believed him, as young wives always do. for some time it appeared all true, and every thing went on very cheerfully. on the fine days there was as much field-work as both men could do; and so many repairs were needed of gates and posts, cart and cow-house, dwelling-house and utensils, that all the rainy days for six months were too little for the carpentering raven had upon his hands. he had not been tipsy above twice in all that time: once on a stormy day, when he had sat lazily scorching himself before the fire, with the laborer and cow-boy, who were driven in by stress of weather, and who yawned till they made the whole party weary. raven disappeared for a couple of hours in the afternoon, and came out of the barn to supper in a state far from sober. the other time was when he had gone to market in october, to sell oats. at all other times he worked well, was kind to the old people, and very fond of janet, and justified fell's frequent declaration, that it was all right now, and very pleasant. the winter was the trying season. sometimes the dwellers in the high house were snowed up, and many days were too stormy for work. the men grew tired of sitting round the fire all day, hearing the wind blow, and the rain pelt; and the women were yet more tired of having them there. there were no books; and nobody seemed to think of reading. there were some caricatures of the pope and of bonaparte, and a portrait of king george the third, on the walls; and these were all the intellectual entertainment in the house, unless we except four lines of a hymn which janet had marked on her sampler, when she was a child. raven went more and more to the barn, sometimes on pretense of working; but his hammer and saw were less and less heard; and instead of coming in cheerfully to supper, he was apt to loiter in, in a slouching way, to hide the unsteadiness of his gait, and was quarrelsome with fell, and cross to janet. he never conducted himself better, however; never was more active, affectionate, helpful, and considerate, than at the time when old fell sank and died--during that month of early spring when janet was confined. he was like son and daughter at once, mrs. fell declared--and doctor and nurse, too, for that matter: and his father-in-law died, blessing him, and desiring him to take care of the farm, and prosper on it, as it had been in the family for five hundred years. when the old man was buried, and the seed all in the ground, and janet about again, raven not only relaxed his industry, but seemed to think some compensation due to him for his late good behavior. certain repairs having been left too long untouched, and mrs. fell being rather urgent that they should not be further neglected, it came out that raven had sold his tools. sold his tools!--yes; how could he help it? it was necessary, as they had all agreed, to change away the old cow for a spring calver; and what could he do but sell his tools to pay the difference? janet knew, and so did her mother, though neither of them said so, that more money had gone down his throat, all alone in the barn, than would have paid for the exchange of cows. the decline of their property began with this. when decline has begun with the "statesmen" of the lake district, it is seldom or never known to stop; and there was nothing to stop it in this case. on a small farm, where the health and industry of the owner are necessary to enable him to contend with the new fashions and improvements of the low country, and where there is no money capital behind to fall back upon, any decline of activity is fatal; and in two or three years raven's health had evidently given way. his industry had relaxed before. he lost his appetite; could not relish the unvaried and homely fare which his land supplied; craved for dainties which could not be had, except by purchase; lost his regular sleep, and was either feverish and restless, or slept for fifteen hours together, in a sort of stupor. his limbs lost their strength, and he became subject to rheumatism. then he could not go out in all weathers to look after his stock. one of his best sheep was missing after a flood; and it was found jammed in between two rocks in the beck, feet uppermost--drowned, of course. another time, four more sheep were lost in a snowdrift, from not being looked after in time. then came the borrowing a plow. it was true, many people borrowed a plow; nobody thought much of that--nobody but mrs. fell. she thought much of it; for her husband, and his father before him, had always used their own plows. then came borrowing money upon the land, to buy seed and stock. it was true, many "statesmen" mortgaged their land; but then, sooner or later, it was always found too difficult to pay the interest, and the land went into the hands of strangers; and mrs. fell sighed when she said she hoped raven would remember that the farm had been in the family for five hundred years. raven answered that he was not likely to forget it for want of being told; and from that moment the fact was not mentioned again mrs. fell kept it in her heart, and died in the hope that no new-fangled farmer, with a south country name would ever drive his plow through the old fields. chapter the third. after her mother's death, janet found her hands over-full of work, when her heart was, as she thought, over-full of care. she did not know how much more she could bear. there were two children now, and another coming. fine children they were; and the eldest was her pride and comfort. he was beginning to prattle; and never was speech so pretty as his. his father loved to carry him about in his arms; and sometimes, when he was far from sober, this child seemed to set his wits straight, and soften his temper, in a sort of magical way. there was the drawback that raven would sometimes insist on having the boy with him when he was by no means fit to have the charge of so young a child: but the mother tried to trust that all would be well; and that god would watch over an innocent little creature who was like an angel to his sinning parent. she had not considered (as too many do not consider) that the "promises" are given under conditions, and that it is impious to blame providence for disasters when the conditions are not observed. the promises, as she had heard them at chapel, dwelt on her mind, and gave her great comfort in dark seasons; and it would have been a dreary word to her if any one had reminded her that they might fail through man's neglect and sin. she had some severe lessons on this head, however. it was pleasant to hear that day and night, seed-time and harvest, should not cease; and when difficulties pressed, she looked on the dear old fields, and thought of this: but, to say nothing of what day and night were often to her--the day as black to her spirits as night, and the night as sleepless as the day--seed-time was nothing, if her husband was too ill or too lazy to sow his land; and the harvest month was worse than nothing if there was no crop: and there was no true religion in trusting that her babes would be safe if she put them into the hands of a drunkard, who was as likely as not to do them a mischief. and so she too sadly learned. one day, raven insisted on carrying the boy with him into the barn. he staggered, stumbled, dashed the child's head against the door-post, and let him fall. it was some minutes before the boy cried; and when he did, what a relief it was! but, o! that cry! it went on for days and nights, with an incessant prattle. when at last he slept, and the doctor hoped there would be no lasting mischief, the prattle went on in his sleep, till his mother prayed that he might become silent, and look like himself again. he became silent; but he never more looked like himself. after he seemed to be well, he dropped one pretty word after another--very slowly--week by week, for long months; but the end of it was that he grew up a dumb idiot. his father had heart and conscience enough to be touched by this to the point of reformation. for some months, he never went down into the valley at all, except to church, for fear of being tempted to drink. he suffered cruelly, in body as well as mind, for a time; and janet wished it had pleased god to take the child at once, as she feared her husband would never recover his spirits with that sad spectacle always before his eyes. yet she did not venture to propose any change of scene or amusement, for fear of the consequences. she did her utmost to promote cheerfulness at home; but it was a great day to her when backhouse, paying his spring visit, with his pack, produced, among the hand-bills, of which he was the hawker, one which announced a temperance meeting in the next vale. the temperance movement had reached these secluded vales at last, where it was only too much wanted; and so retired had been the life of the family of the high house, that they had not even heard of it. they heard much of it now; for backhouse had sold a good many ribbons and gay shawls among members who were about to attend temperance festivals. when he told of processions, and bands of music, and public tea-drinkings, and speeches, and clapping, with plenty of laughter, and here and there even dancing, or a pic-nic on a mountain, janet thought it the gayest news she had ever heard. here would be change and society, and amusement for her husband--not only without danger, but with the very object of securing him from danger. raven was so heartily willing, that the whole household made a grand day of it--laborer, cow-boy, and all. the cows were milked early, and for once left for a few hours. the house was shut up, the children carried down by father and mother; and, after a merry afternoon, the whole party came home pledged teetotalers. this event made a great change in raven's life. he could go down among his old acquaintances now, for he considered himself a safe man; and janet could encourage his going, and be easy about his return; for she, too, considered all danger over. both were deceived as to the kind and degree of safety caused by a vow. the vow was good, in as far as it prevented the introduction of drink at home, and gave opportunity for the smell, and the habit, and the thought of drink to die out. it was good as a reason for refusing, when a buyer or seller down in the vale, to seal a bargain with a dram. it was good as keeping all knowledge of drinking from the next generation in the house. it was good as giving a man character in the eyes of his neighbors and his pastor. but, was it certainly and invariably good in every crisis of temptation? would it act as a charm when a weak man--a man weak in health, weak in old associations, weak in self-respect--should find himself in a merry company of old comrades, with fumes of grog rising on every side, intoxicating his mind before a drop had passed his lips? raven came to know, as many have learned before him, that self-restraint is too serious a thing to be attained at a skip, in a moment, by taking an oath; and that reform must have gone deeper, and risen higher, than any process of sudden conversion, before a man should venture upon a vow; and in such a case, a vow is not needed. and if a man is not strong enough for the work of moral restraint, his vow may become a snare, and plunge him in two sins instead of one. a temperance-pledge is an admirable convenience for the secure; but it must always be doubtful whether it will prove a safeguard or a snare to the infirm. if they trust wholly to it, it will, too probably, become a snare--and thus it was with poor raven. when the temperance-lecturer was gone, and the festival was over, and the flags were put away, and the enthusiasm passed, while his descents among his old companions were continued, without fear or precaution, he was in circumstances too hard for a vow, the newness of which had faded. he hardly knew how it happened. he was, as the neighbors said, "overcome." his senses once opened to the old charm, the seven devils of drink rushed into the swept and garnished house, and the poor sinner was left in a worse state than ever before. far worse; for now his self-respect was utterly gone. there is no need to dwell on the next years--the increase of the mortgage, the decrease of the stock--the dilapidation of house, barn, and stable--the ill-health and discomfort at home, and the growing moroseness of him who caused the misery. no more festivals now! no talk to the children of future dances! and so few purchases of backhouse, that he ceased to come, and the household were almost in rags. no more going to church, therefore, for any body! when the wind was in the right quarter for bringing to the uplands the din-dinning of the chapel-bell, janet liked to hear it, though it was no summons to her to listen to the promises. the very sound revived the promises in her mind. but what could she make of them now? an incident, unspeakably fearful to her, suddenly showed her how she ought to view them. the eldest girl was nursing her idiot-brother's head in her lap while the younger children were at play, when the poor fellow nestled closer to her. "poor dan!" said she. "you can't play about, and be merry, like the others: but i will always take care of you, poor dan!" little willy heard this, and stopped his play. in another moment his face flushed, his eyes flashed, he clenched his hands, he even stamped, as he cried out, "mother, it's too bad! why did god make dan different from the rest?" his panic-stricken mother clapped her hand over his mouth. but this was no answer to his question. she thought she must be a wicked mother, that a child of hers should ask such a question as that. it was not often that she wept; but she wept sorely now. it brought her back to the old lesson of the seed-time and harvest. the promise here, too, failed, because the conditions were not fulfilled. the hope had been broken by a collision with the great natural laws, under which alone all promise can be fulfilled. but how explain this to willy? how teach him that the heavenly father had made dan as noble a little fellow as ever was seen, and that it was his own father there that had made him an idiot. when raven came in, he could not but see her state; and he happened to be in so mild a mood, that she ventured to tell him what her terror and sorrow were about. he was dumb for a time. then he began to say that he was bitterly punished for what was no habit of his, but that he vowed-- "no, no--don't vow!" said his wife, more alarmed than ever. she put her arm round his neck, and whispered into his ear, "i dare not hear you vow any more. you know how often--you know you had better not. i dare not hear you promise any more." he loosened her arm from his neck, and called willy to him. he held the frightened boy between his knees, and looked him full in the face, while he said, "willy, you must not say that god made dan an idiot. god is very good, and i am very bad. _i_ made dan an idiot." the stare with which willy heard this was too much for his mother. she rushed up-stairs and threw herself upon the bed, where she was heard long afterward sobbing as if her heart would break. "father," said willy, timidly, but curiously, "did you make mother cry too?" "yes, willy, i did. it is all my doing." "then i think you are very wicked." "so i am--very wicked. take care that you are not. take care you are never wicked." "that i will. i can't bear that mother should cry." chapter the fourth. janet did all she could to arrest the ruin which all saw to be inevitable. her great piece of success was the training she gave to her eldest daughter, little sally. by the time she was twelve years old, she was the most efficient person in the house. without her, they could hardly have kept their last remaining cow; and many a time she set her mother at liberty to attend upon her father and protect him, when otherwise the children must have engrossed her. there was no cow-boy now; and her mother too often filled the place of the laborer, when the sowing or reaping season would otherwise have passed away unused. it was a thing unheard of in the district that a woman should work in the fields; but what else could be done? raven's wasted and trembling limbs were unequal to the work alone; and, little as he could do at best, he could always do his best when his wife was helping him. so sally took care of poor dan and the four younger ones, and made the oaten bread with willy's help, and boiled the potatoes, and milked and fed the cow, and knitted, at all spare minutes; for there was no prospect of stockings for any body, in the bitter winter, but from the knitting done at home. the children had learned to be thankful now, when they could eat their oat-bread and potatoes in peace. they seldom had any thing else; and they wanted nothing else when they could eat that without terror. but their father was now sometimes mad. it was a particular kind of madness, which they had heard the doctor call by a long name (delirium tremens), and they thought it must be the most terrible kind of all, though it always went off, after a fit of it, which might last from a day to a week. the doctor had said that it would not always go off--that he would die in one of the attacks. the dread was lest he should kill somebody else before that day came; for he was as ungovernable as any man in bedlam at those times, and fearfully strong, though so weak before and after them. when it was possible, the children went down into the valley, and sent up strong men to hold him; but if the weather was stormy, or if their father was in the way, they could only go and hide themselves out of his sight, among the rocks in the beck, or up in the loft, or somewhere; and then they knew what their mother must be suffering with him. by degrees they had scarcely any furniture left whole but their heavy old-fashioned bedsteads. the last of their crockery was broken by his overturning the lame old table at which they had been dining. then their mother said, with a sigh, that they must somehow manage to buy some things before winter. there really was nothing now for any of them to eat out of. she must get some wooden trenchers and tin mugs; for she would have no more crockery. but how to get the money! for the whole of the land was mortgaged now. a little money was owing for oats when november arrived; and the purchaser had sent word that he should be at a certain sale in langdale, at martinmas; and that if raven should be there, they could then settle accounts. now, this money had been destined to go as far as it would toward the payment of interest due at christmas. but if raven went to the sale (the usual occasions for social meetings in the lake-district, in spring and autumn), he would only waste or lose the money. he had long ceased to bring home any money, unless his wife was with him; and then it was she that brought it, and, if possible, without his knowledge. she must go with him, and lay out the money immediately, in necessaries for the house and the children, before her husband could make away with it, in a worse way than if he threw it into the sea. they went, at dawn, in a clear cold november day. raven had taken care of himself for a day or two, aware of the importance of the occasion, and anxious not to disable himself for the first social meeting he had enjoyed for long, and thinking, in spite of himself, of the glasses of spirits which are, unhappily, handed round very often indeed at these country-sales. as the walk was an arduous one for an infirm man, and the days were short, and the sale was to last two days, the children were to be left for one night. oatmeal and potatoes enough were left out for two days, and peat, to dry within the house, for fuel. willy engaged to nurse the baby, while sally looked to the cow. their mother promised the little ones some nice things for the winter, if they were good while she was gone; and their father kissed them all, and said he knew they would be good. and so they were, all that first day; and a very good dinner they made, after playing about the whole morning; and they all went instantly to sleep at night, while sally sat knitting for an hour longer by the dim red light of the peat fire. the next day was not so fine. the mountain ridges were clear; but the sky was full of very heavy gray clouds; and before dinner, at noon, there was some snow falling. it came on thicker and thicker; and the younger children began to grow cross, because they could not go out to play, and did not know what to do with themselves. sally cheered them with talking about how soon mother would come home. mother had not come, however, when the little things, worried and tired, went to bed. nor had she come, hours after, when sally herself wanted very much to be asleep. she had looked out at the door very often, and it was still snowing; and the last time, such a cloud of snow was driven against her face, that it was a settled matter in her mind at once that father and mother would not be home to-night. they would stay in the vale for daylight, and come up to breakfast. so she put on another peat, to keep in the fire, and went to bed. in the morning, it seemed dark when baby cried to get up; and well it might; for the window was blocked up with snow, almost to the very top. when the door was opened, a mass of snow fell in, though what remained was up to willy's shoulders. the first thing to be done was to get to the cow, to give her her breakfast, and bring baby's. so sally laid on her last dry peat, and filled the kettle; and then she and willy set to work to clear a way to the cow. they were obliged to leave baby to the little ones; and it took an hour to cross the yard. willy was to have brought in some fuel; but the peat-stack was at the end of the house, and, as they could see, so completely buried in snow, as to be hopelessly out of reach. here was the milk, however, and there was a little of the oatmeal left, and some potatoes. sally wished now they had brought in more from the barn; but who could have thought they would want any more? father would get them presently, when he came. but nobody came all that day. late at night all the children but sally were asleep at last though they had been too cold and too hungry to go to rest quietly as usual. the fire had been out since noon; and the last cold potatoes had been eaten in the afternoon. sally was lying with the baby cuddled close to her for warmth; and, at last, she fell asleep too, though she was very unhappy. in the morning, she felt that their affairs were desperate. willy must get down the mountain, be the snow what it might, and tell somebody what state they were in; for now there was no more food for the cow within reach, and she gave very little milk this morning; and there was nothing else. it had not snowed for some hours; and willy knew the way so well that he got down to the valley, being wet to the neck, and having had a good many falls by the way. at the first farm-house he got help directly. the good woman took one of the laborers with her, with food, and a basket of dry peat, and a promise to clear the way to the oat-straw and hay for the relief of the cow. the farmer set off to consult the neighbors about where raven and his wife could be; and the rest of the family dried the boy's clothes, and gave him a good bowl of porridge. in a very short time, all the men in the valley, and their dogs, were out on the snow, their figures showing like moving specks on the white expanse. two of them, who had been at the sale, knew that raven and his wife had set out for home, long before dark on the second day. raven was, as might be expected, the worse for liquor; but not so much so but that he could walk, with his wife to keep him in the path. they might possibly have turned back; but it was too probable that they were lost. before night, it was ascertained that they had not been seen again in langdale; and in two days more, during which the whole population was occupied in the search, or in taking care of the children, their fate was known. raven's body was found a little way from the track, looking like a man in a drunken sleep. some hours after, the barking of a dog brought the searchers to where janet was lying, at the foot of a precipice about thirty feet deep. her death must have been immediate. it seemed that her husband, overcome by the effect of the cold (which, however, had not been excessive) on his tipsy brain, had fallen down in sleep or a stupor; and that janet, unable to rouse him, had attempted to find her way back; and, by going three or four yards aside from the path, in the uniformity of the snow, had stepped over the rock. there was a strange and ghastly correspondence between the last day of her married life and the first; and so thought her old friend and bridesmaid, sally, who came over to the funeral, and who, in turning over the poor remnants of janet's wardrobe, found the bunches of orange flowers carefully papered up, and put away in the furthest corner of a drawer. there was nothing left for the children, but the warning of their father's life, and the memory of their mother's trials. they were not allowed to go upon the parish--not even dan. it was plain that he would not live very long; and neighborly charity was sure to last as long as he. the others were dispersed among the farms in that and the nearest vales, and they have grown up as laborers. the land and buildings had been mortgaged beyond their value, and they went at once into the hands of strangers. shots in the jungle. it was late in the month of june, , that myself and a friend (who had together hunted elk on the newara plains, and shot snipe at ratnapoora) finding ourselves at its capital, jaffna, resolved to have a shot at the spotted deer of the northern province of ceylon. the only difficulties to overcome were the want of a tent and guide. these the government agent of the province kindly supplied, giving us, besides, a peon, who, with him, had been over the country we intended to shoot in. when we left the fort, one of the prettiest pieces of dutch fortification in existence, it was about half-past five--the morning, as usual, lovely. the process by which our horses were shipped was so primitive, that i will stop on my way to give an account of it: the boats in which we were to cross are of about three tons burthen, with a single tall mast shipped amidships, which carries a square yard. this is hoisted according to the weather, the reefs being taken in the bottom of the sail. to the top of the mast the crew had now made fast a lot of ropes, which were seized by all hands; and the vessel thus made to careen till its gunwale met the water-level. then, by dint of great exertions, the horses were made to jump out of the sea, here only three feet deep, into the boats. mine refused altogether until they put a bamboo under his girth, and fairly lifted his fore legs over the bulwark. in the embarkation, our horses lost their shoes; but as all our journey lay over sandy plains, we gave ourselves no trouble on that score. once on board, we lost no time in making sail, and by eleven o'clock had reached the other side, which is the northern coast of the island--jaffna being, properly speaking, an island. the sun was now extremely hot, so we rode only a mile to a dilapidated old fort, and then breakfasted; after which we set to arranging all things for our expedition. here the coolies were curiously deceived, by insisting on carrying the smallest loads, which contained our guns and ammunition, misjudging their weight by their size. after a good deal of talking, without which nothing oriental can be achieved, we again got our party under-weigh, and proceeded due south, toward the village of maniacolom, which was to be head-quarters for our first day's sport. the country through which we passed was a flat sandy plain, covered with low jungly brushwood, with occasional creeks and hollows, where the ancient tanks (whose builders are unknown) had once made fertile this now barren waste. no cultivation--no inhabitants; but every now and then a herd of deer, or a timid hare would dart away far ahead, disturbed by our noisy followers, or the uncouth cry of the tank-birds, break the monotony of the march. it was already dark when we made out the round roof of the village of maniacolom, with its sugar-loaf ricks of paddy-straw, peeping above the stockade which incloses its area. the houses are built something in the fashion in which catlin describes those of the now extinct mandans. a hole is sunk in the ground, and a pole fixed in the centre, to which the rafters that support the roof are tied. in these small huts, perhaps only fifteen feet in diameter, whole families live together; but the climate is so fine, that few care to sleep in their houses--preferring the peelas or verandas to their smoky room. i am sorry to say our appearance was not by any means hailed by the natives with cordiality--perhaps a ripple of the severities of august, , had reached their quiet spot, and the minds of its inhabitants may still have been filled with dread of the merciless aim of our riflemen. at last an old man came up and told us not to encamp near the wells, as the women of the village could not come for water. he said all the young men were out shooting, so we could have no guides or gun-bearers; moreover, that there was neither milk nor rice for our horses; but that a few miles further on, there was plenty of all that was here deficient--in short, he begged to suggest the propriety of our moving on. being quite up to the old gentleman's strategy, we answered, that the ladies need not fear us (they were certainly no beauties, as we found out afterward); that we could do without his young men, and had our own gun-bearers; that as to milk or paddy, we could do without the former, and had got enough of the latter; and, finally, that we meant to stay where we were. having failed in his diplomatic embassy, the old gentleman retired. so we set to, pitching the tent; and soon the savory smell of a couple of hares we had shot by the way, gave the villagers an idea of the destructive propensities of their unwelcome visitors. while we were smoking our afternoon cheroots, a volunteer from the village, having heard, no doubt, that we were good pay, came in, and offered to show us the best ground and pools or tanks, and said he would bring a companion with him at gun-fire next morning. he was a small, well-made fellow, his hair fastened in a jaunty club on the side of his head, instead of behind it, as is the cingalese fashion, which the malabars of the northern province only adopt when married; his dress, as usual, nothing but a cloth bound round his loins, with the usual accompaniment of a betel-cracker and pouch. having come to a satisfactory agreement with this hero, we rigged out our iron beds, blew up our air mattresses, and in less than ten minutes were deep in dreams of waltzes and polkas with the fair nymphs of our island capital. at four next morning, having got our rifles and double-barreled guns ready, we sat down, expecting the arrival of our last night's friend. he came, after sundry messages had been sent after him, and with him his _fidus achates_. the head of hair which this fellow had defies all description. it was curled into a thousand little corkscrews, each consisting of about twelve hairs, and varying from three to six inches in length, darting out at all angles from his head like the quills of an angry porcupine. giving each of these guides a spare gun, we started in silence, and nothing but the cracking of some ill-natured stick, or the cry of a wild bird we had started from its roost, gave warning of our progress. the excitement we felt can not be described, when we first got sight of our game feeding in a tank, about a quarter of a mile from us. imagine a herd of sixty or more spotted deer grouped in every imaginable way in a grassy bottom, some under the branches of stately tamarind trees, some drinking at the edge of the water; some lying down, little dreaming of the greedy and remorseless eyes so eagerly watching their repose. our gun-bearers now altered our direction in order to gain the lee of their position; and a few anxious moments brought us again in sight of the deer, and not more than two hundred yards from a stately stag, the outlying picket of their troop. looking to our locks, we now took the place of guides, and began cautiously to advance. by this time it was past five. the sun had not yet risen, but the light was quite sufficient to distinguish every twig and blade, and the increased noise of the awakening spoonbills and water-fowl served considerably to conceal our careful approach. a hundred yards are now passed--twenty more would make success a certainty--when crash went a dead branch under a leathern sole, and the whole herd at once are roused from their careless attitudes. the stag i had just marked, at once prepared for flight; but, stopping to sniff the wind, fell under my first bullet. my friend's gun also brought down a fine buck, just as he was starting at the report of my shot. the herd are now off; but still two fall as they press forward; one, never to rise. thus ended our first morning's sport, and having gathered our game together, we left a fellow in charge, to drive off the jackals, and other wild beasts, while we joyfully wended our way back to the encampment to dispatch a dozen of our men to bring in the spoil, and to recruit ourselves with a hearty breakfast. as we had expected, we found the whole village, ladies and all, at the tent, looking with curiosity at our apparatus, and bringing scanty supplies of milk, eggs, and fowls, which they exchanged for a few charges of powder, and a bullet or two. here money is of little value, for they grow all the food they require in the palmyra tree and paddy-field. a few yards of cloth last them for years, and what taxes they pay to government are generally brought in, in kind. the sun, between nine o'clock and four, is too powerful to allow of our being out, so we read and talked till the lengthened shadow of the tent showed us that the time of action was again come. i took a stroll with my rifle as companion, and returned about seven o'clock with a fine doe. my friend had not shot any deer; but a young pea-fowl and some hares made a goodly show at our dinner. as we had another kind of sport for the night, we did not waste much time over this meal, and were ready by eight, p.m., to take possession of our olies, or watching-places. each was provided with a bottle of very weak grog, blankets, guns, and a small piece of ember; for the natives are afraid to be out at night without fire to keep away devils. thus fortified, we proceeded to the edge of the tank, which had proved so fatal in the morning to the deer, and found a round hole dug in the ground, between the water's edge and the jungle; it was about two feet deep, with the earth it had contained thrown up as a breastwork, and some loose branches strewn before it, so as to screen the hunter from sight, and make the ground look natural. this was to be my sleeping-place, so into it i crept, and curling myself up to adapt myself to its shape, began meditating on the comforts of a four-poster at home, and on the luck my friend would meet with, at his watching-place, which they told me was half a mile distant. gradually my thoughts began to give way to faint images of bygone scenes--i was riding a hurdle-race at colombo--dancing the _deux-temps_ at government house--shooting ducks at bolgodda--playing whist at the mess--when "ani, ani," struck on my ear, and sure enough, there they were--sixteen splendid elephants standing on the other side of the tank, drinking its thick waters, or filling their trunks with the mud, jetting it over their huge backs. but how to get at them? my friend was on that side; so off i set, in hopes of catching him before he began his attack. by dint of great exertion, i got round just as he was starting for the onslaught; but still we were too far off to do any good by shooting at them, so down we went on our hands and knees, to crawl nearer to our unsuspecting foes. all went well at first. by the moonlight their backs--now covered with white mud--looked strangely ghost-like, and they loomed twice their natural size in the hazy atmosphere. we were now within twenty paces of them, and i was still crawling on, when a scuffle behind me suddenly drew away my attention--my friend's gun-bearer had got frightened; and, judging that we were already near enough, was trying to make off with the gun; unfortunately, as he turned, he was caught by the heel, and in the struggle the gun was discharged. i saw it was of little use firing, as the startled elephants were already on the move; but taking aim at the nearest, an old one, with her punchi, had the luck to bring her down on her knees. delusive hope! she quickly rose again; and in an instant, the far-off crashing of the jungle was all that told us of the reality of our late encounter. anathematizing heartily our cowardly follower, we returned to the olies, and sought comfort in the sleep from which we had been so fruitlessly aroused. the growling of the bears fighting for the yellow fruit under the iron trees, mixed with the mournful belling of the bucks, was our melodious lullaby. it must have been some hours afterward that i was again aroused by my watchful companion, who pointed out two splendid elks, a doe and a buck, within sixty paces of my lair. to indemnify me for my last failure, these both fell before my fowling-piece, which is second to none for smooth-bore ball-practice; so i returned about three, a.m., to the tent to rest, as we were to begin another day's work with a thirteen miles' march to tanicolam. thus passed seven days, during which we visited coolvellan, tanekai, and several other tamil villages, shooting spotted deer, wild boar, bears, chetas, and elks at night, and deer, hares, peacocks, alligators, and jungle-fowl by day; sometimes bivouacking under the spreading shade of a tamarind tree, sometimes by the side of a lonely tank among the lemon grass and reeds, which thickly ornament its thorny margin. the eighth morning saw us journeying homeward, regretting the shortness of our leave, but consoling ourselves with the thought, that when duty calls we must obey. we had traveled fifty miles south of jaffna, into solitudes where white faces had, perhaps, never before been seen--our bag was respectably filled: eighteen spotted skins bore testimony to our skill; and what with alligators and boars' heads, surmounted by peacocks' tails, our party made a brilliant re-entrance into the northern capital. a visit to robinson crusoe. i am not going to describe savage life, or uninhabited islands: what i have to say relates to most civilized society, and to no island whatever. my object is simply to "request the pleasure" of the reader's company in a short excursion out of paris: an arrangement which secures to him the advantage of visiting a place which is beneath the notice of the guide-books, and to myself the society of that most desirable of companions--one who allows me to engross the entire conversation. imagine, then, a party of englishmen in paris, rising one morning with the general desire to "do something to-day." having done nothing for several weeks except amuse themselves--having been condemned to continual festivity, the necessity for some relaxation became imminent. we had been to see every thing that we cared to see, and every body who cared to see us, with a little over in both cases. we had filled "_avant scène_" boxes until the drama became a bore, and had reclined in _cafés_ until their smoke became a nuisance. we had scoured the boulevards by day, and the balls by night; "looked in" at the monuments with patronizing airs and at the shops with purchasing propensities. we had experienced dinners both princely and penurious; fathomed mysterious _cartes_ from end to end, and even with unparalleled hardihood had ventured into the regions of the _prix-fixe_. we had almost exhausted every sort of game, active and sedentary; at billiards, we had exploded every cannon, possible and impossible, and reposed on every "cushion," convenient and inconvenient. one desperate youth had even proposed that we should addict ourselves to dominos; but, we were not far enough gone for that: the suggestion was received on all sides with that sensation of horror which shipwrecked mariners manifest when one of the party proposes to dine off the cabin-boy. no: we must find materials of amusement less suggestive of tombstones, that was clear, even if we perished miserably without their assistance. the fact was, that under the influence of the sunshine and flowers--the lustre and languor of the most bewildering of capitals, i was fast subsiding into a state of collapse. i felt a dash of the infatuation of the lotus-eater, in his "--land that seemed always afternoon." in our case--for we were all alike--instead of afternoon, we seemed to be in a perpetual state of "the morning after." it was at length agreed that we should enter the first public conveyance we could find that was leaving paris. the conveyance destined to receive us was, in appearance, a cross between the english omnibus of domestic life and the french _diligence_, that has, alas! nearly disappeared; a fat, heavy vehicle, drawn by a couple of strong little hacks, with a driver who gave himself _diligence_ airs, and cracked his whip, and smoked his pipe most ostentatiously. the first thing we learned on taking our seats was, that we had better have gone by the railway; that is to say, if we intended only going as far as sceaux, and were pressed for time. we replied, that we were going wherever the omnibus choose to take us, and time was no object. these observations were elicted by a good-humored old man, with a clear, hale, weather-beaten face, which he had contrived to shave to a most miraculous point of perfection, though it was as wrinkled as the boots of any groom. his dress was poor and threadbare in the extreme; and in england he might have passed for a broken-down carpenter; but he, nevertheless, wore the cordon of the eternal legion of honor. the omnibus, he said, went as far as longjumeau, a place which we were all anxious to see, as being associated with a certain postillion, with big boots, and a wonderful wig, who sang a peculiar song with immense rapidity, accompanied by jingling bells, a crackling whip, and a perpetual post-horn. to our great regret, however, we learned that this distinguished individual was not likely to be seen at longjumeau, the natives of which had probably never heard of his existence. it was too bad, however, to allow the illusion as to the existence of our old friend to be thus dispelled; so we easily succeeded in persuading ourselves that the popularity of the postillion doubtless kept him continually on the move, and that his native place was, after all, the place where we should have remembered it was least likely to find him. we proceeded on our way in the most approved style of french omnibuses--with a great deal of clatter, a great deal of confusion, and very little speed. the country any where within a mile or two of paris, is not very inviting--level wastes of barren ground, with occasionally an oasis in the shape of a brick-kiln, or something equally ornamental; dusty roads, planted with rows of little trees, and bounded by high walls, covered with quack advertisements. the passenger gazes out of window about once every ten minutes, hoping for a little variety; but as far as the waste, the trees, the walls, and the quack advertisements are concerned, he might believe himself still in the same spot. accordingly, the wise tourist generally seeks amusement inside the vehicle, as we did on the occasion in question--by encouraging the passengers to sing country songs, and contributing ourselves something of the kind toward the general hilarity. at last--after an hour's jolting and stumbling, and hallooing, and cracking, on the part of omnibus, horses, driver, and whip--something like open country begins to make its appearance--with occasionally an attempt at foliage and cultivation. we have just time to congratulate ourselves upon the change--with a slight regret at the absence of hedges and green lanes--when the omnibus stops at an accommodation of rustic restaurants, schools for young ladies, billiard-rooms, tobacconists' shops, and one church, which we are told is sceaux. here we alight, after an exchange of affectionate flatteries with our fellow passengers, who are bound to longjumeau, and make our way, as a matter of course to the park. but previously a bell at the railway station announces the arrival of a train from paris, and we have an opportunity of observing the perfect working of this pretty little line--the serpentine course of which is, at first sight, calculated to strike horror into the engineering mind--how the carriages perform impossible curves in perfect safety, and finally accomplish something very like a figure of eight at the terminus, without any relaxation of speed. the manner in which this is accomplished is principally by providing the engines with small oblique wheels, pressing against the rails, in addition to the usual vertical ones. the carriages, too, are so constructed, that both the fore and hind wheels may turn freely under them; and each carriage is connected with its neighbor by a kind of hinge, which effectually prevents a separation, while it affords every facility for independent motion. thus almost any curve can be accomplished, and it is next to impossible that the train can come off the rails. but for this contrivance, the railway, condemned to a straight line, would probably never pay, and all the pretty places where it has stations, would lose half their visitors. the great lion of sceaux is its park, where the chateau, built by colbert, and subsequently associated with persons of no less importance than the duc du maine and madame de montespan, was flourishing before the first revolution. art has here been somewhat ungrateful to nature; the one has furnished the tallest of trees and the thickest of bosquets; but the other has clipped them with more than her usual want of taste, and through the latter, has cut avenues, ingeniously imitative of railway tunnels--of which the pastoral effect may be imagined. on sundays and thursdays, during the summer, crowds flock from paris to the balls which are held in this park--where there is also a tolerable gathering of rustic simplicity from the country round. then it is that all the colored lamps, which now by daylight look so dingy, are brilliantly lighted up; the dirty stucco statues gleam like alabaster; the seedy drapery becomes golden and gorgeous; the grimy decorations are festive and fairy-like; and the smoky-looking glass column in the centre glitters like an immense diamond--reflecting the surrounding scene with a thousand flattering and fantastic variations. but what about robinson crusoe? all in good time. robinson is now something less than two miles off, if the information of our decorated friend may be relied upon; and perhaps the sooner we join him the better. accordingly, with sceaux behind us, and the prospect of dinner before us, we proceed gayly on foot through roads as rustic in appearance as the inevitable brick walls and unavoidable quack advertisements will allow them to be, and arrive at last at our journey's end--without meeting on our way with any incidents of travel more exciting than the sight of two countrymen and a windmill. here, then, we are, at last, at robinson. robinson, then, is a place, and not a person? but what relation has this to de foe's robinson crusoe? simply this; that the spot is the most romantic--the most picturesque--and _was_ the most desolate within so short a distance of paris; and it has been called "robinson," as a tribute at once to these united charms, and to the merits of a work which is as popular in france as in its native country. the surname "crusoe" the french throw aside, as they do every thing which they can either not pronounce, or not understand--refusing in particular to swallow any thing like a name which does not become the mouth, on the wise principle which leads every animal but the donkey to reject thistles. the fame of the place, however, has by degrees rendered its name inapplicable. its romantic and picturesque qualities it still retains, but its desolation is no more. it is robinson crusoe's island with the spell broken--the loneliness of thirty years profaned. it is robinson crusoe's island monopolized by common-place colonists, who have set up _cafés_ and _restaurants_. it is juan fernandez captured by the savages, who appear there in the shape of the _bourgeoisie_, or as pert-looking young frenchman, in varnished boots, escorting transparent bonnets. it is robinson crusoe's island, in fact, with a dash of greenwich. in common with all those who land in any sort of island, civilized or savage, our first impulse was to secure dinner. for this purpose, we betook ourselves to the most imposing _restaurant_ of the place. gueusquin was the name i think, of the bois d'aulnay. here, in the midst of a rustic and not too french style of garden, laid out upon an eminence, stands a building which has all the aspect of the most primitive of farms. it is dedicated to robinson crusoe, as may be seen from the verses conspicuously painted up over the door: "robinson! nom cher à l'enfance, que, vieux, l'on se rappelle encore, dont le souvenir, doux trésor, nous reporte aux jours d'innocence." on entering we see robinson crusoe on every side--that is to say, all the walls are devoted to his adventures: we see multiplied in every corner the well-known goat-skin costume, pointed cap, and umbrella. here is crusoe outside his hut, tending his flock; there he is shooting down the savages from behind a tree. in one panel he starts back at the sight of the foot-mark in the sands, in the attitude of the leading actor of the gymnase, to express violent surprise at the important intelligence conveyed to his mind by that powerful print. over the window, he is feeding his goat; close to the door, he notches his calendar, or, not inappropriately, cuts his stick. he welcomes to the lonely isle the astonished white men, beside the stove; and once more steps on his native soil, just over the mantle-piece. crusoe is every where. he is engraved on the spoons, painted on the plates, and figured on the coffee-cups. his effigy reclines upon the clock; his portrait on the vases peers through the flowers. so completely do his adventures seem associated with the place, that we almost expect to see him in his own proper person, with his parrots and dogs about him; discussing his goat's flesh at one of the rude tables, which might have been fashioned by his own hand; or busy kindling a fire upon the tiled floor, which might also be of home manufacture. we are interrupted in the midst of this inspection, by the question where we will dine? where? any where. this is the _salle à manger_, is it not? certainly; but we can dine up a tree in the garden if we please. in that case we _do_ please, by all means, provided the climbing is easy, and there are good strong branches to cling to. the _garçon_ smiles, as he conducts us to the garden, and introduces us to the resources of the immense tree in the centre. here we are instructed to ascend a staircase, winding round the massive trunk, and to choose our places, on the first, second, or third "story." this dining accommodation we now find to consist of a succession of platforms, securely fixed upon the vast spreading branches, surrounded by a rustic railing, and in some cases covered with a thatched umbrella, of the veritable robinson crusoe pattern. with the ardor of enthusiasts, who know no finality short of extremes, we spurn the immediate resting-places, and ascend at once to the topmost branch. here we find a couple of tables laid out, and seats for the accommodation of about a dozen persons. a jovial party of the savages before alluded to, in glazed boots, and transparent bonnets, are already in possession of one of the tables; the other is at our disposal. the soup now makes its appearance, not borne upward by the waiters, but swung upward in enormous baskets, by means of ropes and pulleys; and we speedily bawl down, with stentorian voices--according to the most approved fashion of the _habitués_--our directions as to the succeeding courses, which are duly received through the same agency. everybody now gets extremely convivial, and we, of course, fraternize with the savages, our neighbors. at this period of the proceedings, some of the boldest of our party venture upon obvious jokes relative to dining "up a tree"--a phrase which, in england, is significant of a kind of out-of-the-way existence, associated with pecuniary embarrassment; but, i need scarcely add, that these feeble attempts at pleasantry were promptly put down by the general good-sense of the company. the frenchmen, bolder still, now indulged in various feats of agility, which had the additional attraction of extreme peril, considering that we were more than a hundred feet from the ground. the tendency of the robinsonites, in general, toward gymnastic exercises is very sufficiently indicated by the inscription--"_défense de se balancer après les paniers_"--which is posted all over the tree. to my mind the injunction sounded very like forbidding one to break one's neck. being already a hundred feet from the ground, the united wisdom of our party had, by this time, arrived at the opinion that we should descend; an operation at all times less easy than ascension--more especially after dinner. the feat, however, was satisfactorily accomplished, after a pathetic appeal on the part of two or three of my friends for another quarter of an hour to sentimentalize upon the magnificent view--rendered doubly magnificent in the declining sun--of distant paris, with its domes and towers, and light bridges, and winding river; and the more immediate masses of well-wooded plantations, and well-cultivated fields. i should have mentioned that we had to drag away the youngest of these sentimentalists by main force--which rendered our safe descent somewhat marvelous under the circumstances. we had now to decide upon our mode of return to paris--a work of time, owing to the numerous distracting facilities. a short walk was pronounced to be desirable, and a walk to fontenay-aux-roses delightful above all things. so we set forward accordingly--our way lying "all among the bearded barley"--like the road to "many-towered camelot." at fontenay-aux-roses, which, strangely enough, does justice to its name, lying in a huge nest of roses, of all degrees of deliciousness, we were fortunate enough to find that vehicular phenomenon--in the existence of which i had never before believed--the "last omnibus." this was promptly monopolized; and my next performance, i fancy, was to go to sleep; for, on being informed that we were again in paris, i seemed to have some recollection of a recent dinner on the top of a tree, with robinson crusoe, who was appropriately decorated with a pink bonnet and a parasol. the white silk bonnet. by elizabeth o'hara. "thirty-five shillings, did you say, mrs. grey? i am afraid that is too dear; and yet it is really a love of a bonnet." "it certainly does become you exceedingly, miss leslie." "yes, i do wish i could buy it. just show me that straw again, will you? dear me, i wish i had not seen the silk one; this seems so large and dowdy. thirty-five shillings, and this will be--" "one pound six, full trimmed, ma'am; and after all, it is but a second bonnet, certainly not a dress one." "oh, i know that, but then the price--you see the difference is so very great." "thirteen shillings; but it is quite made up for by the quality of the goods. this is a paris-made bonnet; i had it sent me for a pattern; it would be two guineas to any but a customer. i really have made a considerable reduction, miss leslie; now if i might advise--" "it is a sweet, pretty thing, so lady-like and quiet, but i told papa i should spend about a pound, and i don't think i ought to go so very far beyond: these flowers in the inside suit me so well; however, i'll decide on the straw, mrs. grey." "i'll tell you what, miss leslie, i should like you to have this bonnet; i thought of you the moment i saw it; i have quite kept it for you. besides, it is a pity you should lose such a dead bargain. why, see, ma'am, what a lovely silk it is! and these flowers--real french flowers; why, it will do up again quite fresh next summer. now, if you like, the bill shall go in to your papa as a pound, or say three-and-twenty shillings, and you can make up the difference to me at your convenience." "i should like to do so, and certainly no one who is a judge can call this bonnet dear at thirty-five shillings; it never was made for the money." "oh, dear no, miss leslie, it costs me more; shall i send it in? would you like me to add the pelerine you were admiring? now i call that a very useful thing, that and the cuffs to match are so complete; i think you had better have them: i need not press them on any one, they are so exquisitely _bee-youtiful_; but i can't help taking the liberty of advising a lady like yourself, miss leslie, and an old customer. i think you said you were going into the country; now people like to be dressy away from home. you could not get such goods at that figure at any other establishment, and you will find them so very convenient." constance leslie hesitated. "the woman who hesitates is lost;" the temptation was great, the things were certainly becoming; a certain birthday gift was in expectation; the economical arguments were very specious. she yielded; and against her better judgment consented to the milliner's plan. she was but a girl--let that plead in her favor; but there are women, wives, and mothers, who condescend to this meanness, who systematically deceive their husbands in this matter, and yet profess to love and revere them; who, involved in debt themselves, rail at the artifice and extravagance of their servants, who, while their whole life is a subterfuge, affect horror at falsehood. oh! did they but know how contemptible such conduct is; how maid and trader despise them! their husbands believe them--how can they doubt a wife's truth? but to others the lie is transparent! and often an insolvent is supposed to have been cognizant of extravagances which his misfortunes alone revealed to him. and for what do they weave a tissue of untruths? for what do they tremble at the slightest word or glance which may betray their secret? from the most paltry and frivolous motives--often from mere thoughtlessness. to return to my story. it is time i should properly introduce miss leslie to my readers. she was an only daughter, having long lost her mother, and had for years been her father's housekeeper. he was of that most unfortunate class--a poor man bound to hide his poverty and preserve certain appearances. strict economy was necessary to effect this; and hitherto constance had aided him well, indeed. he was rather proud of the tact with which she made the most of their narrow income; for she had good taste and good sense, and these united achieve wonders. there was no attempt at display; but all was in such good keeping, the whole was so respectable, that few suspected their limited means. mr. leslie's income was so fluctuating, that he was strict on one point only: he would incur no bills on any pretext whatever; beyond this, constance was uncontrolled, and laid out his funds as she pleased. her brothers were growing up, and had to be pushed forward in the world; the well-doing of the whole family seemed at present to depend on the father's position. now, when the force of appearances is not carried further than this, should we blame it? we are all bound to lay out our money to the best advantage; an appearance of easy means, when not based on debt, most frequently leads to the reality. the world can only judge by what it sees--good broadcloth invariably attracts respect, and it is of high importance to young people having their way to make in the world, that their home should stand well with it. mr. leslie made no pretensions to riches; he merely endeavored to hide his want of them, and succeeded. "that's a very smart bonnet of yours, constance; i hope you have not gone beyond your stint--" "only a few shillings, papa." she thus evaded, as she thought, a direct falsehood, well knowing all the while that fifteen shillings were far from being "a few" to them. "it is a very great bargain, and mrs. grey advised it, as it will last two summers with care." "well, well, don't look so annoyed about it, my dear; a shilling or two, more or less, breaks no squares; but the fact is, i am rather sorry you have chosen such a dashing affair. i have had one or two losses lately, as is well known in the room, and your bonnet may be remarked on." constance's tears now flowed freely; but she dared not confess her fault. "never mind, my love, we are no worse off than our neighbors. indeed, i should not have mentioned this, only it will guide you in your purchases and in your behavior at your uncle's. i was obliged to ask a little assistance from him respecting edward's premium, and this last pull has prevented my paying him at the promised time. i gave him a bill, and could not take it up; but i have left off part of my office, and shall soon be all right again." "oh, papa, you will be so uncomfortable without a private room." "i must not think of that, child; in fact, i don't require a double office; there's the expense, two fires to keep up; and all that's quite unnecessary now harding is gone." "harding gone, papa!" "yes; i find i can manage without him, by doing a little extra writing at home; and until things come round a little, we must all pull up in every possible way. but, remember, i wish, for your brothers' sakes, to do the thing as quietly as we can. i am not ruined; but a whisper either way would smash me at once--and the boys' credit depends on mine." poor constance! and it was at this very moment, when retrenchment was so necessary, and her father was not only curtailing his personal expenses, but redoubling his exertions, that she had incurred a trumpery debt--trumpery in amount, but large to her--for mere superfluities. she could not return her bonnet, she had worn it; she was afraid to speak to mrs. grey about the other articles she had sent in; for, despite her exceeding oiliness of manner, constance felt she was a person who would never concede a single point to her own disadvantage. the bill had not yet made its appearance, and she waited its arrival in fear and trembling; for mrs. grey had chosen to make some indispensable additions; and though she sent a message apologizing for not having mentioned them, and saying that they would be merely a trifle, her unfortunate customer felt a strong presentiment that she would be victimized. besides, having once yielded to temptation and set her bill "a-going," she fancied she might as well let the whole sum be booked, and had already expended the five-and-twenty shillings set aside for her bonnet on different trifling objects, not absolutely wanted, and which she had scrupulously dispensed with till now that she had these few unoccupied shillings. the coveted bonnet at once lost all its charms; it was now positively hateful; and she set forth on her visit to her country-friends with a heart sadly at variance with her gay apparel. her aunt and uncle appleton had been rather inconvenienced by mr. leslie's dishonored bill. people who are not in business can scarcely make allowance for the difficulties of commerce; they can not understand its inextricable links, nor how sometimes a mere change of wind may seriously embarrass the struggling trader. they had also sometimes disapproved of their brother's style of living; and, though kind, warm-hearted people, having once assisted him, thought they had purchased a right to find fault and dictate, and to this he could not submit. if there was a subject on which he was irritable, it was respecting constance. she was an accomplished girl, and some of the wiseacres who delight in laying down the law had chosen to wonder why "she was not earning her bread and assisting her family;" overlooking the fact that in managing her father's house and adding to his comforts, she was of material service. a woman in the struggling middle ranks who really does her duty, but rarely eats the bread of idleness, even when ostensibly unemployed; and constance had toiled incessantly to promote mr. leslie's views. again: there is a kind of prejudice respecting women's employment; weak, cruel, senseless though it is, we can not step from our privacy without virtually degrading ourselves; hence, governessing is the decayed gentlewoman's last resource; and is it to be wondered at, that, knowing the light in which milliners or even governesses are regarded, mr. leslie should strain every nerve to screen his daughter from that trial? of course he was blamed, called proud and speculative, all sorts of evils were predicted as the consequence; but he laughed at these occasional preachings, and pursued the tenor of his way. constance's dressy purchases were thus woefully ill-timed; her aunt was far too good a judge to believe a pound would buy such a bonnet, nor did her niece attempt to deceive her; this was but fresh confirmation of "my brother's ridiculous extravagance. constance dressed up like a girl of fortune--it is really too bad. he has no right to squander other people's money in this way; it is almost dishonest, and i shall give her a good set-down." the set-down came, and this time unaccompanied by the annual present on which the poor girl had depended; and as the appletons chose to make a sort of parade of poverty just then, her smart clothes were more conspicuous. never had she spent such a miserable six weeks; her temper gave way beneath self-reproach and her aunt's nagging, and she had the misery of feeling that she had widened the breach between her father and relations, who, after all, were kindly, nay, generously disposed toward him. but little comfort awaited her on her return home. business was still very flat, and her brother's expenses had unavoidably increased; her father was looking haggard and care-worn. there, too, lay mrs. grey's bill, the total five pounds. a mist came before her eyes; it was long before the first sickening feeling was over, and she had courage to read the items. two guineas for the bonnet! that must be a mistake. she flew to have it rectified. "i am sure you told me thirty-five shillings, mrs. grey." "certainly, miss leslie; but, of course, i was speaking of ready-money payments. you know i must make a difference where parties require credit. i am always very glad to accommodate a customer, and the bonnet is cheap at fifty shillings." "but the cap, and the voilette--i never ordered them, and you charge them thirty shillings more." "why you see, ma'am, they make the whole so complete, so suitable, i thought it was a pity not to put them in--you know you could have returned them if they were not approved of." "but you sent to say it would be but a trifle more." "no more is it, miss leslie. why the lace is dirt-cheap at that price; and it will wash up and trim a straw bonnet--wash and wear forever; as for the bill, pray don't make yourself uneasy about it; you can take your own time--pay me at your convenience." what could constance do? she had not five shillings to dispose of; and, fearing to annoy her father, or cause some inquiry, had foolishly allowed him to suppose she had received her usual present from aunt appleton; she had even diverted some of the housekeeping money to make her accustomed presents to her father and brothers, their share of her birthday gift. the sigh with which mr. leslie accepted her little offering smote her severely; it told how much more grateful he would have felt had she thrown it into the weekly allowance. five pounds seems but a very small sum, but when it is to be saved up by pence its magnitude increases fearfully; it is almost a hopeless undertaking. constance was now fairly immersed in that slough of despond, debt; for instead of paying away her money regularly, and in order, it was here a little and there a little. her life was a perfect scramble; a perpetual staving off, while her small bills accumulated. mrs. grey had her now completely in her power; she was obliged to supply herself from her, at credit prices, having always forestalled her income, and though constantly endeavoring to economize, and in essentials scarcely so well dressed as in former times, her expenses were at least doubled. having acquired the habit of running up bills, it required more strength of mind than she possessed to dispense with a hundred little superfluities, that, had she been obliged to pay for them on the spot, would have been instantly relinquished; but as is too often the case, while the money still glittered in her purse, she forgot the numerous calls she was preparing for it. nor did the mischief end here; she was no longer able to pay her servants' wages; they became sulky, then saucy; the work was neglected, provisions wasted; and yet she neither could nor dared discharge them, so much did she fear her father's learning her heavy arrears. these annoyances, and constant corroding anxieties, brought on a low nervous fever; change of scene and air were ordered, but these could not be obtained without expense; and this, and the dread of any discovery during her absence, quite nullified the good effects of the prescription. her debts had gradually, though almost imperceptibly amounted to about fifty pounds, a sum she had no present means of paying; she had learned to tremble at the sound of a single knock, and, by contemptible excuses, and frivolous pretexts for delay, was slowly undermining her father's credit. it is a long time ere the "master" awakes to the feeling that his home is uncomfortable, or is aware of all that goes on within it, especially if he be in business. he hurries away in the morning, and ere he returns at evening things have assumed a kind of company aspect; besides, habit throws a vail over many discrepancies a stranger can easily perceive. constance's wretched health also accounted for many errors of management; and mr. leslie, generally a keen, shrewd man, was blind to the state of his domestic affairs. his daughter worked so hard to retrieve her lost ground; his and his sons' linen was mended almost beyond comfort; he had discovered her busy fabricating pretty knick-knacks for which she hoped to obtain an unsuspected sale; he felt as if it would seem brutal to pry into her economy. poor thing, she answered all the advertisements by which "ladies and gentlemen are offered an income of two pounds a week, while practicing an elegant accomplishment," but the _papier maché_ and earthen stamping trade were already overstocked with workers; she only increased her difficulties by the outlay. at this crisis, when at her wits' end, an unexpected haven appeared. she was a pretty, lady-like girl; and allan macdonald, a young merchant, and a rising man, chose to fall in love with her. there are many different reasons for accepting a man besides simply loving him; some girls are afraid of dying old maids; others do not know how to say "no;" others are ambitious; others mercenary; others wish to please papa and mamma; and others wish to spite some particular friend. constance married from none of these causes; she loved--no, liked, respected allan, and felt grateful for his preference; but her prevailing feeling was that the wedding would keep her out of her difficulties. there would be the money for her _trousseau_, and of course presents from her relations; and out of these she could surely squeeze enough to clear the greater part, if not all her debts. allan, too, would be sure to make her a liberal allowance, and she could save something from that; once free, it would be a lesson for life. things seldom turn out exactly as we expect. the presents made her, though handsome, could not be turned to account; work-tables and silver tea-pots are not very serviceable in a lady's wardrobe; and though her father had strained every nerve, he did not give her more than one half of what she had reckoned on. she ventured to petition for more. "tut tut, constance! macdonald knows exactly how i am situated, that i really am very much hampered, for i have no concealments from him; he is not the fellow to go rummaging over his wife's drawers, or to refuse her a new gown when she wants it. of course i wish you to be respectable, and what you have now will set you out as well as any child of mine need be; more, in my present circumstances, would be improper." she was silenced. her means were all absorbed in paying off the driblets she owed in all directions, but yet there were comparatively large sums remaining. she spoke to the tradespeople, "the expenses of her wedding, &c:" the excuse seemed reasonable, though some were inclined to wonder why mr. leslie left this disagreeable task to his daughter, and, as they wished to secure mrs. macdonald's future custom, they were exceedingly forbearing. mrs. grey alone remained; the wedding clothes must be supplied by her now, although constance, anticipating so much more money, had already announced that they would not, as "she did not like her style." this report had evidently reached her, and she received her customer's explanation with a mortifying air of civil disbelief; but when constance began to explain her errand, and hesitatingly ask for credit, "it is so very awkward, mrs. grey; but gentlemen can not understand these things: papa can not see why i should like to have a little money in hand, but you must know what you felt yourself." "oh, to be sure, miss leslie; but men can't see these things. i should have dropped before i could have asked grey for money, when first we were married--it's unknown what i suffered, you know i can send the bill into mr. leslie by-and-by." "why, i would rather--i think it would be better for me to pay you: papa might be vexed." "well, then, ma'am, shall i make out the account to you? mr. leslie has nothing to do with it--it is quite between ourselves." "that would be much the best way, if you have no objection, mrs. grey." "oh, not the slightest; perhaps you will look at these silks." a very handsome outfit, far better than constance had even contemplated, was now ordered, and all her prospects seemed brightening around her. she was indeed a happy woman as she entered her new home, and allan fondly welcomed her to it on their return from their bridal trip. she had married him without strong affection, but their intimate communion brought out the more amiable points of his character; she had learned his worth, she confided in his manly affection, and each day increased her love for him--not even her father was more dear to her. there was but one speck on the horizon: book-keeping was her husband's hobby; though far from mean, he was naturally frugal; he was as proud of her housewifery accomplishments as of her more brilliant acquirements; her father had often vaunted them, and he liked to prove for how little she could provide their liberal table. therefore he insisted on every item being set down and carried to the weekly expenditure: he had drawn up a set of books for her use, and was delighted to see how well she kept them. "there's nothing like black and white, constance, depend on it; when a woman knows exactly what her expenses are she need never go beyond her income, unless she's a born natural." there was an end to all the schemes of "cabbage" by which she had hoped to make allan pay his father-in-law's debts; it was evident that he would see how every penny was laid out, and that nothing short of deliberate falsehood--of which she was then incapable--would mislead him. at length, driven to desperation by the importunities of one or two pressing creditors, she ventured to ask for a few pounds for herself. "for yourself, my darling!--what can you mean?" "why, dear, isn't my meaning plain enough? i mean my pin-money, mr. macdonald," and she tried to laugh off her confusion and his surprise. "your pin-money, constance! why what is all i give you but that? is it not enough?--take more; but separate purses separate interests, that's my opinion." "my dear allan!" "yes, why should you or any woman have your private purse? i have none from you, constance." "but then a fixed sum is so much more comfortable." "how so? we have already settled what our expenses should be--your pretty little books here show that you do not exceed the average we struck, my wee wifey; what more would you have? are we not one, constance? when you want money ask for it, do what you will with it; if you are over the mark one month, we can pull up the next. i throw all our expenditure in common, you see, tailor and all; i won't buy a waistcoat even without giving you the chance of lecturing if you've a mind; if we find we have all along been within our limit, why we'll make each other a present, or have a jaunt; but in heaven's name, constance, don't talk to me of your own purse. i've seen enough of that--no, no, let's be open, let's have no concealments or privacies of any sort." she was so disappointed at this unexpected refusal that she could not restrain her tears, and allan looked very rueful and uncomfortable at the sight. he had a mixture of feelings; he did not like to see his pretty constance weep, but it was rather gratifying than otherwise to his marital pride, that his displeasure, or the fear of it, should create such emotion; so in a half-penitent, half-pacha like temper he set himself about consoling his mourning bride. he felt that according to his convictions he was right, but feared he had not gone rightly to work. "i must not give up, that's positive," he thought; "but, poor dear girl, how sorry she is to have vexed me. i must be a brute; i dare say she wants a new dress or two now we're going out so much; old leslie told me he could not do as much as he wished for her." acting on this idea, he proceeded to kiss away her tears. "come, constance, darling, you must not be angry with me--i'll be bound you want some finery for dawson's ball; why did you not say so at once, you silly girl? there, tell me how much will be necessary--but i dare say you don't exactly know yourself; take this, dear one, and mind i expect to see my wifey the best dressed, as well as the prettiest woman in the room. there, kiss and be friends, con.; i have one favor to ask, my love; i wish you'd take any thing you want from green's, they can put a thing or two in my way sometimes." the clog accompanying allan's generous gift made it scarcely a relief to her; but those bills must be paid, and though she knew he would expect to see the sum accounted for, she could not comply with his wishes. he felt annoyed at this; why should she not say how she had laid out his present? at the same time other discrepancies forced themselves on his notice, and made him most uncomfortable. he was more grieved than angry, however. his wife had certainly not made any purchases at green's, although he had not only requested it, but explained his reasons--nay more she was not as handsomely attired at the ball as he could have wished; he had felt that from the first, and was more inclined to admire her moderation than grumble at her appearance; but his sister had further and accidentally enlightened him. constance's was only an old dress re-trimmed; if so, where was that money? her books besides, though apparently very accurately kept, presented increased expenses, while his table was not so good as it had been--he could speak with certainty on that head; she looked shabby, too, sometimes; gloves, shoes, bonnet, ribbons were not so often renewed as he considered necessary. he could not understand it; something under-hand was decidedly going on, but constance always evaded any explanation. then she was growing thin and low-spirited, nearly fretful, so he did not like to press her--what could it all mean? comfort seemed banished from his hearth; some evil influence was hovering around them. there was some lurking mystery; and yet he was sure that she loved him. how anxious she was to please him in all save this? how proudly she looked up to him, how tenderly she had nursed him in a late severe attack. but why should she not tell him the cause of her unhappiness; why was there not perfect confidence between man and wife? chance solved some of his doubts. he accidentally opened a letter addressed to mrs. macdonald. it contained a bill and receipt, and came from her brother's tailor. the writer, while thanking her for the last payment on account, hoped she would soon make it convenient to settle the balance, as it was some time since the young gentleman had had these articles. macdonald naturally felt annoyed, nay, indignant, that his comforts should be curtailed to pay his brother-in-law's bills, for he never once imagined that constance had long since received the money for them, and appropriated it to another purpose; all he could see was her weakness, and the meanness of the young man in submitting to such an obligation; and he would have spoken his mind pretty freely but for the fear of agitating his wife, whose approaching confinement had thrown her into a very precarious state of health. rather than she should know that he was aware of her folly, he at once paid the somewhat heavy remainder. he was still smarting from the irritation when he met edward leslie, the elder brother, exceedingly well-dressed, and in high spirits. he had just returned from an interview with a merchant who was inclined to send him abroad on very advantageous terms; the only difficulty was a small sum to start with; and edward naturally thought he might apply to his wealthy brother-in-law for an advance on his expected salary. at any other time allan would willingly have made the loan, but at that moment it seemed too much like victimization, as if he were a destined prey to the leslies; he therefore not only refused point blank, but accompanied his refusal by certain inuendoes at edward's expenses and appearance, which were as incomprehensible as offensive to the latter, and the result was a violent quarrel between them. meanwhile mr. leslie's difficulties were increasing, and he saw himself compelled to call a meeting of his creditors; this had hitherto been concealed from constance, but it soon became necessary to apply to her, as, to her father's utter astonishment, bills of which he had not the slightest knowledge now poured in on him. she was alone in her luxurious drawing-room, looking the picture of misery, having that day heard edward's version of her husband's extraordinary conduct, and his own disappointment, now likely to be attended with serious consequences, as, if he could not raise this money, he must relinquish this lucrative appointment--a provision for life. and now her father's position was explained to her; what was to become of them? what could she do? "i should not have worried you with all this, my poor girl; the general opinion is in my favor; people see how this has been brought upon me, and two or three of my creditors have come forward very handsomely; lynch offers to back me if i will start again. i called at allan's office as i came along; i wanted to have his advice, and to know whether he would join lynch as security if i continued the agency; but he was out, so i left a note for him, explaining what i wanted, and came on here. i missed my dinner with it all, and really should be glad of a glass of wine, mrs. mac--; come, dear, don't cry, there's no disgrace in my misfortunes--we have never been extravagant or thoughtless; but, constance, i was rather surprised to see these bills among my other accounts; surely they were paid long ago?" "i--i--i forget, father." "nonsense; i'm sure you had the money for them; those very sums are entered in my day-book. now, do calm yourself, and look them over. see, why, they're dated two and three years back. i never had an account with any tradesmen longer than the quarter. i looked at your book, and couldn't make head or tail of it, or i would not have bothered you now. you really must examine into this, constance; my character is touched by it--to leave such bills so long unpaid." "perhaps there is some mistake." "none at all: either you did or did not pay those bills. if you did pay them, hunt up the receipts. i don't know the names even of some of these fellows--did you ever deal with them? answer me at once--yes or no--did you ever owe them any thing?" "yes--i mean--that is--" at this moment allan entered the room, evidently in a towering passion, while a servant brought in the refreshment constance had ordered for her father, by an opposite door. "take away those things!" he thundered "they are not wanted here." the foot-boy hesitated a moment. "my mistress, sir," he said. "take them away, i say!" the servant obeyed. constance had sunk back on the sofa in violent hysterics, while mr. leslie seemed petrified. allan for the first time in his life was neglectful of his wife, and had refused her father's proffered hand. "you wrote to me, mr. leslie, this morning," he continued, "to make a most modest request. i need offer no comment on you and your family's conduct toward me; but do me the favor to read this letter: it is a sufficient answer; and then, sir, leave my house, before i am tempted to kick you out of it." "allan!" shrieked constance. "was it not enough, sir, that my comforts should be curtailed, my home rendered uncomfortable, my wife's health and spirits broken, her integrity destroyed--yes, that she should be taught to deceive me systematically, in order that my money should pay your and your sons' debts? was not that enough without such disgrace as this? a lawyer's letter demanding payment of my wife's debts when single, her wedding clothes even not paid for!" "good god! what is this? speak, constance, this instant." "you have killed her!" cried her husband, bending over her insensible form. "i find you here with more bills in your hand--i find her in tears, while you are feasting at my expense. leave the house, i say." "allan macdonald, i will not. you have attacked my character and my sons'. unless you use force, i will not leave the room till constance clears this up; let the consequences be what they will, she shall speak. i will not remain under these imputations." "pshaw! how can she clear you? let me ring for her maid--she is dying." "she is not: leave her to herself for a moment; she is recovering--see. my god! man, i am her father! there, give her some water. be advised for once: let no one in, as you would avoid a disgraceful exposure. on my word--on my oath, if necessary--i knew nothing of this--i knew of no bills till this morning." mr. leslie's firm tone and previous high character held allan in check, and he submitted to his advice. it was long ere constance revived from her deathlike swoon, and then she would have evaded explanation, had not her father stuck pertinaciously to his point. all at once she seemed to gain courage from his severity and her husband's anguished features. she knew not where their suspicions might tend, and throwing herself at allan's feet, she revealed all her errors. her strength again failed her; with the last words she fell prostrate, and was carried senseless to her bed. a raging fever ensued; a dead child was born. in the wildness of delirium her now intense love for her husband was betrayed, the unsparing contempt she felt for her own conduct, and her dread lest he should share in it. his voice alone could soothe her, and yet she seemed to shrink from him as if she felt she had incurred his displeasure; that was her prevailing fear. his name, her father's, edward's, was ever on her lips; but always in conjunction with images of misery. consciousness was at last restored to her; all agitating conversation was forbidden; but allan's tender kiss and gentle, tones told that she was forgiven. nor was her father inexorable; few parents but would have considered her punishment sufficient; and in the mean time her husband generously rectified the errors she had occasioned. the debts were all liquidated; their amount was comparatively so small, that it seemed astonishing how so trifling a cause could have produced so much unhappiness, and allan thought the sum well expended that could restore his wife's peace of mind. edward, too, obtained the requisite loan, which was repaid within the specified time, while macdonald willingly joined mr. lynch as security for his father-in-law. mr. leslie, thus backed, at length retrieved his past losses. he never again alluded to that unfortunate scene, except when he and allan once nearly quarreled for the second time, because he insisted on repaying the money advanced for constance's debts. as for charles, the younger son, he was soon well provided for; for uncle appleton, seeing how the others were thriving, took him in hand, and using his borough interest, easily procured him a comfortable appointment. a fine band of rosy children have long since consoled allan for the loss of his first-born; but constance has never forgotten that terrible lesson; and though placed beyond the necessity of rigid economy, never feels tempted to indulge in a slight extravagance, or to incur even a trifling debt, without being warned by the memory of the white silk bonnet. bored wells in eastern mississippi. [illustration] who would not prefer something like this, to the "sweep and pole," however delightful the "old oaken bucket may seem as a reminiscence?" that the running fountain, "hard by the homestead gate" is attainable, has been demonstrated, of late years, in numerous instances; necessity called, science demonstrated, and experiment has proved. the artesian well, in many localities, is but the work of a few days or a week. the implements required are simple and cheap, the supply of water afforded copious and continuous, conducing to health and comfort. they are described as "those which are made by boring into the earth till the instrument reaches water, which spontaneously, from internal pressure, flows like a fountain." not to quarrel with this definition, let us look at the instrument and its appurtenances, and also the processes or application, which cause the water to flow. [illustration] the instrument.--split the barrel of a common goose-quill, lengthwise, into equal parts, and we have in either half something that closely resembles in shape the auger; the lower end looking like the old "pod," in use formerly by house builders. one side, the cutting side or edge, of the said lower end being an adjustable steel "bit," readily removed for sharpening, hardening, and the like; its entire length is about eight feet; its diameter (or half diameter) is three and a half or four inches; its upper end terminating in a shank, with a screw-thread, cut perhaps two inches. [illustration] the appurtenances are _wooden rods_ or poles, _iron rods_, _pump_, _picks_, _windlass_, _shears_, _pulley-blocks_, _yokes_, or couters, &c. the first of these, the wooden rods or poles, are made of cypress or yellow-pine, twenty-five feet long, two and a half to three inches in diameter, planed round and smooth, armed at each end with iron, the upper a screw-shank, the lower a screw-socket. for convenience, there should be, belonging to the set, poles of half and quarter length, also an iron rod or two, of full or half length; these last being required after some depth is attained, to prevent the wooden ones from floating or being pushed up, as the water fills the bore. the _pump_ is constructed of sheet-iron or copper, being a cylinder of nearly the size of the auger, and of the same length, having in its lower end a valve playing freely, and closing tight enough to retain borings, sand, and the like; the upper end terminating as the poles; the valve is usually made of steel, being a band riveted into its place having its lower edge sharp, and its upper edge square, seating the clapper, which is a disk of wrought iron. this is a strong, effective tool in the prosecution of the work. the _picks_ or _drills_ are pointed with steel, and take such shapes as shall best forward the boring through a strata which the auger will not cut. the _windlass_, _shears_, _pulley-blocks_, etc., constitute the apparatus for lowering and raising the auger, pump, or picks, as needed. the poles forming the shank of the auger, are elongated by screwing one upon another, as it descends into the earth. [illustration] [illustration] the process, or application.--the shears and windlass being erected, a short pole is suspended in the couter (a); a movable handle affixed to the pole at a convenient height from the ground, a short auger screwed into the lower end of the pole, which is then lowered till the point of the auger rests upon the ground, at the precise point where the prospective fountain is to flow. one man attends to the windlass, and one labors at the handle of the auger, walking round, with the sun, and after marking the spot by an insertion of six inches, pours in, if the nature of the soil requires, a bucket of water to render the borings adhesive, so that they will turn with the auger and come up in it when it is withdrawn. the first few feet is usually done with an extra-sized auger, or the smaller hole reamed out to a size sufficiently large to insert a bored log (like a pump-log), the calibre of which will admit the passage of the common auger, and other instruments used in boring the well; this log is forced down by driving till its lower end is secure in the rock, or such strata as will not crumble or cave. as the auger becomes full, it is withdrawn, cleaned, and again inserted. after such depth is reached, that the water lying upon the first impermeable strata flows into the bore, the auger will not always bring up its "chips," the pump is then put down alternately with the auger, and by being forced to the bottom of the bore brings out the residuum. as the hole deepens, other poles are added; the joints being thus rendered necessary, another of the uses of the hollow log becomes apparent. two iron spikes projecting from its squared end, serve to keep the "_yoke_," or couter, from turning round; and the shank, below the screw and nut, of the sunken pole, being square and fitting the slot in the yoke, the whole is retained stationary, while the succeeding pole is screwed on, in descending, or unscrewed in ascending, so that in "putting down" or in "taking out" there is a pause at every joint, a pole added, or set aside, and a new hold taken by the yoke (of which there are necessarily two). [illustration] in this manner pole after pole is added, until the auger or drill is forced through some strata which confines, or _holds down_ the fluid, and a fountain of "adam's ale" is opened, which flows on and on, neither diminished by the droughts of summer nor swollen by the rains of winter. these delightful wells are becoming common in the eastern parts of this state, as also in our sister state, alabama. without doubt, the same thing may be done advantageously in many parts of the united states, hitherto badly supplied with water, either for useful or ornamental purposes. the borings in this region vary from to feet, but generally the greater depth is attainable with proportionally less labor and expense, being unattended with some of the difficulties which are incident to those of less depth, such as quicksands, gravel, rotten limestone, and the like. the methods of overcoming some of these difficulties are next, and last, in order. in some places, the soil or earth covering the first layer of rock is of such a character that it is next to impossible to sink the log through to the rock; still, patient contriving will do much in obviating this; for instance, after going as deep as the gravel or quicksand in which the first vein of water is found, will permit, and reaming out the hole, the log is inserted, having its lower end sharpened, and defended by a tapering iron band well secured. this may be driven down without much trouble through the bed of quicksand, and a passage is thus secured to the rock. it is sometimes necessary to insert the pump into, and through the log, and by agitating and withdrawing a portion of the obstructing mass, to cause the log to settle to its place. in some instances the distance to the rock, or consistent strata is so great, that the log requires "piecing." this is done neatly and effectively by banding the top of the sunken log, enlarging with a tapering instrument the mouth of the bore, and fitting another piece with a taper and shoulder. [illustration] [illustration] again, at the depth of some two or three hundred feet, a vein of rotten soap-stone, or limestone will crumble and cave into the opening, and though by continual pumping and boring it is sometimes mastered, yet the only certain remedy seems to be the reaming from the top of the well (including the logs) with a larger instrument, down to the cave, and perhaps a little past it--so that a shoulder will be left at the place where the reamer ceases cutting. a sheet iron tube is then forced down, of such a length, that its lower end rests upon this shoulder, and the upper extends up past the defect, to the solid walls above; the calibre of this tube being such as to admit freely the tools when the boring is resumed. should a second defect of this kind occur, another tube can be inserted of the same size (outwardly) as the well, but after it is placed, the auger and other implements must, of course, be diminished till they will pass through the smaller cylinder. at times a layer of flint rock obstructs the downward progress. this, fortunately, is thin, and although but a few inches in a day can be drilled, yet the operator works with cheerfulness, for he expects that this is but the lid of the great strong box which holds the sought-for treasure. well-boring has become a regular business here with many ingenious and persevering men, and they each resort to many contrivances to obviate the various difficulties which occur; differing from each other, as individual experience, or the special occasion may seem to demand. those who bore deep wells usually train a horse to work the windlass, or, in that case, capstan; and it is truly interesting to observe with what precision this effective assistant per forms his work at the words of execution, "walk! trot! slow! whoa! turn! back!" &c., &c. knowing that in some parts of our country, thousands have been thrown away in fruitless attempts to find water convenient for man and beast, and thinking possibly some description of the way we manage this matter here, would be acceptable, "i have written what i have written." n.e.g. columbus, miss., july th, . my novel, or, varieties in english life. [continued from the august number] chapter xiii. leonard and helen settled themselves in two little chambers in a small lane. the neighborhood was dull enough--the accommodation humble; but their landlady had a smile. that was the reason, perhaps, why helen chose the lodgings: a smile is not always found on the face of a landlady when the lodger is poor. and out of their windows they caught sight of a green tree, an elm, that grew up fair and tall in a carpenter's yard at the rear. that tree was like another smile to the place. they saw the birds come and go to its shelter; and they even heard, when a breeze arose, the pleasant murmur of its boughs. leonard went the same evening to captain digby's old lodgings, but he could learn there no intelligence of friends or protectors for helen. the people were rude and surly, and said that the captain still owed them £ _s._ the claim, however, seemed very disputable, and was stoutly denied by helen. the next morning leonard set off in search of dr. morgan. he thought his best plan was to inquire the address of the doctor at the nearest chemist's, and the chemist civilly looked into the _court guide_, and referred him to a house in bulstrode-street, manchester-square. to this street leonard contrived to find his way, much marveling at the meanness of london: screwstown seemed to him the handsomer town of the two. a shabby man-servant opened the door, and leonard remarked that the narrow passage was choked with boxes, trunks, and various articles of furniture. he was shown into a small room, containing a very large round table, whereon were sundry works on homeopathy, parry's _cymbrian plutarch_, davies' _celtic researches_, and a sunday newspaper. an engraved portrait of the illustrious hahnemann occupied the place of honor over the chimney-piece. in a few minutes the door to an inner room opened, and dr. morgan appeared, and said politely, "come in sir." the doctor seated himself at a desk, looked hastily at leonard, and then at a great chronometer lying on the table. "my time's short, sir--going abroad; and now that i am going, patients flock to me. too late. london will repent its apathy. let it!" the doctor paused majestically, and, not remarking on leonard's face the consternation he had anticipated, he repeated peevishly--"i am going abroad, sir, but i will make a synopsis of your case, and leave it to my successor. hum! hair chestnut; eyes--what color? look this way--blue, dark blue. hem! constitution nervous. what are the symptoms?" "sir," began leonard, "a little girl--" dr. morgan (impatiently).--"little girl! never mind the history of your sufferings; stick to the symptoms--stick to the symptoms." leonard.--"you mistake me, doctor; i have nothing the matter with me. a little girl--" dr. morgan.--"girl again! i understand! it is she who is ill. shall i go to her? she must describe her own symptoms--i can't judge from your talk. you'll be telling me she has consumption, or dyspepsia, or some such disease that don't exist: mere allopathic inventions--symptoms, sir, symptoms." leonard (forcing his way).--"you attended her poor father, captain digby, when he was taken ill in the coach with you. he is dead, and his child is an orphan." dr. morgan (fumbling in his medical pocket-book).--"orphan! nothing for orphans, especially if inconsolable, like _aconite_ and _chamomilla_."[ ] with some difficulty leonard succeeded in bringing helen to the recollection of the homeopathist, stating how he came in charge of her, and why he sought dr. morgan. the doctor was much moved. "but really," said he, after a pause, "i don't see how i can help the poor child. i know nothing of her relations. this lord les--whatever his name is--i know of no lords in london. i knew lords, and physicked them, too, when i was a blundering allopathist. there was the earl of lansmere--has had many a blue pill from me, sinner that i was. his son was wiser; never would take physic. very clever boy was lord l'estrange--i don't know if he was as good as he was clever--" "lord l'estrange!--that name begins with les--" "stuff! he's always abroad--shows his sense. i'm going abroad too. no development for science in this horrid city; full of prejudices, sir, and given up to the most barbarous allopathical and phlebotomical propensities. i am going to the land of hahnemann, sir--sold my good-will, lease, and furniture, and have bought in on the rhine. natural life there, sir--homeopathy needs nature: dine at one o'clock, get up at four--tea little known, and science appreciated. but i forget. cott! what can i do for the orphan?" "well, sir," said leonard rising, "heaven will give me strength to support her." the doctor looked at the young man attentively. "and yet," said he, in a gentler voice, "you, young man, are, by your account, a perfect stranger to her, or were so when you undertook to bring her to london. you have a good heart--always keep it. very healthy thing, sir, a good heart--that is, when not carried to excess. but you have friends of your own in town?" leonard.--"not yet, sir; i hope to make them." doctor.--"pless me, you do? how?--i can't make any." leonard colored and hung his head. he longed to say, "authors find friends in their readers--i am going to be an author." but he felt that the reply would savor of presumption, and held his tongue. the doctor continued to examine him, and with friendly interest. "you say you walked up to london--was that from choice or economy?" leonard.--"both, sir." doctor.--"sit down again, and let us talk i can give you a quarter of an hour, and i'll see if i _can_ help either of you, provided you tell me all the symptoms--i mean all the particulars." then, with that peculiar adroitness which belongs to experience in the medical profession, dr. morgan, who was really an acute and able man, proceeded to put his questions, and soon extracted from leonard the boy's history and hopes. but when the doctor, in admiration at a simplicity which contrasted so evident an intelligence, finally asked him his name and connections, and leonard told them, the homeopathist actually started. "leonard fairfield, grandson of my old friend, john avenel of lansmere! i must shake you by the hand. brought up by mrs. fairfield! ah, now i look, strong family likeness--very strong!" the tears stood in the doctor's eyes. "poor nora!" said he. "nora! did you know my aunt?" "your aunt! ah--ah! yes--yes! poor nora! she died almost in these arms--so young, so beautiful. i remember it as if yesterday." the doctor brushed his hand across his eyes, and swallowed a globule; and, before the boy knew what he was about, had in his benevolence thrust another between leonard's quivering lips. a knock was heard at the door. "ha! that's my great patient," cried the doctor, recovering his self-possession--"must see him. a chronic case--excellent patient--tic, sir, tic. puzzling and interesting. if i could take that tic with me, i should ask nothing more from heaven. call again on monday; i may have something to tell you then as to yourself. the little girl can't stay with you--wrong and nonsensical. i will see after her. leave me your address--write it here. i think i know a lady who will take charge of her. good-by. monday next, ten o'clock." with this, the doctor thrust out leonard, and ushered in his grand patient, whom he was very anxious to take with him to the banks of the rhine. leonard had now only to discover the nobleman whose name had been so vaguely uttered by poor captain digby. he had again recourse to the _court guide_; and finding the address of two or three lords the first syllable of whose titles seemed similar to that repeated to him, and all living pretty near to each other, in the regions of may fair, he ascertained his way to that quarter, and, exercising his mother-wit, inquired at the neighboring shops as to the personal appearance of these noblemen. out of consideration for his rusticity, he got very civil and clear answers; but none of the lords in question corresponded with the description given by helen. one was old, another was exceedingly corpulent, a third was bed-ridden--none of them was known to keep a great dog. it is needless to say that the name of l'estrange (no habitant of london) was not in the _court guide_. and dr. morgan's assertion that that person was always abroad unluckily dismissed from leonard's mind the name the homeopathist had so casually mentioned. but helen was not disappointed when her young protector returned late in the day, and told her of his ill success. poor child! she was so pleased in her heart not to be separated from her new brother; and leonard was touched to see how she had contrived, in his absence, to give a certain comfort and cheerful grace to the bare room devoted to himself. she had arranged his few books and papers so neatly, near the window, in sight of the one green elm. she had coaxed the smiling landlady out of one or two extra articles of furniture, especially a walnut-tree bureau, and some odds and ends of ribbon--with which last she had looped up the curtains. even the old rush-bottom chairs had a strange air of elegance, from the mode in which they were placed. the fairies had given sweet helen the art that adorns a home, and brings out a smile from the dingiest corner of hut and attic. leonard wondered and praised. he kissed his blushing ministrant gratefully, and they sate down in joy to their abstemious meal; when suddenly his face was overclouded--there shot through him the remembrance of dr. morgan's words--"the little girl can't stay with you--wrong and nonsensical. i think i know a lady who will take charge of her." "ah," cried leonard, sorrowfully, "how could i forget?" and he told helen what grieved him. helen at first exclaimed that "she would not go." leonard, rejoiced, then began to talk as usual of his great prospects; and, hastily finishing his meal, as if there were no time to lose, sat down at once to his papers. then helen contemplated him sadly, as he bent over his delighted work. and when, lifting his radiant eyes from his ms., he exclaimed, "no, no, you shall _not_ go. _this_ must succeed--and we shall live together in some pretty cottage, where we can see more than one tree"--_then_ helen sighed, and did not answer this time, "no, i will not go." shortly after she stole from the room, and into her own; and there, kneeling down, she prayed, and her prayer was somewhat this--"guard me against my own selfish heart: may i never be a burden to him who has shielded me." perhaps, as the creator looks down on this world, whose wondrous beauty beams on us more and more, in proportion as our science would take it from poetry into law--perhaps he beholds nothing so beautiful as the pure heart of a simple loving child. chapter xiv. leonard went out the next day with his precious mss. he had read sufficient of modern literature to know the names of the principal london publishers; and to these he took his way with a bold step, though a beating heart. that day he was out longer than the last; and when he returned, and came into the little room, helen uttered a cry, for she scarcely recognized him. there was on his face so deep, so silent, and so concentrated a despondency. he sate down listlessly, and did not kiss her this time, as she stole toward him. he felt so humbled. he was a king deposed. _he_ take charge of another life! he! she coaxed him at last into communicating his day's chronicle. the reader beforehand knows too well what it must be, to need detailed repetition. most of the publishers had absolutely refused to look at his mss.; one or two had good-naturedly glanced over and returned them at once, with a civil word or two of flat rejection. one publisher alone--himself a man of letters, and who in youth had gone through the same bitter process of dis-illusion that now awaited the village genius--volunteered some kindly though stern explanation and counsel to the unhappy boy. this gentleman read a portion of leonard's principal poem with attention, and even with frank admiration. he could appreciate the rare promise that it manifested. he sympathized with the boy's history, and even with his hopes; and then he said, in bidding him farewell-- "if i publish this poem for you, speaking as a trader, i shall be a considerable loser. did i publish all i admire, out of sympathy with the author, i should be a ruined man. but suppose that, impressed as i really am with the evidence of no common poetic gifts in this ms., i publish it, not as a trader, but a lover of literature, i shall in reality, i fear, render you a great disservice, and perhaps unfit your whole life for the exertions on which you must rely for independence." "how, sir?" cried leonard. "not that i would ask you to injure yourself for me," he added, with proud tears in his eyes. "how, my young friend? i will explain. there is enough talent in these verses to induce very flattering reviews in some of the literary journals. you will read these, find yourself proclaimed a poet, will cry, 'i am on the road to fame.' you will come to me, 'and my poem, how does it sell?' i shall point to some groaning shelf, and say, 'not twenty copies!' the journals may praise, but the public will not buy it. 'but you will have got a name,' you say. yes, a name as a poet just sufficiently known to make every man in practical business disinclined to give fair trial to your talents in a single department of positive life; none like to employ poets; a name that will not put a penny in your purse--worse still, that will operate as a barrier against every escape into the ways whereby men get to fortune. but, having once tasted praise, you will continue to sigh for it: you will perhaps never again get a publisher to bring forth a poem, but you will hanker round the purlieus of the muses, scribble for periodicals, fall at last into a bookseller's drudge. profits will be so precarious and uncertain, that to avoid debt may be impossible; then, you who now seem so ingenuous and so proud, will sink deeper still into the literary mendicant--begging, borrowing--" "never--never--never!" cried leonard, vailing his face with his hands. "such would have been my career," continued the publisher. "but i luckily had a rich relative, a trader, whose calling i despised as a boy, who kindly forgave my folly, bound me as an apprentice, and here i am; and now i can afford to write books as well as sell them. young man, you must have respectable relations--go by their advice and counsel; cling fast to some positive calling. be any thing in this city rather than poet by profession." "and how, sir, have there ever been poets? had _they_ other callings?" "read their biography, and then envy them!" leonard was silent a moment; but, lifting his head, answered loud and quickly, "i _have_ read their biography. true, their lot poverty--perhaps hunger. sir, i envy them!" "poverty and hunger are small evils," answered the bookseller, with a grave, kind smile. "there are worse--debt and degradation, and--despair." "no, sir, no--you exaggerate; these last are not the lot of all poets." "right, for most of our greatest poets had some private means of their own. and for others, why, all who have put into a lottery have not drawn blanks. but who could advise another man to set his whole hope of fortune on the chance of a prize in a lottery? and such a lottery!" groaned the publisher, glancing toward sheets and reams of dead authors lying like lead upon his shelves. leonard clutched his mss. to his heart, and hurried away. "yes," he muttered, as helen clung to him and tried to console--"yes, you were right: london is very vast, very strong, and very cruel," and his head sank lower and lower yet upon his bosom. the door was flung widely open, and in, unannounced, walked dr. morgan. the child turned to him, and at the sight of his face she remembered her father; and the tears that, for leonard's sake, she had been trying to suppress, found way. the good doctor soon gained all the confidence of these two young hearts. and after listening to leonard's story of his paradise lost in a day, he patted him on the shoulder, and said: "well, you will call on me on monday, and we will see. meanwhile, borrow these of me," and he tried to slip three sovereigns into the boy's hands. leonard was indignant. the bookseller's warning flashed on him. mendicancy! oh, no, he had not yet come to that! he was almost rude and savage in his rejection; and the doctor did not like him the less for it. "you are an obstinate mule," said the homeopathist, reluctantly putting up his sovereigns. "will you work at something practical and prosy, and let the poetry rest awhile?" "yes," said leonard, doggedly, "i will work." "very well, then, i know an honest bookseller, and he shall give you some employment; and meanwhile, at all events, you will be among books, and that will be some comfort." leonard's eyes brightened--"a great comfort, sir." he pressed the hand he had before put aside, to his grateful heart. "but," resumed the doctor, seriously, "you really feel a strong predisposition to make verses?" "i did, sir." "very bad symptom, indeed, and must be stopped before a relapse! here, i have cured three prophets and ten poets with this novel specific." while thus speaking, he had got out his book and a globule. "_agaricus muscarius_ dissolved in a tumbler of distilled water--tea-spoonful whenever the fit comes on. sir, it would have cured milton himself." "and now for you, my child," turning to helen; "i have found a lady who will be very kind to you. not a menial situation. she wants some one to read to her, and tend on her--she is old and has no children. she wants a companion, and prefers a girl of your age to one older. will this suit you?" leonard walked away. helen got close to the doctor's ear, and whispered, "no, i can not leave _him_ now--he is so sad." "cott!" grunted the doctor, "you two must have been reading _paul and virginia_. if i could but stay in england, i would try what _ignatia_ would do in this case--interesting experiment! listen to me--little girl, and go out of the room, you, sir." leonard, averting his face, obeyed. helen made an involuntary step after him--the doctor detained and drew her on his knee. "what's your christian name?--i forget." "helen." "helen, listen, in a year or two you will be a young woman, and it would be very wrong then to live alone with that young man. meanwhile, you have no right to cripple all his energies. he must not have you leaning on his right arm--you would weigh it down. i am going away, and when i am gone there will be no one to help you, if you reject the friend i offer you. do as i tell you, for a little girl so peculiarly susceptible (a thorough _pulsatilla_ constitution) can not be obstinate and egotistical." "let me see him cared for and happy, sir," said she, firmly, "and i will go where you wish." "he shall be so; and to-morrow while he is out, i will come and fetch you. nothing so painful as leave-taking--shakes the nervous system, and is a mere waste of the animal economy." helen sobbed aloud; then, writhing from the doctor, she exclaimed, "but he may know where i am? we may see each other sometimes? ah, sir, it was at my father's grave that we first met, and i think heaven sent him to me. do not part us forever." "i should have a heart of stone if i did," cried the doctor, vehemently, "and miss starke shall let him come and visit you once a week. i'll give her something to make her. she is naturally indifferent to others. i will alter her whole constitution, and melt her into sympathy--with _rhododendron_ and _arsenic_!" chapter xv. before he went, the doctor wrote a line to mr. prickett, bookseller, holborn, and told leonard to take it, the next morning, as addressed. "i will call on prickett myself, to-night, and prepare him for your visit. but i hope and trust you will only have to stay there a few days." he then turned the conversation, to communicate his plans for helen. miss starke lived at highgate--a worthy woman, stiff and prim, as old maids sometimes are. but just the place for a little girl like helen, and leonard should certainly be allowed to call and see her. leonard listened and made no opposition; now that his day-dream was dispelled, he had no right to pretend to be helen's protector. he could have bade her share his wealth and his fame; his penury and his drudgery--no. it was a very sorrowful evening--that between the adventurer and the child. they sate up late, till their candle had burned down to the socket; neither did they talk much; but his hand clasped hers all the time, and her head pillowed itself on his shoulder. i fear, when they parted, it was not for sleep. and when leonard went forth the next morning, helen stood at the street door, watching him depart--slowly, slowly. no doubt, in that humble lane there were many sad hearts; but no heart so heavy as that of the still quiet child, when the form she had watched was to be seen no more, and, still standing on the desolate threshold, she gazed into space and all was vacant. chapter xvi. mr. prickett was a believer in homeopathy, and declared to the indignation of all the apothecaries round holborn, that he had been cured of a chronic rheumatism by dr. morgan. the good doctor had, as he promised, seen mr. prickett when he left leonard, and asked him as a favor to find some light occupation for the boy, that would serve as an excuse for a modest weekly salary. "it will not be for long," said the doctor; "his relations are respectable and well off. i will write to his grand-parents, and in a few days i hope to relieve you of the charge. of course, if you don't want him, i will repay what he costs meanwhile." mr. prickett, thus prepared for leonard, received him very graciously, and, after a few questions, said leonard was just the person he wanted to assist him in cataloguing his books, and offered him most handsomely £ a week for the task. plunged at once into a world of books vaster than he had ever before won admission to, that old divine dream of knowledge, out of which poetry had sprung, returned to the village student at the very sight of the venerable volumes. the collection of mr. prickett was, however, in reality by no means large; but it comprised not only the ordinary standard works, but several curious and rare ones. and leonard paused in making the catalogue, and took many a hasty snatch of the contents of each tome, as it passed through his hands. the bookseller, who was an enthusiast for old books, was pleased to see a kindred feeling (which his shop-boy had never exhibited) in his new assistant; and he talked about rare editions and scarce copies, and initiated leonard into many of the mysteries of the bibliographist. nothing could be more dark and dingy than the shop. there was a booth outside, containing cheap books and odd volumes, round which there was always an attentive group; within, a gas-lamp burned night and day. but time passed quickly to leonard. he missed not the green fields, he forgot his disappointments, he ceased to remember even helen. o strange passion of knowledge! nothing like thee for strength and devotion. mr. prickett was a bachelor, and asked leonard to dine with him on a cold shoulder of mutton. during dinner the shop-boy kept the shop, and mr. prickett was really pleasant as well as loquacious. he took a liking to leonard--and leonard told him his adventures with the publishers, at which mr. prickett rubbed his hands and laughed as at a capital joke. "oh, give up poetry, and stick to a shop," cried he; "and, to cure you forever of the mad whim to be an author, i'll just lend you the _life and works of chatterton_. you may take it home with you and read before you go to bed. you'll come back quite a new man to-morrow." not till night, when the shop was closed, did leonard return to his lodging. and when he entered the room, he was struck to the soul by the silence, by the void. helen was gone! there was a rose-tree in its pot on the table at which he wrote, and by it a scrap of paper, on which was written: "dear, dear brother leonard, god bless you. i will let you know when we can meet again. take care of this rose, brother, and don't forget poor helen." over the word "forget" there was a big round blistered spot that nearly effaced the word. leonard leant his face on his hands, and for the first time in his life he felt what solitude really is. he could not stay long in the room. he walked out again, and wandered objectless to and fro the streets. he passed that stiller and humbler neighborhood, he mixed with the throng that swarmed in the more populous thoroughfares. hundreds and thousands passed him by, and still--still such solitude. he came back, lighted his candle, and resolutely drew forth the "chatterton" which the bookseller had lent him. it was an old edition in one thick volume. it had evidently belonged to some contemporary of the poet's--apparently an inhabitant of bristol--some one who had gathered up many anecdotes respecting chatterton's habits, and who appeared even to have seen him, nay, been in his company; for the book was interleaved, and the leaves covered with notes and remarks in a stiff clear hand--all evincing personal knowledge of the mournful, immortal dead. at first, leonard read with an effort; then the strange and fierce spell of that dread life seized upon him--seized with pain, and gloom, and terror--this boy dying by his own hand, about the age leonard had attained himself. this wonderous boy, of a genius beyond all comparison--the greatest that ever yet was developed and extinguished at the age of eighteen--self-taught--self-struggling--self-immolated. nothing in literature like that life and that death! with intense interest leonard perused the tale of the brilliant imposture, which had been so harshly and so absurdly construed into the crime of a forgery, and which was (if not wholly innocent) so akin to the literary devices always in other cases viewed with indulgence, and exhibiting, in this, intellectual qualities in themselves so amazing--such patience, such forethought, such labor, such courage, such ingenuity--the qualities that, well directed, make men great, not only in books, but action. and, turning from the history of the imposture to the poems themselves, the young reader bent before their beauty, literally awed and breathless. how had this strange bristol boy tamed and mastered his rude and motley materials into a music that comprehended every tune and key, from the simplest to the sublimest? he turned back to the biography--he read on--he saw the proud, daring, mournful spirit, alone in the great city like himself. he followed its dismal career, he saw it falling with bruised and soiled wings into the mire. he turned again to the later works, wrung forth as tasks for bread--the satires without moral grandeur, the politics without honest faith. he shuddered and sickened as he read. true, even here his poet mind appreciated (what perhaps only poets can) the divine fire that burned fitfully through that meaner and more sordid fuel--he still traced in those crude, hasty, bitter offerings to dire necessity, the hand of the young giant who had built up the stately verse of rowley. but, alas! how different from that "mighty line." how all serenity and joy had fled from these later exercises of art degraded into journey-work. then rapidly came on the catastrophe--the closed doors--the poison--the suicide--the manuscripts torn by the hands of despairing wrath, and strewed round the corpse upon the funeral floors. it was terrible! the spectre of the titan boy (as described in the notes written on the margin), with his haughty brow, his cynic smile, his lustrous eyes, haunted all the night the baffled and solitary child of song. chapter xvii. it will often happen that what ought to turn the human mind from some peculiar tendency produces the opposite effect. one would think that the perusal in the newspaper of some crime and capital punishment would warn away all who had ever meditated the crime, or dreaded the chance of detection. yet it is well known to us that many a criminal is made by pondering over the fate of some predecessor in guilt. there is a fascination in the dark and forbidden, which, strange to say, is only lost in fiction. no man is more inclined to murder his nephews, or stifle his wife, after reading richard the third or othello. it is the _reality_ that is necessary to constitute the danger of contagion. now, it was this reality in the fate, and life, and crowning suicide of chatterton, that forced itself upon leonard's thoughts, and sate there like a visible evil thing, gathering evil like cloud around it. there was much in the dead poet's character, his trials, and his doom, that stood out to leonard like a bold and colossal shadow of himself and his fate. alas! the bookseller, in one respect, had said truly. leonard came back to him the next day a new man; and it seemed even to himself as if he had lost a good angel in losing helen. "oh, that she had been by my side," thought he. "oh, that i could have felt the touch of her confiding hand--that, looking up from the scathed and dreary ruin of this life, that had sublimely lifted itself from the plain, and sought to tower aloft from a deluge, her mild look had spoken to me of innocent, humble, unaspiring childhood! ah! if indeed i were still necessary to her--still the sole guardian and protector--then could i say to myself, "thou must not despair and die! thou hast her to live and to strive for." but no, no! only this vast and terrible london--the solitude of the dreary garret, and those lustrous eyes glaring alike through the throng and through the solitude." chapter xviii. on the following monday, dr. morgan's shabby man-servant opened the door to a young man, in whom he did not at first remember a former visitor. a few days before, embrowned with healthful travel--serene light in his eye, simple trust in his careless lip--leonard fairfield had stood at that threshold. now again he stood there, pale and haggard, with a cheek already hollowed into those deep anxious lines that speak of working thoughts and sleepless nights: and a settled, sullen gloom resting heavily on his whole aspect. "i call by appointment," said the boy testily, as the servant stood irresolute. the man gave way. "master is just called out to a patient; please to wait, sir;" and he showed him into the little parlor. in a few moments two other patients were admitted. these were women, and they began talking very loud. they disturbed leonard's unsocial thoughts. he saw that the door into the doctor's receiving-room was half open, and, ignorant of the etiquette which holds such _penetralia_ as sacred, he walked in to escape from the gossips. he threw himself into the doctor's own well-worn chair, and muttered to himself, "why did he tell me to come?--what new can he think of for me? and if a favor, should i take it? he has given me the means of bread by work; that is all i have a right to ask from him, from any man--all i should accept." while thus soliloquizing, his eye fell on a letter lying open on the table. he started. he recognized the handwriting--the same as the letter which had inclosed £ to his mother--the letter of his grand-parents. he saw his own name: he saw something more--words that made his heart stand still, and his blood seem like ice in his veins. as he thus stood aghast, a hand was laid on the letter, and a voice, in an angry growl, muttered, "how dare you come into my room, and be reading my letters? er--r--r!" leonard placed his own hand on the doctor's firmly, and said in a fierce tone, "this letter relates to me--belongs to me--crushes me. i have seen enough to know that. i demand to read all--learn all." the doctor looked round, and seeing the door into the waiting-room still open, kicked it to with his foot, and then said, under his breath, "what have you read? tell me the truth." "two lines only, and i am called--i am called,"--leonard's frame shook from head to foot, and the veins on his forehead swelled like cords. he could not complete the sentence. it seemed as if an ocean was rolling up through his brain, and roaring in his ears. the doctor saw, at a glance, that there was physical danger in his state, and hastily and soothingly answered, "sit down, sit down--calm yourself--you shall know all--read all--drink this water;" and he poured into a tumbler of the pure liquid a drop or two from a tiny phial. leonard obeyed mechanically, for indeed he was no longer able to stand. he closed his eyes, and for a minute or two life seemed to pass from him; then he recovered, and saw the good doctor's gaze fixed on him with great compassion. he silently stretched forth his hand toward the letter. "wait a few moments," said the physician judiciously, "and hear me meanwhile. it is very unfortunate you should have seen a letter never meant for your eye, and containing allusions to a secret you were never to have known. but, if i tell you more, will you promise me, on your word of honor, that you will hold the confidence sacred from mrs. fairfield, the avenels--from all? i myself am pledged to conceal a secret, which i can only share with you on the same condition." "there is nothing," announced leonard indistinctly, and with a bitter smile on his lip--"nothing, it seems, that i should be proud to boast of. yes, i promise--the letter, the letter!" the doctor placed it in leonard's right hand, and quietly slipped to the wrist of the left his forefinger and thumb, as physicians are said to do when a victim is stretched on the rack. "pulse decreasing," he muttered; "wonderful thing, _aconite_!" meanwhile leonard read as follows, faults in spelling and all: "dr. morgan. "sir--i received your favur duly, and am glad to hear that the pore boy is safe and well. but he has been behaving ill, and ungrateful to my good son richard, who is a credit to the whole famuly, and has made himself a gentleman, and was very kind and good to the boy, not knowing who and what he is--god forbid! i don't want never to see him again--the boy. pore john was ill and restless for days afterwards. john is a pore cretur now, and has had paralytiks. and he talked of nothing but nora--the boy's eyes were so like his mother's. i cannot, cannot see the child of shame. he can't cum here--for our lord's sake, sir, don't ask it--he can't--so respectable as we've always been!--and such disgrace! base born--base born. keep him where he is, bind him prentis, i'll pay any thing for that. you says, sir, he's clever, and quick at learning; so did parson dale, and wanted him to go to collidge and make a figur--then all would cum out it would be my death, sir; i could not sleep in my grave, sir. nora that we were all so proud of. sinful creturs that we are! nora's good name that we've saved now, gone, gone. and richard, who is so grand, and who was so fond of pore, pore nora! he would not hold up his head again. don't let him make a figur in the world--let him be a tradesman, as we were afore him--any trade he takes to--and not cross us no more while he lives. then i shall pray for him, and wish him happy. and have not we had enuff of bringing up children to be above their birth? nora, that i used to say was like the first lady o' the land--oh, but we were rightly punished! so now, sir, i leave all to you, and will pay all you want for the boy. and be sure that the secret's kep. for we have never heard from the father, and, at leest, no one knows that nora has a living son but i and my daughter jane, and parson dale and you--and you two are good gentlemen--and jane will keep her word, and i am old, and shall be in my grave soon, but i hope it won't be while poor john needs me. what could he do without me? and if _that_ got wind, it would kill me straight, sir. pore john is a helpless cretur, god bliss him. so no more from your servant in all dooty, "m. avenel." leonard laid down this letter very calmly, and, except by a slight heaving at his breast, and a deathlike whiteness of his lips, the emotions he felt were undetected. and it is a proof how much exquisite goodness there was in his heart that the first words he spoke were, "thank heaven!" the doctor did not expect that thanksgiving, and he was so startled that he exclaimed, "for what?" "i have nothing to pity or excuse in the woman i knew and honored as a mother. i am not her son--her--" he stopped short. "no; but don't be hard on your true mother--poor nora!" leonard staggered, and then burst into a sudden paroxysm of tears. "oh, my own mother!--my dead mother! thou for whom i felt so mysterious a love--thou, from whom i took this poet soul--pardon me, pardon me! hard on thee! would that thou wert living yet, that i might comfort thee! what thou must have suffered!" these words were sobbed forth in broken gasps from the depth of his heart. then he caught up the letter again, and his thoughts were changed as his eyes fell upon the writer's shame and fear, as it were, of his very existence. all his native haughtiness returned to him. his crest rose, his tears dried. "tell her," he said, with a stern unfaltering voice--"tell mrs. avenel that she is obeyed--that i will never seek her roof, never cross her path, never disgrace her wealthy son. but tell her also, that i will choose my own way in life--that i will not take from her a bribe for concealment. tell her that i am nameless, and will yet make a name." a name! was this but an idle boast, or was it one of those flashes of conviction which are never belied, lighting up our future for one lurid instant, and then fading into darkness? "i do not doubt it, my prave poy," said dr. morgan, growing exceedingly welsh in his excitement; "and perhaps you may find a father, who--" "father--who is he--what is he? he lives then! but he has deserted me--he must have betrayed her! i need him not. the law gives me no father." the last words were said with a return of bitter anguish; then, in a calmer tone, he resumed, "but i should know who he is--as another one whose path i may not cross." dr. morgan looked embarrassed, and paused in deliberation. "nay," said he at length, "as you know so much, it is surely best that you should know all." the doctor then proceeded to detail, with some circumlocution, what we will here repeat from his account more succinctly. nora avenel, while yet very young, left her native village, or rather the house of lady lansmere, by whom she had been educated and brought up, in order to accept the place of governess or companion in london. one evening she suddenly presented herself at her father's house, and at the first sight of her mother's face she fell down insensible. she was carried to bed. dr. morgan (then the chief medical practitioner of the town) was sent for. that night leonard came into the world, and his mother died. she never recovered her senses, never spoke intelligibly from the time she entered the house. "and never, therefore, named your father," said dr. morgan. "we knew not who he was." "and how," cried leonard, fiercely, "how have they dared to slander this dead mother? how knew they that i--was--was--was not the child of wedlock?" "there was no wedding-ring on nora's finger--never any rumor of her marriage--her strange and sudden appearance at her father's house--her emotions on entrance, so unlike those natural to a wife returning to a parent's home: these are all the evidence against her. but mr. avenel deemed them strong, and so did i. you have a right to think we judged too harshly--perhaps we did." "and no inquiries were ever made?" said leonard, mournfully, and after a long silence--"no inquiries to learn who was the father of the motherless child?" "inquiries!--mrs. avenel would have died first. your grandmother's nature is very rigid. had she come from princes, from cadwallader himself," said the welshman, "she could not more have shrunk from the thought of dishonor. even over her dead child, the child she had loved the best, she thought but how to save that child's name and memory from suspicion. there was luckily no servant in the house, only mark fairfield and his wife (nora's sister): they had arrived that same day on a visit. "mrs. fairfield was nursing her own infant, two or three months old; she took charge of you; nora was buried, and the secret kept. none out of the family knew of it, but myself and the curate of the town, mr. dale. the day after your birth, mrs. fairfield, to prevent discovery, moved to a village at some distance. there her child died; and when she returned to hazeldean, where her husband was settled, you passed for the son she had lost. mark, i know, was as a father to you, for he had loved nora: they had been children together." "and she came to london--london is strong and cruel," muttered leonard. "she was friendless and deceived. i see all--i desire to know no more. this father, he must indeed have been like those whom i have read of in books. to love, to wrong her--_that_ i can conceive; but then to leave, to abandon; no visit to her grave--no remorse--no search for his own child. well, well; mrs. avenel was right. let us think of _him_ no more." the man-servant knocked at the door, and then put in his head. "sir, the ladies are getting very impatient, and say they'll go." "sir," said leonard, with a strange calm return to the things about him, "i ask your pardon for taking up your time so long. i go now. i will never mention to my moth--i mean to mrs. fairfield--what i have learned, nor to any one. i will work my way somehow. if mr. prickett will keep me, i will stay with him at present; but i repeat, i can not take mrs. avenel's money and be bound apprentice. sir, you have been good and patient with me--heaven reward you." the doctor was too moved to answer. he wrung leonard's hand, and in another minute the door closed upon the nameless boy. he stood alone in the streets of london; and the sun flashed on him, red and menacing, like the eye of a foe! chapter xix. leonard did not appear at the shop of mr. prickett that day. needless it is to say where he wandered--what he suffered--what thought--what felt. all within was storm. late at night he returned to his solitary lodging. on his table, neglected since the morning, was helen's rose-tree. it looked parched and fading. his heart smote him: he watered the poor plant--perhaps with his tears. meanwhile dr. morgan, after some debate with himself whether or not to apprise mrs. avenel of leonard's discovery and message, resolved to spare her an uneasiness and alarm that might be dangerous to her health, and unnecessary in itself. he replied shortly, that she need not fear leonard's coming to her house--that he was disinclined to bind himself an apprentice, but he was provided for at present; and, in a few weeks, when dr. morgan heard more of him through the tradesman by whom he was employed, the doctor would write to her from germany. he then went to mr. prickett's--told the willing bookseller to keep the young man for the present--to be kind to him, watch over his habits and conduct, and report to the doctor in his new home, on the rhine, what avocation he thought leonard would be best suited for, and most inclined to adopt. the charitable welshman divided with the bookseller the salary given to leonard, and left a quarter of his moiety in advance. it is true that he knew he should be repaid on applying to mrs. avenel; but, being a man of independent spirit himself, he so sympathized with leonard's present feelings, that he felt as if he should degrade the boy did he maintain him, even secretly, out of mrs. avenel's money--money intended not to raise, but keep him down in life. at the worst, it was a sum the doctor could afford, and he had brought the boy into the world. having thus, as he thought, safely provided for his two charges, helen and leonard, the doctor then gave himself up to his final preparations for departure. he left a short note for leonard with mr. prickett, containing some brief advice, some kind cheering; a postscript to the effect that he had not communicated to mrs. avenel the information leonard had acquired, and that it were best to leave her in that ignorance; and six small powders to be dissolved in water, and a tea spoonful every fourth hour--"sovereign against rage and sombre thoughts," wrote the doctor. by the evening of the next day dr. morgan, accompanied by his pet patient with the chronic tic, whom he had talked into exile, was on the steamboat on his way to ostend. leonard resumed his life at mr. prickett's; but the change in him did not escape the bookseller. all his ingenuous simplicity had deserted him. he was very distant, and very taciturn; he seemed to have grown much older. i shall not attempt to analyze metaphysically this change. by the help of such words as leonard may himself occasionally let fall, the reader will dive into the boy's heart, and see how there the change had worked, and is working still. the happy, dreamy peasant-genius, gazing on glory with inebriate, undazzled eyes, is no more. it is a man, suddenly cut off from the old household holy ties--conscious of great powers, and confronted on all sides by barriers of iron--alone with hard reality, and scornful london; and if he catches a glimpse of the lost helicon, he sees, where he saw the muse, a pale, melancholy spirit, vailing its face in shame--the ghost of the mournful mother, whose child has no name, not even the humblest, among the family of men. on the second evening after dr. morgan's departure, as leonard was just about to leave the shop, a customer stepped in with a book in his hand, which he had snatched from the shop-boy, who was removing the volumes for the night from the booth without. "mr. prickett, mr. prickett!" said the customer, "i am ashamed of you. you presume to put upon this work, in two volumes, the sum of eight shillings." mr. prickett stepped forth from the cimmerian gloom of some recess, and cried, "what! mr. burley, is that you? but for your voice, i should not have known you." "man is like a book, mr. prickett; the commonalty only look to his binding. i am better bound, it is very true." leonard glanced toward the speaker, who now stood under the gas-lamp, and thought he recognized his face. he looked again. yes; it was the perch-fisher whom he had met on the banks of the brent, and who had warned him of the lost fish and the broken line. mr. burley (continuing).--"but the 'art of thinking!'--you charge eight shillings for the 'art of thinking.'" mr. prickett.--"cheap enough, mr. burley. a very clean copy." mr. burley.--"usurer! i sold it to you for three shillings. it is more than per cent you propose to gain from my 'art of thinking.'" mr. prickett (stuttering and taken aback).--"_you_ sold it to me! ah, now i remember. but it was more than three shillings i gave. you forget--two glasses of brandy-and-water." mr. burley.--"hospitality, sir, is not to be priced. if you sell your hospitality, you are not worthy to possess my 'art of thinking.' i resume it. there are three shillings, and a shilling more for interest. no: on second thoughts, instead of that shilling, i will return your hospitality; and the first time you come my way you shall have two glasses of brandy-and-water." mr. prickett did not look pleased, but he made no objection; and mr. burley put the book into his pocket, and turned to examine the shelves. he bought an old jest-book, a stray volume of the comedies of destouches--paid for them--put them also into his pocket, and was sauntering out, when he perceived leonard, who was now standing at the doorway. "hem! who is that?" he asked, whispering mr. prickett. "a young assistant of mine, and very clever." mr. burley scanned leonard from top to toe. "we have met before, sir. but you look as if you had returned to the brent, and been fishing for my perch." "possibly, sir," answered leonard. "but my line is tough, and is not yet broken, though the fish drags it among the weeds, and buries itself in the mud." he lifted his hat, bowed slightly, and walked on. "he _is_ clever," said mr. burley to the bookseller: "he understands allegory." mr. pickett.--"poor youth! he came to town with the idea of turning author: you know what _that_ is, mr. burley." mr. burley (with an air of superb dignity).--"bibliopole, yes! an author is a being between gods and men, who ought to be lodged in a palace, and entertained at the public charge upon ortolans and tokay. he should be kept lapped in down, and curtained with silken awnings from the cares of life--have nothing to do but to write books upon tables of cedar, and fish for perch from a gilded galley. and that's what will come to pass when the ages lose their barbarism, and know their benefactors. meanwhile, sir, i invite you to my rooms, and will regale you upon brandy-and-water as long as i can pay for it; and when i can not, you shall regale me." mr. prickett muttered, "a very bad bargain, indeed," as mr. burley, with his chin in the air, stepped into the street. chapter xx. at first, leonard had always returned home through the crowded thoroughfares--the contact of numbers had animated his spirits. but the last two days, since his discovery of his birth, he had taken his way down the comparatively unpeopled path of the new road. he had just gained that part of this outskirt in which the statuaries and tomb-makers exhibit their gloomy wares--furniture alike for gardens and for graves--and, pausing, contemplated a column, on which was placed an urn half covered with a funeral mantle, when his shoulder was lightly tapped, and, turning quickly, he saw mr. burley standing behind him. "excuse me, sir, but you understand perch-fishing; and since we find ourselves on the same road, i should like to be better acquainted with you. i hear you once wished to be an author. i am one." leonard had never before, to his knowledge, seen an author, and a mournful smile passed his lips as he surveyed the perch-fisher. mr. burley was indeed very differently attired since the first interview by the brooklet. he looked much less like an author--but more perhaps like a perch-fisher. he had a new white hat, stuck on one side of his head--a new green overcoat--new gray trowsers, and new boots. in his hand was a whalebone stick, with a silver handle. nothing could be more vagrant, devil-me-carish, and, to use a slang word, _tigrish_, than his whole air. yet, vulgar as was his costume, he did not himself seem vulgar, but rather eccentric--lawless--something out of the pale of convention. his face looked more pale and more puffed than before, the tip of his nose redder; but the spark in his eye was of livelier light, and there was self-enjoyment in the corners of his sensual humorous lip. "you are an author, sir," repeated leonard. "well. and what is your report of the calling? yonder column props an urn. the column is tall, and the urn is graceful. but it looks out of place by the road-side: what say you?" mr. burley.--"it would look better in the church-yard." leonard.--"so i was thinking. and you are an author!" mr. burley.--"ah, i said you had a quick sense of allegory. and so you think an author looks better in a church-yard, when you see him but as a muffled urn under the moonshine, than standing beneath the gas-lamp in a white hat, and with a red tip to his nose. abstractedly, you are right. but, with your leave, the author would rather be where he is. let us walk on." the two men felt an interest in each other, and they walked some yards in silence. "to return to the urn," said mr. burley--"you think of fame and church-yards. natural enough, before illusion dies; but i think of the moment, of existence--and i laugh at fame. fame, sir--not worth a glass of cold without! and as for a glass of warm, with sugar--and five shillings in one's pocket to spend as one pleases--what is there in westminster abbey to compare with it?" "talk on, sir--i should like to hear you talk. let me listen and hold my tongue." leonard pulled his hat over his brows, and gave up his moody, questioning, turbulent mind to his new acquaintance. and john burley talked on. a dangerous and a fascinating talk it was--the talk of a great intellect fallen. a serpent trailing its length on the ground, and showing bright, shifting, glorious hues, as it groveled. a serpent, yet without the serpent's guile. if john burley deceived and tempted, he meant it not--he crawled and glittered alike honestly. no dove could be more simple. laughing at fame, he yet dwelt with an eloquent enthusiasm on the joy of composition. "what do i care what men without are to say and think of the words that gush forth on my page?" cried he. "if you think of the public, of urns, and laurels, while you write, you are no genius; you are not fit to be an author. i write because it rejoices me--because it is my nature. written, i care no more what becomes of it than the lark for the effect that the song has on the peasant it wakes to the plough. the poet, like the lark, sings 'from his watch-tower in the skies.' is this true?" "yes, very true!" "what can rob us of this joy! the bookseller will not buy, the public will not read. let them sleep at the foot of the ladder of the angels--we climb it all the same. and then one settles down into such good-tempered lucianic contempt for men. one wants so little from them, when one knows what one's-self is worth, and what they are. they are just worth the coin one can extract from them, in order to live. our life--_that_ is worth so much to us. and then their joys, so vulgar to them, we can make them golden and kingly. do you suppose burns drinking at the ale-house with his boors around him, was drinking, like them, only beer and whisky? no, he was drinking nectar--he was imbibing his own ambrosial thoughts--shaking with the laughter of the gods. the coarse human liquid was just needed to unlock his spirit from the clay--take it from jerkin and corduroys, and wrap it in the 'singing robes' that floated wide in the skies: the beer or the whisky needed but for that, and then it changed at once into the drink of hebé. but come, you have not known this life--you have not seen it. come, give me this night. i have moneys about me--i will fling them abroad as liberally as alexander himself, when he left to his share but hope. come!" "whither?" "to my throne. on that throne last sate edmund kean--mighty mime. i am his successor. we will see whether in truth these wild sons of genius, who are cited but 'to point a moral and adorn a tale,' were objects of compassion. sober-suited cits to lament over a savage and a morland--a porson and a burns!--" "or a chatterton," said leonard, gloomily. "chatterton was an impostor in all things; he feigned excesses that he never knew. _he_ a bacchanalian--a royster! he!--no. we will talk of him. come!" leonard went. chapter xxi. the room! and the smoke-reek, and the gas glare of it. the whitewash of the walls, and the prints thereon of the actors in their mime-robes, and stage postures; actors as far back as their own lost augustan era, when the stage was a real living influence on the manners and the age. there was betterton in wig and gown--as cato, moralizing on the soul's eternity, and halting between plato and the dagger. there was woodward as "the fine gentleman," with the inimitable rake-hell air in which the heroes of wycherly and congreve and farquhar live again. there was jovial quin as falstaff, with round buckler and "fair round belly." there was colly cibber in brocade--taking snuff as with "his lord," the thumb and forefinger raised in air--and looking at you for applause. there was macklin as shylock, with knife in hand: and kemble, in the solemn weeds of the dane; and kean in the place of honor over the chimney-piece. when we are suddenly taken from practical life, with its real workday men, and presented to the portraits of those sole heroes of a world--phantastic and phantasmal, in the garments wherein they did "strut and fret their hour upon the stage," verily there is something in the sight that moves an inner sense within ourselves--for all of us have an inner sense of some existence, apart from the one that wears away our days: an existence that, afar from st. james's and st. giles's, the law courts and exchange, goes its way in terror or mirth, in smiles or in tears, through a vague magic land of the poets. there, see those actors! they are the men who lived it--to whom our world was the false one, to whom the imaginary was the actual. and did shakspeare himself, in his life, ever hearken to the applause that thundered round the personators of his airy images? vague children of the most transient of the arts, fleet shadows on running waters, though thrown down from the steadfast stars, were ye not happier than we who live in the real? how strange you must feel in the great circuit that ye now take through eternity! no prompt-books, no lamps, no acting congreve and shakspeare there! for what parts in the skies have your studies on the earth fitted you? your ultimate destinies are very puzzling. hail to your effigies, and pass we on! there, too, on the whitewashed walls, were admitted the portraits of ruder rivals in the arena of fame--yet they, too, had known an applause warmer than his age gave to shakspeare; the champions of the ring--cribb, and molyneux, and dutch sam. interspersed with these was an old print of newmarket in the early part of the last century, and sundry engravings from hogarth. but poets, oh! they were there too; poets who might be supposed to have been sufficiently good fellows to be at home with such companions. shakspeare, of course, with his placid forehead; ben jonson, with his heavy scowl; burns and byron cheek by jowl. but the strangest of all these heterogeneous specimens of graphic art was a full-length print of william pitt!--william pitt, the austere and imperious. what the deuce did he do there among prize-fighters, and actors, and poets? it seemed an insult to his grand memory. nevertheless there he was, very erect, and with a look of ineffable disgust in his upturned nostrils. the portraits on the sordid walls were very like the crambo in the minds of ordinary men--very like the motley pictures of the famous hung up in your parlor, o my public! actors and prize-fighters, poets and statesmen, all without congruity and fitness, all whom you have been to see or to hear for a moment, and whose names have stared out in your newspapers, o my public! and the company? indescribable! comedians, from small theatres, out of employ; pale haggard-looking boys, probably the sons of worthy traders, trying their best to break their fathers' hearts; here and there the marked features of a jew. now and then you might see the curious, puzzled face of some greenhorn about town, or perhaps a cantab; and men of grave age, and gray-haired, were there, and among them a wondrous proportion of carbuncled faces and bottle noses. and when john burley entered, there was a shout that made william pitt shake in his frame. such stamping and hallooing, and such hurrahs for "burly john." and the gentleman who had filled the great high leathern chair in his absence gave it up to john burley; and leonard, with his grave observant eye, and lip half sad and half scornful, placed himself by the side of his introducer. there was a nameless expectant stir through the assembly, as there is in the pit of the opera when some great singer advances to the lamps, and begins "_di tanti pal piti_." time flies. look at the dutch clock over the door. half-an-hour! john burley begins to warm. a yet quicker light begins to break from his eye; his voice has a mellow, luscious roll in it. "he will be grand to-night," whispered a thin man, who looked like a tailor, seated on the other side of leonard. time flies--an hour! look again at the dutch clock. john burley _is_ grand, he is in his zenith, at his culminating point. what magnificent drollery!--what luxuriant humor! how the rabelais shakes in his easy chair! under the rush and the roar of this fun (what word else shall describe it), the man's intellect is as clear as gold sand under a river. such wit and such truth, and, at times, such a flood of quick eloquence. all now are listeners, silent, save in applause. and leonard listened too. not, as he would some nights ago, in innocent, unquestioning delight. no; his mind has passed through great sorrow, great passion, and it comes out unsettled, inquiring, eager, brooding over joy itself as over a problem. and the drink circulates, and faces change; and there are gabbling and babbling; and burley's head sinks in his bosom, and he is silent. and up starts a wild, dissolute bacchanalian glee for seven voices. and the smoke-reek grows denser and thicker, and the gas-light looks dizzy through the haze. and john burley's eyes reel. look again at the dutch clock. two hours have gone. john burley has broken out again from his silence, his voice thick and husky, and his laugh cracked; and he talks, o ye gods! such rubbish and ribaldry; and the listeners roar aloud, and think it finer than before. and leonard, who had hitherto been measuring himself, in his mind, against the giant, and saying inly, "he soars out of my reach," finds the giant shrink smaller and smaller, and saith to himself, "he is but of man's common standard, after all!" look again at the dutch clock. three hours have passed. is john burley now of man's common standard? man himself seems to have vanished from the scene: his soul stolen from him, his form gone away with the fumes of the smoke, and the nauseous steam from that fiery bowl. and leonard looked round, and saw but the swine of circe--some on the floor, some staggering against the walls, some hugging each other on the tables, some fighting, some bawling, some weeping. the divine spark had fled from the human face; the beast is every where growing more and more out of the thing that had been man. and john burley, still unconquered, but clean lost to his senses, fancies himself a preacher, and drawls forth the most lugubrious sermon upon the brevity of life that mortal ever heard, accompanied with unctuous sobs; and now and then, in the midst of balderdash, gleams out a gorgeous sentence, that jeremy taylor might have envied: driveling away again into a cadence below the rhetoric of a muggletonian. and the waiters choked up the doorway, listening and laughing, and prepared to call cabs and coaches; and suddenly some one turned off the gas-light, and all was dark as pitch--howls and laughter, as of the damned, ringing through the pandemonium. out from the black atmosphere stept the boy-poet; and the still stars rushed on his sight, as they looked over the grimy roof-tops. chapter xxii. well, leonard, this is the first time thou hast shown that thou hast in thee the iron out of which true manhood is forged and shaped. thou hast _the power to resist_. forth, unebriate, unpolluted, he came from the orgy, as yon star above him came from the cloud. he had a latch-key to his lodging. he let himself in, and walked noiselessly up the creaking, wooden stair. it was dawn. he passed on to his window, and threw it open. the green elm-tree from the carpenter's yard looked as fresh and fair as if rooted in solitudes, leagues away from the smoke of babylon. "nature, nature!" murmured leonard, "i hear thy voice now. this stills--this strengthens. but the struggle is very dread. here, despair of life--there, faith in life. nature thinks of neither, and lives serenely on." by-and-by a bird slid softly from the heart of the tree, and dropped on the ground below out of sight. but leonard heard its carol. it awoke its companions--wings began to glance in the air, and the clouds grew red toward the east. leonard sighed and left the window. on the table, near helen's rose-tree, which he bent over wistfully, lay a letter. he had not observed it before. it was in helen's hand. he took it to the light, and read it by the pure healthful gleams of morn: "oh my dear brother leonard, will this find you well, and (more happy i dare not say, but) less sad than when we parted? i write kneeling, so that it seems to me as if i wrote and prayed at the same time. you may come and see me to-morrow evening, leonard. do come, do--we shall walk together in this pretty garden; and there is an arbor all covered with jessamine and honeysuckle, from which we can look down on london. i have looked from it so many times--so many--trying if i can guess the roofs in our poor little street, and fancying that i do see the dear elm-tree. "miss starke is very kind to me; and i think, after i have seen you, that i shall be happy here--that is, if you are happy. "your own grateful sister, "helen. "ivy lodge." "p.s.--any one will direct you to our house; it lies to the left, near the top of the hill, a little way down a lane which is overhung on one side with chestnut trees and lilies. i shall be watching for you at the gate." leonard's brow softened, he looked again like his former self. up from the dark sea at his heart smiled the meek face of a child, and the waves lay still as at the charm of a spirit. chapter xxiii. "and what is mr. burley, and what has he written?" asked leonard of mr. prickett when he returned to the shop. let us reply to that question in our own words, for we know more about mr. burley than mr. prickett does. john burley was the only son of a poor clergyman, in a village near ealing, who had scraped, and saved, and pinched, to send his son to an excellent provincial school in a northern county, and thence to college. at the latter, during his first year, young burley was remarked by the undergraduates for his thick shoes and coarse linen, and remarkable to the authorities for his assiduity and learning. the highest hopes were entertained of him by the tutors and examiners. at the beginning of the second year his high animal spirits, before kept down by study, broke out. reading had become easy to him. he knocked off his tasks with a facile stroke, as it were. he gave up his leisure hours to symposia by no means socratical. he fell into an idle, hard-drinking set. he got into all kinds of scrapes. the authorities were at first kind and forbearing in their admonitions, for they respected his abilities, and still hoped he might become an honor to the university. but at last he went drunk into a formal examination, and sent in papers, after the manner of aristophanes, containing capital jokes upon the dons and big-wigs themselves. the offense was the greater, and seemed the more premeditated, for being clothed in greek. john burley was expelled. he went home to his father's a miserable man, for, with all his follies, he had a good heart. removed from ill-example, his life for a year was blameless. he got admitted as usher into the school in which he had received instruction as a pupil. this school was in a large town. john burley became member of a club formed among the tradesmen, and spent three evenings a week there. his astonishing convival and conversational powers began to declare themselves. he grew the oracle of the club; and, from being the most sober, peaceful assembly in which grave fathers of a family ever smoked a pipe or sipped a glass, it grew under mr. burley's auspices the parent of revels as frolicking and frantic as those out of which the old greek goat song ever tipsily rose. this would not do. there was a great riot in the streets one night, and the next morning the usher was dismissed. fortunately for john burley's conscience, his father had died before this happened--died believing in the reform of his son. during his ushership, mr. burley had scraped acquaintance with the editor of the county newspaper, and given him some capital political articles; for burley was, like parr and porson, a notable politician. the editor furnished him with letters to the journalists in london, and john came to the metropolis and got employed on a very respectable newspaper. at college he had known audley egerton, though but slightly: that gentleman was then just rising into repute in parliament. burley sympathized with some question on which audley had distinguished himself, and wrote a very good article thereon--an article so good that egerton inquired into the authorship, found out burley, and resolved in his own mind to provide for him whenever he himself came into office. but burley was a man whom it was impossible to provide for. he soon lost his connection with the newspaper. first, he was so irregular that he could never be depended upon. secondly, he had strange honest eccentric twists of thinking, that could coalesce with the thoughts of no party in the long run. an article of his, inadvertently admitted, had horrified all the proprietors, staff, and readers of the paper. it was diametrically opposite to the principles the paper advocated, and compared its pet politician to catiline. then john burley shut himself up and wrote books. he wrote two or three books, very clever, but not at all to the popular taste--abstract and learned, full of whims that were _caviare_ to the multitude, and larded with greek. nevertheless they obtained for him a little money, and among literary men some reputation. now audley egerton came into power, and got him, though with great difficulty--for there were many prejudices against this scampish, harum-scarum son of the muses--a place in a public office. he kept it about a month, and then voluntarily resigned it. "my crust of bread and liberty!" quoth john burley, and he vanished into a garret. from that time to the present he lived--heaven knows how. literature is a business, like every thing else; john burley grew more and more incapable of business. "he could not do task-work," he said; he wrote when the whim seized him, or when the last penny was in his pouch, or when he was actually in the spunging-house or the fleet--migrations which occurred to him, on an average, twice a year. he could generally sell what he had positively written, but no one would engage him beforehand. magazines and other periodicals were very glad to have his articles, on the condition that they were anonymous; and his style was not necessarily detected, for he could vary it with the facility of a practiced pen. audley egerton continued his best supporter, for there were certain questions on which no one wrote with such force as john burley--questions connected with the metaphysics of politics, such as law reform and economical science. and audley egerton was the only man john burley put himself out of the way to serve, and for whom he would give up a drinking bout and do _task-work_; for john burley was grateful by nature, and he felt that egerton had really tried to befriend him. indeed, it was true, as he had stated to leonard by the brent, that, even after he had resigned his desk in the london office, he had had the offer of an appointment in jamaica, and a place in india from the minister. but probably there were other charms then than those exercised by the one-eyed perch that kept him to the neighborhood of london. with all his grave faults of character and conduct, john burley was not without the fine qualities of a large nature. he was most resolutely his own enemy, it is true, but he could hardly be said to be any one else's. even when he criticised some more fortunate writer, he was good-humored in his very satire: he had no bile, no envy. and as for freedom from malignant personalities, he might have been a model to all critics. i must except politics, however, for in these he could be rabid and savage. he had a passion for independence, which, though pushed to excess, was not without grandeur. no lick-platter, no parasite, no toadeater, no literary beggar, no hunter after patronage and subscriptions; even in his dealings with audley egerton, he insisted on naming the price for his labors. he took a price, because, as the papers required by audley demanded much reading and detail, which was not at all to his taste, he considered himself entitled fairly to something more than the editor of the journal, wherein the papers appeared, was in the habit of giving. but he assessed this extra price himself, and as he would have done to a bookseller. and when in debt and in prison, though he knew a line to egerton would have extricated him, he never wrote that line. he would depend alone on his pen--dipped it hastily in the ink, and scrawled himself free. the most debased point about him was certainly the incorrigible vice of drinking, and with it the usual concomitant of that vice--the love of low company. to be king of the bohemians--to dazzle by his wild humor, and sometimes to exalt by his fanciful eloquence, the rude gross natures that gathered round him--this was a royalty that repaid him for all sacrifice of solid dignity; a foolscap crown that he would not have changed for an emperor's diadem. indeed, to appreciate rightly the talents of john burley, it was necessary to hear him talk on such occasions. as a writer, after all, he was only capable now of unequal desultory efforts. but as a talker, in his own wild way, he was original and matchless. and the gift of talk is one of the most dangerous gifts a man can possess for his own sake--the applause is so immediate, and gained with so little labor. lower, and lower, and lower had sunk john burley, not only in the opinion of all who knew his name, but in the habitual exercise of his talents. and this seemed willfully--from choice. he would write for some unstamped journal of the populace, out of the pale of the law, for pence, when he could have got pounds from journals of high repute. he was very fond of scribbling off penny ballads, and then standing in the street to hear them sung. he actually once made himself the poet of an advertising tailor, and enjoyed it excessively. but that did not last long, for john burley was a pittite--not a tory, he used to say, but a pittite. and if you had heard him talk of pitt, you would never have known what to make of that great statesman. he treated him as the german commentators do shakspeare, and invested him with all imaginary meanings and objects, that would have turned the grand practical man into a sibyl. well, he was a pittite; the tailor a fanatic for thelwall and cobbett. mr. burley wrote a poem, wherein britannia appeared to the tailor, complimented him highly on the art he exhibited in adorning the persons of her sons; and, bestowing upon him a gigantic mantle, said that he, and he alone, might be enabled to fit it to the shoulders of living men. the rest of the poem was occupied in mr. snip's unavailing attempts to adjust this mantle to the eminent politicians of the day, when, just as he had sunk down in despair, britannia reappeared to him, and consoled him with the information that he had done all mortal man could do, and that she had only desired to convince pigmies that no human art could adjust to _their_ proportions the mantle of william pitt. _sic itur ad astra._ she went back to the stars, mantle and all. mr. snip was exceedingly indignant at this allegorical effusion, and with wrathful shears cut the tie between himself and his poet. thus, then, the reader has, we trust, a pretty good idea of john burley--a specimen of his genus, not very common in any age, and now happily almost extinct, since authors of all degrees share in the general improvement in order, economy, and sober decorum, which has obtained in the national manners. mr. prickett, though entering into less historical detail than we have done, conveyed to leonard a tolerably accurate notion of the man, representing him as a person of great powers and learning, who had thoroughly thrown himself away. leonard did not, however, see how much mr. burley himself was to be blamed for his waste of life; he could not conceive a man of genius voluntarily seating himself at the lowest step in the social ladder. he rather supposed he had been thrust down there by necessity. and when mr. prickett, concluding, said, "well, i should think burley would cure you of the desire to be an author even more than chatterton," the young man answered gloomily, "perhaps," and turned to the book-shelves. with mr. prickett's consent, leonard was released earlier than usual from his task, and a little before sunset he took his way to highgate. he was fortunately directed to take the new road by the regent's park, and so on through a very green and smiling country. the walk, the freshness of the air, the songs of the birds, and, above all, when he had got half-way, the solitude of the road, served to rouse him from his stern and sombre meditations. and when he came into the lane overhung with chestnut trees, and suddenly caught sight of helen's watchful and then brightening face, as she stood by the wicket, and under the shadow of cool murmurous boughs, the blood rushed gayly through his veins, and his heart beat loud and gratefully. chapter xxiv. she drew him into the garden with such true childlike joy! now behold them seated in the arbor--a perfect bower of sweets and blossoms; the wilderness of roof-tops and spires stretching below, broad and far; london seen dim and silent, as in a dream. she took his hat from his brows gently, and looked him in the face with tearful, penetrating eyes. she did not say, "you are changed." she said, "why, why did i leave you?" and then turned away. "never mind me, helen. i am man, and rudely born--speak of yourself. this lady is kind to you, then?" "does she not let me see you? oh! very kind--and look here." helen pointed to fruits and cakes set out on the table. "a feast, brother." and she began to press her hospitality with pretty winning ways, more playful than was usual to her, and talking very fast, and with forced but silvery laughter. by degrees she stole him from his gloom and reserve; and, though he could not reveal to her the cause of his bitterest sorrow, he owned that he had suffered much. he would not have owned _that_ to another living being. and then, quickly turning from this brief confession, with assurances that the worst was over, he sought to amuse her by speaking of his new acquaintance with the perch-fisher. but when he spoke of this man with a kind of reluctant admiration, mixed with compassionate yet gloomy interest, and drew a grotesque though subdued sketch of the wild scene in which he had been spectator, helen grew alarmed and grave. "oh, brother, do not go there again--do not see more of this bad man." "bad!--no! hopeless and unhappy, he has stooped to stimulants and oblivion; but you can not understand these things, my pretty preacher." "yes i do, leonard. what is the difference between being good and bad? the good do not yield to temptations, and the bad do." the definition was so simple and so wise that leonard was more struck with it than he might have been by the most elaborate sermon by parson dale. "i have often murmured to myself since i lost you, 'helen was my good angel;' say on. for my heart is dark to myself, and while you speak light seems to dawn on it." this praise so confused helen that she was long before she could obey the command annexed to it. but, by little and little, words came to both more frankly. and then he told her the sad tale of chatterton, and waited, anxious to hear her comments. "well," he said, seeing that she remained silent, "how can _i_ hope, when this mighty genius labored and despaired? what did he want, save birth and fortune, and friends, and human justice." "did he pray to god?" said helen, drying her tears. again leonard was startled. in reading the life of chatterton, he had not much noted the skepticism, assumed or real of the ill-fated aspirer to earthly immortality. at helen's question, that skepticism struck him forcibly. "why do you ask that, helen?" "because, when we pray often, we grow so very, very patient," answered the child. "perhaps, had he been patient a few months more, all would have been won by him, as it will be by you, brother; for you pray, and you will be patient." leonard bowed his head in deep thought, and this time the thought was not gloomy. then out from that awful life there glowed another passage, which before he had not heeded duly, but regarded rather as one of the darkest mysteries in the fate of chatterton. at the very time the despairing poet had locked himself up in his garret, to dismiss his soul from its earthly ordeal, his genius had just found its way into the light of renown. good and learned and powerful men were preparing to serve and save him. another year--nay, perchance another month--and he might have stood acknowledged and sublime in the foremost front of his age. "oh, helen!" cried leonard, raising his brows from which the cloud had passed, "why, indeed, did you leave me?" helen started in her turn as he repeated this regret, and in her turn grew thoughtful. at length she asked him if he had written for the box which had belonged to her father, and been left at the inn. and leonard, though a little chafed at what he thought a childish interruption to themes of graver interest, owned with self-reproach that he had forgotten to do so. should he not write now to order the box to be sent to her at miss starke's. "no; let it be sent to you. take care of it. i should like to know that something of mine is with you; and perhaps i may not stay here long." "not stay here? that you must, my dear helen--at least as long as miss starke will keep you, and is kind. by-and-by (added leonard, with something of his former sanguine tone) i may yet make my way, and we shall have our cottage to ourselves. but--oh helen!--i forgot--you wounded me; you left your money with me. i only found it in my drawers the other day. fie!--i have brought it back." "it was not mine--it is yours. we were to share together--you paid all; and how can i want it here too?" but leonard was obstinate; and as helen mournfully received back all that of fortune her father had bequeathed to her, a tall female figure stood at the entrance of the arbor, and said, in a voice that scattered all sentiment to the winds, "young man, it is time to go." chapter xxv. "already!" said helen, with faltering accents, as she crept to miss starke's side while leonard rose and bowed. "i am very grateful to you, madam," said he, with the grace that comes from all refinement of idea, "for allowing me to see miss helen. do not let me abuse your kindness." miss starke seemed struck with his look and manner, and made a stiff half courtesy. a form more rigid than miss starke's it was hard to conceive. she was like the grim white woman in the nursery ballads. yet, apparently, there was a good nature in allowing the stranger to enter her trim garden, and providing for him and her little charge those fruits and cakes, which belied her aspect. "may i go with him to the gate?" whispered helen, as leonard had already passed up the path. "you may, child; but do not loiter. and then come back, and lock up the cakes and cherries, or patty will get at them." helen ran after leonard. "write to me brother--write to me; and do not, do not be friends with this man, who took you to that wicked, wicked place." "oh, helen, i go from you strong enough to brave worse dangers than that," said leonard almost gayly. they kissed each other at the little wicket gate, and parted. leonard walked home under the summer moonlight, and on entering his chamber, looked first at his rose-tree. the leaves of yesterday's flowers lay strewn round it; but the tree had put forth new buds. "nature ever restores," said the young man. he paused a moment, and added, "is it that nature is very patient?" his sleep that night was not broken by the fearful dreams he had lately known. he rose refreshed, and went his way to his day's work--not stealing along the less crowded paths, but with a firm step, through the throng of men. be bold, adventurer--thou hast more to suffer! wilt thou sink? i look into thy heart, and i can not answer. (to be continued.) [footnote : it may be necessary to observe, that homeopathy professes to deal with our moral affections as well as with our physical maladies, and has a globule for every sorrow.] monthly record of current events. united states. elections for members of congress, and other officers, have been held, during the month of august, in the following states: alabama, arkansas, indiana, kentucky, north carolina, tennessee, and texas, entitled in all to representatives. these states are now represented by whigs and democrats. from the returns that have come to hand up to the day when we close our record for the month (august ), it appears that in these states the whigs lose one and gain two members of congress. the states which had previously elected representatives have members, of whom are whigs and democrats. the states which have still to choose are louisiana, mississippi, georgia, virginia, maryland, and california, which are entitled to representatives. the delegation of these states in the last congress stood whigs to democrats. it is therefore evident that there will be a large democratic majority in the next congress. the results of the recent elections, as far as we are able to give them, are as follows, liable, however, to correction, in one or two instances, from the official returns. in _kentucky_, lazarus w. powell, democrat, is elected governor, by a small majority; the whig candidate for lieutenant-gov., j.b. thompson, is elected. both branches of the legislature are whig, which secures a senator from that party in , when the term of mr. underwood expires, and another in place of mr. clay, should he resign his seat, as is confidently asserted to be his purpose. the congressional delegation stands five of each party; a democratic gain of one member. in _indiana_ the whigs have chosen two, and the democrats eight members of congress, a whig gain of one. the legislature is democratic, by a large majority. in _alabama_ the main contest was between the union and secession parties. henry w. collier, democrat, who maintains that a state has the right to secede, is re-elected governor, without any regular opposition. the legislature is union by a decided majority. the congressional delegation consists of five unionists, of whom two are whigs and three democrats; and two secessionist democrats. in _north carolina_ the members elected to congress consist of six whigs, of whom one is a secessionist; and three democrats, of whom two are secessionists. in _tennessee_ wm. b. campbell, whig, is elected governor, over the present democratic incumbent. the congressional delegation consists of five whigs and six democrats; a whig gain of one. the legislature is said to be whig, which will secure to that party the choice of a senator in place of mr. turney, democrat, whose term expires this year. the cuban insurrection has caused considerable excitement, more especially at the south. general lopez addressed a public meeting at new orleans on the th of july. expeditions in aid of the cubans are reported to have sailed from florida and new orleans. among the adventurers are named a number of the hungarian refugees. we have sedulously guarded against suffering our monthly record to assume the character of a chronicle of crime. but we can not omit noticing the enormous increase of crime, especially of offenses committed with violence, during the last few months. the extraordinary number of immigrants who have landed in our country for some months past begins to produce the effect upon our criminal statistics which was to be apprehended. it will be observed that a very large proportion of those arrested for crimes are of foreign origin. the number of commitments to the new york city prison during the month of july was , of whom were of native, and of foreign birth. the statistics of the alms house present a similar proportion of foreigners. the crops, taking the whole country together, are represented as unusually abundant the present season. there are, however, some important exceptions. in maryland, virginia, and throughout a large part of the south, the maize has suffered severely from drought, and a very scanty return is anticipated. the tobacco crop in the same states, is said to be very deficient. it is also anticipated that taking the whole cotton crop together, it will fall short of the usual quantity, though in many localities the reports are favorable. in louisiana, the sugar plantations suffered greatly from the overflow of the mississippi in the early part of the season, which is reported to have affected one-third of the sugar-estates; since this, the cane has been injured by the drought. with these important exceptions, the harvest is reported to be abundant, almost beyond precedent. this is especially the case in new york, and the wheat-growing portions of the west. from almost the entire extent of our frontier territories we have accounts of indian hostilities. in texas the valley of the rio grande is terribly annoyed by their depredations. the seminoles, transplanted to the mexican frontier some years since, have shown a disposition hostile to the mexicans, and as we are bound by treaty to repress their ravages, no little annoyance is anticipated in connection with them. in new mexico the camanches, navajoes, and pueblos have committed numerous acts of hostility, and the protection of the whites will demand the utmost exertions on the part of the new military commandant. parties of emigrants proceeding overland to oregon have been stopped by the wandering tribes, and contributions demanded for the privilege of passing through their country. in oregon hostilities have broken out with fresh violence. the latest arrivals bring accounts of a number of hostile engagements, attacks, and massacres. in california difficulties are by no means at an end. large numbers of the indians refuse to enter into peaceful arrangements, and continue their depredations. in _south carolina_ a large meeting was held at charleston, on the th of july, of those who are in favor of co-operation for the purpose of resistance, and opposed to separate state action, under present circumstances. john rutledge, esq., was chosen chairman. a letter was read from hon. langdon cheves, approving the object of the meeting, asserting the right of secession, but affirming that it would not be "a moral or social one on the part of one southern state in reference to sister states at the south." he thought that south carolina ought to secede, but not alone; and that a union in favor of secession would take place. a letter from hon. j. l. orr was also read, reflecting in severe terms upon the spirit manifested by the "actionists" toward the "co-operationists," as affording a "beautiful commentary" on their desire "that harmony may be preserved throughout the state;" which was "the harmony which the wolf gives the lamb." he said, that "when an issue could be made, these self-appointed leaders would be routed, overwhelmed by the voice of the people, rebuking their temerity." the people of the mountain districts "were nearly all ready for resistance to the clay compromise; but they were yet to be convinced that they had more courage and patriotism than their georgia and north carolina neighbors." a series of resolutions was passed, declaring that the measures of the federal government, taken in connection with the manifestations of feeling at the north, showed a settled purpose to deprive the southern states of their rank as equals in the confederacy, and tended to the abolition of slavery and the establishment of a consolidated government; and that the time had therefore come when the union ought to be dissolved, and a southern confederacy formed; but that they would still willingly give trial to any scheme proposed by the south, short of dissolution, for reinstating them in their rights. that, as the subject of controversy concerned all the southern states as much as south carolina, the true policy to be observed was concert of action; and that separate state action was to be deprecated as tending to alienate the other states and thus "prevent the formation of a southern confederacy;" delay would insure the co-operation of the other states; while separate action would place south carolina in the position of a foreign country; in which case the laws preventing the introduction of slaves into the united states would subject her "practically to the wilmot proviso in its worst form." separate action would be "not only abortive as a measure of deliverance, but if not utterly suicidal in its effects, in the highest degree dangerous to the stability of our institutions." the right of secession was affirmed to be essential to state sovereignty. the approaching state convention was invoked to take measures to bring about a southern confederacy; and, meanwhile, to define the relation which south carolina should hold to the federal government. messrs. butler and barnwell, united states senators from south carolina, spoke in opposition to separate state action; the latter argued the inability of the state to sustain herself singly in a contest with the federal government, and showed the folly of looking for countenance and aid to great britain. a resolution was offered pronouncing it to be treason for any citizen of south carolina to oppose the authorities of the state, should they decide upon secession. this was laid upon the table by a decided majority. on the evening preceding this meeting, the same hall was occupied by a meeting of southern rights associations, at which, after speeches from hon. r.b. rhett, and others, resolutions were adopted affirming that south carolina could "wait for no new issue to be presented; and failing in a reasonable time to obtain the co-operation of the other southern states, should withdraw alone from the union." judge rice spoke in opposition to the meeting to be held on the ensuing day, and denounced a writer in the _charleston courier_ "who has had the audacity to tell us that the south has no cause of complaint whatever." he likewise exhorted south carolina to "retain her ancient rights, once triumphantly asserted _on the banks of the runnymede_." in _virginia_, the convention chosen for that purpose, after a session of eight months, have framed a constitution for the state, which is to be voted upon by the people on the d of october. we make the following abstract of its leading provisions: every free white male citizen, of the age of years, who has resided two years in the state, and one year in the district where he offers his vote, has the right of suffrage. the general assembly is to consist of a house of delegates of members, and a senate of , apportioned between the sections of the state, by a compromise, of which we have given an account in previous numbers of our record. no person holding a lucrative office, no priest of any religious denomination, no salaried officer of any banking company, no attorney for the commonwealth, is eligible for election to the general assembly. the governor is chosen by popular vote, for four years, and can not be elected for two successive terms. judges are elected by the people for terms of eight and twelve years. secretary, treasurer, auditor, and a board of public works, are chosen by the general assembly. all elections are to be _vivâ voce_; dumb persons only to be entitled to vote by ballot. taxation to be _ad valorem_; slaves under twelve years of age to be exempt; those over that age to be taxed for an amount not exceeding that levied upon acres of land, white males over years of age to pay a capitation tax equal to that upon acres of land; incomes, salaries, and licenses may be taxed at the discretion of the legislature. one half of the capitation tax upon white males is to be devoted to the purposes of primary education. the liability to the state of any incorporated company can not be released. the credit of the state can not be pledged for the debts of any corporation. lotteries are prohibited. divorces to be granted by the courts. laws to be passed providing for the registration of voters, and of marriages, births, and deaths, of both whites and blacks; and for taking a census of the state, at intervals of five years from the dates of the united states census. laws may be passed disqualifying those taking part in a duel, either as principals or seconds, from holding any office whatsoever of trust or emolument under the commonwealth; but no such law to have any retrospective action. laws may be passed providing for the relief of the commonwealth from the free colored population, by removal or otherwise. emancipated slaves can not remain more than twelve months in the commonwealth, under penalty of being reduced again to slavery. the constitution was adopted in the convention by a vote of to ; and there is no doubt that it will be accepted by the people; as the feature in it which allows those who have not the right of suffrage under the present constitution, to vote upon the question whether this right shall be extended, would of itself be sufficient to carry it by a large majority. the number of members of the house of delegates was increased from , as was at first agreed upon, to , by giving an additional member to the eastern county of fauquier, which had remonstrated against the apportionment, and instructed its delegates in the convention to vote against the constitution unless two members, instead of one, were conceded to it. this was agreed to, and an additional member allowed to the western county of monroe; so that there still remains a western majority of in the house, and of in joint ballot. in _ohio_ the democratic state convention met at columbus, august . resolutions were adopted in favor of the new constitution of the state, as embodying the "principles cardinal in the democratic faith: the election of all officers by the people; the limitation of state indebtedness, and a provision for the payment of the debt which exists; equal taxation;" restriction of the powers of the legislature; and provisions for repeal. the resolutions on national affairs passed by the democratic conventions of and , are approved. the present national administration is charged with reckless expenditure, violation of pledges, and indiscriminate proscription. contrary to the practice of the conventions which have been held in other states, no resolutions were passed bearing upon the compromise measures. hon. reuben wood was nominated by acclamation for re-election as governor, and hon. wm. medill for lieutenant-governor. from _california_ we have full intelligence up to july . it reaches us by the newly opened route across the isthmus through lake nicaragua and the san juan river, having been only days in coming from san francisco to new york. it is supposed that the time may be reduced to about days, fully a week less than is required by the panama route. the intelligence is of an extremely interesting character. the reports from the mining districts maintain the same favorable character; but acts of violence and plunder, by both whites and indians have become most alarmingly frequent. another destructive conflagration--the sixth within two years--occurred at san francisco on the d of june. thirteen blocks of buildings were destroyed, a number of lives lost, and injury done to property to a very large amount. the accounts transmitted, which are doubtless exaggerated, state the loss to be two or three millions of dollars. this, like the previous conflagration, is stated, apparently upon good grounds, to have been the work of an incendiary. hostilities between the whites and indians are still continued. terrence bellew mcmanus, one of the irish exiles, who had made his escape from new south wales, was welcomed at san francisco by a public dinner, which was attended by many of the leading citizens; the mayor of the city acted as chairman. but the most interesting feature in the intelligence from california is the prompt and vigorous measures taken to repress and punish outrages against person and property, by means more summary and sure than those furnished by the ordinary administration of law. in the early part of june it became demonstrably evident that organized bands of malefactors, composed of convicts from the english penal settlements, and desperadoes from every quarter of the globe, were leagued together for robbery and plunder; who did not hesitate to commit arson and murder in the prosecution of their designs. the highest crimes became matters of every-day occurrence, not merely in remote districts, but in the towns and cities; in san francisco especially. under these circumstances, a large number of the most valuable citizens organized themselves into a committee of vigilance, for the purpose of securing the punishment of criminals, at all hazards. they opened a room, at which a certain number of the members, detailed for the purpose, were to be present day and night. when any offense came to their notice which, in their opinion, called for the interference of the committee, all the members were to be summoned by the ringing of a bell. the members all pledged themselves to carry into execution the sentence of the majority of the body so convened. the committee soon had occasion to inaugurate their administration by a public execution, so deliberately performed, and so unflinchingly avowed, as to leave no doubt of their full determination to carry their designs into effect. on the th of june an english convict from botany bay, who gave his name as jenkins, or jennings, was arrested in the act of carrying off a safe which he had stolen. he was brought before the committee, by whom he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hung. this sentence was carried into execution the same night in the public square. the coroner's jury, who held an inquest upon the body, named nine members of the committee as specially and directly implicated in the execution. a card was immediately issued, signed by nearly persons, avowing that they, as members of the committee of vigilance, were all participators in the transaction, equally with those whose names had been given by the coroner's jury. the committee went on adding to their numbers, and increasing the scope of their operations. persons known as escaped convicts were ordered to leave the country within five days; and after a show of resistance, finding all opposition useless, they complied with the order. vessels arriving from the english penal settlements were boarded in the harbor, and those on board who proved to be escaped convicts, were warned not to land. the committee went on to establish a central and branch offices, organized a patrol, and raised funds for carrying on their operations. persons charged with minor offenses were handed over to the public authorities, the committee taking care to keep in their own hands the adjudication of those cases which seemed to require a prompt decision, thus keeping up the _prestige_ which they had gained by their first bold act. on the th of july a sidney convict named stuart, was brought before the committee on a charge of robbery. he proved to be the ringleader of a gang of desperadoes, who had long infested the country. he was found guilty, and the tolling of the bell summoned the public to witness the act of execution. the criminal was brought out, pinioned, and escorted by more than members of the committee, and executed in broad day, in the presence of a great crowd, without show of tumult or resistance. previous to his death he made a long confession of the crimes he had committed, and implicated a number of persons as accomplices. it thus appears that the proceedings of the committee, however at variance with the modes of procedure appropriate to a community living under a settled order of things, have nothing in common with mob-law or lynch-law, as ordinarily understood. it is a summary mode of self-preservation, on the part of the community, where the ordinary forms of criminal law have proved ineffectual. that they are inadequate, the state of things that has grown up under them abundantly demonstrates. as far as we can learn, no charge is brought against the committee that in any case their proceedings have been unjust or precipitate. no criminal confederacy can be a match for an organization which proceeds in a manner so cool, inflexible, and unrelenting. the arrest of every desperado renders his confederates more apprehensive that a clew has been obtained to their complicity. punishment follows so unerringly and speedily upon conviction; there is so little probability that provisions designed as a protection for the innocent, can be used as a shield for the guilty, that there is every reason to hope botany bay and sidney will appear as paradise to their fugitive criminals, compared with california. from the very nature of the case, the vigilance committee, whose only force is derived from its moral power, must be a merely temporary arrangement, and we hope the time will not be far distant when we shall be enabled to record that the committee has ceased to exist, along with the state of things to which it owes its origin, and the necessity arising from which formed its sole justification. we only add, that the mayor of san francisco has issued a proclamation, in which he urges upon the citizens to withdraw from the committee. in _new york_ a joint call for a state convention of the whig party, to be held at syracuse on the th of september, has been issued by the legislative committee and the state committees appointed by the syracuse and utica conventions last year. these committees have agreed upon a statement of what they believe to be the sentiments of the great body of the party in the state, of which the following are the principal: they are in favor of an economical administration of government; of strict adherence to the constitution and the laws; of appropriations for river and harbor improvements; of protection to american industry by a discriminating tariff. they are opposed to the extension of slavery over any territory where it does not now exist; while they recognize the right of each state to regulate its own municipal affairs. they will abide by the constitution and laws, as interpreted by the proper tribunals; while they assert the right of discussing all laws, and seeking by constitutional means their repeal or modification; but they condemn all attempts to resist, defeat, or render ineffectual any law, state or national, constitutionally passed. they approve of the course pursued by the national and state administrations.--hon. greene c. bronson, late chief justice of the court of appeals has furnished, at the request of the governor of the state, an elaborate opinion respecting the constitutionality of the act lately passed for the enlargement of the canals. he examines at length the grounds upon which its constitutionality has been denied, and pronounces them insufficient. he says that the certificates do not constitute a debt against the state, since they are payable only out of the revenue of the canals, and the state incurs no general obligation. it merely assumes a trust; and can be a debtor only when chargeable with a breach of the trust. obligation to pay is essential to a debt; and as the state assumes, no obligation it incurs no debt. the constitution appropriates the revenues of the canals to this enlargement, in such manner as the legislature shall direct; the legislature proposes to anticipate the receipt of these revenues by transferring them for ready money to individuals. the provision that "the remainder of the revenues of said canals shall (in each fiscal year) be applied" to the enlargement, he says must be understood to mean that the remainder accruing in each year shall be so applied; not that the remainder shall be applied in each year, which would be impossible, for the amount of the remainder can not be ascertained till after the close of the year. after examining in detail all the arguments adduced, he says that in his opinion "every thing has been done which the people, in the constitution, declared should be done; that it has been done without contracting a debt, or bringing any burden upon the people;" and that therefore he "entertains the firm conviction that the act does not conflict with the fundamental law." a public dinner was given at new york, july , to archbishop hughes, to welcome him on his return from europe. in reply to complimentary toasts, the archbishop spoke of the honors which he had received abroad, as having been rendered to him on account of the county and city of his residence. in speaking of his own official course, he referred to the ground he had taken on the subject of education, denying that he had interfered with the instruction of any but the members of his own flock, in respect to whom he never would consent that education should be separated from religion, using that term in its broadest sense; for "the religion of the least desirable denomination in this country, blended with education, was better than no religious teaching at all." he spoke in terms of severe reprehension of the present revolutionary party in europe, who, he said, had no claims to rank with the founders of this republic.--letters were read in answer to invitations to attend, from messrs. clay, cass, webster, buchanan, scott, hunt, taney, dix, and stuart.--mr. clay's letter concluded as follows: "i should have been glad by my presence to have demonstrated my conviction that while all sincere christians are aiming to arrive at the same state of future bliss, no matter by what road they may pursue their journey in this life--nothing should prevent those of one denomination from manifesting all proper courtesy and honor to eminent piety and devotion in another denomination."--mr. webster wrote that could he have been present, he should have offered the following sentiment: "religious toleration and charity--let all christians remember that they have one lord, one faith, one baptism."--among the speeches of the evening was one by charles o'connor, esq., of great eloquence, and characterized by a broad and genial spirit of tolerance, concluding with this sentiment: "the catholic church--may she hereafter, as ever heretofore, tender her faith to all willing recipients; and force upon mankind nothing but her charity." we continue from the august number our notices of the commencement exercises of the principal collegiate institutions of the country. at _harvard university_, on the th of july, hon. rufus choate delivered before the story law association an oration replete with the brilliant and ornate eloquence which characterizes all his public efforts. his object was to depict some of the leading tendences of public opinion at the present time in reference to the obligations of law; and to set forth the duties which devolve upon the members of the legal profession. hon. john j. crittenden, of kentucky, was elected orator for the next year; substitutes, reverdy johnson, of baltimore, and ogden hoffmann, of new york. rev. dr. sprague, of albany, delivered the oration before the phi beta kappa society. his subject was "the american mind--its origin and destiny." rev. john pierpont recited a poem upon "progress." the graduating class numbered . there were also graduates from the divinity school. the commencement exercises of _hamilton college_ were opened july , with a discourse by prof. hopkins of auburn, before the society for christian research. before the different literary societies poems were pronounced by rev. r.h. bacon and rev. h.w. parker, and an address by c.b. sedgwick, esq., of syracuse, upon progress in general and legal reform in particular. william e. robinson, esq., delivered an oration upon the subject of "the american people--who--whence--and whither." in opposition to the prevalent opinion, he argued that this country was in no sense anglo-saxon, and contended stoutly that to his own celtic race belongs the glory of forming the main elementary constituent of the american people. g.p.r. james, the novelist, delivered a discourse on the harmonies of science, in the course of which he incidentally spoke of his own intention of becoming a citizen of the united states. john g. saxe repeated the brilliant poem which he had pronounced a few days before at the commencement of the university of new york. the graduating class numbered . at _rutgers college_ the baccalaureate address was delivered to a graduating class of members, by the president, hon. theodore frelinghuysen. the various literary societies of the college were addressed by walter rutherford, esq., of jersey city, in advocacy of a system of education rendered more practical by an increased attention to natural science, at the expense of a diminution of the classic element;--by mr. david cole, on the necessity of thorough study to the production of a well disciplined mind;--by rev. e. depeau, on a right improvement of time;--and by g.w. brown, esq., who presented some comparative views of the condition of our own and of other countries; conceding their superiority over us in the cultivation of the fine arts; but insisting upon countervailing advantages on our part. at _yale_ the exercises of the one hundred and fiftieth annual commencement were opened, july d, by the _concio ad clerum_, preached by lyman atwater, d.d., upon luther's favorite doctrine of justification by faith. daniel lord, esq., of new york, delivered the annual oration before the phi beta kappa society. his subject was the influence of the pulpit and the bar upon the community and upon social progress; with special reference to the great politico-moral questions of the day. daniel webster was elected orator for next year, and william h. seward substitute. the poem was pronounced by alfred b. street. it was a graceful sketch of the history of the pilgrims, as illustrating their love of liberty. at the meeting of the alumni it was announced that professor kingsley had tendered his resignation of the latin professorship, in pursuance of a resolution long since formed, to vacate the chair on the completion of the fiftieth year of his connection with the faculty of instruction. the number of graduates was . at _dartmouth_ an unusually large concourse was assembled in the expectation that mr. webster would be present and take part in the exercises, it being the fiftieth commencement since his graduation. he was not, however, present. the phi beta kappa oration was delivered by chief justice gilchrist. the subject of this admirable oration was classical education as one of the best means of preparation for the duties of active life. in the course of an eloquent delineation of the character of demosthenes, as a statesman and an orator, he said that mr. webster was the man who of all others bore most intellectual resemblance to the renowned grecian orator. mr. saxe, whose name occurs more than once in our record of the collegiate exercises of the year, delivered a poem upon "new england." it was announced that the legacy of $ , left to the college by abiel chandler, of boston, one of the graduates of dartmouth, to establish a department for instruction in practical science and art, had been paid to the college, two years in advance of the limit allowed by the will of the testator; and that the department would soon be organized. the graduating class consisted of members. the _university of vermont_ celebrated its commencement during the week beginning august . the baccalaureate sermon, was preached to a graduating class of , by president smith. apollos, the man "mighty in the scriptures," was held up as a pattern and exemplar for those who were about to commence the battle of life. the society for religious inquiry was addressed by rev. henry neill, of lenox, mass. hon. f.h. allen, of boston, addressed the associated alumni upon the subject of political economy, not as the mere science of the production and accumulation of material wealth, but in its nobler aspects, as a distributor of it among an entire people, and as an instrument in the formation of the race. mr. e.p. whipple, of boston, the brilliant essayist, addressed the literary societies, depicting the characteristics of the english mind, in a manner worthy of the high reputation of the orator. rev. john pierpont recited a poem in which the yankee character was keenly anatomized. the commencement of the _wesleyan university_ at middletown, conn., occurred august . rev. dr. cheever, of new york, addressed the literary societies upon "the elements of a grand and permanent american literature." before the psi upsilon fraternity a poem was delivered by s.j. pike, esq., and an oration upon nationality, by w.g. prescott, esq. an address upon imagination, by rev. henry ward beecher, and a poem by john j. saxe, were delivered before the "mystical seven." in connection with this institution we notice the comparatively large proportion of its alumni who have entered the clerical profession, or have become teachers. of the graduates, have become clergymen, lawyers, and physicians; have become presidents of colleges, professors, principals of seminaries of learning, and teachers. at _union college_, the theological society was addressed by luther f. beecher, d.d., upon the choice of a profession; the senate by hon. mitchell sanford, on the battle of life. the phi beta kappa oration was by rev. t.m. clark, of hartford. e.p. whipple, the essayist, delivered before the literary societies the oration, subsequently repeated at the university of vermont, on the english mind. rev. dr. hickok, of auburn theological seminary was elected professor of moral philosophy and vice-president of the college. the number of graduates was . the number of subscribers to the art union, whose names were registered prior to july , is , an increase of above those of the corresponding period last year.--the plaster-models of the celebrated statues of christ and the twelve apostles, by thorwaldsen, the marble copies of which adorn the principal church in copenhagen, have been purchased by a gentleman of this city, and will be shortly exhibited here. they will be accompanied by one or two other works of the great danish sculptor.--a colossal statue, in bronze, of dewitt clinton, is to be erected in greenwood cemetery, from a model by h.k. brown.--from the _bulletin of the art union_ we learn that mr. huntington accompanied by mr. gray, has gone to england. mr. gray took with him three of his paintings: _the wages of war; dolce far niente_, a half-length female figure; and _quiet influences_, a cabinet picture, representing a lady seated at a window surrounded by books and instruments of music.--the art union is in daily expectation of a _holy family_, painted for it by mr. page, in italy. this artist has also shipped to this country a _psyche_, taken from a bust by powers; a copy from titian's portrait of one of the dukes of urbino; and a _study of florentine nature_.--greenough's group of the pioneer, designed for the capitol, of which we gave a description some months since, is nearly completed. the steamer atlantic, the first of the collins line, whose apprehended loss, some eight months since, caused such a general feeling of anxiety throughout the country, and the tidings of whose safety diffused such universal joy, has again made her appearance in our waters. she was greeted by cheers long and loud from a great crowd who had assembled to bid her welcome. at the hour of her arrival from the east, jenny lind was approaching our city from the north. the moment she heard of the arrival of the steamer, she hastened to the wharf, to greet the reappearance of the noble vessel, which conveyed her to our shores. during the month of july the number of immigrants who arrived at the port of new york was , ; of whom about , were from great britain and ireland, from germany, and from france. a convention has been called to meet at new orleans, to consider the propriety of taking measures for the construction of a system of railroads, to connect the states upon the gulf of mexico with those of the west and northwest. the convention is to be held on the first monday in january. a convention of free people of color has been held at indianapolis, ia., to deliberate upon matters relating to their interests and prospects as a class. the convention while insisting upon their right to remain in this country, passed resolutions affirming the expediency of emigrating, provided that the laws should become intolerably burdensome to them. among the places mentioned as suitable for them to colonize were canada, mexico, jamaica, and central america. they expressed a strong disinclination to emigrate to liberia. a treaty has been concluded with the sioux indians, by which they cede to the united states a tract of land in minnesota, estimated to contain , , acres. they reserve to themselves a tract in upper minnesota, miles by in extent. they are to receive $ , after their removal to their reservation; and an annual payment of $ , a year, for fifty years. mr. brace, the american traveler who was arrested and imprisoned in hungary, on suspicion of being engaged in plots against the austrian government, has been set at liberty, through the interposition of the american chargé at vienna. he has published in several papers, of which he is correspondent, statements setting forth the harsh treatment to which he was subjected. the project of introducing steam communication between new york and galway in ireland, has by no means been abandoned. the midland great western railway company offer a bonus of £ to the first vessel which shall deliver her mails at galway within nine days from her departure from new york; and an additional sum of £ for every hour that the passage falls short of nine days. a recent arrival at new york has brought hungarian refugees, of whom were companions of kossuth at kutaiah. we find in the european papers statements that the period of his detention is to expire on the first of september, when he will be at liberty to go to any part of the world. he himself, it is evident, entertains no such expectation. in a letter, dated may , to mr. homes, american chargé at constantinople, he says that no reliance is to be placed upon these reports; and that he is doomed to perish in captivity. he complains bitterly that the promises of hospitality which were made to him when he entered the turkish dominions, have not been fulfilled. the so-called release of the greater portion of refugees who accompanied him, instead of being an act of generosity, is, he says, but an aggravation of the injustice and perfidy practiced toward him. a great number of exiles wished to share his fate; but permission was granted to only . these, with the exception of five, were forced to leave him, in spite of their urgent remonstrances. his request to be allowed to send his children to the united states, in accordance with the offer of our government, was denied. appended to the letter of kossuth, is the protest of the refugees, declaring the order for their separation from kossuth to be unjust, cruel, and contrary to the law of nations. they affirm they will only obey it when executed by actual force. the th of july was celebrated at turks island with great good feeling. british, as well as american subjects were present; and mr. speer, the british comptroller of customs, who presided at the dinner, upon the invitation of the american consul, offered the following toast: "the fourth of july--the day above all others in the political calendar to be revered by the americans; and in the celebration of which the most loyal subjects of her majesty may properly join." mr. william ragland, of virginia, who died in , by his last will and testament emancipated all his slaves, in number, leaving to them also the plantation upon which he had resided: or, in case it should be made illegal for them to remain upon it, the estate was to be sold, and the proceeds to be employed in settling the slaves elsewhere. the property thus bequeathed is stated to be worth $ , . the will was contested by the relatives of the testator, but its validity has been established by the supreme court sitting at richmond. soundings have been made by the officers of the navy, from which it appears that the depth of water in the gulf of mexico is about a mile, and that of the great atlantic basin, from the capes of virginia to the island of madeira, about five and a half miles. there is no little excitement in portions of texas, arising from the escape of slaves into mexico, and the refusal of the mexican authorities to surrender them. the number of fugitives is said to amount to . threats are made of seizing them by an armed force. at a conference held by the commissioner of indian affairs, with the sioux and other indian tribes, with a view to effect a treaty, a repast was given to these genuine native american red republicans. the following are the names of the guests: hawk-that-hunts-walking, sound-of-earth-walking, red-eagle, good-thunder, the-wounded, arrow, big fire, the-crow, goes-flying, sham-boy, eagle head, iron-toe-nails, big-cloud, brown-cloud, round-wind, war-club-of-big-voice, earth, makes-his-track. the first book printed in the state of new york was the constitution of the state. it was printed in by samuel loudon, at fishkill. a copy of this very rare edition is in possession of hon. g.c. verplanck. southern america. from _mexico_ our intelligence continues to be of the most gloomy character. we have accounts of risings and insurrections in various states, which do not seem to be parts of any general system, but isolated and unconnected outbreaks, arising from the decay of all settled authority. the government is terribly distressed for the pecuniary means of carrying on its operations. the minister of finance has addressed a circular to the governors of the different states, asking them to co-operate in the measures he has proposed for the supply of the necessities of government. he has proposed a plan for augmenting the revenues, which has been favorably reported upon by committees of both houses. he proposes a territorial impost; a general capitation tax; an augmented duty upon the circulation and export of silver; and a duty upon the consumption of tobacco. the foreign creditors of the government grow clamorous for their dues. the british minister notifies the government that unless prompt measures are taken, so that he shall be enabled to transmit by the next packet intelligence of a satisfactory arrangement with the english creditors, decisive measures will be resorted to. the french and spanish ministers, in order not to lose their share of the spoil, in the event of the total wreck of the ship of state, give notice that their governments will follow, in this respect, the example of the british. in the mean time the relations of mexico and the united states are liable at any moment to take a hostile turn, owing to the action of the mexican government in annulling the grant made to garray, in relation to the tehuantepec railway, whose rights have passed into the hands of american citizens. as this affair is likely to prove of ultimate importance, we present a statement, involving, as we believe, all the essential facts of the case: in march, , santa anna being president, a grant of land and valuable privileges was made to don josé garray, to enable him to establish steam communication across the isthmus of tehuantepec, the possession of his rights being guaranteed to his successors, whether natives or foreigners. in february, , bravo being president, an order was issued that garray should be put in possession of the lands promised him, which was done. in october of the same year, santa anna being again president, a decree was issued, stating that garray had completed his surveys, and ordering the departments in which the work was situated to furnish him with convicts to carry on the work. in december of the same year, the time for commencing the works, which was to expire july , , was extended for one year. during the course of the year , garray asked for a further extension of time, and certain additional exemptions and privileges. while his request was under favorable consideration by the mexican congress, a revolution occurred in mexico, by which salas was invested with supreme dictatorial power. he issued a decree still further extending the time for the commencement of the work till november , , previous to which period, it is claimed by the company that the work had been actually commenced: this statement, however, is disputed; it being asserted that for months afterward the first blow of a spade had not been struck. meanwhile in - , garray had transferred his right to manning and mackintosh, british subjects residing in mexico, the transfer being recognized by the mexican government. during the negotiations for peace between mexico and the united states, the sum of $ , , was offered by the latter for the right of way across the isthmus, which was declined, on the ground that the right had been already disposed of. thereupon mr. p.a. hargous, an american citizen, purchased the right of manning and mackintosh, and formed a company to carry on the work. apprehensive of obstacles arising from the instability of the mexican government, the company made overtures for the purpose of placing the work under the joint protection of the american and mexican governments; and also desired to make new surveys, not feeling full confidence in those which had been made. a treaty was drawn up in accordance with the request; this draft not being satisfactory, it was returned to mexico to be amended. in the mean time a new government had been inaugurated, with whom a new treaty was negotiated, which was accepted by the company, whose acceptance was made a condition precedent to the ratification. this treaty was ratified by the united states senate, and transmitted to mexico for ratification. in the meanwhile, a change took place in the policy of the mexican government, who doubtless began to look with apprehension upon the bestowal of so extensive privileges upon americans. a law was passed annulling the decree of salas, by which a delay of two years was granted for the commencement of the work, on the ground that he had no power to make such a decree, involving as it did a virtual grant of a considerable amount of the territory of the nation. if the decree of salas was annulled, the grant to garray became invalid, because the work had not been commenced at the prescribed time. the company contend, on their part, that the decree of salas, under which they hold their claim, was passed by the actual government of the country, all of whose other acts have been recognized as of binding force; and that under this decree they have made large expenditures. they manifest a determination to persevere in the accomplishment of the enterprise, in spite of all the force which the mexican government can bring against them. communications, the purport of which has not transpired, have been made by the government of the united states to that of mexico, in relation to this subject. the american minister, mr. letcher, who has been long detained from his post by ill-health will probably soon return to mexico, when it is hoped that this vexatious and intricate affair may be peaceably arranged. from _south america_ there is little of special interest. a brazilian fleet has made its appearance on the river plata, but have as yet made no demonstrations from which their designs can be inferred. a blockade of the ports of the argentine republic is thought probable. in _chili_ the approaching elections were the occasion of no little excitement. the right of suffrage is vested in chilians by birth or naturalization, who possess a certain amount of property or income, are able to read and write, and have attained the age of years, if unmarried, or years, if married. efforts are made to introduce railroad communication in chili and peru. in _new granada_, the imposition of a forced loan by government has occasioned some revolutionary symptoms, confined apparently to the southern provinces. the panama papers of july , hint that any attempt to levy the loan in that city would be the signal of insurrection, "as it was the firm determination of many of the natives, as well as the foreign population, not to allow a soldier to enter the gates of panama for the purpose of executing the obnoxious decree." the same papers contain accounts of horrible atrocities committed in the revolted provinces. yet the general condition of the state is represented to be flourishing; the revenue showing a large increase above that of the previous year. in _jamaica_ great complaints are made of the deficiency of labor, owing to which, one-third of the produce will be lost, for the want of labor necessary to secure it. public attention is directed to the free colored population of the united states, of whom it is said "america could supply a hundred thousand of these, every one of whom would be useful as an inhabitant, if he were not valuable as an agriculturist; and if none but the really industrious were engaged to emigrate, we are of opinion that a most valuable addition might be made to the population of jamaica." a letter from mr. clay to a gentleman in london is published, favoring the project, though he fears that considerable difficulty would be experienced in inducing them to emigrate. he also calls the attention of the west indians to the fact that the chinese who have been brought to cuba, and elsewhere, form a very valuable class of laborers. a portion of the baptist society having become dissatisfied with their pastor, and being unable to dissolve the connection, attempted to demolish the mission house and chapel; but were prevented by the authorities, aided by the military. twenty-seven of the rioters were tried and convicted, and sentenced to the penitentiary for terms of from three to nine months. the house of the pastor was afterward attacked, and his furniture destroyed. in _cuba_ an insurrection broke out in the early part of july at puerto principe, in the eastern part of the island. on the th a _pronunciamiento_ was issued, signed by three individuals, purporting to be the manifesto of the liberating society of puerto principe. in the glowing style which seems natural to the spanish-american race, it sets forth the grievances of the cubans, which are doubtless but too real; enumerates the resources for resistance at their disposal, among which are the unanimous determination of the cubans of all colors; aid from the kindred races in south america; sympathy and assistance from the united states; and a climate hostile to european troops. the island of cuba is therefore declared free and independent; and the islanders affirmed to owe no allegiance except to those who, awaiting the general suffrage of the people, charge themselves with the civil and military command. the report of these proceedings caused great alarm and excitement at havana; but we have yet no means of forming any decisive opinion as to the extent of the rising. on the one hand, the official bulletins of the government represent it as a trifling affair which was at once put down; giving full particulars of names, dates, and places. the same mails which bring these dispatches, are loaded down with letters from the same places, and of the same dates, announcing a general rising; that the troops of the government are every where defeated, and deserting to the popular cause. the cuban exiles in this country profess to put implicit faith in the reliability of these accounts, which they say are confirmed by secret letters. at present the probability is that the movement has been unsuccessful. great britain. the american steamer baltic arrived at new york august , having made the passage in nine days, fourteen hours, and twenty minutes, apparent time; or, adding the difference of time between the ports, in nine days, eighteen hours and forty-five minutes, actual time, this is the shortest passage ever made. in addition to what is stated below, she brings the news of the passage of the ecclesiastical titles bill in the house of lords, and its receipt of the royal signature; so that it has now become a law. as the session of parliament approaches its close, the proceedings begin to assume some features of interest. the bill to alter the form of the oath of abjuration, so as to allow jews to sit in parliament passed the commons with little opposition, its opponents contenting themselves with expressing their abhorrence of the measure, but leaving to the peers the ungracious task of excluding from the other house members duly chosen, whom that house was anxious to receive; and that by a mere formal test, designed for quite a different purpose. in the upper house, as was foreseen, the bill was lost. only two of the bishops took part in the discussion, both of whom were in favor of the bill. dr. whately, the distinguished archbishop of dublin, advocated the removal of the jewish disabilities, on the ground that christianity did not meddle with temporalities; and that the free choice by electors of their representatives should not be interfered with. the bishop of norwich considered the restriction to be prejudicial, rather than beneficial to christianity. against the bill it was urged that parliament ought to maintain its christian character, and that the jews were of necessity opponents of christianity. the bill was thrown out by a vote of to . immediately after the rejection, mr. salomons, a jew, who had been elected member from greenwich, appeared at the bar of the house of commons, and requested to be sworn on the old testament. he took the oaths of allegiance and supremacy as required; but in the oath of abjuration, for the concluding words, "on the true faith of a christian," he substituted "so help me god." the speaker decided that he had not taken the oath, as required, and ordered him to retire without the bar of the house. this he did after some delay, amidst a scene of great uproar. at the next meeting he appeared and took his seat within the bar of the house, and proceeded to vote upon three questions that came up; thus rendering himself liable to a penalty of £ . amidst great disorder and confusion, he was ordered by a vote of the house, to , to withdraw, upon which he was removed by the sergeant-at-arms. lord john russell then moved a resolution, similar to that passed last year in the case of baron rothschild, that mr. salomons was not entitled to sit in the house until he had taken the oath of abjuration according to law. a meeting was subsequently held of the constituents of baron rothschild, at which he was requested to persist in claiming his seat. proceedings have been instituted against mr. salomons to recover the penalty incurred by voting in the house. this will bring the whole matter before the legal tribunals. it is contended by some of the ablest counsel that all the essential requirements of the law were complied with, the precise wording of the oath being merely formal. the ecclesiastical titles bill, which was so ostentatiously put forward as the leading measure of the session, passed through its final stage in the commons, very tamely, a thin house being present. during the progress of the bill, in spite of the opposition of the ministers, it had been rendered more stringent by the addition of two clauses; one of which provided that the publication of any bull, brief, rescript, or other papal document should subject the publisher to a fine of £ ; the other clause empowered any informer, with the sanction of the law officers of the crown, to bring an action for a violation of the provisions of the bill. lord john russell moved the omission of these clauses, but was defeated. while this vote was taken, the irish members left the house, and did not return in time to vote upon the final passage of the bill, which passed by to , a majority of . less than one half of the members of the house voted. a motion was made, and lost, that the bill should be entitled "a bill to prevent the free exercise of the roman catholic religion in ireland." mr. grattan in moving it, said that the catholics were delighted to see the bill as it was, as they wished it to be as discreditable, as tyrannical, and as unpalatable as it could be made. as the same penalty was attached to the introduction of bulls as to the assumption of titles, they would be able, more or less, to violate the provisions of the bill; and, by the blessing of god, they would violate it as often as possible. mr. gladstone, a tory and high-churchman, undoubtedly the most able statesman now in parliament, protested solemnly against the passage of the bill, as hostile to the institutions of the country, and to the established church, which it taught to rely upon other support than spiritual strength and vitality; as tending to weaken the authority of law in ireland; as disparaging the principle of religious freedom; and destroying the bonds of concord and good-will between different classes and persuasions of her majesty's subjects. in the upper house the bill passed to a second reading by a vote of to ; within a single vote of seven to one in its favor. among those who voted against the bill, we observe the names of brougham, aberdeen, and denman. the pope has recently filled up several of the bishoprics, in accordance with the decree of sept. , , which occasioned the excitement to which the ecclesiastical titles bill owes its origin. a bill, making some alterations in the chancery system, is under discussion. lord brougham made a speech upon it, urging the absolute necessity of a thorough reconstruction of that court. it was his last speech for the session, the state of his health compelling him to take his leave. he had struggled to the last, in the hope of assisting in the passage of a measure to which his whole life had been devoted. leave has been granted to bring in a bill for the introduction of the ballot into parliamentary elections. the object of the bill is to protect voters from intimidation in the exercise of the franchise; and to diminish the inducements to bribery, by rendering it impossible for the purchaser of a vote to ascertain whether or not the elector has fulfilled his bargain. ecclesiastical affairs, in one form or another, awaken no little interest. the bishop of exeter's diocesan synod supported that prelate's views, which are opposed to those of the great majority of the episcopal bench. the question of a convocation, to decide upon points in controversy, is agitated; but there is a prevailing apprehension that the result would be any thing but harmonious. a motion was made in the commons for an address to the queen, urging the adoption of measures to supply the rapidly increasing spiritual wants of the people. in connection with this motion, some startling charges were made of abuses in the management of the ecclesiastical funds. some years ago it was determined that the bishops should receive fixed incomes, varying from £ , to £ , a year; and that the surplus revenues of their sees should be paid over to the ecclesiastical commissioners, to be expended for church purposes. it was shown by indisputable statistics, that in a number of instances the bishops had retained more than they were entitled to. specific charges of a still graver nature were made, that they had used the estates of their bishoprics in such a manner as to benefit themselves and their friends, at the expense of their sees. these charges were shown to be more or less erroneous; but a general impression prevails that the explanations given are far from satisfactory, and that great abuses exist. on the whole, this is regarded as the most severe blow that has yet been aimed at the establishment. lord palmerston announced in parliament, that the african slave-trade, north of the line, was now almost entirely extinct; and the natives who had hitherto been engaged in it, were turning their attention to the traffic in the productions of the country, such as palm-oil, ground-nuts, and ivory. this result he attributed to the vigilance of the english, french, american, and portuguese cruisers, together with the rapid progress made by the republic of liberia. brazil has heretofore been the principal market for slaves; but owing to the efficient action of the government, it has been nearly closed within the last few months. he was confident that the suppression of the slave-trade would be permanent, provided the vigilance of the preventive squadrons was kept up for a while longer. the returns of the irish census show an amount of depopulation even greater than had been anticipated. the following is a comparison of some of the details with those of the census of : inhabitants , , , , , , decrease families , , , , , " houses inhabited , , , , , " " building , , , " " uninhabited , , , increase. the decrease in the number of houses is quite as startling a fact as that of the population, and probably represents with tolerable accuracy the number of evictions effected by the demolition of the cabins of the peasantry. the rate of depopulation does not vary very materially in the different sections of the island. the large towns only show any increase, indicating that the evicted peasantry, driven from their former residences, take refuge in the cities. the entire increase of population in the british islands is but about , . the large cities have increased more than this; so that the number of the rural population of the kingdom is less than it was ten years ago. the population of ireland in , was , , ; in , , , ; in , , , ; in , , , ; so that it is now nearly , less than it was thirty years since. the emigration from ireland during the last ten years, is estimated at about , , , of which probably , , came directly or indirectly to the united states. considering that the emigrants, to a great extent, are the most active and energetic of the inhabitants, it is safe to conclude that one-third of the effective strength of the island has been transferred across the atlantic in ten years. a meeting of authors and publishers was held july , to consider the present aspect of the copyright question. sir edward bulwer lytton presided and made the opening speech. he said that the recent decision of lord campbell ruined all prospect of international copyright with france and america, for foreigners would not buy what they could get for nothing. the effect on literature would be disastrous. in america, where they get the works of macaulay for nothing, they are ceasing, he said, to produce any solid works of their own. cooper and irving belong to a past generation, and with the exception of mr. prescott none are rising to take their place. a resolution was passed, on the motion of mr. bohn, the publisher, to the effect that the decision of lord campbell must prove prejudicial to the interests of british literature, because it removes the main inducement for foreign states to consent to an international copyright. a grand entertainment was given by the mayor and corporation of london, july , in honor of the exhibition. it was attended by the queen in state. great preparations were made to insure a splendid reception; the streets through which the royal cortège passed were brilliantly illuminated. but the whole entertainment seems to have been a tasteless and fussy affair. among the wines furnished for the royal table was sherry which had been bottled for the emperor napoleon, at a cost of £ the pipe; it was years old. mr. peabody, a distinguished american banker residing in london, gave a splendid entertainment on the th of july, at "willis's rooms," the very shrine of the ultra-fashionable world of london, to the american minister and a large company of english, american, and foreign guests. it was designed to show that this day might be rather a pledge of good-will, than a gage of strife. the most notable incident was the attendance of the duke of wellington. the exhibition still continues as successful as ever. the receipts already far exceed the £ , , which was the utmost limit conceived possible a few weeks since. the greatest number of visitors in a single day was on the th of july, when they numbered , . at one time there were present , people, equal to the population of a considerable city. a movement hostile to the permanent retention of the crystal palace upon its present site has been commenced, mainly by the owners of property in its vicinity. the clergy resident in the district oppose its continuance on grounds of morality. it has been decided to allow the building to remain during the winter, in order to test its adaptation for a winter garden. france. the proposition for a revision of the constitution failed to secure the requisite majority in the legislative assembly, and so was defeated. on the th of july the report of the committee to whom the petitions for a revision were referred, was presented by m. de tocqueville. it is a document of great length, drawn up with decided ability. after discussing in detail the defects inherent in the constitution, which in the opinion of a majority of the committee were of sufficient moment to render a revision desirable, the report proceeds to examine the present situation of the country and the perils which had been alleged to attend the revision, should it now be attempted. these apprehended dangers arose from the unsettled state of the franchise, and the contests of parties, each of whom desires a revision as a means for the accomplishment of its own ends. the majority of the committee, while admitting the danger attending a revision, are yet convinced that it is exceedingly necessary. this conclusion rests mainly upon the circumstance, adverted to in our last record, that the functions of the legislative and of the executive branches of the government expire at almost the same time. the intention of the constitution in fixing the term of the one at four and of the other at three years was to prevent the occurrence of this, until after an interval of twelve years had given stability to the republic. but by the law of october, , the regular time of the election for president was anticipated, so that his term expires a year sooner than it should have done. besides this there is the danger that a candidate whom the constitution renders ineligible may be the one upon whom the popular choice will fix. such a violation of the constitution, facilitated by the method of election by direct suffrage which it provides, would be productive of the most fatal consequences. these dangers may be obviated by surrendering the power of government into the hands of a constituent assembly. the report then goes on to discuss the question of the kind and amount of revision to be recommended. the committee, however divided upon other points, were unanimously of the opinion that the legislative assembly had no power either to propose to the constituent assembly that the nation should quit the republic, or to impose upon it that form of government. the constituent would supersede the legislative assembly, and must be independent of it. the committee were also unanimously of the opinion that the revision, if made at all, must be made in the manner prescribed by the constitution. if the requisite majority of three-fourths of the votes of the assembly could not be secured in its favor, it must be abandoned; and hence, "any attempt having for its object to urge the people toward unconstitutional candidateship, from the moment that the constitution can not be legally revised, would not only be improper and irregular, but culpable." the proposition which the committee, by a vote of to , resolved to submit to the assembly, and to which they asked their consent, was: "taking into consideration article of the constitution, the assembly decides that the constitution shall be revised in totality." the reading of this report was listened to with an attention and decorum by no means characteristic of the french legislature. at the close, a large number of members inscribed their names, as intending to take part in the discussion. this was done to meet the requirements of the rule that a speaker upon one side succeeds one upon the other. the debate upon this report commenced on the th. it was opened by an admonitory speech from the president of the assembly, m. dupin, recommending order and moderation in the discussion. a brief sketch of the views advanced by the principal speakers will serve better than any thing else to show the state of opinion and feeling in france at the present moment. m. de falloux, formerly minister of public instruction, in an eloquent and impressive speech, urged the re-establishment of the monarchical principle, as the only means of saving the country, which was falling into decay. he said socialism was rapidly increasing, not merely among the very poor, but also among the better paid class of workmen. m. cavaignac made a firm and temperate speech against the revision, and in favor of building up a strong republic. m. coquerel, the well-known protestant pastor, advocated a revision. he believed that bonaparte would be elected, whether constitutionally or not, and he preferred that it should be done constitutionally. he defended the republican form of government, and avowed his belief that it would ultimately become universal. m. michel (de bourges), who has made himself known as the able counsel for the prosecuted newspapers and proscribed socialists, made a long and very able speech on the democratic side of the question, and against the revision. he spoke in terms of commendation of the "girondists who proclaimed the republic, and of the montagnards who saved it," and of "the convention which made the constitution known to europe by cannon shots, and delivered the country from tyrants." this speech has been printed by the party for gratuitous distribution, as an exponent of their views. m. de berryer followed in a brilliant speech in favor of legitimacy. he admitted the great services which the president had rendered to the cause of order, but deprecated his re-election in spite of the constitution, by universal suffrage, as he would then be placed in a position superior to the constitution. this catastrophe was to be averted, if at all by the action of a constituent assembly. he painted in glowing colors all the excesses of which the republic had been guilty, and affirmed that france was not adapted for or in favor of a republican form of government. victor hugo followed in a speech in opposition to a revision and to monarchy, and in favor of the republic. he reflected in very severe terms upon the government and upon the majority in the assembly. his speech was greeted with applause from the left and disapprobation from the right. the debate, which had hitherto been conducted with great decorum, now closed amid a scene of wild disorder. on the following day, the th, the closing speech in the discussion was made by odillon barrot in favor of a revision, as the only means of averting the dangers which impended. at the conclusion of his speech, the question was demanded and carried. the whole number of votes cast was ; of these were in favor of revision, and against it. three-fourths of the votes cast, the number required to carry the proposition, is ; so that it failed by votes. by the rules of the assembly it can not be revived until after an interval of three months. the absorbing interest of the occasion is shown by the large vote cast. the assembly, when full, consists of members; there are now vacancies, so that only members were absent. the vote against the revision was made up of the extreme republicans in a mass, with a few of almost every shade of opinion; including thiers and his friends, lamartine, and a considerable body of moderate republicans, as well as a few legitimists. on the st a charge was brought in the assembly against m. faucher, the minister of the interior, of having unduly and unconstitutionally urged on the petitions in favor of a revision. after a warm altercation between the minister and m. baze, by whom the charge was brought, the latter offered a resolution that "the national assembly, while regretting that in some localities the government, contrary to its duty had used its influence to excite the citizens to petition, orders the legal petitions to be deposited in the bureau des reseignements." this was carried by a majority of in a very full house, the vote being to . the ministers regarding it as a vote of censure, tendered their resignations, which the president refused to accept. after consultation, they repeated the tender, but were finally persuaded to retain their posts. a debate on free-trade took place in the assembly, upon a motion by m. de beauve for the reconstruction of the customs tariff in such a manner as to abolish all prohibitions, and to limit the duties to be levied within the same general bounds as those adopted in england. the author of the proposition occupied the session of one entire day, and part of another in developing the proposed measure. m. thiers opposed the proposition, in a speech of great length in which he maintained that the principle of protection was essential to the prosperity of france. m. fould, minister of finance, also opposed the proposition as inimical to the security and independence of a great nation. it was rejected by a vote of to . a grand fête has been given by the municipality of paris to the commissioners and others prominently concerned in the great exhibition. germany, etc. the only question of political or general interest respects the annexation of the non-germanic portions of the austrian empire to the germanic confederation. diplomatic notes protesting against the admission were presented to the diet from the english and french governments. that body replied, that the question was a purely german one, which admitted of no foreign interference. in austria an imperial ordinance respecting the press has been promulgated. if any periodical "takes a hostile direction to the throne, the unity and integrity of the empire, religion, morality, or the maintenance of the public peace," the stadtholder has the power of suspending it for three months, after two public warnings. suspension for a longer period, or total prohibition can only be decreed by the council of ministers. but foreign works of all kinds may be prohibited, throughout the whole empire by the minister of the home department. in hesse-cassel a decree has been issued annulling the oath taken by the officers of the army to the constitution. an amnesty has been proclaimed to the officers and soldiers who resisted the government during the _quasi_ revolution last year; but the amnesty is coupled with conditions by which its efficacy is greatly impaired. it is said that the russians have lately suffered severe losses in circassia, though no reliable and authentic details are furnished. southern europe. _italy_ presents the same aspect as herefore. the only signs of life are reports of assassinations, petty violations of law, and still more petty decrees on the part of the rulers. in consequence of an assassination at milan, which marshal radetzky considered to have been committed from political motives, the whole lombardo-venetian kingdom has been declared to be in a state of siege; the communes are made responsible for similar acts, and are threatened with severe treatment unless the assassins are delivered up. at perugia the austrian commandant issued a notice that, notwithstanding the prohibition of government, some individuals of both sexes "are still seen wearing red ribbons, cravats, and shoes. in order to put a stop to such practices, it is hereby declared that three days after the promulgation of the present notice, any person wearing any such ribbon, cravat, or shoes, shall be brought before a court martial." two letters by mr. gladstone, the english statesman, to lord aberdeen, have been published--setting forth the horrible state of the administration of justice in the kingdom of naples. more than thirty thousand people are confined, he assures us, in prison upon political charges, subject to the most brutal treatment. among these, are an absolute majority of the deputies who, at the same time with the monarch, swore to the constitution, which he has found it convenient to violate. the russian minister, count nesselrode, is reported to have addressed a dispatch to the russian envoys at naples, florence, and rome, directing them to inform those governments that the three northern powers have agreed to place at their disposal all the forces they may be compelled to require in order to suppress revolutionary movements. in _portugal_ affairs have assumed a somewhat unstable aspect; and public confidence is greatly shaken as to the ability of the present government to sustain itself. there have been military disturbances at various points. the east. in _china_ the insurrection, at the latest dates, continued in full force.--the difficulties between the sultan and the pasha of _egypt_ are reported to be in process of adjustment. in _india_ the new governor-general, lord dalhousie, appears to be by no means popular. he is acknowledged to be an able administrator, but is charged with unduly favoring his countrymen and personal friends in the distribution of official patronage. a series of hurricanes has swept ceylon and the eastern coasts, occasioning considerable loss of shipping. among the vessels lost was a new iron steamer, the falkland, belonging to the east india company. the swell caused by the hurricane strained the vessel to such a degree that her plates gradually opened until at last she broke clean in two and sank.--a movement has been made among the hindoos, designed to counteract the efforts of the missionaries. a meeting of learned pundits have decided, contrary to immemorial usage, that a person who has lost caste by forsaking his religion can be reinstated in his privileges by the performance of certain penitential rites. the _grand canary_ island is undergoing a dreadful visitation of the cholera. it broke out at the end of may. on the th of june, and subsequent days, the deaths reached to a day. at that date out of a population of , all but had fled from the chief town. it became almost impossible to bury the dead. it could be done only by the soldiers seizing upon all they could find, and compelling them to perform that office. by the th of june out of inhabitants who remained in the city, had died. in the smaller towns and country-houses throughout the island, the disease raged with equal violence. literary notices _episodes of insect life._ a second volume of this fascinating chronicle of insect history is issued by j.s. redfield, which will command the public favor no less than the former volume, by its sparkling delineations of rural life, and its beautiful illustrations of animal economy. the author has a decided genius for delicate observation; nothing escapes him, however minute, in his study of insect idiosyncracy; and with a rich vein of poetic sentiment, and a luxuriant bloom of all kindly, and natural household feelings, he throws a delightful coloring of imagination around his descriptions, though without impairing their evident fidelity to nature. the very titles of his chapters have a delicious quaintness that leads every one who opens the book to obtain a further taste of its quality. what charming fancies lurk under such an inventory of topics as the following! "the lady bird of our childhood," "things of a day," "insect magicians," "a love among the roses," "the tribes of an oak," "a few friends of our summer gladness," "a sylvan morality, or a word to wives," "a summer day's dream," and the like, which are treated with a subtle development of analogies, and exquisite propriety of expression. whoever would enlarge his preparation for a reverent communion with nature, and trace the unfolding of the divine epos, in its sublime minuteness, should read this volume under the shade of trees, and within the sound of running waters. _the fate_, by g.p.r. james (published by harper and brothers), is the title of the latest offshoot of the luxuriant forest of romance, which has recently been transplanted to this country without losing its verdurous hues or its potent vitality. mr. james evidently writes from an inward necessity, as the trees grow, putting forth all sorts of leaves, blossoms, and branches, in immeasurable profusion, and (may his shadow never be less) he will always find a throng of weary wayfarers who love to turn aside from the heated paths of life, and seek a refreshing coolness in the grateful shade. the quaint moralities with which he relieves the monotony of description are not without a certain charm. they bring us nearer to the personality of the writer, than his more elaborate dialogues. if the plots of his novels are constructed by "horse-power," as has been maliciously said, no machinery could force out the agreeable bits of ethical reflection, in which the novelist speaks in his own name. and though not always free from common-place, as we are bound to confess, they often present sharp touches of good-natured satire, and a piercing insight into the convolutions of vanity and weakness, showing the sagacity of a shrewd observer. these "landing-places" are perhaps more frequent in this volume than in most of the preceding ones, though there is no want of spirit or interest in the movement of the plot. the scene of the novel is laid in england during the civil wars succeeding the restoration. it aims to present a counterpart to mr. macaulay's picture of the condition of england in the year . the author enters his protest against that part of macaulay's "great and fanciful work," which refers to the english country gentlemen and to the english country clergy of those times. his own sketches present the state of society during that period in a more favorable light. we are not sure but the historian has drawn more freely on the imagination for his statements than the novelist. at all events, the portraitures by mr. james have a natural look, and seem to have been taken from the life. in one of the numerous episodes of this volume, the author, after the example of american politicians, with whom he has now become familiar, undertakes to "define his position" in regard to "the two solitary horsemen," who, thus far, have usually not failed to make their appearance, sooner or later, among the characters of his romances. we are glad to have this knotty point cleared up so skillfully. these much calumniated horsemen--one on a white horse--shall have the benefit of their patron's ingenious defense of their "right to ride" in his own words: "as to repeating one's self, it is no very great crime, perhaps, for i never heard that robbing peter to pay paul was punishable under any law or statute, and the multitude of offenders in this sense, in all ages, and in all circumstances, if not an excuse, is a palliation, showing the frailty of human nature, and that we are as frail as others--but no more. the cause of this self-repetition, probably, is not a paucity of ideas, not an infertility of fancy, not a want of imagination or invention, but that, like children sent daily to draw water from a stream, we get into the habit of dropping our buckets into that same immeasurable depth of thought exactly at the same place; and though it be not exactly the same water as that which we drew up the day before, it is very similar in quality and flavor, a little clearer or a little more turbid, as the case may be. now this dissertation--which may be considered as an introduction or preface to the second division of my history--has been brought about, has had its rise, origin, source, in an anxious and careful endeavor to avoid, if possible, introducing into this work the two solitary horsemen--one upon a white horse--which, by one mode or another, have found their way into probably one out of three of all the books i have written; and i need hardly tell the reader that the name of these books is legion. there are, perhaps, too many; but though i must die, some of them will live--i know it, i feel it; and i must continue to write while this spirit is in this body. to say truth, i do not know why i should wish to get rid of my two horsemen, especially the one on the white horse. wouvermans always had a white horse in all his pictures; and i do not see why i should not put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my paper and ink pictures as well as any painter of them all. i am not sure that other authors do not do the same thing--that lytton has not always, or very nearly, a philosophizing libertine--dickens, a very charming young girl, with dear little pockets; and lever, a bold dragoon. nevertheless, upon my life, if i can help it, we will not have in this work the two horsemen and the white horse; albeit, in after times--when my name is placed with homer and shakspeare, or in any other more likely position--there may arise serious and acrimonious disputes as to the real authorship of the book, from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark and characteristic. "but here, while writing about plagiarism, i have been myself a plagiary; and it shall not remain without acknowledgment, having suffered somewhat in that sort myself. hear my excellent friend, leigh hunt, soul of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle brightness! i acknowledge that i stole from you the defensive image of wouvermans' white horse, which you incautiously put within my reach, on one bright night of long, dreamy conversation, when our ideas of many things, wide as the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing, or produced but a cool, quiet spark--as the white stones which children rub together in dark corners emit a soft, phosphorescent gleam, that serves but to light their little noses." phillips, sampson, and co. have published _the inventor's manual_, by george ticknor curtis, being an abridgement of the author's larger treatise on the patent law. it presents the general principles of the law on this subject, in a condensed and intelligible form, and furnishes directions for making applications to the patent office, divested of the technical learning, which can only serve to embarrass the practical inventor. _memoir of the rev. edward bickersteth_, by the rev. t.r. birks. this genuine piece of old-fashioned religious biography is republished from the london edition, by harper and brothers, with an introduction by the rev. dr. tyng, of this city. it is almost exclusively the record of christian experience. mr. bickersteth was not distinguished for any remarkable powers of mind. his character was of an ordinary texture. the even tenor of his life was not diversified by any unusual incidents. but his biography shows the power of earnest devotion to a great object, sustained by clear and constant intellectual convictions, to call forth an effective energy of action, and to invest the character with a certain charm, although it presents no brilliant aspects in the daily routine of life. mr. bickersteth was born in a quiet english village in westmoreland. he commenced his active career as a subordinate clerk in the london post-office. at this early period of his life, he exhibited the same strength of religious principle, and the same fastidiousness of moral perception, which were at the foundation of his subsequent character. indeed, his minute, rigid, ascetic adherence to formal rules of conduct might be deemed premature. we find little exercise of the free, gladsome spirit of youth, but on the contrary, a subjection to the strictest system of self-discipline, which would have done no discredit to a devotee. the habits thus formed were no doubt highly favorable to the rigorous severity of purpose, with which he afterward devoted himself to the performance of grave duties. his self-inflicted training led him to regard religion almost exclusively in the light of obligation, and as the natural result, his conscience not only gained the mastery over his character, but to a great extent interfered with the due exercise of other sentiments. becoming weary of his employments in the post-office, he determined to engage in the study of law, and was at length articled as an attorney's clerk. just before taking this step, however, his religious feelings received a still stronger impulse. the tone of his mind experienced a great change, and he became so absorbed in religious ideas, as to make it obvious that he would find little that was congenial in the profession of law. after a series of obstacles, that were overcome only by great effort and perseverance, mr. bickersteth was enabled to realize a wish which he had long fondly cherished, and received ordination as a clergyman of the english church. from that time, his labors in his favorite sphere of action were devoted and abundant. the missionary cause had always called forth his warmest sympathies, and it now became the most cherished object of his life. its prosperity in england was greatly owing to his zealous exertions. as secretary of the church missionary society, he has identified his name with its interests. nor was he less active in the discharge of duty in other branches of his profession. his earnestness was perpetual. nothing could check his unrelenting industry. the usual relaxations of society could not divert him from his high purpose. he made use of the pulpit and the pen, with equal energy for the accomplishment of his plans. his publications were numerous, and though destitute of literary merit, had considerable influence in their day. he wrought more, however, by his character than by his writings. his unmistakable sincerity, his childlike simplicity, his consistency and purity of intention, gave a contagious virtue to his example, and enabled him to act both on individuals and on large bodies of men with an unerring moral magnetism, which is never granted except to genuine elevation of purpose, and an enthusiasm for an ideal aim, which throws self into the shade. this biography is prepared by the eldest daughter of mr. bickersteth and her husband, a clergyman of the established church, by whom it was undertaken at the request of their deceased parent, made during his last illness. it has been compiled with discrimination and care, free use being made of the voluminous correspondence of mr. bickersteth, which he sustained with characteristic assiduity. although it presents the memoir of a person, who was less distinguished by splendid or imposing natural endowments, than by his peculiar and conspicuous position in the religious world, it affords many curious and suggestive illustrations of human nature, which can not fail to be perused with interest by the student in that science. to the religious public, strictly so called, it will be one of the most enticing works that has appeared for some time. _the stone-mason of saint point_, by lamartine (published by harper and brothers), is a simple rural tale, descriptive of peasant life in france, abounding in fine touches of nature, and with less of the fantastic and exaggerated than is usual in the prose fictions of the author. it is pervaded with a deep religious sentiment, illustrating the power of faith in the divine providence, and of devotion to the good of others, in sustaining the soul under the severest calamities. his pictures of the country are drawn from the experience of the writer. he paints the scenes of his childhood, which are reproduced in a softened and pensive aspect. if the sentiment is often too luscious for a sturdy saxon taste, it is redeemed by its pathos and earnestness, and will be tolerated as a curious expression of french naïveté. _the true remedy for the wrongs of woman_, by catharine e. beecher, published by phillips, sampson, and co. this is not a controversial work. it is rather an eloquent plea for the education of woman. it contains little that is original, and nothing radical. the enterprise of the author for the promotion of education in the west, is its main topic. her narrative of the annoyances and perplexities to which she has been subjected in the prosecution of her plan is lively and graphic, and not without a tinge of bitterness. the volume displays throughout a masculine intellect, and sufficient energy of character for a field-marshal. _the literature and literary men of great britain and ireland_, by abraham mills, is the title of a work just issued by harper and brothers in two large octavo volumes, containing a full and comprehensive survey of the progress of english literature, from its earliest development to the present time. it has evidently been prepared with great industry, and at the same time, shows a mature and cultivated taste, a sound literary judgment, and an uncommon familiarity with the most eminent english authors. the extracts from their writings, which compose the staple of the work, are introduced with elaborate critical and biographical notices, which betray a ripe scholarship, and no small degree of sagacity. we believe these volumes will prove an admirable contribution to a branch of education which has been too much neglected in our higher seminaries of learning. a thorough grounding in the elements of english literature is rare. at the same time, it is as valuable an acquisition as the scholar can possess. it is folly to give a secondary place to the treasures of our mother tongue, while so much time is devoted to studies which are often wholly inapplicable to the pursuits of after life. a thorough initiation into the beauties of the english classics by a competent teacher, would be worth more, as a means of æsthetic culture, than the whole circle of attainments with which one often completes his college course. the present volumes will be found an excellent guide to the knowledge of english literature, and we cordially commend them to the attention of professors as well as of private students. _arthur conway_ is a spirited novel, with great variety of action and incident, and a plot of the most exciting interest, forming the last number of harpers' "select library of novels." the _odd-fellows' offering_ for (published by edward walker), is the first annual that we have seen for the coming season. it is issued in a style of substantial elegance, with a number of well-executed engravings, and a highly finished illuminated presentation plate. among the most valuable contributions are the articles entitled "napoleon's first love," by james nack, "blanaid," by mary e. hewitt, "the destiny," by mrs. e. oakes smith, "the talkative and taciturn," by frederic saunders, "peace," by benson j. lossing, and "the second ship," by fanny green. several of the shorter pieces are worthy of commendation, and the volume as a whole is superior to the average of the ephemeral class of literature to which it belongs. _elements of algebra_, by prof. loomis (published by harper and brothers), is a new elementary treatise on that science, intended for the use of students who have just completed the study of arithmetic. the author has aimed to present the subject with so much clearness and simplicity, that any person who has acquired a tolerably familiar knowledge of the principles of numbers may proceed to this volume with advantage. in point of brevity and terseness of statement, it will be found to have no superior. it abounds with practical examples, happily adapted to illustrate the processes of algebra to the young beginner. the development of the more difficult principles of the science, is so gradual--the ascent from one step to another is made so facile--that the student is enabled to master the elements of the subject without the sense of weariness and discouragement, which often attends the use of a text-book, in which the needs of the beginner are too much lost sight of by the author. _the christian retrospect and register_, by robert baird, published by m.w. dodd. a summary of the scientific, moral, and religious progress of the first half of the nineteenth century. the plan of this work is excellent, but it is not carried out with good success. it is full of omissions, and crude and superficial statements. hurried through the press without time for thorough preparation or revision, it is a skeleton rather than a treatise, and is equally unworthy of the author and of the subject. _roman antiquities_, by charles anthon, ll.d., is designed to furnish a consecutive description of the manners and customs of the ancient romans, in a form adapted to popular reading. in the preparation of this work, recourse has been had to the most recent and trustworthy authorities; it includes the results of modern research; on obscure and doubtful questions it is critical and discriminating; and its style, for the most part, is remarkable for its copiousness and ease. without being encumbered with learned disquisitions, it presents a complete statement of the points essential to the elucidation of roman history. its excellent arrangement and attractive style render it a work which may not only be occasionally consulted, but thoroughly read, with interest and advantage. for popular use, it is not surpassed by any of the previous contributions of the author to the cause of classical literature. (published by harper and brothers.) _the history of the united states_, by richard hildreth, vol. v. (harper and brothers). mr. hildreth is making rapid progress with his great national work. we have now the fifth volume of the whole series, and the second of the history since the adoption of the federal constitution. it is devoted to the administrations of john adams and thomas jefferson, bringing down the narrative to the difficulties with england on account of the affair of the chesapeake in . this period is fruitful in topics of great historical interest. among those which mr. hildreth has investigated with the most exemplary diligence, and presented in his usual plain and forcible style, are the state of parties subsequent to the election of adams, the struggle between adams and his federal opponents, the downfall of the federal party on the accession of jefferson, the purchase of louisiana, the characters of hamilton and burr, and the growth of the commercial troubles with great britain. these are described with the same doric severity of expression which characterizes the previous volumes, with scarcely a flower of rhetoric to entice the toiling reader. as an authentic and vigorous chronicle of events, we still deem this work an important element in the study of american history. if he does not rival the philosophical splendor of bancroft or the sweet amenities of prescott, mr. hildreth has earned a highly honorable niche among our native historians. _travels and adventures in mexico_, by william w. carpenter (published by harper and brothers), is a record of military service and wanderings on foot, by a soldier in the late mexican war, describing the manners and customs of the people of mexico, and the agricultural and mineral resources of that country. the narrative is drawn up from notes taken on the spot, and although the author bespeaks the indulgence of his readers for his want of skill in composition, it is marked by such a high degree of frankness and simplicity, that it can scarcely fail to prove attractive to the majority of readers. he enjoyed unusual opportunities for the observation of the mexican character. placed in circumstances which made him familiar with all classes of society, he studied the strange habits and striking features that came under his notice with unsleeping vigilance, and has recorded his impressions, with apparent accuracy and good faith. the course of his journeys led him through various towns, which are off of the routes most frequented by travelers, such as salamanca, guanahuato, guadalajara, ahuacatlan, and tepic, concerning which he presents a variety of valuable and interesting information. exposed to the casualties of military life, and for a long time held a prisoner by the mexicans, he has been able to gather up an abundant store of incident and adventure, which he relates almost with the freedom of a conversational style, but commanding the attention of the reader to the close of the volume. editors drawer. it was an idea of the gifted author of "ship and shore," the late walter colton, chaplain in the united states' navy, who had witnessed many burials at sea in his various voyages, that a body thus buried remained suspended in a medium so dense that it was alike beyond the reach of decay, or destruction by the "innumerable creeping things, both small and great beasts," which inhabit the mighty deep. this theory gives an added interest to the following beautiful passage from a discourse by the rev. mr. giles: "the sea is the largest of all cemeteries, and its slumberers sleep without a monument. all other grave-yards, in all other lands, show some symbol of distinction between the great and the small, the rich and the poor: but in that ocean-cemetery the king and the clown, the prince and the peasant, are alike undistinguished. the same waves roll over all; the same requiem by the minstrelsy of the ocean is sung to their honor. over their remains the same storm beats and the same sun shines; and there, unmarbled, the weak and the powerful, the plumed and the unhonored, will sleep on until awakened by the same trump when the sea shall 'give up its dead!'" * * * * * few things were more characteristic of the colored servants living with the old families of the north many years ago, than their high-flown language, and the deference which they endeavored to exact from those of their race whom they thought below themselves in a dependent position, and even of the whites whose social scale was beneath that of their own especial masters. a friend mentioned to us recently an amusing illustration of this: some years ago, "eben," as he was called, a colored servant of mr. a----, an old and opulent citizen of a flourishing and beautiful city in connecticut, obtained leave to use his master's sleigh and horses, to take his sable inamorata "a-sleighing" to a neighboring road-side inn, a popular resort, at certain seasons, even for the élite of the town whence it derived its principal support. about nine o'clock "eben" drove up, and throwing the reins to the stable-boy, in the most stately manner, he helped out "miss dinah" with an air that would have befitted a colored count d'orsay, and the pair made their way to the principal sitting-room, where a bright and cheerful fire was blazing up the wide-backed chimney. here, having seated his "lady" in state, he rang a little hand-bell on the table. the landlord entered. "is _dis_ you' best room, landlord?" "yes," replied the landlord, "yes--doesn't it suit you?" "w'y, yes, sà, it suit if dere ain't no _better_, sà. we want some fresh'ents--best you got; sumfin nice--quick: an' look a' hea: gib my hosses couple tub o' oats, two ton o' hay, and two bushel o' water! an', we don't want no odder company, sà, in our 'partment: don't let in no colored pussons, sà." the landlord, who had known the old servant before he had gone to live with mr. a---- (a fact which _he_ did not know, or had forgotten), said, "eben, where do you live now?" "mr. a---- lib wid me, down on de plain," said "eben," speaking very quickly; "but i t'ank you, sà, w'en you speak to me, to call me by _both_ my names: i got _two_ names, sà." "ah?--well, eben, what is your _other_ name?" "my middle name is 'nezer, sà, and i'd t'ank you to recollect 'im!" "poor, faithful, simple-hearted 'eben!'" said the friend who mentioned this incident to us, he has followed 'uncle ned,' and 'gone where the good niggers go;' but he will long be remembered by all who ever knew him. he it was who, on one occasion, when about to take a letter to a certain quarter of the city, and when asked if he knew where the house was, replied, "i wish i had as many dollars as i know where dat house is!" the sum was not computable by any rule known to arithmetic, mathematics, or any cognate "science of numbers." on another occasion he was describing an execution of a colored man, which he had been to see. "when he went upon the platform," said he, "he was extremely overcome, and i thought, at one time, dat he _wouldn't survive_!" the probability is, that he _didn't_ long! * * * * * one of "nature's true nobility," an educated, independent farmer in the country, after walking over his rich paternal acres, amidst his "fields ripe for the harvest," and his noble flocks and herds, sits down and writes the following passage in a letter to a gentleman of this city: "the scene has changed on the farm since i wrote you last. blades and blossoms have turned to ears and fruit; spring to summer; seed-time to harvest. the birds have changed their notes, and seem to sing as if from a sense of duty only. the trees, instead of being fresh and green, are only shady. brooks seem to be growing tired, and gardens no longer conceal their faded flowers. the noon of the year is at hand. even now we feel its sultry heat; we are dazzled by its golden light. reapers will soon go out to gather the ripened grain. store-houses and barns will soon be filled again with the bounties of god. is it not a pleasant season, a profitable halting-time; a point of prospect, from which we may look backward and forward? has it no analogy to the present of our own lives--yours, and mine, and ----'s? does it not bid us look to _our_ harvests, that we may gather in season, and be furnished for the long winter which approacheth? gather, i mean, in those great moral fields which god has opened around us, and filled with incorruptible fruits: knowing that _they_, too, have their appropriate seasons, and that as to _them_, also the harvest will soon pass, the summer will soon end? let us keep in mind, then, dear ----, the great truth, that, "loitering slow the future creepeth, arrow-swift the present sweepeth, and motionless forever stands the past!" * * * * * "'i had been out a-fishing in the 'old south bay,'" said a long island subscriber the other day, "with one of those crafty fishermen to whom _no_ days, on which the water may be tempted, are considered days for 'bad luck;' '_dies infaustus_' being a term unknown in his calendar. he was one of those 'long-necked clam'-eaters, whose stomach rose and fell with the tides which made them plentiful or left them scarce. as we were coming in in our boat, after a successful foray upon bass and sheepshead, we 'fell to meditate' upon various matters which were neither piscatory nor akin to it. as boswell would say of the colloquies of the great leviathan: 'we spoke of ghosts.' 'you say ghosts have been _seen_ on long island, but _you_ never seen 'em, and don't believe in 'em!' 'wal, yes, i can't say i do believe in 'em, but i guess i _should_ believe in 'em, ef i had such luck in gettin' a sight on 'em as a man did down to jerusalem-south a good many years ago. the way of it was this: you see, it was a dreadful cold winter's night, about nine o'clock (how the old south bay roared that night)! when there was a sleigh with three fellows into it, druv up under the hoss-shed at the tavern. two on 'em got out; and as they got out, they said to 't'other one, 'jim, jist you sit there and mind the hosses while we go in and git somethin' warmin': we'll be right out agin.' they went into the tavern, but they _didn't_ 'come right out again' by a jug-full, though when they _did_ come out they had more than a jug-full apiece into 'em--both on 'em had--ha! ha! 'fore they come out, though, bill the 'ostler said to the man sittin' in the sleigh, 'ef i was you i wouldn't sit there in the cold as long as you're a-sittin', blamed if i would: why don't _you_ go in and get somethin' too?" the man never said nothin', though, in answer, but sot up as straight as an indian. bill, who was lookin' after some other hosses under the same shed, a'ter a while said somethin' more to him, but he was as still as a 'yster. pooty soon bill said to hisself, 'goy-blamed ef i don't think he's friz to death, or else he'd say _somethin'_!' so he went up to him and shook him; and sure enough, he found him fruz as stiff as a stake; and when he come to hold up his lantern to look, he found him propped up on each side on the seat; the lines was wound round his hands; he was muffled up with comforters about his face--and he was stone-dead! "'bill wasn't nobody's fool, ef he _did_ attend to hosses. he smelt the whole thing out to-once. two or three graves had been robbed about there only a little while before, and the two chaps in the tavern was two body-gatherers that had been paid by doctors to get bodies for 'em, for to cut up, and they'd been and robbed a new grave that night; and here was the corpse, wrapped up and propped up in that sleigh, so that folks wouldn't suspicion nothing about it! now what d'you 'spose bill does? he goes and takes, bill does, that body out of the sleigh (for he wasn't afraid of the very devil), strips off the clothes, and puts it into the oat-bin inside, and fastens the door: then he puts on the dead man's clothes hisself, and _he_ goes and gets into the sleigh with 'em onto him, puts the lines round his hands, props hisself up, and waits for the body-snatchers to come out from the bar-room. pooty soon, out they come, got in on the wide seat along side of him, and druv off. there bill sits, as stiff as a rail; but 'twasn't long 'fore one o' the chaps says to t'other, feelin o' bill's leg a little, 'why, the body's gettin' warm! feel o' that leg!' t'other one put down his hand and felt o' bill's legs; and then _he_ started back and said: 'it's a fact, by thunder! it _is_ warm, and _no_ mistake!' 'twas bill's time, now: so he turned his head round, stiff-like and straight, without moving his body, and says he, '_warm?_--wal, i guess you'd be warm ef you'd been took out o' h-ll only a little while ago, as _i_ was!' "'bill says it wan't half a second 'fore both o' them chaps had pitched head-first out o' that sleigh, and n'ither on 'em stopped runnin' till they was clean out o' sight. then he turned right square round and druv back to the tavern. there he told the whole story; and he made a good spec. out o' the thing too, in the end; for you see, the friends of the man that was dug up guv him fifty dollars for savin' of the body, and as nobody ever come back a'ter the sleigh and hosses, he sold 'em to captain b----, down on h---- plains, for nigh upon three hundred dollars! 'twas a fust-rate team--so they said. that's the most profitable and about the only ghost that ever _i_ heerd tell on! good many folks _talks_ about seein' 'em, but i expect they never _did_--not _r'ally_.'" * * * * * it was not an uncommon thing in england, before the abuse was corrected by an especial act of parliament, for interested parties to secure the incarceration, in private asylums for lunatics, of those who, from pecuniary or other considerations, they were desirous of "_getting_ out of the way, and _keeping_ out of the way:" but in this country the difficulty attending such transactions rendered them infrequent of execution. yet as late as in october, , a learned clergyman of the church of england, of unique mind, and in his manners not a copyist of others, was imprisoned in a lunatic asylum not three hundred miles from new york, on the alleged ground that he was "crazy." the truth was soon discovered, however, and he was liberated; but the result arose from a mere accident. the victim had asked permission, on a sunday, to attend church. the request was refused. a second demand to the same effect was met with: "if you ask to go to church again, we shall confine you to the 'second floor'"--a hall with cells and grated windows, and seldom entered by visitors. whereupon the incarcerated clergyman, who had not been prohibited from having writing materials, sent to the overseer of the institution the following lines: "go on, go on! your prison den no terrors has for me: god is my shield! why fear i then a moment's tyranny? "vain man may bind his fellow clay, incarcerate the wise, dungeons shut out the cheerful day, and darkness shroud my eyes: "go on, go on! free fancy smiles, and soars on golden wings, the spirit spurns your petty wiles-- the muse, unfettered, sings! "bring on, bring here your threats and chains, imagination bind! bring grates, bring all your iron panes-- cage in the steadfast mind! "your power is faint, your threatenings naught, what empire have ye now? this poor, frail body--not one thought-- shall to your thralldom bow. "sure is that day not distant far, when truth shall claim her son, offended justice wake the war, and speak in thunder-tone: "how did ye dare, on mercy's plea, abuse her sacred name, till violated liberty bring in her sternest claim. "now justice reign, bereft of sight, for mortal woes and fears; in freedom's cause uphold the right! back, back, ye struggling tears!" these lines seemed to create an impression, in the minds of those who saw them, that there was at least some "method" in the writer's "madness," and the requisite inquisition soon put an end to his incarceration. he is now, as he was then, a learned and accomplished divine, and is at present preaching to a large and flourishing congregation in a sister city. * * * * * we have heard much of the sagacity of the elephant; of those qualities which dugald stewart places far above mere instinct (namely, memory and forecaste), which he possesses; but we never knew until lately, that an elephant had an "ear for music!" but it appears that there was at mayence, in , an elephant who was a great lover of sweet sounds. the musicians of the city treated him with a concert of instrumental music, which had a very powerful effect upon him. he expressed his delight by frequently flapping his great leather-apron ears, and rolling from side to side. a solo upon a horn almost transported him. he "put himself in motion," beat time with his trunk, and expressed his approval of the performance by the distinct but subdued emission of vocal applause. think of an elephant applauding at the opera, or one of jenny lind's concerts! * * * * * it will have been observed, by those who have read the recent speeches of a celebrated american orator and statesman, with what beautiful simplicity and force brief passages or phrases from the bible come in aid of his eloquence. and well would it be if these qualities were studied more by our public speakers from that good "book of books." sir william jones expressed his opinion that the bible contained "more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, more pure morality, more important history, and finer strains of eloquence and poetry, than could be collected from all other books, in whatever language or age they might have been written." fisher ames and patrick henry, pre-eminent american orators, did not hesitate to go further, and declare, that "no man ever did or ever could become truly eloquent, without being a constant reader of the bible, and an admirer of the purity and sublimity of its language." * * * * * if the following amusing circumstance had been narrated in the pages of the veracious historian, diedrich knickerbocker, it would have been set down to the credit of a fertile fancy on the part of that illustrious historian, rather than believed as a fact. but the occurrence here detailed is a veritable one, and happened many years ago in the county of york, pennsylvania. it is a forcible illustration of that undoubted and undoubting dutch honesty which made new amsterdam so famous in the olden time. it seems, from the record, that there were two early german settlers, in the western part of the county, whose names were peter ---- and john ----. peter had increased the size of his farm, by annexing to it a small tract of land adjoining, and he lacked about a hundred dollars of the sum which it was necessary to pay for his new acquisition. he called upon his neighbor john, to borrow the amount. john consented at once, and going into another room, he brought out an old bread-basket, and counted down the desired number of dollars; and then the two sat down to two large earthen mugs of cider and as many pipes of tobacco. after smoking over the matter for a while, it occurred to peter that in similar transactions he had seen or heard something like a _note_ passing between the borrower and lender, and he suggested as much to john. the lender assented to the propriety of such a course; paper, pen, and ink, were produced; and between the two a document was concocted, stating that john had loaned peter one hundred dollars, which peter would repay to john in "tree mont's." this peter signed; and thus far the two financiers made the thing "all regular, and ship-shape." but at this point a difficulty presented itself. they both knew that notes were made in the operation of borrowing and lending, which they had witnessed; but neither of them had observed what disposition was made of the document: neither could tell whether it was for the borrower or the lender to take charge of the paper. here was a dilemma! at last a bright idea struck john: "you haves de money to pay, peter, so you must take dis paper, so as you can _see_ as you haf to pay it." this was conclusive: the common sense of the thing was unanswerable; and peter pocketed the money and his own note, so "as he could _see_ as he haf to pay it!" three months passed over; and punctually to the day appeared peter, and paid over the promised sum to john. this being done, the mugs and pipes were again brought out. after puffing awhile, peter produced the note, and handed it to john, with the remark: "_now_, john, _you_ must take de note, so as you can see the money haf been paid!" it strikes us that this incident is only second to the "balancing of the books" by weighing, passing receipts, and mulcting the constable in the amount of costs, as recorded by the sage historian of manahatta. * * * * * we believe it is a german poet who, walking "silent and thoughtful by the solemn shore of the vast ocean we must sail so soon," thus speaks "_the ship of death_:" "by the shore of time, now lying on the inky flood beneath, patiently, thou soul undying! waits for thee the ship of death! "he who on that vessel starteth, sailing from the sons of men, to the friends from whom he parteth never more returns again! "from her mast no flag is flying, to denote from whence she came; she is known unto the dying-- azael is her captain's name. "not a word was ever spoken, on that dark, unfathom'd sea; silence there is so unbroken, she herself seems not to be! "silent thus, in darkness lonely, doth the soul put forth alone, while the wings of angels only waft her to a land unknown." how many are departing daily in that "ship of death!" "good heaven!" exclaims one, "how often are we to die before we go off this stage! in every friend we lose, we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part. god keep those we have left!" * * * * * the following ludicrous occurrence finds its way into the "drawer," on a blank-leaf of a business-letter, from a flourishing town in illinois: "a manufacturer of tombstones, in our place, lately received a call from a countryman, who wanted a stone to place over the grave of his mother. after looking around for some time, and making sundry remarks about the taste of his deceased mother, he finally pitched upon one which the stone-cutter had prepared for another person. 'i like _this_ one,' said he. 'but,' said the manufacturer, 'that belongs to another man, and has mrs. perry's name cut on it: it wouldn't do for your mother.' 'o, yes, it would,' said the countryman, 'she couldn't _read_! and besides,' he continued, as he observed the wonderment of the stone-cutter, 'perry was always a favorite name of hers, any how!'" this anecdote reminds us of a kindred occurrence, which actually took place in this good city of gotham. a parvenu, who had set up his carriage in great state, went to a harness-maker to have "a silver letter" put on the blinders of his horses. "what letter shall i put on?" asked the harness-maker. "well, i don't _know_, exactly," answered the pompous "patron;" but, after hesitating a moment, he said, "well; i guess w is about as handsome a letter as you can put on--isn't it?" * * * * * in the "marriage of language to music and feeling," as the great german, goethe, expresses it, alfred tennyson has but few equals, and probably no superior at the present day. a modern english critic, in a review of his _princess_, observes: mr. tennyson is not, we believe, a connoisseur in music, as moore was; yet look at the songs in 'the princess.' take the 'bugle song,' for example, unequaled in our language, except by shakspeare: 'the splendor falls on castle walls, and snowy summits old in story: the long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory: blow, bugle, blow--set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying! 'o hark! o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o sweet and far from cliff and scar the horns of elfland faintly blowing! blow! let us hear the purple glens replying blow, bugle! answer echoes, dying, dying, dying! 'o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill, on field, on river: _our_ echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow forever and forever: blow, bugle! blow; set the wild echoes flying, and answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying!' "true," says the reviewer, "this is an imitation, in words, of the actual sounds of bugle-music; but it had been little to let us hear, in the wonderful combination of liquid, ringing consonants, and resounding vowels, the 'horns of elfland faintly blowing,' had not the poet told us in the same key of sound, how 'the splendor falls on castle walls, and snowy summits old in story:' investing with one uniting halo, first the scenery, then the music itself, and lastly the human thoughts and feelings which remind him that '_our_ echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow forever and forever:' embodying, in the oneness of the sensuous framework, the spiritual harmony of the whole inward and outward impression, the luscious languor, the stately splendor, the thoughts which follow into infinity the dying echoes of the air." this is true criticism, and is confirmatory of an impression which we have long entertained, that it requires something more than laborious pains-taking, something different, and better, than a mere careful selection of melodious or sounding words, and a felicitous collocation of them, to give a man a poetical reputation that is worth possessing. * * * * * the western lawyers, who "hire out their words and anger," are somewhat amenable to the charge brought against them by transatlantic writers, of looseness and bombast in their arguments and oratory. in a recent case of capital crime, before a far-western jury, the lawyer addressed to them, among other similar arguments, the following: "the bible says, 'thou shalt not kill!' now do you know, gentlemen, that if you go to hang my client, the prisoner at the bar, that you commit murder? you _do_, and 'no mistake;' for murder is _murder_, whether it is committed by twelve men in what is called a box--and a 'bad box' you'll find it if you don't give a righteous verdict--or a humble individual, like my client. s'posing my client _had_ killed a man; i say, _s'posing_ he had; is that any reason why _you_ should kill a man?--twelve of you on one! no, gentlemen of the jury, you may bring the prisoner at the bar, my client, in guilty; the hangman may do his duty, but will that exonerate _you_? no such thing! you will all, individually and collectively, you will _all_ of you be murderers!" this profound argument had its effect. the verdict of the jury was: "_not guilty if he'll quit the state!_" * * * * * our neighbors across the water indulge themselves in occasional comments upon the personal ostentation and desire for external display, which they regard as the besetting folly of our people. there is an old adage of "look at home," which it seems to us it would not be amiss for "honest john" to bear in mind. one of his own writers recently said, "an englishman will forego a horse and cabriolet that will serve to convey him comfortably to his friends, and give him air, pleasure, and variety, if he can not do it in an expensive style and manner, mounting a lackey behind, bedaubed with gold lace. pride, purse-pride, is the besetting sin of england; and like most other sins, brings its own punishment, by converting existence into a struggle, and environing it with gloom and despondency." this is a criticism, be it understood, of an englishman upon englishmen, in the present state of english society. now to show how it was aforetime, and that what bull charges _us_ with, is a besetting sin and folly of his own, hear the quaint thomas nashe, who wrote in : "englaund, the players' stage of gorgeous attyre, the ape of all nations' superfluities, the continuall masquer in outlandish habilements, great plenty-scanting calamities art thou to await, for wanton disguising thyself against kind, and digressing from the plainnesse of thine auncesters; scandalous and shamefull is it, that not anie in thee (fishermen and husbandmen set aside) but lyve above their ability and birth; that the outward habite (which in other countries is the only distinction of honour), shoulde yeelde in thee no difference of persons: that all thy auncient nobilitie, (almost,) with this gorgeous prodigalitie, should be devoured and eaten uppe, and up-starts inhabite their stately pallaces, who from farre have fetcht in this vanitie of pride to entrappe and to spoyle them. those of thy people that in all other things are miserable, on their apparaile will be prodigal. no lande can so unfallibly experience this proverbe, _the hoode makes not the moncke_ as thou: for tailers, serving-men, make-shifts, and gentlemen in thee are confounded. for the compassment of bravery we hear theye will robbe, steale, cozen, cheate, betray their owne fathers, sweare and forsweare, or doe any thing. take away braverie, you kill the hart of lust and incontinencie. wherefore doe men make themselves brave, but to riot and to revell? looke after what state theyr apparaile is, that state they take to them and carry, and after a little accustoming to that carriage, persuade themselves they are such indeede." * * * * * there is that in the following brief social homily which renders it worthy of a better preservation than an inscription upon an unappropriated slip of paper in the "drawer:" "there is no better evidence of ill-breeding than the practice of interrupting another in conversation while speaking, or commencing a remark before another has fully closed. no well-bred person ever does it, nor continues conversation long with a person who _does_ do it. the latter often finds an interesting conversation abruptly waived, closed, or declined by the former, without even suspecting the cause. a well-bred person will not even interrupt one who is in all respects greatly his inferior. if you wish to judge the good-breeding of a person with whom you are but little acquainted, observe him, or her, strictly in this respect, and you will not be deceived. however intelligent, fluent, or easy one may appear, this practice proves the absence of true politeness. it is often amusing to see persons, priding themselves on the gentility of their manners, and putting forth all their efforts to appear to advantage in many other respects, so readily betray all in this particular." fashions for september [illustration: fig. .--promenade and home costume.] the warm weather, which generally continues until the middle of this month, makes a change in the materials for dresses quite unnecessary, and we report some slight novelties in mode rather than change in fabrics. the figure on the left, in the above illustration, exhibits an elegant style of walking toilette.--silk drawn bonnet. the poke is made on a whalebone skeleton. crown reclining, trimmed with a silk _fanchon_, edged with two _ruchès_, one blue, the other same color as the silk. a similar double _ruchè_ runs along the edge of the poke and curtain. this last is very full. on one side are small bunches of forget-me-nots, with a little foliage. the ribbons or edges are worked in festoons. dress and mantelet of plain silk with band _à disposition_ trimmed with fringed ribbon. the scarf-mantelet is low on the neck; it is cut with a point, and the part of the top which folds like a shawl falls over the other, from the front, and behind is continued in a point following the shape of the lower part. the band is clouded with blue and green on nut-color, and is detached from the ground by a narrow white fillet; below there is a plain part which forms a hem, under which are sewed fringed ribbons of the same color as the stuff, the threads being alternately an inch of blue and an inch of green. the fringe of the shawl part is from to inches deep at top, that at bottom from to inches. the body is open, and there is a _chiné_, or clouded band, about an inch from the edge. the skirt has two tucks along each of which runs a clouded band with a hem of about an inch, and a deep fringe. the upper one reaches to within - / inch of the band at bottom. therefore, if the skirt is inches deep, there are of fringe, of interval, more of fringe, and the rest forms the band and the top of the skirt. the collar is composed of three rows of lace turned down, and the front of the habit-shirt is formed of three rows of beautiful lace, having the appearance of a very full triple shirt frill. the other figure, on the right, shows a beautiful style of home toilette.--the hair is arranged in waved bands, short and puffed. a cambric chemisette with small plaits, a raised collar of two frills very finely plaited, and edged with a very narrow _valenciennes_. sleeves half-large, of cambric, plaited small; and ending in a stitched wrist-band with two plaited trimmings, and narrow _valenciennes_, like the collar. waistcoat body of white quilting, open in front; the collar, which turns down, is narrow, rounded at the corner, and is continued in a little lapel like a man's waistcoat. the lappets are not sewed on at the waist; they are formed by the hollowing of the seams; the front lappet opens and rounds off on the hip. behind, it is continued square, with an opening at each seam. the sleeves have an elbow, and a cuff turned up, with the corners rounded off. there is a small pocket on each of the front lappets. the buttons are coral. all the edges of this garment have a double row of stitches. the skirt is made of scotch poplin. [illustration: figs. and .--bonnet and head-dress.] there is a greater variety in the style of bonnets than in dresses. among the most elegant are a drawn bonnet of white lace, hair, and straw, mounted on a net foundation, with a small poke formed by bouillons of white _gros de naples_, placed cross-wise, and separated from each other, by an extremely narrow straw ornament. these bouillons spread between two spaces of straw lace, half an inch wide, one of which forms the edge of the poke, and the other comes at the bottom of the crown. the curtain is very deep, of the same lace, surmounted by a band of silk. inside are two small bunches of field-flowers, mixed with blades of grass. another bonnet is composed of cross-pieces of lisse crape, laid flat in contrary directions, and trimmed with three deep blonds, placed according to fancy. the edge is open-work blond. at the bottom of each cross-piece is a roll of shot silk, intended to give relief. trimmed on the side with a cabbage rose, or marabouts; the curtain, crape and blond. a novel style of drawn bonnet for mourning, is composed of half ornaments of black and white hair, and half narrow flounces of rose-leaf, small-striped ribbons. each of them is zebraed with three small pink stripes of equal width; but the ribbons are so matched, that these stripes gradually increase in width, and form a very pleasing diversity. figure represents a very pretty style. the poke of the bonnet of rice-straw, having at the edge in front one row of about an inch wide, and continued, without being cut, along the bottom of the curtain, which is very large and wholly of rice-straw. the crown forms three divisions. those of the two sides, arranged in the shape of a ram's horns, are composed of three bouillonnés, separated by narrow rows about a quarter of an inch. these bouillonnés, beginning at top, form on each side a kind of semi-circle. the top of the crown between these two parts is formed of nineteen or twenty flat plaits of silk, separated from each other by a narrow row of rice-straw. on the side of the bonnet is a branch of a rose-tree with buds and leaves, which begins wide at bottom and gets narrower up the poke. inside, ribbons and flowers. figure represents a pretty style of head-dress for a home toilette. the hair is disposed in bandeaux, and tied low behind. the head-dress is composed of tufts of silk ribbons, and bunches of velvet bows. these ribbons are mounted on elastic springs, which hold them well on the head. [illustration: fig --chemisette] chemisettes and habit-shirts form a part of almost every costume, and when arranged with taste, are very elegant. they are of almost every variety of pattern, and some of them, trimmed with fine lace, are very costly. our engraving represents a very neat pattern, and quite simple. it is made of the usual material, and trimmed with two rows of festooned bands with insertions to match. scarfs are beginning to be quite fashionable. owing to long disuse, they possess the charm of novelty. the mantelets have, for some time, been approaching in form the scarf of former days, and this graceful portion of a full dress, will doubtless soon be in general vogue. waistcoats, too, are gaining favor, and their style very nearly resembles those worn by gentlemen. in fact, the ladies seem determined to reduce the volume of their dresses. this is manifested abroad by the prevailing taste for close fitting jackets, and at home by the general favor in which the "bloomers" are held. there are signs of radical changes in costume, which neither sneers, caricatures, or serious opposition, can prevent. health and good taste demand a reform, and common sense will doubtless second the demand with powerful effect. harper's new monthly magazine. no. ix.--february, .--vol. ii. the traveler; or, a prospect of society. by oliver goldsmith. remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow-- or by the lazy scheldt or wandering po, or onward where the rude carinthian boor against the houseless stranger shuts the door, or where campania's plain forsaken lies a weary waste expanding to the skies-- where'er i roam, whatever realms to see, my heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee; still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain. [illustration: or where campania's plain forsaken lies] eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, and round his dwelling guardian saints attend: bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire to pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, and every stranger finds a ready chair; bless'd be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd where all the ruddy family around laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, or press the bashful stranger to his food, and learn the luxury of doing good. but me, not destin'd such delights to share, my prime of life in wandering spent and care-- impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue some fleeting good that mocks me with the view, that like the circle bounding earth and skies allures from far, yet, as i follow, flies-- my fortune leads to traverse realms alone, and find no spot of all the world my own. even now, where alpine solitudes ascend, i sit me down a pensive hour to spend; and placed on high, above the storm's career, look downward where an hundred realms appear-- lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, the pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. when thus creation's charms around combine, amid the store should thankless pride repine? say, should the philosophic mind disdain that good which makes each humbler bosom vain? let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, these little things are great to little man; and wiser he whose sympathetic mind exults in all the good of all mankind. ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor crown'd, ye fields where summer spreads profusion round. ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale, ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale-- for me your tributary stores combine; creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! [illustration: as some lone miser visiting his store] as some lone miser, visiting his store, bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er-- hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still-- thus to my breast alternate passions rise, pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies, yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, to see the hoard of human bliss so small; and oft i wish, amid the scene, to find some spot to real happiness consign'd, where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, may gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd. but where to find that happiest spot below, who can direct, when all pretend to know? the shuddering tenant of the frigid zone boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, extols the treasures of his stormy seas, and his long nights of revelry and ease, the naked negro, panting at the line, boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, and thanks his gods for all the good they gave. such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, his first, best country ever is at home; and yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, and estimate the blessings which they share, though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find an equal portion dealt to all mankind-- as different good, by art or nature given to different nations, makes their blessings even. nature, a mother kind alike to all, still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call: with food as well the peasant is supplied on idra's cliffs as arno's shelvy side; and, though the rocky-crested summits frown, these rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down, from art, more various are the blessings sent-- wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content; yet these each other's power so strong contest that either seems destructive of the rest: where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, and honor sinks where commerce long prevails. hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone, conforms and models life to that alone; each to the favorite happiness attends, and spurns the plan that aims at other ends-- till, carried to excess in each domain, this favorite good begets peculiar pain. but let us try these truths with closer eyes, and trace them through the prospect as it lies: here, for a while my proper cares resigned, here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, that shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. far to the right, where apennine ascends, bright as the summer, italy extends; its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, woods over woods in gay theatric pride, while oft some temple's mouldering tops between with venerable grandeur mark the scene. could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, the sons of italy were surely bless'd. whatever fruits in different climes were found, that proudly rise, or humbly court the ground-- whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, whose bright succession decks the varied year-- whatever sweets salute the northern sky with vernal lives, that blossom but to die-- these, here disporting, own the kindred soil, nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; while sea-born gales their gelid wings expand to winnow fragrance round the smiling land. but small the bliss that sense alone bestows, and sensual bliss is all the nation knows; in florid beauty groves and fields appear-- man seems the only growth that dwindles here! contrasted faults through all his manners reign: though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue-- and even in penance planning sins anew. all evils here contaminate the mind, that opulence departed leaves behind; for wealth was theirs--nor far remov'd the date when commerce proudly flourish'd through the state at her command the palace learn'd to rise, again the long fallen column sought the skies, the canvas glow'd beyond even nature warm, the pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; till, more unsteady than the southern gale, commerce on other shores display'd her sail, while naught remain'd of all that riches gave, but towns unmann'd and lords without a slave-- and late the nation found, with fruitless skill, its former strength was but plethoric ill. [illustration: the sports of children satisfy the child] yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied by arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride: from these the feeble heart and long fallen mind an easy compensation seem to find. here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, the pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; processions form'd for piety and love-- a mistress or a saint in every grove: by sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, the sports of children satisfy the child. each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; while low delights, succeeding fast behind, in happier meanness occupy the mind. as in those domes, where cæsars once bore sway defac'd by time and tottering in decay, there in the ruin, heedless of the dead, the shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; and, wondering man could want the larger pile, exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. [illustration: the swiss their stormy mansions tread] my soul, turn from them, turn we to survey where rougher climes a nobler race display-- where the bleak swiss their stormy mansions tread, and force a churlish soil for scanty bread. no product here the barren hills afford but man and steel, the soldier and his sword, no vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, but winter lingering chills the lap of may; no zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, but meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. [illustration: breasts the air, and carols as he goes] yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, he sees his little lot, the lot of all; sees no contiguous palace rear its head, to shame the meanness of his humble shed-- no costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, to make him loathe his vegetable meal-- but calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, each wish contracting, fits him to the soil, cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; with patient angle trolls the finny deep, or drives his venturous plowshare to the steep, or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, and drags the struggling savage into day. at night returning, every labor sped, he sits him down the monarch of a shed; smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys his children's looks, that brighten at the blaze-- while his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, displays her cleanly platter on the board: and haply too some pilgrim, thither led, with many a tale repays the nightly bed. [illustration: where snow-tracks mark the way] thus every good his native wilds impart imprints the patriot passion on his heart; and even those ills, that round his mansion rise enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, and dear that hill which lifts him to the storms and as a child, when scaring sounds molest, clings close and closer to the mother's breast-- so the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar but bind him to his native mountains more. such are the charms to barren states assign'd-- their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd; yet let them only share the praises due, if few their wants, their pleasures are but few: for every want that stimulates the breast becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd. whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, that first excites desire, and then supplies. unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, to fill the languid pause with finer joy; unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame: their level life is but a smouldering fire, unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire, unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer on some high festival of once a year, in wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. but not their joys alone thus coarsely flow-- their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; for, as refinement stops, from sire to son unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run-- and love's and friendship's finely pointed dart fall blunted from each indurated heart. some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast may sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; but all the gentler morals, such as play through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way-- these, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, to sport and flutter in a kinder sky. to kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, i turn; and france displays her bright domain. gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please; how often have i led thy sportive choir, with tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring loire, where shading elms along the margin grew, and, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew! and haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, but mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill-- yet would the village praise my wondrous power, and dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. alike all ages: dames of ancient days have led their children through the mirthful maze; and the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score. [illustration: and dance, forgetful of the noontide hour] so bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display; thus idly busy rolls their world away. theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, for honor forms the social temper here: honor, that praise which real merit gains, or even imaginary worth obtains, here passes current--paid from hand to hand, it shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land; from courts to camps, to cottages it strays, and all are taught an avarice of praise-- they please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem. till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem. but while this softer art their bliss supplies, it gives their follies also room to rise; for praise, too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, enfeebles all internal strength of thought-- and the weak soul, within itself unbless'd, leans for all pleasure on another's breast. hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; here vanity assumes her pert grimace, and trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, to boast one splendid banquet once a year: the mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. [illustration: embosom'd in the deep where holland lies] to men of other minds my fancy flies, embosom'd in the deep where holland lies. methinks her patient sons before me stand, where the broad ocean leans against the land; and, sedulous to stop the coming tide, lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. onward, methinks, and diligently slow, the firm, connected bulwark seems to grow, spreads its long arms amid the watery roar, scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore-- while the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; the slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, the willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, the crowded mart, the cultivated plain-- a new creation rescued from his reign. thus, while around the wave-subjected soil impels the native to repeated toil, industrious habits in each bosom reign, and industry begets a love of gain. hence all the good from opulence that springs, with all those ills superfluous treasure brings, are here display'd. their much lov'd wealth imparts convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; but view them closer, craft and fraud appear-- even liberty itself is barter'd here. at gold's superior charms all freedom flies; the needy sell it, and the rich man buys: a land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, here wretches seek dishonorable graves; and, calmly bent, to servitude conform, dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. heavens! how unlike their belgic sires of old-- rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, war in each breast, and freedom on each brow; how much unlike the sons of britain now! [illustration: brighter streams than famed hydaspes] fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. and flies where britain courts the western spring; where lawns extend that scorn arcadian pride, and brighter streams than fam'd hydaspes glide. there, all around, the gentlest breezes stray; there gentle music melts on every spray; creation's mildest charms are there combin'd: extremes are only in the master's mind. stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state with daring aims irregularly great. pride in their port, defiance in their eye, i see the lords of human kind pass by, intent on high designs--a thoughtful band, by forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, fierce in their native hardiness of soul, true to imagin'd right, above control; while even the peasant boasts these rights to scan and learns to venerate himself as man. thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here. thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; too bless'd indeed were such without alloy, but, foster'd even by freedom, ills annoy. that independence britons prize too high keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie: the self-dependent lordlings stand alone-- all claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd, ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, repress'd ambition struggles round her shore-- till, overwrought, the general system feels its motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels. nor this the worst. as nature's ties decay, as duty, love, and honor fail to sway, fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. hence all obedience bows to these alone, and talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; till time may come when, stripp'd of all her charms, the land of scholars, and the nurse of arms-- where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame-- one sink of level avarice shall lie, and scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. [illustration: talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown] yet think not, thus when freedom's ills i state, i mean to flatter kings or court the great. ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, far from my bosom drive the low desire! and thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel the rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel-- thou transitory flower, alike undone by proud contempt or favor's fostering sun-- still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure! i only would repress them to secure; for just experience tells, in every soil, that those who think must govern those that toil-- and all that freedom's highest aims can reach is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, its double weight must ruin all below. oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, who think it freedom when a part aspires! calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, except when fast approaching danger warms; but, when contending chiefs blockade the throne, contracting regal power to stretch their own-- when i behold a factious band agree to call it freedom when themselves are free-- each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, law grinds the poor, and rich men rule the law-- the wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home-- fear, pity, justice, indignation start, tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart: till half a patriot, half a coward grown, i fly from petty tyrants to the throne. yes, brother! curse with me that baleful hour when first ambition struck at regal power; and thus, polluting honor in its source, gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. have we not seen, round britain's peopled shore, her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore? seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, lead stern depopulation in her train-- and over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, in barren, solitary pomp repose? have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, the smiling, long frequented village fall? beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, the modest matron, and the blushing maid, forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, to traverse climes beyond the western main-- where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and níagara stuns with thundering sound? [illustration: from their homes, a melancholy train] even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, where beasts with man divided empire claim, and the brown indian marks with murderous aim-- there, while above the giddy tempest flies, and all around distressful yells arise-- the pensive exile, bending with his woe, to stop too fearful and too faint to go. casts a long look where england's glories shine and bids his bosom sympathize with mine. vain, very vain, my weary search to find that bliss which only centres in the mind. why have i stray'd from pleasure and repose, to seek a good each government bestows? in every government, though terrors reign, though tyrant-kings or tyrant-laws restrain, how small, of all that human hearts endure, that part which laws or kings can cause or cure? still to ourselves in every place consign'd, our own felicity we make or find. with secret course, which no loud storms annoy, glides the smooth current of domestic joy; the lifted ax, the agonizing wheel, _zeck's_ iron crown, and damiens' bed of steel-- to men remote from power but rarely known-- leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. [from mayhew's comic almanac.] an invitation to the zoological gardens. (by a gentleman with a slight impediment in his speech.) to be read aloud. [illustration: riding the elephant] i have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf--fair, i have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub--breed. won't you c-c-c-come, and i'll show you the bub-bub--bear, and the lions and tit-tit--tigers at fuf-fuf-fuf--feed. i know where c-c-c-co--cockatoo's song makes mum-mum-mum--melody through the sweet vale; where the m--monkeys gig-gig--grin all the day long, or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tit--tail. you shall pip-pip--play, dear, some did-did--delicate joke, with the bub-bub--bear on the tit-tit--top of his pip-pip-pip--pole; but observe, 'tis for-for-for--bidden to pip-pip--poke at the bub-bub--bear with your pip-pip--pink pip-pip-pip-pip--parasol. [illustration: poking fun at the bear] you shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-pip--play; you shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-tit--ately racoon, and then, did-did--dear, together we'll stray, to the cage of the bub-bub--blue fuf-fuf-fac'd bab-bab-bab--boon. you wish'd (i r-r-r--remember it well, and i l-l-l-lov'd you the m-m-more for the wish) to witness the bub-bub-bub--beautiful pip-pip--pel- ican swallow the l-l-live l-l-l-little fuf-fuf--fish. [illustration: the pelican at feed] then c-c-ome, did-did-dearest, n-n-n-never say "nun-nun-nun-nun--nay;" i'll tit-tit-treat you, my love, to a "bub-bub-bub--buss," 'tis but thrup-pip-pip-pip--pence a pip-pip--piece all the way, to see the hip-pip-pip--(i beg your pardon)-- to see the hip-pip-pip-pip--(ahem!) the hip-pip-pip-pip--pop-pop-pop-pop--(i mean) the hip-po-po-po--(dear me, love, you know) the hippo-pot-pot-pot--('pon my word i'm quite ashamed of myself). the hip-pip-pop--the hip-po-pot. to see the hippop--potamus. [illustration: fellows of the zoological society.] death of howard the philanthropist.[ ] [footnote : from "john howard and the prison world of europe."] on the th of july, , howard quitted england to return no more. arriving at amsterdam on the th, he proceeded by slow stages through germany and prussia into the empire of the czar, which he entered at riga. he was destined never more to quit the soil of russia. the tremendous destruction of human life to which the military system of that country gives rise, had not then, as it has since, become a recognized fact in western europe; and the unconceived and inconceivable miseries to which howard found recruits and soldiers exposed in moscow, induced him to devote his attention to them and to their cause. in these investigations horrors turned up of which he had never dreamed, and impressed him still more profoundly with a sense of the hollowness of the russian pretense of civilization. in the forced marches of recruits to the armies over horrid roads, being ill-clothed and worse fed, he found that thousands fell sick by the way, dropped at the roadside, and were either left there to die of starvation, or transferred to miserable hospitals, where fever soon finished what fatigue had begun. this waste of life was quite systematic. an hospital for the reception of the poor wretches had recently been erected at krementschuk, a town on the dnieper, which contained at that time patients in its unwholesome wards. thither howard repaired to prosecute his new inquiries. the rooms he found much too full; many of the soldiers were dreadfully ill of the scurvy, yet they were all dieted alike, on sour bread and still sourer quas, alternated with a sort of water-gruel, which, if not eaten one day, was served up again the next. from this place, howard went down the dnieper to cherson, where he examined all the prisons and hospitals, and made various excursions in the neighborhood for the same purpose. the hospitals were worthy of the evil which they were designed to alleviate. our countryman thus sums up his observations upon them: "the primary objects in all hospitals seem here neglected--namely, cleanliness, air, diet, separation, and attention. these are such essentials, that humanity and good policy equally demand that no expense should be spared to procure them. care in this respect, i am persuaded, would save many more lives than the parade of medicines in the adjoining apothecary's shop." while at cherson, howard had the profound gratification of reading in the public prints of the capture and fall of the bastille; and he talked with delight of visiting its ruins and moralizing upon its site, should he be again spared to return to the west. but, however moved by that great event, so important for all europe, he did not allow it to divert him from his own more especial work; the sufferings of poor russian soldiers in the hospitals of cherson, witowka, and st. nicholas, had higher claim upon his notice at that moment, than even the great revolution making in the faubourg st. antoine at paris. the reader will recall to mind, that, at the time of howard's residence at cherson, a desperate war was raging between the sultan and the autocrat. the strong fortress of bender had just fallen into the power of russia, but as the winter was already too far advanced to allow the army to push forward until spring, the commander of the imperial forces gave permission to such of his officers as chose to go and spend the christmas with their friends in cherson. that city was consequently crowded with rank and fashion. all the city was in high spirits. the victories of the imperial troops produced a general state of jubilation. rejoicing was the order of the day, and dancing and revelry the business of the night. but in the midst of these festivities, a virulent and infectious fever broke out--brought, as howard believed, by the military from the camp. one of the sufferers from this disorder was a young lady who resided about twenty-four miles from cherson, but who had been a constant attendant at the recent balls and routs. her fever very soon assumed an alarming form; and as a last resource her friends waited upon howard--whose reputation as a leech was still on the increase--and implored him to ride over and see her. at first he refused, on the ground that he was only a physician to the poor; but their importunities increasing, and reports arriving that she was getting worse and worse, he at length acceded to their wish--being also pressed thereto by his intimate friend, admiral mordvinoff, chief admiral of the black sea fleet--and went with them. he prescribed for the lady's case; and then, leaving word that if she improved they must send to him again, but if she did not, it would be useless, went to make some visits to the sick of an hospital in the neighborhood. the lady gradually improved under the change of treatment, and in a day or two a letter was written to howard to acquaint him with the circumstance, and requesting him to come again without delay. very unfortunately this letter miscarried, and was not delivered for eight days--when it was brought to him at mordvinoff's house. when he noticed the date, howard was greatly alarmed--for he had become interested in the case of his fair patient, and thought himself in a manner responsible for any mishap which might have befallen her. although, when the note came to hand, it was a cold, wintry, tempestuous night, with the rain falling in torrents, he did not hesitate for a moment about setting off for her residence. unfortunately, again, no post-horses could be had at the time; and he was compelled to mount a dray-horse used in the admiral's family for carrying water, whose slow pace protracted the journey until he was saturated with wet and benumbed with cold. he arrived, too, to find his patient dying; yet, not willing to see her expire without a struggle to save her, he administered some medicines to excite perspiration, and remained for some hours at her side to watch the first signs of the effect produced. after a time, he thought the dose was beginning to operate, and, wishing to avoid exposing her to the chance of a fresh cold by uncovering her arms, placed his hand under the coverlet to feel her pulse. on raising it up a little, a most offensive smell escaped from beneath the clothes, and howard always thought the infection was then communicated to him. next day she died. for a day or two, howard remained unconscious of his danger; feeling only a slight indisposition, easily accounted for by his recent exertions; which he nevertheless so far humored as to keep within doors; until, finding himself one day rather better than usual, he went out to dine with admiral mordvinoff. there was a large animated party present, and he staid later than was usual with him. on reaching his lodgings he felt unwell, and fancied he was about to have an attack of gout. taking a dose of sal volatile in a little tea, he went to bed. about four in the morning he awoke, and feeling no better, took another dose. during the day he grew worse, and found himself unable to take his customary exercise; toward night a violent fever seized him, and he had recourse to a favorite medicine of that period, called "james's powders." on the th of january, he fell down suddenly in a fit--his face was flushed and black, his breathing difficult, his eyes closed firmly, and he remained quite insensible for half an hour. from that day he became weaker and weaker; though few even then suspected that his end was near. acting as his own physician, he continued at intervals to take his favorite powders; notwithstanding which his friends at cherson--for he was universally loved and respected in that city, though his residence had been so short--soon surrounded him with the highest medical skill which the province supplied. as soon as his illness became known, prince potemkin, the princely and unprincipled favorite of catherine, then resident in cherson, sent his own physician to attend him; and no effort was spared to preserve a life so valuable to the world. still he went worse and worse. on the th, that alarming fit recurred; and although, as on the former occasion, the state of complete insensibility lasted only a short time, it evidently affected his brain--and from that moment the gravity of his peril was understood by himself, if not by those about him. on the th, he went worse rapidly. a violent hiccuping came on, attended with considerable pain, which continued until the middle of the following day, when it was allayed by means of copious musk drafts. early on the morning of the th, came to see him his most intimate friend, admiral priestman--a russianized englishman in the service of the empress. during his sojourn at cherson, howard had been in the habit of almost daily intercourse with his gallant ex-countryman. when taken ill, not himself considering it at first serious, no notice of it had been sent out; but not seeing his friend for several days, priestman began to feel uneasy, and went off to his lodgings to learn the cause. he found howard sitting at a small stove in his bedroom--the winter was excessively severe--and very weak and low. the admiral thought him merely laboring under a temporary depression of spirits, and by lively, rattling conversation endeavored to rouse him from his torpidity. but howard was fully conscious that death was nigh. he knew now that he was _not_ to die in egypt; and, in spite of his friend's cheerfulness, his mind still reverted to the solemn thought of his approaching end. priestman told him not to give way to such gloomy fancies, and they would soon leave him. "priestman," said howard, in his mild and serious voice, "you style this a dull conversation, and endeavor to divert my mind from dwelling on the thought of death; but i entertain very different sentiments. death has no terrors for me; it is an event i always look to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and be assured, the subject is more grateful to me than any other." and then he went on to say--"i am well aware that i have but a short time to live; my mode of life has rendered it impossible that i should get rid of this fever. if i had lived as you do, eating heartily of animal food and drinking wine, i might, perhaps, by altering my diet, have been able to subdue it. but how can such a man as i am lower his diet, who has been accustomed for years to live upon vegetables and water, a little bread and a little tea? i have no method of lowering my nourishment--and therefore i must die;" and then turning to his friend, added, smiling--"it is only such jolly fellows as you, priestman, who get over these fevers." this melancholy pleasantry was more than the gallant sailor could bear; he turned away to conceal his emotion; his heart was full, and he remained silent, while howard, with no despondency in his tone, but with a calm and settled serenity of manner, as if the death-pangs were already past, went on to speak of his end, and of his wishes as to his funeral. "there is a spot," said he, "near the village of dauphiney--this would suit me nicely; you know it well, for i have often said that i should like to be buried there; and let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my funeral; nor let any monument nor monumental inscription whatsoever be made to mark where i am laid; but lay me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten." in this strain of true christian philosophy did howard speak of his exit from a world in which he felt that he had done his work. the ground in which he had selected to fix his everlasting rest, situated about two miles from cherson, on the edge of the great highway to st. nicholas, belonged to a french gentleman who had treated him with distinguished attention and kindness during his stay in the vicinity; and, having made his choice, he was very anxious to know whether permission could be obtained for the purpose, and begged his gallant friend to set off immediately and ascertain that for him. priestman was not very willing to leave his friend at such a time and on such a gloomy errand; he fancied people would think him crazy in asking permission to make a grave for a man still alive, and whom few as yet knew to be ill; but the earnestness of the dying martyr at length overcame his reluctance, and he set forth. scarcely had he departed on his strange mission, when a letter arrived from england, written by a gentleman who had just been down to leicester to see young howard, giving a highly favorable account of the progress of his recovery, and expressing a belief that, when the philanthropist returned to his native land, he would find his son greatly improved. this intelligence came to the deathbed of the pious christian like a ray of light from heaven. his eye brightened; a heavy load seemed lifted from his heart; and he spoke of his child with the tenderness and affection of a mother. he called thomasson to his bedside, and bade him tell his son, when he went home, how long and how fervently he had prayed for his recovery, and especially during this last illness. toward evening, admiral priestman returned from a successful application; with this result howard appeared highly gratified, and soon after his arrival retired to rest. priestman, conscious now of the imminency of the danger, would leave him alone no more, but resolutely remained, and sat at the bedside. although still sensible, howard had now become too weak to converse. after a long silence, during which he seemed lost in profound meditation, he recovered for a moment his presence of mind, and taking the letter which had just before come to hand--evidently the subject of his thoughts--out of his bosom, he gave it to the admiral to read; and when the latter had glanced it through, said tenderly: "is not this comfort for a dying father?" these were almost the last words he uttered. soon after, he fell into a state of unconsciousness, the calm of sleep, of an unbroken rest--but even then the insensibility was more apparent than real, for on admiral mordvinoff, who arrived just in time to see the last of his illustrious friend, asking permission to send for a certain doctor, in whom he had great faith, the patient gave a sign which implied consent; but before this person could arrive he had fallen off. howard was dead! this mournful event took place about eight o'clock on the morning of the th of january, -- miles from his native land, with only strangers round about his bed; strangers, not to his heart, though their acquaintance with his virtues had been brief--but to his race, his language, and his creed. he, however, who was the friend of all--the citizen of the world, in its highest sense--found friends in all. never perhaps had mortal man such funeral honors. never before, perhaps, had a human being existed in whose demise so universal an interest could be felt. his death fell on the mind of europe like an ominous shadow; the melancholy wail of grief which arose on the dnieper, was echoed from the thames, and soon re-echoed from the tagus, and the neva, and the dardanelles. every where howard had friends--more than could be thought till death cut off restraint, and threw the flood-gates of sympathy wide open. then the affluent tide rolled in like the dawn of a summer day. cherson went into deep mourning for the illustrious stranger; and there was hardly a person in the province who was not greatly affected on learning that he had chosen to fix his final resting-place on the russian soil. in defiance of his own wishes on the subject, the enthusiasm of the people improvised a public funeral. the prince of moldavia, admirals priestman and mordvinoff, all the generals and staff officers of the garrison, the whole body of the magistrates and merchants of the province, and a large party of cavalry, accompanied by an immense cavalcade of private persons, formed the funeral procession. nor was the grief by any means confined to the higher orders. in the wake of the more stately band of mourners, followed on foot a concourse of at least three thousand persons--slaves, prisoners, sailors, soldiers, peasants--men whose best and most devoted friend the hero of these martial honors had ever been; and from this after, humbler train of followers, arose the truest, tenderest expression of respect and sorrow for the dead. when the funeral pomp was over, the remains of their benefactor lowered into the earth, and the proud procession of the great had moved away, then would these simple children of the soil steal noiselessly to the edge of the deep grave, and, with their hearts full of grief, whisper in low voices to each other of all that they had seen and known of the good stranger's acts of charity and kindness. good indeed he had been to them. little used to acts or words of love from their own lords, they had felt the power of his mild manner, his tender devotion to them, only the more deeply from its novelty. to them, how irreparable the loss! the higher ranks had lost the grace of a benignant presence in their high circle; but they--the poor, the friendless--had lost in him their friend--almost their father. nature is ever true; they _felt_ how much that grave had robbed them of. not a dry eye was seen among them; and looking sadly down into the hole where all that now remained of their physician lay, they marveled much why he, a stranger to them, had left his home, and his friends, and country, to become the unpaid servant of the poor in a land so far away; and not knowing how, in their simple hearts, to account for this, they silently dropped their tears into his grave, and slowly moved away--wondering at all that they had seen and known of him who was now dead, and thinking sadly of the long, long time ere they might find another friend like him. the hole was then filled up--and what had once been howard was seen of man no more. a small pyramid was raised above the spot, instead of the sun-dial which he had himself suggested; and the casual traveler in prussian tartary is still attracted to the place as to one of the holiest shrines of which this earth can boast. words can not depict the profound sensation which the arrival of this mournful news produced in england. the death-shaft cut the withes which had kept his reputation down. all at once the nation awoke to a full consciousness of his colossal fame and his transcendent virtues. howard was now--history. envy and jealousy were past: rivalry had ended on the brink of the grave. death alone sets a man on fair terms with society. the death of a great man is always a calamity; but it is only when a country loses one of its illustrious children in a distant land, and under peculiar circumstances, that the full measure of the national calamity is felt. they who can recollect the wild and deep sensation of pity and regret which the arrival of the news of byron's death at missolonghi produced in england, can alone conceive of any thing like the state of the public mind on the first announcement of the close of a career still more useful and more glorious. every possible mark of honor--public and private--was paid to the memory of howard. all orders of men vied with each other in heaping honors upon his name. the court, the press, parliament, the bar, the pulpit, and the stage--each in its different fashion--paid the well-earned tribute of respect. the intelligence of his demise was publicly announced in the official gazette--a distinction never before accorded to a private individual. the muses sang his virtues with innumerable voices; the churches echoed with his praise; the senate and the judgment-seat resounded with the tribute to his merits; and even at the theatres, his character was exhibited in imaginary scenes, and a monody on his death was delivered from the foot lights. nor was a more enduring memorial wanting. the long dormant committee of the howardian fund was resuscitated, and the sculptor bacon was employed to make a full length marble statue of the philanthropist. at that time it was in contemplation to make st. paul's serve the double purpose of a cathedral and a walhalla; and this design was inaugurated by placing there, as the first great worthy of england, the statue of john howard. it stands immediately on the right hand of the choir-screen; it is a handsome figure, tolerably faithful, and is illustrated by emblems of his noble deeds, and by the following inscription: "this extraordinary man had the fortune to be honored, while living, in the manner which his virtues deserved; he received the thanks of both houses of the british and irish parliaments, for his eminent services rendered to his country and to mankind. our national prisons and hospitals, improved upon the suggestion of his wisdom, bear testimony to the solidity of his judgment, and to the estimation in which he was held. in every part of the civilized world, which he traversed to reduce the sum of human misery--from the throne to the dungeon--his name was mentioned with respect, gratitude, and admiration. his modesty alone defeated various efforts that were made during his life to erect this statue, which the public has now consecrated to his memory. he was born at hackney, in the county of middlesex, september , . the early part of his life he spent in retirement, residing principally upon his paternal estate at cardington, in bedfordshire; for which county he served the office of sheriff in the year . he expired at cherson, in russian tartary, on the th of january, , a victim to the perilous and benevolent attempt to ascertain the cause of, and find an efficacious remedy for the plague. he trod an open but unfrequented path to immortality in the ardent but unintermitted exercise of christian charity: may this tribute to his fame excite an emulation of his truly glorious achievements!" a sketch of my childhood. by the "english opium-eater." (_continued from page_ .) once having begun, it followed naturally that the war should deepen in bitterness. wounds that wrote memorials in the flesh, insults that rankled in the heart--these were not features of the case likely to be forgotten by our enemies, and far less by my fiery brother. i, for my part, entered not into any of the passions that war may be supposed to kindle, except only the chronic passion of anxiety. _fear_ it was not; for experience had taught me that, under the random firing of our undisciplined enemies, the chances were not many of being wounded; but the uncertainties that beset every conflict, as regarded my power to maintain the requisite connection with my brother, and the absolute darkness that brooded over that last worst contingency--the case of being captured, and carried off to gath as a trophy won from israel--these were penalties attached to the war that ran too violently into the current of my constitutional despondency, ever to give way under any casual elation of success. success we really had at times--_often_ in skirmishes; and once, at least, as the reader will find to his mortification, if he is wicked enough to take the side of the philistines, a most smashing victory in a pitched battle. but even then, and while the hurrahs were yet ascending from our jubilating lips, the freezing memento came back to my heart of that deadly depression which, duly at the coming round of the morning and evening watches, traveled with me like my shadow on our approach to the memorable bridge. a bridge of sighs[ ] too surely it was for me; and even for my brother it formed an object of fierce yet anxious jealousy, that he could not always disguise, as we first came in sight of it: for, if it happened to be occupied in strength, there was an end of all hope that we could attempt the passage; and _that_ was a fortunate solution of the affair, as it imposed no evil beyond a circuit; which, at least, enjoyed the blessing of peace, although the sarcastic public might choose to call it inglorious. even this shade of ignominy, however, my brother contrived to color favorably, by calling us--that is, me and himself--"a corps of observation;" and he condescendingly explained to me, that although making "a lateral movement," he had his eye upon the enemy, and "might yet come round upon his left flank in a way that wouldn't perhaps prove very agreeable." this, from the nature of the ground, never happened. we crossed the river out of sight from the enemy's position; and my brother's vengeance, being reserved until he came round into the rear of philistia, from which a good retreat was always open to greenhay; naturally discharged itself in triple deluges of stones. on this line of policy there was, therefore, no cause for anxiety; but the common case was, that the numbers might not be such as to justify this caution, and yet quite enough for mischief. for my brother, however, stung and carried headlong into hostility by the martial instincts of his nature, the uneasiness of doubt or insecurity was swallowed up by his joy in the anticipation of victory, or even of contest; while to myself, whose exultation was purely official and ceremonial, as due by loyalty and legal process from a cadet of the belligerent house, no such compensation existed. the enemy was no enemy in _my_ eyes; his affronts were but retaliations; and his insults were so inapplicable to my unworthy self, being of a calibre exclusively meant for the use of my brother, that from me they recoiled, one and all, as cannon-shot from cotton bags. [footnote : "_bridge of sighs_:"--two men of memorable genius, hood last, and lord byron by many years previously, have so appropriated this phrase, and re-issued it as english currency, that many readers suppose it to be theirs. but the genealogies of fine expressions should be more carefully preserved. the expression belongs originally to venice. this _jus postliminii_ becomes of real importance in a case like that of shakspeare. it is a most remarkable fact that he is made to seem a robber of the lowest order by mere dint of suffering robbery. purely through their own jewelly splendor, have many hundreds of his phrases forced themselves into usage so general, under the vulgar infirmity of seeking to strengthen weak prose by shreds of poetic quotation, that at length the majority of careless readers came to look upon these phrases as belonging to the language, and traceable to no distinct proprietor any more than proverbs: and thus, on afterward observing them in shakspeare, they regard him in the light of one accepting alms (like so many meaner persons) from the common treasury of the universal mind, on which treasury he had himself conferred them as original donations of his own. many expressions in the "paradise lost," in "il penseroso," and in "l'allegro," are in the same predicament: from glorifying their author, so long as they were consciously referred to him _as_ their author, they have, at least, ended in tarnishing his glory. as creations, they were marks of power; as tributes levied upon a common stock, they become arguments of weakness.] this inordinate pugnacity of my brother, this rabid appetite for trials of prowess, had, indeed, forced itself into display on the very first interview i ever had with him. on the night of his return from louth, an artisan, employed in the decorations of greenhay, had entered into conversation with him upon the pre-eminence of lancashire among the provinces of england. according to _him_, the county of lancaster (to translate his meaning into roman phrase) was the _prerogative tribe_ of england. and really i am disposed to think that it still _is_ such, mongrelized as it has long been by cambrian and hibernian immigrations. there is not on earth such another focus of burning energy. among other things, the man had magnified the county as containing (which it then _did_) by very much the largest remnant of old roman catholic families--families that were _loyal_ to the back-bone (in those days a crowning honor); that were of the ancient faith, and of the most ancient english blood; none of your upstart, dissenting _terræ filii_, but men that might have shaken hands with coeur de lion, or at least come of ancestors that _had_. "and, in short, young gentleman," he concluded, "the whole county, not this part, or that part, but take it as you find it, north and south, is a very tall county." what it was exactly that he meant by _tall_, i can not say. from the intense predominance in lancashire of old genuine mother english, it is probable that he meant _stout-hearted_, for _that_ was the old acceptation of the word _tall_, and not (as it is now understood) _high in stature_. "a tall ship" meant a stout and sea-worthy ship; "a tall man," meant a man that was at once able-bodied and true-hearted. my brother, however, chose to understand it in the ordinary modern sense, and he replied, "yes, it's tall enough, if you take it south and north: from bullock smithy in the south, to beyond lancaster in the north, it measures a matter of sixty miles or more; certainly it's tall, but then it's very thin, generally speaking." "ay, but," said the man, "thick or thin, it's a county palatine." "well, i don't care much for that," rejoined my brother; "palatine or not palatine, thick or thin, i wouldn't take any _jaw_ (which meant insolence) from lancashire, more than from any other shire." the man stared a little at this unlooked-for attitude of defiance to a county palatine; but, recovering himself, he said, that my brother _must_ take it, if lancashire chose to offer it. "but i wouldn't," replied my brother. "look here: lincolnshire, the county that i've been staying in for these, i don't know how many years--and a very tall county, too, tall and fat--did i take any jaw from _her_? ask the sheriff. and leicestershire, where i've generally spent my holidays, did i take jaw from _her_? tell me _that_. neither, again, did louth ever dream of giving me any of _her_ jaw; then why should i stand it from lancashire?" certainly, why _should_ he? i, who took no part in all this but as a respectful listener, felt that there was much reason in what my brother said. it was true that, having imbibed from my nurses a profound veneration for my native county, i was rather shocked at any posture (though but in a hypothetical case) of defiance to lancashire; and yet, if three out of four capital l's had been repulsed in some mysterious offense, i felt that it was mere equity to repulse the fourth. but i prepared anxiously to say, on the authority of my last nurse, that lancashire (i felt sure) was not the county to offer him any "jaw," whatever _that_ might be. unhappily, in seeking for words, which came very slowly at all times, to express my benevolent meaning, the opportunity passed over for saying any thing at all on the subject; but, though wounded by his squaring at lancashire, i yet felt considerable respect for a brother who could thus resolutely set his arms a-kimbo against three tall counties, two of them tolerably fat, and one decent market-town. the ordinary course of our day's warfare was this: between nine and ten in the morning, occurred our first transit, and consequently our earliest opportunity for doing business. but at this time the great sublunary interest of breakfast, which swallowed up all nobler considerations of glory and ambition, occupied the work-people of the factory (or what in the brutal pedantry of this day are termed the "operatives"), so that very seldom any serious business was transacted. without any formal armistice, the paramount convenience of such an arrangement silently secured its own recognition. notice there needed none of truce, when the one side yearned for breakfast, and the other for a respite; the groups, therefore, on or about the bridge, if any at all, were loose in their array, and careless. we passed through them rapidly, and, on my part, uneasily; exchanging only a few snarls, but seldom or ever snapping at each other. the tameness was almost shocking of those who in the afternoon would inevitably resume their natural characters of tiger-cats, wolves, and hunting-leopards. sometimes, however, my brother felt it to be a duty that we should fight in the morning, particularly when any expression of public joy for a victory--bells ringing in the distance, or when a royal birthday, or some traditional commemoration of ancient feuds (such as the th of november), irritated his martial propensities. these being religious festivals, seemed to require of us some _extra_ homage, for which we knew not how to find any natural or significant expression, except through sharp discharges of stones, that being a language older than hebrew or sanscrit, and universally intelligible. but excepting these high days of religious solemnity, when a man is called upon to show that he is not a pagan or a miscreant in the eldest of senses, by thumping, or trying to thump, somebody who is accused or accusable of being heterodox, the great ceremony of breakfast was allowed to sanctify the hour. some natural growls we uttered, but hushed them soon, regardless (in mr. gray's language) "of the sweeping whirlpool's sway, that hushed in grim repose, looked for his evening prey." _that_ came but too surely. yes, evening never forgot to come--never for once forgot to call for its prey. oh! reader, be you sure of _that_. pleasures--how often do they forget themselves, forget their duty, forget their engagements, and fail to revolve! but this odious necessity of fighting never missed its road back, or fell asleep, or loitered by the way, more than a bill of exchange, or a tertian fever. five times a week (saturday sometimes, and sunday always, were days of rest) the same scene rehearsed itself in pretty nearly the very same succession of circumstances. between four and five o'clock, we had crossed the bridge to the safe, or greenhay side; then we paused, and waited for the enemy. sooner or later a bell rang, and from the smoky hive issued the hornets that night and day stung incurably my peace of mind. the order and procession of the incidents after this was odiously monotonous. my brother occupied the main high road, precisely at the point where a very gentle rise of the ground attained its summit; for the bridge lay in a slight valley; and the main military position was fifty or eighty yards perhaps above the bridge; then--but having first examined my pockets in order to be sure that my stock of ammunition, stones, fragments of slate, with a reasonable proportion of brickbats, was all correct and ready for action--he detached me about forty yards to the right, my orders being invariable, and liable to no doubts or "quibbling." detestable in _my_ ears was that word "_quibbling_," by which, for a thousand years, if the war had happened to last so long, he would have fastened upon me the imputation of meaning, or wishing at least, to do what he called "pettifogulizing"--that is, to plead some little technical quillet, distinction, or verbal demur, in bar of my orders, under some colorable pretense that, according to their literal construction, they really did not admit of being fulfilled, or perhaps that they admitted it too much as being capable of fulfillment in two senses, either of them a practicable sense. unhappily for me, which told against all that i could ever have pleaded in self-justification, my christian name was thomas--an injury for which i never ceased to upbraid secretly my two godfathers and my one godmother; and with some reason: they ought to have seen what mischief they were brewing; since i am satisfied to this hour that, but for that wretched wo-begone name, saturated with a weight of predestined skepticism that would sink a seventy-four with the most credulous of ship's companies on board, my brother never would have called me _thomas à didymus_, which he did sometimes, or _thomas aquinas_, which he did continually. these baptismal sponsors of mine were surely answerable for all the reproaches against me, suggested by my insufferable name. all that i bore for years by reason of these reproaches, i charge against _them_; and perhaps an action of damages would have lain against them, as parties to a conspiracy against me. for any thing that i knew, the names might have been titles of honor; but my brother took care to explain the qualities, for better and worse, which distinguished them. thomas à didymus, it seemed, had exactly my infirmity of doubting and misgiving, which naturally called up further illustrations of that temper from bunyan--a writer who occupied a place in our childish library, not very far from the "arabian nights." giant despair, the slough of despond, doubting castle, mustered strong in the array of rebukes to my weakness; and, above all, mr. ready-to-sink, who was my very picture (it seems) or prophetic type. as to thomas aquinas, i was informed that he, like myself, was much given to hair-splitting, or cutting moonbeams with razors; in which i think him very right; considering that in the town of aquino, and about the year , there were no novels worth speaking of, and not even the shadow of an opera; so that, not being employed upon moonbeams, thomas's razors must, like burke's, have operated upon blocks. but were these defects of doubting and desponding really mine? in a sense, they were; and being thus embodied in nicknames, they were forced prematurely upon my own knowledge. that was bad. intellectually, if you are haunted with skepticism, or tendencies that way, morally, and for all purposes of action, if you are haunted with the kindred misery of desponding, it is not good to see too broadly emblazoned your own infirmities: they grow by consciousness too steadily directed upon them. and thus far there was great injustice in my brother's reproach; true it was that my eye was preternaturally keen for flaws of language, not from pedantic exaction of superfluous accuracy, but, on the contrary, from too conscientious a wish to escape the mistakes which language not rigorous is apt to occasion. so far from seeking to "pettifogulize," or to find evasions for any purpose in a trickster's minute tortuosities of construction, exactly in the opposite direction, from mere excess of sincerity, most unwillingly i found, in almost every body's words, an unintentional opening left for double interpretations. undesigned equivocation prevails every where;[ ] and it is not the caviling hair-splitter, but, on the contrary, the single-eyed servant of truth, that is most likely to insist upon the limitation of expressions too wide or vague, and upon the decisive election between meanings potentially double. not in order to resist or evade my brother's directions, but for the very opposite purpose--viz., that i might fulfill them to the letter; thus and no otherwise it happened that i showed so much scrupulosity about the exact value and position of his words, as finally to draw upon myself the vexatious reproach of being habitually a "pettifogulizer." [footnote : since those years, it is natural that mere culture of the subject, and long, experience in the arts of composition, should have sharpened my vision, previously too morbidly acute, to defects in the construction of sentences, and generally in the management of language. the result is this: and perhaps it will shock the reader, certainly it will startle him, when i declare solemnly my conviction, that no two consecutive pages can be cited from any one of the very best english authors, which is not disfigured by some gross equivocation or imperfection of structure, such as leaves the meaning open, perhaps, to be inferred from the context, but also so little expressed with verbal rigor, or with conformity to the truth of logic, or to the real purpose, that, supposing the passage to involve a legal interest, and in consequence, to come under a judicial review, it would be set aside for want of internal coherency. not in arrogance, but under a deep sense of the incalculable injuries done to truth, small and great, by false management of language, i declare my belief that hardly one entire paragraph exists in our language which is impregnable to criticism, even as regards the one capital interest of logical limitation to the main purpose concerned.] meantime, our campaigning continued to rage. overtures of pacification were never mentioned on either side. and i, for _my_ part, with the passions only of peace at my heart, did the works of war faithfully, and with distinction. i presume so, at least, from the results. for, though i was continually falling into treason, without exactly knowing how i got into it, or how i got out of it, _and_, although my brother sometimes assured me that he could, in strict justice, have me hanged on the first tree we passed, to which my very prosaic answer had been, that of trees there _were_ none in oxford-street--[which, in imitation of von troil's famous chapter on the snakes of lapland, the reader may accept, if he pleases, as a complete course of lectures on the natural history of oxford-street]--nevertheless, by steady steps, i continued to ascend in the service; and, i am sure, it will gratify the reader to hear, that, very soon after my eighth birthday, i was promoted to the rank of major-general. over this sunshine, however, soon swept a train of clouds. three times i was taken prisoner; and with different results. the first time i was carried to the rear, and not molested in any way. finding myself thus ignominiously neglected, i watched my opportunity; and, by making a wide circuit, without further accident, effected my escape. in the next case, a brief council was held over me: but i was not allowed to hear the deliberations; the result only being communicated to me--which result consisted in a message not very complimentary to my brother, and a small present of kicks to myself. this present was paid down without any discount, by means of a general subscription among the party surrounding me--that party, luckily, not being very numerous; besides which, i must, in honesty, acknowledge myself, generally speaking, indebted to their forbearance. they were not disposed to be too hard upon me. but, at the same time, they clearly did not think it right that i should escape altogether from tasting the calamities of war. and, as the arithmetic of the case seemed to be, how many legs, so many kicks, this translated the estimate of my guilt from the public jurisdiction, to that of the individual, sometimes capricious and harsh, and carrying out the public award by means of legs that ranged through all gradations of weight and agility. one kick differed exceedingly from another kick in dynamic value: and, in some cases, this difference was so distressingly conspicuous, and seemed so little in harmony with the prevailing hospitality of the evening, that one suspected special malice, unworthy, i conceive of all generous soldiership. not impossibly, as it struck me on reflection, the spiteful individual might have a theory: he might conceive that, if a catholic chancery decree went forth, restoring to every man the things which truly belonged to him--your things to you, cæsar's to cæsar, mine to me--in that case, a particular brickbat fitting, as neatly as if it had been bespoke, to a contusion upon the calf of his own right leg, would be discovered making its way back into my great-coat pockets. well, it _might_ be so. such things are possible under any system of physics. but this all rests upon a blind assumption as to the fact. is a man to be kicked upon hypothesis? that is what lord bacon would have set his face against. however, some of my new acquaintances evidently cared as little for lord bacon as for me; and regulated their kicks upon principles incomprehensible to me. these contributors excepted, whose articles were unjustifiably heavy, the rest of the subscribers were so considerate, that i looked upon them as friends in disguise. on returning to our own frontiers, i had an opportunity of displaying my exemplary greenness. that message to my brother, with all its _virus_ of insolence, i repeated as faithfully for the spirit, and as literally for the expressions, as my memory allowed me to do: and in that troublesome effort, simpleton that i was, fancied myself exhibiting a soldier's loyalty to his commanding officer. my brother thought otherwise: he was more angry with me than with the enemy. i ought, he said, to have refused all participation in such _sansculottes'_ insolence; to carry it was to acknowledge it as fit to be carried. "speak civilly to my general," i ought to have told them; "or else get a pigeon to carry your message--if you happen to have any pigeon that knows how to conduct himself like a gentleman among gentlemen." what could they have done to me, said my brother, on account of my recusancy? what monstrous punishments was i dreaming of, from the days of giants and ogres? "at the very worst, they could only have crucified me with the head downward, or impaled me, or inflicted the death by _priné_,[ ] or anointed me with honey (a jewish punishment), leaving me (still alive) to the tender mercies of wasps and hornets." one grows wiser every day; and on this particular day i made a resolution that, if again made prisoner, i would bring no more "jaw" from the philistines. for it was very unlikely that he, whom i heard solemnly refusing to take "jaw" from whole provinces of england, would take it from the rabble of a cotton factory. if these people _would_ send "jaw," and insisted upon their right to send it, i settled that, henceforward, it must go through the post-office. [footnote : _priné_--[greek: prinê], the greek word for a _saw_. the saw was applied to the chest, and the man was sawed into two halves, leaving a sculptor's bust (man's head and shoulders) for the upper half.] but, in that case, had i not reason to apprehend being sawed in two? i saw no indispensable alternative of that see-saw nature. for there must be two parties--a party to saw, and a party to be sawed. and neither party has a chance of moving an inch in the business without a saw. now, if neither of the parties will pay for the saw, then it is as good as any one conundrum in euclid, that nobody can be sawed. for that man must be a top-sawyer, indeed, that can keep the business afloat without a saw. but, with or without the sanction of euclid, i came to the resolution of never more carrying what is improperly called "chaff," but, by people of refinement, is called "jaw"--that is to say, this was my resolution, in the event of my being again made prisoner; an event which heartily i hoped might never happen. it _did_ happen, however, and very soon. again, that is, for the third time, i was made prisoner; and this time i managed ill indeed; i _did_ make a mess of it; for i displeased the commander-in-chief in a way that he could not forget. in my former captures, there had been nothing special or worthy of commemoration in the circumstances. neither was there in this,[ ] excepting that, by accident, in the second stage of the case, i was delivered over to the custody of young woman and girls; whereas the ordinary course would have thrown me upon the vigilant attentions (relieved from monotony by the experimental kicks) of boys. so far, the change was by very much for the better. i had a feeling myself--on first being presented to my new young mistresses--for to be a prisoner, i in my simplicity, believed, was to be a slave--of a distressing sort. having always, or at least up to the completion of my sixth year, been a privileged pet, and almost, i might say, ranking among the sanctities of the household, with all its female sections, whether young or old (an advantage which i owed to a long illness, an ague, stretching over two entire years of my infancy), naturally i had learned to appreciate the indulgent tenderness of women; and my heart thrilled with love and gratitude, as often as they took me up into their arms and kissed me. here it would have been as every where else; but, unfortunately, my introduction to these young women was in the very worst of characters. i had been taken in arms--in arms, against whom? and for what? against their own nearest relations and connections--brothers, cousins, sweethearts; and on pretexts too frivolous to mention, if any at all. neither was my offense of ancient date, so as to make it possible for desperate good nature to presume in me a change of heart, and a penitential horror of my past life. on the contrary, i had been taken but five minutes before, in the very act of showering brickbats on members of their own factory; and, if no great number of stones appeared to swell my pockets, it was not that i was engaged in any process of weaning myself from such fascinating missiles, but that i had liberally made over to their kinsfolk most of those which i possessed. if asked the question, it would be found that i should not myself deny the fact of being at war with their whole order. what was the meaning of _that_? what was it to which war, and the assumption of warlike functions, pledged a man? it pledged him, in case of an opportunity arising, to _storm_ his enemies; that is, in my own case, to storm the houses of these young factory girls; briefly, and in plain english, to murder them all; to cut the throats of every living creature by their firesides; to float the closets in which, possibly, three generations of their family might have been huddled together for shelter, with the gore of those respectable parties. almost every book of history in the british museum, counting up to many myriads of volumes would tell them plainly, and in pretty nearly the very same words, what they had to expect from every warrior, and therefore from me, videlicet this--that neither the guileless smiles of unoffending infancy, nor the gray hairs of the venerable patriarch sitting in the chimney corner; neither the sanctity of the matron, nor the loveliness of the youthful bride; no, nor the warlike self-devotion of the noble young man, fighting as the champion of altars and hearths; none of these searching appeals would reach _my_ heart; neither sex nor age would confer any privilege with me; that i should put them all to the edge of the sword; that i should raze the very foundations of their old ancestral houses; having done which, i should probably plow up the ground with some bushels of nantwich salt, mixed with bonedust from the graves of infants as a top-dressing; that, in fact, the custom of all warriors, and therefore by necessity of myself, was notoriously to make a wilderness, and to call it a pacification; with other bloody depositions in the same key, and often in the very same words. [footnote : from the naked character of the whole _area_ on each side of the oxford-road, at that time, there was very little opening for ambuscades. what little there was, which greatly fascinated my brother as one of the features connecting his own strategies with those of cæsar, lay exclusively among the brick-kilns. of these, there were numbers on the clay-fields adjacent to the road: and sometimes having been irregularly _quarried_ (so to speak), they opened into lanes and closets, which offered facilities for momentary concealment. but the advantages almost ceased to be such from their obviousness, and the consequent jealousy with which they were watched and approached. the particular mode of my three captures was the constant mode of my danger; two or three parallel files advanced up the rising ground from the river; one or two of these by shouts, by more conspicuous activity, and by numerical superiority, succeeded in winning too exclusive an attention, while a slender thread of stragglers, noiseless, and apparently not acting in concert, suddenly converged when approaching the summit of the ascent, and instantly swept so rapidly round the left of my position, as in one moment to take away all chance of restoring the connection between myself and my brother; while, at the same time, by exposing too decisively for doubt the preconcerted plan on which they had really been moving, when most of all simulating the disarray of stragglers, they mortified us by the conviction that students of cæsar's commentaries might chance, notwithstanding, to show themselves most exemplary blockheads.] all this was passing through my brain as the sort of explanatory introduction which, in mere honesty, i could not disown, if any body should offer it, when suddenly one young woman snatched me up in her arms, and kissed me; from _her_, i was passed round to others of the party, who all in turn caressed me, with scarcely an allusion to that warlike mission against them and theirs, which only had procured me the honor of an introduction to themselves in the character of captive. the too palpable fact, that i was not the person meant by nature to murder any one individual of their party, was likely enough to withdraw from their minds the counterfact--that too probably, in my military character, i might have dallied with the idea of murdering them all. not being able to do it, as regarded any one in particular, was illogically accepted as an excuse for the military engagement that bound me to attempt it with regard to all in mass. not only did these young people kiss me, but i (seeing no military reason against it) kissed _them_. really, if young women will insist on kissing major-generals, they must expect that the generals will retaliate. one only of the crowd adverted to the character in which i came before them: to be a lawful prisoner, it struck her too logical mind that i must have been caught in some aggressive practices. "think," she said, "of this little dog fighting, and fighting our jack." "but," said another, in a propitiatory tone, "perhaps he'll not do so any more." i was touched by the kindness of her suggestion, and the sweet merciful sound of that same "_not do so any more_," which really i fear was prompted by the charity in _her_ that hopeth all things, and despairs of no villain, rather than by any signals of amendment that could have appeared in myself. it was well for me that they gave no time to comment on my own moral condition; for, in that case, i should have told them, that, although i had delivered, in my time, many thousands of stones for the service of their near relatives, and must, without vanity, presume that, on the ratio of one wound to a thousand shots, i had given them numerous reasons for remembering me; yet that, if so, i was sincerely sorry (which i was) for any pain i had caused--the past i regretted, and could plead only the necessities of duty. but, on the other hand, as respected the future, i could not honestly hold out any hopes of a change for the better, since my duty to my brother, in two separate characters, would oblige me to resume hostilities on the very next day. while i was preparing myself, however, for this painful exposition, my female friends saw issuing from the factory a crowd of boys not likely at all to improve my prospects. instantly setting me down on my feet, they formed a sort of _cordon sanitaire_ behind me, by stretching out their petticoats or aprons, as in dancing, so as to touch; and then, crying out, "now, little dog, run for thy life," prepared themselves (i doubt not) for rescuing me, if any recapture should be effected. but this was _not_ effected, although attempted with an energy that alarmed me, and even perplexed me with a vague thought (far too ambitious for my years, but growing out of my chivalrous studies) that one, perhaps, if not two of the pursuing party might be possessed by some demon of jealousy, since he might have seen me reveling among the lips of that fair girlish and womanish bevy, kissed and kissing, loving and being loved; in which case from all that ever i had read about jealousy (and i had read a great deal--viz, "othello," and collins's "ode to the passions"), i was satisfied that, if again captured, i had very little chance for my life. that jealousy was a green-eyed monster, nobody could know better than _i_ did. "oh, my lord, beware of jealousy!" yes; and my lord couldn't possibly beware of it more than myself; indeed, well it would have been for _him_ had his lordship run away from all the ministers of jealousy--iago, cassio, desdemona--and embroidered handkerchiefs--at the same pace of six miles an hour which kept me ahead of my infuriated pursuers. ah, that maniac, white as a leper with flakes of cotton, can i ever forget him, that ran so far in advance of his party? what passion, but jealousy, could have sustained him in so hot a chase? there were some lovely girls in the fair company that had so condescendingly caressed me; but, doubtless, upon that sweet creature his love must have settled, who suggested, in her low, soft, relenting voice, a penitence in me that, alas! had not dawned, saying, "_yes; but perhaps he will do so no more_." thinking, as i ran, of her beauty, i felt that this jealous demoniac must fancy himself justified in committing seven times seven murders upon me, if he should have it in his power. but, thank heaven, if jealousy can run six miles an hour, there are other passions, as for instance, fear, that can run, upon occasion, six and a half; so, as i had the start of him (you know, reader), and not a very short start--thanks be to the expanded petticoats of my dear female friends! naturally it happened that the green-eyed monster came in second best. time luckily was precious with _him_; and therefore, when he had chased me into the by-road leading down to greenhay, he turned back; and i, with somewhat sorrowful steps, on the consideration that this scene might need to be all acted over again, when green-eyes might happen to have better luck, and being unhappy, besides, at having to number so many kind-hearted girls among philistines and daughters of gath, pensively pursued my way to the gates of greenhay. _pensively_ is not the word that meets the realities of the case. i was unhappy, in the profoundest sense, and not from any momentary accident of distress that might pass away and be forgotten, but from deep glimpses which now, as heretofore, had opened themselves, as occasions arose, into the interior sadnesses, and the inevitable conflicts of life. i knew--i anticipated to a dead certainty--that my brother would not hear of any merit belonging to the factory population whom every day we had to meet in battle; on the contrary, even submission on _their_ part, and willingness to walk penitentially through the _furcæ caudinæ_, would hardly have satisfied his sense of their criminality. continually, indeed, as we came in view of the factory, he used to shake his fist at it, and say, in a ferocious tone of voice, "_delenda est carthago!_" and certainly, i thought to myself, it must be admitted by every body that the factory people are inexcusable in raising a rebellion against my brother. but still rebels were men, and sometimes were women; and rebels, that stretch out their petticoats like fans for the sake of screening one from the hot pursuit of enemies with fiery eyes (green or otherwise), really are not the sort of people that one wishes to hate. homeward, therefore, i drew in sadness, and little doubting that _hereafter_ i might have verbal feuds with my brother on behalf of my fair friends, but not dreaming how much displeasure i had already incurred by my treasonable collusion with their caresses. that part of the affair he had seen with his own eyes from his position on the field; and then it was that he left me indignantly to my fate, which, by my first reception, it was easy to see would not prove very gloomy. when i came into our own study, i found him engaged in preparing a _bulletin_ (which word was just then traveling into universal use), reporting briefly the events of the day. drawing, as i shall again have occasion to mention, was among his foremost accomplishments; and round the margin of the border ran a black border, ornamented with cypress, and other funeral emblems. when finished, it was carried into the room of mrs. evans. this mrs. evans was an important person in our affairs. my mother, who never chose to have any direct communication with her servants, always had a housekeeper for the regulation of all domestic business; and the housekeeper for some years at this period was this mrs. evans. into her private parlor, where she sat aloof from the under servants, my brother and i had the _entrée_ at all times, but upon very different terms of acceptance: he, as a favorite of the first class; _i_, by sufferance, as a sort of gloomy shadow that ran after _his_ person, and could not well be shut out if _he_ were let in. him she admired in the very highest degree; myself, on the contrary, she detested, which made me unhappy. but then, in some measure, she made amends for this, by despising me in extremity, and for _that_ i was truly thankful--i need not say _why_, as the reader already knows. why she detested me, so far as i know, arose out of my reserve and thoughtful abstraction. i had a great deal to say, but then i could say it only to a very few people, among whom mrs. evans was certainly not one; and when i _did_ say any thing, i fear that my dire ignorance and savage sincerity prevented my laying the proper restraints upon my too liberal candor; and _that_ could not prove acceptable to one who thought nothing of working for any purpose, or for no purpose, by petty tricks, or even falsehoods--all which i held in stern abhorrence, that i was at no pains to conceal. the _bulletin_, on this occasion, garnished with its pageantry of woe, cypress wreaths, and arms reversed, was read aloud to mrs. evans, indirectly therefore to me. it communicated, with spartan brevity, the sad intelligence (but not sad to mrs. e.), "that the major-general had forever disgraced himself, by submitting to the ... caresses of the enemy." i leave a blank for the epithet affixed to "caresses," not because there _was_ any blank, but, on the contrary, because my brother's wrath had boiled over in such a hubble-bubble of epithets, some only half-erased, some doubtfully erased, that it was impossible, out of the various readings, to pick out the true classical text. "infamous," "disgusting," and "odious," struggled for precedency; and _infamous_ they might be; but on the other affixes i held my own private opinions. for some days, my brother's displeasure continued to roll in reverberating thunders; but at length it growled itself to rest; and at last he descended to mild expostulations with me, showing clearly, in a series of general orders, what frightful consequences must ensue, if major-generals (as a general principle) should allow themselves to be kissed by the enemy. [from bentley's miscellany.] the history and mystery of the glass-house. upward of two thousand years ago, perhaps three, a company of merchants, who had a cargo of nitre on board their ship, were driven by the winds on the shores of galilee, close to a small stream that runs from the foot of mount carmel. being here weather-bound till the storm abated, they made preparations for cooking their food on the strand; and not finding stones to rest their vessels upon, they used some lumps of nitre for that purpose, placing their kettles and stew-pans on the top, and lighting a strong fire underneath. as the heat increased, the nitre slowly melted away, and flowing down the beach, became mixed up with the sand, forming, when the incorporated mass cooled down, a singularly beautiful, transparent substance, which excited the astonishment and wonder of the beholders. such is the legend of the origin of glass. a great many centuries afterward--that is to say, toward the close of the fifteenth century of the christian era--when some of the secrets of the glass-house, supposed to have been known to the ancients, were lost, and the simple art of blowing glass was but scantily cultivated--an artificer, whose name has unfortunately escaped immortality, while employed over his crucible accidentally spilt some of the material he was melting. being in a fluid state it ran over the ground till it found its way under one of the large flag-stones with which the place was paved, and the poor man was obliged to take up the stone to recover his glass. by this time it had grown cold, and to his infinite surprise he saw that, from the flatness and equality of the surface beneath the stone, it had taken the form of a slab--a form which could not be produced by any process of blowing then in use. such was the accident that led to the discovery of the art of casting plate-glass. these are the only _accidents_ recorded in the history of glass. for the rest--the discovery of its endless capabilities and applications--we are indebted to accumulated observation and persevering experiment, which, prosecuting their ingenious art-labors up to the present hour, promise still farther to enlarge the domain of the beautiful and the useful. the importance of glass, and the infinite variety of objects to which it is applicable, can not be exaggerated. indeed it would be extremely difficult to enumerate its properties, or to estimate adequately its value. this thin, transparent substance, so light and fragile, is one of the most essential ministers of science and philosophy, and enters so minutely into the concerns of life, that it has become indispensable to the daily routine of our business, our wants, and our pleasures. it admits the sun and excludes the wind, answering the double purpose of transmitting light and preserving warmth; it carries the eyes of the astronomer to the remotest region of space; through the lenses of the microscope it develops new worlds of vitality which, without its help, must have been but imperfectly known; it renews the sight of the old, and assists the curiosity of the young; it empowers the mariner to descry distant ships, and to trace far-off shores, the watchman on the cliff to detect the operations of hostile fleets and midnight contrabandists, and the lounger in the opera to make the tour of the circles from his stall; it preserves the light of the beacon from the rush of the tempest, and softens the flame of the lamps upon our tables; it supplies the revel with those charming vessels in whose bright depths we enjoy the color as well as the flavor of our wine; it protects the dial whose movements it reveals; it enables the student to penetrate the wonders of nature, and the beauty to survey the marvels of her person; it reflects, magnifies, and diminishes; as a medium of light and observation its uses are without limit; and as an article of mere embellishment, there is no form into which it may not be moulded, or no object of luxury to which it may not be adapted. yet this agent of universal utility, so valuable and ornamental in its applications, is composed of materials which possess in themselves literally no intrinsic value whatever. sand and salt form the main elements of glass. the real cost is in the process of manufacture. curious properties of glass. out of these elements, slightly varied according to circumstances, are produced the whole miracles of the glass-house. to any one, not previously acquainted with the component ingredients, the surprise which this information must naturally excite will be much increased upon being apprised of a few of the peculiarities or properties of glass. transparent in itself, the materials of which it is composed are opaque. brittle to a proverb when cold, its tenuity and flexibility when hot are so remarkable that it may be spun into filaments as delicate as cobwebs, drawn out like elastic threads till it becomes finer than the finest hair, or whisked, pressed, bent, folded, twisted or moulded into any desired shape. it is impermeable to water, suffers no diminution of its weight or quality by being melted down, is capable of receiving and retaining the most lustrous colors, is susceptible of the most perfect polish, can be carved and sculptured like stone or metal, never loses a fraction of its substance by constant use, and, notwithstanding its origin, is so insensible to the action of acids that it is employed by chemists for purposes to which no other known substance can be applied. the elasticity and fragility of glass are among its most extraordinary phenomena. its elasticity exceeds that of almost all other bodies. if two glass balls are made to strike each other at a given force, the recoil, by virtue of their elasticity, will be nearly equal to the original impetus. connected with its brittleness are some very singular facts. take a hollow sphere, with a hole, and stop the hole with your finger, so as to prevent the external and internal air from communicating, and the sphere will fly to pieces by the mere heat of the hand. vessels made of glass that has been suddenly cooled possess the curious property of being able to resist hard blows given to them from without, but will be instantly shivered by a small particle of flint dropped into their cavities. this property seems to depend upon the comparative thickness of the bottom. the thicker the bottom is, the more certainty of breakage by this experiment. some of these vessels, it is stated, have resisted the strokes of a mallet, given with sufficient force to drive a nail into wood; and heavy bodies, such as musket-balls, pieces of iron, bits of wood, jasper, bone, &c., have been cast into them from a height of two or three feet without any effect; yet a fragment of flint, not larger than a pea, let fall from the fingers at a height of only three inches, has made them fly. nor is it the least wonderful of these phenomena that the glass does not always break at the instant of collision, as might be supposed. a bit of flint, literally the size of a grain, has been dropped into several glasses successively, and none of them broke; but, being set apart and watched, it was found that they all flew in less than three-quarters of an hour. this singular agency is not confined to flint. the same effect will be produced by diamond, sapphire, porcelain, highly-tempered steel, pearls, and the marbles that boys play with.[ ] [footnote : ency. brit.] several theories have been hazarded in explanation of the mystery; but none of them are satisfactory. euler attempted to account for it on the principle of percussion; but if it were produced by percussion the fracture would necessarily be instantaneous. the best solution that can be offered, although it is by no means free from difficulties, refers the cause of the disruption to electricity. there is no doubt that glass, which has been suddenly cooled, is more electric than glass that has been carefully annealed--a process which we will presently explain; and such glass has been known to crack and shiver from a change of temperament, or from the slightest scratch. the reason is obvious enough. when glass is suddenly cooled from the hands of the artificer, the particles on the outer side are rapidly contracted, while those on the inner side, not being equally exposed to the influence of the atmosphere, yet remain in a state of expansion. the consequence is that the two portions are established on conflicting relations with each other, and a strain is kept up between them which would not exist if the whole mass had undergone a gradual and equal contraction, so that when a force is applied which sets in motion the electric fluid glass is known to contain, the motion goes on propagating itself till it accumulates a power which the irregular cohesion of the particles is too weak to resist. this action of the electric fluid will be better understood from an experiment which was exhibited before the royal society upon glass vessels with very thick bottoms, which, being slightly rubbed with the finger, broke after an interval of half an hour.[ ] the action of the electric fluid in this instance is sufficiently clear; but why the contact with fragments of certain bodies should produce the same result, or why that result is not produced by contact with other bodies of even greater size and specific gravity, is by no means obvious. [footnote : lard. cyclo.] among the strangest phenomena observed in glass are those which are peculiar to tubes. a glass tube placed in a horizontal position before a fire, with its extremities supported, will acquire a rotatory motion round its axis, moving at the same time _toward_ the fire, notwithstanding that the supports on which it rests may form an inclined plane the contrary way. if it be placed on a glass plane--such as a piece of window-glass--it will move _from_ the fire, although the plane may incline in the opposite direction. if it be placed standing nearly upright, leaning to the right hand, it will move from east to west; if leaning to the left hand, it will move from west to east; and if it be placed perfectly upright, it will not move at all. the causes of these phenomena are unknown, although there has been no lack of hypotheses in explanation of them.[ ] [footnote : the most plausible reason assigned is that of the expansion of the tube toward the fire by the influence of the heat. the fallacy of this theory is at once shown by the fact that, although heat does expand bodies, it does not increase their weight; therefore, notwithstanding that one side of the tube may be expanded, its equilibrium will remain unimpaired.] it is not surprising that marvels and paradoxes should be related of glass, considering the almost incredible properties it really possesses. seeing that it emits musical sounds when water is placed in it, and it is gently rubbed on the edges; that these sounds can be regulated according to the quantity of water, and that the water itself leaps, frisks, and dances, as if it were inspired by the music; seeing its extraordinary power of condensing vapor, which may be tested by simply breathing upon it; and knowing that, slight and frail as it is, it expands less under the influence of heat than metallic substances, while its expansions are always equable and proportioned to the heat, a quality not found in any other substance, we can not be much astonished at any wonders which are superstitiously or ignorantly attributed to it, or expected to be elicited from it. one of the most remarkable is the feat ascribed to archimedes, who is said to have set fire to the roman fleet at the siege of syracuse by the help of burning-glasses. the fact is attested by most respectable authorities,[ ] but it is only right to add, that it is treated as a pure fable by kepler and descartes, than whom no men were more competent to judge of the possibility of such an achievement. tzetzez relates the matter very circumstantially; he says that archimedes set fire to marcellus's navy by means of a burning glass composed of small square mirrors, moving every way upon hinges; which, when placed in the sun's rays, directed them upon the roman fleet, so as to reduce it to ashes at the distance of a bow-shot. kircher made an experiment founded upon this minute description, by which he satisfied himself of the practicability of at least obtaining an extraordinary condensed power of this kind. having collected the sun's rays into a focus, by a number of plain mirrors, he went on increasing the number of mirrors until at last he produced an intense degree of solar heat; but it does not appear whether he was able to employ it effectively as a destructive agent at a long reach. buffon gave a more satisfactory demonstration to the world of the capability of these little mirrors to do mischief on a small scale. by the aid of his famous burning-glass, which consisted of one hundred and sixty-eight little plain mirrors, he produced so great a heat as to set wood on fire at a distance of two hundred and nine feet, and to melt lead at a distance of one hundred and twenty, and silver at fifty; but there is a wide disparity between the longest of these distances and the length of a bowshot, so that the archimedean feat still remains a matter of speculation. [footnote : diodorus siculus, tzetzez, galen, lucian, anthemius, and others.] why is not glass malleable? in the region of glass, we have a puzzle as confounding as the philosopher's stone (which, oddly enough, is the name given to that color in glass which is known as venetian brown sprinkled with gold spangles), the _elixir vitæ_, or the squaring of the circle, and which has occasioned quite as much waste of hopeless ingenuity. aristotle, one of the wisest of men, is said, we know not on what authority, to have originated this vitreous perplexity by asking the question. "why is not glass malleable?" the answer to the question would seem to be easy enough, since the quality of malleability is so opposed to the quality of vitrification, that, in the present state of our knowledge (to say nothing about the state of knowledge in the time of aristotle) their co-existence would appear to be impossible. but, looking at the progress of science in these latter days, it would be presumptuous to assume that any thing is impossible. until, however, some new law of nature, or some hitherto unknown quality shall have been discovered, by which antagonist forces can be exhibited in combination, the solution of this problem may be regarded as at least in the last degree improbable. yet, in spite of its apparent irreconcilability with all known laws, individuals have been known to devote themselves assiduously to its attainment, and on more than one occasion to declare that they had actually succeeded, although the world has never been made the wiser by the disclosure of the secret. a man who is possessed with one idea, and who works at it incessantly, generally ends by believing against the evidence of facts. it is in the nature of a strong faith to endure discouragement and defeat with an air of martyrdom, as if every fresh failure was a sort of suffering for truth's sake. and the faith in the malleability of glass has had its martyrology as well as faith in graver things. so far back as the time of tiberius, a certain artificer, who is represented to have been an architect by profession, believing that he had succeeded in making vessels of glass as strong and ductile as gold or silver, presented himself with his discovery before the emperor, naturally expecting to be rewarded for his skill. he carried a handsome vase with him, which was so much admired by tiberius that, in a fit of enthusiasm, he dashed it upon the ground with great force to prove its solidity, and finding, upon taking it up again, that it had been indented by the blow, he immediately repaired it with a hammer. the emperor, much struck with so curious an exhibition, inquired whether any body else was acquainted with the discovery, and being assured that the man had strictly preserved his secret, the tyrant instantly ordered him to be beheaded, from an apprehension that if this new production should go forth to the world it would lower the value of the precious metals.[ ] the secret, consequently, perished. a chance, however, arose for its recovery during the reign of louis xiii., a period that might be considered more favorable to such undertakings; but unfortunately with no better result. the inventor on this occasion submitted a bust formed of malleable glass to cardinal richelieu, who, instead of rewarding him for his ingenuity, sentenced him to perpetual imprisonment, on the plea that the invention interfered with the vested interests of the french glass manufacturers.[ ] we should have more reliance on these anecdotes of the martyrs of glass, if they had bequeathed to mankind some clew to the secret that is supposed to have gone to the grave with them. to die for a truth, and at the same time to conceal it, is not the usual course of heroic enthusiasts. [footnote : this story is attested, with slight variations, by several writers, petronius, dion cassius, pliny, and isidorus. pliny says that the populace, imagining that their interests would be injured by the discovery, destroyed the workhouse, tools, and dwelling of the artificer.] [footnote : blancourt.] many attempts have been made to produce a material resembling glass that should possess the quality of malleability, and respectable evidence is not wanting of authorities who believed in its possibility, and who are said to have gone very near to its accomplishment. an arabian writer[ ] tells us that malleable glass was known to the egyptians; but we must come closer to our own times for more explicit and satisfactory testimony. descartes thought it was possible to impart malleability to glass, and boyle is reported to have held the same opinion. but these are only speculative notions, of no further value than to justify the prosecution of experiments. borrichius, a danish physician of the seventeenth century, details an experiment by which he obtained a malleable salt, which led him to conclude that as glass is for the most part only a mixture of salt and sand, he saw no reason why it should not be rendered pliant. the defect of his logic is obvious; but, setting that aside, the fallacy is practically demonstrated by his inability to get beyond the salt. borrichius also thought that the roman who made the vase for tiberius, may have successfully used antimony as his principal ingredient. such suppositions, however, are idle in an experimental science which furnishes you at once with the means of putting their truth or falsehood to the test. there is a substance known to modern chemistry, _luna cornea_, a solution of silver, which resembles horn or glass, is transparent, easily put into fusion, and is capable of bearing the hammer. kunkel thought it was possible to produce a composition with a glassy exterior that should possess the ductile quality; but neither of these help us toward an answer to aristotle's question. upon a review of the whole problem, and of every thing that has been said and done in the way of experiment and conjecture, we are afraid we must leave it where we found it. the malleability of glass is still a secret. [footnote : ibn abd alhakim.] description of a glass-house. dismissing history and theory, we will now step into the glass-house itself, where the practical work of converting sand into goblets, vases, mirrors, and window-panes is going forward with a celerity and accuracy of hand and head that can not fail to excite wonder and admiration. as the whole agency employed is that of heat, the interior of the manufactory consists of furnaces specially constructed for the progressive processes to which the material is subjected before it is sent out perfected for use. look round this extensive area, where you see numbers of men in their shirt-sleeves, with aprons before them, and various implements in their hands, which they exercise with extraordinary rapidity, and you will soon understand how the glittering wonders of glass are produced. of these furnaces there are three kinds, the first called the calcar, the second the working furnace, and the third the annealing oven, or _lier_. the calcar, built in the form of an oven, is used for the calcination of the materials, preliminary to their fusion and vitrification. this process is of the utmost importance: it expels all moisture and carbonic acid gas, the presence of which would hazard the destruction of the glass-pots in the subsequent stages of the manufacture, while it effects a chemical union between the salt, sand, and metallic oxides, which is essential to prevent the alkali from fusing and volatilizing, and to insure the vitrification of the sand in the heat of the working furnace, to which the whole of the materials are to be afterwards submitted. the working furnace, which is round, and generally built in the proportion of three yards in diameter to two in height, is divided into three parts, each of which is vaulted. the lower part, made in the form of a crown, contains the fire, which is never put out. ranged round the circumference inside are the glass-pots or crucibles, in which the _frit_, or calcined _material_, is placed to be melted; and from several holes in the arch of the crown below issues a constant flame which, enveloping the crucibles, accomplishes the process of melting. round the exterior of the furnace, you perceive a series of holes or mouths; these are called _boccas_, from the italian, and it is through them the _frit_ is served into the crucibles and taken out when melted. the volume of heat is here so intense, that the _boccas_ are provided with movable collars or covers, generally composed of lute and brick, to screen the eyes of the workmen who stand outside in recesses formed for the purpose in the projections of the masonry. the severest part of the work arises when any of the pots, or crucibles, happen to become cracked or worn out, in which case the _bocca_ must be entirely uncovered, the defective pot taken out with iron hooks and forks, and a new one substituted in its place through the flames by the hands of the workman. in order to enable him thus literally to work in the fire, he is protected by a garment made of skins in the shape of a pantaloon, and heavily saturated with water. this strange garment completely covers him from head to foot, all except his eyes, which are defended by glasses. the material being now melted is fashioned into the desired forms by the hands of the workmen while it is yet hot, and then placed to cool gradually in the third furnace, or annealing oven, called the _lier_. this oven is a long, low chamber, heated at one end, and furnished with movable iron trays or pans, called _fraiches_ (from the french), upon which the various articles are set down, and finally removed, when they are sufficiently cold, through an opening which communicates with the _sarosel_, or room where the finished articles are kept. the intensity of the fire requires that the furnaces and crucibles, should be constructed of materials the least fusible in their nature, and the best calculated to resist the violent and incessant action of heat; or the manufacturer will incur the most serious losses and delays from casualties which, even after the most careful and costly outlay, can not be always averted. the crucibles especially demand attention in this respect, in consequence of the solvent property of some of the materials which are melted in them. these crucibles are deep pots, varying in size according to the extent or objects of the manufacture; and some notion may be formed of the importance attached to them from the fact, that they are not unfrequently made large enough to contain individually not less than a ton weight of glass. great skill and care are requisite in their structure, so as to adapt them to the temperature in which their qualities are to be tested; and even with the utmost attention that can be bestowed upon them, they are often found to break soon after they are exposed to the furnace, by which heavy losses are entailed upon the manufacturer. nor is this the only point which must be considered. the size of the crucible should bear a proportionate relation to that of the furnace, or one of two consequences, equally to be avoided, will ensue; either that there will be a waste of fuel, if the crucibles are too small, or an inadequate heat, if they are too large.[ ] [footnote : for details see loysel "sur l'art de la verrerie;" and lard. cyclo.] we have now before us the three principal processes--the calcination, by which the materials are prepared in the first instance--the melting down of these materials into glass in the great working furnace, and the annealing of the finished article after it has been fashioned by the workmen. these processes are broad and simple; but that part of the manufacture which is, probably, most calculated to surprise the uninitiated, is the manner in which the red-hot mass of glass, as it is taken out of the crucible, is instantly, so to speak, shaped into form by the dextrous hands and practiced eyes of those men whom you see standing about at tables and stools, twisting long iron rods called _pontils_, blowing through pipes, and performing mysterious evolutions with scissors, pronged sticks, compasses, and other instruments, with a rapidity that baffles the most vigilant observer. from the infinite diversity of objects into which glass is thus moulded, it must be obvious that the operations of these artificers embrace a variety of curious details which it is impossible to enter upon here; but a glance at some of them will enable the reader to form a general notion of the curious manipulations upon which they are so actively employed. the initial movement of the glass-blower is to dip a hollow iron rod or tube, about five feet long, through the _bocca_, into one of the crucibles containing the melted glass. having collected at the end of the tube a sufficient quantity of material for the article he is about to fashion--a drinking-glass, finger-glass, jug, or whatever it may be (which requires, perhaps, two or three dips according to the quantity he wants), he withdraws the tube, and holds it perpendicularly for a few seconds with the heated mass downward, till the fluid drops and lengthens by its own momentum beyond the end of the tube. he then quickly raises it, and rolls it on a smooth horizontal plate till it acquires a cylindrical form. when he has got it into this shape, he applies his mouth to the opposite end of the tube, and blows into the heated mass which swiftly becomes distended into a sphere. but as the globe thus obtained is not rendered sufficiently thin for his purpose by a single blowing, he reheats it by holding it within the furnace, and then blows again, repeating the operation till he brings it to the desiderated size and consistency. thus prepared, he swings it in the air like a pendulum, or twirls it round and round rapidly, according to the elongated or circular form he requires, the molten particles obeying the tendency of the force and motion employed. having advanced to this stage, and the mass being ready for fashioning, a new instrument is brought to bear upon it. this is a small, solid, round iron rod, called the pontil, upon one end of which a lesser portion of material has been collected by another workman, and this portion being applied to the extremity of the globe already formed rapidly adheres to it. the whole is now detached from the tube, or blowpipe, by simply damping the point of contact, which causes the glass to crack, so that a stroke upon the tube separates it safely, leaving a small hole in the globe where the tube had originally entered. by this time the temperature of the mass has cooled down, and it becomes necessary to reheat it, which is done as before. the artificer next seats himself on a stool with elevated arms, upon which he rests the pontil, which he grasps and twirls with his left hand, having thus a command over the red-hot glass with his right hand, in which he holds a small iron instrument called a procello, consisting of two blades with an elastic bow, similar to a sugar-tongs. with this little instrument the whole work of fashioning is performed, and as it must be completed while the glass is yet ductile (having always, however, the power of reheating it when necessary), the process is effected with wondrous celerity. by the aid of the procello he enlarges or contracts the mass, which he adapts to its motions with his left hand, and where any shapeless excrescences appear he instantly cuts them off with a pair of scissors as easily as if they were so much lace or cotton. and thus, almost in less time than it has occupied us in the description, articles of the most exquisite form and delicacy are created by the art-magic of these vulcans of the glass-furnace. that which chiefly excites astonishment and admiration in the spectator is the ease and security with which a material so fragile is cut, joined, twirled, pressed out and contracted, by the hands of the workmen. long practice alone can insure the requisite certainty and quickness of manipulation, and the eye must be highly educated to its work before it can achieve off-hand, and, by a sort of accomplished instinct, the beautiful shapes which are thus rapidly produced. the moment the article is finished it is detached from the pontil and dropped into a bed of ashes, from whence it is removed while it is yet hot, by a pronged stick or wooden shovel, to the tray to be deposited in the annealing oven where it is gradually cooled. how crown, plate, and watch glasses are made. in making crown-glass, which is used for windows, a slight alteration in the process is observed. when the globe is prepared as before at the end of the tube, it is flattened at its extremity by pressure against a plain surface; the new material at the end of the pontil is then attached to the flattened side, and the whole mass detached from the tube, leaving a circular hole at the point of separation. the mass is now twirled round and round, at first slowly, then more quickly, till its diameter, obeying the centrifugal force, becomes wider and wider, the hole expanding in proportion. at last, as the motion increases in velocity, the double portion suddenly bursts open, the whole forming a plain disc of uniform density throughout, except at the spot in the centre where the pontil is attached to it, and where there is accumulated that small lump which is vulgarly called a _bull's eye_. the most surprising incident in this process is the bursting open of the flattened globe, a circumstance which would shiver the entire mass if it were not kept up at a certain heat. the mode of casting plate-glass presents a remarkable illustration of the skillful adaptation of means to ends. when the glass is melted in the crucible, a portion of it is transferred to a smaller crucible, called a cuvette, which contains the exact quantity requisite for the size of the plate about to be formed. the cuvette is then raised by means of a crane, and lifted over the casting table. these tables have smooth metallic surfaces which are carefully ground and polished, and wiped perfectly clean, and heated before they are used. formerly they were made of copper, but the british plate glass company have found that iron slabs answer the purpose better. the table used by them is fifteen feet long, nine feet wide, and six inches thick, and weighs fourteen tons. for the convenience of moving it to the annealing ovens it is placed upon castors. the cuvette being swung over the casting table, is gradually turned over, and a flood of molten glass is poured out upon the surface, and prevented from running off by ribs of metal. as soon as it is entirely discharged, a large hollow copper cylinder is rolled over the fluid, spreading it into a sheet of equal breadth and thickness. when the glass is sufficiently cool to bear removal it is slipped into the annealing oven, where it is placed in a horizontal position,[ ] great care having been taken to exclude the external air, it being indispensable to the beauty of these plates that the process of cooling should be regular and gradual. [footnote : in this respect plate-glass is treated differently from crown and broad glass, which is always placed on its edge in the annealing furnace.] no less than twenty workmen are engaged in these operations, and during the whole time the apartment is kept perfectly still, lest a motion of any kind should set the air in motion, the slightest disturbance of the surface of the plate being calculated to impair its value. "the spectacle of such a vast body of melted glass," observes mr. parks, "poured at once from an immense crucible, on a metallic table of great magnitude, is truly grand; and the variety of colors which the plate exhibits immediately after the roller has passed over it, renders this an operation more splendid and interesting that can possibly be described."[ ] [footnote : lard. cyclo.] to attempt the briefest outline of the vast number of objects that are composed of glass, and the variety of processes to which the material is subjected in their production, would carry us far beyond the limits within which we are unavoidably confined. even the most trifling articles of daily use, apparently very simple in their formation, involve many elaborate details. take a watch, for example. the history from the furnace to the workshop, of those parts of a watch which are composed of glass, is full of curious particulars. the watch-glass maker exercises a function distinct from any one of those we have hitherto been considering. he receives from the blower an accurate hollow globe of glass, measuring eight inches in diameter, and weighing exactly twelve ounces, which is the guarantee at once of the regularity and thinness of the material. upon the surface of this globe the watch-glass maker traces with a piece of heated wire, sometimes with a tobacco pipe, as many circles of the size he requires as the globe will yield, and wetting the lines while they are yet warm, they instantly crack, and the circles are at once separated. he finds the edges rough, but that is got rid of by trimming them with a pair of scissors. the circles thus obtained are deficient, however, in the necessary convexity; he accordingly reheats them, and, with an instrument in each hand, beats or moulds them into the precise form desired, much in the same manner as a dairy-maid, with her wooden spoons beats a pat of butter into shape. the edges are now ground off, and the watch-glass is complete. the preparation of the dial, which is composed of opaque white glass, ordinarily known as enamel, is a much more complicated work, involving several minute processes and a larger expenditure of time. upon both sides of a thin plate of slightly convex copper, bored with holes for the key, and the hour and minute hands, is spread with a spatula a coat of pounded glass which has gone through several stages of solution and purification before it is ready for application. in the management of this operation, and the absorption of any moisture that may linger in the enamel, considerable care and delicacy of hand are necessary. as soon as the dial-plate is perfectly dried it is put into the furnace to be heated gradually. these processes of firing and enameling must be repeated altogether three times before the work is finished; after which the lines and divisions for the hours and minutes are marked upon the surface by a totally different process. we have here merely touched the principal points in the formation of dial-plates; the details are too complex for enumeration. if we find in such articles as these the employment of numerous chemical agencies, special tools, and peculiar manipulation, we may easily give credit to the greater wonders that remain to be developed in more costly processes; such as the composition of artificial gems, of the pastes that are made to resemble diamonds and pearls, amethysts, emeralds, and precious stones of all colors and degrees of brilliancy, beads, bulbs, striped tubes, and a hundred other fanciful toys and ornaments; the formation of lenses and eye-glasses; the coloring of glass for various purposes; and the arts of staining and painting, silvering, gilding, cutting, engraving, and etching, each of which has its own mysteries, and has been prosecuted in different ages by different means. when it is said that some of these arts are lost, the fact must be taken in a restricted sense, as merely implying that certain chemical combinations, formerly in use, are unknown to us; but the same arts are still practiced by other means. it is a peculiarity in the manufacture of glass that almost every establishment has its own receipts, and, consequently, its own secrets. even in the materials employed in the first process of calcination--not to speak of subsequent working processes--there is an infinite diversity of choice in the ingredients, and the proportions in which they are combined; and such is the jealousy of the great manufacturers respecting these matters, that they never admit visitors into their establishments except under the seal of the strictest confidence.[ ] it is not surprising, therefore, that while the elementary principles of the art have descended to us, particular combinations and processes should have died with their discoverers, or be still kept shut up in the manufactories where they are successfully practiced. [footnote : to such an extent has this jealousy been carried, that many adroit expedients have been employed to mislead and baffle curiosity. hence the infinite variety of receipts for the production of different sorts of glass that have been launched upon the public, a vast number of which have been got up expressly for the purpose of deceiving and misdirecting the inquirer. to this circumstance may be referred the remarkable contradictions and inconsistencies that may be detected in all treatises on the subject.] an excellent match; or, the blessings of bad luck. "it is quite impossible," said i, as i walked round the garden with my old friend, the vicar; "it is quite impossible to leave home in may; the bees will be swarming, and it is the very week of the school feast." "we will have the school feast a week earlier," answered he; "and, as to the bees, i will look after them myself, and you will have the pleasure of seeing a new colony or two safely housed, and hard at work, when you come back again." i was silenced on these points, and began to reflect what other excuse i could find to put off a disagreeable journey. but there was something in my friend's manner that warned me it would be vain to offer any further objection. he looked upon my attendance at my niece's wedding as a matter of duty, and he would have removed every obstacle that my ingenuity could oppose to it, with as much coolness as he displayed at that moment, in sweeping a spider's web from the china rose-tree on my verandah. i yielded, but not without a sigh. "dear amy," i said, "i love her very much, and would do much to serve her, but my presence at her fine wedding will be no advantage to her, and a great annoyance to me, therefore it would be better to put off my visit until the fuss and ceremony is fairly over." my reverend friend shook his head. "we are called on to rejoice with those who do rejoice," said he; "as well as to weep with those who weep, although we may not always be in a mood to obey the summons." this was very like a passage from one of the good man's sermons, but i knew the sentiment it contained came from his heart, and what was more, i knew it would have influenced his own actions. "amy was indeed a charming child," continued he, "when you brought her to be cured of the hooping-cough among our cumberland mountains. i only hope the little world of boarding-schools, and the great one of fashion, may not have spoilt her by this time." i hoped so, too, but i was by no means sanguine on the subject. my friend was right; amy was a charming child when we had her among us. with far more character and greater talent than her elder sisters, she had promised to equal them in grace and beauty; and her warm heart and sunny temper captivated every body who knew her. it would be a pity to spoil such a nature as hers, and yet i could not conceal from myself, that there were points in her character which rendered her peculiarly liable to be spoilt by the favors and flatteries of the world. "then you will go?" were the last words the vicar said to me, as we shook hands at parting. i answered in the affirmative, and a fortnight after, encumbered with rather more in the way of trunks and bandboxes than i usually travel with, i set off. mrs. r. met me this time with a load of care upon her brow. she was often anxious-looking, for even her world, light and trifling as it was, had its burdens, and at this time she seemed overwhelmed by them. who could wonder at it? next to the great change which removes a beloved child from the embraces of her parents to an unseen world, there is nothing in solemnity equal to that tie which transfers the guardianship of her happiness to a stranger. when a daughter marries, her parents are deprived of the first place in her love and reverence, and bereaved for ever of the daily companionship, which, in the decline of life, becomes so precious a solace and so dear a joy. what a tremendous responsibility there is in the choice of the person who is to be intrusted with so costly a deposit, and in whose favor are relinquished such valued rights? how few are the men whose characters present a combination of qualities, which under such circumstances, could satisfy the fears and misgivings of a parent's love! something of all this i could not help expressing. mrs. r. replied that they had perfect confidence in mr. lennox; it was in every respect a most unexceptionable match; there was a splendid income to begin with, and every prospect of an immense fortune in a few years, and an excellent position in society; as to moral character, and that sort of thing, of course, all was perfectly satisfactory. "what you say about parting with one's children," continued she, and here she applied her exquisite pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, "is very true--it _is_ very hard to part with amy; but," she philosophically added, "it must be so, so it is no use grieving about it." and she did not grieve about it any more, but became very fluent upon other grievances, which this affair had brought upon her; and now i began to perceive that the true causes of anxiety were something widely different from those which i had anticipated. "i am worried to death," said my poor sister-in-law; "every thing rests with me. i have all the arrangements to make, and no one to consult with, for mr. r. takes no interest in these matters, and as to amy, she is a perfect child. louisa, too, has become so dull and indifferent, she is of no use at all. i miss fanny beyond every thing; her wedding was comparatively no trouble, for she helped me to think; but now i am positively miserable lest all should not go off as it ought to do." here was a species of affliction, for which i had certainly no ready-made speech of condolence, and i should have been somewhat embarrassed how to reply, if the entrance of the girls had not rendered reply unnecessary. it was some years since i had seen amy, who had always been my darling; and when i could disengage myself from her warm embrace, i looked at her earnestly, to notice all the changes which those years had made in her. her beauty was something marvelous, and i was so much taken up with her, that i did not at first pay much attention to her sister, but when i did so, i felt both shocked and surprised. the few summers that had passed since i saw her a blooming girl, did not warrant the change which had taken place in her appearance. her complexion had lost its color; her features looked thin and pinched; there was a querulous expression, which i had never noticed before, about the mouth; and the skin round the eyes had that livid hue, which gives to the countenance so peculiar an appearance of unhealthiness. "my dear louisa," i exclaimed, "you are surely not well!" she answered she was tolerably well, and, as she did not appear to like to be questioned, i made no farther inquiries, but gave my attention to the detail of the various arrangements that had been entered into for the approaching ceremony. i was to see the wedding clothes, of course, and i exposed my ignorance, or at least forgetfulness, of modern fashion, by asking for the bonnet. "bonnet! aunt," cried amy; "wreath i suppose you mean--here it is," and she placed it on her beautiful brow. louisa threw the costly vail over her head, and there was a picture which a reynolds or a lawrence might have been proud to copy. i had not long to admire it. amy laughed and blushed, and threw the things away again. what strange fashions there are with respect to wedding clothes, thought i; my mother was married in a riding-habit and hat, just as if she had been going fox-hunting; nowadays, nothing but a ball dress will do for the ceremony; albeit it be performed on the stone floor of a country church, at christmas time. must a wedding dress, indeed, be one as different as possible to the wearer's daily habits and every-day appearance--a kind of climax to all the little duplicities, voluntary and involuntary, which, it is said, are inseparable from courtship? well, well, be it so! thy outward attractions, amy, will not have lost much, when the blonds and satins are put into the bandbox. god grant that it may be the same with the other and dearer graces of the heart and mind! the few days which intervened between my arrival and the wedding-day were very busy ones; so busy that i could see very little of the bride elect, and still less of the bridegroom. what i did see of the latter, however, impressed me very favorably. he seemed worthy of all amy might become, all he thought she was, for he was passionately in love, as it is not difficult to imagine a young man would be with a being so beautiful and attractive. what her feelings toward him were, i could not exactly decide. everybody said she loved him, and so she thought herself; but i could not bring myself to believe that her heart was yet awakened to a profound and passionate sentiment of affection. she admired her future husband, and was flattered by being the choice of one who was universally allowed to be a superior man; she liked his company, and felt grateful to him for his love. if this were not love, it was at least a good foundation for it, and, perhaps, the wonder was that it had not yet ripened into a warmer sentiment. but amy was a child--a child whose whole life had been surrounded by trifles; and there was a depth and seriousness in edward lennox's character to which her own was yet but imperfectly attuned. would the future bring with it companionship and love, or estrangement and indifference? a tremendous question this appeared to me, but one which apparently entered into the head of no one in all that busy house, except into that of the elderly spinster aunt. the wedding took place. there is no occasion to describe it; most people, at any rate the young ones, know how such things are managed nowadays. the bride and bridegroom departed, and the bridesmaids dispersed until the return of the wedded pair should re-assemble them for the important business of receiving company. as this return was not likely to be speedy, i too said farewell, for i had engaged to visit other friends, before returning to my hermitage--as mrs. r. persisted in denominating my cottage--although it was situated close to a populous village, and not far from a flourishing market-town. i went away very anxious about louisa. mrs. r. was sensible of the change in her daughter's appearance and professed herself unable to understand it. no girls, as she observed, had more indulgences or greater means of amusement than hers had, but nothing pleased or amused louisa now. i inquired if any thing had occurred to render her unhappy. her mother said there had been a slight love affair, but that reasons sufficient to satisfy louisa herself had set it on one side, and that she did not think the attachment still existed. my future observations inclined me to agree with mrs. r. in this latter particular, but it seemed to me as if this fancy, slight as it might have been, had awakened the poor girl to the consciousness that she had a heart and a soul; that she possessed capacities which called for nobler objects and a wider sphere of action, than were furnished in the region of frivolity wherein she dwelt. not that she could have put her feelings into words--they existed in her mind too vaguely for that; her longings were indefinable to herself, but they were real, and i was convinced they were sapping the very foundations of her existence. i would fain have taken her home with me. i would have brought her into contact with the genuine wants and woes of humanity, represented, it might be, in humble types, but varnished over by none of the falsehood and glitter of fashionable society. i would have done so, because i believed that here she might find something to interest and rouse her to action. this once accomplished, her energies would no longer be left to prey upon themselves, and the weariness of an aimless existence would be at an end. but had my abode been, indeed, the cell of an anchorite, and buried in the depth of the wilderness, mrs. r. could not have shrunk with more horror from the idea of trusting her daughter to my guardianship, than she did when i made the proposal. in vain i represented how happy amy had always been while under my care, and how infallible had been the effect of cumberland air upon all her juvenile ailments. in as plain terms as were consistent with her accustomed good breeding, mrs. r. intimated, that though it might do very well for a child, louisa would be moped to death at my cottage. she needed amusement, interest, that was certain; she must go to brighton, to hastings, to baden, if possible--any where, to give her a complete change of scene and ideas. i gave the matter up, but i believed that in my solitude she would have found a greater change of scene and ideas than she would be likely to meet with in any fashionable watering-place. months rolled on. the bride and bridegroom returned, but not before i was again settled at home. i had letters from amy, cheerful, happy letters they were. how could they be otherwise? the whole joys of the world were before her, and with a lively fancy, and the keen sense of enjoyment of eighteen, how could she be insensible to their attractions! i had letters from mrs. r. too, full of amy's praises. they told me how gracefully she had played her new part--how, whether she appeared abroad or received guests at home, she was the delight of every eye, the praise of every tongue. this was not all i would have known, but i could learn no more, and it was two years before amy and i met again. she was then the mother of a fine little boy, and as blooming and beautiful as ever. she seemed happy too, and preserved that uninterrupted flow of gayety which had always been so charming. not so her husband. the ease and cheerfulness, which had once characterized his conversation, had vanished; he was silent and reserved; it seemed to me that some hidden sorrow, for which he had no confidant, was preying on his mind. when i hinted to amy the change in her husband's manner, she tossed her pretty head, and poutingly remarked, that she supposed men were always more agreeable in the days of courtship than after marriage. but, in spite of her childish petulance, a tear stole to her eye, which i was not sorry to see there. true it was that edward lennox was completely disenchanted. he had found out that the thoughtless, inexperienced girl, who had never been led to reflect on any thing more serious than the amusement of the present hour, was not the perfect woman, the ideal of his fancy, and the echo of his every thought and feeling. he was a man of an almost jealously sensitive turn of mind, and when he found he was not comprehended, he shrank into himself, and took refuge in an impenetrable reserve. amy, poor child, had no idea of all that was passing in her husband's mind. she was conscious of no change in herself, and she little thought how different had been his conception of her character to its reality. she believed that what her mamma had told her about the caprice of men, explained the change which she could not but be sensible had taken place in his sentiments toward her; and though this change sometimes made her sad, she did not love deeply enough to be quite heart-broken. but amy was still loved. if mr. lennox did not love her as he could have loved the true wife of his bosom, he cherished her as a lovely child, whose happiness was intrusted to his keeping, and it seemed to me as if fears for her, as well as sorrow of his own, harassed and perplexed him. mrs. r. was right. nothing could be more faultless than the easy grace with which amy presided at her husband's table, or mixed in the gay circles of fashionable amusement. with perfect truth, i could congratulate her mother on this point, but i felt a kind of wonder, well as i knew mrs. r., to observe what unmingled satisfaction it afforded her. she evidently considered that nothing was wanting to the complete _success_ of this marriage. poor woman! she soon changed her opinion most woefully! louisa was still poorly; she had rallied for a while, but now seemed to droop more than ever. i often went to spend the evening with her when mrs. r. and amy were from home, and very dear had these hours become to me. the prospect of eternity had opened to that young spirit, and it had caused a rapid development of the noblest powers of the soul. with the waking of the spiritual nature, the intellect had been aroused also, and, animated by these powers, she was a different being. no wonder when her mother caught her cheerful smile, or her beaming eye, that she believed her convalescent, and i, for one, could not destroy the illusion. one evening when i had left amy in the hands of her maid, preparing to go out to dine, i went into the library to look for a book which i had promised to read to louisa that evening, and felt a little disconcerted to find mr. lennox seated by the fire, with his arms folded, and apparently so completely engrossed by his reflections as scarcely to notice my entrance. as i had believed him to be preparing to accompany amy, i had by no means expected to find him here, and i explained my errand somewhat apologetically. he started from his reverie, and rising, completed my astonishment by requesting five minutes' conversation. "are you not going out?" i asked. "out? oh, i had forgotten. no, not tonight." there was something in his whole manner that alarmed me. "what is the matter?" said i, and i believe i changed color, and said something about my brother. "don't be alarmed," said he, "no one is in trouble or danger but my unfortunate self, and, through me, poor amy. to be plain with you, miss r., for i believe i may speak out to you, without apprehending a fit of fainting or hysterics, i am a ruined man. mind," he added, quickly, and a look of manly dignity replaced the troubled expression of his brow and eye, "i use the word in its ordinary, conventional signification. you and i would call no man ruined, in the literal sense of the word, who retained his honor unstained, and the vigor of his head and the strength of his hand unimpaired." i was so completely taken by surprise, that i had no power to reply, and he went on; "if it were only for myself, i could bear it, i believe, as well as most people, but the thought of that poor girl unmans me. amusement, society, luxury, seem to make up her very life, and to tell her she must be deprived of these things, is dreadful. oh!" he continued, bitterly, "if i could be to amy all that she once was to me, how light would all trials be while our love remained; but that _was_ an idle dream!" "it may be no dream yet," answered i. "amy has a heart, though her life, hitherto, has offered little to prove its depth. who knows but that, when she is called on for sympathy and action, she may prove all we could wish?" "do not flatter me with false hopes," he said; "i have given up such ideas as those forever." i had some hope that matters were not so bad as in the first moment i had been given to understand they were, and i begged for further information. i found, however, the statement mr. lennox had made was substantially true; he had, indeed, lost a handsome property, and all that remained was an opportunity of realizing a comfortable independence by personal exertion. but the sacrifice of the luxuries, and the worldly consideration which the possession of wealth bestows, was inevitable; a sacrifice which frequently causes distress very disproportionate to the worth of the objects abandoned. when he had in a few words put me in possession of the actual state of his affairs, he said: "now comes the question of what is best to be done with amy. it is possible i may find it advisable to go out to india, but, whether i go or stay, i think it would be better for her to accompany her mother and louisa to baden. she will feel the change less at first, i have consulted with her father, and he agrees with me in this opinion." "very likely," said i, dryly; "and if it is your intention that amy should remain all her life a spoiled child of fortune, you could not take better means to attain your end. if she is ever to prove what a rational being should be, it must be by the discipline of life; do not, then, attempt to shield her from trials which may be of more benefit to her than all the favors of fortune. do not suppose you can guarantee her from sorrow; rather call upon her to share your distresses, than leave her to be consumed by the selfish vexations which inevitably fall to the lot of the idle and indulged. but, if you would inspire her with devotion, you must give her your confidence. tell her all--let her know your actual position--what you hope from her--what you fear. you and she may live to bless the day which brings these trials." "ah! if i could think," he began; "but no--you do but judge after your own earnest nature--you do not know amy." "nor you--nor any one; she does not know herself. a girl's character is like a rosebud, folded up from every eye; but, unlike the flower, it expands more under clouds and tempests than under the genial sun." there was a pause, during which he sat musing, then he said, "when i called your attention to my unhappy affairs, it was with the intention of requesting you to break the matter to amy for me, but you have half persuaded me to do it myself." "yourself, by all means," said i; "and let there be no concealment between you. what am i to do about telling louisa and mrs. r.?" "oh! they must know, certainly," answered he. "mrs. r. will be gone out when you arrive, so you will be spared that scene. louisa--who has now more sense and courage than all of us put together--will break it to her best in the morning. here is the carriage, let me put you into it, and then for poor amy." he was right. louisa did seem to have more sense and courage now than any of us. perhaps, she felt herself too near another world to affix an undue value on the things of this, for none of the agitation which i had feared resulted from the communication, and we consulted together calmly and rationally on the best means of making present circumstances useful to amy, and tolerable to her mother. but, calm as she was, i thought it better to spare her the first burst of mrs. r.'s distress, and therefore i remained the night over, and returned to amy in the morning. i found her alone in the nursery, with her sleeping infant in her arms. her eyes were bent pensively on its countenance, and there was an expression of serious thoughtfulness on her beautiful features, which became them as well as the gayety which was their native character. "my dear, dear aunt," she said, as i kissed her cheek, "how much i owe you!" "owe me, my love! what do you mean?" "if it had not been for you, edward would have told me nothing. i should never have known half his causes of distress, and i should have believed him cold and indifferent, when, on the contrary, he was depressed by anxiety for me, and for our boy." here was a spring of action at once. the fountains of sympathy, of gratitude, of love, were opened; might not these waters prove sufficient to fertilize a life? i believed so, and i felt that amy was saved. i was not mistaken. from that day, she was a new creature. if the sacrifices she was called upon to make at first appeared great, they were soon rendered insignificant by the regret which she felt when she reflected how little her previous education had prepared her to make the best of a limited income, to prove the friend, companion, and confidante, which her husband would now need more than ever, or to fulfill the office of guide and instructress which her little boy would soon call upon her to perform. "these are not subjects for regret, amy," said i, when she poured out her heart to me, as she had been in the habit of doing in her childish days; "with youth and health, they are but stimulants to exertion." mr. lennox went to india, but only for a year, and, sorely against her will, amy was left behind. as she could not accompany him, she wished to return home with me, for a year's schooling, as she playfully expressed it, and, in spite of mrs. r.'s remonstrances, i carried her off. what a busy year we had of it! we cooked; we cut out linen (the village schoolmistress was for a time a cipher in that department); we tried experiments in domestic economy; we made calculations; then we read light books and heavy books, history and philosophy, poetry and romance, i being obliged to exercise great ingenuity to avoid an immoderate proportion of educational works, a department of literature to which amy, in common with many young mothers, manifested a decided preference. thus occupied, the days and weeks glided swiftly away, but not without leaving traces of their passage. amy's intellectual and moral growth in this twelvemonth was as rapid as was her boy's increase in physical proportions. she felt it herself, and, with her increased self-respect, increased her love and admiration of the husband, for whose sake she had been stimulated to self-government and self-tuition. small had been the joy of her wedding-day, compared to the rapture with which, at the end of the year, she threw herself into his arms; and slight had been his disappointment after the honeymoon, to the delightful surprise which he felt every day on the discovery of some new improvement, or the promise of some fresh excellence in his lovely wife. "yes, yes," i thought, as i watched them walking in the garden, and talking over their future plans, with that look of perfect confidence which tells so much; "those hearts are united now--they will soon grow so close that nothing earthly will avail to separate them." i wiped my spectacles--they had often been dimmed the last day or two--and taking little herbert's hand, we, too, sallied forth for a confidential _tête-à-tête_ among the daisies. i went to see amy when she was once more settled in a house of her own, and, though mrs. r. sighed and shook her head, every time _poor_ amy's domestic arrangements were alluded to, i thought every thing about her charming. true, she was waited upon by a tidy housemaid, instead of a tall footman; true, if she required a special dainty to appear upon her table, she was obliged to soil the tips of her own delicate fingers, instead of commanding the service of a professional artiste; true, if she wished to go abroad, she walked, instead of using a carriage. but what then? i could not see that she was a bit the worse for any of these changes. then, again, she did not now go one night to the opera, another to the theatre, and a third to a ball; but she was so busy in the daytime, and so happy in the evening, in the company of her husband, that she had no desire for such amusements. she no longer presided over great entertainments, but her small, cheerful, pretty house, furnished with good taste and thoroughly arranged for comfort, was always hospitably open to those true friends whom adverse fortune had not rendered shy or indifferent. "poor amy does seem happy," remarked her mother, after we had spent a delightful evening with the young folks, and a party of old friends; "it is very strange, but she does seem happy in spite of her misfortunes." "misfortunes!" exclaimed my brother; "call them blessings! yes, margaret, i am a convert at last, and ready to confess that women are improvable, and that the loss of wealth _may_ prove an inestimable blessing!" anecdotes of wordsworth. it is not our intention to criticise the writings of the great philosophical poet of modern times, but merely to note down a few recollections of the benign old man before they pass away forever with the fleeting shades of memory. glorious old man of the mountain, methinks we see him now: his deep-set gray eyes steeped in contemplation; his hand buried in his waistcoat--one leg crossed over the other--reciting in a deep, but somewhat tremulous voice, a passage, either from milton or himself--the only two poets he honored by his quotations. while the vision stands before us, let us sketch the outward and visible shape, which held a great spirit within its fold. tall, and broadly formed, spare of flesh, with a slight stoop, carelessly dressed; a fine oval face; a nose aquiline, though somewhat heavy; bald about the brow, with a few gray hairs straggling over the forehead; fragments of gray whiskers, and a mouth, inclined to be large, but energetically compressed; his eyebrows turned upward when listening, and contracted when talking, with a deep voice, broken by its very emphasis: this is as near a picture as we can give of the "bard of rydal." to a certain extent, although in a different sense, what pope wrote for gay, applies to wordsworth: "in wit, a man--in simplicity, a child." taking wit as poetical intellect, this is wordsworth's character in a single sentence. there was a strange mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous in his composition. he would descant on milton, or the principles of poetry, with a freshness and vigor of mind worthy of the author of the "laodamia," and the next minute utter such astounding opinions about steamboats, reform, and human progress and politics, as would positively make a child of ten years old smile. the most remarkable thing about him was his entire ignorance of modern literature: the poetry of the last thirty years was unknown to him: no solicitation would possibly induce him to read it--the only contemporaries he had read or acknowledged, were scott, rogers, landor, coleridge, and southey. the undue attention which he bestowed upon what other men considered trifles, was another remarkable trait in his character: he would correspond perseveringly with the secretary of a railway concerning an overcharge in the carriage of a parcel, and he would walk a dozen miles, and call at a dozen houses, to recover an old cotton umbrella, not worth a shilling. the importance of these small matters had doubtless been forced upon him by his early poverty, and by the manly independence and integrity of his character. exact himself, he exacted exactness from others, and if, when in company with a friend, they took a cab together, he would on no account suffer his companion to pay more than his share: when the conveyance stopped, he would inquire of the driver the fare, take out his own half, and give it to the jehu, leaving his associate to do the same. we remember on one occasion, when we had jumped out first, and paying all the charge, and he afterward paying the sharp jehu his half, that he, on discovering the imposition, wanted us to run half-way down southampton-street to get the overcharge back, and regaled the company at dinner that day with an energetic denunciation of the rascality of cab-men, and the idleness and extravagance of youth. among his weaknesses was a reverence for rank and wealth, perfectly puzzling in so independent a man: if he had promised to dine with a baronet, and an invitation came from an earl he considered it a piece of religious duty to forfeit his prior engagement, and he would never realize the idea that the baronet could possibly feel offended. another curious trait in his character was his inability to understand the slightest approach to a joke: even when explained to him, he would feel uneasy, and put it on a logical rack: with him every thing was either absolutely true or absolutely false:--he made no allowance for pleasantry, badinage, persiflage, or even playfulness: he took every thing literally. a young lady, an intimate friend of his, related to us a ludicrous instance of the embarrassments this occasionally led to: being on a visit to the lakes for the first time, the old poet took great pride in showing her all his pet spots and finest views. they were, consequently, out very often, for hours and hours together. at an evening party, the niece of lady f---- (whose grounds join the bard's garden), in the gayety of girlhood, said to the poet: "i saw you this morning, mr. wordsworth, before any body was up, flirting with my aunt on the lawn; and then how slily you stole away by the back entrance." this alluded to a gate made to save the _detour_ of going into the road. the words had scarcely passed the giddy girl's lips, ere she became painfully aware that she had committed some tremendous crime. wordsworth looked distressed and solemn at his wife: his wife looked muffled thoughts at her daughter, miss wordsworth, and then they all three looked at each other as though, holding a silent conclave. inspiration and speech came to the poet first. turning solemnly round to our informant, he said, emphatically, to her: "after the remark just made, it is of course necessary that i should reply. miss c----, you are young and lovely; you have been alone with me repeatedly in solitary spots, and i now put it to you, if i have ever acted toward you in a manner unbecoming a gentleman and a christian?" our friend thus appealed to, could scarcely refrain from roaring with laughter, but she thought it best to answer in accordance with the spirit of the question; and having considerable tact, she managed to patch this "awful matter" up! a damper, however, had fallen on the meeting, and it ended drearily. we might recount other evidence of the unpoetical thraldom to which constant association with a few old ladies of the rydal neighborhood had bowed down the full, vigorous intellect of wordsworth. yet, even in these absurdities, he retains a simplicity and earnestness of character, which almost supply the want of that geniality and dignity we generally associate with the great poet. modern mummies.--a visit to the tombs of bordeaux. the city of bordeaux possesses much that is interesting. many historical associations are connected with it, from the time of its occupation by the romans, downward. it was the birthplace of the latin poet ausonius, and also of the english edward, the famous black prince; montesquieu was born in its neighborhood, and montaigne was once its mayor; the district of which it is the centre gave its name to the celebrated party of the girondins. it enjoys very considerable trade. the country round it produces some of the best wines in france. its quays and many of its streets are handsome and lively. the public buildings are not a little remarkable. in particular, we may cite the theatre, which, though surpassed by a few others in size, is unrivaled in modern europe for the combination it presents of elegance, symmetry, and perfect adaptation to its purpose. the noble bridge, too, by which the garonne--here nearly the third of a mile wide--is crossed, must not be forgotten either. when we consider the difficulties attending the work, or the success which has crowned it, the bridge is perhaps the greatest boast of bordeaux, and it is not without reason that the pride of the bordelais pronounces it _unique_. but the most curious thing, in its way, which bordeaux possesses, is a vault under st. michael's church. that edifice itself presents but little worth notice, except its mutilated tower, which, with its spire, was once more than three hundred feet high, and was reduced to its present state by a gale of wind, the upper part of it being literally blown over. finding so little, therefore, here to interest us, we are about to leave the church, when our guide asks if we would like to see the charnel-house of st. andrew. the name strikes us; we accept the invitation and follow him, wondering what is before us. we descend a staircase, and exchange the pure air and bright sky of guienne for the close and stone-smelling atmosphere of a subterraneous passage, and the darkness made visible by the uncertain lamp of our conductor. we arrive at a low doorway, and bend to pass beyond it. this is the place. at first we see nothing; our eyes, however, soon become accustomed to the obscurity, and a strange spectacle is disclosed to them. we find we are standing in a round and vaulted chamber of rough masonry: it resembles an inverted bowl, the spring of its arch being but a little above the floor; this floor is of uneven earth, and may be some twenty feet in diameter. round the walls, and supported in a standing position, are a great number of human bodies. there are ninety in all. we are in a large company of the dead; and the ground on which we tread is composed of hundreds more, for that whitish dust is the dust of bones, and the original bottom of the pit is many feet below. the fact is, as the guide informs us, that a cemetery near the church having been disturbed, the vault was made the receptacle of the remains found in it. as for the bodies piled round its sides, some peculiar property of the spot in which they were originally deposited had preserved them entire; and such as they now are they will probably remain, for some of them were living six hundred years ago. their flesh has been transformed into a substance resembling tinder; the skin has much shrunk, and has become brown, so that they resemble very thin mulattoes, but, in most other respects, they are scarcely changed. many of them still possess all their teeth; their hair remains--one has a long beard. the expression their countenances wore in death is still perfectly distinct. they are of both sexes and of all ages, and, consequently, of every size. the histories of a few are known. in the case of most, you can read something of their past lives in their faces and forms, as you can in those of the living, so completely does their physiognomy retain the impress of the passions which once moved and agitated them. one is the body of a man who was a street porter in his time: it is fully seven feet high. he was renowned for his strength, but broke his back one day about a hundred years back, under a burden too heavy for him. another presents the features of a singularly beautiful and graceful woman who died of cancer. on a third body, you remark the nun's dress in which the poor inmate of the cloister was interred. her face still wears a look of sadness and melancholy resignation. you see in the breast of one man the sword-thrust wound which had caused his death. the most painful to behold is the body of a young boy, the convulsed contraction of whose features and members presents a frightful appearance of moral as well as of physical agony. some medical men have given it as their opinion that this unhappy being had been buried alive, and that it was in his frenzied efforts to burst his cerements that his limbs stiffened into their present horrid aspect. speaking of medical men, there is one of their fraternity in the collection, an old doctor, who thus shares the tomb, it may be, of some of those whom he, perhaps, helped to send to it. such are the mummies of bordeaux. as to the cause of the phenomenon, we can offer no explanation, though more learned men than we will, doubtless, easily find many. we trust, however, that such may be more reasonable than that offered by an author before us, who ascribes the preservation of the bodies to the heat of the climate. the guide, of course, has his own theory. a baker had his oven close to the place in which they were at first interred, and the heat of the said oven petrified them. but, whatever may be the proper solution of the question, st. michael's church at bordeaux is not the only locality which possesses such a curiosity, though none that we are aware of can boast a museum so complete. similar discoveries are said to have been made at toulouse, under a franciscan, and also under a dominican monastery, but we must say that, when in that town, we never heard of them. we have, however, ourselves seen the bodies preserved in a crypt of the cathedral church of bremen. this crypt is called the bleikeller, or lead-cellar, for what precise reason we do not remember. it is not entirely underground, but enjoys a certain dubious daylight. the mummies here are contained in rough wooden coffins, and are attired in the usual vestments of the dead, but with their faces exposed. each has its history, which the respectable lady who showed them to us duly recounted, removing each coffin-lid as she did so, and replacing it as she passed to another. as at bordeaux, one of them had been slain by the sword; he was a student who fell in a duel. another was the body of an english lady of the name of stanhope. if we bore that name, we should take measures to prevent her remains being thus made a show of. since we are speaking of bremen, we may mention another object, of a somewhat similar kind, which that town possesses. gesche gottfried was a female prisoner, a modern brinvilliers. she poisoned her husband (two husbands, unless we are mistaken), some of her children, and several of her friends and relatives. at last, in an attempt to poison a young man, to whom she was about to be married, she was detected, condemned, and decapitated. this was a few years back, and they have now got her head, preserved in spirits, in the bremen museum. recollections of chantrey, the sculptor. of chantrey the recorded life and character are eminently simple and compact. easy of comprehension is the tenor of both. the one was marked by steady common-sense; the other by progressive success. chantrey was born at norton, in derbyshire, in . the son of one of the few remaining small proprietors cultivating their own land, he received a moderate education, and was apprenticed, at his own instance, to a working wood-carver. every onward step was marked by native sagacity. his natural gifts led him to the more ambitious branches of art. he began with portrait-painting. but his craft of wood-carving, securing, as it did, a subsistence, he did not relinquish till his position as sculptor was assured: a wise plan, since for eight years he, according to his own account, scarce realized £ by modeling. he began with an imaginative effort or so, but soon found his legitimate field. with the £ , brought him by his wife in , he provided himself with house, studio, offices, marble, &c., like a prudent speculator. from the epoch of his bust of horne tooke--an important patron to him--dates his success. this brought him into notice. commissions thenceforward flowed in. the remainder of his life was a course of regular labor, relieved by constant hospitality and the periodic relaxation of country visits, and his favorite amusement, angling: interspersed with such occurrences as the visit to italy; a few other continental trips; the erection, at a cost of £ , , of a new house and offices, adapted to the growing largeness of his dealings, and his knighthood. with characteristic shrewdness, he early avoided committing himself to any political or party opinions. this, his prosperity, and his common-sense rendered him a great favorite with the english aristocracy. but too often, indeed, is the inane world of aristocratic dilettantism felt hovering dimly near, as we read these pages. his large income and social disposition induced him to keep a hospitable house. and it was part of his tact to secure, without much reading, varied average knowledge, by frequent intercourse with men of science and letters. during the last two years of his life, his health rapidly and wholly gave way: the ordinary fate of his class, the hard workers and social livers. he was in the maturity of middle age, on his sudden death in . this course is as much that of a man of business as of an artist. yet chantrey's was a truly estimable, though no exalted, or rare character. there was a native dignity, a reality, an english genuineness about the man, legible in his whole life, and very engaging; even amid the chaotic adumbrations of the present biography. he was a favorable sample of a class not uncommon among us, the prosperous men who have risen through their own efforts, and deservedly. generous, frank, hearty he was; above all, eminently _direct_ in his dealings and character. one of his distinguishing features as a man, and as one of the class just mentioned, was his honest pride in his origin and progress in life. without self-complacency, a manly consciousness of his true relations to the world pervaded him. the taint of flunkeyism in his position so facile to catch, touched him not. that respect for the intrinsic and essential, in character and position, his early circumstances naturally inspired, was never forsaken for worship of the privileged caste which favored and surrounded him. one of those receiving freely and spending freely, he showed his sense of the value of money by its liberal devotion to the enjoyment of himself and all around. ever open to tales of distress, he was the frequent dupe of his kind impulses. to his brother artists, he was generous in more ways than that of hospitality. few earning a large income have manifested a better title thereto, by their use of it. in a profession inevitably unequal in the attainment of the prizes of fortune, compensation for the direction of so large a share into one or two fashionable channels, is found in so genial a worldly head of it as chantrey. his generosity bordered on lavishness; yet even here, his prudence did not wholly forsake him. he left a large property; bequeathed, after lady chantrey, to the royal academy in trust, for purposes of doubtful judiciousness, but unquestionable good intention; in the way of fostering the "higher branches of art." rough and free in his manners, he was as full of _bonhommie_ as good feeling. his letters are instinct with the heartiness and good fellowship of the man, and have a very agreeable freshness, and freedom from effort, if also, from any claims in the matter of thought. in person, chantrey did not belie his inner self. mr. jones, his biographer, indeed, gives us to understand, in one place, he resembled shakspeare; in another, that it was socrates he was like; and thereon, would have us accept a deeper similarity, of mind, to the greek philosopher! a notion nearer the mark, is graphically supplied by his friend thomson, when he begins his letter with a red wafer stuck on the paper; eyes, nose, mouth, &c., given in black. the symbol so pleased the sculptor, he adopted it himself as an occasional jocose signature. chantrey's intellect was a limited but emphatically capable, if not a very elevated one; ready at command and certain. all he said or did was, as far as it went, to the purpose. altogether practical was the whole man. the sagacity of a sublimated common sense, was his prevailing characteristic. his mind was a perceptive one, not thoughtful or intense; making use of all that came in his way; gleaning information; receiving results, and applying them shrewdly. he attained proficiency in all he undertook, whether it were wood-carving, painting, portrait-busts, fishing, shooting. without his range, were it but one step, he was helpless. but then, as a rule, he took care never to advance that step. and this was easy to him; for he was averse to all beyond the literal, and the every-day. the singular, the eccentric, in thought, manner of art, way of wearing one's hair, or any other department, he detested. "let us stick to the broad, common high-way, and do our best there," was the instinctive feeling of the man. he was haunted by no unattainable, ever-retreating, fair ideals. no dreaming aspirations, or indefinite yearnings, had part in his life. his somewhat extreme, and in mr. jones's hands, quite over-done devotion to "_simplicity_," was very characteristic; in unison with that really satisfactory in him, but pointing to his wants, his restrictedness of feeling and unimaginativeness. the same practical tendency and restriction of effort to things within reach, the sagacious, unerringly successful application of himself to the certain and definite, characterize his art: in the artist, ever the blossom and result of the whole man. emphatic fulfillment does his success afford of the celebrated apophthegm of mulready, "know what you have to do, and do it." he did not spend himself on false aims, nor once lose himself in a wrong track. having early ascertained his true field, portraiture, he consistently adhered to it, notwithstanding all "advice of friends;" though far from lacking ambition, or high ideas of the so-called higher branches. in this, his history is especially instructive, worthy of heed. he was faithful to the light that was in him. and in better times of art he might have been a still better artist. sailing in the air.--history of aeronautics. (_continued from page_ .) in the history of aeronautics, the name of mr. charles green, who first turned his attention to the art in , occupies a prominent place. to him the art is indebted for the introduction of carbureted-hydrogen, or coal gas, as the means of inflating balloons. great as was the improvement effected by the substitution of hydrogen gas for rarefied air, there are serious disadvantages connected with the use of that gas. in the first place, it is procured at vast expense; and, in the second place, it is difficult to obtain it in sufficient quantity, several days of watchful anxiety having been often expended in the vain endeavor to generate a sufficiency of the gas, which, on account of the subtilty of its particles, and its strong affinity for those of the surrounding atmosphere, continued to escape almost as fast as it was produced. perplexed at the outset with these difficulties and inconveniencies, which had not only rendered experiments comparatively rare, but even threatened the art with premature extinction, mr. green conceived that if coal gas, which is much cheaper and can be generated with much greater facility than hydrogen, could be employed for the purpose of inflation, an important object would be gained. to put the truth of his theory to the test, he prepared a balloon, which he inflated with coal gas, and made a successful ascent from the green park, on the day of the coronation of george iv. he has subsequently made some hundreds of ascensions from the metropolis, and various other parts of the empire, with balloons so inflated; and, from the year , coal gas has been very generally used in experiments of this nature. besides its economy and easy production, it has the advantage of being more easily retained than hydrogen, which, for the reasons already given, is much more readily dissipated. the ingenuity of mr. green has been exerted with the view of discovering other improvements in the art of aerial navigation. one great obstacle to the successful practice in the art is, the difficulty of maintaining the power of the balloon for any length of time undiminished in its progress through the air. it is ascertained by the uniform experience of aeronauts, that, between the earth and two miles above the level of the sea, a variety of currents exist, some blowing in one direction and some in another; and when the aeronaut has risen to the elevation where he meets with a current that will waft him in the desired direction, it is of importance for him to be able to preserve that elevation. but the balloon, in consequence of the increase or diminution of weight to which it is liable from a variety of causes, will not keep at that altitude. the great changes which are constantly taking place in the weight of the atmosphere, the deposition of humidity on the surface of the balloon, and its subsequent evaporation by the rise of temperature, the alternate heating and cooling of the gaseous contents of the balloon, according as it may be exposed to the action of the solar rays or screened from them by the interposition of clouds, not to advert to other agencies, less known though not less powerful, all combine in making the machine at one time to ascend and at another to descend. thus it may be removed out of a favorable into an adverse current. to overcome this difficulty, and enable the aeronaut to keep the balloon at the same level without expending its power, by discharging gas from the valve to lower it, or by casting out a portion of the ballast to raise it--processes which must in time waste the whole power of the largest balloon, and bring it to the earth--mr. green suggested the contrivance of a rope of sufficient length and material trailing on the ground beneath, and if over the sea, the rope is to be tied to a vessel filled with liquid ballast, which floats on the surface. this rope will act as a drag on the balloon, when, from any of the causes we have referred to, it tends to rise, for, in that case, it will draw up a portion of the rope, and, by thus adding to its weight, will be impeded in its upward course; and, on the other hand, when, from opposite causes, it tends to descend, it will, during every foot of its descent, have its weight, and consequently its descending tendency, diminished, by throwing on the earth the labor of supporting an additional portion of the rope. this, however, at best, is a clumsy contrivance, and there are various objections to its practical utility. it could hardly be practicable on land, on account of the damage and danger that would be occasioned by the entanglement of the rope in trees and buildings; and at great elevations above the earth, the weight of the rope would become so considerable as to require for its support a large portion of the ascending power of any balloon. in the united states, many aerial voyages have been performed. the first of these was made by a frenchman, m. blanchard, in jan., , from philadelphia, at which general washington was a spectator. gillio and robertson, both europeans, were the next after blanchard. no americans were engaged in the business until mr. durant, an ingenious citizen of new york, took it up after robertson. he made a number of aerial excursions, and was shortly followed by new adventurers in the art, among whom the most celebrated is mr. wise, a piano-forte maker in philadelphia, who in betook himself to the trade of ascending in balloons, and who up to this date has made upward of a hundred ascents. mr. wise is entitled to the merit of having carefully studied and mastered the scientific principles of aeronautics, and he is among the most enthusiastic of his profession. while admitting that the art has advanced but little since its first discovery, compared with other sciences, he anticipates from it, if perseveringly cultivated by men of genius, the most splendid results, adopting, as the motto on the title-page of his work, the couplet from shakspeare: "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." some of his feats have been daring enough, and others still more perilous he is willing to undertake. not long after commencing the practice of his new profession, mr. wise resolved to test the practicability of descending in safety with the balloon, after it had burst, at the elevation of a mile or two. it would then, he conceived, form a parachute, and, from the resistance it would meet with from the atmosphere in its descent, would gently let him down to the earth. having prepared a balloon of cambric muslin, which he coated with his newly-invented varnish, he ascended, as had been advertised, from easton, in pennsylvania, on the th of august, , at a few minutes before two o'clock, afternoon, with the full determination of making the experiment, though he had concealed his intention both from the public and from his personal friends. he carried up with him two parachutes, the one containing a cat, and the other a dog. as the balloon approached a dense body of black thunder-clouds, some vivid flashes of lightning, accompanied by violent peals of thunder, greeted his upward course. this gave the first part of his voyage a terrific but grand and imposing appearance. it seemed to him as if heaven's artillery were celebrating these efforts of the new-born science, and, acting on his imagination, this inspired him with a fresh determination to explode the balloon. at different elevations, he detached first one and then another of the parachutes, with their occupants, which landed in safety. at the altitude of about , feet, the gas became expanded to its utmost tension, and the balloon was still rising, making it evident that, unless the safety-valve were speedily opened to allow a portion of the gas to escape, an explosion would speedily ensue. at this critical moment he became somewhat excited, and looking over the side of his car, he observed the sparkling coruscations of lightning springing from cloud to cloud, a mile beneath him, as the thunder-storm was passing, in its last remnants, below. he took out his watch, noted on his log-book the time--twenty minutes past two--and as he was about returning it to his pocket, thinking at the time whether it were not best, by opening the valve, to abandon, for the present, his favorite idea, the balloon exploded. his confidence in the success of the experiment never forsook him, and yet he admits that this was a moment of awful suspense. the gas rushed with a tempestuous noise from the rupture in the top, and in less than ten seconds, the balloon was emptied of every particle of hydrogen. the descent at first was rapid, and in a moment or two, on looking up, he discovered that the balloon was canting over, but the weight of the car counteracted its tilting tendency, giving it an oscillating motion, which it retained until it reached the earth, which it struck with a violent concussion, and the car striking the earth obliquely, mr. wise was thrown forward from it about ten feet. the landing was made on a farm about ten miles from easton, and many minutes had not elapsed before he had resolved in his mind to repeat the experiment in philadelphia on the first opportunity. having arrived in philadelphia in the month of september immediately following, he consulted several scientific gentlemen as to his intention. doubtful of the safety of the experiment, though neither questioning the philosophy of atmospheric resistance, nor the theory of converting the balloon into a parachute, they earnestly endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose. but confident of the perfect safety with which, on scientific principles, he would descend, he publicly announced that he would ascend on the first of october, and explode the balloon at the height of upward of a mile. on the day advertised, at twenty minutes before five o'clock, afternoon, he left the earth in the presence of assembled thousands, and rose almost perpendicularly, in a perfectly clear sky. when the explosion took place, the lower part of the balloon did not immediately invert, as in the former experiment, for in this case the balloon burst open from top to bottom, and caved sideways. at the first discovery of this, he was somewhat alarmed, fearing that it might come down with a continuous accelerated velocity; but from this anxiety he was soon relieved, for it caught the wind like the mainsail of a ship, and _slid_ down upon the atmosphere in a spiral course with a _uniform_ velocity. the concussion, though from the apparent rapidity of the descent it threatened to be violent, was not harder than that which would follow the jumping from an elevation of ten feet to the ground. from the experience of his numerous aerial excursions, mr. wise is of opinion, that, at a considerable elevation, there is a constant and regular current of wind blowing at all times, from west to east, with a velocity of from twenty to forty, and even sixty miles per hour, according to its height from the earth. on the strength of this conviction, he believes it to be perfectly practicable and safe, not only to cross the atlantic, but even to circumnavigate the globe, in a balloon; and he has expressed his readiness to undertake either of these voyages. about the beginning of the year , he actually proposed to some gentlemen of the city of philadelphia, the project of making an aerial trip across the atlantic, in undertaking which, he assured them, he would have as little hesitation as about embarking in the most approved steam-vessel that plied between the ports of new york and liverpool. at first, supposing him to be in jest, they expressed their willingness to promote the design, but finding that he was in sober earnest, they began to evince conscientious scruples as to the responsibility they would incur, if by any chance his life should fall a sacrifice to the bold adventure. he next determined to petition the congress of the united states, at their ensuing session, for the necessary pecuniary means; and flattering himself with the hope of the success of his application, to provide against the accidents which might arise from opposing local currents and storms, or from omissions, imperfections, and unforeseen necessities attendant upon all first trials, he issued a proclamation, addressed to all publishers of newspapers in the world, announcing it as his intention to make a trip across the atlantic in a balloon in the summer of , and calling upon the seafaring community of all climes not to be alarmed should they happen to be in the vicinity of a balloon, either on the ocean or in the atmosphere, but endeavor to give aid to the adventurers. he proposed to have for the car a sea-worthy boat, which would be of service in case the balloon should fail to accomplish the voyage; and the crew was to consist of three individuals--an aeronaut, a sea-navigator, and a scientific landsman. by the time the congress met, mr. wise had enlarged his idea of crossing the atlantic to a purpose of sailing round the world. in a petition he presented to that assembly, dated lancaster city, dec. , , he certifies, that by taking advantage of the current from west to east, which, governed by a great general law, blows at all times round the globe, it was quite practicable, from the improved state to which aeronautic machinery can now be perfected, to travel eastward in a balloon with a velocity that would circumnavigate the globe in from thirty to forty days, and that the aeronaut, by taking advantage of the local currents, could vary from a straight course thirty or forty degrees from the latitude of departure, so as to be able to leave dispatches in europe and china, and return by way of oregon territory to washington city. he therefore prays the congress to appropriate the money necessary for constructing an aerostadt of feet in diameter of substantial domestic cotton drilling, with a sea-boat capable of enduring the ocean for a car, and so constructed that the masts and rigging may be stowed, ready for erection into sea service at any time that emergency might require. and he concludes by engaging, that, should his proposal meet with the approbation of the congress, he would readily submit a plan in detail, and would cheerfully superintend the construction of the machinery at his own expense, asking nothing more than the command or directorship of the first experimental aerial voyage round the globe. this petition was received and read by the congress, and referred to the committee of naval affairs. but though the committee to which it was committed might not doubt that mr. wise had nerve sufficient to make the attempt, they probably had some doubts as to its practicability and safety, and therefore they made no report. most men will think that the committee of congress acted wisely, and that it is fortunate for mr. wise himself, that neither the congress nor his private friends have, by supplying the necessary funds, put it in his power to risk his life in either of those foolish projects. the many accidents and hairbreadth escapes from severe bodily injury, if not from death, which he has met with, during the course of his profession, when undertaking much smaller excursions, scarcely warrant him to conclude, as he does, that such voyages would be attended with fewer risks than sailing in the most approved steam-vessels. to attempt to realize even his first idea of crossing the atlantic in a balloon, would, in the present imperfect state of aeronautics, be nothing less than madness; to attempt to realize the second, would be "cyclopicus furor," to borrow a phrase from john calvin--"a gigantic madness;" and we can only account for his forming or broaching such ideas, on the principle of vanity, or of that insensibility to physical danger which the adventurous gradually and unconsciously contract. we do not affirm that such schemes are absolutely impracticable, or that they will never be safely accomplished; for the astonishing discoveries already made in science render it impossible for us to say to what extent the elements may be rendered obedient to the sway of the human will. to speak of crossing the ocean, against wind and tide, in a vessel, by the simple aid of a kettle filled with boiling water, was, not many years ago, laughed at as the ravings of a crack-brained fool. a shaved head and a strait waistcoat were the promised rewards of the original projector of that most noble enterprise. and yet the foaming billows of the great deep are at this day hourly plied by the rushing steam-ship, bounding and puffing recklessly along, as though it were itself the victim of the madness ascribed to its projector, but landing, nevertheless, its precious freight unharmed upon the distant shores. now, if such stupendous and astonishing results _have been_ realized, what may not man, under the irresistible dominion of the great master-spirit of the age--_progress_--what may he not accomplish?" but it remains yet to be demonstrated that a pathway in a balloon through the atmosphere is less perilous than one in a ship on the ocean. the safety of traveling in balloons must be tested by smaller trips, before men will believe that these frail vessels of silk, or cambric muslin, may be safely trusted as a means of locomotion across the mighty atlantic, or, what would be a still greater achievement, around the globe itself. having thus briefly traced the history of aeronautics, we shall now inquire into the practical value of the art. after the discovery of the hydrogen-gas balloon, the most extravagant projects dazzled and bewildered the minds of men. to journey through the air from one part of the globe to another, or even to circumnavigate the globe itself, in balloons, was child's play, compared with the magnificent results that were anticipated. it was fondly expected that the new discovery would open up a channel of communication between the earth and its sister planets, and that the time was not far distant when men would be embarking from the earth, in a balloon, for the moon, or for mercury, venus, mars, the asteroids, or some of the other planets, just as they embarked in a ship for france, italy, india, china, africa, or america. they forgot that the laws of gravitation, which bind man as by chains of adamant to this world, would ever interpose an insurmountable obstacle to the realization of such wild imaginings; that the atmosphere has its limits as well as the ocean, extending, it is calculated, not much beyond forty miles above the earth's surface; that, at a certain height, it is as light, by reason of its rarity, as the lightest gas with which a balloon can be inflated, thereby rendering all farther ascent impossible; and that, even before the aeronaut had reached that height, very serious consequences would ensue from the intense cold, from the diminution of atmospheric pressure, and from the inadequacy of a too rarified atmosphere for supporting respiration. such overwrought expectations, however, produced by the first excitement of a great discovery, soon subsided, when men began soberly to reflect on the immutable laws, or, which is the same thing, the powerful mandate of the creator, which confines all things within their appointed sphere. but though the idea of emigrating by means of balloons to foreign worlds was relinquished, there still existed a desire to render them subservient to important terrestrial purposes, and various suggestions were made as to the uses to which they might be applied. it was proposed to employ their power of ascension as a mechanical force for raising water from mines, for transporting obelisks, and placing them on greater elevations, or for raising, without any scaffolding a cross or a vane to the top of a high spire. it was proposed that they might be employed as a means of making an escape from surrounding icebergs in the ocean, or for effecting a landing to otherwise inaccessible mountains, and observing their cloud-capped peaks--for exploring the craters of volcanoes--for traversing vast swamps and morasses--and for the improvement of the infant science of meteorology. it was besides predicted that they would become a safe, easy, and expeditious mode of traveling, and of conveying the products of every land and clime from one part of the globe to another. it is long since dr. dick suggested, in his "christian philosopher," that the missionaries of the cross might yet be able to avail themselves of the aid of balloons in going forth to distant regions to proclaim to the heathen the unsearchable riches of christ, and that then there would be a literal fulfillment of the prediction of the last of the inspired seers, "and i saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people." but to only two purposes has the ascending power of the balloon been as yet applied--to the reconnoitring of hostile armies, by the french, for a short time--and, in one or two instances, to the making of scientific observations. only a single attempt, and a very absurd one, has been made to get up a traveling balloon. the gold-hunters of america, impatient of the slow process by which ships transport them to the golden regions of california, and, as if determined to press the air into the service of giving them a speedier conveyance, lately proposed to build a balloon, to carry them out at the rate of miles per hour. a model of the machine was exhibited in new york and philadelphia, and it created considerable sensation in the minds of the credulous. it was stated, in a respectable journal of new york, in , that the machine was actually in course of construction, and the steam-engine finished, but nothing more has since been heard of it. "had these projectors," says mr. wise, "gone on from their miniature model, to the erection of one capable of carrying one or two persons, in order to prove its practicability on a larger scale, there might have been reason to believe that they harbored an idea of its general usefulness. but when the project embraced at once so magnificent a scheme, as that contemplated in the swooping strides toward the modern _dorado_, with a cargo of a hundred gold-hunters, it seemed too much for sober-minded people; and brought upon itself philosophical criticism and scientific condemnation, and, with that, a good share of opposition to the hopes and expectations of aerial navigation in any shape." aerostation is at present applied to no practical useful purpose; it is a mere plaything, occupying no higher a position than catchpenny mountebank exhibitions. ascents are made in balloons from no other motive, or for no other object, than to draw money from the pockets of the multitude, by ministering to their enjoyment; and when made by persons properly acquainted with the principles and practice of the art--for by such alone can they be effected with safety--and with those precautions which experience has shown to be requisite, they might be liable to no great objection, so long as the people are willing to pay for them; but if conducted by unqualified persons, or by the most skillful, with a daring recklessness of personal danger, or in a manner involving suffering to any sentient being, they ought to be discouraged in every legitimate way by every friend of humanity, as at variance alike with the principles of morality and with the benevolent lessons of the christian faith. no man may lawfully peril his own life, or subject the inferior animals to unnecessary pain, for the gratification of the all-devouring thirst of the public for exciting exhibitions; and in the very act of encouraging and witnessing such exhibitions, we are quenching the merciful and fostering the cruel in our natures. of this objectionable character is the practice recently introduced into france of carrying up donkeys in balloons. the adventure is indeed no new one. it was performed by mr. green some twenty years ago. but the merit, or rather the demerit, of having turned it into one of the most popular shows in france, is due to m. poitevin, who has lately been exciting the gaping admiration of thousands in paris, by this fool-hardy, barbarous, and contemptible mode of aerostation. early in july this year ( ), he ascended on horseback in a balloon from champ de mars, in the presence of upwards of , persons, who had paid for admission, and the president of the republic was one of the spectators. the horse, a handsome dapple gray, had stout cloth placed round its body, and several straps, passed over the shoulders and loins, were united in rings, which were attached by cords to the network of the balloon. in this manner was the animal cruelly suspended in the air, having no resting-place for its feet, nor was there any thing to protect the rider, had he lost his balance or been thrown off. the feat having been more successful than could reasonably have been expected, mr. green proposed to amuse the inhabitants of london by a similar adventure. some of the more humane of the english capital were shocked at the announcement; and the secretary of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals made application on the th of july to the magistrates to put a stop to the ascent. a case of interference not having been made out to the satisfaction of the magistrates, mr. green next day started on his journey to the clouds mounted on a pony. it was put in the car--a plan more humane than that of m. poitevin, who suspended his pony in the air. but the whole affair was a miserably poor one, and well fitted to bring all such experiments into contempt. the nag was not larger than an under-sized newfoundland dog; and what made the thing more ridiculous still, the poor creature--which, by the way, had its eyes bandaged, and was strongly tied by cords to the network of the balloon--was so feeble that, on mounting it, mr. green had to sustain his own weight by a pile of sand bags placed on either side. this sham equestrian excursion through the air appears to have generally disappointed onlookers, and pony ascensions have not been attempted a second time in england. in france they have met with greater favor. they have been repeated by m. poitevin and others in the presence of immense multitudes: and it should not be passed over without remark, as one proof among others of what the animals suffer, and, consequently, of the cruelty of the practice, that, in some of these instances, blood flowed from their ears and nostrils. that the practice is dangerous to the aeronaut as well as cruel to the animal, has been the judgment of all reflecting men from the first; and the late melancholy fate of lieutenant gale, an english, naval officer, who ascended from the hippodrome of vincennes, near bordeaux, on sabbath--a very unsuitable day, surely, for such exhibitions--the th of september last, mounted on a horse, which was suspended beneath the car of the balloon by girths passed under its body, reads a lesson to which it would be wise to listen. by the aid of several peasants who were in the fields, he effected his descent without any accident to himself or the horse; but, having unfastened the animal, he again rose into the air, and was afterward found dead in a field about a mile from the place where the balloon made its second descent. that this dreadful close of the aeronautic career of mr. gale, which he commenced only in , will serve as a warning to this reckless class of adventurers, we hardly anticipate. that it will put a stop to such fool-hardy and hazardous exhibitions, by bringing them into disrepute with the idle multitude, is what we as little expect. so long as men are found sufficiently daring to run the risk, there will not be wanting crowds abundantly ready to pay down their money, and gaze upon the spectacle with a stupid admiration. it is a wretched result of the art of ballooning, if it can be turned to no better account than this. can, then, nothing more important be brought out of it? can it never be rendered subservient to the ordinary purposes of human life? the opinion almost universally prevalent among men, not excluding scientific men, is that it can not. some aeronauts, indeed, assure us that the time is fast approaching when aerial transition will inevitably be placed as far before railroad and steam-boat transition as the latter are before the old-fashioned sail and horse-power modes. but the most of men place little faith in these flattering anticipations; they listen to or read them with as dogged a skepticism as they read or hear the celebrated vaticination of bishop wilkins, that it would be as common for man hereafter to call for his wings when about to make a journey, as it then was to call for his boots and spurs. they doubt whether, with all the characteristic marks of progress that distinguish the present age, balloons will ever become a safe, cheap, and expeditious means of traveling. whether the aeronauts are most to be justified in their sanguine expectations, or the rest of mankind in their cautious incredulity, time alone will determine. our judgment, we confess, strongly inclines to the side of the skeptics. much is still desiderated, in order to the practicability of ballooning as a generally useful art. a new gas, at once cheap in its production, and of sufficient buoyancy, must be discovered. the gases at present employed for inflating balloons are either too expensive or too heavy. hydrogen, which is almost fourteen times lighter than common air, is the lightest gas known, but the expense at which it is procured is an insuperable objection to its practical utility. to produce a quantity sufficient to raise the weight of a pound, four and a half pounds of iron or six of zinc, with equal quantities of sulphuric acid, would be required. carbureted hydrogen or coal gas is much cheaper, and brings the cost of what may be necessary for experimental purposes--though this is by no means inconsiderable--within the compass of more ordinary means. but, as it is only about one half lighter than atmospheric air, it would require a machine of immense size to support any great weight; and the whole experience of ballooning proves the difficulty of managing a body of great magnitude. another great desideratum in aerial navigation is a power of guiding the balloon according to a given direction--of propelling it through the atmosphere as steam-boats are propelled on the ocean. it has indeed been said that, as nature is very profuse in the variety of atmospherical currents within two miles above the level of the sea, we are not, in sailing through the air, driven to the necessity of attempting to go right against the wind, but have only to ascend or descend, as the case may be, to a current, which will waft the vessel to its desired destination. but were we even sure of always getting a favoring current, which, from the limited amount of observations made, is not yet established beyond a doubt, there is another desideratum--we are in want of an agent adapted for raising and lowering the balloon without any waste of its power, so as to get within the propitious current. mr. green's contrivance of the guide rope, is, as we have seen, not likely to answer in practice; and nothing better has yet been discovered. [from colburn's london magazine.] recollections of sir robert peel by the dean of york. the political career of the late sir robert peel is so well known, and has been so often brought before the public eye, that it would be almost impertinent to offer any further illustration of it. there are many anecdotes, however, of a domestic nature which more clearly show the real character of so distinguished a person, and with which an intimacy of nearly fifty years will enable me to gratify general curiosity, at this moment of deep sympathy for his fate. soon after peel was born, his father, the first baronet, finding himself rising daily in wealth and consequence, and believing that money in those peculiar days could always command a seat in parliament, determined to bring up his son expressly for the house of commons. when that son was quite a child, sir robert would frequently set him on the table, and say, "now, robin, make a speech, and i will give you this cherry." what few words the little fellow produced were applauded, and applause stimulating exertion, produced such effects that, before robin was ten years old, he could really address the company with some degree of eloquence. as he grew up, his father constantly took him every sunday into his private room, and made him repeat, as well as he could, the sermon which had been preached. little progress in effecting this was made, and little was expected, _at first_; but by steady perseverance the habit of attention grew powerful, and the sermon was repeated almost _verbatim_. when at a very distant day the senator, remembering accurately the speech of an opponent, answered his arguments in correct succession, it was little known that the power of so doing was originally acquired in drayton church. i first became acquainted with mr. peel when he was a boy at school; but he evinced at that early age the greatest desire for distinction. he was attentive to his studies, and anxious to realize his father's expectations. the most remarkable feature, however, of his character was a certain firmness of nerves which prevented him from ever being frightened or excited by any thing. i went with him and his father to look at an estate in herefordshire, called hampton court, which sir robert thought of purchasing. we slept at the inn in leominster. it was full of company, and only two bedrooms could be obtained. young peel was obliged to sleep on a sofa-bed, in a kind of cupboard attached to the principal room. soon after he got to sleep, he was awakened by a light, and saw a man standing by his couch with a drawn sword. the man being questioned, bid him not to be alarmed, for that he would not hurt him, but that a freemasons' meeting was being held in the next room, and that he was placed there to prevent any intruders from breaking in upon their ceremonies. mr. peel turned round and went instantly to sleep again. i asked him if he had not been frightened? he said, "no--that he was surprised at first, but did not suppose the man would do him any harm." on inquiry from the waiter in the morning, we learned that the armed man had remained three hours in the room where the fearless youth was soundly and calmly sleeping. on another occasion, i went with him and a party of relations to visit the lakes. we crossed from lancaster over the dangerous sands to ulverstone. some accident had delayed us at starting, and when we got about half-way over, it was evident that the tide was returning. all the party were much and reasonably alarmed except young peel, who sat upon the box with me. after looking about some time with much coolness, he remarked to the drivers, that the nearer they went to the shore the more loose and deep was the sand, and the greater the difficulty of proceeding to the horses; but that if they would go boldly a little way into the sea, where the sand was hard and firm, we should proceed with greater speed. by following this judicious advice from the youngest of the party, we escaped a considerable danger. this self-command, or imperturbability, which showed itself in many other instances in the boy, became a peculiar characteristic of the man. i never knew him to be in the least excited by any thing but once, and that was at the death of mr. perceval. he (mr. peel) had assisted to secure the murderer; he had supported the head of his dying friend, whom he greatly admired and loved; and when he came out of the house of commons his face was certainly flushed, and some emotion shown; but less than would probably have been shown by any other person under such powerful excitement. soon after mr. peel was of age he came into parliament as member for an irish borough (i think for tralee). mr. quintin dick, who had an all-powerful interest in that borough, had, by some irregularity, become incapacitated from representing an irish constituency, but was seeking to come into parliament for some english borough. sir robert gave him great assistance--possibly with his purse--and in return mr. dick contrived so to influence the free and independent electors of tralee, that they elected mr. peel to be their representative. while sitting as member for that borough, mr. peel made his first much-admired speech in seconding the address, which speech his father heard from the gallery, with tears, not certainly excited by grief. mr. peel went over shortly afterward as secretary to the lord-lieutenant of ireland, and while there the parliament was dissolved, and with it his connection with tralee. we looked for some other seat, and a gentleman, whose name i forget, offered to sell sir robert a number of houses in chippenham, to the tenants of which the right of voting for members of parliament was by burgage-tenure confined. the bargain was, that the property should be conveyed to sir robert for a large sum, but that if at the end of six months he should be dissatisfied with his purchase, the seller should repurchase it for a smaller sum. all of which was luckily done, for soon afterward the reform bill made the old houses valueless. in consequence of this arrangement, mr. peel was under no necessity of coming from ireland; but i went as his deputy to chippenham, heard him elected without opposition, and gave a dinner to his faithful friends, and when parliament met mr. peel took his seat accordingly. thus did he sit in parliament during two sessions for places which he never saw in his life, and the inhabitants of which never saw him. such things are, i suppose, impossible in the present age of purity. before the connection between mr. peel and chippenham was at an end, a vacancy occurred in the representation of oxford university. mr. canning had long fixed his eye upon that seat in parliament, and had been often flattered with the hope of being agreeable to the electors; but his noble and self-sacrificing vote in favor of the roman catholics had alienated from him many of his first supporters. at a fortunate moment, the members of christ church being assembled to determine what candidate they should espouse, mr. lloyd, who had been peel's private tutor, pressed upon them the dangers to the protestant religion which would ensue, if a body of clergymen should elect a favorer of roman catholics. the electors of christ church, who are supposed almost to command the return of one member, were moved by the reasoning of mr. lloyd, and mr. peel was invited to offer himself as member for the university, being assured of the support of the influential college of christ church. i well remember the glee with which mr. peel came to my house early one morning to show me the letter which he had received by express, announcing the welcome news and insuring to him a prize which was then the object of his highest hope. we went together to his father, who was as much delighted as his son, and promised to supply money to any amount which might be wanted in completing the triumph. we soon found, however, that money was the last thing needed. after his first election for oxford, peel went again to ireland, and when there he had a political quarrel with the famous mr. o'connell, which ended in a challenge. but as mr. o'connell was already bound to keep the peace in ireland, it was settled that the hostile party should meet in france. peel got immediately into a small vessel and sailed for the continent. he had a narrow escape of being lost in the channel, having been exposed in a small and ill-appointed ship to a severe gale of wind. mr. o'connell, in the mean time, was again interrupted by the interference of the police, and prevented following to france. he was bound over to keep the peace for one year against all his majesty's subjects every where. so that, after waiting ten or twelve days in no very pleasing suspense, peel and his friend, colonel browne, came to drayton, and the affair was forgotten. while peel was also in ireland, we received many visits at drayton from the somewhat notorious mr. owen, of lanark. sir robert had brought a bill into parliament for shortening the hours of labor in the cotton factories. (this was the first legislative interference between masters and their workmen, which has since led to so many long debates). mr. owen, expressing great anxiety for the further progress of this measure, came frequently to drayton, and remained there many days. peel, hearing of the circumstance, wrote to his father, saying that he had cause to believe that mr. owen had strange opinions concerning religion, and was not an eligible companion for sir robert's children. the baronet hereupon asked owen to tell him truly if he were a christian. the answer which he received induced him to point out to mr. owen that his services could be no longer useful in furthering the parliamentary object, and that he would not detain him any longer at drayton. a second letter came from peel, stating that he had been told that owen's great object, like voltaire's, was to overturn the christian religion, to which he pretended to ascribe the unhappiness of mankind; that he (peel) humbly, but earnestly pressed upon his father, that by giving so much countenance to such a man, he might be assisting in the unhallowed scheme, and fostering infidelity. owen, however, was gone, and no more thought about him for some time. but, a few days afterward, just as we were sitting down to dinner, a carriage was seen approaching, and in it the well-known face of the pseudo-philosopher. sir robert, however, coinciding in opinion entirely with his son, from whom he had received a third remonstrance, rose from table, desired the servant to keep mr. owen's carriage at the door, met his visitor in the drawing-room, and expressing sorrow that drayton house was full of company, declined the honor of receiving mr. owen. the renovator of human happiness was obliged to depart _impransus_ and little pleased. we saw no more of him. the marriage settlement. "now, barbara, i have done my duty by you as far as lies in my power; your poor uncle's money is firmly settled on yourself as he wished, mind you never act dishonestly by him either, child." "dishonestly! father." "dishonestly, bab; it is an ugly word, but you must look it full in the face like many other disagreeable things. now understand me; i do not like mercenary marriages, mixing up money concerns with the most important event in a woman's life--but still she must know her own position, and then she can act for herself afterward. my maxim has been, share and share alike in matrimony; your dear mother and i did: we had one purse, one heart, and i've been a prosperous man through life; therefore i give you your share out and out. you and chepstowe can make ducks and drakes of it if you like, or it may go into your business and help you on; he'll make a spoon or spoil a horn, will paul." "oh, father." "no chance of his making a spoon you think, or of his spoiling a horn either;" and the old man chuckled over his first pun. "well, any how, i see that your money may be of great service to him, if he looks sharp, so there it is. i see, too, that he can not just now withdraw sufficient capital from the concern to make a settlement on you without cramping himself, and as you are both willing to chance it, i'm agreeable. but your uncle thought otherwise; his money was left to you and your heirs--your heirs, remember, bab. if you have children you only hold it in trust for them; and, mark my words, you have no right to give up that property under any circumstances, i don't care what they are. you can have no right to rob your heirs." "i see it, father, and i'm sure paul will also." "i'm not so sure of that, girl; men are apt to see things oddly when they're in a pinch, or when they're going on well, and want a little just to grease their wheels. the interest on your uncle's legacy brings you barely two hundred a year. now, if things go on well, chepstowe may fancy he could double it for you, or if he meets with misfortunes he'll be sure to think it would just set him all right again. lord eldon said every woman was kicked or kissed out of her settlement; now promise me you'll never give up yours." "i never will." "that's right, my girl; i think i may trust you; you've the same quiet way your mother had. but it will be a hard case for you to say no to your husband, barbara; for, dearly as you may love him now, he will be dearer still to you by-and-by, when time has hallowed the tie between you, and you are used to each other's ways. then, barbara, it will go hard with you to refuse him any thing; but for your children's sake, if you are blessed with any, it will be your bounden duty not to go against your uncle's will." barbara renewed her promise, and a few days saw her the happy, trusting, hoping wife of paul chepstowe. months verged into years, and her hopes had become certainties; the timid girl who clung to her father's threshold, even when leaving it for her new home, and with him who was more to her than all the world beside, was now a fair matron, serene in the assured dignity of her position, calm in her husband's love. paul and barbara were very happy, and the world had gone well with them. their own wants and wishes were moderate, and far within their means; their infant family throve, and the business prospered with a steady increase which promised to be permanent. what more could they desire? alas! old mr. cox's fears had been prophetic; paul had extended his concern by the assistance of barbara's dowry, and now thought he could speculate most advantageously on her uncle's legacy were it at his disposal. "god knows, my love!" he said, "i only wish to make what i can for our children; i am truly happy in our present circumstances; but with an increasing family it is incumbent on us to look about us, and i see a very good opening. i could lay out that property of yours." "_ours_, dear paul!" "no, barbara; if it were mine i should not have hesitated, i can assure you; the money is yours, and yours only; i have nothing to do with it: but, as i was saying, you may double that money if you like." "of course i should, but it gives us a very good interest now--two hundred a year." "pshaw! what is that? to hear you talk, it might be thousands instead of a trumpery couple of hundreds." "well, but paul, as we live, that income nearly maintains us; and--" "i shall always be able to maintain my wife and children, if any." "i pray you may, dear; but certainly this money has so far assisted you, as you have expended comparatively little on us." "i am quite aware of the assistance _your_ fortune has been to me, mrs. chepstowe." "paul!" "but with all due deference to your father's, your uncle's, and your own united wisdom, i can not help feeling that it is a painful thing to be trammeled in my endeavors to assist my children; i am in an inferior position." "my dear love, how can you say such cruel things?" "why do you bring them home to me, barbara? put yourself in my place. i can at this moment double your pittance; but you, my wife, are afraid to trust me with your property; you have no confidence in my judgment, and our children are the sufferers: i repeat it, this is galling." "indeed, paul, you wrong me, and my father also. we freely gave up to your control my share in his property; have we ever sought to advise you even with respect to that? but my uncle wished his legacy to be settled on me with a reversion to the children, and i can not think that we have a right to risk it. the best intentions can not justify us, for the money is not entirely ours. suppose, love, this proposed investment should not answer." "nonsense, barbara, i tell you it can not fail; the concern is as good as the bank, and the returns will be enormous; if you doubt my word, see jackson, he will satisfy your scruples; but once you placed entire faith in me." "and do now, dear paul; but before my marriage i promised dear father i would preserve this property for my children, according to the deed of settlement. now do not look so angrily at me; i repeated this promise on his death-bed, for he foresaw this trial, he knew what pain i should suffer; but a promise is a sacred thing. paul, that money can not, must not be touched." "very well, mrs. chepstowe; you are losing a noble opportunity, but of course you know best: i am only sorry i can not get rid of the cursed affair altogether. what good will it ever do the children? however, i'll never presume to advise respecting your fortune again, madam." paul flounced out of the room and banged the doors matrimonially, each clap having an oath in it; while barbara, after a hearty good cry, hid, as all women learn to do, an aching heart under a smiling countenance. this was their first difference; that it should be on money matters, and her money too, made it more bitter to her; and she often felt inclined to follow her husband, cancel the deed, and allow him to act as he wished. his mortification was so great, yet so natural. could he really think she distrusted him? was he not her husband? was she acting rightly? oh, no, no! but she remembered her father's words, her own promises, and her doubts were removed: her duty was to retain her rights; her children's claims were no less sacred than their father's. she might not risk their property; she could not honestly frustrate her uncle's intentions. we will now follow chepstowe, who was for once thoroughly angry with his wife, himself, and all the world. he was unfeignedly vexed, as a man of business and a bit of a speculator, at losing so fine an opportunity of turning a penny. he grieved as a father, because he could not benefit his family to the extent of his wishes; he was in a terrible passion as a married man unused to contradiction, because his wife had dared not only to think for herself but to have a will of her own. thus, mr. paul chepstowe, though generally an amiable, clear-headed, flourishing young man, was at this moment disposed to think himself particularly ill-used by his wife and her family, and was more determined than ever to get rich in order to spite them all. barbara had dared even to doubt the eligibility of this investment; therefore, her worthy husband decided on placing every farthing he could raise in it. "he would not be led by the nose--not he; he was his own master." oh, ye lords of creation, which of ye can master yourself? which of ye is not hag-ridden by some pet passion? for one wife that leads you, you are driven by fifty hobbies--by your own weaknesses, by friends, by the world, by fear of petticoat government. to return to our "muttons." paul, though any thing but a black sheep, was now in a humor to stop at no folly in order to assert his independence. besides, he had declared his intention of taking up a certain number of shares in the new speculation he had wished to patronize, and consequently chose to fancy he could not withdraw from that determination; he therefore allowed his broker to proceed, trusting that barbara would give way so as to enable him to pay up the first call. his pride, however, was too great to allow him again to address her openly on the subject, and he contented himself with a dignified ill-humor and certain obscure allusions, to which his wife, having the option of not understanding them, chose to turn a deaf ear. she shed many bitter tears, though, over his unkindness; but painful as her position was, his was still worse. pay-day was coming on, and he must either sell the shares, now rapidly rising, or meet the call. the former would have been the wiser plan, but pride and an over sanguine temperament led him to another course. he secretly raised money in different quarters, and retained the shares. this hampered him, for he had heavy interest to pay, and his concern, though flourishing, could not sustain this drain. money that should have been expended in his business went to this extraneous speculation, where it lay idle. the shares fell; he had buried his talent. this would not have been so bad, as this unfortunate investment was one which must in the long run prove profitable, to those who had sufficient capital to "bide their time;" but the fact that he was so large a shareholder became known, and was injurious to him; persons chose to fancy he had "too many irons in the fire." there was a talk that he had required "accommodation," his credit began to totter. even now he might have recovered himself had he possessed sufficient nerve to go boldly on, like a skater on breaking ice, but no--he hesitated--he tottered--he failed. of all those whom this failure surprised, barbara, as often happens, was most unprepared for it. her husband had struggled on from day to day, now wildly hoping that all would yet be right; now desponding, but determined to avert the knowledge of impending evil as long as possible from those dear ones at home. besides, a really conscientious woman's eye, even though a wife's, is often to be feared in these cases. paul yet thought the blow might be escaped; but he knew that with this prospect before them, barbara would insist on instant retrenchment, and his pride could not brook such an open confession while yet a hope remained. so all was unchanged at home, all save its master; and, though the wife was doomed to seem unconscious of her husband's fitful temper, her heart bled at each harsh word to herself or the little prattlers who now fled from "papa." she had dreaded the loss of her earthly treasure, the riches of his love; to her the truth was a relief, even though embittered by fresh differences or a revival of old complaints. things were now desperate with chepstowe, but when will not a drowning man cling to a straw? he persuaded himself that barbara might, at the sacrifice of her property, retrieve all, and bent his proud spirit to speak to her. even now he could not bring himself to own the extent of his involvements, but spoke of some mere temporary embarrassment. "you see, barbara, my capital is just now locked up; i can not meet these bills of roby's, and there'll be the devil to pay; he's a crusty chap, one of the old school, and it's no good asking him for time. now your uncle's legacy would set all straight." "could we offer it as security?" "security be hanged! no one would advance me more than three thousand on it; i want five. i wish you to sell out at once, barbara; it will save us from beggary and disgrace." "disgrace, paul! disgrace! oh, tell me, you can not fear disgrace?" "is not ruin disgrace? i tell you that hampden's failure has cramped me confoundedly; i can not honor my acceptances; i must declare myself insolvent unless you help me." "but still, love, as your misfortunes are caused by another's failure, you can not be disgraced; besides, surely with a business like yours the banks would accommodate you." "you know nothing about the matter; it is no good talking of business to a woman, you can not understand it. if you don't choose to assist your husband in his greatest need, say so at once; but don't fancy you are to preach to me or give me your advice; i did not come to you for dictation." "indeed, dear, i would not presume to advise or dictate; you mistake me cruelly. i only wished for the children's sake to see what our situation really is. paul, remember this may be all the support left to them; they are young, they must be educated, brought forward; is it right to deprive them of their property?" "pish! i can double it for them to-morrow. by heaven, barbara, i will not live to see my name in the gazette, to be disgraced. choose between your husband and your money." "were that indeed the choice, you know in your own heart that i should not hesitate one moment. no, the choice is between my husband and our children. i will not believe that even insolvency can disgrace you." "not when my debts are unpaid, and my wife keeps her fortune?" "a fortune you have often laughed at as a pittance. it can afford us no luxuries; your creditors have no claim on it; it had no interest with your business, it never influenced your credit; had you not married me your position would have been the same. were i--could i be induced to break my trust and sacrifice my children's interest, this money should go among all your creditors; i never would part with it for the benefit of one alone." "so you would deprive me of character and credit, submit me to the indignities of the insolvent court, blast my fame and future prospects, rather than part with a paltry sum? and yet you can talk of duty. you will remain quiet at home, while i am exposed to all the curses of poverty." "do you think that these ills can fall on you alone, paul? am i not your wife? if disgrace be your portion, must not i share it? yes, and as freely as i have shared your better days' love, for the disgrace will be unmerited. do i not know that my decision will be canvassed by all, blamed by the many?" "then why expose yourself to this blame?" "for our children's sakes. you did not require this money when it was settled on me and them; they do now, and you may." "i!--i will never degrade myself by a farthing of it; so do not make me your excuse for your selfishness. you have chosen, you say; take care how it may end." a bankruptcy ensued, and paul survived it. people who threaten not to live, seldom keep that promise. at the worst he could only be charged with over-speculation. his dividend was excellent, his embarrassments clearly attributable to a year of panic, and the failure of some other houses doing business with him. barbara had truly said, there might be imprudence but there was no disgrace attached to his name, and he obtained a certificate of the first class. what was the poor wife's suffering meanwhile? as she expected, many and harsh comments were passed on her conduct; her summer friends looked coldly on her; her servants were disposed to be insolent. paul too, who, in spite of all evidence, persisted in asserting and believing that barbara's property would have saved him, was almost savage in his ill-temper. ostentatiously economical, but requiring the same comforts and attendance he had enjoyed with more than double their present income, nothing but devoted affection and a reliance in his innate good qualities could have preserved his wife's last comfort, a reliance on him, a respect for her husband. the wife who ceases to look up is indeed alone and miserable. in the pettish recklessness of his grief, he had chosen to make a parade of giving up every thing; not an indignity was spared his family; and many comforts they might have honorably retained, were cast from them, that barbara might more fully feel the enormity of her fault. the children could but half understand the change; and their innocent murmurs, their cowed looks, their gentle pity for "poor mamma" were so many daggers to her heart. paul chepstowe's credit was so good that he might have recommenced life; he was offered a capital on the security of his wife's fortune; but he scorned a boon emanating from that source, and preferred taking a subordinate clerkship in a mercantile house. some people have a pleasure in "cutting off the nose to spite the face," and our hero was of that class. like mawworm, "he liked to be despised;" for some time it literally did his heart good to come home and say he had been treated with supercilious pride and incivility, and thus maunder over his troubles. he was almost sorry to find that home still neat and comfortable, to see his children flourishing in mind and body, to feel that some of their old connections yet considered his wife their equal. time and the hour, however, will wear through the longest day; and paul gradually accustomed himself to his happiness, and to look upon himself once more as a respectable member of society. the illusion, however, was dispelled, and this time it was barbara who meditated sacrifices and talked of "disgrace." their eldest child, a girl, was now fifteen years old, when, to the father's horror, he discovered a plan for sending her as governess pupil to a school. he disapproved, remonstrated, scolded, talked of "candle-end savings," and "ridiculous economy with their income," but to no purpose. once he had given up the reins from pique, and now his wife chose to drive, and would not relinquish them; so annie did as her mother had decided, and was placed in a way of earning her own livelihood. she was a clever, ardent girl, and was soon enabled to add her mite to the general hoard, as a younger sister was received in return for her services. their only boy remained longer on their hands; he was a persevering, keen lad, with a decided turn for mechanics, and was apprenticed at his own request to an engineer. his more ambitious father wished first to give him the benefit of a college education, to send him to mathematical cambridge; but mrs. chepstowe strenuously opposed this plan. "we can not afford to give harry a suitable income," she said, "and he shall never with my consent be exposed to the miseries and temptations of a dubious position. no, harry has his way to fight in the world; he can not begin too soon; we have no right to mislead him as to his situation, or to fetter his right arm with the trammels of gentility." "and so you have treasured up your uncle's money just to make your son a mechanic, and his sisters governesses! i expected that, at all events, our children would have benefited by that miserable bequest." "they have been educated, paul, until they were of an age to assist themselves; we have spared no expense on them. we have now every right to use the interest at least of their money, and there is a purpose to which we would willingly appropriate it; indolence or luxuries would now disgrace us." paul had a glimmering of what his wife meant; he could not blame her purpose, though he chose to fancy it overstrained and romantic. mingled feelings kept him silent, however, and things went on as usual. it was a sparkling winter's day in the christmas week; the girls were home from their respective situations; harry had come over from a neighboring railway town, where he had obtained permanent and lucrative employment; and the chepstowes were again united. the clear windows glistened in the sun; the holly sprays poked up their pert berries and bright leaves from all parts of the room, suggestive of the misletoe's delicate beads with its cherished privileges; the mahogany shone in the firelight; the arm-chairs yawned invitingly; the very cat licked its paws with an air; every thing had a _gala_ look, a smile of innate happiness; not a stick in that snug parlor but would have put to flight a legion of blue devils. paul, notwithstanding his children's degradation, and his own misery, was cosily concocting a glorious bowl of punch; while barbara, though years had left silvery traces of their passage on her silken curls, had all the matured charms of fat, fair, and forty. and well might both parents feel proud and happy as they gazed on their blooming, joyous children. the girls were not "poor governesses, interesting victims," but conscientious, well-informed women, who had entered on high duties, and were prepared to fulfill them to the best of their endeavors, and were in the meantime enjoying _home_ with twofold pleasure; and harry, no yellow-kid dawdle waiting for his friends' exertions, had already made a way for himself in the stirring world. but this was not all; the aim of barbara's late years was achieved--paul's debts were entirely paid off; by her own long-continued and little suspected savings, she had early laid by a small sum for that purpose; as each child was able to understand her, the story of her trials was related, and each was devoted to the good work. their economy was added to hers; and gradually the whole interest of her property was reserved also. money makes money; it accumulates like a snow-ball; interest and compound interest heaped on each other soon form a round sum. a happier family ne'er sat down to a christmas table than the chepstowes. they had self-respect and contentment to bless them, what cared they for the world? but little; and therefore, as is usual in these cases, the world chose to think a great deal of them. the only piece of plate on their modest sideboard was a handsome salver, a present from their creditors to p. chepstowe, esq., as a mark of respect, of which his wife and daughters were duly proud, and by this salver lay certain visiting tickets, dearer still to harry. his employer's wife, a rich and high-born woman, visited his family on equal terms; two of his friends were always hovering round annie and her sister barbara; he had a shrewd suspicion that it was not for his sake only, that john gray and tom frankland came so frequently to the cottage, no, nor even for the walk, though both declared it was the pleasantest in england. paul was doomed to be a disappointed man, and to be happy withal. when his first emotions were over he hoped his daughters would now remain at home with him. but lo, annie was to be married as soon as john was comfortably settled, and wished in the meanwhile to continue her exertions, for they now meant to lay by on harry's account, that he might have a little capital to begin business upon without encroaching on their father's income. and thus they toiled on and each was provided for; while paul at length, to please his admirable wife, gave up his post, and lives comfortably on the fruits of her settlement. an apology for burns. burns, to be justly judged, must be estimated by a reference to the times in which he lived. if james i. and sir matthew hale believed in witchcraft, and were agents in the burning of helpless, ignorant, and decrepit old women, was it not the cruel superstition and vice of their time? if calvin condemned servetus to the stake--aside from any personal motive, or from his own views of christianity, "without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace"--was not the destruction of heretics equally the vice of _his_ time? if the immortal bacon--the "wisest, greatest, _meanest_ (?) of mankind"--disgraced the judgment-seat, and stained his own great name--not, we believe, to pervert, but to expedite justice--was not bribery, which stained the ermine on infinitely _meaner_ shoulders, also the vice of _his_ time? if the great political martyrs, lord william russell and algernon sydney, accepted bribes from louis xiv.--as shown by mr. macaulay, on the authority of barillon, which authority we ourselves have consulted with astonishment and regret--was such corruption not also the vice of _their_ time, in which nearly the whole house of commons participated? if the pious addison was addicted to wine, and, as that vain and courtly sycophant, horace walpole, sneeringly asserted, "died drunk," was it not a propensity and a morbid craving, engendered by a diseased physical organization, and was not wine-bibbing pre-eminently the vice of _his_ day? in those days, when pope or swift penned maudlin notes to arbuthnot, night's candles being burnt out, and jocund day standing tiptoe on the misty mountain-top, and in drunken hilarity went reeling to bed, were not such orgies, in their day, almost without shame and without reproach? when the excellent and venerable lord-president forbes, as shown in mr. burton's valuable memoir, was kept in a state of feverish crapulence for a whole month at a time, was not dissipation emphatically the raging and besetting sin of _his_ day? but not to multiply more modern instances--and many such might be adduced--we would pause, to ask the charitable reader: is robert burns to be held up to the never-dying desecration of posterity, as a man steeped in evil and impiety, because, with fiery ardor, he rushed into the polemic war then raging in ayrshire, lashed with unsparing and terrible sarcasm and wit the vices and superstitions of his age, and, unfortunately, fell a victim to the social habits of the day, before his better judgment and nobler principles had gained the moral ascendency over the burning passions of his youth? following out this view of the infirmities of men, we are prepared to look with sad complacency on the rudeness and superstition of johnson--the madness and misery of poor chatterton, who "perished in his pride"--the gourmandizing of pope--the sublime wailings of disappointed ambition in young--the baffled rage and insanity of swift--the misery of the exquisite elia--the hallucinations of the inspired coleridge, whose whole life was a distempered dream--the bright morning dream of keats--the cruel disappointment and heart-breaking of poor haydon, when he stood in solitude among his great pictures, and saw the whole world of london flocking to gaze on general tom thumb!--the solitary pride of wordsworth--the egotism of the ettrick shepherd--the intolerance of scott--the mirth and melancholy of hood, who has given to the world the most powerful and pathetic song that has sounded from the poetic lyre in our day, illustrating the sad truth, that "_laughter_ to _sadness_ is so near allied, but thin partitions do their bounds divide"-- in short, all the long and sorrowful catalogue of "mighty poets in their misery dead"--that terrible death-roll, inscribed with "fears of the brave and follies of the wise," and written within and without with mourning, and lamentation, and woe. and so of robert burns. from his earliest years, we learn, he was subject to palpitation and nervous excitement. the victim of hypochondria, with fitful glimpses or sunbursts, lighting up the waste of life with ineffable beauty and love, to escape from its terrible shadow, which haunted him through life, he, unfortunately, was driven to take refuge from himself in the excitement and vivacity of the social board, as johnson fled from himself to the tavern dinner, to revel in his astonishing powers of conversation, while burke and beauclerk quailed under the eye of the critical dictator. but robert burns was no drunkard, in the ordinary sense of drunkenness. from his physical organization, he paid dearly for every such, even the smallest deviation. it is the sentiment of social enjoyment, not the sensuality of the sot or drunkard, that inspires his convivial songs, however much they may be misunderstood; and it can not be denied that he purified, with exquisite genius and taste, the lyrical literature of his country, which, in allan ramsay's time, as shown by the "tea-table miscellany," was polluted by false and filthy wit and obscenity. we may have written strongly, but we wish the reader to understand that we are writing from the best authority, and in the spirit of truth and sincerity. we wish to record our emphatic protest against the injustice hitherto done to the memory and name of burns. not only was he left to die in poverty and neglect, but he was singled out as a stricken deer from the herd, the galling arrows of the hunters entering into his soul, and, we fear, yet vibrating in the hearts of his near and dear friends. a tale of shipwreck. it was precisely on the th of november, , that a terrible gale from the northwest set in. it rose very early in the morning, and blew hurricanes all day. there was a hasty and precipitate running and crowding of fishing-boats, colliers, and other vessels into the friendly ports of scarborough and filey, for these once past, excepting burlington, which is far less sheltered, there is no place of refuge nearer than the humber to flee to. as the morning broke dark and scowling, the inhabitants looking from their windows saw whole fleets of vessels thronging into the port. men were seen on the heights, where the wind scarcely allowed them either to stand or breathe, looking out to descry what vessels were in the offing, and whether any danger were threatening any of them. every one felt a sad certainty, that on that bleak coast, where this wind, when in its strength, drives many a luckless ship with uncontrollable force against the steep and inaccessible cliffs, such a day could not go over without fearful damage. before noon the sea was running mountains high, and the waves were dashing in snowy foam aloft against the cliffs, and with the howling winds filling the air with an awful roar. many a vessel came laboring and straining toward the ports, yet by all the exertions of the crews, kept with difficulty from driving upon the inevitable destruction of the rocky coast. among the fishing-vessels which made the bay of filey in safety, was one belonging to a young man of the name of george jolliffe. by his own active labors, added to a little property left him by his father, also a fisherman, george jolliffe had made himself the master of a five-man-boat, and carried on a successful trade. but the boat was his all, and he sometimes thought, with a deep melancholy, as he sate for hours through long nights looking into the sea, where his nets were cast--what would become of him if any thing happened to the "fair susan?" the boat was christened after his wife; and when george jolliffe pictured to himself his handsome and good susan, in their neat little home, in one of the narrow yet clean little lanes of scarborough, with his two children, he was ready to go wild with an inward terror at the idea of a mishap to his vessel. but these were but passing thoughts, and only made him the more active and vigilant. he had been out some days at the doggerbank, fishing for cod, and had taken little, when the sky, as he read it, boded a coming storm. he immediately hauled his nets, trimmed his sails, and made for home with all his ability. it was not long before he saw his own belief shared by the rest of the fishermen who were out in that quarter; and from whom all sail was bent landward. before he caught sight of land, the wind had risen to a violent gale; and as he drew nearer the coast, he became quite aware that he should not be able to make his own port, and must use all energy to get into filey. in the afternoon of this th of november, he found himself, after stupendous labor, and no little anxiety, under shelter of the land, and came to anchor in a crowd of other strange vessels. wearied, drenched with wet, and exhausted by their arduous endeavors to make this port, as he and his four comrades ascended the steps to filey village, their attention was soon excited by the crowds of sailors and fishermen who were congregated at the foot of the signal-house, and with glasses and an eager murmur of talk were riveting their attention on something seaward. they turned, and saw at once the object of it. a fine merchant vessel, under bare poles, and apparently no longer obeying the helm, was laboring in the ocean, and driving, as it appeared, hopelessly toward that sheer stretch of sea-wall called the spectan cliff--against which so many noble ships had been pitched to destruction. "nothing can save her!" said several voices with an apparent calmness which would have struck a landsman as totally callous and cruel. already there might, however, be seen a movement in the crowd, which george jolliffe and his comrades knew from experience, meant that numbers were going off to assist, if possible, in saving the human life on board the vessel, which itself no power on earth could save. little hope, indeed, was there of salvation of life, for the cliff was miles in extent, and for the whole distance presented a perpendicular wall of two hundred feet in altitude, against which the sea was hurling its tremendous billows to a terrific height. but wearied as george jolliffe was, he instantly resolved to join in the endeavor to afford what help _was_ possible, or at least to give to the terrified people on board the doomed ship the satisfaction of perceiving that their more fortunate fellow-creatures on land were not indifferent to their misery. hurrying, therefore, into the ship public-house close at hand, he drank a pint of beer as he stood, took a couple of stout pieces of bread and cheese in his hand, and in the next moment was hauled up into a cart which was going off with a quantity of fishermen on the same errand. one only of his crew accompanied him, and that was his younger brother; the three hired men declared themselves half-dead with fatigue, and staid behind. the cart drove along at an almost furious rate, and there were numbers of others going the same road, with the same velocity; while they could see streams of young men on foot, running along the tops of the cliffs, taking the nearest course toward the scene of the expected catastrophe. long before george jolliffe and those with whom he went reached the point where they left their cart, and started forward bearing coils of rope, and even warm garments with them, they heard the firing of guns of distress from the jeopardized vessel. it would seem that up to a certain moment the people on board trusted to be able to bring the ship under shelter of the land, and then get an anchorage: but the dreadful reality of their situation had now evidently burst upon them; and the crowds hastening toward the cliff, hurried forward more anxiously as the successive boomings of these melancholy guns reached their ears. when jolliffe and his companions reached the crest of the cliff, and looked out on the sea, it was already drawing toward evening. the wind still blew furiously. the ocean was one chaos of tossing and rolling billows, and the thunder of their discharge on the face of the cliff, was awful. the first sight of the unhappy vessel made the spectator ejaculate "oh lord!" that was all that was uttered, and it spoke volumes. the throng stood staring intently down on the ship, amid the deafening thunder of the ocean, and the suffocating violence of the winds. on came the devoted vessel like a lamed thing, one of its masts already gone by the board, and but few people to be seen on the deck. these, however, raised their hands in most imploring attitude toward the people on the cliff, as if relying on them for that aid which they despaired to afford. as the helpless vessel came nearer the cliff, it encountered the refluent force of the waves that were sent with a stunning recoil from their terrible shock against the precipice. it staggered, stooped, and was turned about without power of self-guidance. one mountainous sea after another washed over her, and the few human beings disappeared with shrieks that pierced even through the turbulent dissonance of the tempest. the assembled crowd on the cliff shuddered with horror, and felt that all need of their presence was at an end. but they stood and stared, as with a fascinated intensity, on the vessel that now came nearer and nearer to its final catastrophe; when all at once there was discerned an old man, with bare head and white streaming hair, lashed to the main-mast. he stood with lifted hands and face gazing up to them as if clinging firmly to the hope of their saving him. a simultaneous agitation ran through the crowd. the ship was lifted high on the back of the billows, and then pitched down again within a short distance of the cliff. a few more seconds--another such a heave, and she must be dashed to pieces. at once flew out several coils of ropes, but the fury of the wind, and the depth to which they had to go defeated them. they were hurled against the crags, and came nowhere near the vessel. again were thrown out others, and among these one was seized by the old man. there was a loud shout at the sight; but the moment was too terrible to allow of much rational hope. the vessel was close upon the cliff--one more pitch, and she would perish. all eyes were strained to see when the old man had secured the rope round him. he was evidently laboring to do this before he loosed himself from the mast, lest he should be washed away by the next sea. but he appeared feeble and benumbed, and several voices exclaimed, "he will never do it!" a sea washed over him. as it went by they saw the old man still stand by the mast. he passed his arm over his face as if to clear his eyes from the water--and looked up. he still held convulsively by the rope which they had thrown; but it was evident he was too much exhausted to secure it round him. at that moment the huge vessel struck with a terrific shock against the solid wall, and staggering backward, became half buried in the boiling waters. again it was plunged forward with a frightful impetus, and the next instant the mast fell with a crash--and the whole great hull seemed to dissolve in the liquid chaos. in another moment the black stern of the ship was seen to heave from the waves, and then disappear, and anon spars and casks were seen churning in the snowy surf, and tossed as playthings by the riotous sea again and again to the annihilating wall. the next morning the wind had greatly abated; and, with the first peep of day, numbers of fishing-boats put out to see whether any thing of value which had floated from the wreck could be picked up. george jolliffe was among the earliest of these wreckers; but in his mind the face and form of that old man were vividly present. he had dreamed of them all night; and while the rest of his crew were all alert on the look-out for corks or other floating booty, he could not avoid casting a glance far and wide, to see if he could descry any thing of a floating mast. though the wind was intensely still, the sea still rose high, and it was dangerous to approach the cliff. the vessels around them were busily engaged in securing a number of articles that were floating; but george still kept a steady look-out for the mast: and he was now sure that he saw it at a considerable distance. they made all sail for it; and, sure enough it was there. they ran their vessel close alongside of it, and soon saw, not only a sling rope encircling its lower end, but a human arm clutching fast by it. jolliffe had the cobble soon adrift, and, with a couple of rowers, approached the floating timber. with much difficulty, from the uneasy state of the sea, he managed to secure a cord round the drowned man's wrist, and with an ax severed the rope which tied him to the mast. presently they actually had the old man in the boat, whom they last evening saw imploring their aid from the wreck. speedily they had him hoisted into the yawl; and when they got on board, and saw him lying at his length on deck, they were astonished at his size and the dignity of his look. he was not, as he seemed from the altitude of the cliff, a little man: he was upward of six feet in height, of a large and powerful build; and though of at least seventy years of age, there was a nobility of feature, and a mild intelligence of expression in him, which greatly struck them. "that," said george jolliffe, "is a gentleman every inch. there will be trouble about him somewhere." while saying this he observed that he had several jeweled rings on his fingers, which he carefully drew off; and said to his men, "you see how many there are:" and put them into his waistcoat-pocket. he then observed that he had a bag of stout leather, bound by a strong belt to his waist. this he untied, and found in it a large packet wrapped in oil-cloth, and sealed up. there was also a piece of paper closely and tightly folded together, which being with difficulty, from its soaked state, opened and spread out, was found to contain the address of a great mercantile house in hull. "these," said george jolliffe, "i shall myself deliver to the merchants." "but we claim our shares," said the men. "they are neither mine nor yours," said george; "but whatever benefit comes of doing a right thing, you shall partake of. beyond that, i will defend this property with my whole life and strength, if necessary. and now let us see what else there is to be got." the men, who looked sullen and dogged at first, on hearing this resumed their cheerfulness, and were soon in full pursuit of other floating articles. they lashed the mast to the stern of their vessel, and in the course of a few hours were in possession of considerable booty. jolliffe told them that, to prevent any interference of the police or the harbor-master with the effects of the old gentleman, he would put out near filey, and they must steer the yawl home. he secured the bag under his tarpaulin coat, and was soon set ashore at a part of the bay where he could make his way, without much observation, to the hull road. he met the coach most luckily, and that night was in hull. the next morning he went to the counting-house of the merchants indicated by the paper in the drowned gentleman's bag, and informed the principals what had happened. when he described the person of the deceased, and produced the bag, with the blotted and curdled piece of paper, the partners seemed struck with a speechless terror. one looked at the other, and at length one said, "gracious god! too sure it is mr. anckersvoerd!" they unfolded the packet, conferred apart for some time with each other, and then, coming to mr. jolliffe, said, "you have behaved in a most honorable manner: we can assure you that you will not fail of your reward. these papers are of the utmost importance. we tell you candidly they involve the safety of a very large amount of property. but this is a very sorrowful business. one of us must accompany you, to see respect paid to the remains of our old and valued friend and partner. in the mean time here are ten pounds for yourself, and the same sum to distribute among your men." george jolliffe begged the merchants to favor him with a written acknowledgment of the receipt of the packet and of the rings which he now delivered to them. this he obtained; and we may shorten our recital by here simply saying, that the remains of the drowned merchant were buried, with all respectful observance, in the old church-yard at scarborough: a great number of gentlemen from hull attending the funeral. that winter was a peculiarly severe and stormy one. ere it was over george jolliffe himself had been wrecked--his "fair susan" was caught in a thick fog on the filey rocks, his brother drowned, and only himself and another man picked up and saved. his wife, from the shock of her nerves, had suffered a premature confinement, and, probably owing to the grief and anxiety attending this great misfortune, had long failed to rally again. george jolliffe was now a pennyless man, serving on board another vessel, and enduring the rigors of the weather and the sea for a mere weekly pittance. it was in the april of the coming year that one sunday his wife had, for the first time, taken his arm for a stroll to the castle hill. they were returning to their little house, susan pale and exhausted by her exertions, with the two children trudging quietly behind, when, as they drew near their door, they saw a strange gentleman, tall, young, and good-looking, speaking with mrs. bright, their next neighbor. "here he is," said mrs. bright; "that is mr. jolliffe." the stranger lifted his hat very politely, made a very low bow to mrs. jolliffe, and then, looking a good deal moved, said to george, "my name is anckersvoerd." "oh," said george; all that rushing into his mind which the stranger immediately proceeded to inform him. "i am," said he, "the son of the gentleman who, in the wreck of the 'danemand,' experienced your kind care. i would have a little conversation with you." george stood for a moment as if confused, but mrs. jolliffe hastened to open the door with the key, and bade mr. anckersvoerd walk in. "you are an englishman?" said george, as the stranger seated himself. "no," he replied, "i am a dane, but i was educated to business in hull, and i look on england as my second country. such men as you, mr. jolliffe, would make one proud of such a country, if we had no other interest in it." george jolliffe blushed, mrs. jolliffe's eyes sparkled with a pleasure and pride that she took no pains to conceal. a little conversation made the stranger aware that misfortune had fallen heavily on this little family since george had so nobly secured the property and remains of his father. "providence," said mr. anckersvoerd, "evidently means to give full effect to our gratitude. i was fast bound by the winter at archangel, when the sad news reached me, or i should have been here sooner. but here i am, and in the name of my mother, my sister, my wife, my brother, and our partners, i beg, mr. jolliffe, to present you with the best fishing-smack that can be found for sale in the port of hull--and if no first-rate one can be found, one shall be built. also, i ask your acceptance of one hundred pounds, as a little fund against those disasters that so often beset your hazardous profession. should such a day come--let not this testimony of our regard and gratitude make you think we have done all that we would. send at once to us, and you shall not send in vain." we need not describe the happiness which mr. anckersvoerd left in that little house that day, nor that which he carried away in his own heart. how rapidly mrs. jolliffe recovered her health and strength, and how proudly george jolliffe saw a new "fair susan" spread her sails very soon for the deep-sea fishing. we had the curiosity the other day to inquire whether a "fair susan" was still among the fishing vessels of the port of scarborough. we could not discover her, but learnt that a captain jolliffe, a fine, hearty fellow of fifty, is master of that noble merchantman, the "holger-danske," which makes its regular voyages between copenhagen and hull, and that his son, a promising young man, is an esteemed and confidential clerk in the house of davidsen, anckersvoerd, and co., to whom the "holger-danske" belongs. that was enough; we understood it all, and felt a genuine satisfaction in the thought that the seed of a worthy action had fallen into worthy soil, to the benefit and contentment of all parties. may the "holger-danske" sail ever! the gipsy in the thorn-bush. from the german. a rich man once hired a boy, who served him honestly and industriously; he was the first to rise in the morning, the last to go to bed at night, and never hesitated to perform even the disagreeable duties which fell to the share of others, but which they refused to do. his looks were always cheerful and contented, and he never was heard to murmur. when he had served a year, his master thought to himself, "if i pay him his wages he may go away; it will therefore be most prudent not to do so; i shall thereby save something, and he will stay." and so the boy worked another year, and, though no wages came, he said nothing and looked happy. at last the end of the third year arrived; the master felt in his pockets, but took nothing out; then the boy spoke. "master," said he, "i have served you honorably for three years; give me, i pray you, what i have justly earned. i wish to leave you, and see more of the world." "my dear fellow," replied the niggard, "you have indeed served me faithfully, and you shall be generously rewarded." so saying he searched his pockets again, and this time counted out three crown pieces. "a crown," he said, "for each year; it is liberal; few masters would pay such wages." the boy, who knew very little about money, was quite satisfied; he received his scanty pay, and determined now that his pockets were full, he would play. he set off therefore to see the world; up-hill and down-hill, he ran and sang to his heart's content; but presently, as he leaped a bush, a little man suddenly appeared before him. "whither away, brother merry?" asked the stranger, "your cares seem but a light burden to you!" "why should i be sad?" answered the boy, "when i have three years' wages in my pocket." "and how much is that?" inquired the little man. "three good crowns." "listen to me," said the dwarf; "i am a poor, needy creature, unable to work; give me the money; you are young, and can earn your bread." the boy's heart was good; it felt pity for the miserable little man; so he handed him his hard-gotten wages. "take them," said he, "i can work for more." "you have a kind heart," said the mannikin, "i will reward you by granting you three wishes--one for each crown. what will you ask?" "ha! ha!" laughed the boy; "you are one of those then who can whistle blue! well, i will wish; first, for a bird-gun, which shall hit whatever i aim at; secondly, for a fiddle, to the sound of which every one who hears me play on it must dance; and, thirdly, that when i ask any one for any thing, he shall not dare to refuse me." "you shall have all," cried the little man, as he took out of the bush, where they seemed to have been placed in readiness, a fine fiddle, and bird-gun--"no man in the world shall refuse what you ask!" "my heart, what more can you desire!" said the boy to himself, as he joyfully went on his way. he soon overtook a wicked-looking man, who stood listening to the song of a bird, which was perched on the very summit of a high tree. "wonderful!" cried the man, "such a small animal with such a great voice! i wish i could get near enough to put some salt on its tail." the boy aimed at the bird with his magic gun, and it fell into a thorn-bush. "there, rogue," said he to the other, "you may have it if you fetch it." "master," replied the man, "leave out the 'rogue' when you call the dog; but i will pick up the bird." in his effort to get it out, he had worked himself into the middle of the prickly bush, when the boy was seized with a longing to try his fiddle. but, scarcely had he begun to scrape, when the man began also to dance, and the faster the music, the faster and higher he jumped, though the thorns tore his dirty coat, combed out his dusty hair, and pricked and scratched his whole body. "leave off, leave off," cried he, "i do not wish to dance!" but he cried in vain. "you have flayed many a man, i dare say," answered the boy, "now we will see what the thorn-bush can do for you!" and louder and faster sounded the fiddle, and faster and higher danced the gipsy, all the thorns were hung with the tatters of his coat. "mercy, mercy," he screamed at last; "you shall have whatever i can give you, only cease to play. here, here, take this purse of gold!" "since you are so ready to pay," said the boy, "i will cease my music; but i must say that you dance well to it--it is a treat to see you." with that he took the purse and departed. the thievish-looking man watched him until he was quite out of sight; then he bawled insultingly after him: "you miserable scraper! you ale-house fiddler! wait till i find you alone. i will chase you until you have not a sole to your shoe; you ragamuffin! stick a farthing in your mouth, and say you are worth six dollars!" and thus he abused him as long as he could find words. when he had sufficiently relieved himself, he ran to the judge of the next town: "honorable judge," cried he, "i beg your mercy; see how i have been ill-treated and robbed on the open highway; a stone might pity me; my clothes are torn, my body is pricked and scratched, and a purse of gold has been taken from me--a purse of ducats, each one brighter than the other. i entreat you, good judge, let the man be caught and sent to prison!" "was it a soldier," asked the judge, "who has so wounded you with his sabre?" "no, indeed," replied the gipsy, "it was one who had no sabre, but a gun hanging at his back, and a fiddle from his neck; the rascal can easily be recognized." the judge sent some people after the boy; they soon overtook him, for he had gone on very slowly; they searched him, and found in his pocket the purse of gold. he was brought to trial, and with a loud voice declared: "i did not beat the fellow, nor steal his gold; he gave it to me of his own free will, that i might cease my music, which he did not like." "he can lie as fast as i can catch flies off the wall," cried his accuser. and the judge said, "yours is a bad defense;" and he sentenced him to be hanged as a highway robber. as they led him away to the gallows, the gipsy bawled after him, triumphantly, "you worthless fellow! you catgut-scraper! now you will receive your reward!" the boy quietly ascended the ladder with the hangman, but, on the last step, he turned and begged the judge to grant him one favor before he died. "i will grant it," replied the judge, "on condition that you do not ask for your life." "i ask not for my life," said the boy, "but to be permitted to play once more on my beloved fiddle!" "do not let him, do not let him," screamed the ragged rogue. "why should i not allow him to enjoy this one short pleasure?" said the judge; "i have granted it already; he shall have his wish!" "tie me fast! bind me down!" cried the gipsy. the fiddle-player began; at the first stroke every one became unsteady--judge, clerks, and bystanders tottered--and the rope fell from the hands of those who were tying down the tatterdemalion; at the second, they all raised one leg, and the hangman let go his prisoner, and made ready for the dance; at the third, all sprang into the air; the judge and the accuser were foremost, and leaped the highest. every one danced, old and young, fat and lean; even the dogs got on their hind-legs, and hopped! faster and faster went the fiddle, and higher and higher jumped the dancers, until at last, in their fury, they kicked and screamed most dismally. then the judge gasped: "cease playing, and i will give you your life!" the fiddler stopped, descended the ladder, and approached the wicked-looking gipsy, who lay panting for breath. "rogue," said he, "confess where you got that purse of ducats, or i will play again!" "i stole it, i stole it!" he cried, pitifully. the judge, hearing this, condemned him, as a thief and false accuser, to be hanged, instead of the boy, who journeyed on to see the world. visit to a colliery. abercarn colliery is about ten miles from newport, england. a very polite invitation had been sent from the proprietors or manager of this colliery to dr. pennington and myself to visit their pits, and instructions had been given to the agent at newport to provide us a conveyance, and to offer us every attention. accordingly, on friday morning, a handsome carriage and pair were at our door, and a very gentlemanly young man presented himself as our guide. it was a lovely day, and the ride up to the mountains a most delightful one; the scenery becoming more and more wild and picturesque as we approached the coal district; and our guide gave us much curious information connected with our local welsh legends and superstitions. we were also accompanied by a very intelligent young man, a draper at newport, who was quite at home with the welsh language, and gave us many particulars connected with the etymology of the names of places that we passed. thus we sped along most agreeably until we reached the region of tall chimneys, ponderous engines, and all the apparatus for disemboweling the mountains. dismissing our carriage at the entrance to the works, we proceeded to the counting-house, where we were most courteously received by the head clerk, who first unrolled a large map, and explained to us the geography of the diggings, the mode in which the shafts and levels were cut, and the coal worked; we then proceeded to the robing-room, and under the care of one or two grimy _valets de chambre_, we were soon rigged out in toggery that would render us the observed of all observers at a masquerade. fancy the learned doctor in a coarse white flannel coat that was a sort of compromise between an oxonian and a dustman, but with sleeves reaching only to the elbow; his trowsers turned half-way up his boots, and a coarse black felt sou-wester stuck on his head. my costume was ditto. with a stout stick in our hand, we were conveyed to the pit's mouth, and handed over to the custody of "thomas"--a great man, in every sense of the word. he was the overseer of the under-ground workings, and was one of the finest men i ever saw. the shaft down which we were to descend was a perpendicular well, i won't say how many hundred yards deep, up and down which traveled two platforms side by side, about the size of an ordinary breakfast table; one bringing up a full wagon of coal, while the other took down an empty wagon. the platform comes up, the full wagon is wheeled away; but instead of the empty one, thomas takes his stand in the centre, and desires us four to stand round him, and hold on by his jacket, but not to grasp any part of the platform. we obey, with an unpleasantly vivid remembrance of the description given of the last moments of rush and the mannings. thomas becomes a sort of momentary calcraft; and when he roars out, "go!" and we feel the platform give way beneath our feet, we cling desperately to him with a savage satisfaction that he is with us, and must share our fate. we are rattled, rumbled, jolted down a gigantic telescope, with just light enough from above to make us painfully aware that there is exactly sufficient room between the edge of our platform and the sides of the shaft for us to fall through. we are conscious of clammy drops falling and clinging to us--they may be cold sweat, or perhaps dirty water from the sides of the pit--it occurs to us that five lives are at the mercy, or rather tenacity, of a rusty link, and i enter into unpleasant calculations of the time it might take to fall, say feet. there is a sensation that may be vertigo, perhaps faintness--possibly an inclination to suicide, when a sudden jolt brings us to the ground, and, but for our hold on thomas, would certainly capsize our perpendicular. we are at the bottom of the shaft, and quit the platform, very glad that the meeting is dissolved. we find ourselves in a small, dark vault, just visible by the glimmer of a single candle stuck in the wall. thomas lights five candles, and we each take one. we then perceive that there is an iron tramway winding from under the shaft toward a couple of low doors. we are placed in single file in the centre of this tramway, and thomas suggests a game of follow the leader. the gate-keeper (a most important person, upon whom depends very much the proper ventilation of the mine) opens the doors, and we enter a level--the doors being immediately closed behind us. we find it necessary at once to stoop, and we tramp forward through the dirtiest of all petticoat-lanes--a thick, black mud coming half-way over our insteps, and our candles being now and then reflected in a running gutter that might be thought to discharge itself from a waste pipe from day and martin's. there is an incessant rumbling over our heads, as though a procession of railway trains were out for the day. large lumps of coal, dropped from the wagons, and cross-beams connecting the tram-rails, render the footing very precarious, and produce a very oscillating wave-like line of march. i am following the sable dustman; he suddenly flounders, flourishes his stick and his candle desperately for a moment; i see the white coat dash forward; i hear a shout and a hiss; the doctor's candle is in the gutter, and he is groping his way up to his feet again. we are more cautious, and find it necessary to stoop still lower; the stratification of the rock is pointed out to us, and we are told that this is a layer of coal, that of iron-stone, which, we believe from our boundless faith in thomas's word, not that we see any thing to remind us of the contents of our scuttle at home, or of the handle of our pump. we go on so many hundred yards, but we do not count, when we come to a side cutting, and are conscious of a ghostly apparition at the entrance. it moves on; we might mistake it for a block of coal set up endways. it is a miner, who speaks, and his language seems exactly to harmonize with the place. the deep, guttural welsh, from its utter incomprehensibility to us, seems, like the man, a part of the mine; and our reverence for thomas rises when we find that this gibberish is as intelligible to him as all the other dark mysteries of the pit. this is a cutting where they are mining out the coal. at a short distance huge blocks are lying scattered over the path; the place is about four feet high and six feet broad. we are invited to enter and see the process of mining out a block. we seat ourselves on lumps of coal, and at the end of the hole we see a miner crouched upon the ground, hacking out a space about eighteen inches deep, into the coal at the bottom, forming a sort of recess wide enough to slip in a six inch drawer the whole width of the place; the labor of doing this is inconceivably great in the miner's cramped position; he pants loudly at every stroke of the pick, and breathes an atmosphere of thick coal dust. when he has scooped out the bottom place, he cuts, with a very sharp pick, a slice down each side, leaving the mass supported only by its hold above; a wedge is now driven in close to the ceiling, and with about a dozen heavy blows, down tumbles the whole mass, the miner and the little candle boy who lights him keeping a sharp look out to dart back just as the mass falls. thus are we supplied with coal; and it is impossible to see these poor fellows toiling in those dark, stifling holes, crouching in positions that threaten dislocation to every joint, and with deep, rapid inspirations drawing in dust that must convert their lungs into so many coal-beds, without feeling how much of our comfort we owe to a race of men, the real character of whose labor is so little understood and appreciated. they are paid so much per ton, and generally remain under-ground about ten hours at a stretch; but sometimes, when they wish to fetch up lost time after a holiday or a drinking bout, they will work for fourteen hours without stopping. their wages range from twenty to thirty shillings a week. they have been much addicted to drink, but the temperance movement has produced a beneficial change in this respect in some districts. we remained under-ground nearly an hour; now and then a rumbling noise warned us of the approach of a wagon, and, stepping aside, a spectral-looking horse flitted by, tugging its hubbly load, visible a moment in the dim light, and vanishing again instantly into utter darkness. having completed our inspection, and returned to the entrance of the shaft, we again endured the process of suspended animation, and emerged into daylight with a higher estimate than ever of the blessed sunlight and the green fields. we were taken into a shed at the pit's mouth, where thomas curried us down with a birch broom and a wisp of straw, after which we doffed our togs, had a good wash, and once more resumed our civilized appearance, highly gratified and instructed by our introduction to the shades below. the kafir trader; or, the recoil of ambition. years, with their summers and winters, their joys and sorrows, have passed away, since the cleopatra, her long and wearying voyage over, cast anchor in one of the extensive bays of southern africa. how eagerly and anxiously her many passengers looked across the belt of heaving waters toward the land, which, low at first, gradually rose into ranges of lofty hills, stretching far into the distance! for most of them had crossed the ocean, and bidden adieu to their remoter kindred, in the hope of finding, amid its secluded valleys, some "forest sanctuary," where the bonds of the world that had hitherto chafed them might be unfelt, and their efforts at earning a livelihood for themselves and little ones be better rewarded. foremost among them stood a man, the eagle keenness of whose eye bespoke him one fitted to cope, and successfully, with the world, in whatever phase it might present itself. but it was not so; and robert tryon, despite years of unwearying effort, now stood gazing on the shores of the far south, a world-worn and almost penniless man, and one whose spirit was embittered, and his heart hardened, by seeing others, whom he deemed less worthy, victors in the arena where he could achieve nothing. while thus he stood pondering with contracted brow, on what might be the result of this last decisive step of emigration, a sweet, childish voice by his side exclaimed, "let me see too, father." immediately the stern expression passed away, and with a bright smile he raised the little girl to stand where she might easily look over the bulwark. robert tryon was devotedly attached to his wife and family; and the more the chilling blasts of adversity had frozen his heart toward the world, the more did it gush forth in warm affection to those surrounding his own humble and sometimes ill-supplied fireside; and he felt that to see them possessed of the comforts of life befitting their station--more he asked not, wished not--would be a happiness that would, in his estimation, render the labor of even a galley-slave light. but dearer than all was his little fairy kate, as fair and beautiful a child as the eye need wish to rest upon, with soft, dark, earnest eyes, looking forth from among her brown clustering curls as though the misfortunes of her parents had dispelled the joyous beams of childhood, and awakened her already to the realities of life, and a sweet smile playing upon her rosy lips, as if, in the buoyancy of her innocent spirit, hoping and trusting a brighter future. and the child's trust seemed not misplaced, for brighter days soon began to dawn upon them. robert tryon obtained a small farm in one of the deep fertile hollows branching off from the great valley of the fish river; and though it needed both time and labor to render it productive, both were ungrudgingly bestowed; and some five or six years after his arrival, willow dell (so named from the fringe of babylonian willows that swept the little streamlet murmuring through it), was as fair a scene of rural promise as the wide frontier could show. and for a while robert tryon was a happy and contented man; his loved ones were growing up beautiful and joyous around him, and the humble competence he once had sighed for was now theirs: few, indeed, are they whose wishes are so fully gratified! but it sufficed not long. with prosperity loftier ideas awoke in tryon's breast; and after a time he began to pine for riches to bestow on the children whom every succeeding day rendered yet dearer, and whom he felt assured wealth would grace so well. how, as he wandered at evening beside the willows, he would dream of the proud future that--could his wishes be realized--might be in store for his promising sons and beautiful daughters, in some higher sphere; and how in years to come they might revisit their fatherland, and look scornfully down on those who in other days had despised himself! occupied with such visions, discontent began to take possession of his heart. it would be years--many years--ere by his farm he could hope to obtain such results; and ere that his children's youth would be passed--their lot in life decided, and riches not so precious; and again he felt that he could toil as man never yet had toiled, to bestow wealth on his children. of the many objects man pursues with avidity, gold is not the one that most frequently eludes him, for there are many modes by which it may be obtained, and one of these presented itself to tryon. he was riding with one of his nearest neighbors into graham's town, when on their way they passed an extensive and beautiful farm, and on a rising ground saw a large, well-built house peeping from among the trees. tryon commented upon the beauty of the scene. "its owner's name is brunt," observed his companion; "some twenty years ago he was sent out by the parish." "how did he make his money?" demanded tryon, almost breathlessly. "as a kafir trader." a kafir trader! it was strange that had never occurred to him, though he was aware that large fortunes had been made, were constantly being made, by taking into kafirland various articles of british manufacture, and bartering them with the natives for ivory, skins, &c. that was a mode of acquiring wealth, that, amid all his search for a shorter road to riches, he had quite overlooked. the farm at willow dell had so far improved tryon's circumstances, that there was no difficulty in carrying out his new resolve; and a very short time saw him depart into kafirland with two wagons heavily laden, two trusty drivers, and two boys, on the first of many journeys that brought more gold beneath his roof than had ever been there before. tryon was on his return from one of these expeditions. evening was coming on; but he felt that, by riding fast, and using a nearer ford to cross the fish river than that by which the wagons must pass, he might reach home that night, and he longed to see those for whose sake all this exertion was made. therefore, leaving directions with his people to go round by the upper and shallow ford, and setting spurs to his horse, he started for the nearer one, well known on the frontier as the kafir drift (or ford), and as being nearly or quite the most dangerous along the border, consisting merely of a ledge of rock across the bed of the deep and turbid river, considered scarcely passable save when the tide is low, and in attempting which at undue seasons, many an unwary traveler has met his death. the light was so dim, that when tryon stood on the steep hill overlooking the valley, he could not discern the state of the river so far beneath him, and it was not until he emerged from the trees, and stood beside the brink, that he was aware that the tide was up, or rather just begun to ebb. but he knew that with due caution the river might be crossed in safety even then, by one accustomed to it, and he accordingly prepared to take advantage of the remaining daylight by passing without delay. his horse's fore-feet were already in the water, when a man started up on the opposite bank, and called aloud. tryon paused. "do not attempt to cross; it is dangerous!" cried the stranger. "i am not afraid; i am used to the drift," replied tryon. "but it is spring-tide!" tryon looked again at the river; it was certainly higher than was its wont, but not sufficiently so to alarm him who had crossed it so often that he thought he knew every stone of the way; and, intimating as much to the stranger, he spurred his horse in. but his knowledge was less accurate, or the tide was stronger than he deemed; for scarce had he reached the middle of the stream, when the good steed lost his footing, and both horse and rider were borne down among the eddies of the impetuous current toward the sea, which, at a short ten miles' distance, was breaking in giant surges on its rocky bar. his idolized children! they were provided for, but not too well! was tryon's last thought, ere the waters overpowered him; and, with a wild rushing in his ears, both sense and sensation passed away. but the stranger on the southern bank was not one to stand idly by and see a fellow-creature perish, without making an effort for his rescue, even though that effort might involve him in a like danger; and when walter hume threw himself into that dark, troubled water, he knew the chances were equal that he would never tread those banks again. but walter's was too generous and fearless a heart to be chilled by such selfish considerations, and he exerted himself to the uttermost in his arduous task. his efforts were successful: and tryon was drawn to the shore some distance down the river, insensible, but still living; while the steed, whose fate he had so nearly shared, was borne more and more rapidly toward the waves that seemed roaring impatiently for their victim. after this, walter hume was a frequent guest at willow dell, and a most welcome one to all save its master, for he soon divined that but for the dark eyes and sweet tones of his beautiful and gentle kate, walter had been less often seen. and tryon destined not his kate, the fairest flower in his fair parterre, to share the humble fortunes of a frontier farmer; though in bygone days he would have rejoiced to think so comfortable a home--and shared by one so worthy--would ever be hers. but now his hopes were higher far for her, his best beloved one; and though he might not receive otherwise than cordially the man who had risked life to save him from certain death, yet he looked with a displeased eye on walter's evident devotion to kate, and with a secret resolution that not even the weight of that obligation should induce him to sacrifice his daughter's welfare: rather, far rather, would he have perished among the dark eddies of the river. absorbed in his ambitious dreams, tryon never thought of asking himself whether the true sacrifice to kate might not consist in giving up one to whom, in the warmth of her gratitude and the worthiness of its object, her young heart was becoming deeply attached. and when at length he suspected that it was so, his regret and mortification knew no bounds; yet he shrunk from wounding the feelings of his child by any allusion to the subject, and contented himself by resolving that, even if redoubled efforts were required, they should be made to hasten the hour when he might be able to efface from his daughter's mind the impression which walter hume had made, by removing her to a sphere he considered more suited to her and her improving fortunes. again he began to repine that wealth was so slow of attainment, and again he felt that he would willingly encounter any toil, any trial, ay, even any danger, to secure to his children--especially his kate--riches and consideration. with these feelings acting as a fresh incentive to exertion, tryon started on another expedition into kafirland. he had gained the territories of the chief kuru, and was bartering with him some snuff for ivory; when, in the midst of the discussion that attends every mercantile transaction with the avaricious kafirs, the chief turned pettishly away, exclaiming, "you want too much for the brown powder; i will not give it; but i will give you ten times as much for _black_." he stopped abruptly, and fixed his bright dark, searching eye on tryon, as though eager to discover if his meaning was understood, and how the proposition was received. the trader turned aside as if he heard it not. nevertheless, it was both heard and comprehended. so the quick-witted kafir suspected, and he resumed: "yes, i would give much ivory, white as the clouds in yonder sky, many skins, many horns, to him who will bring me the black powder and the fire-sticks. his wagons will be so heavy his oxen will scarce be able to draw them away, and he will never need to cross the rivers any more, but may sit in the sun before his kraal, and make his women hoe his corn." still tryon answered not, but the kafir's words struck a wild chord in his heart. could he but bring himself to do the chief's bidding, the gold over whose tardy coming he had so lately sighed would at once be his; his children would no longer be buried on a frontier farm, and his daughter would go where walter hume would be forgotten. but he shrunk from the means by which all these objects, which he had so much at heart, must be obtained; for, by carrying powder and arms across the border--save for self-defense--he would infringe the laws of the land wherein he had prospered far more than he had ever hoped when he landed on its shores. tryon had been eager in his pursuit of riches; he had bought cheap and sold dear, and he had exacted from every one to the uttermost; but he had broken no law save that of leniency, and now he shrank from doing so, and bade the temptation stand off from him: but it would not. the spirit of gain, that he had so long cherished, entered into this new form, and haunted him day and night, filling his waking thoughts, and shedding a golden hue over his slumbering visions. when tryon next entered his home at willow dell, the first object that presented itself was the smiling, happy face of kate, the next the almost detested one of him who had drawn him from the depths of the fish river. it required little penetration to perceive that walter hume was now the declared lover of kate; and as soon as might be walter confirmed tryon's suspicions by entreating his sanction to the already given consent of kate. the father was silent for a few moments. but it was only to consider how he might best reject the man to whom he owed so much, and what effect that rejection would have on the happiness of kate; but on this latter point he soon satisfied himself that once removed to other scenes, this ill-placed (for so he considered it) prepossession would soon pass away, and kate be a far happier and more prosperous woman than if he had yielded to what he knew were her present feelings. then, rising from his seat he turned to the anxious suitor, and spoke kindly but firmly. "i owe you much, hume, very much, even a life, and believe me i do not underrate the service, nor the risk at which it was rendered; and had you asked me almost any other gift, it had been given with pleasure; but i can not put my own life in comparison with my daughter's welfare." "whatever may be your decision, mr. tryon," said walter, proudly, though he turned deadly pale with apprehension, "and i much fear it is against me, i do not wish an act of common humanity due from one man to another to be remembered, far less looked on as a claim. but your daughter has given me her heart," he added, earnestly; "and if you will trust her to me, it shall be the study of my life that she never repents the gift." "her heart!" said tryon, lightly. "pooh!--she is scarce of an age to know she has one. but i have other hopes for her," he continued, seriously; "higher hopes--far higher:" and the once poverty-stricken man drew himself up proudly, as he thought on the wealth his children would possess. hume felt that those words and that manner sealed his lips to farther entreaty, near as was the object to his heart; and, simply expressing a hope that kate might be happier in the future her father designed for her, than he could have made her, he bowed, and left the house with a crushed and embittered heart. but however great might be walter's sorrow, it did not exceed that of kate, when she learned her father's unlooked-for decision regarding one toward whom she felt so much both of affection and gratitude. but all her tears, and the yet more touching eloquence of her pale cheeks and faded smiles were unavailing, and it seemed as if naught could shake tryon's resolution. and yet the father's heart was only less sad than those of the lovers. for robert tryon loved his daughter too fondly to look on her grief with indifference; and it was but the hopes of a proud future, when walter hume's name should have lost all interest for kate, that enabled him to remain steadfast to his resolves. meanwhile he was occupied with preparations for another journey into kafirland. at length the day came for his departure. "let me see more rosy cheeks on my return, child," he said, fondly, as he took leave of her. "don't you know i mean to make my kate a lady?" "i have no wish to be a lady, father," said kate, with a subdued smile; "if i can only do my duty in the state to which i am called, it will suffice for me." "tush, girl, you know not of what you talk," replied tryon, hastily; "ere long my beautiful kate will be rich and happy." kate sighed, as though she had no such gladdening dreams; but her father heard her not--he was already watching the departure of his wagons, for whose safety he had never before appeared so solicitous. little did those around him suspect they contained a secret whose discovery would prove their owner's ruin; whose safe-keeping and success he hoped would well-nigh complete the building-up of his fortunes. it might have been that tryon had withstood the temptation longer, nay, perhaps, even overcome it altogether, had it not been for the attachment of hume, and his anxiety to remove kate from willow dell, where of course her recollection of him would be strongest. thus the voice of ambition spoke loudly within tryon's heart, overpowering all others, and he no longer hesitated to avail himself of the opportunity fortune cast in his path; but at once applied himself to making the needful preparations for complying with the wish of kuru. "oh, kate, kate," he thought, as he rode into kafirland after his wagons, whose chief contents were contraband, "while you are weakly mourning over your girlish disappointment, you little know the risk your father is running for your advantage; but you will yet have cause to thank him for it." the speculation turned out even better than tryon had ventured to hope. the guns and powder arrived unsuspected at the kraal of kuru, and in the joy of his heart at obtaining such treasures, the chief was liberal beyond what the trader had anticipated. the finest ivory and the most valuable skins were given almost without limit, and robert tryon departed from the kraal a far richer man than he had entered it. "oh, robert tryon, robert tryon!" he murmured, as he mounted his horse, "you are now a happy and an enviable man, for you have lived to gain all your ends!" and in his exultation he recked not to obtain them he had offended against the law, and placed deadly weapons in the hands of savages. in the same spirit of self-gratulation he entered his home. there the sight of kate's dark mournful eyes, checked his gladness for a moment; but he rallied quickly, and gayly reproached her with being so sad when there was such cause for rejoicing, and then he told them his journey had been most successful, without confiding more. "the greatest blessing in life, father, is happiness, and that we may enjoy without riches," said kate, sadly. poor girl! she felt that but for this vaunted wealth, the current of her love had been allowed to flow on unchecked. how, then, could she rejoice in the announcement that gave such pleasure to all the rest? gold might gild their lot, but it had cast a chill upon hers, and blighted it: and while they surveyed with pleasure the transfer of the rich lading of the wagons to the house, kate tryon wept bitterly in her little chamber, with the sound of light laughter from without ringing in her ears. they laughed, and she wept--and both from the same cause. and now tryon had resolved on relinquishing the trade by which he had reaped so rich a harvest, and removing himself and family to some place where their former humble station would be unknown; but ere that could be done, he must dispose of the immense quantity of kafir produce in his house; and with that view he again left willow dell for graham's town. he was on his return, and again he was proud-hearted and glad, as he was wont to be of late, for again he had prospered in his dealings. how different he was from the robert tryon who had landed on the south african shores a few years ago, poor, sad, and desponding. now he was joyful and elated, not only with hope, but with success; and as he rode along his thoughts wandered afar into the future, where he saw no harder toil awaiting his children than to gather flowers in the world's bright sunshine, and the fairest were gathered by his kate, his beautiful and then his joyous one. at length he started. absorbed in those bright visions, he had not heeded whither he went, and had strayed far from the right road. farther on, however, was a path that led from another direction to willow dell. the sun was sinking low in the heavens as he cantered over the flat beyond whose farther edge lay the dell; and in the coolness of coming evening all the inhabitants of the wilds seemed arousing themselves to activity and joy. the birds were darting among the trees, the insects were floating in the sunshine, and the antelopes springing high into the air, and playfully chasing each other over the plain. there are few hearts that had not responded to such a scene, and tryon's was now attuned to all that spoke of gladness; and beneath its influence the only dark spot in his sky--his kate's sorrow--seemed to grow lighter; and he was again wandering through his dreamland, and seeing kate the beloved and loving bride of some one he deemed well worthy, when he approached the edge of the declivity, and the dell lay before him. he stopped abruptly, and gazed down as one lost in wonder, raised his hand, and passed it quickly across his brow, as though to clear his vision, then, uttering one loud cry of agony as the truth burst upon him, rushed rapidly down the hill. the cottage, around whose dear inmates he had but now been raising such fairy structures, was no longer visible, and where it so late had stood a column of gray smoke was slowly curling upward, telling a dark tale of ruin, but to what extent as yet he knew not; though he was gazing on the site of his vanished home, and standing beside the spot that was once his hearth; for there was none by to tell him if the beloved ones by whom it had been shared had escaped, or if he now looked on their funeral pyre. he gazed eagerly and anxiously around. a person riding rapidly down the hill met his eye, and he sprang toward him. it was walter hume. he was ashy pale--paler yet than when he last had passed from tryon's presence; and even the latter could perceive that his hand trembled as he gave it to him in silence. "my wife--my children?" murmured tryon, in a broken voice. still hume was silent, but he drew away his hand, and covering his face with both, sunk upon the grass in anguish he could no longer repress. "my darlings! my precious ones! and is it come to this!" exclaimed the bereaved man, wringing his hands in agony. "and are you all taken from me--you for whom i toiled with so much pleasure--you for whom i even sinned? tell me, hume, tell me all my sorrow, all my misery!" and hume did tell him, gently and tenderly, the tale that his having lost his way alone prevented him from hearing earlier, as of the two servants who had escaped, one had gone along the graham's town road in quest of him, while the other had hurried off to hume's farm, to tell of how the kafirs had burst upon them at dead of night, and how they two had fled in the darkness, and under cover of the trees had witnessed the fierce assailants deal death to all around, and even seen the noble-hearted kate shot by a tall savage, in a vain attempt to shield her mother. and then the trader's vast stores of ivory and skins were rifled, and his cattle swept away; and, finally, firing the house of death, the murderers departed, carrying their plunder across the border. "who! who!" exclaimed tryon, breathlessly, "who was the kafir that has so bereft me?" "i know not; i never thought of asking," replied walter. "but here is something that perhaps may tell," and he lifted a new rifle from among the long grass where it had lain concealed. "it is--it is my sin that has overtaken me!" cried the wretched man, throwing up his clasped hands. "it is one of the guns i sold to kuru. oh, i am well punished!" he continued, pacing to and fro distractedly. "i pined for wealth to aggrandize my children, and i sold arms to the kafirs that i might do it more quickly: those arms they have turned against me, and have left me childless. my children, it is your father who is your murderer!" hitherto, amid all his own grief, hume had appeared to feel deeply for the bereaved father; but now he started from his side with a look of horror and detestation; and wild were the words of reproach and indignation that burst from his lips as he realized the truth, that the being he had so deeply loved--whom still he loved, though now there was between them the barrier of a fearful death--had fallen a victim to tryon's ambition--that it was no evil chance that had caused willow dell to be the scene of such a tragedy, but the deliberate resolve of the kafir to regain possession of the valuable ivory and skins tryon had received as his recompense--when he remembered that had not that fatal passion filled tryon's heart, kate and himself might have been among earth's happiest; and that now he stood well nigh broken-hearted beside the smoking ruin that was her grave. and in the anguish of those thoughts he forgot that tryon was yet more unhappy than himself, for he had no self-reproach; and he poured forth upon him a flood of bitter accusations, which the miserable man's conscience echoed to the uttermost; nay, even more, for he mourned for all his children and the wife of his youth, for whom he had procured a violent death. but the violence of these self-upbraidings could not last; and ere the sun again shone on the grave-ruin, tryon, unconscious of all things, was writhing in the agony of a brain fever. walter hume attended him as though he were his son; for he saw in him for the time but the father of the gentle girl to whom his love had proved so terrible. but when that was once over (for tryon did recover, as those to whom life is a burden often will), walter shrunk from him again, as one whose hand had fired the mine that overthrew his happiness. nor did tryon seek his companionship, but wandered away none knew whither, a sad and solitary man, leaving his name and his story to haunt the once fair spot which his evil passions blighted. the woodstream. a fragment from the german. the pine had finished his story, uttering his last words in a low and melancholy tone. a deep silence lay over the whole forest; the babble of the woodstream was the only sound which interrupted the solemnity, as it touched the stones and the roots with continued strokes--the eternal time-piece of the forest; and as it prattled, the pictures which its surface reflected sometimes clearly glittered in the sunshine, sometimes sadly wandered through the shadows of the trees and the clouds, while the monotonous sounds began to assume the form of rational discourse. though the little flowers and trees appeared to wait anxiously for the woodstream to tell his story, the solemn stillness continued yet awhile. ah, that silence of the forest! who does not know it? to whom has it not appeared as a holy sabbath for the young flowers that dwell there? even the stag breathes more gently, and the sportsman himself, overwhelmed with a holy, loving awe, falls on the grass in the calm recesses of the wood. that is the time when the stream tells old stories; and thus he began. do you know my origin? that of the meadow-stream is well known. he comes clearly out over some stone or little mound--a small but bright spring; and then he grows larger and larger, so that his short, grassy dress is no longer sufficient, however tall, for love of him it tries to make itself. he puts on at last a short boddice of rushes with loose, flowing feathers. the course of the mountain-stream is also known. snow lies on the heights--that is the everlasting cap of the forests--dyed only by the rising and setting sun, and adorned by the clouds as they pass and repass with vails of unrivaled beauty. notwithstanding its unchangeable appearance, gay life reigns within. there are little springs bubbling through the clefts, and drops of water playing eternal hide-and-seek. the all-powerful sun kisses these mountain-tops, and even this ice-cold heart is melted by his eternal love. the fountains are the children of these kisses and there they play at hide-and-seek till their home is too narrow for them, and then they find an outlet. but when they first catch a glimpse of the far-world lying before them, they are frightened and overcome, and do not receive courage to go on till they are joined by other little curious streams; and then they proceed--first slowly and cautiously, afterward faster and faster, till at length a bright mountain stream bursts forth springing from rock to rock like the chamois-goat, whose origin is likewise hard by. sometimes he foams on high, like the snow of the mountain; sometimes he flows, shining clearly, an unbroken mirror, like the ice of the glaciers; and then descending into the valley, he reposes in the midst of nature's calm beauty. but where do i, the woodstream, originate? you will not find the source which gave me birth--neither the snow nor the ice whose child i am. here you think he arises, and you peep behind a stone or moss-heap; but far off, behind a knotted tree-root, he laughs at you. now hiding himself behind a thousand herbs and blossoms, then sinking into a whirl, among stones, old time-worn stones, which put green caps on their gray heads because they are jealous of the forest's verdure. now look farther on still, and there you will see me flowing, peeping out here and there--but you will not find my source. that remains the riddle of the forest. but if you listen i will unravel it. above, on a clear cloud which lightly passed over the plain, sat a little sprite, the favorite servant of the fairy queen, arranging her lady's ornaments. she took out of the casket a long string of costly pearls, a present from the ocean queen. titania had ordered her to take great care of them, because they were her favorite ornaments. there are other pearls, but these, although tears, she does not weep; and they are only brought to light by the fisherman who wrenches them from her at the peril of his life. the little fairy, delighted in her occupation, held the string high in the air, thinking, perhaps, they would glitter more in the sunbeams; but these pearls are not like precious stones, which borrow their brilliancy from the world around them. the tear of the ocean incloses its lustre within itself, and sends forth radiance from within. behind the fairy sat puck, the wag who provokes men and sprites; and while the little creature rejoiced over her pearls, he cut the string and down they rolled, gliding over the clouds, and at length alighting on the earth. for a moment the little fairy sat paralyzed with consternation; then putting forth all her strength she flew after the falling treasure. flying an unmeasured space between the earth and the clouds, and seeing the little balls roll glittering past her on all sides, she would have returned hopelessly, had she not remarked under her, in a green field, on the grass and flowers, a thousand lustrous pearls. she thought they were some of those she had lost, and began diligently to collect them into the casket she held in her hand. the box was nearly filled, when titania's lovely servant remarked that they were not pearls, the tears of the ocean, but dew, the tears of the flowers. still she went on seeking the lost treasure. seeing tears hanging from a mother's eye, who bent over her dying child, she collected them--these were tears of love. going on, she found many other weeping eyes; so many tears that i can not give names to them all. ah, how many tears are shed on earth! out of men's eyes spring a wondrous stream--_its_ source is the heart. against this, pain, melancholy, repentance, and sometimes also joy, must knock, and then the stream flows. it is a powerful talisman; it has a most potent charm. that man's heart must be hard indeed when even a stranger's tears fail to move him. though people contradict this, and say, i have no pity for those tears, they are deserved; but this is very false, for they are tears still; and perhaps come from the heart which has been most severely pierced. well, our little fairy collected them, and holding the casket firm under her arm, she swept on high to the clouds. the little box became heavier and heavier--for tears do not weigh light--and lo! when she opened it, all the imaginary pearls liquified: and hopelessly she fled from cloud to cloud--for these loved her--and she poured her complaint into their ear. the clouds sent their rain down to the earth to fetch the lost. it streamed and flowed, and trees and leaves bent themselves, and the dew was wiped up, but the ocean's pearls were not found again. puck the wag, saw the poor little fairy's pain which he had caused, and it troubled him--for he liked to laugh at her, but not to give her pain. down he dipped into the lap of earth, and fetched, by means of his friends the goblins and gnomes, gay, glittering ore, and shining spangles. "there you have all your trash again," said he; "or, rather, better and more shining." the little fairy rejoiced, and the clouds left off raining. but when she looked nearer to the gift, it was nothing better than glittering trumpery; and angrily she took the shell wherein it lay, and threw it afar off, making a wide, radiant circle over the whole horizon. that was the first rainbow. often since that time, when the clouds weep, puck fetches his spangles, and the comedy is repeated. beautiful is the rainbow; we all rejoice to see it, and so does man. but it is a vain, deceitful object--a gift of the gnomes--a production of puck, the wag. people know this quite well, because when they run after it, it disappears before their faces. and where does it go? it has fallen into the sea, say the children, the water-nymphs make their gay dresses of it. well, it happened, as i say, by accident; but puck repeated it intentionally, for he passed over with the remaining spangles, and so formed a second rainbow. this is why this brilliant appearance presents itself twice in the horizon at the same time. the fairy continued to sit sadly on the cloud, and could not rejoice at the first rainbow. presently titania came by. fortunately at that time the splenetic queen was in a good humor. perhaps she could the more easily forget her loss because an ocean sprite, whose heart she had won, gave her the promise of another set. for the great are generous, even with tears. but what should she do with the heavy contents of the casket? "hasten down to the most secret part of the forest," said titania, "and pour these drops in the midst of the salubrious plants; let the tears remain what they are, but united they shall remain one great tear of the forest." the little servant obeyed the queen's order, and thus the woodstream had its source. so you see the forest has likewise its tear--like that of man. so likewise do i spring from the heart--the hidden heart of the forest. when sorrow, desire, or pain knock at it, then the tear streams forth. in the summer, when so many children of the forest are destroyed and annihilated, i flow gently, but unceasingly. in the autumn, when every thing says farewell, i weep in silent sorrow over the blossoms and leaves which fall in my way, that they also may be entombed with regret. in the wild solitude of winter i am benumbed, and the tear becomes a pearl, like the closed grief of the ocean. thus i hang with faint lustre on stones and roots, which look like weeping eyes. in the spring, when desire rises in every heart, then the tear of the forest flows in pensive joy. i overflow the borders of my course, greeting flowers and grass as far as i can. often pity moves me; for when the clouds weep rain or the flowers dew, the woodstream swells. do you not perceive by the breath of feeling and melancholy which is exhaled from me, that i spring from the heart of the forest. the heaving rush presses itself nearer and nearer to me. where i flow the sensitive forget-me-not more especially flourishes; it glances at me, as you have seen blue eyes at the hour of parting. the weeping willow hangs her branches down to my eternally murmuring waves. every where, i excite feeling; even the stone which stops my course--the unchangeable stone, over which time passes unmarked--weeps over me transparent tears, and my kisses are the only things to which it does not oppose itself. now puck, the wag, is envious of the woodstream, whom he would surpass with his trash, but sees him, nevertheless, maintain continued importance; and often oddly puts a knotted root or pointed branch in my way, that my drops may spring up and be disturbed. you will then see in the sunbeams gay colors play around me, like those of the rainbow: that is puck's trumpery, which he hangs about my lustre as if he would say, "are not my gifts beautiful?" but soon they are gone, and i flow unchangeably: so often is the mirthful and ludicrous linked with sorrow and melancholy, as if contrived by the spirit of contradiction. even the heart of man, when breaking beneath a load of sorrow, bursts forth into ludicrous sallies--a laugh is seen on the weeping face: in the midst of nature's profoundest harmony a vacant distortion meets us; on the richest carpets of lawn a knotted root or faded dry branch stretches itself; between healthy, full-blown roses you will find a mis-shapen sister obtruding her weird face. puck causes all this. it is a deep mind that can see how nature makes all these incongruities to end in harmony. the woodstream ceased. once more deep silence prevailed; leaves and blossoms dared only to whisper and murmur. presently a dead branch cracked, and then fell from an old oak-top, disturbing the leaves and blossoms as they fell into the stream. this was puck's work. a moment, and all was still. the talisman.--a fairy tale. it was a lovely afternoon in "the leafy month of june," and the midsummer sun shone bright on the velvet slope of a smooth lawn, and glittered on the shining leaves of a large portugal laurel which grew upon it, under the shadow of which sat a merry party of little people, busy with their dolls and play-things. never had children a more glorious play-room than was this, with its sapphire roof, and its emerald floor. here were music and perfumes, exquisite as a monarch could command, for the skylark was pouring down his flood of melody, and every breath of the soft west wind came laden with sweets from the roses and mignonnette which bloomed so luxuriantly around. it was one of nature's gala days--one of those festivals which are more frequent than great men's banquets, and to which all are right welcome without cards of invitation. the young folks seemed to be taking their part in the universal gladness, for the merry talk and the light laugh went round, and all was harmony. "look," cried the eldest of the party, a girl about twelve years of age, lifting up her doll, triumphantly, "i have quite finished; does it not fit well?" "oh, how pretty!" cried the other three children in a breath. "i should like just such a frock as that," said a very little girl. "do make me one, marian; you said you would." "yes, to be sure i did, lucy, and so i will. let us begin it directly." and so they set about selecting the materials. all the stores of silk and muslin were displayed, and now this and now that pattern proposed and admired, and in its turn rejected for a newly-unfolded rival. at last, lucy's eye fell upon one which struck her as just the thing. "this is the prettiest," cried she; "i should like this, marian, if you please, better than any of the others." as ill-luck would have it, marian at that very moment drew forth another, in her opinion, much more suitable for the purpose than the one selected by her little sister. "this will do much better, lucy," she said, decidedly; "it will look much prettier made up, and as i am going to make it, i ought to know." "but i don't like it so well," objected lucy. "you will like it when it is made," replied marian, drawing out the pattern she had chosen, and pushing away the remainder. "let her have the one she likes best," said caroline, "it is for her doll." "oh, very well, if she likes her doll to be a fright, she can have it," said marian, and she snatched the objectionable piece from the pile with a jerk which threw the rest upon the lawn to gambol with the breeze, and a merry dance they had before they could be again collected into a bundle. "see what you have done, marian," cried caroline; "the silks will be spoiled with rolling about the garden." "how can i help the wind?" answered marian, sharply, and she seated herself to her work with a scornful toss of the head. the silks were collected, the chairs re-arranged, and the little party again settled to their occupations; but harmony and happiness were at an end. the same change had come over the moral atmosphere which sometimes takes place in that of the physical world, even in the sunny month of june. the storm, even when it only menaces from afar, chases all brightness from the landscape, and causes a chilly air, which makes one sad and shivery, to take the place of the balmy summer breeze. so cold and so cheerless were now our young friends under the laurel. caroline sat with averted face. lucy looked anxious and uncomfortable--she would almost rather have been less obliged to marian than she ought to feel just now. as to marian, she seemed oppressed, as the clouds are when charged with electric fluid. she had not room enough. lucy came too near her. her scissors would not cut. the doll's figure was bad, there was no fitting it. poor doll! well for it, it was no baby, or sharp would have been its cries under the hands of its mantua-maker? as it was, it did not escape unhurt. as marian turned it round with a sudden movement, not the gentlest in the world, its nose, that feature so difficult to preserve entire in the doll physiognomy, came in contact with the sharp edge of the stool, which served as a table, and when it again presented itself to the alarmed gaze of lucy, its delicate tip was gone. "oh, my doll!" cried the little girl, her fear of marian's anger entirely vanishing in grief at this dire calamity; "you have quite spoiled her!" "where? i have not hurt her, child!" "yes, you have," said caroline; "look at her nose, that is with putting yourself into a passion about nothing." "who said i was in a passion?" cried marian. "i never said a word; but you are always accusing me of being in a passion." "because you are so angry if the least word is said," answered caroline. "if you had not banged the doll down so, it would not have been broken." "oh, very well! if that is the case, the sooner i leave you the better!" said marian, rising with an air of great dignity, but with a beating heart and flashing eye, and she went away. she walked rapidly through the garden, very hot and very angry, and with the painful feeling in her mind that she was one of the most persecuted, ill-used people in the world. it was very odd, very unkind; every body accused her of ill-humor, nobody loved her, her mamma reproved her, her sisters quarreled with her, she had not a friend in the world; what could be the reason she was treated thus? yes, marian asked herself this question; but questions are sometimes asked without much desire for information, and perhaps marian's was, for she did not reflect in order to solve it. she strolled through the garden sadly enough when the first feeling of indignation had in some measure subsided. she went to her own garden, but she found no pleasure there, though a rosebud which she had been watching for some days had opened at last, and proved to be a perfect beauty both in form and color. at any other time, marian would have rushed into the house to look for mamma, and no matter how busy or how much engaged mamma might have been, she would have begged her to come out and see the last new nosette. but now she passed it with a cursory glance, and continued her walk through the gardens and shrubberies, till she was tired of walking, and tired of her own company, but still without any desire to seek that of others. she stood before the bee-hives for a while, and observed the bees as they returned home, their wings glittering in the sunshine, and their thighs laden with their golden spoil. at first she felt half vexed with them for being so busy, and working so harmoniously, but by degrees their soft hum soothed her ruffled spirits, and she sat down on a bank of turf at a little distance to watch their motions. it was a pretty seat that she had chosen. close beside her blossomed some luxuriant roses, and among them, a large white lily raised its head, its snowy petals contrasting finely with the green leaves of the rose-bushes and the deep crimson of their blossoms. marian's eyes were riveted by the magnificent flower, and she must have gazed upon it long, for, as she gazed, its form became indistinct, its petals looked like fleecy clouds, and its orange stamens stretched into long lines of gold. she rubbed her eyes, but the flower did not again resume its original form. a pillar of mist was rising from its cup, which by degrees took a solid form, and presented to the eyes of the astonished girl a female figure, of diminutive proportions, but of such exquisite grace and beauty, that she did not believe it was possible for any thing earthly to be equal to it. fanciful as it may seem, the little sylph bore a striking resemblance to the flower from which she sprung. her clothing was of the purest white, her hair like shining gold, and the small zephyr-like wings which adorned her shoulders, were of that delicate green with which we see the early snowdrop and the wings of the butterfly so tenderly streaked. although she did not in the least resemble cinderella's godmother, or any of the dear old ladies with spindles that we read of in the nursery tales, marian had no doubt that she was a fairy. marian was an enterprising person, and her acquaintance with literature was not confined to that which was served up to her in the schoolroom and nursery. she had peeped into a big book on papa's library table, and she had read of fairies who could hide in acorn cups, and wrap themselves in the snake's enameled skin--who waged war with the humble bee for his honey-bag, and made them tapers from his waxen thighs. here, perhaps, stood before her one of that very company! the fairy then, for such we may venture to call her, descended gracefully, and alighting on a vase of mignonnette which stood at the feet of marian, she surveyed the little girl for some moments with a look of tenderness and compassion. at last she spoke, and her voice, though not loud, was clear and distinct as the sound of a silver bell. "my poor child," said she, "you are lonely and unhappy; what ails you?" surprised as marian was, she felt no fear of this gentle apparition, and would have answered, but, unluckily, she scarcely knew what to say. she had little idea how vague her grievances were before she was called upon to put them into words. she hung her head, and was silent. "i need not ask you," continued the fairy; "perhaps i know your troubles better than you do yourself." marian sobbed. "i am very, very unhappy," said she. "i know it, child," answered, the fairy; "what will you say if i give you something which will cure your sorrow, something which will make you glad yourself, and cause you to bring gladness wherever you go--which will make all who know you love you, and which will prevent you from ever suffering again what you suffer to-day?" "ah!" sighed marian, "if that could indeed be." "here is a talisman," said the fairy, "which, if worn about you constantly, will effect all i have promised." marian looked incredulous as she gazed on the jewel which was offered to her. it resembled a pearl, and reflected a mild and tranquil light; but beautiful as it was, it was not an ornament which marian would have chosen. she loved brilliant colors and dazzling gems, and the sparkle of the diamond or the hue of the ruby would have possessed more attraction for her than the soft ray of the fairy talisman. "how can a jewel like that do all you say?" she inquired. the fairy smiled. "you shall go with me," she said, "and judge of its effects from your own observation." so saying, she waved her hand toward the lily, and behold another marvel! the flower expanded, and without losing altogether its original form, it became a chariot, drawn by milk-white doves. tho fairy seated herself in it, and beckoned marian to take her place by her side. the little girl obeyed. she had seen too much that was marvelous, to wonder how her mortal bulk could be supported in that aerial vehicle; but there she was, sailing through the air, above the garden and the orchard, above the house and the fields, higher and higher, till there was nothing to be seen but mist and clouds. yes, marian was among the clouds at last! how often when she had watched some gorgeous sunset, had she longed to penetrate the golden valleys of that bright cloud-land! but, alas! now that it was no longer distant, its glory had disappeared! instead of silver seas, golden lakes, purple mountains, and ruby temples, here was nothing to be seen but gray vapor, nothing to be heard but the fluttering of their winged conductors; and before they descended, marian had begun to be heartily tired of the monotony of this aerial journey. she was glad when they once more heard "the earth's soft murmuring," when they once more beheld groves, and fields, and waters, and the habitations of men. on and on they skimmed, now near the surface of the earth, till they hovered over a city, larger than any town marian had ever seen before, so large, that there seemed no end to the mazes of its streets and alleys. seemingly in the very centre of this city the fairy alighted. marian shivered as she looked round on the wretchedness of the dwellings, the impurity of the streets, and the squalid aspect of their inhabitants. she shrank from the observation of the latter, as the fairy beckoned her onward. "do not fear," said her guide, observing her embarrassment, "we are invisible to mortal eyes, and can go where we will without being noticed. this seems to you a strange place to look for jewels?" marian assented, but re-assured by the fairy's words and countenance, she followed her more boldly, and they entered a dwelling, which bore evidence of a degree of wretchedness and poverty of which marian could not previously have formed an idea. it was very full of people. some men sat at a table playing with dirty cards; in a corner, on the floor, was a group of children, and marian was almost surprised to observe that even here the children were at play. they were at play, and they seemed as much interested with the rags and potsherds which formed their play-things as ever marian and her sisters had been with the costly trifles with which lavish godfathers and wealthy friends had furnished their nursery; and their play, too, was much like the play of other children in better clothing. marian felt a fellow-feeling with them, as she looked on; for on those young faces sorrow and sin had not yet left the dark traces of their presence. their eyes sparkled with joy, and they laughed merrily, as she often laughed herself; and when the brow of one grew dark at some slight offense given by another, and a sharp rebuke fell from his lips, she could not conceal from herself that neither was that feeling or that tone utterly incomprehensible to her. the rebuke was retorted with increased bitterness, and by-and-by words were uttered by those childish lips which made her shudder. the words were soon accompanied by blows, and the blows succeeded by cries, until the uproar grew so loud as to excite the attention of their elders. and now, oh! marian, you listened in vain for the mild reproof, the solemn admonition, from which you have often turned aside with secret vexation and disgust. blows and horrid curses stilled this tumult, and brought the young rioters to silence, though their lowering brows and sullen eyes showed that the storm was still raging in their bosoms. marian turned away her head in disgust. the fairy pointed to the other group, among whom some disagreement had risen about their game, and the little girl's disgust was turned to terror, when she saw the expression which anger gave to the strong features, and heard the fierce tones which it imparted to the deep voices of the men. "oh! take me from these horrid people," said she to the fairy, in an imploring voice. "presently," returned the fairy; "but let us think a while before we turn away from this terrible lesson. these men were once children like those little ones, and their anger was no more formidable. now their feelings are the same, but they have greater power to work evil; therefore do their passions appear to you so much more fearful." as she spoke, the door opened, and a woman entered. she was a pale, worn-looking creature, and she carried on her head a bundle so large that marian wondered how she had contrived to support it. she placed it down with some difficulty, and then, looking at the card-players with a scornful countenance, she addressed some words to one among the number. the noise caused by the dispute was so great that marian could not exactly catch their import, but they seemed mixed up with taunts and reproaches, and the woman pointed, as she uttered them, to the bundle which she had just before deposited upon the floor. the man, before angry, seemed irritated to madness by her words and her manner: he started up, and struck her violently--she fell to the ground. marian covered her face with her hands. when she removed them, she found herself once more in the street. as the fairy prepared to lead the way into another dwelling, marian hung back. "let me go away," said she; "i wish to see no more of such dreadful scenes." "fear not," said her guide; "you have not yet seen my talisman. it is worn in this dwelling, and where it is worn scenes such as you have just witnessed never occur." marian felt compelled to follow, but she did so unwillingly. the room they now entered bore as strongly the evidences of poverty as had done the one they visited before, but it did not look so utterly wretched. there was a greater air of cleanliness and decency throughout the apartment, and also in the appearance of its inmates. a woman sat sewing by the side of a table. her emaciated form, pallid features, and deeply-lined countenance, spoke of want, and toil, and woe; but there was something that made the eye dwell with complacency on that wasted figure, clad in rags, and surrounded by all the externals of the most sordid poverty. yes, that was it! there was the talisman! it shone serenely on this poor woman's brow, and lighted up all that wretched hovel with its heavenly radiance! it was reflected on the faces of the pallid children; the two younger of whom were playing on the floor, while the elder girl, seated on a stool at her mother's feet, was nursing a baby. the baby was poorly and fretful, and, at last, the little girl, wearied with its restlessness, looked beseechingly toward her mother. her mother could ill spare a moment from her work, but she laid it down, and took up the suffering infant. ill as it was, the talisman seemed to have a charm even for it--its cry became less frequent, and it soon fell into a quiet sleep. the woman laid it quietly down, and resumed her employment. she was scarcely seated, when a footstep approached the door. "father!" cried one of the little ones, in a tone of pleasure, and toddled toward the door. the father entered, but at the first sight of him the joy of the children was at an end. he looked as if he had been drinking--his face was flushed, and his brow dark and lowering. marian shrunk, terrified at his appearance: he was one of the men who had been quarreling over the card-table. the children appeared more frightened and unhappy than surprised at the mood in which he entered. they retreated hastily, seeming to anticipate his intention of pushing them out of the way, and he seated himself before the fire. his wife did not speak; as she glanced at him, she turned first red, then pale, but she bent her eyes over her work, making quiet answers to the rough words he from time to time addressed to her, and turning the wondrous talisman full upon him as she spoke. its light soon worked a change. he looked less suspiciously around him, his brow relaxed, and the children began to steal nearer and nearer, till at last the youngest climbed to his knees, and prattled away to him in his childish way, as he had before prattled to his mother. the mother smiled, as she rose and prepared to take her finished work to her employer. she hoped to procure the evening meal with the wages of her labor. _he_ had brought in no money to-day, she knew full well, but she did not ask; and with a kindly voice, she requested him to watch over the young ones in her absence, and glided from the door. the talisman must have dazzled his eyes as she went out, for they glistened with moisture; he muttered something, but marian did not hear what it was, and before she had time to inquire of her conductor, she found herself once more seated in the fairy chariot, and rising rapidly above the smoke and gloom of these homes of misery and want. a little while ago, she would have hailed her escape from this sad region with delight; but now she would fain have seen more of the wearer of the talisman. something of this kind she remarked to the fairy: "ah! marian," answered her guide; "there are jewels which render even squalid poverty attractive, and without which wealth, decked in all its ornaments, is void of charms!" on and on they floated, leaving far behind these scenes of destitution, and soon the city rose fair and bright below. stately palaces bounded the spacious streets. the skill of the sculptor and of the architect had ornamented the exterior of every building, and in the balconies and gardens bloomed the choicest of flowers and shrubs, perfuming the air with their fragrance, and delighting the eye with their beauty. the fairy alighted, and, beckoning marian to follow her, she entered one of the mansions. the little girl had been delighted by the aspect of the streets through which she had passed, but she was doubly charmed by the magnificence of the interior of the dwelling in which she now found herself. it seemed to her like one of the enchanted palaces of which she had read in the "arabian nights;" and, lost in admiration, she forgot all about the talisman as she passed through the gorgeous apartments, adorned with pictures, statues, and magnificent draperies. gayly dressed people occupied some of these rooms, but the fairy and marian did not stop until they reached one in which there were children. some of these children were older than marian, some younger. a party of the younger ones were busy at play, and, oh, what playthings were spread out before them! in her wildest flights of fancy, marian had never imagined such appliances and means of amusement as were here exhibited. such dolls! dressed in such exquisite style--such varieties of all kinds of toys; and, what marian coveted more than all the rest, such shelves of gayly bound books, with smart pictures, and most tempting titles. what happy children must these be! but, strange to say, their play was not half so hearty as had been that of the poor children with the broken potsherds. their laugh was less merry, and their manner more listless; but they became animated before long. they got angry, and then marian could not but confess, that, in spite of the difference of all external things, there was indeed a resemblance between these children and those in the humble roof she had so lately visited; for the scowling brow, the loud voice, the scornful lip, were common to both parties. one of the elder boys, who was lounging over a book, interposed, in an authoritative tone, to end the quarrel. he laid his hand, as he spoke, on the arm of the little girl whose voice was loudest. perhaps his touch was not very gentle, for she turned sharply round, and said something which brought the youth's color to his temples, and made his eyes flame with anger. he snatched the costly doll from the girl's arms, and threw it violently against the ground, kicked the little spaniel, which was crouching at her feet, till it fled howling to another asylum, and seemed about to proceed to other acts of violence, when the entrance of a servant, announcing that the horses were ready for his ride, effected a diversion. a quarrel next arose between the boy and his sister, who was prepared to accompany him, and, in angry discussion, they quitted the apartment. marian watched them from the window with a feeling somewhat akin to envy, for a pony, like one of those now mounted by these favored children, she had long thought would make her perfectly happy. but these young people did not seem happy. there was a look of gloom and discontent on the brow of either, as they rode off with averted faces and in sullen silence, which spoke of hearts but ill at ease. silence prevailed for some time in the room they had so lately left. play was at an end, and the children sat, some at a solitary occupation, some in idleness, but all with dull and fretful faces, apparently little cheered by the many means of enjoyment so lavishly scattered around them. by-and-by, a new-comer entered. he was a pale, sickly-looking boy, very lame, and possessing few of the personal attractions which distinguished the rest of the children of the family. even his dress seemed plainer and less becoming than that of the others; but he had not been long in the room before the charm which his presence diffused made marian suspect that he was the wearer of the talisman--and so it proved. and now the children played again, if less noisily, more cheerfully than before, and all seemed happier. even the little dog had a different expression, as he lay with his nose resting on his paws, ready to start up at the first playful word; and marian obeyed her conductor's summons to depart with a lighter heart. but she had no wish to linger in that magnificent abode. the manners of these children, in spite of their gay clothes and their fashionable airs, filled her with disgust, which was probably expressed in her countenance; for the fairy smiled as she looked at her, and said, in a gentle voice--"ah! marian, it is one thing to be a beholder of a scene of variance, and another to be one of the actors in it. passion does not now blind your eyes, and you can see strife and anger in their true and hateful colors. but is it always so?" marian blushed. she felt the rebuke the fairy's words conveyed, and she hung her head in silence. "i have not wished to pain you needlessly by these scenes," continued the fairy; "but to make you more sensible of the value of the talisman which it is in my power to bestow upon you, and to cause you to guard it well. for i must warn you, marian, that it is easily lost, and, when lost, most difficult to be regained. neglect, and the want of regular use, will cause it to vanish, you know not where, and a miracle would be required to put it once more in your power. are you willing to accept it, and to do your best to guard such an invaluable treasure?" marian's eyes shone with thankfulness, as she intimated her delight and gratitude. the fairy attached the charm to her neck, and scarcely was it fastened, when a tranquil happiness, such as she had never before experienced, was diffused through her whole being. she felt so calm, so much at ease, that she was content to sit silent until they alighted in her father's garden, and there her guide immediately vanished. and now marian's life was indeed a happy one. she seemed to walk surrounded by an atmosphere of love and joy. all loved her, and, for her part, her heart went forth in love to every one with whom she communicated. if any childish differences arose between herself and her brothers or sisters, it was but to show the talisman, and voices became once more gentle, brows once more bright. no wonder the precious talisman was the object of sedulous attention and most constant watchfulness! well did it deserve all the care that could be lavished on it, and for a time that of marian was unwearied. but this watchfulness relaxed, and on one or two occasions of extreme emergency, the talisman could not be found until after some moments of anxious search. this troubled its owner, and caused her to increase her vigilance. but again her efforts slackened, and one unlucky morning, when her brothers had been more than usually tormenting, she was horrified to perceive that it was entirely gone! in the vague hope of relief from the friendly fairy, she hurried down the garden, and sought the lily. but, alas! the lily was no longer to be seen. nothing remained but the brown stalk and withered leaves, which was more melancholy than if the place of the fairy flower had been a perfect blank. marian stretched forth her hands in despair toward the place where the fairy had disappeared, and burst into tears. "oh, marian, where have you been all this time?" cried the voice of little lucy, close to her. "nobody has seen you since you left us on the lawn, two hours ago, and we want you. cousin fanny has come to tea, and i am to have my little tea-things, and you must make tea." marian rubbed her eyes, and looked much amazed; then she muttered something about the fairy. "fairy!" cried lucy, with a merry laugh; "what nonsense you are talking! as if there were any real fairies! but do come; we can do nothing without you; and just give me one kiss first." marian pressed a kiss of reconciliation (for such the child meant it to be) on the lifted face. then she said, as she took her hand to accompany her to the house, "oh, lucy, lucy, you must have the talisman!" and now my story is told, and you, young folks, must guess my riddle--what was the talisman? michelet, the french historian. in , three works, on the same important subject issued from the parisian press. lamartine published his "history of the girondins," louis blanc and michelet the first volumes of their respective "histories of the french revolution." all three were strange productions, and all of them attracted much attention. it has even been said that they so powerfully affected the public mind, as greatly to have contributed to bring about the revolution of february, . this, however, is an exaggeration and an error. it is an exaggeration, inasmuch as, in the general case--whatever may be the ultimate influence which a writer produces on his age--it will seldom begin sensibly to operate in so short a space of time as a single year; it is an error, for a little consideration will show that the works in question were not the causes, but the signs or prognostics, of the approaching movement. they did not help to kindle the flame that was so soon to break forth: they were, on the contrary, a preliminary ebullition ejected by it. beyond this, there was no real connection between these precursors and the events they foreshadowed; foreshadowings, however, they undoubtedly were, and each of a different kind--lamartine being the symptom of the poetical, louis blanc of the political and social, michelet of the philosophical agitation that had long been smouldering in the heart of france, and was at length to force its way into open existence. the fate of these three authors has corresponded to their characteristics. the enterprise of february once accomplished, and the excitement of it past, men soon came to reckon the cost and value of the work, and the merits and qualifications of the workmen. the poet, in this estimate, was pronounced to be a dreamer, and his splendid visions were condemned as wanting reality; he was thrown aside into the shade. the socialist-politician, at the same time, was discovered to be half-charlatan, half-utopian; his plans and theories were found to lead to no practical result, and, indeed, to stand no practical test; he was sent into exile. the philosopher alone remained, not more, not less than what he had been. and this shows the advantage which philosophy, be it true or false, possesses--in this, that, so long as it confines itself to the closet, and abstains from pushing forward into open action, it does not attract popular attention, needs no popular support, and thus escapes popular censure. the poet lives by applause, or the hope of gaining it; the politician by success, or the struggle to succeed: the one must have sympathy, the other, tools; but the philosopher depends on himself and his system; he is sustained by his own convictions, relies on his sturdy faith, and is thus as much beyond the want of external vindication as he is beyond the reach of external justice. so it has been with michelet. he has remained in his obscurity; he has been a spectator, and not an actor; his name will not be written in the annals of these years; but, in return, he has maintained his position; and while the brilliant star of lamartine is eclipsed, and the portentous but vapory blaze of louis blanc has exhaled, the farthing candle of the retired sage remains unextinguished and visible. of course, when we speak of obscurity and farthing candles, we allude to michelet only in his character of a public man--a character which can scarcely be said to belong to him at all. in other respects, he is sufficiently distinguished. his learning is considerable; his reasoning is generally specious; his style is almost always singular. as a thinker, if not very profound, he is often very original; as a rhetorician, he makes up by his earnestness what he lacks in eloquence; so that, if he does not carry his readers along with him, he at all events secures their attention; and, as a professor, he bears a reputation which, though not perhaps very enviable, is very great. of the two families from which he springs, the one was from picardy, the other from the ardennes; both were of the peasant class. be it remarked, however, that the english word _peasant_ does not adequately render the french word _paysan_; _yeoman_, perhaps, would be nearer the mark, for a french _paysan_ may be comparatively a rich man, and he is almost always the owner of the land he tills. his paternal family, however, left the country, and settled in paris, where, after the reign of terror, his father was employed in the office which printed the "assignats." printing at that time was a thriving trade, and the elder michelet having found means to establish a press of his own, seemed in a prosperous way when his son was born. the future historian first saw the light in --a dim religious light, for the hot assailant of priestcraft and jesuitism was born in the church of a deserted convent, then "occupied, not profaned, by our printing-office; for what is the press in modern times but the holy ark?" the fortune of the family flourished but for a short time. in it received a severe blow by a measure which suppressed a great number of journals, and in it was totally ruined by a decree of napoleon, which limited the number of printers in paris to sixty, suppressing a great number of the smaller establishments, and, among others, that of the michelets. it seems, however, that they found means to print (it was for behoof of their creditors) some trivial works of which they possessed the copyright. they worked themselves, unaided. "my mother, in bad health, cut, folded, and sewed the sheets; i, a mere child set the types; my grandfather, very old and feeble, undertook the severe labor of the presswork, and printed with his trembling hands." michelet was now twelve years old, and knew nothing but a word or two of latin, which he had learned from an old bookseller who had been a schoolmaster, and was still an enthusiast in grammar. "he left me, when he died, all he had in the world--a manuscript; it was a very remarkable grammar, but incomplete, he not having been able to devote to it but thirty or forty years." michelet, we may take this opportunity of remarking, has a perpetual under-current of humor. "our place of work was in a cellar, where i had for companions my grandfather, when he came, and at all times a spider--an industrious spider, that worked beside me, and harder than i did--no doubt of it." michelet's religious education had been entirely neglected. however, among the few books he read, happened to be the "imitation of christ." "in these pages, i perceived all of a sudden, beyond this dreary world, another life and hope. the feeling of religion thus acquired was very strong in me; it nourished itself from every thing, fortifying itself in its progress by a multitude of holy and tender things in art and poetry which are erroneously believed alien to it." in the then existing museum of french monuments, he received "his first lively impressions of history." he peopled the tombs in his imagination, felt the presence of their occupants, and "never entered without a kind of terror those low vaults in which slumbered dagobert, chilpéric, and frédégonde." as for any thing like a regular education, all he had of it at this time was a short daily lesson from his friend, the grammarian, to whom he went in the morning before his work began. a friend of his father proposed to get the lad a situation in the imperial printing office. it was a great temptation: things had become more and more gloomy with the family. "my mother grew worse, and france also (moscow-- !); we were in extreme penury." yet his parents declined the offer; they had great faith in his future, and resolved to give him the education necessary to develop his talents. he was sent to the collége de charlemagne. great indeed, must have been their faith, but it has not been unrewarded. if michelet had entered the imperial printing office, what would have become of him? he would soon have earned a livelihood, and would probably have now been a respectable master-printer, but nothing more. as many great men are spoiled for all great things, by tying them down to uncongenial professions, as there are little men spoiled for all useful things by hoisting them up to professions for which they are unqualified. at college, the poor youth's difficulties were of course very great. he knew nothing of greek, nor of classical versification, and he had no one to help him--"my father, however, set himself to making latin verses--he who had never made any before." his professor, m. andrieu d'alba, "a man of heart, a man of god," was kind enough to him, but his comrades were very much the contrary; they ridiculed him and bemocked his dress and his poverty. "i was in the middle of them like an owl at mid-day, quite scared." he began to feel, indeed, that he was poor; he fell into a state of misanthropy rare at such an age; he thought, "that all the rich were bad--that all men were bad," for he saw few that were not richer than he was. "nevertheless," he adds, and this is singular, if true, "in all my excessive antipathy to mankind, so much good remained in me, that i had no envy." but one day--a thursday morning--in the midst of all his troubles and privations (there was no fire, though the snow lay all round, and there were great doubts if there would be any bread that evening), "i struck my hand, burst open by the cold, on my oaken table (i have that table still), and felt a manly joy of vigor and a future for me." doubtless, in the lives of many men, there have been such moments--moments when all is dark, when the necessaries of life are wanting, and there is no friend to cheer or pity--moments when the tides of life and hope are equally at their ebb, and when, if ever it were allowable, a man might be permitted to despair--when, nevertheless, a confidence, an inspiration suddenly buoys up the spirit in triumph and exultation, and a determination arises, and a freshness is infused which bears them on thenceforth, conquering and to conquer. thirty years afterward, michelet is seated at the same oaken table, and looks at his hand, still showing the scar of . but all else is changed: he is in easy circumstances; he is the popular author, the popular professor; but he remembers, and his heart says to him, "thou art warm, and others are cold; this is not just. oh! who will bring me comfort for this hard inequality?" and he consoles himself characteristically with the thought of working for the people by giving to his country her history; for, to michelet, history and the people are much the same thing as grammar was to his old friend, the schoolmaster with the unfinished manuscript. notwithstanding all his difficulties, michelet finished his studies at college quickly and well. he then looked out for the means of living; would not live by his pen; began giving lessons in languages, philosophy, and history, and seems to have been fortunate enough to find sufficient employment. he would not live by his pen, for he thought, he says, with rousseau, "that literature should be the reserved treasure, the fair luxury and inner flower of the spirit," as if, when it is all these fine things, it could not be a ministering angel too. in , he was made professor in a college (a college in france, be it remarked, generally corresponds to our public school). in , two of his works, which appeared at the same time, his "choice works of j.b. vico," and his "summary of modern history," procured him a professorship in the normal school. "this i quitted with regret in , when the eclectic influence was dominant in it. in , the institute and the collége de france having both named me as their candidate, i obtained the chair i now occupy," that of professor of history in the collége de france--a position similar to that of professor in our universities. from his teaching, michelet says he found the happiest results. "if, as an historian, i have a special merit which maintains me beside my illustrious predecessors, i owe it to teaching, which to me was friendship. these great historians have been brilliant, judicious, profound; but i, over and above, have loved." he should have added that, besides having loved much, he had also hated much; and that if as an historian he has "a special merit" in the eyes of those whose partisan he is, he owes it to the fierce animosity he shows to their opponents. michelet married young. he tells us no more of his mother. his father, however, it appears, survived till , and so had the satisfaction of seeing his hopes of his son realized. the death of this parent is thus alluded to in the preface to the "history of the revolution:" "and as every thing is of a mixed nature in this life, at the moment when i was so happy in renewing the tradition of france, my own was broken up forever. i have lost him who so often told me the story of the revolution--him who was to me at once the image and the venerable witness of the great age: i mean the eighteenth century; i have lost my father, with whom i had lived all my life, eight-and-forty years." and then immediately follows a passage, part of which we quote, as well exemplifying michelet's style and mode of thought: "when this happened, i was looking, i was elsewhere, i was realizing hastily this work so long dreamed of, i was at the foot of the bastile, i was taking the fortress, i was planting on its towers the immortal flag. this blow came upon me, unexpected, like a bullet from the bastile." in his place of professor, michelet, as we have said, still remains. in , he formally renounced all intention of ever entering on public life, and so following the example of so many other distinguished men in france, who have considered and used the professorial chair only as a stepping-stone to the parliamentary tribune. "i have judged myself," he says in his "peuple." "i have neither the health, nor the talent, nor the art of managing men necessary for such a thing." and in , when tempted and urged to come prominently forward, he kept his resolution wisely. the particular reason he assigned for continuing in his retirement, was curious: "now, more than ever, is the time," he said to his friends, "for me to teach the people of france their history, and to that, therefore, alone i devote myself." from the foregoing sketch of his life, and from the extracts we have given from his writings, a good deal will have been gathered of the character of michelet. to those who read his works at length, it will be exposed in full, for never did an author throw his individual personality more prominently forward. whatever be his subject, he never for a moment allows you to forget that it is he who is treating of it. we do not say that this is offensive--we do not say he is egotistical from vanity or self-importance--we only note what must be evident to all his readers, that, from his passionate temperament, he puts _self_ into the midst of every thing, and that his said self being of a very odd appearance and idiosyncrasy, michelet, more than any thing else, is prominent in michelet's pages. michelet is a man of very great research, and of very general information. true learning, however, is research and information well digested. such digestion his partial organization does not admit of. with him, every thing takes the nature of his peculiar preconceived ideas, and his materials, instead of affording him healthy nutriment, promote only a most undue secretion of bile. as to his style, it is unique. it arrests the attention, but too often it is only the singularity of the expression, and not the merit of the thought which does so; too often we find little but words, words, words; too often what at first seemed striking proves, on examination, to be poor and commonplace. his style has been compared to that of carlyle, and, in so far as it is abrupt and out of the way, with reason; but beyond this there is no likeness. the french writer is far inferior in originality and vigor to the english. as was said of an imitator of dr. johnson, "he has the nodosity of the oak, without its strength; the contortions of the sibyl, without her inspiration." add to this, that a kind of maudlin sentimentality pervades all his writings, and gives them a sickly look and an air of affectation. as a professor, michelet does not shine. he is a bad lecturer, not having the art of conveying his ideas orally. he wanders sadly from his subject. his elocution is painful. nevertheless, his lecture-room is always crowded long before the appointed hour. the reason is, that he holds a kind of political club. we were present on one occasion last year. the vast hall was filled to the ceiling. students sang revolutionary songs. one read some verses. a hiss was heard. "who hissed?" "i did." "_sortons._" they were going to fight a duel. a gentleman of some five-and-thirty years made a conciliatory speech. they resolved not to fight a duel. more verses, noise, and tumult--all this in the presence of ladies, a number of whom occupied the lower benches. the professor entered--a thin, pale man, with grayish, ill-arranged hair, through which he passed his fingers at times. shuffling to his chair, he seated himself, and then stretched his arms across the table before him, clutching it on the other side with one hand, as if he were afraid somebody was about to take it from him. the first half of his lecture was a reply to some newspaper attack on him; he said, however, that it was contrary to his usual practice to notice such things in that place, and we hope it was. the rest of the lecture was on education. education should not be called education, but initiation--that was all. not a word of history. tremendous applause as he concluded. freaks of nature. the celebrated hunterian museum in london contains, perhaps, the largest collection of natural curiosities, especially in the department of anatomy, in the world. one of the most striking specimens, described in the catalogue, is the skeleton of a boy, born in bengal some seventy years ago, remarkable for the singular conformation of his head. the description states that the child was healthy and was more than four years old at the time of its death, which was occasioned by the bite of a poisonous snake. when born, the body of the child was naturally formed, but the head appeared double, there being, besides the proper head of the child, another of the same size, and to appearance almost equally perfect, attached to its upper part. this upper head was upside down, the two being united together by a firm adhesion between their crowns, but without any indentation at their union, there being a smooth continued surface from one to the other. the face of the upper head was not over that of the lower, but had an oblique position, the centre of it being immediately above the right eye. when the child was six months old, both of the heads were covered with black hair, in nearly the same quantity. at this period the skulls seemed to have been completely ossified, except a small space on the top. the eyelids of the superior head were never completely shut, but remained a little open, even when the child was asleep, and the eyeballs moved at random. when the child was roused, the eyes of both heads moved at the same time; but those of the superior head did not appear to be directed to the same object, but wandered in different directions. the tears flowed from the eyes of the superior head almost constantly, but never from the eyes of the other except when crying. the superior head seemed to sympathize with the child in most of its natural actions. when the child cried, the features of this head were affected in a similar manner, and the tears flowed plentifully. when it sucked the mother, from the mouth of the superior head the saliva flowed more copiously than at any other time, for it always flowed a little from it. when the child smiled, the features of the superior head sympathized in that action. when the skin of the superior head was pinched, the child seemed to feel little or no pain, at least not in the same proportion as was felt from a similar violence being committed on its own head or body. a fuller account of this remarkable case may be found in the "philosophical transactions," by those who like to seek it. the crowning curiosities in this collection, however, are not named in the catalogue, though they stand in two small bottles, on a mahogany pedestal, in the centre of the smaller room. to a man with a soul for identicals, they must offer great attraction, for they are two portions of the small intestine of the emperor napoleon, showing the presence of the cancerous disease that killed him. these post-mortem relics were removed by a french surgeon who assisted in opening the body of the deceased conqueror, and were given by him to barry o'meara, who presented them to sir astley cooper. they offer scientific and historical evidence of the cause of the great man's death. some time ago a card leaned against the bottles, explaining the nature of their contents, but more than once a french visitor to the place became excited, and even violent, on seeing the relics of their venerated chief. one day a perfect scene occurred: "perfide albion!" shrieked a wild gaul, whose enthusiasm seemed as though it had been fed upon cognac. "perfide albion!" again and more loudly rang through the usually quiet hall. "not sufficient to have your vaterloo bridge, your vaterloo place, your vaterloo boots, but you put violent hands on de grand emperor himself. perfide! perfide! perfide!" he yelled again, and had he not been restrained, would have run a gallic muck among the bones and bottles, that would have been recollected for many a day. from that time the pathological record of napoleon's fatal malady has been unnumbered, and--to the million--unrecognizable. land, ho!--a sketch of australia. "land, ho!" cried the look-out. blessed sound to the weary landsman!--a sound associated with liberty and society, a walk on turf, a dinner of fresh meat and green vegetables, clear water to drink, and something to do. the dark line in the horizon was terra australis, the land of my dreams. as we approached more near, i was not greeted, as i had hoped, by sloping shores of yellow sands, or hills covered with green pasture, or clad with the bright-colored forests of southern climes; but far above us towered an iron-bound coast, dark, desolate, barren, precipitous, against which the long, rolling swell of the pacific broke with a dull, disheartening sound. no wonder that the first discoverers, who coasted along its shores in the midst of wintry tempests, abandoned it, after little investigation, as an uninhabitable land, the dwelling-place of demons, whose voices they fancied they heard in the wailing of the wind among the inaccessible cliffs. but soon a pilot boarded from a stout whale-boat, rowed by a dozen new zealanders. he reached the rocks, which, divided by a narrow cleft, or canal, and towering above the coast line are the sailors' landmark, known as sydney heads--the cleft that captain cook overlooked, considering it a mere boat harbor. steering under easy sail through this narrow channel, the scene changed, "as by stroke of an enchanter's wand," and port jackson lay before us, stretching for miles like a broad, silent river, studded with shrub-covered islands; on either hand of the shores, the gardens and pleasure-grounds of villas and villages descended to the water's edge; pleasure-boats of every variety of build and size, wherries and canoes, cutters, schooners, and indians, glided about, gay with flags and streamers, and laden with joyous parties, zig-zagged around like a nautical masquerade. every moment we passed some tall merchant-ship at anchor--for in this land-locked lake all the navies of the world might anchor safely. it was sunday evening, and the church-bells clanged sweetly across the waters, mingling in harmonious discord with the distant sounds of profane music from the pleasure parties. on we sailed, until we reached the narrow peninsula, where, fifty years previously, trees grew and savages dwelt, and where now stands one of the most prosperous cities in the world--there, in deep water, close along shore at cambell's wharf, we moored. in the buildings, there was nothing to denote a foreign city, unless it were the prevalence of green jalousés, and the extraordinary irregularity in principal streets--a wooden or brick cottage next to a lofty plate-glass fronted shop in true regent-street style. there were no beggars, and no half-starved wretches among the working-classes. in strolling early in the morning through the streets where the working-classes live, the smell and sound of meat frizzling for breakfast was almost universal. one day, while strolling in the outskirts of the town, above a cloud of dust, i saw approaching a huge lumbering mass, like a moving hay-stack, swaying from side to side, and i heard the creaking of wheels in the distance, and a volley of strange oaths accompanied the sharp cracking of a whip; presently the horns of a pair of monstrous bullocks appeared, straining solemnly at their yokes; then another and another followed, until i counted five pair of elephantine beasts, drawing a rude cart, composed of two high wheels and a platform without sides, upon which were packed and piled bales of wool full fourteen feet in height. close to the near wheel stalked the driver, a tall, broad-shouldered, sun-burnt, care-worn man, with long, shaggy hair falling from beneath a sugar-loaf shaped grass hat, and a month's beard on his dusty chin; dressed in half-boots, coarse, short, fustian trowsers, a red silk handkerchief round his waist, and a dark-blue cotton shirt, with the sleeves rolled right up to the shoulders of his brown-red, brawny, hairy arms. in his hands he carried a whip, at least twenty feet long, with the thong of which, with perfect ease, he every now and then laid into his leaders, accompanying each stroke with a tremendous oath. a little mean-looking man, shabbily dressed in something of the same costume, trotted humbly along on the off-side. three huge, ferocious dogs were chained under the axle of the dray. this was a load of the golden fleece of australia, and its guardians the bullock-driver and bullock watchman. the dust, the creaking of the wheels, and the ejaculation of the driver, had scarcely melted away, when up dashed a party of horsemen splendidly mounted, and sun-burnt, but less coarse and worn in features than the bullock-driver, with long beards and mustaches, and flowing hair, some in old shooting-jackets, some in colored woolen shirts, almost all in patched fustian trowsers; one, the youngest, had a pair of white trowsers, very smart, tucked into a pair of long boots--he was the dandy, i presume; some smoked short pipes; all were in the highest and most uproarious spirits. their costume would have been dear in holywell-street at twenty shillings, and their horses cheap at tattersall's at one hundred pounds. these were a party of gentlemen squatters coming down after a year or two in the bush, to transact business and refresh in the great city of australia. the climate of canada. thunder-storms in canada are rather frequent, and sometimes awful affairs. i remember one which occurred shortly after my coming to the country, in . i was then residing on the banks of the st. clair. the day had been beautiful, and the sun set gloriously, spreading around him a sea of gold, and tinging with his own essence the edges of some gloomy clouds which hung ominously over the place of his rest. i sat on the doorstep, watching the changing hues as the darkness crept on. ere long it was night, but all was calm and lovely as before. soon, flashes of lightning began to play rapidly in the west, but i could hear no thunder; and, after looking on till i was wearied, i retired to rest. how long i slept i can not tell; but i awoke with the pealing of the thunder and the roaring of the wind; nor have i been witness to such a storm either before or since. in most thunder-storms, there is the vivid flash followed by a period of darkness, and the deep roar, followed by as deep a silence; but, in this instance, flash followed flash, and peal followed peal, without a moment's intermission. the wind, too, blew a perfect hurricane. until that moment, scenes of a kindred nature had been fraught with pleasure to me rather than otherwise, but now i felt that eternity was unwontedly near, and that in another moment, i might stand before god. all nature seemed to heave. i tried to sleep but that was for a time impossible: i confess i lay expecting every moment to be my last. after a little, the doors began to slam, and the house filled with smoke. i immediately rose, but found that nothing had happened, and that the wind coming down the chimney, had caused the alarm. after this, i tried again to sleep, and finally succeeded, having become, after a time, accustomed to the uproar. when morning broke, all was still, and, on inquiring, i found that no other damage had been done than the killing of a poor horse in a neighboring stable. occasionally, also, we have, what may, i suppose be called a tornado. in the summer of , i had the satisfaction of tracing the progress of one which, a few days before, had swept across the brock district, canada west. it had been exceedingly violent in the vicinity of a village called ingersoll, and, from the narration of a friend who saw the whole, i now attempt to describe it. the day had been very oppressive, and, about noon, a rushing noise, accompanied with the sound of crashing timber and falling trees, was heard, which at once attracted the notice of the whole village. on looking out, they perceived, as it were, a cloudy body rolling along the ground on its lower side, while its upper rose above the trees. it was moving very rapidly from west to east, whirling like smoke as it passed, and accompanied by an intense heat. the smoky appearance, was, i suppose, attributable to the dust which it bore onward in its course. the air was filled with branches of trees; every thing gave way before it. the woods in the neighborhood were very heavy, but all standing in the direct line of the hurricane were snapped like pipe stems. a line, as even as if it had been measured, was cut through the forest; fortunately however, its width was not more than the eighth of a mile, otherwise the devastation would have been fearful. as it was, every thing was leveled which stood in its way. a house was blown down, and the logs of which it was composed scattered about like rods. a strong new barn was wrenched in pieces, and the timbers broken. gate posts were snapt close to the ground. heavy potash kettles, and wagons, were lifted up into the air. a wet log, which had lain in a swampy hollow till it was saturated and rotten, was carried up the acclivity some ten or twelve feet. no man could conceive such a complete devastation possible unless he had witnessed it. it ran on for some miles further, and twigs of the particular trees among which it wrought its strange work, were carried a distance of twenty miles. providentially, there were no lives lost--a circumstance attributable to the fact that it passed over the forests and fields. had it struck the village, not a home would have escaped. it seemed to move in a circle, since the trees were not knocked down before it, but twisted round as if with a wrench, and thrown backward with their tops toward the west, as it were _behind_ the tempest. all the large trees were broken across, generally about three or four feet from the ground. here and there a sapling escaped, but many of these were twisted round as a boy would twist a cane, and, with their tops hanging on the ground, they stood--most singular and decisive monuments of the great power which had assailed them. this year, something of a similar kind happened in the home district. the month of august ends our summer, for although we have warm weather through the most of september, still it is not the very warm weather of the preceding three months. toward the close of the latter, the greenness of the trees begins to pass away, and the changing tints tell unmistakably of the "fall." nor do i know any more beautiful sight than that of a canadian forest at this time, when summer is slowly departing, and winter is yet a long way off. as the season advances, the variety and beauty of the colors increase, passing through every shade of red, orange, and yellow, and making up a gay and singular patchwork. still, it is the beauty of decay, and i scarcely know whether more of sorrow or of joy passes through my mind as i gaze on it. a silvery-haired man is a noble sight when his life has been one of honor; but we never see him in his easy-chair, without remembering that death is crouching on his footstool. and so is it with our lovely autumnal scenery: nature then wears the robe in which she means to die. we then look back on another precious period too swiftly gone, and forward to the long, unbroken one which lies before us. moralizing in such a paper as this may be out of place, still one can scarcely help repeating some remark, as trite as true, about this "sear and yellow leaf," and our own short day. indulgent reader, how quickly doth our summer pass! how soon, like the withered leaf, shall each man of this generation drop from his much-loved tree, and take his place, quietly and unnoticed, among the millions of his fellows who have already fallen! by the end of september, the weather is cool, and, after that time, grows more so every day, till, after rain and wind, and not a few attempts at sunshine, toward the close of november, winter sets in, and gives a decided character to the scene. previous to this consummation, however, we have witnessed a phenomenon peculiar to this continent, in the shape of the "indian summer;" it generally comes in october. many descriptions have been given of this singular appearance, still i will venture to attempt another. it is a sort of supplementary season, though a very short one, lasting sometimes no more than two or three days, and never longer than about a week. between summer and winter, it stands parenthetically: the former is gone, the latter is not come; and between the two, this steps in to exercise its brief and pleasant dominion. it has not the freshness of spring, nor yet the fruitfulness of summer, neither has it the deadness of winter. it is so unlike other seasons, as to admit of no comparison with them. with the "indian summer," there comes over all things a strange quiet. no wind disturbs the atmosphere; the sun shines, but you see little of him. his presence is indicated rather by a mellowness overspreading and enriching the picture, than by any brightness or glare. a hazy film rests on earth and sky. it is not mist, nor does it resemble the sickly dimness which sometimes accompanies the heat of summer. the air seems full of smoke, but there is no smoke--of mistiness, but there is no mist--of dampness, but there is no damp. a sense of repose creeps over every thing. you are not languid, but you would like to lie down and dream. one would not wish the season to last, yet we are glad when it comes, and sorry when it leaves. under its influence, we can suppose that irving wrote the legend of "sleepy hollow," or thomson, the "castle of indolence;" and, under this influence, we would do well to read both. to its brevity i have already alluded. i may add, that some seasons we do not perceive it at all. as to its cause, i can not even conjecture any thing. the poor indian thinks that at this time the great spirit smokes his pipe, and the would-be philosophic white man, throwing poetry to the winds, talks scientific nonsense about some unknown volcano, which now gives forth a great volume of smoke. the indian's theory is about as rational as the other, and has this advantage over it, that it is eminently poetical. better is it at once to say that we know nothing about the matter. a winter vision. i saw a mighty spirit, traversing the world without any rest or pause. it was omnipresent, it was all-powerful, it had no compunction, no pity, no relenting sense that any appeal from any of the race of men could reach. it was invisible to every creature born upon the earth, save once to each. it turned its shaded face on whatsoever living thing, one time; and straight the end of that thing was come. it passed through the forest, and the vigorous tree it looked on shrunk away; through the garden, and the leaves perished and the flowers withered; through the air, and the eagles flagged upon the wing and dropped; through the sea, and the monsters of the deep floated, great wrecks, upon the waters. it met the eyes of lions in their lairs, and they were dust; its shadow darkened the faces of young children lying asleep, and they awoke no more. it had its work appointed; it inexorably did what was appointed to it to do; and neither sped nor slackened. called to, it went on unmoved, and did not come. besought, by some who felt that it was drawing near, to change its course, it turned its shaded face upon them, even while they cried, and they were dumb. it passed into the midst of palace chambers, where there were lights and music, pictures, diamonds, gold, and silver; crossed the wrinkled and the gray, regardless of them; looked into the eyes of a bright bride; and vanished. it revealed itself to the baby on the old crone's knee, and left the old crone wailing by the fire. but, whether the beholder of its face were, now a king, or now a laborer, now a queen, or now a seamstress; let the hand it palsied, be on the sceptre, or the plow, or yet too small and nerveless to grasp any thing: the spirit never paused in its appointed work, and, sooner or later, turned its impartial face on all. i saw a minister of state, sitting in his closet; and, round about him, rising from the country which he governed, up to the eternal heavens, was a low, dull howl of ignorance. it was a wild, inexplicable mutter, confused, but full of threatening, and it made all hearers' hearts to quake within them. but few heard. in the single city where this minister of state was seated, i saw thirty thousand children, hunted, flogged, imprisoned, but not taught--who might have been nurtured by the wolf or bear, so little of humanity had they, within them or without--all joining in this doleful cry. and, ever among them, as among all ranks and grades of mortals, in all parts of the globe, the spirit went; and ever by thousands, in their brutish state, with all the gifts of god perverted in their breasts or trampled out, they died. the minister of state, whose heart was pierced by even the little he could hear of these terrible voices, day and night rising to heaven, went among the priests and teachers of all denominations, and faintly said, "hearken to this dreadful cry! what shall we do to stay it?" one body of respondents answered, "teach this!" another said, "teach that!" another said, "teach neither this nor that, but t'other!" another quarreled with all the three; twenty others quarreled with all the four, and quarreled no less bitterly among themselves. the voices, not stayed by this, cried out day and night; and still, among those many thousands, as among all mankind, went the spirit, who never rested from its labor; and still, in brutish sort, they died. then, a whisper murmured to the minister of state, "correct this for thyself. be bold! silence these voices, or virtuously lose thy power in the attempt to do it. thou canst not sow a grain of good seed in vain. thou knowest it well. be bold, and do thy duty!" the minister shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "it is a great wrong--but it will last my time." and so he put it from him. then, the whisper went among the priests and teachers, saying to each, "in thy soul thou knowest it is a truth, o man, that there are good things to be taught, on which all men may agree. teach those, and stay this cry." to which, each answered in like manner, "it is a great wrong--but it will last my time." and so _he_ put it from him. i saw a poisoned air, in which life drooped. i saw disease, arrayed in all its store of hideous aspects and appalling shapes, triumphant in every alley, by-way, court, back-street, and poor abode, in every place where human beings congregated--in the proudest and most boastful places, most of all. i saw innumerable hosts, fore-doomed to darkness, dirt, pestilence, obscenity, misery, and early death. i saw, wheresoever i looked, cunning preparations made for defacing the creator's image, from the moment of its appearance here on earth, and stamping over it the image of the devil. i saw, from those reeking and pernicious stews, the avenging consequences of such sin issuing forth, and penetrating to the highest places. i saw the rich struck down in their strength, their darling children weakened and withered, their marriageable sons and daughters perish in their prime. i saw that not one miserable wretch breathed out his poisoned life in the deepest cellar of the most neglected town, but, from the surrounding atmosphere, some particles of his infection were borne away, charged with heavy retribution on the general guilt. there were many attentive and alarmed persons looking on, who saw these things too. they were well clothed, and had purses in their pockets; they were educated, full of kindness, and loved mercy. they said to one another, "this is horrible, and shall not be!" and there was a stir among them to set it right. but, opposed to these, came a small multitude of noisy fools and greedy knaves, whose harvest was in such horrors; and they, with impudence and turmoil, and with scurrilous jests at misery and death, repelled the better lookers-on, who soon fell back, and stood aloof. then, the whisper went among those better lookers-on, saying, "over the bodies of those fellows, to the remedy!" but, each of them moodily shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "it is a great wrong--but it will last my time!" and so _they_ put it from them. i saw a great library of laws and law-proceedings, so complicated, costly, and unintelligible, that, although numbers of lawyers united in a public fiction that these were wonderfully just and equal, there was scarcely an honest man among them, but who said to his friend, privately consulting him, "better put up with a fraud or other injury than grope for redress through the manifold blind turnings and strange chances of this system." i saw a portion of this system, called (of all things) equity, which was ruin to suitors, ruin to property, a shield for wrong-doers having money, a rack for right-doers having none: a by-word for delay, slow agony of mind, despair, impoverishment, trickery, confusion, insupportable injustice. a main part of it, i saw prisoners wasting in jail; mad people babbling in hospitals; suicides chronicled in the yearly records; orphans robbed of their inheritance; infants righted (perhaps) when they were gray. certain lawyers and laymen came together, and said to one another, "in only one of these our courts of equity, there are years of this dark perspective before us at the present moment. we must change this." uprose, immediately, a throng of others, secretaries, petty bags, hanapers, chaffwaxes, and what not, singing (in answer) "rule britannia," and "god save the queen;" making flourishing speeches, pronouncing hard names, demanding committees, commissions, commissioners, and other scarecrows, and terrifying the little band of innovators out of their five wits. then, the whisper went among the latter, as they shrunk back, saying, "if there is any wrong within the universal knowledge, this wrong is. go on! set it right!" whereon, each of them sorrowfully thrust his hands in his pockets, and replied, "it is indeed a great wrong--but it will last my time!" and so _they_ put it from them. the spirit, with its face concealed, summoned all the people who had used this phrase about their time, into its presence. then it said, beginning with the minister of state, "of what duration is _your_ time?" the minister of state replied, "my ancient family has always been long-lived. my father died at eighty-four; my grandfather, at ninety-two. we have the gout, but bear it (like our honors) many years." "and you," said the spirit to the priests and teachers, "what may _your_ time be?" some believed they were so strong, as that they should number many more years than three-score and ten; others, were the sons of old incumbents, who had long outlived youthful expectants. others, for any means they had of calculating, might be long-lived or short-lived--generally (they had a strong persuasion) long. so, among the well-clothed lookers on. so, among the lawyers and laymen. "but, every man, as i understand you, one and all," said the spirit, "has his time?" "yes!" they exclaimed together. "yes," said the spirit; "and it is--eternity! whosoever is a consenting party to a wrong, comforting himself with the base reflection that it will last his time, shall bear his portion of that wrong throughout all time. and, in the hour when he and i stand face to face, he shall surely know it, as my name is death!" it departed, turning its shaded face hither and thither as it passed along upon its ceaseless work, and blighting all on whom it looked. then went among many trembling hearers the whisper, saying, "see, each of you, before you take your ease, o wicked, selfish men, that what will 'last your time,' be just enough to last forever!" a little stimulant.--a temperance tale. rosa lindsay, when first i knew her, was a beautiful and elegant girl, the pride--and almost the support--of her mother and sisters, whom she assisted greatly by her exertions as an artist and drawing mistress, and the affianced bride of walter gardner, a young merchant, then abroad in one of our colonies. their marriage had been delayed on account of the uncertainty of walter's plans: he could not tell for some time whether he would settle in england, or be obliged to remain with the branch house abroad. rosa was devotedly attached to him, and their separation weighed heavily on her spirits. nor was this her only trial, poor thing! the lindsays had first lost much property, and then their troubles were aggravated by the long and severe illness of one of the girls, who was seized with an incurable internal complaint which confined her entirely to her bed; and also by a far worse blow, the death of their fond, indulgent father, who sank beneath these varied sorrows. man can not bear as woman does; he will fight hard with the world, and if he can not conquer it he perishes in the effort to submit. a fallen man can seldom raise himself; he dies and makes no sign; a woman strives on--endures all to the last. this was the lindsays' fate, left almost destitute by the father's death. women who, till but a short time since, had never known a care--whose path through life seemed to have been on velvet--now came forward prepared for the struggle for daily bread; casting aside the silken habits of luxurious ease, relinquishing the cherished appliances of refined opulence almost without a sigh; confronting the world almost cheerfully, if, by so doing, they could shield that dear father's name from reproach; nerving themselves for all the thousand undreamed-of stings that fall to the lot of those once rich when reduced to poverty, supported only by the hope of paying off some portion of his liabilities. how often might we see this! how little do we suspect it! should such conduct be revealed to us, as it occasionally is, "i did not think it was in them!" we exclaim. not one in ten thousand knows the heroism which lies hidden in the heart of a true woman. but this is a digression: to return to my story. rosa had one solace left, the best of all: walter remained true to her. he did not turn from her now that she was poor; he did not look less kindly on her because the elegant talents he had been so proud of were now exerted for her maintenance; nor was he less anxious to call her his wife now that her helpless family were in a degree dependent on her--far from that; he but cherished her the more fondly now that she had so little left her. he was true to her and to himself. he would have gladly taken her abroad with him; but this could not be, for she had her duties to fulfill. her sisters were too young to support themselves; and as her exertions were so necessary to the family, she decided on not marrying till she had put them all forward. walter could not combat so praiseworthy a resolution, he could only sigh and acquiesce in it; and indeed rosa did not keep it without severe self-sacrifice. say, is it nothing, when love, worth, and competence are offered to our grasp, to put them by--to toil on day by day, year after year--to feel that he we love better than life itself, better than all the world holds (save duty) is alone, uncheered in his task, far from us, from his home, perhaps ill and no one near to minister to him, while we might be his all, his wife?--to doubt even his truth, as the year drags wearily on, and friends fall off in turn, and the world turns harsh and dreary, and we feel our own once-loved charms decrease, and we compare ourselves with bitter regret to what we were when he first knew us; and yet a word would unite us never more to part--would solve each dreading doubt, would set our trembling alarms at rest: is it nothing to feel and fear all this, and yet pursue the path which still keeps us from the haven? no, no, this indeed is the battle of life, when hopes and affections are opposed to duty. when duties themselves jar, then comes our bitter, bitter trial. rosa and walter bore their burden nobly; but her mind was torn, worn out in the strife. the excitement of her art was wearing in itself. when the fancy paints what the unpracticed hand can not yet realize; when the unerring decrees of a cultivated taste condemn the sketches which poverty forces before the world; when the exhausted soul and body would gladly renovate themselves by complete inaction; but the demon of want cries work, work, and the cry must be obeyed. and then the drudgery of teaching, when the clumsy attempts of a tasteless, often unwilling pupil, seem like desecration of the art we worship--oh, this indeed is torture! it needed not the sickening misery of hope deferred, the blight of early hopes in addition, to pale the poor girl's cheek and break her spirits. her appetite grew uncertain, her eye and step were heavy; her art became a task; her temper even was rendered variable. mrs. lindsay was alarmed, and called in a physician. "miss lindsay is merely nervous, my dear madam" (merely nervous, indeed! people never say, "her life is merely a curse to her"); "her system is too low; we must throw in a little stimulant. she wants bracing, that is all." so spake dr. ----; he was right, doubtless: but those few words sealed his patient's doom. the glass of wine, warm, spicy wine, when she returned from her wearying lessons, was so invigorating! the world grew brighter as she drank; she had fresh hope, fresh strength. again she sipped, and again she worked--little dreaming she was laying the foundation of a fearful habit. do not blame her too severely, madam. wait till your whole frame is over-tasked either in action or endurance, till the world seems a blank before you; or worse, a cold, dreary, stagnant pond--you need not be poor to feel all this--then, when the cup is sanctioned by a mother, nay, ordered by your physician; when you quaff it and find your chilled energies renewed, your blood dancing in your veins, happy thoughts, gleams of sunshine crowding on your mind--then, if you can refuse a second draught, you are most happy. be blest, even in your admirable firmness; but oh, pity, be merciful even to the drunkard! she did not become that despicable thing at once; the path is slow though sure; it was long ere she reached its inevitable termination. "wine gladdeneth the heart of man;" far be it from us to blame the generous juice which our lord himself sanctioned by his first miracle and last command, "this do in memory of me;" it is the abuse, not the use, we deprecate; but there are some who insensibly become its slave--rosa was one of these. the glass of wine gave so much strength, that instead of taking it sparingly, she flew to it on every demand on her tried energies. her mother, seeing the benefit she derived from it, feeling how much was dependent on her, had not courage to check her, and was the first to offer it to her, never thinking of the fatal craving she was encouraging. no one suspected the gifted, animated girl we all so admired, of this degrading propensity; no one thought the sparkling eloquence which charmed our tiresome lessons, the fanciful sketches, now of fairies floating among green leaves and flowers, where reality and imagination were gracefully blended, or of some cool glade and ivy capped tower which led us far from towns and man; but all beautiful, tender, and pure in their design; no one thought all these were inspired by the poison which debases us lower than the brute creation. no, rosa lindsay was a creature to be loved, admired, respected, emulated. what is she now? what indeed? her exertions redoubled at first, and money poured in; then they became fitful, she was no longer to be depended on. pictures were ordered, sketched, and then they remained untouched for months; her outline was no longer as bold, her colors less skillfully arranged. the first was gorgeous and full of beauty, but it remained confused, as if the germ could not be developed--the tints were more glaring, the whole less well defined. pupils too talked of unpunctual attendance, of odd, impatient, flighty manners; she was no longer the gentle, patient girl who had first directed their unformed taste, and had charmed out the lingering talent. there was nothing whispered as yet, but there was a feeling that all was not right. she was so respected by all, we dared not admit the suspicion of intoxication even silently to ourselves: still it _would_ come, and we could not repel it; it was not mentioned, even among intimate friends, but there it lurked. mrs. lindsay became uneasy, but it was too late--her feeble exertions, her remonstrances could not check the habit: besides, rosa had never openly exposed herself--been _drunk_ in fact. her mother only feared she sometimes took a little drop too much, and it was difficult to refuse this medicinal cheering draught to so exemplary a daughter. they were now in easier circumstances: the sisters were educated and supporting themselves; one was well married; the only brother was now adding to the family fund, and walter was returning: there was no longer any bar to rosa's marriage. how anxiously we all looked forward to his return! at last she received a letter, written from southampton: he had landed--he would be with her in a few hours. what joy, what delight for the lindsays! now rosa would be rewarded for her noble sacrifices--at last she would be happy! the moments sped rapidly on in eager anticipation; the time drew nearer--he would soon be by her side. she grew restless, nervous, unable to bear the prolonged suspense: she who had endured a separation of years, sank under the delay of a few minutes. she had recourse to her accustomed solace, a little stimulant. walter came; and she was prostrate on the sofa, in disgusting insensibility. what a meeting for that ardent loving heart! mrs. lindsay in tears, the whole family evidently bent on concealment; and rosa, who should have flown to his arms, drunk!--no, not drunk; he could not, would not believe it--his pure, noble-minded rosa could not have sunk so far: even though a smell of ardent spirits pervaded the room, it was the last vice he could suspect in her. we all had long resolutely closed our eyes against the evidence of our senses: could he who once knew her inestimable worth, who had her precious letters, breathing the highest, most delicate, most womanly feelings, could he so pollute her image? "what is this?" he cried, "rosa ill! oh, what is this? good heaven, mrs. lindsay!" his eye rested on the half-empty tumbler. the mother answered that mute question. "rosa has not been well," she said; "she has over-exerted herself lately; the excitement of expectation was too much for her. dr. ---- has prescribed a little occasional stimulant, and i am afraid i have over-dosed the poor child; she has been in violent hysterics." walter believed the explanation. the very shame and confusion around him, mrs. lindsay's candor, all re-assured him; besides, he was so willing to be convinced; and when rosa recovered, horror-struck at her situation, and hid her tears and blushes on his shoulder, he rapturously kissed the lips yet fresh from the contaminating draught. tears of shame and repentance poured down her cheek; and still she felt rejoiced--inexpressibly relieved--by walter's evident belief that this was accidental. she felt that she would break this dreadful habit now he was with her; now she would be happy: she need not make any humiliating disclosure. "forgive me, save me!" she cried. "dear, dear walter, say you do not despise me?" "despise you, my own love, my sweet rosa?--never! now don't look cross; i have a hair in your neck, sweetest, and mean to pull it sometimes." it was thus walter laughed at what should have been a warning; but his nature was entirely unsuspicious, and he loved so tenderly. rosa now put a strong restraint on herself, she was again what we had first known her; and all our fears were dispelled. they were married. not a cloud lowered to cast a shadow on their bliss but the slight disapprobation of some distant relations of walter's, who, not knowing the lindsays save by hearsay, thought he might have done better than wed not only a portionless bride, but one whose family he must assist. however, as these fault-finders had no right to interfere, their remonstrances remained entirely unheeded. no bride could be happier than rosa, no husband prouder than walter. they were not rich; but they had more than enough for elegant economy, and were not debarred any of those refined enjoyments which give value to life. books, music--rosa's art--a well-chosen though small circle of friends, a pretty house, with its cultivated garden, and enough of labor for each to sweeten their repose; luxuries were not required here, they had the best blessings of this world within their reach, and some months were indeed passed in supreme felicity. mr. manson, an uncle of walter's, and one of those who had objected to his marriage, had come up to town on business, and his nephew was naturally anxious to pay him some attention and introduce his darling wife to him. the uncle was of the old school, fond of the pleasures of the table, an admirer of dinner-parties, and convinced that their cold formalities are the great bond of union in business and politics. it may be so; there is a certain look of respectability in a ponderous dinner-table--in the crimson flock-paper of the dining-room--in the large sideboard and heavy curtains: but unless the entertainer be a rich man, how the words "dinner-party" torture his poor wife! it is the prelude to a week's anxiety, to a day's hard work, to the headache, to the fidgets, to worried servants, to hired cooks, to missing spoons, to broken glass and china; and, after all, to black looks and cross words from her unreasonable husband, who votes the whole thing "a confounded bore," and cuts short the supplies, leaving her to make bricks without straw, to give a dinner without a double allowance. walter, yet new in his spousedom, was more amenable than an older hand; but rosa had no want of anxiety in this her first dinner-party. she felt sure that something would go wrong; that mr. manson would see some fault. how could she steer between the rock of meanness on which so many are split, and the whirlpool of extravagance where so many are engulfed?--the scylla and charybdis of housekeeping! she flitted incessantly from the kitchen to the dining-room, and long before the appointed time was wearied to death. a tempting bottle of port was decanted ready on the sideboard; she ventured on a glass--it refreshed her exceedingly, she was fitted for further exertions. had she taken no more, she would have been a happy woman; but after the first drop she could no longer withstand temptation; she drank again and again: her orders were contradictory, her servants saw her state and were impertinent; and when walter returned to dress for dinner, accompanied by mr. manson, his beautiful wife lay prostrate on the floor, with unmistakable proofs of her fault. the uncle gave a contemptuous whistle, and withdrew from the disgraceful scene; the husband carried her up-stairs and flung her on the bed, while tears such as man seldom shed showed his bitter shame, his agonized disgust, as he looked at the prospect life now presented. "she is my wife! my wife!" he cried. "oh, god! would she were in her coffin; i could love her memory had she died; but now--oh! rosa, rosa!" she roused herself at his voice, and feebly staggering toward him, offered her cheek for his accustomed kiss. he pushed her from him. she looked at her disordered dress, at his swollen eyes; a ray of reason penetrated even through the imbecility of drink. "walter, walter!" she screamed; "my husband, my dear, dearest husband! tell me--am i?--am i?--" "you are drunk, madam," he answered. "no, no, no; i am not; i can not be, now you are here! walter, we shall be late; we must dress to see your uncle. i am sober, indeed i am." fresh guests now arrived; the miserable husband locked his no less wretched wife in her room, and hastened to apologize for her unexpected illness. again he forgave her, and again she sinned: the greatest pang, the shame of detection, was over--the demon of drink was now ascendant. a puny wailing child was born, that child for whom the father had once so fondly hoped, but whose advent was now a fresh link in misery's chain. even the babe paid the penalty of its mother's vice by its enfeebled frame, its neglected state; its earliest nutriment was poisoned. rosa was soon debarred one of the holiest pleasures of maternity--her child was taken from her fever-laden breast. it became very ill; nature's voice was heard, the mother sacrificed her habits to her child. a new and celebrated physician was called in: he carefully examined the poor infant. "strange," he said; "now, had this child been born in a less respectable sphere, i should say it was suffering from a drunken parent." a muttered curse escaped from walter, a cry from rosa. the doctor looked at her more narrowly; in her watery eye and shaking hand he read the truth of his accusation. "you have killed the child, madam," he continued. "be thankful it is your only one." could not that little pallid face, peeping from its shroud, the father's mighty grief, her own despair, her agony, as each toll of the funeral bell fell on her crushed brain, and seemed to repeat the physician's words--could not this check her mad career? no, all was blighted around her--she had not a hope left; she drank for oblivion. and walter?--alas! he now drank with her. he long struggled with his dreary discomforts at home, with the dull, companionless evenings, when his rosa, that once highly-gifted creature, lay steeped in the coarsest lethe, or would in wild intoxication hurl reproaches at him. he had taken the keys from her; she broke open the locks; she bribed the servants for drink; she parted from her valuables, even his books and plate, to procure the necessary stimulant; she made his disgrace and hers public. no friend could come to their house, such fearful scenes occasionally took place there: his home was blasted--drink became his solace. the wild orgies of their despair were indeed terrible: but i need not dwell on this repulsive theme; suffice it to say, walter's affairs were now entirely neglected--he was soon irretrievably ruined. the lindsays made them a weekly allowance, for both were unfitted for any continuous exertion--they cumbered the earth. as soon as their pittance came in it was squandered in drink; and then they quarreled, and even fought. rosa, the elegant, refined, graceful woman, fought with her husband for drink, and often bore evident traces of his violence. her beauty had long since vanished; her features were red and bloated, her voice cracked, her person neglected; who would have believed that genius and high, noble, womanly feelings had once been hers! at last, in one of their furious encounters walter struck her brutally; she fell bleeding at his feet. the sight sobered him and his cries raised their humble neighbors--(they had long since left their pleasant home, and were now in lodgings more suited to their circumstances). a crowd of screaming women filled the room, while he sat shivering in helpless imbecility. "ah, poor dear, her troubles are over now!" said the women. "see what you've done, you wretch! you cowardly wretch!--you've killed your poor wife; and a lady, too, as she was. but you'll hang for it, if there's justice to be had for love or money!" the threat recalled his scattered senses: a razor lay near, its bright steel tempted him--one plunge, and all was over! a heavy fall disturbed the crowd around rosa--her husband lay dead--a suicide. she was slowly recovering her consciousness when the exclamations of those around told her there was still more to be dreaded; she hurriedly looked around: "walter!" she shrieked; "my husband dead?--dead? i am unforgiven--he was angry with me--tell him to give me but one word, one look. walter, you can not die thus!" she saw the self-inflicted wound: "oh, god! oh, god! i have been his bane through life: will the curse follow him to the other world?" she is now mad, in an asylum. thus ends the story of rosa lindsay. it may seem over-drawn: it is truth. [from the dublin university magazine.] maurice tiernay, the soldier of fortune. (_continued from page_ .) chapter xxi. our allies. i have spent pleasanter, but i greatly doubt if i ever knew busier days, than those i passed at the bishop's palace at killala; and now, as i look back upon the event, i can not help wondering that we could seriously have played out a farce so full of absurdity and nonsense! there was a gross mockery of all the usages of war, which, had it not been for the serious interest at stake, would have been highly laughable and amusing. whether it was the important functions of civil government, the details of police regulations, the imposition of contributions, the appointment of officers, or the arming of the volunteers, all was done with a pretentious affectation of order that was extremely ludicrous. the very institutions which were laughingly agreed at over night, as the wine went briskly round, were solemnly ratified in the morning, and, still more strange, apparently believed in by those whose ingenuity devised them; and thus the "irish directory," as we styled the imaginary government, the national treasury, the pension fund, were talked of with all the seriousness of facts! as to the commissariat, to which i was for the time attached, we never ceased writing receipts and acknowledgments for stores and munitions of war, all of which were to be honorably acquitted by the treasury of the irish republic. no people could have better fallen in with the humor of this delusion than the irish. they seemed to believe every thing, and yet there was a reckless, headlong indifference about them which appeared to say, that they were equally prepared for any turn fortune might take, and if the worst should happen, they would never reproach us for having misled them. the real truth was--but we only learned it too late--all those who joined us were utterly indifferent to the great cause of irish independence; their thoughts never rose above a row and a pillage. it was to be a season of sack, plunder, and outrage, but nothing more! that such were the general sentiments of the volunteers, i believe none will dispute. we, however, in our ignorance of the people and their language, interpreted all the harum-scarum wildness we saw as the buoyant temperament of a high-spirited nation, who, after centuries of degradation and ill-usage, saw the dawning of liberty at last. had we possessed any real knowledge of the country, we should at once have seen, that of those who joined us none were men of any influence or station. if, now and then, a man of any name strayed into the camp, he was sure to be one whose misconduct or bad character had driven him from associating with his equals; and, even of the peasantry, our followers were of the very lowest order. whether general humbert was the first to notice the fact i know not; but charost, i am certain, remarked it, and even thus early predicted the utter failure of the expedition. i must confess the "volunteers" were the least imposing of allies! i think i have the whole scene before my eyes this moment, as i saw it each morning in the palace-garden. the inclosure, which, more orchard than garden, occupied a space of a couple of acres, was the head-quarters of colonel charost; and here, in a pavilion formerly dedicated to hoes, rakes, rolling-stones, and garden tools, we were now established to the number of fourteen. as the space beneath the roof was barely sufficient for the colonel's personal use, the officers of his staff occupied convenient spots in the vicinity. my station was under a large damson tree, the fruit of which afforded me, more than once, the only meal i tasted from early morning till late at night; not, i must say, from any lack of provisions, for the palace abounded with every requisite of the table, but that, such was the pressure of business, we were not able to leave off work even for half-an-hour during the day. a subaltern's guard of grenadiers, divided into small parties, did duty in the garden; and it was striking to mark the contrast between these bronzed and war-worn figures and the reckless, tatterdemalion host around us. never was seen such a scare-crow set! wild-looking, ragged wretches, their long, lank hair hanging down their necks and shoulders, usually barefooted, and with every sign of starvation in their features; they stood in groups and knots, gesticulating, screaming, hurraing, and singing, in all the exuberance of a joy that caught some, at least, of its inspiration from whisky. it was utterly vain to attempt to keep order among them; even the effort to make them defile singly through the gate into the garden was soon found impracticable, without the employment of a degree of force that our adviser, kerrigan, pronounced would be injudicious. not only the men made their way in, but great numbers of women, and even children also; and there they were, seated around fires, roasting their potatoes in this bivouac fashion, as though they had deserted hearth and home to follow us. such was the avidity to get arms--of which the distribution was announced to take place here--that several had sealed the wall in their impatience, and as they were more or less in drink, some disastrous accidents were momentarily occurring, adding the cries and exclamations of suffering to the ruder chorus of joy and revelry that went on unceasingly. the impression--we soon saw how absurd it was--the impression that we should do nothing that might hurt the national sensibilities, but concede all to the exuberant ardor of a bold people, eager to be led against their enemies, induced us to submit to every imaginable breach of order and discipline. "in a day or two, they'll be like your own men; you'll not know them from a battalion of the line. those fellows will be like a wall under fire." such and such like were the assurances we were listening to all day, and it would have been like treason to the cause to have refused them credence. perhaps, i might have been longer a believer in this theory, had i not perceived signs of a deceptive character in these, our worthy allies; many who, to our faces, wore nothing but looks of gratitude and delight, no sooner mixed with their fellows than their downcast faces and dogged expression betrayed some inward sense of disappointment. one very general source of dissatisfaction arose from the discovery, that we were not prepared to pay our allies! we had simply come to arm and lead them, to shed our own blood, and pledge our fortunes in their cause; but we certainly had brought no military chest to bribe their patriotism, nor stimulate their nationality; and this, i soon saw, was a grievous disappointment. in virtue of this shameful omission on our part, they deemed the only resource was to be made officers, and thus crowds of uneducated, semi-civilized vagabonds were every hour assailing us with their claims to the epaulet. of the whole number of these, i remember but three who had ever served at all; two were notorious drunkards, and the third a confirmed madman, from a scalp wound he had received when fighting against the turks. many, however, boasted high-sounding names, and were, at least so kerrigan said, men of the first families in the land. our general-in-chief, saw little of them while at killala, his principal intercourse being with the bishop and his family; but colonel charost soon learned to read their true character, and from that moment conceived the most disastrous issue to our plans. the most trustworthy of them was a certain o'donnel, who, although not a soldier, was remarked to possess a greater influence over the rabble volunteers than any of the others. he was a young man of the half-squire class, an ardent and sincere patriot, after his fashion; but that fashion, it must be owned, rather partook of the character of class-hatred and religious animosity than the features of a great struggle for national independence. he took a very low estimate of the fighting qualities of his countrymen, and made no secret of declaring it. "you would be better without them altogether," said he one day to charost; "but if you must have allies, draw them up in line, select one third of the best, and arm them." "and the rest?" asked charost. "shoot _them_," was the answer. this conversation is on record, indeed i believe there is yet one witness living to corroborate it. i have said that we were very hard worked; but i must fain acknowledge that the real amount of business done was very insignificant, so many were the mistakes, misconceptions, and interruptions, not to speak of the time lost by that system of conciliation, of which i have already made mention. in our distribution of arms there was little selection practiced or possible. the process was a brief one, but it might have been briefer. thomas colooney, of banmayroo, was called, and not usually being present, the name would be passed on, from post to post, till it swelled into a general shout of colooney. "tom colooney, you're wanted; tom, run for it, man, there's a price bid for you! here's mickey, his brother, maybe he'll do as well." and so on; all this accompanied by shouts of laughter, and a running fire of jokes, which, being in the vernacular, was lost to us. at last the real colooney was found, maybe eating his dinner of potatoes, maybe discussing his poteen with a friend--sometimes engaged in the domestic duties of washing his shirt or his small-clothes, fitting a new crown to his hat, or a sole to his brogues--whatever his occupation, he was urged forward by his friends, and the public, with many a push, drive, and even a kick, into our presence, where, from the turmoil, uproar, and confusion, he appeared to have fought his way by main force, and very often, indeed, this was literally the fact, as his bleeding nose, torn coat, and bare head attested. "thomas colooney--are you the man?" asked one of our irish officers of the staff. "yis, yer honor, i'm that same!" "you've come here, colooney, to offer yourself as a volunteer in the cause of your country?" here a yell of "ireland for ever!" was always raised by the bystanders, which drowned the reply in its enthusiasm, and the examination went on: "you'll be true and faithful to that cause till you secure for your country the freedom of america and the happiness of france? kiss the cross. are you used to fire-arms?" "isn't he?--maybe not! i'll be bound he knows a musket from a mealy pratie!" such and such like were the comments that rang on all sides, so that the modest "yis, sir" of the patriot was completely lost. "load that gun, tom," said the officer. here colooney, deeming that so simple a request must necessarily be only a cover for something underhand--a little clever surprise or so--takes up the piece in a very gingerly manner, and examines it all round, noticing that there is nothing, so far as he can discover, unusual nor uncommon about it. "load that gun, i say." sharper and more angrily is the command given this time. "yis, sir, immediately." and now tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be already a charge there--a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the french officers is making itself manifest in various ways. at length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish, is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. he now primes and cocks the piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldier-like severity. as he stands thus for scrutiny, a rather lively debate gets up as to whether or not tom bit off the end of the cartridge before he rammed it down. the biters and anti-biters being equally divided, the discussion waxes strong. the french officers, eagerly asking what may be the disputed point, laugh very heartily on hearing it. "i'll lay ye a pint of sperits she won't go off," cries one. "done! for two noggins, if he pulls strong," rejoins another. "devil fear the same gun," cries a third; "she shot mr. sloan at fifty paces, and killed him dead." "'tisn't the same gun--that's a frinch one--a bran new one!" "she isn't." "she is." "no, she isn't." "yes, but she is." "what is't you say?" "hould your prate." "arrah, teach your mother to feed ducks." "silence in the ranks. keep silence there. attention, colooney!" "yis, sir." "fire!" "what at, sir?" asks tom, taking an amateur glance of the company, who look not over-satisfied at his scrutiny. "fire in the air!" bang goes the piece, and a yell follows the explosion, while cries of "well done, tom," "begorra, if a protestant got that!" and so on, greet the performance. "stand by colooney!" and the volunteer falls back to make way for another and similar exhibition, occasionally varied by the humor or the blunders of the new candidate. as to the treasury orders, as we somewhat ludicrously styled the checks upon our imaginary bank, the scenes they led to were still more absurd and complicated. we paid liberally, that is to say in promises, for every thing, and our generosity saved us a good deal of time, for it was astonishing how little the owners disputed our solvency when the price was left to themselves. but the rations were indeed the most difficult matter of all; it being impossible to convince our allies of the fact that the compact was one of trust, and the ration was not his own, to dispose of in any manner that might seem fit. "sure if i don't like to ate it--if i haven't an appetite for it--if i'd rather have a pint of sperits, or a flannel waistcoat, or a pair of stockings, than a piece of mate, what harm is that to any one?" this process of reasoning was much harder of answer than is usually supposed, and even when replied to, another difficulty arose in its place. unaccustomed to flesh diet, when they tasted they couldn't refrain from it, and the whole week's rations of beef, amounting to eight pounds, were frequently consumed in the first twenty-four hours. such instances of gormandizing were by no means unfrequent, and stranger still, in no one case, so far as i knew, followed by any ill consequences. the leaders were still more difficult to manage than the people. without military knowledge or experience of any kind, they presumed to dictate the plan of a campaign to old and distinguished officers, like humbert and serazin, and when overruled by argument or ridicule, invariably fell back upon their superior knowledge of ireland and her people, a defense for which, of course, we were quite unprepared, and unable to oppose any thing. from these and similar causes, it may well be believed that our labors were not light, and yet somehow, with all the vexations and difficulties around us, there was a congenial tone of levity, an easy recklessness, and a careless freedom in the irish character that suited us well. there was but one single point whereupon we were not thoroughly together, and this was religion. they were a nation of most zealous catholics, and as for us, the revolution had not left the vestige of a belief among us. a reconnaissance in ballina, meant rather to discover the strength of the garrison than of the place itself, having shown that the royal forces were inconsiderable in number, and mostly militia, general humbert moved forward on sunday morning, the th, with nine hundred men of our own force, and about three thousand "volunteers," leaving colonel charost and his staff, with two companies of foot, at killala, to protect the town, and organize the new levies, as they were formed. we saw our companions defile from the town with heavy hearts. the small body of real soldiers seemed even smaller still from being enveloped by that mass of peasants who accompanied them, and who marched on the flanks or in the rear, promiscuously, without discipline or order. a noisy, half-drunken rabble, firing off their muskets at random, and yelling, as they went, in savage glee and exultation. our sole comfort was in the belief, that, when the hour of combat did arrive, they would fight to the very last. such were the assurances of their own officers, and made so seriously and confidently, that we never thought of mistrusting them. "if they be but steady under fire," said charost, "a month will make them good soldiers. ours is an easy drill, and soon learned; but i own," he added, "they do not give me this impression." such was the reflection of one who watched them as they went past, and with sorrow we saw ourselves concurring in the sentiment. chapter xxii. the day of "castlebar." we were all occupied with our drill at daybreak on the morning of the th of august, when a mounted orderly arrived at full gallop, with news that our troops were in motion for castlebar, and orders for us immediately to march to their support, leaving only one subaltern and twenty men in "the castle." the worthy bishop was thunderstruck at the tidings. it is more than probable that he never entertained any grave fears of our ultimate success; still he saw that in the struggle, brief as it might be, rapine, murder, and pillage would spread over the country, and that crime of every sort would be certain to prevail during the short interval of anarchy. as our drums were beating the "rally," he entered the garden, and with hurried steps came forward to where colonel charost was standing delivering his orders. "good day, mons. l'evêque," said the colonel, removing his hat, and bowing low. "you see us in a moment of haste. the campaign has opened, and we are about to march." "have you made any provision for the garrison of this town, colonel?" said the bishop, in terror. "your presence alone has restrained the population hitherto. if you leave us--" "we shall leave you a strong force of our faithful allies, sir," said charost; "irishmen could scarcely desire better defenders than their countrymen." "you forget, colonel, that some of us here are averse to this cause, but as non-combatants, lay claim to protection." "you shall have it, too, mons. l'evêque; we leave an officer and twenty men." "an officer and twenty men!" echoed the bishop, in dismay. "quite sufficient, i assure you," said charost, coldly; "and if a hair of one of their heads be injured by the populace, trust me, sir, that we shall take a terrible vengeance." "you do not know these people, sir, as i know them," said the bishop, eagerly. "the same hour that you march out, will the town of killala be given up to pillage. as to your retributive justice, i may be pardoned for not feeling any consolation in the pledge, for _certes_ neither i nor mine will live to witness it." as the bishop was speaking, a crowd of volunteers, some in uniform and all armed, drew nearer and nearer to the place of colloquy; and although understanding nothing of what went forward in the foreign language, seemed to watch the expressions of the speakers' faces with a most keen interest. to look at the countenances of these fellows, truly one would not have called the bishop's fears exaggerated; their expression was that of demoniac passion and hatred. "look, sir," said the bishop, turning round, and facing the mob, "look at the men to whose safeguard you propose to leave us." charost made no reply; but making a sign for the bishop to remain where he was, re-entered the pavilion hastily. i could see through the window that he was reading his dispatches over again, and evidently taking counsel with himself how to act. the determination was quickly come to. "monsieur l'evêque," said he, laying his hand on the bishop's arm, "i find that my orders admit of a choice on my part. i will, therefore, remain with you myself, and keep a sufficient force of my own men. it is not impossible, however, that in taking this step i may be periling my own safety. you will, therefore, consent, that one of your sons shall accompany the force now about to march, as a hostage. this is not an unreasonable request on my part." "very well, sir," said the bishop, sadly. "when do they leave?" "within half an hour," said charost. the bishop, bowing, retraced his steps through the garden back to the house. our preparations for the road were by this time far advanced. the command said, "light marching order, and no rations;" so that we foresaw that there was sharp work before us. our men--part of the th demi-brigade, and a half company of grenadiers--were, indeed, ready on the instant; but the irish were not so easily equipped. many had strayed into the town; some, early as it was, were dead drunk; and not a few had mislaid their arms or their ammunition, secretly preferring the chance of a foray of their own to the prospect of a regular engagement with the royalist troops. our force was still a considerable one, numbering at least fifteen hundred volunteers, besides about eighty of our men. by seven o'clock we were under march, and, with drums beating, defiled from the narrow streets of killala into the mountain road that leads to cloonagh; it being our object to form a junction with the main body at the foot of the mountain. two roads led from ballina to castlebar--one to the eastward, the other to the west of lough con. the former was a level road, easily passable by wheel carriages, and without any obstacle or difficulty whatever; the other took a straight direction over lofty mountains, and in one spot--the pass of burnageeragh--traversed a narrow defile, shut in between steep cliffs, where a small force, assisted by artillery, could have arrested the advance of a great army. the road itself, too, was in disrepair, the rains of autumn had torn and fissured it, while heavy sandslips and fallen rocks in many places rendered it almost impassable. the royalist generals had reconnoitred it two days before, and were so convinced that all approach in this direction was out of the question, that a small picket of observation, posted near the pass of burnageeragh, was withdrawn as useless, and the few stockades they had fixed were still standing as we marched through. general humbert had acquired all the details of these separate lines of attack, and at once decided for the mountain road, which, besides the advantage of a surprise, was in reality four miles shorter. the only difficulty was the transport of our artillery, but as we merely carried those light field-pieces called "curricle guns," and had no want of numbers to draw them, this was not an obstacle of much moment. with fifty, sometimes sixty peasants to a gun, they advanced, at a run, up places where our infantry found the ascent sufficiently toilsome. here, indeed, our allies showed in the most favorable colors we had yet seen them. the prospect of a fight seemed to excite their spirits almost to madness; every height they surmounted they would break into a wild cheer, and the vigor with which they tugged the heavy ammunition carts through the deep and spongy soil never interfered with the joyous shouts they gave, and the merry songs they chanted in rude chorus. "tra, la, la! the french is comin', what'll now the red coats do? maybe they won't get a drubbin? sure we'll lick them black and blue! "ye little knew the day was near ye, ye little thought they'd come so far; but here's the boys that never fear ye-- run, yer sowls, for castlebar!" to this measure they stepped in time, and although the poetry was lost upon our ignorance, the rattling joyousness of the air sounded pleasantly, and our men, soon catching up the tune, joined heartily in the chorus. another very popular melody ran somewhat thus: "our day is now begun, says the shan van voght. our day is now begun, says the shan van voght. our day is now begun, and ours is all the fun! be my sowl, ye'd better run! says the shan van voght!" there was something like a hundred verses to this famous air, but it is more than likely, from the specimen given above, that my reader will forgive the want of memory that leaves me unable to quote others; nor is it necessary that i should add, that the merit of these canticles lay in the hoarse accord of a thousand rude voices, heard in the stillness of a wild mountain region, and at a time when an eventful struggle was before us; such were the circumstances which possibly made these savage rhymes assume something of terrible meaning. we had just arrived at the entrance of burnageeragh, when one of our mounted scouts rode up to say, that a peasant, who tended cattle on the mountains, had evidently observed our approach, and hastened into castlebar with the tidings. it was difficult to make general humbert understand this fact. "is this the patriotism we have heard so much of? are these the people that would welcome us as deliverers? parbleu! i've seen nothing but lukewarmness or downright opposition since i landed! in that same town we have just quitted--a miserable hole, too, was it--what was the first sight that greeted us? a fellow in our uniform hanging from the stanchion of a window, with an inscription round his neck, to the purport that he was traitor! this is the fraternity which our irish friends never wearied to speak of!" our march was now hastened, and in less than an hour we debouched from the narrow gorge into the open plain before the town of castlebar. a few shots in our front told us that the advanced picket had fallen in with the enemy, but a french cheer also proclaimed that the royalists had fallen back, and our march continued unmolested. the road, which was wide and level here, traversed a flat country, without hedge-row or cover, so that we were able to advance in close column, without any precaution for our flanks; but before us there was a considerable ascent, which shut out all view of the track beyond it. up this our advanced guard was toiling, somewhat wearied with a seven hours' march and the heat of a warm morning, when scarcely had the leading files topped the ridge, than, plump went a round shot over their heads, which, after describing a fine curve, plunged into the soft surface of a newly plowed field. the troops were instantly retired behind the crest of the hill, and an orderly dispatched to inform the general that we were in face of the enemy. he had already seen the shot and marked its direction. the main body was accordingly halted, and, defiling from the centre, the troops extended on either side into the fields. while this movement was being effected humbert rode forward, and crossing the ridge, reconnoitred the enemy. it was, as he afterward observed, a stronger force than he had anticipated, consisting of between three and four thousand bayonets, with four squadrons of horse, and two batteries of eight guns, the whole admirably posted on a range of heights, in front of the town, and completely covering it. the ridge was scarcely eight hundred yards' distance, and so distinctly was every object seen, that humbert and his two aids-de-camp were at once marked and fired at, even in the few minutes during which the "reconnoissance" lasted. as the general retired the firing ceased, and now all our arrangements were made without molestation of any kind. they were, indeed, of the simplest and speediest. two companies of our grenadiers were marched to the front, and in advance of them about twenty paces were posted a body of irish in french uniforms. this place being assigned them, it was said, as a mark of honor, but in reality for no other purpose than to draw on them the royalist artillery, and thus screen the grenadiers. under cover of this force came two light six-pounder guns, loaded with grape, and intended to be discharged at point-blank distance. the infantry brought up the rear in three compact columns, ready to deploy into line at a moment. in these very simple tactics no notice whatever was taken of the great rabble of irish who hung upon our flanks and rear in disorderly masses, cursing, swearing, and vociferating in all the license of insubordination; and o'donnel, whose showy uniform contrasted strikingly with the dark blue coat and low glazed cocked hat of humbert, was now appealed to by his countrymen as to the reason of this palpable slight. "what does he want? what does the fellow say?" asked humbert, as he noticed his excited gestures and passionate manner. "he is remonstrating, sir," replied i, "on the neglect of his countrymen; he says that they do not seem treated like soldiers; no post has been assigned nor any order given them." "tell him, sir," said humbert, with a savage grin, "that the discipline we have tried in vain to teach them hitherto, we'll not venture to rehearse under an enemy's fire; and tell him also that he and his ragged followers are free to leave us, or, if they like better, to turn against us, at a moment's warning." i was saved the unpleasant task of interpreting this civil message by conolly who, taking o'donnel aside, appeared endeavoring to reason with him, and reduce him to something like moderation. "there, look at them, they're running like sheep!" cried humbert, laughing, as he pointed to an indiscriminate rabble, some hundred yards off, in a meadow, and who had taken to their heels on seeing a round shot plunge into the earth near them. "come along, sir: come with me, and when you have seen what fire is, you may go back and tell your countrymen! serazin, is all ready? well then, forward. march!" "march!" was now re-echoed along the line, and steadily, as on a parade, our hardy infantry stepped out, while the drums kept up a continued roll as we mounted the hill. the first to cross the crest of the ascent were the "legion," as the irish were called, who, dressed like french soldiers, were selected for some slight superiority in discipline and bearing. they had but gained the ridge, however, when a well-directed shot from a six-pounder smashed in among them, killing two and wounding six or seven others. the whole mass immediately fell back on our grenadiers. the confusion compelled the supporting column to halt, and once more the troops were retired behind the hill. "forward men, forward!" cried humbert, riding up to the front, and in evident impatience at these repeated checks; and now the grenadiers passed to the front, and, mounting the height, passed over, while a shower of balls flew over and around them. a small slated house stood half way down the hill, and for this the leading files made a dash, and gained it, just as the main body were, for the third time, driven back to re-form. it was now evident that an attack in column could not succeed against a fire so admirably directed; and humbert quickly deployed into line, and prepared to storm the enemy's position. up to this the conduct of the royalists had been marked by the greatest steadiness and determination. every shot from their batteries had told, and all promised an easy and complete success to their arms. no sooner, however, had our infantry extended into line, than the militia, unaccustomed to see an enemy before them, and unable to calculate distance, opened a useless, dropping fire, at a range where not a bullet could reach! the ignorance of this movement, and the irregularity of the discharge, were not lost upon our fellows, most of whom were veterans of the army of the rhine; and, with a loud cheer of derision, our troops advanced to meet them, while a cloud of skirmishers dashed forward, and secured themselves under cover of a hedge. even yet, however, no important advantage had been gained by us; and if the royalists had kept their ground in support of their artillery, we must have been driven back with loss; but, fortunately for us, a movement we made to keep open order was mistaken by some of the militia officers for the preparation to outflank them, a panic seized the whole line, and they fell back, leaving their guns totally exposed and unprotected. "they're running! they're running!" was the cry along our line; and now a race was seen, which should be first up with the artillery. the cheers at this moment were tremendous from our "allies," who, having kept wide aloof hitherto, were now up with us, and, more lightly equipped than we were, soon took the lead. the temerity, however, was costly, for three several times did the royalist artillery load and fire; and each discharge, scarcely at half-musket range, was terribly effective. we were by no means prepared for either so sudden or complete a success, and the scene was exciting in the highest degree, as the whole line mounted the hill, cheering madly. from the crest of this rising ground we could now see the town of castlebar beneath us, into which the royalists were scampering at full speed. a preparation for defending the bridge into the town did not escape the watchful eyes of our general, who again gave the word "forward!" not by the road alone, but also by the fields at either side, so as to occupy the houses that should command the bridge, and which, by a palpable neglect, the others had forgotten to do. our small body of horse, about twenty hussars, were ordered to charge the bridge; and had they been even moderately well mounted, must have captured the one gun of the enemy at once; but the miserable cattle, unable to strike a canter, only exposed them to a sharp musketry; and when they did reach the bridge, five of their number had fallen. the six-pounder was, however, soon taken, and the gunners sabred at their posts, while our advanced guard coming up, completed the victory; and nothing now remained but a headlong flight. had we possessed a single squadron of dragoons, few could have escaped us, for not a vestige of discipline remained. all was wild confusion and panic. such of the officers as had ever seen service, were already killed or badly wounded; and the younger ones were perfectly unequal to the difficult task of rallying or restoring order to a routed force. the scene in the market-square, as we rode in, is not easily to be forgotten; about two hundred prisoners were standing in a group, disarmed, it is true, but quite unguarded, and without any preparation or precaution against escape! six or seven english officers, among whom were two majors, were gathered around general humbert, who was conversing with them in tones of easy and jocular familiarity. the captured guns of the enemy (fourteen in all) were being ranged on one side of the square, while behind them were drawn up a strange-looking line of men, with their coats turned. these were part of the kilkenny militia, who had deserted to our ranks after the retreat began. such was the "fight" of castlebar; it would be absurd to call it a "battle;" a day too inglorious for the royalists to reflect any credit upon us; but, such as it was, it raised the spirits of our irish followers to a pitch of madness; and, out of our own ranks, none now doubted in the certainty of irish independence. our occupation of the town lasted only a week; but, brief as the time was, it was sufficient to widen the breach between ourselves and our allies into an open and undisguised hatred. there were, unquestionably, wrongs on both sides. as for us, we were thoroughly, bitterly disappointed in the character of those we had come to liberate; and, making the egregious mistake of confounding these semi-civilized peasants with the irish people, we deeply regretted that ever the french army should have been sent on so worthless a mission. as for them, they felt insulted and degraded by the offensive tone we assumed toward them. not alone they were never regarded as comrades, but a taunting insolence of manner was assumed in all our dealings with them, very strikingly in contrast to that with which we conducted ourselves toward all the other inhabitants of the island, even those who were avowedly inimical to our object and our cause. these things, with native quickness, they soon remarked. they saw the consideration and politeness with which the bishop and his family were treated; they saw several protestant gentlemen suffered to return to their homes "on parole." they saw, too--worst grievance of all--how all attempts at pillage were restrained, or severely punished, and they asked themselves, "to what end a revolt, if neither massacre nor robbery were to follow? if they wanted masters and rulers, sure they had the english that they were used to, and could at least understand." such were the causes, and such the reasonings, which gradually ate deeper and deeper into their minds, rendering them at first sullen, gloomy, and suspicious, and at last insubordinate, and openly insulting to us. their leaders were the first to exhibit this state of feeling. affecting a haughty disdain for us, they went about with disparaging stories of the french soldiery; and at last went even so far as to impugn their courage! in one of the versions of the affair of castlebar, it was roundly asserted, that but for the irish threatening to fire on them, the french would have turned and fled; while in another, the tactics of that day were all ascribed to the military genius of neal kerrigan, who, by-the-by, was never seen from early morning until late the same afternoon, when he rode into castlebar on a fine bay horse that belonged to captain shortall of the royal artillery! if the feeling between us and our allies was something less than cordial, nothing could be more friendly than that which subsisted between us and such of the royalists as we came in contact with. the officers who became our prisoners were treated with every deference and respect. two field-officers and a captain of carbineers dined daily with the general, and serazin entertained several others. we liked them greatly; and i believe i am not flattering if i say that they were equally satisfied with us. "nos âmis l'ennemie," was the constant expression used in talking of them; and every day drew closer the ties of this comrade regard and esteem. such was the cordial tone of intimacy maintained between us, that i remember well, one evening at humbert's table, an animated discussion being carried on between the general and an english staff-officer on the campaign itself--the royalist averring, that, in marching southward at all, a gross and irreparable mistake had been made, and that if the french had occupied sligo, and extended their wings toward the north, they would have secured a position of infinitely greater strength, and also become the centre for rallying round them a population of a very different order from the half-starved tribes of mayo. humbert affected to say that the reason for his actual plan was, that twenty thousand french were daily expected to land in lough swilly, and that the western attack was merely to occupy time and attention, while the more formidable movement went on elsewhere. i know not if the english believed this; i rather suspect not. certes, they were too polite to express any semblance of distrust of what was told them with all the air of truth. it was amusing, too, to see the candor with which each party discussed the other to his face; the french general criticising all the faulty tactics and defective manoeuvres of the royalists; while the english never hesitated to aver, that whatever momentary success might wait upon the french arms, they were just as certain to be obliged to capitulate in the end. "you know it better than i do, general," said the major of dragoons. "it may be a day or two earlier or later, but the issue will and must be--a surrender." "i don't agree with you," said humbert, laughing; "i think there will be more than one 'castlebar.' but let the worst happen, and you must own that your haughty country has received a heavy insult--your great england has got a _soufflét_ in the face of all europe!" this, which our general regarded as a great compensation--the greatest, perhaps, he could receive for all defeat--did not seem to affect the english with proportionate dismay, nor even to ruffle the equanimity of their calm tempers. upon one subject both sides were quite agreed--that the peasantry never could aid, but very possibly would always shipwreck, every attempt to win national independence. "i should have one army to fight the english, and two to keep down the irish!" was humbert's expression; and very little experience served to show that there was not much exaggeration in the sentiment. our week at castlebar taught us a good lesson in this respect. the troops, wearied with a march that had begun on the midnight of the day before, and with an engagement that lasted from eight till two in the afternoon, were obliged to be under arms for several hours, to repress pillage and massacre. our allies now filled the town, to the number of five thousand, openly demanding that it should be given up to them, parading the streets in riotous bands, and displaying banners with long lists of names, doomed for immediate destruction. the steadiness and temper of our soldiery were severely tried by these factious and insubordinate spirits; but discipline prevailed at last, and before the first evening closed in, the town was quiet, and, for the time, at least, danger over. (_to be continued._) sketches from life. by harriet martineau. i. the old governess. the afternoon was come when the morells must go on board. they were going to canada at last, after having talked about it for several years. there were so many children, that it was with much difficulty they had got on for some years past; and there was no prospect for the lads at home. they had, with extreme difficulty, paid their way: and they had, to a certain extent, educated the children. that, however, was miss smith's doing. "we shall always feel, every one of us," said mrs. morell, with tears, to the elderly homely governess, "that we are under the deepest obligations to you. but for you, the children would have grown up without any education at all. and, for the greatest service you or any one could possibly render us, we have never been able to give you your due--even as regards the mere money." "i can only say again," replied the governess, "that you do not look at the whole of the case. you have given me a home, when it is no easy matter for such as i am to earn one, with my old-womanish ways and my old-fashioned knowledge." "i will not hear any disparagement of your ways and your knowledge," interrupted mrs. morell. "they have been every thing to my children: and if you could have gone with us...." this, however, they all knew to be out of the question. it was not only that miss smith was between fifty and sixty, too old to go so far, with little prospect of comfort at the end of the journey; but she was at present disabled for much usefulness by the state of her right hand. it had been hurt by an accident a long time before, and it did not get well. the surgeon had always said it would be a long case; and she had no use whatever of the hand in the mean time. yet she would not part with the baby till the last moment. she carried him on the left arm, and stood on the wharf with him--the mother at her side--till all the rest were on board, and mr. morell came for his wife. it was no grand steamer they were going in, but a humble vessel belonging to the port, which would carry them cheap. "now, my love," said the husband. "now, miss smith," taking the child from her. "words can not tell...." and if words could have told, the tongue could not have uttered them. it was little, too, that his wife could say. "write to us. be sure you write. we shall write as soon as we arrive. write to us." miss smith glanced at the hand. she said only one word, "farewell!" but she said it cheerfully. the steamer-tug was in a hurry, and down the river they went. she had one more appointment to keep with them. she was to wave her handkerchief from the rocks by the fort; and the children were to let her try whether she could see their little handkerchiefs. so she walked quickly over the common to the fort, and sat down on the beach at the top of the rocks. it was very well that she had something to do. but the plan did not altogether answer. by the time the vessel crossed the bar it was nearly dark, and she was not quite sure, among three, which it was, and she did not suppose the children could see her handkerchief. she waved it, however, according to promise. how little they knew how wet it was! then there was the walk home. it was familiar, yet very strange. when she was a child her parents used to bring her here, in the summer time, for sea air and bathing. the haven and the old gray bathing houses, and the fort, and the lighthouse, and the old priory ruins crowning the rocks, were all familiar to her; but the port had so grown up that all else was strange. and how strange now was life to her! her parents gone, many years back, and her two sisters since; and now, the morells! she had never had any money to lose, and the retired way in which the morells lived had prevented her knowing any body out of their house. she had not a relation, nor a friend, nor even an acquaintance, in england. the morells had not been uneasy about her. they left her a little money, and had so high an opinion of her that they did not doubt her being abundantly employed, whenever her hand should get well. they had lived too much to themselves to know that her french, learned during the war, when nobody in england could pronounce french, would not do in these days, nor that her trilling, old-fashioned style of playing on the piano, which they thought so beautiful, would be laughed at now in any boarding school; and that her elegant needleworks were quite out of fashion; and that there were new ways of teaching even reading, spelling, and writing. she knew these things, and cautioned herself against discontent with the progress of society, because she happened to be left alone behind. she suspected, too, that the hand would not get well. the thing that she was most certain of was, that she must not rack her brain with fears and speculations as to what was to become of her. her business was to wait till she could find something to do, or learn what she was to suffer. she thought she had better wait here. there was no call to any other place. this was more familiar and more pleasant to her than any other--the morells' cottage being far away, and out of the question--and here she could live with the utmost possible cheapness. so here she staid. the hand got well, as far as the pain was concerned, sooner than she had expected. but it was in a different way from what she had expected. it was left wholly useless. and, though the time was not long, it had wrought as time does. it had worn out her clothes; it had emptied her little purse. it had carried away every thing she had in the world but the very few clothes she had on. she had been verging toward the resolution she now took for three or four weeks. she took it finally while sitting on the bench near the fort. it was in the dusk; for her gown, though she had done her best to mend it with her left hand, was in no condition to show by daylight. she was alone in the dusk, rather hungry and very cold. the sea was dashing surlily upon the rocks below, and there was too much mist to let any stars shine upon her. it was all dreary enough; yet she was not very miserable, for her mind was made up. she had made up her mind to go into the workhouse the next day. while she was thinking calmly about it a fife began to play a sort of jig in the yard of the fort behind her. her heart heaved to her throat, and the tears gushed from her eyes. in this same spot, fifty years before, she had heard what seemed to her the same fife. her father was then sitting on the grass, and she was between his knees, helping to tassel the tail of a little kite they were going to fly: and, when the merry fife had struck up, her father had snatched up her gay harlequin that lay within reach, and made him shake his legs and arms to the music. she heard her own laugh again now, through that long course of fifty years, and in the midst of these tears. all that night she pondered her purpose: and the more she considered, the more sure she was that it was right. "i might," thought she, "get maintained by charity, no doubt: i might call on any of the clergymen of this place, and the rich people. or i might walk into the shops and tell my story, and i dare say the people would give me food and clothes. and, if it was a temporary distress, i would do so. i should think it right to ask for help, if i had any prospect of work or independence in any way. but i have none: and this, i am convinced, points out my duty. hopeless cases like mine are those which public charity--legal charity--is intended to meet. my father little dreamed of this, to be sure; and the morells little dream of it at this moment. but when do our parents and friends, when do we ourselves dream of what our lot is really to turn out? those old notions have nothing to do, if we could but think so, with the event. nor has my disgust any thing to do with my duty. the plain fact is, that i am growing old--that i am nearly helpless--that i am cold and hungry, and nearly naked--that i have no friends within reach, and no prospect whatever. i am, therefore, an object for public charity, and i will ask for what is my due. i am afraid of what i may find in the workhouse--the vicious people, the dirty people, the diseased people--and, i suppose, not one among them who can give me any companionship whatever. it is dreadful; but it can't be helped. and the worse the case is about my companions--my fellow-paupers--(for i must learn to bear the word)--the greater are the chances of my finding something to do for them--something which may prevent my feeling myself utterly useless in the world. this is not being wholly without prospect, after all. i suppose nobody ever is. if it were not so cold now, i could sleep upon mine." it was too cold for sleep; and when, in the morning, she offered her old shawl in payment for her bed, assuring the poor old woman who let it that she should not want the shawl, because she was going to have other clothes, the woman shook her head sorrowfully--her lodger looked so wan and chilled. she had no fear that there was any thought of suicide in the case. no one could look in miss smith's sensible face, and hear her steady, cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any thing wild or impatient. "who is that woman with a book in her hand?" inquired the visiting commissioner, some months afterward, of the governor of the workhouse. the governor could only say she was a single woman of the name of smith, who had no use of her right hand. as to who she was, he could tell no more than this; but his wife had sometimes mentioned her as a different sort of person from those they generally saw there. she could not only read, but she read very well; and she read a great deal aloud to the old people, and in the infirmary. she talked unlike the rest, too. she said little; but her language was good, and always correct. she could not do much on account of her infirmity: but she was always willing to do what could be done with one hand; and she must have been very handy when she had the use of both. "i should have thought her eyes had been too weak for much reading," observed the commissioner. "has the medical officer attended to her?" the governor called his wife: and the wife called a pauper woman who was told the question. this woman said that it was not exactly a case for the doctor. nobody that shed so many tears could have good eyes. ah! the governor might be surprised; because smith seemed so brisk in the daytime, and cheered the old people so much. but she made up for it at night. many and many a time she cried the night through. "how do you know?" asked the commissioner. "i sleep in the next bed, sir. i can't say she disturbs any body; for she is very quiet. but if any thing keeps me awake i hear her sobbing. and you need but feel her pillow in the morning. it is wet almost through." "and does that happen often?" "yes, sir. many a time when she has turned her back--gone into the infirmary, or been reading to the old people--i have got her pillow and dried it. and i have seen her do it herself, with a smile on her face all the time." the commissioner walked away. before he left the place, the woman smith was beckoned out by the governor. she went with a beating heart, with some wild idea in her head that the morells had sent, that some friends had turned up. while still in the passage, however, she said to herself that she might as well look to see her parents risen from the dead. the commissioner had, indeed, nothing to tell. he wanted to ask. he did ask, as much as his delicacy would allow. but he learned nothing; except, indeed, what he ought to have considered the most important thing, the state of her mind about being there. about that she was frank enough. she said over again to him what she had said to herself, about this being the right place for one in her circumstances. she considered that it would be an abuse of private charity for her to be maintained in idleness at an expense which might set forward in life some person in a less hopeless position. "you speak cheerfully, as if you were in earnest," said the commissioner. "of course, i am in earnest," she replied. and cheerful she remained throughout the conversation. only once the commissioner saw her eyes filled, and a quiver on her lips. he did not know it; but he had unconsciously called her "madam." would she prefer the children's department of the house? there was no doubt that she could teach them much. would she change her quarters? no. she was too old now for that. she should not be a good companion now for children; and they would be too much for her. unless she was wanted-- by no means. she should be where she preferred to be. she preferred to be where she was. the commissioner's lady soon after dropped in, and managed to engage smith in conversation. but there was no result; because smith did not choose that there should be. perhaps she was more in the infirmary; and had oftener a warm seat by the fire, and was spoken to with more deference. but this might be solely owing to the way she made with the people by her own acts and manners. the invalids and the infirm grew so fond of her that they poured out to her all their complaints. she was favored with the knowledge of every painful sensation as it passed, and every uneasy thought as it arose. "i never thought to die in such a place as this," groaned old johnny jacks. "i wonder at that," said his old wife; "for you never took any care to provide yourself a better--to say nothing of me." and she went on to tell how johnny had idled and drank his life away, and brought her here at last. much of johnny's idling and drinking having been connected with electioneering in an abominably venal city, he was a great talker on politics, and the state was made responsible for all his troubles. he said it was a shame that any body should die in a workhouse; he appealed to his neighbor smith, who was warming his broth, whether it was not so? "which is best?" she answered; "being here, or on a common, or the sea-sands? because," she added, "there was a time when old people like us were left to die wherever they fell. there are countries now where old people die so. i should not like that." "you don't mean to say that you or any one likes being here?" "oh, no; i don't mean to say that. but things are better than they were once: and they may be better again." "i shall not live to see that," groaned johnny. "no; nor i. but it is something to think of." "d---- it," said johnny, "i am not the better for any good that does not happen to me, nor to any body i know." "are not you?" said neighbor smith. "well, now, i am." and so she was to the end. she died in that infirmary, and not very long after. when the morells' letter came, it was plain that they had enough to do to take care of themselves. so she did not let them know--in her reply, written by the hands of the schoolmaster--where she was. the letter was so cheerful that they are probably far from suspecting, at this moment, how she died and was buried. as "from the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," there was so much in her letter as rather surprised them about her hope and expectation that the time would come, when hearty work in the vigorous season of life should secure its easy close; and when a greater variety of employment should be opened to women. there was more of this kind of speculation, and less news and detail of facts than they would have liked. but it was a household event to have a letter from miss smith; and the very little children, forgetting the wide sea they had passed, began shouting for miss smith to come to them just (as it happened) when her ear was closing to every human voice. ii. the collegian. one day during the war, when the orders in council were producing more mischief in our manufacturing districts than those decrees of napoleon upon which they were meant to retaliate, the city of ---- was thrown into consternation by the news that mr. woodcock had failed. bad news had become so frequent of late that any ordinary mishap would have been received with a sigh and a few shakes of the head, and then have been forgotten in the next incident that occurred; but that mr. woodcock should fail came upon the city like a great fire, or an earthquake, or the news that napoleon had really landed on the neighboring coast. the ladies wept, as when the news came of lord nelson's death; the gentlemen met at one another's houses to see if any thing could be done. the poorest people in the street spoke of it as of a personal misfortune. and so it was to them, for mr. woodcock had always been as kind a neighbor as he was an upright magistrate. he had been sheriff and alderman; and then his portrait, in his robes, had been hung up among those of the mayors in the city hall. in that hall his mayoralty feasts had been of the highest order ever given; and his balls in the assembly rooms were talked of years after others were forgotten. liberal as his expenditure had been, well as his wife was always dressed, and large as were his benefactions in the city, there was no sign of extravagance in himself or his household; but, on the contrary, so much prudence and sagacity, that he was as much consulted for his wisdom as appealed to for his benevolence. therefore, when the news spread from house to house that mr. woodcock had failed, the first remark made by every hearer was that there could be no fault in the case. there was no fault. a sudden depreciation in the value of his stock--a fall which no wisdom could have foreseen or guarded against, was the cause of the misfortune. and the mischief done was small to any but the woodcocks themselves. there were no tradesmen's bills. the deficiency was small; for mr. woodcock had stopped the very hour that he had reason to fear that he was insolvent, and his few creditors were those who had profited largely by their preceding engagements with him. not an ill word was known to be spoken against him or his; but many a kind and sorrowful one when the family removed from their sunny house near the cathedral, and went, with one servant, into a small "right up," just outside the city; and when the phaeton was laid down, and young master edward's pony was sold, and mrs. woodcock was seen going to market, dressed as plainly as any quaker. hitherto they had never been thought proud. now people began to think them so--mrs. woodcock certainly--and perhaps her husband, too. he grew very grave, and more retired and dignified than formerly. mrs. woodcock had always been remarkably clever. but for the high principle and sound judgment which gave moral weight to what she said, her sayings would have been sharp and satirical. now there was more sharpness and satire, and they showed the more, from her saying less, and carrying herself in a higher manner. her intimate friends knew that a single mortification lay heavy at her heart, and made her more unhappy than she acknowledged to herself. she was grieving for the blight which had come upon the prospects of her only child--"my edward," as she was wont to call him--she, from whom tender words were very rare. her edward was a clever boy--a very clever boy, and such a wag that other boys did not care about his cleverness in any other direction. he made such capital fun wherever he went that it was a secondary matter that he could learn whatever he chose in no time, and do better than the best whatever he set about. he had his mother's keen, observant--one might say, experienced eye, under his curly light hair. he was not a handsome boy, but he had a bright, healthy face; brows that he knit very close when he was learning his lessons; and a mouth so incessantly working with fun that the question was how he ever kept grave while within the cathedral walls on sundays. he had been destined, however, to spend a good many hours of gravity in a church, in the course of his life; for he was to have been a clergyman. it was the overthrow of this aim which was the heavy mortification to mrs. woodcock. her husband thought they must give up the idea of a university education for edward, and prepare him for trade. the mother tried to remember that we do not know what is good for us, and that it might possibly be better for her son to be in trade; but when some such reflection was immediately followed by a few sarcasms on human life or human beings, her husband knew that she had been thinking how her edward would have been sure to distinguish himself at oxford, if he could have been allowed to show what he could do. before many years all was bright again. a good fortune was unexpectedly left to mr. woodcock. first, he paid all his creditors, debts, interest, and compound interest. then he went into his old house again; and his old servants came back to him joyfully. his fellow-citizens made him mayor again; and the guild-feast was as handsome as before. there are many now who remember edward's curly head in the mayor's carriage, and the wonder of his school-fellows as to how the boy would behave at the great dinner, among all the grown-up people. he sat beside his mother; and she would not laugh, say what he might, more than became her position as hostess to six hundred people. he asked the young ladies to dance very properly at the ball afterward; but he amused them so excessively that they were almost glad at last to change partners and rest from laughing. what a thing this would be to remember when he became a bishop! of course the university was again before him; and his mother was now as gracious and right-minded in her shrewdness as ever. before edward went to oxford his father died. the honest and benign face, under the brown wig, was no more seen in the market-place, nor was the cheerful voice, with a reasoning tone, heard in the magistrates' hall; nor, for a while, were pleasant parties assembled in the bright and handsome drawing-room, before whose windows the cathedral tower and spire uprose in the sunset, like a sculptured mountain reflecting the western lights. in those summer evenings the mother was seen, leaning on her son's arm, taking the last walks with him before his going to oxford. there was less gossip about the woodcocks than might have been expected by those who hear much of the vulgarities of provincial towns. edward gave such fair occasion for talk, that it is surprising there was not more of it. when he came home for the first vacation it was remarked--it could not but be remarked--that he and his mother were rarely seen together. when once she had his arm, he did not at all condescend to her short stature; he twirled his cane about, fidgeted, and struck the pebbles as he walked. but he was often seen galloping out of the city on a spirited horse, or lounging near the news-room, or lolling out of the window of the billiard-room there. his mother walked alone. she was seldom visible when neighbors called; and, when found at home, she appeared to be growing caustic again. with this there was a slight affectation about her son; a little ostentation about deriving all her information from oxford, or from edward's lips. "my son writes"--"my son tells me"--was the preface to most things she said. one incident which occurred during this vacation could not escape remark. she was now just out of mourning, and had declared her intention of inviting her friends again, as soon as edward should come home. she had one party the week after his arrival. he did not appear. flushed, fidgety, and with that knit of the brow which in her countenance told so much, she exerted herself to the very utmost, talking and setting every body talking, moving about and letting nobody sit too long. some of the party had to return home through the market-place that summer night. the windows of the billiard-room were open, and it was well lighted; and among the moving figures within they perfectly distinguished edward woodcock. after that vacation, it was long--i think it must have been three years--before he appeared again at home. little was said, but much was understood, of the weariness of those years to his mother. it was known that there had somehow been losses. her great charities were much contracted. she went out so little that she had no occasion for any kind of carriage; but the livery-servant disappeared. if any stranger called or met her, she still said, when college or church was mentioned, "my son is intended for the church;" but it was as if she was stung to say it. it was said so tartly that the conversation never lingered upon the church. as for old acquaintances, they found it required some resolution now to go to the house--mrs. woodcock's manner had become so sharp, and her eye so suspicious. one autumn she was going to the sea. it was only twenty miles off; but it was long since she had gone from home at all. a family of neighbors were there, too, and they saw what they can never forget. now and then she walked alone, frowning, and lost in thought, along the cliffs. sometimes she sat on a bench below, glancing about up and down the sands, and turning restlessly when any footstep approached. oftener she sat at an open window, in a little common, ugly cap and a cheap gown, gazing at the jetty below. and why at the jetty? because he was there. hardly any one would have known it was he, but for the direction of his mother's gaze. his bright eyes were hidden under green goggles; his once curly hair was lank and thin; it is impossible to fancy the cheeks of a living person more hollow--the whole face more ghastly. he walked with two sticks; but his time was spent chiefly in sitting at the end of the jetty or the window of the billiard-room, quizzing, giggling, and striving after a mirth which brought tears from some who were within hearing. his giggle was a convulsion; his quizzing was slander; his mirth was blasphemy. he once or twice appeared in his native place, painfully making his way to the billiard-room; and once with his mother on his arm: but it is thought that they met such looks in the streets--such astonishment--such involuntary grief--that they could not bear it; at least, she could not; and he ceased to appear. he was heard of for two years more. not in connection with the church. no one could, for shame, join the ideas of edward woodcock and the church. in connection with oxford he was often spoken of. mothers of sons trembled, and even fathers doubted, when they were told that edward woodcock's case was by no means a remarkable one. he had lost his ability altogether under the exhaustion of disease and dissipation. he had lost his health in debauchery; he had lost his money and his mother's fortune in gaming: but so had many other young men of promise equal to his. if any asked how such things could be common in such a place, some answered that they did not know, and others had always been told they could not be helped. at last mrs. woodcock's door was closed against all visitors except the physician. edward was there; and he was dying. great decorum and tenderness were observed about the secrets of that dreary house; but it was known to those who most cared to know that there was no solace to the mother's heart--no softening of the son's. he treated her like a servant; and in the way that good-natured people never treat servants. he repelled her affection; he mocked.... but i can not dwell on this. one summer morning the hearse and two mourning coaches were seen moving from the door under the shady trees in the close. old friends hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that all was over. they would have been glad if there had been any domestic resource for the mother; any other survivor to make the old home somewhat like itself. but was ever any worn-out being more lonely? one old acquaintance, by no means an intimate friend, saw that it would now be right to go. she dreaded the visit inexpressibly; but she saw that it was right to go. she went; and she shed a lapful of tears when she came home. she found mrs. woodcock immeasurably more haughty than ever before. she could scarcely rise at first from the rheumatism she had caught by night-watching; and when she sat down on her faded old sofa she worked her thumbs and twitched her fingers as if impatient of her visitor, and cut short or contradicted every thing that was said. she still harped on oxford; on which, however, it was impossible to say any thing to please her. at last--whether it was that the effort was of itself too much for her, or that old tones of voice and a kindly expression of countenance touched the spring of tears, i do not know--but she was overtaken by such a passion of weeping as it was heart-rending to witness. she well-nigh choked before she would acknowledge her own tears; but when she laid her head against the back of the sofa, her sobs shook the very room. she did not stop speaking for this. she said but one thing, but she said it incessantly. "don't pity me, mrs. a----. i can not bear to be pitied. i am not at all unhappy. i can not bear to be pitied. you must not pity me," and so on. such a life could not last long. i forget exactly how long it was. probably, in the suspense of our compassion, it seemed longer than it would now in the retrospect. it could not, i think, have been many months before the hearse was again moving away from the door under the trees, and we felt that the household which had been once so much to the city was extinguished. nothing was left but that which still remains--the portrait of the mayor in his robes in the great hall, and the aching remembrance in many hearts of the fate of his wife and only child. iii. the maid-servant. "where is jemima? i want jemima," said a feeble voice, interrupted by coughing, from a bed in a sick room. "my dear," said an elderly woman, who entered through an open door from the west chamber, "jemima is gone to lie down. what can i do for you?" "_i_ want jemima," was the reply: and jemima appeared. in she came, with her young, innocent, chubby face, looking as fresh as if she had been accustomed of late to sleep every night, as other people do, whereas she had been night and day for some weeks, by the bedside of her mistress, who was dying of consumption. her master was very ill too, and the whole of the nursing rested upon his mother, and upon this, their little maid-of-all-work, who was then fifteen. when jemima had comforted and refreshed her poor mistress, the mother-in-law whispered to her that she must go and lie down again; but jemima said a little fresh air would do her more good than lying down with the feeling that she was wanted. the medicines for the evening had not come, and she would go for them, and to the grocer's. thus it went on to the end. jemima always found that her best refreshment was in doing something that was wanted. she was always at her mistress's call; and, when that call was unreasonable, she was the first to observe that dying persons did not always know the night from the day, or judge how time went with other people, when it was all so long to them, and they could get no rest. when the funeral was over, her elder mistress made her go to bed for nearly a week. at first she cried so much, as she lay thinking of the one who was gone, that she would rather have been up and busy; but soon a deep sleep fell upon her; and when she rose, her face was as chubby and her voice as cheerful as ever. the same scene had to be gone over with her master. he died of consumption two months after his wife. as there were now two nurses to one patient, jemima's work was not quite so trying; but she did more than most trained nurses could have done. when the funeral was over, she helped the bereaved mother to clear the house, and put away every thing belonging to those that lay in the church-yard. the tears were often running down her cheeks; but her voice was always cheerful, as she said things were best as they were, her friends having gone together to a better place. one summer evening, when mr. and mrs. barclay and their family returned from a walk, they found at their door a genteel-looking little girl, who had just knocked. she was in a black stuff gown, with a gray handkerchief crossed over her bosom; and a black straw hat, under which was the neatest little quaker cap. she courtesied, and said she came after the housemaid's place. mrs. barclay would have dismissed her at once, as too young, but for something in her face and manner which seemed to show that her mind was that of an older person. she said she was very strong, and willing to be taught and trained. mrs. barclay promised to inquire her character, and the inquiry settled the business. "ma'am," said the bereaved mother, "i would never part with jemima, if i could by any means keep her. i never saw such a girl. it seems impossible to exhaust her, body or mind, on account, i think, of her good will." and she gave the whole story of the two illnesses. when asked what the girl's faults were, as she must have some, she said she really did not know: she supposed there must be some fault; but she had never seen any. she had known jemima only six months, and under peculiar circumstances; she could not tell how she would get on in a regular housemaid's place; but she had never had to find fault with her. of course, jemima went to mrs. barclay. her wages were to be £ a year at first, and to increase to £ as she grew up, and became trained. the training was no trouble to any body. when she had once learned where every thing was in the house, and what were the hours and ways of the family, her own sense and quickness did the rest. she was the first person awake and up. she never lost, or broke, or forgot any thing. never, during the years of her service, was there a dusty, dark corner in her pantry, nor a lock of "slut's wool" under any bed, nor a streaky glass on the sideboard, nor a day when the cloth was not laid to a minute. she never slammed a door; and if there was a heavy foot overhead it was not hers. she and her fellow-servants had their time, after seven in the evening, for their own work; and jemima was a capital needlewoman, and worked for somebody else besides herself. she would ask the nursemaid to read aloud, and, in return, she would make or mend a gown for her. she reduced her own gowns, when they began to wear, for her little sister sally. the wonder was how she could afford this, out of her small wages; but she was always nicely dressed; and she soon began to spare money for other objects which her friends thought should not have been pressed upon one in her circumstances. this was after a great change had come over her mind and life. it was true that jemima was not without a fault, any more than other people. her temper was not perfectly good. her mistress soon perceived this, by certain flashes from her eyes, and flushes of her cheeks, and quick breathing, and hurry of speaking. it was not much at first; no more than just enough to show that jemima could be in a passion, and probably would some day. the sufferings of her deceased master and mistress had kept this down while she was with them. their deaths had made a deep impression upon her, and had disposed her naturally religious temper to be strongly wrought upon by the first religious influence which should come in her way. a new methodist minister had been very acceptable to the people who attended the apple-lane meeting-house; and, within a year after going to the barclays, jemima requested permission to attend that place of worship, instead of following the family to their own chapel on sundays. mrs. barclay was sorry, because she liked to see her servants at worship near her own pew: but jemima was always so trustworthy, and on this occasion so earnest, that it did not seem right to deny her; and she became a member of the apple-yard meeting society. very soon she asked leave to go an hour sooner on sunday mornings to attend class; and then to go there one evening in the week, and sometimes two. as her work was never neglected, this, too, was permitted. very soon it appeared that she was subscribing annually, quarterly, weekly, to missionary objects and sectarian funds. how she managed it nobody could understand; but she did it and honestly. her dress reached the last point of plainness and cheapness; but it was as neat as ever; so that it was wholly her own affair. a less pleasant change was, that her temper was far from improving. she would have none but religious books read in the kitchen, and could tolerate no singing but hymns. she winced when any body laughed. a contraction came over her open brow, and a sharpness into her once cheerful voice. not satisfied with pressing her views upon her fellow servants, she became critical upon the ways of the family. one of their customs was to receive, on sunday evenings, two or three young men, who living alone, liked to spend their sunday evenings in a sociable manner. there was always scripture-reading and prayer, and often sacred music. in summer there was a country walk; in winter cheerful conversation, with an occasional laugh, which could be heard in the kitchen. this was too much for jemima; but a worse thing was the supper. like most old-fashioned dissenters, the barclays dined at one o'clock on sundays, and, naturally, they had some supper at nine. it was simple enough; but the servant whose turn it was to stay at home had sometimes to poach eggs or dress a cutlet; and jemima's repugnance to this was so far from being concealed that it amounted at last to extreme impertinence; and she went so far as to express her contempt and abhorrence to the child, whom it was her business to put to bed. her mistress always hoped that the fit of fanaticism would pass off with months or years and the sooner for not being interfered with; but this behavior could not be passed over. when the rebuke was given, poor jemima emptied her heart completely; and very curious the contents proved to be. it appeared that she despised the family she lived with, though she was fully resolved to do her duty by them. she feared they were lost people; but they might yet be saved, and it was her business to serve them, and not to judge them. she hoped she had not failed in her duty; but her feelings and her thoughts were her own. if she must not speak them, she could hold her tongue, and bear the cross of so doing; but nobody could take them from her. there was so much that was respectable and really fine in her ardor and conscientiousness, that she was gently treated, and only forbidden to make any complaints to the younger members of the family. one most important disclosure at this time was that she was engaged to be married; not yet, but some time or other. her lover was a class-mate, apprenticed to a shoemaker, with two years of his apprenticeship still to run. on inquiry he was found to be thoroughly respectable as to character, diligent in his business, and likely to be an able workman. so he was allowed to call for jemima on class evenings, and to come now and then to the house. the barclays knew when he was there by hearing a man's voice reading in the kitchen, when the door was opened, or by the psalm-singing, which needed no open doors to make itself heard. jemima was now, however, unsettled; not at all by her engagement, for nothing could be more sober and rational than the temper and views of the young people as regarded each other and their prospects; but the poor girl felt that she was living in a sort of bondage, while yet she could blame nobody for it. she sighed for freedom to lead the sort of religious life she wished, without interruption from persons of a different way of thinking. i believe she was nineteen or twenty when she told mrs. barclay what she had been planning; and mrs. barclay was not altogether sorry to hear about it, for jemima had lost much of her openness and cheerfulness, bounced about when doing her work, and knocked hard with her brushes when cleaning floors overhead. there was evidently an internal irritation, which might best be relieved by total change. the plan was for jemima and a pious friend, about her own age, to take a room and live together, maintaining themselves by working for the upholsterers. the girls thought they could make money faster this way than at service, as both were good workwomen, and could live as cheaply as any body could live. if they found themselves mistaken they could go back to service. jemima avowed that her object was to lay by money, as richard and she had resolved not to marry till they could furnish their future dwelling well and comfortably. this might have been a rash scheme for most girls; but these two friends were so good and so sensible, and knew their own purposes so well, that nobody opposed their experiment. it was really a pleasure to go and see them when they were settled. they chose their room carefully, for the sake of their work, as well as their own health. their room was very high upstairs; but it was all the more airy for that, and they wanted plenty of light. and very light it was--with its two windows on different sides of the room. the well-boarded floor looked as clean as their table. there were plants in the windows; and there was a view completely over the chimneys of the city to the country beyond. their most delicate work could get no soil here. they were well employed, and laid by money as fast as they expected. still it seemed, after a time, that jemima was not yet happy. her face was anxious, and her color faded. she often went to work at the barclays; as often as mrs. b. could find any upholstery, or other needlework, for her to do. one object was to give her a good hot dinner occasionally; for it seemed possible that she might be living too low, though she declared that this was not the case. one day she happened to be at work in the dining-room with mrs. barclay, when one of the young ladies went in. jemima was bending over her work; yet miss b. saw that her face was crimson, and heard that her voice was agitated. on a sign from her mother, the young lady withdrew. one evening the next week richard called, and saw mrs. barclay alone. little was said in the family; but in many parts of the city it became presently known that the preacher who had so revived religion among the young people was on bad terms with some of them. either he was a profligate, or some dozen young women were slanderers. jemima was growing thin and pale under the dread of the inquiry which must, she knew, take place. either her own character must go, or she must help to take away that of the minister. it was no great comfort to her that richard told her that mrs. barclay could and would carry her through. she had many wretched thoughts that this certainty could not reach. it was some weeks before the business was over. the miss barclays and jemima were sitting at work together, with the parlor-door open, when there was a knock, and then the shuffling of the feet of four gentlemen in the hall, just as mrs. barclay was coming down stairs. she invited them into the drawing-room; but the spokesman (an acquaintance of the barclays) declined, saying that a few words would suffice; that he and his friends understood that mrs. barclay was thoroughly well acquainted with jemima brooks, and they merely wished to know whether jemima was, in that house, considered a well-conducted young woman, whose word might be trusted. all this was heard in the parlor. jemima's tears dropped upon her needle; but she would not give up; she worked on, as if her life depended on getting done. the young ladies had never seen her cry; and the sight moved them almost as much as their mother's voice, which they clearly heard, saying, "i am glad you have come here, mr. bennett; for i _can_ speak to jemima brooks's merits. she lived in my family for some years; and she is in the house at this moment. there is no one in the world whom i more cordially respect; and, when i say that i regard her as a friend, i need not tell you what i think of the value of her word." "quite enough, mrs. barclay. quite enough. we have nothing more to ask. we are greatly obliged to you, ma'am. good morning--good morning." when mrs. barclay had seen them out, and entered the parlor, the quick yet full gaze that jemima raised to her face was a thing never to be forgotten. mrs. barclay turned her face away; but immediately put on her thimble, sat down among the party, and began to tell her daughters the news from london. jemima heard no more of this business. it is probable that the gentlemen received similar testimony with regard to the other young people implicated; for the preacher was dismissed the city, without any ceremony, and with very brief notice. from this time might clearly be dated the decline of jemima's spiritual pride and irritability of temper. she was deeply humbled; and from under the ruins of her pride sprang richly the indigenous growth of her sweet affections. she was not a whit less religious; but she had a higher view of what religion should be. her smile, when she met any of the barclays in the street, and the tenderness in her voice when she spoke to them, indicated a very different state of mind from that in which she had left them. she was looking well, and her friend and she were doing well, and richard and she were beginning to reckon how many months, at their present rate of earning, would enable them to furnish a dwelling, and justify their going home to it, when they were called upon for a new decision, and a new scene opened in jemima's life. the eldest of mrs. barclay's sons, who had been married about two years before, was so ill as to be ordered to madeira to save his life. there was more rashness formerly than there is now about sending persons so very ill far away from their own homes; and madeira was then a less comfortable residence for englishmen than it has since been made. a large country-house was taken for the invalid and his family; and all that forethought could do was done for their comfort. the very best piece of forethought was that of mrs. barclay, when she proposed that jemima should be asked to go as one of their servants. jemima asked a few days to consider; and during those few days the anxiety of the family increased as they saw how all-important the presence of such a helper would be. nothing could be more reasonable than jemima's explanation, when she had made up her mind. she said that if she was to engage herself for two years, and defer her marriage, it must be for the sake of some advantage to richard, and to their affairs afterward, that she would make such a sacrifice. it was richard's object and hers to save at present; if, therefore, she went to madeira it must be on high wages. she would devote herself to do the best she could for the family: but she must see that richard did not suffer by it. of course, this was agreed to at once, and she went to madeira. it is always a severe and wearing trial to servants to travel in foreign countries, or remain long abroad. they usually have all the discomfort without the gratifications which their employers seek and enjoy. their employers can speak the languages of the people among whom they go; and they have intellectual interests, historical, philosophical, or artistical, which their servants know nothing about. thus we hear of one lady's maid who cried all through italy, and another who scolded or sulked all the way up the hill and down again; and another who declared every morning for some weeks in the arabian deserts that she would bear it no longer, but would go straight home--that she would. jemima and her fellow-servants had much to bear, but she and another bore it well. the voyage was trying, the sea-sickness was bad enough; but a worse thing was, that the infant, five months' old, got no proper sleep, from the noises and moving on board; and the foundation was thus laid for brain disease, of which he died in the winter. then, when they landed, the great house was dreadfully dirty, and wanted airing; as it was not like a dirty house in england, which can always be cleaned when desired. the portuguese at madeira were found to have no notion of cleanliness; and as they could speak no english, and the servants no portuguese, the business was an irritating one. there were great privileges about the abode. the view over land and sea was most magnificent; and there was in the grounds a hedge several hundred yards long of geraniums, fuchsias, and many glorious foreign blossoms, in flower and fragrance all the winter through; and the air was the most delicious that could be breathed; but jemima would have given all these things, at any moment, for english food, and english ways, and the sound of english church bells, or the familiar voice of her own preacher. her master visibly declined, on the whole, and the infant pined and died. she could not but know that she was the mainstay of the party, as to their external comfort. she must have had some sweet moments in the consciousness of this. when she considered, however, the great luxury of all was watching for the english packet from the top of the house. the house itself was on the mountains, and when she and a fellow-servant went up to the flat roof, and steadied the telescope on the balustrade, they could see very far indeed over the ocean, and sometimes watched the approach of the vessel, in which she knew there was a letter from richard, for some hours before it reached the harbor. these days of the arrival of letters were the few days of animation and good cheer of that dreary and mournful season, which was more dismal among sunshine, and flowers, and sweet airs, than the gloomiest winter the party had ever known in england. if it had been for an unlimited time, even jemima's steady spirits could hardly have borne it; but she said to herself that it was only for two years, and she should never repent it. it did not last two years. when the heats came on, in may, the physicians said that the invalid must go home; and in june the family embarked in the only vessel in which they could have a passage--a wine-vessel going to a french port. it was dirty, and almost without comforts. its discomforts were too great to be dwelt upon. in the bay of biscay there was a dead calm, in which they lay suffering for so many days that it seemed as if they were never to get on. under this the invalid sank. he was buried at sea. the widow and her servants landed at bordeaux, and traveled homeward through france. never, perhaps, had jemima felt so happy as when she saw again the cathedral spire of her native city, and was presently met by richard, and welcomed by the grateful blessings of the barclay family. she had well discharged her trust, and now her own domestic life was to begin. not immediately, however. it was a season of fearful distress in england--the year , the time of the dreadful commercial crash, which, having ruined thousands of capitalists--from bankers to tradesmen--was now bringing starvation upon hundreds of thousands of artisans and laborers. richard's business, till now a rising one, had become slack. during the few months longer that the young people waited, they bought what they could get to advantage of good furniture, and despised no small earnings. a certain clock--a thoroughly good one--was to be had for £ , which a year before would have cost £ at least. mrs. barclay saw the longing there was to have this clock; while nothing like £ was left to buy it with. she offered to buy it for them, and let them work it out; and the offer was gladly accepted. when they married she wished to send it home, but they both said they could never look at the clock in their own house without reproach while it was not truly their own. they actually craved permission to have it stand in mr. barclay's warehouse. once a week they brought what money they could spare, and then they always stepped into the warehouse and took a long look at their clock; and at last the day came when they paid the last shilling, and took it home, where, no doubt, they gave it a longer gaze than ever. poor things! they little knew what was before them. richard had plenty of business; and his stock of leather was used up, again and again; but, as the winter wore on, he could obtain no payment. one of the miss barclays, in speaking of the state of the times, thoughtlessly congratulated jemima on her husband being a shoemaker, saying that one of the last things people could do without was shoes. a sort of spasm passed over jemima's face when she tried to smile, and she stopped a moment before she said, very quietly, yes, that that was true: people still had shoes; but they could not pay for them. in a little while longer, she was making gowns, or doing any other sewing for any body, for any thing they could pay. as she worked, richard sat by and read to her. he had no more leather; and there was no use trying his credit when he knew he should not get paid for the shoes he might make. at christmas, they were sitting thus without a fire. a little later still, the barclays found jemima rubbing up her furniture, which was as clean and polished before as it could well be. no careless observer, seeing a neat young woman, in a snow-white cap, polishing substantial furniture, of her own, with a handsome clock ticking in the corner, could have supposed that she was wanting food. but it was so, and there was something in her face--a pinched look about the nose, a quivering about the chin, which betrayed the fact to the barclays. it was partly to warm herself in the absence of fire, that jemima was rubbing up her furniture. as for pawning or selling it--it would have gone very hard with the young couple to do that if it had been possible. but it was not possible; and they had no conflict of mind on that point. the furniture brokers had no money--any more than other people; and the pawnbrokers' houses were so crowded, from cellar to garret, that every one of them in the city had for some time refused to take any thing more whatever. the barclays themselves were sorely embarrassed, and eventually ruined, by the same crash. the very little they could do was needed by multitudes even more than by richard and jemima. they found the weaver hanging fainting over his loom, and the reduced schoolmistress sitting on the bottom stair, too dizzy with hunger to mount to her own room. they found the elderly widow too proud to own her need to the district visitors, lending her pitcher, without a handle, to the sinking family above stairs, to fetch the soup from the public kitchen; while they, sinking as they were divined her case, and left some soup at the bottom of the pitcher as if by accident. no one was more ready than jemima to point out to the barclays the sufferers who, while saying least about it, most wanted bread. all that her friends could do for her was to get their shoes mended by richard, and to give her a few days' employment, now and then, by their good fire, and with three good meals in the day. how they managed it, the young couple could themselves hardly tell; but they got through. the worst times of commercial crisis must come to an end; and the end found the young people somewhat sunk in health and spirits, but clear of debt, and with all their little property safe about them. of course their credit was good; and when people were again able to pay for their shoes, richard was as safe as any man can be who is bound up with a system of fluctuations. as safe, that is, about money matters. but the next autumn showed him by how frail a tenure he held his very best earthly blessing. jemima was confined; and almost before he had seen his little daughter, his wife was in the last extremity of danger. she well knew it; and the surgeon said afterward that in all his experience, he had never seen such an instance of calm and amiable good sense under the strongest possible circumstances of proof. she understood the case--her affections were all alive--her husband and child were in the room--a bright life was before her--and she was slipping away from all; yet there was no fear, and, amidst excessive exhaustion, no perturbation. the surgeon said she saved her own life, for he could not have saved her. in a few weeks she brought her little daughter to the barclays' house; and, as she sat there, they could not help thinking that her face was almost as childlike as her infant's. it was at least much the same in its innocence and brightness, as it was on that summer evening, so many years ago, when they found it on their steps, on returning from their walk. the infant was extremely pretty. in connection with it happened the severest trial that jemima had ever known; certainly, a severer one than she had looked for in her married life. she wished to have the child vaccinated. richard objected. he had committed all he had to god, and it would be taking the child out of the hands of providence to have it vaccinated. jemima, whose fanaticism had gradually melted all away, saw the mistake he was in. she said, plainly and earnestly what she thought; but, when she saw that her husband's religious feelings were engaged in the matter, and that his will was roused, she let the subject drop. when the child could run about and prattle, and was so pretty that the quaker-like young mother actually put the glossy hair in papers, and made dressy pinafores for her darling, the dreaded small-pox appeared. the child escaped death, but very narrowly; and her face was pitted and seamed so as to leave no trace of beauty. it did not lighten the affliction, that richard still declared he was right. she bore it quietly and there was little alteration in her cheerful voice when she spoke of the ravage. they rose steadily, on the whole, with occasional drawbacks. there were more children; there was a larger business. at last, on saturday nights there was a respectable shop-front to close and a considerable stock to arrange for monday morning. on sundays a group of children came out to walk hand-in-hand to chapel, with their father in good broad cloth, and their mother in black silk behind them. the barclays left the city long ago; but when one of them pays an occasional visit in the neighborhood, the brisk little woman in black silk, is sure to be seen presently coming up to the house; her innocent face looks in eagerly at the window, and the chirping voice is heard in the hall. there was nothing in her young days so impetuous as the grasp of the hand that the barclays have from her when they meet at intervals of years. my novel; or, varieties in english life. (_continued from page_ .) book iii.--initial chapter:--showing how my novel came to be called "my novel." "i am not displeased with your novel, so far as it has gone," said my father graciously; "though as for the sermon--" here i trembled; but the ladies, heaven bless them! had taken parson dale under their special protection; and, observing that my father was puckering up his brows critically, they rushed boldly forward in defense of the sermon, and mr. caxton was forced to beat a retreat. however, like a skillful general, he renewed the assault upon outposts less gallantly guarded. but as it is not my business to betray my weak points, i leave it to the ingenuity of cavilers to discover the places at which the author of _human error_ directed his great guns. "but," said the captain, "you are a lad of too much spirit, pisistratus, to keep us always in the obscure country quarters of hazeldean--you will march us out into open service before you have done with us?" pisistratus, magisterially, for he has been somewhat nettled by mr. caxton's remarks--and he puts on an air of dignity, in order to awe away minor assailants.--"yes, captain roland--not yet awhile, but all in good time. i have not stinted myself in canvas, and behind my foreground of the hall and the parsonage i propose, hereafter, to open some lengthened perspective of the varieties of english life--" mr. caxton.--"hum!" blanche, putting her hand on my father's lip.--"we shall know better the design, perhaps, when we know the title. pray, mr. author, what is the title?" my mother, with more animation than usual.--"ay, sisty--the title?" pisistratus, startled.--"the title! by the soul of cervantes! i have never yet thought of a title!" captain roland, solemnly.--"there is a great deal in a good title. as a novel-reader, i know that by experience." mr. squills.--"certainly; there is not a catchpenny in the world but what goes down, if the title be apt and seductive. witness 'old parr's life pills.' sell by the thousand, sir, when my 'pills for weak stomachs,' which i believe to be just the same compound, never paid for the advertising." mr. caxton.--"parr's life pills! a fine stroke of genius! it is not every one who has a weak stomach, or time to attend to it, if he have. but who would not swallow a pill to live to a hundred and fifty-two?" pisistratus, stirring the fire in great excitement.--"my title! my title! what shall be my title!" mr. caxton, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat, and in his most didactic of tones. "from a remote period, the choice of a title has perplexed the scribbling portion of mankind. we may guess how their invention has been racked by the strange contortions it has produced. to begin with the hebrews. 'the lips of the sleeping,' (_labia dormientium_)--what book do you suppose that title to designate?--a catalogue of rabbinical writers! again, imagine some young lady of old captivated by the sentimental title of 'the pomegranate with its flower,' and opening on a treatise on the jewish ceremonials! let us turn to the romans. aulus gellius commences his pleasant gossiping 'noctes' with a list of the titles in fashion in his day. for instance, '_the muses_' and '_the veil_,' '_the cornucopia_', '_the beehive_', and '_the meadow_.' some titles, indeed, were more truculent, and promised food to those who love to sup upon horrors--such as '_the torch_,' '_the poniard_,' '_the stiletto_'--" pisistratus, impatiently.--"yes, sir; but to come to my novel." mr. caxton, unheeding the interruption.--"you see, you have a fine choice here, and of a nature pleasing, and not unfamiliar to a classical reader; or you may borrow a hint from the early dramatic writers." pisistratus, more hopefully.--"ay! there is something in the drama akin to the novel. now, perhaps, i may catch an idea." mr. caxton.--"for instance, the author of the _curiosities of literature_ (from whom, by the way, i am plagiarizing much of the information i bestow upon you) tells us of a spanish gentleman who wrote a comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for moral philosophy." pisistratus, eagerly.--"well, sir?" mr. caxton.--"and called it 'the pain of the sleep of the world.'" pisistratus.--"very comic, indeed, sir." mr. caxton.--"grave things were then called comedies, as old things are now called novels. then there are all the titles of early romance itself at your disposal--'theagenes and chariclea,' or 'the ass' of longus, or 'the golden ass' of apuleius, or the titles of gothic romance, such as 'the most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and delightful history of perceforest, king of great britain.'"--and therewith my father ran over a list of names as long as the directory, and about as amusing. "well, to my taste," said my mother, "the novels i used to read when a girl (for i have not read many since i am ashamed to say)--" mr. caxton.--"no, you need not be at all ashamed of it, kitty." my mother, proceeding.--"were much more inviting than any you mention, austin." the captain.--"true." mr. squills.--"certainly. nothing like them nowadays!" my mother.--"'_says she to her neighbor, what?_'" the captain.--"'_the unknown, or the northern gallery_'--" mr. squills.--"'_there is a secret; find it out!_'" pisistratus, pushed to the verge of human endurance, and upsetting tongs, poker, and fire-shovel.--"what nonsense you are talking, all of you! for heaven's sake, consider what an important matter we are called upon to decide. it is not now the titles of those very respectable works which issued from the minerva press that i ask you to remember--it is to invent a title for mine--my novel!" mr. caxton, clapping his hands gently.--"excellent--capital! nothing can be better; simple, natural, pertinent, concise--" pisistratus.--"what is it, sir--what is it! have you really thought of a title to my novel?" mr. caxton.--"you have hit it yourself--'my novel.' it is your novel--people will know it is your novel. turn and twist the english language as you will--be as allegorical as hebrew, greek, roman--fabulist or puritan--still, after all, it is your novel, and nothing more nor less than your novel." pisistratus, thoughtfully, and sounding the words various ways.--"'my novel'--um--um! 'my novel!' rather bald--and curt, eh?" mr. caxton.--"add what you say you intend it to depict--varieties in english life." my mother.--"'_my novel; or, varieties in english life_'--i don't think it sounds amiss. what say you, roland? would it attract you in a catalogue?" my uncle hesitates, when mr. caxton exclaims, imperiously, "the thing is settled! don't disturb camarina." squills.--"if it be not too great a liberty, pray who or what is camarina?" mr. caxton.--"camarina, mr. squills, was a lake apt to be low, and then liable to be muddy; and 'don't disturb camarina' was a greek proverb derived from an oracle of apollo; and from that greek proverb, no doubt, comes the origin of the injunction, '_quieta non movere_,' which became the favorite maxim of sir robert walpole and parson dale. the greek line, mr. squills (here my father's memory began to warm) is preserved by stephanus byzantinus, de _urbibus_-- [greek: 'mê kinei kamarinan, akinêtos gar ameinôn.'] zenobius explains it in his proverbs; suidas repeats zenobius; lucian alludes to it; so does virgil in the third book of the Æneid; and silius italicus imitates virgil-- 'et cui non licitum fatis camarina moveri.' parson dale, as a clergyman and a scholar, had, no doubt, these authorities at his fingers' end. and i wonder he did not quote them," quoth my father; "but, to be sure, he is represented as a mild man, and so might not wish to humble the squire over-much in the presence of his family. meanwhile, my novel is my novel; and now that that matter is settled, perhaps the tongs, poker, and shovel may be picked up, the children may go to bed, blanche and kitty may speculate apart upon the future dignities of the neogilos, taking care, nevertheless, to finish the new pinbefores he requires for the present; roland may cast up his account-book, mr. squills have his brandy and water, and all the world be comfortable, each in his own way. blanche, come away from the screen, get me my slippers, and leave pisistratus to himself. [greek: mê kinei kamarinan]--don't disturb camarina. you see, my dear," added my father, kindly, as, after settling himself into his slippers, he detained blanche's hand in his own--"you see, my dear, every house has its camarina. man, who is a lazy animal, is quite content to let it alone; but woman, being the more active, bustling, curious creature, is always for giving it a sly stir." blanche, with female dignity.--"i assure you, that if pisistratus had not called me, i should not have--" mr. caxton, interrupting her, without lifting his eyes from the book he has already taken.--"certainly you would not. i am now in the midst of the great puseyite controversy. [greek: mê kinei kamarinan]--don't disturb camarina." a dead silence for half an hour, at the end of which, pisistratus, from behind the screen.--"blanche, my dear, i want to consult you." blanche does not stir. pisistratus.--"blanche, i say." blanche glances in triumph toward mr. caxton. mr. caxton, laying down his theological tract, and rubbing his spectacles mournfully.--"i hear him, child; i hear him. i retract my vindication of man. oracles warn in vain; so long as there is a woman on the other side of the screen--it is all up with camarina!" chapter ii. it is greatly to be regretted that mr. stirn was not present at the parson's discourse--but that valuable functionary was far otherwise engaged--indeed, during the summer months he was rarely seen at the afternoon service. not that he cared for being preached at--not he; mr. stirn would have snapped his finger at the thunders of the vatican. but the fact was, that mr. stirn chose to do a great deal of gratuitous business upon the day of rest. the squire allowed all persons who chose, to walk about the park on a sunday; and many came from a distance to stroll by the lake, or recline under the elms. these visitors were objects of great suspicion, nay, of positive annoyance, to mr. stirn--and, indeed, not altogether without reason, for we english have a natural love of liberty, which we are even more apt to display in the grounds of other people than in those which we cultivate ourselves. sometimes, to his inexpressible and fierce satisfaction, mr. stirn fell upon a knot of boys pelting the swans; sometimes he missed a young sapling, and found it in felonious hands, converted into a walking-stick; sometimes he caught a hulking fellow scrambling up the ha-ha! to gather a nosegay for his sweetheart from one of poor mrs. hazeldean's pet parterres; not unfrequently, indeed, when all the family were fairly at church, some curious impertinents forced or sneaked their way into the gardens, in order to peep in at the windows. for these, and various other offenses of like magnitude, mr. stirn had long, but vainly, sought to induce the squire to withdraw a permission so villainously abused. but though there were times when mr. hazeldean grunted and growled, and swore "that he would shut up the park, and fill it (illegally) with man-traps and spring-guns," his anger always evaporated in words. the park was still open to all the world on a sunday; and that blessed day was therefore converted into a day of travail and wrath to mr. stirn. but it was from the last chime of the afternoon service bell until dusk that the spirit of this vigilant functionary was most perturbed; for, amidst the flocks that gathered from the little hamlets round to the voice of the pastor, there were always some stray sheep, or rather climbing, desultory, vagabond goats, who struck off in all perverse directions, as if for the special purpose of distracting the energetic watchfulness of mr. stirn. as soon as church was over, if the day were fine, the whole park became a scene animated with red cloaks, or lively shawls, sunday waistcoats, and hats stuck full of wild flowers--which last mr. stirn often stoutly maintained to be mrs. hazeldean's newest geraniums. now, on this sunday especially, there was an imperative call upon an extra exertion of vigilance on the part of the superintendent--he had not only to detect ordinary depredators and trespassers; but, first, to discover the authors of the conspiracy against the stocks; and secondly, to "make an example." he had begun his rounds, therefore, from the early morning; and just as the afternoon bell was sounding its final peal, he emerged upon the village green from a hedgerow, behind which he had been at watch to observe who had the most suspiciously gathered round the stocks. at that moment the place was deserted. at a distance, the superintendent saw the fast disappearing forms of some belated groups hastening toward the church; in front, the stocks stood staring at him mournfully from its four great eyes, which had been cleansed from the mud, but still looked bleared and stained with the marks of the recent outrage. here mr. stirn paused, took off his hat, and wiped his brows. "if i had sum un, to watch here," thought he, "while i takes a turn by the water-side, praps summat might come out; praps them as did it ben't gone to church, but will come sneaking round to look on their willany! as they says murderers are always led back to the place where they ha' left the body. but in this here willage there ben't a man, woman, nor child, as has any consarn for squire or parish, barring myself." it was just as he arrived at that misanthropical conclusion that mr. stirn beheld leonard fairfield walking very fast from his own home. the superintendent clapped on his hat, and stuck his right arm akimbo. "hollo, you sir," said he, as lenny now came in hearing, "where be you going at that rate?" "please, sir, i be going to church." "stop, sir--stop, master lenny. going to church!--why, the bell's done; and you knows the parson is very angry at them as comes in late, disturbing the congregation. you can't go to church now!" "please, sir--" "i says you can't go to church now. you must learn to think a little of others, lad. you sees how i sweats to serve the squire! and you must serve him too. why, your mother's got the house and premishes almost rent free: you ought to have a grateful heart, leonard fairfield, and feel for his honor! poor man! _his_ heart is wellnigh bruk, i am sure, with the goings on." leonard opened his innocent blue eyes, while mr. stirn dolorously wiped his own. "look at that ere dumb cretur," said stirn suddenly, pointing to the stocks--"look at it. if it could speak, what would it say, leonard fairfield? answer me that!--'damn the stocks, indeed!'" "it was very bad in them to write such naughty words," said lenny gravely. "mother was quite shocked when she heard of it, this morning." mr. stirn.--"i dare say she was, considering what she pays for the premishes: (insinuatingly), you does not know who did it--eh, lenny?" lenny.--"no, sir; indeed i does not!" mr. stirn.--"well, you see, you can't go to church--prayers half over by this time. you recollex that i put them stocks under your 'sponsibility,' and see the way you's done your duty by 'em. i've half a mind to--" mr. stirn cast his eyes on the eyes of the stocks. "please, sir," began lenny again, rather frightened. "no, i won't please; it ben't pleasing at all. but i forgives you this time, only keep a sharp look-out, lad, in future. now you just stay here--no, there--under the hedge, and you watches if any persons come to loiter about or looks at the stocks, or laughs to hisself, while i go my rounds. i shall be back either afore church is over or just arter; so you stay till i comes, and give me your report. be sharp, boy, or it will be worse for you and your mother: i can let the premishes for four pounds a year more, to-morrow." concluding with that somewhat menacing and very significant remark, and not staying for an answer, mr. stirn waved his hand, and walked off. poor lenny remained by the stocks, very much dejected, and greatly disliking the neighborhood to which he was consigned. at length he slowly crept off to the hedge, and sate himself down in the place of espionage pointed out to him. now, philosophers tell us that what is called the point of honor is a barbarous feudal prejudice. among the higher classes, wherein those feudal prejudices may be supposed to prevail, lenny fairfield's occupation would not have been considered peculiarly honorable; neither would it have seemed so to the more turbulent spirits among the humbler orders, who have a point of honor of their own, which consists in the adherence to each other in defiance of all lawful authority. but to lenny fairfield, brought up much apart from other boys, and with a profound and grateful reverence for the squire instilled into all his habits of thought, notions of honor bounded themselves to simple honesty and straightforward truth; and as he cherished an unquestioning awe of order and constitutional authority, so it did not appear to him that there was any thing derogatory and debasing in being thus set to watch for an offender. on the contrary, as he began to reconcile himself to the loss of the church service, and to enjoy the cool of the summer shade, and the occasional chirp of the birds, he got to look on the bright side of the commission to which he was deputed. in youth, at least, every thing has its bright side--even the appointment of protector to the parish stocks. for the stocks, themselves, leonard had no affection, it is true; but he had no sympathy with their aggressors, and he could well conceive that the squire would be very much hurt at the revolutionary event of the night. "so," thought poor leonard in his simple heart--"so if i can serve his honor, by keeping off mischievous boys, or letting him know who did the thing, i'm sure it would be a proud day for mother." then he began to consider that, however ungraciously mr. stirn had bestowed on him the appointment, still it was a compliment to him--showed trust and confidence in him, picked him out from his contemporaries as the sober moral pattern boy; and lenny had a great deal of pride in him, especially in matters of repute and character. all these things considered, i say, leonard fairfield reclined in his lurking-place, if not with positive delight and intoxicating rapture, at least with tolerable content and some complacency. mr. stirn might have been gone a quarter of an hour, when a boy came through a little gate in the park, just opposite to lenny's retreat in the hedge, and, as if fatigued with walking, or oppressed by the heat of the day, paused on the green for a moment or so, and then advanced under the shade of the great tree which overhung the stocks. lenny pricked up his ears, and peeped out jealously. he had never seen the boy before: it was a strange face to him. leonard fairfield was not fond of strangers; moreover, he had a vague belief that strangers were at the bottom of that desecration of the stocks. the boy, then, was a stranger; but what was his rank? was he of that grade in society in which the natural offenses are or are not consonant to, or harmonious with outrages upon stocks? on that lenny fairfield did not feel quite assured. according to all the experience of the villager, the boy was not dressed like a young gentleman. leonard's notions of such aristocratic costume were naturally fashioned upon the model of frank hazeldean. they represented to him a dazzling vision of snow-white trowsers, and beautiful blue coats, and incomparable cravats. now the dress of this stranger, though not that of a peasant nor of a farmer, did not in any way correspond with lenny's notions of the costume of a young gentleman: it looked to him highly disreputable; the coat was covered with mud, and the hat was all manner of shapes, with a gap between the side and crown. lenny was puzzled, till it suddenly occurred to him that the gate through which the boy had passed was in the direct path across the park from a small town, the inhabitants of which were in very bad odor at the hall--they had immemorially furnished the most daring poachers to the preserves, the most troublesome trespassers on the park, the most unprincipled orchard-robbers, and the most disputatious assertors of various problematical rights of way, which, according to the town, were public, and, according to the hall, had been private since the conquest. it was true that the same path led also directly from the squire's house, but it was not probable that the wearer of attire so equivocal had been visiting there. all things considered, lenny had no doubt in his mind but that the stranger was a shop-boy or 'prentice from the town of thorndyke; and the notorious repute of that town, coupled with this presumption, made it probable that lenny now saw before him one of the midnight desecrators of the stocks. as if to confirm the suspicion, which passed through lenny's mind with a rapidity wholly disproportionate to the number of lines it costs me to convey it, the boy, now standing right before the stocks, bent down and read that pithy anathema with which it was defaced. and having read it, he repeated it aloud, and lenny actually saw him smile--such a smile!--so disagreeable and sinister! lenny had never before seen the smile sardonic. but what were lenny's pious horror and dismay when this ominous stranger fairly seated himself on the stocks, rested his heels profanely on the lids of two of the four round eyes, and, taking out a pencil and a pocket-book, began to write. was this audacious unknown taking an inventory of the church and the hall for the purposes of conflagration? he looked at one, and at the other, with a strange, fixed stare as he wrote--not keeping his eyes on the paper, as lenny had been taught to do when he sate down to his copy-book. the fact is, that randal leslie was tired and faint, and he felt the shock of his fall the more, after the few paces he had walked, so that he was glad to rest himself a few moments; and he took that opportunity to write a line to frank, to excuse himself for not calling again, intending to tear the leaf on which he wrote out of his pocket-book, and leave it at the first cottage he passed, with instructions to take it to the hall. while randal was thus innocently engaged, lenny came up to him, with the firm and measured pace of one who has resolved, cost what it may, to do his duty. and as lenny, though brave, was not ferocious, so the anger he felt, and the suspicions he entertained, only exhibited themselves in the following solemn appeal to the offender's sense of propriety: "ben't you ashamed of yourself? sitting on the squire's new stocks! do get up, and go along with you!" randal turned round sharply; and though, at any other moment, he would have had sense enough to extricate himself very easily from his false position, yet, _nemo mortalium_, &c. no one is always wise. and randal was in an exceedingly bad humor. the affability toward his inferiors, for which i lately praised him, was entirely lost in the contempt for impertinent snobs natural to an insulted etonian. therefore, eying lenny with great disdain randal answered, briefly: "you are an insolent young blackguard." so curt a rejoinder made lenny's blood fly to his face. persuaded before that the intruder was some lawless apprentice or shop-lad, he was now more confirmed in that judgment, not only by language so uncivil, but by the truculent glance which accompanied it, and which certainly did not derive any imposing dignity from the mutilated, rakish, hang-dog, ruinous hat, under which it shot its sullen and menacing fire. of all the various articles of which our male attire is composed, there is perhaps not one which has so much character and expression as the top-covering. a neat, well-brushed, short-napped, gentlemanlike hat, put on with a certain air, gives a distinction and respectability to the whole exterior; whereas a broken, squashed, higgledy-piggledy sort of a hat, such as randal leslie had on, would go far toward transforming the stateliest gentleman that ever walked down st. james's-street into the ideal of a ruffianly scamp. now, it is well known that there is nothing more antipathetic to your peasant-boy than a shop-boy. even on grand political occasions, the rural working-class can rarely be coaxed into sympathy with the trading town-class. your true english peasant is always an aristocrat. moreover, and irrespectively of this immemorial grudge of class, there is something peculiarly hostile in the relationship between boy and boy when their backs are once up, and they are alone on a quiet bit of green. something of the game-cock feeling--something that tends to keep alive, in the population of this island (otherwise so lamb-like and peaceful), the martial propensity to double the thumb tightly over the four fingers, and make what is called "a fist of it." dangerous symptoms of these mingled and aggressive sentiments were visible in lenny fairfield at the words and the look of the unprepossessing stranger. and the stranger seemed aware of them; for his pale face grew more pale, and his sullen eye more fixed and more vigilant. "you get off them stocks," said lenny, disdaining to reply to the coarse expressions bestowed on him; and, suiting the action to the word, he gave the intruder what he meant for a shove, but which randal took for a blow. the etonian sprang up, and the quickness of his movement, aided but by a slight touch of his hand, made lenny lose his balance, and sent him neck-and-crop over the stocks. burning with rage, the young villager rose alertly, and, flying at randal, struck out right and left. chapter iii. aid me, o ye nine! whom the incomparable persius satirized his contemporaries for invoking, and then, all of a sudden, invoked on his own behalf--aid me to describe that famous battle by the stocks, and in defense of the stocks, which was waged by the two representatives of saxon and norman england. here, sober support of law and duty and delegated trust--_pro aris et focis_; there, haughty invasion, and bellicose spirit of knighthood, and that respect for name and person, which we call honor. here, too, hardy physical force--there, skillful discipline. here--the nine are as deaf as a post, and as cold as a stone! plague take the jades!--i can do better without them. randal was a year older than lenny, but he was not so tall nor so strong, nor even so active; and after the first blind rush, when the two boys paused, and drew back to breathe, lenny, eying the slight form and hueless cheek of his opponent, and seeing blood trickling from randal's lip, was seized with an instantaneous and generous remorse. "it was not fair," he thought, "to fight one whom he could beat so easily." so, retreating still farther, and letting his arms fall to his side, he said, mildly, "there, let's have no more of it; but go home and be good." randal leslie had no remarkable degree of that constitutional quality called physical courage; but he had all those moral qualities which supply its place. he was proud--he was vindictive--he had high self-esteem--he had the destructive organ more than the combative;--what had once provoked his wrath it became his instinct to sweep away. therefore, though all his nerves were quivering, and hot tears were in his eyes, he approached lenny with the sternness of a gladiator, and said between his teeth, which he set hard, choking back the sob of rage and pain: "you have struck me--and you shall not stir from this ground--till i have made you repent it. put up your hands--i will not strike you so--defend yourself." lenny mechanically obeyed; and he had good need of the admonition: for if before he had had the advantage, now that randal had recovered the surprise to his nerves, the battle was not to the strong. though leslie had not been a fighting boy at eton, still his temper had involved him in some conflicts when he was in the lower forms, and he had learned something of the art as well as the practice of pugilism--an excellent thing, too, i am barbarous enough to believe, and which i hope will never quite die out of our public schools. ah, many a young duke has been a better fellow for life from a fair set-to with a trader's son; and many a trader's son has learned to look a lord more manfully in the face on the hustings, from the recollection of the sound thrashing he once gave to some little lord leopold dawdle. so randal now brought his experience and art to bear; put aside those heavy roundabout blows, and darted in his own, quick and sharp--supplying the due momentum of pugilistic mechanics to the natural feebleness of his arm. ay, and the arm, too, was no longer so feeble; so strange is the strength that comes from passion and pluck! poor lenny, who had never fought before, was bewildered; his sensations grew so entangled that he could never recall them distinctly: he had a dim reminiscence of some breathless impotent rush--of a sudden blindness followed by quick flashes of intolerable light--of a deadly faintness from which he was roused by sharp pangs--here--there--every where; and then, all he could remember was, that he was lying on the ground, huddled up and panting hard, while his adversary bent over him with a countenance as dark and livid as lara himself might have bent over the fallen otho. for randal leslie was not one who, by impulse and nature, subscribed to the noble english maxim--"never hit a foe when he is down;" and it cost him a strong if brief self struggle, not to set his heel on that prostrate form. it was the mind, not the heart, that subdued the savage within him, as, muttering something inwardly--certainly not christian forgiveness--the victor turned gloomily away. chapter iv. just at that precise moment, who should appear but mr. stirn! for, in fact, being extremely anxious to get lenny into disgrace, he had hoped that he should have found the young villager had shirked the commission intrusted to him; and the right-hand man had slyly come back, to see if that amiable expectation were realized. he now beheld lenny rising with some difficulty--still panting hard--and with hysterical sounds akin to what is vulgarly called blubbering--his fine new waistcoat sprinkled with his own blood, which flowed from his nose--nose that seemed to lenny fairfield's feelings to be a nose no more, but a swollen, gigantic, mountainous slawkenbergian excrescence--in fact, he felt all nose! turning aghast from this spectacle, mr. stirn surveyed, with no more respect than lenny had manifested, the stranger boy, who had again seated himself on the stocks (whether to recover his breath, or whether to show that his victory was consummated, and that he was in his rights of possession). "hollo," said mr. stirn, "what is all this?--what's the matter, lenny, you blockhead?" "he _will_ sit there," answered lenny, in broken gasps, "and he has beat me because i would not let him; but i doesn't mind that," added the villager, trying hard to suppress his tears, "and i'm ready again for him--that i am." "and what do you do, lolloping there on them blessed stocks?" "looking at the landscape; out of my light, man!" this tone instantly inspired mr. stirn with misgivings; it was a tone so disrespectful to him that he was seized with involuntary respect; who but a gentleman could speak so to mr. stirn? "and may i ask who you be?" said stirn, falteringly, and half inclined to touch his hat. "what's your name, pray, and what's your bizness?" "my name is randal leslie, and my business was to visit your master's family--that is, if you are, as i guess from your manner, mr. hazeldean's plowman!" so saying, randal rose; and, moving on a few paces, turned, and throwing half-a-crown on the road, said to lenny, "let that pay you for your bruises, and remember another time how you speak to a gentleman. as for you, fellow," and he pointed his scornful hand toward mr. stirn, who with his mouth open, and his hat now fairly off, stood bowing to the earth, "as for you, give my compliments to mr. hazeldean, and say that, when he does us the honor to visit us at rood hall, i trust that the manners of our villagers will make him ashamed of hazeldean." o my poor squire! rood hall ashamed of hazeldean! if that message had ever been delivered to you, you would never have looked up again! with those bitter words, randal swung himself over the stile that led into the parson's glebe, and left lenny fairfield still feeling his nose, and mr. stirn still bowing to the earth. chapter v. randal leslie had a very long walk home: he was bruised and sore from head to foot, and his mind was still more sore and more bruised than his body. but if randal leslie had rested himself in the squire's gardens, without walking backward, and indulging in speculations suggested by marat and warranted by my lord bacon, he would have passed a most agreeable evening, and really availed himself of the squire's wealth by going home in the squire's carriage. but because he chose to take so intellectual a view of property, he tumbled into a ditch; because he tumbled into a ditch, he spoiled his clothes; because he spoiled his clothes, he gave up his visit; because he gave up his visit, he got into the village green, and sat on the stocks with a hat that gave him the air of a fugitive from the treadmill; because he sate on the stocks--with that hat, and a cross face under it--he had been forced into the most discreditable squabble with a clodhopper, and was now limping home, at war with gods and men; _ergo_ (this is a moral that will bear repetition), _ergo_, when you walk in a rich man's grounds, be contented to enjoy what is yours, namely, the prospect; i dare say you will enjoy it more than he does. chapter vi. if, in the simplicity of his heart, and the crudeness of his experience, lenny fairfield had conceived it probable that mr. stirn would address to him some words in approbation of his gallantry, and in sympathy for his bruises, he soon found himself woefully mistaken. that truly great man, worthy prime-minister of hazeldean, might, perhaps, pardon a dereliction from his orders, if such dereliction proved advantageous to the interests of the service, or redounded to the credit of the chief; but he was inexorable to that worst of diplomatic offenses--an ill-timed, stupid, over-zealous obedience to orders, which, if it established the devotion of the _employé_, got the employer into what is popularly called a scrape! and though, by those unversed in the intricacies of the human heart, and unacquainted with the especial hearts of prime-ministers and right-hand men, it might have seemed natural that mr. stirn, as he stood still, hat in hand, in the middle of the road, stung, humbled, and exasperated by the mortification he had received from the lips of randal leslie, would have felt that that young gentleman was the proper object of his resentment; yet such a breach of all the etiquette of diplomatic life as resentment toward a superior power was the last idea that would have suggested itself to the profound intellect of the premier of hazeldean. still, as rage like steam must escape somewhere, mr. stirn, on feeling--as he afterward expressed it to his wife--that his "buzzom was a-burstin," turned with the natural instinct of self preservation to the safety-valve provided for the explosion; and the vapor within him rushed into vent upon lenny fairfield. he clapped his hat on his head fiercely, and thus relieved his "buzzom." "you young willain! you howdacious wiper! and so all this blessed sabbath afternoon, when you ought to have been in church on your marrow bones, a-praying for your betters, you has been a-fitting with a young gentleman, and a wisiter to your master, on the werry place of the parridge hinstitution that you was to guard and pertect; and a-bloodying it all over, i declares, with your blaggard little nose!" thus saying, and as if to mend the matter, mr. stirn aimed an additional stroke at the offending member; but lenny mechanically putting up both his arms to defend his face, mr. stirn struck his knuckles against the large brass buttons that adorned the cuff of the boy's coat-sleeve--an incident which considerably aggravated his indignation. and lenny, whose spirit was fairly roused at what the narrowness of his education conceived to be a signal injustice, placing the trunk of the tree between mr. stirn and himself, began that task of self-justification which it was equally impolitic to conceive and imprudent to execute, since, in such a case, to justify was to recriminate. "i wonder at you, master stirn--if mother could hear you! you know it was you who would not let me go to church; it was you who told me to--" "fit a young gentleman, and break the sabbath," said mr. stirn, interrupting him with a withering sneer. "o yes! i told you to disgrace his honor the squire, and me, and the parridge, and bring us all into trouble. but the squire told me to make an example, and i will!" with those words, quick as lightning flashed upon mr. stirn's mind the luminous idea of setting lenny in the very stocks which he had too faithfully guarded. eureka! the "example" was before him! here, he could gratify his long grudge against the pattern boy; here, by such a selection of the very best lad in the parish, he could strike terror into the worst; here he could appease the offended dignity of randal leslie; here was a practical apology to the squire for the affront put upon his young visitor; here, too, there was prompt obedience to the squire's own wish that the stocks should be provided as soon as possible with a tenant. suiting the action to the thought, mr. stirn made a rapid plunge at his victim, caught him by the skirt of his jacket, and, in a few seconds more, the jaws of the stocks had opened, and lenny fairfield was thrust therein--a sad spectacle of the reverses of fortune. this done, and while the boy was too astounded, too stupefied by the suddenness of the calamity for the resistance he might otherwise have made--nay, for more than a few inaudible words--mr. stirn hurried from the spot, but not without first picking up and pocketing the half-crown designed for lenny, and which, so great had been his first emotions, he had hitherto even almost forgotten. he then made his way toward the church, with the intention to place himself close by the door, catch the squire as he came out, whisper to him what had passed, and lead him, with the whole congregation at his heels, to gaze upon the sacrifice offered up to the joint powers of nemesis and themis. chapter vii. unaffectedly i say it--upon the honor of a gentleman, and the reputation of an author, unaffectedly i say it--no words of mine can do justice to the sensations experienced by lenny fairfield, as he sat alone in that place of penance. he felt no more the physical pain of his bruises; the anguish of his mind stifled and over-bore all corporeal suffering--an anguish as great as the childish breast is capable of holding. for first and deepest of all, and earliest felt, was the burning sense of injustice. he had, it might be with erring judgment, but with all honesty, earnestness, and zeal, executed the commission intrusted to him; he had stood forth manfully in discharge of his duty; he had fought for it, suffered for it, bled for it. this was his reward! now, in lenny's mind there was pre-eminently that quality which distinguishes the anglo-saxon race--the sense of justice. it was perhaps the strongest principle in his moral constitution; and the principle had never lost its virgin bloom and freshness by any of the minor acts of oppression and iniquity which boys of higher birth often suffer from harsh parents, or in tyrannical schools. so that it was for the first time that that iron entered into his soul, and with it came its attendant feeling--the wrathful galling sense of impotence. he had been wronged, and he had no means to right himself. then came another sensation, if not so deep, yet more smarting and envenomed for the time--shame! he, the good boy of all good boys--he, the pattern of the school, and the pride of the parson--he, whom the squire, in sight of all his contemporaries, had often singled out to slap on the back, and the grand squire's lady to pat on the head, with a smiling gratulation on his young and fair repute--he, who had already learned so dearly to prize the sweets of an honorable name--he, to be made, as it were, in the twinkling of an eye, a mark for opprobrium, a butt of scorn, a jeer, and a byword! the streams of his life were poisoned at the fountain. and then came a tenderer thought of his mother! of the shock this would be to her--she who had already begun to look up to him as her stay and support: he bowed his head, and the tears, long suppressed, rolled down. then he wrestled and struggled, and strove to wrench his limbs from that hateful bondage; for he heard steps approaching. and he began to picture to himself the arrival of all the villagers from church, the sad gaze of the parson, the bent brow of the squire, the idle, ill-suppressed titter of all the boys, jealous of his unblotted character--character of which the original whiteness could never, never be restored! he would always be the boy who had sat in the stocks! and the words uttered by the squire came back on his soul, like the voice of conscience in the ears of some doomed macbeth. "a sad disgrace lenny--you'll never be in such a quandary." "quandary," the word was unfamiliar to him; it must mean something awfully discreditable. the poor boy could have prayed for the earth to swallow him. chapter viii. "kettles and frying-pans! what has us here?" cried the tinker. this time mr. sprott was without his donkey; for, it being sunday, it is to be presumed that the donkey was enjoying his sabbath on the common. the tinker was in his sunday's best, clean and smart, about to take his lounge in the park. lenny fairfield made no answer to the appeal. "you in the wood, my baby! well that's the last sight i should ha' thought to see. but we all lives to larn," added the tinker, sententiously. "who gave you them leggins? can't you speak, lad?" "nick stirn." "nick stirn! ay, i'd ha' ta'en my davy on that: and cos vy?" "'cause i did as he told me, and fought a boy as was trespassing on these very stocks; and he beat me--but i don't care for that; and that boy was a young gentleman, and going to visit the squire; and so nick stirn--" lenny stopped short, choked by rage and humiliation. "augh," said the tinker, staring, "you fit with a young gentleman, did you? sorry to hear you confess that, my lad! sit there, and be thankful you ha' got off so cheap. 'tis salt and battery to fit with your betters, and a lunnon justice o' peace would have given you two months o' the treadmill. but vy should you fit cos he trespassed on the stocks? it ben't your natural side for fitting, i takes it." lenny murmured something not very distinguishable about serving the squire, and doing as he was bid. "oh, i sees, lenny," interrupted the tinker, in a tone of great contempt, "you be one o' those who would rayther 'unt with the 'ounds than run with the 'are! you be's the good pattern boy, and would peach agin your own horder to curry favor with the grand folks. fie, lad! you be sarved right: stick by your horder, then you'll be 'spected when you gets into trouble, and not be 'varsally 'espised--as you'll be arter church-time! vell, i can't be seen 'sorting with you, now you are in this here drogotary fix; it might hurt my cracter, both with them as built the stocks, and them as wants to pull 'em down. old kettles to mend! vy, you makes me forgit the sabbath. sarvent, my lad, and wish you well out of it; 'specks to your mother, and say we can deal for the pan and shovel all the same for your misfortin." the tinker went his way. lenny's eye followed him with the sullenness of despair. the tinker, like all the tribe of human comforters, had only watered the brambles to invigorate the prick of the thorns. yes, if lenny had been caught breaking the stocks, some at least would have pitied him; but to be incarcerated for defending them, you might as well have expected that the widows and orphans of the reign of terror would have pitied dr. guillotin when he slid through the grooves of his own deadly machine. and even the tinker, itinerant, ragamuffin vagabond as he was, felt ashamed to be found with the pattern boy! lenny's head sank again on his breast, heavily as if it had been of lead. some few minutes thus passed, when the unhappy prisoner became aware of the presence of another spectator to his shame: he heard no step, but he saw a shadow thrown over the sward. he held his breath, and would not look up, with some vague idea that if he refused to see he might escape being seen. chapter ix. "_per bacco!_" said dr. riccabocca, putting his hand on lenny's shoulder, and bending down to look into his face--"_per bacco!_ my young friend, do you sit here from choice or necessity?" lenny slightly shuddered, and winced under the touch of one whom he had hitherto regarded with a sort of superstitious abhorrence. "i fear," resumed riccabocca, after waiting in vain for an answer to his question, "that, though the situation is charming, you did not select it yourself. what is this?"--and the irony of the tone vanished--"what is this, my poor boy? you have been bleeding, and i see that those tears which you try to check come from a deep well. tell me, _povero fanciullo mio_, (the sweet italian vowels, though lenny did not understand them, sounded softly and soothingly),--tell me, my child, how all this happened. perhaps i can help you--we have all erred; we should all help each other." lenny's heart, that just before had seemed bound in brass, found itself a way as the italian spoke thus kindly, and the tears rushed down; but he again stopped them, and gulped out sturdily-- "i have not done no wrong; it ben't my fault--and 'tis that which kills me!" concluded lenny, with a burst of energy. "you have not done wrong? then," said the philosopher, drawing out his pocket handkerchief with great composure, and spreading it on the ground--"then i may sit beside you. i could only stoop pityingly over sin, but i can lie down on equal terms with misfortune." lenny fairfield did not quite comprehend the words, but enough of their general meaning was apparent to make him cast a grateful glance on the italian. riccabocca resumed, as he adjusted the pocket-handkerchief, "i have a right to your confidence, my child, for i have been afflicted in my day; yet i too say with thee, 'i have not done wrong.' _cospetto!_" (and here the dr. seated himself deliberately, resting one arm on the side column of the stocks, in familiar contact with the captive's shoulder, while his eye wandered over the lovely scene around)--"_cospetto!_ my prison, if they had caught me, would not have had so fair a look-out as this. but, to be sure, it is all one: there are no ugly loves, and no handsome prisons!" with that sententious maxim, which, indeed, he uttered in his native italian, riccabocca turned round and renewed his soothing invitations to confidence. a friend in need is a friend indeed, even if he come in the guise of a papist and wizard. all lenny's ancient dislike to the foreigner had gone, and he told him his little tale. dr. riccabocca was much too shrewd a man not to see exactly the motives which had induced mr. stirn to incarcerate his agent (barring only that of personal grudge, to which lenny's account gave him no clew). that a man high in office should make a scape-goat of his own watch-dog for an unlucky snap, or even an indiscreet bark, was nothing strange to the wisdom of the student of machiavelli. however, he set himself to the task of consolation with equal philosophy and tenderness. he began by reminding, or rather informing, leonard fairfield of all the instances of illustrious men afflicted by the injustice of others that occurred to his own excellent memory. he told him how the great epictetus, when in slavery, had a master whose favorite amusement was pinching his leg, which, as the amusement ended in breaking that limb, was worse than the stocks. he also told him the anecdote of lenny's own gallant countryman, admiral byng, whose execution gave rise to voltaire's celebrated witticism, "_en angleterre on tue un admiral pour encourager les autres._" ("in england they execute one admiral in order to encourage the others.") many more illustrations, still more pertinent to the case in point, his erudition supplied from the stores of history. but on seeing that lenny did not seem in the slightest degree consoled by these memorable examples, he shifted his ground, and reducing his logic to the strict _argumentum ad rem_, began to prove, st, that there was no disgrace at all in lenny's present position, that every equitable person would recognize the tyranny of stirn and the innocence of its victim; dly, that if even here he were mistaken, for public opinion was not always righteous, what was public opinion, after all? "a breath--a puff," cried dr. riccabocca, "a thing without matter--without length, breadth, or substance--a shadow--a goblin of our own creating. a man's own conscience is his sole tribunal, and he should care no more for that phantom 'opinion' than he should fear meeting a ghost if he cross the church-yard at dark." now, as lenny did very much fear meeting a ghost if he crossed the church-yard at dark, the simile spoiled the argument, and he shook his head very mournfully. dr. riccabocca was about to enter into a third course of reasoning, which, had it come to an end, would doubtless have settled the matter, and reconciled lenny to sitting in the stocks till doomsday, when the captive, with the quick ear and eye of terror and calamity, became conscious that church was over, that the congregation in a few seconds more would be flocking thitherward. he saw visionary hats and bonnets through the trees, which riccabocca saw not, despite all the excellence of his spectacles--heard phantasmal rustlings and murmurings which riccabocca heard not, despite all that theoretical experience in plots, stratagems, and treasons, which should have made the italian's ear as fine as a conspirator's or a mole's. and with another violent but vain effort at escape, the prisoner exclaimed, "oh, if i could but get out before they come! let me out--let me out. o, kind sir, have pity--let me out!" "_diavolo!_" said the philosopher, startled, "i wonder that never occurred to me before. after all, i believe he has hit the right nail on the head;" and looking close, he perceived that though the partition wood had hitched firmly into a sort of spring-clasp, which defied lenny's unaided struggles, still it was not locked (for, indeed, the padlock and key were snug in the justice-room of the squire, who never dreamt that his orders would be executed so literally and summarily as to dispense with all formal appeal to himself). as soon as dr. riccabocca made that discovery, it occurred to him that all the wisdom of all the schools that ever existed can't reconcile man or boy to a bad position, the moment there is a fair opportunity of letting him out of it. accordingly, without more ado, he lifted up the creaking board, and lenny fairfield darted forth like a bird from a cage--halted a moment as if for breath, or in joy; and then, taking at once to his heels, fled, fast as a hare to its form--fast to his mother's home. dr. riccabocca dropped the yawning-wood into its place, picked up his handkerchief, and restored it to his pocket; and then, with some curiosity, began to examine the nature of that place of duresse, which had caused so much painful emotion to its rescued victim. "man is a very irrational animal at best," quoth the sage, soliloquizing, "and is frightened by strange buggabooes! 'tis but a piece of wood!--how little it really injures; and, after all, the holes are but rests to the legs, and keep the feet out of the dirt. and this green bank to sit upon--under the shade of the elm-tree--verily the position must be more pleasant than otherwise! i've a great mind--" here the doctor looked around, and, seeing the coast still clear, the oddest notion imaginable took possession of him; yet not indeed a notion so odd, considered philosophically--for all philosophy is based upon practical experiment--and dr. riccabocca felt an irresistible desire practically to experience what manner of thing that punishment of the stocks really was. "i can but try!--only for a moment," said he, apologetically, to his own expostulating sense of dignity. "i have time to do it before any one comes." he lifted up the partition again: but stocks are built on the true principle of english law, and don't easily allow a man to criminate himself--it was hard to get into them without the help of a friend. however, as we before noticed, obstacles only whetted dr. riccabocca's invention. he looked round and saw a withered bit of stick under the tree--this he inserted in the division of the stocks, somewhat in the manner in which boys place a stick under a sieve for the purpose of ensnaring sparrows: the fatal wood thus propped, dr. riccabocca sat gravely down on the bank, and thrust his feet through the apertures. "nothing in it!" cried he, triumphantly, after a moment's deliberation. "the evil is only in idea. such is the boasted reason of mortals!" with that reflection, nevertheless, he was about to withdraw his feet from their voluntary dilemma, when the crazy stick suddenly gave way, and the partition fell back into its clasp. doctor riccabocca was fairly caught--"_facilis descensus--sed revocare gradum!_" true, his hands were at liberty, but his legs were so long that, being thus fixed, they kept the hands from the rescue; and as dr. riccabocca's form was by no means supple, and the twin parts of the wood stuck together with that firmness of adhesion which things newly painted possess, so, after some vain twists and contortions, in which he succeeded at length (not without a stretch of the sinews that made them crack again) in finding the clasp and breaking his nails thereon, the victim of his own rash experiment resigned himself to his fate. dr. riccabocca was one of those men who never do things by halves. when i say he resigned himself, i mean not only christian but philosophical resignation. the position was not quite so pleasant as, theoretically, he had deemed it; but he resolved to make himself as comfortable as he could. and first, as is natural in all troubles to men who have grown familiar with that odoriferous comforter which sir walter raleigh is said first to have bestowed upon the caucasian races, the doctor made use of his hands to extract from his pocket his pipe, match-box, and tobacco-pouch. after a few whiffs he would have been quite reconciled to his situation, but for the discovery that the sun had shifted its place in the heavens, and was no longer shaded from his face by the elm-tree. the doctor again looked round, and perceived that his red silk umbrella, which he had laid aside when he had seated himself by lenny, was within arm's reach. possessing himself of this treasure, he soon expanded its friendly folds. and thus doubly fortified within and without, under the shade of the umbrella, and his pipe composedly between his lips, dr. riccabocca gazed on his own incarcerated legs, even with complacency. "'he who can despise all things,'" said he, in one of his native proverbs, "'possesses all things!'--if one despises freedom, one is free! this seat is as soft as a sofa! i am not sure," he resumed, soliloquizing, after a pause, "i am not sure that there is not something more witty than manly and philosophical in that national proverb of mine which i quoted to the _fanciullo_, that there are no handsome prisons! did not the son of that celebrated frenchman, surnamed _bras de fer_, write a book not only to prove that adversities are more necessary than prosperities, but that among all adversities a prison is the most pleasant and profitable?[ ] but is not this condition of mine, voluntarily and experimentally incurred, a type of my life? is it the first time that i have thrust myself into a hobble?--and if in a hobble of mine own choosing, why should i blame the gods?" [footnote : "_entre tout, l'état d'une prison est le plus doux, et le plus profitable!_"] upon this, dr. riccabocca fell into a train of musing so remote from time and place, that in a few minutes he no more remembered that he was in the parish stocks, than a lover remembers that flesh is grass, a miser that mammon is perishable, a philosopher that wisdom is vanity. dr. riccabocca was in the clouds. chapter x. the dullest dog that ever wrote a novel (and, _entre nous_, reader--but let it go no farther--we have a good many dogs among the fraternity that are not munitos),[ ] might have seen with half an eye that the parson's discourse had produced a very genial and humanizing effect upon his audience. when all was over, and the congregation stood up to let mr. hazeldean and his family walk first down the aisle, (for that was the custom at hazeldean,) moistened eyes glanced at the squire's sun-burned, manly face with a kindness that bespoke revived memory of many a generous benefit and ready service. the head might be wrong now and then--the heart was in the right place, after all. and the lady, leaning on his arm, came in for a large share of that gracious good feeling. true, she now and then gave a little offense when the cottages were not so clean as she fancied they ought to be--and poor folks don't like a liberty taken with their houses any more than the rich do; true, that she was not quite so popular with the women as the squire was, for, if the husband went too often to the alehouse, she always laid the fault on the wife, and said, "no man would go out of doors for his comforts, if he had a smiling face and a clean hearth at his home;" whereas the squire maintained the more gallant opinion, that "if gill was a shrew, it was because jack did not, as in duty bound, stop her mouth with a kiss!" still, notwithstanding these more obnoxious notions on her part, and a certain awe inspired by the stiff silk gown and the handsome aquiline nose, it was impossible, especially in the softened tempers of that sunday afternoon, not to associate the honest, comely, beaming countenance of mrs. hazeldean with comfortable recollections of soups, jellies, and wine in sickness, loaves and blankets in winter, cheering words and ready visits in every little distress, and pretexts afforded by improvement in the grounds and gardens (improvements which, as the squire, who preferred productive labor, justly complained, "would never finish") for little timely jobs of work to some veteran grandsire, who still liked to earn a penny, or some ruddy urchin in a family that "came too fast." nor was frank, as he walked a little behind, in the whitest of trowsers and the stiffest of neckcloths--with a look of suppressed roguery in his bright hazel eye, that contrasted his assumed stateliness of mien--without his portion of the silent blessing. not that he had done any thing yet to deserve it; but we all give youth so large a credit in the future. as for miss jemima, her trifling foibles only rose from too soft and feminine a susceptibility, too ivy-like a yearning for some masculine oak, whereon to entwine her tendrils; and so little confined to self was the natural lovingness of her disposition, that she had helped many a village lass to find a husband, by the bribe of a marriage gift from her own privy purse; notwithstanding the assurances with which she accompanied the marriage gift,--viz., that "the bridegroom would turn out like the rest of his ungrateful sex; but that it was a comfort to think that it would be all one in the approaching crash." so that she had her warm partisans, especially among the young; while the slim captain, on whose arm she rested her forefinger, was at least a civil-spoken gentleman, who had never done any harm, and who would doubtless do a deal of good if he belonged to the parish. nay, even the fat footman, who came last with the family prayer-book, had his due share in the general association of neighborly kindness between hall and hamlet. few were there present to whom he had not extended the right-hand of fellowship, with a full horn of october in the clasp of it: and he was a hazeldean man, too, born and bred, as two-thirds of the squire's household (now letting themselves out from their large pew under the gallery) were. [footnote : munito was the name of a dog famous for his learning (a porson of a dog) at the date of my childhood. there are no such dogs nowadays.] on his part, too, you could see that the squire was 'moved withal,' and a little humbled moreover. instead of walking erect, and taking bow and courtesy as matter of course, and of no meaning, he hung his head somewhat, and there was a slight blush on his cheek; and as he glanced upward and round him--shyly, as it were--and his eye met those friendly looks, it returned them with an earnestness that had in it something touching as well as cordial--an eye that said, as well as eye could say, "i don't quite deserve it, i fear, neighbors; but i thank you for your good-will with my whole heart." and so readily was that glance of the eye understood that i think, if that scene had taken place out of doors instead of in the church, there would have been an hurrah as the squire passed out of sight. scarcely had mr. hazeldean got well out of the church-yard, ere mr. stirn was whispering in his ear. as stirn whispered the squire's face grew long, and his color changed. the congregation, now flocking out of the church, exchanged looks with each other; that ominous conjunction between squire and man chilled back all the effects of the parson's sermon. the squire struck his cane violently into the ground. "i would rather you had told me black bess had got the glanders. a young gentleman, coming to visit my son, struck and insulted in hazeldean; a young gentleman--'sdeath, sir, a relation--his grandmother was a hazeldean. i do believe jemima's right, and the world's coming to an end! but leonard fairfield in the stocks! what will the parson say? and after such a sermon! 'rich man, respect the poor!' and the good widow too; and poor mark, who almost died in my arms. stirn, you have a heart of stone! you confounded, lawless, merciless miscreant, who the deuce gave you the right to imprison man or boy in my parish of hazeldean without trial, sentence, or warrant? run and let the boy out before any one sees him: run, or i shall."--the squire elevated the cane, and his eyes shot fire. mr. stirn did not run, but he walked off very fast. the squire drew back a few paces, and again took his wife's arm. "just wait a bit for the parson, while i talk to the congregation. i want to stop 'em all if i can, from going into the village; but how?" frank heard, and replied readily-- "give 'em some beer, sir." "beer! on a sunday! for shame, frank!" cried mrs. hazeldean. "hold your tongue, harry. thank you, frank," said the squire, and his brow grew as clear as the blue sky above him. i doubt if riccabocca could have got him out of his dilemma with the same ease as frank had done. "halt there, my men--lads and lasses too--there, halt a bit. mrs. fairfield, do you hear?--halt! i think his reverence has given us a capital sermon. go up to the great house all of you, and drink a glass to his health. frank, go with them; and tell spruce to tap one of the casks kept for the haymakers. harry, [this in a whisper] catch the parson, and tell him to come to me instantly." "my dear hazeldean, what has happened? you are mad." "don't bother--do what i tell you." "but where is the parson to find you?" "where, gad zooks, mrs. h., at the stocks to be sure!" chapter xi. dr. riccabocca, awakened out of his reverie by the sound of footsteps--was still so little sensible of the indignity of his position, that he enjoyed exceedingly and with all the malice of his natural humor, the astonishment and stupor manifested by stirn, when that functionary beheld the extraordinary substitute which fate and philosophy had found for lenny fairfield. instead of the weeping, crushed, broken-hearted captive whom he had reluctantly come to deliver, he stared, speechless and aghast, upon the grotesque but tranquil figure of the doctor, enjoying his pipe and cooling himself under his umbrella, with a _sang-froid_ that was truly appalling and diabolical. indeed, considering that stirn always suspected the papisher of having had a hand in the whole of that black and midnight business, in which the stocks had been broken, bunged up, and consigned to perdition, and that the papisher had the evil reputation of dabbling in the black art, the hocus-pocus way in which the lenny he incarcerated was transformed into the doctor he found, conjoined with the peculiarly strange, eldritch, and mephistophelean physiognomy and person of riccabocca, could not but strike a thrill of superstitious dismay into the breast of the parochial tyrant. while to his first confused and stammered exclamations and interrogatories, riccabocca replied with so tragic an air, such ominous shakes of the head, such mysterious, equivocating, long-worded sentences, that stirn every moment felt more and more convinced that the boy had sold himself to the powers of darkness; and that he himself, prematurely, and in the flesh, stood face to face with the arch-enemy. mr. stirn had not yet recovered his wonted intelligence, which, to do him justice, was usually prompt enough--when the squire, followed hard by the parson, arrived at the spot. indeed, mrs. hazeldean's report of the squire's urgent message, disturbed manner, and most unparalleled invitation to the parishioners, had given wings to parson dale's ordinarily slow and sedate movements. and while the squire, sharing stirn's amazement, beheld indeed a great pair of feet projecting from the stocks, and saw behind them the grave face of doctor riccabocca, under the majestic shade of the umbrella, but not a vestige of the only being his mind could identify with the tenancy of the stocks, mr. dale, catching him by the arm, and panting hard, exclaimed with a petulance he had never before been known to display--except at the whist-table-- "mr. hazeldean, mr. hazeldean, i am scandalized--i am shocked at you. i can bear a great deal from you, sir, as i ought to do; but to ask my whole congregation, the moment after divine service, to go up and guzzle ale at the hall, and drink my health, as if a clergyman's sermon had been a speech at a cattle-fair! i am ashamed of you, and of the parish! what on earth has come to you all?" "that's the very question i wish to heaven i could answer," groaned the squire, quite mildly and pathetically--"what on earth has come to us all! ask stirn:" (then bursting out) "stirn, you infernal rascal, don't you hear?--what on earth has come to us all?" "the papisher is at the bottom of it, sir," said stirn, provoked out of all temper. "i does my duty, but i is but a mortal man, arter all." "a mortal fiddlestick--where's leonard fairfield, i say?" "_him_ knows best," answered stirn, retreating mechanically, for safety's sake, behind the parson, and pointing to dr. riccabocca. hitherto, though both the squire and parson had indeed recognized the italian, they had merely supposed him to be seated on the bank. it never entered into their heads that so respectable and dignified a man could by any possibility be an inmate, compelled or voluntary, of the parish stocks. no, not even though, as i before said, the squire had seen, just under his nose, a very long pair of soles inserted in the aperture--that sight had only confused and bewildered him, unaccompanied as it ought to have been with the trunk and face of lenny fairfield. those soles seemed to him optical delusions, phantoms of the overheated brain; but now, catching hold of stirn, while the parson in equal astonishment caught hold of him--the squire faltered out, "well, this beats cock-fighting! the man's as mad as a march hare, and has taken dr. rickeybockey for little lenny!" "perhaps," said the doctor, breaking silence, with a bland smile, and attempting an inclination of the head as courteous as his position would permit--"perhaps, if it be quite the same to you, before you proceed to explanations--you will just help me out of the stocks." the parson, despite his perplexity and anger, could not repress a smile, as he approached his learned friend, and bent down for the purpose of extricating him. "lord love your reverence, you'd better not!" cried mr. stirn. "don't be tempted--he only wants to get you into his claws. i would not go a-near him for all the--" the speech was interrupted by dr. riccabocca himself, who now, thanks to the parson, had risen into his full height, and half a head taller than all present--even than the tall squire--approached mr. stirn, with a gracious wave of the hand. mr. stirn retreated rapidly toward the hedge, amidst the brambles of which he plunged himself incontinently. "i guess whom you take me for, mr. stirn," said the italian, lifting his hat with his characteristic politeness. "it is certainly a great honor; but you will know better one of these days, when the gentleman in question admits you to a personal interview in another and--a hotter world." chapter xii. "but how on earth did you get into my new stocks?" asked the squire, scratching his head. "my dear sir, pliny the elder got into the crater of mount etna." "did he, and what for?" "to try what it was like, i suppose," answered riccabocca. the squire burst out a-laughing. "and so you got into the stocks to try what it was like. well, i can't wonder--it is a very handsome pair of stocks," continued the squire, with a loving look at the object of his praise. "nobody need be ashamed of being seen in those stocks--i should not mind it myself." "we had better move on," said the parson drily, "or we shall be having the whole village here presently, gazing on the lord of the manor in the same predicament as that from which we have just extricated the doctor. now pray what is the matter with lenny fairfield? i can't understand a word of what has passed. you don't mean to say that good lenny fairfield (who was absent from church by-the-by) can have done any thing to get into disgrace?" "yes, he has though," cried the squire. "stirn, i say--stirn." but stirn had forced his way through the hedge and vanished. thus left to his own powers of narrative at second-hand, mr. hazeldean now told all he had to communicate: the assault upon randal leslie, and the prompt punishment inflicted by stirn; his own indignation at the affront to his young kinsman, and his good-natured merciful desire to save the culprit from the addition of public humiliation. the parson, mollified toward the rude and hasty invention of the beer-drinking, took the squire by the hand. "ah, mr. hazeldean, forgive me," he said repentantly; "i ought to have known at once that it was only some ebullition of your heart that could stifle your sense of decorum. but this is a sad story about lenny, brawling and fighting on the sabbath-day. so unlike him, too--i don't know what to make of it." "like or unlike," said the squire, "it has been a gross insult to young leslie; and looks all the worse because i and audley are not just the best friends in the world. i can't think what it is," continued mr. hazeldean, musingly, "but it seems that there must be always some association of fighting connected with that prim half-brother of mine. there was i, son of his own mother--who might have been shot through the lungs, only the ball lodged in the shoulder--and now his wife's kinsman--my kinsman, too--grandmother a hazeldean--a hard-reading sober lad, as i am given to understand, can't set his foot into the quietest parish in the three kingdoms, but what the mildest boy that ever was seen--makes a rush at him like a mad bull. it is fatality!" cried the squire solemnly. "ancient legend records similar instances of totality in certain houses," observed riccabocca. "there was the house of pelops--and polynices and eteocles--the sons of oedipus!" "pshaw," said the parson; "but what's to be done?" "done?" said the squire; "why, reparation must be made to young leslie. and though i wished to spare lenny, the young ruffian, a public disgrace--for your sake, parson dale, and mrs. fairfield's; yet a good caning in private--" "stop, sir!" said riccabocca mildly, "and hear me." the italian then, with much feeling and considerable tact, pleaded the cause of his poor protégé, and explained how lenny's error arose only from mistaken zeal for the squire's service, and in the execution of the orders received from mr. stirn. "that alters the matter," said the squire, softened: "and all that is necessary now will be for him to make a proper apology to my kinsman." "yes, that is just," rejoined the parson; "but i still don't learn how he got out of the stocks." riccabocca then resumed his tale; and, after confessing his own principal share in lenny's escape, drew a moving picture of the boy's shame and honest mortification. "let us march against philip!" cried the athenians when they heard demosthenes-- "let us go at once and comfort the child!" cried the parson, before riccabocca could finish. with that benevolent intention, all three quickened their pace, and soon arrived at the widow's cottage. but lenny had caught sight of their approach through the window; and not doubting that, in spite of riccabocca's intercession, the parson was come to upbraid, and the squire to re-imprison, he darted out by the back way, got among the woods, and lay there _perdu_ all the evening. nay, it was not till after dark that his mother--who sate wringing her hands in the little kitchen, and trying in vain to listen to the parson and mrs. dale, who (after sending in search of the fugitive) had kindly come to console the mother--heard a timid knock at the door and a nervous fumble at the latch. she started up, opened the door, and lenny sprang to her bosom, and there buried his face, sobbing loud. "no harm, my boy," said the parson, tenderly; "you have nothing to fear--all is explained and forgiven." lenny looked up, and the veins on his forehead were much swollen. "sir," said he, sturdily, "i don't want to be forgiven--i ain't done no wrong. and--i've been disgraced--and i won't go to school, never no more." "hush, carry!" said the parson to his wife, who, with the usual liveliness of her little temper, was about to expostulate. "good-night, mrs. fairfield. i shall come and talk to you to-morrow, lenny; by that time you will think better of it." the parson then conducted his wife home, and went up to the hall to report lenny's safe return; for the squire was very uneasy about him, and had even in person shared the search. as soon as he heard lenny was safe--"well," said the squire, "let him go the first thing in the morning to rood hall, to ask master leslie's pardon, and all will be right and smooth again." "a young villain!" cried frank, with his cheeks the color of scarlet; "to strike a gentleman and an etonian, who had just been to call on _me_! but i wonder randal let him off so well--any other boy in the sixth form would have killed him!" "frank," said the parson, sternly, "if we all had our deserts, what should be done to him who not only lets the sun go down on his own wrath, but strives with uncharitable breath to fan the dying embers of another's?" the clergyman here turned away from frank, who bit his lip, and seemed abashed--while even his mother said not a word in his exculpation; for when the parson did reprove in that stern tone, the majesty of the hall stood awed before the rebuke of the church. catching riccabocca's inquisitive eye, mr. dale drew aside the philosopher, and whispered to him his fears that it would be a very hard matter to induce lenny to beg randal leslie's pardon, and that the proud stomach of the pattern-boy would not digest the stocks with as much ease as a long regimen of philosophy had enabled the sage to do. this conference miss jemima soon interrupted by a direct appeal to the doctor respecting the number of years (even without any previous and more violent incident) that the world could possibly withstand its own wear and tear. "ma'am," said the doctor, reluctantly summoned away, to look at a passage in some prophetic periodical upon that interesting subject--"ma'am, it is very hard that you should make one remember the end of the world, since, in conversing with you, one's natural temptation is to forget its existence." miss jemima blushed scarlet. certainly that deceitful, heartless compliment justified all her contempt for the male sex; and yet, such is human blindness, it went far to redeem all mankind in her credulous and too confiding soul. "he is about to propose," sighed miss jemima. "giacomo," said riccabocca, as he drew on his nightcap, and stepped majestically into the four-posted bed. "i think we shall get that boy for the garden now!" thus each spurred his hobby, or drove her car, round the hazeldean whirligig. (_to be continued._) on birds, balloons, and boluses. the bird of Æsculapius ought, certainly, to have been a goose; for "quack, quack, quack," should be the great motto of medicine. one professor invents an ointment for other people's bad legs, which keeps him comfortably on his own, while another makes a harvest of every body's corn, and a third publishes a pill to smooth the pillow of every invalid, or a bolus to render his bolster bearable. in another phase of quackery, we find specifics for the hair recommended to those who are ready to take any nonsense into their heads, and will boldly stand "the hazard of the dye," in the vain hope that the gray, indicating the twilight or winter time of life, may be exchanged for the dark, brown tints of summer, or autumn at the latest; and we are constantly being invited to "remove our baldness" in advertisements, which we know to be the very essence of balderdash. quackery, however, seems to be successful in some cases, for the public will swallow any thing from a puff to a pill, from music to medicine, from a play to a plaster, and there is no doubt that (to paraphrase macbeth, when speaking of the possibility that birnam wood being come to dunsinane:) "if barnum would but come to drury lane," he would, by his force of quackery, make that pay him which has paid no one else during the last quarter of a century. such is the spirit of the age, that, reading the accounts from america relative to our own _protégée_, jenny lind, we are disposed to think that the nightingale is being made a goose of in the united states--so vast is the amount of quackery with which her name is just now identified. as there is good to be got from every evil, we are justified in expecting that the puff and quack malady will cure itself, and if things are likely to mend when they get to the worst, we may congratulate ourselves upon humbug having reached almost the antipodes of sense and propriety. the balloon mania has already nearly exhausted the utmost resources of absurdity; for m. poitevin on a donkey--how very like putting butter upon bacon! has failed to attract, and three or four women suspended in the air are now necessary to tempt the curiosity of the parisian public when a balloon ascends from the hippodrome. we expect to hear next that poitevin intends going up attached to the balloon by the hair of his head, for he seems quite silly enough to become the victim of such a very foolish attachment.--_punch._ carol for the new year. by alfred tennyson. "ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light. the year is dying in the night; ring out, wild bells, and let him die. "ring out the old, ring in the new, ring, happy bells, across the snow, the year is going, let him go; ring out the false, ring in the true. "ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that here we see no more; ring out the feud of rich and poor, ring in redress to all mankind. "ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife; ring in the nobler modes of life, with sweeter manners, purer laws. "ring out the want, the care, the sin, the faithless coldness of the times; ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, but ring the fuller minstrel in. "ring out false pride in place and blood, the civic slander and the spite; ring in the love of truth and right, ring in the common love of god. "ring out the shapes of foul disease, ring out the narrowing lust of gold; ring out the thousand wars of old, ring in the thousand years of peace." the edible birds'-nests of china. among the various articles exposed for sale to the natives, in the innumerable streets of canton, the edible birds'-nests deserve especial notice. they owe their celebrity only to the whimsical luxury of the chinese, and are brought principally from java and sumatra, though they are found on most of the rocky islets of the indian archipelago. the nest is the habitation of a small swallow, named (from the circumstance of having an edible house) _hirundo esculenta_. they are composed of a mucilaginous substance, but as yet have never been analyzed with sufficient accuracy to show the constituents. externally, they resemble ill-concocted, fibrous isinglass, and are of a white color, inclining to red. their thickness is little more than that of a silver spoon, and the weight from a quarter to half an ounce. when dry, they are brittle, and wrinkled; the size is nearly that of a goose's egg. those that are dry, white, and clean, are the most valuable. they are packed in bundles, with split rattans run through them to preserve the shape. those procured after the young are fledged are not salable in china. the quality of the nests, varies according to the situation and extent of the caves, and the time at which they are taken. if procured before the young are fledged, the nests are of the best kind; if they contain eggs only, they are still valuable; but, if the young are in the nests, or have left them, the whole are then nearly worthless, being dark-colored, streaked with blood, and intermixed with feathers and dirt. these nests are procurable twice every year; the best are found in deep, damp caves, which, if not injured, will continue to produce indefinitely. it was once thought that the caves near the sea-coast were the most productive; but some of the most profitable yet found, are situated fifty miles in the interior. this fact seems to be against the opinion, that the nests are composed of the spawn of fish, or of _bêche-de-mer_. the method of procuring these nests is not unattended with danger. some of the caves are so precipitous, that no one, but those accustomed to the employment from their youth, can obtain the nests, being only approachable by a perpendicular descent of many hundred feet, by ladders of bamboo and rattan, over a sea rolling violently against the rocks. when the mouth of the cave is attained, the perilous task of taking the nests must often be performed by torch-light, by penetrating into recesses of the rock, where the slightest slip would be instantly fatal to the adventurers, who see nothing below them but the turbulent surf, making its way into the chasms of the rock--such is the price paid to gratify luxury. after the nests are obtained, they are separated from feathers and dirt, are carefully dried and packed, and are then fit for the market. the chinese, who are the only people that purchase them for their own use, bring them in junks to this market, where they command extravagant prices; the best, or _white_ kind, often being worth four thousand dollars per pecul,[ ] which is nearly twice their weight in silver. the middling kind is worth from twelve to eighteen hundred, and the worst, or those procured after fledging, one hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars per pecul. the majority of the best kind are sent to pekin, for the use of the court. [footnote : a chinese weight, equal to - / lbs. avoirdupois.] it appears, therefore, that this curious dish is only an article of expensive luxury among the chinese; the japanese do not use it at all, and how the former people acquired the habit of indulging in it, is only less singular than their persevering in it. they consider the edible bird's-nest as a great stimulent, tonic, and aphrodisiac, but its best quality, perhaps, is its being perfectly harmless. the labor bestowed to render it fit for the table is enormous; every feather, stick, or impurity of any kind, is carefully removed; and then, after undergoing many washings and preparations, it is made into a soft, delicious jelly. the sale of birds'-nests is a monopoly with all the governments in whose dominions they are found. about two hundred and fifty thousand peculs, at a value of one million four hundred thousand dollars, are annually brought to canton. these come from the islands of java, sumatra, macassar, and those of the sooloo group. java alone sends about thirty thousand pounds, mostly of the first quality, estimated at seventy thousand dollars. i am indebted for much information on this curious article of commerce, to the captain of a java ship, a very well informed man, trading regularly to china, who had large quantities on board, and whose wife, a native of that country, to satisfy my curiosity, prepared a dinner for me of chinese dishes, including the bird's-nest and the sea-slug, both of which i partook of, and found them very palatable.--_berncastle's voyage to china._ the passion for collecting books. of all the passions to which the human mind can surrender itself, there is none more absorbing than the mania of book-collecting. let those speak honestly who have indulged in it. it is a species of _bulimia_--an insatiable appetite, which "grows by what it feeds on." i have purchased my experience of this matter rather dearly, having at one period occupied much time, and laid out more money than i like to think of, in forming a select and curious library. my books formed my chief solace and amusement during many years of an active and unprofitable professional life. the pressure of pecuniary difficulties forced me to part with them, and taught me practically, though not pleasantly, the vast distinction between buying and selling. it was something to see placarded in imposing type, "catalogue of the valuable and select library of a gentleman, containing many rare and curious editions." but, alas! the sum produced was scarcely a third of the intrinsic value, and less than half of the original cost. there have been instances--but they are "few and far between"--where libraries have been sold at a premium. take for an example the collection of dr. farmer, of emmanuel college, cambridge, singularly rich in shakspearian authorities and black-letter lore, which produced above £ , and was supposed to have cost the owner not more than £ . many were presents. when you get the character of a collector, a stray gift often drops in, and scarce volumes find their way to your shelves, which the quondam owners, uninitiated in bibliomania, know not the worth of. i once purchased an excellent copy of the quarto "hamlet," of , of an unsuspecting bibliopolist, for ten shillings; my conscience smote me, but the temptation was irresistible.[ ] the best copy in existence of the caxtonian edition of gower's "de confessione amantis," fol., , one of the rarest among printed books, when found perfect, was purchased by a dublin bookseller, at cork, with a lot of old rubbish (in ), for a mere trifle, and was sold afterward for more than £ . it is now in the celebrated spenser library, at althorp. for some time after the sale of my library i was very miserable. i had parted with old companions, every-day associates, long-tried friends, who never quarreled with me, and never ruffled my temper. but i knew the sacrifice was inevitable, and i became reconciled to what i could not avoid. i thought of roscoe, and what he must have suffered in the winter of life, when a similar calamity fell on him, and he was forced by worldly pressure to sell a library ten times more valuable. i recollected, too, the affecting lines he penned on the occasion: [footnote : this small and dingy volume, originally published at sixpence, has sold for £ !] "to my books. (_by w. roscoe, on parting from his library._) "as one, who, destined from his friends to part, regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile to share their converse, and enjoy their smile, and tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile my tedious hours, and lighten every toil, i now resign you; nor with fainting heart; for pass a few short years, or days, or hours, and happier seasons may their dawn unfold, and all your sacred fellowship restore; when, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, mind shall with mind direct communion hold, and kindred spirits meet to part no more." what time does book-collecting occupy! what anxiety it excites! what money it requires! the great use of books is to read them; the mere possession is a fantasy. your genuine book-collector seldom reads any thing but catalogues, after the mania has fully possessed him, or such bibliographical works as facilitate his purchases. if you are too poor to buy, and want to read, there are public libraries abundantly accessible. there is a circulating library in every village, and there are plenty of private collections undisturbed by their owners. subscribe or borrow; don't _steal_! a common practice enough, notwithstanding, and not without authority.[ ] if your friends are churlish and won't lend, and your pockets are empty, and you can't even subscribe, still you can _think_--you must try to remember what you _have_ read, and live on your recollections of past enjoyment, as the wife of bath did, in old chaucer's tale. you'll save your eyes, too; and when you get beyond forty-five that point is worth attending to. after all, what do we collect for? at most, a few years' possession of what we can very well do without. when sir walter raleigh was on his way to execution, he called for a cup of ale, and observed, "that is good drink, if a man could only stay by it." so are rare and curious libraries good things, if we could stay by them; but we can't. when the time comes, we must go, and then our books, and pictures, and prints, and furniture, and china go, too; and are knocked down by the smirking, callous auctioneer, with as little remorse as a butcher knocks a bullock on the head, or a poulterer wrings round the neck of a pullet, or a surgeon slips your arm out of the socket, chuckling at his own skill, while you are writhing in unspeakable agony. [footnote : "this borrow, _steal_, don't buy."--_vide_ childe harold's pilgrimage.] don't collect books, and don't envy the possessors of costly libraries. read and recollect. of course you have a bible and prayer-book. add to these the pilgrim's progress, shakspeare, milton, pope, byron (if you like), a history of england, greece, and rome, boswell's life of johnson, and napier's peninsular war. a moderate sum will give you these; and you possess a cabinet encyclopedia of religious, moral, and entertaining knowledge, containing more than you want for practical purposes, and quite as much as your brains can easily carry. never mind the old classics; leave them to college libraries, where they look respectable, and enjoy long slumbers. the monthly periodicals will place you much more _au courant_ with the conversation and acquirements of the day. add, if you can, a _ledger_, with a good sound balance on the right side, and you will be a happier, and perhaps, a better read man, than though you were uncontrolled master of the bodleian, the national library of france, and the innumerable tomes of the vatican into the bargain. don't collect books, i tell you again emphatically. see what in my case it led to--"one modern instance more." collect wisdom; collect experience; above all, collect _money_--not as our friend horace recommends, "quocunque modo," but by honest industry alone. and when you have done this, remember it was my advice, and be grateful. what i say here applies to private collecting only. far be it from me to discourage great public libraries, which, under proper arrangements, are great public benefits; useful to society, and invaluable to literature. but as they are regulated at present, fenced round with so many restrictions, and accessible chiefly to privileged dignitaries, or well-paid officials, who seldom trouble them, they are little better than close boroughs, with a very narrow constituency. a bachelor's christmas. a bachelor's life is not without its attractions. freedom of will and action are, at least, among a bachelor's joys; but experience has taught me that, after a certain time, such absence from restraint resolves itself into that species of liberty which macaulay touchingly designates "the desolate freedom of the wild ass." i came to london about ten years ago to study for the bar. i was entered at the inner temple, and, as far as the dinner-eating went, i can safely assert that i was an ornament to the hall. i adorned the margin of my copy of "burn's justice" with caricatures of the benchers; and my friends appended facetious notes to my "blackstone." i went to the masquerade in my gown; and strolled down to my law-tutor's chambers for the ostensible purpose of reading, about two p.m., daily. in short, i went through the usual routine of young gentlemen of ardent temperaments and competent means when they begin life: like most men, also, the pace of my fast days moderated in due time. about the time of my call to the bar i began to study. my old companions, finding that i was becoming, what they were pleased to designate, "slow," dropped off. i entered into the solitude of lodgings, near brunswick-square, and read eagerly. still i found it necessary to relieve my legal studies with copious draughts from all the great fountains of inspiration, and i fear, that even when i was endeavoring to crack the hardest passages of "blackstone," my ideas continually reverted either to the grace of montaigne, the wit of congreve and pope, the sparkle and depth of shakspeare, or the massive grandeur of milton. by degrees my books became my dearest, my only associates. though as a companion and friend i had decidedly fallen off, i improved as a lodger: i kept regular hours, and paid all my bills punctually. my landlady grew confidential, in proportion as i grew domestic. she favored me with her history from the time of her birth. i knew how she took the measles; the precise effect of her visit to a vaccine establishment; the origin of a scar over her left eyebrow; the income of her brother in somersetshire; the number of kittens which her cat annually produced; the character she gave her last servant; and the fond affection she had lavished upon a brute of a husband. these matters, however, were intrusted to me in confidence; and, to use an original phrase, they shall be buried with me in my grave! i had no occasion to repay my landlady's confidence with my own, because she paid herself. i could keep no secrets from her. she knew the contents of my trunks, desks, and drawers, as well as i did--better, for, if i lost any little article, i never, perhaps, missed it. i was seldom allowed to wear a pair of dress gloves more than once: when a collar was not to be had, "them washerwomen was," i was told, "always a-losing of something or other." i am sure the flavor of my tea, the quality of my mutton, and the excellence of my coals, were no secrets to my landlady: but she had many good qualities, so i ate what she left me in silence and in peace. despite my but too prying landlady, however, i got on very well by myself; and, like men who live alone, i became egotistic and lazy. i thought of the weaver at his loom; the lawyer burning the midnight composition over his brief; the author, with his throbbing temples, hard at work; and i rejoiced quietly by my fire and in my books. there was a selfish pleasure in the conviction that my case was so much better than that of thousands of the toilers and strugglers of the earth. this i found a capital philosophy for every day in the year--except one. on that day my landlady entered my room, and, with a few words, blighted my happiness, and made me miserable as the veriest outcast. "beg pardon for interrupting you," the worthy soul said, "but i wish to know whether you dine at home on christmas day. though, of course, you will be with your friends--but i thought i might as well make sure." the good woman must have noticed my confusion. i stammered out something in the most awkward manner; but contrived to make her understand, in the end, that i _should_ dine at home. "on _christmas_ day, sir?" the woman repeated, with particular emphasis. "i'm talking about christmas day, when every gentleman dines with his friends and relations; leastways, all the gentlemen _i_ ever had, have done so." "my friends live in scotland, where christmas is no festival," i replied, rather relieved at the opportunity of explaining my solitary condition. "well, dear a-me!" my landlady went on to say, "that's very awkward, very awkward, sir, indeed. dear, dear a-me, what shall i do? my table, down stairs, won't hold any thing like fifteen!" fifteen persons to greet my landlady on christmas day, and not a soul to break bread with me! i saw, at once, the tendency of her observation as to the size of her table; and willingly offered to vacate my room for her great annual festivity. this offer was eagerly accepted, and once more i was left to my solitude. from that moment my fortitude deserted me. i knew that the weaver would enjoy his christmas feast; that the lawyer would throw aside his brief, and, abating his professional solemnity, would, on christmas day, make merry; and that the author would leave the pen in the ink-stand to be jolly during a great portion of those twenty-four happy hours. let me confess that i felt sick at heart--stupidly and profoundly dejected. on christmas eve the maid came into my room, and, with a beaming face, begged that i would allow her to decorate it with holly: she said nothing about the misletoe which she carried under her apron, but _i_ saw her dextrously fasten it above the door-way. i was very lonely that evening. the six square yards of space which i occupied were the only six square yards in the neighborhood not occupied by laughing human creatures. the noise of my landlady and her relatives below made me savage; and when she sent up the servant to ask whether i would like to step below, and take a stir at the pudding, my "no!" was given in such a decided tone that the poor girl vanished with miraculous celerity. the knocks at the street-door were incessant. first it was the turkey, then the apples, oranges, and chestnuts, for dessert, then the new dinner-set, then the sirloin. each separate item of the approaching feast was hailed with smothered welcomes by the women, who rushed into the passage to examine and greet it. presently a knock sounded through the house, that had to me a solemn and highly unpleasant sound, though it could not have differed from the preceding knocks. i listened to the opening of the door, and heard my landlady, in a sympathetic tone of voice, declare, that "it was only the first-floor's steak; poor fellow!" my loneliness, then, was a theme of pitiful consideration with the people below! i was very angry, and paced my room with rapid strides. i thought i would wear cotton-wool for the next four-and-twenty hours, to shut out the din of general enjoyment. i tried, after a short time, to compose myself to my book; but, just as i was about to take it down from the shelf, the servant, having occasion to enter my room, informed me in a high state of chuckling excitement, that "missis's friends was a-going to light up a snap-dragon!" and the shouts that burst upon me a few minutes afterward confirmed the girl's report. i was now fairly savage, and, having called for my candle, in a loud, determined voice, went to bed, with the firm conviction that the revelers below were my sworn enemies, and with the resolution of giving warning on the following morning--yes, on christmas day. brooding over the revenge i promised myself for the following morning, i went to sleep, and dreamed of the arctic solitudes and the sahara desert. i was standing at a dry well, surrounded, on all sides, by endless sand, when a loud rumbling noise broke upon my dream. i awoke, and heard a heavy footstep passing my chamber. i started from my bed, flung open my door, and shouted, "who's there?" "it's only me, sir, a-going for to put the puddin' in the copper," said an uncommonly cheerful voice. here was a delightful opening scene of my christmas day. i believe i muttered a wish, that my landlady's pudding had been in a locality where it might boil at any time without disturbing any lodger. that morning i rang four times for my hot water, three times for my boots, and was asked to eat cold ham instead of my usual eggs, because no room could be spared at the fire to boil them. i occupied my landlady's back parlor, and was intruded upon, every minute, because a thousand things wanted "for up-stairs" were left in odd nooks and corners of the room. i had no easy-chair. my books were all "put away," save a copy of "jean racine," which i had taken down by mistake for a volume of _the_ "racine." my breakfast-table could not be cleared for three hours after i had finished my meal. i was asked to allow a saucepan to be placed upon my fire. it was suggested to me that i might dine at two o'clock, in order to have my repast over and cleared away before the feast up-stairs began. i assented to this proposition with ill-feigned carelessness--although my blood boiled (like the pudding) at the impertinence of the request. but i was too proud to allow my landlady the least insight into the real state of my feelings. poor soul! it was not her fault that i had no circle within my reach; yet i remember that throughout the day i regarded her as the impersonation of fiendish malice. after i had dined she came to ask me if there was any thing she could do for me? i regarded her intrusion only as one prompted by a vulgar wish to show me her fine ribbons and jaunty cap, and curtly told her that i did not require her services. to relieve myself of the load of vexation which oppressed me, i strolled into the streets; but i was soon driven back to my landlady's little parlor--the gayety that resounded from every house, and the deserted streets without, were even more annoying than her marked attention. i sat down once more, and doggedly read the heavy verse of jean. i called for my tea; and, in reply, i was informed that i should have it directly the dinner was over up-stairs. my patience was giving way rapidly. my tea was produced, however, after a considerable delay; and i then thought i would make a desperate attempt to forget the jovial scenes that were going forward in every nook and corner of the country--save in my desolate, sombre, close back parlor. i swung my feet upon the fender, leisurely filled the bowl of my meerschaum, and was about to mix my first fragrant cup, when that horrible servant again made her appearance, holding a dark steaming lump of something, on a plate. "please, sir, missis's compliments, and p'raps you'd accept this bit of christmas puddin'?" i could have hurled it, plate and all, into the yard below. i saw myself at once an object of profound pity and charity to the company above. although i am extremely fond of that marvelous compound of good things eaten with brandy-sauce on christmas day, i could not have touched my landlady's proffered plateful for any consideration. i gave a medical reason for declining the dainty, and once more turned to my pipe and my tea. as the white smoke curled from my mouth a waking dream stole over me. i fancied that i was robinson crusoe: my parrot dead, and my dog run away. i cursed fate that had consigned me to a solitude. i recited a few verses from keats aloud, and the sound of my voice seemed strange and harsh. i poked the fire, and whistled, and hummed--to restore myself to the full enjoyment, or rather to the misery, of my senses. the tea on that evening only was green tea. i felt its effects. i grew nervous and irritable. the servant once more invaded my seclusion--what could she want now? "please, sir, have you done with the tea-things? i'm a-going to wash 'em for up-stairs." "take them;" i replied, not very gracefully. the servant thanked me, as i thought, with impertinent good-nature, and cleared the table. about this time, sounds of merriment began to resound from the christmas party. the shrill laughter of children was mingled with the hoarse guffaws of their parents; and the house shook at intervals with the romps of both parties. in the height of my desolate agony it gave me no little consolation to think that those children who were at their games, would probably dance to the tune of a tutor's cane at no distant interval. such was my envy at the exuberant mirth that reached me in fitful gusts as the doors were opened or shut, that i felt all sorts of uncharitableness. presently there was a lull in the laughter-storm. i began to hope that the party was about to break up. a gentle footstep was audible, descending the stairs. there was a smothered call for mary. mary obeyed the summons; and the following dialogue was whispered in the passage: "did he eat the pudding?" "no, mum--he was afraid of it: and he was _so_ cross!" "cross! i was going to ask him to join us: do you think he would, mary?" "bless you, no, mum! _he_ jine! i think i see him a-jining! nothing pleases him. he's too high for any body. i never see the likes of him!" the feet then ascended the stairs, and after another pause of a few moments, the din of merriment was resumed. i was furious at the sympathy which my loneliness created. i could bear the laughter and shouting of the christmas party no longer, and once, more with a determination of having my revenge, i went to bed. i lay there for several hours; and did not close my eyes before i had vowed solemnly that i would not pass another christmas day in solitude, and in lodgings--and i didn't. in the course of the following year, i married the lovely daughter of mr. sergeant shuttleface. my angel was a most astonishing piano-forte performer, and copied high art pictures in berlin wool with marvelous skill, but was curiously ignorant of housekeeping; so, we spent the beginning of our wedded bliss in furnished apartments in order that she might gain experience gradually. on one point, however, i was resolute; i would not spend a second christmas day in lodgings. i took a house, therefore, toward the close of the year, and repeatedly urged my wife to vacate our apartments that we might set up for ourselves. this responsibility she shrunk from with unremitting reluctance. there were besides innumerable delays. carpets wouldn't fit; painters wouldn't work above one day a week: paper-hangers hung fire; and blacksmiths, charging by the day, did no more than one day's work in six. time wore on. december came, advanced, and it seemed to be my fate to undergo another christmas torment. however, to my inexpressible joy, every thing was announced to be in readiness on the twenty-fourth. my sposa had by this time learned enough of housekeeping to feel strong enough for its duties, and on christmas eve we left our rooms in bedford-square, and took our christmas pudding, in a cab, to my suburban villa near fulham. and a merry christmas we made of it! i don't think i ever ate a better pudding, though i have eaten a good many since then. crazed. by sydney yendys. "the spring again hath started on the course wherein she seeketh summer thro' the earth. i will arise and go upon my way. it may be that the leaves of autumn hid his footsteps from me; it may be the snows. "he is not dead. there was no funeral; i wore no weeds. he must be in the earth, oh where is he, that i may come to him and he may charm the fever of my brain. "oh, spring, i hope that thou wilt be my friend. thro' the long weary summer i toiled sore; having much sorrow of the envious woods and groves that burgeoned round me where i came, and when i would have seen him, shut him in. "also the honeysuckle and wild bine being in love did hide him from my sight; the ash-tree bent above him; vicious weeds withheld me; willows in the river-wind hissed at me, by the twilight, waving wands. "also, for i have told thee, oh dear spring, thou knowest after i had sunk outworn in the late summer gloom till autumn came, i looked up in the light of burning woods and entered on my wayfare when i saw gold on the ground and glory in the trees. "and all my further journey thou dost know my toils and outcries as the lusty world grew thin to winter; and my ceaseless feet in vales, and on stark hills, till the first snow fell, and the large rain of the latter leaves. "i hope that thou wilt be my friend, oh spring, and give me service of thy winds and streams. it needs must be that he will hear thy voice for thou art much as i was when he woo'd and won me long ago beside the dee. "if he should bend above you, oh ye streams and any where you look up into eyes and think the star of love hath found her mate and know, because of day, they are not stars; oh streams, they are the eyes of my beloved! oh murmur as i murmured once of old and he will stay beside you, oh ye streams, and i shall clasp him when my day is come. "likewise i charge thee, west wind, zephyr wind, if thou shalt hear a voice more sweet than thine about a sunset rose-tree deep in june, sweeter than thine, oh wind, when thou dost leap into the tree with passion, putting by the maiden leaves that ruffle round their dame, and singest and art silent--having dropt in pleasure on the bosom of the rose-- oh wind, it is the voice of my beloved. wake, wake, and bear me to the voice, oh wind! "moreover i do think that the spring birds will be my willing servants. wheresoe'er there mourns a hen-bird that hath lost her mate her will i tell my sorrow--weeping hers. "and if it be a lark whereto i speak she shall be ware of how my love went up sole singing to the cloud; and evermore i hear his song, but him i can not see. "and if it be a female nightingale that pineth in the depth of silent woods, i also will complain to her that night is still. and of the creeping of the winds, and of the sullen trees, and of the lone dumb dark. and of the listening of the stars. what have we done, what have we done, oh night! "therefore, oh love, the summer trees shall be my watch-towers. wheresoe'er thou liest bound i will be there. for ere the spring be past i will have preached my dolor through the land, and not a bird but shall have all my woe. --and whatsoever hath my woe hath me. "i charge you, oh ye flowers fresh from the dead, declare if ye have seen him. you pale flowers why do you quake and hang the head like me? "you pallid flowers, why do ye watch the dust and tremble? ah, you met him in your caves and shrank out shuddering on the wintry air. "snowdrops, you need not gaze upon the ground, fear not. he will not follow ye; for then i should be happy who am doomed to woe. "only i bid ye say that he is there, that i may know my grief is to be borne and all my fate is but the common lot." she sat down on a bank of primroses swayed to and fro, as in a wind of thought that moaned about her, murmuring alow, "the common lot, oh for the common lot." thus spoke she, and behold a gust of grief smote her. as when at night the dreaming wind starts up enraged, and shakes the trees and sleeps. "oh, early rain, oh passion of strong crying, say dost thou weep, oh rain, for him or me? alas, thou also goest to the earth and enterest as one brought home by fear. "rude with much woe, with expectation wild, so dashest thou the doors and art not seen. whose burial did they speak of in the skies? "i would that there were any grass-green grave where i might stand and say, 'here lies my love.' and sigh, and look down to him, thro' the earth, and look up thro' the clearing skies, and smile." then the day passed from bearing up the heavens the sky descended on the mountain-tops unclouded; and the stars embower'd the night. darkness did flood the valley; flooding her. and when the face of her great grief was hid her callow heart, that like a nestling bird clamored, sank down with plaintive pipe and slow her cry was like a strange fowl in the dark; "alas, night," said she; then like a faint ghost, as tho' the owl did hoot upon the hills, "alas, night." on the murky silence came her voice like a white sea-mew on the waste of the dark deep a-sudden seen and lost upon the barren expanse of mid-seas black with the thunder. "alas, night," said she, "alas, night." then the stagnant season lay from hill to hill. but when the waning moon rose, she began with hasty step to run the wintry mead; a wounded bird that seeks to hide its head when all the trees are bare. silent--for all her strength did bear her dread-- silent, save when with bursting heart she cried, like one who wrestles in the dark with fiends. "alas, night." with a dim, wild voice of fear as tho' she saw her sorrow by the moon. the morning dawns; and earlier than the lark she murmureth, sadder than the nightingale. "i would i could believe me in that sleep when on our bridal morn i thought him dead, and dreamed and shrieked and woke upon his breast. "oh god i can not think that i am blind. i think i see the beauty of the world. perchance but i am blind, and he is near. "even as i felt his arm before i woke, and clinging to his bosom called on him, and wept, and knew, and knew not it was he. "i do thank god i think that i am blind. there is a darkness thick about my heart and all i seem to see is as a dream. my lids have closed, and have shut in the world. "oh love, i pray thee take me by the hand; i stretch my hand, oh love, and quake with dread i thrust it, and i know not where. ah me, what shall not seize the dark hand of the blind? "how know i, being blind, i am on earth? i am in hell, in hell, oh love! i feel there is a burning gulf before my feet! i dare not stir and at my back the fiends! i wind my arms, my arms that demons scorch, round this poor breast and all that thou shouldst save, from rapine. husband, i cry out from hell; there is a gulf. they seize my flesh. (she shrieked.) "i will sink down here where i stand. all round how know i but the burning pit doth yawn? here will i shrink and shrink to no more space than my feet cover. (she wept.) so much up my mortal touch makes honest. oh my life, my lord, my husband! fool, that cryest in vain! ah, angel! what hast thou to do with hell? "and yet i do not ask thee, oh my love, to lead me to thee where thou art in heaven only i would that thou shouldst be my star, and whatsoever fate thy beams dispense i am content. it shall be good to me. "but tho' i may not see thee, oh my love, yea tho' mine eyes return and miss thee still, and thou shouldst take another shape than thine, have pity on my lot, and lead me hence where i may think of thee. to the old fields and wonted valleys where we once were blest. oh love all day i hear them, out of sight, this far home where the past abideth yet beside the stream that prates of other days. "my punishment is more than i can bear. my sorrow groweth big unto my time. oh love, i would that i were mad. oh love, i do not ask that thou shouldst change my fate, i will endure; but oh my life, my lord, being as thou art a throned saint in heaven, if thou wouldst touch me and enchant my sense, and daze the anguish of my heart with dreams, and change the stop of grief; and turn my soul a little devious from the daily march of reason, and the path of conscious woe and all the truth of life! better, oh love, in fond delusion to be twice betrayed, than know so well and bitterly as i. let me be mad. (she wept upon her knees.) "i will arise and seek thee. this is heaven. i sat upon a cloud. it bore me in. it is not so, you heavens! i am not dead. alas! there have been pangs as strong as death. it would be sweet to know that i am dead. "even now i feel i am not of this world which sayeth day and night, 'for all but thee,' and poureth its abundance night and day, and will not feed the hunger in my heart. "i tread upon a dream, myself a dream, i can not write my being on the world, the moss grows unrespective where i tread. "i can not lift mine eyes to the sunshine, night is not for my slumber. not for me sink down the dark inexorable hours. "i would not keep or change the weary day; i have no pleasure in the needless night and toss and wail that other lids may sleep. "i am a very leper in the earth. her functions cast me out; her golden wheels that harmless roll about unconscious babes do crush me. my place knoweth me no more. "i think that i have died, oh you sweet heavens. i did not see the closing of the eyes. perchance there is one death for all of us whereof we can not see the eyelids close. "dear love, i do beseech thee answer me. dear love, i think men's eyes behold me not. the air is heavy on these lips that strain to cry; i do not warm the thing i touch; the lake gives back no image unto me. "i see the heavens as one who wakes at noon from a deep sleep. now shall we meet again! the country of the blest is hid from me like morn behind the hills. the angel smiles. i breathe thy name. he hurleth me from heaven. "now of a truth i know thou art on earth. break, break the chains that hold me back from thee. i see the race of mortal men pass by; the great wind of their going waves my hair; i stretch my hands, i lay my cheek to them, in love; they stir the down upon my cheek; i can not touch them, and they know not me. "oh god! i ask to live the saddest life! i care not for it if i may but live! i would not be among the dead, oh god! i am not dead! oh god, i will not die!" so throbbed the trouble of this crazed heart. so on the broken mirror of her mind in bright disorder shone the shatter'd world. so, out of tune, in sympathetic chords, her soul is musical to brooks and birds winds, seasons, sunshine, flowers, and maundering trees. hear gently all the tale of her distress. the heart that loved her loves not now, yet lives. what the eye sees and the ear hears--the hand that wooing led her thro' the rosy paths of girlhood, and the lenten lanes of love, the brow whereon she trembled her first kiss, the lips that had sole privilege of hers, the eyes wherein she saw the universe, the bosom where she slept the sleep of joy, the voice that made it sacred to her sleep with lustral vows; that which doth walk the world man among men, is near her now. but he who wandered with her thro' the ways of youth, who won the tender freedom of the lip, who took her to the bosom dedicate and chaste with vows, who in the perfect whole of gracious manhood, was the god that stood in her young heaven, round whom the subject stars circled; in whose dear train, where'er he passed thronged charmèd powers; at whose advancing feet upspringing happy seasons and sweet times made fond court caroling; who but moved to stir all things submissive, which did magnify and wane as ever with his changing will she changed the centre of her infinite; he in whom she worshiped truth, and did obey goodness; in whose sufficient love she felt, fond dreamer! the eternal smile of all angels and men; round whom, upon his neck, her thoughts did hang; whom lacking they fell down distract to the earth; he whom she _loved_ and who loved her of old--in the long days before chaos, the empyrean days!--(poor heart she phrased it so) is no more: and oh, god! thorough all time and that transfigured time we call eternity, will be no more. [from the dublin university magazine.] actors and their salaries. in all ages successful actors have been an uncommonly well paid community. this is a substantial fact, which no one will deny, however opinions may differ as to the comparative value of the histrionic art, when ranked with poetry, painting, and sculpture. the actor complains of the peculiar condition attached to his most brilliant triumphs--that they fade with the decay of his own physical powers, and are only perpetuated for a doubtful interval through the medium of imperfect imitation--very often a bad copy of an original which no longer exists to disprove the libel. in the actor's case, then, something must certainly be deducted from posthumous renown; but this is amply balanced by living estimation and a realized fortune. there are many instances of great painters, poets, and sculptors (ay, and philosophers, too), who could scarcely gain a livelihood; but we should be puzzled to name a great actor without an enormous salary. i don't include managers in this category. they are unlucky exceptions, and very frequently lose in sovereignty what they had gained by service. an income of three or four thousand per annum, _argent comptant_, carries along with it many solid enjoyments. the actor who can command this, by laboring in his vocation, and whose ears are continually tingling with the nightly applause of his admirers, has no reason to consider his lot a hard one, because posterity may assign to him in the temple of fame a less prominent niche than is occupied by milton, who, when alive, sold "paradise lost" for fifteen pounds, or by rembrandt, who was obliged to feign his own death, before his pictures would provide him a dinner. if these instances fail to content him, he should recollect what is recorded of "blind mæonides: "seven grecian cities claim'd great homer dead, through which the living homer begg'd his bread." no doubt it is a grand affair to figure in the page of history, and be recorded among the "shining lights" of our generation. but there is good practical philosophy in the homely proverb which says, "solid pudding is better than empty praise:" the reputation which wins current value during life is more useful to the possessor than the honor which comes after death; and which comes, as david says, in the _rivals_, "exactly where we can make a shift to do without it." to have our merits appreciated two or three centuries hence, by generations yet unborn, and to have our works, whether with the pen or pencil, admired long after what was once our mortal substance is "stopping a beer-barrel," are very pleasing, poetical hallucinations for all who like to indulge in them; but the chances are, we shall know nothing of the matter, while it is quite certain that if we do, we shall set no value on it. posterity, then, will be the chief gainers, and of all concerned the only party to whom we owe no obligations. the posterity, too, which emanates from the nineteenth century is much more likely to partake of the commercial than the romantic character, and to hold in higher reverence the memory of an ancestor who has left behind him £ , in bank stock or consols, than of one who has only bequeathed a marble monument in "westminster's old abbey," a flourishing memoir in the "lives of illustrious englishmen," or an epic poem in twenty-four cantos. i would not have it supposed that i depreciate the love of posthumous fame, or those "longings after immortality," which are powerful incentives to much that is good and great; but i am led into this train of reasoning, by hearing it so constantly objected as a misfortune to the actor, that his best efforts are but fleeting shadows, and can not survive him. this, being interpreted fairly, means that he can not gain _all_ that genius toils for, but he has won the lion's share, and ought to be satisfied. formerly the actor had to contend with prejudices which stripped him of his place in society, and degraded his profession. this was assuredly a worse evil than perishable fame; but all this has happily passed away. the _taboo_ is removed, and he takes his legitimate place with kindred artists according to his pretension. his large salary excites much wonder and more jealousy, but he is no longer exposed to the insult which le kain, the roscius of france, once received, and was obliged to swallow as he might. dining one day at a restaurateur's, he was accosted by an old general officer near him. "ah! monsieur le kain, is that you! where have you been for some weeks--we have lost you from paris?" "i have been acting in the south, may it please your excellency," replied le kain! "eh bien! and how much have you earned?" "in six weeks, sir, i have received crowns." "diable!" exclaimed the general, twirling his mustache with a truculent frown, "what's this i hear? a miserable mimic, such as thou, can gain in six weeks double the sum that i, a nobleman of twenty descents, and a knight of st. louis, am paid in twelve months. _voila une vraie infamie!_" "and at what sum, sir," replied le kain, placidly, "do you estimate the privilege of thus addressing me?" in those days, in france, an actor was denied christian burial, and would have been _roué vif_ if he had presumed to put himself on an equality with a gentleman, or dared to resent an unprovoked outrage. the large salaries of recent days were even surpassed among the ancients. in rome, roscius, and Æsopus, his contemporary, amassed prodigious fortunes by their professional labors. roscius was paid at the rate of £ a day, amounting to more than £ , per annum of our currency. he became so rich that at last he declined receiving any salary, and acted gratuitously for several years. a modern manager would give something to stumble on such a roscius. no wonder he was fond of his art, and unwilling to relinquish its exercise. Æsopus at an entertainment produced a single dish, stuffed with singing birds, which, according to dr. arbuthnot's computation, must have cost about £ sterling. he left his son a fortune amounting to £ , british money. it did not remain long in the family, as, by the evidence of horace and pliny, he was a notorious spendthrift, and rapidly dissipated the honest earnings of his father. decimus laberius, a roman knight, was induced, or, as some say, compelled, by julius cæsar, to appear in one of his own mimes, an inferior kind of dramatic composition, very popular among the romans, and in which he was unrivaled, until supplanted by publius syrus. the said laberius was consoled for the degradation by a good round sum, as cæsar gave him , crowns and a gold ring, for this his first and only appearance on any stage. neither was he "alone in his glory," being countenanced by furius leptinus and quintus calpenus, men of senatorial rank, who, on the authority of suetonius, fought in the ring for a prize. i can't help thinking the money had its due weight with laberius. he was evidently vain, and in his prologue, preserved by macrobius, and translated by goldsmith, he laments his age and unfitness quite as pathetically as the disgrace he was subjected to. "why did you not ask me to do this," says he, "when i was young and supple, and could have acquitted myself with credit?" but, according to macrobius, the whole business was a regular contract, with the terms settled beforehand. "laberium asperæ libertatis equitem romanum, cæsar _quingentis millibus invitavit_, ut prodiret in scenam." good encouragement for a single amateur performance! garrick retired at the age of , having been years connected with the stage. he left behind him above £ , in money, besides considerable property in houses, furniture, and articles of vertû. he lived in the best society, and entertained liberally. but he had no family to bring up or provide for, and was systematically prudent in expenditure, although charitable, to the extreme of liberality, when occasion required. edmund kean might have realized a larger fortune than garrick, had his habits been equally regular. george frederick cooke, in many respects a kindred genius to kean, threw away a golden harvest in vulgar dissipation. the sums he received in america alone would have made him independent. john kemble and mrs. siddons both retired rich, though less so than might have been expected. she had through life heavy demands on her earnings, and he, in evil hour, invested much of his property in covent-garden theatre. young left the stage in the full zenith of his reputation, with undiminished powers and a handsome independence. macready is about doing the same, under similar circumstances. liston and munden were always accounted two of the richest actors of their day, and william farren, almost "the last of the romans," is generally reputed to be "a warm man." long may he continue so! miss stephens, both the keans, father and son, macready, braham, and others, have frequently received £ a night for a long series of performances. tyrone power would probably have gone beyond them all, such was his increasing popularity and attraction, when the untimely catastrophe occurred which ended his career, and produced a vacancy _we_ are not likely to see filled up. john bull has ever been remarkable for his admiration of foreign artists. the largest sums bestowed on native talent bear no comparison with the salaries given to french and italian singers, dancers, and musicians. an importation from "beyond seas" will command its weight in gold. this love of exotic prodigies is no recent passion, but older than the days of shakspeare. trinculo, in the _tempest_, thus apostrophizes the recumbent monster, caliban, whom he takes for a fish: "were i in england now (as i was once), and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. there would this monster make a man--any strange beast there makes a man." catalani, pasta, sontag, malibran, grisi, taglioni, rubini, mario, tamburini, lablache, _cum multis aliis_, have received their thousands, and tens of thousands; but, until the jenny lind mania left every thing else at an immeasurable distance, paganini obtained larger sums than had ever before been received in modern times. he came with a prodigious flourish of trumpets, a vast continental reputation, and a few personal legends of the most exciting character. it was said that he had killed his wife in a fit of jealousy, and made fiddle-strings of her intestines; and that the devil had composed a sonata for him in a dream, as he formerly did for tartini. when you looked at him, you thought all this, and more, very likely to be true. his talent was almost supernatural; while his "get up" and "mise en scene" were original and unearthly, such as those who saw him will never forget, and those who did not can with difficulty conceive. the individual and his performance were equally unlike any thing that had ever been exhibited before. no picture or description can convey an adequate idea of his entrance and his exit. to walk simply on and off the stage appears a commonplace operation enough, but paganini did this in a manner peculiar to himself, which baffled all imitation. while i am writing of it, his first appearance in dublin, at the great musical festival of , presents itself to "my mind's eye," as an event of yesterday. when he placed himself in position to commence, the crowded audience were hushed into a death-like silence. his black habiliments, his pale, attenuated visage, powerfully expressive; his long, silky, raven tresses, and the flash of his dark eye, as he shook them back over his shoulders; his thin, transparent fingers, unusually long, the mode in which he grasped his bow, and the tremendous length to which he drew it; and, climax of all, his sudden manner of placing both bow and instrument under his arm, while he threw his hands behind him, elevated his head, his features almost distorted with a smile of ecstasy, and his very hair instinct with life, at the conclusion of an unparalleled fantasia! and there he stood immovable and triumphant, while the theatre rang again with peals on peals of applause, and shouts of the wildest enthusiasm! none who witnessed this will ever forget it, nor are they likely again to see the same effect produced by mere mortal agency. in dublin, in , paganini saved the musical festival, which would have failed but for his individual attraction, although supported by an army of talent in every department. all was done in first rate style, not to be surpassed. there were braham, madame stockhausen, h. phillips, de begnis, &c., &c.; sir g. smart for conductor, cramer, mori, and t. cooke for leaders, lindley, nicholson, anfossi, lidel herrmann, pigott, and above ninety musicians in the orchestra, and more than one hundred and twenty singers in the chorus. the festival was held in the theatre-royal, then, as now, the only building in dublin capable of accommodating the vast number which alone could render such a speculation remunerative. the theatre can hold two thousand six hundred persons, all of whom may see and hear, whether in the boxes, pit, or galleries. the arrangement was, to have oratorios kept distinct on certain mornings, and miscellaneous concerts on the evenings of other days. the concerts were crushers, but the first oratorio was decidedly a break down. the committee became alarmed; the expenses were enormous, and heavy liabilities stared them in the face. there was no time to be lost, and at the second oratorio, duly announced, there stood paganini, in front of the orchestra, violin in hand, on an advanced platform, overhanging the pit, not unlike orator henley's tub, as immortalized by the poet. between the acts of the messiah and the creation, he fiddled "the witches at the great walnut tree of benevento," with other equally appropriate interpolations, to the ecstatic delight of applauding thousands, who cared not a pin for haydn or handel, but came to hear paganini alone; and to the no small scandal of the select few, who thought the episode a little on the north side of consistency. but the money was thereby forthcoming, every body was paid, the committee escaped without damage, and a hazardous speculation, undertaken by a few spirited individuals, was wound up with deserved success. when the festival was over, the town empty, and a cannon-ball might have been fired down sackville-street without doing much injury, paganini was engaged by himself for a series of five performances in the theatre. for this he received £ . his dividend on the first night's receipts amounted to £ (_horresco referens!_) without a shilling of outlay incurred on his part. he had the lion's share with a vengeance, as the manager cleared with difficulty £ . encounter with an iceberg. for ten days we had fine weather and light winds, but a southerly gale sprung up, and drove us to the northward, and i then found out what it was to be at sea. after the gale had lasted a week, the wind came round from the northward, and bitter cold it was. we then stood on rather further to the north than the usual track, i believe. it was night and blowing fresh. the sky was overcast, and there was no moon, so that darkness was on the face of the deep--not total darkness, it must be understood, for that is seldom known at sea. i was in the middle watch from midnight to four o'clock, and had been on deck about half an hour when the look-out forward sung out "ship ahead--starboard--hard a starboard." these words made the second mate, who had the watch, jump into the weather rigging. "a ship," he exclaimed. "an iceberg it is rather, and--. all hands wear ship," he shouted in a tone which showed there was not a moment to lose. the watch sprung to the braces and bowlines while the rest of the crew tumbled up from below, and the captain and other officers rushed out of their cabins; the helm was kept up, and the yards swung round, and the ship's head turned toward the direction whence we had come. the captain glanced his eye round, and then ordered the courses to be brailed up, and the main topsail to be backed, so as to lay the ship to. i soon discovered the cause of these manoeuvres; for before the ship had quite wore round, i perceived close to us a towering mass with a refulgent appearance, which the look-out man had taken for the white sails of a ship, but which proved in reality to be a vast iceberg, and attached to it, and extending a considerable distance to leeward, was a field or very extensive floe of ice, against which the ship would have run, had it not been discovered in time, and would in all probability instantly have gone down with every one on board. in consequence of the extreme darkness, it was dangerous to sail either way; for it was impossible to say what other floes or smaller cakes of ice might be in the neighborhood, and we might probably be on them, before they could be seen. we, therefore, remained hove to. as it was, i could not see the floe till it was pointed out to me by one of the crew. when daylight broke the next morning, the dangerous position in which the ship was placed was seen. on every side of us appeared large floes of ice, with several icebergs floating, like mountains on a plain, among them; while the only opening through which we could escape was a narrow passage to the northeast, through which we must have come. what made our position the more perilous was, that the vast masses of ice were approaching nearer and nearer to each other, so that we had not a moment to lose, if we would effect our escape. as the light increased, we saw, at the distance of three miles to the westward, another ship in a far worse predicament than we were, inasmuch that she was completely surrounded by ice, though she still floated in a sort of basin. the wind held to the northward, so that we could stand clear out of the passage, should it remain open long enough. she by this time had discovered her own perilous condition, as we perceived that she had hoisted a signal of distress, and we heard the guns she was firing to call our attention to her; but regard to our own safety compelled us to disregard them till we had ourselves got clear of the ice. it was very dreadful to watch the stranger, and to feel that we could render her no assistance. all hands were at the braces, ready to trim the sails should the wind head us; for, in that case, we should have to beat out of the channel, which was every instant growing narrower and narrower. the captain stood at the weather gangway, conning the ship. when he saw the ice closing in on us, he ordered every stitch of canvas the ship could carry to be set on her, in hopes of carrying her out before this should occur. it was a chance, whether or not we should be nipped. however, i was not so much occupied with our own danger as not to keep an eye on the stranger, and to feel deep interest in her fate. i was in the mizen-top, and as i possessed a spy-glass, i could see clearly all that occurred. the water on which she floated was nearly smooth, though covered with foam, caused by the masses of ice as they approached each other. i looked; she had but a few fathoms of water on either side of her. as yet she floated unharmed. the peril was great; but the direction of the ice might change, and she might yet be free. still, on it came with terrific force; and i fancied that i could hear the edges grinding and crushing together. the ice closed on the ill-fated ship. she was probably as totally unprepared to resist its pressure as we were. at first i thought that it lifted her bodily up, but it was not so, i suspect. she was too deep in the water for that. her sides were crushed in--her stout timbers were rent into a thousand fragments--her tall masts tottered and fell, though still attached to the hull. for an instant i concluded that the ice must have separated, or perhaps the edges broke with the force of the concussion; for, as i gazed, the wrecked mass of hull, and spars, and canvas, seemed drawn suddenly downward with irresistible force, and a few fragments which had been hurled by the force of the concussion to a distance, were all that remained of the hapless vessel. not a soul of her crew could have had time to escape to the ice. i looked anxiously; not a speck could be seen stirring near the spot. such, thought i, may be the fate of the four hundred and forty human beings on board this ship, ere many minutes are over. i believe that i was the only person on board who witnessed the catastrophe. most of the emigrants were below, and the few who were on deck were with the crew watching our own progress. still narrower grew the passage. some of the parts we had passed through were already closed. the wind, fortunately, held fair, and though it contributed to drive the ice faster in on us, it yet favored our escape. the ship flew through the water at a great rate, heeling over to her ports, but though at times it seemed as if the masts would go over the sides, still the captain held on. a minute's delay might prove our destruction. every one held their breaths, as the width of the passage decreased, though we had but a short distance more to make good before we should be free. i must confess that all the time i did not myself feel any sense of fear. i thought it was a danger more to be apprehended for others than for myself. at length a shout from the deck reached my ears, and looking round, i saw that we were on the outside of the floe. we were just in time, for, the instant after, the ice met, and the passage through which we had come, was completely closed up. the order was now given, to keep the helm up, and to square away the yards, and with a flowing sheet we ran down the edge of the ice for upward of three miles, before we were clear of it. only then did people begin to inquire what had become of the ship we had lately seen. i gave my account, but few expressed any great commiseration for the fate of those who were lost. our captain had had enough of ice, so he steered a course to get as fast as possible into more southern latitudes. the dog and deer of the army. many of the citizens of edinburgh will remember a beautiful deer which, many years ago, accompanied the forty-second highlanders, and how thousands in princes-street were wont to admire the stately step, the proud and haughty toss of the antlers, and the mild, and we may almost say benignant eye of this singularly-placed animal. few persons, however, thought of inquiring into the history of this denizen of the hills, or how it came to pass that an animal naturally shy to an extraordinary degree, should have been so tamed as to take evident delight in military array, and the martial music of a highland regiment. still fewer, immersed in their city life, were acquainted with the amazing swiftness, the keen scent, and the daring bravery of the stag; whose qualities, indeed, might be taken as a type of those of the distinguished regiment to which it became attached. the french could abide the charge of british cavalry; they had some sort of understanding of such a mode of warfare; indeed, to do them justice, they were both skillful and brave in the use and knowledge of arms. but the deadly charge of the highlanders was a puzzler both to their science and courage, and they could by no effort face the forests of cold steel--the bristling bayonets of the kilted clans. among these regiments none suffered more--excepting, perhaps, the ninety-second--than the regiment which afterward adopted the deer as a living memorial of their mountain fastnesses; and a dog likewise, which became attached to, and for years accompanied the same regiment, may be supposed to symbol the fidelity so strikingly characteristic of the highlanders. both the animals adopted by the regiment made their appearance in the ranks about the year , at st. ema, in malta. the deer was presented by a friend of one of the officers, and the dog belonged originally to an officer of the navy, who happened to dine at the mess. the latter animal, from that very night, formed a strong attachment for the officers and men of the forty-second; no commands or enticements could induce him to quit the corporate object of his affection, and his master at length, yielding to a determination he could not conquer, presented the animal, which was of the noble newfoundland breed, to the regiment. the attachment very soon became mutual, and thereafter the dog would follow no one who did not wear the uniform and belong to the corps. the men subscribed a trifle each, with which a handsome collar was provided for their friend, inscribed "regimental dog, forty-second royal highlanders." they gave him the name of "peter," and it was a strange and notable day in the calendar of the soldiers when peter and the deer, who were strongly attached to each other, did not appear on parade. peter, it may be supposed, was a great frequenter of the cook-house, where a luxurious bone, together with a pat on the head, and a word or two of recognition, was his daily dole from the cooks--with one exception. when this churlish person officiated, peter was frequently obliged to retire minus his rations, and sometimes even with blows instead--a kind of treatment which he could by no means reconcile with the respect due to him as the faithful adherent of so distinguished a corps. at any time when peter happened to meet the delinquent, he was seen just to give a look over his head and a wag with his tail, and walk off, as much as to say, "i have a crow to pluck with _you_." by-and-by the season of bathing parades came round, and he used to accompany the soldiers in the mornings in such recreations, and was generally the first to take the water, and the last to leave it; he wished to see all safe. he knew his own power in this element, as well as his enemy's power out of it; and it was with a savage joy he saw one day the churlish cook trust himself to the waves. peter instantly swam toward him, and pulled him down under the water, and would doubtless have drowned him, had not some of the soldiers come to the rescue. a still more curious exercise of his instinct is related of his residence at fort neuf in malta, which is situated to the north of corfu, and the entrance to which is a subterranean passage of considerable length. beyond the mouth of this cavern peter was in the habit of ranging to the distance of thirty-two feet, and as the hour of recall approached, would there sit with eyes intent and ears erect waiting the return of the soldiers. when the trumpet sounded, he showed evidences of some excitement and anxiety; and at the last note went at once to the right-about, and, as fast as his legs could carry him, made for the entrance, and was in a few seconds in the interior of the fort. the reason he went no farther than the thirty-two feet was apparently a consciousness that he had _no pass_, without which the men, he observed, were not permitted to exceed the boundary! that peter actually understood this regulation was firmly believed both by the non-commissioned officers and soldiers. the police at malta, especially at corfu, are very particular with respect to dogs in warm weather. they may be seen almost daily going about with carts, on which are set up wooden screens garnished with hooks, such as butchers use for suspending meat; and it is no uncommon thing to see from nine to a dozen canine corpses suspended from these hooks. peter, it may be imagined, had a great horror of this ghastly show; and indeed he made many narrow escapes from the dog-hangman. the regimental collar, however, was put on him, and every precaution used by the men to prevent his being destroyed. he was still allowed to go at large, but was always observed to look with a suspicious and uneasy eye at the death-cart. both the dog and the deer preferred to abide by the head of the regiment, in and out of quarters. they always remained with the band. the men composing the band have generally quarters apart from the other soldiers, this being more convenient for their musical studies and practice. peter, although he would follow any of the soldiers in their highland dress out of doors, generally preferred the quarters of the band; and should one-half or a part of the regiment be stationed at one place, and the other at another, whenever they separated on the road to their respective quarters, peter would give a wistful look from one to the other, but invariably follow the party which was accompanied by the band. the same was the case with the stag. he likewise took up his quarters with the band, and followed closely behind them on their march. this individual was in the habit of going into the rooms of his friends for a biscuit, of which he was very fond; but if the article had received the contamination of the men's breath, he would at once reject it. experiments were tried by concealing the biscuit that had been breathed upon, and then presenting it as a fresh one; but the instinct of the deer was not to be deceived. latterly, this animal became extremely irritable, and if a stranger attempted to pass between the band and the main body of the regiment, he attacked the offender with his antlers. the combativeness of peter was mingled in a remarkable manner with prudence. being once attacked by a mastiff of greatly superior size and strength, he fled for upward of a mile before his enemy, till he came to his own ground at the entrance of the fort; he then turned to bay, and gave his adversary effectual battle. one day in , while the deer was grazing and eating herbs on the top of fort neuf, situated to the north of corfu, a cat in the vicinity, startled perhaps by the appearance of the animal, bristled up as puss does to a dog. on this slight alarm the deer was seized with a sudden panic, and with one bound sprung over the precipice--a height of two hundred feet--and was killed on the spot. it was remarkable that its friend the dog, although not immediately on the spot, rushed to the battlements instantly, and barked and yelled most piteously. the death of peter, which occurred in , was also of a tragical kind. he chanced to snarl at an officer (who had ill-used him previously) on his entrance into edinburgh castle, of which the two-legged creature took advantage, and ordered him to be shot. this was accordingly done; and so poor peter, in the inexorable course of military law, fell by the arms of the men who had so long been his kind comrades, and who continue to lament him to this hour. monthly record of current events. political and general news. the united states. the political intelligence of the past month is of less than usual interest. in our last number we gave a very full analysis of the various documents transmitted to congress at the opening of the session. the proceedings of that body have been comparatively unimportant. one or two motions have been made in the house of representatives for the purpose of inducing action on the law of the last session concerning fugitives from labor, but they have been rejected by large majorities. all the indications, thus far, clearly show that congress is disposed to leave the several measures of the last session, relating to slavery, entirely untouched. there have been discussions in both branches upon the construction of a railroad to the pacific, upon the land titles of california, and upon other projects of more or less importance: but as no decisive action has been had upon them, it is not necessary to make further reference to them here. while the issue of the hungarian contest was yet doubtful, president taylor dispatched mr. a. dudley mann to vienna as special agent, with instructions to watch the progress of the movement, and in case of its success to recognize the hungarian republic. any such action was prevented by the overthrow of the hungarian cause; but the austrian chargé at washington, chevalier hulsemann, took occasion of the communication to the senate of the instructions given to mr. mann, to enter, in the name of his government, a formal protest against the procedure of the united states, as an unwarrantable interference in the affairs of a friendly power; and as a breach of propriety in national intercourse, jeopardizing the amity between the two countries. he took special exceptions to the epithet _iron rule_, said to be applied to the government of austria, to the designation of kossuth as an illustrious man, and to "improper expressions" in regard to russia, "the intimate and faithful ally of austria." he said that mr. mann had been placed in a position which rendered him liable to the treatment of a spy; and concluded by hinting that the united states were not free from the danger of civil war, and were liable to acts of retaliation. to this protest a most masterly and conclusive reply was furnished by mr. webster. seizing upon the fatal admission of mr. hulsemann, that his government would not have felt itself constrained to notice the matter, but for the message of the president to the senate, he showed that in taking exception to any communication from one department of our government to another, austria was guilty of that very interference in the affairs of a foreign power, of which she complained. but waiving this decisive advantage, mr. webster went on to show that the conduct of the united states was in perfect accordance with the practice of all civilized governments, and austria in particular; that the epithet "iron rule," applied to the austrian government, did not occur in the instructions, that the designation of kossuth as illustrious was precisely parallel to the favorable notice--no where more favorable than in austria--accorded to washington and franklin, while they were technically rebels against great britain; and that as russia had taken no exception to any mention of her, all such exception on the part of austria was officious and uncalled for. he says that had the austrian government subjected mr. mann to the treatment of a spy, it would have placed itself beyond the pale of civilized nations, and the spirit of the people of this country would have demanded immediate hostilities to be waged by the utmost exertion of the power of the republic. in respect to the hypothetical retaliation hinted at, he says that the united states were quite willing to take their chance, and abide their destiny; but that any discussion of the matter now, would be idle; but in the meanwhile, the united states would exercise their own discretion in the expression of opinions upon political events. the reply concludes, with the most exquisite irony, by assuring mr. hulsemann that, believing the principles of civil liberty upon which our government is founded, to be the only ones which can meet the demands of the present age, "the president has perceived with great satisfaction that, in the constitution recently introduced into the austrian empire, many of these great principles are recognized and applied, and he cherishes a sincere wish that they may produce the same happy effect throughout his austrian majesty's extensive dominions that they have done in the united states." the legislature of the state of new york met at albany on the th of january. lieutenant-governor church presides in the senate, which consists of seventeen whigs and fifteen democrats. h.j. raymond, of new york city, was elected speaker of the assembly, which consists of eighty-two whigs and forty-six democrats, and r.u. sherman, of oneida county, was elected clerk. the message of governor hunt was sent in on the first day of the session. it presents an able and explicit exposition of the affairs of the state. the financial condition of the state is very satisfactory. the general fund has met all the current expenses of the year, and has a surplus of $ , . the aggregate debt of the state is $ , , , of which $ , , is on account of the canals. the amount received for canal tolls during the year was $ , , . the governor recommends an amendment of the constitution, so as to allow the state to contract a debt for the more speedy enlargement of the erie canal, and submits considerations growing out of the increasing business and wants of the state, sustaining this suggestion. the governor recommends a thorough revision of the free school law, the establishment of an agricultural school, an amendment of the laws, so as to insure a more equal assessment of property, and an exploration of the wild lands in the northern part of the state. in regard to the difficulties that have hitherto prevailed in the anti-rent districts, the message suggests that they may be obviated by the purchase of the lands in question by the state, and their sale to the tenants on equitable terms. upon national topics the message says but little. it urges the importance of faithfully fulfilling the provisions of all existing laws, and deprecates very warmly all discussions or suggestions looking toward a dissolution of the union. the provision of the federal constitution for the surrender of fugitives from labor, it says, is of paramount importance, and must be observed in good faith. but "while the claim of the southern slaveholder to re-capture his slave is fully admitted," the governor says, "the right of the northern freeman to prove and defend his freedom is equally sacred." the existing law upon this subject, he says, must be obeyed, though he thinks it contains defects which men of the south and of the north will, at the proper time, unite to remedy. "in the mean time," he adds, "our people must be left free to examine its provisions and practical operation. their vital and fundamental right to discuss the merits of this or any other law passed by their representatives, constitutes the very basis of our republican system, and can never be surrendered. any attempt to restrain it would prove far more dangerous than its freest exercise. but in all such discussions we should divest ourselves of sectional or partisan prejudice, and exercise a spirit of comprehensive patriotism, respecting alike the rights of every portion of our common country." the message closes by urging the necessity of amending the present tariff, so as to make it more protective, and of making more effectual provision for improving the rivers and harbors of the country. gov. wright of indiana transmitted his message to the legislature of that state on the first day of its session. the expenses of the state government, for the past year, were $ , . . the whole amount of revenue paid into the state treasury was $ , . . the total value of taxable property, as returned for , is $ , , , which is an increase over the previous year of $ , , . the entire population of the state is about , , being an increase since of upward of , . the total valuation of real estate and live stock, exclusive of other personal property, is about $ , , --being $ , , over the entire assessment for taxation. if to this be added other descriptions of personal property, the entire state valuation can not be less than $ , , . the governor estimates that by the year the state will be able to appropriate the sum of $ , to the payment of the principal of the public debt. it is believed entirely practicable to liquidate the entire debt in seventeen years from the first payment. works of public improvement are progressing rapidly; there are miles of plank road, costing from $ , to $ , per mile, and miles additional are surveyed and in progress. there are miles of railroad in successful operation, of which were completed the past year; and more than miles of railroad are surveyed and in a state of progress. the message strongly recommends a scrupulous fulfillment of all the obligations of the federal constitution connected with slavery. in the florida legislature resolutions have been passed, declaring that the perpetuity of the union depends on the faithful execution of the fugitive slave law--that in case of its repeal or essential modification, it will become the duty of the state authorities to assemble the people in convention, with a view to the defense of their violated rights; and that florida, in acquiescing in the compromise measures, has gone to a point beyond which she could not go with honor. the illinois legislature met on the th. the message of governor french represents the accruing revenue as more than sufficient to meet current demands on the treasury. the entire debt of the state is $ , , . unsold canal lands are expected to realize $ , , . the governor is in favor of homestead exemption--declares against all bank charters--recommends the acceptance of holbrook & co.'s conditional surrender of their charter to build the central railroad, and its disposal to the company that offers the best terms. he speaks favorably of the "compromise measures," and says that they will be faithfully observed and obeyed by the people of illinois, as the only means of restoring and preserving harmony. from california our intelligence is to the st of december. nothing of interest has occurred there since our last advices. the cholera was still prevailing at san francisco. there had been a battle between the force under the command of gen. morehead and the youma indians near colorado city, on the gila, in which the general, after one hour and a half fighting, was glad to retreat beneath the guns of the little fort, the indians having lost ten men. the american force under morehead was ; their loss is not stated. subsequently they had completely vanquished the indians, none being found within fifty miles of the old planting grounds. a fight is also reported between the indians and americans, in the vicinity of mokelumne hill, in which fifteen of the latter were killed, and probably as many of the indians. no particulars are given. the rainy season had commenced. many new veins of auriferous stone have been discovered, and various companies have embarked and are engaged in mining operations with good prospects of success. among these operations, in addition to those on the mariposa, merced, and in the northern mines, great hopes and expectations are entertained from those further south, generally known as the los angelos company mines, several companies being engaged in that section, either in mining or in exploring that great and almost unknown region for its treasures. the result of the state election has been such that doubt prevails as to the political complexion of the next legislature, both parties claiming it by small majorities. a united states senator having to be chosen, makes it rather an interesting question, as the election for that office will probably turn upon party politics. the pennsylvania legislature is now in session. the message of gov. johnston states the amount of the public debt at $ , , . the governor recommends that all the elections be hereafter held in october. the project of erecting an agricultural department is commended to favorable consideration. an appropriate arrangement of the geological specimens belonging to the state is also urged. the large body of original papers in the state department connected with the colonial and revolutionary history of the state are in an exposed and perishing condition, and are recommended for better preservation. in the early spring the buildings of the insane asylum will be ready for the reception of patients. the school system, although still imperfect, is rapidly improving in its general condition, and promises the beneficial results it was designed to accomplish. the full repair of the canals and railroads of the state is urged as an important measure. a system of banking, based upon state stocks, under proper restrictions, is recommended to the attention of the legislature. it is thought that the present banking facilities are unequal to the wants of the business community. on national questions, gov. johnston takes ground in favor of a revision and alteration of the revenue laws, so as to give adequate and permanent protection to the industry of the country, the reduction of postage, and the construction of railway communications to the pacific--and in regard to the question of slavery and the fugitive law, counsels obedience to the laws and respect to national legislation; but excepts to that part of the law which authorizes the creation of a new and irresponsible tribunal under the name of commissioners. mexico. intelligence from the city of mexico is to the th of november. congress was still engaged in discussing various propositions concerning the public debt, and a bill had passed both houses for regulating the interior debt, the original amount of which was about seventy-five millions of dollars, the new law, however, reduces it about one-third. it is believed that the new steps taken upon this subject will prove highly advantageous to the country. the magnetic telegraph is in operation in the city of mexico merely as an experiment, and gives general satisfaction. efforts are being made to form a company for placing it from mexico to vera cruz. accounts from the mexican boundary commission to the th november have reached st. louis. mr. bartlett arrived at el paso on the th november, in advance of the main body, in thirty-three days from san antonio. he was detained seven days to recruit the animals, and ten days by a severe snow storm. he had agreed to meet the mexican commissioner on the st november. he was accompanied by a party of young engineers as an escort, well mounted and armed, together with spies and hunters, and seven wagons with provisions, equipments, &c., forming a party of forty. on the way mr. bartlett was visited by five of the principal chiefs of the lipan indians, accompanied by warriors. the interview was friendly, but great care was taken to show them that the party was well armed. general view of the states of europe. we take advantage of a moment of apparent pause in the current of european affairs to present a concise view of the political, financial, and civil condition in which the close of the first half of the nineteenth century leaves the leading states of europe. we do this in order to furnish a standpoint from which, in the future numbers of our monthly record, the changes which are apparently about to take place may be observed. the present population of europe may be estimated at , , , upon an area of , , square miles, showing an average of inhabitants to a square mile. if, however, we exclude russia, together with sweden and norway, which with almost two-thirds of the area have but one fourth of the population, and are therefore altogether exceptional, the remaining portion will have inhabitants to a square mile; while asia has but , africa , north and south america , and australia and polynesia only . of this population about , , , are christians, of whom there are , , catholics, , , protestants, and , , belonging to the greek church; of the remainder there are seven or eight millions of mohammedans, and two or three millions of jews. europe is now politically divided into independent states, of which belong wholly to germany, and are included in the germanic confederation; to italy; and two to the netherlands. of these states have an essentially monarchical form of government, and are republics. of the monarchical governments are technically called empires, kingdoms, grand-duchies, duchies, principalities, electorate, landgraviate, and ecclesiastical state. the united kingdom of great britain and ireland, as it is officially denominated, contains an area of , square miles, with a population at the last census of , , ( ), which is now increased to about , , . the colonies and possessions of the crown contained in , , inhabitants. the possessions of the east india company have a population of somewhat more than , , ; and the countries over which that company has assumed the right of protection, which is rapidly changing to sovereignty, about , , more. the political authority of the kingdom is vested in the three estates, sovereign, lords, and commons. the house of peers consists at present of members of whom are clerical; irish and scotch representative peers, elected, the former for life, the latter annually; the remainder being hereditary peers. the privileges of the peerage consist in membership of the upper house of parliament; freedom from arrest for debt, and from outlawry or personal attachment in civil actions; the right of trial, in criminal cases by their own body, whose verdict is rendered, not upon oath, but upon their honor; in the law of _scandalum magnatum_, by which any person convicted of circulating a scandalous report against a peer, though it be shown to be true, is punishable by an arbitrary fine, and by imprisonment till it be paid; and in the right of sitting covered in any court of justice, except in the presence of the sovereign. the house of commons, which, by gradual encroachments upon the other estates, and especially by the prerogative which it has acquired of originating all money-bills, has become the paramount power of the state, consists of members, of whom are for england, for wales, for scotland, and for ireland. the revenues for the current year, according to the estimate of the chancellor of the exchequer, amount to £ , , , and the expenditures to £ , , , leaving a surplus of £ , , . the national debt of great britain and ireland, funded and unfunded, amounted, jan. , , to £ , , , involving an annual expenditure of more than £ , , , absorbing considerably more than one half of the public revenues. the military force of the kingdom is as follows: household troops , soldiers of the line, in pay of the crown , " " " east india company , colonial corps , making in all , . the whole number of troops stationed in the united kingdom is about , , of whom , are in ireland. the force of the british navy in dec. is thus given in the royal calendar for : ships of or more guns; or more men " - " - " " - " - " " - " - " " - " - " " - " or less " making a total of armed vessels, with , guns. to these, the calendar adds the names of yachts, hulks, quarter-service vessels, etc.; steamers, and steam-packets, making vessels of every description. the british almanac for , probably a more reliable authority, gives the whole number, on july , , as sailing vessels, steamers of all classes, besides steamers employed under contract as packets, and capable of being converted, in case of need, into vessels of war. the republic of france covers an area of , square miles, and its population, as given in the _moniteur_, february, , was , , ; besides which, the french colonies have about , , inhabitants. the constitution of the republic was voted by the national assembly at its sitting, november , . the introduction recites that france constitutes herself a republic, and that her object in so doing is a more free advance in progress and civilization. the constitution consists of twelve chapters, containing articles, as follows: i. the sovereignty is in the body of citizens. ii. the rights of citizens are guaranteed by the constitution. iii. of public powers. iv. of the legislative power. the representatives of the people to be (since increased to ), elected for three years, by direct and universal suffrage, by secret ballot. all frenchmen of the age of years to be electors, and to be eligible to office at years. this article is, in effect, modified by a subsequent law, passed may , , by which the electoral lists are to comprehend all frenchmen who have completed their st year, enjoy civil and political rights, and have resided in the commune, or canton, for a period of not less than three years; the law embraces, moreover, many further restrictions, which greatly limit the right of suffrage. v. the executive power is vested in the president, elected for four years, by an absolute majority, by secret ballot; he is not eligible for re-election until after an interval of four years. vi. the council of state consists of members, elected for six years, by the national assembly, who are to be consulted in certain prescribed cases; but government is not obliged to consult the council respecting the budget, the state of the army, or the ratification of treaties. the vice-president of the republic is the president of the council; he is chosen by the national assembly from three candidates proposed by the president. vii. of the domestic administration. viii. of judicial powers. ix. of the public forces. x. of the legion of honor, algiers, and the colonies. xi. of the revision of the constitution, in case the national assembly in the last year of its term shall vote any modification to be advisable. xii. contains various temporary dispositions. the finances of france have long been in an extremely unsatisfactory condition. the immediate cause of the revolution of was the enormous and increasing deficiency of the revenue. upon the accession of louis philippe, in , the expenditures of government began again to exceed the receipts, until , when the expenditures amounted to , , , francs, exceeding the revenues by , , f. the budget presented by the minister of finance for the financial year , estimates the receipts at , , , f., exceeding the expenditures by , , f., being the first year when there has been a surplus since the revolution of . the consolidated public debt of france amounts to , , , f., to which is to be added a floating debt of , , f., making in all more than millions of francs, the interest upon which amounts to above , , f., absorbing about one-fourth of the revenue. the french army now on foot amounts to , men; by the law of june , the number was fixed at , , to which, according to the late message of the president, it will be speedily reduced, should political affairs warrant the reduction. the navy according to an ordinance of , was to consist of sailing vessels, and steamers, of all classes, which number, however, was never reached. the present force is vessels (a reduction of vessels during the year), and , men. since the election of louis bonaparte as president of the republic, his whole policy has been directed to the effort of perpetuating his authority, either as president for life, or emperor. the duke of nemours and count of chambord, the respective representatives of the lines of orleans and bourbon, have each a large number of partisans; while opposed to all of these are the democrats and socialists, of every shade, who are utterly averse to any form of monarchical government. we gave in our last number a view of the general state of the german confederation. it is needless to present the statistics of the minor german states, as they do not possess sufficient weight to act except in subservience to either austria or prussia. the kingdom of prussia consists of two distinct territories, at a distance of about forty miles from each other, with hesse-cassel and hanover intervening. it has an area of , square miles, with a population, at the end of , of , , , of whom about , , are protestants, and , , catholics. the finances are in a very healthy condition. according to the budget of , the amount of the revenue was , , crowns; the ordinary expenses of government, including the sinking fund of the public debt, of two and a half millions, were , , crowns, to which is to be added expenses extraordinary and accidental, to the amount of , , crowns, showing a deficit of , , crowns. the public debt, of every description, including treasury notes, not bearing interest, is , , crowns of which the interest amounts to , , , absorbing less than one-eighteenth of the public revenues. the army, upon a peace-footing, consists of , regular troops, and , _landwehr_ of the first class, forming a total of , . upon the war-footing the numbers are augmented to , . the landwehr is divided into two classes, the first embracing every prussian between the ages of twenty and thirty-two, not serving in the standing army, and constitutes an army of reserve, not called out in time of peace except for drill, in the autumn; but called into active service upon the breaking out of war. the whole country is divided into arrondissements, and no one belonging to the landwehr can leave that to which he belongs, without permission of the sergeant-major. in every considerable town dépôts of stores are established, sufficient to provide for this force, and a staff under pay, so that they may be at once organized. when assembled for drill, the landwehr receive the same pay as the regular army. when they are ordered beyond their own arrondissement, their families become the legal wards of the magistracy, who are bound to see that they are provided for. the landwehr of the second class consists of all from thirty-two to forty years who have quitted the first class. to them, in case of war, garrison duty is committed. the _landsturm_ or levy _en masse_, embraces all prussians between the ages of seventeen and fifty, not belonging to either of the above classes; this forms the final resource and reserve of the country, and is called out only in the last extremity. the empire of austria, containing an area of , square miles, embraces four principal divisions, inhabited by different races, with peculiar laws, customs, and institutions. only about one-fourth of its population is comprehended within the german confederation, though she now seeks to include within it a great portion of her slavic territories. the population, as laid down in the chart of the "direction impériale de la statistique administrative," is made up of the following elements: germans , , slavonians , , italians , , romano-valaques and moldavians , , magyars , , jews , miscellaneous races , ---------- total , , the national debt, after deducting the effects belonging to the sinking-fund, amounts at the beginning of the present year to , , florins, the interest upon which, , , florins, absorbs more than one-third of the revenues. the receipts for the year were , , and the expenditures , , florins, showing a deficit of about , , ; this, however, is exceptional; the deficit for the first quarter of , reaching only to , , florins. the regular army, prior to the revolutions of , consisted of about , men, which might be increased in time of war to , . but so large a portion of the forces of austria are required to keep in subjection her discontented italian and hungarian territories, that she could not probably detach, if unsupported by russia, , men for effective service. the navy consists of armed vessels, carrying guns; steamers, of which two are of horse-power, the others smaller; besides gun-boats. the russian empire occupies considerably more than one-half of europe, its area being , , square miles. the population according to the most recent estimates is about , , . of these about , , are serfs of the nobles, and belong to the soil; , , formerly serfs of the crown, who may be considered personally as freemen, having been emancipated; , , burghers; and the remainder are nobles, either hereditary or personal; the latter dignity being conferred upon all civil and military officers, and upon the chief clergy and burghers. no satisfactory statistics exhibiting the present state of the financial and military affairs of the empire are accessible. the _almanach de gotha_ of the present year omits the statistical details previously given; and is unable to furnish more recent details. it is understood, that the revenues and expenditures for some years past have been about $ , , . the public debt is stated at , , silver roubles. the army is given, in round numbers, at , , . it is supposed that in case of war russia is able to send into the field not less than , men. this immense disposable force, absolutely under the control of the emperor, renders the power of russia imminently dangerous to the peace of europe. by a course of masterly policy, directed to one end, the influence of the empire has been gradually extended toward the centre of europe; and the only conceivable means of checking it seems to be a confederation of all the german states, so close, that they shall in effect constitute but one nation. it is this consideration which, underlying the whole current of european politics, renders the present juncture of affairs so critical. the great question of the supremacy of race--the question whether the teutonic or the slavic race shall predominate, and direct in the affairs of europe--rests apparently upon the events which are about to transpire. the remaining nations of europe are too feeble in numbers, or too enervated in character, to exercise any great influence upon the current of events. the hope once entertained, that a union of the italian race was to take place has been frustrated, and the peninsula, containing a population of nearly , , inhabitants is broken up into petty governments each more despicable than the other. turkey in europe has about , , inhabitants, but the ottoman race, is hardly more than a military colony, and numbers but little above a million; while the mohammedan religion has less than four millions of adherents; the greek church alone numbering eleven and a half millions. three-fourths of the population, therefore, both in race and faith have less affinity for turkey than russia, into whose hands they are ready to fall. spain, to check whose power was the great object of all europe two centuries and a half since, is now utterly bankrupt in character and means. every year shows a large deficit in her revenues, although she pays the interest upon but a fraction of her public debt, which amounts to fifteen thousand five hundred millions of reals, the interest of which, at six per cent. would, if paid, absorb the whole of the revenue. the navy, which as late as numbered ships of the line and frigates had sunk in to ships of the line, frigates, brigs and corvettes, and small steamers of from to horse-power, and of these hardly any, it is said, were fit for service. portugal has experienced a like decline, every year showing a deficit; the interest of her debt of about $ , , , absorbing fully one-third of her revenues. greece is hardly worthy of the name of a kingdom. in a word, incurable decay seems to have fallen upon all the nations of southern europe. the political condition of holland, belgium, switzerland, denmark, and sweden may be called prosperous, but they have little weight in the affairs of europe. last and least of all, the little republic of san marino, in reality the oldest of all the existing governments of europe, with a population of but , sits upon her rock, where for fourteen centuries she has watched the rise and fall of the mighty states around her. in all except her venerable antiquity she seems a caricature upon larger nations, with her army of men, her three estates, nobles, burghers, and peasants, her two "capitani regenti," elected for six months, and her secretaries for foreign and domestic affairs. but weak as she seems, she was a state when britain was but a hunting-field for danish and saxon pirates; and may still exist when britain shall have become as tyre and carthage. great britain. the opening of parliament is fixed to take place on the third of february; in the meanwhile government will have leisure to decide upon its course with respect to the catholic excitement, which has continued to rage with an intensity out of all proportion to the cause which has excited it. the simple act of appointing bishops to the various dioceses, has been construed into an arrogant encroachment upon the prerogatives of the crown, and an attack upon the liberties and independence of the people. the surprise of hannibal, when lying before the walls of rome in hourly expectation of the surrender of the city, could not have been greater at learning that an army had just been dispatched for foreign conquest, and the very spot where he was encamped sold for a high price at public auction, than that of the english at the news that the sovereign of a petty principality, who had been driven from his dominions by his own subjects, and was brought back and sustained only by foreign arms, should coolly map out their country among his own dependents. the papers are filled with remonstrances, addresses, petitions, speeches, and protests from every body to every body. twenty-six archbishops and bishops, comprising the whole episcopal bench, with two exceptions, united in a solemn protest to the queen against this treatment of england as a heathen country, and the assumption of ecclesiastical dominion by the pope. the bishop of exeter, having his hands rid of the gorham difficulty, refused to sign this document, and prepared for presentation to her majesty an address of his own, of portentous length, couched in that cumbrous phraseology affected by ecclesiastical writers. this was returned to the author by the secretary of state, with the very curt announcement that it was not a document which he could properly lay before her majesty. addresses were presented on one day from the authorities of london, and from the universities of oxford and cambridge. that from oxford was read by the duke of wellington, that from cambridge by prince albert, as the chancellors of the respective universities. the addresses expressed attachment to the royal person and the principles of the reformation; and indignation at the papal aggressions upon the royal supremacy; with earnest petitions that prompt measures might be taken to repress all foreign encroachments upon the rights of the crown and the independence of the people. the london address contained, moreover, significant hints at innovations, principles, and practices nearly allied to those of rome, sanctioned by some of the clergy, and expressed a desire for the preservation and purity of the protestant faith. the replies of the queen, having of course been prepared beforehand by the ministry, are of some consequence, as foreshadowing the probable course of government. they were all to the same general purport: she thanked them for their expressions of attachment to her person and government; and declared that it should be her constant endeavor, as supreme governor of the realm, to maintain the rights of the crown and the independence of the people, against all encroachments of foreign powers; and to promote the purity and efficiency of the reformed church. it was noted as a somewhat singular circumstance that the room at windsor where these deputations were received, contained portraits of pope pius vii. and cardinal gonsalves. among the most singular petitions to the queen, was one from the women of windsor, urging her majesty to guard them from the "intolerable abuses of the papal hierarchy," which would "enforce upon as many of the people as possible the practice of auricular confession; and from the bare possibility of this practice being pressed upon us and our children, we shrink with instinctive horror." the scottish bishops have addressed a letter to their english brethren, sympathizing with them under this attack, and pledging their "influence and ability in restraining this intolerable aggression on the rights of the venerable church." an old law of elizabeth has been hunted out, making the importation of relics, crucifixes, and the like a penal offense, and though the penalties are repealed, it is still a misdemeanor; some of the more zealous opponents of romanism demand that this should be put in force; and also that all such articles be stopped at the custom-house. they would also have the exhibition and sale of them prohibited, as being "a means of enticing men into idolatry," and they add, as idolatry is "no less a sin than fornication, there seems no solid reason why those who obtrude idolatrous objects upon the public gaze, should not be punished as offenders against public morals, as much as the venders of obscene prints." the general excitement has manifested itself in some unlooked-for quarters. during the performance at the theatre of _king john_, the representative of cardinal pandulph was hissed continually, and could hardly go on with his part; when mr. macready, as king john, pronounced the passage-- "no italian priest shall tithe or toll in our dominions," the whole theatre rang with deafening applause. the immediate effect of this agitation will, undoubtedly, be most severely felt by what is known as the tractarian party in the church of england, one portion of whom will be forced forward to catholicism, and the other driven back to the great body of the english church. mr. bennett, whose church in london was attacked by a mob, on account of certain alleged romish practices, has resigned his charge. this is looked upon as of some importance, from the fact of its being the church attended by lord john russell in london; and that the resignation was brought about by the bishop of london, who has himself been accused of similar tendencies. the general sentiment of the nonconformist and dissenting press is, that the quarrel is one between two hierarchical establishments equally hostile to them; and that, whoever gets worsted, it must result in their own advantage. the conduct of cardinal wiseman has throughout been marked with great skill and foresight. the ceremony of his enthronization took place as privately as possible, in order to avoid a mob; on this occasion he delivered a sermon, characterized by his usual ability and tact, which was of course published in all the papers, thus obtaining all desirable publicity. it is as yet uncertain what steps government will take. there are rumors of dissensions on this question in the cabinet, which must result in its dissolution; but they seem to come from quarters where the wish is father to the thought; at least they are not authenticated. the most important economic movement is the effort which is made in every direction to increase the sources of supply of cotton, or to find some means of substituting flax for those manufactures, of which cotton is now the sole material. the importance of these measures becomes obvious when it is recollected how great a portion of british capital and industry is invested in the cotton manufacture, and to what an extent they are indebted to the united states for the supply of the indispensable material. the united states furnish about four-fifths of the cotton used in great britain; and the supply from other sources is diminishing; a decided failure of the cotton-crop here, or a war, which should interrupt the supply, would produce greater distress in england than did the failure of the potato-crop in ireland. the west indies cannot be looked to at present for any large supply. the cotton of india, though well adapted for the old method of manufacture, is too short in staple to be advantageously wrought by the machinery now in use, and it has been found that american cotton transplanted there soon deteriorates, and on the whole, efforts to extend the culture there have failed. australia seems at present the most promising quarter from which to expect a future supply. the highlands of scotland are now suffering as severely from famine as did ireland during the worst year of the potato failure. the cause of the distress is said to be the absolute entailment of the landed property, which keeps the country in the hands of those who are too poor to cultivate it; and the only remedy is to break the entails, so as to suffer capital to be laid out upon the land, and thereby furnish employment, and produce subsistence for the resident population. the cunard steamers, finding that the collins and the new york and havre lines have at last equaled them in the speed and safety of their vessels, and far exceeded them in beauty and comfort, have apparently resolved to test the question of the supremacy of the sea by the relative capacity of purses. while the franklin was loading at havre, the cunarders suddenly reduced the price of freight from $ per ton to $ , and finally to $ , from havre to new york by way of liverpool; which is, in fact, carrying from liverpool to new york gratis, the cost of conveyance from havre to liverpool, and transhipment, being fully $ . this is understood to be the commencement of an opposition, undertaken in a like paltry spirit, against all the lines of american steamers. it remains to be seen whether those who have been defeated in a fair and honorable competition in science and skill, will succeed in so contemptible a contest as that they purpose to wage. the present increased value of silver, in all countries, is accounted for in the commercial papers, not by the excess of gold from california, but by special and temporary circumstances in the commercial world. the enormous armaments in germany require a large amount of silver to pay off the soldiers. the prevalent feeling of insecurity has caused the hoarding of large amounts in small sums, of course in silver, which has reduced the amount in circulation. in addition to which, holland has made silver only, a legal tender, which has occasioned a desire on the part of bankers who have gold on deposit, to convert it into silver; these, together with an apprehension that the amount of gold from california would in time diminish its relative value, have caused a temporary demand for silver, which has, of course, raised its price. france. the legislative assembly continues in session, but the proceedings are mostly of local interest. the committee presented a report in favor of the policy of neutrality, recommended by the president in relation to the affairs of germany, and brought in a bill appropriating a credit of , , f. to defray the expenses of the , additional men demanded by the president's message. after a sharp discussion, the resolutions were adopted, and the bill passed, by a majority of more than two to one. this is the only test-question, thus far, between the government and the opposition, and shows that the "party of order" are in a decided majority. a bill has been passed appropriating , f. toward establishing cheap baths and wash-houses. the communes desiring aid from this fund are to furnish plans for the approval of the minister of commerce and agriculture, and to provide two-thirds of the necessary funds, government providing the other third, in no case, however, to exceed , f. a report was presented by m. montalembert, in favor of a bill for the better observance of the sabbath in france. the prominent points were: that labor on public works should be suspended on the sabbath and fête days, except in cases of public necessity; and that all agreements binding laborers to work on the sabbath or on fête days, should be prohibited; this provision, however, not to apply to the venders of comestibles, or to carriers, and those engaged upon railways, the post, and similar employments. the proposition met with no favor. letter-writers say that the elysée is marked by scenes of luxury and profligacy scarcely paralleled in the days of the regent orleans and of louis xv. the president is known to be deeply involved in debt, and the assembly has been called upon for a further dotation, which will of course be granted, in spite of the resistance of the opposition. fines and imprisonments of the conductors of the newspapers are growing more and more frequent. germany. the scales have turned on the side of peace. the gordian knot is to be untied, if possible, not cut. the affairs of germany are to be decided by articles, not by artillery. the crisis seems to have been brought about by a peremptory demand from austria, that prussia should evacuate the electorate of hesse-cassel within forty-eight hours, under the alternative of a declaration of war. at the same time a dispatch arrived from lord palmerston, hinting that in the event of war, the other powers could not preserve their neutrality. thus brought face to face with war, both austria and prussia were frightened. a conference was proposed between prince schwartzenberg and baron manteuffel, the austrian and prussian ministers. this took place at olmutz, where articles of agreement were speedily entered into. the essential point of the agreement is, that all measures for the pacification of germany shall be taken jointly by austria and prussia. if the elector of hesse-cassel can not come to terms with his subjects, a prussian and austrian battalion are to occupy the electorate. commissioners from the two powers are to demand the cessation of hostilities in the duchies, and to propose terms to denmark. the formation of a new german constitution is to be undertaken by a conference, meeting at dresden, dec. , to which invitations have been sent jointly by the two powers, who are to stand in all respects on an equality. in the mean time both are to reduce their armies, as speedily as possible, to the peace footing. this agreement of the ministers was ratified by the two sovereigns. in prussia the opposition in the chambers was so vehement that the ministry dared not meet it, and adjourned that body for a month, till jan. , the longest period practicable, in the hope that by that time the issue of the dresden conference might be such as to produce a favorable change. in the mean time, opposition to the proposed measure has sprung up from an unexpected quarter. austria had hitherto acted in the name of the diet; she now coolly ignores the existence of that body, and proceeds to parcel out all the power and responsibility between herself and prussia. the minor german states find themselves left entirely out of the account. they remember the old habit of powerful states, to indemnify themselves at the expense of the weaker ones, for any concessions they have been forced to make to each other; and suspecting some secret articles; or, at least, some understanding not publicly avowed, between the two powers, they tremble for their own independence. the sense of a common danger impels them to a close union, but they are destitute of a rallying point. a portion of them, with austria at their head, had declared themselves the diet; but if austria, the constitutional president, withdraws, the diet can not have a legal existence. the dresden conference, therefore, meets, with three parties, having separate interests and fears: austria, prussia, and the minor states--the governments, that is, of all these--while behind and hostile to the whole, is the democratic element, predominant probably among the prussians, strong in the lesser states, and not powerless even in austria, hostile to all existing governments, or to any confederation they may form, whether consisting of a _duality_ of austria and prussia, or a _triad_, composed of these and a coalition of the minor states; but longing, instead, for a german _unity_. the cannon is still loaded; the priming has only been taken out. the last advices from dresden, of dec. , bring us an account of the opening of the conference by speeches from the austrian and prussian ministers. that of the former was highly conservative in its tone, dwelling mainly upon the advantages secured by the old confederation. the speech of the prussian minister, on the contrary, hinted strongly at the inefficiency which had marked that league. the proceedings, thus far, have been merely preliminary. the return of the elector of hesse-cassel to his dominions, under the escort of austrian and prussian troops, was marked by sullen gloom on the part of the people. preparations for the forcible disarmament of schleswig-holstein by austrian and prussian forces are actively going on; it is feared that the duchies will make a bloody and desperate resistance. the internal condition of austria is far from settled. so arbitrary have been the proceedings of government, that even the _times_ is forced to disapprove of them, and to wish that instead of russia, the empire had a constitutional ally. the discontents among the croats and servians are as predominant as were those among the hungarians, and a coalition between the slavic and magyar races, whom government has hitherto played off against each other, is by no means improbable. government dares not assemble the provincial diets, being fully aware that they would set themselves in opposition to its measures. in hungary, the few natives who have accepted office under austria, are treated by their countrymen as the veriest pariahs, and the officials of government are thwarted and harassed in every way possible. italy. the political affairs of the different italian states are in no wise improving. the roman government finds its austrian allies somewhat burdensome guests. they demand that the austrian corps of , men, which entails an expense upon the impoverished ecclesiastical states of , , francs per annum, should be reduced to , . austria declines, at present, to make the reduction. the american protestants have been allowed to have a chapel within the city, while the english have been compelled to be satisfied with one without the walls; this privilege has been withdrawn.----the austrian governor of venice has issued a proclamation directing that the subscriptions for the relief of brescia, which was destroyed by austrian bombardment, shall be closed; on the ground that the pretense of philanthropy was merely a cloak for political demonstrations.----at leghorn domiciliary visits of the police have been made, the reasons for which have not transpired.----the state of affairs in sardinia has been set forth in the following terms in a speech in its parliament: "there is in sardinia no safety for property; there is neither law nor justice. not to speak of thefts, assaults, injuries to property innumerable--look at the assassinations: two hundred within a short time. assaults and highway robberies have increased and are daily increasing. there is one assassination to every thousand inhabitants. murders are committed by day and by night, in towns and villages, in castles and dwellings. children of thirteen years are murderers. the judges are terrified, and dare not execute justice. in england you must pay, but you have safety for your life. but here ministers take one half our income for the state, and then suffer scoundrels to rob us of the other half. let government look to it. if it says it can do nothing, it does not deserve the name of government: it is the very opposite of what should be called government." the correspondent of the augsburg _allgemeine zeitung_ declares this to be a true account of the state of things in sardinia. spain. there has been a disruption in the cabinet. the minister of finance, finding that there would be a deficit of some , , of reals, nearly one-fourth of the entire revenue, proposed a reduction of expenditures in various departments. this the other ministers would not consent to; and the minister of finance, finding that he would be called to solve the difficult problem of making payments without funds, or resign his post, chose the latter as the more feasible if not the more agreeable alternative. a surplus of revenue is, of course, anticipated the coming year. but the calculations of spanish financiers never prove to be correct. literature, science, art, personal movements, etc. united states. at the new england society's dinner, mr. webster made a most felicitous allusion to the _mayflower_, à propos to a confectionary model of that vessel which graced the table: "there was," said he, "in ancient times a ship which carried jason in his voyage for the acquisition of the golden fleece; there was a ship at the battle of actium which made augustus cæsar master of the world; there have been famous ships which bore to victory a drake, a howe, a nelson; there are ships which have carried our own hull, decatur, and stewart in triumph. but what are they all, as to their chances of remembrance among men, to that little bark _mayflower_? that mayflower was and is a flower of perpetual blossom. it can stand the sultry blasts of summer, resist the furious tempests of autumn, and remain untouched by the gales and the frosts of winter. it can defy all climates and all times; it will spread its petals over the whole world, and exhale a living odor and fragrance to the last syllable of recorded time!" mr. stephenson, of charlestown, has lately completed a statue of great merit both in conception and execution. it represents a north american indian who has just received a mortal wound from an arrow; he has fallen forward upon his right knee, the left leg being thrown out in advance. the right hand which has drawn the arrow from the wound, rests upon the ground, the arm with its little remaining strength preventing the entire fall of the body. the statue is wrought from a block of marble from a quarry just opened in vermont, which is pronounced not inferior to the famous quarries of carrara. the literalism of the panorama has lately been invaded by an effort toward the ideal. pilgrim's progress has been made the subject of an extensive work of this kind by two young artists of new york, messrs. may and kyle. they have met with great and well deserved success. their work embodies the spirit of bunyan, and presents all the scenes of any interest in his famous dream. the seizing of the popular preference for panoramas for the purpose of converting it from a wondering curiosity at the reproduction of actual scenes, to the admiring interest awakened by an imaginative subject, was a happy instance of tact too rarely found in artists; and the eagerness with which the public welcomed the change is another evidence of the general advancement in taste to which we have before alluded. w.s. mount, the only artist among us who can delineate "god's image carved in ebony," or mahogany, has just finished a picture in his happiest style. it represents a genuine sable long-islander, whom a "lucky throw" of the coppers has made the owner of a fat goose. he holds his prize in his hands, his dusky face radiant with joy as he snuffs up in imagination the fragrant odors to come. the details of the picture--the rough coat, the gay worsted comforter and cap, disposed with that native tendency to dandyism, which forms so conspicuous an element of the negro character, are admirably painted. the effect, like that of every true work of art, and unlike that of the vulgar and brutal caricatures of the negro which abound, is genial and humanizing. the picture is in possession of messrs. goupil and company, broadway, by whom it will soon be sent to paris, to be lithographed in a style uniform with the "power of music," and "music is contagious," of the same artist. this house will soon publish engravings from one of woodville's characteristic pictures, "politics in an oyster house," and from sebron's two admirable views of niagara falls. w.h. powell is in paris, at work on his large picture for the capitol at washington. he has recently finished "the burial of fernando de soto in the mississippi," of which a fine print, executed in paris by lemoine, has been published. the committing of the body of the grand old enthusiast to the turbid current of the father of waters, of which he was the discoverer, is a splendid subject, and is treated by powell in a manner full of deep poetic feeling. prof. hart, of philadelphia, one of our most elegant belle-lettre scholars, is preparing a volume of "the female prose writers of america." it is to form a royal octavo of five hundred pages, elegantly printed, with numerous portraits, executed in london, in the best style of line and stipple engraving. we are authorized to state that the editor will be happy to receive from authors and their friends materials for the biographical and critical notices. mrs. hale's "female biography," from which we furnished some extracts in our last number, is nearly ready for publication. it will form a large octavo of about eight hundred pages, containing numerous authentic portraits. mr. g.p. putnam announces as in preparation for speedy publication a series of manuals for popular reference, designed to compress into a compact form a comprehensive and accurate view of the subjects of general history, science, literature, biography, and the useful arts. they are to be prepared by authors of undoubted qualifications, on the basis of maunder's and other recent compilations; and to be published in a style uniform with the "world's progress." the office of a compiler and classifier in literature assumes a new importance, and has new claims upon the gratitude of the student, in these days when the life of a man is too short for him to make himself acquainted, from the original sources, with any one branch of knowledge. the same publisher also announces a "life of washington," by washington irving; "the monuments of central and western america," by francis l. hawks, d.d.; a "commentary on ecclesiastes," by moses stuart; and new works by dr. mayo, author of "kaloolah," by j. fennimore cooper, hon. e.g. squier, and the author of "rural hours." the opera has not had the success of last season, in spite of the addition of signorina parodi to the company of last year. parodi is admitted to have a remarkably fine voice, and to be not without dramatic talent, although prone to exaggeration, but she is not generally thought equal to the claims set up for her, and, what is of more importance, she does not fill the house so well at two dollars and a half as was expected. toward the end of her first series of performances at new york she drew quite large audiences, and made many admirers among persons of acknowledged taste. a project is on foot to build a very large opera house near the site of the old one. the proprietors are in paris, we believe, and they hope to join marti, the great havana manager, with them. the undertaking is based on the supposition that in this country it is better to appeal to the many than the few. the basis is good, where the many have the taste to which to appeal; but an opera audience must be a steady one, and it remains to be seen whether a taste for the opera is yet sufficiently diffused here to insure large audiences always, at remunerating prices. the havana company do not make their expenses on their summer visits, even at castle garden, but in the summer all that they receive is gain. mr. paine's "water-gas," after serving for months as the butt for ridicule, appears about to take its place among the ascertained facts of science. whatever may be true respecting his theory that water is wholly converted into hydrogen or oxygen, which we certainly believe to be erroneous, there is little room to doubt that he possesses the means of producing hydrogen from water, with great facility, and in any quantity; and that the hydrogen acquires a high illuminating power by passing through spirits of turpentine. if one-half that well-informed men believe in respect to this discovery is true, it is the most important one made in the department of physical science within the century. count dembinski, who bore so prominent a part in the hungarian struggle, and who is represented as a very accomplished engineer, is now engaged as a dealer in cigars in new york. the condition of the political refugees from germany in other parts of the world is less desirable than even this. in london many of them hawk lucifer matches about the streets. in australia doctors and professors break stone on the highways. two barons and an artist, from berlin, are thus employed; a hamburgh physician deals in milk; and the son of a berlin manufacturer is a cattle-driver. missionaries in western africa report the existence of a regularly written language among a people there discovered. the alphabet is said to be syllabic like the ethiopic and cherokee; each character, of which there are about a hundred, representing a syllable. this fact, if authenticated, taken in connection with the existence of a very highly developed language in some of the rude african tribes, suggests many interesting problems in ethnographical science. great britain. the earl of carlisle, formerly lord morpeth, delivered recently two lectures before the mechanics' institute at leeds. one of these, upon the poetry of pope, was a pleasant criticism and eulogy upon the poet. the second lecture was devoted to an account of his own travels in america, some eight years since; being the first account he has publicly given of his observations and impressions. in speaking of persons he confined himself to those whose historical celebrity has made them in a manner public property; and his observations upon individuals and institutions were characterized throughout by a tone of moderation and good-feeling. the phenomenon of a live lord lecturing before an association of mechanics seems to have startled the good people of leeds no little; and to have caused an excitement that reminds one of an american jenny lind ovation viewed through a telescope reversed. a due sense was manifested of the noble lord's condescension in appearing in a character so novel as that of a public lecturer, and afterward revising the lectures for publication. copies of the lectures are to be sent to similar associations in the neighborhood that they may be read to the members. the lectures, though very creditable to his lordship, would certainly not have received such an enthusiastic reception had the author been mr. brown or smith. walter savage landor writes through the examiner, to and at lord brougham, respecting the claims upon the nation of literary men in general, and of southey in particular. he says that since southey commenced writing in behalf of the church, more than twenty millions have been paid to the english bishops, of which the bishop of london--(the master c.j. london of the exquisite satire in the last number of the new monthly, entitled "a crisis in the affairs of mr. john bull," than which nothing keener has been written since the days of swift, and which is worthy of forming a supplementary chapter to the "tale of a tub")--has received well-nigh a million; all of whom have not done for the church a tithe of what southey accomplished. he thinks that if money enough to reward amply a half-score of the men whose genius has adorned and exalted their age, can be expended in building stables for a prince hardly tall enough to mount a donkey, the nation would not be ruined by appropriating five hundred a year to six, and three hundred a year to as many more of the chief living geniuses. sir charles napier--(there are three napiers, all equally ready with the sword and pen, and with the bishop of exeter probably the four most impracticable and crotchety men now alive: william, major-general, author of the "peninsular war," "conquest of scinde," and other works; charles j., major-general, commander-in-chief in india, author of the oddest dispatches and general-orders on record; and charles, rear-admiral, and author of the pamphlet of which we are about to speak)--has issued a publication in which all the horrors which sir francis head foresees in a french invasion and conquest of england are abundantly magnified. the admiral proves, to his own satisfaction at least, that england is at any moment liable to fall a prey to french, russian, or american rapacity. a life of edward williams, a welsh poet of the last century, has just been published in london, which is said to contain a good deal of pleasant literary gossip. we find mentioned in it a rencontre with the great dr. johnson, which is characteristic, and interesting enough to be repeated. mr. williams seems to have been fond of lounging in book stores, and on one such occasion was thus occupying a leisure hour, and quiet corner, in this banqueting-room, "when a large, ungraceful man entered the shop, and seating himself abruptly by the counter, began to inspect some books and pamphlets lying there. this austere-looking personage held the books almost close to his face, as he turned over the leaves rapidly, and the bard thought petulantly; then replaced them on the counter, and finally gave the whole a stern kind of shove out of the way, muttering as he rose, 'the trash of the day, i see!' then, without word or sign of recognition to the bookseller, rolled himself out of the shop. when he was gone, the bard inquired of his friend who that bluff gentleman might be. the reply was, '_that bluff gentleman_ is the celebrated dr. johnson.'" this excited the desire of mr. williams to see him again, and he accordingly took another opportunity to meet him; and in order to have an excuse for speaking to him, presented three grammars to him, and "solicited the favor of dr. johnson's advice which of them to choose, observing that the judgment of such a masterly writer must be the most valuable he could possibly obtain. johnson either disregarded this really graceful compliment to him as a model author, or he was in an ungracious temper--no uncommon condition with him--for taking the volumes into his hands, he cast an equivocal look, between a glance and a scowl, at the humble stranger before him, hastily turned over the several title-pages, then surveyed him from head to foot, with an expression rather contemptuous than inquisitive; and, thrusting back the grammars in his huge fist, rather _at_ the inquirer than toward him, delivered this oracular reply '_either of them_ will do for _you_, young man.'" the portrait of sir robert peel, painted by lawrence some years ago, is said to be the only one by which the statesman wished his person to be handed down to posterity. the judgment of a person of his exquisite taste, as well as the reputation of the painter, stamps this as the only truly historical portrait. an engraving from this picture, which is pronounced to do full justice to the painter, has been executed, and can not fail of a wide circulation. copies will soon, without doubt, be brought to this country. the question of copyright in england, to authors not subjects, is not yet decided. mr. ollendorf, author of the "new method" of learning languages, who though not a british subject, resides a part of the time in england, authorized a publishing house to issue an edition of one of his works. another publisher imported an edition of this work, published at frankfort, without the author's consent, and sold it at half the price of the former. mr. ollendorf and his publishers applied for an injunction to restrain the sale of the pirated edition, and to compel an account of the money already received. this was granted provisionally, the court deciding that the decision which has been supposed to deny the privilege of copyright to foreigners, did not apply to cases where the author was a resident in england, and had assigned his rights to british subjects. a copying telegraph has been invented by mr. f.c. bakewell. the message to be transmitted is written with varnish upon a strip of tin-foil, which is rolled around a cylinder which is made to revolve by clockwork. a point of steel presses upon this cylinder, which is so arranged as to form part of the electric circuit, which is of course interrupted when the point is in contact with the non-conducting varnish-letters. upon the receiving cylinder at the other end of the line, is placed a slip of paper, saturated with muriatic acid and prussiate of potash; upon this paper a steel point presses, connected with the conducting wire, the electric current passing along which changes the color of the paper to blue; but when the current is broken by the varnish-letters at the other end, the color is not affected. both cylinders are then made to revolve at precisely the same rate, in such a manner that the points of steel describe a series of lines upon their surface. these lines become blue on the paper, except at the point where the current is broken, so that the letters appear white on a ground composed of blue lines. by varying the relative size of the cylinders, the copy may be made either larger or smaller than the original. by this telegraph, therefore, communications in cipher may be dispatched. the chief difficulty thus far experienced, is in producing a perfectly corresponding rate of revolution of the two cylinders; but this is certainly not insurmountable. it has been determined to devote the money raised for a memorial to the late duke of cambridge, to the foundation of a charitable institution. two plans have been proposed, between which the choice will probably be made. one is to build a set of almshouses for the widows of non-commissioned officers. the projector supposes that if the building can be erected, the institution may be maintained by contributions from the army. the other plan is to establish a sanitary institution, open to the poor of every class. the merits of the "good duke," as far as they have been made apparent, appear to be comprised in the fact of his having been the least disreputable of all the sons of george iii.; in having eaten more charitable dinners than any man upon record; in having spent the £ , a year, given him by the nation, to the last penny; and having left behind him two children to be supported by public bounty. punch thinks that the £ , a year given to his son, the present duke of cambridge, is quite sufficient to prevent the english nation from forgetting the father. there are in london charitable institutions, exclusive of local and parochial trusts, many of them having branches and auxiliaries. of these are medical and surgical charities; institutions for the aged; asylums for orphans and destitute children; school, book, and visitation societies; bible and missionary societies. these associations disburse annually about £ , , , of which £ , , is raised by voluntary contributions; and the remainder arises from funded property and the sale of publications. a society has recently been formed at windsor, under the patronage of the queen, prince albert, and the duchess of kent, for improving the condition of the laborers in several adjacent parishes. at a recent meeting persons were selected, on account of superior neatness, industry, and general good character, who received a reward of from to shillings, together with a framed certificate signed by prince albert. great attention on the part of philanthropists continues to be paid, in several of the large cities of england, to the subject of ragged schools, though the most formidable obstacles are encountered to their success. mere teaching is found to be of little avail, unless means of industry can also be provided. a curious anecdote, illustrating this point, is told of one of these schools in london. a clergyman went to the school on sunday evening to address the larger class of boys. there was a good attendance; and he addressed the children on the sanctities of the sabbath and the penalties of a life of crime. he thought he had made a powerful impression on his hearers; and was about to conclude with a suitable peroration, when as the minute finger of the clock touched the five minutes to eight mark on the dial, the whole audience rose, and without a word left the room. the teachers followed in surprise; and overtaking one of the urchins in the street, asked where he was going. "to work," was the brief reply. "to work! why, don't you know this is sunday?" asked the religious instructor. "of course," said the lad, "and ain't the folks just a goin' to come out of chapel?" the clergyman was enlightened: after his persuasive discourse, as he thought, the audience had risen to pick pockets! incidents like this have led nearly all the schools to combine labor with their instruction. the projected "excursion trips" to the great exhibition, which have been started by some enterprising americans, have attracted the attention of intelligent persons in england, who predict that this will be found to be the commencement of a very important movement for cheapening intercommunication between the two countries. hitherto the improvements in ocean navigation, have only been attained by keeping the rates of passage at a high mark: but with the experience of railways as a starting point, it can not be doubted that a voyage to europe will soon be brought within the means of all. mr. stephenson, the engineer of the britannia bridge, has gone to egypt to examine the route proposed for a ship canal between the mediterranean and red seas. the survey is undertaken jointly by england, france, and austria, each sending an engineer for the purpose. when the route is fixed upon, it is hoped that funds for the work will be furnished by the three powers; if not, the pacha will concede the privilege of constructing it to a joint stock company. the whole of the household goods left by daniel o'connell, at derrynane abbey, have been sold by sheriff's sale at public auction. a short time since they would have produced an immense sum as relics of the liberator; they now brought no more than £ _s._ _d._ france. some months since a committee at the head of which was leverrier, the astronomer, reported to the french chambers in favor of a telegraphic apparatus submitted by mr. bain. messages were transmitted between paris and lille, at the rate of letters per minute. in accordance with the report an apparatus was placed upon the line between paris and calais. the dispatch of the paris correspondent of the _times_ of dec. , was transmitted by this apparatus at the rate of letters a minute, in a character perfectly legible. on the first of march the french telegraphs are to be opened to the public. by the proposed tariff a message of words from paris to calais, miles, will cost about nine dollars. guizot, has prefixed to the republications of his treatises on monk and washington two characteristic prefaces, in which the opinion is more than hinted that what france wants at present is monk, the restorer of monarchy, rather than washington, the founder of a republic. a life of toussaint louverture, by m. st. remy, a native of hayti, has been published at paris, of which _la semaine_ says: "toussaint louverture, the heroic personification of the black race, was one of the most extraordinary men of modern times. a son of a race hitherto oppressed, filled with a noble emulation, and desirous of sculpturing the figure of some of those great men who have fixed the destiny of their country, has commenced the pious task with the history of this old slave, whose genius raised him to the rank of general of the french army in st. domingo. the sophisms of the partisans of negro slavery have too long held up to ridicule the efforts made by a people of african origin to take rank among civilized nations; and it belonged to a man of color to prove by an illustrious example that the deity wished but to vary his works, not to establish a hierarchy of subjection, by giving to the skin a color black or white. the great crime of toussaint was that of having bravely resisted leclerc, who came to reduce again to slavery a country which had been made free. on the th of october, , bonaparte said, in a proclamation addressed to the inhabitants of st. domingo: 'the government has sent to you general leclerc. he brings with him a large force to protect you against your enemies, and the enemies of the republic. if you are told, these forces are destined to deprive you of your liberties, do you reply, the republic will not suffer them to be taken from us.' on the d of may, , slavery was re-established by a decree under the same signature. when he was embarking aboard the vessel which was to convey him to europe, toussaint uttered these words: 'in overthrowing me, they have only overthrown the trunk of the tree of the liberty of the blacks. it will spring up again, for the roots are many and deep.' he was a true prophet; for of , soldiers successively embarked for st. domingo, not a fourth part ever returned to france. the old troops of moreau, who had covered themselves with glory upon the banks of the rhine, were decimated in that fratricidal contest, in which both parties fought, singing the marseillaise hymn. but, says m. st. remy, 'while the mulattoes and the blacks mingled together, fought for their freedom, the first of the blacks died of inanition on the th of april, . the rats, it was said, had gnawed his feet.' from the commencement of his captivity, toussaint had repeatedly written to the first consul that he might be brought to trial; but his letters, replete with touching simplicity, remained unanswered. the man who had once held in his hand the destinies of the american archipelago, was but an old negro, torn from his wife and children, buried alive, and condemned, by an implacable policy, to death. and so died toussaint louverture, who, born a slave, was in turn a brave soldier, a victorious commander, an intelligent administrator, and an enlightened legislator. the constitution which he gave to hayti, before the arrival of leclerc, shows him to have been fully aware of the wants of his country. he proclaimed civil and political equality, and encouraged agriculture and commerce, by abolishing monopolies; and in view of what is now taking place in hayti, we may be astonished that this old slave was more enlightened than those who have succeeded him in the government. we have not pretended to give an analysis of the work, but the facts we have recounted may serve to give an idea of the interest which attaches to this new publication of m. st. remy, who has been heretofore known by his history of hayti." a treatise on the theory of constitutional law, by m. berryat st. prix, is spoken of as a work of great interest and ability. it is preceded by a general introduction, setting forth the fundamental principles of constitutional law, and the characteristics which distinguish it from administrative law. the author then proceeds to treat in detail of the difficult question of sovereignty, traces the history of the numerous changes in the political relations of france, and analyzes the ten or a dozen different constitutions which have succeeded each other. a parallel is drawn between the new constitution and its immediate predecessor, and that of the united states. the questions of the natural right to property, and of the right to labor are also discussed. some curious facts have been stated illustrating the effect of the french revolution of february upon the circulation of newspapers. it stimulated their publication and sale to an almost incredible extent. it is stated that one single printer, m. boulé, actually sold for months together between , and , copies _daily_, of four or five different journals of which he was the printer. he had eleven presses at work day and night, and in the course of a short time not only managed to pay off several thousand pounds of debt, but even to make a very considerable fortune. the journals he printed were chiefly what is called red or ultra-democratic; and such was the _fureur_ of the public for them, that the hawkers used to demand "papers" without caring what they were. all the newspapers were paid for in pence, and it was literally _sou_ by _sou_ that boulé enriched himself. the four principal cemeteries of paris contain in all , permanent tombs. of these père-lachaise has , , montmartre , and mont parnasse . the total number of interments in all these cemeteries since they were opened in , is , , ; so that these four cemeteries contain , more inhabitants than the living city from which their population is drawn. germany, etc. carl ferdinand becker, the celebrated writer on the philosophy of grammar, whose death we noticed in a recent number of the new monthly, presents a somewhat singular instance of eminence being attained in a pursuit not commenced till late in life. he was born in , and studied at the seminary for priests at hildesheim, where he received an appointment, which he subsequently resigned rather than embrace an ecclesiastical life. he then studied medicine, and published several medical treatises. we afterward find him sub-director of the gunpowder and saltpetre manufactory at göttingen, into the mechanical processes of which he introduced many improvements. in , he was appointed physician to the general army hospital, at frankfort; this being subsequently discontinued, he settled as a private physician at offenbach. here his long-suppressed fondness for philological pursuits was renewed; but he had reached his fiftieth year before he published his first grammatical work. the older german grammarians founded their systems upon the bare forms of the parts of speech, while becker assumed the signification of them, in as far as they are components of a sentence, and serve as the expression of thought, as the foundation of his system. he looked upon language as the organic expression of thought, and all special forms of speech, as the expression of particular relations of thoughts and ideas. by this mode of treatment he avoided much of the dryness and insipidity belonging to mere grammatical speculations, and brought to view the more genial elements of the philosophy of language. his mode of treating his materials was philosophical rather than historical--in which he offers a striking contrast to jacob grimm, whose works show an equally familiar acquaintance with the history and the philosophy of language. bruno bauer, the coryphæus of german rationalism (unless strauss may be thought to be a rival for that questionable eminence) whose last work is devoted to the somewhat useless task of proving, with a superabundance of logic and contemptuous irony, that the late frankfort parliament effected nothing, and knew nothing, has run through a singular career. he was born in , and in his twentieth year commenced the study of theology at berlin. five years later he became private teacher in the university, at which time he belonged to hegelian school of orthodoxy. the germ of his subsequent views, however, may be found in his "kritik of the old testament writings," in which he represents "the myths of judaism in their successive transformations, as a development of the national sentiment of the jews." he first fairly broke ground with orthodoxy in , when he began to apply his principles of criticism to the new testament narratives. he commenced with the gospel of john, which he regarded as a work of the imagination, with but here and there a historical trace--a work merely "founded upon facts." he had, meanwhile, been transferred to the university of bonn, where he proceeded with his three volumes of criticisms upon the other evangelists, at the conclusion of which he found he had reached a point which he could hardly have anticipated at the outset. in the first volume he had begged that the judgment of his readers might be suspended, "for however bold and far-reaching the negations of this volume might appear, it would be manifest that the most searching criticism would most fully set forth the creative power of jesus and of his principles;" and even in the second volume he seems to allow to the main facts set forth in the life of jesus a historical verity; but at the conclusion of the work he makes it doubtful whether such a person as jesus ever existed. bauer now occupied the anomalous position of a theological teacher who represented the gospels to be mere works of the imagination, possessing no higher historical value than xenophon's cyropædia, or fénélon's telemachus, characterized matthew and luke as stupid copyists of mark, denounced theologians as hypocrites, and the science of theology as the dark stain upon modern history. it is no wonder that the prussian minister of worship felt himself impelled to inquire of the theological faculty, what was the position of bauer in relation to christianity, and whether he should be allowed to exercise his functions. the faculty were embarrassed: on the one hand, they feared that freedom of inquiry would be trenched upon were he silenced; and, on the other, that the cause of religion would be injured were he allowed to teach. finally, a middle course was adopted, and he was allowed to teach in the philosophical faculty; and his former friend and admirer, marheineke proposed that he should be appointed to a professorship, on the ground that he might thus "get his bread, and not be compelled by necessity to write." the next year ( ) the permission to teach in the university was withdrawn, and now commenced a warfare of journals, pamphlets, and books, in which bauer's colossal irony and cold, trenchant logic shone conspicuous. he proved to his old hegelian friends, that the true atheist was their master himself, and strove to force from them the confession that they had either been deceived themselves, or had been willfully deceiving others. in , bauer closed his career as a writer upon theology by a work entitled "christianity revealed," in which he recapitulates all the views he had put forth. this was confiscated by the government of zurich, where it was published, and his publisher, fröbel, punished by imprisonment. he now turned his attention to criticism of social and civil affairs, through which we have not space to follow him. he opened a bookstore, in conjunction with his brother edgar, a congenial, and still more violent spirit, who was subsequently sentenced to a four years' imprisonment, for some publication displeasing to government. here the brothers published their own works, and became involved in a dispute with the prussian censorship, and the elder was obliged to modify many passages in a book already printed, before he was allowed to publish it. he commenced an extensive history of the french revolution, but we can not learn that he brought it further than to the close of the last century. he established a periodical which continued but a year, in which he entered into contest with the "masses, in that sense of the word which includes also the so-called educated classes--the masses, who will not take the trouble to find out the truth by its proofs"--a body including, apparently, in his opinion, every one except himself. the political convulsions of the last two years, have brought out the veteran ishmaelite in two characteristic works. the first of these, _the revolution of the burgesses in germany_, is devoted to a bitter and unsparing denunciation of every sect and party, as pusillanimous, and insignificant; and the second, recently published, is a cool and contemptuous dissection of the dead carcass of the late frankfort parliament. the printing and bookselling house of brockhaus at leipzig, is one of the most complete and extensive in the world. it was founded by friedrich aug. brockhaus, the father of the present proprietors. he was born in , and was educated for the mercantile profession. he established himself at first in his native town of dortmund, from whence in he emigrated to holland. here he was altogether unsuccessful, gave up his business, and set up a bookstore in amsterdam. this was in , when the state of things in holland was extremely unpropitious for every undertaking of a literary nature. the kingdom was united to the republic of france, and the french officials, on some pretext or other, confiscated a great part of brockhaus's stock. advanced into middle life, and three times unfortunate in business, the stout struggler determined upon one more throw for fortune, and won. having, while in holland, obtained the copyright of lobel's conversations-lexicon, he settled at altona, and devoted himself to the preparation and publication of this work with a zeal and energy that commanded success. he soon felt that leipzig was the only sphere commensurate with his talents, and removed to the intellectual centre of germany in . there he established several periodicals, which gained for him both reputation and profit. among these were the _zeitgenossen_, the _literarische conversationsblatt_, which is still published under the name of _blätter für literarischen unterhaltungen_, and the _urania_, for a long time the repository of the choicest gems of german poetry. he also undertook the publication of ersch's _handbuch der deutschen literatur_ and ebert's _bibliographischen lexicon_. his greatest enterprise, however, was the publication of the celebrated _conversations-lexicon_, of which he was himself the principal editor, and to which more than two hundred of the most eminent literary and scientific men of the time were contributors. he died in , leaving his business to his two elder sons, by whom it has been greatly extended. the oldest of these, friedrich, born in , after having made himself practically acquainted with the art of printing, traveled abroad for the purpose of learning all improvements in the art, and upon the death of his father assumed the direction of the mechanical portion of the establishment. the second brother, heinrich, born in , took charge of the literary and commercial department. they carried on the publication of the great work of their father, of which the ninth edition, into which are incorporated two supplements, which they had previously published under the title of the _conversations-lexicon of the present_, and the _conversations-lexicon of the most recent times and literature_, has just been issued. the establishment of brockhaus at leipzig is a fine quadrangular pile of buildings, with an open square in the centre, in which is carried on every operation connected with publication, from casting the type to issuing the completed work. the leipzig book-fair is the index by which the literary activity of germany is measured. it is the custom in germany for every german publisher to have his agent in leipzig for the sale and distribution of his works. the easter fair is the principal one for the sale of new books. the catalogue for the present michaelmas fair contains the names of new works published in germany since the easter fair, at which the number was or less. the present catalogue forms a volume of pages, and contains more works than that of any fair since the revolution of . the number of new books published in germany averages weekly, or a year. taking the literary life of a student at years, he must read nearly , volumes, in order to keep up with the current literature of germany alone. the royal foundry at berlin, which has for a long time been occupied by artists for studios and workrooms, has during the late warlike demonstrations in germany been devoted to its original purpose, the fabrication of the "ultima ratio regum." among the works of art which are nearly completed is a colossal monument to frederick the great. the sculptor rauch has been commissioned to execute a _bas-relief_ for the pedestal, representing the well-known incident when the prince, a lad of some seven years, was playing at ball in the room where frederick was writing. the king forbade the sport, and took away the ball. the prince asked that it might be given back to him, and getting no answer placed himself sturdily before the king, with the words: "the ball is mine, and i wish to know if your majesty means to give it up peaceably?" frederick restored the ball, saying, with a laugh, "this lad here would certainly not have suffered silesia to be taken." a biographical sketch of the life of alexander von humboldt, by prof. klincke, of brunswick, which has just appeared, possesses peculiar interest to scholars from the minuteness with which humboldt's course of study is detailed; and for the idea which it affords of the multifarious and vast attainments of this greatest of living scholars. a publication, resembling in appearance and design "the gallery of illustrious americans," has been commenced at leipzig. the first number contains portraits from daguerreotypes, with accompanying biographical notices, of the king of prussia, alexander von humboldt, and the painter cornelius. the third volume of humboldt's cosmos has been announced by cotta, of stuttgart and tübingen. it will appear almost simultaneously in a translation both in england and america. the same publisher has issued a charming volume of tales by gottfried and johanna kinkel. it is rare that a true poet, like kinkel, is blessed with a wife equal to him in poetic gifts; and the two, perhaps, have never before united in the production of a work which leaves the impression that in the authors one and the same soul is pitched upon the masculine and the feminine key. the volume contains a series of tales and sketches in which happy invention is combined with great powers of construction; deep feeling with broad and genial humor, developed now in the masculine and now in the feminine aspects. running like an undertone through the feelings of gladness excited by these tales, is a melancholy remembrance of the gloomy fate which in these ominous times has befallen two beings who but a short time ago were contending in such pleasant rivalry in the exercise of the imaginative power. to the voluminous correspondence of goethe already published, another series has been added, in the letters between him and reinhard, a german diplomatist in the french service, possessed of many high and excellent qualities. these letters add another to the many illustrations of the rare completeness and universal accomplishments of goethe. the austrian military commander at buda pesth, in hungary, has forbidden the transmission of all pecuniary or other contributions to be sent to the london exhibition; and threatens the execution of martial law against all who infringe the decree. a tunnel under the neva, at st. petersburg, similar to that under the thames, has been projected by the emperor nicholas, who has directed plans for the work to be prepared by m. falconnet, a distinguished french engineer. the bridges of boats which connect the portions of the city lying on the two banks of the neva, are all withdrawn in anticipation of the freezing over of the stream, after which the only practicable communication is by the ice. before the ice has become firm, and while it is breaking up, the communication is difficult and hazardous. if the tunnel be practicable, it will therefore be a work of the highest utility. the russian government has prohibited the publication of translations of the modern french novels, in consequence of which the attention of the caterers for public taste, has been turned to the less exciting comestibles of the english novels. we see announced three separate translations into russian, of thackeray's vanity fair; jane eyre, the caxtons, maryatt's valérie, dombey and son, are also translated. spindler, whose "jew" has been pronounced the best historical romance of germany, has published a humorous novel, under the title of "putsch and company," which is highly praised. the neapolitan government has prohibited the circulation of humboldt's cosmos, shakspeare, goldsmith, heeren's historical treatises, ovid, lucian, lucretius, sophocles, suetonius, paul de kock, victor hugo, e. girardin, g. sand, lamartine, valéry's l'italie, goethe, schiller, thiers, a. dumas, molière, all the german philosophers, and henry stephens's greek dictionary. we happened not long since to have occasion to examine the prohibitory index of gregory xvi., issued in ; the names of the books prohibited in which reminded one of lists taken from the muster-rolls of michael and satan, only there were more from the former. among the forbidden books were grotius on the law of war and peace, bacon's advancement of learning, milton's areopagitica, and paradise lost, unless corrected. the paradise lost or lycidas, after having undergone the requisite inquisitorial corrections, would be a rare curiosity of literature. if italy does not degenerate into barbarism, it will not be for the want of the most strenuous endeavors of her rulers. one of the most beautiful alabaster vases in the vatican, possessing a historical interest, as being the one in which were deposited the ashes of the sons of germanicus, or as some say, those of augustus himself, has been recently destroyed by an accident. it stood upon a pedestal near a window which was burst open by a violent wind. the heavy curtains of the window were blown against the vase, dashing it to the floor, and shattering it into so many fragments that restoration is pronounced impossible. oersted, the celebrated chemist, the discoverer of electro-magnetism, has just completed the fiftieth year of his professorship in the royal university of copenhagen. on this anniversary the king of denmark presented him with the grand cross of the order of dannebrog. the university presented him with a new insignia of his doctor's degree, including a gold ring, bearing the head of minerva in cameo. and the citizens made him a present of the use for life of a beautiful villa in the outskirts of copenhagen, which was still more acceptable and valuable from having been the former residence of the poet oehlenschlager. oersted is nearly in his eightieth year; but his recently-published work, "the spirit in nature," evinces that he retains the full possession of his mental powers. the "passion-plays" or "mysteries," which were such favorites during the middle ages, have their sole remaining representative in the village of ammergau, in upper bavaria, where they are celebrated, every ten years, with great pomp and solemnity. in the year , a fearful pestilence fell upon that district, and the inhabitants made a solemn vow, that if it were removed, they would every ten years set forth a solemn representation of the "passion and death of the saviour." the pestilence ceased, and from that time the vow has been most religiously observed among that secluded and enthusiastic people. the representation consists of a series of tableaux representing the principal incidents in the closing scenes of the life of the saviour, which are given in a sort of amphitheatre, of which the stage is roofed over, the audience being exposed to those sudden storms common in all mountainous regions. the representation lasts some eight hours, and is witnessed by many thousands of spectators. the german and french papers contain long accounts of that which took place a few months since; and speak in high terms of the artistic character, and solemn and devotional effect of the whole performance. a life of ugo foscolo, an italian refugee in england, has appeared at florence. he is held up as a model and example to his countrymen. foscolo was undoubtedly a man of no inconsiderable genius and of great acquirements; but to form an idea of his moral characteristics, we must imagine a man with hobbes's theory of the identity of right with might and desire, without hobbes's blameless life; with byron's laxity of moral sentiment and conduct, without byron's generosity; with sheridan's reckless carelessness in respect to pecuniary affairs, without sheridan's cheerful and kindly disposition; with coleridge's want of mastery over his intellectual nature, without coleridge's high purposes and keen sense of duty; with johnson's rude and intolerable humor, without johnson's royal humanity. too proud, while in england, to repeat his lectures on italian literature, because he thought his audience came only to gaze at him, he was not too proud to receive pecuniary aid from those to whom he was already deeply indebted; or to squander in luxury and debauchery the little fortune of his own illegitimate daughter, left her by her maternal relations: a daughter whom he abandoned until this fortune was bequeathed her. if italy has only such saviours to look to, she will gain little by throwing off her present masters. the vicomte d'arlincourt publishes, under the title of "_l'italie rougé_," a history of the revolutions in rome, naples, palermo, florence, parma, modena, tuscany, piedmont, and lombardy, from the election of pius ix., in june, , to his return to rome in april, . the author visited italy to gather materials, and his work, which is drawn from authentic sources, brings to light many new facts, and striking traits in the characters of the principal actors in the affairs of italy. a statue in honor of the celebrated astronomer olbers has been erected in a public square at bremen. he was by profession a physician, and enjoyed a very extensive practice. his fame as an astronomer rests upon his discovery of some of the asteroids; the suggestion and confirmation of the theory that they are fragments of a shattered planet; and especially upon his method of calculating the orbits of comets, from the few observations of which they are susceptible. in was celebrated the "jubilee" of his having reached the fiftieth year of his doctorate, upon which occasion he was honored by all those tokens of respect which the germans are so fond of lavishing on such occasions. he died march , , at the age of . scandinavian literature is mainly known to the world, in general through the medium of german translators and critics. the names of oehlenschlager and andersen are sufficient evidence that it is not unworthy of cultivation. we find in the _grenzboten_ a notice of a new danish romance which though reminding one strongly of fouque's undine, has in its treatment something of the grim mirth, and gigantic humor of the old vikings. the tale is entitled the mermaid, and is founded upon the fancy of paracelsus, that the mermaids though created without a soul may acquire one by a union with a human being. this idea is developed with more drollery than delicacy in the tale in question. the mermaids instead of, as in the orthodox conception, terminating in a fish's tail, waddle about upon flat, clumsy feet, covered with scales. when a person is drowned, he is laid upon a table, in a condition bearing all the marks of death, except that he retains a perfect consciousness. if, however, a mermaid becomes enamored of him, he comes to life as a merman, and swims about in company with dolphins and such like sea-monsters; and if he desires to ascend to upper air, he can do so, by taking the body of some other drowned person. the hero of the romance is introduced as lying drowned upon the table, in company with two other corpses, that of a faithless woman and her betrothed. the jealousy of the dead man, and his doubts whether the other two corpses do not excite similar feelings, are set forth with broad humor. he however gains the affection of the queen of the sea, and so becomes a merman, while the other two bodies are left lying on the table, until two other mermen assume them for the purpose of paying a visit to _terra-firma_. the hero at last wishes to revisit upper air, and the body which he assumes happens to be that of a famous _bon-vivant_, by which he is brought into a number of embarrassing situations; he becomes betrothed to one who loves not his _new_ but his _old_ self, and thus is enamored of his one "_him_" while she despises his other. he meets the two persons who had been lying with him upon the table; yet it is not they, but the two mermen, who have taken possession of their bodies. this continual interpenetration of different souls and bodies, by which the personages are always forgetting their identity, has a very comic effect, which, however, is marred by the grave and sentimental tone which is given to the whole narrative. at last the hero, who is a sad scoundrel, succeeds in enticing his sea-queen ashore, where he exhibits her for money, as a sea-monster. obituaries. among the recent deaths we notice the following: gustav schwab, a german poet of some note, belonging to the school of uhland, aged fifty-eight. on the morning of the day of his death, he was entertaining a party of friends, by reading to them a translation he had just completed from the poems of lamartine.----count brandenburgh, the prussian minister. he was an illegitimate son of the grandfather of the present king of prussia, born in . he was educated for the army, and passed through various stages of promotion, until , when he was appointed general in command of the th _corps d'armée_. the same year, when the cause of his master seemed irretrievably lost in the revolutionary storm, he took the helm of government, and under his guidance the storm was weathered. his death was probably occasioned by chagrin at the result of the warsaw conference, where austria gained a complete triumph over prussia.----m. alexandre, a famous french chess-player, and author of two volumes upon that game, at an advanced age.----m. sauve, for more than half a century chief editor of the _moniteur_. he assumed the charge of the french official paper in , and left it only when compelled by the infirmities of age, after the revolution of february. during this long period he acted as sponsor to all the governments which arose one after the other, with a dexterity and pliability which talleyrand might have envied.----general bonnemain, ex-peer and marshal of france, who had served through all the campaigns of the empire and the republic.----sir lumley st. george skeffington, author of a number of dramatic works of considerable merit.----mr. raphall, one of the two catholic members of parliament who voted against the jewish claims. he was a man of great wealth, and is said to have given within the last few years £ , for the building purposes of the church. he was of armenian descent, a singular instance of a person of oriental extraction rising to eminence in the occident.----m. charles motteley, one of the most enthusiastic and successful book-collectors of france. his collection was especially rich in elzevir editions, and in rare and beautiful books. a very large sum was offered for it by the british museum, but he refused to suffer it to leave france, and gave it to the french nation. the collection is to be kept separate, and to bear an inscription commemorative of the donor.----lord nugent, member of the house of commons for aylesbury. he had occupied a number of political stations of importance, and was throughout his life a firm advocate of liberal principles. the greek revolution of , found in him a warm supporter; and he did much to ameliorate the condition of the refugees whom the issue of the war in hungary threw upon the shores of england. lord nugent was an author of no mean reputation; his "memorials of hampden" is an exceedingly well-written, and in the main accurate and impartial biography of the great commoner, and elicited one of the most brilliant of macauley's early reviews. he was also the author of a book of eastern travels, entitled "lands sacred and classical," and a number of political pamphlets on the liberal side.----karl aug. espe, one of the most laborious of the hard-working scholars of germany. he was the editor of brockhaus's conversations-lexicon of the present, and of the eighth and ninth editions of the conversations-lexicon, as well as of works of decided merit in various departments of science.----martin d'auche, the last survivor of the french national assembly of . though one of the most insignificant of men, the part he acted in the "oath of the tennis-court," one of the most famous scenes of the early part of french revolution, has given him a place in history. the government, alarmed at the boldness of the deputies of the third estate in declaring themselves the national assembly, independent of the other orders, and proposing to effect radical and sweeping reforms in the state, excluded them from their chamber. the deputies assembled in an empty tennis-court, in great excitement, where an oath was solemnly proposed that they would not separate, but would meet, at all hazards, until they had formed the constitution. the oath was taken unanimously, with but one exception, that of poor martin d'auche, then deputy from castelnaudry. there was at first some danger to his person, in the excitement of the moment; but it was hinted that he was not altogether in his right mind, and he escaped, being even suffered to inscribe some sort of a protest on the records. in david's picture of the scene he is represented with folded arms, amid the groups who are taking the oath by raising the right hand. this oath of the tennis-court, the first actual collision between royalty and the national assembly, may be looked upon as the starting-point of the revolution. literary notices. _memoirs of the life and times of general john lamb_, by isaac q. leake (published by j. munsell, albany), is an interesting narrative of the political and military life of one of the revolutionary patriots of new york, who died at the commencement of the present century. his active services in the war of the revolution, and his eminent position in the subsequent party controversies, are described with impartiality and force. his character is succinctly portrayed by his biographer in the following passage: "few men have acted more manfully the parts which have been allotted to them. as a pioneer of the great events which wrought out the revolution, he was second to none in perseverance and intrepidity. as a soldier in the field, he was never surpassed in valor and constancy by any the most daring. as a citizen, neighbor, and philanthropist, he was distinguished for his public spirit; respected for his suavity; and admired for his benevolence." _the memoir and writings of james handasyd perkins_, edited by william henry channing, published in two volumes by crosby and nichols, boston, is an enthusiastic tribute to the memory of a remarkable man, who, by the simplicity, earnestness, and benevolence of his character, the originality and beauty of his intellect, and the devotion of his life to practical philanthropy, had won an unusual share of admiration and reverence. mr. perkins was born in boston, where his father was a merchant of distinguished eminence, but, on arriving at the age of early manhood, he removed to the city of cincinnati, and from that time became a favorite with all classes, and soon bore a conspicuous part in the social, religious, and literary relations of that metropolis. the sketch of his juvenile life here presented by his biographer, with whom he was intimately connected, both by the ties of blood, and by strong intellectual affinities, abounds with pleasing reminiscences of a happy childhood, and is highly characteristic of the peculiar influences of a new-england home. his subsequent career at the west exhibits a noble picture of manly endeavor, stern self-reliance, rare mental activity and enterprise, and a generous devotion to the interests of the public. from the specimens of his writings contained in these volumes, most of which have been published in different periodicals, we are impressed with a profound sense of the vigor and justness of his intellect, the wealth of his imagination, the versatility of his tastes, and the extent and accuracy of his attainments. crosby and nichols have issued an edition of selections from the _letters of william von humboldt to a female friend_, under the title of _religious thoughts and opinions_. they are devoted to subjects of a grave, reflective character, and present a highly favorable view of the wisdom, earnestness, and moral elevation of the distinguished author. _protestantism and catholicity compared in their effects on the civilization of europe_, by the rev. j. balmes, is republished from the english translation, by john murphy and co., baltimore, in a large octavo volume. the work, which has signalized the name of its author as one of the ablest modern defenders of the catholic faith, was originally written in spanish, and was soon translated into the french, italian, and english languages. it is devoted to an illustration of the superior influence of catholicism in a social and political point of view, maintaining the favorable effects of that religion on social advancement, and subjecting the claims of protestantism to a stringent examination. as a powerful statement of the arguments in behalf of the secular supremacy of catholicism, it may be read with interest by those who wish to study both sides of the controversy, which is now raging with so much violence in england. _university education_, by henry p. tappan, d.d. (published by g.p. putnam), is a discussion of the general theory and objects of the higher education, of the history of literary institutions in modern times, and of the present condition of the so-called american universities. the author arrives at the conclusion, that the attempt to adapt our colleges to the temper of the multitude, to the supposed demands of the popular mind, does not promise any valuable results, since the political condition of the country is such that a high education, and a high order of talent do not generally form the sure guarantees of success. the tact of the demagogue triumphs over the accomplishments of the scholar and the man of genius. the education given in our colleges does not promote the acquisition of wealth and of political influence, and hence is not valued by a commercial people, with free political institutions. dr. tappan accordingly maintains that as our seats of learning do not answer to the commercial and political spirit of the country, they should be made to correspond to the philosophical or ideal--the architectonic conception of education. this would adapt them to every want of the human mind and of society, for if men are educated as men, they will be prepared for all the responsibilities and duties of men. we should then in due time have great examples of the true form of humanity, showing the charms, and power, and dignity of learning. education would appear in its true light, as the highest aim of man, not a mere machine for the facile performance of the business of the world, and a powerful check would be given to the excessive commercial spirit, and the selfish manoeuvres of demagogues which now prevail to such a disastrous extent. men of true cultivation would then have their legitimate influence in all the relations of society, throwing a new aspect over the arts, commerce, and politics, and producing a high-minded patriotism and philanthropy. great ideas of fundamental principles would be shown to be more mighty and plastic than all the arts, tact, and accomplishments of expediency. the host of penny-a-liners, stump orators, discoursers upon socialism, bigots, and partisans would give way before sound writers, true poets, lofty and truthful orators, and profound philosophers, theologians, and statesmen. we should have a pure national literature, and a proud national character. the multiplication of colleges after the same imperfect model will only serve to increase our difficulties. the time has arrived, then, in the opinion of the author, for an experiment of a different kind. the educational system of this country can be reformed only by the establishment of genuine universities--institutions, where in libraries, cabinets, apparatus, and professors, provision is made for a complete and generous course of study--where the mind may be cultivated according to its wants--and where in the lofty enthusiasm of ripening scholarship, the bauble of an academical diploma is forgotten. with such institutions, those who wish to be scholars, would have some place to resort to, and those who have already the gifts of scholarship would have some place where to exercise them. the public would then begin to comprehend what scholarship means, and discern the difference between sciolists and men of learning. we should hear no more talk about discarding greek and latin, for there would be classical scholars to show the value of the immortal languages and the immortal writings of the most cultivated nations of antiquity. there would be mathematicians prepared for astronomers and engineers. there would be philosophers who could discourse without textbooks. no acute distinctions would be drawn between scholastic and practical education; it would be seen that all true education is practical, and that practice without education is ignoble; and scholarship and the scholar would be clothed with dignity, grace, and a resistless charm. the work of founding universities of this character, dr. tappan maintains, has been delayed too long. they are natural and necessary institutions in a great system of public education. to postpone their creation is to stop the hand upon the dial-plate which represents the progress of humanity. no part of our country, he supposes, presents equal facilities for carrying out this magnificent plan as the city of new york. the metropolitan city of america, the centre of commercial activity, the vast reservoir of wealth, it takes the lead in the elegancies and splendor of life in the arts of luxury and amusement. at the same time, it is the great emporium of books and of the fine arts, the resort of musical professors, artists, and men of letters. the high degree to which it has carried commercial enterprise, the extent of wealth and luxury in its society demand the vigorous life, and the counterbalancing power of intellectual cultivation. it should add to the natural attractions of a metropolitan city, the attractions of literature, science, and the arts, as embodied in a great university, which drawing together students from every part of the union, would strengthen the bonds of our nationality by the loftiest form of education, the sympathy of scholars, and the noblest productions of literature. while we can not accord with dr. tappan's sanguine expectations of the effect of such an institution as he has described either in checking the prevalence of worldliness, selfish ambition, and insane devotion to gain which mark the whole of modern society, european no less than american, or in giving a wise and harmonious development to the energies of youthful genius, we can not but admire the noble enthusiasm, the high sense of the scholar's vocation, and the genuine intellectual ability with which he has presented the subject to the attention of the public. he has opened an important field of discussion; but it demands the best thoughts of the most comprehensive and sagacious minds to do it justice. we hope that his treatise will not be overlooked in the swarm of current publications, and that the subject, which he has started, with so much energy, will be pursued to its legitimate conclusion. _the bards of the bible_, by george gilfillan, republished by harper and brothers, exhibits the characteristics of fervor, liveliness of fancy, and affluence of illustration, which distinguish the writings of the author, with a greater coherence and depth of thought than we find in his literary portraitures. in the first chapters of the volume, the author discusses the general character of hebrew poetry, making free use of the views of herder, eichhorn, and ewald, though without servilely following their steps, and then considers in detail the poetry of the pentateuch, of the book of job, of the historical books, of the book of psalms, of solomon, of the prophetic writings, and of the new testament. he approaches the sacred volume with freedom, and yet with reverence, blending the spirit of searching criticism, with a warm enthusiasm for its inspiration and character. without attempting to cast doubt upon its superhuman aspects, he dwells with affectionate ardor on its traits of domestic tenderness, of natural beauty, and of poetical imagination, connecting the sublime and awful conception of the oriental bards with whatever is richest and most impressive in the associations of modern experience. the union of devotional sentiment and poetic fancy, which forms such a prominent feature in this gorgeous volume, will recommend it to the lovers of holy writ as well as to readers of cultivated taste. no one will hesitate to forgive mr. gilfillan's exuberance of imagination and his not unfrequent indulgence in verbosity, for the sake of his earnestness of heart, and his glowing and often graceful eloquence. _webster's revised dictionary. octavo edition._ (harper and brothers.) it is now three years since the revised edition of dr. webster's dictionary came from the press. the public have, therefore, had full time to decide upon its merits; and the decision has been, both in this country and great britain, that it is far superior to any work of the kind in our language; that it is, in the words of a distinguished english scholar, "one of the necessaries of life to a literary man." the _octavo_ edition, the one now before us, is designed to present, in a convenient form and at a low price, the most important matter of the larger work. it omits the more learned etymologies and extended quotations from other works; but gives _every word_ and _every shade of meaning_ with exactness, though often in a more condensed form. it is thus much fuller, in proportion, than any other abridgment of a dictionary. there are two peculiarities of the octavo edition which belong neither to the large work, nor to any other dictionary. the first is a synopsis of words differently pronounced by different orthoepists. this presents at a single view all the disputed cases of pronunciation in our language; with the decision of distinguished orthoepists, in respect to every word of doubtful pronunciation, the reader is referred to a list where he may consult all the important authorities at a single glance. the other peculiarity relates to _synonyms_. our language being derived from so many different sources, is singularly rich in synonymous words. it is therefore a matter of lively interest to every one who would write well, to have some great repository of synonyms always at hand, to which he may repair at any moment, when he wishes to convey his ideas with peculiar exactness of meaning or variety of expression. a dictionary is the natural and appropriate place for such a collection. accordingly in the revised _octavo_ edition after the definitions of each important word, we find a list of all the other words in our language which have the same _general_ sense and application. the volume contains many thousand lists of this kind which must obviously have cost great labor in their compilation. the costly work of perry is the only one which has ever been executed on this plan, and as this contains only the words given in johnson, it is necessarily incomplete. we quote a single instance which may stand for hundreds and which shows the remarkable copiousness of our language. "to support. _syn._--to bear; hold up; sustain; maintain; endure; verify; substantiate; countenance; patronize; help; back; second; uphold; succor; relieve; encourage; favor; nurture; nourish; cherish; shield; defend; protect; stay; assist; forward." besides the dictionary proper, the octavo edition contains walker's key to the pronunciation of classical and scripture names, with some thousands of additional words from later writers; and a vocabulary of modern geographical names, with their pronunciation, compiled by the author of baldwin's universal gazetteer, whose accuracy in this respect is so generally acknowledged. it is a gratifying proof of the advancement of the art of printing, in the united states, that a large royal octavo volume like this, of more than _thirteen hundred_ pages, can be afforded on excellent paper, with a clear type, and in stout binding, for about three dollars. an abridgment of dr. webster's dictionary has recently been issued in london, in a miserable style of execution, the definitions being not more than half as complete as those of the volume before us, without the synopsis and synonyms or other appendages of this work; and is sold at _four_ dollars a copy. _celebrated saloons_ by _madame gay_ and _parisian letters_ by _madame girardin_, translated from the french by l. willard (boston, crosby and nichols) is an agreeable collection of gossip and anecdotes illustrative of the manners of parisian society. the translation is executed with care, retaining to a considerable extent the graces of the original. james munroe and co., boston, have issued a volume of _home ballads, a book for new englanders_, by abby allin, exhibiting a more than ordinary degree of poetic merit, pervaded with a pleasing vein of domestic sentiment. some of the peculiar features of new england character and scenery are hit off with excellent success. _history of my pets_, by grace greenwood (boston, ticknor and co.) is a spirited and beautiful little volume intended for juvenile entertainment, but commending itself by the freshness of its style, and the sweet pathos of the narrative to readers of every age. _the island world of the pacific_, by rev. henry t. cheever, published by harper and brothers, is a work that can not fail to command an extensive circulation, with the present important relations between the sandwich islands and the united states. it is designed to present a correct picture of the best part of polynesia, as it appeared to the observer in the year . the most popular works on the subject refer to a much earlier date, while changes are effected with such rapidity in that part of polynesia which is the subject of this volume, that revolutions may take place in the lapse of seven years. this book, accordingly, meets a general want of the times, by giving a true and life-like exhibition of the island world of the pacific at the close of the first half of the nineteenth century. the author writes from personal observation: his sketches are forcible and impressive; he has a lively sense of the picturesque in nature, and sometimes indulges his taste for the comic; though more frequently he fortifies his descriptions with moral reflections and extracts from favorite poets, until the reader is tempted to cry, "hold! enough!" we know not, however, where to look for information on the subject in a more readable form, and have no doubt that this volume will be eagerly sought by the traveler to the pacific, as well as by the general reader. _memoirs of the life and ministry of the rev. john summerfield_, by john holland, has been published in an abridged form by the american tract society, containing the original memoir, with the omission of certain parts which seemed to be of less general interest, and the insertion of several of the most characteristic letters of summerfield. in its present shape, it is a delightful tribute to the rare and beautiful character of its greatly beloved subject. the _greek exile_ (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.) is an autobiographical narrative of the captivity and escape of christophorus pilato castanis, during the massacre on the island of scio by the turks, with an account of various adventures in greece and america. it relates a variety of startling incidents, with which the life of the author has been strangely diversified. _the prize essay on the use and abuse of alcoholic liquors_, by william b. carpenter, has been reprinted from the london edition by crosby and nichols, for the massachusetts temperance society. it is accompanied with explanatory notes by the american editor, and an original preface by john c. warren, m.d., of boston, who expresses the opinion that the "work of dr. carpenter is the most valuable contribution to the aid of temperance which it has received since the productions of l.m. sargent, esq." _the mother's recompense_, published by harper and brothers, is the sequel to the domestic story of _home influence_, by grace aguilar, the entire work having been written nearly fifteen years ago, when its author was little above the age of nineteen. although the last illness of grace aguilar prevented this story from receiving a careful revision for the press, it will be found to do no discredit to her refined and elevated genius, and to breathe the same pure, kindly, and feminine spirit which distinguishes her former productions. _the diosma_, by miss h.f. gould (boston, philips, samson, and co.), is the title of a new volume, consisting in part of original poems, which are now for the first time presented to the public, and in part, of selections from the fugitive pieces of several popular english writers. the contributions from the pen of the author fully sustain her reputation for a lively fancy, and a certain graceful ease of expression, while the gatherings she has made from other sources attest the purity of her taste, and her magnetic affinities with the delicate and the lovely. g.p. putnam has issued an elegant illustrated edition of _poems_, by s.g. goodrich, comprising a selection from the productions of the author, which have made him favorably known to the public as an agreeable versifier. they are characterized by a lively fancy, a ready command of poetical language, and the elevation of their moral sentiments. the embellishments of the volume are executed with great artistic skill. _woodbury's new method of learning the german language_ (published by mark h. newman), is an admirable manual for german students, combining the excellencies of a simple text-book for beginners, and a copious and authentic work of reference for more advanced pupils. in its method, it is not surpassed by any grammar now in use, blending the theoretical with the practical, with excellent judgment, and passing from the rudiments of the language to its more recondite principles, by a natural gradation, eminently adapted to secure the progress of the learner. it has already been extensively adopted by judicious teachers, and its general introduction would tend to facilitate the acquisition of the german language by american students. _poems of sentiment and imagination_, by frances a. and metta v. fuller (published by a.s. barnes and co.), is a collection of the poetical contributions of those favorite western writers to various popular journals, with several pieces that have not before appeared in print. genial, fervent, and tender, colored with the picturesque hues of a pure enthusiasm, and breathing a warm spirit of domestic affection, these poems appeal to the noblest emotions of the heart, and command admiration by awakening the sympathies. we welcome them as the first fruits of a noble harvest at no distant day. _the lives of the queens of scotland_, by agnes strickland, vol. i. (harper and brothers), contains the biographies of margaret tudor, the consort of james iv. of scotland, and of magdalene of france, the first consort of james v., prepared from the most authentic documents, and written in a style of chaste and simple elegance, appropriate to the subject. the two succeeding volumes of this series will be devoted to the life of mary stuart, which was commenced before the publication of the life of elizabeth tudor, in the _queens of england_. each of the lives will form a distinct narrative in itself, presenting a graphic picture of the progress of civilization and refinement, the development of the arts, and the costume of the periods which they describe. the work will embody many original royal letters, with a variety of facts, anecdotes, and local traditions, gathered in the desolate palaces and historic scenes, where every peasant preserves in his memory the chronicles of the past. the author expresses the wish that her volume will not be limited to one class of society, in spite of the subject of which it treats, but that it may impart pleasure to the simple as well as to the refined, and be read with equal zest by children and parents, by the intelligent operative and the cultivated scholar. the manner in which she has executed her task leaves no doubt of the fulfillment of her hope. the last number of thackeray's _history of pendennis_ is issued by harper and brothers, an announcement far from welcome to the thousands who have followed the career of the exemplary pen and his associates through the manifold windings of fashionable life in london. their history, however, is not of so ephemeral a character as the scenes in which they acted. thackeray has too great skill in quietly depicting the foibles of humanity, for his descriptions to be soon forgotten. he deals out such effective touches with such grave retenue of manner, that they do not weary the reader by their repetition. their fidelity to life is attested by their at once suggesting so many resemblances. arthur pendennis and the virtuous major are not the exclusive products of english soil. you may see them in broadway at any hour of the day. with his universality, growing from the fact that his likenesses are drawn from nature, and not arbitrarily created, the pungent satires of thackeray will long retain their flavor. they administer a bracing medicine to the effeminacy of the age, and must exert a wholesome influence. harper and brothers have issued the last number of southey's _life and correspondence_, winding up the biography of this eminent man of letters, with the graceful modesty which has been exercised throughout the whole progress of the work by the affectionate and judicious editor. with the ample materials at his command, he might have produced a far more ambitious and brilliant history, but we think he has shown his good sense in reserving that task for writers who sustained a less intimate and delicate relation to the subject. the personal biography of southey is contained, to a great extent, in his frank and voluminous correspondence. no one can read this without delight, on account of the transparent sincerity of the details, the high tone of feeling with which it is pervaded, and the inimitable sweetness and almost antique simplicity of the style. it gives a more distinct idea of the essential peculiarities of southey's character than can be obtained from any other source. a critical survey of his writings, and his social and literary position, would involve a complete history of contemporary literature, and would furnish a text for one of the most delightful volumes which have appeared for many years. such an attractive subject will no doubt appeal to the ambition of some writer qualified to do it justice, and meantime, we are grateful for this tribute of filial veneration to the honored patriarch of english literature. _the decline of popery and its causes_ (published by harper and brothers), is the title of a discourse delivered in the broadway tabernacle by rev. n. murray, d.d., in which the history of the roman catholic religion is briefly portrayed, and several arguments adduced to show its probable decadence among enlightened nations. among the causes of the decline of catholicism presented by dr. murray, are the circulation of the bible, the increasing intelligence of the race, the frivolous legends of the priests, the despotic character of popery, and the rapidly increasing influence of protestantism. the discourse evinces extensive historical research, and uncommon controversial shrewdness. _henry smeaton_, by g.p.r. james (harper and brothers), is the latest production of that fertile novelist, and will be read with fresh interest by the numerous admirers of his genius, who have recently added the pleasure of his genial acquaintanceship to the charm of his graphic creations. the scene of this novel is laid in the reign of george the first, and abounds with rich historical illustrations, and glowing delineations of character. the plot, without outraging probability by its extravagance, is constructed with a good deal of ingenuity, and sustains the interest of the most hardened novel-reader through its spirited details to the final happy denouement. a leaf from punch. [illustration: _sharp (but vulgar) little boy._ "hallo, missus, wot are those?" _old woman._ "twopence." _boy._ "what a lie! they're apples." [_exit, whistling popular air._] ] [illustration: a tete-a-tete.] [illustration: expected out soon.] [illustration: going down to a watering place.] [illustration: attraction.] [illustration: th cen'try.] [illustration: putting the cart before the horse.] [illustration: a narrow escape.] [illustration: division of labor.] [illustration: animal economy.] [illustration: a holiday at the public offices.] fashions for later winter. [illustration: fig. .--carriage and morning costumes.] the continuance of cold weather throughout this month will permit no change in material for out-of-door costume differing in warmth from december and january. cloaks of various elegant patterns and rich material are worn; chiefly velvet, with elegant ornaments. the most admired style for a cloak is black velvet, having three rich _agraffes_, or fastenings, of _passementerie_, drooping with long, graceful, soft-looking tassels; the first _agraffe_ closes the cloak at the throat; the second is put on at about the middle, and the third at the lower part. five rows of chain lace black satin, border the cloak all around, as well as the sleeves. another elegant style is a cloak of _narcarat_ velvet, a kind of deep red, lined with white satin, quilted in flowers and leaves, and encircled with a band of martin sable of considerable depth; a cape, or _stole_, of the same kind of fur descends upon the side of the front so as to join the lower band. there is also upon the sleeves, which are cut square and very wide, a deep band. those of a more matronly description are generally trimmed with nine rows of waved _galons_ upon the sleeves, the fronts being encircled with five rows of the same kind of trimming; a rich fringe a quarter of a yard in depth, having a netted or waved beading, is placed in addition to the rows of _galon_ upon the lower part of the cloak. the manteau andriana is an elegant garment, made of violet velvet, having a small _capuchon_, or hood, decorated with a rich fancy trimming in _passementerie_, to which are attached at regular distances long soft tassels; very wide sleeves, in the oriental form, decorated to match the _capuchon_. the lower part of the cloak is ornamented with a kind of shell work in _passementerie_; upon the front are placed _brandebourgs_ in spanish points. the figure on the left in fig. , shows an elegant style of carriage costume. a dress of blue silk; plain high body; the waist and point of a moderate length; the skirt long and full, with two broad flounces pinked at the edge. _paletot_ of dark purple velvet, trimmed with black lace; the sleeves very wide at the bottom, and finished by a fall of broad black lace, set on very full. the skirt has two rows of lace at the back, terminating at the side seam, the top one headed by a trimming of narrow lace. the fronts are ornamented in their whole length by rows of trimming of black lace, placed at equal distances. bonnet of yellow satin and black velvet; the form of the front round, the corners nearly meeting under the chin. the figure on the right, figure , shows a beautiful style of morning costume--a _jupe_ of french gray watered silk, long and immensely full. _coin de feu_ of dark green velvet, fitting tight, and buttoning to the throat. it has a small square collar, something like that of a riding habit, and a full frill of narrow lace standing up. the sleeves are of the pagoda form; the trimming is a very rich silk _guimpe_, of quite a novel design. under-sleeves of cambric or lace, with two scalloped falls, and fulled at the wrist. [illustration: fig. .--ball costume.] figure exhibits an elegant ball costume. a low dress of white crape, worn over a _jupe_ of white satin; the body plain; a deep _berthe_ falling over the plain short sleeve, embroidered with white floss silk. the skirt is very full. it has three broad flounces, scalloped at the edge, and embroidered _ceinture_ of very broad white satin ribbon. the head-dress is of pale blue satin, trimmed with gold. the taste, this winter, among the extremely fashionable is decidedly for gorgeous oriental patterns, both in material and style. a very pretty pattern for an evening dress is made of a material called _organdi_. a double _jupe_ is embroidered in straw-colored silk. the pattern of the embroidery forms upon the upper skirt sheaves of wheat, and ascends to the waist; upon the under skirt the sheaves form a wreath of much smaller pattern, allowing a space between this row of embroidery and that on the upper skirts. the body is decorated with a _berthe_, which forms in front a kind of heart, the lower part or point being attached with a _noeud_ of straw-colored satin ribbon. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] bonnets.--those which are most worn this season are extremely open in front, as seen in figure , but close at the ears. they are moderately trimmed, consisting of _rûches_ of lace, leaves and flowers of velvet, _noeuds_ of ribbon and velvet, and feathers. the interior is sometimes decorated in a fanciful manner, having _garnitures_ composed of _choux_, or a bunch of ribbons of the same color as the bonnet, only in different shades: for example, a _chou_ of green ribbon composed of the lightest shades, the bonnet of a very dark green. most of the crowns are made of the _jockey_ form, that is, round, but not plain, being generally covered with folds or fullings, according to the fancy and taste of the _modiste_. the curtain is now an important part of the bonnet, and requires great care in the placing, as it gives a very youthful appearance to the bonnet, if properly put on. head-dresses are now extremely rich and tasty in their appearance. figure shows a pretty style of _coiffure_ for a miss, in a ball costume, the flowers being natural, if possible. some of the latest novelties for head-dresses are those composed of gold ribbon, or silver and silk intermixed, the colors being of the finest character. some are formed of long velvet leaves in shaded green, pink, and white; while others, of a _grenat_ color, are sable and gold. several pretty little head-dresses for home costume have appeared, composed entirely of shaded ribbon-velvets, or a square net-work of various colors, which have a novel and picturesque appearance. fashionable colors are dark, rich, and full, such as _grenat_, _narcarat_, dark green, reddish brown, violet, and a reddish gray; while white, amber, purple, and pink predominate for evening dresses. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. captions added to captionless illustrations. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "playthings" and "play-things"); - accents (e.g. "níagara" and "niagara"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "burned" and "burnt"). pg , word "of" added (a work of great interest). file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine no. xxvi.--july, .--vol. v. [illustration: general view.] the armory at springfield by jacob abbott springfield. the connecticut river flows through the state of massachusetts, from north to south, on a line about half way between the middle of the state and its western boundary. the valley through which the river flows, which perhaps the stream itself has formed, is broad and fertile, and it presents, in the summer months of the year, one widely extended scene of inexpressible verdure and beauty. the river meanders through a region of broad and luxuriant meadows which are overflowed and enriched by an annual inundation. these meadows extend sometimes for miles on either side of the stream, and are adorned here and there with rural villages, built wherever there is a little elevation of land--sufficient to render human habitations secure. the broad and beautiful valley is bounded on either hand by an elevated and undulating country, with streams, mills, farms, villages, forests, and now and then a towering mountain, to vary and embellish the landscape. in some cases a sort of spur or projection from the upland country projects into the valley, forming a mountain summit there, from which the most magnificent views are obtained of the beauty and fertility of the surrounding scene. there are three principal towns upon the banks of the connecticut within the massachusetts lines: greenfield on the north--where the river enters into massachusetts from between new hampshire and vermont--northampton at the centre, and springfield on the south. these towns are all built at points where the upland approaches near to the river. thus at springfield the land rises by a gentle ascent from near the bank of the stream to a spacious and beautiful plain which overlooks the valley. the town is built upon this declivity. it is so enveloped in trees that from a distance it appears simply like a grove with cupolas and spires rising above the masses of forest foliage; but to one within it, it presents every where most enchanting pictures of rural elegance and beauty. the streets are avenues of trees. the houses are surrounded by gardens, and so enveloped in shrubbery that in many cases they reveal themselves to the passer-by only by the glimpse that he obtains of a colonnade or a piazza, through some little vista which opens for a moment and then closes again as he passes along. at one point, in ascending from the river to the plain above, the tourist stops involuntarily to admire the view which opens on either side, along a winding and beautiful street which here crosses his way. it is called chestnut-street on the right hand, and maple-street on the left--the two portions receiving their several names from the trees with which they are respectively adorned. the branches of the trees meet in a dense and unbroken mass of foliage over the middle of the street, and the sidewalk presents very precisely the appearance and expression of an alley in the gardens of versailles. the armory grounds. on reaching the summit of the ascent, the visitor finds himself upon an extended plain, with streets of beautiful rural residences on every hand, and in the centre a vast public square occupied and surrounded by the buildings of the armory. these buildings are spacious and elegant in their construction, and are arranged in a very picturesque and symmetrical manner within the square, and along the streets that surround it. the grounds are shaded with trees; the dwellings are adorned with gardens and shrubbery. broad and neatly-kept walks, some graveled, others paved, extend across the green or along the line of the buildings, opening charming vistas in every direction. all is quiet and still. here and there a solitary pedestrian is seen moving at a distance upon the sidewalk, or disappearing among the trees at the end of an avenue; and perhaps the carriage of some party of strangers stands waiting at a gate. the visitor who comes upon this scene on a calm summer morning, is enchanted by the rural beauty that surrounds him, and by the air of silence and repose which reigns over it all. he hears the distant barking of a dog, the voices of children at play, or the subdued thundering of the railway-train crossing the river over its wooden viaduct, far down the valley--and other similar rural sounds coming from a distance through the calm morning air--but all around him and near him is still. can it be possible, he asks, that such a scene of tranquillity and loveliness can be the outward form and embodiment of a vast machinery incessantly employed in the production of engines of carnage and death? it is, however, after all, perhaps scarcely proper to call the arms that are manufactured by the american government, and stored in their various arsenals, as engines of carnage and destruction. they ought, perhaps, to be considered rather as instruments of security and peace; for their destination is, as it would seem, not to be employed in active service in the performance of the function for which they are so carefully prepared; but to be consigned, when once finished, to eternal quiescence and repose. they protect by their existence, and not by their action; but in order that this, their simple existence, should be efficient as protection, it is necessary that the instruments themselves should be fitted for their work in the surest and most perfect manner. and thus we have the very singular and extraordinary operation going on, of manufacturing with the greatest care, and with the highest possible degree of scientific and mechanical skill, a vast system of machinery, which, when completed, all parties concerned most sincerely hope and believe will, in a great majority of cases, remain in their depositories undisturbed forever. they fulfill their vast function by their simple existence--and thus, though in the highest degree useful, are never to be used. the buildings. the general appearance of the buildings of the armory is represented in the engraving placed at the head of this article. the point from which the view is taken, is on the eastern side of the square--that is, the side most remote from the town. the level and extended landscape seen in the distance, over the tops of the buildings, is the connecticut valley--the town of springfield lying concealed on the slope of the hill, between the buildings and the river. the river itself, too, is concealed from view at this point by the masses of foliage which clothe its banks, and by the configuration of the land. the middle building in the foreground, marked by the cupola upon the top of it, is called the office. it contains the various counting-rooms necessary for transacting the general business of the armory, and is, as it were, the seat and centre of the power by which the whole machinery of the establishment is regulated. north and south of it, and in a line with it, are two shops, called the north and south filing shops, where, in the several stories, long ranges of workmen are found, each at his own bench, and before his own window, at work upon the special operation, whatever it may be, which is assigned to him. on the left of the picture is a building with the end toward the observer, two stories high in one part, and one story in the other part. the higher portion--which in the view is the portion nearest the observer--forms the stocking shop, as it is called; that is the shop where the stocks are made for the muskets, and fitted to the locks and barrels. the lower portion is the blacksmith's shop. the blacksmith's shop is filled with small forges, at which the parts of the lock are forged. beyond the blacksmith's shop, and in a line with it, and forming, together with the stocking shop and the blacksmith's shop, the northern side of the square, are several dwelling-houses, occupied as the quarters of certain officers of the armory. the residence of the commanding officer, however, is not among them. his house stands on the west side of the square, opposite to the end of the avenue which is seen opening directly before the observer in the view. it occupies a very delightful and commanding situation on the brow of the hill, having a view of the armory buildings and grounds upon one side, and overlooking the town and the valley of the connecticut on the other. a little to the south of the entrance to the commanding officer's house, stands a large edifice, called the new arsenal. it is the building with the large square tower--seen in the view in the middle distance, and near the centre of the picture. this building is used for the storage of the muskets during the interval that elapses from the finishing of them to the time when they are sent away to the various permanent arsenals established by government in different parts of the country, or issued to the troops. besides this new edifice there are two or three other buildings which are used for the storage of finished muskets, called the old arsenals. they stand in a line on the south side of the square, and may be seen on the left hand, in the view. these buildings, all together, will contain about five hundred thousand muskets. the new arsenal, alone, is intended to contain three hundred thousand. the water shops. [illustration: the middle water shops.] such is the general arrangement of the arsenal buildings, "on the hill." but it is only the lighter work that is done here. the heavy operations, such as rolling, welding, grinding, &c., are all performed by water-power. the stream which the ordnance department of the united states has pressed into its service to do this work, is a rivulet that meanders through a winding and romantic valley, about half a mile south of the town. on this stream are three falls, situated at a distance perhaps of half a mile from each other. at each of these falls there is a dam, a bridge, and a group of shops. they are called respectively the upper, middle, and lower water shops. the valley in which these establishments are situated is extremely verdant and beautiful. the banks of the stream are adorned sometimes with green, grassy slopes, and sometimes with masses of shrubbery and foliage, descending to the water. the road winds gracefully from one point of view to another, opening at every turn some new and attractive prospect. the shops and all the hydraulic works are very neatly and very substantially constructed, and are kept in the most perfect order: so that the scene, as it presents itself to the party of visitors, as they ride slowly up or down the road in their carriage, or saunter along upon the banks of the stream on foot, forms a very attractive picture. the musket barrel. the fundamental, and altogether the most important operation in the manufacture of the musket, is the formation of the barrel; for it is obvious, that on the strength and perfection of the barrel, the whole value and efficiency of the weapon when completed depends. one would suppose, that the fabrication of so simple a thing as a plain and smooth hollow tube of iron, would be a very easy process; but the fact is, that so numerous are the obstacles and difficulties that are in the way, and so various are the faults, latent and open, into which the workman may allow his work to run, that the forming of the barrel is not only the most important, but by far the most difficult of the operations at the armory--one which requires the most constant vigilance and attention on the part of the workman, during the process of fabrication, and the application of multiplied tests to prove the accuracy and correctness of the work at every step of the progress of it, from beginning to end. the barrels are made from plates of iron, of suitable form and size, called _scalps_ or barrel plates. these scalps are a little more than two feet long, and about three inches wide. the barrel when completed, is about three feet six inches long, the additional length being gained by the elongating of the scalp under the hammer during the process of welding. the scalps are heated, and then rolled up over an iron rod, and the edges being lapped are welded together, so as to form a tube of the requisite dimensions--the solid rod serving to preserve the cavity within of the proper form. this welding of the barrels is performed at a building among the middle water shops. a range of tilt hammers extend up and down the room, with forges in the centre of the room, one opposite to each hammer, for heating the iron. the tilt hammers are driven by immense water-wheels, placed beneath the building--there being an arrangement of machinery by which each hammer may be connected with its moving power, or disconnected from it, at any moment, at the pleasure of the workman. underneath the hammer is an anvil. this anvil contains a die, the upper surface of which, as well as the under surface of a similar die inserted in the hammer, is formed with a semi-cylindrical groove, so that when the two surfaces come together a complete cylindrical cavity is formed, which is of the proper size to receive the barrel that is to be forged. the workman heats a small portion of his work in his forge, and then standing directly before the hammer, he places the barrel in its bed upon the anvil, and sets his hammer in motion, turning the barrel round and round continually under the blows. only a small portion of the seam is closed at one heat, _eleven_ heats being required to complete the work. to effect by this operation a perfect junction of the iron, in the overlapping portions, so that the substance of iron shall be continuous and homogeneous throughout, the same at the junction as in every other part, without any, the least, flaw, or seam, or crevice, open or concealed, requires not only great experience and skill, but also most unremitting and constant attention during the performance of the work. should there be any such flaw, however deeply it may be concealed, and however completely all indications of it may be smoothed over and covered up by a superficial finishing, it is sure to be exposed at last, to the mortification and loss of the workman, in the form of a great gaping rent, which is brought out from it under the inexorable severity of the test to which the work has finally to be subjected. [illustration: the welding room.] responsibility of the workmen. we say to the _loss_ as well as to the mortification of the workman, for it is a principle that pervades the whole administration of this establishment, though for special reasons the principle is somewhat modified in its application to the welder, as will hereafter be explained, that each workman bears the whole loss that is occasioned by the failure of his work to stand its trial, from whatever cause the failure may arise. as a general rule each workman stamps every piece of work that passes through his hands with his own mark--a mark made indelible too--so that even after the musket is finished, the history of its construction can be precisely traced, and every operation performed upon it, of whatever kind, can be carried home to the identical workman who performed it. the various parts thus marked are subject to very close inspection, and to very rigid tests, at different periods, and whenever any failure occurs, the person who is found to be responsible for it is charged with the loss. he loses not only his own pay for the work which he performed upon the piece in question, but for the whole value of the piece at the time that the defect is discovered. that is, he has not only to lose his own labor, but he must also pay for all the other labor expended upon the piece, which through the fault of his work becomes useless. for example, in the case of the barrel, there is a certain amount of labor expended upon the iron, to form it into scalps, before it comes into the welder's hands. then after it is welded it must be bored and turned, and subjected to some other minor operations before the strength of the welding can be proved. if now, under the test that is applied to prove this strength--a test which will be explained fully in the sequel--the work gives way, and if, on examination of the rent, it proves to have been caused by imperfection in the welding, and not by any original defect in the iron, the welder, according to the general principle which governs in this respect all the operations of the establishment, would have to lose not only the value of his own labor, in welding the barrel, but that of all the other operations which had been performed upon it, and which were rendered worthless by his agency. it is immaterial whether the misfortune in such cases is occasioned by accident, or carelessness, or want of skill. in either case the workman is responsible. this rule is somewhat relaxed in the case of the welder, on whom it would, perhaps, if rigidly enforced, bear somewhat too heavily. in fact many persons might regard it as a somewhat severe and rigid rule in any case--and it would, perhaps, very properly be so considered, were it not that this responsibility is taken into the account in fixing the rate of wages; and the workmen being abundantly able to sustain such a responsibility do not complain of it. the system operates on the whole in the most salutary manner, introducing, as it does, into every department of the armory, a spirit of attention, skill, and fidelity, which marks even the countenances and manners of the workmen, and is often noticed and spoken of by visitors. in fact none but workmen of a very high character for intelligence, capacity, and skill could gain admission to the armory--or if admitted could long maintain a footing there. the welders are charged one dollar for every barrel lost through the fault of their work. they earn, by welding, twelve cents for each barrel; so that by spoiling one, they lose the labor which they expend upon eight. being thus rigidly accountable for the perfection of their work, they find that their undivided attention is required while they are performing it; and, fortunately perhaps for them, there is nothing that can well divert their attention while they are engaged at their forges, for such is the incessant and intolerable clangor and din produced by the eighteen tilt hammers, which are continually breaking out in all parts of the room, into their sudden paroxysms of activity, that every thing like conversation in the apartment is almost utterly excluded. the blows of the hammers, when the white-hot iron is first passed under them and the pull of the lever sets them in motion, are inconceivably rapid, and the deafening noise which they make, and the showers of sparks which they scatter in every direction around, produce a scene which quite appalls many a lady visitor when she first enters upon it, and makes her shrink back at the door, as if she were coming into some imminent danger. the hammers strike more than six hundred blows in a minute, that is more than _ten in every second_; and the noise produced is a sort of rattling thunder, so overpowering when any of the hammers are in operation near to the observer, that the loudest vociferation uttered close to the ear, is wholly inaudible. some visitors linger long in the apartment, pleased with the splendor and impressiveness of the scene. others consider it frightful, and hasten away. finishing operations.--boring. from the middle water shops, where this welding is done, the barrels are conveyed to the upper shops, where the operations of turning, boring and grinding are performed. of course the barrel when first welded is left much larger in its outer circumference, and smaller in its bore, than it is intended to be when finished, in order to allow for the loss of metal in the various finishing operations. when it comes from the welder the barrel weighs over seven pounds: when completely finished it weighs but about four and a half pounds, so that nearly one half of the metal originally used, is cut away by the subsequent processes. the first of these processes is the boring out of the interior. the boring is performed in certain machines called boring banks. they consist of square and very solid frames of iron, in which, as in a bed, the barrel is fixed, and there is bored out by a succession of operations performed by means of certain tools which are called augers, though they bear very little resemblance to the carpenter's instrument so named. these augers are short square bars of steel, highly polished, and sharp at the edges--and placed at the ends of long iron rods, so that they may pass entirely through the barrel to be bored by them, from end to end. the boring parts of these instruments, though they are in appearance only plain bars of steel with straight and parallel sides, are really somewhat smaller at the outer than at the inner end, so that, speaking mathematically, they are truncated pyramids, of four sides, though differing very slightly in the diameters of the lower and upper sections. the barrels being fixed in the boring bank, as above described, the end of the shank of the auger is inserted into the centre of a wheel placed at one end of the bank, where, by means of machinery, a slow rotary motion is given to the auger, and a still slower progressive motion at the same time. by this means the auger gradually enters the hollow of the barrel, boring its way, or rather enlarging its way by its boring, as it advances. after it has passed through it is withdrawn, and another auger, a very little larger than the first is substituted in its place; and thus the calibre of the barrel is gradually enlarged, _almost_ to the required dimensions. almost, but not quite; for in the course of the various operations which are subsequent to the boring, the form of the interior of the work is liable to be slightly disturbed, and this makes it necessary to reserve a portion of the surplus metal within, for a final operation. in fact the borings to which the barrel are subject, alternate in more instances than one with other operations, the whole forming a system far too nice and complicated to be described fully within the limits to which we are necessarily confined in such an article as this. it is a general principle however that the inside work is kept always in advance of the outside, as it is the custom with all machinists and turners to adopt the rule that is so indispensable and excellent in morals, namely, to make all right first within, and then to attend to the exterior. thus in the case of the musket barrel the bore is first made correct. then the outer surface of the work is turned and ground down to a correspondence with it. the reverse of this process, that is first shaping the outside of it, and then boring it out within, so as to make the inner and outer surfaces to correspond, and the metal every where to be of equal thickness, would be all but impossible. turning. after the boring, then, of the barrel, comes the turning of the outside of it. the piece is supported in the lathe by means of mandrels inserted into the two ends of it, and there it slowly revolves, bringing all parts of its surface successively under the action of a tool fixed firmly in the right position for cutting the work to its proper form. of course the barrel has a slow progressive as well as rotary motion during this process, and the tool itself, with the rest in which it is firmly screwed, advances or recedes very regularly and gradually, in respect to the work, as the process goes on, in order to form the proper taper of the barrel in proceeding from the breech to the muzzle. the main work however in this turning process is performed by the rotation of the barrel. the workman thus treats his material and his tools with strict impartiality. in the _boring_, the piece remains at rest, and the tool does its work by revolving. in the _turning_, on the other hand, the _piece_ must take its part in active duty, being required to revolve against the tool, while the tool itself remains fixed in its position in the rest. among the readers of this article there will probably be many thousands who have never had the opportunity to witness the process of turning or boring iron, and to them it may seem surprising that any tool can be made with an edge sufficiently enduring to stand in such a service. and it is indeed true that a cutting edge destined to maintain itself against iron must be of very excellent temper, and moreover it must have a peculiar construction and form, such that when set in its proper position for service, the cutting part shall be well supported, so to speak, in entering the metal, by the mass of the steel behind it. it is necessary, too, to keep the work cool by a small stream of water constantly falling upon the point of action. the piece to be turned, moreover, when of iron, must revolve very slowly; the process will not go on successfully at a rapid rate; though in the case of wood the higher the speed at which the machinery works, within certain limits, the more perfect the operation. in all these points the process of turning iron requires a very nice adjustment; but when the conditions necessary to success are all properly fulfilled, the work goes on in the most perfect manner, and the observer who is unaccustomed to witness the process is surprised to see the curling and continuous shaving of iron issuing from the point where the tool is applied, being cut out there as smoothly and apparently as easily as if the material were lead. the straightening. one of the most interesting and curious parts of the process of the manufacture of the barrel, is the straightening of it. we ought, perhaps, rather to say the straightenings, for it is found necessary that the operation should be several times performed. for example, the barrel must be straightened before it is turned, and then, inasmuch as in the process of turning it generally gets more or less _sprung_, it must be straightened again afterward. in fact, every important operation performed upon the barrel is likely to cause some deflection in it, which requires to be subsequently corrected, so that the process must be repeated several times. the actual work of straightening, that is the mechanical act that is performed, is very simple--consisting as it does of merely striking a blow. the whole difficulty lies in determining when and where the correction is required. in other words, the _making straight_ is very easily and quickly done; the thing attended with difficulty is to find out when and where the work is crooked; for the deflections which it is thus required to remedy, are so extremely slight, that all ordinary modes of examination would fail wholly to detect them; while yet they are sufficiently great to disturb very essentially the range and direction of the ball which should issue from the barrel, affected by them. [illustration: straightening the barrels.] the above engraving represents the workman in the act of examining the interior of a barrel with a view to ascertaining whether it be straight. on the floor, in the direction toward which the barrel is pointed, is a small mirror, in which the workman sees, through the tube, a reflection of a certain pane of glass in the window. the pane in question is marked by a diagonal line, which may be seen upon it, in the view, passing from one corner to the other. this diagonal line now is reflected by the mirror into the bore of the barrel, and then it is reflected again to the eye of the observer; for the surface of the iron on the inside of the barrel is left in a most brilliantly polished condition, by the boring and the operations connected therewith. now the workman, in some mysterious way or other, detects the slightest deviation from straightness in the barrel, by the appearance which this reflection presents to his eye, as he looks through the bore in the manner represented in the drawing. he is always ready to explain very politely to his visitor exactly how this is done, and to allow the lady to look through the tube and see for herself. all that she is able to see, however, in such cases is a very resplendent congeries of concentric rings, forming a spectacle of very dazzling brilliancy, which pleases and delights her, though the mystery of the reflected line generally remains as profound a mystery after the observation as before. this is, in fact, the result which might have been expected, since it is generally found that all demonstrations and explanations relating to the science of optics and light, addressed to the uninitiated, end in plunging them into greater darkness than ever. the only object which the mirror upon the floor serves, in the operation, is to save the workman from the fatigue of holding up the barrel, which it would be necessary for him to do at each observation, if he were to look at the window pane directly. by having a reflecting surface at the floor he can point the barrel downward, when he wishes to look through it, and this greatly facilitates the manipulation. there is a rest, too, provided for the barrel, to support it while the operator is looking through. he plants the end of the tube in this rest, with a peculiar grace and dexterity, and then, turning it round and round, in order to bring every part of the inner surface to the test of the reflection, he accomplishes the object of his scrutiny in a moment, and then recovering the barrel, he lays it across a sort of anvil which stands by his side, and strikes a gentle blow upon it wherever a correction was found to be required. thus the operation, though it often seems a very difficult one for the visitor to understand, proves a very easy one for the workman to perform. old mode of straightening. in former times a mode altogether different from this was adopted to test the interior rectitude of the barrel. a very slender line, formed of a hair or some similar substance, was passed through the barrel--_dropped_ through, in fact, by means of a small weight attached to the end of it. this line was then drawn tight, and the workman looking through, turned the barrel round so as to bring the line into coincidence successively with every portion of the inner surface. if now there existed any concavity in any part of this surface, the line would show it by the distance which would there appear between the line itself and its reflection in the metal. the present method, however, which has now been in use about thirty years, is found to be far superior to the old one; so much so in fact that all the muskets manufactured before that period have since been condemned as unfit for use, on account mainly of the crookedness of the barrels. when we consider, however, that the calculation is that in ordinary engagements less than one out of every hundred of the balls that are discharged take effect; that is, that ninety-nine out of every hundred go wide of the mark for which they are intended, from causes that must be wholly independent of any want of accuracy in the aiming, it would seem to those who know little of such subjects, that to condemn muskets for deviating from perfect straightness by less than a hair, must be quite an unnecessary nicety. the truth is, however, that all concerned in the establishment at springfield, seem to be animated by a common determination, that whatever may be the use that is ultimately to be made of their work, the instrument itself, as it comes from their hands, shall be absolutely perfect; and whoever looks at the result, as they now attain it, will admit that they carry out their determination in a very successful manner. cinder holes. various other improvements have been made from time to time in the mode of manufacturing and finishing the musket, which have led to the condemnation or alteration of those made before the improvements were introduced. a striking illustration of this is afforded by the case of what are called _cinder holes_. a cinder hole is a small cavity left in the iron at the time of the manufacture of it--the effect, doubtless, of some small development of gas forming a bubble in the substance of the iron. if the bubble is near the inner surface of the barrel when it is welded, the process of boring and finishing brings it into view, in the form of a small blemish seen in the side of the bore. at a former period in the history of the armory, defects of this kind were not considered essential, so long as they were so small as not to weaken the barrel. it was found, however, at length that such cavities, by retaining the moisture and other products of combustion resulting from the discharge of the piece, were subject to corrosion, and gradual enlargement, so as finally to weaken the barrel in a fatal manner. it was decided therefore that the existence of cinder holes in a barrel should thenceforth be a sufficient cause for its rejection, and all the muskets manufactured before that time have since been condemned and sold; the design of the department being to retain in the public arsenals only arms of the most perfect and unexceptionable character. at the present time, in the process of manufacturing the barrels, it is not always found necessary to reject a barrel absolutely in every case where a cinder hole appears. sometimes the iron may be forced in, by a blow upon the outside, sufficiently to enable the workman to bore the cinder hole out entirely. this course is always adopted where the thickness of the iron will allow it, and in such cases the barrel is saved. where this can not be done, the part affected is sometimes cut off, and a short barrel is made, for an arm called a musketoon. the grinding. after the barrel is turned to nearly its proper size it is next to be ground, for the purpose of removing the marks left by the tool in turning, and of still further perfecting its form. for this operation immense grindstones, carried by machinery, are used, as seen in the engraving. these stones, when in use, are made to revolve with great rapidity--usually about _four hundred times in a minute_--and as a constant stream of water is kept pouring upon the part where the barrel is applied in the grinding, it is necessary to cover them entirely with a wooden case, as seen in the engraving, to catch and confine the water, which would otherwise be thrown with great force about the room. the direct action therefore of the stone upon the barrel in the process of grinding is concealed from view. [illustration: grinding.] the workman has an iron rod with a sort of crank-like handle at the end of it, and this rod he inserts into the bore of the barrel which he has in hand. the rod fits into the barrel closely, and is held firmly by the friction, so that by means of the handle to the rod, the workman can turn the barrel round and round continually while he is grinding it, and thus bring the action of the stone to bear equally upon every part, and so finish the work in a true cylindrical form. one of these rods, with its handle, may be seen lying free upon the stand on the right of the picture. the workman is also provided with gauges which he applies frequently to the barrel at different points along its length, as the work goes on, in order to form it to the true size and to the proper taper. in the act of grinding he inserts the barrel into a small hole in the case, in front of the stone, and then presses it hard against the surface of the stone by means of the iron lever behind him. by leaning against this lever with greater or less exertion he can regulate the pressure of the barrel against the stone at pleasure. in order to increase his power over this lever he stands upon a plate of iron which is placed upon the floor beneath him, with projections cast upon it to hold his feet by their friction; the moment that he ceases to lean against the lever, the inner end of it is drawn back by the action of the weight seen hanging down by the side of it, and the barrel is immediately released. the workman _turns_ the barrel continually, during the process of grinding, by means of the handle, as seen in the drawing, and as the stone itself is revolving all the time with prodigious velocity, the work is very rapidly, and at the same time very smoothly and correctly performed. danger. it would seem too, at first thought, that this operation of grinding must be a very safe as well as a simple one; but it is far otherwise. this grinding room is the dangerous room--the only dangerous room, in fact, in the whole establishment. in the first place, the work itself is often very injurious to the health. the premises are always drenched with water, and this makes the atmosphere damp and unwholesome. then there is a fine powder, which, notwithstanding every precaution, will escape from the stone, and contaminate the air, producing very serious tendencies to disease in the lungs of persons who breathe it for any long period. in former times it was customary to grind bayonets as well as barrels; and this required that the face of the stone should be fluted, that is cut into grooves of a form suitable to receive the bayonet. this fluting of the stone, which of course it was necessary continually to renew, was found to be an exceedingly unhealthy operation, and in the process of grinding, moreover, in the case of bayonets, the workman was much more exposed than in grinding barrels, as it was necessary that a portion of the stone should be open before him and that he should apply the piece in hand directly to the surface of it. from these causes it resulted, under the old system, that bayonets, whatever might have been their destination in respect to actual service against an enemy on the field, were pretty sure to be the death of all who were concerned in making them. the system, however, so far as relates to the bayonet is now changed. bayonets are now "milled," instead of being ground; that is, they are finished by means of cutters formed upon the circumference of a wheel, and so arranged that by the revolution of the wheel, and by the motion of the bayonet in passing slowly under it, secured in a very solid manner to a solid bed, the superfluous metal is cut away and the piece fashioned at once to its proper form, or at least brought so near to it by the machine, as to require afterward only a very little finishing. this operation is cheaper than the other, and also more perfect in its result; while at the same time it is entirely free from danger to the workman. no mode, however, has yet been devised for dispensing with the operation of grinding in the case of the barrel; though the injury to the health is much less in this case than in the other. bursting of grindstones. there is another very formidable danger connected with the process of grinding besides the insalubrity of the work; and that is the danger of the bursting of the stones in consequence of their enormous weight and the immense velocity with which they are made to revolve. some years since a new method of clamping the stone, that is of attaching it and securing it to its axis, was adopted, by means of which the danger of bursting is much diminished. but by the mode formerly practiced--the mode which in fact still prevails in many manufacturing establishments where large grindstones are employed--the danger was very great, and the most frightful accidents often occurred. in securing the stone to its axis it was customary to cut a square hole through the centre of the stone, and then after passing the iron axis through this opening, to fix the stone upon the axis by wedging it up firmly with wooden wedges. now it is well known that an enormous force may be exerted by the driving of a wedge, and probably in many cases where this method is resorted to, the stone is strained to its utmost tension, so as to be on the point of splitting open, before it is put in rotation at all. the water is then let on, and the stone becomes saturated with it--which greatly increases the danger. there are three ways by which the water tends to promote the bursting of the stone. it makes it very much heavier, and thus adds to the momentum of its motion, and consequently to the centrifugal force. it also makes it weaker, for the water penetrates the stone in every part, and operates to soften, as it were, its texture. then finally it swells the wedges, and thus greatly increases the force of the outward strain which they exert at the centre of the stone. when under these circumstances the enormous mass is put in motion, at the rate perhaps of five or six revolutions in a _second_, it bursts, and some enormous fragment, a quarter or a third of the whole, flies up through the flooring above, or out through a wall, according to the position of the part thrown off, at the time of the fracture. an accident of this kind occurred at the armory some years since. one fragment of the stone struck the wall of the building, which was two or three feet thick, and broke it through. the other passing upward, struck and fractured a heavy beam forming a part of the floor above, and upset a work-bench in a room over it, where several men were working. the men were thrown down, though fortunately they were not injured. the workman who had been grinding at the stone left his station for a minute or two, just before the catastrophe, and thus his life too was saved. polishing. we have said that the grinding room is the _only_ dangerous room in such an establishment as this. there is one other process than grinding which was formerly considered as extremely unhealthy, and that is the process of polishing. the polishing of steel is performed by means of what are called _emery wheels_, which are wheels bound on their circumference by a band of leather, to which a coating of emery, very finely pulverized, is applied, by means of a sizing of glue. these wheels, a large number of which are placed side by side in the same room, are made to revolve by means of machinery, with an inconceivable velocity, while the workmen who have the polishing to do, taking their stations, each at his own wheel, on seats placed there for the purpose, and holding the piece of work on which the operation is to be performed, in their hands, apply it to the revolving circumference before them. the surface of the steel thus applied, receives immediately a very high polish--a stream of sparks being elicited by the friction, and flying off from the wheel opposite to the workman. now although in these cases the workman was always accustomed to take his position at the wheel in such a manner as to be exposed as little as possible to the effects of it, yet the air of the apartment, it was found, soon became fully impregnated with the fine emery dust, and the influence of it upon the lungs proved very deleterious. there is, however, now in operation a contrivance by means of which the evil is almost entirely remedied. a large air-trunk is laid beneath the floor, from which the air is drawn out continually by means of a sort of fan machinery connected with the engine. opposite to each wheel, and in the direction to which the sparks and the emery dust are thrown, are openings connected with this air-trunk. by means of this arrangement all that is noxious in the air of the room is drawn out through the openings into the air-trunk, and so conveyed away. the sparks produced in such operations as this, as in the case of the collision of flint and steel, consist of small globules of melted metal, cut off from the main mass by the force of the friction, and heated to the melting point at the same time. these metallic scintillations were not supposed to be the cause of the injury that was produced by the operation of polishing, as formerly practiced. it was the dust of the emery that produced the effect, just as in the case of the grinding it was the powder of the stone, and not the fine particles of iron. the emery which is used in these polishing operations, as well as for a great many similar purposes in the arts, is obtained by pulverizing an exceedingly hard mineral that is found in several of the islands of the grecian archipelago, in the mediterranean. in its native state it appears in the form of shapeless masses, of a blackish or bluish gray color, and it is prepared for use by being pulverized in iron mortars. when pulverized it is washed and sorted into five or six different degrees of fineness, according to the work for which it is wanted. it is used by lapidaries for cutting and polishing stones, by cutlers for iron and steel instruments, and by opticians for grinding lenses. it is ordinarily used in the manner above described, by being applied to the circumference of a leathern covered wheel, by means of oil or of glue. ladies use bags filled with it, for brightening their needles. emery is procured in spain, and also in great britain, as well as in the islands of the mediterranean. proving. [illustration: the proving house.] when the barrels are brought pretty nearly to their finished condition, they are to be _proved_, that is to be subjected to the test of actual trial with gunpowder. for this proving they are taken to a very strong building that is constructed for the purpose, and which stands behind the stocking shop. its place is on the right in the general view of the armory buildings, and near the foreground--though that view does not extend far enough in that direction to bring it in. the exterior appearance of this building is represented in the above engraving. it is made very strong, being constructed wholly of timber, in order to enable it to resist the force of the explosions within. there are spacious openings in lattice work, in the roof and under the eaves of the building, to allow of the escape of the smoke with which it is filled at each discharge; for it is customary to prove a large number of barrels at a time. the barrels are loaded with a very heavy charge, so as to subject them to much greater strain than they can ever be exposed to in actual service. the building on the left, in the engraving, is used for loading the barrels, and for cleaning and drying them after they are proved. the shed attached to the main building, on the right hand, contains a bank of clay, placed there to receive the bullets, with which the barrels are charged. the arrangement of the interior of this building, as well as the manner in which the proving is performed, will be very clearly understood by reference to the engraving below. [illustration: interior of the proving house.] on the right hand end of the building, and extending quite across it from side to side, is a sort of platform, the upper surface of which is formed of cast-iron, and contains grooves in which the muskets are placed when loaded, side by side. a train of gunpowder is laid along the back side of this platform, so as to form a communication with each barrel. the train passes out through a hole in the side of the building near the door. the bank of clay may be seen sloping down from within its shed into the room on the left. the artist has represented the scene as it appears when all is ready for the discharge. the barrels are placed, the train is laid, and the proof-master is just retiring and closing the door. a moment more and there will be a loud and rattling explosion; then the doors will be opened, and as soon as the smoke has cleared away the workman will enter and ascertain the result. about one in sixty of the barrels are found to burst under the trial. the pieces that fail are all carefully examined with a view to ascertain whether the giving way was owing to a defect in the welding, or to some flaw, or other bad quality, in the iron. the appearance of the rent made by the bursting will always determine this point. the loss of those that failed on account of bad welding is then charged to the respective operatives by whom the work was done, at a dollar for each one so failing. the name of the maker of each is known by the stamp which he put upon it at the time when it passed through his hands. the barrels that stand this first test are afterward subjected to a second one in order to make it sure that they sustained no partial and imperceptible injury at the first explosion. this done they are stamped with the mark of approval, and so sent to the proper departments to be mounted and finished. [illustration: testing the bayonets.] the bayonets, and all the other parts of which the musket is composed are subjected to tests, different in character indeed, but equally strict and rigid in respect to the qualities which they are intended to prove, with that applied to the barrel. the bayonet is very carefully gauged and measured in every part, in order to make sure that it is of precisely the proper form and dimensions. a weight is hung to the point of it to try its temper, and it is sprung by the strength of the inspector, with the point of it set into the floor, to prove its elasticity. if it is found to be tempered too high it breaks; if too low it bends. in either case it is condemned, and the workman through whose fault the failure has resulted is charged with the loss. the forging. the number of pieces which are used in making up a musket is forty-nine, each of which has to be formed and finished separately. of these there are only two--viz., the sight and what is called the _cone-seat_, a sort of process connected with the barrel--that are permanently attached to any other part; so that the musket can at any time be separated into _forty-seven_ parts, by simply turning screws, and opening springs, and then put together again as before. most of these parts are such that they are formed in the first instance by being forged or rather _swedged_, and are afterward trimmed and finished in lathes, and milling engines, or by means of files. _swedging_, as it is called, is the forming of irregular shapes in iron by means of dies of a certain kind, called swedges, one of which is inserted in the anvil, in a cavity made for the purpose, and the other is placed above it. cavities are cut in the faces of the swedges, so that when they are brought together, with the end of the iron rod out of which the article to be formed between them, the iron is made to assume the form of the cavities by means of blows of the hammer upon the upper swedge. in this way shapes are easily and rapidly fashioned, which it would be impossible to produce by blows directed immediately upon the iron. [illustration: the blacksmith's shop.] the shop where this swedging work is done at the armory contains a great number of forges, one only of which however is fully represented in the engraving. the apparatus connected with these forges, differing in each according to the particular operation for which each is intended, is far too complicated to be described in this connection. it can only be fully understood when seen in actual operation under the hands of the workman. the visitor however who has the opportunity to see it thus, lingers long before each separate forge, pleased with the ingenuity of the contrivances which he witnesses, and admiring the wonderful dexterity of the workman. there is no appearance of bellows at any of these works. the air is supplied to the fires by pipes ascending through the floor from a _fan blower_, as it is called, worked by machinery arranged for the purpose below. the stocking shop. the stocking shop, so called, is the department in which the _stocks_ to which the barrel and the lock are to be attached, are formed and finished. the wood used for gun stocks in this country is the black walnut, and as this wood requires to be seasoned some years before it is used, an immense store of it is kept on hand at the armory--sufficient in fact for four years' consumption. the building in which this material is stored may be seen on the right hand side in the general view placed at the head of this article. it stands off from the square, and behind the other buildings. the operations conducted in the stocking shop are exceedingly attractive to all who visit the establishment. in fact it happens here as it often does in similar cases, that that which it is most interesting to witness is the least interesting to be described. the reason is that the charm in these processes consists in the high perfection and finish of the machines, in the smoothness, grace, and rapidity of their motions, and in the seemingly miraculous character of the performances which they execute. of such things no mere description can convey any adequate idea. they must be seen to be at all appreciated. a gun stock, with all the innumerable cavities, grooves, perforations, and recesses necessary to be made in it, to receive the barrel, the lock, the bands, the ramrod, and the numerous pins and screws, all of which require a separate and peculiar modification of its form, is perhaps as irregular a shape as the ingenuity of man could devise--and as well calculated as any shape could possibly be to bid defiance to every attempt at applying machinery to the work of fashioning it. the difficulties however in the way of such an attempt, insurmountable as they would at first sight seem, have all been overcome, and every part of the stock is formed, and every perforation, groove, cavity, and socket is cut in it by machines that do their work with a beauty, a grace, and a perfection, which awaken in all who witness the process, a feeling of astonishment and delight. the general principle on which this machinery operates, in doing its work, may perhaps be made intelligible to the reader by description. the action is regulated by what are called _patterns_. these patterns are models in iron of the various surfaces of the stock which it is intended to form. let us suppose, for example, that the large cavity intended to receive the lock is to be cut. the stock on which the operation is to be performed is placed in its bed in the machine, and over it, pendant from a certain movable frame-work of polished steel above, is the cutting tool, a sort of bit or borer, which is to do the work. this borer is made to revolve with immense velocity, and is at the same time susceptible of various other motions at the pleasure of the workman. it may be brought down upon the work, and moved there from side to side, so as to cut out a cavity of any required shape; and such is the mechanism of the machine that these vertical and lateral motions may be made very freely without at all interfering with the swift rotation on which the cutting power of the tool depends. this is effected by causing the tool to revolve by means of small machinery within its frame, while the frame and all within it moves together in the vertical and lateral motions. now if this were all, it is plain that the cutting of the cavity in the stock would depend upon the action of the workman, and the form given to it would be determined by the manner in which he should guide the tool in its lateral motions, and by the depth to which he should depress it. but this is not all. at a little distance from the cutter, and parallel to it is another descending rod, which is called the guide; and this guide is so connected with the cutting tool, by means of a very complicated and ingenious machinery, that the latter is governed rigidly and exactly in all its movements by the motion of the former. now there is placed immediately beneath the guide, what is called the pattern, that is a cavity in a block of iron of precisely the form and size which it is intended to give to the cavity in the wooden stock. all that the workman has to do therefore, when the machine is put in motion is to bring the guide down into the pattern and move it about the circumference and through the centre of it. the cutting tool imitating precisely the motions of the guide, enters the wood, and cutting its way in the most perfect manner and with incredible rapidity, forms an exact duplicate of the cavity in the pattern. the theory of this operation is sufficiently curious and striking--but the wonder excited by it is infinitely enhanced by seeing the work done. it is on this principle substantially that all the machines of the stocking shop are constructed; every separate recess, perforation, or groove of the piece requiring of course its own separate mechanism. the stocks are passed from one of these engines to another in rapid succession, and come out at last, each one the perfect fac-simile of its fellow. division of labor. we have said that the number of separate parts which go to compose a musket is forty-nine; but this by no means denotes the number of distinct operations required in the manufacture of it--for almost every one of these forty-nine parts is subject to many distinct operations, each of which has its own name, is assigned to its own separate workman, and is paid for distinctly and by itself, according to the price put upon it in the general tariff of wages. the number of operations thus separately named, catalogued and priced, is _three hundred and ninety-six_. these operations are entirely distinct from one another--each constituting, as it were, in some sense a distinct trade, so that it might be quite possible that no one man in the whole establishment should know how to perform any two of them. it is quite certain, in fact, that no man can perform any considerable number of them. they are of very various grades in respect to character and price--from the welding of the barrel which is in some points of view the highest and most responsible of all, down to the cutting out of pins and screws of the most insignificant character. they are all however regularly rated, and the work that is performed upon them is paid for by the piece. assembling the musket. [illustration: assembling the musket.] when the several parts are all finished, the operation of putting them together so as to make up the musket from them complete, is called "assembling the musket." the workman who performs this function has all the various parts before him at his bench, arranged in boxes and compartments, in regular order, and taking one component from this place, and another from that, he proceeds to put the complicated piece of mechanism together. his bench is fitted up expressly for the work which he is to perform upon it, with a vice to hold without marring, and rests to support without confining, and every other convenience and facility which experience and ingenuity can suggest. with these helps, and by means of the dexterity which continued practice gives him, he performs the work in a manner so adroit and rapid, as to excite the wonder of every beholder. in fact it is always a pleasure to see any thing done that is done with grace and dexterity, and this is a pleasure which the visitor to the armory has an opportunity to enjoy at almost every turn. the component parts of the musket are all made according to one precise pattern, and thus when taken up at random they are sure to come properly together. there is no individual fitting required in each particular case. any barrel will fit into any stock, and a screw designed for a particular plate or band, will enter the proper hole in any plate or band of a hundred thousand. there are many advantages which result from this precise conformity to an established pattern in the components of the musket. in the first place the work of manufacturing it is more easily performed in this way. it is always the tendency of machinery to produce similarity in its results, and thus although where only two things are to be made it is very difficult to get them alike, the case is very different where there is a call for two hundred thousand. in this last case it is far easier and cheaper to have them alike than to have them different; for in manufacturing on such a scale a machinery is employed, which results in fashioning every one of its products on the precise model to which the inventor adapted the construction of it. then, besides, a great convenience and economy results from this identity of form in the component parts of the musket, when the arms are employed in service. spare screws, locks, bands, springs, &c., can be furnished in quantities, and sent to any remote part of the country wherever they are required; so that when any part of a soldier's gun becomes injured or broken, its place can be immediately supplied by a new piece, which is sure to fit as perfectly into the vacancy as the original occupant. even after a battle there is nothing to prevent the surviving soldiers from making up themselves, out of a hundred broken and dismantled muskets, fifty good ones as complete and sound as ever, by rejecting what is damaged, and assembling the uninjured parts anew. to facilitate such operations as these the mechanism by which the various parts of the musket are attached to each other and secured in their places, is studiously contrived with a view to facilitating in the highest degree the taking of them apart, and putting them together. each soldier to whom a musket is served is provided with a little tool, which, though very simple in its construction, consists of several parts and is adapted to the performance of several functions. with the assistance of this tool the soldier sitting on the bank by the roadside, at a pause in the middle of his march, if the regulations of the service would allow him to do so, might separate his gun into its forty-seven components, and spread the parts out upon the grass around him. then if any part was doubtful he could examine it. if any was broken he could replace it--and after having finished his inspection he could reconstruct the mechanism, and march on as before. it results from this system that to make any change, however slight, in the pattern of the musket or in the form of any of the parts of it, is attended with great difficulty and expense. the fashion and form of every one of the component portions of the arm, are very exactly and rigidly determined by the machinery that is employed in making it, and any alteration, however apparently insignificant, would require a change in this machinery. it becomes necessary, therefore, that the precise pattern both of the whole musket and of all of its parts, once fixed, should remain permanently the same. the most costly of the parts which lie before the workman in assembling the musket is the barrel. the value of it complete is three dollars. from the barrel we go down by a gradually descending scale to the piece of smallest value, which is a little wire called the ramrod spring wire--the value of which is only one mill; that is the workman is paid only one dollar a thousand for the manufacture of it. the time expended in assembling a musket is about ten minutes, and the price paid for the work is four cents. the arsenal. [illustration: the new arsenal.] the new arsenal, which has already been alluded to in the description of the general view of the arsenal grounds, is a very stately edifice. it is two hundred feet long, seventy feet wide, and fifty feet high. it is divided into three stories, each of which is calculated to contain one hundred thousand muskets, making three hundred thousand in all. the muskets when stored in this arsenal are arranged in racks set up for the purpose along the immense halls, where they stand upright in rows, with the glittering bayonets shooting up, as it were, above. the visitors who go into the arsenal walk up and down the aisles which separate the ranges of racks, admiring the symmetry and splendor of the display. the arsenal has another charm for visitors besides the beauty of the spectacle which the interior presents--and that is the magnificent panorama of the surrounding country, which is seen from the summit of the tower. this tower, which occupies the centre of the building, is about ninety feet high--and as it is about thirty feet square, the deck at the top furnishes space for a large party of visitors to stand and survey the surrounding country. nothing can be imagined more enchanting than the view presented from this position in the month of june. the armory grounds upon one side, and the streets of the town upon the other lie, as it were, at the feet of the spectator, while in the distance the broad and luxuriant valley of the connecticut is spread out to view, with its villages, its fields, its groves, its bridges, its winding railways, and its serpentine and beautiful streams. the administration of the armory. [illustration: quarters of the commanding officer.] the manufacture of muskets being a work that pertains in some sense to the operations of the army, should be, for that reason, under _military_ rule. on the other hand, inasmuch as it is wholly a work of mechanical and peaceful industry, a _civil_ administration would seem to be most appropriate for it. there is, in fact, a standing dispute on this subject both in relation to the armory at springfield and to that at harper's ferry, among those interested in the establishments, and it is a dispute which, perhaps, will never be finally settled. the springfield armory is at this time under military rule--the present commanding officer, colonel ripley, having been put in charge of it about ten years ago, previous to which time it was under civil superintendence. at the time of col. ripley's appointment the works, as is universally acknowledged, were in a very imperfect condition, compared with the present state. on entering upon the duties of his office, the new incumbent engaged in the work of improvement with great resolution and energy, and after contending for several years with the usual obstacles and difficulties which men have to encounter in efforts at progress and reform, he succeeded in bringing the establishment up to a state of very high perfection; and now the order, the system, the neatness, the almost military exactness and decorum which pervade every department of the works are the theme of universal admiration. the grounds are kept in the most perfect condition--the shops are bright and cheerful, the walls and floors are every where neat and clean, the machinery and tools are perfect, and are all symmetrically and admirably arranged, while the workmen are well dressed, and are characterized by an air of manliness, intelligence, and thrift, that suggests to the mind of the visitor the idea of amateur mechanics, working with beautiful tools, for pleasure. and yet the men at first complained, sometimes, of the stringency of rules and regulations required to produce these results. these rules are still in force, though now they are very generally acquiesced in. no newspapers of any kind can be taken into the shops, no tobacco or intoxicating drinks can be used there, no unnecessary conversation is allowed, and the regulations in respect to hours of attendance, and to responsibility for damaged work are very definite and strict. but even if the workmen should be disposed in any case to complain of the stringency of these requirements, they can not but be proud of the result; for they take a very evident pleasure in the gratification which every visitor manifests in witnessing the system, the order, the neatness, and the precision that every where prevail. nothing can be more admirably planned, or more completely and precisely executed than the system of accounts kept at the offices, by which not only every pecuniary transaction, but also, as would seem, almost every mechanical operation or act that takes place throughout the establishment is made a matter of record. thus every thing is checked and regulated. no piece, large or small, can be lost from among its hundreds of fellows without being missed somewhere in some column of figures--and the whole history of every workman's doings, and of every piece of work done, is to be found recorded. ask the master-armorer any questions whatever about the workings of the establishment, whether relating to the minutest detail, or to most comprehensive and general results, and he takes down a book and shows you the answer in some column or table. after all, however, this neatness, precision, and elegance in the appearance and in the daily workings of an establishment like this, though very agreeable to the eye of the observer, constitute a test of only secondary importance in respect to the actual character of the administration that governs it. to judge properly on this point, the thing to be looked at is the actual and substantial results that are obtained. the manufacture of muskets is the great function of the armory, and not the exhibition of beautiful workshops, and curious processes in mechanics for the entertainment of visitors. when we inquire, however, into the present arrangement of this establishment, in this point of view, the conclusion seems to be still more decidedly in its favor than in the other. the cost of manufacturing each musket immediately before the commencement of the term of the present commander was about seventeen dollars and a half. during the past year it has been eight dollars and three quarters, and yet the men are paid better wages now per day, or, rather, they are paid at such rates for their work, that they can earn more now per day, than then. the saving has thus not been at all made from the pay of the workmen, but wholly from the introduction of new and improved modes of manufacture, better machines, a superior degree of order, system, and economy in every department, and other similar causes. how far the improvements which have thus been made are due to the intrinsic qualities of military government, and how far to the personal efficiency of the officer in this case intrusted with the administration of it, it might be somewhat difficult to decide. in fact, when judging of the advancement made during a period of ten years, in an establishment of this kind, at the present age of the world, some considerable portion of the improvement that is manifested is due, doubtless, to the operation of those causes which are producing a general progress in all the arts and functions of social life. the tendency of every thing is onward. every where, and for all purposes, machinery is improving, materials are more and more easily procured, new facilities are discovered and new inventions are made, the results of which inure to the common benefit of all mankind. it is only so far as an establishment like the armory advances at a more rapid rate than that of the general progress of the age, that any special credit is due to those who administer its affairs. it always seems, however, to strangers visiting the armory and observing its condition, that these general causes will account for but a small portion of the results which have been attained in the management of it, during the past ten years. conclusion. as was stated at the commencement of the article, it is only a small part of the hundreds of thousands of muskets manufactured, that are destined ever to be used. some portion of the whole number are served out to the army, and are employed in indian warfare, others are destined to arm garrisons in various fortresses and military posts, where they are never called to any other service than to figure in peaceful drillings and parades. far the greater portion, however, are sent away to various parts of the country, to be stored in the national arsenals, where they lie, and are to lie, as we hope, forever, undisturbed, in the midst of scenes of rural beauty and continued peace. the flowers bloom and the birds sing unmolested around the silent and solitary depositories, where these terrible instruments of carnage and destruction unconsciously and forever repose. napoleon bonaparte.[a] by john s. c. abbott. [footnote a: entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york.] peace with england. it was the first great object of napoleon, immediately upon his accession to power, to reconcile france with europe, and to make peace with all the world. france was weary of war. she needed repose, to recover from the turmoil of revolution. napoleon, conscious of the necessities of france, was consecrating herculean energies for the promotion of peace. the directory, by oppressive acts, had excited the indignation of the united states. napoleon, by a course of conciliation, immediately removed that hostility, and, but a short time before the treaty of luneville, ratified a treaty of amity between france and the united states. the signature of this treaty was celebrated with great rejoicings at the beautiful country seat which joseph, who in consequence of his marriage was richer than his brother, had purchased at morfontaine. napoleon, accompanied by a brilliant party, met the american commissioners there. the most elegant decorations within the mansion and in the gardens, represented france and america joined in friendly union. napoleon presented the following toast: "the memory of the french and the americans who died on the field of battle for the independence of the new world." lebrun, the second consul, proposed, "the union of america with the northern powers, to enforce respect for the liberty of the seas." cambaceres gave for the third toast, "the successor of washington." thus did napoleon endeavor to secure the friendship of the united states. about this time pope pius vi. died, and the cardinals met to choose his successor. the respect with which napoleon had treated the pope, and his kindness to the emigrant priests, during the first italian campaign, presented so strong a contrast with the violence enjoined by the directory, as to produce a profound impression upon the minds of the pope and the cardinals. the bishop of imola was universally esteemed for his extensive learning, his gentle virtues, and his firm probity. upon the occasion of the union of his diocese with the cisalpine republic, he preached a very celebrated sermon, in which he spoke of the conduct of the french in terms highly gratifying to the young conqueror. the power of napoleon was now in the ascendant. it was deemed important to conciliate his favor. "it is from france," said cardinal gonsalvi, "that persecutions have come upon us for the last ten years. it is from france, perhaps, that we shall derive aid and consolation for the future. a very extraordinary young man, one very difficult as yet to judge, holds dominion there at the present day. his influence will soon be paramount in italy. remember that he protected the priests in . he has recently conferred funeral honors upon pius vi." these were words of deep foresight. they were appreciated by the sagacious cardinals. to conciliate the favor of napoleon, the bishop of imola was elected to the pontifical chair as pope pius vii. naples had been most perfidious in its hostility to france. the queen of naples was a proud daughter of maria theresa, and sister of the emperor of austria and of the unfortunate marie antoinette. she surely must not be too severely condemned for execrating a revolution which had consigned her sister to the dungeon and to the guillotine. naples, deprived of austrian aid, was powerless. she trembled under apprehension of the vengeance of napoleon. the king of austria could no longer render his sister any assistance. she adopted the decisive and romantic expedient of proceeding in person, notwithstanding the rigor of the approaching winter, to st. petersburg, to implore the intercession of the emperor paul. the eccentric monarch, flattered by the supplication of the beautiful queen, immediately espoused her cause, and dispatched a messenger to napoleon, soliciting him, as a personal favor, to deal gently with naples. the occurrence was, of course, a triumph and a gratification to napoleon. most promptly and courteously he responded to the appeal. it was indeed his constant study at this time, to arrest the further progress of the revolution, to establish the interests of france upon a basis of order and of law, and to conciliate the surrounding monarchies, by proving to them that he had no disposition to revolutionize their realms. a word from him would have driven the king and queen of naples into exile, and would have converted their kingdom into a republic. but napoleon refused to utter that word, and sustained the king of naples upon his throne. the duke of parma, brother of the king of spain, had, through the intercession of napoleon, obtained the exchange of his duchy, for the beautiful province of tuscany. the first consul had also erected tuscany into the kingdom of etruria, containing about one million of inhabitants. the old duke, a bigoted prince, inimical to all reform, had married his son (a feeble, frivolous young man) to the daughter of his brother, the king of spain. the kingdom of etruria was intended for this youthful pair. napoleon, as yet but thirty years of age, thus found himself forming kingdoms and creating kings. the young couple were in haste to ascend the throne. they could not, however, do this until the duke of parma should die or abdicate. the unaccommodating old duke refused to do either. napoleon, desirous of producing a moral impression in paris, was anxious to crown them. he therefore allowed the duke to retain parma until his death, that his son might be placed upon the throne of etruria. he wished to exhibit the spectacle, in the regicide metropolis of france, of a king created and enthroned by france. thus he hoped to diminish the antipathy to kings, and to prepare the way for that restoration of the monarchical power which he contemplated. he would also thus conciliate monarchical europe, by proving that he had no design of overthrowing every kingly throne. it was indeed adroitly done. he required, therefore, the youthful princes to come to paris, to accept the crown from his hands, as in ancient rome vassal monarchs received the sceptre from the cæsars. the young candidates for monarchy left madrid, and repaired to the tuileries, to be placed upon the throne by the first consul. this measure had two aspects, each exceedingly striking. it frowned upon the hostility of the people to royalty, and it silenced the clamor against france, as seeking to spread democracy over the ruins of all thrones. it also proudly said, in tones which must have been excessively annoying to the haughty legitimists of europe, "you kings must be childlike and humble. you see that i can create such beings as you are." napoleon, conscious that his glory elevated him far above the ancient dynasty, whose station he occupied, was happy to receive the young princes with pomp and splendor. the versatile parisians, ever delighted with novelty, forgot the twelve years of bloody revolutions, which had overturned so many thrones, and recognizing, in this strange spectacle, the fruits of their victories, and the triumph of their cause, shouted most enthusiastically, "long live the king!" the royalists, on the other hand, chagrined and sullen, answered passionately, "down with kings!" strange reverse! yet how natural! each party must have been surprised and bewildered at its own novel position. in settling the etiquette of this visit, it was decided that the young princes should call first upon napoleon, and that he should return their call the next day. the first consul, at the head of his brilliant military staff, received the young monarch with parental kindness and with the most delicate attentions, yet with the universally recognized superiorities of power and glory. the princes were entertained at the magnificent chateau of talleyrand at neuilly, with most brilliant festivals and illuminations. for a month the capital presented a scene of most gorgeous spectacles. napoleon, too entirely engrossed with the cares of empire to devote much time to these amusements, assigned the entertainment of his guests to his ministers. nevertheless he endeavored to give some advice to the young couple about to reign over etruria. he was much struck with the weakness of the prince, who cherished no sense of responsibility, and was entirely devoted to trivial pleasures. he was exceedingly interested in the mysteries of cotillions, of leap-frog, and of hide-and-go-seek--and was ever thus trifling with the courtiers. napoleon saw that he was perfectly incapable of governing, and said to one of his ministers, "you perceive that they are princes, descended from an ancient line. how can the reins of government be intrusted to such hands? but it was well to show to france this specimen of the bourbons. she can judge if these ancient dynasties are equal to the difficulties of an age like ours." as the young king left paris for his dominions, napoleon remarked to a friend, "rome need not be uneasy. there is no danger of _his_ crossing the rubicon." napoleon sent one of his generals to etruria with the royal pair, ostensibly as the minister of france, but in reality as the viceroy of the first consul. the feeble monarch desired only the rank and splendor of a king, and was glad to be released from the _cares_ of empire. of all the proud acts performed by napoleon during his extraordinary career, this creation of the etruscan king, when viewed in all its aspects, was perhaps the proudest. madame de montesson had become the guilty paramour of the duke of orleans, grandfather of louis phillipe. she was not at all ashamed of this relation, which was sanctioned by the licentiousness of the times. proud even of this alliance with a prince of the blood, she fancied that it was her privilege, as the only relative of the royal line then in paris, to pay to the king and queen of etruria such honors as they might be gratified in receiving from the remains of the old court society. she therefore made a brilliant party, inviting all the returned emigrants of illustrious birth. she even had the boldness to invite the family of the first consul, and the distinguished persons of his suite. the invitation was concealed from napoleon, as his determination to frown upon all immorality was well known. the next morning napoleon heard of the occurrence, and severely reprimanded those of his suite who had attended the party, dwelling with great warmth upon the impropriety of countenancing vice in high places. savary, who attended the party, and shared in the reprimand, says, that madame de montesson would have been severely punished had it not been for the intervention of josephine, who was ever ready to plead for mercy. napoleon having made peace with continental europe, now turned his attention earnestly to england, that he might compel that unrelenting antagonist to lay down her arms. "france," said he, "will not reap all the blessings of a pacification, until she shall have a peace with england. but a sort of delirium has seized on that government, which now holds nothing sacred. its conduct is unjust, not only toward the french people, but toward all the other powers of the continent. and when governments are not just their authority is short-lived. all the continental powers must force england to fall back into the track of moderation, of equity, and of reason." notwithstanding this state of hostilities it is pleasant to witness the interchange of the courtesy of letters. early in january of , napoleon sent some very valuable works, magnificently bound, as a present to the royal society of london. a complimentary letter accompanied the present, signed--bonaparte, _president of the national institute, and first consul of france_. as a significant intimation of his principles, there was on the letter a finely-executed vignette, representing liberty sailing on the ocean in an open shell with the following motto: "liberty of the seas." england claimed the right of visiting and searching merchant ships, to whatever nation belonging, whatever the cargoes, wherever the destination. for any resistance of this right, she enforced the penalty of the confiscation of both ship and cargo. she asserted that nothing was necessary to constitute a blockade but to announce the fact, and to station a vessel to cruise before a blockaded port. thus all the nations of the world were forbidden by england to approach a port of france. the english government strenuously contended that these principles were in accordance with the established regulations of maritime law. the neutral powers, on the other hand, affirmed that these demands were an usurpation on the part of england, founded on power, unsanctioned by the usages of nations, or by the principles of maritime jurisprudence. "free ships," said they, "make free goods. the flag covers the merchandise. a port is to be considered blockaded only when such a force is stationed at its mouth as renders it dangerous to enter." under these circumstances, it was not very difficult for napoleon to turn the arms of the united world against his most powerful foe. england had allied all the powers of europe against france. now napoleon combined them all in friendly alliance with him, and directed their energies against his unyielding and unintimidated assailant. england was mistress of the seas. upon that element she was more powerful than all europe united. it was one great object of the british ministry to prevent any european power from becoming the maritime rival of england. napoleon, as he cast his eye over his magnificent empire of forty millions of inhabitants, and surveyed his invincible armies, was excessively annoyed that the fifteen millions of people, crowded into the little island of england, should have undisputed dominion over the whole wide world of waters. the english have ever been respected, above all other nations, for wealth, power, courage, intelligence, and all stern virtues; but they never have been beloved. the english nation is at the present moment the most powerful, the most respected, and the most unpopular upon the surface of the globe. providence deals in compensations. it is perhaps unreasonable to expect that all the virtues should be centred in one people. "when," exclaimed napoleon, "will the french exchange their vanity for a little pride?" it may be rejoined, "when will the english lay aside their pride for a little vanity--that perhaps more ignoble, but certainly better-natured foible?" england, abandoned by all her allies, continued the war, apparently because her pride revolted at the idea of being conquered into a peace. and in truth england had not been vanquished at all. her fleets were every where triumphant. the blows of napoleon, which fell with such terrible severity upon her allies, could not reach her floating batteries. the genius of napoleon overshadowed the land. the genius of pitt swept the seas. the commerce of france was entirely annihilated. the english navy, in the utter destitution of nobler game, even pursued poor french fishermen, and took away their haddock and their cod. the verdict of history will probably pronounce that this was at least a less magnificent rapacity than to despoil regal and ducal galleries of the statues of phidias and the cartoons of raphael. england declared france to be in a state of blockade, and forbade all the rest of the world from having any commercial intercourse with her. her invincible fleet swept all seas. wherever an english frigate encountered any merchant ship, belonging to whatever nation, a shot was fired across her bows as a very emphatic command to stop. if the command was unheeded a broadside followed, and the peaceful merchantman became lawful prize. if the vessel stopped, a boat was launched from the frigate, a young lieutenant ascended the sides of the merchantman, demanded of the captain the papers, and searched the ship. if he found on board any goods which _he judged_ to belong to france, he took them away. if he could find any goods which he could consider as munitions of war, and which in his judgment the ship was conveying to france, the merchantman, with all its contents was confiscated. young lieutenants in the navy are not proverbial for wasting many words in compliments. they were often overbearing and insolent. england contended that these were the established principles of maritime law. all the nations of europe, now at peace with france, excessively annoyed at this _right of search_, which was rigorously enforced, declared it to be an intolerable usurpation on the part of england. russia, prussia, denmark, sweden, holland, france, and spain united in a great confederacy to resist these demands of the proud monarch of the seas. the genius of napoleon formed this grand coalition. paul of russia, now a most enthusiastic admirer of the first consul, entered into it with all his soul. england soon found herself single-handed against the world in arms. with sublime energy the british ministry collected their strength for the conflict. murmurs, however, and remonstrances loud and deep pervaded all england. the opposition roused itself to new vigor. the government, in the prosecution of this war, had already involved the nation in a debt of millions upon millions. but the pride of the english government was aroused. "what! make peace upon compulsion!" england was conscious of her maritime power, and feared not the hostility of the world. and the world presented a wide field from which to collect remuneration for her losses. she swept the ocean triumphantly. the colonies of the allies dropped into her hand, like fruit from the overladen bough. immediately upon the formation of this confederacy, england issued an embargo upon every vessel belonging to the allied powers, and also orders were issued for the immediate capture of any merchant vessels, belonging to these powers, wherever they could be found. the ocean instantly swarmed with english privateersmen. her navy was active every where. there had been no proclamation of war issued. the merchants of europe were entirely unsuspicious of any such calamity. their ships were all exposed. by thousands they were swept into the ports of england. more than half of the ships, belonging to the northern powers, then at sea, were captured. russia, denmark, and sweden, had a large armament in the baltic. a powerful english fleet was sent for its destruction. the terrible energies of nelson, so resplendent at aboukir, were still more resplendent at copenhagen. a terrific conflict ensued. the capital of denmark was filled with weeping and woe, for thousands of her most noble sons, the young and the joyous, were weltering in blood. "i have been," said nelson, "in above a hundred engagements; but that of copenhagen was the most terrible of them all." in the midst of this terrific cannonade, nelson was rapidly walking the quarter-deck, which was slippery with blood and covered with the dead, who could not be removed as fast as they fell. a heavy shot struck the main-mast, scattering the splinters in every direction. he looked upon the devastation around him, and, sternly smiling, said, "this is warm work, and this day may be the last to any of us in a moment. but mark me, i would not be elsewhere for thousands." this was heroic, but it was not noble. it was the love of war, not the love of humanity. it was the spirit of an indian chieftain, not the spirit of a christian washington. the commander-in-chief of the squadron, seeing the appalling carnage, hung out the signal for discontinuing the action. nelson was for a moment deeply agitated, and then exclaimed to a companion, "i have but one eye. i have a right to be blind sometimes." then, putting the glass to his blind eye, he said, "i really don't see the signal. keep mine for closer battle still flying. that is the way i answer such signals. nail mine to the mast." the human mind is so constituted that it must admire heroism. that sentiment is implanted in every generous breast for some good purpose. welmoes, a gallant young dane, but seventeen years of age, stationed himself on a small raft, carrying six guns with twenty-four men, directly under the bows of nelson's ship. the unprotected raft was swept by an incessant storm of bullets from the english marines. knee deep in the dead this fearless stripling continued to keep up his fire to the close of the conflict. the next day, nelson met him at a repast at the palace. admiring the gallantry of his youthful enemy, he embraced him with enthusiasm, exclaiming to the crown prince, "he deserves to be made an admiral." "were i to make all my brave officers admirals," replied the prince, "i should have no captains or lieutenants in my service." by this battle the power of the confederacy was broken. at the same time, the emperor paul was assassinated in his palace, by his nobles, and alexander, his son, ascended the throne. when napoleon heard of the death of paul, it is said that he gave utterance, for the first time in his life, to that irreverent expression, "mon dieu" (_my god_), which is ever upon the lips of every frenchman. he regarded his death as a great calamity to france and to the world. the eccentricities of the emperor amounted almost to madness. but his enthusiastic admiration for napoleon united france and russia in a close alliance. the nobles of russia were much displeased with the democratic equality which napoleon was sustaining in france. they plotted the destruction of the king, and raised alexander to the throne, pledged to a different policy. the young monarch immediately withdrew from the maritime confederacy, and entered into a treaty of peace with england. these events apparently so disastrous to the interests of france, were on the contrary highly conducive to the termination of the war. the english people, weary of the interminable strife, and disgusted with the oceans of blood which had been shed, more and more clamorously demanded peace. and england could now make peace without the mortification of her pride. napoleon was extremely vigilant in sending succor to the army in egypt. he deemed it very essential in order to promote the maritime greatness of france, that egypt should be retained as a colony. his pride was also enlisted in proving to the world that he had not transported forty-six thousand soldiers to egypt in vain. vessels of every description, ships of war, merchantmen, dispatch-boats, sailed almost daily from the various ports of holland, france, spain, italy, and even from the coast of barbary, laden with provisions, european goods, wines, munitions of war, and each taking a file of french newspapers. many of these vessels were captured. others, however, escaped the vigilance of the cruisers, and gave to the colony most gratifying proof of the interest which the first consul took in its welfare. while napoleon was thus daily endeavoring to send partial relief to the army in egypt, he was at the same time preparing a vast expedition to convey thither a powerful reinforcement of troops and materials of war. napoleon assembled this squadron at brest, ostensibly destined for st. domingo. he selected seven of the fastest sailing ships, placed on board of them five thousand men and an ample supply of all those stores most needed in egypt. he ordered that each vessel should contain a complete assortment of every individual article, prepared for the colony, so that in the event of one vessel being captured, the colony would not be destitute of the precise article which that vessel might otherwise have contained. he also, in several other places, formed similar expeditions, hoping thus to distract the attention of england, and compel her to divide her forces to guard all exposed points. taking advantage of this confusion, he was almost certain that some of the vessels would reach egypt. the plan would have been triumphantly successful, as subsequent events proved, had the naval commanders obeyed the instructions of napoleon. a curious instance now occurred, of what may be called the despotism of the first consul. and yet it is not strange that the french people should, under the peculiar circumstances, have respected and loved such despotism. the following order was issued to the minister of police: "citizen minister--have the goodness to address a short circular to the editors of the fourteen journals, forbidding the insertion of any article, calculated to afford the enemy the slightest clew to the different movements which are taking place in our squadrons, unless the intelligence be derived from the official journal." napoleon had previously through the regularly constituted tribunals, suppressed all the journals in paris, but fourteen. the world has often wondered why france so readily yielded to the despotism of napoleon. it was because the french were convinced that dictatorial power was essential to the successful prosecution of the war; and that each act of napoleon was dictated by the most wise and sincere patriotism. they were willing to sacrifice the liberty of the press, that they might obtain victory over their enemies. the condition of england was now truly alarming. nearly all the civilized world was in arms against her. her harvests had been cut off, and a frightful famine ravaged the land. the starving people were rising in different parts of the kingdom, pillaging the magnificent country seats of the english aristocracy, and sweeping in riotous mobs through the cities. the masses in england and in ireland, wretchedly perishing of hunger, clamored loudly against pitt. they alleged that he was the cause of all their calamities--that he had burdened the nation with an enormous debt and with insupportable taxes--that by refusing peace with france, he had drawn all the continental powers into hostility with england, and thus had deprived the people of that food from the continent which was now indispensable for the support of life. the opposition, seeing the power of pitt shaken, redoubled their blows. fox, tiernay, grey, sheridan, and holland renewed their attacks with all the ardor of anticipated success. "why," said they, "did you not make peace with france, when the first consul proposed it before the battle of marengo? why did you not consent to peace, when it was again proposed after that battle? why did you refuse consent to separate negotiation, when napoleon was willing to enter into such without demanding the cessation of hostilities by sea?" they contrasted the distress of england with the prosperity of france. "france," said they, "admirably governed, is at peace with europe. in the eyes of the world, she appears humane, wise, tranquil, evincing the most exemplary moderation after all her victories." with bitter irony they exclaimed, "what have you now to say of this young bonaparte, of this rash youth who, according to the ministerial language, was only doomed to enjoy a brief existence, like his predecessors, so ephemeral, that it did not entitle him to be treated with?" pitt was disconcerted by the number of his enemies, and by the clamors of a famishing people. his proud spirit revolted at the idea of changing his course. he could only reiterate his argument, that if he had not made war against revolutionary france, england would also have been revolutionized. there is an aspect of moral sublimity in the firmness with which this distinguished minister breasted a world in arms. "as to the demand of the neutral powers," said he, "we must envelop ourselves in our flag, and proudly find our grave in the deep, rather than admit the validity of such principles in the maritime code of nations." though pitt still retained his numerical majority in the parliament, the masses of the people were turning with great power against him, and he felt that his position was materially weakened. under these circumstances, pitt, idolized by the aristocracy, execrated by the democracy, took occasion to send in his resignation. the impression seemed to be universal, that the distinguished minister, perceiving that peace must be made with france, temporarily retired, that it might be brought about by others, rather than by himself. he caused himself, however, to be succeeded by mr. addington, a man of no distinguished note, but entirely under his influence. the feeble intellect of the king of england, though he was one of the most worthy and conscientious of men, was unequal to these political storms. a renewed attack of insanity incapacitated him for the functions of royalty. mr. pitt, who had been prime minister for seventeen years, became by this event virtually the king of england, and mr. addington was his minister. napoleon now announced to the world his determination to struggle hand to hand with england, until he had compelled that government to cease to make war against france. conscious of the naval superiority of his foes, he avowed his resolve to cross the channel with a powerful army, march directly upon london, and thus compel the cabinet of st. james's to make peace. it was a desperate enterprise; so desperate that to the present day it is doubted whether napoleon ever seriously contemplated carrying it into effect. it was, however, the only measure napoleon could now adopt. the naval superiority of england was so undeniable, that a maritime war was hopeless. nelson, in command of the fleet of the channel, would not allow even a fishing boat to creep out from a french cove. napoleon was very desirous of securing in his favor the popular opinion of england, and the sympathies of the whole european public. he prepared with his own hand many articles for the "moniteur," which were models of eloquent and urgent polemics, and which elicited admiration from readers in all countries. he wrote in the most respectful and complimentary terms of the new english ministry, representing them as intelligent, upright, and well-intentioned men. he endeavored to assure europe of the unambitious desires of france, and contrasted her readiness to relinquish the conquests which she had made, with the eager grasp with which the english held their enormous acquisitions in india, and in the islands of the sea. with the utmost delicacy, to avoid offending the pride of britain, he affirmed that a descent upon england would be his last resource, that he fully appreciated the bravery and the power of the english, and the desperate risks which he should encounter in such an undertaking. but he declared that there was no other alternative left to him, and that if the english ministers were resolved that the war should not be brought to a close, but by the destruction of one of the two nations, there was not a frenchman who would not make the most desperate efforts to terminate this cruel quarrel to the glory of france. "but why," exclaimed he, in words singularly glowing and beautiful, but of melancholy import, "why place the question on this last resort? wherefore not put an end to the sufferings of humanity? wherefore risk in this manner the lot of two great nations? happy are nations when, having arrived at high prosperity, they have wise governments, which care not to expose advantages so vast, to the caprices and vicissitudes of a single stroke of fortune." these most impressive papers, from the pen of the first consul, remarkable for their vigorous logic and impassioned eloquence, produced a deep impression upon all minds. this conciliatory language was accompanied by the most serious demonstrations of force upon the shores of the channel. one hundred thousand men were upon the coasts of france, in the vicinity of boulogne, preparing for the threatened invasion. boats without number were collected to transport the troops across the narrow channel. it was asserted that by taking advantage of a propitious moment immediately after a storm had scattered the english fleet, france could concentrate such a force as to obtain a temporary command of the channel, and the strait could be crossed by the invaders. england was aroused thoroughly, but not alarmed. the militia was disciplined, the whole island converted into a camp. wagons were constructed for the transportation of troops to any threatened point. it is important that the reader should distinguish this first threat of invasion in , from that far more powerful naval and military organization executed for the same purpose in , and known under the name of the camp of boulogne. not a little uneasiness was felt in england respecting the temporary success of the great conqueror. famine raged throughout the island. business was at a stand. the taxes were enormous. ireland was on the eve of revolt. the mass of the english people admired the character of napoleon; and, notwithstanding all the efforts of the government, regarded him as the foe of aristocracy and the friend of popular rights. nelson, with an invincible armament, was triumphantly sweeping the channel, and a french gun-boat could not creep round a head-land without encountering the vigilance of the energetic hero. napoleon, in escaping from egypt, had caught nelson napping in a lady's lap. the greatest admirers of the naval hero, could not but smile, half-pleased that, under the guilty circumstances, he had met with the misadventure. he was anxious, by a stroke of romantic heroism, to obliterate this impression from the public mind. the vast flotilla of france, most thoroughly manned and armed under the eye of napoleon, was anchored at boulogne, in three divisions, in a line parallel to the shore. just before the break of day on the th of august, the fleet of nelson, in magnificent array, approached the french flotilla, and for sixteen hours rained down upon it a perfect tornado of balls and shells. the gun-boats were, however, chained to one another, and to the shore. he did not succeed in taking a single boat, and retired mortified at his discomfiture, and threatening to return in a few days to take revenge. the french were exceedingly elated that in a naval conflict they had avoided defeat. as they stood there merely upon self-defense, victory was out of the question. the reappearance of nelson was consequently daily expected, and the french, emboldened by success, prepared to give him a warm reception. twelve days after, on the th of august, nelson again appeared with a vastly increased force. in the darkness of the night he filled his boats with picked men, to undertake one of the most desperate enterprises on record. in four divisions, with muffled oars, this forlorn hope, in the silence of midnight, approached the french flotilla. the butchery, with swords, hatchets, bayonets, bullets, and hand grenades, was hideous. both parties fought with perfect fury. no man seemed to have the slightest regard for limb or life. england was fighting for, she knew not what. the french were contending in self-defense. for four long hours of midnight gloom, the slaughter continued. thousands perished. just as the day was dawning upon the horrid scene the english retired, repulsed at every point, and confessing to a defeat. the result of these conflicts diminished the confidence of the english in nelson's ability to destroy the preparations of napoleon, and increased their apprehension that the french might be enabled by some chance, to carry the war of invasion to their own firesides. "i was resolved," said napoleon, afterward, "to renew, at cherbourg, the wonders of egypt. i had already raised in the sea my pyramid. i would also have had my lake mareotis. my great object was to concentrate all our maritime forces, and in time they would have been immense, in order to be able to deal out a grand stroke at the enemy. i was establishing my ground so as to bring the two nations, as it were, body to body. the ultimate issue could not be doubtful; for we had forty millions of french against fifteen millions of english. i would have terminated the strife by a battle of actium." one after another of the obstacles in the way of peace now gradually gave way. overtures were made to napoleon. he accepted the advances of england with the greatest eagerness and cordiality. "peace," said he, "is easily brought about, if england desires it." on the evening of the st of october the preliminaries were signed in london. that very night a courier left england to convey the joyful intelligence to france. he arrived at malmaison, the rural retreat of napoleon, at four o'clock in the afternoon of the next day. at that moment the three consuls were holding a government council. the excitement of joy, in opening the dispatches, was intense. the consuls ceased from their labors, and threw themselves into each other's arms in cordial embraces. napoleon, laying aside all reserve, gave full utterance to the intense joy which filled his bosom. it was for him a proud accomplishment. in two years, by his genius and his indefatigable exertions he had restored internal order to france, and peace to the world. still, even in this moment of triumph, his entire, never wavering devotion to the welfare of france, like a ruling passion strong even in death, rose above his exultation. "now that we have made a treaty of _peace_ with england," said cambaceres, "we must make a treaty of _commerce_, and remove all subjects of dispute between the two countries." napoleon promptly replied, "not so fast! the political peace is made. so much the better. let us enjoy it. as to a commercial peace we will make one, if we can. _but at no price will i sacrifice french industry._ i remember the misery of ." the news had been kept secret in london for twenty-four hours, that the joyful intelligence might be communicated in both capitals at the same time. the popular enthusiasm both in england and france bordered almost upon delirium. it was the repose of the continent. it was general, universal peace. it was opening the world to the commerce of all nations. war spreads over continents the glooms of the world of woe; while peace illumines them with the radiance of heaven. illuminations blazed every where. men, the most phlegmatic, met and embraced each other with tears. the people of england surrendered themselves to the most extraordinary transports of ardor. they loved the french. they adored the hero, the sage, the great pacificator, who governed france. the streets of london resounded with shouts, "long live bonaparte." every stage-coach which ran from london, bore triumphant banners, upon which were inscribed, _peace with france_. the populace of london rushed to the house of the french negotiator. he had just entered his carriage to visit lord hawkesbury, to exchange ratifications. the tumultuous throng of happy men unharnessed his horses and dragged him in triumph, in the delirium of their joy rending the skies with their shouts. the crowd and the rapturous confusion at last became so great that lord vincent, fearing some accident, placed himself at the head of the amiable mob, as it triumphantly escorted and conveyed the carriage from minister to minister. a curious circumstance occurred at the festival in london, highly characteristic of the honest bluntness, resolution, and good nature of english seamen. the house of m. otto, the french minister, was most brilliantly illuminated. attracted by its surpassing splendor a vast crowd of sailors had gathered around. the word _concord_ blazed forth most brilliantly in letters of light. the sailors, not very familiar with the spelling-book, exclaimed, "_conquered!_ not so, by a great deal. that will not do." excitement and dissatisfaction rapidly spread. violence was threatened. m. otto came forward himself most blandly, but his attempts at explanation were utterly fruitless. the offensive word was removed, and _amity_ substituted. the sailors, fully satisfied with the _amende honorable_, gave three cheers and went on their way rejoicing. in france the exultation was, if possible, still greater than in england. the admiration of napoleon, and the confidence in his wisdom and his patriotism were perfectly unbounded. no power was withheld from the first consul which he was willing to assume. the nation placed itself at his feet. all over the continent napoleon received the honorable title of "_the hero pacificator of europe_." and yet there was a strong under-current to this joy. napoleon was the favorite, not of the nobles, but of the people. even his acts of despotic authority were most cordially sustained by the people of france, for they believed that such acts were essential for the promotion of their welfare. "the ancient privileged classes and the foreign cabinets," said napoleon, "hate me worse than they did robespierre." the hosannas with which the name of bonaparte was resounding through the cities and the villages of england fell gloomily upon the ears of mr. pitt and his friends. the freedom of the seas was opening to the energetic genius of napoleon, an unobstructed field for the maritime aggrandizement of france. the british minister knew that the sleepless energies of napoleon would, as with a magician's wand, call fleets into existence to explore all seas. sorrowfully he contemplated a peace to which the popular voice had compelled him to yield, and which in his judgment boded no good to the naval superiority of england. it was agreed that the plenipotentiaries, to settle the treaty definitively, should meet at amiens, an intermediate point midway between london and paris. the english appointed as their minister lord cornwallis. the americans, remembering this distinguished general at brandywine, camden, and at the surrender of yorktown, have been in the habit of regarding him as an enemy. but he was a gallant soldier, and one of the most humane, high-minded, and estimable of men. frankly he avowed his conviction that the time had arrived for terminating the miseries of the world by peace. napoleon has paid a noble tribute to the integrity, urbanity, sagacity, and unblemished honor of lord cornwallis. joseph bonaparte was appointed by the first consul embassador on the part of france. the suavity of his manners, the gentleness of his disposition, his enlightened and liberal political views, and the christian morality which, in those times of general corruption, embellished his conduct, peculiarly adapted him to fulfill the duties of a peace-maker. among the terms of the treaty it was agreed that france should abandon her colony in egypt, as endangering the english possessions in india. in point of fact, the french soldiers had already, by capitulation, agreed to leave egypt, but tidings of the surrender had not then reached england or france. the most important question in these deliberations was the possession of the island of malta. the power in possession of that impregnable fortress had command of the mediterranean. napoleon insisted upon it, as a point important above all others, that england should not retain malta. he was willing to relinquish all claim to it himself, and to place it in the hands of a neutral power; but he declared his unalterable determination that he could by no possibility consent that it should remain in the hands of england. at last england yielded, and agreed to evacuate malta, and that it should be surrendered to the knights of st. john. this pacification, so renowned in history both for its establishment and for its sudden and disastrous rupture, has ever been known by the name of the peace of amiens. napoleon determined to celebrate the joyful event by a magnificent festival. the th of november, , was the appointed day. it was the anniversary of napoleon's attainment of the consular power. friendly relations having been thus restored between the two countries, after so many years of hostility and carnage, thousands of the english flocked across the channel and thronged the pavements of paris. all were impatient to see france, thus suddenly emerging from such gloom into such unparalleled brilliancy; and especially to see the man, who at that moment was the admiration of england and of the world. the joy which pervaded all classes invested this festival with sublimity. with a delicacy of courtesy characteristic of the first consul, no carriages but those of lord cornwallis were allowed in the streets on that day. the crowd of parisians, with most cordial and tumultuous acclamations, opened before the representative of the armies of england. the illustrious fox was one of the visitors on this occasion. he was received by napoleon with the utmost consideration, and with the most delicate attentions. in passing through the gallery of sculpture, his lady pointed his attention to his own statue filling a niche by the side of washington and brutus. "fame," said napoleon, "had informed me of the talents of fox. i soon found that he possessed a noble character, a good heart, liberal, generous, and enlightened views. i considered him an ornament to mankind, and was much attached to him." every one who came into direct personal contact with the first consul at this time, was charmed with his character. nine deputies from switzerland, the most able men the republic could furnish, were appointed to meet napoleon, respecting the political arrangements of the swiss cantons. punctual to the hour the first consul entered a neat spacious room, where there was a long table covered with green baize. dr. jones of bristol, the intimate friend of several of these deputies, and who was with them in paris at the time, thus describes the interview. "the first consul entered, followed by two of his ministers, and after the necessary salutation, sat down at the head of the table, his ministers on each side of him. the deputies then took their seats. he spread out before them a large map as necessary to the subject of their deliberations. he then requested that they would state freely any objection which might occur to them in the plan which he should propose. they availed themselves of the liberty, and suggested several alterations which they deemed advantageous to france and switzerland. but from the prompt, clear, and unanswerable reasons which napoleon gave in reply to all their objections, he completely convinced them of the wisdom of his plans. after an animated discussion of _ten hours_, they candidly admitted that he was better acquainted with the local circumstances of the swiss cantons, and with what would secure their welfare than they were themselves. during the whole discussion his ministers did not speak one word. the deputies afterward declared that it was their decided opinion that napoleon was the most extraordinary man whom they had met in modern times, or of whom they had read in ancient history." said m. constant and m. sismondi, who both knew napoleon well, "the quickness of his conception, the depth of his remarks, the facility and propriety of his eloquence, and above all the candor of his replies and his patient silence, were more remarkable and attractive than we ever met with in any other individual." "what your interests require," said napoleon, at this time, "is: . equality of rights among the whole eighteen cantons. . a sincere and voluntary renunciation of all exclusive privileges on the part of patrician families. . a federative organization, where every canton may find itself arranged according to its language, its religion, its manners, and its interests. the central government remains to be provided for, but it is of much less consequence than the central organization. situated on the summit of the mountains which separate france, italy, and germany, you participate in the disposition of all these countries. you have never maintained regular armies, nor had established, accredited agents at the courts of the different governments. strict neutrality, a prosperous commerce, and family administration, can alone secure your interests, or be suited to your wishes. every organization which could be established among you, hostile to the interests of france, would injure you in the most essential particulars." this was commending to them a federative organization similar to that of the united states, and _cautioning them against the evil of a centralization of power_. no impartial man can deny that the most profound wisdom marked the principles which napoleon suggested to terminate the divisions with which the cantons of switzerland had long been agitated. "these lenient conditions," says alison, "gave universal satisfaction in switzerland." the following extract from the noble speech which napoleon pronounced on the formation of the constitution of the confederacy, will be read by many with surprise, by all with interest. "the re-establishment of the ancient order of things in the democratic cantons is the best course which can be adopted, both for you and me. they are the states whose peculiar form of government render them so interesting in the eyes of all europe. but for this pure democracy you would exhibit nothing which is not to be found elsewhere. _beware of extinguishing so remarkable a distinction._ i know well that this democratic system of administration has many inconveniences. but it is established. it has existed for centuries. it springs from the circumstances, situation, and primitive habits of the people, from the genius of the place, and can not with safety be abandoned. you must never take away from a democratic society the practical exercise of its privileges. to give such exercise a direction consistent with the tranquillity of the state is the part of true political wisdom. in ancient rome the votes were counted by classes, and they threw into the last class the whole body of indigent citizens, while the first contained only a few hundred of the most opulent. but the populace were content, and, amused with the solicitation of their votes, did not perceive the immense difference in their relative value." the moral influence which france thus obtained in switzerland was regarded with extreme jealousy by all the rival powers. says alison, who, though imbued most strongly with monarchical and aristocratic predilections, is the most appreciative and impartial of the historians of napoleon, "his conduct and language on this occasion, were distinguished by his usual penetration and ability, and a most unusual degree of lenity and forbearance. and if any thing could have reconciled the swiss to the loss of their independence, it must have been the wisdom and equity on which his mediation was founded." the english who visited paris, were astonished at the indications of prosperity which the metropolis exhibited. they found france in a very different condition from the hideous picture which had been described by the london journals. but there were two parties in england. pitt and his friends submitted with extreme reluctance to a peace which they could not avoid. says alison, "but while these were the natural feelings of the inconsiderate populace, who are ever governed by present impressions, and who were for the most part destitute of the information requisite to form a rational opinion on the subject, there were many men, gifted with greater sagacity and foresight, who deeply lamented the conditions by which peace had been purchased, and from the very first prophesied that it could be of no long endurance. they observed that the war had been abruptly terminated, without any one object being gained for which it was undertaken; that it was entered into in order to curb the ambition, and to stop the democratic propagandism of france." these "many men gifted with greater sagacity," with william pitt at their head, now employed themselves with sleepless vigilance and with fatal success to bring to a rupture a peace which they deemed so untoward. sir walter scott discloses the feelings with which this party were actuated, in the observations, "it seems more than probable that the extreme rejoicing of the rabble of london, at signing the preliminaries, their dragging about the carriage of lauriston, and shouting 'bonaparte forever,' had misled the ruler of france into an opinion that peace was indispensably necessary to england. he may easily enough have mistaken the cries of a london mob for the voice of the british people." in the midst of all these cares, napoleon was making strenuous efforts to restore religion to france. it required great moral courage to prosecute such a movement. nearly all the generals in his armies were rank infidels, regarding every form of religion with utter contempt. the religious element, by _nature_, predominated in the bosom of napoleon. he was constitutionally serious, thoughtful, pensive. a profound melancholy ever overshadowed his reflective spirit. his inquisitive mind pondered the mysteries of the past and the uncertainties of the future. educated in a wild country, where the peasantry were imbued with religious feelings, and having been trained by a pious mother, whose venerable character he never ceased to adore, the sight of the hallowed rites of religion revived in his sensitive and exalted imagination the deepest impressions of his childhood. he had carefully studied, on his return from egypt, the new testament, and appreciated and profoundly admired its beautiful morality. he often conversed with monge, lagrange, laplace, sages whom he honored and loved, and he frequently embarrassed them in their incredulity, by the logical clearness of his arguments. the witticisms of voltaire, and the corruptions of unbridled sin, had rendered the purity of the gospel unpalatable to france. talleyrand, annoyed by the remembrance of his own apostasy, bitterly opposed what he called "the religious peace." nearly all the supporters and friends of the first consul condemned every effort to bring back that which they denominated the reign of superstition. napoleon honestly believed that the interests of france demanded that god should be recognized and christianity respected by the french nation. "hear me," said napoleon one day earnestly to monge. "i do not maintain these opinions through the positiveness of a devotee, but from reason. my religion is very simple. i look at this universe, so vast, so complex, so magnificent, and i say to myself that it can not be the result of chance, but the work, however intended, of an unknown, omnipotent being, as superior to man as the universe is superior to the finest machines of human invention. search the philosophers, and you will not find a more decisive argument, and you can not weaken it. but this truth is too succinct for man. he wishes to know, respecting himself and respecting his future destiny, a crowd of secrets which the universe does not disclose. allow religion to inform him of that which he feels the need of knowing, and respect her disclosures." one day when this matter was under earnest discussion in the council of state, napoleon said, "last evening i was walking alone, in the woods, amid the solitude of nature. the tones of a distant church bell fell upon my ear. involuntarily i felt deep emotion. so powerful is the influence of early habits and associations. i said to myself, if i feel thus, what must be the influence of such impressions upon the popular mind? let your philosophers answer that, if they can. it is absolutely indispensable to have a religion for the people. it will be said that i am a papist. i am not. i am convinced that a part of france would become protestant, were i to favor that disposition. i am also certain that the much greater portion would continue catholic; and that they would oppose, with the greatest zeal, the division among their fellow-citizens. we should then have the huguenot wars over again, and interminable conflicts. but by reviving a religion which has always prevailed in the country, and by giving perfect liberty of conscience to the minority, all will be satisfied." on another occasion he remarked, "what renders me most hostile to the establishment of the catholic worship, are the numerous festivals formerly observed. a saint's-day is a day of idleness, and i do not wish for that. people must labor in order to live. i shall consent to four holidays during the year, but to no more. if the gentlemen from rome are not satisfied with that, they may take their departure." the loss of time appeared to him such a calamity, that he almost invariably appointed any indispensable celebration upon some day previously devoted to festivity. the new pontiff was attached to napoleon by the secret chain of mutual sympathy. they had met, as we have before remarked, during the wars of italy. pius vii., then the bishop of imola, was surprised and delighted in finding in the young republican general, whose fame was filling europe, a man of refinement, of exalted genius, of reflection, of serious character, of unblemished purity of life, and of delicate sensibilities, restraining the irreligious propensities of his soldiers, and respecting the temples of religion. with classic purity and eloquence he spoke the italian language. the dignity and decorum of his manners, and his love of order, were strangely contrasted with the recklessness of the ferocious soldiers with whom he was surrounded. the impression thus produced upon the heart of the pontiff was never effaced. justice and generosity are always politic. but he must indeed be influenced by an ignoble spirit who hence infers, that every act of magnanimity is dictated by policy. a legate was sent by the pope to paris. "let the holy father," said napoleon, "put the utmost confidence in me. let him cast himself into my arms, and i will be for the church another charlemagne." napoleon had collected for himself a religious library of well chosen books, relating to the organization and the history of the church, and to the relations of church and state. he had ordered the latin writings of bossuet to be translated for him. these works he had devoured in those short intervals which he could glean from the cares of government. his genius enabled him, at a glance, to master the argument of an author, to detect any existing sophistry. his memory, almost miraculously retentive, and the philosophical cast of his mind, gave him at all times the perfect command of these treasures of knowledge. he astonished the world by the accuracy, extent, and variety of his information upon all points of religion. it was his custom, when deeply interested in any subject, to discuss it with all persons from whom he could obtain information. with clear, decisive, and cogent arguments he advocated his own views, and refuted the erroneous systems successively proposed to him. it was urged upon napoleon, that if he must have a church, he should establish a french church, independent of that of rome. the poetic element was too strong in the character of napoleon for such a thought. "what!" he exclaimed, "shall i, a warrior, wearing sword and spurs, and doing battle, attempt to become the head of a church, and to regulate church discipline and doctrine. i wish to be the pacificator of france and of the world, and shall i become the originator of a new schism, a little more absurd and not less dangerous than the preceding ones. i must have a pope, and a pope who will approximate men's minds to each other, instead of creating divisions; who will reunite them, and give them to the government sprung from the revolution, as a price for the protection that he shall have obtained from it. for this purpose i must have the true pope, the catholic, apostolic, and roman pope, whose seat is at the vatican. with the french armies and some deference, i shall always be sufficiently his master. when i shall raise up the altars again, when i shall protect the priests, when i shall feed them, and treat them as ministers of religion deserve to be treated in every country, he will do what i ask of him, through the interest he will have in the general tranquillity. he will calm men's minds, reunite them under his hand, and place them under mine. short of this there is only a continuation and an aggravation of the desolating schism which is preying on us, and for me an immense and indelible ridicule." the pope's legate most strenuously urged some of the most arrogant and exclusive assumptions of the papal church. "the french people must be allured back to religion," said napoleon, "not shocked. to declare the catholic religion _the religion of the state_ is impossible. it is contrary to the ideas prevalent in france, and will never be admitted. in place of this declaration we can only substitute the avowal of the fact, _that the catholic religion is the religion of the majority of frenchmen_. but there must be perfect freedom of opinion. the amalgamation of wise and honest men of all parties is the principle of my government. i must apply that principle to the church as well as to the state. it is the only way of putting an end to the troubles of france, and i shall persist in it undeviatingly." napoleon was overjoyed at the prospect, not only of a general peace with europe, but of religious peace in france. in all the rural districts, the inhabitants longed for their churches and their pastors, and for the rites of religion. in the time of the directory, a famous wooden image of the virgin had been taken from the church at loretto, and was deposited in one of the museums of paris, as a curiosity. the sincere catholics were deeply wounded and irritated by this act, which to them appeared so sacrilegious. great joy was caused both in france and italy, when napoleon sent a courier to the pope, restoring this statue, which was regarded with very peculiar veneration. the same embassador carried the terms of agreement for peace with the church. this religious treaty with rome was called "the concordat." the pope, in secular power, was helpless. napoleon could, at any moment, pour a resistless swarm of troops into his territories. as the french embassador left the tuileries, he asked the first consul for his instructions. "treat the pope," said napoleon, magnanimously, "as if he had two hundred thousand soldiers." the difficulties in the way of an amicable arrangement were innumerable. the army of france was thoroughly infidel. most of the leading generals and statesmen who surrounded napoleon, contemplated christianity in every aspect with hatred and scorn. on the other hand, the catholic church, uninstructed by misfortune, was not disposed to abate in the least its arrogant demands, and was clamorous for concessions which even napoleon had not power to confer. it required all the wisdom, forbearance, and tact of the first consul to accomplish this reconciliation. joseph bonaparte, the accomplished gentleman, the sincere, urbane, sagacious, upright man, was napoleon's _corps de reserve_ in all diplomatic acts. the preliminaries being finally adjusted, the pope's legation met at the house of joseph bonaparte, and on the th of july, , this great act was signed. napoleon announced the event to the council of state. he addressed them in a speech an hour and a half in length, and all were struck with the precision, the vigor, and the loftiness of his language. by universal consent his speech was pronounced to be eloquent in the highest degree. but those philosophers, who regarded it as the great glory of the revolution, that all superstition, by which they meant all religion, was swept away, in sullen silence yielded to a power which they could not resist. the people, the millions of france, were with napoleon. the following liberal and noble sentiments were uttered in the proclamation by which napoleon announced the concordat to the french people: "an insane policy has sought, during the revolution, to smother religious dissensions under the ruins of the altar, under the ashes of religion itself. at its voice all those pious solemnities ceased, in which the citizens called each other by the endearing name of brothers, and acknowledged their common equality in the sight of heaven. the dying, left alone in his agonies, no longer heard that consoling voice, which calls the christian to a better world. god himself seemed exiled from the face of nature. ministers of the religion of peace, let a complete oblivion vail over your dissensions, your misfortunes, your faults. let the religion which unites you, bind you by indissoluble cords to the interests of your country. let the young learn from your precepts, that the god of peace is also the god of arms, and that he throws his shield over those who combat for the liberties of france. citizens of the protestant faith, the law has equally extended its solicitude to your interests. let the morality, so pure, so holy, so brotherly, which you profess, unite you all in love to your country, and in respect for its laws; and, above all, never permit disputes on doctrinal points to weaken that universal charity which religion at once inculcates and commands." to foreign nations the spectacle of france, thus voluntarily returning to the christian faith, was gratifying in the highest degree. it seemed to them the pledge of peace and the harbinger of tranquillity. the emperor of russia, and the king of prussia publicly expressed their joy at the auspicious event. the emperor of austria styled it "a service truly rendered to all europe." the serious and devout, in all lands, considered the voluntary return of the french people to religion, from the impossibility of living without its precepts, as one of the most signal triumphs of the christian faith. on the th of april, , the event was celebrated by a magnificent religious ceremony in the cathedral of nôtre dame. no expense was spared to invest the festivity with the utmost splendor. though many of the generals and the high authorities of the state were extremely reluctant to participate in the solemnities of the occasion, the power and the popularity of the first consul were so great, that they dared not make any resistance. the cathedral was crowded with splendor. the versatile populace, ever delighted with change and with shows, were overjoyed. general rapp, however, positively refused to attend the ceremony. with the bluntness of a soldier, conscious that his well-known devotion to the first consul would procure for him impunity, he said, "i shall not attend. but if you do not make these priests your aids or your cooks, you may do with them as you please." as napoleon was making preparations to go to the cathedral, cambaceres entered his apartment. "well," said the first consul, rubbing his hands in the glow of his gratification, "we go to church this morning. what say they to that in paris?" "many persons," replied cambaceres, "propose to attend the first representation in order to hiss the piece, should they not find it amusing." "if any one," napoleon firmly replied, "takes it into his head to hiss, i shall put him out of the door by the grenadiers of the consular guard." "but what if the grenadiers themselves," cambaceres rejoined, "should take to hissing, like the rest?" "as to that i have no fear," said napoleon. "my old mustaches will go here to notre dame, just as at cairo, they would have gone to the mosque. they will remark how i do, and seeing their general grave and decent, they will be so, too, passing the watchword to each other, _decency_." "what did you think of the ceremony?" inquired napoleon of general delmas, who stood near him, when it was concluded. "it was a fine piece of mummery," he replied; "nothing was wanting but the million of men who have perished to destroy that which you have now re-established." some of the priests, encouraged by this triumphant restoration of christianity, began to assume not a little arrogance. a celebrated opera dancer died, not in the faith. the priest of st. roche refused to receive the body into the church, or to celebrate over it the rites of interment. the next day napoleon caused the following article to be inserted in the _moniteur_. "the curate of st. roche, in a moment of hallucination, has refused the rites of burial to mademoiselle cameroi. one of his colleagues, a man of sense, received the procession into the church of st. thomas, where the burial service was performed with the usual solemnities. the archbishop of paris has suspended the curate of st. roche for three months, to give him time to recollect that jesus christ commanded us to pray even for our enemies. being thus recalled by meditation to a proper sense of his duties, he may learn that all these superstitious observances, the offspring of an age of credulity or of crazed imaginations, tend only to the discredit of true religion, and have been proscribed by the recent concordat of the french church." the most strenuous exertions were made by the clergy to induce napoleon publicly to partake of the sacrament of the lord's supper. it was thought that his high example would be very influential upon others. napoleon nobly replied, "i have not sufficient faith in the ordinance to be benefited by its reception; and i have too much faith in it to allow me to be guilty of sacrilege. we are well as we are. do not ask me to go farther. you will never obtain what you wish. i will not become a hypocrite. be content with what you have already gained." it is difficult to describe the undisguised delight with which the peasants all over france again heard the ringing of the church-bells upon the sabbath morning, and witnessed the opening of the church-doors, the assembling of the congregations with smiles and congratulations, and the repose of the sabbath. mr. fox, in conversation with napoleon, after the peace of amiens, ventured to blame him for not having authorized the marriage of priests in france. "i then had," said napoleon, in his nervous eloquence, "need to pacify. it is with water and not with oil that you must extinguish theological volcanoes. i should have had less difficulty in establishing the protestant religion in my empire." the magistrates of paris, grateful for the inestimable blessings which napoleon had conferred upon france, requested him to accept the project of a triumphal monument to be erected in his honor at a cost of one hundred thousand dollars. napoleon gave the following reply. "i view with grateful acknowledgments those sentiments which actuate the magistrates of the city of paris. the idea of dedicating monumental trophies to those men who have rendered themselves useful to the community is a praiseworthy action in all nations. i accept the offer of the monument which you desire to dedicate to me. let the spot be designated. but leave the labor of constructing it to future generations, should they think fit thus to sanction the estimate which you place upon my services." there was an indescribable fascination about the character of napoleon, which no other man ever possessed, and which all felt who entered his presence. some military officers of high rank, on one occasion, in these days of his early power, agreed to go and remonstrate with him upon some subject which had given them offense. one of the party thus describes the interview. "i do not know whence it arises, but there is a charm about that man, which is indescribable and irresistible. i am no admirer of him. i dislike the power to which he has risen. yet i can not help confessing that there is a something in him, which seems to speak that he is born to command. we went into his apartment determined to declare our minds to him very freely; to expostulate with him warmly, and not to depart till our subjects of complaint were removed. but in his manner of receiving us, there was a certain something, a degree of fascination, which disarmed us in a moment; nor could we utter one word of what we had intended to say. he talked to us for a long time, with an eloquence peculiarly his own, explaining, with the utmost clearness and precision, the necessity for steadily pursuing the line of conduct he had adopted. without contradicting us in direct terms, he controverted our opinions so ably, that we had not a word to say in reply. we left him, having done nothing else but listen to him, instead of expostulating with him; and fully convinced, at least for the moment, that he was in the right, and that we were in the wrong." the merchants of rouen experienced a similar fascination, when they called to remonstrate against some commercial regulations which napoleon had introduced. they were so entirely disarmed by his frankness, his sincerity, and were so deeply impressed by the extent and the depth of his views, that they retired, saying, "the first consul understands our interests far better than we do ourselves." "the man," says lady morgan, "who, at the head of a vast empire, could plan great and lasting works, conquer nations, and yet talk astronomy with la place, tragedy with talma, music with cherubini, painting with gerrard, _vertu_ with denon, and literature and science with any one who would listen to him, was certainly out of the roll of common men." napoleon now exerted all his energies for the elevation of france. he sought out and encouraged talent wherever it could be found. no merit escaped his princely munificence. authors, artists, men of science were loaded with honors and emoluments. he devoted most earnest attention to the education of youth. the navy, commerce, agriculture, manufactures, and all mechanic arts, secured his assiduous care. he labored to the utmost, and with a moral courage above all praise, to discountenance whatever was loose in morals, or enervating or unmanly in amusements or taste. the theatre was the most popular source of entertainment in france. he frowned upon all frivolous and immodest performances, and encouraged those only which were moral, grave, and dignified. in the grandeur of tragedy alone he took pleasure. in his private deportment he exhibited the example of a moral, simple, and toilsome life. among the forty millions of france, there was not to be found a more temperate and laborious man. when nights of labor succeeded days of toil, his only stimulus was lemonade. he loved his own family and friends, and was loved by them with a fervor which soared into the regions of devotion. never before did mortal man secure such love. thousands were ready at any moment to lay down their lives through their affection for him. and that mysterious charm was so strong that it has survived his death. thousands now live who would brave death in any form from love for napoleon. peculiar habits of distinguished authors. among the curious facts which we find in perusing the biographies of great men, are the circumstances connected with the composition of the works which have made them immortal. for instance, bossuet composed his grand sermons on his knees; bulwer wrote his first novels in full dress, scented; milton, before commencing his great work, invoked the influence of the holy spirit, and prayed that his lips might be touched with a live coal from off the altar; chrysostom meditated and studied while contemplating a painting of saint paul. bacon knelt down before composing his great work, and prayed for light from heaven. pope never could compose well without first declaiming for some time at the top of his voice, and thus rousing his nervous system to its fullest activity. bentham composed after playing a prelude on the organ, or while taking his "ante-jentacular" and "post-prandial" walks in his garden--the same, by the way, that milton occupied. saint bernard composed his meditations amidst the woods; he delighted in nothing so much as the solitude of the dense forest, finding there, he said, something more profound and suggestive than any thing he could find in books. the storm would sometimes fall upon him there, without for a moment interrupting his meditations. camoens composed his verses with the roar of battle in his ears; for, the portuguese poet was a soldier, and a brave one, though a poet. he composed others of his most beautiful verses, at the time when his indian slave was begging a subsistence for him in the streets. tasso wrote his finest pieces in the lucid intervals of madness. rousseau wrote his works early in the morning; le sage at mid-day; byron at midnight. hardouin rose at four in the morning, and wrote till late at night. aristotle was a tremendous worker; he took little sleep, and was constantly retrenching it. he had a contrivance by which he awoke early, and to awake was with him to commence work. demosthenes passed three months in a cavern by the sea-side, in laboring to overcome the defects of his voice. there he read, studied, and declaimed. rabelais composed his life of _gargantua_ at bellay, in the company of roman cardinals, and under the eyes of the bishop of paris. la fontaine wrote his fables chiefly under the shade of a tree, and sometimes by the side of racine and boileau. pascal wrote most of his thoughts on little scraps of paper, at his by-moments. fenelon wrote his _telemachus_ in the palace of versailles, at the court of the grand monarque, when discharging the duties of tutor to the dauphin. that a book so thoroughly democratic should have issued from such a source, and been written by a priest, may seem surprising. de quesnay first promulgated his notion of universal freedom of person and trade, and of throwing all taxes on the land--the germ, perhaps, of the french revolution--in the _boudoir_ of madame de pompadour! luther, when studying, always had his dog lying at his feet--a dog he had brought from wartburg, and of which he was very fond. an ivory crucifix stood on the table before him, and the walls of his study were stuck round with caricatures of the pope. he worked at his desk for days together without going out; but when fatigued, and the ideas began to stagnate in his brain, he would take his flute or his guitar with him into the porch, and there execute some musical fantasy (for he was a skillful musician), when the ideas would flow upon him again as fresh as flowers after summer's rain. music was his invariable solace at such times. indeed luther did not hesitate to say, that after theology, music was the first of arts. "music," said he, "is the art of the prophets; it is the only other art, which, like theology, can calm the agitation of the soul, and put the devil to flight." next to music, if not before it, luther loved children and flowers. that great gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman's. calvin studied in his bed. every morning at five or six o'clock, he had books, manuscripts, and papers, carried to him there, and he worked on for hours together. if he had occasion to go out, on his return he undressed and went to bed again to continue his studies. in his later years he dictated his writings to secretaries. he rarely corrected any thing. the sentences issued complete from his mouth. if he felt his facility of composition leaving him, he forthwith quitted his bed, gave up writing and composing, and went about his out-door duties for days, weeks, and months together. but so soon as he felt the inspiration fall upon him again, he went back to his bed, and his secretary set to work forthwith. cujas, another learned man, used to study when laid all his length upon the carpet, his face toward the floor, and there he reveled amidst piles of books which accumulated about him. the learned amyot never studied without the harpsichord beside him; and he only quitted the pen to play it. bentham, also, was extremely fond of the piano-forte, and had one in nearly every room in his house. richelieu amused himself in the intervals of his labor, with a squadron of cats, of whom he was very fond. he used to go to bed at eleven at night, and after sleeping three hours, rise and write, dictate or work, till from six to eight o'clock in the morning, when his daily levee was held. this worthy student displayed an extravagance equaling that of wolsey. his annual expenditure was some four millions of francs, or about £ , sterling! how different the fastidious temperance of milton! he drank water and lived on the humblest fare. in his youth he studied during the greatest part of the night; but in his more advanced years he went early to bed--by nine o'clock--rising to his studies at four in summer and five in winter. he studied till mid-day; then he took an hour's exercise, and after dinner he sang and played the organ, or listened to others' music. he studied again till six, and from that hour till eight he engaged in conversation with friends who came to see him. then he supped, smoked a pipe of tobacco, drank a glass of water, and went to bed. glorious visions came to him in the night, for it was then, while lying on his couch, that he composed in thought the greater part of his sublime poem. sometimes when the fit of composition came strong upon him, he would summon his daughter to his side, to commit to paper that which he had composed. milton was of opinion that the verses composed by him between the autumnal and spring equinoxes were always the best, and he was never satisfied with the verses he had written at any other season. alfieri, on the contrary, said that the equinoctial winds produced a state of almost "complete stupidity" in him. like the nightingales he could only sing in summer. it was his favorite season. pierre corneille, in his loftiest flights of imagination, was often brought to a stand-still for want of words and rhyme. thoughts were seething in his brain, which he vainly tried to reduce to order, and he would often run to his brother thomas "for a word." thomas rarely failed him. sometimes, in his fits of inspiration, he would bandage his eyes, throw himself on a sofa, and dictate to his wife, who almost worshiped his genius. thus he would pass whole days, dictating to her his great tragedies; his wife scarcely venturing to speak, almost afraid to breathe. afterward, when a tragedy was finished, he would call in his sister martha, and submit it to her judgment; as moliere used to consult his old housekeeper about the comedies he had newly written. racine composed his verses while walking about, reciting them in a loud voice. one day, when thus working at his play of _mithridates_, in the tuileries gardens, a crowd of workmen gathered around him, attracted by his gestures; they took him to be a madman about to throw himself into the basin. on his return home from such walks, he would write down scene by scene, at first in prose, and when he had thus written it out, he would exclaim, "my tragedy is done," considering the dressing of the acts up in verse as a very small affair. magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the duke of tuscany, on the contrary, never stirred abroad, but lived amidst books, and almost lived upon books. they were his bed, board, and washing. he passed eight-and-forty years in their midst, only twice in the course of his life venturing beyond the walls of florence; once to go two leagues off, and the other time three and a half leagues, by order of the grand duke. he was an extremely frugal man, living upon eggs, bread, and water, in great moderation. the life of liebnitz was one of reading, writing, and meditation. that was the secret of his prodigious knowledge. after an attack of gout, he confined himself to a diet of bread and milk. often he slept in a chair; and rarely went to bed till after midnight. sometimes he was months without quitting his seat, where he slept by night and wrote by day. he had an ulcer in his right leg which prevented his walking about, even had he wished to do so. the chamber in which montesquieu wrote his _spirit of the laws_, is still shown at his old ancestral mansion; hung about with its old tapestry and curtains; and the old easy chair in which the philosopher sat is still sacredly preserved there. the chimney-jamb bears the mark of his foot, where he used to rest upon it, his legs crossed, when composing his books. his _persian letters_ were composed merely for pastime, and were never intended for publication. the principles of laws occupied his life. in the study of these he spent twenty years, losing health and eye-sight in the pursuit. as in the case of milton, his daughter read for him, and acted as his secretary. in his portrait of himself, he said--"i awake in the morning rejoiced at the sight of day. i see the sun with a kind of ecstasy, and for the rest of the day i am content. i pass the night without waking, and in the evening when i go to bed, a kind of numbness prevents me indulging in reflections. with me, study has been the sovereign remedy against disgust of life, having never had any vexation which an hour's reading has not dissipated. but i have the disease of making books, and of being ashamed when i have made them." rousseau had the greatest difficulty in composing his works, being extremely defective in the gift of memory. he could never learn six verses by heart. in his _confessions_ he says--"i studied and meditated in bed, forming sentences with inconceivable difficulty; then, when i thought i had got them into shape, i would rise to put them on paper. but lo! i often entirely forgot them during the process of dressing!" he would then walk abroad to refresh himself by the aspect of nature, and under its influence his most successful writings were composed. he was always leaving books which he carried about with him at the foot of trees, or by the margin of fountains. he sometimes wrote his books over from beginning to end, four or five times, before giving them to the press. some of his sentences cost him four or five nights' study. he thought with difficulty, and wrote with still greater. it is astonishing that, with such a kind of intellect, he should have been able to do so much. the summer study of the famous buffon, at montbar, is still shown, just as he left it. it is a little room in a pavilion, reached by mounting a ladder, through a green door with two folds. the place looks simplicity itself. the apartment is vaulted like some old chapel, and the walls are painted green. the floor is paved with tiles. a writing-table of plain wood stands in the centre, and before it is an easy chair. that is all! the place was the summer study of buffon. in winter, he had a warmer room within his house, where he wrote his _natural history_. there, on his desk, his pen still lies, and by the side of it, on his easy chair, his red dressing-gown and cap of gray silk. on the wall near to where he sat, hangs an engraved portrait of newton. there, and in his garden cabinet, he spent many years of his life, studying and writing books. he studied his work entitled _epoques de la nature_ for fifty years, and wrote it over _eighteen times_ before publishing it! what would our galloping authors say to that? buffon used to work on pages of five distinct columns, like a ledger. in the first column he wrote out the first draught; in the second he corrected, added, pruned, and improved; thus proceeding until he had reached the fifth column, in which he finally wrote out the result of his labor. but this was not all. he would sometimes re-write a sentence twenty times, and was once fourteen hours in finding the proper word for the turning of a period! buffon knew nearly all his works by heart. on the contrary, cuvier never re-copied what he had once written. he composed with great rapidity, correctness, and precision. his mind was always in complete order, and his memory was exact and extensive. some writers have been prodigiously laborious in the composition of their works. cæsar had, of course, an immense multiplicity of business, as a general, to get through; but he had always a secretary by his side, even when on horseback, to whom he dictated; and often he occupied two or three secretaries at once. his famous _commentaries_ are said to have been composed mostly on horseback. seneca was very laborious. "i have not a single idle day," said he, describing his life, "and i give a part of every night to study. i do not give myself up to sleep, but succumb to it. i have separated myself from society, and renounced all the distractions of life." with many of these old heathens, study was their religion. pliny the elder read two thousand volumes in the composition of his natural history. how to find time for this? he managed it by devoting his days to business and his nights to study. he had books read to him while he was at meals; and he read no book without making extracts. his nephew, pliny the younger, has given a highly interesting account of the intimate and daily life of his uncle. origen employed seven writers while composing his _commentaries_, who committed to paper what he dictated to them by turns. he was so indefatigable in writing that they gave him the name of _brass bowels_! like philip de comines, sully used to dictate to four secretaries at a time, without difficulty. bossuet left _fifty volumes_ of writings behind him, the result of unintermitting labor. the pen rarely quitted his fingers. writing became habitual to him, and he even chose it as a relaxation. a night-lamp was constantly lit beside him, and he would rise at all hours to resume his meditations. he rose at about four o'clock in the morning during summer and winter, wrapped himself in his loose dress of bear's skin, and set to work. he worked on for hours, until he felt fatigued, and then went to bed again, falling asleep at once. this life he led for more than twenty years. as he grew older, and became disabled for hard work, he began translating the psalms into verse, to pass time. in the intervals of fatigue and pain, he read and corrected his former works. some writers composed with great rapidity, others slowly and with difficulty. byron said of himself, that though he felt driven to write, and he was in a state of torture until he had fairly delivered himself of what he had to say, yet that writing never gave him any pleasure, but was felt to be a severe labor. scott, on the contrary, possessed the most extraordinary facility; and dashed off a great novel of three volumes in about the same number of weeks. "i have written _catiline_ in eight days," said voltaire; "and i immediately commenced the _henriade_." voltaire was a most impatient writer, and usually had the first half of a work set up in type before the second half was written. he always had several works in the course of composition at the same time. his manner of preparing a work was peculiar. he had his first sketch of a tragedy set up in type, and then rewrote it from the proofs. balzac adopted the same plan. the printed form enabled them to introduce effects, and correct errors more easily. pascal wrote most of his thoughts on little scraps of paper, at his by-moments of leisure. he produced them with immense rapidity. he wrote in a kind of contracted language--like short hand--impossible to read, except by those who had studied it. it resembled the impatient and fiery scratches of napoleon; yet, though half-formed, the characters have the firmness and precision of the graver. some one observed to faguere (pascal's editor), "this work (deciphering it) must be very fatiguing to the eyes." "no," said he, "it is not the eyes that are fatigued, so much as the brain." many authors have been distinguished for the fastidiousness of their composition--never resting satisfied, but correcting and re-correcting to the last moment. cicero spent his old age in correcting his orations; massillon in polishing his sermons; fenelon corrected his _telemachus_ seven times over. of thirty verses which virgil wrote in the morning, there were only ten left at night. milton often cut down forty verses to twenty. buffon would condense six pages into as many paragraphs. montaigne, instead of cutting down, amplified and added to his first sketch. boileau had great difficulty in making his verses. he said--"if i write four words, i erase three of them;" and at another time--"i sometimes hunt three hours for a rhyme!" some authors were never satisfied with their work. virgil ordered his _Ã�neid_ to be burnt. voltaire cast his poem of _the league_ into the fire. racine and scott could not bear to read their productions again. michael angelo was always dissatisfied; he found faults in his greatest and most admired works. many of the most admired writings were never intended by their authors for publication. fenelon, when he wrote _telemachus_, had no intention of publishing it. voltaire's _correspondence_ was never intended for publication, and yet it is perused with avidity; whereas his _henriade_, so often corrected by him, is scarcely read. madame de sevigní, in writing to her daughter those fascinating letters descriptive of the life of the french court, never had any idea of their publication, or that they would be cited as models of composition and style. what work of johnson's is best known? is it not that by boswell, which contains the great philosopher's conversation?--that which he never intended should come to light, and for which we have to thank bozzy. there is a great difference in the sensitiveness of authors to criticism. sir walter scott passed thirteen years without reading what the critics or reviewers said of his writings; while byron was sensitive to an excess about what was said of him. it was the reviewers who stung him into his first work of genius--_english bards and scotch reviewers_. racine was very sensitive to criticism; and poor keats was "snuffed out by an article." moliere was thrown into a great rage when his plays were badly acted. one day, after _tartuffe_ had been played, an actor found him stamping about as if mad, and beating his head, crying--"ah! dog! ah! butcher!" on being asked what was the matter, he replied--"don't be surprised at my emotion! i have just been seeing an actor falsely and execrably declaiming my piece; and i can not see my children maltreated in this horrid way, without suffering the tortures of the damned!" the first time voltaire's _artemise_ was played, it was _hissed_. voltaire, indignant, sprang to his feet in his box, and addressed the audience! at another time, at lausanne, where an actress seemed fully to apprehend his meaning, he rushed upon the stage and embraced her knees! a great deal might be said about the first failures of authors and orators. demosthenes stammered, and was almost inaudible, when he first tried to speak before philip. he seemed like a man moribund. other orators have broken down, like demosthenes, in their first effort. curran tried to speak, for the first time, at a meeting of the irish historical society; but the words died on his lips, and he sat down amid titters--an individual present characterizing him as _orator mum_. boileau broke down as an advocate, and so did cowper, the poet. montesquieu and bentham were also failures in the same profession, but mainly through disgust with it. addison, when a member of the house of commons, once rose to speak, but he could not overcome his diffidence, and ever after remained silent. ostriches. how they are hunted. the family of birds, of which the ostrich forms the leading type, is remarkable for the wide dispersion of its various members; the ostrich itself spreads over nearly the whole of the burning deserts of africa--the cassowary represents it amid the luxuriant vegetation of the indian archipelago. the dinornis, chief of birds, formerly towered among the ferns of new zealand, where the small apteryx now holds its place; and the huge Ã�pyornis strode along the forests of madagascar. the emu is confined to the great australian continent, and the rhea to the southern extremity of the western hemisphere; while nearer home we find the class represented by the bustard, which, until within a few years, still lingered upon the least frequented downs and plains of england. with the arabs of the desert, the chase of the ostrich is the most attractive and eagerly sought of the many aristocratic diversions in which they indulge. the first point attended to, is a special preparation of their horses. seven or eight days before the intended hunt, they are entirely deprived of straw and grass, and fed on barley only. they are only allowed to drink once a day, and that at sunset--the time when the water begins to freshen: at that time also they are washed. they take long daily exercises, and are occasionally galloped, at which time care is taken that the harness is right, and suited to the chase of the ostrich. "after seven or eight days," says the arab, "the stomach of the horse disappears, while the chest, the breast, and the croup remain in flesh; the animal is then fit to endure fatigue." they call this training _techaha_. the harness used for the purpose in question is lighter than ordinary, especially the stirrups and saddle, and the martingale is removed. the bridle, too, undergoes many metamorphoses; the mountings and the ear-flaps are taken away, as too heavy. the bit is made of a camel rope, without a throat-band, and the frontlet is also of cord, and the reins, though strong, are very light. the period most favorable for ostrich-hunting is that of the great heat; the higher the temperature the less is the ostrich able to defend himself. the arabs describe the precise time as that, when a man stands upright, his shadow has the length only of the sole of his foot. each horseman is accompanied by a servant called _zemmal_, mounted on a camel, carrying four goat-skins filled with water, barley for the horse, wheat-flour for the rider, some dates, a kettle to cook the food, and every thing which can possibly be required for the repair of the harness. the horseman contents himself with a linen vest and trowsers, and covers his neck and ears with a light material called _havuli_, tied with a strip of camel's hide; his feet are protected with sandals, and his legs with light gaiters called _trabag_. he is armed with neither gun nor pistol, his only weapon being a wild olive or tamarind stick, five or six feet long, with a heavy knob at one end. before starting, the hunters ascertain where a large number of ostriches are to be found. these birds are generally met with in places where there is much grass, and where rain has recently fallen. the arabs say, that where the ostrich sees the light shine, and barley getting ready, wherever it may be, thither she runs, regardless of distance; and ten days' march is nothing to her; and it has passed into a proverb in the desert, of a man skillful in the care of flocks, and in finding pasturage, that he is like the ostrich, where he sees the light there he comes. the hunters start in the morning. after one or two days' journey, when they have arrived near the spot pointed out, and they begin to perceive traces of their game, they halt and camp. the next day, two intelligent slaves, almost entirely stripped, are sent to reconnoitre; they each carry a goat-skin at their side, and a little bread; they walk until they meet with the ostriches, which are generally found in elevated places. as soon as the game is in view, one lies down to watch, the other returns to convey the information. the ostriches are found in troops, comprising sometimes as many as sixty: but at the pairing time they are more scattered, three or four couple only remaining together. the horsemen, guided by the scout, travel gently toward the birds; the nearer they approach the spot the greater is their caution, and when they reach the last ridge which conceals them from the view of their game, they dismount, and two creep forward to ascertain if they are still there. should such be the case, a moderate quantity of water is given to the horses, the baggage is left, and each man mounts, carrying at his side a _chebouta_, or goat-skin. the servants and camels follow the track of the horsemen, carrying with them only a little corn and water. the exact position of the ostriches being known, the plans are arranged; the horsemen divide and form a circle round the game at such a distance as not to be seen. the servants wait where the horsemen have separated, and as soon as they see them at their posts, they walk right before them; the ostriches fly, but are met by the hunters, who do nothing at first but drive them back into the circle; thus their strength is exhausted by being made to continually run round in the ring. at the first signs of fatigue in the birds, the horsemen dash in--presently the flock separates; the exhausted birds are seen to open their wings, which is a sign of great exhaustion; the horsemen, certain of their prey, now repress their horses; each hunter selects his ostrich, runs it down, and finishes it by a blow on the head with the stick above mentioned. the moment the bird falls the man jumps off his horse, and cuts her throat, taking care to hold the neck at such a distance from the body, as not to soil the plumage of the wings. the male bird, while dying, utters loud moans, but the female dies in silence. when the ostrich is on the point of being overtaken by the hunter, she is so fatigued, that if he does not wish to kill her, she can easily be driven with the stick to the neighborhood of the camels. immediately after the birds have been bled to death, they are carefully skinned, so that the feathers may not be injured, and the skin is then stretched upon a tree, or on a horse, and salt rubbed well into it. a fire is lit, and the fat of the birds is boiled for a long time in kettles; when very liquid, it is poured into a sort of bottle made of the skin of the thigh and leg down to the foot, strongly fastened at the bottom; the fat of one bird is usually sufficient to fill two of these legs; it is said that in any other vessel the fat would spoil. when, however, the bird is breeding, she is extremely lean, and is then hunted only for the sake of her feathers. after these arrangements are completed, the flesh is eaten by the hunters, who season it well with pepper and flour. while these proceedings are in progress, the horses are carefully tended, watered, and fed with corn, and the party remain quiet during forty-eight hours, to give their animals rest; after that they either return to their encampment, or embark in new enterprises. to the arab the chase of the ostrich has a double attraction--pleasure and profit; the price obtained for the skins well compensates for the expenses. not only do the rich enjoy the pursuit, but the poor, who know how to set about it, are permitted to participate in it also. the usual plan is for a poor arab to arrange with one who is opulent for the loan of his camel, horse, harness, and two-thirds of all the necessary provisions. the borrower furnishes himself the remaining third, and the produce of the chase is divided in the same proportions. the ostrich, like many other of the feathered tribe, has a great deal of self-conceit. on fine sunny days a tame bird may be seen strutting backward and forward with great majesty, fanning itself with its quivering, expanded wings, and at every turn seeming to admire its grace, and the elegance of its shadow. dr. shaw says that, though these birds appear tame and tractable to persons well-known to them, they are often very fierce and violent toward strangers, whom they would not only endeavor to push down by running furiously against them, but they would peck at them with their beaks, and strike with their feet; and so violent is the blow that can be given, that the doctor saw a person whose abdomen had been ripped completely open by a stroke from the claw of an ostrich. to have the stomach of an ostrich has become proverbial, and with good reason; for this bird stands enviably forward in respect to its wonderful powers of digestion, which are scarcely inferior to its voracity. its natural food consists entirely of vegetable substances, especially grain; and the ostrich is a most destructive enemy to the crops of the african farmers. but its sense of taste is so obtuse, that scraps of leather, old nails, bits of tin, buttons, keys, coins, and pebbles, are devoured with equal relish; in fact, nothing comes amiss. but in this it doubtless follows an instinct: for these hard bodies assist, like the gravel in the crops of our domestic poultry, in grinding down and preparing for digestion its ordinary food. there was found by cuvier in the stomach of an ostrich that died at paris, nearly a pound weight of stones, bits of iron and copper, and pieces of money worn down by constant attrition against each other, as well as by the action of the stomach itself. in the stomach of one of these birds which belonged to the menagerie of george the fourth, there were contained some pieces of wood of considerable size, several large nails, and a hen's egg entire and uninjured, perhaps taken as a delicacy from its appetite becoming capricious. in the stomach of another, beside several large cabbage-stalks, there were masses of bricks of the size of a man's fist. sparrman relates that he saw ostriches at the cape so tame that they went loose to and from the farm, but they were so voracious as to swallow chickens whole, and trample hens to death, that they might tear them in pieces afterward and devour them; and one great barrel of a bird was obliged to be killed on account of an awkward habit he had acquired of trampling sheep to death. but perhaps the most striking proof of the prowess of an ostrich in the eating way, is that afforded by dr. shaw, who saw one swallow bullet after bullet as fast as they were pitched, scorching hot, from the mould. a dull town. putting up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of staffordshire, i find it to be by no means a lively town. in fact, it is as dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see. it seems as if its whole population might be imprisoned in its railway station. the refreshment-room at that station is a vortex of dissipation compared with the extinct town-inn, the dodo, in the dull high-street. why high-street? why not rather low-street, flat-street, low-spirited-street, used-up-street? where are the people who belong to the high-street? can they all be dispersed over the face of the country, seeking the unfortunate strolling manager who decamped from the mouldy little theatre last week, in the beginning of his season (as his play-bills testify), repentantly resolved to bring him back, and feed him, and be entertained? or, can they all be gathered to their fathers in the two old church-yards near to the high-street--retirement into which church-yards appears to be a mere ceremony, there is so very little life outside their confines, and such small discernible difference between being buried alive in the town, and buried dead in the town-tombs? over the way, opposite to the staring blank bow windows of the dodo, are a little ironmonger's shop, a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the fashions in the small window and a bandy-legged baby on the pavement staring at it)--a watchmaker's shop, where all the clocks and watches must be stopped, i am sure, for they could never have the courage to go, with the town in general, and the dodo in particular, looking at them. shade of miss linwood, erst of leicester-square, london, thou art welcome here, and thy retreat is fitly chosen! i myself was one of the last visitors to that awful storehouse of thy life's work, where an anchorite old man and woman took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and conducting me to a gloomy sepulchre of needlework dropping to pieces with dust and age, and shrouded in twilight at high noon, left me there, chilled, frightened, and alone. and now, in ghostly letters on all the dead walls of this dead town, i read thy honored name, and find, that thy last supper, worked in berlin wool, invites inspection as a powerful excitement! where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast of little wool? where are they? who are they? they are not the bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's window. they are not the two earthy plow-men lounging outside the saddler's shop, in the stiff square where the town hall stands, like a brick-and-mortar private on parade. they are not the landlady of the dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it and no welcome, when i asked for dinner. they are not the turnkeys of the town jail, looking out of the gateway in their uniforms, as if they had locked up all the balance (as my american friends would say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little. they are not the two dusty millers in the white mill down by the river, where the great water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like the monotonous days and nights in this forgotten place. then who are they? for there is no one else. no; this deponent maketh oath and saith that there is no one else, save and except the waiter at the dodo, now laying the cloth. i have paced the streets, and stared at the houses, and am come back to the blank bow-window of the dodo; and the town-clock strikes seven, and the reluctant echoes seem to cry, "don't wake us!" and the bandy-legged baby has gone home to bed. if the dodo were only a gregarious bird--if it had only some confused idea of making a comfortable nest--i could hope to get through the hours between this and bed-time, without being consumed by devouring melancholy. but the dodo's habits are all wrong. it provides me with a trackless desert of sitting-room, with a chair for every day in the year, a table for every month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely china vase pines in a corner for its mate long departed, and will never make a match with the candlestick in the opposite corner if it live till doomsday. the dodo has nothing in the larder. even now, i behold the boots returning with my sole in a piece of paper; and with that portion of my dinner, the boots, perceiving me at the blank bow-window, slaps his leg as he comes across the road, pretending it is something else. the dodo excludes the outer air. when i mount up to my bed-room, a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like sleepy snuff. the loose little bits of carpet writhe under my tread, and take wormy shapes. i don't know the ridiculous man in the looking-glass, beyond having met him once or twice in a dish-cover--and i can never shave _him_ to-morrow morning! the dodo is narrow-minded as to towels; expects me to wash on a freemason's apron without the trimming; when i ask for soap, gives me a stony-hearted something white, with no more lather in it than the elgin marbles. the dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable stables at the back--silent, grass-grown, broken-windowed, horseless. this mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. can cook a steak, too, which is more. i wonder where it gets its sherry! if i were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist to be analyzed, what would it turn out to be made of? it tastes of pepper, sugar, bitter almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat drink, and a little brandy. would it unman a spanish exile by reminding him of his native land at all? i think not. if there really be any townspeople out of the church-yards, and if a caravan of them ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in this desert of the dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day! where was the waiter born? how did he come here? has he any hope of getting away from here? does he ever receive a letter, or take a ride upon the railway, or see any thing but the dodo? perhaps he has seen the berlin wool. he appears to have a silent sorrow on him, and it may be that. he clears the table; draws the dingy curtains of the great bow-window, which so unwillingly consent to meet, that they must be pinned together; leaves me by the fire with my pint decanter, and a little thin funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a plate of pale biscuits--in themselves engendering desperation. no book, no newspapers! i left the arabian nights in the railway carriage, and have nothing to read but bradshaw, and "that way madness lies." remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked mariners have done to exercise their minds in solitude, i repeat the multiplication table, the pence table, and the shilling table: which are all the tables i happen to know. what if i write something? the dodo keeps no pens but steel pens; and those i always stick through the paper, and can turn to no other account. what am i to do? even if i could have the bandy-legged baby knocked up and brought here, i could offer him nothing but sherry, and that would be the death of him. he would never hold up his head again, if he touched it. i can't go to bed, because i have conceived a mortal hatred for my bedroom; and i can't go away because there is no train for my place of destination until morning. to burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting joy; still it is a temporary relief, and here they go on the fire! my novel; or, varieties in english life.[b] [footnote b: continued from the june number.] chapter x.--continued. randal walked home slowly. it was a cold moonlit night. young idlers of his own years and rank passed him by, on their way from the haunts of social pleasure. they were yet in the first fair holiday of life. life's holiday had gone from him forever. graver men, in the various callings of masculine labor--professions, trade, the state--passed him also. their steps might be sober, and their faces careworn; but no step had the furtive stealth of his--no face the same contracted, sinister, suspicious gloom. only once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and on the opposite side of the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced an eye, that seemed to betray a soul in sympathy with randal leslie's. and randal, who had heeded none of the other passengers by the way, as if instinctively, took note of this one. his nerves crisped at the noiseless slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp to lamp, keeping pace with his own. he felt a sort of awe, as if he had beheld the wraith of himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at the arranger, the stranger glanced at him. he was inexpressibly relieved when the figure turned down another street and vanished. that man was a felon, as yet undetected. between him and his kind there stood but a thought--a vail air-spun, but impassable, as the vail of the image at sais. and thus moved and thus looked randal leslie, a thing of dark and secret mischief--within the pale of the law, but equally removed from man by the vague consciousness that at his heart lay that which the eyes of man would abhor and loathe. solitary amidst the vast city, and on through the machinery of civilization, went the still spirit of intellectual evil. chapter xi early the next morning randal received two notes--one from frank, written in great agitation, begging randal to see and propitiate his father, whom he feared he had grievously offended; and then running off, rather incoherently, into protestations that his honor as well as his affections were engaged irrevocably to beatrice, and that her, at least, he could never abandon. and the second note was from the squire himself--short, and far less cordial than usual--requesting mr. leslie to call on him. randal dressed in haste, and went at once to limmer's hotel. he found the parson with mr. hazeldean, and endeavoring in vain to soothe him. the squire had not slept all night, and his appearance was almost haggard. "oho! mr. young leslie," said he, throwing himself back in his chair as randal entered--"i thought you were a friend--i thought you were frank's adviser. explain, sir; explain." "gently, my dear mr. hazeldean," said the parson. "you do but surprise and alarm mr. leslie. tell him more distinctly what he has to explain." squire.--"did you or did you not tell me or mrs. hazeldean, that frank was in love with violante rickeybockey?" randal (as in amaze).--"i! never, sir! i feared, on the contrary, that he was somewhat enamored of a very different person. i hinted at that possibility. i could not do more, for i did not know how far frank's affections were seriously engaged. and indeed, sir, mrs. hazeldean, though not encouraging the idea that your son could marry a foreigner and a roman catholic, did not appear to consider such objections insuperable, if frank's happiness were really at stake." here the poor squire gave way to a burst of passion, that involved, in one tempest, frank, randal, harry herself, and the whole race of foreigners, roman catholics, and women. while the squire himself was still incapable of hearing reason, the parson, taking aside randal, convinced himself that the whole affair, so far as randal was concerned, had its origin in a very natural mistake; and that while that young gentleman had been hinting at beatrice, mrs. hazeldean had been thinking of violante. with considerable difficulty he succeeded in conveying this explanation to the squire, and somewhat appeasing his wrath against randal. and the dissimulator, seizing his occasion, then expressed so much grief and astonishment at learning that matters had gone as far as the parson informed him--that frank had actually proposed to beatrice, been accepted, and engaged himself, before even communicating with his father; he declared so earnestly, that he could never conjure such evil--that he had had frank's positive promise to take no step without the sanction of his parents; he professed such sympathy with the squire's wounded feelings, and such regret at frank's involvement, that mr. hazeldean at last yielded up his honest heart to his consoler--and gripping randal's hand, said, "well, well, i wronged you--beg your pardon. what now is to be done?" "why, you can not consent to this marriage--impossible," replied randal; "and we must hope therefore to influence frank, by his sense of duty." "that's it," said the squire; "for i'll not give way. pretty pass things have come to, indeed! a widow too, i hear. artful jade--thought, no doubt, to catch a hazeldean of hazeldean. my estates go to an outlandish papistical set of mongrel brats! no, no, never!" "but," said the parson, mildly, "perhaps we may be unjustly prejudiced against this lady. we should have consented to violante--why not to her? she is of good family?" "certainly," said randal. "and good character?" randal shook his head, and sighed. the squire caught him roughly by the arm--"answer the parson!" cried he, vehemently. "indeed, sir, i can not speak ill of the character of a woman, who may, too, be frank's wife; and the world is ill-natured, and not to be believed. but you can judge for yourself, my dear mr. hazeldean. ask your brother whether madame di negra is one whom he would advise his nephew to marry." "my brother!" exclaimed the squire furiously. "consult my distant brother on the affairs of my own son!" "he is a man of the world," put in randal. "and of feeling and honor," said the parson, "and, perhaps, through him, we may be enabled to enlighten frank, and save him from what appears to be the snare of an artful woman." "meanwhile," said randal, "i will seek frank, and do my best with him. let me go now--i will return in an hour or so." "i will accompany you," said the parson. "nay, pardon me, but i think we two young men can talk more openly without a third person, even so wise and kind as you." "let randal go," growled the squire. and randal went. he spent some time with frank, and the reader will easily divine how that time was employed. as he left frank's lodgings, he found himself suddenly seized by the squire himself. "i was too impatient to stay at home and listen to the parson's prosing," said mr. hazeldean, nervously. "i have shaken dale off. tell me what has passed. oh! don't fear--i'm a man, and can bear the worst." randal drew the squire's arm within his, and led him into the adjacent park. "my dear sir," said he, sorrowfully, "this is very confidential what i am about to say. i must repeat it to you, because without such confidence, i see not how to advise you on the proper course to take. but if i betray frank, it is for his good, and to his own father:--only do not tell him. he would never forgive me--it would for ever destroy my influence over him." "go on, go on," gasped the squire; "speak out. i'll never tell the ungrateful boy that i learned his secrets from another." "then," said randal, "the secret of his entanglement with madame di negra is simply this--he found her in debt--nay, on the point of being arrested--" "debt!--arrested! jezabel!" "and in paying the debt himself, and saving her from arrest, he conferred on her the obligation which no woman of honor could accept save from her affianced husband. poor frank!--if sadly taken in, still we must pity and forgive him!" suddenly, to randal's great surprise, the squire's whole face brightened up. "i see, i see!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "i have it--i have it. 'tis an affair of money! i can buy her off. if she took money from him, the mercenary, painted baggage! why, then, she'll take it from me. i don't care what it costs--half my fortune--all! i'd be content never to see hazeldean hall again, if i could save my son, my own son, from disgrace and misery; for miserable he will be when he knows he has broken my heart and his mother's. and for a creature like that! my boy, a thousand hearty thanks to you. where does the wretch live? i'll go to her at once." and as he spoke, the squire actually pulled out his pocket-book and began turning over and counting the bank-notes in it. randal at first tried to combat this bold resolution on the part of the squire; but mr. hazeldean had seized on it with all the obstinacy of his straightforward english mind. he cut randal's persuasive eloquence off in the midst. "don't waste your breath. i've settled it; and if you don't tell me where she lives, 'tis easily found out, i suppose." randal mused a moment. "after all," thought he, "why not? he will be sure so to speak as to enlist her pride against himself, and to irritate frank to the utmost. let him go." accordingly, he gave the information required; and, insisting with great earnestness on the squire's promise, not to mention to madam di negra his knowledge of frank's pecuniary aid (for that would betray randal as the informant); and satisfying himself as he best might with the squire's prompt assurance, "that he knew how to settle matters, without saying why or wherefore, as long as he opened his purse wide enough," he accompanied mr. hazeldean back into the streets, and there left him--fixing an hour in the evening for an interview at limmer's, and hinting that it would be best to have that interview without the presence of the parson. "excellent good man," said randal, "but not with sufficient knowledge of the world for affairs of this kind, which _you_ understand so well." "i should think so," quoth the squire, who had quite recovered his good-humor. "and the parson is as soft as buttermilk. we must be firm here--firm, sir." and the squire struck the end of his stick on the pavement, nodded to randal, and went on to mayfair as sturdily and as confidently as if to purchase a prize cow at a cattle-show. chapter xii "bring the light nearer," said john burley--"nearer still." leonard obeyed, and placed the candle on a little table by the sick man's bedside. burley's mind was partially wandering; but there was method in his madness. horace walpole said that "his stomach would survive all the rest of him." that which in burley survived the last was his quaint wild genius. he looked wistfully at the still flame of the candle. "it lives ever in the air!" said he. "what lives ever?" burley's voice swelled--"light!" he turned from leonard, and again contemplated the little flame. "in the fixed star, in the will-o'-the-wisp, in the great sun that illumes half a world, or the farthing rushlight by which the ragged student strains his eyes--still the same flower of the elements. light in the universe, thought in the soul--ay--ay--go on with the simile. my head swims. extinguish the light! you can not; fool, it vanishes from your eye, but it is still in the space. worlds must perish, suns shrivel up, matter and spirit both fall into nothingness, before the combinations whose union makes that little flame, which the breath of a babe can restore to darkness, shall lose the power to unite into light once more. lose the power!--no, the _necessity_:--it is the one _must_ in creation. ay, ay, very dark riddles grow clear now--now when i could not cast up an addition sum in the baker's bill! what wise man denied that two and two made four? do they not make four? i can't answer him. but i could answer a question that some wise men have contrived to make much knottier." he smiled softly, and turned his face for some minutes to the wall. this was the second night on which leonard had watched by his bedside, and burley's state had grown rapidly worse. he could not last many days, perhaps many hours. but he had evinced an emotion beyond mere delight at seeing leonard again. he had since then been calmer, more himself. "i feared i might have ruined you by my bad example," he said, with a touch of humor that became pathos as he added, "that idea preyed on me." "no, no; you did me great good." "say that--say it often," said burley, earnestly; "it makes my heart feel so light." he had listened to leonard's story with deep interest, and was fond of talking to him of little helen. he detected the secret at the young man's heart, and cheered the hopes that lay there, amidst fears and sorrows. burley never talked seriously of his repentance; it was not in his nature to talk seriously of the things which he felt solemnly. but his high animal spirits were quenched with the animal power that fed them. now, we go out of our sensual existence only when we are no longer enthralled by the present, in which the senses have their realm. the sensual being vanishes when we are in the past or the future. the present was gone from burley; he could no more be its slave and its king. it was most touching to see how the inner character of this man unfolded itself, as the leaves of the outer character fell off and withered--a character no one would have guessed in him--an inherent refinement that was almost womanly; and he had all a woman's abnegation of self. he took the cares lavished on him so meekly. as the features of the old man return in the stillness of death to the aspect of youth--the lines effaced, the wrinkles gone--so, in seeing burley now, you saw what he had been in his spring of promise. but he himself saw only what he had failed to be--powers squandered--life wasted. "i once beheld," he said, "a ship in a storm. it was a cloudy, fitful day, and i could see the ship with all its masts fighting hard for life and for death. then came night, dark as pitch, and i could only guess that the ship fought on. toward the dawn the stars grew visible, and once more i saw the ship--it was a wreck--it went down just as the stars shone forth." when he had made that allusion to himself, he sate very still for some time, then he spread out his wasted hands, and gazed on them, and on his shrunken limbs. "good," said he, laughing low; "these hands were too large and rude for handling the delicate webs of my own mechanism, and these strong limbs ran away with me. if i had been a sickly, puny fellow, perhaps my mind would have had fair play. there was too much of brute body here! look at this hand now! you can see the light through it! good, good!" now, that evening, until he had retired to bed, burley had been unusually cheerful, and had talked with much of his old eloquence, if with little of his old humor. among other matters, he had spoken with considerable interest of some poems and other papers in manuscript which had been left in the house by a former lodger, and which, the reader may remember, that mrs. goodyer had urged him in vain to read, in his last visit to her cottage. but _then_ he had her husband jacob to chat with, and the spirit-bottle to finish, and the wild craving for excitement plucked his thoughts back to his london revels. now poor jacob was dead, and it was not brandy that the sick man drank from the widow's cruise. and london lay afar amidst its fogs, like a world resolved back into nebulæ. so to please his hostess, and distract his own solitary thoughts, he had condescended (just before leonard found him out) to peruse the memorials of a life obscure to the world, and new to his own experience of coarse joys and woes. "i have been making a romance, to amuse myself, from their contents," said he. "they may be of use to you, brother author. i have told mrs. goodyer to place them in your room. among those papers is a journal--a woman's journal; it moved me greatly. a man gets into another world, strange to him as the orb of sirius, if he can transport himself into the centre of a woman's heart, and see the life there, so wholly unlike our own. things of moment to us, to it so trivial; things trifling to us, to it so vast. there was this journal--in its dates reminding me of stormy events of my own existence, and grand doings in the world's. and those dates there, chronicling but the mysterious unrevealed record of some obscure loving heart! and in that chronicle, o, sir poet, there was as much genius, vigor of thought, vitality of being, poured and wasted, as ever kind friend will say was lavished on the rude outer world by big john burley! genius, genius; are we all alike, then, save when we leash ourselves to some matter-of-fact material, and float over the roaring seas on a wooden plank or a herring-tub?" and after he had uttered that cry of a secret anguish, john burley had begun to show symptoms of growing fever and disturbed brain; and when they had got him into bed, he lay there muttering to himself, until toward midnight he had asked leonard to bring the light nearer to him. so now he again was quiet--with his face turned toward the wall; and leonard stood by the bedside sorrowfully, and mrs. goodyer, who did not heed burley's talk, and thought only of his physical state, was dipping cloths into iced water to apply to his forehead. but as she approached with these, and addressed him soothingly, burley raised himself on his arm, and waved aside the bandages. "i do not need them," said he, in a collected voice. "i am better now. i and that pleasant light understand one another, and i believe all it tells me. pooh, pooh, i do not rave." he looked so smilingly and so kindly into her face, that the poor woman, who loved him as her own son, fairly burst into tears. he drew her toward him and kissed her forehead. "peace, old fool," said he, fondly. "you shall tell anglers hereafter how john burley came to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never caught: and how, when he gave it up at the last, his baits all gone, and the line broken among the weeds, you comforted the baffled man. there are many good fellows yet in the world who will like to know that poor burley did not die on a dunghill. kiss me! come, boy, you too. now, god bless you, i should like to sleep." his cheeks were wet with the tears of both his listeners, and there was a moisture in his own eyes, which, nevertheless, beamed bright through the moisture. he laid himself down again, and the old woman would have withdrawn the light. he moved uneasily. "not that," he murmured--"light to the last!" and putting forth his wan hand, he drew aside the curtain so that the light might fall full on his face. in a few minutes he was asleep, breathing calmly and regularly as an infant. the old woman wiped her eyes, and drew leonard softly into the adjoining room, in which a bed had been made up for him. he had not left the house since he had entered it with dr. morgan. "you are young, sir," said she, with kindness, "and the young want sleep. lie down a bit: i will call you when he wakes." "no, i could not sleep," said leonard. "i will watch for you." the old woman shook her head. "i must see the last of him, sir; but i know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very thoughtful of others." "ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!" murmured leonard; and he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he dislodged some papers placed there. they fell to the ground with a dumb, moaning, sighing sound. "what is that?" said he, starting. the old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully. "ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. he thought they might keep you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. and he had a thought of me, too; for i have so pined to find out the poor young lady, who left them years ago. she was almost as dear to me as he is; dearer perhaps until now--when--when--i am about to lose him." leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they had no interest for him at such a moment. the hostess went on-- "perhaps she is gone to heaven before him: she did not look like one long for this world. she left us so suddenly. many things of hers besides these papers are still here; but i keep them aired and dusted, and strew lavender over them, in case she ever comes for them again. you never heard tell of her, did you, sir?" she added, with great simplicity, and dropping a half courtsey. "of her?--of whom?" "did not mr. john tell you her name--dear--dear?--mrs. bertram." leonard started;--the very name so impressed upon his memory by harley l'estrange. "bertram!" he repeated. "are you sure?" "o yes, sir! and many years after she had left us, and we had heard no more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea, sir. we took it in, and kept it, and john would break the seal, to know if it would tell us any thing about her; but it was all in a foreign language like--we could not read a word." "have you the packet? pray, show it to me. it may be of the greatest value. to-morrow will do--i can not think of that just now. poor burley!" leonard's manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be alone. so mrs. goodyer left him, and stole back to burley's room on tiptoe. the young man remained in deep reverie for some moments. "light," he murmured. "how often "light" is the last word of those round whom the shades are gathering!"[c] he moved, and straight on his view through the cottage lattice there streamed light, indeed--not the miserable ray lit by a human hand--but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit heaven. it lay broad upon the humble floors--pierced across the threshold of the death-chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows. [footnote c: every one remembers that goethe's last words are said to have been, "more light;" and perhaps what has occurred in the text may be supposed a plagiarism from those words. but, in fact, nothing is more common than the craving and demand for light a little before death. let any consult his own sad experience in the last moments of those whose gradual close he has watched and tended. what more frequent than a prayer to open the shutters and let in the sun? what complaint more repeated, and more touching, than "that it is growing dark?" i once knew a sufferer--who did not then seem in immediate danger--suddenly order the sick-room to be lit up as if for a gala. when this was told to the physician, he said gravely, "no worse sign."] leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent splendor. "and," he said inly--"and does this large erring nature, marred by its genial faults--this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb the room, with a light that linked earth to heaven--does it pass away into the dark, and leave not a ray behind? nay, if the elements of light are ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to the vital air--so thought, once kindled, lives for ever around and about us, a part of our breathing atmosphere. many a thinker, many a poet, may yet illume the world, from the thoughts which yon genius, that will have no name, gave forth--to wander through air, and recombine again in some new form of light." thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamored of fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however erratically, in vain--and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth, the soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements that make fame abide. not thus had the dying man interpreted the endurance of light and thought. suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry broke on his ear. he shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining room. the old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing burley's hand--eagerly looking into his face. a glance sufficed to leonard. all was over. burley had died in sleep--calmly, and without a groan. the eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness which death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned toward the light; and the light burned clear. leonard closed tenderly the heavy lids; and, as he covered the face, the lips smiled a serene farewell. (to be continued.) the little gray gossip. soon after cousin con's marriage, we were invited to stay for a few weeks with the newly-married couple, during the festive winter season; so away we went with merry hearts, the clear frosty air and pleasant prospect before us invigorating our spirits, as we took our places inside the good old mail-coach, which passed through the town of p----, where cousin con resided, for there were no railways then. never was there a kinder or more genial soul than cousin con; and david danvers, the good-man, as she laughingly called him, was, if possible, kinder and more genial still. they were surrounded by substantial comforts, and delighted to see their friends in a sociable, easy way, and to make them snug and cozy, our arrival being the signal for a succession of such convivialities. very mirthful and enjoyable were these evenings, for con's presence always shed radiant sunshine, and david's honest broad face beamed upon her with affectionate pride. during the days of their courtship at our house, they had perhaps indulged in billing and cooing a little too freely when in company with others, for sober, middle-aged lovers like themselves; thereby lying open to animadversions from prim spinsters, who wondered that miss constance and mr. danvers made themselves so ridiculous. but now all this nonsense had sobered down, and nothing could be detected beyond a sly glance, or a squeeze of the hand now and then; yet we often quizzed them about by-gones, and declared that engaged pairs were insufferable--we could always find them out among a hundred! "i'll bet you any thing you like," cried cousin con, with a good-humored laugh, "that among our guests coming this evening" (there was to be a tea-junketing), "you'll not be able to point out the engaged couple--for there will be only one such present--though plenty of lads and lasses that would like to be so happily situated! but the couple i allude too are real turtle-doves, and yet i defy you to find them out!" "done, cousin con!" we exclaimed; "and what shall we wager?" "gloves! gloves to be sure!" cried david. "ladies always wager gloves; though i can tell you, my con is on the safe side now;" and david rubbed his hands, delighted with the joke; and _we_ already, in perspective, beheld our glove-box enriched with half-a-dozen pair of snowy french sevens! never had we felt more interested in watching the arrivals and movements of strangers, than on this evening, for our honor was concerned, to detect the lovers, and raise the vail. papas and mammas, and masters and misses, came trooping in; old ladies, and middle-aged; old gentlemen, and middle-aged--until the number amounted to about thirty, and cousin con's drawing-rooms were comfortably filled. we closely scrutinized all the young folks, and so intently but covertly watched their proceedings, that we could have revealed several innocent flirtations, but nothing appeared that could lead us to the turtle-doves and their engagement. at length, we really had hopes, and ensconced ourselves in a corner, to observe the more cautiously a tall, beautiful girl, whose eyes incessantly turned toward the door of the apartment; while each time it opened to admit any one, she sighed and looked disappointed, as if that one was not the one she yearned to see. we were deep in a reverie, conjuring up a romance of which she was the heroine, when a little lady, habited in gray, whose age might average threescore, unceremoniously seated herself beside us, and immediately commenced a conversation, by asking if we were admiring pretty annie mortimer--following the direction of our looks. on receiving a reply in the affirmative, she continued: "ah, she's a good, affectionate girl; a great favorite of mine is sweet annie mortimer." "watching for her lover, no doubt?" we ventured to say, hoping to gain the desired information, and thinking of our white kid-gloves. "she is an engaged young lady?" "engaged! engaged!" cried the little animated lady: "no indeed. the fates forbid! annie mortimer is not engaged." the expression of the little lady's countenance at our bare supposition of so natural a fact, amounted almost to the ludicrous; and we with some difficulty articulated a serious rejoinder, disavowing all previous knowledge, and therefore erring through ignorance. we had now time to examine our new acquaintance more critically. as we have already stated, she was habited in gray; but not only was her attire gray, but she was literally gray all over: gray hairs, braided in a peculiar obsolete fashion, and quite uncovered; gray gloves; gray shoes; and, above all, gray eyes, soft, large, and peculiarly sad in expression, yet beautiful eyes, redeeming the gray, monotonous countenance from absolute plainness. mary queen of scots, we are told, had gray eyes; and even she, poor lady, owned not more speaking or history-telling orbs than did this little unknown gossip in gray. but our attention was diverted from the contemplation, by the entrance of another actor on the stage, to whom annie mortimer darted forward with an exclamation of delight and welcome. the new comer was a slender, elderly gentleman, whose white hairs, pale face, and benignant expression presented nothing remarkable in their aspect, beyond a certain air of elegance and refinement, which characterized the whole outward man. "that is a charming-looking old gentleman," said we to the gray lady; "is he annie's father?" "her father! oh dear, no! that gentleman is a bachelor; but he is annie's guardian, and has supplied the place of a father to her, for poor annie is an orphan." "oh!" we exclaimed, and there was a great deal of meaning in our oh! for had we not read and heard of youthful wards falling in love with their guardians? and might not the fair annie's taste incline this way? the little gray lady understood our thoughts, for she smiled, but said nothing; and while we were absorbed with annie and her supposed antiquated lover, she glided into the circle, and presently we beheld annie's guardian, with annie leaning on his arm, exchange a few words with her in an under tone, as she passed them to an inner room. "who is that pleasing-looking old gentleman?" said we to our hostess; "and what is the name of the lady in gray, who went away just as you came up? that is annie mortimer we know, and we know also that she isn't engaged!" cousin con laughed heartily as she replied: "that nice old gentleman is mr. worthington, our poor curate; and a poor curate he is likely ever to continue, so far as we can see. the lady in gray we call our 'little gray gossip,' and a darling she is! as to annie, you seem to know all about her. i suppose little bessie has been lauding her up to the skies." "who is little bessie?" we inquired. "little bessie is your little gray gossip: we never call her any thing but bessie to her face; she is a harmless little old maid. but come this way: bessie is going to sing, for they won't let her rest till she complies; and bessie singing, and bessie talking, are widely different creatures." widely different indeed! could this be the little gray lady seated at the piano, and making it speak? while her thrilling tones, as she sang of 'days gone by,' went straight to each listener's heart, she herself looking ten years younger! when the song was over, i observed mr. worthington, with annie still resting on his arm, in a corner of the apartment, shaded by a projecting piece of furniture; and i also noted the tear on his furrowed cheek, which he hastily brushed away, and stooped to answer some remark of annie's, who, with fond affection, had evidently observed it too, endeavoring to dispel the painful illusion which remembrances of days gone by occasioned. we at length found the company separating, and our wager still unredeemed. the last to depart was mr. worthington, escorting annie mortimer and little bessie, whom he shawled most tenderly, no doubt because she was a poor forlorn little old maid, and sang so sweetly. the next morning at breakfast, cousin con attacked us, supported by mr. danvers, both demanding a solution of the mystery, or the scented sevens! after a vast deal of laughing, talking, and discussion, we were obliged to confess ourselves beaten, for there had been an engaged couple present on the previous evening, and we had failed to discover them. no; it was not annie mortimer; she had no lover. no; it was not the misses halliday, or the masters burton: they had flirted and danced, and danced and flirted indiscriminately; but as to serious engagements--pooh! pooh! who would have conjectured the romance of reality that was now divulged? and how could we have been so stupid as not to have read it at a glance? these contradictory exclamations, as is usual in such cases, ensued when the riddle was unfolded. it is so easy to be wise when we have learned the wisdom. yet we cheerfully lost our wager, and would have lost a hundred such, for the sake of hearing a tale so far removed from matter-of-fact; proving also that enduring faith and affection are not so fabulous as philosophers often pronounce them to be. bessie prudholm was nearly related to david danvers, and she had been the only child of a talented but improvident father, who, after a short, brilliant career, as a public singer, suddenly sank into obscurity and neglect, from the total loss of his vocal powers, brought on by a violent rheumatic cold and lasting prostration of strength. at this juncture, bessie had nearly attained her twentieth year, and was still in mourning for an excellent mother, by whom she had been tenderly and carefully brought up. from luxury and indulgence the descent to poverty and privation was swift. bessie, indeed, inherited a very small income in right of her deceased parent, sufficient for her own wants, and even comforts, but totally inadequate to meet the thousand demands, caprices, and fancies of her ailing and exigent father. however, for five years she battled bravely with adversity, eking out their scanty means by her exertions--though, from her father's helpless condition, and the constant and unremitting attention he required, she was in a great measure debarred from applying her efforts advantageously. the poor, dying man, in his days of health, had contributed to the enjoyment of the affluent, and in turn been courted by them; but now, forgotten and despised, he bitterly reviled the heartless world, whose hollow meed of applause it had formerly been the sole aim of his existence to secure. wealth became to his disordered imagination the desideratum of existence, and he attached inordinate value to it, in proportion as he felt the bitter stings of comparative penury. to guard his only child--whom he certainly loved better than any thing else in the world, save himself--from this dreaded evil, the misguided man, during his latter days, extracted from her an inviolable assurance, never to become the wife of any individual who could not settle upon her, subject to no contingencies or chances, the sum of at least one thousand pounds. bessie, who was fancy-free, and a lively-spirited girl, by no means relished the slights and privations which poverty entails. she therefore willingly became bound by this solemn promise; and when her father breathed his last, declaring that she had made his mind comparatively easy, little bessie half smiled, even in the midst of her deep and natural sorrow, to think how small and easy a concession her poor father had exacted, when her own opinions and views so perfectly coincided with his. the orphan girl took up her abode with the mother of david danvers, and continued to reside with that worthy lady until the latter's decease. it was beneath the roof of mrs. danvers that bessie first became acquainted with mr. worthington--that acquaintance speedily ripening into a mutual and sincere attachment. he was poor and patronless then, as he had continued ever since, with slender likelihood of ever possessing £ of his own, much less £ to settle on a wife. it is true, that in the chances and changes of this mortal life, paul worthington might succeed to a fine inheritance; but there were many lives betwixt him and it, and paul was not the one to desire happiness at another's expense, nor was sweet little bessie either. yet was paul worthington rich in one inestimable possession, such as money can not purchase--even in the love of a pure devoted heart, which for him, and for his dear sake, bravely endured the life-long loneliness and isolation which their peculiar circumstances induced. paul did not see bessie grow old and gray: in his eyes, she never changed; she was to him still beautiful, graceful, and enchanting; she was his betrothed, and he came forth into the world, from his books, and his arduous clerical and parochial duties, to gaze at intervals into her soft eyes, to press her tiny hand, to whisper a fond word, and then to return to his lonely home, like a second josiah cargill, to try and find in severe study oblivion of sorrow. annie mortimer had been sent to him as a ministering angel: she was the orphan and penniless daughter of mr. worthington's dearest friend and former college-chum, and she had come to find a shelter beneath the humble roof of the pious guardian, to whose earthly care she had been solemnly bequeathed. paul's curacy was not many miles distant from the town where bessie had fixed her resting-place; and it was generally surmised by the select few who were in the secret of little bessie's history, that she regarded annie mortimer with especial favor and affection, from the fact that annie enjoyed the privilege of solacing and cheering paul worthington's declining years. each spoke of her as a dear adopted daughter, and annie equally returned the affection of both. poor solitaries! what long anxious years they had known, separated by circumstance, yet knit together in the bonds of enduring love! i pictured them at festive winter seasons, at their humble solitary boards; and in summer prime, when song-birds and bright perfumed flowers call lovers forth into the sunshine rejoicingly. they had not dared to rejoice during their long engagement; yet bessie was a sociable creature, and did not mope or shut herself up, but led a life of active usefulness, and was a general favorite amongst all classes. they had never contemplated the possibility of evading bessie's solemn promise to her dying father; to their tender consciences, that fatal promise was as binding and stringent, as if the gulf of marriage or conventual vows yawned betwixt them. we had been inclined to indulge some mirth at the expense of the little gray gossip, when she first presented herself to our notice; but now we regarded her as an object of interest, surrounded by a halo of romance, fully shared in by her charming, venerable lover. and this was good cousin con's elucidation of the riddle, which she narrated with many digressions, and with animated smiles, to conceal tears of sympathy. paul worthington and little bessy did not like their history to be discussed by the rising frivolous generation; it was so unworldly, so sacred, and they looked forward with humble hope so soon to be united for ever in the better land, that it pained and distressed them to be made a topic of conversation. were we relating fiction, it would be easy to bring this antiquated pair together, even at the eleventh hour; love and constancy making up for the absence of one sweet ingredient, evanescent, yet beautiful--the ingredient, we mean, of youth. but as this is a romance of reality, we are fain to divulge facts as they actually occurred, and as we heard them from authentic sources. paul and bessie, divided in their lives, repose side by side in the old church-yard. he dropped off first, and bessie doffed her gray for sombre habiliments of darker hue. nor did she long remain behind, loving little soul! leaving her property to annie mortimer, and warning her against long engagements. the last time we heard of annie, she was the happy wife of an excellent man, who, fully coinciding in the opinion of the little gray gossip, protested strenuously against more than six weeks' courtship, and carried his point triumphantly. the mourner and the comforter. it was a lovely day in the month of august, and the sun, which had shone with undiminished splendor from the moment of dawn, was now slowly declining, with that rich and prolonged glow with which it seems especially to linger around those scenes where it seldomest finds admittance. for it was a valley in the north of scotland into which its light was streaming, and many a craggy top and rugged side, rarely seen without their cap of clouds or shroud of mist, were now throwing their mellow-tinted forms, clear and soft, into a lake of unusual stillness. high above the lake, and commanding a full view of that and of the surrounding hills, stood one of those countryfied hotels not unfrequently met with on a tourist's route, formerly only designed for the lonely traveler or weary huntsman, but which now, with the view to accommodate the swarm of visitors which every summer increased, had gone on stretching its cords and enlarging its boundaries, till the original tenement looked merely like the seed from which the rest had sprung. nor, even under these circumstances, did the house admit of much of the luxury of privacy; for, though the dormitories lay thick and close along the narrow corridor, all accommodation for the day was limited to two large and long rooms, one above the other, which fronted the lake. of these, the lower one was given up to pedestrian travelers--the sturdy, sunburnt shooters of the moors, who arrive with weary limbs and voracious appetites, and question no accommodation which gives them food and shelter; while the upper one was the resort of ladies and family parties, and was furnished with a low balcony, now covered with a rough awning. both these rooms, on the day we mention, were filled with numerous guests. touring was at its height, and shooting had begun; and, while a party of way-worn young men, coarsely clad and thickly shod, were lying on the benches, or lolling out of the windows of the lower apartment, a number of traveling parties were clustered in distinct groups in the room above; some lingering round their tea-tables, while others sat on the balcony, and seemed attentively watching the evolutions of a small boat, the sole object on the lake before them. it is pleasant to watch the actions, however insignificant they may be, of a distant group; to see the hand obey without hearing the voice that has bidden; to guess at their inward motives by their outward movements; to make theories of their intentions, and try to follow them out in their actions; and, as at a pantomime, to tell the drift of the piece by dumb show alone. and it is an idle practice, too, and one especially made for the weary or the listless traveler, giving them amusement without thought, and occupation without trouble; for people who have had their powers of attention fatigued by incessant exertion, or weakened by constant novelty, are glad to settle it upon the merest trifle at last. so the loungers on the balcony increased, and the little boat became a centre of general interest to those who apparently had not had one sympathy in common before. so calm and gliding was its motion, so refreshing the gentle air which played round it, that many an eye from the shore envied the party who were seated in it. these consisted of three individuals, two large figures and a little one. "it is captain h---- and his little boy," said one voice, breaking silence; "they arrived here yesterday." "they'll be going to see the great waterfall," said another. "they have best make haste about it; for they have a mile to walk up-hill when they land," said a third. "rather they than i," rejoined a languid fourth; and again there was a pause. meanwhile the boat party seemed to be thinking little about the waterfall, or the need for expedition. for a few minutes the quick-glancing play of the oars was seen, and then they ceased again; and now an arm was stretched out toward some distant object in the landscape, as if asking a question; and then the little fellow pointed here and there, as if asking many questions at once, and, in short, the conjectures on the balcony were all thrown out. but now the oars had rested longer than usual, and a figure rose and stooped, and seemed occupied with something at the bottom of the boat. what were they about? they were surely not going to fish at this time of evening? no, they were not; for slowly a mast was raised, and a sail unfurled, which at first hung flapping, as if uncertain which side the wind would take it, and then gently swelled out to its full dimensions, and seemed too large a wing for so tiny a body. a slight air had arisen; the long reflected lines of colors, which every object on the shore dripped, as it were, into the lake, were gently stirred with a quivering motion; every soft strip of liquid tint broke gradually into a jagged and serrated edge; colors were mingled, forms were confused; the mountains, which lay in undiminished brightness above, seemed by some invisible agency to be losing their second selves from beneath them; long, cold white lines rose apparently from below, and spread radiating over all the liquid picture: in a few minutes, the lake lay one vast sheet of bright silver, and half the landscape was gone. the boat was no longer in the same element: before, it had floated in a soft, transparent ether; now, it glided upon a plain of ice. "i wish they had stuck to their oars," said the full, deep voice of an elderly gentleman; "hoisting a sail on these lakes is very much like trusting to luck in life--it may go on all right for a while, and save you much trouble, but you are never sure that it won't give you the slip, and that when you are least prepared." "no danger in the world, sir," said a young fop standing by, who knew as little about boating on scotch lakes as he did of most things any where else. meanwhile, the air had become chill, the sun had sunk behind the hills, and the boating party, tired, apparently, of their monotonous amusement, turned the boat's head toward shore. for some minutes they advanced with fuller and fuller bulging sail in the direction they sought, when suddenly the breeze seemed not so much to change as to be met by another and stronger current of air, which came pouring through the valley with a howling sound, and then, bursting on the lake, drove its waters in a furrow before it. the little boat started, and swerved like a frightened creature; and the sail, distended to its utmost, cowered down to the water's edge. "good god! why don't they lower that sail? down with it! down with it!" shouted the same deep voice from the balcony, regardless of the impossibility of being heard. but the admonition was needless; the boatman, with quick, eager motions, was trying to lower it. still it bent, fuller and fuller, lower and lower. the man evidently strained with desperate strength, defeating, perhaps, with the clumsiness of anxiety, the end in view; when, too impatient, apparently, to witness their urgent peril without lending his aid, the figure of captain h---- rose up; in one instant a piercing scream was borne faintly to shore--the boat whelmed over, and all were in the water. for a few dreadful seconds nothing was seen of the unhappy creatures; then a cap floated, and then two struggling figures rose to the surface. one was evidently the child, for his cap was off, and his fair hair was seen; the other head was covered. this latter buffeted the waters with all the violence of a helpless, drowning man; then he threw his arms above his head, sank, and rose no more. the boy struggled less and less, and seemed dead to all resistance before he sank, too. the boat floated keel upward, almost within reach of the sufferers; and now that the waters had closed over them, the third figure was observed, for the first time, at a considerable distance, slowly and laboriously swimming toward it, and in a few moments two arms were flung over it, and there he hung. it was one of those scenes which the heart quails to look on, yet which chains the spectator to the spot. the whole had passed in less than a minute: fear--despair--agony--and death, had been pressed into one of those short minutes, of which so many pass without our knowing how. it is well. idleness, vanity, or vice--all that dismisses thought--may dally with time, but the briefest space is too long for that excess of consciousness where time seems to stand still. at this moment a lovely and gentle-looking young woman entered the room. it was evident that she knew nothing of the dreadful scene that had just occurred, nor did she now remark the intense excitement which still riveted the spectators to the balcony; for, seeking, apparently, to avoid all intercourse with strangers, she had seated herself, with a book, on the chair farthest removed from the window. nor did she look up at the first rush of hurried steps into the room; but, when she did, there was something which arrested her attention, for every eye was fixed upon her with an undefinable expression of horror, and every foot seemed to shrink back from approaching her. there was also a murmur as of one common and irrepressible feeling through the whole house; quick footsteps were heard as of men impelled by some dreadful anxiety; doors were banged; voices shouted; and, could any one have stood by a calm and indifferent spectator, it would have been interesting to mark the sudden change from the abstracted and composed look with which mrs. h---- (for she it was) first raised her head from her book to the painful restlessness of inquiry with which she now glanced from eye to eye, and seemed to question what manner of tale they told. it is something awful and dreadful to stand before a fellow-creature laden with a sorrow which, however we may commiserate it, it is theirs alone to bear; to be compelled to tear away that vail of unconsciousness which alone hides their misery from their sight; and to feel that the faintness gathering round our own heart alone enables theirs to continue beating with tranquillity. we feel less almost of pity for the suffering we are about to inflict than for the peace which we are about to remove; and the smile of unconsciousness which precedes the knowledge of evil is still more painful to look back upon than the bitterest tear that follows it. and, if such be the feelings of the messenger of heavy tidings, the mind that is to receive them is correspondingly actuated. for who is there that thanks you really for concealing the evil that was already arrived--for prolonging the happiness that was already gone? who cares for a reprieve when sentence is still to follow? it is a pitiful soul that does not prefer the sorrow of certainty to the peace of deceit; or, rather, it is a blessed provision which enables us to acknowledge the preference when it is no longer in our power to choose. it seems intended as a protection to the mind from something so degrading to it as an unreal happiness, that both those who have to inflict misery and those who have to receive it should alike despise its solace. those who have trod the very brink of a precipice, unknowing that it yawned beneath, look back to those moments of their ignorance with more of horror than of comfort; such security is too close to danger for the mind ever to separate them again. nor need the bearer of sorrow embitter his errand by hesitations and scruples how to disclose it; he need not pause for a choice of words or form of statement. in no circumstance of life does the soul act so utterly independent of all outward agency; it waits for no explanation, wants no evidence; at the furthest idea of danger it flies at once to its weakest part; an embarrassed manner will rouse suspicions, and a faltered word confirm them. dreadful things never require precision of terms--they are wholly guessed before they are half-told. happiness the heart believes not in till it stands at our very threshold; misery it flies at as if eager to meet. so it was with the unfortunate mrs. h----; no one spoke of the accident, no one pointed to the lake; no connecting link seemed to exist between the security of ignorance and the agony of knowledge. at one moment she raised her head in placid indifference, at the next she knew that her husband and child were lying beneath the waters. and did she faint, or fall as one stricken? no: for the suspicion was too sudden to be sustained; and the next instant came the thought, this must be a dream; god can not have done it. and the eyes were closed, and the convulsed hands pressed tight over them, as if she would shut out mental vision as well; and groans and sobs burst from the crowd, and men dashed from the room, unable to bear it; and women, too, untrue to their calling. and there was weeping and wringing of hands, and one weak woman fainted; but still no sound or movement came from her on whom the burden had fallen. then came the dreadful revulsion of feeling; and, with contracted brow and gasping breath, and voice pitched almost to a scream, she said, "it is not true--tell me--it is not true--tell me--tell me!" and, advancing with desperate gestures, she made for the balcony. all recoiled before her; when one gentle woman, small and delicate as herself, opposed her, and, with streaming eyes and trembling limbs, stood before her. "oh, go not there--go not there! cast your heavy burden on the lord!" these words broke the spell. mrs. h---- uttered a cry which long rang in the ears of those that heard it, and sank, shivering and powerless, in the arms of the kind stranger. meanwhile, the dreadful scene had been witnessed from all parts of the hotel, and every male inmate poured from it. the listless tourist of fashion forgot his languor, the way-worn pedestrian his fatigue. the hill down to the lake was trodden by eager, hurrying figures, all anxious to give that which in such cases it is a relief to give, viz., active assistance. nor were these all, for down came the sturdy shepherd from the hills; and the troops of ragged, bare-legged urchins from all sides; and distant figures of men and women were seen pressing forward to help or to hear; and the hitherto deserted-looking valley was active with life. meanwhile, the survivor hung motionless over the upturned boat, borne about at the will of the waters, which were now lashed into great agitation. no one could tell whether it was captain h---- or the highland boatman, and no one could wish for the preservation of the one more than the other. for life is life to all; and the poor man's wife and family may have less time to mourn, but more cause to want. and before the boat, that was manning with eager volunteers, had left the shore, down came also a tall, raw-boned woman, breathless, more apparently with exertion than anxiety--her eyes dry as stones, and her cheeks red with settled color; one child dragging at her heels, another at her breast. it was the boatman's wife. different, indeed, was her suspense to that of the sufferer who had been left above; but, perhaps, equally true to her capacity. with her it was fury rather than distress; she scolded the bystanders, chid the little squalling child, and abused her husband by turns. "how dare he gang to risk his life, wi' six bairns at hame? ae body knew nae sail was safe on the lake for twa hours thegether; mair fule he to try!" and then she flung the roaring child on to the grass, bade the other mind it, strode half-leg high into the water to help to push off the boat; and then, returning to a place where she could command a view of its movements, she took up the child and hushed it tenderly to sleep. like her, every one now sought some elevated position, and the progress of the boat seemed to suspend every other thought. it soon neared the fatal spot, and in another minute was alongside the upturned boat; the figure was now lifted carefully in, something put round him, and, from the languor of his movements, and the care taken, the first impression on shore was that captain h---- was the one spared. but it was a mercy to mrs. h---- that she was not in a state to know these surmises; for soon the survivor sat steadily upright, worked his arms, and rubbed his head, as if to restore animation; and, long before the boat reached the shore, the coarse figure and garments of the highland boatman were distantly recognized. up started his wife. unaccustomed to mental emotions of any sudden kind, they were strange and burdensome to her. "what, meggy! no stay to welcome your husband!" said a bystander. "walcome him yoursal!" she replied; "i hae no the time. i maun get his dry claes, and het his parritch; and that's the best walcome i can gie him." and so, perhaps, the husband thought, too. and now, what was there more to do? the bodies of captain h---- and his little son had sunk in seventy fathom deep of water. if, in their hidden currents and movements they cast their victims aloft to the surface, all well; if not, no human hand could reach them. there was nothing to do! two beings had ceased to exist, who, as far as regarded the consciousness and sympathies of the whole party, had never existed at all before. there had been no influence upon them in their lives, there was no blank to them in their deaths. they had witnessed a dreadful tragedy; they knew that she who had risen that morning a happy wife and mother was now widowed and childless, with a weight of woe upon her, and a life of mourning before her; but there were no forms to observe, no rites to prepare; nothing necessarily to interfere with one habit of the day, or to change one plan for the morrow. it was only a matter of feeling; a great only, it is true; but, as with every thing in life, from the merest trifle to the most momentous occurrence, the matter varied with the individual who felt. all pitied, some sympathized, but few ventured to help. some wished themselves a hundred miles off, because they could not help her; others wished the same, because she distressed them; and the solitary back room, hidden from all view of the lake, to which the sufferer had been home, after being visited by a few well-meaning or curious women, was finally deserted by all save the kind lady we have mentioned, and a good-natured maid-servant, the drudge of the hotel, who came in occasionally to assist. we have told the tale exactly as it occurred; the reader knows both plot and conclusion: and now there only remains to say something of the ways of human sorrow, and something, too, of the ways of human goodness. grief falls differently on different hearts; some must vent it, others can not. the coldest will be the most unnerved, the tenderest the most possessed; there is no rule. as for this poor lady, hers was of that sudden and extreme kind for which insensibility is at first mercifully provided; and it came to her, and yet not entirely--suspending the sufferings of the mind, but not deadening all the sensation of the body; for she shivered and shuddered with that bloodless cold which kept her pale, numb, and icy, like one in the last hours before death. a large fire was lighted, warm blankets were wrapped round her, but the cold was too deep to be reached; and the kind efforts made to restore animation were more a relief to her attendants than to her. and yet miss campbell stopped sometimes from the chafing of the hands, and let those blue fingers lie motionless in hers, and looked up at that wan face with an expression as if she wished that the eyes might never open again, but that death might at once restore what it had just taken. for some hours no change ensued, and then it was gradual; the hands were withdrawn from those that held them, and first laid, and then clenched together; deep sighs of returning breath and returning knowledge broke from her; the wrappers were thrown off, first feebly, and then restlessly. there were no dramatic startings, no abrupt questionings; but, as blood came back to the veins, anguish came back to the heart. all the signs of excessive mental oppression now began, a sad train as they are, one extreme leading to the other. before, there had been the powerlessness of exertion, now, there was the powerlessness of control; before she had been benumbed by insensibility, now, she was impelled as if bereft of sense. like one distracted with intense bodily pain, her whole frame seemed strained to endure. the gentlest of voices whispered comfort, she heard not; the kindest of arms supported her, she rested not. there was the unvarying moan, the weary pacing, the repetition of the same action, the measurement of the same distance, the body vibrating as a mere machine to the restless recurrence of the same thought. we have said that every outer sign of woe was there--all but that which great sorrows set flowing, but the greatest dry up--she shed no tears! tears are things for which a preparation of the heart is needful; they are granted to anxiety for the future, or lament for the past. they flow with reminiscences of our own, or with the example of others; they are sent to separations we have long dreaded, and to disappointments we can not forget; they come when our hearts are softened, or when our hearts are wearied; but, in the first amazement of unlooked-for woe, they find no place: the cup that is suddenly whelmed over lets no drop of water escape. it was evident, however, through all the unruliness of such distress, that the sufferer was a creature of gentle and considerate nature; in the whirlpool which convulsed every faculty of her mind, the smooth surface of former habits was occasionally thrown up. though the hand which sought to support her was cast aside with a restless, excited movement, it was sought the next instant with a momentary pressure of contrition. though the head was turned away one instant from the whisper of consolation with a gesture of impatience, yet it was bowed the next as if in entreaty of forgiveness. poor creature! what effort she could make to allay the storm which was rioting within her was evidently made for the sake of those around. with so much and so suddenly to bear, she still showed the habit of forbearance. meanwhile night had far advanced; many had been the inquiries and expressions of sympathy made at mrs. h----'s door; but now, one by one, the parties retired each to their rooms. few, however, rested that night as usual; however differently the terrible picture might be carried on the mind during the hours of light, it forced itself with almost equal vividness upon all in those of darkness. the father struggling to reach the child, and then throwing up his arms in agony, and that fair little head borne about unresistingly by the waves before they covered it over--these were the figures which haunted many a pillow. or, if the recollection of that scene was lulled for a while, it was recalled again by the weary sound of those footsteps which told of a mourner who rested not. of course, among the number and medley of characters lying under that roof, there was the usual proportion of the selfish and the careless. none, however, slept that night without confessing, in word or thought, that life and death are in the hands of the lord; and not all, it is to be hoped, forgot the lesson. one young man, in particular, possessed of fine intellectual powers, but which unfortunately had been developed among a people who, god help them! affect to believe only what they understand, was indebted to this day and night for a great change in his opinions. his heart was kind, though his understanding was perverted; and the thought of that young, lovely, and feeble woman, on whom a load of misery had fallen which would have crushed the strongest of his own sex, roused within him the strongest sense of the insufficiency of all human aid or human strength for beings who are framed to love and yet ordained to lose. he was oppressed with compassion, miserable with sympathy, he longed with all the generosity of a manly heart to do something, to suggest something, that should help her, or satisfy himself. but what were fortitude, philosophy, strength of mind? mockeries, nay, more, imbecilities, which he dared not mention to her, nor so much as think of in the same thought with her woe. either he must accuse the power who had inflicted the wound, and so deep he had not sunk, or he must acknowledge his means of cure. impelled, therefore, by a feeling equally beyond his doubting or his proving, he did that which for years german sophistry had taught him to forbear; he gave but little, but he felt that he gave his best--he _prayed_ for the suffering creature, and in the name of one who suffered for all, and from that hour god's grace forsook him not. but the most characteristic sympathizer on the occasion was sir thomas ----, the fine old gentleman who had shouted so loudly from the balcony. he was at home in this valley, owned the whole range of hills on one side of the lake from their fertile bases to their bleak tops, took up his abode generally every summer in this hotel, and felt for the stricken woman as if she had been a guest of his own. ever since the fatal accident he had gone about in a perfect fret of commiseration, inquiring every half-hour at her door how she was, or what she had taken. severe bodily illness or intense mental distress had never fallen upon that bluff person and warm heart, and abstinence from food was in either case the proof of an extremity for which he had every compassion, but of which he had no knowledge. he prescribed, therefore, for the poor lady every thing that he would have relished himself, and nothing at that moment could have made him so happy as to have been allowed to send her up the choicest meal that the country could produce. not that his benevolence was at all limited to such manifestations; if it did not deal in sentiment, it took the widest range of practice. his laborers were dispatched round the lake to watch for any traces of the late catastrophe; he himself kept up an hour later planning how he could best promote the comfort of her onward journey and of her present stay; and though the good old gentleman was now snoring loudly over the very apartment which contained the object of his sympathy, he would have laid down his life to save those that were gone, and half his fortune to solace her who was left. some hours had elapsed, the footsteps had ceased, there was quiet, if not rest, in the chamber of mourning; and, shortly after sunrise, a side door in the hotel opened, and she who had been as a sister to the stranger, never seen before, came slowly forth. she was worn with watching, her heart was sick with the sight and sounds of such woe, and she sought the refreshment of the outer air and the privacy of the early day. it was a dawn promising a day as beautiful as the preceding; the sun was beaming mildly through an opening toward the east, wakening the tops of the nearest hills, while all the rest of the beautiful range lay huge and colorless, nodding, as it were, to their drowsy reflections beneath, and the lake itself looked as calm and peaceful as if the winds had never swept over its waters, nor those waters over all that a wife and mother had loved. man is such a speck on this creation of which he is lord, that had every human being now sleeping on the green sides of the hills, been lying deep among their dark feet in the lake, it would not have shown a ripple the more. miss campbell, meanwhile, wandered slowly on, and though apparently unmindful of the beauty of the scene, she was evidently soothed by its influence. all that dreary night long had she cried unto god in ceaseless prayer, and felt that without his help in her heart, and his word on her lips, she had been but as a strengthless babe before the sight of that anguish. but here beneath his own heavens her communings were freer; her soul seemed not so much to need him below, as to rise to him above; and the solemn dejection upon a very careworn, but sweet face, became less painful, but perhaps more touching. in her wanderings she had now left the hotel to her left hand, the boatman's clay cottage was just above, and below a little rough pier of stones, to an iron ring in one of which the boat was usually attached. she had stood on that self-same spot the day before and watched captain h---- and his little son as they walked down to the pier, summoned the boatman, and launched into the cool, smooth water. she now went down herself, and stood with a feeling of awe upon the same stones they had so lately left. the shores were loose and shingly, many footsteps were there, but one particularly riveted her gaze. it was tiny in shape and light in print, and a whole succession of them went off toward the side as if following a butterfly, or attracted by a bright stone. alas! they we're the last prints of that little foot on the shores of this world! miss campbell had seen the first thunderbolt of misery burst upon his mother; she had borne the sight of her as she lay stunned, and as she rose frenzied, but that tiny footprint was worse than all, and she burst into a passionate fit of tears. she felt as if it were desecration to sweep them away, as if she could have shrined them round from the winds and waves, and thoughtless tread of others; but a thought came to check her. what did it matter how the trace of his little foot, or how the memory of his short life were obliterated from this earth? there was one above who had numbered every hair of his innocent head, and in his presence she humbly hoped both father and child were now rejoicing. she was just turning away when the sound of steps approached, and the boatman's wife came up. her features were coarse and her frame was gaunt, as we have said, but she was no longer the termagant of the day before, nor was she ever so. but the lower classes, in the most civilized lands, are often, both in joy and grief, an enigma to those above them; if nature, rare alike in all ranks, speak not for them, they have no conventional imitation to put in her place. the feeling of intense suspense was new to her, and the violence she had assumed had been the awkwardness which, under many eyes, knew not otherwise how to express or, conceal; but she had sound scotch sense, and a tender woman's heart, and spoke them both now truly, if not gracefully. "ye'll be frae the hotel, yonder?" she said; "can ye tell me how the puir leddy has rested? i was up mysel' to the house, and they tell't me they could hear her greeting!" miss campbell told her in a few words what the reader knows, and asked for her husband. "oh! he's weel eneugh in body, but sair disquieted in mind. no that he's unmindfu' of the mercy of the lord to himsel', but he can no just keep the thocht away that it was he wha helped those poor creatures to their end." she then proceeded earnestly to exculpate her husband, assuring miss campbell that in spite of the heavy wind and the entangled rope, all might even yet have been well if the gentleman had kept his seat. "but i just tell him that there's ane above, stronger than the wind, who sunk them in the lake, and could have raised them from it, but it was no his pleasure. the puir leddy would ha' been nane the happier if andrew had been ta'en as well, and i and the bairns muckle the waur." then observing where miss campbell stood, she continued, in a voice of much emotion, "ah! i mind them weel as they came awa' down here; the bairnie was playing by as andrew loosened the boat--the sweet bairnie! so happy and thochtless as he gaed in his beautiful claes--i see him noo!" and the poor woman wiped her eyes. "but there's something ye'll like to see. jeanie! gang awa' up, and bring the little bonnet that hangs on the peg. andrew went out again with the boat the night, and picked it up. but it will no be dry." the child returned with a sad token. it was the little fellow's cap; a smart, town-made article, with velvet band, and long silk tassel which had been his first vanity, and his mother had coaxed it smooth as she pulled the peak low down over his fair forehead, and then, fumbling his little fingers into his gloves, had given him a kiss which she little thought was to be the last! "i was coming awa' up wi' it mysel', but the leddy will no just bear to see it yet." "no, not yet," said miss campbell, "if ever. let me take it. i shall remain with her till better friends come here, or she goes to them;" and giving the woman money, which she had difficulty in making her accept, she possessed herself of the cap, and turned away. she soon reached the hotel, it was just five o'clock, all blinds were down, and there was no sign of life; but one figure was pacing up and down, and seemed to be watching for her. it was sir thomas. his sympathy had broken his sleep in the morning, though it had not disturbed it at night. he began in his abrupt way: "madam, i have been watching for you. i heard you leave the house. madam, i feel almost ashamed to lift up my eyes to you; while we have all been wishing and talking, you alone have been acting. we are all obliged to you, madam; there is not a creature here with a heart in them to whom you have not given comfort!" miss campbell tried to escape from the honest overflowings of the old man's feelings. "you have only done what you liked: very true, madam. it is choking work having to pity without knowing how to help; but i would sooner give ten thousand pounds than see what you have seen. i would do any thing for the poor creature, any thing, but i could not look at her." he then told her that his men had been sent with the earliest dawn to different points of the lake, but as yet without finding any traces of the late fatal accident; and then his eyes fell upon the cap in miss campbell's hand, and he at once guessed the history. "picked up last evening, you say--sad, sad--a dreadful thing!" and his eyes filling more than it was convenient to hold, he turned away, blew his nose, took a short turn, and coming back again, continued, "but tell me, how has she rested? what has she taken? you must not let her weep too much!" "let her weep!" said miss campbell; "i wish i could bid her. she has not shed a tear yet, and mind and body alike want it. i left her lying back quiet in an arm-chair, but i fear this quiet is worse than what has gone before!" "god bless my heart!" said sir thomas, his eyes now running over without control. "god bless my heart! this is sad work. not that i ever wished a woman to cry before in my life, if she could help it. poor thing! poor thing! i'll send for a medical man: the nearest is fifteen miles off!" "i think it will be necessary. i am now going back to her room." "well, ma'am, i won't detain you longer, but don't keep all the good to yourself. let me know if there is any thing that i, or my men, or," the old gentleman hesitated, "my money, madam, can do, only don't ask me to see her;" and so they each went their way--sir thomas to the stables to send off man and horse, and miss campbell to the chamber of mourning. she started as she entered; the blind was drawn up, and, leaning against the shutter, in apparent composure, stood mrs. h----. that composure was dreadful; it was the calm of intense agitation, the silence of boiling heat, the immovability of an object in the most rapid motion. the light was full upon her, showing cheek and forehead flushed, and veins bursting on the small hands. miss campbell approached with trembling limbs. "where is the servant?"--"i did not want her." "will you not rest?"--"i _can not_!" miss campbell was weary and worn out; the picture before her was so terrible, she sunk on the nearest chair in an agony of tears. without changing her position, mrs. h---- turned her head, and said, gently, "oh, do not cry so! it is i who ought to cry, but my heart is as dry as my eyes, and my head is so tight, and i can not think for its aching; i can not think, i can not understand, i can not remember, i don't even know your name, then why should this be true? it is i who am ill, they are well, but they never were so long from me before." then coming forward, her face working, and her breath held tightly, as if a scream were pressing behind, "tell me," she said, "tell me--my husband and child--" she tried hard to articulate, but the words were lost in a frightful contortion. miss campbell mastered herself, she saw the rack of mental torture was strained to the utmost. neither could bear this much longer. she almost feared resistance, but she felt there was one way to which the sufferer would respond. "i am weary and tired," she said; "weary with staying up with you all night. if you will lie down, i will soon come and lie by your side." poor mrs. h---- said nothing, but let herself be laid upon the bed. three mortal hours passed, she was burnt with a fever which only her own tears could quench; and those wide-open, dry eyes were fearful to see. a knock came to the door, "how is she now?" said sir thomas's voice, "the doctor is here: you look as if you wanted him yourself. i'll bring him up." the medical man entered. such a case had not occurred in his small country practice before, but he was a sensible and a kind man, and no practice could have helped him here if he had not been. he heard the whole sad history, felt the throbbing pulse, saw the flush on the face, and wide-open eyes, which now seemed scarcely to notice any thing. he took miss campbell into another room, and said that the patient must be instantly roused, and then bled if necessary. "but the first you can undertake better than i, madam." he looked round. "is there no little object which would recall?--nothing you could bring before her sight? you understand me?" indeed, miss campbell did. she had not sat by that bed-side for the last three hours without feeling and fearing that this was necessary; but, at the same time, she would rather have cut off her own hand than undertaken it. she hesitated--but for a moment, and then whispered something to sir thomas. "god bless my heart!" said he: "who would have thought of it? yes. i know it made me cry like a child." and then he repeated her proposition to the medical man, who gave immediate assent, and she left the room. in a few minutes she entered that of mrs. h---- with the little boy's cap in her hand, placed it in a conspicuous position before the bed, and then seated herself with a quick, nervous motion by the bed-side. it was a horrid pause, like that which precedes a cruel operation, where you have taken upon yourself the second degree of suffering--that of witnessing it. the cap lay there on the small stone mantle-piece, with its long, drabbled, weeping tassel, like a funeral emblem. it was not many minutes before it caught those eyes for which it was intended. a suppressed exclamation broke from her; she flew from the bed, looked at miss campbell one instant in intense inquiry, and the next had the cap in her hands. the touch of that wet object seemed to dissolve the spell; her whole frame trembled with sudden relaxation. she sank, half-kneeling, on the floor, and tears spouted from her eyes. no blessed rain from heaven to famished earth was ever more welcome. tears, did we say? torrents! those eyes, late so hot and dry, were as two arteries of the soul suddenly opened. what a misery that had been which had sealed them up! they streamed over her face, blinding her riveted gaze, falling on her hands, on the cap, on the floor. meanwhile the much-to-be-pitied sharer of her sorrow knelt by her side, her whole frame scarcely less unnerved than that she sought to support, uttering broken ejaculations and prayers, and joining her tears to those which flowed so passionately. but she had a gentle and meek spirit to deal with. mrs. h---- crossed her hands over the cap and bowed her head. thus she continued a minute, and then turning, still on her knees, she laid her head on her companion's shoulder. "help me up," she said, "for i am without strength." and all weak, trembling, and sobbing, she allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed. miss campbell lay down in the same room. she listened till the quivering, catching sobs had given place to deep-drawn sighs, and these again to disturbed breathings, and then both slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, and miss campbell, fortunately, knew not when the mourner awoke from it. oh, the dreary first-fruits of excessive sorrow! the first days of a stricken heart, passed through, writhed through, ground through, we scarcely know or remember how, before the knowledge of the bereavement has become habitual--while it is still struggle and not endurance--the same ceaseless recoil from the same ever-recurring shock. it was a blessing that she was ill, very ill; the body shared something of the weight at first. let no one, untried by such extremity, here lift the word or look of deprecation. let there not be a thought of what she ought to have done, or what they would have done. god's love is great, and a christian's faith is strong, but when have the first encounters between old joys and new sorrows been otherwise than fierce? from time to time a few intervals of heavenly composure, wonderful and gracious to the sufferer, may be permitted, and even the dim light of future peace discerned in the distance; but, in a moment, the gauntlet of defiance is thrown again--no matter what--an old look, an old word, which comes rushing unbidden over the soul, and dreadful feelings rise again only to spend themselves by their own violence. it always seems to us as if sorrow had a nature of its own, independent of that whereon it has fallen, and sometimes strangely at variance with it--scorching the gentle, melting the passionate, dignifying the weak, and prostrating the strong--and showing the real nature, habits, or principles of the mind, only in those defenses it raises up during the intervals of relief. with mrs. h---- these defenses were reared on the only sure base, and though the storm would sweep down her bulwarks, and cover all over with the furious tide of grief, yet the foundation was left to cling to, and every renewal added somewhat to its strength. three days were spent thus, but the fourth she was better, and on miss campbell's approaching her bed-side, she drew her to her, and, putting her arms round her neck, imprinted a calm and solemn kiss upon her cheek. "oh! what can i ever do for you, dear friend and comforter? god, who has sent you to me in my utmost need, he alone can reward you. i don't even know your name; but that matters not, i know your heart. now, you may tell me all--all; before, i felt as if i could neither know nor forget what had happened, before, it was as if god had withdrawn his countenance; but now he is gracious, he has heard your prayers." and then, with the avidity of fresh, hungry sorrow, she besought miss campbell to tell her all she knew; she besought and would not be denied, for sorrow has royal authority, its requests are commands. so, with the hand of each locked together, and the eyes of each averted, they sat questioning and answering in disjointed sentences till the whole sad tale was told. then, anxious to turn a subject which could not be banished, miss campbell spoke of the many hearts that had bled, and the many prayers that had ascended for her, and told her of that kind old man who had thought, acted, and grieved for her like a father. "god bless him--god bless them all; but chiefly you, my sister. i want no other name." "call me catherine," said the faithful companion. passionate bursts of grief would succeed such conversations; nevertheless, they were renewed again and again, for, like all sufferers from severe bereavements, her heart needed to create a world for itself, where its loved ones still were, as a defense against that outer one where they were not, and to which she was only slowly and painfully to be inured, if ever. in these times she would love to tell catherine--what catherine most loved to hear--how that her lost husband was both a believer and a doer of christ's holy word, and that her lost child had learned at her knee what she herself had chiefly learned from his father. for she had been brought up in ignorance and indifference to religious truths, and the greatest happiness of her life had commenced that knowledge, which its greatest sorrow was now to complete. "i have been such a happy woman," she would say, "that i have pitied others less blessed, though i trust they have not envied me." and then would follow sigh on sigh and tear on tear, and again her soul writhed beneath the agony of that implacable mental spasm. sometimes the mourner would appear to lose, instead of gaining ground, and would own with depression, and even with shame, her fear that she was becoming more and more the sport of ungovernable feeling. "my sorrow is sharp enough," she would say, "but it is a still sharper pang when i feel i am not doing my duty under it. it is not thus that _he_ would have had me act." and her kind companion, always at hand to give sympathy or comfort, would bid her not exact or expect any thing from herself, but to cast all upon god, reminding her in words of tenderness that her soul was as a sick child, and that strength would not be required until strength was vouchsafed. "strength," said the mourner, "no more strength or health for me." and miss campbell would whisper that, though "weariness endureth for a night, joy comes in the morning." or she would be silent, for she knew, as most women do, alike how to soothe and when to humor. it was a beautiful and a moving sight to see two beings thus riveted together in the exercise and receipt of the tenderest and most intimate feelings, who had never known of each other's existence till the moment that made the one dependent and the other indispensable. all the shades and grades of conventional and natural acquaintanceship, all the gradual insight into mutual character, and the gradual growth into mutual trust, which it is so sweet to look back upon from the high ground of friendship, were lost to them; but it mattered not, here they were together, the one admitted into the sanctuary of sorrow, the other sharing in the fullness of love, with no reminiscence in common but one, and that sufficient to bind them together for life. meanwhile the friend without was also unremitting in his way. he crossed not her threshold in person, nor would have done so for the world, but his thoughts were always reaching mrs. h---- in some kind form. every delicate dainty that money could procure--beautiful fruits and flowers which had scarce entered this valley before--every thing that could tempt the languid appetite or divert the weary eye was in turn thought of, and each handed in with a kind, hearty inquiry, till the mourner listened with pleasure for the step and voice. nor was miss campbell forgotten; all the brief snatches of air and exercise she enjoyed were in his company, and often did he insist on her coming out for a short walk or drive when the persuasions of mrs. h---- had failed to induce her to leave a room where she was the only joy. but now a fresh object attracted sir thomas's activity, for after many days the earthly remains of one of the sufferers were thrown up. it was the body of the little boy. sir thomas directed all that was necessary to be done, and having informed miss campbell, the two friends, each strange to the other, and bound together by the interest in one equally strange to both, went out together up the hill above the hotel, and were gone longer than usual. the next day the intelligence was communicated to mrs. h----, who received it calmly, but added, "i could have wished them both to have rested together; but god's will be done. i ought not to think of them as on earth." the grave of little harry h---- was dug far from the burial-ground of his fathers, and strangers followed him to it; but though there were no familiar faces among those who stood round, there were no cold ones; and when sir thomas, as chief mourner, threw the earth upon the lowered coffin, warm tears fell upon it also. miss campbell had watched the procession from the window, and told how the good old man walked next behind the minister, the boatman and his wife following him, and how a long train succeeded, all pious and reverential in their bearing, with that air of manly decorum which the scotch peasantry conspicuously show on such occasions. and she who lay on a bed of sorrow and weakness blessed them through her tears, and felt that her child's funeral was not lonely. from this time the mourner visibly mended. the funeral and the intelligence that preceded it had insensibly given her that change of the same theme, the want of which had been so much felt at first. she had now taken up her burden, and, for the dear sakes of those for whom she bore it, it became almost sweet to her. she was not worshiping her sorrow as an idol, but cherishing it as a friend. meanwhile she had received many kind visits from the minister who had buried her child, and had listened to his exhortations with humility and gratitude; but his words were felt as admonitions, catherine's as comfort. to her, now dearer and dearer, every day she would confess aloud the secret changes of her heart; how at one time the world looked all black and dreary before her, how at another she seemed already to live in a brighter one beyond; how one day life was a burden she knew not how to bear, and another how the bitterness of death seemed already past. then with true christian politeness she would lament over the selfishness of her grief, and ask where miss campbell had learned to know that feeling which she felt henceforth was to be the only solace of her life--viz., the deep, deep sympathy for others. and catherine would tell her, with that care-worn look which confirmed all she said, how she had been sorely tried, not by the death of those she loved, but by what was worse--their sufferings and their sins. how she had been laden with those misfortunes which wound most and teach least, and which, although coming equally from the hand of god, torment you with the idea that, but for the wickedness or weakness of some human agent, they need never have been; till she had felt, wrongly no doubt, that she could have better borne those on which the stamp of the divine will was more legibly impressed. she told her how the sting of sorrow, like that of death, is sin; how comparatively light it was to see those you love dead, dying, crippled, maniacs, victims, in short, of any evil, rather than victims of evil itself. she spoke of a heart-broken sister and a hard-hearted brother; of a son--an only one, like him just buried--who had gone on from sin to sin, hardening his own heart, and wringing those of others, till none but a mother's love remained to him, and that he outraged. she told, in short, so much of the sad realities of life, in which, if there was not more woe, there was less comfort, that mrs. h---- acknowledged in her heart that such griefs had indeed been unendurable, and returned with something like comfort to the undisturbed sanctity of her own. about this time a summons came which required sir thomas to quit the valley in which these scenes had been occurring. mrs. h---- could have seen him, and almost longed to see him; but he shrunk from her, fearing no longer her sorrow so much as her gratitude. "tell her i love her," he said, in his abrupt way, "and always shall; but i can't see her--at least, not yet." then, explaining to miss campbell all the little arrangements for the continuation of the mourner's comfort, which his absence might interrupt, he authorized her to dispose of his servants, his horses, and every thing that belonged to him, and finally put into her hands a small packet, directed to mrs. h----, with instructions when to give it. he had ascertained that mrs. h---- was wealthy, and that her great afflictions entailed no minor privations. "but you, my dear, are poor; at least, i hope so, for i could not be happy unless i were of service to you. i am just as much obliged to you as mrs. h---- is. mind, you have promised to write to me and to apply to me without reserve. no kindness, no honor--nonsense. it is _i_ who honor _you_ above every creature i know, but i would not be a woman for the world; at least, the truth is, i _could_ not." and so he turned hastily away. and now the time approached when she, who had entered this valley a happy wife and mother, was to leave it widowed and childless, a sorrowing and heavy-hearted woman, but not an unhappy one. she had but few near relations, and those scattered in distant lands; but there were friends who would break the first desolation of her former home, and catherine had promised to bear her company till she had committed her into their hands. it was a lovely evening, the one before their departure. mrs. h---- was clad for the first time in all that betokened her to be a mourner; but, as catherine looked from the black habiliments to that pale face, she felt that there was the deepest mourning of all. slowly the widow passed through that side-door we have mentioned, and stood once more under god's heaven. neither had mentioned to the other the errand on which they were bound, but both felt that there was but one. slowly and feebly she mounted the gentle slope, and often she stopped, for it was more than weakness or fatigue that made her breath fail. the way was beautiful, close to the rocky bed and leafy sides of that sweetest of all sweet things in the natural world, a scotch burn. and now they turned, for the rich strip of grass, winding among bush and rock, which they had been following as a path, here spread itself out in a level shelf of turf, where the burn ran smoother, the bushes grew higher, and where the hill started upward again in bolder lines. here there was a fresh-covered grave. the widow knelt by it, while catherine stood back. long was that head bowed, first in anguish, and then in submission, and then she turned her face toward the lake, on which she had not looked since that fatal day, and gazed steadily upon it. the child lay in his narrow bed at her feet, but the father had a wider one far beneath. catherine now approached and was folded in a silent embrace; then she gave her that small packet which sir thomas had left, and begged her to open it on the spot. it was a legal deed, making over to mary h----, in free gift, the ground on which she stood--a broad strip from the tip of the hill to the waters of the lake. the widow's tears rained fast upon it. "both god and man are very good to me," she said; "i am lonely but not forsaken. but, catherine, it is you to whom i must speak. i have tried to speak before, but never felt i could till now. oh, catherine! stay with me; let us never be parted. god gave you to me when he took all else beside; he has not done it for naught. i can bear to return to my lonely home if you will share it--i can bear to see this valley, this grave again, if you are with me. i am not afraid of tying your cheerfulness to my sorrow; i feel that i am under a calamity, but i feel also that i am under no curse--you will help to make it a blessing. oh! complete your sacred work, give me years to requite to you your last few days to me. you have none who need you more--none who love you more. oh! follow me; here, on my child's grave, i humbly entreat you, follow me." catherine trembled; she stood silent a minute, and then, with a low, firm voice, replied, "here, on your child's grave, i promise you. your people shall be my people, and your god my god." she kept her promise and never repented it. life of blake, the great admiral. robert blake was born at bridgewater, in august, . his father, humphrey blake, was a merchant trading with spain--a man whose temper seems to have been too sanguine and adventurous for the ordinary action of trade, finally involving him in difficulties which clouded his latter days, and left his family in straitened circumstances: his name, however, was held in general respect; and we find that he lived in one of the best houses in bridgewater, and twice filled the chair of its chief magistrate. the perils to which mercantile enterprise was then liable--the chance escapes and valorous deeds which the successful adventurer had to tell his friends and children on the dark winter nights--doubtless formed a part of the food on which the imagination of young blake, "silent and thoughtful from his childhood," was fed in the "old house at home." at the bridgewater grammar-school, robert received his early education, making tolerable acquaintance with latin and greek, and acquiring a strong bias toward a literary life. this _penchant_ was confirmed by his subsequent career at oxford, where he matriculated at sixteen, and where he strove hard, but fruitlessly, for scholarships and fellowships at different colleges. his failure to obtain a merton fellowship has been attributed to a crotchet of the warden's, sir henry savile, in favor of tall men: "the young somersetshire student, thick-set, fair-complexioned, and only five feet six, fell below his standard of manly beauty;" and thus the cavalier warden, in denying this aspirant the means of cultivating literature on a little university oatmeal, was turning back on the world one who was fated to become a republican power of the age. this shining light, instead of comfortably and obscurely merging in a petty constellation of alma mater, was to become a bright particular star, and dwell apart. the avowed liberalism of robert may, however, have done more in reality to shock sir henry, than his inability to add a cubit to his stature. it is pleasant to know, that the "admiral and general at sea" never outgrew a tenderness for literature--his first-love, despite the rebuff of his advances. even in the busiest turmoil of a life teeming with accidents by flood and field, he made it a point of pride not to forget his favorite classics. nor was it till after nine years' experience of college-life, and when his father was no longer able to manage his _res angusta vitæ_, that robert finally abandoned his long-cherished plans, and retired with a sigh and last adieu from the banks of the isis. when he returned to bridgewater, in time to close his father's eyes, and superintend the arrangements of the family, he was already remarkable for that "iron will, that grave demeanor, that free and dauntless spirit," which so distinguished his after-course. his tastes were simple, his manners somewhat bluntly austere; a refined dignity of countenance, and a picturesque vigor of conversation, invested him with a social interest, to which his indignant invectives against court corruptions gave distinctive character. to the short parliament he was sent as member for his native town; and in , was returned by taunton to the long parliament. at the dissolution of the former, which he regarded as a signal for action, he began to prepare arms against the king; his being one of the first troops in the field, and engaged in almost every action of importance in the western counties. his superiority to the men about him lay in the "marvelous fertility, energy, and comprehensiveness of his military genius." prince rupert alone, in the royalist camp, could rival him as a "partisan soldier." his first distinguished exploit was his defense of prior's hill fort, at the siege of bristol--which contrasts so remarkably with the pusillanimity of his chief, colonel fiennes. next comes his yet more brilliant defense of lyme--then a little fishing-town, with some inhabitants, of which the defenses were a dry ditch, a few hastily-formed earth-works, and three small batteries, but which the cavalier host of prince maurice, trying storm, stratagem, blockade, day after day, and week after week, failed to reduce or dishearten. "at oxford, where charles then was, the affair was an inexplicable marvel and mystery: every hour the court expected to hear that the 'little vile fishing-town,' as clarendon contemptuously calls it, had fallen, and that maurice had marched away to enterprises of greater moment; but every post brought word to the wondering council, that colonel blake still held out, and that his spirited defense was rousing and rallying the dispersed adherents of parliament in those parts." after the siege was raised, the royalists found that more men of gentle blood had fallen under blake's fire at lyme, than in all other sieges and skirmishes in the western counties since the opening of the war. the hero's fame had become a spell in the west: it was seen that he rivaled rupert in rapid and brilliant execution, and excelled him in the caution and sagacity of his plans. he took taunton--a place so important at that juncture, as standing on and controlling the great western highway--in july, , within a week of cromwell's defeat of rupert at marston moor. all the vigor of the royalists was brought to bear on the captured town; blake's defense of which is justly characterized as abounding with deeds of individual heroism--exhibiting in its master-mind a rare combination of civil and military genius. the spectacle of an unwalled town, in an inland district, with no single advantage of site, surrounded by powerful castles and garrisons, and invested by an enemy brave, watchful, numerous, and well provided with artillery, successively resisting storm, strait, and blockade for several months, thus paralyzing the king's power, and affording cromwell time to remodel the army, naturally arrested the attention of military writers at that time; and french authors of this class bestowed on taunton the name of the modern saguntum. the rage of the royalists at this prolonged resistance was extreme. reckoning from the date when blake first seized the town, to that of goring's final retreat, the defense lasted exactly a year, and under circumstances of almost overwhelming difficulty to the besieged party, who, in addition to the fatigue of nightly watches, and the destruction of daily conflicts, suffered from terrible scarcity of provisions. "not a day passed without a fire; sometimes eight or ten houses were burning at the same moment; and in the midst of all the fear, horror, and confusion incident to such disasters, blake and his little garrison had to meet the storming-parties of an enemy brave, exasperated, and ten times their own strength. but every inch of ground was gallantly defended. a broad belt of ruined cottages and gardens was gradually formed between the besiegers and the besieged; and on the heaps of broken walls and burnt rafters, the obstinate contest was renewed from day to day." at last relief arrived from london; and goring, in savage dudgeon, beat a retreat, notwithstanding the wild oath he had registered, either to reduce that haughty town, or to lay his bones in its trenches. blake was now the observed of all observers; but, unlike most of his compeers, he abstained from using his advantages for purposes of selfish or personal aggrandizement. he kept aloof from the "centre of intrigues," and remained at his post, "doing his duty humbly and faithfully at a distance from westminster; while other men, with less than half his claims, were asking and obtaining the highest honors and rewards from a grateful and lavish country." nor, indeed, did he at any time side with the ultras of his party, but loudly disapproved of the policy of the regicides. this, coupled with his influence, so greatly deserved and so deservedly great, made him an object of jealousy with cromwell and his party; and it was owing, perhaps, to their anxiety to keep him removed from the home sphere of action, that he was now appointed to the chief naval command. hitherto, and for years afterward, no state, ancient or modern, as macaulay points out, had made a separation between the military and the naval service. cimon and lysander, pompey and agrippa, had fought by sea as well as by land: at flodden, the right wing of the english was led by her admiral, and the french admiral led the huguenots at jarnac, &c. accordingly, blake was summoned from his pacific government at taunton, to assume the post of "general and admiral at sea;" a title afterward changed to "general of the fleet." two others were associated with him in the command; but blake seems at _least_ to have been recognized as _primus inter pares_. the navy system was in deplorable need of reform; and a reformer it found in robert blake, from the very day he became an admiral. his care for the well-being of his men made him an object of their almost adoring attachment. from first to last, he stood alone as england's model seaman. "envy, hatred, and jealousy dogged the steps of every other officer in the fleet; but of him, both then and afterward, every man spoke well." the "tremendous powers" intrusted to him by the council of state, he exercised with off-handed and masterly success--startling politicians and officials of the _ancien régime_, by his bold and open tactics, and his contempt for tortuous by-paths in diplomacy. his wondrous exploits were performed with extreme poverty of means. he was the first to repudiate and disprove the supposed fundamental maxim in marine warfare, that no ship could attack a castle, or other strong fortification, with any hope of success. the early part of his naval career was occupied in opposing and defeating the piratical performances of prince rupert, which then constituted the support of the exiled stuarts. blake's utmost vigilance and activity were required to put down this extraordinary system of freebooting; and by the time that he had successively overcome rupert, and the minor but stubborn adventurers, grenville and carteret, he was in request to conduct the formidable war with holland, and to cope with such veterans as tromp, de witt, de ruyter, &c. on one occasion only did blake suffer ever a defeat; and this one is easily explained by--first, tromp's overwhelming superiority of force; secondly, the extreme deficiency of men in the english fleet; and, thirdly, the cowardice or disaffection of several of blake's captains at a critical moment in the battle. notwithstanding this disaster, not a whisper was heard against the admiral either in the council of state or in the city; his offer to resign was flatteringly rejected; and he soon found, that the "misfortune which might have ruined another man, had given him strength and influence in the country." this disaster, in fact, gave him power to effect reforms in the service, and to root out abuses which had defied all his efforts in the day of his success. he followed it up by the great battle of portland, and other triumphant engagements. then came his sweeping _tours de force_ in the mediterranean; in six months he established himself as a power in that great midland sea, from which his countrymen had been politically excluded since the age of the crusades--teaching nations, to which england's very name was a strange sound, to respect its honors and its rights; chastising the pirates of barbary with unprecedented severity; making italy's petty princes feel the power of the northern protestants; causing the pope himself to tremble on his seven hills; and startling the council-chambers of venice and constantinople with the distant echoes of our guns. and be it remembered, that england had then no malta, corfu, and gibraltar as the bases of naval operations in the mediterranean: on the contrary, blake found that in almost every gulf and island of that sea--in malta, venice, genoa, leghorn, algiers, tunis, and marseilles--there existed a rival and an enemy; nor were there more than three or four harbors in which he could obtain even bread for love or money. after this memorable cruise, he had to conduct the spanish war--a business quite to his mind; for though his highest renown had been gained in his conflicts with the dutch, he had secretly disliked such encounters between two protestant states; whereas, in the case of popish spain, his soul leaped at the anticipation of battle--sympathizing as he did with the puritan conviction, that spain was the devil's stronghold in europe. at this period, blake was suffering from illness, and was sadly crippled in his naval equipments, having to complain constantly of the neglect at home to remedy the exigencies of the service. "our ships," he writes, "extremely foul, winter drawing on, our victuals expiring, all stores failing, our men falling sick through the badness of drink, and eating their victuals boiled in salt water for two months' space" ( ). his own constitution was thoroughly undermined. for nearly a year, remarks his biographer, "he had never quitted the 'foul and defective' flag-ship. want of exercise and sweet food, beer, wine, water, bread, and vegetables, had helped to develop scurvy and dropsy; and his sufferings from these diseases were now acute and continuous." but his services were indispensable, and blake was not the man to shrink from dying in harness. his sun set gloriously at santa cruz--that miraculous and unparalleled action, as clarendon calls it, which excited such grateful enthusiasm at home. at home! words of fascination to the maimed and enfeebled veteran, who now turned his thoughts so anxiously toward the green hills of his native land. cromwell's letter of thanks, the plaudits of parliament, and the jeweled ring sent to him by his loving countrymen, reached him while homeward bound. but he was not again to tread the shores he had defended so well. as the ships rolled through the bay of biscay, his sickness increased, and affectionate adherents saw with dismay that he was drawing near to the gates of the grave. "some gleams of the old spirit broke forth as they approached the latitude of england. he inquired often and anxiously if the white cliffs were yet in sight. he longed to behold once more the swelling downs, the free cities, the goodly churches of his native land.... at last, the lizard was announced. shortly afterward, the bold cliffs and bare hills of cornwall loomed out grandly in the distance. but it was too late for the dying hero. he had sent for the captains and other great officers of his fleet, to bid them farewell; and while they were yet in his cabin, the undulating hills of devonshire, glowing with the tints of early autumn, came full in view.... but the eyes which had so yearned to behold this scene once more were at that very instant closing in death. foremost of the victorious squadron, the _st. george_ rode with its precious burden into the sound; and just as it came into full view of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the pier-heads, the walls of the citadel, &c, ready to catch the first glimpse of the hero of santa cruz, and salute him with a true english welcome--he, in his silent cabin, in the midst of his lion-hearted comrades, now sobbing like little children, yielded up his soul to god." the corpse was embalmed, and conveyed to greenwich, where it lay in state for some days. on the th of september, , the thames bore a solemn funeral procession, which moved slowly, amid salvos of artillery, to westminster, where a new vault had been prepared in the noble abbey. the tears of a nation made it hallowed ground. a prince, of whom the epigram declares that, if he never said a foolish thing, he never did a wise one--saw fit to disturb the hero's grave, drag out the embalmed body, and cast it into a pit in the abbey-yard. one of charles stuart's most witless performances! for blake is not to be confounded--though the merry monarch thought otherwise--with the iretons and bradshaws who were similarly exhumed. the admiral was a moderate in the closest, a patriot in the widest sense. in the chivalric disposition of the man, there was true affinity to the best qualities of the cavalier, mingled sometimes with a certain grim humor, all his own. many are the illustrations we might adduce of this high-minded and generous temperament. for instance: meeting a french frigate of forty guns in the straits, and signaling for the captain to come on board his flag-ship, the latter, considering the visit one of friendship and ceremony, there being no _declared_ war between the two nations--though the french conduct at toulon had determined england on measures of retaliation--readily complied with blake's summons; but was astounded on entering the admiral's cabin, at being told he was a prisoner, and requested to give up his sword. no! was the surprised but resolute frenchman's reply. blake felt that an advantage had been gained by a misconception, and scorning to make a brave officer its victim, he told his guest he might go back to his ship, if he wished, and fight it out as long as he was able. the captain, we are told, thanked him for his handsome offer, and retired. after two hours' hard fighting, he struck his flag; like a true french knight, he made a low bow, kissed his sword affectionately, and delivered it to his conqueror. again: when blake captured the dutch herring-fleet off bochness, consisting of boats, instead of destroying or appropriating them, he merely took a tithe of the whole freight, in merciful consideration toward the poor families whose entire capital and means of life it constituted. this "characteristic act of clemency" was censured by many as quixotic, and worse. but "blake took no trouble to justify his noble instincts against such critics. his was indeed a happy fate: the only fault ever advanced by friend or foe against his public life, was an excess of generosity toward his vanquished enemies!" his sense of the comic is amusingly evidenced by the story of his _ruse_ during a dearth in the same siege. tradition reports, that only one animal, a hog, was left alive in the town, and that more than half starved. in the afternoon, blake, feeling that in their depression a laugh would do the defenders as much good as a dinner, had the hog carried to all the posts and whipped, so that its screams, heard in many places, might make the enemy suppose that fresh supplies had somehow been obtained. the moral aspects of his character appear in this memoir in an admirable light. if he did not stand so high as some others in public notoriety, it was mainly because, to stand higher than he did, he must plant his feet on a _bad_ eminence. his patriotism was as pure as cromwell's was selfish. mr. dixon, his biographer, alludes to the strong points of contrast, as well as of resemblance between the two men. both, he says, were sincerely religious, undauntedly brave, fertile in expedients, irresistible in action. born in the same year, they began and almost closed their lives at the same time. both were country gentlemen of moderate fortune; both were of middle age when the revolution came. without previous knowledge or professional training, both attained to the highest honors of their respective services. but there the parallel ends. anxious only for the glory and interest of his country, blake took little or no care of his personal aggrandizement. his contempt for money, his impatience with the mere vanities of power, were supreme. bribery he abhorred in all its shapes. he was frank and open to a fault; his heart was ever in his hand, and his mind ever on his lips. his honesty, modesty, generosity, sincerity, and magnanimity were unimpeached. cromwell's inferior moral qualities made him distrust the great seaman; yet, now and then, as in the case of the street tumult at malaga, he was fain to express his admiration of robert blake. the latter was wholly unversed in the science of nepotism, and "happy family" compacts; for, although desirous of aiding his relatives, he was jealous of the least offense on their part, and never overlooked it. several instances of this disposition are on record. when his brother samuel, in rash zeal for the commonwealth, ventured to exceed his duty, and was killed in a fray which ensued, blake was terribly shocked, but only said: "sam had no business there." afterward, however, he shut himself up in his room, and bewailed his loss in the words of scripture: "died abner as a fool dieth!" his brother benjamin, again, to whom he was strongly attached, falling under suspicion of neglect of duty, was instantly broken, and sent on shore. "this rigid measure of justice against his own flesh and blood, silenced every complaint, and the service gained immeasurably in spirit, discipline, and confidence." yet more touching was the great admiral's inexorable treatment of his favorite brother humphrey, who, in a moment of extreme agitation, had failed in his duty. the captains went to blake in a body, and argued that humphrey's fault was a neglect rather than a breach of orders, and suggested his being sent away to england till it was forgotten. but blake was outwardly unmoved, though inwardly his bowels did yearn over his brother, and sternly said: "if none of you will accuse him, i must be his accuser." humphrey was dismissed from the service. it is affecting to know how painfully blake missed his familiar presence during his sick and lonely passage homeward, when the hand of death was upon that noble heart. to humphrey he bequeathed the greater part of the property which he left behind him. in the rare intervals of private life which he enjoyed on shore, blake also compels our sincere regard. when released for awhile from political and professional duties, he loved to run down to bridgewater for a few days or weeks, and, as his biographer says, with his chosen books, and one or two devout and abstemious friends, to indulge in all the luxuries of seclusion. "he was by nature self-absorbed and taciturn. his morning was usually occupied with a long walk, during which he appeared to his simple neighbors to be lost in profound thought, as if working out in his own mind the details of one of his great battles, or busy with some abstruse point of puritan theology. if accompanied by one of his brothers, or by some other intimate friend, he was still for the most part silent. always good-humored, and enjoying sarcasm when of a grave, high class, he yet never talked from the loquacious instinct, or encouraged others so to employ their time and talents in his presence. even his lively and rattling brother humphrey, his almost constant companion when on shore, caught, from long habit, the great man's contemplative and self-communing gait and manner; and when his friends rallied him on the subject in after-years, he used to say, that he had caught the trick of silence while walking by the admiral's side in his long morning musings on knoll hill. a plain dinner satisfied his wants. religious conversation, reading, and the details of business, generally filled up the evening until supper-time; after family prayers--always pronounced by the general himself--he would invariably call for his cup of sack and a dry crust of bread, and while he drank two or three horns of canary, would smile and chat in his own dry manner with his friends and domestics, asking minute questions about their neighbors and acquaintance; or when scholars or clergymen shared his simple repast, affecting a droll anxiety--rich and pleasant in the conqueror of tromp--to prove, by the aptness and abundance of his quotations, that, in becoming an admiral, he had not forfeited his claim to be considered a good classic." the care and interest with which he looked to the well-being of his humblest followers, made him eminently popular in the fleet. he was always ready to hear complaints, and to rectify grievances. when wounded at the battle of portland, and exhorted to go on shore for repose and proper medical treatment, he refused to seek for himself the relief which he had put in the way of his meanest comrade. even at the early period of his cruise against the cavalier corsairs of kinsale, such was blake's popularity, that numbers of men were continually joining him from the enemy's fleet, although he offered them less pay, and none of that license which they had enjoyed under prince rupert's flag. they gloried in following a leader _sans peur et sans reproche_--one with whose renown the whole country speedily rang--the renown of a man who had revived the traditional glories of the english navy, and proved that its meteor flag could "yet terrific burn." the british museum and zoological gardens. by fredrika bremer. london possesses two scenes of popular enjoyment on a great scale, in its british museum and its zoological gardens. in the former, the glance is sent over the life of antiquity; in the latter, over that of the present time in the kingdom of nature; and in both may the englishman enjoy a view of england's power and greatness, because it is the spirit of england which has compelled egypt and greece to remove hither their gods, their heroic statues: it is england whose courageous sons at this present moment force their way into the interior of africa, that mysterious native land of miracles and of the leviathan; it is an englishman who held in his hand snow from the clefts of the remote mountains of the moon; it is england which has aroused that ancient nineveh from her thousands of years of sleep in the desert; england, which has caused to arise from their graves, and to stand forth beneath the sky of england, those witnesses of the life and art of antiquity which are known under the name of the nineveh marbles, those magnificent but enigmatical figures which are called the nineveh bulls, in the immense wings of which one can not but admire the fine artistic skill of the workmanship, and from the beautiful human countenances of which glances oriental despotism--with eyes such as those with which king ahasuerus might have gazed on the beautiful esther, when she sank fainting before the power of that glance. they have an extraordinary expression--these countenances of nineveh, so magnificent, so strong, and at the same time, so joyous--a something about them so valiant and so joyously commanding! it was an expression which surprised me, and which i could not rightly comprehend. it would be necessary for me to see them yet again before i could fully satisfy myself whether this inexpressible, proudly joyous glance is one of wisdom or of stupidity! i could almost fancy it might be the latter, when i contemplate the expression of gentle majesty in the head of the grecian jupiter. nevertheless, whether it be wisdom or stupidity--these representations of ancient nineveh have a real grandeur and originality about them. were they then representatives of life there? was life there thus proud and joyous, thus unconscious of trouble, care, or death, thus valiant, and without all arrogance? had it such eyes? ah! and yet it has lain buried in the sand of the desert, lain forgotten there many thousand years. and now, when they once more look up with those large, magnificent eyes, they discover another world around them, another nineveh which can not understand what they would say. thus proudly might nineveh have looked when the prophet uttered above her his "woe!" such a glance does not accord with the life of earth. in comparison with these latest discovered but most ancient works of art, the egyptian statues fall infinitely short, bearing evidence of a degraded, sensual humanity, and the same as regarded art. but neither of these, nor of the elgin marbles, nor of many other treasures of art in the british museum which testify at the same time to the greatness of foregone ages, and to the power of the english world-conquering intelligence, shall i say any thing, because time failed me rightly to observe them, and the nineveh marbles almost bewitched me by their contemplation. it is to me difficult to imagine a greater pleasure than that of wandering through these halls, or than by a visit to the zoological garden which lies on one side of the regent's park. i would willingly reside near this park for a time, that i might again and again wander about in this world of animals from all zones, and listen to all that they have to relate, ice-bears and lions, turtles and eagles, the ourang-outang and the rhinoceros! the english zoological garden, although less fortunate in its locality than the _jardin des plantes_ in paris, is much richer as regards animals. that which at this time attracted hither most visitors was the new guest of the garden, a so-called river-horse or hippopotamus, lately brought hither from upper egypt, where it was taken when young. it was yet not full-grown, and had here its own keeper--an arab--its own house, its own court, its own reservoir, to bathe and swim in! thus it lived in a really princely hippopotamus fashion. i saw his highness ascend out of his bath in a particularly good-humor, and he looked to me like an enormous--pig, with an enormously broad snout. he was very fat, smooth, and gray, and awkward in his movements, like the elephant. long-necked giraffes walked about, feeding from wooden racks in the court adjoining that of the hippopotamus, and glancing at us across it. one can scarcely imagine a greater contrast than in these animals. the eagles sate upon crags placed in a row beneath a lofty transparent arch of iron work, an arrangement which seemed to me excellent, and which i hope seemed so to them, in case they could forget that they were captives. here they might breathe, here spread out their huge wings, see the free expanse of heaven, and the sun, and build habitations for themselves upon the rock. on the contrary, the lions, leopards, and such-like noble beasts of the desert, seemed to me particularly unhappy in their iron-grated stone vaults; and their perpetual, uneasy walking backward and forward in their cages--i could not see that without a feeling of distress. how beautiful they must be in the desert, or amid tropical woods, or in the wild caverns of the mountains, those grand, terrific beasts--how fearfully beautiful! one day i saw these animals during their feeding time. two men went round with wooden vessels filled with pieces of raw meat; these were taken up with a large iron-pronged fork, and put, or rather flung, through the iron grating into the dens. it was terrible to see the savage joy, the fury, with which the food was received and swallowed down by the beasts. three pieces of meat were thrown into one great vault which was at that time empty, a door was then drawn up at the back of the vault, and three huge yellow lions with shaggy manes rushed roaring in, and at one spring each possessed himself of his piece of flesh. one of the lions held his piece between his teeth for certainly a quarter of an hour, merely growling and gloating over it in savage joy, while his flashing eyes glared upon the spectators, and his tail was swung from side to side with an expression of defiance. it was a splendid, but a fearful sight. one of my friends was accustomed sometimes to visit these animals in company with his little girl, a beautiful child, with a complexion like milk and cherries. the sight of her invariably produced great excitement in the lions. they seemed evidently to show their love to her in a ravenous manner. the serpents were motionless in their glass house, and lay, half-asleep, curled around the trunks of trees. in the evening by lamp-light they become lively, and then, twisting about and flashing forth their snaky splendors, they present a fine spectacle. the snake-room, with its walls of glass, behind which the snakes live, reminded me of the old northern myth of nastrond, the roof of which was woven of snakes' backs, the final home of the ungodly--an unpleasant, but vigorous picture. the most disagreeable and the ugliest of all the snakes, was that little snake which the beautiful queen cleopatra, herself false as a serpent, placed at her breast; a little gray, flat-headed snake which liked to bury itself in the sand. the monkey-family lead a sad life; stretch out their hands for nuts or for bread, with mournful human gestures; contentious, beaten, oppressed, thrust aside, frightening one another, the stronger the weaker--mournfully human also. sad, also, was the sight of an ourang-outang, spite of all its queer grimaces, solitary in its house, for it evidently suffered ennui, was restless, and would go out. it embraced its keeper and kissed him with real human tenderness. the countenance, so human, yet without any human intelligence, made a painful impression upon me; so did the friendly tame creature here, longing for its fellows, and seeing around it only human beings. thou poor animal! fain would i have seen thee in the primeval woods of africa, caressing thy wife in the clear moonlight of the tropical night, sporting with her among the branches of the trees, and sleeping upon them, rocked by the warm night wind. there thy ugliness would have had a sort of picturesque beauty. after the strange beast-man had climbed hither and thither along the iron railing, seizing the bars with his hands, and feet which resembled hands, and also with his teeth, he took a white woolen blanket, wrapped it around him in a very complicated manner, and ended by laying himself down as a human being might do, in his chilly, desolate room. after this, all the more charming was the spectacle presented by the water-fowl from every zone--ducks, swans, and co., all quite at home here, swimming in the clear waters, among little green islands on which they had their little huts. it was most charmingly pretty and complete. and the mother-duck with her little, lively golden-yellow flock, swimming neck and heels after her, or seeking shelter under her wings, is at all times one of the most lovely scenes of natural life--resembling humanity in a beautiful manner. even among the wild beasts i saw a beautiful human trait of maternal affection. a female leopard had in her cage two young cubs, lively and playful as puppies. when the man threw the flesh into her cage, she drew herself back and let the young ones first seize upon the piece. crows from all parts of the world here live together in one neighborhood, and that the chattering and laughter was loud here did not surprise me, neither that the european crows so well maintained their place among their fellows. that which, however, astonished and delighted me was, the sweet flute-like melodious tones of the australian crow. in the presence of this crow from paradise--for originally it must have come therefrom--it seemed to me that all the other crows ought to have kept silence with their senseless chattering. but they were nothing but crows, and they liked better to hear themselves. parrots from all lands lived and quarreled together in a large room, and they there made such a loud screaming, that in order to stand it out one must have been one of their own relations. better be among the silent, dejected, stealthy, hissing, shining snakes, than in company with parrots! the former might kill the body, but the latter the soul. twilight came on, and drove me out of the zoological garden each time i was there, and before i had seen all its treasures. would that i might return there yet a third time and remain still longer! a terribly strange bed. the most difficult likeness i ever had to take, not even excepting my first attempt in the art of portrait-painting, was a likeness of a gentleman named faulkner. as far as drawing and coloring went, i had no particular fault to find with my picture; it was the _expression_ of the sitter which i had failed in rendering--a failure quite as much his fault as mine. mr. faulkner, like many other persons by whom i have been employed, took it into his head that he must assume an expression, because he was sitting for his likeness; and, in consequence, contrived to look as unlike himself as possible, while i was painting him. i had tried to divert his attention from his own face, by talking with him on all sorts of topics. we had both traveled a great deal, and felt interested alike in many subjects connected with our wanderings over the same countries. occasionally, while we were discussing our traveling experiences, the unlucky set-look left his countenance, and i began to work to some purpose; but it was always disastrously sure to return again, before i had made any great progress--or, in other words, just at the very time when i was most anxious that it should not re-appear. the obstacle thus thrown in the way of the satisfactory completion of my portrait, was the more to be deplored, because mr. faulkner's natural expression was a very remarkable one. i am not an author, so i can not describe it. i ultimately succeeded in painting it, however; and this was the way in which i achieved my success: on the morning when my sitter was coming to me for the fourth time, i was looking at his portrait in no very agreeable mood--looking at it, in fact, with the disheartening conviction that the picture would be a perfect failure, unless the expression in the face represented were thoroughly altered and improved from nature. the only method of accomplishing this successfully, was to make mr. faulkner, somehow, insensibly forget that he was sitting for his picture. what topic could i lead him to talk on, which would entirely engross his attention while i was at work on his likeness?--i was still puzzling my brains to no purpose on this subject, when mr. faulkner entered my studio; and, shortly afterward, an accidental circumstance gained for me the very object which my own ingenuity had proved unequal to compass. while i was "setting" my pallet, my sitter amused himself by turning over some portfolios. he happened to select one for special notice, which contained several sketches that i had made in the streets of paris. he turned over the first five views rapidly enough; but when he came to the sixth, i saw his face flush directly; and observed that he took the drawing out of the portfolio, carried it to the window, and remained silently absorbed in the contemplation of it for full five minutes. after that, he turned round to me; and asked, very anxiously, if i had any objection to part with that sketch. it was the least interesting drawing of the series--merely a view in one of the streets running by the backs of the houses in the palais royal. some four or five of these houses were comprised in the view, which was of no particular use to me in any way; and which was too valueless, as a work of art, for me to think of _selling_ it to my kind patron. i begged his acceptance of it, at once. he thanked me quite warmly; and then, seeing that i looked a little surprised at the odd selection he had made from my sketches, laughingly asked me if i could guess why he had been so anxious to become possessed of the view which i had given him? "probably"--i answered--"there is some remarkable historical association connected with that street at the back of the palais royal, of which i am ignorant." "no"--said mr. faulkner--"at least, none that _i_ know of. the only association connected with the place in _my_ mind, is a purely personal association. look at this house in your drawing--the house with the water-pipe running down it from top to bottom. i once passed a night there--a night i shall never forget to the day of my death. i have had some awkward traveling adventures in my time; but _that_ adventure--! well, well! suppose we begin the sitting. i make but a bad return for your kindness in giving me the sketch, by thus wasting your time in mere talk." he had not long occupied the sitter's chair (looking pale and thoughtful), when he returned--involuntarily, as it seemed--to the subject of the house in the back street. without, i hope, showing any undue curiosity, i contrived to let him see that i felt a deep interest in every thing he now said. after two or three preliminary hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly started on the narrative of his adventure. in the interest of his subject he soon completely forgot that he was sitting for his portrait--the very expression that i wanted, came over his face--my picture proceeded toward completion, in the right direction, and to the best purpose. at every fresh touch, i felt more and more certain that i was now getting the better of my grand difficulty; and i enjoyed the additional gratification of having my work lightened by the recital of a true story, which possessed, in my estimation, all the excitement of the most exciting romance. this, as nearly as i can recollect, is, word for word, how mr. faulkner told me the story:-- shortly before the period when gambling-houses were suppressed by the french government, i happened to be staying at paris with an english friend. we were both young men then, and lived, i am afraid, a very dissipated life, in the very dissipated city of our sojourn. one night, we were idling about the neighborhood of the palais royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. my friend proposed a visit to frascati's; but his suggestion was not to my taste. i knew frascati's, as the french saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, "merely for the fun of the thing," until it was "fun" no longer; and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house. "for heaven's sake"--said i to my friend--"let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming, with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it at all. let us get away from fashionable frascati's, to a house where they don't mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise."--"very well," said my friend, "we needn't go out of the palais royal to find the sort of company you want. here's the place, just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see." in another minute we arrived at the door, and entered the house, the back of which you have drawn in your sketch. when we got up-stairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. we did not find many people assembled there. but, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types--miserable types--of their respective classes. we had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse. there is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism--here, there was nothing but tragedy; mute, weird tragedy. the quiet in the room was horrible. the thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red--never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes, and the darned great coat, who had lost his last _sous_, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer--never spoke. even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. i had entered the place to laugh; i felt that if i stood quietly looking on much longer, i should be more likely to weep. so, to excite myself out of the depression of spirits which was fast stealing over me, i unfortunately went to the table, and began to play. still more unfortunately, as the event will show, i won--won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate, that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the english stranger was going to break the bank. the game was _rouge et noir_. i had played at it in every city in europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the theory of chances--that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! and a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, i had never been. i was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play. my gaming was a mere idle amusement. i never resorted to it by necessity, because i never knew what it was to want money. i never practiced it so incessantly as to lose more than i could afford, or to gain more than i could coolly pocket, without being thrown off my balance by my good luck. in short, i had hitherto frequented gambling-tables--just as i frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses--because they amused me, and because i had nothing better to do with my leisure hours. but, on this occasion, it was very different--now, for the first time in my life, i felt what the passion for play really was. my success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated me. incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that i only lost, when i attempted to estimate chances, and played according to previous calculation. if i left every thing to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, i was sure to win--to win in the face of every recognized probability in favor of the bank. at first, some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on my color; but i speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared not risk. one after another they left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game. still, time after time, i staked higher and higher; and still won. the excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. the silence was interrupted, by a deep, muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shoveled across to my side of the table--even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a (french) fury of astonishment at my success. but one man present preserved his self-possession; and that man was my friend. he came to my side, and whispering in english, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what i had already gained. i must do him the justice to say, that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several times; and only left me and went away, after i had rejected his advice (i was to all intents and purposes gambling-drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night. shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried: "permit me, my dear sir!--permit me to restore to their proper place two napoleons which you have dropped. wonderful luck, sir!--i pledge you my word of honor as an old soldier, in the course of my long experience in this sort of thing, i never saw such luck as yours!--never! go on, sir--_sacré mille bombes!_ go on boldly, and break the bank!" i turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided surtout. if i had been in my senses, i should have considered him, personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier. he had goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose. his voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiest pair of hands i ever saw--even in france. these little personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling influence on me. in the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that moment, i was ready to "fraternize" with any body who encouraged me in my game. i accepted the old soldier's offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back, and swore he was the honestest fellow in the world; the most glorious relic of the grand army that i had ever met with. "go on!" cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in ecstasy--"go on, and win! break the bank--_mille tonnerres!_ my gallant english comrade, break the bank!" and i _did_ go on--went on at such a rate, that in another quarter of an hour the croupier called out: "gentlemen! the bank has discontinued for to-night." all the notes, and all the gold in that "bank," now lay in a heap under my hands; the whole floating capital of the gambling-house was waiting to pour into my pockets! "tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, my worthy sir," said the old soldier, as i wildly plunged my hands into my heap of gold. "tie it up, as we used to tie up a bit of dinner in the grand army; your winnings are too heavy for any breeches pockets that ever were sewed. there! that's it!--shovel them in, notes and all! _credié!_ what luck!--stop! another napoleon on the floor! _ah! sacré petit polisson de napoleon!_ have i found thee at last? now, then, sir--two tight double knots each way with your honorable permission, and the money's safe. feel it! feel it, fortunate sir! hard and round as a cannon ball--_ah, bah!_ if they had only fired such cannon balls at us at austerlitz--_nom d'une pipe!_ if they only had! and now, as an ancient grenadier, as an ex-brave of the french army, what remains for me to do? i ask what? simply this: to entreat my valued english friend to drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast the goddess fortune in foaming goblets before we part!" excellent ex-brave! convivial ancient grenadier! champagne by all means! an english cheer for an old soldier! hurrah! hurrah! another english cheer for the goddess fortune! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! "bravo! the englishman; the amiable, gracious englishman, in whose veins circulates the vivacious blood of france! another glass? _ah, bah!_--the bottle is empty! never mind! _vive le vin!_ i, the old soldier, order another bottle, and half a pound of _bon-bons_ with it!" no, no, ex-brave; never--ancient grenadier! _your_ bottle last time; _my_ bottle this. behold it! toast away! the french army!--the great napoleon!--the present company! the croupier! the honest croupier's wife and daughters--if he has any! the ladies generally! every body in the world! by the time the second bottle of champagne was emptied, i felt as if i had been drinking liquid fire--my brain seemed all a flame. no excess in wine had ever had this effect on me before in my life. was it the result of a stimulant acting upon my system when i was in a highly-excited state? was my stomach in a particularly disordered condition? or was the champagne particularly strong? "ex-brave of the french army!" cried i, in a mad state of exhilaration. "_i_ am on fire! how are _you_? you have set me on fire! do you hear; my hero of austerlitz? let us have a third bottle of champagne to put the flame out!" the old soldier wagged his head, rolled his goggle-eyes, until i expected to see them slip out of their sockets; placed his dirty forefinger by the side of his broken nose; solemnly ejaculated "coffee!" and immediately ran off into an inner room. the word pronounced by the eccentric veteran, seemed to have a magical effect on the rest of the company present. with one accord they all rose to depart. probably they had expected to profit by my intoxication; but finding that my new friend was benevolently bent on preventing me from getting dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of thriving pleasantly on my winnings. whatever their motive might be, at any rate they went away in a body. when the old soldier returned, and sat down again opposite to me at the table, we had the room to ourselves. i could see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule which opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude. the silence was now deeper than ever. a sudden change, too, had come over the "ex-brave." he assumed a portentously solemn look; and when he spoke to me again, his speech was ornamented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping, enlivened by no apostrophes, or exclamations. "listen, my dear sir," said he, in mysteriously confidential tones--"listen to an old soldier's advice. i have been to the mistress of the house (a very charming woman, with a genius for cookery!) to impress on her the necessity of making us some particularly strong and good coffee. you must drink this coffee in order to get rid of your little amiable exaltation of spirits, before you think of going home--you _must_, my good and gracious friend! with all that money to take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself to have your wits about you. you are known to be a winner to an enormous extent, by several gentlemen present to-night, who, in a certain point of view, are very worthy and excellent fellows; but they are mortal men, my dear sir, and they have their amiable weaknesses! need i say more? ah, no, no! you understand me! now, this is what you must do--send for a cabriolet when you feel quite well again--draw up all the windows when you get into it--and tell the driver to take you home only through the large and well-lighted thoroughfares. do this; and you and your money will be safe. do this; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier for giving you a word of honest advice." just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very lachrymose tones, the coffee came in, ready poured out in two cups. my attentive friend handed me one of the cups, with a bow. i was parched with thirst, and drank it off at a draught. almost instantly afterward, i was seized with a fit of giddiness, and felt more completely intoxicated than ever. the room whirled round and round furiously; the old soldier seemed to be regularly bobbing up and down before me, like the piston of a steam-engine. i was half-deafened by a violent singing in my ears; a feeling of utter bewilderment, helplessness, idiotcy, overcame me. i rose from my chair, holding on by the table to keep my balance; and stammered out, that i felt dreadfully unwell--so unwell, that i did not know how i was to get home. "my dear friend," answered the old soldier; and even his voice seemed to be bobbing up and down, as he spoke--"my dear friend, it would be madness to go home, in _your_ state. you would be sure to lose your money; you might be robbed and murdered with the greatest ease. _i_ am going to sleep here: do _you_ sleep here, too--they make up capital beds in this house--take one; sleep off the effects of the wine, and go home safely with your winnings, to-morrow--to-morrow, in broad daylight." i had no power of thinking, no feeling of any kind, but the feeling that i must lie down somewhere, immediately, and fall off into a cool, refreshing, comfortable sleep. so i agreed eagerly to the proposal about the bed, and took the offered arms of the old soldier and the croupier--the latter having been summoned to show the way. they led me along some passages and up a short flight of stairs into the bedroom which i was to occupy. the ex-brave shook me warmly by the hand; proposed that we should breakfast together the next morning; and then, followed by the croupier, left me for the night. i ran to the wash-hand stand; drank some of the water in my jug; poured the rest out, and plunged my face into it--then sat down in a chair, and tried to compose myself. i soon felt better. the change for my lungs, from the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-room to the cool air of the apartment i now occupied; the almost equally refreshing change for my eyes, from the glaring gas-lights of the "salon" to the dim, quiet flicker of one bedroom candle; aided wonderfully the restorative effects of cold water. the giddiness left me, and i began to feel a little like a reasonable being again. my first thought was of the risk of sleeping all night in a gambling-house; my second, of the still greater risk of trying to get out after the house was closed, and of going home alone at night, through the streets of paris, with a large sum of money about me. i had slept in worse places than this, in the course of my travels; so i determined to lock, bolt, and barricade my door. accordingly, i secured myself against all intrusion; looked under the bed, and into the cupboard; tried the fastening of the window; and then, satisfied that i had taken every proper precaution, pulled off my upper clothing, put my light, which was a dim one, on the hearth among a feathery litter of wood ashes; and got into bed, with the handkerchief full of money under my pillow. i soon felt, not only that i could not go to sleep, but that i could not even close my eyes. i was wide awake, and in a high fever. every nerve in my body trembled--every one of my senses seemed to be preternaturally sharpened. i tossed, and rolled, and tried every kind of position, and perseveringly sought out the cold corners of the bed, and all to no purpose. now, i thrust my arms over the clothes; now, i poked them under the clothes; now, i violently shot my legs straight out, down to the bottom of the bed; now, i convulsively coiled them up as near my chin as they would go; now, i shook out my crumpled pillow, changed it to the cool side, patted it flat, and lay down quietly on my back; now, i fiercely doubled it in two, set it up on end, thrust it against the board of the bed, and tried a sitting posture. every effort was in vain; i groaned with vexation, as i felt that i was in for a sleepless night. what could i do? i had no book to read. and yet, unless i found out some method of diverting my mind, i felt certain that i was in the condition to imagine all sorts of horrors; to rack my brains with forebodings of every possible and impossible danger; in short, to pass the night in suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous terror. i raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the room--which was brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straight through the window--to see if it contained any pictures or ornaments, that i could at all clearly distinguish. while my eyes wandered from wall to wall, a remembrance of le maistre's delightful little book, "voyage autour de ma chambre," occurred to me. i resolved to imitate the french author, and find occupation and amusement enough to relieve the tedium of my wakefulness by making a mental inventory of every article of furniture i could see, and by following up to their sources the multitude of associations which even a chair, a table, or a wash-hand stand, may be made to call forth. in the nervous, unsettled state of my mind at that moment, i found it much easier to make my proposed inventory, than to make my proposed reflections, and soon gave up all hope of thinking in le maistre's fanciful track--or, indeed, thinking at all. i looked about the room at the different articles of furniture, and did nothing more. there was, first, the bed i was lying in--a four-post bed, of all things in the world to meet with in paris!--yes, a thorough clumsy british four-poster, with the regular top lined with chintz--the regular fringed valance all round--the regular stifling, unwholesome curtains, which i remembered having mechanically drawn back against the posts, without particularly noticing the bed when i first got into the room. then, there was the marble-topped wash-hand stand, from which the water i had spilt, in my hurry to pour it out, was still dripping, slowly and more slowly, on to the brick floor. then, two small chairs, with my coat, waistcoat, and trowsers flung on them. then, a large elbow chair covered with dirty-white dimity: with my cravat and shirt-collar thrown over the back. then, a chest of drawers, with two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstand placed on it by way of ornament for the top. then, the dressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very large pincushion. then, the window--an unusually large window. then, a dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed me. it was the picture of a fellow in a high spanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering feathers. a swarthy sinister ruffian, looking upward; shading his eyes with his hand, and looking intently upward--it might be at some tall gallows at which he was going to be hanged. at any rate he had the appearance of thoroughly deserving it. this picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward, too--at the top of the bed. it was a gloomy and not an interesting object, and i looked back at the picture. i counted the feathers in the man's hat; they stood out in relief; three, white; two, green. i observed the crown of his hat, which was of a conical shape, according to the fashion supposed to have been favored by guido fawkes. i wondered what he was looking up at. it couldn't be at the stars; such a desperado was neither astrologer nor astronomer. it must be at the high gallows, and he was going to be hanged presently. would the executioner come into possession of his conical crowned hat, and plume of feathers? i counted the feathers again; three, white; two, green. while i still lingered over this very improving and intellectual employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander. the moonlight shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in england--the night after a pic-nic party in a welsh valley. every incident of the drive homeward through lovely scenery, which the moonlight made lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance, though i had never given the pic-nic a thought for years; though, if i had _tried_ to recollect it, i could certainly have recalled little or nothing of that scene long past. of all the wonderful faculties that help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime truth more eloquently than memory? here was i, in a strange house of the most suspicious character, in a situation of uncertainty, and even of peril, which might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollection almost out of the question; nevertheless remembering, quite involuntarily, places, people, conversations, minute circumstances of every kind, which i had thought forgotten forever, which i could not possibly have recalled at will, even under the most favorable auspices. and what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this strange, complicated, mysterious effect? nothing but some rays of moonlight shining in at my bedroom window. i was still thinking of the pic-nic; of our merriment on the drive home; of the sentimental young lady, who _would_ quote childe harold because it was moonlight. i was absorbed by these past scenes and past amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which my memories hung, snapped asunder; my attention immediately came back to present things more vividly than ever, and i found myself, i neither knew why or wherefore, looking hard at the picture again. looking for what? good god, the man had pulled his hat down on his brows!--no! the hat itself was gone! where was the conical crown? where the feathers; three, white; two green? not there! in place of the hat and feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his forehead--his eyes--his shading hand? was the bed moving? i turned on my back, and looked up. was i mad? drunk? dreaming? giddy again? or, was the top of the bed really moving down--sinking slowly, regularly, silently, horribly, right down throughout the whole of its length and breadth--right down upon me, as i lay underneath? my blood seemed to stand still; a deadly paralyzing coldness stole all over me, as i turned my head round on the pillow, and determined to test whether the bed-top was really moving or not, by keeping my eye on the man in the picture. the next look in that direction was enough. the dull, black, frowsy outline of the valance above me was within an inch of being parallel with his waist. i still looked breathlessly. and steadily, and slowly--very slowly--i saw the figure, and the line of frame below the figure, vanish, as the valance moved down before it. i am, constitutionally, any thing but timid. i have been, on more than one occasion, in peril of my life, and have not lost my self-possession for an instant; but, when the conviction first settled on my mind that the bed-top was really moving, was steadily and continuously sinking down upon me, i looked up for one awful minute, or more, shuddering, helpless, panic-stricken, beneath the hideous machinery for murder, which was advancing closer and closer to suffocate me where i lay. then the instinct of self-preservation came, and nerved me to save my life, while there was yet time. i got out of bed very quietly, and quickly dressed myself again in my upper clothing. the candle, fully spent, went out. i sat down in the arm-chair that stood near, and watched the bed-top slowly descending. i was literally spell-bound by it. if i had heard footsteps behind me, i could not have turned round; if a means of escape had been miraculously provided for me, i could not have moved to take advantage of it. the whole life in me, was, at that moment, concentrated in my eyes. it descended--the whole canopy, with the fringe round it, came down--down--close down; so close that there was not room now to squeeze my finger between the bed-top and the bed. i felt at the sides, and discovered that what had appeared to me, from beneath, to be the ordinary light canopy of a four-post bed was in reality a thick, broad mattress, the substance of which was concealed by the valance and its fringe. i looked up, and saw the four posts rising hideously bare. in the middle of the bed-top was a huge wooden screw that had evidently worked it down through a hole in the ceiling, just as ordinary presses are worked down on the substance selected for compression. the frightful apparatus moved without making the faintest noise. there had been no creaking as it came down; there was now not the faintest sound from the room above. amid a dead and awful silence i beheld before me--in the nineteenth century, and in the civilized capital of france--such a machine for secret murder by suffocation, as might have existed in the worst days of the inquisition, in the lonely inns among the hartz mountains, in the mysterious tribunals of westphalia! still, as i looked on it, i could not move; i could hardly breathe; but i began to recover the power of thinking; and, in a moment, i discovered the murderous conspiracy framed against me, in all its horror. my cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged too strongly. i had been saved from being smothered, by having taken an over-dose of some narcotic. how i had chafed and fretted at the fever fit which had preserved my life by keeping me awake! how recklessly i had confided myself to the two wretches who had led me into this room, determined, for the sake of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep, by the surest and most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplishing my destruction! how many men, winners like me, had slept, as i had proposed to sleep, in that bed; and never been seen or heard of more! i shuddered as i thought of it. but, erelong, all thought was again suspended by the sight of the murderous canopy moving once more. after it had remained on the bed--as nearly as i could guess--about ten minutes, it began to move up again. the villains, who worked it from above, evidently believed that their purpose was now accomplished. slowly and silently, as it had descended, that horrible bed-top rose toward its former place. when it reached the upper extremities of the four posts, it reached the ceiling too. neither hole nor screw could be seen--the bed became in appearance, an ordinary bed again, the canopy, an ordinary canopy, even to the most suspicious eyes. now, for the first time, i was able to move, to rise from my chair, to consider of how i should escape. if i betrayed by the smallest noise, that the attempt to suffocate me had failed, i was certain to be murdered. had i made any noise already? i listened intently, looking toward the door. no! no footsteps in the passage outside; no sound of a tread, light or heavy, in the room above--absolute silence every where. besides locking and bolting my door, i had moved an old wooden chest against it, which i had found under the bed. to remove this chest (my blood ran cold, as i thought what its contents _might_ be!) without making some disturbance, was impossible; and, moreover, to think of escaping through the house, now barred-up for the night, was sheer insanity. only one chance was left me--the window. i stole to it on tiptoe. my bedroom was on the first floor, above an _entresol_, and looked into the back street, which you had sketched in your view. i raised my hand to open the window, knowing that on that action hung, by the merest hair's-breadth, my chance of safety. they keep vigilant watch in a house of murder--if any part of the frame cracked, if the hinge creaked, i was, perhaps, a lost man! it must have occupied me at least five minutes, reckoning by time--five _hours_, reckoning by suspense--to open that window. i succeeded in doing it silently, in doing it with all the dexterity of a house-breaker; and then looked down into the street. to leap the distance beneath me, would be almost certain destruction! next, i looked round at the sides of the house. down the left side, ran the thick water-pipe which you have drawn--it passed close by the outer edge of the window. the moment i saw the pipe, i knew i was saved; my breath came and went freely for the first time since i had seen the canopy of the bed moving down upon me! to some men the means of escape which i had discovered might have seemed difficult and dangerous enough--to _me_, the prospect of slipping down the pipe into the street did not suggest even a thought of peril. i had always been accustomed, by the practice of gymnastics, to keep up my schoolboy powers as a daring and expert climber; and knew that my head, hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in any hazards of ascent or descent. i had already got one leg over the window-sill, when i remembered the handkerchief, filled with money, under my pillow. i could well have afforded to leave it behind me; but i was revengefully determined that the miscreants of the gambling-house should miss their plunder as well as their victim. so i went back to the bed, and tied the heavy handkerchief at my back by my cravat. just as i had made it tight, and fixed it in a comfortable place, i thought i heard a sound of breathing outside the door. the chill feeling of horror ran through me again as i listened. no! dead silence still in the passage--i had only heard the night air blowing softly into the room. the next moment i was on the window-sill--and the next, i had a firm grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees. i slid down into the street easily and quietly, as i thought i should, and immediately set off, at the top of my speed, to a branch "prefecture" of police, which i knew was situated in the immediate neighborhood. a "sub-prefect" and several picked men among his subordinates, happened to be up, maturing, i believe, some scheme for discovering the perpetrator of a mysterious murder, which all paris was talking of just then. when i began my story, in a breathless hurry and in very bad french, i could see that the sub-prefect suspected me of being a drunken englishman, who had robbed somebody, but he soon altered his opinion, as i went on; and before i had any thing like concluded, he shoved all the papers before him into a drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with another (for i was bare-headed), ordered a file of soldiers, desired his expert followers to get ready all sorts of tools for breaking open doors and ripping up brick-flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and familiar manner possible, to lead me with him out of the house. i will venture to say, that when the sub-prefect was a little boy, and was taken for the first time to the play, he was not half as much pleased as he was now at the job in prospect for him at the "gambling-house!" away we went through the streets, the sub-prefect cross-examining and congratulating me in the same breath, as we marched at the head of our formidable _posse comitatus_. sentinels were placed at the back and front of the gambling-house the moment we got to it; a tremendous battery of knocks were directed against the door; a light appeared at a window; i waited to conceal myself behind the police--then came more knocks, and a cry of "open in the name of the law!" at that terrible summons, bolts and locks gave way before an invisible hand, and the moment after, the sub-prefect was in the passage, confronting a waiter, half-dressed and ghastly pale. this was the short dialogue which immediately took place: "we want to see the englishman who is sleeping in this house?" "he went away hours ago." "he did no such thing. his friend went away; _he_ remained. show us to his bedroom!" "i swear to you, monsieur le sous-préfet, he is not here! he--" "i swear to you, monsieur le garçon, he is. he slept here--he didn't find your bed comfortable--he came to us to complain of it--here he is, among my men--and here am i, ready to look for a flea or two in his bedstead. picard! (calling to one of the subordinates, and pointing to the waiter) collar that man, and tie his hands behind him. now, then, gentlemen, let us walk up-stairs!" every man and woman in the house was secured--the "old soldier," the first. then i identified the bed in which i had slept; and then we went into the room above. no object that was at all extraordinary appeared in any part of it. the sub-prefect looked round the place, commanded every body to be silent, stamped twice on the floor, called for a candle, looked attentively at the spot he had stamped on, and ordered the flooring there to be carefully taken up. this was done in no time. lights were produced, and we saw a deep raftered cavity between the floor of this room and the ceiling of the room beneath. through this cavity there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron, thickly greased; and inside the case appeared the screw, which communicated with the bed-top below. extra lengths of screw, freshly oiled--levers covered with felt--all the complete upper works of a heavy press, constructed with infernal ingenuity so as to join the fixtures below--and, when taken to pieces again, to go into the smallest possible compass, were next discovered, and pulled out on the floor. after some little difficulty, the sub-prefect succeeded in putting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to work it, descended with me to the bedroom. the smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so noiselessly as i had seen it lowered. when i mentioned this to the sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had a terrible significance. "my men," said he, "are working down the bed-top for the first time--the men whose money you won, were in better practice." we left the house in the sole possession of two police agents--every one of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot, the sub-prefect, after taking down my "_procès-verbal_" in his office, returned with me to my hotel to get my passport. "do you think," i asked, as i gave it to him, "that any men have really been smothered in that bed, as they tried to smother _me_?" "i have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the morgue," answered the sub-prefect, "in whose pocket-books were found letters, stating that they had committed suicide in the seine, because they had lost every thing at the gaming-table. do i know how many of those men entered the same gambling-house that _you_ entered? won as _you_ won? took that bed as _you_ took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter of explanation written by the murderers and placed in their pocket-books? no man can say how many, or how few, have suffered the fate from which you have escaped. the people of the gambling-house kept their bedstead machinery a secret from _us_--even from the police! the dead kept the rest of the secret for them. good-night, or rather good-morning, monsieur faulkner! be at my office again at nine o'clock--in the mean time, _au revoir_!" the rest of my story is soon told. i was examined, and re-examined; the gambling-house was strictly searched all through, from top to bottom; the prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the less guilty among them made a confession. _i_ discovered that the old soldier was the master of the gambling-house--_justice_ discovered that he had been drummed out of the army, as a vagabond, years ago; that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since; that he was in possession of stolen property, which the owners identified; and that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead. there appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior persons attached to the house knew any thing of the suffocating machinery; and they received the benefit of that doubt, by being treated simply as thieves and vagabonds. as for the old soldier and his two head-myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my coffee was imprisoned for i forget how many years; the regular attendants at the gambling-house were considered "suspicious," and placed under "surveillance"; and i became, for one whole week (which is a long time), the head "lion" in parisian society. my adventure was dramatized by three illustrious playmakers, but never saw theatrical daylight; for the censorship forbade the introduction on the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house bedstead. two good results were produced by my adventure, which any censorship must have approved. in the first place, it helped to justify the government in forthwith carrying out their determination to put down all gambling-houses; in the second place, it cured me of ever again trying "rouge et noir" as an amusement. the sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of money on it, will henceforth be forever associated in my mind with the sight of a bed-canopy descending to suffocate me, in the silence and darkness of the night. just as mr. faulkner pronounced the last words, he started in his chair, and assumed a stiff, dignified position, in a great hurry. "bless my soul!" cried he--with a comic look of astonishment and vexation--"while i have been telling you what is the real secret of my interest in the sketch you have so kindly given to me, i have altogether forgotten that i came here to sit for my portrait. for the last hour, or more, i must have been the worst model you ever had to paint from!" "on the contrary, you have been the best," said i. "i have been painting from your expression; and, while telling your story, you have unconsciously shown me the natural expression i wanted." what the sunbeam does. heat, or the caloric portion of the sunbeam, is the great cause of life and motion in this our world. as it were with a magical energy, it causes the winds to blow and the waters to flow, vivifies and animates all nature, and then bathes it in refreshing dew. the intensity of the heat which we receive depends on the distance of the earth from the sun, its great source, and still more on the relative position of the two orbs; since in winter we are nearer the sun than we are in summer, yet, in consequence of the position of the earth at that season, the sun's rays fall obliquely on its northern hemisphere, rendering it far colder than at any other period of the year. a great portion of the heat-rays which are emitted by the sun are absorbed in their passage through the atmosphere which surrounds our globe. it is calculated that about one-third of the heat-rays which fall on it never reach the earth, which fact adds another to the many beneficent purposes fulfilled by our gaseous envelope, screening us from the otherwise scorching heat. it is curious to trace the varied fates of the calorific rays which strike on the surface of the earth. some at once on falling are reflected, and, passing back through the atmosphere, are lost amid the immensity of space; others are absorbed or imbibed by different bodies, and, after a time, are radiated from them; but the greater part of the beams which reach the earth during the summer are absorbed by it, and conveyed downward to a considerable distance, by conduction from particle to particle. heat also spreads laterally from the regions of the equator toward the poles, thereby moderating the intense cold of the arctic and antarctic circles, and in winter, when the forest-trees are covered with snow, their deeply-penetrating roots are warmed by the heat, which, as in a vast store-house, has been laid up in the earth, to preserve life during the dreary winter. the rays which fall on the tropical seas descend to the depth of about three hundred feet. the sun's attraction for the earth, being also stronger at that quarter of the world, the heated waters are drawn upward, the colder waters from the poles rush in, and thus a great heated current is produced, flowing from the equator northward and southward, which tends to equalize the temperature of the earth. the sailor also knows how to avail himself of this phenomenon. when out at sea, despite his most skillful steering, he is in constant danger of shipwreck, if he fails to estimate truly the force and direction of those currents which are dragging him insensibly out of the true course. his compass does not help him here, neither does any log yet known give a perfectly authentic result. but he knows that this great gulf-stream has a stated path and time, and, by testing from hour to hour the temperature of the water through which he is proceeding, he knows at what point he is meeting this current, and reckons accordingly. we have already said that heat was the producer of the winds, which are so essential to the preservation of the purity of the atmosphere. in order to understand their action, we shall consider the stupendous phenomenon of the trade-winds, which is similar to that of the current we have described. the rays of the sun falling vertically on the regions between the tropics, the air there becomes much heated. it is the property of air to expand when heated, and, when expanded, it is necessarily lighter than the cooler air around it. consequently it rises. as it rises, the cooler air at once takes its place. rushing from the temperate and polar regions to supply the want, the warm air which has risen flows toward the poles, and descends there, loses its heat, and again travels to the tropics. thus a grand circulation is continually maintained in the atmosphere. these aerial currents, being affected by the revolution of the earth, do not move due north and south, as they otherwise would. hence, while they equalize the temperature of the atmosphere, they also preserve its purity; for the pure oxygen evolved by the luxuriant vegetation of the equatorial regions is wafted by the winds to support life in the teeming population of the temperate zones, while the air from the poles bears carbonic acid gas on its wings to furnish food for the rich and gorgeous plants of the tropics. thus the splendid water-lily of the amazon, the stately palm-tree of africa, and the great banyan of india, depend for nourishment on the breath of men and animals in lands thousands of miles distant from them, and, in return, they supply their benefactors with vivifying oxygen. little less important, and still more beautiful, is the phenomenon of dew, which is produced by the power of radiating heat, possessed in different degrees by all bodies. the powers both of absorbing and of radiating heat, in great measure, depend on the color of bodies--the darker the color, the greater the power; so that each lovely flower bears within its petals a delicate thermometer, which determines the amount of heat each shall receive, and which is always the amount essential to their well-being. the queenly rose, the brilliant carnation, the fair lily, and the many-colored anemone, all basking in the same bright sunshine, enjoy different degrees of warmth, and when night descends, and the heat absorbed by day is radiated back, and bodies become cooler than the surrounding air, the vapor contained in the atmosphere is deposited in the form of dew. those bodies which radiate most quickly receive the most copious supply of the refreshing fluid. this radiating power depends on the condition of the surface, as well as upon color, so that we may often see the grass garden bathed in dew, while the gravel walks which run through it are perfectly dry, and, again, the smooth, shining, juicy leaves of the laurel are quite dry, while the rose-tree beneath it is saturated with moisture. the great effect produced on the vegetable kingdom by the heat-rays may be judged of from the fact, that almost all the plants which exhibit the remarkable phenomena of irritability, almost approaching to animal life, are confined to those regions where the heat is extreme. on the banks of the indian rivers grows a plant in almost constant motion. in the hottest of the conservatories at kew is a curious plant, whose leaflets rise by a succession of little starts. the same house contains venus's fly-trap. light seems to have no effect in quickening their movements; but the effect of increased heat is at once seen. they exhibit their remarkable powers most during the still hot nights of an indian summer. heat is of essential importance in the production and ripening of fruit. many trees will not bear fruit in our cold climate, which are most productive in the sunny south. animal as well as vegetable life is in great measure dependent on heat. look at the insect tribes. the greater number of them pass their winter in the pupa state. hidden in some sheltered nook, or buried in the earth, they sleep on, until the warmth of returning spring awakens them to life and happiness; and if, by artificial means, the cold be prolonged, they still sleep on, whereas, if they he exposed to artificial heat, their change is hastened, and butterflies may be seen sporting about the flowers of a hothouse, when their less favored relatives are still wrapped in the deepest slumber. to judge of the influence of heat on the animal and vegetable economy, we need but contrast summer and winter--the one radiant and vocal with life and beauty, the other dark, dreary, and silent. the third constituent of the sunbeam is actinism--its property being to produce chemical effects. so long ago as , it was noticed by those strange seekers after impossibilities, the alchemists, that horn silver, exposed to the sunbeam, was blackened by it. this phenomenon contained the germ of those most interesting discoveries which have distinguished the present age; but, in their ardent search for the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life, they overlooked many an effect of their labors which might have led them to important truths. as yet, the effects of actinism have been more studied in the inanimate than the organic creation. still, in the vegetable kingdom, its power is known to be of the utmost importance. a seed exposed to the entire sunbeam will not germinate; but bury it in the earth, at a depth sufficient to exclude the light, yet enough to admit actinism, which, like heat, penetrates the earth to some distance, and soon a chemical change will take place; the starch contained in the seed is converted into gum and water, forming the nutriment of the young plant; the tiny root plunges downward, the slender stem rises to the light, the first leaves, or cotyledons, then unfold, and now fully expand to the light, and a series of chemical changes of a totally different nature commence, which we have before noticed, when speaking of light. experiments clearly prove that this change is to be attributed to actinism, and not to heat. glass has been interposed of a dark blue color, which is transparent to actinism, though opaque to light and heat, and germination has been thereby quickened. gardeners have long known this fact practically, and are accustomed to raise their cuttings under blue shades. there is no doubt that actinism exercises a powerful and beneficent influence on plants during their whole existence, but science has yet to demonstrate its nature; and it is curious to observe that the actinic element is most abundant in the sunbeam in the spring, when its presence is most essential in promoting germination--in summer the luminous rays are in excess, when they are most needed for the formation of woody fibre--and in autumn the heat-rays prevail, and ripen the golden grain and the delicious fruit; in each day the proportions of the different rays vary--in the morning the actinic principle abounds most, at noon the light, and at eventide the heat. the influence of actinism on the animal world is not well known; but it is probable that many of the effects hitherto referred to light are in reality due to actinism. it has the strange power of darkening the human skin, causing the deep color of those tribes who inhabit the sunniest regions of the earth; and even in our own country, in summer, that darkening of the skin called sun-burning. doubtless, more careful investigation will discover this principle to be equally important to the life and health of animals as either of its closely allied powers of light and heat. our knowledge of actinic influence on inanimate nature is not so scanty, for it is now a well established fact, that the sunbeam can not fall on any body, whether simple or compound, without producing on its surface a chemical and molecular change. the immovable rocks which bound our shores, the mountain which rears its lofty head above the clouds, the magnificent cathedral, the very triumph of art, and the beautiful statue in bronze or marble, are all acted on destructively by the sunbeam, and would soon perish beneath its irresistible energy, but for the beautiful provision made for their restoration during the darkness of night--the repose of darkness being no less essential to inorganic, than it is to animated nature. during its silent hours, the chemical and molecular changes are all undone, and the destruction of the day repaired, we know not how. the art of painting by the sunbeam has been rather unfortunately called photography, which means light-painting, for the process is not due to light, but is rather interfered with by it; and, contrary to all preconceived ideas, the pictures taken in our comparatively sombre country, are more easily and brilliantly produced than in brighter and more sunny lands--so much so, that a gentleman, who took the requisite materials to mexico, in order to take views of its principal buildings, met with failure after failure, and it was not until the darker days of the rainy season that he met with any measure of success. the record of a madness which was not insanity. a fresh, bright dawn, the loveliest hour of an english summer, was rousing the slumbering life in woods and fields, and painting the heavens and the earth in the gorgeous hues of the sunrise. beautiful it was to see the first blush of day mantling over the distant hills, tinging them with a faint crimson, and the first smile shooting, in one bright beam through the sky, while it lit up the fair face of nature with a sparkling light. lilias randolph stood on the flight of steps which led from the abbey to the park, and looked down on the joyous scene. she seemed herself a very type of the morning, with her sunny eyes, and her golden hair; and her gaze wandered glad and free over the spreading landscape, while her thoughts roamed far away in regions yet more bright--even the sunlit fields of fancy. it was the day and the hour when she was to go and meet richard sydney, in order to have, at length, a full revelation of his mysterious connection with her cousin. she knew that it was an interview of solemn import to both of those, in whom she felt so deep an interest; yet, so entirely were one thought and one feeling alone gaining empire over her spirit that, even then, in that momentous hour, they had no share in the visions with which her heart was busy. so soon, therefore, as lilias came within sight of richard sydney, who had arrived first at the place of rendezvous, she resolutely banished the thoughts that were so absorbing to her own glad heart, and set herself seriously to give her entire attention to the work now before her, if, haply, it might be given her, in some degree, to minister unto their grievous misery. and truly her first glance upon the face of the man who stood there, with his eyes fixed on the path which was to bring her and her hoped-for succor near to him, would have sufficed to have driven all ideas from her mind, save the one conviction, that in that look alone she had acquired a deeper knowledge of suffering than her own past life, in all its details, had ever afforded her. sydney heard her step, long before she believed it possible, and, bounding toward her, he seized her hand with a grasp which was almost convulsive. he drew her aside to some little distance from her nurse, who sat down on a bank to wait for them. lilias bent down her head that she might not seem to note the workings of his countenance, as he laid bare before her the most hidden springs of his soul, and he began: "i was born heir to a curse. centuries ago an ancestor of mine murdered a woman he once had loved, because his neglect had driven her mad, and that in her ravings she revealed his many crimes. with her dying breath she invoked the curse of insanity on him and his house forever, and the cry of her departing soul was heard. there has not been a generation in our family since that hour which has not had its shrieking maniac to echo in our ears the murdered woman's scream. some there have been among the sydneys of peculiar constitution, as it would seem, who have not actually been visited with the malady; but they have never failed to transmit it to their children. of such am i; while my father died a suicide by his own senseless act, and his only other child besides myself, my sister, wears her coronet of straw in the dublin asylum, and calls herself a queen. "it would appall you to hear the fearful calamities which each succeeding family has undergone through this awful curse. at last, as the catalogue of tragic events grew darker and darker, it became a solemn matter of discussion to our unhappy race, whether it were not an absolute duty that the members of a house so doomed, should cease at last to propagate the curse, and by a resolute abandonment of all earthly ties, cause our name and misery to perish from the earth. the necessity for this righteous sacrifice was admitted; but the resolution in each separate individual to become the destined holocaust, has hitherto forever failed before the power of the mighty human love that lured them ever to its pure resistless joys. it was so with my father--like myself he was an only son; and, in the ardor of a generous youth, he vowed to be the offering needful to still the cry of that innocent blood for vengeance; but the sweet face of my mother came between him and his holy vow. he married her, and the punishment came down with fearful weight on both, when her fond heart broke at sight of his ghastly corpse. then it was she knew the retribution in their case had been just; and on her dying bed, with the yet unclosed coffin of her husband by her side, she made me vow upon the holy cross that i, myself, would be the sacrifice--that never would i take a wife unto my heart or home; and that never, from my life, should any helpless being inherit existence with a curse. that vow i took, that vow i kept, and that vow i will keep, though aletheia, beloved of my heart and soul, dearer than all beneath the skies, were to lay herself down beneath my very feet to die. oh! shall we not rest in heaven." he bowed his head for a moment, and his frame shook with emotion, but driving back the tide of anguish, he went on: "after my mother's death and my sister's removal, who had been insane almost from childhood, i shut myself up entirely at sydney court, and gave way to a species of morbid melancholy which was thought to be fearfully dangerous for one in my position. i had friends, however; and the best and truest was colonel randolph, my aletheia's father, the early companion of my own poor, hapless parent. he was resolved to save me from the miserable condition in which i then was. he came to me and told me, with all the authority of his long friendship, that i must go with him to the m----, where he had been appointed governor. he said it was a crime to waste a life, which, though unblest by human ties, might be made most useful to my fellow-creatures. i had studied much in brighter days, and given to the world the fruits of my labors. these had not passed unheeded; he told me they had proved that talents had been committed to me whereby i might be a benefactor to my race, all the more that no soft endearments of domestic joys would wean my thoughts from sterner duties. i was to go with him; he insisted it would benefit myself, and would injure none. his family consisted of his one daughter, his precious, beloved aletheia, for he doated on her with more than the ordinary love of a father. she knew my history, and would be to me a sister. alas! alas! for her destruction, i consented." again, a momentary pause. lilias gently raised her compassionate eyes, but he saw her not; he seemed lost in a vision of the past, and soon went on: "that lovely land where i dwelt with her, it seems a type of the beauty and happiness which was around me then! and, oh! what a dream it is to think of now--the cloudless sky--the glorious sun--and her eyes undimmed, her smile unfaded! oh! aletheia--my aletheia--treasure of many lives! bright and joyous--light to the eyes that looked on her, blessing to the hearts that loved her--would that i had died or ever i drew her very soul into mine, and left her the poor, crushed, helpless being that she is! you can not picture to yourself the fascination that was around her then--high-minded, noble in heart, lofty in soul; her bright spirit stamped its glory on her face, and she was beautiful, with all spiritual loveliness. none ever saw her who loved her not--her rare talents--her enchanting voice; that voice of her very soul, which spoke in such wonderful music, drew to her feet every creature who knew her; for with all these gifts, this wonderful intellect, and rarest powers of mind, she was playful, winning, simple as an innocent child. i say none saw her, and loved her not; how, think you, _i_ loved her?--the doomed man, the desolate being, whose barren, joyless life walked hand in hand with a curse. let this anguish tell you how i loved her;" and he turned on lilias a face of ghastly paleness, convulsed with agony, and wet with the dews of suffering; but he did not pause, he went on rapidly: "i was mad, then, in one sense, though it was the madness of the heart, and not the brain. poor wretch, i thought i would wring a joy out of my blasted life in spite of fate, and, while none other claimed her as their own, i would revel in her presence, and in the rapture of her tenderness. i knew it was mockery when i bid her call me brother--a sister truly is loved with other love than that i gave her. i would have seen every relation i had ever known laid dead at my feet, could i have thereby purchased for her, my thrice-beloved one, one moment's pleasure. "lilias, does a passion of such fearful power shock and terrify you, who have only known the placid beating of a gentle, childlike heart? take a yet deeper lesson, then, in the dark elements of which this life may be composed, and learn that deep, and true, and mighty as was my love for her, it is as a mere name, a breath, a vapor, compared with that most awful affection which aletheia had already, even then, vowed unto me, in the depth of her secret heart. ah! it needed, in truth, such an agony as that which is now incorporate with it in her heart, to cope with its immensity; for, truly, no weak happiness of earth could have had affinity with it--a love so saint-like must needs have been a martyr. i will not attempt to tell you what her devotion to me was, and is, and shall be, while one faintest throb of life is stirring in her noble heart. you have seen it--you have seen that love looking through those eyes of hers, like a mighty spirit endowed with an existence separate from her own, which holds her soul in its fierce, powerful grasp. "i must hurry on now, and my words must be rapid as the events that drove us from the serene elysian fields of that first dear companionship, through storm and whirlwind, to this wilderness of misery where i am sent to wander to and fro, like a murderer, as i am; condemned to watch the daily dying of the sweet life i have destroyed. you may think me blind and senseless, for so i surely was, but it is certain that i never suspected the love she bore me. i saw that she turned away from the crowds that flocked around, and was deaf to all the offers that were made to her, of rank, and wealth, and station, and many a true heart's love; but i thought this was because her own was yet untouched, and when i saw that i alone was singled out to be the object of her attention and solicitude, i fancied it was but the effect of her deep, generous pity for my desolate condition--and pity it was, but such as the mother feels for the suffering of the first-born, whom she adores. and the day of revelation came! "i told you how colonel randolph doated on his daughter; truly, none ever loved aletheia with a common love. when he was released from the duties of his high office, it was one of his greatest pleasures to walk, or ride with me, that he might talk to me of her. one morning he came in with a packet of letters from england, and, taking me by the arm, drew me out into the garden, that he might tell me some news, which, he said, gave him exceeding joy. the letters announced the arrival of the son of an old friend of his, who had just succeeded to his title and estates, the young marquis of l----, and further communicated, in the most unreserved manner, that his object in coming to the m---- was to make aletheia his wife, if he could win her to himself; he had long loved her, and had only delayed his offer till he could install her in his lordly castle with all the honors of his station. to see this union accomplished, colonel randolph said, had been his one wish since both had played as children at his feet, and he now believed the desired consummation was at hand. aletheia's consent was alone required, and there seemed no reason to doubt it would be given, for there was not, he asserted, in all england, one more worthy of her, by every noble gift of mind, than the high-born, generous-hearted l----. "why, indeed, should she not, at once, accept the brilliant destiny carved out for her!--i did not doubt it more than the exulting father, and i heard my doom fixed in the same senseless state of calm with which the criminal who knows his guilt and its penalty, hears the sentence of his execution. i had long known this hour must come; and what had i now to do but gather, as it were, a shroud round my tortured soul, and, like the cæsars, die decently to all earthly happiness! even in that tremendous hour, i had a consciousness of the dignity of suffering--suffering, that is, which comes from the height of heaven above, and not from the depths of crime below! i resolved that the lamp of my life's joy should go out without a sigh audible to human ears, save hers alone, who had lit that pure flame in the black night of my existence. "lilias, i enter into no detail of what i felt in that momentous crisis, for you have no woman's heart if you have not understood it, in its uttermost extent of misery. one thought, however, stood up pre-eminent in that chaos of suffering--the conviction that i must not see aletheia randolph again, or the very powers of my mind would give way in the struggle that must ensue. this thought, and one other--one solitary gleam of dreary comfort, that alone relieved the great darkness which had fallen upon me, were all that seemed distinct in my mind: that last mournful consolation was the resolution taken along with the vow to see her no more, that ere i passed forever from her memory, she should know what was the love with which i loved her. "quietly i gave her father my hand when i quitted him, and he said, 'we shall meet in the evening;' my own determination was never to look upon his face again. i went home, and sitting down, i wrote to aletheia a letter, in which all the pent-up feelings of the deep, silent devotion i cherished for her, were poured out in words to which the wretchedness of my position gave a fearful intensity--burning words, indeed! she has told me since, that they seemed to eat into her heart like fire. i left the letter for her and quitted the house; and i believed my feet should never pass that beloved threshold again. there was a spot where aletheia and i had gone almost day by day to wander, since we had dwelt in that land. she loved it, because she could look out over the ocean in its boundlessness, whose aspect soothed her, she said, as with a promise of eternity. it was a huge rock that rose perpendicularly from the sea, and sloped down on the other side, by a gentle declivity, to the plain. i have often thought what a type of our life it was; we saw nothing of the precipice as we ascended the soft and verdant mount, and suddenly it was at our feet, and if the blast of heaven had driven us another step, it had been into destruction. "thither, when i had parted, as i believed, forever, with that darling of my heart, i went with what intent i know not: it was not to commit suicide; although in that form, in the mad longing for it, the curse of my family has ever declared itself. i was yet sane, and my soul acknowledged and abhorred the tremendous guilt of that mysterious crime, wherein the created dashes back the life once given, in the very face of the creator; not for suicide i went, yet, lilias, as i stood within an inch of death, and looked down on the placid waters that had so swiftly cooled the burning anguish of my heart and brain, i felt, in the intense desire to terminate my life, and in that desire resisted, a more stinging pain than any which my bitter term of years has ever offered me. oh, how shall i tell you what followed? i feel as though i could not: and briefly, and, indeed, incoherently, must i speak; for on the next hour--the supreme, the crowning hour of all my life--my spirit enters not, without an intensity of feeling which well-nigh paralyzes every faculty. "i stood there, and suddenly i heard a sound--a soft, breathing sound, as of a gentle fawn wearied in some steep ascent--a sound coming nearer and nearer, bringing with it ten thousand memories of hours and days that were to come no more: a step, light and tremulous, falling on the soft grass softly, and then a voice.--oh, when mine ears are locked in death, shall i not hear it?--a voice uttering low and sweet, my well-known name. i turned, and when i saw that face, on whose sweet beauty other eyes should feed, yea, other lips caress, for one instant the curse of my forefather seemed upon me; my brain reeled, and i would have sprung from the precipice to die. but ere i could accomplish the sudden craving of this momentary frenzy, aletheia, my own aletheia, was at my feet, her clinging arms were round me, her lips were pressed upon my hands, and her voice--her sweet, dear voice--went sounding through my soul like a sudden prophecy of most unearthly joy, murmuring, 'live, live for me, mine own forever!' "oh, lilias, how can i attempt with human words to tell you of these things, so far beyond the power of language to express! i felt that what she said was true--that in some way, by some wonderful means, she was in very deed and truth, 'mine own, forever,' though, in that moment of supremest joy, no less firmly than in the hour of supremest sorrow by my mother's dying bed, my heart and soul were faithful to the vow then taken, that never on my desolate breast a wife should lay her head to rest. 'mine own forever!'--as i looked down, and met the gaze of fathomless, unutterable love with which her tearful eyes were fastened full upon my own, i was as one who having long dwelt in darkest night, was blinded with the sudden glare of new returning day. i staggered back, and leant against the rock; faint and shivering i stretched out my hands on that beloved head, longing for the power to bless her, and said, 'oh, aletheia, what is it you have said: have you forgotten who and what i am!' "'no!' was her answer, steady and distinct; 'and for that very reason, because you are a stricken man, forever cut off from all the common ties of earth, have i been given to you, to be in heart and soul peculiarly your own, with such a measure of entire devotion as never was offered to man on earth before.' "i looked at her almost in bewilderment. she rose up to her full height, perfectly calm, and with a deep solemnity in her words and aspect. "'richard,' she said, 'the lives of both of us are hanging on this hour; by it shall all future existence on this earth be shaped for us, and its memory shall come with death itself to look us in the face, and stamp our whole probation with its seal; it becomes us, therefore, to cast aside all frivolous rules of man's convention, and speak the truth as deathless soul with deathless soul. hear me, then, while i open up my inmost spirit to your gaze, and then decide whether you will lay your hand upon my life, and say--'thou art my own;' or whether you will fling it from you to perish as some worthless thing?' "i bowed my head in token that she should continue, for i could not speak. i, lilias, who had looked death and insanity in the face, under their most frightful shapes, trembled, like a reed in the blast, before the presence of a love that was mightier than either! aletheia stretched out her hand over the precipice, and spoke-- "'hear me, then, declare first of all, solemnly as though this hour were my last, that, not even to save you from that death which, but now, you dared to meditate, would i ever consent to be your wife, even if you wished it, as utterly as i doubt not you abhor the idea of such perjury--not to save you from death--i say--the death of the mortal body, for by conniving at your failure in that most righteous vow, once taken on the holy cross itself, i should peril--yea, destroy, it may be, the immortal soul, which is the true object of my love. hear me, in the face of that pure sky announce this truth, and then may i freely declare to you all that is in my heart--all the sacred purpose of my life for you, without a fear that my worst enemy could pronounce me unmaidenly or overbold, though i have that to say which few women ever said unasked.' "unmaidenly! oh, lilias, could you have seen the noble dignity of her fearless innocence in that hour, you would have felt that never had the impress of a purer heart been stamped upon a virgin brow." "'have you understood and well considered this my settled purpose never to be your wife?' she continued. "and i said--'i have.'" "'then speak out, my soul,' she exclaimed, lifting up her eyes as if inspired. 'tell him that there is a righteous providence over the life that immolates itself for virtue's sake! and that another existence hath been sent to meet it in the glorious sacrifice, in order that this one may yield up its treasures to the heart that would have stript itself of all! richard, richard sydney, you have made a holocaust of your life, and lo! by the gift of another life, it is repaid to you.' "slowly she knelt down, and took my hand in both of hers, while with an aspect calm and firm, and a voice unfaltering, she spoke this vow: 'i, aletheia randolph, do most solemnly vow and promise to give myself, in heart and soul, unto the last day of my life, wholly and irrevocably, to richard sydney. i devote to him, and him alone, my whole heart, my whole life, and my whole love. i do forever forswear, for his sake, all earthly ties, all earthly affections, and all earthly hopes. i will love him only, live for him only, and make it my one happiness to minister to him in all things as faithfully and tenderly as though i were bound to him by the closest of human bonds--in spite of all obstacles and the world's blame--in defiance of all allurements, which might induce me to abandon him. i will seek to abide ever as near to him as may be, that i may bestow on him all the care and tender watchfulness which the most faithful wife could offer; but absent or present, living or dying, no human being on this earth shall ever have known such an entire devotion as i will give to him till the last breath pass from this heart in death!' "i was speechless, lilias--speechless with something almost of horror at the sacrifice she was making! i strove to withdraw my hand--i could have died to save her from thus immolating herself; but she clung to me, and a deadly paleness spread itself over her countenance as she felt my movement. "'hear me! hear me yet again, richard sydney!' she exclaimed; 'you can not prevent me taking this vow; it was registered in the record of my fate--uttered again and again deep in my soul, long before it was spoken by these mortal lips!--it is done--i am yours forever, or forever perjured! but hear me!--hear me!--although the offering of my life is made, yea, and it _shall_ be yours in every moment, in every thought, in every impulse of my being, yet i can not force you to accept this true oblation, made once for all, and forever! i can not constrain you to load your existence with mine. now, now, the consummation of all is in your own hands; you may make this offering, which is never to be recalled, as you will--a blessing or a curse to yourself as unto me! i am powerless--what you decree i must submit to; but hear me, hear me!--although you now reject, and scorn, and spurn me--me, and the life which i have given you--although you drive me from you, and command me never to appear before your eyes again, yet, richard sydney, i will keep my vow! even in obeying you, and departing to the uttermost corner of the earth that you may never look upon my face again; yet will i keep my vow, and the life shall be yours, and the love shall be around you; and the heart, and the soul, and the thoughts, and the prayers of her, who is your own forever, shall be with you night and day, till she expires in the agony of your rejection. "'this were the curse, and curse me if you will, i yet will bless you! and now hear, hear what the blessing might be if you so willed it. in spiritual union we should be forever linked, soul with soul, and heart with heart--all in all to one another in that wedding of our immortal spirits only, as truly and joyously as though we had been bound in an earthly bridal at the altar; abiding forever near each other in sweetest and most pure companionship, while my father lives under the same roof, and afterward still meeting daily; one in love, in joy, in hope, in sorrow; one in death (for if your soul were first called forth, i know that mine would take that summons for its own), and one, if it were so permitted, in eternity itself. this we may be, richard sydney, this we shall be, except you will, this day, trample down beneath your feet the life that gives itself to you. but wherefore, oh, wherefore would you do so? why cast away the gift which hath been sent, in order that, by a wondrous and most just decree, the righteous man who, in his noble rectitude, abandoned every earthly tie, should be possessed, instead thereof, of such a deep, devoted love as never human heart received before? wherefore, oh! wherefore? yet, do as you will, now you know all; and i, who still, whatever be your decree, happen what may, am verily your own forever, must here abide the sentence of my life.' "slowly her dear head fell down upon her trembling hands, and, kneeling at my feet, she waited my acceptance or rejection of the noblest gift that ever one immortal spirit made unto another. lilias, i told you when i commenced this agonizing record, that there were portions of it which i would breathe to no mortal ears, not even to yours, good and gentle as you are. and now, of such is all that followed in the solemn, blessed hours of which i speak; you know what my answer was; it can not be that you doubt it--could it have been otherwise, indeed? she had said truly, that the deed was done--the sacrifice was made--the life was given. what would it have availed if i, by my rejection, had punished her unparalleled devotion with unexampled misery? and for myself, could i--could i--should i have been human if i, who, till that hour, had believed myself of all men most accursed on earth--had suddenly refused to be above all men blest? "when the sun went down that night, sinking into the sea, whose boundlessness seemed narrow to my infinity of joy, aletheia lay at my feet like a cradled child; and as i bent down over her, and scarcely dared to touch, with deep respect, the long, soft tresses of her waving hair, which the light breeze lifted to my lips, i heard her ever murmuring, as though she could never weary of that sound of joy--'mine own, mine own forever.' "the period which followed that wonderful hour was one of an eden-like happiness, such as, i believe, this fallen world never could before have witnessed--it was the embodiment, in every hour and instant, of that blessing of which my aletheia had so fervently spoken--the spiritual union which linked us in heart and soul alone, was as perfect as it was unearthly; and the intense bliss which flowed from it, on both of us, could only have been equaled by the love, no less intense, that made us what we were. "but, lilias, of this brief dream of deep delight i will not and i can not speak. this is a record of misery and not of joy," he continued, turning round upon her almost fiercely. "it becomes not me, who have been the murderer of aletheia's joyous life, to take so much as the name of happiness between my lips. it passed--it departed--that joy, as a spirit departs out of the body; unseen, unheard; you know not it is gone, till suddenly you see that the beautiful living form has become a stark and ghastly corpse!--and so, in like manner, our life became a hideous thing.... "colonel randolph asked me to go on an embassy to a distant town; the absence was to be but for a fortnight. we were to write daily to one another, and we thought nothing of it. nevertheless, in one sense, we felt it to be momentous. aletheia designed, if an opportunity occurred, to inform her father of the change in her existence, and the irrevocable fate to which she had consigned herself. she had delayed doing so hitherto, because his mind had been fearfully disturbed by grievous disappointments in public affairs; and as he was a man of peculiarly sensitive temperament, she would not add to his distresses by the announcement of the fact, which she knew he would consider the great misfortune of his life. it was impossible, indeed, that the doating father could fail to mourn bitterly over the sacrifice of his one beloved daughter, to the man who dared not so much as give her barren life the protection of his name lest haply, he wed her to a maniac. "it was within two days of my proposed return to their home, that an express arrived in fiery haste to tell me colonel randolph had fallen from his horse, had received a mortal injury, and was dying. i was summoned instantly. he had said he would not die in peace till he saw me. one hurried line from aletheia, in addition to the aid-de-camp's letter, told how even, in that awful hour, i was first and last in his thoughts. it ran thus: 'he is on his death-bed, and i have told him all. i could not let him die unknowing the consecration of his child to one so worthy of her. but, alas! i know not why, it seems almost to have maddened him. he says he will tell you all; come, then, with all speed.' "in two hours i was by the side of the dying man. aletheia was kneeling with her arms round him, and he was gazing at her with sombre, mournful fondness. the instant he saw me he pushed her from him. 'go,' he said, 'i must see this man alone.' the epithet startled me. i saw he was filled with a bitter wrath. his daughter obeyed; she rose and left the room; but as she passed me she took my hand, and bowing herself as to her master, pressed it to her lips, then turning round she said. 'father, remember what i have told you: he is mine own forever; not even your death-bed curse could make me falter in my vow.' he groaned aloud: 'no curse, no curse, my child,' he cried; 'fear not; it is not you whom i would curse. come--kiss me; we may perhaps not meet again; and if you find me dead at your return--' he waited till she closed the door, and then added, 'say that richard sydney killed me, and you will speak the truth! madman, madman, indeed! what is it you have done? was it for this i took you into my home, and was to you a father? that you might slay my only daughter--that you might make such havoc of her life as is worse than a thousand deaths.' "i would have spoken; he fiercely interrupted me: 'i know what you would say--that she gave herself to you--that she offered this oblation of a whole existence--but i tell you, if one grain of justice or of generosity had been within your coward heart, you would have flung yourself over that precipice, and so absolved her from her vow, rather than let her immolate herself to a doom so horrible; for you know not, yourself, what is that doom! yes, poor wretch,' he added, more gently, 'you knew not what you did; but i know, and now will i tell. i, who have watched over the soul of aletheia randolph for well-nigh twenty years, know well of what fire it is made; i tell you i have long foreknown that there was a capacity of love in her which is most awful, and which would most infallibly work her utter woe, except its ardent immensity found a perpetual outlet in the many ties which weave themselves around a happy wife and mother. and now, oh! was there none to have mercy on her, and save her noble heart and life from such destruction; this soul of flame, fathomless as the deep, burning and pure as the spotless noonday sky, hath gone forth to fasten itself upon a desolating, barren, mournful love, where, hungering forever after happiness, and never fed, it will be driven to insanity or death! yes, i tell you, it will be so; my departing spirit is almost on my lips, and my words must be few, but they are words of fearful truth. i know her, and i know that thus it will be; one day's separation from you, whom the world will never admit to be her own--one cloud upon your brow, which she has not the power to disperse, will work in her a torment that will sap her noble mind, and will make her, haply, the lunatic, and _you_--_you_, descendant of the maniac sydneys, her keeper! oh, what had she done to you that you should hate her so? oh, wherefore have you cursed her, my innocent child, my only daughter?' "i fell on my knees; i gasped for breath; lilias, i felt that every word he said was true, that all would come to pass as he foretold; for he spoke with the prophetic truth of the dying; he saw my utter agony. suddenly he lifted himself up in the bed, and the movement broke the bandage on his head, whence the blood streamed suddenly with a destructive violence; he heeded it not, but grasped my arm with the last energy of life. "'i see you are in torments,' he said, 'and fitly so; but if you have this much of grace left, now at least to suffer, it may be that every spark of justice is not dead within you, and that you will save her yet.' "'save her!' i almost shrieked. 'yes, if by any means upon this earth such a blessing be possible! shall i die? i am ready--oh, how ready.' "'no; to die were but to carry her into your grave,' the cruel voice replied; 'but living, i believe that you may save her. from what i know of that most noble child's pure soul, i do believe that you may save her yet. man! who have been her curse and mine, will you swear to do so, by any means i may command?' "'i will swear!' was my answer, and his glazing eyes were suddenly lit up with a fierce delight. 'and how?' i cried. "'thus,' he answered, drawing me close to him, and putting his lips to my ear: 'by rendering yourself hateful to her! to quit her were to bid her lament you unto the death; but _by her very side to render yourself abhorrent to her_, thus shall you save her! you have sworn--remember, you have sworn! go! when i am dead, give up that voice and look of love; put on a stern aspect; treat her as a cruel taskmaster treats a slave; be harsh; be merciless; tell her the love she bears you, by its depth of passion, hath become a crime, and you have vowed to crush it out of her; but say not i commanded it; let her believe it is your own free will; punish her for that love; let her think you hate her for it; trample her soul beneath your haughty feet; let her hear naught but bitterest words--see naught but sternest looks--feel naught but a grasp severe and torturing--to tear her clinging arms from around you!--so shall you save her; for she will suffer but a little while at first, and then will leave you to be forever blest;--so shall you crush her love, and send her out from your heart to seek a better. sydney, you have sworn to do it--you have sworn!' "he repeated the words with fearful vehemence, for life was ebbing with the blood that flowed. gathering up his last energies, he shrieked into my ear--'say that you have sworn!--answer, or my spirit curses you forever!' and i answered: 'i have sworn!' "he burst into a laugh of awful triumph, sunk back, and expired.... "lilias, i have kept that vow!" at these words, uttered in a hoarse and ominous tone, which seemed to convey a volume of fearful meaning, a cold shiver crept over the frame of the young lilias: a horror unspeakable took possession of her, as the vail seemed suddenly lifted up from the mysterious agony which had made aletheia's life, even to the outward eye, a mere embodiment of perpetual suffering; and her deep and womanly appreciation of what her unhappy cousin had endured, caused her to shrink almost in fear from the wretched man by her side, who had thus been constrained to become the cruel tyrant of her he loved so fondly. but he spoke again in such broken, faltering accents, that her heart once more swelled with pity for him. "yes, lilias, i kept that fearful vow: the grasp of the dead man's hand, which, even as he stiffened into a mass of senseless clay, still locked my own as with an iron gripe, seemed to have bound it on my soul, and i, alas! believed in the efficacy of this means for her restoration from the destructive madness of her love to such an one as i. i believed i thus should save her, and turn her pure affection to a salutary hate. yes; with energy, with fierce determination, i did keep that vow, because it was to bind myself unto such untold tortures, that it seemed a righteous expiation; and what, oh, what has been the result! her father thought he knew her. he thought the intensity of her tenderness would brave insanity or death; but, not _my_ hatred and contempt! and he knew her not, in her unparalleled generosity! for behold her glorious devotion hath trampled even my contumely under foot, and hath risen faithful, changeless, all perfect as before. "oh, lilias, i can not tell you the detail of the cruelties i have perpetrated on her--redoubled, day by day, as i saw them all fall powerless before her matchless love. i told her that because of its intensity, her affection had become a crime, for one whose eternal abiding place was not within this world, and that it inspired me with horror and with wrath; and since she had taken me for her master, as her master, i would drive this passion from her soul, by even the sternest means that fancy can devise; and then, i dare not tell you all that i have done; but she, with her imploring voice, her tender, mournful eyes, forever answered that if she were hateful to me i had better leave her, only with me should go her love, her life, her very soul! alas! alas! i could not leave her till my fearful task was done. i have labored--oh, let the spirit of that dead father witness--i have labored according to his will, and what has been the up-shot of it all? lilias," he spoke with sudden fierceness, "i have learnt to crush the life out of her, _but not the love_! the pure, devoted, boundless love is there, still, true and tender as before, only it abides my torture, day and night, chained to the rack by these cruel hands." he buried his face on his knees, and a strong convulsion shook his frame. a tale of mid-air. in a cottage in the valley of sallanches near the foot of mont blanc, lived old bernard and his three sons. one morning he lay in bed sick, and, burning with fever, watched anxiously for the return of his son, jehan, who had gone to fetch a physician. at length a horse's tread was heard, and soon afterward the doctor entered. he examined the patient closely, felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and then said, patting the old man's cheek, "it will be nothing, my friend--nothing!" but he made a sign to the three lads, who open-mouthed and anxious, stood grouped around the bed. all four withdrew to a distant corner, the doctor shook his head, thrust out his lower lip, and said "tis a serious attack--very serious--of fever. he is now in the height of the fit, and as soon as it abates he must have sulphate of quinine." "what is that, doctor?" "quinine, my friend, is a very expensive medicine, but which you may procure at sallanches. between the two fits your father must take at least three francs' worth. i will write the prescription. you can read, guillaume?" "yes, doctor." "and you will see that he takes it?" "certainly." when the physician was gone, guillaume, pierre, and jehan looked at each other in silent perplexity. their whole stock of money consisted of a franc and a half, and yet the medicine must be procured immediately. "listen," said pierre, "i know a method of getting from the mountain before night three or four five-franc pieces." "from the mountain?" "i have discovered an eagle's nest in a cleft of a frightful precipice. there is a gentleman at sallanches, who would gladly purchase the eagles; and nothing made me hesitate but the terrible risk of taking them; but that's nothing when our father's life is concerned. we may have them now in two hours." "i will rob the nest," said guillaume. "no, no, let me," said jehan, "i am the youngest and lightest." "i have the best right to venture," said pierre, "as it was i who discovered it." "come," said pierre, "let us decide by drawing lots. write three numbers, guillaume, put them into my hat, and whoever draws number one will try the venture." guillaume blackened the end of a wooden splinter in the fire; tore an old card into three pieces; wrote on them one, two, three, and threw them into the hat. how the three hearts beat! old bernard lay shivering in the cold fit, and each of his sons longed to risk his own life, to save that of his father. the lot fell on pierre, who had discovered the nest; he embraced the sick man. "we shall not be long absent, father," he said, "and it is needful for us to go together." "what are you going to do?" "we will tell you as soon as we come back." guillaume took down from the wall an old sabre, which had belonged to bernard when he served as a soldier; jehan sought a thick cord which the mountaineers use when cutting down trees; and pierre went toward an old wooden cross, reared near the cottage, and knelt before it for some minutes in fervent prayer. they set out together, and soon reached the brink of the precipice. the danger consisted not only in the possibility of falling several hundred feet, but still more in the probable aggression of the birds of prey, inhabiting the wild abyss. pierre, who was to brave these perils, was a fine athletic young man of twenty-two. having measured with his eye the distance he would have to descend, his brothers fastened the cord around his waist, and began to let him down. holding the sabre in his hand, he safely reached the nook that contained the nest. in it were four eaglets of a light yellowish-brown color, and his heart beat with joy at the sight of them. he grasped the nest firmly in his left hand, and shouted joyfully to his brothers, "i have them! draw me up!" already the first upward pull was given to the cord, when pierre felt himself attacked by two enormous eagles, whose furious cries proved them to be the parents of the nestlings. "courage, brother! defend thyself! don't fear!" pierre pressed the nest to his bosom, and with his right hand made the sabre play around his head. then began a terrible combat. the eagles shrieked, the little ones cried shrilly, the mountaineer shouted and brandished his sword. he slashed the birds with its blade, which flashed like lightning, and only rendered them still more enraged. he struck the rock and sent forth a shower of sparks. suddenly he felt a jerk given to the cord that sustained him. looking up he perceived that, in his evolutions, he had cut it with his sabre, and that half the strands were severed! pierre's eyes, dilated widely, remained for a moment immovable, and then closed with terror. a cold shudder passed through his veins, and he thought of letting go both the nest and the sabre. at that moment one of the eagles pounced on his head, and tried to tear his face. the savoyard made a last effort, and defended himself bravely. he thought of his old father, and took courage. upward, still upward, mounted the cord: friendly voices eagerly uttered words of encouragement and triumph; but pierre could not reply to them. when he reached the brink of the precipice, still clasping fast the nest, his hair, which an hour before had been as black as a raven's wing, was become so completely white, that guillaume and jehan could scarcely recognize him. what did that signify? the eaglets were of the rarest and most valuable species. that same afternoon they were carried to the village and sold. old bernard had the medicine, and every needful comfort beside, and the doctor in a few days pronounced him convalescent. stories about beasts and birds. the strength and courage of the lion is so great that, although he is seldom four feet in height, he is more than a match for fierce animals of three or four times his size, such as the buffalo. he will even attack a rhinoceros or an elephant, if provoked. he possesses such extraordinary muscular power, that he has been known to kill and carry off a heifer of two years old in his mouth, and, after being pursued by herdsmen on horseback for five hours, it has been found that he has scarcely ever allowed the body of the heifer to touch the ground during the whole distance. but here is an instance of strength in a man--a different sort of strength--which surpasses all we ever heard of a lion: three officers in the east indies--captain woodhouse, lieutenant delamain, and lieutenant laing--being informed that two lions had made their appearance, in a jungle, at some twenty miles' distance from their cantonment, rode off in that direction to seek an engagement. they soon found the "lordly strangers," or natives, we should rather say. one of the lions was killed by the first volley they fired; the other retreated across the country. the officers pursued, until the lion, making an abrupt curve, returned to his jungle. they then mounted an elephant, and went in to search for him. they found him standing under a bush, looking directly toward them. he sought no conflict, but seeing them approach, he at once accepted the first challenge, and sprang at the elephant's head, where he hung on. the officers fired; in the excitement of the onset their aim was defeated, and the lion only wounded. the elephant, meanwhile, had shaken him off, and, not liking such an antagonist, refused to face him again. the lion did not pursue, but stood waiting. at length the elephant was persuaded to advance once more; seeing which, the lion became furious, and rushed to the contest. the elephant turned about to retreat, and the lion, springing upon him from behind, grappled his flesh with teeth and claws, and again hung on. the officers fired, while the elephant kicked with all his might; but, though the lion was dislodged, he was still without any mortal wound, and retired into the thicket, content with what he had done in return for the assault. the officers had become too excited to desist; and in the fever of the moment, as the elephant, for his part, now directly refused to have any thing more to do with the business, captain woodhouse resolved to dismount, and go on foot into the jungle. lieutenant delamain and lieutenant laing dismounted with him, and they followed in the direction the lion had taken. they presently got sight of him, and captain woodhouse fired, but apparently without any serious injury, as they saw "the mighty lord of the woods" retire deeper into the thicket "with the utmost composure." they pursued, and lieutenant delamain got a shot at the lion. this was to be endured no longer, and forth came the lion, dashing right through the bushes that intervened, so that he was close upon them in no time. the two lieutenants were just able to escape out of the jungle to re-load, but captain woodhouse stood quietly on one side, hoping the lion would pass him unobserved. this was rather too much to expect after all he had done. the lion darted at him, and in an instant, "as though by a stroke of lightning," the rifle was broken and knocked out of his hand, and he found himself in the grip of the irresistible enemy whom he had challenged to mortal combat. lieutenant delamain fired at the lion without killing him, and then again retreated to re-load. meantime, captain woodhouse and the lion were both lying wounded on the ground, and the lion began to craunch his arm. in this dreadful position captain woodhouse had the presence of mind, and the fortitude, amid the horrible pain he endured, to lie perfectly still--knowing that if he made any resistance now, he would be torn to pieces in a minute. finding all motion had ceased, the lion let the arm drop from his mouth, and quietly crouched down with his paws on the thigh of his prostrate antagonist. presently, captain woodhouse, finding his head in a painful position, unthinkingly raised one hand to support it, whereupon the lion again seized his arm, and craunched it higher up. once more, notwithstanding the intense agony, and yet more intense apprehension of momentary destruction, captain woodhouse had the strength of will and self-command to lie perfectly still. he remained thus, until his friends, discovering his situation, were hastening up, but upon the wrong side, so that their balls might possibly pass through the lion, and hit him. without moving, or manifesting any hasty excitement, he was heard to say, in a low voice, "to the other side!--to the other side!" they hurried round. next moment the magnanimous lion lay dead by the side of a yet stronger nature than his own. diedrik müller, during his hunting time in south africa, came suddenly upon a lion. the lion did not attack him, but stood still, as though he would have said, "well, what do you want here in my desert?" müller alighted from his horse, and took deliberate aim at the lion's forehead. just as he drew the trigger, his horse gave a start of terror, and the hunter missed his aim. the lion sprang forward; but, finding that the man stood still--for he had no time either to remount his horse, or take to his heels--the lion stopped within a few paces, and stood still also, confronting him. the man and the lion stood looking at each other for some minutes; the man never moved; at length the lion slowly turned, and walked away. müller began hastily to re-load his gun. the lion looked back over his shoulder, gave a deep growl, and instantly returned. could words speak plainer? müller, of course, held his hand, and remained motionless. the lion again moved off, warily. the hunter began softly to ram down his bullet. again the lion looked back, and gave a threatening growl. this was repeated between them until the lion had retired to some distance, when he bounded into a thicket. a very curious question is started by the worthy vicar of swaffham bulbec on the mortality of birds. the mortality must be enormous every year, yet how seldom in our country rambles do we find a dead bird. one, now and then, in the woods or hedgerows, is the utmost seen by any body, even if he search for them. very few, comparatively, are destroyed by mankind. only a few species are killed by sportsmen; all the rest can not live long, nor can they all be eaten by other birds. many must die from natural causes. immense numbers, especially of the smaller birds, are born each year, yet they do not appear to increase the general stock of the species. immense numbers, therefore, must die every year; but what becomes of the bodies? martins, nightingales, and other migratory birds, may be supposed to leave a great number of their dead relations in foreign countries; this, however, can not apply to our own indigenous stock. mr. jenyns partly accounts for this by saying, that no doubt a great many young birds fall a prey to stronger birds soon after leaving the nest, and probably a number of the elder birds also; while the very old are killed by the cold of winter; or, becoming too feeble to obtain food, drop to the earth, and are spared the pain of starvation by being speedily carried off by some hungry creature of the woods and fields. besides these means for the disposal of the bodies, there are scavenger insects, who devour, and another species who act as sextons, and bury the bodies. during the warm months of summer, some of the burying beetles will accomplish "the humble task allotted them by providence," in a surprisingly short time. mr. jenyns has repeatedly, during a warm spring, placed dead birds upon the ground, in different spots frequented by the _necrophorus vespillo_, and other allied beetles, who have effected the interment so completely in four-and-twenty hours, that there was a difficulty in finding the bodies again. all this goes a great way to account for our so very seldom seeing any dead birds lying about, notwithstanding the immense mortality that must take place every year; but it certainly is not satisfactory; for although the birds of prey, and those which are not devoured by others, are comparatively small in number, how is it that none of _these_ are ever found? once in a season, perhaps, we may find a dead crow, or a dead owl (generally one that has been shot), but who ever finds hawks, ravens, kites, sparrow-hawks, or any number of crows, out of all the annual mortality that must occur in their colonies? these birds are for the most part too large for the sexton beetle to bury; and, quickly as the foxes, stoats, weasels, and other prowling creatures would nose out the savoury remains, or the newly-fallen bodies, these creatures only inhabit certain localities--and dead birds may be supposed to fall in many places. still, they are not seen. a pair of robins built their nest in the old ivy of a garden wall, and the hen shortly afterward sat in maternal pride upon four eggs. the gardener came to clip the ivy; and, not knowing of the nest, his shears cut off a part of it, so that the four eggs fell to the ground. dropping on leaves, they were not broken. notice being attracted by the plaintive cries of the hen bird, the eggs were restored to the nest, which the gardener repaired. the robins returned, the hen sat upon the eggs, and in a few days they were hatched. shortly afterward the four little ones were all found lying upon the ground beneath, cold, stiff, and lifeless. the gardener's repairs of the nest had not been according to the laws of bird-architecture, and a gap had broken out. the four unfledged little ones were taken into the house, and, efforts being made to revive them by warmth, they presently showed signs of life, recovered, and were again restored to the nest. the gap was filled up by stuffing a small piece of drugget into it. the parent robins, perched in a neighboring tree, watched all these operations, without displaying any alarm for the result, and, as soon as they were completed, returned to the nest. all went on well for a day or two: but misfortune seemed never weary of tormenting this little family. a violent shower of rain fell. the nest being exposed, by the close clipping of the ivy leaves, the drugget got sopped, the rain half filled the nest, and the gardener found the four little ones lying motionless in the water. once more they were taken away, dried near the fire, and placed in the nest of another bird fixed in a tree opposite the ivy. the parent birds in a few minutes occupied the nest, and never ceased their attentions until the brood were able to fly, and take care of themselves. the story we have already related of diedrik müller's lion, is surpassed by another of a similar kind, which we take to be about the best lion-story that zoological records can furnish. a hunter, in the wilds of africa, had seated himself on a bank near a pool, to rest, leaving his gun, set upright against a rock, a few feet behind him. he was alone. whether he fell asleep, or only into a reverie, he did not know, but suddenly he saw an enormous lion standing near him, attentively observing him. their eyes met, and thus they remained, motionless, looking at each other. at length the hunter leaned back, and slowly extended his arm toward his gun. the lion instantly uttered a deep growl, and advanced nearer. the hunter paused. after a time, he very gradually repeated the attempt, and again the lion uttered a deep growl, the meaning of which was not to be mistaken. this occurred several times (as in the former case), until the man was obliged to desist altogether. night approached; the lion never left him the whole night. day broke; the lion still was there, and remained there the whole day. the hunter had ceased to make any attempt to seize his gun, and saw that his only hope was to weary the lion out by the fortitude of a passive state, however dreadful the situation. all the next night the lion remained. the man, worn out for want of sleep, dared not to close his eyes, lest the lion, believing him to be dead, should devour him. all the provision in his wallet was exhausted. the third night arrived. being now utterly exhausted, and having dropped off to sleep, several times, and as often come back to consciousness with a start of horror at finding he had been asleep, he finally sunk backward, and lay in a dead slumber. he never awoke till broad day, and then found that the lion was gone. on the question of "best" stories of animals, there are so many excellent stories of several species that the superlative degree may be hard to determine. setting down the above, however, as the best lion-story, we will give what we consider to be (up to this time) the best elephant-story. in one of the recent accounts of scenes of indian warfare (the title of the book has escaped us, and perhaps we met with the narrative in a printed letter), a body of artillery was described as proceeding up a hill, and the great strength of elephants was found highly advantageous in drawing up the guns. on the carriage of one of these guns, a little in front of the wheel, sat an artilleryman, resting himself. an elephant, drawing another gun, was advancing in regular order close behind. whether from falling asleep, or over-fatigue, the man fell from his seat, and the wheel of the gun-carriage, with its heavy gun, was just rolling over him. the elephant comprehending the danger, and seeing that he could not reach the body of the man with his trunk, seized the wheel by the top, and, lifting it up, passed it carefully over the fallen man, and set it down on the other side. the best dog-story--though there are a number of best stories of this honest fellow--we fear is an old one; but we can not forbear telling it, for the benefit of those who may not have met with it before. a surgeon found a poor dog, with his leg broken. he took him home, set it, and in due time gave him his liberty. off he ran. some months afterward the surgeon was awoke in the night by a dog barking loudly at his door. as the barking continued, and the surgeon thought he recognized the voice, he got up, and went down stairs. when he opened the door, there stood his former patient, wagging his tail, and by his side another dog--a friend whom he had brought--who had also had the misfortune to get a leg broken. there is another dog-story of a different kind, told by mr. jenyns, which we think very amusing. a poodle, belonging to a gentleman in cheshire, was in the habit of going to church with his master, and sitting with him in the pew during the whole service. sometimes his master did not come; but this did not prevent the poodle, who always presented himself in good time, entered the pew, and remained sitting there alone: departing with the rest of the congregation. one sunday, the dam at the head of a lake in the neighborhood gave way, and the whole road was inundated. the congregation was therefore reduced to a few individuals, who came from cottages close at hand. nevertheless, by the time the clergyman had commenced reading the psalms, he saw his friend the poodle come slowly up the aisle, dripping with water: having been obliged to swim above a quarter of a mile to get to church. he went into his pew, as usual, and remained quietly there to the end of the service. this is told on the authority of the clergyman himself. a hungry jackdaw once took a fancy to a young chicken which had only recently been hatched. he pounced upon it accordingly, and was carrying it off, when the hen rushed upon him, and beat him with her wings, and held him in her beak, until the cock came up, who immediately attacked the jackdaw, and struck him so repeatedly that he was scarcely able to effect his escape by flight. but the best hen-story is one in mr. jenyns' "observations." a hen was sitting on a number of eggs to hatch them. an egg was missing every night; yet nobody could conjecture who had stolen it. one morning, after several had been lost in this way, the hen was discovered with ruffled feathers, a bleeding breast, and an inflamed countenance. by the side of the nest was seen the dead body of a large rat, whose skull had been fractured--evidently by blows from the beak of the valiant hen, who could endure the vile act of piracy no longer. mr. jenyns relates a good owl-story. he knew a tame owl, who was so fond of music that he would enter the drawing-room of an evening, and, perching on the shoulder of one of the children, listen with great attention to the tones of the piano-forte: holding his head first on one side, then on the other, after the manner of connoisseurs. one night, suddenly, spreading his wings, as if unable to endure his rapture any longer, he alighted on the keys, and, driving away the fingers of the performer with his beak, began to hop about upon the keys himself, apparently in great delight with his own execution. this pianist's name was _keevie_. he was born in the woods of northumberland, and belonged to a friend of the reverend mr. jenyns. good bear-stories are numerous. one of the best we take from the "zoological anecdotes." at a hunt in sweden, an old soldier was charged by a bear. his musket missed fire, and the animal being close upon him, he made a thrust, in the hope of driving the muzzle of his piece down the bear's throat. but the thrust was parried by one of huge paws with all the skill of a fencer, and the musket wrested from the soldier's hand, who was forthwith laid prostrate. he lay quiet, and the bear, after smelling, thought he was dead, and then left him to examine the musket. this he seized by the stock, and began to knock about, as though to discover wherein its virtue consisted, when the soldier could not forbear putting forth one hand to recover his weapon. the bear immediately seized him by the back of the head, and tore his scalp over his crown, so that it fell over the soldier's face. notwithstanding his agony, the poor fellow restrained his cries, and again pretended death. the bear laid himself upon his body, and thus remained, until some hunters coming up relieved him from this frightful situation. as the poor fellow rose, he threw back his scalp with his hand, as though it had been a peruke, and ran frantically toward them, exclaiming--"the bear! the bear!" so intense was his apprehension of his enemy, that it made him oblivious of his bodily anguish. he eventually recovered, and received his discharge in consequence of his loss of hair. there is another bear-story in this work, which savors--just a little--of romance. a powerful bull was attacked by a bear in a forest, when the bull succeeded in striking both horns into his assailant, and pinning him to a tree. in this situation they were both found dead--the bear, of his wounds; the bull (either fearing, or, from obstinate self-will, refusing, to relinquish his position of advantage) of starvation! the beat cat-and-mouse story (designated "melancholy accident--a cat killed by a mouse") is to be found in "the poor artist," the author of which seems to have derived the story from a somewhat questionable source, though we must admit the possibility. "a cat had caught a mouse on a lawn, and let it go again, in her cruel way, in order to play with it; when the mouse, inspired by despair, and seeing only one hole possible to escape into--namely, the round red throat of the cat, very visible through her open mouth--took a bold spring into her jaws, just escaping between her teeth, and into her throat he struggled and stuffed himself; and so the cat was suffocated." it reads plausibly; let us imagine it was true. the best spider-and-fly story we also take from the last-named book. "a very strong, loud, blustering fellow of a blue-bottle fly bounced accidentally into a spider's web. down ran the old spider, and threw her long arms round his neck; but he fought, and struggled, and blew his drone, and fuzzed, and sung sharp, and beat, and battered, and tore the web in holes--and so got loose. the spider would not let go her hold round him--and _the fly flew away with the spider_!" this is related on the authority of mr. thomas bell, the naturalist, who witnessed the heroic act. a miser's life and death. this is harrow weal common; and a lovely spot it is. time was when the whole extent lay waste, or rather covered with soft herbage and wild flowers, where the bee sought her pasture, and the lark loved to hide her nest. but since then, cultivation has trenched on much of harrow weal. cottages have risen, and small homesteads tell of security and abundance. it is pleasant to look upon them from this rising ground; to follow the windings of the broad stream, with pastures on either side, where sheep and cattle graze. look narrowly toward yonder group of trees, and that slight elevation of the ground covered with wild chamomile; if the narrator who told concerning the miser of harrow weal common has marked the spot aright, that mound and flowers are associated with the history of one whose profitless life affords a striking instance of the withering effects of avarice. on that spot stood the house of daniel dancer; miserable in the fullest conception of the word: desolate and friendless, for no bright fire gleamed in winter on the old man's hearthstone; nor yet in spring, when all nature is redolent of bliss, did the confiding sparrow build her nest beside his thatch. the walls of his solitary dwelling were old and lichen-dotted; ferns sprung from out their fissures, and creeping ivy twined through the shattered window-panes. a sapling, no one knew how, had vegetated in the kitchen; its broken pavement afforded a free passage, and, as time went on, the sapling acquired strength, pushing its tall head through the damp and mouldering ceiling; then, catching more of air and light, it went upward to the roof, and, finding that the tiles were off and part of the rafters broken, that same tree looked forth in its youth and vigor, throwing its branches wide, and serving, as years passed on, to shelter the inmates of the hut. other trees grew round; unpruned and thickly-tangled rank grass sprang up wherever the warm sunbeams found an entrance; and as far as the eye could reach, appeared a wilderness of docks and brambles, with huge plantains and giant thistles, inclosed with a boundary hedge of such amazing height as wholly to exclude all further prospect. eighty acres of good land belonged to dancer's farm. an ample stream once held its winding course among them, but becoming choked at the further end with weeds and fallen leaves, and branches broken by the wind, it spread into a marsh, tenanted alike by the slow, creeping blind-worm, and water-newt, the black slug, and frogs of portentous size. the soil was rich, and would have yielded abundantly; the timber, too, was valuable, for some of the finest oaks, perhaps, in the kingdom grew upon the farm; but the cultivation of the one, and the culling of the other, was attended with expense, and both were consequently left uncared for. in the centre of this lone and wretched spot, dwelt the miserable dancer and his sister, alike in their habits and penuriousness. the sister never went from home; the brother rarely, except to sell his hay. he had some acres of fine meadow-land, upon which the brambles had not trenched, and his attention was exclusively devoted to keeping them clear of weeds. having no other occupation, the time of hay-harvest seems to have been the only period at which his mind was engrossed with business, and this too was rendered remarkable by the miser's laying aside his habits of penuriousness--scarcely any gentleman in the neighborhood gave his mowers better beer, or in greater quantity; but at no other time was the beverage of our saxon ancestors found within his walls. some people thought that the old man was crazed; but those who knew him spoke well of his intelligence. as his father had been before him, so was he; his mantle had descended in darkness and in fullness on all who bore his name, and while that of daniel dancer was perhaps the most familiar, his three brothers were equally penurious. one sordid passion absorbed their every faculty; they loved money solely and exclusively for its own sake, not for the pleasures it could procure, nor yet because of the power it bestowed, but for the love of hoarding. when the father of daniel dancer breathed his last, there was reason to believe that a large sum, amounting to some thousands, was concealed on the premises. this conjecture occasioned his son no small uneasiness, not so much from the fear of loss, as from the apprehension lest his brothers should find the treasure and divide it among themselves. dancer, therefore, kept the matter as much as possible to himself. he warily and secretly sought out every hole and corner, thrusting his skinny hand into many a deserted mouse-hole, and examining every part of the chimney. vain were all his efforts, till at length, on removing an old grate, he discovered about two hundred pounds, in gold and bank-notes, between two pewter dishes. much more undoubtedly there was, but the rest remained concealed. strange beings were dancer and his sister to look upon. the person of the old man was generally girt with a hay-band, in order to keep together his tattered garments; his stockings were so darned and patched that nothing of the original texture remained; they were girt about in cold and wet weather with strong bands of hay, which served instead of boots, and his hat having been worn for at least thirteen years, scarcely retained a vestige of its former shape. perhaps the most wretched vagabond and mendicant that ever crossed harrow weal common was more decently attired than this miserable representative of an ancient and honorable house. the sister possessed an excellent wardrobe, consisting not only of wearing apparel, but table linen, and twenty-four pair of good sheets; she had also clothes of various kinds, and abundance of plate belonging to the family, but every thing was stowed away in chests. neither the brother nor the sister had the disposition or the heart to enjoy the blessings that were liberally given them; and hence it happened that dancer was rarely seen, and that his sister scarcely ever quitted her obscure abode. the interior of the dwelling well befitted its occupants. furniture, and that of a good description, had formerly occupied a place within the walls, but every article had long since been carefully secluded from the light, all excepting two antique bedsteads which could not readily be removed. these, however, neither dancer nor his sister could be prevailed to occupy; they preferred sleeping on sacks stuffed with hay, and covered with horse-rugs. nor less miserable was their daily fare. though possessed of at least ten thousand pounds, they lived on cold dumplings, hard as stone, and made of the coarsest meal; their only beverage was water; their sole fire a few sticks gathered on the common, although they had abundance of wood, and noble trees that required lopping. thus they lived, isolated from mankind, while around them the desolation of their paternal acres, and the rank luxuriance of weeds and brambles, presented a mournful emblem of their condition. talents, undoubtedly they had; kindly tempers in early life, which might have conduced to the well-being of society. daniel especially possessed many admirable qualities, with good sense and native integrity; his manners, too, though unpolished by intercourse with the world, were at one time both frank and courteous, but all and each were absorbed by one master passion--sordid avarice took possession of his soul, and rendered him the most despicable of men. at length dancer's sister died. they had lived together for many years, similar in their penuriousness, though little, perhaps, of natural affection subsisted between them. the sister was possessed of considerable wealth, which she left to her brother. the old man greatly rejoiced at its acquisition; he resolved, in consequence, that her funeral should not disgrace the family, and accordingly contracted with an undertaker to receive timber in exchange for a coffin, rather than to part with gold. lady tempest, who resided in the neighborhood, compassionating the wretched condition of an aged woman, sick, and destitute of even pauper comforts, had the poor creature conveyed to her house. every possible alleviation was afforded, and medical assistance immediately obtained; but they came too late. the disease, which proceeded originally from want, proved mortal, and the victim of sordid avarice was borne unlamented to her grave. there was crowding on the funeral day beside the road that led to lady tempest's. people came trooping from far and near, with a company of boys belonging to harrow school, thoughtless, and amused with the strangeness of a spectacle which might rather have excited feelings of sorrow and commiseration. first came a coffin of the humblest kind, containing the emaciated corpse of one who had possessed ample wealth--a woman to whom had been committed the magnificent gift of life, fair talents, and health, with faculties for appropriating each to the glory of him who gave them, but who, on dying, had no soothing retrospect of life, no thankfulness for having been the instrument of good to others, no hope beyond the grave. behind that coffin, as chief-mourner, followed the brother, unbeloved, and heedless of all duties either to god or man--a miserable being; the possessor of many thousands, yet too sordid to purchase even decent mourning. it was only by the importunate entreaties of his relatives that he consented to unbind the hay-bands with which his legs were covered, and to put on a second-hand pair of black worsted stockings. his coat was of a whitish brown color, his waistcoat had been black about the middle of the last century, and the covering of his head was a nondescript kind of wig, which had descended to him as an heirloom. thus attired, and followed and attended by a crowd whom curiosity had drawn together, went on old daniel and the coffin of his sister toward the place of its sojourn. when there, the horse's girth gave way, for they were past all service, and the brother was suddenly precipitated into his sister's grave; but the old man escaped unhurt. the service proceeded; and slowly into darkness and forgetfulness went down the remains of his miserable counterpart. one friend, however, remained to the miser--and this was lady tempest. that noble-minded woman had given a home to the sister, and sought by every possible means to alleviate her sufferings; now also, when the object of her solicitude was gone, she endeavored to inspire the brother with better feelings, and to ameliorate his miserable condition. this kindly notice by lady tempest, while it soothed his pride, served also to lessen the sufferings and sorrows of his declining age; and so far did her representations prevail, that, having given him a comfortable bed, she actually induced him to throw away the sack on which he slept for years. nay, more, he took into his service a man of the name of griffith, and allowed him an ample supply of food, but neither cat nor dog purred or watched beneath his roof; he had no kindliness of heart to bestow upon them, nor occasion for their services, for he still continued to live on crusts and fragments; even when lady tempest sent him better fare, he could hardly be prevailed to partake of it. in his boyish days, he possessed, it might be, some natural feelings of affection toward his kind; but as years passed on, and his sordid avarice increased, he manifested the utmost aversion for his brother, who rivaled himself in penury and wealth, and still continued to pasture sheep on the same common. to his niece, however, he once presented a guinea, on the birth of a daughter, but this he made conditional, she was either to name the child nancy, after his mother, or forfeit the whole sum. still, with that strange contrariety which even the most penurious occasionally present, gleams of kindness broke forth at intervals, as sunbeams on a stony waste. he was known secretly to have assisted persons whose modes of life and appearance were infinitely superior to his own; and though parsimonious in the extreme, he was never guilty of injustice, or accused of attempting to overreach his neighbors. he was also a second hampden in defending the rights and privileges of those who were connected with his locality. while old daniel lived, no infringements were permitted on harrow weal common; he heeded neither the rank nor wealth of those who attempted to act unjustly, but, putting himself at the head of the villagers, he resisted such aggressions with uniform success. on one occasion, also, having been reluctantly obliged to prosecute a horse-stealer at aylesbury, he set forth with one of his neighbors on an unshod steed, with a mane and tail of no ordinary growth, a halter for a bridle, a sack instead of a saddle. thus equipped, he went on, till, having reached the principal inn at aylesbury, the miser addressed his companion, saying, "pray, sir, go into the house and order what you please, and live like a gentleman, i will settle for it readily; but as regards myself, i must go on in my old way." his friend entreated him to take a comfortable repast, but this he steadily refused. a penny-worth of bread sufficed for his meal, and at night he slept under his horse's manger; but when the business that brought him to aylesbury was ended, he paid fifteen shillings, the amount of his companion's bill, with the utmost cheerfulness. grateful too, he was, as years went on, to lady tempest for her unwearied kindness, and he resolved to leave her the wealth which he had accumulated. his sister, too, expressed the same wish; and when, after six months of continued attention from that lady, miss dancer found her end approach, she instructed her brother to give their benefactress an acknowledgment from the one thousand six hundred pounds which she had concealed in an old tattered petticoat. "not a penny of that money," said old dancer, unceremoniously to his sister. "not a penny as yet. the good lady shall have the whole when i am gone." at length the time came when the old man must be gone; when his desolate abode and neglected fields should bear witness no longer against him. few particulars are known concerning his death. the fact alone is certain, that the evening before his departure, he dispatched a messenger to lady tempest requesting to see her ladyship, and that, being gratified by her arrival, he expressed great satisfaction. finding himself somewhat better, his attachment to the hoarded pelf, which he valued even more than the only friend he had on earth, overcame the resolution he had formed of giving her his will; and though his hand was scarcely able to perform its functions, he took hold of the precious document and replaced it in his bosom. the next morning he became worse, and again did the same kind lady attend the old man's summons; when, having confided to her keeping the title-deeds of wealth which he valued more than life, his hand suddenly became convulsed, his head sunk upon the pillow, and the miser breathed his last. the house in which he died, and where he first drew breath, exhibited a picture of utter desolation. those who crossed the threshold stood silent, as if awe-struck. yet that miserable haunt contained the hoarded wealth of years. gold and silver coins were dug up on the ground-floor; plate and table-linen, with clothes of every description, were found locked up in chests; large bowls, filled with guineas and half-guineas came to light, with parcels of bank-notes stuffed under the covers of old chairs. some hundred-weights of waste-paper, the accumulation of half a century, were also discovered; and two or three tons of old iron, consisting of nails and horse-shoes, which the miser had picked up. strange communings had passed within the walls--sordid, yet bitter thoughts, the crushing of all kindly yearnings toward a better state of mind. the outer conduct of the man was known, but the internal conflict between good and evil remains untold. nearly sixty-four years have elapsed since the miser and his sister passed from among the living. perchance some lichen-dotted stone, if carefully sought for and narrowly examined, may give the exact period of their death, but, as yet, no record of the kind has been discovered. collateral testimonies, however, go far to prove that the death of the miser took place about the year , and that his sister died a few months previous. results of an accident.--the gum secret. in journeying from dublin westward, by the banks of the liffey, we pass the village of chapelizod, and hamlet of palmerstown. the water-power of the liffey has attracted manufacturers at different times, who with less or greater success, but, unfortunately, with a general ill-success, have established works there. paper-making, starch-making, cotton-spinning and weaving, bleaching and printing of calicoes, have been attempted. but all have been in turn abandoned, though occasionally renewed by some new firm or private adventurer. into the supposed causes of failure it is not here necessary to inquire. the manufacture of starch has survived several disasters. the article british gum, which is now so extensively used by calico-printers, by makers-up of stationery, by the government in postage-stamp making, and in various industrial arts, was first made at chapelizod. its origin and history are somewhat curious. the use of potatoes in the starch factories excited the vehement opposition of the people, whose chief article of food was thus consumed and enhanced in price. these factories were several times assailed by angry multitudes, and on more than one occasion set on fire by means never discovered. the fires were not believed to have been always accidental. on the fifth of september, , george the fourth, on his return to england from visiting ireland, embarked at dunleary harbor, near dublin. on that occasion the ancient irish name of dunleary was blotted out, and in honor of the royal visit that of kingston was substituted. in the evening the citizens of dublin sat late in taverns and at supper parties. loyalty and punch abounded. in the midst of their revelry a cry of "fire" was heard. they ran to the streets, and some, following the glare and the cries, found the fire at a starch manufactory near chapelizod. the stores not being of a nature to burn rapidly, were in great part saved from the fire, but they were so freely deluged with water, that the starch was washed away in streams ankle-deep over the roadways and lanes into the liffey. next morning one of the journeymen block-printers--whose employment was at the palmerstown print-works, but who lodged at chapelizod--woke with a parched throat and headache. he asked himself where he had been. he had been seeing the king away; drinking, with thousands more, dunleary out of, and kingston into, the map of ireland. presently, his confused memory brought him a vision of a fire: he had a thirsty sense of having been carrying buckets of water; of hearing the hissing of water on hot iron floors; of the clanking of engines, and shouts of people working the pumps, and of himself tumbling about with the rest of the mob, and rolling over one another in streams of liquefied wreck, running from the burning starch stores. he would rise, dress, go out, inquire about the fire, find his shopmates, and see if it was to be a working day, or once again a drinking day. he tried to dress; but--a--hoo!--his clothes were gummed together. his coat had no entrance for his arms until the sleeves were picked open, bit by bit; what money he had left was glued into his pockets; his waistcoat was tightly buttoned up with--what? had he been bathing with his clothes on, in a sea of gum-arabic--that costly article used in the print-works? this man was not the only one whose clothes were saturated with gum. he and four of his shopmates held a consultation, and visited the wreck of the starch factory. in the roadway, the starch, which, in a hot, calcined state, had been watered by the fire-engines the night before, was now found by them lying in soft, gummy lumps. they took some of it home; they tested it in their trade; they bought starch at a chandler's shop, put it in a frying-pan, burned it to a lighter or darker brown, added water, and at last discovered themselves masters of an article, which, if not gum itself, seemed as suitable for their trade as gum-arabic, and at a fraction of the cost. it was their own secret; and, could they have conducted their future proceedings as discreetly as they made their experiments, they might have realized fortunes, and had the merit of practically introducing an article of great utility--one which has assisted in the fortune-making of some of the wealthiest firms in lancaster (so long as they held it as a secret), and which now the government of the british empire manufacture for themselves. its subsequent history is not less curious than that just related. unfortunately for the operative block-printers, who discovered it, their share in its history is soon told. it is said that six of them subscribed money to send one of their number to manchester with samples of the new gum for sale; the reply which he received from drysalters and the managers of print-works, was either that they would have nothing to do with his samples, or an admonition to go home for the present, and return when he was sober. his fellow-workmen, hearing of his non-success and fearing the escape of the secret, sent another of their number to his aid with more money. the two had no better success than the one. the remaining four, after a time, left their work at dublin, and joined the two in manchester. they now tried to sell their secret. before this was effected one died; two were imprisoned for a share in some drunken riots; and all were in extreme poverty. what the price paid for the secret was, is not likely to be revealed now. part of it was spent in a passage to new orleans, where it is supposed the discoverers of british gum did not long survive their arrival. the secret was not at first worked with success. it passed from its original lancashire possessor to a gentleman who succeeded in making the article of a sufficiently good quality; and at so low a price that it found a ready introduction in the print-works. but he could not produce it in large quantity without employing assistants, whom he feared to trust with a knowledge of a manufacture so simple and so profitable. in employing men to assist in some parts of the work, and shutting them out from others, their curiosity, or jealousy, could not be restrained. on one or two occasions they caused the officers of excise to break in upon him when he was burning his starch, under the allegation that he was engaged in illicit practices. his manufactory was broken into in the night by burglars, who only wanted to rob him of his secret. once the place was maliciously burned down. other difficulties, far too numerous for present detail, were encountered. still, he produced the british gum in sufficient quantities for it to yield him a liberal income. at last, in a week of sickness, he was pressed by the head of a well-known firm of calico-printers for a supply. he got out of bed; went to his laboratory; had the fire kindled; put on his vessel of plate-iron; calcined his starch, added the water, observed the temperature; and all the while held conversation with his keen-eyed customer, whom he had unsuspectingly allowed to be present. it is enough to say that this acute calico-printer never required any more british gum of the convalescent's making. gradually the secret spread, although the original purchaser of it still retained a share of the manufacture. when penny postage came into operation, it was at first doubtful whether adhesive labels could be made sufficiently good and low-priced, which would not have been the case with gum-arabic. british gum solved the difficulty; and the manufacturer made a contract to supply it for the labels. in the second year of his contract, a rumor was spread, that the adhesive matter on the postage stamps was a deleterious substance, made of the refuse of fish, and other disgusting materials. the great british gum secret was then spread far and wide. the public was extensively informed that the postage-label poison was made simply of--potatoes. my little french friend. mademoiselle honorine is a teacher of her own language in a cathedral town south of the loire, celebrated for the finest church and the longest street in france; at least, so say the inhabitants, who have seen no others. the purest french is supposed to be spoken hereabouts, and the reputation thus given has for many years attracted hosts of foreigners anxious to attain the true accent formerly in vogue at the court of the refined catherine de medici. it is true that this extreme grace of diction and tone is not acknowledged by parisians; who, when they had a court, imagined the best french was spoken in the capital where that court resided; and they have been long in the habit of sneering at the pretensions of their rivals; who, however, among foreigners, still keep their middle-age fame. mademoiselle honorine is not a native of this remarkable town; and the french she teaches is of a different sort, for she comes from a far-off province, by no means so remarkable for purity of accent. she is an alsatian, and her natal town is no other than vancouleurs, where the tree under which joan of arc saw angels and became inspired, once existed. as may be imagined, mademoiselle honorine is proud of this accident of birth, and tells with much exultation of having, at the age of fifteen, some thirty-five years ago, borne the part of la pucelle in the grand procession to domremy, formerly an annual festival. she relates that she attracted universal attention on that occasion, chiefly from the circumstance of her hair, which is now of silvery whiteness, having been equally so then, much to the admiration of all who beheld her. "i was always," she remarks, with satisfied vanity, "celebrated for my hair, and i had at all times a high color and bright eyes; so that, though some people preferred the beauty of my sisters, i always got more partners than they at all our _fêtes_. it is true they all married, and no one proposed to me, except old monsieur de monzon, who suffered from the gout and a very bad temper; but i had no respect for his character and though he was rich, and i might have been a _châtelaine_, instead of such a poor woman as i am, still i refused him, for i preferred my liberty; and that, also, was the reason i left my uncle's domain, because i like independence. we used, my aunt, my uncle, and i, to spend most of our time at his country place, going out every day lark-catching, which we did with looking-glasses: they held the glasses and lured the birds, while i was ready with the net to throw over them. my uncle, however, was always scolding me for talking and frightening the birds away; so i got tired of this amusement and of the dependence in which i lived." the independence preferred by mademoiselle honorine to lark-catching and snubbing, consists in giving lessons to the english. as, of late, we islanders have been as hard to catch as the victims of the looking-glasses, her occupation is not lucrative; and although she sometimes devotes her energies to the arts, in the form of twisted colored paper tortured into the semblance of weeping willows, and nondescript flowers, yet these specimens of ingenuity do not bring in a very large revenue. in fact, her income, when i knew her, could not be considered enormous; for, to pay house-rent, board, washing, and sundry little expenses, she possessed twelve francs a month: yet with these resources, nevertheless, she contrived to do more benevolent and charitable acts than any person i ever met with. she has always halfpence for the poor's bag at church--always farthings for certain regular pensioners, who expect her donation as she passes them, at their begging stations, on her way to her pupils. moreover, on new-year's day, she has always the means of making the prettiest presents to a friend who for years has shown her countenance, and put little gains in her way. she obtains six francs per month from a couple of pupils, whose merit is as great in receiving, as hers in giving lessons. these are two young workwomen who desire to improve their education, and daily devote to study the only unoccupied hour they possess. from six o'clock till seven, mademoiselle honorine, therefore, on her return from the five o'clock mass--which she never misses--calls at the garret of these devotees, and imparts her instruction in reading and writing to the zealous aspirants for knowledge. "i would not," she says, "miss their lessons for the world; because, you see, i have thus always an eye upon their conduct, and have an opportunity of throwing in a little good advice, and making them read good books." as these young damsels go out to their work directly after the lesson is over--taking breakfast at a late hour in the day--mademoiselle honorine provides herself, before starting to the five o'clock mass, with a bit of dry bread, which she puts in her pocket, ready to eat when the moment of hunger arrives. she never allows herself any other breakfast; and, as she drinks only cold water, no expenditure of fuel is necessary for this in her establishment. except it occurs to any of her pupils--few of whom are much richer than her earliest-served--to offer her some refreshment to lighten her labors, mademoiselle honorine contrives to walk, and talk, and laugh, and be amusing on an empty stomach, till dinner-time, when she is careful to provide herself with an apple and another slice of bread, which she enjoys in haste, and betakes herself to other occupations, chiefly unremunerative--such as visiting a sick neighbor, reading to a blind friend, or taking a walk on the fashionable promenade with an infirm invalid, who requires the support of an arm. fire in france is an expensive luxury which she economizes--not that she indulges, when forced to allow herself in comfort, in much besides turf or pine-cones, with perhaps a sprinkling of fagot-wood if a friend calls in. she is able, however, to keep a little canary in a cage, who is her valued companion; and she nourishes, besides, several little productive plants in pots, such as violets and résida; chiefly, it must be owned, with a view of having the means of making floral offerings, on birthdays and christenings, to her very numerous acquaintances. she is never seen out of spirits, and is welcomed as an object of interest whenever she flits along with her round, rosy, smiling face, shrined in braids of white hair, and set off with a smart fashionable-shaped bonnet; for she likes being in the fashion, and is proud of the slightness of her waist, which her polka shows to advantage. the strings of her bonnet, and the ribbons and buttons of her dress, are sometimes very fresh, and her mittens are sometimes very uncommon: this she is particular about, as she shows her hands a good deal in accompanying herself on the guitar, which she does with much taste, for her ear is very good and her voice has been musical. there are few things mademoiselle honorine can not do to be useful. she can play at draughts and dominos, can knit or net, knowing all the last new patterns; her satin stitch is neatness itself. it is suspected that she turns some of these talents to advantage; but that is a secret, as she considers it more dignified to be known only as a teacher. she had a curious set of pupils when i became acquainted with her. those whom i knew were english; who were, rather late in their career, endeavoring to become proficients in a tongue positively necessary for economical, useful, or sentimental purposes, as the case might be, but which in more early days they had not calculated on requiring. they were of those who encourage late ambition-- "and from the dregs of life think to receive what the first sprightly running could not give." the first of these was a bachelor of some fifty-five, formerly a medical practitioner, now retired, and living in a lively lodging, in a _premier_ that overlooked the loire; which reflected back so much sun from its broad surface on a bright winter's day, that the circumstance greatly diminished his expenses in the dreaded article of fuel--a consideration with both natives and foreigners. economy was strictly practiced by dr. drowler. nevertheless, as he was very gallant, and loved to pay compliments to his fair young french friends, whom he did not suspect of laughing at him, he became desirous of acquiring greater facility in the lighter part of a language which served him indifferently well in the ordinary concerns of his bachelor house-keeping. he therefore resolved to take advantage of the low terms and obliging disposition of mademoiselle honorine, and placed himself on her form. there was much good-will on both sides, and his instructress declared that she should have felt little fear of his ultimate success, but for his defective hearing; which considerably interfered with his appreciation of those shades of pronunciation which might be necessary to render him capable of charming the attentive ears of the young ladies, who were on the tiptoe of expectation to hear what progress he had made in the language of jean jacques rousseau. another of mademoiselle honorine's charges was mrs. mumble, a widow of uncertain age, whose early education had been a good deal left to nature; and who--her income being small--had sought the banks of the poetical loire (in, she told her somersetshire friends, the south of france) to make, as she expressed it, "both ends meet." "one lesson a week at a _franc_," she reflected, "won't ruin me, and i shall soon get to speak their language as well as the best of 'em." mademoiselle honorine herself would not have despaired of her pupil arriving at something approaching to this result, could she have got the better of a certain indistinctness of utterance caused by the loss of several teeth. miss dogherty was a third pupil; a young lady of fifty, with very youthful manners, and a slight figure. she had labored long to acquire the true "porris twang," as she termed it; but, finding her efforts unavailing, she had resolved during her winter in touraine, to devote herself to the language, drawing it pure from the source; and agreed to sacrifice ten francs per month, in order, by daily hours of devotion, to reach the goal. an inveterate tipperary accent interfered slightly with her views, but she hit on an ingenious expedient for concealing the defect; this was, never to open her mouth to more than half its size in speaking; and always to utter her english in a broken manner, which might convey to the stranger the idea of her being a foreigner. she had her cards printed as mademoiselle durté, which made the illusion complete. but these pupils were not to be entirely relied on for producing an income--mademoiselle honorine could scarcely reckon on the advantages they presented for a continuance, sanguine as she was. in fact, she may be said to have, as a certainty, only one permanent pupil, whom she looks upon as her chief stay, and her gratitude for this source of emolument is such, that she is always ready to evince her sense of its importance by adopting the character of nursemaid, classical teacher--although her knowledge of the dead languages is not extensive--or general governess, approaching the maternal character the nearer from the compassion she feels for the pretty little orphan english boy, who lives under the care of an infirm old grandmother. with this little gentleman, whose domicile is situated about two miles from her own, at the top of a steep hill, she walks, and talks, and laughs, and teaches, and enjoys herself so much, that she considers it but right to reward him for the pleasure he gives her by expending a few sous every day in sweetmeats for his delectation; this sum making a considerable gap in the monthly salary his grandmother is able to afford. however, her disinterestedness is not thrown away here, and i learn with singular satisfaction that mademoiselle honorine having been detected in the act of devouring her dry crust, by way of breakfast, and her pupil having won from her the confession that she never had any other, a cup of hot chocolate was always afterward prepared and offered to her by the little student as soon as she entered his study. when i had an opportunity of judging--a fact which more than once occurred to me--of the capabilities of mademoiselle honorine's appetite, i was gratified, though surprised, to find that nothing came amiss to her; that she could enjoy any thing in the shape of fish, flesh, or fowl, and drank a good glass of bordeaux, or even champagne, with singular glee. it happened, not long since, that the friend who had revealed to me the secret of her manner of life, was suddenly called upon to pay a sum of money on some railway shares she possessed; and, being unprepared, was lamenting in the presence of mademoiselle honorine, the inconvenience she was put to. the next day, the lively little dame appeared with a canvas bag in her hand, containing no less a sum than five hundred francs. "here," she said, smiling, "is the exact sum you want. it is most lucky i should happen to have as much. i have been collecting it for years; for, you know, in case of sickness, one likes to avoid being a burden to one's friends. it is at your service for as long a time as you like, and you will relieve me from anxiety in taking it into your hands." it was impossible to refuse the offer; and the good little woman was thus enabled to repay the many kindnesses she had received, and to add greatly to her own dignity; of which she is very tenacious. "ah!" said a parisian lady to her one day, after hearing of her thousand occupations and privations, "how do you contrive to live; and what can you care about life? i should have had recourse to charcoal long ago, if i had been in your situation. yet you are always laughing and gay, as if you dined on foie-gras and truffles every day of your existence!" "so i do," replied the little heroine--"at least on what is quite as good--for i have all i want, all i care about, never owing a sous, and being a charge to no one. besides, i have a secret happiness which nothing can take away; and, when i go into the church of a morning to mass, i thank god with all my heart for all the blessings he gives me, and, above all, for the extreme content which makes all the world seem a paradise of enjoyment. i never know what it is to be dull, and as for charcoal, i have no objection to it in a foot-warmer, but that is all the acquaintance i am likely to make with it." "poor soul!" returned the parisienne, "how i pity you!" bleak house.[d] by charles dickens. [footnote d: continued from the june number.] chapter xi.--our dear brother. a touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he stands in the dark room, irresolute, makes him start and say, "what's that?" "it's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his ear. "can't you wake him?" "no." "what have you done with your candle?" "it's gone out. here it is." krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and tries to get a light. the dying ashes have no light to spare, and his endeavors are vain. muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger, that he will go down stairs, and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs. mr. tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside. the welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as krook comes slowly up, with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "does the man generally sleep like this?" inquires the lawyer, in a low voice. "hi! i don't know," says krook, shaking his head, and lifting his eyebrows. "i know next to nothing of his habits, except that he keeps himself very close." thus whispering, they both go in together. as the light goes in, the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. not so the eyes upon the bed. "god save us!" exclaims mr. tulkinghorn. "he is dead!" krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so suddenly that the arm swings over the bedside. they look at one another for a moment. "send for some doctor! call for miss flite up the stairs, sir. here's poison by the bed! call out for flite, will you?" says krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings. mr. tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls, "miss flite! flite! make haste, here, whoever you are! flite!" krook follows him with his eyes, and, while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old portmanteau, and steal back again. "run, flite, run! the nearest doctor! run!" so mr. krook addresses a crazy little woman, who is his female lodger: who appears and vanishes in a breath: who soon returns, accompanied by a testy medical man, brought from his dinner--with a broad snuffy upper lip, and a broad scotch tongue. "ey! bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at them, after a moment's examination. "he's just as dead as phairy!" mr. tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has been dead any time. "any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "it's probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours." "about that time, i should say," observes a dark young man, on the other side of the bed. "air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the first. the dark young man says yes. "then i'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other; "for i'm nae gude here!" with which remark, he finishes his brief attendance, and returns to finish his dinner. the dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face, and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretensions to his name by becoming indeed no one. "i knew this person by sight, very well," says he. "he has purchased opium of me, for the last year and a half. was any body present related to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders. "i was his landlord," grimly answers krook, taking the candle from the surgeon's outstretched hand. "he told me once, i was the nearest relation he had." "he has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. the room is strongly flavored with it. there is enough here now," taking an old teapot from mr. krook, "to kill a dozen people." "do you think he did it on purpose?" asks krook. "took the over-dose?" "yes!" krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest. "i can't say. i should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. but nobody can tell. he was very poor, i suppose?" "i suppose he was. his room--don't look rich," says krook; who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around. "but i have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstances to me." "did he owe you any rent?" "six weeks." "he will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination. "it is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, i should think it a happy release. yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and i dare say good-looking." he says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge, with his face toward that other face, and his hand upon the region of the heart. "i recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. was that so?" he continues, looking round. krook replies, "you might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair i have got in sacks down stairs. than that he was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived--or didn't live--by law-writing, i know no more of him." during this dialogue, mr. tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's awe. his imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. one could not even say he has been thinking all this while. he has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. he has shown nothing but his shell. as easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of mr. tulkinghorn from _his_ case. he now interposes; addressing the young surgeon, in his unmoved, professional way. "i looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom i never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. i had heard of him from my stationer--snagsby of cook's court. since no one here knows any thing about him, it might be as well to send for snagsby. ah!" to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law stationer. "suppose you do!" while she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. mr. krook and he interchange a word or two. mr. tulkinghorn says nothing; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau. mr. snagsby arrives hastily, in his gray coat and his black sleeves. "dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! bless my soul!" "can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, snagsby?" inquires mr. tulkinghorn. "he was in arrears with his rent, it seems. and he must be buried, you know." "well, sir," says mr. snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand; "i really don't know what advice i could offer, except sending for the beadle." "i don't speak of advice," returns mr. tulkinghorn. "_i_ could advise--" ("no one better, sir, i am sure," says mr. snagsby, with his deferential cough.) "i speak of affording some clew to his connections, or to where he came from, or to any thing concerning him." "i assure you, sir," says mr. snagsby, after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, "that i no more know where he came from, than i know--" "where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to help him out. a pause. mr. tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. mr. krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next. "as to his connections, sir," says mr. snagsby, "if a person was to say to me, 'snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the bank of england, if you'll only name one of 'em, i couldn't do it, sir! about a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop--" "that was the time!" says krook, with a nod. "about a year and a half ago," says mr. snagsby, strengthened, "he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding my little woman (which i name mrs. snagsby when i use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting, and gave her to understand that he was in wants of copying work to do, and was--not to put too fine a point upon it--" a favorite apology for plain-speaking with mr. snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, "hard up! my little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they want any thing. but she was rather took by something about this person; whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, i leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. my little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds mr. snagsby, after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she considered nemo equally the same as nimrod. in consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'mr. snagsby, you haven't found nimrod any work yet!' or 'mr. snagsby, why didn't you give that eight-and-thirty chancery folio in jarndyce, to nimrod?' or such like. and that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most i know of him, except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work; and that if you gave him out, say five-and-forty folio on the wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the thursday morning. all of which--" mr. snagsby concludes by politely motioning with his hat toward the bed, as much as to add, "i have no doubt my honorable friend would confirm, if he were in a condition to do it." "hadn't you better see," says mr. tulkinghorn to krook, "whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? there will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question. you can read?" "no, i can't," returns the old man, with a sudden grin. "snagsby," says mr. tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. he will get into some trouble or difficulty, otherwise. being here, i'll wait, if you make haste; and then i can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. if you will hold the candle for mr. snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is any thing to help you." "in the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says snagsby. ah, to be sure, so there is! mr. tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else, heaven knows. the marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer conducts the search. the surgeon leans against a corner of the chimney-piece; miss flite peeps and trembles just within the door. the apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neck-kerchief tied in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude. there are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets on the road of poverty, there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off. there are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. they search the cupboard, and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. there is not a morsel of an old letter, or of any other writing, in either. the young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer. a knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds. mr. snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in. so the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out of the room. "don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon: "that won't do!" mr. krook therefore drives her out before him; and she goes furtively down stairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips. "good-night!" says mr. tulkinghorn; and goes home to allegory and meditation. by this time the news has got into the court. groups of its inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing; and the outposts of the army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to mr. krook's window, which they closely invest. a policeman has already walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back. mrs. perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms with mrs. piper, in consequence of an unpleasantness originating in young perkins having "fetched" young piper "a crack," renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. the pot-boy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life, and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential communications with the policeman, and has the appearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses. people talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from chancery lane to know what's the matter. the general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing mr. krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment that he was not. in the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives. the beadle, though generally understood in the neighborhood to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. the policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the barbarous watchmen-times; but gives him admission, as something that must be borne with until government shall abolish him. the sensation is heightened, as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the beadle is on the ground, and has gone in. by-and-by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation, which has rather languished in the interval. he is understood to be in want of witnesses, for the inquest to-morrow, who can tell the coroner and jury any thing whatever respecting the deceased. is immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever. is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that mrs. green's son "was a law-writer his-self, and knowed him better than any body"--which son of mrs. green's appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for china, three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph, on application to the lords of the admiralty. beadle goes into various shops and parlors, examining the inhabitants; always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy, exasperating the public. policeman seen to smile to potboy. public loses interest, and undergoes re-action. taunts the beadle, in shrill, youthful voices, with having boiled a boy; choruses fragments of a popular song to that effect, and importing that the boy was made into soup for the workhouse. policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law, and seize a vocalist; who is released upon the flight of the rest, on condition of his getting out of this then, come! and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. so the sensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread: beating the palms of his white gloves one against the other, and stopping now and then at a street-corner, to look casually about for any thing between a lost child and a murder. under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting about chancery lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name is wrongly spelt, and nothing is rightly spelt, but the beadle's own name which nobody can read or wants to know. his summonses served, and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to mr. krook's, to keep a small appointment he has made with certain paupers; who, presently arriving, are conducted up-stairs; where they leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for no one--and for every one. and, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through five-and-forty years, lies there, with no more track behind him, that any one can trace, than a deserted infant. next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as mrs. perkins, more than reconciled to mrs piper, says, in amicable conversation with that excellent woman. the coroner is to sit in the first-floor room at the sol's arms, where the harmonic meetings take place twice a week, and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional celebrity, faced by little swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round him and support first-rate talent. the sol's arms does a brisk stroke of business all the morning. even children so require sustaining, under the general excitement, that a pieman, who has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court, says his brandy-balls go off like smoke. what time the beadle, hovering between the door of mr. krook's establishment and the door of the sol's arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits, and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return. at the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are waiting, and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good dry skittle-ground attached to the sol's arms. the coroner frequents more public-houses than any man alive. the smell of sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits, is inseparable in his vocation from death in its most awful shapes. he is conducted by the beadle and the landlord to the harmonic meeting room, where he puts his hat on the piano, and takes a windsor-chair at the head of a long table, formed of several short tables put together, and ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. as many of the jury as can crowd together at the table sit there. the rest get among the spittoons and pipes, or lean against the piano. over the coroner's head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be hanged presently. call over and swear the jury! while the ceremony is in progress, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye, and an inflamed nose, who modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public, but seems familiar with the room too. a whisper circulates that this is little swills. it is considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation of the coroner, and make it the principal feature of the harmonic meeting in the evening. "well, gentlemen--" the coroner begins. "silence there, will you!" says the beadle. not to the coroner, though it might appear so. "well, gentlemen!" resumes the coroner. "you are impaneled here, to inquire into the death of a certain man. evidence will be given before you, as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped, you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to any thing else. the first thing to be done, is to view the body." "make way there!" cries the beadle. so they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in mr. krook's back second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and precipitately. the beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has provided a special little table near the coroner, in the harmonic meeting room), should see all that is to be seen. for they are the public chroniclers of such inquiries, by the line; and he is not superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print what "mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district," said and did; and even aspires to see the name of mooney is familiarly and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according to the latest examples. little swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return. mr. tulkinghorn, also. mr. tulkinghorn is received with distinction, and seated near the coroner; between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle board, and the coal-box. the inquiry proceeds. the jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him. "a very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the coroner, "who, i am informed, was accidentally present, when discovery of the death was made; but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer; and it is not necessary to trouble him. is any body in attendance who knows any thing more?" mrs. piper pushed forward by mrs. perkins. mrs. piper sworn. anastasia piper, gentlemen. married woman. now, mrs. piper--what have you got to say about this? why, mrs. piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parenthesis and without punctuation, but not much to tell. mrs. piper lives in the court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker) and it has long been well beknown among the neighbors (counting from the day next but one before the half-baptizing of alexander james piper aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the plaintive--so mrs. piper insists on calling the deceased--was reported to have sold himself. thinks it was the plaintive's air in which that report originatinin. see the plaintive often, and considered as his air was feariocious, and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping mrs. perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family). has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you can not expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be methoozellers which you was not yourself). on accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-ax from his pocket and split johnny's head (which the child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his heels). never however see the plaintive take a pick-ax or any other wepping far from it. has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been seen a speaking to him frequent). says the coroner, is that boy here? says the beadle, no, sir, he is not here. says the coroner, go and fetch him, then. in the absence of the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with mr. tulkinghorn. o! here's the boy, gentlemen! here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. now, boy!--but stop a minute. caution. this boy must be put through a few preliminary paces. name, jo. nothing else that he knows on. don't know that every body has two names. never heerd of sich a thing. don't know that jo is short for a longer name. thinks it long enough for _him_. _he_ don't find no fault with it. spell it? no. _he_ can't spell it. no father, no mother, no friends. never been to school. what's home? knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. don't recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth. "this won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner, with a melancholy shake of the head. "don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an attentive juryman. "out of the question," says the coroner. "you have heard the boy. 'can't exactly say' won't do, you know. we can't take _that_, in a court of justice, gentlemen. it's terrible depravity. put the boy aside." boy put aside; to the great edification of the audience;--especially of little swills, the comic vocalist. now. is there any other witness? no other witness. very well, gentlemen! here's a man unknown, proved to have been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half, found dead of too much opium. if you think you have any evidence to lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion. if you think it is a case of accidental death, you will find a verdict accordingly. verdict accordingly. accidental death. no doubt. gentlemen, you are discharged. good afternoon. while the coroner buttons his great coat, mr. tulkinghorn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner. that graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets. that one cold winter night, when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "neither have i. not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. that the man had often spoken to him since; and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die; and similar strange questions. that when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "i am as poor as you to-day, jo;" but that when he had any he had always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some. "he wos wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve. "wen i see him a layin' so stritched out just now, i wished he could have heerd me tell him so. he wos wery good to me, he wos!" as he shuffles down stairs, mr. snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a half-crown in his hand. "if ever you see me coming past your crossing with my little woman--i mean a lady--" says mr. snagsby, with his finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!" for some little time the jurymen hang about the sol's arms colloquially. in the sequel, half a dozen are caught up in a cloud of pipe-smoke that pervades the parlor of the sol's arms; two stroll to hampstead: and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and top up with oysters. little swills is treated on several hands. being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy start." the landlord of the sol's arms, rinding little swills so popular, commends him highly to the jurymen and public; observing that, for a song in character, he don't know his equal, and that that man's character-wardrobe would fill a cart. thus, gradually the sol's arms melts into the shadowy night, and then flares out of it strong in gas. the harmonic meeting hour arriving, the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair; is faced (red-faced) by little swills; their friends rally round them, and support first-rate talent. in the zenith of the evening, little swills says, gentlemen, if you'll permit me, i'll attempt a short description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day. is much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as swills; comes in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes the inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment to the refrain--with his (the coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol lo doll, tippy tol li doll, dee! the jingling piano at last is silent, and the harmonic friends rally round their pillows. then there is rest around the lonely figure, now laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. if this forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here, by the mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would have seemed! o, if, in brighter days, the now-extinguished fire within him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is she, while these ashes are above the ground! it is any thing but a night of rest at mr. snagsby's, in cook's court; where guster murders sleep, by going, as mr. snagsby himself allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into twenty. the occasion of this seizure is, that guster has a tender heart, and a susceptible something that possibly might have been imagination, but for tooting and her patron saint. be it what it may, now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by mr. snagsby's account of the inquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper-time she projected herself into the kitchen preceded by a flying dutch-cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration: which she only came out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to mrs. snagsby not to give her warning "when she quite comes to;" and also in appeals to the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones, and go to bed. hence, mr. snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in cursitor-street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most patient of men, "i thought you was dead, i am sure!" what question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what can not be of any moment to him, is his affair. it is enough that daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes. then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers as such, comes with his pauper company to mr. krook's and bears off the body of our dear brother here departed, to a hemmed-in church-yard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed; while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official backstairs--would to heaven they _had_ departed!--are very complacent and agreeable. into a beastly scrap of ground which a turk would reject as a savage abomination, and a caffre would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here departed, to receive christian burial. with houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life--here, they lower our dear brother down a foot or two: here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption; an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside; a shameful testimony to future ages, how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island together. come night, come darkness, for you can not come too soon, or stay too long, by such a place as this! come, straggling lights into the windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at least with this dread scene shut out! come, flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its witch-ointment slimy to the touch! it is well that you should call to every passer-by, "look here!" with the night, comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court, to the outside of the iron gate. it holds the gate with its hands, and looks in between the bars; stands looking in, for a little while. it then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean. it does so, very busily and trimly; looks in again, a little while; and so departs. jo, is it thou? well, well! though a rejected witness, who "can't exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. there is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "he wos wery good to me, he wos!" chapter xii.--on the watch. it has left off raining down in lincolnshire, at last, and chesney wold has taken heart. mrs. rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for sir leicester and my lady are coming home from paris. the fashionable intelligence has found it out, and communicates the glad tidings to benighted england. it has also found out, that they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the _élite_ of the _beau monde_ (the fashionable intelligence is weak in english, but a giant-refreshed in french), at the ancient and hospitable family seat in lincolnshire. for the greater honor of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of chesney wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect from the house. the clear cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods, and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. it glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. it looks in at the windows, and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness, never contemplated by the painters. athwart the picture of my lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth, and seems to rend it. through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my lady and sir leicester, in their traveling chariot (my lady's woman, and sir leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. with a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses, and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the hôtel bristol in the place vendôme, and canter between the sun-and-shadow-checkered colonnade of the rue de rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the place of concord, and the elysian fields, and the gate of the star, out of paris. sooth to say, they can not go away too fast, for, even here, my lady dedlock has been bored to death. concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my lady, under the worn-out heavens. only last sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls, playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the palace garden; walking, a score abreast, in in the elysian fields, made more elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy cathedral of our lady, to say a word or two at the base of a pillar, within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers--without the walls encompassing paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last sunday, my lady in the desolation of boredom and the clutch of giant despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits. she can not, therefore, go too fast from paris. weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind--her ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it can not be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy is always to fly, from the last place where it has been experienced. fling paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! and, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the gate of the star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain: two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in jacob's dream! sir leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored. when he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. it is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. after reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage, and generally reviews his importance to society. "you have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my lady, after a long time. she is fatigued with reading. has almost read a page in twenty miles. "nothing in it, though. nothing whatever." "i saw one of mr. tulkinghorn's long effusions, i think?" "you see every thing," says sir leicester, with admiration. "ha!" sighs my lady. "he is the most tiresome of men!" "he sends--i really beg your pardon--he sends," says sir leicester, selecting the letter, and unfolding it, "a message to you. our stopping to change horses, as i came to his postscript, drove it out of my memory. i beg you'll excuse me. he says--" sir leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it, that my lady looks a little irritated. "he says 'in the matter of the right of way--' i beg your pardon, that's not the place. he says--yes! here i have it! he says, 'i beg my respectful compliments to my lady, who, i hope, has benefited by the change. will you do me the favor to mention (as it may interest her), that i have something to tell her on her return, in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. i have seen him.'" my lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window. "that's the message," observes sir leicester. "i should like to walk a little," says my lady, still looking out of her window. "walk?" repeats sir leicester, in a tone of surprise. "i should like to walk a little," says my lady, with unmistakable distinctness. "please to stop the carriage." the carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an impatient motion of my lady's hand. my lady alights so quickly, and walks away so quickly, that sir leicester, for all his scrupulous politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. a space of a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. she smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage. the rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. their courtly politeness to each other, at the hotels where they tarry, is the theme of general admiration. though my lord is a little aged for my lady, says madame, the hostess of the golden ape, and though he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each other. one observes my lord with his white hair, standing, hat in hand, to help my lady to and from the carriage. one observes my lady, how recognizant of my lord's politeness, with an inclination of her gracious head, and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! it is ravishing! the sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like the small fry. it is habitually hard upon sir leicester, whose countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese, and in whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. it is the radical of nature to him. nevertheless, his dignity gets over it, after stopping to refit; and he goes on with my lady for chesney wold, lying only one night in london on the way to lincolnshire. through the same cold sunlight--colder as the day declines--and through the same sharp wind--sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the ghost's walk, touched at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night--they drive into the park. the rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath; some agreeing that sir leicester and my lady are come down; some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it; now, all consenting to consider the question disposed of; now, all breaking out again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird, who will persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. leaving them to swing and caw, the traveling chariot rolls on to the house; where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. but the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that. mrs. rouncewell is in attendance, and receives sir leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound courtesy. "how do you do, mrs. rouncewell? i am glad to see you." "i hope i have the honor of welcoming you in good health, sir leicester?" "in excellent health, mrs. rouncewell." "my lady is looking charmingly well," says mrs. rouncewell, with another courtesy. my lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. but rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she may have conquered, asks: "who is that girl?" "a young scholar of mine, my lady. rosa." "come here, rosa!" lady dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance of interest. "why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers. rosa, very much abashed, says "no, if you please, my lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks all the prettier. "how old are you?" "nineteen, my lady." "nineteen," repeats my lady, thoughtfully. "take care they don't spoil you by flattery." "yes, my lady." my lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers, and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where sir leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort. a staring old dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it--which was probably his general state of mind in the days of queen elizabeth. that evening, in the housekeeper's room, rosa can do nothing but murmur lady dedlock's praises. she is so affable, so graceful, so beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice, and such a thrilling touch, that rosa can feel it yet! mrs. rouncewell confirms all this, not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of affability. mrs. rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent family; above all, of my lady, whom the whole world admires; but if my lady would only be "a little more free," not quite so cold and distant, mrs. rouncewell thinks she would be more affable. "'tis almost a pity," mrs. rouncewell adds--only "almost," because it borders on impiety to suppose that any thing could be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the dedlock affairs; "that my lady has no family. if she had had a daughter now, a grown young lady, to interest her, i think she would have had the only kind of excellence she wants." "might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says watt; who has been home and come back again, he is such a good grandson. "more and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "are words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to any drawback on my lady." "i beg your pardon, grandmother. but she is proud, is she not?" "if she is, she has reason to be. the dedlock family have always reason to be." "well," says watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and vain-glory. forgive me, grandmother! only a joke!" "sir leicester and lady dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for joking." "sir leicester is no joke, by any means," says watt; "and i humbly ask his pardon. i suppose, grandmother, that, even with the family and their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my stay at the dedlock arms for a day or two, as any other traveler might?" "surely, none in the world, child." "i am glad of that," says watt, "because i--because i have an inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighborhood." he happens to glance at rosa, who looks down, and is very shy, indeed. but, according to the old superstition, it should be rosa's ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks; for my lady's maid is holding forth about her at this moment, with surpassing energy. my lady's maid is a frenchwoman of two-and-thirty, from somewhere in the southern country about avignon and marseilles--a large-eyed, brown woman with black hair; who would be handsome, but for a certain feline mouth, and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager, and the skull too prominent. there is something indefinably keen and wan about her anatomy; and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head, which could be pleasantly dispensed with--especially when she is in an ill-humor and near knives. through all the good taste of her dress and little adornments, these objections so express themselves, that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. besides being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is almost an englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language--consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon rosa for having attracted my lady's attention; and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner, that her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance. ha, ha, ha! she, hortense, been in my lady's service since five years, and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed--absolutely caressed--by my lady on the moment of her arriving at the house! ha! ha! ha! "and do you know how pretty you are, child?"--"no, my lady."--you are right there! "and how old are you, child? and take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!" o how droll! it is the _best_ thing altogether. in short, it is such an admirable thing, that mademoiselle hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterward, even among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment expressed in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look: which intense appreciation of humor is frequently reflected in my lady's mirrors, when my lady is not among them. all the mirrors in the house are brought into action now: many of them after a long blank. they reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore-and-ten that will not submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a january week or two at chesney wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the court of st. james's to their being run down to death. the place in lincolnshire is all alive. by day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park-roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the village and the dedlock arms. seen by night, from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. on sunday, the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavor of the dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes. the brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it, no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honor, beauty, and virtue. yet there is something a little wrong about it, in despite of its immense advantages. what can it be? dandyism? there is no king george the fourth now (more's the pity!) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. there are no caricatures, now, of effeminite exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight, and being revived by other dainty creatures, poking long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. there is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. but is there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-toweling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no rational person need particularly object! why, yes. it can not be disguised. there _are_ at chesney wold this january week, some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. who, in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion, have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general; meaning, in the things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling, after finding it out! who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful, by putting back the hands upon the clock of time, and canceling a few hundred years of history. there are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world, and to keep down all its relations. for whom every thing must be languid and pretty. who have found out the perpetual stoppage. who are to rejoice at nothing, and be sorry for nothing. who are not to be disturbed by ideas. on whom even the fine arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the lord chamberlain, must array themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations, and be particularly careful not to be in earnest, or to receive any impress from the moving age. then there is my lord boodle, of considerable reputation with his party, who has known what office is, and who tells sir leicester dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present age is tending. a debate is not what a debate used to be; the house is not what the house used to be; even a cabinet is not what it formerly was. he perceives with astonishment, that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited choice of the crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie between lord coddle and sir thomas doodle--supposing it to be impossible for the duke of foodle to act with goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with hoodle. then, giving the home department and the leadership of the house of commons to joodle, the exchequer to koodle, the colonies to loodle, and the foreign office to moodle, what are you to do with noodle? you can't offer him the presidency of the council; that is reserved for poodle. you can't put him in the woods and forests; that is hardly good enough for quoodle. what follows? that the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to the patriotism of sir leicester dedlock), because you can't provide for noodle! on the other hand, the right honorable william buffy, m.p., contends across the table with some one else, that the shipwreck of the country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it that is in question--is attributable to cuffy. if you had done with cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into parliament, and had prevented him from going over to duffy, you would have got him into an alliance with fuffy, you would have had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of huffy, you would have got in for three counties juffy, kuffy, and luffy; and you would have strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of muffy. all this, instead of being, as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of puffy! as to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but boodle and his retinue, and buffy and _his_ retinue. these are the great actors for whom the stage is reserved. a people there are, no doubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but boodle and buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever. in this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at chesney wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the long run. for it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. with this difference; that, being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in. chesney wold is quite full, any how; so full, that a burning sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies' maids, and is not to be extinguished. only one room is empty. it is a turret chamber of the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished, and having an old-fashioned business air. it is mr. tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed on any body else, for he may come at any time. he is not come yet. it is his quiet habit to walk across the park from the village, in fine weather; to drop into this room, as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there; to request a servant to inform sir leicester that he is arrived, in case he should be wanted; and to appear ten minutes before dinner, in the shadow of the library door. he sleeps in his turret, with a complaining flag-staff over his head; and has some leads outside, on which, any fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook. every day before dinner, my lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. every day at dinner, my lady glances down the table for the vacant place, that would be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived; but there is no vacant place. every night, my lady casually asks her maid: "is mr. tulkinghorn come?" every night the answer is: "no my lady, not yet." one night, while having her hair undressed, my lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply, until she sees her own brooding face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her. "be so good as to attend," says my lady then, addressing the reflection of hortense, "to your business. you can contemplate your beauty at another time." "pardon! it was your ladyship's beauty." "that," says my lady, "you needn't contemplate at all." at length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figures, which have for the last hour or two enlivened the ghost's walk, are all dispersed, and only sir leicester and my lady remain upon the terrace, mr. tulkinghorn appears. he comes toward them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. he wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body, and every crease of his dress. whether his whole soul is devoted to the great, or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells, is his personal secret. he keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. "how do you do, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. mr. tulkinghorn is quite well. sir leicester is quite well. my lady is quite well. all highly satisfactory. the lawyer, with his hands behind him, walks, at sir leicester's side, along the terrace. my lady walks upon the other side. "we expected you before," says sir leicester. a gracious observation. as much as to say, "mr. tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. we bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!" mr. tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head, and says he is much obliged. "i should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that i have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself and boythorn." "a man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes sir leicester, with severity. "an extremely dangerous person in any community. a man of a very low character of mind." "he is obstinate," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is natural to such a man to be so," says sir leicester, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. "i am not at all surprised to hear it." "the only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up anything." "no, sir," replies sir leicester. "nothing. _i_ give up?" "i don't mean any thing of importance; that, of course, i know you would not abandon. i mean any minor point." "mr. tulkinghorn," returns sir leicester, "there can be no minor point between myself and mr. boythorn. if i go farther, and observe that i can not readily conceive how _any_ right of mine can be a minor point, i speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual, as in reference to the family position i have it in charge to maintain." mr. tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "i have now my instructions," he says. "mr. boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble--" "it is the character of such a mind, mr. tulkinghorn," sir leicester interrupts him, "_to_ give trouble. an exceedingly ill-conditioned, leveling person. a person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the old bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely punished--if not," adds sir leicester, after a moment's pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered." sir leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden, in passing this capital sentence; as if it were the next satisfactory thing to having the sentence executed. "but night is coming on," says he, "and my lady will take cold. my dear, let us go in." as they turned toward the hall-door, lady dedlock addresses mr. tulkinghorn for the first time. "you sent me a message respecting the person whose writing i happened to inquire about. it was like you to remember the circumstance; i had quite forgotten it. your message reminded me of it again. i can't imagine what association i had with a hand like that; but i surely had some." "you had some?" mr. tulkinghorn repeats. "oh, yes!" returns my lady, carelessly. "i think i must have had some. and did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?" "yes." "how very odd!" they pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground-floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. it is now twilight. the fire glows brightly on the paneled wall, and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind, and a gray mist creeps along: the only traveler besides the waste of clouds. my lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and sir leicester takes another great chair opposite. the lawyer stands before the fire, with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. he looks across his arm at my lady. "yes," he says, "i inquired about the man, and found him. and, what is very strange, i found him--" "not to be any out-of-the-way person, i am afraid!" lady dedlock languidly anticipates. "i found him dead." "oh, dear me!" remonstrated sir leicester. not so much shocked by the fact, as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. "i was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken place--and i found him dead." "you will excuse me, mr. tulkinghorn," observes sir leicester. "i think the less said--" "pray, sir leicester, let me hear the story out;" (it is my lady speaking.) "it is quite a story for twilight. how very shocking! dead?" mr. tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. "whether by his own hand--" "upon my honor!" cries sir leicester. "really!" "do let me hear the story!" says my lady. "whatever you desire, my dear. but, i must say--" "no, you mustn't say! go on, mr. tulkinghorn." sir leicester's gallantry concedes the point; though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really--really-- "i was about to say," resumes the lawyer, with undisturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. i should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act; though whether by his own deliberate intention, or by mischance, can never certainly be known. the coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally." "and what kind of man," my lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?" "very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "he had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, with his gipsy color, and his wild black hair and beard, that i should have considered him the commonest of the common. the surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition." "what did they call the wretched being?" "they called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name." "not even any one who had attended on him?" "no one had attended on him. he was found dead. in fact, i found him." "without any clew to any thing more?" "without any; there was," says the lawyer, meditatively, "an old portmanteau; but--no, there were no papers." during the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, lady dedlock and mr. tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. sir leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the dedlock on the staircase. the story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying, that as it is quite clear that no association in my lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my lady's station. "certainly, a collection of horrors," says my lady, gathering up her mantles and furs; "but they interest one for the moment! have the kindness, mr. tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." mr. tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds it open while she passes out. she passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner, and insolent grace. they meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. lady dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshipers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. mr. tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences: so oddly out of place, and yet so perfectly at home. they appear to take as little note of one another, as any two people, inclosed within the same walls, could. but, whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts. chapter xiii.--esther's narrative. we held many consultations about what richard was to be; first, without mr. jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterward with him; but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. richard said he was ready for any thing. when mr. jarndyce doubted whether he might not already be too old to enter the navy, richard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. when mr. jarndyce asked him what he thought of the army, richard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. when mr. jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself, whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish inclination, or a strong impulse, richard answered, well, he really _had_ tried very often, and he couldn't make out. "how much of this indecision of character," mr. jarndyce said to me, "is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, i don't pretend to say; but that chancery, among its other sins, is responsible for some of it, i can plainly see. it has engendered or confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that, and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing every thing as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. the character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. it would be too much to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences, and escape them." i felt this to be true; though, if i may venture to mention what i thought besides, i thought it much to be regretted that richard's education had not counteracted those influences, or directed his character. he had been eight years at a public school, and had learnt, i understood, to make latin verses of several sorts, in the most admirable manner. but i never heard that it had been any body's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to _him_. _he_ had been adapted to the verses, and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was of age, i suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again, unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. still, although i had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, i did doubt whether richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying them quite so much. to be sure, i knew nothing of the subject, and do not even now know whether the young gentlemen of classic rome or greece made verses to the same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever did. "i haven't the least idea," said richard, musing, "what i had better be. except that i am quite sure i don't want to go into the church, it's a toss-up." "you have no inclination in mr. kenge's way?" suggested mr. jarndyce. "i don't know that, sir!" replied richard. "i am fond of boating. articled clerks go a good deal on the water. it's a capital profession!" "surgeon--" suggested mr. jarndyce. "that's the thing, sir!" cried richard. i doubt if he had ever once thought of it before. "that's the thing, sir!" repeated richard, with the greatest enthusiasm. "we have got it at last. m.r.c.s.!" he was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily. he said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was the art of all others for him. mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion, because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for, and having never been guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest idea, and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, i wondered whether the latin verses often ended in this, or whether richard's was a solitary case. mr. jarndyce took great pains to talk with him, seriously, and to put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter. richard was a little grave after these interviews; but invariably told ada and me "that it was all right," and then began to talk about something else. "by heaven!" cried mr. boythorn, who interested himself strongly in the subject--though i need not say that, for he could do nothing weakly; "i rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry devoting himself to that noble profession! the more spirit there is in it, the better for mankind, and the worse for those mercenary taskmasters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. by all that is base and despicable," cried mr. boythorn, "the treatment of surgeons aboard ship is such, that i would submit the legs--both legs--of every member of the admiralty board to a compound fracture, and render it a transportable offense in any qualified practitioner to set them, if the system were not wholly changed in eight-and-forty hours!" "wouldn't you give them a week?" asked mr. jarndyce. "no!" cried mr. boythorn, firmly. "not on any consideration! eight-and-forty hours! as to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods, who assemble to exchange such speeches that, by heaven! they ought to be worked in quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it were only to prevent their detestable english from contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the sun--as to those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardor of gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive education, with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, i would have the necks of every one of them wrung, and their skulls arranged in surgeons' hall for the contemplation of the whole profession--in order that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in early life, _how_ thick skulls may become!" he wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a most agreeable smile, and suddenly thundering, ha, ha, ha! over and over again, until any body else might have been expected to be quite subdued by the exertion. as richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice, after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by mr. jarndyce, and had expired; and as he still continued to assure ada and me, in the same final manner that it was "all right;" it became advisable to take mr. kenge into council. mr. kenge therefore, came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did exactly what i remembered to have seen him do when i was a little girl. "ah!" said mr. kenge. "yes. well? a very good profession, mr. jarndyce; a very good profession." "the course of study and preparation requires to be diligently pursued," observed my guardian, with a glance at richard. "o, no doubt," said mr. kenge. "diligently." "but that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are worth much," said mr. jarndyce, "it is not a special consideration which another choice would be likely to escape." "truly," said mr. kenge. "and mr. richard carstone, who has so meritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall i say the classic shades?--in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in that tongue in which a poet was said (unless i mistake) to be born, not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he enters." "you may rely upon it," said richard, in his off-hand manner, "that i shall go at it, and do my best." "very well, mr. jarndyce!" said mr. kenge, gently nodding his head. "really, when we are assured by mr. richard that he means to go at it, and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over those expressions; "i would submit to you, that we have only to inquire into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. now, with reference to placing mr. richard with some sufficiently eminent practitioner. is there any one in view at present?" "no one, rick, i think?" said my guardian. "no one, sir," said richard. "quite so!" observed mr. kenge. "as to situation, now. is there any particular feeling on that head?" "n--no," said richard. "quite so!" observed mr. kenge again. "i should like a little variety," said richard; "--i mean a good range of experience." "very requisite, no doubt," returned mr. kenge "i think this may be easily arranged, mr. jarndyce? we have only, in the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and, as soon as we make our want--and, shall i add, our ability to pay a premium?--known, our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number. we have only, in the second place, to observe those little formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and our being under the guardianship of the court. we shall soon be--shall i say, in mr. richard's own light-hearted manner, 'going at it'--to our heart's content. it is a coincidence," said mr. kenge, with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, "one of those coincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that i have a cousin in the medical profession. he might be deemed eligible by you, and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. i can answer for him as little as for you; but he _might_?" as this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that mr. kenge should see his cousin. and as mr. jarndyce had before proposed to take us to london for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we should make our visit at once, and combine richard's business with it. mr. boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a cheerful lodging near oxford-street, over an upholsterer's shop. london was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours at a time, seeing the sights; which appeared to be less capable of exhaustion than we were. we made the round of the principal theatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth seeing. i mention this, because it was at the theatre that i began to be made uncomfortable again, by mr. guppy. i was sitting in front of the box one night with ada; and richard was in the place he liked best, behind ada's chair; when, happening to look down into the pit, i saw mr. guppy, with his hair flattened down upon his head, and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. i felt, all through the performance, that he never looked at the actors, but constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection. it quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, because it was so very embarrassing and so very ridiculous. but, from that time forth, we never went to the play, without my seeing mr. guppy in the pit--always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a general feebleness about him. if he were not there when we went in, and i began to hope he would not come, and yielded myself for a little while to the interest of the scene, i was certain to encounter his languishing eyes when i least expected it, and, from that time, to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening. i really can not express how uneasy this made me. if he would only have brushed up his hair, or turned up his collar, it would have been bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a constraint upon me that i did not like to laugh at the play, or to cry at it, or to move, or to speak. i seemed able to do nothing naturally. as to escaping mr. guppy by going to the back of the box, i could not bear to do that; because i knew richard and ada relied on having me next them, and that they could never have talked together so happily if any body else had been in my place. so there i sat, not knowing where to look--for wherever i looked, i knew mr. guppy's eyes were following me--and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this young man was putting himself, on my account. [illustration: mr. guppy's desolation.] sometimes i thought of telling mr. jarndyce. then i feared that the young man would lose his situation, and that i might ruin him. sometimes, i thought of confiding in richard; but was deterred by the possibility of his fighting mr. guppy, and giving him black eyes. sometimes, i thought, should i frown at him, or shake my head. then i felt i could not do it. sometimes, i considered whether i should write to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a correspondence would be to make the matter worse. i always came to the conclusion, finally, that i could do nothing. mr. guppy's perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly--where i am sure i saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful spikes. after we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. the upholsterer's where we lodged, being at the corner of two streets, and my bedroom window being opposite the post, i was afraid to go near the window when i went up-stairs, lest i should see him (as i did one moonlight night) leaning against the post, and evidently catching cold. if mr. guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the day-time, i really should have had no rest from him. while we were making this round of gayeties in which mr. guppy so extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring us to town was not neglected. mr. kenge's cousin was a mr. bayham badger, who had a good practice at chelsea, and attended a large public institution besides. he was quite willing to receive richard into his house, and to superintend his studies; and as it seemed that those could be pursued advantageously under mr. badger's roof, and as mr. badger liked richard, and as richard said he liked mr. badger "well enough," an agreement was made, the lord chancellor's consent was obtained, and it was all settled. on the day when matters were concluded between richard and mr. badger, we were all under engagement to dine at mr. badger's house. we were to be "merely a family party," mrs. badger's note said; and we found no lady there but mrs. badger herself. she was surrounded in the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little, playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little, reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little. she was a lady of about fifty, i should think, youthfully dressed, and of a very fine complexion. if i add, to the little list of her accomplishments, that she rouged a little, i do not mean that there was any harm in it. mr. bayham badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking gentleman, with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised eyes: some years younger, i should say, than mrs. bayham badger. he admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands. we had barely taken our seats, when he said to mr. jarndyce quite triumphantly. "you would hardly suppose that i am mrs. bayham badger's third!" "indeed?" said mr. jarndyce. "her third!" said mr. badger. "mrs. bayham badger has not the appearance, miss summerson, of a lady who has had two former husbands?" i said "not at all!" "and most remarkable men!" said mr. badger, in a tone of confidence. "captain swosser of the royal navy, who was mrs. badger's first husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. the name of professor dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of european reputation." mrs. badger overheard him, and smiled. "yes, my dear!" mr. badger replied to the smile, "i was observing to mr. jarndyce and miss summerson, that you had had two former husbands--both very distinguished men. and they found it, as people generally do, difficult to believe." "i was barely twenty," said mrs. badger, "when i married captain swosser of the royal navy. i was in the mediterranean with him; i am quite a sailor. on the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, i became the wife of professor dingo." ("of european reputation," added mr. badger in an under tone.) "and when mr. badger and myself were married," pursued mrs. badger, "we were married on the same day of the year. i had become attached to the day." "so that mrs. badger has been married to three husbands--two of them highly distinguished men," said mr. badger, summing up the facts; "and, each time, upon the twenty-first of march at eleven in the forenoon!" we all expressed our admiration. "but for mr. badger's modesty," said mr. jarndyce, "i would take leave to correct him, and say three distinguished men." "thank you, mr. jarndyce! what i always tell him!" observed mrs. badger. "and, my dear," said mr. badger, "what do _i_ always tell you? that without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction as i may have attained (which our friend mr. carstone will have many opportunities of estimating), i am not so weak--no, really," said mr. badger to us generally, "so unreasonable--as to put my reputation on the same footing with such first-rate men as captain swosser and professor dingo. perhaps you may be interested, mr. jarndyce," continued mr. bayham badger, leading the way into the next drawing room, "in this portrait of captain swosser. it was taken on his return home from the african station, where he had suffered from the fever of the country. mrs. badger considers it too yellow. but it's a very fine head. a very fine head!" we all echoed, "a very fine head!" "i feel when i look at it," said mr. badger, "'that's a man i should like to have seen!' it strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that captain swosser pre-eminently was. on the other side, professor dingo. i knew him well--attended him in his last illness--a speaking likeness! over the piano, mrs. bayham badger when mrs. swosser. over the sofa, mrs. bayham badger when mrs. dingo. of mrs. bayham badger _in esse_, i possess the original, and have no copy." dinner was now announced, and we went down stairs. it was a very genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. but the captain and the professor still ran in mr. badger's head, and, as ada and i had the honor of being under his particular care, we had the full benefit of them. "water, miss summerson? allow me! not in that tumbler, pray. bring me the professor's goblet, james!" ada very much admired some artificial flowers, under a glass. "astonishing how they keep!" said mr. badger. "they were presented to mrs. bayham badger when she was in the mediterranean." [illustration: the family portraits at mr. bayham badger's.] he invited mr. jarndyce to take a glass of claret. "not that claret," he said. "excuse me! this is an occasion, and _on_ an occasion i produce some very special claret i happen to have. (james, captain swosser's wine!) mr. jarndyce, this is a wine that was imported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago. you will find it very curious. my dear, i shall be happy to take some of this wine with you. (captain swosser's claret to your mistress, james!) my love, your health!" after dinner when we ladies retired, we took mrs. badger's first and second husband with us. mrs. badger gave us, in the drawing-room a biographical sketch of the life and services of captain swosser before his marriage, and a more minute account of him dating from the time when he fell in love with her, at a ball on board the crippler, given to the officers of that ship when she lay in plymouth harbor. "the dear old crippler!" said mrs. badger, shaking her head. "she was a noble vessel. trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as captain swosser used to say. you must excuse me if i occasionally introduce a nautical expression; i was quite a sailor once. captain swosser loved that craft for my sake. when she was no longer in commission, he frequently said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck where we stood as partners in the dance, to mark the spot where he fell--raked fore and aft (captain swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. it was his naval way of mentioning my eyes." mrs. badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass. "it was a great change from captain swosser to professor dingo," she resumed, with a plaintive smile. "i felt it a good deal at first. such an entire revolution in my mode of life! but custom, combined with science--particularly science--inured me to it. being the professor's sole companion in his botanical excursions, i almost forgot that i had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. it is singular that the professor was the antipodes of captain swosser, and that mr. badger is not in the least like either!" we then passed into a narrative of the deaths of captain swosser and professor dingo, both of whom seemed to have had very bad complaints. in the course of it, mrs. badger signified to us that she had never madly loved but once; and that the object of that wild affection, never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was captain swosser. the professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and mrs. badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great difficulty, "where is laura? let laura give me my toast and water!" when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb. now, i observed that evening, as i had observed for some days past, that ada and richard were more than ever attached to each other's society; which was but natural, seeing that they were going to be separated so soon. i was therefore not very much surprised, when we got home, and ada and i retired up-stairs, to find ada more silent than usual; though i was not quite prepared for her coming into my arms, and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden. "my darling esther!" murmured ada. "i have a great secret to tell you!" a mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt! "what is it, ada?" "o esther, you would never guess!" "shall i try to guess?" said i. "o no! don't! pray, don't!" cried ada, very much startled by the idea of my doing so. "now, i wonder who it can be about?" said i, pretending to consider. "it's about," said ada, in a whisper. "it's about--my cousin richard!" "well, my own!" said i, kissing her bright hair, which was all i could see. "and what about him?" "o, esther, you would never guess!" it was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her face; and to know that she was not crying in sorrow, but in a little glow of joy, and pride, and hope; that i would not help her just yet. "he says--i know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but he says," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, esther." "does he indeed?" said i. "i never heard of such a thing! why, my pet of pets, i could have told you that, weeks and weeks ago!" to see ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, and laugh, was so pleasant! "why, my darling!" said i, "what a goose you must take me for! your cousin richard has been loving you as plainly as he could, for i don't know how long!" "and yet you never said a word about it!" cried ada, kissing me. "no, my love," said i. "i waited to be told." "but now i have told you, you don't think it wrong of me; do you?" returned ada. she might have coaxed me to say no, if i had been the hardest-hearted duenna in the world. not being that yet, i said no, very freely. "and now," said i, "i know the worst of it." "o, that's not quite the worst of it, esther dear!" cried ada, holding me tighter, and laying down her face again upon my breast. "no?" said i. "not even that?" "no, not even that!" said ada, shaking her head. "why, you never mean to say--!" i was beginning in joke. but ada looking up, and smiling through her tears, cried. "yes, i do! you know, you know i do!" and then sobbed out, "with all my heart i do! with all my whole heart, esther!" i told her, laughing, why, i had known that, too, just as well as i had known the other! and we sat before the fire, and i had all the talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of it); and ada was soon quiet and happy. "do you think my cousin john knows, dear dame durden?" she asked. "unless my cousin john is blind, my pet," said i, "i should think my cousin john knows pretty well as much as we know." "we want to speak to him before richard goes," said ada, timidly, "and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. perhaps you wouldn't mind richard's coming in, dame durden?" "o! richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said i. "i am not quite certain," returned ada, with a bashful simplicity that would have won my heart, if she had not won it long before; "but i think he's waiting at the door." there he was, of course. they brought a chair on either side of me, and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love with me, instead of one another; they were so confiding, and so trustful, and so fond of me. they went on in their own wild way for a little while--i never stopped them; i enjoyed it too much myself--and then we gradually fell to considering how young they were, and how there must be a lapse of several years before this early love could come to any thing, and how it could come to happiness only if it were real and lasting, and inspired them with a steady resolution to do their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and perseverance: each always for the other's sake. well! richard said that he would work his fingers to the bone for ada, and ada said that she would work her fingers to the bone for richard, and they called me all sorts of endearing and sensible names, and we sat there, advising and talking, half the night. finally, before we parted, i gave them my promise to speak to their cousin john to-morrow. so, when to-morrow came, i went to my guardian after breakfast, in the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told him that i had it in trust to tell him something. "well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you have accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it." "i hope not, guardian," said i. "i can guarantee that there is no secresy in it. for it only happened yesterday." "ay? and what is it, esther?" "guardian," said i, "you remember the happy night when we first came down to bleak house? when ada was singing in the dark room?" i wished to recall to his remembrance the look he had given me then. unless i am much mistaken, i saw that i did so. "because," said i, with a little hesitation. "yes, my dear!" said he. "don't hurry." "because," said i, "ada and richard have fallen in love. and have told each other so." "already?" cried my guardian, quite astonished. "yes!" said i, "and to tell you the truth, guardian, i rather expected it." "the deuce you did!" said he. he sat considering for a minute or two; with his smile, at once so handsome and so kind, upon his changing face; and then requested me to let them know that he wished to see them. when they came, he encircled ada with one arm, in his fatherly way, and addressed himself to richard with a cheerful gravity. "rick," said mr. jarndyce, "i am glad to have won your confidence. i hope to preserve it. when i contemplated these relations between us four which have so brightened my life, and so invested it with new interests and pleasures, i certainly did contemplate, afar off, the possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don't be shy, ada, don't be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together. i saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. but that was afar off, rick, afar off!" "we look afar off, sir," returned richard. "well!" said mr. jarndyce. "that's rational. now, hear me, my dears! i might tell you that you don't know your own minds yet; that a thousand things may happen to divert you from one another; that it is well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very easily broken, or it might become a chain of lead. but i will not do that. such wisdom will come soon enough, i dare say, if it is to come at all. i will assume that, a few years hence, you will be in your hearts to one another, what you are to-day. all i say before speaking to you according to that assumption is, if you _do_ change--if you _do_ come to find that you are more commonplace cousins to each other as man and woman, than you were as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me, rick!)--don't be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. i am only your friend and distant kinsman. i have no power over you whatever. but i wish and hope to retain your confidence, if i do nothing to forfeit it." "i am very sure, sir," returned richard, "that i speak for ada, too, when i say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted in respect, gratitude, and affection, strengthening every day." "dear cousin john," said ada, on his shoulder, "my father's place can never be empty again. all the love and duty i could ever have rendered to him, is transferred to you." "come!" said mr. jarndyce. "now for our assumption. now we lift our eyes up, and look hopefully at the distance! rick, the world is before you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive you. trust in nothing but in providence and your own efforts. never separate the two, like the heathen wagoner. constancy in love is a good thing; but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in every kind of effort. if you had the abilities of all the great men, past and present, you could do nothing well, without sincerely meaning it, and setting about it. if you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested from fortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here, or leave your cousin ada here." "i will leave it here, sir," replied richard, smiling, "if i brought it here just now (but i hope i did not), and will work my way on to my cousin ada in the hopeful distance." "right!" said mr. jarndyce. "if you are not to make her happy, why should you pursue her?" "i wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love," retorted richard, proudly. "well said!" cried mr. jarndyce; "that's well said! she remains here, in her home with me. love her, rick, in your active life, no less than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well. otherwise, all will go ill. that's the end of my preaching. i think you and ada had better take a walk." ada tenderly embraced him, and richard heartily shook hands with him, and then the cousins went out of the room--looking back again directly, though, to say that they would wait for me. the door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes, as they passed down the adjoining room on which the sun was shining, and out at its farther end. richard, with his head bent, and her hand drawn through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and she looked up in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else. so young, so beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly through the sunlight, as their own happy thoughts might then be traversing the years to come, and making them all years of brightness. so they passed away into the shadow, and were gone. it was only a burst of light that had been so radiant. the room darkened as they went out, and the sun was clouded over. "am i right, esther?" said my guardian, when they were gone. he who was so good and wise, to ask me whether he was right! "rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. wants, at the core of so much that is good!" said mr. jarndyce, shaking his head. "i have said nothing to ada, esther. she has her friend and counselor always near." and he laid his hand lovingly upon my head. i could not help showing that i was a little moved, though i did all i could to conceal it. "tut tut!" said he. "but we must take care, too, that our little woman's life is not all consumed in care for others." "care? my dear guardian, i believe i am the happiest creature in the world!" "i believe so too," said he. "but some one may find out, what esther never will--that the little woman is to be held in remembrance above all other people!" i have omitted to mention in its place, that there was some one else at the family dinner party. it was not a lady. it was a gentleman. it was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a young surgeon. he was rather reserved, but i thought him very sensible and agreeable. at least, ada asked me if i did not, and i said yes. (to be continued.) the counter-stroke. just after breakfast one fine spring morning in , an advertisement in the _times_ for a curate caught and fixed my attention. the salary was sufficiently remunerative for a bachelor, and the parish, as i personally knew, one of the most pleasantly situated in all somersetshire. having said that, the reader will readily understand that it could not have been a hundred miles from taunton. i instantly wrote, inclosing testimonials, with which the rev. mr. townley, the rector, was so entirely satisfied, that the return-post brought me a positive engagement, unclogged with the slightest objection to one or two subsidiary items i had stipulated for, and accompanied by an invitation to make the rectory my home till i could conveniently suit myself elsewhere. this was both kind and handsome; and the next day but one i took coach, with a light heart, for my new destination. it thus happened that i became acquainted, and in some degree mixed up, with the train of events it is my present purpose to relate. the rector i found to be a stout, portly gentleman, whose years already reached to between sixty and seventy. so many winters, although they had plentifully besprinkled his hair with gray, shone out with ruddy brightness in his still handsome face, and keen, kindly, bright-hazel eyes; and his voice, hearty and ringing, had not as yet one quaver of age in it. i met him at breakfast on the morning after my arrival, and his reception of me was most friendly. we had spoken together but for a few minutes, when one of the french windows, that led from the breakfast-room into a shrubbery and flower-garden, gently opened and admitted a lady, just then, as i afterward learned, in her nineteenth spring. i use this term almost unconsciously, for i can not even now, in the glowing summer of her life, dissociate her image from that season of youth and joyousness. she was introduced to me, with old-fashioned simplicity, as "my grand-daughter, agnes townley." it is difficult to look at beauty through other men's eyes, and, in the present instance, i feel that i should fail miserably in the endeavor to stamp upon this blank, dead paper, any adequate idea of the fresh loveliness, the rose-bud beauty of that young girl. i will merely say, that her perfectly grecian head, wreathed with wavy _bandeaux_ of bright hair, undulating with golden light, vividly brought to my mind raphael's halo-tinted portraitures of the virgin--with this difference, that in place of the holy calm and resignation of the painting, there was in agnes townley, a sparkling youth and life, that even amid the heat and glare of a crowded ball-room, or of a theatre, irresistibly suggested and recalled the freshness and perfume of the morning--of a cloudless, rosy morning of may. and, far higher charm than feature-beauty, however exquisite, a sweetness of disposition, a kind gentleness of mind and temper, was evinced in every line of her face, in every accent of the low-pitched, silver voice, that breathed through lips made only to smile. let me own, that i was greatly struck by so remarkable a combination of rare endowments; and this, i think, the sharp-eyed rector must have perceived, or he might not, perhaps, have been so immediately communicative with respect to the near prospects of his idolized grand-child, as he was the moment the young lady, after presiding at the breakfast-table, had withdrawn. "we shall have gay doings, mr. tyrrel, at the rectory shortly," he said. "next monday three weeks will, with the blessing of god, be agnes townley's wedding-day." "wedding-day!" "yes," rejoined the rector, turning toward and examining some flowers which miss townley had brought in and placed on the table. "yes, it has been for some time settled that agnes shall on that day be united in holy wedlock to mr. arbuthnot." "mr. arbuthnot, of elm park?" "a great match, is it not, in a worldly point of view?" replied mr. townley, with a pleasant smile at the tone of my exclamation. "and much better than that: robert arbuthnot is a young man of a high and noble nature, as well as devotedly attached to agnes. he will, i doubt not, prove in every respect a husband deserving and worthy of her; and that from the lips of a doting old grandpapa must be esteemed high praise. you will see him presently." i did see him often, and quite agreed in the rector's estimate of his future grandson-in-law. i have not frequently seen a finer-looking young man--his age was twenty-six; and certainly one of a more honorable and kindly spirit, of a more genial temper than he, has never come within my observation. he had drawn a great prize in the matrimonial lottery, and, i felt, deserved his high fortune. they were married at the time agreed upon, and the day was kept not only at elm park, and in its neighborhood, but throughout "our" parish, as a general holiday. and, strangely enough--at least i have never met with another instance of the kind--it was held by our entire female community, high as well as low, that the match was a perfectly equal one, notwithstanding that wealth and high worldly position were entirely on the bridegroom's side. in fact, that nobody less in the social scale than the representative of an old territorial family ought, in the nature of things, to have aspired to the hand of agnes townley, appeared to have been a foregone conclusion with every body. this will give the reader a truer and more vivid impression of the bride, than any words or colors i might use. the days, weeks, months of wedded life flew over mr. and mrs. arbuthnot without a cloud, save a few dark but transitory ones which i saw now and then flit over the husband's countenance as the time when he should become a father drew near, and came to be more and more spoken of. "i should not survive her," said mr. arbuthnot, one day in reply to a chance observation of the rector's, "nor indeed desire to do so." the gray-headed man seized and warmly pressed the husband's hand, and tears of sympathy filled his eyes; yet did he, nevertheless, as in duty bound, utter grave words on the sinfulness of despair under any circumstances, and the duty, in all trials, however heavy, of patient submission to the will of god. but the venerable gentleman spoke in a hoarse and broken voice, and it was easy to see he _felt_ with mr. arbuthnot that the reality of an event, the bare possibility of which shook them so terribly, were a cross too heavy for human strength to bear and live. it was of course decided that the expected heir or heiress should be intrusted to a wet-nurse, and a mrs. danby, the wife of a miller living not very far from the rectory, was engaged for that purpose. i had frequently seen the woman; and her name, as the rector and i were one evening gossiping over our tea, on some subject or other that i forgot, came up. "a likely person," i remarked; "healthy, very good-looking, and one might make oath, a true-hearted creature. but there is withal a timidity; a frightenedness in her manner at times, which, if i may hazard a perhaps uncharitable conjecture, speaks ill for that smart husband of hers." "you have hit the mark precisely, my dear sir. danby is a sorry fellow, and a domestic tyrant to boot. his wife, who is really a good, but meek-hearted person, lived with us once. how old do you suppose her to be?" "five-and-twenty perhaps." "six years more than that. she has a son of the name of harper by a former marriage, who is in his tenth year. anne wasn't a widow long. danby was caught by her good looks, and she by the bait of a well-provided home. unless, however, her husband gives up his corn speculations, she will not, i think, have that much longer." "corn speculations! surely danby has no means adequate to indulgence in such a game as that?" "not he. but about two years ago he bought, on credit, i believe, a considerable quantity of wheat, and prices happening to fly suddenly up just then, he made a large profit. this has quite turned his head, which, by-the-by, was never, as cockneys say, quite rightly screwed on." the announcement of a visitor interrupted any thing further the rector might have had to say, and i soon afterward went home. a sad accident occurred about a month subsequent to the foregoing conversation. the rector was out riding upon a usually quiet horse, which all at once took it into its head to shy at a scarecrow it must have seen a score of times, and thereby threw its rider. help was fortunately at hand, and the reverend gentleman was instantly conveyed home, when it was found that his left thigh was broken. thanks, however, to his temperate habits, it was before long authoritatively pronounced that, although it would be a considerable time before he was released from confinement, it was not probable that the lusty winter of his life would be shortened by what had happened. unfortunately, the accident threatened to have evil consequences in another quarter. immediately after it occurred, one matthews, a busy, thick-headed lout of a butcher, rode furiously off to elm park with the news. mrs. arbuthnot, who daily looked to be confined, was walking with her husband upon the lawn in front of the house, when the great burly blockhead rode up, and blurted out that the rector had been thrown from his horse, and it was feared killed! the shock of such an announcement was of course overwhelming. a few hours afterward, mrs. arbuthnot gave birth to a healthy male-child; but the young mother's life, assailed by fever, was for many days utterly despaired of--for weeks held to tremble so evenly in the balance, that the slightest adverse circumstance might in a moment turn the scale deathward. at length the black horizon that seemed to encompass us so hopelessly, lightened, and afforded the lover-husband a glimpse and hope of his vanished and well-nigh despaired of eden. the promise was fulfilled. i was in the library with mr. arbuthnot, awaiting the physician's morning report, very anxiously expected at the rectory, when dr. lindley entered the apartment in evidently cheerful mood. "you have been causelessly alarmed," he said. "there is no fear whatever of a relapse. weakness only remains, and that we shall slowly, perhaps, but certainly remove." a gleam of lightning seemed to flash over mr. arbuthnot's expressive countenance. "blessed be god!" he exclaimed. "and how," he added, "shall we manage respecting the child? she asks for it incessantly." mr. arbuthnot's infant son, i should state, had been consigned immediately after its birth to the care of mrs. danby, who had herself been confined, also with a boy, about a fortnight previously. scarlatina being prevalent in the neighborhood, mrs. danby was hurried away with the two children to a place near bath, almost before she was able to bear the journey. mr. arbuthnot had not left his wife for an hour, and consequently had only seen his child for a few minutes just after it was born. "with respect to the child," replied dr. lindley, "i am of opinion that mrs. arbuthnot may see it in a day or two. say the third day from this, if all goes well. i think we may venture so far; but i will be present, for any untoward agitation might be perhaps instantly fatal." this point provisionally settled, we all three went our several ways: i to cheer the still suffering rector with the good news. the next day but one, mr. arbuthnot was in exuberant spirits. "dr. lindley's report is even more favorable than we had anticipated," he said; "and i start to-morrow morning, to bring mrs. danby and the child--" the postman's subdued but unmistakable knock interrupted him. "the nurse," he added, "is very attentive and punctual. she writes almost every day." a servant entered with a salver heaped with letters. mr. arbuthnot tossed them over eagerly, and seizing one, after glancing at the post-mark, tore it eagerly open, muttering as he did so, "it is not the usual handwriting; but from her, no doubt--" "merciful god!" i impulsively exclaimed, as i suddenly lifted my eyes to his. "what is the matter?" a mortal pallor had spread over mr. arbuthnot's before animated features, and he was glaring at the letter in his hand as if a basilisk had suddenly confronted him. another moment, and the muscles of his frame appeared to give way suddenly, and he dropped heavily into the easy-chair from which he had risen to take the letters. i was terribly alarmed, and first loosening his neckerchief, for he seemed choking, i said: "let me call some one;" and i turned to reach the bell, when he instantly seized my arms, and held me with a grip of iron. "no--no--no!" he hoarsely gasped; "water--water!" there was fortunately some on a side table. i handed it to him, and he drank eagerly. it appeared to revive him a little. he thrust the crumpled letter into his pocket, and said in a low, quick whisper: "there is some one coming! not a word, remember--not a word!" at the same time, he wheeled his chair half round, so that his back should be toward the servant we heard approaching. "i am sent, sir," said mrs. arbuthnot's maid, "to ask if the post has arrived?" "yes," replied mr. arbuthnot, with wonderful mastery of his voice. "tell your mistress i shall be with her almost immediately, and that her--her son is quite well." "mr. tyrrel," he continued, as soon as the servant was out of hearing, "there is, i think a liqueur-stand on the sideboard in the large dining-room. would you have the kindness to bring it me, unobserved--mind that--unobserved by any one?" i did as he requested; and the instant i placed the liqueur-frame before him, he seized the brandy _carafe_, and drank with fierce eagerness. "for goodness' sake," i exclaimed, "consider what you are about, mr. arbuthnot; you will make yourself ill." "no, no," he answered, after finishing his draught. "it seems scarcely stronger than water. but i--i am better now. it was a sudden spasm of the heart; that's all. the letter," he added, after a long and painful pause, during which he eyed me, i thought, with a kind of suspicion--"the letter you saw me open just now, comes from a relative, an aunt, who is ill, very ill, and wishes to see me instantly. you understand?" i _did_ understand, or at least i feared that i did too well. i, however, bowed acquiescence; and he presently rose from his chair, and strode about the apartment in great agitation, until his wife's bedroom bell rang. he then stopped suddenly short, shook himself, and looked anxiously at the reflection of his flushed and varying countenance in the magnificent chimney-glass. "i do not look, i think--or, at least shall not, in a darkened room--odder, more out of the way--that is, more agitated--than one might, that one _must_ appear after hearing of the dangerous illness of--of--an aunt?" "you look better, sir, than you did a while since." "yes, yes; much better, much better. i am glad to hear you say so. that was my wife's bell. she is anxious, no doubt, to see me." he left the apartment; was gone perhaps ten minutes; and when he returned, was a thought less nervous than before. i rose to go. "give my respects," he said, "to the good rector; and as an especial favor," he added, with strong emphasis, "let me ask of you not to mention to a living soul that you saw me so unmanned as i was just now; that i swallowed brandy. it would appear so strange, so weak, so ridiculous." i promised not to do so, and almost immediately left the house, very painfully affected. his son was, i concluded, either dead or dying, and he was thus bewilderedly casting about for means of keeping the terrible, perhaps fatal tidings, from his wife. i afterward heard that he left elm park in a post-chaise, about two hours after i came away, unattended by a single servant! he was gone three clear days only, at the end of which he returned with mrs. danby and--his son--in florid health, too, and one of the finest babies of its age--about nine weeks only--i had ever seen. thus vanished the air-drawn doubting castle and giant despair which i had so hastily conjured up! the cause assigned by mr. arbuthnot for the agitation i had witnessed, was doubtless the true one; and yet, and the thought haunted me for months, years afterward, he opened only _one_ letter that morning, and had sent a message to his wife that the child was well. mrs. danby remained at the park till the little robert was weaned, and was then dismissed very munificently rewarded. year after year rolled away without bringing mr. and mrs. arbuthnot any additional little ones, and no one, therefore, could feel surprised at the enthusiastic love of the delighted mother for her handsome, nobly-promising boy. but that which did astonish me, though no one else, for it seemed that i alone noticed it, was a strange defect of character which began to develop itself in mr. arbuthnot. he was positively jealous of his wife's affection for their own child! many and many a time have i remarked, when he thought himself unobserved, an expression of intense pain flash from his fine, expressive eyes, at any more than usually fervent manifestation of the young mother's gushing love for her first and only born! it was altogether a mystery to me, and i as much as possible forbore to dwell upon the subject. nine years passed away without bringing any material change to the parties involved in this narrative, except those which time brings ordinarily in his train. young robert arbuthnot was a healthy, tall, fine-looking lad of his age; and his great-grandpapa, the rector, though not suffering under any actual physical or mental infirmity, had reached a time of life when the announcement that the golden bowl is broken, or the silver cord is loosed, may indeed be quick and sudden, but scarcely unexpected. things had gone well, too, with the nurse, mrs. danby, and her husband; well, at least, after a fashion. the speculative miller must have made good use of the gift to his wife for her care of little arbuthnot, for he had built a genteel house near the mill, always rode a valuable horse, kept, it was said, a capital table; and all this, as it seemed, by his clever speculations in corn and flour, for the ordinary business of the mill was almost entirely neglected. he had no children of his own, but he had apparently taken, with much cordiality, to his step-son, a fine lad, now about eighteen years of age. this greatly grieved the boy's mother, who dreaded above all things that her son should contract the evil, dissolute habits of his father-in-law. latterly, she had become extremely solicitous to procure the lad a permanent situation abroad, and this mr. arbuthnot had promised should be effected at the earliest opportunity. thus stood affairs on the th of october, . mr arbuthnot was temporarily absent in ireland, where he possessed large property, and was making personal inquiries as to the extent of the potato-rot, not long before announced. the morning's post had brought a letter to his wife, with the intelligence that he should reach home that very evening; and as the rectory was on the direct road to elm park, and her husband would be sure to pull up there, mrs. arbuthnot came with her son to pass the afternoon there, and in some slight degree anticipate her husband's arrival. about three o'clock, a chief-clerk of one of the taunton banks rode up in a gig to the rectory, and asked to see the rev. mr. townley, on pressing and important business. he was ushered into the library, where the rector and i were at the moment rather busily engaged. the clerk said he had been to elm park, but not finding either mr. arbuthnot or his lady there, he had thought that perhaps the rev. mr. townley might be able to pronounce upon the genuineness of a check for £ , purporting to be drawn on the taunton bank by mr. arbuthnot, and which danby the miller had obtained cash for at bath. he further added, that the bank had refused payment and detained the check, believing it to be a forgery. "a forgery!" exclaimed the rector, after merely glancing at the document. "no question that it is, and a very clumsily executed one, too. besides, mr. arbuthnot is not yet returned from ireland." this was sufficient; and the messenger, with many apologies for his intrusion, withdrew, and hastened back to taunton. we were still talking over this sad affair, although some hours had elapsed since the clerk's departure--in fact, candles had been brought in, and we were every moment expecting mr. arbuthnot--when the sound of a horse at a hasty gallop was heard approaching, and presently the pale and haggard face of danby shot by the window at which the rector and myself were standing. the gate-bell was rung almost immediately afterward, and but a brief interval passed before "mr. danby" was announced to be in waiting. the servant had hardly gained the passage with leave to show him in, when the impatient visitor rushed rudely into the room in a state of great, and it seemed angry excitement. "what, sir, is the meaning of this ill-mannered intrusion?" demanded the rector, sternly. "you have pronounced the check i paid away at bath to be a forgery; and the officers are, i am told, already at my heels. mr. arbuthnot, unfortunately, is not at home, and i am come, therefore, to seek shelter with you." "shelter with me, sir!" exclaimed the indignant rector, moving, as he spoke, toward the bell. "out of my house you shall go this instant." the fellow placed his hand upon the reverend gentleman's arm, and looked with his bloodshot eyes keenly in his face. "don't!" said danby; "don't, for the sake of yourself and yours! don't! i warn you; or, if you like the phrase better, don't, for the sake of me and _mine_." "yours, fellow! your wife, whom you have so long held in cruel bondage through her fears for her son, has at last shaken off that chain. james harper sailed two days ago from portsmouth for bombay. i sent her the news two hours since." "ha! is that indeed so?" cried danby, with an irrepressible start of alarm. "why, then--but no matter: here, luckily, comes mrs. arbuthnot _and her son_. all's right! she will, i know, stand bail for me, and, if need be, acknowledge the genuineness of her husband's check." the fellow's insolence was becoming unbearable, and i was about to seize and thrust him forcibly from the apartment, when the sound of wheels was heard outside. "hold! one moment," he cried with fierce vehemence. "that is probably the officers: i must be brief, then, and to the purpose. pray, madam, do not leave the room for your own sake: as for you, young sir, i _command_ you to remain!" "what! what does he mean?" exclaimed mrs. arbuthnot bewilderedly, and at the same time clasping her son--who gazed on danby with kindled eyes, and angry boyish defiance--tightly to her side. did the man's strange words give form and significance to some dark, shadowy, indistinct doubt that had previously haunted her at times? i judged so. the rector appeared similarly confused and shaken, and had sunk nerveless and terrified upon a sofa. "you guess dimly, i see, at what i have to say," resumed danby with a malignant sneer. "well, hear it, then, once for all, and then, if you will, give me up to the officers. some years ago," he continued, coldly and steadily--"some years ago, a woman, a nurse, was placed in charge of two infant children, both boys: one of these was her own; the other was the son of rich, proud parents. the woman's husband was a gay, jolly fellow, who much preferred spending money to earning it, and just then it happened that he was more than usually hard up. one afternoon, on visiting his wife, who had removed to a distance, he found that the rich man's child had sickened of the small-pox, and that there was no chance of its recovery. a letter containing the sad news was on a table, which he, the husband, took the liberty to open and read. after some reflection, suggested by what he had heard of the lady-mother's state of mind, he re-copied the letter, for the sake of embodying in it a certain suggestion. that letter was duly posted, and the next day brought the rich man almost in a state of distraction; but his chief and mastering terror was lest the mother of the already dead infant should hear, in her then precarious state, of what had happened. the tidings, he was sure, would kill her. seeing this, the cunning husband of the nurse suggested that, for the present, his--the cunning one's--child might be taken to the lady as her own, and that the truth could be revealed when she was strong enough to bear it. the rich man fell into the artful trap, and that which the husband of the nurse had speculated upon, came to pass even beyond his hopes. the lady grew to idolize her fancied child--she has, fortunately, had no other--and now, i think, it would really kill her to part with him. the rich man could not find it in his heart to undeceive his wife--every year it became more difficult, more impossible to do so; and very generously, i must say, has he paid in purse for the forbearance of the nurse's husband. well now, then, to sum up: the nurse was mrs. danby; the rich, weak husband, mr. arbuthnot; the substituted child, that handsome boy, _my son_!" a wild scream from mrs. arbuthnot broke the dread silence which had accompanied this frightful revelation, echoed by an agonized cry, half tenderness, half rage, from her husband, who had entered the room unobserved, and now clasped her passionately in his arms. the carriage-wheels we had heard were his. it was long before i could recall with calmness the tumult, terror, and confusion of that scene. mr arbuthnot strove to bear his wife from the apartment, but she would not be forced away, and kept imploring with frenzied vehemence that robert--that her boy should not be taken from her. "i have no wish to do so--far from it," said danby, with gleeful exultation. "only folk must be reasonable, and not threaten their friends with the hulks--" "give him any thing, any thing!" broke in the unhappy lady. "o robert! robert!" she added with a renewed burst of hysterical grief, "how could you deceive me so?" "i have been punished, agnes," he answered in a husky, broken voice, "for my well-intending but criminal weakness; cruelly punished by the ever-present consciousness that this discovery must one day or other be surely made. what do you want?" he after awhile added with recovering firmness, addressing danby. "the acknowledgment of the little bit of paper in dispute, of course; and say a genuine one to the same amount." "yes, yes," exclaimed mrs. arbuthnot, still wildly sobbing, and holding the terrified boy still strained in her embrace, as if she feared he might be wrenched from her by force. "any thing--pay him any thing!" at this moment, chancing to look toward the door of the apartment, i saw that it was partially opened, and that danby's wife was listening there. what might that mean? but what of helpful meaning in such a case could it have? "be it so, love," said mr. arbuthnot, soothingly. "danby, call to-morrow at the park. and now, begone at once." "i was thinking," resumed the rascal with swelling audacity, "that we might as well at the same time come to some permanent arrangement upon black and white. but never mind: i can always put the screw on; unless, indeed, you get tired of the young gentleman, and in that case, i doubt not, he will prove a dutiful and affectionate son--ah, devil! what do you here? begone, or i'll murder you! begone, do you hear?" his wife had entered, and silently confronted him. "your threats, evil man," replied the woman quietly, "have no terrors for me now. my son is beyond your reach. oh, mrs. arbuthnot," she added, turning toward and addressing that lady, "believe not--" her husband sprang at her with the bound of a panther. "silence! go home, or i'll strangle--" his own utterance was arrested by the fierce grasp of mr. arbuthnot, who seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the further end of the room. "speak on, woman; and quick! quick! what have you to say?" "that your son, dearest lady," she answered, throwing herself at mrs. arbuthnot's feet, "is as truly your own child as ever son born of woman!" that shout of half-fearful triumph seems even now as i write to ring in my ears! i _felt_ that the woman's words were words of truth, but i could not see distinctly: the room whirled round, and the lights danced before my eyes, but i could hear through all the choking ecstasy of the mother, and the fury of the baffled felon. "the letter," continued mrs. danby, "which my husband found and opened, would have informed you, sir, of the swiftly approaching death of _my_ child, and that yours had been carefully kept beyond the reach of contagion. the letter you received was written without my knowledge or consent. true it is that, terrified by my husband's threats, and in some measure reconciled to the wicked imposition by knowing that, after all, the right child would be in his right place, i afterward lent myself to danby's evil purposes. but i chiefly feared for my son, whom i fully believed he would not have scrupled to make away with in revenge for my exposing his profitable fraud. i have sinned; i can hardly hope to be forgiven, but i have now told the sacred truth." all this was uttered by the repentant woman, but at the time it was almost wholly unheard by those most interested in the statement. they only comprehended that they were saved--that the child was theirs in very truth. great, abundant, but for the moment, bewildering joy! mr. arbuthnot--his beautiful young wife--her own true boy (how could she for a moment have doubted that he was her own true boy!--you might read that thought through all her tears, thickly as they fell)--the aged and half-stunned rector, while yet mrs. danby was speaking, were exclaiming, sobbing in each other's arms, ay, and praising god too, with broken voices and incoherent words it may be, but certainly with fervent, pious, grateful hearts. when we had time to look about us, it was found that the felon had disappeared--escaped. it was well, perhaps, that he had; better, that he has not been heard of since. philosophy of laughter. from the time of king solomon downward, laughter has been the subject of pretty general abuse. even the laughers themselves sometimes vituperate the cachinnation they indulge in, and many of them "laugh in such a sort, as if they mocked themselves, and scorned the spirit that could be moved to laugh at any thing." the general notion is, that laughter is childish, and unworthy the gravity of adult life. grown men, we say, have more to do than to laugh; and the wiser sort of them leave such an unseemly contortion of the muscles to babes and blockheads. we have a suspicion that there is something wrong here--that the world is mistaken not only in its reasonings, but its facts. to assign laughter to an early period of life, is to go contrary to observation and experience. there is not so grave an animal in this world as the human baby. it will weep, when it has got the length of tears, by the pailful; it will clench its fists, distort its face into a hideous expression of anguish, and scream itself into convulsions. it has not yet come up to a laugh. the little savage must be educated by circumstances, and tamed by the contact of civilization, before it rises to the greater functions of its being. nay, we have sometimes received the idea from its choked and tuneless screams, that _they_ were imperfect attempts at laughter. it feels enjoyment as well as pain, but has only one way of expressing both. then, look at the baby, when it has turned into a little boy or girl, and come up in some degree to the cachinnation. the laughter is still only rudimental: it is not genuine laughter. it expresses triumph, scorn, passion--anything but a feeling of natural amusement. it is provoked by misfortune, by bodily infirmities, by the writhings of agonized animals; and it indicates either a sense of power or a selfish feeling of exemption from suffering. the "light-hearted laugh of children!" what a mistake! observe the gravity of their sports. they are masters or mistresses, with the care of a family upon their hands; and they take especial delight in correcting their children with severity. they are washerwomen, housemaids, cooks, soldiers, policemen, postmen; coach, horsemen, and horses, by turns; and in all these characters they scour, sweep, fry, fight, pursue, carry, whirl, ride, and are ridden, without changing a muscle. at the games of the young people there is much shouting, argument, vituperation--but no laughter. a game is a serious business with a boy, and he derives from it excitement, but no amusement. if he laughs at all, it is at something quite distinct from the purpose of the sport; for instance, when one of his comrades has his nose broken by the ball, or when the feet of another make off from him on the ice, and he comes down upon his back like a thunderbolt. on such occasions, the laugh of a boy puts us in mind of the laugh of a hyæna: it is, in fact, the broken, asthmatic roar of a beast of prey. it would thus appear that the common charge brought against laughter, of being something babyish, or childish, or boyish--something properly appertaining to early life--is unfounded. but we of course must not be understood to speak of what is technically called giggling, which proceeds more from a looseness of the structures than from any sensation of amusement. many young persons are continually on the giggle till their muscles strengthen; and indeed, when a company of them are met together, the affection aggravated by emulation, acquires the loudness of laughter, when it may be likened, in scripture phrase, to the crackling of thorns. what we mean is a regular guffaw; that explosion of high spirits, and the feeling of joyous excitement, which is commonly written ha! ha! ha! this is altogether unknown in babyhood; in boyhood, it exists only in its rudiments; and it does not reach its full development till adolescence ripens into manhood. this train of thought was suggested to us a few evenings ago, by the conduct of a party of eight or ten individuals, who meet periodically for the purpose of philosophical inquiry. their subject is a very grave one. their object is to mould into a science that which as yet is only a vague, formless, and obscure department of knowledge; and they proceed in the most cautious manner from point to point, from axiom to axiom--debating at every step, and coming to no decision without unanimous conviction. some are professors of the university, devoted to abstruse studies; some are clergymen; and some authors and artists. now, at the meeting in question--which we take merely as an example, for all are alike--when the hour struck which terminates their proceedings for the evening, the jaded philosophers retired to the refreshment-room; and here a scene of remarkable contrast occurred. instead of a single deep, low, earnest voice, alternating with a profound silence, an absolute roar of merriment began, with the suddenness of an explosion of gunpowder. jests, bon-mots, anecdotes, barbarous plays upon words--the more atrocious the better--flew round the table; and a joyous and almost continuous ha! ha! ha! made the ceiling ring. this, we venture to say it, _was_ laughter--genuine, unmistakable laughter, proceeding from no sense of triumph, from no self-gratulation, and mingled with no bad feeling of any kind. it was a spontaneous effort of nature coming from the head as well as the heart; an unbending of the bow, a reaction from study, which study alone could occasion, and which could occur only in adult life. there are some people who can not laugh, but these are not necessarily either morose or stupid. they may laugh in their heart, and with their eyes, although by some unlucky fatality, they have not the gift of oral cachinnation. such persons are to be pitied; for laughter in grown people is a substitute devised by nature for the screams and shouts of boyhood, by which the lungs are strengthened and the health preserved. as the intellect ripens, that shouting ceases, and we learn to laugh as we learn to reason. the society we have mentioned studied the harder the more they laughed, and they laughed the more the harder they studied. each, of course, to be of use, must be in its own place. a laugh in the midst of the study would have been a profanation; a grave look in the midst of the merriment would have been an insult to the good sense of the company. if there are some people who can not laugh, there are others who will not. it is not, however, that they are ashamed of being grown men, and want to go back to babyhood, for by some extraordinary perversity, they fancy unalterable gravity to be the distinguishing characteristic of wisdom. in a merry company, they present the appearance of a red indian whitewashed, and look on at the strange ways of their neighbors without betraying even the faintest spark of sympathy or intelligence. these are children of a larger growth, and have not yet acquired sense enough to laugh. like the savage, they are afraid of compromising their dignity, or, to use their own words, of making fools of themselves. for our part, we never see a man afraid of making a fool of himself at the right season, without setting him down as a fool ready made. a woman has no natural grace more bewitching than a sweet laugh. it is like the sound of flutes on the water. it leaps from her heart in a clear, sparkling rill; and the heart that hears it feels as if bathed in the cool, exhilarating spring. have you ever pursued an unseen fugitive through the trees, led on by her fairy laugh; now here, now there--now lost, now found? we have. and we are pursuing that wandering voice to this day. sometimes it comes to us in the midst of care, or sorrow, or irksome business; and then we turn away, and listen, and hear it ringing through the room like a silver bell, with power to scare away the ill-spirits of the mind. how much we owe to that sweet laugh! it turns the prose of our life into poetry; it flings showers of sunshine over the darksome wood in which we are traveling; it touches with light even our sleep, which is no more the image of death, but gemmed with dreams that are the shadows of immortality. but our song, like dibdin's, "means more than it says;" for a man, as we have stated, may laugh, and yet the cachinnation be wanting. his heart laughs, and his eyes are filled with that kindly, sympathetic smile which inspires friendship and confidence. on the sympathy within, these external phenomena depend; and this sympathy it is which keeps societies of men together, and is the true freemasonry of the good and wise. it is an imperfect sympathy that grants only sympathetic tears: we must join in the mirth as well as melancholy of our neighbors. if our countrymen laughed more, they would not only be happier, but better, and if philanthropists would provide amusements for the people, they would be saved the trouble and expense of their fruitless war against public-houses. this is an indisputable proposition. the french and italians, with wine growing at their doors, and spirits almost as cheap as beer in england, are sober nations. how comes this? the laugh will answer that leaps up from group after group--the dance on the village-green--the family dinner under the trees--the thousand merry-meetings that invigorate industry, by serving as a relief to the business of life. without these, business is care; and it is from care, not from amusement, men fly to the bottle. the common mistake is to associate the idea of amusement with error of every kind; and this piece of moral asceticism is given forth as true wisdom, and, from sheer want of examination, is very generally received as such. a place of amusement concentrates a crowd, and whatever excesses may be committed, being confined to a small space, stand more prominently forward than at other times. this is all. the excesses are really fewer--far fewer--in proportion to the number assembled, than if no gathering had taken place how can it be otherwise? the amusement is itself the excitement which the wearied heart longs for; it is the reaction which nature seeks; and in the comparatively few instances of a grosser intoxication being superadded, we see only the craving of depraved habit--a habit engendered, in all probability, by the _want_ of amusement. no, good friends, let us laugh sometimes, if you love us. a dangerous character is of another kidney, as cæsar knew to his cost: "he loves no plays, as thou dost, antony; he hears no music; seldom he laughs;" and when he does, it is on the wrong side of his mouth. let us be wiser. let us laugh in fitting time and place, silently or aloud, each after his nature. let us enjoy an innocent reaction rather than a guilty one, since reaction there must be. the bow that is always bent loses its elasticity, and becomes useless. monthly record of current events. the united states. the past month has been one of unusual activity. the proceedings of congress have not been without importance:--political conventions have been held, shaping to a certain extent public movements for the coming season: and numerous religious and benevolent associations, as well as ecclesiastical assemblies for business purposes, have held their annual meetings. in the united states senate, the debate upon an amendment to the deficiency bill, by which it was proposed to grant a large increase of pay annually to the collins line of atlantic steamers, continued for several days. on the th of may, senator rusk spoke in favor of it, and on the th, senator james made an argument upon the same side. senator jones, of tennessee, opposed so large a grant as that suggested, though he declared himself desirous of sustaining the line. he moved to strike out $ , , and insert $ , , as the increase each trip. on the th, mr. cass spoke at length in favor of the appropriation. the amendment of mr. jones was then rejected, by a vote of to . senator brooke moved an amendment, granting the whole amount of postages received in place of all other compensation: this was rejected by to . mr. rusk moved that congress shall have the power at any time after december, , to discontinue the extra allowance, on giving six months' notice. this was agreed to. mr. mallory moved, that the contract be transferred from the naval to the post office department: this was lost, to . on the th, senator borland spoke in opposition to the increased grant. on the th, the amendment, giving the line $ , additional pay for each trip, was agreed to, by a vote of ayes to noes: and on the st, upon a motion to agree to this amendment, as reported by the committee of the whole, it was decided in the affirmative by an increased vote. in the house of representatives the only action taken, worthy of special record, was the passage, on the th, of the bill granting to each head of a family, who may be a native citizen of the united states or naturalized previous to january, , the right to enter upon and cultivate one quarter-section of the public lands, and directing the issue to him of a patent for such land after five years of actual residence and cultivation. the bill was passed by a vote of to .----the other debates of the house have turned so exclusively upon unimportant topics, or upon temporary matters relating to the approaching presidential election, as to render further reference to them here unnecessary. in reply to the call of the senate, the closing correspondence of chevalier hulsemann, austrian chargé, with the state department, has been published. under date of april , mr. h. writes to the secretary, stating that the time had arrived for carrying into effect the intentions of his government in regard to his official connection with that of the united states. he complains that the secretary had not answered his communication of december , in regard to the public reception given to kossuth, and that, in spite of verbal encouragements given him to expect different treatment, his movements had been derisively commented on by the public journals. he had deemed it his duty on the st of november, to complain of these annoyances, and on the th the secretary had thereupon notified him that no further communication would be held with him except in writing. on the th of january, the secretary of state had seen fit to mate a speech encouraging revolution in hungary. this demonstration he considered so strange that he immediately inquired of the president whether it was to be considered an expression of the sentiments of the government of the united states. the austrian government had expressed itself satisfied with the assurances given in return by the president on the th of april, and had instructed him no longer to continue official relations with the "principal promoter of the kossuth episode." he closed his letter by stating that mr. a. belmont, consul-general of austria at new york, would continue in the exercise of his functions. under date of may , mr. hunter, acting secretary of state, acknowledged the receipt of this communication, and informed chevalier hulsemann that, "as mr. belmont is well known to the secretary of state as a gentleman of much respectability, any communication which it may be proper for him to address to the department in his official character, will be received with entire respect." the democratic national convention, for the nomination of candidates for the coming canvass, met at baltimore on the st of june, and was organized by the election of hon. john w. davis, of indiana, president. the number of delegates present was , and a rule was adopted requiring a vote of two-thirds ( ) for a nomination. unsuccessful ballotings were had for four days, and it was not until the forty-ninth ballot that general franklin pierce, of new hampshire, received the nomination. upon the forty-eighth ballot he received votes, the remainder being divided among messrs. cass, buchanan, douglass, and marcy:--upon the next trial he received votes. hon. william r. king, of alabama, was then nominated for vice president. a series of resolutions was adopted, rehearsing the leading principles of the democratic party, and declaring resistance to "all attempts at renewing in congress, or out of it, the agitation of the slavery question under whatever shape or color the attempt may be made"--and also a determination to "abide by, and adhere to, a faithful execution of the acts known as the compromise measures settled by the last congress--the act reclaiming fugitives from service or labor included." the convention adjourned on the th. mr. webster, being upon a brief visit to his place of residence, accepted an invitation of the citizens of boston to meet them at faneuil hall, on the d of may, when he made a brief address. he spoke of the pleasure which it always gave him to meet the people of boston--of the astonishing progress and prosperity of that city, and of the many motives her citizens had to labor strenuously for her advancement. he spoke also of the general nature and functions of government, and of the many causes which the people of this country have to reverence and cherish the institutions bequeathed to them by their fathers. in the state of new york, the court of appeals has decided against the constitutionality of the law of , for the more speedy completion of the state canals. it will be recollected that the constitution of the state directs that the surplus revenues of the canals shall in each fiscal year be applied to these works, in such manner as the legislature may direct; and it also forbids the contracting of any debt against the state, except by an act to be submitted to the people, and providing for a direct tax sufficient to pay the interest and redeem within eighteen years the principal of the debt thus contracted. the bill in question provided for the issue of certificates to the amount of nine millions of dollars, to be paid exclusively out of the surplus revenues thus set apart, and stating on their face that the state was to be in no degree responsible for their redemption; and for the application of moneys that might be raised from the sale of these certificates, to the completion of the canals. under the law contracts had been made for the whole work, which were pronounced valid by the last legislature. the court of appeals decides that the law conflicts with that clause of the constitution which requires the application of the revenues in each fiscal year, as also with that which forbids the incurring of a debt except in the mode specified. the decision was concurred in by five out of the eight judges of that court. in south carolina the state convention of delegates elected to take such measures as they might deem expedient against the encroachments and aggressions of the federal government, met at columbia on the th of april. it adopted a resolution, declaring that the wrongs sustained by the state, especially in regard to slavery, amply "justify that state, so far as any duty or obligation to her confederates is involved, in dissolving at once all political connection with her co-states, and that she forbears the exercise of that manifest right of self-government, from considerations of expediency only." this resolution was accompanied by an ordinance asserting the right of secession, and declaring that for the sufficiency of the causes which may impel her to such a step, she is responsible solely to god and to the tribunal of public opinion among the nations of the earth. the resolution was adopted by a vote of to . a bill has been passed by the legislature of massachusetts, forbidding the sale of intoxicating liquors within the limits of the state. as originally passed, it provided for its submission to the popular vote, and was vetoed by the governor, because it did not provide for taking that vote by secret, instead of by an open ballot. the legislature then enacted the law without any clause submitting it to the people; and in this form it received the assent of the governor. a similar law, has been enacted in rhode island. during the second week in may all the missionary, bible, and other benevolent associations connected with the several religious denominations having their centres of operation in the city of new york, held their anniversary celebrations in that city. they were so numerous, and their proceedings, except as given in detail, would prove so uninstructive, that it would be useless to make any extended mention of them here. they were attended with even more than the ordinary degree of public interest: very able and eloquent addresses were made by distinguished gentlemen, clergymen and others, from various parts of the country; and reports of their proceedings--of results accomplished and agencies employed--were spread before the public. the history of their labors during the year has been highly encouraging. largely increased contributions of money have augmented their resources and their ability to prosecute their labors which have been attended with marked success.----during the week succeeding, similar meetings were held in boston of all the associations which have their head-quarters in that city.----the two general assemblies, which constitute the government of the two divisions of the presbyterian church in the united states, have held their sessions during the month. that representing the old school met at charleston, s.c., on the th of may. rev. john c. lord, of buffalo, n.y., was chosen moderator. that of the new school met at washington on the same day, and rev. dr. adams, of new york, was elected moderator. both were engaged for several days in business relating to the government and organization of their respective organizations.----the general conference of the methodist episcopal church (north) met at boston on the st of may, and held a protracted session--extending through the whole month. most of the business transacted related of course to matters of temporary or local interest. special reports were made and action taken upon the interests of the church in various sections of the country, and in the fields of missionary labor. it was decided that the next general conference should meet at indianapolis. steps were taken to organize a methodist episcopal tract society. on the th of may the four new bishops were elected by ballot--rev. drs. levi scott, matthew simpson, osmond c. baker, and edward r. ames being chosen. dr. t. e. bond was elected editor of the christian advocate and journal, the recognized organ of the church; dr. j. m'clintock, editor of the quarterly review; d. p. kidder, of the sunday school publications; w. nast, of the christian apologist; and rev. dr. charles elliott, of the western christian advocate. rev. dr. j. p. durbin was chosen missionary secretary. kossuth, after visiting the principal towns in massachusetts, had a public reception at albany, and spent a week in visiting buffalo, niagara, syracuse, troy, and other cities. he was expected at new york when our record closed.----thomas francis meagher, esq., one of the irish state prisoners, effected his escape from van dieman's land in february, and arrived, in an american vessel, at new york on the st of june. he was very warmly welcomed by the public, especially by his countrymen. from california we have intelligence to the th of may. the total shipments of gold for april were $ , , ; for march, $ , , . great numbers of chinese continued to arrive, and they had become so numerous in the country as to excite serious disaffection, and to lead to various propositions for their exclusion. the governor sent in a special message to the legislature, urging the necessity of restricting emigration from china, to enhance the prosperity and preserve the tranquillity of the state. he objects especially to those who come under contracts for a limited time--returning to china with the products of their labor after their term is out, and adding nothing to the resources or industry of the country. he says that they are not good american citizens, and can not be; and that their immigration is not desirable. by a reference to statistics he shows that china can pour in upon our coast millions of her population without feeling their loss; that they live upon the merest pittance; and that while they spend comparatively nothing in the country, the tendency of their presence is to create an unhealthy competition with our own people, and reduce the price of labor far below our american living standard. governor bigler also expresses a doubt, whether the celestials are entitled to the benefit of the naturalization laws. he proposes as a remedy-- st. such an exercise of the taxing power by the state as will check the present system of indiscriminate and unlimited asiatic emigration. d. a demand by the state of california for the prompt interposition of congress, by the passage of an act prohibiting "coolies," shipped to california under contracts, from laboring in the mines of this state. measures have been taken in several of the mining localities to exclude the chinese from them.----the legislature adjourned on the th; the bill proposing a convention to revise the constitution of the state was defeated in the senate by a vote of to .----serious indian difficulties have occurred again in the interior. in trinity county a company of armed citizens went in pursuit of a band of indians who were supposed to have been concerned in the murder of one of their fellow-citizens. on the d of april they overtook them, encamped on the south fork of trinity river, and taking them by surprise, shot not less than a hundred and fifty of them in cold blood. men, women, and children were alike destroyed.----accounts of murders, accidents, &c., abound. the accounts from the mining districts continue to be encouraging. from the sandwich islands, we have news to the th of april. parliament was opened on the th. in the society group, the people of raiatea have rebelled against the authority of queen pomare. she had just appointed one of her sons to the government of raiatea, but before his arrival the inhabitants had assembled, as those of the others had previously done, elected a governor of their own choice for two years, and formed a republic of confederated states, each island to constitute a separate state. military preparations had been made to resist any attempt on the part of the queen to regain her authority. it was said that she had applied ineffectually for assistance to the french, english, and american authorities at tahiti. there seemed to be little doubt that all the leeward islands would establish their independence. mexico. we have news from the city of mexico to the th of may. the news of the rejection of the tehuantepec treaty is fully confirmed. the vote was almost unanimous against it, and is fully sustained by the press and public sentiment. the government, however, has appointed mr. larrainzas a special envoy to the united states, and has given him, it is said, instructions for arranging this difficulty upon some mutually-satisfactory basis. it is reported that mexico is not unwilling to grant a right of way across the isthmus, but that the very large grants of land embraced in the original treaty led to its rejection. upon this point, however, nothing definite is known.----a difficulty has arisen between the legislature of the state of vera cruz and the mexican congress. the former insists upon a greater reduction of the tariff of than the ten per cent. allowed by the national senate. the senate will allow this reduction of ten per cent., but refuses to do away with any of the duties. the lower house of congress, on the contrary, is in favor of abolishing some of the duties. zacatecas and durango, besides being ravaged by the savages, are suffering from the visitation of a general famine. south america. from buenos ayres we have news to the th of april. the upper provinces have sent in felicitations to general urquiza upon his accession to power. it is thought that the provinces will unite in a general confederacy, under a central government, framed upon the model of that of the united states: and it is suggested that general urquiza will probably aspire to the position of president. he is conducting affairs firmly and successfully, though against great difficulties in the province, and has issued several proclamations calling upon the people to sustain him in maintaining order and tranquillity. it is said that a rupture has occurred between the brazilian authorities and the oriental government, in regard to the execution of late treaties made and ratified by president suarez. negotiations had been suspended. from chili we hear of the execution, at valparaiso, on the th of april, of cambiaso, the brigand leader of the convict insurrection at the straits of magellan, together with six of his accomplices. they all belonged to the army, cambiaso being a lieutenant, and were stationed at the garrison. the insurrection which he headed resulted in the seizure of two american vessels, and the murder of all on board. several others connected with him were convicted, but pardoned on proof that they had been forced to join him. from rio janeiro the only news of interest, is that of the ravages of the yellow-fever, which has been very severe, especially among the shipping. at the middle of april, there were great numbers of american ships in port, unable to muster hands enough to get out of port. in peru the government has issued a decree against gen. flores's expedition, dated the th of march, and stated that having received repeated information of the warlike preparations taking place in peru, they have ordered the prefects of the different provinces to take all possible measures to put a stop to them; that government will not afford protection to any peruvian citizen who should embark on this expedition, or take any part in it, and that all peruvian vessels engaged in the expedition, would no longer be considered as bearing the national flag. from new grenada we learn that the president has issued a message concerning the flores expedition against ecuador. from this it appears that, according to a treaty of peace, amity, and alliance, established between the government and that of ecuador, in december, , the one power is at all times bound to render aid to the other, both military and pecuniary, in case of foreign invasion. to this end, the president has proclaimed that there be raised in this country, either by loan or force, the sum of sixteen millions of reals, or two millions dollars; and further, that twenty thousand men be called to serve under arms, in order to assist the sister republic. the president declares his intention to oppose flores and all countries rendering him aid, and accuses peru of fitting out two vessels, and valparaiso one, to assist in his expedition; he also demands authority to confiscate the property of all natives and foreigners residing in new grenada, who may be found to have aided or abetted flores in any way in his present revolutionary movement. he further states his belief that flores is merely endeavoring to carry out his revolutionary movement of , in which he was defeated by the british government, and that the object of the present revolution is to re-establish a monarchical government on the south pacific coast, under the old spanish rule. he also expresses his fears that flores, if successful in ecuador, will immediately come into new grenada, and therefore deems it not only a matter of honor, but also of policy, to assist ecuador. among the documents submitted, is an official letter to the ecuadorian government, from the united states chargé d'affairs at guayaquil, the hon. c. cushing; in which he says that "he believes himself sufficiently authorized to state that the government of the united states will not look with indifference at any warlike movements against ecuador, likely to effect its independence or present government." at the latest dates, the th of april, flores was still at puna, delaying his attack upon that place until the war he had endeavored to excite between peru and ecuador, should break out. he then expected sufficient aid from peru to render his capture of the place easy. other accounts represent his forces as being rapidly diminished by desertion; but these can scarcely be deemed authentic. reliable intelligence had reached guayaquil that peru had sent reinforcements to the fleet of flores, and this had created so great an excitement that the residence of the peruvian consul was attacked and demolished by a mob. great britain. the intelligence from england extends from the th of april to the d of may, and embraces several items of more than ordinary interest. parliament re-assembled on the day first named, after the holiday recess. in the house of commons a committee was appointed, to inquire into the condition of the british empire in india,--after a speech upon that subject from the president of the board of control, who took occasion to say that the affairs of that country had never before stood upon so good a footing, or in a position so well calculated to develop its resources. there were now natives employed in administrative offices, and forty educational establishments had been endowed, in which the instruction given was of the highest character.----on the d, mr. milner gibson submitted a motion adverse to continuing the duty upon paper, the stamp duties upon newspapers, and the advertisement taxes. the proposition gave rise to a protracted discussion, in which the injurious character of these duties, in restricting the general diffusion of knowledge among the poorer classes of the english people, was very generally admitted, and a wish was expressed on all sides to have them removed. but the chancellor of the exchequer feared the effect of such a step upon the revenue of the kingdom--which the proposal would sacrifice to the extent of a million and a half of pounds. upon his motion the debate was adjourned until the th of may, when it was renewed. mr. gladstone spoke earnestly in exposition of the depressing influence of these taxes upon the production and sale of books, but conceded full weight to the financial reasons which had been urged against their removal. the vote was then taken, first, upon the motion to abolish the paper duty as soon as it could be done with safety to the revenue: which received ayes, --noes, ; being lost by a majority of ; next, upon the abolition of the stamp duty on newspapers; for which there were ayes, --noes, : majority against it, ; and lastly, upon the motion to abolish the tax upon advertisements, for which there were ayes, and noes, and which was thus rejected by a majority of .----on the d of april, the militia bill came up; and was supported by the ministerial party, and opposed by the late ministers. lord john russell opposed it, because he deemed it inadequate to the emergency. the , infantry which it proposed to raise, he deemed insufficient, and the character of the force provided, he feared would make it unreliable. lord palmerston vindicated the bill against lord john's objections, and thought it at once less expensive and more efficient than the one submitted by the late government. on the th, to which the debate was adjourned, after further discussion, the second reading of the bill was carried by to .----the bill came up again on the th, when mr. disraeli declared that its main object was to habituate the people of great britain to the use of arms, and thus to lay the foundation of a constitutional system of national defense. he did not claim that the bill would at once produce a disciplined army, able to encounter the veteran legions of the world; but it would be a step in the right direction. after the debate, an amendment, moved by mr. gibson, that the words , should not form part of the bill, was rejected, to . on the th, the debate was renewed, and several other amendments, designed to embarrass the bill, were rejected. but up to our latest dates, the vote on its final passage had not been taken.----on the th of may, the ministry was defeated, upon a motion of the chancellor of the exchequer for leave to bring in a bill to assign the four seats in parliament, which would be vacated if the bill for the disfranchisement of the borough of st. albans should pass. he proposed to assign two of these seats to the west-riding of yorkshire, and the other two to the southern division of the county of lancaster. the motion was lost: receiving votes in favor, and against it--being an anti-ministerial majority of .----the tenant right bill, intended to meliorate the condition of land cultivators in ireland, was rejected on the th, by a vote of to , upon the second reading.----the court of exchequer having decided against the right of alderman salomons to take his seat in parliament, lord lyndhurst has introduced a bill to remove jewish disabilities.----the duke of argyle called attention, on the th, to the case of mr. murray, an englishman, who was said to have been imprisoned for several years in rome, without a trial, and to be now lying under sentence of death. the earl of malmesbury said that strenuous efforts had been made to procure reliable information upon this case; but that great difficulty had been experienced, in consequence of the very defective and unworthy provisions which existed for diplomatic intercourse with the roman government. the duke of argyle thought that the english government owed to its own dignity some energetic action upon this case. the correspondence upon this subject, as also that with austria upon the expulsion of protestant missionaries from that country, was promised at an early day. on the th of april, mr. disraeli, the chancellor of the exchequer, made the annual statement of the financial condition and necessities of the kingdom, which had been awaited with great interest, as an official announcement of the intended course of the new ministry upon the subject of taxation. he discussed, in succession, the three modes of deriving income--from duties on imports, duties on domestic manufactures, and direct taxation. during the last ten years, under the policy established in by sir robert peel, the duties upon corn and other articles of import, have been reduced, in the aggregate, upward of nine million pounds sterling; and this reduction had been so steadily and regularly made every year, that any proposition to restore them would now have very slight chances of success. in the excise duties, also, there had been reductions to the amount of a million and a half; and it was clear that the minister who should propose to increase the revenue by adding to the duties on domestic manufactures, could not expect to be sustained by the house or the country. the income tax had been very unpopular, and could only be renewed last year, for a single year, and then with very considerable modifications. comparing the actual income of the past year, with that which had been estimated, mr. disraeli said that, while it had been estimated at £ , , , the actual income had been £ , , , notwithstanding the loss of £ , by the change of the house tax for the window duty, and the reduction in the coffee, timber, and sugar duties. the customs had been estimated to produce £ , , . after deducting the anticipated loss, £ , , on account of the three last-named duties, they had produced £ , , ; and the consumption of the articles on which the duties had been reduced had increased--foreign coffee by , , lbs., as compared with , when the higher and differential duty prevailed; and colonial coffee from , , lbs. to , , lbs. foreign sugar had increased in the last year by , cwts., and since (when the first reduction took place) by , , cwts. a year; british colonial sugar, by upward of , in , as compared with ; and during the last six years the consumption had increased , tons, or per cent. on the consumption of ; and in timber the result was the same. the other heads of revenue had been thus estimated: excise, £ , , ; stamps, £ , , ; taxes, £ , , ; property tax, £ , , ; post-office, £ , ; woods and forests, £ , ; miscellaneous, £ , ; old stores, £ , ; and had produced respectively £ , , , £ , , , £ , , , £ , , , £ , , , £ , , £ , , and £ , . the expenditure of the year, estimated at £ , , , had been £ , , , and the surplus in hand was £ , , . the expenditure for the current year he estimated at £ , , , including an additional vote to be proposed of £ , for the kaffir war, and another of £ , for the expenses of the militia. the income, which in some items had been increased by the exhibition last year, was estimated for the next year thus--customs, £ , , ; excise, £ , , ; stamps, £ , , ; taxes, £ , , ; property tax (the half-year), £ , , ; post-office, £ , ; woods and forests, £ , ; miscellaneous, £ , ; old stores, £ , ; total, £ , , , exhibiting a deficiency of £ , , , which would be increased in the next year by the total loss of the income tax, supposing it not to be renewed, to £ , , . if, however, that tax were re-imposed, he calculated it would produce net £ , , , which would give a gross income, from all sources, of £ , , , the surplus would then be £ , . and though it would give him great pleasure to re-adjust the burdens of taxation fairly and equally on all classes, and all interests, yet, seeing the position of the finances, and the difficulty, if not impossibility, of dealing with the subject in the present state of feeling in the house and the country, he felt bound to propose the re-imposition of the property and income tax for a further limited period of one year. this statement was received by the house, as by the whole country, as embodying a substantial tribute from the protectionist ministry to the soundness of the free trade policy and to the necessity of leaving it undisturbed. the annual dinner of the royal academy was attended on the st with more than usual eclat. sir charles eastlake presided, and proposed the health of the duke of wellington, who duly acknowledged the compliment. the earl of derby was present, and spoke encouragingly of the prospect of having a better building soon erected for the accommodation of the academy's works. pleasant compliments were exchanged between disraeli and lord john russell, and speeches were made by sundry other dignitaries who were in attendance.----at the lord mayor's dinner, on the th, the festivities partook more of a political character. the earl of derby spoke long and eloquently of the nature of the british government, urging that in all its various departments it was a compromise between conflicting expedients and a system of mutual concessions between apparently conflicting interests. count walewski, the french minister, congratulated the company on the good understanding which prevailed between france and england, and mr. disraeli spoke of the house of commons as a true republic--"the only republic, indeed, that exists founded upon the principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity; but liberty there was maintained by order--equality is mitigated by good taste, and fraternity takes the shape of cordial brotherhood."----the anniversary dinner of the royal literary fund took place on the th, and was chiefly distinguished by an amusing speech from thackeray. an important collision has occurred between the book publishers in london and the retail booksellers, which has engrossed attention to no inconsiderable extent. the publishers, it seems, have been in the habit of fixing a retail price upon their books, and then selling them to dealers at a deduction of twenty-five per cent. some of the latter, thinking to increase their sales thereby, have contented themselves with a smaller rate of profit, and have sold their books at less than the price fixed by the publishers. against this the latter have taken active measures of remonstrance, having formed an association among themselves, and agreed to refuse to deal with booksellers who should thus undersell the regular trade. on the other hand the retail dealers have held meetings to assert their rights, and one of them, held on the th, was attended by a very large number of the authors and men of letters interested in the question. mr. dickens presided, and a characteristic letter was read from mr. carlyle, who was warmly in favor of the objects of the meeting, though he thought many other things necessary to give authors their proper position in society. the rights of the case were submitted to lord campbell, mr. grote, and dr. milman, who heard both sides argued, and gave a decision on the th, on all points _against_ the regulations for which the publishers contended. very sad intelligence has reached england of the fate of a party of seven missionaries, who were sent out by the protestant missionary society, in , to patagonia. captain gardiner was at the head of the band. the vessel that took them out landed at picton island, off the southern coast of terra del fuego, on the th of december, , and kept hovering about to see how they were likely to be received. the natives seemed menacing: but on the th of december the missionaries left the ship, and with their stores of provisions, bibles, &c., embarked in two boats, meaning to make for the coast of terra del fuego. on the th the ship sailed; and no news of them having reached england, the ship _dido_ was ordered by the admiralty in october, , to touch there, and ascertain their fate. the _dido_ reached the coast in january, and after ten or twelve days of search, on a rock near where they first landed on picton island, a writing was found directing them to go to spaniard harbor, on the opposite fuegan coast. here were found, near a large cavern, the unburied bodies of captain gardiner and another of the party; and the next day the bodies of three others were found. a manuscript journal, kept by captain gardiner, down to the last day when, only two or three days before his death, he became too weak to write, was also found, from which it appeared that the parties were driven off by the natives whenever they attempted to land; that they were thus compelled to go backward and forward in their boats, and at last took refuge in spaniard harbor, as the only spot where they could be safe; that they lived there eight months, partly in a cavern and partly under shelter of one of the boats, and that three of them died by sickness, and the others by literal and lingering starvation. four months elapsed between the death of the last of the party and the discovery of their bodies. the publication of the journal of captain gardiner, in which profound piety is shown mingled with his agonizing grief, has excited a deep sensation throughout england.----an explosion occurred in a coal pit in the aberdare valley, south wales, on the th, by which sixty-four lives were lost; another pit near pembrey filled with water the same night, and twenty-seven men were drowned.----the fate of the crystal palace was sealed by a vote in the house of commons of to on a proposition to provide for its preservation. it has been sold, and is to be forthwith taken down, and re-erected out of town, for a winter garden.----a memorial numerously and most respectably signed, was presented to the lord lieutenant of ireland, on the th of may, praying that the queen would extend clemency to the irish state prisoners now in exile at van dieman's land. the lord lieutenant, in a brief and direct speech, declined to lay the memorial before her majesty, on the ground that the exiles in question deserved no further clemency at her hands. he noticed, with censure, the fact that one of them had effected his escape. france. the _fêtes_ of may th, were attended with great splendor and eclat; but the non-proclamation of the empire on that occasion is the feature most remarked upon by the foreign press. the number of troops present is estimated at , . the whole champ de mars had been prepared especially for the occasion. the president was received with loud applause. after distributing the eagles among the various regiments, he addressed them briefly, saying that the history of nations was, in a great measure, the history of armies--that on their success or reverse depends the fate of civilization and of the country; that the roman eagle adopted by the emperor napoleon at the commencement of the century was the most striking signification of the regeneration and the grandeur of france; and that it should now be resumed, not as a menace against foreign powers, but as the symbol of independence, the souvenir of an heroic epoch, and as the sign of the nobleness of each regiment. after this address the standards were taken to the chapel and blessed by the archbishop. the ceremonies were protracted and attended by an immense concourse of spectators.----general changarnier has addressed a remarkable letter to the minister of the interior in reply to his demand that he should take the oath of allegiance to louis napoleon. he says that the president had repeatedly endeavored to seduce him to his support--that he had offered not only to make him marshal but to confer upon him another military dignity unknown since the empire, and to attach to it immense pecuniary rewards; that when he perceived that personal ambition had no effect upon him, he endeavored to gain him over, by pretending a design to prepare the way for the restoration of the monarchy to which he supposed him to be attached. all these attempts had been without effect. he had never ceased to be ready to defend with energy the legal powers of louis napoleon, and to give every opposition to the illegal prolongation of those powers. the exile he had undergone in solitude and silence had not changed his opinion of the duties he owed to france. he would hasten to her defense should she be attacked, but he refused the oath exacted by the perjured man who had failed to corrupt him. in reply to this letter, m. cassagnac, editor of the _constitutionnel_, brought against general changarnier specific charges--that in march, , he demanded from louis napoleon written authority to throw the constituent assembly out of the window--that he subsequently urged him in the strongest manner to make a _coup d'etat_; and that in november, , he assembled a number of political personages, and proposed to them to arrest louis napoleon and send him to prison, to prorogue the assembly for six months, and to make him dictator. it was further alleged that one of the persons present at this meeting was m. molé, who refused to sanction the scheme and immediately disclosed it to the president. count molé immediately published an indignant denial of the whole story, so far as his name had been connected with it.----general lamoriciere has, also, in a published letter, refused to take the oath required; he declares his readiness to defend france against foreign foes whenever she shall be attacked, but he will not take the oath of fidelity to a perjured chief.----the venerable astronomer, arago, has also refused to take the oath of allegiance required of all connected in any way with the government. he wrote a firm and dignified letter to the minister notifying him of his purpose, and calling on him to designate the day when it would be necessary for him to quit the bureau of longitude with which he had been so closely connected for half a century. he also informed him that he should address a circular letter to scientific men throughout the world, explaining the necessity which drove him from an establishment with which his name had been so long associated, and to vindicate his motives from suspicion. the minister informed him that, in consideration of his eminent services to the cause of science, the government had decided not to exact the oath, and that he could therefore retain his post.----these examples of non-concurrence in the new policy of the president have been followed by inferior magistrates in various parts of france. in several of the departments members of the local councils have refused to take the oaths of allegiance, and in the towns of havre, thiers, and evreux the tribunals of commerce have done likewise. the civil courts of paris have also, in one or two instances, asserted their independence by deciding against the government in prosecutions commenced against the press. on the d of april, moreover, the civil tribunal gave judgment on the demand made by the princes of the orleans family to declare illegal the seizure by the prefect of the seine, of the estates of neuilly and monceaux, under the decree of the d of january, relative to the property of the late king, louis philippe. in answer to this demand, the prefect of the seine, in the name of the government, called on the tribunal to declare that the decree of d january was a legislative act, and the seizure of the property an administrative act, and that consequently the tribunal had no jurisdiction. the case was pleaded at great length; and the court pronounced a judgment declaring itself competent, keeping the case before it, fixing a day for discussing it on its merits, and condemning the prefect in costs. these movements indicate a certain degree of reaction in the public mind, and have prepared the way for the favorable reception of a letter which the bourbon pretender, the count de chambord, has issued to the partisans of monarchy throughout france. this letter is dated at venice, april , and is designed as an official declaration of his wishes to all who wish still to remain faithful to the principles which he represents. he declares it to be the first duty of royalists to do no act, to enter into no engagement, in opposition to their political faith. they must not hesitate, therefore, to refuse all offices where promises are required from them contrary to their principles, and which would not permit them to do in all circumstances what their convictions impose upon them. still, important and active duties are devolved upon them. they should reside as much as possible in the midst of the population on whom they can exercise influence, and should try, by rendering themselves useful to them, to acquire, each day, still greater claims to their gratitude and confidence. they ought also to aid the government in its struggles against anarchy and socialism, and to show themselves in all emergencies the most courageous defenders of social order. even in case of an attempt to re-establish the empire, they are exhorted to abstain from doing any thing to endanger the repose of the country, but to protest formally against any change which can endanger the destinies of france, and expose it once more to catastrophes and perils from which the legitimate monarchy alone can save it. he urges them to be unalterable on matters of principle, but at the same time calm, patient, and ever moderate and conciliating toward persons. "let your ranks, your hearts," he says, "like mine, remain continually open to all. we are all thrown on times of trials and of sacrifices; and my friends will not forget that it is from the land of exile that i make this new appeal to their constancy and their devotedness. happier days are yet in store for france and for us. i am certain of the fact. it is in my ardent love for my country--it is in the hope of serving it--of being able to serve it--that i gather the strength and the courage necessary for me to accomplish the great duties which have been imposed on me by providence."----additional importance is ascribed to this proclamation from the fact that it was made just after a visit from the grand dukes of russia and venice, and just before the arrival of the emperor nicholas at vienna. the death of prince schwarzenberg is supposed to have led to a still closer union of interest and of policy between austria and russia, as the personal leanings both of the austrian emperor, and the new prime minister are known to be in that direction. some further developments have been made of the sentiments of the three allied powers, austria, russia, and prussia, concerning the re-establishment of the empire in france. it is represented that the late minister of austria was in favor of encouraging such a step, but that both the other powers concurred in saying that the accomplishment of it would be a "violation of the treaties of and , inasmuch as those treaties have excluded for ever the family of bonaparte from the government of france." now, those treaties form the basis of the whole policy of europe; and it is the duty of the powers to demand that they shall be respected by the president of the republic himself in all their provisions, and particularly not to permit any infraction of them as to the point in question, which has reference to him personally. nevertheless, the sovereigns of prussia and russia would not perhaps be disposed to refuse to recognize louis napoleon bonaparte as emperor of the french republic--if that title were conferred on him by a new plébiscite--as had been spoken of but they should only recognize him as an elective emperor, and for life, with only a status analogous to that of the former kings of poland. if the two cabinets of st. petersburg and berlin consented to such a recognition, it was the utmost that it was possible to do; but, most certainly, beyond that point they should never go. at the same time, the cabinets formally declare, that they would only recognize the emperor of the french republic on the condition of his election being the result of the mode already announced (the plébiscite). they will not admit any other manner of re-establishing in france an imperial throne, even were it but for life; the two sovereigns being firmly resolved never to accept in the person of louis napoleon bonaparte, any other than the supreme elective chief of the republic, and to oppose by all the means in their power the pretension of establishing the actual president of the french republic as emperor, in the sense of an hereditary transmitter or founder of a napoleonian dynasty. they add, that louis napoleon bonaparte not being the issue of a sovereign or reigning family, can not become a real sovereign, or assimilate himself to reigning houses.----the pictures belonging to the late marshal soult were sold at auction on the th. the collection consisted of paintings, and among them were many of the master-pieces of the old masters. the most celebrated was murillo's 'conception of the virgin,' for which the chief competitors were the emperor of russia, the queen of spain, and the director of the louvre. it was bought by the latter at the enormous price of , francs,--or about $ , . eastern and southern europe. in prussia, a communication was made on the th of april by the king to the chambers, transmitting a bill to abolish the articles of the constitution and regulate the organization of the peerage. in the first chamber it was referred to the existing committee on the constitution of the body concerned. in the second chamber a committee was appointed to consider the measure. the minister desired that the matter might be quickly dispatched. in the same sitting of the th, the second chamber came to two other important votes. it rejected, by a majority of to , the resolution of the first chamber, and which, dividing the budget of ordinary and extraordinary expenses, decided that the first should be no longer fixed annually, but once for all, and that no future modification should take place, except by a law. it also rejected, by to , another decision of the first chamber, by which it had declared, in opposition to the constitution, that it could vote the budget, article by article, like the second chamber. in tuscany a decree of the grand duke has abolished the constitution and civic guard, and constituted the government on the same basis as before . the ministers are henceforward responsible to the grand duke; the council of state is separated from that of the ministers; the communal law of and the law on the press are to be revised. the danish question has been settled in london, by conferences of the representatives of the several powers concerned. prince christian of glucksberg is to succeed to the crown on the death of the present king and his brother, both of whom are childless. in turkey all differences with egypt have been adjusted. fuad-effendi, it is announced by the paris _presse_, justifying all the hopes which his mission had given birth to, has come to a complete understanding with the egyptian government, whose good intentions and perfect fair dealing he admits. the viceroy accepts the code with the modifications called for by the state of the country, and which the turco-egyptian commissioners had already fixed in their conferences at constantinople. on its side, the porte accords to the viceroy the right of applying the punishment of death during seven years, without reference to the divan. editor's table. the birth-day of a nation is not merely a figurative expression. nations are _born_ as well as men. the very etymology of the word implies as much. social compacts may be _declarative of their independence_, or definitive of their existence, but do not create them. in truth, all such compacts and conventions do in themselves imply a previous natural growth or organization lying necessarily still farther back, as the ground of any legitimacy they may possess. there can be no _con-vening_ unless there is something to determine, _a priori_, who shall _come together_, and how they shall come together--as _representatives_ of what _principals_--as _parts_ of what ascertained _whole_--with what powers, on what terms, and for what ends. there can no more be an artificial nation than an artificial language. aside from other influences, all attempts of the kind must be as abortive in politics as they have ever been in philology. nations are not manufactured, either to order or otherwise, but born--born of other nations, and nurtured in those peculiar arrangements of god's providence which are expressly adapted to such a result. the analogy between them and individuals may be traced to almost any extent. they have, in general, some one event in which there may be discovered the conceptive principle, or _principium_, of their national life. they have their embryo or formative period. they have their _birth_, or the time of their complete separation from the maternal nationality to which they were most nearly and dependently united. they have their struggling infancy--their youth--their growth--_their heroic period_--their iron age of hardship and utility--their manhood--their silver age of luxury and refinement--their golden age of art and science and literature--their acme--their decline--their decay--their final extinction, or else their dissolution into those fragmentary organisms from which spring up again the elements or seeds of future nationalities. we need not trace our own history through each of these periods. the incipient stages have all been ours, although, in consequence of a more healthy and vigorous maternity, we have passed through them with a rapidity of which the previous annals of the world present no examples. less than a century has elapsed since that birth, whose festive natal day is presented in the calendar of the present month, and yet we are already approaching the season of manhood. we have passed that proud period which never comes but once in a nation's life, although it may be succeeded by others far surpassing it in what may be esteemed the more substantial elements of national wealth and national prosperity. almost every state has had its heroic age. we too have had ours, and we may justly boast of it as one equaling in interest and grandeur any similar period in the annals of greece and rome--as one which would not shrink from a comparison with the chivalrous youth of any of the nations of modern europe. it is the unselfish age, or rather, the time when the self-consciousness, both individual and national, is lost in some strong and all-absorbing emotion--when a strange elevation of feeling and dignity of action are imparted to human nature, and men act from motives which seem unnatural and incredible to the more calculating and selfish temperaments of succeeding times. it is a period which seems designed by providence, not for itself only, or the great effects of which it is the immediate cause, but for its influence upon the whole after-current of the national existence. the strong remembrance of it becomes a part of the national life; it enters into its most common and constant thinking, gives a peculiar direction to its feeling; it imparts a peculiar character to its subsequent action; it makes its whole historical being very different from what it would have been had there been no such epic commencement, no such superhuman or _heroic birth_. it furnishes a treasury of glorious reminiscences wherewith to reinvigorate from time to time the national virtue when impaired, as it ever is, by the factious, and selfish, and unheroic temper produced by subsequent days of merely economical or utilitarian prosperity. this heroic age must pass away. it is sustained, while it lasts, by special influences which can not have place in the common life and ordinary work of humanity. its continuance, therefore, would be inconsistent with other benefits and other improvements of a more sober or less exciting kind, but which, nevertheless, belong to the proper development of the state. the deep effects, however, still remain. it inspires the poet and the orator. it furnishes the historian with his richest page. it tinges the whole current of the national literature. in fact, there can be no such thing as a national literature, in its truest sense--there can be no national poetry, no true national art, no national music, except as more or less intimately connected with the spirit of such a period. it was not the genius of democracy simply, as grote and some other historians maintain, but the heroic remembrances of the persian invasion, that roused the grecian mind, and created the brilliant period of the grecian civilization. the new energy that came from this period was felt in every department--of song, of eloquence, of art, and even of philosophy. marathon and salamis still sustained the national life when it was waning under the mere political wisdom of pericles, the factious recklessness of alcibiades, and the still more debasing influence of the venal demagogues of later times. when this old spirit had gone out, there was nothing in the mere forms of her free institutions that could prevent athens from sinking down into insignificance, or from being absorbed in the growth of new and rising powers. rome would never have been the mistress of the world, had it not been for the heroic impetus generated in the events which marked her earliest annals. even if we are driven to regard these as in a great measure mythical, they still, in the highest and most valid sense, belong to roman history, and all the efforts of niebuhr and of arnold have failed, and ever will fail, to divest them of the rank they have heretofore maintained among the formative influences in the roman character. they entered into the national memory. they formed for ages the richest and most suggestive part of the national thinking. they became thus more really and vitally incorporated into the national being than many events whose historical authenticity no critic has ever called in question. but we can not believe them wholly or even mainly mythical. some of the more modern theories on this subject will have to be re-examined. with all their plausibility they are open to the objection of presenting the mightiest effects without adequate or corresponding causes. twelve hundred years of empire, such as that of rome, could not well have had its origin in any period marked by events less strangely grand and chivalrous than those that livy has recorded. brutus, and cincinnatus, and fabricius, must have been as real as the splendid reality which could only have grown out of so heroic an ancestry. the spirit of numa more truly ruled, even in the later roman empire, than did ever that of augustus. it was yet powerful in the days of constantine. it was still present in that desperate struggle which made it difficult, even for a christian senate, to cast out the last vestiges of the old religion, and to banish the goddess of victory from the altars and temples she had so long occupied. a similar view, drawn from the jewish history, must commend itself to every one who has even an ordinary knowledge of the scriptures. the glorious deliverances from egyptian bondage, the sublime reminiscences of sinai, the heroic, as exhibited in moses, and joshua, and jephthah, and gideon, are ever reappearing in the hebrew prophetic and lyrical poetry. these proud recollections cheer them in the long years of the captivity. even in the latest and most debasing periods of their history, they impart an almost superhuman energy to their struggle with rome; and what is more than all, after having sustained the jewish song, and the jewish eloquence, during ages of depressing conflict, their influence is still felt in all the noblest departments of christian art and christian literature. no, we may almost say it, there can not truly be a nation without something that may be called its heroic age; or if there have been such, the want of this necessary fountain of political vitality has been the very reason why they have perished from the pages of history. we, too, have had such a period in our annals, and we are all the better for it, and shall be all the better for it, as long as our political existence shall endure. some such chapter in our history seems necessary to legitimate our claim to the appellation; and however extravagant it may seem, the assertion may, nevertheless, be hazarded, that one borrowed from the maternal nationality, or from a foreign source, or even altogether mythical, would be better than none at all. if we had not had our pilgrim fathers, our mayflower band, our plymouth rock, our bunker hill, our saratoga, our washingtons, our warrens, our putnams, our montgomerys, our heroic martyr-congresses, voting with the executioner and the ax before their eyes, we might better have drawn upon the epic imagination for some such introduction to our political existence, than regard it as commencing merely with prosaic paper compacts, or such artificial gatherings as are presented in your unheroic, though very respectable baltimore and harrisburg conventions. some such chivalrous commencement is, moreover, absolutely essential to that great idea of national _continuity_, so necessary for the highest ends of political organization; and yet so liable to be impaired or wholly lost in the strife of those ephemeral parties, those ever-gathering, ever-dissolving factions, which, ignoring both the future and the past, are absorbed solely in the magnified interests of the present hour. for this purpose, we want an antiquity of some kind--even though it may not be a distant one--something parted from us by events so grand, so unselfish, so unlike the common, every-day acts of the current years, as to have the appearance at least of a sacred and memory-hallowed remoteness. we need to have our store of glorious olden chronicles, over which time has thrown his robe of reverence--a reverence which no profane criticism of after days shall be allowed to call in question, no subsequent statistics be permitted to impair. we need to have our proud remembrances for all parties, for all interests, for all ages--our common fund of heroic thought, affording a constant supply for the common mind of the state, thus ever living in the national history, connecting each present not only with such a heroic commencement, but, through it, with all the past that intervenes, and in this way furnishing a historical bond of union stronger than can be found in any amount of compromises or paper constitutions. if we would be truly a state, we must have "_the fathers_," and the revered "olden time." it is in some such veneration for a common glorious ancestry that a political organization finds its deepest root. instead of being absurd, it is the most rational, as well as the most conservative of all feelings in which we can indulge. the more we are under its influence, the higher do we rise in the scale of being above the mere animal state, and that individualism which is its chief characteristic. it is a "good and holy thought" thus to regard the dead as still present with us, and past generations as still having an interest in our history--still justly claiming some voice in the administration of that _inheritance_ they have transmitted to us, and in respect to which our influence over the ages to come will be in proportion to our reverential remembrance of those that have preceded. such a feeling is the opposite of that banefully radical and disorganizing view which regards the state as a mere aggregation of individual local fragments in space, and a succession of separately-flowing drops in time--which looks upon the present majority of the present generation as representing the whole national existence, and which is, of course, not only inconsistent with any true historical life, but with any thing which is really entitled to the name of fundamental or constitutional law. it is the opposite, both in its nature and its effects, of that contemptible cant now so common in both political parties, and which is ever talking of "young america" as some new development, unconnected with any thing that has ever gone before it. the heroic men of our revolution, they were "young america;" the gambling managers of modern political caucuses, to whatever party they may belong, or whatever may be their age or standing, are the real and veritable "old fogies." we can not attach too much importance to this idea of _inheritance_, so deeply grounded in the human mind. the _sancti patres_ are indispensable to a true historical nationality. hence the classical name for country--_patria a patribus_--_the father-land_. we love it, not simply for its present enjoyments and present associations, but for its past recollections-- land of the pilgrims' pride, land where our fathers died. without some such thought of transmitted interest continually carrying the past into the present, and both into the future, patriotism is but the cant of the demagogue. our country is our country, not only in space, but in time--not only territorially, but historically; and it is in this latter aspect it must ever present its most intense and vital interest. where such an interest is excluded, or unappreciated, there is nothing elevated, nothing heroic, to which the name of patriotism can be given. there is nothing but the most momentary selfishness which can bind our affections to one spot on earth more than to any other. opposed to this is a species of cosmopolitanism, which sometimes claims the scriptures as being on its side. the opinion, however, will not stand the test of fair interpretation. the bible, it is true, enjoins love to all mankind, but not as a blind and abstract philanthropy which would pass over all the intermediate gradations that infinite wisdom has appointed. love of "the fathers," love of family, love of kindred, love of "our own people"--"our own, our _native_ land"--our "own zion," nationally, as well as ecclesiastically, are commended, not only as good in themselves, but as the foundation of all the other social virtues, as the appointed means, in fact, by which the circle of the affections is legitimately expanded, and, at the same time, with a preservation of that intensity of feeling which is never found in any inflating abstract cosmopolitan benevolence. in no book, too, do we find more distinctly set forth that idea which we have styled the root of all true patriotism--the idea of the national continuance from generation to generation, as a living, responsible whole--as one ever-flowing stream, in which the individual parts are passing away, it is true but evermore passing to that "congregation of the fathers" which still lives in the present organic life. it is presented, too, not as any difficult or transcendental or mystical conception, but as a thought belonging everywhere to the common mind, and necessarily underlying all those dread views the scripture so often give us of national accountability and national retribution. every country distinguished for great deeds has ever been proud of its ancestors; has ever gloried in the facts of its early history; has ever connected them with whatever was glorious in its later annals has ever made them the boast of its eloquence, the themes of its poetry, and the subjects of festal rejoicings. in the preservation of such feelings and such ideas, our annual fourth of july celebrations instead of being useless, and worse than useless periods of noisy declamation, as some would contend, are, in fact, doing more to preserve our union than the strongest legislative acts. this may hold when every other cable in the vessel has parted. the bare thought that our glorious old fourth of july could never more be celebrated in its true spirit (and it would be equally gone for each and every sundered fragment) is enough to check the wildest faction, and to stay the hand of the most reckless disunionist. it was in view of such an effect, that one of our wisest statesmen, one the farthest removed from the demagogue, and himself a participator in our heroic struggle, is represented as so enthusiastically commending this annual festival to the perpetual observation of posterity, "through the thick gloom of the present," he exclaims, "i see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. we shall make this _a glorious, an immortal day_. when we are in our graves our children will honor it. they will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. on its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears of exultation of gratitude, and of joy." "and so that day _shall_ be honored," continues his eloquent eulogist--"and so that day shall be honored, illustrious prophet and patriot! so that day shall be honored, and as often as it returns thy renown shall come along with it, and the glory of thy life, like the day of thy death, shall not fail from the remembrance of men!" the highest reason, then, as well as the purest feeling, bid us not be ashamed of glorying in our forefathers. scripture is in unison here with patriotism in commending the sacred sentiment. there is a religious element in the true love of race and country. "the god of our fathers" becomes a prime article of the national as well as of the ecclesiastical creed, and without the feeling inspired by it, nationality may turn out to be a mere figment, which all political bandages will fail to sustain against the disorganizing influence of factious or sectional interests. it is not absurd, too, to cherish the belief that our ancestors were better men than ourselves, if we ourselves are truly made better by thus believing. as we have remarked before, there may be mythical exaggeration attending such tradition, but if so, this very exaggeration must have had its ground in something really transcending what takes place in the ordinary course of a nation's life. some late german scholars have been hunting out depreciating charges against the hero of marathon, and, for this purpose, have subjected his very ashes to the most searching critical analysis. truth, it may be said, is always sacred. we would not wish to undervalue the importance of the sentiment. but miltiades the patriot is the real element that exerted so heroic an effect upon the subsequent grecian history. miltiades charged with political offenses lives only as the subject of antiquarian research, or a humiliating example of the common depravity appearing among the most lauded of mankind. and so, in our own case, what political utility can there be in discovering, even if it were so, that washington was not so wise, or warren so brave, or putnam so adventurous, or bunker hill so heroically contested, as has been believed? away with such skepticism, we say, and the mousing criticism by which it is sometimes attempted to be supported. such beliefs have at all events become real for us by entering into the very soul of our history, and forming the staple of our national thought. to take them away would now be a baneful disorganizing of the national mind. their influence has been felt in every subsequent event. saratoga and monmouth have reappeared in chippewa, and new orleans, and buena vista. may it not be hoped, too, that something of the men who convened in philadelphia on the th of july, , or of that earlier band on whom burke pronounced his splendid eulogy, may still live, even in the worst and poorest of our modern congresses! again, this reverence for "the fathers" is the most healthfully conservative of all influences, because it presents the common sacred ground on which all political parties, all sectional divisions, and all religious denominations can heartily unite. every such difference ought to give way, and, in general, does give way, in the presence of the healing spirit that comes to us from the remembrance of those old heroic times. the right thinking episcopalian not only acquiesces, but rejoices cordially in the praises of the pilgrim fathers. he can glory even in their stern puritanism, without losing a particle of reverence or respect for his own cherished views. the presbyterian glows with pride at the mention of the cavaliers of virginia, and sees in their ancient loyalty the strength and consistency of their modern republicanism. the most rigid churchman of either school--whether of canterbury or geneva--finds his soul refreshed by the thought of that more than martial heroism which distinguished the followers of penn and the first colonists of pennsylvania. our rapid editorial view has been suggested by the great festal period of the current month; but we can not close it without the expression of one thought which we deem of the highest importance. if the influences coming from this heroic age of our history are so very precious, we should be careful not to diminish their true conservative power, by associating them with every wretched imitation for which there may be claimed the same or a similar name. the memory of our revolution (to which we could show, if time permitted, there should be given a truer and a nobler epithet) is greatly lowered by being compared continually with every miserable cuban expedition and canadian invasion, or every european _émeute_, without any reference to the grounds on which they are attempted, or the characters and motives of those by whom they are commenced. we may indeed sympathize with every true effort to burst the hard bonds of irresponsible power; but we should carefully see to it that our own sacred deposit of glorious national reminiscences lose not all its reverence by being brought out for too common uses, or profaned by too frequent comparison with that which is really far below it, if not altogether of a different kind. when washington and greene and franklin are thus placed side by side with lopez, and ledru-rollin, and louis blanc, or a profane parallel is run between the pilgrim colonists and modern socialists and st. simonians, there is only an inevitable degradation on the one side without any true corresponding elevation on the other. they are the enemies of our revolution, and of its true spirit, who are thus for making it subservient to all purposes that may be supposed to bear the least resemblance. our fathers' struggle, be it ever remembered, was not for the subversion but the conservation of constitutional law, and, therefore, even its most turbulent and seemingly lawless acts acquire a dignity placing them above all vulgar reference, and all vulgar imitation. he is neither a patriot nor a philanthropist who would compare the destruction of the tea in the harbor of boston with every abolition riot, or every resistance to our own solemnly enacted laws, or every lynching mob that chooses to caricature the forms of justice, or every french _émeute_, or revolutionary movement with its mock heroics--its burlesque travestie of institutions it can not comprehend, and of a liberty for which it so soon shows itself utterly unqualified. it is our mission to redeem and elevate mankind, by showing that the spirit of our heroic times lives constantly in the political institutions to which they gave birth, and that republican forms are perfectly consistent, not only with personal liberty, but with all those higher ideas that are connected with the conservation of law, of reverence, of loyalty, of rational submission to right authority--in a word, of true _self-government_, as the positive antithesis to that animal and counterfeit thing--the _government of self_. it is not the conservative who is staying the true progress of mankind. a licentious press, a corrupt and gambling spirit of faction in our political parties, and, above all, frequent exhibitions of vulgar demagoguism in our legislative bodies, may do more to strengthen and perpetuate the european monarchies, than all the ignorance of their subjects, and all the power of their armies. editor's easy chair. an easy chair for july, and specially for such hot july, as we doubt not is just now ripening over our readers' heads, should be a cool chair, with a lining of leather, rather than the soft plushes which beguile the winter of its iciness. just so, we should be on the look-out in these hap-hazard pages, that close our monthly labors, for what may be cooling in the way of talk; and should make our periods wear such shadows as will be grateful to our sun-beaten readers. if by a touch of the pen, we could, for instance, build up a grove of leaf-covered trees, with some pebble-bottomed brook fretting below--idly, carelessly, impetuously--even as our pen goes fretting over this paris _feuille_; and if we could steep our type in that summer fragrance which lends itself to the country groves of july; and if we could superadd--like so many fragmentary sparkles of verse--the songs of july birds--what a claimant of your thanks we should become? much as a man may be street-ridden, after long city experience--even as the old and rheumatic become bed-ridden--yet the far-off shores of hoboken, and the tree-whispers of st. john's and grammercy parks, do keep alive somewhat of the eden longings, which are born into the world with us, and which can only die when our hearts are dead. and hence it is that we find it a loving duty to linger much and often as we may in this sunny season of the year (alas, that it should be only in imagination!) around rural haunts--plucking flowers with broad-bonneted girls--studying shadows with artist eye--brushing the dews away with farmers' boys--lolling in pools with sleek-limbed cattle--dropping worms or minnow with artist anglers, and humming to ourselves, in the soft and genial spirit of the scene, such old-time pleasant verses as these: the lofty woods, the forests wide and long, adorned with leaves and branches fresh and green, in whose cool bowers the birds with many a song do welcome with their quire the summer's queen; the meadows fair, where flora's gifts among are intermixed with verdant grass between; the silver-scaled fish that softly swim within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream. all these and many more of his creation that made the heavens, the angler oft doth see; taking therein no little delectation, to think how strange, how wonderful they be; framing, thereof, an inward contemplation, to set his heart from other fancies free; and while he looks on these with joyful eye, his mind is rapt above the starry sky. and since we are thus in the humor of old and rural-imaged verse--notwithstanding the puff and creak of the printing enginery is coming up from the caverns below us (a very vulcan to the venus of our thought) we shall ask your thanks for yet another triad of verses, which will (if you be not utterly barren) breed daisies on your vision. the poet has spoken of such omnibus drives and perrine pavements as offended good sense two or three hundred years ago: let them that list these pleasures then pursue, and on their foolish fancies feed their fill; so i the fields and meadows green may view, and by the rivers fresh may walk at will, among the daizies and the violets blue, red hyacinth, and yellow daffodil, purple narcissus like the morning rayes, pale ganderglas, and azure culverkayes. i count it better pleasure to behold the goodly compass of the loftie skie; and in the midst thereof, like burning gold, the flaming chariot of the world's great eye; the wat'ry clouds that in the ayre up rolled with sundry kinds of painted colors flie; and faire aurora lifting up her head, all blushing rise from old tithonus' bed. the hills and mountains raised from the plains, the plains extended level with the ground, the ground divided into sundry vaines, the vaines enclosed with running rivers round, the rivers making way through nature's chaines, with headlong course into the sea profound; the surging sea beneath the vallies low, the vallies sweet, and lakes that gently flow. the reader may thank us for a seasonable bouquet--tied up with old ribbon indeed, and in the old free and easy way--but the perfume is richer than the artificial scents of your modern verse. * * * * * we do not know who first gave the epithet "leafy june;" but the goodness of the term was never so plain, as through that twelfthlet of the year which has just shadowed our paths. whether it be the heavy rains of the early spring, or an over-luxurious outburst from the over-stiff chains of the last winter--certain it is, that the trees never bore up such heaviness of green, or the grass promised such height and "bottom." and we can not forbear the hope, that the exceeding beauty of the summer will stimulate the activity and benevolence of those guardians of our city joy, in whose hands lies the fate of the "up-town park." * * * * * and as we speak of parks, comes up a thought of that very elegant monument to the memory of washington, which has risen out of the brains of imaginative and venturesome people, any time during the last fifty years. the affair seems to have a periodic and somewhat whimsical growth. we suffer a kind of intermittent washingtonianism, which now and then shows a very fever of drawings, and of small subscriptions; and anon, the chill takes us, and shakes the whole fabric to the ground. we can not but regard it as a very unfavorable symptom, that a corner-stone should have been laid some two or three years ago in a quarter called hamilton square, and that extraordinary energy should have pushed forward the monumental design to the height of a few feet. since that period a debility has prevailed. the washington sentiment has languished painfully--proving to our mind most satisfactorily, that the true washington enthusiasm is periodic in its growth; and that to secure healthful alternations of recruit and exuberance, it should--like asparagus--be cut off below ground. meantime, the strangers and office-seekers of our great capital, are doing somewhat toward redeeming the fame of the country. in connection with their design, a suggestion is just now bruited of calling upon clergymen, this coming fourth of july (three days hence, bear in mind) to drop a hint to the memory of the hero who has made that day the sunday of our political year, and furthermore, to drop such pennies, as his parishioners will bestow, into the washington monumental fund. we should be untrue to the chit-chat of the hour--as well as to our washington fervor--if we did not give the suggestion a record, and the purpose a benison! * * * * * it is fortunate for all minor matters--such as jenny lind, kossuth, green-peas, strawberries, and lola montez--that our president-making comes only by quartettes of years. it is painful to think of the monotone of talk which would overtake the world, if baltimore conventions were held monthly or even yearly. we are writing now in the eye of the time; and can give no guess as to what candidates will emerge from the baltimore ballot-boxes; but when this shall come under our reader's eye, two names only will form the foci of his political fears and hopes. without any predilections whatever, we most ardently wish that our reader may not be disappointed--however his hopes may tend: and if any editor in the land can "trim" to his readers' humor, with greater sincerity, and larger latitude, we should like to know it. * * * * * ole bull has been delighting the musical world, in his way, for the month last gone, and has made more converts to the violin, by the fullness of his faith, and the fervor of his action, than many preachers can win over, by like qualities, to any labor of love. the truth is, there lies in this scandinavian a heartiness of impulse, and an exuberance of soul, which makes the better part of what men call genius. you have a conviction--as you listen--that you are dependent for your delight upon no nice conformity with rules--no precision of compliance--no formulary excellence, but only and solely upon the spirit of the man, creeping over him to the very finger-tips, and making music and melody of very necessity. there is a freshness, a wildness, a _fierté_ in the harmonies that ole bull creates, which appeal not alone to your nice students of flats and sharps, but to every ear that ever heard a river flowing, or the soughing of pine woods. it is a make-piece--not of donizetti's arias--but of that unceasing and musical hum which is going up every summer's day in the way of bee-chants, and bird-anthems, and which the soul-wakened scandinavian has caught, and wrought and strung upon five bits of thread! the papers (they are accountable for whatever may not be true in our stories) have told us strange, sad things of the musical hero's life. first, that he has been a great patron of the arts--nor is it easy to believe that he could be otherwise. next, they have told us, that he is an earnest lover of such liberty as makes men think, and read, and till their own lands--nor is this hard to believe. again they tell us that he has sometimes rendered himself obnoxious to the powers that be--that his estates, once very large, have been confiscated, and that he has come hitherward only for the sake of repairing his altered fortunes. if the truth lie indeed so hardly upon him, we wish him even more success than his merit will be sure to win. among the _on dits_ of the time, we must not pass by the good and ill-natured comments upon the new-passed liquor laws of massachusetts and of rhode island. when the reader remembers that nahant and newport are within the limits of these two states, and that summer visitors to the favorite watering places are not unapt to call for a wine-card, and to moisten their roast lamb and peas (especially after an exhilarating sea-bath) with a cup of heidseck, or of longworth's sparkling catawba, they may readily imagine the consternation that has crept over certain portions of the visiting world. we (meaning we as editors) are of course without any preferences either for watering places or--for that matter--liquoring places. yet we are curious to see how far the new system will favor the fullness and the gayety of the old summer resorts. persistent newport visitors, who have grown old with their sherry and their port, are arranging for the transportation of "small stores," as a portion of their luggage; and are negotiating with the landlords their rates of "corkage." whether this side-tax on the matter will not render host and guest obnoxious to the new-started laws, is a matter we commend to the serious attention of the hopeful lawyers of newport. what the reformatory legal enactments may do with the wine-growers of ohio, and with the distillers of pennsylvania and indiana, we are curious to see. as for the latter, we can not say (speaking now in our individual capacity) that we should greatly regret the downfall of those huge distillery pig-yards, which spend their odors over the ohio river; but as for the cincinnati wines and vineyards, we must confess that we have a lurking fondness that way--first, because the grape culture is scriptural, beautiful, healthful; and next, because it is clothing the hill-sides of our west with a purple and bountiful product, that develops nobly the agricultural resources of the country, and throws the gauntlet in the very face of burgundy. still again, we have a fancy--perhaps a wrong one--that pure wines, well made, and cheapened to the wants of the humblest laborer, will outgrow and overshadow that feverish passion for stronger drink which vitiates so sadly our whole working population: and yet once again, we have charity for western vineyards, for a very love of their products; and have felt ourselves, after a wee bit of the quiet hock which zimmermann presses out of the ripe catawba--a better feeling toward our fellows, and a richer relish for such labor of the office as now hampers our pen. * * * * * under story of pleasure-seeking for the summer, some journalists record the intent of a southern party to broach--in the august that now lies thirty days into the sunshine--the passage of the rocky mountains, skirting by the way the miniature valley of the missouri--wearing weapons of defense and offense--carrying parlors upon wheels, and kitchens in their carts--shooting rabbits and indians as the seasons vary, and dining upon buffalo and corn bread _à volanté_. we wish them much pleasure of the trip--meaning good roads, few indians, and musquito bars. seriously, however, when shall we see the valley of the missouri form a pleasant tangent to summer travel, and the sportsman who now camps it by long lake, or shoots coot by moniment point--oiling his rifle for a range at the stalking varmint by st. joseph's, and along the thousand forked branches of the missouri waters? at minnessota, they say (the doubtful newspapers again,) people have discovered a gem of a lake,--so still, that the bordering trees seem growing root upward, and the islands are all _siamesed_ where they float; and so clear that you count your fish before you throw them the bait, and make such selections among the eager patrons of your hook, as you would do at the city market on the corner of spring-street. when professor page's galvanic railroad will take us there in a day, we will wash the ink from our fingers in the lake of minnessota; and if the fates favor us, will stew a trout in longworth's catawba; meantime, we wait hopefully feeding upon devoe's, moderately fatted mutton, and great plenty of imaginative diet. * * * * * among the rest, old markham's "summer contentments" has furnished us with rare meals, and inveigled us into trying with inapt hands the _metier_ of the rod and angle. we flatter ourselves that we have won upon the _character_ of the angler, however little we may win upon his fish. "he must," says pleasant old markham, "neither be amazed with storms, nor frighted with thunder; and if he is not temperate, but has a gnawing stomach, that will not endure much fasting, and must observe hours, it troubleth the mind and body, and loseth that delight which only maketh pastime pleasing. "he must be of a well-settled and constant belief, to enjoy the benefit of his expectation; for than to despair, it were better never to be put in practice: and he must ever think, when the waters are pleasant, and any thing likely, that there the creator of all good things, hath stored up much of plenty; and though your satisfaction be not as ready as your wishes, yet you must hope still, that with perseverance you shall reap the fullness of your harvest with contentment. then he must be full of love both to his pleasure, and his neighbor--to his pleasure, which will otherwise be irksome and tedious--and to his neighbor, that he never give offense in any particular, nor be guilty of any general destruction; then he must be exceeding patient, and neither vex nor excruciate himself with any losses or mischances, as in losing the prey when it is almost in hand, or by breaking his tools by ignorance or negligence; but with pleased sufferance amend errors, and think mischances instructions to better carefulness." we commend all this to the trout fishers among the musquitos, and black flies of hamilton county--for even into that dim, and barbarian region, our monthly budget finds its way. * * * * * among other things of the hour, we must spare a note for those pleasant statistics of author-and-bookdom, which the international discussion of copyright has called into print. heretofore, the man of books has been reckoned as a liver, for the most part, upon such manna as rained down from time to time, from a very imaginative heaven; he has lived, by a certain charitable courtesy of the world, (which is coy of ferreting out its injustices) beyond the tongue of talk, and his pride and poverty have suffered an amiable reprieve. the time, it seems, is now gone by; and we find prescott and irving submitted to the same fiscal measurement, as are the brokers upon 'change. we wish the whole author fraternity might come as bravely out of it as the two we have named: and should it ever come to pass, that the fraternity were altogether rich, we hope they will not neglect the foundation of some quiet hospital for the poor fellows (like ourselves) who record their progress, and chronicle their honors. in old times a fancy held men's minds, that the payment for poetry came only from heaven: and that so soon as the divine fingers which caught the minstrelsy of the angel world, touched upon gold, they palsied, and lost their power. under the present flattering condition of the author world (of which, alas, we only read!) it may be well to revive the caution: the poor may, at the least, console themselves thereby; and as for the rich--they need no consolation. time and time again, we believe, spicy authors have threatened to take the publisher's business off his hands; and in lieu of half the profits, to measure them all with themselves. but, unfortunately for the credit of the calling, authors are, in the general way, blessed with very moderate financial capacity; and from scott to lamartine, they have in such venture, to the best of our observation, worked very hard--for very little pay. * * * * * speaking of lamartine, reminds us of a little episode of french life, which has latterly crept into the french papers, and which would have made (as the publishers say) a "companion volume" to lamartine's raphael--always provided it were as well written out. the episode is dismissed in two or three lines of the journals, and is headed in very attracting way--"died of love." such a kind of death being mostly unheard of--especially in new york--it will be necessary to justify the title by a somewhat fuller _résumé_ of the story, than the journalist favors us with. marie of montauban was as pretty a girl as the traveler might see in going through all of southern france; and a pretty girl of southern france, is more than pretty in any other quarter of france. her father had been a small _propriétaire_, and had married a descendant of an old family, under circumstances of that vague and wild romance which grew up a little after the old revolution. both the parents, however, died early in life: she inherited from the mother exceeding delicacy, and a refinement, which agreed very poorly with the poverty to which her father's improvidence had left her an heir. admired and beloved, and sometimes courted by those about her, she resolutely determined to secure her own support. she commenced in a romantic way--by quitting secretly her home, and throwing herself upon a very broad and a very wicked world. fortune guided her to the home of a worthy baker; she here learned the smaller mysteries of his craft, and made such show in the front shop of her new-found patron, as bewitched the provincial _gailliards_, and made its tale upon the heart of the baker's son. in short, the son wooed in earnest; the baker protested: and whether it was the protest (which is sure to kindle higher flame) or the honest heart of the wooer himself, marie forgot the earnest longings, which her mother's nature had planted in her, and became the runaway wife of the runaway baker's son. all french runaways (except from government) go to paris: therefore it was, that in a year's time, you might have seen the humble sign of the baker's son upon a modest shop of the boulevard beaumarchais. beauty is always found out in paris, and it is generally admired. therefore it was, that the baker's son prospered, and the café de paris heard mention of the beautiful baker's wife of the beaumarchais. but, with the sight of the louvre, the tuileries, and all the elegancies of metropolitan life, the old longings of the motherly nature came back to the humiliated marie. she stole hours for reading and for music, and quieted her riotous ambition with the ambition of knowledge. still, however, her admirers besieged her; but thanks to her birth, besieged in vain. from month to month she attended her shop; and from month to month beguiled her mission with reading of old stories, and with the music of her guitar. now, it happened that in this time, a certain jacques arago (well known to fame) chanced upon a day to visit the baker's shop of the boulevard beaumarchais; and it further happened, that as the customer was a traveler and a savant, that he fell into talk with the beautiful marie, who even then held in her fingers some work of the visitor himself. talk ripened into conversation, and conversation into interest. the heart of marie--always dutiful at home--now went wandering under the guide of her mind. she admired the distinguished traveler, and from admiring, she came presently--in virtue of his kind offices and of his instructions continued day after day--to love him. therefore it was that jacques arago, when he came to depart upon new voyages (and here we follow his own story, rather than probability), did not whisper of his leave to the beautiful marie, who still held her place in the baker's shop upon the boulevard beaumarchais. but she found her liking too strong to resist; and when she heard of his departure, she hurried away to havre--only to see the sails of his out-bound ship glimmering on the horizon. she bore the matter stoutly as she could--cherishing his letters each one as so many parts of the mind that had enslaved her; and, finally, years after, met him calmly, on his return. "i have lived," she said, "to see you again." but in a little while, arago, sitting one day in his bureau, receives a letter from marie of beaumarchais. "you deceived me when you went away over the sea; i forgive you for it! will you forgive me now another deception? i was not well when you saw me last; i am now in the hospital beaujon; i shall die before tomorrow. but i die faithful to my religion--god--you! adieu! marie." jacques arago himself writes so much of the story as has served to make the back-bone for this; and we appeal to the ninety thousand readers of our gossip if jacques arago needed any thing more than the _finesse_ of lamartine, and a touch of his poetic nature, to weave the story of poor marie into another raphael? an old gentleman's letter. "the story of the bride of landeck." dear sir--i now resume the very interesting tale i wished to tell you; but from which, in my last, i was diverted in a manner requiring some apology. you know, however, that this failing of being carried away to collaterals, is frequent in old gentlemen and nurses; and you must make excuses for my age and infirmity. now, however, you shall have the story of "the bride of landeck." a bride is always interesting, and therefore i trust that my bride will not be less so than others. there is something so touching in the confidence with which she bestows the care of her whole fate and happiness on another, something so strangely perilous, even in her very joy, such a misty darkness over that new world into which she plunges, that even the coarsest and most vulgar are moved by it. i recollect an almost amusing instance of this. the very words employed by the speakers will show you that they were persons of inferior condition; and yet they were uttered with a sigh, and with every appearance of real feeling. i was one day walking along through the streets of a great city, where it is the custom, in almost all instances, for marriages to take place in church. my way lay by the vestry of a fashionable church, and i was prevented for a minute or two from passing by a great throng of carriages, and a little crowd gathered to see a bride and bridegroom set out upon their wedding tour. there were two mechanics immediately before me--carpenters apparently--and, being in haste, i tried to force my way on. one of the men looked round, saying quietly, "there's no use pushing, you can't get by;" and in a moment after, the bridal party came forth. the bridegroom was a tall, fine-looking, grave young man; and the bride a very beautiful, interesting creature, hardly twenty. they both seemed somewhat annoyed by the crowd, and hurried into their carriage and drove away. when the people dispersed, the two carpenters walked on before me, commenting upon the occurrence. "well," said the one, "she's as pretty a creature as ever i saw; and he's a handsome man; but he looks a little sternish, to my mind. i hope he'll treat her well." "ah, poor thing," said the other, "she has tied a knot with her tongue, that she can not untie with her teeth." it is not, however, only sentiment which is occasionally elicited at weddings. i have known some of the most ludicrous scenes in the world occur on these solemn occasions. one, especially, will never pass from my mind, and i must try to give you an account of it, although the task will be somewhat difficult. some fifty years ago, in the good city of edinburgh, many of the conveniences, and even necessaries of household comfort were arranged in a very primitive manner. it was about this time, or a little before it, that a gentleman, whom i afterward knew well, mr. j---- f----, wooed and won a very beautiful girl of the best society in the city. his doing so was, indeed, a marvel to all; for, though young, witty, and well-looking, he was perhaps the most absent man upon the face of the earth; and the wonder was that he could ever recollect himself sufficiently to make love to one woman for two days consecutively. however, so it was; and a vast number of mistakes and blunders having been got over, the wedding day was appointed and came. the ceremony was to be performed in the house of the bride's father; and a large and fashionable company was assembled at the hour appointed. the bridegroom was known to have been in the house some time; but he did not appear; and minister, parents, bride, bridesmaids, and bridesmen, all full dressed, the ladies in court lappets, and the gentlemen with _chapeaux bras_ under their arms, began to look very grave. the bride's brother, however, knew his friend's infirmity, and was also aware that he had an exceedingly bad habit of reading classical authors in places the least fitted for such purposes. he stole out of the room, then, hurried to the place where he expected his future brother-in-law might be found; and a minute after, in spite of doors and staircases, his voice was heard exclaiming, "jimmy--jimmy; you forget you are going to be married, man. every one is waiting for you." "i will come directly--i will come directly," cried another voice--"i quite forgot--go and keep them amused." the young gentleman returned, with a smile upon his face; but announced that the bridegroom would be there in an instant; and the whole party arranged themselves in a formidable semi-circle. this was just complete, when the door opened, and the bridegroom appeared. all eyes fixed upon him--all eyes turned toward his left arm, where his _chapeau bras_ should have been; and a universal titter burst from all lips. poor f---- stood confounded, perceived the direction of their looks, and turned his own eyes to his left arm also. close pressed beneath it, appeared, instead of a neat black _chapeau bras_, a thin, flat, round piece of oak, with a small brass knob rising from the centre of one side. in horror, consciousness, and confusion, he suddenly lifted his arm. down dropped the obnoxious implement, lighted on its edge, rolled forward into the midst of the circle, whirled round and round, as if paying its compliments to every body, and settled itself with a flounder at the bride's feet. a roar, which might have shook st. andrews, burst from the whole party. the bride married him notwithstanding, and practiced through life the same forbearance--the first of matrimonial virtues--which she showed on the present occasion. poor f----, notwithstanding the sobering effects of matrimony, continued always the most absent man in the world; and one instance occurred, some fifteen or sixteen years after his marriage, which his wife used to tell with great glee. she was a very notable woman, and good housekeeper. originally a presbyterian, she had conformed to the views of her husband, and regularly frequented the episcopal church. one sunday, just before the carriage came to the door to take her and her husband to the morning service, she went down to the kitchen, as was her custom, in mercantile parlance, to take stock, and give her orders. she happened to be somewhat longer than usual: the carriage was announced, and poor f----, probably knowing that if he gave himself a moment to pause, he should forget himself, and his wife, and the church, and all other holy and venerable things, went down after her, with the usual, "my dear, the carriage is waiting; we shall be very late." mrs. f---- went through her orders with customary precision, took up her prayer-book, entered the carriage with her husband, and rolled away toward the church. "my dear, what an extraordinary smell of bacon there is in the carriage," said mr. f----. "i do not smell it, my dear," said mrs. f----. "i do," said mr. f----, expanding his nostrils emphatically. "i think i smell it too, now," said mrs. f----, taking a sniff. "well, i hope those untidy servants of ours do not smoke bacon in the carriage," said mr. f----. "oh, dear, no," replied his wife, with a hearty laugh. "no fear of that, my dear." shortly after, the carriage stopped at the church door; and mr. and mrs. f---- mounted the stairs to their pew, which was in the gallery, and conspicuous to the whole congregation. the lady seated herself, and laid her prayer-book on the velvet cushion before her. mr. f---- put his hand into his pocket, in search of his own prayer-book, and pulled out a long parallelogram, which was not a prayer-book, but which he laid on the cushion likewise. "i don't wonder there was a smell of bacon in the carriage, my dear," whispered mrs. f----; and, to his horror, he perceived lying before him, in the eyes of a thousand persons, a very fine piece of red-and-white streaky bacon, which he had taken up in the kitchen, thinking it was his prayer-book. on only one subject could mr. f---- concentrate his thoughts, and that was the law, in the profession of which he obtained considerable success, although occasionally, an awful blunder was committed; but, strange to say, never in the strictly legal part of his doings. he would forget his own name, and write that of some friend of whom he was thinking instead. he would confound plaintiff with defendant, and witnesses with counsel; but he never made a mistake in an abstract legal argument. there, where no collateral, and, as he imagined, immaterial circumstances were concerned--such as, who was the man to be hanged, and who was not--the reasoning was clear, acute, and connected; and for all little infirmities of mind, judges and jurors, who generally knew him well, made due allowance. other people had to make allowance also; and especially when, between terms, he would go out to pay a morning visit to a friend, mrs. f---- never counted, with any certainty, upon his return for a month. he would go into the house where his call was to be made, talk for a few minutes, take up a book, and read till dinner time--dine--and lucky if he did not fancy himself in his own house, and take the head of the table. toward night he might find out his delusion, and the next morning proceed upon his way, borrowing a clean shirt, and leaving his dirty one behind him. thus it happened, that at the end of a twelvemonth, his wardrobe comprised a vast collection of shirts, of various sorts and patterns, with his own name on very few of them. the stories of poor jimmy f----'s eccentricities in edinburgh were innumerable. on one occasion, seeing a lady, on his return home, coming away from his own door, he handed her politely into her carriage, expressing his regret that she had not found mrs f---- at home. "i am not surprised, my dear," said the lady, who was in reality his own wife, "that you forget me, when you so often forget yourself." "god bless me," cried jimmy, with the most innocent air in the world. "i was quite sure i had seen you somewhere before; but could not tell where it was." dear old edinburgh, what a city thou wert when i first visited thee, now more than forty years ago! how full of strange nooks and corners, and, above all, how full of that racy and original character which the world in general is so rapidly losing! warm hearted hospitality was one of the great characteristics of auld reekie in those times, and it must be admitted that social intercourse was sometimes a little too jovial. this did not indeed prevent occasional instances of miserly closeness, and well laughed at were they when they were discovered. there was a lady of good station and ample means in the city, somewhat celebrated for the not unusual combination of a niggard spirit, and a tendency to ostentatious display. large supper parties were then in vogue; and i was invited to more than one of these entertainments at the house of lady c---- g----, where i remarked that, though the table was well covered, the guests were not very strenuously pressed to their food. she had two old servants, a butler and a foot-man, trained to all her ways, and apparently participating in her economical feelings. these men, with the familiarity then customary in scotch servants, did not scruple to give their mistress any little hints at the supper table in furtherance of her saving propensities, and as the old lady was somewhat deaf, these _asides_ were pretty much public property. on one occasion, the butler was seen to bend over his mistress's chair, saying, in a loud whisper, and good broad scotch, "press the jeelies, my leddy--press the jeelies. they'll no keep." lady c---- g---- did not exactly catch his words, and looked up inquiringly in his face, and the man repeated, "press the jeelies, my leddy: they're getting mouldy." "shave them, john--shave them," said lady c---- g----, in a solemn tone. "they've been shaved already, my leedy," roared john; and the company of course exploded. but to return to my tale. the small village of landeck, is situated in the heart of the tyrol, and in that peculiar district, called the vorarlberg. it is as lovely a spot as the eye of man can rest upon, and the whole drive, in fact, from innspruck is full of picturesque beauty. but-- but i find this is the last page of the sheet, when i fondly fancied that i had another whole page, which i think would be sufficient to conclude the tale. i had probably better, therefore, reserve the story of the bride of landeck for another letter, and only beg you to believe me yours faithfully, p. editor's drawer. it is not a very long time ago, that "bustles" formed a very essential part of a fashionable lady's dress; nor has this singular branch of the fine arts altogether fallen into decadence at the present day. and, as apropos of this, we find in the "drawer" a description of the uses of this article in africa, which we think will awaken a smile upon the fair lips of our lady-readers. "the most remarkable article of dress," says the african traveler, from whom our extract is quoted, "that i have seen, is one which i have vaguely understood to constitute a part of the equipment of my fair countrywomen; in a word, the veritable '_bustle!_' among the belles here, there is a reason for the excrescence which does not exist elsewhere; for the little children ride astride the maternal bustle, which thus becomes as useful as it is an ornamental protuberance. fashion, however, has evidently more to do with the matter than convenience; for old wrinkled grandmothers wear these beautiful anomalies, and little girls of eight years old display protuberances that might excite the envy of a broadway belle. indeed, fashion may be said to have its perfect triumph and utmost refinement in this article; it being a positive fact that some of the girls hereabout wear _merely_ the bustle, without so much as the shadow of a garment! its native name is "_tarb-koshe_."" * * * * * here is a formula for all who can couple "love" and "dove," by which they may rush into print as "poets" of the common "water." the skeleton may be called any thing--"nature," "poesy," "woman," or what not: stream.....mountain.....straying, breeze.....gentle.....playing; bowers.....beauty.....bloom, rose.....jessamine.....perfume. twilight.....moon.....mellow ray, tint.....glories.....parting day. poet.....stars.....truth.....delight, joy.....sunshine.....silence.....night; voice.....frown.....affection.....love, lion.....anger.....taméd dove. lovely.....innocent.....beguile, terror.....frown.....conquer.....smile; loved one.....horror.....haste.....delay, past.....thorns.....meet.....gay. sweetness.....life.....weary.....prose, love.....hate.....bramble.....rose; absence.....presence.....glory.....bright, life.....halo.....beauty.....light. * * * * * not long since a young english merchant took his youthful wife with him to hong-kong, china, where the couple were visited by a wealthy mandarin. the latter regarded the lady very attentively, and seemed to dwell with delight upon her movements. when she at length left the apartment, he said to the husband, in broken english (worse than broken china): "what you give for that wifey-wife yours?" "oh," replied the husband, laughing at the singular error of his visitor, "two thousand dollars." this the merchant thought would appear to the chinese rather a high figure; but he was mistaken. "well," said the mandarin, taking out his book with an air of business, "s'pose you give her to me; give you _five_ thousand dollar!" it is difficult to say whether the young merchant was more amazed than amused; but the very grave and solemn air of the chinaman convinced him that he was in sober earnest; and he was compelled, therefore, to refuse the offer with as much placidity as he could assume. the mandarin, however, continued to press his bargain: "i give you seven thousand dollar," said he: "you _take_ 'em?" the merchant, who had no previous notion of the value of the commodity which he had taken out with him, was compelled, at length, to inform his visitor that englishmen were not in the habit of selling their wives after they once came in their possession--an assertion which the chinaman was very slow to believe. the merchant afterward had a hearty laugh with his young and pretty wife, and told her that he had just discovered her full value, as he had that moment been offered seven thousand dollars for her; a very high figure, "as wives were going" in china at that time! nothing astonishes a chinaman so much, who may chance to visit our merchants at hong-kong, as the deference which is paid by our countrymen to their ladies, and the position which the latter are permitted to hold in society. the very servants express their disgust at seeing american or english ladies permitted to sit at table with their lords, and wonder why men can so far forget their dignity! * * * * * we have seen the thought contained in the following persian fable, before, in the shape of a scrap of "proverbial philosophy," by an eastern sage; but the sentiment is so admirably versified in the lines, that we can not resist presenting them to the reader: "a little particle of rain, that from a passing cloud descended, was heard thus idly to complain: 'my brief existence now is ended. outcast alike of earth and sky, useless to live--unknown to die.' "it chanced to fall into the sea, and then an open shell received it, and, after-years, how rich was he who from its prison-house relieved it! that drop of rain had formed a gem, to deck a monarch's diadem." * * * * * there is a certain london cockneyism that begins to obtain among _some_ persons even here--and that is, the substitution of the word "gent," for gentleman. it is a gross vulgarism. in england, however, the terms are more distinctive, it seems. a waiting-maid at a provincial inn, on being asked how many "gents" there were in the house, replied, "three gents and four gentlemen." "why do you make a distinction, betty?" said her interrogator. "oh, why, the gents are only _half_ gentlemen, people from the country, who come on horseback; the others have their carriages, and are _real_ gentlemen!" * * * * * most readers will remember the ill-favored fraternity mentioned by addison, known as "_the ugly club_," into which no person was admitted without a visible queerity in his aspect, or peculiar cast of countenance. the club-room was decorated with the heads of eminent ogres; in short, every thing was in keeping with the deformed objects of the association. they have a practice at the west of giving to the ugliest man in all the "diggins" round about, a jack-knife, which he carries until he meets with a man uglier than himself, when the new customer "takes the knife," with all its honors. a certain notorious "beauty" had carried the knife for a long time, with no prospect of ever being called upon to "stand and deliver" it. he had an under-lip, which hung down like a motherless colt's, bending into a sort of pouch for a permanent chew of tobacco his eyes had a diabolical squint _each_ way; his nose was like a ripe warty tomato; his complexion like that of an old saddle-flap; his person and limbs a miracle of ungainliness, and his gait a cross between the slouch of an elephant and the scrambling movement of a kangaroo. yet this man was compelled to give up the knife. it happened in this wise: _he was kicked in the face by a horse!_ his "mug," as the english cockney would call it, was smashed into an almost shapeless mass. but so _very_ ugly was he _before_ the accident, that, when his face got well, it was found to be so much improved that he was obliged to surrender up the knife to a successful competitor! he must have been a handsome man, whom a kick in the face by a horse would "improve!" * * * * * some years ago the queen of england lost a favorite female dog. it was last seen, before its death, poking its nose into a dish of sweet-breads on the pantry-dresser. foul play was suspected; the scullery-maid was examined; the royal dog-doctor was summoned; a "crowner's quest" was held upon the body; and the surgeon, after the evidence was "all in," assuming the office of coroner, proceeded to "sum up" as follows: "this affair was involved, apparently, in a good deal of doubt until this inquisition was held. the deceased might have been poisoned, or might not; and here the difficulty comes in, to determine whether he was or wasn't. on a post-mortem examination, there was a good deal of vascular inflammation about the coats of the nose; and i have no doubt the affair of the sweet-bread, which was possibly very highly peppered, had something to do with these appearances. the pulse had, of course, stopped; but, as far as i could judge from appearances, i should say it had been pretty regular. the ears were perfectly healthy, and the tail appeared to have been recently wagged; showing that there could have been nothing very wrong in that quarter. the conclusion at which, after careful consideration, i have arrived, is, that the royal favorite came to his death from old age, or rather from the lapse of time; and a _deodand_ is therefore imposed on the kitchen-clock, which was rather fast on the day of the dog's death, and very possibly might have accelerated his demise!" * * * * * it is no small thing to be called on suddenly to address a public meeting, of any sort, and to find all your wits gone a-wool-gathering, when you most require their services. "such being the case," and "standing admitted," as it will be, by numerous readers, we commend the following speech of a compulsory orator at the opening of a free hospital: "gentlemen--ahem!--i--i--i rise to say--that is, i wish to propose a toast--wish to propose a toast. gentlemen, i think that you'll all say--ahem--i think, at least, that this toast is, as you'll say, the toast of the evening--toast of the evening. gentlemen, i belong to a good many of these things--and i say, gentlemen, that this hospital requires no patronage--at least, you don't want any recommendation. you've only got to be ill--got to be ill. another thing--they are all locked up--i mean they are shut up separate--that is, they've all got separate beds--separate beds. now, gentlemen, i find by the report (_turning over the leaves in a fidgety manner_), i find, gentlemen, that from the year seventeen--no, eighteen--no, ah, yes, i'm right--eighteen hundred and fifty--no! it's a , thirty-six--eighteen hundred and thirty-six, no less than one hundred and ninety-three millions--no! ah! (_to a committee-man at his side_,) eh?--what?--oh, yes--thank you!--thank you, yes--one hundred and ninety-three thousand--two millions--no (_looking through his eye-glass_), two hundred and thirty-one--one hundred and ninety-three thousand, two hundred and thirty-one! gentlemen, i beg to propose-- "_success to this institution!_" intelligible as egyptian hieroglyphics, and "clear as mud" to the "most superficial observer!" * * * * * that was a touch of delicate sarcasm which is recorded of charles lamb's brother, "james elia." he was out at eton one day, with his brother and some other friends; and upon seeing some of the eton boys, students of the college, at play upon the green, he gave vent to his forebodings, with a sigh and solemn shake of the head: "ah!" said he, "what a pity to think that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will all be changed into frivolous members of parliament!" * * * * * some spendthrifts belonging to "_the blues_" having been obliged to submit their "very superior long-tailed troop horses" to the arbitrament of a london auctioneer's hammer, a wag "improves the occasion" by inditing the following touching parody: "upon the ground he stood, to take a last fond look at the troopers, as he entered them in the horse-buyer's book. he listened to the neigh, so familiar to his ear; but the soldier thought of bills to pay, and wiped away a tear. "beside the stable-door, a mare fell on her knees; she cocked aloft her crow-black tail, that fluttered in the breeze, she seemed to breathe a prayer-- a prayer he could not hear-- for the soldier felt his pockets bare, and wiped away a tear. "the soldier blew his nose-- oh! do not deem him weak! to meet his creditors, he knows he's not sufficient 'cheek.' go read the writ-book through, and 'mid the names, i fear, you're sure to find the very blue who wiped away the tear!" * * * * * we believe it is dryden who says, "it needs all we know to make things _plain_." we wonder what he would have thought of this highly intelligible account of blowing up a ship by a submarine battery, as monsieur maillefert blew up the rocks in hellgate: "there is no doubt that all submarine salts, acting in coalition with a pure phosphate, and coagulating chemically with the sublimate of marine potash, _will_ create combustion in nitrous bodies. it is a remarkable fact in physics, that sulphurous acids, held in solution by glutinous compounds, will create igneous action in aquiferous bodies; and hence it is, therefore, that the pure carbonates of any given quantity of bituminous or ligneous solids will of themselves create the explosions in question." we have heard men listen to such lucid, _pellucid_ "expositions" as this, with staring eyes: "and still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all he knew." * * * * * he was a keen observer and a rare discriminator of children, who drew this little picture, in a work upon "childhood and its reminiscences:" "see those two little girls! you hardly know which is the elder, so closely do they follow each other. they were born to the same routine, and will be bred in it for years, perhaps, side by side, in unequal fellowship; one pulling back, the other dragging forward. watch them for a few moments as they play together, each dragging her doll about in a little cart. their names are cecilia and constance, and they manage their dolls always as differently as they will their children. you ask cecilia where she is going to drive her doll to, and she will tell you, 'through the dining-room into the hall, and then back into the dining-room,' which is all literally true. you ask constance, and with a grave, important air, and a loud whisper, for doll is not to hear on any account, she answers, 'i am going to take her to london, and then to brighton, to see her little cousin: the hall is brighton, you know,' she adds, with a condescending look. cecilia laments over a dirty frock, with a slit at the knee, and thinks that mary, the maid, will never give her the new one she promised. constance's doll is somewhat in the costume of the king of the sandwich islands; top-boots and a cocked-hat, having only a skein of worsted tied round her head, and a strip of colored calico or her shoulders; but she is perfectly satisfied that it is a wreath of flowers and a fine scarf; bids you smell of the "rose-oil" in her hair, and then whips herself, to jump over the mat. "in other matters, the case is reversed. when fear is concerned, cecilia's imagination becomes active, and constance's remains perfectly passive. a bluff old gentleman passes through that same hall. the children stop their carts and stare at him, upon which he threatens to put them in his pocket. poor cecilia runs away, in the greatest alarm; but constance coolly says: "you _can't_ put us in your pocket; it isn't half big enough!" it strikes us that there is an important lesson to parents in this last passage. because _one_ child has no fear to go to bed in the dark, how many poor trembling children, differently constituted, have passed the night in an agony of fear! * * * * * there are few more striking things in verse, in the english language, than "_the execution of montrose_." the author has not, to our knowledge, been named, and the lines appeared for the first time many years ago. the illustrious head of the great house of grahame in scotland was condemned to be hung, drawn, and quartered; his head to be affixed on an iron pin and set on the pinnacle of the tolbooth in edinburgh; one hand to be set on the port of perth, the other on the port of stirling; one leg and foot on the port of aberdeen, the other on the port of glasgow. in the hour of his defeat and of his death he showed the greatness of his soul, by exhibiting the most noble magnanimity and christian heroism. the few verses which follow will enable the reader to judge of the spirit which pervades the poem: "'twas i that led the highland host through wild lochaber's snows, what time the plaided clans came down to battle with montrose: i've told thee how the southrons fell beneath the broad claymore, and how we smote the campbell clan by inverlochy's shore: i've told thee how we swept dundee, and tamed the lindsay's pride! but never have i told thee yet, how the great marquis died! "a traitor sold him to his foes; oh, deed of deathless shame! i charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of assynt's name-- be it upon the mountain side, or yet within the glen, stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men-- face him, as thou would'st face the man who wronged thy sire's renown; remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down!" the poet goes on to describe his riding to the place of execution in a cart, with hands tied behind him, and amidst the jeers and taunts of his enemies; but his noble bearing subdued the hearts of many even of his bitter foes. arrived at the place of execution, the "great marquis" looks up to the scaffold, and exclaims: "now by my faith as belted knight, and by the name i bear, and by the red st. andrew's cross that waves above us there-- ay, by a greater, mightier oath, and oh! that such should be!-- by that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and me-- i have not sought on battle-field a wreath of such renown, nor dared i hope, on my dying day, to win a martyr's crown! "there is a chamber far away, where sleep the good and brave, but a better place ye have named for me than by my father's grave. for truth and right 'gainst treason's might, this hand has always striven, and ye raise it up for a witness still in the eye of earth and heaven. then raise my head on yonder tower, give every town a limb, and god who made, shall gather them; i go from you to him!" we know of few sublimer deaths than this, in which the poet has taken no liberties with historical facts. * * * * * a cunning old fox is rothschild, the greatest banker in the world. he said, on one occasion, to sir thomas buxton, in england, "my success has always turned upon one maxim. i said, '_i_ can do what _another_ man can;' and so i am a match for all the rest of 'em. another advantage i had: i was always an off-hand man. i made a bargain at once. when i was settled in london, the east india company had eight hundred thousand pounds in gold to sell. i went to the sale, and bought the whole of it. i knew the duke of wellington _must_ have it. i had bought a great many of his bills at a discount. the government sent for me, and _said_ they must have it. when they had got it, they didn't know how to get it to portugal, where they wanted it. i undertook all that, and i sent it through france; and that was the best business i ever did in my life. "it requires a great deal of boldness and a great deal of caution to make a great fortune, and when you have got it, it requires ten times as much wit to keep it. if i were to listen to one half the projects proposed to me, i should ruin myself very soon. "one of my neighbors is a very ill-tempered man. he tries to vex me, and has built a great place for swine close to my walk. so when i go out, i hear first, 'grunt, grunt,' then 'squeak, squeak.' but this does me no harm. i am always in good-humor. sometimes, to amuse myself, i give a beggar a guinea. he thinks it is a mistake, and for fear i should find it out, he runs away as hard as he can. i advise you to give a beggar a guinea sometimes--it is very amusing." * * * * * travelers by railroad, who stop at the "eating stations," and are hurried away by the supernatural shriek of the locomotive before they have begun their repast, will appreciate and laugh at the following: "we have sometimes seen in a pastry-cook's window, the announcement of 'soups hot till eleven at night,' and we have thought how very hot the said soups must be at ten o'clock in the morning; but we defy any soup to be so red-hot, so scorchingly and so intensely scarifying to the roof of the mouth, as the soup you are allowed just three minutes to swallow at the railway stations. in the course of our perigrinations, a day or two ago, we had occasion to stop at a distant station. a smiling gentleman, with an enormous ladle, said insinuatingly: "'soup, sir?' "'thank you--yes.' "then the gigantic ladle was plunged into a caldron, which hissed with hot fury at the intrusion of the ladle. "we were put in possession of a plateful of a colored liquid, that actually took the skin off our face by mere steam. having paid for the soup, we were just about to put a spoonful to our lips when a bell was rung, and the gentleman who had suggested the soup, ladled out the soup, and got the money for the soup, blandly remarked: "'sir, the train is just off!' "we made a desperate thrust of a spoonful into our mouth, but the skin peeled off our lips, tongue, and palate, like the 'jacket' from a hot potato." probably the same soup was served out to the passengers by the next train. meanwhile the "soup-vendor smiled pleasantly, and evidently enjoyed the fun!" * * * * * one of the best of the minor things of thackeray's--thrown off, doubtless before his temporarily-suspended cigar had gone out--is the following. it is a satire upon the circumstance of some fifty deer being penned into the narrow wood of some english nobleman, for prince albert to "_hunt_" in those confined limits. the lines are by "jeems, cousin-german on the scotch side," to "chawls yellowplush, igsquire": "sonnick. "sejested by prince halbert gratiously killing the stags at jacks cobug gothy. "some forty ed of sleak and hantlered dear, in cobug (where such hanimels abound) was shot, as by the newspaper i 'ear, by halbert, usband of the british crownd. britannia's queen let fall the pretty tear, seeing them butchered in their sylvan prisns; igspecially when the keepers standing round, came up and cut their pretty innocent whizns. suppose, instead of this pore germing sport, this saxon wenison wich he shoots and bags, our prins should take a turn in capel court, and make a massyker of henglish stags. poor stags of hengland! were the untsman at you, what havoc he would make, and what a tremenjus battu. jeems." * * * * * what is pleasure? it is an extremely difficult thing to say what "pleasure" means. pleasure bears a different scale to every person. pleasure to a country girl may mean a village ball, and "so many partners that she danced till she could scarcely stand." pleasure to a school-boy means tying a string to his school-fellow's toe when he is asleep, and pulling it till he wakens him. pleasure to a "man of inquiring mind" means, "a toad inside of a stone," or a beetle running around with his head off. pleasure to a hard-laboring man means doing nothing; pleasure to a fashionable lady means, "having something to do to drive away the time." pleasure to an antiquary means, an "illegible inscription." pleasure to a connoisseur means, a "dark, invisible, very fine picture." pleasure to the social, the "human face divine." pleasure to the morose, "thank heaven, i shan't see a soul for the next six months!" * * * * * "why don't you wash and dress yourself when you come into a court of justice?" asked a pompous london judge of a chimney-sweep, who was being examined as a witness. "dress myself, my lord," said the sweep: "i _am_ dressed as much as your lordship: you are in your _working_-clothes, and so am i!" * * * * * a good while ago that inimitable wag, punch had some very amusing "_legal maxims_," with comments upon them; a few of which found their way into the "drawer," and a portion of which we subjoin: "_a personal action dies with the person._"--this maxim is clear enough; and means that an action brought against a man, when he dies in the middle of it, can not be continued. thus, though the law sometimes, and very often, pursues a man to the grave, his rest there is not likely to be disturbed by the lawyers. if a soldier dies in action, the action does not necessarily cease, but is often continued with considerable vigor afterward. "_things of a higher nature determine things of a lower nature._"--thus a written agreement determines one in words; although if the words are of a very high nature, they put an end to all kinds of agreement between the parties. "_the greater contains the less._"--thus, if a man tenders more money than he ought to pay, he tenders what he owes: for the greater contains the less; but a quart wine-bottle, which is greater than a pint and a half, does not always contain a pint and a half; so that, in this instance, the less is not contained in the greater. "_deceit and fraud shall be remedied on all occasions._"--it may be very true, that deceit and fraud _ought_ to be remedied, but whether they _are_, is quite another question. it is much to be feared, that in law, as well as in other matters, _ought_ sometimes stands for nothing. "_the law compels no one to impossibilities._"--this is extremely considerate on the part of the law; but if it does not compel a man to impossibilities, it sometimes drives him to attempt them. the law, however, occasionally acts upon the principle of two negatives making an affirmative; thus treating two impossibilities as if they amounted to a possibility. as, when a man can not pay a debt, law-expenses are added, which he can not pay either; but the latter being added to the former, it is presumed, perhaps, that the two negatives, or impossibilities may constitute one affirmative or possibility, and the debtor is accordingly thrown into prison, if he fails to accomplish it. * * * * * some country readers of the "drawer," unacquainted with the dance called the "_mazurka_," may like to know how to accomplish that elaborate and fashionable species of saltation. here follows a practical explanation of the figures: get a pair of dress-boats, high heels are the best, and a partner; then stand with six more in a ring; skip thrice to the right, take two stamps and a rest, hop thrice to the left, give a kick and a fling; be careful in stamping some neighbor don't rue it, though people with corns had better not do it. your partner you next circumnavigate; that is, dance all the way round her, unless she's too fat; make a very long stride, then two hops for _poussette_; lastly, back to your place, if you can, you must get. a general mêlée here always ensues, begun by the loss of a few ladies' shoes; a faint and a scream--"oh, dear, i shall fall!" "how stupid you are!"--"we are all wrong!" and that's all. truly to appreciate such a dancing scene as this, one should see it through a closed window, at a fashionable watering-place, without being able to hear a note of the music, the "moving cause" of all the frisking. contributions to our drawer. miss trephina and miss trephosa, two ancient ladies of virgin fame, formerly kept a boarding-house in the immediate neighborhood of the crosby-street medical college. they _took in_ students, did their washing, and to the best of their abilities mended their shirts and their morals. miss trephina, in spite of the numerous landmarks which time had set up upon her person, was still of the sentimental order. she always dressed "_de rigueur_" in cerulean blue, and wore false ringlets, and teeth (_miserabile dictu!_) of exceedingly doubtful _extraction_. miss trephosa, her sister, was on the contrary an uncommonly "strong-minded" woman. her appearance would have been positively majestic, had it not been for an unfortunate squint, which went far to upset the dignified expression of her countenance. she wore a fillet upon her brows "_à la grecque_," and people _did_ say that her temper was as cross as her eyes. bob turner was a whole-souled kentuckian, for whom his professorial guardian obtained lodgings in the establishment presided over by these two fascinating damsels. somehow or other, bob and his hostesses did not keep upon the best of terms very long. bob had no notion of having his minutest actions submitted to a surveillance as rigid as (in his opinion) it was impertinent. one morning a fellow-student passing by at an early hour, saw the kentuckian, who was standing upon the steps of the dragons' castle, from which he had just emerged, take from his pocket a slip of paper, and proceed to affix the same, with the aid of wafers, to the street door. the student skulked about the premises until bob was out of sight, and he could read without observation the inscription placarded upon the panel. it was as follows--we do not vouch for its originality, although we know nothing to the contrary: "to let or to lease, for the term of her life, a scolding old maid, in the way of a wife; she's old and she's ugly--ill-natured and thin; for further particulars, inquire within!" an hour afterward the paper had disappeared from the door. whether bob was ever detected or not we can not tell, but he changed his lodgings the next term. * * * * * the spaniards have a talent for self-glorification which throws that of all other nations, even our own, into the shade. some allowance should be made, perhaps, for conventional hyperbolism of style, but vanity has as much to do with it as rhetoric. a traveled friend saw performed at barcelona a play called "españoles sobre todos"--"spaniards before all"--in which the hero, a spanish knight, and a perfect paladin in prowess, overthrows more english and french knights with his single arm than would constitute the entire regular army of this country. all these absurdities were received by the audience with a grave enthusiasm marvelous enough to witness. the play had a great run in all the cities of spain, until it reached madrid, where its first representation scandalized the french embassador to such a degree, that, like a true gaul as he was, he made it a national question, interfered diplomatically, and the government suppressed the performance. there is a light-house at cadiz--a very good light-house--but in no respect an extraordinary production of art. there is an inscription carved upon it, well peppered with notes of exclamation, and which translated reads as follows: "this light-house was erected upon spanish soil, of spanish stone, by spanish hands." * * * * * an old farmer from one of the rural districts--we may be allowed to say, from one of the very rural districts--recently came to town to see the sights, leaving his better-half at home, with the cattle and the poultry. among various little keepsakes which he brought back to his wife, on his return to his penates, was his own daguerreotype. "oh! these men, these men! what creturs they are!" exclaimed the old lady, on receiving it; "just to think that he should fetch a picture of himself all the way from york, and be so selfish as not to fetch one of me at the same time!" * * * * * the following good story is told of george hogarth, the author of musical history, biography, and criticism, and of "memoirs of the musical drama." it seems that mr. hogarth is an intimate friend of charles dickens. upon one occasion, mr. dickens had a party at his house, at which were present, among other notabilities, miss ----, the famous singer, and her mother, a most worthy lady, but not one of the "illuminated." mr. hogarth's engagement as musical critic for some of the leading london journals kept him busy until quite late in the evening; and to mrs. ----'s reiterated inquiries as to when mr. hogarth might be expected, mr. dickens replied that he could not venture to hope that he would come in before eleven o'clock. at about that hour the old gentleman, who is represented as being one of the mildest and most modest of men, entered the rooms, and the excited mrs. ---- solicited an immediate introduction. when the consecrated words had been spoken by the amused host, fancy the effect of mrs. ----'s bursting out with the hearty exclamation, "oh, mr. hogarth, how shall i express to you the honor which i feel on making the acquaintance of the author of the 'rake's progress!'" we wish it had been our privilege to see dickens' face at that moment. * * * * * dr. dionysius lardner married an irish lady, of the city of dublin, we believe, whose name was cicily. the doctor is represented not to have treated her with all conceivable marital tenderness. among the university wags, he went by the name of "dionysius, the _tyrant of cicily_" (_sicily._) * * * * * the late pope of rome, gregory xvi., was once placed in an extremely awkward dilemma, in consequence of his co-existing authority as temporal and spiritual prince. a child of jewish parentage was stolen from its home in early infancy. every possible effort was made to discover the place of its concealment, but for many years without any success. at length, after a long lapse of time, it was accidentally ascertained that the boy, who had now almost grown a man, was residing in a christian family, in a section of the town far removed from the "ghetto," or jews' quarter. the delighted parents eagerly sought to take their child home at once, but his christian guardians refused to give him up; and the pope was applied to by both parties, to decide upon the rival claims. on the one hand it was urged, that, as the head of the state, his holiness could never think of countenancing the kidnapping of a child, and the detaining him from his natural friends. on the other hand it was contended, that, as head of the church, it was impossible for him to give back to infidelity one who had been brought up a true believer. the case was a most difficult one to pass upon, and what might have been the result it would be hard to tell, had not the voice of habit been stronger than the voice of blood, and the subject of the dispute expressed an earnest desire to cling to the church rather than be handed over to the synagogue. * * * * * the famous humorist, horne tooke, once stood for parliament in the liberal interest. his election was contested by a person who had made a large fortune as a public contractor. this gentleman, in his speech from the hustings, exhorted the constituency not to elect a man who had no stake in the country. mr. tooke, in reply, said that he must confess, with all humility, that there was, at least, one stake in the country which he did not possess, and that was a _stake taken from the public fence_. upon another occasion, the blank form for the income-tax return was sent in to mr. tooke to be filled up. he inserted the word "nil," signed it, and returned it to the board of county magistrates. shortly afterward he was called before this honorable body of gentlemen to make an explanation. "what do you mean by 'nil,' sir?" asked the most ponderous of the gentlemen upon the bench. "i mean literally 'nil,'" answered the wag. "we perfectly understand the meaning of the latin word _nil_--nothing," rejoined the magistrate, with an air of self-congratulation upon his learning. "but do you mean to say, sir, that you live without any income at all--that you live upon nothing?" "upon nothing but my brains, gentlemen," was tooke's answer. "upon nothing but his brains!" exclaimed the presiding dignitary to his associates. "it seems to me that this is a novel source of income." "ah, gentlemen," retorted the humorist, "it is not every man that _has brains to mortgage_." * * * * * in nothing is the irregularity of our orthography shown more than in the pronunciation of certain proper names. the english noble names of beauchamp, beauvoir, and cholmondeley are pronounced respectively beechum, beaver, and chumley. one of the "anglo-saxun" reformers, meeting lord cholmondeley one day coming out of his own house, and not being acquainted with his lordship's person, asked him if lord chol-mon-de-ley (pronouncing each syllable distinctly), was at home? "no," replied the peer, without hesitation, "nor any of his pe-o-ple." * * * * * before commons were abolished at yale college, it used to be customary for the steward to provide turkeys for the thanksgiving dinner. as visits of poultry to the "hall" table were "few and far between," this feast was looked forward to with anxious interest by all the students. the birds, divested of their feathers, were ordinarily deposited over-night in some place of safety--not unfrequently in the treasurer's office. upon one occasion a vandal-like irruption, by some unknown parties, was made in the dead of night upon the place of deposit. by the next morning the birds had all flown--been spirited away, or carried off--we give the reader his choice. a single venerable specimen of antiquity, the stateliest of the flock, was found tied by the legs to the knocker of the steward's door. and, as if to add insult to injury (or injury to insult, as you please), a paper was pinned upon his breast with the significant motto written upon it: _e pluribus unum_--"one out of many." * * * * * at one corner of the palazzo braschi, the last monument of papal nepotism, near the piazza navona, in rome, stands the famous mutilated torso known as the statue of pasquin. it is the remains of a work of art of considerable merit, found at this spot in the sixteenth century, and supposed to represent ajax supporting menelaus. it derives its modern name, as murray tells us, from the tailor pasquin, who kept a shop opposite, which was the rendezvous of all the gossips in the city, and from which their satirical witticisms on the manners and follies of the day obtained a ready circulation. the fame of pasquin is perpetuated in the term _pasquinade_, and has thus become european; but rome is the only place in which he flourishes. the statue of marforio, which stood near the arch of septimus severus, in the forum, was made the vehicle for replying to the attacks of pasquin; and for many years they kept up an incessant fire of wit and repartee. when marforio was removed to the museum of the capitol, the pope wished to remove pasquin also; but the duke di braschi, to whom he belongs, would not permit it. adrian vi. attempted to arrest his career by ordering the statue to be burnt and thrown into the tiber, but one of the pope's friends, ludovico sussano, saved him, by suggesting that his ashes would turn into frogs, and croak more terribly than before. it is said that his owner is compelled to pay a fine whenever he is found guilty of exhibiting any scandalous placards. the modern romans seem to regard pasquin as part of their social system; in the absence of a free press, he has become in some measure the organ of public opinion, and there is scarcely an event upon which he does not pronounce judgment. some of his sayings are extremely broad for the atmosphere of rome, but many of them are very witty, and fully maintain the character of his fellow-citizens for satirical epigrams and repartee. when mezzofante, the great linguist, was made a cardinal, pasquin declared that it was a very proper appointment, for there could be no doubt that the "tower of babel," "_il torre di babel_," required an interpreter. at the time of the first french occupation of italy, pasquin gave out the following satirical dialogue: "i francesi son tutti ladri, "non tutti--ma buonaparte." "the french are all robbers. "not all, but a _good part_;" or, "not all--but buonaparte." another remarkable saying is recorded in connection with the celebrated bull of urban viii., excommunicating all persons who took snuff in the cathedral of seville. on the publication of this decree, pasquin appropriately quoted the beautiful passage in job--"wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?" literary notices. _the naval dry docks of the united states._ by charles b. stuart.--this elegant volume, by the engineer-in-chief of the united states navy, is dedicated with great propriety to president fillmore. it is an important national work, presenting a forcible illustration of the scientific and industrial resources of this country, and of the successful application of the practical arts to constructions of great public utility. the dry docks at the principal navy yards in the united states are described in detail--copious notices are given of the labor and expense employed in their building--with a variety of estimates, tables, and plans, affording valuable materials for reference to the contractor and engineer. gen. stuart has devoted the toil of many years to the preparation of this volume, which forms the first of a series, intended to give a history and description of the leading public works in the united states. he has accomplished his task with admirable success. every page bears the marks of fidelity, diligence, and skill. the historical portions are written in a popular style, and as few professional technicalities have been employed as were consistent with scientific precision. in its external appearance, this publication is highly creditable to american typography; a more splendid specimen of the art has rarely, if ever been issued from the press in this country. the type, paper, and binding are all of a superior character, and worthy of the valuable contents of the volume. the scientific descriptions are illustrated by twenty-four fine steel engravings, representing the most prominent features of the dry docks at different stages of their construction. we trust that this superb volume, in which every american may well take an honest pride, will not only attract the attention of scientific men, but find its way generally into our public and private libraries. a unique work on the manners of gentlemen in society has been issued by harper and brothers, entitled, _the principles of courtesy_. the author, george winfred hervey, whom we now meet for the first time in the domain of authorship, seems to have made a specialty of his subject, judging from the completeness of detail and earnestness of tone which he has brought to its elucidation. it is clearly his mission to "catch the living manners as they rise" to submit them to a stringent search for any thing contraband of good feeling or good taste. he is an observer of no common acuteness. while he unfolds with clearness the great principles of courtesy, few trifles of detail are too unimportant to escape his notice. he watches the social bearing of men in almost every imaginable relation of life--detects the slight shades of impropriety which mar the general comfort--points out the thousand little habits which diminish the facility and grace of friendly intercourse--and spares no words to train up the aspirants for decency of behavior in the way they should go. we must own that we have usually little patience with works of this description. the manners of a gentleman are not formed by the study of chesterfield. a formal adherence to written rules may make dancing-masters, or sir charles grandisons; but the untaught grace of life does not come from previous intent. this volume, however, somewhat modifies our opinion. it is no stupid collection of stereotype precepts, but a bold, lively discussion of the moralities of society, interspersed with frequent dashes of caustic humor, and occasional sketches of character in the style of la bruyere. whatever effect it may have in mending the manners of our social circles, it is certainly a shrewd, pungent book, and may be read for amusement as well as edification. _an exposition of some of the laws of the latin grammar_, by gessner harrison, m.d. (published by harper and brothers.) this is a treatise on several nice topics of latin philology, which are discussed with great sagacity and analytic skill. it is not intended to take the place of any of the practical grammars now in use, but aims rather to supply some of their deficiencies, by presenting a philosophical explanation of the inflections and syntax of the language. although the subtle distinctions set forth by the author may prove too strong meat for the digestion of the beginner, we can assure the adept in verbal analogies, that he will find in this volume a treasure of rare learning and profound suggestion. while professedly devoted to the latin language, it abounds with instructive hints and conclusions on general philology. it is one of those books which, under a difficult exterior, conceals a sweet and wholesome nutriment. whoever will crack the nut, will find good meat. an excellent aid in the acquisition of the french language may be found in professor fasquelle's _new method_, published by newman and ivison. it is on the plan of woodbury's admirable german grammar, and for simplicity, copiousness, clearness, and accuracy, is not surpassed by any manual with which we are acquainted. _the two families_ is the title of a new novel by the author of "rose douglas," republished by harper and brothers. pervaded by a spirit of refined gentleness and pathos, the story is devoted to the description of humble domestic life in scotland, perpetually appealing to the heart by its sweet and natural simplicity. the moral tendency of this admirable tale is pure and elevated, while the style is a model of unpretending beauty. _a greek reader_, by professor john j. owen (published by leavitt and allen), is another valuable contribution of the editor to the interests of classical education. it comprises selections from the fables of Ã�sop, the jests of hierocles, the apophthegms of plutarch, the dialogues of lucian, xenophon's anabasis and cyropædia, homer's iliad and odyssey, and the odes of anacreon. with the brief lexicon and judicious notes by the editor, it forms a highly convenient text-book for the use of beginners. the second volume of lamartine's _history of the restoration_ (issued by harper and brothers), continues the narrative of events from the departure of napoleon from fontainebleau to his escape from elba, his defeat at waterloo, and his final abdication. the tone of this volume is more chaste and subdued, than that of the previous portions of the work. the waning fortunes of the emperor are described with calmness and general impartiality, though the author's want of sympathy with the fallen conqueror can not be concealed. many fine portraitures of character occur in these pages. in this department of composition, lamartine is always graphic and felicitous. we do not admit the charge that he sacrifices accuracy of delineation to his love of effect. his sketches will bear the test of examination. among others, murat, talleyrand, and benjamin constant are hit off with masterly boldness of touch. in fact, whatever criticisms may be passed upon this work as a history, no one can deny its singular fascinations as a picture-gallery. _clifton_, by arthur townley (published by a. hart, philadelphia), is an american novel, chiefly remarkable for its lively portraitures of fashionable and political life in this country. the plot has no special interest, and is in fact subservient to the taste for dissertation, in which the writer freely indulges. his sketches of manoeuvres and intrigues in society and politics are often quite piquant, betraying a sharp observer and a nimble satirist. we do not know the position of the author, but he is evidently familiar with the sinuosities of washington and new york society. the fourth volume of _cosmos_ by humboldt (republished by harper and brothers), continues the uranological portion of the physical description of the universe, completing the subject of fixed stars, and presenting a thorough survey of the solar region, including the sun as the central body, the planets, the comets, the ring of the zodiacal light, shooting stars, fireballs, and meteoric stones. this volume, like those already published, is distinguished for its profuse detail of physical facts and phenomena, its lucid exhibition of scientific laws, and the breadth and profoundness of view with which the unitary principles of the universe are detected in the midst of its vast and bewildering variety. nor is humboldt less remarkable for the impressive eloquence of his style, than for the extent of his researches, and the systematic accuracy of his knowledge. the sublime facts of physical science are inspired with a fresh vitality as they are presented in his glowing pages. he awakens new conceptions of the grandeur of the universe and the glories of the creator. no one can pursue the study of his luminous and fruitful generalizations, without a deep sense of the wonderful laws of the divine harmony, and hence, his writings are no less admirable in a moral point of view, than they are for the boldness and magnificence of their scientific expositions. _dollars and cents_, by amy lothrop (published by g. p. putnam), is a new novel of the "queechy" school, in many respects bearing such a marked resemblance to those productions, that it might almost be ascribed to the same pen. like the writings of miss wetherell, its principal merit consists in its faithful descriptions of nature, and its insight into the workings of the human heart in common life. the dialogue is drawn out to a wearisome tenuity, while the general character of the plot is also fatiguing by its monotonous and sombre cast. the story hinges on the reverses of fortune in a wealthy family, by whom all sorts of possible and impossible perplexities are endured in their low estate, till finally the prevailing darkness is relieved by a ray of light, when the curtain rather abruptly falls. in the progress of the narrative, the writer frequently displays an uncommon power of expression; brief, pointed sentences flash along the page; but the construction of the plot, as a whole, is awkward; and the repeated introduction of improbable scenes betrays a want of invention, which finally marks the work as a failure in spite of the talent which it occasionally reveals. the _study of words_ by richard chenevix trench (published by redfield.) a reprint of a curious, but not very profound english work on the derivation of words. the author presents a variety of specimens of ingenious verbal analysis; always suggestive; but not seldom fanciful; relying on subtle hypotheses, rather than on sound authority. still his book is not without a certain utility. it enforces the importance of a nice use of language as an instrument of thought. the hidden meaning wrapped up in the derivation of terms is shown to be more significant than is usually supposed; and the numerous instances of cunning etymology which it brings forward tend to create a habit of tracing words to their origin, which directed by good sense, rather than fancy, can not fail to exert a wholesome influence in the pursuit of truth. _life and correspondence of lord jeffrey_, by lord cockburn. (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.) the best part of this book is that in which jeffrey is made to speak for himself. except on the ground of intimate friendship, lord cockburn had no special vocation for the present task. he exhibits little skill in the arrangement of his materials, and none of the graces of composition. his narrative is extremely inartificial, and fails to present the subject in its most commanding and attractive aspects. he often dwells upon trifles with a zeal quite disproportioned to their importance. these defects, however, are in some degree compensated by the thorough sincerity and earnestness of the whole performance. it is altogether free from pretension and exaggeration. lord cockburn writes like a plain, hard-headed, common-sense scotchman. he tells a straightforward story, leaving it to produce its own effect, without superfluous embellishment. his relations with jeffrey were of the most familiar character. their friendship commenced early in life, and was continued without interruption to the last hour. the difference in their pursuits seemed only to cement their intimacy. hence, on the whole, the biography was placed in the right hands. we thus have a more transparent record of the character of jeffrey, than if the work had been prepared in a more ambitious literary spirit. in fact, his letters reveal to us the best parts of his nature, far more than could have been done by any labored eulogy. the light they throw on his affections is a perpetual surprise. his reputation in literature depends so much on the keenness and severity of his critical judgments, that we have learned to identify them with the personal character of the writer. we think of him almost as a wild beast, lurking in the jungles of literature, eager, with blood-thirsty appetite, to pounce upon his prey. he seems to roll the most poignant satire "as a sweet morsel under his tongue." but, in truth, this was not his innate disposition. when prompted by a sense of critical justice to slay the unhappy victim, "dividing asunder the joints and the marrow," he does not spare the steel. no compunctuous visitings of nature are permitted to stay the hand, when raised to strike. but, really, there never was a kinder, a more truly soft-hearted man. he often displays a woman's gentleness and wealth of feeling. the contrast between this and his sharp, alert, positive, intellectual nature is truly admirable. with his confidential friends, he lays aside all reserve. he unbosoms himself with the frank artlessness of a child. his letters to charles dickens are among the most remarkable in these volumes. he early detected the genius of the young aspirant to literary distinction. his passion for the writings of dickens soon ripened into a devoted friendship for the author, which was cordially returned. never was more enthusiastic attachment expressed by one man for another than is found in this correspondence. it speaks well for the head and heart of both parties. incidental notices of the progress of english literature during the last half-century are, of course, profusely scattered throughout these volumes. the exceeding interest of that period, the variety and splendor of its intellectual productions, and the personal traits of its celebrities, furnish materials of rare value for an attractive work. with all its defects of execution, we must welcome this as one of the most delightful publications of the season. _eleven weeks in europe_, by james freeman clarke. (boston: ticknor, reed, and fields.) we never should be surfeited with books of travels, if they all evinced the frankness, intelligence, and cultivated taste which characterize this readable volume. mr. clarke shows how much can be done in a short time on a european tour. his book is valuable as a guide to the selection of objects, no less than for its excellent descriptions and criticisms. without claiming any great degree of novelty, it has an original air from the freedom with which the author uses his own eyes and forms his own judgments. he speaks altogether from personal impressions, and does not aim to echo the opinions of others, however wise or well-informed. his volume is, accordingly, a rarity in these days, when every body travels, and all copy. * * * * * messrs. lippincott, grambo, and co., of philadelphia, are now publishing a library edition of the waverley novels, to be complete in monthly volumes, neatly bound in cloth, with illustrations, at one dollar per volume. they also issue the work in semi-monthly parts, at fifty cents, each part embracing a complete novel. the above will take the place of the edition recently proposed by harper and brothers. * * * * * the third volume of douglas jerrold's writings contains some of his most popular and remarkable pieces. the "curtain lectures, as suffered by the late job caudle," and "the story of a feather" appeared originally in _punch_--and they have since been repeatedly reprinted, the former in several editions. the thousands of readers who have profited by the lectures of mrs. caudle may be glad to learn mr. jerrold's characteristic account of the manner in which that household oracle first addressed herself to his own mind. "it was a thick, black wintry afternoon, when the writer stopt in the front of the play-ground of a suburban school. the ground swarmed with boys full of the saturday's holiday. the earth seemed roofed with the oldest lead; and the wind came, sharp as shylock's knife, from the minories. but those happy boys ran and jumped, and hopped, and shouted, and--unconscious men in miniature!--in their own world of frolic, had no thought of the full-length men they would some day become; drawn out into grave citizenship; formal, respectable, responsible. to them the sky was of any or all colors; and for that keen east-wind--if it was called the east-wind--cutting the shoulder-blades of old, old men of forty--they in their immortality of boyhood had the redder faces, and the nimbler blood for it. and the writer, looking dreamily into that play-ground, still mused on the robust jollity of those little fellows, to whom the tax-gatherer was as yet a rarer animal than baby hippopotamus. heroic boyhood, so ignorant of the future in the knowing enjoyment of the present! and the writer, still dreaming and musing, and still following no distinct line of thought, there struck upon him, like notes of sudden household music, these words--curtain lectures. one moment there was no living object save those racing, shouting boys; and the next, as though a white dove had alighted on the pen-hand of the writer, there was--mrs. caudle. ladies of the jury, are there not, then, some subjects of letters that mysteriously assert an effect without any discoverable cause? otherwise, wherefore should the thought of curtain lectures grow from a school-ground?--wherefore, among a crowd of holiday schoolboys should appear mrs. caudle? for the lectures themselves, it is feared they must be given up as a farcical desecration of a solemn time-honored privilege; it may be exercised once in a life-time--and that once having the effect of a hundred repetitions; as job lectured his wife. and job's wife, a certain mohammedan writer delivers, having committed a fault in her love to her husband, he swore that on his recovery he would deal her a hundred stripes. job got well, and his heart was touched and taught by the tenderness to keep his vow, and still to chastise his helpmate; for he smote her once with a palm-branch having a hundred leaves." to the "curtain lectures" and the "story of a feather" mr. jerrold has added a very beautiful and characteristic "tale of faëry," entitled, "the sick giant and the doctor dwarf." * * * * * a new edition of professor anthon's _anabasis of xenophon_, with english notes, is published in london, under the revision of dr. john doran. "dr. anthon," says the _athenæum_, "has edited, and elucidated by notes, several of the ancient classics, and whatever he has undertaken he has performed in a scholarly style. at the same time his books are entirely free from pedantry, and the notes and comments are so plain and useful, that they are as popular with boys as they are convenient for teachers." * * * * * the same journal has rather a left-handed compliment to american literature in general, to which, however, it is half inclined to make our popular ik. marvel an exception. "there is no very startling vitality in any other of mr. marvel's 'daydreams.' still, at the present period, when the writers of american _belles-lettres_, biography and criticism, show such a tendency to mould themselves into those affected forms by which vagueness of thought and short-sightedness of view are disguised, and to use a jargon which is neither english nor german--a writer unpretending in his manner and simple in his matter is not to be dismissed without a kind word; and therefore we have advisedly loitered for a page or two with ik. marvel." * * * * * at a meeting of the edinburgh town council, the following letter, addressed to the lord provost, magistrates, and council, was read from professor wilson, resigning the professorship of moral philosophy in the university: "my lord and gentlemen--when the kindness of the patrons, on occasion of my sudden and severe illness in september last, induced, and the great goodness of the learned principal lee enabled them to grant me leave of absence till the close of the ensuing session now about to terminate, the benefit to my health from that arrangement was so great as to seem to justify my humble hopes of its entire and speedy restoration; but, as the year advances, these hopes decay, and i feel that it is now my duty to resign the chair which i have occupied for so long a period, that the patrons may have ample time for the election of my successor." * * * * * among the candidates for the chair of moral philosophy in edinburgh, vacant by the resignation of professor wilson, are professor ferrier, of st. andrews; professor macdougall, of new college, edinburgh; professor m'cosh, of belfast; mr. j. d. morell; mr. george ramsay, late of trin. col., cam., now of rugby; and dr. w. l. alexander, of edinburgh. * * * * * dr. maclure, one of the masters of the edinburgh academy, has been appointed by the crown to the professorship of humanity in marischal college, aberdeen, vacant by the translation of mr. blackie to the greek chair at edinburgh. * * * * * the motion for abolishing tests in regard to the non-theological chairs of the scottish universities has been thrown out, on the second reading in the house of commons, by to . * * * * * mr. w. jerdan, late editor of _the literary gazette_, is to become editor of "_the london weekly paper_," an "organ of the middle classes." * * * * * the department of mss. in the british museum has been lately enriched with a document of peculiar interest to english literature--namely, the original covenant of indenture between john milton, gent., and samuel symons, printer, for the sale and publication of _paradise lost_, dated the th of april, . by the terms of agreement, milton was to receive £ at once, and an additional £ after the sale of copies of each of the first, the second, and the third "impressions" or editions--making in all the sum of £ to be received for the copy of the work and the sale of copies. * * * * * the _athenæum_ thus notices the death of a late traveler in this country. "the world of literature has to mourn the untimely closing of a career full of promise--and which, short as it has been, was not without the illustration of performance. mr. alexander mackay, known to our readers as the author of 'the western world,' has been snatched from life at the early age of thirty-two. besides the work which bears his name before the world, mr. mackay had already performed much of that kind of labor which, known for the time only to the scientific few, lays the ground for future publicity and distinction. connected as a special correspondent with the _morning chronicle_ he had been employed by that journal in those collections of facts and figures on the aggregate and comparison of which many of the great social and statist questions of the day are made to depend. in mr. mackay was commissioned by the manchester chamber of commerce to visit india for the purpose of ascertaining by minute inquiries on the spot what obstacles exist to prevent an ample supply of good cotton being obtained from its fields, and devising the means of extending the growth of that important plant in our eastern empire." * * * * * granier de cassagnac, long known to france as an impudent, unveracious, reckless journalist and critic, has published some critical essays, written in his obscurer days. he calls them _oeuvres litéraires_. the volume contains articles on chateaubriand, lamennais, lacordaire, corneille, racine, dumas, hugo, &c. * * * * * the readers of the _débats_ will remember a series of violent, bigoted, conceited, but not unimportant articles in the _feuilleton_, signed cuvillier fleury, devoted principally to the men and books of the revolutions of ' and ' . written with asperity and passion, they have the force and vivacity of passion, although their intense conceit and personality very much abates the reader's pleasure. m. fleury has collected them in two volumes, under the title, _portraits politiques et révolutionnaires_. politicians will be attracted toward the articles on louis-philippe, guizot, the duchess of orleans, the revolution of , &c.; men of letters will turn to the articles on lamartine, sue, louis blanc, daniel stern, proudhon, and victor hugo, or to those on rousseau, st. just, barère, and camille desmoulins. * * * * * baron de walkaener, perpetual secretary of the academy of inscriptions et belles lettres, of paris, died april . in addition to eminence in what the french call the moral and political sciences, he was a very laborious _homme de lettres_, and has given to the world interesting biographies of la fontaine and other french writers, together with correct editions of their works. he was a member of the institute, and was one of the principals of the bibliothèque nationale. * * * * * the first number of jacob and wilhelm grimm's _german dictionary_ is just out. it would be premature to criticise the work in its present stage; it seems, however, to be most carefully and accurately compiled. it is printed in large octavo form, in double columns, on good paper, and in a clear print. some idea may be formed of the labor which has been expended on this work, from the fact that all the leisure time of a learned professor has been devoted for the last three years to reading through the works of goethe alone in connection with it. the first number consists of one hundred and twenty pages, and contains about half the letter a. it is announced to us that copies had been subscribed for up to the th of april. this is a result almost unparalleled in the german book-trade, and not often surpassed in england. * * * * * the library of the convent at gaesdorf, in germany, is in possession of a most interesting ms. of rempen's _de successione christi_. it contains the whole of the four books, and its completion dates from the year . this ms. is therefore the oldest one extant of this work, for the copy in the library of the jesuits at antwerp, which has generally been mistaken for the oldest ms., is of the year . the publication of this circumstance also settles the question as to the age of the fourth book of rempen's work, which some erroneously assumed had not been written previous to . * * * * * the new catalogue of the leipzig easter book-fair contains, according to the german papers, titles more than the previous catalogue for the half year ending with the fair of st. michael. the latter included titles of published books, and of forthcoming publications. the present catalogue enumerates published works and in preparation. these books represent publishers. a single house in vienna contributes publications. that of brockhaus figures for . * * * * * from kiel it is stated that germany has lost one of her most celebrated natural philosophers in the person of dr. pfaff, senior of the professors of the royal university of kiel--who has died at the age of seventy-nine. m. pfaff is the author of a variety of well-known scientific works--and of others on greek and latin archæology. since his death, his correspondence with cuvier, volta, kielmayer, and and other celebrated men, has been found among his papers. comicalities, original and selected. [illustration: illustration of humbug. "'tis true, there is a slight difference in our ages, but with hearts that love, such considerations become frivolous. the world! pshaw! did you but love as i do, you would care but little for its opinion. oh! say, beautiful being, will you be mine?"] * * * * * rules for health. by a scotch philosopher who has tried them all. never drink any thing but water. never eat any thing but oatmeal. wear the thickest boots. walk fifteen miles regularly every day. avoid all excitement; consequently it is best to remain single, for then you will be free from all household cares and matrimonial troubles, and you will have no children to worry you. the same rule applies to smoking, taking snuff, playing at cards, and arguing with an irishman. they are all strong excitements, which must be rigidly avoided, if you value in the least your health. by attending carefully to the above rules, there is every probability that you may live to a hundred years, and that you will enjoy your hundredth year fully as much as your twenty-first. * * * * * finance for young ladies. taxes on knowledge are objected to, and taxes on food are objected to; in fact, there is so much objection to every species of taxation, that it is very difficult to determine what to tax. the least unpopular of imposts, it has been suggested, would be a tax on vanity and folly, and accordingly a proposition has been made to lay a tax upon stays; but this is opposed by political economists on the ground that such a duty would have a tendency to check consumption. * * * * * [illustration: maine-law petitioners] [illustration: anti maine-law petitioners.] * * * * * [illustration: matrimony made easy.] the following letter has been sent to our office, evidently in mistake: "_matrimonial office, union court, love lane._ "(strictly private and confidential.) "sir--your esteemed favor of the th ult. came duly to hand, and, agreeably to your desire, we have the honor to forward to you our quarterly sheet of photographic likenesses of our female clients. we were very sorry that the ladies you fixed upon in our last year's sheets were all engaged before your duly honored application arrived at our office; but we hope to be more fortunate in our present sheet, which we flatter ourselves contains some highly eligibles. we should, however, recommend as early an application as possible, as, this being leap-year, ladies are looking up, and considerably risen in the market, and shares in their affections and fortunes are now much above par. should you not be particular to a shade, we should respectfully beg leave to recommend no. , her father having very large estates near timbuctoo, to which she will be sole heiress in case of her twenty-seven brothers dying without issue. and should the great african east and west railway be carried forward, the value of the estates would be prodigiously increased. no. is a sweet poetess, whose 'remains' would probably be a fortune to any literary gent. to publish after her decease. no. has been much approved by gents., having buried eight dear partners, and is an eighth time inconsolable. "further particulars may be had on application at our office. "we beg also, respectfully, to inform you that your esteemed portrait was duly received and appeared in our last gent.'s sheet of clients; but we are sorry to say as yet no inquiries respecting it have come to hand. "permit us further to remind you that a year's subscription was due on the st of january, which, with arrears amounting to £ _s._, we shall be greatly obliged by your remitting by return of post. "with most respectful impatience, awaiting a renewal of your ever-esteemed applications, and assuring you that they shall be duly attended to with all dispatch, secrecy, and punctuality. "we have the honor to be, esteemed sir, "your most obedient servants, "hookham and splicer, "_sole matrimonial agents for great britain_. "p.s.--we find our female clients run much on mustaches. would you allow us humbly to suggest the addition of them to your portrait in our next quarterly sheet? it could be done at a slight expense, and would probably insure your being one of our fortunate clients." * * * * * [illustration: favorite investments. lady.--"goodness bridget! what is that you have on?" bridget.--"shure! an' didn't i hear you say these weskitts was all the fashion? an' so i borrer'd me bruther pathrick's to wait at the table in."] * * * * * [illustration: an agreeable partner. fascinating young lady.--"i dare say you think me a very odd girl--and indeed, mamma always says i am a giddy, thoughtless creature--and--" partner.--"oh, here's a vacant seat, i think."] * * * * * [illustration: delicacy. young gentleman.--"i don't want to hurry you out of the room, old girl, but the fact is--i am going to wash myself."] * * * * * [illustration: the dog-days. proprietor of the dog.--"has he been a bitin' on you, sir?" victim.--"oh!--ah!--ugh!" proprietor.--"vell, i thought as there was somethink the matter with him, cos he wouldn't drink nuffin for two days, and so i vos jist a-goin to muzzle him."] * * * * * the american crusaders. air--"_dunois the brave_." old hermit peter was a goose to preach the first crusade, and skase e'en godfrey of bouillon the speculation paid; they rose the banner of the cross upon a foolish plan-- not like we hists the stars and stripes, to go agin japan. all to protect our mariners the gallant perry sails, our free, enlightened citizens a-cruisin' arter whales; who, bein' toss'd upon their shores by stormy winds and seas, is wus than niggers used by them tarnation japanese. our war-cries they are breadstuffs, silks. with silver, copper, gold, and camphor, too, and ambergris, all by them crittars sold: and also sugar, tin, and lead, black pepper, cloves likewise. and woolen cloths and cotton thread, which articles they buys. we shan't sing out to pattern saints nor gals, afore we fights, like, when they charged the saracens, did them benighted knights: but "exports to the rescue, ho!" and "imports!" we will cry; then pitch the shell, or draw the bead upon the ene--my. we'll soon teach them unsocial coon exclusiveness to drop; and stick the hand of welcome out, and open wide their shop; and fust, i hope we shant be forced to whip 'em into fits, and chaw the savage loafers right up into little bits. * * * * * poetical cookery book. stewed duck and peas. air--"_my heart and lute_." i give thee all my kitchen lore, though poor the offering be; i'll tell thee how 'tis cooked, before you come to dine with me: the duck is truss'd from head to heels, then stew'd with butter well; and streaky bacon, which reveals a most delicious smell. when duck and bacon in a mass you in a stewpan lay, a spoon around the vessel pass, and gently stir away: a table-spoon of flour bring, a quart of water plain, then in it twenty onions fling, and gently stir again. a bunch of parsley, and a leaf of ever-verdant bay, two cloves--i make my language brief-- then add your peas you may! and let it simmer till it sings in a delicious strain: then take your duck, nor let the string for trussing it remain. the parsley fail not to remove, also the leaf of bay; dish up your duck--the sauce improve in the accustom'd way, with pepper, salt, and other things, i need not here explain: and, if the dish contentment brings, you'll dine with me again. fashions for summer. [illustration: figures and .--costumes for home and for the promenade.] novelty is the distinguishing characteristic of the prevailing fashions. give us something new in material, is the cry to the manufacturer. give us something new in form, is the demand made upon the modiste. both do their best to meet this demand; and both have succeeded. for the present, whatever is new, fantastic, striking, and odd, is admired and adopted. it will doubtless be a work of time to return to simplicity again. the costumes which we present for the present month, combine originality enough to meet even the present demand, with good taste and elegance--a union not always attainable. fig. .--dress of white taffeta with colored figures, a particular pattern for each part of the dress. the ground of the skirt and body is sprinkled with small pompadour bouquets _en jardinière_, that is to say, with flowers of different colors in graduated shades. the flounces have scolloped edges; the ground is white, and over each scollop is a rich bouquet of various flowers. the body is very high behind; it opens square in front, and the middle of the opening is even a little wider than the top (this cut is more graceful than the straight one). the waist is very long, especially at the sides; the front ends in a rounded point not very long. the bottom of the body is trimmed with a _ruche_, composed of small white ribbons mixed with others. this _ruche_ is continued on the waist, and meets at the bottom of the point. there are three bows of _chiné_ ribbon on the middle of the body. the upper one has double bows and ends; the other two gradually smaller. the sleeves are rather wide, and open a little behind at the side. the opening is rounded; the edge is trimmed with a _ruche_, like the body. there is a small lace at the edge of the body. the lace sleeves are the same form as those of the stuff, but they are longer. coiffure, _à la jeune femme_--the parting on the left side; the hair lying in close curls on each side. fig. .--redingote of _moire antique_; body high, with six lozenge-shaped openings in front, diminishing in size toward the waist. the edges of these lozenges are trimmed with velvet; the points meet like bands under a button. through these lozenge openings there appears a white muslin habit-shirt, gathered in small flutes (this muslin, however close, always projects through the openings, under the pressure of the body). the habit-shirt is finished at the neck by two rows of lace. the sleeve, which increases in size toward the bottom, has also lozenge openings, confined by buttons, and through the opening is seen a muslin under-sleeve, puffing a little, plaited length-wise in small flutes and held at the wrist by an embroidered band with lace at the edge. the skirt has nine graduated openings down the front from top to bottom, buttoned like the others, through which is seen a nansouk petticoat, worked with wheels linked together, small at top and larger at bottom. drawn bonnet of blond and satin. the brim is very open at the sides and lowered a little in front. it is transparent for a depth of four inches, and consists of five rows of gathered blond, on each of which is sewed a narrow white terry velvet ribbon, no. . the brim, made of lyons tulle, is edged with a white satin roll. the band of the crown is tuscan straw on which are five drawings of white satin. the top of the crown is round, and of white satin; it is puffed in _crevés_. the curtain is blond, like the brim. the ornament consists of a white satin bow, placed quite at the side of the brim and near the edge.--the inside of the brim is trimmed with four rows of blond, each having a narrow pink terry velvet, and a wreath of roses, small near the forehead, larger near the cheeks. blond is likewise mixed with the flowers. [illustration: fig. .--bonnet.] fig. .--bonnet. foundation of crèpe; trimming of blond and satin; the curtain of crèpe, edged with narrow blond. [illustration: fig. .--carriage costume.] fig. .--dress of white muslin, the skirt with three deep flounces, richly embroidered. the body, _à basquine_, is lined with pale blue silk; it has a small pattern embroidered round the edge; which is finished by a broad lace set on full. the sleeves have three rows of lace, the bottom one forming a deep ruffle.--waistcoat of pale blue silk, buttoning high at the throat, then left open, about half way, to show the chemisette; the waist is long, and has small lappets. white lace bonnet, the crown covered with a _fanchonnette_ of lace; rows of lace, about two inches wide, form the front. the bonnet is appropriately trimmed with light and extremely elegant flowers. [illustration: fig. .--cap.] fig. .--_fanchon_ of india muslin, trimmed with pink silk ribbons, forming tufts near the cheek, and a knot on the head. [illustration: fig. .--sleeve.] fig. .--_pagoda sleeve_ of jaconet, with under-sleeves; trimming relieved with small plaits. the new materials of the season include some elegant printed cashmeres, bareges, and broche silks, in endless variety as to pattern, and combination of color. there are some beautiful dresses of _lampas, broché_, with wreaths and bouquets in white, on a blue, green, or straw-colored ground. among the lighter textures, adapted for both day and evening wear, are some very pretty mousselines de soie, and grenadines. the new bareges are in every variety of color and pattern. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of accent (e.g. "notre" and "nôtre"); - use of hyphen (e.g. "bed-room" and "bedroom"). pg , word "was" removed from sentence "he was [was] the first..." pg , sentence "(to be continued.)" added to the end of article. pg , word "or" changed into "of" in sentence "...election of my successor..." file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine. no. xxvii.--august, .--vol. v. [illustration: view of mt. carmel from the sea.] memoirs of the holy land by jacob abbott mount carmel. aspect of the mountain. the christian traveler, in journeying to the holy land, often obtains his first view of the sacred shores from the deck of some small levantine vessel in which he has embarked at alexandria, after having completed his tour among the wonders of egypt and the nile. he ascends, perhaps, to the deck of his vessel, early in the morning, summoned by the welcome intelligence that the land is full in view. here, as he surveys the shore that presents itself before him, the first object which attracts his eye is a lofty promontory which he sees rising in sublime and sombre majesty above the surrounding country, and at the same time jutting boldly into the sea. it forms, he observes, the seaward terminus of a mountain range which his eye follows far into the interior of the country, until the undulating crest loses itself at last from view in the haze of distant hills. the massive and venerable walls of an ancient convent crown its summit; its sloping sides are enriched with a soft and luxuriant vegetation; and the surf, rolling in from the sea, whitens the rocks at its foot with breakers and foam. this promontory is mt. carmel. geography of the vicinity. the geographical situation of mt. carmel is shown by the adjoining map. palestine in the time of our saviour was comprised in three distinct provinces--judea, samaria, and galilee. of these, judea, which bordered upon the dead sea and the lower portion of the jordan, was the most southerly; while galilee, which was opposite to the sea of tiberias and the upper part of the jordan, was the most northerly; being separated from judea by the mountainous district of samaria, which lay between. the region comprised upon the map is chiefly that of samaria and galilee. the chain of which mt. carmel is the terminus forms the southern and southwestern boundary of galilee. a little south of the boundary was mt. gerizim, the holy ground of the samaritans. mt. gerizim forms a part of the great central chain or congeries of mountains which rises in the interior of palestine, and from which the carmel range branches, as a sort of spur or offshoot, traversing the country in a westward and northward direction, and continuing its course until it terminates at the sea. the other principal mountain groups in the holy land are the ranges of lebanon on the north, and the mountainous tract about jerusalem in the south. [illustration: map of mount carmel.] on the northern side of the carmel chain, at some distance from the sea, there lies a broad expanse of extremely rich and fertile country, which, though not strictly level, is called a plain. it was known in ancient times as the plain of jezreel. it is now called the plain of esdraelon. the waters of this plain, flowing westward and northward along the foot of mt. carmel to the sea, constitute the river kishon, so celebrated in sacred history. the sea itself sets up a little way into the valley through which this river flows, forming thus a broad bay to the north of mt. carmel, called the bay of acre. the town of acre lies at the northern extremity of this bay, and the town of haïfa[ ] at the southern border of it, just at the foot of carmel. the ceaseless action of the sea has sloped and smoothed the shore of this bay throughout the whole distance from haïfa to acre, and formed upon it a beach of sand, which serves the double purpose of a landing-place for the boats of the fishermen, and a road for the caravans of travelers that pass to and fro along the coast. the conformation of the bay, together with the precise situation of acre and haïfa, as well as the more important topographical details of the mountain, will be found very clearly represented in the chart upon the adjoining page. napoleon's engineers. the topographical chart of the bay of acre here given is one made by the engineers of the french army during napoleon's celebrated expedition to egypt and syria. these engineers accompanied the army wherever it marched, and in the midst of all the scenes of excitement, difficulty, and danger, through which they were continually passing, devoted themselves to the performance of the scientific duties which their commander had assigned them, with a calmness and composure almost incredible. no possible excitement or commotion around them seemed to have power to interrupt or disturb them in their work. the din and confusion of the camp, the marches and countermarches of the troops, the battles, the sieges, the assaults, the excitement of victory, and the confusion of sudden and unexpected retreats--all failed to embarrass or disconcert them. whatever were the scenes that might be transpiring around them, they went quietly and fearlessly on, paying no regard to any thing but their own proper duties. they adjusted their instruments; they made their observations, their measurements, their drawings; they computed their tables and constructed their charts; and in the end they brought back to france a complete daguerreotype, as it were, of every hill, and valley, and river, and plain, of the vast surface which they traversed. the great chart from which the adjoining map is taken was the last one which they made, for acre was the northern termination of napoleon's expedition.[ ] [illustration: mount carmel and the bay of acre.] approaches to mount carmel. by reference to the map, it will be seen that there are three roads by which mt. carmel may be approached on land. one advances along the coast from the southward, and passing round the promontory on the western and northern side, between its steep declivity and the sea, it turns to the east, and comes at last to the foot of the branch road which leads up the mountain to the convent on the top. the second is the road from acre. it may be seen upon the map following closely the line of the shore on the margin of the sandy beach which has already been described. the third comes from nazareth, in the interior of the country. it descends from the plain of esdraelon by the banks of the kishon, and joins the acre road a little to the east of the town of haïfa. after passing through haïfa, the road follows the shore for a short distance, and then a branch diverges to the right, leading to some ancient ruins on the extremity of the cape. a little farther on another branch turns off to the left, and leads up the mountain to the convent, while the main road continues its course round the northern and western extremity of the promontory, and there passes into the road that comes up on the western coast, as at first described. travelers approaching mt. carmel from the interior of the country come generally from nazareth by the way of the third road above described, that is, the one that leads down from the valley of the kishon, following the bank of the stream. the town of nazareth, where the journey of the day in such cases is usually commenced, lies among the hills about midway between the mediterranean sea and the sea of tiberias. the route for some hours leads the traveler along the northern part of the plain of esdraelon, and charms him by the scenes of beauty and fertility which pass before his view. he sees rich fields of corn and grain, groves of the pomegranate, the fig, and the olive, verdant valleys clothed with the most luxuriant herbage, masses of hanging wood, that adorn the declivities of the hills, and descend in capes and promontories of foliage to beautify the plain, and ruins of ancient fortresses and towns, scattered here and there in picturesque and commanding positions. the whole country is like a romantic park, with the great chain of mt. carmel extending continuously to the southward of it, and bounding the view. bay of acre. at length the great plain of acre, with the bay, and the broad expanse of the mediterranean in the distance, opens before him. the town of acre, surrounded with its white walls, stands just on the margin of the water, at the northern extremity of the bay; while at the southern point of it stands haïfa, sheltered by the mountain, and adorned by the consular flags of the several nations who have commercial agents there. in former times the principal harbor for shipping was at acre, but from some change which the course of time has effected in the conformation of the coast or in the deposit of sand, the only deep water is now found at the southern extremity of the bay, where the kishon finds its outlet--and haïfa has consequently become the port. it is not improbable, in fact, that the greater depth of water at this point is to be attributed to the effect produced by the outflow of the river in impeding the accumulation of deposits from the sea. the river, as will be seen from the map, in flowing into the bay passes across the beach of sand. its depth and the quantity of water which issues from it vary very much, according to the season of the year, and thus the accounts of travelers who ford it at different periods differ extremely. in its ordinary condition it is very easily forded, but sometimes, when swollen with rains, it overflows the meadows that line its banks, up the valley, and becomes wholly impassable near its mouth. in the summer the stream often becomes so low that the sea, incessantly rolling in from the offing, fills up the outlet entirely with sand, and then smoothing over the dyke which it has made, it forms a beach on the outer slope of it, and thus the sandy shore of the bay is carried continuously across the mouth of the river, and the water is shut back as by a dam. the next rain, however, and perhaps even the ordinary flow of the river, causes the water to accumulate and rise behind this barrier until it surmounts it. a small stream then begins to flow over the beach--rapidly increasing in force and volume as the sand is washed away--and thus the river regains once more its accustomed channel. this alternate closing and opening of the outlet of a river is a phenomenon often witnessed in cases where the river, at its mouth, traverses a sandy beach on a coast exposed to winds and storms.[ ] the distance from haïfa to acre along the shore of the bay is about eight miles. acre itself has always been a very celebrated fortress, having figured as the central point of almost all great military operations in syria for nearly two thousand years. it has experienced every possible form and phase of the fortune of war, having been assaulted, defended, besieged, destroyed, and rebuilt again and again, in an endless succession of changes, and in the experience of every possible fortune and misfortune which twenty centuries of uninterrupted military vicissitude could bring. within the knowledge of the present generation it has been the scene of two terrific conflicts. perhaps the most important of these events, in a historical point of view, was the struggle for the possession of the place between napoleon and its english defenders, and the consequent check which was placed upon napoleon's career, on his advance from egypt into syria. on his arrival at acre, the young general found the port in possession of an english force under the command of sir sydney smith, and though he made the most desperate and determined efforts to dislodge them, he was unable to succeed. he planted his batteries on the declivities of the hills behind the town, and cannonaded the walls from that position; while the english supported the garrison in their defense of the place, by firing upon the batteries of the besiegers from ships which they had anchored in the bay. [illustration: defense of acre.] productions of the country. the plains and valleys which border the carmel chain of mountains, especially on the northern side, are extremely fertile. they yield grapes, olives, corn, and other similar productions, in the greatest abundance, while the grass that clothes the slopes of the surrounding mountains, and adorns with verdure and beauty a thousand secluded valleys that wind among them, furnishes an almost exhaustless supply of food for flocks and herds. a considerable quantity of wheat, barley, cotton, and other similar products is exported, being brought down to haïfa and acre from the interior, on the backs of mules and camels, led by drivers in long caravans and trains. one traveler speaks of having been detained at the gates of acre, when going out to make an excursion into the surrounding country, by a train of _one hundred_ camels, laden with corn, that were just then coming in. misgovernment. the commerce of the port, however, would be vastly greater than it is, were it not for the exactions of the government which restrict and burden it exceedingly. it is true that governments generally maintain themselves by taxing the commerce of the countries over which they rule, but the despotic authorities that have borne military sway in syria and palestine for the last five hundred years, have done this, as it would seem, in a peculiarly exorbitant and reckless manner. a practice is adopted in those countries of "farming out" the revenue, as it is called; that is, the government sells the privilege of collecting a certain tax to some wealthy capitalist, who pays, or secures payment, in advance, and then collects from the people what is due, on his own account. of course he is invested with power and authority from the government to enforce the collection, and as it is a matter of personal interest to him to make the amount that he receives as great as possible, he has every conceivable inducement to be extortionate and oppressive. the sufferers, too, in such cases generally find it useless to complain; for the government know well that, if they wish to obtain high prices from the farmers of the revenue, from year to year, they must not obstruct them in any way in the claims which they make, or the measures which they adopt, in collecting the amounts due, from the people. in the more highly civilized and commercial nations of the world, a very different system is adopted. the revenue is never farmed, but it is collected by officers appointed for the purpose, in the name and for the benefit of the government; and generally in such a way, that they who assess the tax, have no direct pecuniary interest--or, at most, a very inconsiderable one--in the amount whether larger or smaller, which they receive. the assessors and collectors thus occupy, in some respects, the position of impartial umpires between the government and the people, with very slight influences operating upon their minds, to produce a bias in favor of one side or the other. even in this way, the evils and disadvantages of raising national revenues by taxing commercial transactions, are very great, while, in the form that has so long prevailed in syria and palestine, the result is utterly disastrous. the taxes are increased, under one pretext or another, until the poor peasant and laborer finds himself robbed of every thing but the bare means of subsistence. all hope and possibility of acquiring property by his industry and thrift, and of rising to a respectable position in society are taken away from him, and he spends his life in idleness, degradation, and despair. an incident. an incident strikingly illustrative of these truths, occurred to a traveler who was visiting acre, about the year . one morning, in rambling about the city, he chanced to come into the vicinity of the custom house, at the port, and there he overheard a violent dispute going on between some fishermen and a certain farmer of the revenue--probably a wealthy merchant of the town--who was standing near. it seems that a duty of about thirty-three per cent., that is, one-third part of the whole price, had been laid upon all fish that should be taken in the bay and brought into the port for sale; and the privilege of collecting the tax had been sold to the merchant, who was engaged in the dispute. it had been calculated that the remaining two-thirds of the value of the fish would be sufficient to induce the fishermen to continue their vocation. it proved, however, not to be so. the cost of boats and outfit, and the other expenses which were necessarily incurred in the prosecution of the business, were so great, that the poor fishermen found when they had returned to the shore and sold their fares, and paid the expenses of their trip, that the government tax took so large a portion of what remained, as to leave little or nothing over, to reimburse them for their labor. they accordingly became discouraged, and began to abandon the employment; so that the farmer who had bought the right to collect the tax, was alarmed at finding that the revenue was likely to fail altogether, inasmuch as for every five boats that had been accustomed to go out to fish before, only one went now. the dispute which attracted the attention of the traveler was occasioned by the anger of the farmer, who was assailing the fishermen with bitter invectives and criminations, and threatening to compel them to go out to fish, in order that he might receive his dues. the tyrant djezzar. for many years extending through the latter part of the last century, and the earlier portion of the present one, the narratives of travelers visiting acre are filled with accounts of the tyranny and oppression exercised upon the people of the country by a certain despot named djezzar, the history of whose government illustrates very forcibly the nature of the injuries to which the wretched inhabitants of those countries are compelled to submit. djezzar, in his infancy was carried into egypt a slave, and sold to ali-bey, a celebrated ruler of that country. in the service of ali-bey he rose to high civil stations, and at length, after passing through a great number of vicissitudes and romantic adventures, in the course of which he was transferred to the service of the turkish government, he was placed by the turks in command of the pachalik of acre, in . here he ruled with such despotic cruelty, that he made himself an object of universal execration to all mankind, excepting always those who had placed him in power; for they seemed to be pleased rather than otherwise with his remorseless and terrible energy. one of the first measures which he adopted when he entered upon his government, was to confiscate all the houses of the town of acre, declaring them the property of the government, and requiring the inhabitants to pay rent for them to him. the taxes were exorbitantly increased, and every possible pretext was resorted to to deprive the people of their property, and transfer it to the government. land which was left uncultivated for three years was considered as abandoned by the owners, and thenceforth fell to him. whenever a vessel was stranded upon the coast, he seized upon every thing that could be saved from the wreck, as his perquisite. his favorite mode of punishing those who displeased him, was to mutilate their persons by cutting off an ear, a nose, an arm, or a foot, or by taking out an eye. those who visited his palace, say that it was common to see many persons in the ante-chambers and halls who were disfigured thus, having incurred the cruel monster's displeasure from time to time in the course of their service. these were his "marked men," as he called them--"persons bearing signs of their having been instructed to serve their master with fidelity." his secretary, who was his principal banker and minister, was deprived of both an ear and an eye, at the same time, for some offense, real or imaginary, which he had committed, and yet still continued to serve his savage master. djezzar lived in a massive palace, occupying a well-protected part of the city of acre, with gardens in the rear between the palace and the city wall. within this palace was his harem, the residence of his women. no person but himself was ever admitted to the harem. he was accustomed to retire thither every evening through three massive doors, one within the other, which doors he always closed and barred with his own hands. no one knew how many or what women the harem contained. additions were often made to the number, from female slaves that were presented to djezzar from time to time; but no one knew how many were thus introduced, or what was their fate after they disappeared from public view. every possible precaution was taken to seclude the inmates of this harem in the most absolute manner from the outer world. their food was conveyed to them by means of a sort of wheel or cylinder, turning in the wall, and so contrived that those without could not see who received it. if any one was sick, a physician was brought to a room where there was a hole in the wall through which the patient, concealed on the other side, put her arm, and thus the pulse was examined, and a prescription made. we might fill many pages with curious details in respect to the life and character, and peculiar habits, of this extraordinary man, but we must leave acre and the bay, and prepare to ascend the mountain. [illustration: horseman of acre.] the mountain. the height of mt. carmel has been generally estimated at about fifteen hundred feet. this is a very unusual elevation for land that rises thus abruptly from the margin of the sea. of course, from every cliff, and rock, and projecting head-land on the higher portions of it there is obtained a widely extended and most commanding view both over the water and over the land. the sea lies toward the west; the prospect is consequently in that direction unobstructed to the horizon, and the whole western quarter of the sky is fully exposed to view. it is by understanding the position of mt. carmel in this respect, that we appreciate the full force and beauty of the passage that describes the coming of the rain, after the destruction of the priests of baal by the prophet elijah; for it is always, as we observe, in the western sky, through the operation of some mysterious and hidden laws which human philosophy has not yet been able to unfold, that the clouds which produce sudden summer showers arise. it is almost invariably there, that those rounded and dome-like condensations are formed, which from small and almost unperceived beginnings expand and swell until they envelop the whole heavens in darkness and gloom, and then sweep over the earth in tempests of thunder, lightning, and rain. the narrative of the sacred writer, describing the event is as follows. ahab and the rain. "and elijah said unto ahab, get thee up, eat and drink; for there is a sound of abundance of rain. so ahab went up to eat and to drink. and elijah went up to the top of carmel; and he cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees, and said to his servant, go up now, look toward the sea. and he went up, and looked and said, there is nothing. and he said, go again seven times. and it came to pass at the seventh time that he said, behold there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea like a man's hand. and he said, go up, say unto ahab, prepare thy chariot, and get thee down that the rain stop thee not. and it came to pass, in the mean while, that the heaven was black with clouds and wind, and there was a great rain."-- kings, xviii. - . * * * * * the traveler, as he looks up to the summit of the mountain from the beach of the bay of acre, over the sands of which he is slowly making his way toward the foot of the ascent, pictures in his imagination the form of the servant of elijah standing upon some projecting pinnacle, and looking off over the sea. he loses for the moment his recollection of the age in which he lives, and under the influence of a temporary illusion, forgetting the five-and-twenty centuries which have elapsed since the days of elijah, almost looks to see the chariot and horsemen of ahab riding away up the valley, in obedience to the prophet's command. ascent of the mountain. the road to the mountain, as will appear from the map, passes through haïfa. travelers and pilgrims, however, seldom make any stay in the town. there is no inn there to detain them. the convent is the inn--on the top of the mountain. after passing haïfa, the road, as may be seen upon the map, follows the line of the shore for about half a mile, and then turns a little inland, while a branch of the main road, diverging to the right, continues along the shore of the sea. this branch leads to the extremity of the cape, where are situated the ruins of an ancient place named porphyrion, and also a small fortress, on the point. porphyrion was a place of some consequence in former times, but it went gradually to decay, and at last when haïfa was built it was entirely abandoned. a short distance further on, the traveler comes to another branch, where a mule-path turns off to the left from the main road, and leads up the mountain. the ascent is steep, but the path is so guarded by a parapet on the outer side wherever required, that it awakens no sense of danger. the declivities of the mountain, above and below the path, are clothed with trees and herbage, with gray walls, forming picturesque cliffs, and precipices, appearing here and there among them. there is a profusion, too, of wild flowers of every form and hue, which attract and charm the traveler, wherever he turns. he looks off at every salient point that he passes in his ascent, over the bay. he sees the white walls of the city of acre rising from the margin of the water at the extremity of it, far in the distance--and never ceases to admire the smooth and beautiful beach which lies spread out before him, its broad expanse broken, perhaps, here and there on the side toward the sea, with the wrecks of ships which lie there half buried, and enlivened on the land with trains of mules or of camels passing toward acre or haïfa, or by some picturesque group of tents pitched upon the plain--the encampment of some wandering tribe of arabs, or of a party of european travelers. further inland, he surveys broad fields of luxuriant vegetation, variegated with every shade of green and brown, and groves of trees that extend along the margin of the rivers, and crown the summits of the distant hills. in a calm and clear summer's morning, the observer looks down upon this brilliant scene of verdure and beauty, as upon a map, and lingers long on his way, to study minutely every feature of it. [illustration: the ascent of the mountain.] the river belus and the discovery of glass. about midway between haïfa and acre, the traveler, pausing at some resting-place in the progress of his ascent, may trace the course of the river belus, as it meanders through the plain beneath him, northwardly, toward an outlet just in the rear of acre, where it empties into the sea. the course and direction of the stream are delineated upon the map near the commencement of this article. this river is celebrated as the place where, according to ancient story, the discovery of the art of making glass was first made by means of an accidental vitrification which chanced to take place under certain peculiar circumstances, on its shores.[ ] glass is composed essentially of silicious substances--such as sand--combined with certain alkalies by fusion. for sand, though very refractory if exposed alone to the influence of heat, when mixed with these alkaline substances fuses easily, and _vitrifies_, that is it forms a glass, which is more or less perfect according to the precise nature of the substances employed, and the arrangements of the process. the story of the origin of the discovery is, that a vessel came into the mouth of the belus from the bay of acre, laden with certain fossil alkalies which were found somewhere along the coast, and were used in those times for certain purposes, and that the sailors landed on the beach and built a fire there, with a view of taking supper on the shore. when the fire was made they looked about the beach for stones to use as a support for their kettle; but the soil being alluvial and sandy they were not able to find any stones, and so they brought instead three fragments of the alkaline fossil, whatever it might have been, with which their vessel was loaded. these fragments they placed in the margin of the fire which they had built upon the sand, and rested the kettle upon them; thus by means of the alkali, the sand, the metal, and the fire, all the conditions were combined that are essential to produce a vitrification, and after their supper was ended the seamen found the glassy substance which had been produced, lying beneath the fire. they made their discovery known, and the experiment was repeated. soon after this the regular manufacture of glass for vessels and ornaments was commenced in the city of sidon, which lies on the coast of the mediterranean, not many miles north of the mouth of the belus, and from sidon the art soon spread into every part of the civilized world. [illustration: the discovery of glass.] the convent. the time required for the ascent from haïfa to the convent is about an hour--the buildings of the institution, though often spoken of as upon the top of the mountain, being really only about two-thirds of the way up to the highest summit. the condition in which the various travelers who have visited the spot within the last hundred years have found the institution, and the accounts which they have given of the edifice and of the inmates, varies extremely according to the time of the visit. in fact, after napoleon's defeat before acre, the convent was entirely destroyed, and the spot was for a time deserted. the cause of this was that napoleon took possession of the edifice for the purpose of using it as a hospital, and quartered his wounded and disabled soldiers there. the turks, consequently, when they came and found the institution in the possession of the french, considered themselves authorized to regard it as a post of the enemy. they accordingly slaughtered the troops which they found there, drove away the monks, and blew up the buildings. from this time the convent remained desolate and in ruins for more than twenty years. at length, between and , a celebrated monk, known by the name of john baptist, undertook the work of building up the institution again. with great zeal, and with untiring patience and perseverance, he traversed many countries of europe and asia to gather funds for the work, and to remove the various obstacles which are always in the way in the case of such an undertaking. he succeeded, at length, in accomplishing the work, and the convent was rebuilt in a more complete and extended form than ever before. since that time, accordingly, the traveler finds, when he reaches the brow of the mountain where the convent buildings stand, a stately and commodious edifice ready to receive him. like most of the other convents and monasteries of asia, the institution serves the purpose of an inn. a monk receives the traveler and his party, and conducts them to a commodious sitting-room, furnished with a carpet, with tables, and with chairs. a corridor from this apartment leads to bed-rooms in the rear, furnished likewise in a very comfortable manner, with beds, chairs, and tables;--articles which attract the attention of the traveler, and are specially mentioned in his journal, as they are very rarely to be found in the east. on the terraces and balconies of the building the visitor, wearied with the toil of the ascent, finds seats where he reposes in peace, and enjoys the illimitable prospect which the view commands, both up and down the coast, and far out over the waters of the mediterranean sea. travelers are entertained at the convent as at an inn, except that in place of a formal reckoning when they depart, they make their acknowledgment for the hospitality which they have received in the form of a donation to the monastery, the amount of which custom prescribes. the rule is that no guest is to remain longer than a fortnight--the arrangements being designed for the accommodation of travelers, and not of permanent guests. this rule, however, is not strictly enforced, except so far as to give to parties newly arriving the precedence in respect to choice of rooms, over those whose fortnight has expired. while the guests remain, they are very kindly and hospitably entertained by the monks, who appear before them clothed in a hood and cassock of coarse brown cloth, with a rope girdle around the loins, and sandals upon the feet--the ancient habit of the order. their countenances wear a thoughtful and serious, if not sad expression. the grottos and caves. the halo of sacredness which invests mt. carmel proceeds from the memory of the prophet elijah, who, while he lived on the earth, made this mountain his frequent resort, if not his usual abode. this we learn from the scriptures themselves, as well as from the long and unbroken testimony of ancient tradition. the memorable transactions connected with the destruction of the priests of baal, in the time of ahab, at the conclusion of which came the sudden rain, as described in the passage already quoted, is supposed to have taken place at the foot of the mountain near this spot--and the ground on which the priests were slain is still shown, as identified by ancient tradition, on the banks of the kishon, a little way up the valley.[ ] the mountain above is full of grottos and caves. it is said that more than a thousand have been counted. the one which is supposed to have been elijah's special abode is now within the buildings of the convent. higher up, among the rocks behind the convent, is another which is called elisha's cave, and at some distance below, in the bottom of a frightful chasm, into which the traveler descends by a steep and dangerous path, and which opens toward the sea, is another cavern, the largest and most noted of all. it forms a large and lofty apartment, vaulted above, and is said to have been the place where obadiah concealed and protected the company of prophets, one hundred and fifty in number, and fed them with bread and water while they remained in their retreat.[ ] this cave is called accordingly the cave of the prophets. the situation of this grotto is beyond description solitary, desolate, and sublime. nothing is to be seen from within it but the open sea, and no sound is heard but the breaking of the surf, as it rolls in upon the rocky shore six hundred feet below. the petrifactions. among the other objects of interest and attraction for the pilgrims and travelers that visit mt. carmel, are certain curious stones, well known to geologists as a common mineral formation, but which pass with the pilgrims and monks for petrified grapes, dates, or melons, according to their size and configuration. these stones are round in form, and are often hollow, being lined with a crystalline incrustation within, the crystals representing, in the imagination of the pilgrim, the seeds of the fruit from which the specimen was formed. these fossils are found in a part of the mountain remote from the convent, where a stream comes down from the heights above, and they are supposed to be miraculous in their origin. the legend accounting for the production of them is this. in the time of elijah there was a garden and a vineyard on the spot, and one day as elijah was passing that way, weary and faint with his journey, he looked over the wall and asked the owner of the ground to give him some of the melons and fruits that he saw growing there. the man refused the wayfarer's request, saying jestingly in his refusal, that those things were not melons and fruits, but only stones. "stones then let them be," said elijah, and so passed on. the gardener, on turning to examine the fruits of his garden, found to his consternation that they had all been turned into stone, and ever since that day the ground has been under a curse, and has produced nothing but stony semblances of fruit, instead of the reality. these supposed petrifactions are greatly prized by all who visit the mountain. well informed travelers value them as specimens illustrative of a very singular superstition, and as souvenirs of their visit to the spot;--while monks and pilgrims believe them to possess some supernatural virtue. they suppose that though elijah's denunciation proved a curse to the ground in respect to the owner, in causing it to produce these flinty mockeries, the stones themselves, being miraculous in their nature and origin, are endued with some supernatural power to protect and bless those who reverently collect and preserve them. [illustration: elijah and the gardener.] origin of the carmelite order. the convent of mt. carmel, as alluded to and described by travelers during the last five hundred years is to be understood as denoting not a single building, but a series of buildings, that have risen, flourished, and gone to decay on the same spot, in a long succession, like a dynasty of kings following each other in a line on the same throne. the grottos and caverns which are found upon the mountain began to be occupied at a very early period by hermits and solitary monks, who lived probably at first in a state of separation from each other as well as of seclusion from the world. after a time however they began to combine together, and to live in edifices specially constructed for their use, and for the last thousand years the carmelites have constituted a well known and numerous religious order, having spread from their original seat and centre to every part of europe, and taken a very active and important part in the ecclesiastical affairs of modern times. every religious order of the roman church prides itself on the antiquity of its origin, and the traditions of the carmelites for a long time carried back the history of their society to a very remote period indeed--not merely to the christian era, but from the time of christ and the apostles back to elijah, and from elijah to enoch. in discussing this subject, however, one ecclesiastical writer very gravely maintains that the enoch, if there was one, among the founders of the carmelite fraternity, could not have been the patriarch enoch, the father of methusaleh, since it is plain that there could have been no carmelite monks among those saved in the ark, at the time of the deluge, for the vow of celibacy was an essential rule of the order from the beginning, and the sons of noah, who were the only men besides noah himself that were saved from the flood, were all married men, and took their wives with them when they went into the ark! these traditions, however, ascribing a very high antiquity to the order of the carmelites, were allowed to pass for many centuries with very little question; but at last, about two hundred years ago, certain religious historians belonging to other monastic orders, in the course of the investigations which they made into the early history of the church, came to the conclusion that the institution of the carmelites was founded in the twelfth century of the christian era. the earliest authentic information that they could find, they said, in respect to its origin was the account given by a traveler by the name of john phocas, who visited the mountain in , in the course of a tour which he was making in the holy land. he relates that he ascended mt. carmel, and that he found there the cave of elijah, describing it as it now appears. he also states that there was a monastery there which had been founded a few years before by a venerable monk, gray-headed and advanced in years, who had come upon the mountain in obedience to a revelation which he had received from the prophet elijah, enjoining upon him so to do, and that he had built a small tower for a dwelling, and a small chapel for the purpose of worship, and that he had established himself here with ten companions of the same religious profession with himself; and this was the true origin of the convent of mt. carmel. a controversy. the carmelite monks throughout europe were every where greatly displeased at the publication of this account, which cut off at a single blow some two thousand years from the antiquity of their order, even supposing their pretensions to go no farther back than to the time of elijah. a protracted and very bitter controversy arose. volumes after volumes were published--the quarrel, as is usual with religious disputes, degenerating in character as it advanced, and growing continually more and more rancorous and bitter, until at last the pope interposed and put an end to the dispute by a bull. the bull did not attempt to decide the question; it only silenced the combatants. nothing more was to be said by any party, or under any pretext, on the origin of the institution of the carmelites, but the whole subject was entirely interdicted. this bull, the issuing of which was a most excellent act on the part of his holiness, proved an effectual remedy for the evil which it was intended to suppress. the dispute was suddenly terminated, and though the question was in form left undecided, it was settled in fact, for it has since been generally admitted that the story of john phocas was true, and that mt. carmel, though inhabited by hermits and individual recluses long before, was not the seat of a regularly organized society of monks until nearly twelve centuries after the christian era. the monk st. basil. the carmelites themselves were accustomed to maintain that the earliest written rule for the government of their order was given them by a very celebrated ancient monk, known in history as st. basil. st. basil lived about three hundred years after the time of christ. he was descended from a distinguished family, and received an excellent education in early life, in the course of which he made very high attainments in all the branches of knowledge customarily pursued in those days. his mind, however, being strongly impressed with a sense of religious obligation, he determined not to engage in the duties of the profession for which he had been trained, but to seclude himself from the world, in accordance with the custom that prevailed in those days, and spend his life in religious meditation and prayer. as a preliminary step he determined on taking a journey into the countries where the practice of religious retirement had begun to prevail, in order to visit the hermits, recluses, and monks, in their dens and caves, and become practically acquainted with the mode of life which these voluntary exiles from the world were accustomed to lead. he accordingly set out upon his travels, and in the course of a few years he explored egypt, palestine, syria, asia minor, and other countries still farther east, in order to visit and converse with all the monks and hermits that he could find, in the deserts and solitudes to which they had retired. we can not here give the subsequent particulars of his life. it is sufficient to say that his learning, his high rank, his exalted character, and perhaps his honest and conscientious piety, combined to raise him in the end to a very commanding position in respect to the whole monastic world while he lived, and to inspire many succeeding generations with a great veneration for his memory. he was believed to have been during his life an object of the special and miraculous protection of heaven; for it is recorded as sober historic truth, that at one time, during the latter part of his career, when certain theological enemies had prevailed in obtaining a sentence of banishment against him, and the decree, properly drawn up, was brought to the emperor to sign, the pen which was put into the emperor's hand broke suddenly into pieces as soon as it touched the paper. the emperor called for another pen, but on attempting to use it the same result followed. this was done three times, and at last, as the emperor seemed determined to persist in his design, his hand was seized with a sudden and uncontrollable trembling, and the chair upon which he was sitting broke down, and let him fall upon the floor. the emperor now perceived that he was contending against god, and taking up the decree he destroyed it by tearing it in pieces. now the carmelites maintained that this st. basil was a monk of their order, that he was one of the successors of elijah, that they had obtained their first written rule of their order from him, and that the basilians, an order of monks taking their name from him and well known throughout europe in the middle ages, were to be considered as only a branch, or offshoot, from the ancient carmelite institution. out of this state of things there arose subsequently a very extraordinary controversy between the basilians and the carmelites as will presently appear. rules of the order. the claim of the carmelites to have received their first written charter from st. basil is not very well sustained, as the earliest authentic evidence of any written rule for the government of the institution relates to one given them by the patriarch of jerusalem in , about thirty years after the time when the monastery was founded, according to john phocas's narrative. this "rule," or charter as it would be called at the present day, consisted of sixteen articles, and some particulars of it may be interesting to the reader as illustrating the nature of this species of document. the first article treats of the election of the prior of the monastery, and of the obedience which was to be rendered to him by the other monks. the second treats of the cells in which the brethren were to live, and prescribes that they should be separated from each other in such a way that there could be no intercourse or communication between the respective inmates. the third contains regulations in respect to the cell of the prior, its situation and relation to the other cells. the fifth requires the monks to remain constantly each within his own cell except when called away by regularly prescribed duties elsewhere, and to devote himself in his retirement to the work of prayer and meditation. the sixth prescribes certain regulations in respect to divine service. by the seventh the monks are forbidden to possess any private property of any kind. the eighth requires the brethren of the monastery to build an oratory or place of prayer in some central place, near the cells, and to assemble there every morning to hear mass. the ninth prescribes rules for the internal discipline of the institution. the tenth enjoins certain fast days. the eleventh forbids the use of flesh for food entirely. the twelfth exhorts the monks to clothe themselves with certain spiritual armor which it describes. the thirteenth enjoins upon them to labor with their hands, in cultivating the fruits of the earth in their little gardens. the fourteenth enjoins absolute silence upon them, from vespers until the break of day on the following morning. the fifteenth inculcates upon them the duty of humility and of devoting themselves to prayer; and the sixteenth closes the series by exhorting them to be always obedient and submissive to the prior. early monastic life. there is no question that the monastic system of christian europe, established originally by such beginnings as these, led in the end to evil consequences and results of the most deplorable character, and we are accustomed, as protestants, to believe that there is nothing that is not worthy of unqualified condemnation in it from beginning to end. but when we dismiss from our minds the ideas and associations with which the religious history of the last five hundred years has invested every thing that pertains to monastic life, and look at such a community as this of mt. carmel as it was in its original inception and design, we shall find it impossible to ascribe the conduct of those simple-minded recluses to any other motive than a desire to withdraw themselves from the world, in a spirit of honest self-denial, in order to live nearer to god, and enjoy the peace and happiness of daily and uninterrupted communion with him. and as to the delusion and folly of the course which they pursued, in order to judge impartially, we must look at the circumstances of the case as they really were, and see how effectually, in the arrangements which the hermits made, all the essential requisites for human comfort and happiness were secured. the mountain which they chose for their retreat was beautiful beyond description; the soil was fertile, the air was balmy and pure, and such was the climate that the season with them was an almost perpetual summer. they had gardens to till, which produced them an abundance of fruits and vegetables, and in those climes the human constitution requires no other food. the grottos in which they lived were dry, and formed undoubtedly very safe and not uncomfortable dwellings. they suffered neither heat nor cold, for in palestine cold is seldom known, and though the sun is sometimes hot, and the air sultry, in the valleys, the mountain which they dwelt upon rises into a region of perpetual salubrity, where there is always an atmosphere of soft and balmy air reposing in the groves, or breathing gently over the summit. besides all these natural advantages of their situation, their course of daily duty gave them healthful and agreeable employment. their hours were systematically arranged, and their occupations, though varied in kind, were regular in rotation and order. thus, on the whole, though there was doubtless much of superstition and of error in their ideas, still we are inclined to think that there are some usages and modes of life not at all monastic in their character--to be witnessed among the world-following christians of the present day, in palaces of wealth and prosperity--which exhibit quite as much delusion and folly as was ever evinced by these poor world-abandoning monks, in the caves and grottos of mt. carmel. [illustration: the hermits of mount carmel.] the dispute with the basilians. a society of monks once established, depends of course for its continuance and prosperity on external additions, and not on any internal growth; for since celibacy is the rule of all monastic orders, there can not be in such communities, as in the case of an ordinary hamlet or village, any natural sequence of generations. a man is never born a monk: so that monasticism has at least one of the marks and characteristics of a monstrosity. it does not propagate its kind. notwithstanding this, however, the institution on mt. carmel gradually increased. accessions were made from time to time to the numbers of the monks, until at length the order became so numerous that several branch institutions were established in different parts of europe, and the carmelites became very generally known throughout the christian world. we can not here, however, go away from the mountain to follow the society in its general history, though we will digress from our immediate subject so far as to give a brief account of the singular controversy which arose in subsequent years between the carmelites and the basilians, a controversy which not only exhibits in a striking point of view some of the peculiar ideas and religious usages of the times in which it occurred, but illustrates certain important principles in respect to the nature of religious controversy, that are applicable to the disputes of every age. the question in this case related to the costume in which the prophet elijah was represented in a certain picture belonging to a church which the basilians built near messina, in the island of sicily. the church was built in the year , and the open controversy arose then; but the origin of it may be traced to a period antecedent to that time. it seems that in , six hundred years before the dispute to which we are referring commenced, a certain sicilian potentate built a church near mt. etna, in honor of the prophet elijah, as a token of his gratitude to the prophet for appearing to him in a visible form at one time when he was involved in very imminent danger, in his wars with the saracens, and for interposing to protect him. he also built a monastery in connection with the church, and established a society of basilian monks in it. it seems that at the time when the church and monastery were built, a picture of the prophet elijah was painted and hung in the church, where it remained without exciting any question, for six hundred years. at length at the expiration of that time the buildings of the establishment having become very old, and being often greatly damaged, and the lives of the inmates seriously endangered by the shocks of earthquakes and the volcanic eruptions to which their situation so near to mt. etna exposed them, it was determined to remove the institution to another place, several miles distant from its original location, where the ground was more secure. the old picture of elijah was however found to be too much decayed to be removed. a careful copy of it was therefore made, the artist taking care to transfer, as nearly as possible, to his copy, both the features and the costume of the original. the following engraving is a faithful representation of this portrait and of the dress which became the subject of the dispute, except of course that the colors are not shown. the shoulders are covered with a cloak which in the painting was red. beneath the cloak was a tunic, formed of the skin of some animal, which descended to the knees. there were sandals on the feet. there was a sword tipped with flame in the hand, and the head was covered with a red cap trimmed with ornaments of gold. [illustration: the elijah of the basilians.] this painting in its original state had hung in its place in the old convent during the whole six hundred years without attracting any special notice; but when the copy was made and hung up in the new convent, it became an object of greater attention, and the carmelites who saw or heard of it were much displeased with the costume, inasmuch as it was not the costume of their order. the painting by exhibiting the prophet in such a dress, seemed to deny that elijah had been a carmelite, and to claim him as belonging to some other order. they complained to the basilians of the injustice done them, and demanded that the obnoxious costume should be changed. finding, however, that their complaints and remonstrances were unavailing, they appealed to the archbishop of sicily, praying him to interpose his authority to redress the injury which they were suffering, and to compel the basilians to take down the painting in question, the display of which was so dishonorable to the ancient order of mt. carmel. the basilians in reply alleged that the costume of the portrait was no innovation of theirs, and they were not responsible for it at all. the work, they said, was a faithful copy of an ancient painting that had hung for six hundred years, unquestioned and uncomplained of, in their former monastery, and that they could not give up the ancient traditions and relics of their institution; and they were especially unwilling to consent that the prophet elijah should be represented in their church in a carmelite dress, since that would prejudice the ancient claims of the basilian order. settlement of the dispute. [illustration: the authorized elijah.] the archbishop of sicily, after a long hearing of the parties to this dispute, refused to interpose, and finally the case was carried by the carmelites to rome, and laid before a certain board of the roman church called the college of rites, a sort of tribunal having jurisdiction of all questions of this nature that might arise in the catholic church, and assume sufficient importance to come before them. here the carmelites brought forward their cause, and offered their complaints in language more earnest than ever. they represented in very strong terms the deep dishonor which the basilians were inflicting upon them in publicly exhibiting the prophet elijah--the patriarch and the father of their order--dressed in a cloak, and wearing a red cap upon his head, as if he were a turkish pashaw. to give force and emphasis to their plea they exhibited to the sacred college before whom the cause was to be tried, a representation of the picture, colored like the original, in order that the judges might see for themselves how flagrant was the wrong which they endured, and how much cause they had to complain. after many long and patient hearings of the case before the college, and many fruitless attempts to find some mode satisfactory to all parties, for settling the dispute, the college finally decided upon a middle course, a sort of forced compromise which gave the victory to neither party. the costume of the painting was ordered to be changed. the cap was to be taken away from the head, and the sandals from the feet, and the red cloak was to be replaced by one of a saffron color. the tunic of skin was to be retained, and it was to be bound about the waist with a leathern girdle. a new picture was accordingly painted in accordance with this decision, as represented in the above engraving. the controversy occupied ten years; it gave rise to protracted and voluminous proceedings, and embroiled a great number of partisans among all ranks and orders of the church: and by comparing the two engravings the reader will see at a glance the amount of the difference about which the combatants were contending. it might excite surprise in our minds that a large section of the christian church could thus be engaged for ten years in an earnest, expensive, and bitter controversy about the costume of a painting, were it not that we sometimes see examples at the present day, of disputes equally earnest and protracted, about points smaller and more shadowy still. it ought, however, in strict justice to be said that the real questions at issue in disputes about religious rites and forms, are not usually as insignificant as they seem. within and beyond the outward symbol there usually lies some principle of religious faith, which is, after all, the real object of the controversy. in this case, for example, the comparative claims to antiquity and pre-eminence on the part of two powerful religious orders constituted the real question at issue. the costume of the painting formed only the accidental battle ground, as it were, on which the war was waged. it is thus with a great many religious controversies, where at first view it would seem that the point at issue is wholly inadequate to account for the degree of interest taken in the dispute. the explanation is that the apparent question is not the real one. the outward aspect of the contest seems to indicate that the combatants are merely disputing about a form, while they are really contending for a principle that lies concealed beneath it. they are like soldiers at a siege, who fight on outer walls, in themselves worthless, to defend homes and fire-sides that are concealed within, entirely out of view. descent from the mountain. [illustration: the serpent.] but we must return to the mountain, though we return to it only to come down, for it is time that our visit to it should be ended. in his excursions around the convent during his stay on the mountain, the visitor is somewhat restricted in respect to the range that he can safely take, by fear of the wild beasts that infest the jungles and thickets that grow densely on the declivities of the mountain, and around the base of it, especially on the southern side. panthers, hyenas, wild boars, and strange serpents, make these forests their abode, occupying, perhaps, in many cases, the caves and grottos of the ancient recluses, for their dens. many tales are told by the monks of these savage beasts, and of the dangers which pilgrims and travelers have incurred from them. there is an account of a child which was found in a certain situation dead, with a monstrous serpent coiled upon its breast. on examination of the body no mark of any bite or wound could be perceived, and it was accordingly supposed that the life of the little sufferer had been extinguished by the chill of the body of the reptile, or by some other mysterious and deadly agency, which it had power to exert. even the roadway leading up and down the mountain is not always safe, it would seem, from these dangerous intruders. it is rocky and solitary, and is bordered every where with gloomy ravines and chasms, all filled with dense and entangled thickets, in which, and in the cavernous rocks of which the strata of the mountain are composed, wild beasts and noxious animals of every kind find a secure retreat. the monks relate that not many years ago a servant of the convent, who had been sent down the mountain to haïfa, to accompany a traveler, was attacked and seized by a panther on his return. the panther, however, instead of putting his victim immediately to death, began to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse which she has succeeded in making her prey--holding him gently with her claws, for a time, and then, after drawing back a little, darting upon him again, as if to repeat and renew the pleasure of capturing such a prize. this was continued so long, that the cries of the terrified captive brought to the spot some persons that chanced to be near, when the panther was terrified in her turn, and fled into the forests; and then the man was rescued from his horrible situation unharmed. [illustration: the panther.] for these and similar reasons, travelers who ascend to the convent of mt. carmel enjoy but little liberty there, but must confine their explorations in most cases to the buildings of the monks, and to some of the nearest caves of the ancient recluses. still the spot is rendered so attractive by the salubrity of the air, the intrinsic beauty of the situation, the magnificence of the prospect, and the kind and attentive demeanor of the monks, that some visitors have recommended it as a place of permanent resort for those who leave their homes in the west in pursuit of health, or in search of retirement and repose. the rule that requires those who have been guests of the convent more than two weeks to give place to others more recently arrived, proves in fact to be no serious difficulty. some kind of an arrangement can in such cases always be made, though it is seldom that any occasion arises that requires it. the quarters, too, though plain and simple, are comfortable and neat, and although the visitor is somewhat restricted, from causes that have already been named, in respect to explorations of the mountain itself, there are many excursions that can be made in the country below, of a very attractive character. he can visit haïfa, he can ride or walk along the beach to acre; he can go to nazareth, or journey down the coast, passing round the western declivity of the mountain. in these and similar rambles he will find scenes of continual novelty to attract him, and be surrounded every where with the forms and usages of oriental life. leaving mount carmel. the traveler who comes to mt. carmel by the way of nazareth and the plain of esdraelon, in going away from it generally passes round the western declivity of the mountain, and thence proceeds to the south, by the way of the sea. on reaching the foot of the descent, where the mountain mule-path comes out into the main road, as shown upon the map near the commencement of this article, he turns short to the left, and goes on round the base of the promontory, with the lofty declivities of the mountain on one hand, and a mass of dense forests on the other, lying between the road and the shore. as he passes on, the road, picturesque and romantic from the beginning, becomes gradually wild, solitary, and desolate. it leads him sometimes through tangled thickets, sometimes under shelving rocks, and sometimes it brings him out unexpectedly to the shore of the sea, where he sees the surf rolling in upon the beach at his feet, and far over the water the setting sun going down to his rest beneath the western horizon. at length the twilight gradually disappears, and as the shades of the evening come on, lights glimmer in the solitary villages that he passes on his way; but there is no welcome for him in their beaming. at length when he deems it time to bring his day's journey to an end, he pitches his tent by the wayside in some unfrequented spot, and before he retires to rest for the night, comes out to take one more view of the dark and sombre mountain which he is about to leave forever. he stands at the door of his tent, and gazes at it long and earnestly, before he bids it farewell, equally impressed with the sublime magnificence of its situation and form, and with the solemn grandeur of its history. footnotes: [ ] spelled variously, by different authors, caïpha, kaïfa, caiffa, and in other ways. [ ] the charts, as executed by the engineers, were on a still larger scale than is here represented. it was necessary to reduce the scale by one-fourth, in order to bring the portion to be copied within the limits of a page. [ ] a striking example of this occurs at long branch in new jersey, where a stream crosses the beach in entering the sea, at a point about half a mile to the southward of the hotels resorted to on that coast in summer by bathers. the visitor who walks along the shore in that direction, sometimes at a certain point finds himself upon an elevated sandy ridge, with the surf of the sea rolling in upon one side of it, and what appears to be a large inland pond lying quietly on the other. a few days afterward, on visiting the spot, he observes, perhaps, that the pond has disappeared; and a wide chasm has been made across the ridge of sand that he walked over before in safety, through the centre of which a small stream is flowing quietly into the sea. neither of these views are of a nature to awaken any very special interest, except when they are considered in connection with each other: but if the observer should chance to come upon the ground when the pond is nearly full, he may witness a very extraordinary spectacle in the rushing out of the torrent by which the barrier is carried away. the boys of the vicinity often find amusement in hastening the catastrophe, by digging a little channel in the sand with their hands, when the water has risen nearly to the proper level. the stream that flows through this opening is at first extremely small, but it grows wider, deeper, and more rapid every moment, as the opening enlarges, and soon becomes a roaring torrent, spreading to a great width, and tossing itself into surges and crests as it rushes down the slope into the sea, in the most wild and tumultuous manner. the spectacle is almost equally imposing when, after the pond has emptied itself, and the tide begins to rise, the surf of the sea engages in its work of reconstructing the dam. [ ] it is somewhat doubtful whether the very first discovery of the art of making glass, took place here or not, as learned men have noticed a considerable number of allusions in various writings of a very high antiquity, which they have thought might possibly refer to this substance. an example of this kind is found in the book of job, where a word, translated crystal, is used. the writer, speaking of wisdom, says, "it can not be equaled with the gold of ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. the gold and the _crystal_ can not equal it." it has been considered doubtful whether the word crystal, in this connection, is meant to denote a glass or some transparent mineral. [ ] see kings xviii. - . for other passages of scripture referring to mt. carmel see kings ii. ; iv. ; xix. . chron. xxvi. . isa. xxxv. . jer. xlvi. . amos i. ; ix. . micah vii. . [ ] kings xviii. napoleon bonaparte. by john s. c. abbott. first consul for life. france was now at peace with all the world. it was universally admitted that napoleon was the great pacificator. he was the idol of france. the masses of the people in europe, every where regarded him as their advocate and friend, the enemy of aristocratic usurpation, and the great champion of equality. the people of france no longer demanded _liberty_. weary years of woe had taught them gladly to relinquish the boon. they only desired a ruler who would take care of them, govern them, protect them from the power of allied despotism, and give them equal rights. though napoleon had now but the title of first consul, and france was nominally a republic, he was in reality the most powerful monarch in europe. his throne was established in the hearts of nearly forty millions of people. his word was law. it will be remembered that josephine contemplated the extraordinary grandeur to which her husband had attained, with intense solicitude. she saw that more than ordinary regal power had passed into his hands, and she was not a stranger to the intense desire which animated his heart to have an heir to whom to transmit his name and his glory. she knew that many were intimating to him that an heir was essential to the repose of france. she was fully informed that divorce had been urged upon him as one of the stern necessities of state. one day, when napoleon was busy in his cabinet, josephine entered softly, by a side door, and seating herself affectionately upon his knee, and passing her hand gently through his hair, said to him, with a burst of tenderness, "i entreat you, my friend, do not make yourself king. it is lucien who urges you to it. do not listen to him." napoleon smiled upon her kindly, and said, "why, my poor josephine, you are mad. you must not listen to these fables which the old dowagers tell you. but you interrupt me now; i am very busy; leave me alone." it is recorded that lucien ventured to suggest to josephine that a law higher than the law of ordinary morality required that she must become a mother, even were it necessary, for the attainment of that end, that she should violate her nuptial vows. brutalizing and vulgar infidelity had obliterated in france, nearly all the sacredness of domestic ties. josephine, instinctively virtuous, and revering the religion of her childhood, which her husband had reinstated, bursting into tears, indignantly exclaimed, "this is dreadful. wretched should i be were any one to suppose me capable of listening, without horror, to your infamous proposal. your ideas are poisonous; your language horrible." "well, then, madame," responded lucien, "all that i can say is, that from my heart i pity you." josephine was at times almost delirious in apprehension of the awful calamity which threatened her. she knew the intensity of her husband's love. she also knew the boundlessness of his ambition. she could not be blind to the apparent importance, as a matter of state policy, that napoleon should possess an heir. she also was fully aware that throughout france marriage had long been regarded but as a partnership of convenience, to be formed and sundered almost at pleasure. "marriage," said madame de stael, "has become but the sacrament of adultery." the nation, under the influence of these views, would condemn her for selfishly refusing assent to an arrangement apparently essential to the repose of france and of europe. never was a woman placed in a situation of more terrible trial. never was an ambitious man exposed to a more fiery temptation. laying aside the authority of christianity, and contemplating the subject in the light of mere expediency, it seemed a plain duty for napoleon and josephine to separate. but gloriously does it illustrate the immutable truth of god's word, that even in such an exigence as this, the path which the bible pointed out was the only path of safety and of peace. "in separating myself from josephine," said napoleon afterward, "and in marrying maria louisa, i placed my foot upon an abyss which was covered with flowers." josephine's daughter, hortense, beautiful, brilliant, and amiable, then but eighteen years of age, was strongly attached to duroc, one of napoleon's aids, a very fashionable and handsome man. josephine, however, had conceived the idea of marrying hortense to louis bonaparte, napoleon's younger brother. she said, one day, to bourrienne, "my two brothers-in-law are my determined enemies. you see all their intrigues. you know how much uneasiness they have caused me. this projected marriage with duroc, leaves me without any support. duroc, independent of bonaparte's friendship, is nothing. he has neither fortune, rank, nor even reputation. he can afford me no protection against the enmity of the brothers. i must have some more certain reliance for the future. my husband loves louis very much. if i can succeed in uniting my daughter to him, he will prove a strong counterpoise to the calumnies and persecutions of my brothers-in-law." these remarks were reported to napoleon. he replied, "josephine labors in vain. duroc and hortense love each other, and they shall be married. i am attached to duroc. he is well born. i have given caroline to murat, and pauline to le clerc. i can as well give hortense to duroc. he is brave. he is as good as the others. he is general of division. besides, i have other views for louis." in the palace the heart may throb with the same joys and griefs as in the cottage. in anticipation of the projected marriage duroc was sent on a special mission to compliment the emperor alexander on his accession to the throne. duroc wrote often to hortense while absent. when the private secretary whispered in her ear, in the midst of the brilliant throng of the tuileries, "i have a letter," she would immediately retire to her apartment. upon her return her friends could see that her eyes were moistened with the tears of affection and joy. josephine cherished the hope that could she succeed in uniting hortense with louis bonaparte, should hortense give birth to a son, napoleon would regard him as his heir. the child would bear the name of bonaparte; the blood of the bonapartes would circulate in his veins; and he would be the offspring of hortense, whom napoleon regarded as his own daughter, and whom he loved with the strongest parental affection. thus the terrible divorce might be averted. urged by motives so powerful, josephine left no means untried to accomplish her purpose. louis bonaparte was a studious, pensive, imaginative man, of great moral worth, though possessing but little force of character. he had been bitterly disappointed in his affections, and was weary of the world. when but nineteen years of age he had formed a very strong attachment for a young lady whom he had met in paris. she was the daughter of an emigrant noble, and his whole being became absorbed in the passion of love. napoleon, then in the midst of those victories which paved his way to the throne of france, was apprehensive that the alliance of his brother with one of the old royalist families, might endanger his own ambitious projects. he therefore sent him away on a military commission, and secured, by his powerful instrumentality, the marriage of the young lady to another person. the disappointment preyed deeply upon the heart of the sensitive young man. all ambition died within him. he loved solitude, and studiously avoided the cares and pomp of state. napoleon, not having been aware of the extreme strength of his brother's attachment, when he saw the wound which he had inflicted upon him, endeavored to make all the amends in his power. hortense was beautiful, full of grace and vivacity. at last napoleon fell in with the views of josephine, and resolved, having united the two, to recompense his brother, as far as possible, by lavishing great favors upon them. it was long before louis would listen to the proposition of his marriage with hortense. his affections still clung to the lost object of his idolatry, and he could not, without pain, think of union with another. indeed a more uncongenial alliance could hardly have been imagined. in no one thing were their tastes similar. but who could resist the combined tact of josephine and power of napoleon. all obstacles were swept away, and the maiden, loving the hilarity of life, and its gayest scenes of festivity and splendor, was reluctantly led to the silent, pensive scholar, who as reluctantly received her as his bride. hortense had become in some degree reconciled to the match, as her powerful father promised to place them in high positions of wealth and rank. louis resigned himself to his lot, feeling that earth had no further joy in store for him. a magnificent _fête_ was given in honor of this marriage, at which all the splendors of the ancient royalty were revived. louis napoleon bonaparte, who, as president of the french republic, succeeded louis philippe, the king of the french, was the only child of this marriage who survived his parents. napoleon had organized in the heart of italy a republic containing about five millions of inhabitants. this republic could by no means maintain itself against the monarchies of europe, unaided by france. napoleon, surrounded by hostile kings, deemed it essential to the safety of france, to secure in italy a nation of congenial sympathies and interests, with whom he could form the alliance of cordial friendship. the italians, all inexperienced in self-government, regarding napoleon as their benefactor and their sole supporter, looked to him for a constitution. three of the most influential men of the cisalpine republic, were sent as delegates to paris, to consult with the first consul upon the organization of their government. under the direction of napoleon a constitution was drafted, which, considering the character of the italian people, and the hostile monarchical influences which surrounded them, was most highly liberal. a president and vice-president were to be chosen for ten years. there was to be a senate of eight members and a house of representatives of seventy-five members. these were all to be selected from a body composed of landed proprietors, merchants, and of the clergy and prominent literary men. thus all the important interests of the state were represented. in italy, as in all the other countries of europe at that time, there were three prominent parties. the loyalists sought the restoration of monarchy and the exclusive privileges of kings and nobles. the moderate republicans wished to establish a firm government, which would enforce order and confer upon all equal rights. the jacobins wished to break down all distinctions, divide property, and to govern by the blind energies of the mob. italy had long been held in subjection by the spiritual terrors of the priests and by the bayonets of the austrians. ages of bondage had enervated the people and there were no italian statesmen capable of taking the helm of government in such a turbulent sea of troubles. napoleon resolved to have himself proposed as president, and then reserving to himself the supreme direction, to delegate the details of affairs to distinguished italians, until they should, in some degree, be trained to duties so new to them. says thiers, "this plan was not, on his part, the inspiration of ambition, but rather of great good sense. his views on this occasion were unquestionably both pure and exalted." but nothing can more strikingly show the almost miraculous energies of napoleon's mind, and his perfect self-reliance, than the readiness with which, in addition to the cares of the empire of france, he assumed the responsibility of organizing and developing another nation of five millions of inhabitants. this was in . napoleon was then but thirty-three years of age. to have surrendered those italians, who had rallied around the armies of france in their hour of need, again to austrian domination, would have been an act of treachery. to have abandoned them, in their inexperience, to the jacobin mob on the one hand, and to royalist intrigues on the other, would have insured the ruin of the republic. but by leaving the details of government to be administered by italians, and at the same time sustaining the constitution by his own powerful hand, there was a probability that the republic might attain prosperity and independence. as the press of business rendered it extremely difficult for napoleon to leave france, a plan was formed for a vast congress of the italians, to be assembled in lyons, about half way between paris and milan, for the imposing adoption of the republican constitution. four hundred and fifty-two deputies were elected to cross the frozen alps, in the month of december. the extraordinary watchfulness and foresight of the first consul, had prepared every comfort for them on the way. in lyons sumptuous preparations were made for their entertainment. magnificent halls were decorated in the highest style of earthly splendor for the solemnities of the occasion. the army of egypt, which had recently landed, bronzed by an african sun, was gorgeously attired to add to the magnificence of the spectacle. the lyonese youth, exultant with pride, were formed into an imposing body of cavalry. on the th of january, , napoleon, accompanied by josephine, arrived in lyons. the whole population of the adjoining country had assembled along the road, anxiously watching for his passage. at night immense fires illumined his path, blazing upon every hill side and in every valley. one continuous shout of "live bonaparte," rolled along with the carriage from paris to lyons. it was late in the evening when napoleon arrived in lyons. the brilliant city flamed with the splendor of noon-day. the carriage of the first consul passed under a triumphal arch, surmounted by a sleeping lion, the emblem of france, and napoleon took up his residence in the hotel de ville, which, in most princely sumptuousness had been decorated for his reception. the italians adored napoleon. they felt personally ennobled by his renown, for they considered him their countryman. the italian language was his native tongue, and he spoke it with the most perfect fluency and elegance. the moment that the name of napoleon was suggested to the deputies as president of the republic, it was received with shouts of enthusiastic acclamation. a deputation was immediately sent to the first consul to express the unanimous and cordial wish of the convention that he would accept the office. while these things were transpiring, napoleon, ever intensely occupied, was inspecting his veteran soldiers of italy and of egypt, in a public review. the elements seemed to conspire to invest the occasion with splendor. the day was cloudless, the sun brilliant, the sky serene, the air invigorating. all the inhabitants of lyons and the populace of the adjacent country thronged the streets. no pen can describe the transports with which the hero was received, as he rode along the lines of these veterans, whom he had so often led to victory. the soldiers shouted in a frenzy of enthusiasm. old men, and young men, and boys caught the shout and it reverberated along the streets in one continuous roar. matrons and maidens, waving banners and handkerchiefs, wept in excess of emotion. bouquets of flowers were showered from the windows, to carpet his path, and every conceivable demonstration was made of the most enthusiastic love. napoleon himself was deeply moved by the scene. some of the old grenadiers, whom he recognized, he called out of the ranks, kindly talked with them, inquiring respecting their wounds and their wants. he addressed several of the officers, whom he had seen in many encounters, shook hands with them, and a delirium of excitement pervaded all minds. upon his return to the hotel de ville, he met the deputation of the convention. they presented him the address, urging upon him the acceptance of the presidency of the cisalpine republic. napoleon received the address, intimated his acceptance, and promised, on the following day, to meet the convention. [illustration: review at lyons.] the next morning dawned brightly upon the city. a large church, embellished with richest drapery, was prepared for the solemnities of the occasion. napoleon entered the church, took his seat upon an elevated platform, surrounded by his family, the french ministers, and a large number of distinguished generals and statesmen. he addressed the assembly in the italian language, with as much ease of manner, elegance of expression, and fluency of utterance as if his whole life had been devoted to the cultivation of the powers of oratory. he announced his acceptance of the dignity with which they would invest him, and uttered his views respecting the measures which should be adopted to secure the prosperity of the _italian republic_, as the new state was henceforth to be called. repeated bursts of applause interrupted his address, and at its close one continuous shout of acclamation testified the assent and the delight of the assembled multitude. napoleon remained at lyons twenty days, occupied, apparently every moment, with the vast affairs which then engrossed his attention. and yet he found time to write daily to paris, urging forward the majestic enterprises of the new government in france. the following brief extracts, from this free and confidential correspondence, afford an interesting glimpse of the motives which actuated napoleon at this time, and of the great objects of his ambition. "i am proceeding slowly in my operations. i pass the whole of my mornings in giving audience to the deputations of the neighboring departments. the improvement in the happiness of france is obvious. during the past two years the population of lyons has increased more than , souls. all the manufacturers tell me that their works are in a state of high activity. all minds seem to be full of energy, not that energy which overturns empires, but that which re-establishes them, and conducts them to prosperity and riches." "i beg of you particularly to see that the unruly members, whom we have in the constituted authorities, are every one of them removed. the wish of the nation is, that the government shall not be obstructed in its endeavors to act for the public good, and that the head of medusa shall no longer show itself, either in our tribunes or in our assemblies. the conduct of sieyes, on this occasion, completely proves that, having contributed to the destruction of all the constitutions since ' , he wishes now to try his hand against the present. he ought to burn a wax candle to our lady, for having got out of the scrape so fortunately and in so unexpected a manner. but the older i grow, the more i perceive that each man must fulfill his destiny. i recommend you to ascertain whether the provisions for st. domingo have actually been sent off. i take it for granted that you have taken proper measures for demolishing the châtelet. if the minister of marine should stand in need of the frigates of the king of naples, he may make use of them. general jourdan gives me a satisfactory account of the state of piedmont." "i wish that citizen royer be sent to the th military division, to examine into the accounts of the paymaster. i also wish some individual, like citizen royer, to perform the same duty for the th and th divisions. it is complained that the receivers keep the money as long as they can, and that the paymasters postpone payment as long as possible. the paymasters and the receivers are the greatest nuisance in the state." "yesterday i visited several factories. i was pleased with the industry and the severe economy which pervaded these establishments. should the wintry weather continue severe, i do not think that the $ , a month, which the minister of the interior grants for the purposes of charity, will be sufficient. it will be necessary to add five thousand dollars for the distribution of wood, and also to light fires in the churches and other large buildings to give warmth to a great number of people." napoleon arrived in paris on the st of january. in the mean time, there had been a new election of members of the tribunate and of the legislative body. all those who had manifested any opposition to the measures of napoleon, in the re-establishment of christianity, and in the adoption of the new civil code, were left out, and their places supplied by those who approved of the measures of the first consul. napoleon could now act unembarrassed. in every quarter there was submission. all the officers of the state, immediately upon his return, sought an audience, and, in that pomp of language which his majestic deeds and character inspired, presented to him their congratulations. he was already a sovereign, in possession of regal power, such as no other monarch in europe enjoyed. upon one object all the energies of his mighty mind were concentrated. france was his estate, his diadem, his all. the glory of france was his glory, the happiness of france his happiness, the riches of france his wealth. never did a father with more untiring self-denial and toil labor for his family, than did napoleon through days of herculean exertion and nights of sleeplessness devote every energy of body and soul to the greatness of france. he loved not ease, he loved not personal indulgence, he loved not sensual gratification. the elevation of france to prosperity, wealth, and power, was a limitless ambition. the almost supernatural success which had thus far attended his exertions, did but magnify his desires and stimulate his hopes. he had no wish to elevate france upon the ruins of other nations. but he wished to make france the pattern of all excellence, the illustrious leader, at the head of all nations, guiding them to intelligence, to opulence, and to happiness. such, at this time, was the towering ambition of napoleon, the most noble and comprehensive which was ever embraced by the conception of man. of course, such ambition was not consistent with the equality of other nations, for he determined that france should be the first. but he manifested no disposition to destroy the prosperity of others; he only wished to give such an impulse to humanity in france, by the culture of mind, by purity of morals, by domestic industry, by foreign commerce, by great national works, as to place france in the advance upon the race course of greatness. in this race france had but one antagonist--england. france had nearly forty millions of inhabitants. the island of great britain contained but about fifteen millions. but england, with her colonies, girdled the globe, and, with her fleets, commanded all seas. "france," said napoleon, "must also have her colonies and her fleets." "if we permit that," the statesmen of england rejoined, "we may become a secondary power, and may thus be at the mercy of france." it was undeniably so. shall history be blind to such fatality as this? is man, in the hour of triumphant ambition, so moderate, that we can be willing that he should attain power which places us at his mercy? england was omnipotent upon the seas. she became arrogant, and abused that power, and made herself offensive to all nations. napoleon developed no special meekness of character to indicate that he would be, in the pride of strength which no nation could resist, more moderate and conciliating. candor can not censure england for being unwilling to yield her high position--to surrender her supremacy on the seas--to become a secondary power--to allow france to become her master. and who can censure france for seeking the establishment of colonies, the extension of commerce, friendly alliance with other nations, and the creation of fleets to protect her from aggression upon the ocean, as well as upon the land? napoleon himself, with that wonderful magnanimity which ever characterized him, though at times exasperated by the hostility which he now encountered, yet often spoke in terms of respect of the influences which animated his foes. it is to be regretted that his antagonists so seldom reciprocated this magnanimity. there was here, most certainly, a right and a wrong. but it is not easy for man accurately to adjust the balance. god alone can award the issue. the mind is saddened as it wanders amid the labyrinths of conscientiousness and of passion, of pure motives and of impure ambition. this is, indeed, a fallen world. the drama of nations is a tragedy. melancholy is the lot of man. england daily witnessed, with increasing alarm, the rapid and enormous strides which france was making. the energy of the first consul seemed superhuman. his acts indicated the most profound sagacity, the most far-reaching foresight. to-day the news reaches london that napoleon has been elected president of the italian republic. thus in an hour five millions of people are added to his empire! to-morrow it is announced that he is establishing a colony at elba, that a vast expedition is sailing for st. domingo, to re-organize the colony there. england is bewildered. again it is proclaimed that napoleon has purchased louisiana of spain, and is preparing to fill the fertile valley of the mississippi with colonists. in the mean time, all france is in a state of activity. factories, roads, bridges, canals, fortifications are every where springing into existence. the sound of the ship hammer reverberates in all the harbors of france, and every month witnesses the increase of the french fleet. the mass of the english people contemplate with admiration this development of energy. the statesmen of england contemplate it with dread. for some months, napoleon, in the midst of all his other cares, had been maturing a vast system of public instruction for the youth of france. he drew up, with his own hand, the plan for their schools, and proposed the course of study. it is a little singular that, with his strong scientific predilections, he should have assigned the first rank to classical studies. perhaps this is to be accounted for from his profound admiration of the heroes of antiquity. his own mind was most thoroughly stored with all the treasures of greek and roman story. all these schools were formed upon a military model, for, situated as france was, in the midst of monarchies, at heart hostile, he deemed it necessary that the nation should be universally trained to bear arms. religious instruction was to be communicated in all these schools by chaplains, military instruction by old officers who had left the army, and classical and scientific instruction by the most learned men europe could furnish. the first consul also devoted special attention to female schools. "france needs nothing so much to promote her regeneration," said he, "as good mothers." to attract the youth of france to these schools, one million of dollars was appropriated for over six thousand gratuitous exhibitions for the pupils. ten schools of law were established, nine schools of medicine, and an institution for the mechanical arts, called the "school of bridges and roads," the first model of those schools of art which continue in france until the present day, and which are deemed invaluable. there were no exclusive privileges in these institutions. a system of perfect equality pervaded them. the pupils of all classes were placed upon a level, with an unobstructed arena before them. "this is only a commencement," said napoleon, "by-and-by we shall do more and better." another project which napoleon now introduced was vehemently opposed--the establishment of the legion of honor. one of the leading principles of the revolution was the entire overthrow of all titles of distinction. every man, high or low, was to be addressed simply as _citizen_. napoleon wished to introduce a system of rewards which should stimulate to heroic deeds, and which should ennoble those who had deserved well of humanity. innumerable foreigners of distinction had thronged france since the peace. he had observed with what eagerness the populace had followed these foreigners, gazing with delight upon their gay decorations. the court-yard of the tuileries was ever crowded when these illustrious strangers arrived and departed. napoleon, in his council, where he was always eloquent and powerful, thus urged his views: "look at these vanities, which genius pretends so much to disdain. the populace is not of that opinion. it loves these many-colored ribbons, as it loves religious pomp. the democrat philosopher calls it vanity. vanity let it be. but that vanity is a weakness common to the whole human race, and great virtues may be made to spring from it. with these so much despised baubles heroes are made. there must be worship for the religious sentiment. there must be visible distinctions for the noble sentiment of glory. nations should not strive to be singular any more than individuals. the affectation of acting differently from the rest of the world, is an affectation which is reproved by all persons of sense and modesty. ribbons are in use in all countries. let them be in use in france. it will be one more friendly relation established with europe. our neighbors give them only to the man of noble birth. i will give them to the man of merit--to the one who shall have served best in the army or in the state, or who shall have produced the finest works." it was objected that the institution of the legion of honor was a return to the aristocracy which the revolution had abolished. "what is there aristocratic," napoleon exclaimed, "in a distinction purely personal, and merely for life, bestowed on the man who has displayed merit, whether civil or military--bestowed on him alone, bestowed for his life only, and not passing to his children. such a distinction is the reverse of aristocratic. it is the essence of aristocracy that its titles are transmitted from the man who has earned them, to the son who possesses no merit. the ancient regimé, so battered by the ram of the revolution, is more entire than is believed. all the emigrants hold each other by the hand. the vendeeans are secretly enrolled. the priests, at heart, are not very friendly to us. with the words 'legitimate king,' thousands might be roused to arms. it is needful that the men who have taken part in the revolution should have a bond of union, and cease to depend on the first accident which might strike one single head. for ten years we have only been making ruins. we must now found an edifice. depend upon it, the struggle is not over with europe. be assured that struggle will begin again." it was then urged by some, that the legion of honor should be confined entirely to military merit. "by no means," said napoleon, "rewards are not to be conferred upon soldiers alone. all sorts of merit are brothers. the courage of the president of the convention, resisting the populace, should be compared with the courage of kleber, mounting to the assault of acre. it is right that civil virtues should have their reward, as well as military virtues. those who oppose this course, reason like barbarians. it is the religion of brute force they commend to us. intelligence has its rights before those of force. force, without intelligence, is nothing. in barbarous ages, the man of stoutest sinews was the chieftain. now the general is the most intelligent of the brave. at cairo, the egyptians could not comprehend how it was that kleber, with his majestic form, was not commander-in-chief. when mourad bey had carefully observed our tactics, he could comprehend how it was that i, and no other, ought to be the general of an army so conducted. you reason like the egyptians, when you attempt to confine rewards to military valor. the soldiers reason better than you. go to their bivouacs; listen to them. do you imagine that it is the tallest of their officers, and the most imposing by his stature, for whom they feel the highest regard? do you imagine even that the bravest stands first in their esteem? no doubt they would despise the man whose courage they suspected; but they rank above the merely brave man him whom they consider the most intelligent. as for myself, do you suppose that it is solely because i am reputed a great general that i rule france? no! it is because the qualities of a statesman and a magistrate are attributed to me. france will never tolerate the government of the sword. those who think so are strangely mistaken. it would require an abject servitude of fifty years before that could be the case. france is too noble, too intelligent a country to submit to material power. let us honor intelligence, virtue, the civil qualities; in short, let us bestow upon them, in all professions, the like reward." the true spirit of republicanism is certainly equality of rights, not of attainments and honors; the abolition of hereditary distinctions and privileges, not of those which are founded upon merit. the badge of the legion of honor was to be conferred upon all who, by genius, self-denial, and toil, had won renown. the prizes were open to the humblest peasant in the land. still the popular hostility to any institution which bore a resemblance to the aristocracy of the ancient nobility was so strong, that though a majority voted in favor of the measure, there was a strong opposition. napoleon was surprised. he said to bourrienne: "you are right. prejudices are still against me. i ought to have waited. there was no occasion for haste in bringing it forward. but the thing is done; and you will soon find that the taste for these distinctions is not yet gone by. it is a taste which belongs to the nature of man. you will see that extraordinary results will arise from it." the order was to consist of six thousand members. it was constituted in four ranks: grand officers, commanders, officers, and private legionaries. the badge was simply a red ribbon, in the button-hole. to the first rank, there was allotted an annual salary of $ ; to the second, $ ; to the third, $ ; to the fourth, $ . the private soldier, the retired scholar, and the skillful artist were thus decorated with the same badge of distinction which figured upon the breasts of generals, nobles, and monarchs. that this institution was peculiarly adapted to the state of france, is evident from the fact, that it has survived all the revolutions of subsequent years. "though of such recent origin," says thiers, "it is already consecrated as if it had passed through centuries; to such a degree has it become the recompense of heroism, of knowledge, of merit of every kind--so much have its honors been coveted by the grandees and the princes of europe the most proud of their origin." the popularity of napoleon was now unbounded. a very general and earnest disposition was expressed to confer upon the first consul a magnificent testimonial of the national gratitude--a testimonial worthy of the illustrious man who was to receive it, and of the powerful nation by which it was to be bestowed. the president of the tribunal thus addressed that body: "among all nations public honors have been decreed to men who, by splendid actions, have honored their country, and saved it from great dangers. what man ever had stronger claims to the national gratitude than general bonaparte? his valor and genius have saved the french people from the excesses of anarchy, and from the miseries of war; and france is too great, too magnanimous to leave such benefits without reward." a deputation was immediately chosen to confer with napoleon upon the subject of the tribute of gratitude and affection which he should receive. surrounded by his colleagues and the principal officers of the state, he received them the next day in the tuileries. with seriousness and modesty he listened to the high eulogium upon his achievements which was pronounced, and then replied: "i receive with sincere gratitude the wish expressed by the tribunate. i desire no other glory than that of having completely performed the task imposed upon me. i aspire to no other reward than the affection of my fellow-citizens. i shall be happy if they are thoroughly convinced, that the evils which they may experience, will always be to me the severest of misfortunes; that life is dear to me solely for the services which i am able to render to my country; that death itself will have no bitterness for me, if my last looks can see the happiness of the republic as firmly secured as is its glory." [illustration: reception at the tuileries.] but how was napoleon to be rewarded? that was the great and difficult question. was wealth to be conferred upon him? for wealth he cared nothing. millions had been at his disposal, and he had emptied them all into the treasury of france. ease, luxury, self-indulgence had no charms for him. were monuments to be reared to his honor, titles to be lavished upon his name? napoleon regarded these but as means for the accomplishment of ends. in themselves they were nothing. the one only thing which he desired was _power_, power to work out vast results for others, and thus to secure for himself renown, which should be pure and imperishable. but how could the _power_ of napoleon be increased? he was already almost absolute. whatever he willed, he accomplished. senators, legislators, and tribunes all co-operated in giving energy to his plans. it will be remembered, that napoleon was elected first consul for a period of ten years. it seemed that there was absolutely nothing which could be done, gratifying to the first consul, but to prolong the term of his consulship, by either adding to it another period of ten years, or by continuing it during his life. "what does he wish?" was the universal inquiry. every possible means were tried, but in vain, to obtain a single word from his lips, significant of his desires. one of the senators went to cambaceres, and said, "what would be gratifying to general bonaparte? does he wish to be king? only let him say so, and we are all ready to vote for the re-establishment of royalty. most willingly will we do it for him, for he is worthy of that station." but the first consul shut himself up in impenetrable reserve. even his most intimate friends could catch no glimpse of his secret wishes. at last the question was plainly and earnestly put to him. with great apparent humility, he replied: "i have not fixed my mind upon any thing. any testimony of the public confidence will be sufficient for me, and will fill me with satisfaction." the question was then discussed whether to add ten years to his consulship, or to make him first consul for life. cambaceres knew well the boundless ambition of napoleon, and was fully conscious, that any limited period of power would not be in accordance with his plans. he ventured to say to him; "you are wrong not to explain yourself. your enemies, for notwithstanding your services, you have some left even in the senate, will abuse your reserve." napoleon calmly replied: "let them alone. the majority of the senate is always ready to do more than it is asked. they will go further than you imagine." on the evening of the th of may, , the resolution was adopted, of prolonging the powers of the first consul for _ten years_. napoleon was probably surprised and disappointed. he, however, decided to return a grateful answer, and to say that not from the senate, but from the suffrages of the people alone could he accept a prolongation of that power to which their voices had elevated him. the following answer was transmitted to the senate, the next morning: "the honorable proof of your esteem, given in your deliberation of the th, will remain forever engraven on my heart. in the three years which have just elapsed fortune has smiled upon the republic. but fortune is fickle. how many men whom she has loaded with favors, have lived a few years too long. the interest of my glory and that of my happiness, would seem to have marked the term of my public life, at the moment when the peace of the world is proclaimed. but the glory and the happiness of the citizen ought to be silent, when the interest of the state, and the public partiality, call him. you judge that i owe a new sacrifice to the people. i will make it, if the wishes of the people command what your suffrage authorizes." [illustration: malmaison.] napoleon immediately left paris for his country-seat at malmaison. this beautiful chateau was about ten miles from the metropolis. josephine had purchased the peaceful, rural retreat at napoleon's request, during his first italian campaign. subsequently, large sums had been expended in enlarging and improving the grounds; and it was ever the favorite residence of both napoleon and josephine. cambaceres called an extraordinary meeting of the council of state. after much deliberation, it was resolved, by an immense majority, that the following proposition should be submitted to the people: "shall napoleon bonaparte be first consul for life?" it was then resolved to submit a second question: "shall the first consul have the power of appointing his successor?" this was indeed re-establishing monarchy, under a republican name. cambaceres immediately repaired to malmaison, to submit these resolutions to napoleon. to the amazement of all, he immediately and firmly rejected the second question. energetically, he said: "whom would you have me appoint my successor? my brothers? but will france, which has consented to be governed by me, consent to be governed by joseph or lucien? shall i nominate you consul, cambaceres? you? dare you undertake such a task? and then the will of louis xiv. was not respected; is it likely that mine would be? a dead man, let him be who he will, is nobody." in opposition to all urgency, he ordered the second question to be erased, and the first only to be submitted to the people. it is impossible to divine the motive which influenced napoleon in this most unexpected decision. some have supposed that even then he had in view the empire and the hereditary monarchy, and that he wished to leave a chasm in the organization of the government, as a reason for future change. others have supposed that he dreaded the rivalries which would arise among his brothers and his nephews, from his having at his disposal so resplendent a gift as the empire of france. but the historian treads upon dangerous ground, when he begins to judge of motives. that which napoleon actually _did_ was moderate and noble in the highest degree. he declined the power of appointing his successor, and submitted his election to the suffrages of the people. a majority of , , voted for the consulate for life, and only eight thousands and a few hundreds, against it. never before, or since, was an earthly government established by such unanimity. never had a monarch a more indisputable title to his throne. upon this occasion lafayette added to his vote these qualifying words: "i can not vote for such a magistracy, until public freedom is sufficiently guaranteed. when that is done, i give my voice to napoleon bonaparte." in a private conversation with the first consul, he added: "a free government, and you at its head--that comprehends all my desires." napoleon remarked: "in theory lafayette is perhaps right. but what is theory? a mere dream, when applied to the masses of mankind. he thinks he is still in the united states--as if the french were americans. he has no conception of what is required for this country." a day was fixed for a grand diplomatic festival, when napoleon should receive the congratulations of the constituted authorities, and of the foreign embassadors. the soldiers, in brilliant uniform, formed a double line, from the tuileries to the luxembourg. the first consul was seated in a magnificent chariot, drawn by eight horses. a cortège of gorgeous splendor accompanied him. all paris thronged the streets through which he passed, and the most enthusiastic applause rent the heavens. to the congratulatory address of the senate, napoleon replied: "the life of a citizen belongs to his country. the french nation wishes that mine should be wholly consecrated to france. i obey its will. through my efforts, by your assistance, citizen-senators, by the aid of the authorities, and by the confidence and support of this mighty people, the liberty, equality, and prosperity of france will be rendered secure against the caprices of fate, and the uncertainty of futurity. the most virtuous of nations will be the most happy, as it deserves to be; and its felicity will contribute to the general happiness of all europe. proud then of being thus called, by the command of that power from which every thing emanates, to bring back order, justice, and equality to the earth, when my last hour approaches, i shall yield myself up with resignation, and, without any solicitude respecting the opinions of future generations." [illustration: election for consul for life.] on the following day the new articles, modifying the constitution in accordance with the change in the consulship, were submitted to the council of state. the first consul presided, and with his accustomed vigor and perspicuity, explained the reasons of each article, as he recounted them one by one. the articles contained the provision that napoleon should nominate his successor to the senate. to this, after a slight resistance, he yielded. the most profound satisfaction now pervaded france. even josephine began to be tranquil and happy. she imagined that all thoughts of royalty and of hereditary succession had now passed away. she contemplated with no uneasiness the power which napoleon possessed of choosing his successor. napoleon sympathized cordially with her in her high gratification that hortense was soon to become a mother. this child was already, in their hearts, the selected heir to the power of napoleon. on the th of august, paris magnificently celebrated the anniversary of the birth-day of the first consul. this was another introduction of monarchical usages. all the high authorities of the church and the state, and the foreign diplomatic bodies, called upon him with congratulations. at noon, in all the churches of the metropolis, a _te deum_ was sung, in gratitude to god for the gift of napoleon. at night the city blazed with illuminations. the splendors and the etiquette of royalty were now rapidly introduced; and the same fickle populace who had so recently trampled princes and thrones into blood and ruin, were now captivated with the reintroduction of these discarded splendors. napoleon soon established himself in the beautiful chateau of st. cloud, which he had caused to be repaired with great magnificence. on the sabbath the first consul, with josephine, invariably attended divine service. their example was soon followed by most of the members of the court, and the nation as a body returned to christianity, which, even in its most corrupt form, saves humanity from those abysses of degradation into which infidelity plunges it. immediately after divine service he conversed in the gallery of the chateau with the visitors who were then waiting for him. the brilliance of his intellect, and his high renown, caused him to be approached with emotions of awe. his words were listened to with intensest eagerness. he was the exclusive object of observation and attention. no earthly potentate had ever attained such a degree of homage, pure and sincere, as now circled around the first consul. napoleon was very desirous of having his court a model of decorum and of morals. lucien owned a beautiful rural mansion near neuilly. upon one occasion he invited napoleon, and all the inmates of malmaison, to attend some private theatricals at his dwelling. lucien and eliza were the performers in a piece called alzire. the ardor of their declamation, the freedom of their gestures, and above all the indelicacy of the costume which they assumed, displeased napoleon exceedingly. as soon as the play was over he exclaimed, "it is a scandal. i ought not to suffer such indecencies. i will give lucien to understand that i will have no more of it." as soon as lucien entered the saloon, having resumed his usual dress, napoleon addressed him before the whole company, and requested him in future to desist from all such representations. "what!" said he, "when i am endeavoring to restore purity of manners, my brother and sister must needs exhibit themselves upon a platform, almost in a state of nudity! it is an insult!" one day at this time bourrienne, going from malmaison to ruel, lost a beautiful watch. he proclaimed his loss by means of the bellman at ruel. an hour after, as he was sitting down to dinner, a peasant boy brought him the watch, which he had found on the road. napoleon heard of the occurrence. immediately he instituted inquiries respecting the young man and the family. hearing a good report of them, he gave the three brothers employment, and amply rewarded the honest lad. "kindness," says bourrienne, "was a very prominent trait in the character of napoleon." if we now take a brief review of what napoleon had accomplished since his return from egypt, it must be admitted that the records of the world are to be searched in vain for a similar recital. no mortal man before ever accomplished so much, or accomplished it so well, in so short a time. let us for a moment return to his landing at frejus on the th of october, , until he was chosen first consul for life, in august, , a period of not quite three years. proceeding to paris, almost alone, he overthrew the directory, and seized the supreme power; restored order into the administration of government, established a new and very efficient system for the collection of taxes, raised public credit, and supplied the wants of the suffering army. by great energy and humanity he immediately terminated the horrors of that unnatural war which had for years been desolating la vendee. condescending to the attitude of suppliant, he implored of europe peace. europe chose war. by a majestic conception of military combinations, he sent moreau with a vast army to the rhine; stimulated massena to the most desperate strife at genoa, and then, creating as by magic, an army, from materials which excited but the ridicule of his foes, he climbed, with artillery and horse, and all the munitions of war, the icy pinnacles of the alps, and fell like an avalanche upon his foes upon the plain of marengo. with far inferior numbers, he snatched the victory from the victors; and in the exultant hour of the most signal conquest, wrote again from the field of blood imploring peace. his foes, humbled, and at his mercy, gladly availed themselves of his clemency, and promised to treat. perfidiously, they only sought time to regain their strength. he then sent moreau to hohenlinden, and beneath the walls of vienna extorted peace with continental europe. england still prosecuted the war. the first consul, by his genius, won the heart of paul of russia, secured the affection of prussia, denmark, and sweden, and formed a league of all europe against the mistress of the seas. while engaged in this work, he paid the creditors of the state, established the bank of france, overwhelmed the highway robbers with utter destruction, and restored security in all the provinces; cut magnificent communications over the alps, founded hospitals on their summits, surrounded exposed cities with fortifications, opened canals, constructed bridges, created magnificent roads, and commenced the compilation of that civil code which will remain an ever-during monument of his labors and his genius. in opposition to the remonstrances of his best friends, he re-established christianity, and with it proclaimed perfect liberty of conscience. public works were every where established, to encourage industry. schools and colleges were founded. merit of every kind was stimulated by abundant rewards. vast improvements were made in paris, and the streets cleaned and irrigated. in the midst of all these cares, he was defending france against the assaults of the most powerful nation on the globe; and he was preparing, as his last resort, a vast army, to carry the war into the heart of england. notwithstanding the most atrocious libels with which england was filled against him, his fame shone resplendent through them all, and he was popular with the english people. many of the most illustrious of the english statesmen advocated his cause. his gigantic adversary, william pitt, vanquished by the genius of napoleon, was compelled to retire from the ministry--and the world was at peace. the difficulties, perplexities, embarrassments which were encountered in these enterprises were infinite. says napoleon, with that magnanimity which history should recognize and applaud, "we are told that all the first consul had to look to, was to do justice. but to whom was he to do justice? to the proprietors whom the revolution had violently despoiled of their properties, for this only, that they had been faithful to their legitimate sovereign and to the principle of honor which they had inherited from their ancestors; or to those new proprietors, who had purchased these domains, adventuring their money on the faith of laws flowing from an illegitimate authority? was he to do justice to those royalist soldiers, mutilated in the fields of germany, la vendee, and quiberon, arrayed under the white standard of the bourbons, in the firm belief that they were serving the cause of their king against a usurping tyranny; or to the million of citizens, who, forming around the frontiers a wall of brass, had so often saved their country from the inveterate hostility of its enemies, and had borne to so transcendent a height the glory of the french eagle? was he to do justice to that clergy, the model and the example of every christian virtue, stripped of its birthright, the reward of fifteen hundred years of benevolence; or to the recent acquirers, who had converted the convents into workshops, the churches into warehouses, and had turned to profane uses all that had been deemed most holy for ages?" "at this period," says thiers, "napoleon appeared so moderate, after having been so victorious, he showed himself so profound a legislator, after having proved himself so great a commander, he evinced so much love for the arts of peace, after having excelled in the arts of war, that well might he excite illusions in france and in the world. only some few among the personages who were admitted to his councils, who were capable of judging futurity by the present, were filled with as much anxiety as admiration, on witnessing the indefatigable activity of his mind and body, and the energy of his will, and the impetuosity of his desires. they trembled even at seeing him do good, in the way he did--so impatient was he to accomplish it quickly, and upon an immense scale. the wise and sagacious tronchet, who both admired and loved him, and looked upon him as the saviour of france, said, nevertheless, one day in a tone of deep feeling to cambaceres, 'this young man begins like cæsar; i fear that he will end like him.'" the elevation of napoleon to the supreme power for life was regarded by most of the states of continental europe with satisfaction, as tending to diminish the dreaded influences of republicanism, and to assimilate france with the surrounding monarchies. even in england, the prime minister, mr. addington, assured the french embassador of the cordial approbation of the british government of an event, destined to consolidate order and power in france. the king of prussia, the emperor alexander, and the archduke charles of austria, sent him their friendly congratulations. even catharine, the haughty queen of naples, mother of the empress of austria, being then at vienna, in ardent expression of her gratification to the french embassador said, "general bonaparte is a great man. he has done me much injury, but that shall not prevent me from acknowledging his genius. by checking disorder in france, he has rendered a service to all of europe. he has attained the government of his country because he is most worthy of it. i hold him out every day as a pattern to the young princes of the imperial family. i exhort them to study that extraordinary personage, to learn from him how to direct nations, how to make the yoke of authority endurable, by means of genius and glory." but difficulties were rapidly rising between england and france. the english were much disappointed in not finding that sale of their manufactures which they had anticipated. the cotton and iron manufactures were the richest branches of industry in england. napoleon, supremely devoted to the development of the manufacturing resources of france, encouraged those manufactures by the almost absolute prohibition of the rival articles. william pitt and his partisans, still retaining immense influence, regarded with extreme jealousy the rapid strides which napoleon was making to power, and incessantly declaimed, in the journals, against the ambition of france. most of the royalist emigrants, who had refused to acknowledge the new government, and were still devoted to the cause of the bourbons, had taken refuge in london. they had been the allies with england in the long war against france. the english government could not refrain from sympathizing with them in their sufferings. it would have been ungenerous not to have done so. the emigrants were many of them supported by pensions paid them by england. at the same time they were constantly plotting conspiracies against the life of napoleon, and sending assassins to shoot him. "i will yet teach those bourbons," said napoleon, in a moment of indignation, "that i am not a man to be shot at like a dog." napoleon complained bitterly that his enemies, then attempting his assassination, were in the pay of the british government. almost daily the plots of these emigrants were brought to light by the vigilance of the french police. a bourbon pamphleteer, named peltier, circulated widely through england the most atrocious libels against the first consul, his wife, her children, his brothers and sisters. they were charged with the most low, degrading, and revolting vices. these accusations were circulated widely through england and america. they produced a profound impression. they were believed. many were interested in the circulation of these reports, wishing to destroy the popularity of napoleon, and to prepare the populace of england for the renewal of the war. napoleon remonstrated against such infamous representations of his character being allowed in england. but he was informed that the british press was free; that there was no resource but to prosecute for libel in the british courts; and that it was the part of true greatness to treat such slanders with contempt. but napoleon felt that such false charges were exasperating nations, were paving the way to deluge europe again in war, and that causes tending to such woes were too potent to be despised. the algerines were now sweeping with their piratic crafts the mediterranean, exacting tribute from all christian powers. a french ship had been wrecked upon the coast, and the crew were made prisoners. two french vessels and a neapolitan ship had also been captured and taken to algiers. the indignation of napoleon was aroused. he sent an officer to the dey with a letter, informing him that if the prisoners were not released and the captured vessels instantly restored, and a promise given to respect in future the flags of france and italy, he would send a fleet and an army and overwhelm him with ruin. the dey had heard of napoleon's career in egypt. he was thoroughly frightened, restored the ships and the prisoners, implored clemency, and with barbarian injustice doomed to death those who had captured the ships in obedience to his commands. their lives were saved only through the intercession of the french minister. napoleon then performed one of the most gracious acts of courtesy toward the pope. the feeble monarch had no means of protecting his coasts from the pirates who still swarmed in those seas. napoleon selected two fine brigs in the naval arsenal at toulon, equipped them with great elegance, armed them most effectively, filled them with naval stores, and conferring upon them the apostolical names of st. peter and st. paul, sent them as a present to the pontiff. with characteristic grandeur of action, he carried his attentions so far as to send a cutter to bring back the crews, that the papal treasury might be exposed to no expense. the venerable pope, in the exuberance of his gratitude, insisted upon taking the french seamen to rome. he treated them with every attention in his power; exhibited to them st. peter's, and dazzled them with the pomp and splendor of cathedral worship. they returned to france loaded with humble presents, and exceedingly gratified with the kindness with which they had been received. it was stipulated in the treaty of amiens, that both england and france should evacuate egypt, and that england should surrender malta to its ancient rulers. malta, impregnable in its fortifications, commanded the mediterranean, and was the key of egypt. napoleon had therefore, while he professed a willingness to relinquish all claim to the island himself, insisted upon it, as an essential point, that england should do the same. the question upon which the treaty hinged, was the surrender of malta to a neutral power. the treaty was signed. napoleon promptly and scrupulously fulfilled his agreements. several embarrassments, for which england was not responsible, delayed for a few months the evacuation of malta. but now nearly a year had passed since the signing of the treaty. all obstacles were removed from the way of its entire fulfillment, and yet the troops of england remained both in egypt and in malta. the question was seriously discussed in parliament and in the english journals, whether england were bound to fulfill her engagements, since france was growing so alarmingly powerful. generously and eloquently fox exclaimed, "i am astonished at all i hear, particularly when i consider who they are that speak such words. indeed i am more grieved than any of the honorable friends and colleagues of mr. pitt, at the growing greatness of france, which is daily extending her power in europe and in america. that france, now accused of interfering with the concerns of others, we invaded, for the purpose of forcing upon her a government to which she would not submit, and of obliging her to accept the family of the bourbons, whose yoke she spurned. by one of those sublime movements, which history should recommend to imitation, and preserve in eternal memorial, she repelled her invaders. though warmly attached to the cause of england, we have felt an involuntary movement of sympathy with that generous outburst of liberty, and we have no desire to conceal it. no doubt france is great, much greater than a good englishman ought to wish, but that ought not to be a motive for violating solemn treaties. but because france now appears too great to us--greater than we thought her at first--to break a solemn engagement, to retain malta, for instance, would be an unworthy breach of faith, which would compromise the honor of britain. i am sure that if there were in paris an assembly similar to that which is debating here, the british navy and its dominion over the seas would be talked of, in the same terms as we talk in this house of the french armies, and their dominion over the land." napoleon sincerely wished for peace. he was constructing vast works to embellish and improve the empire. thousands of workmen were employed in cutting magnificent roads across the alps. he was watching with intensest interest the growth of fortifications and the excavation of canals. he was in the possession of absolute power, was surrounded by universal admiration, and, in the enjoyment of profound peace, was congratulating himself upon being the pacificator of europe. he had disbanded his armies, and was consecrating all the resources of the nation to the stimulation of industry. he therefore left no means of forbearance and conciliation untried to avert the calamities of war. he received lord whitworth, the english embassador in paris, with great distinction. the most delicate attentions were paid to his lady, the duchess of dorset. splendid entertainments were given at the tuileries and at st. cloud in their honor. talleyrand consecrated to them all the resources of his courtly and elegant manners. the two associate consuls, cambaceres and lebrun, were also unwearied in attentions. still all these efforts on the part of napoleon to secure friendly relations with england were unavailing. the british government still, in open violation of the treaty, retained malta. the honor of france was at stake in enforcing the sacredness of treaties. malta was too important a post to be left in the hands of england. napoleon at last resolved to have a personal interview himself with lord whitworth, and to explain to him, with all frankness, his sentiments and his resolves. [illustration: napoleon and the british embassador.] it was on the evening of the th of february, , that napoleon received lord whitworth in his cabinet in the tuileries. a large writing-table occupied the middle of the room. napoleon invited the embassador to take a seat at one end of the table, and seated himself at the other. "i have wished," said he, "to converse with you in person, that i may fully convince you of my real opinions and intentions." then with that force of language and that perspicuity which no man ever excelled, he recapitulated his transactions with england from the beginning; that he had offered peace immediately upon his accession to the consulship; that peace had been refused; that eagerly he had renewed negotiations as soon as he could with any propriety do so; and that he had made great concessions to secure the peace of amiens. "but my efforts," said he, "to live on good terms with england, have met with no friendly response. the english newspapers breathe but animosity against me. the journals of the emigrants are allowed a license of abuse which is not justified by the british constitution. pensions are granted to georges and his accomplices, who are plotting my assassination. the emigrants, protected in england, are continually making excursions to france to stir up civil war. the bourbon princes are received with the insignia of the ancient royalty. agents are sent to switzerland and italy to raise up difficulties against france. every wind which blows from england brings me but hatred and insult. now we have come to a situation from which we must relieve ourselves. will you or will you not execute the treaty of amiens? i have executed it on my part with scrupulous fidelity. that treaty obliged me to evacuate naples, tarento, and the roman states, within three months. in less than two months, all the french troops were out of those countries. ten months have elapsed since the exchange of the ratifications, and the english troops are still in malta, and at alexandria. it is useless to try to deceive us on this point. will you have peace, or will you have war? if you are for war, only say so; we will wage it unrelentingly. if you wish for peace, you must evacuate alexandria and malta. the rock of malta, on which so many fortifications have been erected, is, in a maritime point of view, an object of great importance; but, in my estimation, it has an importance infinitely greater, inasmuch as it implicates the honor of france. what would the world say, if we were to allow a solemn treaty, signed with us, to be violated? it would doubt our energy. for my part, my resolution is fixed. i had rather see you in possession of the heights of montmartre, than in possession of malta." "if you doubt my desire to preserve peace, listen, and judge how far i am sincere. though yet very young, i have attained a power, a renown to which it would be difficult to add. do you imagine that i am solicitous to risk this power, this renown, in a desperate struggle? if i have a war with austria, i shall contrive to find the way to vienna. if i have a war with you, i will take from you every ally upon the continent. you will blockade us; but i will blockade you in my turn. you will make the continent a prison for us; but i will make the seas a prison for you. however, to conclude the war, there must be more direct efficiency. there must be assembled , men, and an immense flotilla. we must try to cross the strait, and perhaps i shall bury in the depths of the sea my fortune, my glory, my life. it is an awful temerity, my lord, the invasion of england." here, to the amazement of lord whitworth, napoleon enumerated frankly and powerfully all the perils of the enterprise: the enormous preparations it would be necessary to make of ships, men, and munitions of war--the difficulty of eluding the english fleet. "the chance that we shall perish," said he, "is vastly greater than the chance that we shall succeed. yet this temerity, my lord, awful as it is, i am determined to hazard, if you force me to it. i will risk my army and my life. with me that great enterprise will have chances which it can not have with any other. see now if i ought, prosperous, powerful, and peaceful as i now am, to risk power, prosperity, and peace in such an enterprise. judge, if when i say i am desirous of peace, if i am not sincere. it is better for you; it is better for me to keep within the limits of treaties. you must evacuate malta. you must not harbor my assassins in england. let me be abused, if you please, by the english journals, but not by those miserable emigrants, who dishonor the protection you grant them, and whom the alien act permits you to expel from the country. act cordially with me, and i promise you, on my part, an entire cordiality. see what power we should exercise over the world, if we could bring our two nations together. you have a navy, which, with the incessant efforts of ten years, in the employment of all my resources, i should not be able to equal. but i have , men ready to march, under my command, whithersoever i choose to lead them. if you are masters of the seas, i am master of the land. let us then think of uniting, rather than of going to war, and we shall rule at pleasure the destinies of the world. france and england united, can do every thing for the interests of humanity." england, however, still refused, upon one pretense and another, to yield malta; and both parties were growing more and more exasperated, and were gradually preparing for the renewal of hostilities. napoleon, at times, gave very free utterance to his indignation. "malta," said he, "gives the dominion of the mediterranean. nobody will believe that i consent to surrender the mediterranean to the english, unless i fear their power. i thus loose the most important sea in the world, and the respect of europe. i will fight to the last, for the possession of the mediterranean; and if i once get to dover, it is all over with those tyrants of the seas. besides, as we must fight, sooner or later, with a people to whom the greatness of france is intolerable, the sooner the better. i am young. the english are in the wrong; more so than they will ever be again. i had rather settle the matter at once. they shall not have malta." still napoleon assented to the proposal for negotiating with the english for the cession of some other island in the mediterranean. "let them obtain a port to put into," said he. "to that i have no objection. but i am determined that they shall not have two gibraltars in that sea: one at the entrance, and one in the middle." to this proposition, however, england refused assent. napoleon then proposed that the island of malta should be placed in the hands of the emperor of russia; leaving it with him in trust, till the discussions between france and england were decided. it had so happened that the emperor had just offered his mediation, if that could be available, to prevent a war. this the english government also declined, upon the plea that it did not think that russia would be willing to accept the office thus imposed upon her. the english embassador now received instructions to demand that france should cede to england, malta for ten years; and that england, by way of compensation, would recognize the italian republic. the embassador was ordered to apply for his passports, if these conditions were not accepted within seven days. to this proposition france would not accede. the english minister demanded his passports, and left france. immediately the english fleet commenced its attack upon french merchant-ships, wherever they could be found. and the world was again deluged in war. [illustration: sea combat.] the palaces of france. by john s. c. abbott. france has recorded her past history and her present condition, in the regal palaces she has reared. upon these monumental walls are inscribed, in letters more legible than the hieroglyphics of egypt, and as ineffaceable, the long and dreary story of kingly vice, voluptuousness and pride, and of popular servility and oppression. the unthinking tourist saunters through these magnificent saloons, upon which have been lavished the wealth of princes and the toil of ages, and admires their gorgeous grandeur. in marbled floors and gilded ceilings and damask tapestry, and all the appliances of boundless luxury and opulence, he sees but the triumphs of art, and bewildered by the dazzling spectacle, forgets the burning outrage upon human rights which it proclaims. half-entranced, he wanders through uncounted acres of groves and lawns, and parterres of flowers, embellished with lakes, fountains, cascades, and the most voluptuous statuary, where kings and queens have reveled, and he reflects not upon the millions who have toiled, from dewy morn till the shades of night, through long and joyless years, eating black bread, clothed in coarse raiment--the man, the woman, the ox, companions in toil, companions in thought--to minister to this indulgence. but the palaces of france proclaim, in trumpet tones, the shame of france. they say to her kings, behold the undeniable monuments of your pride, your insatiate extortion, your measureless extravagance and luxury. they say to the people, behold the proofs of the outrages which your fathers, for countless ages, have endured. they lived in mud hovels that their licentious kings might riot haughtily in the apartments, canopied with gold, of versailles, the tuileries, and st. cloud--the palaces of france. the mind of the political economist lingers painfully upon them. they are gorgeous as specimens of art. they are sacred as memorials of the past. vandalism alone would raze them to their foundations. still, the _judgment_ says, it would be better for the political regeneration of france, if, like the bastile, their very foundations were plowed up, and sown with salt. for they are a perpetual provocative to every thinking man. they excite unceasingly democratic rage against aristocratic arrogance. thousands of noble women, as they traverse those gorgeous halls, feel those fires of indignation glowing in their souls, which glowed in the bosom of madame roland. thousands of young men, with compressed lip and moistened eye, lean against those marble pillars, lost in thought, and almost excuse even the demoniac and blood-thirsty mercilessness of danton, marat, and robespierre. these palaces are a perpetual stimulus and provocative to governmental aggression. there they stand, in all their gorgeousness, empty, swept, and garnished. they are resplendently beautiful. they are supplied with every convenience, every luxury. king and emperor dwelt there. why should not the _president_? hence the palace becomes the home of the republican president. the expenses of the palace, the retinue of the palace, the court etiquette of the palace become the requisitions of good taste. in america, the head of the government, in his convenient and appropriate mansion, receives a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. in france, the president of the republic receives four hundred thousand dollars a year, and yet, even with that vast sum, can not keep up an establishment at all in accordance with the dwellings of grandeur which invite his occupancy, and which unceasingly and irresistibly stimulate to regal pomp and to regal extravagance. the palaces of france have a vast influence upon the present politics of france. there is an unceasing conflict between those marble walls of monarchical splendor, and the principles of republican simplicity. this contest will not soon terminate, and its result no one can foresee. never have i felt my indignation more thoroughly aroused than when wandering hour after hour through the voluptuous sumptuousness of versailles. the triumphs of taste and art are admirable, beyond the power of the pen to describe. but the moral of execrable oppression is deeply inscribed upon all. in a brief description of the palaces of france, i shall present them in the order in which i chanced to visit them. . _palais des thermes._--in long-gone centuries, which have faded away into oblivion, a wandering tribe of barbarians alighted from their canoes, upon a small island in the seine, and there reared their huts. they were called the parisii. the slow lapse of centuries rolled over them, and there were wars and woes, bridals and burials, and still they increased in numbers and in strength, and fortified their little isle against the invasions of their enemies; for man, whether civilized or savage, has ever been the most ferocious wild beast man has had to encounter. but soon the tramp of the roman legions was heard upon the banks of the seine, and all gaul, with its sixty tribes, came under the power of the cæsars. extensive marshes and gloomy forests surrounded the barbarian village; but, gradually, roman laws and institutions were introduced; and roman energy changed the aspect of the country. immediately the proud conquerors commenced rearing a palace for the provincial governor. the palace of warm baths rose, with its massive walls, and in imposing grandeur. roman spears drove the people to the work; and roman ingenuity knew well how to extort from the populace the revenue which was required. large remains of that palace continue to the present day. it is the most interesting memorial of the past which can now be found in france. the magnificence of its proportions still strike the beholder with awe. "behold," says a writer, who trod its marble floors nearly a thousand years ago: "behold the palace of the kings, whose turrets pierce the skies, and whose foundations penetrate even to the empire of the dead." julius cæsar gazed proudly upon those turrets; and here the shouts of roman legions, fifteen hundred years ago, proclaimed julian emperor; and roman maidens, with throbbing hearts, trod these floors in the mazy dance. no one can enter the grand hall of the baths, without being deeply impressed with the majestic aspect of the edifice, and with the grandeur of its gigantic proportions. the decay of nearly two thousand years has left its venerable impress upon those walls. here roman generals proudly strode, encased in brass and steel, and the clatter of their arms resounded through these arches. in these mouldering, crumbling tubs of stone, they laved their sinewy limbs. but where are those fierce warriors now? in what employments have their turbulent spirits been engaged, while generation after generation has passed on earth, in the enactment of the comedies and the tragedies of life? did their rough tutelage in the camp, and their proud bearing in the court, prepare them for the love, the kindness, the gentleness, the devotion of heaven? in fields of outrage, clamor, and blood, madly rushing to the assault, shouting in frenzy, dealing, with iron hand, every where around, destruction and death, did they acquire a taste for the "green pastures and the still waters?" alas! for the mystery of our being! they are gone, and gone forever! their name has perished--their language is forgotten. "the storm which wrecks the wintry sky, no more disturbs their deep repose, than summer evening's gentlest sigh, which shuts the rose." upon a part of the ruins of this old palace of the cæsars, there has been reared, by more _modern ancients_, still another palace, where mirth and revelry have resounded, where pride has elevated her haughty head, and vanity displayed her costly robes--but over all those scenes of splendor, death has rolled its oblivious waves. about four hundred years ago, upon a portion of the crumbling walls of this old roman mansion, the palace of cluny was reared. for three centuries, this palace was one of the abodes of the kings of france. the tide of regal life ebbed and flowed through those saloons, and along those corridors. there is the chamber where mary of england, sister of henry viii., and widow of louis xii., passed the weary years of her widowhood. it is still called the chamber of the "white queen," from the custom of the queens of france to wear white mourning. three hundred years ago, these gothic turrets, and gorgeously ornamented lucarne windows, gleamed with illuminations, as the young king of scotland, james v., led madeleine, the blooming daughter of francis i., to the bridal altar. here the haughty family of the guises ostentatiously displayed their regal retinue--vying with the kings of france in splendor, and outvying them in power. these two palaces, now blended by the nuptials of decay into one, are converted into a museum of antiquities--silent depositories of memorials of the dead. sadly one loiters through their deserted halls. they present one of the most interesting sights of paris. in the reflective mind they awaken emotions which the pen can not describe. . _the louvre._--when paris consisted only of the little island in the seine, and kings and feudal lords, with wine and wassail were reveling in the saloons of cluny, a hunting-seat was reared in the dense forest which spread itself along the banks of the river. as the city extended, and the forest disappeared, the hunting-seat was enlarged, strengthened, and became a fortress and a state-prison. thus it continued for three hundred years. in its gloomy dungeons prisoners of state, and the victims of crime, groaned and died; and countless tragedies of despotic power there transpired, which the day of judgment alone can reveal. three hundred years ago, francis i. tore down the dilapidated walls of this old castle, and commenced the magnificent palace of the louvre upon their foundations. but its construction has required the labor of ages, and upon it has been expended millions, which despotic power has extorted from the hard hands of penury. this gorgeous palace contains a wilderness of saloons and corridors, and flights of stairs; and seems rather adapted to accommodate the population of a city, than to be merely one of the residences of a royal family. the visitor wanders bewildered through its boundless magnificence. the spirits of the dead rise again, and people these halls. here the pure and the noble jeanne d'albret was received in courtly grandeur, by the impure and the ignoble catherine de medici. here henry iv. led his profligate and shameless bride to the altar. from this window charles ix. shot down the protestants as they fled, amidst the horrors of the perfidious massacre of st. bartholomew. in this gilded chamber, with its lofty ceiling and its tapestried walls, catherine de medici died in the glooms of remorse and despair. her bed of down, her despotic power could present no refuge against the king of terrors; and the mind is appalled with the thought, that from this very room, now so silent and deserted, her guilty spirit took its flight to the tribunal of the king of kings, and the lord of lords. successive generations of haughty sovereigns have here risen and died. and if there be any truth in history, they have been, almost without exception, proud, merciless, licentious oppressors. the orgies of sin have filled this palace. defiance to god and man has here held its high carnival. [illustration: the louvre.] the mind is indeed bewildered with a flood of emotions rushing through it, as one is pointed to the alcove where henry iv. was accustomed to sleep three hundred years ago, and to the very spot where, in anguish, he gasped and died, after having been stabbed by ravaillac. here one sees the very helmet worn by henry ii. on that unfortunate day, when the tilting spear of the count of montgommeri, entering his eye, pierced his brain. it requires the labor of a day even to saunter through the innumerable rooms of this magnificent abode. but it will never again resound with the revelries of kings and queens. royalty has forsaken it forever. democracy has now taken strange and anomalous possession of its walls. it is converted into the most splendid museum in the world--filled with the richest productions of ancient and modern art. the people now enter freely that sanctuary, where once none but kings and courtiers ventured to appear. the louvre now is useful to the world; but upon its massive walls are registered deeds of violence, oppression, and crime which make the ear to tingle. [illustration: the inner court of the louvre.] . _malmaison._--when napoleon was in the midst of his egyptian campaign, he wrote to josephine, to purchase somewhere in the vicinity of paris, a pleasant rural retreat, to which they could retire from the bustle of the metropolis, and enjoy the luxury of green fields and shady groves. josephine soon found a delightful chateau, about nine miles from paris, and five from versailles, which she purchased, with many acres of land around it, for about one hundred thousand dollars. the great value of the place was in the spacious and beautiful grounds, not in the buildings. the chateau itself was plain, substantial, simple, far less ostentatious in its appearance than many a country-seat erected upon the banks of the hudson, or in the environs of boston. here josephine resided most of the time during the eighteen months of napoleon's absence in egypt. upon napoleon's return, this became the favorite residence of them both. amid all the splendors of the empire, it was ever their great joy to escape to the rural quietude of malmaison. there they often passed the sabbath, in the comparative happiness of private life. often napoleon said, as he left those loved haunts, to attend to the cares and toils of the tuileries, "now i must again put on the yoke of misery." napoleon ever spoke of the hours passed at malmaison, as the happiest of his life. he erected for himself there, in a retired grove, a little pavilion, very simple, yet beautiful, in its structure, which still retains the name of the pavilion of the emperor. here he passed many hours of uninterrupted solitude, in profound study of his majestic plans and enterprises. directly behind the chateau there was a smooth and beautiful lawn, upon a level with the ground floor of the main saloon. the windows, extending to the floor, opened upon this lawn. when all the kings of europe were doing homage to the mighty emperor, crowds of visitors were often assembled at malmaison; and upon this lawn, with the characteristic gayety of the french, many mirthful games were enacted. the favorite amusement here was the game of prisoners. frequently, after dinner, the most distinguished gentlemen and ladies, not of france only, but of all europe, were actively and mirthfully engaged in this sport. kings and queens, and princes of the blood royal were seen upon the green esplanade, pursuing and pursued. napoleon occasionally joined in the sport. he was a poor runner, and not unfrequently fell and rolled over upon the grass, while he and his companions were convulsed with laughter. josephine, fond of deeds of benevolence, loved to visit the cottages in the vicinity of malmaison; and her sympathy and kindness gave her enthronement in the hearts of all their inmates. after the divorce of josephine, the palace of malmaison, which napoleon had embellished with all those attractions which he thought could soothe the anguish of his wounded, weeping, discarded wife, was assigned to josephine. a jointure of six hundred thousand dollars a year was settled upon her, and she retained the title and the rank of empress queen. here napoleon frequently called to see her; though from motives of delicacy, he never saw her alone. taking her arm, he would walk for hours through those embowered avenues, confiding to her all his plans. just before napoleon set out for his fatal campaign to russia, he called to see josephine. taking her hand, he led her out to a circular seat in the garden, in front of the mansion, and for two hours continued engaged with her in the most earnest conversation. at last he rose and affectionately kissed her hand. she followed him to his carriage and bade him adieu. this was their last interview but one. he soon returned a fugitive from moscow. all europe was in arms against him. he earnestly sought a hurried interview with the faithful wife of his youth in her retreat at malmaison. as he gazed upon her beloved features, tenderly and sadly he exclaimed, "josephine! i have been as fortunate as was ever man upon the face of this earth. but in this hour, when a storm is gathering over my head, i have not any one in this wide world but you upon whom i can repose." with a moistened eye he bade her farewell. they met not again. when the allied armies entered paris a guard was sent, out of respect to josephine, to protect malmaison. the emperor alexander, with a number of illustrious guests, dined with the empress queen, and in the evening walked out upon the beautiful lawn. josephine, whose health was shattered by sympathy and sorrow, took cold, and after the illness of a few days died. it was the th of may, . it was the serene and cloudless evening of a tranquil summer's day. the windows of the apartment were open where the empress was dying. the sun was silently sinking behind the trees of malmaison, and its rays, struggling through the foliage, shone cheerfully upon the bed of death. the air was filled with the songs of birds, warbling, as it were, the vespers of josephine's most eventful life. thus sweetly her gentle spirit sank into its last sleep. in the antique village church of ruel, about two miles from malmaison, the mortal remains of this most lovely of women now slumber. a beautiful monument of white marble, with a statue representing the empress kneeling in her coronation robes, is erected over her burial place, with this simple but affecting inscription: to josephine, by eugene and hortense. it was a bright and beautiful morning when i took a carriage, with a friend, and set out from paris to visit malmaison. we had been informed that the property had passed into the hands of christina, the queen-mother of spain, and that she had given strict injunctions that no visitors should be admitted to the grounds. my great desire, however, to visit malmaison induced me to make special efforts to accomplish the object. a recent rain had laid the dust, the trees were in full leaf, the grass was green and rich, the grain was waving in the wind, and the highly cultivated landscape surrounding paris presented an aspect of extraordinary beauty. we rode quietly along, enjoying the luxury of the emotions which the scene inspired, till we came to the village of ruel. a french village has no aspect of beauty. it is merely the narrow street of a city set down by itself in the country. the street is paved, the cheerless, tasteless houses are huddled as closely as possible together. there is no yard for shrubbery and flowers, apparently no garden, no barn-yards with lowing herds. the flowers of the empire have been garnered in the palaces of the kings. the taste of the empire has been concentrated upon the tuileries, versailles, st. cloud, fontainebleau, and none has been left to embellish the home of the peasant. the man who tills the field must toil day and night, with his wife, his daughter, and his donkey, to obtain food and clothing for his family, as animals. this centralization of taste and opulence in particular localities, is one of the greatest of national mistakes and wrongs. america has no versailles. may god grant that she never may have. but thousands of american farmers have homes where poets would love to dwell. their daughters trim the shrubbery in the yard, and cultivate the rose, and partake themselves of the purity and the refinement of the rural scenes in the midst of which they are reared. in the village of ruel, so unattractive to one accustomed to the rich beauty of new england towns, we found the church, an old, cracked, mouldering and crumbling stone edifice, built five hundred years ago. it was picturesque in its aspect, venerable from its historical associations, and as poorly adapted as can well be imagined for any purposes to which we in america appropriate our churches. the floor was of crumbling stone, worn by the footfalls of five centuries. there were enormous pillars supporting the roof, alcoves running in here and there, a pulpit stuck like the mud nest of a swallow upon a rock. the village priest was there catechising the children. a large number of straight-backed, rush-bottomed chairs were scattered about in confusion, instead of pews. these old gothic churches, built in a semi-barbarian age, and adapted to a style of worship in which the pomp of paganism and a corrupted christianity were blended, are to my mind gloomy memorials of days of darkness. visions of hooded monks, of deluded penitents, of ignorant, joyless generations toiling painfully through them to the grave, impress and oppress the spirit. in one corner of the church, occupying a space some twenty feet square, we saw the beautiful monument reared by eugene and hortense to their mother. it was indeed a privilege to stand by the grave of josephine; there to meditate upon life's vicissitudes, there to breathe the prayer for preparation for that world of spirits to which josephine has gone. how faithful her earthly love; how affecting her dying prayer! clasping the miniature of the emperor fervently to her bosom, she exclaimed, "o god! watch over napoleon while he remains in the desert of this world. alas! though he hath committed great faults, hath he not expiated them by great sufferings? just god, thou hast looked into his heart, and hast seen by how ardent a desire for useful and durable improvements he was animated! deign to approve my last petition. and may this image of my husband bear me witness that my latest wish and my latest prayer were for him and for my children." as the emperor alexander gazed upon her lifeless remains, he exclaimed, "she is no more; that woman whom france named the beneficent; that angel of goodness is no more. those who have known josephine can never forget her. she dies regretted by her offspring, her friends, and her contemporaries." in the same church, opposite to the tomb of josephine, stands the monument of her daughter hortense. her life was another of those tragedies of which this world has been so full. her son, the present president of france, has reared to her memory a tasteful monument of various colored marble, emblematic, as it were, of the vicissitudes of her eventful life. the monument bears the inscription--"to queen hortense, by prince louis bonaparte." she is represented kneeling in sorrowful meditation. as i stood by their silent monuments, and thought of the bodies mouldering to dust beneath them, the beautiful lines of kirke white rose most forcibly to my mind: "life's labor done, securely laid in this their last retreat, unheeded o'er their silent dust the storms of life shall beat." from ruel we rode slowly along, through vineyards and fields of grain, with neither hedges nor fences to obstruct the view, for about two miles, when we arrived at the stone wall and iron entrance-gate of the chateau of malmaison. the concierge, a pleasant-looking woman, came from the porter's lodge, and looking through the bars of the gate very politely and kindly told us that we could not be admitted. i gave her my passport, my card, and a copy of the life of josephine, which i had written in america, and requested her to take them to the head man of the establishment, and to say to him that i had written the life of josephine, and that i had come to france to visit localities which had been made memorable by napoleon and josephine, and that i was exceedingly desirous to see malmaison. the good woman most obligingly took my parcel, and tripping away as lightly as a girl, disappeared in the windings of the well-graveled avenue, skirted with trees and shrubbery. in about ten minutes she returned, and smiling and shaking her head, said that the orders were positive, and that we could not be admitted. i then wrote a note to the keeper, in french, which i fear was not very classical, informing him "that i was writing the life of napoleon; that it was a matter of great importance that i should see malmaison, his favorite residence; that i had recently been favored with a private audience with the prince president, and that he had assured me that he would do every thing in his power to facilitate my investigations, and that he would give me free access to all sources of information. but that as i knew the chateau belonged to the queen of spain, i had made no efforts to obtain from the french authorities a ticket of admission." then for the first time i reflected that the proper course for me to have pursued was to have called upon the spanish embassador, a very gentlemanly and obliging man, who would unquestionably have removed every obstacle from my way. giving the good woman a franc to quicken her steps, again she disappeared, and after a considerable lapse of time came back, accompanied by the keeper. he was a plain, pleasant-looking man, and instead of addressing me with that angry rebuff, which, in all probability in america one, under similar circumstances, would have encountered, he politely touched his hat, and begged that i would not consider his refusal as caprice in him, but that the queen of spain did not allow any visitors to enter the grounds of malmaison. the french are so polite, that an american is often mortified by the consciousness of his own want of corresponding courtesy. assuming, however, all the little suavity at my command, i very politely touched my hat, and said: "my dear sir, is it not rather a hard case? i have crossed three thousand miles of stormy ocean to see malmaison. here i am at the very gate of the park, and these iron bars won't let me in." the kind-hearted man hesitated for a moment, looked down upon the ground as if deeply thinking, and then said, "let me see your passports again, if you please." my companion eagerly drew out his passport, and pointed to the cabalistic words--"bearer of dispatches." whether this were the talisman which at last touched the heart of our friend i know not, but suddenly relenting he exclaimed, with a good-natured smile, "eh bien! messieurs, entrez, entrez," and rolling the iron gate back upon its hinges, we found ourselves in the enchanting park of malmaison. passing along a beautiful serpentine avenue, embowered in trees and shrubbery, and presenting a scene of very attractive rural beauty, we came in sight of the plain, comfortable home-like chateau. a pleasant garden, smiling with flowers, bloomed in solitude before the windows of the saloon, and a statue of napoleon, in his familiar form, was standing silently there. an indescribable air of loneliness and yet of loveliness was spread over the scene. it was one of the most lovely of may days. nearly all the voices of nature are pensive; the sighing of the zephyr and the wailing of the tempest, the trickling of the rill and the roar of the ocean, the vesper of the robin and the midnight cry of the wild beast in his lair. nature this morning and in this scene displayed her mood of most plaintive pathos. there was napoleon, standing in solitude in the garden. all was silence around him. the chateau was empty and deserted. josephine and hortense were mouldering to dust in the damp tombs of ruel. the passing breeze rustled the leaves of the forest, and the birds with gushes of melody sung their touching requiems. shall i be ashamed to say that emotions uncontrollable overcame me, and i freely wept? no! for there are thousands who will read this page who will sympathize with me in these feelings, and who will mingle their tears with mine. we entered the house, and walked from room to room through all its apartments. here was the library of napoleon, for he loved books. christina has converted it into a billiard-room, for she loves play. here was the little boudoir where napoleon and josephine met in their hours of sacred confidence, and the tapestry and the window curtains, in their simplicity, remain as arranged by josephine's own hands. here is the chamber in which josephine died, and the very bed upon which she breathed her last. the afternoon sun was shining brilliantly in through the windows, which we had thrown open, as it shone forty years ago upon the wasted form and pallid cheek of the dying josephine. the forest, so secluded and beautiful, waved brightly in the sun and in the breeze then as now; the birds then filled the air with the same plaintive melody. the scene of nature and of art--house, lawn, shrubbery, grove, cascade, grotto--remains unchanged; but the billows of revolution and death have rolled over the world-renowned inmates of malmaison, and they are all swept away. an old-serving man, eighty years of age, conducted us through the silent and deserted apartments. the affection with which he spoke of napoleon and of josephine amounted almost to adoration. he was in their service when the emperor and empress, arm-in-arm, sauntered through these apartments and these shady walks. there must have been some most extraordinary fascination in napoleon, by which he bound to him so tenaciously all those who were brought near his person. his history in that respect is without a parallel. no mortal man, before or since, has been so enthusiastically loved. the column in the place vendome is still hung with garlands of flowers by the hand of affection. it is hardly too much to say, that the spirit of napoleon, emerging from his monumental tomb under the dome of the invalids, still reigns in france. louis napoleon is nothing in himself. his power is but the reflected power of the emperor. we passed from the large saloon, upon the smooth green lawn, which has so often resounded with those merry voices, which are now all hushed in death. we looked upon trees which napoleon and josephine had planted, wandered through the walks along which their footsteps had strayed, reclined upon the seats where they had found repose, and culling many wild flowers, as memorials of this most beautiful spot, with lingering footsteps retired. nothing which i have seen in france has interested me so much as malmaison. galignani's guide-book says: "the park and extensive gardens in which josephine took so much delight are nearly destroyed. the chateau still exists, but the queen dowager of spain, to whom malmaison now belongs, has strictly forbidden all visits." this appears to be, in part, a mistake. the park and the grounds immediately around the mansion, as well as the chateau itself, remain essentially as they were in the time of josephine. france contains no spot more rich in touching associations. . _the tuileries._--"will prince louis napoleon," inquired a gentleman, of a french lady, "take up his residence in the tuileries?" "he had better not," was the laconic reply. "it is an unlucky place." it requires not a little effort of imagination to invest this enormous pile of blackened buildings with an aspect of beauty. three hundred years ago the palace was commenced by catherine de medici. but it has never been a favorite residence of the kings of france, and no effort of the imagination, and no concomitants of regal splendor can make it an agreeable home. it has probably witnessed more scenes of woe, and more intensity of unutterable anguish, than any other palace upon the surface of the globe. its rooms are of spacious, lofty, cheerless grandeur. though millions have been expended upon this structure, it has had but occasional occupants. a few evenings ago i was honored with an invitation to a party given by prince louis napoleon in the palace of the tuileries. four thousand guests were invited. the vast palace, had all its rooms been thrown open, might perhaps have accommodated twice as many more. when i arrived at half-past nine o'clock at the massive gateway which opens an entrance to the court of the tuileries, i found a band of soldiers stationed there to preserve order. along the street, also, for some distance, armed sentinels were stationed on horseback, promptly to summon, in case of necessity, the , troops who, with spear and bayonet, keep the restless parisians tranquil. the carriage, following a long train, and followed by a long train, entered, between files of soldiers with glittering bayonets, the immense court-yard of the palace, so immense that the whole military force of the capital can there be assembled. the court-yard was illuminated with almost the brilliance of noon-day, by various pyramids of torches; and dazzling light gleamed from the brilliant windows of the palace, proclaiming a scene of great splendor within. a band of musicians, stationed in the court-yard, pealed forth upon the night air the most animating strains of martial music. at the door, an armed sentry looked at my ticket of invitation, and i was ushered into a large hall. it was brilliantly lighted, and a swarm of servants, large, imposing-looking men in gorgeous livery, thronged it. one of these servants very respectfully conducted the guest through the hall to a spacious ante-room. this room also was dazzling with light, and numerous servants were there to take the outer garments of the guests, and to give them tickets in return. my number was . we then ascended a magnificent flight of marble stairs, so wide that twenty men could, with ease, march up them abreast. sentinels in rich uniform stood upon the stairs with glittering bayonets. we were ushered into the suit of grand saloons extending in long perspective, with regal splendor. innumerable chandeliers suspended from the lofty gilded ceilings, threw floods of light upon the brilliant throng which crowded this abode of royalty. in two different saloons bands of musicians were stationed, and their liquid notes floated through the hum of general conversation. men of lofty lineage were there, rejoicing in their illustrious birth, and bearing upon their breasts the jeweled insignia of their rank. generals of armies were there, decorated with garments inwoven with gold. ladies, almost aerial in their gossamer robes, floated like visions through the animated assembly. occasionally the dense throng was pressed aside, and a little space made for the dancers. the rooms were warm, the crowd immense, the champagne abundant, and the dancers seemed elated and happy. as the hours of the night wore away, and the throng was a little diminished, and the bottles emptied, i thought that i could perceive that the polka and the waltz were prosecuted with a decided increase of fervor. i must confess that, with my puritan notions, i should not like to see a friend of mine, whose maiden delicacy i desired to cherish, exposed to such hugs and such twirls. about half-past ten o'clock, a wide door was thrown open at one end of the long suit of rooms, and the prince president, accompanied by a long retinue of lords, ladies, embassadors, &c., entered the apartments. they passed along through the crowd, which opened respectfully before them, and entering one of the main saloons, took their seats upon an elevated platform, which had been arranged and reserved for them. all eyes were fastened upon the president. every one seemed to feel an intense curiosity to see him. wherever he moved, a circle, about ten feet in diameter, was left around him. it was curious to see the promptness with which the crowd would disperse before him, and close up behind him, whenever he changed his position. there were two immense refreshment rooms, supplied with every luxury, at the two ends of the suit of apartments, filled with guests. these rooms of vast capacity--for four thousand hungry people were to be provided for--were fitted up with counters running along three of their sides like those of a shop. behind these counters stood an army of waiters; before them, all the evening long, an eager crowd. as soon as one had obtained his supply, there were two or three others ready to take his place. in one of the rooms there were provided wines, meats of all kinds, and a most luxurious variety of substantial viands. in the other refreshment-room, at the other end of the thronged apartments, there were ices, confectionery, fruits, and all the delicacies of the dessert. this was seeing the palace of the tuileries in all its glory. embassadors of all nations were there--the turbaned turk, the proud persian, the white-robed arab. many of the ladies were glittering with diamonds and every variety of precious stones. "music was there with her voluptuous swell, and all went merry as a marriage bell." but as i sauntered through the brilliant scene, visions of other days, and of spectacles more impressive, filled my mind. through these very halls, again and again, has rolled an inundation of all that paris can furnish of vulgarity, degradation, and violence. into the embrasure of this very window the drunken mob of men and women drove, with oaths and clubs, louis xvi., and compelled him to drink the cup of humiliation to its very dregs. it was from this window that the hapless maria antoinette looked, when the sentinel beneath brutally exclaimed to her, "i wish, austrian woman, that i had your head upon my bayonet here, that i might pitch it over the wall to the dogs in the street!" it was upon this balcony that the sainted madame elizabeth and maria antoinette stepped, that dark and dreadful night when frenzied paris, from all its garrets, and all its kennels, was surging like the billows of the ocean against the tuileries. their hearts throbbed with terror as they heard the tolling of the alarm bells, the rumbling of artillery wheels, and the rattle of musketry, as the infuriate populace thronged the palace, thirsting for their blood. from this balcony that awful night, maria entered the chamber where her beautiful son was sleeping, gazed earnestly upon him, and left a mother's loving kiss upon his cheek. she then went to the apartment of her daughter. the beautiful child, fifteen years of age, comprehending the peril of the hour, could not sleep. maria pressed her to her throbbing heart, and a mother's tenderness triumphed over the stoicism of the queen. her pent-up feelings burst through all restraints, and she wept with anguish unendurable. [illustration: the tuileries.] the tuileries! it is, indeed, an "unlucky palace." this saloon, now resounding with music and mirth, is the very spot where josephine, with swollen eyes and heart of agony, signed that cruel deed of divorcement which sundered the dearest hopes and the fondest ties which a human heart can cherish. history contains not a more affecting incident than her final adieu to her husband, which occurred in this chamber the night after the divorce. the emperor, restless and wretched, had just placed himself in the bed from which he had ejected his faithful wife, when the door of his chamber was slowly opened, and josephine tremblingly entered. she tottered into the middle of the room, and approached the bed. here, irresolutely stopping, she burst into a flood of tears. she seemed for a moment to reflect that it was no longer proper for her to approach the bed of napoleon. but suddenly the pent-up fountains of love and grief in her heart burst forth; and, forgetting every thing, in the fullness of her anguish, she threw herself upon the bed, clasped napoleon's neck in her arms, and exclaiming, "my husband! my husband!" wept in agony which could not be controlled. the firm spirit of napoleon was vanquished: he folded her to his bosom, pressed her cheek to his, and their tears were mingled together. he assured her of his love, of his ardent and undying love, and endeavored in every way to sooth her anguish. it was down this marble staircase, now thronged with brilliant guests, that the next morning josephine descended, vailed from head to foot. her grief was too deep for utterance. waving an adieu to the affectionate and weeping friends who surrounded her, she entered her carriage, sank back upon the cushion, buried her face in her handkerchief, and, sobbing bitterly, left the tuileries forever. it is not probable that the tuileries will ever again be inhabited by royalty. there are too many mournful associations connected with the place ever to render it agreeable as a residence. when louis philippe was driven from the tuileries, the mob again sacked it, and its vast saloons are unfurnished and empty. four years ago, the provisional government passed a decree that this palace should be converted into a hospital for invalid workmen. the provisional government, however, has passed away, and the decree has not been carried into effect. after the insurrection in june of it was used as a hospital for the wounded. more recently it has been used as a museum for the exhibition of paintings. its days of regal pride and splendor have now passed away for ever. [illustration: grand avenue of the tuileries.] . _the palace elysée._--this is a beautiful rural home in the very heart of paris. it is now occupied by prince louis napoleon. for a regal residence it is quite unostentatious, and few abodes could any where be found, combining more attractions, for one of refined and simple tastes. through the kindness of our minister, mr. rives, i obtained an audience with count roguet, who is at the head of the presidential household, and through him secured an "audience particulière" with prince louis napoleon in the elysée. as i alighted from a hackney-coach at the massive gateway of the palace, armed sentinels were walking to and fro upon the pavements, surrounding the whole inclosure of the palace with a vigilant guard. at the open iron gate two more were stationed. i passed between their bayonets and was directed into a small office where a dignified-looking official examined my credentials, and then pointed my steps along the spacious court-yard to the door of the mansion. armed soldiers were walking their patrols along the yard, and upon the flight of steps two stood guarding the door, with their glittering steel. they glanced at my note of invitation, and i entered the door. several servants were there, evidently picked men, large and imposing in figure, dressed in small-clothes, and silk stockings, and laced with rich livery. one glanced at my letter, and conducting me across the hall introduced me into another room. there i found another set of servants and three clerks writing at a long table. one took my note of invitation and sat down, as if to copy it, and i was ushered into the third room. this was a large room in the interior of the palace, richly ornamented with gilded pilasters and ceiling. the walls were painted with landscapes, representing many scenes of historic interest. there were ten gentlemen, who had come before me, waiting for an audience. some were nobles, with the full display upon their breasts of the decorations of their rank. others were generals, in brilliant military costume. several i observed with the modest red ribbon in the button hole, indicating that they were members of the legion of honor. all spoke in low and subdued tones of voice, and with soft footsteps moved about the room. occasionally, an officer of the household would enter the room with a paper in his hands, apparently containing a list of the names of those who had arrived, and softly would call out the name of one, who immediately followed him into another room. as i at once saw that i had at least an hour to wait in the ante-room, i turned my thoughts to the scenes which, in years gone by, have transpired in this palace of elysium. nearly years ago, the count of evreux built it for his aristocratic city residence. it was afterward purchased, enlarged, and beautified for the residence of madame de pompadour, the frail, voluptuous, intriguing paramour of louis xv.; and often have they, arm-in-arm, paced this floor. they have passed out at these open french windows into the beautiful lawn which spreads before the mansion, and sauntered until lost in the wilderness of fountains, flowers, shrubbery, grove, and serpentine walks which spread over these enchanting grounds. but inexorable death struck down both king and mistress, and they passed away to the judgment. the revolution came, the awful retribution for centuries of kingly pride and oppression, and the regal palace became a printing-office for the irreligion of voltaire, and the jacobinism of marat. these saloons and boudoirs were turned into eating rooms, and smoking rooms. the girls of the street crowded this spacious parlor, and where kings and queens had danced before them, they proudly danced with _liberté, fraternité, égalité_, in red cap and blouse. then came the young soldier from corsica, and with a whip of small cords drove printer, blouse, and grisette into the street. by his side stands the tall, athletic, mustached inn-keeper's boy, who had learned to ride when grooming the horses of his father's guests. with his whirlwind cloud of cavalry he had swept italy and egypt, and now enriched and powerful, murat claims the hand of caroline bonaparte, the sister of the great conqueror. with his bride he takes the palace of the elysée, and lives here in extravagance which even louis xv. could not surpass. these paintings on the wall, murat placed here. these pyramids of egypt ever remind his guests that murat, with his crushing squadrons, trampled down the defiant mamelukes upon the nile. this lady, walking beneath the trees of the forest, is caroline, his wife. the children filling this carriage so joyously, are his sons and daughters. but he who had crowns at his disposal, places his brother-in-law upon the throne of naples, and napoleon himself chooses this charming spot for his favorite city residence. weary with the cares of empire, he has often sought repose in these shady bowers. but allied europe drove him from his elysium, and the combined forces of russia, prussia, and austria, take possession of the capital of his empire, and reinstate the bourbons upon the throne from which they had been driven. napoleon returns from elba, and again hastens to his beloved elysée. a hundred days glide swiftly by, and he is a prisoner, bound to st. helena, to die a captive in a dilapidated stable. as i was reflecting upon the changes, and upon the painful contrast which must have presented itself to napoleon, between the tasteful and exquisite seclusion of the elysée, and the cheerless, barren, mist-enveloped rock of st. helena, i was awakened from my reverie by a low tone of voice calling my name. i followed the messenger through a door, expecting to enter the presence of louis napoleon. instead of that i was ushered into a large, elegantly furnished saloon--the council chamber of the emperor napoleon, but it was empty. there was a large folio volume, resembling one of the account books of a merchant, lying open upon a table. the messenger who summoned me, with my note of invitation in his hand, went to the book, passed his finger down the page, and soon i saw it resting upon my name. he read, apparently, a brief description of my character, and then, leaving me alone, went into another room, i suppose to inform the president who was to be introduced to him. in a few moments he returned, and i was ushered into the presence of the prince president of republican france. he was seated in an arm-chair, at the side of a table covered with papers. louis napoleon is a small man, with a mild, liquid, rather languid eye, and a countenance expressive of much passive resolution rather than of active energy. in his address, he is courteous, gentle, and retiring, and those who know him best, assign him a far higher position in the grade of intellect than is usually in our country allotted to him. his government is an utter despotism, sustained by the bayonets of the army. i have made great efforts, during the two months in which i have been in paris, to ascertain the state of public opinion respecting the government of louis napoleon. circumstances have thrown me much into french society, both into the society of those who are warm friends, and bitter enemies of the present government. so far as i can ascertain facts, they seem to be these. there are four parties who divide france--the bourbonists, the orleanists, the socialists, and the bonapartists. like the military chieftains in mexico, they are all struggling for dominion. there is not sufficient intelligence and virtue in france, for it to be governed by _opinion_, by a _vote_. the bayonet is the all-availing argument. if louis napoleon is overthrown, it must be to give place to some one, who, like him, must call the army and despotic power to his support. consequently, multitudes say, what shall we gain by the change? we shall have new barricades in the street, new rivulets of blood trickling down our gutters, and simply another name in the elysée.--i can see no indication that louis napoleon has any personal popularity. the glory of his uncle over-shadows him and renders him available. the army and the church, but without any enthusiasm, are in his favor. most of the men in active business who seek protection and good order, support his claims. the american merchants, settled in paris, generally feel that the overthrow of louis napoleon would be to them a serious calamity, and that they should hardly dare in that case, to remain in paris. his government is submitted to, not merely as a choice of evils, but there is a kind of approval of his despotism as necessary to sustain him in power, and for the repose of france. i do not say that these views are correct. i only say, that so far as i can learn, this appears to me to be the state of the public mind. it is very evident that no portion of the people regard louis napoleon with enthusiasm. at the great fête in the champs elysée, which called all europe to paris, to witness the restoration of the ancient eagles of france to the standards of the army, it was almost universally supposed out of paris, that the hundred thousand troops then passing in proud array before the president would hail him _emperor_. a countless throng encircled the area of that vast field. it was estimated that nearly a million of people were there assembled. yet when louis napoleon made his appearance with his brilliant staff, i did not hear one single _citizen's_ voice raised in applause. as he rode along the ranks of the army, a murmur of recognition followed his progress, but no shouts of enthusiasm. immediately after the fête, a magnificent ball and entertainment were given by the army, to prince louis napoleon. it is said, that one hundred and sixty thousand dollars were expended in canopying the vast court yard of the ecole militaire, and in decorating it for this occasion. fifteen thousand guests were invited. the scene of brilliance and splendor, no pen can describe. about half-past twelve o'clock the president entered upon an elevated platform, accompanied by the foreign ministers and the members of his court. but not one single voice even shouted a welcome. he remained a couple of hours conversing with those around him, and then bowing to the enormous throng of those whose invited guest he was, retired. one man, by my side, shouted in a clear, shrill voice which filled the vast saloons, "vive l'empereur," two others promptly responded, "vive _napoleon_." no other acclaim was heard. the prospect of france is gloomy. such a government as the present can not be popular. no other seems possible. no one seems to expect that the government can last for many years. and yet a change is dreaded. rich men are transferring their property to england and america. never did i love my own country as now. never did i appreciate as now, the rich legacy we have inherited from our fathers. the hope of the world is centred in america. we must let europe alone. to mortal vision her case is hopeless. we must cultivate our country, spread over our land, virtue and intelligence, and freedom; and welcome to peaceful homes in the new world, all who can escape from the taxation and despotism of the old. in half a century from now, the united states will be the most powerful nation upon which our sun has ever shone. then we can speak with a voice that shall be heard. our advice will have the efficiency of commands. europe now has apparently but to choose between the evils of despotism, and the evils of anarchy. and still it is undeniable that the progress, though slow and painful is steadily onward toward popular liberty. in this paper i have but commenced the description of the palaces of france. in a subsequent number i may continue the subject. a leaf from a traveler's note-book. by maunsell b. field. "another flask of orvieto, gaetano, and tell the vetturino that we start to-morrow morning, punctually at six," exclaimed one of three foreigners, seated around a table, in the smokiest corner of the "_lepre_"--the artist-haunt of the _via condotti_. the speaker was a plain looking french gentleman, who, under the simplest exterior, concealed the most admirable mind and the highest personal qualities. a provincial by birth, a parisian by education, and a cosmopolite by travel, he united all the peculiar sagacity of his nation with that more dignified tone of character so rarely met with in his countrymen. descended from a family of lorraine, who had inherited the magistracy for centuries, and who, ruined at the emigration, had only partially recovered their fortunes at the restoration, our friend (_ours_, at least, reader) found himself, on attaining his majority, possessed of a sufficient competency to enable him to travel in a moderate way, so long as the taste should continue. and here he had been residing in rome a twelvemonth (not _rushing through_ it with cis-atlantic steam-power), studying art with devotion, and living the intense life of italian existence. his companions at the moment our recital commences, were an old hollander, who had emerged from commerce into philosophy (no very usual exit!) and myself, whom chance had made a lounger in european capitals--a pilgrim from both mecca and jerusalem--and a connoisseur in every vintage from burgundy to xeres. carnival, with its fantastic follies, when the most constitutionally sedate by a species of frenzied reaction become the most reckless in absurdity, was past. holy week, with its gorgeous ecclesiastical mummery--its magnificent fire-works, and its still more magnificent illumination was likewise gone. nearly all the travelers who had been spending the winter in rome, including the two thousand english faces which, from their constant repetition at every public place, seemed at least two hundred thousand, had disappeared. our own party had lingered after the rest, loath to leave, perhaps forever, the most fascinating city in the world to an intelligent mind. but at last we too, had determined to go, and our destination was naples. that very afternoon we had taken one of the tumble-down carriages, which station on the _piazza di spagna_, to make a farewell _giro_ through the forum. leaving rome is not like leaving any other town. associations dating from early childhood, and linking the present with the past, make familiar, before they are known, objects in themselves so intrinsically interesting and beautiful, that the strongest attachment is sure to follow a first actual acquaintance with them. and when that acquaintance has been by daily intercourse matured, it is hard to give it up. the weather was delicious. and as our crazy vehicle rattled over the disjointed pavement of the appian way, among sandaled monks, lounging jesuits, and herdsmen from the campagna, a heart-sickness came over us which, in the instance of one, at least, of the party, has since settled down into a chronic _mal du pays_. we had been taking our last meal at the "_trattoria lepre_," where we had so often, after a hard day's work, feasted upon _cignale_ (wild boar), or something purporting so to be, surrounded by the bearded _pensionnaires_ of all the academies. our figaro-like attendant, who had served us daily for so many months, was more than commonly officious in the consciousness that the next morning we proposed to start for naples. and, in fact, on the succeeding day at an early hour, an antediluvian vehicle, with chains and baskets slung beneath, drawn by three wild uncouth-looking animals, under the guidance of a good-for-nothing, half-bandit trasteverino, in a conical hat and unwashed lineaments, might be seen emerging from the _porta san giovanni_, with their three _excellenzas_ in the inside. the hearts of all three were too full for utterance--several miles we jogged on in silence, straining our eyes with last glimpses of st. peter's, the pantheon, and st. john lateran. at albano we proposed to breakfast; and, while the meal was being prepared and the horses being refreshed, we started for a walk to the lake, familiar to all the party from previous visits. as we were seated on the bank, cigars in mouth, and as moody as might be, the frenchman first endeavored to turn the current of our thoughts by speaking of naples, which he alone of us knew. the effort was not particularly successful. but the frenchman promised that when we resumed our journey, he would tell us a neapolitan story, the effect of which, he hoped, would be to raise our spirits. after returning to the inn, and breakfasting upon those mysterious italian cutlets, the thick breading upon which defies all satisfactory investigation into their original material, we resumed our journey. legs dovetailed, and cigars relighted, the frenchman thus commenced the story of carlo carrera. the summer before last, after a shocking soaking in crossing the apennines, i contracted one of those miserable fevers that nature seems to exact as a toll from unfortunate trans-alpines for a summer's residence in italy. i had no faith in italian doctors, and as there was no medical man from my own country in florence, i was persuaded to call in doctor playfair a scotch physician, long domiciled in italy, and as i afterwards discovered, both a skillful practitioner and a charming companion. i was kept kicking my heels against the footboard in all some six weeks, and when i had become sufficiently convalescent to sit up, the doctor used to make me long and friendly visits. in these visits he kept me posted up with all the chit-chat of the town; and upon one occasion related to me, better than i can tell it, the following story, of the truth of which (in all seriousness), he was perfectly satisfied, having heard it from the mouth of one of the parties concerned. "do throw some _bajocchi_ to those clamorous natives, my dear republican, that i may proceed with my story in peace." well, then, to give you a little preliminary history--don't be alarmed--a very little. the liberal government established in naples in the winter of - , on the basis of the spanish cortes of , was destined to a speedy dissolution. the despotic powers of the continent, at the instigation of austria, refused to enter into diplomatic relations with a kingdom which had adopted the representative system, after an explicit and formal engagement to maintain the institutions of absolutism. an armed intervention was decided upon at the congress of laybach, with the full consent and approbation of ferdinand i., who treacherously abandoned the cause of his subjects. it was agreed to send an austrian army, backed by a russian one, into the neapolitan dominions, for the purpose of putting down the carbornari and other insurgents who, to the number of one hundred and fifty thousand men, badly armed, badly clothed, and badly disciplined, had assembled under the command of that notorious adventurer, guiliemo pepe, for the protection of those feebly secured liberties which had resulted to their country from the sicilian revolution of the previous summer. this foreign force was to be maintained entirely at the expense of ferdinand, and to remain in his kingdom, if necessary, for three years. the feeble resistance offered by the patriots to the invading forces--their defeat at the very outset--and their subsequent flight and disbandment--constitute one of those disgraceful denouements so common to italian attempts at political regeneration. "by all the storks in holland," exclaimed the dutchman, "cut short your story--i see nothing in it particularly enlivening." "_badinage à part_," resumed the frenchman, "i have done in a word." after the disastrous engagement of march , at rieti, and the restoration of the old government, the patriot forces were scattered over the country; and as has too often been the case in southern europe upon the discomfiture of a revolutionary party, many bands of banditti were formed from the disorganized remnants of the defeated army. for a long time the whole of the kingdom, particularly the calabrias, was infested by robber gangs, whose boldness only equaled their necessities. most of these banditti were hunted down and transferred to the galleys. the neapolitan police has at all times been active in the suppression of disorders known or suspected to have a political origin. fear of a revolution has ever been a more powerful incentive to the government than respect for justice or love of order; and "_napoli la fidelissima_" has so far reserved the name, and inspired such confidence in the not particularly intellectual sovereign who now sits on the throne, that the last time that i was there, his majesty was in the habit of parading his bewhiskered legions through the streets of his capital, completely equipped at all points--except that they were unarmed! and now for the story. among the most notorious of the banditti chieftains was one carlo carrera. this person, who had been a subaltern officer, succeeded for a long time, with some thirty followers, in defying the attempts of the police to capture him. driven from hold to hold, and from fastness to fastness, he had finally been pursued to the neighborhood of naples. here the gendarmes of the government were satisfied that he was so surrounded as soon to be compelled to surrender at discretion. this was late in the following winter. about this time his britannic majesty's frigate "tagus," commanded by captain, now vice-admiral, sir george dundas, was cruising in the mediterranean. in the month of february sir george anchored in the bay of naples, with the intention of remaining there some weeks. it happened that another officer in his majesty's navy, captain, now vice-admiral, sir edward owen, was wintering at naples for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife and her sister, miss v----, a young lady of extraordinary beauty and accomplishments. sir george and sir edward were old friends. they had been together in the same ship as captain and first-lieutenant on the african station, and their accidental meeting when equals in rank was as cordial as it was unexpected. a few days after the arrival of the frigate, a pic-nic excursion to the shores of lake agnano was proposed. the party was to consist of the persons of whom i have just been speaking, together with a few other english friends, chiefly gentlemen from the embassy. accordingly they set off on one of those delightful mornings which are of themselves almost sufficient to make strangers exclaim with the enthusiastic neapolitans, "_vedi napoli e poi mori!_" the surpassing loveliness of the scene, its perfect repose with so many elements of action, brought to the soul such a luxurious sense of passive enjoyment, that it seemed like the echo of all experienced happiness. i can not say if the _strada nuova_, in all its present paved perfection, then existed; but there must have been some sort of a road following the indentations of that lovely shore. i have traced from genoa to nice the far-famed windings of the maritime alps--i have sailed along the glittering shores of the bosphorus--i have admired the boasted site of the lusitanian capital--and yet i feel, as all travelers must feel, that the combined charms of all these would fail to make another naples. far out before them lay the fair island of capri, like a sea goddess, with arms outstretched to receive the playful waters of the mediterranean. behind, vesuvius rose majestically, the blue smoke lazily curling from its summit, as peaceful as if it had only been placed there as an accessory to the beauty of the scene; and further on, as they turned the promontory, lay the bright islets of nisita and procida, so fantastic in their shapes and so romantic in their outlines. on reaching the shore of lake agnano, our travelers left their carriage near the villa of lucullus. of course they suffocated themselves, according to the approved habit of tourists, in the vapor baths of san germano--and according to the same approved habit, devoted an unfortunate dog to temporary strangulation in the mephitic air of the _grotta del cane_. after doing up the lions of the neighborhood, our friends seated themselves near the shore, to partake of the cold fowls and champagne, of which ample provision had been made for the excursion. "i should have preferred the native _lachrymæ christi_ to champagne," interrupted the dutchman, "if the usual quality compares with that of some i once drank at rotterdam." the repast finished, resumed the frenchman, most of the party strolled off to the other extremity of the lake--until after a short time no one was left but miss v----, who was amusing herself by making a sketch of the landscape. what a pity that the women of other nations are so rarely accomplished in drawing, while the english ladies are almost universally so! well then, our fair heroine for the moment, had got on most industriously with her work, when suddenly, on raising her eyes from her paper to a stack of decayed vines, she was disagreeably surprised at finding a pair of questionable optics leveled upon her. retaining her composure of manner, she continued tranquilly her occupation, until she had time to remark that the intruder was accompanied by at least a dozen companions. at this moment the personage whom she had first seen, quietly left his place of partial concealment, walked up to the astonished lady, folded his arms, and stationed himself behind her back. he was a large, heavy, good-looking person--but the circumstances under which he presented himself, rather than any peculiarity in his appearance, caused miss v---- to suspect the honesty of his profession. "indeed you are making an uncommonly pretty picture there, if you will permit me to say so," remarked the stranger. "i am glad you like it," replied the young lady. "i think, however, that it would be vastly improved, if you would permit me to sketch your figure in the foreground." "nothing would flatter me more. but, cara signorina, my present object is a much less romantic one than sitting for my portrait to so fair an artist. will you allow me to gather up for myself and my half famished friends, the fragments of your recent meal?" "you are quite welcome to them, i assure you." the dialogue had proceeded thus far when it was interrupted by the return, to the no small satisfaction of one of the party at least, of the two english officers and some others of the stragglers. the stranger, in no way disconcerted, turned to sir edward owen, and said, "i believe that i have the honor of addressing his excellency, the commander of the british frigate in the harbor." "excuse me," said sir george dundas, "i am that person." "sono il servitore di vostra excellenza. the young lady whom i found here has given me permission to make use of the food that has been left by your party. but if your excellency, and you, sir," addressing the other officer, "will grant me the favor of a moment's private conversation, you will increase the obligation already conferred." the three, thereupon, retired to a short distance from the rest of the company, when the stranger resumed: "if your excellencies have been in this poor country long enough, you must have heard speak of one carlo carrera. you may or you may not be surprised to hear that i am he--and that my followers are not far off. i have no desire to inconvenience your excellencies, your friends, or, least of all, the ladies who accompany you, and shall, therefore, be but too happy to release you at once--i say _release_, for you are in my power--upon the single condition, however, that you two gentlemen give me your word of honor that you will both, or either of you, come to me whenever or wherever i shall send for you during the next two weeks--and that you will not speak of this conversation to any one." disposed at all hazards to extricate the ladies from any thing like an adventure, our travelers willingly entered into the required engagement, and, with a mutual "_a rivederla_," the two parties separated. our english friends returned to naples, amused at the singular episode to their excursion, and rather disposed to admire the gallant behavior of the intruder than to regard him with any unfavorable sentiments. some three days after this, as sir george dundas was strolling about nightfall in the villa reale, a person in the dress of a priest approached him, and beckoned him to follow. leading the officer into an obscure corner behind one of the numerous statues, the stranger informed him that he came from the bandit of lake agnano, and that he was directed to request him to be at seven o'clock that evening in front of the filomarini chapel, in the church of the santissimi apostoli. the gallant captain did not hesitate to obey. at the appointed hour, on entering the church and advancing to the indicated chapel, he found before it what appeared to be an old woman on her knees, engaged in the deepest devotion. at a sign from the pretended worshiper, the captain fell upon his knees at her side. the old crone briefly whispered to him, that it was known to carrera that his excellency was invited to a ball at the british embassy the next evening--that he must by no means fail to go--but that at midnight precisely he must leave the ball-room, return home, remove his uniform, put on a plain citizen's dress, and be at the door of the same church at one o'clock in the morning. after these directions the old woman resumed her devotions, and the captain left the church, his curiosity considerably excited by the adventurous turn that things were taking. his brother officer, to whom he related the particulars of the meeting at the villa reale, and of the interview in the church, strongly urged him to fulfill the promise which he had made at lake agnano, and to follow to the letter the mysterious instructions which he had received. of course, the ball at the british embassy on the following evening was graced by the presence of nearly all the distinguished foreigners in town. the english wintered at naples at that time in almost as large numbers as they do at present; and in all matters of gayety and festivity, display and luxury, they as far exceeded the italians as they now do. it is a curious circumstance, which both of you must have had occasion to remark, that the english, so rigid and austere at home, when transplanted south of the alps, surpass the natives themselves in license and frivolity. our captain was of course there, and at an early hour. after mingling freely in the gayeties of the evening, at midnight precisely he withdrew from the ball-room, _sans congé_, and hastened to his apartments. changing his dress, and arming himself with a brace of pistols, he hurried to the church of the apostoli. in his excess of punctuality, he arrived too early at the rendezvous; and it was only after the expiration of some twenty minutes, that he was joined by the withered messenger before employed to summon him. bidding him follow her, the old woman led the way with an activity little to have been expected in one apparently so feeble. turning down the _chiaja_, they followed the course of the bay a weary way beyond the grotto of _posilipo_. the captain was already tolerably exhausted when the guide turned off abruptly to the right, and commenced the ascent of one of those vine-clad hills which border the road. the hill was thickly planted with the vine, so that their progress was both difficult and fatiguing. they had been toiling upward more than an half hour since leaving the highway, and the patience of sir george was all but exhausted, when on a sudden they came to one of those huts constructed of interlaced boughs, which are temporarily used by the vine-dressers in the south of italy. the entrance was closed by a plaited mat of leaves and stalks. raising this mat, the old woman entered, followed by her companion. the hut was dimly lighted by a small lantern. closing the entrance as securely as the nature of the fastening would permit, the pretended old woman threw off her disguise and disclosed the well-remembered features of the courteous bandit of lake agnano. thanking his guest for the punctuality with which he had kept his appointment, carrera motioned him to follow him to the further extremity of the hut. taking the lantern in his hand, and stooping, the italian raised a square slab of stone, which either from the skill with which it was adjusted or from the partial obscurity which surrounded him, had escaped sir george's eye. as he did this a flood of light poured into the hut. descending by a flight of a dozen or more steps, followed by the robber chieftain, who drew back the stone after them, the captain found himself in one of those spacious catacombs so common in the neighborhood of naples. seated around a table were a score or more of as fierce looking vagabonds as the imagination could paint, who all rose to their feet as their leader entered with his guest, saluting both with that propriety of address so peculiar to the lower classes of italians and spaniards. when all were seated, carrera turned to the englishman, and said, "your excellency will readily suppose that i had a peculiar motive for desiring an interview. god knows that i was not brought up to wrong and violence--but evil times have sadly changed the current of my life. a poor soldier, i have become a poorer brigand--at least in these latter days, when hunted like a wild beast i am at last enveloped in the toils of my pursuers, egress from which is now impossible by my own unaided efforts. i have no particular claim upon your excellency's sympathy, but i have thought that mere pity might induce you to receive me and my followers on board your frigate, and transport us to some place of safety beyond the limits of unhappy italy." here the astonished englishman sprang to his feet, protesting that his position as a british officer prevented him from entertaining for a moment so extraordinary a proposition. "your excellency will permit me, with all respect, to observe," carrera resumed, "that i have treated you and yours generously. do not compel me to regret that i have done so; and do not force me to add another to the acts of violence which already stain my hands. your excellency knows too many of our secrets; we could not, consistently with our own safety, permit you to exist otherwise than as a friend." the discussion was long. the robbers pleaded hard, pledging themselves not to disgrace the captain's generosity, if he would consent to save them. sir george could not prevent himself from somewhat sympathizing with these unfortunate men, who had been driven to the irregular life they led as much by the viciousness of the government under which they lived as by any evil propensities of their own. it is not at all probable that the threat had any thing to do with his decision, but certain it is, that the dialogue terminated by a conditional promise on his part to yield to their request. "if your excellency will send a boat to a spot on the shore, directly opposite where we now are, to-morrow, at midnight, it will be easy for us to dispatch the sentinel and jump aboard," continued carrera. "i will send the boat," answered the englishman, "but will under no circumstances consent to any bloodshed. you forget your own recently-expressed scruples on the same subject." it was finally decided that the boat should be sent--that the captain should arrange some plan to divert the attention of the sentinel--and that to their rescuer alone should be left the choice of their destination. matters being thus arranged, carrera resumed his disguise, and conducted his guest homeward as far as the outskirts of the town. the following night at the appointed hour, a boat with muffled oars silently approached the designated spot. an officer, wrapped in a boat cloak was seated in the stern. as the boat drew near the shore, the sentinel presented his musket, and challenged the party. the officer, with an under-toned "_amici_," sprang to the beach. a few hundred yards from the spot where the landing had been effected, stood an isolated house with a low verandah. the officer, slipping a scudo into the sentinel's hand, told him that he was come for the purpose of carrying off a young girl residing in that house, and begged him to assist him by making a clatter on the door at the opposite side, so as to divert the attention of the parents while he received his inamorata from the verandah. the credulous neapolitan was delighted to have an opportunity to earn a scudo by so easy a service. the moment that he disappeared, carrera and his band rushed to the boat. a few powerful strokes of the oars and they were out of the reach of musket-shot before the bewildered sentry could understand that in some way or other his credulity had been imposed upon. that night the "tagus" weighed anchor for malta. the port of destination was reached after a short and prosperous voyage. sir george remained there only sufficiently long to discharge his precious cargo, who left him, as may be imagined, with protestations of eternal gratitude. the fact that the frigate was on a cruise prevented any particular surprise at her sudden disappearance from the waters of naples. and when she returned to her anchorage after a short absence, even the party to the pic-nic were far from conjecturing that there was any connection between her last excursion and the adventure of lake agnano. carrera and his band enlisted in a body into one of the maltese regiments. a year or two later, becoming dissatisfied, they passed over into albania, and took service with ali pasha. some seven years after these events, sir george dundas was again at naples. as he was lounging one day in the villa reale, a tall and noble-looking man, whose countenance seemed familiar, approached him. shaking him warmly by the hand, the stranger whispered in his ear, "_il suo servitore carrera!_" and thus ends the frenchman's story. all baggage at the risk of the owner. a story of the watering-places. "water, water, every where, and not a drop to drink!" i could never understand why we call our summer resorts _watering-places_. i am but an individual, quite anonymous, as you see, and only graduated this summer, yet i have "known life," and there was no fool of an elephant in our college town, and other towns and cities where i have passed vacations. now, if there have been any little anti-maine-law episodes in my life, they have been my occasional weeks at the watering-places. it was only this summer, as i was going down the biddle staircase at niagara, that keanne, who was just behind me, asked quietly, and in a wondering tone, "why do cobblers drive the briskest trade of all, from nahant to niagara?" i was dizzy with winding down the spiral stairs, and gave some philosophical explanation, showing up my political economy. but when in the evening, at the hotel, he invited me to accompany him in an inquiry into the statistics of cobblers, i understood him better. so far from being watering-places, it is clear that there is not only a spiritual but a sentimental intoxication at all these pleasant retreats. there is universal exhilaration. youth, beauty, summer, money, and moonlight conspire to make water, or any thing of which water is a type, utterly incredible. there is no practical joke like that of asking a man if he came to saratoga to drink the waters. every man justly feels insulted by such a suspicion. "am i an invalid, sir? have i the air of disease, i should like to know?" responds brummell, fiercely, as he turns suddenly round from tying his cravat, upon which he has lavished all his genius, and with which he hoped to achieve successes. "do i look weak, sir? why the deuce should you think i came to saratoga to drink the waters?" at niagara it is different. there you naturally speak of water--over your champagne or chambertin at dinner; and at evening you take a little tipple to protect yourself against the night air as you step out to survey the moonlight effects of the cataract. you came professedly to see the water. there is nothing else to see or do there, but to look at the falls, eat dinner, drink cobblers, and smoke. if you have any doubt upon this point, run up in the train and see. i think you will find people doing those things and nothing else. i am not sure, indeed, but you will find some young ladies upon the piazza overhanging the rapids, rapt and fascinated by the delirious dance of the water beneath, who add a more alluring terror to the weird awe that the cataract inspires, by wild tales of ghosts and midnight marvels, which, haply, some recent graduate more frightfully emphasizes by the ready coinage of his brain. no, it is a melancholy misnomer. to call these gay summer courts of bacchus and venus watering-places, is like the delightful mummery of the pastoral revels of the king in the old italian romance, who attired himself as an abbot, and all his rollicking court as monks and nuns, and shaping his pavilion into the semblance of a monastery, stole, from contrast, a sharper edge for pleasure. i must laugh when you call saratoga, for instance, a watering-place; because there, this very summer, i was intoxicated with that elixir of life, which young men do not name, and which old men call love. let me tell you the story; for, if your eye chances to fall upon this page while you are loitering at one of those pleasant places, you can see in mine your own experience, and understand why homer is so intelligible to you. are you not all the time in the midst of an iliad? that stately woman who is now passing along the piazza is beautiful helen, although she is called mrs. bigge in these degenerate days, and bigge himself is really the menelaus of the old trojan story, although he deals now in cotton. paris, of course, is an habitué of saratoga in the season, goes to newport in the middle of august, and always wears a mustache. but paris is not so dangerous to the connubial felicity of menelaus bigge, as he was in the gay grecian days. now what i say is this, that you who are swimming down the current of the summer at a watering-place, are really surrounded by the identical material out of which homer spun his iliad--yes, and shakspeare his glowing and odorous romeo and juliet--only it goes by different names at saratoga, newport, and niagara. and to point the truth of what i say, i shall tell you my little story, illustrative of summer life, and shall leave your wit to define the difference between my experience and yours. it is of the simplest kind, mark you, and "as easy as lying." i left college, in the early summer, flushed with the honors of the valedictory. it was in one of those quiet college towns which are the pleasantest spots in new england, that i had won and worn my laurels. after four years--so long in passing, such a swift line of light when passed--the eagerly-expected commencement day arrived. it was the greatest day in the year in that village, and i was the greatest man of the day. ah! i shall always see the gathering groups of students and alumni upon the college lawn, in the "ambrosial darkness" of broad-branching elms. i can yet feel the warm sunshine of that quiet day--and see our important rustling about in the black silk graduating gowns--i, chiefest of all, and pointed out, to the classes just entered, as the valedictorian, saluted as i passed by the homage of their admiring glances. then winding down the broad street, over which the trees arched, and which they walled with green, again my heart dilates upon the swelling music, that pealed in front of the procession, while all the town made holiday, and clustered under the trees to see us pass. i hear still chiming, and a little muffled even now, through memory, the sweet church bell that rang gayly and festally, not solemnly, that day--and how shall i forget the choking and exquisite delight and excitement with which, in the mingled confusion of ringing bell and clanging martial instruments, we passed from the warm, bright sunshine without, into the cool interior of the church. as we entered, the great organ aroused from its majestic silence, and drowned bell and band in its triumphant torrent of sound, while, to my excited fancy, the church seemed swaying in the music, it was so crowded with women, in light summer muslins, bending forward, and whispering, and waving fans. the rattling of pew-doors--the busy importance of the "professor of elocution and belles-lettres"--the dying strains of the organ--the brief silence--the rustling rising to hear the president's prayer--it is all as distinct in my mind as in yours, my young friend fresh from college, and "watering" for your first season. then, when the long list was called, and the degrees had been conferred, came my turn--"the valedictory addresses." in that moment, as i gathered my gown around me and ascended the platform, i did not envy demosthenes nor cicero, nor believe that a sweeter triumph was ever won. that soft, country summer-day, and i the focus of a thousand enthusiastic eyes to which the low words of farewell i spoke to my companions, brought a sympathetic moisture--that is a picture which must burn forever, illuminating life. the first palpable and visible evidence of your power over others is that penetrating aroma of success--sweeter than success itself--which comes only once, and only for a moment, but for that single moment is a dream made real. the memory of that day makes june in my mind forever. you see i am growing garrulous, and do not come to saratoga by steam. but i did come, fresh from that triumph, and full of it. i had been the greatest man of the greatest day in a town not five hundred miles away, and could not but feel that my fame must have excited saratoga. with what modest trembling i wrote my name in the office-book. the man scarcely looked at it, but wrote a number against it, shouted to the porter to take mr. ----'s (excuse my name) luggage to no. , and i mechanically followed that functionary, and observed that not a single loiterer in the office raised his head at my name. but worse than that, the name seemed to be of no consequence. i was no longer mr. ---- with "the valedictory addresses," &c, &c. (including the thousand eyes). i was merely no. --and you too have already observed, i am sure, wherever you are passing the summer, that you are not an individual at a watering-place. you lose your personal identity in a great summer hotel, as you would in a penitentiary; you are no. this or no. that. it is no. who wishes his champagne frappé. it is no. who wishes his card taken to no. . it is no. who goes in the morning, pays his bill, and hears, as the porter slings on his luggage and takes his shilling, "put no. in order." this is one of the humiliating aspects of watering-place life. you are one of a mass, and distinguished by your number. yet you can never know the mortifying ignominy of such treatment until it comes directly upon the glory of a commencement, at which you have absorbed all other individuality into yourself. i reached saratoga and came down to dinner. i could not help laughing at the important procession of negro-waiters stamping in with the different courses, and concentrating attention upon their movements. i felt then, instinctively, how it is the last degree of vulgarity--that the serving at table instead of being noiseless as the wind that blows the ship along, is the chief spectacle and amusement at dinner. dinner at saratoga, or newport, or niagara is a grand military movement of black waiters, who advance, halt, load, present, and fire their dishes, and in which the elegant ladies and the elegant gentlemen are merely lay-figures, upon which the african army exercise their skill by not hitting or spilling. for the first days of my residence it was a quiet enjoyment to me to see with what elaborate care the fine ladies and gentlemen arrayed themselves to play their inferior parts at dinner. the chief actors in the ceremony--the negro waiters--ran, a moment before the last bell, to put on clean white jackets and when the bell rang, and the puppets were seated--fancying, with charming naïveté, that they were the principle objects of the feast--then thundered in the sable host and deployed right and left, tramping like the ghost in don giovanni, thumping, clashing, rattling, and all thought of elegance or propriety was lost in the universal tumult. people who submit to this, consider themselves elegant. but what if in their own houses and dining-rooms there should be this "alarum, enter an army," as the old play-books say, whenever they entertained their friends at dinner. i was lonely at first. nothing is so solitary as a gay and crowded watering-place, where you have few friends. the excessive hilarity of others emphasizes your own quiet and solitude. and especially at saratoga, where there is no resource but the company. you must bowl, or promenade the piazza, or flirt, with the women. you must drink, smoke, chat, and game a little with the men. but if you know neither women nor men, and have no prospect of knowing them, then take the next train to lake george. it is very different elsewhere. at newport, for instance, if you are only no. at your hotel and nothing more; if you know no one, and have to drink your wine, and smoke, and listen to the music alone, you have only to leap into your saddle, gallop to the beach, and as you pace along the margin of the sea, that will laugh with you at the frivolities you have left behind--will sometimes howl harsh scorn upon the butterflies, who are not worth it, and who do not deserve it--and the atlantic will be to you lover, counselor, and sweet society. toward the end of my first saratoga week, i met an old college friend. it was my old chum, herbert, from the south. herbert, who, over many a midnight glass and wasting weed, had leaned out of my window in the moonlight, and recited those burning lines of byron which all students do recite to that degree, that i have often wondered what students did, in romantic moonlights, before byron was born. in those midnight recitals herbert used often to stop, and say to me: "i wonder if you would like my sister?" her name was not mentioned, but herbert was so handsome in the southern style; he was so picturesque, and manly, and graceful--a kind of sidney and bayard--that i was sure his sister was not less than amy robsart, or lucy of lammermoor, or perhaps zuleika. toward the close of our course, we were one day sauntering beyond the little college-town, and dreaming dreams of that future which, to every ambitious young man, seems a stately palace waiting to be royally possessed by him, when herbert, who really loved me, said: "i wish you knew lulu." "i wish i did know lulu." and that was all we ever said about it. when we met at saratoga it was a pleasant surprise to both, and doubly so to me, for i was sadly bored by my want of acquaintances. we fell into an earnest conversation, in the midst of which herbert suddenly said: "ah! there, i must run and join lulu!" and left me. who has not had just this experience, or a similar one, at any watering-place? one day you suddenly discover that some certain person has arrived; and when you go to your room to dress for dinner, your boots look splayed--your waistcoats are not the thing--your coat isn't half as handsome as other coats--and you spoil all your cravats in your nervous efforts to tie them exquisitely. you get dressed, however, and descend to dinner, giving yourself a vivian grey-ish air--a combination of the coxcomb, the poet, and the politician--and yet wonder why your hands seem so large, and why you do not feel at your ease, although every thing is the same as yesterday, except that lulu has arrived. and there she sits! so sat lulu, herbert's sister, cool in light muslin, as if that sultry summer day she were undine draped in mist. she had the self-possession, which many children have, and which greatly differs from the elaborate _sang froid_ of elegant manners. there was no haughty reserve, no cold unconsciousness, as if the world were not worth her treading. but when herbert nodded to me--and i, knowing that she was about to look at me, involuntarily put forward the poet-aspect of vivian--she turned and looked toward me earnestly and unaffectedly for a few moments, while i played with a sweet-bread, and looked abstracted. it is a pity that we men make such fools of ourselves when we are in the callow state! lulu turned back and said something to herbert; of course, it was telling him her first impression of me! do you think i wished to hear it? she was not tall nor superb: her face was very changeful and singularly interesting. i watched her during dinner, and such were my impressions. if they were wrong, it was the fault of my perceptions. we met upon the piazza after dinner while the beautifully-dressed throng was promenading, and the band was playing. it was an arcadian moment and scene. "lulu, this is my friend, mr. ----, of whom i have spoken to you so often." herbert remained but a moment. i offered my arm to his sister, and we moved with the throng. the whole world seemed a festival. the day was golden--the music swelled in those long, delicious chords, which imparadise the moment, and make life poetry. in that strain, and with that feeling, our acquaintance commenced. it was lulu's first summer at a watering-place (at least she said so); it was my first, too, at a watering-place--but not my first at a flirtation, thought i, loftily. she had all the cordial freshness of a southern girl, with that geniality of manner which, without being in the least degree familiar, is confiding and friendly, and which to us, reserved and suspicious northerners, appears the evidence of the complete triumph we have achieved, until we see that it is a general and not a particular manner. the band played on: the music seemed only to make more melodious and expressive all that we said. at intervals, we stopped and leaned upon the railing by a column wreathed with a flowering vine, and lulu's eye seeking the fairest blossom, found it, and her hand placed it in mine. i forgot commencement-day, and the glory of the valedictory. lulu's eyes were more inspiring than the enthusiastic thousand in the church; and the remembered bursts of the band that day were lost in the low whispers of the girl upon my arm. i do not remember what we said. i did not mean to flirt, in the usual sense of that word (men at a watering-place never do). it was an intoxication most fatal of all, and which no maine law can avert. herbert joined us later in the afternoon, and proposed a drive; he was anxious to show me his horses. we parted to meet at the door. lulu gently detached her arm from mine; said gayly, "au revoir, bientôt!" as she turned away; and i bounded into the hall, sprang up-stairs into my room, and sat down, stone-still, upon a chair. i looked fixedly upon the floor, and remained perfectly motionless for five minutes. i was lost in a luxury of happiness! without a profession, without a fortune, i felt myself irresistibly drawn toward this girl;--and the very fascination lay here, that i knew, however wild and wonderful a feeling i might indulge, it was all hopeless. we should enjoy a week of supreme happiness--suffer in parting--and presently be solaced, and enjoy other weeks of supreme felicity with other lulus! my young friends of the watering-places, deny having had just such an emotion and "course of thought," if you dare! we drove to the lake, and the whole world of saratoga with us. herbert's new bays sped neatly along--he driving in front, lulu and i chatting behind. arrived at the lake, we sauntered down the steep slope to the beach. we stepped into a boat and drifted out upon the water. it was still and gleaming in the late afternoon; and the pensive tranquillity of evening was gathering before we returned. we sang those passionate, desperate love-songs which young people always sing when they are happiest and most sentimental. so rapidly had we advanced--for a watering-place is the very hot-bed of romance--that i dropped my hand idly upon lulu's; and finding that hers was not withdrawn, gradually and gently clasped it in mine. so, hand-in-hand, we sang, floating homeward in the golden twilight. there was a dance in the evening at the hotel. lulu was to dance with me, of course, the first set, and as many waltzes as i chose. she was so sparkling, so evidently happy, that i observed the new york belles, to whom happiness is an inexplicable word, scanned her with an air of lofty wonder and elegant disdain. but lulu was so genuinely graceful and charming; she remained so quietly superior in her simplicity to the assuming _hauteur_ of the metropolitan misses, that i kept myself in perfect good-humor, and did not feel myself at all humbled in the eyes of the young america of that city, because i was the cavalier of the unique southerner. so far did this go, that in my desire to revenge myself upon the new yorkers, i resolved to increase their chagrin by praising lulu to the chief belle of the set. to her i was introduced. a new york belle at a watering-place! "there's a divinity doth hedge her," and a mystery too. she looked at me with supreme indifference as i advanced to the ordeal of presentation, evidently measuring my claims upon her consideration by the general aspect of my outer man. i moved with a certain pride, because although i felt awkward before the glance of lulu, i was entirely self-possessed in the consciousness of unexceptionable attire before the unmeaning stare of the fashionable _parvenue_. you see i do get a little warm in speaking of her, and yet i was as cool as an autumn morning, when i made my bow, and requested her hand for the next set. we danced _vis-a-vis_ to lulu. my partner swung her head around upon her neck, as none but juno or minerva should venture to do, and looked at the other _personal_ of the quadrille, to see if she were in a perfectly safe set. i ventured a brief remark upon nothing--the weather, probably. the queen of the cannibal islands bent majestically in a monosyllabic response. "it is very warm to-night," continued i. "yes, very warm," she responded. "you have been long here?" "two weeks." "probably you came from niagara?" "no, from sharon." "shall you go to lake george?" "no, we go to newport." there i paused, and fondled my handkerchief, while the impassible lady relapsed into her magnificent silence, and offered no hope of any conversation in any direction. but i would not be balked of my object, and determined that if the living stream did run "quick below," the glaring polish of ice which these "fine manners" presented, my remark should be an artesian bore to it. "how handsome our _vis-a-vis_ is?" said i. my stately lady said nothing, but tossed her head slightly, without changing her expression, except to make it more pointedly frigid, in a reply which was a most vociferous negative, petrified by politeness into ungracious assent. "she is what lucia of lammermoor might have been before she was unhappy," continued i, plunging directly off into the sea of trouble. "ah! i don't know miss lammermoor," responded my partner, with _sang-froid_. i am conscious that i winced at this. a new york belle, hedged with divinity and awfulness, &c, _not know miss lammermoor_. such stately _naïveté_ of ignorance drew a smile into my eyes, and i concluded to follow the scent. "you misunderstand me," said i. "i was speaking of scott's lucia--the waverley novel, you know." "waverley, waverley," replied my cannibal queen, who moved her head like juno, but this time lisping and somewhat confused, as if she knew that, by the mention of books, we were possibly nearing the verge of sentiment. "waverley--i don't know what you mean: you're too deep for me." i was silent for that moment, and sat a mirthful marius, among the ruins of my proud idea of a metropolitan belle. had she not exquisitely perfected my revenge? could the contrast of my next dance with lulu have been pointed with more diamond distinctness than by the unweeting lady, whom i watched afterward, with my eyes swimming in laughter, as she glided, passionlessly, without smiling, without grace, without life--like a statue clad in muslin, over grass-cloth, around the hall. once again, during the evening, i went to her and said: "how graceful that baltimore lady is." "the baltimore ladies may have what you call grace and ease," said she, with the same delicious hauteur, "and the boston ladies are very 'strong-minded,'" she continued, in a tone intended for consuming satire, the more unhappy that it was clear she could make no claim to either of the qualities--"but the new york women have _air_," she concluded, and sailed away with what "might be air," said herbert, who heard her remark, "but certainly very bad air." learn from this passage of my experience, beloved reader, you who are for the first time encountering that sphinx, a new york belle, that she is not terrible. you shall find her irreproachable in _tournure_, but it is no more exclusively beautiful or admirable, than new york is exclusively the fine city of the country. i am a young man, of course, and inexperienced; but i prefer that lovely languor of the southern manners, which is expressed in the negligence, and sometimes even grotesqueness of dress, to the vapid superciliousness, which is equally expressed in the coarse grass cloth that imparts the adorable _je ne sais quoi_ of _style_. "it is truly amusing," herbert says, who has been a far traveler, "to see these nice new yorkers assuming that the whole country outside their city is provincial." a parisian lady who should affect to treat a florentine as a provincial, would be exiled by derision from social consideration. fair dames of new york, i am but an anonymous valedictorian; yet why not make your beauty more beautiful, by that courtesy which is loftier than disdain, and superior to superciliousness? ah, well! it was an aromatic evening. disraeli says that ferdinand armine had a sicilian conversation with henrietta temple, in the conservatory. you know how it ended, and they knew how it would end,--they were married. but if ferdinand had plunged into that abyss of excitement, knowing that however sicilian his conversation might be, it would all end in a bachelor's quarters, with henrietta as a lay figure of memory, which he might amuse himself in draping with a myriad rainbow fancies--if he had known this, ought he to have advanced farther in the divine darkness of that prospect? ought he not to have said, "dear miss temple, my emotions are waxing serious, and i am afraid of them, and will retire." you will say, "certainly," of course. we all say, "certainly," when we read or talk about it quietly. young men at saratoga and newport say, "certainly," over their cigars. but when the weed is whiffed away, they dress for conquest, and draw upon the future for the consequences. unhappily, the future is perfectly "good," and always settles to the utmost copper. at least, so herbert says, and he is older than i am. i only know--in fact, i only cared, that the evening fled away like a sky-lark singing up to the sun at daybreak--(that was a much applauded sentence in my valedictory). i deliberately cut every cable of remorse that might have held me to the "ingenuous course," as it is called, and drove out into the shoreless sea of enjoyment. i revelled in lulu's beauty, in her grace, in her thousand nameless charms. i was naturally sorry for her. i knew her young affections would "run to waste, and water but the desert." but if a girl will do so! summer and the midsummer sun shone in a cloudless sky. there was nothing to do but live and love, and lulu and i did nothing else. through the motley aspects of watering-place existence, our life shot like a golden thread, embroidering it with beauty. we strolled on the piazza at morning and evening. during the forenoon we sat in the parlor, and lulu worked a bag or a purse, and i sat by her, gossiping that gossip which is evanescent as foam upon champagne--yes, and as odorous and piercing, for the moment it lasts. we only parted to dress for dinner. i relinquished the vivian grey style, and returned to my own. every day lulu was more exquisitely dressed, and when the band played, after dinner, and the sunlight lay, golden-green, upon the smooth, thick turf, our conversation was inspired by the music, as on the first day, which seemed to me centuries ago, so natural and essential to my life had lulu become. toward sunset we drove to the lake. sometimes in a narrow little wagon, not quite wide enough for two, and in which i sat overdrifted by the azure mist of the dress she wore--nor ever dreaming of the autumn or the morrow; and sometimes with herbert and his new horses. young america sipping cobblers, and roving about in very loose and immoral coats, voted it "a case." the elderly ladies thought it a "shocking flirtation." the old gentlemen who smoke cigars in the easy chairs under the cool colonnade, watched the course of events through the slow curling clouds of tobacco, and looked at me, when i passed them, as if i were juvenile for a lothario; while the great dancing, bowling, driving, flirting, and fooling mass of the saratoga population thought it all natural and highly improper. it is astonishing to recur to an acquaintance which has become a large and luminous part of your life, and discover that it lasted a week. it is saddening to sit among the withered rose-leaves of a summer, and remember that each rose in its prime seemed the sweetest of roses. the old ladies called it "shocking," and the young ladies sigh that it is "heartless," and the many condemn, while the few wrap themselves in scornful pride at the criminal fickleness of men. one such i met on a quiet sunday morning when lulu had just left me to go and read to her mother. "you are a vain coxcomb," was the promising prelude of my friend's conversation. but she _was_ a friend, so i did not frown nor play that i was offended. "why a coxcomb?" "because you are flirting with that girl merely for your own amusement. you know perfectly well that she loves you, and you know equally well that you mean nothing. you are a flippant, shallow arthur pendennis--" "_pas trop vite._ if i meet a pleasant person in a pleasant place, and we like each other, i, for my part, will follow the whim of the hour. i will live while i live--provided, always, that i injure no other person in following that plan--and in every fairly supposable case of this kind the game is equal. good morning." now you will say that i was afraid to continue the argument, and that i felt self-convicted of folly. not at all; but i chanced to see lulu returning, and i strolled down the piazza to meet her. she was flushed, and tears were ill-concealed in her eyes. her mother had apprised her that she was to leave in the morning. it was all over. i did not dare to trust my tongue, but seized her hand a moment, and then ran for my life--literally for my life. reaching my room i sat down in my chair again, and stared upon the floor. i loved lulu more than any woman in the world. yet i remembered precisely similar occasions before, when i felt as if the sun and life were departing when certain persons left my side, and i therefore could not trust my emotion, and run back again and swear absolute and eternal fidelity. you think i was a great fool, and destitute of feeling, and better not venture any more into general female society. perhaps so. but it was written upon my consciousness suddenly and dazzlingly, as the mystic words upon nebuchadnezzar's hall, that this, though sweet and absorbing, was but a summer fancy--offspring of sunshine, flowers, and music--not the permanent reality which all men seek in love. it was one of the characteristic charms of the summer life. it made the weeks a pleasant masque of truth--a paraphrase of the poetry of love. i would not avoid it. i would not fail to sail among the isles of greece, though but for a summer day--though memory might forever yearningly revert to that delight--conscious of no dishonor, of no more selfishness than in enjoying a day or a flower--exposed to all the risks to which my partner in the delirious and delicious game was exposed. we met at dinner. we strolled after dinner, and i felt the trembling of the arm within mine, as we spoke of travel, of niagara, of newport, and of parting. "lulu," said i, "the pleasure of a watering-place is the meeting with a thousand friends whom we never saw before, and shall never see again." that was the way i began. "we meet here, lulu, like travelers upon a mountain-top, one coming from the clear, green north, another from the sun-loved south; and we sit together for an hour talking, each of his own, and each story by its strangeness fascinating the other hearer. then we rise, say farewell, and each pursues his journey alone, yet never forgetting that meeting on the mountain, and the sweet discourse that charmed the hours." i found myself again delivering valedictory addresses, and to an audience more moved than the first. yet who would not have had the day upon the mountain! who would not once have seen helen, though he might never see her more? who would not wish to prove by a thousand-fold experience shelley's lines-- "true love in this differs from gold to clay, that to divide is not to take away." lulu said nothing, and we walked silently on. "i hate the very name watering-place," said she, at length. i did not ask her why. when the full moonlight came, we went to the ball-room. it is the way they treat moonlights at a watering-place. "yes," said lulu, "let us die royally, wreathed with flowers." and she smiled as she said it. why did she smile? it was just as we parted, and mark the result. the moment i suspected that the flirtation was not all on one side, i discovered--beloved budding flirt, male or female, of this summer, you will also discover the same thing in similar cases--that i was seriously in love. now that i fancied there was no reason to blind my eyes to the fact, i stared directly upon it. we went into the hall. it was a wild and melancholy dance that we danced. there was a frenzy in my movements, for i knew that i was clasping for the last time the woman for whom my admiring and tender compassion was by her revelation of superiority to loving me, suddenly kindled into devotion! she was very beautiful--at least, she was so to me, and i could not but mark a kind of triumph in her air, which did not much perplex, but overwhelmed me. at length she proposed stepping out upon the piazza, and then we walked in the cool moonlight while i poured out to her the overflowing enthusiasm of my passion. lulu listened patiently, and then she said: "my good friend (fancy such a beginning in answer to a declaration), you have much to learn. i thought from what you said this afternoon that you were profoundly acquainted with the mystery of watering-place life. you remember you delivered a very polished disquisition on the subject to me--to a woman who, you had every reason to suppose, was deeply in love with you. my good sir, a watering-place passion, you ought to know, is an affair of sunshine, music, and flowers. we meet upon a mountain-top, and enjoy ourselves, then part with longing and regret." here she paused a moment, and my knees smote together. "you are a very young man, with very much to learn, and if you mean to make the tour of the watering-places during this or any summer, you must understand this; and, as herbert tells me you were a very moving valedictorian this year, this shall be my moving valedictory to you, for i leave to-morrow--in all summer encounters of the heart or head, at any of the leisure resorts where there is nothing to do but to do nothing, never forget that _all baggage is at the risk of the owner_." and so saying, lulu slipped her arm from mine, glided up the stairs into the hall, and the next moment was floating down the room to a fragrant strain of strauss. i, young reader, remained a few moments bewildered in the moonlight, and the next morning naturally left saratoga. i am meditating whether to go to newport; but i am sure lulu is there. let me advise you, meanwhile, to beware, let me urge you to adapt the old proverb to the meridian of a watering-place by reversing it--that "whoever goes out to find a kingdom may return an ass." the midnight mass. an episode in the history of the reign of terror. about eight o'clock on the night of the d of january, , while the reign of terror was still at its height in paris, an old woman descended the rapid eminence in that city, which terminates before the church of st. laurent. the snow had fallen so heavily during the whole day, that the sound of footsteps was scarcely audible. the streets were deserted; and the fear that silence naturally inspires, was increased by the general terror which then assailed france. the old woman passed on her way, without perceiving a living soul in the streets; her feeble sight preventing her from observing in the distance, by the lamp-light, several foot passengers, who flitted like shadows over the vast space of the faubourg, through which she was proceeding. she walked on courageously through the solitude, as if her age were a talisman which could shield her from every calamity. no sooner, however, had she passed the rue des morts, than she thought she heard the firm and heavy footsteps of a man walking behind her. it struck her that she had not heard this sound for the first time. trembling at the idea of being followed, she quickened her pace, in order to confirm her suspicions by the rays of light which proceeded from an adjacent shop. as soon as she had reached it, she abruptly turned her head, and perceived, through the fog, the outline of a human form. this indistinct vision was enough: she shuddered violently the moment she saw it--doubting not that the stranger had followed her from the moment she had quitted home. but the desire to escape from a spy soon renewed her courage, and she quickened her pace, vainly thinking that, by such means, she could escape from a man necessarily much more active than herself. after running for some minutes, she arrived at a pastry-cook's shop--entered--and sank, rather than sat down, on a chair which stood before the counter. the moment she raised the latch of the door, a woman in the shop looked quickly through the windows toward the street; and, observing the old lady, immediately opened a drawer in the counter, as if to take out something which she had to deliver to her. not only did the gestures and expression of the young woman show her desire to be quickly relieved of the new-comer, as of a person whom it was not safe to welcome; but she also let slip a few words of impatience at finding the drawer empty. regardless of the old lady's presence, she unceremoniously quitted the counter, retired to an inner apartment, and called her husband, who at once obeyed the summons. "where have you placed the--?" inquired she, with a mysterious air, glancing toward the visitor, instead of finishing the sentence. although the pastry-cook could only perceive the large hood of black silk, ornamented with bows of violet-colored ribbon, which formed the old lady's head-dress, he at once cast a significant look at his wife, as much as to say, "could you think me careless enough to leave what you ask for, in such a place as the shop!" and then hurriedly disappeared. surprised at the silence and immobility of the stranger lady, the young woman approached her; and, on beholding her face, experienced a feeling of compassion--perhaps, we may add, a feeling of curiosity as well. although the complexion of the old lady was naturally colorless, like that of one long accustomed to secret austerities, it was easy to see that a recent emotion had cast over it an additional paleness. her head-dress was so disposed as completely to hide her hair; and thereby to give her face an appearance of religious severity. at the time of which we write, the manners and habits of people of quality were so different from those of the lower classes, that it was easy to identify a person of distinction from outward appearance alone. accordingly, the pastry-cook's wife at once discovered that the strange visitor was an ex-aristocrat--or, as we should now express it, "a born lady." "madame!" she exclaimed, respectfully, forgetting, at the moment, that this, like all other titles, was now proscribed under the republic. the old lady made no answer, but fixed her eyes steadfastly on the shop windows, as if they disclosed some object that terrified her. "what is the matter with you, citizen?" asked the pastry-cook, who made his appearance at this moment, and disturbed her reverie by handing her a small pasteboard box, wrapped up in blue paper. "nothing, nothing, my good friends," she replied, softly. while speaking, she looked gratefully at the pastry-cook; then, observing on his head the revolutionary red cap, she abruptly exclaimed: "you are a republican! you have betrayed me!" the pastry-cook and his wife indignantly disclaimed the imputation by a gesture. the old lady blushed as she noticed it--perhaps with shame, at having suspected them--perhaps with pleasure, at finding them trustworthy. "pardon me," said she, with child-like gentleness, drawing from her pocket a louis d'or. "there," she continued, "there is the stipulated price." there is a poverty which the poor alone can discover. the pastry-cook and his wife felt the same conviction as they looked at each other--it was perhaps the last louis d'or which the old lady possessed. when she offered the coin her hand trembled: she had gazed upon it with some sorrow, but with no avarice; and yet, in giving it, she seemed to be fully aware that she was making a sacrifice. the shop-keepers, equally moved by pity and interest, began by comforting their consciences with civil words. "you seem rather poorly, citizen," said the pastry-cook. "would you like to take any refreshment, madame?" interrupted his wife. "we have some excellent soup," continued the husband. "the cold has perhaps affected you, madame," resumed the young woman; "pray, step in, and sit and warm yourself by our fire." "we may be republicans," observed the pastry-cook; "but the devil is not always so black as he is painted." encouraged by the kind words addressed to her by the shop-keepers, the old lady confessed that she had been followed by a strange man, and that she was afraid to return home by herself. "is that all?" replied the valiant pastry-cook. "i'll be ready to go home with you in a minute, citizen." he gave the louis d'or to his wife, and then--animated by that sort of gratitude which all tradesmen feel at receiving a large price for an article of little value--hastened to put on his national guard's uniform, and soon appeared in complete military array. in the mean while, however, his wife had found time to reflect; and in her case, as in many others, reflection closed the open hand of charity. apprehensive that her husband might be mixed up in some misadventure, she tried hard to detain him; but, strong in his benevolent impulse, the honest fellow persisted in offering himself as the old lady's escort. "do you imagine, madame, that the man you are so much afraid of, is still waiting outside the shop?" asked the young woman. "i feel certain of it," replied the lady. "suppose he should be a spy! suppose the whole affair should be a conspiracy! don't go! get back the box we gave her." these words whispered to the pastry-cook by his wife, had the effect of cooling his courage with extraordinary rapidity. "i'll just say two words to that mysterious personage outside, and relieve you of all annoyance immediately," said he, hastily quitting the shop. the old lady, passive as a child, and half-bewildered, reseated herself. the pastry-cook was not long before he returned. his face, which was naturally ruddy, had turned quite pale; he was so panic-stricken, that his legs trembled under him, and his eyes rolled like the eyes of a drunken man. "are you trying to get our throats cut for us, you rascally aristocrat?" cried he, furiously. "do you think you can make _me_ the tool of a conspiracy? quick! show us your heels! and never let us see your face again!" so saying, he endeavored to snatch away the box, which the old lady had placed in her pocket. no sooner, however, had his hands touched her dress, than, preferring any perils in the street to losing the treasure for which she had just paid so large a price, she darted with the activity of youth toward the door, opened it violently, and disappeared in a moment from the eyes of the bewildered shopkeepers. upon gaining the street again, she walked at her utmost speed; but her strength soon failed, when she heard the spy who had so remorselessly followed her, crunching the snow under his heavy tread. she involuntarily stopped short: the man stopped short too! at first, her terror prevented her from speaking, or looking round at him; but it is in the nature of us all--even of the most infirm--to relapse into comparative calm immediately after violent agitation; for, though our feelings may be unbounded, the organs which express them have their limits. accordingly, the old lady, finding that she experienced no particular annoyance from her imaginary persecutor, willingly tried to convince herself that he might be a secret friend, resolved at all hazards to protect her. she reconsidered the circumstances which had attended the stranger's appearance, and soon contrived to persuade herself that his object in following her, was much more likely to be a good than an evil one. forgetful, therefore, of the fear with which he had inspired the pastry-cook, she now went on her way with greater confidence. after a walk of half an hour, she arrived at a house situated at the corner of a street leading to the barrière pantin--even at the present day, the most deserted locality in all paris. a cold northeasterly wind whistled sharply across the few houses, or rather tenements, scattered about this almost uninhabited region. the place seemed, from its utter desolation, the natural asylum of penury and despair. the stranger, who still resolutely dogged the poor old lady's steps, seemed struck with the scene on which his eyes now rested. he stopped--erect, thoughtful, and hesitating--his figure feebly lighted by a lamp, the uncertain rays of which scarcely penetrated the fog. fear had quickened the old lady's eyes. she now thought she perceived something sinister in the features of the stranger. all her former terrors returned and she took advantage of the man's temporary indecision, to steal away in the darkness toward the door of a solitary house. she pressed a spring under the latch, and disappeared with the rapidity of a phantom. the stranger, still standing motionless, contemplated the house, which bore the same appearance of misery as the rest of the faubourg. built of irregular stones, and stuccoed with yellowish plaster, it seemed, from the wide cracks in the walls, as if a strong gust of wind would bring the crazy building to the ground. the roof, formed of brown tiles, long since covered with moss, was so sunk in several places that it threatened to give way under the weight of snow which now lay upon it. each story had three windows, the frames of which, rotted with damp and disjointed by the heat of the sun, showed how bitterly the cold must penetrate into the apartments. the comfortless, isolated dwelling resembled some old tower which time had forgotten to destroy. one faint light glimmered from the windows of the gable in which the top of the building terminated; the remainder of the house was plunged in the deepest obscurity. meanwhile, the old woman ascended with some difficulty a rude and dilapidated flight of stairs, assisting herself by a rope, which supplied the place of bannisters. she knocked mysteriously at the door of one of the rooms situated on the garret-floor, was quickly let in by an old man, and then sank down feebly into a chair which he presented to her. "hide yourself! hide yourself!" she exclaimed. "seldom as we venture out, our steps have been traced; our proceedings are known!" "what is the matter?" asked another old woman, seated near the fire. "the man whom we have seen loitering about the house since yesterday, has followed me this evening," she replied. at these words, the three inmates of the miserable abode looked on each other in silent terror. the old man was the least agitated--perhaps for the very reason that his danger was really the greatest. when tried by heavy affliction, or threatened by bitter persecution, the first principle of a courageous man is, at all times, to contemplate calmly the sacrifice of himself for the safety of others. the expression in the faces of his two companions showed plainly, as they looked on the old man, that _he_ was the sole object of their most vigilant solicitude. "let us not distrust the goodness of god, my sisters," said he, in grave, reassuring tones. "we sang his praises even in the midst of the slaughter that raged through our convent. if it was his good-will that i should be saved from the fearful butchery committed in that holy place by the republicans, it was no doubt to reserve me for another destiny, which i must accept without a murmur. god watches over his chosen, and disposes of them as seems best to his good-will. think of yourselves, my sisters--think not of me!" "impossible!" said one of the women. "what are _our_ lives--the lives of two poor nuns--in comparison with _yours_; in comparison with the life of a priest?" "here, father," said the old nun, who had just returned; "here are the consecrated wafers of which you sent me in search." she handed him the box which she had received from the pastry-cook. "hark!" cried the other nun; "i hear footsteps coming up-stairs." they all listened intently. the noise of footsteps ceased. "do not alarm yourselves," said the priest. "whatever happens, i have already engaged a person, on whose fidelity we can depend, to escort you in safety over the frontier; to rescue you from the martyrdom which the ferocious will of robespierre and his coadjutors of the reign of terror would decree against every servant of the church." "do _you_ not mean to accompany us?" asked the two nuns, affrightedly. "_my_ place, sisters, is with the martyrs--not with the saved," said the old priest, calmly. "hark! the steps on the staircase!--the heavy steps we heard before!" cried the women. this time it was easy to distinguish, in the midst of the silence of night, the echoing sound of footsteps on the stone stairs. the nuns, as they heard it approach nearer and nearer, forced the priest into a recess at one end of the room, closed the door, and hurriedly heaped some old clothes against it. the moment after, they were startled by three distinct knocks at the outer door. the person who demanded admittance appeared to interpret the terrified silence which had seized the nuns on hearing his knock, into a signal to enter. he opened the door himself, and the affrighted women immediately recognized him as the man whom they had detected watching the house--the spy who had watched one of them through the streets that night. the stranger was tall and robust, but there was nothing in his features or general appearance to denote that he was a dangerous man. without attempting to break the silence, he slowly looked round the room. two bundles of straw, strewn upon boards, served as a bed for the two nuns. in the centre of the room was a table, on which were placed a copper-candlestick, some plates, three knives, and a loaf of bread. there was but a small fire in the grate, and the scanty supply of wood piled near it, plainly showed the poverty of the inmates. the old walls, which at some distant period had been painted, indicated the miserable state of the roof, by the patches of brown streaked across them by the rain, which had filtered, drop by drop, through the ceiling. a sacred relic, saved probably from the pillage of the convent to which the two nuns and the priest had been attached, was placed on the chimney-piece. three chairs, two boxes, and an old chest-of-drawers completed the furniture of the apartment. at one corner near the mantle-shelf, a door had been constructed which indicated that there was a second room in that direction. an expression of pity appeared on the countenance of the stranger, as his eyes fell on the two nuns, after having surveyed their wretched apartment. he was the first to break the strange silence that had hitherto prevailed, by addressing the two poor creatures before him in such tones of kindness as were best adapted to the nervous terror under which they were evidently suffering. "citizens!" he began, "i do not come to you as an enemy." he stopped for a moment, and then continued: "if any misfortune has befallen you, rest assured that i am not the cause of it. my only object here is to ask a great favor of you." the nuns still kept silence. "if my presence causes you any anxiety," he went on, "tell me so at once, and i will depart; but, believe me, i am really devoted to your interests; and if there is any thing in which i can befriend you, you may confide in me without fear. i am, perhaps, the only man in paris whom the law can not assail, now that the kings of france are no more." there was such a tone of sincerity in these words, as he spoke them, that sister agatha (the nun to whom the reader was introduced at the outset of this narrative, and whose manners exhibited all the court refinement of the old school) instinctively pointed to one of the chairs, as if to request the stranger to be seated. his expression showed a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy, as he acknowledged this little attention, of which he did not take advantage until the nuns had first seated themselves. "you have given an asylum here," continued he, "to a venerable priest, who has miraculously escaped from massacre at a carmelite convent." "are you the person," asked sister agatha, eagerly, "appointed to protect our flight from--?" "i am not the person whom you expected to see," he replied, calmly. "i assure you, sir," interrupted the other nun, anxiously, "that we have no priest here; we have not, indeed." "you had better be a little more careful about appearances on a future occasion," he replied, gently, taking from the table a latin breviary. "may i ask if you are both in the habit of reading the latin language?" he inquired, with a slight inflexion of sarcasm in his voice. no answer was returned. observing the anguish depicted on the countenance of the nuns, the trembling of their limbs, the tears that filled their eyes, the stranger began to fear that he had gone too far. "compose yourselves," he continued, frankly. "for three days i have been acquainted with the state of distress in which you are living. i know your names, and the name of the venerable priest whom you are concealing. it is--" "hush! do not speak it," cried sister agatha, placing her finger on her lips. "i have now said enough," he went on, "to show that if i had conceived the base design of betraying you, i could have accomplished my object before now." on the utterance of these words, the priest, who had heard all that had passed, left his hiding-place, and appeared in the room. "i can not believe, sir," said he, "that you are leagued with my persecutors; and i therefore willingly confide in you. what do you require of me?" the noble confidence of the priest--the saint-like purity expressed in his features--must have struck even an assassin with respect. the mysterious personage who had intruded on the scene of misery and resignation which the garret presented, looked silently for a moment on the three beings before him, and then, in tones of secrecy, thus addressed the priest: "father, i come to entreat you to celebrate a mortuary mass for the repose of the soul of--of a--of a person whose life the laws once held sacred, but whose corpse will never rest in holy ground." an involuntary shudder seized the priest, as he guessed the hidden meaning in these words. the nuns unable to imagine what person was indicated by the stranger, looked on him with equal curiosity and alarm. "your wish shall be granted," said the priest, in low, awe-struck tones. "return to this place at midnight, and you will find me ready to celebrate the only funeral service which the church can offer in expiation of the crime to which i understand you to allude." the stranger trembled violently for a moment, then composed himself, respectfully saluted the priest and the two nuns, and departed without uttering a word. about two hours afterward, a soft knock at the outer door announced the mysterious visitor's return. he was admitted by sister agatha, who conducted him into the second apartment of their modest retreat, where every thing had been prepared for the midnight mass. near the fire-place the nuns had placed their old chest of drawers, the clumsy workmanship of which was concealed under a rich altar-cloth of green velvet. a large crucifix, formed of ivory and ebony was hung against the bare plaster wall. four small tapers, fixed by sealing-wax on the temporary altar, threw a faint and mysterious gleam over the crucifix, but hardly penetrated to any other part of the walls of the room. thus almost exclusively confined to the sacred objects immediately above and around it, the glow from the tapers looked like a light falling from heaven itself on that unadorned and unpretending altar. the floor of the room was damp. the miserable roof, sloping on either side, was pierced with rents, through which the cold night air penetrated into the rooms. nothing could be less magnificent, and yet nothing could be more truly solemn than the manner in which the preliminaries of the funeral ceremony had been arranged. a deep, dread silence, through which the slightest noise in the street could be heard, added to the dreary grandeur of the midnight scene--a grandeur majestically expressed by the contrast between the homeliness of the temporary church, and the solemnity of the service to which it was now devoted. on each side of the altar, the two aged women kneeling on the tiled floor, unmindful of its deadly dampness, were praying in concert with the priest, who, clothed in his sacerdotal robes, raised on high a golden chalice, adorned with precious stones, the most sacred of the few relics saved from the pillage of the carmelite convent. the stranger, approaching after an interval, knelt reverently between the two nuns. as he looked up toward the crucifix, he saw, for the first time, that a piece of black crape was attached to it. on beholding this simple sign of mourning, terrible recollections appeared to be awakened within him; the big drops of agony started thick and fast on his massive brow. gradually, as the four actors in this solemn scene still fervently prayed together, their souls began to sympathize the one with the other, blending in one common feeling of religious awe. awful, in truth, was the service in which they were now secretly engaged! beneath that mouldering roof, those four christians were then interceding with heaven for the soul of a martyred king of france; performing, at the peril of their lives, in those days of anarchy and terror, a funeral service for that hapless louis the sixteenth, who died on the scaffold, who was buried without a coffin or a shroud! it was, in them, the purest of all acts of devotion--the purest, from its disinterestedness, from its courageous fidelity. the last relics of the loyalty of france were collected in that poor room, enshrined in the prayers of a priest and two aged women. perhaps, too, the dark spirit of the revolution was present there as well, impersonated by the stranger, whose face, while he knelt before the altar, betrayed an expression of the most poignant remorse. the most gorgeous mass ever celebrated in the gorgeous cathedral of st. peter, at rome, could not have expressed the sincere feeling of prayer so nobly as it was now expressed, by those four persons, under that lowly roof! there was one moment, during the progress of the service, at which the nuns detected that tears were trickling fast over the stranger's cheeks. it was when the pater noster was said. on the termination of the midnight mass, the priest made a sign to the two nuns, who immediately left the room. as soon as they were alone, he thus addressed the stranger: "my son, if you have imbrued your hands in the blood of the martyred king, confide in me, and in my sacred office. repentance so deep and sincere as yours appears to be, may efface even the crime of regicide in the eyes of god." "holy father," replied the other, in trembling accents, "no man is less guilty than i am of shedding the king's blood." "i would fain believe you," answered the priest. he paused for a moment as he said this, looked steadfastly on the penitent man before him, and then continued: "but remember, my son, you can not be absolved of the crime of regicide, because you have not co-operated in it. those who had the power of defending their king, and who, having that power, still left the sword in the scabbard, will be called to render a heavy account at the day of judgment, before the king of kings; yes, a heavy and an awful account indeed! for, in remaining passive, they became the involuntary accomplices of the worst of murders." "do you think then, father," murmured the stranger, deeply abashed, "that all indirect participations are visited with punishment? is the soldier guilty of the death of louis who obeyed the order to guard the scaffold?" the priest hesitated. "i should be ashamed," continued the other, betraying by his expression some satisfaction at the dilemma in which he had placed the old man--"i should be ashamed of offering you any pecuniary recompense for such a funeral service as you have celebrated. it is only possible to repay an act so noble by an offering which is priceless. honor me by accepting this sacred relic. the day perhaps will come when you will understand its value." so saying, he presented to the priest a small box, extremely light in weight, which the aged ecclesiastic took, as it were, involuntarily; for he felt awed by the solemn tones in which the man spoke as he offered it. briefly expressing his thanks for the mysterious present, the priest conducted his guest into the outer room, where the two nuns remained in attendance. "the house you now inhabit," said the stranger, addressing the nuns as well as the priest, "belongs to a landlord who outwardly affects extreme republicanism, but who is at heart devoted to the royal cause. he was formerly a huntsman in the service of one of the bourbons, the prince de condé, to whom he is indebted for all that he possesses. so long as you remain in this house you are safer than in any other place in france. remain here, therefore. persons worthy of trust will supply all your necessities, and you will be able to await in safety the prospect of better times. in a year from this day, on the st of january, should you still remain the occupants of this miserable abode, i will return to repeat with you the celebration of to-night's expiatory mass." he paused abruptly, and bowed without adding another word; then delayed a moment more, to cast a parting look on the objects of poverty which surrounded him, and left the room. to the two simple-minded nuns, the whole affair had all the interest of a romance. their faces displayed the most intense anxiety, the moment the priest informed them of the mysterious gift which the stranger had so solemnly presented to him. sister agatha immediately opened the box, and discovered in it a handkerchief, made of the finest cambric, and soiled with marks of perspiration. they unfolded it eagerly, and then found that it was defaced in certain places with dark stains. "those stains are _blood stains_!" exclaimed the priest. "the handkerchief is marked with the royal crown!" cried sister agatha. both the nuns dropped the precious relic, marked by the king's blood, with horror. to their simple minds, the mystery which was attached to the stranger, now deepened fearfully. as for the priest, from that moment he ceased, even in thought, to attempt identifying his visitor, or discovering the means by which he had become possessed of the royal handkerchief. throughout the atrocities practiced during a year of the reign of terror, the three refugees were safely guarded by the same protecting interference, ever at work for their advantage. at first, they received large supplies of fuel and provisions; then the two nuns found reason to imagine that one of their own sex had become associated with their invisible protector, for they were furnished with the necessary linen and clothing which enabled them to go out without attracting attention by any peculiarities of attire. besides this, warnings of danger constantly came to the priest in the most unexpected manner, and always opportunely. and then, again, in spite of the famine which at that period afflicted paris, the inhabitants of the garret were sure to find placed every morning at their door, a supply of the best wheaten bread, regularly left for them by some invisible hand. they could only guess that the agent of the charitable attentions thus lavished on them, was the landlord of the house, and that the person by whom he was employed was no other than the stranger who had celebrated with them the funeral mass for the repose of the king's soul. thus, this mysterious man was regarded with especial reverence by the priest and the nuns, whose lives for the present, and whose hopes for the future, depended on their strange visitor. they added to their usual prayers at night and morning, prayers for _him_. at length the long-expected night of the st of january arrived, and, exactly as the clock struck twelve, the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the approach of the stranger. the room had been carefully prepared for his reception, the altar had been arranged, and, on this occasion, the nuns eagerly opened the door, even before they heard the knock. "welcome back again! most welcome!" cried they; "we have been most anxiously awaiting you." the stranger raised his head, looked gloomily on the nuns, and made no answer. chilled by his cold reception of their kind greeting, they did not venture to utter another word. he seemed to have frozen at their hearts, in an instant, all the gratitude, all the friendly aspirations of the long year that had passed. they now perceived but too plainly that their visitor desired to remain a complete stranger to them, and that they must resign all hope of ever making a friend of him. the old priest fancied he had detected a smile on the lips of their guest when he entered, but that smile--if it had really appeared--vanished again the moment he observed the preparations which had been made for his reception. he knelt to hear the funeral mass, prayed fervently as before, and then abruptly took his departure; briefly declining, by a few civil words, to partake of the simple refreshment offered to him, on the expiration of the service, by the two nuns. day after day wore on, and nothing more was heard of the stranger by the inhabitants of the garret. after the fall of robespierre, the church was delivered from all actual persecution, and the priest and the nuns were free to appear publicly in paris, without the slightest risk of danger. one of the first expeditions undertaken by the aged ecclesiastic led him to a perfumer's shop, kept by a man who had formerly been one of the court tradesmen, and who had always remained faithful to the royal family. the priest, clothed once more in his clerical dress, was standing at the shop door talking to the perfumer, when he observed a great crowd rapidly advancing along the street. "what is the matter yonder?" he inquired of the shopkeeper. "nothing," replied the man carelessly, "but the cart with the condemned criminals going to the place of execution. nobody pities them--and nobody ought!" "you are not speaking like a christian," exclaimed the priest. "why not pity them?" "because," answered the perfumer, "those men who are going to the execution are the last accomplices of robespierre. they only travel the same fatal road which their innocent victims took before them." the cart with the prisoners condemned to the guillotine had by this time arrived opposite the perfumer's shop. as the old priest looked curiously toward the state criminals, he saw, standing erect and undaunted among his drooping fellow prisoners, the very man at whose desire he had twice celebrated the funeral service for the martyred king of france! "who is that standing upright in the cart?" cried the priest, breathlessly. the perfumer looked in the direction indicated, and answered-- "the executioner of louis the sixteenth!" personal habits and appearance of robespierre. visionaries are usually slovens. they despise fashions, and imagine that dirtiness is an attribute of genius. to do the honorable member for artois justice, he was above this affectation. small and neat in person, he always appeared in public tastefully dressed, according to the fashion of the period--hair well combed back, frizzled, and powdered; copious frills at the breast and wrists; a stainless white waistcoat; light-blue coat, with metal buttons; the sash of a representative tied round his waist; light-colored breeches, white stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. such was his ordinary costume; and if we stick a rose in his button-hole, or place a nosegay in his hand, we shall have a tolerable idea of his whole equipment. it is said he sometimes appeared in top-boots, which is not improbable; for this kind of boot had become fashionable among the republicans, from a notion that as top-boots were worn by gentlemen in england, they were allied to constitutional government. robespierre's features were sharp, and enlivened by bright and deeply-sunk blue eyes. there was usually a gravity and intense thoughtfulness in his countenance, which conveyed an idea of his being thoroughly in earnest. yet, his address was not unpleasing. unlike modern french politicians, his face was always smooth, with no vestige of beard or whiskers. altogether, therefore, he may be said to have been a well-dressed, gentlemanly man, animated with proper self-respect, and having no wish to court vulgar applause by neglecting the decencies of polite society. before entering on his public career in paris, robespierre had probably formed his plans, in which, at least to outward appearance, there was an entire negation of self. a stern incorruptibility seemed the basis of his character; and it is quite true that no offers from the court, no overtures from associates, had power to tempt him. there was only one way by which he could sustain a high-souled independence, and that was the course adopted in like circumstances by andrew marvel--simple wants, rigorous economy, a disregard of fine company, an avoidance of expensive habits. now, this is the curious thing in robespierre's history. perhaps there was a tinge of pride in his living a life of indigence; but in fairness it is entitled to be called an honest pride, when we consider that the means of profusion were within his reach. on his arrival in paris, he procured a humble lodging in the marais, a populous district in the northeastern faubourgs; but it being represented to him sometime afterward, that, as a public man, it was unsafe to expose himself in a long walk daily to and fro from this obscure residence, he removed to a house in the rue st. honoré, now marked no. , opposite the church of the assumption. here he found a lodging with m. duplay, a respectable but humble cabinet-maker, who had become attached to the principles of the revolution; and here he was joined by his brother, who played an inferior part in public affairs, and is known in history as "the younger robespierre." the selection of this dwelling seems to have fallen in with robespierre's notions of economy; and it suited his limited patrimony, which consisted of some rents irregularly paid by a few small farmers of his property in artois. these ill-paid rents, with his salary as a representative, are said to have supported three persons--himself, his brother, and his sister; and so straitened was he in circumstances, that he had to borrow occasionally from his landlord. even with all his pinching, he did not make both ends meet. we have it on authority, that at his death he was owing £ ; a small debt to be incurred during a residence of five years in paris, by a person who figured as a leader of parties; and the insignificance of this sum attests his remarkable self-denial. lamartine's account of the private life of robespierre in the house of the duplays is exceedingly fascinating, and we should suppose is founded on well-authorized facts. "the house of duplay," he says, "was low, and in a court surrounded by sheds filled with timber and plants, and had almost a rustic appearance. it consisted of a parlor opening to the court, and communicating with a sitting-room that looked into a small garden. from the sitting-room a door led into a small study, in which was a piano. there was a winding staircase to the first floor, where the master of the house lived, and thence to the apartment of robespierre." here, long acquaintance, a common table, and association for several years, "converted the hospitality of duplay into an attachment that became reciprocal. the family of his landlord became a second family to robespierre, and while they adopted his opinions, they neither lost the simplicity of their manners nor neglected their religious observances. they consisted of a father, mother, a son yet a youth, and four daughters, the eldest of whom was twenty-five, and the youngest eighteen. familiar with the father, filial with the mother, paternal with the son, tender and almost brotherly with the young girls, he inspired and felt in this small domestic circle all those sentiments that only an ardent soul inspires and feels by spreading abroad its sympathies. love also attached his heart, where toil, poverty, and retirement had fixed his life. eléonore duplay, the eldest daughter of his host, inspired robespierre with a more serious attachment than her sisters. the feeling, rather predilection than passion, was more reasonable on the part of robespierre, more ardent and simple on the part of the young girl. this affection afforded him tenderness without torment, happiness without excitement: it was the love adapted for a man plunged all day in the agitation of public life--a repose of the heart after mental fatigue. he and eléonore lived in the same house as a betrothed couple, not as lovers. robespierre had demanded the young girl's hand from her parents, and they had promised it to him. "'the total want of fortune,' he said, 'and the uncertainty of the morrow, prevented him from marrying her until the destiny of france was determined; but he only awaited the moment when the revolution should be concluded, in order to retire from the turmoil and strife, marry her whom he loved, go to reside with her in artois, on one of the farms he had saved among the possessions of his family, and there to mingle his obscure happiness in the common lot of his family.' "the vicissitudes of the fortune, influence, and popularity of robespierre effected no change in his simple mode of living. the multitude came to implore favor or life at the door of his house, yet nothing found its way within. the private lodging of robespierre consisted of a low chamber, constructed in the form of a garret, above some cart-sheds, with the window opening upon the roof. it afforded no other prospect than the interior of a small court, resembling a wood-store, where the sounds of the workmen's hammers and saws constantly resounded, and which was continually traversed by madame duplay and her daughters, who there performed all their household duties. this chamber was also separated from that of the landlord by a small room common to the family and himself. on the other side were two rooms, likewise attics, which were inhabited, one by the son of the master of the house, the other by simon duplay, robespierre's secretary, and the nephew of his host. "the chamber of the deputy contained only a wooden bedstead, covered with blue damask ornamented with white flowers, a table, and four straw-bottomed chairs. this apartment served him at once for a study and dormitory. his papers, his reports, the manuscripts of his discourses, written by himself in a regular but labored hand, and with many marks of erasure, were placed carefully on deal-shelves against the wall. a few chosen books were also ranged thereon. a volume of jean jacques rousseau or of racine was generally open upon his table, and attested his philosophical and literary predilections." with a mind continually on the stretch, and concerned less or more in all the great movements of the day, the features of this remarkable personage "relaxed into absolute gayety when in-doors at table, or in the evening around the wood-fire in the humble chamber of the cabinet-maker. his evenings were all passed with the family, in talking over the feelings of the day, the plans of the morrow, the conspiracies of the aristocrats, the dangers of the patriots, and the prospects of public felicity after the triumph of the revolution. sometimes robespierre, who was anxious to cultivate the mind of his betrothed, read to the family aloud, and generally from the tragedies of racine. he seldom went out in the evening; but two or three times a year he escorted madame duplay and her daughter to the theatre. on other days, robespierre retired early to his chamber, lay down, and rose again at night to work. the innumerable discourses he had delivered in the two national assemblies, and to the jacobins; the articles written for his journal while he had one; the still more numerous manuscripts of speeches which he had prepared, but never delivered; the studied style, so remarkable; the indefatigable corrections marked with his pen upon the manuscripts--attest his watchings and his determination. "his only relaxations were solitary walks in imitation of his model, jean jacques rousseau. his sole companion in these perambulations was his great dog, which slept at his chamber-door, and always followed him when he went out. this colossal animal, well known in the district, was called brount. robespierre was much attached to him, and constantly played with him. occasionally, on a sunday, all the family left paris with robespierre; and the politician, once more the man, amused himself with the mother, the sisters, and the brother of eléonore in the wood of versailles or of issy." strange contradiction! the man who is thus described as so amiable, so gentle, so satisfied with the humble pleasures of an obscure family circle, went forth daily on a self-imposed mission of turbulence and terror. the two sisters. you sometimes find in the same family, children of the same parents, who in all respects present the most striking contrast. they not only seem to be of different parentage, but of different races; unlike in physical conformation, in complexion, in features, in temperament, and in moral and intellectual qualities. they are sometimes to be found diametrically opposed to each other in tastes, pursuits, habits, and sympathies, though brought up under the same parental eye, subject to the same circumstances and conditions, and educated by the same teachers. indeed, education does comparatively little toward the formation of character--that is to say, in the determination of the _individuality_ of character. it merely brings out, or _e-duces_ that character, the germs of which are born in us, and only want proper sunning, and warmth, and geniality, to bring them to maturity. you could scarcely have imagined that elizabeth and jane byfield were in any way related to each other. they had not a feature in common. the one was a brilliant beauty, the other was plain in the extreme. elizabeth had a dazzling complexion, bright, speaking eyes, an oval face, finely turned nose and chin, a mouth as pouting as if "a bee had stung it newly;" she was tall and lithe; taper, yet rounded--in short, she was a regular beauty, the belle of her neighborhood, pursued by admirers, besonneted by poetasters, serenaded by musical amateurs, toasted by spirit-loving old fogy bachelors, and last, but not least, she was the subject of many a tit-bit piece of scandal among her young lady rivals in the country-town of barkstone. as for her sister jane, with her demure, old-maidish air, her little dumpy, thick-set figure, her _retroussé_ nose, and dingy features, nobody bestowed a thought upon her. she had no rival, she was no one's competitor, she offended nobody's sense of individual prowess in grace or charms, by _her_ assumptions. not at all. "that horrid little fright, jane byfield," as some of her stylish acquaintances would speak of her, behind her back, stood in no young lady's way. she was very much of a house-bird, was jane. in the evenings, while her sister was dashing off some brilliant bravura in the drawing-room, jane would be seated in a corner, talking to some person older than herself--or, perhaps you might find her in the little back parlor, knitting or mending stockings. not that she was without a spice of fun in her; for, among children, she romped like one of themselves; indeed, she was a general favorite with those who were much younger as well as much older than herself. yet, among those of her own age, she never excited any admiration, except for her dutifulness--though that, you know, is a very dull sort of thing. certainly, she never excited any young lady's envy, or attracted any young gentleman's homage, like her more highly favored sister. indeed, by a kind of general consent, she was set down for "a regular old maid." i wish i could have told my readers that jane got married after all, and disappointed the prophetic utterances of her friends. i am sure that, notwithstanding her plainness, she would have made a thrifty manager and a thorough good housewife. but, as i am relating a true history, i can not thus indulge my readers. jane remained single; but her temper continued unruffled. as she did not expect, so she was not disappointed. she preserved her cheerfulness, continued to be useful, kept her heart warm and her head well stored--for she was a great reader--another of her "old-maidish" habits, though, fortunately, the practice of reading good books by young women is now ceasing to be "singular:" readers are now of the plural number, and every day adds to the list. but what of elizabeth--the beauty? oh, she got married--of course she did. the beautiful are always sought after, often when they have nothing but their beauty to recommend them. and, after all, we can not wonder at this. nature has so ordered it, that beauty of person must command admirers; and, where beauty of heart and beauty of intellect are joined together in the person of a beautiful woman, really nothing in nature can be more charming. and so elizabeth got married; and a "good match" she made, as the saying is, with a gentleman in extensive business, rather stylish, but prosperous--likely to get on in the world, and to accumulate a fortune. but the fortune was to make, and the business was speculative. those in business well know that it is not all gold that glitters. the married life of the "happy pair" commenced. first one, and then another "toddling wee thing" presented itself in the young mother's household, and the mother's cares and responsibilities multiplied. but, to tell the truth, elizabeth, though a beauty, was not a very good manager. she could sit at the head of her husband's table, and do the honors of the house to perfection. but look into her wardrobe, into her drawers, into her kitchen, and you would say at once, there was the want of the managing head, and the ready hand. a good housewife, like a good poet, is "born, not made"--_nascitur non fit_. it's true. there are some women whom no measure of drilling can convert into good housewives. they may lay down systems, cultivate domesticity, study tidying, spending, house-drilling, as an art, and yet they can not acquire it. to others it comes without effort, without consciousness, as a kind of second nature. they are "to the manner born." they don't know how it is themselves. yet their hand seems to shed abroad order, regularity, and peace, in the household. under their eye, and without any seeming effort on their part, every thing falls into its proper place, and every thing is done at its proper time. elizabeth did not know how it was; yet, somehow, she could not get servants like any body else (how often imperfect management is set down to account of "bad servants!"); she could not get things to go smoothly; there was always something "getting across;" the house got out of order; dinners were not ready at the right time, and then the husband grew querulous; somehow, the rooms could not be kept very tidy, for the mistress of the household having her hands full of children, of course she "could not attend to every thing;" and, in short, poor elizabeth's household was fast getting into a state of muddle. now, husbands don't like this state of things, and so, the result of it was, that elizabeth's husband, though not a bad-natured man, sometimes grew cross and complaining, and the beautiful wife found that her husband had "a temper"--as who has not? and about the same time, the husband found that his wife was "no manager," notwithstanding her good looks. though his wife studied economy, yet he discovered that, somehow, she got through a deal of money, and yet there was little comfort got in exchange for it. things were evidently in a bad way, and going wrong entirely. what might have been the end, who knows? but, happily, at this juncture, aunt jane, the children's pet, the "little droll old maid," appeared on the stage; and though sisters are not supposed to be of good omen in other sisters' houses, certainly it must be admitted that, in this case, the "old maid" at once worked a wonderful charm. the quiet creature, in a few weeks, put quite a new feature on the face of affairs. under her eye, things seemed at once to fall into their proper places--without the slightest "ordering," or bustling, or noise, or palaver. elizabeth could not make out how it was, but sure enough jane "had _such_ a way with her," and always had. the positions of the sisters seemed now to be reversed. jane was looked up to by her sister, who no longer assumed those airs of superiority, which, in the pride of her beauty and attractiveness, had come so natural to her. elizabeth had ceased to be competed for by rival admirers; and she now discovered that the fleeting charms of her once beautiful person could not atone for the want of those more solid qualities which are indispensable in the house and the home. what made jane's presence more valuable at this juncture was, that illness had come into the household, and, worst of all, it had seized upon the head of the family. this is always a serious calamity in any case; but in this case the consequences threatened to be more serious than usual. an extensive business was interrupted; large transactions, which only the head of the concern himself, could adequately attend to, produced embarrassments, the anxiety connected with which impeded a cure. all the resources of medicine were applied; all the comfort, warmth, silence, and attention that careful nursing could administer, were tried; and tried in vain. the husband of elizabeth died, and her children were fatherless; but the fatherless are not forsaken--they are the care of god. now it was that the noble nature of aunt jane came grandly into view. her sister was stricken down--swallowed up in grief. life, for her, had lost its charm. the world was as if left without its sun. she was utterly overwhelmed. even the faces of her children served only to awaken her to a quicker sense of misery. but aunt jane's energies were only awakened to renewed life and vigor. to these orphans she was now both father and mother in one. what woman can interfere in _business_ matters without risk of censure? but jane interfered: she exerted herself to wind up the affairs of the deceased; and she did so; she succeeded! there was but little left; only enough to live upon, and that meanly. every thing was sold off--the grand house was broken up--and the family subsided into the ranks of the genteel poor. elizabeth could not bear up under such a succession of shocks. she was not querulous, but her sorrows were too much for her, and she fed upon them--she petted them, and they became her masters. a few years passed, and the broken-down woman was laid in the same grave with her husband. but jane's courage never flagged. the gentle, dear, good creature, now advancing into years, looked all manner of difficulties courageously in the face; and she overcame them. they fled before her resolution. alone she bore the burden of that family of sons and daughters not her own, but as dear to her now as if they were. what scheming and thought she daily exercised to make the ends meet--to give to each of them alike such an amount of school education as would enable them "to make their way in the world," as she used to say--can not be described. it would take a long chapter to detail the patient industry, the frugal care, the motherly help, and the watchful up-bringing with which she tended the helpless orphans. but her arduous labors were all more than repaid in the end. it was my privilege to know this noble woman. i used occasionally to join the little family circle in an evening, round their crackling fire, and contribute my quota of wonderful stories to the listening group. aunt jane herself, was a capital story-teller; and it was her wont thus, of an evening, to entertain the youngsters after the chief part of the day's work was done. she would tell the boys--john and edward--of those self-helping and perseverant great men who had climbed the difficult steeps of the world, and elevated themselves to the loftiest stations by their own energy, industry, and self-denial. the great and the good were her heroes, and she labored to form those young minds about her after the best and noblest models which biographic annals could furnish. "without goodness," she would say--and her bright, speaking looks (plain though her features were), with her animated and glowing expression, on such occasions, made the lessons root themselves firmly in their young minds and hearts--"without goodness, my dear children, greatness is naught--mere gilding and lacker; goodness is the real jewel in the casket; so never forget to make that your end and aim." i, too, used to contribute my share toward those delightful evenings' entertainments, and aunt jane would draw me on to tell the group of the adventures and life of our royal alfred--of his struggles, his valor, his goodness, and his greatness; of the old contests of the danes and the saxons; of harold, the last of the saxon kings; of william the norman, and the troublous times which followed the conquest; and of the valorous life of our forefathers, out of which the living english character, habits, and institutions had at length been formed. and oftentimes the shadow would flit across those young faces, by the fire's light, when they were told of perilous adventures on the lone sea; of shipwrecked and cast-away sailors; of the escape of drake, and the adventures of cook, and of that never-ending source of wonderment and interest--the life and wanderings of robinson crusoe. and there was merriment and fun, too, mixed with the marvelous and the imaginative--stories of giants, and fairies, and sleeping beauties--at which their eyes would glance brightly in the beams of the glowing fire. then, first one little face, and then another, would grow heavy and listless, and their little heads begin to nod; at which the aunt would hear, one by one, their little petitions to their "father which art in heaven," and with a soft kiss and murmured blessing, would then lay them in their little cribs, draw the curtains, and leave them to sleep. but, as for the good aunt, bless you, nearly half of her work was yet to do! there she would sit, far on into the night, till her eyes were red and her cheeks feverish, with her weary white seam in her hand; or, at another time, she would be mending, patching, and eking out the clothes of the children just put to bed--for their wardrobe was scanty, and often very far gone. yes! poor thing! she was ready to work her fingers to the bone for these dear fatherless young ones, breathing so softly in the next room, and whose muttered dreams would now and then disturb the deep stillness of the night; when she would listen, utter a heartfelt "bless them," and then go on with her work again. the presence of those children seemed only to remind her of the need of more toil for their sakes. for them did aunt jane work by day, and work by night; for them did she ply the brilliant needle, which, save in those gloaming hours by the fireside, was scarcely ever out of her hand. sorrowful needle! what eyes have followed thee, strained themselves at thee, wept over thee! and what sorrow yet hangs about the glittering, polished, silver-eyed needle! what lives hang upon it! what toil and night-watching, what laughter and tears, what gossip and misery, what racking pains and weary moanings has it not witnessed! and, would you know the poetry it has inspired--then read poor hood's terrible wail of "the song of the shirt!" the friend of the needy, the tool of the industrious, the helper of the starving, the companion of the desolate; such is that weakest of human instruments--the needle! it was all these to our aunt jane! i can not tell you the life-long endurance and courage of that woman; how she devoted herself to the cherishment and domestic training of the girls, and the intellectual and industrial education of the boys, and the correct moral culture of all the members of her "little family," as she styled them. efforts such as hers are _never_ without their reward, even in this world; and of her better and higher reward, surely aunt jane might well feel assured. her children did credit to her. years passed, and one by one they grew up toward maturity. the character of the aunt proved the best recommendation for the youths. the boys got placed out at business--one in a lawyer's office, the second in a warehouse. i do not specify further particulars; for the boys are now men, well-known in the world; respected, admired, and prosperous. one of them is a barrister of the highest distinction in his profession, and it has been said of him, that he has the heart of a woman, and the courage of a lion. the other is a well-known merchant, and he is cited as a model of integrity among his class. the girls have grown into women, and are all married. with one of these aunt jane now enjoys, in quiet and ease, the well-earned comforts and independence of a green old age. about her knees now clamber a new generation--the children of her "boys and girls." need i tell you how that dear old woman is revered! how her patient toils are remembered and honored! how her nephews attribute all their successes in life to her, to her noble example, to her tender care, to her patient and long-suffering exertions on their behalf. never was aunt so honored--so beloved! she declares they will "spoil her"--a thing she is not used to; and she often beseeches them to have done with their acknowledgments of gratitude. but she is never wearied of hearing them recall to memory those happy hours, by the evening's fire-light, in the humble cottage in which i was so often a sharer; and then her eye glistens, and a large tear of thankfulness droops upon the lower lid, which she wipes off as of old, and the same heartfelt benison of "bless them," mutters on her quivering lips. i should like, some day, to indulge myself in telling a long story about that dear aunt jane's experiences; but i am growing old and a little maudlin myself, and after all, her life and its results are best told in the character and the history of the children she has so faithfully nurtured and educated. ventriloquism. the art and practice of ventriloquism, has of late years exhibited so much improvement that it deserves and will reward a little judicious attention directed toward its all but miraculous phenomena, and the causes and conditions of their astonishing display. the art is of ancient date, the peculiarity of the vocal organs in which it originates, like other types of genius or aptitude, having been at intervals repeated. references in scripture to "the familiar spirits that peep and mutter" are numerous. in the early christian church the practice also was known, and a treatise was written on it by eustathius, archbishop of antioch, in greek. the main argument of the book is the evocation of the ghost of samuel. by the mosaic law the hebrews were prohibited from consulting those who had familiar spirits. by one of such it is stated that the witch of endor divined, or perhaps that she was possessed by it; for the hebrew _ob_ designates both those persons in whom there is a familiar spirit, as well as those who divined by them. the plural _oboth_ corresponds with the word ventriloquism. in the septuagint, it is associated with gastromancy--a mode of ancient divination, wherein the diviner replied without moving his lips, so that the consulter believed he actually heard the voice of a spirit; from which circumstance, many theologians have doubted whether samuel's ghost really appeared, or rather whether the whole were not a ventriloquial imposition on the superstitious credulity of saul. we may see in this unfortunate monarch and his successor the distinction between true religion and false superstition; and, indeed, in the poets and prophets generally of the israelites, who continually testify against the latter in all its forms. to them, to the greeks, the egyptians, and the assyrians, ventriloquism was evidently well known. by reference to leviticus, we shall find, as we have said, the law forbids the hebrews to consult those having familiar spirits. the prophet isaiah also draws an illustration from the kind of voice heard in a case of divination. "thou shalt be brought down, shalt speak out of the ground, and thy speech shall be low out of the dust; thy voice shall be as one that hath a familiar spirit out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust." it is curious that the mormons quote this text as prophetic of the discovery of their sacred book. in the acts, paul is described as depriving a young woman of a familiar spirit, in the city of philippi in macedonia;--she is announced as "a certain damsel possessed with a spirit of divination, which brought her master much gain by sooth-saying." there is also that well-known tale in plutarch, which is so impressive even to this day on the christian imagination--the story we mean, of epitherses, who, having embarked for italy in the reign of tiberius cæsar, suddenly heard a voice from the shore, while becalmed one evening before the paxe--two small islands in the ionian sea, which lie between corcyra and leucadia; such voice addressing thamus, a pilot, and an egyptian by birth, who refused to answer till he received the third summons, whereupon it said, "when thou art come to the palodes, proclaim aloud that the great pan is dead!" it is added, that "the passengers were all amazed; but their amazement gave place to the most alarming emotions, when, on arriving at the specified place, thamus stood in the stern of the vessel, and proclaimed what he had been commanded to announce." st. chrysostom and the early fathers mention divination by a familiar spirit as practiced in their day; and the practice is still common in the east; as it is also among the esquimaux. as to the treatise of eustathius, the good bishop's notion was that the witch of endor was really possessed of a demon; whose deception the vision was, being produced by supernatural agency, not, as cited in the septuagint, by engastrimism, or ventriloquy. in the nineteenth century, we are told by sir david brewster, that ventriloquists made great additions to their art. the performances, he says, of fitzjames and alexandré were far superior to those of their predecessors. "besides the art of speaking by the muscles of the throat and the abdomen, without moving those of the face, these artists had not only studied, with great diligence and success, the modifications which sounds of all kinds undergo from distance, obstructions, and other causes, but had acquired the art of imitating them in the highest perfection. the ventriloquist was therefore able to carry on a dialogue in which the _dramatis voces_, as they may be called, were numerous; and, when on the outside of an apartment, could personate a mob with its infinite variety of noise and vociferation. their influence over the minds of an audience was still further extended by a singular power which they had obtained over the muscles of the body. fitzjames actually succeeded in making the opposite or corresponding muscles act differently from each other; and while one side of his face was merry and laughing, the other side was full of sorrow and tears. at one time, he was tall, and thin, and melancholy, and after passing behind a screen, he came out bloated with obesity and staggering with fullness. m. alexandré possessed the same power over his face and figure, and so striking was the contrast between two of these forms, that an excellent sculptor (m. joseph) has perpetuated them in marble. this new acquirement of the ventriloquist of the nineteenth century, enabled him in his own single person, and with his own single voice, to represent a dramatic composition which would formerly have required the assistance of several actors. although only one character in the piece could be seen at the same time, yet they all appeared during its performance; and the change of face and figure on the part of the ventriloquist was so perfect that his personal identity could not be recognized in the _dramatis personæ_. this deception was rendered still more complete by a particular construction of the costumes, which enabled the performer to appear in a new character, after an interval so short that the audience necessarily believed that it was another person." some amusing anecdotes may be gathered, illustrative of ventriloquism. one m. st. gille, a ventriloquist of france, had once occasion to shelter himself from a sudden storm in a monastery in the neighborhood of avranche. the monks were at the time in deep sorrow for the loss of an esteemed member of their fraternity, whom they had recently buried. while lamenting over the tomb of their departed brother the slight honors which had been paid to his memory, a mysterious voice was heard to issue from the vaults of the church, bewailing the condition of the deceased in purgatory, and reproving the monks in melancholy tones for their want of zeal and reverence for departed worth. tidings of the event flew abroad; and quickly brought the inhabitants to the spot. the miraculous speaker still renewed his lamentations and reproaches; whereupon the monks fell on their faces, and vowed to repair their neglect. they then chanted a _de profundis_, and at intervals the ghostly voice of the deceased friar expressed his satisfaction. one louis brabant turned his ventriloquial talent to profitable account. rejected by the parents of an heiress as an unsuitable match for their daughter, louis, on the death of the father, paid a visit to the widow, during which the voice of her deceased husband was all at once heard thus to address her: "give my daughter in marriage to louis brabant:--he is a man of fortune and character, and i endure the pains of purgatory for having refused her to him. obey this admonition, and give repose to the soul of your departed husband." of course, the widow complied; but brabant's difficulties were not yet all overcome. he wanted money to defray the wedding expenses, and resolved to work on the fears of an old usurer, a m. cornu, of lyons. having obtained an evening interview, he contrived to turn the conversation on departed spirits and ghosts. during an interval of silence, the voice of the miser's deceased father was heard, complaining of his situation in purgatory, and calling loudly upon his son to rescue him from his sufferings, by enabling brabant to redeem the christians at that time enslaved by the turks. not succeeding on the first occasion, brabant was compelled to make a second visit to the miser, when he took care to enlist not only his father but all his deceased relations in the appeal; and in this way he obtained a thousand crowns. there have been few female ventriloquists. effects produced by the female organs of speech have always manifested a deficiency of power. the artificial voices have been few in number, and those imperfectly defined. a woman at amsterdam possessed considerable powers in this way. conrad amman, a dutch doctor in medicine, who published a latin treatise at amsterdam in , observes of her, that the effects she exhibited were produced by a sort of swallowing of the words, or forcing them to retrograde, as it were, by the trachea, by speaking during the inspiration of the breath, and not, as in ordinary speech, during expiration. the same writer notices also the performances of the famous casimir schreckenstein. different professors of ventriloquism have given different accounts of the manner in which they succeeded in producing their illusions. baron mengen, one of the household of prince lichtenstein, at vienna, said that it consisted in a passion for counterfeiting the cries of animals and the voices of different persons. m. st. gille referred his art to mimicry; and the french academy, combining these views, defines the art as consisting in an accurate imitation of any given sound as it reaches the ear. scientific solutions are various. mr. nicholson thought that artists in this line, by continual practice from childhood, acquire the power of speaking during inspiration with the same articulation as the ordinary voice, which is formed by expiration. m. richerand declares that every time a professor exhibits his vocal peculiarities, he suffers distension in the epigastric region; and supposes that the mechanism of the art consists in a slow, gradual expiration, drawn in such a way, that the artist either makes use of the influence exerted by volition over the parietes of the thorax, or that he keeps the epiglottis down by the base of the tongue, the apex of which is not carried beyond the dental arches. he observes, that ventriloquists possess the power of making an exceedingly strong inspiration just before the long expiration, and thus convey into the lungs an immense quantity of air, by the artistical management of the egress of which they produce such astonishing effects upon the hearing and imagination of their auditors. the theory propounded by mr. gough in the "manchester memoir," on the principle of reverberated sound, is untenable, because ventriloquism on that theory would be impossible in a crowded theatre, which admits not of the predicated echoes. mr. love, in his account of himself, asserts a natural aptitude, a physical predisposition of the vocal organs; which, in his case, discovered itself as early as the age of ten, and gradually improved with practice, without any artistic study whatever. he states that not only his pure ventriloquisms, but nearly all his lighter vocal imitations of miscellaneous sounds, were executed in the first instance on the spur of the moment, and without any pre-meditation. the artist must evidently possess great flexibility of larynx and tongue. polyphony, according to our modern professor, is produced by compression of the muscles of the chest, and is an act entirely different from any species of vocal deception or modulation. there is no method, he tells us, of manufacturing true ventriloquists. nature must have commenced the operation, by placing at the artist's disposal a certain quality of voice adapted for the purpose, as the raw material to work upon. it is like a fine ear or voice for singing--the gift of nature. it follows, therefore, that an expert polyphonist must be as rare a personage as any other man of genius in any particular art. the incendiary. from the reminiscences of an attorney. i knew james dutton, as i shall call him, at an early period of life, when my present scanty locks of iron-gray were thick and dark, my now pale and furrowed cheeks were fresh and ruddy, like his own. time, circumstance, and natural bent of mind, have done their work on both of us; and if his course of life has been less equable than mine, it has been chiefly so because the original impulse, the first start on the great journey, upon which so much depends, was directed by wiser heads in my case than in his. we were school-fellows for a considerable time; and if i acquired--as i certainly did--a larger stock of knowledge than he, it was by no means from any superior capacity on my part, but that his mind was bent on other pursuits. he was a born nimrod, and his father encouraged this propensity from the earliest moment that his darling and only son could sit a pony or handle a light fowling-piece. dutton, senior, was one of a then large class of persons, whom cobbett used to call bull-frog farmers; men who, finding themselves daily increasing in wealth by the operation of circumstances, they neither created nor could insure or control--namely, a rapidly increasing manufacturing population, and tremendous war-prices for their produce--acted as if the chance-blown prosperity they enjoyed was the result of their own forethought, skill, and energy, and therefore, humanly speaking, indestructible. james dutton was, consequently, denied nothing--not even the luxury of neglecting his own education; and he availed himself of the lamentable privilege to a great extent. it was, however, a remarkable feature in the lad's character, that whatever he himself deemed essential should be done, no amount of indulgence, no love of sport or dissipation, could divert him from thoroughly accomplishing. thus he saw clearly, that even in the life--that of a sportsman-farmer he had chalked out for himself, it was indispensably necessary that a certain quantum of educational power should be attained; and so he really acquired a knowledge of reading, writing, and spelling, and then withdrew from school to more congenial avocations. i frequently met james dutton in after-years; but some nine or ten months had passed since i had last seen him, when i was directed by the chief partner in the firm to which flint and i subsequently succeeded, to take coach for romford, essex, in order to ascertain from a witness there what kind of evidence we might expect him to give in a trial to come off in the then hilary term at westminster hall. it was the first week in january: the weather was bitterly cold; and i experienced an intense satisfaction when, after dispatching the business i had come upon, i found myself in the long dining-room of the chief market-inn, where two blazing fires shed a ruddy, cheerful light over the snow-white damask table-cloth, bright glasses, decanters, and other preparatives for the farmers' market-dinner. prices had ruled high that day; wheat had reached £ a load; and the numerous groups of hearty, stalwart yeomen present were in high glee, crowing and exulting alike over their full pockets and the news--of which the papers were just then full--of the burning of moscow, and the flight and ruin of bonaparte's army. james dutton was in the room, but not, i observed, in his usual flow of animal spirits. the crape round his hat might, i thought, account for that, and as he did not see me, i accosted him with an inquiry after his health, and the reason of his being in mourning. he received me very cordially, and in an instant cast off the abstracted manner i had noticed. his father, he informed me, was gone--had died about seven months previously, and he was alone now at ash farm--why didn't i run down there to see him sometimes, &c.? our conversation was interrupted by a summons to dinner, very cheerfully complied with; and we both--at least i can answer for myself--did ample justice to a more than usually capital dinner, even in those capital old market-dinner times. we were very jolly afterward, and amazingly triumphant over the frost-bitten, snow-buried soldier-banditti that had so long lorded it over continental europe. dutton did not partake of the general hilarity. there was a sneer upon his lip during the whole time, which, however, found no expression in words. "how quiet you are, james dutton!" cried a loud voice from out the dense smoke-cloud that by this time completely enveloped us. on looking toward the spot from whence the ringing tones came, a jolly, round face--like the sun as seen through a london fog--gleamed redly dull from out the thick and choking atmosphere. "every body," rejoined dutton, "hasn't had the luck to sell two hundred quarters of wheat at to-day's price, as you have, tom southall." "that's true, my boy," returned master southall, sending, in the plentitude of his satisfaction, a jet of smoke toward us with astonishing force. "and, i say, jem, i'll tell 'ee what i'll do; i'll clap on ten guineas more upon what i offered for the brown mare." "done! she's yours, tom, then, for ninety guineas!" "gie's your hand upon it!" cried tom southall, jumping up from his chair, and stretching a fist as big as a leg of mutton--well, say lamb--over the table. "and here--here," he added, with an exultant chuckle, as he extricated a swollen canvas-bag from his pocket--"here's the dibs at once." this transaction excited a great deal of surprise at our part of the table; and dutton was rigorously cross-questioned as to his reason for parting with his favorite hunting mare. "the truth is, friends," said dutton at last, "i mean to give up farming, and--" "gie up farmin'!" broke in half-a-dozen voices. "lord!" "yes; i don't like it. i shall buy a commission in the army. there'll be a chance against boney, now; and it's a life i'm fit for." the farmers looked completely agape at this announcement; but making nothing of it, after silently staring at dutton and each other, with their pipes in their hands and not in their mouths, till they had gone out, stretched their heads simultaneously across the table toward the candles, relit their pipes, and smoked on as before. "then, perhaps, mr. dutton," said a young man in a smartly-cut velveteen coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, who had hastily left his seat farther down the table--"perhaps you will sell the double manton, and fanny and slut?" "yes; at a price." prices were named; i forget now the exact sums, but enormous prices, i thought, for the gun and the dogs, fanny and slut. the bargain was eagerly concluded, and the money paid at once. possibly the buyer had a vague notion, that a portion of the vender's skill might come to him with his purchases. "you be in 'arnest, then, in this fool's business, james dutton," observed a farmer, gravely. "i be sorry for thee; but as i s'pose the lease of ash farm will be parted with; why--john, waiter, tell master hurst at the top of the table yonder, to come this way." master hurst, a well-to-do, highly respectable-looking, and rather elderly man, came in obedience to the summons, and after a few words in an under-tone with the friend that had sent for him, said, "is this true, james dutton?" "it is true that the lease and stock of ash farm are to be sold--at a price. you, i believe, are in want of such a concern for the young couple just married." "well, i don't say i might not be a customer, if the price were reasonable." "let us step into a private room, then," said dutton, rising. "this is not a place for business of that kind. sharp," he added, _sotto voce_, "come with us; i may want you." i had listened to all this with a kind of stupid wonderment, and i now, mechanically, as it were, got up and accompanied the party to another room. the matter was soon settled. five hundred pounds for the lease--ten years unexpired--of ash farm, about eleven hundred acres, and the stock and implements; the plowing, sowing, &c., already performed, to be paid for at a valuation based on present prices. i drew out the agreement in form, it was signed in duplicate, a large sum was paid down as deposit, and mr. hurst with his friend withdrew. "well," i said, taking a glass of port from a bottle dutton had just ordered in--"here's fortune in your new career; but, as i am a living man, i can't understand what you can be thinking about." "you haven't read the newspapers?" "o yes, i have! victory! glory! march to paris! and all that sort of thing. very fine, i dare say; but rubbish, moonshine, i call it, if purchased by the abandonment of the useful, comfortable, joyous life of a prosperous yeoman." "is that all you have seen in the papers?" "not much else. what, besides, have you found in them?" "wheat, at ten or eleven pounds a load--less perhaps--other produce in proportion." "ha!" "i see farther, sharp, than you bookmen do, in some matters. boney's done for; that to me is quite plain, and earlier than i thought likely; although i, of course, as well as every other man with a head instead of a turnip on his shoulders, knew such a raw-head-and-bloody-bones as that must sooner or later come to the dogs. and as i also know what agricultural prices were _before_ the war, i can calculate without the aid of vulgar fractions, which, by-the-by, i never reached, what they'll be when it's over, and the thundering expenditure now going on is stopped. in two or three weeks, people generally will get a dim notion of all this; and i sell, therefore, while i can, at top prices." the shrewdness of the calculation struck me at once. "you will take another farm when one can be had on easier terms than now, i suppose?" "yes; if i can manage it. and i _will_ manage it. between ourselves, after all the old man's debts are paid, i shall only have about nine or ten hundred pounds to the good, even by selling at the present tremendous rates; so it was time, you see, i pulled up, and rubbed the fog out of my eyes a bit. and hark ye, master sharp!" he added, as we rose and shook hands with each other--"i have now done _playing_ with the world--it's a place of work and business; and i'll do my share of it so effectually, that my children, if i have any, shall, if i do not, reach the class of landed gentry; and this you'll find, for all your sneering, will come about all the more easily that neither they nor their father will be encumbered with much educational lumber. good-by." i did not again see my old school-fellow till the change he had predicted had thoroughly come to pass. farms were every where to let, and a general cry to parliament for aid rang through the land. dutton called at the office upon business, accompanied by a young woman of remarkable personal comeliness, but, as a very few sentences betrayed, little or no education in the conventional sense of the word. she was the daughter of a farmer, whom--it was no fault of hers--a change of times had not found in a better condition for weathering them.--anne mosley, in fact, was a thoroughly industrious, clever farm economist. the instant dutton had secured an eligible farm, at his own price and conditions, he married her; and now, on the third day after the wedding, he had brought me the draft of his lease for examination. "you are not afraid, then," i remarked, "of taking a farm in these bad times?" "not i--at a price. we mean to _rough_ it, mr. sharp," he added gayly. "and, let me tell you, that those who will stoop to do that--i mean, take their coats off, tuck up their sleeves, and fling appearances to the winds--may, and will, if they understand their business, and have got their heads screwed on right, do better here than in any of the uncleared countries they talk so much about. you know what i told you down at romford. well, we'll manage that before our hair is gray, depend upon it, bad as the times may be--won't we, nance?" "we'll try, jem," was the smiling response. they left the draft for examination. it was found to be correctly drawn. two or three days afterward, the deeds were executed, and james dutton was placed in possession. the farm, a capital one, was in essex. his hopes were fully realized as to money-making, at all events. he and his wife rose early, sat up late, ate the bread of carefulness, and altogether displayed such persevering energy, that only about six or seven years had passed before the duttons were accounted a rich and prosperous family. they had one child only--a daughter. the mother, mrs. dutton, died when this child was about twelve years of age; and anne dutton became more than ever the apple of her father's eye. the business of the farm went steadily on in its accustomed track; each succeeding year found james dutton growing in wealth and importance; and his daughter in sparkling, catching comeliness--although certainly not in the refinement of manner which gives a quickening life and grace to personal symmetry and beauty. james dutton remained firm in his theory of the worthlessness of education beyond what, in a narrow acceptation of the term, was absolutely "necessary;" and anne dutton, although now heiress to very considerable wealth, knew only how to read, write, spell, cast accounts, and superintend the home-business of the farm. i saw a great deal of the duttons about this time, my brother-in-law, elsworthy and his wife having taken up their abode within about half a mile of james dutton's dwelling-house; and i ventured once or twice to remonstrate with the prosperous farmer upon the positive danger, with reference to his ambitious views, of not at least so far cultivating the intellect and taste of so attractive a maiden as his daughter, that sympathy on her part with the rude, unlettered clowns, with whom she necessarily came so much in contact, should be impossible. he laughed my hints to scorn. "it is idleness--idleness alone," he said, "that puts love-fancies into girls' heads. novel-reading, jingling at a piano-forte--merely other names for idleness--these are the parents of such follies. anne dutton, as mistress of this establishment, has her time fully and usefully occupied; and when the time comes, not far distant now, to establish her in marriage, she will wed into a family i wot of; and the romford prophecy of which you remind me will be realized, in great part at least." he found, too late, his error. he hastily entered the office one morning, and although it was only five or six weeks since i had last seen him, the change in his then florid, prideful features was so striking and painful, as to cause me to fairly leap upon my feet with surprise. "good heavens, dutton!" i exclaimed, "what is the matter? what has happened?" "nothing has happened, mr. sharp," he replied, "but what you predicted, and which, had i not been the most conceited dolt in existence, i too, must have foreseen. you know that good-looking, idle, and, i fear, irreclaimable young fellow, george hamblin?" "i have seen him once or twice. has he not brought his father to the verge of a work-house by low dissipation and extravagance?" "yes. well, he is an accepted suitor for anne dutton's hand. no wonder that you start. she fancies herself hopelessly in love with him--nay, sharp, hear me out. i have tried expostulation, threats, entreaties, locking her up; but it's useless. i shall kill the silly fool if i persist, and i have at length consented to the marriage; for i can not see her die." i began remonstrating upon the folly of yielding consent to so ruinous a marriage, on account of a few tears and hysterics, but dutton stopped me peremptorily. "it is useless talking," he said. "the die is cast; i have given my word. you would hardly recognize her, she is so altered. i did not know before," added the strong, stern man, with trembling voice and glistening eyes, "that she was so inextricably twined about my heart--my life!" it is difficult to estimate the bitterness of such a disappointment to a proud, aspiring man like dutton. i pitied him sincerely, mistaken, if not blameworthy, as he had been. "i have only myself to blame," he presently resumed. "a girl of cultivated taste and mind could not have bestowed a second thought on george hamblin. but let's to business. i wish the marriage-settlement, and my will, to be so drawn, that every farthing received from me during my life, and after my death, shall be hers, and hers only; and so strictly and entirely secured, that she shall be without power to yield control over the slightest portion of it, should she be so minded." i took down his instructions, and the necessary deeds were drawn in accordance with them. when the day for signing arrived, the bridegroom-elect demurred at first to the stringency of the provisions of the marriage-contract; but as upon this point, mr. dutton was found to be inflexible, the handsome, illiterate clown--he was little better--gave up his scruples, the more readily as a life of assured idleness lay before him, from the virtual control he was sure to have over his wife's income. these were the thoughts which passed across his mind, i was quite sure, as taking the pen awkwardly in his hand, he affixed _his mark_ to the marriage-deed. i reddened with shame, and the smothered groan which at the moment smote faintly on my ear, again brokenly confessed the miserable folly of the father in not having placed his beautiful child beyond all possibility of mental contact or communion with such a person. the marriage was shortly afterward solemnized, but i did not wait to witness the ceremony. the husband's promised good-behavior did not long endure; ere two months of wedded life were past, he had fallen again into his old habits; and the wife, bitterly repentant of her folly, was fain to confess, that nothing but dread of her father's vengeance saved her from positive ill usage. it was altogether a wretched, unfortunate affair; and the intelligence--sad in itself--which reached me about a twelvemonth after the marriage, that the young mother had died in childbirth of her first-born, a girl, appeared to me rather a matter of rejoicing than of sorrow or regret. the shock to poor dutton was, i understood, overwhelming for a time, and fears were entertained for his intellects. he recovered, however, and took charge of his grandchild, the father very willingly resigning the onerous burden. my brother-in-law left james dutton's neighborhood for a distant part of the country about this period, and i saw nothing of the bereaved father for about five years, save only at two business interviews. the business upon which i had seen him, was the alteration of his will, by which all he might die possessed of was bequeathed to his darling annie. his health, i was glad to find, was quite restored; and although now fifty years of age, the bright light of his young days sparkled once more in his keen glance. his youth was, he said, renewed in little annie. he could even bear to speak, though still with remorseful emotion, of his own lost child. "no fear, sharp," he said, "that i make that terrible mistake again. annie will fall in love, please god, with no unlettered, soulless booby! her mind shall be elevated, beautiful, and pure as her person--she is the image of her mother--promises to be charming and attractive. you must come and see her." i promised to do so; and he went his way. at one of these interviews--the first it must have been--i made a chance inquiry for his son-in-law, hamblin. as the name passed my lips, a look of hate and rage flashed out of his burning eyes. i did not utter another word, nor did he; and we separated in silence. it was evening, and i was returning in a gig from a rather long journey into the country, when i called, in redemption of my promise, upon james dutton. annie was really, i found, an engaging pretty, blue-eyed, golden-haired child; and i was not so much surprised at her grandfather's doting fondness--a fondness entirely reciprocated, it seemed, by the little girl. it struck me, albeit, that it was a perilous thing for a man of dutton's vehement, fiery nature to stake again, as he evidently had done, his all of life and happiness upon one frail existence. an illustration of my thought or fear occurred just after we had finished tea. a knock was heard at the outer door, and presently a man's voice, in quarreling, drunken remonstrance with the servant who opened it. the same deadly scowl i had seen sweep over dutton's countenance upon the mention of hamblin's name, again gleamed darkly there; and finding, after a moment or two, that the intruder would not be denied, the master of the house gently removed annie from his knee, and strode out of the room. "follow grandpapa," whispered mrs. rivers, a highly respectable widow of about forty years of age, whom mr. dutton had engaged at a high salary to superintend annie's education. the child went out, and mrs. rivers, addressing me, said in a low voice: "her presence will prevent violence; but it is a sad affair." she then informed me that hamblin, to whom mr. dutton allowed a hundred a year, having become aware of the grandfather's extreme fondness for annie, systematically worked that knowledge for his own sordid ends, and preluded every fresh attack upon mr. dutton's purse by a threat to reclaim the child. "it is not the money," remarked mrs. rivers in conclusion, "that mr. dutton cares so much for, but the thought that he holds annie by the sufferance of that wretched man, goads him at times almost to insanity." "would not the fellow waive his claim for a settled increase of his annuity?" "no; that has been offered to the extent of three hundred a year; but hamblin refuses, partly from the pleasure of keeping such a man as mr. dutton in his power, partly because he knows that the last shilling would be parted with rather than the child. it is a very unfortunate business, and i often fear will terminate badly." the loud but indistinct wrangling without ceased after a while, and i heard a key turn stiffly in a lock. "the usual conclusion of these scenes," said mrs. rivers. "another draft upon his strong-box will purchase mr. dutton a respite as long as the money lasts." i could hardly look at james dutton when he re-entered the room. there was that in his countenance which i do not like to read in the faces of my friends. he was silent for several minutes; at last he said quickly, sternly: "is there no instrument, mr. sharp, in all the enginery of law, that can defeat a worthless villain's legal claim to his child?" "none; except, perhaps, a commission of lunacy, or--" "tush! tush!" interrupted dutton; "the fellow has no wits to lose. that being so--but let us talk of something else." we did so, but on his part very incoherently, and i soon bade him good-night. this was december, and it was in february the following year that dutton again called at our place of business. there was a strange, stern, iron meaning in his face. "i am in a great hurry," he said, "and i have only called to say, that i shall be glad if you will run over to the farm to-morrow on a matter of business. you have seen, perhaps, in the paper, that my dwelling-house took fire the night before last. you have not? well, it is upon that i would consult you. will you come?" i agreed to do so, and he withdrew. the fire had not, i found, done much injury. it had commenced in a kind of miscellaneous store-room; but the origin of the fire appeared to me, as it did to the police-officers that had been summoned, perfectly unaccountable. "had it not been discovered in time, and extinguished," i observed to mrs. rivers, "you would all have been burned in your beds." "why, no," replied that lady, with some strangeness of manner. "on the night of the fire, annie and i slept at mr. elsworthy's" (i have omitted to notice, that my brother-in-law and family had returned to their old residence), "and mr. dutton remained in london, whither he had gone to see the play." "but the servants might have perished?" "no. a whim, apparently, has lately seized mr. dutton, that no servant or laborer shall sleep under the same roof with himself; and those new outhouses, where their bedrooms are placed, are, you see, completely detached, and are indeed, as regards this dwelling, made fire-proof." at this moment mr. dutton appeared, and interrupted our conversation. he took me aside. "well," he said, "to what conclusion have you come? the work of an incendiary, is it not? somebody too, that knows i am not insured--" "not insured!" "no; not for this dwelling-house. i did not renew the policy some months ago." "then," i jestingly remarked, "you, at all events, are safe from any accusation of having set fire to your premises with the intent to defraud the insurers." "to be sure--to be sure, i am," he rejoined with quick earnestness, as if taking my remark seriously. "that is quite certain. some one, i am pretty sure, it must be," he presently added, "that owes me a grudge--with whom i have quarreled, eh?" "it may be so, certainly." "it _must_ be so. and what, mr. sharp, is the highest penalty for the crime of incendiarism?" "by the recent change in the law, transportation only; unless, indeed, loss of human life occur in consequence of the felonious act; in which case, the english law construes the offense to be willful murder, although the incendiary may not have intended the death or injury of any person." "i see. but here there could have been no loss of life." "there might have been, had not you, mrs. rivers, and annie, chanced to sleep out of the house." "true--true--a diabolical villain, no doubt. but we'll ferret him out yet. you are a keen hand, mr. sharp, and will assist, i know. yes, yes--it's some fellow that hates me--that i perhaps hate and loathe--" he added with sudden gnashing fierceness, and striking his hand with furious violence on the table--"as i do a spotted toad!" i hardly recognized james dutton in this fitful, disjointed talk, and as there was really nothing to be done or to be inquired into, i soon went away. "only one week's interval," i hastily remarked to mr. flint, one morning after glancing at the newspaper, "and another fire at dutton's farm-house!" "the deuce! he is in the luck of it, apparently," replied flint, without looking up from his employment. my partner knew dutton only by sight. the following morning, i received a note from mrs. rivers. she wished to see me immediately on a matter of great importance. i hastened to mr. dutton's, and found, on arriving there, that george hamblin was in custody, and undergoing an examination, at no great distance off, before two county magistrates, on the charge of having fired mr. dutton's premises. the chief evidence was, that hamblin had been seen lurking about the place just before the flames broke out, and that near the window where an incendiary might have entered there were found portions of several lucifer matches, of a particular make, and corresponding to a number found in hamblin's bedroom. to this hamblin replied, that he had come to the house by mr. dutton's invitation, but found nobody there. this however, was vehemently denied by mr. dutton. he had made no appointment with hamblin to meet at his (dutton's) house. how should he, purposing as he did to be in london at the time? with respect to the lucifer matches, hamblin said he had purchased them of a mendicant, and that mr. dutton saw him do so. this also was denied. it was further proved, that hamblin, when in drink, had often said he would ruin dutton before he died. finally, the magistrates, though with some hesitation, decided that there was hardly sufficient evidence to warrant them in committing the prisoner for trial, and he was discharged, much to the rage and indignation of the prosecutor. subsequently, mrs. rivers and i had a long private conference. she and the child had again slept at elsworthy's on the night of the fire, and dutton in london. "his excuse is," said mrs. rivers, "that he can not permit us to sleep here unprotected by his presence." we both arrived at the same conclusion, and at last agreed upon what should be done--attempted rather--and that without delay. just before taking leave of mr. dutton, who was in an exceedingly excited state, i said: "by-the-by, dutton, you have promised to dine with me on some early day. let it be next tuesday. i shall have one or two bachelor friends, and we can give you a shake-down for the night." "next tuesday?" said he quickly. "at what hour do you dine?" "at six. not a half-moment later." "good! i will be with you." we then shook hands, and parted. the dinner would have been without interest to me, had not a note previously arrived from mrs. rivers, stating that she and annie were again to sleep that night at elsworthy's. this promised results. james dutton, who rode into town, was punctual, and, as always of late, flurried, excited, nervous--not, in fact, it appeared to me, precisely in his right mind. the dinner passed off as dinners usually do, and the after-proceedings went on very comfortably till about half-past nine o'clock, when dutton's perturbation, increased perhaps by the considerable quantity of wine he had swallowed, not drunk, became, it was apparent to every body, almost uncontrollable. he rose--purposeless it seemed--sat down again--drew out his watch almost every minute, and answered remarks addressed to him in the wildest manner. the decisive moment was, i saw, arrived, and at a gesture of mine, elsworthy, who was in my confidence, addressed dutton. "by the way, dutton, about mrs. rivers and annie. i forgot to tell you of it before." the restless man was on his feet in an instant, and glaring with fiery eagerness at the speaker. "what! what!" he cried with explosive quickness--"what about annie? death and fury!--speak! will you?" "don't alarm yourself, my good fellow. it's nothing of consequence. you brought annie and her governess, about an hour before i started, to sleep at our house--" "yes--yes," gasped dutton, white as death, and every fibre of his body shaking with terrible dread. "yes--well, well, go on. thunder and lightning! out with it, will you?" "unfortunately, two female cousins arrived soon after you went away, and i was obliged to escort annie and mrs. rivers home again." a wild shriek--yell is perhaps the more appropriate expression--burst from the conscience and fear-stricken man. another instant, and he had torn his watch from the fob, glanced at it with dilated eyes, dashed it on the table, and was rushing madly toward the door, vainly withstood by elsworthy, who feared we had gone too far. "out of the way!" screamed the madman. "let go, or i'll dash you to atoms!" suiting the action to the threat, he hurled my brother-in-law against the wall with stunning force, and rushed on, shouting incoherently: "my horse! there is time yet! tom edwards, my horse!" tom edwards was luckily at hand, and although mightily surprised at the sudden uproar, which he attributed to mr. dutton being in drink, mechanically assisted to saddle, bridle, and bring out the roan mare; and before i could reach the stables, dutton's foot was in the stirrup. i shouted "stop," as loudly as i could, but the excited horseman did not heed, perhaps not hear me: and away he went, at a tremendous speed, hatless, and his long gray-tinted hair streaming in the wind. it was absolutely necessary to follow. i therefore directed elsworthy's horse, a much swifter and more peaceful animal than dutton's, to be brought out; and as soon as i got into the high country road, i too dashed along at a rate much too headlong to be altogether pleasant. the evening was clear and bright, and i now and then caught a distant sight of dutton, who was going at a frantic pace across the country, and putting his horse at leaps that no man in his senses would have attempted. i kept the high-road, and we had thus ridden about half an hour perhaps, when a bright flame about a mile distant, as the crow flies, shot suddenly forth, strongly relieved against a mass of dark wood just beyond it. i knew it to be dutton's house, even without the confirmation given by the frenzied shout which at the same moment arose on my left hand. it was from dutton. his horse had been _staked_, in an effort to clear a high fence, and he was hurrying desperately along on foot. i tried to make him hear me, or to reach him, but found i could do neither: his own wild cries and imprecations drowned my voice, and there were impassable fences between the high-road and the fields across which he madly hasted. the flames were swift this time, and defied the efforts of the servants and husbandmen who had come to the rescue, to stay, much less to quell them. eagerly as i rode, dutton arrived before the blazing pile at nearly the same moment as myself, and even as he fiercely struggled with two or three men, who strove by main force to prevent him from rushing into the flames, only to meet with certain death, the roof and floors of the building fell in with a sudden crash. he believed that all was over with the child, and again hurling forth the wild despairing cry i had twice before heard that evening, he fell down, as if smitten by lightning, upon the hard, frosty road. it was many days ere the unhappy, sinful man recovered his senses, many weeks before he was restored to his accustomed health. very cautiously had the intelligence been communicated to him, that annie had not met the terrible fate, the image of which had incessantly pursued him through his fevered dreams. he was a deeply grateful, and, i believe, a penitent and altogether changed man. he purchased, through my agency, a valuable farm in a distant county, in order to be out of the way, not only of hamblin, on whom he settled two hundred a year, but of others, myself included, who knew or suspected him of the foul intention he had conceived against his son-in-law, and which, but for mrs. rivers, would, on the last occasion, have been in all probability successful, so cunningly had the evidence of circumstances been devised. "i have been," said james dutton to me at the last interview i had with him, "all my life an overweening, self-confident fool. at romford, i boasted to you that my children should ally themselves with the landed gentry of the country, and see the result! the future, please god, shall find me in my duty--mindful only of that, and content, while so acting, with whatever shall befall me or mine." dutton continues to prosper in the world; hamblin died several years ago of delirium tremens; and annie, i hear, _will_ in all probability marry into the squirearchy of the country. all this is not perhaps what is called poetical justice, but my experience has been with the actual, not the ideal world. bleak house.[ ] by charles dickens. chapter xiv.--deportment richard left us on the very next evening, to begin his new career, and committed ada to my charge with great love for her, and great trust in me. it touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now, more nearly, to remember (having what i have to tell) how they both thought of me, even at that engrossing time. i was a part of all their plans, for the present and the future. i was to write to richard once a week, making my faithful report of ada, who was to write to him every alternate day. i was to be informed, under his own hand, of all his labors and successes; i was to observe how resolute and persevering he would be; i was to be ada's bridesmaid when they were married; i was to live with them afterward; i was to keep all the keys of their house; i was to be made happy forever and a day. "and if the suit _should_ make us rich, esther--which it may, you know!" said richard, to crown all. a shade crossed ada's face. "my dearest ada," asked richard, pausing, "why not?" "it had better declare us poor at once," said ada. "o! i don't know about that," returned richard; "but at all events, it won't declare any thing at once. it hasn't declared any thing in heaven knows how many years." "too true," said ada. "yes, but," urged richard, answering what her look suggested rather than her words, "the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it must be to a settlement one way or other. now, is not that reasonable?" "you know best, richard. but i am afraid if we trust to it, it will make us unhappy." "but, my ada, we are not going to trust to it!" cried richard, gayly. "we know it better than to trust to it. we only say that if it _should_ make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich. the court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian, and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives us any thing) is our right. it is not necessary to quarrel with our right." "no," said ada, "but it may be better to forget all about it." "well, well!" cried richard, "then we will forget all about it! we consign the whole thing to oblivion. dame durden puts on her approving face, and it's done!" "dame durden's approving face," said i, looking out of the box in which i was packing his books, "was not very visible when you called it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can't do better." so, richard said there was an end of it--and immediately began, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would man the great wall of china. he went away in high spirits. ada and i, prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career. on our arrival in london, we had called with mr. jarndyce at mrs. jellyby's, but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. it appeared that she had gone somewhere, to a tea-drinking, and had taken miss jellyby with her. besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the settlement of borrioboola gha. all this involved, no doubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make her daughter's part in the proceedings, any thing but a holiday. it being, now, beyond the time appointed for mrs. jellyby's return, we called again. she was in town, but not at home, having gone to mile end, directly after breakfast, on some borrioboolan business, arising out of a society called the east london branch aid ramification. as i had not seen peepy on the occasion of our last call (when he was not to be found any where, and when the cook rather thought he must have strolled away with the dustman's cart) i now inquired for him again. the oyster shells he had been building a house with, were still in the passage, but he was nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had "gone after the sheep." when we repeated, with some surprise, "the sheep?" she said, o yes, on market days he sometimes followed them quite out of town, and came back in such a state as never was! i was sitting at the window with my guardian, on the following morning, and ada was busy writing--of course to richard--when miss jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical peepy, whom she had made some endeavors to render presentable, by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands, and making his hair very wet, and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. every thing the dear child wore, was either too large for him or too small. among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of a bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. his boots were, on a small scale, the boots of a plowman: while his legs, so crossed and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps, were bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers, finished off with two frills of perfectly different patterns. the deficient buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of mr. jellyby's coats, they were so extremely brazen and so much too large. most extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared on several parts of his dress, where it had been hastily mended; and i recognized the same hand on miss jellyby's. she was, however, unaccountably improved in her appearance, and looked very pretty. she was conscious of poor little peepy being but a failure, after all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in, by the way in which she glanced, first at him, and then at us. "o dear me!" said my guardian, "due east!" ada and i gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her to mr. jarndyce; to whom she said, as she sat down: "ma's compliments, and she hopes you'll excuse her, because she's correcting proofs of the plan. she's going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she knows you'll be interested to hear that. i have brought one of them with me. ma's compliments." with which she presented it sulkily enough. "thank you," said my guardian. "i am much obliged to mrs. jellyby. o dear me! this is a very trying wind!" we were busy with peepy; taking off his clerical hat; asking him if he remembered us; and so on. peepy retired behind his elbow at first, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake, and allowed me to take him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. mr. jarndyce then withdrawing into the temporary growlery, miss jellyby opened a conversation with her usual abruptness. "we are going on just as bad as ever in thavies inn," said she. "i have no peace of my life. talk of africa! i couldn't be worse off if i was a what's-his-name-man and a brother!" i tried to say something soothing. "o, it's of no use, miss summerson," exclaimed miss jellyby, "though i thank you for the kind intention all the same. i know how i am used, and i am not to be talked over. you wouldn't be talked over, if you were used so. peepy, go and play at wild beasts under the piano!" "i shan't!" said peepy. "very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!" returned miss jellyby, with tears in her eyes. "i'll never take pains to dress you any more." "yes, i will go, caddy!" cried peepy, who was really a good child, and who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went at once. "it seems a little thing to cry about," said poor miss jellyby, apologetically, "but i am quite worn out. i was directing the new circulars till two this morning. i detest the whole thing so, that that alone makes my head ache till i can't see out of my eyes. and look at that poor unfortunate child. was there ever such a fright as he is!" peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out of his den at us, while he ate his cake. "i have sent him to the other end of the room," observed miss jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because i don't want him to hear the conversation. those little things are so sharp! i was going to say, we really are going on worse than ever. pa will be a bankrupt before long, and then i hope ma will be satisfied. there'll be nobody but ma to thank for it." we said we hoped mr. jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a state as that. "it's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you!" returned miss jellyby, shaking her head. "pa told me, only yesterday morning (and dreadfully unhappy he is), that he couldn't weather the storm. i should be surprised if he could. when all our tradesmen send into our house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like with it, and i have no time to improve things if i knew how, and ma don't care about any thing, i should like to make out how pa _is_ to weather the storm. i declare if i was pa, i'd run away!" "my dear!" said i, smiling. "your papa, no doubt, considers his family." "o yes, his family is all very fine, miss summerson," replied miss jellyby; "but what comfort is his family to him? his family is nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles down stairs, confusion, and wretchedness. his scrambling home, from week's-end to week's-end, is like one great washing-day--only nothing's washed!" miss jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped her eyes. "i am sure i pity pa to that degree," she said, "and am so angry with ma, that i can't find words to express myself! however, i am not going to bear it, i am determined. i won't be a slave all my life, and i won't submit to be proposed to by mr. quale. a pretty thing, indeed, to marry a philanthropist! as if i hadn't had enough of _that_!" said poor miss jellyby. i must confess that i could not help feeling rather angry with mrs. jellyby, myself; seeing and hearing this neglected girl, and knowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said. "if it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at our house," pursued miss jellyby, "i should have been ashamed to come here to-day, for i know what a figure i must seem to you two. but, as it is, i made up my mind to call: especially as i am not likely to see you again, the next time you come to town." she said this with such great significance that ada and i glanced at one another, foreseeing something more. "no!" said miss jellyby, shaking her head. "not at all likely! i know i may trust you two. i am sure you won't betray me. i am engaged." "without their knowledge at home?" said i. "why, good gracious me, miss summerson," she returned, justifying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, "how can it be otherwise? you know what ma is--and i needn't make poor pa more miserable by telling _him_." "but would it not be adding to his unhappiness, to marry without his knowledge or consent, my dear?" said i. "no," said miss jellyby, softening. "i hope not. i should try to make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me; and peepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay with me; and they should have some care taken of them, then." there was a good deal of affection in poor caddy. she softened more and more while saying this, and cried so much over the unwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind, that peepy, in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back with loud lamentations. it was not until i had brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to his place in my lap, and had shown him that caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peace of mind; even then, it was for some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin, and smoothing our faces all over with his hand. at last, as his spirits were not yet equal to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and miss jellyby, holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence. "it began in your coming to our house," she said. we naturally asked how? "i felt i was so awkward," she replied, "that i made up my mind to be improved in that respect, at all events, and to learn to dance. i told ma i was ashamed of myself, and i must be taught to dance. ma looked at me in that provoking way of hers, as if i wasn't in sight; but, i was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so i went to mr. turveydrop's academy in newman street." "and was it there, my dear----" i began. "yes, it was there," said caddy, "and i am engaged to mr. turveydrop. there are two mr. turveydrops, father and son. my mr. turveydrop is the son, of course. i only wish i had been better brought up, and was likely to make him a better wife; for i am very fond of him." "i am sorry to hear this," said i, "i must confess." "i don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted, a little anxiously, "but i am engaged to mr. turveydrop, whether or no, and he is very fond of me. it's a secret as yet, even on his side, because old mr. turveydrop has a share in the connection, and it might break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was told of it abruptly. old mr. turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man, indeed--very gentlemanly." "does his wife know of it?" asked ada. "old mr. turveydrop's wife, miss clare?" returned miss jellyby, opening her eyes. "there's no such person. he is a widower." we were here interrupted by peepy, whose leg had undergone so much on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it, like a bell-rope, whenever she was emphatic, that the afflicted child now bemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. as he appealed to me for compassion, and as i was only a listener, i undertook to hold him. miss jellyby proceeded, after begging peepy's pardon with a kiss, and assuring him that she hadn't meant to do it. "that's the state of the case," said caddy. "if i ever blame myself, i still think it's ma's fault. we are to be married whenever we can, and then i shall go to pa at the office, and write to ma. it won't much agitate ma: i am only pen and ink to _her_. one great comfort is," said caddy, with a sob, "that i shall never hear of africa after i am married. young mr. turveydrop hates it for my sake; and if old mr. turveydrop knows there is such a place, it's as much as he does." "it was he who was very gentlemanly, i think?" said i. "very gentlemanly, indeed," said caddy. "he is celebrated, almost every where, for his deportment." "does he teach?" asked ada. "no, he don't teach any thing in particular," replied caddy. "but his deportment is beautiful." caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation and reluctance, that there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we ought to know, and which, she hoped, would not offend us. it was, that she had improved her acquaintance with miss flite, the little crazy old lady; and that she frequently went there early in the morning, and met her lover for a few minutes before breakfast--only for a few minutes. "_i_ go there, at other times," said caddy, "but prince does not come then. young mr. turveydrop's name is prince; i wish it wasn't, because it sounds like a dog, but of course he didn't christen himself. old mr. turveydrop had him christened prince, in remembrance of the prince regent. old mr. turveydrop adored the prince regent on account of his deportment. i hope you won't think the worse of me for having made these little appointments at miss flite's, where i first went with you; because i like the poor thing for her own sake, and i believe she likes me. if you could see young mr. turveydrop, i am sure you would think well of him--at least, i am sure you couldn't possibly think any ill of him. i am going there now, for my lesson. i couldn't ask you to go with me, miss summerson; but if you would," said caddy, who had said all this, earnestly and tremblingly, "i should be very glad--very glad." it happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to miss flite's that day. we had told him of our former visit, and our account had interested him; but something had always happened to prevent our going there again. as i trusted that i might have sufficient influence with miss jellyby to prevent her taking any very rash step, if i fully accepted the confidence she was so willing to place in me, poor girl, i proposed that she, and i, and peepy, should go to the academy, and afterward meet my guardian and ada at miss flite's--whose name i now learnt for the first time. this was on condition that miss jellyby and peepy should come back with us to dinner. the last article of the agreement being joyfully acceded to by both, we smartened peepy up a little, with the assistance of a few pins, some soap and water, and a hair-brush; and went out: bending our steps toward newman street, which was very near. i found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at the corner of an arch-way, with busts in all the staircase windows. in the same house there were also established, as i gathered from the plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was, certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. on the plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, i read, mr. turveydrop. the door was open, and the hall was blocked up by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the daylight. miss jellyby informed me that the academy had been lent, last night, for a concert. we went up-stairs--it had been quite a fine house once, when it was any body's business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody's business to smoke in it all day--and into mr. turveydrop's great room, which was built out into a mews at the back, and was lighted by a skylight. it was a bare, resounding room, smelling of stables; with cane forms along the walls; and the walls ornamented at regular intervals with painted lyres, and little cut-glass branches for candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed autumn leaves. several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and i was looking among them for their instructor, when caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. "miss summerson, mr. prince turveydrop!" [illustration: the dancing school.] i courtesied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance, with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curling at the ends all round his head. he had a little fiddle, which we used to call at school a kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same hand. his little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he had a little innocent, feminine manner, which not only appealed to me in an amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me: that i received the impression that he was like his mother, and that his mother had not been much considered or well used. "i am very happy to see miss jellyby's friend," he said, bowing low to me. "i began to fear," with timid tenderness, "as it was past the usual time, that miss jellyby was not coming." "i beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said i. "o dear!" said he. "and pray," i entreated, "do not allow me to be the cause of any more delay." with that apology i withdrew to a seat between peepy (who, being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner-place), and an old lady of a censorious countenance, whose two nieces were in the class, and who was very indignant with peepy's boots. prince turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and the young ladies stood up to dance. just then, there appeared from a side-door, old mr. turveydrop, in the full lustre of his deportment. he was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, and a wig. he had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. he was pinched in and swelled out, and got up, and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. he had such a neck-cloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must inevitably double up, if it were cast loose. he had, under his arm, a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the brim; and in his hand a pair of white gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood poised on one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. he had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had every thing but any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was like nothing in the world but a model of deportment. "father! a visitor. miss jellyby's friend, miss summerson." "distinguished," said mr. turveydrop, "by miss summerson's presence." as he bowed to me in that tight state, i almost believed i saw creases come into the whites of his eyes. "my father," said the son, aside to me, with quite an affecting belief in him, "is a celebrated character. my father is greatly admired." "go on, prince! go on!" said mr. turveydrop, standing with his back to the fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. "go on, my son!" at this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on. prince turveydrop, sometimes, played the kit, dancing; sometimes played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. his distinguished father did nothing whatever, but stand before the fire, a model of deportment. "and he never does any thing else," said the old lady of the censorious countenance. "yet, would you believe that it's _his_ name on the door-plate?" "his son's name is the same, you know," said i. "he wouldn't let his son have any name, if he could take it from him," returned the old lady. "look at the son's dress!" it certainly was plain--threadbare--almost shabby. "yet the father must be garnished and tricked out," said the old lady, "because of his deportment. i'd deport him! transport him would be better!" i felt curious to know more, concerning this person. i asked, "does he give lessons in deportment, now?" "now!" returned the old lady, shortly. "never did." after a moment's consideration, i suggested that perhaps fencing had been his accomplishment. "i don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old lady. i looked surprised and inquisitive. the old lady, becoming more and more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong assurances that they were mildly stated. he had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable connection (having never in his life before done any thing but deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which were indispensable to his position. at once to exhibit his deportment to the best models, and to keep the best models constantly before himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort; to be seen at brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times, and to lead an idle life in the very best clothes. to enable him to do this, the affectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and labored, and would have toiled and labored to that hour, if her strength had lasted so long. for, the mainspring of the story was, that, in spite of the man's absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his deportment) had, to the last, believed in him, and had, on her death-bed in the most moving terms, confided him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable claim upon him, and whom he could never regard with too much pride and deference. the son, inheriting his mother's belief, and having the deportment always before him, had lived and grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a day, and looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle. "the airs the fellow gives himself!" said my informant, shaking her head at old mr. turveydrop with speechless indignation, as he drew on his tight gloves; of course unconscious of the homage she was rendering. "he fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! and he is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes, that you might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. o!" said the old lady, apostrophizing him with infinite vehemence, "i could bite you!" i could not help being amused, though i heard the old lady out with feelings of real concern. it was difficult to doubt her, with the father and son before me. what i might have thought of them without the old lady's account, or what i might have thought of the old lady's account without them, i can not say. there was a fitness of things in the whole that carried conviction with it. my eyes were yet wandering, from young mr. turveydrop working so hard to old mr. turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me, and entered into conversation. he asked me, first of all, whether i conferred a charm and a distinction on london by residing in it? i did not think it necessary to reply that i was perfectly aware i should not do that, in any case, but merely told him where i did reside. "a lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing his right glove, and afterward extending it toward the pupils, "will look leniently on the deficiencies here. we do our best to polish--polish--polish!" he sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the form, i thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the sofa. and really he did look very like it. "to polish--polish--polish!" he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff, and gently fluttering his fingers. "but we are not--if i may say so, to one formed to be graceful both by nature and art;" with the high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes--"we are not what we used to be in point of deportment." "are we not, sir?" said i. "we have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, which he could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. "a leveling age is not favorable to deportment. it develops vulgarity. perhaps i speak with some little partiality. it may not be for me to say that i have been called, for some years now, gentleman turveydrop; or that his royal highness the prince regent did me the honor to inquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the pavilion at brighton (that fine building), 'who is he? who the devil is he? why don't i know him? why hasn't he thirty thousand a year?' but these are little matters of anecdote--the general property, ma'am--still repeated, occasionally among the upper classes." "indeed?" said i. he replied with the high-shouldered bow. "where what is left among us of deportment," he added, "still lingers. england--alas, my country!--has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day. she has not many gentlemen left. we are few. i see nothing to succeed us, but a race of weavers." "one might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated here," said i. "you are very good," he smiled, with the high-shouldered bow again. "you flatter me. but, no--no! i have never been able to imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. heaven forbid that i should disparage my dear child, but he has--no deportment." "he appears to be an excellent master," i observed. "understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. all that can be acquired, he has acquired. all that can be imparted, he can impart. but there _are_ things"--he took another pinch of snuff and made the bow again, as if to add, "this kind of thing, for instance." i glanced toward the centre of the room, where miss jellyby's lover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than ever. "my amiable child," murmured mr. turveydrop, adjusting his cravat. "your son is indefatigable," said i. "it is my reward," said mr. turveydrop, "to hear you say so. in some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. she was a devoted creature. but wooman, lovely wooman," said mr. turveydrop, with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex you are!" i rose and joined miss jellyby, who was, by this time, putting on her bonnet. the time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there was a general putting on of bonnets. when miss jellyby and the unfortunate prince found an opportunity to become betrothed i don't know, but they certainly found none, on this occasion, to exchange a dozen words. "my dear," said mr. turveydrop benignly to his son, "do you know the hour?" "no, father." the son had no watch. the father had a handsome gold one, which he pulled out, with an air that was an example to mankind. "my son," said he, "it's two o'clock. recollect your school at kensington at three." "that's time enough for me, father," said prince. "i can take a morsel of dinner, standing, and be off." "my dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very quick. you will find the cold mutton on the table." "thank you, father. are _you_ off now, father?" "yes, my dear. i suppose," said mr. turveydrop, shutting his eyes and lifting up his shoulders, with modest consciousness, "that i must show myself, as usual, about town." "you had better dine out comfortably, somewhere," said his son. "my dear child, i intend to. i shall take my little meal, i think, at the french house, in the opera colonnade." "that's right. good-by, father!" said prince, shaking hands. "good-by, my son. bless you!" mr. turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do his son good; who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that i almost felt as if it were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe implicitly in the elder. the few moments that were occupied by prince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as i saw, being in the secret), enhanced my favorable impression of his almost childish character. i felt a liking for him, and a compassion for him, as he put his little kit in his pocket--and with it his desire to stay a little while with caddy--and went away good-humoredly to his cold mutton and his school at kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with his father than the censorious old lady. the father opened the room door for us, and bowed us out, in a manner, i must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. in the same style he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to show himself among the few other gentlemen left. for some moments, i was so lost in reconsidering what i had heard and seen in newman street, that i was quite unable to talk to caddy, or even to fix my attention on what she said to me; especially, when i began to inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their deportment. this became so bewildering, and suggested the possibility of so many mr. turveydrops, that i said, "esther, you must make up your mind to abandon this subject altogether, and attend to caddy." i accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way to lincoln's inn. caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected, that it was not always easy to read his notes. she said, if he were not so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make it clear, he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short words, that they sometimes quite lost their english appearance. "he does it with the best intentions," observed caddy, "but it hasn't the effect he means, poor fellow!" caddy then went on to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar, when he had passed his whole life in the dancing-school, and had done nothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! and what did it matter? she could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to be amiable than learned. "besides, it's not as if i was an accomplished girl who had any right to give herself airs," said caddy. "i know little enough, i am sure, thanks to ma!" "there's another thing i want to tell you, now we are alone," continued caddy, "which i should not have liked to mention unless you had seen prince, miss summerson. you know what a house ours is. it's of no use my trying to learn any thing that it would be useful for prince's wife to know, in our house. we live in such a state of muddle that it's impossible, and i have only been more disheartened whenever i have tried. so, i get a little practice with--who do you think? poor miss flite! early in the morning, i help her to tidy her room, and clean her birds; and i make her cup of coffee for her (of course she taught me), and i have learnt to make it so well that prince says it's the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old mr. turveydrop, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. i can make little puddings too; and i know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. i am not clever at my needle, yet," said caddy, glancing at the repairs on peepy's frock, "but perhaps i shall improve. and since i have been engaged to prince, and have been doing all this, i have felt better-tempered, i hope, and more forgiving to ma. it rather put me out, at first this morning, to see you and miss clare looking so neat and pretty, and to feel ashamed of peepy and myself too; but on the whole, i hope i am better-tempered than i was, and more forgiving to ma." the poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched mine. "caddy, my love," i replied, "i begin to have a great affection for you, and i hope we shall become friends." "oh, do you?" cried caddy; "how happy that would make me!" "my dear caddy," said i, "let us be friends from this time, and let us often have a chat about these matters, and try to find the right way through them." caddy was overjoyed. i said every thing i could, in my old-fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her; and i would not have objected to old mr. turveydrop, that day, for any smaller consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law. by this time, we were come to mr. krook's, whose private door stood open. there was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room to let on the second floor. it reminded caddy to tell me as we proceeded up-stairs, that there had been a sudden death there, and an inquest; and that our little friend had been ill of the fright. the door and window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. it was the room with the dark door, to which miss flite had secretly directed my attention when i was last in the house. a sad and desolate place it was; a gloomy, sorrowful place, that gave me a strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. "you look pale," said caddy, when we came out, "and cold!" i felt as if the room had chilled me. we had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my guardian and ada were here before us. we found them in miss flite's garret. they were looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as to attend miss flite with much solicitude and compassion, spoke with her cheerfully by the fire. "i have finished my professional visit," he said, coming forward. "miss flite is much better, and may appear in court (as her mind is set upon it) to-morrow. she has been greatly missed there, i understand." miss flite received the compliment with complacency, and dropped a general courtesy to us. "honored, indeed," said she, "by another visit from the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy to receive jarndyce of bleak house beneath my humble roof!" with a special courtesy. "fitz-jarndyce, my dear;" she had bestowed that name on caddy, it appeared, and always called her by it; "a double welcome!" "has she been very ill?" asked mr. jarndyce of the gentleman whom we had found in attendance on her. she answered for herself directly, though he had put the question in a whisper. "o, decidedly unwell! o, very unwell indeed," she said, confidentially. "not pain, you know--trouble. not bodily so much as nervous, nervous! the truth is," in a subdued voice and trembling, "we have had death here. there was poison in the house. i am very susceptible to such horrid things. it frightened me. only mr. woodcourt knows how much. my physician, mr. woodcourt!" with great stateliness. "the wards in jarndyce--jarndyce of bleak house--fitz-jarndyce!" "miss flite," said mr. woodcourt, in a grave, kind voice as if he were appealing to her while speaking to us; and laying his hand gently on her arm; "miss flite describes her illness with her usual accuracy. she was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and agitation. she brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. i have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here since, and being of small use to her." "the kindest physician in the college," whispered miss flite to me. "i expect a judgment. on the day of judgment. and shall then confer estates." "she will be as well, in a day or two," said mr. woodcourt, looking at her with an observant smile, "as she ever will be. in other words, quite well, of course. have you heard of her good fortune?" "most extraordinary!" said miss flite, smiling brightly. "you never heard of such a thing, my dear! every saturday, conversation kenge, or guppy (clerk to conversation k.), places in my hand a paper of shillings. shillings. i assure you! always the same number in the paper. always one for every day in the week. now you know, really! so well-timed, is it not? ye-es! from whence do these papers come, you say? that is the great question. naturally. shall i tell you what _i_ think? _i_ think," said miss flite, drawing herself back with a very shrewd look, and shaking her right forefinger in a most significant manner, "that the lord chancellor, aware of the length of time during which the great seal has been open (for it has been open a long time!) forwards them. until the judgment i expect, is given. now that's very creditable, you know. to confess in that way that he _is_ a little slow for human life. so delicate! attending court the other day--i attend it regularly--with my documents--i taxed him with it, and he almost confessed. that is, i smiled at him from my bench, and _he_ smiled at me from his bench. but it's great good fortune, is it not? and fitz-jarndyce lays the money out for me to great advantage. o, i assure you to the greatest advantage!" i congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this fortunate addition to her income, and wished her a long continuance of it. i did not speculate upon the source from which it came, or wonder whose humanity was so considerate. my guardian stood before me, contemplating the birds, and i had no need to look beyond him. "and what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?" said he in his pleasant voice. "have they any names?" "i can answer for miss flite that they have," said i, "for she promised to tell us what they were. ada remembers?" ada remembered very well. "did i?" said miss flite.--"who's that at my door? what are you listening at my door for, krook?" the old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared there with his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at his heels. "_i_ warn't listening, miss flite," he said. "i was going to give a rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick!" "make your cat go down. drive her away!" the old lady angrily exclaimed. "bah, bah!--there ain't no danger, gentle-folks," said mr. krook, looking slowly and sharply from one to another, until he had looked at all of us; "she'd never offer at the birds when i was here, unless i told her to do it." "you will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a dignified air. "m, quite m! what do you want, krook, when i have company?" "hi!" said the old man. "you know i am the chancellor." "well?" returned miss flite. "what of that?" "for the chancellor," said the old man, with a chuckle, "not to be acquainted with a jarndyce is queer, ain't it, miss flite? mightn't i take the liberty?--your servant, sir. i know jarndyce and jarndyce a'most as well as you do, sir. i knowed old squire tom, sir. i never to my knowledge see you afore though, not even in court. yet, i go there a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, taking one day with another." "i never go there," said mr. jarndyce (which he never did on any consideration). "i would sooner go--somewhere else." "would you though?" returned krook, grinning. "you're bearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir; though, perhaps, it is but nat'ral in a jarndyce. the burnt child, sir! what, you're looking at my lodger's birds, mr. jarndyce?" the old man had come by little and little into the room, until he now touched my guardian with his elbow, and looked close up into his face with his spectacled eyes. "it's one of her strange ways, that she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it, though she named 'em all." this was in a whisper. "shall i run 'em over, flite?" he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turned away, affecting to sweep the grate. "if you like," she answered hurriedly. the old man, looking up at the cages, after another look at us, went through the list. "hope, joy, youth, peace, rest, life, dust, ashes, waste, want, ruin, despair, madness, death, cunning, folly, words, wigs, rags, sheepskin, plunder, precedent, jargon, gammon, and spinach. that's the whole collection," said the old man, "all cooped up together, by my noble and learned brother. "this is a bitter wind!" muttered my guardian. "when my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they're to be let go free," said krook, winking at us again. "and then," he added, whispering and grinning, "if that ever was to happen--which it won't--the birds that have never been caged would kill 'em." "if ever the wind was in the east," said my guardian, pretending to look out of the window for a weathercock, "i think it's there to-day!" we found it very difficult to get away from the house. it was not miss flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature in consulting the convenience of others, as there possibly could be. it was mr. krook. he seemed unable to detach himself from mr. jarndyce. if he had been linked to him, he could hardly have attended him more closely. he proposed to show us his court of chancery, and all the strange medley it contained; during the whole of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to mr. jarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one pretense or other, until we had passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to enter upon some secret subject, which he could not make up his mind to approach. i can not imagine a countenance and manner more singularly expressive of caution and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he could not resolve to venture on, than mr. krook's was, that day. his watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. he rarely removed his eyes from his face. if he went on beside him, he observed him with the slyness of an old white fox. if he went before, he looked back. when we stood still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across and across his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense of power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his gray eyebrows until they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament of his face. at last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the house, and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop. here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on end, were an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands. "what are you doing here?" asked my guardian. "trying to learn myself to read and write," said krook. "and how do you get on?" "slow. bad," returned the old man, impatiently. "it's hard at my time of life." "it would be easier to be taught by some one," said my guardian. "ay, but they might teach me wrong!" returned the old man, with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "i don't know what i may have lost, by not being learned afore. i wouldn't like to lose any thing by being learned wrong now." "wrong?" said my guardian, with his good-humored smile. "who do you suppose would teach you wrong?" "i don't know, mr. jarndyce of bleak house!" replied the old man, turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and rubbing his hands. "i don't suppose as any body would--but i'd rather trust my own self than another!" these answers, and his manner, were strange enough to cause my guardian to inquire of mr. woodcourt, as we all walked across lincoln's inn together, whether mr. krook were really, as his lodger represented him, deranged? the young surgeon replied, no, he had seen no reason to think so. he was exceedingly distrustful, as ignorance usually was, and he was always more or less under the influence of raw gin: of which he drank great quantities, and of which he and his back shop, as we might have observed, smelt strongly; but he did not think him mad, as yet. on our way home, i so conciliated peepy's affections by buying him a windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would suffer nobody else to take off his hat and gloves, and would sit nowhere at dinner but at my side. caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to ada, to whom we imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got back. we made much of caddy, and peepy too; and caddy brightened exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were; and we were all very happy indeed; until caddy went home at night in a hackney-coach, with peepy fast asleep, but holding tight to the windmill. i have forgotten to mention--at least i have not mentioned--that mr. woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at mr. badger's. or, that mr. jarndyce invited him to dinner that day. or, that he came. or, that when they were all gone, and i said to ada, "now, my darling, let us have a little talk about richard!" ada laughed, and said-- but, i don't think it matters what my darling said. she was always merry. chapter xv.--bell yard. while we were in london, mr. jarndyce was constantly beset by the crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so much astonished us. mr. quale, who presented himself soon after our arrival, was in all such excitements. he seemed to project those two shining knobs of temples of his into every thing that went on, and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philanthropy. all objects were alike to him, but he was always particularly ready for any thing in the way of a testimonial to any one. his great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. he would sit, for any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order of luminary. having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in admiration of mrs. jellyby, i had supposed her to be the absorbing object of his devotion. i soon discovered my mistake, and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession of people. mrs. pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something--and with her, mr. quale. whatever mrs. pardiggle said, mr. quale repeated to us; and just as he had drawn mrs. jellyby out, he drew mrs. pardiggle out. mrs. pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian, in behalf of her eloquent friend, mr. gusher. with mr. gusher, appeared mr. quale again. mr. gusher, being a flabby gentleman with a moist surface, and eyes so much too small for his moon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made for somebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet, he was scarcely seated, before mr. quale asked ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was, flabbily speaking; though mr. quale meant in intellectual beauty--and whether we were not struck by his massive configuration of brow? in short, we heard of a great many missions of various sorts, among this set of people; but, nothing respecting them was half so clear to us, as that it was mr. quale's mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else's mission, and that it was the most popular mission of all. mr. jarndyce had fallen into this company, in the tenderness of his heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but, that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where benevolence took spasmodic forms; where charity was assumed, as a regular uniform, by loud professors and speculators in cheap notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action, servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to help the weak from falling, rather than with a great deal of bluster and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were down; he plainly told us. when a testimonial was originated to mr. quale, by mr. gusher (who had already got one, originated by mr. quale), and when mr. gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boys and girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested to come forward with half-pence and be acceptable sacrifices; i think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks. i mention this, because i am coming to mr. skimpole again. it seemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and carelessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things, and were the more readily believed in; since, to find one perfectly undesigning and candid man, among many opposites, could not fail to give him pleasure. i should be sorry to imply that mr. skimpole divined this, and was politic: i really never understood him well enough to know. what he was to my guardian, he certainly was to the rest of the world. he had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in london, we had seen nothing of him until now. he appeared one morning, in his usual agreeable way, and as full of pleasant spirits as ever. well, he said, here he was! he had been bilious, but rich men were often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he was a man of property. so he was, in a certain point of view--in his expansive intentions. he had been enriching his medical attendant in the most lavish manner. he had always doubled, and sometimes quadrupled, his fees. he had said to the doctor, "now my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you attend me for nothing. i am overwhelming you with money--in my expansive intentions--if you only knew it!" and really (he said) he meant it to that degree, that he thought it much the same as doing it. if he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind attached so much importance, to put in the doctor's hand, he would have put them in the doctor's hand. not having them, he substituted the will for the deed. very well! if he really meant it--if his will were genuine and real: which it was--it appeared to him that it was the same as coin, and canceled the obligation. "it may be, partly, because i know nothing of the value of money," said mr. skimpole, "but i often feel this. it seems so reasonable! my butcher says to me, he wants that little bill. it's a part of the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature, that he always calls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both of us. i reply to the butcher, my good friend, if you knew it, you are paid. you haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill. you are paid. i mean it." "but suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meat in the bill, instead of providing it?" "my dear jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. you take the butcher's position. a butcher i once dealt with, occupied that very ground. says he, 'sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound?' 'why did i eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my honest friend?' said i, naturally amazed by the question. 'i like spring lamb!' this was so far convincing. 'well, sir,' says he, 'i wish i had meant the lamb, as you mean the money?' 'my good fellow,' said i, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings. how could that be? it was impossible. you _had_ got the lamb, and i have _not_ got the money. you couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas i can, and do, really mean the money without paying it?' he had not a word. there was an end of the subject." "did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my guardian. "yes, he took legal proceedings," said mr. skimpole. "but in that, he was influenced by passion; not by reason. passion reminds me of boythorn. he writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a short visit at his bachelor-house in lincolnshire." "he is a great favorite with my girls," said mr. jarndyce, "and i have promised for them." "nature forgot to shade him off, i think?" observed mr. skimpole to ada and me. "a little too boisterous--like the sea? a little too vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every color scarlet? but i grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!" i should have been surprised if those two could have thought very highly of one another; mr. boythorn attaching so much importance to many things, and mr. skimpole caring so little for any thing. besides which, i had noticed mr. boythorn more than once on the point of breaking out into some strong opinion, when mr. skimpole was referred to. of course i merely joined ada in saying that we had been greatly pleased with him. "he has invited me," said mr. skimpole; "and if a child may trust himself in such hands: which the present child is encouraged to do, with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him: i shall go. he proposes to frank me down and back again. i suppose it will cost money? shillings perhaps? or pounds? or something of that sort? by-the-by. coavinses. you remember our friend coavinses, miss summerson?" he asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful, light-hearted manner, and without the least embarrassment. "o yes?" said i. "coavinses has been arrested by the great bailiff," said mr. skimpole. "he will never do violence to the sunshine any more." it quite shocked me to hear it; for, i had already recalled, with any thing but a serious association, the image of the man sitting on the sofa that night, wiping his head. "his successor informed me of it yesterday," said mr. skimpole, "his successor is in my house now--in possession, i think he calls it. he came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birth-day. i put it to him. 'this is unreasonable and inconvenient. if you had a blue-eyed daughter, you wouldn't like _me_ to come, uninvited, on _her_ birthday?' but he staid." mr. skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity, and lightly touched the piano by which he was seated. "and he told me," he said, playing little chords where i shall put full stops. "that coavinses had left. three children. no mother. and that coavinses' profession. being unpopular. the rising coavinses. were at a considerable disadvantage." mr. jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. mr. skimpole played the melody of one of ada's favorite songs. ada and i both looked at mr. jarndyce, thinking that we knew what was passing in his mind. after walking, and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the keys and stopped mr. skimpole's playing. "i don't like this, skimpole," he said, thoughtfully. mr. skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up surprised. "the man was necessary," pursued my guardian, walking backward and forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the room, and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high east wind had blown it into that form. "if we make such men necessary by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. there was no harm in his trade. he maintained his children. one would like to know more about this." "o! coavinses?" cried mr. skimpole, at length perceiving what he meant. "nothing easier. a walk to coavinses head-quarters, and you can know what you will." mr. jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal. "come! we will walk that way, my dears. why not that way, as soon as another!" we were quickly ready, and went out. mr. skimpole went with us, and quite enjoyed the expedition. it was so new and so refreshing, he said, for him to want coavinses, instead of coavinses wanting him! he took us, first, to cursitor street, chancery lane, where there was a house with barred windows, which he called coavinses castle. on our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came out of a sort of office, and looked at us over a spiked wicket. "who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his chin. "there was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said mr. jarndyce, "who is dead." "yes," said the boy. "well?" "i want to know his name, if you please." "name of neckett," said the boy. "and his address?" "bell yard," said the boy. "chandler's shop, left hand side, name of blinder." "was he--i don't know how to shape the question," murmured my guardian--"industrious?" "was neckett?" said the boy. "yes, wery much so. he was never tired of watching. he'd sit upon a post at a street corner, eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it." "he might have done worse," i heard my guardian soliloquize. "he might have undertaken to do it, and not done it. thank you. that's all i want." we left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to lincoln's inn, where mr. skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer coavinses, awaited us. then, we all went to bell yard: a narrow alley, at a very short distance. we soon found the chandler's shop. in it was a good-natured-looking old woman, with a dropsy or an asthma, or perhaps both. "neckett's children?" said she, in reply to my inquiry. "yes, surely, miss. three pair, if you please. door right opposite the top of the stairs." and she handed me a key across the counter. i glanced at the key, and glanced at her; but, she took it for granted that i knew what to do with it. as it could only be intended for the children's door, i came out, without asking any more questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. we went as quietly as we could; but four of us, made some noise on the aged boards; and, when we came to the second story, we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there, looking out of his room. "is it gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me with an angry stare. "no, sir," said i, "i am going higher up." he looked at ada, and at mr. jarndyce, and at mr. skimpole: fixing the same angry stare on each in succession, as they passed and followed me. mr. jarndyce gave him good-day! "good-day!" he said, abruptly and fiercely. he was a tall sallow man, with a care-worn head, on which but little hair remained, a deeply-lined face, and prominent eyes. he had a combative look; and a chafing, irritable manner, which, associated with his figure--still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. he had a pen in his hand, and, in the glimpse i caught of his room in passing, i saw that it was covered with a litter of papers. leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. i tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "we are locked in. mrs. blinder's got the key." i applied the key on hearing this, and opened the door. in a poor room with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furniture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. there was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute. their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched, and their small figures shrunken, as the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the child, with its head on his shoulder. "who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked. "charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us. "is charley your brother?" "no. she's my sister, charlotte. father called her charley." "are there any more of you besides charley?" "me," said the boy "and emma," patting the limp bonnet of the child he was nursing. "and charley." "where is charley now?" "out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again, and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead, by trying to gaze at us at the same time. we were looking at one another, and at these two children, when there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but shrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty faced too--wearing a womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her, and drying her bare arms on a womanly sort of apron. her fingers were white and wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off her arms. but for this, she might have been a child, playing at washing, and imitating a poor working woman with a quick observation of the truth. she had come running from some place in the neighborhood, and had made all the haste she could. consequently, though she was very light, she was out of breath, and could not speak at first, as she stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us. "o, here's charley!" said the boy. the child he was nursing, stretched forth its arms, and cried out to be taken by charley. the little girl took it, in a womanly sort of manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately. "is it possible," whispered my guardian, as we put a chair for the little creature, and got her to sit down with her load: the boy keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child works for the rest? look at this! for god's sake look at this!" it was a thing to look at. the three children close together, and two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the childish figure. "charley, charley!" said my guardian. "how old are you?" "over thirteen, sir," replied the child. "o! what a great age," said my guardian. "what a great age, charley!" i can not describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her; half playfully, yet all the more compassionately and mournfully. "and do you live alone here with these babies, charley?" said my guardian. "yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect confidence, "since father died." "and how do you live, charley? o! charley," said my guardian, turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?" "since father died, sir, i've gone out to work. i'm out washing to-day." "god help you, charley!" said my guardian. "you're not tall enough to reach the tub!" "in pattens i am, sir," she said quickly. "i've got a high pair as belonged to mother." "and when did mother die? poor mother!" "mother died, just after emma was born," said the child, glancing at the face upon her bosom. "then, father said i was to be as good a mother to her as i could. and so i tried. and so i worked at home, and did cleaning and nursing and washing, for a long time before i began to go out. and that's how i know how; don't you see, sir?" "and do you often go out?" "as often as i can," said charley, opening her eyes, and smiling, "because of earning sixpences and shillings!" "and do you always lock the babies up when you go out?" "to keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said charley. "mrs. blinder comes up now and then, and mr. gridley comes up sometimes, and perhaps i can run in sometimes, and they can play, you know, and tom ain't afraid of being locked up, are you, tom?" "no-o!" said tom, stoutly. "when it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. don't they, tom?" "yes, charley," said tom, "almost quite bright." "then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--o! in such a motherly, womanly way! "and when emma's tired, he puts her to bed. and when he's tired, he goes to bed himself. and when i come home and light the candle, and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. don't you, tom?" "o yes, charley!" said tom. "that i do!" and either in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life, or in gratitude and love for charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty folds of her frock, and passed from laughing into crying. it was the first time since our entry, that a tear had been shed among these children. the little orphan girl had spoken of their father, and their mother, as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work, and by her bustling busy way. but, now, when tom cried, although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges, i saw two silent tears fall down her face. i stood at the window with ada, pretending to look at the housetops, and the blackened stacks of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbors, when i found that mrs. blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken her all this time to get up-stairs) and was talking to my guardian. "it's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said: "who could take it from them!" "well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "it is enough that the time will come when this good woman will find that it _was_ much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--! this child," he added, after a few moments, "could she possibly continue this?" "really, sir, i think she might," said mrs. blinder, getting her heavy breath by painful degrees. "she's as handy as it's possible to be. bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children, after the mother died, was the talk of the yard! and it was a wonder to see her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'mrs. blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'mrs. blinder, whatever my calling may have been, i see a angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and i trust her to our father!'" "he had no other calling?" said my guardian. "no, sir," returned mrs. blinder, "he was nothing but a follerer. when he first came to lodge here, i didn't know what he was, and i confess that when i found out i gave him notice. it wasn't liked in the yard. it wasn't approved by the other lodgers. it is _not_ a genteel calling," said mrs. blinder, "and most people do object to it. mr. gridley objected to it, very strong; and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried." "so you gave him notice?" said my guardian. "so i gave him notice," said mrs. blinder. "but really when the time came, and i knew no other ill of him, i was in doubts. he was punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said mrs. blinder, unconsciously fixing mr. skimpole with her eye; "and it's something, in this world, even to do that." "so you kept him, after all?" "why, i said that if he could arrange with mr. gridley, i could arrange it with the other lodgers, and should not so much mind its being liked or disliked in the yard. mr. gridley gave his consent gruff--but gave it. he was always gruff with him, but he has been kind to the children since. a person is never known till a person is proved." "have many people been kind to the children?" asked mr. jarndyce. "upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said mrs. blinder, "but, certainly not so many as would have been, if their father's calling had been different. mr. coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up a little purse. some neighbors in the yard, that had always joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by, came forward with a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad. similarly with charlotte. some people won't employ her because she was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her, cast it at her; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with that and all her drawbacks upon her: and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. but she's patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strength and over. so i should say, in general, not so bad sir, but might be better." mrs. blinder sat down to give herself a more favorable opportunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before it was fully restored. mr. jarndyce was turning to speak to us, when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the mr. gridley who had been mentioned, and whom we had seen on our way up. "i don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my coming in. i don't come in, to stare about me. well, charley! well, tom! well, little one! how is it with us all to-day?" he bent over the group, in a caressing way, and clearly was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern character, and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. my guardian noticed it, and respected it. "no one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said mildly. "may be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking tom upon his knee, and waving him off impatiently. "i don't want to argue with ladies and gentlemen. i have had enough of arguing, to last one man his life." "you have sufficient reason, i dare say," said mr. jarndyce, "for being chafed and irritated--" "there again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "i am of a quarrelsome temper. i am irascible. i am not polite!" "not very, i think." "sir," said gridley, putting down the child, and going up to him as if he mean to strike him, "do you know any thing of courts of equity?" "perhaps i do, to my sorrow." "to your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath. "if so, i beg your pardon. i am not polite, i know. i beg your pardon! sir," with renewed violence, "i have been dragged for five-and-twenty years over burning iron, and i have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. go into the court of chancery yonder, and ask what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have, is the man from shropshire. i," he said, beating one hand on the other passionately, "am the man from shropshire." "i believe, i and my family have also had the honor of furnishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian, composedly. "you may have heard my name--jarndyce." "mr. jarndyce," said gridley, with a rough sort of salutation, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than i can bear mine. more than that, i tell you--and i tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they are friends of yours--that if i took my wrongs in any other way, i should be driven mad! it is only by resenting them, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice i never get, that i am able to keep my wits together. it is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way, and with great vehemence. "you may tell me that i over-excite myself. i answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and i must do it. there's nothing between doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court. if i was once to sit down under it, i should become imbecile." the passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what he said, were most painful to see. "mr. jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. as true as there is a heaven above us, this is my case. i am one of two brothers. my father (a farmer) made a will, and left his farm and stock, and so forth, to my mother, for her life. after my mother's death, all was to come to me, except a legacy of three hundred pounds that i was then to pay my brother. my mother died. my brother, some time afterward, claimed his legacy. i, and some of my relations, said that he had had a part of it already, in board and lodging, and some other things. now, mind! that was the question, and nothing else. no one disputed the will! no one disputed any thing but whether part of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. to settle that question, my brother filing a bill, i was obliged to go into this accursed chancery; i was forced there, because the law forced me, and would let me go nowhere else. seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! it first came on, after two years. it was then stopped for another two years, while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether i was my father's son--about which, there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature. he then found out, that there were not defendants enough--remember, there were only seventeen as yet!--but, that we must have another who had been left out; and must begin all over again. the costs at that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the legacy. my brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more costs. my whole estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has gone in costs. the suit still undecided, has fallen into rack, and ruin, and despair, with every thing else--and here i stand this day! now, mr. jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands involved where in mine there are hundreds. is mine less hard to bear, or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it, and has been thus shamefully sucked away?" mr. jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart, and that he set up no monopoly, himself, in being unjustly treated by this monstrous system. "there again!" said mr. gridley, with no diminution of his rage. "the system! i am told, on all hands, it's the system. i mustn't look to individuals. it's the system. i mustn't go into court, and say, 'my lord, i beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong? have you the face to tell me i have received justice, and therefore am dismissed?' my lord knows nothing of it. he sits there to administer the system. i mustn't go to mr. tulkinghorn, the solicitor in lincoln's inn fields, and say to him when he makes me furious, by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do; for i know they gain by it while i lose, don't i?--i mustn't say to him, i will have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul! _he_ is not responsible. it's the system. but if i do no violence to any of them, here--i may! i don't know what may happen if i am carried beyond myself at last!--i will accuse the individual workers of that system against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar!" his passion was fearful. i could not have believed in such rage without seeing it. "i have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "mr. jarndyce, i have done! i am violent, i know. i ought to know it. i have been in prison for contempt of court. i have been in prison for threatening the solicitor. i have been in this trouble, and that trouble, and shall be again. i am the man from shropshire, and i sometimes go beyond amusing them--though they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed into custody, and brought up in custody, and all that. it would be better for me, they tell me, if i restrained myself. i tell them, that if i did restrain myself, i should become imbecile. i was a good-enough-tempered man once, i believe. people in my part of the country, say, they remember me so; but, now, i must have this vent under my sense of injury, or nothing could hold my wits together. 'it would be far better for you, mr. gridley,' the lord chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in shropshire.' 'my lord, my lord, i know it would,' said i to him, 'and it would have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your high office; but, unhappily for me, i can't undo the past, and the past drives me here!'--besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "i'll shame them. to the last, i'll show myself in that court to its shame. if i knew when i was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to speak with, i would die there, saying, 'you have brought me here, and sent me from here, many and many a time. now send me out, feet foremost!'" his countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet. "i came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said, going to them again, "and let them play about. i didn't mean to say all this, but it don't much signify. you're not afraid of me, tom; are you?" "no!" said tom. "you ain't angry with _me_." "you are right, my child. you're going back, charley? ay? come then, little one!" he took the youngest child on his arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. "i shouldn't wonder if we found a gingerbread soldier down-stairs. let's go and look for him!" he made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a certain respect, to mr. jarndyce; and bowing slightly to us, went down-stairs to his room. upon that, mr. skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. he said, well, it was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. here was this mr. gridley, a man of a robust will, and surprising energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious black-smith--and he could easily imagine that there gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of young love among the thorns--when the court of chancery came in his way, and accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. there they were, matched ever afterward! otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but, as it was, he and the court of chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided for. then look at coavinses! how delightfully poor coavinses (father of these charming children) illustrated the same principle! he, mr. skimpole, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of coavinses. he had found coavinses in his way. he could have dispensed with coavinses. there had been times, when, if he had been a sultan, and his grand vizier had said one morning, "what does the commander of the faithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have even gone so far as to reply, "the head of coavinses!" but what turned out to be the case? that, all that time, he had been giving employment to a most deserving man; that he had been a benefactor to coavinses; that he had actually been enabling coavinses to bring up these charming children in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues! insomuch that his heart had just now swelled, and the tears had come into his eyes, when he had looked round the room, and thought, "_i_ was the great patron of coavinses, and his little comforts were _my_ work!" there was something so captivating in his light way of touching these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even as he turned toward us from a little private talk with mrs. blinder. we kissed charley, and took her down stairs with us, and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. i don't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, little creature, in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered way at the bottom of the court; and melt into the city's strife and sound, like a dew-drop in an ocean. chapter xvi.--tom-all-alone's. my lady dedlock is restless, very restless. the astonished fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. to-day, she is at chesney wold; yesterday, she was at her house in town; to-morrow, she may be abroad, for any thing the fashionable intelligence can with confidence predict. even sir leicester's gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with her. it would have more, but that his other faithful ally, for better and for worse--the gout--darts into the old oak bed-chamber at chesney wold, and grips him by both legs. sir leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a demon of the patrician order. all the dedlocks, in the direct male line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. it can be proved, sir. other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism, or may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar; but, the dedlock family have communicated something exclusive, even to the leveling process of dying, by dying of their own family gout. it has come down, through the illustrious line, like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in lincolnshire. it is among their dignities. sir leicester is, perhaps, not wholly without an impression, though he has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy, "my lords and gentlemen, i have the honor to present to you another dedlock, certified to have arrived per the family gout." hence, sir leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder, as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. he feels, that for a dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities, is a liberty taken somewhere; but, he thinks, "we have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has, for some hundreds of years, been understood that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and i submit myself to the compromise." and a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold, in the midst of the great drawing-room, before his favorite picture of my lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow. outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known plowshare, but was still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield, and rode a-hunting with bow and arrow; bear witness to his greatness. inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "each of us was a passing reality here, and left this colored shadow of himself, and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest;" and bear their testimony to his greatness too. and he is very great, this day. and woe to boythorn, or other daring wight, who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him! my lady is at present represented, near sir leicester, by her portrait. she has flitted away to town, with no intention of remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of the fashionable intelligence. the house in town is not prepared for her reception. it is muffled and dreary. only one mercury in powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to another mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society, that if that sort of thing was to last--which it couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't be expected to bear it--there would be no resource for him, upon his honor, but to cut his throat! what connection can there be between the place in lincolnshire, the house in town, the mercury in powder, and the whereabout of jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard-step? what connection can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world, who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, nevertheless, been very curiously brought together! jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any link there be. he sums up his mental condition, when asked a question, by replying that he "don't know nothink." he knows that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it. nobody taught him, even that much; he found it out. jo lives--that is to say, jo has not yet died--in a ruinous place, known to the like of him by the name of tom-all-alone's. it is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people; where the crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by some bold vagrants, who, after establishing their own possession, took to letting them out in lodgings. now these tumbling tenements contain, by night, a swarm of misery. as, on the ruined human wretch, vermin parasites appear, so, these ruined shelters have bred a crowd of foul existence, that crawls in and out of gaps in walls and boards; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever, and sowing more evil in its every footprint than lord coodle, and sir thomas doodle, and the duke of foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to zoodle, shall set right in five hundred years--though born expressly to do it. twice, lately, there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the springing of a mine, in tom-all-alone's; and, each time, a house has fallen. these accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers, and have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. the gaps remain, and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. as several more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in tom-all-alone's may be expected to be a good one. this desirable property is in chancery, of course. it would be an insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye, to tell him so. whether "tom" is the popular representative of the original plaintiff or defendant in jarndyce and jarndyce; or, whether tom lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers came to join him, or, whether the traditional title is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the pale of hope; perhaps nobody knows. certainly, jo don't know. "for _i_ don't," says jo, "_i_ don't know nothink." it must be a strange state to be like jo! to shuffle through the streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops, and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows! to see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! it must be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps jo _does_ think, at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means any thing to any body, how comes it that it means nothing to me? to be hustled, and jostled and moved on; and really to feel that it would appear to be perfectly true that i have no business, here, or there, or any where; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that i _am_ here somehow too, and every body overlooked me until i became the creature that i am! it must be a strange state, not merely to be told that i am scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! to see the horses, dogs, and cattle, go by me, and to know that in ignorance i belong to them, and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose delicacy i offend! jo's ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a bishop, or a government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it) the constitution, should be strange! his whole material and immaterial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest thing of all. jo comes out of tom-all-alone's, meeting the tardy morning which is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread as he comes along. his way lying through many streets, and the houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts, and gives it a brush when he has finished, as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. he admires the size of the edifice, and wonders what it's all about. he has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the pacific, or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit. he goes to his crossing, and begins to lay it out for the day. the town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, recommences. jo, and the other lower animals, get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. it is market-day. the blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out; and plunge, red-eyed and foaming, at stone walls; and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. very like jo and his order; very, very like! a band of music comes and plays. jo listens to it. so does a dog--a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. he seems perplexed respecting three or four; can't remember where he left them; looks up and down the street, as half expecting to see them astray; suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. a thoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep; ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs, and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog, who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. he and jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise, as to awakened association, aspiration or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. but, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute! turn that dog's descendants wild, like jo, and in a very few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not their bite. the day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark and drizzly. jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud and wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for the unsavory shelter of tom-all-alone's. twilight comes on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamp-lighter, with his ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. a wretched evening is beginning to close in. in his chambers, mr. tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day, and has been alarming. we are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again. from the ceiling, foreshortened allegory, in the person of one impossible roman upside down, points with the arm of samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively toward the window. why should mr. tulkinghorn, for such no reason, look out of window? is the hand not always pointing there? so he does not look out of window. and if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? there are women enough in the world, mr. tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers. what would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? they are all secret. mr. tulkinghorn knows that, very well. but they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house behind; between whose plain dress, and her refined manner, there is something exceedingly inconsistent. she should be an upper servant by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though both are hurried and assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady. her face is vailed, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply. she never turns her head. lady or servant, she has a purpose in her, and can follow it. she never turns her head, until she comes to the crossing where jo plies with his broom. he crosses with her, and begs. still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other side. then, she slightly beckons to him, and says, "come here!" jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court. "are you the boy i have read of in the papers?" she asks, behind her vail. "i don't know," says jo, staring moodily at the vail, "nothink about no papers. i don't know nothink about nothink at all." "were you examined at an inquest?" "i don't know nothink about no--where i was took by the beadle, do you mean?" says jo. "was the boy's name at the inkwhich, jo?" "yes." "that's me!" says jo. "come farther up." "you mean about the man?" says jo, following. "him as was dead?" "hush! speak in a whisper! yes. did he look, when he was living, so very ill and poor!" "o jist!" says jo. "did he look like--not like _you_?" says the woman with abhorrence. "o not so bad as me," says jo. "i'm a reg'lar one, _i_ am! you didn't know him, did you?" "how dare you ask me if i knew him?" "no offense, my lady," says jo, with much humility; for even he has got at the suspicion of her being a lady. "i am not a lady. i am a servant." "you are a jolly servant!" says jo; without the least idea of saying any thing offensive; merely as a tribute of admiration. "listen and be silent. don't talk to me, and stand farther from me! can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account i read? the place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? do you know the place where he was buried?" jo answers with a nod; having also nodded as each other place was mentioned. "go before me, and show me all those dreadful places. stop opposite to each, and don't speak to me unless i speak to you. don't look back. do what i want, and i will pay you well." jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider their meaning; considers it satisfactory, and nods his ragged head. "i am fly," says jo. "but fen larks, you know! stow hooking it!" "what does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant, recoiling from him. "stow cutting away, you know!" says jo. "i don't understand you. go on before! i will give you more money than you ever had in your life." jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way; passing deftly, with his bare feet, over the hard stones, and through the mud and mire. cook's court. jo stops. a pause. "who lives here?" "him wot give him his writing, and give me half a bull," says jo in a whisper, without looking over his shoulder. "go on to the next." krook's house. jo stops again. a longer pause. "who lives here!" "_he_ lived here," jo answers as before. after a silence, he is asked "in which room?" "in the back room up there. you can see the winder from this corner. up there! that's where i see him stritched out. this is the public ouse where i was took to." "go on to the next!" it is a longer walk to the next; but, jo relieved of his first suspicions, sticks to the terms imposed upon him, and does not look round. by many devious ways, reeking with offense of many kinds, they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted now), and to the iron gate. "he was put there," says jo, holding to the bars and looking in. "where? o, what a scene of horror!" "there!" says jo, pointing. "over yinder. among them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder! they put him very nigh the top. they was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. i could unkiver it for you, with my broom, if the gate was open. that's why they locks it, i s'pose," giving it a shake. "it's always locked. look at the rat!" cries jo, excited. "hi! look! there he goes! ho! into the ground!" the servant shrinks into a corner--into a corner of that hideous archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting out her two hands, and passionately telling him to keep away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. jo stands staring, and is still staring when she recovers herself. [illustration: consecrated ground.] "is this place of abomination, consecrated ground?" "i don't know nothink of consequential ground," says jo, still staring. "is it blessed?" "which?" says jo, in the last degree amazed. "is it blessed?" "i'm blest if i know," says jo, staring more than ever; "but i shouldn't think it warn't. blest?" repeats jo, something troubled in his mind. "it an't done it much good if it is. blest? i should think it was t'othered myself. but _i_ don't know nothink!" the servant takes as little heed of what he says, as she seems to take of what she has said herself. she draws off her glove, to get some money from her purse. jo silently notices how white and small her hand is, and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling rings. she drops a piece of money in his hand, without touching it, and shuddering as their hands approach. "now," she adds, "show me the spot again!" joe thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and, with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. at length, looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds that he is alone. his first proceeding is, to hold the piece of money to the gas-light, and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. his next, is, to give it a one-sided bite at the edge, as a test of its quality. his next, to put it in his mouth for safety, and to sweep the step and passage with great care. his job done, he sets off for tom-all-alone's; stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to produce the piece of gold, and give it another one-sided bite, as a re-assurance of its being genuine. the mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my lady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. sir leicester is fidgety, down at chesney wold, with no better company than the gout; he complains to mrs. rouncewell that the rain makes such a monotonous pattering on the terrace, that he can't read the paper, even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room. "sir leicester would have done better to try the other side of the house, my dear," says mrs. rouncewell to rosa. "his dressing-room is on my lady's side. and in all these years i never heard the step upon the ghost's walk, more distinct than it is to-night!" (to be continued.) footnote: [ ] continued from the july number. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] chapter xiii. we have seen squire hazeldean (proud of the contents of his pocket-book, and his knowledge of the mercenary nature of foreign women), set off on his visit to beatrice di negra. randal, thus left musing lone in the crowded streets, revolved with astute complacency the probable results of mr. hazeldean's bluff negotiation; and, convincing himself that one of his vistas toward fortune was becoming more clear and clear, he turned, with the restless activity of some founder of destined cities in a new settlement, to lop the boughs that cumbered and obscured the others. for truly, like a man in a vast columbian forest, opening entangled space, now with the ready ax, now with the patient train, that kindles the slower fire, this child of civilized life went toiling on against surrounding obstacles, resolute to destroy, but ever scheming to construct. and now randal has reached levy's dainty business-room, and is buried deep in discussion how to secure to himself, at the expense of his patron, the representation of lansmere, and how to complete the contract which shall reannex to his forlorn inheritance some fragments of its ancient wealth. meanwhile, chance fought on his side in the boudoir of may fair. the squire had found the marchesa at home--briefly introduced himself and his business--told her she was mistaken if she had fancied she had taken in a rich heir in his son--that, thank heaven, he could leave his estates to his plowman, if he so pleased, but that he was willing to do things liberally; and whatever she thought frank was worth, he was very ready to pay for. at another time beatrice would perhaps have laughed at this strange address; or she might, in some prouder moment, have fired up with all a patrician's resentment and a woman's pride; but now her spirit was crushed, her nerves shattered; the sense of her degraded position, of her dependence on her brother, combined with her supreme unhappiness at the loss of those dreams with which leonard had for a while charmed her wearied waking life--all came upon her. she listened, pale and speechless; and the poor squire thought he was quietly advancing toward a favorable result, when she suddenly burst into a passion of hysterical tears; and just at that moment frank himself entered the room. at the sight of his father, of beatrice's grief, his sense of filial duty gave way. he was maddened by irritation--by the insult offered to the woman he loved, which a few trembling words from her explained to him; maddened yet more by the fear that the insult had lost her to him--warm words ensued between son and father, to close with the peremptory command and vehement threat of the last. "come away this instant, sir! come with me, or before the day is over i strike you out of my will!" the son's answer was not to his father; he threw himself at beatrice's feet. "forgive him--forgive us both--" "what! you prefer that stranger to me--to the inheritance of hazeldean!" cried the squire, stamping his foot. "leave your estates to whom you will; all that i care for in life is here!" the squire stood still a moment or so, gazing on his son, with a strange bewildered marvel at the strength of that mystic passion, which none not laboring under its fearful charm can comprehend, which creates the sudden idol that no reason justifies, and sacrifices to its fatal shrine alike the past and the future. not trusting himself to speak, the father drew his hand across his eyes, and dashed away the bitter tear that sprang from a swelling indignant heart; then he uttered an inarticulate sound, and, finding his voice gone, moved away to the door, and left the house. he walked through the streets, bearing his head very erect, as a proud man does when deeply wounded, and striving to shake off some affection that he deems a weakness; and his trembling, nervous fingers fumbled at the button on his coat, trying to tighten the garment across his chest, as if to confirm a resolution that still sought to struggle out of the revolting heart. thus he went on, and the reader, perhaps, will wonder whither; and the wonder may not lessen when he finds the squire come to a dead pause in grosvenor square, and at the portico of his "distant brother's" stately house. at the squire's brief inquiry whether mr. egerton was at home, the porter summoned the groom of the chambers; and the groom of the chambers, seeing a stranger, doubted whether his master was not engaged, but would take in the stranger's card and see. "ay, ay," muttered the squire, "this is true relationship--my child prefers a stranger to me. why should i complain that i am a stranger in a brother's house. sir," added the squire aloud, and very meekly--"sir, please to say to your master that i am william hazeldean." the servant bowed low, and without another word conducted the visitor into the statesman's library, and announcing mr. hazeldean, closed the door. audley was seated at his desk, the grim iron boxes still at his feet, but they were now closed and locked. and the ex-minister was no longer looking over official documents; letters spread open before him, of far different nature; in his hand there lay a long lock of fair silken hair, on which his eyes were fixed sadly and intently. he started at the sound of his visitor's name, and the tread of the squire's stalwart footstep; and mechanically thrust into his bosom the relic of younger and warmer years, keeping his hand to his heart, which beat loud with disease, under the light pressure of that golden hair. the two brothers stood on the great man's lonely hearth, facing each other in silence, and noting unconsciously the change made in each during the long years in which they had never met. the squire, with his portly size, his hardy, sun-burnt cheeks, the partial baldness of his unfurrowed open forehead, looked his full age--deep into middle life. unmistakably he seemed the _paterfamilias_--the husband and the father--the man of social domestic ties. but about audley (really some few years junior to the squire), despite the lines of care on his handsome face, there still lingered the grace of youth. men of cities retain youth longer than those of the country--a remark which buffon has not failed to make and to account for. neither did egerton betray the air of the married man; for ineffable solitariness seemed stamped upon the man, whose private life had long been so stern a solitude. no ray from the focus of home played round that reserved, unjoyous, melancholy brow. in a word, audley looked still the man for whom some young female heart might fondly sigh; and not the less because of the cold eye and compressed lip, which challenged interest even while seeming to repel it. audley was the first to speak, and to put forth the right hand, which he stole slowly from its place at his breast, on which the lock of hair still stirred to and fro at the heave of the laboring heart. "william," said he, with his rich, deep voice, "this is kind. you are come to see me, now that men say i am fallen. the minister you censured is no more; and you see again the brother." the squire was softened at once by this address. he shook heartily the hand tendered to him; and then, turning away his head, with an honest conviction that audley ascribed to him a credit which he did not deserve, he said, "no, no, audley; i am more selfish than you think me. i have come--i have come to ask your advice--no, not exactly that--your opinion. but you are busy--?" "sit down, william. old days were coming over me when you entered; days earlier still return now--days, too, that leave no shadow when their suns are set." the proud man seemed to think he had said too much. his practical nature rebuked the poetic sentiment and phrase. he re-collected himself, and added, more coldly, "you would ask my opinion? what on? some public matter--some parliamentary bill that may affect your property?" "am i such a mean miser as that? property--property? what does property matter, when a man is struck down at his own hearth? property, indeed! but you have no child--happy brother!" "ay, ay; as you say, i am a happy man; childless! has your son displeased you? i have heard him spoken of well, too." "don't talk of him. whether his conduct be good or ill is my affair," resumed the poor father with a testy voice--jealous alike of audley's praise or blame of his rebellious son. then he rose a moment, and made a strong gulp as if for air; and laying his broad brown hand on his brother's shoulder, said, "randal leslie tells me you are wise--a consummate man of the world. no doubt you are so. and parson dale tells me that he is sure you have warm feelings--which i take to be a strange thing for one who has lived so long in london, and has no wife and no child--a widower, and a member of parliament--for a commercial city, too. never smile; it is no smiling matter with me. you know a foreign woman, called negra or negro--not a blackymoor, though, by any means--at least on the outside of her. is she such a woman as a plain country gentleman would like his only son to marry--ay or no?" "no, indeed," answered audley, gravely, "and i trust your son will commit no action so rash. shall i see him or her? speak, my dear william. what would you have me do?" "nothing; you have said enough," replied the squire, gloomily; and his head sank on his breast. audley took his hand, and pressed it fraternally. "william," said the statesman, "we have been long estranged; but i do not forget that when we last met, at--at lord lansmere's house, and when i took you aside, and said, 'william, if i lose this election, i must resign all chance of public life: my affairs are embarrassed; i may need--i would not accept money from you--i would seek a profession, and you can help me there,' you divined my meaning, and said--'take orders; the hazeldean living is just vacant. i will get some one to hold it till you are ordained.' i do not forget that. would that i had thought earlier of so serene an escape from all that then tormented me. my lot might have been far happier." the squire eyed audley with a surprise that broke forth from his more absorbing emotions. "happier! why, all things have prospered with you; and you are rich enough now; and--you shake your head. brother, is it possible! do you want money? pooh, not accept money from your mother's son!--stuff." out came the squire's pocket-book. audley put it gently aside. "nay," said he, "i have enough for myself; but since you seek and speak with me thus affectionately, i will ask you one favor. should i die before i can provide for my wife's kinsman, randal leslie, as i could wish, will you see to his fortunes, so far as you can, without injury to others--to your own son?" "my son! he _is_ provided for. he has the casino estate--much good may it do him. you have touched on the very matter that brought me here. this boy, randal leslie, seems a praiseworthy lad, and has hazeldean blood in his veins. you have taken him up because he is connected with your late wife. why should not i take him up, too, when his grandmother was a hazeldean? i wanted to ask you what you meant to do for him; for if you did not mean to provide for him, why i will, as in duty bound. so your request comes at the right time; i think of altering my will. i can put him into the entail, besides a handsome legacy. you are sure he is a good lad--and it will please you too, audley?" "but not at the expense of your son. and stay, william--as to this foolish marriage with madame di negra, who told you frank meant to take such a step?" "he told me himself; but it is no matter. randal and i both did all we could to dissuade him; and randal advised me to come to you." "he has acted generously, then, our kinsman randal--i am glad to hear it"--said audley, his brow somewhat clearing. "i have no influence with this lady; but at least, i can counsel her. do not consider the marriage fixed because a young man desires it. youth is ever hot and rash." "your youth never was," retorted the squire, bluntly. "you married well enough, i'm sure. i will say one thing for you: you have been, to my taste, a bad politician--beg pardon--but you were always a gentleman. you would never have disgraced your family and married a--" "hush!" interrupted egerton, gently. "do not make matters worse than they are. madame di negra is of high birth in her own country; and if scandal--" "scandal!" cried the squire, shrinking and turning pale. "are you speaking of the wife of a hazeldean? at least, she shall never sit by the hearth at which now sits his mother; and whatever i may do for frank, her children shall not succeed. no mongrel cross-breed shall kennel in english hazeldean. much obliged to you, audley, for your good feeling--glad to have seen you; and harkye, you startled me by that shake of your head, when i spoke of your wealth; and, from what you say about randal's prospects, i guess that you london gentlemen are not so thrifty as we are. you _shall_ let me speak. i say again, that i have some thousands quite at your service. and though you are not a hazeldean, still you are my mother's son; and now that i am about to alter my will, i can as well scratch in the name of egerton as that of leslie. cheer up, cheer up; you are younger than i am, and you have no child; so you will live longer than i shall." "my dear brother," answered audley, "believe me, i shall never live to want your aid. and as to leslie, add to the £ i mean to give him, an equal sum in your will, and i shall feel that he has received justice." observing that the squire, though he listened attentively, made no ready answer, audley turned the subject again to frank; and with the adroitness of a man of the world, backed by cordial sympathy in his brother's distress, he pleaded so well frank's lame cause, urged so gently the wisdom of patience and delay, and the appeal to filial feeling rather than recourse to paternal threats, that the squire grew molified in spite of himself, and left his brother's house a much less angry, and less doleful man. mr. hazeldean was still in the square when he came upon randal himself, who was walking with a dark-whiskered, showy gentleman, toward egerton's house. randal and the gentleman exchanged a hasty whisper, and the former exclaimed, "what, mr. hazeldean, have you just left your brother's house? is it possible?" "why, you advised me to go there, and i did. i scarcely knew what i was about. i am very glad i did go. hang politics! hang the landed interest! what do i care for either now?" "foiled with madame di negra?" asked randal, drawing the squire aside. "never speak of her again!" cried the squire, fiercely. "and as to that ungrateful boy--but i don't mean to behave harshly to him--he shall have money enough to keep her if he likes--keep her from coming to me--keep him, too, from counting on my death, and borrowing post-obits on the casino--for he'll be doing that next--no, i hope i wrong him there; i have been too good a father for him to count on my death already. after all," continued the squire, beginning to relax, "as audley says, the marriage is not yet made; and if the woman has taken him in, he is young, and his heart is warm. make yourself easy, my boy. i don't forget how kindly you took his part; and before i do any thing rash, i'll at least take advice with his poor mother." randal gnawed his pale lip, and a momentary cloud of disappointment passed over his face. "true, sir," said he, gently; "true, you must not be rash. indeed, i was thinking of you and poor dear frank at the very moment i met you. it occurred to me whether we might not make frank's very embarrassments a reason to induce madame di negra to refuse him; and i was on my way to mr. egerton, in order to ask his opinion, in company with the gentleman yonder." "gentleman yonder? why should he thrust his long nose into my family affairs? who the devil is he?" "don't ask, sir. pray let me act." but the squire continued to eye askant the dark-whiskered personage thus thrust between himself and his son, and who waited patiently a few yards in the rear, carelessly readjusting the camellia in his button-hole. "he looks very outlandish. is he a foreigner, too?" asked the squire, at last. "no, not exactly. however, he knows all about frank's embarrassments; and--" "embarrassments! what, the debt he paid for that woman? how did he raise the money?" "i don't know," answered randal; "and that is the reason i asked baron levy to accompany me to egerton's, that he might explain in private what i have no reason--" "baron levy!" interrupted the squire. "levy, levy--i have heard of a levy who has nearly ruined my neighbor, thornhill--a money-lender. zounds! is that the man who knows my son's affairs? i'll soon learn, sir." randal caught hold of the squire's arm: "stop, stop; if you really insist upon learning more about frank's debts, you must not appeal to baron levy directly, and as frank's father; he will not answer you. but if i present you to him as a mere acquaintance of mine, and turn the conversation, as if carelessly, upon frank--why, since, in the london world, such matters are never kept secret except from the parents of young men--i have no doubt he will talk out openly." "manage it as you will," said the squire. randal took mr. hazeldean's arm, and joined levy--"a friend of mine from the country, baron." levy bowed profoundly, and the three walked slowly on. "by-the-by," said randal, pressing significantly upon levy's arm, "my friend has come to town upon the somewhat unpleasant business of settling the debts of another--a young man of fashion--a relation of his own. no one, sir (turning to the squire), could so ably assist you in such arrangements as could baron levy." baron (modestly, and with a moralizing air).--"i have some experience in such matters, and i hold it a duty to assist the parents and relations of young men who, from want of reflection, often ruin themselves for life. i hope the young gentleman in question is not in the hands of the jews?" randal.--"christians are as fond of good interest for their money as ever the jews can be." baron.--"granted, but they have not always so much money to lend. the first thing, sir (addressing the squire)--the first thing for you to do is to buy up such of your relation's bills and notes of hand as may be in the market. no doubt we can get them a bargain, unless the young man is heir to some property that may soon be his in the course of nature." randal.--"not soon--heaven forbid! his father is still a young man--a fine healthy man," leaning heavily on levy's arm; "and as to post-obits--" baron.--"post-obits on sound security cost more to buy up, however healthy the obstructing relative may be." randal.--"i should hope that there are not many sons who can calculate, in cold blood, on the death of their fathers." baron.--"ha, ha--he is young, our friend, randal; eh, sir?" randal.--"well, i am not more scrupulous than others, i dare say: and i have often been pinched hard for money, but i would go barefoot rather than give security upon a father's grave! i can imagine nothing more likely to destroy natural feeling, nor to instill ingratitude and treachery into the whole character, than to press the hand of a parent, and calculate when that hand may be dust--than to sit down with strangers and reduce his life to the measure of an insurance table--than to feel difficulties gathering round one, and mutter in fashionable slang, 'but it will be all well if the governor would but die.' and he who has accustomed himself to the relief of post-obits must gradually harden his mind to all this." the squire groaned heavily; and had randal proceeded another sentence in the same strain, the squire would have wept outright. "but," continued randal, altering the tone of his voice, "i think that our young friend of whom we were talking just now, levy, before this gentleman joined us, has the same opinion as myself on this head. he may accept bills, but he would never sign post-obits." baron (who with the apt docility of a managed charger to the touch of a rider's hand, had comprehended and complied with each quick sign of randal's).--"pooh! the young fellow we are talking of? nonsense. he would not be so foolish as to give five times the percentage he otherwise might. not sign post-obits! of course he has signed one." randal.--"hist--you mistake, you mistake." squire (leaving randal's arm and seizing levy's).--"were you speaking of frank hazeldean?" baron.--"my dear sir, excuse me; i never mention names before strangers." squire.--"strangers again! man, i am the boy's father! speak out, sir," and his hand closed on levy's arm with the strength of an iron vice. baron.--"gently; you hurt me, sir; but i excuse your feelings. randal, you are to blame for leading me into this indiscretion; but i beg to assure mr. hazeldean, that though his son has been a little extravagant--" randal.--"owing chiefly to the arts of an abandoned woman." baron.--"of an abandoned woman; still he has shown more prudence than you would suppose; and this very post-obit is a proof of it. a simple act of that kind has enabled him to pay off bills that were running on till they would have ruined even the hazeldean estate; whereas a charge on the reversion of the casino--" squire.--"he has done it then? he has signed a post-obit?" randal.--"no, no; levy must be wrong." baron.--"my dear leslie, a man of mr. hazeldean's time of life can not have your romantic boyish notions. he must allow that frank has acted in this like a lad of sense--very good head for business has my young friend frank! and the best thing mr. hazeldean can do is quietly to buy up the post-obit, and thus he will place his son henceforth in his own power." squire.--"can i see the deed with my own eyes?" baron.--"certainly, or how could you be induced to buy it up? but on one condition; you must not betray me to your son. and, indeed, take my advice, and don't say a word to him on the matter." squire.--"let me see it, let me see it with my own eyes. his mother else will never believe it--nor will i." baron.--"i can call on you this evening." squire.--"now--now." baron.--"you can spare me, randal; and you yourself can open to mr. egerton the other affair, respecting lansmere. no time should be lost, lest l'estrange suggest a candidate." _randal_ (whispering).--"never mind me.--this is more important. (aloud)--go with mr. hazeldean. my dear kind friend (to the squire), do not let this vex you so much. after all, it is what nine young men out of ten would do in the same circumstances. and it is best you should know it; you may save frank from farther ruin, and prevent, perhaps, this very marriage." "we will see," exclaimed the squire, hastily. "now, mr. levy, come." levy and the squire walked on not arm-in-arm, but side by side. randal proceeded to egerton's house. "i am glad to see you, leslie," said the ex-minister. "what is it i have heard? my nephew, frank hazeldean, proposes to marry madame di negra against his father's consent? how could you suffer him to entertain an idea so wild? and how never confide it to me?" randal.--"my dear mr. egerton, it is only to-day that i was informed of frank's engagement. i have already seen him, and expostulated in vain; till then, though i knew your nephew admired madame di negra, i could never suppose he harbored a serious intention." egerton.--"i must believe you, randal. i will myself see madame di negra, though i have no power, and no right, to dictate to her. i have but little time for all such private business. the dissolution of parliament is so close at hand." randal (looking down.)--"it is on that subject that i wished to speak to you, sir. you think of standing for lansmere. well, baron levy has suggested to me an idea that i could not, of course, even countenance, till i had spoken to you. it seems that he has some acquaintance with the state of parties in that borough! he is informed that it is not only as easy to bring in two of our side, as to carry one; but that it would make your election still more safe, not to fight single-handed against two opponents; that if canvassing for yourself alone, you could not carry a sufficient number of plumper votes; that split votes would go from you to one or other of the two adversaries; that, in a word, it is necessary to pair you with a colleague. if it really be so, you of course will learn best from your own committee; but should they concur in the opinion baron levy has formed--do i presume too much on your kindness--to deem it possible that you might allow me to be the second candidate on your side? i should not say this, but that levy told me you had some wish to see me in parliament, among the supporters of your policy. and what other opportunity can occur? here the cost of carrying two would be scarcely more than that of carrying one. and levy says, the party would subscribe for my election; you, of course, would refuse all such aid for your own; and indeed, with your great name, and lord lansmere's interest, there can be little beyond the strict legal expenses." as randal spoke thus at length, he watched anxiously his patron's reserved, unrevealing countenance. egerton (drily.)--"i will consider. you may safely leave in my hands any matter connected with your ambition and advancement. i have before told you i hold it a duty to do all in my power for the kinsman of my late wife--for one whose career i undertook to forward--for one whom honor has compelled to share in my own political reverses." here egerton rang the bell for his hat, and gloves, and walking into the hall, paused at the street door. there beckoning to randal, he said slowly, "you seem intimate with baron levy; i caution you against him--a dangerous acquaintance, first to the purse, next to the honor." randal.--"i know it, sir; and am surprised myself at the acquaintance that has grown up between us. perhaps its cause is in his respect for yourself." egerton.--"tut." randal.--"whatever it be, he contrives to obtain a singular hold over one's mind, even where, as in my case, he has no evident interest to serve. how is this? it puzzles me!" egerton.--"for his interest, it is most secured where he suffers it to be least evident; for his hold over the mind, it is easily accounted for. he ever appeals to two temptations, strong with all men--avarice and ambition.--good-day." randal.--"are you going to madame di negra's? shall i not accompany you? perhaps i may be able to back your own remonstrances." egerton.--"no, i shall not require you." randal.--"i trust i shall hear the result of your interview? i feel so much interested in it. poor frank!" audley nodded. "of course, of course." chapter xiv. on entering the drawing-room of madame di negra, the peculiar charm which the severe audley egerton had been ever reputed to possess with women, would have sensibly struck one who had hitherto seen him chiefly in his relations with men in the business-like affairs of life. it was a charm in strong contrast to the ordinary manners of those who are emphatically called "ladies' men." no artificial smile, no conventional hollow blandness, no frivolous gossip, no varnish either of ungenial gayety or affected grace. the charm was in a simplicity that unbent more into kindness than it did with men. audley's nature, whatever its faults and defects, was essentially masculine; and it was the sense of masculine power that gave to his voice a music when addressing the gentler sex--a sort of indulgent tenderness that appeared equally void of insincerity and presumption. frank had been gone about half-an-hour, and madame di negra was scarcely recovered from the agitation into which she had been thrown by the affront from the father and the pleading of the son. egerton took her passive hand cordially, and seated himself by her side. "my dear marchesa," said he, "are we then likely to be near connections? and can you seriously contemplate marriage with my young nephew, frank hazeldean? you turn away. ah, my fair friend, there are but two inducements to a free woman to sign away her liberty at the altar. i say a free woman, for widows are free, and girls are not. these inducements are, first, worldly position; secondly, love. which of these motives can urge madame di negra to marry mr. frank hazeldean?" "there are other motives than those you speak of--the need of protection--the sense of solitude--the curse of dependence--gratitude for honorable affection. but you men never know women!" "i grant that you are right there--we never do; neither do women ever know men. and yet each sex contrives to dupe and to fool the other! listen to me. i have little acquaintance with my nephew, but i allow he is a handsome young gentleman, with whom a handsome young lady in her teens might fall in love in a ball-room. but you who have known the higher order of our species--you who have received the homage of men, whose thoughts and mind leave the small talk of drawing-room triflers--so poor and bald--you can not look me in the face and say that it is any passion resembling love which you feel for my nephew. and as to position, it is right that i should inform you that if he marry you he will have none. he may risk his inheritance. you will receive no countenance from his parents. you will be poor, but not free. you will not gain the independence you seek for. the sight of a vacant, discontented face in that opposite chair will be worse than solitude. and as to grateful affection," added the man of the world, "it is a polite synonym for tranquil indifference." "mr. egerton," said beatrice, "people say you are made of bronze. did you ever feel the want of a home?" "i answer you frankly," replied the statesman, "if i had not felt it, do you think i should have been, and that i should be to the last, the joyless drudge of public life? bronze though you call my nature, it would have melted away long since like wax in the fire, if i had sat idly down and dreamed of a _home_!" "but we women," answered beatrice, with pathos, "have no public life, and we do idly sit down and dream. oh," she continued, after a short pause, and clasping her hands firmly together, "you think me worldly, grasping, ambitious; how different my fate had been had i known a home!--known one whom i could love and venerate--known one whose smiles would have developed the good that was once within me, and the fear of whose rebuking or sorrowful eye would have corrected what is evil." "yet," answered audley, "nearly all women in the great world have had that choice once in their lives, and nearly all have thrown it away. how few of your rank really think of home when they marry--how few ask to venerate as well as to love--and how many of every rank, when the home has been really gained, have willfully lost its shelter; some in neglectful weariness--some from a momentary doubt, distrust, caprice--a wild fancy--a passionate fit--a trifle--a straw--a dream! true, you women are ever dreamers. common sense, common earth, is above or below your comprehension." both now were silent, audley first roused himself with a quick, writhing movement. "we two," said he, smiling half sadly, half cynically--"we two must not longer waste time in talking sentiment. we know both too well what life, as it has been made for us by our faults or our misfortunes, truly is. and once again, i entreat you to pause before you yield to the foolish suit of my foolish nephew. rely on it, you will either command a higher offer for your prudence to accept; or, if you needs must sacrifice rank and fortune, you, with your beauty and your romantic heart, will see one who, at least for a fair holiday season (if human love allows no more), can repay you for the sacrifice. frank hazeldean never can." beatrice turned away to conceal the tears that rushed to her eyes. "think over this well," said audley, in the softest tone of his mellow voice. "do you remember that when you first came to england, i told you that neither wedlock nor love had any lures for me. we grew friends upon that rude avowal, and therefore i now speak to you like some sage of old, wise because standing apart and aloof from all the affections and ties that mislead our wisdom. nothing but real love--(how rare it is; has one human heart in a million ever known it!) nothing but real love can repay us for the loss of freedom--the cares and fears of poverty--the cold pity of the world that we both despise and respect. and all these, and much more, follow the step you would inconsiderately take--an imprudent marriage." "audley egerton," said beatrice, lifting her dark, moistened eyes, "you grant that real love does compensate for an imprudent marriage. you speak as if you had known such love--you! can it be possible?" "real love--i thought that i knew it once. looking back with remorse, i should doubt it now but for one curse that only real love, when lost, has the power to leave evermore behind it." "what is that?" "a void here," answered egerton, striking his heart. "desolation!--adieu!" he rose and left the room. "is it," murmured egerton, as he pursued his way through the streets--"is it that, as we approach death, all the first fair feelings of young life come back to us mysteriously? thus i have heard, or read, that in some country of old, children scattering flowers, preceded a funeral bier." chapter xv. and so leonard stood beside his friend's mortal clay, and watched, in the ineffable smile of death, the last gleam which the soul had left there; and so, after a time, he crept back to the adjoining room with a step as noiseless as if he had feared to disturb the dead. wearied as he was with watching, he had no thought of sleep. he sate himself down by the little table, and leaned his face on his hand, musing sorrowfully. thus time passed. he heard the clock from below strike the hours. in the house of death the sound of a clock becomes so solemn. the soul that we miss has gone so far beyond the reach of time! a cold, superstitious awe gradually stole over the young man. he shivered, and lifted his eyes with a start, half scornful, half defying. the moon was gone--the gray, comfortless dawn gleamed through the casement, and carried its raw, chilling light through the open doorway, into the death-room. and there, near the extinguished fire, leonard saw the solitary woman, weeping low, and watching still. he returned to say a word of comfort--she pressed his hand, but waved him away. he understood. she did not wish for other comfort than her quiet relief of tears. again, he returned to his own chamber, and his eyes this time fell upon the papers which he had hitherto disregarded. what made his heart stand still, and the blood then rush so quickly through his veins? why did he seize upon those papers with so tremulous a hand--then lay them down--pause, as if to nerve himself--and look so eagerly again? he recognized the handwriting--those fair, clear characters--so peculiar in their woman-like delicacy and grace--the same as in the wild, pathetic poems, the sight of which had made an era in his boyhood. from these pages the image of the mysterious nora rose once more before him. he felt that he was with a mother. he went back, and closed the door gently, as if with a jealous piety, to exclude each ruder shadow from the world of spirits, and be alone with that mournful ghost. for a thought written in warm, sunny life, and then suddenly rising up to us, when the hand that traced, and the heart that cherished it, are dust, is verily as a ghost. it is a likeness struck off of the fond human being, and surviving it. far more truthful than bust or portrait, it bids us see the tear flow, and the pulse beat. what ghost can the church-yard yield to us like the writing of the dead? the bulk of the papers had been once lightly sewn to each other--they had come undone, perhaps in burley's rude hands; but their order was easily apparent. leonard soon saw that they formed a kind of journal--not, indeed, a regular diary, nor always relating to the things of the day. there were gaps in time--no attempt at successive narrative. sometimes, instead of prose, a hasty burst of verse, gushing evidently from the heart--sometimes all narrative was left untold, and yet, as it were, epitomized, by a single burning line--a single exclamation--of woe, or joy! everywhere you saw records of a nature exquisitely susceptible; and where genius appeared, it was so artless, that you did not call it genius, but emotion. at the outset the writer did not speak of herself in the first person. the ms. opened with descriptions and short dialogues, carried on by persons to whose names only initial letters were assigned, all written in a style of simple, innocent freshness, and breathing of purity and happiness, like a dawn of spring. two young persons, humbly born--a youth and a girl--the last still in childhood, each chiefly self-taught, are wandering on sabbath evenings among green dewy fields, near the busy town, in which labor awhile is still. few words pass between them. you see at once, though the writer does not mean to convey it, how far beyond the scope of her male companion flies the heavenward imagination of the girl. it is he who questions--it is she who answers; and soon there steals upon you, as you read, the conviction that the youth loves the girl, and loves in vain. all in this writing, though terse, is so truthful! leonard, in the youth, already recognizes the rude, imperfect scholar--the village bard--mark fairfield. then, there is a gap in description--but there are short weighty sentences, which show deepening thought, increasing years, in the writer. and though the innocence remains, the happiness begins to be less vivid on the page. now, insensibly, leonard finds that there is a new phase in the writer's existence. scenes, no longer of humble work-day rural life, surround her. and a fairer and more dazzling image succeeds to the companion of the sabbath eves. this image nora evidently loves to paint--it is akin to her own genius--it captivates her fancy--it is an image that she (inborn artist, and conscious of her art) feels to belong to a brighter and higher school of the beautiful. and yet the virgin's heart is not awakened--no trace of the heart yet there. the new image thus introduced is one of her own years, perhaps; nay, it may be younger still--for it is a boy that is described, with his profuse fair curls, and eyes new to grief, and confronting the sun as a young eagle's; with veins so full of the wine of life, that they overflow into every joyous whim; with nerves quiveringly alive to the desire of glory; with the frank generous nature rash in its laughing scorn of the world, which it has not tried. who was this boy, it perplexed leonard. he feared to guess. soon, less told than implied, you saw that this companionship, however it chanced, brings fear and pain on the writer. again (as before), with mark fairfield, there is love on the one side and not on the other; with her there is affectionate, almost sisterly, interest, admiration, gratitude--but a something of pride or of terror that keeps back love. here leonard's interest grew intense. were there touches by which conjecture grew certainty; and he recognized, through the lapse of years, the boy lover in his own generous benefactor? fragments of dialogue now began to reveal the suit of an ardent impassioned nature, and the simple wonder and strange alarm of a listener who pitied but could not sympathize. some great worldly distinction of rank between the two became visible--that distinction seemed to arm the virtue and steel the affections of the lowlier born. then a few sentences, half blotted out with tears, told of wounded and humbled feelings--some one invested with authority, as if the suitor's parent, had interfered, questioned, reproached, counseled. and it was now evident that the suit was not one that dishonored;--it wooed to flight, but still to marriage. and now these sentences grew briefer still, as with the decision of a strong resolve. and to these there followed a passage so exquisite, that leonard wept unconsciously as he read. it was the description of a visit spent at home previous to some sorrowful departure. there rose up the glimpse of a proud and vain, but a tender wistful mother--of a father's fonder but less thoughtful love. and then came a quiet soothing scene between the girl and her first village lover, ending thus--"so she put m's hand into her sister's, and said: 'you loved me through the fancy, love her with the heart,' and left them comprehending each other, and betrothed." leonard sighed. he understood now how mark fairfield saw in the homely features of his unlettered wife the reflection of the sister's soul and face. a few words told the final parting--words that were a picture. the long friendless highway, stretching on--on--toward the remorseless city. and the doors of home opening on the desolate thoroughfare--and the old pollard tree beside the threshold, with the ravens wheeling round it and calling to their young. he too had watched that threshold from the same desolate thoroughfare. he too had heard the cry of the ravens. then came some pages covered with snatches of melancholy verse, or some reflections of dreamy gloom. the writer was in london, in the house of some highborn patroness--that friendless shadow of a friend which the jargon of society calls "companion." and she was looking on the bright storm of the world as through prison bars. poor bird, afar from the greenwood, she had need of song--it was her last link with freedom and nature. the patroness seems to share in her apprehensions of the boy suitor, whose wild rash prayers the fugitive had resisted: but to fear lest the suitor should be degraded, not the one whom he pursues--fears an alliance ill-suited to a highborn heir. and this kind of fear stings the writer's pride, and she grows harsh in her judgment of him who thus causes but pain where he proffers love. then there is a reference to some applicant for her hand, who is pressed upon her choice. and she is told that it is her duty so to choose, and thus deliver a noble family from a dread that endures so long as her hand is free. and of this fear, and of this applicant, there breaks out a petulant yet pathetic scorn. after this, the narrative, to judge by the dates, pauses for days and weeks, as if the writer had grown weary and listless--suddenly to reopen in a new strain, eloquent with hopes, and with fears never known before. the first person was abruptly assumed--it was the living "i" that now breathed and moved along the lines. how was this? the woman was no more a shadow and a secret unknown to herself. she had assumed the intense and vivid sense of individual being. and love spoke loud in the awakened human heart. a personage not seen till then appeared on the page. and ever afterward this personage was only named as "_he_," as if the one and sole representative of all the myriads that walk the earth. the first notice of this prominent character on the scene showed the restless, agitated effect produced on the writer's imagination. he was invested with a romance probably not his own. he was described in contrast to the brilliant boy whose suit she had feared, pitied, and now sought to shun--described with a grave and serious, but gentle mein--a voice that imposed respect--an eye and lip that showed collected dignity of will. alas! the writer betrayed herself, and the charm was in the contrast, not to the character of the earlier lover, but her own. and now, leaving leonard to explore and guess his way through the gaps and chasms of the narrative, it is time to place before the reader what the narrative alone will not reveal to leonard. chapter xvi. nora avenel had fled from the boyish love of harley l'estrange--recommended by lady lansmere to a valetudinarian relative of her own, lady jane horton, as companion. but lady lansmere could not believe it possible that the low-born girl could long sustain her generous pride, and reject the ardent suit of one who could offer to her the prospective coronet of a countess. she continually urged upon lady jane the necessity of marrying nora to some one of rank less disproportioned to her own, and empowered the lady to assure any such wooer of a dowry far beyond nora's station. lady jane looked around, and saw in the outskirts of her limited social ring, a young solicitor, a peer's natural son, who was on terms of more than business-like intimacy with the fashionable clients whose distresses made the origin of his wealth. the young man was handsome, well-dressed, and bland. lady jane invited him to her house; and, seeing him struck dumb with the rare loveliness of nora, whispered the hint of the dower. the fashionable solicitor, who afterward ripened into baron levy, did not need that hint; for, though then poor, he relied on himself for fortune, and, unlike randal, he had warm blood in his veins. but lady jane's suggestions made him sanguine of success; and when he formally proposed, and was as formally refused, his self-love was bitterly wounded. vanity in levy was a powerful passion; and with the vain, hatred is strong, revenge is rankling. levy retired, concealing his rage; nor did he himself know how vindictive that rage, when it cooled into malignancy, could become, until the arch-fiend opportunity prompted its indulgence and suggested its design. lady jane was at first very angry with nora for the rejection of a suitor whom she had presented as eligible. but the pathetic grace of this wonderful girl had crept into her heart, and softened it even against family prejudice; and she gradually owned to herself that nora was worthy of some one better than mr. levy. now, harley had ever believed that nora returned his love, and that nothing but her own sense of gratitude to his parents--her own instincts of delicacy, made her deaf to his prayers. to do him justice, wild and headstrong as he then was, his suit would have ceased at once had he really deemed it persecution. nor was his error unnatural; for his conversation, till it had revealed his own heart, could not fail to have dazzled and delighted the child of genius; and her frank eyes would have shown the delight. how, at his age, could he see the distinction between the poetess and the woman? the poetess was charmed with rare promise in a soul of which the very errors were the extravagances of richness and beauty. but the woman--no! the woman required some nature not yet undeveloped, and all at turbulent if brilliant strife with its own noble elements--but a nature formed and full grown. harley was a boy, and nora was one of those women who must find or fancy an ideal that commands and almost awes them into love. harley discovered, not without difficulty, nora's new residence. he presented himself at lady jane's, and she, with grave rebuke, forbade him the house. he found it impossible to obtain an interview with nora. he wrote, but he felt sure that his letters never reached her, since they were unanswered. his young heart swelled with rage. he dropped threats, which alarmed all the fears of lady lansmere, and even the prudent apprehensions of his friend, audley egerton. at the request of the mother, and equally at the wish of the son, audley consented to visit at lady jane's, and make acquaintance with nora. "i have such confidence in you," said lady lansmere, "that if you once know the girl, your advice will be sure to have weight with her. you will show her how wicked it would be to let harley break our hearts and degrade his station." "i have such confidence in you," said young harley, "that if you once know my nora, you will no longer side with my mother. you will recognize the nobility which nature only can create--you will own that nora is worthy a rank more lofty than mine; and my mother so believes in your wisdom, that if you plead in my cause, you will convince even her." audley listened to both with his intelligent, half-incredulous smile; and wholly of the same advice as lady lansmere, and sincerely anxious to save harley from an indiscretion that his own notions led him to regard as fatal, he resolved to examine this boasted pearl, and to find out its flaws. audley egerton was then in the prime of his earnest, resolute, ambitious youth. the stateliness of his natural manners had then a suavity and polish which, even in later and busier life, it never wholly lost; since, in spite of the briefer words and the colder looks by which care and powers mark the official man, the minister had ever enjoyed that personal popularity which the indefinable, external something, that wins and pleases, can alone confer. but he had even then, as ever, that felicitous reserve which rochefoucault has called the "mystery of the body"--that thin yet guardian vail which reveals but the strong outlines of character, and excites so much of interest by provoking so much of conjecture. to the man who is born with this reserve, which is wholly distinct from shyness, the world gives credit for qualities and talents beyond those that it perceives; and such characters are attractive to others in proportion as these last are gifted with the imagination which loves to divine the unknown. at the first interview, the impression which this man produced upon nora avenel was profound and strange. she had heard of him before as the one whom harley most loved and looked up to; and she recognized at once in his mien, his aspect, his words, the very tone of his deep tranquil voice, the power to which woman, whatever her intellect, never attains; and to which, therefore, she imputes a nobility not always genuine--viz., the power of deliberate purpose, and self-collected, serene ambition. the effect that nora produced on egerton was not less sudden. he was startled by a beauty of face and form that belonged to that rarest order, which we never behold but once or twice in our lives. he was yet more amazed to discover that the aristocracy of mind could bestow a grace that no aristocracy of birth could surpass. he was prepared for a simple, blushing village girl, and involuntarily he bowed low his proud front at the first sight of that delicate bloom, and that exquisite gentleness which is woman's surest passport to the respect of man. neither in the first, nor the second, nor the third interview, nor, indeed, till after many interviews, could he summon up courage to commence his mission, and allude to harley. and when he did so at last, his words faltered. but nora's words were clear to him. he saw that harley was not loved; and a joy that he felt as guilty, darted through his whole frame. from that interview audley returned home greatly agitated, and at war with himself. often, in the course of this story, has it been hinted that under all egerton's external coldness, and measured self-control, lay a nature capable of strong and stubborn passions. those passions broke forth then. he felt that love had already entered into the heart, which the trust of his friend should have sufficed to guard. "i will go there no more," said he, abruptly, to harley. "but why?" "the girl does not love you. cease then to think of her." harley disbelieved him, and grew indignant. but audley had every worldly motive to assist his sense of honor. he was poor, though with the reputation of wealth--deeply involved in debt--resolved to rise in life--tenacious of his position in the world's esteem. against a host of counteracting influences, love fought single-handed. audley's was a strong nature; but, alas! in strong natures, if resistance to temptation is of granite, so the passions that they admit are of fire. trite is the remark, that the destinies of our lives often date from the impulses of unguarded moments. it was so with this man, to an ordinary eye so cautious and so deliberate. harley one day came to him in great grief; he had heard that nora was ill; he implored audley to go once more and ascertain. audley went. lady jane horton, who was suffering under a disease which not long afterward proved fatal, was too ill to receive him. he was shown into the room set apart as nora's. while waiting for her entrance, he turned mechanically over the leaves of an album which nora, suddenly summoned away to attend lady jane, had left behind her on the table. he saw the sketch of his own features; he read words inscribed below it--words of such artless tenderness, and such unhoping sorrow--words written by one who had been accustomed to regard her genius as her sole confidant, under heaven, to pour out to it, as the solitary poet-heart is impelled to do, thoughts, feelings, and confession of mystic sighs, which it would never breathe to a living ear, and, save at such moments, scarcely acknowledge to itself. audley saw that he was beloved, and the revelation, with a sudden light, consumed all the barriers between himself and his own love. and at that moment nora entered. she saw him bending over the book. she uttered a cry--sprang forward--and then sank down, covering her face with her hands. but audley was at her feet. he forgot his friend, his trust; he forgot ambition--he forgot the world. it was his own cause that he pleaded--his own love that burst forth from his lips. and when the two that day parted, they were betrothed each to each. alas for them, and alas for harley! and now this man, who had hitherto valued himself as the very type of gentleman--whom all his young contemporaries had so regarded and so revered--had to press the head of a confiding friend and bid adieu to truth. he had to amuse, to delay, to mislead his boy-rival--to say that he was already subduing nora's hesitating doubts--and that within a little time, she could be induced to consent to forget harley's rank, and his parent's pride, and become his wife. and harley believed in egerton, without one suspicion on the mirror of his loyal soul. meanwhile audley impatient of his own position--impatient, as strong minds ever are, to hasten what they have once resolved--to terminate a suspense that every interview with harley tortured alike by jealousy and shame--to put himself out of the reach of scruples, and to say to himself, "right or wrong, there is no looking back; the deed is done;"--audley, thus hurried on by the impetus of his own power of will, pressed for speedy and secret nuptials--secret till his fortunes, then wavering, were more assured--his career fairly commenced. this was not his strongest motive, though it was one. he shrank from the discovery of his wrong to his friend--desired to delay the self-humiliation of such announcement, until, as he persuaded himself, harley's boyish passion was over--had yielded to the new allurements that would naturally beset his way. stifling his conscience, audley sought to convince himself that the day would soon come when harley could hear with indifference that nora avenel was another's "the dream of an hour, at his age," murmured the elder friend; "but at mine, the passion of a life!" he did not speak of these latter motives for concealment to nora. he felt that, to own the extent of his treason to a friend, would lower him in her eyes. he spoke therefore but slightingly of harley--treated the boy's suit as a thing past and gone. he dwelt only on reasons that compelled self-sacrifice on his side or hers. she did not hesitate which to choose. and so, where nora loved, so submissively did she believe in the superiority of the lover, that she would not pause to hear a murmur from her own loftier nature, or question the propriety of what he deemed wise and good. abandoning prudence in this arch affair of life, audley still preserved his customary caution in minor details. and this indeed was characteristic of him throughout all his career--heedless in large things--wary in small. he would not trust lady jane horton with his secret, still less lady lansmere. he simply represented to the former, that nora was no longer safe from harley's determined pursuit under lady jane's roof, and that she had better elude the boy's knowledge of her movements, and go quietly away for a while, to lodge with some connection of her own. and so, with lady jane's acquiescence, nora went first to the house of a very distant kinswoman of her mother's, and afterward to one that egerton took as their bridal home, under the name of bertram. he arranged all that might render their marriage most free from the chance of premature discovery. but it so happened, on the very morning of their bridal, that one of the witnesses he selected (a confidential servant of his own) was seized with apoplexy. considering, in haste, where to find a substitute, egerton thought of levy, his own private solicitor, his own fashionable money-lender, a man with whom he was then as intimate as a fine gentleman is with the lawyer of his own age, who knows all his affairs, and has helped from pure friendship, to make them as bad as they are! levy was thus suddenly summoned. egerton, who was in great haste, did not at first communicate to him the name of the intended bride; but he said enough of the imprudence of the marriage, and his reasons for secrecy, to bring on himself the strongest remonstrances; for levy had always reckoned on egerton's making a wealthy marriage, leaving to egerton the wife, and hoping to appropriate to himself the wealth, all in the natural course of business. egerton did not listen to him, but hurried him on toward the place at which the ceremony was to be performed; and levy actually saw the bride, before he had learned her name. the usurer masked his raging emotions, and fulfilled his part in the rites. his smile, when he congratulated the bride, might have shot cold into her heart; but her eyes were cast on the earth, seeing there but a shadow from heaven, and her heart was blindly sheltering itself in the bosom to which it was given evermore. she did not perceive the smile of hate that barbed the words of joy. nora never thought it necessary later to tell egerton that levy had been a refused suitor. indeed, with the exquisite taste of love, she saw that such a confidence, the idea of such a rival, would have wounded the pride of her high-bred, well-born husband. and now, while harley l'estrange, frantic with the news that nora had left lady jane's roof, and purposely misled into wrong directions, was seeking to trace her refuge in vain--now egerton, in an assumed name, in a remote quarter, far from the clubs in which his word was oracular--far from the pursuits, whether of pastime or toil, that had hitherto engrossed his active mind, gave himself up, with wonder at himself, to the only vision of fairyland that ever weighs down the watchful eyelids of hard ambition. the world for a while shut out, he missed it not. he knew not of it. he looked into two loving eyes that haunted him ever after, through a stern and arid existence, and said murmuringly, "why, this, then, is real happiness!" often, often, in the solitude of other years, to repeat to himself the same words, save that for _is_, he then murmured _was_! and nora, with her grand, full heart, all her luxuriant wealth of fancy and of thought, child of light and of song, did she then never discover that there was something comparatively narrow and sterile in the nature to which she had linked her fate? not there, could ever be sympathy in feelings, brilliant and shifting as the tints of the rainbow. when audley pressed her heart to his own, could he comprehend one finer throb of its beating? was all the iron of his mind worth one grain of the gold she had cast away in harley's love? did nora already discover this? surely no. genius feels no want, no repining, while the heart is contented. genius in her paused and slumbered: it had been as the ministrant of solitude: it was needed no more. if a woman loves deeply some one below her own grade in the mental and spiritual orders, how often we see that she unconsciously quits her own rank, comes meekly down to the level of the beloved, is afraid lest he should deem her the superior--she who would not even be the equal. nora knew no more that she had genius; she only knew that she had love. and so here, the journal which leonard was reading changed its tone, sinking into that quiet happiness which is but quiet because it is so deep. this interlude in the life of a man like audley egerton could never have been long; many circumstances conspired to abridge it. his affairs were in great disorder; they were all under levy's management. demands that had before slumbered, or been mildly urged, grew menacing and clamorous. harley, too, returned to london from his futile researches, and looked out for audley. audley was forced to leave his secret eden, and re-appear in the common world; and thenceforward it was only by stealth that he came to his bridal home--a visitor, no more the inmate. but more loud and fierce grew the demands of his creditors, now when egerton had most need of all which respectability, and position, and belief of pecuniary independence can do to raise the man who has encumbered his arms, and crippled his steps toward fortune. he was threatened with writs, with prisons. levy said "that to borrow more would be but larger ruin"--shrugged his shoulders, and even recommended a voluntary retreat to the king's bench. "no place so good for frightening one's creditors into compounding their claims; but why," added levy, with covert sneer, "why not go to young l'estrange--a boy made to be borrowed from?" levy, who had known from lady jane of harley's pursuit of nora, had learned already how to avenge himself on egerton. audley could not apply to the friend he had betrayed. and as to other friends, no man in town had a greater number. and no man in town knew better that he should lose them all if he were once known to be in want of their money. mortified, harassed, tortured--shunning harley--yet ever sought by him--fearful of each knock at his door, audley egerton escaped to the mortgaged remnant of his paternal estate, on which there was a gloomy manor-house long uninhabited, and there applied a mind, afterward renowned for its quick comprehension of business, to the investigation of his affairs, with a view to save some wreck from the flood that swelled momently around him. and now--to condense as much as possible a record that runs darkly on into pain and sorrow--now levy began to practice his vindictive arts; and the arts gradually prevailed. on pretense of assisting egerton in the arrangement of his affairs--which he secretly contrived, however, still more to complicate--he came down frequently to egerton hall for a few hours, arriving by the mail, and watching the effect which nora's almost daily letters produced on the bridegroom, irritated by the practical cares of life. he was thus constantly at hand to instill into the mind of the ambitious man a regret for the imprudence of hasty passion, or to embitter the remorse which audley felt for his treachery to l'estrange. thus ever bringing before the mind of the harassed debtor images at war with love, and with the poetry of life, he disattuned it (so to speak) for the reception of nora's letters, all musical as they were with such thoughts as the most delicate fancy inspires to the most earnest love. egerton was one of those men who never confide their affairs frankly to women. nora, when she thus wrote, was wholly in the dark as to the extent of his stern prosaic distress. and so--and so--levy always near--(type of the prose of life in its most cynic form)--so, by degrees, all that redundant affluence of affection, with its gushes of grief for his absence, prayers for his return, sweet reproach if a post failed to bring back an answer to the woman's yearning sighs--all this grew, to the sensible, positive man of real life, like sickly romantic exaggeration. the bright arrows shot too high into heaven to hit the mark set so near to the earth. ah! common fate of all superior natures! what treasure, and how wildly wasted! "by-the-by," said levy, one morning, as he was about to take leave of audley and return to town--"by-the-by, i shall be this evening in the neighborhood of mrs. egerton." egerton.--"say mrs. bertram!" levy.--"ay; will she not be in want of some pecuniary supplies?" egerton.--"my wife!--not yet. i must first be wholly ruined before she can want; and if i were so, do you think i should not be by her side?" levy.--"i beg pardon, my dear fellow; your pride of gentleman is so susceptible that it is hard for a lawyer not to wound it unawares. your wife, then, does not know the exact state of your affairs?" egerton.--"of course not. who would confide to a woman things in which she could do nothing, except to tease one the more?" levy.--"true, and a poetess, too! i have prevented your finishing your answer to mrs. bertram's last letter. can i take it--it may save a day's delay--that is, if you do not object to my calling on her this evening." egerton (sitting down to his unfinished letter).--"object! no!" levy (looking at his watch).--"be quick, or i shall lose the coach." egerton (sealing the letter).--"there. and i should be obliged to you if you _would_ call; and without alarming her as to my circumstances, you can just say that you know i am much harassed about important affairs at present, and so soothe the effects of my very short answers--" levy.--"to those doubly-crossed, very long, letters--i will." "poor nora," said egerton, sighing, "she will think this answer brief and churlish enough. explain my excuses kindly, so that they will serve for the future. i really have no time, and no heart for sentiment. the little i ever had is well-nigh worried out of me. still i love her fondly and deeply." levy.--"you must have done so. i never thought it in you to sacrifice the world to a woman." egerton.--"nor i either; but," added the strong man, conscious of that power which rules the world infinitely more than knowledge--conscious of tranquil courage--"but i have not sacrificed the world yet. this right arm shall bear up her and myself too." levy.--"well said! but in the mean while, for heaven's sake, don't attempt to go to london, nor to leave this place; for, in that case, i know you will be arrested, and then adieu to all hopes of parliament--of a career." audley's haughty countenance darkened; as the dog, in his bravest mood, turns dismayed from the stone plucked from the mire, so, when ambition rears itself to defy mankind, whisper "disgrace and a jail," and, lo, crest-fallen, it slinks away! that evening levy called on nora, and ingratiating himself into her favor by praise of egerton, with indirect humble apologetic allusions to his own former presumption, he prepared the way to renewed visits; she was so lonely, and she so loved to see one who was fresh from seeing audley--one who would talk to her of _him_! by degrees the friendly respectful visitor thus stole into her confidence; and then, with all his panegyrics on audley's superior powers and gifts, he began to dwell upon the young husband's worldly aspirations, and care for his career; dwelt on them so as vaguely to alarm nora--to imply that, dear as she was, she was still but second to ambition. his way thus prepared, he next began to insinuate his respectful pity at her equivocal position, dropped hints of gossip and slander, feared that the marriage might be owned too late to preserve reputation. and then what would be the feelings of the proud egerton if his wife were excluded from that world, whose opinion he so prized? insensibly thus he led her on to express (though timidly) her own fear--her own natural desire, in her letters to audley. when could the marriage be proclaimed? proclaimed! audley felt that to proclaim such a marriage, at such a moment, would be to fling away his last cast for fame and fortune. and harley, too--harley still so uncured of his frantic love. levy was sure to be at hand when letters like these arrived. and now levy went further still in his determination to alienate these two hearts. he contrived, by means of his various agents, to circulate through nora's neighborhood the very slanders at which he had hinted. he contrived that she should be insulted when she went abroad, outraged at home by the sneers of her own servant, and tremble with shame at her own shadow upon her abandoned bridal hearth. just in the midst of this intolerable anguish, levy reappeared. his crowning hour was ripe. he intimated his knowledge of the humiliations nora had undergone, expressed his deep compassion, offered to intercede with egerton "to do her justice." he used ambiguous phrases that shocked her ear and tortured her heart, and thus provoked her on to demand him to explain; and then, throwing her into a wild state of indefinite alarm, in which he obtained her solemn promise not to divulge to audley what he was about to communicate, he said, with villainous hypocrisy of reluctant shame, "that her marriage was not strictly legal; that the forms required by the law had not been complied with; that audley, unintentionally or purposely, had left himself free to disown the rite and desert the bride." while nora stood stunned and speechless at a falsehood which, with lawyer-like show, he contrived to make truth-like to her inexperience, he hurried rapidly on, to reawake on her mind the impression of audley's pride, ambition, and respect for worldly position. "these are your obstacles," said he; "but i think i may induce him to repair the wrong, and right you at last." righted at last--oh infamy! then nora's anger burst forth. she believe such a stain on audley's honor! "but where was the honor when he betrayed his friend? did you not know that he was intrusted by lord l'estrange to plead for him. how did he fulfill the trust?" plead for l'estrange! nora had not been exactly aware of this. in the sudden love preceding those sudden nuptials, so little touching harley (beyond audley's first timid allusions to his suit, and her calm and cold reply) had been spoken by either. levy resumed. he dwelt fully on the trust and the breach of it, and then said--"in egerton's world, man holds it far more dishonor to betray a man than to dupe a woman; and if egerton could do the one, why doubt that he would do the other? but do not look at me with those indignant eyes. put himself to the test; write to him to say that the suspicions amid which you live have become intolerable--that they infect even yourself, despite your reason--that the secrecy of your nuptials, his prolonged absence, his brief refusal, on unsatisfactory grounds, to proclaim your tie, all distract you with a terrible doubt. ask him, at least (if he will not yet declare your marriage), to satisfy you that the rites were legal." "i will go to him," cried nora impetuously. "go to him!--in his own house! what a scene, what a scandal! could he ever forgive you?" "at least, then, i will implore him to come here. i can not write such horrible words; i can not--i can not--go, go." levy left her, and hastened to two or three of audley's most pressing creditors--men, in fact, who went entirely by levy's own advice. he bade them instantly surround audley's country residence with bailiffs. before egerton could reach nora, he would thus be lodged in a jail. these preparations made, levy himself went down to audley, and arrived, as usual, an hour or two before the delivery of the post. and nora's letter came; and never was audley's grave brow more dark than when he read it. still, with his usual decision, he resolved to obey her wish--rang the bell, and ordered his servant to put up a change of dress, and send for post-horses. levy then took him aside, and led him to the window. "look under yon trees. do you see those men? they are bailiffs. this is the true reason why i come to you to-day. you can not leave this house." egerton recoiled. "and this frantic, foolish letter at such a time," he muttered, striking the open page, full of love in the midst of terror, with his clenched hand. o woman, woman! if thy heart be deep, and its chords tender, beware how thou lovest the man with whom all that plucks him from the hard cares of the work-day world is a frenzy or a folly! he will break thy heart, he will shatter its chords, he will trample out from its delicate frame-work every sound that now makes musical the common air, and swells into unison with the harps of angels. "she has before written to me," continued audley, pacing the room with angry, disordered strides, "asking me when our marriage can be proclaimed, and i thought my replies would have satisfied any reasonable woman. but now, now this is worse, immeasurably worse--she actually doubts my honor! i, who have made such sacrifices--actually doubts whether i, audley egerton, an english gentleman, could have been base enough to--" "what?" interrupted levy, "to deceive your friend l'estrange? did not she know _that_?" "sir," exclaimed egerton, turning white. "don't be angry--all's fair in love as in war; and l'estrange will live yet to thank you for saving him from such a _mésalliance_. but you are seriously angry; pray, forgive me." with some difficulty, and much fawning, the usurer appeased the storm he had raised in audley's conscience. and he then heard, as if with surprise, the true purport of nora's letter. "it is beneath me to answer, much less to satisfy such a doubt," said audley. "i could have seen her, and a look of reproach would have sufficed; but to put my hand to paper, and condescend to write, 'i am not a villain, and i will give you the proofs that i am not'--never." "you are quite right; but let us see if we can not reconcile matters between your pride and her feelings. write simply this: 'all that you ask me to say or to explain, i have instructed levy, as my solicitor, to say and explain for me; and you may believe him as you would myself.'" "well, the poor fool, she deserves to be punished; and i suppose that answer will punish her more than a lengthier rebuke. my mind is so distracted i can not judge of these trumpery woman-fears and whims; there, i have written as you suggest. give her all the proof she needs, and tell her that in six months at farthest, come what will, she shall bear the name of egerton, as henceforth she must share his fate." "why say six months?" "parliament must be dissolved before then. i shall either obtain a seat, be secure from a jail, have won field for my energies, or--" "or what?" "i shall renounce ambition altogether--ask my brother to assist me toward whatever debts remain when all my property is fairly sold--they can not be much. he has a living in his gift--the incumbent is old, and, i hear, very ill. i can take orders." "sink into a country parson!" "and learn content. i have tasted it already. she was _then_ by my side. explain all to her. this letter, i fear, is too unkind--but to doubt me thus!" levy hastily placed the letter in his pocket-book; and, for fear it should be withdrawn, took his leave. and of that letter he made such use, that the day after he had given it to nora, she had left the house--the neighborhood; fled, and not a trace! of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing--that which for the time most annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled _heart_--is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love. the moment the anchor snaps, the storm comes on--the stars vanish behind the cloud. when levy returned, filled with the infamous hope which had stimulated his revenge--the hope that if he could succeed in changing into scorn and indignation nora's love for audley, he might succeed also in replacing that broken and degraded idol--his amaze and dismay were great on hearing of her departure. for several days he sought her traces in vain. he went to lady jane horton's--nora had not been there. he trembled to go back to egerton. surely nora would have written to her husband, and, in spite of her promise, revealed his own falsehood; but as days passed and not a clew was found, he had no option but to repair to egerton hall, taking care that the bailiffs still surrounded it. audley had received no line from nora. the young husband was surprised and perplexed, uneasy--but had no suspicion of the truth. at length levy was forced to break to audley the intelligence of nora's flight. he gave his own color to it. doubtless she had gone to seek her own relations, and take, by their advice, steps to make her marriage publicly known. this idea changed audley's first shock into deep and stern resentment. his mind so little comprehended nora's, and was ever so disposed to what is called the common-sense view of things, that he saw no other mode to account for her flight and her silence. odious to egerton as such a proceeding would be, he was far too proud to take any steps to guard against it. "let her do her worst," said he, coldly, masking emotion with his usual self-command; "it will be but a nine-days' wonder to the world--a fiercer rush of my creditors on their hunted prey--" "and a challenge from lord l'estrange." "so be it," answered egerton, suddenly placing his hand at his heart. "what is the matter? are you ill?" "a strange sensation here. my father died of a complaint of the heart, and i myself was once told to guard, through life, against excess of emotion. i smiled at such a warning then. let us sit down to business." but when levy had gone, and solitude reclosed round that man of the iron mask, there grew upon him more and more the sense of a mighty loss, nora's sweet loving face started from the shadows of the forlorn walls. her docile, yielding temper--her generous, self-immolating spirit--came back to his memory, to refute the idea that wronged her. his love, that had been suspended for awhile by busy cares, but which, if without much refining sentiment, was still the master-passion of his soul, flowed back into all his thoughts--circumfused the very atmosphere with a fearful softening charm. he escaped under cover of the night from the watch of the bailiffs. he arrived in london. he himself sought every where he could think of for his missing bride. lady jane horton was confined to her bed, dying fast--incapable even to receive and reply to his letter. he secretly sent down to lansmere to ascertain if nora had gone to her parents. she was not there. the avenels believed her still with lady jane horton. he now grew most seriously alarmed; and, in the midst of that alarm, levy contrived that he should be arrested for debt; but he was not detained in confinement many days. before the disgrace got wind, the writs were discharged--levy baffled. he was free. lord l'estrange had learned from audley's servant what audley would have concealed from him out of all the world. and the generous boy--who, besides the munificent allowance he received from the earl, was heir to an independent and considerable fortune of his own, when he should obtain his majority--hastened to borrow the money and discharge all the obligations of his friend. the benefit was conferred before audley knew of it, or could prevent. then a new emotion, and perhaps scarce less stinging than the loss of nora, tortured the man who had smiled at the warning of science; and the strange sensation at the heart was felt again and again. and harley, too, was still in search of nora--would talk of nothing but her--and looked so haggard and grief-worn. the bloom of the boy's youth was gone. could audley then have said, "she you seek is another's; your love is razed out of your life. and, for consolation, learn that your friend has betrayed you?" could audley say this? he did not dare. which of the two suffered the most? and these two friends, of characters so different, were so singularly attached to each other. inseparable at school--thrown together in the world, with a wealth of frank confidences between them, accumulated since childhood. and now, in the midst of all his own anxious sorrow, harley still thought and planned for egerton. and self-accusing remorse, and all the sense of painful gratitude, deepened audley's affection for harley into a devotion as to a superior, while softening it into a reverential pity that yearned to relieve, to atone;--but how--oh; how? a general election was now at hand, still no news of nora. levy kept aloof from audley, pursuing his own silent search. a seat for the borough of lansmere was pressed upon audley not only by harley, but his parents, especially by the countess, who tacitly ascribed to audley's wise counsels nora's mysterious disappearance. egerton at first resisted the thought of a new obligation to his injured friend; but he burned to have it some day in his power to repay at least his pecuniary debt: the sense of that debt humbled him more than all else. parliamentary success might at last obtain for him some lucrative situation abroad, and thus enable him gradually to remove this load from his heart and his honor. no other chance of repayment appeared open to him. he accepted the offer, and went down to lansmere. his brother, lately married, was asked to meet him; and there, also, was miss leslie the heiress, whom lady lansmere secretly hoped her son harley would admire, but who had long since, no less secretly, given her heart to the unconscious egerton. meanwhile, the miserable nora, deceived by the arts and representations of levy--acting on the natural impulse of a heart so susceptible to shame--flying from a home which she deemed dishonored--flying from a lover whose power over her she knew to be so great, that she dreaded lest he might reconcile her to dishonor itself--had no thought save to hide herself forever from audley's eye. she would not go to her relations--to lady jane; that were to give the clew, and invite the pursuit. an italian lady of high rank had visited at lady jane's--taken a great fancy to nora--and the lady's husband, having been obliged to precede her return to italy, had suggested the notion of engaging some companion--the lady had spoken of this to nora and to lady jane horton, who had urged nora to accept the offer, elude harley's pursuit, and go abroad for a time. nora then had refused;--for she then had seen audley egerton. to this italian lady she now went, and the offer was renewed with the most winning kindness, and grasped at in the passion of despair. but the italian had accepted invitations to english country houses before she finally departed for the continent. meanwhile nora took refuge in a quiet lodging in a sequestered suburb, which an english servant in the employment of the fair foreigner recommended. thus had she first came to the cottage in which burley died. shortly afterward she left england with her new companion, unknown to all--to lady jane as to her parents. all this time the poor girl was under a moral delirium--a confused fever--haunted by dreams from which she sought to fly. sound physiologists agree that madness is rarest among persons of the finest imagination. but those persons are, of all others, liable to a temporary state of mind in which judgment sleeps--imagination alone prevails with a dire and awful tyranny. a single idea gains ascendency--expels all others--presents itself every where with an intolerable blinding glare. nora was at that time under the dread one idea--to fly from shame! (to be continued.) footnote: [ ] continued from the july number. henry clay. personal anecdotes, incidents, etc. we have just returned from the park and city-hall, and from witnessing the long procession, "melancholy, slow," that accompanied the remains of the "great commoner" and great statesman, henry clay, to their temporary resting-place in the governor's room. it was not the weeping flags at half-mast throughout the city; not the tolling of the bells, the solemn booming of the minute-guns, nor the plaintive strains of funereal music, which brought the tears to the eyes of thousands, as the mournful cavalcade passed on. for here were the lifeless limbs, the dimmed eye, the hushed voice, that never should move, nor sparkle, nor resound in eloquent tones again! the last time we had seen henry clay was, standing in an open barouche, on the very spot where his hearse now paused, in front of the city-hall. he was addressing then a vast concourse of his fellow-citizens, who had assembled to do him honor; and never shall we forget the exquisite grace of his gestures, the melodious tones of his matchless voice, and the _interior look_ of his eyes--as if he were rather spoken _from_, than _speaking_. it was an occasion not to be forgotten. it is proposed, in the present article, to afford the reader some opportunity of judging of the character and manner of mr. clay, both as an orator and a man, and of his general habits, from a few characteristic anecdotes and incidents, which have been well authenticated heretofore, or are now for the first time communicated to the writer. biography, in mr. clay's case, has already occupied much of the space of all our public journals; we shall, therefore, omit particulars which are now more or less familiar to the general reader. it was the remark of a distinguished senator, that mr. clay's eloquence was absolutely intangible to delineation; that the most labored and thrilling description could not embrace it; and that, to be understood, it must be _seen_ and _felt_. during his long public life he enchanted millions, and no one could tell _how_ he did it. he was _an orator by nature_. his eagle eye burned with true patriotic ardor, or dashed indignation and defiance upon his foes, or was suffused with tears of commiseration or of pity; and it was because _he_ felt, that he made _others_ feel. "the clear conception, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object"--_this_ was the eloquence of henry clay; or, rather, to pursue the definition, "it was something greater and higher than eloquence; it was _action_--noble, sublime, god-like." while the coffin containing all that remained of the great orator of nature was being carried up the steps of the city-hall, a by-stander remarked, in hearing of the writer: well, we never shall look upon _his_ like again. what an orator he was! i heard him speak but once, yet that once i shall always remember. it was a good many years ago, now. it was in the immense car-house, or dépôt, at syracuse. the crowd was immense; and every eye was turned toward the platform from which he was to speak, as if the whole crowd were but one expectant face. presently he arose--tall, erect as a statue; looked familiarly around upon the audience, as if he were in an assembly of personal friends (as in truth he was), and began. he commenced amidst the most breathless silence; and as he warmed up with his subject, there was not a look of his eye, not a movement of his long, graceful right arm, not a swaying of his body, that was not full of grace and effect. such a voice i never heard. it was wonderful![ ] once he took out his snuff-box, and, after taking a pinch of snuff, and returning the box to his pocket, he illustrated a point which he was making by an anecdote: "while i was abroad," said he, "laboring to arrange the terms of the treaty of ghent, there appeared a report of the negotiations, or letters relative thereto; and several quotations from my remarks or letters, touching certain stipulations in the treaty, reached kentucky, and were read by my constituents. "among them, was an odd old fellow, who went by the nickname of '_old sandusky_,' and he was reading one of these letters, one evening, at a near resort, to a small collection of the neighbors. as he read on, he came across the sentence, 'this must be deemed a _sine qua non_." "'what's a _sine qua non_?' said a half-dozen by-standers. "'old sandusky' was a little bothered at first, but his good sense and natural shrewdness was fully equal to a 'mastery of the latin.' "'_sine--qua--non?_' said 'old sandusky,' repeating the question very slowly; 'why, _sine qua non_ is three islands in passamaquoddy bay, and harry clay is the last man to give them up! 'no _sine qua non_, no treaty,' he says; and he'll stick to it!'" you should have seen the laughing eye, the change in the speaker's voice and manner, said the narrator, to understand the electric effect the story had upon the audience. previous to mr. clay's entrance upon public life in the service of his country, and while he was yet young in the practice of the law, in kentucky, the following striking incident is related of him: two germans, father and son, were indicted for murder, and were tried for the crime. mr. clay was employed to defend them. the act of killing was proved by evidence so clear and strong, that it was considered not only a case of murder, but an exceedingly aggravated one. the trial lasted five days, at the close of which he addressed the jury in the most impassioned and eloquent manner; and they were so moved by his pathetic appeals, that they rendered a verdict of manslaughter only. after another hard day's struggle, he succeeded in obtaining an arrest of judgment, by which his clients, in whose case he thought there was an absence of all "malice prepense," were set at liberty. they expressed their gratitude in the warmest terms to their deliverer, in which they were joined by an old and ill-favored female, the wife of one and the mother of the other, who adopted a different mode, however, of tendering _her_ thanks, which was by throwing her arms round mr. clay's neck, and repeatedly kissing him, in the presence of a crowded court-room! mr. clay respected her feelings too much to repulse her; but he was often afterward heard to say, that it was "the longest and strongest embrace he ever encountered in his professional practice!" in civil suits, at this period, mr. clay gained almost equal celebrity, and especially in the settlement of land claims, at that time an important element in western litigation. it is related of him, at this stage of his career, that being engaged in a case which involved immense interests, he associated with him a prominent lawyer to whom he intrusted its management, as urgent business demanded his absence from court. two days were occupied in discussing the legal points that were to govern the instructions of the court to the jury, on every one of which his colleague was frustrated. mr. clay returned, however, before a decision was rendered, and without acquainting himself with the nature of the testimony, or ascertaining the manner in which the discussion had been conducted, after conferring a few moments with his associate, he prepared and presented in a few words the form in which he wished the instructions to be given, accompanying it with his reasons, which were so convincing that the suit was terminated in his favor in less than one hour after he re-entered the court-room. thus early, and in a career merely professional, did henry clay commence his sway over the minds of deliberative men. the subjoined incident, connected with mr. clay's style of "stump-speaking" is related in "mallory's life" of our illustrious subject. it illustrates his tact and ingenuity in seizing and turning to good account trivial circumstances: mr. clay had been speaking for some time, when a company of riflemen, who had been performing military exercise, attracted by his attitude, concluded to "go and hear what the fellow had to say," as they termed it, and accordingly drew near. they listened with respectful attention, and evidently with deep interest, until he closed, when one of their number, a man of about fifty years of age, who had seen much back-wood's service, stood leaning on his rifle, regarding the young speaker with a fixed and sagacious look. he was apparently the nimrod of the company, for he exhibited every characteristic of a "mighty hunter." he had buckskin breeches, and hunting-shirt, coon-skin cap, black bushy beard, and a visage of the color and texture of his bullet-pouch. at his belt hung the knife and hatchet, and the huge, indispensable powder-horn across a breast bare and brown as the hills he traversed in his forays, yet it covered a brave and noble heart. he beckoned with his hand to mr. clay to approach him. mr. clay immediately complied. "young man," said he, "you want to go to the legislature, i see." "why, yes," replied mr. clay; "yes, i _should_ like to go, since my friends have put me up as a candidate before the people. i don't wish to be defeated, of course; few people do." "are you a good shot, young man?" asked the hunter. "i consider myself as good as any in the county." "then you shall go: but you must give us a specimen of your skill; we must see you shoot." "i never shoot any rifle but my own, and that is at home," said the young orator. "no matter," quickly responded the hunter, "here's _old bess_; she never failed yet in the hands of a marksman. she has put a bullet through many a squirrel's head at a hundred yards, and day-light through many a red-skin _twice_ that distance. if you can shoot _any_ gun, young man, you can shoot 'old bess!'" "very well, then," replied mr. clay, "put up your mark! put up your mark!" the target was placed at about the distance of eighty yards, when, with all the coolness and steadiness of an old experienced marksman, he drew "old bess" to his shoulder, and fired. the bullet pierced the target near the centre. "oh, that's a chance-shot! a chance-shot!" exclaimed several of his political opponents; "he might shoot all day, and not hit the mark again. let him try it over!--let him try it over!" "no, no," retorted mr. clay, "_beat that_, and _then_ i will!" as no one seemed disposed to make the attempt, it was considered that he had given satisfactory proof of being, as he said, "the best shot in the county;" and this unimportant incident gained him the vote of every hunter and marksman in the assembly, which was composed principally of that class of persons, as well as the support of the same throughout the county. mr. clay was frequently heard to say: "i had never before fired a rifle, and have not since!" it was in turning little things like these to account, that mr. clay, in the earlier period of his career, was so remarkable. two other instances in this kind, although not new, may be appropriately mentioned in this connection. in an attempt was made to obtain the removal of the capital from frankfort, kentucky. mr. clay, in a speech delivered at the time, reverted to the physical appearance of the place, as furnishing an argument in favor of the proposed removal. frankfort is walled in on all sides by towering, rocky precipices, and in its general conformation, is not unlike a great pit. "it presents," said mr. clay, in his remarks upon the subject, "the model of an inverted hat. frankfort is the body of the hat, and the lands adjacent are the brim. to change the figure, it is nature's great penitentiary; and if the members would know the bodily condition of the prisoners, let them look at those poor creatures in the gallery." as he said this, he directed the attention of the members of the legislature to some half-dozen emaciated, spectre-like specimens of humanity, who happened to be moping about there, looking as if they had just stolen a march from the grave-yard. on observing the eyes of the house thus turned toward them, and aware of their ill-favored aspect, they screened themselves with such ridiculous precipitancy behind the pillars and railing, as to cause the most violent laughter. this well-directed hit was successful; and the house gave their votes in favor of the measure. the second instance is doubtless more familiar to the reader; but having "spoken of guns," it may not be amiss to quote it here: during an excited political canvass, mr. clay met an old hunter, who had previously been his devoted friend, but who now opposed him, on the ground of "the compensation bill." "have you a good rifle, my friend?" asked mr. clay. "yes," said the hunter. "does it ever flash in the pan?" continued mr. clay. "it never did but once in the world," said the hunter, exultingly. "well, what did you do with it? you didn't throw it away, did you?" "no; i picked the flint, tried it again, and brought down the game." "have _i_ ever 'flashed,'" continued mr. clay, "except on the 'compensation bill?'" "no, i can't say that you ever did." "well, will you throw _me_ away?" said mr. clay. "no, no!" responded the huntsman, touched on the right point; "no; _i'll pick the flint, and try you again!_" and ever afterward he was the unwavering friend of mr. clay. from the same authority we derive another election anecdote, which mr. clay was wont to mention to his friends. in a political canvass in kentucky, mr. clay, and mr. pope a one-armed man, were candidates for the same office. an irish barber, residing at lexington, had always given mr. clay his vote, and on all occasions, when he was a candidate for office, electioneered warmly for him. he was "irish all over," and was frequently in "scrapes," from which mr. clay generally succeeded in rescuing him. somebody, just before the election took place, "came the evil eye" over him; for when asked who he was going to vote for, he replied, "i mane to vote for the man who can't put more nor _one hand_ into the threasury!" a few days after the election, the barber met mr. clay in lexington, and approaching him, began to cry, saying that he had wronged him, and repented his ingratitude. "my wife," said he, "got round me, blubbering, and tould me that i was _too bad_, to desert, like a base spalpeen, me ould frind. 'niver's the time,' says she 'when you got in jail or in any bad fix _niver's_ the time he didn't come and help you out. och! bad luck to ye for not giving him your vote!'" mr. clay never failed to gain his vote afterward. an anecdote is related of mr. clay, aptly illustrating his ability to encounter opposition, in whatever manner presented. a senator from connecticut had endeavored to inspire the younger members of the senate with a respect for him, nearly allied to awe; and to this end was accustomed to use toward them harsh and haughty language, but especially to make an ostentatious display of his attainments, and his supposed superior knowledge of the subject under discussion. mr. clay could ill brook his insolent looks and language, and haughty, overbearing manner, and took occasion in his speech to hit them off, which he did by quoting peter pindar's magpie, "thus have i seen a magpie in the street, a chattering bird we often meet, a bird for curiosity well known, with head awry, and cunning eye, peep knowingly into a marrow-bone!" "it would be difficult," says the biographer who relates this circumstance, "to say which was the greater, the merriment which this sally caused, or the chagrin of the satirized senator." a striking instance of the simplicity as well as humanity of mr. clay's character is given in the following authentic anecdote of him, while a member of the house of representatives: "almost every body in washington city will remember an old he-goat, which formerly inhabited a livery-stable on pennsylvania avenue. this animal was the most independent citizen of the metropolis. he belonged to no party, although he frequently gave pedestrians 'striking' proofs of his adhesion to the 'leveling' principle; for, whenever a person stopped any where in the vicinity, 'billy' was sure to 'make at him,' horns and all. the boys took delight in irritating him, and frequently so annoyed him that he would 'butt' against lamp-posts and trees, to their great amusement. "one day, henry clay was passing along the avenue, and seeing the boys intent on worrying billy into a fever, stopped, and with characteristic humanity expostulated with them upon their cruelty. the boys listened in silent awe to the eloquent appeal of the 'luminary of the west,' but it was all cherokee to billy, who--the ungrateful scamp!--arose majestically on his hind legs, and made a desperate plunge at his friend and advocate. mr. clay, however, proved too much for his horned adversary. he seized both horns of the dilemma, and then came the 'tug of war.' the struggle was long and doubtful. "'ha!' exclaimed the statesman, 'i've got you fast, you old rascal! i'll teach you better manners than to attack your friends! but, boys, he continued, 'what shall i do _now_?' "'why, trip up his feet, mr. clay.' mr. clay did as he was told, and after many severe efforts brought billy down on his side. here he looked at the boys imploringly, seeming to say, 'i never was in such a fix as _this_ before!' "the combatants were now nearly exhausted; but the goat had the advantage, for he was gaining breath all the while the statesman was losing it. "'boys!' exclaimed mr. clay, puffing and blowing, 'this is rather an awkward business. what am i to do _next_?" "'why, don't you know?' said a little fellow, making his own preparations to run, as he spoke: 'all you've got to do is to let go, and run like blazes!' the hint was taken at once, much to the amusement of the boys who had been 'lectured.'" the collisions between mr. clay and randolph in congress and out of it, are well known to the public. the following circumstance, however, has seldom been quoted. when the missouri compromise question was before congress, and the fury of the contending parties had broken down almost every barrier of order and decency, mr. randolph, much excited, approaching mr. clay, said: "mr. speaker, i wish you would leave the house. i will follow you to kentucky, or any where else in the world." mr. clay regarded him with one of his most searching looks for an instant; and then replied, in an under-tone: "mr. randolph, your proposition is an exceedingly serious one, and demands most serious consideration. be kind enough to call at my room to-morrow morning, and we will deliberate over it together." mr. randolph called punctually at the moment; they talked long upon the much-agitated subject, without coming to any agreement, and mr. randolph arose to leave. "mr. randolph," said mr. clay, as the former was about stepping from the house, "with your permission, i will embrace the present occasion to observe, that your language and deportment on the floor of the house, it has occurred to me, were rather indecorous and ungentlemanly, on several occasions, and very annoying, indeed, to me; for, being in the chair, i had no opportunity of replying." while admitting that this might, perhaps, be so, mr. randolph excused it, on the ground of mr. clay's inattention to his remarks, and asking for a pinch of snuff while he was addressing him, &c, &c. mr. clay, in reply, said: "oh, you are certainly mistaken, mr. randolph, if you think i do not listen to you. i frequently turn away my head, it is true, and ask for a pinch of snuff; still, i hear every thing you say, although i may _seem_ to hear nothing; and, retentive as i know your memory to be, i will wager that i can repeat as many of your speeches as you yourself can!" "well," answered randolph, "i don't know but i _am_ mistaken; and suppose we drop the matter, shake hands, and become good friends again?" "agreed!" said mr. clay, extending his hand, which was cordially grasped by mr. randolph. during the same session, and some time before this interview, mr. randolph accosted mr. clay with a look and manner much agitated, and exhibited to him a letter, couched in very abusive terms, threatening to cowhide him, &c., and asked mr. clay's advice as to the course he should pursue in relation to it. "what caused the writer to send you such an insulting epistle, mr. randolph?" asked mr. clay. "why, i suppose," said randolph, "it was in consequence of what i said to him the other day." "what _did_ you say?" "why, sir, i was standing in the vestibule of the house, when the writer came up and introduced to me a gentleman who accompanied him; and i asked him what right he had to introduce that man to me, and told him that the man had just as good a right to introduce _him_ to me; whereat he was very indignant, said i had treated him scandalously, and turning on his heel, went away. i think that must have made him write the letter." "don't you think he was _a little out of his head_ to talk in that way?" asked mr. clay. "why, i've been thinking about that," said randolph: "i _have_ some doubts respecting his sanity." "well, that being the case, would it not be the wisest course not to bring the matter before the house? i will direct the sergeant-at-arms to keep a sharp look-out for the man, and to cause him to be arrested should he attempt any thing improper." mr. randolph acquiesced in this opinion, and nothing more was ever heard of the subject. another incident, touching mr. clay and mr. randolph, will be read with interest: at one time mr. randolph, in a strain of most scorching irony, had indulged in some personal taunts toward mr. clay, commiserating his ignorance and limited education, to whom mr. clay thus replied: "sir, the gentleman from virginia was pleased to say, that in one point at least he coincided with me--in an humble estimate of my philological acquirements. sir, i know my deficiencies. i was born to no proud patrimonial estate from my father. i inherited only infancy, ignorance, and indigence. i feel my defects: but, so far as my situation in early life is concerned, i may without presumption say, they are more my misfortune than my fault. but, however i may deplore my inability to furnish to the gentleman a better specimen of powers of verbal criticism, i will venture to say my regret is not greater than the disappointment of this committee, as to the strength of his argument." the particulars of the duel between mr. randolph and mr. clay may be unknown to some of our readers. the eccentric descendant of pocahontas appeared on the ground in a huge morning gown. this garment constituted such a vast circumference that the "locality of the swarthy senator," was at least a matter of very vague conjecture. the parties exchanged shots, and the ball of mr. clay hit the centre of the visible object, but mr. randolph was not there! the latter had fired in the air, and immediately after the exchange of shots he walked up to mr. clay, parted the folds of his gown, pointed to the hole where the bullet of the former had pierced his coat, and, in the shrillest tones of his piercing voice, exclaimed, "mr. clay, you owe me a coat--you owe me a coat!" to which mr. clay replied, in a voice of slow and solemn emphasis, at the same time pointing directly at mr. randolph's heart, "mr. randolph, i thank god that i am no _deeper_ in your debt!" the annexed rejoinder aptly illustrates mr. clay's readiness at repartee: at the time of the passage of the tariff-bill, as the house was about adjourning, a friend of the bill observed to mr. clay, "we have done pretty well to-day." "very well, indeed," rejoined mr. clay--"_very_ well: we made a good stand, considering we lost both our _feet_;" alluding to mr. foote of new york, and mr. foot of connecticut, both having opposed the bill, although it was confidently expected, a short time previous, that both would support it. after the nomination of general taylor as a candidate for the presidency, made by the whig convention at philadelphia, in june, , many of the friends of mr. clay were greatly dissatisfied, not to say exasperated, by what they deemed an abandonment of principle, and unfairness in the proceedings of that body: meetings were held in this city, at which delegates from the northern and western parts of this state and from the state of new jersey attended, and various arrangements, preliminary to placing mr. clay again in nomination for that office, were made, and perfected. these steps were not concealed, and many of the friends of general taylor were so uncharitable as to avow their belief that this dissatisfaction was fostered and encouraged by mr. clay himself. the following extract from a letter written to a friend in this city,[ ] one who had from the beginning opposed the movement, will exhibit mr. clay's true sentiments on that subject: "ashland, _ th october, _. "my dear sir--i duly received your obliging letter of the th instant, and i have perused it with the greatest satisfaction. "the vivid picture which you have drawn of the enthusiastic attachment, the unbounded confidence, and the entire devotion of my warm-hearted friends in the city of new york, has filled me with the liveliest emotions of gratitude. "there was but one more proof wanting of their goodness, to complete and perpetuate my great obligations to them, and that they have kindly given, in deference to my anxious wishes; it was, not to insist upon the use of my name as a candidate for the presidency, after the promulgation of my desire to the contrary." in another letter, to the same party, written a few weeks earlier, occurs the following touching passage, indicating his sense of the oppressive loneliness with which he was then surrounded. referring to the recent departure of his son james on his mission to portugal, accompanied by his family, he says: "if they had, as i hope, a prosperous voyage, they will have arrived at liverpool about the same day that i reached home. my separation from them, probably for a length of time, the uncertainty of life rendering it not unlikely that i may never see them again, and the deep and affectionate interest i take in their welfare and happiness, has been extremely painful. "i find myself now, toward the close of my life, in one respect, in a condition similar to that with which i began it. mrs. clay and i commenced it alone: and after having had eleven children, of whom four only remain, our youngest son is the sole white person residing with us." we are indebted to the same obliging gentleman from whom we derive the foregoing, for the following graphic description of a visit paid to mr. clay in his sick chamber at washington: "on monday, the first of march last, at about one o'clock, at the national hotel, washington, having sent in my name, mr. clay kindly admitted me to his room. i found it darkened by heavy closed curtains, and the sufferer seated in an easy chair at the remote end, near a moderate coal-fire. i approached him rapidly, and, taking his extended soft hand and attenuated fingers, said, 'my dear sir, i am most honored and gratified by this privilege of being again permitted to renew to you, personally, the expression of my unabated attachment and reverence.' "'but, my dear sir,' he playfully answered, 'you have a very cold hand to convey these sentiments to an invalid such as i am. come, draw up a chair, and sit near me; i am compelled to use my voice but little, and very carefully.' "doing as he desired, i expressed my deep regret that he was still confined to a sick room, and added, that i hoped the return of spring, and the early recurrence of warmer weather would mitigate his more urgent symptoms, and enable him again to visit the senate chamber. "'sir,' said he, 'these are the kind wishes of a friend, but that hope does not commend itself to my judgment. you may remember that last year i visited the havanna, in the expectation that its remarkably genial and mild climate would benefit me--but i found no relief; thence to new orleans, a favorite resort of mine, with no better result. i even became impatient for the return of autumn, thinking that possibly its clear bracing atmosphere at ashland might lessen my distressing cough; but sir, the havanna, new orleans, and ashland have all failed to bring me any perceptible benefit.' "'may i ask, my dear sir, what part of the twenty-four hours are you most comfortable?' "'fortunately, sir, _very_ fortunately--i should add, _mercifully_--during the night. then, i am singularly placid and composed: i am very wakeful, and during the earlier part of it my thoughts take a wide range, but i lie most tranquilly, without any sensation of weariness, or nervous excitement, and toward day fall into a quiet and undisturbed sleep; this continues to a late hour in the morning, when i rise and breakfast about ten o'clock. subsequently my cough for an hour or two, is very exhausting. after one o'clock, and during the evening, i am tolerably free of it, and during this period, i see a few of my close personal friends. and thus passes the twenty-four hours.' "'i was grieved to learn, through the public prints, that mrs. clay has been ill; may i hope that she is better?' "'she has been sick; indeed, at one time, i was much alarmed at her situation; but i thank god,' (_with deep emotion_,) 'she is quite recovered.' "'i almost expected the gratification of meeting your son james and his wife here.' "'no, sir; you may remember that i once told you that he had made a very fortunate investment in the suburbs of st. louis. this property has become valuable, and requires his attention and management: he has removed thither with his family. it's a long way off, and i would not have them make a winter journey here; beside, i have every comfort and attention that a sick man can require. my apartments, as you perceive, are far removed from the noise and bustle of the house; and i am surrounded by warm and anxious friends, ever seeking to anticipate my wishes.' "during this brief conversation--in which we were quite alone--mr. clay had several paroxysms of coughing. once he rose and walked across the room to a spittoon. the most careful use of his voice seemed greatly and constantly to irritate his lungs. i could not prolong the interview, though thoroughly impressed with the belief--since mournfully verified--that it would be the last. "i rose, took my leave, invoking god's blessing on him; and, as in the presence of royalty, bowed myself out of the room backward. "on rising from his seat, as above remarked, he stood as erect and commanding as ever; and while sitting in close proximity to him, his burning eye fixed intently upon me, it seemed as if rays of light were emitted from each. this phenomenon is not unusual in consumptive patients, the extraordinary brilliancy of the eye being often remarked; but in mr. clay's case it was so intense as to make me almost nervous, partaking as it did of the supernatural. "i have thus given you the arrangement, and very nearly the precise words,[ ] of this my last interview with one of the greatest men of the age. it was altogether a scene to be remembered--a sick room, with the thoughts of a nation daily directed to it! it is full of pathos, and approaches the sublime." the day previous to the call and conversation above described, the editor of the _knickerbocker magazine_ saw mr. clay in the street at washington, and thus mentions the fact in the "gossip" of his april number: "passing the national hotel at two o'clock, on this bright and cloudless warm sunday, we saw a tall figure, clad in a blue cloak, attended only by a lady and child, enter a carriage before the door. once seen, it was a face never to be forgotten. it was henry clay. that eagle-eye was not dimmed, although the great statesman's force was abated. we raised our hat, and bowed our reverence and admiration. our salutation was gracefully returned, and the carriage was driven away. "as we walked on, to keep an engagement to dine, we thought of the late words of that eminent patriot: 'if the days of my usefulness, as i have too much reason to fear, be indeed passed, i desire not to linger an impotent spectator of the oft-scanned field of life. i have never looked upon old age, deprived of the faculty of enjoyment, of intellectual perceptions and energies, with any sympathy; and for such i think the day of fate can not arrive too soon.' one can hardly choose but drop a tear over such a remark from such a man." thus "broken with the storms of state," and scathed with many a fiery conflict, henry clay gradually descended toward the tomb. "during this period," says one of his kentucky colleagues, "he conversed much and cheerfully with his friends, and took great interest in public affairs. while he did not expect a restoration to health, he cherished the hope that the mild season of spring would bring him strength enough to return to ashland, that he might die in the bosom of his family. but, alas! spring, that brings life to all nature, brought no life nor hope to him. after the month of march, his vital powers rapidly wasted, and for weeks he lay patiently awaiting the stroke of death. the approach of the destroyer had no terror for him. no clouds overhung his future. he met his end with composure, and his pathway to the grave was lightened by the immortal hopes which spring from the christian faith. not long before his death, having just returned from kentucky, i bore to him a token of affection from his excellent wife. never can i forget his appearance, his manner, or his words. after speaking of his family and his country, he changed the conversation to his own fortune, and, looking on me with his fine eyes undimmed, and his voice full of its original compass and melody, he said: 'i am not afraid to die, sir; i have hope, faith, and some confidence: i do not think any man can be entirely certain in regard to his future state, but i have an abiding trust in the merits and mediation of our saviour.'" "on the evening previous to his departure," writes his excellent pastor and faithful attendant, rev. dr. butler, "sitting an hour in silence by his side, i could not but realize--when i heard him in the slight wanderings of his mind, to other days and other scenes, murmuring the words, 'my mother, mother, mother!' and saying, 'my dear wife!' as if she were present. i could not but realize then, and rejoiced to think, how near was the blessed re-union of his weary heart with the loved dead, and the living who must soon follow him to his rest, whose spirits even then seemed to visit and to cheer his memory and his hope." mr. clay's countenance immediately after death looked like an antique cast. his features seemed to be perfectly classical; and the repose of all the muscles gave the lifeless body a quiet majesty, seldom reached by living human being. his last request was that his body might be buried, not in washington, but in his own family vault in his beloved kentucky, by the side of his relations and friends. may he rest in peace in his honored grave! footnotes: [ ] a gentleman, after hearing one of mr. clay's magnificent performances in the senate, thus describes him: "every muscle of the orator's face was at work. his whole body seemed agitated, as if each part was instinct with a separate life; and his small white hand, with its blue veins apparently distended almost to bursting, moved gracefully, but with all the energy of rapid and vehement gesture. the appearance of the speaker seemed that of a pure intellect, wrought up to its mightiest energies, and brightly shining through the thin and transparent vail of flesh that invested it." it is much to be lamented that no painting exists of the departed statesman that really does him justice. what a treasure to the country, and to the friends of the "great commoner," would be a portrait, at this time, from the faithful and glowing pencil of our pre-eminent artist, elliott! but it is now "too late". [ ] nicholas dean, esq., president of the croton aqueduct board, a life-long friend of mr. clay. [ ] they were reduced to writing immediately afterward. a duel in . i had just arrived at marseilles with the diligence, in which three young men, apparently merchants or commercial travelers, were the companions of my journey. they came from paris, and were enthusiastic about the events which had lately happened there, and in which they boasted of having taken part. i was, for my part, quiet and reserved; for i thought it much better, at a time of such political excitement in the south of france, where party passions always rise so high, to do nothing that would attract attention; and my three fellow-travelers no doubt looked on me as a plain, common-place seaman, who had been to the luxurious metropolis for his pleasure or on business. my presence, it seemed, did not incommode them, for they talked on as if i had not been there. two of them were gay, merry, but rather coarse boon-companions; the third, an elegant youth, blooming and tall, with luxuriant black curling hair, and dark soft eyes. in the hotel where we dined, and where i sat a little distance off, smoking my cigar, the conversation turned on various love-adventures, and the young man, whom they called alfred, showed his comrades a packet of delicately perfumed letters, and a superb lock of beautiful fair hair. he told them that in the days of july he had been slightly wounded, and that his only fear, while he lay on the ground, was, that if he died, some mischance might prevent clotilde from weeping over his grave. "but now all is well," he continued. "i am going to fetch a nice little sum from my uncle at marseilles, who is just at this moment in good-humor, on account of the discomfiture of the jesuits and the bourbons. in my character of one of the heroes of july, he will forgive me all my present and past follies: i shall pass an examination at paris, and then settle down in quiet, and live happily with my clotilde." thus they talked together; and by-and-by we parted in the court-yard of the coach-office. close by was a brilliantly-illumined coffee-house. i entered, and seated myself at a little table, in a distant corner of the room. two persons only were still in the saloon, in an opposite corner, and before them stood two glasses of brandy. one was an elderly, stately, and portly gentleman, with dark-red face, and dressed in a quiet colored suit; it was easy to perceive that he was a clergyman. but the appearance of the other was very striking. he could not be far from sixty years of age, was tall and thin, and his gray, indeed almost white hair, which, however, rose from his head in luxurious fullness, gave to his pale countenance a peculiar expression that made one feel uncomfortable. the brawny neck was almost bare; a simple, carelessly-knotted black kerchief alone encircled it; thick, silver-gray whiskers met together at his chin; a blue frock-coat, pantaloons of the same color, silk stockings, shoes with thick soles, and a dazzlingly-white waistcoat and linen, completed his equipment. a thick stick leant in one corner, and his broad-brimmed hat hung against the wall. there was a certain convulsive twitching of the thin lips of this person, which was very remarkable; and there seemed, when he looked fixedly, to be a smouldering fire in his large, glassy, grayish-blue eyes. he was, it was evident, a seaman like myself--a strong oak that fate had shaped into a mast, over which many a storm had blustered, but which had been too tough to be shivered, and still defied the tempest and the lightning. there lay a gloomy resignation as well as a wild fanaticism in those features. the large bony hand, with its immense fingers, was spread out or clenched, according to the turn which the conversation with the clergyman took. suddenly he stepped up to me. i was reading a royalist newspaper. he lighted his cigar. "you are right, sir; you are quite right not to read those infamous jacobin journals." i looked up, and gave no answer. he continued: "a sailor?" "yes, sir." "and have seen service?" "yes." "you are still in active service?" "no." and then, to my great satisfaction, for my patience was well-nigh exhausted, the examination was brought to a conclusion. just then, an evil destiny led my three young fellow-travelers into the room. they soon seated themselves at a table, and drank some glasses of champagne to clotilde's health. all went on well; but when they began to sing the _marseillaise_ and the _parisienne_, the face of the gray man began to twitch, and it was evident a storm was brewing. calling to the waiter, he said with a loud voice, "tell those blackguards yonder not to annoy me with their low songs!" the young men sprang up in a fury, and asked if it was to them he alluded. "whom else should i mean," said the gray man, with a contemptuous sneer. "but we may drink and sing if we like, and to whom we like," said the young man. "_vive la république et vive clotilde!_" "one as blackguardly as the other!" cried the gray-beard tauntingly; and a wine-glass, that flew at his head from the hand of the dark-haired youth, was the immediate rejoinder. slowly wiping his forehead, which bled and dripped with the spilled wine, the old man said quite quietly "to-morrow, at the cap verd!" and seated himself again with the most perfect composure. the young man expressed his determination to take the matter on himself; that he alone would settle the quarrel, and promised to appear on the morrow at the appointed time. they then all departed noisily. the old man rose quietly, and turning to me, said: "sir, you have been witness to the insult; be witness also to the satisfaction. here is my address: i shall expect you at five o'clock. good-night, monsieur l'abbé! to-morrow, there will be one jacobin less, and one lost soul the more. good-night!" and taking his hat and stick, he departed. his companion the abbé followed soon after. i now learned the history of this singular man. he was descended from a good family of marseilles. destined for the navy while still young, he was sent on board ship before the revolution, and while yet of tender years. later, he was taken prisoner; and after many strange adventures, returned in to france: was about to marry, but having been mixed up with the disturbances at toulon, managed to escape by a miracle to england; and learned before long that his father, mother, one brother, a sister of sixteen years of age, and his betrothed, had all been led to the guillotine to the tune of the _marseillaise_. thirst for revenge, revenge on the detested jacobins, was now his sole aim. for a long time he roved about in the indian seas, sometimes as a privateer, at others as a slave-dealer; and was said to have caused the tri-colored flag much damage, while he acquired a considerable fortune for himself. with the return of the bourbons, he came back to france, and settled at marseilles. he lived, however, very retired, and employed his large fortune solely for the poor, for distressed seamen, and for the clergy. alms and masses were his only objects of expense. it may easily be believed, that he acquired no small degree of popularity among the lower classes and the clergy. but, strangely enough, when not at church, he spent his time with the most celebrated fencing-masters, and had acquired in the use of the pistol and the sword a dexterity that was hardly to be paralleled. in the year , when the royalist reaction broke out in la vendee, he roved about for a long time at the head of a band of followers. when at last this opportunity of cooling his rage was taken from him by the return of order, he looked out for some victim who was known to him by his revolutionary principles, and sought to provoke him to combat. the younger, the richer, the happier the chosen victim was, the more desirable did he seem. the landlord told me he himself knew of seven young persons who had fallen before his redoubted sword. the next morning at five o'clock, i was at the house of this singular character. he lived on the ground-floor, in a small simple room, where, excepting a large crucifix, and a picture covered with black crape, with the date, , under it, the only ornaments were some nautical instruments, a trombone, and a human skull. the picture was the portrait of his guillotined bride; it remained always vailed, excepting only when he had slaked his revenge with blood; then he uncovered it for eight days, and indulged himself in the sight. the skull was that of his mother. his bed consisted of the usual hammock slung from the ceiling. when i entered, he was at his devotions, and a little negro brought me meanwhile a cup of chocolate and a cigar. when he had risen from his knees, he saluted me in a friendly manner, as if we were merely going for a morning walk together; afterward he opened a closet, took out of it a case with a pair of english pistols, and a couple of excellent swords, which i put under my arm; and thus provided, we proceeded along the quay toward the port. the boatmen seemed all to know him: "peter, your boat!" he seated himself in the stern. "you will have the goodness to row," he said; "i will take the tiller, so that my hand may not become unsteady." i took off my coat, rowed away briskly, and as the wind was favorable, we hoisted a sail, and soon reached cap verd. we could remark from afar our three young men, who were sitting at breakfast in a garden, not far from the shore. this was the garden of a _restaurateur_, and was the favorite resort of the inhabitants of marseilles. here you find excellent fish; and also, in high perfection, the famous _bollenbresse_, a national dish in provence, as celebrated as the _olla podrida_ of spain. how many a love-meeting has occurred in this place! but this time it was not love that brought the parties together, but hate, his step-brother; and in provence the one is as ardent, quick, and impatient as the other. my business was soon accomplished. it consisted in asking the young men what weapons they chose, and with which of them the duel was to be fought. the dark-haired youth--his name was m---- l----,--insisted that he alone should settle the business, and his friends were obliged to give their word not to interfere. "you are too stout," he said to the one, pointing to his portly figure; "and you"--to the other--"are going to be married; besides, i am a first-rate hand with the sword. however, i will not take advantage of my youth and strength, but will choose the pistol, unless the gentleman yonder prefers the sword." a movement of convulsive joy animated the face of my old captain: "the sword is the weapon of the french gentleman," he said; "i shall be happy to die with it in my hand." "be it so. but your age?" "never mind; make haste, and _en garde_." it was a strange sight: the handsome young man on one side, overbearing confidence in his look, with his youthful form, full of grace and suppleness; and opposite him that long figure, half naked--for his blue shirt was furled up from his sinewy arm, and his broad, scarred breast was entirely bare. in the old man, every sinew was like iron wire: his whole weight resting on his left hip, the long arm--on which, in sailor fashion, a red cross, three lilies, and other marks, were tattooed--held out before him, and the cunning, murderous gaze riveted on his adversary. "'twill be but a mere scratch," said one of the three friends to me. i made no reply, but was convinced beforehand that my captain, who was an old practitioner, would treat the matter more seriously. young l----, whose perfumed coat was lying near, appeared to me to be already given over to corruption. he began the attack, advancing quickly. this confirmed me in my opinion; for although he might be a practiced fencer in the schools, this was proof that he could not frequently have been engaged in serious combat, or he would not have rushed forward so incautiously against an adversary whom he did not as yet know. his opponent profited by his ardor, and retired step by step, and at first only with an occasional ward and half thrust. young l----, getting hotter and hotter, grew flurried; while every ward of his adversary proclaimed, by its force and exactness, the master of the art of fence. at length the young man made a lunge; the captain parried it with a powerful movement, and, before l---- could recover his position, made a thrust in return, his whole body falling forward as he did so, exactly like a picture at the académie des armes--"the hand elevated, the leg stretched out"--and his sword went through his antagonist, for nearly half its length, just under the shoulder. the captain made an almost imperceptible turn with his hand, and in an instant was again _en garde_. l---- felt himself wounded; he let his sword fall, while with his other hand he pressed his side; his eyes grew dim, and he sank into the arms of his friends. the captain wiped his sword carefully, gave it to me, and dressed himself with the most perfect composure. "i have the honor to wish you good-morning, gentlemen: had you not sung yesterday, you would not have had to weep to-day;" and thus saying, he went toward his boat. "'tis the seventeenth!" he murmured; "but this was easy work--a mere greenhorn from the fencing-schools of paris. 'twas a very different thing when i had to do with the old bonapartist officers, those brigands of the loire." but it is quite impossible to translate into another language the fierce energy of this speech. arrived at the port, he threw the boatman a few pieces of silver, saying: "here, peter; here's something for you." "another requiem and a mass for a departed soul, at the church of st. géneviève--is it not so, captain? but that is a matter of course." and soon after we reached the dwelling of the captain. the little negro brought us a cold pasty, oysters, and two bottles of _vin d'artois_. "such a walk betimes gives an appetite," said the captain, gayly. "how strangely things fall out!" he continued, in a serious tone. "i have long wished to draw the crape-vail from before that picture, for you must know i only deem myself worthy to do so when i have sent some jacobin or bonapartist into the other world, to crave pardon from that murdered angel; and so i went yesterday to the coffee-house with my old friend the abbé, whom i knew ever since he was field-preacher to the chouans, in the hope of finding a victim for the sacrifice among the readers of the liberal journals. the confounded waiters, however, betray my intention; and when i am there, nobody will ask for a radical paper. when you appeared, my worthy friend, i at first thought i had found the right man, and i was impatient--for i had been waiting for more than three hours for a reader of the 'national' or of 'figaro.' how glad i am that i at once discovered you to be no friend of such infamous papers! how grieved should i be, if i had had to do with you instead of with that young fellow!" for my part, i was in no mood even for self-felicitations. at that time, i was a reckless young fellow, going through the conventionalisms of society without a thought; but the event of the morning had made even me reflect. "do you think he will die, captain?" i asked. "is the wound mortal?" "for certain!" he replied, with a slight smile. "i have a knack--of course for jacobins and bonapartists only--when i thrust _en quarte_, to draw out the sword by an imperceptible movement of the hand, _en tierce_, or _vice versâ_, according to circumstances; and thus the blade turns in the wound--_and that kills_; for the lung is injured, and mortification is sure to follow." on returning to my hotel, where l---- also was staying, i met the physician, who had just visited him. he gave up all hope. the captain spoke truly, for the slight movement of the hand and the turn of the blade had accomplished their aim, and the lung was injured beyond the power of cure. the next morning early, l---- died. i went to the captain, who was returning home with the abbé. "the abbé has just been to read a mass for him," he said; "it is a benefit which, on such occasions, i am willing he should enjoy--more, however, from friendship for him, than out of pity for the accursed soul of a jacobin, which in my eyes is worth less than a dog's! but walk in, sir." the picture, a wonderfully lovely maidenly face, with rich curls falling around it, and in the costume of the last ten years of the preceding century, was now unvailed. a good breakfast, like that of yesterday, stood on the table. with a moistened eye, and, turning to the portrait, he said: "thérèse, to thy memory!" and emptied his glass at a draught. surprised and moved, i quitted the strange man. on the stairs of the hotel i met the coffin, which was just being carried up for l----; and i thought to myself: "poor clotilde! you will not be able to weep over his grave." monthly record of current events. the united states. our last monthly record reported the proceedings of the democratic national convention held at baltimore on the st of june. on the th of the same month, the whig national convention met at the same place, and was permanently organized by the election of hon. john g. chapman, of maryland, president, with thirty-one vice-presidents and thirteen secretaries. two days were occupied in preliminary business, part of which was the investigation of the right to several contested seats from the states of vermont and new york. on the third day, a committee, consisting of one from each state, selected by the delegation thereof, was appointed to report a series of resolutions for the action of the convention. the resolutions were reported at the ensuing session, on the same day, by hon. george ashmun, of massachusetts. they set forth that the government of the united states is one of limited powers, all powers not expressly granted, or necessarily implied by the constitution, being reserved to the states or the people;--that while struggling freedom every where has the warmest sympathy of the whig party, our true mission as a republic is not to propagate our opinions, or to impose on other countries our form of government by artifice or force, but to teach by our example, and to show by our success, moderation, and justice, the blessings of self-government and the advantage of free institutions;--that revenue ought to be raised by duties on imports laid with a just discrimination, whereby suitable encouragement may be afforded to american industry;--that congress has power to open and repair harbors, and remove obstructions from navigable rivers, whenever such improvements are necessary for the common defense and for the protection and facility of commerce with foreign nations or among the states;--that the compromise acts, including the fugitive slave law, are received and acquiesced in as a final settlement, in principle and substance, of the dangerous and exciting questions which they embrace; that the whig party will maintain them, and insist upon their strict enforcement until time and experience shall demonstrate the necessity of further legislation, to guard against their evasion or abuse, not impairing their present efficiency; and that all further agitation of the questions thus settled is deprecated as dangerous to our peace; and all efforts to continue or renew that agitation, whenever, wherever, or however the attempt may be made, will be discountenanced.--these resolutions, after some discussion, were adopted by a vote of yeas, and nays. ballotings for a presidential candidate were then commenced, and continued until monday, the fifth day of the session. there were electoral votes represented in convention, which made (a majority) essential to a choice. upon the first ballot, president fillmore received , general scott , and daniel webster votes; and for fifty ballotings this was nearly the relative number of votes received by each. on the fifty-third ballot, general scott receiving votes, mr. fillmore , and mr. webster , the former was declared to have been duly nominated, and that nomination was made unanimous. hon. william a. graham, of north carolina, was then nominated on the second ballot for vice-president; and resolutions were adopted complimentary to mr. fillmore and mr. webster; after which the convention adjourned. in reply to a communication from the president of the convention, apprising him of his nomination, general scott has written a letter, dated june th, declaring that he "accepts it with the resolutions annexed." he adds, that if elected, he shall recommend or approve of "such measures as shall secure an early settlement of the public domain favorable to actual settlers, but consistent, nevertheless, with a due regard to the equal rights of the whole american people in that vast national inheritance;"--and also of an amendment to our naturalization laws, "giving to all foreigners the right of citizenship who shall faithfully serve, in time of war, one year on board of our public ships, or in our land-forces, regular or volunteer, on their receiving an honorable discharge from the service." he adds, that he should not tolerate any sedition, disorder, faction, or resistance to the law or the union on any pretext, in any part of the land; and that his leading aim would be "to advance the greatness and happiness of this republic, and thus to cherish and encourage the cause of constitutional liberty throughout the world." mr. graham also accepted his nomination, with a cordial approval of the declarations made in the resolutions adopted by the convention.----since the adjournment of the convention, a letter from president fillmore, addressed to that body, has been published. it was intrusted to the care of mr. babcock, the delegate in convention from the erie, n. y., district, in which mr. fillmore resides; and he was authorized to present it, and withdraw mr. fillmore's name as a candidate whenever he should think it proper to do so. in this letter, mr. fillmore refers to the circumstances of embarrassment under which he entered upon the duties of the presidency, and says that he at once determined within himself to decline a re-election, and to make that decision public. from doing so, however, he was at that time, as well as subsequently, dissuaded by the earnest remonstrances of friends. he expresses the hope that the convention may be able to unite in nominating some one who, if elected, may be more successful in retaining the confidence of the party than he has been;--he had endeavored faithfully to discharge his duty to the country, and in the consciousness of having acted from upright motives and according to his best judgment, for the public good, he was quite willing to have sacrificed himself for the sake of his country. the death of henry clay has been the most marked event of the month. he expired at washington, on tuesday, june , after a protracted illness, and at the advanced age of years. his decease was announced in eloquent and appropriate terms in both branches of congress, and general demonstrations of regard for his memory and regret at his loss took place throughout the country. his history is already so familiar to the american public, that we add nothing here to the notice given of him in another part of this magazine. his remains were taken to lexington, ky., for interment. the proceedings of congress since our last record have not been of special importance. in the senate on the th of june a communication was received from the president communicating part of the correspondence had with the austrian government concerning the imprisonment of mr. c. l. brace. the principal document was a letter from prince schwarzenberg, stating that mr. brace was found to have been the bearer of important papers from hungarian fugitives in america to persons in hungary very much suspected, and also to have had in his possession inflammatory and treasonable pamphlets; and that his imprisonment was therefore fully justified. a letter from mr. webster to the american chargé at vienna, in regard to chevalier hulsemann's complaints of the u. s. government, has been also submitted to the senate. mr. w. says that notwithstanding his long residence in this country mr. hulsemann seems to have yet to learn that no foreign government, or its representative, can take just offense at any thing which an officer of this government may say in his private capacity; and that a chargé d'affairs can only hold intercourse with this government through the department of state. mr. w. declines to take any notice of the specific subjects of complaint presented by mr. h.----in the house of representatives the only important action taken has been the passage of a bill providing for the donation to the several states, for purposes of education and internal improvement, of large tracts of the public domain. each of the old states receives one hundred and fifty thousand acres for each senator and representative in the present congress: to the new states the portions awarded are still larger. the bill was passed in the house on the th of june by a vote of ayes , nays . the bill was presented by mr. bennett of new york, and is regarded as important, inasmuch as it secures to the old states a much larger participation in the public lands than they have hitherto seemed likely to obtain. a national agricultural convention was held at washington on the th of june, of which marshall wilder of massachusetts was elected president. it was decided to form a national agricultural society, to hold yearly meetings at washington.----the supreme court in new york on the th of june pronounced a judgment, by a majority, declaring the american art-union to be a lottery within the prohibition of the constitution of the state, and that it was therefore illegal. an appeal has been taken by the managers to the court of appeals, where it has been argued, but no decision has yet been given.----madame alboni, the celebrated contralto singer, arrived in new york early in june and has given two successful concerts.----governor kossuth delivered an address in new york on the st of june upon the future of nations, insisting that it was the duty of the united states to establish, what the world has not yet seen, a national policy resting upon christian principles as its basis. he urged the cause of his country upon public attention, and declared his mission to the united states to be closed. on the d he delivered a farewell address to the german citizens of new york, in which he spoke at length of the relations of germany to the cause of european freedom and of the duty of the german citizens of the united states to exert an influence upon the american government favorable to the protection of liberty throughout the world. it is stated that his aggregate receipts of money in this country have been somewhat less than one hundred thousand dollars. in texas, a company of dragoons, under lieutenant haven, has had a skirmish with the camanche indians, from whom four captive children and thirty-eight stolen horses were recovered. about the st of june a family, consisting of a father, mother, and six children, while encamped at la mina, were attacked by a party of camanches, and all killed except the father and one daughter, who were severely wounded, and two young children who were rescued. a few days previous a party of five californians were all killed by mexicans near san fernando. on the evening of the th of may seven americans were attacked by a gang of about forty mexicans and indians, at a lake called campacuas, and five of them were killed. a good deal of excitement prevailed in consequence of these repeated outrages, and of the failure of the general government to provide properly for the protection of the parties.----early in june, as the u. s. steamer camanche was ascending the rio bravo, five persons landed from her and killed a cow, when the owner came forward and demanded payment. this was refused with insults, and the marauders returned on board. the steamer continued her voyage, and the pilot soon saw a party of men approaching the bank, and fired upon them. they soon after returned the fire, wounding two of the passengers, one being the deputy-collector of the custom-house of rio grande, and the other his son. from california we have intelligence to the st of june. there is no political news of interest. a party of seventy-four frenchmen left california last fall for sonora in mexico, accompanied by one american, named moore. mr. m. had returned to san francisco with intelligence that the party had been favorably received by the mexican authorities, who had bestowed upon them a grant of three leagues of land near carcospa, at the head of the santa cruz valley, on condition that they should cultivate it for ten years without selling it, and should not permit any americans to settle among them. they had also received from the mexican government horses, farming utensils, provisions, and other necessaries, with permission to have five hundred of their countrymen join them. they were intending soon to begin working the rich mines in that neighborhood. mr. moore had been compelled by threats and force to leave them. on his way back he met at guyamas a party of twelve who had been driven back, while going to california, by indians. while on their way to sonora, they had fallen in with a settlement of seventy-five frenchmen, who treated them with great harshness, and would have killed them but for the protection of the mexican authorities. this hostility between the french and american settlers in california is ascribed to difficulties which occurred in the mines between them. the mexicans, whose hatred of the americans in that part of the country seems to be steadily increasing, have taken advantage of these dissensions, and encourage the french in their hostility to the americans.----previous to its adjournment, which took place on the th of may, the legislature passed an act to take the census of the state before the st of november.----the feeling of hostility to the chinese settlers in california seems to be increasing. public meetings had been held in various quarters, urging their removal, and committees of correspondence had been formed to concert measures for effecting this object. it appears from official reports that the whole number of chinamen who had arrived at san francisco, from february, , to may, , was , , and that of these only had returned or died. of the whole number arrived only seven were women.--nine missionaries of the methodist episcopal church had recently arrived, intending to labor in california and oregon.--the intelligence from the mines continued to be highly encouraging. the weather was favorable; the deposits continued to yield abundantly, and labor was generally well rewarded. from the sandwich islands our intelligence is to the th of may. the session of the hawaiian parliament was opened on the th of april. the opening speech of the king sets forth that the foreign relations of the island are of a friendly character, except so far as regards france, from the government of which no response has been received as yet to propositions on the part of hawaii. he states that the peace of his dominions has been threatened by an invasion of private adventurers from california; but that an appeal to the united states commissioner, promptly acted upon by captain gardner, of the u. s. ship vandalia, tranquilized the public mind. he had taken steps to organize a military force for the future defense of the island. in the upper house the draft of a new constitution had been reported, and was under discussion. in the other house steps had been taken to contradict the report that the islands desired annexation to the united states. from new mexico we learn that colonel sumner had removed his head-quarters to santa fé, in order to give more effective military support to the government. governor calhoun had left the country for a visit to washington, and died on the way: the government was thus virtually in the hands of colonel sumner. the indians and mexicans continued to be troublesome. from utah our advices are to may st. brigham young had been again elected president. the receipts at the tithing office from november, , to march, , were $ , , mostly in property; in loans, &c., $ , ; the expenditures were $ , --leaving a balance of $ , . missionaries were appointed at the general conference to italy, calcutta, and england. edward hunter was ordained presiding bishop of the whole church: sixty-seven priests were ordained. the report speaks of the church and settlements as being in a highly flourishing condition. mexico. we have intelligence from mexico to the th of june. political affairs seem to be in a confused and unpromising condition. previous to the adjournment of the present congress the cabinet addressed a note to the chamber of deputies, asking them to take some decided step whereby to rescue the government from the difficult position in which it will be placed, without power or resources, and to save the nation from the necessary consequences of such a crisis. it was suggested that the government might be authorized to take, in connection with committees to be appointed by the chamber, the resolutions necessary--such resolutions to be executed under the responsibility of the ministry. this note was referred to a committee, which almost immediately reported that there was no reason why this demand for extraordinary powers should be granted. this report was adopted by a vote of to . congress adjourned on the st of may. the president's address referred to the critical circumstances in which the country was placed when the congress first met, which made it to be feared that its mission would be only the saddest duty reserved to man on earth, that of assisting at the burial of his country. the flame of war still blazed upon their frontier: negotiations designed to facilitate means of communication which would make mexico the centre of the commercial world, had terminated in a manner to render possible a renewal of that war; and the commercial crisis had reached a development which threatened the domestic peace and the foreign alliances of the country. there was a daily increase in the deficit; distrust prevailed between the different departments; the country was fatigued by its convulsions and disorders, and weakened by its dissensions; and it seemed impossible to prolong the existence of the government. how the country had been rescued from such perils it was not easy to say, unless it were by the special aid and protection of providence. guided by its convictions and sustained by its hope, the government had employed all the means at its disposal, and would still endeavor to draw all possible benefit from its resources, stopping only when those resources should arrest its action. fearing that this event might speedily happen, a simplification of the powers of the legislature, during its vacation, had been proposed, instead of leaving all to the exercise of a discretionary power by the executive. to this, however, the legislature had not assented: and, consequently, the government considering its responsibility protected for the future, would spare no means or sacrifices to fulfill its difficult and delicate mission. to this address the vice president of the chamber replied, sketching the labors of the session, and saying that the legislative donation of the extraordinary powers demanded, could not have been granted without a violation of the constitution--a fact with which the executive should be deeply impressed. the means made use of up to the present time would be sufficient, if applied with care. the legislature hoped, as much as it desired, that such would be the case. great anxiety was felt as to the nature of the measures which the government would adopt: the general expectation seemed to be that the president arista would take the whole government into his own hands, and the suggestion was received with a good deal of favor. it was rumored that the aid of the united states had been sought for such an attempt--to be given in the shape of six millions of dollars, in return for abrogating that clause of the treaty which requires them to protect the mexican frontier from the indians. this, however, is mere conjecture as yet.----serious difficulties have arisen between the mexican authorities and the american consul, mr. f. w. rice, at acapulco. mr. rice sold the propeller stockton, for wages due to her hands: she was bid off by mr. snyder, the chief engineer, at $ cash down, and $ within twenty-four hours after the sale. he asked and obtained two delays in making the first payment; and finally said he could not pay it until the next day. upon this mr. rice again advertised the vessel for sale, on his account: she was sold to capt. triton, of panama, for $ . mr. snyder then applied to the mexican court, and the judge went on board, broke the consular seals, took possession of the vessel, and advertised her again for sale. mr. rice proclaimed the sale illegal, and protested against it, and, further, prevented mr. snyder forcibly from tearing down his posted protest. at the day of sale no bidders appeared. the mexican authorities then arrested mr. rice, and committed him to prison, where he remained at the latest dates. proper representations have of course been made to the u. s. government, and the matter will doubtless receive proper attention.----an encounter had taken place in sonora, between a party of indians and a detachment of regular mexican troops and national guards. the latter were forced to retreat.----gen. mejia; who acquired some distinction during the late war, died recently in the city of mexico, and gen. michelena, at morelia.----the refusal of congress to admit foreign flour, free of duty, had created a good deal of feeling in those districts where the want of it is most severely felt. in vera cruz, a large public meeting was held, at which it was determined to request the local authorities to send for a supply of flour, without regard to the law.----the state of durango is in a melancholy condition: hunger, pestilence, and continued incursions of the indians, have rendered it nearly desolate.----four of the revolutionists under caravajal, captured by the mexicans, were executed by gen. avalos, at matamoras, in june: two of them were americans. south america. there is no intelligence of special interest from any of the south american states. from _buenos ayres_, our dates are to the th of may, when every thing was quiet, and political affairs were in a promising condition. the new legislature met on the st, and resolutions had been introduced tendering public thanks to general urquiza for having delivered the country from tyranny. he had been invested with complete control of the foreign relations, and the affairs of peace and war. don lopez was elected governor of the province of buenos ayres on the th, receiving of the votes in the legislative chamber. the choice gives universal satisfaction to the friends of the new order of things. the governors of all the provinces were to meet at santa fé on the th, to determine upon the form of a central government. general urquiza was to meet them in convention there, and it is stated that he was to be accompanied by mr. pendleton, the united states chargé, whose aid had been asked, especially in explaining in convention the nature and working of american institutions.----at _rio janeiro_ a dissolution of the cabinet was anticipated. great dissatisfaction was felt at certain treaties recently concluded with montevideo, and at the correspondence of mr. hudson, the late english minister, upon the slave trade, which had been lately published in london.----from _ecuador_ there is nothing new. flores still remained at puna, below guayaquil, with his forces.----in _chili_ there was a slight attempt at insurrection in the garrison at trospunta, but it was soon put down. six persons implicated in previous revolts were executed at copiapo on the d of may. great britain. public attention in england has been to a very considerable extent engrossed by the approaching elections. the ministry maintain rigid silence as to the policy they intend to pursue though it is of course impossible to avoid incidental indications of their sentiments and purposes. the chancellor of the exchequer, mr. disraeli, has issued an address to his constituents, which shows even more distinctly than his financial _exposé_, of which we gave a summary last month, that the cause of protection is, in his judgment, well-nigh obsolete. in that address he states that the time has gone by when the injuries which the great producing interests have sustained from the free trade policy of , can be alleviated or removed by a recurrence to laws which existed before that time:--"the spirit of the age," he says, "tends to free intercourse, and no statesman can disregard with impunity the genius of the epoch in which he lives." it is, however, the intention of the ministry to recommend such measures as shall tend to relieve the producer from the unequal competition he is now compelled to wage, and the possibility of doing this by a revision and reduction of taxation, seems to loom in the future. still, the chancellor urges, nothing useful can be done in this direction, unless the ministry is sustained by a powerful majority in parliament; and he accordingly presses the importance of electing members of the ministerial party.----a declaration of at least equal importance was drawn from the premier, the earl of derby, in the house of lords, on the th of may, by earl granville, who incidentally quoted a remark ascribed to lord derby that a recurrence to the duty on corn would be found necessary for purposes of revenue and protection. lord derby rose to correct him. he had not represented it as necessary, but only as desirable,--and whether it should be done or not, depended entirely on the elections. but he added, that in his opinion, from what he had since heard and learned, there certainly would not be in favor of the imposition of a duty on foreign corn, that extensive majority in the country without which it would not be desirable to impose it.----lord john russell has issued an address to his constituents, for a re-election, rehearsing the policy of the government while it was under his direction, sketching the proceedings of the new ministry, and declaring his purpose to contend that no duty should be imposed on the import of corn, either for revenue or protection; and that the commercial policy of the last ten years is not an evil to be mitigated, but a good to be extended--not an unwise or disastrous policy which ought to be reversed, altered, or modified, but a just and beneficial system which should be supported, strengthened, and upheld.----the course of the earl of malmesbury, the foreign secretary, in regard to the case of mr. mather, an english subject, who had been treated with gross indignities and serious personal injuries by officers of the tuscan government, has excited a good deal of attention. he had first demanded compensation from the government as a matter of right, and, after consulting mr. mather's father, had named £ as the sum to be paid. it seems, however, from the official documents since published, that he accompanied this demand with an opinion that it was exorbitant, and named £ as a minimum. the negotiation ended by mr. scarlett, the british agent at florence, accepting £ as a compensation and that as a donation from the tuscan government--waiving the principle of its responsibility. the matter had been brought up in parliament, and the earl had felt constrained to disavow wholly mr. scarlett's action.----the current debates in parliament have been devoid of special interest. on the th of june, in reply to a strong speech from sir james graham, mr. disraeli vindicated himself from the charge of having brought the public business into an unsatisfactory and disgraceful condition, and made a general statement of the bills which the government thought it necessary to press upon the attention of parliament. on the th the militia bill was read a third time and passed, by votes to .----a bill was pressed upon the house of lords by the earl of malmesbury, proposing a convention with france for the mutual surrender of criminals, which was found upon examination to give to the french government very extraordinary powers over any of its subjects in england. the list of crimes embraced was very greatly extended--and alleged offenders were to be surrendered upon the mere proof of their identity. all the leading peers spoke very strongly of the objectionable features of the measure, and it was sent to the committee for the purpose of receiving the material alterations required.----fergus o'connor has been consigned to a lunatic asylum--his insane eccentricities having reached a point at which it was no longer considered safe to leave him at liberty.----professor mcdougall has been elected to fill the chair of moral philosophy in the university of edinburgh, vacated by the resignation of professor wilson.----the irish exhibition of industry was opened at cork, with public ceremonies, in which the lord lieutenant participated, on the th of june.----the general assembly of the church of scotland, and that of the free church both commenced their sittings on the th of may.----the electric telegraph has been carried across the irish channel, from holyhead to the hill of howth, a distance of sixty-five miles;--the mode of accomplishing this result was by sinking a cable, as had previously been done across the straits of dover.----the queen has issued a proclamation forbidding all roman catholic ceremonies, and all appearance in catholic vestments, except in catholic churches or in private houses. france. the month has not been marked by any event of special importance in france. the government has continued in its usual course, though indications are apparent of impending difficulties in the near future. the number of prominent men who refuse to take the oath of allegiance is daily increasing, and many who have hitherto filled places in the councils of the departments and of the municipalities, have resigned them to avoid the oath. general bedeau has sent a tart letter to the minister of war, conveying his refusal; and a public subscription has been set on foot, with success, in paris, for the relief of general changarnier, who has been reduced to poverty by his firm refusal to yield to the usurpation.----the president continues relentlessly his restriction of the press, and has involved himself in considerable embarrassment by the extent to which he carries it. the organs of the legitimist party in all the great towns have received the warnings which empower the president, as the next step, to suppress them entirely. the paris _débats_ has lately received a warning for its silence upon political subjects. but a very singular quarrel has arisen between the president and the _constitutionnel_, which has been from the beginning the least scrupulous of all his defenders. that paper contained an article intended to influence the belgian elections then pending, and distinctly menacing that country with a retaliatory tariff, if its hostility to louis napoleon were not abandoned, or at least modified. the effect of the publication of this article was such, that the belgian minister demanded an explanation, and was assured that the article did not meet the approbation of the government. this _quasi_ disavowal was published by the belgian press, and in reply m. granier de cassagnac, the writer of the article, declared that he had not spoken in his own name, but at the direct instance and with the full approval of the president. the paris _moniteur_ then contained an official announcement, disavowing m. de cassagnac's articles, and stating that "no organ can engage the responsibility of the government but the _moniteur_." the _constitutionnel_ replied by a declaration signed by its owner, dr. veron, that he still believed the original article to have been sanctioned by the president. this brought down upon it an official warning. dr. veron rejoined by expressing his regret, but adding that the cabinet had ordered several hundred copies of the paper containing the articles disavowed; and this he considered _prima facie_ evidence that they met with the approbation of the government. this brought upon the paper a second warning: the next step, of course, is suppression.----the paris correspondents of three of the london papers have been summoned to the department of police, and assured by the director that they are hereafter to be held personally responsible, not only for the contents of their own letters, but for whatever the journals with which they are connected may say, in leading articles or otherwise, concerning french affairs. a strong effort was made by them to change this determination, but without effect.----girardin, in the _presse_, states that general changarnier, in , proposed to the provisional government the military invasion of england. the general himself has authorized the _times_ to give the statement an explicit contradiction.----m. heckeren, who was sent by the french government to vienna and berlin, to ascertain more definitely the disposition of the northern powers toward louis napoleon, had returned from his mission, but its results had not been authoritatively made known. the london _times_ has, however, given what purports to be a synopsis of the documents relating to it. from this it appears that the allied sovereigns will connive at louis napoleon's usurpation of sovereignty in france for life; but so long as one bourbon exists they can recognize no other person as _hereditary_ sovereign of that country; and they hold themselves bound and justified by the treaties of to oppose the establishment of a bonapartist dynasty. the three great northern powers, it would seem, are combining to resuscitate the principles of the holy alliance, and to impose them upon the european system of states as the international law, notwithstanding the events of the last two-and-twenty years have rendered them practically obsolete. from the other european countries there is little intelligence worthy of record.----in belgium the elections have resulted in the increase of the liberal members of the chamber. an editor, prosecuted for having libeled louis napoleon, has been acquitted by a jury.----in austria a new law has been enacted imposing rigorous restrictions upon the press. editor's table. the moral influences of the stage is a subject which, although earnestly discussed for centuries, still maintains all its theoretical and practical importance. the weight of argument, we think, has ever been with the assailants, and yet candor requires the concession, that there have been, at times, thinking men, serious men, may we not also say, christian men, to be found among the defenders of theatrical representations? on a fair statement of the case, however, it will plainly appear, that these have ever been the defenders of an imaginary, or hypothetical, instead of a really existing stage. never--we think we may safely say it--never has any true friend of religion and morality been found upholding the theatre as it actually _is_, or _was_, at any particular period. indeed, this may also be said of its most partial advocates. their warmest defense is ever coupled with the admission, that, as at present managed, it needs some thorough and decided reform to make it, in all respects, what it ought to be. we do not think that we ever read any thing in advocacy of the stage without some proviso of this kind. it never _is_--it never _was_--what it ought to be, and might be. but then the idea is ever held forth of some future reform. we are told, for example, what the theatre might become, if, instead of being condemned by the more moral and religious part of the community, it received the support of their presence, and could have the benefit of their regulation. so plausible have these arguments appeared, that the experiment has again and again been tried. reforms have been attempted in the characters of the plays, of the actors, and of the audiences. good men and good women have written expressly for the stage. johnson and hannah moore, and young--to say nothing of buchanan and addison--have contributed their services in these efforts at expurgation, but all alike in vain. some of these have afterward confessed the hopelessness of the undertaking, and lamented that by taking part in it they had given a seeming encouragement to what they really meant to condemn. the expected reform has never appeared. if, through great exertion, some improvement may have manifested itself for a time, yet, sooner or later, the relapse comes on. nature--our human nature--will have its way. the evil elements predominate; and the stage sinks again, until its visible degradation once more arouses attention, and calls for some other spasmodic effort, only to meet the same failure, and to furnish another proof of some radical inherent vitiosity. good plays may, indeed, be acted; but they will not long continue to call forth what are styled _good audiences_--the term having reference to numbers and pecuniary avails, rather than to moral worth. in fact, the theatre presents its most mischievous aspect when it claims to be a school of morals. its advocates may talk as they will about "holding the mirror up to nature, showing virtue its own feature, vice its own image;" but it can only remind us that there is a cant of the play-house as well as of the conventicle, and that shaftsbury and his sentimental followers can "whine" as well as whitfield and beecher. the common sense of mankind pronounces it at once the worst of all hypocrisies--the hypocrisy of false sentiment ashamed of its real name and real character. as a proof of this, we may say that the stage has never been known in any language by any epithet denoting instruction, either moral or otherwise. it is the _play-house_, or house of amusement--the _theatrum_, the place for shows, for spectacles, for pleasurable emotions through the senses and the excitements of the sensitive nature. there may have been periods when moral or religious instruction of some kind could, perhaps, have been claimed as one end of dramatic representations, but that was before there was a higher stage, a higher _pulpitum_ divinely instituted for the moral tuition of mankind. since that time, the very profanity of the claim to be a "school of morals" has only set in a stronger light the fact that, instead of elevating an immoral community, the stage is itself ever drawn down by it into a lower, and still lower degradation. we will venture the position, that no open vice is so pernicious to the soul as what may be called a false virtue; and this furnishes the kind of morality to which the stage is driven when it would make the fairest show of its moral pretensions. the virtues of the stage are not christian virtues. if they are not christian, they are anti-christian; for on this ground there can be no _via media_, no neutrality. who would ever think of making the moral excellences commended in the sermon on the mount, or in paul's epistles, the subjects of theatrical instruction? how would humility, forgiveness, poverty of spirit, meekness, temperance, long-suffering, charity, appear in a stage hero? in what way may they be made to minister to the exciting, the sentimental, the melodramatic? these virtues have, indeed, an elevation to which no stage-heroism or theatrical affectation ever attained; but such a rising ever implies a previous descent into the vale of personal humility, a previous lowliness of spirit altogether out of keeping with any dramatic or merely æsthetic representation. the christian moralities can come upon the stage only in the shape of caricatures, or as the hypocritical disguise through which some joseph surface is placed in most disparaging contrast with the false virtues or splendid vices the theatre-going public most admires. it is equally true that the most tender emotions find no fitting-place upon the stage. the deepest pathetic--the purest, the most soul-healing--in other words, the pathetic of common life, can not be _acted_ without revolting us. hence, to fit it for the stage, pity must be mingled with other ingredients of a more exciting or spicy kind. it must be associated with the extravagance of love, or stinging jealousy, or complaining madness, or some other less usual semi-malevolent passion, which, while it adds to the theatrical effect, actually deadens the more genial and deeper sympathies that are demanded for the undramatic or ordinary sufferings of humanity. we can not illustrate this thought better than by referring the reader to that most touching story which is given in the july number of our magazine, and entitled, "the mourner and the comforter." how rich the effect of such a tale when simply read, without any external accompaniments!--how much richer, we might say, for the very want of them! how its "rain of tears" mellows and fertilizes the hard soil of the human heart! and yet how few and simple the incidents! how undramatic the outward fictitious dress, through which are represented emotions the most vitally real in human nature! like a strain of the richest, yet simplest music, in which the accompaniment is just sufficient to call out the harmonious relations of the melody, without marring by its artistic or dramatic prominence the deep spiritual reality that dwells in the tones. we appeal to every one who has read that touching narrative--how utterly would it be spoiled by being _acted_! there might be some theatrical effect given to the agitated scene upon the balcony, but a vail would have to be drawn around the chamber of the mourner, and the more than heroic friend who sits by her in the long watches of the night. such scenes, it may be said, are too common for the stage--ay, and too holy for it, too. they are too pure for the kembles and sinclairs ever to meddle with, and they know it, and their audiences feel it. we decide instinctively that all _acting_ here would be more than out of place. the very thought of theatrical representation would seem like a profanation of the purest and holiest affections of our nature. and so too of others, which, although not virtues have more of a prudential or worldly aspect. the stage may sometimes tolerate a temperance or an anti-gambling hero, but it is only to feed a temporary public excitement, and the moment that excitement manifests the first symptom of a relapse, this school of morals must immediately follow, instead of directing the new public sentiment. the wonder is, that any thinking man could ever expect it to be otherwise. every one knows that the tastes of the audience make the law to the writer, the actor, and the manager. in this view of the matter, we need only the application of a very few plain principles and facts, to show how utterly hopeless must be the idea of the moral improvement of any representation which can only be sustained on the tenure of pleasing the largest audiences, without any regard to the materials of which they are composed. the first of these is, that the mass of mankind are not virtuous, they are not intelligent--the second, that even the more virtuous portions are worse in the midst of an applauding and condemning crowd than they would be in other circumstances; and the third, that the evil aspects of our humanity furnish the most exciting themes, or those best adapted to theatrical representations. but the world will become better--the world is becoming better, it may be said--and why should not the stage share in the improvement? if the world is becoming better, it is altogether through different and higher means. if it is becoming better, it is by the influence of truth and grace--through the church--upon individual souls brought to a right view, first of all, of the individual depravity, and thus by individual accretion, contributing to the growth of a better public sentiment. the spirit of theatrical representations is directly the reverse of this. it operates upon men in crowds, not as assembled in the same space merely, but through those feelings and influences which belong to them solely or chiefly in masses. deriving its aliment from the most outward public sentiment, its tendency is ever, instead of "holding the mirror up to nature," in any self-revealing light, to hide men from themselves. by absorbing the soul in exciting representations, in which the most depraved can take a sort of abstract or sentimental interest, it causes men to mistake this feeling for true virtue and true philanthropy, when they may be in the lowest hell of selfishness. it may become, in this way, more demoralizing than a display of the most revolting vices, because it buries the individual character beneath a mass of sentiments and emotions in which a man or a woman may luxuriate without one feeling of penitence for their own transgressions, or one thought of dissatisfaction with their own wretchedly diseased moral state. the theatre might with far more truth and honesty be defended on the ground of mere amusement. this is, doubtless, its most real object; but there is an instinctive feeling in the human soul that it would not do to trust its defense solely to such a plea. in the first place, it may be charged with inordinate excess. who dare justify the spending night after night in such ceaseless pleasure-seeking? and if there were not vast numbers who did this, our theatres could never be supported. to say nothing here of religion, or a life to come, the mere consideration of this world, and the poor suffering humanity by which it is tenanted, would urgently forbid that much of this life, or even a small portion of it, should be devoted to mere amusement. within a very few rods of every theatre in our city, almost every species of misery to which man is subject is daily and nightly experienced. how, in view of this, can any truly feeling soul (and we mean by this a very different species of feeling from that which is commonly generated in theatres) talk of amusing himself? in the year , during the severest prevalence of the cholera, the theatres in new york were closed. we well remember the impatience manifested at the event by those who claimed to represent the theatre-going public, and with what exulting spirits they called upon their patrons to improve the jubilee of their opening. we well remember how freely the terms "bigot" and "sour religionist" were applied to all who thought a further suppression of heartless amusements was due, if only as a sorrowing tribute of respect to suffering humanity. it was all the sheerest pharisaism, they said, thus to stand in the way of the innocent and rational amusements of mankind; as though, forsooth, amusement was the great end of human existence, and they who so impatiently claimed it actually needed some relaxation from the arduous and unremitted exertions they had been making for the relief of the sorrowing and toiling millions of their race. but if not for _amusement_, it might be said, then for _recreation_, which is a very different thing. the former term is used when the end aimed at is pleasure merely, without any reference to _the good_, as a something higher and better than _pleasurable sensations_, sought simply because they are pleasurable, and without regard to the spiritual health. in its contemptible french etymology we see the very soul of the word, so far as such a word may be said to have any soul. it is _muser_, _s'amuser_, having truly nothing to do with _music_ or the _muses_, but signifying to _loiter_, to _idle_, to _kill time_. we may well doubt whether this ever can be innocent, even in the smallest degree. certainly, to devote to it any considerable portion of our existence, especially in view of what has been and is now the condition of our race, must be not only the most heartless, but in its consequences the most damning of sins. it is in this sense that every true philanthropist, to say nothing of the christian, must utter his loud amen to the denunciation of the heathen seneca--_nihil est tam damnosum bonis moribus quam in spectaculis desidere, tunc enim per voluptatem facilius vitia surrepunt._--"nothing is so destructive to good morals as mere amusement, or the indolent waste of time in public spectacles; it is through such pleasure that all vices most readily come creeping into the soul." we would have our editor's table ever serious, ever earnest, and yet in true harmony with all that innocent and cheerful and even mirthful recreation, which is as necessary sometimes for the spiritual as for the bodily health. we would avoid every appearance of sermonizing, and yet we can not help quoting here an authority higher than seneca--_vanis mundi pompis renuntio_.--"the vain pomp of the world i renounce," is the language of the primitive form of christian baptism, still literally in use in one of our largest christian denominations, and expressed in substance by them all. now it can be clearly shown that this word, _pompæ_, was not used, as it now often is, in a vague and general manner, but was employed with special reference to public theatrical shows and representations. to every baptized christian, it seems to us, the argument must be conclusive. if theatrical shows (_pompæ_) are not "the world," in the new testament sense, what possible earthly thing can be included under this once most significant name? if they are not embraced in "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life," then not only has language no fixed meaning, but even ideas themselves have wholly changed. recreation, as we have said, is something very different from amusement. it is the _re-creating_ or renewing the overtasked mental or bodily powers, by some relaxing and restoring exercise. it is pleasurable, as all right things ever are; but here is the all-important distinction--pleasure is not its _end_. the accompanying enjoyment is only a laxative and recreative _means_ to something higher and more ultimate, and more _real_ in human existence; and it is only on this ground that it becomes either rational or innocent. amusement never can be either. but those who need recreation in this sense will never seek it in the theatre. the reason presents itself at once. experience concurs with the _a priori_ view, derived from the very nature of the thing, in declaring that it can never be found there. the emotions called out in the play-house are exciting--they are exhausting--they are dissipating. in each of these aspects they are at war with the legitimate idea of the recreative. they stimulate but do not invigorate. all mere pleasure-seeking has in it an element of death. it has its ground in a morbid feeling of want which is ever rendered still more morbid by gratification. it is the same with that which lies at the foundation of the appetite for stimulating drinks, except that here it affects the whole spiritual system. in a word, the truly recreative exercises of the soul, in which pleasure is a means and not an end, are ever attended by a sense of freedom, and this is the best characteristic by which they are to be distinguished from others that assume the appearance and the name. whatever is healthful, either to body or soul, is never enslaving. the counterfeit passion for enjoyment, on the other hand, is ever binding the spirit to a deeper and still deeper bondage. from the one, the mind returns with a healthier and heartier relish to the more arduous and serious duties of life; the other at every repetition renders such duties more and more the objects of an ever growing distaste and aversion. the slightest observation of the habitual frequenters of the theatre will determine to which class of mental exercises the influence of its representations are to be assigned. but there is another thought connected with this. we find in such an idea of the nature and end of theatrical representations the true reason why actors and actresses never have been, and never can be regarded as a reputable class in society. they may contribute ever so much to our amusement, but no principle of gratitude, even if there were any ground for so sacred a feeling, will ever bring the very persons who use them as a means of enjoyment to recognize their social equality. a favorite actor may now and then be toasted at a public dinner. grave men may sometimes manifest a public interest in some actress who has furnished an exciting theme of newspaper discussion, or judicial investigation. but let the higher tests be demanded, and the instinctive feeling of our humanity manifests itself at once. they never have been, they never will be admitted freely to the more intimate social relations. the fashionable frequenter of the theatre would not cordially give his daughter in marriage to the most popular of actors; he would turn with aversion from the thought that his son should choose for his bride the most accomplished actress that ever called forth the rapturous plaudits of a pleasure-maddened audience. we need not go far for the reason. it may be partly found in the fact, or suspicion, of their generally vicious lives. but of that, and the cause of it, in another place. it is a different though related thought to which we would here give prominence. with all that is pretended about the theatre being a place of instruction, or recreation, there is an under-consciousness that its great end is pleasurable emotion merely--in a word, amusement. along with this there is another suppressed consciousness that such an end is not honorable to our humanity, and that those, therefore, whose chief employment is to minister to it, can not be regarded as having a high or even a reputable calling. this decision may be called unjust, but we can not alter it, even though we fail to discover the true ground in which it has its origin. the distinctions exist in the very nature of things and ideas. no theoretical fraternization can ever essentially change them. there are three grades of employment whose respective rank must ever be independent of all conventionalities. two are reputable, though differing in degree. the third is essentially dishonorable through all its great variety of departments. the highest place is given, and must ever be given, to those who live for the spirit's good, or the health of the body as conducive to it--the second to those most useful and reputable employments that have for their end the material well-being, in itself considered. the region of dishonor embraces all of every class whose aim is the [greek: hêdhy] instead of the [greek: hagathhon], the _pleasurable_ instead of the _good_ or the truly _useful_, whether in respect to soul or body--all who live to please, to gratify simply--to _amuse_ mankind--in other words, to aid them in annihilating their precious earthly time, and in turning away their thoughts from the great ends of their immortal existence. the poorest mechanic, or day-laborer, who is toiling in the lowest department of the _utile_ (or useful as we have defined it) is of a higher rank, belongs to a more honorable class, than the proudest play-actor that ever trod the boards of a theatre. among these "men and women of pleasure," there may be also numerous varieties and degrees, from the female balancer on the tight rope to the most fashionable danseuse; from the clown of the circus to the forrest or macready of the aristocratic theatre; but the instinct of the human consciousness recognizes in them all but one genus. they all live to _amuse_, and such a life can not be honorable. it may be said, perhaps, that this dishonor should attach to those who are _amused_ as well as to the amusers. it might be so on the score of abstract justice; but, in fact, from the very thought there comes an additional load of obloquy upon the condemned caste. mere pleasure-seeking, mere amusement, is felt to be, in itself, a degradation of the rational nature, and a semi-conscious sense of this finds relief by casting it upon the instruments who are supposed to receive pecuniary emolument in place of the unavoidable dishonor. it may be thus seen that the disrepute of actors and actresses is no accidental disadvantage, but has an unchangeable reason in the laws of the human consciousness. from no other cause could have come that universal reprobation of the scenic character, to be found in the writings of the most enlightened heathen as well as in those of the most zealous christian fathers. the opinions of plato and socrates on this point are most express, and augustine only utters the sentiment of the classical as well as the christian world when he says (de civ. dei, . ), _adores removent a societate civitatis--ab honoribus omnibus repellunt ho mines scenicos_--"they remove actors from civic society--from all honors do they repel the men of the stage." the exceptions to this only prove the rule. the fact that in a very few cases, like those of garrick and mrs. siddons, they have barely emerged from this load of dishonor, only shows how universal and how deep is the opprobrium. the stage can not be reformed. our proof of this has, thus far, been drawn mainly from historical experience. but such experience, like every other legitimate induction, forces upon us the thought of some underlying principle of evil, some inherent vitiosity which no change of outward circumstances could be ever expected to eradicate. in searching for this essential vice we need not indulge in any affectation of profundity. it will be found, we think, lying nearer the surface than is commonly imagined. why is play-acting radically vicious? because, we answer, it is just what its name imports. it is _acting_--_acting_ in the theatrical sense--acting a part--an unreal part, in distinction from the stern verities which ever ought to occupy this serious and earnest life of ours. we have alluded to the heartlessness of the stage in view of the abounding sufferings and sorrows of the world. it is a varied aspect of the same truth we would here present. we have no right to waste upon mere amusement the precious time that might be employed in the alleviation of so much misery. we have no right to be _acting_, or to take delight in seeing others _acting_, in a world where abounding insincerity, falsehood, and disguise, are ever demanding truthfulness, and earnestness, and reality, as the noblest and most valuable elements in human character. certainly there is a call upon us to avoid every thing of even a seemingly contrary tendency, in whatever fair disguise it may present itself, or under whatever fair name of art, or æsthetics, or literature, it may claim our admiration. the objection is not so much that the representation is fictitious in itself, as its tendency to generate fictitious characters in the actors and spectators. no sober thinking man can look round upon our world without perceiving that its prevailing depravity is just that which the theatre is most adapted to encourage. there is acting, stage-acting, every where--in politics, in literature, and even in religion. men are playing state and playing church. artificialness of character is pervading our "world of letters" to a most demoralizing extent. we are every where living too much out of ourselves--alternately the victims and creators of false public sentiments under which the theatrical spirit of the times is burying every thing real and truthful in human nature. our morals are theatrical; our public and social life is theatrical; our revolutions and our sympathy with revolutions are theatrical; our political conventions are theatrical; our philanthropy and our reforms are theatrical. but we can not at present dwell upon this view in its more general aspects. in the more immediate effect upon actors and actresses themselves we find the radical cause of the vicious lives which have ever characterized them as a class. men and women who act every character will have no character of their own. the dangerous faculty of assuming any passion, and any supposed moral state, must, in the end, be inconsistent with that earnestness of feeling without which there can be neither moral nor intellectual depth. we have neither time nor space to dwell upon those evil effects of theatrical representations which are best known and most generally admitted. whoever demands proof of them may be referred to the records of our criminal courts. we would rather search for the root of the evil. it is here in the most interior idea of the drama that we find the virus fountain from which all its poison flows, and of which what are called the incidental evils, are but the necessary ultimate manifestations. it is not found simply in the personation of vicious characters, whether in the shape of heroic crime or vulgar comedy. the radical mischief is in the fact that the theatre is the great storehouse and seminary of _false feeling_; and all false feeling, without the exception even of the religious (in fact, the higher the pretension the greater the evil), is so much spiritual poison. by this we mean an emotion and a sentimentality having no ground in any previous healthy moral state with which they may be organically connected. no fact is more certain than that such a seeming virtue may be called out in the worst of men, and that instead of truly softening and meliorating, it invariably exerts a hardening influence, rendering the affections less capable of being aroused to the genuine duties and genuine benevolence of real life. it is indeed a blessed and a blissful thing to have a feeling heart; but, then, the feeling must be real; that is, as we have defined it, flowing from within as the legitimate product of a true, moral organism. better be without all feeling than have that which is the unnatural result of artificial stimulus. better that the soul be an arid desert than that it should be watered by such stygian streams, or luxuriate in the rank upas of such a deadly verdure. there is evidence in abundance that a man may melt under the influence of a theatrical sentimentality, and yet go forth to the commission of the worst of crimes; with a freedom, too, all the greater for the fictitious virtue under which his true character has been so completely concealed from his own eyes. it might, at first, seem strange that this should be so. the emotions of benevolence, of compassion, of patriotism, it might be said, must be the same whatever calls them forth. but a true analysis will show that there is not only a great but an essential difference. in the one case feeling is the natural result of a sound soul in direct communion with the realities of life. in the other it is entirely artificial.--one has its ground in the reason and the conscience; the other in the sensitive and imaginative nature. one comes to us in the due course of things; the other we create for ourselves. the one is ever recuperative, elevating while it humbles, softening while it invigorates. it grows stronger and purer by exercise. it never satiates, never exhausts, never reacts. the other ever produces an exhaustion corresponding to the unnatural excitement, and like every other artificial stimulus reduces the spiritual nature to a lower state at every repetition. in short, to use the expressive scriptural comparisons, the one is a continual pouring into broken cisterns; the other is like a well of _living water_, springing up to everlasting life. nothing is more alluringly deceptive, and therefore more dangerous, than the cultivation of the æsthetic nature, either to the exclusion of the moral, or by cherishing a public sentiment that confounds them together. we should be warned by the fact, of which history furnishes more than one example, that a nation may be distinguished for artistic and dramatic refinement, and yet present the most horrid contrast of crime and cruelty. a similar view may be taken of an age noted for a theoretical, or sentimental, or theatrical philanthropy. there is great reason to fear that it will be followed, if not accompanied, by one distinguished for great ferocity and recklessness of actual human suffering. but to return to our analogy. it might with equal justice be maintained, in respect to the body, that physical _strength_ is the same, whatever the cause by which it is produced. and yet we all know that there is a most essential difference between that vigor of nerve and muscle which is the result of the real and natural exercise of the healthy organism, in the performance of its legitimate functions, and that which comes from maddening artificial stimulants. they may appear the same for the moment; and yet we know that the one has an element of invigorating and _re-creating_ life; the other has the seeds of death, and brings death into the human microcosm with all its train of physical as well as spiritual woes. and this suggests that idea in which we find the most interior difference between true and false feeling. in the one the emotion is sought for its own sake as an _end_. in the other it is the _means_ to a higher good. one seeks to save its life and loses it. the other loses its life and finds it. the true benevolence is unconscious of itself as an end, and through such unconsciousness attains to substantial satisfaction. the spurious looks to nothing but the luxury of its own emotion, and thus continually transmutes into poison the very aliment on which it feeds. like milton's incestuous monsters, so do the matricidal pleasures of artificial sentiment. into the womb that bred them ever more return-- engendering, in the end, a fiercer want, and giving birth to a more intolerable pain-- hourly conceived and hourly born with sorrow infinite. there, too, we find the right notion of that word which would seem so incapable of all strict definition--we mean the much-used and much-abused term, _sentimentalism_. it differs from true feeling in this, that it is a _feeling to feel_--or, for the sake of feeling--a _feeling of one's own feelings_ (if we may use the strange expression), instead of the woes and sufferings of others, which are not strictly the _objects_, but only the _means_ of luxurious excitement, to this introverted state of the affections. hence, while true benevolence ever goes forth in the freedom of its unconsciousness, sentimentalism is ever most egotistical, ever turning inward to gaze upon itself, and _feel itself_, and thus ever more in the most rigorous and ignominious bondage. the same position, had we time, might be taken in respect to what may be styled false, or theatrical mirth. even mirth, which, under other circumstances, and when produced by other causes, might be an innocent and healthful recreation, is here utterly spoiled, because we know it to be all _acting_. it is all false; there is no reality in it; there is no true merry heart there. to the right feeling, there is even a thought of sadness in the spectacle, when we reflect how often amid the wearisome repetition of what must be to him the same stale buffoonery, the soul of the wretched actor may be actually aching, and bitterly aching, beneath his comic mask. our argument might, perhaps, be charged with proving too much--with invading the sacred domain of poetry--with condemning all works of fiction and all reading, as well as acting, of plays. we would like to dispose of these objections if we had time. in some respects, and to a certain extent, their validity might be candidly admitted. in others, we might make modifications and distinctions, drawing the line, as we think we could, in accordance with the demands of right reason, right faith, right taste, and right morals. but the limits of our editorial table do not permit; and we, therefore, leave our readers to draw this line for themselves, believing that, in so doing, a sound moral sense, proceeding on the tests here laid down, will easily distinguish all healthful and recreative reading from those inherent evils that must ever belong to dramatic representations. editor's easy chair. "ouf! ouf!"--the french have a funny way of writing a letter, as well as of telling a story. for instance, our friend of the _courrier_, whose gossip we have time and again transmuted, with some latitude of construction into our own noon-tide sentences, commences one of his later epistles with the exclamation, "_ouf! ouf!_" "and this," says he, "is the best _resumé_ that i can give you of the situation of paris." it is a cry of distress, and of lassitude, breaking out from the parisian heart, over-burdened with plenitude of pleasure; it is the re-action of the fêtes of may. how many things in ten days! how much dust--cannon-smoke--fire--fury--roman candles--thunder--melodramas--and provincials! how much theatre-going--dining out--spent francs--_demitasses_--and ennui! it is no wonder that your true parisian is troubled with the crowd and uproar that the fêtes bring to paris, and, above all, with the uncouth hordes of banditti provincials. the new-yorker or the philadelphian can look complacently upon the throngs that our eastern and northern steamers disgorge upon the city, and upon the thousand wagons of "market-street;" for these, all of them, not only bring their quota of money to his till, but they lend a voice and a tread to the hurry and the noise in which, and by which, your true-blooded american feels his fullest life. but the parisian--living by daily, methodic, quiet, uninterrupted indulgence of his tastes and humors--looks harshly upon the stout wool-growers and plethoric vineyard men, who elbow him out of the choicest seats at the theatre of the palais royal, and who break down his appreciative chuckle at a stroke of wit, with their immoderate guffaw. then, the dresses of these provincials are a perpetual eye-sore to his taste. such coats! such hats! such canes! the very sight of them makes misery for your habitual frequenter of the _maison d'or_, or of the _café anglais_. moreover, there is something in the very _insouciance_ of these country-comers to paris which provokes the citizen the more. what do they care for their white bell-crowns of ten years ago? or what, for marching and counter-marching the boulevard, with a fat wife on one arm, and a fat daughter on the other? what do they care for the fashion of a dinner, as they call for a _bouillon_, followed with a steak and onions, flanked by a melon, and wet with a deep bottle of _julienne premier_? what do they care for any _mode_, or any proprieties of the faubourg st. honoré, as they leer at the dancers of the _bal mabil_, or roar once and again at the clown who figures at the _estaminet-café_ of the champs elyssées? in short, says our aggrieved friend, the letter-writer, they press us, and torture us every where; they eat our bread, and drink our wine, and tread on our toes, and crowd us from our seats, as if the gay capital were made for them alone! nor is the story unreal: whoever has happened upon that mad french metropolis, in the days of its _fête_ madness, can recall the long procession of burly and gross provincials who swarm the streets and gardens, like the lice in the egypt of pharaoh. in the old kingly times, when fêtes were regal, and every frenchman gloated at the velvet panoply, worked over with golden _fleurs-de-lis_, as they now gloat at the columns of their republican journals, their love for festal-days was well hit off in an old comedy. the shopkeeper (in the play) says to his wife, "take care of the shop; i am going to see the king." and the wife presently says to the chief clerk, "take care of the shop; i am going to see the king." and the clerk, so soon as the good woman is fairly out of sight, says to the _garçon_, "take care of the shop; i am going to see the king." and the _garçon_ enjoins upon the dog to "take care of the shop, as he is going to see the king." and the dog, stealing his nose out at the door, leaves all in charge of the parroquet, and goes to see the king! the joke made a good laugh in those laughing days: nor is the material for as good a joke wanting now. the prefect leaves business with the sub-prefect, that he may go up to the paris fête. the sub-prefect leaves his care with some commissioner, that he may go up to the paris fête. and the commissioner, watching his chance, steals away in his turn, and chalks upon the door of the prefecture, "gone to the fêtes of may." all this, to be sure, is two months old, and belonged to that festive season of the paris year, which goes before the summer. now, if report speaks true, with provincials gone home, and the booths along the champs elyssées struck, and the theatric stars escaped to belgium, or the springs, the parisian is himself again. he takes his evening drive in the bois de boulogne; he fishes for invitations to meudon, or st. cloud; he plots a descent upon boulogne, or aix la chapelle; he studies the summer fashions from his apartments on the boulevard de la madeleine; he takes his river-bath by the bridge of the institute; he smokes his evening cigar under the trees by the national circus; and he speculates vaguely upon the imperial prospects of his president, the prince louis. meantime, fresh english and americans come thronging in by the northern road, and the havre road, and the road from strasbourg. they cover every floor of every hotel and _maison garnie_ in the rue rivoli. they buy up all the couriers and valets-de-place; they swarm in the jewelry and the bronze shops of the rue de la paix; and they call, in bad french, for every dish that graces the _carte du jour_ in the restaurants of the palais royal. they branch off toward the apennines and the alps, in flocks; and, if report speak true, the americans will this year outnumber upon the mountains of switzerland both french and german travelers. indeed, geneva, and zurich, and lucerne, are now discussed and brought into the map of tourists, as thoughtlessly as, ten years since, they compared the charms of the blue lick and the sharon waters. look at it a moment: ten days, under the collins guidance, will land a man in liverpool. three days more will give him a look at the tower, the parks, windsor castle, buckingham palace, and paternoster row; and on the fourth he may find himself swimming in a first-class french car, on damask cushions, at forty miles the hour from boulogne to paris. five days in the capital will show him (specially if he is free of service-money) the palaces of versailles, the louvre, the park at st. cloud, the church of notre dame, the madeleine, the bourse, the dead house, a score of balls, half as many theatres, the pick of the shops, and the great louis himself. three other summer days, allowing a ten hours' tramp over the galleries and sombre grounds of fontainebleau, will set him down, at the door of "mine host" of the hotel de l'ecu, in the city of geneva, and he will brush the dews from his eyes in the morning, within sight of the "blue, arrowy rhone," and "placid leman, and the bald white peak of mont blanc." a sunday in the genevese church, will rest his aching limbs, and give him hearing of such high doctrine as comes from the lips of merle d'aubigné, and monday will drift him on _char-a-banc_ straight down through wooded sardinia--reading coleridge's hymn--into the marvelous valley of chamouny. there, he may take breath before he goes up upon the sea of ice; and afterward he may idle, on donkeys or his own stout feet, over such mountain passes as will make franconia memories tame, and boat it upon the lake of lucerne; and dine at the white swan of frankfort, and linger at bingen, and drink hock at heidelberg; and chaffer with jean maria farina at cologne, and measure the stairs of the belfry at antwerp, and toss in a cockle shell of a steamer across the straits, and lay him down in his collins berth one month from his landing, a fresher and fuller man--with only six weeks cloven from his summer, and a short "five hundred" lifted from his purse. the very fancy of it all--so easy, and so quick-coming--makes our blood beat in the office-chair, and tempts us strangely to fling down the pen, and to book ourselves by the arctic. * * * * * we happened the other day upon an old french picture of washington, which it may be worth while to render into passable english. it comes from the writings of m. de broglie. "i urged," he says, "m. de rochambeau to present me, and the next day was conducted by him to dine with the great general. he received, most graciously, a letter from my father, and gave me a pleasant welcome. the general is about forty-nine--tall, well-made, and of elegant proportions. his face is much more agreeable than generally represented: notwithstanding the fatigues of the last few years, he seems still to possess all the agility and freshness of youth. "his expression is sweet and frank; his address rather cold, though polished; his eye, somewhat pensive, is more observant than flashing; and his look is full of dignified assurance. he guards always a dignity of manner which forbids great familiarity, while it seems to offend none. he seems modest, even to humility; yet he accepts, kindly and graciously, the homage which is so freely rendered him. his tone of voice is exceedingly low; and his attention to what is addressed to him, so marked, as to make one sure he has fully understood, though he should venture no reply. indeed this sort of circumspection is a noted trait of his character. "his courage is rather calm than brilliant, and shows itself rather in the coolness of his decision, than in the vigor with which he battles against odds. "he usually dines in company with twenty or thirty of his officers; his attention to them is most marked and courteous; and his dignity, at table only, sometimes relapses into gayety. he lingers at dessert for an hour or two, eating freely of nuts, and drinking wine with his guests. i had the honor of interchanging several _toasts_ with the general; among others, i proposed the health of the marquis de lafayette. he accepted the sentiment with a very benevolent smile, and was kind enough to offer, in turn, the health of my own family. "i was particularly struck with the air of respect and of admiration with which his officers uniformly treated general washington." m. de broglie makes mention of the meeting of washington and gates, after their unfortunate difference, and speaks in high praise of the conduct of both. he furthermore suggests that the assignment of the chief command of the army to general greene was owing to a certain feeling of jealousy which washington entertained for the reputation of gates: a suggestion, which neither contemporaneous history, or the relative merits of greene and of gates would confirm. it is not a little singular how greedy we become to learn the most trivial details of the private life of the men we admire. who would not welcome nowadays any _bona fide_ contemporaneous account of the meals or dress of william shakspeare, or of francis bacon? and what a jewel of a spirit that would be, who would make some pleasant letter-writer for the tribune, the _medium_ of communicating to us what colored coat shakspeare wore when he wooed ann hathaway, and how much wine he drank for the modeling of jack falstaff! were there no boswells in those days, whose spirits might be coaxed into communicative rappings about the king of the poets? we recommend the matter, in all sincerity, to the misses media. * * * * * a french court-room is not unfrequently as "good as a play:" besides which, the paris reporters have a dainty way of working up the infirmities of a weak wicked man into a most captivating story. they dramatize, even to painting the grave nod of the judge; and will work out a farce from a mere broken bargain about an ass!--as one may see from this trial of léonard vidaillon. léonard vidaillon, as brave a cooper as ever hammered a hoop, having retired from business, bethought him of buying an equipage for his family; but hesitated between the purchase of a pony or a donkey. "a pony," said he, to himself, "is a graceful little beast, genteel, _coquet_, and gives a man a 'certain air;' but on the other hand, your pony is rather hard to keep, and costly to equip. the donkey takes care of himself--eats every thing--wants no comb or brush; but, unfortunately, is neither vivacious or elegant." in the midst of this embarrassment, an old friend recommended to him--a mule. with this idea flaming in his thought, léonard ran over all of paris in search of a mule, and ended with finding, at the stable of a worthy donkey-drover, a little mule of a year old--of "fine complexion"--smaller than a horse--larger than a donkey--with a lively eye--in short, such a charming little creature as bewitched the cooper, and secured the sale. the price was a hundred francs, it being agreed that the young mule should have gratuitous nursing of its donkey-mother for three months; at the expiration of which time our cooper should claim his own. the next scene opens in full court. léonard, the defendant, is explaining. "yes, your honor, i bought the mule, to be delivered at the end of three months. at the end of three months i fell sick; i lay a-bed twelve weeks; i drugged myself to death; i picked up on water-gruel; i got on my legs; and the second day out i went after my little mule." donkey-man (being plaintiff).--the court will observe that three months and twelve weeks make six months. the judge nods acquiescence. leonard.--agreed. they make six months. i went then after my little mule, a delicate creature, not larger than a large ass, that i had picked out expressly for my little wagon. i went, as i said, to see my little mule. and what does the man show me? a great, yellow jackass, high in the hips, with a big belly, that would be sure to split the shafts of my carriage! i said to him, "m. galoupeau, this is not my little mule, and i sha'n't pay you." galoupeau (_plaintiff_).--and what did i say? leonard.--you swore it was my mule. galoupeau.--i said better than that: i said i couldn't constrain the nature of the beast, and hinder a little mule from growing large. leonard.--but mine was a blond, and yours is yellow. galoupeau.--simply another effect of nature! and i have seen a little black ass foal turn white at three months old! leonard.--do you think i have filled casks so long, not to know that red wine is red, and white wine, white. galoupeau.--i don't know. i don't understand the nature of wines; but donkeys--yes. judge (_to the defendant_).--so you refuse to take the mule? leonard.--i rather think so--a mule like a camel, and such a ferocious character, that he came within an ace of taking my life! judge.--you will please to make good this point of the injuries sustained. leonard.--the thing is easy. this m. galoupeau insisted that i should take a look at his beast, and brought him out of the stable. the animal made off like a mad thing, and came near killing all the poultry. then m. galoupeau, who professes to know his habits, followed him up to the bottom of the yard, spoke gently to him, and after getting a hand upon his shoulder, called me up. as for myself, i went up confidently. i came near the beast, and just as i was about to reach out my hand for a gentle caress, the brute kicked me in the stomach--such a kick!--mon dieu! but here, your honor, is the certificate--"twelve days a-bed; one hundred and fifty leeches." all that for caressing the brute! galoupeau.--if you were instructed, m. léonard, in the nature of these beasts, you would understand that they never submit to any flattery from behind; and you know very well that you approached him by the tail. here two stable-boys were called to the stand, who testified that signor léonard vidaillon, late cooper, did approach their master's jackass by the tail; and furthermore, that the mule (or jackass) was ordinarily of a quiet and peaceable disposition. this being shown to the satisfaction of the court, and since it appeared that an inexperience, arising out of ignorance of the nature of the beast, had occasioned the injury to signor vidaillon, the case was decided for the plaintiff. poor léonard was mulcted in the cost of the mule, the costs of the suit, the cost of a hundred and fifty leeches, and the cost of broader shafts to his family wagon. we have entertained our reader with this report--first, to show how parties to a french suit plead their own cause; and next, to show how the french reporters render the cause into writing. the story is headed in the french journal, like a farce--"a little mule will grow." * * * * * as for the town, in these hot days of summer, it looks slumberous. the hundreds who peopled the up-town walks with silks and plumes, are gone to the beach of newport, or the shady verandas of the "united states." even now, we will venture the guess, there are scores of readers running over this page under the shadow of the saratoga colonnades, or in view of the broad valley of the mohawk, who parted from us last month in some cushioned _fauteuil_ of the new york avenues. the down-town men wear an air of _ennui_, and slip uneasily through the brick and mortar labyrinths of maiden-lane and of john-street. brokers, even, long for their sunday's recess--when they can steal one breath of health and wideness at new rochelle, or rockaway. southerners, with nurses and children, begin to show themselves in the neighborhood of the union and clarendon, and saunter through our sunshine as if our sunshine were a bath of spring. fruits meantime are ripening in all our stalls; and it takes the edge from the sultriness of the season to wander at sunrise, through the golden and purple show of our washington market. most of all, to such as are tied, by lawyer's tape or editorial pen, to the desks of the city, does it bring a burst of country glow to taste the firstlings of the country's growth, and to doat upon the garden glories of the year--as upon so many testimonial clusters, brought back from a land of canaan. and in this vein, we can not avoid noting and commending the increasing love for flowers. bouquets are marketable; they are getting upon the stalls; they flank the lamb and the butter. our civilization is ripening into a sense of their uses and beauties. they talk to us even now--(for a tenpenny bunch of roses is smiling at us from our desk) of fields, fragrance, health, and wanton youth. they take us back to the days when with urchin fingers we grappled the butter-cup and the mountain daisy--days when we loitered by violet banks, and loved to loiter--days when we loved the violets, and loved to love; and they take us forward too--far forward to the days that always seem coming, when flowers shall bless us again, and be plucked again, and be loved again, and bloom around us, year after year; and bloom over us, year after year! * * * * * the two great hinges of public chat are--just now--the rival candidates, generals pierce and scott; serving not only for the hot hours of lunch under the arches of the merchants' exchange, but toning the talk upon every up-bound steamer of the hudson, and giving their creak to the breezes of cape may. poor generals!--that a long and a worthy life should come to such poor end as this. to be vilified in the journals, to be calumniated with dinner-table abuse, or with worse flattery--to have their religion, their morals, their courage, their temper, all brought to the question;--to have their faces fly-specked in every hot shop of a barber--to have their grandparents, and parents all served up in their old clothes; to have their school-boy pranks ferreted out, and every forgotten penny pitched into their eyes; to have their wine measured by the glass, and their tears by the tumbler; to have their names a bye-word, and their politics a reproach--this is the honor we show to these most worthy candidates! * * * * * as a relief to the wearisome political chat, our city has just now been blessed with alboni; and it is not a little curious to observe how those critics who were coy of running riot about jenny lind, are lavishing their pent-up superlatives upon the new-comer. the odium of praising nothing, it appears, they do not desire; and seize the first opportunity to win a reputation for generosity. the truth is, we suspect, that alboni is a highly cultivated singer, with a voice of southern sweetness, and with an air of most tempered pleasantness; but she hardly brings the _prestige_ of that wide benevolence, noble action, and _naïve_ courtesy, which made the world welcome jenny as a woman, before she had risked a note. in comparing the two as artists, we shall not venture an opinion; but we must confess to a strong liking for such specimen of humanity, as makes its humanity shine through whatever art it embraces. such humanity sliding into song, slides through the song, and makes the song an echo; such humanity reveling in painting, makes the painting only a shadow on the wall. every true artist should be greater than his art; or else it is the art that makes him great. and while we are upon this matter of song, we take the liberty of suggesting, in behalf of plain-spoken, and simple-minded people, that musical criticism is nowadays arraying itself in a great brocade of words, of which the fustian only is clear to common readers. we can readily understand that the art of music, like other arts, should have its technicalities of expression; but we can not understand with what propriety those technicalities should be warped into such notices, as are written professedly for popular entertainment and instruction. if, messrs. journalists, your musical critiques are intended solely for the eye of connoisseurs, stick to your shady italian; but if they be intended for the enlightenment of such hungry outside readers, as want to know, in plain english, how such or such a concert went off, and in what peculiar way each artist excels, for heaven's sake, give us a taste again of old fashioned saxon expletive! he seems to us by far the greatest critic, who can carry to the public mind the clearest and the most accurate idea of what was sung, and of the way in which it was sung. it would seem, however, that we are greatly mistaken; and that the palm of excellence should lie with those, whose periods smack most of the green-room, and cover up opinions with a profusion of technicalities. we shall not linger here, however, lest we be attacked in language we can not understand. * * * * * among the novelties which have provoked their share of the boudoir chit-chat, and which go to make our monthly digest of trifles complete, may be reckoned the appearance of a company of trained animals at the astor place opera house. their débût was modest and maidenly; and could hardly have made an eddy in the talk, had not the purveyors of that classic temple, entered an early protest against the performance, as derogatory to the dignity of the place. this difficulty, and the ensuing discussions, naturally led to a comparison of the habits of the various animals, who are accustomed to appear in that place, whether as spectators, or as actors. what the judicial decision may have been respecting the matter, we are not informed. public opinion, however, seems to favor the conclusion that the individuals composing the monkey troup would compare well, even on the score of dignity, with very many habitués of the house; and that the whole monkey tribe, being quite harmless and inoffensive, should remain, as heretofore, the subjects of christian toleration, whether appearing on the bench (no offense to the judges) or the boards. with this theatric note, to serve as a snapper to our long column of gossip, we beg to yield place to that very coy lady--the bride of landeck. an old gentleman's letter. "the bride of landeck." dear sir--the small village of landeck is situated in a very beautiful spot near the river inn, with a fine old castle to the southeast, against the winds from which quarter it shelters the greater part of the village--a not unnecessary screen; for easterly winds in the tyrol are very detestable. indeed i know no country in which they are any thing else, or where the old almanac lines are not applicable-- "when the wind is in the east, 'tis neither good for man or beast." some people, however, are peculiarly affected by the influence of that wind; and they tell a story of dr. parr--for the truth of which i will not vouch, but which probably has some foundation in fact. when a young man, he is said to have had an attack of ague, which made him dread the east wind as a pestilence. he had two pupils at the time, gay lads, over whose conduct, as well as whose studies, he exercised a very rigid superintendence. when they went out to walk, parr was almost sure to be with them, much to their annoyance on many occasions. there were some exceptions, however; and they remarked that these exceptions occurred when the wind was easterly. boys are very shrewd, and it did not escape the lads' attention, that every day their tutor walked to the window, and looked up at the weather-cock on the steeple of the little parish church. conferences were held between the young men; and a carpenter consulted. a few days after, the wind was in the east, and the doctor suffered them to go out alone. the following day it was in the east still. monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, all easterly wind--if the weather-cock might be believed. sunday, parr went to church, and shivered all day. the next week it was just the same thing. never was such a spell of easterly wind. parr was miserable. but at the end of some five weeks, a friend, and man of the world, came to visit him, with the common salutation of--"a fine day, doctor!" "no day is a fine day, sir, with an easterly wind," said parr, with his usual acerbity. "easterly wind?" said his visitor, walking toward the window; "i don't think the wind is east--yes it is, indeed." "ay, sir, and has been for these six weeks," answered parr, sharply. "i could tell it by my own sensations, without looking at the weather-cock." "why, doctor," answered the other, "the wind was west yesterday: that i know; and i thought it was west to-day." "then you thought like a fool, sir," answered parr. "a man who can not tell when the wind is in the east, has no right to think at all. let him look at the weather-cock." "but the weather-cock may be rusty," answered the other; "and your weather-cock must be rusty if it pointed to the east yesterday; for it blew pretty smartly from the west all day." "do you think i am a fool, sir: do you think i am a liar?" asked parr, angrily. "no; but you may be mistaken, doctor," replied the other. "even solomon, as you know, made a mistake sometimes; and you are mistaken now; and the weather-cock too. look at the clouds: they are coming rapidly from the west. if you would take my advice, you would look to our friend there on the top of the steeple." "i will, sir--i will this moment," replied parr; and ringing the bell violently, he ordered his servant to take the village carpenter and a bottle of oil, and have the weather-cock examined and greased. he and his visitor watched the whole proceeding from the window--the bringing forth of the ladders, the making them fast with ropes, the perilous ascent, and then the long operations which seemed much more complicated than the mere process of greasing the rusty weather-cock. "what can the fools be about?" said parr. in the end, however, the deed, whatever it was, was done; and the servant and the carpenter descended, and came toward the house. by this time the weather-cock had whirled round, pointing directly to the west, and the doctor asked eagerly, as soon as the men appeared. "well, sir--well: what prevented the vane from turning?" "a large nail, sir," answered the man. "i will never trust a weather-cock again," cried parr. "nor your own sensations either, doctor," said his friend, "unless you are very sure they are right ones; for if you pin them to a weather-cock, there may be people who will find it for their interest to pin the weather-cock to the post." the two poor pupils from that day forward lost their advantage; but they had six weeks of fun out of it, and, like the fishes in the arabian tale, "were content." there is an old proverb, that "fancy is as good for a fool as physic," and i believe the saying might be carried further still; for there is such a thing as corporeal disease, depending entirely upon the mind; and that with very wise men too. the effect of mental remedies we all know, even in very severe and merely muscular diseases. whether doctor parr was cured of his aguish sensations or not, i can not tell; but i have known several instances of mental remedies applied with success; to say nothing of having actually seen the incident displayed by old bunbury's caricature of a rheumatic man enabled to jump over a high fence by the presence of a mad bull. i will give you one instance of a complete, though temporary cure, performed upon a young lady by what i can only consider mental agency. one of the daughters of a roman catholic family, named v----, a very beautiful and interesting girl, had entirely lost the use of her limbs for nearly three years, and was obliged to be fed and tended like a child. her mind was acute and clear, however, and as at that time the celebrated prince hohenloe was performing, by his prayers, some cures which seemed miraculous, her father entered into correspondence with him, to see if any thing could be done for the daughter. the distance of some thousand miles lay between the prince and the patient; but he undertook to pray and say mass for her on a certain day, and at a certain hour, and directed that mass should also be celebrated in the city where she resided, exactly at the same moment. as the longitude of the two places was very different, a great deal of fuss was made to ascertain the precise time. all this excited her imagination a good deal, and at the hour appointed the whole family went to mass, leaving her alone, and in bed. on their return they found miss v----, who for years had not been able to stir hand or foot, up, dressed, and in the drawing-room. for the time, she was perfectly cured; but i have been told that she gradually fell back into the same state as before. mental medicine does not always succeed, however; and once, in my own case, failed entirely. when traveling in europe, in the year , i was attacked with very severe quartan fever. i was drugged immensely between the paroxysms, and the physician conspired with my friends to persuade me i was quite cured. they went so far as, without my knowing it, to put forward a striking-clock that was on the mantle-piece, and when the hour struck, at which the fit usually seized me, without any appearance of its return, they congratulated me on my recovery, and actually left me. nevertheless, at the real hour, the fever seized me again, and shook me nearly to pieces. neither is it that mental medicine sometimes fails; but it sometimes operates in a most unexpected and disastrous manner; especially when applied to mental disease; and i am rather inclined to believe, that corporeal malady may often be best treated by mental means; mental malady by corporeal means. a friend of my youth, poor mr. s---- lost his only son, in a very lamentable manner. he had but two children: this son and a daughter. both were exceedingly handsome, full of talent and kindly affection; and the two young people were most strongly attached to each other. suddenly, the health of young s---- was perceived to decline. he became grave--pale--sad--emaciated. his parents took the alarm. physicians were sent for. no corporeal disease of any kind could be discovered. the doctors declared privately that there must be something on his mind, as it is called, and his father with the utmost kindness and tenderness, besought him to confide in him, assuring him that if any thing within the reach of fortune or influence could give him relief, his wishes should be accomplished, whatever they might be. "you can do nothing for me, my dear father," replied the young man, sadly; "but you deserve all my confidence, and i will not withhold it. that which is destroying me, is want of rest. every night, about an hour after i lie down, a figure dressed in white, very like the figure of my dear sister, glides into the room, and seats itself on the right side of my bed, where it remains all night. if i am asleep at the time of its coming, i am sure to wake, and i remain awake all night with my eyes fixed upon it. i believe it to be a delusion; but i can not banish it; and the moment it appears, i am completely under its influence. this is what is killing me." the father reasoned with him, and took every means that could be devised either by friends or physicians, to dispel this sad phantasy. they gave parties; they sat up late; they changed the scene; but it was all in vain. the figure still returned; and the young man became more and more feeble. he was evidently dying; and as a last resource, it was determined to have recourse to a trick to produce a strong effect upon his mind. the plan arranged was as follows. his sister was to dress herself in white, as he had represented the figure to be dressed, and about the hour he mentioned, to steal into his room, and seat herself on the other side of the bed, opposite to the position which the phantom of his imagination usually occupied, while the parents remained near the door to hear the result. she undertook the task timidly; but executed it well. stealing in, with noiseless tread, she approached her brother's bed-side, and by the faint moonlight, saw his eyes fixed with an unnatural stare upon vacancy, but directed to the other side. she seated herself without making the least noise, and waited to see if he would turn his eyes toward her. he did not stir in the least, however; but lay, as if petrified by the sight his fancy presented. at length she made a slight movement to call his attention, and her garments rustled. instantly the young man turned his eyes to the left, gazed at her--looked back to the right--gazed at her again; and then exclaimed, almost with a shriek, "good god: there are two of them!" he said no more. his sister darted up to him. the father and mother ran in with lights; but the effect had been fatal. he was gone. nor is this the only case in which i have known the most detrimental results occur from persons attempting indiscreetly to act upon the minds of the sick while in a very feeble state. once, indeed, the whole medical men--and they were among the most famous of their time in the world--belonging to one of the chief hospitals of edinburgh, were at fault in a similar manner. the case was this: a poor woman of the port of leith had married a sailor, to whom she was very fondly attached. they had one or two children, and were in by no means good circumstances. the man went to sea in pursuit of his usual avocations, and at the end of two or three months intelligence was received in leith of the loss of the vessel with all on board. left in penury, with no means of supporting her children but her own hard labor, the poor woman, who was very attractive in appearance, was persuaded to marry a man considerably older than herself, but in very tolerable circumstances. by him she had one child; and in the summer of the year , she was sitting on the broad, open way, called leith-walk, with a baby on her lap. suddenly, she beheld her first husband walk up the street directly toward her. the man recognized her instantly, approached, and spoke to her. but she neither answered nor moved. she was struck with catalepsy. in this state she was removed to the royal infirmary, and her case, from the singular circumstances attending it, excited great interest in the medical profession in edinburgh, which at that time numbered among its professors the celebrated cullen, and no less celebrated gregory. the tale was related to me by one of their pupils, who was present, and who assured me that every thing was done that science could suggest, till all the ordinary remedial means were exhausted. the poor woman remained without speech or motion. in whatever position the body was placed, there it remained; and the rigidity of the muscles was such, that when the arm was extended, twenty minutes elapsed before it fell to her side by its own weight. death was inevitable, unless some means could be devised of rousing the mind to some active operation on the body. from various indications, it was judged that the poor woman was perfectly sensible, and at a consultation of all the first physicians of the city, the first husband was sent for, and asked if he was willing to co-operate, in order to give his poor wife a chance of life. he replied, with deep feeling, that he was willing to lay down his own life, if it would restore her: that he was perfectly satisfied with her conduct; knew that she had acted in ignorance of his existence; and explained, that having floated to the coast of africa upon a piece of the wreck, he had been unable for some years to return to his native land, or communicate with any one therein. in these circumstances, it was determined to act immediately. the professors grouped themselves round the poor woman, and the first husband was brought suddenly to the foot of the bed, toward which her eyes were turned, carrying the child by the second husband in his arms. a moment of silence and suspense succeeded; but then, she who had lain for so many days like a living corpse, rose slowly up, and stretched out her hands toward the poor sailor. her lips moved, and with a great effort she exclaimed, "oh, john, john--you know that it was nae my fault." the effort was too much for her exhausted frame: she fell back again immediately, and in five minutes was a corpse indeed. this story may have been told by others before me, for the thing was not done in a corner. but i always repeat it, when occasion serves, in order to warn people against an incautious use of means to which we are accustomed to attribute less power than they really possess. and now, i will really go on with "the bride of landeck" in my next letter.--yours faithfully, p. editor's drawer. here is a very amusing picture of that species of odd fish known as a _matter-of-fact man_: "i am what the old women call 'an odd fish.' i do nothing, under heaven, without a motive--never. i attempt nothing unless i think there is a probability of my succeeding. i ask no favors when i think they won't be granted. i grant no favors when i think they are not deserved; and finally, i don't wait upon the girls when i think my attentions would be disagreeable. i am a matter-of-fact man--_i_ am. i do things seriously. i once offered to attend a young lady home--i did, seriously: that is, i meant to wait on her home if she wanted me. she accepted my offer. i went home with her; and it has ever since been an enigma to me whether she wanted me or not. she took my arm, and said not a word. i bade her 'good night,' and she said not a word. i met her the next day, and _i_ said not a word. i met her again, and she gave a two-hours' talk. it struck me as curious. she feared i was offended, she said, and couldn't for the life of her conceive why. she begged me to explain, but didn't give me the ghost of a chance to do it. she said she hoped i wouldn't be offended: asked me to call: and it has ever since been a mystery to me whether she really wanted me to call or not. "i once saw a lady at her window. i thought i would call. i _did_. i inquired for the lady, and was told that she was not at home. i expect she was. i went _away_ thinking so. i rather think so still. i met her again. she was offended--said i had not been 'neighborly.' she reproached me for my negligence; said she thought i had been unkind. and i've ever since wondered whether she _was_ sorry or not. "a lady once said to me that she should like to be married, if she could get a good congenial husband, who would make her happy, or at least _try_ to. she was not difficult to please, she said. i said, 'i should like to get married too, if i could get a wife that would try to make me happy.' she said, 'umph!' and looked as if she meant what she said. she _did_. for when i asked her if she thought she could be persuaded to marry me, she said, she'd rather be excused. i excused her. i've often wondered _why_ i excused her. "a good many things of this kind have happened to me that are doubtful, wonderful, mysterious. what, then, is it that causes doubt and mystery to attend the ways of men? _it is the want of fact._ this is a matter-of-fact world, and in order to act well in it, we must deal in matter-of-fact." * * * * * some modern author says of gambling, that it is "a magical stream, into which, if a man once steps, and wets the sole of his foot, he must needs keep on until he is overwhelmed." perhaps some readers of the "drawer" may have heard of the officer, who, having lost all his money at play, received assistance from a friend, on condition that he would never after touch a pack of cards. a few weeks after, however, he was found in an out-house drawing short and long straws with a brother-gamester for hundreds of pounds! "the most singular species of gambling, however, is one which is said to be practiced among the blacks in cuba. many of these stout, hearty, good-humored fellows daily collect about the docks in havanna, waiting for employment, and gambling in cigars, for they are inveterate smokers. this forms one of their most favorite amusements. two parties challenge each other, and each lays down, in separate places, three or more cigars, forming a figure resembling a triangle: they then withdraw a few paces, and eagerly watch their respective 'piles.' the owner of the 'pile' _on which a fly first alights_, is entitled to the whole! "it should be added, that a pile smeared any where with molasses, to attract the more ready visit of the flies, was considered in the light of 'loaded dice' among 'professional men' of a kindred stamp." * * * * * let any man, "in populous city pent," who has left the cares, turmoils, and annoyances of the town for a brief time behind him, with the heated bricks and stifling airs, that make a metropolis almost a burthen in the fierce heats of a summer solstice, say whether or no this passage be not true, both in "letter" and in "spirit:" "in the country a man's spirit is free and easy; his mind is discharged, and at its own disposal: but in the city, the persons of friends and acquaintances, one's own and other people's business, foolish quarrels, ceremonious visits, impertinent discourses, and a thousand other fopperies and diversions, steal away the greater part of our time, and leave us no leisure for better and more necessary employment. great towns are but a larger sort of prison to the soul, like cages to birds, or 'pounds' to beasts." * * * * * there is a good story told, and we believe a new one--(at least, so far as we know, it is such, as the manuscript which records it is from a traveled friend, in whose "hand-of-write" it has remained long in the "drawer")--a story of samuel rogers, the rich banker, and accomplished poet of "the pleasures of memory:" rogers arrived at paris at noon one day in the year --. he found all his countrymen prepared to attend a splendid party at versailles. they were all loud in expressing their regrets that he could not accompany them. they were "very sorry"--but "the thing was impossible:" "full court-dresses alone were admissible;" and to obtain one _then_--why "of course it was in vain to think of it." rogers listened very patiently; told them to "leave him entirely to himself;" and added, that "he was sure he could find some amusement somewhere." no sooner were they gone, than he began to dress; and within the space of a single hour he was on the road to versailles, fully equipped, in a blue coat, white waistcoat, and drab pantaloons. at the door of the splendid mansion in which the company were assembled, his further progress was opposed by a servant whose livery was far more showy and imposing than his own costume. rogers affected the utmost astonishment at the interruption, and made as if he would have passed on. the servant pointed to his dress: "it is not _comme il faut_: you can not pass in: monsieur must retire." "dress! dress!" exclaimed rogers, with well-feigned surprise: "not pass! not enter! why, mine is the same dress that is worn by the _general court_ at boston!" no sooner were the words uttered, than the doors flew open, and the obsequious valet, "booing and booing," like sir pertinax macsycophant in the play, preceded the poet, and in a loud voice announced: "_monsieur le general court, de boston!_" the amusement of the americans in the group scarcely exceeded that of the new-made "general" himself. on another occasion, rogers relates, he was announced at a parisian party as "monsieur le mort," by a lackey, who had mistaken him for "tom moore." not unlike an old new-yorker, who was announced from his card as "_monsieur le koque en bow!_" his simple name was quackenbos! now that we are hearing of the manner in which foolish and ostentatious americans are lately representing themselves in paris by military titles, as if connected with the army of the united states, perhaps "monsieur le general court, de boston" may "pass muster" with our readers. the implied satire, however, of the whole affair, strikes us as not altogether without a valuable lesson for those miscalled "americans" who forget alike their country and themselves while abroad. * * * * * when the oxy-hydrogen microscope was first exhibited in edinburgh, a poor woman, whose riches could never retard her ascent to the kingdom above, took her seat in the lecture-room where the wonders of the instrument were shown, and which were, for the first time, to meet her sight. a piece of lace was magnified into a salmon-net; a flea was metamorphosed into an elephant; and other the like marvels were performed before the eyes of the venerable dame, who sat in silent astonishment staring open-mouthed at the disk. but when, at length, a milliner's needle was transformed into a poplar-tree, and confronted her with its huge eye, she could "hold in" no longer. "my goodness!" she exclaimed, "a camel could get through _that_! there's some hopes for the rich folk yet!" * * * * * legal tautology and unnecessary formulas have often been made the theme of ridicule and satire; but we suspect that it is somewhat unusual to find a simple "_levy_" made with such elaborate formalities, or, more properly, "solemnities," as in the following instance: the dogberryan official laid his execution very formally upon a saddle; and said: "_saddle_, i level upon you, in the name of the state!" "_bridle_, i level upon _you_, in the name of the state!" then, turning to a pair of martingales, the real name of which he did not know, he said: "little forked piece of leather, i level on you, in the name of the state!" "oh, yes! oh, yes! oh, yes! saddle, and bridle, and little forked piece of leather, i now _inds_ you upon this execution, and summon you to be and appear at my sale-ground, on saturday, the tenth of this present month, to be executed according to law. herein fail not, or you will be proceeded against for contempt of the constable!" * * * * * we find recorded in the "drawer" two instances where ingenuity was put in successful requisition, to obviate the necessity of "making change," a matter of no little trouble oftentimes to tradesmen and others. a rude fellow, while before the police-magistrate for some misdemeanor, was fined nine dollars for eighteen oaths uttered in defiance of official warning that each one would cost him fifty cents. he handed a ten-dollar bill to the justice, who was about returning the remaining one to the delinquent, when he broke forth: "no, no! keep the whole, keep the whole! _i'll swear it out!_" and he proceeded to expend the "balance" in as round and condensed a volley of personal denunciation as had ever saluted the ears of the legal functionary. he then retired content. something similar was the "change" given to one of our hack-drivers by a jolly tar, who was enjoying "a sail" in a carriage up broadway. a mad bull, "with his spanker-boom rigged straight out abaft," or some other animal going "at the rate of fourteen knots an hour" in the street, attracted jack's attention, as he rode along; and, unable to let the large plate-glass window down, he broke it to atoms, that he might thrust forth his head. "a dollar and a half for _that_!" says jehu. "vot of it?--here's the blunt," said the sailor, handing the driver a three-dollar note. "i can't change it," said the latter. "well, never mind!" rejoined the tar; "_this_ will make it right!" the sudden crash of the _other_ window told the driver in what manner the "change" had been made! * * * * * some bachelor-reader, pining in single-blessedness, may be induced, by the perusal of the ensuing parody upon romeo's description of an apothecary, to "turn from the error of his way" of life, and both confer and receive "reward:" "i do remember an old bachelor, and hereabout he dwells; whom late i noted in suit of sables, with a care-worn brow, conning his books; and meagre were his looks; celibacy had worn him to the bone; and in his silent chamber hung a coat, the which the moths had used not less than he. four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk, made up 'the furniture;' and on his shelves a greasy candle-stick; a broken mug, two tables, and a box of old cigars; remnants of volumes, once in some repute, were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye of prying strangers, "_this man had no wife!_" his tattered elbow gaped most piteously; and ever as he turned him round; his skin did through his stockings peep upon the day. noting his gloom, unto myself i said: 'and if a man did covet single life, reckless of joys that matrimony gives, here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him in such most dismal colors, that the shrew, or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse, were each an heaven, compared to such a life!'" "there are always two sides to a question," the bachelor-"defendant" may affirm, in answer to this; and possibly himself try a hand at a contrast-parody. * * * * * there are a good many proverbs that will not stand a very close analysis; and some one who is of this way of thinking has selected a few examples, by way of illustration. the following are specimens: "_the more the merrier._"--not so, "by a jug-full," one hand, for example, is quite enough in a purse. "_he that runs fastest gets most ground._"--not exactly; for then footmen would get more than their masters. "_he runs far who never turns._"--"not quite: he may break his neck in a short course. "_no man can call again yesterday._"--yes, he may _call_ till his heart ache, though it may never come. "_he that goes softly goes safely._"--not among thieves. "_nothing hurts the stomach more than surfeiting._"--yes; _lack_ of meat. "_nothing is hard to a willing mind._"--surely; for every body is willing to get money, but to many it is hard. "_none so blind as those that will not see._"--yes; those who _can not_ see. "_nothing but what is good for something._"--"nothing" isn't good for _any_ thing. "_nothing but what has an end._"--a ring hath no end; for it is round. "_money is a great comfort._"--but not when it brings a thief to the state prison. "_the world is a long journey._"--not always; for the sun goes over it every day. "_it is a great way to the bottom of the sea._"--not at all; it is merely "a stone's throw." "_a friend is best found in adversity._"--"no, sir;" for then there are none to be found. "_the pride of the rich makes the labor of the poor._"--by no manner of means. the labor of the poor makes the pride of the rich. * * * * * the following lines, accompanying a trifling present, are not an unworthy model for those who wish to say a kind word in the most felicitous way: "not want of heart, but want of art hath made my gift so small; then, loving heart, take hearty love, to make amends for all. take gift with heart, and heart with gift, let will supply my want; for willing heart, nor hearty will, nor is, nor shall be scant." please to observe how adroitly an unforced play upon words is embodied in these eight lines. * * * * * there is "more truth than poetry" in the subjoined _extract from a modern dictionary._ _the grave._--an ugly hole in the ground, which lovers and poets very often wish they were in, but at the same time take precious good care to keep out of. _constable._--a species of snapping-turtle. _modesty._--a beautiful flower, that flourishes only in secret places. _lawyer._--a learned gentleman who rescues your estate from the hands of your opponent, and keeps it himself. _"my dear."_--an expression used by man and wife at the commencement of a quarrel. _"joining hands" in matrimony._--a custom arising from the practice of pugilists shaking hands before they begin to fight. _"watchman."_--a man employed by the corporation to sleep in the open air. _laughter._--a singular contortion of the human countenance, when a friend, on a rainy day, suddenly claims his umbrella. _dentist._--a person who finds work for his own teeth by taking out those of other people. * * * * * a singular anecdote of thomas chittenden the first governor of the state of vermont, has found its way into our capacious receptacle. "mum," said he, one night (his usual way of addressing his wife), "mum, who is that stepping so softly in the kitchen?" it was midnight, and every soul in the house was asleep, save the governor and his companion. he left his bed as stealthily as he possibly could, followed the intruder into the cellar, and, without himself being perceived, heard him taking large pieces of pork out of his meat-barrel, and stowing them away in a bag. "who's there?" exclaimed the governor, in a stern, stentorian voice, as the intruder began to make preparations to "be off." the thief shrank back into the corner, as mute as a dead man. "bring a candle, mum!" the governor's wife went for the light. "what are you waiting for, mr. robber, thief, or whatever your christian-name may be?" said the governor. the guilty culprit shook as if his very joints would be sundered. "come, sir," continued governor chittenden, "fill up your sack and be off, and don't be going round disturbing honest people so often, when they want to be taking their repose." the thief, dumb-founded, now looked more frightened than ever. "be quick, man," said the governor, "fill up, sir! i shall make but few words with you!" he was compelled to comply. "have you got enough, now? begone, then, in one minute! when you have devoured this, come again in the day-time, and i'll give you more, rather than to have my house pillaged at such an hour as this. one thing more, let me tell you, and that is, that, as sure as fate, if i ever have the smallest reason to suspect you of another such an act, the law shall be put in force, and the dungeon receive another occupant. otherwise, you may still run at large for any thing that i shall do." the man went away, and was never afterward known to commit an immoral act. * * * * * this story is related, as a veritable fact, of a dutch justice, residing in the pleasant valley of the mohawk not a thousand miles from the city of schenectady: he kept a small tavern, and was not remarkable for the acuteness of his mental perceptions, nor would it appear was at least _one_ of his customers much better off in the matter of "gumption." one morning a man stepped in and bought a bottle of small-beer. he stood talking a few minutes, and by-and-by said: "i am sorry i purchased this beer. i wish you would exchange it for some crackers and cheese to the same amount." the simple-minded boniface readily assented, and the man took the plate of crackers and cheese, and ate them. as he was going out, the old landlord hesitatingly reminded him that he hadn't _paid_ for them. "yes, i did," said the customer; "i gave you the beer for 'em." "vell den, i knowsh dat; but den you haven't give me de monish for de _beersh_." "but i didn't _take_ the beer: there stands the same bottle now!" the old tavern-keeper was astounded. he looked sedate and confused; but all to no purpose was his laborious thinking. the case was still a mystery. "vell den," said he, at length, "i don't zee how it ish: i got de beersh--yaäs, i _got_ de beersh; but den, same times, i got no monish! vell, you _keeps_ de grackers--und--gheese; but i don't want any more o' your gustoms. you can keeps away from my davern!" * * * * * some years ago, at the hartford (conn.) retreat for the insane, under the excellent management of doctor b----, a party used occasionally to be given, to which those who are called "sane" were also invited; and as they mingled together in conversation, promenading, dancing, &c., it was almost impossible for a stranger to tell "which was which." on one of these pleasant occasions a gentleman-visitor was "doing the agreeable" to one of the ladies, and inquired how long she had been in the retreat. she told him; and he then went on to make inquiries concerning the institution, to which she rendered very intelligent answers; and when he asked her, "_how do you like the doctor?_" she gave him such assurances of her high regard for the physician, that the stranger was entirely satisfied of the doctor's high popularity among his patients, and he went away without being made aware that his partner was no other than _the doctor's wife_! she tells the story herself, with great zest; and is very frequently asked by her friends, who know the circumstances, "how she likes the doctor!" * * * * * a fine and quaint thought is this, of the venerable archbishop leighton: "riches oftentimes, if nobody take them away, make to _themselves_ wings, and fly away; and truly, many a time the undue sparing of them is but letting their wings grow, which makes them ready to fly away; and the contributing a part of them to do good only clips their wings a little, and makes them stay the longer with their owner." this last consideration may perhaps be made "operative" with certain classes of the opulent. * * * * * is not the following anecdote of the late king of the french not only somewhat characteristic, but indicative of a superior mind? lord brougham was dining with the king in the unceremonious manner in which he was wont to delight to withdraw himself from the trammels of state, and the conversation was carried on entirely as if between two equals. his majesty (_inter alia_) remarked: "i am the only sovereign now in europe fit to fill a throne." lord brougham, somewhat staggered by this piece of egotism, muttered out some trite compliments upon the great talent for government which his royal entertainer had always displayed, &c., when the king burst into a fit of laughter, and exclaimed: "no, no; _that_ isn't what i mean; but kings are at such a discount in our days, that there is no knowing what may happen; and i am the only monarch who has cleaned his own boots--and i can do it again!" his own reverses followed so soon after, that the "exiled majesty of france" must have remembered this conversation. * * * * * mrs. p. was a dumpy little englishwoman, with whom and her husband we once performed the voyage of the danube from vienna to constantinople. she was essentially what the english call "a nice person," and as adventurous a little body as ever undertook the journey "from cheapside to cairo." she had left home a bride, to winter at naples, intending to return in the spring. but both she and her husband had become so fascinated with travel, that they had pushed on from italy to greece, and from greece to asia minor. in the latter country, they made the tour of the seven churches--a pilgrimage in which it was our fortune afterward to follow them. upon one occasion, somewhere near ephesus, they were fallen upon by a lot of vagabonds, and mr. p. got most unmercifully beaten. his wife did not stop to calculate the damage, but whipping up her horse, rode on some two miles further, where she awaited in safety her discomfited lord. upon the return of the warm season, our friends had gone up to ischl in the tyrol, to spend the summer, and when we had the pleasure of meeting them, they were "en route" for syria, the desert, and egypt. mrs. p., although a most amiable woman, had a perverse prejudice against america and the americans. among other things, she could not be convinced that any thing like refinement among females could possibly exist on this side of the atlantic. we did our utmost to dispel this very singular illusion, but we do not think that we ever entirely succeeded. upon one occasion, when we insisted upon her giving us something more definite than mere general reasons for her belief, she answered us in substance as follows: she had met, the summer before, she said, at ischl, a gentleman and his wife from new york, who were posting in their own carriage, and traveling with all the appendages of wealth. they were well-meaning people, she declared, but shockingly coarse. that they were representatives of the best class at home, she could not help assuming. had she met them in london or paris, however, she said, she might have thought them mere adventurers, come over for a ten days' trip. the lady, she continued, used to say the most extraordinary things imaginable. upon one occasion, when they were walking together, they saw, coming toward them, a gentleman of remarkably attenuated form. the american, turning to her companion, declared that the man was so thin, that if he were _to turn a quid of tobacco, from one cheek to the other, he would lose his balance and fall over_. this was too much for even our chivalry, and for the moment we surrendered at discretion. our traveling companion for the time was a young oxonian, a lancashire man of family and fortune. t. c. was (good-naturedly, of course,) almost as severe upon us americans as was mrs. p. one rather chilly afternoon, he and ourselves were sitting over the fire in the little cabin of the steamer smoking most delectable "latakea," when he requested us to pass him the _tongues_ (meaning the tongs). "the what!" we exclaimed. "the tongues," he repeated. "do you mean the tongs?" we asked. "the _tongs_! and do you call them _tongs_? come, now, that is too good," was his reply. "we _do_ call them the tongs, and we speak properly when we call them so," we rejoined, a little nettled at his contemptuous tone; "and, if you please, we will refer the matter for decision to mrs. p., but upon this condition only, that she shall be simply asked the proper pronunciation of the word, without its being intimated to her which of us is for _tongues_, and which for _tongs_." we accordingly proceeded at once to submit the controversy to our fair arbitrator. our adversary was the spokesman, and he had hardly concluded when mrs. p. threw up her little fat hands, and exclaimed, as soon as the laughter, which almost suffocated her, permitted her to do so, "now, you don't mean to say that you are barbarous enough to say _tongues_ in america?" it was _our_ turn, then, to laugh, and we took advantage of it. * * * * * a pilgrim from the back woods, who has just been awakened from a rip-van-winkleish existence of a quarter of a century by the steam-whistle of the erie railroad, recently came to town to see the sights--barnum's anacondas and the monkeys at the astor place opera house included. our friend, who is of a decidedly benevolent and economical turn of mind, while walking up broadway, hanging on our arm, the day after his arrival, had his attention attracted to a watering-cart which was ascending the street and spasmodically sprinkling the pavement. suddenly darting off from the wing of our protection, our companion rushed after the man of croton, at the same time calling out to him at the top of his voice, "my friend! my friend! your spout behind is leaking; and if you are not careful you will lose all the water in your barrel!" he of the cart made no reply, but merely drawing down the lid of his eye with his fore-finger, "went on his way rejoicing." * * * * * the following epigram was written upon a certain individual who has rendered himself _notorious_, if not _famous_, in these parts. his name we suppress, leaving it to the ingenuity of the reader to place the cap upon whatever head he thinks that it will best fit: "'tis said that balaam had a beast, the wonder of his time; a stranger one, as strange at least, the subject of my rhyme; one twice as full of talk and gas, and at the same time twice--the ass!" * * * * * among the many good stories told of that ecclesiastical wag, sydney smith, the following is one which we believe has never appeared in print, and which we give upon the authority of a gentleman representing himself to have been present at the occurrence. mr. smith had a son who, as is frequently the case with the offshoots of clergymen (we suppose from a certain unexplained antagonism in human nature)-- "----ne in virtue's ways did take delight, but spent his days in riot most uncouth, and vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night, ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, sore given to revel and ungodly glee!" so _fast_ indeed was this young gentleman, that for several years he was excluded from the parental domicile. at length, however, the prodigal repented, and his father took him home upon his entering into a solemn engagement to mend his ways and his manners. shortly after the reconciliation had taken place, mr. smith gave a dinner-party, and one of his guests was sumner, the present bishop of winchester. before dinner, the facetious clergyman took his son aside, and endeavored to impress upon him the necessity of his conducting himself with the utmost propriety in the distinguished company to which he was about to be introduced. "charles, my boy," he said, "i intend placing you at table next to the bishop; and i hope that you will make an effort to get up some conversation which may prove interesting to his lordship." charles promised faithfully to do as his father requested. at the dinner the soup was swallowed with the usual gravity. in the interval before the fish, hardly a word was spoken, and the silence was becoming positively embarrassing, when all of a sudden, charles attracted the attention of all at table to himself, by asking the dignitary upon his right if he would do him the favor to answer a scriptural question which had long puzzled him. upon doctor sumner's promising to give the best explanation in his power, the questioner, with a quizzical expression of countenance, begged to be informed, "_how long it took nebuchadnezzar to get into condition after he returned from grass?_" it is needless to say that a hearty laugh echoed this _professional inquiry_ on every side, and how unanimously young smith was voted a genuine chip off the old block. * * * * * miss c----, of the fifth avenue, was complaining the other day to mrs. f----, of bond-street, that she could never go shopping without taking cold, because the shops are kept open, and not closed like the rooms of a house. mrs. f---- thereupon dryly advised her friend to confine her visits to stewart's and beck's to sundays. * * * * * some one says that the reason why so few borrowed books are ever returned, is because it is so much easier to keep them than what is in them. * * * * * the following matrimonial dialogue was accidentally overheard one day last week on the piazza of the united states hotel at saratoga. _wife._--"my dear, i can not, for the life of me, recollect where i have put my pink bonnet." _husband._--"very likely. you have so many bonnets and so little head!" * * * * * mr. andrew jackson allen, who was one of the prominent witnesses in the recent forrest divorce case, is evidently an original. while passing up the bowery the other day, our editorial eye was attracted by a curious sign on the east side of the street, and we crossed over for the purpose of more conveniently reading it. it was as follows: allen internal and external costumer. food for the hungry, drink for the dry, rest for the weary, and toggery for the naked, where you can bloom out if you please. and under this was a smaller sign upon which was inscribed the following piece of macawber-like advice: cherish hope and trust to fortune. we take the liberty of expressing our desire that mr. allen may be as fortunate (if he has not already been so) in having something "turn up" in the end, as was the illustrious wilkins of "hopeful" and "trustful" memory. * * * * * two of our lady friends were reading, the other day, byron's "prisoner of chillon." we intended to say that the one lady was _pretending_ to read it aloud to the other lady. no woman ever has been, now is, or ever will be, capable of listening without interrupting. so that at the very commencement when the _reader_ read the passage, "nor grew it white in a single night as man's have grown from sudden fears--" the _readee_ interposed as follows: "_white?_ how odd, to be sure. well, i know nothing about men's hair; but there is our friend, mrs. g----, of twelfth-street, the lady who has been just twenty-nine years old for the last fifteen years; her husband died, you know, last winter, at which misfortune her grief was so intense that her hair turned completely _black_ within twenty-four hours after the occurrence of that sad event." this bit of verbal annotation satisfied us, and we withdrew. * * * * * epitaphs are notoriously hyperbolical. it is refreshing occasionally to meet with one which is terse, business-like, and to the point. such an one any antiquarian may find, who has the patience to hunt it out, upon the tombstone of a juvenile pilgrim father (in embryo) somewhere in the new haven graveyard. for fear that it _may_ not be found in the first search, we give it from memory. "since i so very soon was done for, i wonder what i was begun for." literary notices. a new work, by george w. curtis (the howadji of oriental travel), entitled _lotus-eating_, published by harper and brothers, is a delightful reminiscence of summer rambles, describing some of the most attractive points of american scenery, with impressions of life at famous watering-places, and suggestive comparisons with celebrated objects of interest in europe. dreamy, imaginative, romantic, but reposing on a basis of the healthiest reality--tinged with the richest colors of poetry, but full of shrewd observation and mischievous humor--clothed in delicate and dainty felicities of language--this volume is what its title indicates--the reverie of a summer's pastime, and should be read in summer haunts, accompanied with the music of the sea-shore or breezy hill-sides. although claiming no higher character than a pleasant book of light reading, it will enhance the reputation of the author both at home and abroad, as one of the most picturesque and original of american writers. _a new harmony and exposition of the gospels_, by james strong. this elaborate volume, intended for the popular illustration of the new testament, consists of a parallel and combined arrangement of the four gospel narratives, a continuous commentary with brief additional notes, and a supplement containing several chronological and topographical dissertations. the harmony is constructed on a novel plan, combining the methods of newcome and townsend, and securing the conveniences of both, without the defects of either. a continuous narrative is formed by the selection of a leading text, while at the same time, the different narratives are preserved in parallel columns, so that they may be examined and compared with perfect facility. the exposition of the text is given in the form of a free translation of the original, in which the sense of the sacred writers is expressed in modern phraseology, and slightly paraphrased. this was the most delicate portion of the author's task. the venerable simplicity of the inspired volume can seldom be departed from, without a violation of good taste. as a general rule, a strict adherence to the original language best preserves its significance and beauty. this was the plan adopted by the translators of the received version, and their admirable judgment in this respect, is evinced by the fact that almost every modern attempt to improve upon their labors has been a failure. no new translations have even approached the place of the received one, in the estimation either of the people or of scholars, while many, with the best intentions, no doubt, on the part of their authors, present only a painful caricature of the original. mr. strong has done well in avoiding some of the most prominent faults of his predecessors. he has generally succeeded in preserving the logical connection of thought, which often appears in a clearer light in his paraphrase. his explanation of passages alluding to ancient manners and customs is highly satisfactory and valuable. but to our taste, he frequently errs by the ambitious rhetorical language in which he has clothed the discourses of the great teacher. the reverent simplicity of the original is but poorly reproduced by the florid phrases of modern oratory. in this way, the sacred impression produced by the evangelists is injured, a lower tone of feeling is substituted, and the refined religious associations connected with their purity of language is sacrificed to the intellectual clearness which is aimed at by a more liberal use of rhetorical expressions than a severe and just taste would warrant. with this exception, we regard the present work as an important and valuable contribution to biblical literature. it displays extensive research, various and sound learning, and indefatigable patience. the numerous engravings with which the volume is illustrated, are selected from the most authentic sources, and are well adapted to throw light on the principal localities alluded to in the text, as well as attractive by their fine pictorial effect. we have no doubt that the labors of the studious author will be welcomed by his fellow students of the sacred writings, by preachers of the gospel, and by sunday school teachers, no less than by the great mass of private christians of every persuasion, who can not consult his volume without satisfaction and advantage. (published by lane and scott.) a valuable manual of ecclesiastical statistics is furnished by fox and hoyt's _quadrennial register of the methodist episcopal church_, of which the first number has been recently published by case, tiffany, and co., hartford. it is intended to exhibit the condition, economy, institutions, and resources of the methodist episcopal church in this country, in a form adapted to popular use and general reference. among the contents of this number, we find a complete report of the general conference for , a copious church directory, an abstract of the discipline of the church, a list of the seminaries of learning and their officers, and a general view of the various religious denominations in this country. the work evinces a great deal of research, and the compilers have evidently spared no pains to give it the utmost fullness of detail as well as accuracy of statement. it does credit both to their judgment and diligence. to the clergy of the methodist church it will prove an indispensable companion in their journeys and labors. nor is it confined in its interest to that persuasion of christians. whoever has occasion to consult an ecclesiastical directory, will find this volume replete with useful information, arranged in a very convenient method, and worthy of implicit reliance for its general correctness. a new edition of _the mother at home_, by john s. c. abbott, with copious additions and numerous engravings, is published by harper and brothers. the favor with which this work has been universally received by the religious public renders any exposition of its merits a superfluous task. we have received the second volume of lippincott, grambo & co.'s elegant and convenient edition of _the waverley novels_, containing _the antiquary_, _the black dwarf_, and _old mortality_. with the introduction and notes by sir walter scott, and the beautiful style of typography in which it is issued, this edition leaves nothing to be desired by the most fastidious book-fancier. another work in the department of historical romance, by henry william herbert, has been issued by redfield. it is entitled _the knights of england, france, and scotland_, and consists of "legends of the norman conquerors," "legends of the crusaders," "legends of feudal days," and "legends of scotland." mr. herbert has a quick and accurate eye for the picturesque features of the romantic past; he pursues the study of history with the soul of the poet; and skillfully availing himself of the most striking traditions and incidents, has produced a series of fascinating portraitures. whoever would obtain a vivid idea of the social and domestic traits of france and great britain in the olden time, should not fail to read the life-like descriptions of this volume. _marco paul's voyages and travels_, by jacob abbott (published by harper and brothers), is another series for juvenile reading from the prolific pen of the writer, who, in his peculiar department of composition, stands without a rival. it is mr. abbott's forte to describe familiar scenes in a manner which attracts and charms every variety of taste. he produces this effect by his remarkable keenness of observation, the facility with which he detects the relations and analogies of common things, his unpretending naturalness of illustration, and his command of the racy, home-bred, idiomatic language of daily life, never descending, however, to slang or vulgarity. the series now issued describes the adventures of marco paul in new york, on the erie canal, in maine, in vermont, in boston, and at the springfield armory. it is emphatically an american work. no american child can read it without delight and instruction. but it will not be confined to the juvenile library. presenting a vivid commentary on american society, manners, scenery, and institutions, it has a powerful charm for readers of all ages. it will do much to increase the great popularity of mr. abbott as an instructor of the people. among the valuable educational works of the past month, we notice woodbury's _shorter course with the german language_, presenting the main features of the author's larger work on a reduced scale. (published by leavitt and allen.)--kiddle's _manual of astronomy_, an excellent practical treatise on the elementary principles of the science, with copious exercises on the use of the globes (published by newman and ivison),--and russell's _university speaker_, containing an admirable selection of pieces for declamation and recitation. (published by j. munroe and co.) _summer gleanings_, is the title of a book for the season by rev. john todd, consisting of sketches and incidents of a pastor's vacation, adventures of forest life, legends of american history, and tales of domestic experience. a right pleasant book it is, and "good for the use of edifying" withal. lively description, touching pathos, playful humor, and useful reflection, are combined in its pages in a manner to stimulate and reward attention. every where it displays a keen and vigorous mind, a genuine love of rural scenes, a habit of acute observation, and an irrepressible taste for gayety and good-humor, which the author wisely deems compatible with the prevailing religious tone of his work. among the best pieces, to our thinking, are "the poor student," "the doctor's third patient," and "the young lamb," though all will well repay perusal. (northampton: hopkins, bridgman and co.) the concluding volume of _the history of the united states_, by richard hildreth, is issued by harper and brothers, comprising the period from the commencement of the tenth congress, in , to the close of the sixteenth, in . this period, including the whole of madison's administration, with a portion of that of jefferson and of monroe, is one of the most eventful in american history, and sustains a close relation to the existing politics of the country. no one can expect an absolute impartiality in the historian of such a recent epoch. mr. hildreth's narrative is undoubtedly colored, to a certain degree, by his political convictions and preferences, which, as we have seen, in the last volume, are in favor of the old federal party; but, he may justly challenge the merit of diligent research in the collection of facts, and acute judgment in the comparison and sifting of testimony, and a prevailing fairness in the description of events. he never suffers the feelings of a partisan to prejudice the thoroughness of his investigations; but always remains clear, calm, philosophical, vigilant, and imperturbable. his condensation of the debates in congress, on several leading points of dispute, exhibits the peculiarities of the respective debaters in a lucid manner, and will prove of great value for political reference. his notices of josiah quincy, john quincy adams, madison, monroe, and henry clay, are among the topics on which there will be wide differences of opinion; but they can not fail to attract attention. the style of mr. hildreth, in the present volume, preserves the characteristics, which we have remarked in noticing the previous volumes. occasionally careless, it is always vigorous, concise, and transparent. he never indulges in any license of the imagination, never makes a display of his skill in fine writing, and never suffers you to mistake his meaning. too uniform and severe for the romance of history, it is an admirable vehicle for the exhibition of facts, and for this reason, we believe that mr. hildreth's work will prove an excellent introduction to the study of american history. we congratulate the admirers of fitz-greene halleck--and what reader of american poetry is not his admirer--on a new edition of his _poetical works_, recently issued by redfield, containing the old familiar and cherished pieces, with some extracts from a hitherto unpublished poem. the fame of halleck is identified with the literature of his country. the least voluminous of her great poets, few have won a more beautiful, or a more permanent reputation--a more authentic claim to the sacred title of poet. combining a profuse wealth of fancy with a strong and keen intellect, he tempers the passages in which he most freely indulges in a sweet and tender pathos, with an elastic vigor of thought, and dries the tears which he tempts forth, by sudden flashes of gayety, making him one of the most uniformly piquant of modern poets. his expressions of sentiment never fall languidly; he opens the fountains of the heart with the master-touch of genius; his humor is as gracious and refined as it is racy; and, abounding in local allusions, he gives such a point and edge to their satire, that they outlive the occasions of their application, and may be read with as much delight at the present time as when the parties and persons whom they commemorate were in full bloom. the terseness of mr. halleck's language is in admirable harmony with his vivacity of thought and richness of fancy, and in this respect presents a most valuable object of study for young poets. _mysteries; or, glimpses of the supernatural_, by c. w. elliott. (published by harper and brothers.) this is an original work, treating of certain manifestations on the "night-side of nature," in a critico-historical tone, rather than in either a dogmatic or a skeptical spirit. "the salem witchcraft," "the cock-lane ghost," "the rochester knockings," "the stratford mysteries," are some of the weird topics on which it discourses, if not lucidly, yet genially and quaintly. the author has evidently felt a "vocation" to gather all the facts that have yet come to light on these odd hallucinations, and he sets them forth with a certain grave naïveté and mock carlylese eloquence, which give a readable character to his volume, in spite of the repulsiveness of its themes. of his discreet non-committalism we have a good specimen in the close of the chapter on the "the stratford mysteries," of which the rev. dr. phelps is the chief hierophant. "here the case must rest; we would not willingly charge upon any one deliberate exaggeration or falsehood, nor would any fair-minded person decide that what seems novel and surprising is therefore false. every sane person will appeal to the great laws of god ever present in history and in his own consciousness, and by these he will try the spirits, whether they be of god or of man. the great jury of the public opinion will decide this thing also; we have much of the evidence before us. the burden of proof, however, rests with dr. phelps himself. fortunately he is a man of character, property, and position, and he chooses to stand where he does; no man will hinder him if none heed him. many believe, but may be thankful for any help to their unbelief. many more will be strongly disposed to exclaim when they shall have read through this mass of evidence--'it began with nothing, it has ended with nothing.' _ex nihil, nihil fit!_" * * * * * a _perfect_ and liberal scheme has been matured, for the publication of a complete edition of the _church historians of england_, from bede to foxe. the plan is worthy of support, and a large number of subscribers have already enrolled their names. the terms of publication are moderate, and the projectors give the best guarantees of good faith. * * * * * among recent english reprints worthy of notice are _papers on literary and philosophical subjects_, by patrick c. macdougall, professor of moral philosophy in new college, edinburgh. they are collected from various periodicals, and appear to be published at present with a view to the author's candidateship for the ethical chair in the university of edinburgh. the essays on sir james mackintosh, jonathan edwards, and dr. chalmers display high literary taste as well as philosophical talent. * * * * * mr. kingsley, the author of _alton locke_, _yeast_, and other works, has published _sermons on national subjects_, which are marked by the originality of thought and force of utterance which characterize all this author's writings. some of the sermons are very much above the reach of village audiences to which they were addressed, and in type will find a more fitting circle of intelligent admirers. there is much, however, throughout the volume suited to instruct the minds and improve the hearts of the humblest hearers, while the principles brought out in regard to national duties and responsibilities, rewards and punishments, are worthy of the attention of all thoughtful men. * * * * * a new english translation of the _republic of plato_, with an introduction, analysis, and notes, by john llewellyn davies, m.a., and david james vaughan, m.a., fellows of trinity college, cambridge, is a valuable contribution to the study of classic literature. the translation is done in a scholar-like way, and in the analysis and introduction the editors show that they enter into the spirit of their author as well as understand the letter of his work, which is more than can be said of the greater number of university translations. the text of the zurich edition of has been generally followed, and the german translation of schneider has evidently afforded guidance in the rendering of various passages. * * * * * the life of david macbeth moir, by thomas aird, says the london critic, is every way worthy of mr. aird's powers. it is written in a calm, dignified, yet rich and poetical style. it is an offering to the memory of dear, delightful "delta," equally valuable from the tenderness which dictated it, and from the intrinsic worth of the gift. aird and "delta" were intimate friends. they had many qualities in common. both were distinguished by genuine simplicity and sincerity of character, by a deep love for nature, for poetry, and for "puir auld scotland;" and by unobtrusive, heart-felt piety. "delta" had not equal power and originality of genius with his friend; but his vein was more varied, clearer, smoother, and more popular. there was, in another respect, a special fitness in aird becoming "delta's" biographer. he was with him when he was attacked by his last illness. he watched his dying bed, received his last blessing, and last sigh. and religiously has he discharged the office thus sadly devolved on him. * * * * * the fourth and last volume of _the life of chalmers_, by dr. hanna, is principally devoted to the connection of chalmers with the free church movement. _the athenæum_ says: "altogether, dr. hanna is to be congratulated on the manner in which he has fulfilled the important task on which he has now for several years been engaged. dr. chalmers is a man whose life and character may well engage many writers; but no one possessed such materials as dr. hanna for writing a biography so full and detailed as was in this case demanded. the four volumes which he has laid before the public are not only an ample discharge of his special obligations as regards his splendid subject, but also a much needed example of the manner in which biographies of this kind, combining original narrative with extracts from writings and correspondence, ought to be written." * * * * * a meeting of literary men has been held at lansdowne house, for the purpose of raising a fund for erecting a monument to the late sir james mackintosh. the proposal for a monument was moved by mr. t. b. macaulay, seconded by lord mahon. mr. hallam moved the appointment of a committee, which was seconded by lord broughton, lord lansdowne agreeing to act as chairman, and sir r. h. inglis as secretary. we are glad to see literary men of all political parties uniting in this tribute of honor to one of the greatest and best men of whom his country could boast. * * * * * at the sixty-third anniversary of the royal literary fund, lord campbell presided effectively; and, after stating that he owed his success in law to the fostering aid of his labors in literature, he held out hopes that he may yet live to produce a work which shall give him a better title to a name in literature than he has yet earned. pleasant speeches were made by justice talfourd, mr. monckton milnes, chevalier bunsen, mr. abbott lawrence, and especially by mr. thackeray, who improved the event of the coming year of the society's existence--that mr. disraeli, m.p., is to be chairman of the anniversary of . the funds of the past year had been £ more than in any former year. * * * * * william maccall in _the people_, gives the following graphic account of his first interview with john stirling. "sometime in march, , i was traveling by coach from bristol to devonport. i had for companion part of the way a tall, thin gentleman, evidently in bad health, but with a cheerful, gallant look which repelled pity. we soon got into conversation. i was much impressed by his brilliant and dashing speech, so much like a rapid succession of impetuous cavalry charges; but i was still more impressed by his frankness, his friendliness, his manliness. a sort of heroic geniality seemed to hang on his very garments. we talked about german literature; then about carlyle. i said that the only attempt at an honest and generous appreciation of carlyle's genius was a recent article in _the westminster review_. my companion replied, 'i wrote that article. my name is john sterling.' we seemed to feel a warmer interest in each other from that moment; and, by quick instinct, we saw that we were brothers in god's universe, though we might never be brought very near each other in brotherhood on earth. sterling left me at exeter, and a few days after my arrival at devonport i received a letter, which leavens my being with new life, every time i read it, by its singular tenderness and elevation." * * * * * the english literary journals are always suggestive, often amusing, and sometimes not a little "verdant," as the yankees say, in their notices of american books. we subjoin a few of their criticisms on recent popular works. of _queechy_, by elizabeth wetherell, the _literary gazette_ discourses as follows: "the authoress of 'queechy' has every quality of a good writer save one. good feeling, good taste, fancy, liveliness, shrewd observation of character, love of nature, and considerable skill in the management of a story--all these she possesses. but she has yet to learn how much brevity is the soul of wit. surely she must live in some most quiet nook of 'the wide, wide world,' and the greater part of her american readers must have much of the old dutch patience and the primitive leisure of the days of rip van winkle. doubtless the book will have admirers as ardent in the parlors of boston as in the farm-houses of the far west, who will make no complaints of prolixity, and will wish the book longer even than it is. there is a large circle in this country also to whom it will be faultless. the good people who take for gold whatever glitters on the shelves of their favorite booksellers, will be delighted with a work far superior to the dreary volumes of commonplace which are prepared for the use of what is called 'the religious public.' but we fear that those to whom such a book would be the most profitable will deem 'queechy' somewhat tiresome. the story is too much drawn out, and many of the dialogues and descriptions would be wonderfully improved by condensation." * * * * * the _athenæum_ has a decent notice of curtis's _howadji in syria_, which by the by, has got metamorphosed into _the wanderer in syria_, in the london edition. "it is about a year since we noticed a book of eastern travel called 'nile notes'--evidently by a new writer, and evincing his possession of various gifts and graces--warmth of imagination, power of poetic coloring, and a quick perception of the ludicrous in character and in incident. we assumed that an author of so much promise would be heard of again in the literary arena; and accordingly he is now before us as 'the wanderer in syria,' and has further announced a third work under the suggestive title of 'lotus-eating.' 'the wanderer' is a continuation of the author's travels--and is divided between the desert, jerusalem, and damascus. it is in the same style of poetic reverie and sentimental scene-painting as 'nile notes,'--but it shows that mr. curtis has more than one string to his harp. the characteristic of his former volume was a low, sad monotone--the music of the memnon, in harmony with the changeless sunshine and stagnant life of egypt--with the silence of its sacred river and the sepulchral grandeur of its pyramids and buried cities. 'the wanderer,' on the contrary, is never melancholy. there is in him a prevailing sense of repose, but the spirit breathes easily, and the languid hour is followed by bracing winds from lebanon. there is the same warm sunshine,--but the gorgeous colors and infinite varieties of eastern life are presented with greater vivacity and grace. "mr. curtis's fault is that of ovid--an over-lusciousness of style--too great a fondness for color. he cloys the appetite with sweetness. his aim as a writer should be to obtain a greater depth and variety of manner--more of contrast in his figures. he is rich in natural gifts, and time and study will probably develop in him what is yet wanting of artistic skill and taste. "of mr. curtis's latest work, entitled '_lotus-eating; a summer book_,' the _literary gazette_ says: "a very cheerful and amusing, but always sensible and intelligent companion is mr. curtis. whether on the nile or the hudson, on the broadway of new york or the grand canal of venice, we have one whose remarks are worth listening to. not very original in his thoughts, nor very deep in his feelings, we yet read with pleasant assent the record of almost every thing that he thinks and feels. this new summer book is a rough journal of a ramble in the states, but every chapter is full of reminiscences of the old european world, and an agreeable medley he makes of his remarks on scenery, and history, and literature, and mankind. mr. curtis is one of the most cosmopolitan writers that america has yet produced. this light volume is fittingly called a summer book, just such as will be read with pleasure on the deck of a steamer, or under the cliffs of some of our modern baiæ. it may also teach thoughtless tourists how to reflect on scenes through which they travel." * * * * * the question whether the honor of the authorship of the "imitation of jesus christ," a work held in the highest esteem in the roman catholic church, and which has been translated into almost every living language, belongs to john gersen or gesson, supposed to have been an abbot of the order of saint benedict, at the beginning of the fourteenth century, or to thomas à kempis, monk of the order of regular canons of the monastery of mount saint agnes, has given rise to an immense deal of controversy among catholic ecclesiastical writers, and has set the two venerable orders of benedictines and regular canons terribly by the ears. it has just, however, been set at rest, by the discovery of manuscripts by the bishop of bruges, in the library at brussels, proving beyond all doubt, to his mind, that thomas à kempis really was the author, and not, as the partisans of gersen assert, merely the copyist. the bishop of munster has also, singular to relate, recently discovered old manuscripts which lead him to the same conclusion. the manuscript of gersen, on which his advocates principally relied to prove that he was the author, must therefore henceforth be considered only as a copy; it is in the public library at valenciennes. the last two numbers of the "_leipzig grenzboten_" contain, among some half-dozen articles of special german interest, papers on görgey's vindication, on longfellow, and margaret fuller ossoli, and on the department of northern antiquities in the new museum at berlin. the german critic considers professor longfellow's poetry as a cross between the "lakers" and shelley. longfellow's novels remind him of goethe and jean paul richter, and in some instances of hoffmann. the "golden legend" is of course a frantic imitation of goethe's "faust." margaret fuller, too, is represented as an emanation from the german mind. * * * * * we learn from the "_vienna gazette_" that dr. moritz wagner, the renowned naturalist and member of the vienna academy of sciences, has set out on a journey across the continent of america to new orleans, panama, columbia, and peru. dr. wagner, accompanied by dr. charles scherzer, who has undertaken to edit the literary portion of the description of his travels, is expected to devote the next three years to this expedition, and great are the hopes of the vienna papers as to its results. * * * * * the "_presse_" of vienna states that prince metternich possesses an amulet which lord byron formerly wore round his neck. this amulet, the inscriptions of which have been recently translated by the celebrated orientalist, von hammer-purgstall, contains a treaty entered into "between solomon and a she-devil," in virtue of which no harm could happen to the person who should wear the talisman. this treaty is written half in turkish and half in arabic. it contains besides, prayers of adam, noah, job, jonah, and abraham. the first person who wore the amulet was ibrahim, the son of mustapha, in . solomon is spoken of in the koran as the ruler of men and of devils. * * * * * the university of berlin has celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the nomination to the degree of doctor of m. lichtenstein, the celebrated naturalist, who, since the foundation of the university, in , has occupied the chair of zoology. three busts of m. lichtenstein were inaugurated--one in the grand gallery of the university, one in the zoological museum, and the third in the zoological garden of berlin. baron von humboldt delivered a speech to the professors and students, in which he detailed at great length the scientific labors of m. lichtenstein. some days before the ceremony, m. lichtenstein, who is remarkable for his modesty, left berlin for trieste, from whence he was to proceed to alexandria. * * * * * görgey's _memoirs of the hungarian campaign_ have been confiscated, and forbidden throughout austria. exceptions, however, are made in favor of individuals. * * * * * this year, , the royal academy of sweden has caused its annual medal to be struck to the memory of the celebrated swedenborg, one of its first members. the medal, which has already been distributed to the associates, has, on the obverse, the head of swedenborg, with, at the top, the name, emanuel swedenborg; and underneath, _nat. . den. ._ and on the reverse, a man in a garment reaching to the feet, with eyes unbandaged, standing before the temple of isis, at the base of which the goddess is seen. above is the inscription: _tantoque exsultat alumno_; and below: _miro naturæ investigatori socio quond. æstimatiss. acad. reg. scient. soec. mdccclii_. * * * * * in sweden during the year there were books published, and journals. of the books, were theological, political, legal, historical, politico-economical and technical, educational, philological, medical, mathematical, physical, geographical, æsthetical, and philosophical. fiction and belles-lettres have ; but they are mostly translations from english, french, and german. of these details we are tempted to say, remarks the _leader_, what jean paul's hero says of the lists of _errata_ he has been so many years collecting--"quintus fixlein declared there were profound conclusions to be drawn from these _errata_; and he advised the reader to draw them!" * * * * * another eminent and honorable name is added to the list of victims to the present barbarian government of france. m. barthélemy st. hilaire has refused to take the oath of allegiance--and he will accordingly be deprived of the chair which he has long filled with so much ability at the collège de france. the sacrifice which m. st. hilaire has made to principle is the more to be honored, since he has no private fortune, and has reached a time of life when it is hard to begin the world anew. but the loss of his well-earned means of subsistence is, we know, a light evil in his eyes compared to the loss of a sphere of activity which he regarded as eminently useful and honorable, and which he had acquired by twenty-seven years of laborious devotion to learning and philosophy. * * * * * among the few french books worthy of notice, says the _leader_, let us not forget the fourth volume of saint beuve's charming _causeries du lundi_, just issued. the volume opens with an account of mirabeau's unpublished dialogues with sophie, and some delicate remarks by sainte beuve, in the way of commentary. there are also admirable papers on buffon, madame de scudery, m. de bonald, pierre dupont, saint evremont et ninon, duc de lauzun, &c. although he becomes rather tiresome if you read much at a time, sainte beuve is the best _article_ writer (in our macaulay sense) france possesses. with varied and extensive knowledge, a light, glancing, sensitive mind, and a style of great _finesse_, though somewhat spoiled by affectation, he contrives to throw a new interest round the oldest topics; he is, moreover, an excellent critic. _les causeries du lundi_ is by far the best of his works. * * * * * dramatic literature is lucrative in france. the statement of finances laid before the dramatic society shows, that during the years - , sums paid for pieces amount to , francs (upward of £ , ). it would be difficult to show that english dramatists have received as many hundreds. the sources of these payments are thus indicated. theatres of paris, , francs; the provincial theatres, , francs (or nearly eight thousand pounds; whereas the english provinces return about eight hundred pounds a year!)--and suburban theatres, , francs. to these details we may add the general receipts of all the theatres in paris during the year--viz., six millions seven hundred and seventy-one thousand francs, or £ , . comicalities, original and selected. [illustration: mr. john bull's ideas on the musquito question. young ladies (_both at once_).--"why, mr. bull! how terribly you have been bitten by the musquitoes!" mr. bull (_a fresh importation_).--"i can't hunderstand 'ow it 'appened. i did hevery thing i could think of to keep them hoff. i 'ad my window hopen and a light burning hall night in my hapartment!"] * * * * * starvation for the delicate. that exquisite young officer, captain gandaw, was reading a newspaper, when his brilliant eye lighted on the following passage in a letter which had been written to the journal by mr. mechi, on the subject of "irrigation." "i may be thought rather speculative when i anticipate that within a century from this period, the sewage from our cities and towns will follow the lines of our lines of railway, in gigantic arterial tubes, from which diverging veins will convey to the eager and distant farmer the very essence of the meat and bread which he once produced at so much cost." "fancy," remarked the gallant captain, "the sewage of towns and cities being the essence of owa bwead and meat--and of beeaw too, of cawse, as beeaw is made from gwain! how vewy disgasting! mr. mechi expects that his ideas will be thought wathaw speculative.--he flatters himself. they will only be consida'd vewy dawty. the wetch! i shall be obliged to abjaw bwead, and confine myself to iwish potatoes--which are the simple productions of the awth--and avoid all animal food but game and fish. and when fish and game are not in season, i shall be unda the necessity of westwicting my appetite to "a scwip with hawbs and fwuits supplied, and wataw fwom the spwing." * * * * * [illustration: young new york hard up. tender mother.--"a hundred dollars! why, what can you want a hundred dollars so soon for?" young new york.--"why, mother, i'm deucedly hard up. i'm almost out of cologne and cigars. besides, the fellows are going to run me for president of the st. nicholas club, and i must pony up my dues, and stand the champagne."] * * * * * [illustration: a victim of the tender passion. young lady.--"now then, what is it that you wish to say to me that so nearly concerns your happiness?" enamored juvenile.--"why, i love you to the verge of distraction, and can't be happy without you! say, dearest, only say that you will be mine!"] * * * * * [illustration: a striking expression. roguy.--"see that girl looking at me, poguy?" poguy.--"don't i? why, she can't keep her eyes off you." roguy (_poking poguy in the waistcoat_).--"what women care for, my boy, isn't features, but expression!"] * * * * * [illustration: scene in a fashionable ladies' groggery. young lady "couldn't take any thing--only a pine-apple ice"--but the ice once broken, she makes such havoc upon pies, tongue, roman punches, tarts, champagne, and sundry other potables and comestibles, as to produce a very perceptible feeling in the funds.] * * * * * [illustration: rather a bad look-out. young sister.--"oh, mamma! i wish i could go to a party." mamma.--"don't be foolish. i've told you a hundred times that you can not go out until flora is married. so do not allude to the subject again, i beg. it's utterly out of the question."] * * * * * [illustration: the attentive husband in august. edward.--"there, dearest, do you feel refreshed?" angelina.--"yes, my love. a little more upon the left cheek, if you please. that's much nicer than fanning one's self. now a little higher, on my forehead."] fashions for summer. [illustration: figures and .--bride's toilet and walking dress.] fig. .--bride's toilet.--hair in bands very much puffed. back hair tied rather low; the wreath of white iris flowers, with foliage. behind this, and rather on one side, is the crown of orange flowers that holds the vail, which is placed very backward, and is of plain tulle, with a single hem. dress of taffeta, with _bayadères_, or, rather, velvet, with rows of velvet flowers, appearing like terry velvet. the body, almost high behind, opens very low in front, and is trimmed with a double plain _berthe_, that follows its cut. the waist is lengthened in front, but not pointed. the bouquet decorates the bottom of the body, and spreads in the form of a fan. the sleeve pagoda-shaped, half-wide, and plain at top, terminated by two trimmings worked like the edge of the _berthes_; a wide lace under-sleeve covers the arm. the habit shirt is square at the top, composed of lace, the upper row raised at the edge and four or five other rows below. fig. .--walking dress.--bonnet of taffeta and blond. the brim, high, narrow, and sitting close to the chin, is of taffeta, gathered from the bottom of the crown to the edge; on the sides of the crown an ornament is placed, cut rather round at the ends, and consisting of three rows of taffeta _bouillonnes_, fastened together by a cross-piece of taffeta. the crown is not deep, falls back, and has a soft top. the curtain, of taffeta, cut cross-wise, is not gathered in the seam. the blond that covers the lower part is gathered, and ends in vandykes that hang below the curtain. a like blond is sewed full on the cross-piece that borders the ornament, and the points also reaching beyond the edge are fastened to those of the other blond, so that the edge of the brim is seen through them. toward the bottom the blond above separates from that below, and sits full near the edge of the ornament. a blond forming a _fanchon_ on the _calotte_ is laid also under the other edge of the ornament. lastly the curtain itself is covered with blond. inside are white roses, mixed with bows of ribbon. dress of taffeta. body high, buttoning straight up in front. two trimmings are put up the side of the body. these trimmings, made of bands resembling the narrow flounces, get narrower toward the bottom. they are pinked at the edges, and shaded. the sleeve is plain, and terminated by two trimmings, pinked and shaded. the skirt has five flounces five inches wide, then a sixth of eight, pinked and shaded. [illustration: figure .--bonnet.] fig. .--drawn bonnet, of taffeta and blond; the brim, which is four inches wide, is of taffeta doubled, that is, the inside and outside are of one piece. it has several gathers. the side of crown, three inches and a quarter wide, is of the same material, puffed at the sides for about an inch, and there are also fourteen ribs in the whole circuit. the top of crown is soft; a roll along the edge of the crown. the ornaments consist of small rolls of taffeta, to which are sewed two rows of blond three-quarters of an inch wide. these same rolls ornament the brim, being placed on the edge, and inside as well as outside. there are seventeen of these ornaments on the brim, with an inch and a half of interval between them. the curtain is trimmed in the same manner, and has ten of them. the top of crown has five rolls, trimmed with blond. the inside is ornamented with roses, brown foliage, and bouclettes of narrow blue ribbons mixing with the flowers. [illustration: figure .--bonnet.] fig. .--drawn bonnet of white tulle and straw-colored taffeta, edged with a fringed _guipure_ and bouquets of parma violets. the taffeta trimming is disposed inside and outside the brim, in vandykes, the points of which are nearly three inches apart. in each space between them is a bouquet of parma violets. the points of the _fanchon_ lie upon the crown. [illustration: figure .--bonnet.] fig. .--drawn bonnet, of tulle, blond, taffeta, and straw trimmings, with flowers of straw and crape. the edge of the brim is cut in fourteen scollops. the inside is puffed tulle, mixed with blond. the scollops of the edge are continued all over the bonnet, and are alternately tulle and white taffeta, with a straw edging. * * * * * for morning and home costume, _organdie_ muslins will be in great favor, the bodies made in the loose jacket style, and worn either with lace or silk waist coats. silks, with designs woven in them for each part of the dress, are still worn; those woven with plaided stripe, _à-la robe_, are very stylish. white bodies will be worn with colored skirts they will be beautifully embroidered, and will have a very _distinguée_ appearance. dress bodies are worn open; they have lappets or small _basquines_: for all light materials, such as _organdie_, _tarlatane_, _barège_, &c., the skirts will have flounces. in striped and figured silks, the skirts are generally preferred without trimming, as it destroys the effect and beauty of the pattern. black lace mantillas and shawls will receive distinguished favor; those of chantilly lace are very elegant. scarf mantelets are worn low on the shoulders. a novelty in the form of summer mantelets has just been introduced in paris, where it has met with pre-eminent favor. it is called the _mantelet echarpe_, or scarf mantelet; and it combines, as its name implies, the effect of the scarf and mantelet. it may be made in black or colored silk, and is frequently trimmed simply with braid or embroidery. sometimes the trimming consists of velvet or _passementerie_, and sometimes of fringe and lace. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including variation in: - use of accent (e.g. "léonard" and "leonard" in p. - ); - use of hyphen (e.g. "archway" and "arch-way"); - capitalisation (e.g. "vice-president" and "vice-president"). pg , word "upon" removed from sentence "...attack upon [upon] mr. dutton's purse..." pg , sentence "(to be continued.)" added to the end of article. pg , word "of" added to sentence "...the wish of the son..." pg , word "is" removed from sentence "here [is] is a very amusing picture..." file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine. no. xxiv.--may, .--vol. iv. rodolphus.--a franconia story. by jacob abbott. chapter iii. i. antonio. the person who came in so suddenly to help the boys extinguish the fire under the corn-barn, on the night of the robbery, was antonio, or beechnut, as the boys more commonly called him. in order to explain how he came to be there, we must go back a little in our narrative, and change the scene of it to mrs. henry's house at franconia, where antonio lived. one morning about a week before the robbery, phonny, mrs. henry's son, and his cousin malleville, who was at that time making a visit at his mother's, were out upon the back platform at play, when they saw antonio walking toward the barn. "children," said antonio, "we are going into the field to get a great stone out of the ground. you may go with us if you like." "well;" said phonny, "come, malleville, let us go." so the children followed antonio to the barn. there was a man there, one of mrs. henry's workmen, called james, who was getting out the oxen. james drove the oxen into the shed, and there attached them to a certain vehicle called a drag. this drag was formed of two planks placed side by side, with small pieces nailed along the sides and at the ends. the drag was shaped at the front so as to turn up a little, in order that it might not catch in the ground when drawn along. there was a hole in the front part of the drag for the end of a chain to be passed through, to draw the drag by. the end of the chain was fastened by a wooden pin called a _fid_, which was passed through the hook or one of the links, and this prevented the chain from being drawn back through the hole again. while james was attaching the oxen to the drag, antonio was putting such tools and implements upon it as would be required for the work. he put on an iron bar, an ax, a saw, a shovel, and two spare chains. "now, children," said he, "jump on." so phonny and malleville jumped on, and antonio with them. antonio stood in the middle of the drag, while phonny and malleville took their places on each side of him, and held on by his arms. james then started the oxen along, and thus they went into the field. "and now, beechnut," said malleville, "i wish you would sing me the little song that agnes sung when she was dancing on the ice that summer night." phonny laughed aloud at this. "oh, malleville!" said he; "there could not be any ice on a summer night." "yes, there could," said malleville, in a very positive tone, "and there was. beechnut told me so." "oh, that was only one of beechnut's stories," said phonny, "made up to amuse you." "well, i don't care," said malleville, "i want to hear the song again." beechnut had told malleville a story about the fairy agnes whom he found dancing upon a fountain one summer night in the woods, having previously frozen over the surface of the water with a little silver wand. he had often sung this song to malleville, and now she wished to hear it again. the words of the song, as beechnut sang them, were as follows: peep! peep! chippeda dee. playing in the moonlight, nobody to see. the boys and girls have gone away, they've had their playtime in the day and now the night is left for me: peep! peep! chippeda dee. the music was as follows: [music: peep! peep! chip-pe-da-dee! playing in the moonlight, no-bod-y to see. the boys and girls have gone a-way; they've had their play-time in the day, and now the night is left to me. peep! peep! chip-pe-da-dee!] when beechnut had sung the song malleville said, "again." she was accustomed to say "again," when she wished to hear beechnut go on with his singing, and as she usually liked to hear such songs a great many times. beechnut always continued to sing them, over and over, as long as she said "again." thus malleville kept him singing agnes's song in this instance all the way toward the field. at length malleville ceased to say "again," on account of her attention being attracted to a bridge which she saw before them, and which it was obvious they were going to cross. it had only logs on the sides of it for railing. beyond the bridge the road lay along the margin of a wood. the stone which james and antonio were going to get out, was just beyond the bridge, and almost in the road. when the oxen got opposite to the stone, james stopped them, and antonio and the children got off the drag. [illustration: the drag ride.] it was only a small part of the stone that appeared above the ground. james took the shovel and began to dig around the place, so as to bring the stone more fully to view, while antonio went into the wood to cut a small tree, in order to make a lever of the stem of it. phonny took the saw--first asking antonio's permission to take it--and climbed up into a large tree near the margin of the wood, where he began to saw off a dead branch which was growing there, and which may be seen in the picture. malleville, in the mean time, sat down upon a square stone which was lying by the road-side near the wood, and occupied herself sometimes in watching the operation of digging out the stone, sometimes in looking up at phonny, and sometimes in singing the song which antonio had sung to her on the way. presently antonio, having obtained his lever, came out into the road with it, and laid it down by the drag. he looked at the drag in doing this, and observed that one of the side-pieces had started up, and that it ought to be nailed down again. he looked up into the tree where phonny was sawing, and said: "phonny!" "what!" said phonny. "look up over your head," said antonio. phonny looked up. "do you see that short branch just above you?" "this?" said phonny, putting his hand upon it. "yes," said antonio. "yes," said phonny, "i see it." "hang your saw on it," said antonio. phonny did so. "now, come down from the tree," said antonio. phonny climbed down as fast as he could, and came to beechnut. "take all the things out of your pocket and put them down on the drag." phonny began to take the things out. first came a pocket handkerchief. then a knife handle without any blades. then a fishing line. then two old coins and a dark red pebble stone. this exhausted one pocket.--from the other came a small glass prism, three acorns, and at last two long nails. "ah, that is what i want," said antonio, taking up the nails. "i thought you had two nails in your pocket, for i remembered that i gave you two yesterday. will you give them back to me again?" "yes," said phonny. "now, put the things back in your pocket. i admire a boy that obeys orders, without stopping to ask why. he waits till the end, and then he _sees_ why. now, you can go back to your saw." but instead of going back to his saw, phonny seemed just at that instant to get a glimpse of something which attracted his attention along the road beyond the bridge, for as soon as he had put his goods and chattels back in his pockets, he paused a moment, looking in that direction, and then he set out to run as fast as he could over the bridge. antonio looked, and saw that there was a girl coming along, and that phonny was running to meet her. antonio wondered who it could be. it proved to be ellen linn. when malleville saw that it was ellen, she ran to meet her. she asked her why she did not bring annie with her. "i did," said ellen; "she is at the house. she was tired after walking so far, and so i left her there." "i am glad that she has come," said malleville, "let us go and see her." "not just yet," said ellen. "i will go with you pretty soon." the fact was that ellen had come to see antonio about rodolphus, and now she did not know exactly how she should manage to have any conversation with him alone; and she did not wish to talk before james and all the rest about the misconduct of her brother. as soon as antonio saw her, he went to meet her, and walked with her up to the place where they were at work, to show her the great stone that they were digging out. ellen looked at it a few minutes and asked some questions about it, but her thoughts were after all upon her brother, and not upon the stone. presently she went to the place where malleville had been sitting, and sat down there. she thought, perhaps, that antonio would come there, and that then she could speak to him. phonny climbed up into the tree again, partly to finish his sawing, and partly to let ellen linn see how well he could work in such a high place. while he was there, antonio went to the place where ellen linn was sitting, and asked her if she had heard from rodolphus lately. "yes," said ellen, "and that is the very thing that i came to see you about. i want to talk with you about rodolphus." ellen said this in a low and desponding voice, and antonio knew that she wished to speak to him alone. "we can not talk very well here," said antonio, "will it do if i come and see you about it to-night?" "yes," said ellen, looking up joyfully. "only i am sorry to put you to that trouble." "i will come," said antonio. "i shall get there about half-past eight." pretty soon after this, ellen linn went back to the house, and after a time she and annie went home. about a quarter past eight that evening, she went out into the yard and down to the gate to watch for antonio. at length she saw him coming. when he reached the house, ellen walked with him to the great tree in the middle of the yard, and they both sat down on the bench by the side of it, while annie was running about in the great circular walk, drawing her cart. here antonio and ellen had a long conversation about rodolphus. ellen said that she had heard very unfavorable accounts of him. she had learned that he had got into bad company in the town where he now lived, as he had done at home, and that she was afraid that he was fast going to ruin. she did not know what could be done, but she thought that perhaps antonio might go there and see him, and find out how the case really was, and perhaps do something to save her brother. "i will go, at any rate," said antonio, "and see if any thing can be done. perhaps," he continued, "mr. kerber has found that he is a troublesome boy and may be willing to give him up, and then we can get him another place. however, at all events, i will go and see." "when can you go?" asked ellen. "i can go next saturday, most conveniently," said antonio. "besides if i go on saturday i can stay till monday, and that will give me all of sunday to see rodolphus, when he will of course be at leisure." so it was arranged that antonio was to go on saturday. ellen requested him to manage his expedition as privately as possible, for she did not wish to have her brother's misconduct made known more than was absolutely necessary. antonio told her that nobody but mrs. henry should know where he was going, and that he would not even tell her what he was going for. that evening antonio obtained leave of mrs. henry to go to the town where mr. kerber lived, on saturday, and to be gone until monday. he told mrs. henry that the business on which he was going, was private, and that it concerned other persons, and that on their account, if she had confidence enough in him to trust him, he should like to be allowed to go without explaining what the business was. mrs. henry said that she had perfect confidence in him, and that she did not wish him to explain the nature of the business. she surmised, however, that it was something relating to rodolphus, for she knew about his character and history, and she recollected ellen's calling at her house to inquire for antonio that morning. when the saturday arrived, antonio began about ten o'clock to prepare for his journey. he had decided to set out on foot. he thought that he should get along very comfortably and well without a horse, as he supposed it would be easy for him to make bargains with the teamsters and travelers that would overtake him on the road, to carry him a considerable part of the way. he could have taken a horse as well as not from mr. henry's, but as he was to remain in the place where he was going over sunday, he concluded that the expense of keeping the horse there, if he were to take one, would be more than he would have to pay to the travelers and teamsters for carrying him along the road. he told james that he was going away, and that he was not to be back again until monday. he did not, however, tell him where he was going. when he was all ready to set out, he went to his chest and took some money out of his till--as much as he thought that he should need--and then went into the parlor to tell mrs. henry that he was going. "are you all ready, and have you got every thing that you want?" asked mrs. henry. antonio said that he had every thing. "well, good-by then," said mrs. henry. "i wish you a pleasant journey; and if you find that any thing occurs so that you think it best to stay longer than monday, you can do so." antonio thanked mrs. henry, bade her good-by, and went away. antonio stopped at mrs. linn's as he passed through the village. he had promised ellen that he would call there on his way, to get a letter which she was going to send, and had told her at what time he should probably come. he found ellen waiting for him at the gate. she had a small parcel in her hand. when antonio came to the gate she showed him the parcel, and asked him if he could carry such a large one. "it is not large at all," said antonio; "i can carry it just as well as not." "it is my little bible," said she, "and the letter is inside. it is the bible that my aunt gave me; but i thought she would be willing that i should give it to rodolphus, if she knew--" here ellen stopped, without finishing her sentence, and walked away toward the house. antonio looked after her a moment, and then went away without saying another word. it was twelve o'clock before he was fairly set out on his journey. he walked on for about two hours, meeting with various objects of interest in the way, but without finding any traveler going the same way, to help him on his journey. at last he came to a place where there were two girls standing by a well before a farm-house. antonio, being tired and thirsty, went up to the well to get a drink. [illustration: the well.] "how far is it from here to franconia?" said antonio to the girls. they looked at him as if surprised, but at first they did not answer. "do you know?" said antonio, speaking again. "haven't you just come from franconia?" said one of the girls. "yes," said antonio. "then i should think that you would know yourself," said she. "no," said antonio, "i don't know. i have been walking about two hours; but i don't know how far it is." "i believe it is about five miles," said the youngest girl. "then i have come two miles and a half an hour," said antonio. "it is twenty miles more that i have got to go." then he made a calculation in his mind, and found that if he should have to walk all the way, he should not reach the end of his journey till about eleven o'clock, allowing one hour to stop for supper and rest. antonio thanked the girls for his drink of water and then went on. pretty soon he saw a large wagon in the road before him. he walked on fast until he overtook it. he made a bargain with the wagoner to carry him as far as the wagon was going on his road, which was about ten miles. this ride rested him very much, but it did not help him forward at all in respect to time, for the wagon did not travel any faster than he would have walked. at length the wagon came to the place where it was to turn off from antonio's road; so antonio paid the man the price which had been agreed upon, and then took to the road again as a pedestrian. he walked on about an hour, and then he began to be pretty tired. he concluded that he would stop and rest and get some supper at the very next tavern. it was now about half-past seven, and he was yet, as he calculated, nearly eight miles from the end of his journey. just then he heard the sound of wheels behind him, and, on looking round, he saw a light wagon coming, drawn by a single horse, and with but one man in the wagon. the wagon was coming on pretty rapidly, but antonio determined to stop it as it passed; so he stood at one side of the road, and held up his hand as a signal, when the wagon came near. the man stopped. on inquiry antonio found that he was going directly to the town where rodolphus lived. antonio asked the man what he would ask to carry him there. "what may i call your name?" said the man. "my name is antonio." "and my name is antony," said the man. "antony. it is a remarkable coincidence that our names should be so near alike. get in here with me and ride on to the tavern, we will see if we can make a trade." antonio found antony a very amusing and agreeable companion. in the end it was agreed that they should stop at the tavern and have some supper, and that antonio should pay for the supper for both himself and antony, and in consideration of that, he was to be carried in the wagon to the end of his journey. during the supper and afterward, while riding along the road, antony was quite inquisitive to learn all about antonio, and especially to ascertain what was the cause of his taking that journey. but antonio resisted all these attempts, and would give no information whatever in respect to his business. they reached the end of their journey about half-past nine o'clock. antonio was set down at the tavern, which has already been spoken of as situated at the head of the lane leading to the corn-barn, where rodolphus and the other boys had made their rendezvous. immediately after being shown to his room, which it happened was a chamber on the side of the house which was toward the lane, antonio came down stairs and went out. his plan was to proceed directly to mr. kerber's house, hoping to be able to see rodolphus that evening. he was afraid before he left the tavern that it might be too late, and that he should find they had all gone to bed at mr. kerber's. he thought, however, that he could tell whether the family were still up, by the light which he would in that case see at the windows; and he concluded that if the house should appear dark, he would not knock at the door, but go back to the tavern, and wait till the next morning. the house _was_ dark, and so antonio, after standing and looking at it a few moments with a disappointed air, went back to the tavern. he went in at the door, and went up to his room. it happened that no one saw him go into the tavern this time, for as there was a very bright moon, and it shone directly into his chamber-window, he thought that he should not need a lamp to go to bed by, so he went directly up stairs to his room. it was now about ten o'clock. antonio sat down by his window and looked out. it was a beautiful evening, and he sat some time enjoying the scene. at length he heard suppressed voices, and looking down he saw three boys come stealing along round the corner of a fence and enter a lane. he saw the light of a lantern, too, for he was up so high that he could look down into it, as it were. he was convinced at once from these indications that there was something going on that was wrong. he listened attentively, and thought that he could recognize rodolphus's voice, and he was at once filled with apprehension and anxiety. he immediately took his cap, and went softly down stairs, and out at the door, and then going round into the lane, he followed the boys down toward the corn-barn. when they had all got safely in, underneath the building, he crept up softly to the place, and looking through a small crack in the boards he saw and heard all that was going on; he overheard the conversation between the boys about the box, saw them take away the straw, dig the hole, and bury it, and then had just time to step round the corner of the barn, and conceal himself, when the boys came out to see if the way was clear for them to go home. the next moment the light from the burning straw broke out, and antonio, without stopping to think, ran instinctively in among the boys to help them to put out the fire. of course when the boys fled he was left there alone, and he soon found that it would be impossible for him to extinguish the fire. it spread so rapidly over the straw and among the boxes, that it was very plain all his efforts to arrest the progress of it would be unavailing. in the mean time he began to hear the cry of "fire." the people of the tavern had been the first to see the light, and were running to the spot down the lane. it suddenly occurred to antonio that if he were found there at the fire he should be obliged to explain how he came there, and by so doing to expose rodolphus as a thief and a burglar.[ ] when antonio thought how broken-hearted ellen would be to have her brother sent to prison for such crimes, he could not endure the thought of being the means of his detection. he immediately determined therefore to run away, and leave the people to find out how the fire originated as they best could. [footnote : the crime of breaking into a building in such a way is called burglary, and it is punished very severely among all civilized nations.] all these thoughts passed through antonio's mind in an instant, and he sprang out from under the corn-barn as soon as he heard the men coming, and ran off toward the fields. the men saw him, and they concluded immediately that he was an incendiary who had set the building on fire, and accordingly the first two that came to the spot instead of stopping to put out the fire, determined to pursue the fugitive. antonio ran to a place where there was a gap in a wall, and, leaping over, he crouched down, and ran along on the outer side of the wall. the men followed him. antonio made for a haystack which was near, and after going round to the further side of the haystack, he ran on toward a wood, keeping the haystack between himself and the men, in hopes that he should thus be concealed from their view. as soon as he got into the wood he ran into a little thicket, and creeping into the darkest place that he could find, he lay down there to await the result. the men came up to the place out of breath with running. they looked about in the wood for some time, and antonio began to think that they would not find him. but he was mistaken. one of the men at length found him, and pulled him out roughly by the arms. they took hold of him, one on one side and the other on the other, and led him back toward the fire. the building was by this time all in flames, and though many men had assembled they made no effort to extinguish the fire. it was obvious, in fact, that all such efforts would have been unavailing. then, besides, as the building stood by itself, there was no danger to any other property, in letting it burn. the men gathered round antonio, wondering who he could be, but he would not answer any questions. he was there an utter stranger to them all--a prisoner, seized almost in the very act of setting the building on fire, and yet he stood before them with such an open, fearless, honest look, that no one knew what to think or to say in respect to him. in the mean time the flames rolled fearfully into the air, sending up columns of sparks, and illuminating all the objects around in the most brilliant manner. groups of boys stood here and there, their faces brightened with the reflection of the fire, and their arms held up before their eyes to shield them from the dazzling light. a little further back were companies of women and children, beaming out beautifully from the surrounding darkness, and a gilded vane on the village spire appeared relieved against the sky, as if it were a great blazing meteor at rest among the stars. at length the fire went down. the people gradually dispersed. the men who had charge of antonio took him to the tavern, locked him up in a room there, and stationed one of their number to keep guard at the door till morning. [illustration: the conflagration.] ii. antonio a prisoner. during the night, antonio had time to reflect upon the situation in which he was placed, and to consider what it was best for him to do. he decided that the first thing to be done, was to write to mrs. henry, and inform her what had happened. he determined also not to reveal any thing against rodolphus, unless he should find that he was required by law to do so--at least until he could have time to consider whether something could not yet be done to save him from the utter ruin which would follow from his being convicted of burglary and sent to the state prison. in the morning, an officer came with a regular warrant for arresting antonio, on the charge of setting the corn-barn on fire. a warrant is a paper signed by a justice or judge, authorizing the officer to seize a prisoner, and to bring him before a magistrate, for what is called an examination. if, on the examination, the magistrate sees that the prisoner is clearly innocent, he releases him, and that is the end of the matter. if, however, he finds that there is reason to suspect that he may be guilty, he orders the officer to keep him in the jail till the time comes for the court to meet and try his case. sometimes, when the offense is not very serious, they release the prisoner _on bail_, as it is called, during the time that intervenes between his examination and his trial. that is, they give him up to his friends, on condition that his friends agree that he shall certainly appear at the time of trial--covenanting that if he does not appear they will pay a large sum of money. the money that is to be forfeited, if he fails to appear, varies in different cases, and is fixed by the judge in each particular case. this money is called the _bail_. if the prisoner has a bad character, and his friends generally believe that he is guilty, he can not get bail, for his friends are afraid that if they give bail for him, and so let him have his liberty, he will run away before the time comes for his trial, and then they will lose the money. when, for this or any other reason, a prisoner can not get bail, he has to go to prison, and stay there till his trial comes on. on the other hand, if the prisoner has a good character, and if his friends have confidence in him, they give bail, and thus he is left at liberty until his trial comes on. at the examination of a prisoner, which takes place usually very soon after he is first arrested, he is allowed to say any thing that he pleases to say, in explanation of the suspicious circumstances under which he was taken. he is, however, not required to say any thing unless he chooses. the reason of this is, that no one is required to furnish any proof against himself, when he is charged with crime. if he can say any thing which will operate in his favor, he is allowed to do it, and what he says is written down, and is produced on his trial, to be used for or against him according to the circumstances of the case. when the officer came in, in the morning, to arrest antonio, he told him he was to go at eleven o'clock the next morning before the magistrate to be examined. antonio asked the officer whether he could be allowed, in the mean time, to write a letter to his friends in franconia. "yes," said the officer, "only i must see what you write." so they brought antonio a sheet of paper, and a pen and ink. he sat down to a table and wrote as follows: "hiburgh, july . "to mrs. henry; "there was a fire here last night which burnt up an old corn-barn, and i have been taken up for it, by the officers. they think that i set the corn-barn on fire, but i did not do it. i suppose, though, that i shall have to be tried, and i expect that i must go to prison until the trial comes on, unless mr. keep could come down here and make some arrangement for me. you may depend that i did not set the corn-barn on fire. "yours with much respect, "a. bianchinette." the officer read this letter when it was finished, and then asked antonio whether it should be put into the post-office. antonio inquired how much it would cost to send a boy with it on purpose. the officer told him what he thought it would cost, and then antonio took out the money that he had in his pocket to see if he had enough. he found that he had more than enough, and so the officer sent a special messenger with the letter. "and now," said the officer, "you must go with me to my house. i am going to keep you there until the examination to-morrow." so antonio took his cap and went down stairs with the officer. he found quite a number of men and boys at the door, waiting to see him come. these people followed him along through the street, as he walked toward the officer's house, some running before, to look him in the face, and some running behind, and calling him incendiary and other hard names. antonio took no notice of them, but walked quietly along, talking with the officer. when he got opposite to the lane, he looked down toward the place where the corn-barn had stood. he found that it had been burnt to the ground. the ruins were still smoking, and several men and boys were standing around the place--some looking idly on, and some poking up the smouldering fires. there was something in antonio's frank and honest air, and in the intelligence and good sense which he manifested in his conversation, which interested the officer in his favor. he told his wife when he got home that antonio was the most honest looking rogue that he ever had the custody of. it shows, however, he added, how little we can trust to appearances. i once had a man in my keeping, who looked as innocent and simple-minded as dorinda there, but he turned out to be one of the most cunning counterfeiters in the state. dorinda was the officer's little girl. there was a room in the officer's house, which was made very strong, and used for the temporary keeping of prisoners. they put antonio into this room and locked him in. the officer, however, told him when he went away, that he would bring him some breakfast pretty soon; and this he did in about half an hour. antonio ate his breakfast with an excellent appetite. after breakfast he moved his chair up to a small window, which had been made in one side of the room. the window had a sash on the inside, and great iron bars without. antonio opened the sash and looked out through the iron bars. he saw a pleasant green yard, and a little girl playing there upon the grass. "what is your name?" said antonio. the little girl started at hearing this voice, ran back a little way, and then stood looking at antonio with her hands behind her. "bring me that piece of paper," said antonio, "that lies there on the grass, and i will make you a picture." the girl stood still a moment as if much astonished, and then advancing timidly, she picked up the paper and brought it to antonio's window, which was very near the ground, and held it up. antonio reached his arm out between the bars of the grating and took the paper in. [illustration: the barred window.] although the window was not high, it seemed to be with some difficulty that antonio could reach the paper as dorinda held it up. but this was partly because dorinda was afraid, and did not dare to come too near. antonio took a pencil out of his pocket, and putting the paper down upon the window sill, he began to draw. dorinda stood still upon the ground outside, watching him. antonio made a picture of a very grave and matronly-looking cat, lying upon a stone step and watching two kittens that were playing upon the grass before her. there was a bare-headed boy near, who seemed to be putting a mitten upon his hand. underneath antonio wrote the words-- "this is the picture of a cat, looking at some kittens; also a boy without a hat, putting on his mittens." [illustration: antonio's picture.] when the work was finished, antonio threw the paper out the window, and dorinda who had been all the time looking on with a very serious expression of countenance, took it up, and began to look at the drawing. she could not read, so she only looked at the picture. after examining it for some minutes, without, however, at all relaxing the extreme gravity of her countenance, she ran off to show the paper to her mother. presently she came back again. by this time antonio had made another drawing. it was the representation of his own window, as it would appear on the outside, with iron bars forming a grating, and himself looking through between them. underneath he wrote, "pity the poor prisoner, and bring him some books to read." dorinda took this picture too, when antonio threw it out to her, and ran in with it to her mother. presently she came out with two books in her hand. she came under the window and held them up timidly to antonio, and antonio took them in. by the help of these books and some other indulgences that the officer allowed him, antonio got through the day very comfortably and well. the next morning, at eleven o'clock, the officer came to take his prisoner to the justice, for examination. the officer led antonio along the street till he came to a lawyer's office. there were several men and boys about the door. these persons eyed antonio very closely when he went in. on entering the office, antonio was brought up in front of a table which stood in the middle of the room. a young man was sitting at the table with paper, and pen, and ink before him. he was the clerk. the justice himself sat in an arm-chair near the window. the men and boys from the outside came in immediately after antonio, and stood in the office, near the door, to hear the examination. when all was ready, the justice commenced by saying to antonio, "what is your name?" young man. "antonio bianchinette," said antonio. "where do you live?" asked the justice. "in franconia," said antonio. "you are aware, i suppose," said the justice, "that you are charged with having set fire to the building which was burned night before last, and you are brought here for a preliminary examination. you can do just as you please about giving any explanation of the circumstances of the case, or answering any questions that i put to you. if you make any statements or answer any questions, what you say will be put down, and will be used either for, or against you, as the case may be, on your trial." antonio said in reply, that he did not wish to make any statements, or to answer any questions in relation to the fire. "there is one thing, however," he added, "that i wish to say, and that is, that there is something buried in the ground, under the place where the building stood, that ought to be dug up, and if you will take me to the place i will show you where to dig." "what is it that is buried there?" said the justice. "i would rather not answer that question," said antonio. the justice paused a moment to consider what to do. he had heard of the robbery that had been committed on saturday night, for mr. kerber, on going into his office on monday morning, had found the back door unhasped, and his desk broken open, and the news of the robbery had spread all over the village. people wondered whether there could be any connection between the robbery and the fire, though nothing had been said to antonio about it. after thinking a moment about antonio's proposal, the justice concluded to accede to it. the officer accordingly sent a man to get a spade and directed him to come with it to the ruins of the corn-barn. another man went to tell mr. kerber that the boy who had been taken up for setting the barn on fire, had said that there was something buried there, and that perhaps it might prove to be his money-box. so mr. kerber determined to go and see. in a short time quite a large party were assembled around the ruins. antonio directed them where to dig. the men pulled away the blackened timbers and brands which were lying over the spot, and began to dig into the ground. in a few minutes they struck something hard with the spade, and setting the spade down beneath it so as to pry it out, they found that it was indeed mr. kerber's box. the men gathered eagerly around to examine the box. mr. kerber shook it and found that the money was safe inside. he took out his key, but he could not get it into the key-hole, for the key-hole had got filled with earth. he turned the box down upon its side and knocked it upon something hard, and so got the earth out, and then he found that the key would go in. he unlocked the box, and to his great joy found that all was safe. antonio would not make any explanation, except that he did not suppose that any thing else was buried there, and that consequently it would do no good to dig any more. he said, moreover, that he expected some of his friends would come from franconia before night to see about his case, and so the justice gave him up to the care of the officer again, until his friends should come. the officer accordingly took his prisoner away again, and mr. kerber carried his money-box home. mr. keep arrived that day about noon. he immediately had an interview with antonio. after some little general conversation, antonio said that he would rather not make any explanations of the circumstances under which he was arrested at present, even to mr. keep, unless mr. keep requested it. "i tell you truly, sir," said he, "that i am entirely innocent: but i can not state what i know, without breaking a poor girl's heart who once saved my life, and i can not do it." mr. keep was silent a few minutes when antonio said this. he recollected rodolphus and ellen his sister, and recalled to mind the story of ellen and the snow-shoes, which he had heard at the time. he immediately understood the whole case. "i am not surprised that you feel as you do," said he, "but when a crime is committed and we are called upon to testify as a witness, we are bound to state what we know, without regard to our private feelings." "yes, sir," said antonio, "but i am not called upon as a witness. i am charged with committing the crime myself, and the justice said that i was at liberty to answer or not, as i chose." mr. keep was silent for a moment. he seemed to be reflecting upon what rodolphus had said. "by taking the course that you propose," he added, at length, "you run a great risk of being condemned yourself for the crime." "why, no, sir," said antonio; "i can't be condemned unless they _prove_ that i did it; and as i really did not do it, i don't think that they can prove that i did." mr. keep smiled. "well suppose that you do as you propose," said mr. keep, "and allow yourself to take the place of the one who is really guilty, what good will it do him? you will only leave him to commit more crimes." "i hope not, sir," said antonio "i should try to get him away from here to some new place. i think that he has been led away. he has got into bad company." "well," said mr. keep, after a short pause, "the plan may succeed, but you run a great risk in taking such a course. i think that there is great danger that you would be condemned and sent to the state prison." "well," said beechnut, "i should not mind that very much. there is no great harm in going to prison, if you are only innocent. i have been shut up here one day already, and i had a good time." mr. keep said finally that the subject required time for consideration, and that in the mean time he would make arrangements for giving bail for antonio. this he did, and then he and antonio went together back to franconia. iii. the trial. the time arrived for antonio's trial very soon. at the appointed day he and mr. keep went together to the town where the court was to be held. mr. keep delivered antonio to the officer again, and the officer led him into a little room adjoining the court room and left him there under the custody of a subordinate officer. at length his case was called, and the officer came forward and conducted him into the court room. [illustration: the court room.] when antonio entered the room he looked around to see how it was arranged. at one end there was a platform, with a curtained window behind it, and a long desk in front. behind the desk there sat an elderly gentleman whom antonio supposed was the judge. he sat in a large arm-chair. there was another arm-chair upon the platform, but there was nobody sitting in it. antonio thought that probably it was for another judge, and that he would come in by-and-by, but he did not come. in front of the judge's desk and a little lower down, there was another desk, with a great many books and bundles of papers upon it. there was a man seated at this desk with his back to the judge's desk. this man was writing. he was the clerk of the court. in front of the clerk's desk, and toward the middle of the room was a pretty large table with lawyers sitting around it. the lawyers had green bags with papers in them. on each side of the room there were two long seats facing toward the middle of the room. these seats were for the juries. each seat was long enough for six men, making twelve in all on each side. between the juries' seats and the judge's platform, there was, on each side, a stand for the witnesses. the witnesses' stands were placed in this position, so that all could hear the testimony which the witnesses should give. on the back side of the room there were several seats for spectators. in front of the spectator's seats there were two chairs. the officer led antonio to one of these chairs and gave him a seat there. the officer himself took his seat in the other chair. he had a long slender pole in his hand, which was his badge of office. the first thing to be done was for the clerk to read the accusation. the accusation to be made against a prisoner is always written out in full, and is called an indictment. the indictment against antonio was handed to the clerk and he read it. it charged antonio with breaking into and robbing mr. kerber's office, and then setting fire to the barn. after the indictment had been read, the judge, looking to antonio, asked him whether he was guilty or not guilty. "not guilty," said antonio. the arrangements were then made for the trial. the jury were appointed, and they took their places in the jury seats which were on the right hand side of the court room. some jury-men belonging to another jury were sitting in the seats on the left hand, but they had now nothing to do but to listen, like the other spectators. there is a sort of public lawyer in every county, appointed for the purpose, whose business it is to attend to the trial of any person accused of crime in his county. he is called the county attorney. it is his duty to collect the evidence against the prisoner, and to see that it is properly presented to the court and jury, and to prove that the prisoner is guilty, if he can. the prisoner, on the other hand has another lawyer, whose duty it is to collect all the evidence in his favor, and to try to prove him innocent. the trial is always commenced by adducing first the evidences of the prisoner's guilt. accordingly, when the jury were ready, the judge called upon the county attorney to proceed. he rose, and spoke as follows: "may it please your honor." here the county attorney bowed to the judge. "and you, gentlemen of the jury." here he bowed to the jury. "i am very sorry to have to appear against so young, and, i may add, so innocent-looking a person as the prisoner before you, on a charge of so serious a nature as burglary. but i have no choice. however much we may regret that a person so young should become so depraved as to commit such crimes, our duty to the community requires that we should proceed firmly and decidedly to the exposure and punishment of them. i shall proceed to lay before you the evidence that the prisoner at the bar is guilty of the crime charged against him. it will be the duty of his counsel, on the other hand, to prove his innocence, if he can. i shall be very glad, and i have no doubt that you will be, to find that he can succeed in doing this. i fear, however, that it will be out of his power. "i shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, by the witnesses that i shall bring forward, that the prisoner left his home in a very mysterious manner on the saturday when the robbery was committed. that he came to hiburgh, and arrived here about nine o'clock. that he then went to his room, as if to go to bed, and immediately afterward went out in a secret manner. about half-past ten the corn-barn was found to be on fire; and on the people repairing to the spot, found the prisoner there alone. he fled, and was pursued. he was taken, and at length finding that he was detected, and terrified, perhaps, at the consequences of what he had done, he gave information of the place where the money which had been taken was concealed. "these circumstances all point to the prisoner as the guilty party, or at least as one of the guilty parties concerned in the robbery. as to the fire, we lay no particular stress upon that, for it may have been accidental. we think it probable that it was so. the charge which we make against the prisoner is the robbery, and we are willing to consider the fire as an accident, providentially occurring as a means of bringing the iniquity to light." * * * * * the county attorney then began to call in his witnesses. the first witness was james. james said that antonio was well known to him; that he came originally from canada; that he had lived for some time at mrs. henry's; and that on the saturday in question he said that he was going to hiburgh; but would not give him, james, any explanation of the business that called him there. the next witness was antony, the man who had brought antonio in his wagon the last part of his journey. antony testified that he overtook the prisoner on the road, and that he brought him forward in his wagon. the prisoner, he said, seemed very anxious to get into town before nine o'clock; but he was very careful not to say any thing about the business which called him there. there was something very mysterious about him, antony said, and he thought so at the time. the next witness was the tavern keeper. the tavern-keeper testified that antonio came to his house a little past nine; that he seemed in a hurry to go to his room, that the tavern-keeper showed him the room and left him there; but that on going up a few minutes afterward to ask him what time he would have breakfast, he found that he was not there. that about an hour afterward he saw a light, and running out he found that the corn-barn was on fire. he cried "fire," and with another man ran to the corn-barn, and there saw some one running away. he and the other man pursued the fugitive, and finally caught him, and found that it was the prisoner--the same young man that had come to his house as a traveler an hour before. the next witness was mr. kerber. mr. kerber testified that he left his office safe, with his money in the money-box, in the desk, on saturday night, about half-past eight. that on the monday morning following he found that the office had been broken into, the desk opened, and the money-box carried away. that he was present at the prisoner's examination before the justice, and that the prisoner then and there said that there was something buried under where the corn-barn had stood, and that the company all proceeded to the place, and dug into the ground where the prisoner directed them to dig, and that there they found the money-box. the minutes of antonio's examination before the justice were also read, in which he declined to give any explanation of the case. the county attorney then said that his evidence was closed. the judge then called upon mr. keep to bring forward whatever evidence he had to offer in the prisoner's favor. mr. keep had only two witnesses, and they could only testify to antonio's general good character. they were franconia men, who said that they had known antonio a long time, that he had always borne an irreproachable character, and that they did not believe him capable of committing such a crime. after the evidence was thus all in, mr. keep made a speech in defense of his client. he admitted, he said, that the case was a very extraordinary one. there was a mystery about it which was not explained. still he said it was not really _proved_, either that antonio stole the money or that he set fire to the barn. many suppositions might be made to account for the facts, without implicating antonio as really guilty. the county attorney then made his speech. it was, of course, against antonio. he said that the appearances were all against the prisoner, and that if he were really innocent, it would be easy for him to explain the case. his refusal to do this, and his showing where the money was hid, ought to be considered as completing the proofs of guilt, furnished by the other circumstances of the affair. the judge then told the jury that it was their duty to decide whether it had been _proved_ that antonio was guilty. "you have heard all the evidence," said he, "and you must decide. if you are perfectly satisfied that the prisoner is guilty, then you must condemn him. if you are satisfied that he is innocent, then of course you must acquit him. and if you are uncertain whether he is innocent or guilty, then you must acquit him too; for no one is to be condemned, unless it is proved positively that he is guilty." the jury were then conducted out by an officer of the court, to a small room adjoining, where they were to deliberate on the case. in about fifteen minutes they returned. the judge then called upon the prisoner to rise. antonio rose and looked toward the judge. the jury were standing in their places, looking toward the judge, too. "gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "are you agreed upon the verdict?" the foreman of the jury said, "we are agreed." "gentlemen of the jury," said the judge again, "what say you? is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty," said the foreman. there was general smile of satisfaction about the room at hearing this decision. the clerk wrote down the verdict in the record. the judge directed the prisoner to be discharged, and then called for the case which came next on the docket.[ ] [footnote : the docket is the list of cases.] antonio went out with mr. keep and got into a wagon which mr. keep had provided all ready for him at the door. they set out, counsel and client, on their return to franconia. mr. keep was of course very much relieved at the result of the trial; for though he was himself perfectly satisfied of his client's innocence, still the circumstances were very strong against him, and there was, in fact, nothing but his good character in his favor. he had been very much afraid, therefore, that antonio would be condemned, for the jury are bound to decide according to the evidence that is placed before them. "you have got off very well, so far," said mr. keep. "having been accused as an accomplice in the crime, it was your privilege to be silent. should you, however, hereafter be called upon as a witness, you will have to give your testimony." "why must i?" asked antonio. "your duty to your country requires it," said mr. keep. "then," said antonio, "i suppose i must, and i will." iv. another trial. rodolphus and his two confederates in crime were in a state of great anxiety and apprehension, during the period which intervened between the committing of the crime and the trial of antonio. antonio did not attempt to hold any communication with rodolphus during this interval, for fear that by so doing he might awaken in people's minds some suspicion of the truth. he had, however, a secret plan of doing something to save rodolphus from ruin, so soon as the excitement, which had been occasioned by the robbery and the fire, should have passed by. all his plans however were defeated by an unexpected train of occurrences, which took place a day or two after his acquittal, and which changed suddenly the whole aspect of the affair. one night very soon after antonio's trial, rodolphus, after he had gone to bed and was just falling asleep, was awakened by a loud knocking at his door. "rodolphus!" said a harsh voice, outside, "rodolphus! get up and let us in." [illustration: the arrest] rodolphus was dreadfully terrified. he was always terrified by any unexpected sight or sound, as the guilty usually are. he got up and opened the door. mr. kerber and another man came in. "you are my prisoner," said the stranger. "you must put on your clothes and come with me." rodolphus was in great distress and trepidation. he however put on his clothes. he did not dare to ask what he was arrested for. he knew too well. the officer informed him that he was arrested on a charge of being concerned in the robbery of mr. kerber, but that he need not say any thing about it unless he chose to do so. rodolphus was so terrified and distressed that he did not know what to say or do. so the officer led him away, pale and trembling, to his house, and locked him up in the same room where antonio had been confined. there was a little bed in one corner of the room. rodolphus went and sat down upon it, and sobbed and wept in anguish and despair. in a day or two his friends in franconia heard of his arrest, and mr. keep went down to see him. mr. keep came as rodolphus's counsel and friend--in order to confer with him and to defend him on his trial; but rodolphus considered him as banded with all the rest of the world against him, and either could not, or would not answer any of the friendly questions which mr. keep proposed to him; but sat crying all the time while mr. keep was there, and making himself very miserable. mr. keep saw at once that he was guilty, and despaired of being able to do any thing to save him. there was nobody to give bail for rodolphus, and so it was necessary to keep him in close confinement until the time for his trial arrived. in consideration, however, of his tender years, it was decided not to take him to the jail, but to keep him at the house of the officer, in the strong room where he was put when he was first arrested. the room itself was a very comfortable one, but rodolphus spent his time in it very unhappily. the people treated him very kindly, but nothing gave him any peace or comfort. they brought him books, but he could not read well enough to take any pleasure in them. sometimes he would go to the window and look out upon the green yard, but it only made him more miserable to see the grass and the flowers, and the trees waving in the wind, and the birds flying about at liberty. sometimes he saw dorinda there playing with her kitten, and singing little songs; but this sight made him more unhappy than all the rest. rodolphus's mother came down to to see him once, with antonio. antonio drove down with her in a wagon. the visit, however, did not give either rodolphus or his mother any pleasure. they spoke scarcely a word to each other, while she staid. when she got into the wagon to go home, antonio, seeing how much she was distressed, tried to comfort her by saying, that she must not be so troubled; he hoped, he said, that rodolphus would yet turn out to be a good boy. there had been a great many cases, where boys had been led away when young, by bad company, to do what was very wrong, who were afterward sorry for it, and changed their courses and behaved well. this conversation seemed to make mrs. linn feel somewhat more composed, but she was still very unhappy. at length the time for the trial drew near. rodolphus felt great solicitude and anxiety as the time approached. he did not know what evidence there was against him, for no one had been allowed to talk with him on the subject of the crime. even mr. keep, his lawyer, did not know what the evidence was, for it is always customary in such cases, for each party to keep the evidence which they have to offer, as much as possible concealed. antonio had, however, received a summons to appear as a witness, and mr. keep told him that if they insisted on examining him, he would be bound to answer all the questions which they put to him, honestly and truly, whatever his private feelings might be. when the day arrived, rodolphus was taken by the officer to the court room, and placed in the same chair where antonio had sat. antonio had looked around upon the proceedings with so frank and honest an expression of countenance, and with such an unconcerned air, that every one had been impressed with a belief of his innocence. rodolphus, on the other hand, sat still, pale, and trembling, and he manifested in his whole air and demeanor every indication of conscious guilt. the preliminary proceedings were all much the same as they had been in the case of antonio. when these had been gone through, the judge called upon the county attorney to proceed. after a short opening speech he said, that his first witness was mr. kerber. mr. kerber was called, and took his place upon the stand. mr. kerber first gave an account of the robbery, describing the situation of his office and of the two doors leading to it, and of the desk in the corner, and narrating all the circumstances relating to the appearance of his office on the monday morning, and the discovery of the strong box under the ruins of the corn-barn. he then proceeded as follows: "for a time i considered it certain that antonio, the one who was first suspected, was the one really guilty, and made no effort or inquiry in any other direction until he was tried. i was convinced then that he was innocent, and immediately began to consider what i should do to find out the robber. i examined the hole again which had been bored into the door, and the marks of the tools by which the desk had been broken open. i thought that i might, perhaps, possibly find the tools that fitted these places somewhere about town, and that if i should, i might, possibly, in that way, get some clew to the robbers. so i borrowed the bits and the chisels of several of my neighbors, but i could not find any that would fit. "at last i happened to think of some old tools that i had in a back room, and on comparing them i found two that fitted exactly. there was a bit which just fitted the hole, and there were some fibres of the wood which had been caught upon the edge of the bit, where it was dull, that looked fresh and compared well with the color of the wood of the door. there was a large chisel, too, that fitted exactly to the impressions made upon the wood of the desk, in prying it open. "i could see, too, that some of these tools had recently been moved, by the dust having been disturbed around them. there were marks and tracks, too, in the dust, upon a bench, where some boy had evidently climbed up to get the tools. i tried one of rodolphus's shoes to these tracks, and found that it fitted exactly." while mr. kerber was making these statements, rodolphus hung his head, and looked utterly confounded. "just about the time," continued mr. kerber, "that i made these discoveries, a person came to me and informed me--" "stop," interrupted mr. keep. "you are not to state what any other person informed you. you are only to state what you know personally, yourself." mr. kerber was silent. the county attorney, who knew well that this was the rule in all trials, said that he had nothing more to ask that witness then, but that he would withdraw him for a time. he then called antonio. antonio took his place upon the stand. after the oath was administered as usual, the county attorney began to question antonio as follows: "were you in hiburgh on the night of this robbery?" "i was," said antonio. "at what time did you arrive there?" asked the attorney. "i believe it was a little past nine," said antonio. "were you at the corn-barn when it took fire?" "i was," said antonio. "state now to the jury what it was that led you to go there." antonio recollected that what first attracted his attention and led him to go out, was seeing rodolphus and the other boys going by with their lantern, and hearing their suppressed voices; and he perceived that if he went any further in his testimony he should prove rodolphus to be guilty; so he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he turned to the judge, and asked whether he could not be excused from giving any more testimony. "on what ground do you wish to be excused?" said the judge. "why, what i should say," said antonio, "might go against the boy, and i don't wish to say any thing against him." "you can not be excused," said the judge, shaking his head. "it is very often painful to give testimony against persons accused of crime, but it is a duty which must be performed." "but there is a special reason," said antonio, "in this case." "what is the reason?" said the judge. antonio hesitated. at length he said timidly, "his sister saved my life." here there was a pause. the preferring such a request, to be excused from testifying, and for such a reason, is a very uncommon occurrence in a court. the judge, the jury, the lawyers, and all the spectators looked at antonio, who stood upon the witness's stand all the time, turning his face toward the judge, awaiting his decision. after a pause the judge said, "your unwillingness to do any thing to injure the brother of a girl who saved your life, does you honor, and i would gladly excuse you if i could, but it is not in my power. the ends of justice require that you should give your testimony, whatever the consequences may be." "what would be done," asked antonio, "if i should refuse to do so?" "then you would be sent to prison yourself," said the judge, "for contempt of court." "and suppose i am willing to go to prison," said antonio, "rather than testify against ellen's brother; can i do so?" the judge looked a little perplexed. what answer he would have given to this question we do not know, for he was prevented from answering it, by the county attorney, who here rose and said, "may it please your honor, i will withdraw this witness for the present. i shall be glad to get along without his testimony, if possible, and perhaps i can." antonio then left the stand, very much relieved. rodolphus wondered who would be called next. his heart sank within him, when he saw an officer who had gone out a moment before, come in and lead _gilpin_ to the witness-stand. it is customary in almost all countries, whenever a crime is committed, and it is not possible to ascertain who committed it by any ordinary proofs, to allow any one of the accomplices who is disposed to do so, to come forward and inform against the rest, and then to exempt him from punishment in consideration of his so doing. it seems very base for one person to lead another into sin, or even to join him in it, and then to assist in bringing his accomplice to punishment, in order to escape it himself. but they who combine to commit crimes, must be expected to be base. gilpin was so. there seemed to be nothing noble or generous in his nature. as soon as he found out that rodolphus was suspected, he feared that rodolphus would confess, and then that he should himself be seized. accordingly, he went immediately to mr. kerber, and told him that he knew all about the robbery, and that he would tell all about it, if they would agree that he should not come to any harm. this arrangement was finally made. they, however, seized gilpin, and shut him up, so as to secure him for a witness, and he had been in prison ever since rodolphus's arrest, though rodolphus knew nothing about it. christopher had run away the moment he heard of rodolphus's arrest, and nothing had since been heard of him. gilpin was now brought forward to give his testimony. there was a great contrast in his appearance, as he came upon the stand, from that of antonio. he looked guilty and ashamed, and he did not dare to turn his eyes toward rodolphus at all. he could not go forward himself and tell a connected story, but he made all his statements in answer to questions put to him by the county attorney. he, however, in the end, told all. he explained how rodolphus had first cut a hole in the partition, and then he narrated the conversation which the boys had held together behind the wall. he told about the tools, and the dark lantern, and the breaking in; also about going to the corn-barn, burying the box, and then of the accidental setting of the straw on fire, and of antonio's suddenly coming in among them. in a word, the whole affair was brought completely to light. mr. keep questioned gilpin afterward very closely, to see if he would contradict himself, and so prove that the story which he was telling, was not true; but he did not contradict himself, and finally he went away. there were no witnesses to be offered in favor of rodolphus, and very little to be said in his defense. when, at length, the trial was concluded, the jury conferred together a little in their seats, and then brought in a verdict of guilty. the next day rodolphus was sentenced to ten days' solitary confinement in the jail, and after that, to one year of hard labor in the state prison. v. the flight. two or three days after rodolphus's trial, ellen, who had done every thing she could to cheer and comfort her mother in her sorrow, told her one morning that she desired to go and see her uncle randon that day. "is it about rodolphus?" asked her mother. "yes, mother," said ellen. "well, you may go," said her mother; "but i don't think that any thing will do any good now." after all her morning duties had been performed, about the house, ellen put on her bonnet, and taking annie by the hand, in order that she might lead her to school, she set out on the way to her uncle's. she left annie at school as she passed through the village, and she arrived at her uncle's about ten o'clock. her uncle had been married again. his present wife was a very strong and healthy woman, who was almost all the time busily engaged about the farm work, but she was very fond of ellen, and always glad to see her at the farm. when ellen arrived at the farm, on this occasion, she went in at the porch door as usual. there was no one in the great room. she passed through into the back entry. from the back entry she went into the back room--the room where in old times she used to shut up her kitten. this room was now used as a dairy. there was a long row of milk-pans in it, upon a bench. mrs. randon was there. she seemed very glad to see ellen, and asked her to walk into the house. ellen said that she came to see her uncle. so her aunt went with her out into the yard where her uncle was at work; he was mending a harrow. "well, ellen," said her uncle, "i am very glad to see you. but i am sorry to hear about poor rodolphus." "yes," said ellen, "but i have thought of one more plan. it's of no use to keep him from going to the state prison, even if we could, unless we can get a good place for him. now what i wish is, that if we can get him free, you would let him come and live here with you. perhaps you could make him a good boy." mr. randon leaned upon the handle of his broad ax, and seemed to be at a loss what to say. he looked toward his wife. "yes," said she, "let him come. i should like to have him come very much. _we_ can make him a good boy." "well," said mr. randon. "well!" said ellen. her eyes brightened up as she said this, and she turned to go away. mr. and mrs. randon attempted to stop her, but she said that she could not stay then, and so she went away. "she can not _get_ him free," said mr. randon. "i don't know," said his wife. "perhaps she may. such a girl as she can do a great deal when she tries." ellen went then as fast as she could go, to mrs henry's. she found antonio in the garden. "antonio," said she, "my uncle randon says that he will take rodolphus and let him live there with him, on the farm, if we can only get him out of prison." "but we can't get him out of prison," said antonio. "it is too late now, he has been condemned and sentenced." "but the governor can pardon him," said ellen. "can he?" said antonio. "yes," said ellen. "can he?" repeated antonio. "then i'll go and see if he _will_." two days after this antonio was on his way to the town where the governor lived. he met with various adventures on his way, and he felt great solicitude and doubt about the result of the journey. at last he arrived at the place. he was directed to a large and handsome house, which stood in the centre of the principal street of the village, enveloped in trees and shrubbery. there was a beautiful yard, with a great gate leading to it, on one side of the house. antonio looked up this yard and saw an elderly gentleman there, just getting into a chaise. a person who seemed to be his hired man was holding the horse. the gentlemen stopped, with his foot upon the step of the chaise, when he saw antonio coming, and looked toward him. [illustration: the governor.] "is this governor dummer?" said antonio, as he came up. "yes," said the gentleman, "that is what they call me." "i wanted to see you about some business," said antonio, "but you are going away." the governor looked at antonio a moment, and, being pleased with his appearance, he said, "yes, i am going away, but not far. get into the chaise with me, and we can talk as we ride." so the governor got into the chaise. antonio followed him; the hired man let go of the horse's head, and antonio and the governor rode together out of the yard. antonio was quite afraid at first, to find himself suddenly shut up so closely with a governor. he, however, soon recovered his self-possession, and began to give an account of rodolphus' case. the governor listened very attentively to all he had to say. then he asked antonio a great many questions, some about rodolphus' mother and sister, and also about antonio himself. finally he asked what it was proposed to do with rodolphus, in case he should be pardoned and set at liberty. antonio said that he was to go to his uncle's, which was an excellent place, and where he hoped that he would learn to be a good boy. the governor seemed very much interested in the whole story. he, however, said that he could not, at that time, come to any conclusion in respect to the affair; he must make some further inquiries. he must see the record of the trial, and the other documentary evidence connected with the case. he would attend to it immediately, he said, and write to mr. keep in respect to the result. about a week after this, mr. keep sent for antonio to come and see him. antonio went. "well, antonio," said mr. keep, as antonio entered his office, "rodolphus is pardoned. i i should like to have you ask mrs. henry if she will let you go to-morrow, and bring him home. if she says that you may go, call here on your way, and i will give you some money to pay the expenses of the journey." early the next morning, antonio called at mr. keep's office, on his way after rodolphus. mr. keep gave him some money. antonio received it, for he thought it would not be proper to decline it. he had, however, plenty of his own. he had already put in his pocket six half dollars which he had taken from his chest that morning. mr. keep gave him a bank bill. he put this bill into his waistcoat pocket and pinned it in. he then proceeded on his journey. in due time he arrived at the place where rodolphus was imprisoned. the pardon had already arrived, and the jailer was ready to deliver up rodolphus to his friends. he told antonio that he was very glad that he had come to take the boy away. he did not like, he said, to lock up children. antonio took rodolphus in his wagon, and they drove away. it was late in the afternoon when they set out, but though antonio did not expect to get to franconia that night, he was anxious to proceed as far as he could. he intended to stop that night at a tavern in a large town, and get home, if possible, the next day. they arrived at the tavern safely. they took supper; and after supper, being tired, they went to bed. antonio had done all that he could to make rodolphus feel at his ease and happy, during the day, having said nothing at all to him about his bad conduct. he had talked to him about his uncle, and about his going there to live, and other pleasant subjects. still rodolphus seemed silent and sober, and after supper he seemed glad to go to bed. the two boys slept in two rooms which opened into each other. antonio proposed to have the door open, between these rooms, but rodolphus seemed to wish to have it shut. antonio made no objection to this, but at last, when he was ready to go to bed, he opened the door a little to say good-night to rodolphus. rodolphus, he saw, when he opened the door, was sitting at a little table, writing upon a piece of paper, with a pencil. antonio bade him good-night and shut the door again. "i hope he is writing to his mother," said antonio to himself, "to confess his faults and promise to be a good boy." the next morning antonio rose pretty early, but he moved softly about the room, so as not to disturb rodolphus, who he supposed was asleep, as his room was still. antonio went down and ordered breakfast, and attended to his horses, and by-and-by he came up again to see if rodolphus had got up. he listened at the door, and all was still. he then opened the door gently and looked in. there was nobody there, and to antonio's great surprise, the bed was smooth and full, as if had not been disturbed. antonio went in. he saw a paper lying on the table with his own name on the outside of it. he took this paper up, and found that it was in rodolphus's handwriting. it was half in written, and half in printed characters, and very badly spelled. the substance of it was this. "antonio, "i am sorry to go off and leave you, but i must. i should be glad to go and live at my uncle's, but i can't. don't try to find out where i have gone. give my love to my mother and to ellen. i had not any money, and so i had to take your half dollars out of your pocket. if i ever can, i shall pay you. "rodolphus. "p.s. it's no use in me trying to be a good boy." antonio made diligent inquiry for rodolphus, in the town where he disappeared, and in all the surrounding region, but no trace of the fugitive could be found. he finally gave up the search and went mournfully home. napoleon bonaparte. by john s.c. abbott. the consular throne. france had tried republicanism, and the experiment had failed. there was neither intelligence nor virtue among the people, sufficient to enable them to govern themselves. during long ages of oppression they had sunk into an abyss, from whence they could not rise, in a day, to the dignity of freemen. not one in thirty of the population of france could either read or write. religion and all its restraints, were scouted as fanaticism. few had any idea of the sacredness of a vote, of the duty of the minority good-naturedly to yield to the majority. it is this sentiment which is the political salvation of the united states. not unfrequently, when hundreds of thousands of ballots have been cast, has a governor of a state been chosen by the majority of a single vote. and the minority, in such circumstances, have yielded just as cordially as they would have done to a majority of tens of thousands. after our most exciting presidential elections, the announcement of the result is the harbinger of immediate peace and good-natured acquiescence all over the land. the defeated voter politely congratulates his opponent upon his success. the french seemed to have attained no conception of the sanctity of the decisions of the ballot-box. government was but a series of revolutions. physical power alone was recognized. the strongest grasped the helm, and, with the guillotine, confiscation, and exile, endeavored hopelessly to cripple their adversaries. ten years of such anarchy had wearied the nation. it was in vain to protract the experiment. france longed for repose. napoleon was the only one capable of giving her repose. the nation called upon him, in the loudest tones which could be uttered, to assume the reins of government, and to restore the dominion of security and order. we can hardly call that man an usurper who does but assume the post which the nation with unanimity entreats him to take. we may say that he was ambitious, that he loved power, that glory was his idol. but if his ambition led him to exalt his country; if the power he loved was the power of elevating the multitude to intelligence, to self-respect, and to comfort; if the glory he sought was the glory of being the most illustrious benefactor earth has ever known, let us not catalogue his name with the sensualists and the despots, who have reared thrones of self-aggrandizement and self-indulgence upon the degradation of the people. we must compare napoleon with the leaders of armies, the founders of dynasties, and with those who, in the midst of popular commotions, have ascended thrones. when we institute such a comparison, napoleon stands without a rival, always excepting, in moral worth, our own washington. the next morning after the overthrow of the directory, the three consuls, napoleon, sieyes, and ducos, met in the palace of the luxembourg. sieyes was a veteran diplomatist, whose gray hairs entitled him, as he supposed, to the moral supremacy over his colleagues. he thought that napoleon would be satisfied with the command of the armies, while he would be left to manage the affairs of state. there was one arm-chair in the room. napoleon very coolly assumed it. sieyes, much annoyed, rather petulantly exclaimed, "gentlemen, who shall take the chair?" "bonaparte surely," said ducos; "he already has it. he is the only man who can save us." "very well, gentlemen," said napoleon, promptly, "let us proceed to business." sieyes was staggered. but resistance to a will so imperious, and an arm so strong, was useless. [illustration: the consuls and the gold.] sieyes loved gold. napoleon loved only glory. "do you see," inquired sieyes, pointing to a sort of cabinet in the room, "that pretty piece of furniture?" napoleon, whose poetic sensibilities were easily aroused, looked at it with interest, fancying it to be some relic of the disenthroned monarchs of france. sieyes continued: "i will reveal to you a little secret. we directors, reflecting that we might go out of office in poverty, which would be a very unbecoming thing, laid aside, from the treasury, a sum to meet that exigence. there are nearly two hundred thousand dollars in that chest. as there are no more directors, the money belongs to us." napoleon now began to understand matters. it was not difficult for one who had proudly rejected millions, to look with contempt upon thousands. "gentlemen," said he, very coolly, "should this transaction come to my knowledge, i shall insist that the whole sum be refunded to the public treasury. but should i not hear of it, and i know nothing of it as yet, you, being two old directors, can divide the money between you. but you must make haste. tomorrow it may be too late." they took the hint, and divided the spoil; sieyes taking the lion's share. ducos complained to napoleon of the extortion of his colleague. "settle the business between yourselves," said napoleon, "and be quiet. should the matter come to my ears, you will inevitably lose the whole." this transaction, of course, gave napoleon a supremacy which neither of his colleagues could ever again question. the law which decreed the provisional consulship, conferred upon them the power, in connection with the two legislative bodies, of twenty-five members each, of preparing a new constitution to be submitted to the people. the genius of napoleon, his energy, his boundless information, and his instinctive insight into the complexities of all subjects were so conspicuous in this first interview, that his colleagues were overwhelmed. that evening sieyes went to sup with some stern republicans, his intimate friends. "gentlemen," said he, "the republic is no more. it died to-day. i have this day conversed with a man who is not only a great general, but who is himself capable of every thing, and who knows every thing. he wants no counselors, no assistance. politics, laws, the art of governing, are as familiar to him as the manner of commanding an army. he is young and determined. the republic is finished." "but," one replied, "if he becomes a tyrant, we must call to our aid the dagger of brutus." "alas! my friends," sieyes rejoined, "we should then fall into the hands of the bourbons, which would be still worse." napoleon now devoted himself, with herculean energies, to the re-organization of the government, and to the general administration of the affairs of the empire. he worked day and night. he appeared insensible to exhaustion or weariness. every subject was apparently alike familiar to his mind; banking, police regulations, diplomacy, the army, the navy, every thing which could pertain to the welfare of france was, grasped by his all-comprehensive intellect. the directory had tyrannically seized, as hostages, any relatives of the emigrants upon whom they could lay their hands. wives, mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, children, were imprisoned and held responsible, with their lives, for the conduct of their emigrant relatives. napoleon immediately abolished this iniquitous edict, and released the prisoners. couriers, without delay, were dispatched all over france to throw open the prison doors to these unfortunate captives. napoleon even went himself to the temple, where many of these innocent victims were imprisoned, that he might, with his own hand break their fetters. on napoleon's return from this visit to the prison he exclaimed, "what fools these directors were! to what a state have they brought our public institutions. the prisoners are in a shocking condition. i questioned them, as well as the jailers, for nothing is to be learned from the superiors. when in the prison i could not help thinking of the unfortunate louis xvi. he was an excellent man, but too amiable to deal with mankind. and sir sydney smith, i made them show me his apartments. if he had not escaped i should have taken acre. there are too many painful associations connected with that prison. i shall have it pulled down one day or other. i ordered the jailer's books to be brought, and finding the list of the hostages, immediately liberated them. i told them that an unjust law had placed them under restraint, and that it was my first duty to restore them to liberty." [illustration: napoleon in the temple.] the priests had been mercilessly persecuted. they could only escape imprisonment by taking an oath which many considered hostile to their religious vows. large numbers of them were immured in dungeons. others, in dismay and poverty, had fled, and were wandering fugitives in other lands. napoleon redressed their wrongs, and spread over them the shield of his powerful protection. the captives were liberated, and the exiles invited to return. the principle was immediately established that the rights of conscience were to be respected. by this one act, twenty thousand grief-stricken exiles were restored to france, proclaiming through city and village the clemency of the first consul. in the rural districts of france, where the sentiment of veneration for christianity still lingered, the priests were received with the warmest welcome. and in the hut of the peasant the name of napoleon was breathed with prayers and tears of gratitude. some french emigrants, furnished with arms by england, were returning to france, to join the royalists in la vendee, in extending the ravages of civil war. the ship was wrecked on the coast of calais, and they were all made prisoners. as they were taken with arms in their hands, to fight against their country, rigorous laws doomed them, as traitors, to the guillotine. napoleon interposed to save them. magnanimously he asserted--"no matter what their intentions were. they were driven on our soil by the tempest. they are shipwrecked men. as such they are entitled to the laws of hospitality. their persons must be held inviolable." unharmed they were all permitted to re-embark and leave france. among these emigrants were many men of illustrious name. these acts of generosity on the part of napoleon did much to disarm their hostility, and many of them became subsequently firm supporters of his power. the revolutionary tribunals had closed the churches, and prohibited the observance of the sabbath. to efface, if possible, all traces of that sacred day, they had appointed every tenth day, for cessation from labor and festivity. a heavy fine was inflicted upon any one who should close his shop on the sabbath, or manifest any reverence for the discarded institution. napoleon, who had already resolved to reinstate christianity in paganized france, but who found it necessary to move with the utmost caution, ordered that no man should be molested for his religious principles or practices. this step excited hostility. paris was filled with unbelief. generals, statesmen, philosophers, scouted the idea of religion. they remonstrated. napoleon was firm. the mass of the common people were with him, and he triumphed over aristocratic infidelity. with singular tact he selected the most skillful and efficient men to fill all the infinitely varied departments of state. "i want more head," said he, "and less tongue." every one was kept busy. every one was under the constant vigilance of his eagle eye. he appeared to have an instinctive acquaintance with every branch of legislation, and with the whole science of government. three times a week the minister of finance appeared before him, and past corruption was dragged to light and abolished. the treasury was bankrupt. napoleon immediately replenished it. the army was starving, and almost in a state of mutiny. napoleon addressed to them a few of his glowing words of encouragement and sympathy, and the emaciate soldiers in their rags, enthusiastically rallied again around their colors, and in a few days, from all parts of france, baggage wagons were trundling toward them, laden with clothing and provisions. the navy was dilapidated and blockaded. at the voice of napoleon in every port of france the sound of the ship hammer was heard, and a large armament was prepared to convey succor to his comrades in egypt. such vigor mortal man never exhibited before. all france felt an immediate impulse. at the same time in which napoleon was accomplishing all these duties, and innumerable others, any one of which would have engrossed the whole energies of any common man, he was almost daily meeting his colleagues and the two committees to discuss the new constitution. sieyes was greatly alarmed at the generosity of some of napoleon's acts. "the emigrants," said he, "will return in crowds. the royalists will again raise their heads, and the republicans will be massacred." his imagination was so excited with apprehensions of conspiracies and assassinations, that he once awoke napoleon at three o'clock in the morning, to inform him of a fearful conspiracy, which had just been discovered by the police. napoleon quietly listened to his story, and then, raising his head from his pillow, inquired, "have they corrupted our guard?" "no!" sieyes replied. "then go to bed," said napoleon, "and let them alone. it will be time enough to be alarmed, when our six hundred men are attacked." napoleon was so powerful, that he could afford to be generous. his magnanimity was his most effectual safeguard. in less than six weeks, the new constitution was ready to be presented to the nation for their acceptance. in the original draft, drawn up by sieyes, the supreme power was to be vested in a grand elector, to be chosen for life, to possess a revenue of one million of dollars, and to reside in the utmost possible magnificence in the palaces of versailles. he was to be a mock king, with all the pomp and pageantry of royalty, but without its power. this was the office which sieyes hoped would satisfy the ambition of napoleon. napoleon exploded it as with a bomb-shell. "can you conceive," he exclaimed, "that a man of the least talent or honor, would humble himself to accept an office, the duties of which are merely to fatten like a pig on so many millions a year?" the grand elector was annihilated. the following was the constitution adopted. the sovereign power was to be invested in napoleon as first consul. two subordinate consuls, cambaceres and lebrun, were to be his counselors, with deliberative voices only. the consuls proposed laws to a body called the tribunate, who thoroughly discussed them, and either rejected, or, if they approved, recommended the law to a third body, called the legislature. the legislature heard the report in silence, having no deliberative voice. three were appointed from the tribunate to present the arguments in favor of the law, and three those against it. without further debate, the legislature, as judges, voted. the senate also was a silent body. it received the law from the legislature, and approved or condemned. here were the forms of an ample supply of checks and balances. every act proposed by napoleon, must be sanctioned by the tribunate, the legislature, and the senate before it could become a law. "the constitution," said sieyes, "is a pyramid of which the people is the base." every male in france years of age, paying a tax, was a voter. they amounted to about , , . in their primary assemblies, they chose , delegates. these delegates, from their own number, chose , . these latter, from themselves, chose . these were the notables, or the eligible to office. from them, thus elected by the people, all the offices were to be filled. the constitution declared napoleon to be first consul for ten years, with an annual salary of $ , . cambaceres and lebrun were his associate consuls, with a salary of $ , . these three, with sieyes and ducos, were to choose, from the notables, the senate, to consist of eighty members. they were elected for life, and received a salary of $ . the senate chose three hundred members, from the notables, to compose the legislature, with a salary of $ , and one hundred members to compose the tribunate, with an annual salary of $ each. such, in brief, was the constitution under which napoleon commenced his reign. under a man of ordinary vigor this would have been a popular and a free government. with napoleon it was in effect an unlimited monarchy. the energy of his mind was so tremendous that he acquired immediately the control of all these bodies. the plans he proposed were either so plainly conducive to the public welfare, or he had such an extraordinary faculty of convincing tribunes, legislators, and senators that they were so, that these bodies almost invariably voted in perfect accordance with his will. it was napoleon's unquestioned aim to aggrandize france. for the accomplishment of that purpose he was ready to make any conceivable personal sacrifice. in that accomplishment was to consist all his glory. no money could bribe him. no enticements of sensual indulgence could divert his energies from that single aim. his capacious intellect seemed to grasp intuitively every thing which could affect the welfare of france. he gathered around him, as agents for the execution of his plans, the most brilliant intellects of europe, and yet they all took the attitude of children in his presence. with a body which seemed incapable of fatigue, and a mind whose energies never were exhausted, he consecrated himself to the majestic enterprise, by day and by night, and with an untiring energy which amazed and bewildered his contemporaries, and which still excites the wonder of the world. no one thought of resisting his will. his subordinates sought only to anticipate his wishes. hence no machinery of government, which human ingenuity could devise, could seriously embarrass the free scope of his energies. his associates often expressed themselves as entirely overawed by the majesty of his intellect. they came from his presence giving utterance to the most profound admiration of the justice and the rapidity of his perceptions. "we are pressed," said they, "into a very whirlwind of urgency; but it is all for the good of france." the constitution was now presented to the whole people, for their acceptance or rejection. a more free and unbiased expression of public opinion could not possibly have been obtained. the result is unparalleled in the annals of the ballot-box. there were , , votes cast in favor of the constitution, and but in the negative. by such unanimity, unprecedented in the history of the world, was napoleon elected first consul of france. those who reject the dogma of the divine right of kings, who believe in the sacred authority of the voice of the people, will, in this act, surely recognize the legitimacy of napoleon's elevation. a better title to the supreme power no ruler upon earth could ever show. with americans it can not be a serious question who had the best title to the throne, louis capet, from the accident of birth, or napoleon bonaparte, from the unanimous vote of the people. napoleon may have abused the power which was thus placed in his hands. whether he did so or not, the impartial history of his career will record. but it is singularly disingenuous to call this an usurpation. it was a nation's voice. "i did not usurp the crown," said napoleon, proudly and justly. "it was lying in the mire. i picked it up. the people placed it on my head." it is not strange that the french people should have decided as they did. where is the man now, in either hemisphere, who would not have preferred the government of napoleon to any other dominion which was then possible in france? from the comparatively modest palace of the luxembourg, napoleon and josephine now removed to take up their residence in the more magnificent apartments of the tuileries. those saloons of royalty which had been sacked and denied by the mob of paris, were thoroughly repaired. the red cap of jacobinism had been daubed upon the walls of the apartments of state, and a tri-colored cockade had been painted upon the military hat of louis xiv. "wash those out," said napoleon. "i will have no such abominations." the palace was furnished with more than its former splendor. statues of illustrious men of all lands embellished the vacant niches. those gorgeous saloons, where kings and queens for so many ages had reveled, were now adorned, with outvying splendor, for the residence of the people's chosen ruler. louis was the king of the nobles, placed by the nobles upon the throne. he consulted for their interests. all the avenues of wealth and honor were open for them alone. the people were merely slaves, living in ignorance, poverty, obscurity, that the king and the nobles might dwell in voluptuousness. napoleon was the ruler of the _people_. he was one of their own number. he was elevated to power by their choice. he spread out an unobstructed arena for the play of their energies. he opened before them the highways to fame and fortune. the only aristocracy which he favored was the aristocracy of intellect and industry. no privileged classes were tolerated. every man was equal in the eye of the law. all appealed to the same tribunals, and received impartial justice. the taxes were proportioned to property. the feudal claims of the landed proprietors were abolished. and there was no situation in the state, to which the humblest citizen might not aspire. they called napoleon first consul. they cared not much what he was called, so long as he was the supreme ruler of their own choice. they were proud of having their ruler more exalted, more magnificent, more powerful than the kings of the nobles. hence the secret of their readiness to acquiesce in any plans which might minister to the grandeur of their own napoleon. his glory was their glory. and never were they better pleased than when they saw him eclipse in splendor the proudest sovereigns upon the surrounding thrones. one evening napoleon, with his gray surtout buttoned up closely around him, went out with bourrienne, incognito, and sauntered along the rue st. honoré, making small purchases in the shops, and conversing freely with the people about the first consul and his acts. "well, citizen," said napoleon, in one of the shops, "what do they say of bonaparte?" the shop-keeper spoke of him in terms of the most enthusiastic admiration. "nevertheless," said napoleon, "we must watch him. i hope that it will not be found that we have merely changed one tyrant for another--the directory for bonaparte." the shop-keeper was so indignant at this irreverent intimation, that he showered upon napoleon such a volley of abuse, as to compel him to escape precipitately into the street, greatly amused and delighted with the adventure. it was on the morning of the th of february, , when all paris was in commotion to witness the most gratifying spectacle of the people's sovereign taking possession of the palace of the ancient kings. the brilliance of napoleon's character and renown had already thrown his colleagues into the shade. they were powerless. no one thought of them. sieyes foresaw this inevitable result, and, with very commendable self-respect, refused to accept the office of second consul. a few interviews with napoleon had taught him that no one could share power with a will so lofty and commanding. napoleon says, "sieyes had fallen into a mistake respecting the nature of these consuls. he was fearful of mortification and of having the first consul to contend with at every step. this would have been the case had all the consuls been equal. we should then have all been enemies. but the constitution having made them subordinate, there was no room for the struggles of obstinacy." indeed there was no room for such a conflict. utter powerlessness can not contend with omnipotence. the subordinate consuls could only _give advice when napoleon asked it_. he was not likely to trouble them. the royal apartments in the tuileries were prepared for the first consul. the more modest saloons in the pavilion of flora were assigned to the two other consuls. cambaceres, however, was so fully conscious of the real position which he occupied, that he declined entering the palace of the kings. he said to his colleague, lebrun, "it is an error that we should be lodged in the tuileries. it suits neither you nor me. for my part, i will not go. general bonaparte will soon want to lodge there by himself. then we shall be suffered to retire. it is better not to go at all." the morning of napoleon's removal to the tuileries, he slept later than usual. when bourrienne entered his chamber at seven o'clock, napoleon was soundly asleep. on awaking he said, "well, bourrienne, we shall at length sleep at the tuileries. you are very fortunate; you are not obliged to make a show of yourself. you may go in your own way. but as for me, i must go in a procession. this i dislike. but we must have a display. it gratifies the people. the directory was too simple; it therefore enjoyed no consideration. with the army, simplicity is in its place. but in a great city, in a palace, it is necessary that the chief of a state should draw attention upon himself by all possible means. but we must move with caution. josephine will see the review from the apartments of consul lebrun." napoleon entered a magnificent carriage, seated between his two colleagues, who appeared but as his attendants or body-guard. the carriage was drawn by six beautiful white horses, a present to napoleon from the emperor of austria, immediately after the treaty of campo formio. a gorgeous train of officers, accompanied by six thousand picked troops, in the richest splendor of military display, composed the cortège. twenty thousand soldiers, with all the concomitants of martial pomp, in double files, lined the streets through which the procession was to pass. a throng which could not be numbered, from the city and from the country, filled the garden, the streets, the avenues, the balconies, the house-tops, and ebbed and flowed in surging billows far back into the elysian fields. they had collected to exult in introducing the idol of the army and of the nation--the people's king--into the palace from which they had expelled the ancient monarchs of france. the moment the state carriage appeared, the heavens seemed rent with the unanimous shout, "long live the first consul." as soon as napoleon arrived at the foot of the great stair, ascending to the palace, he left the other consuls, and, mounting his horse, passed in review the magnificent array of troops drawn up before him. murat was on his right; lannes on his left. he was surrounded by a brilliant staff of war-worn veterans, whose scarred and sun-burnt visages told of many a toilsome and bloody campaign. there were three brigades, which appeared with the banners which had passed through the terrific conflicts of lodi, rivoli, and arcola. they were black with powder, and torn into shreds by shot. napoleon instantly uncovered his head, and, with profound reverence, saluted these monuments of military valor. an universal burst of enthusiasm greeted the well-timed and graceful act. napoleon then returned to the tuileries, ascended to the audience-chamber, and took his station in the centre of the room. all eyes were fixed upon him. the two associate consuls were entirely forgotten, or, rather, they were reduced to the rank of pages, following in his train, and gracing his triumph. [illustration: napoleon's entrance into the tuileries.] the suite of rooms appropriated to josephine, consisted of two magnificent saloons, with private apartments adjoining. in the evening a vast assemblage of brilliant guests were gathered in those regal halls. when josephine entered the gorgeously illumined apartments, leaning upon the arm of talleyrand, and dressed with that admirable taste which she ever displayed, a murmur of admiration rose from the whole assembly. the festivities of the evening were protracted until nearly the dawn of the ensuing morning. when the guests had all retired, napoleon, with his hands folded behind him, paced to and fro through the spacious halls, apparently absorbed in profound and melancholy thought; and then, as if half soliloquizing, said to his secretary, bourrienne, "here we are in the tuileries. we must take good care to remain here. who has not inhabited this palace? it has been the abode of robbers; of members of the convention. there is your brother's house, from which, eight years ago, we saw the good louis xvi. besieged in the tuileries and carried off into captivity. but you need not fear a repetition of that scene. let them attempt it with me if they dare." the next morning napoleon said to bourrienne, "see what it is to have the mind set upon a thing. it is not two years since we resolved to take possession of the tuileries. do you think that we have managed affairs badly since that time. in fact, i am well satisfied. yesterday's affair went off well. do you imagine that all those people who came to pay their court to me were sincere? most certainly they were not. but the joy of the _people_ was real. the people know what is right. besides, consult the great thermometer of public opinion, the public funds. on the th brumaire they were at --the th, --to-day, . in this state of things, i can allow the jacobins to chatter. but they must not talk too loud." with consummate tact, napoleon selected the ablest men of the empire to occupy the most important departments in the state. talleyrand, the wily diplomatist, having received his appointment, said to napoleon, "you have confided to me the administration of foreign affairs. i will justify your confidence. but i deem it my duty at once to declare, that i will consult with you alone. that france may be well governed, there must be unity of action. the first consul must retain the direction of every thing, the home, foreign, and police departments, and those of war and the marine. the second consul is an able lawyer. i would advise that he have the direction of legal affairs. let the third consul govern the finances. this will occupy and amuse them. thus you, having at your disposal the vital powers of government, will be enabled to attain the noble object of your aims, the regeneration of france." napoleon listened in silence. having taken leave of his minister, he said to his secretary, "talleyrand has detected my views. he is a man of excellent sense. he advises just what i intend to do. they walk with speed who walk alone." some one had objected to the appointment of talleyrand, saying, "he is a weathercock." "be it so," said napoleon, "he is the ablest minister for foreign affairs in our choice. it shall be my care that he exerts his abilities." "carnot," objected another, "is a republican." "republican or not," napoleon replied, "he is the last frenchman who will wish to see france dismembered. let us avail ourselves of his unrivaled talents in the war department, while he is willing to place them at our command." "fouché," objected one, "is a compound of falsehood and duplicity." "fouché alone," napoleon rejoined, "is able to conduct the ministry of the police. he alone has a knowledge of all the factions and intrigues which have been spreading misery through france. we can not create men. we must take such as we find. it is easier to modify, by circumstances, the feelings and conduct of an able servant than to supply his place." m. abriel, a peer of france, was recommended as minister of justice. "i do not know you, citizen abriel," said napoleon, as he presented him his diploma of office, "but i am informed that you are the most upright man in the magistracy. it is on that account that i have named you minister of justice." one of napoleon's first acts was to abolish the annual festival celebrating the bloody death of louis xvi. he declared it to be a barbarous ceremony, and unworthy of a humane people. "louis was a tyrant," said sieyes. "nay, nay," napoleon promptly replied, "louis was no tyrant. had he been a tyrant, i should this day have been a captain of engineers, and you, monsieur l'abbé, would have been saying mass." the directory had resorted to the iniquitous procedure of forced loans to replenish the bankrupt treasury. napoleon immediately rejected the tyrannical system. he assembled seventy of the most wealthy capitalists of paris, in his closet at the tuileries. frankly he laid before them the principles of the new government, and the claims it had on the confidence of the public. the appeal was irresistible. the merchants and bankers, overjoyed at the prospect of just and stable laws, by acclamation voted an immediate loan of two millions of dollars. though this made provision but for a few days, it was very timely aid. he then established an equitable tax upon property, sufficient to meet the exigencies of the state. the people paid the tax without a murmur. napoleon entertained profound aversion for the men who had been engaged in the sanguinary scenes of the revolution, particularly for the regicides. he always spoke with horror of those men of blood, whom he called the assassins of louis. he deplored the necessity of employing any of them. cambaceres was a member of the convention which had condemned the king to the guillotine. though he voted against the sentence of death, he had advocated his arrest. "remember," said napoleon one day to cambaceres, at the same time playfully pinching his ear, "that i had nothing to do with that atrocious business. but your case, my dear cambaceres, is clear. if the bourbons ever return, you must be hanged." cambaceres did not enjoy such pleasantry. his smile was ghastly. upon the reorganization of the supreme court of france, napoleon said to bourrienne, "i do not take any decided steps against the regicides. but i will show what i think of them. target, the president of this court, refused to defend louis xvi. i will replace him by tronchet, who so nobly discharged that perilous duty. they may say what they choose. my mind is made up." the enthusiasm of the army was immediately revived by the attention which the first consul devoted to its interests. he presented beautiful sabres to those soldiers who had highly distinguished themselves. one hundred were thus conferred. a sergeant of grenadiers had obtained permission to write to the first consul, expressing his thanks. napoleon, with his own hand, replied, "i have received your letter, my brave comrade. you had no occasion to remind me of your gallant behavior. you are the most courageous grenadier in the army since the death of the brave benezeti. you have received one of the hundred sabres which i have distributed, and all agree that none deserve it better. i wish much to see you again. the minister of war sends you an order to come to paris." this letter was widely circulated in the army, and roused the enthusiasm of the soldiers to the highest pitch. the first consul, the most illustrious general of france, the great napoleon, calls a sergeant of grenadiers "my brave comrade." this sympathy for the people was ever a prominent trait in napoleon's character. the following anecdote will illustrate his views upon this subject; or, rather, a part of his views. all men have varying moods of mind, which seem to be antagonistic to each other. napoleon was conversing with o'meara respecting the english naval service. "during the winter," said o'meara, "the seamen are better off at sea than the officers." "why so?" inquired napoleon. "because," was the reply, "they have the advantage of the galley-fire, where they can warm and dry themselves." "and why can not the officers do the same?" "it would not be exactly decorous," o'meara replied, "for the officers to mix in that familiar way with the men." "ah, this aristocratic pride!" exclaimed napoleon "why, in my campaigns, i used to go to the lines in the bivouacs; sit down with the humblest soldier, and converse freely with him. you are the most aristocratic nation in the world. i always prided myself on being the man of the people. i sprung from the populace myself. whenever a man had merit i elevated him, without asking how many degrees of nobility he had. to the aristocracy you pay every kind of attention. nothing can be too good for them. the people you treat precisely as if they were slaves. can any thing be more horrible than your pressing of seamen? you send your boats on shore to seize upon every male that can be found, who, if they have the misfortune to belong to the populace, if they can not prove themselves _gentlemen_, are hurried on board your ships. and yet you have the impudence to cry out against the conscription in france. it wounds your pride, because it fell _upon all ranks_. you are shocked that a gentleman's son should be obliged to defend his country, just as if he were one of the common people--that he should be compelled to expose his body like a vile plebeian. yet god made all men alike. one day the people will avenge themselves. that conscription, which so offended your aristocratic pride, was conducted scrupulously according to the principles of equal rights. every native of a country is bound to defend it. the conscription did not, like your press-gang, crush a particular class, because they were poor. it was the most just, because the most equal, mode of raising troops. it rendered the french army the best composed in the world." when a prisoner on board the northumberland, in his passage to st. helena, all the common sailors, though english, became most enthusiastically attached to napoleon. some one alluded to this fact. "yes," said napoleon, "i believe that they were my friends. i used to go among them; speak to them kindly, and ask familiar questions. my freedom in this respect quite astonished them, as it was so different from that which they had been accustomed to receive from their own officers. you english are great aristocrats. you keep a wide distance between yourselves and the people." it was observed in reply, "on board a man-of-war it is necessary to keep the seamen at a great distance, in order to maintain a proper respect for the officers." "i do not think," napoleon rejoined, "that it is necessary to keep up so much reserve as you practice. when the officers do not eat or drink, or make too many freedoms with the seamen, i see no necessity for any greater distinctions. nature formed all men equal. it was always my custom to go freely among the soldiers and the common people, to converse with them, ask them little histories, and speak kindly to them. this i found to be of the greatest benefit to me. on the contrary, the generals and officers i kept at a great distance." notwithstanding these protestations of freedom from aristocratic pride, which were unquestionably sincere, and in their intended application strictly true, it is also evident that napoleon was by no means insensible to the mysterious fascination of illustrious rank. it is a sentiment implanted in the human heart, which never has been, and never can be eradicated. just at this time murat sought napoleon's sister caroline for his bride. "murat! murat!" said napoleon, thoughtfully and hesitatingly. "_he is the son of an innkeeper. in the elevated rank to which i have attained i can not mix my blood with his._" for a moment he seemed lost in thought, and then continued, "besides, there is no hurry. i shall see by-and-by." a friend of the young cavalry officer urged the strong attachment of the two for each other. he also plead murat's devotion to napoleon, his brilliant courage, and the signal service he had rendered at the battle of aboukir. "yes," napoleon replied, with animation, "murat was superb at aboukir. well, for my part, all things considered, i am satisfied. murat suits my sister. and, then, they can not say that i am aristocratic, that i seek grand alliances. had i given my sister to a noble, all you jacobins would have cried out for a counter-revolution. since that matter is settled we must hasten the business. we have no time to lose. if i go to italy i wish to take murat with me. we must strike a decisive blow, there. come to-morrow." notwithstanding napoleon's vast power, and the millions which had been at his disposal, his private purse was still so empty, that he could present his sister caroline with but six thousand dollars as her marriage portion. feeling the necessity of making some present in accordance with his exalted rank, he took a magnificent diamond necklace, belonging to josephine, as the bridal gift. josephine most gracefully submitted to this spoliation of her jewelry. as napoleon became more familiar with the heights of power to which he had attained, all these plebeian scruples vanished. he sought to ally his family with the proudest thrones of europe; and, repelling from his bosom the faithful wife of his early years, he was proud of commingling his own blood with that of a daughter of the cæsars. in the midst of these events, the news arrived in france of the death of washington. napoleon immediately issued the following order of the day to the army:--"washington is dead! that great man fought against tyranny. he established the liberty of his country. his memory will be ever dear to the free men of both hemispheres; and especially to the french soldiers, who, like him and the american troops, have fought for liberty and equality. as a mark of respect, the first consul orders that, for ten days, black crape be suspended from all the standards and banners of the republic." in reference to the course he pursued at this time, napoleon subsequently remarked, "only those who wish to deceive the people, and rule them for their own personal advantage, would desire to keep them in ignorance. the more they are enlightened, the more will they feel convinced of the utility of laws, and of the necessity of defending them; and the more steady, happy, and prosperous will society become. if knowledge should ever be dangerous to the multitude, it can can only be when the government, in opposition to the interests of the people, drives them into an unnatural situation, or dooms the lower classes to perish for want. in such a case, knowledge will inspire them with the spirit to defend themselves. my code alone, from its simplicity, has been more beneficial to france than the whole mass of laws which preceded it. my schools and my system of mutual instruction, are to elevate generations yet unborn. thus, during my reign, crimes were constantly diminishing. on the contrary, with our neighbors in england, they have been increasing to a frightful degree. this alone is sufficient to enable any one to form a decisive judgment of the respective governments."[ ] [footnote : this fact is corroborated by authentic documents. france in , the second year of napoleon's consulship, with , , of inhabitants, condemned to death . england, with but sixteen millions, executed the same year , . in the year , after napoleon had reigned ten years, france, with a population of , , , condemned but . england, with , , , condemned , .--_see situation of england, by m. montveran._] "look at the united states," he continued, "where, without any apparent force or effort, every thing goes on prosperously. every one is happy and contented. and this is because the public wishes and interests are in fact the ruling power. place the same government at variance with the will and interest of its inhabitants, and you would soon see what disturbance, trouble, and confusion--above all, what increase of crime, would ensue. when i acquired the supreme direction of affairs, it was wished that i might become a washington. words cost nothing; and no doubt those who were so ready to express the wish, did so without any knowledge of times, places, persons, or things. had i been in america, i would willingly have been a washington. i should have had little merit in so being. i do not see how i could reasonably have acted otherwise. but had washington been in france, exposed to discord within and invasion from without, he could by no possibility have been what he was in america. indeed it would have been folly to have attempted it. it would only have prolonged the existence of evil. for my part, i could only have been a _crowned washington_. it was only in a congress of kings, and in the midst of kings, yielding or subdued, that i could take my place. then, and then only, could i successfully display washington's moderation, disinterestedness and wisdom." "i think," said la fayette, at the time of the revolution which placed louis phillipe upon the throne of france, "that the constitution of the united states is the best which has ever existed. but france is not prepared for such a government. we need a throne surrounded by republican institutions." napoleon was indefatigable in his endeavors to reorganize in the tuileries the splendors of a court. the french people were like children who needed to be amused, and napoleon took good care to provide amusement for them. his ante-chambers were filled with chamberlains, pages, and esquires. servants, in brilliant liveries, loitered in the halls and on the staircases. magnificent entertainments were provided, at which josephine presided with surpassing grace and elegance. balls, operas, and theatres, began to be crowded with splendor and fashion, and the gay parisians were delighted. napoleon personally took no interest whatever in these things. all his energies were engrossed in the accomplishment of magnificent enterprises for the elevation of france. "while they are discussing these changes," said he, "they will cease to talk nonsense about my politics, and that is what i want. let them amuse themselves. let them dance. but let them not thrust their heads into the councils of government. commerce will revive under the increasing expenditure of the capital. i am not afraid of the jacobins. i never was so much applauded as at the last parade. it is ridiculous to say that nothing is right but what is new. we have had enough of such novelties. i would rather have the balls of the opera than the saturnalia of the goddess of reason."[ ] [footnote : during the revolution, a beautiful opera girl, of licentious character, was conveyed in most imposing ceremonial to the church of notre dame. there she was elevated upon an altar, and presented to the thronged assemblage as the goddess of reason. "mortals!" said chaumette, "cease to tremble before the powerless thunders of a god whom your fears have created. there is no god. henceforth worship none but reason. here i offer you its noblest and purest image. worship only such divinities as this." the whole assemblage bowed in adoration, and then retired to indulge in scenes which the pen refuses to record.] while napoleon was thus engaged in reconstructing society in france, organizing the army, strengthening the navy, and conducting the diplomacy of europe, he was maturing and executing the most magnificent plans of internal improvements. in early life he had conceived a passion for architectural grandeur, which had been strengthened and chastened by his residence among the time-honored monuments of italy and egypt. with inconceivable activity of mind, he planned those vast works of utility and of beauty in paris, and all over the empire, which will forever remain the memorials of his well-directed energies, and which will throw a lustre over his reign which never can be sullied. he erected the beautiful quay on the banks of the seine, in front of the tuileries. he swept away the buildings which deformed the place carrousel, and united the louvre and the tuileries, forming a magnificent square between those splendid edifices. he commenced the construction of a fourth side for the great square opposite the picture gallery. it was a vast and a noble undertaking; but it was interrupted by those fierce wars, which the allied kings of europe waged against him. the bridge of arts was commenced. the convents of the feuillans and capucines, which had been filled with victims during the revolution, were torn down, and the magnificent rue de rivoli, now one of the chief ornaments of paris, was thrown open. canals, bridges, turnpike-roads, all over the empire, were springing into existence. one single mind inspired the nation. the most inveterate opponents of napoleon are constrained to the admission that it is impossible to refuse the praise of consummate prudence and skill to these, and indeed to all the arrangements he adopted in this great crisis of his history. "we are creating a new era," said he. "of the past we must forget the bad, and remember only the good." in one of the largest and most populous provinces of france, that of la vendee, many thousand royalists had collected, and were carrying on a most desperate civil war. england, with her ships, was continually sending to them money, ammunition, and arms, and landing among them regiments of emigrant troops formed in london. they had raised an army of sixty thousand men. all the efforts of the directory to quell the insurrection had been unavailing. the most awful atrocities had disgraced this civil conflict. as soon as napoleon was firmly seated in his consular chair, he sent an invitation for the chiefs of these royalist forces in la vendee to visit him in paris, assuring them of a safe return. they all accepted the invitation. napoleon met them in his audience-chamber with the utmost kindness and frankness. he assured them that it was his only object to rescue france from the ruin into which it had fallen; to bring peace and happiness to his distracted country. with that laconic logic which he had ever at command, he said, "are you fighting in self-defense? you have no longer cause to fight. i will not molest you. i will protect you in all your rights. have you taken arms to revive the reign of the ancient kings? you see the all but unanimous decision of the nation. is it honorable for so decided a minority to attempt, by force of arms, to dictate laws to the majority?" napoleon's arguments were as influential as his battalions. they yielded at once, not merely their swords but their hearts' homage. one alone, george cadoudal, a sullen, gigantic savage, who preferred banditti marauding above the blessings of peace, refused to yield. napoleon had a private interview with him. the guard at the door were extremely alarmed lest the semi-barbarian should assassinate the first consul. napoleon appealed to his patriotism, his humanity, but all in vain. cadoudal demanded his passports and left paris. "why did i not," he afterward often said, as he looked at his brawny, hairy, samson-like arms, "strangle that man when i had him in my power?" he went to london, where he engaged in many conspiracies for the assassination of napoleon, and was finally taken in france, and shot. [illustration: napoleon and the vendeean chief.] civil war was now at an end, and with most singular unanimity all france was rejoicing in the reign of the first consul. napoleon loved not war. he wished to build up, not to tear down. he desired the glory of being the benefactor and not the scourge of his fellow-men. every conflict in which he had thus far been engaged was strictly a war of self-defense. the expedition to egypt can not be considered an exception, for that enterprise was undertaken as the only means of repelling the assaults of the most determined and powerful enemy france has ever known. napoleon was now strong. all france was united in him. with unobstructed power he could wield all her resources, and guide all her armies. under these circumstances most signally did he show his love of peace, by adopting the very characteristic measure of writing directly to the king of england and to the emperor of austria, proposing reconciliation. it was noble in the highest degree for him to do so. pride would have said, "they commenced the conflict; they shall be the first to ask for peace." to the king of england he wrote, "called, sire, by the wishes of the french nation, to occupy the first magistracy of the republic, i judge it well, on entering my office, to address myself directly to your majesty. must the war, which for the four last years has devastated the world, be eternal? are there no means of coming to an understanding? how can the two most enlightened nations of europe, stronger already and more powerful than their safety or their independence requires, sacrifice to ideas of vain-glory the well-being of commerce, internal prosperity, and the repose of families! how is it that they do not feel peace to be the first of necessities as the first of glories? these sentiments can not be strangers to the heart of your majesty, who governs a free people with the sole aim of rendering it happy. "your majesty will perceive only, in this overture, the sincerity of my desire to contribute efficaciously, for a second time, to the general pacification, by this prompt advance, perfectly confidential and disembarrassed of those forms, which, perhaps necessary to disguise the dependence of weak states, reveal, when adopted by strong states, only the wish of mutual deception. france and england by the misuse of their powers, may yet, for a long period, retard, to the misery of all nations, their exhaustion. but i venture to say that the fate of the civilized world is connected with the termination of a war, which has set the whole world in flames." to this magnanimous application for peace, the king of england did not judge it proper to return any personal answer. lord grenville replied in a letter full of most bitter recriminations. and all france was exasperated by the insulting declaration that if france really desired peace, "_the best and most natural pledge of its reality and permanence, would be the restoration of that line of princes which, for so many centuries maintained the french nation in prosperity at home, and consideration and respect abroad. such an event would at once remove, and will at any time remove all obstacles in the way of negotiation or peace._" this was, indeed, an irritating response to napoleon's pacific appeal. he, however, with great dignity and moderation, replied through his minister, m. talleyrand, in the following terms: "so far from having provoked the war, france, from the commencement of the revolution, solemnly proclaimed her love of peace, her disinclination for conquests, and her respect for the independence of all governments. and it is not to be doubted, that occupied at that time entirely with her own internal affairs, she would have avoided taking any part in those of europe, and would have remained faithful to her declarations. "but from an opposite disposition, as soon as the french revolution had broken out, almost all europe entered into a league for its destruction. the aggression was real long before it was public. internal resistance was excited; the enemies of the revolution were favorably received, their extravagant declamations were supported, the french nation was insulted in the person of its agents, and england particularly set this example, by the dismissal of the minister of the republic. finally, france was attacked in her independence, her honor, and her safety, long before war was declared. "it is to these projects of dismemberment, subjection, and dissolution, that france has a right to impute the evils which she has suffered, and those which have afflicted europe. assailed on all sides, the republic could not but equally extend the efforts of her defense. and it is only for the maintenance of her own independence, that she has called into requisition her own strength and the courage of her citizens. if in the midst of the critical circumstances which the revolution and the war have brought on, france has not always shown as much moderation as the nation has shown courage, it must be imputed to the fatal and persevering animosity with which the resources of england have been lavished to accomplish the ruin of france. "but if the wishes of his britannic majesty are in unison with those of the french republic, for the re-establishment of peace, why, instead of attempting apologies for the war, should not attention be directed to the means of terminating it. it can not be doubted that his britannic majesty must recognize the right of nations to choose their form of government, since it is from this right that he holds his crown. but the first consul can not comprehend how, after admitting this fundamental principle, upon which rests the existence of political societies, his majesty could annex insinuations, which tend to an interference with the internal affairs of the republic. such interference is no less injurious to the french nation and its government, than it would be to england and his majesty, if an invitation were held out, in form of a return to that republican form of government which england adopted about the middle of the last century, or an exhortation to recall to the throne that family whom their birth had placed there, and whom a revolution had compelled to descend from it." there was no possibility of parrying these home thrusts. lord grenville consequently entirely lost his temper. replying in a note even more angry and bitter than the first, he declared that england was fighting for the security of all governments against french jacobinism, and that hostilities would be immediately urged on anew without any relaxation. napoleon was not at all disappointed or disheartened at the result of this correspondence. he earnestly desired peace. but he was not afraid of war. conscious of the principle, "thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just," he was happy in the conviction that the sympathies of impartial men in all nations would be with him. he knew that the arrogant tone assumed by england, would unite france as one man, in determined and undying resistance. "the answer," said he, "filled me with satisfaction. it could not have been more favorable. england wants war. she shall have it. yes! yes! war to the death." the throne of the king of england, the opulence of her bishops, and the enormous estates of her nobles were perhaps dependent upon the issue of this conflict. the demolition of all exclusive privileges, and the establishment of perfect equality of rights among all classes of men in france, must have shaken the throne, the aristocracy, and the hierarchy of england, with earthquake power. the government of england was mainly in the hands of the king, the bishops, and the lords. their all was at stake. in a temptation so sore, frail human nature must not be too severely censured. for nearly ten years, the princes of france had been wandering houseless fugitives over europe. the nobles of france, ejected from their castles, with their estates confiscated, were beggars in all lands. bishops who had been wrapped in ermine, and who had rolled in chariots of splendor, were glad to warm their shivering limbs by the fire of the peasant, and to satiate their hunger with his black bread. to king, and bishop, and noble, in england, this was a fearful warning. it seemed to be necessary for their salvation to prevent all friendly intercourse between england and france, to hold up the principles of the french revolution to execration, and above all, to excite, if possible, the detestation of the people of england, against napoleon, the child and the champion of popular rights. napoleon was the great foe to be feared, for with his resplendent genius he was enthroning himself in the hearts of the _people_ of all lands. but no impartial man, in either hemisphere, can question that the _right_ was with napoleon. it was not the duty of the thirty millions of france to ask permission of the fifteen millions of england to modify their government. the kings of europe, led by england, had combined to force with the bayonet, upon france, a rejected and an execrated dynasty. the inexperienced republic, distracted and impoverished by these terrific blows, was fast falling to ruin. the people invested napoleon with almost dictatorial powers for their rescue. it was their only hope. napoleon, though conscious of strength, in the name of bleeding humanity, pleaded for peace. his advances were met with contumely and scorn, and the trumpet notes of defiant hosts rang from the thames to the danube. the ports of france were blockaded by england's invincible fleet, demolishing the feeble navy of the republic, and bombarding her cities. an army of three hundred thousand men pressed upon the frontiers of france, threatening a triumphant march to her capital, there to compel, by bayonet and bomb-shell, the french people to receive a bourbon for their king. there was no alternative left to napoleon but to defend his country. most nobly he did it. the correspondence with the british government, which redounds so much to the honor of napoleon, vastly multiplied his friends among the masses of the people in england, and roused in parliament, a very formidable opposition to the measures of government. this opposition was headed by fox, sheridan, lord erskine, the duke of bedford, and lord holland. they did not adopt the atrocious maxim, "our country--right or wrong," but rather the ennobling principle "our country--when in the wrong, we will try to put her right." never, in the history of the world, has there been a more spirited or a more eloquent opposition than this question elicited. fox, the rival of pitt, and the profound admirer of napoleon, was the most prominent leader of this opposition. napoleon, with his laconic and graphic eloquence, thus describes the antagonistic english statesmen. "in fox, the heart warmed the genius. in pitt the genius withered the heart." "you ask," the opposition exclaimed, "who was the aggressor? what matters that? you say it was france. france says it was england. the party you accuse of being the aggressor is the first to offer to lay down arms. shall interminable war continue merely to settle a question of history? you say it is useless to treat with france. yet you treated with the directory. prussia and spain have treated with the republic, and have found no cause for complaint. you speak of the crimes of france. and yet your ally, naples, commits crimes more atrocious, without the excuse of popular excitement. you speak of ambition. but russia, prussia, and austria, have divided poland. austria grasps the provinces of italy. you yourself take possession of india, of part of the spanish, and of all the dutch colonies. who shall say that one is more guilty than another in this strife of avarice. if you ever intend to treat with the french republic, there can be no more favorable moment than the present." by way of commentary upon the suggestion that france must re-enthrone the bourbons, a letter was published, either real or pretended, from the heir of the exiled house of stuart, demanding from george the third, the throne of his ancestors. there was no possible way of parrying this home thrust. george the third, by his own admission, was an usurper, seated upon the throne of the exiled stuarts. the opposition enjoyed exceedingly the confusion produced, in the enemies' ranks, by this well-directed shot. the government replied, "peace with republican france endangers all the monarchies of europe. the first consul is but carrying out, with tremendous energy, the principles of the revolution--the supremacy of the people. peace with france is but a cessation of resistance to wrong. france still retains the sentiments which characterized the dawn of her revolution. she was democratic. she is democratic. she declares war against kings. she continues to seek their destruction." there was much force in these declarations. it is true that napoleon was not, in the strict sense of the word, a democrat. he was not in favor of placing the government in the hands of the great mass of the people. he made no disguise of his conviction that in france the people had neither the intelligence nor the virtue essential to the support of a wise and stable republic. distinctly he avowed that in his judgment the experiment of a republic had utterly failed, that france must return to monarchy. the great mass of the people were also satisfied of this necessity. "the french generally," said napoleon, "do not ask for _liberty_. they only seek _equality_." but france no longer wished for an aristocratic king, who would confer wealth, splendor, and power exclusively upon his nobles. the old feudal throne was still hated with implacable hatred. france demanded a popular throne; a king for the people, one who would consult the interests of the masses, who would throw open to all alike the avenues of influence and honor and opulence. such a monarch was napoleon. the people adored him. he is _our_ emperor, they shouted with enthusiasm. we will make him greater than all the kings of all the nobles. his palaces shall be more sumptuous, his retinue more magnificent, his glory more dazzling; for our daughters may enter his court as maids of honor, and our sons may go in and out at the tuileries, versailles, and st. cloud, the marshals of france. lord grenville was right in saying that napoleon was but carrying out the principles of the revolution--equality of privileges--the supremacy of popular rights. but the despots of europe were as hostile to such a king as to a republic. on the same day in which napoleon's pacific letter was sent to the king of england, another, of the same character, was dispatched to the emperor of austria. it was conceived in the following terms: "having returned to europe, after an absence of eighteen months, i find a war kindled between the french republic and your majesty. the french nation has called me to the occupation of the first magistracy. a stranger to every feeling of vain-glory, the first of my wishes is to stop the effusion of blood which is about to flow. every thing leads me to foresee that, in the next campaign, numerous armies, ably conducted, will treble the number of the victims, who have already fallen since the resumption of hostilities. the well-known character of your majesty, leaves me no doubt as to the secret wishes of your heart. if those wishes only are listened to, i perceive the possibility of reconciling the interests of the two nations. "in the relations which i have formerly entertained with your majesty, you have shown me some personal regard. i beg you, therefore, to see in this overture, which i have made to you, the desire to respond to that regard, and to convince your majesty, more and more, of the very distinguished consideration which i feel toward you." austria replied, in courteous terms, that she could take no steps in favor of peace without consulting her ally england. thus all napoleon's efforts to arrest the desolations of war failed. the result had been anticipated. he was well aware of the unrelenting hostility with which the banded kings of europe contemplated the overthrow of a feudal throne, and of the mortal antipathy with which they regarded the thought of receiving a democratic king into their aristocratic brotherhood. nothing now remained for napoleon but to prepare to meet his foes. the allies, conscious of the genius of that great captain who had filled the world with the renown of his victories, exerted themselves to the utmost to raise such forces, and to assail napoleon with numbers so overwhelming, and in quarters so varied as to insure his bewilderment and ruin. the archduke charles, of austria, who was practically acquainted with the energy of napoleon, urged peace. but england and austria were both confident that france, exhausted in men and money, could not hold out for another campaign. the bourbons now made an attempt to bribe napoleon to replace them upon their lost throne. the count of provence, subsequently louis xviii., wrote to him from london, "for a long time, general, you must have known the esteem in which i hold you. if you doubt my gratitude, mark your own place. point out the situation you wish for your friends. the victor of lodi, castiglione, and arcola, can never prefer a vain celebrity to true glory. but you are losing the most precious moments. we could secure the happiness of france. i say we, for i require bonaparte for such an attempt, and he could not achieve it without me. europe observes you. glory awaits you. i am impatient to restore peace to my people." napoleon did not imitate the example of the king of england and pass this letter over to his minister. courteously and kindly, with his own hand he replied. "i have received your letter. i thank you for the obliging expressions it contains respecting myself. you should renounce all hopes of returning to france. you could not return but over the corpses of , frenchmen. sacrifice your interest to the happiness and repose of your country. history will duly appreciate your conduct, in so doing. i am not insensible to the misfortunes of your family, and shall learn with pleasure that you are surrounded with every thing which can restore the tranquillity of your retreat." benedict arnold attempted to bring the american revolution to a close by surrendering the united states to their rejected king. it was not in napoleon's line of ambition to imitate his example. the bourbons, finding the direct proffer of reward unavailing, then tried the effect of female blandishments. the fascinating duchess of guiche, a lady of great beauty and talent, was dispatched a secret emissary to the court of the first consul, to employ all the arts of eloquence, address, and the most voluptuous loveliness, in gaining an influence over napoleon. josephine, who had suffered so much during the revolution, and whose associations had been with the aristocracy of france, was a royalist. she trembled for the safety of her husband, and was very anxious that he should do whatever in honor might be done, to restore the bourbons. in every possible way she befriended the royalists, and had secured, all over europe, their cordial esteem. the duchess of guiche easily got access to josephine. artfully she said, one morning at the breakfast-table, "a few days ago i was with the count of provence in london. some one asked him what he intended to do for napoleon, in the event of his restoring the bourbons. he replied, 'i would immediately make him constable of france, and every thing else which he might choose. and we would raise on the carrousel, a magnificent column, surmounted with a statue of bonaparte crowning the bourbons.'" soon after breakfast napoleon entered. josephine most eagerly repeated the words to him. "and did you not reply," said napoleon, "that the corpse of the first consul would be made the pedestal of the column." the fascinating duchess was still present. she immediately assailed napoleon with all her artillery of beauty, smiles, and flattery. the voluptuous freedom of her manners, and the charms of the bewitching emissary, alarmed the jealousy of josephine. napoleon, however, was impervious to the assault. that night the duchess received orders to quit paris; and in the morning, in the charge of the police, she was on her way toward the frontier. [illustration: napoleon and the duchess of guiche.] it has often been said that napoleon made overtures to the bourbons for the cession of their rights to the throne. in reference to this assertion napoleon says, "how was such a thing possible? i, who could only reign by the very principle which excluded them, that of the sovereignty of the people; how could i have sought to possess, through them, rights which were proscribed in their persons? that would have been to proscribe myself. the absurdity would have been too palpable, too ridiculous. it would have ruined me forever in public opinion. the fact is that neither directly nor indirectly, at home or abroad, did i ever do any thing of the kind." the report probably originated in the following facts. friendly relations were at one time existing between prussia and france. the prussian government inquired if napoleon would take umbrage if the bourbon princes were allowed to remain in the prussian territory. napoleon replied that he had no objections to that arrangement. emboldened by the prompt consent, it was then asked if the french government would be willing to furnish them with an annual allowance for their support. napoleon replied that it should be done most cheerfully, provided prussia would be responsible for the princes remaining quiet, and abstaining from all intrigues to disturb the peace of france. a few evenings after this last attempt of louis xviii. to regain the throne, napoleon was one evening walking with bourrienne in the gardens of his favorite retreat at malmaison. he was in fine spirits, for all things were moving on very prosperously. [illustration: napoleon and bourrienne.] "has my wife," said he to bourrienne, "been speaking to you of the bourbons?" "no, general!" bourrienne replied. "but, when you converse with her," napoleon added, "you lean a little to her opinions. tell me now, why do you desire the return of the bourbons? you have no interest in their return; nothing to expect from them. you can never be any thing with them. you have no chance but to remain all your life in an inferior situation. have you ever seen a man rise under kings by merit alone?" "general," replied bourrienne, "i am quite of your opinion on one point. i have never received any favor under the bourbons; neither have i the vanity to suppose i should ever rise, under them, to any conspicuous station. but i look at the interests of france. i believe that you will hold your power as long as you live. but you have no children, and it is pretty certain that you will never have any by josephine. what are we to do when you are gone? what is to become of france? you have often said that your brothers were not--" here napoleon interrupted him, exclaiming: "ah! as to that you are right. if i do not live thirty years to finish my work, you will, when i am dead, have long civil wars. my brothers do not suit france. you will then have a violent contest among the most distinguished generals, each of whom will think that he has a right to take my place." "well, general," said bourrienne, "why do you not endeavor to remedy those evils which you foresee?" "do you suppose," napoleon replied, "that i have never thought of that? but weigh well the difficulties which are in my way. in case of a restoration, what is to become of the men who were conspicuous in the revolution? what is to become of the confiscated estates and the national domain, which have been sold and sold again? what is to become of all the changes which have been effected in the last twelve years?" "but, general," said bourrienne, "need i recall to your attention, that louis xviii. in his letter to you guarantees the contrary of all which you apprehend? are you not in a situation to impose any conditions you may think fit?" "depend upon it," napoleon replied, "the bourbons will think that they have reconquered their inheritance, and will dispose of it as they please. engagements the most sacred, promises the most positive, will disappear before force. no sensible man will trust them. my mind is made up. let us say no more upon the subject. but i know how these women torment you. let them mind their knitting, and leave me to mind my affairs." pithily bourrienne adds, "the women knitted. i wrote at my desk. napoleon made himself emperor. the empire has fallen to pieces. napoleon is dead at st. helena. the bourbons have been restored." the boundless popularity which napoleon acquired, was that which follows great achievements, not that which is ingloriously sought for by pampering to the vices and yielding to the prejudices of the populace. napoleon was never a demagogue. his administration was in accordance with his avowed principles. "a sovereign," said he, "must serve his people with dignity, and not make it his chief study to please them. the best mode of winning their love is to secure their welfare. nothing is more dangerous than for a sovereign to flatter his subjects. if they do not afterward obtain every thing which they want, they become irritated, and fancy that promises have been broken. if they are then resisted, their hatred increases in proportion as they consider themselves deceived. a sovereign's first duty is unquestionably to conform with the wishes of his people. but what the people say is scarcely ever what they wish. their desires and their wants can not be learned from their own mouths, so well as they are to be read in the heart of their prince." again he said in memorable words, which must not be forgotten in forming a just estimate of his character, "the system of government must be adapted to the spirit of the nation. france required a strong government. france was in the same state as rome when a dictator was declared necessary for the salvation of the republic. successions of coalitions against the existence of the republic, had been formed by english gold among all the most powerful nations of europe. to resist successfully it was essential that all the energies of the country should be at the disposal of the chief. i never conquered unless in my own defense. europe never ceased to make war against france and her principles. it was necessary for us to conquer, that we might not be conquered. between the parties which agitated france i was like a rider seated on an unruly horse, who always wants to swerve either to the right or the left. to lead him to keep a straight course, he is obliged to make him feel the bridle. the government of a country, just emerging from revolution, menaced by foreign enemies and agitated by the intrigues of domestic traitors, must necessarily be energetic. in quieter times my dictatorship would have terminated, and i should have commenced my constitutional reign. even, as it was, with a coalition always existing against me, either secret or public, there was more equality in france, than in any other country in europe. one of my grand objects was to render education accessible to every body. i caused every institution to be formed upon a plan which offered instruction to the public either gratis, or at a rate so moderate as not to be beyond the means of the peasant. the museums were thrown open to the whole people. the french populace would have become the best educated in the world. all my efforts were directed to illuminate the mass of the nation, instead of brutifying them by ignorance and superstition. the english people, who are lovers of liberty, will one day lament, with tears, having gained the battle of waterloo. it was as fatal to the liberties of europe as that of philippi was to those of rome. it has precipitated europe into the hands of despots, banded together for the oppression of mankind." though napoleon felt deeply the sanctity of law, and the necessity of securing the inflexible enforcement of its penalties, he was never more highly gratified than when he was enabled, by the exercise of the pardoning power, to rescue the condemned. says bourrienne, whose testimony will not be questioned, "when the imperious necessities of his political situation, to which, in fact, he sacrificed every thing, did not interpose, the saving of life afforded him the highest satisfaction. he would even have thanked those, to whom he rendered such a service, for the gratification they had thus afforded him." a french emigrant, m. defeu, had been taken, with arms in his hands, fighting against france. the crime was treason; the penalty death. he was connected with some of the most honorable families in france. a very earnest petition was presented to napoleon for his pardon. "there is no room for mercy here," napoleon sternly replied. "a man who fights against his country is a child who would kill his mother." the affecting condition of his family was urged, and the beneficial effects upon the community of such an act of clemency. napoleon paused for a moment, and then said, "write, 'the first consul orders the judgment on m. defeu to be suspended.'" the laconic reprieve was instantly written, signed by napoleon, and dispatched to sens, where the unfortunate man was imprisoned. the next morning, the moment bourrienne entered the first consul's apartment, napoleon said to him, "i do not like to do my work by halves. write to sens, 'the first consul desires that m. defeu be immediately liberated.' he may repay the deed with ingratitude. but we can not help that--so much the worse for him. in all such cases, bourrienne, never hesitate to speak to me. when i refuse it will only be because i can not do otherwise." in napoleon's disposition firmness and gentleness were singularly and beautifully blended. the following anecdote illustrates the inflexibility of his sense of justice. a wealthy nobleman, thirty years of age, had married a young girl of sixteen. it was a mercenary marriage. the friends of the young lady, without any regard to her feelings, dragged her to the altar. she cherished no affection for her husband. he became jealous of her, and, without the slightest proof of her criminality, murdered her. he was arrested, tried, and condemned to death. connected by birth with the first families in france, and rallying around him the interest of the most influential of friends, great exertions were made to obtain from the first consul a pardon. to the petitioners, pleading in his behalf, napoleon replied: "why should i pardon this man? he availed himself of his fortune for the vile purpose of bribing the affections of a girl. he did not succeed in winning them, and he became jealous. his jealousy was not the result of love but of vanity. he has committed the crime of murder. what urged him to it? not his honor, for his wife had not injured it. no! he was instigated by brutality, vanity, and self-love. he has no claim to mercy. the rich are too prone to consider themselves elevated above the reach of the law. they imagine that wealth is a sacred shield to them. this man has committed a crime for which there are no extenuating circumstances. he must suffer the punishment to which he is justly doomed. if i were to pardon him, that act of misplaced indulgence would put in jeopardy the life of every married woman. as the law positively protects the outraged husband, so it must protect the wife against the consequences of dislike, interest, caprice, or a new passion, which may impel a husband to obtain a divorce, by a more prompt and less expensive course than a legal process." [illustration: unavailing intercession of josephine.] josephine whose tender feelings at times controlled her judgment was urgent in her intercession. many of the relatives of the wretched man were among her most intimate friends. "this," said she, "is the first favor i have asked since your attainment of the supreme power. surely you will not deny me?" "i can not," said napoleon, "grant your request. and when it is known, josephine, that even your persuasions could not induce me to commit an act of injustice, no one else will henceforth dare to petition me for such a purpose." england, austria, and russia, together with many other of the minor powers of monarchical europe, were now combined against france. the emperor paul of russia had furnished a large army to co-operate with the allies in their assault upon the republic. ten thousand of the russians had been taken prisoners. but in the recent disasters which had overwhelmed the arms of france, many thousand french prisoners were in the hands of the allies. napoleon proposed an exchange. the austrian government refused, because it selfishly wished to exchange for austrians only. the english government also refused, assigning the reason that it was contrary to their principles to exchange for prisoners taken from other nations. "what," exclaimed napoleon to the court of st. james, "do you refuse to liberate the russians, who were your allies, who were fighting in your ranks, and under your own commander, the duke of york?" with vienna he also expostulated, in tones of generous warmth, "do you refuse to restore to their country those men to whom you are indebted for your victories and conquests in italy, and who have left in your hands a multitude of french prisoners, whom they have taken? such injustice excites my indignation." then yielding to those impulses, so characteristic of his generous nature, he exclaimed, "i will restore them to the czar without exchange. he shall see how i esteem brave men." whatever napoleon undertook he performed magnificently. the russian officers immediately received their swords. the captive troops, ten thousand in number, were assembled at aix-la-chapelle. they were all furnished with a complete suit of new clothing in the uniform of their own regiments, and thoroughly armed with weapons of the very best of french manufacture. the officers were authorized to organize them into battalions and regiments. and thus triumphantly these battalions of armed men were returned into the bosom of the ranks of the multitudinous hosts, rushing down upon france. it is gratifying to record that magnanimity so extraordinary passed not away unappreciated. the emperor paul was so disgusted with the selfishness of austria and england, and was so struck with admiration in view of this unparalleled generosity of napoleon, that he immediately abandoned the alliance. he attached himself to napoleon with that enthusiasm of constitutional ardor which characterized the eccentric monarch. in a letter to the first consul, written with his own hand, he said, "citizen first consul!--i do not write to you to discuss the rights of men or citizens. every country governs itself as it pleases. wherever i see at the head of a nation a man who knows how to rule and how to fight, my heart is attracted toward him. i write to acquaint you with my dissatisfaction with england, who violates every article of the law of nations, and has no guide but her egotism and her interest. i wish to unite with you to put an end to the unjust proceedings of that government." russia was thus detached from the alliance, and sending a minister to paris, recognized the new government. napoleon now sent an embassador to prussia to establish, if possible, friendly relations with that power. duroc, the only one whom napoleon ever admitted to his ultimate friendship, was selected for this mission, in consequence of his graceful address, his polished education, and his varied accomplishments.--frederick william was a great admirer of military genius. duroc, who had been in the campaigns of italy and of egypt, could interest him with the recital of many heroic enterprises. the first interview of duroc with the prussian monarch was entirely private, and lasted two hours. the next day duroc was invited to dine with the king, and the prussian court immediately recognized the consular government. notwithstanding napoleon's vast exaltation, he preserved personally the same simple tastes and habits, the same untiring devotion to the details of business, and the same friendships as when he was merely a general of the republic. he rose at seven o'clock, dressed with scrupulous neatness, during which time the morning journals were read to him. he then entered his cabinet, where he read letters, and wrote or dictated answers until ten. he then breakfasted with josephine and hortense, usually some of his aids and one or two literary or scientific friends being invited. at the close of this frugal meal, he attended the meetings of the council, or paid visits of ceremony or business to some of the public offices. at five o'clock he returned to dinner, on ordinary occasions not allowing himself more than fifteen minutes at the table. he then retired to the apartments of josephine, where he received the visits of ministers, and of the most distinguished persons of the metropolis. in the organization of his court napoleon was unalterably determined to suppress that licentiousness of manners, which for ages had disgraced the palaces of the french monarchs, and which, since the overthrow of christianity, had swept like a flood of pollution over all france. he was very severe upon those females, often of the highest rank, who endeavored to attract attention by freedom of dress or behavior. it was expected that men and their wives should appear in society together--a thing hitherto unprecedented, and contrary to all ideas of fashionable life. the court had hitherto taken the lead in profligacy, and the nation had followed. napoleon thought that by enforcing purity of morals in the palace, he could draw back the nation to more decorum of manners. "immorality," said he, "is, beyond a doubt, the worst of all faults in a sovereign; because he introduces it as a fashion among his subjects, by whom it is practiced for the sake of pleasing him. it strengthens every vice, blights every virtue, and infects all society like a pestilence. in short, it is a nation's scourge." on one occasion a courtier, very high in rank and office, one of the imperial chamberlains, requested permission to present his daughter-in-law at court. she was extremely beautiful, and though distinguished by a captivating air of simplicity, was one of the most artful of the daughters of eve. she joined the imperial parties on all occasions, and wherever she went threw herself in the way of napoleon. her soft and languishing eyes were riveted upon him. she sighed, blushed, and affected bashfulness, while, at the same time, she constantly placed herself in situations to attract his notice. sometimes she would stand, for a long time, apparently lost in reverie, gazing and sighing before the portraits of napoleon. her father-in-law affected displeasure at her conduct, and complained of the unfortunate but resistless passion which she had imbibed. her husband, who was infamously in the intrigue, regarded the matter with the most philosophic indifference. the mother-in-law also made herself busy to help the matter along, saying that, after all, it was hard to blame her for loving napoleon. for some time napoleon paid no attention to the intrigue, and appeared not to notice it. at length the affair became a subject of court gossip, and it was necessary that it should be noticed. one evening, at the close of a sitting of the council of state, at which napoleon had presided, conducting cambaceres into the recess of one of the windows, he said, "madame b---- is rendering herself quite intolerable to me. the conduct of her relations is still more odious. the father-in-law is an infamous man, her husband a mean-spirited wretch, and her mother a vile intriguing woman, by whose arts, however, i am not to be duped. the abandoned female, who unreservedly puts up her virtue to sale, is preferable to the hypocrite who, for motives equally mercenary, affects a sentimental attachment. i wish you to call on my chamberlain, and inform him that i dispense with his services for the space of a year. inform his wife that i forbid her appearance at court for six years. and make known to the affectionate married couple, that, to afford them an opportunity of duly appreciating each other's excellent qualities, i give them leave to spend six months in naples, six months in vienna, and six months in any other part of germany." on another occasion a lieutenant-colonel sent a petition to napoleon, soliciting promotion. in accordance with the corruptions of those paganized times, he added, "i have two _beautiful daughters_, who will be too happy to throw themselves at the feet of the good emperor, and thank him for the benefit conferred on their father." napoleon was indignant at this atrocious proposal. he said, "i know not what withholds me from having this infamous letter inserted in the order of the day of the writer's regiment." napoleon made inquiries respecting this officer, and found that he had been one of the assassins during the reign of terror, and an intimate friend of robespierre. he immediately dismissed him from service. he found that the daughters were amiable and interesting young ladies, totally unconscious of the infamous project entertained by their father. that they might not suffer the penalty of their father's baseness, he settled a small pension on each of them, on condition of their leaving paris, and retiring to their native city. napoleon effectually enthroned himself in the hearts of the common people of france. they believed him to be their friend and advocate. they still cherish the same belief. at this hour there is no ruler, enthroned or entombed, who is regarded with the enthusiastic veneration with which the people of france now cherish the memory of their emperor. napoleon stands alone in that glory. he has no rival. the bedoueen, mohammad alee, and the bazaars.[ ] [footnote : from "the howadji in syria," by george william curtis, author of "nile notes." just published by harper and brothers.] among the bedoueen. the pleasant tales of sultans' pilgrimages are only the mirage of memory. the poor and pious muslim, which is not the title of caliphs, when he undertakes a long desert journey, does not carry nine hundred camels for his wardrobe, but he carries his grave-linen with him. stricken by fatigue, or privation, or disease, when his companions can not tarry for his recovery or death, he performs the ablution with sand, and digging a trench in the ground, wraps himself in his grave-clothes, and covering his body with sand, lies alone in the desert to die, trusting that the wind will complete his burial. in the arabs around you, you will mark a kindred sobriety. their eyes are luminous and lambent, but it is a melancholy light. they do not laugh. they move with easy dignity, and their habitual expression is musing and introverted, as that of men whose minds are stored with the solemn imagery of the desert. you will understand that your own party of arabs is not of the genuine desert breed. they are dwellers in cities, not dwellers in tents. they are mongrel, like the population of a sea-port. they pass from palestine to egypt with caravans of produce, like coast-traders, and are not pure bedoueen. but they do not dishonor their ancestry. when a true bedoueen passes upon his solitary camel, and with a low-spoken salaam, looks abstractedly and incuriously upon the procession of great american moguls, it is easy to see that his expression is the same as that of the men around you, but intensified by the desert. burckhardt says that all orientals, and especially the arabs, are little sensible of the beauty of nature. but the bedoueen is mild and peaceable. he seems to you a dreamy savage. there is a softness and languor, almost an effeminacy of impression, the seal of the sun's child. he does not eat flesh--or rarely. he loves the white camel with a passion. he fights for defense, or for necessity; and the children of the shereefs, or descendants of the prophet, are sent into the desert to be made heroes. they remain there eight or ten years, rarely visiting their families. the simple landscape of the desert is the symbol of the bedoueen's character; and he has little knowledge of more than his eye beholds. in some of the interior provinces of china, there is no name for the ocean, and when in the time of shekh daheir, a party of bedoueen came to acre upon the sea, they asked what was that desert of water. a bedoueen after a foray upon a caravan, discovered among his booty several bags of fine pearls. he thought them dourra, a kind of grain. but as they did not soften in boiling, he was about throwing them disdainfully away, when a gaza trader offered him a red tarboosh in exchange, which he delightedly accepted. without love of natural scenery, he listens forever to the fascinating romances of the poets, for beautiful expressions naturally clothe the simple and beautiful images he every where beholds. the palms, the fountains, the gazelles, the stars, and sun, and moon, the horse, and camel--these are the large illustration and suggestion of his poetry. sitting around the evening fire and watching its flickering with moveless melancholy, his heart thrills at the prowess of el-gundubah, although he shall never be a hero, and he rejoices when kattalet-esh-shugan says to gundubah, "come let us marry forthwith," although he shall never behold her beauty, nor tread the stately palaces. he loves the moon which shows him the way over the desert that the sun would not let him take by day, and the moon looking into his eyes, sees her own melancholy there. in the pauses of the story by the fire, while the sympathetic spirits of the desert sigh in the rustling wind, he says to his fellow, "also in all true poems there should be palm-trees and running water." for him in the lonely desert the best genius of arabia has carefully recorded upon parchment its romantic visions, for him haroun el rashid lived his romantic life, for him the angel spoke to mohammad in the cave, and god received the prophet into the seventh heaven. some early morning a cry rings through the group of black square tents. he springs from his dreams of green gardens and flowing waters, and stands sternly against the hostile tribe which has surprised his own. the remorseless morning secretes in desert silence the clash of swords, the ring of musketry, the battle-cry. at sunset the black square tents are gone, the desolation of silence fills the air that was musical with the recited loves of zul-himmeh, and the light sand drifts in the evening wind over the corpse of a bedoueen. --so the grim genius of the desert touches every stop of romance and of life in you as you traverse his realm and meditate his children. yet warm and fascinating as is his breath, it does not warp your loyalty to your native west, and to the time in which you were born. springing from your hard bed upon the desert, and with wild morning enthusiasm pushing aside the door of your tent, and stepping out to stand among the stars, you hail the desert and hate the city, and glancing toward the tent of the armenian khadra, you shout aloud to astonished macwhirter, "i will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race." but as the day draws forward, and you see the same forms and the same life that abraham saw, and know that joseph leading mary into egypt might pass you to-day, nor be aware of more than a single sunset since he passed before, then you feel that this germ, changeless at home, is only developed elsewhere--that the boundless desert freedom is only a resultless romance. the sun sets and the camp is pitched. the shadows are grateful to your eye, as the dry air to your lungs. but as you sit quietly in the tent-door, watching the armenian camp and the camels, your cheeks pales suddenly as you remember abraham, and that "he sat in the tent-door in the heat of the day." saving yourself, what of the scene is changed since then? the desert, the camels, the tents, the turbaned arabs, they were what abraham saw when "he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo! three men stood by him." you are contemporary with the eldest history. your companions are the dusky figures of vaguest tradition. the "long result of time," is not for you. in that moment you have lost your birthright. you are ishmael's brother. you have your morning's wish. a child of the desert, not for you are art, and poetry, and science, and the glowing roll of history shrivels away. the dream passes as the day dies, and to the same stars which heard your morning shout of desert praise, you whisper as you close the tent-door at evening, "better fifty years of europe, than a cycle of cathay." mohammad alee. i do not wonder that mohammad alee burned to be master of syria, and struck so bravely for it. his career was necessarily but a brilliant bubble, and his success purely personal. that career was passed before the west fairly understood it. it was easier for the jews to believe good from nazareth than for us to credit genius in egypt, and we should as soon have dreamed of old mummied cheops throned upon the great pyramid and ruling the pharaohs' realm anew, as of a modern king there, of kingliness unsurpassed in the century, except by napoleon, working at every disadvantage, yet achieving incredible results. he was the son of a fisherman--made his way by military skill--recognized the inherent instability of the mameluke government then absolute in egypt, and which was only a witless tyranny, sure to fall before ambitious sense and skill. he propitiated the sublime porte, whose viceroy in egypt was only a puppet of state, practically imprisoned by the mamelukes in the citadel--and he gained brilliant victories in the hedjaz, over the wahabys, infidel and schismatic muslim. in , he accomplished the famous massacre of the mamelukes in the court of the citadel, of which horace vernet has painted so characteristic a picture, and for which mohammad alee has been much execrated. but in turkish politics, humanity is only a question of degree. with mohammad alee and the mamelukes it was diamond cut diamond. they were a congregation of pestilent vapors, a nest of hoary-headed tyrants, whom it was a satisfaction to humanity and decency to smoke out and suffocate in any way. mohammad alee had doubtless little enough rose-water in his policy to satisfy the grimmest carlyle. the leader of sanguinary albanians and imbruted egyptians against wild arab hordes is not likely to be of a delicate stomach. but he was clear-eyed and large-minded. he had the genius of a statesman rather than the shrewdness of a general, although as a soldier he was singularly brave and successful. of all his acts the massacre of the mamelukes was perhaps the least bloody, because, by crushing the few heads he had won the victory. a sudden and well-advised bloodshed is often sure to issue in a peace which saves greater misery. it was cromwell's rule and it was napoleon's--it was also mohammad alee's, and the results usually proved its wisdom. moreover, in the matter of this massacre, the balance of sympathy is restored by the fact that only a short time previous to the mamelukes' banquet of death in the citadel, they had arranged mohammad alee's assassination upon his leaving suez. by superior cunning he ascertained the details of this pleasant plan, and publicly ordered his departure for the following morning, but privately departed upon a swift-trotting dromedary in the evening. there was great consequent frustration of plan and confusion of soul among the mamelukes, who had thought, in this ingenious manner, to cut the knot of difficulty, and they were only too glad to hurry with smooth faces to the pacha's festival--too much in a hurry, indeed, to reflect upon his superior cunning and to be afraid of it. they lost the game. they were the diamond cut, and evidently deserve no melodious tear. mohammad alee thus sat as securely in his seat as a turkish pacha can ever hope to sit. he assisted the porte in the greek troubles, perpetrating other massacres there; and afterward, when abdallah, pacha of acre, rebelled against "the shadow," mohammad alee was sent to subdue him. he did so, and then interceded with the porte for abdallah's safety. meanwhile, mohammad alee had ascertained his force, and was already sure of the genius to direct it. he had turned the streams of french and english skill into the agriculture, manufactures, and military discipline of egypt. his great aim for years had been to make egypt independent--to revive the ancient richness of the nile valley, and to take a place for egypt among the markets of the world. he accomplished this so far, that, restoring to the plain of thebes the indigo which was once famous there, he poured into the european market so much and so good indigo that the market was sensibly affected. his internal policy was wrong, but we can not here consider it. watching and waiting, in the midst of this internal prosperity and foreign success and amazement, while egyptian youth were thronging to the parisian universities, and the parisian youth looked to egypt as the career of fame and fortune--as the young spaniards of a certain period looked to the diamond-dusted americas--in the midst of all the web mohammad alee sat nursing his ambition and biding his time. across the intervening desert, syria wooed him to take her for his slave. who was there to make him afraid? leaning on lebanon, and laving her beautiful feet in the sea, she fascinated him with love. he should taste boundless sway. eastward lay bagdad and persia, thrones of caliphs who once sat in his seat--why should not he sit in theirs? then with softer whispers she pointed to the golden horn and the bosphorus, and looked what she dared not speak. i do not wonder that he was enchanted. i do not wonder that he burned to be master of the superb slave that lay so lovely and fair in the sun, dreaming, as now we see her dream, under the vines and olives. his peer, napoleon bonaparte, against whom, in egypt, his maiden sword was fleshed, whom he loved to name and to hear that they were born in the same year, had thus seen from elba the gorgeous fata-morgana of european empire. how could mohammad alee reflect that sallying forth to grasp it, that peer had bitten the dust? that fate deterred the pacha, as the experience of others always deters ourselves--as a blade of grass stays the wind. shall not you and i, my reader, swim to our heros, though a thousand leanders never came to shore? it was this syria through which we plod, this brilliant morning, that seduced mohammad alee. a land of glorious resources and without a population. here grow wheat, rye, barley, beans and the cotton plant. oats are rare; but palestine produces sesame and dourra, a kind of pulse like lentils. baalbec grows maize. sugar and rice are not unknown at beyrout. lebanon is wreathed with vines. indigo flourishes without cultivation on the banks of the jordan. the druses cultivate the white mulberry. gaza has dates like those of mecca, and pomegranates as fine as those of algiers. figs and bananas make the gardens of antioch tropical. from aleppo come pistachio-nuts. the almond, the olive and the orange thrive in the kindly air; and damascus revels in twenty kinds of apricot, with all the best fruits of france. many of the inhabitants pass us, and we can see what they are. they are repulsive in appearance, the dregs of refuse races. they look mean and treacherous, and would offer small resistance to determination and skill. mohammad alee had little fear of the syrians. he could not resist the song of the siren; and suddenly "the eastern question" agitated political europe, and the diplomatic genius of the three greatest states--england, france and russia--was abruptly challenged by the alarming aspect of the syrian war, which threatened, with a leader despising the political stagnation and military imbecility of the vast realm of "the shadow of god on earth," to issue in a new empire. mohammad alee having subdued abdallah, pacha of acre, and saved his life and throne by intercession with the porte, was surprised that abdallah harbored all fugitives from egypt. he observed that, following his own example, abdallah was introducing the european discipline into his army, and was enticing into his service many young officers who had been europeanly instructed at his own expense. he expostulated with abdallah, and appealed to the porte. the sublime porte, like other political sublimities, hesitated, meditated-- "then idly twirled his golden chain, and smiling, put the question by." mohammad alee, with expectant eyes fixed upon syria, sat silent, his hand trembling with eagerness and ready to grasp the splendid prize. "the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces" of a new oriental empire rose, possible in the light of hope. his army was carefully disciplined. the fame of its tried officers had been won upon the battle-fields of the empire. he had a fleet and all the resources of the latest military and marine science. over all, he had his son ibrahim, already proved in arabia and greece, of a military genius peculiarly oriental, swift and stern, rude in thought, but irresistible in action--the slave of his father's ambition, the iron right-hand of his will. internal prosperity and external prestige sealed mohammad alee's hope and determination. against him was arrayed the worldly magnificence of the ottoman porte. but the bannered muslim lance that had thundered at the gates of constantinople, and entering, had planted itself upon the earliest christian church, and flapped barbaric defiance at civilization, was rusty and worm-eaten. its crimson drapery fluttering, rent, upon an idle wind, would be inevitably shivered by the first rough blow of modern steel. and the great powers?-- their action was, of course, doubtful. there was a chance of opposition, a probability of interference. but the grandeur of the stroke was its safety. from the universal chaos what new combinations might not be educed! no sooner, therefore, had the porte "put the question by," than mohammad alee proceeded to answer it. the egyptian army, headed by ibrahim pacha, advanced into syria, and sat down before acre. cherishing the old grudge against abdallah, the porte, now that a decided part had been taken, smiled faintly in approval. but the conduct of the war betrayed resources of ability and means which kindled terrible suspicions. the firman came from stamboul, commanding the pacha of egypt to withdraw into his own province. he declined, and was declared a rebel. the bridge thus fell behind him, and only victory or death lay before. for six months ibrahim pacha lay before acre, and on the th may, , he entered by bloody assault the city which richard coeur de lion and philip augustus had conquered before him, and from which napoleon bonaparte had retired foiled. the syrian war began. the victorious army advanced, triumphing. the syrian cities fell before it. the stream of conquest swept northward, overflowing damascus as it passed. the war was no longer a quarrel of two pachas, it was a question of life or death for the turkish empire. vainly the sultan's choicest generals struggled to stem the torrent. the proud walls along the golden horn trembled, lest their pride should be for the third time humbled, and this time, as the last, from the asian shore. northern and western europe stared amazed at the wonderful spectacle, listening across the hushed mediterranean to the clang of arms resounding in the effete east, as the appalled romans heard the gusty roar of the battle of the huns high over them, and invisible in the air. surely it was only the interference of the three powers that saved the sultan's throne. that alone deprived us of the pageant of another oriental military romance, so rapid in inception, so entire in execution, that we should have better comprehended those sudden, barbaric descents of the middle ages, which changed in a moment the political aspect of the invaded land:--in a moment, because the mighty appearance of life and power was but a mummy, which a blow would pulverize. one man, however strong and skillful, could not withstand the force of europe, and mohammad alee retired, baffled, before the leaders of the political trinity that a few years before had dethroned napoleon. the crisis of his life was passed, and unfavorably for his hopes and aims. at the age of sixty-five he relinquished the struggle with fate, and still one of the great men of a century, rich in great men, with no hope before him, and none behind--for since kingly genius is not hereditary, your divine right is a disastrous fiction--he sank slowly away into dotage. before the end, however, both he and his son ibrahim showed themselves to the europeans who had watched with such astonished interest the culmination and decay of their power. ibrahim pacha, with his fangs removed, shook his harmless rattle, for the last time in the world's hearing, at a dinner given him by young englishmen, at the reform club in pall mall, and the wreck of mohammad alee, driveling and dozing, took a hand at whist with young americans in a hotel at naples. father and son returned to egypt and died there. a vast mosque of alabaster, commenced by mohammad alee, and now finished, crowns cairo, "the delight of the imagination." he wished to be 'buried there; but he lies without the city walls, in that suburb of tombs, upon the cracked sides of one of which a persian poet has written--"each crevice of this ancient edifice is a half-opened mouth, that laughs at the fleeting pomp of royal abodes." all the winds that blow upon cairo, laugh that mocking laughter, and in any thoughtful mood, as you listen to them and look over the city, you will mark the two alabaster minarets of mohammad alee's mosque, shafts of snow in the rich blue air, if you will, but yet pointing upward. leaning on lebanon, and laving her beautiful feet in the sea, the superb slave he burned to possess, still dreams in the sun. we look from the tent door and see her sleeping, and the remembrance of this last, momentary interest which disturbed the slumber, reminds us that it will one day be broken. so fair is the prize, that, knowing all others desire her as ardently, no single hand feels strong enough to grasp it, and the conflict of many ambitions secures her peace. yet it is clear that nerve and skill could do what they have done, and so spare is the population, so imbecile the government, and so rich the soil, that a few thousand determined men could march unresisted through syria, and possess the fair and fertile land. bazaars. christians and saracens agree in reprobating the black hat. but the damascenes declare open war against it. in , bertrandon de la brocquière entered the city with a "broad beaver hat," which was incontinently knocked off his head. naturally his first movement was "to lift my fist," but wisdom held his hand, and he desisted, content to revenge himself by the questionable inference that it was "a wicked race." but if it be "wicked" to malign the black hat, who shall be justified? this was only a gentle illustration of the bitter hatred of christians and all infidels, cherished by the damascenes, who are the most orthodox of muslim. indeed, it is only within twenty years that an accredited english representative could reside in damascus, and he maintains an imposing state. at present, some hundred european tourists visit the city yearly, and the devout faithful find reasons for toleration in infidel gold, which they never found in argument. here, too, as every where in syria, ibrahim pacha has been our ally. he permitted infidels to ride horses through the streets. "o, allah!" exclaimed the religious damascenes, who are termed by the turks _shami-shoumi_, cursed rascals. "your highness suffers christians to sit as high as the faithful." "no, my friends," responded ibrahim, "you shall ride dromedaries, which will put you much above them." we went into the bazaars to encounter these enemies of the black hat, and _ex-officio_ riders of dromedaries. we had a glimpse of their beauty as we entered the city. but eastern life is delightful in detail. it is a mosaic to be closely studied. you enter, and the murmurous silence blends pleasantly with the luminous dimness of the place. the matting overhead, torn and hanging in strips along which, gilding them in passing, the sun slides into the interior, is a heavy tapestry. the scene is a perpetual fair, not precisely like greenwich fair, or that of the american institute, but such as you frequent in arabian stories. bedoueen glide spectrally along, with wild, roving eyes, like startled deer. insane dervishes and santons meditate the propriety of braining the infidel howadji. shekhs from distant asia, pompous effendi from constantinople, bagdad traders, cunning-eyed armenian merchants meet and mingle, and many of our old friends, the grizzly-bearded, red-eyed fire-worshipers, somnolently curled among their goods, eye us, through the smoke they emit, as perfect specimens of the proper sacrifice they owe their deity. all strange forms jostle and crowd in passing, except those which are familiar; and children more beautiful than any in the east, play in the living mazes of the crowd. shopping goes actively on. the merchant without uncrossing his legs, exhibits his silks and coarse cottons to the long draped and vailed figures that group picturesquely about his niche. your eye seizes the bright effect of all the gay goods as you saunter on. here a merchant lays by his chibouque and drinks, from a carved glass, sweet liquorice water, cooled with snow from lebanon. here one closes his niche and shuffles off to the mosque, followed by his boy-slave with the chibouque. here another rises, and bows, and falls, kissing the floor, and muttering the noon prayer. every where there is intense but languid life. the bazaars are separated into kinds. that of the jewelers is inclosed, and you see the jews, swarthy and keen-eyed servants of mammon, busily at work. precious stones miserably set, and handfuls of pearls, opals, and turquoises are quietly presented to your inspection. there is no eagerness of traffic. a boy tranquilly hands you a ring, and another, when you have looked at the first. you say "_la_," no, and he retires. or you pause over a clumsy silver ring, with an arabic inscription upon the flint set in it. golden sleeve ascertains that it is the cipher of hafiz. you reflect that it is silver, which is the orthodox metal, the prophet having forbidden gold. you place it upon your finger, with the stone upon the inside, for so the prophet wore his upon the fore-finger, that he might avoid ostentation. it is a quaint, characteristic, oriental signet-ring. hafiz is a common name, it is probably that of the jeweler who owns the ring. but you have other associations with the name, and as you remember the persian poet, you suffer it to remain upon your finger, and pay the jeweler a few piastres. you do not dream that it is enchanted. you do not know that you have bought ala-ed-deen's lamp, and as a rub of that evoked omnipotent spirits, so a glance at your ring, when damascus has become a dream, will restore you again to the dim bazaar, and the soft eyes of the children that watch you curiously as you hesitate, and to the sweet inspiration of syria. you pass on into the quarter where the pattens are made, inlaid with pearl, such as you remarked upon the feet of the kohl-eyebrowed houris. into the shoemakers, where the brilliant leathers justify better poetry than hans sach's interminable rhymes, though here is only their music, not their moral. you climb crumbling steps, and emerge from darkness upon the top of the bazaar, on a ledge of a roman ruin, and look down into the sunny greenness of the great mosque, which you can not more nearly approach. then down, and by all the beautiful fabrics of the land, hung with the tin-foiled letters that surround pieces of english prints, and which the color-loving eye of the oriental seizes as an ornament for his own wares, you pass into the region of drugs and apothecaries, and feel that you are about visiting that persian doctor in mecca who dealt in nothing but miraculous balsams and infallible elixirs, whose potions were all sweet and agreeable, and the musk and aloe wood which he burned, diffused a delicious odor through the shop. surely he was court-physician to zobeide. golden sleeve pauses before an old figure curled among the bottles and lost in reverie, saturated, it seems, with opium, and dreaming its dreams. this is zobeide's doctor. he had evidently the elixir of life among those sweet potions, and has deeply drunk. life he has preserved; but little else that is human remains, except the love that is stronger than life. for as he opens his vague eyes and beholds us, they kindle with an inward fire, as if they looked upon the philosopher's stone. that stone is in our purses; the old magician knows it, and he knows the charm to educe it. he opens a jar, and a dreamy odor penetrates our brains. it is distilled of flowers culled from the gardens of the ganges: or is this delicate perfume preferable--this zatta, loved of poets and houris, which came to the doctor's grandfather from bagdad? attar of roses did golden sleeve suggest? here is the essence of that divinest distillation of the very heart of summer. but, o opulent howadji! no thin, pale, constantinople perfume is this, but the viscous richness of indian roses. as many wide acres of bloom went to this jar as to any lyric of hafiz. it lies as molten gold in the quaint glass vase. the magician holds it toward the syrian sun, and the shadow of a smile darkens over his withered features. then, drop by drop, as if he poured the last honey that should ever be hived from hymettus, he suffers it to exude into the little vials. they are closely stopped, and sealed, and wrapped in cotton. and some wintry christmas in the west the howadji shall offer to a fairer than zobeide those more than drops of diamond. nor this alone--but the cunning of arabian art has sucked the secret of their sweetness from tea and coffee, from all the wild herbs of syria, and from amber. in those small jars is stored the rich result of endless series of that summer luxuriance you saw in the vale of zabulon. sandal-wood to burn upon your nargileh, mystic bits to lay upon your tongue, so that the startled bedoueen, as you pass into the bazaar, and breathe upon him in passing, dreams that you came from paradise, and have been kissed by houris. was it not the magic to draw from your purse the philosopher's stone? the court-physician of zobeide, relapsing into reverie, smiles vaguely as he says salaam; as if the advantage were his--as if you were not bearing away with you in those odors the triumphs of the rarest alchemy. breathing fragrance, you enter a khan opening upon the bazaar, that of assad pacha, a stately and beautiful building, consisting of a lofty domed court, the dome supported by piers, with a gallery running quite around it. private rooms for the choicest goods open out of the gallery. the court is full of various merchandise, and merchants from every region sit by their goods, and smoke placidly as they negotiate. but we have received visits in our hotel from an armenian merchant, young and comely--why not khadra's cousin?--and he brought with him silks and stuffs at which all that was feminine in our nature swelled with delight. tempted by his odors, we have come to his garden. the room is small and square, and rough-plastered. upon the floor are strewn long deep boxes, and the comely young armenian, in a flowing dark dress, reveals his treasures. scarfs, shawls, stuffs for dresses, morning gowns and vests, handkerchiefs, sashes, purses, and tobacco-bags are heaped in rich profusion. they are of the true eastern richness, and in the true eastern manner they rely upon that richness for their effect, and not upon their intrinsic tastefulness. the figures of the embroideries, for instance, are not gracefully designed, but the superb material suffices. they imply that there are none but beautiful women in the world, and that all women are brunettes. as the quiet merchant unfolds them, they have the mysterious charm of recalling all the beautiful brunettes who have reigned zenobias, and queens of sheba, and cleopatras, in the ruined realm of your past life. but, northerners and westerners, we remember another beauty. we remember palma vecchio's golden-haired daughter, and the venetian pictures, and the stories of angels with sunny locks, and the radiant preziosa. the astute armenian knows our thoughts. from the beginning was not the oriental merchant a magician? for while we sit smoking and delighted, the merchant, no less wily than the court-physician of zobeide, opens the last box of all, and gradually unfolds the most beautiful garment the howadji have ever seen. the coronation robes of emperors and kings, the most sumptuous costumes at court-festivals, all the elaboration of western genius in the material and in the making of dresses, pale and disappear before the simple magnificence of this robe. it is a bournouse or oriental cloak, made of camel's hair and cloth of gold. the material secures that rich stiffness essential in a superb mantle, and the color is an azure turquoise, exquisite beyond words. the sleeves are cloth of gold, and the edges are wrought in gold, but with the most regal taste. it is the only object purely tasteful that we have seen. nor is it of that negative safety of taste, which loves dark carriages and neutral tints in dress; but magnificent and imperial, like that of rachel when she plays thisbe, and nets her head with venetian sequins. if the rest imply that all women are beautiful and brunettes, this proclaims the one superb blonde, queen of them all. "take that, leisurlie, it was intended from the beginning of the world for an english beauty." "oh! _kooltooluk!_ there is not a woman in england who could wear it." through the dewy distances of memory, as you muse in the dim chamber upon all who might worthily wear the garment, passes a figure perfect as morning, crowned with youth, and robed in grace, for whose image alpine snows were purer and italian skies more soft. but even while you muse, it passes slowly away out of the golden gates of possibility into the wide impossible. as we stroll leisurely homeward, it is early afternoon. but the shops are closed--strange silence and desertion reign in the bazaars--a few dark turbaned christians and jews yet linger, and a few children play. "they are gone to the cafés and gardens," says golden sleeve. --and we follow them. tiger roche.--an irish character. among the characters distinguished for unbridled indulgence and fierce passions, who were, unfortunately, too frequently to be met with in ireland in the last century, was one whose name attained so much celebrity as to become a proverb. "tiger roche," as he was called, was a native of dublin, where he was born in the year . he received the best education the metropolis could afford, and was instructed in all the accomplishments then deemed essential to the rank and character of a gentleman. so expert was he in the various acquirements of polite life, that at the age of sixteen he recommended himself to lord chesterfield, then lord lieutenant of ireland, who offered him, gratuitously, a commission in the army; but his friends having other views for him, they declined it. this seems to have been a serious misfortune to the young man, whose disposition and education strongly inclined him to a military life. his hopes were raised, and his vanity flattered, by the notice and offer of the viceroy; and in sullen resentment he absolutely refused to embark in any other profession his friends designed for him. he continued, therefore, for several years among the dissipated idlers of the metropolis, having no laudable pursuit to occupy his time, and led into all the outrages and excesses which then disgraced dublin. one night, in patrolling the city with his drunken associates, they attacked and killed a watch-man, who, with others, had attempted to quell a riot they had excited. he was, therefore, compelled to fly from dublin. he made his way to cork, where he lay concealed for some time, and from thence escaped to the plantations in north america. when the war broke out between france and england, he entered as a volunteer in one of the provincial regiments, and distinguished himself in several engagements with the indians in the interest of the french, during which he seems to have acquired those fierce and cruel qualities by which those tribes are distinguished. he was now particularly noticed by his officers for the intrepidity and spirit he displayed, and was high in favor with colonel massy, his commander; but an accident occurred of so humiliating and degrading a nature, as to extinguish at once all his hopes of advancement. an officer of massy's regiment was possessed of a very valuable fowling-piece which he highly prized. he missed it from his tent, and made diligent inquiry after it, but it was nowhere to be found. it was, however, reported that it was seen in the possession of roche, and an order was made to examine his baggage. on searching among it the lost article was found. roche declared that he had bought it from one bourke, a countryman of his own, and a corporal in his regiment. bourke was sent for and examined. he solemnly declared on oath that the statement of roche was altogether false, and that he himself knew nothing at all of the transaction. roche was now brought to a court-martial, and little appearing in his favor, he was convicted of the theft, and, as a lenient punishment, ordered to quit the service with every mark of disgrace and ignominy. irritated with this treatment, roche immediately challenged the officer who had prosecuted him. he refused, however, to meet him, on the pretext that he was a degraded man, and no longer entitled to the rank and consideration of a gentleman. stung to madness, and no longer master of himself, he rushed to the parade, insulted the officer in the grossest terms, and then flew to the picket-guard, where he attacked the corporal with his naked sword, declaring his intention to kill him on the spot. the man with difficulty defended his life, till his companions sprung upon roche and disarmed him. though deprived of his weapon, he did not desist from his intention; crouching down like an indian foe, he suddenly sprung, like roderick dhu, at his antagonist, and fastened on his throat with his teeth, and before he could be disengaged nearly strangled him, dragging away a mouthful of flesh, which, in the true indian spirit, he afterward said was "the sweetest morsel he had ever tasted." from the fierce and savage character he displayed on this occasion, he obtained the appellation of "tiger," an affix which was ever after joined to his name. a few days after, the english army advanced to force the lines of ticonderoga. unfortunate roche was left desolate and alone in the wilderness, an outcast from society, apparently abandoned by all the world. his resolution and fidelity to his cause, however, did not desert him. he pursued his way through the woods till he fell in with a party of friendly indians, and by extraordinary exertions and forced marches, arrived at the fortress with his indians, to join in the attack. he gave distinguished proofs of his courage and military abilities during that unfortunate affair, and received four dangerous wounds. he attracted the notice of general abercrombie, the leader of the expedition; but the stain of robbery was upon him, and no services, however brilliant, could obliterate it. from hence he made his way to new york, after suffering incredible afflictions from pain, poverty, and sickness. one man alone, governor rogers, pitied his case, and was not satisfied of his guilt. in the year , roche received from his friends in ireland a reluctant supply of money, which enabled him to obtain a passage on board a vessel bound for england, where he arrived shortly afterward. he reserved part of his supply of money for the purchase of a commission, and hoped once more to ascend to that rank from which he had been, as he thought, unjustly degraded; but just as the purchase was about to be completed, a report of his theft in america reached the regiment, and the officers refused to serve with him. with great perseverance and determined resolution, he traced the origin of the report to a captain campbell, then residing at the british coffee-house, in charing-cross. he met him in the public room, taxed him with what he called a gross and false calumny, which the other retorted with great spirit. a duel immediately ensued, in which both were desperately wounded. roche now declared in all public places, and caused it to be every where known, that, as he could not obtain justice on the miscreant who had traduced his character in america, he would personally chastise every man in england who presumed to propagate the report. with this determination, he met one day, in the green park, his former colonel, massy, and another officer, who had just returned home. he addressed them, and anxiously requested they would, as they might, remove the stain from his character. they treated his appeal with contempt, when he fiercely attacked them both. they immediately drew their swords, and disarmed him. a crowd of spectators assembled round, and being two to one they inflicted severe chastisement on roche. foiled in his attempt, he immediately determined to seek another occasion, and finding that one of them had departed for chester, roche set out after him with the indefatigable perseverance and pursuit of a bloodhound. here roche again sought him, and meeting him in the streets, again attacked him. roche was, however, again defeated, and received a severe wound in the sword-arm, which long disabled him. but that redress to his character now came accidentally and unexpectedly, which all his activity and perseverance could not obtain. bourke, the corporal, was mortally wounded by a scalping party of indians, and on his death-bed made a solemn confession that he himself had actually stolen the fowling-piece, and sold it to roche, without informing him by what means he had procured it, and that roche had really purchased it without any suspicion of the theft. this declaration of the dying man was properly attested, and universally received, and restored the injured roche at once to character and countenance. his former calumniators now vied with each other in friendly offers to serve him; and as a remuneration for the injustice and injury he had suffered, a lieutenancy in a newly-raised regiment was conferred upon him gratuitously. he soon returned to dublin with considerable eclat; the reputation of the injuries he had sustained, the gallant part he had acted, and the romantic adventures he had encountered among the indians, in the woods of america, were the subject of every conversation. convivial parties were every where made for him. wherever he appeared, he was the lion of the night. a handsome person, made still more attractive by the wounds he had received, a graceful form in the dance, in which he excelled, and the narrative of "his hair-breadth 'scapes," with which he was never too diffident to indulge the company, made him at this time "the observed of all observers" in the metropolis of ireland. but a service which he rendered the public in dublin deservedly placed him very high in their esteem and good-will. it was at this time infested with those miscreants who were known by the names of "sweaters," or "pinkindindies," and every night some outrage was perpetrated on the peaceable and unoffending inhabitants. one evening late, an old gentleman with his son and daughter, were returning home from a friend's house, when they were attacked on ormond-quay by a party of them. roche, who was accidentally going the same way at the same time, heard the shrieks of a woman crying for assistance, and instantly rushed to the place. here he did not hesitate singly to meet the whole party. he first rescued the young woman from the ruffian who held her, and then attacking the band, he desperately wounded some, and put the rest to flight. his spirited conduct on this occasion gained him a high and deserved reputation, and inspired others with resolution to follow his example. he formed a body, consisting of officers and others of his acquaintance, to patrol the dangerous streets of dublin at night, and so gave that protection to the citizens which the miserable and decrepit watch were not able to afford. but he was not fated long to preserve the high character he had acquired. his physical temperament, impossible to manage, and his moral perceptions, hard to regulate, were the sport of every contingency and vicissitude of fortune. the peace concluded in reduced the army, and he retired in indigent circumstances to london, where he soon lived beyond his income. in order to repair it, he paid his addresses to a miss pitt, who had a fortune of £ . on the anticipation of this, he engaged in a career of extravagance that soon accumulated debts to a greater amount, and the marriage portion was insufficient to satisfy his creditors. he was arrested and cast into the prison of the king's bench, where various detainers were laid upon him, and he was doomed to a confinement of hopeless termination. here his mind appears to have been completely broken down, and the intrepid and daring courage, which had sustained him in so remarkable a manner through all the vicissitudes of his former life, seemed to be totally exhausted. he submitted to insults and indignities with patience, and seemed deprived not only of the capability to resent, but of the sensibility to feel them. on one occasion he had a trifling dispute with a fellow-prisoner, who kicked him, and struck him a blow in the face. there was a time when his fiery spirit would not have been satisfied but with the blood of the offender. he now only turned aside and cried like a child. it happened that his countryman, buck english, a personage of some notoriety, was confined at the same time in the bench; with him also he had some dispute, and english, seizing a stick, flogged him in a savage manner. roche made no attempt to retaliate or resist, but crouched under the punishment. but while he shrunk thus under the chastisement of men, he turned upon his wife, whom he treated with such cruelty, that she was compelled to separate from him, and abandon him to his fate. at length, however, an act of grace liberated him from a confinement under which all his powers were fast sinking; and a small legacy, left him by a relation, enabled him once more to appear in the gay world. with his change of fortune a change of disposition came over him; and in proportion as he had shown an abject spirit in confinement, he now exhibited even a still more arrogant and irritable temper than he had ever before displayed. he was a constant frequenter of billiard tables, where he indulged in insufferable assumption, with sometimes a shrewd and keen remark. he was one day driving the balls about with the cue, and on some one expostulating with him that he was not playing himself, but hindering other gentlemen from their amusement; "gentlemen!" said roche, "why, sir, except you and i, and one or two more, there is not a gentleman in the room." his friend afterwards remarked that he had grossly offended a large company, and wondered some of them had not resented the affront. "oh!" said roche, "there was no fear of that. there was not a thief in the room that did not consider himself _one_ of the _two_ or _three_ gentlemen i excepted!" again his fortune seemed in the ascendant, and the miserable, spiritless, flogged and degraded prisoner of the king's bench, was called on to stand as candidate to represent middlesex in parliament. so high an opinion was entertained of his daring spirit, that it was thought by some of the popular party he might be of use in intimidating colonel luttrell, who was the declared opponent of wilkes at that election. in april, , he was put into nomination at brentford by mr. jones, and seconded by mr. martin, two highly popular electors. he, however, disappointed his friends, and declined the poll, induced, it was said, by promises of luttrell's friends to provide for him. on this occasion he fought another duel with a captain flood, who had offended him in a coffee-house. he showed no deficiency of courage, but on the contrary even a larger proportion of spirit and generosity than had distinguished him at former periods. returning at this time one night to his apartments at chelsea, he was attacked by two ruffians, who presented pistols to his breast. he sprang back, and drew his sword, when one of them fired at him, and the ball grazed his temple. he then attacked them both, pinned one to the wall, and the other fled. roche secured his prisoner, and the other was apprehended next day. they were tried at the old bailey, and capitally convicted; but at the humane and earnest intercession of roche, their punishment was mitigated to transportation. all the fluctuations of this strange man's character seemed at length to settle into one unhappy state, from which he was unable ever again to raise himself. he met with a young person, walking with her mother in st. james's park, and was struck with her appearance. he insinuated himself into their acquaintance, and the young lady formed for him a strong and uncontrollable attachment. she possessed a considerable fortune, of which roche became the manager. his daily profusion and dissipation soon exhausted her property, and the mother and daughter were compelled to leave london, reduced to indigence and distress, in consequence of the debts in which he had involved them. he was soon after appointed captain of a company of foot in the east india service, and embarked in the vansittart, for india, in may, . he had not been many days on board, when such was his impracticable temper that he fell out with all the passengers, and among the rest with a captain ferguson, who called him out as soon as they arrived at madeira. roche was again seized with a sudden and unaccountable fit of terror, and made submission. the arrogance and cowardice he displayed revolted the whole body of the passengers, and they unanimously made it a point that the captain should expel him from the table. he was driven, therefore, to the society of the common sailors and soldiers on board the ship. with them he endeavored to ingratiate himself, by mixing freely with them, and denouncing vengeance against every gentleman and officer on board the ship; but his threats were particularly directed against ferguson, whom he considered the origin of the disgrace he suffered. on the arrival of the ship at the cape, after all the passengers were disembarked, roche came ashore, in the dusk of the evening, and was seen about the door of the house where ferguson lodged. a message was conveyed to ferguson, who went out, and was found soon afterward round the corner of the house, weltering in his blood, with _nine_ deep wounds, all on his left side; and it was supposed they must have been there inflicted, because it was the unprotected side, and the attack was made when he was off his guard. suspicion immediately fixed on roche as the murderer; he fled during the night, and took refuge among the caffres. it was supposed that he ended his strange and eventful life soon after. the cape was at that time a colony of the dutch, who, vigilant and suspicious of strangers, suffered none to enter there, but merely to touch for provisions and pass on. the proceedings, therefore, of their colonial government were shut up in mystery. it was reported at the time, that roche was demanded and given up to the authorities at the cape, who caused him to be broken alive upon the wheel, according to the then dutch criminal law of the cape, which inflicted that punishment on the more atrocious murderers, and the uncertainty that hung about the circumstance assorted strangely with the wild character of the man. it appears, however, he was tried by the dutch authorities at the cape, and acquitted. he then took a passage in a french vessel to bombay; but the vansittart, in which he had come from england to the cape, had arrived in india before him; information had been given to the british authorities, charging roche with ferguson's murder; and roche was arrested as soon as he landed. he urged his right to be discharged, or at least bailed, on the grounds that there was not sufficient evidence against him; that he had been already acquitted; and that as the offense, if any, was committed out of the british dominions, he could only be tried by special commission, and it was uncertain whether the crown would issue one or not, or, if the crown did grant a commission, when or where it would sit. he argued his own case with the skill of a practiced lawyer. the authorities, however, declined either to bail or discharge him, and he was kept in custody until he was sent a prisoner to england, to stand his trial. an appeal of murder was brought against him, and a commission issued to try it. the case came on at the old bailey, in london, before baron burland, on the th december, . the counsel for roche declined in any way relying on the former acquittal at the cape of good hope; and the case was again gone through. the fact of the killing was undisputed, but from the peculiar nature of the proceedings, there could not be, as in a common indictment for murder, a conviction for manslaughter; and the judge directed the jury, if they did not believe the killing to be malicious and deliberate, absolutely to acquit the prisoner. the jury brought in a verdict of acquittal. the doubt about roche's guilt arose on the following state of facts. on the evening of their arrival at the cape, ferguson and his friends were sitting at tea, at their lodgings, when a message was brought into the room; on hearing which ferguson rose, went to his apartment, and, having put on his sword and taken a loaded cane in his hand, went out. a friend named grant followed him, and found roche and him at the side of the house, round a corner, and heard the clash of swords, but refused to interfere. it was too dark to see what was occurring; but in a few moments he heard roche going away, and ferguson falling. ferguson was carried in, and died immediately. all his wounds were on the _left_ side. the most violent vindictive feelings had existed between them; and there was proof of roche's having threatened "to shorten the race of the fergusons." the message, in answer to which ferguson went out, was differently stated, being, according to one account, "mr. mathews wants mr. ferguson," and to the other, "a gentleman wants mr. mathews." the case for the prosecution was, that this message was a trap to draw ferguson out of the house, and that, on his going out, roche attacked him; and this was confirmed by the improbability of roche's going out for an innocent purpose, in a strange place, on the night of his landing, in the dark, and in the neighborhood of ferguson's lodgings; and particularly by the wounds being on the left side, which they could not be if given in a fair fight with small swords. roche's account was, that on the evening of his arrival he went out to see the town, accompanied by a boy, a slave of his host; that they were watched by some person till they came near ferguson's, when that person disappeared, and immediately afterward, roche was struck with a loaded stick on the head, knocked down, and his arm disabled; that afterward he succeeded in rising, and; perceiving ferguson, drew his sword, and, after a struggle, in which he wished to avoid bloodshed, killed his assailant in self-defense. this was, to some extent, corroborated by the boy at the dutch trial, and by a sailor in england, but both these witnesses were shaken a little in their testimony. according to this account, the message was a concerted signal to ferguson, who had set a watch on roche, intending to assassinate him. the locality of ferguson's wounds was accounted for by his fighting both with cane and sword, using the former to parry. if the second version of the message was correct, it would strongly confirm this account. there was no proof that ferguson knew any one named mathews. a writer of the last century, in speaking of the irish character, concludes with the remark: "in short, if they are good, you will scarcely meet a better: if bad, you will seldom find a worse." these extremes were frequently mixed in the same person. roche, at different periods, displayed them. at one time, an admirable spirit, great humanity, and unbounded generosity; at another, abject cowardice, ferocity, treachery, and brutal selfishness. the vicissitudes of his fortune were as variable as his character: at times he was exposed to the foulest charges, and narrowly escaped ignominious punishment; at others, he was the object of universal esteem and admiration. wives of great lawyers. lawyers do not marry with the impulsiveness of poets. for they are a prudent class--mostly shrewd, practical men--any thing but dreamers; and though they may admire a handsome figure, and like a pretty face as other men do, they have not usually allowed those adventitious gifts of nature to divert their attention from the "main chance" in choosing a wife. lawyers are, take them as a whole, a marrying class, and they not unfrequently enjoy that "lawyer's blessing," a large family. take the lord chancellors, for instance. lord clarendon, lords-keeper coventry, lyttleton, bridgeman, judge jeffries, lord york, lord bathurst, lord loughborough, and lord erskine, were twice married; lord shaftesbury, lord maynard, and lord harcourt, were three times married. the wives whom they chose were usually heiresses, or rich widows; those who remained bachelors, or who married "for love," seem to have formed the exceptions. and yet, on the whole, the married life of the lord chancellors, judging from lord campbell's lives, seems to have been comfortable and happy. the great lord bacon, when a young man plodding at the bar, but with a very small practice, cast about his eyes among the desirable matches of the day, and selected the handsome widow of sir william hutton (nephew and heir of lord chancellor hutton), who had a large fortune at her own disposal. but another legal gentleman had been beforehand with him; and when he proposed he was rejected. his favored rival was sir edward coke, a crabbed widower, but attorney-general, rich and of large estate, as well as of large family. the widow who valued wealth as much as bacon did, married the old man, running off with him, and entering into an irregular marriage, for which they were both prosecuted in the ecclesiastical court. bacon had reason to rejoice at his escape, for the widow was of capricious and violent temper, and led coke a most wretched life, refusing to take his name, separating from him, doing every thing to vex and annoy him, and teaching his child to rebel against him. bacon was however shortly after consoled by a rich and handsome wife, in the daughter of alderman barnham, whom he married. but the marriage seems at best to have been one of convenience on his part. they did not live happily together; she never was a companion to him; and not long before his death, a final separation took place, and the great lord chancellor died without the consolations of female tenderness in his last moments. when the separation took place, "for great and just causes," as he expresses it in his will, he "utterly revoked" all testamentary dispositions in her favor. but she lost nothing by this, for his costly style of living during his official career left him without a penny, and he died insolvent. sir thomas more, when twenty-one, married the eldest daughter of one "maister coult, a gentleman of essex," a country girl, very ill-educated, but fair and well-formed. erasmus says of the marriage--"he wedded a young girl of respectable family, but who had hitherto lived in the country with her parents and sisters; and was so uneducated, that he could mould her to his own tastes and manners. he caused her to be instructed in letters; and she became a very skillful musician, which peculiarly pleased him." the union was a happy one, but short, the wife dying, and leaving behind her a son and three daughters; shortly after which, however, more married again, this time a widow named alice middleton, seven years older than himself, and not by any means handsome. indeed, more indulged himself in a jest on her want of youth and beauty--"_nec bella nec puella_." he had first wooed her, it seems, for a friend, but ended by marrying her himself. erasmus, who was often an inmate of the family, speaks of her as "a keen and watchful manager." "no husband," continues erasmus, "ever gained so much obedience from a wife by authority and severity, as more won by gentleness and pleasantry. though verging on old age, and not of a yielding temper, he prevailed on her to take lessons on the lute, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, which she daily practiced to him." her ordinary and rather vulgar apprehension could not fathom the conscientious scruples of her husband in his refusal to take the oath dictated to him by henry viii.; and when he was at length cast by that bad monarch into the tower, then the grave of so many royal victims, his wife strongly expostulated with him on his squeamishness. "how can a man," she said to him on one occasion, "taken for wise, like you, play the fool in this close filthy prison, when you might be abroad at your liberty, if you would but do as the bishops have done?" she dilated upon his fine house at chelsea, his library, gallery, garden, and orchard, together with the company of his wife and children. but to all he opposed the mild force of his conscience and religious feelings. "is not this house," he asked, "as nigh heaven as my own?" to which her contemptuous ejaculation was--"_tilly vally, tilly vally!_" he persisted in his course, and was executed, after which we hear no more of his wife. among the few great lawyers who have married "for love," hyde, lord clarendon, deserves a place. while yet a young man, he became desperately enamored of the daughter of sir george aycliffe, a wiltshire gentleman of good family, though of small fortune. a marriage was the result, but the beautiful young wife died only six months after, of the malignant small-pox (then a frightful scourge in this country), and hyde was for some time so inconsolable, that he could scarcely be restrained from throwing up his profession and going abroad. two years after, however, he married again into a good family, his second wife being the daughter of sir thomas aylesbury, master of the mint; and the marriage proved highly auspicious. this worthy lady was his companion in all his vicissitudes of fortune--lived with him for many years in exile--shared all his dangers and privations, when at times the parents could with difficulty provide food and raiment for their children; but the wife was yet preserved to see her husband earl of clarendon, lord chancellor and prime minister of england. as an instance of the straits to which the family was occasionally reduced, we may quote the following extract from a letter written by hyde to a friend, when at madrid in , in which he says: "all our money is gone, and let me never prosper, if i know or can imagine how we can get bread a month longer;" and again, "greater necessities are hardly felt by any men than we for the present undergo, such as have almost made me foolish. i have not for my life been able to supply the miserable distress of my poor wife." francis north, afterward lord-keeper guildford, went about marrying in a business-like way. he was a reader at lincoln's inn, but much desired to wed, because he had "grown tired of dining in the hall, and eating a costelet and salad at chateline's in the evening with a friend." besides, he wished to mend his fortune in the most summary way. he first tried a rich, coquettish young widow, but she jilted him. then he found out an alderman who was reputed to be rich, and had three marriageable daughters with a fortune of £ each. he made his approaches, was favorably received, and proceeded to broach the money question to the alderman. the sum named as the young lady's portion was £ ; but as north had set his heart on the £ , he was disappointed, and at once took his leave. the alderman, running after him (at least so relates lord campbell), offered him to boot £ on the birth of the first child. but north would not take a penny under the sum he had fixed upon, and the match fell through. at last he found a lady with £ , , one of the daughters of the earl of devon, whom he courted in a business style, and ultimately married. judge jeffries, when a dissolute youth, courted an heiress, and in spite of her father's interdict, the young lady encouraged jeffries, and corresponded with him. the father fell upon a heap of love-letters which had passed between jeffries and his daughter, and in a savage manner turned the young lady from his doors. she was suffering great distress in some house in holborn, in which she had taken shelter, and where jeffries sought her out. perhaps his marrying her under such circumstances was the one generous act of that infamous man's life. she made him an excellent wife while she lived, but before she died, jeffries was already courting another wife, and married her three months after; and in about three months after that, his new wife presented him with certain marital fruits rather prematurely. this woman caused much scandal during her life, and seems to have been as great a disgrace to the domestic conditions of life, as her husband was to the bench he occupied. neither lord somers nor lord thurlow were married--both having been disappointed in attachments in their younger years. the latter proposed to a young lincolnshire lady, a miss gouch, but she protested "she would not have him--she was positively afraid of him;" so he forswore matrimony thenceforward. we do not remember any other of the lord chancellors who have led a single life. strange that lord chancellor eldon--a man of so much caution and worldly providence, should have been one of the few great lawyers who married "for love;" but it was so. his choice was nearly a penniless beauty, and he had nothing; she was only eighteen, and he twenty-one. scott induced the fair damsel to elope with him; she stole away from her father's home by night, descending from her window by a ladder planted there by her impatient lover; they fled across the border, and got married at blackshiels. the step was an important one for scott--fraught with great consequences; for it diverted him from the church, for which he had been studying, and forced him to the bar, thus compelling him to enter upon a career which ended in the highest honors. william scott, his elder brother, afterward lord stowell, helped the young couple on, and the young lawyer worked with a will. "i have married rashly," said he, in a letter to a friend, "and i have neither house nor home to offer to my wife; but it is my determination to _work hard_ to provide for the woman i love, as soon as i can find the means of so doing." he was shortly after engaged by sir robert chambers, as his deputy, to read lectures on law at oxford; and in after years he used to relate the following story respecting his first appearance in the character of a lecturer. "the most awkward thing that ever occurred to me was this: immediately after i was married, i was appointed deputy professor of law, at oxford; and the law professor sent me the first lecture, which i had to read _immediately_ to the students, and which i began without knowing a word that was in it. it was upon the statute of _young men running away with maidens_. fancy me reading, with about one hundred and forty boys and young men giggling at the professor! such a tittering audience no one ever had." it remains for us to notice the wives of two other great lawyers, who, though not equal in rank to those we have named, were equal to any of them in professional merit, and in true nobility of character. we allude to the late sir samuel romilly and sir james mackintosh, both of whom were blessed in their married state, and have left behind them memorials of the most touching kind in memory of their wives. "for fifteen years," says sir samuel romilly, writing in , "my happiness has been the constant study of the most excellent of wives; a woman in whom a strong understanding, the noblest and most elevated sentiments, and the most courageous virtue, are united to the warmest affection, and to the utmost delicacy of mind and tenderness of heart; and all these intellectual perfections are graced and adorned by the most splendid beauty that human eyes ever beheld. she has borne to me seven children, who are living, and in all of whom i persuade myself that i discover the promise of them, one day, proving themselves not unworthy of such a mother." the noble woman here referred to was anne, the eldest daughter of francis garbett, esq., of knill court, herefordshire, whom romilly married in january, . he first accidentally met the young lady when on a visit to the marquis of lansdowne, at bowood. he gives the following charming account of the circumstance in his diary: "the amiable disposition of lord and lady lansdowne always renders the place delightful to their guests. to me, besides the enjoyment of the present moment, there is always added, when i am at bowood, a thousand pleasing recollections of past times; of the happy days i have spent, of the various society of distinguished persons i have enjoyed, of the friendships i have formed here; and above all, that it was here that i first saw and became known to my dearest anne. if i had not chanced to meet with her here, there is no probability that i should ever have seen her; for she had never been, nor was likely, unmarried, to have been in london. to what accidental causes are the most important occurrences of our lives sometimes to be traced! some miles from bowood is the form of a white horse, grotesquely cut out upon the downs, and forming a landmark to wide extent of country. to that object it is that i owe all the real happiness of my life. in the year i made a visit to bowood. my dear anne, who had been staying there some weeks, with her father and her sisters, was about to leave it. the day fixed for their departure was the eve of that on which i arrived; and if nothing had occurred to disappoint their purpose, i never should have seen her. but it happened that, on the preceding day, she was one of an equestrian party which was made to visit this curious object; she overheated herself by her ride; a violent cold and pain in her face was the consequence. her father found it indispensably necessary to defer his and her journey for several days, and in the mean time i arrived. i saw in her the most beautiful and accomplished creature that ever blessed the sight and understanding of man--a most intelligent mind, an uncommonly correct judgment, a lively imagination, a cheerful disposition, a noble and generous way of thinking, an elevation and heroism of character, and a warmth and tenderness of affection, such as is rarely found even in her sex, were among her extraordinary endowments. i was captivated alike by the beauties of her person, and the charms of her mind. a mutual attachment was formed between us, which, at the end of a little more than a year, was consecrated by marriage. all the happiness i have known in her beloved society, all the many and exquisite enjoyments which my dear children have afforded me, even my extraordinary success in my profession, the labors of which, if my life had not been so cheered and exhilarated, i never could have undergone--all are to be traced to this trivial cause." lady romilly died on the th of october, , and the bereaved husband was unable to bear up under this terrible loss. the shock occasioned by her death deprived him of his senses, and in his despair he committed the fatal act which laid him in the same grave with his devoted wife. in life they were united, and in death they would not be separated. mackintosh married when only a young man in great pecuniary straits. he was living in the family of dr. fraser, london, where miss catherine stuart, a young scotch lady, was a frequent visitor. she was distinguished by a rich fund of good sense, and an affectionate heart, rather than for her personal attractions. an affection sprang up between them, and they got privately married at marylebone church, on february th, , greatly to the offense of the relatives of both parties. when composing his _vindiciæ gallicæ_ at little ealing, his wife sat by him in the room; he could tolerate no one else, and he required her to be perfectly quiet--not even to write or work--as the slightest movement disturbed him. in the evening, by way of recreation, he walked out with his wife, reading to her as he went along. this amiable wife died in , when slowly recovering from the birth of a child, and she left three daughters behind her. mackintosh thus spoke of his departed wife, in a letter to dr. parr, written shortly after his sad bereavement, and we do not remember ever to have met with a more beautiful testimony to a deceased wife than this is: "in the state of deep, but quiet melancholy, which has succeeded to the first violent agitations of my sorrow, my greatest pleasure is to look back with gratitude and pious affection on the memory of my beloved wife; and my chief consolation is the soothing recollection of her virtues. allow me, in justice to her memory, to tell you what she was, and what i owed her. i was guided in my choice only by the blind affection of my youth. i found an intelligent companion and a tender friend, a prudent monitress, the most faithful of wives, and a mother as tender as children ever had the misfortune to lose. i met a woman who, by the tender management of my weaknesses, gradually corrected the most pernicious of them. she became prudent from affection; and though of the most generous nature, she was taught frugality and economy by her love for me. during the most critical period of my life, she preserved order in my affairs, from the care of which she relieved me. she gently reclaimed me from dissipation; she propped my weak and irresolute nature; she urged my indolence to all the exertions that have been useful and creditable to me; and she was perpetually at hand to admonish my heedlessness or improvidence. to her i owe whatever i am; to her, whatever i shall be. in her solicitude for my interest, she never for a moment forgot my feelings, or my character. even in her occasional resentment, for which i but too often gave her cause (would to god i could recall those moments), she had no sullenness nor acrimony. her feelings were warm and impetuous, but she was placable, tender, and constant. such was she whom i have lost; and i have lost her when her excellent natural sense was rapidly improving, after eight years of struggle and distress had bound us fast together, and moulded our tempers to each other,--when a knowledge of her worth had refined my youthful love into friendship, before age had deprived it of much of its original ardor. i lost her, alas! (the choice of my youth, the partner of my misfortunes) at a moment when i had the prospect of her sharing my better days. if i had lost the giddy and thoughtless companion of prosperity, the world could easily repair the loss; but i have lost the faithful and tender partner of my misfortunes, and my only consolation is in that being, under whose severe, but paternal chastisement, i am bent down to the ground." mackintosh married, about a year after the death of his first wife, catherine, the second daughter of john allen, of cresselly, co. pembroke. she was an amiable and accomplished woman, and greatly contributed to his happiness in after life. she died in , at chêne, near geneva, after a short illness; and her husband, speaking of her afterward, "in the deep sincerity of deliberate conviction," calls her "an upright and pious woman, formed for devoted affection, who employed a strong understanding and resolute spirit in unwearied attempts to relieve every suffering under her view." crime detected.--an anecdote of the paris police. previously to the year , but at what precise date can not say, the city of paris possessed as guardian of its safety, and chief minister of police, a man of rare talent and integrity. at the same period, the parish of st. germais, in the quarter of the rue st. antoine, had for its curé a kind venerable old man, whose whole life was spent in doing good to both the souls and bodies of his fellow-creatures, and whose holy consistency and dignified courage caused him to be loved by the good, and respected by even the most abandoned characters. one cold dark winter's night, the bell at the old curé's door was rung loudly, and he, although in bed, immediately arose and opened the door, anticipating a summons to some sick or dying bed. a personage, richly dressed, with his features partly concealed by a large false beard, stood outside. addressing the curé in a courteous and graceful manner, he apologized for his unseasonable visit, which, as he said, the high reputation of monsieur had induced him to make. "a great and terrible, but necessary and inevitable deed," he continued, "is to be done. time presses; a soul about to pass into eternity implores your ministry. if you come you must allow your eyes to be bandaged, ask no questions, and consent to act simply as spiritual consoler of a dying woman. if you refuse to accompany me, no other priest can be admitted, and her spirit must pass alone." after a moment of secret prayer, the curé answered, "i will go with you." without asking any further explanation, he allowed his eyes to be bandaged, and leaned on the arm of his suspicious visitor. they both got into a coach, whose windows were immediately covered by wooden shutters, and then they drove off rapidly. they seemed to go a long way, and make many doublings and turnings ere the coach drove under a wide archway and stopped. during this time, not a single word had been exchanged between the travelers, and ere they got out the stranger assured himself that the bandage over his companion's eyes had not been displaced, and then taking the old man respectfully by the hand, he assisted him to alight and to ascend the wide steps of a staircase as far as the second story. a great door opened, as if of itself, and several thickly-carpeted rooms were traversed in silence. at length, another door was opened by the guide, and the curé felt his bandage removed. they were in a solemn-looking bed-chamber; near a bed, half-vailed by thick damask curtains, was a small table, supporting two wax lights, which feebly illuminated the cold death-like apartment. the stranger (he was the duke de ----), then bowing to the curé, led him toward the bed, drew back the curtains, and said in a solemn tone: "minister of god, before you is a woman who has betrayed the blood of her ancestors, and whose doom is irrevocably fixed. she knows on what conditions an interview with you has been granted her; she knows too that all supplication would be useless. you know your duty, m. le curé; i leave you to fulfill it, and will return to seek you in half an hour." so saying he departed, and the agitated priest saw lying on the bed a young and beautiful girl, bathed in tears, battling with despair, and calling in her bitter agony for the comforts of religion. no investigation possible! for the unhappy creature declared herself bound by a terrible oath to conceal her name; besides, she knew not in what place she was. "i am," she said, "the victim of a secret family tribunal, whose sentence is irrevocable! more, i can not tell. i forgive mine enemies, as i trust that god will forgive me. pray for me!" the minister of religion invoked the sublime promises of the gospel to soothe her troubled soul, and he succeeded. her countenance, after a time, became composed, she clasped her hands in fervent prayer, and then extended them toward her consoler. as she did so, the curé perceived that the sleeve of her robe was stained with blood. "my child," said he, with a trembling voice, "what is this?" "father, it is the vein which they have already opened, and the bandage, no doubt, was carelessly put on." at these words, a sudden thought struck the priest. he unrolled the dressing, allowed the blood to flow, steeped his handkerchief in it, then replaced the bandage, concealed the stained handkerchief within his vest, and whispered: "farewell, my daughter, take courage, and have confidence in god!" the half-hour had expired, and the step of his terrible conductor was heard approaching. "i am ready," said the curé, and having allowed his eyes to be covered, he took the arm of the duke de ----, and left the awful room, praying meanwhile with secret fervor. arrived at the foot of the staircase, the old man, succeeded, without his guide's knowledge, in slightly displacing the thick bandage so as to admit a partial ray of lamp light. finding himself in the carriage gateway, he managed to stumble and fall, with both hands forward toward a dark corner. the duke hastened to raise him, both resumed their places in the carriage, and, after repassing through the same tortuous route, the curé was set down in safety at his own door. without one moment's delay, he called his servant. "pierre," he said, "arm yourself with a stick, and give me your support; i must instantly go to the minister of police." soon afterward the official gate was opened to admit the well-known venerable pastor. "monseigneur," he said, addressing the minister, "a terrible deed will speedily be accomplished, if you are not in time to prevent it. let your agents visit, before daybreak, every carriage gateway in paris; in the inner angle of one of them will be found a blood-stained handkerchief. the blood is that of a young female, whose murder, already begun, has been miraculously suspended. her family have condemned their victim to have her veins opened one by one, and thus to perish slowly in expiation of a fault, already more than punished by her mortal agony. courage, my friend, you have already some hours. may god assist you--i can only pray." that same morning, at eight o'clock, the minister of police entered the curé's room. "my friend," said he, "i confess my inferiority, you are able to instruct me in expedients." "saved!" cried the old man, bursting into tears. "saved," said the minister, "and rescued from the power of her cruel relations. but the next time, dear abbé, that you want my assistance in a benevolent enterprise, i wish you would give me a little more time to accomplish it." within the next twenty-four hours, by an express order from the king, the duke de ---- and his accomplices were secretly removed from paris, and conveyed out of the kingdom. the young woman received all the care which her precarious state required; and when sufficiently recovered, retired to a quiet country village where the royal protection assured her safety. it is scarcely needful to say, that next to her maker, the curé of st. germais was the object of her deepest gratitude and filial love. during fifteen years, the holy man received from time to time the expression of her grateful affection; and at length, when himself, from extreme old age, on the brink of the grave, he received the intelligence that she had departed in peace. never until then, had a word of this mysterious adventure passed the good curé's lips. on his deathbed, however, he confided the recital to a bishop, one of his particular friends; and from a relation of the latter, i myself heard it. this is the exact truth. zoological stories. travelers' tales have a peculiar reputation for the marvelous, and many travelers have been accused of fiction. whether zoologists' tales are in all cases to be trusted, we have, now and then, a doubt. they are true in the main; but sometimes, possibly, the first narrator of an unusually good story has judiciously abstained from sifting it; and once in the zoological story-book, the pleasant tale has stood on its own merits, and been handled tenderly, as is the way with ornaments; no man too roughly scratching at them to find out of what materials they are composed. of course we accept legends _as_ legends. it was once believed of crocodiles, that, after they had eaten a man comfortably, and left only his skull, at the sweet kernel of which--the brain--they could not get, their tears were shed over the bone until they softened it, and so the skull was opened, and the brain devoured. when that is told us as a legend, we say, certainly, it was a very quaint thing to believe of the tears of crocodiles. then, travelers' tales of the proverbial kind are next of kin to legends. here is a very marvelous one, and yet, let us be bold and say that we believe it. it is this. an indian, having tamed a rattlesnake, carried it about in a box with him, and called it his great father. m. pinnisance met with him as he was starting for his winter hunt, and saw him open the box-door and give the snake his liberty, telling it to be sure and come back to meet him, when he returned to the same spot next may. it was then october. m. pinnisance laughed at the man, who immediately saw his way clearly to a speculation in rum, and betted two gallons that his snake would keep the appointment. the wager was made; the second week in may arrived; the indian and the frenchman were on the appointed spot. the great father was absent, and the indian, having lost his wager, offered to repeat it, doubled, if the snake did not return within the next two days. that wager the frenchman took and lost. the snake, who (had he speech) might have apologized for being rather behind his time, appeared, and crawled into his box. we believe this. rattlesnakes are teachable; and, in this instance, the keeping of the appointment seems to us only an apparent wonder. snakes are not given to travel in the winter, and the indian's father, turned out of the box, made himself snug at no great distance from the place of his ejectment. winter over, the indian came back. his great father may have been dining heartily, and indisposed to stir; but, as he grew more brisk, the accustomed invocation of his little son became effectual, and brought the tame snake to the box as usual. disjonval knew a spider (such a spider was a person to know) who regularly placed himself upon the ceiling over a young lady's head whenever she played the harp, and followed her if she changed her position. the celebrated violinist, berthome (it is our shame never to have heard of him), when a boy, saw a spider habitually come out to hear when he was practicing: this creature at last became familiar, and took a seat upon the desk. lenz tells of a goose who followed a harp-player wherever he performed, probably to hiss him out of self-respect. bingley tells of a pigeon in the neighborhood of a young lady who played brilliantly on the harpsichord; the pigeon did not greatly care about her playing, except when she played the song of "speri si," from handel's opera, admetus: then it would come and sit by the window, testifying pleasure; when the song was over, it would fly back to its dovecote, for it had not learnt the art of clapping wings for an encore. in the matter of experience, we can believe the story of a dog who either was _not_ blessed with a love of music, or had a master given to the perpetration of atrocities against his canine ear; the dog whose peace was broken by his master's practice on the violin, took every opportunity to hide the stick. plutarch's story of the mule we are at liberty, we hope, to set down in the list of pleasant fables. the mule laden with salt blundered, by chance, into a stream; on coming out it found its load to be so agreeably lightened, that it afterward made a point of taking a bath upon its travels. to cure it of this trick, the panniers were filled with sponge, and then when the mule came out of the water with the sponges saturated, it felt a load that it had reason to remember. dr. pelican saw a party of rats around the bunghole of a cask of wine dipping their tails in and then licking them. mr. jesse tells of rats who performed a similar feat with an oil-bottle. but this is nothing in comparison with the acuteness of degrandpre's monkey. left with an open bottle of aniseed brandy, he sucked what he could from it with tongue and fingers, and then poured sand into the bottle till the rest ran over. le vaillant, the african traveler, had with him dogs and a monkey. when the monkey was weary he leapt on a dog's back for a ride. one dog on such occasions quietly stood still. the monkey, fearing to be left behind, would presently jump off and hasten to the caravan: the dog, with studious politeness, took good care to give him precedence. an elephant--we must at once append one tale about the elephant, whose great sagacity makes him the hero of a thousand and one--an elephant belonging to an officer in the bengal army, was left during the long absence of his master to a keeper; who, as even elephant-ostlers will do, cheated him of his rations. when the master came back, the poor half-starved elephant testified the greatest joy, the keeper, in his master's presence, put, of course, the full allowance of food before the elephant, who immediately divided it into two parts, one representing his short commons, which he devoured greedily; the other representing the amount to which he had been defrauded in his dinners, he left. the officer of course understood the hint, and the man confessed his breach of trust. we must get rid of another story of an elephant; like the last, perfectly credible. elephants have more sagacity than dogs, and of dogs few tales that are current are doubtful. this is the tale of an elephant in the jardin des plantes. a painter used to study from the animals in the garden, and was minded once to paint the elephant. but of course he must paint him in an attitude; and even the sagacity of an elephant failed to understand that the artist wished him to keep his mouth open, and hold up his trunk. the artist therefore got a little boy, and intrusted to his care a bag of apples, which he was to throw into the elephant's mouth one by one, obliging him in this way to keep his trunk uplifted. "the apples," says mr. broderip, "were numerous, but the painter was not a landseer, and as he had not the faculty of seizing and transferring character with edwin's magical power and rapidity, the task was tedious. by the master's directions, the boy occasionally deceived the elephant by a simulated chuck, and thus eked out the supply. notwithstanding the just indignation of the balked expectant, his _gourmandise_ checked his irritable impatience; and, keeping his eye on the still well-filled bag, he bore the repeated disappointment, crunching an apple, when it chanced to come, with apparent glee. at length the last apple was thrown and crunched, the empty bag was laid aside, and the elephant applied himself to his water-tank as if for the purpose of washing down his repast. a few more touches would have completed the picture, when an overwhelming _douche_ from his well-adjusted trunk obliterated the design, and drenched the discomfited painter. having, by this practical application of retributive justice, executed judgment on the instigator, the elephant, disdaining the boy, whom he regarded as the mere instrument of wrong, marched proudly round his inclosure, loudly trumpeting forth his triumph." we have left that story in the pleasant words of its accomplished narrator. mr. thomson now shall tell us one in his way, which illustrates the faculty of imitation: "an oran-otan, brought up by père carbasson, became so fond of him, that wherever he went, it always seemed desirous of accompanying him; whenever, therefore, he had to perform the service of his church, he was under the necessity of shutting him up in a room. once, however, the animal escaped, and followed the father to the church, where, silently mounting the sounding-board above the pulpit, he lay perfectly still till the sermon commenced. he then crept to the edge, and overlooking the preacher, imitated all his gestures in so grotesque a manner, that the whole congregation were unavoidably urged to laugh. the father, surprised and confounded at this ill-timed levity, severely rebuked their inattention. the reproof failed in its effect; the congregation still laughed, and the preacher, in the warmth of his zeal, redoubled his vociferations and actions; these the ape imitated so exactly, that the congregation could no longer restrain themselves, but burst out into a loud and continued laughter." of course a friend stepped up to acquaint the preacher with the existence of a second person above the sounding-board, co-operating with him zealously. and of course the culprit was taken out by the servants of the church with a face expressive of insulted innocence. there was a dog trained to run on errands for his master, who was trotting home one evening along a by-road, with a basket containing hot pies for his master's supper, when two highwaymen dogs burst out upon him, and while he dogfully fought one, the other burglariously broke into his basket. the dog who was waylaid saw instantly that fighting would not save the pies; the pies must go, and it resolved itself into a question who should eat them. he at once gave up his contest with the adversary; if the pies were to be eaten--among dogs, at least--his right was the best, so he immediately darted on the basket and devoured all that remained. a story of an elephant again comes to the surface. at macassar, an elephant-driver had a cocoa-nut given him, which he wantonly struck twice against the elephant's forehead to break it. the next day, they were passing by some cocoa-nuts in the street exposed for sale. the elephant took up one, and began to knock it on the driver's head; the result, unhappily, was fatal. elephants commonly discriminate so well, as to apportion punishment to the offense against them: they are considerate, merciful, and magnanimous. another story of an elephant, we think, occurs in one of mr. broderip's books. a visitor to an elephant at a fair, having given to him one by one a number of good ginger-bread nuts, thought it a good joke to end by giving him at once a bag full of the hottest kind. the elephant, distressed with pain, took bucket-full after bucket-full of water, and the joker, warned of his danger, had barely escaped over the threshold before the bucket was flung violently after his departing figure. a year afterward, the foolish fellow came again, with gingerbread in one pocket and hot spice in the other. he began with his donations of gingerbread, and then modestly substituted one hot nut. the moment it was tasted by the elephant, the offender was remembered, and caught up into the air by his clothes; his weight tore them, and he fell, leaving the elephant his tails and some part of his trousers. the animal putting them on the floor set his foot upon them, and having deliberately picked out of the pockets and eaten all the gingerbread that he considered orthodox, he trod upon the rest, and threw the tails away. the cape baboons appear to have a tact for battle, like the caffres. lieutenant shipp headed twenty men, to recapture sundry coats and trowsers stolen by a cape baboon. he made a circuit, to cut off the marauders from their caverns; they observed him, and detaching a small troop, to guard the entrance, kept their posts. they could be seen collecting large stones, under the active superintendence of an old gray-headed baboon, who appeared to be issuing his orders as a general. the soldiers rushed to the attack, when down came an avalanche of enormous stones, and britons left baboons the masters of the situation. of monkey-tricks, the indians have an amusing fable. a man went on a journey with a monkey and a goat, and he took with him, for his refreshment, rice and curds. arrived at a tank, the man resolved to bathe and dine. while he was in his bath, the monkey ate his dinner, and, having wiped his mouth and paws on the goat's beard, he left the goat to settle his account. when the man came out of the bath, and found his dinner gone, it was quite easy to see, by the goat's beard, who had stolen it. the monkey was no ass. the sense of asses is not rated very high; but that is a mistake about them. they are shrewder people than we take them for, and kind-hearted as well. a poor higgler, living near hawick, had an ass for his only companion and partner in the business. the higgler being palsied, was accustomed to assist himself often upon the road, by holding to the ass's tail. once, on their travels, during a severe winter, man and ass were plunged into a snow-wreath, near rule water. after a hard struggle, the ass got out; but, knowing that his helpless master was still buried, he made his way to him, and placed himself so that his tail lay ready to his partner's hand. the higgler grasped it, and was dragged out to a place of safety. zoologically speaking, it ought not to be thought disrespectful in a man to call his friend "an ass." elephants, again. they show their good taste, and are very fond of children. dr. darwin says: the keeper of an elephant, in his journey in india, sometimes leaves him fixed to the ground by a length of chain, while he goes into the woods to collect food for him; and, by way of reciprocal attention, asks the elephant to mind his child--a child unable to walk--while he is gone. the animal defends it; lets it creep about his legs; and, when it creeps to the extremity of the chain, he gently wraps his trunk about the infant's body, and brings it again into the middle of the circle. and now we can not clear our minds of elephants without unburthening a story, which we have from a tale-teller with indian experience, and which we imagine to be now first told in print. it causes us to feel that in a parliament of animals, elephants would have divided in favor of a ten-hours' bill. there was a large ship's rudder to be floated; men were busy about it one evening, when a file of elephants were passing, on the way home from work, and it was proposed and carried that an elephant might as well save them their pains, and push the thing into the water for them. so an elephant was brought, and put his head down, and appeared to push with might, but not a beam stirred. another was brought to help him, with the same result; and finally, as many elephants as the rudder would allow, seemed to be busy and did nothing. so the elephants went home. they had struck, and declined working but of business hours: next morning, on the way to work, one elephant was again brought, and pushed the rudder down into the water, almost as a man might push a walking-stick. stories illustrative of the kindness, gratitude, and kindred feelings of which animals are capable, have no end; one follows on another; for in fact, the animals, bird, beast, and fish, are all good fellows, if you come to know them properly. a rat tamed by a prisoner at genf slept in his bosom. punished for some fault, it ran away, but its anger or its fear died and its love lived on: in a month it returned. the prisoner was released, and in the joy of liberty it did not come into his mind to take his old companion with him. the rat coiled itself up in some old clothes left by his friend, all that was left of him, abstained from food, and died in three days. a surgeon at dover saw in the streets a wounded terrier, and like a true man took it home with him, cured it in two days, and let it go. the terrier ran home, resolved to pay the doctor by installments. for many succeeding weeks he paid a daily visit to the surgery, wagged his tail violently for some minutes and departed. tailwagging is dog's money, and when this dog thought that he had paid in his own coin a proper doctor's bill, the daily visit to the surgery was discontinued. an episode of the italian revolution. during my residence at london in the early part of , i became acquainted with count ---- and his friend del uomo, both italians. they had settled at london about two years previously, and were remarkable for the strength of attachment subsisting between them. i believe it was four years since they had left lombardy, and they had clung together in exile closer than brothers. del uomo was several years the senior. his age might be about thirty; and a nobler looking italian i never met with. there was a majesty in his fine manly form, and a dignity in his bearing, that impressed every body at first sight. his countenance was peculiarly handsome, yet shaded with an expression of habitual melancholy. his piercing black eyes, and long black hair, and flowing beard, added to the interest of his aspect. his influence over his young companion was most extraordinary. count ---- regarded him as friend, brother, father. whatever del uomo did or said was right in his eyes; and yet on the vital subject of religion the two were diametrically opposed. at the time in question, italy was in a flame of war, and refugee italians were hurrying from all parts of the world to fight in what they deemed a righteous cause. for reasons not necessary to be named, count ---- could not himself join his fellow-patriots; but his pen and his purse were devoted to the cause. del uomo, however, at once prepared to leave for the seat of war. "i have a father, mother, and sisters," said he, "who are exposed to all the horrors of war, and for them, as well as for my poor bleeding country, my sword must be drawn." his friend was almost heartbroken to part with him, but there was no alternative. well do i remember the morning when del uomo left london. numbers of italians assembled to bid him farewell, and the parting scene was deeply affecting. when i myself wrung his hand, and bade god speed him, i felt the subtle involuntary presentiment that he would be shot, and mentioned it to my friends at the time. little, however, did i think in what manner he would meet his end. many months rolled on, with varying success to the arms of italy. i frequently heard tidings of del uomo from his friend. the gallant fellow had obtained a commission in a regiment of cavalry, and was said to have distinguished himself in every action. ere the close of the campaign, his regiment was almost annihilated, but he himself escaped, i believe, without a wound. austria triumphed, and italy was bound in chains heavier than ever. one morning, count ---- received a parcel of letters from italy, the perusal of which threw him into a state of distraction. it was two or three days ere i learned their full import--detailing the following intelligence of the betrayal of del uomo to his enemies, and his cruel death. the parents and family of del uomo remained in lombardy--he himself being in security in some other part of italy. he was seized with an intense desire to see them once more, and at all hazards determined to indulge in this natural yearning. he had fought openly and manfully against the austrians, and, however merciless they might be, he did not think they would have sufficient colorable excuse to put him to death, even if he were recognized and seized. probably he was correct in this, but he had not reckoned on the depths of perfidy to which they would descend. hardly had he set foot in the lombard territory, ere he was recognized by a creature of austria, who instantly planned his destruction. accosting del uomo, this spy inquired whether he were not about to visit such a town? (i believe, the very town where his parents dwelt.) the unsuspicious fellow replied in the affirmative. "then," said the other, "would you do me the favor to deliver this letter to a friend of mine, there resident? i have no other opportunity to send it, and shall be infinitely obliged." del uomo, with his usual kindliness of disposition, instantly consented, and put the letter into his pocket, without even looking at the superscription. from that moment his doom was sealed, and he went as a victim to the slaughter. no sooner had he embraced his family than the bloodhounds of austria were on his track, and to his amazement, he was seized, and accused of being engaged in a traitorous design. he indignantly denied it. "i fought in open battle against you, man to man, sword to sword," replied he; "but the war is over, and never since have i done aught against austria." he was searched, and the letter given him to deliver found in his pocket. it was opened, and proved to be a treasonable correspondence addressed to one known as a conspirator. vain all explanation of the manner in which it came into his possession--vain all the frantic prayers for mercy by his agonized family. the ruthless austrians only required a fair-seeming pretext to put so distinguished an enemy to death, and here it was. whether the general in command did or did not believe del uomo guilty, admits of some doubt; but that mattered not, so far as his doom was concerned. little respite--no mercy. he was condemned to be shot on the spot. the priest, his confessor, was so satisfied of his innocency, that he even knelt to the austrian general, imploring pardon, or at least a respite till the truth could be investigated; but the general only answered, "he dies!" del uomo behaved like a christian and a hero. he prayed fervently to god to receive his soul. death he feared not in itself, but the bitterness of such a death as this to his poor family was indeed an awful trial. he was led out to the fatal spot, and there he embraced his relatives for the last time. he gave his watch to his father, his handkerchief to a sister, and bequeathed other little mementoes to his friends. his poor mother swooned away, but his father and one or two sisters stood by him till all was over. they offered to bind his eyes, but he refused. "no," said he, "i am not afraid to look upon death. i will enter eternity with open eyes." and he looked his farewell at his friends, at the glorious orb of day, at the landscape, at the soil of italy, so soon to be watered with his blood; then he drew himself to his full height, bared his breast, and, with flashing eyes, cried, "fire, soldiers! long live italy!" nine balls pierced him, and he ceased to breathe. peace to the memory of del uomo! the mighty magician. he stood upon the summit of a mount, waving a wand above his head uplifted; and smote the ground, whence gushed, as from a fount, a sparkling stream, with magic virtues gifted. it fill'd the air with music as it leapt, merrily bounding over hill and hollow; and swiftly to the distant plain it swept, gurgling a challenge to the birds to follow. onward and onward, parting as it ran a thousand streamlets from the parent river, it roll'd among the farthest haunts of man, wooing the sunlight on its breast to quiver where'er it flow'd, it fed the desert earth with wholesome aliment, its seeds to nourish; quickening its treasures into rapid birth, and bidding golden harvests spring and flourish. fair thriving cities rising on its banks, gather'd the noble, and enrich'd the humble; throng'd with the happy in their various ranks, they rear'd proud domes that ages scarce could crumble the great magician from his lofty height beheld the world, with boundless plenty teeming, and his eye kindled with a sense of might, proudly, yet softly, at the prospect gleaming. "i've wrought," he cried, "rich blessings for mankind i've thrill'd with happiness the hearts of mourners; and fame will waft upon her wings of wind the deeds of peace to earth's remotest corners!" two kinds of honesty. some few years ago, there resided in long acre an eccentric old jew, named jacob benjamin: he kept a seed shop, in which he likewise carried on--not a common thing, we believe, in london--the sale of meal, and had risen from the lowest dregs of poverty, by industry and self-denial, till he grew to be an affluent tradesman. he was, indeed, a rich man; for as he had neither wife nor child to spend his money, nor kith nor kin to borrow it of him, he had a great deal more than he knew what to do with. lavish it on himself he could not, for his early habits stuck to him, and his wants were few. he was always clean and decent in his dress, but he had no taste for elegance or splendor in any form, nor had even the pleasures of the table any charms for him; so that, though he was no miser, his money kept on accumulating, while it occurred to him now and then to wonder what he should do with it hereafter. one would think he need not have wondered long, when there were so many people suffering from the want of what he abounded in; but mr. benjamin, honest man, had his crotchets like other folks. in the first place, he had less sympathy with poverty than might have been expected, considering how poor he had once been himself; but he had a theory, just in the main, though by no means without its exceptions--that the indigent have generally themselves to thank for their privations. judging from his own experience, he believed that there was bread for every body that would take the trouble of earning it; and as he had had little difficulty in resisting temptation himself, and was not philosopher enough to allow for the varieties of human character, he had small compassion for those who injured their prospects by yielding to it. then he had found, on more than one occasion, that even to the apparently well-doing, assistance was not always serviceable. endeavor was relaxed, and gratuities, once received, were looked for again. doubtless, part of this evil result was to be sought in mr. benjamin's own defective mode of proceeding; but i repeat, he was no philosopher, and in matters of this sort he did not see much farther than his nose, which was, however, a very long one. to public charities he sometimes subscribed liberally; but his hand was frequently withheld by a doubt regarding the judicious expenditure of the funds, and this doubt was especially fortified after chancing to see one day, as he was passing the crown and anchor tavern, a concourse of gentlemen turn out, with very flushed faces, who had been dining together for the benefit of some savages in the southern pacific ocean, accused of devouring human flesh--a practice so abhorrent to mr. benjamin, that he had subscribed for their conversion. but failing to perceive the connection betwixt the dinner and that desirable consummation, his name appeared henceforth less frequently in printed lists, and he felt more uncertain than before as to what branch of unknown posterity he should bequeath his fortune. in the mean time, he kept on the even tenor of his way, standing behind his counter, and serving his customers, assisted by a young woman called leah leet, who acted as his shop-woman, and in whom, on the whole, he felt more interest than in any body else in the world, insomuch that it even sometimes glanced across his mind, whether he should not make her the heiress of all his wealth. he never, however, gave her the least reason to expect such a thing, being himself incapable of conceiving that, if he entertained the notion, he ought to prepare her by education for the good fortune that awaited her. but he neither perceived this necessity, nor, if he had, would he have liked to lose the services of a person he had been so long accustomed to. at length, one day a new idea struck him. he had been reading the story of his namesake, benjamin, in the old testament, and the question occurred to him, how many among his purchasers of the poorer class--and all who came to his shop personally were of that class--would bring back a piece of money they might find among their meal, and he thought he should like to try a few of them that were his regular customers. the experiment would amuse his mind, and the money he might lose by it he did not care for. so he began with shillings, slipping one among the flour before he handed it to the purchaser. but the shillings never came back--perhaps people did not think so small a sum worth returning; so he went on to half-crowns and crowns, and now and then, in very particular cases, he even ventured a guinea; but it was always with the same luck, and the longer he tried, the more he distrusted there being any honesty in the world, and the more disposed he felt to leave all his money to leah leet, who had lived with him so long, and to his belief, had never wronged him of a penny. "what's this you have put into the gruel, mary?" said a pale, sickly-looking man, one evening, taking something out of his mouth, which he held toward the feeble gleams emitted by a farthing rush-light standing on the mantle-piece. "what is it, father?" inquired a young girl, approaching him. "isn't the gruel good?" "it's good enough," replied the man; "but here's something in it: it's a shilling, i believe." "it's a guinea, i declare!" exclaimed the girl, as she took the coin from him and examined it nearer the light. "a guinea!" repeated the man; "well, that's the first bit of luck i've had these seven years or more. it never could have come when we wanted it worse. show it us here, mary." "but it's not ours, father," said mary. "i paid away the last shilling we had for the meal, and here's the change." "god has sent it us, girl! he saw our distress, and he sent it us in his mercy!" said the man, grasping the piece of gold with his thin, bony fingers. "it must be mr. benjamin's," returned she. "he must have dropped it into the meal-tub that stands by the counter." "how do you know that?" inquired the man with an impatient tone and a half-angry glance. "how can you tell how it came into the gruel? perhaps it was lying at the bottom of the basin, or at the bottom of the sauce-pan. most likely it was." "oh, no, father," said mary: "it is long since we had a guinea." "a guinea that we knew of; but i've had plenty in my time, and how do you know this is not one we had overlooked?" "we've wanted a guinea too much to overlook one," answered she. "but never mind, father; eat your gruel, and don't think of it: your cheeks are getting quite red with talking so, and you won't be able to sleep when you go to bed." "i don't expect to sleep," said the man, peevishly; "i never do sleep." "i think you will, after that nice gruel!" said mary, throwing her arms round his neck, and tenderly kissing his cheek. "and a guinea in it to give it a relish, too!" returned the father, with a faint smile and an expression of archness, betokening an inner nature very different from the exterior which sorrow and poverty had encrusted on it. his daughter then proposed that he should go to bed; and having assisted him to undress, and arranged her little household matters, she retired behind a tattered, drab-colored curtain which shaded her own mattress, and laid herself down to rest. the apartment in which this little scene occurred, was in the attic story of a mean house, situated in one of the narrow courts or alleys betwixt the strand and drury-lane. the furniture it contained was of the poorest description; the cracked window-panes were coated with dust; and the scanty fire in the grate, although the evening was cold enough to make a large one desirable--all combined to testify to the poverty of the inhabitants. it was a sorry retreat for declining years and sickness, and a sad and cheerless home for the fresh cheek and glad hopes of youth; and all the worse, that neither father nor daughter was "to the manner born;" for poor john glegg had, as he said, had plenty of guineas in his time; at least, what should have been plenty, had they been wisely husbanded. but john, to describe the thing as he saw it himself, had always "had luck against him." it did not signify what he undertook, his undertakings invariably turned out ill. he was born in scotland, and had passed a great portion of his life there; but, unfortunately for him, he had no scotch blood in his veins, or he might have been blessed with some small modicum of the caution for which that nation is said to be distinguished. his father had been a cooper, and when quite a young man, john had succeeded to a well-established business in aberdeen. his principal commerce consisted in furnishing the retail-dealers with casks, wherein to pack their dried fish; but partly from good-nature, and partly from indolence, he allowed them to run such long accounts, that they were apt to overlook the debt altogether in their calculations, and to take refuge in bankruptcy when the demand was pressed and the supply of goods withheld--his negligence thus proving, in its results, as injurious to them as to himself. five hundred pounds embarked in a scheme projected by a too sanguine friend, for establishing a local newspaper, which "died ere it was born;" and a fire, occurring at a time that john had omitted to renew his insurance, had seriously damaged his resources, when some matter of business having taken him to the isle of man, he was agreeably surprised to find that his branch of trade, which had of late years been alarmingly declining in aberdeen, was there in the most flourishing condition. delighted with the prospect this state of affairs opened, and eager to quit the spot where misfortune had so unrelentingly pursued him, john, having first secured a house at ramsay, returned to fetch his wife, children, and merchandise, to this new home. having freighted a small vessel for their conveyance, he expected to be deposited at his own door; but he had unhappily forgotten to ascertain the character of the captain, who, under pretense that, if he entered the harbor, he should probably be wind-bound for several weeks, persuaded them to go ashore in a small boat, promising to lie-to till they had landed their goods; but the boat had no sooner returned to the ship, than, spreading his sails to the wind, he was soon out of sight, leaving john and his family on the beach, with--to recur to his own phraseology--"nothing but what they stood up in." having with some difficulty found shelter for the night, they proceeded on the following morning in a boat to ramsay; but here it was found that, owing to some informality, the people who had possession of the house refused to give it up, and the wanderers were obliged to take refuge in an inn. the next thing was to pursue, and recover the lost goods; but some weeks elapsed before an opportunity of doing so could be found; and at length, when john did reach liverpool, the captain had left it, carrying away with him a considerable share of the property. with the remainder, john, after many expenses and delays, returned to the island, and resumed his business. but he soon discovered to his cost, that the calculations he had made were quite fallacious, owing to his having neglected to inquire whether the late prosperous season had been a normal or an exceptional one. unfortunately, it was the latter; and several very unfavorable ones that succeeded reduced the family to great distress, and finally to utter ruin. relinquishing his shop and his goods to his creditors, john glegg, heart-sick and weary, sought a refuge in london--a proceeding to which he was urged by no prudential motives, but rather by the desire to fly as far as possible from the scenes of his vexations and disappointments, and because he had heard that the metropolis was a place in which a man might conceal his poverty, and suffer and starve at his ease, untroubled by impertinent curiosity or officious benevolence; and, above all, believing it to be the spot where he was least likely to fall in with any of his former acquaintance. but here a new calamity awaited him, worse than all the rest. a fever broke out in the closely-populated neighborhood in which they had fixed their abode, and first two of his three children took it, and died; and then himself and his wife--rendered meet subjects for infection by anxiety of mind and poor living--were attacked with the disease. he recovered; at least he survived, though with an enfeebled constitution, but he lost his wife, a wise and patient woman, who had been his comforter and sustainer through all his misfortunes--misfortunes which, after vainly endeavoring to avert, she supported with heroic and uncomplaining fortitude; but dying, she left him a precious legacy in mary, who, with a fine nature, and the benefit of her mother's precept and example, had been to him ever since a treasure of filial duty and tenderness. a faint light dawned through the dirty window on the morning succeeding the little event with which we opened our story, when mary rose softly from her humble couch, and stepping lightly to where her father's clothes lay on a chair, at the foot of his bed, she put her hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and, extracting therefrom the guinea which had been found in the gruel the preceding evening, she transferred it to her own. she then dressed herself, and having ascertained that her father still slept, she quietly left the room. the hour was yet so early, and the streets so deserted, that mary almost trembled to find herself in them alone; but she was anxious to do what she considered her duty without the pain of contention. john glegg was naturally an honest and well-intentioned man, but the weakness that had blasted his life adhered to him still. they were doubtless in terrible need of the guinea, and since it was not by any means certain that the real owner would be found, he saw no great harm in appropriating it; but mary wasted no casuistry on the matter. that the money was not legitimately theirs, and that they had no right to retain it, was all she saw; and so seeing, she acted unhesitatingly on her convictions. she had bought the meal at mr. benjamin's, because her father complained of the quality of that she procured in the smaller shops, and on this occasion he had served her himself. from the earliness of the hour, however, though the shop was open, he was not in it when she arrived on her errand of restitution; but addressing leah leet, who was dusting the counter, she mentioned the circumstance, and tendered the guinea; which the other took and dropped into the till, without acknowledgment or remark. now mary had not restored the money with any view to praise or reward: the thought of either had not occurred to her; but she was, nevertheless, pained by the dry, cold, thankless manner with which the restitution was accepted, and she felt that a little civility would not have been out of place on such an occasion. she was thinking of this on her way back, when she observed mr. benjamin on the opposite side of the street. the fact was, that he did not sleep at the shop, but in one of the suburbs of the metropolis, and he was now proceeding from his residence to long acre. when he caught her eye, he was standing still on the pavement, and looking, as it appeared, at her, so she dropped him a courtesy, and walked forward; while the old man said to himself: "that's the girl that got the guinea in her meal yesterday. i wonder if she has been to return it!" it was mary's pure, innocent, but dejected countenance, that had induced him to make her the subject of one of his most costly experiments. he thought if there was such a thing as honesty in the world, that it would find a fit refuge in that young bosom; and the early hour, and the direction in which she was coming, led him to hope that he might sing _eureka_ at last. when he entered the shop, leah stood behind the counter, as usual, looking very staid and demure; but all she said was, "good-morning;" and when he inquired if any body had been there, she quietly answered: "no; nobody." mr. benjamin was confirmed in his axiom; but he consoled himself with the idea, that as the girl was doubtless very poor, the guinea might be of some use to her. in the mean time, mary was boiling the gruel for her father's breakfast, the only food she could afford him, till she got a few shillings that were owing to her for needle-work. "well, father, dear, how are you this morning?" "i scarce know, mary. i've been dreaming, and it was so like reality, that i can hardly believe yet it was a dream;" and his eyes wandered over the room, as if looking for something. "what is it, father? do you want your breakfast? it will be ready in five minutes." "i've been dreaming of a roast fowl and a glass of scotch ale, mary. i thought you came in with the fowl, and a bottle in your hand, and said: 'see, father, this is what i've bought with the guinea we found in the meal!'" "but i couldn't do that, father, you know. it wouldn't have been honest to spend other people's money." "nonsense!" answered john. "whose money is it, i should like to know? what belongs to no one, we may as well claim as any body else." "but it must belong to somebody; and, as i knew it was not ours, i've carried it back to mr. benjamin." "you have?" said glegg, sitting up in bed. "yes, i have, father. don't be angry. i'm sure you won't when you think better of it." but john _was_ very angry indeed. he was dreadfully disappointed at losing the delicacies that his sick appetite hungered for, and which, he fancied, would do more to restore him than all the _doctors' stuff_ in london; and, so far, he was perhaps right. he bitterly reproached mary for want of sympathy with his sufferings, and was peevish and cross all day. at night, however, his better nature regained the ascendant; and when he saw the poor girl wipe the tears from her eyes, as her nimble needle flew through the seams of a shirt she was making for a cheap warehouse in the strand, his heart relented, and, holding out his hand, he drew her fondly toward him. "you're right, mary," he said, "and i'm wrong; but i'm not myself with this long illness, and i often think if i had good food i should get well, and be able to do something for myself. it falls hard upon you, my girl: and often when i see you slaving to support my useless life, i wish i was dead and out of the way; and then you could do very well for yourself, and i think that pretty face of yours would get you a husband perhaps." and mary flung her arms about his neck, and told him how willing she was to work for him, and how forlorn she should be without him, and desired she might never hear any more of such wicked wishes. still, she had an ardent desire to give him the fowl and the ale he had longed for, for his next sunday's dinner; but, alas!--she could not compass it. but on that very sunday, the one that succeeded these little events, leah leet appeared with a smart new bonnet and gown, at a tea-party given by mr. benjamin to three or four of his intimate friends. he was in the habit of giving such small inexpensive entertainments, and he made it a point to invite leah; partly because she made the tea for him, and partly because he wished to keep her out of other society, lest she should get married and leave him--a thing he much deprecated on all accounts. she was accustomed to his business, he was accustomed to her, and, above all, she was so honest! but there are various kinds of honesty. mary glegg's was of the pure sort; it was such as nature and her mother had instilled into her; it was the honesty of high principle. but leah was honest, because she had been taught that honesty is the best policy; and as she had her living to earn, it was extremely necessary that she should be guided by the axiom, or she might come to poverty and want bread, like others she saw, who lost good situations from failing in this particular. now, after all, this is but a sandy foundation for honesty; because a person who is not actuated by a higher motive, will naturally have no objection to a little peculation in a safe way--that is, when they think there is no possible chance of being found out. in short, such honesty is but a counterfeit, and, like all counterfeits, it will not stand the wear and tear of the genuine article. such, however, was leah's, who had been bred up by worldly-wise teachers, who neither taught nor knew any better. entirely ignorant of mr. benjamin's eccentric method of seeking what, two thousand years ago, diogenes thought it worth while to look for with a lantern, she considered that the guinea brought back by mary was a waif, which might be appropriated without the smallest danger of being called to account for it. it had probably, she thought, been dropped into the meal-tub by some careless customer, who would not know how he had lost it; and, even if it were her master's, he must also be quite ignorant of the accident that had placed it where it was found. the girl was a stranger in the shop; she had never been there till the day before, and might never be there again; and, if she were, it was not likely she would speak to mr. benjamin. so there could be no risk, as far as she could see; and the money came just apropos to purchase some new attire that the change of season rendered desirable. many of us now alive can remember the beginning of what is called the sanitary movement, previous to which era, as nothing was said about the wretched dwellings of the poor, nobody thought of them, nor were the ill consequences of their dirty, crowded rooms, and bad ventilation at all appreciated. at length the idea struck somebody, who wrote a pamphlet about it, which the public did not read; but as the author sent it to the newspaper editors, they borrowed the hint, and took up the subject, the importance of which, by slow degrees, penetrated the london mind. now, among the sources of wealth possessed by mr. benjamin were a great many houses, which, by having money at his command, he had bought cheap from those who could not afford to wait; and many of these were situated in squalid neighborhoods, and were inhabited by miserably poor people; but as these people did not fall under his eye, he had never thought of them--he had only thought of their rents, which he received with more or less regularity through the hands of his agent. the sums due, however, were often deficient, for sometimes the tenants were unable to pay them, because they were so sick they could not work; and sometimes they died, leaving nothing behind them to seize for their debts. mr. benjamin had looked upon this evil as irremediable; but when he heard of the sanitary movement, it occurred to him, that if he did something toward rendering his property more eligible and wholesome, he might let his rooms to a better class of tenants, and that greater certainty of payment, together with a little higher rent, would remunerate him for the expense of the cleaning and repairs. the idea being agreeable both to his love of gain and his benevolence, he summoned his builder, and proposed that he should accompany him over these tenements, in order that they might agree as to what should be done, and calculate the outlay; and the house inhabited by glegg and his daughter happening to be one of them, the old gentleman, in the natural course of events, found himself paying an unexpected visit to the unconscious subject of his last experiment; for the last it was, and so it was likely to remain, though three months had elapsed since he made it; but its ill success had discouraged him. there was something about mary that so evidently distinguished her from his usual customers; she looked so innocent, so modest, and withal so pretty, that he thought if he failed with her, he was not likely to succeed with any body else. "who lives in the attics?" he inquired of mr. harker, the builder, as they were ascending the stairs. "there's a widow, and her daughter, and son-in-law, with three children, in the back-room," answered mr. harker. "i believe the women go out charring, and the man's a bricklayer. in the front, there's a man called glegg and his daughter. i fancy they're people that have been better off at some time of their lives. he has been a tradesman--a cooper, he tells me; but things went badly with him; and since he came here, his wife died of the fever, and he's been so weakly ever since he had it, that he can earn nothing. his daughter lives by her needle." mary was out; she had gone to take home some work, in hopes of getting immediate payment for it. a couple of shillings would purchase them coal and food, and they were much in need of both. john was sitting by the scanty fire, with his daughter's shawl over his shoulders, looking wan, wasted, and desponding, "mr. benjamin, the landlord, mr. glegg," said harker. john knew they owed a little rent, and was afraid they had come to demand it. "i'm sorry my daughter's out, gentlemen," he said. "will you be pleased to take a chair." "mr. benjamin is going round his property," said harker. "he is proposing to make a few repairs, and do a little painting and whitewashing, to make the rooms more airy and comfortable." "that will be a good thing, sir," answered glegg--"a very good thing; for i believe it is the closeness of the place that makes us country folks ill when we come to london. i'm sure i've never had a day's health since i've lived here." "you've been very unlucky, indeed, mr. glegg," said harker. "but you know, if we lay out money, we shall look for a return. we must raise your rent." "ah, sir, i suppose so," answered john, with a sigh; "and how we're to pay it, i don't know. if i could only get well, i shouldn't mind; for i'd rather break stones on the road, or sweep a crossing, than see my poor girl slaving from morning to night for such a pittance." "if we were to throw down this partition, and open another window here," said harker to mr. benjamin, "it would make a comfortable apartment of it. there would be room, then, for a bed in the recess." mr. benjamin, however, was at that moment engaged in the contemplation of an ill-painted portrait of a girl, that was attached by a pin over the chimney-piece. it was without a frame, for the respectable gilt one that had formerly encircled it, had been taken off, and sold to buy bread. nothing could be coarser than the execution of the thing, but as is not unfrequently the case with such productions, the likeness was striking; and mr. benjamin, being now in the habit of seeing mary, who bought all the meal they used at his shop, recognized it at once. "that's your daughter, is it?" he said. "yes, sir; she's often at your place for meal; and if it wasn't too great a liberty, i would ask you, sir, if you thought you could help her to some sort of employment that's better than sewing; for it's a hard life, sir, in this close place for a young creature that was brought up in the free country air; not that mary minds work, but the worst is, there's so little to be got by the needle, and it's such close confinement." mr. benjamin's mind, during this address of poor glegg's, was running on his guinea. he felt a distrust of her honesty--or rather of the honesty of both father and daughter; and yet, being far from a hard-hearted person, their evident distress and the man's sickness disposed him to make allowance for them. "they couldn't know that the money belonged to me," thought he; adding aloud: "have you no friends here in london?" "no, sir, none. i was unfortunate in business in the country, and came here hoping for better luck; but sickness overtook us, and we've never been able to do any good. but, mary, my daughter, doesn't want for education, sir; and a more honest girl never lived!" "honest, is she?" said mr. benjamin, looking glegg in the face. "i'll answer for her, sir," answered john, who thought the old gentleman was going to assist her to a situation. "you'll excuse me mentioning it, sir; but perhaps it isn't every body, distressed as we were, that would have carried back that money she found in the meal: but mary _would_ do it, even when i said perhaps it wasn't yours, and that nobody might know whose it was; which was very wrong of me, no doubt; but one's mind gets weakened by illness and want, and i couldn't help thinking of the food it would buy us; but mary wouldn't hear of it. i'm sure you might trust mary with untold gold, sir; and it would be a real charity to help her to a situation, if you knew of such a thing." little deemed leah that morning, as she handed mary her quart of meal and the change for her hard-earned shilling, that she had spoiled her own fortunes, and that she would, ere night, be called upon to abdicate her stool behind the counter in favor of that humble customer; and yet so it was. mr. benjamin could not forgive her dereliction from honesty; and the more he had trusted her, the greater was the shock to his confidence. moreover, his short-sighted views of human nature, and his incapacity for comprehending its infinite shades and varieties, caused him to extend his ill opinion further than the delinquent merited. in spite of her protestations, he could not believe that this was her first misdemeanor; but concluded that, like many other people in the world, she had only been reputed honest because she had not been found out. leah soon found herself in the very dilemma she had deprecated, and the apprehension of which had kept her so long practically honest--without a situation, and with a damaged character. as mary understood book-keeping, the duties of her new office were soon learned; and the only evil attending it was, that she could not take care of her father. but determined not to lose her, mr. benjamin found means to reconcile the difficulty by giving them a room behind the shop, where they lived very comfortably, till glegg, recovering some portion of health, was able to work a little at his trade. in process of time, however, as infirmity began to disable mr. benjamin for the daily walk from his residence to his shop, he left the whole management of the business to the father and daughter, receiving every shilling of the profits, except the moderate salaries he gave them, which were sufficient to furnish them with all the necessaries of life, though nothing beyond. but when the old gentleman died, and his will was opened, it was found that he had left every thing he possessed to mary glegg; except one guinea, which, without alleging any reason, he bequeathed to leah leet. a forgotten celebrity. "time and chance," as king solomon says, "happen to all;" and this is peculiarly the case in the matter of fame and reputation. many who have done much, and have enjoyed a fine prospect of a name that should survive them, have scarcely earned an epitaph; while others, by a mere accident, have rolled luxuriously down to posterity, like a fly on the chariot-wheels of another's reputation. "the historic muse" is a very careless jade, and many names with which she has undertaken to march down to latest times, have been lost by the way, like the stones in the legend that fell through the devil's apron when he was carrying them to build one of his bridges. the chiffonniers of literature pick up these histories from time to time; sometimes they are valuable, sometimes only curious. mademoiselle de gournay's story is a curiosity. marie de jars, demoiselle de gournay, was born at paris in . she was of a noble and ancient family; her father, at his death, left what in those days was a handsome fortune; but mademoiselle de gournay, his widow, had an unfortunate mania for building, which devoured it. when she took her place beside her husband in his grave, she left little but mortgages behind her. judging from the portraits prefixed to her works, marie de jars must in her youth have possessed some personal attractions, in spite of her detractors: her figure was of middle height, her face rather round than oval, but with a pleasing expression, and adorned with a pair of large black eyes and a pretty little mouth. her own account of herself, in a copy of verses, addressed to her friend mademoiselle de ragny, is, that she was of a very lively and obliging disposition. that she was obliging and kind-hearted, many circumstances of her life could prove; but for liveliness, we are inclined to think that she flattered herself: nothing can be further removed from liveliness than her works--they are pompously serious. her father died when she was very young, leaving five children: two elder and two younger than marie. the eldest daughter married; the son entered the army; and marie, the eldest of the remaining three, seems to have been left pretty much to follow her own devices. from her earliest years she had a passion for reading, and showed a wonderful sagacity in the choice of books: her favorites were amyot, ronsard, and montaigne; to these authors she afterward added racan. she was so faithfully exclusive in her taste, that she never cared to read any others. it was in that montaigne published the two first volumes of his essays. marie de jars was scarcely fourteen when they fell accidentally in her way, and her admiration amounted to enthusiasm: she sent a friend to tell montaigne, who was then in paris, how much she admired him, and the esteem in which she held his book. this proceeding from so young a person, who was moreover "fort demoiselle," flattered montaigne very sensibly. he went the very next day to pay a visit to mademoiselle de gournay: her conversation and enthusiasm won the heart of the philosopher. in their first interview montaigne offered her the affection of a father for a daughter and mademoiselle de gournay proudly assumed the title of the adopted daughter of montaigne; and in a letter addressed to him, which is still to be seen, she says, "that she feels as proud of that title as she should be to be called the mother of the muses themselves." this friendship never failed or diminished; it was the best thing marie ever achieved in this life, and is her chief claim on the sympathy and interest of posterity. but marie de jars became possessed by the demon of wishing to become a distinguished woman on her own account. to accomplish this, she set to work to learn greek and latin, and though she brought more zeal than method to her studies, she worked with so much perseverance as to obtain a good insight into both languages. montaigne, in the next edition of his essays, added the following passage to the seventeenth chapter of the second book: "i have taken a delight to publish in many places the hopes i have of marie de gournay de jars, my adopted daughter, beloved by me with more than a paternal love, and treasured up in my solitude and retirement as one of the best parts of my own being. i have no regard to any thing in this world but to her. if a man may presage from her youth, her soul will one day be capable of very great things; and, among others, of that perfection of friendship of which we do not read that any of her sex could yet arrive at; the sincerity and solidity of her manners are already sufficient for it; her affection toward me more than superabundant, and such as that there is nothing more to be wished, if not that the apprehension she has of my end from the five-and-fifty years i had reached when she knew me, might not so much afflict her. "the judgment she made of my first essays, being a woman so young, and in this age, and alone in her order, place, and the notable vehemence with which she loved and desired me, upon the sole esteem she had of me before ever she saw my face, are things very worthy of consideration." any woman might justly have been proud of such a tribute, and one feels to like montaigne himself all the better for it. in montaigne went with mademoiselle de gournay and her mother to their château at gournay-sur-aronde, and spent some time with them. in the year following she published her first book, calling it "proumenoir de m. de montaigne." she dedicated it to him, and sent a copy to him at bordeaux, where he was then residing. that must have been a very proud day for marie! this "proumenoir" was not, as its title might suggest, any account of montaigne, or relics of his conversation, but only a rambling arabian story, which if gracefully told by marie herself, might perhaps have been interesting during the course of a walk, but which, set down upon paper, is insipid to a degree, and of an interminable length. montaigne is answerable for the sin of having encouraged her to write it, thus adding to the weary array of books that nobody is able to read. at her mother's death, mademoiselle de gournay did something much better: she took charge of her younger brother and sister, and administered the affairs of the family (which, as we have said, madame de gournay had left in great embarrassment) with so much discretion and judgment, that she redeemed all the mortgages, paid off all the debts, and was in possession of about two thousand pounds in money. montaigne died in , at bordeaux. enthusiastic and devoted, mademoiselle de gournay set off as soon as she was informed of it, and, providing herself with passes, crossed almost the whole kingdom of france alone, to visit his widow and daughter, to console them as best she might--and to weep with them the loss they had sustained. madame de montaigne gave her the essays, enriched with notes in her husband's hand-writing, in order that she might prepare a new and complete edition of them. this was a labor of love to marie: she revised all the proofs, which were executed with so much correctness, that she is well entitled to call it, as she does, "le bon et vieux exemplaire." it remains to this day the principal edition as regards authenticity of text, and one of the handsomest as regards typography. it appeared in (paris, abel langlier). mademoiselle de gournay wrote a preface, which is not without eloquence. she vigorously repels all the objections that had been raised against the work, and alludes to her adoption by montaigne with genuine feeling. we translate the passage: "reader, having the desire to make the best of myself to thee, i adorn myself with the noble title of this adoption. i have no other ornament, and i have a good right to call him my true father, from whom all that is good or noble in my soul proceeds. the parent to whom i owe my being, and whom my evil fortune snatched from me in my infancy, was an excellent father, and a most virtuous and clever man--and he would have felt less jealousy in seeing the second to whom i gave this title of father, than he would have felt pride in seeing the manner of man he was." the good lady's style is of the most intractable to render into common language. with montaigne's death, the whole course of mademoiselle de gournay's life seemed to be arrested. henceforth all her strength and enthusiasm were expended in keeping herself exactly where he had left her. she resolutely set her face against all the improvements and innovations which were every day being brought into the french language, which was making rapid progress; but mademoiselle de gournay believed that she had seen the end of all perfection when montaigne died. not only in her style of writing, but also in her mode of living, she remained obstinately stereotyped after the fashion of the sixteenth century, during the first half of the seventeenth. while still young, she became a whimsical relic of a by-gone mode--a caricature out of date. she resided in paris, where there was at that time a mania for playing practical jokes; and mademoiselle de gournay, with her pedantry and peculiarities, was considered as lawful game; many unworthy tricks were played upon her by persons who, nevertheless, dreaded the explosions of her wrath on discovery, which on such occasions were of an emphatic simplicity of speech, startling to modern ears. the word "hoaxing" was not then invented, but the thing itself was well understood. a forged letter was written, purporting to come from king james the first of england, requesting mademoiselle de gournay to send him her portrait and her life. she fell into the snare, and sat for her picture, and spent six weeks in writing her memoirs, which she actually sent to england--where, of course, no one knew what to make of them. but when marshal lavardin, who was the french embassador in england, returned to paris, the parties who forged the letter did not fail to tell mademoiselle de gournay that the king of england had spoken most highly of her to the embassador, and had shown him her autograph, which occupied a distinguished place in his cabinet. as m. de lavardin died almost directly after his return, mademoiselle de gournay ran no risk of being undeceived. for a short time she abandoned literature and the belles-lettres to plunge into alchemy, for which she had a mania. her friends remonstrated in vain; they told her how many other people alchemy had ruined, but she not the less persisted in flinging the remains of her fortune into the crucible. like all who have been bewitched by this science, marie fancied that her experiments were arrested by poverty at the moment of success. she retrenched in every way; in food, in clothing; reduced herself to barest necessaries; and sat constantly with the bellows in her hand, hanging over the smoke of her furnace. of course, no gold rewarded her research, and she was at length absolutely obliged to abandon her laboratory, and betake herself afresh to literature. as generous in adversity as she had been in prosperity, mademoiselle de gournay was not hindered by her poverty from adopting an orphan child, the daughter of jamyn, the poet, and friend of ronsard. in the society of this young girl, and of a cat which she celebrated in verse, marie de gournay allowed every thing in the world to change and progress as they might, fully persuaded that the glory of french literature had died with her adopted father, and that she had had the honor of burying it. this cat deserves a special mention, as it was a very noticeable animal in its day. it rejoiced in the name of _piallion_, and during the twelve years it lived with mademoiselle de gournay, it never once quitted the apartments of its mistress to run with other cats upon the roofs and gutters of the neighboring houses; it was, in all respects, discreet and dignified, as became a cat of quality, and above all, as became the cat of such a mistress as mademoiselle de gournay. if mademoiselle de gournay had been young and handsome, _piallion_ would, no doubt, have been as celebrated as leslie's sparrow; as it was, however, it only shared in the satires and caricatures that were made upon its mistress. when mademoiselle de gournay renounced alchemy, and began again to busy herself in literature, she unfortunately mixed herself up in some controversy of the day where the jesuits were in question; we forget what side she took, but she brought down upon herself much abuse and scandal; among other things, she was accused of having led an irregular life, and being even then, "_une femme galante!_" this charge distressed her greatly, and she appealed to a friend to write her vindication. he told her by way of consolation, that if she would publish her portrait, it would be more effectual than a dozen vindications! poor mademoiselle de gournay had long since lost whatever good looks she had possessed in early life, and her alchemical pursuits had added at least ten years to her appearance. in the midst of all the disagreeable circumstances of her lot, she was not without some consolation. she kept up her relation with the family of montaigne, and went on a visit to them in guyenne, where she remained fifteen months. in all her distress, mademoiselle montaigne and her daughter, mademoiselle de gamaches, never deserted her. there is a touching passage in one of her works, in which the name of the "bonne amye" is mentioned. there is little doubt but that it refers to one of these ladies; it is as follows: "if my condition be somewhat better than could have been expected, from the miserable remnant of fortune that remained to me after the quittance of all my debts, liabilities, and losses, it is the assistance of a good friend, who took pleasure to see me keep up a decent appearance, which is the cause of it." mademoiselle de gournay also brightened the dull realities of her existence with brilliant ideas of the fame she was laying up for herself with posterity--hopes which neither mademoiselle jamyn nor piallion were likely to damp. in , she published a collection of her works, in prose and verse, which she entitled "l'ombre de mademoiselle de gournay," and sat in her retirement expecting the rebound of the sensation she had no doubt of producing throughout europe. the book was written in imitation of montaigne's "essays"--all manner of subjects treated of, without any regard to order or arrangement; long dissertations, rambling from topic to topic in every chapter, without any rule but her own caprice. it may be imagined what advantage such a work would give to those disposed to find matter for ridicule; the spirit of mystification and love of hoaxing were not extinct. there was a pitiless clique of idle men attached to the court, and circulating in society, who were always on the watch for victims, at whose expense they might make good stories, or whom they might make the subjects of a practical jest. mademoiselle de gournay had fallen into their snares years before, and she seemed a still more tempting victim now. a regular conspiracy of wicked wits was formed against the poor old woman, who was then not much under sixty years of age. her vanity had grown to enormous magnitude; her credulity was in proportion; while her power of swallowing and digesting any flattery, however gross, was something fabulous. no tribute that could be offered exceeded her notion of her own deserts. she certainly offered fair game for ridicule, and she was not spared. louis the thirteenth, who labored under the royal malady of ennui, enjoyed the accounts of the mystifications that were constantly put upon the poor old lady. they told her (and she believed them) that there was nothing talked about at court but her book; and that his majesty, louis the thirteenth, was her warm admirer. mademoiselle de gournay not unnaturally expected that some solid proof of the royal admiration would follow; but nothing came. louis, well content to be amused by absurd stories about her, never dreamed of rewarding her for them. she was made to believe that her portrait adorned the galleries of brussels and antwerp; that in holland her works had been published with complimentary prefaces; that, in italy, cæsar carpaccio and charles pinto had celebrated her genius in their own tongue, and spread the glory of her name from one end of the peninsula to the other; and that no well-educated person in europe was ignorant of her name and works. marie de gournay, after having been adopted by montaigne, found all these marvels quite probable and easy of belief. these splendid visions of fame and success were quite as good as reality; they gilded her poverty, and invested her privations with a dignity more than regal. among many other mystifications played off upon her, there was one which has since, in different forms, made the plot of farces and vaudevilles without number; but it was for the behoof of mademoiselle de gournay that it was originally made and invented. the poet racan, whose works were some of the few mademoiselle de gournay condescended to read, had received a copy of "l'ombre," and prepared to pay her a visit to return thanks. it must be borne in mind that they had never seen each other; the conspirators chanced to hear of his intentions. such a fine occasion was not to be neglected; having ascertained the time appointed for the interview they took care to be beforehand. the first who presented himself was the chevalier de bresire; he caused himself to be announced by mademoiselle jamyn (the orphan she had adopted; now her friend and companion), as m. racan. he was clever and agreeable, and flattered mademoiselle de gournay with so much grace, that she was enchanted with him. he had scarcely departed, when m. yvrande arrived: "announce m. racan," said he to mademoiselle jamyn. "m. racan has only this moment left us." "some vile trick!" said he, with indignation. mademoiselle de gournay, seeing a young man, still handsomer and more agreeable than the other, and whose compliments were still more poetical, was easily pacified, and received him graciously. a few moments after he had left, the poet himself made his appearance. he was absent, nervous, shabbily dressed, awkward, and had, moreover, a ridiculous pronunciation. he called himself "lacan." the old lady was now out of all patience. "must i, then, see nothing but _racans_ all the days of my life!" she exclaimed, and taking off her slipper, she flung it at his head, abusing him vehemently for daring to impose upon her; and drove him out of the house. of course this story was much too good not to have a great success; it circulated not only through the court, but all over paris, and came at last to the ears of poor mademoiselle de gournay herself, who could not be consoled, as it revealed all the tricks to which she had been a victim. the illusions thus rudely destroyed were far more precious than the philosopher's stone she had so vainly sought, and involved a disappointment infinitely more painful. who can help sympathizing with the poor woman, who thus saw all her fairy treasures resolved into their intrinsic worthlessness? however, good came out of evil. cardinal richelieu--who had been especially delighted with the story of the three racans, and was never weary of hearing it repeated--took the fancy of wishing to see her that he might try to make a good story out of her himself. he sent for her, and indulged in some very clumsy pleasantry, of which he had the grace to feel afterward ashamed. willing to make her some amends, he settled a pension upon her, in order that for the rest of her days, she, and her friend, and her cat, might live on something better than dry bread. under the influence of this gleam of sunshine, mademoiselle de gournay edited another edition of montaigne's work, with an abridgment of her former preface. she also published a fresh work of her own, entitled, "avis et présens de mademoiselle de gournay," which had a moderate success. another edition of "l'ombre" was also called for. all this, in some measure, consoled her for past humiliations. her prosperity lasted until the death of cardinal richelieu. mademoiselle de gournay, then in extreme old age, still survived him. when the list of pensions granted by the cardinal was submitted to the king, her name caught his eye. louis the thirteenth--who might have had some grateful recollection of the many hearty laughs his royalty had enjoyed at her expense--declared that the cardinal must have been mad to grant such a woman a pension, and ordered it to be suppressed! mademoiselle de gournay passed the few remaining years of her life in a state of poverty painful to reflect upon. she died somewhere about , at the age of eighty. poor as she was, she made her will as became a person of her birth. she bequeathed her clothes to mademoiselle jamyn, who, old and infirm, survived her; a few books she left to different friends; and a curious old map of the world, to the poet gombauld--a personage as eccentric as herself, and one who lived and died in still greater penury, but who valued her legacy, and transmitted it to his heirs as the most precious treasure in the world. diligence in doing good. thomas wright, of manchester, is a worn but not a weary man of sixty-three, who has for forty-seven years been weekly servant in a large iron foundry, of which he is now the foreman. his daily work begins at five o'clock in the morning, and closes at six in the evening; for forty-seven years he has worked through twelve hours daily, to support himself and those depending on him. those depending on him are not few; he has had nineteen children; and at some periods there have been grandchildren looking to him for bread. his income never has attained two hundred pounds a year. this is a life of toil. exeter hall might plead for him as a man taxed beyond the standard limit; but he had bread to earn, and knew that he had need to work for it: he did work with great zeal and great efficiency, obtaining very high respect and confidence from his employers. a man so laboring, and leading in his home an exemplary, pious life, might be entitled to go to bed betimes, and rest in peace between these days of industry and natural fatigue. what could a man do, in the little leisure left by so much unremitting work? poor as he was--toiling as he did, a modest man of humble origin, with no power in the world to aid him but the wonderful spiritual power of an earnest will--thomas wright has found means, in his little intervals of leisure, to lead back, with a gentle hand, three hundred convicted criminals to virtue; to wipe the blot from their names and the blight from their prospects; to place them in honest homes, supported by an honest livelihood. fourteen years ago mr. wright visited, one sunday, the new bailey prison, at manchester, and took an earnest interest in what he saw. he knew that, with the stain of jail upon them, the unhappy prisoners, after release, would seek in vain for occupation; and that society would shut the door of reformation on them, and compel them, if they would not starve, to walk on in the ways of crime. the jail-mark branding them as dangerous, men buttoned up their pockets when they pleaded for a second trial of their honesty, and left them helpless. then, thomas wright resolved, in his own honest heart, that he would visit in the prisons, and become a friend to those who had no helper. the chaplain of the new bailey, mr. bagshawe, recognized in the beginning the true practical benevolence of the simple-minded visitor. on his second visit a convict was pointed out, on whom mr. wright might test his power. it was certain power. from the vantage-ground of a comparative equality of station, he pleaded with his fellow workman for the wisdom of a virtuous and honest life. heaven does, and earth should, wipe out of account repented evil. words warm from the heart, backed with a deep and contagious sense in the hearer of the high-minded virtue shown by his companion, were not uttered, like lip-sympathy, in vain. then thomas wright engaged to help his friend, to get employment for him; and, if necessary, to be surety with his own goods for his honorable conduct. he fulfilled his pledge; and that man has been ever since, a prosperous laborer, and an upright member of society. so the work began. so earnest, so humble; yet, like other earnest, humble efforts, with a blessing of prosperity upon it. in this way, during the last fourteen years, by this one man, working in the leisure of a twelve hours' daily toil, hundreds have been restored to peace. he has sent husbands repentant to their wives; he has restored fathers to the fatherless. without incurring debt, supporting a large family on little gains, he has contrived to spare out of his little; contenting himself with a bare existence, that he might have clothes to give and bits of money, where they were required to reinstate an outcast in society. mr. wright is a dissenter--free, of course, from bigotry; for bigotry can never co-exist with charity so genuine. although a dissenter working spiritually in the prison, he never comes into jarring contact with the chaplain. he makes a point of kindling in his outcast friends a religious feeling; but that is not sectarian; he speaks only the largest sentiments of christianity, and asks only that they attend, once every week, a place of worship, leaving them to choose what church or chapel it may be. and, in the chapel he himself attends, wherever his eye turns, he can see decent families who stand by his means there; men whom he has rescued from the vilest courses, kneeling modestly beside their children and their wives. are not these families substantial prayers? very humbly all this has been done. in behalf of each outcast in turn, mr. wright has pleaded with his own employer, or with others, in a plain, manly way. many now work under himself, in his own place of occupation; his word and guarantees having been sufficient recommendation. elsewhere, he has, when rebuffed, persevered from place to place, offering and laying down his own earnings as guarantee; clothing and assisting the repentant unemployed convict out of his own means, as far as possible; speaking words, or writing letters, with a patient zeal, to reconcile to him his honest relatives, or to restore lost friends. bare sustenance for his own body by day, that he might screw out of himself little funds in aid of his good deeds--and four hours' sleep at night, after his hard work, that he might screw out of his bed more time for his devoted labor--these tell their tale upon the body of the man, who still works daily twelve hours for his family, and six or eight hours for his race. he is now sixty-three years old, and working forward on his course worn, but unwearied. no plaudits have been in his ear, and he has sought none. of his labor, the success was the reward. some ladies joined; and working quietly, as he does, in an under-current of society, after a while, he had from them the aid of a small charitable fund, to draw upon occasionally in the interest of the poor friends for whom he struggled. prison inspectors found him out, and praised him in reports. at first there were a few words, and a note told of "this benevolent individual. his simple, unostentatious, but earnest and successful labors on behalf of discharged prisoners are above all praise." after a few years, the reports grew in their enthusiasm, and strung together illustrations of the work that has been done so quietly. let us quote from this source one or two examples: "five years ago i was," owns a certain g.j., "in the new bailey, convicted of felony, and sentenced to four months' imprisonment. when i was discharged from prison, i could get no employment. i went to my old employer, to ask him to take me again. he said, i need not apply to him, for if he could get me transported he would; so i could get no work until i met with mr. wright, who got me employed in a place, where i remained some time, and have been in employment ever since. i am now engaged as a screw-cutter--a business i was obliged to learn--and am earning nineteen shillings and twopence a week. i have a wife and four children, and but for mr. wright, i should have been a lost man." others tell how they were saved by the timely supplies of mr. wright's money, which "kept their heads above water" till they obtained the trust of an employer. another, after telling his career, adds: "i am now, consequently, in very comfortable circumstances; i am more comfortable now than ever i was in my life; i wish every poor man was as comfortable as i am. i am free from tippling, and cursing, and swearing; have peace of mind, and no quarreling at home as there used to be. i dare say i was as wicked a man as any in manchester. i thought if i could once get settled under such a gentleman as mr. wright, i would not abuse my opportunity, and all i expected i have received. i have got bibles, hymn-book, prayer-book, and tracts; and those things i never had in my house since i have been married before. my wife is delighted. my boy goes to school, and my girl also." were the spirit of mr. wright diffused more generally through society, the number of fallen men--who, being restored with all due prudence to a generous confidence, "would not abuse their opportunity"--would tell decidedly on the statistics of our criminal courts and prisons. to labor as mr. wright has done, must be the prerogative of few, though all the indolent may note, by way of spur, how much a man, even like thomas wright, poor, humble, scantily instructed, may beget of good out of an earnest will. the night train. the curate and his daughter sat before the fire. both had been for some time silent, for the father had fallen into that listless dreaminess to which nothing is so conducive as gazing on the glowing caverns in the coals, and pretty little faith cared not to disturb a rest that he was not likely to be long suffered to enjoy unmolested. and so the flamelets rose and sank, lighting their thoughtful faces, and glittering on the gold-embossed backs of the treasured volumes on the shelves--the curate's most constant friends. twilight saddened into night. up from behind the gray church tower came the moon. but still not a word broke the silence in the parsonage parlor. the gaunt arms of the trees waved drearily without. a streak of white moonshine crept across the carpet like a silver snake. still he gazed fixedly on the bright pagoda 'mid the flame: it totters, but before it falls we will track his wandering musings for a moment. all men, he thinks, have as children gazed on the burning coals, and fashioned castles, figures, mountains in them, but though the elements are all the same, no two men ever have presented to them exactly the same position or difficulty in life, and so only general rules of conduct can be laid down; but yet--the minaret crumbles to nothing, and changes to a strange fantastic face, then into something like a funeral plume; his dreams are all dispersed; the pensive damsel looks up hurriedly, for high above the muttering wind, fierce as the summons at the gates of cawdor, he hears a knocking loud and long. it was a farmer's boy from the village. his message was soon told. a poor man had been seized with sudden illness at the wayside public-house, and the clergyman's presence was required immediately. he lingered to tell faith not to wait up for him, then rose without a murmur, and prepared for his long dreary walk. a moment after he was crossing the neatly-kept garden, where the hydrangeas showed like piles of skulls in the pale moonshine, and the chestnut leaves were falling thick and fast. then out into the deep-rutted road, through miry lanes, across stark scraps of common, and paths covered with fern and marsh-mallow, till at last the glimmering candle in the hostelry window came in sight, and he stood under the creaking signboard of the white horse. the inn was of the humblest description, and the room into which he was shown very wretched indeed. the plaster had peeled off the walls in great odd shapes, like the countries on a map; the shutters had as many cracks as an ill-fitting dissecting puzzle; the flooring was damp and broken, there was a tracery of spiders' webs about the bed-furniture, and the only sounds were the groans of the occupant of the bed, and the drowsy ticking of the death-watch. thinking he was asleep, the curate prepared to sit down and wait for him to wake of himself, but the noise of a drinking-song, shouted by some laborers in the bar, startled him from his uneasy slumber, and when mr. f. next looked up, the ghastly face of the sick man confronted his own--an eery nightmare face, such as meets one in the outlines of retzsch, or peering out of the goblin scenes and witches' caves of peter breughel. but if the face was terrible, the voice that asked him "why he came!" and bade him take away the light that glared and hurt his eyes, was more unearthly still. but when he recognized him as the clergyman, his manner altered. in a comparatively tranquil state he listened to the minister's earnest warnings and blessed consolations; then suddenly the pain seized him; he screamed and groaned awhile in wild delirium; a deep calm followed. raising himself in the bed, he drew a roll of torn and discolored papers from under the pillow, and put it into the curate's hand. his senses never returned. a few more throbbings and struggles--a wandering of the eyes about the room, first to the ceiling, where the death-watch ticked on drearily, then to the arcadian scene on the tattered patchwork counterpane--a clutching at the bed-clothes--a shuddering--a film--and then--death! the curate did not sleep that night until he had read the stranger's diary to an end. it began thus: "_august d._--brian marcliffe came to me again; the same odd, mysterious air that i have noticed so long. what can it mean? he can not have found--but no, it's worse than useless having dark forebodings. i shall soon be able to put the sea between me and this cursed golden inferno, brazil, and with my darling bertha forget all these fears in the paradise of full purses--england. "_august th._--i met him by chance again, coming from the overseer's. confound it, how demon-like he looked! i will speak to him myself, rather than be in suspense much longer. i should then know the worst, at least. "_august th._--ruin! the worst has come. he does know all about my being behindhand in my accounts, and hints--i can't write down what. bertha will never marry him but _as the only chance of saving me from exposure_. can he be devil enough to propose it? "_august th._--am i the same man i was a month ago! farewell forever, land of diamonds, slaves, and late summers. farewell lust of gold and dread of disgrace. it is over, i hope, forever. my bertha--my own now--is sleeping like a lily near me, and the only sound is the splashing of the sea that is bearing me every moment further from my fear. but stay; what have i left behind me! what is there in that glen of mimosas? a rotting corpse. what in men's mouths? the name of murderer. pray god it be not. let me think. "on the monday when i was leaving the office, brian came again, and asked me to go as far as old olivenza's coffee plantation. i said i would come, and we set out an hour past sunset. it was a beautiful evening; the skies as pure as the robe of seraphim; the clouds like curls of incense, now hiding, now revealing the dazzling glory of the rising moon--all, save one black streak right across her face, like a spread eagle. well, we had nearly got to the plantation before brian spoke; but i saw he was preparing something by the villainous look of his eyes. he began: "'so, reuben darke, you have considered my proposition, and agree, of course?' "i believe i professed ignorance of it; for, indeed, he had never said any thing definite. "'the consequences of opposition are as terrible as they are inevitable,' said he, threateningly. "'you can not stoop to such vileness--to such wrong. you know that i am striving for a great end--that i will make restitution full and ample if i live to reach england.' "this was the sense of what i said, but his answer was clearly prepared long before he knew what i should urge. it came gnashing through his closed teeth like the hiss of an adder. "'i must do my duty. it is my place to overlook the accounts of all the clerks. you will show me your books to-morrow.' "he turned away. i prayed he might not speak again, for his voice stirred up a feeling i had never known before; but my bad angel, i suppose, brought him back. i scarcely recollect what he said. i have a vague notion of hearing him mention bertha's name with some cursed plan that was to give her up to him forever, and then he would, 'for the sake of old friendship, deal as gently as he possibly could with me.' those words i remember well, and those were the last he ever spoke to me. i dread to think they were his last on earth. the feeling i had wrestled against mastered me now. i could restrain myself no longer, and struck at him with a knife. he clutched my left hand in his teeth like a tiger-cat. for a second we were grappling together for life or death, but he had no chance against me; and when i had breath to look at him next, he was lying on his back, the hands that he had tried to parry my blows with cut and bleeding, and red stains on the broad mimosa leaves around. oh, god! what a reproach there was in all the calm and silence of the night! how the deep quiet of the sky spoke to my heart, so troubled, dark, and guilty! as on the first dread day by sin polluted, the voice of god in eden drove adam forth abashed, so spoke the still small voice of holy nature with more than earthquake tones to me, and straight i fled away. "my bertha does not know the whole. she only knows that brian had me in his power, owing to some money transactions. if she did know it, my conscience tells me she would not now be sleeping here. there--all will be well in england. pray heaven we get there safe. i will go up on deck a few minutes. writing it down has brought the whole affair so fresh before me, that it is useless trying to sleep in this fever. but yet i am glad it is written. "_october th._--we entered the channel this afternoon. it is my wife's birthday; she took it as a happy omen, and seemed so pleased with the glitter and joyance of the busy river, that for a whole hour--the first since i left rio--the dreadful secret hidden 'mid those leaves was absent from my mind. "_october th._--the first news that meets me on entering london is, that my uncle has died suddenly, and left all his affairs frightfully embarrassed. my chief dependence was on him. this is a sad beginning; indeed, i feel that 'all these things are against me.'" several pages were here torn from the unfortunate darke's manuscript; and in the succeeding ones the entries were scanty, and with long intervals between each other. they detailed the sufferings of the writer and his wife on their arrival in london; his repeated efforts to obtain employment, and the difficulties he met with, owing to his uncle's death, and his own inability to refer any one to the directors of the mine at rio. for more than a year (judging from the dates, by no means regularly affixed) he appeared to have struggled on thus, until, when his hopes were fast sinking, and his health rapidly giving way under this succession of disappointments, he obtained a situation on a recently-opened line of railway in the north, through the interest of an old schoolfellow, whom he accidentally met, and who retained in manhood schoolboy heart enough to show gratitude for many kindnesses in olden days. the language was strangely impassioned and earnest in which he expressed his joy at this change of fortune; and the full-hearted thankfulness with which he described telling his wife the good news, seemed to prove that affliction had exerted a calming and blessed influence on his passion-tossed mind. but the clergyman could not help noticing that the spirit pervading the latter part of the diary was strangely different from that which animated the commencement, it being written apparently with the firm conviction of an inevitable destiny hanging over the writer; and this, like the shadow of an unseen cloud in a fair picture, gave a sombre meaning to his self-communings. after briefly mentioning the fact of his taking up his abode with bertha and one little child at the cottage provided by the company, and that he had heard by chance that his enemy was still alive, he proceeded: "i like this new home much. it is a tiny, sheltered cottage, with beehives in the garden, and honeysuckles peeping in at the lattice, nestling innocently among the pine-trees, like a fairy islet. the railway runs for about a mile parallel with the canal, and the two modes of traveling contrast curiously. the former with all its brightness, freshness, and precision; the latter a very sluggard. i often have long talks with huntly, my assistant here, and try to make him see the change it will work; but he is not over shrewd; or, rather, fate did not give him a bookworm uncle like it did me, and so reasoning is hard work to him; it always is to the untaught. the canal is picturesque certainly. let me try a description. the surface of the water is overlaid with weeds rank and luxuriant, save where the passage of a boat has preserved a trench, stagnant, and cold, and deep. there is not a human habitation near except ours. scarcely any paths, the thickets are so tangled. this does not read an inviting account, i know, but there is a charm to me in the leaves of myriad shapes, in fern, and moss, and rush, in every silvan nook and glittering hedgerow--above all, in the dark slumberous pines, those giant sentinels round our dear home. bertha smiled quite like her old self when she saw it. oh, how, in all the wreck of this last year, has her love upheld me! always lightening, never adding to our weight of grief. she has, indeed, been faithful, true, and beautiful--like the indian tree, that has its flower and fragrance best by night. i can not explain why it is that my love seems to grow each hour, but with a kind of tremble in its intensity, as though there were a separation coming. perhaps it is only the result of the change in my fortunes. "_march th._--two years ago i should have laughed had any one told me that a dream would give me a second thought, much less that i should sit down to write what i remember of one; but i must write down last night's, nevertheless. i thought that it was a clear moonlight night, and that i rose as usual to signal to the latest luggage train. i had got to the accustomed place, and stood waiting a long time. for days, for months; i knew this, because the trees were budding when i began my watch--were bare as winter when, with a roar and quaking all around, the night train came. at first i held a lantern in my hand, to signal all was well. strange as it may appear, i felt no weariness, for i was fixed as by a wizard's rod. it passed at length; but not, thank god! as it has ever passed before; for from the carriage window, like a mask, glared marcliffe's vengeful face. i said i held a light; but, as the smoke and iron hurtled by, the lamp was dashed to atoms, and in my outstretched hand i grasped a knife! there was a yell of demons in my ear, with brian's jeering laugh above it all. i moaned awhile in horror, and woke to find my bertha's eyes on mine. she has been soothing and kind as mercy to me all the day, and i, alas! wayward, almost cruel. i saw it pained her, but i could not help it. oh, would that this world had no concealments, no divisions, no estrangement of hearts! i dread the night; there is something tells me it will come again, for when i took the bible down to read, it opened at the words: "'i the lord will make myself known unto him in a vision, and will speak unto him in a dream.' "a thrill went through me as i read. it sounded like a death-knell. "_the next day._--as i foresaw it came again last night; the same in every terrible particular, and with the same consolation on awaking. but what i have seen to-day gives it a meaning that i tremble at. huntly returned from d----. he brought a birthday present for little harry; it happened to be wrapped in an old newspaper. as it was opened, i saw _his_ name, and a moment after read this: "'next of kin.--if any child or children of the late ehud marcliffe, gentleman, of cranholm manse, who died september , --, be yet surviving, it is desired that he or they will forthwith put themselves in communication with messrs. faulk and lockerby, solicitors, d----.' "this leaves me no hope; and knowing, as i do, the unfaltering steadfastness of his hate i feel the days of this security and peace are numbered.... "a whole month has gone since i opened this last. there is no fear now. he is dead. but how? the eye that reads this record alone will know. that fatal thursday went by, a phantasm of dark thoughts; and then i lay down, as usual, for a couple of hours before going to watch. i did this, for there was a kind of instinct in me (the feeling deserves no higher name) which made me go about my avocations in the accustomed way, and seem as little disturbed as possible. i lay down, and in my dream, as distinct as ever it passed by day, for the third time that awful freight swept like a whirlwind by. i awoke. it wanted only three minutes to the hour when the night-train usually passed. i staggered to the door, but, instead of coming out into the light, an inky shadow lay across the road. it was a car left by huntly's carelessness on the up-rail. i stood like one of stone, thinking of the tranquil happiness of the last months, of bertha's smile, and harry's baby laugh--of all the sun and pleasure of our home, and how this precious fabric, wove by love, was to be rent and torn; and how one word from him would ruin all, and send my wife and child to poverty again. and that man's life was in my hand. well may we daily pray against temptation. "a white cloud curled up above the pines. "there was no delay. i caught up the lantern, and ran down the line. a throbbing, like the workings of a giant's pulse, smote my ear. i reached the signal-post, and laid my hand upon the bell. but there was no time for thought. "the murmur deepened to a roar. the clouds of steam rose high above the pines, and, girt about with wreathing vapor, the iron outline, with its blood-red lamps and hecla glow beneath, came on. "my eyes were strangely keen, for at that distance i could discern a man leaning out of the nearest window. i knew who it must be, and almost expecting to see the last dreadful particular fulfilled, held out my hand--_the sign that all was safe_. the driver signaled that he understood, and quickened pace. i shut my eyes when it drew near, but, as it passed, distinctly heard my name called thrice. "there was a moment that seemed never-ending. then a clatter as of a hundred anvil strokes, a rush of snow-white steam, a shower of red-hot ashes scattered far, the hum of voices, and the clanging of the bell. then, and not till then, i ventured to look up and hurry to the spot. the train, a series of shapeless wrecks, luggage-vans, trucks, carriages in wild confusion, lay across the road; live coals from the engine-fire were hissing in the black canal stream; the guard was bleeding and crushed beneath a wheel; twining wreaths of white steam, like spirits, melted into air above. huntly was stooping over a begrimed corpse. the glare of the lantern, as it flashed upon the face, showed every omen true. it was marcliffe. "i can bear to chronicle my own temptations, yielding, guilt, but not to write down the separation that i dreaded most, and tried to avert, alas! so fatally. it is indeed a lesson of the nothingness of man's subtlest plans to avoid the penalty his crimes call down. how vain have all my efforts been to preserve our hearth inviolate, to keep our home in blessed security. indeed, that night god's peace and favor 'departed from the threshold of the house' forever." the misfortune alluded to was thus briefly mentioned at the end of the newspaper report of the accident, inclosed with the other papers of the dead man: "we are sorry to say that the wife of the station-keeper, darke, whose dangerous state we noticed a week ago, expired last night, after giving birth to a child, still-born." with the sentence given above darke's diary closed. here and there the curate read a verse of a psalm, or a heart-broken ejaculation, but no continued narrative of his after-sufferings. from what he could glean, it appeared that he was put on his trial on the charge of manslaughter, and acquitted, but that he had lost his situation in consequence of the want of presence of mind he had evinced; after, it seemed, that he had led a miserable vagrant life, earning just enough by chance-work to support himself and his little harry, the constant attendant of his wanderings. the boy was at the inn on the night of the father's wretched death, though the landlady's kindness removed him from the sight of the troublous parting. an asylum was soon found for him by my friend's kindness, and when i was at the parsonage last christmas, as i read the history of his father's fitful life, the unconscious son sat by with little faith, gazing with his large melancholy eyes at the strange faces in the fire. story of a bear. thirty leagues from carlstad, and not far from the borders of the klar, upon the shores of the lake rada, rises a little hamlet named st. john, the most smiling village of scandinavia. its wooden houses, mirrored in the translucent waters, stand in bold relief against a background of extensive forests. for a space of twenty leagues round, nature has blessed the generous soil with abundant harvests, filled the lake with fish, and the woods with game. the inhabitants of st. john are rich, without exception; each year they make a profit of their harvests, and bury beneath their hearthstones an addition to their little fortunes. in , there lived at st. john a young man of twenty years of age, named daniel tissjoebergist. a fortunate youth he thought himself, for he possessed two farms; and was affianced to a pretty young girl, named raghilda, celebrated through all the province of wermeland for her shapely figure, her little feet, her blue eyes, and fair skin, besides a certain caprice of character that her beauty rendered excusable. the daughter of a forester, and completely spoiled by her father, who yielded to all her whims, raghilda was at the same time the torment and the happiness of her affianced lover. if he climbed the heights, and gathered the most beautiful mountain flowers as a tribute to her charms, that very day the fantastic beauty would be seized with a severe headache, and have quite a horror of perfumes. did he bring her game from the forest, she "could not comprehend," she would say, "how any man could leave a pretty young girl to go and kill the poor hares." one day he procured, at great expense, an assortment of necklaces and gold rings from europe. he expected this time, at any rate, to be recompensed for his pains; but raghilda merely declared that she much preferred to these rich presents the heavy silver ornaments that decorate norwegian females. but she, nevertheless, took care to adorn herself with the despised gifts, to the intense envy of the other young girls her companions. according to universal wermeland usage, raghilda kept bees. from morning to evening she tended her hives, and the insects knew her so well, that her presence did not scare them in the least, but they hummed and buzzed around her without testifying either fright or anger. daniel, as our readers may imagine, never visited his mistress without busying himself among her bees. one day he took it into his head that a high wall, standing just before the hives, deprived them in part of the heat of the sun, and compelled the insects to fly too high to gain the plain, and collect their store of perfumed honey. he proposed to raghilda to diminish the height of the offending wall by some feet. at first the young girl would not entertain the idea, merely because it came from her lover; but she at length ceded to his reasonings, and the wall was diminished in height. for several weeks daniel and raghilda congratulated themselves on the steps they had taken. the full heat of the sun marvelously quickened the eggs of the queen-bee, without reckoning that the journey of the little workers was shortened by one-half. but, alas! one fatal morning, when the young girl placed herself at her window to say good-day to her dear hives, she beheld them overturned, crushed, deserted. the honeycombs were broken all to pieces, and the ground was strewed with the bodies of the unfortunate insects. upon daniel's arrival, he found his lovely raghilda weeping despairingly in the midst of the melancholy ruins. the latter had thought of nothing beyond the loss of her bees, her own sorrow, and, above all, of her discontent with daniel, and his pernicious advice concerning the wall. her lover, on the contrary, vowed vengeance against the spoiler. "i am," said he, "the involuntary cause of your unhappiness, raghilda, and to me it belongs to avenge you. these traces of steps are no human footmarks, but the impressions of a bear's paw. i shall take my gun, fasten on my _skidars_, and never return until i have killed the brigand." raghilda was too sorrowful for the loss of her bees, and too furious against daniel for his imprudent advice about taking down the wall, to make any reply, or even turn her head for a parting glance. her lover left her thus, and hastened, his heart full of rage, to take his wooden skates, called skidars in norway, and set forth in quest of the bear. tissjoebergist could not have proceeded far without this singular _chaussure_. these skidars are of unequal size; that which is fastened by the leathern straps to the left leg is from nine to twelve feet long, while to the right they do not give more than six or seven. this inequality procures ease to the hunter when he wishes to turn round on broken ground; permitting him to lean with all his weight upon the shorter skate, fabricated of solid materials. the skidars are about two inches in width, weigh from ten to fifteen pounds, and terminate in highly raised points, in order to avoid the obstacles that they might encounter. the wearer slides with one, and sustains himself with the other. the sole is covered with a sea-calf's skin, with the hair outside; this precaution hinders retrograde movements. when the hunter is compelled to surmount difficult heights, he does not lift his foot, but proceeds nearly as we do upon the skates of our country. he holds a stick in each hand, to expedite or retard his course, and carries his weapons in a shoulder-belt. upon even ground, it is easy to progress with the skidars, and a man can accomplish forty leagues in twelve hours. but, in the midst of a country like wermeland, alternately wooded, flat, mountainous, and marshy, strewed with rocks and fallen trees, the use of these skates requires much courage, address, and, above all, presence of mind. daniel, habituated to their use from infancy, skated with prodigious hardihood and celerity. quick as thought, he would now descend the almost perpendicular face of a mountain, then surmount a precipice, or clamber the steep sides of a ravine. a slight movement of his body sufficed to avoid the branches of trees, and a zigzag to steer clear of the rocks strewn upon his path. his ardent eye sought in the distance for the enemy he pursued, or searched the soil for traces of the brute's paws. but all his researches were fruitless. after three fatiguing days, passed without repose or slumber, and almost without food, he returned to st. john, in a state more easy to comprehend than describe. raghilda, during these three days, had caused the wall to be built up again, and was now occupied in arranging the new hives with which aulic-finn, daniel's rival, had presented her, after having filled them with bees by a process equally hardy and ingenious. there was, in consequence of this, so violent a quarrel between the engaged lovers, that tissjoebergist returned to raghilda the ring which she had given him one evening during a solitary promenade on the umbrageous banks of the lake rada. the young girl took the ring, and threw it with a gesture of contempt among the bee-hives. "there!" said she, "the bear may have it. he will not fail to come, for he knows that he may ravage my hives with impunity." tissjoebergist assembled his friends, and informed them of the affront that he had received. though a few were secretly pleased with the humiliation of one whose manly beauty, address, courage, and good fortune had often been the subject of envy, they all declared that they would, the very next day, undertake a general _skali_, that is to say, a _grande battue_. eight days from the time of this declaration, more than a thousand hunters formed themselves into an immense semicircle, inclosing a space of from five to six leagues. the other half-circle was represented by a wide and deep pond, over which it was impossible for their prey to escape by swimming. daniel directed the skali with remarkable intelligence. by his orders, signals, repeated from mouth to mouth, caused the hunters to close up little by little, while a select band beat the bushes. they continued to advance in this way for several hours, without discovering any thing save troops of hares and other small game, that escaped between the legs of the hunters. these they did not attempt to molest, for they looked only for the animal whose death daniel had sworn to compass. suddenly they heard a low cry, and a gigantic bear, that had been hidden behind a rock, abruptly rose, and stalked toward tissjoebergist. the youth took aim at the terrible beast, and pulled the trigger of his musket. it missed fire. the bear seized his weapon with his powerful paws, twisted it like a wand, broke it, and overturned daniel in the mud. all this passed with the rapidity of lightning. the monster then took to flight, being hit in the shoulder by a ball from aulic-finn; and the hunters saw him climb the hill, after which he disappeared in the forest. daniel, foaming with rage, pursued him thither at the head of his friends, but in vain. again the young man returned to st. john without the vengeance he desired; well-nigh heartbroken with shame and disappointment. raghilda welcomed aulic-finn most cordially, and there was a report current in the village, that she had picked up the discarded ring from among the hives, to place it on the finger of tissjoebergist's rival. this the young girls whispered among each other so loud, that daniel could not avoid overhearing them, though he did not comprehend the full purport of their words. nor were the young men behind-hand in their comments. there are never wanting unkind hands to strike deeper the thorns that rankle in our hearts. in place of consoling himself by drinking and feasting among his companions, as is the custom in those parts after a hunt, successful or otherwise, the unfortunate lover now resolved to have recourse to the _gall_. this is a stratagem which will be best explained by an account of daniel's preparations on the occasion. he took a cow from his stables, tied a rope to her horns, and dragged her along with so much violence, that her lowings resounded through the forest. toward nightfall he arrived with the poor beast near a sort of scaffolding constructed in the thickest part of the wood, between three or four trees, and about thirty feet from the ground. having tied the cow firmly by the rope to the roots of an old and strong stump, he mounted the scaffolding and awaited the issue. the first night the lowings of the cow were the only sounds that broke the melancholy silence of the forest. it was the same the next day, and the next. the fourth night, after a long struggle with the drowsiness occasioned by the intense cold, for the young hunter's provision of eau-de-vie had long been exhausted, nature overcame him, and he slept. then a huge bear raised his head from behind the scaffolding, and having cautiously peered around him, crept toward the cow, seized her between his paws, and broke the rope that held her. he turned his big pointed face toward the slumbering hunter, and giving him an ironical glance, disappeared with his shuddering prey into the depths of the forest. an hour afterward, daniel awoke. the sun had risen, and even in that shady place there was light enough to distinguish the objects around. he looked over the edge of the scaffolding, and beheld the rope severed, and the cow gone. sliding down, he marked the humid earth covered with the impressions of the bear's claws. at this sight he thought he should have gone mad. he waited until nightfall before he re-entered the village, and then, creeping to his house without detection, he took a large knife, which he placed in his belt, unfastened a dog that was chained in the yard, and retook the road to the forest. the season was the beginning of november, the snow had fallen in abundance, and it froze hard. tissjoebergist skated along on the sparkling ice, preceded by his dog, who, from time to time halted, and smelt around him. but these investigations led to no result, and the animal continued his way. cold tears fell down daniel's cheeks, and were quickly congealed into icicles. for one moment he paused, took his musket from the shoulder-belt in which he carried it, pressed the cold barrel against his forehead, and asked himself, whether it would not be better to put an end to his disappointment and his shame together. as he cast a last despairing glance behind him, he perceived that his dog had stopped, and was gazing immovably at a small opening in some underwood, which was discovered to him by the lurid rays of the aurora borealis. a feeble hope dawned in daniel's sick heart; he advanced, and plainly saw a slight hollow in the snow, undisturbed every where else. the young man's heart beat violently. there, doubtless, lay his enemy, gorged with the abundant meal furnished by the cow. the hunter strode on. the hole was not more than two feet in diameter, and the bear might be distinctly perceived squatting in the niche at about five feet of depth. the noise of the hunter's approach disturbed the animal. he stirred, opened his heavy eyelids, and saw daniel. he was about to rush out, but a blow with the butt-end of the musket drove him back to his hole with a large wound in his eye, that streamed with blood. another bound, and the bear was free. he stood erect, face to face with the young hunter, looked upon him for a few seconds with the horrible smile peculiar to these animals when in anger, and precipitated himself upon his enemy. the dog did not allow his master to be attacked with impunity, and a _mélée_ ensued that covered the snow with blood. daniel, seized by the shoulders, and retained in the monster's clutches, had the presence of mind to throw away his musket and have recourse to his knife, with which he made three large wounds in his adversary's side. then he seized him by the ears, and, ably seconded by his dog, forced him to let go his hold. the bear, enfeebled by loss of blood, yielded the victory, and flew with so much swiftness, that the dog, who immediately put himself upon his track, was obliged to renounce the hope of overtaking him. the faithful animal returned to his master, whom he found insensible, his face torn to ribbons, his breast lacerated, and his shoulders covered with large wounds. some peasants happening to pass that way raised the unhappy young man in their arms, and brought him to st. john, where he long lay between life and death. he would rather have been left to die, for life was become insupportable. bears could not be mentioned before him without his detecting lurking smiles in the faces of his associates. to crown all, the approaching marriage of raghilda and aulic-finn was no longer a mystery. daniel had partly lost the use of his right arm, and a bite inflicted by the bear upon his nose had ruined the noble and regular features of the poor youth, and given him a countenance nearly as frightful as that of his adversary. he fell into a profound melancholy, sold his two farms and all his land, quitted wermeland, sojourned about two months at carlstad, and finally disappeared altogether from scandinavia. during this period, some hunters who were exploring the banks of the klar, found, near the parish of tima, a one-eyed bear, pierced with three strokes of a poniard, and in a dying condition. they took him without resistance, dressed his wounds, and carried him to a neighboring village. there they hired a light cart, placed him upon it, and took him along with them. the recovery of their patient was more rapid than they had dared to hope. when the convalescent animal began to gain his strength, he was inclosed in a large cage, conveniently furnished with iron bars. as he was of gigantic stature, and possessed a magnificent coat, he proved a very lucrative acquisition as a show to the gaping multitude, and soon made the fortune of the _cornac_ who bought him. it was thus that the wild inhabitant of the forests of wermeland became a cosmopolitan, and traversed norway, sweden, germany and prussia. in course of time he arrived in france, where his enormous proportions, savage mien, and thick fur, procured him the honor of being bought, for francs, by m. frederic cuvier. he was brought in his cage to the habitation prepared for him in the jardin des plantes. there he was released from his narrow prison, and respired once more the fresh breeze. this first sensation exhausted, he slowly explored his new abode. it was a species of cellar open to the air, twenty-five feet by thirty, and twenty feet in depth. its walls were of smooth stone, that left no hold for the claws of its scandinavian tenant. at one end was a kind of den, furnished with iron bars, that vividly recalled his first cage, and at the other a supply of water that fell into a trough of blue stone. in the middle stood a tree despoiled of its leaves and bark, upon which the little boys that had crowded round were continually throwing morsels of bread and apple-cores tied to long strings, crying, at the same time, "martin! martin!" the bear disdainfully eyed the bread and the apple-cores, uttered a furious bellow, and embracing the trunk of the tree endeavored to overthrow it; but it stood the shock well, and did not even stagger. the cries were repeated, accompanied by insolent roars of laughter. for the first few days the new-comer remained disdainfully squatted in his den. they might throw him cakes as they pleased, he did not even look at them. if some blackguard occasionally resorted to stones, it merely excited a jerking movement of the animal's paws, and a display of his white teeth. but, at the end of a week, he began, not without some false shame, to glance out of the corner of his eye at the tempting morsels of cake or tartlets that lay around him. at length he furtively laid his paw upon one of the nice-looking bits, drew it toward him, slily dispatched it, and acknowledged that the parisian pastry-cooks understood their business. the next day the stoic became an epicure, and collected the morsels that were thrown to him. a little time afterward, he remarked a dog sitting upon his hind legs, and agitating his fore-paws, to the great delight of the children, who lavished cakes upon the clever beast. a venal thought entered the mind of the bear. he imitated the cur, and begged. the degraded savage now hesitated at nothing. he climbed the tree as the last bear had done, danced, saluted, imitated death, and performed, for the least bribe of bread or fruit, the most ridiculous grimaces. the fame of his gentleness spread through all paris. nothing was talked of but martin, his intelligence and docility. his reputation circulated through the departments, and foreign journals quoted anecdotes of his sagacity. for about ten years martin feasted in peace, and enjoyed all the advantages of his servile submission. one beautiful summer afternoon, he was lying in the shade, nonchalantly digesting his food, when he happened to glance at the crowd that surrounded the pit. suddenly he rose with a terrible bound, and rushed toward a shabbily-dressed man, whose visage was horribly cicatrized, and who leaned upon a knotty stick as he gazed down at the bear. the animal growled, writhed, opened his muzzle, and exhibited the most frightful evidences of anger. the man was not more placable; he brandished his stick with curses and menaces. "i recognize thee," he cried in a strange tongue; "thou art the cause of my shame, my wounds, and my misery. it is thou that hast robbed me of happiness, and made me a wretched crippled-mendicant. it shall not be said that i died without revenge." the bear, by his cries of rage, testified equally that he had recognized his enemy, and held himself in a posture of defiance. the stranger drew from his pocket a large sharp-pointed knife, calculated, with a frightful _sang froid_, the leap that he would have to take, and jumped into the pit, brandishing his weapon. unfortunately, on reaching the ground, he sprained his foot against one of the stones that paved the pit, and which had got displaced. the crowd beheld him fall, and then saw the bear rush upon him, avoid the knife, and, keeping his victim down, play with his head as if it had been a ball, knocking it backward and forward between his paws. lastly, the incensed animal placed himself upon the breast of the stranger, and stifled him, with every sign of hideous and ferocious triumph. all this passed in less time than we have taken to describe it. the keepers ran to the rescue, and obliged the bear to retire into his iron-grated den. the animal peaceably obeyed, with the visible satisfaction of a satiated vengeance. when they came to raise the man, they found that he was dead. with the parisians, every stranger is an englishman. the report soon spread, confirmed by the journals, that martin's victim was what they then called an _insulaire_. few persons knew that martin had killed his ancient adversary, the unfortunate daniel tissjoebergist. the following day the bear mounted the tree, excelled himself, picked up the morsels of _galette_ that were thrown down by his admirers, basked in the sun's rays, and regarded with his one small ferocious eye the spot where, the evening before, he had accomplished his long meditated revenge. the sicilian vespers. half a mile from the southern wall of the city, on the brink of the ravine of oreto, stands a church dedicated to the holy ghost, concerning which the latin fathers have not failed to record, that on the day on which the first stone of it was laid, in the twelfth century, the sun was darkened by an eclipse. on one side of it are the precipice and the river, on the other the plain extending to the city, which in the present day is in great part encumbered with walls and gardens; while a square inclosure of moderate size, shaded by dusky cypresses, honey-combed with tombs, and adorned with urns and sepulchral monuments, surrounds the church. this is now a public cemetery, laid out toward the end of the eighteenth century, and fearfully filled in three weeks by the dire pestilence which devastated sicily in . on the tuesday, at the hour of vespers, religion and custom crowded this then cheerful plain, carpeted with the flowers of spring, with citizens wending their way toward the church. divided into numerous groups, they walked, sat in clusters, spread the tables, or danced upon the grass; and, whether it were a defect or a merit of the sicilian character, threw off for the moment, the recollection of their sufferings, when the followers of the justiciary suddenly appeared among them, and every bosom was thrilled with a shudder of disgust. the strangers came, with their usual insolent demeanor, as they said, to maintain tranquillity; and for this purpose they mingled in the groups, joined in the dances, and familiarly accosted the women, pressing the hand of one, taking unwarranted liberties with others; addressing indecent words and gestures to those more distant, until some temperately admonished them to depart, in god's-name, without insulting the women, and others murmured angrily; but the hot-blooded youths raised their voices so fiercely that the soldiers said one to another, "these insolent paterini must be armed that they dare thus to answer," and replied to them with the most offensive insults, insisting, with great insolence, on searching them for arms, and even here and there striking them with sticks or thongs. every heart already throbbed fiercely on either side, when a young woman of singular beauty and of modest and dignified deportment, appeared with her husband and relations, bending their steps toward the church. drouet, a frenchman, impelled either by insolence or license, approached her as if to examine her for concealed weapons; seized her and searched her bosom. she fell fainting into her husband's arms, who, in a voice almost choked with rage, exclaimed, "death, death to the french!" at that moment a youth burst from the crowd which had gathered round them, sprang upon drouet, disarmed and slew him; and probably at the same moment paid the penalty of his own life, leaving his name unknown, and the mystery forever unsolved, whether it were love for the injured woman, the impulse of a generous heart, or the more exalted flame of patriotism, that prompted him thus to give the signal of deliverance. noble examples have a power far beyond that of argument or eloquence to rouse the people--and the abject slaves awoke at length from their long bondage. "death, death to the french!" they cried; and the cry, say the historians of the time, re-echoed like the voice of god through the whole country, and found an answer in every heart. above the corpse of drouet were heaped those of victims slain on either side; the crowd expanded itself, closed in, and swayed hither and thither in wild confusion; the sicilians, with sticks, stones, and knives, rushed with desperate ferocity upon their fully-armed opponents; they sought for them and hunted them down; fearful tragedies were enacted amid the preparations for festivity, and the overthrown tables were drenched in blood. the people displayed their strength, and conquered. the struggle was brief, and great the slaughter of the sicilians; but of the french there were two hundred--and two hundred fell. breathless, covered with blood, brandishing the plundered weapons, and proclaiming the insult and its vengeance, the insurgents rushed toward the tranquil city. "death to the french!" they shouted, and as many as they found were put to the sword. the example, the words, the contagion of passion, in an instant aroused the whole people. in the heat of the tumult, roger mastrangelo, a nobleman, was chosen, or constituted himself their leader. the multitude continued to increase; dividing into troops they scoured the streets, burst open doors, searched every nook, every hiding-place, and shouting "death to the french!" smote them and slew them, while those too distant to strike added to the tumult by their applause. on the outbreak of this sudden uproar the justiciary had taken refuge in his strong palace; the next moment it was surrounded by an enraged multitude, crying aloud for his death; they demolished the defenses, and rushed furiously in, but the justiciary escaped them; favored by the confusion and the closing darkness, he succeeded, though wounded in the face, in mounting his horse unobserved, with only two attendants, and fled with all speed. meanwhile the slaughter continued with increased ferocity, even the darkness of night failed to arrest it, and it was resumed on the morrow more furiously than ever; nor did it cease at length because the thirst for vengeance was slaked, but because victims were wanting to appease it. two thousand french perished in this first outbreak. even christian burial was denied them, but pits were afterward dug to receive their despised remains; and tradition still points out a column surmounted by an iron cross, raised by compassionate piety on one of those spots, probably long after the perpetration of the deed of vengeance. tradition, moreover, relates that the sound of a word, like the shibboleth of the hebrews, was the cruel test by which the french were distinguished in the massacre; and that, if there were found a suspicious or unknown person, he was compelled, with a sword to his throat, to pronounce the word _ciciri_, and the slightest foreign accent was the signal of his death. forgetful of their own character, and as if stricken by fate, the gallant warriors of france neither fled, nor united, nor defended themselves; they unsheathed their swords, and presented them to their assailants, imploring, as if in emulation of each other, to be the first to die; of one common soldier only is it recorded, that having concealed himself behind a wainscot, and being dislodged at the sword's point, he resolved not to die unavenged, and springing with a wild cry upon the ranks of his enemies, slew three of them before he himself perished. the insurgents broke into the convents of the minorites and preaching friars, and slaughtered all the monks whom they recognized as french. even the altars afforded no protection; tears and prayers were alike unheeded; neither old men, women, nor infants, were spared; the ruthless avengers of the ruthless massacre of agosta swore to root out the seed of the french oppressors throughout the whole of sicily; and this vow they cruelly fulfilled, slaughtering infants at their mothers' breast, and after them the mothers themselves, nor sparing even pregnant women, but, with a horrible refinement of cruelty, ripping up the bodies of sicilian women who were with child by french husbands, and dashing against the stones the fruit of the mingled blood of the oppressors and the oppressed. this general massacre of all who spoke the same language, and these heinous acts of cruelty, have caused the sicilian vespers to be classed among the most infamous of national crimes. but these fill a vast volume, and in it all nations have inscribed horrors of a similar, and sometimes of a blacker dye; nations often more civilized, and in times less rude, and not only in the assertion of their liberty or against foreign tyrants, but in the delirium of civil or religious partisanship, against fellow-citizens, against brothers, against innocent and helpless beings, whom they destroyed by thousands, sweeping away whole populations. therefore i do not blush for my country at the remembrance of the vespers, but bewail the dire necessity which drove sicily to such extremities. a short chapter on frogs. in one of steele's papers in the "guardian" is the following passage: "i observe the sole reason alleged for the destruction of frogs, is because they are like toads. yet amidst all the misfortunes of these unfriended creatures, it is some happiness that we have not yet taken a fancy to eat them; for should our countrymen refine upon the french never so little, it is not to be conceived to what unheard-of torments owls, cats, and frogs may be yet reserved." that frogs constituted the chief diet of frenchmen was, a few years ago, as popular and beloved an article of belief among british lads, as that one englishman was equal to three of the said frog-consumers. more extended intercourse has, however, shown us that frogs do not constitute the entire food of our gallic neighbors, and taught them that _we_ do not all wear top-boots, and subsist solely on beef-steaks. as, however, frogs _do_ form a dainty dish, i will give what the yankees term a "few notions consarning them and their fixings." happening to be in germany in , i was desirous of getting some insight into the manners and customs of these inhabitants of the ponds, and, after much observation, arrived at the same conclusion concerning them as the master of one of her majesty's ships did respecting the subjects of the imaun of muscat. being compelled to record categorically a reply to the inquiry, "what are the manners and customs of the inhabitants?" he wrote, "manners they have none, and their customs, are very beastly." so of these frogs, say i. my knowledge of their vicinity was based upon auricular confession. night after night the most infernal din of croaking bore testimony to the fact that they were unburdening their consciences, and i determined to try if i could not unburden their bodies of their batrachian souls altogether. however, before i detail my proceedings, i have a word to say with reference to their croaking. horace bears expressive testimony to the disgust _he_ felt at it, when, after a heavy supper to help him on his way to brundusium, he exclaimed ----"mali culices, ranæque palustres avertunt somnos." so loud and continuous is their song, especially in the breeding season, that in the former good old times of france, when nobles _were_ nobles, and lived in their magnificent chateaus scattered throughout the country, the peasants were employed during the whole night in beating the ponds within ear-shot of the chateaus, with boughs of trees, to prevent the slumbers of the lords and ladies being broken by their paludine neighbors. this croaking is produced by the air being driven from the lungs into the puffed-out cavity of the mouth, or into certain guttural sacculi, which are developed very largely in the males. they can produce this noise under water as well as on land. in the male frog there are fissures at the corners of the mouth for admitting the external protrusion of the vocal sacculi. these sacculi they invariably protrude in their struggles to escape when held by the hind legs. under these circumstances they are also capable of uttering a peculiar shrill cry of distress, differing completely from their ordinary croak. having obtained a land net, i cautiously approached the pond, which i knew must abound with them, from the concerts nightly held there, and without allowing the shadow to fall on the water, or making the slightest noise; yet the moment i showed myself, every individual who happened to be above water jumped off his perch, and was out of sight in an instant. i tried every means to catch them, but in vain. at last i borrowed from some boys a long tube of wood, with a small hole smoothly and equally bored through the centre, which they used to shoot small birds about the hedges. armed with some arrows made of sharp tin nails, tipped with cotton wool, i ensconced myself in a bush, and waited quietly for my prey. in a few moments, the frogs, one by one, began to poke their noses out of the water. i selected the finest, and by dint of a good shot, i succeeded in fixing an arrow in his head. in the course of the afternoon i bagged several of the patriarchs of the pond, some of them as large as the largest english toad. upon being struck with the arrow, they nearly all protruded their sacculi from each side of the mouth, in the manner above narrated. these frogs are not often used for the table in germany, but in france they are considered a luxury, as any _bon vivant_ ordering a dish of them at the "trois frères" at paris may, by the long price, speedily ascertain. not wishing to try such an expensive experiment in gastronomy, i went to the large market in the faubourg st. germain, and inquired for frogs. i was referred to a stately-looking dame at a fish-stall, who produced a box nearly full of them, huddling and crawling about, and occasionally croaking as though aware of the fate to which they were destined. the price fixed was two a penny, and having ordered a dish to be prepared, the dame de la halle dived her hand in among them, and having secured her victim by the hind legs, she severed him in twain with a sharp knife, the legs, minus skin, still struggling, were placed on a dish; and the head, with the fore-legs affixed, retained life and motion, and performed such motions that the operation became painful to look at. these legs were afterward cooked at the restaurateur's, being served up fried in bread crumbs, as larks are in england: and most excellent eating they were, tasting more like the delicate flesh of the rabbit than any thing else i can think of. i afterward tried a dish of the common english frog, but their flesh is not so white nor so tender as that of their french brothers. the old fish-wife of whom i bought these frogs, informed me that she had a man regularly in her employ to catch them. he went out every evening at dusk to the ponds, in the neighborhood of paris, with a lantern and a long stick, to the end of which was attached a piece of red cloth. the frogs were attracted by the light to the place where the fisherman stood. he then lightly dropped his cloth on the surface of the water; the frogs imagining that some dainty morsel was placed before them, eagerly snapped at it, and their teeth becoming entangled, they became an easy prey, destined for to-morrow's market, and the tender mercies of the fish-woman. i subsequently brought over several dozen of these frogs alive to england, some of them are still, i believe, living in the ward's botanical cases of those to whom i presented them, the rest were turned out in a pond, where i fear they have been devoured by the gourmand english ducks, the rightful occupants of the pond. the edible frog (_rana esculenta_) is brought from the country, in quantities of from thirty to forty thousand at a time, to vienna, and sold to great dealers, who have conservatories for them, which are large holes four or five feet deep, dug in the ground, the mouth covered with a board, and in severe weather with straw. in these conservatories, even during a hard frost, the frogs never become quite torpid, they get together in heaps one upon another instinctively, and thereby prevent the evaporation of their humidity, for no water is ever put to them. in vienna, in , there were only three dealers, who supplied the market with frogs ready skinned and prepared for the cook. there is another species of frog common on the continent, which is turned to a useful account as a barometer. it is the _rana arborea_, of which many specimens are to be seen in the zoological gardens. it has the property, like the chameleon, of adapting its color to the substance on which it may be placed: it especially inhabits trees, and when among the foliage, is of a brilliant green; when on the ground, or on the branches of trees, the color is brown. they are thus used as prognosticators. two or three are placed in a tall glass jar, with three or four inches of water at the bottom, and a small ladder reaching to the top of the jar. on the approach of dry weather the frogs mount the ladder to the very top, but when rain may be expected, they not only make a peculiar singing noise, but descend into the water. small frogs are a trilling bait for pike and perch, and this reminds me of an incident which i saw. a fine perch was found floating dead, on the top of the water in a pond, in one of the gardens at oxford; upon examination, it was found to be very thin, and apparently starved to death, some devotee to the gentle art had been the unconscious cause of the sad fate of this poor fish, for a hook was found firmly fixed in his upper jaw, the shock of which projected so far beyond his mouth, that his efforts to obtain food must have been useless, the hook always projecting forward, kept him at a tantalizing distance from the desired morsel. the fish has been dried, and is now preserved with the hook fixed in his mouth. but fishes, which, like perch, are provided with sharp prickles, occasionally cause the death of those creatures that feed upon them. a king-fisher was brought to me in the summer of , by a boy who had found it dead on the banks of the river cherwell, near oxford, no shot, or other marks of injury were found on it, the feathers being perfectly smooth, dry, and unstained; what then was the cause of death?--upon a careful examination, i found the end of a small fish's tail protruding from one of the corners of its mouth, i endeavored to drag it out, but in vain, it was firmly fixed. by dissection, i found, that the fish in question was one of the tribe of small fish which abound in shallow water, and are called in oxford, the bull's head, or miller's thumb. it has a strong prickle, nearly a quarter of an inch long, with very sharp and firm end, projecting on each side of its gills. the fish had, in its struggles, protruded its prickles, which, sticking in his enemy's oesophagus, had effectually stopped up the entrance, pressing on the wind-pipe, and thus caused its death. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] [footnote : continued from the april number.] chapter x. the next morning harley appeared at breakfast. he was in gay spirits, and conversed more freely with violante than he had yet done. he seemed to amuse himself by attacking all she said, and provoking her to argument. violante was naturally a very earnest person; whether grave or gay, she spoke with her heart on her lips, and her soul in her eyes. she did not yet comprehend the light vein of harley's irony; so she grew piqued and chafed; and she was so lovely in anger; it so brightened her beauty and animated her words, that no wonder harley thus maliciously teased her. but what, perhaps, she liked still less than the teasing--though she could not tell why--was the kind of familiarity that harley assumed with her--a familiarity as if he had known her all her life--that of a good-humored elder brother, or bachelor uncle. to helen, on the contrary, when he did not address her apart, his manner was more respectful. he did not call _her_ by her christian name, as he did violante, but "miss digby," and softened his tone and inclined his head when he spoke to her. nor did he presume to jest at the very few and brief sentences he drew from helen; but rather listened to them with deference, and invariably honored them with approval. after breakfast he asked violante to play or sing; and when she frankly owned how little she had cultivated those accomplishments, he persuaded helen to sit down to the piano, and stood by her side while she did so, turning over the leaves of her music-book with the ready devotion of an admiring amateur. helen always played well, but less well than usual that day, for her generous nature felt abashed. it was as if she was showing off to mortify violante. but violante, on the other hand, was so passionately fond of music that she had no feeling left for the sense of her own inferiority. yet she sighed when helen rose, and harley thanked her for the delight she had given him. the day was fine. lady lansmere proposed to walk in the garden. while the ladies went up-stairs for their shawls and bonnets, harley lighted his cigar, and stept from the window upon the lawn. lady lansmere joined him before the girls came out. "harley," said she, taking his arm, "what a charming companion you have introduced to us! i never met with any that both pleased and delighted me like this dear violante. most girls who possess some power of conversation, and who have dared to think for themselves, are so pedantic, or so masculine; but _she_ is always so simple, and always still the girl. ah, harley!" "why that sigh, my dear mother?" "i was thinking how exactly she would have suited you--how proud i should have been of such a daughter-in-law--and how happy you would have been with such a wife." harley started. "tut," said he, peevishly, "she is a mere child; you forget my years." "why," said lady lansmere, surprised, "helen is quite as young as violante." "in dates--yes. but helen's character is so staid; what it is now it will be ever; and helen, from gratitude, respect, or pity, condescends to accept the ruins of my heart; while this bright italian has the soul of a juliet, and would expect in a husband all the passion of a romeo. nay, mother, hush. do you forget that i am engaged--and of my own free will and choice? poor dear helen! apropos, have you spoken to my father, as you undertook to do?" "not yet. i must seize the right moment. you know that my lord requires management." "my dear mother, that female notion of managing us, men, costs you, ladies, a great waste of time, and occasions us a great deal of sorrow. men are easily managed by plain truth. _we_ are brought up to respect it, strange as it may seem to you!" lady lansmere smiled with the air of superior wisdom, and the experience of an accomplished wife. "leave it to me, harley; and rely on my lord's consent." harley knew that lady lansmere always succeeded in obtaining her way with his father; and he felt that the earl might naturally be disappointed in such an alliance, and, without due propitiation, evince that disappointment in his manner to helen. harley was bound to save her from all chance of such humiliation. he did not wish her to think that she was not welcomed into his family; therefore he said, "i resign myself to your promise and your diplomacy. meanwhile, as you love me, be kind to my betrothed." "am i not so?" "hem. are you as kind as if she were the great heiress you believe violante to be?" "is it," answered lady lansmere, evading the question--"is it because one is an heiress and the other is not that you make so marked a difference in your manner to the two; treating violante as a spoiled child, and miss digby as--" "the destined wife of lord l'estrange, and the daughter-in-law of lady lansmere--yes." the countess suppressed an impatient exclamation that rose to her lips, for harley's brow wore that serious aspect which it rarely assumed save when he was in those moods in which men must be soothed, not resisted. and after a pause he went on--"i am going to leave you to-day. i have engaged apartments at the clarendon. i intend to gratify your wish, so often expressed, that i should enjoy what are called the pleasures of my rank, and the privileges of single-blessedness--celebrate my adieu to celibacy, and blaze once more, with the splendor of a setting sun, upon hyde park and may fair." "you are a positive enigma. leave our house, just when you are betrothed to its inmate! is that the natural conduct of a lover?" "how can your woman eyes be so dull, and your woman heart so obtuse?" answered harley, half-laughing, half-scolding. "can you not guess that i wish that helen and myself should both lose the association of mere ward and guardian; that the very familiarity of our intercourse under the same roof almost forbids us to be lovers; that we lose the joy to meet, and the pang to part. don't you remember the story of the frenchman, who for twenty years loved a lady, and never missed passing his evenings at her house. she became a widow. 'i wish you joy,' cried his friend; 'you may now marry the woman you have so long adored.' 'alas,' said the poor frenchman, profoundly dejected; 'and if so, where shall i spend my evenings?'" here violante and helen were seen in the garden, walking affectionately, arm in arm. "i don't perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote," said lady lansmere, obstinately. "settle that, however, with miss digby. but, to leave the very day after your friend's daughter comes as a guest!--what will _she_ think of it?" lord l'estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. "does it matter much what she thinks of me?--of a man engaged to another; and old enough to be--" "i wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, harley; it is a reflection upon mine; and i never saw you look so well nor so handsome." with that she drew him on toward the young ladies; and, taking helen's arm, asked her, aside, "if she knew that lord l'estrange had engaged rooms at the clarendon; and if she understood why?" as, while she said this she moved on, harley was left by violante's side. "you will be very dull here, i fear, my poor child," said he. "dull! but why _will_ you call me child? am i so very--very childlike?" "certainly, you are to me--a mere infant. have i not seen you one; have i not held you in my arms?" violante.--"but that was a long time ago!" harley.--"true. but if years have not stood still for you, they have not been stationary for me. there is the same difference between us now that there was then. and, therefore, permit me still to call you child, and as child to treat you!" violante.--"i will do no such thing. do you know that i always thought i was good-tempered till this morning." harley.--"and what undeceived you? did you break your doll?" violante (with an indignant flash from her dark eyes).--"there!--again!--you delight in provoking me!" harley.--"it _was_ the doll, then. don't cry; i will get you another." violante plucked her arm from him, and walked away toward the countess in speechless scorn. harley's brow contracted, in thought and in gloom. he stood still for a moment or so, and then joined the ladies. "i am trespassing sadly on your morning; but i wait for a visitor whom i sent to before you were up. he is to be here at twelve. with your permission, i will dine with you to-morrow, and you will invite him to meet me." "certainly. and who is your friend? i guess--the young author?" "leonard fairfield," cried violante, who had conquered, or felt ashamed of her short-lived anger. "fairfield!" repeated lady lansmere. "i thought, harley, you said the name was oran." "he has assumed the latter name. he is the son of mark fairfield, who married an avenel. did you recognize no family likeness?--none in those eyes--mother?" said harley, sinking his voice into a whisper. "no," answered the countess, falteringly. harley, observing that violante was now speaking to helen about leonard, and that neither was listening to him, resumed in the same low tone. "and his mother--nora's sister--shrank from seeing me! that is the reason why i wished you not to call. she has not told the young man _why_ she shrank from seeing me; nor have i explained it to him as yet. perhaps i never shall." "indeed, dearest harley," said the countess, with great gentleness, "i wish you too much to forget the folly--well, i will not say that word--the sorrows of your boyhood, not to hope that you will rather strive against such painful memories than renew them by unnecessary confidence to any one: least of all to the relation of--" "enough! don't name her; the very name pains me. as to the confidence, there are but two persons in the world to whom i ever bare the old wounds--yourself and egerton. let this pass. ha!--a ring at the bell--that is he!" chapter xi. leonard entered on the scene, and joined the party in the garden. the countess, perhaps to please her son, was more than civil--she was markedly kind to him. she noticed him more attentively than she had hitherto done; and, with all her prejudices of birth, was struck to find the son of mark fairfield, the carpenter, so thoroughly the gentleman. he might not have the exact tone and phrase by which convention stereotypes those born and schooled in a certain world; but the aristocrats of nature can dispense with such trite minutiæ. and leonard had lived, of late, at least, in the best society that exists, for the polish of language and the refinement of manners--the society in which the most graceful ideas are clothed in the most graceful forms--the society which really, though indirectly, gives the law to courts--the society of the most classic authors, in the various ages in which literature has flowered forth from civilization. and if there was something in the exquisite sweetness of leonard's voice, look, and manner, which the countess acknowledged to attain that perfection in high breeding, which, under the name of "suavity," steals its way into the heart, so her interest in him was aroused by a certain subdued melancholy which is rarely without distinction, and never without charm. he and helen exchanged but few words. there was but one occasion in which they could have spoken apart, and helen herself contrived to elude it. his face brightened at lady lansmere's cordial invitation, and he glanced at helen as he accepted it; but her eyes did not meet his own. "and now," said harley, whistling to nero, whom his ward was silently caressing, "i must take leonard away. adieu! all of you, till to-morrow at dinner. miss violante, is the doll to have blue or black eyes?" violante turned her own black eyes in mute appeal to lady lansmere, and nestled to that lady's side as if in refuge from unworthy insult. chapter xii. "let the carriage go to the clarendon," said harley to his servant; "i and mr. oran will walk to town. leonard, i think you would rejoice at an occasion to serve your old friends, dr. riccabocca and his daughter?" "serve them! o yes." and there instantly occurred to leonard the recollection of violante's words when on leaving his quiet village he had sighed to part from all those he loved; and the little dark-eyed girl had said, proudly, yet consolingly, "but to serve those you love!" he turned to l'estrange with beaming, inquisitive eyes. "i said to our friend," resumed harley, "that i would vouch for your honor as my own. i am about to prove my words, and to confide the secrets which your penetration has indeed divined;--our friend is not what he seems." harley then briefly related to leonard the particulars of the exile's history, the rank he had held in his native land, the manner in which, partly through the misrepresentations of a kinsman he had trusted, partly through the influence of a wife he had loved, he had been driven into schemes which he believed bounded to the emancipation of italy from a foreign yoke by the united exertions of her best and bravest sons. "a noble ambition," interrupted leonard, manfully. "and pardon me, my lord, i should not have thought that you would speak of it in a tone that implies blame." "the ambition in itself was noble," answered harley. "but the cause to which it was devoted became defiled in its dark channel through secret societies. it is the misfortune of all miscellaneous political combinations, that with the purest motives of their more generous members are ever mixed the most sordid interests, and the fiercest passions of mean confederates. when these combinations act openly, and in daylight, under the eye of public opinion, the healthier elements usually prevail; where they are shrouded in mystery--where they are subjected to no censor in the discussion of the impartial and dispassionate--where chiefs working in the dark exact blind obedience, and every man who is at war with law is at once admitted as a friend of freedom--the history of the world tells us that patriotism soon passes away. where all is in public, public virtue, by the natural sympathies of the common mind, and by the wholesome control of shame, is likely to obtain ascendency; where all is in private, and shame is but for him who refuses the abnegation of his conscience, each man seeks the indulgence of his private vice. and hence, in secret societies (from which may yet proceed great danger to all europe), we find but foul and hateful eleusinia, affording pretexts to the ambition of the great, to the license of the penniless, to the passions of the revengeful, to the anarchy of the ignorant. in a word, the societies of these italian carbonari did but engender schemes in which the abler chiefs disguised new forms of despotism, and in which the revolutionary many looked forward to the overthrow of all the institutions that stand between law and chaos. naturally, therefore" (added l'estrange, dryly), "when their schemes were detected, and the conspiracy foiled, it was for the silly honest men entrapped into the league to suffer--the leaders turned king's evidence, and the common mercenaries became--banditti." harley then proceeded to state that it was just when the _soi-disant_ riccabocca had discovered the true nature and ulterior views of the conspirators he had joined, and actually withdrawn from their councils, that he was denounced by the kinsman who had duped him into the enterprise, and who now profited by his treason. harley next spoke of the packet dispatched by riccabocca's dying wife, as it was supposed to mrs. bertram; and of the hopes he founded on the contents of that packet, if discovered. he then referred to the design which had brought peschiera to england--a design which that personage had avowed with such effrontery to his companions at vienna, that he had publicly laid wagers on his success. "but these men can know nothing of england--of the safety of english laws," said leonard, naturally. "we take it for granted that riccabocca, if i am still so to call him, refuses his consent to the marriage between his daughter and his foe. where, then, the danger? this count, even if violante were not under your mother's roof, could not get an opportunity to see her. he could not attack the house and carry her off like a feudal baron in the middle ages." "all this is very true," answered harley. "yet i have found through life that we can not estimate danger by external circumstances, but by the character of those from whom it is threatened. this count is a man of singular audacity, of no mean natural talents--talents practiced in every art of duplicity and intrigue; one of those men whose boast it is that they succeed in whatever they undertake; and he is, here, urged on the one hand by all that can whet the avarice, and on the other by all that can give invention to despair. therefore, though i can not guess what plan he may possibly adopt, i never doubt that some plan, formed with cunning and pursued with daring, will be embraced the moment he discovers violante's retreat, unless, indeed, we can forestall all peril by the restoration of her father, and the detection of the fraud and falsehood to which peschiera owes the fortune he appropriates. thus, while we must prosecute to the utmost our inquiries for the missing documents, so it should be our care to possess ourselves, if possible, of such knowledge of the count's machinations as may enable us to defeat them. now, it was with satisfaction that i learned in germany that peschiera's sister was in london. i know enough both of his disposition and of the intimacy between himself and this lady, to make me think it probable he will seek to make her his instrument, should he require one. peschiera (as you may suppose by his audacious wager) is not one of those secret villains who would cut off their right hand if it could betray the knowledge of what was done by the left--rather one of those self-confident, vaunting knaves, of high animal spirits, and conscience so obtuse that it clouds their intellect--who must have some one to whom they can boast of their abilities and confide their projects. and peschiera has done all he can to render this poor woman so wholly dependent on him, as to be his slave and his tool. but i have learned certain traits in her character that show it to be impressionable to good, and with tendencies to honor. peschiera had taken advantage of the admiration she excited some years ago, in a rich young englishman, to entice this admirer into gambling, and sought to make his sister both a decoy and an instrument in his designs of plunder. she did not encourage the addresses of our countryman, but she warned him of the snare laid for him, and entreated him to leave the place lest her brother should discover and punish her honesty. the englishman told me this himself. in fine, my hope of detaching this poor lady from peschiera's interests, and inducing her to forewarn us of his purpose, consists but in the innocent, and, i hope, laudable artifice, of redeeming herself--of appealing to, and calling into disused exercise, the better springs of her nature." leonard listened with admiration and some surprise to the singularly subtle and sagacious insight into character which harley evinced in the brief clear strokes by which he had thus depicted peschiera and beatrice, and was struck by the boldness with which harley rested a whole system of action upon a few deductions drawn from his reasonings on human motive and characteristic bias. leonard had not expected to find so much practical acuteness in a man who, however accomplished, usually seemed indifferent, dreamy, and abstracted to the ordinary things of life. but harley l'estrange was one of those whose powers lie dormant till circumstance applies to them all they need for activity--the stimulant of a motive. harley resumed: "after a conversation i had with the lady last night, it occurred to me that in this part of our diplomacy you could render us essential service. madame di negra--such is the sister's name--has conceived an admiration for your genius, and a strong desire to know you personally. i have promised to present you to her; and i shall do so after a preliminary caution. the lady is very handsome, and very fascinating. it is possible that your heart and your senses may not be proof against her attractions." "oh, do not fear that!" exclaimed leonard, with a tone of conviction so earnest that harley smiled. "forewarned is not always forearmed against the might of beauty, my dear leonard; so i can not at once accept your assurance. but listen to me: watch yourself narrowly, and if you find that you are likely to be captivated, promise, on your honor, to retreat at once from the field. i have no right, for the sake of another, to expose you to danger; and madame di negra, whatever may be her good qualities, is the last person i should wish to see you in love with." "in love with her! impossible!" "impossible is a strong word," returned harley; "still, i own fairly (and this belief also warrants me in trusting you to her fascinations) that i do think, as far as one man can judge of another, that she is not the woman to attract you; and, if filled by one pure and generous object in your intercourse with her, you will see her with purged eyes. still i claim your promise as one of honor." "i give it," said leonard, positively. "but how can i serve riccabocca? how aid in--" "thus," interrupted harley: "the spell of your writings is, that, unconsciously to ourselves they make us better and nobler. and your writings are but the impressions struck off from your mind. your conversation, when you are roused, has the same effect. and as you grow more familiar with madame di negra, i wish you to speak of your boyhood, your youth. describe the exile as you have seen him--so touching amidst his foibles, so grand amidst the petty privations of his fallen fortunes, so benevolent while poring over his hateful machiavel, so stingless in his wisdom of the serpent, so playfully astute in his innocence of the dove--i leave the picture to your knowledge of humor and pathos. describe violante brooding over her italian poets, and filled with dreams of her father-land; describe her with all the flashes of her princely nature, shining forth through humble circumstance and obscure position; awaken in your listener compassion, respect, admiration for her kindred exiles--and i think our work is done. she will recognize evidently those whom her brother seeks. she will question you closely where you met with them--where they now are. protect that secret: say at once that it is not your own. against your descriptions and the feelings they excite, she will not be guarded as against mine. and there are other reasons why your influence over this woman of mixed nature may be more direct and effectual than my own." "nay, i can not conceive that." "believe it, without asking me to explain," answered harley. for he did not judge it necessary to say to leonard, "i am high-born and wealthy--you a peasant's son, and living by your exertions. this woman is ambitious and distressed. she might have projects on me that would counteract mine on her. you she would but listen to, and receive, through the sentiments of good or of poetical that are in her--you she would have no interest to subjugate, no motive to ensnare." "and now," said harley, turning the subject, "i have another object in view. this foolish sage friend of ours, in his bewilderment and fears, has sought to save violante from one rogue by promising her hand to a man who, unless my instincts deceive me, i suspect much disposed to be another. sacrifice such exuberance of life and spirit to that bloodless heart, to that cold and earthward intellect! by heavens, it shall not be!" "but whom can the exile possibly have seen of birth and fortunes to render him a fitting spouse for his daughter? whom, my lord, except yourself?" "me!" exclaimed harley, angrily, and changing color. "i worthy of such a creature? i--with my habits! i--silken egotist that i am! and you, a poet, to form such an estimate of one who might be the queen of a poet's dream!" "my lord, when we sate the other night round riccabocca's hearth--when i heard her speak, and observed you listen, i said to myself, from such knowledge of human nature as comes, we know not how, to us poets--i said, 'harley l'estrange has looked long and wistfully on the heavens, and he now hears the murmur of the wings that can waft him toward them.' and then i sighed, for i thought how the world rules us all in spite of ourselves. and i said, 'what pity for both, that the exile's daughter is not the worldly equal of the peer's son!' and you, too, sighed, as i thus thought; and i fancied that, while you listened to the music of the wing, you felt the iron of the chain. but the exile's daughter is your equal in birth, and you are hers in heart and in soul." "my poor leonard, you rave," answered harley, calmly. "and if violante is not to be some young prince's bride, she should be some young poet's." "poet's! oh, no!" said leonard, with a gentle laugh. "poets need repose where _they_ love!" harley was struck by the answer, and mused over it in silence. "i comprehend," thought he; "it is a new light that dawns on me. what is needed by the man whose whole life is one strain after glory--whose soul sinks, in fatigue, to the companionship of earth--is not the love of a nature like his own. he is right--it is repose! while i, it is true! boy that he is, his intuitions are wiser than all my experience! it _is_ excitement--energy--elevation, that love should bestow on me. but i have chosen; and, at least, with helen my life will be calm, and my hearth sacred. let the rest sleep in the same grave as my youth." "but," said leonard, wishing kindly to arouse his noble friend from a reverie which he felt was mournful, though he did not divine its true cause--"but you have not yet told me the name of the signora's suitor. may i know?" "probably one you never heard of. randal leslie--a placeman. you refused a place; you were right." "randal leslie? heaven forbid!" cried leonard, revealing his surprise at the name. "amen! but what do you know of him?" leonard related the story of burley's pamphlet. harley seemed delighted to hear his suspicions of randal confirmed. "the paltry pretender! and yet i fancied that he might be formidable! however we must dismiss him for the present; we are approaching madame di negra's house. prepare yourself, and remember your promise!" chapter xiii. some days have passed by. leonard and beatrice di negra have already made friends. harley is satisfied with his young friend's report. he himself has been actively occupied. he has sought, but hitherto in vain, all trace of mrs. bertram; he has put that investigation into the hands of his lawyer, and his lawyer has not been more fortunate than himself. moreover, harley has blazed forth again in the london world, and promises again _de faire fureur_; but he has always found time to spend some hours in the twenty-four at his father's house. he has continued much the same tone with violante, and she begins to accustom herself to it, and reply saucily. his calm courtship to helen flows on in silence. leonard, too, has been a frequent guest at the lansmeres': all welcome and like him there. peschiera has not evinced any sign of the deadly machinations ascribed to him. he goes less into the drawing-room world: he meets lord l'estrange there; and brilliant and handsome though peschiera be, lord l'estrange, like rob roy mac-gregor, is "on his native heath," and has the decided advantage over the foreigner. peschiera, however, shines in the clubs, and plays high. still scarcely an evening passes in which he and baron levy do not meet. audley egerton has been intensely occupied with affairs. only seen once by harley. harley then was about to deliver himself of his sentiments respecting randal leslie, and to communicate the story of burley and the pamphlet. egerton stopped him short. "my dear harley, don't try to set me against this young man. i wish to hear nothing in his disfavor. in the first place, it would not alter the line of conduct i mean to adopt with regard to him. he is my wife's kinsman; i charged myself with his career, as a wish of hers, and therefore as a duty to myself. in attaching him so young to my own fate, i drew him necessarily away from the professions in which his industry and talents (for he has both in no common degree) would have secured his fortunes; therefore, be he bad, be he good, i shall try to provide for him as i best can; and, moreover, cold as i am to him, and worldly though perhaps he be, i have somehow or other conceived an interest in him--a liking to him. he has been under my roof, he is dependent on me; he has been docile and prudent, and i am a lone, childless man; therefore, spare him, since in so doing you spare me; and ah, harley, i have so many cares on me _now_, that--" "o, say no more, my dear, dear audley," cried the generous friend; "how little people know you!" audley's hand trembled. certainly his nerves began to show wear and tear. meanwhile the object of this dialogue--the type of perverted intellect--of mind without heart--of knowledge which had no aim but power--was in a state of anxious perturbed gloom. he did not know whether wholly to believe levy's assurance of his patron's ruin. he could not believe it when he saw that great house in grosvenor-square, its hall crowded with lackeys, its sideboard blazing with plate; when no dun was ever seen in the ante-chamber; when not a tradesman was ever known to call twice for a bill. he hinted to levy the doubts all these phenomena suggested to him; but the baron only smiled ominously, and said-- "true, the tradesmen are always paid; but the how is the question! randal, _mon cher_, you are too innocent. i have but two pieces of advice to suggest, in the shape of two proverbs--'wise rats run from a falling house,' and 'make hay while the sun shines.' apropos, mr. avenel likes you greatly, and has been talking of the borough of lansmere for you. he has contrived to get together a great interest there.' make much of him." randal had indeed been to mrs. avenel's _soirée dansante_, and called twice and found her at home, and been very bland and civil, and admired the children. she had two, a boy and a girl, very like their father, with open faces as bold as brass. and as all this had won mrs. avenel's good graces, so it had propitiated her husband's. avenel was shrewd enough to see how clever randal was. he called him "smart," and said, "he would have got on in america," which was the highest praise dick avenel ever accorded to any man. but dick himself looked a little care-worn; and this was the first year in which he had murmured at the bills of his wife's dressmaker, and said with an oath, that "there was such a thing as going _too_ much ahead." randal had visited dr. riccabocca, had found violante flown. true to his promise to harley, the italian refused to say where, and suggested, as was agreed, that for the present it would be more prudent if randal suspended his visits to himself. leslie, not liking this proposition, attempted to make himself still necessary, by working on riccabocca's fears as to that espionage on his retreat, which had been among the reasons that had hurried the sage into offering randal violante's hand. but riccabocca had already learned that the fancied spy was but his neighbor leonard; and, without so saying, he cleverly contrived to make the supposition of such espionage an additional reason for the cessation of leslie's visits. randal, then, in his own artful, quiet, roundabout way, had sought to find out if any communication had passed between l'estrange and riccabocca. brooding over harley's words to him, he suspected there had been such communication, with his usual penetrating astuteness. riccabocca, here, was less on his guard, and rather parried the sidelong questions than denied their inferences. randal began already to surmise the truth. where was it likely violante should go but to the lansmeres'? this confirmed his idea of harley's pretensions to her hand. with such a rival what chance had he? randal never doubted for a moment that the pupil of machiavel would "throw him over," if such an alliance to his daughter really presented itself. the schemer at once discarded from his project all further aim on violante; either she would be poor, and he would not have her; or she would be rich, and her father would give her to another. as his heart had never been touched by the fair italian, so the moment her inheritance became more than doubtful, it gave him no pang to lose her; but he did feel very sore and resentful at the thought of being supplanted by lord l'estrange, the man who had insulted him. neither, as yet, had randal made any way in his designs on frank. for several days madame di negra had not been at home, either to himself or young hazeldean; and frank, though very unhappy, was piqued and angry; and randal suspected, and suspected, and suspected, he knew not exactly what, but that the devil was not so kind to him there as that father of lies ought to have been to a son so dutiful. yet, with all these discouragements, there was in randal leslie so dogged and determined a conviction of his own success--there was so great a tenacity of purpose under obstacles, and so vigilant an eye upon all chances that could be turned to his favor, that he never once abandoned hope, nor did more than change the details in his main schemes. out of calculations apparently the most far-fetched and improbable, he had constructed a patient policy, to which he obstinately clung. how far his reasonings and patience served to his ends, remains yet to be seen. but could our contempt for the baseness of randal himself be separated from the faculties which he elaborately degraded to the service of that baseness, one might allow there was something one could scarcely despise in this still self-reliance, this inflexible resolve. had such qualities, aided as they were by abilities of no ordinary acuteness, been applied to objects commonly honest, one would have backed randal leslie against any fifty picked prizemen from the colleges. but there are judges of weight and metal, who do that now, especially baron levy, who says to himself as he eyes that pale face all intellect, and that spare form all nerve, "that is a man who must make way in life; he is worth helping." by the words "worth helping," baron levy meant "worth getting into my power, that he may help me." chapter xiv. but parliament had met. events that belong to history had contributed yet more to weaken the administration. randal leslie's interest became absorbed in politics; for the stake to him was his whole political career. should audley lose office, and for good, audley could aid him no more; but to abandon his patron, as levy recommended, and pin himself, in the hope of a seat in parliament, to a stranger--an obscure stranger, like dick avenel--that was a policy not to be adopted at a breath. meanwhile, almost every night, when the house met, that pale face and spare form, which levy so identified with shrewdness and energy, might be seen among the benches appropriated to those more select strangers who obtained the speaker's order of admission. there randal heard the great men of that day, and with the half contemptuous surprise at their fame, which is common enough among clever, well-educated young men, who know not what it is to speak in the house of commons. he heard much slovenly english, much trite reasoning, some eloquent thoughts, and close argument, often delivered in a jerking tone of voice (popularly called the parliamentary _twang_), and often accompanied by gesticulations that would have shocked the manager of a provincial theatre. he thought how much better than these great dons (with but one or two exceptions) he himself could speak--with what more refined logic--with what more polished periods--how much more like cicero and burke! very probably he might have so spoken, and for that very reason have made that deadest of all dead failures--an excellent spoken essay. one thing, however, he was obliged to own, viz., that in a popular representative assembly it is not precisely knowledge that is power, or if knowledge, it is but the knowledge of that particular assembly, and what will best take with it;--passion, invective, sarcasm, bold declamation, shrewd common sense, the readiness so rarely found in a very profound mind--he owned that all these were the qualities that told; when a man who exhibited nothing but "knowledge," in the ordinary sense of the word, stood in imminent chance of being coughed down. there at his left--last but one in the row of the ministerial chiefs--randal watched audley egerton, his arms folded on his breast, his hat drawn over his brows, his eyes fixed with steady courage on whatever speaker in the opposition held possession of the floor. and twice randal heard egerton speak, and marveled much at the effect that minister produced. for of those qualities enumerated above, and which randal had observed to be most sure of success, audley egerton only exhibited to a marked degree--the common sense, and the readiness. and yet, though but little applauded by noisy cheers, no speaker seemed more to satisfy friends, and command respect from foes. the true secret was this, which randal might well not divine, since that young person, despite his ancient birth, his eton rearing, and his refined air, was not one of nature's gentlemen;--the true secret was, that audley egerton moved, looked, and spoke, like a thorough gentleman of england. a gentleman of more than average talents and of long experience, speaking his sincere opinions--not a rhetorician aiming at effect. moreover, egerton was a consummate man of the world. he said, with nervous simplicity, what his party desired to be said, and put what his opponents felt to be the strong points of the case. calm and decorous, yet spirited and energetic, with little variety of tone, and action subdued and rare, but yet signalized by earnest vigor, audley egerton impressed the understanding of the dullest, and pleased the taste of the most fastidious. but once, when allusions were made to a certain popular question, on which the premier had announced his resolution to refuse all concession, and on the expediency of which it was announced that the cabinet was nevertheless divided--and when such allusions were coupled with direct appeals to mr. egerton, as "the enlightened member of a great commercial constituency," and with a flattering doubt that "that right honorable gentleman, member for that great city, identified with the cause of the burgher class, could be so far behind the spirit of the age as his official chief,"--randal observed that egerton drew his hat still more closely over his brows and turned to whisper with one of his colleagues. he could not be _got up_ to speak. that evening randal walked home with egerton, and intimated his surprise that the minister had declined what seemed to him a good occasion for one of those brief, weighty replies by which audley was chiefly distinguished, an occasion to which he had been loudly invited by the "hears" of the house. "leslie," answered the statesman briefly, "i owe all my success in parliament to this rule--i have never spoken against my convictions. i intend to abide by it to the last." "but if the question at issue comes before the house you will vote against it?" "certainly, i vote as a member of the cabinet. but since i am not leader and mouthpiece of the party, i retain the privilege to speak as an individual." "ah, my dear mr. egerton," exclaimed randal, "forgive me. but this question, right or wrong, has got such hold of the public mind. so little, if conceded in time, would give content; and it is so clear (if i may judge by the talk i hear every where i go) that, by refusing all concession, the government must fall, that i wish--" "so do i wish," interrupted egerton, with a gloomy impatient sigh--"so do i wish! but what avails it? if my advice had been taken but three weeks ago--now it is too late--we could have doubled the rock; we refused, we must split upon it." this speech was so unlike the discreet and reserved minister, that randal gathered courage to proceed with an idea that had occurred to his own sagacity. and before i state it, i must add that egerton had of late shown much more personal kindness to his _protégé_; that, whether his spirits were broken, or that at last, close and compact as his nature of bronze was, he felt the imperious want to groan aloud in some loving ear, the stern audley seemed tamed and softened. so randal went on. "may i say what i have heard expressed with regard to you and your position--in the streets--in the clubs?" "yes, it is in the streets and the clubs, that statesmen should go to school. say on." "well, then, i have heard it made a matter of wonder why you, and one or two others i will not name, do not at once retire from the ministry, and on the avowed ground that you side with the public feeling on this irresistible question." "eh!" "it is clear that in so doing you would become the most popular man in the country--clear that you would be summoned back to power on the shoulders of the people. no new cabinet could be formed without you, and your station in it would perhaps be higher, for life, than that which you may now retain but for a few weeks longer. has not this ever occurred to you?" "never," said audley, with dry composure. amazed at such obtuseness, randal exclaimed, "is it possible! and yet, forgive me if i say i think you are ambitious and love power." "no man more ambitious; and if by power you mean office, it has grown the habit of my life, and i shall not know how to do without it." "and how, then, has what seems to me so obvious never occurred to you?" "because you are young, and therefore i forgive you; but not the gossips who could wonder why audley egerton refused to betray the friends of his whole career, and to profit by the treason." "but one should love one's country before a party." "no doubt of that; and the first interest of a country is the honor of its public men." "but men may leave their party without dishonor!" "who doubts that? do you suppose that if i were an ordinary independent member of parliament, loaded with no obligations, charged with no trust, i could hesitate for a moment what course to pursue? oh, that i were but the member for ----! oh! that i had the full right to be a free agent! but if a member of a cabinet, a chief in whom thousands confide, because he is outvoted in a council of his colleagues, suddenly retires, and by so doing breaks up the whole party whose confidence he has enjoyed, whose rewards he has reaped, to whom he owes the very position which he employs to their ruin--own that though his choice may be honest, it is one which requires all the consolations of conscience." "but you will have those consolations. and," added randal energetically, "the gain to your career will be immense!" "that is precisely what it can not be," answered egerton, gloomily. "i grant that i may, if i choose, resign office with the present government, and so at once destroy that government; for my resignation on such ground would suffice to do it. i grant this; but for that very reason i could not the next day take office with another administration. i could not accept wages for desertion. no gentleman could! and, therefore--" audley stopped short, and he buttoned his coat over his broad breast. the action was significant: it said that the man's mind was made up. in fact, whether audley egerton was right or wrong in his theory depends upon much subtler, and perhaps loftier views in the casuistry of political duties, than it was in his character to take. and i guard myself from saying any thing in praise or disfavor of his notions, or implying that he is a fit or unfit example in a parallel case. i am but describing the man as he was, and as a man like him would inevitably be, under the influences in which he lived, and in that peculiar world of which he was so emphatically a member. "_ce n'est pas moi qui parle, c'est marc aurèle._" he speaks, not i. randal had no time for further discussion they now reached egerton's house, and the minister, taking the chamber candlestick from his servant's hand, nodded a silent good-night to leslie, and with a jaded look retired to his room. chapter xv. but not on the threatened question was that eventful campaign of party decided. the government fell less in battle than skirmish. it was one fatal monday--a dull question of finance and figures. prosy and few were the speakers. all the government silent, save the chancellor of the exchequer, and another business-like personage connected with the board of trade, whom the house would hardly condescend to hear. the house was in no mood to think of facts and figures. early in the evening, between nine and ten, the speaker's sonorous voice sounded, "strangers must withdraw!" and randal, anxious and foreboding, descended from his seat, and went out of the fatal doors. he turned to take a last glance at audley egerton. the whipper-in was whispering to audley; and the minister pushed back his hat from his brows, and glanced round the house, and up into the galleries, as if to calculate rapidly the relative numbers of the two armies in the field; then he smiled bitterly, and threw himself back into his seat. that smile long haunted leslie. among the strangers thus banished with randal, while the division was being taken, were many young men, like himself, connected with the administration--some by blood, some by place. hearts beat loud in the swarming lobbies. ominous mournful whispers were exchanged. "they say the government will have a majority of ten." "no; i hear they will certainly be beaten." "h---- says by fifty." "i don't believe it," said a lord of the bedchamber; "it's impossible. i left government members dining at the 'travelers.'" "no one thought the division would be so early." "a trick of the whigs--shameful." "wonder some one was not set up to talk for time; very odd p---- did not speak; however, he is so cursedly rich, he does not care whether he is out or in." "yes; and audley egerton, too, just such another; glad, no doubt, to be set free to look after his property; very different tactics if we had men to whom office was as necessary as it is--to me!" said a candid, young placeman. suddenly the silent leslie felt a friendly grasp on his arm. he turned, and saw levy. "did i not tell you?" said the baron, with an exulting smile. "you are sure, then, that the government will be outvoted?" "i spent the morning in going over the list of members with a parliamentary client of mine, who knows them all as a shepherd does his sheep. majority for the opposition at least twenty-five." "and in that case, must the government resign, sir?" asked the candid young placeman, who had been listening to the smart well-dressed baron, "his soul planted in his ears." "of course, sir," replied the baron, blandly, and offering his snuff-box (true louis quinze, with a miniature of madame de pompadour, set in pearls). "you are a friend to the present ministers? you could not wish them to be mean enough to stay in?" randal drew aside the baron. "if audley's affairs are as you state, what can he do?" "i shall ask him that question to-morrow," answered the baron, with a look of visible hate. "and i have come here just to see how he bears the prospect before him." "you will not discover that in his face. and those absurd scruples of his! if he had but gone out in time--to come in again with the new men!" "oh, of course, our right honorable is too punctilious for that!" answered the baron, sneering. suddenly the doors opened--in rushed the breathless expectants. "what are the numbers? what is the division!" "majority against ministers," said a member of opposition, peeling an orange, "twenty-nine." the baron, too, had a speaker's order; and he came into the house with randal, and sate by his side. but, to their disgust, some member was talking about the other motions before the house. "what! has nothing been said as to the division?" asked the baron of a young county member, who was talking to some non-parliamentary friend in the bench before levy. the county member was one of the baron's pet eldest sons--had dined often with levy--was under "obligations" to him. the young legislator looked very much ashamed of levy's friendly pat on his shoulder, and answered hurriedly, "oh, yes; h---- asked, 'if, after such an expression of the house, it was the intention of ministers to retain their places, and carry on the business of the government?'" "just like h----! very inquisitive mind! and what was the answer he got?" "none," said the county member; and returned in haste to his proper seat in the body of the house. "there comes egerton," said the baron. and, indeed, as most of the members were now leaving the house, to talk over affairs at clubs or in saloons, and spread through town the great tidings, audley egerton's tall head was seen towering above the rest. and levy turned away disappointed. for not only was the minister's handsome face, though pale, serene and cheerful, but there was an obvious courtesy, a marked respect, in the mode in which that rough assembly made way for the fallen minister as he passed through the jostling crowd. and the frank urbane nobleman, who afterward, from the force, not of talent, but of character, became the leader in the house, pressed the hand of his old opponent, as they met in the throng near the doors, and said aloud, "i shall not be a proud man if ever i live to have office; but i shall be proud if ever i leave it with as little to be said against me as your bitterest opponents can say against you, egerton." "i wonder," exclaimed the baron, aloud, and leaning over the partition that divided him from the throng below, so that his voice reached egerton--and there was a cry from formal, indignant members, "order in the strangers' gallery!"--"i wonder what lord l'estrange will say!" audley lifted his dark brows, surveyed the baron for an instant with flashing eyes, then walked down the narrow defile between the last benches, and vanished from the scene in which, alas! so few of the most admired performers leave more than an actor's short-lived name! chapter xvi. baron levy did not execute his threat of calling on egerton the next morning. perhaps he shrank from again meeting the flash of those indignant eyes. and, indeed, egerton was too busied all the forenoon to see any one not upon public affairs, except harley, who hastened to console or cheer him. when the house met, it was announced that the ministers had resigned, only holding their offices till their successors were appointed. but already there was some reaction in their favor; and when it became generally known that the new administration was to be formed of men, few, indeed, of whom had ever before held office--that common superstition in the public mind, that government is like a trade, in which a regular apprenticeship must be served, began to prevail; and the talk at the clubs was, that the new men could not stand; that the former ministry, with some modification, would be back in a month. perhaps that, too, might be a reason why baron levy thought it prudent not prematurely to offer vindictive condolences to mr. egerton. randal spent part of his morning in inquiries, as to what gentleman in his situation meant to do with regard to their places; he heard with great satisfaction that very few intended to volunteer retirement from their desks. as randal himself had observed to egerton, "their country before their party!" randal's place was of great moment to him; its duties were easy, its salary amply sufficient for his wants, and defrayed such expenses as were bestowed on the education of oliver and his sister. for i am bound to do justice to this young man--indifferent as he was toward his species in general, the ties of family were strong with him; and he stinted himself in many temptations most alluring to his age, in the endeavor to raise the dull honest oliver and the loose-haired pretty juliet somewhat more to his own level of culture and refinement. men essentially griping and unscrupulous, often do make the care for their family an apology for their sins against the world. even richard iii., if the chroniclers are to be trusted, excused the murder of his nephews by his passionate affection for his son. with the loss of that place, randal lost all means of support, save what audley could give him; and if audley were in truth ruined? moreover, randal had already established at the office a reputation for ability and industry. it was a career in which, if he abstained from party politics, he might rise to a fair station and to a considerable income. therefore, much contented with what he learned as to the general determination of his fellow officials, a determination warranted by ordinary precedent in such cases, randal dined at a club with good relish, and much christian resignation for the reverse of his patron, and then walked to grosvenor-square, on the chance of finding audley within. learning that he was so, from the porter who opened the door, randal entered the library. three gentlemen were seated there with egerton: one of the three was lord l'estrange; the other two were members of the really defunct, though nominally still existing, government. he was about to withdraw from intruding on this conclave, when egerton said to him gently, "come in, leslie; i was just speaking about yourself." "about me, sir?" "yes; about you and the place you hold. i had asked sir ---- (pointing to a fellow minister) whether i might not, with propriety, request your chief to leave some note of his opinion of your talents, which i know is high, and which might serve you with his successor." "oh, sir, at such a time to think of me!" exclaimed randal, and he was genuinely touched. "but," resumed audley with his usual dryness, "sir ----, to my surprise, thinks that it would better become you that you should resign. unless his reasons, which he has not stated, are very strong, such would not be my advice." "my reasons," said sir ----, with official formality, "are simply these: i have a nephew in a similar situation; he will resign, as a matter of course. every one in the public offices whose relatives and near connections hold high appointments in the government, will do so. i do not think mr. leslie will like to feel himself a solitary exception." "mr. leslie is no relation of mine--not even a near connection," answered egerton. "but his name is so associated with your own--he has resided so long in your house--is so well known in society (and don't think i compliment when i add, that we hope so well of him), that i can't think it worth his while to keep this paltry place, which incapacitates him too from a seat in parliament." sir ---- was one of those terribly rich men, to whom all considerations of mere bread and cheese are paltry. but i must add, that he supposed egerton to be still wealthier than himself, and sure to provide handsomely for randal, whom sir ---- rather liked than not; and, for randal's own sake, sir ---- thought it would lower him in the estimation of egerton himself, despite that gentleman's advocacy, if he did not follow the example of his avowed and notorious patron. "you see, leslie," said egerton, checking randal's meditated reply, "that nothing can be said against your honor if you stay where you are; it is a mere question of expediency; i will judge that for you; keep your place." unhappily the other member of the government, who had hitherto been silent, was a literary man. unhappily, while this talk had proceeded, he had placed his hand upon randal leslie's celebrated pamphlet, which lay on the library table; and, turning over the leaves, the whole spirit and matter of that masterly composition in defense of the administration (a composition steeped in all the essence of party) recurred to his too faithful recollection. he, too, liked randal; he did more--he admired the author of that striking and effective pamphlet. and, therefore, rousing himself from the sublime indifference he had before felt for the fate of a subaltern, he said with a bland and complimentary smile, "no; the writer of this most able publication is no ordinary placeman. his opinions here are too vigorously stated; this fine irony on the very person who in all probability will be the chief in his office, has excited too lively an attention, to allow him the _sedet eternumque sedebit_ on an official stool. ha, ha! this is so good! read it, l'estrange. what say you?" harley glanced over the page pointed out to him. the original was in one of burley's broad, coarse, but telling burlesques, strained fine through randal's more polished satire. it was capital. harley smiled, and lifted his eyes to randal. the unlucky plagiarist's face was flushed--the beads stood on his brow. harley was a good hater; he loved too warmly not to err on the opposite side; but he was one of those men who forget hate when its object is distressed and humbled. he put down the pamphlet and said, "i am no politician; but egerton is so well known to be fastidious and over scrupulous in all points of official etiquette, that mr. leslie can not follow a safer counselor." "read that yourself, egerton," said sir ----; and he pushed the pamphlet to audley. now egerton had a dim recollection that that pamphlet was unlucky; but he had skimmed over its contents hastily, and at that moment had forgotten all about it. he took up the too famous work with a reluctant hand, but he read attentively the passages pointed out to him, and then said, gravely and sadly, "mr. leslie, i retract my advice. i believe sir ---- is right; that the nobleman here so keenly satirized will be chief in your office. i doubt whether he will not compel your dismissal; at all events, he could scarcely be expected to promote your advancement. under the circumstances, i fear you have no option as a--" egerton paused a moment, and, with a sigh that appeared to settle the question, concluded with--"as a gentleman." never did jack cade, never did wat tyler, feel a more deadly hate to that word "gentleman," than the well-born leslie felt then; but he bowed his head, and answered with his usual presence of mind-- "you utter my own sentiment." "you think we are right, harley?" asked egerton, with an irresolution that surprised all present. "i think," answered harley, with a compassion for randal that was almost over generous, and yet with an _équivoque_ on the words despite the compassion--"i think whoever has served audley egerton never yet has been a loser by it; and if mr. leslie wrote this pamphlet, he must have well served audley egerton. if he undergoes the penalty, we may safely trust to egerton for the compensation." "my compensation has long since been made," answered randal, with grace; "and that mr. egerton could thus have cared for my fortunes, at an hour so occupied, is a thought of pride which--" "enough, leslie! enough!" interrupted egerton, rising and pressing his _protégé's_ hands. "see me before you go to bed." then the two other ministers rose also, and shook hands with leslie, and told him he had done the right thing, and that they hoped soon to see him in parliament; and hinted smilingly, that the next administration did not promise to be very long-lived; and one asked him to dinner, and the other to spend a week at his country seat. and amidst these congratulations at the stroke that left him penniless, the distinguished pamphleteer left the room. how he cursed big john burley! chapter xvii. it was past midnight when audley egerton summoned randal. the statesman was then alone, seated before his great desk, with its manifold compartments, and engaged on the task of transferring various papers and letters, some to the waste-basket, some to the flames, some to two great iron chests with patent locks that stood open-mouthed, at his feet. strong, stern, and grim they looked, silently receiving the relics of power departed; strong, stern, and grim as the grave. audley lifted his eyes at randal's entrance, signed to him to take a chair, continued his task for a few moments, and then turning round, as if with an effort he plucked himself from his master passion--public life--he said, with deliberate tones-- "i know not, randal leslie, whether you thought me needlessly cautious, or wantonly unkind, when i told you never to expect from me more than such advance to your career as my then position could effect--never to expect from my liberality in life, nor from my testament in death--an addition to your private fortunes. i see by your gesture what would be your reply, and i thank you for it. i now tell you, as yet in confidence, though before long it can be no secret to the world, that my pecuniary affairs have been so neglected by me, in my devotion to those of the state, that i am somewhat like the man who portioned out his capital at so much a day, calculating to live just long enough to make it last. unfortunately he lived too long." audley smiled--but the smile was cold as a sunbeam upon ice--and went on with the same firm, unfaltering accents: "the prospects that face me i am prepared for; they do not take me by surprise. i knew long since how this would end, if i survived the loss of office. i knew it before you came to me, and therefore i spoke to you as i did, judging it manful and right to guard you against hopes which you might otherwise have naturally entertained. on this head i need say no more. it may excite your surprise, possibly your blame, that i, esteemed methodical and practical enough in the affairs of the state, should be so imprudent as to my own." "oh, sir! you owe no account to me." "to you, at least, as much as to any one. i am a solitary man; my few relations need nothing from me. i had a right to spend what i possessed as i pleased, and if i have spent it recklessly as regards myself, i have not spent it ill in its effect on others. it has been my object for many years to have no _private life_--to dispense with its sorrows, joys, affection; and as to its duties, they did not exist for me. i have said." mechanically, as he ended, the minister's hand closed the lid of one of the iron boxes, and on the closed lid he rested his firm foot. "but now," he resumed, "i have failed to advance your career. true, i warned you that you drew into a lottery; but you had more chance of a prize than a blank. a blank, however, it has turned out, and the question becomes grave--what are you to do?" here, seeing that egerton came to a full pause, randal answered readily: "still, sir, to go by your advice." "my advice," said audley, with a softened look, "would perhaps be rude and unpalatable. i would rather place before you an option. on the one hand, recommence life again. i told you that i would keep your name on your college books. you can return--you can take your degree--after that, you can go to the bar--you have just the talents calculated to succeed in that profession. success will be slow, it is true; but, with perseverance, it will be sure. and, believe me, leslie, ambition is only sweet while it is but the loftier name for hope. who would care for a fox's brush, if it had not been rendered a prize by the excitement of the chase?" "oxford--again! it is a long step back in life," said randal, drearily; and little heeding egerton's unusual indulgence of illustration. "a long step back--and to what? to a profession in which one never begins to rise till one's hair is gray! besides, how live in the mean while?" "do not let that thought disturb you. the modest income that suffices for a student at the bar, i trust, at least, to insure you from the wrecks of my fortune." "ah, sir, i would not burthen you further. what right have i to such kindness, save my name of leslie?" and in spite of himself, as randal concluded, a tone of bitterness, that betrayed reproach, broke forth. egerton was too much the man of the world not to comprehend the reproach, and not to pardon it. "certainly," he answered, calmly, "as a leslie you are entitled to my consideration, and would have been entitled perhaps to more, had i not so explicitly warned you to the contrary but the bar does not seem to please you?" "what is the alternative, sir? let me decide when i hear it," answered randal, sullenly. he began to lose respect for the man who owned he could do so little for him, and who evidently recommended him to shift for himself. if one could have pierced into egerton's gloomy heart as he noted the young man's change of tone, it may be a doubt whether one would have seen there, pain or pleasure--pain, for merely from the force of habit he had begun to like randal--or pleasure, at the thought that he might have reason to withdraw that liking. so lone and stoical had grown the man who had made it his object to have no private life. revealing, however, neither pleasure or pain, but with the composed calmness of a judge upon the bench, egerton replied: "the alternative is, to continue in the course you have begun, and still to rely on me." "sir, my dear mr. egerton," exclaimed randal, regaining all his usual tenderness of look and voice, "rely on you! but that is all i ask! only--" "only, you would say, i am going out of power, and you don't see the chance of my return?" "i did not mean that." "permit me to suppose that you did; very true; but the party i belong to is as sure of return as the pendulum of that clock is sure to obey the mechanism that moves it from left to right. our successors profess to come in upon a popular question. all administrations who do that are necessarily short-lived. either they do not go far enough to please present supporters, or they go so far as to arm new enemies in the rivals who outbid them with the people. 'tis the history of all revolutions, and of all reforms. our own administration in reality is destroyed for having passed what was called a popular measure a year ago, which lost us half our friends, and refusing to propose another popular measure this year, in the which we are outstripped by the men who hallooed us on the last. therefore, whatever our successors do, we shall, by the law of reaction, have another experiment of power afforded to ourselves. it is but a question of time; you can wait for it; whether i can is uncertain. but if i die before that day arrives, i have influence enough still left with those who will come in, to obtain a promise of a better provision for you than that which you have lost. the promises of public men are proverbially uncertain. but i shall intrust your cause to a man who never failed a friend, and whose rank will enable him to see that justice is done to you--i speak of lord l'estrange." "oh, not him; he is unjust to me; he dislikes me; he--" "may dislike you (he has his whims), but he loves me; and though for no other human being but you would i ask harley l'estrange a favor yet for _you_ i will," said egerton, betraying, for the first time in that dialogue, a visible emotion--"for you, a leslie, a kinsman, however remote, to the wife, from whom i received my fortune! and despite all my cautions, it is possible that in wasting that fortune i may have wronged you. enough: you have now before you the two options, much as you had at first; but you have at present more experience to aid you in your choice. you are a man, and with more brains than most men; think over it well, and decide for yourself. now to bed, and postpone thought till the morrow. poor randal, you look pale!" audley, as he said the last words, put his hand on randal's shoulder, almost with a father's gentleness; and then suddenly drawing himself up, as the hard inflexible expression, stamped on that face by years, returned, he moved away and resettled to public life and the iron-box. chapter xviii. early the next day randal leslie was in the luxurious business-room of baron levy. how unlike the cold doric simplicity of the statesman's library! axminster carpets three inches thick, _portières à la française_ before the doors; parisian bronzes on the chimney-piece; and all the receptacles that lined the room, and contained title-deeds, and post-obits, and bills, and promises to pay, and lawyer-like japan boxes, with many a noble name written thereon in large white capitals--"making ruin pompous"--all these sepulchres of departed patrimonies veneered in rosewood that gleamed with french polish, and blazed with ormolu. there was a coquetry, an air of _petit maître_, so diffused over the whole room, that you could not for the life of you recollect that you were with a usurer. plutus wore the aspect of his enemy cupid, and how realize your idea of harpagon in that baron, with his easy french "_mon cher_," and his white warm hands that pressed yours so genially, and his dress so exquisite, even at the earliest morn? no man ever yet saw that baron in a dressing-gown and slippers? as one fancies some feudal baron of old (not half so terrible) everlastingly clad in mail, so all one's notions of this grand marauder of civilization were inseparably associated with varnished boots, and a camelia in the button-hole. "and this is all that he does for you!" cried the baron, pressing together the points of his ten taper fingers. "had he but let you conclude your career at oxford, i have heard enough of your scholarship to know that you would have taken high honors--been secure of a fellowship--have betaken yourself with content to a slow and laborious profession--and prepared yourself to die on the woolsack." "he proposes to me now to return to oxford," said randal. "it is not too late!" "yes it is," said the baron. "neither individuals nor nations ever go back of their own accord. there must be an earthquake before a river recedes to its source." "you speak well," answered randal, "and i cannot gainsay you. but now!" "ah, the _now_ is the grand question in life--the _then_ is obsolete, gone by--out of fashion; and _now, mon cher_, you come to ask my advice." "no, baron; i come to ask your explanation." "of what?" "i want to know why you spoke to me of mr. egerton's ruin; why you spoke to me of the lands to be sold by mr. thornhill; and why you spoke to me of count peschiera. you touched on each of those points within ten minutes--you omitted to indicate what link can connect them." "by jove," said the baron, rising, and with more admiration in his face than you could have conceived that face so smiling and so cynical could exhibit--"by jove, randal leslie, but your shrewdness is wonderful. you really are the first young man of your day; and i will 'help you,' as i helped audley egerton. perhaps you will be more grateful." randal thought of egerton's ruin. the parallel implied by the baron did not suggest to him the rare enthusiasm of gratitude. however, he merely said, "pray, proceed--i listen to you with interest." "as for politics, then," said the baron, "we will discuss that topic later. i am waiting myself to see how these new men get on. the first consideration is for your private fortunes. you should buy this ancient leslie property--rood and dulmansberry--only £ , down; the rest may remain on mortgage forever--or at least till i find you a rich wife--as, in fact, i did for egerton. thornhill wants the twenty thousand now--wants them very much." "and where," said randal, with an iron smile, "are the £ , you ascribe to me to come from?" "ten thousand shall come to you the day count peschiera marries the daughter of his kinsman with your help and aid--the remaining ten thousand i will lend you. no scruple--i shall hazard nothing--the estates will bear that additional burden. what say you--shall it be so?" "ten thousand pounds from count peschiera!" said randal, breathing hard. "you can not be serious? such a sum--for what?--for a mere piece of information? how otherwise can i aid him? there must be a trick and deception intended here." "my dear fellow," answered levy, "i will give you a hint. there is such a thing in life as being over suspicious. if you have a fault, it is that. the information you allude to is, of course, the first assistance you are to give. perhaps more may be needed--perhaps not. of that you will judge yourself, since the £ , are contingent on the marriage aforesaid." "over suspicious or not," answered randal, "the amount of the sum is too improbable, and the security too bad, for me to listen to this proposition, even if i could descend to--" "stop, _mon cher_. business first--scruples afterward. the security, too, bad--what security?" "the word of count di peschiera." "he has nothing to do with it--he need know nothing about it. 'tis my word you doubt. i am your security." randal thought of that dry witticism in gibbon, "abu rafe says he will be witness for this fact, but who will be witness for abu rafe?" but he remained silent, only, fixing on levy those dark, observant eyes, with their contracted, wary pupils. "the fact is simply this," resumed levy: "count di peschiera has promised to pay his sister a dowry of £ , , in case he has the money to spare. he can only have it to spare by the marriage we are discussing. on my part, as i manage his affairs in england for him, i have promised that, for the said sum of £ , , i will guarantee the expenses in the way of that marriage, and settle with madame di negra. now, though peschiera is a very liberal, warm-hearted fellow, i don't say that he would have named so large a sum for his sister's dowry, if, in strict truth, he did not owe it to her. it is the amount of her own fortune, which, by some arrangements with her late husband not exactly legal, he possessed himself of. if madame di negra went to law with him for it, she could get it back. i have explained this to him; and, in short, you now understand why the sum is thus assessed. but i have bought up madame di negra's debts. i have bought up young hazeldean's (for we must make a match between these two a part of our arrangements). i shall present to peschiera, and to these excellent young persons, an account that will absorb the whole £ , . that sum will come into my hands. if i settle the claims against them for half the money, which, making myself the sole creditor, i have the right to do, the moiety will remain. and if i choose to give it to you, in return for the services which provide peschiera with a princely fortune--discharge the debts of his sister--and secure her a husband in my promising young client, mr. hazeldean, that is my look-out--all parties are satisfied, and no one need ever be the wiser. the sum is large, no doubt; it answers to me to give it to you; does it answer to you to receive it?" randal was greatly agitated; but, vile as he was, and systematically as in thought he had brought himself to regard others merely as they could be made subservient to his own interest, still, with all who have not hardened themselves in actual crime, there is a wide distinction between the thought and the act; and though, in the exercise of ingenuity and cunning, he would have had few scruples in that moral swindling which is mildly called "outwitting another," yet thus nakedly and openly to accept a bribe for a deed of treachery toward the poor italian who had so generously trusted him--he recoiled. he was nerving himself to refuse, when levy, opening his pocket-book, glanced over the memoranda therein, and said, as to himself, "rood manor--dulmansberry, sold to the thornhills by sir gilbert leslie, knight of the shire; estimated present net rental £ , s. it is the greatest bargain i ever knew. and with this estate in hand, and your talents, leslie, i don't see why you should not rise higher than audley egerton. he was poorer than you once!" the old leslie lands--a positive stake in the country--the restoration of the fallen family; and, on the other hand, either long drudgery at the bar--a scanty allowance on egerton's bounty--his sister wasting her youth at slovenly, dismal rood--oliver debased into a boor!--or a mendicant's dependence on the contemptuous pity of harley l'estrange--harley who had refused his hand to him--harley who perhaps would become the husband of violante! rage seized him as these contrasting pictures rose before his view. he walked to and fro in disorder, striving to re-collect his thoughts, and reduce himself from the passions of the human heart into the mere mechanism of calculating intellect. "i can not conceive," said he, abruptly, "why you should tempt me thus--what interest is it to you?" baron levy smiled, and put up his pocket-book. he saw from that moment that the victory was gained. "my dear boy," said he, with the most agreeable _bonhomie_, "it is very natural that you should think a man would have a personal interest in whatever he does for another. i believe that view of human nature is called utilitarian philosophy, and is much in fashion at present. let me try and explain to you. in this affair i shan't injure myself. true, you will say, if i settle claims, which amount to £ , , for £ , , i might put the surplus into my own pocket instead of yours. agreed. but i shall not get the £ , , nor repay myself madame di negra's debts (whatever i may do as to hazeldean's), unless the count gets this heiress. you can help in this. i want you; and i don't think i could get you by a less offer than i make. i shall soon pay myself back the £ , if the count gets hold of the lady and her fortune. brief--i see my way here to my own interests. do you want more reasons--you shall have them. i am now a very rich man. how have i become so? through attaching myself from the first to persons of expectations, whether from fortune or talent. i have made connections in society, and society has enriched me. i have still a passion for making money. _que voulez vous?_ it is my profession, my hobby. it will be useful to me in a thousand ways, to secure as a friend a young man who will have influence with other young men, heirs to something better than rood hall. you may succeed in public life. a man in public life may attain to the knowledge of state secrets that are very profitable to one who dabbles a little in the funds. we can perhaps hereafter do business together that may put yourself in a way of clearing off all mortgages on these estates--on the encumbered possession of which i shall soon congratulate you. you see i am frank; 'tis the only way of coming to the point with so clever a fellow as you. and now, since the less we rake up the mud in the pond from which we have resolved to drink, the better, let us dismiss all other thoughts but that of securing our end. will you tell peschiera where the young lady is, or shall i? better do it yourself; reason enough for it, that he has confided to you his hope, and asked you to help him; why should not you? not a word to him about our little arrangement; he need never know it. you need never be troubled." levy rang the bell: "order my carriage round." randal made no objection. he was deathlike pale, but there was a sinister expression of firmness on his thin bloodless lips. "the next point," levy resumed, "is to hasten the match between frank and the fair widow. how does that stand!" "she will not see me, nor receive him." "oh, learn why! and if you find on either side there is a hitch, just let me know; i will soon remove it." "has hazeldean consented to the post-obit?" "not yet; i have not pressed it; i wait the right moment, if necessary." "it will be necessary." "ah, you wish it. it shall be so." randal leslie again paced the room, and after a silent self-commune, came up close to the baron, and said, "look you, sir, i am poor and ambitious; you have tempted me at the right moment, and with the right inducement. i succumb. but what guarantee have i that this money will be paid--these estates made mine upon the condition stipulated?" "before any thing is settled," replied the baron, "go and ask my character of any of our young friends, borrowell, spendquick--whom you please; you will hear me abused, of course; but they will all say this of me, that when i pass my word i keep it; if i say, '_mon cher_, you shall have the money,' a man has it; if i say, 'i renew your bill for six months,' it is renewed. 'tis my way of doing business. in all cases my word is my bond. in this case, where no writing can pass between us, my only bond must be my word. go, then, make your mind clear as to your security, and come here and dine at eight. we will call on peschiera afterward." "yes," said randal, "i will at all events take the day to consider. meanwhile i say this, i do not disguise from myself the nature of the proposed transaction, but what i have once resolved i go through with. my sole vindication to myself is, that if i play here with a false die, it will be for a stake so grand, as, once won, the magnitude of the prize will cancel the ignominy of the play. it is not this sum of money for which i sell myself--it is for what that sum will aid me to achieve. and in the marriage of young hazeldean with the italian woman, i have another, and it may be a large interest. i have slept on it lately--i wake to it now. insure that marriage, obtain the post-obit from hazeldean, and whatever the issue of the more direct scheme for which you seek my services, rely on my gratitude, and believe that you will have put me in the way to render gratitude of avail. at eight i will be with you." randal left the room. the baron sat thoughtful. "it is true," said he to himself, "this young man is the next of kin to the hazeldean estate, if frank displease his father sufficiently to lose his inheritance; that must be the clever boy's design. well, in the long-run, i should make as much, or more, out of him than out of the spendthrift frank. frank's faults are those of youth. he will reform and retrench. but _this_ man! no, i shall have him for life. and should he fail in this project, and have but this encumbered property--a landed proprietor mortgaged up to his ears--why, he is my slave, and i can foreclose when i wish, or if he prove useless;--no, i risk nothing. and if i did--if i lost ten thousand pounds--what then? i can afford it for revenge!--afford it for the luxury of leaving audley egerton alone with penury and ruin, deserted, in his hour of need, by the pensioner of his bounty--as he will be by the last friend of his youth--when it so pleases me--me whom he has called 'scoundrel!' and whom he--" levy's soliloquy halted there, for the servant entered to announce the carriage. and the baron hurried his hand over his features, as if to sweep away all trace of the passions that distorted their smiling effrontery. and so, as he took up his cane and gloves, and glanced at the glass, the face of the fashionable usurer was once more as varnished as his boots. chapter xix. when a clever man resolves on a villainous action, he hastens, by the exercise of his cleverness, to get rid of the sense of his villainy. with more than his usual alertness, randal employed the next hour or two in ascertaining how far baron levy merited the character he boasted, and how far his word might be his bond. he repaired to young men whom he esteemed better judges on these points than spendquick and borrowell--young men who resembled the merry monarch, inasmuch as "they never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one." there are many such young men about town--sharp and able in all affairs except their own. no one knows the world better, nor judges of character mere truly, than your half-beggared _roué_. from all these, baron levy obtained much the same testimonials: he was ridiculed as a would-be dandy, but respected as a very responsible man of business, and rather liked as a friendly accommodating species of the sir epicure mammon, who very often did what were thought handsome, liberal things; and, "in short," said one of these experienced referees, "he is the best fellow going--for a money-lender! you may always rely on what he promises, and he is generally very forbearing and indulgent to _us_ of good society! perhaps for the same reason that our tailors are;--to send one of us to prison would hurt his custom. his foible is to be thought a gentleman. i believe, much as i suppose he loves money, he would give up half his fortune rather than do any thing for which we could cut him. he allows a pension of three hundred a year to lord s----. true; he was his man of business for twenty years, and, before then, s---- was rather a prudent fellow, and had fifteen thousand a year. he has helped on, too, many a clever young man;--the best boroughmonger you ever knew. he likes having friends in parliament. in fact, of course he is a rogue; but if one wants a rogue, one can't find a pleasanter. i should like to see him on the french stage--a prosperous _macaire_; le maître could hit him off to the life." from information in these more fashionable quarters, gleaned with his usual tact, randal turned to a source less elevated, but to which he attached more importance. dick avenel associated with the baron--dick avenel must be in his clutches. now randal did justice to that gentleman's practical shrewdness. moreover, avenel was by profession a man of business. he must know more of levy than these men of pleasure could; and, as he was a plain-spoken person, and evidently honest, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, randal did not doubt that out of dick avenel he should get the truth. on arriving in eton-square, and asking for mr. avenel, randal was at once ushered into the drawing-room. the apartment was not in such good solid mercantile taste as had characterized avenel's more humble bachelor's residence at screwstown. the taste now was the honorable mrs. avenel's; and, truth to say, no taste could be worse. furniture of all epochs heterogeneously clumped together;--here a sofa _à la renaissance_ in _gobelin_--there a rosewood console from gillow--a tall mock-elizabethan chair in black oak, by the side of a modern florentine table of mosaic marbles. all kinds of colors in the room, and all at war with each other. very bad copies of the best-known pictures in the world, in the most gaudy frames, and impudently labeled by the names of their murdered originals--"raffaele," "corregio," "titian," "sebastian del piombo." nevertheless, there had been plenty of money spent, and there was plenty to show for it. mrs. avenel was seated on her sofa _à la renaissance_, with one of her children at her feet, who was employed in reading a new annual in crimson silk binding. mrs. avenel was in an attitude as if sitting for her portrait. polite society is most capricious in its adoptions or rejections. you see many a very vulgar person firmly established in the _beau monde_; others, with very good pretensions as to birth, fortune, &c., either rigorously excluded, or only permitted a peep over the pales. the honorable mrs. avenel belonged to families unquestionably noble both by her own descent and by her first marriage; and if poverty had kept her down in her earlier career, she now, at least, did not want wealth to back her pretensions. nevertheless, all the dispensers of fashion concurred in refusing their support to the honorable mrs. avenel. one might suppose it was solely on account of her plebeian husband; but indeed it was not so. many a woman of high family can marry a low-born man not so presentable as avenel, and, by the help of big money, get the fine world at her feet. but mrs. avenel had not that art. she was still a very handsome, showy woman; and as for dress, no duchess could be more extravagant. yet these very circumstances had perhaps gone against her ambition; for your quiet, little plain woman, provoking no envy, slips into the _coteries_, when a handsome, flaunting lady--whom, once seen in your drawing-room, can be no more overlooked than a scarlet poppy amidst a violet bed--is pretty sure to be weeded out as ruthlessly as a poppy would be in a similar position. mr. avenel was sitting by the fire, rather moodily, his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself. to say truth, that active mind of his was very much bored in london, at least during the forepart of the day. he hailed randal's entrance with a smile of relief, and rising and posting himself before the fire--a coat tail under each arm--he scarcely allowed randal to shake hands with mrs. avenel, and pat the child on the head, murmuring, "beautiful creature." (randal was ever civil to children--that sort of wolf in sheep's clothing always is--don't be taken in, o you foolish young mothers!) dick, i say, scarcely allowed his visitor these preliminary courtesies, before he plunged far beyond depth of both wife and child, into the political ocean "things now were coming right--a vile oligarchy was to be destroyed. british respectability and british talent were to have fair play." to have heard him you would have thought the day fixed for the millennium! "and what is more," said avenel, bringing down the fist of his right hand upon the palm of his left, "if there is to be a new parliament, we must have new men--not worn out old brooms that never sweep clean, but men who understand how to govern the country, sir. i intend to come in myself!" "yes," said mrs. avenel, hooking in a word at last, "i am sure, mr. leslie, you will think i did right. i persuaded mr. avenel that, with his talents and property, he ought, for the sake of his country, to make a sacrifice; and then you know his opinions now are all the fashion, mr. leslie: formerly they would have been called shocking and--vulgar." thus saying she looked with fond pride at dick's comely face, which at that moment, however, was all scowl and frown. i must do justice to mrs. avenel; she was a weak silly woman in some things, and a cunning one in others, but she was a good wife as wives go. scotch women generally are. (to be continued.) bleak house.[ ] [footnote : continued from the april number.] by charles dickens. chapter v.--a morning adventure. although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed heavy--i say, seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt, that they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--i was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour, and sufficiently curious about london, to think it a good idea on the part of miss jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk. "ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's a chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterward, they dawdle so. as to pa, he gets what he can, and goes to the office. he never has what you would call a regular breakfast. priscilla leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, over night. sometimes there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. but i'm afraid you must be tired, miss summerson; and perhaps you would rather go to bed." "i am not at all tired, my dear," said i, "and would much prefer to go out." "if you're sure you would," returned miss jellyby, "i'll get my things on." ada said she would go, too, and was soon astir. i made a proposal to peepy, in default of being able to do any thing better for him, that he should let me wash him, and afterward lay him down on my bed again. to this he submitted with the best grace possible; staring at me during the whole operation, as if he never had been, and never could again be so astonished in his life--looking very miserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. at first i was in two minds about taking such a liberty, but i soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it. what with the bustle of dispatching peepy, and the bustle of getting myself ready, and helping ada, i was soon quite in a glow. we found miss jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, which priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlor candlestick--throwing the candle in to make it burn better. every thing was just as we had left it last night, and was evidently intended to remain so. below stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been left ready for breakfast. crumbs, dust, and waste paper were all over the house. some pewter-pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public house, wiping her mouth. she mentioned, as she passed us, that she had just been to see what o'clock it was. but before we met the cook, we met richard, who was dancing up and down thavies inn to warm his feet. he was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon, and said he would gladly share our walk. so he took care of ada, and miss jellyby and i went first. i may mention that miss jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner, and that i really should not have thought she liked me much, unless she had told me so. "where would you wish to go?" she asked. "any where, my dear," i replied. "any where's nowhere," said miss jellyby, stopping perversely. "let us go somewhere at any rate," said i. she then walked me on very fast. "i don't care!" she said. "now, you are my witness, miss summerson, i say i don't care--but if he was to come to our house, with his great, shining, lumpy forehead, night after night till he was as old as methuselah, i wouldn't have any thing to say to him. such asses as he and ma make of themselves!" "my dear!" i remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet, and the vigorous emphasis miss jellyby set upon it. "your duty as a child--" "o! don't talk of duty as a child, miss summerson; where's ma's duty as a parent? all made over to the public and africa, i suppose! then let the public and africa show duty as a child; it's much more their affair than mine. you are shocked, i dare say! very well, so am i shocked, too; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!" she walked me on faster yet. "but for all that, i say again, he may come, and come, and come, and i won't have any thing to say to him. i can't bear him. if there's any stuff in the world that i hate and detest, it's the stuff he and ma talk. i wonder the very paving stones opposite our house can have the patience to stay there, and be a witness of such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and ma's management!" i could not but understand her to refer to mr. quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. i was saved the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject, by richard and ada coming up at a round pace, laughing, and asking us if we meant to run a race? thus interrupted, miss jellyby became silent, and walked moodily on at my side; while i admired the long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags, secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse. "so, cousin," said the cheerful voice of richard to ada, behind me. "we are never to get out of chancery! we have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the great seal, here's the old lady again!" truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, courtesying and smiling, and saying, with her yesterday's air of patronage: "the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy, i am sure!" "you are out early, ma'am," said i, as she courtesied to me. "ye-es! i usually walk here early. before the court sits. it's retired. i collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady, mincingly. "the business of the day requires a great deal of thought. chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow." "who's this, miss summerson?" whispered miss jellyby, drawing my arm tighter through her own. the little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. she answered for herself directly. "a suitor, my child. at your service. i have the honor to attend court regularly. with my documents. have i the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in jarndyce?" said the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low courtesy. richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that miss jellyby was not connected with the suit. "ha!" said the old lady. "she does not expect a judgment? she will still grow old. but not so old. o dear, no! this is the garden of lincoln's inn. i call it my garden. it is quite a bower in the summer-time. where the birds sing melodiously. i pass the greater part of the long vacation here. in contemplation. you find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?" we said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so. "when the leaves are falling from the trees, and there are no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the lord chancellor's court," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled; and the sixth seal, mentioned in the revelations, again prevails. pray come and see my lodging. it will be a good omen for me. youth, and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. it is a long, long time since i had a visit from either." she had taken my hand, and, leading me and miss jellyby away, beckoned richard and ada to come too. i did not know how to excuse myself, and looked to richard for aid. as he was half amused and half curious, and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offense, she continued to lead us away, and he and ada continued to follow; our strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by. it was quite true, as it soon appeared. she lived so close by, that we had not time to have done humoring her for a few moments, before she was at home. slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said, "this is my lodging. pray walk up!" she had stopped at a shop, over which was written, krook, rag and bottle warehouse. also, in long thin letters, krook, dealer in marine stores. in one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill, at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. in another, was the inscription, bones bought. in another, kitchen-stuff bought. in another, old iron bought. in another, waste paper bought. in another, ladies' and gentlemen's wardrobes bought. every thing seemed to be bought, and nothing to be sold there. in all parts of the window, were quantities of dirty bottles: blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles: i am reminded by mentioning the latter, that the shop had, in several little particulars, the air of being in a legal neighborhood, and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. there were a great many ink bottles. there was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes, outside the door, labeled, "law books, all at _d._" some of the inscriptions i have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers i had seen in kenge and carboy's office, and the letters i had so long received from the firm. among them was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and dispatch: address to nemo, care of mr. krook within. there were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. a little way within the shop door, lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls, and discolored and dog's-eared law-papers. i could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. the litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counselors' bands and gowns torn up. one had only to fancy, as richard whispered to ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete. as it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides by the wall of lincoln's inn, intercepting the light within a couple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. turning toward the door, he now caught sight of us. he was short, cadaverous, and withered; with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders, and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth, as if he were on fire within. his throat, chin, and eyebrows, were so frosted with white hairs, and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin, that he looked, from his breast upward, like some old root in a fall of snow. "hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "have you any thing to sell?" we naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been trying to open the house door with a key she had taken from her pocket, and to whom richard now said, that, as we had had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for time. but she was not to be so easily left. she became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up, and see her apartment for an instant; and was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired; that i (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to comply. i suppose we were all more or less curious;--at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to hers, and said, "ay, ay! please her! it won't take a minute! come in, come in! come in through the shop, if t'other door's out of order!" we all went in, stimulated by richard's laughing encouragement, and relying on his protection. "my landlord, krook!" said the little old lady, condescending to him from her lofty station, as she presented him to us. "he is called among the neighbors the lord chancellor. his shop is called the court of chancery. he is a very eccentric person. he is very odd. oh, i assure you he is very odd!" she shook her head a great many times, and tapped her forehead with her finger, to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse him, "for he is a little--you know!--m--!" said the old lady, with great stateliness. the old man overheard, and laughed. "it's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the lord chancellor, and call my shop chancery. and why do you think they call me the lord chancellor, and my shop chancery?" "i don't know, i am sure!" said richard, rather carelessly. "you see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--hi! here's lovely hair! i have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. what color, and what texture!" "that'll do, my good friend!" said richard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of ada's tresses through his yellow hand. "you can admire as the rest of us do, without taking that liberty." the old man darted at him a sudden look, which even called my attention from ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably beautiful that she seemed to fix the wondering attention of the little old lady herself. but as ada interposed, and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, mr. krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it. "you see i have so many things here," he resumed, holding up the lantern, "of so many kinds, and all, as the neighbors think (but they know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christening. and i have so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. and i have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs. and all's fish that comes to my net. and i can't abear to part with any thing i once lay hold of (or so my neighbors think, but what do _they_ know?) or to alter any thing, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. that's the way i've got the ill name of chancery, _i_ don't mind. i go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the inn. he don't notice me, but i notice him. there's no great odds betwixt us. we both grub on in a muddle. hi, lady jane!" a large gray cat leaped from some neighboring shelf on his shoulder, and startled us all. "hi! show 'em how you can scratch. hi! tear, my lady!" said her master. the cat leaped down, and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear. "she'd do as much for any one i was to set her on," said the old man. "i deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was offered to me. it's a very fine skin, as you may see, but i didn't have it stripped off! _that_ warn't like chancery practice though, says you." he had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. as he stood with his hand upon the lock, the old lady graciously observed to him before passing out: "that will do, krook. you mean well, but are tiresome. my young friends are pressed for time. i have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. my young friends are the wards in jarndyce." "jarndyce!" said the old man, with a start. "jarndyce and jarndyce. the great suit, krook," returned his lodger. "hi!" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of thoughtful amazement, and with a wider stare than before. "think of it!" he seemed so rapt all in a moment, and looked so curiously at us, that richard said: "why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other chancellor!" "yes," said the old man, abstractedly. "sure! _your_ name now will be--" "richard carstone." "carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention, upon a separate finger. "yes. there was the name of barbary, and the name of clare, and the name of dedlock, too, i think." "he knows as much of the cause as the real salaried chancellor!" said richard, quite astonished, to ada and me. "ay!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. "yes! tom jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there, as--she is now;" nodding slightly at his lodger; "tom jarndyce was often in here. he got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers, and telling 'em to keep out of chancery, whatever they did. 'for,' says he, 'it's being ground to bits in a slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' he was as near making away with himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be." we listened with horror. "he come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the whole neighborhood had said for months before, that he would do it, of a certainty, sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll judge i was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'for,' says he, 'krook, i am much depressed; my cause is on again, and i think i'm nearer judgment than i ever was.' i hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and i persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (i mean chancery-lane); and i followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as i thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. i hadn't hardly got back here, when i heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. i ran out--neighbors ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'tom jarndyce!'" the old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up. "we were right, i needn't tell the present hearers. hi! to be sure, how the neighborhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! how my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual, and tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case; or as if they had--o dear me! nothing at all to do with it, if they had heard of it by any chance!" ada's color had entirely left her, and richard was scarcely less pale. nor could i wonder, judging even from my emotions, and i was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh, it was a shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. i had another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that, and only led the way up-stairs again; informing us, with the toleration of a superior creature for the infirmities of a common mortal, that her landlord was "a little--m--, you know!" she lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which she had a glimpse of lincoln's inn hall. this seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there. she could look at it, she said, in the night: especially in the moonshine. her room was clean, but very, very bare. i noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from books, of chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and some half-dozen reticules and work-bags, "containing documents," as she informed us. there were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and i saw no articles of clothing any where, nor any kind of food. upon a shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth; but all dry and empty. there was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appearance, i thought, as i looked round, than i had understood before. "extremely honored, i am sure," said our poor hostess, with the greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in jarndyce. and very much indebted for the omen. it is a retired situation. considering, i am limited as to situation. in consequence of the necessity of attending on the chancellor. i have lived here many years. i pass my days in court; my evenings and my nights here. i find the nights long, for i sleep but little, and think much. that is, of course, unavoidable; being in chancery. i am sorry i can not offer chocolate. i expect a judgment shortly, and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. at present, i don't mind confessing to the wards in jarndyce (in strict confidence), that i sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. i have felt the cold here. i have felt something sharper than cold. it matters very little. pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics." she partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret-window, and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there: some, containing several birds. there were larks, linnets, and goldfinches--i should think at least twenty. "i began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an object that the wards will readily comprehend. with the intention of restoring them to liberty. when my judgment should be given. ye-es! they die in prison, though. their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with chancery proceedings, that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. i doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! ve-ry mortifying, is it not?" although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply; but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so, when no one but herself was present. "indeed," she pursued, "i positively doubt sometimes, i do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or great seal still prevails, _i_ may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as i have found so many birds!" richard, answering what he saw in ada's compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece. we all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine the birds. "i can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for (you'll think this curious) i had my mind confused by the idea that they are singing, while i am following the arguments in court. and my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! another time, i'll tell you their names. not at present. on a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. in honor of youth," a smile and curtsey; "hope," a smile and curtsey; "and beauty," a smile and curtsey. "there! we'll let in the full light." the birds began to stir and chirp. "i can not admit the air freely," said the little old lady; the room was close, and would have been the better for it; "because the cat you saw down stairs--called lady jane--is greedy for their lives. she crouches on the parapet outside, for hours and hours. i have discovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. in consequence of the judgment i expect being shortly given. she is sly, and full of malice. i half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. it is so very difficult to keep her from the door." some neighboring bells reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end, than we could easily have done for ourselves. she hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court? on our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened the door to attend us down stairs. "with such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that i should be there before the chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. i have a presentiment that he _will_ mention it the first thing this morning." she stopped to tell us, in a whisper, as we were going down, that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal, and had no wish to sell--in consequence of being a little--m--. this was on the first floor. but she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor, and had silently pointed at a dark door there. "the only other lodger," she now whispered, in explanation; "a law-writer. the children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. i don't know what he can have done with the money. hush!" she appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her, even there; and repeating "hush!" went before us on tiptoe, as though even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said. passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste paper, in a kind of well in the floor. he seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him; with which, as he put each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the paneling of the wall. richard and ada, and miss jellyby, and the little old lady had gone by him, and i was going, when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and chalked the letter _j_ upon the wall--in a very curious manner, beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. it was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in messrs. kenge and carboy's office would have made. "can you read it?" he asked me, with a keen glance. "surely," said i. "it's very plain." "what is it?" "j." with another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out, and turned an _a_ in its place (not a capital letter this time), and said, "what's that?" i told him. he then rubbed that out, and turned the letter _r_, and asked me the same question. he went on quickly, until he had formed, in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together. "what does that spell?" he asked me. when i told him, he laughed. in the same odd way, yet with the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words bleak house. these, in some astonishment, i also read; and he laughed again. "hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk, "i have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though i can neither read nor write." [illustration: the lord chancellor copies from memory.] he looked so disagreeable, and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if i were a blood-relation of the birds up-stairs, that i was quite relieved by richard's appearing at the door and saying: "miss summerson, i hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. don't be tempted. three sacks below are quite enough for mr. krook!" i lost no time in wishing mr. krook good-morning, and joining my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave us her blessing with great ceremony, and renewed her assurance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on ada and me. before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back, and saw mr. krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap, like a tall feather. "quite an adventure for a morning in london!" said richard, with a sigh. "ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this chancery." "it is to me, and has been ever since i can remember," returned ada. "i am grieved that i should be the enemy--as i suppose i am--of a great number of relations and others; and that they should be my enemies--as i suppose they are; and that we should all be ruining one another, without knowing how or why, and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. it seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years where it is." "ah, cousin!" said richard. "strange, indeed! all this wasteful, wanton chess-playing is very strange. to see that composed court yesterday jogging on so serenely, and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board, gave me the headache and the heartache both together. my head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. but at all events, ada--i may call you ada?" "of course you may, cousin richard." "at all events, ada, chancery will work none of its bad influence on _us_. we have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!" "never, i hope, cousin richard!" said ada, gently. miss jellyby gave my arm a squeeze, and me a very significant look. i smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly. in half an hour after our arrival, mrs. jellyby appeared; and in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. i do not doubt that mrs. jellyby had gone to bed, and got up in the usual manner, but she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. she was greatly occupied during breakfast; for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence relative to borrioboola-gha, which would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. the children tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were perfect little calendars of distress; and peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from newgate market by a policeman. the equable manner in which mrs. jellyby sustained both his absence, and his restoration to the family circle, surprised us all. she was by that time perseveringly dictating to caddy, and caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. at one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage. mrs. jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend, mr. jarndyce; caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood, biting her pen, and sobbing on the steps; peepy, i am happy to say, was asleep, and spared the pain of separation (i was not without misgivings that he had gone to newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of thavies inn, as we rolled out of its precincts. chapter vi.--quite at home. the day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went westward. we went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-colored flowers. by-and-by we began to leave the wonderful city, and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large town, in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country road again, with wind-mills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers' wagons, scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse-troughs: trees, fields, and hedge-rows. it was delightful to see the green landscape before us, and the immense metropolis behind; and when a wagon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music, i believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around. "the whole road has been reminding me of my namesake, whittington," said richard, "and that wagon is the finishing touch. halloa! what's the matter?" we had stopped, and the wagon had stopped, too. its music changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head, or shook himself, and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing. "our postillion is looking after the wagoner," said richard; "and the wagoner is coming back after us. good-day, friend!" the wagoner was at our coach-door. "why, here's an extraordinary thing!" added richard, looking closely at the man. "he has got your name, ada, in his hat!" he had all our names in his hat. tucked within the band, were three small notes; one, addressed to ada; one, to richard, one, to me. these the wagoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first. in answer to richard's inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered, "master, sir, if you please;" and, putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away. "is that mr. jarndyce's wagon?" said richard, calling to our post-boy. "yes, sir," he replied. "going to london." we opened the notes. each was a counterpart of the other, and contained these words, in a solid, plain hand: "i look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily, and without constraint on either side. i therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends, and take the past for granted. it will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you. john jarndyce." i had, perhaps, less reason to be surprised than either of my companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so many years. i had not considered how i could thank him, my gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but i now began to consider how i could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed. the notes revived, in richard and ada, a general impression that they both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that their cousin, jarndyce, could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he performed, and that, sooner than receive any, he would resort to the most singular expedients and evasions, or would even run away. ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a very little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity, and that on her going to his house to thank him, he happened to see her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. this discourse led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked of scarcely any thing else. if we did, by any chance, diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this; and wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get there, and whether we should see mr. jarndyce as soon as we arrived, or after a delay, and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him. all of which we wondered about, over and over again. the roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was generally good; so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got to the top. at barnet there were other horses waiting for us; but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them, too, and got a long fresh walk, over a common and an old battle-field, before the carriage came up. these delays so protracted the journey, that the short day was spent, and the long night had closed in, before we came to saint albans; near to which town bleak house was, we knew. by that time we were so anxious and nervous, that even richard confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. as to ada and me, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. when we turned out of the town, round a corner, and richard told us that the post-boy, who had for a long time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (richard holding ada, lest she should be jolted down), and gazed round upon the open country and the starlight night, for our destination. there was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying, "that's bleak house!" put his horses into a canter, and took us forward at such a rate, up-hill though it was, that the wheels sent the road-drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill. presently we lost the light, presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned into an avenue of trees, and cantered up toward where it was beaming brightly. it was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned house, with three peaks in the roof in front, and a circular sweep leading to the porch. a bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable confusion. "ada, my love, esther, my dear, you are welcome. i rejoice to see you! rick, if i had a hand to spare at present, i would give it you!" the gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable voice, had one of his arms round ada's waist, and the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. here he kissed us again, and, opening his arms, made us sit down side-by-side, on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. i felt that if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment. "now, rick," said he, "i have a hand at liberty. a word in earnest is as good as a speech. i am heartily glad to see you. you are at home. warm yourself!" richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, i was so afraid of mr. jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), "you are very kind, sir! we are very much obliged to you!" laid aside his hat and coat, and came up to the fire. "and how did you like the ride? and how did you like mrs. jellyby, my dear?" said mr. jarndyce to ada. while ada was speaking to him in reply, i glanced (i need not say with how much interest) at his face. it was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron-gray. i took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. from the moment of his first speaking to us, his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that i could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his, manner, and a pleasant expression in his eyes, recalled the gentleman in the stage-coach, six years ago, on the memorable day of my journey to reading. i was certain it was he. i never was so frightened in my life as when i made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that i thought we had lost him. however, i am happy to say that he remained where he was, and asked me what _i_ thought of mrs. jellyby. "she exerts herself very much for africa, sir," i said. "nobly!" returned mr. jarndyce. "but you answer like ada," whom i had not heard. "you all think something else, i see." "we rather thought," said i, glancing at richard and ada, who entreated me with their eyes to speak, "that perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home." "floored!" cried mr. jarndyce. i was rather alarmed again. "well! i want to know your real thoughts, my dear. i may have sent you there on purpose." "we thought that, perhaps," said i, hesitating, "it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them?" "the little jellybys," said richard, coming to my relief, "are really--i can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil of a state." "she means well," said mr. jarndyce, hastily. "the wind's in the east." "it was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed richard. "my dear rick," said mr. jarndyce, poking the fire; "i'll take an oath it's either in the east, or going to be. i am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east." "rheumatism, sir?" said richard. "i dare say it is, rick. i believe it is. and so the little jell--i had my doubts about 'em--are in a--oh, lord, yes, it's easterly!" said mr. jarndyce. he had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation, at once so whimsical and so lovable, that i am sure we were more delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. he gave an arm to ada and an arm to me, and bidding richard bring a candle, was leading the way out, when he suddenly turned us all back again. "those little jellybys. couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or any thing of that sort!" said mr. jarndyce. "o cousin--!" ada hastily began. "good, my pretty pet. i like cousin. cousin john, perhaps, is better." "then, cousin john!--" ada laughingly began again. "ha, ha! very good indeed!" said mr. jarndyce, with great enjoyment. "sounds uncommonly natural. yes, my dear?" "it did better than that. it rained esther." "ay?" said mr. jarndyce. "what did esther do?" "why, cousin john," said ada, clasping her hands upon his arm, and shaking her head at me across him--for i wanted her to be quiet: "esther was their friend directly. esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes."--my dear girl! i had only gone out with peepy, after he was found, and given him a little, tiny horse!--"and, cousin john, she softened poor caroline, the eldest one, so much, and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable!--no, no, i won't be contradicted, esther dear! you know, you know, it's true!" the warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin john, and kissed me; and then, looking up in his face, boldly said, "at all events, cousin john, i _will_ thank you for the companion you have given me." i felt as if she challenged him to run away. but he didn't. "where did you say the wind was, rick?" asked mr. jarndyce. "in the north, as we came down, sir." "you are right. there's no east in it. a mistake of mine. come girls, come and see your home!" it was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and down steps, out of one room into another, and where you come upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places, with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof, that had more corners in it than i ever counted afterward, and a chimney (there was a wood-fire on the hearth) paved all round with pure white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. out of this room, you went down two steps, into a charming little sitting-room, looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was henceforth to belong to ada and me. out of this you went up three steps, into ada's bed-room, which had a fine broad window, commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear adas might have been lost at once. out of this room, you passed into a little gallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps, with a great number of corner stairs in it, considering its length, down into the hall. but if, instead of going out at ada's door, you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a native-hindoo chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked, in every form, something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and had been brought from india nobody knew by whom, or when. from these, you came on richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bed-room, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of many rooms. out of that, you went straight, with a little interval of passage, to the plain room where mr. jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his window open, his bedstead, without any furniture, standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold-bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. out of that, you came into another passage, where there were back-stairs, and where you could hear the horses being rubbed down, outside the stable, and being told to hold up, and get over, as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones. or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back there, or had ever got out of it. the furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as pleasantly irregular. ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--in chintz and paper; in velvet, in needle-work, in the brocade of two stiff courtly chairs, which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. our sitting-room was green; and had, framed and glazed, upon the walls, numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with gravy; at the death of captain cook; and at the whole process of preparing tea in china, as depicted by chinese artists. in my room there were oval engravings of the months--ladies hay-making, in short waists, and large hats tied under the chin, for june--smooth-legged noblemen, pointing, with cocked-hats, to village steeples, for october. half-length portraits, in crayons, abounded all through the house; but were so dispersed that i found the brother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet, and the gray old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her boddice, in the breakfast-room. as substitutes, i had four angels, of queen anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty; and a composition in needle-work, representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. all the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. they agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. such, with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; with the face of its generous master brightening every thing we saw; and just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to every thing we heard; were our first impressions of bleak house. "i am glad you like it," said mr. jarndyce, when he had brought us round again to ada's sitting-room. "it makes no pretensions; but it is a comfortable little place, i hope, and will be more so with such bright young looks in it. you have barely half an hour before dinner. there's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--a child." "more children, esther!" said ada. "i don't mean literally a child," pursued mr. jarndyce; "not a child in years. he is grown up--he is at least as old as i am--but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child." we felt that he must be very interesting. "he knows mrs. jellyby," said mr. jarndyce. "he is a musical man; an amateur, but might have been a professional. he is an artist, too; an amateur, but might have been a professional. he is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. he has been unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his family; but he don't care--he's a child!" "did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?" inquired richard. "yes, rick! half-a-dozen. more! nearer a dozen, i should think. but he has never looked after them. how could he? he wanted somebody to look after _him_. he is a child, you know!" said mr. jarndyce. "and have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" inquired richard. "why, just as you may suppose," said mr. jarndyce: his countenance suddenly falling. "it is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. harold skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other.--the wind's getting round again, i am afraid. i feel it rather!" richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night. "it is exposed," said mr. jarndyce. "no doubt that's the cause. bleak house has an exposed sound. but you are coming my way. come along!" our luggage having arrived, and being all at hand, i was dressed in a few minutes, and engaged in putting my worldly goods away, when a maid (not the one in attendance upon ada, but another whom i had not seen) brought a basket into my room, with two bunches of keys in it, all labeled. "for you, miss, if you please," said she. "for me?" said i. "the housekeeping keys, miss." i showed my surprise; for she added, with some little surprise on her own part: "i was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss. miss summerson, if i don't deceive myself?" "yes," said i. "that is my name." "the large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the cellars, miss. any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, i was to show you the presses and things they belong to." i said i would be ready at half-past six; and, after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. ada found me thus; and had such a delightful confidence in me when i showed her the keys, and told her about them, that it would have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. i knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness; but i liked to be so pleasantly cheated. when we went down stairs, we were presented to mr. skimpole, who was standing before the fire, telling richard how fond he used to be, in his school-time, of football. he was a little bright creature, with a rather large head; but a delicate face, and a sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. all he said was so free from effort and spontaneous, and was said with such a captivating gayety, that it was fascinating to hear him talk. being of a more slender figure than mr. jarndyce, and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. indeed, he had more the appearance, in all respects, of a damaged young man, than a well-preserved elderly one. there was an easy negligence in his manner, and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as i have seen artists paint their own portraits), which i could not separate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of depreciation. it struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance of a man who had advanced in life, by the usual road of years, cares, and experiences. i gathered from the conversation, that mr. skimpole had been educated for the medical profession, and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a german prince. he told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures, and had never known any thing about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. in fact, he said, he had no head for detail. and he told us, with great humor, that when he was wanted to bleed the prince, or physic any of his people, he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers, or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. the prince, at last, objecting to this, "in which," said mr. skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was perfectly right," the engagement terminated; and mr. skimpole having (as he added with delightful gayety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." his good friend jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life; but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oddest infirmities in the world: one was, that he had no idea of time; the other, that he had no idea of money. in consequence of which, he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the value of any thing! well! so he had got on in life, and here he was! he was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. all he asked of society was, to let him live. _that_ wasn't much. his wants were few. give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in season, a few sheets of bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. he was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. he said to the world, "go your several ways in peace! wear red coats, blue coats, lawn-sleeves, put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only--let harold skimpole live!" all this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candor--speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that skimpole had his singularities, but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community, and must not be slighted. he was quite enchanting. if i felt at all confused at that early time, in endeavoring to reconcile any thing he said with any thing i had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which i am far from sure of), i was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of them. that he was free of them, i scarcely doubted; he was so very clear about it himself. "i covet nothing," said mr. skimpole, in the same light way. "possession is nothing to me. here is my friend jarndyce's excellent house. i feel obliged to him for possessing it. i can sketch it, and alter it. i can set it to music. when i am here, i have sufficient possession of it, and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. my steward's name, in short, is jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. we have been mentioning mrs. jellyby. there is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business-detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardor! i don't regret that _i_ have not a strong will and an immense power of business-detail, to throw myself into objects with surprising ardor. i can admire her without envy. i can sympathize with the objects. i can dream of them. i can lie down on the grass in fine weather--and float along an african river, embracing all the natives i meet, as sensible of the deep silence, and sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately, as if i were there. i don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but it's all i can do, and i do it thoroughly. then, for heaven's sake, having harold skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!" it was plain enough that mr. jarndyce had not been neglectful of the adjuration. mr. skimpole's general position there would have rendered it so, without the addition of what he presently said. "it's only you, the generous creatures, whom i envy," said mr. skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. "i envy you your power of doing what you do. it is what i should revel in, myself. i don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. i almost feel as if _you_ ought to be grateful to _me_, for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. i know you like it. for any thing i can tell, i may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. i may have been born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. why should i regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs, when it leads to such pleasant consequences? i don't regret it therefore." of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of mr. jarndyce than this. i had often new temptations, afterward, to wonder whether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others. we were all enchanted. i felt it a merited tribute to the engaging qualities of ada and richard, that mr. skimpole, seeing them for the first time, should be so unreserved, and should lay himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. they (and especially richard) were naturally pleased for similar reasons, and considered it no common privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. the more we listened, the more gayly mr. skimpole talked. and what with his fine hilarious manner, and his engaging candor, and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had said, "i am a child, you know! you are designing people compared with me;" (he really made me consider myself in that light); "but i am gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!"--the effect was absolutely dazzling. he was so full of feeling too, and had such a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful or tender, that he could have won a heart by that alone. in the evening when i was preparing to make tea, and ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room, and softly humming a tune to her cousin richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and sat down on the sofa near me, and so spoke of ada that i almost loved him. "she is like the morning," he said. "with that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. the birds here will mistake her for it. we will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. she is the child of the universe." mr. jarndyce, i found, was standing near us, with his hands behind him, and an attentive smile upon his face. "the universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, i am afraid." "o! i don't know!" cried mr. skimpole, buoyantly. "i think i do know," said mr. jarndyce. "well!" cried mr. skimpole, "you know the world (which in your sense is the universe), and i know nothing of it, so you shall have your way. but if i had mine," glancing at the cousins, "there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. it should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. age or change should never wither it. the base word money should never be breathed near it!" mr. jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been really a child; and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. his look was thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it which i often (how often!) saw again: which has long been engraven on my heart. the room in which they were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by the fire. ada sat at the piano; richard stood beside her, bending down. upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady fire, though reflected from motionless objects. ada touched the notes so softly, and sang so low, that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. the mystery of the future, and the little clew afforded to it by the voice of the present, seemed expressed in the whole picture. but it is not to recall this fancy, well as i remember it, that i recall the scene. first, i was not quite unconscious of the contrast, in respect of meaning and intention, between the silent look directed that way, and the flow of words that had preceded it. secondly, though mr. jarndyce's glance, as he withdrew it, rested for but a moment on me, i felt as if, in that moment, he confided to me--and knew that he confided to me, and that i received the confidence--his hope that ada and richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship. mr. skimpole could play on the piano, and the violoncello; and he was a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it--and played what he composed, with taste. after tea we had quite a little concert, in which richard--who was enthralled by ada's singing, and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were written--and mr. jarndyce, and i, were the audience. after a little while i missed, first mr. skimpole, and afterward richard; and while i was thinking how could richard stay away so long, and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, "if you please, miss, could you spare a minute?" when i was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, "oh, if you please, miss, mr. carstone says would you come up-stairs to mr. skimpole's room. he has been took miss!" "took?" said i. "took, miss. sudden," said the maid. i was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind; but, of course, i begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one; and collected myself, as i followed her quickly up-stairs, sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. she threw open a door, and i went into a chamber; where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding mr. skimpole stretched upon the bed, or prostrate on the floor, i found him standing before the fire smiling at richard, while richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on a sofa, in a white great coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was wiping smoother, and making less of, with a pocket-handkerchief. "miss summerson," said richard, hurriedly, "i am glad you are come. you will be able to advise us. our friend, mr. skimpole--don't be alarmed!--is arrested for debt." "and, really, my dear miss summerson," said mr. skimpole, with his agreeable candor, "i never was in a situation, in which that excellent sense, and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which any body must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed." the person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave such a very loud snort, that he startled me. "are you arrested for much, sir?" i inquired of mr. skimpole. "my dear miss summerson," said he, shaking his head pleasantly, "i don't know. some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, i think, were mentioned. "it's twenty-four pound, sixteen and seven pence ha'penny," observed the stranger. "that's wot it is." "and it sounds--somehow it sounds," said mr. skimpole, "like a small sum?" the strange man said nothing, but made an other snort. it was such a powerful one, that it seemed quite to lift him up out of his seat. "mr. skimpole," said richard to me, "has a delicacy in applying to my cousin jarndyce, because he has lately--i think, sir, i understood you that you had lately--" "oh, yes!" returned mr. skimpole, smiling. "though i forgot how much it was, and when it was. jarndyce would readily do it again; but i have the epicure-like feeling that i would prefer a novelty in help; that i would rather," and he looked at richard and me, "develop generosity in a new soil, and in a new form of flower." "what do you think will be best, miss summerson?" said richard, aside. i ventured to inquire generally, before replying, what would happen if the money were not produced. "jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. "or coavinses." "may i ask, sir, what is--" "coavinses?" said the strange man. "a 'ouse." richard and i looked at one another again. it was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment, and not mr. skimpole's. he observed us with a genial interest; but there seemed, if i may venture on such a contradiction nothing selfish in it. he had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours. "i thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, "that, being parties in a chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, mr. richard, or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? i don't know what the business name of it may be, but i suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?" "not a bit on it," said the strange man. "really," returned mr. skimpole; "that seems odd, now, to one who is no judge of these things!" "odd or even," said the stranger, gruffly, "i tell you, not a bit on it!" "keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!" mr. skimpole gently reasoned with him, as he made a little drawing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. "don't be ruffled by your occupation. we can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. we are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious." the stranger only answered with another violent snort; whether in acceptance of the poetry-tribute, or in disdainful rejection of it, he did not express to me. "now, my dear miss summerson, and my dear mr. richard," said mr. skimpole, gayly, innocently, and confidingly, as he looked at his drawing with his head on one side; "here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! i only ask to be free. the butterflies are free. mankind will surely not deny to harold skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!" "my dear miss summerson," said richard, in a whisper, "i have ten pounds that i received from mr. kenge. i must try what that will do." i possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which i had saved from my quarterly allowance during several years. i had always thought that some accident might happen which would throw me, suddenly, without any relation or any property, on the world; and had always tried to keep some little money by me, that i might not be quite penniless. i told richard of my having this little store, and having no present need of it; and i asked him delicately to inform mr. skimpole, while i should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his debt. when i came back, mr. skimpole kissed my hand, and seemed quite touched. not on his own account (i was again aware of that perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours; as if personal considerations were impossible with him, and the contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. richard, begging me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with coavinses (as mr. skimpole now jocularly called him), i counted out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. this, too, delighted mr. skimpole. [illustration: coavinses.] his compliments were so delicately administered, that i blushed less than i might have done; and settled with the stranger in the white coat, without making any mistakes. he put the money in his pocket, and shortly said, "well then, i'll wish you a good-evening, miss." "my friend," said mr. skimpole; standing with his back to the fire, after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, "i should like to ask you something without offense." i think the reply was, "cut away, then!" "did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this errand?" said mr. skimpole. "know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea time," said coavinses. "it didn't affect your appetite? didn't make you at all uneasy?" "not a bit," said coavinses. "i know'd if you wos missed to-day, you wouldn't be missed to-morrow. a day makes no such odds." "but when you came down here," proceeded mr. skimpole, "it was a fine day. the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing." "nobody said they warn't, in _my_ hearing," returned coavinses. "no," observed mr. skimpole. "but what did you think upon the road?" "wot do you mean?" growled coavinses, with an appearance of strong resentment. "think! i've got enough to do, and little enough to get for it, without thinking. thinking!" (with profound contempt.) "then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded mr. skimpole, "to this effect. 'harold skimpole loves to see the sun shine; loves to hear the wind blow; loves to watch the changing lights and shadows; loves to hear the birds, those choristers in nature's great cathedral. and does it seem to me that i am about to deprive harold skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!' you thought nothing to that effect?" "i--certainly--did--not," said coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind, that he could only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck. "very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business!" said mr. skimpole, thoughtfully. "thank you, my friend. good-night." as our absence had been long enough already, to seem strange down stairs, i returned at once, and found ada sitting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin john. mr. skimpole presently appeared, and richard shortly after him. i was sufficiently engaged, during the remainder of the evening, in taking my first lesson in backgammon from mr. jarndyce, who was very fond of the game, and from whom i wished of course to learn it as quickly as i could, in order that i might be of the very small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary. but i thought, occasionally when mr. skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions; or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, he preserved, with an absence of all effort, his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation; that richard and i seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been arrested since dinner, and that it was very curious altogether. it was late before we separated: for when ada was going at eleven o'clock, mr. skimpole went to the piano, and rattled, hilariously, that the best of all ways, to lengthen our days, was to steal a few hours from night, my dear! it was past twelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room; and i think he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. ada and richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether mrs. jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, when mr. jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned. "oh, dear me, what's this, what's this?" he said, rubbing his head and walking about with his good-humored vexation. "what's this, they tell me? rick, my boy, esther, my dear, what have you been doing? why did you do it? how could you do it? how much apiece was it?--the wind's round again. i feel it all over me!" we neither of us quite knew what to answer. "come, rick, come! i must settle this before i sleep. how much are you out of pocket? you two made the money up you know! why did you? how could you?--o lord, yes, it's due east--must be!" "really, sir," said richard, "i don't think it would be honorable in me to tell you. mr. skimpole relied upon us--" "lord bless you, my dear boy! he relies upon every body!" said mr. jarndyce, giving his head a great rub, and stopping short. "indeed, sir?" "every body! and he'll be in the same scrape again, next week!" said mr. jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his hand that had gone out. "he's always in the same scrape. he was born in the same scrape. i verily believe that the announcement in the newspapers when his mother was confined, was 'on tuesday last, at her residence in botheration buildings, mrs. skimpole of a son in difficulties.'" richard laughed heartily, but added, "still, sir, i don't want to shake his confidence, or to break his confidence; and if i submit to your better knowledge again, that i ought to keep his secret, i hope you will consider before you press me any more. of course, if you do press me, sir, i shall know i am wrong, and will tell you." "well!" cried mr. jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent endeavors to put his candlestick in his pocket. "i--here! take it away, my dear. i don't know what i am about with it; it's all the wind--invariably has that effect--i won't press you, rick; you may be right. but, really--to get hold of you and esther--and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young saint michael's oranges!--it'll blow a gale in the course of the night!" he was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets, as if he were going to keep them there a long time; and taking them out again, and vehemently rubbing them all over his head. i ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that mr. skimpole, being in all such matters quite a child-- "eh, my dear?" said mr. jarndyce catching at the word. "--being quite a child, sir," said i, "and so different from other people--" "you are right!" said mr. jarndyce, brightening. "your woman's wit hits the mark. he is a child--an absolute child. i told you he was a child, you know, when i first mentioned him." "certainly! certainly!" we said. "and he _is_ a child. now isn't he?" asked mr. jarndyce, brightening more and more. he was indeed, we said. "when you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness in you--i mean me--" said mr. jarndyce, "to regard him for a moment as a man. you can't make _him_ responsible. the idea of harold skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! ha, ha, ha!" it was so delicious to see the clouds about his face clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly accusing any one, that i saw the tears in ada's eyes while she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my own. "why, what a cod's head and shoulders i am," said mr. jarndyce, "to require reminding of it! the whole business shows the child from beginning to end. nobody but a child would have thought of singling _you_ two out for parties in the affair! nobody but a child would have thought of _your_ having the money! if it had been a thousand pounds, it would have been just the same!" said mr. jarndyce, with his whole face in a glow. we all confirmed it from our night's experience. "to be sure, to be sure!" said mr. jarndyce. "however, rick, esther, and you too, ada, for i don't know that even your little purse is safe from his inexperience--i must have a promise all round, that nothing of this sort shall ever be done anymore. no advances! not even sixpences." we all promised faithfully; richard, with a merry glance at me, touching his pocket, as if to remind me that there was no danger of _our_ transgressing. "as to skimpole," said mr. jarndyce, "a habitable doll's house, with good board, and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow money of, would set the boy up in life. he is in a child's sleep by this time, i suppose; it's time i should take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. good-night, my dears. god bless you!" he peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our candles, and said, "o! i have been looking at the weather-cock. i find it was a false alarm about the wind. it's in the south!" and went away, singing to himself. ada and i agreed, as we talked together for a little while up-stairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction; and that he used the pretense to account for any disappointment he could not conceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it, or disparage or depreciate any one. we thought this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness; and of the difference between him and those petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalking-horse of their splenetic and gloomy humors. indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening to my gratitude, that i hoped i already began to understand him through that mingled feeling. any seeming inconsistencies in mr. skimpole, or in mrs. jellyby, i could not expect to be able to reconcile; having so little experience or practical knowledge. neither did i try; for my thoughts were busy when i was alone, with ada and richard, and with the confidence i had seemed to receive concerning them. my fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unselfish either, though i would have persuaded it to be so if i could. it wandered back to my godmother's house, and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark, as to what knowledge mr. jarndyce had of my earliest history--even as to the possibility of his being my father--though that idle dream was quite gone now. it was all gone now, i remembered, getting up from the fire. it was not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit and a grateful heart. so i said to myself, "esther, esther, esther! duty, my dear!" and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a shake, that they sounded like little bells, and rang me hopefully to bed. chapter vii.--the ghost's walk. while esther sleeps, and while esther wakes, it is still wet weather down at the place in lincolnshire. the rain is ever falling, drip, drip, drip, by day and night, upon the broad flag terrace-pavement, the ghost's walk. the weather is so very bad, down in lincolnshire, that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again. not that there is any superabundant life of imagination on the spot, for sir leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in paris with my lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon chesney wold. there may be some notions of fancy among the lower animals at chesney wold. the horses in the stables--the long stables in a barren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it, and who love to perch upon its shoulders, seem to be always consulting--_they_ may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather, on occasions, and may be better artists at them than the grooms. the old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that glisten there at other times, and the scents that stream in, and may have a fine run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. the gray, whose place is opposite the door, and who, with an impatient rattle of his halter, pricks his ears, and turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, "woa gray, then, steady! noabody wants you to-day!" may know it quite as well as the man. the whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, may pass the long wet hours, when the door is shut, in livelier communication than is held in the servants' hall, or at the dedlock arms; or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps corrupting) the pony in the loose box in the corner. so the mastiff, dozing in his kennel, in the court-yard, with his large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine, when the shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing, and leave him, at one time of the day, no broader refuge than the shadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very much wanting something to worry, besides himself and chain. so now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of horses, and the outbuildings full of attendants upon horses, until he is undecided about the present, and comes forth to see how it is. then, with an impatient shake of himself, he may growl, in the spirit, "rain, rain, rain! nothing but rain--and no family here!" as he goes in again, and lies down with a gloomy yawn. so with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have their restless fits, and whose doleful voices, when the wind has been very obstinate, have even made it known in the house itself: up-stairs, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber. they may hunt the whole country-side, while the rain-drops are pattering round their inactivity. so the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about, or of those seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. the turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrongfully taken from him, when he got into the lane among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley. the discontented goose, who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground. be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at chesney wold. if there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way, and usually leads off to ghosts and mystery. it has rained so hard and rained so long, down in lincolnshire, that mrs. rouncewell, the old housekeeper at chesney wold, has several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them, to make certain that the drops were not upon the glasses. mrs. rouncewell might have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. she is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back, and such a stomacher, that if her stays should turn out when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. weather affects mrs. rouncewell little. the house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looks at." she sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes on her mind. she can open it on occasion, and be busy and fluttered; but it is shut-up now, and lies on the breadth of mrs. rouncewell's iron-bound bosom, in a majestic sleep. it is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine chesney wold without mrs. rouncewell, but she has only been here fifty years. ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer, "fifty year three months and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if i live 'till tuesday." mr. rouncewell died some time before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the church-yard in the park, near the mouldy porch. he was born in the market town, and so was his young widow. her progress in the family began in the time of the last sir leicester, and originated in the still-room. the present representative of the dedlocks is an excellent master. he supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to supersede the necessity of their having any. if he were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--would never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. but he is an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to be so. he has a great liking for mrs. rouncewell; he says she is a most respectable, creditable woman. he always shakes hands with her, when he comes down to chesney wold, and when he goes away; and if he were very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation expressive of a dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could speak, "leave me, and send mrs. rouncewell here!" feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with any body else. mrs. rouncewell has known trouble. she has had two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back. even to this hour, mrs. rouncewell's calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner, as she says, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humored, clever lad he was! her second son would have been provided for at chesney wold, and would have been made steward in due season; but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of sauce-pans, and setting birds to draw their own water, with the least possible amount of labor; so assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure, that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel, and the job was done. this propensity gave mrs. rouncewell great uneasiness. she felt it with a mother's anguish, to be a move in the wat tyler direction: well knowing that sir leicester had that general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential. but the doomed young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign of grace as he got older, but, on the contrary, constructing a model of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his backslidings to the baronet. "mrs. rouncewell," said sir leicester, "i can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject. you had better get rid of your boy, you had better get him into some works. the iron country farther north is, i suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies." farther north he went, and farther north he grew up; and if sir leicester dedlock ever saw him, when he came to chesney wold to visit his mother, or ever thought of him afterward, it is certain that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torch-light, two or three nights in the week, for unlawful purposes. nevertheless mrs. rouncewell's son has, in the course of nature and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto him mrs. rouncewell's grandson: who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparation for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day, in mrs. rouncewell's room at chesney wold. "and, again and again, i am glad to see you, watt! and, once again, i am glad to see you, watt!" says mrs. rouncewell. "you are a fine young fellow. you are like your poor uncle george. ah!" mrs. rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference. "they say i am like my father, grandmother." "like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle george! and your dear father." mrs. rouncewell folds her hands again. "he is well?" "thriving, grandmother, in every way." "i am thankful!" mrs. rouncewell is fond of her son, but has a plaintive feeling toward him--much as if he were a very honorable soldier, who had gone over to the enemy. "he is quite happy?" says she. "quite." "i am thankful! so, he has brought you up to follow in his ways, and has sent you into foreign countries and the like? well, he knows best. there may be a world beyond chesney wold that i don't understand. though i am not young, either. and i have seen a quantity of good company too!" "grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what a very pretty girl that was, i found with you just now. you called her rosa?" "yes, child. she is daughter of a widow in the village. maids are so hard to teach, nowadays, that i have put her about me young. she's an apt scholar, and will do well. she shows the house already, very pretty. she lives with me, at my table here." "i hope i have not driven her away?" "she supposes we have family affairs to speak about, i dare say. she is very modest. it is a fine quality in a young woman. and scarcer," says mrs. rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits, "than it formerly was!" the young man inclines his head, in acknowledgment of the precepts of experience. mrs. rouncewell listens. "wheels!" says she. they have long been audible to the younger ears of her companion. "what wheels on such a day as this, for gracious sake?" after a short interval, a tap at the door. "come in!" a dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in her rosy and yet delicate bloom, that the drops of rain, which have beaten on her hair, look like the dew upon a flower fresh-gathered. "what company is this, rosa?" says mrs. rouncewell. "it's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house--yes, and if you please, i told them so!" in quick reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. "i went to the half-door, and told them it was the wrong day, and the wrong hour; but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet, and begged me to bring this card to you." "read it, my dear watt," said the housekeeper. rosa is so shy as she gives it to him, that they drop it between them, and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. rosa is shyer than before. "mr. guppy," is all the information the card yields. "guppy!" repeats mrs. rouncewell. "mr. guppy! nonsense, i never heard of him!" "if you please, he told _me_ that!" says rosa. "but he said that he and the other young gentleman came from london only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting ten miles off, this morning; and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of chesney wold, and really didn't know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. they are lawyers. he says he is not in mr. tulkinghorn's office, but is sure he may make use of mr. tulkinghorn's name, if necessary." finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, rosa is shyer than ever. now, mr. tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place; and, besides, is supposed to have made mrs. rouncewell's will. the old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favor, and dismisses rosa. the grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. the grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, accompanies him--though, to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her. "much obliged to you, ma'am!" says mr. guppy, divesting himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall. "us london lawyers don't often get an out; and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know." the old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand toward the great staircase. mr. guppy and his friend follow rosa, mrs. rouncewell and her grandson follow them, a young gardener goes before to open the shutters. as is usually the case with people who go over houses, mr. guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. they straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. in each successive chamber that they enter, mrs. rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat, or other such nook, and listens with stately approval to rosa's exposition. her grandson is so attentive to it, that rosa is shyer than ever--and prettier. thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again. it appears to the afflicted mr. guppy and his inconsolable friend, that there is no end to the dedlocks, whose family-greatness seems to consist in their never having done any thing to distinguish themselves, for seven hundred years. even the long drawing-room of chesney wold can not revive mr. guppy's spirits. he is so low that he droops on the threshold, and has hardly strength of mind to enter. but a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm. he recovers in a moment. he stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it. "dear me!" says mr. guppy. "who's that?" "the picture over the fire-place," says rosa, "is the portrait of the present lady dedlock. it is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master." "'blest!" says mr. guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend, "if i can ever have seen her. yet i know her! has the picture been engraved, miss?" "the picture has never been engraved. sir leicester has always refused permission." "well!" says mr. guppy, in a low voice, "i'll be shot if it an't very curious how well i know that picture! so that's lady dedlock, is it?" "the picture on the right is the present sir leicester dedlock. the picture on the left is his father, the late sir leicester." mr. guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. "it's unaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "how well i know that picture! i'm dashed!" adds mr. guppy, looking round, "if i don't think i must have had a dream of that picture, you know!" as no one present takes any especial interest in mr. guppy's dreams, the probability is not pursued. but he still remains so absorbed by the portrait, that he stands immovable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters; when he comes out of the room in a dazed state, that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest, and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking every where for lady dedlock again. he sees no more of her. he sees her rooms, which are the last shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death. all things have an end--even houses that people take infinite pains to see, and are tired of before they begin to see them. he has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "the terrace below is much admired. it is called, from an old story in the family, the ghost's walk." "no?" says mr. guppy, greedily curious; "what's the story, miss? is it any thing about a picture?" "pray tell us the story," says watt, in a half whisper. "i don't know it, sir." rosa is shyer than ever. "it is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten," says the housekeeper, advancing, "it has never been more than a family anecdote." "you'll excuse my asking again if it has any thing to do with a picture, ma'am," observes mr. guppy, "because i do assure you that the more i think of that picture the better i know it, without knowing how i know it!" the story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can guarantee that. mr. guppy is obliged to her for the information; and is moreover, generally obliged. he retires with his friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener; and presently is heard to drive away. it is now dusk. mrs. rouncewell can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers, and may tell _them_ how the terrace came to have that ghostly name. she seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window, and tells them: "in the wicked days, my dears, of king charles the first--i mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent king--sir morbury dedlock was the owner of chesney wold. whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, i can't say. i should think it very likely indeed." mrs. rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. she regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes; a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim. "sir morbury dedlock," says mrs. rouncewell, "was, i have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. but it _is_ supposed that his lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favored the bad cause. it is said that she had relations among king charles's enemies; that she was in correspondence with them; and that she gave them information. when any of the country gentlemen who followed his majesty's cause met here, it is said that my lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed. do you hear a sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, watt?" rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper. "i hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and i hear a curious echo--i suppose an echo--which is very like a halting step." the housekeeper gravely nods and continues. "partly on account of this division between them, and partly on other accounts, sir morbury and his lady led a troubled life. she was a lady of a haughty temper. they were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they had no children to moderate between them. after her favorite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by sir morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married. when the dedlocks were about to ride out from chesney wold in the king's cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night, and lamed their horses; and the story is, that once, at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs, and followed her into the stall where his own favorite horse stood. there he seized her by the wrist; and in a struggle or in a fall, or through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip, and from that hour began to pine away." the housekeeper has dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. "she had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. she never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being crippled, or of being in pain; but, day by day, she tried to walk upon the terrace; and, with the help of a stick, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty every day. at last, one afternoon, her husband (to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. he hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, 'i will die here, where i have walked. and i will walk here, though i am in my grave. i will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. and when calamity, or when disgrace is coming to it, let the dedlocks listen for my step!'" watt looks at rosa. rosa, in the deepening gloom, looks down upon the ground, half frightened, and half shy. "there and then she died. and from those days," says mrs. rouncewell, "the name has come down--the ghost's walk. if the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long while together. but it comes back, from time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then." "--and disgrace, grandmother--" says watt. "disgrace never comes to chesney wold," returns the housekeeper. her grandson apologizes, with "true. true." "that is the story. whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound," says mrs. rouncewell, getting up from her chair, "and what is to be noticed in it is, that it _must be heard_. my lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. you can not shut it out. watt, there is a tall french clock behind you (placed there, a' purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion, and can play music. you understand how those things are managed?" "pretty well, grandmother, i think." "set it a-going." watt sets it a-going--music and all. "now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "hither, child, toward my lady's pillow. i am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen! can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the beat, and every thing?" "i certainly can!" "so my lady says." (to be continued.) the russian czar at a public ball. to provide resources for the invalids of the russian army, great care is taken; and in addition to more fixed estimates, the emperor makes extraordinary exertions, by balls, and lotteries, and masquerades, of a charitable nature, to augment the ways and means of the veterans who have been disabled in his service. sometimes the ball, the lottery, and the masquerade are all combined in one festive display. of course, such displays take place in winter, which is the st. petersburg season. it is not two years since i was present on one of these occasions, round which the emperor threw all the attractions of his gorgeous court. and, as the festivities were for the especial benefit of the military invalids, i may be excused for lingering for awhile on the details which i witnessed. besides, often as the emperor, who is the real commander-in-chief of all the russian forces, has been described, the subject is far from being picked to the bone; and what i saw of him it will gratify the curiosity of the reader to learn. it is the military frequenters, with their prodigious variety of costumes, who give so much splendor to the celebrated masquerades of st. petersburg. these are conducted on the model of the still more celebrated masquerades of old, in venice. the approximation is the less complete, of course, because the climate is so different. open-air assemblies, for pleasure's sake, are out of the question, in a northern winter. the merry-makers would have little else to do but rub each other's noses with snow, to prevent their falling off gradually after they had been bleached by the leprous-looking frost-bite. there are nights when it is hardly an exaggeration to say that, if a person spits out, it is a pellet of ice which rattles against the ground. the sudden transition from such a winter to the intense heat of the petersburg summer is one among several conditions which render a residence in that capital so unfriendly to the health of foreigners, unless they come in the plastic time of childhood, and grow, with many precautions, acclimatized. the place of assembly for these great festive or charitable demonstrations (the only kind of "demonstration," except such as are military, which can be seen in russia) is not unworthy of its purposes. it is probably the finest of its kind in europe or in the world, and is called the "hall of nobility"--_salle de noblesse_--a vast edifice, capable of receiving seven thousand guests, supported inside by splendid scagliola columns, richly decorated, skillfully laid out, distributed into a vast pit for dancing, with circumambient galleries and balconies, with retiring or withdrawing apartments for the emperor and his court, and with general refreshment-rooms in the outer circuit. this scene is lit up by clusters of wax-lights the beams of which are multiplied by crystal pendants; while the wax-lights themselves are many thousands in number, more numerous, in fact, than the stars visible to the naked eye on a bright frosty night. a great masquerade ball for the benefit of the invalids, in such a place, with the additional attraction of the promised presence of the emperor nicholas, was irresistible. i determined to go, and my determination was the more natural inasmuch as i happened to possess a free ticket. on entering, i was struck by the novel and somewhat grotesque feature imparted to the scene by the lottery prizes, which had lain there "on view" for some days previously. i found a crowd which was afterward estimated at seven thousand; but, i dare say, it numbered five or six only. perfectly lost in the vastness of the place, the multitude assembled, and the grotesque horror of beautiful forms without human faces, i sat down for awhile, near the orchestra. the benches, on one of which i was, rose here in successive tiers, from the vast, pit-like saloon to the surrounding gallery, which was overhung by another gallery, and abutted upon several splendid refreshment-rooms. before and below, the crowd was particularly dense around a little rostrum, on which a glass wheel and several officials who plied it, stood together. the press, the throng, the hustling, the jostling, the redness of faces where they could be seen, and the activity of elbows where they could be insidiously inserted, were raging around. a similar apparatus, besieged by similar votaries, stood at the other three corners of the saloon. in the ancillary apartments there were more of these shrines of gambling; a gambling in which only one class was sure to win, a class unvexed by the excitement of the game, the invalided veterans, the brave old disabled soldiers of the empire. for their sakes was all this gorgeous commotion; for their sakes this splendid mob bustled about the "_ailetpii allegri_;" that is, the wheels of fortune, the lottery stands, the stalls of fate. all round these, and between them, circulated the pervading immensity of the masquerade. tired of this part of the scene, i asked the person next me, in what part of the room the emperor was. i had already seen alexander, the crown prince, or, as he is called, the _grand duc héritier_, walking about with a lady on his arm, his handsome open countenance radiant with the smiles that are so easily lit there. "the emperor," said the person whom i had asked, "passed this way about a quarter of an hour since, and must be somewhere yonder," and he pointed to the end of the saloon, opposite the orchestra. i arose, ascended the flights of stairs that conducted to the boulevard-like gallery, and i began to thread my way behind the scagliola columns. beyond these, across the width of the corridor, arose the wall which was the running boundary of the corridor on the other side; and into this wall were let tall mirrors, which multiplied every particular of the confused and shifting splendor of the rooms. when i reached the further end of the gallery, a spectacle was offered to me, which arrested all my attention. i must premise, that when the emperor attends these festivities, or others of a like nature, he evinces certain likings, feelings, tastes. he is not entirely indifferent as to what his subjects may do. if there be one thing more than another which he abhors, it is that in these scenes of familiar relaxation, in which he mingles to unbend his own mind, while contributing indirectly a new interest to the revels of others, he should be saluted as emperor, or beset by the unmannerly siege of a universal stare. it is strictly understood, or, as the fashionable jargon is, _de rigueur_, that he is present as any other stranger, not to be noted, not to be quoted, quite incognitus. here he comes, like any one else, to amuse himself, to forget imperial cares for a brief moment. nothing pleases him more than to let him pass. can he not be as any other of the countless visitors, who engage in the intricate tactics of these grave and sober saturnalia--this game of small mystery--this strategic maze of hushed frolic--these profound combinations of grown-up gentlemen and ladies at hide-and-seek? i had easily figured to myself, that it was easier for the emperor to let people know that such was his wish, than for others to affect an unconsciousness which they did not feel, or an indifference which they felt still less. i had guessed that, in such scenes, his desire to be allowed to move about unnoticed, was difficult to be reduced to perfect practice. but i was far indeed from being prepared for what i beheld. sauntering idly along, i became conscious, not of a start among the throng--not of any exclamation--not even of any particular hush, but of an indefinable _sensation_ around me. crowds have their general physiognomies like individuals. this sensation was as perceptible as a change of countenance, and as silent. i looked up, and in the midst of a vacant place, from which every one had shrunk back, as from a plague-stricken spot, or a haunted floor, or a "fairy-ring," about ten yards onward and facing me, i saw the emperor (his head bare), standing alone, with his back against the opposite wall. i had often seen him before in the streets, but never with so good an opportunity of noting his physiognomy, deportment, figure, and whole appearance. "now," said i to myself, "let me realize this with accuracy. it is not so much the sovereign of russia whom you see there, as it is russia itself--a power--a sway, in a single person. he is the only surviving instance or ensample of types, such as loomed before the minds of the prophets of god aforetime, and have been thought worthy to be the themes of their awful predictions. this is cyrus, or the second cæsar; this a mystic statue--not that of which the head was of fine gold, but the breast and the arms of silver, and the belly and the thighs of brass, and the legs of iron; the feet part of iron, and part of clay." not such; yet assuredly such like. i forgot every thing around me, except that great mighty figure towering aloft. it were useless to describe very particularly the present emperor "of all the russias." people in england still remember him, as he was when he visited us in his magnificent youth. years have indeed made some change. his hair is thin, which was then so abundant. public care has written some lines on a face, far more commanding, though perhaps less haughty, and certainly less blooming than in those days. but he has still the same marvelous width of chest and shoulder, the same royal-looking height, the same large open blue eye, full of authority and instinct with mind; a forehead which is even broader and loftier than of old, and which never yet belonged to one whose mental powers were not extraordinary; and that statuesque set of the head, which, if it wore no crown, would yet make you know it for the head of some mighty king. "they would have proclaimed him," said i to myself, "on their shields, in the days of attila, or of clovis." on the present occasion, the emperor was standing alone, as i have said; his back resting against the wall, and a crowd of the most persistent gazers around. he looked vexed--even melancholy. they would not grant him this casual moment of amusement untormented. he had the air of one at bay. he faced the crowd full, and wherever his glance fell, i could see all eyes sink before it immediately. it rested a moment on myself. i had often heard, and often read, that it was difficult to return his look; and why i know not. it is but an eye; yet, whether it was the involuntary sympathy i felt for a king thus bayed in his moments of relaxation, or whether it was that in his piercing glance, there is an expression as if he were about to address you, and thus to make you the object of universal notice, or whatever else it may be, i too dropped my looks to the ground. a couple of masks approached him as if to speak; he turned full upon them, to give the opportunity; their hearts failed them at once, and with a low courtesy, they shrank back again. i saw him again several times during the evening, once walking with a lady (deeply masked, if i remember). his dress was that of a general officer, and he wore a lofty hussar's cap, with a single tall feather at its side. it made his stature seem still more colossal. as i was defiling through the crowd, i felt shortly afterward a sharp blow on my elbow. turning, i saw a mask, who, looking at me for a moment, retreated. i followed till my guide had sat down in a place where there was room for two, making me to understand that i was to occupy the vacant spot. i considered her figure for a moment, and then feeling perfectly sure that it was not that of an acquaintance, i declined. without any answer, i strolled my way. having seen what a masquerade was at the "_nobles' hall_," i soon afterward left the rooms altogether, hoping sincerely that the proceeds might be ample, for the sake of the veteran invalids; and meditating much on the czar, whom i had had so good an opportunity of seeing, and whom these veterans regarded as by right divine their perpetual "generalissimo." a sleep to startle us. by charles dickens. at the top of farringdon-street in the city of london, once adorned by the fleet prison, and by a diabolical jumble of nuisances in the middle of the road called fleet market, is a broad new thoroughfare in a state of transition. a few years hence, and we of the present generation will find it not an easy task to recall, in the thriving street which will arise upon this spot, the wooden barriers and hoardings--the passages that lead to nothing--the glimpses of obscene field-lane and saffron-hill--the mounds of earth, old bricks, and oyster-shells--the arched foundations of unbuilt houses--the backs of miserable tenements with patched windows--the odds and ends of fever-stricken courts and alleys--which are the present features of the place. not less perplexing do i find it now, to reckon how many years have passed since i traversed these by-ways one night before they were laid bare, to find out the first ragged school. if i say it is ten years ago, i leave a handsome margin. the discovery was then newly made, that to talk soundingly in parliament, and cheer for church and state, or to consecrate and confirm without end, or to perorate to any extent in a thousand market-places about all the ordinary topics of patriotic songs and sentiments, was merely to embellish england on a great scale with whited sepulchres, while there was, in every corner of the land where its people were closely accumulated, profound ignorance and perfect barbarism. it was also newly discovered, that out of these noxious sinks where they were born to perish, and where the general ruin was hatching day and night, the people _would not come_ to be improved. the gulf between them and all wholesome humanity had swollen to such a depth and breadth, that they were separated from it as by impassable seas or deserts; and so they lived, and so they died: an always-increasing band of outlaws in body and soul, against whom it were to suppose the reversal of all laws, human and divine, to believe that society could at last prevail. in this condition of things, a few unaccredited messengers of christianity, whom no bishop had ever heard of, and no government-office porter had ever seen, resolved to go to the miserable wretches who had lost the way to them; and to set up places of instruction in their own degraded haunts. i found my first ragged school, in an obscure place called west-street, saffron-hill, pitifully struggling for life, under every disadvantage. it had no means, it had no suitable rooms, it derived no power or protection from being recognized by any authority, it attracted within its wretched walls a fluctuating swarm of faces--young in years but youthful in nothing else--that scowled hope out of countenance. it was held in a low-roofed den, in a sickening atmosphere, in the midst of taint, and dirt, and pestilence: with all the deadly sins let loose, howling and shrieking at the doors. zeal did not supply the place of method and training; the teachers knew little of their office; the pupils, with an evil sharpness, found them out, got the better of them, derided them, made blasphemous answers to scriptural questions, sang, fought, danced, robbed each other; seemed possessed by legions of devils. the place was stormed and carried, over and over again; the lights were blown out, the books strewn in the gutters, and the female scholars carried off triumphantly to their old wickedness. with no strength in it but its purpose, the school stood it all out and made its way. some two years since, i found it, one of many such, in a large, convenient loft in this transition part of farringdon-street--quiet and orderly, full, lighted with gas, well white-washed, numerously attended, and thoroughly established. the number of houseless creatures who resorted to it, and who were necessarily turned out when it closed, to hide where they could in heaps of moral and physical pollution, filled the managers with pity. to relieve some of the more constant and deserving scholars, they rented a wretched house, where a few common beds--a dozen or a dozen-and-a-half perhaps--were made upon the floors. this was the ragged school dormitory; and when i found the school in farringdon-street, i found the dormitory in a court hard by, which in the time of the cholera had acquired a dismal fame. the dormitory was, in all respects, save as a small beginning, a very discouraging institution. the air was bad; the dark and ruinous building, with its small close rooms, was quite unsuited to the purpose; and a general supervision of the scattered sleepers was impossible. i had great doubts at the time whether, excepting that they found a crazy shelter for their heads, they were better than in the streets. having heard, in the course of last month, that this dormitory (there are others elsewhere) had grown as the school had grown, i went the other night to make another visit to it. i found the school in the same place, still advancing. it was now an industrial school too; and besides the men and boys who were learning--some, aptly enough; some, with painful difficulty; some, sluggishly and wearily; some, not at all--to read, and write, and cipher; there were two groups, one of shoemakers, and one (in a gallery) of tailors, working with great industry and satisfaction, each was taught and superintended by a regular workman engaged for the purpose, who delivered out the necessary means and implements. all were employed in mending, either their own dilapidated clothes or shoes, or the dilapidated clothes or shoes of some of the other pupils. they were of all ages, from young boys to old men. they were quiet, and intent upon their work. some of them were almost as unused to it as i should have shown myself to be if i had tried my hand, but all were deeply interested and profoundly anxious to do it somehow or other. they presented a very remarkable instance of the general desire there is, after all, even in the vagabond breast, to know something useful. one shock-headed man, when he had mended his own scrap of a coat, drew it on with such an air of satisfaction, and put himself to so much inconvenience to look at the elbow he had darned, that i thought a new coat (and the mind could not imagine a period when that coat of his was new!) would not have pleased him better. in the other part of the school, where each class was partitioned off by screens adjusted like the boxes in a coffee-room, was some very good writing, and some singing of the multiplication-table--the latter, on a principle much too juvenile and innocent for some of the singers. there was also a ciphering-class, where a young pupil teacher out of the streets, who refreshed himself by spitting every half-minute, had written a legible sum in compound addition, on a broken slate, and was walking backward and forward before it, as he worked it, for the instruction of his class, in this way: now then! look here, all on you! seven and five, how many? sharp boy (in no particular clothes).--twelve! pupil teacher.--twelve--and eight? dull young man (with water on the brain).--forty-five! sharp boy.--twenty! pupil teacher.--twenty. you're right. and nine? dull young man (after great consideration).--twenty-nine! pupil teacher.--twenty-nine it is. and nine! reckless guesser.--seventy-four! pupil teacher (drawing nine strokes).--how can that be? here's nine on 'em! look! twenty-nine, and one's thirty, and one's thirty-one, and one's thirty-two, and one's thirty-three, and one's thirty-four, and one's thirty-five, and one's thirty-six, and one's thirty-seven, and one's what? reckless guesser.--four-and-two-pence farden! dull young man (who had been absorbed in the demonstration).--thirty-eight! pupil teacher (restraining sharp boy's ardor).--of course it is! thirty-eight pence. there they are! (writing in slate-corner.) now what do you make of thirty-eight pence? thirty-eight pence, how much? (dull young man slowly considers and gives it up, under a week.) how much, you? (to sleepy boy, who stares and says nothing.) how much, _you_? sharp boy.--three-and-twopence! pupil teacher.--three-and-twopence. how do i put down three-and-twopence? sharp boy.--you puts down the two, and you carries the three. pupil teacher.--very good. where do i carry the three? reckless guesser.--t'other side the slate! sharp boy.--you carries him to the next column on the left hand, and adds him on! pupil teacher.--and adds him on! and eight and three's eleven, and eight's nineteen, and seven's what? --and so on. the best and most spirited teacher was a young man, himself reclaimed through the agency of this school from the lowest depths of misery and debasement, whom the committee were about to send out to australia. he appeared quite to deserve the interest they took in him, and his appearance and manner were a strong testimony to the merits of the establishment. all this was not the dormitory, but it was the preparation for it. no man or boy is admitted to the dormitory, unless he is a regular attendant at the school, and unless he has been in the school two hours before the time of opening the dormitory. if there be reason to suppose that he can get any work to do and will not do it, he is admitted no more, and his place is assigned to some other candidate for the nightly refuge: of whom there are always plenty. there is very little to tempt the idle and profligate. a scanty supper and a scanty breakfast, each of six ounces of bread and nothing else (this quantity is less than the present penny-loaf), would scarcely be regarded by mr. chadwick himself as a festive or uproarious entertainment. i found the dormitory below the school: with its bare walls and rafters, and bare floor, the building looked rather like an extensive coach-house, well lighted with gas. a wooden gallery had been recently erected on three sides of it; and, abutting from the centre of the wall on the fourth side, was a kind of glazed meat-safe, accessible by a ladder; in which the presiding officer is posted every night, and all night. in the centre of the room, which was very cool, and perfectly sweet, stood a small fixed stove; on two sides, there were windows; on all sides, simple means of admitting fresh air, and releasing foul air. the ventilation of the place, devised by doctor arnott, and particularly the expedient for relieving the sleepers in the galleries from receiving the breath of the sleepers below, is a wonder of simplicity, cheapness, efficiency, and practical good sense. if it had cost five or ten thousand pounds, it would have been famous. the whole floor of the building, with the exception of a few narrow pathways, was partitioned off into wooden troughs, or shallow boxes without lids--not unlike the fittings in the shop of a dealer in corn and flour, and seeds. the galleries were parceled out in this same way. some of these berths were very short--for boys; some, longer--for men. the largest were of very contracted limits; all were composed of the bare boards; each was furnished only with one coarse rug, rolled up. in the brick pathways were iron gratings communicating with trapped drains, enabling the entire surface of these sleeping-places to be soused and flooded with water every morning. the floor of the galleries was cased with zinc, and fitted with gutters and escape-pipes, for the same reason. a supply of water, both for drinking and for washing, and some tin vessels for either purpose, were at hand. a little shed, used by one of the industrial classes, for the chopping up of fire-wood, did not occupy the whole of the spare space in that corner; and the remainder was devoted to some excellent baths, available also as washing troughs, in order that those who have any rags of linen may clean them once a week. in aid of this object, a drying-closet, charged with hot-air, was about to be erected in the wood-chopping shed. all these appliances were constructed in the simplest manner, with the commonest means, in the narrowest space, at the lowest cost; but were perfectly adapted to their respective purposes. i had scarcely made the round of the dormitory, and looked at all these things, when a moving of feet overhead announced that the school was breaking up for the night. it was succeeded by profound silence, and then by a hymn, sung in a subdued tone, and in very good time and tune, by the learners we had lately seen. separated from their miserable bodies, the effect of their voices, united in this strain, was infinitely solemn. it was as if their souls were singing--as if the outward differences that parted us had fallen away, and the time was come when all the perverted good that was in them, or that ever might have been in them, arose imploringly to heaven. the baker who had brought the bread, and who leaned against a pillar while the singing was in progress, meditating in his way, whatever his way was, now shouldered his basket and retired. the two half-starved attendants (rewarded with a double portion for their pains) heaped the six-ounce loaves into other baskets, and made ready to distribute them. the night-officer arrived, mounted to his meat-safe, unlocked it, hung up his hat, and prepared to spend the evening. i found him to be a very respectable-looking person in black, with a wife and family; engaged in an office all day, and passing his spare time here, from half-past nine every night to six every morning, for a pound a week. he had carried the post against two hundred competitors. the door was now opened, and the men and boys who were to pass that night in the dormitory, in number one hundred and sixty-seven (including a man for whom there was no trough, but who was allowed to rest in the seat by the stove, once occupied by the night-officer before the meat-safe was), came in. they passed to their different sleeping-places, quietly and in good order. every one sat down in his own crib, where he became presented in a curiously fore-shortened manner; and those who had shoes took them off, and placed them in the adjoining path. there were, in the assembly, thieves, cadgers, trampers, vagrants, common outcasts of all sorts. in casual wards and many other refuges, they would have been very difficult to deal with; but they were restrained here by the law of kindness, and had long since arrived at the knowledge that those who gave them that shelter could have no possible inducement save to do them good. neighbors spoke little together--they were almost as uncompanionable as mad people--but every body took his small loaf when the baskets went round, with a thankfulness more or less cheerful, and immediately ate it up. there was some excitement in consequence of one man being missing; "the lame old man." every body had seen the lame old man up-stairs asleep, but he had unaccountably disappeared. what he had been doing with himself was a mystery, but, when the inquiry was at its height, he came shuffling and tumbling in, with his palsied head hanging on his breast--an emaciated drunkard, once a compositor, dying of starvation and decay. he was so near death, that he could not be kept there, lest he should die in the night; and, while it was under deliberation what to do with him, and while his dull lips tried to shape out answers to what was said to him, he was held up by two men. beside this wreck, but all unconnected with it and with the whole world, was an orphan boy with burning cheeks and great gaunt eager eyes, who was in pressing peril of death too, and who had no possession under the broad sky but a bottle of physic and a scrap of writing. he brought both from the house-surgeon of a hospital that was too full to admit him, and stood, giddily staggering in one of the little pathways, while the chief samaritan read, in hasty characters underlined, how momentous his necessities were. he held the bottle of physic in his claw of a hand, and stood, apparently unconscious of it, staggering, and staring with his bright glazed eyes; a creature, surely, as forlorn and desolate as mother earth can have supported on her breast that night. he was gently taken away, along with the dying man, to the workhouse; and he passed into the darkness with his physic-bottle as if he were going into his grave. the bread eaten to the last crumb; and some drinking of water and washing in water having taken place, with very little stir or noise indeed; preparations were made for passing the night. some, took off their rags of smock frocks; some, their rags of coats or jackets, and spread them out within their narrow bounds for beds; designing to lie upon them, and use their rugs as a covering. some, sat up, pondering, on the edges of their troughs; others, who were very tired, rested their unkempt heads upon their hands and their elbows on their knees, and dozed. when there were no more who desired to drink or wash, and all were in their places, the night officer, standing below the meat-safe, read a short evening service, including perhaps as inappropriate a prayer as could possibly be read (as though the lord's prayer stood in need of it by way of rider), and a portion of a chapter from the new testament. then, they all sang the evening hymn, and then they all lay down to sleep. it was an awful thing, looking round upon those one hundred and sixty-seven representatives of many thousands, to reflect that a government, unable, with the least regard to truth, to plead ignorance of the existence of such a place, should proceed as if the sleepers never were to wake again. i do not hesitate to say--why should i, for i know it to be true!--that an annual sum of money, contemptible in amount as compared with any charges upon any list, freely granted in behalf of these schools, and shackled with no preposterous red tape conditions, would relieve the prisons, diminish county rates, clear loads of shame and guilt out of the streets, recruit the army and navy, waft to new countries fleets full of useful labor, for which their inhabitants would be thankful and beholden to us. it is no depreciation of the devoted people whom i found presiding here, to add, that with such assistance as a trained knowledge of the business of instruction, and a sound system adjusted to the peculiar difficulties and conditions of this sphere of action, their usefulness could be increased fifty-fold in a few months. my lords and gentlemen, can you, at the present time, consider this at last, and agree to do some little easy thing! dearly beloved brethren elsewhere, do you know that between gorham controversies, and pusey controversies, and newman controversies, and twenty other edifying controversies, a certain large class of minds in the community is gradually being driven out of all religion? would it be well, do you think, to come out of the controversies for a little while, and be simply apostolic thus low down? louis napoleon and his nose. the following passage from a letter is amusing, as well as instructive: "trifles are said to amuse weak minds, and probably by a similar process of reasoning, they may be said to annoy great minds. the extreme susceptibility of the president respecting any attempt to turn either his person or policy into ridicule has been frequently noticed, and this excessive susceptibility has gradually attained an intensity which gives it the air of absolute monomania. the police have peremptory orders to ravage any shop in which any work or engraving is to be found in any way reflecting upon that prominent feature in the presidental visage which has secured for him the time-honored title of '_noscitur a naso_.' any semblance of a caricature on the presidental proboscis exposes the unfortunate possessor (as george robins would have said) to the persecution of the police. a short time past paris was inundated with a ludicrous counterfeit portrait of the president's features, which were fashioned into a crockery tobacco-pot. the resemblance was so striking, and yet so irresistibly ludicrous withal--for you know there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous--that these tobacco-pots were eagerly purchased, and the designer made a small fortune in his way. the police have of late busily occupied themselves in hunting out the purchasers of these crockery caricatures, which are seized and broken without mitigation or remorse. the crockery shops have been ransacked, and whenever any have been found the shopkeepers have been exposed to considerable annoyance and persecution. some weeks since two girls were condemned to fine and imprisonment for having openly declared that they never could fall in love with louis napoleon. but the prince now appears disposed to carry the matter still further; for it is alleged that rather sharp notes have been sent to belgium by the minister of foreign affairs with respect to a masquerade which took place at ghent in the latter part of the carnival. some young men, it appears, promenaded through the streets, a man on a horse, wearing a dress to represent the president of the republic, and with a gigantic false nose. this man carried in his hand a whip with which he struck from time to time a set of puppets which he carried in his hand--the puppets, each of which had a lock on his mouth, being intended to represent the french senators and deputies. the belgian government is said to have replied that it disapproved of the parody, and offered to dismiss the commissary of police who did not fulfill his duty by preventing it. but the french government not considering this satisfaction sufficient, requires, it is said, the dismissal of the governor, who was on the balcony when the masquerade passed." monthly record of current events. the united states. in congress, during the past month, debate has turned mainly on topics connected with the approaching presidential contest. in the senate, the resolutions upon the subject of non-intervention have been still further discussed, but no vote has been taken upon them. on the th of march, senator jones, of tennessee, replied at length to the speeches of senators cass and seward upon this subject--seeking to establish, by copious citation of authorities, that it had never been the policy of this country to take any part whatever in the affairs of other nations, and urging the importance of still adhering to this course. he was opposed to protesting against the violation of international law by russia, unless we were prepared to enforce that protest by war. senator cass rejoined, defending his positions from the assault of senator jones. on the d, senator soulé, of louisiana, spoke upon the subject. whatever might be the fate of the resolutions, he said, their discussion had given the country a chance of expressing its sympathy with the oppressed and down-trodden nations of the earth. he then entered upon a historical argument of some length to show that the neutrality advocated and enforced by washington, during the war between england and france, was simply a matter of necessity--a temporary measure, which the exigencies of the time demanded; and that it was not regarded by washington as a permanent rule for the action of this country. and further, even if this were not so, and if washington had really set forth the doctrine, that this country must always remain indifferent to the movements of other nations, senator soulé urged, our national growth and progress would render it obsolete. the policy of this nation could not remain the same from century to century; it must change with changing circumstances, and keep pace with the rapid increase of our national population and power. upon the conclusion of his remarks, the subject was again postponed. on the th, a message from the president announced that certain papers, connected with the prosecution of mexican claims, which had been placed on file in the state department, had been abstracted therefrom; and asking for the adoption of measures for the better protection of public documents and papers. on the th, senator cass made a statement of his views on the wilmot proviso, in reply to some remarks in a published letter from senator davis, of mississippi. he denied the right of congress to impose upon a territorial government any restriction in regard to its legislation upon slavery, claiming for the legislature the right to establish or prohibit slavery, as it may see fit. he also justified the first settlers of california in the steps they took for the establishment of a government, and complained that many gentlemen at the south did not make a just and proper allowance for the sentiments of the north concerning slavery. in the _house of representatives_, the proceedings have been wholly unimportant. a bill to supply deficiencies in the appropriations for the last fiscal year, has been made the occasion for discussing the prospects of political parties, and the relative claims of various candidates for the presidency. on the th of march, mr. richardson, of illinois, spoke in defense of senator douglass, from imputations made upon his political course; and mr. breckenridge, of kentucky, vindicated general butler from similar censure. on the th, mr. marshall, of kentucky, defended president fillmore against various assailants, and the discussion was pursued from day to day. political conventions have been held in several states during the month. in louisiana, the whigs held one at baton rouge on the th of march, at which resolutions were adopted in favor of nominating mr. fillmore for president, and mr. crittenden for vice-president--declaring the unabated devotion of the people of the state to the union--demanding the protection of government for the commerce, agriculture, and manufactures of the country--affirming the mission of this republic to be, "not to propagate our opinions, or impose on other countries our form of government, by artifice or force, but to teach by example, and show by our success, moderation, and justice, the blessings of self-government, and the advantages of free institutions;"--sustaining the compromise measures, and pledging the whigs of the state to support the nominee of the national convention. the democratic state convention declared its preference for general cass, as the presidential candidate, by a vote of , to for judge douglass.----in virginia, a democratic convention assembled at richmond on the th of march: a good deal of difficulty was experienced in effecting an organization. on the third day of the session, resolutions were adopted, affirming the resolutions of - ; denouncing a protective tariff and a division of the public lands among the states; and re-affirming the baltimore platform. they also resolved to appoint four delegates from each congressional district to the baltimore national convention, who shall in that body sustain the two-thirds rule, and be untrammeled in their choice of a candidate for the presidency, but vote for such a one as can command the greatest strength with the democracy, and whose principles are known to conform most strictly to the cardinal tenets of the democratic faith.----in pennsylvania, a whig state convention met at harrisburgh, on the th. resolutions were adopted, expressing a desire to act in harmony with the whig party throughout the union, declaring in favor of a protective tariff, proclaiming devotion to the constitution and the union, commending the administration of president fillmore, and nominating general scott unanimously as the whig candidate for the presidency. a resolution was also adopted, expressing regret at the illness of mr. clay.----the legislature of mississippi adjourned on the th of march. no united states senator was chosen for the full term, to commence at the close of the present congress. in both houses a bill was rejected which proposed to provide for the payment of the bonds of the state issued on account of the planters' bank, but both houses passed a bill, which has become a law, submitting the question of their payment to a vote of the people. the bill for districting the state, for the election of five members of congress, was lost, from disagreement between the two houses--both being willing to pass the bill, but they could not agree as to the composition of the districts.----in alabama, a southern rights state convention met on the th. only a small portion of the state was represented. resolutions were adopted in favor of maintaining the separate organization of the southern rights party, but acquiescing in the decision of the southern states against secession for the present.----a message from governor bigler, of pennsylvania, in regard to the debt of that state, states that there is now due and unpaid two millions four hundred and ninety-one thousand two hundred and fifty-five dollars of the bonds of the commonwealth, bearing an interest of six per cent., and a balance of near one hundred thousand dollars due to domestic creditors, bearing a like interest, besides one million three hundred and ninety thousand dollars, at five per cent.; over two millions will fall due in , and about three millions in . he recommends that the matured bonds, and such as may fall due during the year, be canceled by the negotiation of a loan, and that bonds of the commonwealth be issued, reimbursable at the expiration of ten or fifteen years, at a rate of interest not exceeding five per cent., with interest certificates attached, or in the usual form, as may be deemed proper. mr. webster happening to visit trenton, n.j., to take part in a legal argument, was received by the legislature of the state, on the th of march. he was welcomed in a highly eulogistic speech, to which he replied briefly, paying a high compliment to the gallant devotion of new jersey to the cause of the country during the revolution, and expressing his thanks for the distinguished attentions which had been shown to him. senator stockton, who happened to be present, spoke in terms of high admiration of mr. webster, commending his political course, and alluding incidentally to various topics of public interest.----hon. jeremiah morrow, a distinguished citizen of ohio, died on the th of march, at the advanced age of . he was a member of the territorial legislature of ohio in , a member of the convention to form a state constitution in , the first member of congress from that state, afterward senator and then governor, serving in the latter capacity two terms, and then returning to congress. he was a man of ability, influence, and marked integrity.----a serious accident happened in the east river, near new york, on the th of march. m. maillefert, a french scientific gentleman, had been for some time engaged in blasting under water the rocks forming the whirlpool known as hell-gate, by lowering upon the rock very heavy charges of powder, and exploding them by a galvanic battery. on this occasion, through some misunderstanding, the wrong wire was put into his hands, and he exploded a canister lying in a boat and containing sixty or seventy pounds of gunpowder. three men were killed, and two or three others, including m. maillefert himself, were seriously injured.----ninety of the americans, captured in cuba and released by the queen of spain, reached new york on the th of march.----an extract of a private letter from mr. clay has been published, in which he declares his preference for mr. fillmore as the whig candidate for the presidency, on the ground that he has administered the executive government with signal success and ability. either gen. scott or mr. webster, he says, "might possibly administer the government as well as mr. fillmore has done. but neither of them has been tried." mr. fillmore has been tried, and mr. clay thinks that "prudence and wisdom should restrain us from making any change without necessity."----seven vessels of war are fitting out at new york to join the squadron in the east india seas. it is stated that in connection with other duties, commodore perry, the commander of this squadron, is to be instructed to make commercial arrangements with japan, and for the better treatment of shipwrecked american sailors, who have been heretofore barbarously treated by the japanese in several instances; and possibly may be required to make reclamations for injuries and losses heretofore sustained by american citizens. japan has now no treaty with any christian government except holland. from california we have intelligence to the st of march. the steamship north america running from panama to san francisco, went ashore on the th of february, about seventy miles south of acapulco. the vessel is a total loss; she had over passengers, all of whom were saved.----both political parties in california had chosen delegates to the national conventions. no further injury had been sustained from attacks of the indians, and in the southern part of the state every thing was quiet. mr. bartlett, of the boundary commission, had reached san francisco, after a very severe journey across the desert. a bill was pending in the legislature authorizing the call of a state convention to revise the constitution, and the project of dividing the state continued also to be pressed. crime had increased considerably in san francisco, and the vigilance committee had again been organized. the anniversary of washington's birthday was celebrated at that city with great spirit. col. berzenczey, who came to the united states in kossuth's suite had arrived at san francisco on his way to chinese tartary, which he intends to explore in order to discover, if possible, the origin of the magyar race: it has been stated that a tribe of magyars still exists in some part of that vast and unknown region. the united states sloop of war st. mary's had reached san francisco, under orders to take on board and return to their homes a number of shipwrecked japanese. from the mines the news is not important. owing to lack of rain the labors of the miners had been less productive than usual. rich quartz veins continue to be found, and very extensive preparations are being made for working them. the whole amount of gold exported from san francisco during the year ending december , , was $ , , . judge tefft, with three other persons, was drowned, while attempting to land from the ohio at san luis obispo, in a small boat--the surf being high. mexico. we have news from the city of mexico to the th of february. both houses of congress had voted the suppression of the justices of the peace, but the government had refused its sanction to the act. it is stated that claims to the amount of twenty or thirty millions of dollars will be brought against the united states, under the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo, for outrages committed by indians and invaders on the frontier. the administration of gen. arista is losing strength, and rumors were current of new plans of revolution of which santa anna is at the head. intelligence from the rio grande fully confirms the defeat of caravajal and the suppression of the insurrectionary movement in that quarter. on the st of february that chief led his forces, consisting of about men to the attack on camargo, when he was met by about mexican cavalry. the latter charged upon him three times, when the force under his command broke in confusion and fled across the river. his loss is stated at between thirty and sixty. this ends the revolutionary attempt in northern mexico.----serious annoyance is experienced from the ravages of the indians in that quarter. on the evening of the st a party of sixteen attacked a party of americans and mexicans near san antonio, and killed several of the latter. about two hundred of them were encamped at lake espantoza, near the junction of the leona and nueces rivers. on the th, a party of dragoons attacked a body of indians near belleville, and dispersed them after killing four. south america. we have at length reliable news of decisive events on the rio de la plata. rosas has been routed by urquiza, and has fled to england. the control of the whole country, therefore, passes into new hands. from buenos ayres our intelligence is to the d of february. the passage of the parana by the liberating army under gen. urquiza, commenced on the d of december, and was accomplished on the th of january. his force consisting of , men, with , horses, and pieces of artillery, was brought together on the diamanté, one of the strongest points upon the river, and he was at once joined by the citizens of the whole province of santa fé, and by troops of rosas. the governor of the province fled toward buenos ayres. on the th of january the inhabitants of san nicolao, the frontier town of the province of buenos ayres, pronounced against rosas, and repelled an attack made upon them by a large cavalry force stationed near them. on the th gen. urquiza passed the frontier, with his whole army; and in a march of twelve days obtained possession of the entire northern part of the province, driving out all the cavalry of rosas, which had been detached for its defense. on the th of january, his advanced guard reached the rio conchas, within six leagues of buenos ayres, having forced general pacheco to retreat across that river with the small force remaining of those with whom he had gone to the defense of the province. rosas had divided his force into three parts--one division of under echaqué, another of under mancilla, and the third of under pacheco. this disposition of them rendered it easy for urquiza to attack and defeat them separately. on the th of january rosas set out for santos lugares, where his main force had been collected. a general engagement at once took place along the whole line of defense, which lasted for several hours, and resulted in the total defeat of the forces of rosas, general urquiza remaining master of the field. rosas immediately fled on board a british vessel in the harbor of buenos ayres, with the intention of proceeding to england at the earliest opportunity. he had been engaged for some weeks in securing large amounts of treasure, in apparent preparation for such a flight. general urquiza immediately followed up his victory by investing the city of buenos ayres. deprived of its governor, of course it could make no long defense, and steps had already been taken to organize a constitutional government under the new auspices. the intelligence of the fall of rosas had created the liveliest satisfaction in england, and was followed by an immediate and very considerable rise in the market value of buenos ayres bonds. this change in the political prospects of that portion of south america, it is believed, will lead to a largely increased emigration thither from the southern parts of europe. the government of rosas has been for many years an object of terror and distrust in buenos ayres, and has greatly retarded the industry and progress of the country. it has at last been overthrown--not by the intervention of foreign states, but by the independent exertions of the people themselves. general urquiza, the successful soldier, seems disposed to use his power so as to promote the best interests of the country, and under his guidance a new organization of the several states may be expected.----the congress of _venezuela_ was still in session on the th of march. the affairs of the country were highly prosperous.----the revolted convicts at the straits of magellan had been seized by the british war steamer virago, and taken heavily ironed to valparaiso. there were in all , of whom were taken from the british brig eliza cornish, which they had seized:--the rest had taken the american bark florida, but were afterward subdued by a counter-plot on board, and were delivered up. the officers of the cornish had been shot in cold blood by the miscreants, who were guilty of shocking barbarities. they were landed at valparaiso, february , and delivered over to the authorities.----in _peru_ an expedition had been organized by general flores, against ecuador. it is said he has enlisted two or three thousand men, and sent out four or five vessels loaded with men and munitions, for an attack on the city of guayaquil. great excitement prevailed at the latter place, where preparations had been made to give the invaders a warm reception.----panama papers record the successful result of an expedition to the reputed gold placers on the coast of choco, in the southern part of the kingdom of _new grenada_, about miles south of panama. about ounces of pure gold dust were exhibited in the latter city, as the first-fruits of the enterprise. there seems to be no doubt of the existence of the _oro_ in that vicinity in large quantities. great britain. the political intelligence of the month has little interest. the derby ministry still retains office, but without any definite announcement of the line of policy it intends to pursue. on the evening of february , the earl of derby made a statement of the reasons which had induced him to take office. with regard to the intentions of the new ministry, he said he should seek to maintain peace with foreign nations by calm and conciliatory conduct, and by strict adherence to the obligations of treaties. he was for rigidly respecting the right of every nation, great and small, to govern themselves in their own way. so far as the national defenses were concerned, he thought the preparations wisely made by his predecessor should be continued, so as to screen the country from the possibility of invasion. as regarded refugees, while england was the natural refuge of all political exiles, it was the duty of the latter not to abuse her hospitality; and the government was bound to keep watch of them, and warn their governments of any steps they might take hostile to their peace. with regard to financial measures, although he avowed his belief that a revision of the existing system was desirable, he was aware that it could only be effected by reference to the clearly expressed wish of the people. so large a question could only be dealt with by a government strong in popular confidence, and not by one called suddenly to office. he did not know whether he had a majority in that house; he knew he was in a minority in the other--but he had not felt that the public interest would be consulted by a dissolution at this period of the year and in this condition of the world. government would have to appeal to the forbearance of its adversaries and to the patience of its supporters, but he had too much confidence in the good sense of the house of commons to believe that it would unnecessarily take up subjects of controversy while there were legal and social reforms for which the country was anxious. in reference to the measures introduced by the late government, he said that he was most desirous to crush corruption to the utmost of his power, but that, as regarded the proposed reform bill, he should not follow it up, and he warned his hearers, especially members of the house of commons, against the danger of perpetually unsettling everything, and settling nothing. he did not contend that the system established in was perfect, or did not require amendment, but he wished to be sure that a proposed remedy would not aggravate the evils complained of. as regarded education, the feelings of all classes had united in the conviction that the more you educated the safer was the country; but he was opposed to the mere acquisition of secular knowledge, dissociated from the culture of the soul. and although he looked on all engaged in education as his fellow-laborers, his chief reliance would be on the parochial clergy. this explanation on the part of the new ministry has not been received as sufficiently explicit to be satisfactory, and it meets, therefore, with very warm hostility. lord john russell, in announcing his own retirement, took occasion to say that, for the future, he should think it his duty to oppose, out of office, as he had opposed in office, any restoration of the duty on corn, whether under the name of protection or of revenue;--that he should support an extension of the suffrage to those who are fit to exercise the franchise for the welfare of the country; and that he should use the little influence he might possess for the maintenance of the blessings of peace.--parliament, after these explanations, adjourned until the th of march.--mr. disraeli, the new chancellor of the exchequer, has issued a brief address to his constituents, stating that on the th of march he should ask for a re-election. the first duty of the new administration, he said, would be to provide for the ordinary exigencies of the government; but at no distant period they hoped to establish a policy in conformity with the principles which in opposition they had felt it their duty to maintain. "we shall endeavor," he adds, "to terminate that strife of classes which of late years has exercised so pernicious an influence over the welfare of this kingdom; to accomplish those remedial measures which great productive interests, suffering from unequal taxation, have a right to demand from a just government; to cultivate friendly relations with all foreign powers, and secure honorable peace; to uphold in their spirit, as well as in their form, our political institutions; and to increase the efficiency, as well as maintain the rights, of our national and protestant church." other members of the government had issued similar addresses to their respective constituencies, and several of them had already been re-elected.--at a subsequent session, the ministry intimated that they would no longer resist the demand of the country for a dissolution. the advent of the protective ministry has called into new life the anti-corn law league at manchester. a meeting of the league was held on the d of march, at which resolutions were adopted reorganizing the association, and taking measures to urge upon their friends throughout the kingdom, not to return members in favor of restoring the duties on corn; it was also resolved to petition the queen for an immediate dissolution of parliament in order that the question of free trade might be decided by a prompt appeal to the people. mr. cobden was present, and made a long speech vindicating the operation of the existing system, and resisting the policy of allowing the ministry to strengthen themselves for the restoration of the protective system. he wished the friends of cheap bread to unite in order to drive the government into one of three courses--either to recant forever the principle of protection, resign their seats, or dissolve parliament. it was within their power to compel one or the other of these steps to be taken. a very large subscription was immediately raised to defray the expenses of the projected agitation. the earl of derby, on taking office, tendered to mr. layard a continuance in office as under secretary of state. the offer, however, was declined.----ireland lost two of its most celebrated men on the th of february--thomas moore, the sweetest and best of her poets, and archbishop murray, the mildest and best of the prelates of the roman catholic church in that country. moore was in his d year, the archbishop in his d year. moore died at his cottage at sloperton, near devizes. for several years he had been alive only in the body. like sir walter scott and southey, the tenacity of physical existence outlived the term of the mind. he was buried, according to his long-ago expressed wish, in the quiet church-yard of the village where he died. sir herbert jenner fust, dean of arches, and long connected with law proceedings and law literature, died on the th february, in the th year of his age. france and central europe. the elections for members of the legislative corps were held throughout france on the th of february, and resulted in the success of the government candidate in nearly every instance. gen. cavaignac and carnot are the only opposition candidates of any prominence who have been elected. what course they will pursue is still a matter of conjecture. it is clear, however, that such a thing as an opposition party in the legislature will scarcely exist. the president continues the issue of decrees for the government of france. they embrace, of course, the entire scope of legislation, as the country for the present has no other source of law. one of the most important of these decrees is that authorizing the establishment of mortgage banks, the object of which is to enable owners of real estate to borrow on mortgage, and repay the loans by means of long annuities; that is, in addition to the interest the borrower is obliged to pay annually say one per cent. as a sinking fund, which will extinguish the debt in forty years. the banks are to loan on double real estate security. they are allowed to issue notes or bonds. they are not to require more than five per cent. interest, nor more than two nor less than one per cent. as a sinking fund. an article in the _moniteur_ followed the publication of this decree for the purpose of explaining its provisions, from which it appears that there are $ , , of mortgaged debts in france, paying, inclusive of various expenses, an average interest of eight per cent., and that these debts are increasing at the rate of $ , , yearly. it is claimed that the new law will remedy this state of things, and germany is pointed to in proof of the beneficial effects of mortgage societies.----another financial decree directs that the holders of five per cent. government funds will receive hereafter only four and a half per cent. or the principal at par value, at their option. the effect of this change will be to reduce the annual interest on the national debt, by about three and a half millions of dollars. the holders of these securities of course complain of it as an unjust reduction of their incomes.----another decree directs the entire organization of the college of france to be put under the immediate control of the president, until the law for its permanent establishment shall have been prepared. new officers have been appointed throughout--a number of the most distinguished scholars of france being superseded.----it has also been decreed that judicial officers shall be disqualified at seventy years of age. by this means the president secures the displacement of a large number of judges, whose seats he will fill with persons more acceptable to himself.----it is decided that m. billault is to be president of the legislative corps.----several distinguished frenchmen have died during the month. marshal marmont, duke of ragusa, the last of the marshals of napoleon, died at venice on the d of march. he received his highest military title on the battle field of wagram. he forsook napoleon's cause when napoleon was falling, held high offices under the restoration, and has lived in exile since . having forsaken napoleon in , and opposed the revolution of july, his name was erased from the list of marshals by louis philippe's government, and a black vail drawn over his portrait in the hall of the marshals at the tuileries.----armand marrast, who acquired distinction as editor of the _national_ and by his close connection with the provisional government of , died march .----the president has offered a prize of fifty thousand francs in favor of the author of the discovery which shall render the pile of volta applicable with economy, whether to industrial operations, as a source of heat, or to illumination, or to chemistry, or to mechanics, or to practical medicine. scientific men of all nations are admitted to compete for the prize. the competition shall remain open for the space of five years.----he has also presented to m. leon foucault, the young _savant_ of paris, distinguished for his works on electricity and light, and especially for the experiment with the _pendulum_ illustrative of the earth's rotary motion, the sum of ten thousand francs. on the st of march, the president reviewed the troops, and bestowed upon them the medal, instituted by the confiscation of the orleans estates. in the speech which he made to them upon the occasion, he said, his object in instituting this medal was to make some more adequate compensation for the services of the army, than they usually received. it secures to each soldier, who shall have it, an annuity of francs for life; the sum is small, but the evidence of merit, which the medal carries with it, adds to its value. he urges them to receive it as an encouragement to maintain intact their military spirit. "wear it," he says, "as a proof of my solicitude for your interest, and my affection for that great military family of which i am proud to be the head, because you are its glorious children." the demands of france upon belgium were mentioned in our last record. it is stated that they have been boldly met and repelled. the king of belgium at once made an appeal to england and the continental courts, and he has received from all the european powers the most positive assurance that they will not suffer any aggressive step whatever of louis napoleon against belgium. the french cabinet had required the belgian government to remove the lion which had been placed on the field of waterloo; but that demand was refused. it is said, upon reliable authority, that the "decree" for annexing belgium to france had been prepared and even sent to the _moniteur_ for publication; and was only withdrawn in consequence of the strenuous opposition of those who have more prudence than the president, and who fortunately possess some influence over him. the paris correspondence of the london _morning chronicle_, furnishes the details of a diplomatic correspondence between the principal continental powers, which has decided interest and importance. it is stated that, on the th of february, prince schwarzenberg addressed a note to the representatives of austria at st. petersburg and berlin, in which he urged that the object of the northern powers ought now to be to put down all that remained of constitutional government on the continent of europe; and that for this purpose they ought to insist on the representative form of government being abolished in all the states where it was still tolerated, and more especially in piedmont and in greece. he further declared that louis napoleon, by his _coup d'état_ of the d of december, which, while it put an end to constitutional government, restored military government in france, had merited the applause of all the northern powers, and he suggested that they ought to concur in giving him their united and cordial support, even to the exclusion of both branches of the house of bourbon, because none of the members of that illustrious house could reascend the throne without according representative government in some shape. the representatives of austria at berlin and st. petersburg having been directed to communicate this dispatch to the governments to which they were accredited, did so, but the manner in which the communication was received by the two powers was very different. the prussian government at once declared that it strongly disapproved of the suggestion of the austrian government, and that, as it looked upon a certain degree of constitutional freedom as necessary in the present state of europe, it highly disapproved of the attempt of louis napoleon to establish a military despotism. the russian czar, who sets up as the arbiter of all that is done to germany, gave a very characteristic answer to both powers. he recommended to the austrian government not to be so enthusiastic in its admiration of louis napoleon, and to the prussian government, not to be so determined in its hostility to that personage; and thus, says the writer, the affair for the present rests. concerning the swiss question, we have more authentic intelligence. the french diplomatic agent at berne had delivered to the federal authorities a note, dated january th, containing an explicit demand from louis napoleon, "that the formal promise be made to me that all the expulsions of refugees which i may ask be accorded to me, without any examination as to what category the french political refugees affected by this measure belong; and, in addition, that the orders of the central power be executed according to terms prescribed in advance, without being mitigated or wholly disregarded by the cantonal authorities, as i can prove, by examples, has been done in previous instances. the french embassador only is in a condition to know the individuals whose former connections and present relations render impossible the prolongation of their stay in the territory of the helvetic confederation; as also those who can be tolerated provisionally, if their future conduct renders them worthy of this tolerance. the first should depart from the moment that i have designated them by name. the others should be told that they can continue to reside in switzerland only on condition that they give no reason for complaint." it seems scarcely possible that so peremptory and insulting a demand should have been made, even by the french autocrat, upon any independent power; but the text of the letter is given. austria also made a similar requisition; and the _assemblée nationale_ says that the cabinet of vienna distinctly announced to the federal council its intention to occupy the canton of ticino with austrian troops, unless the demands for the expulsion of certain refugees were complied with, and guarantees given for preventing their return, as well as the renewal of conspiracies against the peace of lombardy. prince schwarzenberg sent instructions to m. hubner, the austrian embassador at paris, to propose to the french government a simultaneous action in the same views, and the occupation of geneva and the canton of vaud by the french troops. the government of louis napoleon declined to co-operate with austria in invading the swiss territory; and austria was also persuaded to desist from this enterprise. the firm attitude of the cabinets of london and berlin, backed perhaps by the counsels of russia, is supposed to have procured this result. but no sooner was the project of the joint violation of the neutral territory baffled, than a new scheme was adopted by the two conspiring powers, which threatens to be equally ruinous to switzerland. the french and austrian governments have entered into a convention for the commercial blockade of that country. in order to carry this into effect piedmont must be forced to join the league and stop her frontier against swiss commerce. in the way of such a result stand the government of sardinia and british influence at the court of turin. how much these will avail remains to be seen. subsequent advices state that switzerland had acceded to all the president's requisitions--they having been repeated in less offensive terms. from germany there is no news of interest. the emperor of austria left vienna, february th, for trieste and venice, to meet the grand prince of prussia. the second chamber of wurtemberg, in its sitting of the th, adopted, by votes to , resolutions, declaring that the fundamental rights proclaimed by the national assembly of frankfort continue to have legal force in the kingdom, and can only be abolished in the form presented by the constitution. the chamber rejected, by votes to , a resolution protesting against certain measures of the germanic diet; and it rejected, by votes to , a motion relative to the dissolution of the chamber in . m. de plessen, after these votes, made a declaration, in the name of the government, that the chamber would probably be dissolved. in spain it is said that the government is about to reinforce the garrisons of cuba and porto rico by an addition of three or four thousand men. general concha has been recalled from the governorship of cuba; his successor, gen. caredo, was to sail from cadiz on the th of march. extensive changes were taking place in all departments of the public service. the east. from turkey we learn that reschid pasha, whose dismissal was noted in our last, has been received to favor again, and restored to office. the sultan has lately shown his magnanimity to rebels against his authority, by bestowing upon aziz bey and his brother ahmed bey, rebel kurdish chiefs, near bagdad, conquered by the sultan, and brought to constantinople six months ago, a pension of three thousand piastres a month. this clemency to political offenders is said to be common with the turkish sovereign. the turkish government has recently forbidden the loan of money to farmers at more than eight per cent. interest: it also forbids the payment of all engagements hitherto made at higher rates. a third bridge has just been finished across the golden horn. a splendid ball was given at the close of the carnival by the british embassador, at which about eight hundred persons were present. in persia the recently dismissed grand vizier, mirza-taghi-khan, has been put to death, by having his veins opened in a bath, and his treasures have been seized by the shah. from india we have news of further difficulties between the english and the burmese. previous advices stated that commodore lambert had complained to the king of ava of the conduct of the governor of rangoon in refusing compliance with certain demands of reparation for injuries sustained by the british. the king professed a ready submission to the commodore's requisitions, but his sincerity was doubted, and commodore lambert consequently resolved to remain with his squadron, for some days longer, in order to test the truth of his suspicions. scarcely had the new governor or viceroy been placed in authority, than he commenced a series of annoyances against all british subjects, which rendered it imperative on the part of commodore lambert to seek an interview with him, which was not only refused, but all communication between the shore and fleet strictly prohibited. in this war-like aspect of affairs many of the british took refuge on board the english vessels, while those who remained behind desirous of securing their property, were cast into prison. the fleet remained at anchor for twenty-four hours on the opposite side of the river, when intimation was received from the viceroy that he would fire on the squadron should the commodore attempt to move down the river. on the th of january the fox was towed down, and anchored within a few hundred yards of the stockade erected by the viceroy, when the steamer having returned to bring away with her a burmese man-of-war, was fired on, which was immediately returned with great vigor. the enemy dispersed after some three of them were slain. the squadron then proceeded on its course, and the river ports of burmah were proclaimed to be in a state of blockade. commodore lambert then proceeded to calcutta for further instructions. another campaign was therefore deemed unavoidable, which, it was supposed, could not be commenced before october. editor's table. credulity and skepticism are often, in fact, but different aspects of one and the same state of mind. no man is more credulous than the infidel in respect to all that would make against the truth of christianity. hindoo legends, chinese chronologies, unmeaning egyptian hieroglyphics, are suffered at once to outweigh the clearest declarations of that volume which alone sheds light on history, and solves the otherwise inexplicable problem of our humanity. nowhere is this remark more strikingly exemplified than in the pretensions of what may be called the pseudo-spiritualism of the day. men whose credulity can not digest the supernatural of the bible are most remarkably easy of belief in respect to spiritual rappings, and spiritual table-liftings, and spiritual communications in hebrew translated into ungrammatical and false-spelled english. prophecy and inspiration are irrational; the belief in a divine regenerating influence on the human soul is superstitious and fanatical; but clairvoyance and _clairvoyant prevision_, and mental alchemy are embraced without difficulty, by the professors of this more transcendent faith. they see and feel nothing of that grandeur of conception, that holy seriousness, that impressive truthfulness of style, that superhuman elevation above all that associates itself with the absurd, the grotesque, the low, and the malignant--in a word, those traits which every where characterize the miraculous of the scriptures, and have ever awed the most thoughtful into a recognition of its reality. and yet some of these lecturers and _professors_ have even the impudence to baptize their naturalistic jargon with the name of spiritualism, and while treating the human soul with less reverence than is justly due to the lowest form even of vegetable life, dare to talk of the _moral_ uses of their pretended science, as though it had any more place for the word and the idea than might be found in the jerking automaton of the toy-shop. sometimes the pretense can be characterized by no milder term than mocking blasphemy. one of these impostors, who has made some noise lately, is said to have accurately foretold the words and ideas of a discourse which was to be delivered by another person on a subsequent day. it was no hypothetical prediction, grounded on a scientific calculation of assumed causes and effects, but, in fact, a _clairvoyant prevision_, not from any divine impression (an idea which this blasphemous pretender is known wholly to deride), but from a transcendent subjective state of his natural intelligence. and yet some who are known to believe only in an ideal christ, and an ideal resurrection, are not ashamed to signify a half assent to this monstrous assertion of one of the highest conceivable attributes of the almighty. every one who thinks at all must see that here there is no possible middle ground. it is this claim, awfully profane and daring as it is, or a downright imposture. there is nothing derogatory to the human mind in the belief of the _marvelous_. in fact, such belief is an element of its higher life. the wonder is, that there is not more of it. but no degree of evidence can justify us in giving credence to the _absurd_. the ridiculous is ever proof of the presence of falsehood. the higher we rise in the scale of truth, the more do we find ourselves ascending into a region of seriousness. an impression of a sterner reality, of a deeper interest, of more dread importance, of a more solemn consistency, accompanies every genuine advance. truth, as it grows purer and clearer, is ever found to be more and more a fearful thing--joyful, indeed, and soul-inspiring, yet finding the very fullness and solidity of its joy in that graver element which gives it its highest and most real interest for the human soul. a faith that has no awe proves itself a delusion. a religion that has no fear, or is not deeply solemn, is a contradiction in terms. for the absurd and the ridiculous even pure falsehood is too stern a thing. they have their existence only in that grotesque mixture of truth and error, in which the distortion of the one concealing the malignity of the other gives birth to all revolting and ludicrous monstrosities. we need no better test. apply it to the supernatural of the scriptures, and it furnishes one of the strongest evidences of their truth. so serious a book can not be a lie. bring to this criterion the modern charlatanry, which so wantonly assumes the name of faith, "obtruding itself with its fleshly mind" into the domain of the true supernatural, and yet denying the supernatural--bring it to this criterion, we say, and it is at once shown to be "earthly, sensual, devilish"--a grotesque reflection of some of the worst things of this world thrown back in lurid distortion from the darkness visible of the satanic realms. but even this may be assigning to it too high a rank. the position can not be charged with irrationality which assumes that the "mocking fiend" may sometimes be permitted to practice his jugglings on those rash fools, who would venture too near to his domain of falsehood. but in most of the modern cases of this kind, we are beginning to have little doubt that sheer imposture is the predominant if not the only element. on the outward evidence, however, we can not at present dwell, since it is with the reasoning of these charlatans we design that our brief strictures shall be mainly occupied. in this, too, we find the proof of falsehood. for we return again to our text--the marvelous may be believed, the absurd no amount of evidence can prove. and here some thoughts suggest themselves to which we must give expression. what amount of solid thinking, what discrimination of ideas, what right knowledge of words, what degree of logical training, which, although not the discoverer of truth, is the surest guard against error--in a word, what amount of general, solid, mental culture must there be in an age distinguished for the extensive circulation and approbation of such works as davis's revelations of nature, and davis's great harmonia, and dodd's psychology, &c., &c.? could it have been so when butler wrote his immortal analogy; or, farther back, when howe preached his living temple as evening lectures to a country congregation, and baxter's tracts were found in every hamlet in england? could it have been so in our own land, when edwards preached his deep theology to plain men in plain new england villages? the marvelous, we may well suppose, would have had no lack of believers in those days. but would such absurdities in reasoning have ever gained currency in those thinking though little scientific periods? with all our talk of science, and progress, and universities, and common schools, and the schoolmaster being abroad in the land, there must be, somewhere, something wrong in our most modern ideas and modern modes of education. is not the physical element too predominant, and is it not to the common smatterings in this department that such a pretended spiritualism, yet real materialism, is directly to be traced? a superficial sciolism, extensive enough in its facts, but utterly hollow in its philosophy, is the food with which the common mind is every where crammed even to satiety, while there is such a serious lack of the logical, the theological, the biblical, the classical, the historical--in short, of those elements which must furnish the foundation of all right thinking, and without which other knowledge is more likely to lead to error than to truth. but we can at present only hint at this. in respect to the reasonings of these scientific discoverers (as they claim to be), we may say that their fallacies get currency from this very cause, namely, the general want of discrimination in respect to the true bounds of fundamental ideas, and that abuse of language which is the necessary result. if the consequences were not so serious, nothing could be more amusing than their pretensions, or their method. they would have us believe that they are the martyrs--galileos--bacons--harveys, all of them. each one is a suffering servetus, while all the bigotry of the theological world, with all its inquisitorial priests and furious calvins, is ever ready to crush their new science, and give the crown of martyrdom to its devoted teachers. they have, too, the sagacity to perceive that audiences, in general, love to be addressed in the technics of a scientific style, whether rightly used or not. the vender of quack medicines has discovered the same secret; and hence he, too, has his array of causes and effects, and fluids, and mediums, and counteracting forces, and grand systems of circulation, and positive and negative states. to be thus addressed raises the hearer or reader at once in his own estimation, and thus prepares him, sometimes, for the reception of almost any kind of nonsense. he acquires, too, an interest in these high matters; and if not himself an actual martyr to science, becomes at least a sympathizer with those who are doomed to all this infamous persecution. the usual course has now become so stereotyped, that one who has attended a number of lectures of this kind, will be able to predict the general method of remark quite as well as davis is said to have foretold that of dr. bushnell. he will be certain of the very places where the peculiar and most original cant of the school will be sure to come in. he will know just when and where to look out for galileo and the priests, and the puritans and the quakers, and fulton and the steam-engine. he anticipates precisely the spot where the lecturer will tell us how bacon "used up" the stagyrite, and how wonderfully knowledge has grown since that remarkable event, and how all previous progress was preparatory to this new science, which it has been reserved for our bold martyr not only to discover in its elements, but to present full formed and full grown to his astonished hearers,--and which, moreover, he generously offers to teach to private classes (the ladies to be by themselves) at the exceedingly reasonable rate of ten dollars per course. sometimes the whole of this scientific claptrap will consist of the dextrous use of some one long new-coined term, very much like those that are invented for the venders of soaps and perfumes to express the psychology of their most ingenious and philosophical compounds. the lecturer has discovered a new word, and it stands to him in place of a mine of thought. in martinus scriblerus we read of a project to banish metaphysics out of spain. it was to be done by forbidding the use of the compounds and decompounds of the substantive verb. "take away from the scholastic metaphysician," says this ingenious reformer, "his _ens_, his _entitas_, his _essentia_, &c., and there is an end of him." so also we have known lectures, and even books, on some of these new psychologies from which the abstraction of a single term would cause the whole to collapse. and yet to the quackish lecturer it is the key to unlock all his scientific treasures. he has somehow picked up a _word_, and he is deluding himself, and trying to delude others, into the notion that he has really caught an _idea_. the connection of soul and body is no longer a mystery. science has at length dragged it out of its dark retreat. nothing can be simpler than the explanation at length afforded of the fact which had so long baffled all inquiry. it is wholly owing to the _nervo-vital_ fluid. but how is this? is this connecting medium mind, or matter, or a compound of both, or a tertium quid? if it is either the first or the second, the mystery is just where it was before. if it be said that it is the last (the only answer which does not at once annihilate itself), the further query arises--how is that to be a medium which needs itself a medium, or rather two other distinct media, to serve as connecting links between it and the two worlds it would unite? or is it a bridge without an abutment on either shore? but what are all such difficulties to our modern galileo, or to his scientific audience? it is the _nervo-vital_ fluid, whether or no. there is a charming philosophy in the very sound, and it is impossible that so good a term should not mean something. it is an admirable word--a most euphonic word--and since the parts are certainly significant, there can be no reason why the whole compound should not be so likewise. another of these magic words is _electricity_. it is getting to be the _universal solvent_ for all scientific difficulties. it is life, it is gravitation, it is attraction, it is generation, it is creation, it is development, it is law, it is sensation, it is thought, it is every thing. "give me a place to put my lever," said archimedes, "and i will move the world!" give us electricity and nervo-vital fluids, say our biologists, and we will explain the mystery of all organizations, from the animalcule to the universe! we repeat it, the downright impositions in respect to facts, are not so insulting to an audience, as the quackish reasoning which is often presented by way of explanation. to state an example: one of the most common performances of these mountebanks consists in the pretended control of one mind or one person over the senses, the actions, the volitions, and even the moral states of another. the performance is generally contemptible enough in itself, but it is rendered still more so when our man of science undertakes, as he generally does, to explain to his audience the profound rationale of his proceedings. the lecturer most modestly and reverently disclaims for himself the possession of supernatural powers. it is all science--all strictly in accordance with "_natural laws_" and performed on the most rational and scientific principles. he had broken no law of mind or matter, as he would make perfectly level to the understandings of his most respectable auditory. the grand agent in the whole process was electricity, or the nervo-vital fluid. by means of this, the mind of the operator was transferred to the soul of the subject, and hence it is perfectly plain that the emotions and mental exercises of the one become the emotions and mental exercises of the other. a terrific scene was fancied (in the case which we have now in mind it was a picture of serpents), and the patient was thrown into a state of most agitating fright. now that an impostor, or a juggler, might deceive the senses of an audience, is nothing incredible, and implies nothing derogatory to their intelligence. that some physical effect may have been produced on the nervous system of some peculiarly sensitive subject, is by no means beyond belief; or that in some way, explicable or inexplicable, the agitation and convulsion may have had a real existence. so far it may have been wholly false, or partly false and partly real. again, whether there may or may not be unknown fluids through which one mind or one body affects another, is not the question. if it were so, it would only be analogous to the ordinary modes of mediate communication by air, and light, and sound, and would be liable in kind, if not in degree, to the same imperfections. still would it be true, whatever the media, ordinary or extraordinary, that only as mind is communicated to mind _as it really is_, can one affect the emotions, and exercises, and states of the other. there may be less, there never can be more, in the effect than in the cause. here, then, is the palpable absurdity, which should bring a blush of shame upon every audience, and every individual calling himself rational, who is for a moment affected by it. the mind of the operator, it is maintained, is, for the time being, the mind of the patient. it has taken possession of his thinking and feeling province. this is the philosophy that aristotle never knew, and of which even bacon hardly had a glimpse. let us test it. as the lecturer is a very frank and fearless man, he invites the fullest examination, not only of his facts, but of his reasoning. some one may, therefore, be supposed to present the following or similar questions: you _willed_, did you, the scene and the state of mind which produced these alarming results? exactly so. was it, then, a simple volition of the _effect_, as an effect (if such a thing were possible), or accompanied in your own mind, by a conception of the scene presented? certainly, replies the triumphant lecturer, the whole rationale, as you have been told, consisted in throwing my mind into that of the subject. he thought what i thought--he felt what i felt. very well. but were you frightened at the snakes? did terror constitute any part of the exercises of your own mind? this is a puzzler, but there is an apparent way of surmounting the difficulty. the patient, it may be said, _believes_ in the reality of the scene presented, while the operator does not. but this only suggests a still greater absurdity. this belief, or non-belief, is certainly a very important part of the mental and emotional state. how comes one of the most essential ingredients to be left behind in the psychological transfer? does the operator _will_ it thus to be? we have never heard any such thing alleged; but if it were so, it would only be the crowning folly of this superlatively foolish process--this very lunacy of nonsense. such volition itself would then become a part of the mental state, and must pass over to the patient along with the other thoughts and emotions, and with all the absurdity involved in it, or require another volition to keep it back, and still another volition for this, and so on, _ad infinitum_. have any of our readers ever seen a foolish dog running round and round after his own tail, and ever jerking it away just when he seemed to himself to be on the point of catching it? nothing can furnish a better illustration of the exceeding folly that has often in this way been presented as profound and scientific reasoning to what have been styled enlightened and respectable audiences. there is another fallacy running through all these pretended sciences--from phrenology and phreno-mesmerism to the most stupid exhibitions that have been ever given, under the names of "electrical psychology" and "mental alchemy." it is that view which, in effect, wholly denies any thing like a spiritual unity to the human soul, making it a series of separate impulses, or, like the keys of a piano, each when struck from without giving an isolated sound. let one be touched, the machine lifts up its hand, and is supposed to pray. strike another, and it blasphemes. and so, by turns, it hates and loves, and fears and trusts--not different objects, which would be perfectly consistent with a spiritual unity, in which the whole moral and intellectual state is represented in every exercise, but the same objects, and with transitions so sudden as to be almost simultaneous. we might, in a similar way, expose the absurd reasoning contained in all this, but we would rather dwell at present on the moral aspect of the case--the shocking irreverence it manifests toward the human soul, making its faith, its reason, its love, its conscience, as worthless as the lowest bodily appetites--sinking it, indeed, below the dignity of respectable organic or inorganic matter, with which such tricks can not be played, and reducing all that have heretofore been regarded as the highest moral truths to the rank of physical phenomena. in some former remarks of our editorial table, there was an allusion to the revolting claim clairvoyance makes to meddle with the soul's sacred individuality. the thought is applicable to all those kindred pretensions which are now so rife. their tendency is to destroy all reverence for our own spirituality, and with it all reverence for the truly spiritual every-where. if this be true of what is called biology and mental alchemy, in a still more impressive sense may it be charged upon that other compound of blasphemy and satanic mummery, which has grown directly out of them. we allude to the pretense of holding intercourse with departed spirits through mesmerized mediums, or what are usually called _spiritual rappings_. the first class of performances are an insult to the human intelligence; this is a moral outrage upon the most tender, the most solemn, the most religious feelings of our nature. the one is a profane trifling with all that is most sacred in life--the other is a violation of the grave, and of all beyond, of which it is the appointed vail. it is hard to write or speak with calmness here. the mischief done and doing in this direction, defies all proper estimate. these proceedings are sending lunatics to our asylums, but this is by no means the sorest evil that may be laid to their charge. it is the soul-hardening familiarity they are every where producing with the most awful subjects that can be offered for human contemplation. such an effect, too, in relation to the spirit of man must soon be followed by a similar one in respect to the still more tremendous idea of deity. to use a strange but most expressive term, first employed by de quincey (although applied to a different subject) we know of nothing in human experience that threatens to be so utterly _de-religionizing_--in other words, so fatally destructive of all that reverence for the spiritual, that awe of the unseen, that tender emotion, as well as solemn interest, which connect themselves with the idea of the other life, and without which religion itself, in any form, can have no deep or permanent hold upon the mind. we find it difficult to conceive how any man possessed of the smallest share of these holy sympathies, can bring himself to give any countenance whatever to such practices. we appeal to those who have lost the nearest relatives--a parent, a brother, a sister, a dear departed child--how should every right feeling of the soul revolt against the thought of holding intercourse with them, even though it were possible, through such means? who that has a christian heart would not prefer the silence of the grave to the thought of the dear departed one in the midst of such imaginings, and such scenic associations as are connected with the usual performances of this kind? through that silence of the grave the voice of faith may be heard speaking to us in the language of revelation--_he is not dead but sleepeth_. blessed word,--so utterly unknown to all previous philosophy--never heard in any other revelation than that of the gospel! they are not dead but _sleep_. "they enter into _peace_," says the prophet. and then the precious and consoling addition--they sleep _in jesus_. surely the term thus employed can imply no cessation of consciousness, no torpor of the higher and better faculties of the soul; but it does denote, beyond all doubt, a state of rest, of calmness, of security, of undisturbed and beatific vision--a state far removed from all resemblance to this bustling life--a state in all respects the opposite of that which fancy pictures as belonging to the scenes presented in the manifestations of spiritual rappings, and spiritual table-liftings, and, in a word, those spiritual pantomimes, which seem to be becoming more and more extravagant and grotesque in proportion to the infidel credulity with which they are received. such are every where the scriptural ideas in respect to the condition of the pious dead, and from the other class we seek not to draw that vail which it has thrown over them. nothing shows more strikingly the extreme secularity of the age in which we live than the disposition, even among many who are professedly religious, to look upon the other world as only a continuation of the activities of the present; but we affirm with all boldness, that such a view receives no support from the bible. rest, security, calmness, peace, removal from all agitation, from all excitement, from all commingling in the scenes of this busy, restless, probationary life--these are the thoughts which are suggested by its parables, its metaphors, its visions, its direct and positive assertions. especially clear and prominent is the idea of entire separation from the present world. they have "entered into rest"--they are in "abraham's bosom"--they are "with christ in paradise." to the same effect would the spiritually-minded reader interpret certain phrases employed in the older scriptures. they are in "the secret of his pavilion," in the "hiding-place of his tabernacle"--they abide "under the shadow of the almighty." such expressions may have a meaning in connection with this life; but their fullest import is only brought out when their consoling assurances are referred to the state of the departed in the spirit-world. and here the thought most naturally suggests itself--how striking the difference between the sensual obtrusiveness, the impious pretensions, the profane curiosity exhibited in connection with this modern charlatanry, and what may be called the _solemn reserve_ of the holy scriptures. the bible never condescends to gratify our curiosity respecting what may be called the physiology, or _physical_ theory of the other life. on the other hand, the _moral_ effect is ever kept in view, and to this, in all its communications, it ever aims at giving the deepest intensity. in the light of this thought let any one contrast the sublime vision of eliphaz (job iv.) with any of these modern spiritual manifestations. the vail is for a moment withdrawn. a light just gleams upon us from the spirit-world, not to show us things within, but to cast its moral irradiation upon things without. the formless form, the silence, and the voice leave all things physical, or psychological as much unknown as before; but how deep the moral impression! there are no disclosures of the scenery or topography of the unseen state; no announcement of "great truths about to break forth;" nothing said of "throwing down barriers between the two worlds." but instead of this, a most solemn declaration of a divine moral government, and a moral retribution, to which all that is physical, or physiological, or psychological even, is intended ever to be kept subservient. thus it is throughout the bible. paul had visions of the third heavens. christ descended into hades, and rose again; but he has told us nothing of the state or doings of departed spirits. where the sacred penmen draw back, and scarce afford a hint, except as to the certainty of retribution in another world, modern mystics, modern impostors have given us volumes. fools rashly venture in where angels dare not tread. and so, too, in respect to death itself. the impostor davis profanely assumes to describe the process of the elimination of the spirit from the struggling body, and some have pronounced the unfeeling caricature worthy of the genius of dante or of milton. but with what solemn reserve does the scripture cast a vail over this dread event, and reveal to us only its moral consequences. it is a going down into a "valley of shadows," and all that the believer is allowed to know of it is, that in that valley there is one to take him by the hand, one who will walk with him through its darkness, and "whose rod and staff shall comfort him" through all that dreary way. to this correspond the terms expressive of the idea in primitive languages. it is a going into _hades_, the _invisible_, the _unknown_, not in the sense of any doubt, implied as to the real existence of a spirit world (for men have never been without a distinct belief in this, as matter of fact), but unknown as to its physical states and modes of being. in the hebrew it is _beth olam_, the _hidden house_ (imperfectly rendered _the long home_, eccles. xii.), where "the souls of the dead take no part in things that are done beneath the sun." the living go to them, but they come not back any more to us. and what right-feeling heart would have it otherwise. they are not dead, but parted from their house of clay. they still dwell, too, in our memories; they are enshrined in our hearts. who would not trust them to the scripture promises of rest and peace, rather than imagine them as subject to the unrest, and sharing in the agitating and tumultuous scenes of this pseudo-spiritualism. the believer in rappings charges his opponent with a sadducean lack of faith. but we would take issue with him on the term. the naturalistic spirit-hunter is a stranger to the idea. with him it is only the sensualism and sensual scenes of this earth carried into a supposed spiritual world. it is a faith which has no trust, no patient waiting. it is not "the evidence of things unseen." it is not "the substance of things hoped for." it is rank materialism, after all. it is, moreover, _essentially_ irreligious. as far as it extends, it threatens, to an awful degree, to de-religionize the human soul--not only to take away all true spirituality of view, but to render men incapable of those ideas, on which alone a right religious belief can be founded. we hope our readers will not think that we have indulged in a train of thought too serious or sombre for the pages of a literary monthly magazine. it is directly forced upon us by our subject, if we would treat it as it deserves to be treated; and our only apology for choosing such a theme, is found in the fact that it is connected with one of the most wide-spread and mischievous delusions of the day. we should indeed think that we had discharged a most important editorial duty, could we only convey to the many thousands of our readers our deep impression, not only of the falsehood and wickedness of these "_lying wonders_," but also of the immense moral evil of which they threaten to be the cause. editor's easy chair. the spring hangs fire, like a rusty match-lock; and even as we write--though the almanac tells stories of "pleasant showers about this time"--the snow-flakes are dappling the distant roofs, and shivering under a northern wind. the early-trout fishers upon the south-shore of the island, are bandaged in pea-coats, and the song-making blue-birds twitter most scattered and sorry orisons. it is a singular circumstance--and one of which the meteorologic men must give us the resolution--that the seasons of the eastern and western continents balance themselves so accurately as they do. thus, the severe winter which, leaning from the arctic circle, has touched our continent with an icy _right_ hand, has kindled with a warm _left_, the north of europe into a premature spring. the journalists tell us of flowers blooming in norway, through all the latter half of february; and the winter in paris has proved as sham a winter, as their republic is sham republic. is there any tide of atmosphere which makes flux and reflux of cold--kindred to the sweep of the ocean? and may not that northern centre, which geographers call the pole, have such influence on the atmospheric currents, as the moon is said to have upon the sea? * * * * * poor sir john, meantime, shivering in the northern regions, or--what is far more probable--sealed up in some icy shroud, that keeps his body whole, and that will not break or burst until the mountains melt--is not forgotten. even now the british admiralty are fitting out another expedition, to flounder for a season among the icebergs, and bring back its story of polar nights, and harsh arctic music. a little bit of early romance, associated with the great navigator, has latterly found its way into the journals, and added new zest to the talk of his unknown fate. lady franklin was, it appears, in her youthful days, endowed with the same poet-soul--which now inspires her courage, and which then inspired her muse. among other rhymed thoughts which she put in print, were some wild, weird verses about the northern realms, and the bold navigators who periled life and fortune among the polar mountains. the verses caught the eye and the sympathies of sir john franklin. he traced them to their source, and finding the heart of the lady as true and brave, as her verse was clear and sound, he challenged her love, and won such wife as became the solace of his quieter days, and the world-known mourner of his fate. * * * * * domestic talk plays around the topic of the coming presidential campaign, and not a dinner of the whole lenten season but has turned its chat upon this hinge. and it is not a little curious to observe how the names of the prospective presidents narrow down, as the time approaches, to some two or three focal ones, toward which converge all the rays of calumny and of laudation. yet in this free speech--thanks to our privilege--we offer a most happy contrast to that poor shadow of a republic, which is now thriving in embroidered paris coats, and whose history is written under the ban of censors. it is amusing to recall now the speeches of those earnest french republicans, who, in the debates of , objected so strongly to any scheme of representation which should bear that strong federal taint that belonged to our system. "it is an off-shoot," said they, "of british and lordly birth, and can not agree with the nobler freedom which we have established, and which has crowned our revolution." may god, in his own good time, help the french--if they will not help themselves--and give them no worse a ruler, than the poorest of our present candidates! * * * * * some little time ago we indulged in a pleasant strain of self-gratulation, that the extraordinary woman, lola montes--_danseuse_, _diplomate_, widow, wife, _femme entretenue_--should have met with the humblest welcome upon american shores, and by such welcome given a lift to our sense of propriety. it would seem, however, that the welcome was only stayed, and not abandoned. the cordial reception which our national representatives have given the bavarian countess, was indeed a matter to be looked for. proprieties of life do not rule high under the congressional atmosphere; nor is washington the moving centre of much christian enterprise--either missionary or other. but that boston, our staid rival, should have shown the _danseuse_ the honor of educational committees, and given her speech in french and latin of the blooming boston girls, is a thing as strange as it was unexpected. we observe, however, that the officer in attendance upon lola, pleads simple courtesy as a warrant for his introduction, and regrets that newspaper inquiry and comment should make known to his pupil-_protégées_ the real character of the lady introduced. it certainly is unfortunate--but still more unfortunate, that the character of any visitor should not be proof against inquiry. lola, it seems, resents highly any imputation upon her good name, and demands proof of her losses. her indignation is adroit, and reminds us of a certain old "nut for the lawyers," which once went the round of the almanacs: "will brown, a noted toper, being out of funds, and put to his wits, entered the beer-shop, and called for four two-penny loaves of bread. after ruminating awhile, with the loaves under his arm, he proposed to exchange a couple of the loaves for a mug of ale. bruin of the bar assented to the bargain. will quietly disposed of his ale, and again proposed a further exchange of the remaining loaves, for a second mug of the malt liquor. "will quietly discharged his duty toward the second tankard, and as quietly moved toward the door. bruin claimed pay. will alleged that he had paid in two-penny loaves. bruin demanded pay for the bread; but will, very imperturbably swore that he did not keep the bread, and challenged poor bruin to prove his indebtedness." * * * * * jenny lind has latterly slipped from the public eye into the shades of her newly-found domestic life. rumor, however, tells the story of one last appearance, during the spring, when all the world will be curious to see how she wears her bridal state, and to take fuller glimpse of the man, who has won her benevolent heart. can the married world explain to us, how it is that matrimony seems to dull the edge of triumph, and to round a grave over maiden glory? why is madame goldschmidt so much less than jenny lind? simply in this way: she who has conquered the world by song and goodness, has herself been conquered; and the conqueror, if rumor tells a fair story, is no better, or worthier, or stronger than the average of men. the conclusion, then, is inevitable, that she, having yielded, is, in some qualities of head or heart--even less than he; and so reduced to the standard of our dull every-day mortality. rumor says again, that the songstress, after a visit only to her own shores, is to return to the pleasant town of northampton for a home. the decision, if real, does credit to our lady's love of the picturesque; for surely a more sightly town lies no where in our western world, than that mass of meadow and sweeping hill which lies grouped under the shoulder of holyoke. * * * * * with the spring-time, the city authorities are brushing the pavements--very daintily--for the summer's campaign. mr. russ is blockading the great thoroughfare, for a new fragment of his granite road; and "may movings," on the very day this shall come to the eye of our reader, will be disturbing the whole quiet of the metropolis. high rents are making the sad burden of many a master of a household; and a city paper has indulged in philosophical speculations upon the influence of this rise in rent upon the matrimonial alliance. the matter is not without its salient points for reflection. young ladies, whose extravagance in dress is promoting high prices of all sorts, must remember that they are thereby cheapening their chances of a home and a husband. the good old times, when a thousand or two thousand a year were reckoned sufficient income for a city man to marry upon, and to bring up such family as providence vouchsafed him, are fast falling into the wake of years. a wife and a home are becoming great luxuries--not so much measured by peace as by pence. would it not be well for domestically inclined clerks--whose rental does not run to a large figure--to organize (in the way of the building associations) cheap marriage associations? we do not feel competent to suggest the details of such a plan, but throw out the hint for younger men to act upon. it is pleasant to fancy the "special notices" of the tribune newspaper lit up with such sparkling inducements for bachelors as these: the bloomer marriage association will hold its regular meeting on friday at half past seven. those who appreciate the advantages of a good wife, at small cost, with reliable men for trustees, will not fail to attend. the stock is now nearly all taken. a few shares are left. several new names of modest and marriageable young ladies--also two thriving widows with small families--are registered upon the books of the association. every information supplied. jedediah ruletheroost, _secretary_. cheap wives for poor and deserving young men. the caroline fry marriage association is the best and oldest of similar organizations. hundreds of young men are now in the enjoyment of estimable partners for life, and all the endearments of the domestic circle through the agency of this association. shares are still to be sold, and the surplus of capital already amounts to the incredible sum of fourteen thousand dollars. particular attention paid to proper matching of temperaments. only two unfortunate marriages have thus far been contracted under the auspices of this association. the best of medical advisers. remember the number, broadway. silas widders, _secretary_. * * * * * english punch is busy nowadays in twisting the jew locks of the new leader in the house of commons. the personal peculiarities of mr. disraeli make him an easy subject for the artists of fleet-street. we shall expect, however, to see some rare debates led off by the accomplished hebrew. disraeli has his weaknesses of manner and of action; but he is a keen talker, and can make such show of brilliant repartee as will terribly irk the leaders of the left. the earl of derby, notwithstanding his fine and gentlemanly bearing, comes in for his share of the punch caricature. few british statesmen are so accomplished and graceful speakers as the earl of derby; and, with the burden of the government upon his shoulders, to spur his efforts, we shall confidently look for such strong pleading, as will surpass any thing yet heard from lord stanley. * * * * * french talk is tired of political prognostic, and has yielded itself, with characteristic indolence and _insouciance_, to the gayeties of the _mi-caréme_. balls have broken the solemnities of lent, and a new drama of the younger dumas, which turns upon the life and fortunes of a _courtisane_ of the last century, seems to chime with the humor of the time. the broidered coats are thickening under imperial auspices; and napoleon is winning a host of firm supporters among the broidering girls of nancy and of the metropolis. the americans, it would seem, are doing their part toward the festivities of the season; and forget lent and republic, in the hilarity of balls and routs. an american club, holding its meetings in the old saloon of frascati, is among the _on dits_ of the winter. a proposition for shaving the beards of judges and advocates, has wakened the apprehensions of all the benchers; and, in defense of their old-time prerogatives, the subjects of the proposed edict have brought to light an old pleading for their hirsute fancies, which may well have its place. the shaved chin is an incongruity as connected with the toga; the beard, on the contrary, is in perfect keeping. if it had not existed by a wise provision of providence, it must have been invented. what more imposing spectacle than a court rendering a solemn decree, in the presence of both chambers--and what measure of authority would not the white beard of the judge give to the sentence he pronounces! if then, you have a real care for your dignity, oh magistrates, curb not the flowing beard, but rather tempt its honors, with all the aids of art. and if the eccentric sallies of some brother gownsman, or some naïve testimony of an unkempt witness, put your gravity in peril, you can laugh--in your beard. thus nature will have her rights, and your dignity rest unmolested. we commend these opinions to their honors of the new york bench; only adding, that such aldermanic judges as are proof against wit--as they are proof against sense, might yet value the beard to hide their blushes. * * * * * all european travelers know the value and the awkwardness of passports, and the importance of securing them _en regle_. the count b----, wishing latterly to pass into austria with a domestic and a favorite horse, sent to the legation for the necessary papers, charging his secretary to see that all was in order. "as to the domestic," said the official, "he will have a separate passport; but there are some formalities as to the horse; we must have a perfect description of him, to insert in the passport of his owner." "very good," said the secretary, "i will send the groom with it." the embassador proceeded to fill up the passport: "we, envoy extraordinary, &c., invite the civil and military authorities to allow m. le comte, with his horse, to pass, and in case of need, to render all possible aid and assistance to ----" here occurred a blank, in view of the fact that the applicant might possess either wife or family. the good embassador (whom it is reasonable to suppose a bachelor) reckoning the horse equivalent to one or the other--filled up the blank with the word "them." the signature being appended, the task of filling up the description was left to the _attaché_. in due time the groom arrived. the sub-officia copied faithfully the description of the count's gelding. _age_--three years and a half. _height_--fourteen hands. _hair_--dark sorrel. _forehead_--spotted with white. _eyes_--very lively. _nose_--broad nostrils. _mouth_--a little hard. _beard_--none (the count was a veritable turk). _complexion_--none. _private marks_--ears very long; small star branded on the left thigh. in course of time the count departed, his passport in the guardianship of his accomplished secretary. the frontier officers are not, travelers will remember, either very brilliant men, or very witty men. they have a dull eye for a joke. the count's passport was scrutinized severely; the description did not accord accurately, in the opinion of the _sergent_ of police, with the actual man. the _sergent_ pulled his mustache, looked wise--and put monsieur le comte under arrest. the story about the horse was a poor story. the _sergent_ was not to be outwitted in that fashion. the consequence was a detention under guard for four days, until the necessary explanations could be returned from paris, and the _sergent_ be fully persuaded that the description attached to the count's horse, and not to some dangerous political refugee. * * * * * under the head of "touching matrimonial confidence," a french provincial paper gives the following: a certain gazette of auvergne published, a few days since, this notice (not unknown to our newspaper annals): "no person will give credit to the woman ursula-veronica-anastasia-cunegonde piot--my wife, as i shall pay no debts of her contracting." the same gazette published, a few days after, the following rejoinder (which we commend to all wives similarly situated): "monsieur jerome barnabas, my husband, could have spared himself the trouble of his late notice. "it is not to be supposed that i could get credit on his account; for, since he pays no debts of his own, nobody would count on him to pay any debts of mine. "femme barnabas--nee piot." we should not be greatly surprised if the precedent here afforded, should lead to a new column of city advertisements. * * * * * _apropos_ of the late balls in paris, a very good story is told of a bouncing student at law (with rooms and _ménage_ in the quarter of the pantheon), who recently made his _débût_, under the auspices of his father, at a ball of the chaussée d'antin. his father, a stout provincial, but bolstered into importance by a fat vineyard, and wine cellars to match, insisted upon introducing his son to the high life of the capital. the son declined, urging that he did not dance (the truth being that his familiarity was only with the exceptional dances of the _chaumière_ and such grisette quarters). "_mon dieu_--not dance!" said the old gentleman. "_oui_--after a fashion, but in a way not appreciated, i fear, in such salons." the old gentleman chuckled over his son's modesty--he could imagine it nothing else--and insisted upon the venture. the student was a guest; but determined to keep by the wall, as a spectator of the refined gallopades of the quarter d'antin. the first look, however, at the salon polka plunged him into a profound reverie. was it indeed true that he was in the elegant saloon of the _marquise_ m----? thought he, gaining courage. it was his method precisely--the very dance that amy had taught him--practiced with all their picturesque temerity. sure of his power, and using all the art of the _mabile_, he gave himself up to two hours of most exhilarating pastime. "they have calumniated the _beau monde_," mused he in leaving. "i find it very entertaining. our dances are not only understood, but cultivated--practiced; and, _ma foi_, i rather prefer handling these countesses, to those very greedy grisettes." our brave student at law might possibly find his paces as well understood, in some american saloons as in those of the chausée d'antin! * * * * * we close our long chat for the month with a little whimsicality of travel, which comes to us in the letter of a friend. major m'gowd was of irish extraction (which he denied)--had been in the english service (which he boasted), and is, or was two years ago, serving under the austrian flag. he was not a profound man; but, as majors go, a very good sort of major, and great disciplinarian--as the following will show: you have seen the austrian troops in review, and must have noticed the curious way in which their cloaks are carried around their necks, making the poor fellows look like the vauxhall showman, looking out from the folds of a gigantic anaconda. on one occasion, the major, being officer of the day, observed a soldier with his cloak lying loosely upon his arm. "where's your cloak, rascal?" was the major's peremptory demand. "here, sir," was the reply. "what's the use of a cloak if it's not rolled up?" thundered the major; and the poor scamp was sent to the lock-up. thus much for the major's discipline. but like most old officers of no great depth of brain, the major had his standard joke, which had gone the rounds of a hundred mess-tables. latterly, however, he had grown coy of a repetition, and seems to cherish a suspicion that he has not cut so good a figure in the story as he once imagined. a little after-dinner mellowness, however, is sure to bring the major to his trump card, and in knowledge of this, ned and myself (who had never heard his story), one day tempted the major's appetite with some very generous tokay. major m'gowd bore up, as most old officers are able to do, to a very late hour, and it was not till eleven that he seemed fairly kindled. "well, major, now for the story," said we. "ah, boys, it won't do" (the major looked smilingly through his glass), "it was really too bad." "out with it, major," and after as much refusing and urging as would seat half the girls in new york at the piano, the old gentleman opened: "it's too bad, boys; it was the most cutting, sarcastic thing that perhaps ever was heard. you see, i was stationed at uxbridge; you know uxbridge, p'raps--situated on a hill. i was captain, then; young and foolish--very foolish. i wrote poetry. i couldn't do it now. i never have since; i wish i hadn't _then_. for, do you see, it was the most cruel, cutting thing--" the major emptied his glass. "go on, major," said ned, filling for him again. "ah, boys--sad work--it cut him down. i was young, as i said--stationed at uxbridge--only a captain then, and wrote poetry. it was there the thing happened. it's not modest to say it, but really, a more cutting thing--fill up your glasses, my boys. "i became acquainted with a family of the name of porter--friends of the colonel; pray remember the name--porter. there was a daughter, miss porter. keep the name in mind, if you please. uxbridge, as you know, is situated on a hill. about fifteen miles away was stationed another regiment. now, a young officer of this regiment was very attentive to miss porter; don't forget the name, i beg of you. "he was only a lieutenant, a second son--nothing but his pay to live on; and the old people did not fancy his attentions, being, as i said, second son, lieutenant; which was very sensible in them. "they gave him a hint or two, which he didn't take. finally they applied to me, captain m'gowd, at that time, begging me to use my influence in the matter. i had not the pleasure of acquaintance with the lieutenant; though, apart from his being second son, lieutenant, small pay, &c., i knew nothing in the world against the poor fellow. "the more's the pity, boys; as i had no right to address him directly on the subject, i determined to hit him off in a few lines of poetry--those fatal, sarcastic lines!" sighed the major, finishing his glass. "i had the reputation of being witty, and a poet; and though i say it myself--was uncommonly severe. "they commenced in this way," (the major threw himself into attitude.) "the other day to uxbridge town-- "you recollect the circumstance--i was at uxbridge--young and foolish--had made the acquaintance of the porters (remember the name)--young lieutenant was attentive to miss porter (lively girl was mary jane); poor, second son, not agreeable to old people, who, as i told you, called on me to settle the matter. so i wrote the lines--terribly sarcastic: "the other day to uxbridge town-- now you're coming to it-- "a major (he was lieutenant, you know) of dragoons (he was in the infantry) came down (uxbridge is on a hill). it was a very sarcastic thing, you see. "the other day to uxbridge town a major of dragoons came down-- now for the point, my boys, "the reason why he came down here 'twas said he had-- you remember the name--porter, and how i was at uxbridge, situated on a hill, was captain m'gowd, then--young lieutenant, &c., devilish severe verses--but now mind--here they are: "the other day to uxbridge town a major of dragoons came down, the reason why he came down here 'twas said he had a love (remember the name) for--beer!" if you have never heard a maudlin, mess-table story, told over the sixth bottle, you have at the least, read one. editor's drawer. the readers of the "drawer" will be amused with a forcible picture, which we find in our collection, of the ups-and-downs of a strolling player's life. one would think such things enough to deter young men and women from entering upon so thorny a profession. "in one of the writer's professional excursions," runs our extract, "his manager finds himself in a woeful predicament. his pieces will not 'draw' in the quiet new england village where he had temporarily 'set up shop;' he and his company are literally starving; the men moodily pacing the stage; the women, who had kept up their spirits to the last, sitting silent and sorrowful; and the children, little sufferers! actually crying for food. "i saw all this," says the manager, "and i began to feel very suicidal. it was night, and i looked about for a rope. at length i spied just what i wanted. a rope dangled at the prompt-side, and near a steep flight of stairs which led to a dressing room. '_that's_ it!' said i, with gloomy satisfaction: 'i'll mount those stairs, noose myself, and drop quietly off in the night; but first let me see whether it is firmly fastened or no.' "i accordingly approached, gave a pull at the rope, when '_whish! whish!_' i found i had set the rain a-going. and now a thought struck me. i leaped, danced, and shouted madly for joy. "'where did you get your liquor from?' shouted the 'walking-gentleman' of the company. "'he's gone mad!' said mrs. ----, principal lady-actress of the corps. 'poor fellow!--hunger has made him a maniac. heaven shield _us_ from a like fate!' "'hunger!' shouted i, 'we shall be hungry no more! here's food from above (which was _literally_ true), manna in the wilderness, and all that sort of thing. we'll feed on rain; we'll feed on rain!' "i seized a hatchet, and mounting by a ladder, soon brought the rain-box tumbling to the ground. "my meaning was now understood. an end of the box was pried off, and full a bushel of dried beans and peas were poured out, to the delight of all. some were stewed immediately, and although rather hard, i never relished any thing more. but while the operation of cooking was going on below, we amused ourselves with parching some beans upon the sheet-iron--the 'thunder' of the theatre--set over an old furnace, and heated by rosin from the lightning-bellows. "so we fed upon rain, cooked by thunder-and-lightning!" there is nothing in the history of irving's "strolling player" more characteristic of his class than the foregoing; and there is a _verisimilitude_ about the story which does not permit us to doubt its authenticity. it is too natural _not_ to be true. * * * * * think of a patent-medicine vender rising at the head of his table, where were assembled some score or two of his customers, and proposing such a toast as the following: "gentlemen: allow me to propose you a sentiment. when i mention _health_, you will all admit that i allude to the greatest of sublunary blessings. i am sure then that you will agree with me that we are all more or less interested in the toast that i am about to prescribe. i give you, gentlemen, "physic, and much good may it do us!" this sentiment is "drunk with all the honors," when a professional gallenic vocalist favors the company with the annexed song: "a bumper of febrifuge fill, fill for me, give those who prefer it, black draught; but whatever the dose a strong one it must be, though our last dose to-night shall be quaffed. and while influenza attacks high and low, and man's queerest feelings oppress him, mouth-making, nose-holding, round, round let i go, drink our physic and founder--ugh, bless him." * * * * * the reader may have heard a good deal from the poets concerning "_the language of flowers_;" but here is quite a new dialect of that description, in the shape of mottos for different fruits and vegetables in different months: _motto for the lilac in april_: "give me leave." _for the rose in june_: "well, i'm blowed!" _for the asparagus in july_: "cut and come again." _for the marrowfat pea in august_: "shell out!" _for the apple in september_: "go it, my pippins!" _for the cabbage in december_: "my heart is sound: my heart is my own." * * * * * now that "shads is come;" now that lamb has arrived, and green peas may soon be looked for; now that asparagus is coming in, and poultry is going out, listen to _the song of the turkey_, no longer seen hanging by the legs in the market, and rejoice with him at his emancipation: "the season of turkeys is over! the time of our danger is past: 'tis the turn of the wild-duck and plover, but the turkey is safe, boys, at last! "then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, no longer we've reason to fear; who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys, let's trust to the chance of the year! "the oyster in vain now may mock us, its sauce we can proudly disdain; no sausages vulgar shall shock us, we are free, we are free from their chain! "then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, no longer we've reason to fear; who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys. let's trust to the chance of the year! "what matters to you and to me, boys, that one whom we treasured when young, with a ticket, "two dollars! look here!" boys, in a poulterer's window was hung! "then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, no longer we've reason to fear; who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys, let's trust to the chance of the year! "then mourn not for friends that are eaten, a drum-stick for care and regret! enough that, the future to sweeten, our lives are not forfeited yet! "then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, no longer we've reason to fear; who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys, let's trust to the chance of the year!" * * * * * somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the _disjecta membra_ of our _ollapodrida_: lieutenant montgomery had seen much military service. the wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. one day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. the lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. after a short time the stranger shifted _his_ position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze. this was too much for montgomery. he rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said: "do you _know_ me, sir?" "i think i do," answered the foreigner. (he was a frenchman.) "have we ever met before?" continued montgomery. "i will not swear for it; but if we have--and i am almost _sure_ we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist." "i have," said montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "i didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it i repaid with a gash across the skull!" the frenchman bent down his head, parted his hair with his hands, and said: "you did: you may look at the receipt." the next moment they were in each other's arms. now this story _seems_ a little problematical; and yet it is vouched for on what ought to be considered reliable authority. in short, it is _true_ in every respect. * * * * * some ambitious juvenile once sung, with an aspiration "peculiar to our institutions," "i wish i was the president of these united states, i never would do nothing but swing on all the gates." he little knew the miseries, the ennui, the mental dyspepsia, which afflicts the wretch who has nothing to do. one of these unhappy mortals it is, who says, in the bitterness of his spirit: "sir, i have no books, and no internal resources. i can not draw, and if i could, there's nothing that i want to sketch. i don't play the flute, and if i did there's nobody that i should like to have listen to me. i never wrote a tragedy, but i think i am in that state of mind in which tragedies are written. any thing lighter is out of the question. i whistle four hours a day, yawn five, smoke six, and sleep the rest of the twenty-four, with a running accompaniment of swearing to all these occupations except the last, and i'm not quite sure that i don't sometimes swear in my dreams. "in one word, sir, i'm getting desperate, for the want of _something to do_." * * * * * there is a good deal of humor in the sudden contrast of sentiment and language exhibited in the verses below. they purport to be the tragi-comical tale of a deserted sailor-wife, who, with a baby in her arms, comes often to a rock that overlooks the main, to catch, if possible, a glimpse of a returning sail. at length, in despair, she throws her infant into the sea: "a gush of tears fell fast and warm, as she cried, with dread emotion, rest, baby! rest that fairy form beneath the rush of ocean; 'tis calmer than the world's rude storm, and kinder--i've a notion! * * * * * "now oft the simple country folk to this sad spot repair, when wearied with their weekly yoke, they steal an hour from care; and they that have a pipe to smoke, they go and smoke it there! "when soon a little pearly bark skims o'er the level brine, whose sails, when it is not too dark, with misty brightness shine: though they who these strange visions mark have sharper eyes than mine! "and, beauteous as the morn, is seen a baby on the prow, deck'd in a robe of silver sheen, with corals round his brow-- a style of head-dress not, i ween, much worn by babies now!" what somebody of the transcendental school of these latter days calls the "element of unexpectedness," is very forcibly exemplified by the writer from whom we have quoted. * * * * * we have often laughed over the following scene, but couldn't tell where it is recorded to save our reputation for "general knowledge." all that we _do_ know is, that it is a clever sketch by a clever writer _whoever_ he may be. the scene is a military station; and it should be premised that a certain surly, ill-tempered major, whose wife and sister are in the habit of visiting him at the barracks, gives orders, out of spite to subordinate officers, whose families have hitherto enjoyed the same privilege, that "no females are to be allowed in barracks after tattoo, under any pretense whatever:" "it so happened that the morning after this announcement appeared in the order-book, an old lieutenant, who might have been the major's grandfather, and whom we used to call "the general," on account of his age and gray hairs, was the officer on duty. to the sergeant of the guard "the general" gave the necessary orders, with strict injunctions to have them obeyed to the letter. "shortly after tattoo, sundry ladies, as usual, presented themselves at the barrack-gate, and were, of course, refused admission; when, to the surprise of the sentinel on duty, the major's lady and sister-in-law made their appearance, and walked boldly to the wicket, with the intention of entering as usual. to their utter astonishment, the sentry refused them permission to pass. the sergeant was called, but that worthy was quite as much of a precisian as the ladies, and his conscience would not permit him to let them in. "'do you know who we are, sir?' asked the major's lady, with much asperity of voice and manner. "'oh, sartingly; i knows your ladyships wery well.' "'and pray, what do you mean, sir, by this insolence?' "'i means no imperance whatsomdever, marm; but my orders is partickler, to let no female ladies into this here barracks a'ter tattoo, upon no account whatever; and i means for to obey my orders without no mistake.' "'then you have the effrontery, do you, to refuse admittance to the lady of your commanding officer?' screamed the honorable mrs. snooks. "'and her sister!' joined in the second lady. "'most sartingly, marm,' replied the non-commissioned officer, with profound gravity: 'i knows my duty, marm.' "'good gracious, what assurance!' exclaimed both ladies in a breath. "'no insurance at all, marm: if your ladyships was princesses, you couldn't come in after tattoo; my orders is partikler!' "'don't you know, stupid, that these orders can not be intended to apply to _us_?' "'i doesn't know nuffin about _that_, my lady: all i know is, that orders is _orders_, and must be obeyed.' "'impudence!' "'imperance or no imperance, i must do my duty; and i can tell your ladyships if my superior officers was for to give me orders not to let in the major himself, i would be obligated for to keep him off at the p'int of the bay'net!' "the officer of the guard was sent for, and the officer of the guard sent for the orderly-book, which, by the light of the guard-room lantern, was exhibited to the ladies by 'the general,' in justification of his apparent rudeness." it might, doubtless, have been added, that the effect of such a lesson upon the major, was of a salutary nature; for the chalice was commended to his own lips, which he had prepared for others, in downright earnest. * * * * * these lines, from the pen of a southern poet, are very tender and touching. they were printed some ten years since: "my little girl sleeps on my arm all night, and seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile, i bid her rise and place her lips to mine, which in her sleep she does. and sometimes then, half-muttered in her slumbers, she affirms her love for me is boundless. and i take the little bud and close her in my arms; assure her by my action--for my lips yield me no utterance then--that in my heart she is the treasured jewel. tenderly, hour after hour, without desire of sleep, i watch above that large amount of hope, until the stars wane, and the yellow morn walks forth into the night." * * * * * in the final disposition of his characters, dickens excels any living author. there is no confusion--no infringement of the natural. in "barnaby rudge," for example, the old lethargic inn-keeper, willett, retiring in his dotage, and with his ruling passion strong upon him, scoring up vast imaginary sums to imaginary customers, and the lament of the elder weller at the death of good old master humphrey, are not only characteristic, they are perfect specimens of their kind. "and the sweet old creetur," says the elder weller "has bolted. him as had no wice, and was so free from temper that an infant might ha' drove 'im, has been took at last with that ere unawoidable fit of the staggers, as we must all come to, and gone off his feed forever!" "i see him," continues the old stage-coach driver, "i see him gettin' every journey more and more groggy. i says to samivel, says i, 'samivel, my boy, the gray's a-going at the knees;' and now my predilection is fatally werified; and him as i could never do enough to serve or to show my likin' for, is up the great uniwersal spout o' natur'!" * * * * * it is poor tom hood, if we have not forgotten, who describes a species of "statistical fellows" as ----"a prying, spying, inquisitive clan, who jot down the laboring classes' riches, and after poking in pot and pan, and routing garments in want of stitches, have ascertained that a working man wears a pair and a half of average breeches!" of this kind was the "scientific ass-sociate" mentioned in the "table talk of the late john boyle." the professor is setting forth one of his "various important matters connected with every-day life." the learned gentleman spoke of shaving as follows: "the mode of shaving differs in different individuals. some are very close shavers; others are greater adepts at cutting unpleasant acquaintances than themselves. it is, however, most important that the art of shaving should be reduced to a nicety, so that a man can cut his beard with the same facility as he could cut his stick. it is also of consequence that an accurate calculation should be made of the number of shaving brushes and the number of half pounds of soap used in the course of the year by respectable shavers, for i have observed that some of them are very badly off for soap. there is also a very great variation in the price of labor. some barbers undertake to shave well for threepence; others charge a much higher sum. this is probably the effect of competition; and i must say, that the government deserves well of the country for not encouraging any monopoly. at the same time there is a looseness in the details of the profession, which i should like to see corrected. an accurate register ought to be kept of the number of individuals who shave themselves, and of those who shave daily, every other day, and once a week only. we can hardly contemplate the immense benefits which science would reap, if such matters as these were properly attended to!" who has not seen just such statistics as these dwelt upon with unction by your thorough "statist?" * * * * * never forget this "_receipt of domestic economy_." when you have paid a bill, always _take_, and _keep_, a receipt of the same: "o, fling not the receipt away, given by one who trusted thee; mistakes will happen every day. however honest folks may be; and sad it is, oh, _twice_ to pay, so cast not thy receipt away! "ah, yes; if e'er in future hours, when we this bill have all forgot, they send it in _again_! ye powers! and swear that we have paid it not; how sweet to know, on such a day, we've never cast receipts away!" * * * * * the following is one of the pen-and-ink portraits that have found their way into the "drawer." the sitter was a subject of our own gotham. "he was a scotchman by birth, and had, without exception, the ugliest face i ever saw on a man's shoulders, or a monkey's either, for that matter. but by a perversity of taste, not unusual in the world, the man made a complete hobby of his 'mug,' homely as it was; and was full of the conceit that on fit occasions he could summon to it a look of terrible and dignified sarcasm, that was more efficacious than words or blows. he was rather insolent in his deportment, and was consequently continually getting into scrapes with some one or other, in which he invariably got the worst of it; because instead of lifting his hand, and giving blow for blow, he always trusted to the efficacy of his _look_. his various little mishaps he used to relate to his fellow-boarders at meal-times, always concluding his narrations with, 'but didn't i give the dirty rapscallions one o' my _looks_?' and then twisting his 'ugly mug' into a shape impossible to be described, he fancied he had convinced his hearers that his antagonists, whoever they were, would be in no hurry to meddle with _him_ again! "the last time i saw him, he was giving an account of an insult he had received the night before at some porter-house in the neighborhood, where a little fellow, who was a perfect stranger to him, had insisted upon drinking at his expense, and who, when he refused to pay for the liquor, had not only abused him most shamefully with his tongue, but had actually _kicked_ him. "'kick you!' exclaimed a fellow-boarder. "'yes!' said he, growing warm with the recital; 'he kicked me here!' and he laid his hand on that portion of his valorous person that had come in contact with the stranger's boot. "'and what did you say to _that_?' asked a second listener. "'what did i _say_ to it?' he replied, as if astonished that any body should be ignorant of his invariable rejoinder to similar assaults. 'what did i _say_? i said nothing at all. the kick was but a soft one, and the fellow that gave it a wee bit of a 'jink-ma-doddy,' that i could have throttled with one hand on the spot. but i just contented myself with giving him one of my looks!' "here sawney 'defined his position' to the company, by giving them one of his awful glances. but _this_ time he managed to convey an expression of ugliness and comicality so far beyond any thing he had ever called up before, that the inference was irresistible that the kick he had received must have been a good deal harder than he was willing to acknowledge." * * * * * any man or woman walking up or down the sunny side of broadway, on a pleasant summer day, will see various little bipeds, with thin legs, faded countenances, and jaded air, flourishing little canes, who may, perhaps, bring to mind the following lines: "some say there's nothing made in vain, while others the reverse maintain, and prove it, very handy, by citing animals like these-- musquitoes, bed-bugs, crickets, fleas, and, worse than all--a dandy!" but nature, as the poet adds, "never made a dandy;" he was cast in a fictitious mould altogether. * * * * * there is something not over-complimentary to us, magazine-editors, in the remonstrance which "chawls yellowplush" makes to his employer against his discharging him from his employ, because he has ascertained that he writes in magazines, and other periodicals: "'sir,' says i, claspink my 'ands, and bursting into tears, 'do not, for eving's sake, do not think of anythink of the sort, or drive me from your service, because i have been fool enough to write in magazeens! glans but one moment at your honor's plate; every spoon is as bright as a mirror; condescend to igsamine your shoos; your honor may see reflected in them the faces of every one in the company. if occasionally i've forgot the footman in the lit'ry man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashionable life, it was from a sinsear desire to do good and promote nollitch; and i apeal to your honor--i lay my hand on my busm, and in the face of this honorable company, beg you to say--when you rung your bell, who came to you first? when you stopt out till mornink, who sat up for you? when you was ill, who forgot the nat'ral dignities of his station, and answered the two-pair bell? oh, sir,' says i, 'i knows what's what: don't send me away! i know them lit'ry chaps, and, bleave me, i'd rather be a footman. the work is not so hard--the pay is better--the vittels incompyrably shuperiour. i've but to clean my things, run my errints, you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth.'" this was written by one who was himself, in his own person, an admirable illustration of what success and honor a _true_ literary man is capable of achieving; but yellowplush's "lit'ry men" were of a different calibre. * * * * * the learned "science-women" of the day, the "deep, deep-blue stockings" of the time, are fairly hit off in the ensuing satirical sonnet: i idolize the ladies! they are fairies, that spiritualize this world of ours; from heavenly hot-beds most delightful flowers, or choice cream-cheeses from celestial dairies, but learning, in its barbarous seminaries, gives the dear creatures many wretched hours, and on their gossamer intellect sternly showers science, with all its horrid accessaries. now, seriously, the only things, i think, in which young ladies should instructed be, are--stocking-mending, love, and cookery!-- accomplishments that very soon will sink, since fluxions now, and sanscrit conversation, always form part of female education! something good in the way of inculcation may be educed from this rather biting sonnet. if woman so far forgets her "mission," as it is common to term it nowadays, as to choose those accomplishments whose only recommendation is that they are "the vogue," in preference to acquisitions which will fit her to be a better wife and mother, she becomes a fair subject for the shafts of the satirical censor. * * * * * the following bit of gossip is especially "frenchy," and will remind the readers of "the drawer" of the man described by the late robert c. sands, who sued for damages in a case of breach-of-promise of marriage. he was offered two hundred dollars to heal his breaking heart. "two hundred dollars!" he exclaimed; "two hundred dollars for ruined hopes--for blighted affection--for a wretched existence--a blasted life! two hundred dollars! for all this!! no--never! _make it three hundred, and it's a bargain!_" but to the french story: "a couple very well known in paris are at present arranging terms of separation, to avoid the scandal of a judicial divorce. a friend has been employed by the husband to negotiate the matter. the latest mission was in relation to a valuable ring given to the husband by one of the then sovereigns of europe, and which he wished to retain. for this he would make a certain much-desired concession, the friend made the demand-- "what!" said the indignant wife, "do you venture to charge yourself with such a mission to _me_! can you believe that i could tear myself from a gift which alone recalls to me the day when my husband loved me? no: this ring is my only _souvenir_ of a happiness, now, alas! forever departed! 'tis all that i now possess of a once-fond husband!" here she threw herself upon a _fauteuil_, and covered her face with her hands. but the husband's friend insisted. the lady supplicated--grew desperate--threatened to submit to a public divorce, as a lesser evil than parting with that cherished ring--and at last confessed that she had--_sold the ring six months before!_ wasn't _that_ a climax? * * * * * a very quaint and pretty scrap of verse is this, from the old german: "should you meet my true love, say, i greet her well; should she ask you how i fare, say, she best can tell. "should she ask if i am sick, say, i died of sorrow; should she then begin to weep, say, i'll come to-morrow!" * * * * * it has been thought strange, that when a malefactor is executed at "_the tombs_," that curiosity should be excited to know how the unfortunate wretch behaved at the last, and at the same time great anxiety is manifested to obtain the slightest relic connected with his ignominious death. this propensity is well hit off in the following episode in the life of "_a criminal curiosity-hunter_." a friend visits him, and he thus describes the interview: "he received me with extreme urbanity, and asked me to sit down in an old-fashioned arm-chair. i did so. "'i suppose, sir,' said he, with an air of suppressed triumph, 'that you have no idea that you are now sitting in a very remarkable chair!' "i assured him that i was totally unconscious of the fact. "'let me tell you, then,' said he, 'that it was in that chair that fauntleroy, the banker, who was hanged for forgery, was sitting when he was arrested!' "'indeed!' "'fact, sir! i gave ten guineas for it! i thought, also, to have obtained the night-cap in which he slept the night before his execution, but another collector was beforehand with me, and bribed the turnkey to steal it for him.' "'i had no idea,' i said, 'that there could be any competition for such an article.' "'ah, sir!' said he, with a deep sigh, 'you don't know the value of these interesting relics. i have been upward of thirty years a collector of them. when a man devotes himself to a great object, he must go to it heart and soul. i have spared neither time nor money in _my_ pursuit; and since i became a collector i have attended the execution of every noted malefactor throughout the kingdom.' "perceiving that my attention was drawn to a common rope which served as a bell-pull, he said to me: "'i see you are remarking my bell-cord; that is the identical rope, sir, which hanged bellingham, who murdered mr. perceval in the house of commons. i offered any sum for the one in which thistlewood ended his life, to match it, but i was disappointed.... the whigs, sir, have swept away all our good old english customs, and deprived us of our national recreations. i remember, sir, when monday was called 'hanging-day' at the old bailey; on that morning a man might be certain of seeing three or four criminals swung off before breakfast.'" the criminal curiosity-hunter now takes his friend into an adjoining room, where he shows him his general museum of curiosities, comprising relics of every grade of crime, from murder to petty larceny; among them a door-mat made of oakum picked by a "lady"-culprit while in the penitentiary; a short clay-pipe, once in the possession of burke, the wholesale murderer; and the _fork_ belonging to the _knife_ with which some german had cut his wife's and children's throats! * * * * * "misery," it is said, "loves company." what a juvenile "company," when the last thaw came--(and so many came, after what was supposed to be the _last_ snow, this season, that it would be difficult to count them)--what a juvenile company, we say, there was, to lament with the skate-vender who poured out his griefs in the following affecting parody upon the late thomas moore's lines, "i never loved a dear gazelle," &c.: "i never wrote up 'skates to sell,' trusting to fickle nature's law, but--when i advertised them well, and puffed them--it was sure to thaw. yes; it was ever thus--the fates seem adverse to the trade in skates. "if a large lot i chanced to buy, thinking 'twas likely _still_ to freeze up the thermometer would fly, all in a day, some ten degrees. their presence in my window-pane, turns ice to mud, and snow to rain." but, after all, our skate-vender has no great need of fear. we have had deep snows in april, and may _may_ bring him his season yet: for what says the almanac of past years? why, that "monday, fourth of may, was a very snowy day!" _literary notices._ _austria in and ' _, by w.h. stiles (harper and brothers). this work, in two octavo volumes, by the late chargé d'affaires of the united states, at the court of vienna, furnishes the most complete history that has yet appeared of the political affairs of hungary, with ample and accurate details of the late disastrous revolutionary struggle. from his diplomatic position at vienna, mr. stiles had rare opportunities for observation, of which he has availed himself in a manner that is highly creditable to his acuteness and good sense. he has evidently made a diligent study of his subject in all its bearings; the best authorities have been faithfully consulted; conflicting views have been cautiously weighed; but his final conclusions are derived from the free exercise of his own judgment. hence his work is quite free from the spirit of partisanship. it is critical in its tone, rather than dogmatic. aiming at entire impartiality, it may seem too moderate in its statements to satisfy the advocates of extreme views on either side. mr. stiles shows an ardent attachment to the principles of liberty; he is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of american institutions; but he has no sympathy with the communism or red republicanism of europe. an admirer of the heroic enthusiasm of kossuth, he displays no wish to conceal the defects of his character. he is opposed, with strong conviction, to the interference of america in the affairs of hungary. at the same time he deprecates the tyranny of which she has been the victim, and presents a candid and intelligent view of the nature of her recent struggle. his volume contains many felicitous portraitures of the leading actors on both sides. a number of valuable and interesting documents, illustrative of the revolutionary movement, are preserved in the appendix. the following description of the seressâners, a portion of jellachich's troops, presents a favorable specimen of the picturesque style in which the author often temperately indulges: "_seressâners_ are the wild border soldiers from montenegro, and bearing a stronger resemblance to the indians of the north american forests than to the ordinary troops of the european continent. the frame of such a borderer seems to be nothing but sinew and muscle; and with ease, nay, without appearing to be at all affected by them, he endures hardships and fatigues to which the most seasoned soldiers are scarcely equal. a piece of oaten bread and a dram of _sklikowitz_ (plum brandy) suffice him, on an emergency, a whole day, and with that refreshment alone will march on untired, alike in the most scorching heat and the most furious snow-storm; and when night comes, he desires no other couch than the bare ground, no other roof than the open sky. their costume is most peculiar, as well as picturesque. there is something half albanian in some portions of the dress--in the leggings and full trowsers fastened at the knee, and in the heavily gold-embroidered crimson jacket. but that which gives decided character and striking originality to these sons of war is the cloak. over these giant frames hangs a mantle of scarlet cloth, fastened tightly at the throat; below this, on the breast, depends the clasp of the jacket, a large silver egg, made so as to open and serve as a cup. in the loose girdle are to be seen the richly-mounted pistols and glittering kandjar--turkish arms chiefly; for every _seressâner_ is held, by old tradition, to have won his first weapon from the turk. the mantle has a cape, cut somewhat in the shape of a bat's wing, but which, joined together by hooks and eyes, forms a sharp pointed hood, resembling those of the venetian _marinari_, but higher and more peaked. over the crimson cap, confined by a gold band upon the brow, falling with a gold tassel on the shoulder, rises this red hood, usually overshadowing such a countenance as a murillo or a vandyke would delight to portray. the brilliant rays of the long dark eye repose beneath a thick fringe of sable lashes; but you feel that, if awakened, they must flash forth in fire. the brow, the mouth, and the nose are all essentially noble features; and over all is spread a skin of such clear olive-brown, that you are inclined to think you have a bedouin before you." our readers will remember the controversy which has recently produced some excitement in london, with regard to a person claiming to be a hungarian baroness, employed in the political service of kossuth. the following curious anecdote sets that question at rest, while it explains the romantic manner in which mr. stiles was put in possession of the dispatch from kossuth, requesting his intervention with the imperial government: "on the night of the d december, , when all communication between hungary and austria had ceased, large armies on either side guarding their respective frontiers, the author was seated in the office of the legation of the united states at vienna, when his servant introduced a young female, who desired, as she said, to see him at once upon urgent business. she was a most beautiful and graceful creature, and, though attired in the dress of a peasant, the grace and elegance of her manner, the fluency and correctness of her french, at once denoted that she was nearer a princess than a peasant. she sat and conversed for some time before she ventured to communicate the object of her visit. as soon as the author perceived that in the exercise of the utmost caution she desired only to convince herself that she was not in error as to the individual she sought, he told her that, upon the honor of a gentle man, she might rest assured that the individual she saw before her was the diplomatic agent of the united states at the court of vienna. upon that assurance, she immediately said, 'then, sir, i am the bearer of a communication to you.' she then asked, 'have you a servant, sir, in whom you can rely, who can go with me into the street for a few moments?' the author replied that he had no servant in whom he could rely, that he feared they were all in the pay of the police, but that he had a private secretary in whom he reposed confidence, and who could accompany her. the secretary was immediately called, they descended together into the street, and in a few moments returned, bearing with them the rack of a wagon. this rack, which is a fixture attached either to the fore or back part of a peasant's wagon, and intended to hold hay for the horses during a journey, was composed of small slats, about two inches wide and about the eighth of an inch thick, crossing each other at equal distances, constituted a semicircular net-work. as all these slats, wherever they crossed, were fastened together with either wooden or iron bolts, with our unskillful hands an hour nearly was consumed before we could get the rack in pieces. when this was accomplished, we saw nothing before us but a pile of slats; but the fair courier, taking them up one by one, and examining them very minutely, at length selected a piece, exclaiming, 'this is it!' the slat selected resembled the others so completely, that the most rigid observer, unapprised of the fact, could not have detected the slightest difference between them; but, by the aid of a penknife, to separate its parts, this slat was found to be composed of two pieces, hollowed out in the middle, and affording space enough to hold a folded letter. in this space had been conveyed, with a secrecy which enabled it to pass the severe scrutiny of the austrian sentinels, the communication addressed to the author by louis kossuth. "the mysterious personage, as intrepid as she was fair, who undertook the conveyance of this dispatch, at night, alone and unprotected, in an open peasant's wagon, in a dreadful snow-storm, through the midst of the austrian army, when detection would have been certain death, was (as m. pulszky has just informed the author) then a single lady, has since married, and is now the countess motesiczky. "the statement, therefore, of a person assuming the title of baroness de beck, and who, in a work upon the hungarian war, published in england about two years ago, claiming for herself the credit of having been the bearer of the dispatch referred to, is altogether without foundation. this authoress, whose character, as well as untimely and remarkable death, was involved in so much mystery, and excited for a time so much discussion in europe, was (as m. pulszky represents) the servant of the countess motesiczky, and thus became possessed of a knowledge of the incident above detailed." stringer and townsend have issued the fourth edition of _frank forester's field sports of the united states_, by henry william herbert, with several additions and new pictorial illustrations. one need not be a practical sportsman in order to enjoy, with keen zest, the racy descriptions of silvan life which flow so charmingly from the practiced pen of this accomplished "forester." in the woods, he is every where at home. he not only knows how to bag his game, but he studies all their habits as a book, and never leaves them till they have fulfilled their destiny on the table of the epicure. writing, in a great measure, from personal experience, his style has all the freshness of a mountain breeze. with a quick eye for the picturesque, he paints the scenery of our american sporting grounds, with admirable truthfulness and spirit. he has made free use in these volumes of the works of distinguished naturalists, audubon, giraud, wilson, godman and others, and has been equally happy in his borrowings and in his own productions. we recommend his manual to all who cherish a taste for rural life. to sportsmen, of course, we need say nothing of its merits. the _golden christmas_, by w. gilmore simms is the title of a slight story, presenting many vivid sketches of social life on a southern plantation. in its execution, it is more careless than the usual writings of the author, but its ease and vivacity will make it a favorite with indulgent readers in search merely of amusement. its prevailing tone is "genial and gentle, tender and tolerant, not strategetical and tragical." (published by walker, richards, and co. charleston, s.c.) _falkenburgh_ is a recent novel by the author of "mildred vernon," which is well worth reading, for its piquant delineations of character, apart from the current interest of the plot, which is one of great power and intensity. the scene is laid in the picturesque regions of the rhine, and suggests many delightful pictures to the rare descriptive talents of the writer. (harper and brothers.) a new work of fiction by caroline chesebro, entitled _isa, a pilgrimage_, is issued by j.s. redfield, in the style of simple elegance which distinguishes his recent publications. this is a more ambitious effort than the former productions of the authoress, displaying a deeper power of reflection, a greater intensity of passion, and a more complete mastery of terse and pointed expression. on the whole, we regard it as a successful specimen of a quite difficult species of composition. without the aid of a variety of incident or character, with scarcely a sufficient number of events to give a fluent movement to the plot, and with very inconsiderable reference to external nature, the story turns on the development of an abnormal spiritual experience, showing the perils of entire freedom of thought in a powerful, original mind, during the state of intellectual transition between attachment to tradition and the supremacy of individual conviction. the scene is laid in the interior world--the world of consciousness, of reflection, of passion. in this twilight region, so often peopled with monstrous shapes, and spectral phantasms, the author treads with great firmness of step. with rare subtlety of discrimination, she brings hidden springs of action to light, untwisting the tangled webs of experience, and revealing with painful minuteness, some of the darkest and most fearful depths of the human heart. the characters of isa and stuart, the leading personages of the story, certainly display uncommon insight and originality. they stand out from the canvas in gloomy, portentous distinctness, with barely light enough thrown upon them to enable us to recognize their weird, mysterious features. for our own part, we should prefer to meet this writer, whose rare gifts we cordially acknowledge, in a more sunny atmosphere; but we are bound to do justice to the depth and vigor of the present too sombre creation. _the howadji in syria_, by george w. curtis (harper and brothers). another fragrant record of oriental life by the delightful pen which dropped spices and honey so luxuriantly in the unmatched _nile notes of a howadji_. this volume is written in a more subdued strain--the radiant oriental splendors gleam less dazzlingly, as the traveler approaches the west--the pictures of gorgeous beauty are softened down to a milder tone--and as the pinnacles of the holy city appear in view, a "dim religious light" tempers the glowing imaginative sensuosity which revels in the glorious enchantments of the sunny nile. as a descriptive writer, the howadji has few equals in modern literature. he is indebted for his success to his exquisite perceptions of external nature, combined with a fancy fertile in charming images, and a vein of subtle reflection, which often gives an unexpected depth to his pictures, in the midst of what may at first seem to be only the flashes of a brilliant rainbow coloring. his notices of facts have the accuracy of a gazetteer. they are sharp, firm, well-defined, and singularly expressive. the most prosaic writer could not give a more faithful daguerreotype copy of eastern scenery. read his account of the camel, in the description of his passage across the desert from cairo to jerusalem. the ugly beast is made as familiar to the eye as the horses in a broadway omnibus. a few authentic touches give a more vivid impression of this unwieldy "ship of the desert" than the labored details of natural history. but this fidelity to nature is by no means the ultimate aim of the howadji. it is only the condition of a higher sweep. it serves as the foundation of a series of delicious prose poems, sparkling with beauty, electric with emotion, and seductive to the ear by their liquid melody of expression. the howadji is no less loyal to feeling than he is faithful to nature. with not the faintest trace of sentimentalism, he is not ashamed of the eye and the soul susceptible to all beautiful influences. he writes out his experience with a cordial frankness that disarms prejudice. this union of imagination and fact in the writings of the howadji must always give a charm to his personal narratives. no one can listen to the relation of his unique adventures without delight. how far his admirable success in this line of composition would insure his success in a purely imaginative work, we do not venture to predict. we trust he will yet give us an opportunity to decide the experiment. _a commentary on the book of proverbs_, by moses stuart. in a characteristic preface to this volume, which is the last that came from the press previous to the lamented death of the author, professor stuart maintains that the book of proverbs was not wholly composed by solomon, but that it consists of a selection of the proverbial sayings that were current among the wise men of the hebrew nation. these were digested and arranged by solomon, and received his sanction by passing through his hands. most of the maxims are the offspring of sound common sense, of much experience, and of acute discrimination. they present a vivid picture of the internal hebrew man--of his genius, feelings, morals, industry, social condition, and, indeed, of the whole state of the hebrews, and their rank among the society of nations. the commentary by professor stuart is adapted to beginners in the hebrew study, giving minute attention to all the philological difficulties, whether in form, idiom, or syntax. it exhibits a profusion of grammatical and exegetical learning, a devoted study of the original text, and considerable analytic acumen. (published by m.w. dodd.) _the story of a soul_, by henry w. parker, is the title of an anniversary poem, read before a literary society of hamilton college, devoted to a retrospect of the supposed experience of a soul, and of the progress of society during the nineteenth century. it shows a lively imagination, a familiar acquaintance with human nature, and an uncommon fluency of expression. the alternation in the poem of grave reflections on the spiritual life, and touches of sarcastic humor on the current events of the day, gives a lively air to the composition, and well sustains the interest of the reader. (sold by evans and brittan.) lippincott, grambo, and co. have commenced the publication of a series of _cabinet histories_, embracing a volume for each state in the union. the work is intrusted to the charge of t.s. arthur, and w.h. carpenter, whose names may be taken as a guarantee that their task will be performed with exactness and fidelity, and that no sectarian, sectional, or party feelings will bias their judgment, or lead them to violate the integrity of history. it is intended to present a brief narrative of the domestic policy of each state; and, at the same time, to give a peculiar prominence to the personal history of the people, illustrating the progressive development of the social state from the rude forest life of the earlier day to the present condition of refinement and prosperity. the design of the series is excellent. if ably carried out, as we have no doubt it will be, it must prove an important contribution to the interests of popular education. we have already received the _histories of kentucky_ and of _georgia_, which are executed in a manner that furnishes the highest promise for the future volumes of the series. the style is marked by rare simplicity and clearness. the facts are well arranged, and apparently based on authentic evidence. a fine portrait of the veteran pioneer, daniel boone, embellishes the history of kentucky. the translation of mosheim's _commentaries on the state of christianity before the age of constantine_, by james murdock, d.d., is a valuable contribution to the literature of ecclesiastical history. this work is well known to the students of theology as one of great learning and research, and has not been superseded by the more elaborate and ambitious productions of a later period. dr. murdock's name is a sufficient assurance of the fidelity of the translation. (published by s. converse.) a new edition of madame pulszky's delightful _tales and traditions of hungary_ has been issued by j.s. redfield. they are full to overflowing of the genuine magyar spirit, presenting a series of rich and beautiful portraitures of the old hungarian life. in the prevailing interest which is now attached to the country of kossuth, this volume can not fail to find a welcome reception with the american public. _lays of the scottish cavaliers_, by william edmondstone aytoun. the brave martial spirit of these poems of the olden time is finely sustained by the ringing melody of their rhythm. combining a fervent admiration of the cavaliers with a devout hatred of the covenanters, the author has embodied his political feelings in resonant strains. the neat edition of his volume brought out by redfield will make him better known in this country. harper and brothers have published _notes on the book of revelation_, by rev. albert barnes, forming the eleventh volume of barnes's _notes on the new testament_. the character of this popular commentary is too well known to require any critical remarks. in the preface to the present volume, the author makes some interesting statements with regard to the progress of the work from its commencement to its completion. it was begun more than twenty years ago. it was intended only to comprise brief and simple notes on the gospels, for the use of bible classes and sunday-school teachers. contrary to the original plan of the author, his notes have been extended to eleven volumes, and embrace the whole of the new testament. they have been written entirely in the early hours of the morning, before nine o'clock, the rest of the day having been invariably devoted to other pursuits. in studying the apocalypse, without any pre-conceived theory as to its plan, mr. barnes discovered that the series of events recorded by gibbon bore a singular correspondence to the series of symbols made use of by the sacred writer. this fact presents a point of literary curiosity which we apprehend has escaped the notice of previous writers. the remarks upon it by mr. barnes are quite to the purpose: "the symbols were such as it might be supposed _would be used_, on the supposition that they were intended to refer to these events; and the language of mr. gibbon was often such as _he would have used_, on the supposition that he had designed to prepare a commentary on the symbols employed by john. it was such, in fact, that, if it had been found in a christian writer, professedly writing a commentary on the book of revelation, it would have been regarded by infidels as a designed attempt to force history to utter a language that should conform to a pre-determined theory in expounding a book full of symbols. so remarkable have these coincidences appeared to me in the course of this exposition, that it has almost seemed as if he had designed to write a commentary on some portions of this book, and i have found it difficult to doubt that that distinguished historian was raised up by an overruling providence to make a record of those events which would ever afterward be regarded as an impartial and unprejudiced statement of the evidences of the fulfillment of prophecy. the historian of the 'decline and fall of the roman empire' had no belief in the divine origin of christianity, but he brought to the performance of his work learning and talent such as few christian scholars have possessed. he is always patient in his investigations; learned and scholar-like in his references; comprehensive in his groupings, and sufficiently minute in his details; unbiased in his statements of facts, and usually cool and candid in his estimates of the causes of the events which he records; and, excepting his philosophical speculations, and his sneers at every thing, he has probably written the most candid and impartial history of the times that succeeded the introduction of christianity, that the world possesses, and even after all that has been written since his time, his work contains the best ecclesiastical history that is to be found. whatever use of it can be made in explaining and confirming the prophecies, will be regarded by the world as impartial and fair, for it is a result which he least of all contemplated, that he would ever be regarded as an expounder of the prophecies in the bible, or be referred to as vindicating their truth." _romanism at home_, by kirwan, is a controversial work against the roman catholic church, in a series of letters to the hon. chief justice taney. bold, vehement, and enthusiastic--of a stringent polemical tone--and abounding in striking local and personal details--it is adapted to make a strong impression, and can not fail to be extensively read. (harper and brothers.) * * * * * lord cockburn's _life of francis jeffrey_ is welcomed by the london press as one of the most charming books of the season. the correspondence is spoken of as being singularly delightful. "the generous humanity," says the _athenæum_, "the genial good-will, the ever-recurring play of the noblest affections of the heart endear to us the writer of these letters, and claim the sympathies of all who are alive to what is beautiful in human nature. they exhibit much of the vivacity and freshness of walpole, combined with the literary grace of chesterfield and the sweet tenderness of cowper. in their union of emotional feeling with refined sense and bright conception, their character is almost poetical. they are revelations of jeffrey's heart as well as of his head, and will make him known and loved by countless readers. his fascination as friend and companion can be easily understood after reading these effusions of a mind whose genial feeling could not be stifled or depressed by forensic or literary toil, or by the snows of age." * * * * * the ninth and tenth volumes of mr. grote's _history of greece_ are now out. they bring down the history from the period of the culmination of the spartan supremacy, to the accession of philip of macedon. "a very remarkable thing about these two volumes," says the _leader_, "is the amount of political teaching they contain, adapted to the present hour. the volumes are, we may say, pervaded with a lesson of contrast between the results of a government founded on despotism, and those of a government founded on free speech. invariably in greece, where free speech was permitted, and democratic spirit prevailed, the developments of society were better, greater, and more orderly, than where matters were managed by long continuations of military despotism, or occasional _coups d'état_." three or four volumes more will conclude this great work. * * * * * mr. gladstone has published the third volume of his translation of farini's _history of the roman state_. this volume carries on the story from the flight of the pope, to the landing of general oudinot at civita vecchia. "the narrative is interesting," says the _leader_, "but, like the two previous volumes, narrow and peevish in its spirit. one regrets more than ever, on reading these volumes, that margaret fuller's _history of the italian movement_ has been lost to the world; it would have told the story of the roman republic in so different a spirit from that of the crabbed farini, who, though he writes well enough, is precisely one of those men who would act like vinegar in any cause, souring all, and helping nothing. by-the-by, saffi, mazzini's young and gifted colleague in the triumvirate (one of the few men of whom even farini speaks well, and who is precisely the man to win golden opinions from all sorts of people, and what is more, to deserve them), is writing a _history of the roman revolution of - _. we believe part of it is already written, if not published by the italian press of switzerland." * * * * * mr. moxon has called in the _shelley papers_, in two volumes, published in january last, it having been discovered that the whole work was a collection of ingenious forgeries, deceiving alike publisher, editor, and public. the first suspicion raised of their genuineness was by a correspondent of the literary gazette drawing attention to the singular identity of whole paragraphs of some of the letters, with an article in the quarterly on "fine arts in florence" in , and contemporaneously, mr. palgrave discovered the embodiment of a whole article of his father's, contributed to the edinburgh review. this led to further examination and strict inquiry, and there appears at the present time, says the london journals, but little reason to doubt that the letters which were purchased at auctions for high prices can be traced to the "george gordon byron, esq.," whose projected publication in england, some years since, of some alleged secret unpublished papers of lord byron was prohibited. we believe it has not yet been stated, with reference to these forgeries, that they were made, not to impose on autograph collectors, for which purpose their value, in relation to the time and pains spent in their fabrication, would offer no inducement; but they were produced to authenticate a new memoir of lord byron, but this publication having failed, and the author falling into distress, was compelled to part with his alleged "original mss." * * * * * the _london critic_ says that the messrs. "routledge have presented to the british lovers of poetry the collected works of james russell lowell, one of the foremost in local fame of the poets of america, but who is less known in england than some of his brethren of lesser merit. this reprint, at a trifling price, will, we trust, introduce him to the better acquaintance of our readers, who can not but be pleased with the vivid imagination, the fruitful fancy, the exquisite transcripts of nature, and the lofty sentiment that pervades his productions." * * * * * we learn from the _athenæum_ that margaret fuller, on the eve of that visit to the continent which was to prove so eventful and disastrous, left in the hands of a friend in london a sealed packet, containing, it is understood, the journals which she kept during her stay in england. margaret fuller contemplated at that time a return to england at no very distant date; and the deposit of these papers was accompanied by an injunction that the packet should then be restored with unbroken seal into her own hands. the papers are likely to be of great interest, and were doubtless intended for publication; but the writer had peremptorily reserved the right of revision to herself, and forbidden the breaking of the seals, on a supposition which fate has now made impossible. the equity of the case under such circumstances demands only a reference to margaret fuller's literary executors. * * * * * lord john russell is engaged in the preparation of a life of _charles james fox_. the materials, collected by lord holland and by mr. allen, have been long since placed at his lordship's disposal, and the work might have been ready but for the public duties which occupy so much of his attention and time. * * * * * at a recent sale of books in london a few rarities were brought to the hammer. "the bokes of solomon," printed by w. copland, , a very rare little volume, sold for _l._; a copy of coverdale's bible, the edition of , but imperfect, sold for _l._; a manuscript book of "hours," with miniatures very prettily painted, sold for _l._ as if to prove that the days of bibliomania are not yet quite gone--a copy of "barnes's history of edward iii.," which in ordinary condition is worth about _s._, sold for the large sum of _l._ _s._, simply because it happened to be in "choice old blue morocco, the sides and back richly tooled." * * * * * the election to the vacant chair of greek in the university of edinburgh which took place on the d of march, was contested with uncommon zeal. up to a late period it seemed undecided which of the many able candidates for the office would win--but at last the choice lay between dr. william smith, dr. schmitz, prof. blackie, prof. macdowall, and mr. price. the election was ultimately decided by the lord provost giving a casting vote in favor of prof. blackie. in this gentleman the university has secured a man of genius, energy, and kindly feeling--and one well able to maintain its character for classical learning. * * * * * mr. dickens's _bleak house_ is producing quite a marked sensation in germany. half a dozen publishers at least announced the work several weeks since, and on the th of march the first number of _bleak house_ was to appear in half a dozen german translations. it remains to be seen what the german translators will do with the court of chancery and its technicalities. * * * * * there are now about five or six various translations of macaulay's 'history of england' published in germany. the number is likely to be increased by another translation, for which a brunswick book-seller has engaged the name of herr beseler the schleswig-holstein politician of the year . * * * * * barante has published his third volume of the _histoire de la convention rationale_, which comes down to the epoch of carrier, at nantes. * * * * * pierre leroux, who is now an exile in london, is about to deliver a course of lectures on the _history of socialism_. pierre leroux has not only the necessary erudition for the task, he has also the prestige of having intimately known the modern socialists. * * * * * the works of chamfort are collected into one octavo volume, with a preliminary essay by arsene houssaye. these writings abound in anecdotes, and sharp sentences, picturesque, ear-catching, brief, and suggestive phrases. * * * * * george sand has made another unsuccessful dramatic experiment, _pandolphe en vacances_, which distresses the admirers of her genius, who desire to see her renounce a stage to which that genius is clearly not adapted, in spite of _le champi_ and _claudie_. * * * * * in the _revue des deux mondes_ is commenced a skillful translation of mrs. norton's beautiful novel, _stuart of dunleath_, by emile forgues; and an intimation is given of this vein being actively worked. * * * * * no small sensation has been caused in paris by the discovery of the extraordinary forgeries of the shelley letters. the fact is, that the system of forging letters and manuscripts of distinguished personages is carried on to a large extent in that city: indeed it is as much a regular branch of business as the manufacture of pictures by the great masters is in italy. in germany similar frauds are practiced with great success. only a little while ago a gentleman purchased several letters purporting to be written by luther, every one of which it now appears is a forgery. in italy the same system is carried on. * * * * * the literary remains of the late anselm feuerbach, the most learned of the professors of criminal jurisprudence in germany, are about to be edited by his son, l. feuerbach, and published by c. wigand, of leipzig. * * * * * king max of bavaria has given a commission to m. halbig, the sculptor of munich, to model from the life a bust of schelling, the well-known german philosophical writer. * * * * * the admirers of german literature will be glad to learn that an attempt has been made in germany to register the enormous number of books and pamphlets which the germans themselves have published on their two great poets, goethe and schiller. a catalogue of the goethe literature in germany, from the year to , has been published by balde, at cassel, and in london by messrs. williams and norgate. the schiller literature, from to , is likewise announced by the same firm. * * * * * the literary remains of the late count platen-hallermunde, author of _the tower with seven gates_, _the romantic oedipus_, _the fateful fork_, and other works, which will always stand pre-eminent in german literature, as well as the poet's correspondence with count fugger, are now in the hands of dr. minkvitz, who is preparing them for publication. * * * * * the first volume of _the lives of the sovereigns of russia, from rurik to nicholas_, is announced as nearly ready in london. it is to be completed in three volumes, and to be printed uniformly with miss strickland's _queens of england_, with illustrations. the author, who is not unknown to fame, truly remarks, "it is a singular fact that there is no such work at present in the english language, and that we know, perhaps, less of "russia and the russians," than we do of some of the distant tribes of india. it does appear, therefore, that there is a blank in our historical library which requires filling up; such a publication, consequently, may be deemed a _desideratum_ in english literature." three leaves from punch. [illustration: first aristocratic butcher-boy.--"hullo, bill. don't mean to say yer've come down to a pony?" second ditto ditto.--"not dezactly! our cart is only gone a-paintin'."] [illustration: omnibus driver.--"reely, now! and so the _'lectric fluid_ takes a message between dover and calis. (inquiringly) pray, sir, wot's it like? is it any thing like beer, for example?"] [illustration: flunkey.--"apollo? hah! i dessay it's very cheap, but it ain't my ideer of a good figger!"] [illustration: ellen.--"oh, don't tease me to-day, charley; i'm not at all well!" charley.--"i tell you what it is, cousin--the fact is, you are in love! now, you take the advice of a fellow who has seen a good deal of that sort of thing, and don't give way to it!"] [illustration: mrs. smith.--"is mrs. brown in?" jane.--"no, mem, she's not at home." little girl.--"oh! what a horrid story, jane! mar's in the kitchen, helping cook!"] penalties. the penalty of buying cheap clothes, is the same as that of going to law, the certainty of losing your suit, and having to pay for it. the penalty of marrying is a mother-in-law. the penalty of remaining single, is having no one who "cares a button" for you, as is abundantly proved by the state of your shirts. the penalty of thin shoes, is a cold. the penalty of a pretty cook, is an empty larder. the penalty of stopping in paris, is being shot. the penalty of tight boots, is corns. the penalty of having a haunch of venison sent to you, is inviting a dozen friends to come and eat it. the penalty of popularity, is envy. the penalty of a baby, is sleepless nights. the penalty of interfering between man and wife, is abuse, frequently accompanied with blows, from both. the penalty of a godfather, is a silver knife, fork, and spoon. the penalty of kissing a baby, is half-a-crown (five shillings, if you are liberal) to the nurse. the penalty of a public dinner, is bad wine. the penalty of a legacy, or a fortune, is the sudden discovery of a host of poor relations you never dreamt of, and of a number of debts you had quite forgotten. the penalty of lending, is--with a book or an umbrella, the certain loss of it; with your name to a bill, the sure payment of it; and with a horse, the lamest chance of ever seeing it back again sound. the penalty of being a witness, is to be abused by the lawyers, snubbed by the judge, and laughed at by the spectators; besides having the general state of your wardrobe described in the papers next morning. [illustration: awful contortion of the face produced by the constant use of an eye-glass.] [illustration: rather severe. "shall i 'old your 'orse, sir?"] what i heard about myself in the exhibition. [illustration] i am the original of the "portrait of a gentleman," in the exhibition of last year. i had my likeness taken, because i had a great admiration for the original. i thought my face handsome, and my figure noble, if not elegant--i believed that i had a remarkably grand head. i prided myself on my eyes, not only on account of their color, which i took for a deep gray, but also for a lustre which i fancied them to emit, which i supposed was the fire of genius. i was persuaded that i had a roman nose and a finely chiseled mouth. sometimes i thought i resembled byron, at others shelley. it is true i could not conceal from myself that my proportions were rather massive than lofty, and that my legs were somewhat curved; but i imagined that these peculiarities imparted a stalwart manliness to my bearing. while sitting to the artist i composed my countenance into the most dignified and intellectual expression of which it was capable. i was represented in full dress, and i thought i presented the appearance of an apollo--perhaps a little too much developed--got up for an evening party. i was anxious that the public should share my gratification, and had the portrait sent to the exhibition, where it appeared on the catalogue as the "portrait of a gentleman." as soon as the exhibition was opened i went there, and stationed myself before my picture; a crowd was gathered around. i thought, at first, that they were admiring it as much as i did. i listened to their criticisms, and was undeceived. "'portrait of a gentleman!'" said one, "portrait of a snob!" and passed on. i was indignant. "what could possess that fellow; with his unmeaning face, fat paunch, and bandy legs, to have his picture taken?" inquired another. my head swam, i thought i should have fainted. "vulgarity personified;" "what a silly simper upon the face;" "what a self-satisfied smirk about the mouth," remarked a second, third, and fourth, as they cast their eyes upon the picture. "the head is like a dumpling," said a phrenological-looking visitor. "why does he show that fat hand so conspicuously?" asked a sixth. i was represented standing with one leg crossed before the other, my hand resting upon a book--which attitude i thought harmonized with my remarkably intellectual countenance. "the figure would pass for sancho panza, but the face is too stupid," said a seventh. by this time i was almost stupefied with humiliation; but the worst was yet to come. among those who were contemplating the portrait was a lady--the loveliest, i think, i ever saw. "poor fellow!" said she, at last, with a sigh, "how dreadful it must be for him to have those horrid green eyes!" i could bear no more. i rushed from the exhibition, and slunk to my rooms. what i suffered that night i can not describe. but the next day i recovered my senses; sent for my picture from the exhibition; and am now reconciled to the fact that i am a very ugly-featured, bandy-legged punchy little fellow, not the least in the world like an apollo. [illustration: noble lord.--"here's this confounded newspaper speaking the truth again. ah! they manage these things better in france."] [illustration: interior of a french court of justice, .] spring fashions. [illustration: figures and .--ball and visiting toilet.] may is here with its bursting buds and early flowers, but its fickleness overmatches that of its imitator, fashion, and foils all her attempts at adaptation of costume for the carriage or the promenade. to-day the sun smiles as in leafy june; to-morrow cold, gray clouds lower upon the brow of the firmament, and chilling winds chase the zephyrs back to the orange groves of the south. to-day a light dress is seasonable; to-morrow a cloak might not be uncomfortable. it is difficult for the modiste to designate the best costume for promenade; and to avoid error, we will confine our report to fashion in the parlor, drawing-room, and saloon. fig. represents a pretty dinner or visiting toilet. the head-dress is composed of blonde, ribbon and white satin, velvet ribbon and white feathers, and is worn very backward on the head. the blonde forms a round with scalloped edge, covered with figures. it is gathered in the middle, and the gathers are concealed under a cross bow formed of two loops of velvet and two of white satin, two long ends of white ribbon (about fifteen inches) hang down behind. on each side there are two white feathers. the upper one is laid backward, and the lower one comes forward. from between the two proceed two velvet bows and a loose end. this little pompadour cap is the same on both sides. the ribbons of the crown are no. ; those of the sides no. . dress of _moire antique_, ornamented with narrow velvet ribbons, about three-eighths of an inch wide. body plain, high, opening in front, edged with two narrow velvets, the first three-eighths of an inch wide. the opening is confined by five _moire_ bands, each with a bow of the same. the sleeves, rather short, are bordered with five velvet ribbons. the skirt is trimmed with two series of velvets. the first begins six inches from the bottom, and is composed of twenty rows. the second begins six inches above the other, and contains fifteen. the rest of the skirt is plain. the under-sleeves and habit-shirt are lace. fig. is an elegant ball toilet. hair waved and ornamented with a crown of small parti-colored tulips; it inclines to the mary stuart form on the head, and increases in size toward the bottom. dress of taffeta with _tulle_ tunic and bertha. the body is ornamented with a bertha, open in front, round behind; this bertha, of _tulle_ in small puffs, is trimmed with clouded pompadour white ribbon, no. . they are placed in such a manner as to inclose the bertha as if in a ring. the _tulle_ skirt is also tucked up and held by pompadour ribbons, no. , which are set as if they raised it and held it in long loops. at the waist, these ribbons are plaited in with the plaits of the skirt. the _tulle_ skirt is puffed in very small puffs. in the middle of the body are placed bows of pompadour ribbon, no. . on the left side there is a beautiful fall of tulips with foliage; the silk skirt is studded with bows of pompadour ribbon, no. . [illustration: fig. .--visiting dress.] fig. represent a beautiful home or visiting toilet. velvet vest and skirt; waistcoat, watered silk. the waistcoat reaches high, and is buttoned from top to bottom. the vest sits close behind and is open in front; it has a lapel turning up from the bottom, and trimmed with a plaid satin ribbon, having a velvet stripe in it. the sleeve is short, and ends in a plaid cuff, open at the sides. the edges of the lapel and the cuff are bound with a narrow black velvet. the skirt is trimmed with three rows of plaid ribbon, no. ; the lowest is placed two inches from the edge. the second and third are at intervals of four inches from each other. a black velvet, no. , is laid about half an inch from each side of the ribbon. the collar is cambric, turning down flat, rounded at bottom. under the collar a narrow black satin cravat is worn. the cambric under-sleeves are plaited small, and form a puff, confined by a narrow plain wristband, and terminated at the hand by a plain open _manchette_, rounded off at the corners, and held together by two jewel buttons connected with a chain. this sleeve is very much like the sleeves of a gentleman's shirt. a matilda cap, of blonde. it is set very backward on the head; the crown is very small, and is drawn by a white watered ribbon, which is tied on one side, where it hangs in two ends. a branch of moss roses springs out of the knot. the band of the cap, which is made of indented blonde, is gathered, but short in front, whereas behind it is gathered and long. [illustration: fig. .--ball toilet.] figure represents a portion of an elegant ball dress. coiffure: hair in bandeaux, wreath of roses, small bunches of grapes, and satin ribbons with gold figures. under-dress, white satin; the outer one with two _tulle_ skirts, embroidered in spots with silk, and trimmed with ribbons. the satin body is rather low in front, and inclining to the v shape; the _tulle_ body is open in front down to the waist; it is confined by four small cords of silk and gold, which are tied in the middle, and terminate in small silk and gold tassels. the lower one goes round the waist, like a sash, and the two tassels fall at unequal distances rather low down the skirt. the _tulle_ body is gathered at the waist, in front, and at the bottom of the back. it is also gathered in the shoulder seam. two ribbons are sewed on the edge of the body, the second disappears in the gathers. the satin sleeves are even and short; those of _tulle_ are open at the side and held by a knotted cord. the large _tulle_ skirt is trimmed at bottom with five ribbons. the first is gathered at the waist and arranged so as to drape in front and reach down lower at the sides. the bottom of the tunic is trimmed with three ribbons. caps.--those which are composed of english point-lace, valenciennes, or mechlin, are principally decorated with long streamers, or narrow ribbons, about two inches wide, forming a mass of _petit coques_, the ends of which being _frisotés_, droop in a similar way to the _gerbés_. sometimes these narrow ribbons are colored and intermixed with various shades, which gives them the name of the _touffes à la jardinière_. pretty ones are formed of brussels point, and decorated with bunches of narrow gauze ribbon, green, pink, blue, white, brown, yellow, &c, twisted so as to form clusters upon each side of the bands. the little caps of the present day are mostly made in a slight point just over the forehead, where it comes a little forward, and rises upon each side just over the temples. these caps are made rather long at the ears. head-dresses.--several very charming ones are now worn, formed of black lace, and ornamented upon the side with clusters of black velvet ribbon, richly _broché_ in gold, and having long drooping ends floating over the neck. we have also remarked several very piquant coiffures in velvet, decorated with gold sequins, so much in fashion now; while others of a lighter description are of _tulle_, embroidered with gold, and interlaced with chains of sequins, falling upon each side of the neck, and decidedly making the most aristocratic head-dress of the season. the wreaths of flowers now intended for our young _élégantes_, are also extremely pretty, some being formed of small bell-flowers, which droop in a single row, quite over the top of the forehead, while others have long sprays falling over the back part of the head, having a very novel effect. transcriber's notes: words surrounded by _ are italicized. obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "beehives" and "bee-hives"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "bedoueen" and "bedouin"). pg , word "not" removed (is [not] mentioned). pg , word "have" removed (who have [have] dared to think). pg , sentence "(to be continued.)" added at the end of article. pg , three occurrences of word "courtesy" changed into "curtsey" (a smile and curtsey). file was produced from scans of public domain material at the cornell making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine. no. xxix.--october, .--vol. v. memoirs of the holy land.[ ] by jacob abbott. the dead sea. sodom and gomorrah. how strongly associated in the minds of men, are the ideas of guilt and ruin, unspeakable and awful, with the names of sodom and gomorrah. the very words themselves seem deeply and indelibly imbued with a mysterious and dreadful meaning. [ ] entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. the account given in the sacred scriptures of the destruction of these cities, and of the circumstances connected with it, has, perhaps, exercised a greater influence in modifying, or, rather, in forming, the conception which has been since entertained among mankind in respect to the character of god, than any other one portion of the sacred narrative. the thing that is most remarkable about it is, that while in the destruction of the cities we have a most appalling exhibition of the terrible energy with which god will punish confirmed and obdurate wickedness, we have in the attendant circumstances of the case, a still more striking illustration of the kind, and tender, and merciful regard with which he will protect, and encourage, and sustain those who are attempting, however feebly, to please him, and to do his will. we are told elsewhere in the scriptures, didactically, that god is love, and also that he is a consuming fire. in this transaction we see the gentleness and the tenderness of his love, and the terrible severity of his retributive justice, displayed together. let us examine the account somewhat in detail. * * * * * "and the lord said, because the cry of sodom and gomorrah is great, and because their sin is very grievous, "i will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, i will know."--_gen._ xviii. , . * * * * * there is a certain dramatic beauty in the manner in which the designs and intentions of jehovah are represented in such cases as this, under the guise of words spoken. this rhetorical figure is adopted very frequently by the hebrew writers, being far more spirited and graphic than the ordinary mode of narration, and more forcible in its effect upon common minds that are not accustomed to abstractions and generalizations. thus, instead of saying, and god determined to create man, it is, and god said, i will make man. in the same manner, where a modern historian in speaking of the discovery of america would have written: columbus, having learned that trunks of trees were brought by western winds to the shores of europe, inferred that there was land in that direction, and resolved to go in search of it, a hebrew writer would have said, and it was told to columbus, that when western winds had long been blowing, trees were thrown up upon the european shores; and columbus said, i will take vessels and men and go and search for the land whence these trees come. the verses which we have quoted above, accordingly, though in form ascribing words to jehovah, in reality are meant only to express, in a manner adapted to the conceptions of men, the cautious and deliberate character of the justice of god. "i have heard the cry of sodom and gomorrah, the cry of grievous violence and guilt, and i will go down and see if the real wickedness that reigns there, is as great as would seem to be denoted by the cry. and if not, i will know." in other words, god would not condemn hastily. he would not judge from appearances, since appearances might be fallacious. he would cautiously inquire into all the circumstances, and even in the case of wickedness so enormous as that of sodom and gomorrah, he would carefully ascertain whether there were any considerations that could extenuate or soften it. how happy would it be for mankind, if we all, in judging our neighbors, would follow the example of forbearance and caution here presented to us. it was undoubtedly with reference to its influence as an example for us, that the sacred writer has thus related the story. in the same manner, how strikingly the narrative which is given of the earnest intercession made by abraham, to save the cities, and of the apparent yielding of the almighty judge, again and again, to humble prayers in behalf of sinners, offered by a brother sinner, illustrates the long-suffering and the forbearance of god--his reluctance to punish, and his readiness to save. there is a special charm in the exhibition which is made of these divine attributes in this case, assuming the form as they do of a divine sympathy with the compassionate impulses of man. the great and almighty judge allows himself to be led to deal mercifully with sinners through the pity and the prayers of a brother sinner, deprecating the merited destruction. the intercession of abraham was after all unavailing, for there were not ten righteous men to be found to fulfill the condition on which he had obtained the promise that the city should be spared. the narrative, however, of the intercession, the final result of it in the promise of god to spare the whole monstrous mass of wickedness, if only ten righteous men could be found in the city, and the measures which he adopted, when it was ascertained that there were not ten to be found, to warn and rescue all that there were, give to the whole story a great power in bringing home to the hearts of men, a sense of the compassion of god, and the regard which he feels for human sympathies and desires. there is no portion of the sacred scriptures which has more encouraged and strengthened the spirit of prayer, than the narration of the circumstances that preceded the destruction of sodom and gomorrah. situation of the plain. sodom and gomorrah are described as the cities of the plain, and this plain is spoken of as the plain of jordan. and yet the place where the cities are supposed to have stood, is near the southern end of the dead sea, while the jordan empties into the northern end of it. if, therefore, the plain on which the cities stood was the plain of the jordan, in the time of lot, it would seem that the sea itself could not have existed then, but that the river must have continued its flow, beyond the point which now forms the southern termination of the sea. the sea as at present existing, is bounded on both sides by ranges of lofty and precipitous mountains, which lie parallel to each other, and extend north and south for several hundred miles. the space which lies between these ranges, forms a long and narrow ravine, very deeply depressed below the ordinary level of the earth's surface, as if it were an enormous crevasse, with the bed of it filled up to a certain level, in some places with water and in others with alluvial soil, either fertile or barren according to the geological structure of the different sections of it. this remarkable ravine divides itself naturally into five sections. the first, reckoning from north to south, contains the sources of the jordan, and the lakes merom and tiberias. the second is the valley of the jordan. here the bottom of the ravine consists of a long and narrow plain of fertile land, with the river meandering through it. the third section is the bed of the dead sea. the waters here fill the whole breadth of the valley so completely, that in many places it is impossible to pass along the shore between the mountains and the sea. the water is deepest near the northern part of the sea, and grows more and more shallow toward the southern part, until at length the land rises above the level of the surface of the water, and then the bottom of the ravine presents again a plain of land, instead of a sheet of water. this is the fourth section. it extends, perhaps, a hundred miles, rising gradually all the way, and forming in summer the bed of a small stream which flows northward to the dead sea. this part of the great fissure is called the valley of arabah.[ ] at length the level of the bottom of the valley reaches its highest point, and the land descends again to the south, forming the fifth or southern-most section of the vast crevasse. the waters of the red sea flow up some hundred miles into this section, forming the eastern one of the two forks into which that sea divides itself, at its northernmost extremity. [ ] wadi arabah. it will be seen thus that it is at the dead sea that the depression of the valley is the greatest. in fact, the bed of the valley descends in both directions toward the dead sea for a hundred miles. some writers have supposed that the whole of this depression was produced at the time of the destruction of sodom and gomorrah, and that previous to that time, the jordan continued its course through the whole length of the valley to the red sea, being bordered throughout this whole distance by fertile plains extending on either hand from its banks to the base of the mountains; and that it was on this plain, near the place where now lies the southern extremity of the dead sea, that the cities sodom and gomorrah, admah and zeboim, were built. in adopting this hypothesis we must suppose that the destruction of the cities was attended with some volcanic convulsion, by which all that part of the valley was sunk so far below its natural level that the river could no longer continue its course. the waters then, we must imagine, gradually filled up the deep bed so suddenly made for them, until the surface became so extended that the evaporation from it was equal to the supply from the river; and thus the sea was formed, and its size and configuration permanently determined. others supposed that the sea existed from the most ancient times substantially as at present, occupying the whole breadth of the valley, from side to side, though not extending so far to the southward as now. on this supposition the cities destroyed were situated on a fertile plain which then bordered the southern extremity of the sea, but which is now submerged by its waters. it is no longer possible to determine which of these hypotheses, if either, is correct. a much greater physical change is implied in the former than in the latter supposition, but perhaps the latter is not on that account any the less improbable. when the question is of an actual sinking of the earth, whether we suppose the causes to be miraculous or natural, it is as easy to conceive of a great subsidence, as of a small one. the enlargement of a sea, whether by the agency of an earthquake, or by the direct power of god, is as great a wonder as the creation of it would be. the destruction of the cities. the account given by the sacred writers of the destruction of sodom and gomorrah is this. lot was dwelling, at the time, in sodom. he was warned by the messengers of god, that the city was to be destroyed, and was directed to make his escape from it with all his family. this warning was given to lot in the night. he went out immediately to the houses of his sons-in-law, to communicate the awful tidings to them and to summon them to flee. they however did not believe him. they ridiculed his fears and refused to accompany him in his flight. lot returned to his house much troubled and perplexed. he could not go without his daughters, and his daughters could not go without their husbands. the two messengers urged him not to delay. they entreated him to take his daughters with him and go, before the fated hour should arrive. finally they took him by the hand, and partly by persuasion and partly by force, they succeeded in bringing him out of the city. his wife and his daughters accompanied him. his sons-in-law, it seems, were left behind. [illustration: the departure of lot from sodom.] it was very early in the morning when lot came forth from the city--not far from the break of day. as soon as he was without the walls, the messengers urged him not to tarry there or imagine that he was yet safe, but to press forward with all speed, until he reached the mountain. "escape for thy life," said they "look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain lest thou be consumed." lot was, however, afraid to go into the mountains. they were wild and desolate. his wife and his daughters were with him and it was yet dark. to take so helpless a company into such solitudes at such a time, seemed awful to him, and he begged to be permitted to retire to zoar. zoar was a small town on the eastern side of the plain, just at the foot of the mountains, at a place where a lateral valley opened, through which a stream descended to the plain. lot begged that he might be permitted to go to zoar, and that that city might be spared. his prayer was granted. a promise was given him that zoar should be saved, and he was directed to proceed thither without delay. he accordingly went eastward across the plain and reached zoar, just as the sun was rising. his wife, instead of going diligently on with her husband, lingered and loitered on the way, and was lost. the words are, "she became a pillar of salt." precisely what is intended by this expression is somewhat uncertain; at any rate she was destroyed, and lot escaped with his daughters alone into zoar. immediately afterward sodom and gomorrah were overwhelmed. the description of the catastrophe is given in the following words: "the lord rained upon sodom and gomorrah brimstone and fire from the lord out of heaven. "and he overthrew those cities and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities and that which grew upon the ground. "and abraham got up early in the morning to the place where he stood before the lord: "and he looked toward sodom and gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace."--_gen._ xix. , , , . [illustration: the plain.] philosophizing on the destruction of sodom and gomorrah. there has been a great deal of philosophical speculation on the nature of the physical causes which were called into action in the destruction of these cities, and of the plain on which they stood. these speculations, however, are to be considered as ingenious and curious rather than useful, since they can not lead to any very tangible results. we can, in fact, know nothing positive of the phenomenon except what the sacred narrative records. and yet there is a certain propriety in making philosophical inquiries in respect to the nature even of miraculous effects, for we observe in respect to almost all of the miracles recorded in the old testament, that, though they transcend the power of nature, still, in character, they are always in a certain sense in harmony with it. thus the plagues which were brought upon the egyptians, in the time of pharaoh, are the ordinary calamities to which the country was subject, following each other in a rapid and extraordinary succession, and developed in an aggravated and unusual form. the children of israel, in their journeys through the desert, were fed miraculously on manna. there is a natural manna found in those regions as an ordinary production, from which undoubtedly the type and character of the miraculous supply were determined. the waters of the red sea were driven back at the time when the israelites were to cross it, by the blowing of a strong east wind. the blowing of a wind has a natural tendency to drive back such waters, and to lay the shoals and shallows of a river bare. the effects produced in all these cases were far greater than the causes would naturally account for, but they were all, so to speak, in the same direction with the tendency of the causes. they transcended the ordinary course of nature; still, in character, they were in harmony with its laws. it is right and proper for us, therefore, where a miraculous effect is described, to look into the natural laws related to it, for the sake of observing whatever of analogy or conformity between the causes and effects may really appear. with reference to such analogies, the character and the physical constitution of the gorge in which the dead sea lies, has excited great interest in every age. the valley has been generally considered as of volcanic formation, though it is somewhat doubtful how far it is strictly correct thus to characterize it, since no signs of lava or of extinct craters appear in any part of it. the whole region, however, is subject to earthquakes, and many substances that are usually considered as volcanic productions are found here and there along the valley, especially near the southern extremity of the dead sea. one of the most remarkable of these substances is bitumen, a hard and inflammable mineral which has been found, from time to time, in all ages, on the shores of the sea. some writers have supposed that the "pits," which are referred to in the passage, "and the vale of siddim was full of slime pits," were pits of liquified bitumen or asphaltum,--that the plain of sodom was composed in a great degree of these and similar inflammable substances--that they were set on fire by lightning from heaven or by volcanic ignition from below, and that thus the plain itself on which the cities stood was consumed and destroyed. others suppose that under the influence of some great volcanic convulsion, attended, as such convulsions often are, by thunderings and lightnings--the brimstone and fire out of heaven, referred to in the sacred record--a sinking, or subsidence of the land at the bottom of the valley, took place; and that the waters of the jordan overflowed and filled the cavity, thus forming, or else greatly enlarging the dead sea. that the waters of the sea now flow where formerly a tract of fertile land extended, seems to be implied in the passage, gen. xiv. , in which it is stated that certain kings assembled their forces, "in the vale of siddim which is the salt sea." the meaning is undoubtedly as if the writer had said, the armies were gathered at a place which was then the vale of siddim, but which is now the salt sea. the dead sea in the middle ages. after the destruction of sodom and gomorrah, the valley of the dead sea seemed to be forsaken of god, and to be abhorred and shunned by man, so that it remained for a great many centuries, the very type and symbol of solitude, desolation, and death. a few wild arabs dwelt along its shores, building their rude and simple villages in the little dells that open among the mountains that border it, and feeding their camels on the scanty herbage which grew in them. now and then some party of crusaders, or some solitary pilgrim travelers, descended the valley from the fords of the jordan, till they reached the sea--or looked down upon it from some commanding position among the mountains, on the eastern or western sides--and caravans or beasts of burden were accustomed to go to its southern shores to procure salt for the people of the interior. through these and other similar channels, vague and uncertain tidings of the deadly influences of the sea and of the awful solitude and desolation which reigned around it, came out, from time to time, to more frequented regions, whence they spread in strange and exaggerated rumors throughout the civilized world. it was said that the waters of the sea filled the gloomy valley which they occupied with influences so pestiferous and deadly that they were fatal to every species of life. no fish could swim in them, no plant could grow upon their shores. it was death for a man to bathe in them, or for a bird to fly over them; and even the breezes which blew from them toward the land, blighted and destroyed all the vegetation that they breathed upon. the surface and margin of the water, instead of being adorned with verdant islands, or fringed with the floating vegetation of other seas, was blackened with masses of bitumen, that were driven hither and thither by the winds, or was bordered with a pestiferous volcanic scum; while all the approaches to the shores in the valley below were filled with yawning pits of pitchy slime, which engulfed the traveler in their horrid depths, or destroyed his life by their poisonous and abominable exhalations. in a word, the valley of the dead sea was for two thousand years regarded as an accursed ground, from which the wrath of god, continually brooding over it, sternly excluded every living thing. within the last half century, however, many scientific travelers have visited the spot, and have brought back to the civilized world more correct information in respect to the natural history of the valley. burckhardt's visit to the valley of arabah. one of the earliest of the scientific travelers, to whom we have alluded, was john lewis burckhardt, who spent several years, in the early part of the present century, in exploring the countries around the southeastern shores of the mediterranean sea, under the auspices of a society established in london, called the association for promoting the discovery of the interior parts of africa. burckhardt prepared himself for his work, by taking up his residence for several years in aleppo, and in other oriental cities, for the purpose of studying the arabic language, and making himself perfectly familiar with the manners and customs of the people, so that in traveling through the countries which he was intending to explore, he might pass for a native, and thus be allowed to go where he pleased without molestation. he succeeded perfectly in attaining this object. he acquired the arabic language, assumed the arabic dress, and learned to accommodate himself, in all respects, to the manners and customs of the country. he thus passed without hindrance or suspicion where no known european or christian would have been allowed to go. [illustration: the valley of arabah.] burckhardt explored the valley of arabah, which extends from the dead sea to the red sea, forming, as has already been said, a southern continuation of the great jordan gorge. he was, in fact, the first to bring the existence of this southern valley to the notice of the civilized world. the valley of the jordan, as he describes it, widens about jericho, where the hills which border it, join the chains of mountains which inclose the dead sea. at the southern extremity of the sea they again approach each other, leaving between them a valley or ghor, similar in form to the northern ghor, through which the jordan flows; though the southern valley, from want of water, is a desert, while the jordan and its tributaries make the other a fertile plain. in the southern ghor, the rivulets which descend from the mountains are lost in the sand and gravel which form their beds, long before they reach the valley below. the valley itself, therefore, is entirely without water, and is, consequently, barren and desolate. the whole plain, as burckhardt viewed it, presented the appearance of an expanse of shifting sands, the surface varied with innumerable undulations and low hills. a few trees grow here and there in the low places, and at the foot of the rocks which line the valley; but the depth of the sand, and the total want of water in the summer season, preclude the growth of every species of herbage. a few bedouin tribes encamp in the valley in the winter, when the streams from the mountains being full, a sufficient supply of water is produced to flow down into the valley, causing a few shrubs to grow, on which the sheep and goats can feed. burckhardt and his party were an hour and a half in crossing the valley. it was in the month of august that they made the tour, and they found the heat almost intolerable. there was not the slightest appearance of a road or of any other work of man at the place where they crossed it. still they met with no difficulty in prosecuting their journey, for the sand, though deep, was firm, and the camels walked over it without sinking. in the various journeys which burckhardt made in these solitary regions, he carefully noted all that he saw, and copious reports of his observations were afterward published by the society in whose service he was engaged. the only instrument which he had, however, for making observations, was a pocket compass, and this he was obliged to conceal in the most careful manner from his arab attendants, for fear of betraying himself to them. if they had seen such an instrument in his possession, they would not only have suspected his true character, but would have believed the compass to be an instrument of magic, and would have been overwhelmed with superstitious horror at the sight of it. accordingly, burckhardt was compelled, not only to keep his compass in concealment, as he journeyed, but also to resort to a great variety of contrivances and devices to make observations with it without being seen. sometimes, when riding on horseback, he would stop for a moment in the way, and watching an opportunity when the attention of his companions was turned in another direction, would hastily glance at his compass unseen, covering it, while he did so, beneath his wide arabian cloak. when riding upon a camel he could not adopt this method, for a single camel in a caravan can not be induced to stop while the train is going on. to meet this emergency, the indefatigable traveler learned to dismount and mount again without arresting the progress of the animal. he would descend to the ground, and straying away for a moment into a copse of bushes, or behind some angle of a rock, would crouch down, take out his compass, ascertain the required bearing, make a note of it secretly in a little book which he carried for the purpose in the pocket of his vest, and then returning to the camel, would climb up to his seat and ride on as before. it was by such means as these that the existence and the leading geographical features of the valley of arabah were first made known to the christian world. robinson's visit to en-gedi. edward robinson is a distinguished american philosopher and scholar, who has devoted a great deal of attention to the geography and history of palestine, and whose researches and explorations have perhaps accomplished more in throwing light upon the subject, than those of any other person, whether of ancient or modern times. he has enjoyed very extraordinary facilities for accomplishing his work; for, in his character, and in the circumstances in which he has been placed, there have been combined, in a very remarkable degree, all the qualifications, and all the opportunities necessary for the successful prosecution of it. having been devoted, during the greater portion of his life, to the pursuit of philological studies, he has acquired a very accurate knowledge of the languages, as well as of the manners and customs of the east; and, being endued by nature with a temperament in which great firmness and great steadiness of purpose are combined with a certain quiet and philosophical calmness and composure, and a quick and discriminating apprehension with caution, prudence, and practical good sense, he is very eminently qualified for the work of an oriental explorer. in the year , he made an extended tour, or, rather, series of tours, in the holy land, a very minute and interesting report of which he afterward gave to the world. he is now, in , making a second journey there; and the christian world are looking forward, with great interest, to the result of it. [illustration: map of the dead sea.] during robinson's first tour in palestine, he made an excursion from jerusalem to the western shores of the dead sea, where he visited a spot which is marked by a small tract of fertile ground, under the cliffs on the shore, known in ancient times as en-gedi, but called by the arabs of the present day ain jidy. from jerusalem he traveled south to hebron, and thence turning to the east, he traversed the mountains through a succession of wild and romantic passes which led him gradually toward the sea. the road conducted him at length into the desolate and rocky region called in ancient times the wilderness of en-gedi, the place to which david retreated when pursued by the deadly hostility of saul. it was here that the extraordinary occurrences took place that are narrated in sam. xxiv. david, in endeavoring to escape from his enemy, hid in a cave. saul, in pursuing him, came to the same cave, and being wearied, lay down and went to sleep there. while he was asleep, david, coming out, secretly cut off the skirt of his robe, without attempting to do him any personal injury; thus showing conclusively that he bore him no ill-will. robinson found the region full of caves, and the scenery corresponded, in all other respects, with the allusions made to it in the scripture narrative. [illustration: caves of en-gedi.] view of the sea. as our traveler and his party journeyed on toward the sea, they found the country descending continually, and as they followed the road down the valleys and ravines through which it lay, they imagined that they had reached the level of the sea, long before they came in sight of its shores. at length, however, to their astonishment, they came suddenly out upon the brow of a mountain, from which they looked down into a deep and extended valley where the broad expanse of water lay, fifteen hundred feet below them. the surprise which they experienced at finding the sea at so much lower a level than their estimate made it, illustrates the singular accuracy of robinson's ideas in respect to the topography of the country which he was exploring; for, if the dead sea had been really at the same level with the mediterranean, as was then generally supposed to be the case, it would have presented itself to the party of travelers precisely as they had expected to find it. the unlooked for depth was owing to a very extraordinary depression of the valley, the existence and the measure of which has since been ascertained. robinson and his companions, from the summit of a small knoll which lay on one side of their path, looked down upon the vast gulf beneath them with emotions of wonder and awe. it was the dead sea which they saw extended before them. there it lay, filling the bottom of its vast chasm, and shut in on both sides by ranges of precipitous mountains, whose steep acclivities seemed sometimes to rise directly from the water, though here and there they receded a little from the shore, so as to leave a narrow beach beneath the rocks below. from the point where our observers stood the whole southern half of the sea was exposed to view. the northern part was partly concealed by a precipitous promontory, called ras mersed, which rose abruptly from the shore a little north of their position. the southern part of the sea, as viewed from this point, was remarkable for the numerous shoals and sand bars which appeared projecting in many places from the shore, forming long and low points and peninsulas of sandy land. there was one very large and remarkable peninsula of higher land, in the southeast part of the sea. the position and configuration of this peninsula may be seen upon the map. it is formed in some respect like a human foot, with the heel toward the sea. of course, the ankle of the foot is the isthmus which connects the peninsula with the main land. the length of this peninsula, from north to south, is five or six miles. our observers, from their lofty position at en-gedi, looked down upon it, and could trace almost the whole of its outline. north of it, too, there was a valley, which opened up among the mountains to the eastward, called the valley of kerak. at the head of this valley, several miles from the shore of the sea, lies the town of kerak, a place sometimes visited by pilgrims and travelers, who pass that way along a road which traverses that part of the country on a line parallel to the shore of the sea. the course of the valley was such that the position of our observers on the mountain at en-gedi commanded a full view of the whole extent of it. they could even see the town of kerak, with its ancient castle on a rock--far up near the summit of the mountain. it is in the lower part of this valley, a little to the eastward of the isthmus which has been already described, that the town of zoar stood, as it is supposed, where lot sought refuge at the time of the destruction of sodom and gomorrah. the pass. after remaining on the cliff about three quarters of an hour, to observe and to record every thing worthy of notice in the extended view before them, the party began to go down the pass to the shore. the descent was frightful, the pathway having been formed by zigzags down the cliff, the necessary width for the track having been obtained, sometimes by cutting into the face of the rock, and sometimes by means of rude walls built from below. as they looked back up the rocks after they had descended, it seemed impossible to them that any road could have been formed there--and yet so skillfully had the work been planned and executed, that the descent, though terrific, was accomplished without any serious difficulty. in fact, the road was so practicable, that loaded camels sometimes passed up and down. one of mr. robinson's companions had crossed the heights of lebanon and the mountains of persia, and he himself had traversed all the principal passes of the alps, but neither of them had ever met with a pass so difficult and dangerous as this. the way was really dangerous as well as difficult. an arab woman, not long before the time of robinson's visit, in descending the road, had fallen off over the brink of the precipice to the rocks below. she was, of course, killed by the fall. [illustration: the descent.] after descending for about three quarters of an hour, the party reached a sort of dell, where a copious and beautiful fountain, springing forth suddenly from a recess in the rock, formed at once an abundant stream, that flowed tumultuously down a narrow ravine toward the sea, still four hundred feet below. this fount was the ain jidy, the word ain signifying fountain in the arabic tongue. the meaning of the whole name is the _fountain of the kid_. the course of the stream in its descent from its source was hidden from view by a luxuriant thicket of trees and shrubs which grew along its bed, nourished by the fertilizing influence of the waters. the party halted at the spring, and pitched their tents, determining to make their encampment at this spot with a view of leaving their animals here and going down on foot to the shore below. they had originally intended not to go up the pass again, but to proceed to the northward along the shore of the sea, having been informed that they could do so. they now learned, however, that there was no practicable passage along the shore, and that they must reascend the mountain in order to continue their journey. they accordingly determined, for the purpose of saving the transportation of their baggage up and down, to encamp at the fountain. while pitching their tents, an alarm was given, that some persons were coming down the pass, and, on looking upward, they saw at the turns of the zigzag, on the brow of the precipice far above, two or three men, mounted and armed with guns. the party were for a moment alarmed, supposing that the strangers might be robbers. their true character, however, very soon appeared; for, as they drew near, they were found to be a troop of laboring peasants of the neighborhood, mounted on peaceful donkeys, and coming down to the shore in search of salt; and so the alarm ended in a laugh. the party of peasants stopped a short time at the fountain to rest, and then continued their descent to the shore. they gathered the salt, which they came to procure, on the margin of the sea; for the waters of the sea are so impregnated with saline solutions, that whenever pools of it are evaporated by the sun, along the shore, inflorescences and incrustations remain, which can be easily gathered. after a time, the train of donkeys, bearing their heavy burdens, went toiling up the steep ascent again, and disappeared. the shore of the sea. after remaining for some time at the encampment, robinson and his companions set out at five o'clock, to go down to the shore. the declivity was still steep, though less so than in the pass above. the ground was fertile, and bore many plants and trees, and the surface of it appeared to have been once terraced for tillage and gardens. at one place, near the foot of the descent, were the ruins of an ancient town. from the base of the declivity, there was a rich and fertile plain which lay sloping gradually nearly half a mile to the shore. the bed of the brook could be traced across this plain to the sea, though at the season of this visit, the waters which the fountain supplied, copious as they appeared where they first issued from the rock, were absorbed by the earth long before they reached the shore. the rivulet, therefore, of ain jidy is the most short-lived and transitory of streams. it breaks forth suddenly from the earth at its fountain, and then, after tumbling and foaming for a short distance over its rocky bed, it descends again into the ground, disappearing as suddenly and mysteriously as it came into being. the plain which this evanescent stream thus gave up its life to fertilize, was all under cultivation at the time that robinson visited it, being divided into gardens, which belonged to a certain tribe of wandering arabs. this tribe were, however, not now encamped here, but had gone away to a tract of ground belonging to them in another part of the country, having left only a few sentinels to watch the fruits that were growing in the gardens. robinson and his party went across the plain, and finally came to the margin of the sea, approaching it at last over a bank of pebbles which lined the shore, and formed a sort of ridge of sand and shingle, six or eight feet higher than the level of the water. the slope of these pebbles, on the seaward side, was covered with saline incrustations. the water had a greenish hue, and its surface was very brilliant. to the taste, the travelers found it intensely and intolerably salt, and far more nauseous than the waters of the ocean. the great quantity of saline matter, which it contains, makes it very dense, and, of course, very buoyant in respect to bodies floating in it. this property of the sea has been observed and commented upon by visitors in every age. swimmers, and those who can not swim, as an ancient writer expressed it, are borne up by it alike. robinson himself bathed in the sea, and though, as he says, he had never learned to swim, he found, that in this water he could sit, stand, lie, or float in any position without difficulty. the bottom was of clean sand and gravel, and the bathers found that the water shoaled very gradually as they receded from the shore, so that they were obliged to wade out many rods before it reached their shoulders. its great density produced a peculiar effect in respect to the appearance that it presented to the eye, adding greatly to its brilliancy, and imparting a certain pearly richness and beauty to its reflections. the objects seen through it on the bottom appeared as if seen through oil. measurements. after having spent some time in noting these general phenomena, robinson, finding that the day was wearing away, called the attention of his party to the less entertaining but more important work of making the necessary scientific measurements and observations. he laid off a base line on the shore, fifteen hundred feet in length; and from the extremities of it, by means of a large and accurate compass, which he carried with him in all his travels for this express purpose, he took the bearings of all the principal points and headlands which could be seen around the sea, as well as of every mountain in view. by this means he secured the data for making an exact map of the sea, at least so far as these leading points are concerned; for, by the application of certain principles of trigonometry, it is very easy to ascertain the precise situation of any object whatever, provided its precise bearing from each of two separate stations, and also the precise distance between the two stations is known. accordingly, by establishing two stations on the plain, and measuring the distance between them, and then taking the bearings of all important points on the shores of the sea, from both stations, the materials are secured for a correct map of it, in its general outline. this work being accomplished, and the day being now fully spent, the party bade the shores of the sea farewell; and, weary with the fatigues and excitement of the day, they began, with slow and toilsome steps, to reascend the path toward their encampment by the fountain. they at length arrived at their tent, and spent the evening there to a late hour, in writing out their records of the observations which they had made, and of the adventures which they had met with during the day. from time to time, as the hours passed on, they looked out from their tent to survey the broad expanse of water now far below them. the day had been sultry and hot, but the evening was cool. the air was calm and still, and the moon rising behind the eastern mountains shone in upon their encampment, and cheered the solitude of the night, illuminating, at the same time, with her beams, the quiet and lonely surface of the sea. the salt mountain of usdum. at a subsequent period of his tour in the holy land, robinson approached the dead sea again, near the southern extremity of it, and there examined and described a certain very remarkable geological formation, which is justly considered one of the greatest wonders of this most wonderful valley. it is called the salt mountain of usdum. it is a lofty ridge that extends for a great distance along the shore of the sea, and consists of a solid mass of rock-salt. the situation of this mountain, as will be seen from the map, is on the southwestern shore of the sea. there is a narrow tract of low and level land between the mountain and the water. the road passes along this plain, close under the cliffs, giving the traveler a very convenient opportunity of examining the formation of the mountain as he journeys with his caravan slowly along. the existence of such a mountain of salt was asserted by certain travelers many centuries ago, but the accounts which they gave of it were not generally believed, the spot being visited too seldom, and the accounts which were brought from it being too vague and imperfect to confirm sufficiently so extraordinary a story. robinson, however, and other travelers who have, since his day, fully explored the locality, have found that the ancient tales were true. the ridge is very uneven and rugged, its summit and its sides having been furrowed by the rains which sometimes, though at very distant intervals, fall in this arid region. the height of the ridge is from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet. the surface of the hill is generally covered, like that of other rocky ridges, with earth and marl, and sometimes with calcareous strata of various kinds, so that its true character is in some measure concealed from ordinary and casual observers. the mass of salt, however, which underlies these superficial coverings, breaks out in various places along the line of the hills, and sometimes forms perpendicular precipices of pure crystalized fossil salt, forty or fifty feet high, and several hundred feet long. the traveler who beholds these crystaline cliffs is always greatly astonished at the spectacle, and can scarcely believe that the mountain is really what it seems, until he has gone repeatedly to the precipice and broken off a fragment from the face of it, to satisfy himself of the true character of the rock, by tasting the specimen. the mountain extends for two or three miles along the shore, drawing nearer and nearer to it toward the south, until at last it approaches so closely to the margin of the sea, that the waters, when high, wash the foot of the precipice. along the road which lies between the cliffs and the shore, and upon the beach, masses of salt are found, which, having been broken off from the heights above, have fallen down to the level land below, where they lie like common rocks upon the ground. here and there ravines are found, forming little dells, down which small streams are constantly trickling; and, in some seasons of the year rains fall, and, dissolving small portions of the rock, flow with the solution into the sea below. of course, what salt finds its way into the sea remains there forever, except so far as it is carried away by man--for the process of evaporation takes up the aqueous particles alone, from saline solutions. a very small annual addition is therefore sufficient to keep up the saltness of such a sea. it is supposed that this mountain is the source which furnishes the supply in this case. if so, the dead sea, geologically speaking, is simply an accumulation of the waters of the jordan, formed in a deep depression of its valley, and made salt by impregnation from a range of soluble rocks, the base of which they lave. the cavern. [illustration: the cavern of usdum.] at one point in the eastern face of the usdum mountain, that is the face which is turned toward the sea, there is a cavern. this cavern seems to have been formed by a spring. a spring of water issuing from among soluble strata will, of course, always produce a cavern, as its waters must necessarily dissolve and wear away the substance of the rock, and so, in the process of ages, form an open recess leading into the heart of the mountain. the few european travelers who have ever passed the road that leads along the base of this mountain, have generally stopped to examine and explore this cavern. it is irregular in its form, but very considerable in extent. the mouth of it is ten or twelve feet high, and about the same in breadth. robinson and his party went into it with lights. they followed it for three or four hundred feet into the heart of the mountain, until at length they came to a place where it branched off into two small fissures, which could not be traced any farther. a small stream of water was trickling slowly along its bed in the floor of the cavern, which, as well as the walls and roof, were of solid salt. there were clear indications that the quantity of water flowing here varied greatly at different seasons; and the cavern itself was undoubtedly formed by the action of the stream. an incident of oriental traveling. when robinson and his party came out from the cavern in the salt mountain, an incident occurred which illustrates so forcibly both the nature of oriental traveling, and the manners and customs of the semi-savage tribes that roam about the shores of the dead sea, that it well deserves a place in this memoir. when they were about entering the cavern, a report came from some of the scouts, of whom it was always customary to have one or more ahead, when traveling on these expeditions, that a troop of riders were in sight, coming round the southern end of the sea. this report had been confirmed during the time that robinson and his companions had been in the cave, and when they came out they found their camp in a state of great confusion and alarm. the strangers that were coming were supposed, from their numbers, and from the manner in which they were mounted, to be enemies or robbers. the arab attendants of the party were greatly excited by this intelligence. they were getting their guns in readiness, and loading and priming them. a consultation was held, and it was determined by the party that they would not leave their encampment at the mouth of the cavern, since the position which they occupied there was such as to afford them a considerable advantage, as they judged, in the case of an attack. they accordingly began to strengthen themselves where they were with such means as they had at their command, and to make the best disposition they could of the animals and baggage, with a view to defending them. at the same time they sent forward an arab chieftain of the party, to reconnoitre and learn more particularly the character of the enemy. the messenger soon returned, bringing back a report which at once relieved their fears. the dreaded troop of marauders proved to be a flock of sheep, driven by a few men on donkeys. of course, all alarm was at once dispelled, and the expedition immediately resumed its march, pursuing its way as before along the strand. but this was not the end of the affair, for the arabs of robinson's escort, finding that they were now the stronger party, at once assumed the character of robbers themselves, and began immediately to make preparations for plundering the strangers. the customs of the country as they understood the subject, fully justified them in doing so, and before robinson was aware of their intentions, they galloped forward, and attacked the peaceful company of strangers, and began to take away from them every thing valuable on which they could lay their hands. one seized a pistol, another a cloak, and a third stores of provisions. robinson and his companions hastened to the spot and arrested this proceeding, though they had great difficulty in doing it. the arabs insisted that these men were their enemies, and that they had a right to rob them wherever they found them. to which robinson replied, that that might perhaps be the law of the desert, but that while the arabs were in his employ they must be content to submit to his orders. at length the stolen property was reluctantly restored, and the strangers went on their way. they proved to be a party in the service of a merchant of gaza, a town on the mediterranean coast, nearly opposite this part of the dead sea. this merchant had been to kerak--the village which has already been mentioned as seen by our party from their position on the heights of ain jidy, at the head of the valley which opens on the eastern side of the sea beyond zoar--and there he had purchased a flock of sheep, and was now driving them, with the assistance of some peasants whom he had hired for the purpose, home to gaza. the ford. as has already been stated, the water of the dead sea, though deep in the northern part, spreads out toward the southward over an immense region of flats and shallows, so that sometimes the water is only a few feet deep over an extent of many miles. there are, moreover, southward of the sea, vast tracts of low and sandy land, which are sometimes covered with water and sometimes bare, on account of the rising and falling of the sea, the level of which seems to vary many feet in different years and in different seasons, according to the state of the snows on mount lebanon and the quantity of water brought down by the jordan and other streams. the shallowness of the water becomes very marked and apparent at the peninsula, and various rumors were brought to europe, from time to time, in the middle ages, of a fording place there, by means of which caravans, when the water was low, could cross over from the eastern shore to the western, and thus save the long detour around the southern end of the sea. the most direct and tangible evidence in respect to this ford, was given by the two celebrated travelers, irby and mangles, who relate that in descending from kerak to the peninsula, they fell in with a small company of arabs that were going down to the sea--riding upon asses and other beasts of burden. the arabs of this caravan said that they were going to cross the sea at the ford. the travelers did not actually see them make the passage, for they were themselves engaged in exploring the eastern and northern part of the peninsula at the time, and the caravan was thus hidden from view when they approached the water, by the high land intervening between them and the travelers. after a short time, however, the travelers came over to the western side of the promontory, and there they saw the place of the ford indicated by boughs of trees set up in the water. the caravan had passed the ford, and were just emerging from the water on the western side of the sea. this evidence was considered as very direct and very conclusive, and yet other travelers who visited the same region, both before and afterward, could obtain no certain information in respect to the ford. allusions to it exist in some very ancient records, and yet the arabs themselves who live in the vicinity, when inquired of in respect to the subject, often denied the possibility of such a passage. the only way, apparently, of reconciling these seemingly contradictory accounts, is to suppose that the sea is subject to great changes of level, and that for certain periods, perhaps at distant intervals from each other, the water is so low that caravans can cross it--and that afterward it becomes again too deep to be passable, continuing so perhaps for a long series of years, so that the existence of the ford is for a time in some measure forgotten. [illustration: the ford] lieutenant lynch. the information which the christian world obtained in respect to the dead sea and the character of the country around it, was, after all, down to quite a late period, of a very vague and unsatisfactory character, being derived almost entirely from the reports of occasional travelers who approached the shores of it, from time to time, at certain points more accessible than others, but who remained at their places of observation for so brief a period, and were so restricted in respect to their means and facilities for properly examining the localities that they visited, that, notwithstanding all their efforts, the geography and natural history of the region were very imperfectly determined. things continued in this state until the year , when lieutenant lynch, of the united states naval service, made his celebrated expedition into the holy land, for the express purpose of exploring the river jordan and the dead sea. we have already, in our article on the river jordan, given an account of the landing of this party at the bay of acre, of their extraordinary journey across the country to the sea of galilee, and of their passage down the jordan in the metallic boats, the fanny mason and the fanny skinner, which they had brought with them across to the mediterranean. we now propose to narrate briefly the adventures which the intrepid explorer met with in his cruise around the dead sea. when he commenced the undertaking, it was considered both by himself and his companions, and also by his countrymen and friends at home, to be extremely doubtful whether he would be able to accomplish it. all previous attempts to navigate the sea had failed, and had proved fatal to their projectors. some had been destroyed by the natives--others had sunk under the pestiferous effects of the climate. when, therefore, the boats of this party, heavily laden with their stores of provisions and their crews, came from the mouth of the jordan out into the open sea, the hearts of the adventurous navigators were filled with many forebodings. a gale. the party expected to spend several weeks upon the sea, and their plan was to establish fixed encampments from time to time on the shore, to be used as stations where they could keep the necessary stores and supplies, and from which they could make excursions over the whole surface of the sea. the first of these stations was to be at a place called the fountain of feshkah; a point on the western shore of the sea, about five miles from the mouth of the jordan. the caravan which had accompanied the expedition along the bank while they had been descending the river, were to go around by land, and meet the boats at the place of rendezvous at night. things being thus arranged, the land and water parties took leave of each other, and the boats pushed out upon the sea--turning to the westward and southward as soon as they had rounded the point of land which forms the termination of the bank of the river--and shaped their course in a direction toward the place of rendezvous. their course led them across a wide bay, which forms the northwestern termination of the sea. there was a fresh northwestern wind blowing at the time, though they did not anticipate any inconvenience from it when they left the river. the force of the wind, however, rapidly increased, and the effects which it produced were far more serious than would have resulted from a similar gale in any other sea. the weight of the water was so great, on account of the extraordinary quantity of saline matter which it held in solution, that the boats in encountering the waves, suffered the most tremendous concussions. the surface of the sea became one wide spread sheet of foaming brine, while the spray which dashed over upon the men, evaporating as it fell, covered their faces, their hands, and their clothes with encrustations of salt, producing, at the same time, prickling and painful sensations upon the skin, and inflammation and smarting in the eyes. the party, nevertheless, pushed boldly on for some time toward the west, in the hope of reaching the shore. the wind, however, being almost directly ahead, they made very little progress. they began to fear that they should be driven entirely out to the open sea, and at length, about the middle of the afternoon, when they had been for some hours in this dangerous situation, the gale increased to such a degree that the boats were in imminent danger of foundering. the officers were obliged to order their supplies of water to be thrown overboard, in order to lighten the burden. they gave up all hope of gaining the land; and, expecting to spend the night on the sea, they thought only of the means of saving themselves from sinking. at length, however, about six o'clock, the wind suddenly ceased, and the waves, on account of the great weight of the water, almost immediately went down. the voyagers now, though almost exhausted with their toils, had little difficulty in gaining the land. the first encampment. it was, however, now dark, and mr. lynch felt much solicitude in respect to the difficulty of finding the place of rendezvous on the coast where the party in the boats were to meet the caravan. they rowed along the shore to the southward, looking out on all the cliffs and headlands for lights or other signals. they had an arab chieftain on board as a guide, and on him the party had depended for direction to the place where the fountain of feshkah was to be found. the arab had, however, become so bewildered by the terror which the storm had inspired, or, perhaps, by the strange and unusual aspect which the land presented to him, as seen from the side toward the sea and in the night, that he seemed to be entirely lost. at length the boatmen saw the light of a fire on the beach to the southward of them. they discharged a gun as a signal, and pulled eagerly toward the fire. the light, however, soon disappeared. the men were then at a loss again, and while resting upon their oars, awaiting another signal, they suddenly saw flashes, and heard reports of guns and sounds of voices on the cliffs, not far from them, and immediately afterward heard other reports from a considerable distance back, at a place which they had passed in coming along the shore. these various and uncertain sounds quite embarrassed the boatmen. they might indicate an attack from some hostile force upon their friends on the land, or some stratagem, to draw the boats into an ambuscade. they, however, determined, at length, that they would, at all events, ascertain the truth; so closing in with the shore, they pulled along the beach, sounding as they proceeded. about eight o'clock they arrived at the place of rendezvous, where they found their friends awaiting them at the fountain. the shouts and signal-guns which they had heard had proceeded from two portions of the caravan that had become separated on the march, and were thus attempting to communicate with each other. the party in the boats were greatly relieved on reaching the land, for the whole scene through which they had passed in approaching it, had been one of the wildest and most exciting character. the sea itself, mysterious and unknown, the lonely and desolate coast, the dark and gloomy mountains, the human voices heard in shouts and outcries on the cliffs, with the flashes of the guns, and the reports reverberating along the shore, joined to the dread uncertainty which the boatmen felt in respect to what the end of the adventure was to be, combined to impress the minds of all the party with the most sublime and solemn emotions. the boats, they found, for some reason or other, could not land at the place which had been chosen for the encampment, but were obliged to proceed about a mile to the southward, where, at length, they were safely drawn up upon the beach. some arabs were placed here to guard them, while the seamen were conducted to the camp, in order that they might enjoy a night of repose. the camp was pitched in a cane-brake, not far from the shore, the vegetation which covered the spot proving that there was nothing very specially deleterious in the atmosphere of the sea. in fact, during the remainder of the excursion, mr. lynch's party always found, in landing along the shores, that there was always abundance of vegetation whenever there was fresh water from the mountains to sustain it. the water of the sea seems to be itself too deeply impregnated with saline solutions to nourish vegetable life; but beyond the reach of the spray, which the wind drives only to a short distance from the margin of the shore, it exerts, apparently no perceptible influence on either plants or animals. many animals were seen at different times in the vicinity of the sea, some on the land, and others flying freely over the water. the water itself, however, seemed to produce no living thing. some few shells were found in two or three instances on the beach, but they were of such a character, and appeared under such circumstances as to lead to the supposition that they were brought down to the sea by the torrents from the mountains, or by the current of the jordan. the scene which presented itself to the party as the night came on at this their first encampment on the shore of the dead sea, was solemn and sublime. the dark and gloomy mountains, barren and desolate--their declivities fretted and furrowed by the tooth of time, rose behind them in dismal grandeur; the waters of the sea lay reposing heavily in their vast caldron before them, covered with a leaden-colored mist; while the moon, which rose toward midnight above the mountains beyond, cast spectre-like shadows from the clouds over the broad and solemn expanse, in a wild and fantastic manner. every thing seemed strange and unnatural, and wore an expression of unspeakable loneliness and desolation. and yet about midnight the death-like silence and repose which reigned around, was strangely broken by the distant tolling of a bell! the tolling of the bell which the travelers heard, proceeded from the convent of mar saba, a rude and lonely structure, situated in the middle of the desolate gorge which the brook kedron forms in traversing the mountains that lie between jerusalem and the dead sea. the place of the convent was seven or eight miles from the shore where our travelers were encamped, but yet the tones of the bell, calling the monks to their devotions, made their way to the spot through the still evening air. the travelers felt cheered and encouraged in their solitude, by being thus connected again, even by so slender a bond as this, with the common family of man, from which they had seemed before to have undergone an absolute and total separation. the voyage to en-gedi. after remaining a day or two at feshkah, and making various excursions across the sea and along the shores, from that station, for the purpose of measuring distances and taking soundings, the party broke up their encampment, and prepared to proceed to the southward. they made arrangements for taking every thing with them on board the boats, except a load from one single camel, which was to be sent along the shore. their intention was to proceed to en-gedi, and to encamp there at the foot of the cliffs, on the little plain which robinson had visited about ten years before. this encampment at en-gedi was to be a sort of permanent station for the party during all the time necessary for the survey of the middle and southern portions of the sea. it was a suitable spot for such a post, on account of its central position, and also on account of the abundant supply of fresh water which could be obtained there from the fountain. the company were obliged to hasten their departure from feshkah; for the water of the fountain at the place of their first encampment was brackish and unfit for use, while the supply which they had brought from the jordan was nearly exhausted. their stock of provisions, too, was well-nigh spent, and lieutenant lynch felt a considerable degree of uneasiness in respect to the means of sufficiently replenishing it. he sent off detachments from his party to hebron and to jerusalem, to procure supplies, directing them to bring whatever they could procure to en-gedi. he also sent an arab chieftain, named akil, round to the eastern side of the sea, to kerak, to purchase provisions there. the arab, if successful, was to bring down his stores to the sea, at the peninsula, and at the proper time, lieutenant lynch was to send one of the boats across from en-gedi to receive them. things being thus arranged, the tents were struck, the boats pushed off from the land, while a train of arabs attended by the loaded camel, took up their line of march along the beach. as they proceeded, the boats stopped from time to time, to note and to record every thing worthy of notice that appeared along the shore. they passed the mouth of the brook kedron, a deep gorge, narrow at the base, and yawning wide at the summit. the sides of this frightful ravine were twelve hundred feet high. the bed of it was perfectly dry; the waters of the stream at this season of the year being wholly absorbed by the sands long before reaching the sea. they passed many caves, some opening into the face of the rock, far up the mountain sides, in positions wholly inaccessible. the shores were generally barren and desolate, consisting of dark brown mountains, which looked as if they had been scorched by fire, with a narrow beach equally dreary and desolate below. here and there, however, little valleys opened, which sustained a scanty vegetation, and birds and other animals were occasionally seen. there seemed to be no vegetation, except at points where streams or springs of fresh water flowed down from the land. the boats proceeded onward in this manner till night, and then rounding a point which was covered sparsely with bushes and trees, and with tufts of cane and grass, they came into a little bay which opened to a dell, fertilized by a fountain. the name of the fountain was turabeh. flowers were growing here, and certain fruits, the sight of which gladdened the eyes of our voyagers, though in any other situation they would have attracted little attention. the stream which sustained this vegetation was extremely small. the water trickled down from the spring so scantily that the arabs were forced to dig holes in the sand, and wait for them to fill, in order to procure enough for drink. still its influence was sufficient to clothe its narrow dell with something like verdure and fruitfulness. the little oasis had its inhabitants, too, as well as its plants and flowers. one of the party saw a duck at a little distance from the shore, and fired at her; though it might have been thought that no one could have had the heart to disturb even a duck in the possession of so solitary and humble a domain. in fact, it seems the sportsman must have had some misgivings, and was accordingly not very careful in his aim, for the bird was not harmed by the shot. she flew out to sea a little way, alarmed by the report, and then alighting on the glassy surface of the water, began to swim back again toward the shore, as if thinking it not possible that the strange intruders into her lonely home, whoever and whatever they might be, could really intend to do her any harm. [illustration: turabeh.] soon after the party in the boats had landed, the camel with his attendants arrived, and they all encamped on this spot for the night. the scene which presented itself when the arrangements had been made for the night was, as usual in such cases, very solemn and impressive. the tents stood among the trees. the arab watch-fires were burning. the boats were drawn up upon the shore. the dark and sombre mountains rose like a wall behind the encampment; while the smooth and placid sea was spread out before it, reflecting with a sort of metallic lustre the silver radiance of the moon. the stillness, too, which reigned around seemed strange and fearful, it was so absolute and profound. in the morning, the party, after breakfasting under the trees on the shore, resumed their voyage. after proceeding a few miles along the coast, they saw an arab on the beach. the arab hailed the party, and they attempted to communicate with him, but could not understand what he said. at one place they stopped to examine a mass of ruins which they saw standing a short distance up the mountain side. the ruins proved to be the remains of a wall, built to defend the entrances to several caves which opened in the face of the precipice directly behind them. the caves were perfectly dry, and one of them was large enough to contain twenty or thirty men. there were openings cut from them through the rock to the air above, intended apparently to serve the purpose of chimneys. these caves were in the wilderness of en-gedi. in fact, the boats were now drawing near to their place of destination. at noon they arrived at the spot, and the party landing, unloaded the boats and hauled them up upon the shore. they selected a spot for their encampment on the little plain at the foot of the cliffs, not far from the place where the stream descends to it from the mountain above. they found that the gardens and other marks of vegetation which robinson had observed at the time of his visit, had disappeared; in other respects, every thing corresponded with his description. the water was gushing from the fountain as copiously as ever, and was disappearing as rapidly in the sands of its thirsty bed, after running its short and foaming course along its little dell. after a brief survey of the scene, the ground was marked out, the tents were pitched, and the stores deposited within them; the boats were hauled up and examined for repairs, and all the arrangements made for a permanent encampment; for this was to be the head-quarters of the expedition during all the remaining time that they were to spend upon the sea. they named it "camp washington." explorings. the encampment thus established at en-gedi continued to be occupied as the head-quarters of our party for two or three weeks, during which time many expeditions were fitted out from it, for exploring the whole southern portion of the sea, and the country around. the engineer of the party measured a base line on the beach, and from the two stations at the extremities of it took the bearings of all the important points on the shores of the sea. he made the necessary astronomical observations also for determining the exact latitude and longitude of the camp. parties were sent out, too, sometimes along the shores and up the mountains to collect plants and specimens, and at other times across to the eastern shore to measure the breadth of the sea, and to make soundings for determining the depth of it in every part. they preserved specimens and memorials of every thing. even the mud and sand, and the cubical crystals of salt which their sounding apparatus brought up from the bottom of the sea, were put up in airtight vessels to be brought home for the inspection of naturalists and philosophers in america. thus the whole party were constantly employed in the various labors incident to such an undertaking, meeting from time to time with strange and romantic adventures, and suffering on many occasions most excessively from exposure and fatigue. one of the most remarkable of the expeditions which they made from their camp at en-gedi, was a cruise of four days in the southern portion of the sea, in the course of which they circumnavigated the whole southern shore. in following down the western coast in first commencing their voyage, they found the scenery much the same as it had been in the northern part of the sea, the coast being formed of bald and barren mountains, desolate and gloomy, with a low, flat beach below, and sometimes a broad peninsula, or delta, formed, at the mouths of the ravines, by the detritus brought down from above. farther south, however, the water became very shoal, so much so, that at last they could not approach the shore near enough to land, without wading for a great distance through water and mire. in fact, the line of demarkation between the land and the sea was often scarcely perceptible, the land consisting of low flats and slimy mud, coated with incrustations of salt, and sometimes with masses of drift-wood lying upon it, while the water was covered with a frothy scum, formed of salt and bitumen. sometimes for miles the water was only one or two feet deep, and the men in such cases, leaving the boats, waded often to a great distance from them. every night, of course, they stopped and encamped on the land. the sirocco. the party suffered on some occasions most intensely from heat and thirst. their supply of water was not abundant, and one of the principal sources of solicitude which the officers of the expedition felt throughout the cruise, was to find fountains where they could replenish their stores. one night they were reduced to the greatest extreme of misery from the influence of an intolerably hot and suffocating wind, which blew upon them from off the desert to the southward. it was the sirocco. it gave them warning of its approach on the evening before by a thin purple haze which spread over the mountains a certain unnatural and lurid hue, that awakened a mysterious emotion of awe and terror. something dreadful seemed to be portended by it. it might be a thunder-tempest; it might be an earthquake, or it might be some strange and nameless convulsion of nature incident to the dreadful region to which they had penetrated, but elsewhere unknown. the whole party were impressed with a sentiment of solemnity and awe, and deeming it best for them to get to the land as soon as possible, they took in sail, turned their boats' heads to the westward, and rowed toward the shore. in a short time they were struck suddenly by a hot and suffocating hurricane, which blew directly against them, and, for a time, not only stopped their progress, but threatened to drive them out again to sea. the thermometer rose immediately to °. the oarsmen were obliged to shut their eyes to protect them from the fiery blast, and to pull, thus blinded, with all their strength to stem the waves. the men who steered the boats were unable, of course, thus to protect themselves, and their eyelids became dreadfully inflamed by the hot wind before they reached the land. at length, to their great joy, they succeeded in getting to the shore. they landed at a most desolate and gloomy spot at the mouth of a dismal ravine; and the men, drawing the boats up on the beach, immediately began to seek, in various ways, some means of escape from the dreadful influences of the blast. several went up the ravine in search of some place of retreat, or shelter. others finding the glare of the sun upon the rocks insupportable, while they remained on the shore, returned to the boats and crouched down under the awnings. one of the officers put spectacles upon his eyes to protect them from the lurid and burning light, but the metal of the bows became so hot, that he was obliged to remove them. every thing metallic, in fact, such as the arms, and even the buttons on the clothes of the men, were almost burning to the touch, and the wind, instead of bringing the usual refreshing influences of a breeze, was now the vehicle of heat, and blew hot and suffocating along the beach, as if coming from the mouth of an oven. intolerable as the influence was of this ill-fated blast, it increased in power, until it blew a gale. the distant mountains, seen across the surface of the sea, were curtained by mists of a purple and deadly hue. the sky above was covered with bronze-colored clouds, through which the declining sun shone, red and rayless, diffusing over the whole face of nature, instead of light, a sort of lurid and awful gloom. the sun went down, and the shades of the evening came on, but the heat increased. the thermometer rose to °. the wind was like the blast of a furnace. the men, without pitching their tents or making any other preparations for the night, threw themselves down upon the ground, panting and exhausted, and oppressed with an intolerable thirst. they went continually to the "water breakers," in which their supplies of water were kept, and drank incessantly, but their thirst could not be assuaged. things continued in this state till midnight. the wind then went down, and very soon afterward a gentle breeze sprung up from the northward. the thermometer fell to °, and the sirocco was over. the pillar of salt. mr. lynch's party visited the salt mountain of usdum, of which we have already spoken, and examined it throughout its whole extent, in a very careful and thorough manner. they found at one place, at the head of a deep and narrow chasm, a remarkable conformation of the salt rock, consisting of a tall cylindrical mass, standing out detached, as it were, from the mountain behind it, and appearing like an artificial column. it was in fact literally a pillar of salt. it was forty or fifty feet high, and was capped above with a layer of limestone, a portion perhaps of the once continuous calcareous stratum, which at some remote geological period had been deposited over the whole bed of salt. the appearance of the pillar was as if it were itself a portion of the salt mountain that had been left by the gradual disintegration and wearing away of the adjoining mass, having assumed and preserved its tall and columnar form, through the protecting influence of the cap of insoluble rock on its summit. the mass, though as seen in front it appeared to stand isolated and alone like a pillar, was connected with the precipice behind it by a sort of buttress, by means of which some of the party climbed up to the top of the gigantic geological ruin, and standing upon the pinnacle, looked down upon their companions below, and upon the wide scene of desolation and death which was spread out before them. excursion to kerak. as we have already mentioned, an arab chieftain who accompanied the expedition, had been sent round to the eastern side of the sea to the town of kerak, which was situated, as will be recollected, at the head of the valley beyond zoar, to negotiate with the natives and to procure provisions, and a day had been appointed for him to come down to the shore, at a certain point on the peninsula, where a boat was to be sent to meet him. when the time arrived for fulfilling this appointment, lieutenant lynch organized a party for the excursion, and embarked for the eastern shore. on approaching the land at the appointed place of rendezvous, they saw an arab lurking in the bushes, apparently watching for them, and soon afterward several more appeared. at first the voyagers doubted whether these were the friends whom they had come to meet or whether they were enemies lying in wait to entrap them. on approaching nearer to the beach, however, they soon recognized akil. he seemed greatly rejoiced to see them. he informed them that he had been kindly received at kerak, and he brought down an invitation to lieutenant lynch, from the chieftain that ruled there, to come up to the valley and make him a visit. after some hesitation, lieutenant lynch concluded to accept this invitation. he encamped, however, first on the shore for a day or two, to make the necessary explorations and surveys in the neighborhood. during this time he went out with two arabs across the plain, to examine the supposed site of ancient zoar. he found ruins of an ancient village there, and fragments of pottery, and other similar vestiges on the ground. at length, on the morning of the third day, leaving his boat in the care of a guard, he put himself and his party of attendants under akil's guidance, and set out to ascend the valley. the party were fourteen in number. the sailors were mounted on mules. the officers rode on horseback. the cavalcade was escorted by a troop of twenty armed arabs--twelve mounted and the rest on foot. they found the valley which they had to ascend in going up to kerak, a gloomy gorge, of the wildest and grandest character. the path was steep and very difficult, overhanging on one side a deep and yawning chasm, and being itself overhung on the other with beetling crags, blackened as if by fire, and presenting an aspect of unutterable and frightful desolation. to complete the sublimity of the scene, a terrific tempest of thunder, lightning, and rain swept over the valley while our party were ascending it, and soon filled the bottom of the gorge with a roaring and foaming torrent, which came down from the mountains and swept on toward the sea with a thundering sound. at length the party reached the brow of the table land, three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and came out under the walls of the town. the town proved to be a dreary and comfortless collection of rude stone houses, without windows or chimneys, and blackened within with smoke. the inhabitants were squalid and miserable. three-fourths of the people were nominally christian. the visit of the americans of course excited great interest. we have not time to detail the various adventures which the party met with in their intercourse with the inhabitants, or to describe the singular characters which they encountered and the extraordinary scenes through which they passed. they remained one night at kerak, and then after experiencing considerable difficulty in escaping the importunities with which they were besieged by the chieftains for presents, they succeeded in getting away and in returning safely to their boat on the shore. the depression of the sea. our party, after having spent about three weeks in making these and similar excursions from their various encampments, during which time they had thoroughly explored the shores on every side, and sounded the depths of the water in every part, made all the necessary measurements and observations both mathematical and meteorological, collected specimens for fully illustrating the geology and natural history of the region, and carefully noted all the physical phenomena which they had observed, found that their work was done. at least all was done which could be accomplished at the sea itself. one thing only remained to be determined, and that was the measure of the _depression_ of the sea. this could be positively and precisely ascertained only by the process of "leveling a line," as it is termed, across from the sea to the shores of the mediterranean. this work they now prepared to undertake, making arrangements at the same time for taking their final leave of the dismal lake which they had been so long exploring. it had been long supposed that the dead sea lay below the general level of the waters of the earth's surface, and various modes had been adopted for ascertaining the amount of the depression. the first attempt was made by two english philosophers in . the method by which they attempted to measure the depression was by means of the boiling point of water. water requires a greater or a less amount of heat to boil it according to the degree of pressure which it sustains upon its surface from the atmosphere--boiling with less heat on the tops of mountains where the air is rare, and requiring greater in the bottoms of mines, where the density and weight of the atmosphere is increased in proportion to the depth. heights and depths, therefore, may be approximately measured by an observation of the degree of heat indicated by the thermometer in the locality in question, when water begins to boil. by this test the english philosophers found the depression of the dead sea to be five hundred feet. a short time after this experiment was performed a very careful observation was made by means of a barometer, which also, measuring, as it does, the density of the air, directly, may be made use of to ascertain heights and depths. it is, in fact, often thus employed to measure the heights of mountains. the result of observations with the barometer gave a depression to the surface of the sea of about six hundred feet. a third method is by trigonometrical calculation. this mode is much more laborious and difficult than either of the other modes which we have alluded to, but it is more to be relied upon in its results. the data for a trigonometrical calculation are to be obtained by observing, in a very accurate manner, a series of angles of elevation and depression on a line between the points, the relative levels of which are to be obtained. lieutenant symonds, an officer of the english service, made such a survey with great care, a few years after the preceding experiments were performed. he carried a line across from the mediterranean to the dead sea, connecting the two extremes of it by means of a series of vertical angles which he measured accurately, with instruments of the most exact construction. the result of the computation which he made from these data, was that the sea was depressed _one thousand three hundred and twelve feet_ below the level of the mediterranean. the surprise which had been felt at the results of the experiments first mentioned, was greatly increased by the announcement of this result. no one was disposed really to question the accuracy of the engineer's measurements and calculations, but it seemed still almost incredible that a valley lying so near the open sea could be sunken so low beneath its level. there was one remaining mode of determining the question, and that was by carrying an actual level across the land, by means of leveling instruments, such as are used in the construction of railroads and canals. this would be, of course, a very laborious work, but there was a general desire among all who took an interest in the subject that it should be performed and lieutenant lynch determined to undertake it. accordingly, when the time arrived for leaving the shores of the sea, he organized a leveling party, furnishing them with the necessary instruments and with proper instructions, and commissioned them to perform this service. they began by scaling the face of the mountain which rose almost perpendicularly from the shore of the sea at the place of the last encampment. they then proceeded slowly along, meeting with various adventures, and encountering many difficulties, but persevering steadily with the work, until at last, in twenty-three days from the time of leaving the dead sea, they arrived on the shore of the mediterranean at jaffa. the result confirmed in a very accurate manner the calculations of lieutenant symonds, for the difference of level was found to be a little over thirteen hundred feet--almost precisely the same as lieutenant symonds had determined it. the question is, therefore, now definitely settled. the vast accumulation of waters lies so far below the general level of the earth's surface that, if named after the analogy of its mighty neighbor, it might well have been called the subterranean sea. [illustration: the leveling party.] lieutenant lynch had great reason to congratulate himself on this successful result of his labors; for the work which he had undertaken was one not only of toil, exposure, and suffering, but also of great danger. he was warned by the fatal results which had almost invariably attended former attempts to explore these waters, that if he ventured to trust himself upon them, it was wholly uncertain whether he would ever return. he followed in a track which had led all who had preceded him in taking it, to destruction; and the only hope of safety and success which he could entertain in renewing an experiment which had so often failed before, was in the superior sagacity and forethought which he and his party could exercise in forming their plans, and in the greater energy and courage, and the higher powers of endurance, which they could bring into play in the execution of them. the event proved that he estimated correctly the resources which he had at his command. the story of costigan. among the stories which were related to mr. lynch, when he was preparing at the sea of galilee to commence his dangerous voyage, to discourage him from the undertaking, was that of the unfortunate costigan. costigan was an irish gentleman who, some years before the period of lieutenant lynch's expedition, had undertaken to make a voyage on the dead sea, in a boat, with a single companion--a sailor whom he employed to accompany him, to row the boat, and to perform such other services as might be required. costigan laid in a store of provisions and water, sufficient, as he judged, for the time that would be consumed in the excursion, and then taking his departure from a point on the shore near the mouth of the jordan, he pushed out with his single oarsman over the waters of the sea. [illustration: costigan] about eight days afterward, an arab woman, wandering along the shore near the place where these voyagers had embarked, found costigan lying upon the ground there, in a dying condition, alone, and the boat at a little distance on the beach, stranded and abandoned. the woman took pity upon the sufferer, and calling some arab men to the spot, she persuaded them to take him up, and carry him to jericho. there they found the sailor, who, better able as it would seem to endure such hardships than his master, had had strength enough left, when the boat reached the land, to walk, and had, accordingly, made his way to jericho, leaving his master on the shore while he went for succor. at jericho costigan revived a little, and was then taken to jerusalem, where he was lodged in a convent, and every effort was made to save his life and to promote his recovery, but in vain. he died in two days, and was never able to give any account of the events of his voyage. the sailor, however, when questioned in respect to the events of the cruise, gave an account of such of them as a mere sailor would be likely to remember. they moved, he said, in a zigzag direction on the lake, crossing and recrossing it a number of times. they sounded every day, and found the depth of the water in many places very great. the sufferings, the sailor said, which they both endured from the heat, were very great; and the labor of rowing was excessively exhausting. in three days, however, they succeeded in reaching the southern extremity of the sea, and then set out on their return. during all this time costigan himself took his turn regularly at the oars, but on the sixth day the supply of water gave out, and then costigan's strength entirely failed. on the seventh day, they had nothing to drink but the water of the sea. this only aggravated instead of relieving their thirst, and on the eighth day the sailor undertook to make coffee from the sea water, hoping, by this means, to disguise in some measure its nauseating and intolerable saltness. but all was in vain. no sustenance or strength could be obtained from such sources, and the sailor himself soon found his strength, too, entirely gone. all attempts at rowing were now, of course, entirely abandoned, and although the boat had nearly reached the land again, at the mouth of the jordan, the ill fated navigators must have perished floating on the sea, had it not happened that a breeze sprung up just at this juncture--blowing toward the land. the sailor, though too much exhausted to row, contrived to raise the sail, and to guide the helm, so that the boat at length attained the shore. there he left his master, while he himself made his way to jericho, as has been already described. these and several other attempts somewhat similar in their nature and results, which had been made in previous years, made it evident to lieutenant lynch, when he embarked in his enterprise, that he was about to engage in a very dangerous undertaking. the arrangements and plans which he formed, however, were on a much greater scale and far more complete than those of any of his predecessors, and he was enabled to make a much more ample provision than they for all the various emergencies which might occur in the course of the expedition. by these means, and through the extraordinary courage, energy, and resolution displayed by himself and by the men under his command, the enterprise was conducted to a very successful result. the future. the true character and condition of the whole valley of the dead sea having been thus fully ascertained, and all the secrets of its gloomiest recesses having been brought fully to light, it will probably now be left for centuries to come, to rest undisturbed in the dismal and death-like solitude which seems to be its peculiar and appropriate destiny. curious travelers may, from time to time, look out over its waters from the mouth of the jordan, or survey its broad expanse from the heights at en-gedi, or perhaps cruise along under the salt cliffs of usdum, on its southeastern shore, in journeying to or from the arabian deserts; but it will be long, probably, before any keel shall again indent its salt-encrusted sands, or disturb the repose of its ponderous waters. it is true that the emotion of awe which its gloomy and desolate scenery inspires has something in it of the sublime; and the religious associations connected with the past history of the sea, impart a certain dread solemnity to its grandeur, and make the spot a very attractive one to those who travel into distant climes from love of excitement and emotion. but the physical difficulties, dangers, exposures, and sufferings, which are unavoidably to be incurred in every attempt to explore a locality like this, are so formidable, and the hazard to life is so great, while the causes from which these evils and dangers flow lie so utterly beyond all possible or conceivable means of counteraction, that the vast pit will probably remain forever a memorial of the wrath and curse of god, and a scene of unrelieved and gloomy desolation. the palaces of france. by john s. c. abbott. versailles. it was a beautiful morning in may, when we took the cars in paris for a ride to versailles, to visit this most renowned of all the voluptuous palaces of the french kings. nature was decked in her most joyous robes. the birds of spring had returned, and, in their fragrant retreats of foliage and flowers, were filling the air with their happy warblings. in less than an hour we alighted at versailles, which is about twelve miles from paris. when henry iv., three hundred years ago, attained the sovereignty of france, an immense forest spread over the whole region now occupied by the princely residences of versailles. for a hundred years this remained the hunting ground of the french monarchs. lords and ladies, with packs of hounds in full chase of the frightened deer, like whirlwinds swept through the forests, and those dark solitudes resounded with the bugle notes of the huntsmen, and with the shouts of regal revelry. two hundred years ago louis xiii., in the midst of this forest, erected a beautiful pavilion, where, when weary with the chase, the princely retinue, following their king, might rest and feast, and with wine and wassail prolong their joy. the fundamental doctrine of political economy then was that _people_ were made simply to earn money for kings to spend. the art of governing consisted simply in the art of keeping the people submissive while they earned as much as possible to administer to the voluptuous indulgences of their monarchs. louis xiv. ascended the throne. he loved sin and feared its consequences. he could not shut out reflection, and he dreaded death and the scenes which might ensue beyond the grave. whenever he approached the windows of the grand saloon of his magnificent palace at st. germain, far away, in the haze of the distant horizon, he discerned the massive towers of the church of st. denis. in damp and gloomy vaults, beneath those walls, mouldered the ashes of the kings of france. the sepulchral object ever arrested the sight and tortured the mind of the royal debauchee. it unceasingly warned him of death, judgment, retribution. he could never walk the magnificent terrace of his palace, and look out upon the scene of loveliness spread through the valley below, but there rose before him, in sombre majesty, far away in the distance, the gloomy mausoleum awaiting his burial. when heated with wine and inflamed by passion he surrendered himself to dalliance with all forbidden pleasures, his tomb reproached him and warned him, and the troubled king could find no peace. at last he was unable to bear it any longer, and abandoning st. germain, he lavished uncounted millions in rearing, for himself, his mistresses, and his courtiers, at versailles, a palace, where the sepulchre would not gloomily loom up before their eyes. it is estimated that the almost incredible sum of two hundred millions of dollars were expended upon the buildings, the gardens, and the park. thirty thousand soldiers, besides a large number of mechanics, were for a long time employed upon the works. a circuit of sixty miles inclosed the immense park, in the midst of which the palace was embowered. an elegant city rose around the royal residence, as by magic. wealthy nobles reared their princely mansions, and a population of a hundred thousand thronged the gay streets of versailles. water was brought in aqueducts from a great distance, and with a perfectly lavish expenditure of money, to create fountains, cascades, and lakes. forests, and groves, and lawns arose as by creative power, and even rocks were made of cement, and piled up in precipitous crags to give variety and picturesqueness to the scene. versailles! it eclipsed babylon in voluptuousness, extravagance, and sin. millions toiled in ignorance and degradation from the cradle to the grave, to feed and clothe these proud patricians, and to fill to superfluity the measure of their indulgences. the poor peasant, with his merely animal wife and animal daughter, toiled in the ditch and in the field, through joyless years, while his king, beneath gilded ceilings, was feasting thousands of nobles, with the luxuries of all climes, from plate of gold. [illustration: plan _of_ versailles] it is in vain to attempt a description of versailles. the main palace contains five hundred rooms. we passed the long hours of a long day in rapidly passing through them. the mind becomes bewildered with the magnificence. here is the chapel where an offended god was to be appeased by gilding his altar with gold, and where regal sinners cheaply purchased pardon for the past and indulgence for the future. it is one of the essentials of luxurious iniquity to be furnished with facile appliances to silence the reproaches of the soul; and nothing more effectually accomplishes this than a religion of mere ceremony. upon this chapel louis xiv. concentrated all the taste and grandeur of the age. it was an easy penance for a profligate life to expend millions, wrested from the toiling poor, to embellish an edifice consecrated to an insulted god. before this gorgeous altar stood maria antoinette and louis xvi., in consummation of that nuptial union which terminated in the most melancholy tragedy earth has ever known. the exquisite paintings, the rich carvings and gildings, the graceful spring of the arched ceiling, the statues of marble and bronze, the subdued light, which gently penetrates the apartment, through the stained glass, the organ in its tones so soft and rich and full, all conspire to awaken that luxury of poetic feeling which the human heart is so apt to mistake for the spirit of devotion--for love to god. "if ye love me, ye will keep my commandments." but every spot in this sumptuous abode is so alive with the memories of other days, is so peopled with the spirits of the departed, that we linger and linger, as historical incidents of intensest interest crowd the mind. [illustration: louis xiv.] "voici la salle de l'opéra," exclaims the guide, and he rattles off a voluble description, which falls upon your ear like the unintelligible moaning of the wind, as, lost in reverie, you recall to mind the scenes which have transpired in the theatre of versailles. sinking down upon the cushioned sofa, where maria antoinette often reclined in her days of bridal beauty and ambition, the vision of private theatricals rises before you. the deserted stage is again peopled. the nobles of the bourbon court, in all the regalia of aristocratic pomp and pride, crowd the brilliant theatre, blazing with the illumination of ten thousand waxen lights. maria, the queen of france, enacts a tragedy, little dreaming that she is soon to take a part in a real tragedy, the recital of which will bring tears into the eyes of all generations. maria performs her part upon the stage with triumphant success. the courtiers fill the house with tumultuous applause. her husband loves not to see his wife a play-actress. he hisses. the wife is deaf to every sound but that one piercing note of reproach. in the midst of resounding triumph she retires overwhelmed with sorrow and tears. [illustration: old chateau of versailles] suddenly the vision changes. the dark hours of the monarchy have come. the people, ragged, beggared, desperate, have thundered at the doors of the palace, declaring that they will starve no longer to support kings and nobles in such splendor. poor maria, educated in the palace, is amazed that the people should be so unreasonable and so insolent. she had supposed that as the horse is made to bear his rider, and the cow to give milk to her owner, so the _people_ were created to provide kings with luxury and splendor. but the maddened populace have lost all sense of mercy. they burn the chateaus of the nobles and hang their inmates at the lamp-posts. the high civil and military officers of the king rally at versailles to protect the royal family. in this very theatre they hold a banquet to pledge to each other undying support. in the midst of their festivities, when chivalrous enthusiasm is at its height, the door opens, and maria enters, pale, wan, and woe-stricken. the sight inflames the wine-excited enthusiasts to frenzy. the hall is filled with shoutings and with weeping; with acclamations and with oaths of allegiance. but we must no longer linger here. the hours are fast passing and there are hundreds of rooms, gorgeous with paintings and statues, and crowded with historical associations, yet to explore. we must not, however, forget to mention, in illustration of the atrocious extravagance of these kings, that the expense of every grand opera performed in that theatre was twenty-five thousand dollars. there were two grand suites of apartments, one facing the gardens on the north, belonging to the king, the other facing the south, belonging to the queen. the king's apartments, vast in dimensions and with lofty ceilings decorated with the most exquisite and voluptuous paintings, are encrusted with marble and embellished with a profusion of the richest works of the pencil and the chisel. the queen's rooms are all tastefully draped in white, and glitter with gold. upon this gorgeous couch of purple and of fine linen, she placed her aching head and aching heart, seeking in vain that repose which the defrauded peasants found, but which fled from the pillow of the queen. let society be as corrupt as it may, in a nominally christian land, no woman can be happy when she is but the prominent slave in the harem of her husband. the paramours of louis xiv. and louis xv. trod proudly the halls of versailles; their favor was courted even more than that of their queen, and the neglected wife and mother knew well the secret passages through which her husband passed to the society of youth, and beauty, and infamy. the statues and the paintings which adorn these rooms seem to have been inspired by that one all-powerful passion, which, properly regulated, fills the heart with joy, and which unregulated is the most direful source of wretchedness which can desolate human homes. it is said that art is in possession of a delicacy which rises above the instinctive modesty of ordinary life. france has adopted this philosophy, and it is undeniable that france, with all her refinement and politeness, has become an indelicate nation. the evidence is astounding and revolting. no gentleman, no lady, from other lands can long reside in paris without being amazed at the scenes which paris exhibits. the human frame in its nudity is so familiar to every eye, that it has lost all its sacredness. in all the places of public amusement, the almost undraped forms of living men and women pass before the spectators, and all the modesties of nature are profaned. the pen can not detail particulars, for we may not even record in america that which is done in france. the connection is plain. the effect comes legitimately from the cause. no lady can visit versailles without having her sense of delicacy wounded. it is said that "to the pure all things are pure." but alas for humanity! a fleeting thought will sully the soul. there is much, very much in france to admire. the cordiality and the courtesy of the french are worthy of all praise. but the delicacy of france has received a wound, deplorable in the extreme, and a wound from which it can not soon recover. [illustration: palace of versailles--old court entrance.] the grand banqueting room of versailles is perhaps the most magnificent apartment in the world, extending along the whole central façade of the palace, and measuring feet in length, feet in width, and feet in height. it is lighted by large arched windows, with corresponding mirrors upon the opposite wall. the ceiling is painted with the most costly creations of art. statues of venus and adonis, and of every form of male and female beauty, embellish the niches. here louis xiv. displayed all the grandeur of royalty, and this vast gallery was often filled to its utmost capacity with the brilliant throng of lords and ladies, whom the people here supported, versailles was the royal alms-house of the kingdom. the french revolution, in its terrible reprisals, was caused by strong provocatives. the cabinet of the king, a very beautiful room, is near. here is a large round table in the centre of the saloon. history informs us that one day louis xv. was sitting at this table, with a packet of letters before him. the petted favorite, madame du barri, came in, and suspecting that the package was from a rival, she snatched it from the king's hand. he rose indignantly, and pursued her. she ran around the table, chased by the angry monarch, till finding herself in danger of being caught, she threw the letters into the glowing fire of the grate. the fascinating and guilty beauty perished in the revolution. she was condemned by the revolutionary tribunal. her long hair was shorn, that the knife of the guillotine might more keenly cut its way. but clustering ringlets, in beautiful profusion, fell over her brow and temples, and vailing her voluptuous features reposed upon her bosom, from which the executioner had brutally torn the dress. the yells of the maddened populace, deriding her exposure and her agony of terror, filled the air. the drunken mob danced exultingly around the aristocratic courtesan as the cart dragged her to the block. but the shrieks of the appalled victim pierced through the uproar which surrounded her. "life--life--life!" she screamed, frantic with fright; "o, save me, save me!" the mob laughed and shouted, and taunted her with coarse witticisms upon the soft pillow of the guillotine, upon which her head would soon repose. the coarse executioners, with rude violence, bound her graceful, struggling limbs to the plank, the slide fell, and her shrieks were hushed in death. and here is the room in which her royal lover died. it was midnight, the th of may, . the small-pox, in its most loathsome form, had swollen his frame into the mockery of humanity. the courtiers had fled in consternation from the monarch whom they hated and despised. in his gorgeous palace the king of thirty millions of people was left, to struggle with death, unpitied and alone. an old woman sat unconcerned in an adjoining room, waiting till he should be dead. occasionally she rose and walked to his bedside to see if he still breathed, and, disappointed that he lived so long, returned again to her chair. a lamp flickers at the window, a signal to the courtiers, at a safe distance, that the king is not yet dead. they watch impatiently through the hours of the night the glimmer of that dim torch. suddenly it is extinguished, and gladness fills all hearts. "so live, that sinking in thy last long sleep, smiles may be thine, while all around thee weep." and here is the gorgeous couch upon which the monarch who reared these walls expired. it was the th of august, . the gray-haired king, emaciate with remorse and physical suffering, reclined upon the regal bed, whose velvet hangings were looped back with heavy tassels and ropes of gold. the vast apartment was thronged with princes and courtiers in the magnificent costume of the times. ladies sunk upon their knees around the bed where the proudest monarch of france was painfully gasping in the agonies of death. his soul was harrowed with anguish, as he reflected upon the bitter past, and anticipated the dread future. publicly he avowed with gushing tears his regret, in view of the scenes of guilt through which he had passed. "gentlemen," said the dying king, in a faltering voice to those around him, "i implore your pardon for the bad example i have set you. forgive me. i trust that you will sometimes think of me when i am gone." then exclaiming, "oh, my god, come to my aid, and hasten to help me," he fell back insensible upon his pillow, and soon expired. as he breathed his last, one of the high officers of the household approached the window of the state apartment, which opened upon the great balcony, and threw it back. a vast crowd was assembled in the court-yard below, awaiting the tidings which they knew could not long be delayed. raising his truncheon above his head, he broke it in the centre, and throwing the pieces among the crowd exclaimed, with a loud and solemn voice, "the king is dead!" then seizing another staff from an attendant, he waved it in the air, shouting joyfully, "long live the king!" the dead king is instantly and forever forgotten. the living king, who alone had favors to confer, was welcomed to his throne by multitudinous shouts, echoing through the apartment of death. [illustration: death of louis xiv.] but upon this balcony a scene of far greater moral sublimity has transpired. it was the morning of the th of october, . the night had been black and stormy. the infuriated mob of paris, drenched with rain, men, women, boys, drunken, ragged, starving, in countless thousands, had all the night long been howling around their watch-fires, ravenous for the life of the queen. clouds, heavy with rain, were still driven violently through the stormy sky, and pools of water filled the vast court-yard of the palace. muskets were continually discharged, and now and then the crash of a bullet through a window was heard. at last the mob, pressing the palace in an innumerable throng, with a roar which soon became simultaneous, like an uninterrupted peal of thunder, shouted, "the queen! the queen!" demanding that she should appear upon the balcony. with that heroic spirit which ever inspired her, she fearlessly stepped out of the low window, leading her children by her side. "away with the children!" shouted thousands of voices. even this maddened multitude had not the heart to massacre youth and innocence. maria, whose whole soul was roused to meet the sublimity of the occasion, without the tremor of a nerve led back her children, and again appearing upon the balcony, folded her arms and raised her eyes to heaven, as if devoting herself a sacrifice to the wrath of her subjects. even degraded souls could appreciate the heroism of such a deed. a murmur of admiration ensued, followed by a simultaneous shout, which pierced the skies, "vive la reine! vive la reine!" and now we enter the chamber where maria slept on that night--or rather where she did not sleep, but merely threw herself for a few moments upon her pillow, in the vain attempt to soothe her agitated spirit. the morning had nearly dawned ere she retired to her chamber. a dreadful clamor upon the stairs roused her. the mob had broken into the palace. the discharge of fire-arms and the clash of swords at her door, proclaimed that the desperadoes were struggling with her guard. at the same moment she heard the dying cry of her faithful sentinel, as he fell beneath the blows of the assassins, calling to her, "fly! fly for your life!" she sprang from her bed, rushed to the private door which led to the king's apartment, and had but just time to close the door behind her, when the tumultuous assailants rushed into the room, and plunged their bayonets, with all the vigor of their brawny arms, into her bed. unfortunately, maria had escaped. happy would it have been for the ill-fated queen had she died in that short agony. but she was reserved for a fate perhaps more dreadful than has ever befallen any other daughter of our race. poor maria! fancy can not create so wild a dream of terror as was realized in her sad life. the annals of the world contain not another tragedy so mournful. every room we enter has its tale to tell. providence deals strangely in compensations. the kings of france robbed the nation to rear for themselves these gorgeous palaces. and yet the poor unlettered peasant in his hut, was a stranger to those woes, which have ever held high carnival within these gilded walls. few must have been the hours of happiness which have been found in the palace of versailles. the paintings which adorn the saloons and galleries of this princely abode, are executed in the highest style of ancient and modern art. one is never weary of gazing upon them. many of them leave an impression upon the mind which a lifetime can not obliterate. all the great events of france are here chronicled in that universal language which all nations can alike understand. david's magnificent painting of the coronation of napoleon attracts the special attention of every visitor. the artist has seized upon the moment when the emperor is placing the crown upon the brow of josephine. when the colossal work was finished, many criticisms were passed upon the composition, which met the emperor's ear. among other things, it was specially objected that it was not a picture of the coronation of napoleon but of that of josephine. when the great work was entirely completed, napoleon appointed a day to inspect it in person, prior to its public exhibition. to confer honor upon the distinguished artist, he went in state, attended by a detachment of horse and a military band, accompanied by the empress josephine, the princes and princesses of the family, and the great officers of the crown. napoleon for a few moments contemplated the painting in thoughtful silence, and then, turning to the artist, said, "m. david, this is well--very well, indeed. the empress, my mother, the emperor, all are most appropriately placed. you have made me a french knight, and i am gratified that you have thus transmitted to future ages the proofs of affection i was desirous of testifying toward the empress." josephine was at the time standing at his side, leaning upon his right arm. m. david stood at his left. after contemplating the picture again for a few moments in silence, he dropped the arm of the empress, advanced two steps, and turning to the painter, uncovered his head, and bowing to him profoundly, exclaimed, "m. david, i salute you!" "sire!" replied the painter, with admirable tact, "i receive the compliment of the emperor, in the name of all the artists in the empire, happy in being the individual one you deign to make the channel of such an honor." when this painting was afterward removed to the museum, the emperor wished to see it a second time. m. david, in consequence, attended in the hall of the louvre, accompanied by all of his pupils. napoleon on this occasion inquired of the illustrious painter who of his pupils had distinguished themselves in their art. napoleon immediately conferred upon those young men the decoration of the legion of honor. he then said, "it is requisite that i should testify my satisfaction to the master of so many distinguished artists; therefore i promote you to be officer of the legion of honor. m. duroc, give a golden decoration to m. david." "sire, i have none with me," answered the grand marshal. "no matter," replied the emperor; "do not let this day pass without executing my order." the king of wirtemberg, himself quite an artist, visited the painting, and exceedingly admired it. as he contemplated the glow of light which irradiated the person of the pope, he exclaimed, "i did not believe that your art could effect such wonders. white and black, in painting, afford but very weak resources. when you produced this you had no doubt a sunbeam upon your pencil!" but we must no longer linger here. and yet how can we hurry along through the midst of this profusion of splendor and of beauty. room after room opens before us, in endless succession, and the mind is bewildered with the opulence of art. in each room you wish to stop for hours, and yet you can stop but moments, for there are hundreds of these gorgeous saloons to pass through, and the gardens and the parks to be visited, the fountains and the groves, the rural palaces of the great trianon and the little trianon, and above all the swiss village. the historical museum consists of a suite of eleven magnificent apartments, filled with the most costly paintings illustrating the principal events in the history of france up to the period of the revolution. you then enter a gallery, three hundred feet in length, filled with the busts, statues, and monumental effigies of the kings, queens, and illustrious personages of france. the hall of the crusades consists of a series of five splendid saloons in the gothic style, filled with pictures relating to that strange period of the history of the world. but there seems to be no end to the artistic wonders here accumulated. the grand gallery of battles is a room feet in length, in breadth, and the same in height. the vaulted ceiling is emblazoned with gold, and the walls are brilliant with the most costly productions of the pencil. one vast gallery contains more than three hundred colossal pictures, illustrating the military history of napoleon. in one of the apartments, on the ground floor, are seen two superb carriages. one is that in which charles x. rode to his coronation. it was built for that occasion, at an expense of one hundred thousand dollars. the resources of wealth and art were exhausted in the construction of this voluptuous and magnificent vehicle. the other was built expressly for the christening of the infant duke of bordeaux. but let us enter the stables, for they also are palaces. the nobles of other lands have hardly been as sumptuously housed as were the horses of the kings of france. the palace of versailles is approached from the town by three grand avenues--the central one feet broad. these avenues open into a large space called the place of arms. flanking the main avenue, and facing the palace, were placed the grand stables, inclosed by handsome iron railings and lofty gate-ways, and ornamented with trophies and sculptures. these stables were appropriated to the carriages and the horses of the royal family. here the king kept his stud of of the most magnificent steeds the empire could furnish. it must have been a brilliant spectacle, in the gala days of versailles, when lords and ladies, glittering in purple and gold, thronged these saloons, and mounted on horses and shouting in chariots, with waving plumes, and robes like banners fluttering in the air, swept as a vision of enchantment through the eden-like drives which boundless opulence and the most highly cultivated taste had opened in the spacious parks of the palace. the poor peasant and pale artisan, whose toil supplied the means for this luxury, heard the shout, and saw the vision, and, ate their black bread, and looked upon the bare-footed daughter and the emaciate wife, and treasured up wrath. the fearful outrages of the french revolution, concentrated upon kings and nobles in the short space of a few years, were but the accumulated vengeance which had been gathering through ages of wrong and violence in the hearts of oppressed men. but those days of kingly grandeur have passed away from france forever. versailles can never again be filled as it has been. it is no longer a regal palace. it is a museum of art, opened freely to all the people. no longer will the blooded arabians of a proud monarch fill those stables. one has already been converted into cavalry barracks, and the other into an agricultural school. it is to be hoped that the soldiers will soon follow the horses, and that the sciences of peace will eject those of war. [illustration: louis xiv. hunting.] what tongue can tell the heart-crushing dramas of real life which have been enacted in this palace. its history is full of the revealings of the agonies of the soul. love, in all its delirium of passion, of hopelessness, of jealousy, and of remorse, has here rioted, causing the virtuous to fall and weep tears of blood, the vicious to become demoniac in reckless self-abandonment. after years of soul-harrowing pleasure and sin, the duchesse de la vallière, with pallid cheek, and withered charms, and exhausted vivacity, retired from these sumptuous halls and from her heartless, selfish, discarding betrayer, to seek in the glooms of a convent that peace which the guilty love of a king could never confer upon her heart. for thirty years, clothed in sackcloth, she mourned and prayed, till the midnight tollings of the convent bell consigned her emaciate frame to the tomb. madame montespan, a lady of noble rank, beautiful and brilliant, abandoning her husband, willingly threw herself into the arms of the proud, mean, self-worshiping monarch. the patient, gentle, pious, martyr wife of louis xiv. looked silently on, and saw madame montespan become the mother of the children of the king. but madame montespan's cheek also, in time, became pale with jealousy and sorrow, as another love attracted the vagrant desires of the royal debauchee. he sent a messenger to inform the ruined, woe-stricken, frantic woman, that her presence was no longer desired, that she was but a supernumerary in the palace, that she must retire. with insult almost incredible he informed the unhappy woman, that as the children to whom she had given birth were his own they might be received and honored in the palace, but that as she had been only his mistress, it was not decorous that she should longer be seen there. the discarded favorite, in the delirium of her indignation and her agony, seized a dessert knife upon the table, and rushing upon her beautiful boy, the little count of toulouse, whom the king held by the hand, shrieked out, "i will leave the palace, but first i will bury this knife in the heart of that child." with difficulty the frantic woman was seized and bound, and the affrighted child torn from her grasp. and here we stand in the very saloon in which this tragedy occurred. the room is deserted and still. the summer's sun sleeps placidly upon the polished floor. but far away in other worlds the perfidious lover and his victim have met before a tribunal, where justice can not be warded off, by sceptre or by crown. madame maintenon, whom the king gained by a private marriage, which he afterward was meanly ashamed to acknowledge, succeeded madame montespan in the evanescent love of the king. the fate of this proud beauty, once one of the most envied and admired of the gilded throng, which crowded versailles, was indeed peculiar. upon her dying bed, in accordance with the gloomy superstitions of the times, she bequeathed her body to the family tomb, her heart to the convent of la flèche, and her entrails to the priory of st. menoux. a village surgeon performed the duty of separating from the body those organs, which were to be conveyed as sacred relics to the cloister. the heart, inclosed in a leaden case, was forwarded to la flèche. the intestines were taken out and placed in a small trunk. the trunk was intrusted to the care of a peasant, who was directed to convey them to st. menoux. the porter, having completed half of his journey, sat down under a tree to rest. his curiosity was excited to ascertain the contents of the box. astonished at the sight, he thought that some comrade was trifling with him, desiring to make merry at his expense. he therefore emptied the trunk into a ditch beside which he sat. just at that moment, a lad who was herding swine drove them toward him. groveling in the mire they approached the remains and instantly devoured them! she had bequeathed the sacred relics as a legacy to the church, to be approached with reverence through all coming time. the filthiest animals in the world rooted them into the mire and ate them, devouring a portion of the remains of one of the proudest beauties who ever reigned in an imperial palace. [illustration: madame maintenon.] it has often been said that the french revolution merely overthrew a bourbon to place upon the throne a bonaparte. but napoleon, a democratic king, with all the energy of his impassioned nature consulting for the interests of the people of france, was as different in his character, and in the great objects of his ambition, and his life, from the old feudal monarchs, as is light from darkness. the following was the ordinary routine of life, day after day, and year after year, with louis xiv., in the palace of versailles. at eight o'clock in the morning two servants carefully entered the chamber of the king. one, if the weather was cold or damp, brought dry wood to kindle a cheerful blaze upon the hearth, while the other opened the shutters, carried away the collation of soup, roasted chicken, bread, wine, and water, which had been placed, the night before, at the side of the royal couch, that the king might find a repast at hand in case he should require refreshment during the night. the valet de chambre then entered and stood silently and reverently at the side of the bed for one half hour. he then awoke the monarch, and immediately passed into an ante-room to communicate the important intelligence that the king no longer slept. upon receiving this announcement an attendant threw open the double portals of a wide door, when the dauphin and his two sons, the brother of the king, and the duke of chartres, who awaited the signal, entered, and approaching the bed with the utmost solemnity of etiquette, inquired how his majesty had passed the night. after the interval of a moment the duke du maine, the count de toulouse, the first lord of the bed-chamber, and the grand master of the robes entered the apartment, and with military precision took their station by the side of the couch of recumbent royalty. immediately there followed another procession of officers bearing the regal vestments. fagon, the head physician, and telier, the head surgeon, completed the train. the head valet de chambre then poured upon the hands of the king a few drops of spirits of wine, holding beneath them a plate of enameled silver, and the first lord of the bed-chamber presented to the monarch, who was ever very punctilious in his devotions, the holy water, with which the king made the sign of the cross upon his head and his breast. thus purified and sanctified he repeated a short prayer, which the church had taught him, and then rose in his bed. a noble lord then approached and presented to him a collection of wigs from which he selected the one which he intended to wear that day, and having condescended to place it, with his own royal hands upon his head, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of a rich dressing-gown, which the head valet de chambre held ready for him. then reclining again upon his pillow, he thrust one foot out from the bed clothes. the valet de chambre reverently received the sacred extremity, and drew over it a silk stocking. the other limb was similarly presented and dressed, when slippers of embroidered velvet were placed upon the royal feet. the king then devoutly crossing himself with holy water, with great dignity moved from his bed and seated himself in a large arm-chair, placed at the fire-side. the king then announced that he was prepared to receive the first entrée. none but the especial favorites of the monarch were honored with an audience so confidential. these privileged persons were to enjoy the ecstatic happiness of witnessing the awful ceremony of shaving the king. one attendant prepared the water and held the basin. another religiously lathered the royal chin, and removed the sacred beard, and with soft sponges, saturated with wine and water, washed the parts which had been operated upon and soothed them with silken towels. and now the master of the robes approaches to dress the king. at the same moment the monarch announces that he is ready for his grand entrée. the principal attendants of royalty, accompanied by several valets de chambre and door keepers of the cabinet, immediately took their stations at the entrance of the apartment. princes often sighed in vain for the honor of an admission to the grand entrée. the greatest precautions were observed that no unprivileged person should intrude. as each individual presented himself at the door, his name was whispered to the first lord of the bed chamber, who repeated it to the king. if the monarch made no reply the visitor was admitted. the duke in attendance marshaled the newcomers to their several places, that they might not approach too near the presence of his majesty. princes of the highest rank, and statesmen of the most exalted station were subjected alike to these humiliating ceremonials. the king, the meanwhile, regardless of his guests, was occupied in being dressed. a valet of the wardrobe delivered to a gentleman of the chamber the garters, which he in turn presented to the monarch. inexorable etiquette would allow the king to clasp his garters in the morning, but not to unclasp them at night. it was the exclusive privilege of the head valet de chambre to unclasp that of the right leg, while an attendant of inferior rank might remove the other. one attendant put on the shoes, another fastened the diamond buckles. two pages, gorgeously dressed in crimson velvet, overlaid with gold and silver lace, received the slippers as they were taken from the king's feet. the breakfast followed. two officers entered; one with bread on an enameled salver, the other with a folded napkin between two silver plates. at the same time the royal cup bearers presented to the first lord a golden vase, into which he poured a small quantity of wine and water, which was tasted by a second cup bearer to insure that there was no poison in the beverage. the vase was then rinsed, and being again filled, was presented to the king upon a golden saucer. the dauphin, as soon as the king had drank, giving his hat and gloves to the first lord in waiting, took the napkin and presented it to the monarch to wipe his lips. the frugal repast was soon finished. the king then laid aside his dressing-gown, while two attendants drew off his night shirt, one taking the left sleeve and the other the right. the monarch then drew from his neck the casket of sacred relics, with which he ever slept. it was passed from the hands of one officer to that of another, and then deposited in the king's closet, where it was carefully guarded. the royal shirt, in the mean time, had been thoroughly warmed at the fire. it was placed in the hands of the first lord, he presented it to the dauphin, and he, laying aside his hat and gloves, approached and presented it to the king. each garment was thus ceremoniously presented. the royal sword, the vest, and the blue ribbon were brought forward. a nobleman of high rank was honored in the privilege of putting on the vest, another buckled on the sword, another placed over the shoulders of the monarch a scarf, to which was attached the cross of the holy ghost in diamonds, and the cross of st. louis. the grand master of the robes presented to the king his cravat of rich lace, while a favorite courtier folded it around his neck. two handkerchiefs of most costly embroidery and richly perfumed were then placed before his majesty, on an enameled saucer, and his toilet was completed. the king then returned to his bedside. obsequious attendants spread before him two soft cushions of crimson velvet. in all the pride of ostentatious humility he kneeled upon these, and repeated his prayers, while the bishops and cardinals in his suit, with suppressed voice, uttered responses. but our readers will be weary of the recital of the routine of the day. from his chamber the king went to his cabinet, where, with a few privileged ones, he decided upon the plans or amusements of the day. he then attended mass in the chapel. at one o'clock he dined alone, in all the dignity of unapproachable majesty. the ceremony at the dinner table was no less punctilious and ridiculous than at the toilet. after dinner he fed his dogs, and amused himself in playing with them. he then, in the presence of a number of courtiers, changed his dress, and leaving the palace by a private staircase, proceeded to his carriage, which awaited him in the marble court-yard. returning from his drive, he again changed his dress, and visited the apartments of madame maintenon, where he remained until o'clock, the hour of supper. the supper was the great event of the day. six noblemen stationed themselves at each end of the table to wait upon the king. whenever he raised his cup, the cup bearer exclaimed aloud to all the company, "drink for the king." after supper he held a short ceremonial audience with members of the royal family, and at midnight went again to feed his dogs. he then retired, surrounded by puerilities of ceremony too tedious to be read. [illustration: cascades of versailles.] such was the character of one of the most majestic kings of the bourbon race. france wearied with them, drove them from the throne, and placed napoleon there, a man of energy, of intellect, and of action; toiling, night and day, to promote the prosperity of france in all its varied interests. the monarchs of europe, with their united millions, combined and chained the democratic king to the rock of st. helena, and replaced the bourbon. but the end is not even yet. in view of the wretched life of louis xiv., madame maintenon exclaimed: "could you but form an idea of what kingly life is! those who occupy thrones are the most unfortunate in the world." on one occasion louis gave a grand entertainment in the magnificent banqueting-room of the palace. seventy-five thousand dollars were expended in loading the tables with every luxury. after the feast the gaming tables were spread. gold and silver ornaments, jewels and precious stones, glittered on every side. for these treasures thus profusely spread, the courtiers of both sexes gambled without incurring any risk. as the visitor leaves the palace for the gardens and the park, he enters a labyrinth of enchantment, to which there is apparently no end. groves, lawns, parterres of flowers, fountains, basins, cascades, lakes, shrubbery, forests, avenues, and serpentine paths bewilder him with their profusion and their opulence of beauty. it is in vain to begin to describe these works. there is the terrace of the chateau, the parterre of water with its miniature lakes and twenty-four magnificent groups of statuary. now you approach the parterre of the south, embellished with colossal vases in bronze; again you saunter through the parterre of the north, with antique statues in marble, with its group of tritons and sirens, with its basins and its gorgeous flower beds. your steps are invited to the baths of diana, to the grove of the arch of triumph, to the grove of the three crowns, to the basin of the dragon, and to the magnificent basin of neptune, with its wilderness of sculpture and its fantastic jets from which a deluge of water may be thrown. the basin of latona presents a group consisting of latona, with apollo and diana. the goddess has implored the vengeance of jupiter against the peasants of libya, who had refused her water. jupiter has transformed the peasants, some half and others entirely, into frogs or tortoises, and they are surrounding latona and throwing water upon her in liquid arches of beautiful effect. the fountain of fame and the fountain of the star are neatly represented in the accompanying cuts. [illustration: fountain of fame.] [illustration: fountain of the star.] the parterre of the north, which is represented in the illustration, on page , extends in front of the northern wing of the palace, the apartments on the second floor of which are occupied by the king. this parterre is approached by descending a flight of steps constructed of white marble. fourteen magnificent bronze vases crown the terraced wall which separate these walks of regal luxury from the parterre d'eau, which is spread out in front of the palace. statues and vases of exquisite workmanship crowd the grounds; most of the statues tending to inflame a voluptuous taste. the beautiful flower beds, filled with such a variety of plants and shrubs, as always to present an aspect of gorgeous bloom, are ornamented with two smaller fountains, called the basins of the crown, and one large fountain, called the fountain of the pyramid. the two smaller basins or fountains are so named from the chiseled groups of tritons and sirens supporting crowns of laurel, from the midst of which issue, in graceful curves, columns of water. the pyramid consists of several round basins rising one above another in a pyramidal form, supported by statues of lead. the water issues from many jets and flows beautifully over the rims of the basins. just below the fountain of the pyramid are the baths of diana, which are not represented in this illustration. this basin is embellished with finely executed statuary, representing diana and her nymphs, in voluptuous attitudes, enjoying the luxury of the bath. [illustration: fountain of the pyramid.] directly in front of the palace is the terrace of the chateaux, embellished with walks, shrubbery, flowers, basins, fountains, and colossal statues in bronze. connected with this is the parterre of water, with two splendid fountains, ever replenishing two large oblong basins filled with golden fishes. groups of statuary enrich the landscape. from the centre of each of the basins rise jets of water. these grounds lie spread out before the magnificent banqueting hall of the palace. it is difficult to imagine a scene more beautiful than is thus presented to the eye. let the reader recur to the plan of versailles, and contemplate the vast expanse of lawn, forest, garden, grove, fountain, lake, walks, and avenues which are spread before him over a space of thirty-two thousand acres. from the parterre of water a flight of massive white steps conducts to the fountain of latona. [illustration: parterre of versailles.] at the extremity of the park is a beautiful palace called the grand trianon. it was built by louis xiv. for madame maintenon. this edifice, spacious and aristocratic as it is in all its appliances, possesses the charm of beauty rather than that of grandeur. it seems constructed for an attractive home of opulence and taste. it was a favorite retreat of the bourbons, from the pomp and ceremony of versailles. this was also one of the favorite resorts of napoleon when he sought a few hours of repose from the cares of empire. that he might reach it without loss of time, he constructed a direct road from thence to st. cloud. the little trianon, however, with its surroundings, constitutes to many minds the most attractive spot in this region of attractions. it is a beautiful house, about eighty feet square, erected by louis xv. for the hapless madame du barri. it is constructed in the style of a roman pavilion, and surrounded with gardens ornamented in the highest attainments of french and english art. temples, cottages, groves, lawns, crags, fountains, lakes, cascades, embellish the grounds and present a scene of peaceful beauty which the garden of eden could hardly have surpassed. this was the favorite abode of maria antoinette. she called it her home. in the quietude of this miniature palace, she loved to disembarrass herself of the restraints of regal life; and in the society of congenial friends, and in the privacy of her own rural walks to forget that she was an envied, hated queen. but even here the monotony of life wearied her, and deeply regretting that she had not formed in early youth intellectual tastes, she once sadly exclaimed to her companions, "what a resource, amidst the casualties of life, is to be found in a well cultivated mind. one can then be one's own companion, and find society in one's own thoughts." there is a beautiful sheet of water in the centre of the romantic, deeply wooded grounds of the little trianon, upon the green shores of which maria, for pastime, erected a beautiful swiss village, with its picturesque inn, its farm house and cow sheds, and its mill. [illustration: the grand trianon.] here the regal votaries of pleasure, satiated with the gayeties of paris, weary of the splendors and the etiquette of the tuileries and versailles, endeavored to step from the palace to the cottage, and in the humble employments of the humblest life, to alleviate the monotony of an existence devoted only to pleasure. they _played_ that they were peasants, put on the garb of peasants, and engaged heartily in the employments of peasants. king louis was the inn-keeper, and maria antoinette, with her sleeves tucked up and her apron bound around her, the inn-keeper's pretty and energetic wife. she courtesied humbly to the guests, whom her husband received at the door, spread the table, for them, and placed before them the fresh butter which, in the dairy, she had churned with her own hands. a noble duke kept the shop and sold the groceries. a graceful, high-born duchess was betty, the maid of the inn. a marquis, who proudly traced his lineage through many centuries, was the miller, grinding the wheat for the evening meal. the sun was just sinking beneath the horizon, on a calm, warm, beautiful afternoon, when we sauntered through this picturesque, lovely, silent, deserted village. it was all in perfect repair! the green lawn was of velvet softness. the trees and shrubbery were in full leaf. innumerable birds filled the air with their warblings, and the chirp of the insect, the rustling of the leaves, the sighing of the wind, the ripple of the streamlet, and the silence of all human voices, so deep, so solemn, left an impress upon the mind never to be forgotten. how terrible the fate of those who once made these scenes resound with the voice of gayety. some were burned in their chateaux, or massacred in the streets. some died miserably on pallets of straw in dungeons dark, and wet, and cold. some were dragged by a deriding mob to the guillotine to bleed beneath its keen knife. and some, in beggary and wretchedness, wandered through weary years, in foreign lands, envying the fate of those who had found a more speedy death. the palace of versailles! it is a monument of oppression and pride. it will be well for the rulers of europe to heed its monitory voice. the thoughtful american will return from the inspection of its grandeur, admiring, more profoundly than ever before, the beautiful simplicity of his own land. he will more highly prize those noble institutions of freedom and of popular rights which open before every citizen an unobstructed avenue to wealth and power, encouraging every man to industry, and securing to every man the possession of what he earns. the glory of america consists not in the pride of palaces and the pomp of armies, but in the tasteful homes of a virtuous, intelligent, and happy people. napoleon bonaparte. by john s. c. abbott the camp at boulogne, and the bourbon conspiracy. impartial history, without a dissenting voice, must award the responsibility of the rupture of the peace of amiens to the government of great britain. napoleon had nothing to hope for from war, and every thing to fear. the only way in which he could even approach his formidable enemy, was by crossing the sea, and invading england. he acknowledged, and the world knew, that such an enterprise was an act of perfect desperation, for england was the undisputed mistress of the seas, and no naval power could stand before her ships. the voice of poetry was the voice of truth-- "britannia needs no bulwarks, to frown along the steep, her march is on the mountain-wave; her home is on the deep." england, with her invincible navy, could assail france in every quarter. she could sweep the merchant ships of the infant republic from the ocean, and appropriate to herself the commerce of all climes. thus war proffered to england security and wealth. it promised the commercial ruin of a dreaded rival, whose rapid strides toward opulence and power had excited the most intense alarm. the temptation thus presented to the british cabinet to renew the war was powerful in the extreme. it required more virtue than ordinarily falls to the lot of cabinets, to resist. unhappily for suffering humanity, england yielded to the temptation. she refused to fulfil the stipulations of a treaty solemnly ratified, retained possession of malta, in violation of her plighted faith, and renewed the assault upon france. in a communication which napoleon made to the legislative bodies just before the rupture, he said: "two parties contend in england for the possession of power. one has concluded a peace. the other cherishes implacable hatred against france. hence arises this fluctuation in councils and in measures, and this attitude, at one time pacific and again menacing. while this strife continues, there are measures which prudence demands of the government of the republic. five hundred thousand men ought to be, and will be, ready to defend our country, and to avenge insult. strange necessity, which wicked passions impose upon two nations, who should be, by the same interests and the same desires, devoted to peace. but let us hope for the best; and believe that we shall yet hear from the cabinet of england the councils of wisdom and the voice of humanity." says alison, the most eloquent, able, and impartial of those english historians who, with patriotic zeal, have advocated the cause of their own country, "upon coolly reviewing the circumstances under which the conflict was renewed, it is impossible to deny that the british government manifested a feverish anxiety to come to a rupture, and that, so far as the transactions between the two countries are concerned, they were the aggressors." [illustration: scene in the louvre.] when mr. fox was in paris, he was one day, with napoleon and several other gentlemen, in the gallery of the louvre, looking at a magnificent globe, of unusual magnitude, which had been deposited in the museum. some one remarked upon the very small space which the island of great britain seemed to occupy. "yes," said mr. fox, as he approached the globe, and attempted to encircle it in his extended arms, "england is a small island, but with her power she girdles the world." this was not an empty boast. her possessions were every where. in spain, in the mediterranean, in the east indies and west indies, in asia, africa, and america, and over innumerable islands of the ocean, she extended her sceptre. rome, in her proudest day of grandeur, never swayed such power. to napoleon, consequently, it seemed but mere trifling for this england to complain that the infant republic of france, struggling against the hostile monarchies of europe, was endangering the world by her ambition, because she had obtained an influence in piedmont, in the cisalpine republic, in the feeble duchy of parma, and had obtained the island of elba for a colony. to the arguments and remonstrances of napoleon, england could make no reply but by the broadsides of her ships. "you are seated," said england, "upon the throne of the exiled bourbons." "and your king," napoleon replies, "is on the throne of the exiled stuarts." "but the first consul of france is also president of the cisalpine republic," england rejoins. "and the king of england," napoleon adds, "is also elector of hanover." "your troops are in switzerland," england continues. "and yours," napoleon replies, "are in spain, having fortified themselves upon the rock of gibraltar." "you are ambitious, and are trying to establish foreign colonies," england rejoins. "but you," napoleon replies, "have ten colonies where we have one." "we _believe_," england says, "that you desire to appropriate to yourself egypt." "you _have_," napoleon retorts, "appropriated to yourself india." indignantly england exclaims, "nelson, bring on the fleet! wellington, head the army! this man must be put down. his ambition endangers the liberties of the world. historians of england! inform the nations that the usurper bonaparte, by his arrogance and aggression, is deluging the continent with blood." immediately upon the withdrawal of the british embassador from paris, and even before the departure of the french minister from london, england, without any public declaration of hostilities, commenced her assaults upon france. the merchant ships of the republic, unsuspicious of danger, freighted with treasure, were seized, even in the harbors of england, and wherever they could be found, by the vigilant and almost omnipresent navy of the queen of the seas. two french ships of war were attacked and captured. these disastrous tidings were the first intimation that napoleon received that the war was renewed. the indignation of the first consul was thoroughly aroused. the retaliating blow he struck, though merited, yet terrible, was characteristic of the man. at midnight he summoned to his presence the minister of police, and ordered the immediate arrest of every englishman in france, between the ages of eighteen and fifty. these were all to be detained as hostages for the prisoners england had captured upon the seas. the tidings of this decree rolled a billow of woe over the peaceful homes of england; for there were thousands of travelers upon the continent, unapprehensive of danger, supposing that war would be declared before hostilities would be resumed. these were the first-fruits of that terrific conflict into which the world again was plunged. no tongue can tell the anguish thus caused in thousands of homes. most of the travelers were gentlemen of culture and refinement--husbands, fathers, sons, brothers--who were visiting the continent for pleasure. during twelve weary years these hapless men lingered in exile. many died and moldered to the dust in france. children grew to manhood strangers to their imprisoned fathers, knowing not even whether they were living or dead. wives and daughters, in desolated homes, through lingering years of suspense and agony, sank in despair into the grave. the hulks of england were also filled with the husbands and fathers of france, and beggary and starvation reigned in a thousand cottages, clustered in the valleys and along the shores of the republic, where peace and contentment might have dwelt, but for this horrible and iniquitous strife. as in all such cases, the woes fell mainly upon the innocent, upon those homes where matrons and maidens wept away years of agony. the imagination is appalled in contemplating this melancholy addition to the ordinary miseries of war. william pitt, whose genius inspired this strife, was a man of gigantic intellect, of gigantic energy. but he was an entire stranger to all those kindly sensibilities which add lustre to human nature. he was neither a father nor a husband, and no emotions of gentleness, of tenderness, of affection, ever ruffled the calm, cold, icy surface of his soul. the order to seize all the english in france, was thus announced in the _moniteur_: "the government of the republic, having heard read, by the minister of marine and colonies, a dispatch from the maritime prefect at brest, announcing that two english frigates had taken two merchant vessels in the bay of audrieu, without any previous declaration of war, and in manifest violation of the law of nations: "all the english, from the ages of to , or holding any commission from his britannic majesty, who are at present in france, shall immediately be constituted prisoners of war, to answer for those citizens of the republic who may have been arrested and made prisoners by the vessels or subjects of his britannic majesty previous to any declaration of hostilities. (signed) "bonaparte." napoleon treated the captives whom he had taken with great humanity, holding as prisoners of war only those who were in the military service, while the rest were detained in fortified places on their parole, with much personal liberty. the english held the french prisoners in floating hulks, crowded together in a state of inconceivable suffering. napoleon at times felt that, for the protection of the french captives in england, he ought to retaliate, by visiting similar inflictions upon the english prisoners in france. it was not an easy question for a humane man to settle. but instinctive kindness prevailed, and napoleon spared the unhappy victims who were in his power. the cabinet of st. james's remonstrated energetically against napoleon's capture of peaceful travelers upon the land. napoleon replied, "you have seized unsuspecting voyagers upon the sea." england rejoined, "it is customary to capture every thing we can find, upon the ocean, belonging to an enemy, and therefore it is right." napoleon answered, "i will make it customary to do the same thing upon the land, and then that also will be right." there the argument ended. but the poor captives were still pining away in the hulks of england, or wandering in sorrow around the fortresses of france. napoleon proposed to exchange the travelers he had taken upon the land for the voyagers the english had taken upon the sea; but the cabinet of st. james, asserting that such an exchange would sanction the validity of their capture, refused the humane proposal, and heartlessly left the captives of the two nations to their terrible fate. napoleon assured the detained of his sympathy, but informed them that their destiny was entirely in the hands of their own government, and to that alone they must appeal. such is war, even when conducted by two nations as enlightened and humane as england and france. such is that horrible system of retaliation which war necessarily engenders. this system of reprisals, visiting upon the innocent the crimes of the guilty, is the fruit which ever ripens when war buds and blossoms. napoleon had received a terrific blow. with instinctive and stupendous power he returned it. both nations were now exasperated to the highest degree. the most extraordinary vigor was infused into the deadly strife. the power and the genius of france were concentrated in the ruler whom the almost unanimous voice of france had elevated to the supreme power. consequently, the war assumed the aspect of an assault upon an individual man. france was quite unprepared for this sudden resumption of hostilities. napoleon had needed all the resources of the state for his great works of internal improvement. large numbers of troops had been disbanded, and the army was on a peace establishment. [illustration: arrest of cadoudal.] all france was however roused by the sleepless energy of napoleon. the electorate of hanover was one of the european possessions of the king of england. ten days had not elapsed, after the first broadside from the british ships had been heard, ere a french army of twenty thousand men invaded hanover, captured its army of , troops, with pieces of cannon, , muskets, and superb horses, and took entire possession of the province. the king of england was deeply agitated when he received the tidings of this sudden loss of his patrimonial dominions. the first consul immediately sent new offers of peace to england, stating that in the conquest of hanover, "he had only in view to obtain pledges for the evacuation of malta, and to secure the execution of the treaty of amiens." the british minister coldly replied that his sovereign would appeal for aid to the german empire. "if a general peace is ever concluded," said napoleon often, "then only shall i be able to show myself such as i am, and become the moderator of europe. france is enabled, by her high civilization, and the absence of all aristocracy, to moderate the extreme demands of the two principles which divide the world, by placing herself between them; thus preventing a general conflagration, of which none of us can see the end, or guess the issue. for this i want ten years of peace, and the english oligarchy will not allow it." napoleon was forced into war by the english. the allied monarchs of europe were roused to combine against him. this compelled france to become a camp, and forced napoleon to assume the dictatorship. the width of the atlantic ocean alone has saved the united states from the assaults of a similar combination. it had ever been one of napoleon's favorite projects to multiply colonies, that he might promote the maritime prosperity of france. with this object in view, he had purchased louisiana of spain. it was his intention to cherish, with the utmost care, upon the fertile banks of the mississippi, a french colony. this territory, so valuable to france, was now at the mercy of england, and would be immediately captured. without loss of time, napoleon sold it to the united states. it was a severe sacrifice for him to make, but cruel necessity demanded it. the french were every where exposed to the ravages of the british navy. blow after blow fell upon france with fearful vigor, as her cities were bombarded, her colonies captured, and her commerce annihilated. the superiority of the english, upon the sea, was so decisive, that wherever the british flag appeared victory was almost invariably her own. but england was inapproachable. guarded by her navy, she reposed in her beautiful island in peace, while she rained down destruction upon her foes in all quarters of the globe. "it is an awful temerity, my lord," said napoleon to the british embassador, "to attempt the invasion of england." but desperate as napoleon acknowledged the undertaking to be, there was nothing else which he could even attempt. and he embarked in this enterprise with energy so extraordinary, with foresight so penetrating, with sagacity so conspicuous, that the world looked upon his majestic movements with amazement, and all england was aroused to a sense of fearful peril. the most gigantic preparations were immediately made upon the shores of the channel for the invasion of england. an army of three hundred thousand men, as by magic, sprung into being. all france was aroused to activity. two thousand gun-boats were speedily built and collected at boulogne, to convey across the narrow strait a hundred and fifty thousand troops, ten thousand horses, and four thousand pieces of cannon. all the foundries of france were in full blast, constructing mortars, howitzers, and artillery, of the largest calibre. every province of the republic was aroused and inspirited by the almost superhuman energies of the mind of the first consul. he attended to the minutest particulars of all the arrangements. while believing that destiny controls all things, he seemed to leave nothing for destiny to control. every possible contingency was foreseen, and guarded against. the national enthusiasm was so great, the conviction was so unanimous that there remained for france no alternative but, by force, to repel aggression, that napoleon proudly formed a legion of the vendean royalists, all composed, both officers and soldiers, of those who, but a few months before, had been fighting against the republic. it was a sublime assertion of his confidence in the attachment of united france. to meet the enormous expenses which this new war involved, it was necessary to impose a heavy tax upon the people. this was not only borne cheerfully, but, from all parts of the republic, rich presents flowed into the treasury, tokens of the affection of france for the first consul, and of the deep conviction of the community of the righteousness of the cause in which they were engaged. one of the departments of the state built and equipped a frigate, and sent it to boulogne as a free-gift. the impulse was electric. all over france the whole people rose, and vied with each other in their offerings of good-will. small towns gave flat-bottomed boats, larger towns, frigates, and the more important cities, ships-of-the-line. paris gave a ship of guns, lyons one of , bordeaux an , and marseilles a . even the italian republic, as a token of its gratitude, sent one million of dollars to build two ships: one to be called the president, and the other the italian republic. all the mercantile houses and public bodies made liberal presents. the senate gave for its donation a ship of guns. these free-gifts amounted to over ten millions of dollars. napoleon established himself at boulogne, where he spent much of his time, carefully studying the features of the coast, the varying phenomena of the sea, and organizing, in all its parts, the desperate enterprise he contemplated. the most rigid economy, by napoleon's sleepless vigilance, was infused into every contract, and the strictest order pervaded the national finances. it was impossible that strife so deadly should rage between england and france, and not involve the rest of the continent. under these circumstances alexander of russia, entered a remonstrance against again enkindling the horrid flames of war throughout europe, and offered his mediation. napoleon promptly replied: "i am ready to refer the question to the arbitration of the emperor alexander, and will pledge myself by a bond, to submit to the award, whatever it may be." england declined the pacific offer. the _cabinet_ of russia then made some proposals for the termination of hostilities. napoleon replied: "i am still ready to accept the personal arbitration of the czar himself; for that monarch's regard to his reputation will render him just. but i am not willing to submit to a negotiation conducted by the russian cabinet, in a manner not at all friendly to france." he concluded with the following characteristic words: "the first consul has done every thing to preserve peace. his efforts have been vain. he could not refrain from seeing that war was the decree of destiny. he will make war; and he will not flinch before a proud nation, capable for twenty years of making all the powers of the earth bow before it." napoleon now resolved to visit belgium and the departments of the rhine. josephine accompanied him. he was hailed with transport wherever he appeared, and royal honors were showered upon him. every where his presence drew forth manifestations of attachment to his person, hatred for the english, and zeal to combat the determined foes of france. but wherever napoleon went, his scrutinizing attention was directed to the dock-yards, the magazines, the supplies, and the various resources and capabilities of the country. every hour was an hour of toil--for toil seemed to be his only pleasure. from this brief tour napoleon returned to boulogne. the straits of calais, which napoleon contemplated crossing, notwithstanding the immense preponderance of the british navy filling the channel, is about thirty miles in width. there were four contingencies which seemed to render the project not impossible. in summer, there are frequent calms, in the channel, of forty-eight hours' duration. during this calm, the english ships-of-the-line would be compelled to lie motionless. the flat-bottomed boats of napoleon, impelled by strong rowers might then pass even in sight of the enemy's squadron. in the winter, there were frequently dense fogs, unaccompanied by any wind. favored by the obscurity and the calm, a passage might then be practicable. there was still a third chance more favorable than either. there were not unfrequently tempests, so violent, that the english squadron would be compelled to leave the channel, and stand out to sea. seizing the moment when the tempest subsided, the french flotilla might perhaps cross the straits before the squadron could return. a fourth chance offered. it was, by skillful combinations to concentrate suddenly in the channel a strong french squadron, and to push the flotilla across under the protection of its guns. for three years, napoleon consecrated his untiring energies to the perfection of all the mechanism of this herculean enterprise. yet no one was more fully alive than himself to the tremendous hazards to be encountered. it is impossible now to tell what would have been the result of a conflict between the english squadron and those innumerable gun-boats, manned by one hundred and fifty thousand men, surrounding in swarms every ship-of-the-line, piercing them in every direction with their guns, and sweeping their decks with a perfect hail-storm of bullets, while, in their turn, they were run down by the large ships, dashing, in full sail, through their midst, sinking some in their crushing onset, and blowing others out of the water with their tremendous broadsides. said admiral decris, a man disposed to magnify difficulties, "by sacrificing gun-boats, and , men, it is not improbable that we may repel the assault of the enemy's squadron, and cross the straits." "one loses," said napoleon, "that number in battle every day. and what battle ever promised the results which a landing in england authorizes us to hope for!" [illustration: arrest of the duke d'enghien.] the amount of business now resting upon the mind of napoleon, seems incredible. he was personally attending to all the complicated diplomacy of europe. spain was professing friendship and alliance, and yet treacherously engaged in acts of hostility. charles iii., perhaps the most contemptible monarch who ever wore a crown, was then upon the throne of spain. his wife was a shameless libertine. her paramour, godoy, called the prince of peace, a weak-minded, conceited, worn-out debauchee, governed the degraded empire. napoleon remonstrated against the perfidy of spain, and the wrongs france was receiving at her hands. the miserable godoy returned an answer, mean-spirited, hypocritical, and sycophantic. napoleon sternly shook his head, and ominously exclaimed, "all this will yet end in a clap of thunder." in the midst of these scenes, napoleon was continually displaying those generous and magnanimous traits of character which were the enthusiastic love of all who knew him. on one occasion, a young english sailor had escaped from imprisonment in the interior of france, and had succeeded in reaching the coast near boulogne. secretly he had constructed a little skiff of the branches and the bark of trees, as fragile as the ark of bullrushes. upon this frail float, which would scarcely buoy up his body, he was about to venture out upon the stormy channel, with the chance of being picked up by some english cruiser. napoleon, informed of the desperate project of the young man who was arrested in the attempt, was struck with admiration in view of the fearless enterprise, and ordered the prisoner to be brought before him. "did you really intend," inquired napoleon, "to brave the terrors of the ocean in so frail a skiff?" "if you will but grant me permission," said the young man, "i will embark immediately." "you must, doubtless, then, have some mistress to revisit, since you are so desirous to return to your country?" "i wish," replied the noble sailor, "to see my mother. she is aged, poor, and infirm." the heart of napoleon was touched. "you shall see her," he energetically replied; "and present to her from me this purse of gold. she must be no common mother, who can have trained up so affectionate and dutiful a son." he immediately gave orders that the young sailor should be furnished with every comfort, and sent in a cruiser, with a flag of truce, to the first british vessel which could be found. when one thinks of the moral sublimity of the meeting of the english and french ships under these circumstances, with the white flag of humanity and peace fluttering in the breeze, one can not but mourn with more intensity over the horrid barbarity and brutality of savage war. perhaps in the next interview between these two ships, they fought for hours, hurling bullets and balls through the quivering nerves and lacerated sinews, and mangled frames of brothers, husbands, and fathers. napoleon's labors at this time in the cabinet were so enormous, dictating to his agents in all parts of france, and to his embassadors, all over europe, that he kept three secretaries constantly employed. one of these young men, who was lodged and boarded in the palace, received a salary of dollars a year. unfortunately, however, he had become deeply involved in debt, and was incessantly harassed by the importunities of his creditors. knowing napoleon's strong disapprobation of all irregularities, he feared utter ruin should the knowledge of the facts reach his ears. one morning, after having passed a sleepless night, he rose at the early hour of five, and sought refuge from his distraction in commencing work in the cabinet. but napoleon, who had already been at work for some time, in passing the door of the cabinet to go to his bath, heard the young man humming a tune. opening the door, he looked in upon his young secretary, and said, with a smile of satisfaction, "what! so early at your desk! why, this is very exemplary. we ought to be well satisfied with such service. what salary have you?" "twelve hundred dollars, sire," was the reply. "indeed," said napoleon, "that for one of your age is very handsome. and, in addition, i think you have your board and lodging?" "i have, sire?" "well, i do not wonder that you sing. you must be a very happy man." "alas, sire," he replied, "i ought to be, but i am not." "and why not?" "because, sire," he replied, "i have too many _english_ tormenting me. i have also an aged father, who is almost blind, and a sister who is not yet married, dependent upon me for support." "but, sir," napoleon rejoined, "in supporting your father and your sister, you do only that which every good son should do. but what have you to do with the _english_?" "they are those," the young man answered, "who have loaned me money, which i am not able to repay. all those who are in debt call their creditors the _english_." "enough! enough! i understand you. you are in debt then. and how is it that with such a salary, you run into debt? i wish to have no man about my person who has recourse to the gold of the _english_. from this hour you will receive your dismission. adieu, sir!" saying this, napoleon left the room, and returned to his chamber. the young man was stupefied with despair. but a few moments elapsed when an aid entered and gave him a note, saying, "it is from napoleon." trembling with agitation, and not doubting that it confirmed his dismissal, he opened it and read: "i have wished to dismiss you from my cabinet, for you deserve it; but i have thought of your aged and blind father, and of your young sister; and, for their sake, i pardon you. and, since they are the ones who must most suffer from your misconduct, i send you, with leave of absence for one day only, the sum of two thousand dollars. with this sum disembarrass yourself immediately of all the _english_ who trouble you. and hereafter conduct yourself in such a manner as not to fall into their power. should you fail in this, i shall give you leave of absence, without permission to return." upon the bleak cliff of boulogne, swept by the storm and the rain, napoleon had a little hut erected for himself. often, leaving the palace of st. cloud by night, after having spent a toilsome day in the cares of state, he passed, with almost the rapidity of the wind, over the intervening space of miles. arriving about the middle of the next day, apparently unconscious of fatigue, he examined every thing before he allowed himself a moment of sleep. the english exerted all their energies to impede the progress of the majestic enterprise. their cruisers incessantly hovering around, kept up an almost uninterrupted fire upon the works. their shells, passing over the cliff, exploded in the harbor and in the crowded camps. the laborers, inspired by the presence of napoleon, continued proudly their toil, singing as they worked, while the balls of the english were flying around them. for their protection, napoleon finally constructed large batteries, which would throw twenty-four pound shot three miles, and thus kept the english ships at that distance. it would, however, require a volume to describe the magnitude of the works constructed at boulogne. napoleon was indefatigable in his exertions to promote the health and the comfort of the soldiers. they were all well paid, warmly clothed, fed with an abundance of nutritious food, and their camp, divided into quarters traversed by long streets, presented the cheerful aspect of a neat, thriving, well ordered city. the soldiers, thus protected, enjoyed perfect health, and, full of confidence in the enterprise for which they were preparing, hailed their beloved leader with the most enthusiastic acclamations, whenever he appeared. [illustration: napoleon's hut at boulogne.] spacious as were the quays erected at boulogne, it was not possible to range all the vessels alongside. they were consequently ranged nine deep, the first only touching the quays. a horse, with a band passing round him, was raised, by means of a yard, transmitted nine times from yard to yard, as he was borne aloft in the air, and in about two minutes was deposited in the ninth vessel. by constant repetition, the embarkation and disembarkation was accomplished with almost inconceivable promptness and precision. in all weather, in summer and winter, unless it blew a gale, the boats went out to manoeuvre in the presence of the enemy. the exercise of landing from the boats along the cliff was almost daily performed. the men first swept the shore by a steady fire of artillery from the boats, and then, approaching the beach, landed men, horses, and cannon. there was not an accident which could happen in landing on an enemies' coast, except the fire from hostile batteries, which was not thus provided against, and often braved. in all these exciting scenes, the first consul was every where present. the soldiers saw him now on horseback upon the cliff, gazing proudly upon their heroic exertions; again he was galloping over the hard smooth sands of the beach, and again on board of one of the gun-boats going out to try her powers in a skirmish with one of the british cruisers. frequently he persisted in braving serious danger, and at one time, when visiting the anchorage in a violent gale, the boat was swamped near the shore. the sailors threw themselves into the sea, and bore him safely through the billows to the land. it is not strange that those who have seen the kings of france squandering the revenues of the realm to minister to their own voluptuousness and debauchery, should have regarded napoleon as belonging to a different race. one day, when the atmosphere was peculiarly clear, napoleon, upon the cliffs of boulogne, saw dimly, in the distant horizon, the outline of the english shore. roused by the sight, he wrote thus to cambèceres: "from the heights of ambleteuse, i have seen this day the coast of england, as one sees the heights of calvary from the tuileries. we could distinguish the houses and the bustle. it is a ditch that shall be leaped when one is daring enough to try." napoleon, though one of the most bold of men in his conceptions, was also the most cautious and prudent in their execution. he had made, in his own mind, arrangements, unrevealed to any one, suddenly to concentrate in the channel the whole french squadron, which, in the harbors of toulon, ferrol, and la rochelle, had been thoroughly equipped, to act in unexpected concert with the vast flotilla. "eight hours of night," said he, "favorable for us, will now decide the fate of the world." england, surprised at the magnitude of these preparations, began to be seriously alarmed. she had imagined her ocean-engirdled isle to be in a state of perfect security. now she learned that within thirty miles of her coast an army of , most highly-disciplined troops was assembled, that more than two thousand gun-boats were prepared to transport this host, with ten thousand horses, and four thousand pieces of cannon, across the channel, and that napoleon, who had already proved himself to be the greatest military genius of any age, was to head this army on its march to london. the idea of , men, led by bonaparte, was enough to make even the most powerful nation shudder. the british naval officers almost unanimously expressed the opinion, that it was impossible to be secure against a descent on the english coast by the french, under favor of a fog, a calm, or a long winter's night. the debates in parliament as to the means of resisting the danger, were anxious and stormy. a vote was passed authorizing the ministers to summon all englishmen, between the ages of and , to arms. in every country town the whole male population were seen every morning exercising for war. the aged king george iii. reviewed these raw troops, accompanied by the excited bourbon princes, who wished to recover by the force of the arms of foreigners, that throne from which they had been ejected by the will of the people. from the isle of wight to the mouth of the thames, a system of signals was arranged to give the alarm. beacon fires were to blaze at night upon every headland, upon the slightest intimation of danger. carriages were constructed for the rapid conveyance of troops to any threatened point. mothers and maidens, in beautiful happy england, placed their heads upon their pillows in terror, for the blood-hounds of war were unleashed, and england had unleashed them. she suffered bitterly for the crime. she suffers still in that enormous burden of taxes which the ensuing years of war and woe have bequeathed to her children. the infamous george cadoudal, already implicated in the infernal machine, was still in london, living with other french refugees, in a state of opulence, from the money furnished by the british government. the count d'artois, subsequently charles x., and his son, the duke de berri, with other persons prominent in the bourbon interests, were associated with this brawny assassin in the attempts, by any means, fair or foul, to crush napoleon. the english government supplied them liberally with money; asking no questions, for conscience sake, respecting the manner in which they would employ it. innumerable conspiracies were formed for the assassination of napoleon, more than thirty of which were detected by the police. napoleon at last became exceedingly exasperated. he felt that england was ignominiously supplying those with funds whom she knew to be aiming at his assassination. he was indignant that the bourbon princes should assume, that he, elected to the chief magistracy of france by the unanimous voice of the nation, was to be treated as a dog--to be shot in a ditch. "if this game is continued," said he, one day, "i will teach those bourbons a lesson which they will not soon forget." a conspiracy was now organized in london, by count d'artois and others of the french emigrants, upon a gigantic scale. count de lisle, afterward louis xviii., was then residing at warsaw. the plot was communicated to him; but he repulsed it. the plan involved the expenditure of millions, which were furnished by the british government. mr. hammond, under secretary of state at london, and the english ministers at hesse, at stuttgard, and at bavaria, all upon the confines of france, were in intimate communication with the disaffected in france, endeavoring to excite civil war. three prominent french emigrants, the princes of condé, grandfather, son, and grandson, were then in the service and pay of great britain, with arms in their hands against their country, and ready to obey any call for active service. the grandson, the duke d'enghien, was in the duchy of baden, awaiting on the banks of the rhine, the signal for his march into france; and attracted to the village of ettenheim, by his attachment for a young lady there, a princess de rohan. the plan of the conspirators was this: a band of a hundred resolute men, headed by the daring and indomitable george cadoudal, were to be introduced stealthily into france to waylay napoleon when passing to malmaison, disperse his guard, consisting of some ten outriders, and kill him upon the spot. the conspirators flattered themselves that this would not be considered assassination, but a battle. having thus disposed of the first consul, the next question was, how, in the midst of the confusion that would ensue, to regain for the bourbons and their partisans their lost power. to do this, it was necessary to secure the co-operation of the army. in nothing is the infirmity of our nature more conspicuous, than in the petty jealousies which so often rankle in the bosoms of great men. general moreau had looked with an envious eye upon the gigantic strides of general bonaparte to power. his wife, a weak, vain, envious woman, could not endure the thought that general moreau should be only the second man in the empire; and she exerted all her influence over her vacillating and unstable husband, to convince him that the conqueror of hohenlinden was entitled to the highest gifts france had to confer. one day, by accident, she was detained a few moments in the ante-chamber of josephine. her indignation was extreme. general moreau was in a mood of mind to yield to the influence of these reproaches. as an indication of his displeasure, he allowed himself to repel the favors which the first consul showered upon him. he at last was guilty of the impropriety of refusing to attend the first consul at a review. in consequence, he was omitted in an invitation to a banquet, which napoleon gave on the anniversary of the republic. thus coldness increased to hostility. moreau, with bitter feelings, withdrew to his estate at grosbois, where, in the enjoyment of opulence, he watched with an evil eye, the movements of one whom he had the vanity to think his rival. under these circumstances, it was not thought difficult to win over moreau, and through him the army. then, at the very moment when napoleon had been butchered on his drive to malmaison, the loyalists all over france were to rise; the emigrant bourbons, with arms and money, supplied by england, in their hands, were to rush over the frontier; the british navy and army were to be ready with their powerful co-operation; and the bourbon dynasty was to be re-established. such was this famous conspiracy of the bourbons. [illustration: execution of the duke d'enghien.] but in this plan there was a serious difficulty. moreau prided himself upon being a very decided republican; and had denounced even the consulate for life, as tending to the establishment of royalty. still it was hoped that the jealousy of his disposition would induce him to engage in any plot for the overthrow of the first consul. general pichegru, a man illustrious in rank and talent, a warm advocate of the bourbons, and alike influential with monarchists and republicans, had escaped from the wilds of sinamary, where he had been banished by the directory, and was then residing in london. pichegru was drawn into the conspiracy, and employed to confer with moreau. matters being thus arranged, cadoudal, with a band of bold and desperate men, armed to the teeth, and with an ample supply of funds, which had been obtained from the english treasury, set out from london for paris. upon the coast of normandy, upon the side of a precipitous craggy cliff, ever washed by the ocean, there was a secret passage formed, by a cleft in the rock, known only to smugglers. through the cleft, two or three hundred feet in depth, a rope-ladder could be let down to the surface of the sea. the smugglers thus scaled the precipice, bearing heavy burdens upon their shoulders. cadoudal had found out this path, and easily purchased its use. to facilitate communication with paris, a chain of lodging-places had been established, in solitary farm-houses, and in the castles of loyalist nobles; so that the conspirators could pass from the cliff of biville to paris without exposure to the public roads, or to any inn. captain wright, an officer in the english navy, a bold and skillful seaman, took the conspirators on board his vessel, and secretly landed them at the foot of this cliff. cautiously, cadoudal, with some of his trusty followers, crept along, from shelter to shelter, until he reached the suburbs of paris. from his lurking place he dispatched emissaries, bought by his abundance of gold, to different parts of france, to prepare the royalists to rise. much to his disappointment, he found napoleon almost universally popular, and the loyalists themselves settling down in contentment under his efficient government. even the priests were attached to the first consul, for he had rescued them from the most unrelenting persecution. in the course of two months of incessant exertions, cadoudal was able to collect but about thirty men, who, by liberal pay, were willing to run the risk of trying to restore the bourbons. while cadoudal was thus employed with the royalists, pichegru and his agents were sounding moreau and the republicans. general lajolais, a former officer of moreau, was easily gained over. he drew from moreau a confession of his wounded feelings, and of his desire to see the consular government overthrown in almost any way. lajolais did not reveal to the illustrious general the details of the conspiracy, but hastening to london, by the circuitous route of hamburg, to avoid detection, told his credulous employers that moreau was ready to take any part in the enterprise. at the conferences now held in london, by this band of conspirators, plotting assassination, the count d'artois had the criminal folly to preside--the future monarch of france guiding the deliberations of a band of assassins. when lajolais reported that moreau was ready to join pichegru the moment he should appear, charles, then count d'artois, exclaimed with delight, "ah! let but our two generals agree together, and i shall speedily be restored to france!" it was arranged that pichegru, rivière, and one of the polignacs, with others of the conspirators, should immediately join george cadoudal, and, as soon as every thing was ripe, charles and his son, the duke of berri, were to land in france, and take their share in the infamous project. pichegru and his party embarked on board the vessel of captain wright, and were landed, in the darkness of the night, beneath the cliff of biville. these illustrious assassins climbed the smugglers' rope, and skulking from lurking-place to lurking-place, joined the desperado, george cadoudal, in the suburbs of paris. moreau made an appointment to meet pichegru by night upon the boulevard de la madelaine. it was a dark and cold night, in the month of january, , when these two illustrious generals, the conqueror of holland and the hero of hohenlinden, approached, and, by a preconcerted signal, recognized each other. years had elapsed since they had stood side by side as soldiers in the army of the rhine. both were embarrassed, for neither of these once honorable men was accustomed to deeds of darkness. they had hardly exchanged salutations, when george cadoudal appeared, he having planned the meeting, and being determined to know its result. moreau, disgusted with the idea of having any association with such a man, was angry in being subjected to such an interview; and appointing another meeting with pichegru at his own house, abruptly retired. they soon met, and had a long and serious conference. moreau was perfectly willing to conspire for the overthrow of the consular government, but insisted that the supreme power should be placed in his own hands, and not in the hands of the bourbons. pichegru was grievously disappointed at the result of this interview. he remarked to the confidant who conducted him to moreau's house, and thence back to his retreat, "and this man too has ambition, and wishes to take his turn in governing france. poor creature! he could not govern her for four-and-twenty hours." when cadoudal was informed of the result of the interview, he impetuously exclaimed, "if we must needs have any usurper, i should infinitely prefer napoleon to this brainless and heartless moreau!" the conspirators were now almost in a state of despair. they found, to their surprise, in entire contradiction to the views which had been so confidently proclaimed in england, that napoleon was admired and beloved by nearly all the french nation; and that it was impossible to organize even a respectable party in opposition to him. [illustration: madame polignac interceding for her husband.] various circumstances now led the first consul to suspect that some serious plot was in progress. the three english ministers at hesse, wirtemberg, and bavaria, were found actively employed in endeavoring to foment intrigues in france. the minister at bavaria, mr. drake, had, as he supposed, bribed a frenchman to act as his spy. this frenchman carried all drake's letters to napoleon, and received from the first consul drafts of the answers to be returned. in this curious correspondence drake remarks in one of his letters, "_all plots against the first consul must be forwarded; for it is a matter of right little consequence by whom the animal be stricken down, provided you are all in the hunt_." napoleon caused these letters to be deposited in the senate, and to be exhibited to the diplomatists of all nations, who chose to see them. some spies had also been arrested by the police, and condemned to be shot. one, on his way to execution, declared that he had important information to give. he was one of the band of george cadoudal, and confessed the whole plot. other conspirators were soon arrested. among them m. lozier, a man of education and polished manners, declared that moreau had sent to the royalist conspirators in london, one of his officers, offering to head a movement in behalf of the bourbons, and to influence the army to co-operate in that movement. when the conspirators, relying upon this promise, had reached paris, he continued, moreau took a different turn, and demanded that he himself should be made the successor of the first consul. when first intimation of moreau's guilt was communicated to napoleon, it was with difficulty that he could credit it. the first consul immediately convened a secret council of his ministers. they met in the tuileries at night. moreau was a formidable opponent even for napoleon to attack. he was enthusiastically admired by the army, and his numerous and powerful friends would aver that he was the victim of the jealousy of the french consul. it was suggested by some of the council that it would be good policy not to touch moreau. napoleon remarked, "they will say that i am afraid of moreau. that shall not be said. i have been one of the most merciful of men; but, if necessary, i will be one of the most terrible. i will strike moreau as i would strike any one else, as he has entered into a conspiracy, odious alike for its objects and for the connections which it presumes." it was decided that moreau should be immediately arrested. cambacères, a profound lawyer, declared that the ordinary tribunals were not sufficient to meet this case, and urged that moreau should be tried by a court martial, composed of the most eminent military officers, a course which would have been in entire accordance with existing laws. napoleon opposed the proposition. "it would be said," he remarked, "that i had punished moreau, by causing him, under the form of law, to be condemned by my own partisans." early in the morning, moreau was arrested and conducted to the temple. excitement spread rapidly through paris. the friends of moreau declared that there was no conspiracy, that neither george cadoudal nor pichegru were in france, that the whole story was an entire fabrication to enable the first consul to get rid of a dangerous rival. napoleon was extremely sensitive respecting his reputation. it was the great object of his ambition to enthrone himself in the hearts of the french people as a great benefactor. he was deeply wounded by these cruel taunts. "it is indeed hard," said he, "to be exposed to plots the most atrocious, and then to be accused of being the inventor of those plots; to be charged with jealousy, when the vilest jealousy pursues me; to be accused of attempts upon the life of another, when the most desperate attacks are aimed at my own." all the enthusiasm of his impetuous nature was now aroused to drag the whole plot to light in defense of his honor. he was extremely indignant against the royalists. he had not overturned the throne of the bourbons. he had found it overturned, france in anarchy, and the royalists in exile and beggary. he had been the generous benefactor of these royalists, and had done every thing in his power to render them service. in defiance of deeply-rooted popular prejudices, and in opposition to the remonstrances of his friends, he had recalled the exiled emigrants, restored to them, as far as possible their confiscated estates, conferred upon them important trusts, and had even lavished upon them so many favors as to have drawn upon himself the accusation of meditating the restoration of the bourbons. in return for such services they were endeavoring to blow him up with infernal machines, and to butcher him on the highway. as for moreau, he regarded him simply with pity, and wished only to place upon his head the burden of a pardon. the most energetic measures were now adopted to search out the conspirators in their lurking places. every day new arrests were made. two of the conspirators made full confessions. they declared that the highest nobles of the bourbon court were involved in the plot, and that a distinguished bourbon prince was near at hand, ready to place himself at the head of the royalists as soon as napoleon should be slain. the first consul, exasperated to the highest degree, exclaimed, "these bourbons fancy that they may shed my blood like that of some wild animal. and yet my blood is quite as precious as theirs. i will repay them the alarm with which they seek to inspire me. i pardon moreau the weakness and the errors to which he is urged by a stupid jealousy. but i will pitilessly shoot the very first of these princes who shall fall into my hands. i will teach them with what sort of a man they have to deal." fresh arrests were still daily made, and the confessions of the prisoners all established the point that there was a young prince who occasionally appeared in their councils, who was treated with the greatest consideration, and who was to head the movement. still cadoudal, pichegru, and other prominent leaders of the conspiracy, eluded detection. as there was ample evidence that these men were in paris, a law was passed by the legislative assembly, without opposition, that any person who should shelter them should be punished by death, and that whosoever should be aware of their hiding-place, and yet fail to expose them, should be punished with six years imprisonment. a strict guard was also placed, for several days, at the gates of paris, allowing no one to leave, and with orders to shoot any person who should attempt to scale the wall. pichegru, cadoudal, and the other prominent conspirators were now in a state of terrible perplexity. they wandered by night from house to house, often paying one or two thousand dollars for the shelter of a few hours. one evening pichegru, in a state of despair, seized a pistol and was about to shoot himself through the head, when he was prevented by a friend. on another occasion, with the boldness of desperation, he went to the house of m. marbois, one of the ministers of napoleon, and implored shelter. marbois, knowing the noble character of the master whom he served, with grief, but without hesitancy, allowed his old companion the temporary shelter of his roof, and did not betray him. he subsequently informed the first consul of what he had done. napoleon, with characteristic magnanimity, replied to this avowal in a letter expressive of his high admiration of his generosity, in affording shelter, under such circumstances, to one, who though an outlaw, had been his friend. at length pichegru was betrayed. he was asleep at night. his sword and loaded pistols were by his side, ready for desperate defense. the gendarmes cautiously entered his room, and sprang upon his bed. he was a powerful man, and he struggled with herculean but unavailing efforts. he was, however, speedily overpowered, bound, and conducted to the temple. soon after, george cadoudal was arrested. he was in a cabriolet. a police officer seized the bridle of the horse. cadoudal drew a pistol, and shot him dead upon the spot. he then leaped from the cabriolet, and severely wounded another officer who attempted to seize him. he made the utmost efforts to escape on foot under cover of the darkness of the night; but, surrounded by the crowd, he was soon captured. this desperado appeared perfectly calm and self-possessed before his examiners. there were upon his person a dagger, pistols, and twelve thousand dollars in gold and in bank notes. boldly he avowed his object of attacking the first consul, and proudly declared that he was acting in co-operation with the bourbon princes. the certainty of the conspiracy was now established, and the senate transmitted a letter of congratulation to the first consul upon his escape. in his reply, napoleon remarked, "i have long since renounced the hope of enjoying the pleasures of private life. all my days are occupied in fulfilling the duties which my fate and the will of the french people have imposed upon me. heaven will watch over france and defeat the plots of the wicked. the citizens may be without alarm; my life will last as long as it will be useful to the nation. but i wish the french people to understand, that existence, without their confidence and affection, would afford me no consolation, and would, as regards them, have no beneficial objects." napoleon sincerely pitied moreau and pichegru, and wished to save them from the ignominious death they merited. he sent a messenger to moreau assuring him that a frank confession should secure his pardon and restoration to favor. but it was far more easy for napoleon to forgive than for the proud moreau to accept his forgiveness. with profound sympathy napoleon contemplated the position of pichegru. as he thought of this illustrious general, condemned and executed like a felon, he exclaimed to m. real, "what an end for the conqueror of holland! but the men of the revolution must not thus destroy each other. i have long thought about forming a colony at cayenne. pichegru was exiled thither, and knows the place well; and of all our generals, he is best calculated to form an extensive establishment there. go and visit him in his prison, and tell him that i pardon him; that it is not toward him or moreau, or men like them that i am inclined to be severe. ask him how many men, and what amount of money he would require for founding a colony in cayenne, and i will supply him, that he may go thither and re-establish his reputation in rendering a great service to france." pichegru was so much affected by this magnanimity of the man whose death he had been plotting, that he bowed his head and wept convulsively. the illustrious man was conquered. but napoleon was much annoyed in not being able to lay hold upon one of those bourbon princes who had so long been conspiring against his life, and inciting others to perils from which they themselves escaped. one morning in his study he inquired of talleyrand and fouché respecting the place of residence of the various members of the bourbon family. he was told in reply that louis xviii. and the duke d'angouléme lived in warsaw; the count d'artois and the duke de berri in london, where also were the princes of condé with the exception of the duke d'enghien, the most enterprising of them all, who lived at ettenheim near strasburg. it was in this vicinity that the british ministers taylor, smith, and drake had been busying themselves in fomenting intrigues. the idea instantly flashed into the mind of the first consul that the duke d'enghien was thus lurking near the frontier of france to take part in the conspiracy. he immediately sent an officer to ettenheim to make inquiries respecting the prince. the officer returned with the report that the duke d'enghien was living there with a princess of rohan, to whom he was warmly attached. he was often absent from ettenheim, and occasionally went in disguise to strasburg. he was in the pay of the british government, a soldier against his own country, and had received orders from the british cabinet to repair to the banks of the rhine, to be ready to take advantage of any favorable opportunity which might be presented to invade france. on the very morning in which this report reached paris, a deposition was presented to napoleon, made by the servant of george cadoudal, in which he stated that a prince was at the head of the conspiracy, that he believed this prince to be in france, as he had often seen at the house of cadoudal a well dressed man, of distinguished manners, whom all seemed to treat with profound respect. this man, thought napoleon, must certainly be the duke d'enghien, and his interviews with the conspirators will account for his frequent absence from ettenheim. another very singular circumstance greatly strengthened this conclusion. there was a marquis de _thumery_ in the suite of the duke d'enghien. the german officer, who repeated this fact, mispronounced the word so that it sounded like dumuner, a distinguished advocate of the bourbons. the officer sent by napoleon to make inquiries, consequently reported that general dumuner was with the duke d'enghien. all was now plain to the excited mind of the first consul. the duke d'enghien was in the conspiracy. with general dumuner and an army of emigrants he was to march into france, by strasburg, as soon as the death of the first consul was secured; while the count d'artois. aided by england, would approach from london. a council was immediately called, to decide what should be done. the ministers were divided in opinion. some urged sending a secret force to arrest the duke, with all his papers and accomplices, and bring them to paris. cambacères, apprehensive of the effect that such a violation of the german territory might produce in europe, opposed the measure. napoleon replied to him kindly, but firmly, "i know your motive for speaking thus--your devotion to me, i thank you for it. but i will not allow myself to be put to death without resistance. i will make those people tremble, and teach them to keep quiet for the time to come." orders were immediately given for three hundred dragoons to repair to the banks of the rhine, cross the river, dash forward to ettenheim, surround the town, arrest the prince and all his retinue, and carry them to strasburg. as soon as the arrest was made, colonel caulaincourt was directed to hasten to the grand-duke of baden, with an apology from the first consul for violating his territory, stating that the gathering of the hostile emigrants so near the frontiers of france, authorized the french government to protect itself, and that the necessity for prompt and immediate action rendered it impossible to adopt more tardy measures. the duke of baden expressed his satisfaction with the apology. on the th of march, , the detachment of dragoons set out, and proceeded with such rapidity as to surround the town before the duke could receive any notice of their approach. he was arrested in his bed, and hurried, but partially clothed, into a carriage, and conveyed with the utmost speed to strasburg. he was from thence taken to the castle of vincennes, in the vicinity of paris. a military commission was formed composed of the colonels of the garrison, with general hullin as president. the prince was brought before the commission. he was calm and haughty, for he had no apprehension of the fate which awaited him. he was accused of high treason, in having sought to excite civil war, and in bearing arms against france. to arraign him upon this charge was to condemn him, for of this crime he was clearly guilty. though he denied all knowledge of the plot in question, boldly and rather defiantly he avowed that he had borne arms against france, and that he was on the banks of the rhine for the purpose of serving against her again. "i esteem," said he, "general bonaparte as a great man, but being myself a prince of the house of bourbon, i have vowed against him eternal hatred." "a condé," he added, "can never re-enter france but with arms in his hands. my birth, my opinions render me for ever the enemy of your government." by the laws of the republic, for a frenchman to serve against france was a capital offense. napoleon, however, would not have enforced this law in the case of the duke, had he not fully believed that he was implicated in the conspiracy, and that it was necessary, to secure himself from assassination, that he should strike terror into the hearts of the bourbons. the prince implored permission to see the first consul. the court refused this request, which, if granted would undoubtedly have saved his life. napoleon also commissioned m. real to proceed to vincennes, and examine the prisoner. had m. real arrived in season to see the duke, he would have made a report of facts which would have rescued the prince from his tragical fate; but, exhausted by the fatigue of several days and nights, he had retired to rest, and had given directions to his servants to permit him to sleep undisturbed. the order of the first consul was, consequently, not placed in his hands until five o'clock in the morning. it was then too late. the court sorrowfully pronounced sentence of death. by torch light the unfortunate prince was led down the winding staircase, which led into a fosse of the chateau. there he saw through the gray mist of the morning, a file of soldiers drawn up for his execution. calmly he cut off a lock of his hair, and, taking his watch from his pocket, requested an officer to solicit _josephine_ to present those tokens of his love to the princess de rohan. turning to the soldiers he said, "i die for my king and for france;" and giving the command to fire, he fell, pierced by seven balls. while these scenes were transpiring, napoleon was in a state of intense excitement. he retired to the seclusion of malmaison, and for hours, communing with no one, paced his apartment with a countenance expressive of the most unwavering determination. it is said that josephine pleaded with him for the life of the prince, and he replied "josephine, you are a woman, and know not the necessities of political life." as pensive and thoughtful he walked his room, he was heard in low tones to repeat to himself the most celebrated verses of the french poets upon the subject of clemency. this seemed to indicate that his thoughts were turned to the nobleness of pardon. he however remained unrelenting. he was deeply indignant that the monarchs of europe should assume that he was an upstart, whom any one might shoot in the street. he resolved to strike a blow which should send consternation to the hearts of his enemies, a blow so sudden, so energetic, so terrible as to teach them that he would pay as little regard for their blood, as they manifested for his. the object at which he aimed was fully accomplished. says thiers "it is not much to the credit of human nature to be obliged to confess, that the terror inspired by the first consul acted effectually upon the bourbon princes and the emigrants. they no longer felt themselves secure, now that even the german territory had proved no safeguard to the unfortunate duke d'enghien; and thenceforth conspiracies of that kind ceased." there are many indications that napoleon subsequently deplored the tragical fate of the prince. it subsequently appeared that the mysterious stranger to whom the prisoners so often alluded, was pichegru. when this fact was communicated to napoleon, he was deeply moved and musing long and painfully, gave utterance to an exclamation of grief, that he had consented to the seizure of the unhappy prince. he, however, took the whole responsibility of his execution upon himself. in his testament at st. helena, he wrote, "i arrested the duke d'enghien because that measure was necessary to the security, the interest, and the honor of the french people, when the count d'artois maintained, on his own admission, sixty assassins. in similar circumstances i would do the same." the spirit is saddened in recording these terrible deeds of violence and of blood. it was a period of anarchy, of revolution, of conspiracies, of war. fleets were bombarding cities, and tens of thousands were falling in a day upon a single field of battle. human life was considered of but little value. bloody retaliations and reprisals were sanctified by the laws of contending nations. surrounded by those influences, nurtured from infancy in the minds of them, provoked beyond endurance by the aristocratic arrogance which regarded the elected sovereign of france as an usurper beyond the pale of law, it is only surprising that napoleon could have passed through a career so wonderful and so full of temptations, with a character so seldom sullied by blemishes of despotic injustice. this execution of a prince of the blood royal sent a thrill of indignation through all the courts of europe. the french embassadors were treated in many instances with coldness amounting to insult. the emperor alexander sent a remonstrance to the first consul. he thus provoked a terrible reply from the man who could hurl a sentence like a bomb-shell. the young monarch of russia was seated upon the blood-stained throne, from which the daggers of assassins had removed his father. and yet, not one of these assassins had been punished. with crushing irony, napoleon remarked, "france has acted, as russia under similar circumstances would have done; for had she been informed that the assassins of paul were assembled at a day's march from her frontier, would she not, at all hazards, have seized upon them there?" this was not one of these soft answers which turn away wrath. it stung alexander to the quick. absorbed by these cares, napoleon had but little time to think of the imprisoned conspirators awaiting their trial. pichegru, hearing no further mention of the first consul's proposal, and informed of the execution of the duke d'enghien, gave himself up for lost. his proud spirit could not endure the thought of a public trial and an ignominious punishment. one night, after having read a treatise of seneca upon suicide, he laid aside his book, and by means of his silk-cravat, and a wooden-peg, which he used as a tourniquet, he strangled himself. his keepers found him in the morning dead upon his bed. the trial of the other conspirators soon came on. moreau, respecting whom great interest was excited, as one of the most illustrious of the republican generals, was sentenced to two years imprisonment. napoleon immediately pardoned him, and granted him permission to retire to america. as that unfortunate general wished to dispose of his estate, napoleon gave orders for it to be purchased at the highest price. he also paid the expenses of his journey to barcelona, preparatory to his embarkation for the new world. george cadoudal, polignac, revière, and several others, were condemned to death. there was something in the firm and determined energy of cadoudal which singularly interested the mind of the first consul. he wished to save him. "there is one man," said napoleon, "among the conspirators whom i regret--that is george cadoudal. his mind is of the right stamp. in my hands, he would have done great things. i appreciate all the firmness of his character, and i would have given it a right direction. i made real say to him, that if he would attach himself to me, i would not only pardon him, but would give him a regiment. what do i say? i would have made him one of my aides-de-camp. such a step would have excited a great clamor; but i should not have cared for it. cadoudal refused every thing. he is a bar of iron. what can i now do? he must undergo his fate; for such a man is too dangerous in a party. it is a necessity of my situation." the evening before his execution, cadoudal desired the jailer to bring him a bottle of excellent wine. upon tasting the contents of the bottle brought, and finding it of an inferior quality, he complained, stating that it was not such wine as he desired. the jailer brutally replied, "it is good enough for such a miscreant as you." cadoudal, with perfect deliberation and composure, corked up the bottle, and, with his herculean arm hurled it at the head of the jailer, with an aim so well directed that he fell helpless at his feet. the next day, with several of the conspirators, he was executed. josephine, who was ever to napoleon a ministering angel of mercy, was visited by the wife of polignac, who, with tears of anguish, entreated josephine's intercession in behalf of her condemned husband. her tender heart was deeply moved by a wife's delirious agony, and she hastened to plead for the life of the conspirator. napoleon, endeavoring to conceal the struggle of his heart beneath a severe exterior, replied, "josephine, you still interest yourself for my enemies. they are all of them as imprudent as they are guilty. if i do not teach them a lesson they will begin again, and will be the cause of new victims." thus repulsed, josephine, almost in despair, retired. but she knew that napoleon was soon to pass through one of the galleries of the chateau. calling madame polignac, she hastened with her to the gallery, and they both threw themselves in tears before napoleon. he for a moment glanced sternly at josephine, as if to reproach her for the trial to which she had exposed him. but his yielding heart could not withstand this appeal. taking the hand of madame polignac, he said, "i am surprised in finding, in a plot against my life, armand polignac, the companion of my boyhood at the military school. i will, however, grant his pardon to the tears of his wife. i only hope that this act of weakness on my part may not encourage fresh acts of imprudence. those princes, madame, are most deeply culpable who thus compromise the lives of their faithful servants without partaking their perils." general lajolais had been condemned to death. he had an only daughter, fourteen years of age, who was remarkably beautiful. the poor child was in a state of fearful agony in view of the fate of her father. one morning, without communicating her intentions to any one, she set out alone and on foot, for st. cloud. presenting herself before the gate of the palace, by her youth, her beauty, her tears, and her woe, she persuaded the keeper, a kind-hearted man, to introduce her to the apartment of josephine and hortense. napoleon had said to josephine that she must not any more expose him to the pain of seeing the relatives of the condemned; that if any petitions were to be offered, they must be presented in writing. josephine and hortense were, however, so deeply moved by the anguish of the distracted child, that they contrived to introduce her to the presence of napoleon as he was passing through one of the apartments of the palace, accompanied by several of his ministers. the fragile child, in a delirium of emotion, rushed before him, precipitated herself at his feet, and exclaimed, "pardon, sire! pardon for my father!" napoleon, surprised at this sudden apparition, exclaimed in displeasure, "i have said that i wish for no such scenes. who has dared to introduce you here, in disregard of my prohibition? leave me, miss!" so saying, he turned to pass from her. but the child threw her arms around his knees, and with her eyes suffused with tears, and agony depicted in every feature of her beautiful upturned face, exclaimed, "pardon! pardon! pardon! it is for my father!" "and who is your father?" said napoleon, kindly. "who are you?" "i am miss lajolais," she replied, "and my father is doomed to die." napoleon hesitated for a moment; and then exclaimed, "ah, miss, but this is the second time in which your father has conspired against the state. i can do nothing for you!" "alas, sire!" the poor child exclaimed, with great simplicity, "i know it: but the first time, papa was innocent; and to-day i do not ask for justice--i implore pardon, pardon for him!" napoleon was deeply moved. his lip trembled, tears filled his eyes, and, taking the little hand of the child in both of his own, he tenderly pressed it, and said: "well, my child! yes! for your sake, i will forgive your father. this is enough. now rise and leave me." at these words the suppliant fainted, and fell lifeless upon the floor. she was conveyed to the apartment of josephine, where she soon revived, and, though in a state of extreme exhaustion, proceeded immediately to paris. m. lavalette, then aid-de-camp of napoleon, and his wife, accompanied her to the prison of the conciergerie, with the joyful tidings. when she arrived in the gloomy cell where her father was immured, she threw herself upon his neck, and her convulsive sobbings, for a time, stifled all possible powers of utterance. suddenly, her frame became convulsed, her eyes fixed, and she fell in entire unconsciousness into the arms of madame lavalette. when she revived, reason had fled, and the affectionate daughter was a hopeless maniac! napoleon, in the evening, was informed of this new calamity. he dropped his head in silence, mused painfully, brushed a tear from his eye, and was heard to murmur, in a low tone of voice, "poor child! poor child!--a father who has such a daughter is still more culpable. i will take care of her and of her mother." six others of the conspirators also soon received a pardon. such was the termination of the bourbon conspiracy for the assassination of napoleon. "who murdered downie?" about the end of the eighteenth century, whenever any student of the marischal college, aberdeen, incurred the displeasure of the humbler citizens, he was assailed with the question, "who murdered downie?" reply and rejoinder generally brought on a collision between "town and gown;" although the young gentlemen were accused of what was chronologically impossible. people have a right to be angry at being stigmatized as murderers, when their accusers have probability on their side; but the "taking off" of downie occurred when the gownsmen, so maligned, were in swaddling clothes. but there was a time, when to be branded as an accomplice in the slaughter of richard downie, made the blood run to the cheek of many a youth, and sent him home to his books, thoughtful and subdued. downie was sacrist or janitor at marischal college. one of his duties consisted in securing the gate by a certain hour; previous to which all the students had to assemble in the common hall, where a latin prayer was delivered by the principal. whether, in discharging this function, downie was more rigid than his predecessor in office, or whether he became stricter in the performance of it at one time than another, can not now be ascertained; but there can be no doubt that he closed the gate with austere punctuality, and that those who were not in the common hall within a minute of the prescribed time, were shut out, and were afterward reprimanded and fined by the principal and professors. the students became irritated at this strictness, and took every petty means of annoying the sacrist; he, in his turn, applied the screw at other points of academic routine, and a fierce war soon began to rage between the collegians and the humble functionary. downie took care that in all his proceedings he kept within the strict letter of the law; but his opponents were not so careful, and the decisions of the rulers were uniformly against them, and in favor of downie. reprimands and fines having failed in producing due subordination, rustication, suspension, and even the extreme sentence of expulsion had to be put in force; and, in the end, law and order prevailed. but a secret and deadly grudge continued to be entertained against downie. various schemes of revenge were thought of. downie was, in common with teachers and taught, enjoying the leisure of the short new year's vacation--the pleasure being no doubt greatly enhanced by the annoyances to which he had been subjected during the recent bickerings--when, as he was one evening seated with his family in his official residence at the gate, a messenger informed him that a gentleman at a neighboring hotel wished to speak with him. downie obeyed the summons, and was ushered from one room into another, till at length he found himself in a large apartment hung with black, and lighted by a solitary candle. after waiting for some time in this strange place, about fifty figures also dressed in black, and with black masks on their faces, presented themselves. they arranged themselves in the form of a court, and downie, pale with terror, was given to understand that he was about to be put on his trial. a judge took his seat on the bench; a clerk and public prosecutor sat below; a jury was empanelled in front; and witnesses and spectators stood around. downie at first set down the whole affair as a joke; but the proceedings were conducted with such persistent gravity, that, in spite of himself, he began to believe in the genuine mission of the awful tribunal. the clerk read an indictment, charging him with conspiring against the liberties of the students; witnesses were examined in due form, the public prosecutor addressed the jury; and the judge summed up. "gentlemen," said downie, "the joke has been carried far enough--it is getting late, and my wife and family will be getting anxious about me. if i have been too strict with you in time past, i am sorry for it, and i assure you i will take more care in future." "gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, without paying the slightest attention to this appeal, "consider your verdict; and, if you wish to retire, do so." the jury retired. during their absence the most profound silence was observed; and except renewing the solitary candle that burnt beside the judge, there was not the slightest movement. the jury returned, and recorded a verdict of guilty. the judge solemnly assumed a huge black cap, and addressed the prisoner. "richard downie! the jury have unanimously found you guilty of conspiring against the just liberty and immunities of the students of marischal college. you have wantonly provoked and insulted those inoffensive lieges for some months, and your punishment will assuredly be condign. you must prepare for death. in fifteen minutes the sentence of the court will be carried into effect." the judge placed his watch on the bench. a block, an ax, and a bag of sawdust were brought into the centre of the room. a figure more terrible than any that had yet appeared came forward, and prepared to act the part of doomster. it was now past midnight, there was no sound audible save the ominous ticking of the judge's watch. downie became more and more alarmed. "for any sake, gentlemen," said the terrified man, "let me home. i promise that you never again shall have cause for complaint." "richard downie," remarked the judge, "you are vainly wasting the few moments that are left you on earth. you are in the hands of those who must have your life. no human power can save you. attempt to utter one cry, and you are seized, and your doom completed before you can utter another. every one here present has sworn a solemn oath never to reveal the proceedings of this night; they are known to none but ourselves; and when the object for which we have met is accomplished, we shall disperse unknown to any one. prepare, then, for death; other five minutes will be allowed, but no more." the unfortunate man in an agony of deadly terror raved and shrieked for mercy: but the avengers paid no heed to his cries. his fevered, trembling lips then moved as if in silent prayer; for he felt that the brief space between him and eternity was but as a few more tickings of that ominous watch. "now!" exclaimed the judge. four persons stepped forward and seized downie, on whose features a cold, clammy sweat had burst forth. they bared his neck, and made him kneel before the block. "strike!" exclaimed the judge. the executioner struck the ax on the floor; an assistant on the opposite side lifted at the same moment a wet towel, and struck it across the neck of the recumbent criminal. a loud laugh announced that the joke had at last come to an end. but downie responded not to the uproarious merriment--they laughed again--but still he moved not--they lifted him, and downie was dead! fright had killed him as effectually as if the ax of a real headsman had severed his head from his body. it was a tragedy to all. the medical students tried to open a vein, but all was over; and the conspirators had now to bethink themselves of safety. they now in reality swore an oath among themselves; and the affrighted young men, carrying their disguises with them, left the body of downie lying in the hotel. one of their number told the landlord that their entertainment was not yet quite over, and that they did not wish the individual that was left in the room to be disturbed for some hours. this was to give them all time to make their escape. next morning the body was found. judicial inquiry was instituted, but no satisfactory result could be arrived at. the corpse of poor downie exhibited no mark of violence internal or external. the ill-will between him and the students was known: it was also known that the students had hired apartments in the hotel for a theatrical representation--that downie had been sent for by them; but beyond this, nothing was known. no noise had been heard, and no proof of murder could be adduced. of two hundred students at the college, who could point out the guilty or suspected fifty? moreover, the students were scattered over the city, and the magistrates themselves had many of their own families among the number, and it was not desirable to go into the affair too minutely. downie's widow and family were provided for, and his slaughter remained a mystery; until, about fifteen years after its occurrence, a gentleman on his death-bed disclosed the whole particulars, and avowed himself to have belonged to the obnoxious class of students who murdered downie. fragments from a young wife's diary.[ ] i have been married seven weeks. * * * i do not rave in girlish fashion about my perfect happiness--i do not even say i love my husband. such words imply a separate existence--a gift consciously bestowed on one being from another. i feel not thus: my husband is to me as my own soul. [ ] by the authoress of "olive," "the ogilvies," and "the head of the family," three charming works, recently published by harper and brothers. long, very long, it is since i first knew this. gradually, not suddenly, the great mystery of love overshadowed me, until at last i found out the truth, that i was my own no more. all the world's beauty i saw through his eyes--all the world's goodness and greatness came reflected through his noble heart. in his presence i was as a child: i forgot myself, my own existence, hopes, and aims. every where--at all times and all places--his power was upon me. he seemed to absorb and inhale my whole soul into his, until i became like a cloud melting away in sunshine, and vanishing from the face of heaven. all this reads very wild and mad; but, oh! laurence--laurence! none would marvel at it who had once looked on thee! not that he is a perfect apollo--this worshiped husband of mine: you may meet a score far handsomer. but who cares? not i! all that is grand, all that is beautiful, all that makes a man look godlike through the inward shining of his godlike soul--i see in my laurence. his eyes, soft, yet proud--his wavy hair--his hand that i sit and clasp--his strong arm that i lean on--all compose an image wherein i see no flaw. nay, i could scarce believe in any beauty that bore no likeness to laurence. thus is my husband--what am i? his wife--and no more. every thing in me is only a reflection of him. sometimes i even marvel that he loved me, so unworthy as i seem: yet, when heaven rained on me the rich blessing of his love, my thirsty soul drank it in, and i felt that had it never come, for lack of it i must have died. i did almost die, for the joy was long in coming. though--as i know now--he loved me well and dearly; yet for some reason or other he would not tell me so. the vail might never have fallen from our hearts, save for one blessed chance. i will relate it. i love to dream over that brief hour, to which my whole existence can never show a parallel. we were walking all together--my sisters, laurence shelmerdine, and i--when there came on an august thunder-storm. our danger was great, for we were in the midst of a wood. my sisters fled; but i, being weak and ill--alas! my heart was breaking quietly, though he knew it not--i had no strength to fly. he was too kind to forsake me: so we staid in an open space of the wood, i clinging to his arm, and thinking--god forgive me!--that if i could only die then, close to him, encompassed by his gentle care, it would be so happy--happier far than my life was then. what he thought, i knew not. he spoke in hurried, broken words, and turned his face from me all the while. it grew dark, like night, and there came flash after flash, peal after peal. i could not stand--i leaned against his arm. at last there shone all around us a frightful glare, as if the whole wood were in flames--a crash of boughs--a roar above, as though the heavens were falling--then, silence. death had passed close by us, and smote us not--and death was the precursor of love. we looked at one another, laurence and i: then, with a great cry, our hearts--long-tortured--sprang together. there never can be such a meeting, save that of two parted ones, who meet in heaven. no words were spoken, save a murmur--"adelaide!" "laurence!"--but we knew that between us two there was but one soul. we stood there--all the while the storm lasted. he sheltered me in his arms, and i felt neither the thunder nor the rain. i feared not life nor death, for i now knew that in either i should never be divided from him. * * * ours was a brief engagement. laurence wished it so; and i disputed not--i never disputed with him in any thing. besides, i was not happy at home--my sisters did not understand him. they jested with me because he was grave and reserved--even subject to moody fits sometimes. they said, "i should have a great deal to put up with; but it was worth while, for mr. shelmerdine's grand estate atoned for all." my laurence! as if i had ever thought whether he were rich or poor! i smiled, too, at my sisters' jests about his melancholy, and the possibility of his being "a bandit in disguise." none truly knew him--none but i! yet i was half afraid of him at times; but that was only from the intensity of my love. i never asked him of his for me--how it grew--or why he had so long concealed it; enough for me that it was there. yet it was always calm: he never showed any passionate emotion, save one night--the night before our wedding day. i went with him to the gate myself, walking in the moonlight under the holly trees. i trembled a little; but i was happy--very happy. he held me long in his arms ere he would part with me--the last brief parting ere we would have no need to part any more. i said, looking up from his face unto the stars, "laurence, in our full joy, let us thank god, and pray him to bless us." his heart seemed bursting: he bowed his proud head, dropped it down upon my shoulder, and cried, "nay, rather pray him to _forgive_ me. adelaide, i am not worthy of happiness--i am not worthy of you." he, to talk in this way! and about me! but i answered him soothingly, so that he might feel how dear was my love--how entire my trust. he said, at last, half mournfully, "you are content to take me then, just as i am; to forgive my past--to bear with my present--to give hope to my future. will you do this, my love, my adelaide?" i answered, solemnly, "i will." then, for the first time, i dared to lift my arms to his neck; and as he stooped i kissed his forehead. it was the seal of this my promise--which may god give me strength to keep evermore! * * * * * we were laughing to-day--laurence and i--about _first loves_. it was scarcely a subject for mirth; but one of his bachelor friends had been telling us of a new-married couple, who, in some comical fashion, mutually made the discovery of each other's "first loves." i said to my husband, smiling happily, "that _he_ need have no such fear." and i repeated, half in sport, the lines-- "'he was her own, her ocean treasure, cast like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last.' so it was with your poor adelaide." touched by the thought, my gayety melted almost into tears. but i laughed them off, and added, "come, laurence, confess the same. you never, never loved any one but me?" he looked pained, said coldly, "i believe i have not given cause--" then stopped. how i trembled; but i went up to him, and whispered, "laurence, dearest, forgive me." he looked at me a moment, then caught me passionately to his breast. i wept there a little--my heart was so full. yet i could not help again murmuring that question--"you love me? you _do_ love me?" "i love you as i never before loved woman. i swear this in the sight of heaven. believe it, my wife!" was his vehement answer. i hated myself for having so tried him. my dear, my noble husband! i was mad to have a moment's doubt of thee. * * * * * * * * nearly a year married, and it seems a brief day: yet it seems, also, like a lifetime--as if i had never known any other. my laurence! daily i grow closer to him--heart to heart. i understand him better--if possible, i love him more: not with the wild worship of my girlhood, but with something dearer--more home-like. i would not have him an "angel," if i could. i know all his little faults and weaknesses quite well--i do not shut my eyes on any of them; but i gaze openly at them, and _love_ them down. there is love enough in my heart to fill up all chasms--to remove all stumbling-blocks from our path. ours is truly a wedded life: not two jarring lives, but an harmonious and complete _one_. * * * * * i have taken a long journey, and am somewhat dreary at being away, even for three days, from my pleasant home. but laurence was obliged to go, and i would not let him go alone; though, from tender fear, he urged me to stay. so kind and thoughtful he was too. because his engagements here would keep him much from me, he made me take likewise my sister louisa. she is a good girl, and a dear girl; but i miss laurence; i did especially in my walk to-day, through a lovely, wooded country and a sweet little village. i was thinking of him all the time; so much so, that i quite started when i heard one of the village children shouted after as "laurence." very foolish it is of me--a loving weakness i have not yet got over--but i never hear the name my husband bears without a pleasant thrill; i never even see it written up in the street without turning again to look at it. so, unconsciously, i turned to the little rosy urchin, whom his grandam honored by the name of "laurence." a pretty, sturdy boy, of five or six years old--a child to glad any mother. i wondered had he a mother! i staid and asked.--i always notice children now. oh! wonderful, solemn mystery sleeping at my heart, my hope--my joy--my prayer! i think, with tears, how i may one day watch the gambols of a boy like this; and how, looking down in his little face, i may see therein my laurence's eyes. for the sake of this future--which god grant!--i went and kissed the little fellow who chanced to bear my husband's name. i asked the old woman about the boy's mother. "dead! dead five years." and his father? a sneer--a muttered curse--bitter words about "poor folk" and "gentle-folk." alas! alas! i saw it all. poor, beautiful, unhappy child! my heart was so pained, that i could not tell the little incident to laurence. even when my sister began to talk of it, i asked her to cease. but i pondered over it the more. i think, if i am strong enough, i will go and see the poor little fellow again to-morrow. one might do some good--who knows? * * * * * to-morrow has come--to-morrow has gone. what a gulf lies between that yesterday and its to-morrow! * * * louisa and i walked to the village--she very much against her will. "it was wrong and foolish," she said; "one should not meddle with vice." and she looked prudent and stern. i tried to speak of the innocent child--of the poor dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood over my own soul taught me compassion towards both. at last, when louisa was half angry, i said i would go for i had a secret reason which she did not know.--thank heaven those words were put into my lips. so, we went. my little beauty of a boy was not there; and i had the curiosity to approach the cottage where his grandmother lived. it stood in a garden, with a high hedge around. i heard a child's laugh, and could not forbear peeping through. there was my little favorite, held aloft in the arms of a man, who stood half hidden behind a tree. "he looks like a gentleman: perhaps it is the wretch of a father!" whispered louisa. "sister, we ought to come away." and she walked forward indignantly. but i still staid--still looked. despite my horror of the crime, i felt a sort of attraction: it was some sign of grace in the man that he should at least acknowledge and show kindness to his child. and the miserable mother! i, a happy wife, could have wept to think of her. i wondered, did he think of her, too? he might; for, though the boy laughed and chattered, lavishing on him all those pet diminutives which children make out of the sweet word "father," i did not hear _this_ father answer by a single word. louisa came to hurry me away. "hush!" i said: "one moment and i will go." the little one had ceased chattering: the father put it down, and came forth from his covert. heaven it was _my husband_! * * * i think i should then have fallen down dead, save for one thing--i turned and met my sister's eyes. they were full of horror--indignation--pity. she, too, had seen. like lightning there flashed across me all the future: my father's wrath--the world's mockery--_his_ shame. i said--and i had strength to say it quite calmly--"louisa, you have guessed our secret; but keep it--promise!" she looked aghast--confounded. "you see," i went on, and i actually smiled, "you see, i know all about it, and so does laurence. it is--a friend's child." may heaven forgive me for that lie i told: it was to save my husband's honor. day after day, week after week, goes by, and yet i live--live, and living, keep the horrible secret in my soul. it must remain there buried forever, now. it so chanced; that after that hour i did not see my husband for some weeks: louisa and i were hastily summoned home. so i had time to think what i was to do. i knew all now--all the mystery of his fits of gloom--his secret sufferings. it was remorse, perpetual remorse. no marvel! and for a moment my stern heart said, "let it be so." i, too, was wronged. why did he marry me, and hide all this? o vile! o cruel! then the light broke on me: his long struggle against his love--his terror of winning mine. but he did love me: half-maddening as i was, i grasped at that. whatever blackness was on the past, he loved me now--he had sworn it--"more than he ever loved woman." i was yet young: i knew little of the wickedness of the world; but i had heard of that mad passion of a moment, which may seize on a heart not wholly vile, and afterward a whole lifetime of remorse works out the expiation. six years ago! he must have been then a mere boy. if he had thus erred in youth, i, who knew his nature, knew how awful must have been the repentance of his manhood. on any humbled sinner i would have mercy--how much rather must i have mercy on _my husband_? i _had_ mercy. some, stern in virtue, may condemn me--but god knoweth all. he is--i believe it in my soul--he is a good man now, and striving more and more after good. i will help him--i will save him. never shall he know that secret, which out of pride or bitterness might drive him back from virtue, or make him feel shame before me. * * * * * i took my resolution--i have fulfilled it. i have met him again, as a faithful wife should meet her husband: no word, no look, betrays, or shall betray, what i know. all our outward life goes on as before: his tenderness for me is constant--overflowing. but oh! the agony, worse than death, of knowing my idol fallen--that where i once worshiped, i can only pity, weep, and pray. * * * * * he told me yesterday he did not feel like the same man that he was before his marriage. he said i was his good angel: that through me he became calmer, happier every day. it was true: i read the change in his face. others read it too. even his aged mother told me, with tears, how much good i had done to laurence. for this, thank god! my husband! my husband! at times i could almost think this horror was some delirious dream, cast it all to the winds, and worship him as of old. i do feel, as i ought, deep tenderness--compassion. no, no! let me not deceive myself: i love him; in defiance of all i love him, and shall do evermore. sometimes his olden sufferings come over him, and then i, knowing the whole truth, feel my very soul moved within me. if he had only told me all: if i could now lay my heart open before him, with all its love and pardon; if he would let me comfort him, and speak of hope, of heaven's mercy--of atonement, even on earth. but i dare not--i dare not. since, from this silence which he has seen fit to keep, i must not share the struggle, but must stay afar off--then, like the prophet who knelt on the rock, supplicating for israel in the battle, let my hands fall not, nor my prayer cease, until heaven sendeth the victory. * * * * * nearer and nearer comes the hour which will be to me one of a double life, or of death. sometimes, remembering all i have lately suffered, there comes to me a heavy foreboding. what, if i, so young, to whom, one little year ago, life seemed an opening paradise--what, if i should die--die and leave _him_, and he never know how deeply i have loved--how much i have forgiven? yes; he might know, and bitterly. should louisa tell. but i will prevent that. * * * * * in my husband's absence, i have sat up half the night writing; that, in case of my death, he may be made acquainted with the whole truth, and hear it from me alone. i have poured out all my sufferings--all my tenderness: i have implored him, for the love of heaven, for the love of me, that he would in every way atone for the past, and lead for the future a righteous life; that his sin may be forgiven, and that, after death, we may meet in joy evermore. * * * * * i have been to church with laurence--for the last time, as i think. we knelt together, and took the sacrament. his face was grave, but peaceful. when we came home, we sat in our beautiful little rose-garden: he, looking so content--even happy; so tender over me--so full of hope for the future. how should this be, if he had on his soul that awful sin? all seemed a delusion of my own creating: i doubted even the evidence of my own senses. i longed to throw myself on his bosom, and tell him all. but then, from some inexplicable cause, the olden cloud came over him; i read in his face, or thought i read, the torturing remorse which at once repelled me from him, and yet drew me again, with a compassion that was almost stronger than love. i thought i would try to say, in some passing way, words that, should i die, might afterward comfort him, by telling him how his misery had wrung my heart, and how i did not scorn him, not even for his sin. "laurence," i said, very softly, "i wish that you and i had known one another all our lives--from the time we were little children." "oh! that we had! then i had been a better and a happier man, my adelaide!" was his answer. "we will not talk of that. please god, we may live a long and worthy life together; but if not--" he looked at me with fear. "what is that you say? adelaide, you are not going to die? you, whom i love, whom i have made happy, _you_ have no cause to die." oh, agony! he thought of the one who _had_ cause--to whose shame and misery death was better than life. poor wretch! she, too, might have loved him. down, wife's jealousy! down, woman's pride! it was long, long ago. she is dead; and he--oh! my husband! may god forgive me according as i pardon you! i said to him once more, putting my arm round his neck, leaning so that he could only hear, not see me. "laurence, if i should die, remember how happy we have been, and how dearly we have loved one another. think of nothing sad or painful; think only that, living or dying, i loved you as i have loved none else in the world. and so, whatever chances, be content." he seemed afraid to speak more, lest i should be agitated; but as he kissed me, i felt on my cheek tears--tears that my own eyes, long sealed by misery, had no power to shed. * * * i have done all i wished to do. i have set my house in order. now, whichever way god wills the event, i am prepared. life is not to me what it once was: yet, for laurence's sake, and for one besides--ah! now i dimly guess what that poor mother felt, who, dying, left her child to the mercy of the bitter world. but, heaven's will be done. i shall write here no more--perhaps forever. * * * it is all past and gone. i have been a mother--alas! _have been_; but i never knew it. i woke out of a long blank dream--a delirium of many weeks--to find the blessing had come, and been taken away. one only giveth--_one_ only taketh. amen! for seven days, as they tell me, my babe lay by my side--its tiny hands touched mine--it slept at my breast. but i remember nothing--nothing! i was quite mad all the while. and then--it died--and i have no little face to dream of--no memory of the sweetness that has been. it is all to me as if i had never seen my child. if i had only had my senses for one day--one hour: if i could but have seen laurence when they gave him his baby boy. bitterly he grieves, his mother says, because he has no heir. * * * my first waking fear was horrible. had i betrayed any thing during my delirium? i think not. louisa says i lay all the time silent, dull, and did not even notice my husband, though he bent over me like one distracted. poor laurence! i see him but little now: they will not suffer me. it is perhaps well: i could not bear his grief and my own too: i might not be able to keep my secret safe. * * * * * i went yesterday to look at the tiny mound--all that is left to me of my dream of motherhood. such a happy dream as it was, too! how it comforted me, many a time: how i used to sit and think of my darling that was to come: to picture it lying in my arms--playing at my feet--growing in beauty--a boy, a youth, a man! and this--this is all--this little grave. perhaps i may never have another child. if so, all the deep love which nature teaches, and which nature has even now awakened in my heart, must find no object, and droop and wither away, or be changed into repining. no! please god, _that_ last shall never be: i will not embitter the blessings i have, by mourning over those denied. but i must love something, in the way that i would have loved my child. i have lost my babe; some babe may have lost a mother. a thought comes--i shudder--i tremble--yet i follow it. i will pause a little, and then-- * * * * * in mr. shelmerdine's absence, i have accomplished my plan. i have contrived to visit the place where lives that hapless child--my husband's child. i do believe my love to laurence must be such as never before was borne to man by woman. it draws me even toward this little one: forgetting all wife-like pride, i seem to yearn over the boy. but is this strange? in my first girlish dreams, many a time i have taken a book he had touched--a flower he had gathered--hid it from my sisters, kissed it, and wept over it for days. it was folly; but it only showed how precious i held every thing belonging to him. and should i not hold precious what is half himself--his own son? i will go and see the child to-morrow. weeks have passed, and yet i have had no strength to tell what that to-morrow brought. strange book of human fate! each leaf closed until the appointed time--if we could but turn it, and read. yet it is best not. i went to the cottage--alone, of course. i asked the old woman to let me come in and rest, for i was a stranger, weak and tired. she did so kindly, remembering, perhaps, how i had once noticed the boy. he was her grandson she told me--her daughter's child. her daughter! and this old creature was a coarse, rough-spoken woman--a laborer's wife. laurence shelmerdine--the elegant--the refined--what madness must have possessed him! "she died very young, then, your daughter?" i found courage to say. "ay, ay; in a few months after the boy's birth. she was but a weakly thing at best, and she had troubles enow." quickly came the blood to my heart--to my cheek--in bitter, bitter shame. not for myself, but for him. i shrank like a guilty thing before that mother's eye. i dared not ask--what i longed to hear--concerning the poor girl, and her sad history. "is the child like her?" was all i could say, looking to where the little one was playing, at the far end of the garden. i was glad not to see him nearer. "was his mother as beautiful as he?" "ay, a good-looking lass enough; but the little lad's like his father, who was a gentleman born: though laurence had better ha' been a plowman's son. a bad business bess made of it. to this day i dunnot know her right name, nor little laurence's there; and so i canna make his father own him. he ought, for the lad's growing up as grand a gentleman as himself: he'll never do to live with poor folk like granny." "alas!" i cried, forgetting all but my compassion; "then how will the child bear his lot of shame!" "shame!" and the old woman came up fiercely to me. "you'd better mind your own business: my bess was as good as you." i trembled violently, but could not speak. the woman went on: "i dunnot care if i blab it all out, though bess begged me not. she was a fool, and the young fellow something worse. his father tried--may-be he wished to try, too--but they couldna undo what had been done. my girl was safe married to him, and the little lad's a gentleman's lawful son." oh! joy beyond belief! oh! bursting blessed tears! my laurence! my laurence! * * * i have no clear recollection of any thing more, save that i suppose the woman thought me mad, and fled out of the cottage. my first consciousness is of finding myself quite alone, with the door open, and a child looking in at me in wonderment, but with a gentleness such as i have seen my husband wear. no marvel i had loved that childish face: it was such as might have been _his_ when he was a boy. i cried, tremulously, "laurence! little laurence!" he came to me, smiling and pleased. one faint struggle i had--forgive me, poor dead girl!--and then i took the child in my arms, and kissed him as though i had been his mother for thy sake--for thy sake--my husband! * * * * * i understood all the past now. the wild, boyish passion, making an ideal out of a poor village girl--the unequal union--the dream fading into common day--coarseness creating repulsion--the sting of one folly which had marred a lifetime--dread of the world, self-reproach, and shame--all these excuses i could find: and yet laurence had acted ill. and when the end came: no wonder that remorse pursued him, for he had broken a girl's heart. she might, she must, have loved him. i wept for her--i, who so passionately loved him too. he was wrong, also, grievously wrong, in not acknowledging the child. yet there might have been reasons. his father ruled with an iron hand; and, then, when he died, laurence had just known me. alas! i weave all coverings to hide his fault. but surely this strong, faithful love was implanted in my heart for good. it shall not fail him now: it shall encompass him with arms of peace: it shall stand between him and the bitter past: it shall lead him on to a worthy and happy future. there is one thing which he must do: i will strengthen him to do it. yet, when i tell him all, how will he meet it? no matter; i must do right. i have walked through this cloud of misery--shall my courage fail me now? he came home, nor knew that i had been away. something oppressed him: his old grief perhaps. my beloved! i have a balm even for that, now. * * * i told him the story, as it were in a parable, not of myself, but of another--a friend i had. his color came and went--his hands trembled in my hold. i hid nothing: i told of the wife's first horrible fear--of her misery--and the red flush mounted to his very brow. i could have fallen at his feet, and prayed forgiveness; but i dared not yet. at last i spoke of the end, still using the feigned names i had used all along. he said, hoarsely, "do you think the wife--a good and pure woman--would forgive all this?" "forgive! oh! laurence--laurence!" and i clung to him and wept. a doubt seemed to strike him. "adelaide--tell me--" "i have told. husband, forgive me! i know all, and still i love you--i love you!" i did not say, _i pardon_. i would not let him think that i felt i had need to pardon. laurence sank down at my feet, hid his face on my knees, and wept. * * * the tale of his youth was as i guessed. he told it me the same night, when we sat in the twilight gloom. i was glad of this--that not even his wife's eyes might scan too closely the pang it cost him to reveal these long-past days. but all the while he spoke my head was on his breast, that he might feel i held my place there still, and that no error, no grief, no shame, could change my love for him, nor make me doubt his own, which i had won. * * * * * my task is accomplished. i rested not, day or night, until the right was done. why should he fear the world's sneer, when his wife stands by him--his wife, who most of all might be thought to shrink from this confession that must be made? but i have given him comfort--ay, courage. i have urged him to do his duty, which is one with mine. my husband has acknowledged his first marriage, and taken home his son. his mother, though shocked and bewildered at first, rejoiced when she saw the beautiful boy--worthy to be the heir of the shelmerdines. all are happy in the thought. and i-- i go, but always secretly, to the small daisy-mound. my own lost one! my babe, whose face i never saw! if i have no child on earth, i know there is a little angel waiting me in heaven. * * * * * let no one say i am not happy, as happy as one can be in this world: never was any woman more blessed than i am in my husband and my son--_mine_. i took him as such: i will fulfill the pledge while i live. * * * the other day, our little laurence did something wrong. he rarely does so--he is his father's own child for gentleness and generosity. but here he was in error: he quarreled with his aunt louisa, and refused to be friends. louisa was not right either: she does not half love the boy. i took my son on my lap, and tried to show him the holiness and beauty of returning good for evil, of forgetting unkindness, of pardoning sin. he listened, as he always listens to me. after a while, when his heart was softened, i made him kneel down beside me, saying the prayer--"_forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us._" little laurence stole away, repentant and good. i sat thoughtful: i did not notice that behind me had stood _my_ laurence--my husband. he came and knelt where his boy had knelt. like a child, he laid his head on my shoulder, and blessed me, in broken words. the sweetest of all were: "my wife! my wife who has saved her husband!" a soldier's first battle. the capture of a redoubt. a military friend of mine, who died of fever, in greece, a few years ago, one day related to me the first affair in which he had been engaged. his recital made such an impression upon me that i wrote it down from memory as soon as i had leisure. here it is: "i joined my regiment on the th of september, in the evening. i found my colonel at the bivouac. he received me at first very bluntly; but when he had read my letter of recommendation from general b----, he altered his manner, and addressed some civil words to me. "i was presented by him to my captain, who had that instant returned from reconnoitering the movements of the enemy. this captain, though i had scarce time to observe him, was a tall, sunburnt man, of harsh and repulsive aspect. he had been a private soldier, and had gained his epaulets and his cross of the legion on the field of battle. his voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted oddly with his almost gigantic height. they told me afterward that he owed his strange voice to a ball which had cut his windpipe across at the battle of jena. "on learning that i had come from the military school of fontainebleau, he made a grimace, and said, 'my lieutenant was killed yesterday'--i understood what he would have added: 'it is you that should take his place, but you are not fit.' an angry retort was on my lips, but i contained myself. "the moon rose behind the redoubt of cheverino, situated about two gun-shots from our bivouac. it was large and red, as usual at first rising. but this evening the moon seemed to me of extraordinary size. for an instant the redoubt stood out from the dark night against the broad red disc of the moon. it looked like the cone of a volcano at the moment of an eruption. "an old soldier, near whom i stood, remarked upon the color of the moon--'she is very red,' said he, 'it is a sign that it will cost us dear to take it--this famous redoubt!' i have always been superstitious, and this augury, especially at this moment, affected me considerably. "i went to rest, but could not sleep. i rose, and walked about for some time in the dark, looking at the immense line of watch-fires which covered the heights about the village of cheverino. "when i found the cold, keen night-air had sufficiently cooled my blood, i went back to the fire; i wrapped myself carefully in my cloak, and shut my eyes, hoping not to open them again before daylight. but sleep fled my eyelids. my thoughts unconsciously assumed a gloomy aspect. i reflected that i had not a single friend among the hundred thousand men who covered this plain. if i were wounded, i would be carried to an hospital, and treated without respect, by perhaps ignorant surgeons. all that i had heard of surgical operations came into my mind. my heart beat with violence, and mechanically i placed, as a kind of cuirass, the handkerchief and the portfolio which i had with me, about my breast. fatigue overwhelmed me; i grew sleepier each instant; but some unlucky thought suddenly flashed upon my mind, and i woke up again with a start. "but fatigue prevailed, and when the drums beat to arms, they awoke me from a sound sleep. we were put in battle array, and challenged the enemy, then we piled arms, and all said we were going to have a quiet day. "about three o'clock, an aid-de-camp galloped up, bringing an order. we stood to our arms again; our sharpshooters spread themselves over the plain; we followed them slowly, and in about twenty minutes we saw the advanced posts of the russians turning back and entering within the redoubt. "a battery of artillery had established itself on our right, another on our left, but both were well in advance of us. they began a brisk fire upon the enemy, who replied vigorously, and the redoubt of cheverino was very soon hid under a thick cloud of smoke. "our regiment was almost secure against the fire of the russians by a rising-ground in our front. their bullets--a rare thing for us--(for their gunners fired more accurately than ours) went over our heads, or at most covered us with earth and little stones. "as soon as the order to advance had been given us, my captain eyed me with a look which obliged me, two or three times, to pass my hand over my young mustache with as unconcerned an air as i could. indeed, i was not frightened, and the only fear i had was, lest any one about me should imagine i was afraid. these inoffensive bullets of the russians still continued to preserve my heroic calmness. my self-esteem whispered to me that i ran a real danger, and that i was under the fire of a battery. i was delighted at feeling myself so much at my ease, and i thought of the pleasure with which i should relate the capture of the redoubt of cheverino, in the salon of madame de b----, in the rue de provence. "the colonel passed before our company; he said to me, 'well, sir! you are soon going to make your _début_.' "i smiled, with a martial air, brushing at the same time the sleeve of my coat, upon which a bullet, that had fallen about thirty paces from me, had sent a little dust. "it seemed that the russians had perceived the bad success of their firing, for they replaced their cannon with howitzers, which could better reach us in the hollow where we were posted. suddenly a stunning blow knocked off my shako, and a ball killed the man behind me. "'i congratulate you,' said the captain to me, as i put on my shako again, 'you are safe for the day.' i knew of the military superstition, which holds that the axiom _non bis in idem_ has its application on the field of battle as well as in the court of justice. i put on my shako somewhat haughtily. 'this causes one to salute without ceremony,' said i, as gayly as i could. this wretched pleasantry, under the circumstances, seemed excellent. 'i wish you joy,' replied the captain, 'you will not be hit again, and you will command a company this night; for i feel sure that the furnace is heated for me. every time that i have been wounded, the officer behind me has received some mortal ball, and,' he added, in a low tone, and as if ashamed of what he was about to say, 'their names always began with a p.' "i felt stout-hearted now; many people would have done as i did; many would, like myself, have been struck with these prophetic words. conscript as i was, i felt that i could confide my sentiments to no one, and that i ought only to appear coolly intrepid. "at the lapse of about half an hour the fire of the russians sensibly diminished; and then we sallied from our cover, to march upon the redoubt. "our regiment was composed of three battalions. the second was ordered to turn the redoubt on the side of the defile; the two others were ordered to make the assault. i belonged to the third battalion. "in moving out from behind the shoulder of the rising ground which had hitherto protected us, we were met by volleys of musketry, which, however, did little execution among our ranks. the whistling of the bullets surprised me; i frequently turned my head, and thus excited considerable pleasantry among those of my comrades who were more familiar than myself with this kind of music. taking all things, said i to myself, a battle is not so terrible a thing after all. "we advanced at a running pace, preceded by the skirmishers. all at once the russians set up three hurras--three distinct hurras; then they remained silent, and entirely ceased firing. 'i don't like this quiet,' said my captain, 'it bodes us no good.' i found our people becoming rather blustering, and i could not help at the moment contrasting their noisy exclamations with the imposing silence of the enemy. "we soon reached the foot of the redoubt, the palisades of which had been broken and the earth scattered by our cannon-balls. the soldiers rushed over the ruins, with cries of _vive l'empereur!_ louder than one could have expected of men who had already been shouting so much. "i raised my eyes, and never shall i forget the scene which i saw before me. the greater part of the smoke had risen, and hung, suspended like a canopy, twenty feet above the redoubt. beyond a bluish vapor, we could see behind their half-destroyed parapet the russian grenadiers, with muskets raised, immovable as statues. i think i still see each soldier, his left eye fixed on us, his right hidden behind his musket. in an embrasure, some feet from us, a man, holding a match, stood beside a cannon. "i shuddered, and i thought that my last hour was come. 'now the dance is about to begin!' said my captain. 'good-night!' these were the last words i heard him speak. "a roll of drums resounded through the redoubt. i saw them lower their muskets. i shut my eyes, and then i heard a terrific discharge, followed by cries and groans. i opened my eyes again, surprised to find myself still unharmed. the redoubt was again enveloped in smoke. i was surrounded by dead and wounded. my captain lay stretched at my feet. his head was pounded by a bullet, and i was spattered with his blood and his brains. of all my company, there remained alive only six men besides myself. "a moment of stupor succeeded to this carnage. the colonel, putting his hat on the point of his sword, clambered up the parapet the first, crying _vive l'empereur!_ and he was soon followed by the survivors. i have no distinct recollection of what occurred. we entered the redoubt, i don't know how. we fought, man to man, amid a smoke so thick that we could scarcely see each other. i must have struck like the rest, for i found my sabre all bloody. at last i heard the cry of 'victory!' and, the smoke diminishing, i saw that blood and dead bodies almost covered the ground of the redoubt. the cannons were almost buried under the heaps of corpses. about two hundred men standing, in french uniforms, were grouped without order, some charging their pieces, others wiping their bayonets. eleven russian prisoners stood by them. "the colonel lay stretched, all bloody, upon a broken wagon, near the defile. some soldiers pressed round him. i approached. 'who is the senior captain?' he asked of a sergeant. the sergeant shrugged his shoulders in a most expressive manner. 'and the senior lieutenant?' 'this officer who arrived to-day!' said the sergeant, calmly. the colonel smiled sadly. 'come, sir,' said he to me, 'you command in chief. you must at once fortify the redoubt, and barricade the defile with wagons, for the enemy is in force; but general c---- will support you.' 'colonel,' said i to him, 'you are seriously wounded.' 'f----, my dear fellow, but the redoubt is taken.'" memory and its caprices. there is no faculty so inexplicable as memory. it is not merely that its powers vary so much in different individuals, but that every one has found their own liable to the most unaccountable changes and chances. why vivid impressions should appear to become utterly obliterated, and then suddenly spring to light, as if by the wand of a magician, without the slightest effort of our own, is a mystery which no metaphysician has ever been able to explain. we all have experience of this, when we have striven _in vain_ to recollect a name, a quotation, or a tune, and find it present itself unbidden, it may be, at a considerable interval of time, when the thoughts are engaged on another subject. we all know the uneasy feeling with which we search for the missing article, and the relief when it suddenly flashes across the mind, and when, as if traced by invisible ink, it comes out unexpectedly, bright and clear. it is most happily ordered, that pleasing sensations are recalled with far greater vividness than those of a distressing nature. a charming scene which we loved to contemplate, a perfume which we have inhaled, an air to which we have listened, can all be reverted to with a degree of pleasure not far short of that which we experienced in the actual enjoyment; but bodily pain, which, during its continuance, occasions sensations more absorbing than any thing else, can not be recalled with the same vividness. it is remembered in a general way as a great evil, but we do not recall the suffering so as to communicate the sensation of the reality. in fact, we remember the pain, but we recollect the pleasure--for the difference between remembrance and recollection is distinct. we may remember a friend, whose person we have forgotten, but we can not have forgotten the appearance of one whom we recollect. surely a benevolent providence can be traced in the provision which enables us to enjoy the sensations again which gave pleasure, but which does not oblige us to feel those which gave pain. the memory of the aged, which is so impaired by years, is generally clear as to the most pleasurable period of existence, and faint and uncertain as to that which has brought the infirmities and "ills which flesh is heir to;" and the recollection of schoolboy days, with what keen delight are all their merry pranks and innocent pleasures recalled, while the drudgery of learning and the discipline of rules, once considered so irksome, fill but a faint outline in the retrospective picture; the impressions of joy and gayety rest on the mind, while those which are felt in the first moments of some great calamity are so blunted by its stunning effect, that they can not be accurately recalled. indeed, it frequently happens that the memory loses every trace of a sudden misfortune, while it retains all the events which have preceded it. of such paramount importance is a retentive memory considered, that the improvement of the faculty by constant exercise is the first object in education, and artificial aids for its advantage have been invented. so essential did the ancients regard its vigor for any work of imagination, that "they described the muses as the daughters of memory." though a retentive memory may be found where there is no genius, yet genius, though sometimes, is rarely deficient in this most valuable gift. there are so many examples of its great power in men of transcendent abilities, that every one can name a host. some of these examples would appear incredible, had they not been given on unquestionable authority. themistocles, we are told, could call by their names every citizen of athens, though they amounted to twenty thousand. cyrus knew the name of every soldier in his army. hortentius, after attending a public sale for the day, gave an account in the evening of every article which had been sold, the prices, and the names of the purchasers. on comparing it with that taken at the sale by the notary, it was found to agree as exactly with it as if it had been a copy. "memory corner thompson," so called from the extraordinary power which he possessed, drew, in the space of twenty-two hours, a correct plan of the parish of st. james's, westminster, with parts of the parishes of st. marylebone, st. ann, and st. martin. in this were included all the squares, streets, courts, lanes, alleys, markets, and all other entries; every church, chapel, and public building; all stables and yards; all the public-houses and corners of streets, with every pump, post, tree, house, bow-window; all the minutiæ about st. james's palace; this he did in the presence of two gentlemen, without any plan or notes of reference, but solely from his memory. he afterward completed the plans of other parishes. a house being named in any public street, he could tell the trade of the shop, either on the right or left hand. he could from memory furnish an inventory of every thing contained in any house where he was intimate, from the garret to the cellar. the extraordinary powers of calculation entirely from memory are very surprising. the mathematician wallis, in bed, and in the dark, extracted the cube root from a number consisting of thirty figures. george iii. had a memory remarkably retentive. he is said never to have forgotten the face he had once seen, or the name once heard. carolan's memory was remarkably quick and retentive. on one occasion, he met a celebrated musician at the house of an irish nobleman. he challenged him to a trial of musical skill. the musician played the fifth concerto of vivaldi on his violin, to which carolan, who had never heard it, listened with deep attention. when it was finished, he took his harp, and played the concerto from beginning to end, without missing a single note. an instance of great memory is related of la motte, who was invited by voltaire, then a young man, to hear a tragedy which he had just finished. la motte listened with great attention, and was delighted with it. however, he said he had one fault to find with it. on being urged by voltaire to say what _that_ was, he replied, that he regretted that any part of it should have been borrowed. voltaire, chagrined and incredulous, requested that he would point this out. he named the second scene of the fourth act, saying, that, when he had met with it, it had struck him so much, that he took the trouble of transmitting it to memory. he then recited the scene, just as voltaire had read it, with the animation which showed how much it pleased him. voltaire, utterly confounded, remained silent; the friends who were present looked at each other in amazement; a few moments of embarrassment and dismay ensued. la motte at length broke the silence: "make yourself easy, sir," said he, "the scene belongs to no one but you. i was so charmed by its beauty that i could not resist the temptation of committing it to memory." it is not uncommon to find the memory retentive on some subjects, yet extremely defective on others. the remarkable powers of some are limited to dates and names. a lady with whom we were acquainted could tell the number of stairs contained in each flight in the houses of all her acquaintance, but her memory was not particularly retentive in any thing else. in the notice of the death of miss addison, daughter of the celebrated addison, which took place in , it is stated, that "she inherited her father's memory, but none of the discriminating powers of his understanding; with the retentive faculties of jedediah buxton, she was a perfect imbecile. she could go on in any part of her father's works, and repeat the whole, but was incapable of speaking or writing an intelligible sentence." cases of occasional forgetfulness on matters of interest to the mind are among the strange caprices of memory. when dr. priestley was preparing the dissertations prefixed to his "harmony of the gospels," he had taken great pains to inform himself on a subject which had been under discussion, relative to the jewish passover. he transcribed the result of his researches, and laid the paper aside. his attention being called to something else, a fortnight elapsed before the subject again occurred to his mind. the same pains were taken which he had bestowed on it before. the fruits of his labor were again written out. so completely had he forgotten that he had before copied out exactly the same paragraphs and reflections, that it was only when he found the papers on which he had transcribed them that it was recalled to his recollection. at times he has read his own published writings without recognizing them. john hunter's memory once failed him. when he was in the house of a friend, he totally forgot where he was, in whose house, in what room, or in what street, or where he lived himself. he was conscious of this failure, and tried to restore his recollection by looking out of the window to ascertain where he was, but to no purpose. after some time, recollection gradually returned. it is well known that a young man of great ability, and for whom his friends looked for the most brilliant success, totally forgot what he had been about to say, when making his first, and, as it proved, his only parliamentary speech. he tried to resume the thread of his argument, but all was a cheerless blank--he came to a dead stop; and thus his parliamentary career ended: he never attempted to address the house again. an actor, who was performing in a play which had a great run, all at once forgot a speech which he had to make. "how," said he, when he got behind the scenes, and offered, as he thought, a very sufficient excuse, "how could it be expected that i should remember it forever. haven't i repeated it every night for the last thirty nights!" we are told in the "psychological magazine," that many cases have occurred in which persons have forgotten their own names. on one occasion, a gentleman had to turn to his companion, when about to leave his name at a door where they called to visit, to ask him what it was, so completely and suddenly had he forgotten it. after severe attacks of illness and great hardship, loss of memory is not infrequent. some who recovered from the plague at athens, as thucydides relates, had lost their memories so entirely that no friend, no relation, nothing connected with their personal identity, was remembered. it is said, that, among those who had escaped with life the disasters of the memorable campaign in russia, and the disease which was so fatal to the troops at wilna, there were some who had utterly lost their memory--who preserved not the faintest recollection of country, home, or friends. the fond associations of other days had left nothing but a dreary blank. as the body has been made the vehicle for the exercise of the faculties of the mind, and as they are united in some mysterious manner, we find injuries to the one often hurtful, and sometimes fatal to the other. mental shocks frequently impede, or in some cases utterly put an end to that exercise which the union of body and mind produces. the memory is often disturbed or upset by some injury to the brain. a fall, a sudden blow, or disease, may obliterate _all recollection_. we have heard of those who have suffered from such who have forgotten every friend and relation, and never knew the face of one belonging to them again. but the effects are sometimes very strange and partial, and totally beyond our comprehension. the functions of the memory, in some cases, are suspended for a time, but, on recovery, take up at the very point where they were deprived of their power. dr. abercrombie was acquainted with a lady who had an apoplectic seizure while at cards. from thursday evening till sunday morning she was quite unconscious. at length she spoke, and the first words she uttered were, "what is trump?" beattie mentions a gentleman who had a similar attack, in the year , from which he recovered, but all recollection of the four years previous to the attack was gone, while all that had happened in the preceding years was accurately recollected. he had to refer to the public journals of the forgotten years, in which he had taken great interest at the time, for information about the passing events of those years, and read the details with great satisfaction and surprise. by a fall from his horse, a gentleman, who was an admirable scholar, received a severe hurt on the head. he recovered, but his learning was gone, and he had actually to commence his education again by the very first step, the learning of the alphabet. a less unfortunate scholar, meeting with a similar accident, lost none of his acquirements but his greek; but it was irrevocably lost. a strange caprice of memory is recorded in the case of dr. broussannet. an accident which befell him brought on an attack of apoplexy. when he recovered, he had utterly lost the power of pronouncing or writing proper names, or any substantive, while his memory supplied adjectives in profusion, by the application of which he distinguished whatever he wished to mention. in speaking of any one, he would designate him by calling him after the shape or color for which he was remarkable. if his hair was red, he called him "red;" if above the usual height, he named him "tall;" if he wanted his hat, he asked for his "black;" if his "blue" or "brown" was required, it was a _coat_ of the color that he called for. the same mode of mentioning plants was that which he made use of. as he was a good botanist, he was well acquainted with a vast number, but he could never call them by their names. mr. millingen quotes from salmuth an account of a man who could pronounce words, though he had forgotten how to write them; and of another, who could only recollect the first syllable of the words he used. some have confused substantives altogether, calling their watch a hat, and ordering up paper when they wanted coals; others have transposed the letters of the words which they intended to use. a musician, laboring under the partial loss of memory, was known to call his flute a _tufle_, thus employing every letter in the right word. curious anagrams, it is stated, have been made in this way, and innumerable names for persons and things invented. an extraordinary case of periodic recollection had occurred in an old man, who had forgotten all the events of his former life, unless they were recalled to his memory by some occurrence; yet every night he regularly recollected some one particular circumstance of his early days. there are, indeed, very extraordinary cases of a sudden rush of recollections. a gentleman with whom we are acquainted, mentioned that at one time he was in imminent danger of being drowned, and that in the brief space of some moments all the events of his life were vividly recalled. there have been similar instances; indeed, were we to transcribe one-third of the remarkable cases of the caprice of memory, we should far exceed our limits. some very wonderful details are given of those which have been known to occur in the somnambulist state. dr. dyce of aberdeen describes the case of a girl who was subject to such attacks. during these, she would converse with the bystanders, answering their questions. once she went through the whole of the baptismal service of the church of england. on awakening, she had no recollection of what had occurred in her state of somnambulism, but, on falling into it again, she would talk over all that had passed and been said while it continued. during one of these paroxysms, she was taken to church, where she appeared to attend to the service with great devotion. she was much affected by the sermon, and shed tears at one passage. when restored to the waking state, she had not the faintest recollection whatever of the circumstance; but, in the following paroxysm, her recollection of the whole matter was most accurate; her account of it was as vivid as possible. not only did she describe every thing, but she gave the subject of the sermon, repeating _verbatim_ the passage at which she had wept. thus she appeared endowed with two memories--one for the walking state, and the other for that mysterious sleep. there are some very affecting cases of the partial loss of memory from sudden misfortune and from untoward accidents. the day was fixed for the marriage of a young clergyman and one to whom he was most tenderly attached. two days before the appointed time, he went out with a young friend, who was going to shoot. the gun went off accidentally. he instantly fell, and it was found that part of the charge had lodged in his forehead. for some days his life was despaired of; but at the end of that time he was pronounced out of danger. the happiness, however, which had hung on his existence was forever gone. she who had watched by him night and day had a trial more bitter than his death: he was deranged; his memory retained nothing but the idea of his approaching marriage. every recollection, every thought was absorbed in that one idea. his whole conversation related to the preparations. he never would speak on any other subject. it was always within two days of the happy time. thus years and years went over. youth passed, and still two days more would wed him to her who was fondly loved as ever. and thus he reached his eightieth year, and sunk into the grave. it has sometimes happened that the recollection of a sudden calamity has been lost in the very shock which it has produced. a curate of st. sulpice, never weary of doing good, practiced the most rigid self-denial, that he might have the means of serving others. he adopted an english orphan boy, who repaid his kindness with a fond affection, which increased every year--in short, they loved like a father and a son. the poor boy was an apt scholar, and his protector took special delight in teaching him. but his predominant taste was for music, for which he evinced the enthusiasm that ever marks genius. his taste was cultivated, for many of those whom the curate instructed were the sons of artists, and were themselves well skilled in the delightful art, and he got them to give lessons to his protégé. he soon excelled upon the harp, and his voice, though not powerful, was capable of all those touching modulations which find their way to the heart. accompanied by the chords, which he so well knew how to waken, more enchanting melody could scarcely be heard; and the poor curate found no more delightful relaxation than listening to his music; and the kind old man felt pride as well as delight in the progress of his _son_, as he always called the young musician. but peace and harmony was sadly interrupted. the attachment of the curate to the archbishop of arles was the cause of his being thrown into confinement with him in the convent of the carmelites. his poor son pined to share the prison of one so much beloved--the one in whom all his feelings of affection and gratitude centred. at length his entreaties succeeded, and the pupil and his preceptor were together again. but even this melancholy companionship was to be rent asunder. the convent was attacked. the particulars of the massacre of the d of september, , are too well known to need repetition. some sought concealment among the branches of the trees into which they had climbed; but pikes and bullets soon reached them. the archbishop, attended by thirty of the clergy, went with steady steps up to the altar in the chapel at the end of the garden. it was there that these martyrs were sacrificed, as it has been beautifully told by mr. alison, with eyes raised to the image of their crucified redeemer, and offering a prayer for their cruel assassins. poor capdeville, the good curate, it is said, recited at this awful moment the prayers of persons in the last agonies. the youth flew about the house in a state of bewildered distraction, seeking for his benefactor; at one moment bursting into an agony of tears, and then uttering the wildest lamentations; then, brushing away his tears, he would listen for some sound which might direct him to the spot where he might find his father. some of the neighbors, who had been led by compassion to the melancholy scene, tried to induce the boy to escape, but he pursued his way wildly, till he found his benefactor. nothing could persuade him to leave him. he appeared riveted to the spot, and refused to quit his side. but soon after the murder of the archbishop, the death-blow was aimed at capdeville. he cast a last look, full of compassion and tenderness, on the beloved boy, and expired. even as he lay, with his head resting on the step of the altar, it seemed as if he still observed his favorite with looks of kindness. the poor child's mind was quite upset. he would not believe him dead. he insisted that he slept. he forgot the scene of carnage by which he was surrounded. he sat by the bleeding corpse for three hours, expecting every moment that he would awaken. he rushed for his harp, and, returning to his patron's side, he played those plaintive airs in which he had taken especial delight. at length, worn out by watching for the moment of his awaking, he fell into a profound sleep, and the compassionate people about him bore him away and laid him on a bed. the sleep, or, more properly speaking, the stupor, continued for forty-eight hours. it was thought that when consciousness returned he might be somewhat composed; but his senses were never restored. as his affliction met with great commiseration, and as he was perfectly harmless, he was allowed the free range of the house. he would remain, as it were, in abstracted thought, pacing silently along the apartments, till the clock struck three; then he would bound away and fetch his harp, and, leaning against the fragments of the altar, he would play the tunes his preceptor had loved to hear. there was a touching expression of anxious hope in his countenance, but, when hours passed on, it was gradually succeeded by utter sadness. it was observed that at the hour of six he ceased to play, and slowly moving, he would say, "not yet, not yet; but he will soon speak to his child;" and then he would throw himself on his knees, and appear for a while rapt in devotion, and, heaving a sigh as he rose, he would glide softly about, as if fearing to disturb his friend, whom he thought was sleeping; and then he would again fall into a state of abstraction till the next day. how it happened that there was such regularity in the time of his commencing and ceasing to play, has not been suggested. it may have been that the exact time of his last interview with his friend was impressed upon his mind, or it may have been, which seems to us most likely, that these were the hours in which the poor curate was in the habit of seeking the relaxation of music to soothe and elevate his spirit after the labors of the day. every one pitied the poor demented boy, and could not see unmoved how he clung to affection and to hope, though bereft of reason and of recollection. bleak house.[ ] by charles dickens. chapter xx.--a new lodger. the long vacation saunters on toward term-time, like an idle river very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. mr. guppy saunters along with it congenially. he has blunted the blade of his penknife, and broken the point off, by sticking that instrument into his desk in every direction. not that he bears the desk any ill-will, but he must do something; and it must be something of an unexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies under too heavy contribution. he finds that nothing agrees with him so well, as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape. [ ] continued from the september number. kenge and carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken out a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and mr. guppy's two fellow stipendiaries are away on leave. mr. guppy, and mr. richard carstone divide the dignity of the office. but mr. carstone is for the time being established in kenge's room, whereat mr. guppy chafes. so exceedingly, that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce, in the old street road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted. mr. guppy suspects every body who enters on the occupation of a stool in kenge and carboy's office, of entertaining, as a matter of course, sinister designs upon him. he is clear that every such person wants to depose him. if he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. on the strength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains to counterplot, when there is no plot; and plays the deepest games of chess without any adversary. it is a source of much gratification to mr. guppy, therefore, to find the new comer constantly poring over the papers in jarndyce and jarndyce; for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure can come of that. his satisfaction communicates itself to a third saunterer through the long vacation in kenge and carboy's office; to wit, young smallweed. whether young smallweed (metaphorically called small and eke chick weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling), was ever a boy, is much doubted in lincoln's inn. he is now something under fifteen, and an old limb of the law. he is facetiously understood to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar shop, in the neighborhood of chancery lane; and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. he is a town-made article, of small stature and weazen features; but may be perceived from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. to become a guppy is the object of his ambition. he dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. he is honored with mr. guppy's particular confidence; and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficult points in private life. mr. guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning, after trying all the stools in succession, and finding none of them easy, and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of cooling it. mr. smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. mr. guppy propounds, for mr. smallweed's consideration, the paradox that the more you drink the thirstier you are; and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor. while thus looking out into the shade of old square, lincoln's inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, mr. guppy becomes conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below, and turning itself up in the direction of his face. at the same time, a low whistle is wafted through the inn, and a suppressed voice cries, "hip! guppy!" "why, you don't mean it?" says mr. guppy, aroused. "small! here's jobling!" small's head looks out of window too, and nods to jobling. "where have you sprung up from?" inquires mr. guppy. "from the market gardens down by deptford. i can't stand it any longer. i must enlist. i say! i wish you'd lend me half-a-crown. upon my soul i'm hungry." jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance of having run to seed in the market gardens down by deptford. "i say! just throw out half-a-crown, if you have got one to spare. i want to get some dinner." "will you come and dine with me?" says mr. guppy, throwing out the coin, which mr. jobling catches neatly. "how long should i have to hold out?" says jobling. "not half an hour. i am only waiting here, till the enemy goes," returns mr. guppy, butting inward with his head. "what enemy?" "a new one. going to be articled. will you wait?" "can you give a fellow any thing to read in the mean time?" says mr. jobling. smallweed suggests the law list. but mr. jobling declares, with much earnestness, that he "can't stand it." "you shall have the paper," says mr. guppy. "he shall bring it down. but you had better not be seen about here. sit on our staircase and read. it's a quiet place." jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. the sagacious smallweed supplies him with the newspaper; and occasionally drops his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted with waiting, and making an untimely departure. at last the enemy retreats, and then smallweed fetches mr. jobling up. "well, and how are you?" says mr. guppy, shaking hands with him. "so, so. how are you?" mr. guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, mr. jobling ventures on the question, "how is _she_?" this mr. guppy resents as a liberty; retorting, "jobling, there _are_ chords in the human mind--" jobling begs pardon. "any subject but that!" says mr. guppy, with a gloomy enjoyment of his injury. "for there _are_ chords, jobling--" mr. jobling begs pardon again. during this short colloquy, the active smallweed, who is of the dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, "return immediately." this notification to all whom it may concern, he inserts in the letter-box; and then putting on the tall hat, at the angle of inclination at which mr. guppy wears his, informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce. accordingly they betake themselves to a neighboring dining-house, of the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible smallweed; of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling, to whom years are nothing. he stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. if he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain there in a tail-coat. he has an old, old eye, has smallweed; and he drinks, and smokes, in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it, whatever it is. in short, in his bringing up, he has been so nursed by law and equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that his father was john doe, and his mother the only female member of the roe family; also that his first long-clothes were made from a blue bag. into the dining house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window, of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, mr. smallweed leads the way. they know him there, and defer to him. he has his favorite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterward. it is of no use trying him with any thing less than a full-sized "bread," or proposing to him any joint in cut, unless it is in the very best cut. in the matter of gravy he is adamant. conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to his dread experience, mr. guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet; turning an appealing look toward him as the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands, and saying "what do _you_ take, chick?" chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and french beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, polly," (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye); mr. guppy and mr. jobling give the like order. three pint pots of half-and-half are super-added. quickly the waitress returns, bearing what is apparently a model of the tower of babel, but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. mr. smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into his ancient eye, and winks upon her. then, amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which the soiled knives and table-cloths seem to break out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirate appease their appetites. mr. jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require. his hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening nature, as if it had been a favorite snail-promenade. the same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams. he has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby air. his appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare living for some little time back. he makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in theirs, that mr. guppy proposes another. "thank you, guppy," says mr. jobling, "i really don't know but what i _will_ take another." another being brought, he falls to with great good-will. mr. guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals, until he is half way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), and stretches out his legs and rubs his hands. beholding him in which glow of contentment, mr. guppy says: "you are a man again, tony!" [illustration: mr. guppy's entertainment.] "well, not quite, yet," says mr. jobling. "say, just born." "will you take any other vegetables? grass? peas? summer cabbage?" "thank you, guppy," says mr. jobling. "i really don't know but what i _will_ take summer cabbage." order given; with the sarcastic addition (from mr. smallweed) of "without slugs, polly!" and cabbage produced. "i am growing up, guppy," says mr. jobling, plying his knife and fork with a relishing steadiness. "glad to hear it." "in fact, i have just turned into my teens," says mr. jobling. he says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as messrs. guppy and smallweed finish theirs; thus getting over the ground in excellent style, and beating those two gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage. "now, small," says mr. guppy, "what would you recommend about pastry?" "marrow puddings," says mr. smallweed instantly. "ay, ay!" cries mr. jobling, with an arch look. "you're there, are you? thank you, guppy, i don't know but what i _will_ take a marrow pudding." three marrow puddings being produced, mr. jobling adds, in a pleasant humor, that he is coming of age fast. to these succeed, by command of mr. smallweed, "three cheshires;" and to those, "three small rums." this apex of the entertainment happily reached, mr. jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "i am grown up, now, guppy. i have arrived at maturity." "what do you think, now," says mr. guppy, "about--you don't mind smallweed?" "not the least in the world. i have the pleasure of drinking his good health." "sir, to you!" says mr. smallweed. "i was saying, what do you think _now_," pursues mr. guppy, "of enlisting?" "why, what i may think after dinner," returns mr. jobling, "is one thing, my dear guppy, and what i may think before dinner is another thing. still, even after dinner, i ask myself the question, what am i to do? how am i to live? ill fo manger, you know," says mr. jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an english stable. "ill fo manger. that's the french saying, and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a frenchman. or more so." mr. smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so." "if any man had told me," pursues jobling, "even so lately as when you and i had the frisk down in lincolnshire, guppy, and drove over to see that house at castle wold--" mr. smallweed corrects him: "chesney wold." "chesney wold. (i thank my honorable friend for that cheer.) if any man had told me, then, that i should be as hard up at the present time as i literally find myself, i should have--well, i should have pitched into him," says mr. jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate resignation; "i should have let fly at his head." "still, tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then," remonstrates mr. guppy. "you were talking about nothing else in the gig." "guppy," says mr. jobling, "i will not deny it. i was on the wrong side of the post. but i trusted to things coming round." that very popular trust in flat things coming round! not in their being beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! as though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming" triangular! "i had confident expectations that things would come round and be all square," says mr. jobling, with some vagueness of expression, and perhaps of meaning, too. "but i was disappointed. they never did. and when it came to creditors making rows at the office, and to people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connection. and of any new professional connection, too; for if i was to give a reference to-morrow, it would be mentioned, and would sew me up. then, what's a fellow to do? i have been keeping out of the way, and living cheap, down about the market-gardens; but what's the use of living cheap when you have got no money? you might as well live dear." "better," mr. smallweed thinks. "certainly. it's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have been my weaknesses, and i don't care who knows it," says mr. jobling. "they are great weaknesses--damme, sir, they are great. well!" proceeds mr. jobling, after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a fellow do, i ask you, _but_ enlist?" mr. guppy comes more fully into the conversation, to state what, in his opinion, a fellow can do. his manner is the gravely impressive manner of a man who has not committed himself in life, otherwise than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart. "jobling," says mr. guppy, "myself and our mutual friend smallweed--" (mr. smallweed modestly observes, "gentlemen both!" and drinks.) "have had a little conversation on this matter more than once, since you--" "say, got the sack!" cries mr. jobling, bitterly. "say it, guppy. you mean it." "n-o-o! left the inn," mr. smallweed delicately suggests. "since you left the inn, jobling," says mr. guppy; "and i have mentioned, to our mutual friend smallweed, a plan i have lately thought of proposing. you know snagsby, the stationer?" "i know there is such a stationer," returns mr. jobling. "he was not ours, and i am not acquainted with him." "he _is_ ours, jobling, and i _am_ acquainted with him," mr. guppy retorts. "well, sir! i have lately become better acquainted with him, through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of his in private life. those circumstances it is not necessary to offer in argument. they may--or they may not--have some reference to a subject, which may--or may not--have cast its shadow on my existence." as it is mr. guppy's perplexing way, with boastful misery to tempt his particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it, to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the human mind; both mr. jobling and mr. smallweed decline the pitfall, by remaining silent. "such things may be," repeats mr. guppy, "or they may not be. they are no part of the case. it is enough to mention, that both mr. and mrs. snagsby are very willing to oblige me; and that snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. he has all tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. i believe, if our mutual friend smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?" mr. smallweed nods, and appears greedy to be sworn. "now, gentlemen of the jury," says mr. guppy, "--i mean, now jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. granted. but it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. you want time. there must be time for these late affairs to blow over. you might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for snagsby." mr. jobling is about to interrupt, when the sagacious smallweed checks him with a dry cough, and the words, "hem! shakspeare!" "there are two branches to this subject, jobling," says mr. guppy. "that is the first. i come to the second. you know krook, the chancellor, across the lane. come, jobling," says mr. guppy, in his encouraging cross-examination tone, "i think you know krook, the chancellor, across the lane?" "i know him by sight," says mr. jobling. "you know him by sight. very well. and you know little flite?" "every body knows her," says mr. jobling. "every body knows her. _very_ well. now it has been one of my duties of late, to pay flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the amount of her weekly rent: which i have paid (in consequence of instructions i have received) to krook himself, regularly, in her presence. this has brought me into communication with krook, and into a knowledge of his house and his habits. i know he has a room to let. you may live there, at a very low charge, under any name you like; as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. he'll ask no questions; and would accept you as a tenant, at a word from me--before the clock strikes, if you chose. and i'll tell you another thing, jobling," says mr. guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice, and become familiar again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--always rummaging among a litter of papers, and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and write; without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. he is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. i don't know but what it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit." "you don't mean--?" mr. jobling begins. "i mean," returns mr. guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming modesty, "that _i_ can't make him out. i appeal to our mutual friend smallweed, whether he has or has not heard me remark, that i can't make him out." mr. smallweed bears the concise testimony, "a few!" "i have seen something of the profession, and something of life, tony," says mr. guppy, "and it's seldom i can't make a man out more or less. but such an old card as this; so deep, so sly, and secret (though i don't believe he is ever sober;) i never came across. now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which i have thought likely at different times--it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. i don't see why you shouldn't go in for it when every thing else suits." mr. jobling, mr. guppy, and mr. smallweed, all lean their elbows on the table, and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling. after a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their pockets, and look at one another. "if i had the energy i once possessed, tony!" says mr. guppy with a sigh. "but there are chords in the human mind--" expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum and water, mr. guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to tony jobling, and informing him that, during the vacation and while things are slack, his purse, "as far as three or four or even five pound goes," will be at his disposal. "for never shall it be said," mr. guppy adds with emphasis, "that william guppy turned his back upon his friend!" the latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose, that mr. jobling says with emotion, "guppy, my trump, your fist!" mr. guppy presents it, saying, "jobling, my boy, there it is!" mr. jobling returns. "guppy, we have been pals now for some years!" mr. guppy replies, "jobling, we have." they then shake hands, and mr. jobling adds in a feeling manner, "thank you, guppy, i don't know but what i _will_ take another glass for old acquaintance sake." "krook's last lodger died there," observes mr. guppy, in an incidental way. "did he though!" says mr. jobling. "there was a verdict. accidental death. you don't mind that?" "no," says mr. jobling, "i don't mind it; but he might as well have died somewhere else. it's devilish odd that he need go and die at _my_ place!" mr. jobling quite resents this liberty; several times returning to it with such remarks as, "there are places enough to die in, i should think!" or, "he wouldn't have liked my dying at _his_ place, i dare say!" however, the compact being virtually made, mr. guppy proposes to dispatch the trusty smallweed to ascertain if mr. krook is at home, as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. mr. jobling approving, smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the guppy manner. he soon returns with the intelligence that mr. krook is at home, and that he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in his back premises, sleeping, "like one o'clock." "then i'll pay," says mr. guppy, "and we'll go and see him. small, what will it be?" mr. smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "four veals and hams is three and four potatoes is three and four and one summer cabbage is three and six and three marrows is four and six and six breads is five and three cheshires is five and three and four pints of half-and-half is six and three and four small rums is eight and three and three pollys is eight and six. eight and six in half a sovereign, polly, and eighteen-pence out!" not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, smallweed dismisses his friends, with a cool nod, and remains behind to take a little admiring notice of polly, as opportunity may serve, and to read the daily papers: which are so very large in proportion to himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the times to run his eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night, and to have disappeared under the bedclothes. mr. guppy and mr. jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where they find krook still sleeping like one o'clock; that is to say, breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast, and quite insensible to any external sounds, or even to gentle shaking. on the table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin bottle and glass. the unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor, that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk. "hold up here!" says mr. guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old man another shake. "mr. krook! halloa, sir!" but it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes, with a spirituous heat smouldering in it. "did you ever see such a stupor as he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says mr. guppy. "if this is his regular sleep," returns jobling, rather alarmed, "it'll last a long time one of these days, i am thinking." "it's always more like a fit than a nap," says mr. guppy, shaking him again. "halloa, your lordship! why he might be robbed, fifty times over! open your eyes!" after much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his visitors, or any other objects. though he crosses one leg on another, and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before. "he is alive at any rate," says mr. guppy. "how are you, my lord chancellor. i have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of business." the old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips, without the least consciousness. after some minutes, he makes an attempt to rise. they help him up, and he staggers against the wall, and stares at them. "how do you do, mr. krook?" says mr. guppy, in some discomfiture. "how do you do sir? you are looking charming, mr. krook. i hope you are pretty well?" the old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at mr. guppy, or at nothing, feebly swings himself round, and comes with his face against the wall. so he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it; and then staggers down the shop to the front door. the air, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these things, recovers him. he comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head, and looking keenly at them. "your servant, gentlemen; i've been dozing. hi! i am hard to wake, odd times." "rather so, indeed, sir," responds mr. guppy. "what? you've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says the suspicious krook. "only a little," mr. guppy explains. the old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up, examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down. "i say!" he cries, like the hobgoblin in the story. "somebody's been making free here!" "i assure you we found it so," says mr. guppy. "would you allow me to get it filled for you?" "yes, certainly i would!" cries krook, in high glee. "certainly i would! don't mention it! get it filled next door--sol's arms--the lord chancellor's fourteenpenny. bless you, they know _me_!" he so presses the empty bottle upon mr. guppy, that that gentleman, with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust, and hurries out and hurries in again with the bottle filled. the old man receives it in his arms like a beloved grandchild, and pats it tenderly. "but, i say!" he whispers, with his eye screwed up, after tasting it, "this ain't the lord chancellor's fourteenpenny. this is eighteen-penny!" "i thought you might like that better," says mr. guppy. "you're a nobleman, sir," returns krook, with another taste--and his hot breath seems to come toward them like a flame. "you're a baron of the land." taking advantage of this auspicious moment, mr. guppy presents his friend under the impromptu name of mr. weevle, and states the object of their visit. krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time to survey his proposed lodger, and seems to approve of him. "you'd like to see the room, young man?" he says. "ah! it's a good room! been whitewashed. been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. hi! it's worth twice the rent; letting alone my company when you want it, and such a cat to keep the mice away." commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them up-stairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be, and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up from his inexhaustible stores. the terms are easily concluded--for the lord chancellor can not be hard on mr. guppy, associated as he is with kenge and carboy, jarndyce and jarndyce, and other famous claims on his professional consideration--and it is agreed that mr. weevle shall take possession on the morrow. mr. weevle and mr. guppy then repair to cook's court, cursitor street, where the personal introduction of the former to mr. snagsby is effected, and (more important) the vote and interest of mrs. snagsby are secured. they then report progress to the eminent smallweed, waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate; mr. guppy explaining that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at the play, but that there are chords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery. on the morrow, in the dusk of evening, mr. weevle modestly appears at krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself in his new lodging; where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. on the following day mr. weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of miss flite, and a hammer of his landlord, and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two tea-cups, milk-pot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it. but what mr. weevle prizes most, of all his few possessions (next after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only whiskers can awaken in the breast of man), is a choice collection of copper-plate impressions from that truly national work, the divinities of albion, or galaxy gallery of british beauty, representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. with these magnificent portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the galaxy gallery of british beauty wears every variety of fancy-dress, plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing. but fashion is mr. weevle's, as it was tony jobling's weakness. to borrow yesterday's paper from the sols' arms of an evening, and read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction, is unspeakable consolation to him. to know what member of what brilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished feat of joining it yesterday, or contemplates the no less brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill of joy. to be informed what the galaxy gallery of british beauty is about and means to be about, and what galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what galaxy rumors are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. mr. weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the galaxy portraits implicated; and seems to know the originals, and to be known of them. for the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of evening have fallen on the court. at those times, when he is not visited by mr. guppy, or by a small light in his likeness quenched in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he has inherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink--and talks to krook, or is "very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation. wherefore, mrs. piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to mrs. perkins: firstly, that if her johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that young man's; and secondly, mark my words, mrs. perkins, ma'am, and don't you be surprised, lord bless you, if that young man comes in at last for old krook's money! chapter xxi.--the smallweed family. in a rather ill-favored and ill-savored neighborhood, though one of its rising grounds bears the name of mount pleasant, the elfin smallweed, christened bartholomew, and known on the domestic hearth as bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its contingencies have no claim. he dwells in a little narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree, whose flavor is about as fresh and natural as the smallweed smack of youth. there has been only one child in the smallweed family for several generations. little old men and women there have been, but no child, until mr. smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect, and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. with such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, mr. smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family. mr. smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. he is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper limbs; but his mind is unimpaired. it holds, as well as it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic, and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. in respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. every thing that mr. smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. in all his life he has never bred a single butterfly. the father of this pleasant grandfather of the neighborhood of mount pleasant was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider, who spun webs to catch unwary flies, and retired into holes until they were entrapped. the name of this old pagan's god was compound interest. he lived for it, married it, died of it. meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something--something necessary to his existence; therefore it couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. as his character was not good; and he had been bred at a charity school, in a complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the amorites and hittites; he was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of education. his spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of "going out," early in life, and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. there, the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character; and, developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son; who, in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late, became the father of bartholomew and judith smallweed, twins. during the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. hence the gratifying fact, that it has had no child born to it; and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced, have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. at the present time, in the dark little parlor certain feet below the level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlor, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of grandfather smallweed's mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the superannuated mr. and mrs. smallweed wile away the rosy hours. on the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is grandfather smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. under the venerable mr. smallweed's seat, and guarded by his spindle legs, is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. beside him is a spare cushion, with which he is always provided, in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age when ever she makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly sensitive. "and where's bart?" grandfather smallweed inquires of judy, bart's twin-sister. "he an't come in yet," says judy. "it's his tea-time, isn't it?" "no." "how much do you mean to say it wants then?" "ten minutes." "hey?" "ten minutes."--(loud on the part of judy.) [illustration: the smallweed family.] "ho!" says grandfather smallweed. "ten minutes." grandmother smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trevets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money, and screeches, like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "ten ten-pound notes!" grandfather smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her. "drat you, be quiet!" says the old man. the effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. it not only doubles up mrs. smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair, and causes her to present, when extricated by her grand-daughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on mr. smallweed himself, whom it throws back into _his_ porter's chair, like a broken puppet. the excellent old gentleman being, at these times, a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his grand-daughter, of being shaken up like a great bottle, and poked and punched like a great bolster. some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's evening again sit fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the black sergeant death. judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. she is so indubitably sister to mr. smallweed the younger, that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions; while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the monkey tribe, that, attired in a spangled robe and cap, she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. under existing circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff. judy never owned a doll, never heard of cinderella, never played at any game. she once or twice fell into children's company when she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with judy, and judy couldn't get on with them. she seemed like an animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. it is very doubtful whether judy knows how to laugh. she has so rarely seen the thing done, that the probabilities are strong the other way. of any thing like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception. if she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way; modeling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modeled all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. such is judy. and her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. he knows no more of jack the giant killer, or of sinbad the sailor, than he knows of the people in the stars. he could as soon play at leap-frog, or at cricket, as change into a cricket or a frog himself. but he is so much the better off than his sister, that on his narrow world of fact an opening has dawned, into such broader regions as lie within the ken of mr. guppy. hence, his admiration and his emulation of that shining enchanter. judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea-trays on the table, and arranges cups and saucers. the bread she puts on in an iron basket; and the butter (and not much of it) in a small pewter plate. grandfather smallweed looks hard after the tea as it is served out, and asks judy where the girl is? "charley, do you mean?" says judy. "hey?" from grandfather smallweed. "charley, do you mean?" this touches a spring in grandmother smallweed who, chuckling, as usual, at the trevets, cries--"over the water! charley over the water, charley over the water, over the water to charley, charley over the water, over the water to charley!" and becomes quite energetic about it. grandfather looks at the cushion, but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion. "ha!" he says, when there is silence--"if that's her name. she eats a deal. it would be better to allow her for her keep." judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head, and purses up her mouth into no, without saying it. "no?" returns the old man. "why not?" "she'd want sixpence a-day, and we can do it for less," says judy. "sure?" judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning; and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste, and cuts it into slices, "you charley, where are you?" timidly obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water, and a scrubbing brush in one of them, appears, and courtesies. "what work are you about now?" says judy, making an ancient snap at her, like a very sharp old beldame. "i'm a cleaning the up-stairs back room, miss," replies charley. "mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. shirking won't do for me. make haste! go along!" cries judy, with a stamp upon the ground. "you girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half." on this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking in at the window. for whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the street door. "ay, ay, bart!" says grandfather smallweed. "here you are, hey?" "here i am," says bart. "been along with your friend again, bart?" small nods. "dining at his expense, bart?" small nods again. "that's right. live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example. that's the use of such a friend. the only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage. his grandson without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honors it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod, and takes a chair at the tea-table. the four old faces then hover over tea-cups, like a company of ghastly cherubim; mrs. smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trevets, and mr. smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught. "yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom. "that's such advice as your father would have given you, bart. you never saw your father. more's the pity. he was my true son." whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear. "he was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee; "a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago." mrs. smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with "fifteen hundred pound. fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!" her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own overpowered. his appearance, after visiting mrs. smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing: firstly, because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness; secondly, because he mutters violent imprecations against mrs. smallweed; and thirdly, because the contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malignant, who would be very wicked if he could. all this, however, is so common in the smallweed family circle, that it produces no impression. the old gentleman is merely shaken, and has his internal feathers beaten up; the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him; and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted, and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin. some time elapses, in the present instance, before the old gentleman is sufficiently cool to resume his discourse; and even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the trevets. as thus: "if your father, bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money--you brimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, through many a year--you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!--he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of business care--i should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and i will, too, if you make such a confounded fool of yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudent woman, as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and judy were born. you are an old pig. you are a brimstone pig. you're a head of swine!" judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot, for the little charwoman's evening meal. in like manner she gets together, in the iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence. "but your father and me were partners, bart," says the old gentleman; "and when i am gone, you and judy will have all there is. it's rare for you both, that you went out early in life--judy to the flower business, and you to the law. you won't want to spend it. you'll get your living without it, and put more to it. when i am gone, judy will go back to the flower business, and you'll still stick to the law." one might infer, from judy's appearance, that her business rather lay with the thorns than the flowers; but she has, in her time, been apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. a close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is time he went. "now, if every body has done," says judy, completing her preparations, "i'll have that girl into her tea. she would never leave off, if she took it by herself in the kitchen." charley is accordingly introduced, and, under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and a druidical ruin of bread and butter. in the active superintendence of this young person, judy smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age, and to date from the remotest periods. her systematic manner of flying at her, and pouncing on her, with or without pretense, whether or no, is wonderful; evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving, seldom reached by the oldest practitioners. "now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries judy, shaking her head and stamping her foot, as she happens to catch the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take your victuals and get back to your work." "yes, miss," says charley. "don't say yes," returns miss smallweed, "for i know what you girls are. do it without saying it, and then i may begin to believe you." charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, and so disperses the druidical ruins that miss smallweed charges her not to gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting. charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general subject of girls, but for a knock at the door. "see who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries judy. the object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, miss smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together, and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea; as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated. "now! who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish judy. it is one "mr. george," it appears. without other announcement or ceremony, mr. george walks in. "whew!" says mr. george. "you are hot here. always a fire, eh? well! perhaps you do right to get used to one." mr. george makes the latter remark to himself, as he nods to grandfather smallweed. "ho! it's you!" cries the old gentleman. "how de do? how de do?" "middling," replies mr. george, taking a chair. "your grand-daughter i have had the honor of seeing before; my service to you, miss." "this is my grandson," says grandfather smallweed. "you han't seen him before. he is in the law, and not much at home." "my service to him, too! he is like his sister. he is very like his sister. he is devilish like his sister," says mr. george, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective. "and how does the world use you, mr. george?" grandfather smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs. "pretty much as usual. like a football." he is a swarthy browned man of fifty; stoutly built, and good-looking; with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. his sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty rough life. what is curious about him is, that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside. his step, too, is measured and heavy, and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. he is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great mustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it, is to the same effect. altogether, one might guess mr. george to have been a trooper once upon a time. a special contrast mr. george makes to the smallweed family. trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. it is a broad-sword to an oyster-knife. his developed figure, and their stunted forms; his large manner filling any amount of room, and their little narrow pinched ways; his sounding voice, and their sharp spare tones, are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. as he sits in the middle of the grim parlor, leaning a little forward, with his hands upon his thighs, and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all. "do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of grandfather smallweed, after looking round the room. "why, it's partly a habit, mr. george, and--yes--it partly helps the circulation," he replies. "the cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats mr. george, folding his arms upon his chest, and seeming to become two sizes larger. "not much of that, i should think." "truly, i'm old, mr. george," says grandfather smallweed. "but i can carry my years. i'm older than _her_," nodding at his wife, "and see what she is!--you're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden revival of his late hostility. "unlucky old soul!" says mr. george, turning his head in that direction. "don't scold the old lady. look at her here, with her poor cap half off her head, and her poor chair all in a muddle. hold up, ma'am. that's better. there we are! think of your mother, mr. smallweed," says mr. george, coming back to his seat from assisting her, "if your wife an't enough." "i suppose you were an excellent son, mr. george," the old man hints, with a leer. the color of george's face rather deepens, as he replies: "why no. i wasn't." "i am astonished at it." "so am i. i ought to have been a good son, and i think i meant to have been one. but i wasn't. i was a thundering bad son, that's the long and the short of it, and never was a credit to any body." "surprising!" cries the old man. "however," mr. george resumes, "the less said about it, the better now. come! you know the agreement. always a pipe out of the two months' interest! (bosh! it's all correct. you needn't be afraid to order the pipe. here's the new bill, and here's the two months' interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my business.") mr. george sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the parlor, while grandfather smallweed is assisted by judy to two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau; in one of which he secures the document he has just received, and from the other takes another similar document which he hands to mr. george, who twists it up for a pipe-light. as the old man inspects, through his glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents, before he releases them from their leathern prison; and as he counts the money three times over, and requires judy to say every word she utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to be; this business is a long time in progress. when it is quite concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it, and answers mr. george's last remark by saying, "afraid to order the pipe? we are not so mercenary as that, sir. judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy and water for mr. george." the sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all this time, except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving him to the old man, as two young cubs might leave a traveler to the parental bear. "and there you sit, i suppose, all the day long, eh?" says mr. george, with folded arms. "just so, just so," the old man nods. "and don't you occupy yourself at all?" "i watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--" "when there is any," says mr. george, with great expression. "just so. when there is any." "don't you read, or get read to?" the old man shakes his head with sharp, sly triumph. "no, no. we have never been readers in our family. it don't pay. stuff. idleness. folly. no, no!" "there's not much to choose between your two states," says the visitor, in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing, as he looks from him to the old woman and back again. "i say!" in a louder voice. "i hear you." "you'll sell me up at last i suppose, when i am a day in arrear." "my dear friend!" cries grandfather smallweed, stretching out both hands to embrace him. "never! never, my dear friend! but my friend in the city that i got to lend you the money--_he_ might!" "o! you can't answer for him?" says mr. george; finishing the inquiry, in his lower key, with the words "you lying old rascal!" "my dear friend, he is not to be depended on. i wouldn't trust him. he will have his bond, my dear friend." "devil doubt him," says mr. george. charley appearing with a tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy and water, he asked her, "how do you come here! you haven't got the family face." "i goes out to work, sir," returns charley. the trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off, with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. "you give the house almost a wholesome look. it wants a bit of youth as much as it wants fresh air." then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks to mr. smallweed's friend in the city--the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination. "so you think he might be hard upon me, eh?" "i think he might--i am afraid he would. i have known him do it," says grandfather smallweed, incautiously, "twenty times." incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers. "twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent., twenty--" and is then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face, as it crushes her in the usual manner. "you're a brimstone idiot. you're a scorpion--a brimstone scorpion! you're a sweltering toad. you're a chattering, clattering, broom-stick witch, that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his chair. "my dear friend, will you shake me up a little?" mr. george, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him, and shake him into his grave. resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough to make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again, and adjusts his skull cap with such a rub, that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute afterward. "o lord!" says mr. smallweed. "that'll do. thank you, my dear friend, that'll do. o dear me, i'm out of breath. o lord!" and mr. smallweed says it, not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever. the alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair, and falls to smoking in long puffs; consoling itself with the philosophical reflection, "the name of your friend in the city begins with a d, comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond." "did you speak, mr. george?" inquires the old man. the trooper shakes his head; and leaning forward with his right elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a martial manner, continues to smoke. meanwhile he looks at mr. smallweed with grave attention, and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away, in order that he may see him the more clearly. "i take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips, with a round, full action, "that i am the only man alive (or dead either), that gets the value of a pipe out of _you_?" "well!" returns the old man, "it's true that i don't see company, mr. george, and that i don't treat. i can't afford to do it. but as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--" "why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. it was a fancy to get it out of you. to have something in for my money." "ha! you're prudent, prudent, sir!" cries grandfather smallweed, rubbing his legs. "very. i always was." puff. "it's a sure sign of my prudence, that i ever found the way here." puff. "also, that i am what i am." puff. "i am well known to be prudent," says mr. george, composedly smoking. "i rose in life, that way." "don't be down-hearted, sir. you may rise yet." mr. george laughs and drinks. "ha'n't you no relations now," asks grandfather smallweed, with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal, or who would lend you a good name or two that i could persuade my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? two good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. ha'n't you no such relations, mr. george?" mr. george, still composedly smoking, replies, "if i had, i shouldn't trouble them. i have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. it _may_ be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was a credit to, and live upon them; but it's not my sort. the best kind of amends then, for having gone away, is to keep away, in my opinion." "but, natural affection, mr. george," hints grandfather smallweed. "for two good names, hey?" says mr. george, shaking his head, and still composedly smoking. "no. that's not my sort, either." grandfather smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair since his last adjustment, and is now a bundle of clothes, with a voice in it calling for judy. that houri appearing, shakes him up in the usual manner, and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. for he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating his late attentions. "ha!" he observes, when he is in trim again. "if you could have traced out the captain, mr. george, it would have been the making of you. if, when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisements in the newspapers--when i say 'our,' i'm alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly toward me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance--if, at that time, you could have helped us, mr. george, it would have been the making of you." "i was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says mr. george, smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by her grandfather's chair; "but, on the whole, i am glad i wasn't now." "why, mr. george? in the name of--of brimstone, why?" says grandfather smallweed, with a plain appearance of exasperation. (brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on mrs. smallweed in her slumber). "for two reasons, comrade." "and what two reasons, mr. george? in the name of the--" "of our friend in the city?" suggests mr. george, composedly drinking. "ay, if you like. what two reasons?" "in the first place," returns mr. george; but still looking at judy, as if, she being so old and so like her grandfather, it is indifferent which of the two he addresses; "you gentlemen took me in. you advertised that mr. hawdon (captain hawdon, if you hold to the saying, once a captain always a captain) was to hear of something to his advantage." "well?" returns the old man, shrilly and sharply. "well!" says mr. george, smoking on. "it wouldn't have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and judgment trade of london." "how do you know that? some of his rich relations might have paid his debts, or compounded for 'em. beside, he had taken _us_ in. he owed us immense sums, all round. i would sooner have strangled him than had no return. if i sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his impotent ten fingers, "i want to strangle him now." and in a sudden access of fury he throws the cushion at the unoffending mrs. smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair. "i don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from his lips for a moment, and carrying his eyes back from following the progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl, which is burning low, "that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. i have been at his right hand many a day, when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. i was with him, when he was sick and well, rich and poor. i laid this hand upon him, after he had run through every thing and broken down every thing beneath him--when he held a pistol to his head." "i wish he had let it off!" says the benevolent old man, "and blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!" "that would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper, coolly; "any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by; and i am glad i never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. that's reason number one." "i hope number two's as good?" says the old man. "why, no. it's more of a selfish reason. if i had found him, i must have gone to the other world to look. he was there." "how do you know he was there?" "he wasn't here." "how do you know he wasn't here?" "don't lose your temper as well as your money," says mr. george, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "he was drowned long before. i am convinced of it. he went over a ship's side. whether intentionally or accidentally, i don't know. perhaps your friend in the city does. do you know what that tune is, mr. smallweed?" he adds, after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe. "tune!" replies the old man. "no. we never have tunes here." "that's the dead march in saul. they bury soldiers to it; so it's the natural end of the subject. now, if your pretty grand-daughter--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one, next time. good evening, mr. smallweed!" "my dear friend!" the old man gives him both his hands. "so you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me, if i fail in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant. "my dear friend, i am afraid he will," returns the old man looking up at him like a pigmy. mr. george laughs; and with a glance at mr. smallweed, and a parting salutation to the scornful judy, strides out of the parlor, clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes. "you're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous grimace at the door as he shuts it. "but i'll lime you, you dog, i'll lime you!" after this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to it; and again he and mrs. smallweed wile away the rosy hours, two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the black sergeant. while the twain are faithful to their post, mr. george strides through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave enough face. it is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. he stops hard by waterloo bridge, and reads a playbill; decides to go to astley's theatre. being there, is much delighted with the horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye; disapproves of the combats, as giving evidences of unskillful swordmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. in the last scene, when the emperor of tartary gets up into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers, by hovering over them with the union-jack, his eye-lashes are moistened with emotion. the theatre over, mr. george comes across the water again, and makes his way to that curious region lying about the haymarket and leicester square, which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen, foot-guards, old china, gaming houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives, by a court and a long whitewashed passage, at a great brick building, composed of bare walls, floor, roof-rafters, and skylights; on the front of which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted george's shooting gallery, &c. into george's shooting gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are gas-lights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and all necessaries for the british art of boxing. none of these sports or exercises are being pursued in george's shooting gallery to-night; which is so devoid of company, that a little grotesque man, with a large head, has it all to himself, and lies asleep upon the floor. the little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder, and begrimed with the loading of guns. as he lies in the light, before a glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. not far off, is the strong, rough, primitive table, with a vice upon it, at which he has been working. he is a little man with a face all crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have blown up, in the way of business, at some odd time or times. "phil!" says the trooper, in a quiet voice. "all right!" cries phil, scrambling up. "any thing been doing?" "flat as ever so much swipes," says phil. "five dozen rifle and a dozen pistol. as to aim!" phil gives a howl at the recollection. "shut up shop, phil!" as phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is lame, though able to move very quickly. on the speckled side of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather sinister appearance. every thing seems to have happened to his hands that could possibly take place, consistently with the retention of all the fingers; for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over. he appears to be very strong, and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. he has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall, and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of, instead of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally called "phil's mark." this custodian of george's gallery in george's absence concludes his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors, and turned out all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. these being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed, and phil makes his. "phil!" says the master, walking toward him without his coat and waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces, "you were found in a doorway, weren't you?" "gutter," says phil. "watchman tumbled over me." "then, vagabondizing came natural to _you_, from the beginning." "as nat'ral as possible," says phil. "good-night!" "good-night, guv'ner." phil can not even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to shoulder round two sides of the gallery, and then tack off at his mattress. the trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance, and looking up at the moon, now shining through the skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route, and goes to bed too. chapter xxii.--mr. bucket. allegory looks pretty cool in lincoln's inn fields, though the evening is hot; for, both mr. tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. these may not be desirable characteristics when november comes with fog and sleet, or january with ice and snow; but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. they enable allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night. plenty of dust comes in at mr. tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. it lies thick every where. when a breeze from the country that has lost its way, takes fright, and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of allegory as the law--or mr. tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity. in his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, mr. tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. for, though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. he has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the fields, which is one of his many secrets. when he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and, heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back, encircled by an earthly atmosphere, and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous, and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes. mr. tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. as if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. more impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy; pondering, at that twilight hour, on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town; and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould, and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then, suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening, and walked leisurely home to the temple, and hanged himself. but mr. tulkinghorn is not alone to-night, to ponder at his usual length. seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little away from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man, who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass. "now, snagsby," says mr. tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again." "if you please, sir." "you told me, when you were so good as to step round here, last night--" "for which i must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but i remembered that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and i thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--" mr. tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion, or to admit any thing as to any possibility concerning himself. so mr. snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "i must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, i am sure." "not at all," says mr. tulkinghorn. "you told me, snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. that was prudent, i think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned." "well, sir," returns mr. snagsby, "you see my little woman is--not to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. she's inquisitive. poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. in consequence of which, she employs it--i should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not--especially not. my little woman has a very active mind, sir." mr. snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand. "dear me, very fine wine indeed!" "therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "and to-night, too?" "yes, sir, and to-night, too. my little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point upon it--in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the evening exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of chadband. he has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but i am not quite favorable to his style myself. that's neither here nor there. my little woman being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner." mr. tulkinghorn assents. "fill your glass, snagsby." "thank you, sir, i am sure," returns the stationer, with his cough of deference. "this is wonderfully fine wine, sir!" "it is a rare wine now," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is fifty years old." "is it indeed, sir? but i am not surprised to hear it, i am sure. it might be--any age almost." after rendering this general tribute to the port, mr. snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking any thing so precious. "will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks mr. tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes, and leaning quietly back in his chair. "with pleasure, sir." then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law stationer repeats joe's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. on coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start, and breaks off with--"dear me, sir, i wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!" mr. snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between himself and the lawyer, at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand, who was not there when he himself came in, and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. there is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. yet this third person stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. he is a steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle age. except that he looks at mr. snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing. "don't mind this gentleman," says mr. tulkinghorn, in his quiet way. "this is only mr. bucket." "o indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who mr. bucket may be. "i wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because i have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such things. what do you say to this, bucket?" "it's very plain, sir. since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if mr. snagsby don't object to go down with me to tom-all-alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. i can do it without mr. snagsby, of course; but this is the shortest way." "mr. bucket is a detective officer, snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation. "is he indeed, sir?" says mr. snagsby, with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end. "and if you have no real objection to accompany mr. bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "i shall feel obliged to you if you will do so." in a moment's hesitation on the part of mr. snagsby, bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind. "don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "you won't do that. it's all right as far as the boy's concerned. we shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so i want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. it'll be a good job for him. i promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that." "very well, mr. tulkinghorn!" cries mr. snagsby, cheerfully, and reassured, "since that's the case--" "yes! and lookee here, mr. snagsby," resumes bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. "you're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. that's what _you_ are." "i am sure i am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer, with his cough of modesty, "but--" "that's what you _are_, you know," says bucket. "now it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust, and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him, and his head screwed on right (i had an uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. don't you see? quiet!" "certainly, certainly," returns the stationer. "i don't mind telling _you_," says bucket, with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that, as far as i can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see!" "o!" says mr. snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly. "now, what _you_ want," pursues bucket, again tapping mr. snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is, that every person should have their rights according to justice. that's what _you_ want." "to be sure," returns mr. snagsby, with a nod. "on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it, in your business, customer or client? i forget how my uncle used to call it." "why, i generally say customer, myself," replies mr. snagsby. "you're right!" returns mr. bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately--"on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to tom-all-alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterward and never mention it to any one. that's about your intentions, if i understand you?" "you are right, sir. you are right," says mr. snagsby. "then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, i am." they leave mr. tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine; and go down into the streets. "you don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of gridley, do you?" says bucket, in friendly converse as they descend the stairs. "no," says mr. snagsby, considering, "i don't know any body of that name. why?" "nothing particular," says bucket; "only, having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him, and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant i have got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do." as they walk along, mr. snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last moment. now and then, when they pass a police constable on his beat, mr. snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come toward each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. in a few instances mr. bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick; upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. for the most part mr. bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt. when they come at last to tom-all-alone's, mr. bucket stops for a moment at the corner, and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular bull's-eye at his waist. between his two conductors, mr. snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in london all his life, can scarce believe his senses. branching from this street and its heaps of ruins, are other streets and courts so infamous that mr. snagsby sickens in body and mind, and feels as if he were going, every moment deeper down, into the infernal gulf. "draw off a bit here, mr. snagsby," says bucket, as a kind of shabby palanquin is borne toward them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "here's the fever coming up the street." as the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a dream of horrible faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and behind walls; and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place. "are those the fever-houses, darby?" mr bucket coolly asks, as he turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for months and months, the people "have been down by dozens," and have been carried out, dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." bucket observing to mr. snagsby as they go on again, that he looks a little poorly, mr. snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful air. there is inquiry made, at various houses, for a boy named jo. as few people are known in tom-all-alone's by any christian sign, there is much reference to mr. snagsby whether he means carrots, or the colonel, or gallows, or young chisel, or terrier tip, or lanky, or the brick. mr. snagsby describes over and over again. there are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. some think it must be carrots; some say the brick. the colonel is produced, but is not at all near the thing. whenever mr. snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to mr. bucket. whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades away, and flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as before. at last there is a lair found out where toughy, or the tough subject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the tough subject may be jo. comparison of notes between mr. snagsby and the proprietress of the house--a drunken, fiery face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch, which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment of this conclusion. toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman, but will be here anon. "and who have we got here to-night?" says mr. bucket, opening another door, and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "two drunken men, eh? and two women? the men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. "are these your good men, my dears?" "yes, sir," returns one of the women. "they are our husbands." "brickmakers, eh?" "yes, sir." "what are you doing here? you don't belong to london." "no, sir. we belong to hertfordshire." "whereabouts in hertfordshire?" "saint albans." "come up on the tramp?" "we walked up yesterday. there's no work down with us at present; but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, i expect." "that's not the way to do much good," says mr. bucket, turning his head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground. "it an't, indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "jenny and me knows it full well." the room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. it is offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. there are a couple of benches, and a higher bench by way of table. the men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken, is a very young child. "why, what age do you call that little creature?" says bucket. "it looks as if it was born yesterday." he is not at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, mr. snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures. "he is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman. "is he your child?" "mine." the other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops down again, and kisses it as it lies asleep. "you seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," says mr. bucket. "i was the mother of one like it, master, and it died." "ah jenny, jenny!" says the other woman to her; "better so. much better to think of dead than alive, jenny! much better!" "why, you an't such an unnatural woman, i hope," returns bucket, sternly, "as to wish your own child dead?" "god knows you are right, master," she returns. "i am not. i'd stand between it and death, with my own life if i could, as true as any pretty lady." "then don't talk in that wrong manner," says mr. bucket, mollified again. "why do you do it?" "it's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears, "when i look down at the child lying so. if it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, i should take on so. i know that very well. i was with jenny when she lost hers--warn't i jenny?--and i know how she grieved. but look round you, at this place. look at them;" glancing at the sleepers on the ground. "look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn. think of the children that your business lays with often and often, and that _you_ see grow up!" "well, well," says mr. bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know." "i mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "but i have been a thinking, being over-tired to-night, and not well with the ague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. my master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. if i work for him ever so much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad, 'spite of all i could do, and the time should come when i should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an't it likely i should think of him as he lies in my lap now, and wish he had died as jenny's child died." "there, there!" says jenny. "liz, you're tired and ill. let me take him." in doing so she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying. "it's my dead child," says jenny, walking up and down as she nurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away from her now. while she thinks that, _i_ think what fortune would i give to have my darling back. but we mean the same thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!" as mr. snagsby blows his nose, and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard without. mr. bucket throws his light into the doorway, and says to mr. snagsby, "now, what do you say to toughy? will _he_ do?" "that's jo!" says mr. snagsby. jo stands amazed in the disc of light, like a ragged figure in a magic lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not having moved on far enough. mr. snagsby, however, giving him the consolatory assurance, "it's only a job you will be paid for, jo," he recovers; and, on being taken outside by mr. bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of breath. "i have squared it with the lad," says mr. bucket, returning, "and it's all right. now, mr. snagsby, we're ready for you." first, jo has to complete his errand of good-nature by handing over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." secondly mr. snagsby has to lay upon the table half-a-crown, his usual panacea for an immense variety of afflictions. thirdly, mr. bucket has to take jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him: without which observance, neither the tough subject nor any other subject could be professionally conducted to lincoln's inn fields. these arrangements completed, they give the women good-night, and come out once more into black and foul tom-all-alone's. by the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they gradually emerge from it; the crowd flitting, and whistling, and skulking about them, until they come to the verge, where restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to darby. here the crowd, like a concourse of imprisoned demons turns back, yelling and is seen no more. through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to mr. snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride, until they come to mr. tulkinghorn's gate. as they ascend the dim stairs (mr. tulkinghorn's chambers being on the first floor), mr. bucket mentions that he has the key of the outer door in his pocket, and that there is no need to ring. for a man so expert in most things of that kind, bucket takes time to open the door, and makes some noise too. it may be that he sounds a note of preparation. howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into mr. tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank his old wine to-night. he is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are; and the room is tolerably light. mr. bucket, still having his professional hold of jo, and appearing to mr. snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way into this room, when jo starts, and stops. "what's the matter?" says bucket in a whisper. "there she is!" cries jo. "who?" "the lady!" a female figure, closely vailed, stands in the middle of the room, where the light falls upon it. it is quite still, and silent. the front of the figure is toward them, but it takes no notice of their entrance, and remains like a statue. "now, tell me," says bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the lady." "i know the wale," replies jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the gownd." "be quite sure of what you say, tough," returns bucket, narrowly observant of him. "look again." "i am a-looking as hard as ever i can look," says jo, with starting eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd." "what about those rings you told me of?" asks bucket. "a sparkling all over here," says jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right, without taking his eyes from the figure. the figure removes the right hand glove, and shows the hand. "now, what do you say to that?" asks bucket. jo shakes his head. "not rings a bit like them. not a hand like that." "what are you talking of?" says bucket; evidently pleased though, and well pleased too. "hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns jo. "why, you'll tell me i'm my own mother, next," says mr. bucket. "do you recollect the lady's voice?" "i think i does?" says jo. the figure speaks. "was it at all like this. i will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. was it this voice, or at all like this voice?" jo looks aghast at mr. bucket. "not a bit!" "then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?" "cos," says jo, with a perplexed stare, but without being at all shaken in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. it is her and it an't her. it an't her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. but that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and its her height wot she wos, and she give me a sov'ring and hooked it." "well!" says mr. bucket, slightly, "we haven't got much good out of _you_. but, however, here's five shillings for you. take care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters--which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand, and takes him out to the door; leaving mr. snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the vailed figure. but on mr. tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the vail is raised, and a sufficiently good-looking frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest. "thank you, mademoiselle hortense," says mr. tulkinghorn, with his usual equanimity. "i will give you no further trouble about this little wager." "you will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that i am not at present placed?" said mademoiselle. "certainly, certainly!" "and to confer upon me the favor of your distinguished recommendation?" "by all means, mademoiselle hortense." "a word from mr. tulkinghorn is so powerful."--"it shall not be wanting, mademoiselle."--"receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude dear sir."--"good-night." mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and mr. bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be any thing else, shows her down stairs, not without gallantry. "well, bucket?" quoth mr. tulkinghorn on his return. "it's all squared, you see, as i squared it myself, sir. there an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. the boy was exact respecting colors and every thing. mr. snagsby, i promised you, as a man, that he should be sent away all right. don't say it wasn't done!" "you have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if i can be of no further use, mr. tulkinghorn, i think, as my little woman will be getting anxious--" "thank you, snagsby, no further use," says mr. tulkinghorn. "i am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already." "not at all, sir. i wish you good-night." "you see, mr. snagsby," says mr. bucket, accompanying him to the door, and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what i like in you, is, that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what _you_ are. when you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's done with and gone, and there's an end of it. that's what _you_ do." "that is certainly what i endeavor to do, sir," returns mr. snagsby. "no, you don't do yourself justice. it an't what you endeavor to do," says mr. bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the tenderest manner, "it's what you _do_. that's what i estimate in a man in your way of business." mr. snagsby makes a suitable response; and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening, that he is doubtful of his being awake and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. he is presently reassured on these subjects, by the unchallengeable reality of mrs. snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and nightcap; who has dispatched guster to the police station with official intelligence of her husband's being made away with, and who, within the last two hours, has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. but, as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it! monsters of faith. we people in this western world, have, in our time, not less than those who went before us, been witnesses of many acts of eccentric and exaggerated faith. we have seen this virtue dressed in many a guise, tricked out in many a hue. we have seen it in the meanest and the highest. but what is cold, dwarfed, european faith, when compared with the huge monstrous faith of the barbarous land of the sun? the two will no more bear comparison than will the surrey hills compare with the himalayas, or the thames and the garonne bear being mentioned beside the ganges and the burrumpootra. the scenes i am about to relate are not selected for their rarity or for any peculiarity about them; they may be met with at any of the many festivals, or poojahs, throughout india proper. the village at which the festival i witnessed was held, was not very far distant from one of the leading cities of bengal, a city numbering possibly half a million of inhabitants, with a highly populous country round about it for many a league. the reader will, therefore, readily imagine the crowding and rushing which took place from all sides, to witness the festival of a deity in whom all believed, for, away from the south, there are comparatively but few of any other faith than hindooism. it was high noon when i arrived on the ground in my palanquin; and by favor of the friendship of the british collector of howdahpore i was admitted within the most privileged circle, and took up my stand beneath the pleasant shade of a wide-spreading jambo tree. i had time and opportunity to note the place and the people; for the sacred operations had not as yet commenced. the spot we were assembled in was in an extensive valley lightly wooded at intervals, and commanding a picturesque view of a rather wide river which flowed on to howdahpore, and was now busy with many boats loaded with passengers. on the river bank nearest to us, a number of bamboo and leaf sheds had been hastily erected, in which carousals and amusements of various kinds were in progress or preparation. flowers decorated the ample doorways, and hung festooned from many a roof; while high above, wooing in vain a passing breeze and brightly glaring in the noon-day tropic sun, gay streamers drooped in burning listlessness. from the topmost summits of some of the loftiest trees--and they _are_ lofty here--long tapering poles extended other flags and strips of colored cloth. in cool, shady nooks, where clumps of spreading jungle kindly grew, at other times the haunts of fiercest tigers, or worse, of cruel thugs, small knots of hindoo families of rank were grouped in silent watchfulness. the lordly zemindar of the district; the exacting tulukdhar, the terror of village ryots; the grinding putindhar: all these were there in eastern feudal pomp. far as the eye could reach, the rich green valley teemed with human life. thousands on thousands flocked from many a point, and pressed to where the gaudy flags and beating drums told of the approaching poojah. the steady hum of the vast multitude seemed like the ocean's fall on some far distant shore. grief, joy, pain, pleasure, prayers and songs, blended with howling madness, or cries of devotees, in one strange, stormy discord; the heat and glare, the many new and striking garbs, the sea of dusky visages and brightly glaring eyes, mixed with the varied gorgeous foliage, and flinging into contrast the lovely gentleness of distant hills and woods, made up a whole not easy to forget, yet difficult to paint. but my attention was before long directed to some preparations in progress not far from where i stood. i had observed several huge poles standing at a great height, with ropes and some apparatus attached to them, the use of which i knew from report alone. here i now remarked a great deal of bustling activity; a number of attendants were beating back the crowd in order to clear a space around one of the loftiest of the poles i have mentioned. this was a work of much difficulty, for the mob was both excited and dense. at length, however, they succeeded in the task, and finding the ground before me pretty clear, i advanced close to the scene of action. round about the pole were a number of fakirs or ascetics, a sort of self-mutilated hermits, who hope and firmly believe that, by distorting their limbs into all sorts of impossible positions and shapes, they have insured the favor of some unpronounceable divinity, and with that a ready and certain passport to some future state about which they have not the most remote idea, which renders their devotion the more praiseworthy. there was one miserable object, with his long matted locks of dirty red streaming over his shoulders, and one withered arm and hand held blighted high above his head, immovable. it had been forced into that unnatural position years ago, and what was then an act of free-will, was now a matter of necessity; the arm would no longer return to its true position, but pointed in its thin and bony haggardness to heaven. another dark-eyed, dark-haired ascetic had held his hands for years so firmly clasped together, that the long talon-like nails were to be seen growing through the palms of his hands and appearing at the back. some i saw with thick rope actually threaded through their flesh quite round their bodies, many times in bleeding coils; more than one young woman was there with her neck and shoulders thickly studded over with sharp short needles stuck firmly in the flesh. one man, a young man, too, had forced a sort of spear right through the fleshy part of his foot, with the thick wooden handle downward, on which he walked, quite indifferent to any sort of inconvenience. there was no lack of others, all self-tortured, maimed, and trussed, and skewered, as though about to be spitted and put down to the fire. the object which all by one consent agreed to gaze at, was a young and pretty-looking girl, almost a child in manner, who sat upon the ground so sadly, yet so calm and almost happy, that i could not persuade myself one so young and gentle was about to be barbarously tortured. yet so it was. it appeared that her husband had, months since, gone upon some distant, dangerous journey; that being long absent, and rumors raised in the native bazaar of his death, she, the anxious wife, had vowed to siva, the protector of life, to undergo self-torture on his next festival if her loved husband's life should be spared. he had returned, and now, mighty in faith and love, this simple-minded, single-hearted creature gave up herself to pain such as the stoutest of our sex or race might shrink from. she sat looking fondly on her little infant as it lay asleep in the arms of an old nurse, all unconscious of the mother's sacrifice, and turning her eyes from that to her husband, who stood near in a wild, excited state, she gave the signal that she was ready. the stout-limbed, burly-bodied husband rushed like a tiger at such of the crowd as attempted to press too near the sacrificial girl: he had a staff in his hand, and with it played such a tune on bare and turbaned heads and ebony shoulders, as brought down many an angry malediction on the player. the nurse with the infant moved further away among the crowd of admiring spectators. two or three persons, men and women, pressed forward to adjust the horrid-looking hooks. was it possible, i thought, that those huge instruments of torture, heavy enough to hold an elephant, were to be forced into the flesh of that gentle girl! i felt sick as i saw the poor child stretched upon her face, and first one and then the other of those ugly, crooked pieces of iron forced slowly through the flesh and below the muscles of her back. they lifted her up, and as i watched her, i saw big drops of perspiration starting from her forehead; her small eyes seemed closed at first, and, for the moment, i fancied she had fainted; but as they raised her to her feet, and then quickly drew her up in the air high above us, hanging by those two horrid hooks, i saw her looking down quite placidly. she sought her husband out, and seeing him watching her eagerly, gave him a smile, and, waving her little hands, drew from her bosom small pieces of the sacred cocoa-nut and flung them amid the gazing crowd. to scramble for and obtain one of these precious fragments was deemed a fortunate thing, for they were supposed to contain all sorts of charmed powers. and now the poojah was fairly commenced. the ropes which carried the iron hooks were so arranged, that by pulling one end--which passed over the top of the pole--it swung round a plate of iron which set in motion the other rope holding the hooks and the living operator. two men seized on this rope, and soon the poor girl was in rapid flight over the heads of the crowd, who cheered her on by a variety of wild cries, and shouts, and songs. not that she seemed to need encouragement; her eyes were still bent toward her husband; i almost fancied she smiled as she caught his eye. there was no sign of pain, or shrinking, or yielding: she bore it as many a hero of the old world would have been proud to have done, scattering beneath her flowers and fruit among the busy throng. i felt as though a heavy weight were off my mind when i perceived the whirling motion of the ropes first to slacken, and then to cease, and finally the girl, all bleeding, relieved from the cruel torture. they laid her on a mat beneath some shady trees: the women gave her a draught of cool water in a cocoa-nut shell. but her thoughts were not upon herself: she looked anxiously around, and could not be satisfied until her husband sat beside her, and their little swarthy infant was placed within her arms. the only care her deep and open wounds received was to have them rubbed with a little turmeric powder, and covered with the fresh tender leaf of a banana. leaving this family group, i turned back to watch the further proceedings around the huge pole, where there was once more a great bustle and pressing among the crowd. this time the operator, or sufferer, whichever would be the most fitting term, was a man of middle age, and of the lowest ranks of the laboring class. he appeared to be perfectly indifferent to any thing like suffering, as the two operators seized the flesh of his back, and another roughly thrust through it two hooks. in another minute he was whirling through the air as rapidly as the attendants could force him; still he seemed anxious to travel faster, and by signs and cries urged them to increased speed. the mob was delighted with this exhibition of perfect endurance and enthusiasm, and testified their approbation in a variety of modes. this man remained swinging for fully twenty minutes, at the end of which time he was released: somewhat less excited, i fancied, than when he was first hoisted in the air. i failed to learn his story, but it had reference, beyond a doubt, to some escape from danger, real or imaginary, and, of course, imputed to the direct interposition of the powerful siva, or some equally efficacious deputy. the medical treatment of this devotee was on the ruder scale, and would have shocked the feelings and science of some of our army surgeons, to say nothing of civil practitioners. the root of turmeric was again employed, in fine powder, but placed in the wounds most hastily, and, by way of forcing it thoroughly in, some one stood on his back, and trod in the powder with his heel. i saw one other man hoisted up. he had taken the vow in order to save the life of a much-loved sister's child; and as he swung round and round in stoical indifference, the sister, a young creature with her little infant, sat looking at him as if she would willingly have borne the suffering in his stead. doubtless there was a love linking these poor creatures together in their ignorance; which, mighty as it was, would have done honor to any highly-gifted dwellers in the west. and, it must be remembered, their sacrifice was for the past; it was one of gratitude, and not of hope or fear for the future. their prayers had been heard; and, although they knew not of that undying providence which had listened to their voice and spared the young child's life, they turned to such stone and wooden deities as their forefathers had set up, and devoutly kept their vow. there were other victims yet to be self-offered; but i had had enough, and the heat, and the noise, and the many strange effluvia were growing so rank and overpowering, that i prepared to retreat. as i returned through the dense crowd which made way for me, i perceived an aged woman preparing for a swing as stoically as any of the younger devotees who had gone before her. a tall, powerful-looking man was standing by her side, watching the preparations with considerable interest. he was her son; and, as i learnt, the cause of her present appearance in public. it had been some seven or eight years previously that the vow had been made to the stone deity; which, as they believed, had acted as a miracle and saved his life. it would have been fulfilled at once, but first poverty, and then ill-health, had stood in the way of its performance; and now, after this long lapse being able to pay the necessary fees to the priests, she had left her distant home to carry out the never-to-be-forgotten vow. as i moved away in the distance, i heard the shouts of the enraptured multitude raised in honor of the old lady's fortitude; cry after cry floated on the breeze, and died away in the din of drums, and pipes, and bells. for miles the country round about was covered with festivity and uproar. hundreds of fanatic companies were reveling in religious festive rites. in one leaf and bamboo shed, larger than the rest, i noticed, as i looked in unperceived, the young self-offered wife of that day, as gay and unconcerned by pain as any of the party; i might have fancied she had but just been married, instead of hanging in the air upon cruel hooks. life and death of paganini. genius--talent, whatever its extent--can not always count upon popularity. susceptibility of the highest conceptions, of the most sublime creations, frequently fails in securing the attention of the multitude. how to attain this most coveted point? it would be difficult to arrive at any precise conclusion, from the fact that it applies to matters totally differing from each other; it is, however, perhaps possible to define the aggregation of qualities required to move the public in masses, by calling it _sympathetic wonderment_, and its originality is one of its absolute conditions. many names, doubtless, recall talents of the first order, and personalities of the highest value; yet, notwithstanding their having been duly appreciated by the intelligent and enlightened classes, they have not always called forth those outbursts of enthusiasm, which were manifested toward the truly prodigious artist who is the object of this notice. nicolo paganini, the most extraordinary musical genius of the th century, was born at genoa, on the th of february, . his father, antoine paganini, a commercial broker, or simple post clerk, according to some biographers, was passionately fond of music, and played upon the mandoline. his penetration soon discovered the aptitude of his son for this art, and he resolved that study should develope it. his excessive severity had probably led to contrary results to those he expected, had not the younger paganini been endowed with the firm determination of becoming an artist. from the age of six years he was a musician, and played the violin. the ill treatment to which he was subjected during this period of his youth, appears to have exercised a fatal influence over his nervous and delicate constitution. from his first attempts he was imbued with the disposition to execute feats of strength and agility upon his instrument; and his instinct urged him to attempt the most extraordinary things. his father's lessons soon became useless, and servetto, a musician of the theatre, at genoa, became his teacher; but even he was not possessed of sufficient ability to benefit this predestined artist. paganini received his instructions for a short period only, and he was placed under giacomo costa, director of music, and principal violinist of the churches of genoa, under whose care he progressed rapidly. he had now attained his eighth year, when he wrote his sonata, which he unfortunately took no care of, and has been lost among many other of his productions. having reached his ninth year, the young virtuoso appeared in public, for the first time, in a performance at the large theatre of his native town; and this extraordinary child played variations of his own composition on the french air, _la carmagnole_, amid the frenzied acclamations of an enthusiastic audience. about this period of his life the father was advised, by judicious friends, to place the boy under good masters of the violin and composition; and he shortly after took him to parma, where alexander rolla then resided, so celebrated for his performance as conductor of the orchestra, and composer. paganini was now twelve years of age. the following anecdote, related by m. schottky, and which paganini published in a vienna journal, furnishes interesting details of the master's first interview with the young artist: "on arriving at rolla's house," he said, "we found him ill, and in bed. his wife conducted us into a room adjoining the one where the sick man lay, in order to concert with her husband, who, it appeared, was not at all disposed to receive us. perceiving upon the table of the chamber into which we were ushered, a violin, and the last concerto of rolla, i took up the violin, and played the piece at first sight. surprised at what he heard, the composer inquired the name of the virtuoso he had just heard. when he heard the virtuoso was only a mere lad, he would not give credence to the fact unless by ocular demonstration. thus satisfied, he told me, that he could teach me nothing, and recommended me to take lessons on composition from paër." even now, paganini was occupied in discovering new effects on his instrument. it was, however, only after his return to genoa, that paganini wrote his first compositions for the violin. this music was so difficult that he was obliged to study it himself with increasing perseverance, and to make constant efforts to solve problems unknown to all other violinists. quitting parma, at the commencement of , paganini made his first professional tour, with his father, of all the principal towns in lombardy, and commenced a matchless reputation. on his return to genoa, and after having in solitude made the efforts necessary for the development of his talent, he began to feel the weight of the chain by which he was held by his father, and determined to release himself from the ill treatment to which he was still subjected under the paternal roof. a favorable opportunity alone was required to favor his design. this soon presented itself. the fête of st. martin was celebrated annually at lucca by a musical festival, to which persons flocked from every part of italy. as this period approached, paganini entreated his father to permit him to attend it, accompanied by his elder brother. his demand was at first met with a peremptory refusal; but the solicitations of the son, and the prayers of the mother, finally prevailed, and the heart of the young artist, at liberty for the first time, bounded with joy, and he set out agitated by dreams of success and happiness. at lucca he was received with enthusiasm. encouraged by this propitious _début_, he visited pisa, and some other towns, in all of which his success was unequivocal. paganini had not yet attained his fifteenth year. this is not the age of prudence. his moral education, besides, had been grossly neglected, and the severity which assailed his more youthful years, was not calculated to awaken him to the dangers of a free life: and he formed dangerous connections. paganini, in this manner, frequently lost the produce of several concerts in one night, and was consequently often in a state of great embarrassment, and frequently reduced to part with his violin. in this condition he found himself at leghorn, and was indebted to the kindness of a french merchant (m. livron), a distinguished amateur, for the loan of a violin, an excellent guarneri. when the concert had concluded, paganini brought it back to its owner, when this gentleman exclaimed, "never will i profane strings which your fingers have touched! that instrument is now yours." this is the violin paganini since used in all his concerts. adventures of every kind signalize this period of paganini's early days; the enthusiasm of art, love, and gaming, divided his time, despite the warnings of a delicate constitution, which proclaimed the necessity of great care. heedless of every thing, he continued his career of dissipation, until the prostration of his faculties forced a respite. he would then lie by for several weeks, in a state of absolute repose, until, with energies refreshed, he recommenced his artistic career and wandering life. it was to be feared that this dissolute life would, ultimately, deprive the world of his marvelous talent, when an unforeseen and important circumstance, related by himself, ended his fatal passion for gaming. "i shall never forget," he said, "that i, one day, placed myself in a position which was to decide my future. the prince of ---- had, for some time, coveted the possession of my violin--the only one i possessed at that period, and which i still have. he, on one particular occasion, was extremely anxious that i should mention the sum for which i would dispose of it; but, not wishing to part with my instrument, i declared i would not sell it for gold napoleons. some time after, the prince said to me that i was, doubtless, only in jest in asking such a sum, but that he would be willing to give me , francs. i was, at this moment, in the greatest want of money to meet a debt of honor i had incurred at play, and i was almost tempted to accept the proffered amount, when i received an invitation to a party that evening at a friend's house. all my capital consisted of thirty francs, as i had disposed of all my jewels, watch, rings, and brooches, &c., i resolved on risking this last resource; and, if fortune proved fickle, to sell my violin to the prince and proceed to st. petersburg, without instrument or luggage, with the view of re-establishing my affairs; my thirty francs were reduced to three, when, suddenly, my fortune took a sudden turn; and, with the small remains of my capital, i won francs. this amount saved my violin, and completely set me up. from that day i abjured gaming--to which i had sacrificed a part of my youth--convinced that a gamester is an object of contempt to all well-regulated minds." although he was still in the full prime of youth, paganini devoted his talent steadily to success and profit, when, in one of those hallucinations to which all great artists are subject, the violin lost its attractions in his eyes. a lady of rank having fallen desperately in love with him, and reciprocated by him, he withdrew with her to an estate she possessed in tuscany. this lady played the guitar, and paganini imbibed a taste for the instrument, and applied himself as sedulously to its practice as he had formerly done with the violin. he soon discovered new resources; and during a period of three years, he divided all the energies of his mind between its study, and agricultural pursuits, for which the lady's estate afforded him ample opportunities. but paganini's former _penchant_ for the violin returned, and he decided on resuming his travels. on his return to genoa, in , he occupied himself solely with composition. it appears, too, that at this period he gave instruction on the violin to catherine calcagno, born at genoa, in , who, at the age of fifteen, astounded italy by the boldness of her style; all traces of her seem lost after . toward the middle of , paganini left genoa, to undertake a new tour in italy. the first town he visited was lucca, the scene of his first successes. here he again created so great a sensation by the concerto he performed at a nocturnal festival, in a convent chapel, that the monks were obliged to leave their stalls, in order to repress the applause which burst forth, despite the sanctity of the place. he was then twenty-one years of age. the principality of lucca and piombino had been organized in the month of march, of the same year, in favor of the princess eliza, sister of napoleon, and the wife of prince bacciochi. the court had fixed its residence in the town of lucca. the great reputation of the violinist induced the princess to offer him the posts of director of her private music, and conductor of the opera orchestra, which he accepted. the princess, who had appreciated the originality of his talent, excited him to extend his discoveries of novel effects upon his instrument. to convince him of the interest he had inspired her with, she granted him the grade of captain in the royal gendarmerie, so that he might be admitted with his brilliant costume at all the great court receptions. seeking to vary the effect of his instrument at the court concerts, he removed the second and third strings, and composed a dialogue sonata for the first and fourth strings. he has related this circumstance himself nearly in the same terms: "at lucca i directed the orchestra when the reigning family honored the opera with their presence. i was often also called upon to play at court: and then, fortnightly, i organized concerts, and announced to the court a novelty under the title of _scène amoureuse_. curiosity rose to the highest pitch; but the surprise of all present at court was extreme, when i entered the saloon with a violin with only two strings. i had only retained the first and the fourth. the former was to express the sentiments of a young girl; the other was to express the passionate language of a lover. i had composed a kind of dialogue, in which the most tender accents followed the outbursts of jealousy. at one time, chords representing most tender appeals; at another, plaintive reproaches, cries of joy and anger, felicity and pain. then followed the reconciliation; and the lovers, more persuaded than ever, executed a _pas de deux_, which terminated in a brilliant coda. this novelty was eminently successful. the princess eliza lauded me to the skies; and said to me, in the most gracious manner possible, '_you have just performed impossibilities--would not a single string suffice for your talent?_' i promised to make the attempt. this idea delighted me; and, some weeks after, i composed my military sonata, entitled _napoleon_, which i performed on the th of august, before a numerous and brilliant court. its success far surpassed my expectations. my predilection for the _g_ string dates from this period." in the summer of , paganini obtained leave to travel, and quitted lucca, never more to return. as the sister of napoleon had become grand duchess of tuscany, she fixed her residence at florence, with all her court, and where the great artist retained his position. he went to leghorn, where, seven years previously, he had met with so much success. he has related, with much humor, a series of tribulations which happened to him upon the occasion of his first concert there. "a nail," he said, "had run into my heel, and i came on limping, at which the audience laughed. at the moment i was about to commence my concerto, the candles of my desk fell out. (another laugh.) at the end of the first few bars of the solo, my first string broke, which increased the hilarity of the audience; but i played the piece on the three strings--the grins quickly changed into acclamations of applause." this broken string frequently occurred afterward; and paganini has been accused of using it as a means of success, having previously practiced upon the three strings, pieces which appear to require the use of the first string. from leghorn he went to turin, where paganini was first attacked with the bowel complaint, which subsequently so debilitated his health, as frequently to cause long interruptions to his travels, and his series of concerts. being at milan in the spring of , he witnessed, at the theatre of _la scala_, the ballet of _il noce di benevento_ (the drowned one of benevento). it was from this ballet paganini took the theme of his celebrated variations, _le streghe_ (the witches), from the air being that to which witches appeared. here he was again seized with a return of his former malady, and several months elapsed before he could appear in public. it was only on the th of october following, he was enabled to give his first concert, exciting a sensation which the journals of italy and germany made known to the whole world. in the month of october, , he went to bologna, when he saw rossini for the first time, and commenced a friendship which became strengthened at rome in , and at paris in . in the year , he arrived at rome, and found rossini there busy in producing his _cenerentola_. several concerts he gave here during the carnival excited the greatest enthusiasm. from this time, paganini formed the project of leaving italy to visit the principal cities in germany and france; and in the year , he arrived at naples. it is a very remarkable circumstance, that he appeared here in a manner unworthy of his great name; for, instead of giving his first concerts at st. carlo, he modestly commenced at the theatre of the _fondo_. on his arrival at naples, paganini found several artists indisposed toward him. they doubted the reality of the prodigies attributed to him, and awaited a failure. to put his talent to the test, the young composer, danna, was engaged, recently from the conservatory, to write a quartet, containing every species of difficulty, convinced that the great violinist would not vanquish them. he was, therefore, invited to a musical re-union, where the piece was immediately given to him to play at first sight. understanding the snare that was laid for him, he merely glanced at it, and played it as if he had been familiar with it. amazed and confounded at what they had heard, the highest approbation was awarded to him, and he was proclaimed a miracle. it was during this sojourn at naples that paganini met with one of the most singular adventures of his extraordinary life. an alarming relapse of his malady took place; and, satisfied that any current of air was injurious to him, he took an apartment in the part of the town called _petrajo_ under saint elme; but meeting here that which he most sought to avoid, and his health daily becoming worse, it was reported that he was consumptive. at naples, the opinion prevails that consumption is contagious. his landlord, alarmed at having in his house one who was supposed to be dying of this malady, had the inhumanity to turn him into the street, with all he possessed. fortunately, the violoncellist, ciandelli, the friend of paganini, happened to be passing, and, incensed at the act of cruelty he was witness to, and which might have proved fatal to the great artist, belabored the barbarian unmercifully with a stick he carried, and then had his friend conveyed to a comfortable lodging, where every attention was paid to him. between and , he visited milan, rome, naples, and trieste, and on the d of march, , he proceeded to vienna. on the th of march, the first concert of this artist threw the viennese population into an indescribable paroxysm of enthusiasm. "the first note he played on his guarneri" (says m. schilling, in his poetical style, in his _lexique universel de musique_)--indeed, from his first step into the room--his reputation was decided in germany. the vienna journals were unlimited in hyperbolical expressions of admiration; and all admitted his performance to be incomparable. verses appeared in every publication--medals were struck--the name of paganini engrossing all; and, as m. schottky remarks, _every thing was à la paganini_. cooks designated certain productions after him; and any extraordinary stroke of billiards was compared to a bow movement of the artist. his portrait appeared on snuff-boxes and cigar-cases; his bust surmounted the walking-sticks of the fashionable men. after a concert given for the benefit of the poor, the magistrate of vienna presented to paganini the large gold medal of st. salvator, and the emperor conferred upon him the title of virtuoso of his private band. after an uninterrupted series of triumphs, during three years, the celebrated artist arrived at paris, and gave his first concert at the opera, the th of march, . his studies for the violin, which had been published there for some time--a species of enigma which had perplexed every violinist--the european fame of the artist--his travels and triumphs--raised the curiosity of the artists and the public. it were impossible to describe the enthusiasm his first concert created--it was universal frenzy. the same enthusiasm prevailed during his entire stay in paris. toward the middle of may he left this city and proceeded to london--where he was expected with the utmost impatience, but not with that artistic and perceptive interest with which he had been received at paris. after an absence of six years, paganini again set foot on his native soil. the wealth he had amassed in his european tour, placed him in a position of great independence; and among the various properties he purchased, was a charming country-house in the environs of parma, called _la villa gajona_--here he decided on residing. in , speculators induced him to lend the aid of his name and talent for establishing a casino, of which music was the pretext, but gambling the real object. this establishment, which was situate in the most fashionable locality of paris, was opened with considerable splendor at the end of november, , under the name of _casino paganini_; but the government refused to authorize its opening as a gambling-house, and the speculators were reduced to give concerts, which far exceeded the expenses of the undertaking. the declension of his health was manifest, and his wasted strength precluded the possibility of his playing at the casino. a lawsuit was commenced against him, which he lost; and the judges, without having heard his defense, condemned him to pay , f. to the creditors of the speculation, and he was deprived of his liberty until that amount was paid. when this decision was pronounced, paganini was dying--his malady, which was phthisis of the larynx, had increased since the commencement of . the medical men advised him to proceed to marseilles, the climate of which they considered favorable to his health. he followed this advice, and traveled by slow stages to the southern extremity. despite his extreme weakness, he went to hear a requiem, by cherubini, for male voices; finally, on the st of june, he attended in one of the churches at marseilles, to take part in a solemn mass, by beethoven. however, the love of change, inherent in all valetudinarians, induced him to return to genoa by sea, fully impressed the voyage would recruit his health. vain hope! in the commencement of october of the same year, he wrote from his native city to m. galafre, a painter, an esteemed friend: "_being in much worse health than i was at marseilles, i have resolved on passing the winter at nice._" nice was destined to be his last abode. the progress of his malady was rapid--his voice became almost extinct, and dreadful fits of coughing, which daily became more frequent, and, finally, reduced him to a shadow. the sinking of his features, a certain token of approaching death, was visible in his face. an italian writer has furnished us with a most touching description of his last moments, in the following terms: "on the last night of his existence, he appeared unusually tranquil--he had slept a little: when he awoke, he requested that the curtains of his bed should be drawn aside to contemplate the moon, which, at its full, was advancing calmly in the immensity of the pure heavens. at this solemn hour, he seemed desirous to return to nature all the soft sensations which he was then possessed of; stretching forth his hand toward his enchanted violin--to the faithful companion of his travels--to the magician which had robbed care of its stings--he sent to heaven, with its last sounds, the last sigh of a life which had been all melody." the great artist expired on the th of may, , at the age of , leaving to his only son, achille, an immense fortune, and the title of baron, which had been conceded him in germany. all had not ended with the man whose life was as extraordinary as his talent. whether from the effect of certain popular rumors, or whether from paganini having died without receiving the last rites of his church, he had left doubts of his faith; his remains were refused interment in consecrated ground by the bishop of nice. vainly did his friends solicit permission to celebrate a solemn service for his eternal rest; the bishop remained inexorable, but proffered an authentic act of decease, with permission to remove the body wheresoever they pleased. this was not accepted, and the matter was brought before the tribunals. all this time, the body was remaining in one of the rooms of the hospital at nice; it was afterward removed by sea from the lazaretto of villa franca, near that city, to a country spot named _polcevera_, near genoa, which belonged to the inheritance of the illustrious artist. at length, the friends of the deceased obtained permission from the bishop of parma to bring the body into the duchy, to remove it to the _villa gajona_, and to inter it in the village church. this funeral homage was rendered to the remains of this celebrated man, in the month of may, , but without pomp, in conformity with the orders which had emanated from the government. by his will, made on the th of april, , and opened the st of june, , paganini left to his son, legitimized by deeds of law, a fortune estimated at two millions (£ , sterling), out of which two legacies were to be paid, of fifty and sixty thousand francs, to his two sisters, leaving to the mother of his son, achille, an annuity of , francs. independently of his wealth, paganini possessed a collection of valuable instruments; his large _guarneri_, the only instrument which accompanied him in his travels, he bequeathed to the town of genoa, not being desirous that an artist should possess it after him. number nineteen in our street. number nineteen in our street is a gloomy house, with a blistered door and a cavernous step; with a hungry area and a desolate frontage. the windows are like prison-slips, only a trifle darker, and a good deal dirtier, and the kitchen-offices might stand proxies for the black hole of calcutta, barring the company and the warmth. for as to company, black beetles, mice, and red ants, are all that are ever seen of animated nature there, and the thermometer rarely stands above freezing-point. number nineteen is a lodging-house, kept by a poor old maid, whose only friend is her cat, and whose only heirs will be the parish. with the outward world, excepting such as slowly filter through the rusty opening of the blistered door, miss rebecca spong has long ceased to have dealings. she hangs a certain piece of card-board, with "lodgings to let," printed in school-girl print, unconscious of straight lines, across it; and this act of public notification, coupled with anxious peepings over the blinds of the parlor front, is all the intercourse which she and the world of men hold together. every now and then, indeed, a mangy cab may be seen driving up to her worn-out step; and dingy individuals, of the kind who travel about with small square boxes, covered with marbled paper, and secured with knotted cords of different sizes, may be witnessed taking possession of nineteen, in a melancholy and mysterious way. but even these visitations, unsatisfactory as most lodging-house keepers would consider them, are few and far between; for somehow the people who come and go never seem to have any friends or relations whereby miss spong may improve her "connection." you never see the postman stop at that desolate door; you never hear a visitor's knock on that rusty lion's head; no unnecessary traffic of social life ever takes place behind those dusty blinds; it might be the home of a select party of trappists, or the favorite hiding-place of coiners, for all the sunshine of external humanity that is suffered to enter those interior recesses. if a murder had been committed in every room, from the attics to the cellar, a heavier spell of solitude and desolation could not rest on its floors. one dreary afternoon in november, a cab stopped at number nineteen. it was a railway cab, less worn and ghastly than those vehicles in general, but not bringing much evidence of gayety or wealth for all that. its inmates were a widow and a boy of about fifteen; and all the possessions they had with them were contained in one trunk of very moderate dimensions, a cage with a canary-bird twittering inside, some pots of flowers, and a little white rabbit, one of the comical "lop-eared" kind. there was something very touching in these evidences of the fresh country life which they had left for the dull atmosphere and steaming fogs of the metropolis. they told a sad tale of old associations broken, and old loves forsworn; of days of comfort and prosperity exchanged for the dreariness of poverty; and freedom, love, and happiness, all snapped asunder for the leaden chain of suffering to be forged instead. one could not help thinking of all those two hapless people must have gone through before they could have summoned courage to leave their own dear village, where they had lived so many years in that local honorableness of the clergyman's family; throwing themselves out of the society which knew and loved them, that they might enter a harsh world, where they must make their own position, and earn their own living, unaided by sympathy, honor, or affection. they looked as if they themselves thought something of this, too, when they took possession of the desolate second floor; and the widow sat down near her son, and taking his hand in hers, gave vent to a flood of tears, which ended by unmanning the boy as well. and then they shut up the window carefully, and nothing more was seen of them that night. mrs. lawson, the widow, was a mild, lady-like person, whose face bore the marks of recent affliction, and whose whole appearance and manners were those of a loving, gentle, unenergetic, and helpless woman, whom sorrow could well crush beyond all power of resistance. the boy was a tall, thin youth, with a hectic flush and a hollow cough, eyes bright and restless, and as manifestly nervous as his mother was the reverse in temperament--anxious and restless, and continually taxing his strength beyond its power, making himself seriously ill in his endeavors to save his beloved mother some small trouble. they seemed to be very tenderly attached one to the other, and to supply to each all that was wanting in each: the mother's gentleness soothing down her boy's excitability, and the boy's nervousness rousing the mother to exertion. they were interesting people--so lonely, apparently so unfit to "rough it," in the world; the mother so gentle in temper, and the son so frail in constitution--two people who ought to have been protected from all ill and all cares, yet who had such a bitter cup to empty, such a harsh fate to fulfill. they were very poor. the mother used to go out with a small basket on her arm, which could hold but scanty supplies for two full-grown people. yet this was the only store they had; for no baker, no butcher, no milkman, grocer, or poulterer, ever stopped at the area gate of miss rebecca spong; no purveyor of higher grade than a cat's-meat-man was ever seen to hand provisions into the depths of number nineteen's darkness. the old maid herself was poor; and she, too, used to do her marketing on the basket principle; carrying home, generally at night, odd scraps from the open stalls in tottenham court road, which she had picked up as bargains, and dividing equally between herself and her fagged servant-of-all-work the wretched meal which would not have been too ample for one. she therefore could not help her lodgers, and they all scrambled on over the desolate places of poverty as they best might. in general, tea, sugar, bread, a little rice, a little coffee as a change, a scrap of butter which no cow that ever yielded milk would have acknowledged--these were the usual items of mrs. lawson's marketing, on which she and her young son were to be nourished. and on such poor fare as this was that pale boy expected to become a hearty man? the mother could not, did not expect it. else why were the tears in her eyes so often as she returned? and why did she hang over her son, and caress him fondly, as if in deprecation, when she brought him his wretched meal, seeming to lament, to blame herself, too, that she had not been able to provide him any thing better? poor things! poor things! mrs. lawson seemed at last to get some employment. she had been seeking for it long--to judge by her frequent absences from home, and the weary look of disappointment she wore when she returned. but at last the opening was found, and she set to work in earnest. she used to go out early in the morning, and not return until late in the evening, and then she looked pale and tired, as one whose energies had been overtasked all the day; but she had found no gold-mine. the scanty meals were even scantier than before, and her shabby mourning was getting shabbier and duller. she was evidently hard-worked for very little pay; and their condition was not improved, only sustained by her exertions. things seemed to be very bad with them altogether, and with little hope of amendment; for poor mrs. lawson had been "brought up as a lady," and so was doubly incapable--by education as well as by temperament--of gaining her own living. she was now employed as daily governess in the family of a city tradesman--people, who though they were kindly-natured enough, had as much as they could do in keeping their own fortunes afloat without giving any substantial aid to others, and who had therefore engaged her at the lowest possible salary, such as was barely sufficient to keep her and her son from absolute want. the boy had long been very busy. he used to sit by the window all the day, earnestly employed with paper and scissors; and i wondered what fascinating occupation he had found to chain him for so many hours by those chinks and draughts; for he was usually enveloped in shawls, and blankets were hung about his chair, and every tender precaution taken that he should not increase his sickness by exposure even to the ordinary changes in the temperature of a dwelling-room. but now, in spite of his terrible cough, in spite of his hurried breathing, he used to sit for hours on hours by the dusky window, cutting and cutting at that eternal paper, as if his very life depended on his task. but he used to gather up the cuttings carefully, and hide all out of sight before his mother came home--sometimes nearly caught before quite prepared, when he used to show as much trepidation as if committing a crime. this went on for some time, and at last he went out. it was fortunately a fine day--a clear, cold, january day; but he had no sooner breathed the brisk frosty air than a terrible fit of coughing seemed to threaten his frail existence. he did not turn back though; and i watched him slowly pass down the street, holding on by the rails, and every now and then stopping to take breath. i saw a policeman speak to him in a grave, compassionating way, as if--seeing that he was so young and feeble, and so much a stranger, that he was asking his way to oxford-street, while going in a totally contrary direction--he was advising him to go home, and to let some one else do his business--his father perhaps; but the boy only smiled, and shook his head in a hopeful way; and so he went from my sight, though not from my thoughts. this continued daily, sometimes herbert bringing home a small quantity of money, sometimes only disappointment; and these were terrible trials! at last, the mother was made acquainted with her son's new mode of life, by the treasured s. which the poor boy thrust into her hand one evening, with a strange shy pride that brought all the blood into his face, while he kissed her with impetuosity to smother her reproaches. she asked him how he had got so much money--so much! and then he told her how, self-taught, he had learned to cut out figures--dogs and landscapes--in colored paper, which he had taken to the bazaars and stationers' shops, and there disposed of--for a mere trifle truly. "for this kind of thing is not fashionable, mother, though i think the queen likes them," he said; "and of course, if not fashionable, i could not get very much for them." so he contented himself, and consoled her, for the small payment of sixpence or a shilling, which perhaps was all he could earn by three or four days' work. the mother gently blamed him for his imprudence in exposing himself as he had done to the wet and cold--and, alas! these had told sadly on his weakened frame; but herbert was so happy to-night, that she could not damp his pleasure, even for maternal love; so she reserved the lecture which _must_ be given until to-morrow. and then his out-door expeditions were peremptorily forbidden; and miss spong was called up to strengthen the prohibition--which she did effectually by offering, in her little, quick, nervous way, to take herbert's cuttings to the shops herself, and thus to spare him the necessity of doing so. poor mrs. lawson went up to the little woman, and kissed her cheek like a sister, as she spoke; while miss spong, so utterly unused as she had been for years to the smallest demonstration of affection, looked at first bewildered and aghast, and finally sank down on the chair in a childish fit of crying. i can not say how much the sight of that poor little old maid's tears affected me! they seemed to speak of such long years of heart-loneliness--such loving impulses strangled by the chill hand of solitude--such weary familiarity with that deadness of life wherein no sympathy is bestowed, no love awakened--that i felt as one witnessing a dead man recalled to life, after all that made life pleasant had fled. what a sorrowful house that number nineteen was! from the desolate servant-of-all-work at her first place from the foundling, to the half-starved german in the attics, every inmate of the house seemed to have nothing but the bitter bread of affliction to eat--nothing but the salt waters of despair to drink. and now began another epoch in the lawson history, which shed a sad but most beautiful light over the fading day of that young life. a girl of about fourteen--she might have been a year or so younger--was once sent from one of the stationer's shops to conclude some bargain with the sick paper-cutter. i saw her slender figure bound up the desolate steps with the light tread of youth, as if she had been a divine being entering the home of human sorrow. she was one of those saintly children who are sometimes seen blooming like white roses, unstained by time or by contact. her hair hung down her neck in long, loose curls, among which the sunlight seemed to have fairly lost itself, they were so golden bright; her eyes were large, and of that deep, dark gray which is so much more beautiful, because so much more intellectual, than any other color eyes can take; her lips were fresh and youthful; and her figure had all that girlish grace of fourteen which combines the unconscious innocence of the child with the exquisite modesty of the maiden. she soon became the daily visitor of the lawsons--pupil to herbert. the paper-cutting was not wholly laid aside though; in the early morning, and in the evening, and often late into the night, the thin, wan fingers were busy about their task; but the middle of the day was snatched like an hour of sleep in the midst of pain--garnered up like a fountain of sweet waters in the wilderness; for then it was that little jessie came for her latin lesson, which she used to learn so well, and take such pleasure in, and be doubly diligent about, because poor herbert lawson was ill, and vexation would do him harm. does it seem strange that a stationer's daughter should be so lovely, and should learn latin? and there those two children used to sit for three dear hours of the day; she, leaning over her book, her sweet young face bent on her task with a look of earnest intellectuality in it, that made her like some sainted maid of olden time; and he watching her every movement, and listening to every syllable, with a rapt interest such as only very early youth can feel. how happy he used to look! how his face would lighten up, as if an angel's wing had swept over it, when the two gentle taps at the door heralded young jessie! how his boyish reverence, mixed with boyish care, gave his wasted features an expression almost unearthly, as he hung over her so protectingly, so tenderly, so adoringly! it was so different from a man's love! there was something so exquisitely pure and spiritual in it--something so reverential and so chivalrous--it would have been almost a sin to have had that love grow out into a man's strong passion! the flowers she brought him--and seldom did a day pass without a fresh supply of violets, and, when the weather was warmer, of primroses and cowslips, from her gentle hand--all these were cherished more than gold would have been cherished; the books she lent him were never from his side; if she touched one of the paltry ornaments on the chimney-piece, that ornament was transferred to his own private table; and the chair she used was always kept apart, and sacred to her return. it was very beautiful to watch all these manifestations: for i did watch them, first from my own window, then in the house, in the midst of the lonely family, comforting when i could not aid, and sharing in the griefs i could not lessen. under the new influence, the boy gained such loveliness and spiritualism, that his face had an angelic character, which, though it made young jessie feel a strange kind of loving awe for the sick boy, betokened to me, and to his mother, that his end was not far off. he was now too weak to sit up, excepting for a small part of the day; and i feared that he would soon become too weak to teach, even in his gentle way, and with such a gentle pupil. but the latin exercises still held their place; the books lying on the sofa instead of on the table, and jessie sitting by him on a stool, where he could overlook her as she read: this was all the change; unless, indeed, that jessie read aloud more than formerly, and not always out of a latin book. sometimes it was poetry, and sometimes it was the bible that she read to him; and then he used to stop her, and pour forth such eloquent, such rapturous remarks on what he had heard, that jessie used to sit and watch him like a young angel holding converse with a spirit. she was beginning to love him very deeply in her innocent, girlish, unconscious way; and i used to see her bounding step grow sad and heavy as, day by day, her brother-like tutor seemed to be sinking from earth so fast. thus passed the winter, poor mrs. lawson toiling painfully at her task, and herbert falling into death in his; but with such happiness in his heart as made his sufferings divine delights, and his weakness, the holy strength of heaven. he could do but little at his paper-cutting now, but still he persevered; and his toil was well repaid, too, when he gave his mother the scanty payment which he received at the end of the week, and felt that he had done his best--that he had helped her forward--that he was no longer an idler supported by her sorrow--but that he had braced the burden of labor on to his own shoulders also, weak as they were, and had taken his place, though dying, among the manful workers of the world. jessie brought a small weekly contribution also, neatly sealed up in fair white paper; and of these crumpled scraps herbert used to cut angels and cherubs' heads, which he would sit and look at for hours together; and then he would pray as if in a trance--so earnest and heartfelt was it--while tears of love, not grief, would stream down his face, as his lips moved in blessings on that young maiden child. it came at last. he had fought against it long and bravely; but death is a hard adversary, and can not be withstood, even by the strongest. it came, stealing over him like an evening cloud over a star--leaving him still beautiful, while blotting out his light--softening and purifying, while slowly obliterating his place. day by day, his weakness increased; day by day, his pale hands grew paler, and his hollow cheek more wan. but the love in his boy's heart hung about his sick bed as flowers that have an eternal fragrance from their birth. jessie was ever a daily visitor, though no longer now a scholar; and her presence had all the effect of religion on the boy--he was so calm, and still, and holy, while she was there. when she was gone, he was sometimes restless, though never peevish; but he would get nervous, and unable to fix his mind on any thing, his sick head turning incessantly to the window, as if vainly watching for a shadowy hope, and his thin fingers plucking ceaselessly at his bedclothes, in restless, weary, unsoothed sorrow. while she sat by him, her voice sounding like low music in his ears, and her hands wandering about him in a thousand offices of gentle comforting, he was like a child sinking softly to sleep--a soul striving upward to its home, beckoned on by the hands of the holier sister before it. and thus he died--in the bright spring-time of the year, in the bright spring-time of his life. love had been the cradle song of his infancy, love was the requiem of his youth. his was no romantic fable, no heroic epic; adventures, passions, fame, made up none of its incidents; it was simply the history of a boy's manful struggling against fate--of the quiet heroism of endurance, compensated by inward satisfaction, if not by actual happiness. true, his career was in the low-lying paths of humanity; but it was none the less beautiful and pure, for it is not deeds, it is their spirit, which makes men noble, or leaves them stained. had herbert lawson been a warrior, statesman, hero, philosopher, he would have shown no other nature than that which gladdened the heart of his widowed mother, and proved a life's instruction to jessie hamilton, in his small deeds of love and untaught words of faith in the solitude of that lodging-house. brave, pure, noble then, his sphere only would have been enlarged, and with his sphere the weight and power of his character; but the spirit would have been the same, and in the dying child it was as beautiful as it would have been in the renowned philosopher. we have given this simple story--simple in all its bearings--as an instance of how much real heroism is daily enacted, how much true morality daily cherished, under the most unfavorable conditions. a widow and her young son cast on the world without sufficient means of living--a brave boy battling against poverty and sickness combined, and doing his small endeavor with manful constancy--a dying youth, whose whole soul is penetrated with love, as with a divine song; all these are elements of true human interest, and these are circumstances to be found in every street of a crowded city. and to such as these is the divine mission of brotherly charity required; for though poverty may not be relieved by reason of our inability, suffering may always be lightened by our sympathy. it takes but a word of love, a glance of pity, a gentle kiss of affection--it takes but an hour of our day, a prayer at night, and we may walk through the sick world and the sorrowful as angels dropping balm and comfort on the wounded. the cup of such human love as this poured freely out will prove in truth "twice blessed," returning back to our hearts the peace we have shed on others. alas! alas! how thick the harvest and how few the reapers! gossip about great men. one can not help taking an interest in great men. even their pettiest foibles--their most ordinary actions--their by-play--their jokes--are eagerly commemorated. their haunts--their homes--the apartments in which they have studied--their style of dress--and, above all, their familiar conversation, are treasured up in books, and fascinate all readers. trifles help to decipher the character of a man, often more than his greatest actions. what is a man's daily life--his private conversations--his familiar deportment? these, though they make but a small figure in his history, are often the most characteristic and genuine things in a man's life. with what interest do we think of blind, glorious john milton, when writing _paradise lost_, sitting at "the old organ behind the faded green hangings," his dimmed eyes rolling in vain to find the day; of richardson, in his back-shop, writing _pamela_; of cowper and his tame hares; of byron and newstead abbey; of burns, in his humble cottage home; of voltaire, in his retreat of ferney, by the shores of lake leman; of sir walter scott, in his study at abbotsford; of dr. johnson, in his retreat in bolt court; of shakspeare, and the woods of charlecote; of pope, and his house at twickenham; of swift, and his living at laracor. we are never tired of reading of such things, identified as they are with genius, and consecrated by their association with the names of great men. we take an interest in even smaller things. everybody remembers goldsmith's bloom-colored coat; george fox's "leathern hull;" milton's garb of coarse gray; magliabecchi's great brown vest down to his knees, his broad-brimmed hat, and patched black mantle, and his cravat full of snuff-droppings; pope's velvet cap, tye-wig, and sword; and buffon, with his hair in curl-papers while sitting at his desk. we curiously remember oliver cromwell's warts; wilks's squint; scott's limp; byron's club-foot; pope's little crooked figure, like a note of interrogation; johnson's rotundity and rheum; charles lamb's spindle-shanks in gaiters; and all manner of personal peculiarities of distinguished men. the appetites, tastes, idiosyncracies, prejudices, foibles, and follies of great men, are well known. perhaps we think too much of them; but we take interest in all that concerns them, even the pettiest details. it is often these that give an interest to their written life. what were boswell's _johnson_, that best of biographies, were it wanting in its gossip and small talk? an interesting chapter might be written about the weaknesses of great men. for instance, they have been very notorious for their strange fits of abstraction. the anecdote of archimedes will be remembered, who rushed through the streets of syracuse _al fresco_, crying _eureka!_ and at the taking of the city was killed by a soldier, while tracing geometrical lines on sand. socrates, when filled with some idea, would stand for hours fixed like a statue. it is recorded of him that he stood amidst the soldiers in the camp at potidea, in rooted abstraction, listening to his "prophetic or supernatural voice." democritus shut himself up for days together in a little apartment in his garden. dante was subject to fits of abstraction, in which he often quite forgot himself. one day, he found an interesting book, which he had long sought for, in a druggist's shop at sienna, and sat reading there till night came on. bude, whom erasmus called the wonder of france, was a thoroughly absent man. one day his domestics broke into his study with the intelligence that his house was on fire. "go inform my wife," said he; "you know i do not interfere in household affairs!" scaliger only slept for a few hours at a time, and passed whole days without thinking of food. sully, when his mind was occupied with plans of reform, displayed extraordinary fits of forgetfulness. one day, in winter, when on his way to church, he observed, "how very cold it is to-day!" "not more cold than usual," said one of his attendants. "then i must have the ague," said sully. "is it not more probable that you are too scantily dressed?" he was asked. on lifting his tunic the secret was at once discovered. he had forgotten all his under clothing but his breeches! mrs. bray tells a somewhat familiar story of the painter stothard. when invited on one occasion to dine with the poet rogers, on reaching the house in st. james's place, he complained of cold, and, chancing to place his hand on his neck, he found he had forgotten to put on his cravat, when he hastily returned home to complete his attire. buffon was very fond of dress. he assumed the air of the grand signeur; sported jewels and finery; wore rich lace and velvets; and was curled and scented to excess--wearing his hair _en papillotte_ while at his studies. pope, too, was a little dandy in a bag-wig and a sword; and his crooked figure enveloped in fashionable garments, gave him the look of an over-dressed monkey. voltaire, also, was fond of magnificent attire, and usually dressed in an absurd manner. diderot once traveled from st. petersburg to paris in his morning-gown and nightcap; and in this guise promenaded the streets and public places of the towns on his route. he was often taken for a madman. while composing his works, he used to walk about at a rapid pace, making huge strides, and sometimes throwing his wig in the air when he had struck out a happy idea. one day, a friend found him in tears--"good heavens!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "i am weeping," answered diderot, "at a story that i have just composed!" young, the poet, composed his _night thoughts_ with a skull before him, in which he would sometimes place a lighted candle; and he occasionally sought his sepulchral inspiration by wandering among the tombs at midnight. mrs. radcliffe courted the horrors with which she filled her gloomy romances, by supping on half-raw beefsteaks, plentifully garnished with onions. dryden used to take physic before setting himself to compose a new piece. kant, the german philosopher, while lecturing, had the habit of fixing his attention upon one of his auditors who wore a garment without a button in a particular place. one day, the student had the button sewed on. kant, on commencing his lecture, fixed his eyes on the usual place. the button was there! fancy the consternation of the philosopher, whose ideas had become associated with that buttonless garment. his lecture that day was detestable: he was quite unhinged by the circumstance. too many authors have been fond of the bottle. rabelais said, "eating and drinking are my true sources of inspiration. see this bottle! it is my true and only helicon, my cabalistic fountain, my sole enthusiasm. drinking, i deliberate; and deliberating, i drink." ennius, eschylus, and cato, all got their inspiration while drinking. mezerai had always a large bottle of wine beside him, among his books. he drank of it at each page that he wrote. he turned the night into day; and never composed except by lamp-light, even in the day time. all his windows were darkened; and it was no unusual thing for him to show a friend to the door with a lamp, though outside it was broad daylight! on the contrary, varillas, the historian, never wrote except at full mid-day. his ideas, he imagined, grew and declined with the sun's light. sir william blackstone is said to have composed his _commentaries_ with a bottle of wine on the table, from which he drank largely at intervals: and addison, while composing, used to pace to and fro the long drawing-room of holland house, with a glass of sherry at each end, and rewarded himself by drinking one in case of a felicitous inspiration. while goldsmith wrote his _vicar of wakefield_, he kept drinking at madeira, "to drown care," for the duns were upon him. when johnson called to relieve him, he sent away the bottle, and took the manuscript to the bookseller, bringing back some money to the author. goldsmith's first use of the money was, to call in the landlady to have a glass of punch with him. goldie was guilty of very strange tricks. he once broke his shin by exhibiting to the company how much better he could jump over a stick than puppets. the intemperance of poets is but too painfully illustrated in the lives of parnell, otway, sheffield, savage, churchill, prior, dryden, cowley, burns, coleridge, lamb, and others. there is nothing more painful in burns's letters, than those in which he confesses his contrition after his drunken bouts, and vows amendment for the future. his letter to mrs. dunlop on this subject will be remembered. lamb, too, in a letter to mr. carey, painted _next morning_ in vivid terrors. byron says-- get very drunk; and when you wake with headache, you shall see what then. here is lamb's graphic picture: "i protest," said he, to mr. carey, the translator of dante; "i know not in what words to invest my sense of the shameful violation of hospitality which i was guilty of on that fatal wednesday. let it be blotted from the calendar. had it been committed at a layman's house--say a merchant's, or a manufacturer's, or a cheesemonger's, or a greengrocer's--or, to go higher, a barrister's, a member of parliament's, a rich banker's, i should have felt alleviation--a drop of self-pity. but to be seen deliberately to go out of the house of a clergyman, drunk!... with feverish eyes on the succeeding dawn, i opened upon the faint light, enough to distinguish, in a strange chamber, not immediately to be recognized, garters, hose, waistcoat, neckerchief, arranged in dreadful order and proportion, which i knew was not mine own! 'tis the common symptom, on awaking, i judge my last night's condition from. a tolerable scattering on the floor i hail as being too probably my own, and if the candlestick be not removed, i assail myself. but this finical arrangement--this finding every thing in the morning in exact diametrical rectitude, torments me. by whom was i divested? burning blushes! not by the fair hand of nymphs--the buffian graces! remote whispers suggested that i _coached_ it home in triumph. far be that from waking pride in me, for i was unconscious of the locomotion. that a young newton accompanied a reprobate old telemachus; that, trojan-like, he bore his charge upon his shoulders, while the wretched incubus, in glimmering sense, hiccoughed drunken snatches of flying on the bat's wings after sunset.... occasion led me through great russell-street, yesterday: i gazed at the great knocker. my feeble hands in vain essayed to lift it. i dreaded that argus portitor, who doubtless lanterned me out on that prodigious night. i called the elginian marbles; they were cold to my suit. i shall never again, i said, on the wide gates unfolding, say, without fear of thrusting back, in a light but a peremptory air, 'i am going to mr. cary's.'" lamb was also a great smoker at one period of his life. but he determined to give it up, as he found it led to drinking--to "drinking egg-flip hot, at the salutation"--so he wrote his "farewell to tobacco," and gave it up--returning to it again, but finally abandoning it. in a letter to wordsworth, he said: "tobacco has been my evening comfort and my morning curse for these five years; and you know how difficult it is from refraining to pick one's lips even, when it has become a habit. i have had it in my head to write this poem [farewell to tobacco] these two years; but tobacco stood in its own light, when it gave me headaches that prevented my singing its praises." once, in the height of lamb's smoking fever, he was puffing the smoke of strong, coarse tobacco from a clay pipe, in the company of dr. parr, who whiffed only the finest weed, when the latter, addressing lamb, asked: "dear me, sir, how is it that you have acquired so prodigious a smoking power?" "i have acquired it," answered lamb, "by toiling after it, as some men toil after virtue." it was from frequenting the society of dr. parr, that robert hall, the famous preacher, when at cambridge, acquired the habit of smoking. he smoked in self-defense. some one asked him why he had commenced such an odious habit. "oh," said hall, "i am qualifying myself for the society of a doctor of divinity; and this (holding up the pipe) is the test of my admission." a friend found him busy with his pipe one day, blowing huge clouds of smoke. "ah," said the new comer, "i find you again at your old idol." "yes," said hall, "_burning it_!" but his friends were anxious that he should give up the practice, and one of them presented him with adam clarke's pamphlet on _the use and abuse of tobacco_, to read. he read the pamphlet, and returned it to the lender saying, as if to preclude discussion--"thank you, sir, for adam clarke's pamphlet. i can't refute his arguments, and i can't give up smoking." among other smokers of distinction, may be named the poet milton, whose nightcap was a pipe of tobacco and a glass of pure water. but he was exceedingly moderate in the indulgence of this "vice." sir walter raleigh, who introduced the use of this weed into england, smoked frequently; and the anecdote of his servant, who emptied a bucket of water on him, thinking he was on fire, because he saw the smoke issuing from his mouth, is very well known. many other poets and literary men have smoked. carlyle, at this day, blows a tremendous cloud. southey's indulgence at bed-time, was a glass of hot rum punch, enriched with a little black current jelly. byron wrote under the influence of gin and water. coleridge took immoderate quantities of opium. gluck, the musical composer, wrote with a bottle of champagne beside him--sacchini, when his wife was by his side, and his numerous cats gamboling about him. other authors have found relaxation in other ways. thus daguesseau, when he wanted relaxation from the study of jurisprudence and history, betook himself to a pair of compasses and a book of mathematics. richelieu amused himself by playing with cats, and studying their tricks. cowper had his tame hares. sir walter scott was always attended by his favorite dogs. professor wilson, at this day, is famous for his terriers. alfieri, like luther and milton, found the greatest solace and inspiration in music. "nothing," said he, "so moves my heart, and soul and intellect, and rouses my very faculties, like music--and especially the music of woman's voice. almost all my tragedies have been conceived under the immediate emotion caused by music." voltaire took pleasure in the opera, (not so thomas carlyle, as you may have seen), and there dictated some of his most brilliant letters. but the foibles of men of genius are endless; and would be a curious subject for some disraeli, in a future volume of the curiosities of literature, to depict at length, if the subject be indeed worth the required amount of pains and labor. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] book xii.--initial chapter. "again," quoth my father--"again behold us! we who greeted the commencement of your narrative, who absented ourselves in the mid course, when we could but obstruct the current of events, and jostle personages more important--we now gather round the close. still, as the chorus to the drama, we circle round the altar with the solemn but dubious chant which prepares the audience for the completion of the appointed destinies; though still, ourselves, unaware how the skein is to be unraveled, and where the shears are to descend." [ ] continued from the september number. so there they stood, the family of caxton--all grouping round me--all eager officiously to question--some over-anxious prematurely to criticise. "violante can't have voluntarily gone off with that horrid count," said my mother; "but perhaps she was deceived, like eugenia by mr. bellamy, in the novel of 'camilla.'" "ha!" said my father, "and in that case it is time yet to steal a hint from clarissa harlowe, and make violante die less of a broken heart than a sullied honor. she is one of those girls who ought to be killed! _ostendent omnia letum_--all things about her forebode an early tomb!" "dear, dear!" cried mrs. caxton, "i hope not--poor thing!" "pooh, brother," said the captain, "we have had enough of the tomb in the history of poor nora. the whole story grows out of a grave, and to a grave it must return:--if, pisistratus, you must kill somebody, kill levy." "or the count," said my mother, with unusual truculence. "or randal leslie," said squills. "i should like to have a _post-mortem_ cast of his head--it would be an instructive study." here there was a general confusion of tongues, all present conspiring to bewilder the unfortunate author with their various and discordant counsels how to wind up his story and dispose of his characters. "silence!" cried pisistratus, clapping his hands to both ears. "i can no more alter the fate allotted to each of the personages whom you honor with your interest than i can change your own; like you, they must go where events lead them, urged on by their own characters and the agencies of others. providence so pervadingly governs the universe, that you can not strike it even out of a book. the author may beget a character, but the moment the character comes into action, it escapes from his hands--plays its own part, and fulfills its own inevitable doom." "besides," said mr. squills, "it is easy to see, from the phrenological development of the organs in those several heads which pisistratus has allowed us to examine, that we have seen no creations of mere fiction, but living persons, whose true history has set in movement their various bumps of amativeness, constructiveness, acquisitiveness, ideality, wonder, comparison, &c. they must act and they must end, according to the influences of their crania. thus we find in randal leslie the predominant organs of constructiveness, secretiveness, comparison, and eventuality--while benevolence, conscientiousness, adhesiveness, are utterly _nil_. now, to divine how such a man must end, we must first see what is the general composition of the society in which he moves--in short, what other gases are brought into contact with his phlogiston. as to leonard, and harley, and audley egerton, surveying them phrenologically, i should say that--" "hush!" said my father. "pisistratus has dipped his pen in the ink, and it seems to me easier for the wisest man that ever lived to account for what others have done, than to predict what they should do. phrenologists discovered that mr. thurtell had a very fine organ of conscientiousness, yet, somehow or other, that erring personage contrived to knock the brains out of his friend's organ of individuality. therefore i rise to propose a resolution--that this meeting be adjourned till pisistratus has completed his narrative: and we shall then have the satisfaction of knowing that it ought, according to every principle of nature, science, and art, to have been completed differently. why should we deprive ourselves of that pleasure?" "i second the motion," said the captain, "but if levy be not hanged, i shall say that there is an end of all poetical justice." "take care of poor helen," said blanche, tenderly; "not that i would have you forget violante." "pish! and sit down, or they shall both die old maids." frightened at that threat, blanche, with a deprecating look, drew her stool quietly near me, as if to place her two protégés in an atmosphere mesmerised to matrimonial attractions; and my mother set hard to work--at a new frock for the baby. unsoftened by these undue female influences, pisistratus wrote on at the dictation of the relentless fates. his pen was of iron, and his heart was of granite. he was as insensible to the existence of wife and baby as if he had never paid a house bill, nor rushed from a nursery at the sound of an infant squall. o blessed privilege of authorship! "o testudinis aureæ dulcem quæ strepitum, pieri, temperas! o mutis quoque piscibus donatura cycni, si libeat, sonum!" chapter ii. it is necessary to go somewhat back in the course of this narrative, and account to the reader for the disappearance of violante. it may be remembered that peschiera, scared by the sudden approach of lord l'estrange, had little time for farther words to the young italian, than those which expressed his intention to renew the conference, and press for her decision. but, the next day, when he re-entered the garden, secretly and stealthily as before, violante did not appear. and after watching round the precincts till dusk, the count retreated with an indignant conviction that his arts had failed to enlist on his side, either the heart or the imagination of his intended victim. he began now to revolve, and to discuss with levy, the possibilities of one of those bold and violent measures, which were favored by his reckless daring, and desperate condition. but levy treated with such just ridicule any suggestion to abstract violante by force from lord lansmere's house--so scouted the notions of nocturnal assault, with the devices of scaling windows and rope-ladders--that the count reluctantly abandoned that romance of villainy so unsuited to our sober capital, and which would no doubt have terminated in his capture by the police, with the prospect of committal to the house of correction. levy himself found his invention at fault, and randal leslie was called into consultation. the usurer had contrived that randal's schemes of fortune and advancement were so based upon levy's aid and connivance, that the young man, with all his desire rather to make instruments of other men, than to be himself their instrument, found his superior intellect as completely a slave to levy's more experienced craft, as ever subtle genius of air was subject to the vulgar sorcerer of earth. his acquisition of the ancestral acres--his anticipated seat in parliament--his chance of ousting frank from the heritage of hazeldean--were all as strings that pulled him to and fro, like a puppet in the sleek filbert-nailed fingers of the smiling showman, who could exhibit him to the admiration of a crowd, or cast him away into dust and lumber. randal gnawed his lip in the sullen wrath of a man who bides his hour of future emancipation, and lent his brain to the hire of the present servitude, in mechanical acquiescence. the inherent superiority of the profound young schemer became instantly apparent over the courage of peschiera and the practiced wit of the baron. "your sister," said randal to the former, "must be the active agent in the first and most difficult part of your enterprise. violante can not be taken by force from lord lansmere's--she must be induced to leave it with her own consent. a female is needed here. woman can best decoy woman." "admirably said," quoth the count; "but beatrice has grown restive, and though her dowry and therefore her very marriage with that excellent young hazeldean, depend on my own alliance with my fair kinswoman, she has grown so indifferent to my success that i dare not reckon on her aid. between you and me, though she was once very eager to be married, she now seems to shrink from the notion; and i have no other hold over her." "has she not seen some one, and lately, whom she prefers to poor frank?" "i suspect that she has; but i know not whom, unless it be that detested l'estrange." "ah--well, well. interfere with her no farther yourself, but have all in readiness to quit england, as you had before proposed, as soon as violante be in your power." "all is in readiness," said the count. "levy has agreed to purchase a famous sailing vessel of one of his clients. i have engaged a score or so of determined outcasts, accustomed to the sea--genoese, corsicans, sardinians--ex-carbonari of the best sort--no silly patriots, but liberal cosmopolitans, who have iron at the disposal of any man's gold. i have a priest to perform the nuptial service, and deaf to any fair lady's 'no.' once at sea, and wherever i land, violante will lean on my arm as countess of peschiera." "but violante," said randal, doggedly, determined not to yield to the disgust with which the count's audacious cynicism filled even him--"but violante can not be removed in broad daylight at once to such a vessel, nor from a quarter so populous as that in which your sister resides." "i have thought of that too," said the count; "my emissaries have found me a house close by the river, and safe for our purpose as the dungeons of venice." "i wish not to know all this," answered randal, quickly; "you will instruct madame di negra where to take violante--my task limits itself to the fair inventions that belong to intellect; what belongs to force, is not in my province. i will go at once to your sister, whom i think i can influence more effectually than you can; though later, i may give you a hint to guard against the chance of her remorse. meanwhile as, the moment violante disappears, suspicion would fall upon you, show yourself constantly in public surrounded by your friends. be able to account for every hour of your time--" "an _alibi_?" interrupted the _ci-devant_ solicitor. "exactly so, baron. complete the purchase of the vessel, and let the count man it as he proposes. i will communicate with you both as soon as i can put you into action. to-day i shall have much to do; it will be done." as randal left the room, levy followed him. "what you propose to do will be well done, no doubt," quoth the usurer, linking his arm in randal's; "but take care that you don't get yourself into a scrape, so as to damage your character. i have great hopes of you in public life; and in public life character is necessary--that is, so far as honor is concerned." "i damage my character! and for a count peschiera!" said randal, opening his eyes. "i! what do you take me for?" the baron let go his hold. "this boy ought to rise very high," said he to himself, as he turned back to the count. chapter iii. randal's acute faculty of comprehension had long since surmised the truth that beatrice's views and temper of mind had been strangely and suddenly altered by some such revolution as passion only can effect; that pique or disappointment had mingled with the motive which had induced her to accept the hand of his rash young kinsman; and that instead of the resigned indifference with which she might at one time have contemplated any marriage that could free her from a position that perpetually galled her pride, it was now with a repugnance, visible to randal's keen eye, that she shrank from the performance of that pledge which frank had so dearly bought. the temptations which the count could hold out to her, to become his accomplice in designs of which the fraud and perfidy would revolt her better nature, had ceased to be of avail. a dowry had grown valueless, since it would but hasten the nuptials from which she recoiled. randal felt that he could not secure her aid, except by working on a passion so turbulent as to confound her judgment. such a passion he recognized in jealousy. he had once doubted if harley were the object of her love; yet, after all, was it not probable? he knew, at least, of no one else to suspect. if so, he had but to whisper, "violante is your rival. violante removed, your beauty may find its natural effect; if not, you are an italian, and you will be at least avenged." he saw still more reason to suppose that lord l'estrange was indeed the one by whom he could rule beatrice, since, the last time he had seen her, she had questioned him with much eagerness as to the family of lord lansmere, especially as to the female part of it. randal had then judged it prudent to avoid speaking of violante, and feigned ignorance; but promised to ascertain all particulars by the time he next saw the marchesa. it was the warmth with which she had thanked him that had set his busy mind at work to conjecture the cause of her curiosity so earnestly aroused, and to ascribe that cause to jealousy. if harley loved violante (as randal himself had before supposed), the little of passion that the young man admitted to himself was enlisted in aid of peschiera's schemes. for though randal did not love violante, he cordially disliked l'estrange, and would have gone as far to render that dislike vindictive, as a cold reasoner, intent upon worldly fortunes, will ever suffer mere hate to influence him. "at the worst," thought randal, "if it be not harley, touch the chord of jealousy, and its vibration will direct me right." thus soliloquizing, he arrived at madame di negra's. now, in reality, the marchesa's inquiries as to lord lansmere's family had their source in the misguided, restless, despairing interest with which she still clung to the image of the young poet, whom randal had no reason to suspect. that interest had become yet more keen from the impatient misery she had felt ever since she had plighted herself to another. a wild hope that she might yet escape--a vague regretful thought that she had been too hasty in dismissing leonard from her presence--that she ought rather to have courted his friendship, and contended against her unknown rival, at times drew her wayward mind wholly from the future to which she had consigned herself. and, to do her justice, though her sense of duty was so defective, and the principles which should have guided her conduct were so lost to her sight, still her feelings toward the generous hazeldean were not so hard and blunted, but what her own ingratitude added to her torment; and it seemed as if the sole atonement she could make to him was to find an excuse to withdraw her promise, and save him from herself. she had caused leonard's steps to be watched; she had found that he visited at lord lansmere's; that he had gone there often, and staid there long. she had learned in the neighborhood that lady lansmere had one or two young female guests staying with her. surely this was the attraction--here was the rival! randal found beatrice in a state of mind that favored his purpose. and first turning his conversation on harley, and noting that her countenance did not change, by little and little he drew forth her secret. then, said randal, gravely, "if one whom you honor with a tender thought, visits at lord lansmere's house, you have, indeed, cause to fear for yourself, to hope for your brother's success in the object which has brought him to england--for a girl of surpassing beauty is a guest in lord lansmere's house; and i will now tell you that that girl is she whom count peschiera would make his bride." as randal thus spoke, and saw how his listener's brow darkened and her eye flashed, he felt that his accomplice was secured. violante! had not leonard spoken of violante, and with such praise? had not his boyhood been passed under her eyes? who but violante could be the rival? beatrice's abrupt exclamations after a moment's pause, revealed to randal the advantage he had gained. and partly by rousing her jealousy into revenge--partly by flattering her love with assurances that, if violante were fairly removed from england, were the wife of count peschiera--it would be impossible that leonard could remain insensible to her own attractions--that he, randal, would undertake to free her honorably from her engagement to frank hazeldean, and obtain from her brother the acquittal of the debt which had first fettered her hand to that confiding suitor--he did not quit the marchesa until she had not only promised to do all that randal might suggest, but impetuously urged him to mature his plans, and hasten the hour to accomplish them. randal then walked some minutes musing and slow along the streets, revolving the next meshes in his elaborate and most subtle web. and here his craft luminously devised its master-piece. it was necessary, during any interval that might elapse between violante's disappearance and her departure from england, in order to divert suspicion from peschiera (who might otherwise be detained), that some cause for her voluntary absence from lord lansmere's should be at least assignable; it was still more necessary that randal himself should stand wholly clear from any surmise that he could have connived at the count's designs, even should their actual perpetrator be discovered or conjectured. to effect these objects, randal hastened to norwood, and obtained an interview with riccabocca. in seeming agitation and alarm, he informed the exile that he had reason to know that peschiera had succeeded in obtaining a secret interview with violante, and he feared had made a certain favorable impression on her mind; and, speaking as if with the jealousy of a lover, he entreated riccabocca to authorize randal's direct proposals to violante, and to require her consent to their immediate nuptials. the poor italian was confounded with the intelligence conveyed to him; and his almost superstitious fears of his brilliant enemy, conjoined with his opinion of the susceptibility to outward attractions common to all the female sex, made him not only implicitly credit, but even exaggerate, the dangers that randal intimated. the idea of his daughter's marriage with randal, toward which he had lately cooled, he now gratefully welcomed. but his first natural suggestion was to go, or send, for violante, and bring her to his own house. this, however, randal artfully opposed. "alas! i know," said he, "that peschiera has discovered your retreat; and surely she would be far less safe here than where she is now!" "but, diavolo! you say that man has seen her where she is now, in spite of all lady lansmere's promises and harley's precautions." "true. of this peschiera boasted to me. he effected it not, of course, openly, but in some disguise. i am sufficiently, however, in his confidence--(any man may be that with so audacious a braggart)--to deter him from renewing his attempt for some days. meanwhile, i or yourself will have discovered some surer home than this, to which you can remove, and then will be the proper time to take back your daughter. meanwhile, if you will send by me a letter to enjoin her to receive me as her future bridegroom, it will necessarily divert all thought at once from the count; i shall be able to detect, by the manner in which she receives me, how far the count has overstated the effect he pretends to have produced. you can give me also a letter to lady lansmere, to prevent your daughter coming hither. o, sir, do not reason with me. have indulgence for my lover's fears. believe that i advise for the best. have i not the keenest interest to do so?" like many a man who is wise enough with pen and paper before him, and plenty of time wherewith to get up his wisdom, riccabocca was flurried, nervous, and confused when that wisdom was called upon for any ready exertion. from the tree of knowledge he had taken grafts enough to serve for a forest; but the whole forest could not spare him a handy walking-stick. that great folio of the dead machiavel lay useless before him--the living machiavel of daily life stood all puissant by his side. the sage was as supple to the schemer as the clairvoyant is to the mesmerist. and the lean, slight fingers of randal actually dictated almost the very words that riccabocca wrote to his child and her hostess. the philosopher would like to have to consult his wife; but he was ashamed to confess that weakness. suddenly he remembered harley, and said as randal took up the letters which riccabocca had indited, "there--that will give us time; and i will send to lord l'estrange, and talk to him." "my noble friend," replied randal, mournfully, "may i intreat you not to see lord l'estrange until at least i have pleaded my cause to your daughter--until, indeed, she is no longer under his father's roof." "and why?" "because i presume that you are sincere when you deign to receive me as a son-in-law, and because i am sure that lord l'estrange would hear with distaste of your disposition in my favor. am i not right?" riccabocca was silent. "and though the arguments would fail with a man of your honor and discernment, they might have more effect on the young mind of your child. think, i beseech you, the more she is set against me, the more accessible she may be to the arts of peschiera. speak not, therefore, i implore you, to lord l'estrange till violante has accepted my hand, or at least until she is again under your charge; otherwise take back your letter--it would be of no avail." "perhaps you are right. certainly lord l'estrange is prejudiced against you; or rather, he thinks too much of what i have been--too little of what i am." "who can see you, and not do so? i pardon him." after kissing the hand which the exile modestly sought to withdraw from the act of homage, randal pocketed the letters; and, as if struggling with emotion, rushed from the house. now, o curious reader, if thou wilt heedfully observe to what uses randal leslie put these letters--what speedy and direct results he drew forth from devices which would seem to an honest, simple understanding the most roundabout, wire-drawn wastes of invention--i almost fear that in thine admiration for his cleverness, thou mayest half forget thy contempt for his knavery. but when the head is very full, it does not do to have the heart very empty; there is such a thing as being topheavy! chapter iv. helen and violante had been conversing together, and helen had obeyed her guardian's injunction, and spoken, though briefly, of her positive engagement to harley. however much violante had been prepared for the confidence, however clearly she had divined that engagement, however before persuaded that the dream of her childhood was fled forever, still the positive truth, coming from helen's own lips, was attended with that anguish which proves how impossible it is _to prepare_ the human heart for the final verdict which slays its future. she did not, however, betray her emotion to ellen's artless eyes; sorrow, deep-seated, is seldom self-betrayed. but, after a little while, she crept away; and, forgetful of peschiera, of all things that could threaten danger (what danger could harm her more!), she glided from the house, and went her desolate way under the leafless wintry trees. ever and anon she paused--ever and anon she murmured the same words: "if she loved him, i could be consoled; but she does not! or how could she have spoken to me so calmly! how could her very looks have been so sad! heartless--heartless!" then there came on her a vehement resentment against poor helen, that almost took the character of scorn or hate--its excess startled herself. "am i grown so mean?" she said; and tears, that humbled her, rushed to her eyes. "can so short a time alter one thus? impossible!" randal leslie rang at the front gate, inquired for violante, and, catching sight of her form as he walked toward the house, advanced boldly and openly. his voice startled her as she leant against one of the dreary trees, still muttering to herself--forlorn. "i have a letter to you from your father, signorina," said randal. "but, before i give it to your hands, some explanation is necessary. condescend, then, to hear me." violante shook her head impatiently, and stretched forth her hand for the letter. randal observed her countenance with his keen, cold, searching eye; but he still withheld the letter, and continued, after a pause: "i know that you were born to princely fortunes; and the excuse for my addressing you now is, that your birthright is lost to you, at least, unless you can consent to a union with the man who has despoiled you of your heritage--a union which your father would deem dishonor to yourself and him. signorina, i might have presumed to love you; but i should not have named that love, had your father not encouraged me by his assent to my suit." violante turned to the speaker her face eloquent with haughty surprise. randal met the gaze unmoved. he continued, without warmth, and in the tone of one who reasons calmly, rather than of one who feels acutely: "the man of whom i spoke is in pursuit of you. i have cause to believe that this person has already intruded himself upon you. ah! your countenance owns it; you have seen peschiera? this house is, then, less safe than your father deemed it. no house is safe for you but a husband's. i offer to you my name--it is a gentleman's; my fortune, which is small; the participation in my hopes of the future, which are large. i place now your father's letter in your hand, and await your answer." randal bowed slightly, gave the letter to violante, and retired a few paces. it was not his object to conciliate violante's affection, but rather to excite her repugnance, or, at least, her terror--we must wait to discover why; so he stood apart, seemingly in a kind of self-confident indifference, while the girl read the following letter: "my child, receive with favor mr. leslie. he has my consent to address you as a suitor. circumstances, of which it is needless now to inform you, render it essential to my very peace and happiness that your marriage should be immediate. in a word, i have given my promise to mr. leslie, and i confidently leave it to the daughter of my house to redeem the pledge of her anxious and tender father." the letter dropped from violante's hand. randal approached, and restored it to her. their eyes met. violante recoiled. "i can not marry you," said she, passively. "indeed?" answered randal, drily. "is it because you can not love me?" "yes." "i did not expect that you would, and i still persist in my suit. i have promised to your father that i would not recede before your first unconsidered refusal." "i will go to my father at once." "does he request you to do so in his letter? look again. pardon me, but he foresaw your impetuosity; and i have another note for lady lansmere, in which he begs her ladyship not to sanction your return to him (should you so wish) until he come or send for you himself. he will do so whenever your word has redeemed his own." "and do you dare to talk to me thus, and yet pretend to love me?" randal smiled ironically. "i pretend but to wed you. love is a subject on which i might have spoken formerly, or may speak hereafter. i give you some little time to consider. when i next call, it will be to fix the day for our wedding." "never!" "you will be, then, the first daughter of your house who disobeyed a father; and you will have this additional crime, that you disobeyed him in his sorrow, his exile, and his fall." violante wrung her hands. "is there no choice--no escape?" "i see none for either. listen to me. i might have loved you, it is true; but it is not for my happiness to marry one who dislikes me, nor for my ambition to connect myself with one whose poverty is greater than my own. i marry but to keep my plighted faith with your father, and to save you from a villain you would hate more than myself, and from whom no walls are a barrier, no laws a defense. one person, indeed, might, perhaps, have preserved you from the misery you seem to anticipate with me; that person might defeat the plans of your father's foe--effect, it might be, terms which could revoke his banishment, and restore his honors; that person is--" "lord l'estrange?" "lord l'estrange!" repeated randal, sharply, and watching her pale parted lips and her changing color; "lord l'estrange! what could he do? why did you name him?" violante turned aside. "he saved my father once," said she, feelingly. "and has interfered, and trifled, and promised, heaven knows what, ever since--yet to what end? pooh! the person i speak of your father would not consent to see--would not believe if he saw her; yet she is generous, noble--could sympathize with you both. she is the sister of your father's enemy--the marchesa di negra. i am convinced that she has great influence with her brother--that she has known enough of his secrets to awe him into renouncing all designs on yourself; but it is idle now to speak of her." "no, no," exclaimed violante. "tell me where she lives--i will see her." "pardon me, i can not obey you; and, indeed, her own pride is now aroused by your father's unfortunate prejudices against her. it is too late to count upon her aid. you turn from me--my presence is unwelcome. i rid you of it now. but welcome or unwelcome, later you must endure it--and for life." randal again bowed with formal ceremony, walked toward the house, and asked for lady lansmere. the countess was at home. randal delivered riccabocca's note, which was very short, implying that he feared peschiera had discovered his retreat--and requesting lady lansmere to retain violante, whatever her own desire, till her ladyship heard from him again. the countess read, and her lip curled in disdain. "strange!" said she, half to herself. "strange!" said randal, "that a man like your correspondent should fear one like the count di peschiera. is that it?" "sir," said the countess, a little surprised--"strange that any man should fear another in a country like ours!" "i don't know," said randal, with his low, soft laugh; "i fear many men, and i know many who ought to fear me; yet at every turn of the street one meets a policeman!" "yes," said lady lansmere. "but to suppose that this profligate foreigner could carry away a girl like violante, against her will--a man she has never seen, and whom she must have been taught to hate!" "be on your guard, nevertheless, i pray you, madam: where there's a will there's a way." randal took his leave, and returned to madame di negra's. he staid with her an hour, revisited the count, and then strolled to limmer's. "randal," said the squire, who looked pale and worn, but who scorned to confess the weakness with which he still grieved and yearned for his rebellious son: "randal, you have nothing now to do in london; can you come and stay with me, and take to farming? i remember that you showed a good deal of sound knowledge about thin sowing." "my dear sir, i will come to you as soon as the general election is over." "what the deuce have you got to do with the general election?" "mr. egerton has some wish that i should enter parliament; indeed, negotiations for that purpose are now on foot." the squire shook his head. "i don't like my half-brother's politics." "i shall be quite independent of them," cried randal, loftily; "that independence is the condition for which i stipulate." "glad to hear it; and if you do come into parliament, i hope you'll not turn your back on the land?" "turn my back on the land!" cried randal, with devout horror. "oh, sir, i am not so unnatural!" "that's the right way to put it," quoth the credulous squire; "it is unnatural! it is turning one's back on one's own mother! the land is a mother--" "to those who live by her, certainly--a mother," said randal, gravely. "and though, indeed, my father starves by her rather than lives, and rood hall is not like hazeldean, still--i--" "hold your tongue," interrupted the squire; "i want to talk to you. your grandmother was a hazeldean." "her picture is in the drawing-room at rood. people think me very like her!" "indeed!" said the squire. "the hazeldeans are generally inclined to be stout and rosy, which you are certainly not. but no fault of yours. we are all as heaven made us! however, to the point. i am going to alter my will--(said with a choking gulp.) this is the rough draft for the lawyers to work upon." "pray--pray, sir, do not speak to me on such a subject. i can not bear to contemplate even the possibility of--of--" "my death! ha, ha! nonsense. my own son calculated on the date of it by the insurance tables. ha, ha, ha. a very fashionable son--eh! ha, ha!" "poor frank, do not let him suffer for a momentary forgetfulness of right feeling. when he comes to be married to that foreign lady, and be a father himself, he--" "father himself!" burst forth the squire. "father to a swarm of sallow-faced popish tadpoles! no foreign frogs shall hop about my grave in hazeldean church-yard. no, no. but you need not look so reproachful--i am not going to disinherit frank." "of course not," said randal, with a bitter curve in the lip that rebelled against the joyous smile which he sought to impose on it. "no--i shall leave him the life-interest in the greater part of the property; but if he marry a foreigner, her children will not succeed--you will stand after him in that case. but--(now, don't interrupt me)--but frank looks as if he would live longer than you--so small thanks to me for my good intentions, you may say. i mean to do more for you than a mere barren place in the entail. what do you say to marrying?" "just as you please," said randal, meekly. "good! there's miss stick-to-rights disengaged--great heiress. her lands run on to rood. at one time i thought of her for that graceless puppy of mine. but i can manage more easily to make up the match for you. there's a mortgage on the property; old stick-to-rights would be very glad to pay it off. i'll pay it out of the hazeldean estate, and give up the right of way into the bargain. you understand. so come down as soon as you can, and court the young lady yourself." randal expressed his thanks with much grateful eloquence; and he then delicately insinuated, that if the squire ever did mean to bestow upon him any pecuniary favors (always without injury to frank), it would gratify him more to win back some portions of the old estate of rood, than to have all the acres of the stick-to-rights, however free from any other encumbrance than the amiable heiress. the squire listened to randal with benignant attention. this wish the country gentleman could well understand and sympathize with. he promised to inquire into the matter, and to see what could be done with old thornhill. randal here let out that mr. thornhill was about to dispose of a large slice of the ancient leslie estate through levy, and that he, randal, could thus get it at a more moderate price than would be natural if mr. thornhill knew that his neighbor the squire would bid for the purchase. "better say nothing about it either to levy or thornhill." "right," said the squire; "no proprietor likes to sell to another proprietor, in the same shire, as largely acred as himself; it spoils the balance of power. see to the business yourself; and if i can help you with the purchase--(after that boy is married--i can attend to nothing before)--why, i will." randal now went to egerton's. the statesman was in his parlor, settling the accounts of his house-steward, and giving brief orders for the reduction of his establishment to that of an ordinary private gentleman. "i may go abroad if i lose my election," said egerton, condescending to assign to his servant a reason for his economy; "and if i do not lose it, still, now i am out of office, i shall live much in private." "do i disturb you, sir?" said randal, entering. "no--i have just done." the house-steward withdrew, much surprised and disgusted, and meditating the resignation of his own office--in order, not like egerton, to save, but to spend. the house-steward had private dealings with baron levy, and was in fact the veritable x. y. of the _times_, for whom dick avenel had been mistaken. he invested his wages and perquisites in the discount of bills; and it was part of his own money that had (though unknown to himself) swelled the last £ which egerton had borrowed from levy. "i have settled with our committee; and, with lord lansmere's consent," said egerton, briefly, "you will stand for the borough as we proposed, in conjunction with myself. and should any accident happen to me--that is, should i vacate this seat from any cause, you may succeed to it--very shortly perhaps. ingratiate yourself with the electors, and speak at the public-houses for both of us. i shall stand on my dignity, and leave the work of the election to you. no thanks--you know how i hate thanks. good-night." "i never stood so near to fortune and to power," said randal, as he slowly undressed. "and i owe it but to knowledge--knowledge of men--life--of all that books can teach us." so his slight thin fingers dropped the extinguisher on the candle, and the prosperous schemer laid himself down to rest in the dark. shutters closed, curtains down--never was rest more quiet, never was room more dark! that evening harley had dined at his father's he spoke much to helen--scarcely at all to violante. but it so happened that when later, and a little while before he took his leave, helen, at his request, was playing a favorite air of his; lady lansmere, who had been seated between him and violante, left the room, and violante turned quickly toward harley. "do you know the marchesa di negra?" she asked, in a hurried voice. "a little. why do you ask?" "that is my secret," answered violante, trying to smile, with her old frank, childlike archness. "but, tell me, do you think better of her than of her brother?" "certainly. i believe her heart to be good, and that she is not without generous qualities." "can you not induce my father to see her? would you not counsel him to do so?" "any wish of yours is a law to me," answered harley, gallantly. "you wish your father to see her? i will try and persuade him to do so. now, in return, confide to me your secret. what is your object?" "leave to return to my italy. i care not for honors--for rank; and even my father has ceased to regret their loss. but the land, the native land--oh, to see it once more! oh, to die there!" "die! you children have so lately left heaven, that ye talk as if ye could return there, without passing through the gates of sorrow, infirmity, and age! but i thought you were content with england. why so eager to leave it? violante, you are unkind to us!--to helen, who already loves you so well!" as harley spoke, helen rose from the piano, and, approaching violante, placed her hand caressingly on the italian's shoulder. violante shivered, and shrunk away. the eyes both of harley and helen followed her. harley's eyes were very grave and thoughtful. "is she not changed--your friend?" said he, looking down. "yes, lately--much changed. i fear there is something on her mind--i know not what." "ah!" muttered harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing rests on the mind long. observe, i say the mind--the heart is more tenacious." helen sighed softly, but deeply. "and therefore," continued harley, half to himself, "we can detect when something is on the mind--some care, some fear, some trouble. but when the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover! who conjecture! yet you at least, my pure, candid helen--you might subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass." "o, no!" cried helen involuntarily. "o, yes! do not let me think that you have one secret i may not know, or one sorrow i may not share. for, in our relationship--_that_ would be deceit." he pressed her hand with more than usual tenderness as he spoke, and shortly afterward left the house. and all that night helen felt like a guilty thing--more wretched even than violante. chapter v. early the next morning, while violante was still in her room, a letter addressed to her came by the post. the direction was in a strange hand. she opened it, and read in italian what is thus translated: "i would gladly see you, but i can not call openly at the house in which you live. perhaps i may have it in my power to arrange family dissensions--to repair any wrongs your father may have sustained. perhaps i may be enabled to render yourself an essential service. but for all this, it is necessary that we should meet, and confer frankly. meanwhile time presses--delay is forbidden. will you meet me, an hour after noon, in the lane, just outside the private gate of your gardens. i shall be alone; and you can not fear to meet one of your own sex, and a kinswoman. ah, i so desire to see you! come, i beseech you. beatrice." violante read, and her decision was taken. she was naturally fearless, and there was little that she would not have braved for the chance of serving her father. and now all peril seemed slight in comparison with that which awaited her in randal's suit, backed by her father's approval. randal had said that madame di negra alone could aid her in escape from himself. harley had said that madame di negra had generous qualities; and who but madame di negra would write herself a kinswoman, and sign herself "beatrice?" a little before the appointed hour, she stole unobserved through the trees, opened the little gate, and found herself in the quiet solitary lane. in a few minutes, a female figure came up, with a quick light step; and, throwing aside her vail, said, with a sort of wild, suppressed energy, "it is you! i was truly told. beautiful!--beautiful! and, oh! what youth and what bloom!" the voice dropped mournfully; and violante, surprised by the tone, and blushing under the praise, remained a moment silent; then she said, with some hesitation-- "you are, i presume, the marchesa di negra? and i have heard of you enough to induce me to trust you." "of me! from whom?" asked beatrice, almost fiercely. "from mr. leslie, and--and--" "go on--why falter?" "from lord l'estrange." "from no one else?" "not that i remember." beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her vail. some foot-passengers now came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned round, and gazed curiously. "we can not talk here," said beatrice impatiently; "and i have so much to say--so much to know. trust me yet more; it is for yourself i speak. my carriage waits yonder. come home with me--i will not detain you an hour; and i will bring you back." this proposition startled violante. she retreated toward the gate, with a gesture of dissent. beatrice laid her hand on the girl's arm, and again lifting her vail, gazed at her with a look, half of scorn, half of admiration. "i, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line by which the world divides liberty from woman. now--see how bold i am. child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. you may never again have the same occasion offered to you. it is not only to meet you that i am here; i must know something of you--something of your heart. why shrink?--is not the heart pure?" violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled the questioner it rebuked. "i may restore to italy your father," said beatrice, with an altered voice. "come!" violante approached, but still hesitatingly. "not by union with your brother?" "you dread that so much, then?" "dread it? no! why should i dread what is in my power to reject. but if you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me for--" violante stopped abruptly; the marchesa's eyes sparkled. "save you for--ah! i can guess what you leave unsaid. but come, come--more strangers--see; you shall tell me all at my own house. and if you can make one sacrifice, why, i will save you all else. come, or farewell forever!" violante placed her hand in beatrice's, with a frank confidence that brought the accusing blood into the marchesa's cheek. "we are women both," said violante; "we descend from the same noble house; we have knelt alike to the same virgin mother; why should i not believe and trust you?" "why not?" muttered beatrice feebly; and she moved on, with her head bowed on her breast, and all the pride of her step was gone. they reached a carriage that stood by the angle of the road. beatrice spake a word apart to the driver, who was an italian, in the pay of the count the man nodded, and opened the carriage door. the ladies entered. beatrice pulled down the blinds; the man remounted his box, and drove on rapidly. beatrice, leaning back, groaned aloud. violante drew nearer to her side. "are you in pain?" said she, with her tender, melodious voice; "or can i serve you as you would serve me?" "child, give me your hand, and be silent while i look at you. was i ever so fair as this? never! and what deeps--what deeps roll between her and me!" she said this as of some one absent, and again sank into silence; but continued still to gaze on violante, whose eyes, vailed by their long fringes, drooped beneath the gaze. suddenly beatrice started, exclaiming, "no, it shall not be!" and placed her hand on the check-string. "what shall not be?" asked violante, surprised by the cry and the action. beatrice paused--her breast heaved visibly under her dress. "stay," she said, slowly. "as you say, we are both women of the same noble house; you would reject the suit of my brother, yet you have seen him; his the form to please the eye--his the arts that allure the fancy. he offers to you rank, wealth, your father's pardon and recall. if i could remove the objections which your father entertains--prove that the count has less wronged him than he deems, would you still reject the rank, and the wealth, and the hand of giulio franzini?" "oh, yes, yes, were his hand a king's!" "still, then, as woman to woman--both, as you say, akin, and sprung from the same lineage--still, then, answer me--answer me, for you speak to one who has loved--is it not that you love another? speak." "i do not know. nay, not love--it was a romance; it is a thing impossible. do not question--i can not answer." and the broken words were choked by sudden tears. beatrice's face grew hard and pitiless. again she lowered her vail, and withdrew her hand from the check-string; but the coachman had felt the touch, and halted. "drive on," said beatrice, "as you were directed." both were now long silent--violante with great difficulty recovering from her emotion, beatrice breathing hard, and her arms folded firmly across her breast. meanwhile the carriage had entered london--it passed the quarter in which madame di negra's house was situated--it rolled fast over a bridge--it whirled through a broad thoroughfare, then through defiles of lanes, with tall, blank, dreary houses on either side. on it went, and on, till violante suddenly took alarm. "do you live so far?" she said, drawing up the blind, and gazing in dismay on the strange ignoble suburb. "i shall be missed already. oh, let us turn back, i beseech you." "we are nearly there now. the driver has taken this road in order to avoid those streets in which we might have been seen together--perhaps by my brother himself. listen to me, and talk of--of the lover whom you rightly associate with a vain romance. 'impossible'--yes, it is impossible!" violante clasped her hands before her eyes, and bowed down her head. "why are you so cruel?" said she. "this is not what you promised! how are you to serve my father--how restore him to his country? this is what you promised." "if you consent to one sacrifice, i will fulfill that promise. we are arrived." the carriage stopped before a tall dull house, divided from other houses by a high wall that appeared to inclose a yard, and standing at the end of a narrow lane, which was bounded on the one side by the thames. in that quarter the river was crowded with gloomy, dark-looking vessels and craft, all lying lifeless under the wintry sky. the driver dismounted and rang the bell. two swarthy italian faces presented themselves at the threshold. beatrice descended lightly, and gave her hand to violante. "now, here we shall be secure," said she; "and here a few minutes may suffice to decide your fate." as the door closed on violante--who, now waking to suspicion, to alarm, looked fearfully round the dark and dismal hall--beatrice turned; "let the carriage wait." the italian who received the order bowed and smiled; but when the two ladies had ascended the stairs, he re-opened the street-door and said to the driver, "back to the count, and say 'all is safe.'" the carriage drove off. the man who had given this order barred and locked the door, and, taking with him the huge key, plunged into the mystic recesses of the basement and disappeared. the hall, thus left solitary, had the grim aspect of a prison; the strong door sheeted with iron--the rugged stone stairs, lighted by a high window grimed with the dust of years, and jealously barred--and the walls themselves abutting out rudely here and there, as if against violence even from within. chapter vi. it was, as we have seen, without taking counsel of the faithful jemima that the sage recluse of norwood had yielded to his own fears, and randal's subtle suggestions, in the concise and arbitrary letter which he had written to violante but at night, when church-yards give up the dead, and conjugal hearts the secrets hid by day from each other, the wise man informed his wife of the step he had taken. and jemima then--who held english notions, very different from those which prevail in italy, as to the right of fathers to dispose of their daughters without reference to inclination or repugnance, and who had an instinctive antipathy to randal--so sensibly, yet so mildly, represented to the pupil of machiavel that he had not gone exactly the right way to work, if he feared that the handsome count had made some impression on violante, and if he wished her to turn with favor to the suitor he recommended--that so abrupt a command could only chill the heart, revolt the will, and even give to the audacious peschiera some romantic attraction which he had not before possessed--as effectually to destroy riccabocca's sleep that night. and the next day he sent giacomo to lady lansmere's with a very kind letter to violante, and a note to the hostess, praying the latter to bring his daughter to norwood for a few hours, as he much wished to converse with both. it was on giacomo's arrival at knightsbridge that violante's absence was discovered. lady lansmere, ever proudly careful of the world and its gossip, kept giacomo from betraying his excitement to her servants, and stated throughout the decorous household that the young lady had informed her she was going to visit some friends that morning, and had no doubt gone through the garden-gate, since it was found open; the way was more quiet there than by the high-road, and her friends might have therefore walked to meet her by the lane. lady lansmere observed that her only surprise was that violante had gone earlier than she had expected. having said this with a composure that compelled belief, lady lansmere ordered the carriage, and, taking giacomo with her, drove at once to consult her son. harley's quick intellect had scarcely recovered from the shock upon his emotions, before randal leslie was announced. "ah," said lady lansmere, "mr. leslie may know something. he came to her yesterday with a note from her father. pray let him enter." the austrian prince approached harley. "i will wait in the next room," he whispered. "you may want me, if you have cause to suspect peschiera in all this." lady lansmere was pleased with the prince's delicacy, and, glancing at leonard, said "perhaps you too, sir, may kindly aid us, if you would retire with the prince. mr. leslie may be disinclined to speak of affairs like these, except to harley and myself." "true, madam; but beware of mr. leslie." as the door at one end of the room closed on the prince and leonard, randal entered at the other, seemingly much agitated. "i have just been to your house, lady lansmere. i heard you were here; pardon me if i have followed you. i had called at knightsbridge to see violante--learned that she had left you. i implore you to tell me how or wherefore. i have the right to ask: her father has promised me her hand." harley's falcon eye had brightened up at randal's entrance. it watched steadily the young man's face. it was clouded for a moment by his knitted brows at randal's closing words. but he left it to lady lansmere to reply and explain. this the countess did briefly. randal clasped his hands. "and she not gone to her father's? are you sure of that?" "her father's servant has just come from norwood." "oh, i am to blame for this! it is my rash suit--her fear of it--her aversion. i see it all!" randal's voice was hollow with remorse and despair. "to save her from peschiera, her father insisted on her immediate marriage with myself. his orders were too abrupt, my own wooing too unwelcome. i know her high spirit; she has fled to escape from me. but whither, if not to norwood?--oh, whither? what other friends has she--what relations?" "you throw a new light on this mystery," said lady lansmere: "perhaps she may have gone to her father's after all, and the servant may have crossed, but missed her on the way. i will drive to norwood at once." "do so--do; but if she be not there, be careful not to alarm riccabocca with the news of her disappearance. caution giacomo not to do so. he would only suspect peschiera, and be hurried to some act of violence." "do not you, then, suspect peschiera, mr. leslie?" asked harley suddenly. "ha! is it possible? yet, no. i called on him this morning with frank hazeldean, who is to marry his sister. i was with him till i went on to knightsbridge, at the very time of violante's disappearance. he could not then have been a party to it." "you saw violante yesterday. did you speak to her of madame di negra?" asked harley, suddenly recalling the questions respecting the marchesa which violante had addressed to him. in spite of himself, randal felt that he changed countenance. "of madame di negra? i do not think so. yet i might. oh, yes, i remember now. she asked me the marchesa's address; i would not give it." "the address is easily found. can she have gone to the marchesa's house?" "i will run there and see," cried randal, starting up. "and i with you. stay, my dear mother. proceed, as you propose, to norwood, and take mr. leslie's advice. spare our friend the news of his daughter's loss--if lost she be--till she is restored to him. he can be of no use meanwhile. let giacomo rest here; i may want him." harley then passed into the next room, and entreated the prince and leonard to await his return, and allow giacomo to stay in the same room. he then went quickly back to randal. whatever might be his fears or emotions, harley felt that he had need of all his coolness of judgment and presence of mind. the occasion made abrupt demand upon powers which had slept since boyhood, but which now woke with a vigor that would have made even randal tremble, could he have detected the wit, the courage, the electric energies, masked under that tranquil self-possession. lord l'estrange and randal soon reached the marchesa's house, and learned that she had been out since morning in one of count peschiera's carriages. randal stole an alarmed glance at harley's face. harley did not seem to notice it. "now, mr. leslie, what do you advise next?" "i am at a loss. ah, perhaps, afraid of her father--knowing how despotic is his belief in paternal rights, and how tenacious he is of his word once passed, as it has been to me, she may have resolved to take refuge in the country--perhaps at the casino, or at mrs. dale's, or mrs. hazeldean's. i will hasten to inquire at the coach-office. meanwhile, you--" "never mind me, mr. leslie. do as you please. but, if your surmises be just, you must have been a very rude wooer to the high-born lady you aspired to win." "not so; but perhaps an unwelcome one. if she has indeed fled from me, need i say that my suit will be withdrawn at once? i am not a selfish lover, lord l'estrange." "nor i a vindictive man. yet, could i discover who has conspired against this lady, a guest under my father's roof, i would crush him into the mire as easily as i set my foot upon this glove. good-day to you, mr. leslie." randal stood still for a few moments as harley strided on; then his lip sneered as it muttered--"insolent! he loves her. well, i am avenged already." chapter vii. harley went straight to peschiera's hotel. he was told that the count had walked out with mr. frank hazeldean and some other gentlemen who had breakfasted with him. he had left word, in case any one called, that he had gone to tattersall's to look at some horses that were for sale. to tattersall's went harley. the count was in the yard leaning against a pillar, and surrounded by fashionable friends. lord l'estrange paused, and, with a heroic effort at self-mastery, repressed his rage. "i may lose all if i show that i suspect him; and yet i must insult and fight him rather than leave his movements free. ah, is that young hazeldean? a thought strikes me!" frank was standing apart from the group round the count, and looking very absent and very sad. harley touched him on the shoulder, and drew him aside unobserved by the count. "mr. hazeldean, your uncle egerton is my dearest friend. will you be a friend to me? i want you." "my lord--" "follow me. do not let count peschiera see us talking together." harley quitted the yard, and entered st. james's park by the little gate close by. in a very few words he informed frank of violante's disappearance, and of his reasons for suspecting the count. frank's first sentiment was that of indignant disbelief that the brother of beatrice could be so vile; but as he gradually called to mind the cynical and corrupt vein of the count's familiar conversation--the hints to peschiera's prejudice that had been dropped by beatrice herself--and the general character for brilliant and daring profligacy which even the admirers of the count ascribed to him--frank was compelled to reluctant acquiescence in harley's suspicions; and he said, with an earnest gravity very rare to him--"believe me, lord l'estrange, if i can assist you in defeating a base and mercenary design against this poor young lady, you have but to show me how. one thing is clear--peschiera was not personally engaged in this abduction, since i have been with him all day; and--now i think of it--i begin to hope that you wrong him; for he has invited a large party of us to make an excursion with him to boulogne next week, in order to try his yacht; which he could scarcely do, if--" "yacht, at this time of the year! a man who habitually resides at vienna--a yacht!" "spendquick sells it a bargain on account of the time of year and other reasons; and the count proposes to spend next summer in cruising about the ionian isles. he has some property on those isles, which he has never yet visited." "how long is it since he bought this yacht?" "why, i am not sure that it is already bought--that is, paid for. levy was to meet spendquick this very morning to arrange the matter. spendquick complains that levy screws him." "my dear mr. hazeldean, you are guiding me through the maze. where shall i find lord spendquick?" "at this hour, probably, in bed. here is his card." "thanks. and where lies the vessel?" "it was off blackwall the other day. i went to see it--'the flying dutchman'--a fine vessel, and carries guns." "enough. now, heed me. there can be no immediate danger to violante, so long as peschiera does not meet her--so long as we know his movements. you are about to marry his sister. avail yourself of that privilege to keep close by his side. refuse to be shaken off. make what excuses for the present your invention suggests. i will give you an excuse. be anxious and uneasy to know where you can find madame di negra." "madame di negra?" cried frank. "what of her? is she not in curzon-street?" "no; she has gone out in one of the count's carriages. in all probability the driver of that carriage, or some servant in attendance on it, will come to the count in the course of the day; and, in order to get rid of you, the count will tell you to see this servant, and ascertain yourself that his sister is safe. pretend to believe what the man says, but make him come to your lodgings on pretense of writing there a letter for the marchesa. once at your lodgings, and he will be safe; for i shall see that the officers of justice secure him. the moment he is there, send an express for me to my hotel." "but," said frank, a little bewildered, "if i go to my lodging, how can i watch the count?" "it will not then be necessary. only get him to accompany you to your lodgings, and part with him at the door." "stop, stop--you can not suspect madame di negra of connivance in a scheme so infamous. pardon me, lord l'estrange; i can not act in this matter--can not even hear you, except as your foe, if you insinuate a word against the honor of the woman i love." "brave gentleman, your hand. it is madame di negra i would save, as well as my friend's young child. think but of her, while you act as i intreat, and all will go well. i confide in you. now, return to the count." frank walked back to join peschiera, and his brow was thoughtful, and his lips closed firmly. harley had that gift which belongs to the genius of action. he inspired others with the light of his own spirit and the force of his own will. harley then hastened to lord spendquick, remained with that young gentleman some minutes, then repaired to his hotel, where leonard, the prince, and giacomo still awaited him. "come with me, both of you. you, too, giacomo. i must now see the police. we may then divide upon separate missions." "oh, my dear lord," cried leonard, "you must have had good news. you seem cheerful and sanguine." "_seem!_ nay, i _am_ so! if i once paused to despond--even to doubt--i should go mad. a foe to baffle, and an angel to save! whose spirits would not rise high--whose wits would not move quick to the warm pulse of his heart?" chapter viii. twilight was dark in the room to which beatrice had conducted violante. a great change had come over beatrice. humble and weeping, she knelt beside violante, hiding her face, and imploring pardon. and violante, striving to resist the terror for which she now saw such cause as no woman-heart can defy, still sought to soothe, and still sweetly assured forgiveness. beatrice had learned--after quick and fierce questions, that at last compelled the answers that cleared away every doubt--that her jealousy had been groundless--that she had no rival in violante. from that moment, the passions that had made her the tool of guilt abruptly vanished, and her conscience startled her with the magnitude of her treachery. perhaps had violante's heart been wholly free, or she had been of that mere commonplace, girlish character which women like beatrice are apt to despise, the marchesa's affection for peschiera, and her dread of him, might have made her try to persuade her young kinswoman at least to receive the count's visit--at least to suffer him to make his own excuses, and plead his own cause. but there had been a loftiness of spirit in which violante had first defied the marchesa's questions, followed by such generous, exquisite sweetness, when the girl perceived how that wild heart was stung and maddened, and such purity of mournful candor when she had overcome her own virgin bashfulness sufficiently to undeceive the error she detected, and confess where her own affections were placed, that beatrice bowed before her as mariner of old to some fair saint that had allayed the storm. "i have deceived you!" she cried through her sobs; "but i will now save you at any cost. had you been as i deemed--the rival who had despoiled all the hopes of my future life--i would, without remorse, have been the accomplice i am pledged to be. but _now_, you!--oh, you--so good and so noble--you can never be the bride of peschiera. nay, start not: he shall renounce his designs forever, or i will go myself to our emperor, and expose the dark secrets of his life. return with me quick to the home from which i ensnared you." beatrice's hand was on the door while she spoke. suddenly her face fell--her lips grew white; the door was locked from without. she called--no one answered; the bell-pull in the room gave no sound; the windows were high and barred--they did not look on the river, nor the street, but on a close, gloomy, silent yard--high blank walls all around it--no one to hear the cry of distress, rang it ever so loud and sharp. beatrice divined that she herself had been no less ensnared than her companion; that peschiera, distrustful of her firmness in evil, had precluded her from the power of reparation. she was in a house only tenanted by his hirelings. not a hope to save violante, from a fate that now appalled her, seemed to remain. thus, in incoherent self-reproaches and frenzied tears, beatrice knelt beside her victim, communicating more and more the terrors that she felt, as the hours rolled on, and the room darkened, till it was only by the dull lamp which gleamed through the grimy windows from the yard without, that each saw the face of the other. night came on; they heard a clock from some distant church strike the hours. the dim fire had long since burnt out, and the air became intensely cold. no one broke upon their solitude--not a voice was heard in the house. they felt neither cold nor hunger--they felt but the solitude and the silence, and the dread of something that was to come. at length, about midnight, a bell rang at the street door; then there was the quick sound of steps--of sullen bolts withdrawn--of low, murmured voices. light streamed through the chinks of the door to the apartment--the door itself opened. two italians bearing tapers entered, and the count di peschiera followed. beatrice sprang up, and rushed toward her brother. he placed his hand gently on her lips, and motioned to the italians to withdraw. they placed the lights on the table, and vanished without a word. peschiera then, putting aside his sister, approached violante. "fair kinswoman," said he, with an air of easy but resolute assurance, "there are things which no man can excuse and no woman can pardon, unless that love, which is beyond all laws, suggests excuse for the one, and obtains pardon for the other. in a word, i have sworn to win you, and i have had no opportunities to woo. fear not; the worst that can befall you is to be my bride. stand aside, my sister, stand aside." "giulio, no! giulio franzini, i stand between you and her: you shall strike me to the earth before you can touch even the hem of her robe." "what, my sister!--you turn against me?" "and unless you instantly retire and leave her free, i will unmask you to the emperor." "too late, _mon enfant_! you will sail with us. the effects you may need for the voyage are already on board. you will be witness to our marriage, and by a holy son of the church. then tell the emperor what you will." with a light and sudden exertion of his strength, the count put away beatrice, and fell on his knee before violante, who, drawn to her full height, death-like pale, but untrembling, regarded him with unutterable disdain. "you scorn me now," said he, throwing into his features an expression of humility and admiration, "and i can not wonder at it. but, believe me, that until the scorn yield to a kinder sentiment, i will take no advantage of the power i have gained over your fate." "power!" said violante, haughtily. "you have ensnared me into this house--you have gained the power of a day; but the power over my fate--no!" "you mean that your friends have discovered your disappearance, and are on your track. fair one, i provide against your friends, and i defy all the laws and police of england. the vessel that will bear you from these shores waits in the river hard by. beatrice, i warn you--be still--unhand me. in that vessel will be a priest who shall join our hands, but not before you will recognize the truth, that she who flies with giulio peschiera must become his wife, or quit him as the disgrace of her house, and the scorn of her sex." "oh, villain! villain!" cried beatrice. "_peste_, my sister, gentler words. you, too, would marry. i tell no tales of you. signorina, i grieve to threaten force. give me your hand; we must be gone." violante eluded the clasp that would have profaned her, and darting across the room, opened the door, and closed it hastily behind her. beatrice clung firmly to the count to detain him from pursuit. but just without the door, close, as if listening to what passed within, stood a man wrapped from head to foot in a large boat cloak. the ray of the lamp that beamed on the man, gleamed on the barrel of a pistol which he held in his right hand. "hist!" whispered the man in english; and passing his arm round her--"in this house you are in that ruffian's power; out of it, safe. ah! i am by your side--i, violante!" the voice thrilled to violante's heart. she started--looked up, but nothing was seen of the man's face, what with the hat and cloak, save a mass of raven curls and a beard of the same hue. the count now threw open the door, dragging after him his sister, who still clung round him. "ha--that is well!" he cried to the man in italian. "bear the lady after me, gently; but if she attempt to cry out--why, force enough to silence her, not more. as for you, beatrice, traitress that you are, i could strike you to the earth--but--no, this suffices." he caught his sister in his arms as he spoke, and, regardless of her cries and struggles, sprang down the stairs. the hall was crowded with fierce swarthy men. the count turned to one of them, and whispered; in an instant the marchesa was seized and gagged. the count cast a look over his shoulder; violante was close behind, supported by the man to whom peschiera had consigned her, and who was pointing to beatrice, and appeared warning violante against resistance. violante was silent, and seemed resigned. peschiera smiled cynically, and, preceded by some of his hirelings, who held torches, descended a few steps that led to an abrupt landing-place between the hall and the basement story. there, a small door stood open, and the river flowed close by. a boat was moored on the bank, round which grouped four men, who had the air of foreign sailors. at the appearance of peschiera, three of these men sprang into the boat and got ready their oars. the fourth carefully readjusted a plank thrown from the boat to the wharf, and offered his arm obsequiously to peschiera. the count was the first to enter, and, humming a gay opera air, took his place by the helm. the two females were next lifted in, and violante felt her hand pressed almost convulsively by the man who stood by the plank. the rest followed, and in another minute the boat bounded swiftly over the waves toward a vessel that lay several furlongs adown the river, and apart from all the meaner craft that crowded the stream. the stars struggled pale through the foggy atmosphere; not a word was heard within the boat--no sound save the regular splash of the oars. the count paused from his lively tune, and gathering round him the ample folds of his fur pelisse, seemed absorbed in thought. even by the imperfect light of the stars, peschiera's face wore an air of sovereign triumph. the result had justified that careless and insolent confidence in himself and in fortune, which was the most prominent feature in the character of the man who, both bravo and gamester, had played against the world, with his rapier in one hand, and cogged dice in the other. violante, once in a vessel filled by his own men, was irretrievably in his power. even her father must feel grateful to learn that the captive of peschiera had saved name and repute in becoming peschiera's wife. even the pride of sex in violante herself must induce her to confirm what peschiera, of course, intended to state, viz., that she was a willing partner in a bridegroom's schemes of flight toward the altar, rather than the poor victim of a betrayer, and receiving his hand but from his mercy. he saw his fortune secured, his success envied, his very character rehabilitated by his splendid nuptials. ambition began to mingle with his dreams of pleasure and pomp. what post in the court or the state too high for the aspirations of one who had evinced the most incontestable talent for active life--the talent to succeed in all that the will had undertaken? thus mused the count, half forgetful of the present, and absorbed in the golden future, till he was aroused by a loud hail from the vessel, and the bustle on board the boat, as the sailors caught at the rope flung forth to them. he then rose and moved toward violante. but the man who was still in charge of her passed the count lightly, half leading, half carrying, his passive prisoner. "pardon, excellency," said the man in italian, "but the boat is crowded, and rocks so much that your aid would but disturb our footing." before peschiera could reply, violante was already on the steps of the vessel, and the count paused till, with elated smile, he saw her safely standing on the deck. beatrice followed, and then peschiera himself; but when the italians in his train also thronged toward the sides of the boat, two of the sailors got before them, and let go the rope, while the other two plied their oars vigorously, and pulled back toward shore. the italians burst into an amazed and indignant volley of execrations. "silence," said the sailor who had stood by the plank, "we obey orders. if you are not quiet, we shall upset the boat. _we_ can swim; heaven and monsignore san giacomo pity you if you can not." meanwhile, as peschiera leapt upon deck, a flood of light poured upon him from lifted torches. that light streamed full on the face and form of a man of commanding stature, whose arm was around violante, and whose dark eyes flashed upon the count more luminously than the torches. on one side this man stood the austrian prince; on the other side (a cloak, and a profusion of false dark locks, at his feet) stood lord l'estrange, his arms folded, and his lips curved by a smile in which the ironical humor native to the man was tempered with a calm and supreme disdain. the count strove to speak, but his voice faltered. all around him looked ominous and hostile. he saw many italian faces, but they scowled at him with vindictive hate; in the rear were english mariners, peering curiously over the shoulders of the foreigners, and with a broad grin on their open countenances. suddenly, as the count thus stood perplexed, cowering, stupefied, there burst from all the italians present a hoot of unutterable scorn--"_il traditore! il traditore!_"--(the traitor! the traitor!) the count was brave, and at the cry he lifted his head with a certain majesty. at that moment harley, raising his hand as if to silence the hoot, came forth from the group by which he had been hitherto standing, and toward him the count advanced with a bold stride. "what trick is this?" he said in french, fiercely. "i divine that it is you whom i can single out for explanation and atonement." "_pardieu, monsieur le comte_," answered harley in the same language, which lends itself so well to polished sarcasm and high bred enmity--"let us distinguish. explanation should come from me, i allow; but atonement i have the honor to resign to yourself. this vessel--" "is mine!" cried the count. "those men, who insult me, should be in my pay." "the men in your pay, _monsieur le comte_, are on shore drinking success to your voyage. but, anxious still to procure you the gratification of being among your own countrymen, those whom i have taken into my pay are still better italians than the pirates whose place they supply; perhaps not such good sailors; but then i have taken the liberty to add to the equipment of a vessel, which has cost me too much to risk lightly, some stout english seamen, who are mariners more practiced than even your pirates. your grand mistake, _monsieur le comte_, is in thinking that the 'flying dutchman' is yours. with many apologies for interfering with your intention to purchase it, i beg to inform you that lord spendquick has kindly sold it to me. nevertheless, _monsieur le comte_, for the next few weeks i place it--men and all--at your service." peschiera smiled scornfully "i thank your lordship; but since i presume that i shall no longer have the traveling companion who alone could make the voyage attractive, i shall return to shore, and will simply request you to inform me at what hour you can receive the friend whom i shall depute to discuss that part of the question yet untouched, and to arrange that the atonement, whether it be due from me or yourself, may be rendered as satisfactory as you have condescended to make the explanation." "let not that vex you, _monsieur le comte_--the atonement is, in much, made already; so anxious have i been to forestall all that your nice sense of honor would induce so complete a gentleman to desire. you have ensnared a young heiress, it is true; but you see that it was only to restore her to the arms of her father. you have juggled an illustrious kinsman out of his heritage; but you have voluntarily come on board this vessel, first, to enable his highness, the prince ----, of whose rank at the austrian court you are fully aware, to state to your emperor that he himself has been witness of the manner in which you interpreted his imperial majesty's assent to your nuptials with a child of one of the first subjects in his italian realm; and next, to commence, by a penitential excursion to the seas of the baltic, the sentence of banishment which i have no doubt will accompany the same act that restores to the chief of your house his lands and his honors." the count started. "that restoration," said the austrian prince, who had advanced to harley's side, "i already guarantee. disgrace that you are, giulio franzini, to the nobles of the empire, i will not leave my royal master till his hand strike your name from the roll. i have here your own letters, to prove that your kinsman was duped by yourself into the revolt which you would have headed as a catiline, if it had not better suited your nature to betray it as a judas. in ten days from this time, these letters will be laid before the emperor and his council." "are you satisfied _monsieur le comte_," said harley, "with your atonement so far? if not, i have procured you the occasion to render it yet more complete. before you stands the kinsman you have wronged. he knows now, that though for a while, you ruined his fortunes, you failed to sully his hearth. his heart can grant you pardon, and hereafter his hand may give you alms. kneel then, giulio franzini--kneel, baffled bravo--kneel, ruined gamester--kneel, miserable out-cast--at the feet of alphonso, prince of monteleone and duke of serrano." the above dialogue had been in french, which only a few of the italians present understood, and that imperfectly; but at the name with which harley concluded his address to the count a simultaneous cry from those italians broke forth. "alphonso the good!--alphonso the good! _viva--viva_--the good duke of serrano!" and, forgetful even of the count, they crowded round the tall form of riccabocca, striving who should first kiss his hand--the very hem of his garments. riccabocca's eyes overflowed. the gaunt exile seemed transfigured into another and more kingly man. an inexpressible dignity invested him. he stretched forth his arms, as if to bless his countrymen. even that rude cry, from humble men, exiles like himself, consoled him for years of banishment and penury. "thanks, thanks," he continued; "thanks. some day or other, you will all perhaps return with me to the beloved land!" the austrian prince bowed his head, as if in assent to the prayer. "giulio franzini," said the duke of serrano--for so we may now call the threadbare recluse of the casino--"had this last villainous design of yours been allowed by providence, think you that there is one spot on earth on which the ravisher could have been saved from a father's arm? but now, heaven has been more kind. in this hour let me imitate its mercy," and with relaxing brow the duke mildly drew near to his guilty kinsman. from the moment the austrian prince had addressed him, the count had preserved a profound silence, showing neither repentance nor shame. gathering himself up, he had stood firm, glaring round him like one at bay. but as the duke now approached, he waved his hand, and exclaimed, "back, pedant, back; you have not triumphed yet. and you, prating german, tell your tales to our emperor. i shall be by his throne to answer--if, indeed, you escape from the meeting to which i will force you by the way." he spoke, and made a rush toward the side of the vessel. but harley's quick wit had foreseen the count's intention, and harley's quick eye had given the signal by which it was frustrated. seized in the gripe of his own watchful and indignant countrymen, just as he was about to plunge into the stream, peschiera was dragged back--pinioned down. then the expression of his whole countenance changed; the desperate violence of the inborn gladiator broke forth. his great strength enabled him to break loose more than once, to dash more than one man to the floor of the deck; but at length, overpowered by numbers, though still struggling--all dignity, all attempt at presence of mind gone, uttering curses the most plebeian, gnashing his teeth, and foaming at the mouth, nothing seemed left of the brilliant lothario but the coarse fury of the fierce natural man. then, still preserving that air and tone of exquisite imperturbable irony which might have graced the marquis of the old french regime, and which the highest comedian might have sighed to imitate in vain, harley bowed low to the storming count. "_adieu, monsieur le comte--adieu!_ i am rejoiced to see that you are so well provided with furs. you will need them for your voyage; it is a very cold one at this time of the year. the vessel which you have honored me by entering is bound to norway. the italians who accompany you were sent by yourself into exile, and, in return, they now kindly promise to enliven you with their society, whenever you feel somewhat tired of your own. conduct the count to his cabin. gently there, gently. _adieu, monsieur le comte, adieu! et bon voyage._" harley turned lightly on his heel, as peschiera, in spite of his struggles, was now fairly carried down to the cabin. "a trick for the trickster," said l'estrange to the austrian prince. "the revenge of a farce on the would-be tragedian." "more than that--he is ruined." "and ridiculous," quoth harley. "i should like to see his look when they land him in norway." harley then passed toward the centre of the vessel, by which, hitherto partially concealed by the sailors, who were now busily occupied, stood beatrice; frank hazeldean, who had first received her on entering the vessel, standing by her side; and leonard, a little apart from the two, in quiet observation of all that had passed around him. beatrice appeared but little to heed frank; her dark eyes were lifted to the dim starry skies, and her lips were moving as if in prayer; yet her young lover was speaking to her in great emotion, low and rapidly. "no, no--do not think for a moment that we suspect you, beatrice. i will answer for your honor with my life. oh, why will you turn from me--why will you not speak?" "a moment later," said beatrice softly. "give me one moment yet." she passed slowly and faltering toward leonard--placed her hand that trembled, on his arm--and led him aside to the verge of the vessel. frank, startled by her movement, made a step as if to follow, and then stopped short, and looked on, but with a clouded and doubtful countenance. harley's smile had gone, and his eye was also watchful. it was but a few words that beatrice spoke--it was but by a sentence or so that leonard answered; and then beatrice extended her hand, which the young poet bent over, and kissed in silence. she lingered an instant; and even by the star-light, harley noted the blush that overspread her face. the blush faded as beatrice returned to frank. lord l'estrange would have retired--she signed to him to stay. "my lord," she said very firmly, "i can not accuse you of harshness to my sinful and unhappy brother. his offense might perhaps deserve a heavier punishment than that which you inflict with such playful scorn. but whatever his penance, contempt now, or poverty later, i feel that his sister should be by his side to share it. i am not innocent, if he be guilty; and, wreck though he be, nothing else on this dark sea of life is now left to me to cling to. hush, my lord! i shall not leave this vessel. all that i entreat of you is, to order your men to respect my brother, since a woman will be by his side." "but, marchesa, this can not be; and--" "beatrice, beatrice--and me!--our betrothal? do you forgot me?"' cried frank in reproachful agony. "no, young and too noble lover; i shall remember you ever in my prayers. but listen. i have been deceived--hurried on, i might say--by others, but also, and far more, by my own mad and blinded heart--deceived, hurried on, to wrong you and to belie myself. my shame burns into me when i think that i could have inflicted on you the just anger of your family--linked you to my own ruined fortunes, my own tarnished name--my own--" "your own generous, loving heart!--that is all i asked!" cried frank. "cease, cease--that heart is mine still!" tears gushed from the italian's eyes. "englishman, i never loved you; this heart was dead to you, and it will be dead to all else forever. farewell! you will forget me sooner than you think for--sooner than i shall forget you--as a friend, as a brother--if brothers had natures as tender and as kind as yours! now, my lord, will you give me your arm? i would join the count." "stay--one word, madam," said frank, very pale, and through his set teeth, but calmly, and with a pride on his brow which had never before dignified its careless, open expression--"one word. i may not be worthy of you in any thing else--but an honest love, that never doubted, never suspected--that would have clung to you though all the world were against; such a love makes the meanest man of worth. one word, frank and open. by all that you hold most sacred in your creed, did you speak the truth when you said that you never loved me?" beatrice bent down her head; she was abashed before this manly nature that she had so deceived, and perhaps till then undervalued. "pardon, pardon," she said, in reluctant accents, half-choked by the rising of a sob. at her hesitation frank's face lighted as if with sudden hope. she raised her eyes, and saw the change in him, then glanced where leonard stood, mournful and motionless. she shivered, and added, firmly-- "yes--pardon; for i spoke the truth; and i had no heart to give. it might have been as wax to another--it was of granite to you." she paused, and muttered inly--"granite, and--broken!" frank said not a word more. he stood rooted to the spot, not even gazing after beatrice as she passed away leaning on the arm of lord l'estrange. he then walked resolutely away, and watched the boat that the men were now lowering from the side of the vessel. beatrice stopped when she came near the place where violante stood, answering in agitated whispers her father's anxious questions. as she stopped, she leaned more heavily upon harley. "it is your arm that trembles now, lord l'estrange," said she, with a mournful smile, and, quitting him before he could answer, she bowed down her head meekly before violante. "you have pardoned me already," she said, in a tone that reached only the girl's ear, "and my last words shall not be of the past. i see your future spread bright before me under those steadfast stars. love still; hope and trust. these are the last words of her who will soon die to the world. fair maid, they are prophetic!" violante shrank back to her father's breast, and there hid her glowing face, resigning her hand to beatrice, who pressed it to her bosom. the marchesa then came back to harley, and disappeared with him in the interior of the vessel. when harley reappeared on deck, he seemed, much flurried and disturbed. he kept aloof from the duke and violante, and was the last to enter the boat, that was now lowered into the water. as he and his companions reached the land, they saw the vessel in movement, and gliding slowly down the river. "courage, leonard, courage!" murmured harley. "you grieve, and nobly. but you have shunned the worst and most vulgar deceit in civilized life; you have not simulated love. better that yon poor lady should be, awhile, the sufferer from a harsh truth, than the eternal martyr of a flattering lie! alas, my leonard, with the love of the poet's dream are linked only the graces; with the love of the human heart come the awful fates!" "my lord, poets do not dream when they love. you will learn how the feelings are deep in proportion as the fancies are vivid, when you read that confession of genius and woe which i have left in your hands." leonard turned away. harley's gaze followed him with inquiring interest, and suddenly encountered the soft, dark grateful eyes of violante. "the fates, the fates!" murmured harley. (to be continued.) a short chapter on rats. the rat is one of the most despised and tormented of created animals; he has many enemies and very few friends; wherever he appears his life is in danger from men, dogs, cats, owls, &c., who will have no mercy on him. these perpetual persecutions oblige him to be wary in his movements, and call for a large amount of cunning and sagacity on his part, which give his little sharp face a peculiarly knowing and wide-awake appearance, which the most superficial observer must have noticed. though, poor creature, he is hated and killed by man, his sworn foe, yet he is to that same ungrateful race a most useful servant, in the humble capacity of scavenger; for wherever man settles his habitation, even in the most remote parts of the earth, there, as if by magic, appear our friends the rats. he quietly takes possession of the out-houses, drains, &c., and occupies himself by devouring the refuse and filth thrown away from the dwelling of his master (under whose floor, as well as roof, he lives); this refuse, if left to decay, would engender fever, malaria, and all kinds of horrors, to the destruction of the children of the family, were it not for the unremitting exertions of the rats to get rid of it, in a way no doubt agreeable to themselves, namely, by eating it. the rat is admirably armed and equipped for the peculiar mode of life which he is ordained to lead. he has formidable weapons in the shape of four small, long, and very sharp teeth, two of which are fixed in the upper and two in the under jaw. these are formed in the shape of a wedge, and by the following wonderful provision of nature, have always a fine, sharp, cutting edge. on examining them carefully, we find that the inner part is of a soft, ivory-like composition, which may be easily worn away, whereas the outside is composed of a glass-like enamel, which is excessively hard. the upper teeth work exactly into the under, so that the centres of the opposed teeth meet exactly in the act of gnawing; the soft part is thus being perpetually worn away, while the hard part keeps a sharp, chisel-like edge; at the same time the teeth grow up from the bottom, so that as they wear away a fresh supply is ready. the consequence of this arrangement is, that, if one of the teeth be removed, either by accident or on purpose, the opposed tooth will continue to grow upward; and, as there is nothing to grind it away, will project from the mouth and be turned upon itself; or, if it be an under-tooth, it will even run into the skull above. there is a curious, but little known fact, which well illustrates the ravages which the rats can inflict on a hard substance with these little sharp teeth. many of the elephant's tusks imported into london for the use of the ivory ornament makers, are observed to have their surfaces grooved into small furrows of unequal depths, as though cut out by a very sharp-edged instrument. surely no man would have taken the trouble to do this, for what would be the profit of his labor? the rats, however, are at the bottom of the secret, or else, clever fellows as they are, they would not have used their chisel-like teeth with such effect. they have found out the tusks which contain the most gelatine or animal glue, a sweet and delicious morsel for the rat's dainty palate; and having gnawed away as much as suited their purpose, have left the rest for the ivory-cutter--he, for his part, is neither unable nor unwilling to profit by the fact marked out by the rat's teeth. the ivory that contains a large amount of gelatine is softer and more elastic than that which does not; and as elasticity is the thing most needful for billiard balls, he chooses this rat-marked ivory, and turns it into the beautiful elastic billiard balls we see on the slate tables in st. james's-street. the elasticity of some of these is so great, that if struck down forcibly on a hard pavement, they will rebound into the hand to the height of three or four feet. rats have a remarkable instinct for finding out where there is any thing good for food; and it has been often a subject of wonder, how they manage to get on board ships laden with sugar and other attractive cargoes. this mystery has, however, been cleared up, for they have been seen to come off shore to the ship by means of the rope by which she is moored to the quay, although at some distance from the shore. by the same means they will leave the ship when she comes into port, if they find their quarters filling, or filled with water; hence the saying, that "rats always leave a sinking ship" is perfectly true. if, however, the ship be water-tight, they will continue breeding to an enormous extent. m. de st. pierre informs us, that on the return of the "valiant" man-of-war from the havana, in the year , its rats had increased to such a degree, that they destroyed a hundred weight of biscuit daily. the ship was at length smoked between decks in order to suffocate them; and six hampers were for some time filled every day with the rats that had thus been killed. there is a curious instance of rats losing their lives in quest of food, which has been kindly communicated to me by a friend. when the atmospheric pump was in use at the terminus of the croydon railway, hundreds of rats lost their lives daily. the unscientific creatures used in the night to get into the large iron tube, by exhausting the air from which the railway carriages were put in motion, their object being to lick off the grease from the leather valve, which the engineers of the line were so anxious to keep airtight. as soon as the air-pump was put to work for the first morning-train, there was no resisting, and out they were sucked all dead corpses! the rat, though naturally a savage creature, is, by dint of kindness, capable of being tamed and being made obedient to the will of man. some of the japanese tame rats, and teach them to perform many entertaining tricks, and thus instructed they are exhibited as a show for the diversion of the populace. a gentleman traveling through mecklenburg, about forty years ago, was witness to a very singular circumstance in the post-house at new hargard. after dinner, the landlord placed on the floor a large dish of soup, and gave a loud whistle. immediately there came into the room a mastiff, a fine angora cat, an old raven, and a remarkably large rat, with a bell about its neck. they all four went to the dish, and, without disturbing each other, fed together, after which the dog, cat, and rat lay before the fire, while the raven hopped about the room. the landlord, after accounting for the familiarity which existed among these animals, informed his guest that the rat was the most useful of the four, for the noise he made had completely freed the house from the other rats and mice with which it had previously been infested. but capacity for becoming tame and accustomed to the presence of man is not confined to the "foreigneer" rats, for, from the following story, it appears that the rats of england are equally susceptible of kindness. a worthy whip-maker, who worked hard at his trade to support a large family, had prepared a number of strips of leather, by well oiling and greasing them. he carefully laid them by in a box, but, strange to say, they disappeared one by one; nobody knew any thing about them, nobody had touched them. however, one day, as he was sitting at work in his shop, a large black rat, of the original british species, slyly poked his head up out of a hole in the corner of the room, and deliberately took a survey of the whole place. seeing all quiet, out he came, and ran straight to the box wherein were kept the favorite leather strips. in he dived, and quickly reappeared, carrying in his mouth the most dainty morsel he could find. off he ran to his hole, and quickly vanished. having thus found out the thief, the saddler determined to catch him; he accordingly propped up a sieve by a stick, and put a bait underneath; in a few minutes out came the rat again, smelling the inviting toasted cheese, and forthwith attacked it. the moment he began nibbling at the bait, down came the sieve, and he became a prisoner. now, thought he, "my life depends upon my behavior when this horrid sieve is lifted up by that two-legged wretch with the apron on, who so kindly cuts the greasy thongs for me every day: he has a good-natured looking face, and i don't think he wants to kill me. i know what i will do." the saddler' at length lifted up the sieve, being armed with a stick ready to kill mr. rat when he rushed out. what was his astonishment to see that the rat remained perfectly quiet, and, after a few moments, to walk quietly up on his arm, and look up in his face, as much as to say, "i am a poor innocent rat, and if your wife will lock up all the good things in the cupboard, why i must eat your nicely prepared thongs; rats must live as well as saddlers." the man then said, "tom, i was going to kill you, but now i won't; let us be friends. i'll put you some bread and butter every day if you won't take my thongs and wax, and leave the shopman's breakfast alone; but i am afraid you will come out once too often; there are lots of dogs and cats about who won't be so kind to you as i am; you may go now." he then put him down, and mr. rat leisurely retreated to his hole. for a long time afterward he found his breakfast regularly placed for him at the mouth of his hole, in return for which he, as in duty bound, became quite tame, running about the shop, and inquisitively turning over every thing on the bench at which his protector was at work. he would even accompany him into the stables when he went to feed the pony, and pick up the corn as it fell from the manger, keeping, however, a respectful distance from the pony's legs. his chief delight was to bask in the warm window sill, stretching his full length to the mid-day sun. this unfortunate, though agreeable habit, proved his destruction, for one very hot day, as he lay at his ease taking his _siesta_, the dog belonging to the bird-shop opposite espied him afar off, and instantly dashed at him through the window. the poor rat, who was asleep at the time, awoke, alas! too late to save his life. the cruel dog caught him, and took him into the road, where a few sharp squeezes and shakings soon finished him. the fatal deed being done, the murderous dog left his bleeding victim in the dusty road, and with ears and tail erect, walked away as though proud of his performance. the dog's master, knowing the history of the rat, had him stuffed, and his impaled skin, with a silver chain round the neck, forms to this day a handsome addition to the shop-front of the bird-shop in brompton. there is a curious fact connected with the habits of the rat, which warrants a closer observation on the part of those who have the opportunity, it is the emigration of rats. it appears that rats, like many birds, fish, &c., are influenced to change their abode by want of food; by necessity of change of temperature; by want of a place for incubation, where they may obtain food for their young; and, lastly, by their fear of man. a spanish merchant had forestalled the market of barcelona filberts on speculation some years ago. he filled his warehouse with sacks of them, and refused to sell them to the retail-dealers, but at such a price as they could not afford to give. thinking, however, that they would be obliged to submit to his demand, rather than not procure them for sale, he persisted in exacting his original price, and thus lost nearly all his treasure; for he was informed by an early rising friend, that he had seen, just before sunrise, an army of rats quitting the warehouse. he immediately went to examine his sacks, and found them gnawed in various places, and emptied of above half their contents, and empty shells of filberts strewed over the floor. pennant relates a story of a burglarious grand-larceny troop of rats, which nearly frightened a young lady out of her wits, by mistaking her chimney for one leading to a cheese-room. she was suddenly wakened by a tremendous clatter in her bed-chamber, and on looking up saw a terrific troop of rats running about in wild disorder. she had presence of mind enough to throw her candlestick at them (_timor arma ministral_) and to her great joy she found that they speedily departed by the way which they had entered her apartment, leaving only a cloud of soot over the room. forty years ago, the house of a surgeon in swansea was greatly infested with rats, and he completely got rid of them by burning off all the hair from one of them which he had caught alive, and then allowing it to return to its hole. it was said that he never afterward saw a rat on his premises, except the burnt sufferer, which on the following day returned, and was caught in the same trap from which he had been but just set at liberty. i suppose that in their "advertiser," the description of a ghost, and a notice of haunted premises was given, which caused the whole colony so unanimously to decamp. a dark chapter from the diary of a law clerk. one ephraim bridgman, who died in , had for many years farmed a large quantity of land in the neighborhood of lavenham or lanham (the name is spelt both ways), a small market-town about twelve miles south of bury st. edmunds. he was also land agent as well as tenant to a noble lord possessing much property thereabouts, and appears to have been a very fast man for those times, as, although he kept up appearances to the last, his only child and heir, mark bridgman, found on looking closely into his deceased father's affairs, that were every body paid, he himself would be left little better than a pauper. still, if the noble landlord could be induced to give a _very_ long day for the heavy balance due to him--not only for arrears of rent, but moneys received on his lordship's account--mark, who was a prudent energetic young man, nothing doubted of pulling through without much difficulty--the farm being low rented and the agency lucrative. this desirable object, however, proved exceedingly difficult of attainment, and after a protracted and fruitless negotiation, by letter, with messrs. winstanley, of lincoln's-inn-fields, london, his lordship's solicitors, the young farmer determined, as a last resource, on a journey to town, in the vague hope that on a personal interview he should find those gentlemen not quite such square, hard, rigid persons as their written communications indicated them to be. delusive hope! they were precisely as stiff, formal, accurate, and unvarying as their letters. "the exact balance due to his lordship," said winstanley, senior, "is, as previously stated, £ s. d., which sum, secured by warrant of attorney, _must_ be paid as follows: one half in eight, and the remaining moiety in sixteen months from the present time." mark bridgman was in despair: taking into account other liabilities that would be falling due, compliance with such terms was, he felt, merely deferring the evil day, and he was silently and moodily revolving in his mind whether it might not be better to give up the game at once rather than engage in a prolonged, and almost inevitably disastrous struggle, when another person entered the office and entered into conversation with the solicitor. at first the young man did not appear to heed--perhaps did not hear what was said--but after a while one of the clerks noticed that his attention was suddenly and keenly aroused, and that he eagerly devoured every word that passed between the new comer and mr. winstanley. at length the lawyer, as if to terminate the interview, said, as he replaced a newspaper--_the public advertiser_--an underlined notice in which had formed the subject of his colloquy with the stranger, upon a side table, by which sat mark bridgman. "you desire us then, mr. evans, to continue this advertisement for some time longer?" mr. evans replied, "certainly, six months longer, if necessary." he then bade the lawyers "good-day," and left the office. "well, what do you say, mr. bridgman!" asked mr. winstanley, as soon as the door had closed. "are you ready to accept his lordship's very lenient proposal?" "yes," was the quick reply. "let the document be prepared at once, and i will execute it before i leave." this was done, and mark bridgman hurried off, evidently, it was afterward remembered, in a high state of flurry and excitement. he had also, they found, taken the newspaper with him--by inadvertence, the solicitor supposed, of course. within a week of this time, the good folk of lavenham--especially its womankind--were thrown into a ferment of wonder, indignation, and bewilderment! rachel merton, the orphan dressmaking girl, who had been engaged to, and about to marry richard green, the farrier and blacksmith--and that a match far beyond what she had any right to expect, for all her pretty face and pert airs, was positively being courted by bridgman, young, handsome, rich, mark bridgman of red lodge (the embarrassed state of the gentleman-farmer's affairs was entirely unsuspected in lavenham); ay, and by way of marriage, too--openly--respectfully, deferentially--as if _he_, not rachel merton, were the favored and honored party! what on earth, every body asked, was the world coming to?--a question most difficult of solution; but all doubt with respect to the _bonâ fide_ nature of mark bridgman's intentions toward the fortunate dressmaker was soon at an end; he and rachel being duly pronounced man and wife at the parish church within little more than a fortnight of the commencement of his strange and hasty wooing! all lavenham agreed that rachel merton had shamefully jilted poor green, and yet it may be doubted if there were many of them that, similarly tempted, would not have done the same. a pretty orphan girl, hitherto barely earning a subsistence by her needle, and about to throw herself away upon a coarse, repulsive person, but one degree higher than herself in the social scale--entreated by the handsomest young man about lavenham to be his wife, and the mistress of red lodge, with nobody knows how many servants, dependents, laborers!--the offer was irresistible! it was also quite natural that the jilted blacksmith should fiercely resent--as he did--his sweetheart's faithless conduct; and the assault which his angry excitement induced him to commit upon his successful rival a few days previous to the wedding, was far too severely punished, every body admitted, by the chastisement inflicted by mark bridgman upon his comparatively weak and powerless assailant. the morning after the return of the newly-married couple to red lodge from a brief wedding trip, a newspaper which the bridegroom had recently ordered to be regularly supplied was placed upon the table. he himself was busy with breakfast, and his wife, after a while, opened it, and ran her eye carelessly over its columns. suddenly an exclamation of extreme surprise escaped her, followed by--"goodness gracious, my dear mark, do look here!" mark did look, and read an advertisement aloud, to the effect that "if rachel edwards, formerly of bath, who, in , married john merton, bandmaster of the th regiment of infantry, and afterward kept a school in manchester, or any lineal descendant of hers, would apply to messrs. winstanley, solicitors, lincoln's-inn-fields, they would hear of something greatly to their advantage." "why, dear mark," said the pretty bride, as her husband ceased reading, "my mother's maiden name was rachel edwards, and i am, as you know, her only surviving child!" "god bless me, to be sure! i remember now hearing your father speak of it. what can this great advantage be, i wonder? i tell you what we'll do, love," the husband added, "you would like to see london, i know. we'll start by coach to-night, and i'll call upon these lawyers, and find out what it all means." this proposition was, of course, gladly acceded to. they were gone about a fortnight, and on their return it became known that mark bridgman had come into possession of £ , in right of his wife, who was entitled to that sum by the will of her mother's maiden sister, mary edwards, of bath. the bride appears not to have had the slightest suspicion that her husband had been influenced by any other motive than her personal charms in marrying her--a pleasant illusion which, to do him justice, his unvarying tenderness toward her through life, confirmed and strengthened; but others, unblinded by vanity, naturally surmised the truth. richard green, especially, as fully believed that he had been deliberately, and with _malice prepense_, tricked out of £ , , as of the girl herself; and this conviction, there can be no doubt, greatly increased and inflamed his rage against mark bridgman--so much so that it became at last the sole thought and purpose of his life, as to how he might safely and effectually avenge himself of the man who was flaunting it so bravely in the world, while he--poor duped and despised castaway--was falling lower and lower in the world every day he lived. this was the natural consequence of his increasingly dissolute and idle habits. it was not long before an execution for rent swept away his scanty stock in trade, and he thenceforth became a ragged, vagabond hanger-on about the place--seldom at work, and as often as possible drunk; during which fits of intemperance his constant theme was the bitter hatred he nourished toward bridgman, and his determination, even if he swung for it, of being one day signally avenged. mark bridgman was often warned to be on his guard against the venomous malignity of green; but this counsel he seems to have spurned, or treated with contempt. while the vengeful blacksmith was thus falling into utter vagabondism, all was sunshine at red lodge. mark bridgman really loved his pretty and gentle, if vain-minded wife--a love deepened by gratitude, that through her means he had been saved from insolvency and ruin; and barely a twelvemonth of wedded life had passed, when the birth of a son completed their happiness. this child (for nearly three years it did not appear likely there would be any other) soon came to be the idol of its parents--of its father, even more than of its mother. it was very singularly marked, with two strawberries, exceedingly distinct, on its left arm, and one, less vivid, on its right. there are two fairs held annually at lavenham, and one of these--when little mark was between three and four years old--mr. bridgman came in from red lodge to attend, accompanied by his wife, son, and a woman-servant of the name of sarah hollins. toward evening, mrs. bridgman went out shopping, escorted by her husband, leave having been previously given hollins to take the child through the pleasure--that is the booth and show part of the fair; but with strict orders not to be absent more than an hour from the inn where her master and mistress were putting up. in little more than the specified time the woman returned, but without the child; she had suddenly missed him, about half an hour before, while looking on at some street-tumbling, and had vainly sought him through the town since. the woman's tidings excited great alarm; mr. bridgman himself instantly hurried off, and hired messengers were, one after another, dispatched by the mother in quest of the missing child. as hour after hour flew by without result, extravagant rewards, which set hundreds of persons in motion, were offered by the distracted parents; but all to no purpose. day dawned, and as yet not a gleam of intelligence had been obtained of the lost one. at length some one suggested that inquiry should be made after richard green. this was promptly carried into effect, and it was ascertained that he had not been home during the night. further investigation left no room for doubt that he had suddenly quitted lavenham; and thus a new and fearful light was thrown upon the boy's disappearance. it was conjectured that the blacksmith must have gone to london; and mr. bridgman immediately set off thither, and placed himself in communication with the authorities of bow street. every possible exertion was used during several weeks to discover the child, or green, without success, and the bereaved father returned to his home a harassed, spirit-broken man. during his absence his wife had been prematurely confined of another son, and this new gift of god seemed, after a while, to partially fill the aching void in the mother's heart; but the sadness and gloom which had settled upon the mind of her husband was not perceptibly lightened thereby. "if i knew mark was dead," he once remarked to the rector of lavenham, by whom he was often visited, "i should resign myself to his loss, and soon shake off this heavy grief. but that, my dear sir, which weighs me down--is in fact slowly but surely killing me--is a terrible conviction and presentiment that green, in order fully to work out his devilish vengeance, will studiously pervert the nature of the child--lead him into evil, abandoned courses--and that i shall one day see him--but i will not tell you my dreams," he added, after stopping abruptly, and painfully shuddering, as if some frightful spectre passed before his eyes. "they are, i trust, mere fancies; and yet--but let us change the subject." this morbidly-dejected state of mind was aggravated by the morose, grasping disposition--so entirely different from what mr. bridgman had fondly prophesied of mark--manifested in greater strength with every succeeding year by his son andrew, a strangely unlovable and gloomy-tempered boy, as if the anxiety and trouble of the time during which he had been hurried into the world had been impressed upon his temperament and character. it may be, too, that he felt irritated at, and jealous of his father's ceaseless repinings for the loss of his eldest son, who, if recovered, would certainly monopolize the lion's share of the now large family property--but not one whit _too_ large in his--andrew bridgman's--opinion for himself alone. the young man had not very long to wait for it. he had just passed his twentieth year when his father died at the early age of forty-seven the last wandering thoughts of the dying parent reverted to the lost child. "hither mark," he faintly murmured, as the hushed mourners round his bed watched with mute awe the last flutterings of departing life; "hither: hold me tightly by the hand, or you may lose yourself in this dark, dark wood." these were his last words. on the will being opened, it was found that the whole of his estate, real and personal, had been bequeathed to his son andrew, charged only with an annuity of £ to his mother, during life. _but_, should mark be found, the property was to be _his_, similarly charged with respect to mrs. bridgman, and £ yearly to his brother andrew, also for life, in addition. on the evening of the tenth day after his father's funeral, young mr. bridgman sat up till a late hour examining various papers and accounts connected with his inheritance, and after retiring to bed, the exciting nature of his recent occupation hindered him from sleeping. while thus lying awake, his quick ear caught a sound as of some one breaking into the house through one of the lower casements. he rose cautiously, went out on the landing, and soon satisfied himself that his suspicion was a correct one. the object of the burglars was, he surmised, the plate in the house of which there was an unusually large quantity, both his father and grandfather having expended much money in that article of luxury. andrew bridgman was any thing but a timid person--indeed, considering that six men altogether slept in the house, there was but little cause for fear--and he softly returned to his bedroom, unlocked a mahogany case, took out, loaded and primed, two pistols, and next roused the gardener and groom, whom he bade noiselessly follow him. the burglars--three in number, as it proved--had already reached and opened the plate-closet. one of them was standing within it, and the others just without. "hallo! rascals," shouted andrew bridgman, from the top of a flight of stairs, "what are you doing there?" the startled and terrified thieves glanced hurriedly round, and the two outermost fled instantly along the passage pursued by the two servants, one of whom had armed himself with a sharp-pointed kitchen knife. the other was not so fortunate. he had not regained the threshold of the closet when andrew bridgman fired. the bullet crashed through the wretched man's brain, and he fell forward, stone-dead, upon his face. the two others escaped--one of them after a severe struggle with the knife-armed groom. it was sometime before the uproar in the now thoroughly-alarmed household had subsided; but at length the screaming females were pacified, and those who had got up, persuaded to go to bed again. the corpse of the slain burglar was removed to an out-house, and andrew bridgman returned to his bedroom. presently there was a tap at the door. it was sarah hollins. "i am come to tell you something," said the now aged woman, with a significant look. "the person you have shot is the richard green you have so often heard of." the young man, hollins afterward said, seemed much startled by this news, and his countenance flushed and paled in quick succession. "are you quite sure this is true?" he at last said. "quite; though he's so altered that, except, missus, i don't know any body else in the house that is likely to recognize him. shall i tell her?" "no, no, not on any account. it would only recall unpleasant events, and that quite uselessly. be sure not to mention your suspicion--your belief, to a soul." "suspicion! belief!" echoed the woman. "it is a certainty. but, of course, as you wish it, i shall hold my tongue." so audacious an attempt created a considerable stir in the locality, and four days after its occurrence a message was sent to red lodge from bury st. edmunds, that two men, supposed to be the escaped burglars, were there in custody, and requesting mr. bridgman's and the servants' attendance on the morrow, with a view to their identification. andrew bridgman, the gardener, and groom, of course, obeyed the summons, and the prisoners were brought into the justice-room before them. one was a fellow of about forty, a brutal-visaged, low-browed, sinister-looking rascal, with the additional ornament of a but partially closed hare-lip. he was unhesitatingly sworn to by both men. the other, upon whom, from the instant he entered, andrew bridgman had gazed with eager, almost, it seemed, trembling curiosity, was a well-grown young man of, it might be, three or four and twenty, with a quick, mild, almost timid, unquiet, troubled look, and features originally comely and pleasing, there could be no doubt, but now smirched and blotted into ill favor by excess, and other evil habits. he gave the name of "robert williams." andrew bridgman, recalled to himself by the magistrate's voice, hastily said "that he did not recognize this prisoner as one of the burglars. indeed," he added, with a swift but meaning look at the two servants, "i am pretty sure he was not one of them." the groom and gardener, influenced no doubt by their master's manner, also appeared doubtful as to whether robert williams was one of the housebreakers. "but if he be," hesitated the groom, hardly knowing whether he did right or wrong, "there must be some smartish wounds on his arms, for i hit him there sharply with the knife several times." the downcast head of the youthful burglar was suddenly raised at these words, and he said, quickly, while a red flush passed over his pallid features, "not me, not me--look, my arm-sleeves have no holes--no--" "you may have obtained another jacket," interrupted the magistrate. "we must see your arms." an expression of hopeless despair settled upon the prisoner's face; he again hung down his head in shame, and allowed the constables to quietly strip off his jacket. andrew bridgman, who had gone to some distance, returned while this was going on, and watched for what might next disclose itself with tenfold curiosity and eagerness. "there are stabs enough here, sure enough," exclaimed a constable, as he turned up the shirt-sleeve on the prisoner's left arm. there were, indeed; and in addition to them, _natural marks of two strawberries_ were distinctly visible. the countenance of andrew bridgman grew ashy pale, as his straining eyes glared upon the prisoner's naked arm. the next moment he wrenched himself away, as with an effort, from the sight, and staggered to an open window--sick, dizzy, fainting, it was at the time believed, from the closeness of the atmosphere in the crowded room. was it not rather that he had recognized his long-lost brother--_the true heir to the bulk of his deceased father's wealth_, against whom, he might have thought, an indictment would scarcely lie for feloniously entering his own house! he said nothing, however, and the two prisoners were fully committed for trial. mr. prince went down "special" to bury, at the next assize, to defend a gentleman accused of a grave offense, but the grand jury having ignored the bill, he would probably have returned at once, had not an attorney brought him a brief, very heavily marked, in defense of "robert williams." "strangely enough, too," remarked the attorney, as he was about to go away, "the funds for the defense have been supplied by mr. andrew bridgman, whose house the prisoner is accused of having burglariously entered. but this is confidential, as he is very solicitous that his oddly-generous action should not be known." there was, however, no valid defense. the ill-favored accomplice, why, i know not, had been admitted king's evidence by the counsel for the crown, and there was no resisting the accumulated evidence. the prisoner was found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged. "i never intended," he said, after the verdict was returned; and there was a tone of dejected patience in his voice that affected one strangely, "i never intended to commit violence against any one in the house, and but that my uncle--he that was shot--said repeatedly that he knew a secret concerning mr. bridgman (he didn't know, i am sure, that he was dead) which would prevent us from being prosecuted if we were caught, i should not have been persuaded to go with him. it was my first offense--in--in housebreaking, i mean." i had, and indeed have, some relatives in mildenhall, in the same county, whom, at the termination of the bury assize, i got leave to visit for a few days. while there, it came to my knowledge that mr. andrew bridgman, whom i had seen in court, was moving heaven and earth to procure a commutation of the convict's sentence to transportation for life. his zealous efforts were unsuccessful; and the saturday county journal announced that robert williams, the burglar, would suffer, with four others, on the following tuesday morning. i reached bury on the monday evening, with the intention of proceeding by the london night coach, but there was no place vacant. the next morning i could only have ridden outside, and as, besides being intensely cold, it was snowing furiously, i determined on postponing my departure till the evening, and secured an inside place for that purpose. i greatly abhor spectacles of the kind, and yet, from mere idleness and curiosity, i suffered myself to be drawn into the human stream flowing toward "hang fair," and once jammed in with the crowd in front of the place of execution, egress was, i found, impossible. after waiting a considerable time, the death-bell suddenly tolled, and the terrible procession appeared--five human beings about to be suffocated by human hands, for offenses against property!--the dreadful and deliberate sacrifice preluded and accompanied by sonorous sentences from the gospel of mercy and compassion! hardly daring to look up, i saw little of what passed on the scaffold, yet one furtive, quickly-withdrawn glance, showed me the sufferer in whom i took most interest. he was white as if already coffined, and the unquiet glare of his eyes was, i noticed, terribly anxious! i did not again look up--i could not; and the surging murmur of the crowd, as it swayed to and fro, the near whisperings of ribald tongues, and the measured, mocking tones of the minister, promising eternal life through the mercy of the most high god, to wretches whom the _justice_ of man denied a few more days or years of mortal existence--were becoming momently more and more oppressive, when a dull, heavy sound _boomed_ through the air; the crowd swayed violently from side to side, and the simultaneous expiration of many pent-up breaths testified that all was over, and to the relief experienced by the coarsest natures at the consummation of a deed too frightful for humanity to contemplate. it was some time before the mass of spectators began to thoroughly separate, and they were still standing in large clusters, spite of the bitter, falling weather, when a carriage, furiously driven, with the body of a female, who was screaming vehemently and waving a white handkerchief, projected half out of one of the windows, was seen approaching by the london road. the thought appeared to strike every one that a respite or reprieve had come for one or more of the prisoners, and hundreds of eyes were instantly turned toward the scaffold, only to see that if so it had arrived too late. the carriage stopped at the gate of the building. a lady dressed in deep mourning, was hastily assisted out by a young man with her, similarly attired, and they both disappeared within the jail. after some parleying, i ascertained that i had sufficient influence to obtain admission, and a few moments afterward i found myself in the press-room. the young man--mr. andrew bridgman--was there, and the lady, who had fallen fainting upon one of the benches, was his mother. the attendants were administering restoratives to her, without effect, till an inner door opened, and the under-sheriff, by whom she was personally known, entered; when she started up and interrogated, with the mute agony of her wet, yet gleaming eyes, the dismayed and distressed official. "let me entreat you, my dear madam," he faltered, "to retire. this is a most painful--fright--" "no--no, the truth!--the truth!" shrieked the unfortunate lady, wildly clasping her hands, "i shall bear that best!" "then i grieve to say," replied the under-sheriff, "that the marks you describe--two on the left, and one on the right arm, are distinctly visible." a piercing scream, broken by the words, "my son!--oh god!--my son!" burst from the wretched mother's lips, and she fell heavily, and without sense or motion, upon the stone floor. while the under-sheriff and others raised and ministered to her, i glanced at mr. andrew bridgman. he was as white as the lime-washed wall against which he stood, and the fire that burned in his dark eyes was kindled--it was plain to me--by remorse and horror, not by grief alone. the cause of the sudden appearance of the mother and son at the closing scene of this sad drama was afterward thus explained:--andrew bridgman, from the moment that all hope of procuring a commutation of the sentence on the so-called robert williams had ceased, became exceedingly nervous and agitated, and his discomposure seemed to but augment as the time yet to elapse before the execution of the sentence passed away. at length, unable longer to endure the goadings of a tortured conscience, he suddenly burst into the room where his mother sat at breakfast, on the very morning his brother was to die, with an open letter in his hand, by which he pretended to have just heard that robert williams was the long-lost mark bridgman! the sequel has been already told. the conviction rapidly spread that andrew bridgman had been from the first aware that the youthful burglar was his own brother; and he found it necessary to leave the country. he turned his inheritance into money, and embarked for charleston, america, in the bark cleopatra, from liverpool. when off the scilly islands, the cleopatra was chased by a french privateer. she escaped; but one of the few shots fired at her from the privateer was fatal to the life of andrew bridgman. he was almost literally cut in two, and expired instantaneously. some friends to whom i have related this story deem his death an accident; others, a judgment: i incline, i must confess, to the last opinion. the wealth with which he embarked was restored to mrs. bridgman, who soon afterward removed to london, where she lived many years--sad ones, no doubt, but mitigated and rendered endurable by the soothing balm of a clear conscience. at her decease, not very many years ago, the whole of her property was found to be bequeathed to various charitable institutions of the metropolis. monthly record of current events the united states. congress adjourned, _sine die_, on the st of august. during the last month of its session several important public laws were passed, and various subjects of public interest were discussed at length. substantial amendments to the postage law have been adopted, by which the rates of postage upon printed matter sent by mail, have been greatly reduced. the new law takes effect on the th of september. after that date each newspaper, periodical, or other printed sheet not exceeding three ounces in weight, will be sent to any part of the united states for _one cent_--one cent additional being charged for each additional ounce or fraction but when the postage is paid yearly or quarterly, in advance, at the office where the paper is mailed or delivered, _one half_ of these rates only will be charged. newspapers and periodicals weighing not over an ounce and a half, when circulated within the state where they are published, will pay only half these rates. small newspapers and periodicals published once a month or oftener, and pamphlets of not more than sixteen pages each, when sent in single packages weighing at least eight ounces, to one address, and prepaid by affixing postage-stamps thereto, are to be charged only _half a cent_ for each ounce. the postage on all transient matter must be prepaid by stamps or otherwise, or double the rates first mentioned will be charged. books weighing not over four pounds may be sent by mail at _one cent_ an ounce for all distances under miles, and at _two_ cents an ounce for all distances over miles, to which fifty per cent. will be added if not prepaid. publishers of periodicals and newspapers are to receive their exchanges free of postage; and weekly newspapers may also be sent to subscribers free within the county where they are published. these are the essential provisions of the new law: others are appended requiring the printed papers to be sent open, without any other communications upon them than the address, and without any other inclosures.----a bill was also passed, making large appropriations for the improvement of rivers and harbors in various sections of the country: the vote upon it in the senate was yeas and nays: in the house of representatives it was passed by the casting vote of the speaker, there being votes for and votes against it. bills were also passed providing measures of greater security for steamboat navigation, by requiring various precautions on the part of owners: granting to the state of michigan land to aid the construction of a ship canal around the sault st. marie, and granting lands to the states of arkansas and missouri, to aid in the construction of railroads within those states: establishing a trimonthly mail between new orleans and vera cruz: and making appropriations for the various branches of the public service. the whole number of public acts passed during the session was ; of private acts : of joint resolutions . the french spoliation bill, the bill granting public lands to the several states, and several other measures of importance, upon which extended debate had been had, were postponed until the next session. on the th of august, the president transmitted a message to congress, communicating to that body all the documents relating to the dispute concerning the fisheries on the british colonial coast. in the senate, on the th, mr. soule of louisiana, spoke in very warm censure of the proceedings of the english government, and criticising the measures of the administration as deficient in energy and determination. he deprecated any negotiations with great britain on the subject, so long as any part of her fleet should be in those waters, and predicted the speedy separation of the colonies from the british empire. mr. butler of south carolina, as well as several other senators, expressed their earnest hopes that the difficulty would be satisfactorily adjusted, and at their suggestion the debate was postponed until the th, when mr. seward made an extended and elaborate speech, setting forth the whole history of our negotiations with england upon the fisheries, showing that england has presented no new claims, and that she has not indicated any purpose to use force or menaces in support of pretensions she has hitherto urged, and vindicating the president and secretary of state from the attacks made upon them.----on the th, while the bill appropriating lands for the construction of a ship canal around the falls of st. mary was under discussion, mr. cass supported it on the ground of its being essential to the defenses of the country in time of war, and took occasion to say he would have no objection to the annexation of canada and the acquisition of cuba, if these objects could be accomplished without a war. mr. douglas spoke also in favor of the grant for the work, not as a necessary means of defense, but for the purpose of augmenting the value of the public lands lying further to the west: he said that he would not vote a donation of money for such a purpose, but would support a bill granting public lands. a motion to substitute $ , , instead of land, was rejected by a vote of to : and the bill was passed in its original form.----on the th, a message was received from the president, in reply to a resolution offered a day or two previously by senator seward, inquiring whether any proposition had been made to the united states by the king of the sandwich islands, to transfer the sovereignty of those islands to the united states. the president declines to communicate any information on the subject, since to do so would be incompatible with the public interest. mr. seward then offered a resolution providing for the appointment of a commissioner, to inquire into the expediency of opening negotiations upon that subject. the resolution and the message was referred to the committee on foreign relations.----on the d, while the river and harbor bill was under debate, senator douglas offered a resolution giving the states power to levy tonnage duties upon their commerce, for the purpose of carrying on works of internal improvement. he supported this proposition at length. mr. cass opposed it on the ground that the duties thus levied would in fact be paid by the agricultural consumers. mr. smith of connecticut opposed it, because it would throw the whole burden of these duties upon the farmers of the west. the amendment was rejected by to . on the th, in reply to a resolution, a message was received from the president, transmitting sundry documents relating to the right of foreign nations to take guano from the lobos islands, off the coast of peru. on the d of june, captain jewett wrote to mr. webster, inquiring whether these islands were the possession of any single power, or whether they were open to the commerce of the world. mr. webster replied that the islands were uninhabited, that they had never been enumerated among the possessions or dependencies of any of the south american states, and that citizens of the united states would be protected in removing the valuable deposits upon them. at the same time the secretary of the navy ordered a vessel of war to be dispatched for the protection of american vessels engaged in this traffic. under these assurances captain jewett and his associates fitted out some twenty vessels which were immediately dispatched to the islands in question. mr. webster's letter to captain jewett, meantime, having accidentally been made public, the peruvian minister, senor osma, in three successive notes, represented to the government that the lobos islands were dependencies of peru, and that the united states could have no rightful claim to remove their valuable deposits. mr. webster replied to this claim on the st of august, by an elaborate argument showing that peru had hitherto, by repeated acts, sustained the position that the islands do not belong to any of the south american states. they lie about thirty miles from the shore, and are uninhabited and uninhabitable. citizens of the united states have visited them in pursuit of seals for half a century; and no complaint was made of this until , when peru issued a decree forbidding foreigners from visiting them for any such purpose. the united states chargé at lima immediately remonstrated against this decree, and requested its modification, so far as to permit citizens of the united states to continue pursuits in which they had been engaged for so many years. no reply was made to this remonstrance, and the citizens of the united states continued their avocations without any further interruption. mr. webster insists, therefore, that while these islands lie in the open ocean, so far from the coast of peru as not to belong to that country by the law of proximity or adjacent position, the government of peru has not exercised any such acts of absolute sovereignty and ownership over them as to give to her a right to their exclusive possession as against the united states and their citizens by the law of indisputable possession. the government of the united states is, however, disposed to give due consideration to all the facts of the case, and the president will therefore give such orders to the naval forces on that coast as will prevent collision until the case can be examined. an important report was made in the senate, on the th of august, by mr. mason, of virginia, from the committee on foreign relations, upon the subject of the right of way across the isthmus of tehuantepec, granted to don jose de garay, in march, , by santa anna, then vested with supreme power as president of mexico. the report, after mentioning this grant, and the stipulation contained in it that he, as well as any private individual or company succeeding him, native or foreign, should be protected in undisturbed enjoyment of all the concessions granted, states that on the th of february, , a decree was issued by general bravo, who had succeeded to the presidency, recognizing and affirming this grant, and directing the departments of oaxaca and vera cruz to put garay in possession of the lands ceded to him by its provisions. on the th of october, , santa anna, being restored to power, issued a further decree, directing the departments to furnish convicts to be employed on the work; and by another decree of december , , the time for commencing it was extended a year--until july , . in november, , general salas, having, by the course of revolution, become invested with supreme power as dictator, promulgated a decree, extending the time still further, namely, until november , ; and the work was actually commenced prior to that date. this is the history of the grant so long as it remained in the hands of garay. during the year various contracts were entered into by which he transferred the grant, with all its rights and privileges, to messrs. manning and mackintosh, subjects of great britain: and on the th of september, , these contracts were formally recognized and consummated at the city of mexico. on the th of february, , this grant was assigned to peter a. hargous, a citizen of the united states, who subsequently entered into a contract to assign the same to certain citizens of new orleans, on terms intended to secure the capital necessary to execute the work. in december, , a party of engineers was sent out by the american assignees, to complete the necessary surveys--who continued so employed until the month of june following, when they were ordered by the mexican government to discontinue the work and leave the country--a law having been passed by the mexican congress, and approved by the president, may , , declaring the garay grant to be null and void. upon this statement of facts concerning the origin and history of the grant, the report proceeds to show that its validity had been repeatedly recognized by the mexican government. in , president herrera issued orders to prevent cutting mahogany from these lands. in , while the treaty of peace was under discussion, mr. trist, by direction of our government, offered a large sum for the right of way across the isthmus; and was answered that "mexico could not treat of this subject because she had, several years before, made a grant to one of her own citizens, who had transferred his right, by authorization of the mexican government, to english subjects, of whose right mexico could not dispose." after the assignment of the grant to american citizens, moreover, the mexican government issued orders to the governors of the departments, directing them to afford all needed aid to the engineers, who were accordingly sent, the ports thrown open for their supplies, and over a hundred thousand dollars was expended upon the work. negotiations for a treaty of protection to the workmen were also opened, and the draft of a convention was concluded at mexico, in june, , and sent to the united states. certain modifications being suggested at washington, this draft was returned to our minister in mexico and a new convention was signed january , , with the approval of president herrera. this convention was ratified by the senate of the united states, and returned to mexico, and finally rejected by the mexican congress, in april, .--it is not pretended that this rejection of the convention affects in the slightest degree the validity of the grant. the sole ground upon which its annulment is claimed, is, that the decree of salas of november, , extending the time for commencing the work, was null and void, inasmuch as he held the supreme power by usurpation, or that he transcended his powers. "respect for the mexican government alone," says the report, "restrains the committee from treating of this position in the terms it deserves." the government of salas was acknowledged and submitted to by the people of mexico:--his decrees, this one included, were submitted to the congress--and not one of them was ever approved by congress, nor was his authority ever questioned at any other time, or in reference to any other decree. "the doctrine that the government _de facto_ is the government responsible, has been fully recognized by mexico herself, in the case of the dictatorship of salas, as of those who preceded him. it is a principle of universal law governing the intercourse of nations, with each other and with individuals, and this government can not, nor ought not, treat with indifference a departure from it by mexico in the present instance." the report concludes by referring to the unfriendly feeling which the proceedings of mexico indicate toward the united states, and by recommending the adoption of the following resolutions: "_resolved_, as the judgment of the senate, that in the present posture of the question on the grant of a right of way through the territory of mexico at the isthmus of tehuantepec, conceded by that republic to one of its citizens, and now the property of citizens of the united states, as the same is presented by the correspondence and documents accompanying the message of the president, it is not compatible with the dignity of this government to prosecute the subject further by negotiation. "_second_, should the government of mexico propose a renewal of such negotiations, it should be acceded to only upon distinct propositions from mexico, not inconsistent with the demands made by this government in reference to said grant. "_third_, that the government of the united states stands committed to all its citizens to protect them in their rights abroad, as well as at home, within the sphere of its jurisdiction; and should mexico, within a reasonable time, fail to reconsider her position concerning this grant, it will then become the duty of this government to review all existing relations with that republic, and to adopt such measures as will revive the honor of the country and the rights of its citizens." in louisiana a new constitution has been prepared by a state convention, which introduces several new features of importance into the fundamental law of that state. the right of suffrage and of eligibility to office has been considerably enlarged. every free, white male citizen of the united states, over twenty-one years of age, who has resided in the state a year, and in the parish six months previous to the election, is a qualified voter; and every qualified voter is eligible to either branch of the legislature. the legislature is to hold annual sessions--elections being held biennially.--the judges of the supreme court and of all the inferior courts are made elective;--the supreme court is to consist of a chief justice and four associates--their term of office to be ten years. the credit of the state may be pledged for corporations formed for the purpose of making internal improvements within the state, by subscriptions of stock, or by loans to the extent of one-fifth of the capital. all corporations with banking or discounting privileges are prohibited, as are all special laws for creating corporations. banking and discounting associations may be created either by general or special laws--but ample security must be required for the redemption of their notes in specie. the constitution may be amended by the concurrence of two-thirds of the members elected to both houses, and a ratification of the people at the next election, by a vote on every proposed amendment taken separately. the new constitution is to be submitted to the vote of the people on the first tuesday of november. a dreadful steamboat catastrophe occurred on lake erie on the th of august. the steam-propeller ogdensburgh ran into the steamer atlantic, striking her just forward of the wheel-house, and injuring her so seriously that, after going a mile or two toward the shore, she sunk. the propeller, not understanding the full damage of the collision, and anxious for her own safety, did not go to the rescue of her passengers until half an hour after the accident. more than a hundred persons lost their lives, the greater portion of them being norwegian emigrants huddled together on the forward deck, and unable, through their ignorance of english, to avail themselves of the means of safety suggested. very conflicting statements in regard to the cause of the collision have been published;--the night was not very dark, both vessels had signal lights and a watch on deck. the matter is undergoing judicial investigation.----on the hudson river still another accident occurred on the th of september. as the steamer _reindeer_ lay at the wharf at bristol landing, about forty miles below albany, one of her connection pipes burst, and _twenty-seven_ persons, mainly those in the after-cabin, were killed--fifty more being considerably injured.----a national convention of the free-soil party was held at pittsburgh on the th of august, at which john p. hale, of new hampshire, was nominated for president, and george w. julian, of indiana, for vice-president, as the candidates of that party.----a meeting of delegates is to be held at macon, georgia, on the th of october, for the purpose of calling an agricultural congress of the slaveholding states--the chief objects of which are declared to be to develope the resources, combine the energies, and promote the prosperity of the southern states, and to cultivate the aptitudes of the negro race for civilization; so that when slavery shall have fulfilled its mission, a system may be authorized which shall relieve the race from its servitude, without sinking it to the condition of the free negroes at the north and in the west indies. from california we have intelligence to the st of august. the intelligence is without any feature of special novelty. the mining prospects continue to be good, and very large amounts of gold continue to be procured. the whole amount shipped from california during the past year was over sixty-six millions of dollars. the miners in every section of the gold districts continue to receive abundant returns for their labor.----every mail brings a deplorable list of casualties and crimes in various parts of the state, the details of which it is unnecessary here to repeat. nearly all of the outrages occur in the more distant and thinly-settled sections of the country; and in most cases the perpetration of crime is followed by the speedy, and often the lawless infliction of chastisement.----the celebration of the fourth of july at san francisco was marked by the attendance in procession of a large body of chinese, who bore richly-decorated banners, got up in the style of their own country. the chinese continued to arrive in the country in great numbers, nearly four thousand having reached san francisco within a fortnight. the hostility of the miners toward them was abating. the arrival of emigrants from all quarters continued to be very great, , having landed between june st and july th. difficulties have arisen in the san joaquin district between the american miners and a party of french and spaniards, who were thought to have trespassed upon private rights: serious collisions were apprehended at one time, but a better state of feeling has been induced. it was currently reported that fresh movements were on foot for the conquest and annexation of southern california. in oregon, it is stated, valuable coal-mines have been discovered near st. helens, on the columbia river. the vein has been opened, and promises to be very extensive;--it is about two and a half feet thick, and has been traced for half a mile. the coal is remarkably pure. other mines have been discovered in the vicinity, but they have not yet been explored.----the agricultural prospects of the territory were very good. the population is stated at , , and is said to be rapidly increasing. a special session of the legislature had been called by governor gaines for july th. the gold mines in the southern part of the territory continued to yield fair returns. complaints are made by recently arrived emigrants of ill-treatment received at the hands of the mormons during their passage through the salt lake country. from the extreme north west--the british possessions near lake winnipeg--accounts of very disastrous floods have been received. the settlement established by the earl of selkirk in , which had grown into considerable importance as a point from which supplies were furnished to the fur companies of that region, and which contained about ten thousand inhabitants, had been nearly destroyed by freshets in the red river of the north, which began on the th of may, and reached their height about the th. dwellings, crops, and nearly all the products of twenty-five years' labor have been swept away: the damage is estimated at about a million of dollars. south america. from the _argentine republic_ we have intelligence of fresh political disturbances, indicating at least the temporary failure of the new and moderate system introduced by urquiza after the defeat and expulsion of rosas. the convention from the several provinces summoned by urquiza, met at san nicholas--ten of the thirteen provinces being represented by their governors, and adopted a constitution for the federation. it provided for abolishing the transit duties, and for the assembling of a congress at santa fé, which was to consist of two delegates from each province, to be selected by the popular vote, to be untrammeled by instructions, and the minority to conform to the decision of the majority, without dissent or protest. in order to defray the national expenses, the provinces agreed to contribute in proportion to the product of their foreign custom-houses, and that the permanent establishment of the duties shall be fixed by congress. to secure the internal order and peace of the republic, the provinces engage to combine their efforts in preventing open hostilities or putting down armed insurrections, and the better to promote these objects, general urquiza was recognized as general-in-chief of the armies of the confederation, with the title of provisional director of the argentine confederation. in the chambers of buenos ayres, very warm opposition was manifested to this convention: bitter and violent debates took place, and the popular clamor became so high that the governor lopez resigned his office; whereupon general urquiza dissolved the chambers, and took the supreme power into his own hands. in a communication sent by his order to the british chargé, he states that the anarchy into which the province was thrown, compelled him to take this step, and declares that he shall not extend the authority with which he is vested beyond the time and the measures necessary for the re-establishment of order in the province. he also issued a brief address to the governors of the provinces of the confederation, declaring that he should use the power they had conferred upon him in rendering effective the sovereign will of the nation, in repelling foreign aggressions, and in restraining the machinations of those who might seek to awaken the passions which had so often brought disaster upon them. he promised that, with their assistance, the argentine people should be presented before the world constituted, organized, and happy. "my political programme," he adds, "which is founded on the principles of order, fraternity, and oblivion of all the past--and all the acts of my public life, are the guarantee that i give you of the promise which i have just made, and, with it you may rest assured, that when the national congress has sanctioned the constitution of the state, and the confederated communities have entered into the constitutional path, i will deliver up to it the deposit you have confided to me, with a tranquil conscience, and without fearing the verdict of public opinion, or the judgment of posterity." after the dissolution of the chambers there were some symptoms of rebellion, but this proclamation restored order, and was well received. he ordered all the printing offices to be closed for a few days, and banished five of the leading opposition representatives from the country. the provisional government had been temporarily reinstalled: and in this position affairs were awaiting the meeting of congress, which was to take place in august.----in _brazil_, important steps have been taken toward commencing works of internal improvement. a company has been empowered to construct railways from rio janeiro to several towns in the interior, and an agreement is in progress between the imperial government and a private company for the regular navigation, by steamboats, of the amazon. the public revenue of brazil continued to increase. a project for granting government credit to aid in purchasing steamers to cruise against african slave-traders, was under discussion in the chambers, with a fair prospect of its passage.----from _ecuador_, we learn that the expedition planned and led by general flores against guyaquil, has been defeated and dispersed. the troops comprising it, consisting of chilians and americans, and numbering about nine hundred, deserted flores, and went over to general urbina, the president of ecuador, to whom the six vessels of the expedition were also given up. general flores himself escaped to tumbez. from the partial narrative of an officer engaged in the expedition, which is the only account of it yet published, the army of flores seems to have been singularly deficient in energy, discretion, and valor. one of the vessels was blown up on the d of july, by the discharge of a pistol by one of the men, who were drunk in the cabin: about thirty lives were lost by this casualty.----in _chili_, congress was in session at our latest date, july st. bills were under discussion to levy a direct tax on all property in cities and towns for municipal purposes: subjecting all schools to the control of the parish priests; and providing for the maintenance of the clergy. the telegraph from valparaiso to lima was in operation, and another line was projected to copiapo--which is at the head of the province whose silver deposits have yielded so abundantly of late: it is said that the export from that province for the year will amount to six millions of dollars. coal, said to be very little inferior to the best english coal, is found at talcahuana. labor and the necessaries of life were very high at valparaiso.----from _montevideo_, accounts to the th of june, state that the ratification of the brazilian treaties puts an end to all fear of another foreign war. the principal clauses of the convention agreed upon are the abandonment of the line of frontier which the treaties of october, , conceded to brazil, and the cession of the right of free navigation on lake merim to the oriental flag. mexico. the mexican republic is again agitated by threatening insurrections in various quarters, which the central government finds itself powerless to quell. in mazatlan and guadalajara strong bodies of insurgents, supported by the national guard, have maintained themselves against the government, which opposes them by decrees and commercial regulations instead of troops. upon the frontier the ravages of the indians continue to be most destructive. the government has invited proposals for the construction of a road across the isthmus of tehuantepec, and seems determined to resist the demands of the united states for the recognition of the garay grant. the mexican papers contain copious accounts of local disturbances and insurrections, the details of which it is needless here to repeat. the condition of the country is difficult and precarious in the extreme. rumors have been circulated of endeavors to secure the intervention of england and france, in order to give greater strength and stability to the government, and enable it to resist encroachments constantly apprehended from the united states: but there is no reason to believe they have as yet proved successful. cuba. the colonial government of cuba has discovered new and formidable conspiracies against the spanish authority in that island, and has made numerous arrests of suspected parties. during the months of june and july several numbers were clandestinely published and widely circulated, of a paper called _the voice of the people_, the object of which was to arouse the cubans to resistance of the spanish rule. for some time the efforts of the authorities to detect its editors, or the place of its publication, were ineffectual: but both were finally betrayed by parties who had become acquainted with them. the principal editor, however, had previously escaped to the united states. nearly all engaged upon it, so far as known, were either native cubans or spaniards. the cholera was very prevalent and destructive at havana, at our latest dates. great britain. parliament has been still farther prorogued until the th of october, when, it is announced, it will positively meet for the dispatch of business. with the close of the elections, political discussion seems to have been for the time suspended. there is great difficulty in deciding upon the party complexion of the new house of commons, owing to the mixed character of the contest. the most disinterested authorities, however, seem to warrant the belief that of the whole number of seats ( ), are filled by ministerialists, by free trade conservatives, by whigs proper, by radical reformers, irish members, and independents, while there are vacancies. upon the question of protection, the ministry seems to be in a hopeless minority; while upon other subjects, their majority is not large enough to be very reliable.----the queen left london on the th of august, for belgium: she returned on the th.----the dispute with the united states concerning the fisheries, has engrossed a good deal of public discussion in england--the greatest variety of views, of course, prevailing. the general current of opinion seemed to be, that, although a strict construction of treaties would sustain the course pursued by the english government, yet the fact that the rights claimed had lain in abeyance for many years, required a more considerate course of proceeding, and some longer notice of an intended change to the american parties interested. the latest advices represent that a mutual understanding had been had, which would obviate all present difficulty, and lead to the peaceful adjustment of the dispute. as to its basis or general tenor we have no intelligence sufficiently authentic to warrant publication here.----kossuth had reached london, where he was living in privacy. the english government is reported to have given austria satisfactory assurances that all due measures of precaution would be taken to prevent his presence in england from disturbing the friendly relations of the two countries.----news of fresh defeats continues to arrive from the cape of good hope. the natives not only keep the military at bay, but have in several instances acted with success on the offensive.----emigration to australia is still on the increase. no fewer than ships and vessels were entered outwards in great britain at one time, of which were loading at london alone.----active measures were in progress for enrolments under the new militia act.----the first column of the new crystal palace was erected at sydenham on the th of august, with becoming ceremonies. a large company was present, and speeches were made by several distinguished persons. the continent. since the adjournment of the legislative assembly, events in france have had less than usual interest. the president left paris on the th of july, to celebrate the opening of the railway between paris and strasbourg, which is now completed. he was received with eclat, reviewed the troops, and went to baden-baden, his main object being, according to rumor, to arrange for a matrimonial alliance with a daughter of prince gustave de vasa. he returned to paris on the th, where he had a military reception, generally described as lacking enthusiasm.----a change has been made in the ministry by the appointment of m. achille fould, minister of state, in place of m. casabianca. m. de cormenin, the well known pamphleteer, m. giraud, and m. persil have also become members of the council of state, in place of maillard, cornudet, and reverchon, resigned.----m. odillon barrot, declines to be a candidate for the assembly, asking, in his letter, what he can have to do with public affairs, "now that on the ruins of the constitutional and parliamentary government of his country, the most absolute power that exists in the world is establishing itself, not as a transient or a casual dictatorship but as a permanent government, when the mendacious forms of universal suffrage and popular election serve only to secure the return of candidates designated by the administration, and have only been preserved to give a false air of liberty to the sad and humiliating reality of despotism."----a decree has been issued authorizing to return immediately to france the ex-representatives creton, duvergier, thiers, chambolle, remusat, lasteyrie, laidet, and thouret. another decree removes the interdiction of january , to reside in france, against renaud, signard, joly, theodore bac, belin, besse, milloste, ex-representatives of the mountain.----the municipal elections that have recently been held are marked by the failure of voters to attend the polls. upon an average not one-fourth of the legal ballots have been cast; and this proves to be the case in those departments where a second election was ordered expressly to supply the defect in the first. this very general absence from the polls is noted as a significant indication of the little interest felt in the new government by the mass of the people.----the london chronicle has published the text of a treaty alleged to have been signed on the th of may, by the sovereigns of austria, russia, and prussia, in regard to the present and prospective condition of the french government. the contracting parties declared that, although they would respect the rule of louis napoleon as a temporary government, they would not recognize any french dynasty except the house of bourbon, and that they would reserve to themselves, in case of opportunity, the right to aid the restoration of the representative of the elder branch of that family. the authenticity of the document has been generally discredited, and, indeed, denied by austrian official journals.----addresses have been freely circulated throughout france urging the president to restore the empire. they are issued under the special direction of the authorities of the departments, who are appointed by the president; and yet it is represented that they are by no means numerously signed, and that but a small proportion of them are decidedly and frankly imperialist.----the th of august, napoleon's birthday, was signalized by _fêtes_ of extraordinary magnitude and splendor. the most elaborate and protracted preparations had been made for it; thousands and tens of thousands came in from all sections of the country to witness the display; and the occasion was one of unwonted brilliancy and splendor. grand exhibitions of the military, fireworks, scenes and shows skillfully calculated to recall the memory and the glory of napoleon, and a great ball at st. cloud signalized the occasion. the people of paris had been invited by official proclamation to illuminate their houses; but the noticeably sparse compliance with the request is remarked as more truly indicative of the sentiments of the people, than the elaborate exhibitions arranged by the government.----the anniversary of the taking of the bastile on the th of july, an occasion often commemorated by assembled thousands, and with great eclat, was celebrated this year by the deposit of a single crown on the railings of the column, performed by a lady; the symbol was instantly removed, and the lady and her husband were arrested.----marshal excelmans, a soldier of the empire, specially attached to murat, and a witness of the disaster of waterloo, was killed in paris by a fall from his horse, on the st of july. his funeral was numerously attended. count d'orsay, noted in the circles of fashion, and distinguished also for literary and artistic abilities, died on the th of august. from italy there is little intelligence beyond that of a system of wholesale arrests of suspected persons. at venice, mantua, and other cities, great numbers of influential persons have been thrown into prison, mainly in the hope, as is believed, that they may be induced or forced to reveal suspected conspiracies. warm disputes have occurred at rome between the french and roman soldiers. the mother of mazzini died of apoplexy, at genoa, on the th of august; her funeral was attended by a very large concourse of people.----in piedmont the government has resolved to resist and punish the abuse of the right of petition against the marriage bill, which, it is alleged, is made the pretext for agitating the country. several instances of severity toward the press have occurred.----in naples, mr. hamilton, an english protestant, relying on an article in the treaty of , set up a school in , for the education of swiss and english children. by degrees, government influence was used to drive away his pupils. the police have now forcibly closed the school. sir william temple was informed of the act, but it is not known what course the british government will pursue. in austria the most marked event of the month was the emperor's return to vienna, after his tour through hungary, where he is represented to have been received with the general enthusiasm of the people. the liberal papers allege that much of the cordiality with which he was greeted in the hungarian portion of his dominions, was prearranged, and that the real sentiments of the people were in no wise indicated by it. he reached vienna on the th of august, and had a magnificent reception. he was to leave on the th for ischl.----the budget for the year shows a deficit of over fifty-five millions of florins. in switzerland nothing of special interest has occurred. the national council, after three days' debate, has rejected a petition presented by conservatives of the canton of fribourg, praying for an alteration of the cantonal constitution, by a vote of to . it was regarded as an attempt to renew the troubles of the sonderbund, under the guise of reforming the constitution. at the same sitting, on the th of august, the council decided upon remitting to the cantons the remainder of the debt created by the troubles of . the money is to be applied to the completion of certain scholastic institutions, or to the extinction of pauperism, or to the construction of railways, common roads and canals, subject to the approbation of the federal executive. it is stated that the prussian minister at the helvetic confederation, has formally demanded the re-establishment of the ancient political relations with prussia in the canton of neufchatel. the grand council of that canton, on the th of july, decreed the suppression of a society of the partisans of prussia by votes to . from belgium intelligence has been received that a convention has been concluded between the belgian and dutch governments for the amalgamation of the railways of the two countries. the great trunk line beginning at antwerp will be continued to rotterdam, and so be put into communication with the whole of the netherlands. it is stated, upon good authority, that the bavarian government has engaged to pay , , florins to the administration of the palatinate railway, on condition that the latter shall undertake to execute the works on the line from ludwigshafen to wissemburg speedily. this is the point to which the strasburg railway is to be continued beyond the french frontier.----a change has occurred in the belgian ministry. the commercial regulations between france and belgium are placed under the _régime_ of the common law, the treaty of not having been renewed. from turkey we learn that mr. marsh, the american minister, left constantinople on the th of july for athens, whither he goes to investigate the circumstances attending the arrest and imprisonment of the american missionary, dr. king. previous to leaving he had an audience with the sultan.----numerous and very destructive fires have recently occurred in constantinople--two or three thousand houses having been burned.----fresh and interesting discoveries are said to have been made at nineveh by m. place, the french consul at mosul; he is said to have found a series of paintings upon marble in vermillion and marine blue.----steam navigation has lately increased greatly at constantinople. more than twenty steamers now ply daily in the bosphorus and the sea of marmora. it is said that a russian company is about to be formed, which will have twenty vessels to run in opposition to these now established. editor's table. the sabbath presents the most purely religious, and, at the same time, the least sectarian of all moral questions. it has, however, been generally regarded under two aspects, and defended on two distinct if not opposing grounds. one of these may be called the scriptural or theological, the other the physical or secular. one class of advocates would lay the greatest stress on its divine appointment, the other upon its worldly advantages. one would magnify its ecclesiastical, the other its political and social importance. without entering at length upon either of these arguments, in our present editorial musings, it is enough for us to state that those who would defend it as a permanent divine institution, rely mainly on the remarkable passage in genesis announcing the divine rest from creation, and the sanctification of the seventh period of time, the fourth commandment as confirmatory of the same, and the early and continued example of the primitive christian church, as evidence of a divinely-authorized change from the seventh day of the jewish calendar to that on which christ rose from the dead. the other argument, which may be denominated the physical or secular, is a great favorite with writers and speakers of a certain class, who would be thought to be friends of the observance of the sabbath, and all moral institutions connected with it, and yet would prefer to advocate them on grounds less strictly religious. these dwell much on the physical advantages of a day of rest. they enter into calculations respecting the maximum time of human and animal exertion, and the minimum period of relaxation required to counterbalance its effects upon the physical system. it is with them mainly a problem of political economy,--a question of production,--of prices,--of the increase or diminution of individual or national wealth. in these respects the value of the sabbath is carefully measured by statistical tables. figures "which can not lie" prove it to be a very useful institution, and the divine wisdom is greatly lauded in the contrivance of such an admirable means for preserving a healthful equilibrium in the industrial and business world. we would, however, by no means speak slightingly of such supposed ends, or of such an argument in support of them. "does god take care for oxen?" the language of the apostle is not an ironical negative, as some might suppose, but an _a fortiori_ argument to show his higher care for man, and above all, for man's spiritual well-being. we may rationally suppose that higher purposes are harmoniously conjoined with lower in the divine mind. it is not unworthy of the author of the universe to have established such a harmony between the physical and the spiritual worlds. the bible plainly speaks of things which "have the promise both of this life and of that which is to come," and among these the right observance of the sabbath would doubtless hold a distinguished place. it is the great connecting bond between the political and the religious, between social virtue and the individual devoutness, between the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace,--in short, between all secular and all spiritual moralities. we can not well conceive of either squalid poverty or debasing vice in a community distinguished for its intelligent reverence of the sabbath. such reverence, however, could not well exist or long be maintained, where the secular utilities, true and valuable as they may be, are the only or even the chief motives appealed to. the temporal loses not only its moral excellence, but its power even for temporal good, when wholly severed from the spiritual. neither is there sufficient support for sabbatical institutions in the merely merciful idea of bodily relaxation. we are still in the region of secular benevolence, and without some influence from a higher world of motive and feeling, the sacred idea of _rest_ will inevitably degenerate, and give place to its demoralizing counterfeits--idleness--dissipation--and vice. thus could it be shown, that even for the best secular ends, a sabbath divested of the religious element would be far worse that unintermitted labor. but we would hasten to another and a third view, which may be characterized as being more catholic, or rather less sectarian, than the first, and, at the same time, more spiritual, or less secular, than the second. to firm believers in the positive divine institution of the sabbath (among whom we have no hesitation in avowing ourselves) the merely worldly argument would appear, sometimes, to betray, rather than support, the very cause it professes to advocate. on the other hand, there are, doubtless, many inquiring minds to whom the scriptural argument seems more or less defective, but who would, nevertheless, accept a more elevated and more religious view than the one we have denominated the physical or the secular. there are good men, very good men, and honest believers, too, in the written revelation, who have a prejudice against any thing positively outward and ritual in religion, on the ground of its savoring too much of what they deem the obsolete jewish economy. there are others who do not so accept the plenary inspiration of the scriptures, that they would regard as conclusive any merely exegetical or traditionary argument. there are those, again, who wholly reject the authority of the commonly-received revelation. there are men who go farther than this--pantheists,--scientific theists, who recognize only an impersonal power and wisdom--men on the very verge of atheism, and some beyond all limits that the most tender charity can regard as separating us from that doleful region. and yet among them all--may we not say it without giving just offense to the strictest believer--among them all there may be sober men, thinking men, deeply serious men, for whom it is possible, and, if possible, most desirable, to frame an argument for a sabbath that may steer clear of the apparent difficulties in the one view, and the really lowering and unspiritualizing tendency of the other. let those, then, who feel strong in that position, ground their reverence for the sabbath in a positively revealed divine appointment. among them would we class ourselves, even while endeavoring so to widen the platform as to embrace as many others as possible. let those, again, who can take no higher view than that derived from its physical benefits, hold fast to such a faith. frail as the plank may seem, it may deliver them from the shipwreck of total unbelief. the view indeed is a low one, and yet, if honestly held, may conduct the mind to a higher estimate. it is something,--it is much,--to believe truly that in the physical arrangements of the world, god has shown this kind care for our material well-being. if the soul is not utterly buried in earthliness, the thought of such a concern for the body must _tend_, at least, to the higher idea of a still higher concern for the blessedness of our spiritual nature. now it is in this thought we find that third view of the sabbath which must have an interest, we would charitably hope, for all the classes that have been mentioned. many believe that we need a day for special religious _worship_; others hold to the necessity of a day of _bodily rest_. but do we not all--whatever may be our creed, our belief or our unbelief--need a day, an oft-recurring day, of _serious thought_? whatever may be our faith, or want of faith, every man who has not wholly sunk down into the mere animal nature, needs periods, oft-recurring and stated periods, in which he shall yield his whole soul to the questions--- _what_ am i? _where_ am i? _whence_ came i? _why_ am i here? _what_ have i to do? _how_ am i doing it? _whither_ am i going? the tremendous interest of these questions is not to be measured by the excess or deficiency of our creeds, unless it be that the very lack of belief invests them with a more immeasurable importance, or that each presents a more serious problem for serious minds, until we come down to that "horror of great darkness," the death of all faith in a supernatural or truly spiritual world. take the man who calls himself the liberal or free-thinking christian. we have no objection to the title, or want of charity toward him who assumes it. he needs a sabbath for intense thought, not so much on the argumentative evidence of particular dogmas, as on the great yet simple questions, whether the liberality of his opinions, and the few difficulties they present to his own mind, may not be evidence of their having no foundation in any wide system of eternal truth,--whether a religious creed that has no profound awe for the soul, no fearful apprehensions, no deep moral anxieties, no absorbing interest in a life to come, does not, from the very fact of such deficiency, prove itself a contradiction and a lie. so too the man who is but beginning to doubt the full inspiration of the scriptures needs a period of most earnest meditation on the risk he may be running of giving up an only guide, whose place can never be made good by any thing in nature, philosophy, or science. the professed infidel needs a sabbath, an oft-recurring sabbath, of serious thought on that question of questions--has god indeed ever spoken to man, or spoken at all, except through physical laws?--has the awful stillness of nature been ever broken by a true voice from a true supernatural world?--and the atheist, too,--has he no need of a sabbath, a frequent day of thought and thoughtfulness, in which he may call up and spread before his mind, in all their fearful importance, the sombre articles of his own dark creed? for creed indeed he has, unsurpassed in solemnity by that of any religionist. it has been quite common to deny the possibility of atheism, but the history of the world and of the church is showing that it is the only legitimate antagonism to a true belief in positive revelation. the shallow sciolist may not perceive it, and yet this is the dark conclusion in which some of his favorite speculations must inevitably terminate. there is no man, therefore, who has a stronger demand upon our most tender charity than the atheist. no belief presents greater difficulties, and yet there is no one to which the thinking mind is more strongly impelled, when it has once learned to distrust the lamp of revelation, and to see only shadows and spectres in that "_light shining in a dark place_, and to which we do well to take heed, until the day dawn and the eternal day star arise in our souls." no man, then, we repeat it, stands more in want of a sabbath than the atheist. no man has greater need of some such seasons in which he may perhaps find a cure for his dreadful spiritual blindness by giving himself up to all the terrific consequences of his gloomy creed. let him devote one day in seven to the sober contemplation of a universe without a god, without a providence, without prayer, without a moral government,--religion, reverence, and worship forever dead and gone,--buried with them in their graves all that was most touching in poetry, beautiful in art, elevating in science, or sublime in philosophy,--all moral distinctions perished, of course, except those base counterfeits which resolve themselves into the pursuit of physical pleasure, or the avoidance of physical pain. let him think of worlds on worlds teeming with life, yet all surrendered to the wheels of a blind and inexorable nature crushing on eternally with her mindless laws,--revolving in her slow but endlessly-recurring cycles,--making every seeming advance but the forerunner of the direst catastrophes of ruin,--or else in an apparent endless progression ever sacrificing individual parts and individual personalities to soulless wholes, yet furnishing to our philosophy no satisfactory ground on which to decide the question, whether the eternal drama in its most universal estimate is any more likely to be one of happiness than of intense and hopeless misery. let the atheist, and the unbeliever who is on the road to atheism, fix his mind on thoughts like these until he begins to have some conception of what it is to be "without god and without hope in the world." let him dwell on this sad orphanage, until in the intolerable loneliness of his spirit he is driven for shelter to the idea of a personal law-making, law-executing deity, and is forced to admit that no doctrine of moral retribution, however stern, no creed, even of the most gloomy and fanatical religionist, ever presented so many difficulties as a rejection of those ideas on which all religion is founded. again, we need seasons of thought and thoughtfulness, not only on the ground that they are rational and demanded by the dignity of our rational nature, but because, moreover, they constitute the _true rest_ of the soul. it is a gross and pernicious error that would make the idea of rest, especially spiritual rest, the same with that of indolence and passivity. it is as false as it would be in physics to confound rest with inertia. the former is the opposite of motion simply, the latter the negation of strength and force. rest is equilibrium, a duality of forces;--indolence the loss of the soul's balance, and the consequent prostration of its power. rest is refreshing; renewing, strengthening, recuperative;--indolence the generator of a greater and still greater lassitude. rest is a positive,--indolence a negative state. rest is resistance (_re-sto_), recovery, internal energy,--indolence a base and effeminate yielding, ever followed by a loss of spiritual vitality. it is in the light of such a contrast we see how very different a thing is this true rest of the soul from that dissipation, or vacancy of all thought, with which some would confound it. else it would not be held out to us, in the scriptures, as the peculiar bliss, or blessedness, of the heavenly world. the idea this sweet and holy word presents to the contemplative mind is, indeed, the opposite of a busy, bustling, _restless_ progress, the highest conception of which is an ever lasting movement of the intellect adding fact to fact, each as unsatisfactory as the preceding, and never bringing the soul nearer to any perfect quietude; but then, on the other hand, it is not the vacant passivity of which the transcendental buddhist dreams, any more than the indolent lassitude of the epicurean paradise. it is a contemplative energy, finding repose in itself, and deriving sustaining strength from its calm upward gaze upon the highest and most invigorating truth. in such an _upward_ rather than _onward_ movement is found the proper end and highest value of the christian sabbath. suave tempus consecratum spiritus ad requiem. it is the nature of this elevated communion to strengthen instead of wearying the soul, and hence to impart to it a new energy for the performance of the duties of life. we would confidently test the truth of these positions by an appeal to practical experience. there is exhibited now and then, a vast deal of sentimental philanthropy in decrying what are called the religious abuses of the sabbath. it proceeds generally from those who would confine themselves to the physical or purely secular view. great stress is laid on mere bodily relaxation. utter vacancy, too, of mind, or what is worse, mere pleasure-seeking is held forth as the source of refreshment from past labors, and of recovered strength for those to come. the toil-worn mechanic is invited to the place of popular amusement, or to convey himself and his family to some scene of rural enchantment and festivity. we are pointed for appropriate examples to the parks of london, and the boulevards of paris. the sabbath, they say, is a noble institution; but then there should be great care to guard against the perversions of pharisaic or puritanical bigotry. it may be well to give a part of the day to the services of religion; but then, the purest religion consists in admiring god's works in the natural world; and the poor laborer who can take his wife and children on a ride to bloomingdale, or indulges them with a walk in the elysian fields, is performing a more acceptable service than he who makes the sabbath a weariness by confining himself to his own dwelling, or spending any considerable part of it within the still more gloomy walls of some religious conventicle. we would not impeach the motives or the philanthropy of those who talk in this style. doubtless they are sincere; for there is certainly an extreme plausibility in such a view of the matter, especially as respects that class who have no other day of relaxation. there are parts of the picture, too, to which the sternest sabbatarian would take no objection, if in any way they could be practically separated from the rest. pure air is certainly favorable, not only to the physical, but to the moral health. the observation of nature, to say the least, is not opposed to devotion, although it requires some previous devotion to make that observation what it ought to be, or to prevent its being consistent with the most profane and godless state of the mind and heart. where these can be enjoyed without danger of perverted example, or other evils, which, in respect to our crowded city population are almost inseparable from such indulgence, he must be a bigot indeed who would deny them to the poor, or regard them as a desecration of the sabbath. but there is another side to this picture, and other truths having a bearing upon the argument, in support of which we might let go all a priori reasoning, and appeal directly to facts of observation. we will not take an extreme case, or rather, what is well known to be a common case with the sabbath haunters of hoboken and other rural purlieus. we will not take the intemperate, the gambling, or the debauched. let two sober and industrious families be selected from the ranks of the laboring poor. one man devotes the day to pleasant rural excursions with his wife and children. we would not pass upon him a sanctimonious censure, although we might doubt the philosophy as well as the piety of his course. he has abstained from intoxicating drinks, from the lower sensual indulgences, from profane and vicious company. but he has sought simply relaxation for the body, and the negative pleasure of vacancy or of passive musing for the mind. the other pater-familias would, indeed, desire pure air for himself and little ones, purer air than can be obtained in the confined and populous street, and under other circumstances he would, doubtless, freely indulge in such a luxury; but then he knows there is a higher atmosphere still--a spiritual atmosphere--and that this, above all others, is the day in which he is to breathe its purity, and inhale a new inspiration from its invigorating life. he kneels with his children around the morning household altar--he goes with them to the sabbath-school and to church--the remainder of the day is spent in devotion or meditation--and the evening, perhaps, is given to the social prayer-meeting. oh, the gloomy drudgery! some would be ready to exclaim. we would not deny that there might be excess even here; but can we hesitate in deciding which of these two families will proceed to their weekly toil on monday morning with more invigoration of spirit--ay, and of body, too, derived from the soul's refreshment? to which has the day been the truest _sabbath_, the most real _test_? in deciding this question, we need only advert to our former analysis. there has been, in the one case, an utter mistaking of the true idea of rest. experience has shown, and ever will show, that all mere pleasure-seeking, for its own sake, all vacancy or passivity of soul, ever exhausts, ever dissipates, and, in the end, renders both mind and body less fitted for the rugged duties of life than continued labor itself. in the train of these evils come also satiety, disappointment, a sense of personal degradation that no philosophy can wholly separate from idle enjoyment; and all these combined produce that aversion to regular labor, which is so often to be observed as the result of an ill-spent sabbath. the body, it is true, belonging as it does wholly to the world of material nature, needs the repose of passivity; but the spirit can never indulge itself long in conscious indolence without risking the loss of spiritual power as well as moral dignity. its true rest--we can not too often repeat it--is not the rest of _inertia_, but that which comes from an intercommuning with a higher world of thought and a higher sphere of spiritual life. this it finds in those great truths christianity has brought down to us, and by the weekly exhibition of which, more than any thing else, our modern world is distinguished from the ancient. the picture we have presented of the sabbath-keeping laborer is no rare or fancy sketch. the socialist, indeed, ignores his existence. such writers as fourier, and prudhom, and louis blanc, and victor hugo, and martineau, know nothing about him. they see, and are determined to see, in the condition of the poor only a physical degradation, from which their own earthy and earthly-minded philosophy can alone relieve him. nothing is more wholly inconceivable to a philanthropist of this class than what chalmers styles "the charm of intercourse" with the lowly pious, or the moral sublime of that character--_the christian poor man_. and yet it is neither rare nor strange. we make bold to affirm that it may be realized in almost every church in our city. in this thought, too, do we find the surest test of all true social reforms. a dislike of the sabbath, and especially of its religious observance, is an indication of their character that can not be mistaken. it is the ithuriel's spear to detect every species of spurious philanthropy. we would not impeach the benevolent sincerity of these warm advocates of socialism. we would commend their zeal to the imitation of our christian churches. but still it is for us a sufficient objection to the phalanx and the social commune that _they know no sabbath_. periods of festivity and relaxation they acknowledge, but no fixed days of holy spiritual rest, of serious thought, of soul-expanding and soul-invigorating meditation on the great things of another life. radical as they boast to be, they present no recognition of that most radical truth, the ground of all real reforms, and so full of encouragement to the real reformer, that physical depression can not possibly continue for any length of time where there has been a true spiritual elevation--or, in other words, that this world can only be lifted from its sunken, miry social degradation by keeping strong and firmly fastened every chain that binds it to the world above. to these ends it is not enough that each one should determine for himself the portion and proportion of his own sabbatical times. "six days shalt thou labor; but the seventh is the sabbath of the lord." we urge it not as scriptural proof--which would be contrary to the leading design and method of our argument--but as illustrative of the importance of one recurring period for all, and of the benefits to be derived from a community of act and feeling in its observance. we need all the strength that can come from a common prejudice, if any should choose so to call it, in favor of certain stated and well-known times. in distinction from the profanity that would utterly deny a sabbath, there is a false hyper-spiritualism that would make all seasons, all places, and all acts, alike _holy_--or, in its sentimental cant, every day a sabbath, every work a worship, and every feeling a prayer. now, besides destroying the radical sense of the word _holy_, this is in opposition alike to scripture and to human experience. both teach us that there must be (at least in our present state) alternations of the holy and the common, the spiritual and the worldly, and that each interest is periled, as well by their false fusion, as by that destruction of the true analogy which would cause the one to be out of all proportion to the other. a stated period, too, is required to give intensity to thought and warmth to devotion. the greatest pleasure of a truly devout mind, is in the idea of contemporary communion with others, and nothing is more repugnant to it than a proud reliance upon its own individual spirituality. to give the day, then, all its rightful power over the soul, there is needed that hallowed character which can only come from what may be called a sacred conventionality. every one who has been brought up in a religious community must feel the force of this, even if he does not understand its philosophy. in consequence of it, the sabbath seems to differ, physically, as well as morally, from all other days. in its deep religiousness every thing puts on a changed appearance. nature reposes in the embrace of a heavenly quietude. there seems to be a different air, a different sky; the clouds are more serene; the sun shines with a more placid glory. there is a holiness in the trees, in the waters, in the everlasting hills, such as the mind associates with no other period. thousands have felt it, but never was it better described than in the lines of leyden: with silent awe i hail the sacred morn, that scarcely wakes while all the fields are still; a soothing calm on every breeze is borne, a graver murmur echoes from the hill, and softer sings the linnet from the thorn, the sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill-- hail light serene! hail sacred sabbath morn! or in those verses of graham, which, if an imitation, are certainly an improvement--especially in the moral conception which forms the close of his entrancing picture: calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud, the black-bird's note comes mellower from the dale; and sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; while from yon lowly roof whose curling smoke o'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals the voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. editor's easy chair. an old gentleman's letter. the story of "the bride of landeck." the small town of landeck, in the vorarlberg, is surrounded by mountains, which take exceedingly picturesque forms from their peculiar geological structure. i can not stop in my tale to enter into any details regarding the geology of the country; but i remember once talking to buckland about it, when i met him with professor sedgwick at the english cambridge, some two or three-and-twenty years ago. poor buckland has, i hear, since fallen into indifferent health; but at the period i speak of he was full of life and energy, and one of the most entertaining men i ever met. our acquaintance was of no long duration; for i was hurrying through that part of the world with great rapidity, and had hardly time to accomplish all that i proposed. i saw a great deal of him, however, and heard a great deal of him then, and once afterward; and there was a certain sort of enthusiastic simplicity about him, not uncommon in men of science, which made him the subject of many good stories, whether true or false i will not pretend to say. his fondness for every thing connected with the subject of natural history amounted to a complete passion; and he was not at all scrupulous, they said, as to whom it was exercised upon. i heard a laughable anecdote illustrative of this propensity. there had been, shortly before, a great meeting at oxford of scientific men, and of those fashionable hangers-on upon the skirts of science, who feeling themselves but so many units in the mass of the _beau monde_, seek to gain a little extrinsic brilliancy from stars and comets, strata, atoms, and machinery. buckland asked a good number of the most distinguished of all classes to dine with him on one of the days of this scientific fair. during the morning he delivered a lecture in his lecture-room before all his friends upon comparative anatomy--showed the relation between existing and extinct species of animals--exhibited several very perfect specimens of fossil saurians--dissected a very fine alligator sent to him from the mississippi--washed his hands--walked his friends about oxford, and went home to dinner. his house and all his establishment were in good style and taste. his guests congregated; the dinner table looked splendid, with glass, china, and plate, and the meal commenced with excellent soup. "how do you like that soup?" asked the doctor, after having finished his own plate, addressing a famous _gourmand_ of the day. "very good, indeed," answered the other; "turtle, is it not? i only ask because i did not find any green fat." the doctor shook his head. "i think it has somewhat of a musky taste," said another; "not unpleasant, but peculiar." "all alligators have," replied buckland. "the cayman peculiarly so. the fellow whom i dissected this morning, and whom you have just been eating--" there was a general rout of the whole guests. every one turned pale. half-a-dozen started up from table. two or three ran out of the room and vomited; and only those who had stout stomachs remained to the close of an excellent entertainment. "see what imagination is," said buckland. "if i had told them it was turtle, or terrapin, or birds'-nest soup--salt water amphibia or fresh, or the gluten of a fish from the maw of a sea bird, they would have pronounced it excellent, and their digestion been none the worse. such is prejudice." "but was it really an alligator?" asked a lady. "as good a calf's head as ever wore a coronet," answered buckland. the worthy doctor, however, was sometimes the object, as well as the practicer of jokes and hoaxes. i remember hearing him make a long descriptive speech regarding some curious ancient remains which had been displayed to him by mr. b----, who was neither more nor less than a notorious _charlatan_. they consisted in conical excavations, at the bottom of which were found various nondescript implements, which passed with the worthy doctor as curious relics of an almost primæval age. one third of the room at least was in a laugh during the whole time; for the tricks of the impostor who had deceived the professor--very similar to those of doctor dousterswivel--had been completely exposed about a year before at lewis, in sussex; and witty barham, the well-known tom ingoldsby, handed about the room some satirical verses struck off upon the occasion. indeed, though eminent as a geologist and palæontologist, buckland went out of his depth when he dabbled in antiquarian science. but with a weakness common to many englishmen of letters, he aimed greatly at universality; and in the same day i have heard him deliver a long disquisition upon the piercing of stone walls by a peculiar sort of snail, and a regular oration upon the spontaneous combustion of pigeons' dung. the celebrated whewell, whom i met at the same time, was another who aimed at universal knowledge, but with better success. there was no subject could be started which he was not prepared to discuss on the instant, and i heard of an attempt made to puzzle him, which recoiled with a severe rap upon the perpetrators thereof. four young but somewhat distinguished men determined to put whewell's readiness at all points to the test the first time they should meet him together, by starting some subject agreed upon between them, the most unlikely for a clergyman and a mathematician to have studied. the subject selected, after much deliberation, was chinese musical instruments. the last edition of the encyclopædia britannica was obtained, and studied diligently; and then whewell was invited to dinner. music, musical instruments, chinese musical instruments, were soon under discussion. whewell was perfectly prepared, entered into all the most minute details, and gave the most finished description of every instrument, from a mandarin gong to a one-stringed lute. at length, however, the young men thought they had caught him at fault. he differed from the encyclopædia, and the statements of that great work were immediately thrown in his teeth. "i know that it is so put down," answered whewell, quietly; "but it will be altered in the next edition. when i wrote that article, i was not sufficiently informed upon the instrument in question." english universities are often very severely handled by would-be reformers. but one thing is perfectly certain, whatever may be the faults in their constitution, they have produced, and do still produce, men of deeper, more extensive, and more varied information than any similar institutions in the world. too much license, indeed, is sometimes allowed to the young men, and sometimes, especially in former ages, this has produced very sad and fatal results. at a small supper party, to which i was invited at st. john's college, during my visit to cambridge, a little story of college life in former times was related, which made a deep impression upon me. two young men, the narrator said, matriculated in the same year at one of the colleges--i think it was at st. john's itself; but am not quite sure. the one was a somewhat fiery, passionate youth, of the name of elliot: the other grave, and somewhat stern; but frank, and no way sullen. his name was bailey. as so frequently happens with men of very dissimilar character, a great intimacy sprang up between them. they were sworn friends and companions; and during the long vacation of the second year, bailey spent a great portion of his time at the house of elliot's mother. in those days, before liberal notions began to prevail, this was considered as an honor; for bailey was a man of aristocratic birth, and elliot a plebeian. there was a great attraction in the house, however; for besides his mother, a sickly and infirm woman, elliot's family comprised a sister, "the cynosure of neighboring eyes." after their return to college, in one of their drinking bouts, then but too common, a quarrel took place among a number of the college youths: the officers of the university interfered, and one of them received a dangerous blow from bailey, which put his life in jeopardy. it was judged necessary for him to fly immediately, and at the entreaty of his friend he sought an asylum in the house of elliot's mother. after the lapse of several days, the wounded officer of the college was pronounced out of danger, and elliot set out to inform his friend of the good tidings. precaution, however, was still necessary, as the college officers were still in pursuit; and he went alone, and on horseback, by night, with pistols at his saddle bow, as was then customary. the distance he had to ride was some two-and-thirty miles and he arrived about midnight. like all young men of his temperament, elliot was fond of dreaming dreams. he had remarked the admiration of his friend for his sister, to whom he was devotedly attached, and her evident love for him, and he had built up a little castle in the air in regard to their union, and her elevation to station and fortune. as he approached the house, no windows showed a light but those of his sister's room, and putting the horse in the stable himself, he took the pistols from the holsters, approached the house, and quietly opened the door. a great oak staircase, leading from the hall to the rooms above, was immediately within sight with the top landing, on the right of which lay his mother's chamber, and on the left that of his sister. the young man's first and natural impulse was to look up; but what was his surprise, indignation, and horror, when he beheld the door of his sister's room quietly open, and the figure of bailey glide out upon the landing. for a moment there was a terrible struggle within him; but he restrained himself, and in as calm a tone as he could assume, said, "come down--i want to speak with you." without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment, bailey came down, and followed him out into an avenue of trees which led up to the house. the only question he asked was--"is the man dead?" "come on, and i will tell you," answered the other; and when they had got some hundred yards from the house, he suddenly turned, and struck bailey a violent blow on the face, exclaiming, "villain and scoundrel! give me instant satisfaction for what you have done this night. there's a pistol.--no words; for by ---- either you or i do not quit this ground alive!" bailey attempted to speak; but the other would not hear him, and struck him again with the butt end of the pistol. the young man's blood was roused. he snatched the weapon from his hand, and retired a few paces into the full moonlight. elliot gave the words, "one, two, three," and the two pistols were fired almost at the same moment. the next morning, at an early hour, mrs. elliot, now very ill, said to her daughter, who had been watching by her bedside all night, "i wish, my dear child, you would send some one to mr. bailey, to say i desire to speak with him. after what passed between us three the day before yesterday, i am sure he will willingly relieve a mother's anxiety, and let me see you united to him before i die. it must be very speedy, emma; for my hours are drawing to a close, and i fear can not even be protracted till your dear brother can be sent for." emma elliot gazed at her mother for a moment with tearful eyes, and then answered, as calmly as she could, "i can call him myself, mamma. he sleeps in my old room now, since the wind blew down the chimney of that he had formerly." "no, send one of the servants," said her mother; and in a few minutes after, mr. bailey was in the room. he was a man of a kind heart, and generous feelings, and but the slightest shade of hesitation in the world was visible in the consent he gave to an immediate union with emma elliot; but both she and her mother remarked that he was deadly pale. the laws of england were not so strict in those times as they are now in regard to marriage. the clergyman's house was not more than a stone's throw from the dwelling, and the priest was instantly summoned and came. "it is strange," he said. "mr. bailey," just before the ceremony. "as i walked up the avenue, i saw a great pool of blood." "nothing else?" asked mr. bailey, with a strange and bewildered look. "there were poachers out last night," said the old housekeeper, who had been brought into the room as one of the witnesses; "for i heard two shots very close to the house." never was a joyful ceremony more melancholy--in the presence of the dying--with the memory of the dead. after it was over, one little circumstance after another occurred to arouse fears and suspicions. a strange, hired horse was found in the stable. then came the news from cambridge that young elliot had set out the night before, no one knew whither. then two pistols were found in the grass by the side of the avenue. then drops of blood, and staggering steps were traced across the grass court to a small shrubbery which led to the back of the house, and there the dead body of the son and brother was found, lying on its face, as if he had fallen forward in attempting to reach a door in the rear of the building. mrs. elliot died that night, without having heard of her son's fate. investigations followed: every inquiry was made; and a coroner's jury was summoned. they returned what is called an open verdict, and the matter passed away from the minds of the general public. but there was one who remembered it. there was one upon whose mind it wore and fretted like rust upon a keen sword blade. his home was bright and cheerful; his wife was fond, faithful, and lovely; beautiful children grew up around his path like flowers; riches were his, and worldly honors fell thick upon him; but day by day he grew sterner and more sad; day by day the cloud and the shadow encompassed him more densely. of his children he was passionately fond; and his wife--oh, how terribly he loved her! happy for him, she was not like many women--like too many--whom affection spoils, whom tenderness hardens, who learn to exact in proportion to that which is given, and who, when the utmost is done, still, "like the horse-leeches' daughter, cry 'more, more!'" he adored, he idolized her. her lightest wish, her idlest fancy--her caprices, if she had any--were all gratified as soon as they were formed. opposition to her will seemed to him an offense, and disobedience to her lightest command by any of her household, was immediately checked or punished. was he making retribution?--was he trying to atone?--was he seeking to compensate for a great injury? god only knows. but happy, happy for him that emma bailey was not like other women; that spoiling could not spoil her: that indulgence had no debasing effect. still he grew more sad. it might be that every time he held her to his heart, he remembered that he had slain her brother. it might be, that when she gazed into his eyes, with looks of undiminished love and confidence, he felt that there was a dark secret hidden beneath the vail through which he fancied she saw him, which, could she have beheld it, would have turned all that passionate affection to bitterness and hate. it might be that he knew he was deceiving--the saddest, darkest, most despairing consciousness that can overload the heart of man. at length, a time came, when confidence--if ever confidence was to be given upon this earth--was necessary upon his part. he was struck with fever. he had over-exerted himself in some works of humanity among his poorer neighbors. it was a sickly season. god had given one of those general warnings, which he sometimes addresses to nations and to worlds--warnings, trumpet-tongued; but against which men close their ears. he fell sick--very sick. the strength of the strong man was gone: the stout heart beat feebly though quick: the energies of the powerful brain were at an end; and wild fancies, and chaotic memories reveled in delirious pranks, where reason had once reigned supreme. he spoke strange words in his wanderings; but emma sat by his bedside night and day, gazing upon his wan, pale face and glazed eye, smoothing his hot pillow, holding his clammy hand, moistening his parched lip. sometimes overpowered with weariness, a moment's slumber blessed her away from care; and then, when the critical sleep came, how she watched, and wept, and prayed! he woke at length. a nurse and physician were in the room; and the first said he looked much better; the second said he hoped the crisis was past. but the husband beckoned the wife to him, and she kneeled beside him, and threw her arms over him, and leaned her head with its balmy tresses upon his aching bosom. "i have something to tell you," he said, in a faint voice. "it will be forth. it has torn and rent me for many a year. now, that the presence of god is near to me, it must be spoken. bring your ear nearer to me, my emma." she obeyed; and he whispered to her earnestly for a few moments. none saw what passed upon her countenance; for it was partly hidden on the clothes of the bed, partly concealed by her beautiful arm. none heard the words he uttered in that low, murmuring tone. but suddenly, his wife started up with a look of horror indescribable. she had wedded the slayer of her brother. she had clasped the hand which had shed her kindred blood. she had loved, and caressed, and clasped with eager passion the man who had destroyed the cradle-fellow of her youth--she had borne him children! one look of horror, and one long, piercing shriek, and she fell senseless upon the floor at the bedside. they took her up: they sprinkled water in her face; they bathed her temple with essences; and gradually light came back into her eyes. then they turned toward the bed. what was it they saw there? he had seen the look. he had heard the shriek. he had beheld the last ray of hope depart. the knell of earthly happiness had rung. the gates of another world stood open, near at hand; and he had passed through to that place where all tears are wiped from all eyes. there was nothing but clay left behind. such was one of the tales told across the college table; and yet it was not a very sad or solemn place; and many a lighter and a gayer anecdote served to cheer up the heart after such sad pictures. there was a great deal of originality, too, at the table, which amused, if it did not interest. there was doctor w---- there, who afterward became headmaster of a celebrated public school, and who was in reality a very eccentric man always affecting a most commonplace exterior. the most extraordinary, however, was mr. r----, celebrated for occupying many hours every morning in shaving himself, an operation, all the accidents of which we generally, in this country, avoid by the precaution of trusting it to others. the process, however, of mr. r---- who never confided in a barber, was this. he lathered and shaved one side of his face: then read a passage of thucydides. then he lathered and shaved the other side, read another passage, and then began again; and so on ad infinitum, or until somebody came in and dragged him out. his notions, however, were more extraordinary even than his habits. he used to contend, and did that night, that man having been created immortal, and having only lost his immortality by the knowledge of good and evil, it was in reality only the fear engendered by that knowledge which caused him to decay, or die. in vain gray hairs, a shriveled skin, defaulting teeth, warned him of the fragility of himself and his hypothesis: he still maintained dogmatically, that unless man were fool enough to be afraid, there would be no occasion for him to die at all. he actually carried his doctrine to the grave with him; for during another visit to cambridge, many years after, i heard the close of his strange history. feeling himself somewhat feeble, he went, several years after i saw him, to reside at richmond, near london, where "the air is delicate." there a chronic disease under which he had been long laboring, assumed a serious form; and his friends and relations persuaded him to send for a physician. the physician giving no heed to his notions regarding corporeal immortality, prescribed for him sagely, but without effect. the disease went on undiminished, and it became necessary to inform him that his life was drawing to an end. "fiddlestick's ends," said mr. r----. "life has no end, but in consequence of fear. i am not the least afraid in the world; and hang me if i die, in spite of you all. give me my coat and hat, john. i will go out and take a walk." "by no means," cried the doctor. "you will only hasten the catastrophe, my dear sir, before any of your affairs are settled." "why, sir, you have hardly been able to walk across the room for this fortnight. you will never get half way up the hill;" said his faithful servant. "sir, you are at this moment in a dying state," said the provoked doctor. "i will soon show you," cried mr. r----; and walking to the door in his dressing gown, without his hat, down the stairs he went, and out into the busy streets of richmond. for a hundred yards he tottered on; but then he fell upon the pavement, and was carried into a pastry-cook's store, where he expired without uttering one word, even in defense of his favorite theory. the small town of landeck, in the vorarlberg, is surrounded by mountains, which-- i am afraid they are too high for me to get over in the short space which remains of this sheet, though i have written as small as possible, in order to leave myself room to conclude the tale of the bride of landeck. i must therefore put it off until i can find time to write you another epistle, in which i trust to be able to conclude all i have to say upon the subject; and in the mean time, with many thanks for your polite attention in printing these gossiping letters, i must beg you to believe me, your faithful servant, p. editor's drawer. perhaps no two of the "mysteries of science," as they are sometimes called, excite more interest among all classes of curiosity-mongers, than the _balloon_ and the _diving-bell_. they are the very antipodes of each other, and yet the interest felt in each partakes of a very kindred character. to descend to the bottom of the sea, "where never plummet sounded;" to sink quietly and solemnly down into the chambers of the great deep; to see the "sea-fan" wave its delicate wings, and the coral groves, inhabited by the beautiful mer-men and maidens, who take their pastime therein; to gloat over rich argosies, the treasures of gold and silver, that brighten the caverns of the deep; to watch the deep, deep green waves of softened light that come shimmering and trembling down the dense watery walls--these make up much of the _poetry of the diving-bell_, of which all imaginative people are enamored, and which is not without a certain influence upon all sorts and conditions of men. on the other hand, to rise suddenly above the earth; to look down upon the gradually lessening crowds and vanishing cities beneath; to glance over the tops of mountains upon the vast inland plains, sprinkled with villages and towns; to sail on and on, exhausting horizon after horizon; to look down upon even the clouds of heaven, and thunder-storms and rainbows rolling and flashing beneath your feet, and upon glimpses of the heaving bosom of the "great and wide sea"--_these_, again, are the elements of the aeronaut, that may well be termed the "_poetry of ballooning_." but leaving the "poetry of the diving-bell" for another "drawer," let us narrate an incident which we find in one of its compartments, or, rather, the synopsis of an incident, reduced from a more voluminous account, given at the time by a london writer of rare and varied accomplishments. it may, indeed, be termed, from the scanty materials preserved from the original record, a "_memory_ of ballooning." mr. green, the great london aeronaut, who has ascended some hundred and fifty times from vauxhall gardens, london; who has taken his air-journeys at all times of the day and night; who has sailed over a continent with passengers in his frail bark, when it was so dark, that, according to the testimony of one of his fellow-voyagers, it seemed as though the balloon was making its noiseless way through a mass of impenetrable black marble--this same mr. green--to come back from our long sentence--once gave out, by hand-bills and the public prints, that on a certain afternoon in july, he would ascend from vauxhall gardens, london, at four o'clock in the afternoon, with a distinguished lady and gentleman, who had volunteered to accompany him on that occasion. the day and the hour at length arrived. the spacious inclosures of the garden were crowded with an excited multitude, awaiting with the utmost impatience for the tossing, rolling globe to mount up and be lost in the blue creation that spread out far above the giant city, pavilioned by its clouds of smoke. but the hour passed by, and the "distinguished lady and gentleman" came not. "it's an 'oax!" exclaimed hundreds, simultaneously among the crowd: "there isn't no sich persons." mr. green assured them of his good faith; read the letter that he had received from "the parties," and his answer: but still the "madness of the people" increased, and still the "distinguished lady and gentleman" came not. matters were growing more and more serious, and a "row" seemed inevitable. at this crisis of affairs, a solemn-visaged man, dressed in black, with a white neckcloth, stepped forth from the dense crowd, to the edge of the boundary which inclosed the balloon, and beckoning to mr. green, said, in a very modest manner, and in a low tone: "_i_ will go with you, sir, with pleasure; i should be _glad_ to go. i wish to escape, for a while, at least, from this infernal noisy town." the aeronaut was only too glad to accept the proposition, as some sort of salvo to his disappointed auditory, whose denunciatory vociferations were increasing every moment. mr. green, standing up in the car of his tossing and impatient vessel, now announced, that "a gentleman present, in the kindest manner, had volunteered to make the ascent with him," and that the "monster-balloon" would at once depart for the vague regions of the upper air. this announcement was hailed with acclamations by the assembled multitudes; and giving some necessary orders to his assistants, who had become fatigued with holding the groaning ropes that had until now confined the "monster" to the earth, the balloon was liberated, and rose slowly and majestically over the vast crowd of spectators and the wilderness of brick and mortar, and towers and steeples, and spacious parks, that lay spread out below, and gradually melted into the celestial blue. what followed is best represented by the partially remembered words of the aeronaut himself, as shadowed forth in the memorandum already referred to. "as we rose above the metropolis, and its mighty mass began to melt into indistinctness, my companion, whose bearing and manner had hitherto most favorably impressed me, began to manifest symptoms of great uneasiness. as we were passing over hanwell, dimly seen among the extended suburbs of the great city, his anxiety seemed to increase in an extraordinary degree. pointing, with trembling finger, in that immediate direction, he said: "'can they _see us_ from there? can they _reach_ us in any way? can they telegraph us?--can they, i say?' "surprised at the excitement, and at the abrupt alarm of one who had been so remarkably cool and self-possessed at starting, i replied: "'certainly not, my dear sir; we are half a mile from the earth, at least.' "'ah, ha! then i am safe! they can't catch me _now_! i escaped from them only this morning!' "with a vague sense of some impending evil, i asked: "'escaped!--how!--from where?' "'from the lunatic asylum! they thought i was crazed, and sent me there to be confined. crazed! why, there's not a man in london so sane as i am, and they knew it. it was a trick, sir--a trick! a trick to get my estate! but i'll be even with 'em! _i'll_ show 'em! _i'll_ thwart em!' "good heavens! i was now a mile from the earth, with a madman for my companion!--in a frail vessel, where the utmost caution and coolness were necessary, and where the least irregularity or carelessness would send us, through the intervening space with the speed of thought, to lie, crushed and bleeding masses of unrecognizable humanity, upon the earth. "but i had not long to think of even this apparently inevitable fate; for my companion had seized upon the sand-bags, and, one after another, was throwing them over the side of the car. "'hold! rash man!' i exclaimed: 'what would you do? you are endangering both our lives!' "all this time the balloon was ascending with such rapidity, that the rush of the air through the net-work was like the wild whistling of the wind in the cordage of a ship under bare poles, in a gale at sea. "'what do i _do_?' repeated the madman; 'i am getting away! i am going to the moon!--i am going to the moon!--ha! ha! they can't catch us in the moon!' "he had exhausted nearly all the ballast except what was under or near me, and we were rising at such an astounding speed that i expected every moment that the balloon would burst from the increasing expansion, when i observed him loosening his garments and taking off his coat. "'it's two hundred thousand miles _now_ to the moon!' said he, 'and we must throw over some more ballast or we shan't be home till morning.' "so saying he tore off his coat and threw it over--next his waistcoat--and was fumbling at his pantaloons, evidently for a similar purpose. but a new thought seemed to strike him: "'_two_ are too _many_ for this little balloon,' he said; 'she's going too slow! we shall not reach the moon before morning at _this_ rate. _get out of this!_' "i was wholly unnerved. i could have calmed the fears, or reasoned down the apprehensions of a reasonable companion; but my present _compagnon du voyage_ 'lacked discourse of reason' as much as the brute that perisheth, and remonstrance was of no avail. "'get out of this!' he repeated, in tones strangely piercing, in the hush of the upper air; and thereupon i felt myself seized by a grasp, so often superhumanly powerful in madmen, and found myself suddenly poised over the side of the tilting car, and heard the _hum_ of the tortured gas in its silken prison above us: "'good-night!' said the infuriated wretch; 'you'll hear from me by telegraph from the moon! they can't catch me now! ha! ha!--not now! _not now!_'" it was but a dream of an aeronaut, reader, after all, on the night before his ascension; and this sketch is but a dream _of_ that dream; for it is from memory, and not "from the record." * * * * * as the fall rains may be expected, as the almanacs predict, "about these days" of autumn, we put on early record, for the next month, the fact, that umbrellas are not protected by the laws of the united states. they are not property, save that of the man of whom you buy them. they constitute an article which, by the morality of society, you may steal from friend or foe, and which, for the same reason, you should not lend to either. the coolest thing--the most doubly-iced impudence--we ever heard of, was in the case of a man who borrowed a new silk umbrella of a town-neighbor, which, as a matter of course, he forgot to return. one morning, in a heavy rain, he called on his neighbor for it. he found him on the steps, going out with the borrowed umbrella. he met him with that peculiar smile that one man gives another who suddenly claims his umbrella on a wet day, and said: "where are you going, mr. b----?" "i came for my umbrella," was the brief reply. "but don't you see i am going out with it at this moment? it's a very nasty morning." "going _out_ with my umbrella! what am _i_ to do, i should like to know?" "_do?_--do as _i_ did--_borrow_ one!" said the borrower, as he walked away, leaving the lender well-nigh paralyzed at the great height of his neighbor's impudence. a church is the place, of a rainy sunday, where many indifferent and valuable "exchanges" are made, in the article of umbrellas. perhaps many of our readers will remember the remark made at the close of morning service, on a drizzly sabbath, by a pious brother: "my friends, there was taken from this place of worship this morning a large black silk-umbrella, nearly new; and in place of it was left a small blue cotton umbrella, much tattered and worn, and of a coarse texture. the black silk umbrella was undoubtedly taken by mistake, but such mistakes are getting a leetle too common!"[ ] [ ] "ollapodiana;" knickerbocker magazine. * * * * * as we shall very soon have a new president coming into office for a new four-year's lease of care and "glory," we venture to insinuate what he may expect from the throngs of office-seekers by whom he will be surrounded; and we shall take but a single instance out of many hundreds that might be offered. a man writing from washington at the coming in of our last national chief magistrate, gave this graphic sketch of a "sucker" office-seeker: dickens might draw some laughable sketches, or caricatures, from the live specimens of office-seekers now on hand here. the new president has just advised them all to go home and leave their papers behind them; and such a scattering you never saw! one fellow came here from illinois, and was introduced to a wag who, he was told, had "great influence at court," and who, although destitute of any such pretensions, kept up the delusion for the sake of the joke. the "sucker" addressed the man of influence something in this wise: "now, stranger, look at them papers. them names is the first in our whole town. there's deacon styles--there ain't no piouser man in all the county; and then there's rogers, our shoemaker--he made them boots i got on, and a better pair never tramped over these diggins. you wouldn't think them soles had walked over more than three hundred miles of hoosier mud, but they _hev_ though, and are sound yet. every body in our town knows john rogers. just you go to illinois, and ax about _me_. you'll find how i stand. then you ask jim turner, our constable--_he_ knows me; ask _him_ what i did for the party. he'll tell you i was a screamer at the polls--nothing else. now, i've come all the way from illinois, and a-foot too, most of the way, to see if i can have justice. they even told me to take a town-office to--hum! but i must have something that pays aforehand--such as them '_char-gees_,' as they call 'em. i hain't got only seven dollars left, and i can't wait. jist git me one o' them '_char-gees_,' will ye? them'll do. tell the old man how it is; _he'll_ do it. fact is, he _must_! i've airnt the office, and no mistake!" doubtless he _had_ "airnt" it; few persons who go to washington and _wait_ for an office, but _earn_ their office, whether they obtain it or not. * * * * * it is horace walpole, in his egotistical but very amusing correspondence, who narrates the following amusing anecdote: "i must add a curious story, which i believe will surprise your italian surgeons as much as it has amazed the faculty here. a sailor who had broken his leg was advised to communicate his case to the royal society. the account he gave was, that having fallen from the top of the mast and fractured his leg, he had dressed it with nothing but tar and oakum, and yet in three days was able to walk as well as before the accident. the story at first appeared quite incredible, as no such efficacious qualities were known in tar, and still less in oakum; nor was a poor sailor to be credited on his own bare assertion of so wonderful a cure. the society very reasonably demanded a fuller relation, and, i suppose, the corroboration of evidence. many doubted whether the leg had been really broken. that part of the story had been amply verified. still it was difficult to believe that the man had made use of no other applications than tar and oakum; and how _they_ should cure a broken leg in three days, even if they could cure it at all, was a matter of the utmost wonder. several letters passed between the society and the patient, who persevered in the most solemn asseverations of having used no other remedies, and it does appear beyond a doubt that the man speaks truth. it is a little uncharitable, but i fear there are surgeons who might not like this abbreviation of attendance and expense; but, on the other hand, you will be charmed with the plain, honest simplicity of the sailor. in a postscript to his last letter, he added these words: "i forgot to tell your honors that the leg was a wooden one!" * * * * * there was great delicacy in the manner in which a foreigner, having a friend hung in this country, broke the intelligence to his relations on the other side of the water. he wrote as follows: "your brother had been addressing a large meeting of citizens, who had manifested the deepest interest in him, when the platform upon which he stood, being, as was subsequently ascertained, very insecure, gave way, owing to which, he fell and broke his neck!" * * * * * if you will take a bank-note, and while you are folding it up according to direction, peruse the following lines, you will arrive at their meaning, with no little admiration for the writer's cleverness: "i will tell you a plan for gaining wealth, better than banking, trading or leases; take a bank-note and fold it up, and then you will find your wealth in-creases. "this wonderful plan, without danger or loss, keeps your cash in your hands, and with nothing to trouble it, and every time that you fold it across, 'tis plain as the light of the day that you double it." * * * * * if your "editor's drawer," writes a correspondent, is not already full, you may think the inclosed, although an old story, worthy of being squeezed in. "soon after the close of the american revolution, a deputation of indian chiefs having some business to transact with the governor, were invited to dine with some of the officials in philadelphia. during the repast, the eyes of a young chief were attracted to a castor of _mustard_, having in it a spoon ready for use. tempted by its bright color, he gently drew it toward him, and soon had a brimming spoonful in his mouth. instantly detecting his mistake, he nevertheless had the fortitude to swallow it, although it forced the tears from his eyes. "a chief opposite, at the table, who had observed the consequence, but not the cause, asked him 'what he was crying for?' he replied that he was 'thinking of his father, who was killed in battle.' soon after, the questioner himself, prompted by curiosity, made the same experiment, with the same result, and in turn was asked by the younger sachem 'what _he_ was crying for?' '_because you were not killed when your father was_,' was the prompt reply." * * * * * old matthews, the most comic of all modern comic _raconteurs_, when in this country used to relate the following illustration of the manner in which the cool assumption of a "flunkey" was rebuked by an eccentric english original, one lord eardley, whose especial antipathy was, to have his servants of the class called "fine gentlemen:" "during breakfast one day, lord eardley was informed that a person had applied for a footman's place, then vacant. he was ordered into the room, and a double refined specimen of the _genus_ so detested by his lordship made his appearance. the manner of the man was extremely affected and consequential, and it was evident that my lord understood him at a glance; moreover, it was as evident he determined to lower him a little. "'well, my good fellow,' said he, 'you want a lackey's place, do you?' "'i came about an upper footman's situation, my lord,' said the gentleman, bridling up his head. "'oh, do ye, do ye?' replied lord eardley; 'i keep no upper servants; all alike, all alike here.' "'indeed, my lord!' exclaimed this upper footman, with an air of shocked dignity. 'what _department_ then am i to consider myself expected to fill?' "'department! department!' quoth my lord, in a tone like inquiry. "'in what _capacity_, my lord?' "my lord repeated the word capacity, as if not understanding its application to the present subject. "'i mean, my lord,' explained the man, 'what shall i be expected to do, if i take the _situation_?' "'oh, you mean if you take the place. i understand you now,' rejoined my lord; 'why, you're to do every thing but sweep the chimneys and clean the pig-sties, and _those i do myself_.' "the _gentleman_ stared, scarcely knowing what to make of this, and seemed to wish himself out of the room; he, however, grinned a ghastly smile, and, after a short pause, inquired what _salary_ his lordship gave! "'salary, salary?' reiterated his incorrigible lord ship, 'don't know the word, don't know the word, my good man.' "again the gentleman explained; 'i mean what wages?' "'oh, wages,' echoed my lord; 'what d'ye ask? what d'ye ask?' "trip regained his self-possession at this question, which looked like business, and considering for a few moments, answered--first stipulating to be found in hair-powder, and (on state occasions) silk stockings, and gloves, bags and bouquets--that he should expect thirty pounds a year. "'how much, how much?' demanded my lord rapidly. "'thirty pounds, my lord.' "'thirty pounds!' exclaimed lord eardley, in affected amazement; 'make it guineas, and _i'll live with_ you;' then ringing the bell, said to the servant who answered it, 'let out this _gentleman_, he's too good for me;' and then turning to matthews, who was much amused, said, as the man made his exit, 'conceited, impudent, scoundrel! soon sent him off, soon sent him off, master matthews.'" * * * * * as specimens of the _retort courteous_ and the _retort uncourteous_, observe the two which ensue: "two of the guests at a public dinner having got into an altercation, one of them, a blustering vulgarian, vociferated: 'sir, you're no gentleman!' 'sir,' said his opponent, in a calm voice, 'you are no judge!'" * * * * * talleyrand, being questioned on one occasion by a man who squinted awfully, with several importunate questions, concerning his leg, recently broken, replied: "it is quite _crooked_--as you _see_!" * * * * * if you have ever been a pic-nicking, reader, you will appreciate the annoyances set forth in these lively lines by a modern poet. we went on one of these excursions in august, not many years ago, and while addressing some words that we intended should be very agreeable, to a charming young lady in black, seated by our side, on the bank of a pleasant lake, in the upper region of the ramapo mountains, a huge garter-snake crept forth at our feet, hissing at our intrusion upon his domain! how the young lady did scamper!--and how we did the same thing, for that matter! but we must not forget the lines we were speaking of: half-starved with hunger, parched with thirst, all haste to spread the dishes, when lo! we find the soda burst, amid the loaves and fishes; over the pie, a sudden sop, the grasshoppers are skipping, each roll's a sponge, each loaf a mop, and all the meat is dripping. bristling with broken glass you find some cakes among the bottles, which those may eat, who do not mind excoriated throttles: the biscuits now are wiped and dried, when shrilly voices utter: "look! look! a toad has got astride our only plate of butter!" your solids in a liquid state, your cooling liquids heated, and every promised joy by fate most fatally defeated: all, save the serving-men, are soured, _they_ smirk, the cunning sinners! having, before they came, devoured most comfortable dinners. still you assume, in very spite, a grim and gloomy gladness; pretend to laugh--affect delight-- and scorn all show of sadness while thus you smile, but storm within, a storm without comes faster, and down descends in deafening din a deluge of disaster! so, friend, if you are sick of _home_, wanting a new sensation, and sigh for the unwonted ease of un-accommodation; if you would taste, as amateur, and vagabond beginner, the painful pleasures of the poor, _get up a pic-nic dinner_! * * * * * there is a good deal of talk, in these latter days, about the article of guano: the right of discovery of the islands where it is obtained, and the like. we remember to have heard something about the discovery and occupation of the first of these islands, that of ichaboe, which made us "laugh consumedly;" and we have been thinking that a thorough exploration of the lobos islands might result in a similar discomfiture to the "grasping britishers." it seems that a party of englishmen, claiming to have discovered the island of ichaboe, landed from a british vessel upon that "rich" coast, and appreciating the great agricultural value of its minerals, walked up toward the top of the heap, to crow on their own dung-hill, and take possession of it in the name of her majesty the queen, with the usual form of breaking a bottle of madeira, and other the like observances. while they were thus taking possession, however, one of the party, more adventurous than the rest, made his way to the farther slope of a higher eminence, and saw, to his utter discomfiture and consternation, a bangor schooner rocking in a little cove of the island, a parcel of yankees digging into its sides, and loading the vessel, and a weazen-faced man administering the temperance-pledge to a group of the natives on a side-hill near by! he went back to his party, reported what he had seen, and the ceremony of taking possession, in the name of her majesty, of an uninhabited island, was very suddenly interrupted and altogether done away with. * * * * * the readers of "the drawer," who may have noticed the numerous signs of _ladies' schools_ which may be seen in the suburban streets and thoroughfares of our atlantic cities, will find the following experience of a frenchman in london not a little amusing: "sare, i shall tell you my impressions when i am come first from paris to london. de english ladies, i say to myself, must be de most best educate women in de whole world. dere is schools for dem every wheres--in a hole and in a corner. let me take some walks in de fauxbourgs, and what do i see all around myself? when i look dis way i see on a white house's front a large bord, with some gilded letters, which say, 'seminary for young ladies.' when i look dat way at a big red house, i see anoder bord which say, 'establishment for young ladies,' by miss someones. and when i look up at a little house, at a little window, over a barber-shop, i read on a paper, 'ladies' school.' den i see 'prospect house,' and 'grove house,' and de 'manor house,' so many i can not call dem names, and also all schools for de young females. day-schools besides. yes; and in my walks always i meet some schools of young ladies, eight, nine, ten times in one day, making dere promenades, two and two and two. den i come home to my lodging's door, and below de knocker i see one letter. i open it, and i find 'prospectus of a lady school.' by-and-by i say to my landlady, 'where is your oldest of daughters, which used to bring to me my breakfast?' and she tell me, 'she is gone out a governess!' next she notice me i must quit my apartement. 'what for?' i say: 'what have i dones? do i not pay you all right, like a weekly man of honor?' 'o certainly, mounseer,' she say, 'you are a gentleman, quite polite, and no mistakes, but i wants my whole of my house to myselfs for to set him up for a lady school!' noting but ladies' schools--and de widow of de butcher have one more over de street. 'bless my soul and my body!' i say to myself, 'dere must be nobody borned in london except leetil girls!'" * * * * * here is a very beautiful thought of that strange compound of scotch shrewdness, strong common sense, and german mysticism, or _un_-common sense--thomas carlyle: "when i gaze into the stars, they look down upon me with pity from their serene and silent spaces, like eyes glistening with tears over the little lot of man. thousands of generations, all as noisy as our own, have been swallowed up of time, and there remains no record of them any more: yet arcturus and orion, sirius and the pleiades are still shining in their courses, clear and young, as when the shepherd first noted them in the plain of shinar! 'what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue!'" * * * * * there is probably not another word in the english language that can be worse "twisted" than that which composes the burden of the ensuing lines: write we know is written right, when we see it written write: but when we see it written wright, we know 'tis not then written right; for write, to have it written right, must not be written right nor wright, nor yet should it be written rite, but write--for so 'tis written right. * * * * * we commend the following to the scores of dashing "spirited" belles who have just returned disappointed from "the springs," newport, and other fashionable resorts. the writer is describing a dashing female character, whose "mission" she considered it to be, to take the world and admiration "by storm:" "with all her blaze of notoriety, did any body _esteem_ her particularly? was there any one man upon earth who on his pillow could say, 'what a lovely angel is fanny wilding!' had she ever refused an offer of marriage? no; for nobody ever had made her one. she was like a fine fire-work, entertaining to look at, but dangerous to come near to: her bouncing and cracking in the open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a human being who could be tempted to take the dangerous exhibition into his own house! _that_ was a thing not to be thought of for a moment." * * * * * "in your magazine for july," writes a city correspondent, "i notice in the '_editor's drawer_,' an allusion to and quotation from '_the execution of montrose_,' the author of which you state is unknown or not named. you seem not to be aware that this is one of aytoun's ballads, which, with others, was published in london, under the title of 'lays of the cavaliers.' but why did you not give the most beautiful verse: 'he is coming! he is coming! like a bridegroom from his room, came the hero from his prison, to the scaffold and the doom. there was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye, and he never went to battle more proudly than to die!' "i quote only from memory, but the original has 'walked to battle'--is not 'went' a better word? the book is full of gems: let me give you one more, which would make a fine subject for an artist. it is from 'edinburgh after flodden;' when randolph murray returns from the battle, to announce to the old burghers their sad defeat: 'they knew so sad a messenger, some ghastly news must bring; and all of them were fathers, and their sons were with the king.'" * * * * * "how do you spell feladelfy?" asked a small city grocer of his partner one day, as he was sprinkling sand upon a letter which he was about to dispatch to the "city of brotherly love." "why, _fel-a_, fela, _del_, feladel, _fy_--feladelfy." "then i've got it right," said the partner (in ignorance as well as in business), "i thought i might have made a mistake!" * * * * * dickens, in a passage of his travels in italy, describes an embarrassing position, and a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties that would have discouraged most learners: "there was a traveling party on board our steamer, of whom one member was very ill in the cabin next to mine, and being ill was cross, and therefore declined to give up the dictionary, which he kept under his pillow; thereby obliging his companions to come down to him constantly, to ask what was the italian for a lump of sugar, a glass of brandy-and-water, 'what's o'clock?' and so forth; which he always insisted on looking out himself, with his own sea-sick eyes, declining to trust the book to any man alive. ignorance was scarcely 'bliss' in this case, however much folly there might have been in being 'wise.'" contributions to our drawer. on the th december, , when the excitement in diplomatic circles upon the subject of the so-called eastern question was at its height, an english friend dined with sir hamilton seymour and lady seymour, in brussels. seymour's note of invitation ran "will you and your wife come and eat a turkey with us." the dinner was a very good one, but there was no turkey; and on the following day our friend sent him the lines below: "on the notorious breach of political faith committed by sir g. hamilton seymour, g.c.h., &c., &c., &c. her britannic majesty's minister plenipotentiary at the court of belgium, on the th december, . "most perfidious, most base of all living ministers, you deserve to fall back to the rank of plain misters, your star taken off, and your chain only serving to fetter your ankles _selon_ your deserving. don't think that my charge is some trumpery matter of court etiquette. it is greater, and fatter; fit cause throughout europe to spread conflagration, set king against kaiser, and nation 'gainst nation. 'tis a fraud diplomatic--a protocol broken-- the breach of a treaty both written and spoken-- a matter too bad for e'en thiers' digestion-- the loss of an empire, the great eastern question! in vain would you move my ambition or pity-- in vain do you offer the province or city-- neither bordeaux nor xeres, nor eke all champagne, can make me forgetful of promises vain. such pitiful make-weights i send to perdition; 'twas _turkey_ you promised--at least a partition. 'twas _turkey_ you promised--you've broken your word. 'twas _turkey_ you promised: and where is the bird?" seymour's answer the same day: "of eastern affairs most infernally sick, no wonder i failed to my promise to stick. with the subject of _turkey_ officially cramm'd, if turkey i dined on, i swore i'd be d--d. but at least, my good friend, and the thought should bring peace, if i gave you no _turkey_, i gave you no greece (grease)." * * * * * it is related of ex-president tyler, that from the time of his election to the vice-presidency until the death of general harrison, he kept no carriage on account of the insufficiency of his salary. when, however, he found himself accidentally elevated to the chief magistracy, the former difficulty being removed, he at once determined to set up an equipage. he accordingly bought a pair of horses, and engaged a coachman, and then began to look about for a vehicle. hearing of one for sale which belonged to a gentleman residing in washington, and which had only been driven a few times, the president went to look at it. upon examination he was perfectly satisfied with it himself, but still he thought it more prudent, before purchasing it, to take the opinion of his hibernian coachman upon it. pat reported that it was "jist the thing for his honor." "but," said mr. tyler, "do you think it would be altogether proper for the president of the united states to drive a second-hand carriage?" "and why not?" answered the jehu; "_sure and ye're only a second-hand president!_" * * * * * we have seen many lazy men (and women, too, for that matter) in our day and generation, but we _do_ think that a little the laziest individual we ever did meet, is a certain bald-headed, oldish gentleman, who lives somewhere in fourteenth-street near the fifth avenue. standing the other day with a friend, at the southeast corner of broadway and union-square, waiting for a fourth avenue omnibus, upward bound, we noticed the subject of this paragraph crossing the street, with his arm in a sling. turning to our companion, who was well acquainted with him, we asked, "why, what in the world has happened to mr. ----'s arm?" "oh, nothing at all," was the reply, "he only wears it in a sling, because he is _too lazy to swing it_!" * * * * * the following commencement to a legal document, to which our attention was once called in a business-matter is curious enough. the parties mentioned were english people, the names not being uncommon on the other side of the water: "james elder, the younger, in right of elizabeth husband, his wife, &c., &c." * * * * * henry erskine is reputed to have been quite as clever a man as his more famous brother. his wit was ready, pungent, and at times somewhat bitter. another brother, lord buchan, as is well known, was pompous, conceited, and ineffably stupid. upon one occasion, having purchased a new estate in a very picturesque section of the country, he took his brother henry down to see it. when they arrived at the park gate, lord buchan, climbing upon the gate-post, commenced a vehement and florid discourse upon the beauty of the surrounding scenery. after a while his language became so hyperbolical and his gesticulations so violent that henry, being tired of so extravagant a performance, called out to him, "i say, buchan, if your gate was as high as your _style_ (_stile_), and you were to happen to fall, you would most certainly break your neck!" * * * * * one evening henry erskine accompanied the notorious duchess of gordon, and her daughter, a sweet girl, who afterward became the marchioness of abercorn, to the opera. at the close of the performance, the duchess's carriage was sought for in vain--the coachman had failed to return for them. no other carriage was to be found, and there was no alternative for the ladies but to walk home in their laced and be-spangled evening dresses. a few minutes after they had started, the duchess, turning to erskine, said, "harry, my dear, what must any one take us for, who should meet us walking the streets at this hour of the night in opera costume?" "your grace would undoubtedly be taken _for what you are_, and your daughter for _what she is not_," was the caustic reply. * * * * * a lady, who had a propensity for newport last summer, but who found it very difficult to induce her husband to take her there, called upon the eminent doctor francis, of bond-street, for the purpose of procuring his certificate of the importance of sea-bathing for the preservation of her health. "are you ill, madam?" asked the doctor. "not at all, doctor," the lady answered, "but i am afraid that i shall become so, in this extremely hot weather, unless i have the opportunity to bathe in the sea, and thus preserve my health." "very well, madam," replied the doctor, "if you are sure that you _can not keep without pickling_, the sooner you start for newport the better, and i shall have much pleasure in giving you my certificate to that effect." * * * * * the following inscription upon a tombstone is to be found in mechlem church-yard, in england. the poet evidently was of the opinion that so long as he made use of the proper verb, what part of it he employed was of very little consequence: long time she strove with sorrow and with care, died like a man, and like a christian bear! * * * * * there once lived in scotland a man named john ford, who abused and maltreated his wife in every possible way. poor mrs. ford, in consequence of injuries to which she was subjected, finally died. soon after his wife's decease, john came to the sexton of the kirk and expressed a desire to have an epitaph written for the "puir body." "ye're the mon to do it, maister sexton, and an ye'll write one, i'll gie ye a guinea," said the bereaved widower. the sexton was somewhat surprised at the request, and so stated to the petitioner. he said that it was well known that mrs. ford's matrimonial life had been any thing but a happy one, and if he wrote any thing, his conscience would only permit him to write the truth. john told him to write exactly what he pleased--that decency required some inscription over the "gudewife's" grave, and that he'd "gie the guinea" for whatever the sexton saw fit to compose. upon these conditions, the man of the spade finally consented to invoke his muse, and it was agreed that johnny should call the next evening to receive the epitaph. accordingly at the appointed time, the following composition was placed in his hands and met with his unbounded approval: here lies the body of mary ford, we hope her soul is with the lord, but if for tophet she's changed this life, better be there than john ford's wife. * * * * * the only known house-settlement of gipsies in the world is in scotland, not very far from edinburgh. when sir walter scott was a young man he was sent down from the capital to the "egyptian village" for the purpose of collecting the rents. he was directed upon his arrival to report himself to a certain person whose address was given him and then to follow in all respects this person's instructions. he accordingly upon reaching his destination, at once sent his letter of introduction to the place indicated, and was soon afterward waited upon by the individual to whom he was recommended. the advice which he then received was, to let his presence in the village be known, but to remain at home and by no means attempt to collect any of the rents by calling at the houses. this advice he followed for three days, during which time only two of the gipsies called and paid. after this he was advised to return to edinburgh, leaving word at the settlement that he had gone back to town where he would be happy to see any of the tenants. in less than a week nearly all made their appearance and paid what they owed. they were unwilling to do under the slightest semblance of coercion what they cheerfully did voluntarily. the first public recognition of the gipsies as a people in england, is in a proclamation of queen elizabeth, in which she directs all sheriffs and magistrates to "aid, counsel, and assist our loving cousin john, prince of thebes and of upper egypt, in apprehending and punishing certain of his subjects guilty of divers crimes and misdemeanors." * * * * * hogg, the ettrick shepherd, was an eccentric genius. he was once dining at a table where he was seated next to a daughter of sir william drysdale. his companion was a charming young lady--unaffected, affable, and yet withal gifted with considerable shrewdness and cleverness. to some remark which he made, she replied, "you're a funny man, mr. hogg," to which he instantly rejoined, "and ye, a nice lassie, miss drysdale. nearly all girls are like a bundle of pens, cut by the same machine--ye're not of the bundle." we have a friend who knew hogg well. our friend once arranged a party for an excursion to lake st. mary's, and it was proposed to stop at hogg's house on the way, and take him up. before they reached it, however, they saw a man fishing in the "yarrow," not very far from the high-road. the fisherman the moment that he noticed a carriage full of people whose attention was apparently attracted to himself, gathered up his rod and line and began to run in an opposite direction as fast as his legs could carry him. our friend descended from the carriage, and shouted after him at the top of his voice. but it was of no use--the fugitive never stopped until he reached an elevated spot of ground, when he turned round to watch the movements of the intruders. recognizing our friend, he laughingly returned his greeting, and, approaching him, said--we translate his scotch dialect into the vernacular--"why, s----, my boy, how are you? do you know, i took you for some of those rascally tourists, who come down upon me in swarms, like the locusts of egypt, and eat me out of house and home." his fears removed, he accompanied the party to the lake, and they had a merry day of it. hogg's egotism and conceit were very amusing. witness the following extract from his "familiar anecdotes of sir walter scott." "one of sir walter's representatives has taken it upon him to assert, that sir walter held me in the lowest contempt! he never was further wrong in his life, but sir walter would have been still further wrong, if he had done so. of that, posterity will judge." * * * * * there are many engraved portraits of lord byron afloat, but it is said that none of them resemble him. a friend of ours, who knew him intimately, assures us that the face of the macedonian monarch in paul veronese's celebrated picture of "alexander in the tent of darius" at venice, is the exact image of his lordship. standing before it one day with a lady, he mentioned the extraordinary likeness to her in english, when the _cicerone_ who accompanied them, said, "ah, sir, i see that you knew my old master well. many a time since his death have i stood and gazed upon that face which recalled his own so strongly to my recollection." by-the-by, the history of this picture is rather curious. the artist, whose real name was paul caliari, was invited by a hospitable family to spend some time with them at their villa, on the banks of the brenta. while in the house his habits were exceedingly peculiar. he remained in his room the greater part of the time, and refused to allow any one to enter it on any pretext. the maid was not even permitted to make his bed--and every morning she found the sweepings of the room at the door, whence she was at liberty to remove them. one day the painter suddenly disappeared. the door of the room was found open. the sheets were gone from the bed. the frightened servant reported to the master that they had been stolen. a search was instituted. in one corner of the room was found a large roll of canvas. upon opening it, it proved to be a magnificent picture--the famous "alexander in the tent of darius." upon close inspection, it was discovered that it was painted upon the sheets of the bed! the artist had left it as a present to the family, and had taken this curious method of evincing his gratitude. * * * * * most travelers in italy make a pilgrimage to the tomb of juliet, at verona. verona and shakspeare are, of course, inseparable; but when you are on the spot, little can be found to identify the creations of the poet. we have no more traces of valentine and proteus at verona, than we possess of launce and his dog at milan. the _montecchi_ belonged to the ghibellines; and as they _joined_ with the _capelletti_ in expelling azo di ferrara (shortly previous to ), it is probable that both were of the same party. the laconic mention of their families, which dante places in the mouth of sordello, proves their celebrity "o alberto tedesco, ch' abbandoni costei ch' è fatta indomita e selveggia, e dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni; giusto guidicio dalle stelle coggia sovra 'l tuo sangue, e sia nuovo e asserto, tal che 'l tuo successor temenza n' aggia: ch' avete, tu e 'l tuo padre, sofferto per cupidigia di costá distretti, che 'l giardin dell' 'mperio sia diserto. vieni a veder montecchi e capuletti, monaldi e filippeschi, nom senza cura, color giá tristi, e costor con sospetti." purgatorio vi. , "o austrian albert! who desertest her, (ungovernable now and savage grown), when most she needed pressing with the spur-- may on thy race heaven's righteous judgment fall; and be it signally and plainly shown, with terror thy successor to appal! since by thy lust yon distant lands to gain, thou and thy sire have suffered wild to run what was the garden of thy fair domain. come see the capulets and montagues-- monaldi--filippeschi, reckless one! these now in fear--already wretched those." wright's _dante_. but the tragic history of romeo and juliet can not be traced higher in writing than the age of lungi di porto; and as this novelist of the th century has borrowed the principal incident of the plot from a greek romance, it is probable that the whole is an amplification of some legendary story. the _casa de capelletti_, now an inn for vetturini, may possibly have been the dwelling of the family; but since that circumstance, if established, would only prove that the _house_ had a _house_, it does not carry us much further in the argument. with respect to the tomb of juliet, it certainly was shown in the last century, before "the barbarian _sacchespir_" became known to the italians. the popularity of the novel would sufficiently account for the localization of the tradition, as has already been the case with many objects described by sir walter scott. that tomb, however, has long since been destroyed; but the present one, recently erected in the garden of the _orfanotrofio_, does just as well. it is of a reddish marble, and, before it was promoted to its present honor, was used as a watering trough. maria louisa got a bit of it, which she caused to be divided into the _gems_ of a very elegant necklace and bracelets, and many other sentimental young and elderly ladies have followed her example. * * * * * at the extremity of the piazzetta in venice are the _two granite columns_, the one surmounted by the lion of st. mark, the other by st. theodore. the lion is somewhat remarkable, as having been the first victim, as far as objects of art are concerned, of the french revolution. from the book which he holds, the words of the gospel were effaced, and "_droits de l'homme et du citoyen_" ("rights of man and of the citizen") substituted in their stead. upon this change a gondolier remarked that st. mark, like all the rest of the world, had been compelled to turn over a new leaf. the lion was afterward removed to the _invalides_ at paris, but was restored after the fall of the capital. the capitals of the columns speak their byzantine origin. three were brought from constantinople. one sunk into the ooze as they were landing it; the other two were safely landed on the shore; but, as the story goes, there they lay; no one could raise them. sebastiano ziani, - , having offered as a reward that he who should succeed should not lack any "_grazia onesta_," a certain lombard, yclept nicolo barattiero, or nick the blackleg, offered his services; and, by the device or contrivance of wetting the ropes, which contracted as they dried, he placed the columns on their pedestals. nicolo was now entitled to claim his guerdon: and what did he ask? that games of chance, prohibited elsewhere by the wisdom of the law, might be played with full impunity between the columns. the concession once made could not be revoked; but what did the wise legislature? they enacted that the public executions, which had hitherto taken place at the _san giovanni bragola_, should be inflicted in the privileged gambling spot, by which means the space "between the columns" became so ill-omened, that even crossing it was thought to be a sure prognostication, foretelling how the unlucky wight who had ventured upon the fated pavement, would, in due time be suspended at a competent height above the forbidden ground. literary notices. _parisian sights and french principles, seen through american spectacles_, illustrated (published by harper and brothers), is the title of one of the most graphic descriptions of life in the french metropolis which have yet been given by any english or american traveler. the author blends reflection and narrative in a very effective manner, depicting the prominent features of french society with a vivid pencil, and deducing the inferences suggested by his varied experience. short of a personal visit to the great focus of european fashion, there is no way in which one can obtain such a mass of information on the subject, and in so agreeable a manner, as by dipping into this lively volume. _the blithedale romance_, by nathaniel hawthorne (published by ticknor, reed and fields), in point of artistic construction is not equal to the "scarlet letter," nor the "house of seven gables." as a whole, it leaves an unsatisfied and painful impression, as if the author had failed to embody his own ideal in the development of the story. it contains many isolated passages of great vigor, and occasionally some of remarkable sweetness. in his pictures of natural scenery, mr. hawthorne often draws from the life, and always reproduces the landscape with startling fidelity. the characters in the story are intended to be repulsive; they illustrate the dark side of human nature; and no reader can recall their memory without a feeling of sepulchral gloom. _the discarded daughter_, by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. (published by a. hart.) the author of this novel possesses a singularly vivid imagination, and a rare command of picturesque expression. she evinces originality, depth and fervor of feeling, vigor of thought, and dramatic skill; but so blended with glaring faults, that the severest critic would be her best friend. in the construction of her plots, she has no regard for probability: nature is violated at every step; impossible people are brought into impossible situations; every thing is colored so highly that the eye is dazzled; there is no repose, no perspective, none of the healthy freshness of life; we are removed from the pure sunshine and the forest shade into an intolerable glare of gas-light; truth is sacrificed to melo-dramatic effect; and the denouement is produced by ghastly contrivances that vie in extravagance with mrs. radcliffe's most superfine horrors. with the constant effort to surprise, the language becomes inflated, and at the same time is often careless to a degree, which occasions the most ludicrous sense of incongruity. it is a pity to see so much power as this lady evidently is endowed with, so egregiously wasted. let her curb her fiery pegasus with unrelenting hand--let her consult the truthfulness of nature, rather than yield to a rage for effect--let her tame the genial impetuosity of her pen by a due reverence for classical taste and common sense--and she will yet attain a rank worthy of her fine faculties, from which she has hitherto been precluded by her outrages on the proprieties of fictitious composition. _the mormons, or latter-day saints_, by lieut. j. w. gunnison. (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.) the author of this little work has succeeded in the difficult task of doing justice to a new religious sect. residing for several months in the great salt lake valley, as a member of the united states exploring expedition, and looking upon the singular condition of society that came under his notice with an eye of philosophical curiosity, he had a rare opportunity for studying the history, opinions, and customs of the remarkable people, whose rapid progress is among the note-worthy events of the age. his book contains a lucid description of the country inhabited by the mormons, a statement of their religious faith and social principles, and a succinct narrative of the origin and development of the sect. without aiming to excite prejudice against the mormons, he keeps nothing back, which is essential to a correct view of their position, as respects either belief or practice. his disclosures in regard to the prevalence of polygamy among the "latter-day saints," so called, are of the most explicit character, showing that a plurality of wives is adopted, as a part of their social economy, from a sense of religious duty. the view presented of their theology furnishes the materials for an interesting chapter on the history of mental delusions. we have no doubt that this book will be widely read, and, in the hands of the intelligent and reflecting thinker, will prove fruitful in valuable suggestions. harper and brothers have published a new edition of _cicero's tusculan disputations_, with english notes by charles anthon, ll.d. in preparing this edition, use has been made of the text and notes of tischer, with occasional reference to the commentaries of wolf, moser, and kühner. both in the text and notes, however, the erudite editor has relied on his own judgment, not slavishly adhering to any authority, but freely consulting the suggestions of the most eminent philologists from the time of bentley to our own days. the work is a model for a college text-book. in the careful supervision which it has received at the hands of dr. anthon, he has added to the many valuable services that identify his name with the progress of classical learning in this country. derby and miller have issued a new edition of sargent's _life of henry clay_, revised and brought down to the death of the illustrious statesman, by horace greely. the leading incidents in mr. clay's life are here described in a lively and flowing narrative; his public career is fully exhibited; copious extracts are given from his speeches and letters; and the whole biography is executed with manifest ability, and as great a degree of impartiality as could be demanded, with the decided personal predilections of both author and editor. the proceedings in congress on the announcement of mr. clay's decease, which are given at length, form a very interesting portion of the volume. _stray meditations, or voices of the heart_, by joseph p. thompson. (published by a. s. barnes and co.) a collection of fugitive pieces, some of which have already appeared in the columns of various religious journals. they are of a grave, meditative character, deeply tinged with personal feeling--of an elevated devotional spirit--giving a highly favorable impression of the author as a man of great earnestness of purpose, and usually expressed in choice and vigorous language. mr. thompson has happily avoided the dangers incident to this style of composition. his volume breathes an air of soft and pious sentiment, but betrays no weak effeminacy; it unvails the most private emotions of the heart, but can not be charged with egotism; and appeals to the most awful sanctions of religion, without indulging in dogmatic severity. as a companion in hours of retirement and thoughtfulness, it can not fail to be welcome to the religious reader. _anna hammer_, translated from the german of temme, by alfred h. guernsey, is a good specimen of the contemporary popular fiction of german literature. its author, temme, is a man of ability; he writes, however, more from the heart than the head; drawing the materials of romance from the sufferings of his country. he took an active part in the late german revolutionary movements, and his political feelings tincture his writings. the present work gives a vivid picture of the interior of german life, and is filled with passages of exciting interest. the translation, by an accomplished scholar of this city, every where shows conscientious fidelity, and is in pure and idiomatic english. _an olio of domestic verses_, by emily judson. this volume composes a collection of the earlier poetry of mrs. judson, with several pieces of a more recent date. it shows a rich poetical temperament, a graceful fancy, and a natural ease of versification, which, with more familiar practice and a higher degree of artistic culture, would have given the authoress an eminent rank among the native poets of this country. the admirers of her sweet and brilliant productions, in another line, will find much to justify the enthusiasm with which they greeted the writings of fanny forester. many of these little poems have already been the rounds of the newspapers, where they have won lively applause. (published by lewis colby.) the third volume of chambers' edition of _the life and works of robert burns_ (republished by harper and brothers), is replete with various interest. no admirer of the immortal peasant-bard should be without this excellent tribute to his genius. _the master-builder_, by day kellogg lee. (published by redfield.) a story of purely american origin, drawn from the experience of actual life, and containing several happy delineations of character. it describes the fortunes of one who by industry and enterprise, guided by strong native intelligence, rose to honor and prosperity, in the exercise of a useful mechanical vocation. the author frequently shows uncommon powers of description; he is a watchful observer of life and manners; is not without insight into the mysteries of human passion; and, if he could check his tendency to indulge in affectations of language, expressing himself with straight-forward simplicity, he might gain an enviable distinction as a writer. a. s. barnes and co., have issued a new volume of professor bartlett's _elements of natural philosophy_, containing treatises on acoustics and optics. the principles of these sciences are explained with clearness and elegance, the views of the best recent writers being embodied in the work, and accompanied with a variety of apposite illustrations. the portion relating to sound, based on the admirable monograph of sir john herschel, will be found to possess much popular interest, in spite of its scientific rigidity of expression, explaining, as it does, the mutual relations of mathematics and music. upjohn's _rural architecture_ (published by g. p. putnam), forms a useful book of reference for parish-committees, or whoever is intrusted with the charge of erecting new churches, parsonages, or school-houses, more particularly in the country. it gives a number of estimates and specifications, with ample directions for practical use. _the dodd family abroad_, by charles lever. one of the most piquant productions of this side-splitting author is now publishing in numbers by harper and brothers. whoever wishes to be forced into a laugh, in defiance of all sorts of lugubrious fancies, should not fail to read this rich outpouring of genuine irish humor. _the old engagement_, by julia day, is a brilliant story of english society, reprinted from the london edition by james munroe and co. _single blessedness_, is the title of an appeal in favor of unmarried ladies and gentlemen. an incoherent rhapsody, aiming at every thing and hitting nothing. (c. s. francis and co.) _lydia; a woman's book_, by mrs. newton cropland, is the title of a popular english work, remarkable for its natural character-drawing, reprinted by ticknor, reed, and fields. * * * * * j. d. b. de bow, professor of political economy in the university of louisiana, new orleans, has in press, and will issue in a few days, a work of which we have been permitted to see the sheets, in three large octavo volumes, small and neat print, entitled, _industrial resources, statistics, etc., of the southern and western states, with statistics of the home and foreign trade of the union, and the results of the census of _. the work will be a valuable addition to the library of the merchant, manufacturer, planter, and statesman, and the public have every guarantee of its ability in the active and intelligent services rendered by professor de bow to the industrial interests of the country, for many years past, in the pages of his invaluable and widely circulated review. * * * * * the following pensions have recently been granted by the british government in consideration of services in literature or science. to mrs. jameson, £ for her literary merits; to mr. james silk buckingham, £ for literary merits and useful travels in various countries; mr. robert torrens, f.r.s., £ for his valuable contributions to the science of political philosophy; to professor john wilson, of the university of edinburgh (christopher north of "blackwood"), £ for his eminent literary merits; to mrs. reid, the widow of dr. james reid, professor of ecclesiastical and civil history in the university of glasgow, £ , and £ to his family, in consideration of dr. reid's valuable contributions to literature; to mrs. macarthur, widow of dr. alexander macarthur, superintendent of model schools, and inspector of irish national schools, £ ; to mr. john britton, £ ; to mr. hinds, the astronomer, £ ; to dr. mantell, the geologist, £ ; and to mr. ronalds, of the kew observatory, £ . * * * * * a bibliographical work on theology and kindred subjects, _cyclopædia bibliographica_, is being published in london, which will be a useful index to general theological literature. in the first volume the arrangement of authors and works is alphabetical; in the second, a _catalogue raisonnée_ of all departments of theology under commonplaces in scientific order will be presented. of special value to theological students, this "cyclopædia" will also prove an important contribution to general literature. * * * * * mr. stiles's _austria in _ has been republished in london. the _athenæum_ says, "it may be recommended as a plain, continuous, and conscientious narrative to all those who would like to have the events to which it refers brought before them in the compass of one book, so as to be saved the trouble of turning over many." * * * * * during the recent discussion among the london booksellers regarding the discount on new books, mr. william longman stated that the publishing firm of which he is a partner had long been anxious to publish a new edition of johnson's _english dictionary_, that they were willing to pay almost any sum for the literary labor, but that they had not succeeded in procuring a man fully qualified as editor. "the want, however, has been supplied, and the boon has been conferred," says a london journal, "not by an english, but by an american lexicographer, who has produced a dictionary suitable to the present state of our common language. this is dr. goodrich's octavo edition of webster's dictionary, which is published at a price which places it within the reach of all the classes to whom it is indispensable; and whether in the school or the counting-house, the library or the parlor, we are confident that this work will be found of the highest value." * * * * * m. guizot is about to bring out a _history of the republic in england, and of the times of cromwell_; and he has allowed some of the paris journals to give a foretaste of it by the publication of a long extract under the title, "cromwell sera-t-il roi?" * * * * * the _glasgow citizen_ mentions that an interesting relic of robert burns, the poet, is at present for sale at a booksellers in that city. it is a manuscript of the poet, a fasciculus of ten leaves, written on both sides, containing _the vision_, as originally composed, _the lass of ballochmyle_, _my nannie o_, and others of his most popular songs. the manuscript was sent by burns to mrs. general stewart, of stair, when he expected to have to go to the west indies. * * * * * general g�rgey's _memoir of the hungarian campaign_ is translated, and will be shortly published. so stringent is the prohibition against this book in austria, that prince windischgrätz, who asked for special permission to purchase a copy, has received a positive refusal. * * * * * dr. hanna, the editor of the _biography of dr. chalmers_, is engaged in the preparation of a selection from the correspondence for early publication. * * * * * "it will be pleasant news to our readers," says the _london leader_, "to hear that macaulay has finished two more volumes of his _history_, which may be expected early next season. a more restricted circle will also be glad to hear that gervinus is busy with a new work, the _history of the south american republics_." * * * * * lamartine's sixth volume, of the _histoire de la restauration_, seems by far the most excellent in composition. it embraces the period from the execution of labédoyère to the death of napoleon at st. helena. the narrative is full, yet rapid; and the volume contains, among other things, a most curious and interesting paper hitherto unpublished, written by louis xviii., giving a private history of the agitations of a change of ministry. * * * * * a list has been published in the french papers of the professors of the university of paris who have either been deposed, or have resigned since the d of december. some of the names best known in literature and science to foreign countries are in the list. at the collége de france, mm. michelet, professor of history and ethics; quinet, professor of germanic literature; mikiewicz, of sclavonic literature; m. barthélemy saint-hilaire, professor of greek and roman philosophy. at the sorbonne, m. jules simon, interior professor of the history of ancient philosophy, has been superseded; and m. cousin, titular professor of that chair, has retired. m. villemain, professor of french eloquence; m. pouillet, professor of physics; cauchy, of mathematical astronomy, have refused the oath of allegiance to the president. at the school of medicine, m. chomel, professor of clinical medicine, has resigned. at the ecole normale, mm. jules simon, and vacherot, professors of philosophy, and m. magy, superintendent, have refused the oath. lists are also given of the _démissionnaires_ in the various colleges of paris. these announcements may have historical as well as biographical interest in after days of french revolutions. * * * * * french literature and literary men are beginning to adjust themselves to the new condition of things, and if the legislative tongue and the journalistic pen are obliged to submit to restraints, the historian, the novelist, the political economist, and the political philosopher are allowed pretty full swing. a great noise has been made about victor hugo's exile, but it seems that he has permission to return, of which he refuses to avail himself, and is settling down in cheap and healthful jersey. his expulsion, or exile, or voluntary removal, may be a loss to parisian society, but will probably be a gain to french literature. proudhon, just released from prison, is taking pen in hand, a sadder and a wiser man; for his approaching book is to demonstrate, in his own peculiar fashion, the theorem which events have been reciting to france, namely, that its government is not to be conclusively a republic of any set kind, but to belong to him or them whom providence may have endowed with force and cunning enough to grasp and retain it. heinrich heine himself, not paralyzed by his frightful illness, works an hour or two daily at a book which will be one of his most interesting--pictures of parisian men and things, to which he is to prefix a sketch of parisian society since the revolution of . michelet, in rural solitude, is employed upon his history of the revolution, while louis blanc, in london, has just published a new volume of his. barante has brought forth another portion of his pictorially unpicturesque history of the national convention; lamartine another of his history of the restoration. the astute guizot fights shy of the history of his own country, and is contributing to some of the chief paris periodicals fragments on the men and times of the "great rebellion" in england. one that is forthcoming is to be entitled, "cromwell--shall he be king?" which, being translated, means: louis napoleon--shall he be emperor? his old rival, thiers, is adding another literary association to the many that connect themselves with the lake of geneva, and is delighting the good people of that region by his lavish expenditure of napoleons and general affability. * * * * * a translation into french of the works of saint theresa is about to be published; it has been made by a jesuit. the saint's writings are much admired by her own church; but from the little we know of them, we should think them too rhapsodical and mystical for the public. * * * * * madame george sand has addressed a furious letter to a belgian newspaper, indignantly denying that, as asserted by it, she is in receipt of a pension, or has accepted any money whatever from the present government. even, she says, if her political opinions permitted her to receive the bounty of louis bonaparte, she should think it dishonorable to take it when there are so many of her literary brethren who have greater need of it. * * * * * buffon's mansion and grounds at montbard, in burgundy, are advertised for sale. in the grounds is an ancient tower of great height, commanding a view for miles around of a beautiful and mountainous country. it was in a room, in the highest part of this tower, that the great naturalist wrote the history which has immortalized his name. it is known that he was accustomed to write in full dress, but, by a striking contradiction, nothing could be more simple than his lofty study; it was a vast apartment with an arched roof, painted entirely green, and the only furniture it contained consisted of a plain wood table and an old arm-chair. the labor which that room witnessed was immense--as buffon wrote his works over and over again, until he got them to his taste. the "epoques de la nature," for example, were written not fewer than eighteen times. he always began his day's work in the tower between five and six o'clock in the morning, and when he required to reflect on any matter he used to walk about his garden. * * * * * the french journals report the death of the distinguished artist, tony johannot, and also of count d'orsay, who in the later period of his life displayed considerable artistic talent and taste both as a painter and sculptor. but he is more generally known, and will be longer remembered, as a man of fashion, and of public notoriety from his alliance with the blessington family, the circumstances of which are so well known, and have been recalled at present by the public journals at such length, as to render it needless for us to enlarge upon the subject. having shown kindness and hospitality to louis napoleon when an exile in london, the prince president was not ungrateful to his former friend, and he has latterly enjoyed the office of directeur des beaux arts, with a handsome salary, and maintained a prominent position in the court of the elysée. general gourgaud, the aid-de-camp of napoleon, and one of his companions at st. helena, who has recently died at an advanced age, was an author as well as a soldier, having written what he called a refutation of count ségur's "history of the russian campaign," and having got into a pamphlet dispute with sir walter scott, respecting some of the latter's statements in his "history of napoleon." with ségur he fought a duel to support his allegations, and with sir walter was very near fighting another. scott, it may be remembered, showed him up most unmercifully, and made known that, notwithstanding all his professed zeal for napoleon, there were documents in the english war-office, written by him at st. helena, which proved him to have been not one of the most faithful of servants. * * * * * the third centenary commemoration of the treaty of passau was celebrated on the d of august in darmstadt, and in connection with it dr. zimmerman, a divine of some celebrity, intends to revise and complete an entire edition of the works of martin luther, to be ready for publication on the th of september, , the three hundredth anniversary of the "religious peace" established by charles v. * * * * * in german literature of late, there have been very few publications worth announcing. two works recently published, however, deserve a passing mention. the first is a volume attributed by vague rumor to schelling, upon what authority we can not say, and bearing this comprehensive title, _ueber den geist und sein verhältniss in der natur_--running rapidly through the whole circle of the sciences physical and social; the second is a history of german philosophy since kant, by fortlage of jena--_genetische geschichie der philosophie seit kant_. he is a popular expositor, and as his work embraces kant, jacobi, fichte, schelling, oken, steffens, carus, schleiermacher, hegel, weisse, fries, herbart, beneke, reinhold, trendelenburg, &c., it will be interesting to students of that vast logomachy named german philosophy. in science we have to note one or two decidedly interesting publications. a massive, cheap, and popular exposition of the animal kingdom, by vogt, under the title of _zoologische briefe_--the numerous woodcuts to which, though very rude, are well drawn and useful as diagrams: vortisch _die jüngste katastrophe des erdballs_, and lotze _medicinische psychologie oder physiologie der seele_ will attract two very different classes of students. while the lovers of german belles lettres will learn with tepid satisfaction that a new work is about to appear from the converted countess hahn-hahn, under the mystical title of _die liebhaber des kreuzes_, and a novel also by l. muhlbach (wife of theodore mundt) upon frederick the great, called _berlin und sans souci_, which carlyle is _not_ very likely to consult for his delineation of the military poetaster. * * * * * norway has been deprived of one of her most learned historians, dr. niels wulfsberg, formerly chief keeper of the archives of the kingdom. the doctor was in the sixty-seventh year of his age. dr. wulfsberg was the founder of the two earliest daily papers ever published: the _mergenbladet_ ("morning journal") and the _fider_ ("times"); both of which still exist--one under its original title, and the other under that of the _rigstidenden_ ("journal of the kingdom"). comicalities, original and selected. [illustration: new illustrations to the poets.--byron shrine of the mighty! can it be that _this_ is all remains of thee? _giaour_, .] [illustration: but in thy lineaments i trace what time shall strengthen, nor efface. _giaour_, .] the dog and his enemies, biped and winged. [illustration: small juvenile (_with an eye to the reward for killing dogs_).--"doggy, doggy, here's a rat! catch him--stu-boy!"] [illustration: four scenes from the life of a dog in the dog-days.] autumn fashions. [illustration: figures and .--walking and home toilet.] our report for october varies but little from that of september, style and texture being similar. in the above engraving we give representations of very elegant modes of toilet for the promenade and the parlor. the figure with the bonnet shows a promenade toilet. bonnet of lisse crape and tulle puffed. it is covered with white lace, reaching beyond the edge of the brim, falling in front, after what is called the mary stuart style. the brim inside is trimmed on the one hand with a tuft of roses mixed up with narrow white blondes; and on the other it has a feather of graduated shades, which is placed outside and then turns over the edge and comes inside near the cheek; strings of white gauze ribbon. barege dress, trimmed with taffeta ribbons and fringes bordering the trimmings. body lapping over, the right on the left, having a flat lapel parallel to the edge. the body is gathered at the waist, on the shoulders, and at the bottom of the back. a no. ribbon forms a waistband, and ties on the left side at the bottom of the lapels. this ribbon matches that used for the trimming of the dress. the sleeve is composed of four frills one over the other. the skirt, which is very full, has seven graduated flounces. all are bordered with a narrow fringe. the lapel of the body, the frills of the sleeves, and flounces of the skirts are ornamented with ribbons; those on the body are no. , those on the skirt no. . on the lapels and sleeves the no. ribbons are placed at intervals of three inches. on the flounces the no. ribbons, - / inches wide, are placed further apart. the white lace which replaces the habit-shirt follows the outline of the body. the under-sleeve is composed of a large _bouillonné_ of thin muslin, tight at the wrist, but falling full over it in the shape of a bell. two rows of lace fall on the hand. the other figure represents a home toilet. taffeta redingote with _moire_ bands; the _moire_ trimmings are edged on each side with a taffeta biais, rather under half an inch wide, and which stands in relief. the joining of the _biais_ and the _moire_ is concealed by a braid about the width of a lace. a _moire_ band with its edges trimmed with _biais_ follows the outline of the body. three inches wide at top, it narrows to half the width at the waist, and is then continued about - / inches wide on the lappet. the skirt is trimmed with five _moire_ bands with _biais_ at their edges. these bands are of graduated width; the top one is inches from the waist, and two inches wide. the interval between each one and the next is inches; the lowest band, which is inches wide, is placed inches from the bottom of the skirt. on the body there are two rows of _moire_ and three on each band of the skirt. these gradually diverge toward the bottom. these last form a width of apron of inches. (the posture of this figure masks the right side of the skirt, and consequently only the middle row and that on the left side are to be seen.) the sleeves, half wide, are terminated by a cuff turned up with _moire_ and a _biais_ on the edge. a row of white lace follows the outline of the body. we see the chemisette composed of a row of lace, an insertion, and round plaits from top to bottom of thin muslin. a muslin _bouillon_ plaits. all the fullness is thrown behind, beginning at the side trimming. the sleeve is open behind, ornamented with buttons, and then edged with _guipure_. a cardinal collar of venice _guipure_ falls on the neck. the under sleeves are composed of two rows of white _guipure_ following the outline of the sleeve. [illustration: figure .--girl's toilet.] fig. represents a pretty toilet for a girl from nine to eleven years of age. hair parted down the middle and rolled in plaits at the sides. frock of white muslin. short sleeves, body low. six small-pointed flounces on the skirt. a wide pink silk ribbon passed under the sleeve, is tied at the top in a large bow, so that the sleeve is drawn together in it, and leaves the shoulder visible. a plain band runs along the top of the body, which is plaited lengthwise, in very small plaits. fig. represents a graceful cap for the parlor. it is made of _guipure_, ornamented with apple blossoms, and having wide pale-green silk ribbon bows and streamers. this is a pleasant season for traveling, after the equinoctial storms have passed by. appropriate dresses are very desirable. none is more so than the foulard dress of a dark color, with branches of foliage and large bouquets of flowers. the same may be said of valencia and poplin de laine, either with albanese stripes on a plain ground, or a large plaid pattern. a traveling dress should be made like a morning gown, but not exactly; for strings are put in underneath, both before and behind, for the purpose of drawing it, so as to form a pretty plaited body when they are pulled tight. over the gathers either a ribbon or a band with a buckle must be added. the body may be either low or high, with a small collar having two rows of cambric plaited very fine, or with a jaconet collar having open plaits, or again with a charles v. collar, made of frieze well starched and lustred. the under sleeves should be always in harmony with the collar. [illustration: figure .--cap.] the bonnet is made half of straw, half of taffeta. the brim is straw veined with black or mixed with aloes, and the crown has a soft top of ruffled taffeta, with a bow of ribbon. on this capote, it is indispensable to put a cambrai lace vail, that lace being at once substantial, light, and rich in pattern. as to the feet they are provided with boots of bronze leather, and having low heels and button-holes in vandykes. the gloves are swedish leather, dark color, as for instance russia leather, iron-gray, maroon, or olive. the traveling corset, called the _nonchalante_, is an article every way worthy of the name. from its extreme elasticity and clever combination it yields to every motion of the body, and supports it without the least compression or inconvenience. this corset is therefore extremely agreeable for travels. as a general rule, round waists are daily gaining ground; but you must not confound round waists with short waists: for the former, the dressmaker ought, on the contrary, to endeavor to make the sides as long as possible, and merely suppress the point in front. vests are still worn, but only to accompany linen and lace waistcoats. the under-sleeves are always wide and floating; the wrists are ornamented with ribbon bracelets matching the colors of the dress. boots and shoes are both in very good wear. the shoe is more suitable for the carriage than for walking. boots of bronze leather, and of a soft light color, are much sought after by the more elegant ladies. these boots have low heels, and are fastened with enamel buttons of the same color as the material of the boots. transcriber's notes: punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected. italics markup is denoted by _underscores_. file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) harper's new monthly magazine. volume v. june to november, . new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. mdccclii. advertisement. harper's new monthly magazine closes its fifth semi-annual volume with a circulation of more than one hundred thousand copies. the publishers have spared neither labor nor expense to render it the most attractive magazine of general literature ever offered to the public; and they confidently present this volume as evidence that their efforts to add to the value and interest of the work have kept pace with the increase of its circulation. special arrangements have been made, and will continue to be made, to render the next volume still more worthy of public favor than its predecessor has been. the abundant facilities at the command of the publishers insure an unlimited field for the choice and selection of material, while the ample space within the pages of the magazine enables the editors to present matter suited to every variety of taste and mood of the reading community. the pictorial illustrations will maintain the attractive and varied character by which they have been heretofore distinguished, while their number will be still farther increased. in the general conduct and scope of the magazine no change is contemplated. each number will contain as hitherto: _first._--original articles by popular american authors, illustrated, whenever the subject demands, by wood-cuts executed in the best style of the art. _second._--selections from the current literature of the day, whether in the form of articles from foreign periodicals or extracts from new books of special interest. this department will include such serial tales by the leading authors of the time, as may be deemed of peculiar interest; but these will not be suffered to interfere with a due degree of variety in the contents of the magazine. _third._--a monthly record, presenting an impartial condensed and classified history of the current events of the times. _fourth._--an editor's table, devoted to the careful and elaborate discussion of the higher questions of principles and ethics. _fifth._--an editor's easy chair and drawer, containing literary and general gossip, the chat of town and country, anecdotes and reminiscences, wit and humor, sentiment and pathos, and whatever, in general, belongs to an agreeable and entertaining miscellany. _sixth._--critical notices of all the leading books of the day. these will present a fair and candid estimate of the character and value of the works continually brought before the public. _seventh._--literary intelligence, concerning books, authors, art, and whatever is of special interest to cultivated readers. _eighth._--pictorial comicalities, in which wit and humor will be addressed to the eye; and affectations, follies, and vice, chastised and corrected. the most scrupulous care will be exercised that in this department humor shall not pass into vulgarity, or satire degenerate into abuse. _ninth._--the fashions appropriate for the season, with notices of whatever novelties in material or design may make their appearance. the publishers here renew the expression of their thanks to the press and the public in general, for the favor which has been accorded to the new monthly magazine, and solicit such continuance of that favor as the merits of the successive numbers may deserve. contents of volume v. all baggage at the risk of the owner a duel in a dull town animal mechanics a possible event a primitive people armory at springfield. by jacob abbott. auld robin gray--a ballad a terribly strange bed bleak house. by charles dickens. , , , , , british museum and zoological gardens by fredrika bremer celebrated french clockmaker church of the cup of cold water comicalities, original and selected. smoking at a railway station, . the childish teetotal movement; deference to the sex, . illustration of humbug; rules for health; finance for young ladies, . maine-law petitioners, . anti-maine-law petitioners, . matrimony made easy, . favorite investments; an agreeable partner, . delicacy; the dog-days; the american crusaders; poetical cookery-book, . mr. bull's ideas on the musquito question; starvation for the delicate, . young new york hard-up; a victim of the tender passion, . a striking expression; scene in a fashionable ladies' groggery, . rather a bad look-out; the attentive husband in august, . a great nuisance, . tea-room before tea, . tea-room after tea, . a midsummer night's dream; blow like sweet roses, . new illustrations to shakspeare, . a superfluous question; children must be paid for, . new illustrations to byron, . the dog and his enemies; scenes from a dog's life in dog-days, . some punkins; advice to the poor gratis, . a natural consequence; proper prudence, . courage of a man of principle curiosity in natural history dark chapter from the diary of a law clerk daughter of the bardi down in a silver mine drops of water drooping buds. by charles dickens editor's drawer. legal examinations; anecdotes of beau brummell, . the disgusted wife to her husband; the extempore hair-cutter, . sonnet on a youth who died of eating fruit-pie; mussulman scruples; letter from algeria, . steam in palestine; the puzzled chinaman; hints on popping the question, . a new family of plants; lamartine as conservative; as traveler; an irish joke; doubling prohibited, . an original crest; mr. caw; the scotch blacksmith, . bustles in africa; skeleton for poets; wives in china; a persian fable; gents and gentlemen; the ugly man, . the queen's dog; "unused as i am to public speaking;" the sold troop-horse; philosophical explanation; differences in childhood, . execution of montrose; rothschild; hot soup at railway stations, . a "sonnick," by thackeray; what is pleasure? working clothes; legal maxims; the mazurka; miss trephina and miss trephosa; spanish self-glorification; the two hogarths; dionysius the tyrant; the pope in a dilemma; anecdotes of horne tooke; orthography of english names; e pluribus unum; the statue of pasquin, . a matter-of-fact man, . gambling, a new species of it; country quietude; mons. le general court de boston, . a needle-eye for a camel to go through; a levy; squaring the account; for bachelors; old proverbs excepted to, . model presentation verses; modern dictionary; governor chittenden and the thief; the puzzled publican; how do you like the doctor? . how to prevent riches from flying; anecdote of louis philippe; tongues _vs._ tongs; spilling water in the street, . an epigram; sydney smith's son; hint to shoppers, borrowing books; head and bonnets; allen, internal and external costumer; hair changing color; an epitaph, . about that "tea-room" and the amateur alderman, . a bad head better than none; patent hen persuader; difference between a bull and a bully; how to grow rich; taking things coolly, a triad of instances; beautiful superstition; the ruling passion, . humanity of nelson; an accurate receipt; firing dutch cheeses; getting slewed; an unwelcome shower-bath; nautical technicalities, . a gem from lydgate; examination in anatomy; becoming "dark;" betting to win; an inordinate petition, . try again; newport notions; putting one's foot in; a story of a hog; catachresis, . the poetry of ballooning; a maniac's voyage to the moon, . about umbrellas; "sucker" office-seeker; remedy for a broken leg, . how to double your wealth; the biter bit--a tale of the mustard-pot; the lord and the lackey; a squint at a crooked leg; the miseries of pic-nicking, . a frenchman's experience in ladies' schools; carlyle on stars; twisting; a belle, . lays of the cavaliers; pursuit of knowledge under difficulties; partition of turkey; a second-hand president; the lazy man; odd names, . prevention better than cure; the lady and the doctor; inscription; epitaph; gipsies; hogg, . an artist's gratitude; pilgrimage to the tomb of juliet at verona, . a lover's letter; what's the matter; a professor posed; doctoring; thanksgiving, . how to be happy; the sheriff and the peddler; thoughts by a tailor, . about matrimony; negro banking; being busted; coughing concert, . mr. benton; a poser; voyage of life; gulliver; johnson and smith on the scotch, . a great pity; first glimpse in the glass; desirable ignorance; witchcraft; a simile, . anecdote of whitfield; hotel scenes; hint to the married; grace before meat; for bachelors, . doubly mistaken; a steamboat race, . editor's easy chair. still more about the weather; spring floods, . rapid changes; niagara in winter; spring again; new park; kossuth; jenny lind goldschmidt, . summer traveling; western scenery; autograph lottery, and dumas's sequel, . an old gentleman's letter--the bride of landeck, , , , , , . a july chair, . parks; imaginary rambles; a duo and a triad of verses; leafy june; the washington monument intermittent fever; political conventions; ole bull, . the maine law at watering places; home-made wines; pleasuring to the rocky mountains; new lake in minnesota; summer contentments, . authors becoming millionaires; dying for love, . provincials in paris, . americans abroad; the grand tour in six weeks; m. de broglie's description of washington, . a little mule will grow; the town at midsummer, . fruits and flowers; poor generals; alboni, with a hint to musical critics; monkeys at the opera house, . the tender passion in french courts of justice, . summer at saratoga; saratoga out of season, and a glance at the good time coming, . back to town, . the opera and concerts; alboni, sontag, and paul jullien; the new hotels, and what will come of them, . relief for broadway; our world's fair; our own political position; letter from the editor, . editor's table. on education, . a nation's birthday, . moral influences of the theatre, . the ideal of the statesman, . the sabbath, . morality of steamboat accidents, . edward drysdale exaggeration fashions for june fashions for july fashions for august fashions for september fashions for october fashions for november fragments from a young wife's diary franconia mountains. by wm. macleod from gold to gray gambler's end garden of flowers gossip about great men habits of distinguished authors henry clay--personal anecdotes, etc. hunting adventures in le morvan infidel rebuked insect wings john randolph of roanoke last of the fairies leaf from a traveler's note-book. by maunsel b. field life and death of paganini life in paris life of blake, the great admiral literary notices. original notices. life and correspondence of niebuhr; weber's romance of natural history; ivar, or, the skjuts-boy; queechy; the daltons; brace's hungary in ; james's pequinillo; english synonyms, . sargent's standard speaker; spring's glory of christ; anthon's manual of grecian antiquities; works of president olin; mountford's thorpe; life of burns; fancies of a whimsical man; alice carey's lyra; mcmullen's hand-book of wines, . stuart's naval dry docks; hervey's principles of courtesy; harrison's laws of the latin language; fasquelle's new french method; the two families; owen's greek reader; lamartine's restoration, . clifton; fourth volume of cosmos; dollars and cents; trench's study of words; life and correspondence of jeffrey, . clarke's eleven weeks in europe; waverley novels, . curtis's lotus-eating; strong's harmony of the gospels; fox and hoyt's quadrennial register; abbott's mother at home; waverley novels; herbert's knights of england, france, and scotland, . marco paul's voyages and travels; woodbury's shorter german course; todd's summer gleanings; hildreth's united states; halleck's poems; elliott's mysteries, . life of dr. chalmers, th vol., . meyer's universum; niebuhr's lectures on ancient history; atlantic and transatlantic; sketches afloat and ashore; butler's analogy; the napoleon dynasty, . waverley novels; shaw's outlines of english literature, with a sketch of american literature; personal adventures of "our own correspondent" in italy; st. helena and the cape of good hope; haydock's catholic family bible; the new rhetorical reader, . parisian sights and french principles; the discarded daughter; the mormons, or latter-day saints; tusculan questions, anthon's edition; sargent's life of henry clay, . stray meditations; anna hammer; mrs. judson's olio of domestic verses; life and works of burns, vol. iv.; the master builder; bartlett's natural philosophy; upjohn's rural architecture; the dodd family abroad; the old engagement; single blessedness; lydia, a woman's book; de bow's industrial resources of the southern and western states, . goodrich's select british eloquence; buckingham's personal memoirs, . guizot's corneille and his times; chasles's anglo-american literature; philosophers and actresses; hawthorne's life of pierce; tuckerman's sicily; champlin's and kuehner's greek grammars; james's life of vicissitudes; mrs. hale's new book of cookery, . docharty's algebra; oehlschlaeger's german dictionary; the school for fathers; march's webster and his contemporaries; new editions of dickens; morse's geography; anthon's cornelius nepos, . foreign notices and intelligence. life of kirby; longman's announcements; life of lord langdale; wellington's executor; memoir of dr. pye smith; mary howitt's new juvenile magazine; niebuhr's lectures; oersted's soul of nature; forthcoming works by tennyson, thackeray, and author of the bachelor of albany, . ronge; resignation of professor wilson; demand for old books in america; criticisms on the howadji; leigh hunt's illness; lady morgan on a monument to moore; emerson in french; forgeries of talleyrand's letters, . caudle lectures; anthon's anabasis; ik. marvel; resignation of prof. wilson; candidates for his chair, . milton's agreement for paradise lost; cassagnac's oeuvres litteraires; fleury's portraits politiques et révolutionnaires; grimm's german dictionary; ms. of rempen; leipzig easter catalogue, . church historians of england; macdougall's papers; sermons by the author of alton locke; translation of plato's republic; life of moir; life of chalmers; monument to mackintosh; literary fund anniversary; notice of sterling, . queechy; the english press on curtis's books; authorship of the "imitation of christ," . the germans on margaret fuller; wagner's scientific expedition to america; amulet of byron; prof. lichtenstein; medal to swedenborg; swedish books; st. hilaire's resignation; st. beauve's causeries du lundi; dramatic literature in france, . signor volpe's lectures on the italian poets; miss lothrop's dollars and cents; proposed foreign members of the council of the royal society; jared sparks and lord mahon. prof. grimm on the english language, . james russell lowell and american literature; lamartine's constituent assembly; works by the countess d'orsay and marquis de foudres, . new literary society in france; new editions of buffon and cuvier, thiers's new works; new italian books; printing in england, germany, and france; oehlenschlager's and temminck's successors; browning and hawthorne in germany; german juvenile literature; edinburgh review on niebuhr's life and letters, . literary pensions, . cyclopæedia biographica; stiles's austria; webster's dictionary, guizot's republic in england, relic of burns; translation of gorgey's memoirs, chalmers's correspondence; macaulay's new volume gervinus's south american republics: lamartine's sixth volume of the restoration; resigning french professors; european litterateurs, . saint theresa's works; george sand; buffon; new edition of luther's works; german publications, . retrospective review; webster's dictionary; coleridge's dramatic works; sonnet by hartley coleridge; julian fane; lord mahon and mr. sparks, . professor ferrier; lang's new south wales; deacon's annette; merle d'aubigne's new volume; statues to st. pierre and delavigne; new members of the british association, . obituaries. john young; b. b. edwards; solomon van rensselaer; james a. meriwether; bishop heading, . dr. pfaff, . henry clay, . m. burnouf, . marshal excelmans, . tony johannot; count d'orsay; gen. gourgeaud; dr. wulfsberg, . bishop chase; vanderlyn the painter; dr. mcguire, . the duke of wellington, . herbert mayo; dr. macgillivray; napoleon landais; m. dize; dr. stieffel; pompeo litta, . little french beggars little wood gatherers memoirs of the holy land. by jacob abbott , , , memory and its caprices midnight mass in the reign of terror miser's life and death monsters of faith monthly record of current events. united states. congressional caucuses, . _congressional doings_: miscellaneous, , , , , ; intervention, ; collins steamers, , , ; resolutions on the compromise, ; japanese expedition, ; free land bill, ; debate on the fisheries, , ; new postage law, ; isthmus of tehuantepec, ; adjournment, . adjournment of new york legislature, . whig convention in virginia, . election in connecticut, . election in rhode island, . mr. webster on the compromise, . gen. scott nominated by whigs in n. y. legislature, . whigs in north carolina, . floods at the west, . steamboat disasters, . letter from mr. clay respecting kossuth, . kossuth, , , . _california_: miscellaneous, , , , , ; governor's message respecting chinese, ; chinamen, ; affray in court, . correspondence with hulsemann, . democratic convention at baltimore, and nomination of pierce and king, . mr. webster in boston, , . new york canal law pronounced unconstitutional, . state convention in south carolina, . maine law in massachusetts, . anniversary week, . presbyterian general assemblies, . arrival of meagher, . whig convention at baltimore, and nomination of scott and graham, . agricultural convention, . art-union a lottery, . arrival of alboni, . indian and mexican disturbances in texas, . new mexico, . utah, , . oregon, . mr. webster on the fishery question, . lundy lane celebration, . native american nominations, . case of messrs. stephens, toombs, and others, . case of thomas kaine, . destruction of life on board the steamer henry clay, . guano question, . new constitution for louisiana, . loss of life on board the steamer atlantic, ; and on board the reindeer, . free democratic convention at pittsburgh, and nomination of hale and julian, . agricultural convention of southern states, . floods in the northwest, . nominations in new york, . liberty party nominations, . webster meeting in boston, . nominations in massachusetts, . mr. hale's acceptance, . women's rights convention, . elections in vermont and maine, . southern rights nominations, . odd fellow's meeting, . general scott, at the west, . dinner to mr. baring, . mr. graham's letter, . mr. benton on the tehuantepec question, . consul rice, . minister to england, . anti-rent outrage, . the india-rubber case, . billy bowlegs, . concerts, . episcopal bishop of new york, . methodist book concern, . the fisheries, . canadian intelligence, . southern america. mexico: miscellaneous, , , , , , . rejection of the tehuantepec treaty, , . remonstrances of european powers, . laws respecting foreigners, . difficulties at acapulco, , , . president's address, . tehuantepec question, .--south america: affairs in buenos ayres, , , , . executions in chili, , . yellow fever in brazil, , . expedition of flores, , , . message of the president of ecuador, . new ministry in peru, . argentine republic, , . affairs in brazil, . military preparations in peru, .--cuba: new conspiracies, . hostile proceedings, .--south seas: miscellaneous, , . american products free of duty, . eruption of mauna loa, . revolt in society islands, , . capture of american vessel at the galapagos, . great britain. miscellaneous, , , . undecided course of the ministers, . protection, . loss of the birkenhead, . the crystal palace, , , . rumors of sir john franklin's vessels, . gold in australia, . meeting of parliament, . parliamentary proceedings: debate on india, ; on duties on paper and advertisements, ; on the militia bill, , , ; on disfranchisement, ; tenant right bill, ; case of mr. murray, ; the chancellor's budget, ; proposed criminal convention with france, ; english missionaries in austria, ; chancery reform, ; debate on course of ministry, ; prorogation, and queen's speech, . royal academy dinner, . dispute among booksellers, . starvation of missionaries in patagonia, . petition for pardon of irish exiles, . mr. disraeli and lord derby on protection, . lord john russell to his constituents, . case of mr. mather, . irish exhibition, . proclamation against catholic ceremonies, . elections for new parliament, , . royal agricultural society dinner, . riot at stockport, . emigration to australia, , . mazzini, . the fishery question, . kossuth in england, . the fisheries in the colonies, . canadian politics, . death of the duke of wellington, with a sketch of his life, . report of the society for the advancement of knowledge, . the guano question, . france. meeting of the legislative bodies, and president's speech, . the budget, . taking the oaths, . organization of the national guard, . reconstitution of the university, . orleans estates, , , . the swiss refugee question, . the may fêtes, . charge by general changarnier against the president, . counter-charges against changarnier by m. cassagnac, . refusal of lamoriciere and arago to take the oaths, . letter from the count de chambord, . views of the three powers on the empire, , , . sale of marshal soult's pictures, . difficulties of the press, . message of the president, . discussion on the budget, . executions, . opening of the strasbourg railway, . change in the ministry, . odilon barrot abandons public life, . recall of exiles, . indifference at elections, . fête of napoleon's birthday, . anniversary of the capture of the bastille, . petitions for the establishment of the empire, . president's speech at lyons, . french press on the duke of wellington, . southern and central europe. austria: death of schwarzenberg, and formation of new ministry, . batthyani's estates, . new restraints on the press, . return of the emperor from hungary, . deficit in the revenue, . the crown of st. stephen, .--prussia: famine in silesia, . debate on abolishing the constitution, . settlement of the danish succession, . the zollverein, . the cholera, .--netherlands: railroad amalgamation, . speech of king of holland, .--affairs in switzerland, .--spain: dismissal of concha, . postal convention with austria, --italy: abolition of the constitution in tuscany . arrests in venice and mantua, . funeral of mazzini's mother, . restrictions on petitions in piedmont, . closing of protestant school in naples, . envoy from england, . conspiracy, . eruption of etna, .--greece: case of dr. king, , , .--turkey: reinstatement of reshid pacha, . settlement of the egyptian question, , . new discoveries in nineveh, . my brother tom my little french friend my novel; or varieties in english life. by sir edward bulwer lytton, , , , , , napoleon bonaparte. by j. s. c. abbott, , , , notes from the barbary states number nineteen in our street ocean life. by j. s. c. abbott ostriches--how they are hunted palaces of france. by j. s. c. abbott, , , panther hunt personal habits and appearance of robespierre philosophy of laughter posthumous portrait prison scene in the reign of terror record of a madness not insanity reminiscence of a bow-street officer results of an accident.--the gum secret satisfaction of a gentleman short chapter on rats soldier's first battle stories about beasts and birds swept away by an avalanche tale of mid air the ant or emmet the counter-stroke the ghost raiser the incendiary the last revel the little gray gossip the mourner and the comforter the salamander the three sisters the two sisters three visitors of saint pierre too exclusive attention to business ventriloquism what the sunbeam does who murdered downie list of illustrations. page . auld robin gray.--the courtship . death of auld robin gray . franconia notch . profile mountain . the old man of the mountain . eagle cliff . eastern front of profile mountain . the basin . the flume . view on the pemigewasset . map of marengo . drawing a gun over great st. bernard . napoleon ascending the alps . passing the fort of bard . napoleon planning a campaign . map of hohenlinden . death at hohenlinden . the infernal machine . starting of an ocean steamer . the visit at the brickmaker's . in re guppy:--extraordinary proceedings . smoking at a railway station . the childish teetotal movement . deference to the sex . costumes for june . full dress for evening . caps . the armory at springfield . the middle water shops . the welding room . straightening the barrels . grinding the barrels . exterior of the proving house . interior of the proving house . testing the bayonets . the blacksmith's shop . assembling the musket . the new arsenal . quarters of the commanding officer . mr. guppy's desolation . the family portraits at mr. badger's . illustration of humbug . maine-law petitioners . anti-maine-law petitioners . articles on hand at matrimonial office . favorite investments . an agreeable partner . delicacy . the dog-days . costumes for july . bonnet . carriage costume . cap . sleeve . view of mount carmel . map of mount carmel . map of mount carmel and bay of acre . defense of acre . horseman of acre . the ascent of the mountain . the discovery of glass . elijah and the gardener . the hermits of mount carmel . the elijah of the basilians . the authorized elijah . the serpent . the panther . napoleon's reception at the tuileries . malmaison . election for consul for life . napoleon and the british embassador . review at lyons . sea combat . the louvre . inner court of the louvre . the tuileries . grand avenue of the tuileries . the dancing room . consecrated ground . mr. bull's ideas on the musquito question . young new york hard up . a victim of the tender passion . a striking expression . scene in a fashionable ladies' groggery . rather a bad look-out . the attentive husband in august . costumes for august . bonnet of taffeta and blond . bonnet of tulle and taffeta . bonnet of tulle, blond, and taffeta . source of the jordan . map of the jordan . the grapes of eshcol . the return of the spies . the crossing of jordan . en rogel . the well . the landing at haifa . the caravan . the cascades . the encampment . the bowl . portrait of the bey of tunis . moorish costumes . military costume at tunis . the bazaar . barber's shop . moorish school . the bastinado . japanese portraits . caddy's flowers . the little church in the park . a great nuisance . tea room--before tea . tea room--after tea . a midsummer night's dream . blow like sweet roses . all places yield to him . speak to him, ladies . a superfluous question . costumes for september . walking dress . home costume . departure of lot from sodom . the plain . the valley of arabah . map of the dead sea . caves of engedi . the descent . the cavern of usdum . the ford . turahbeh . the leveling party . death of costigan . plan of versailles . louis xiv . old chateau of versailles . court entrance at versailles . death of louis xiv . louis xiv. hunting . madame maintenon . cascades of versailles . fountain of fame . fountain of the star . fountain of the pyramid . parterre of versailles . the grand trianon . scene in the louvre . arrest of cadoudal . arrest of the duke d'enghien . napoleon's hut at boulogne . execution of the duke d'enghien . madame polignac interceding for her husband . mr. guppy's entertainment . the smallweed family . throne of the mighty . but in thy lineaments i trace . the dog and his enemies . four scenes in a dog's life . costumes for october . girl's toilet . cap . the cedars of lebanon . evergreens in the forest . evergreens in the field . the workmen in the mountains . the caravans . map of sources of jordan . the two strangers . the abduction of the idols . the terebinth at banias . the ruins . hasbeiyah . commerce of the druses . fakardin a fugitive . the presents . ruins of baalbec . preparations for a journey . visiting the cedars . palace of st. germain . convent of st. jacques . st. germain from the terrace . interior of st. denis . christening of the dauphin . church of st. denis . palace of st. cloud . palace of fontainebleau . court-yard of fontainebleau . paris from nôtre dame . shopping in paris . marriage by the magistrate . marriage by the priest . through the rain . business before pleasure . the bow audacious . bows, natural and stiff . bows, proud and sad . bows, gallant, and not uncommon . bows, unquiet and miserable . bows, good-natured and insulting . bows, benevolent and cold . bows, humiliating and humble . church of the madeleine . on the boulevards . cafés on the boulevards . maison du grand balcon . boulevard montmartre . boulevard du temple . hebrew quarter . the column of july . the quay of the louvre . floating wash-houses . aristocratic bathing-house . baths for four sous . a comfortable bath . swimming school . hair-dressing and corn-cutting . bathing costume for ladies . in the bath . ready for the bath . a model of parental deportment . improving a tough subject . some punkins . advice to the poor gratis . a natural consequence . proper prudence . costume for november (equestrian) . walking toilet . cap harper's new monthly magazine. no. xxv.--june, .--vol. v. [illustration] auld robin gray. when the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame, when a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane; the woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, unken'd by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me. young jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride; but saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside, to make the crown a pound, my jamie gaed to sea; and the crown and the pound, o they were baith for me! before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, my father brak his arm, our cow was stown away; my mother she fell sick--my jamie was at sea-- and auld robin gray, oh! he came a-courting me. my father cou'dna work--my mother cou'dna spin; i toil'd day and night, but their bread i cou'dna win; auld rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, said, "jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me?" my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back; but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack: his ship it was a wrack! why didna jamie dee? or, wherefore am i spar'd to cry out, woe is me! my father argued sair--my mother didna speak, but she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea; and so auld robin gray, he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife, a week but only four, when mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist--i cou'dna think it he, till he said, "i'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!" o sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; ae kiss we took, nae mair--i bad him gang awa. i wish that i were dead, but i'm no like to dee; for o, i am but young to cry out, woe is me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena much to spin, i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin. but i will do my best a gude wife aye to be, for auld robin gray, oh! he is sae kind to me, the continuation. the wintry days grew lang, my tears they were a' spent; may be it was despair i fancied was content. they said my cheek was wan; i cou'dna look to see-- for, oh! the wee bit glass, my jamie gaed it me. my father he was sad, my mother dull and wae; but that which griev'd me maist, it was auld robin gray; though ne'er a word he said, his cheek said mair than a', it wasted like a brae o'er which the torrents fa'. he gaed into his bed--nae physic wad he take; and oft he moan'd and said, "it's better for her sake." at length he look'd upon me, and call'd me his "ain dear," and beckon'd round the neighbors, as if his hour drew near. "i've wrong'd her sair," he said, "but ken't the truth o'er late; it's grief for that alone that hastens now my date; but a' is for the best, since death will shortly free a young and faithful heart that was ill matched wi' me. "i loo'd, and sought to win her for mony a lang day; i had her parents' favor, but still she said me nay; i knew na jamie's luve; and oh! it's sair to tell-- to force her to be mine, i steal'd her cow mysel! "o what cared i for crummie! i thought of naught but thee, i thought it was the cow stood 'twixt my luve and me. while she maintain'd ye a' was you not heard to say, that you would never marry wi' auld robin gray? "but sickness in the house, and hunger at the door, my bairn gied me her hand, although her heart was sore. i saw her heart was sore--why did i take her hand? that was a sinfu' deed! to blast a bonnie land. "it was na very lang ere a' did come to light; for jamie he came back, and jenny's cheek grew white. my spouse's cheek grew white, but true she was to me; jenny! i saw it a'--and oh, i'm glad to dee! "is jamie come?" he said, and jamie by us stood-- "ye loo each other weel--oh, let me do some good! i gie you a', young man--my houses, cattle, kine, and the dear wife hersel, that ne'er should hae been mine." we kiss'd his clay-cold hands--a smile came o'er his face; "he's pardon'd," jamie said, "before the throne o' grace. oh, jenny! see that smile--forgi'en i'm sure is he, wha could withstand temptation when hoping to win thee?" the days at first were dowie; but what was sad and sair, while tears were in my ee, i kent mysel nae mair; for, oh! my heart was light as ony bird that flew, and, wae as a' thing was, it had a kindly hue. but sweeter shines the sun than e'er he shone before, for now i'm jamie's wife, and what need i say more? we hae a wee bit bairn--the auld folks by the fire-- and jamie, oh! he loo's me up to my heart's desire. [illustration] the summer tourist.--scenery of the franconia mountains, n.h. by william m'leod. the approach of summer will turn the thoughts and steps of thousands toward those sections of our wide country whose picturesque beauty makes them ample amends for comparative sterility of soil and poverty of population. new hampshire, with due allowance for the exaggerations of patriotism, may well be styled the switzerland of america; and, although they are inferior in magnificent sublimity to the regal alps, few tourists through the northern states would leave the white mountains unvisited. though it forms part of this great chain, the inhabitants of the franconia range, jealously claim for their hills a separate name, character, and interest, having no connection with the more eminent firm of washington, adams, and co. like the latter, the franconians boast a chief to their clan--_mount lafayette_, a "_notch_," and other important features of a distinct and complete establishment, which combine to make it no mean rival to the great _patriot group_. we propose, with pen and pencil, to make a brief excursion through these picturesque localities. these remarkable scenes are chiefly comprised within the extraordinary defile, or "_notch_," formed by the franconia mountains for a distance of five miles. the northern and southern approaches to this singular pass, have their peculiar advantages. coming from the south, the tourist, from a very great distance, sees the outlines of its grander features rising far above the beautiful valley he follows; but, perhaps, this long and constantly visible approach, interesting as it is, begets a familiarity that weakens the impression of their sublimity when he finally confronts their more palpable magnificence. not so with the approach from the north, where the views being more abrupt, shifting, and at times wholly concealed, their effect is the more startling upon the traveler, brought suddenly before them. thus, in approaching the franconia notch from bethlehem, we shall find the slow ascent of the dull steep hill eastward of that village, to be an excellent preparative for the superb prospect that bursts upon our vision, on reaching its top. across the franconia valley lying beneath us, we see the lofty summits, forming the "notch," "swell from the vale," and receding in peaks of picturesque irregularity-- "like giants stand to sentinel enchanted land!" there is no general view in the white mountains equal to this distant prospect of the franconia notch, in respect to picturesque majesty of outline and massive breadth. descending into the valley, our road suddenly turns eastward, and as we begin the opposite slow ascent to the _notch_, the view before us assumes a finely-grouped concentrated character--losing that _diffuseness_ so destructive of picturesqueness and point in the american landscape generally. this scene is attempted in the accompanying sketch, showing mount lafayette filling the centre of the view, the irregular peaks of the _notch_ on the right, while below, the eye is cheered with the snug farm-house by the road-side, and other rural accessories charmingly arranged for the artist's purpose. [illustration: franconia notch.] keeping the grander points of this fine prospect before us as we continue our ascent, every step reveals more distinctly the volcano-like crest and seamed bosom of lafayette, than which not washington himself, though five hundred feet taller, presents a form of more august character. lafayette is not only distinguished over his fellows by his height, but also by the rocky bareness of his peaked summit, that descends with converging rows of ravines and hemlock-topped cliffs into an immense verdant basin presented toward us. in fine weather, the dry rocks of these ravines shine like bars of silver, and after heavy rains they glisten with the torrents disappearing into the vast shadowy basin below. no tourist that has made this ascent to the _notch_ during the dog-days, can forget the grateful change of the hot, treeless road, for the shady coolness of the wooded avenue he enters at the top, and through whose green twilight his now recruited steeds drag him merrily for two miles to the _lafayette house_ at the entrance of the notch. just before reaching the hotel, we see through the fine birchen groves, skirting our avenue, _echo lake_, a small sheet of water of great depth and transparency, the mountainous sides of which clothed with an unbroken forest of dreary hemlock, deprive it of all beauty of _setting_, or of interest aside from its marvelously distinct echoes. the franconia _notch_ hardly deserves more than the name of a _pass_--even for its narrowest point near the lafayette house, where it is about a quarter of a mile in width. it has no such _jaws_--projecting _tusks_, and other palpable signs of violent disrupture, as make the expressive title of "_notch_" so fitly applied to its great rival in the white mountains. still its features are distinctive, and grandly _unique_, and though not so sublimely rugged as those of its rival, they are infinitely more picturesque, and this peculiar difference of character extends to all the scenery lying within the two rival regions. but the wonder and pride of the franconia notch is the "_old man_" of the profile mountain, that forms its western wall, and which, ascending on the north side with a gradual wooded slope, to a height of two thousand feet, abruptly terminates in a perpendicular rocky precipice, five hundred feet high, which in a bare "granite front" extends along the eastern face of the mountain for two miles. an exquisite sheet of water, in size and purity similar to echo lake, lies between the mountain and our road, from which through a clearing, we have an admirable view of the mountain, rising wave-like from its lake--its rich rolling groves, overtopped by a pinnacle of rock, like the comb of a breaking billow, and in the fantastic outlines of that granite crest, juts out as perfect an outline of an _old man's head_, as human hand itself could execute! [illustration: profile mountain.] every tourist through the white mountains knows the propensity of the natives to increase the interest of their region, by pointing out all sorts of fancied zoological likenesses in their rocks and mountains--so that before he sees the "_old man_," he will be apt to rank him, in advance, with the facial pretensions he has already seen. but, no! this time the artist has made a hit, and the likeness is admirable. there is nothing vague, imperfect, or disproportioned about him. you are not forced to _imagine_ a brow to the nose, or go in search of a chin to support the mouth. they are all there!--a bent, heavy brow, not stern, but earnest--a straight, sharp nose--lips thin and with the very weakness of extreme senility in their pinched-up lines--and a chin, long and massive, thrown forward with a certain air of obstinacy, that completes the character of the likeness! the mass of rock forming this extraordinary profile is said to be eighty feet in height; is fifteen hundred feet above the lake, and about half a mile from a spectator in the road--from which point it appears to be at the top of the mountain though it is really five hundred feet below the summit. the "old man" does not change his countenance under the closest scrutiny of the spy-glass, constantly leveled at him by the starers "beneath his notice." under such inspection the likeness loses none of its human character, though the cheeks of the veteran appear woefully cut-up and scarred. but it seems rude to peer thus impertinently into the wrinkles and "crow's-feet" of his grim visage that has faced, perhaps, centuries of sun and tempest. nor is it advisable to take your first look at him when the sun lights up the chasms of his granite cheek, and the cavernous mystery of his bent brow. go to him when in the solemn light of evening the mountain heaves up from the darkening lake its vast wave of luxuriant foliage--sit on one of those rocks by the road-side, and look, if you can, without awe, at the granite face hung against the luminous sky--human in its lineaments--supernatural in size and position--weird-like in its shadowy mystery, but its sharp outline wearing an expression of mortal sadness that gives it the most fascinating interest! if this singular profile has existed long enough, it must have been an object of veneration to the aborigines. mr. oakes, in his _white mountain scenery_, says it was first publicly made known to the whites only as far back as forty years ago. it is curious to observe the odd changes of the profile, as we advance or recede along the road. now it resembles an old woman--now it flattens like a negro's face, and now its nose presents an "eagle-beak," like the duke of wellington's! a peculiar feature of beauty in the profile mountain is the rare luxuriance of its forest of birch and beech, with an occasional hemlock rising spire-like from its groves. the "old man" has a remarkable echo, with which (after a becoming deliberate pause) he will _retort_ every appeal, grave, quizzical, and sentimental that may be shouted up to him by the gay idlers on the lake side. [illustration: the old man of the mountain.] on the opposite side of the notch, and immediately overhanging the hotel, a tremendous cliff is separated from the crest of the mountain by a huge chasm, and with its numerous jagged and splintered rocks, seems every moment about to topple down. this is the famous _eagle cliff_--so called from a pair of eagles having made their habitation a few seasons since on its topmost crag; and a prouder eyry for that majestic bird can not be imagined. it is this noble cliff, with its adjacent craggy peaks, that furnishes that picturesque irregularity of outline we have already described as peculiar to the franconia notch, and which is visible for such a great distance to the traveler coming either from the north or south. the latter approach, however, furnishes the finest view of eagle cliff. when within a mile of it, its stupendous crags fill up the centre of the view above the road before us, and the luxuriant birches on either side form a graceful framework, whose light airy boughs contrast finely with the massive riven cliff they inclose. in the evening, when the sun's rays are withdrawn from the valley below, and the rosy light falls alone on its rocky crags, vividly relieved by the broad shadows of its chasm, eagle cliff forms indeed a worthy _pendant_ to the "old man" over the way. the accompanying sketch is taken from this point in the road, to the left of which is seen a portion of the exquisite lake "sweetly slumbering" between these magnificent mountains. but the glories of the notch are not fully seen, unless the tourist visit it when that unrivaled colorist, jack frost, has lavished upon its foliage the hues of his gorgeous pallet--their tempered brilliancy glowing through the voluptuous haze of autumn! what a singular contrast the opposite sides of the notch then present! eagle cliff allows no motley-dressed dandies to vegetate upon his stern crags--exclusively a mass of granite and sombre evergreens; and the hemlock-covered eastern wall into which he extends, has its funereal vestments only here and there _slashed_ with stripes of bright yellow birches that mark the mountain torrents and land-slides. but frost, the artist, has a fairer field for his brush on the opposite side, where the rich rolling groves of the profile mountain present a bravely variegated mantle descending from the very neck of the "old man," who, with grim visage, unmoved by so rare "a coat of many colors," seems as indisposed as ever to bend down that obstinate chin and take a look at himself and his finery in the lake lying like a mirror at his feet! and even after the glory of the leaf has passed, it is well worth a trip to see these peaks in their cloudy costume, when the wind howls through the defile with a force shaking the hemlock "moored in the rifted rock," but not silencing the muffled roar of the unseen mountain torrents. nor as one of the attractions of a late season must be omitted the chance of seeing lafayette peering with whitened head over his clansmen's shoulders, while perhaps the defile reposes in groves of bright and brilliant foliage. but in spite of splendid foliage, and fresh, bracing weather, but few tourists visit the franconia notch when in its heightened glory. the artist, the wood-cutter, and the _partridge_ have it chiefly to themselves, and so "mine host" of the lafayette house shuts up his best rooms, brings from one lake his oars, from the other his swivel, and that other echo-waking instrument--the long _tin horn_, now "hangs silent on the wall," until the hot weather of next summer brings the crowds of travelers who know not _when_ to travel. this scant attendance of tourists during the finest season of the year may be attributed to a false impression that because this notch is confessedly one of the coldest spots in america in winter, it must be disagreeably cold during the early autumn. this is a mistake; the weather there being quite as mild till the close of october as it is in the open lower country. [illustration: eagle cliff.] proceeding southwardly through the notch, we find its precipitous walls gradually recede and break up into gently-sloping summits, which, at the distance of five miles, terminate the defile, and debouch into a wide valley, whose great descent proves the great elevation of the defile we are now threading. for two miles we keep in view the profile mountain, whose eastern front resembles the hudson river _palisades_ on a gigantic scale. nothing can be more imposing than the front it presents--half of it a sheer precipice of bare granite, seamed, ribbed, and riven in every fantastic shape, resting on a sloping mass of broken rock, amid which flourish sturdy rows of evergreens, in spite of the showers of granite from the crumbling crags above--and which foretell the destruction that will inevitably overtake the lineaments of the "old man" long before "mighty oceans cease to roar." the annexed sketch will convey some idea of this stupendous front of the profile mountain, and also of the best general view of the notch. which last, unfortunately, does not from any point present its features in sufficient concentration to do justice to their magnitude in detail. we are now separated from the profile mountain by the _pemigewasset_--a beautiful brook flowing from the lake at the feet of the "old man," whose tripping indian name, though of unknown meaning, in sound, well describes its course of cascades, with which it follows us through the whole length of the defile--now dancing along our path, and now plunging again into the "listening woods," where it "singeth a quiet tune." four miles from the notch, it suddenly rushes out to the very edge of our road, and after foaming over several rocky ledges, collects its torn waters, and in a solid jet piercing a narrow fissure of granite, flings itself over into a deep pool, whose extraordinary shape and structure have constituted it the most charming curiosity of these mountains, under the name of _the basin_. this singular pool is about twenty feet wide, and is inclosed in a circular basin of granite, one half of which rising to a height of fifteen feet, projects over the imprisoned waters. undoubtedly the way in which the solid jet of the cascade strikes the side of the basin, giving a strong whirling motion to the pool, has gradually excavated the rock in its present regular, mason-like shape. graceful birches bend over and embower this exquisite pool, that never fails to elicit bursts of delight from visitors first gazing upon its transparent water of the most brilliant emerald, shading off into an intense blue-black, where the cascade strikes its surface. its greatest depth is about fifteen feet ordinarily, but nearly all the bed of the pool is distinctly visible through its indescribable emerald purity, although its surface is constantly agitated with tiny wavelets. nature never fashioned such a darling nook as this exquisite basin, in which diana might have bathed, and issued purer from its transparent tide! the water escapes from the pool by another narrow fissure in the lower part of its granite rim, a projecting mass of which is said, by the ingenious mr. oakes, to resemble the half-immersed "_leg of some hydropathic titan_!" there are not wanting those who carry the fancied resemblance still further. at present the delicate beauty and graceful contour of the basin are impaired and obscured somewhat by a clumsy foot-bridge flung across its curved margin, which, it is to be hoped, the next freshet will sweep away; and in anticipation of such wished-for fate to the unsightly and unnecessary structure, it is omitted in the annexed sketch. [illustration: eastern front of profile mountain.] a mile below the basin, and five miles from the notch, we come to the termination of the defile of the franconia mountains. at this point the _flume house_, kept by mr. taft, offers the most admirable accommodations to those who wish to linger in this noble region. from the hotel the tourist can enjoy a magnificent review of the majestic summits he has just passed--the profile mountain filling the left of the view with one broad rounded mass, while the right is broken up with a series of pointed peaks, whereof mount lafayette and eagle cliff are duly prominent. this view of the notch often assumes strange characteristics. frequently in stormy weather, when the clouds elsewhere are, flying swiftly, "like cars for gods to travel by," the masses of vapor caught in the "notch" seem too entangled to escape--nay, seem to lose their very motion between those peaks, while their brethren overhead are scudding past. and often, when the notch is completely enshrouded in motionless cloudy gloom, we may see the landscape and the heavens north and south of the notch, reposing in cloudless calm--the "bridal of the earth and sky!" by stepping to the south piazza of mr. taft's hotel, the tourist meets a prospect wholly unlike the stern grandeur he has left. he looks down upon the valley into which the defile debouches, and sees its gently sloping hills and glimmering meadows receding in airy perspective, and melting in a strip of tenderest azure at a distance of forty miles. the effect of this beautiful vista upon eyes long fatigued with frowning crags and shadowy ravines is inexpressibly cheering. [illustration: the basin.] within easy distance of the flume house we find the three remaining curiosities of the franconia mountains. these are the _pool_, the _cascade_, and the _flume_. the first of these is formed by another and heavier cascade on the pemigewasset, and is but an enlarged idea of the _basin_, with considerable grandeur, but with none of the fantastic picturesque loveliness of the latter. the _pool_ is very wonderful, but it does not win our affection as does the _basin_, whose exquisite beauties sink with peculiar interest into the traveler's heart that will, long after his return to the grave duties of town, be haunted with the music of its cascade, be illumined with the emerald flash of its crystal waters, and be linked with the memory of the pleasant chance-acquaintances made within the influence of its bewitching loveliness. will those whose eyes have been gladdened by this choice work of nature, deem our eulogy aught but well-merited enthusiasm? crossing the pemigewasset, and following up one of its little mountain tributaries, we come to the foot of a steep slope some two hundred feet in height, the smooth granite face of which has been washed bare to a width of forty feet by the violent freshets of spring. at ordinary times, merely a thin rivulet slides noiselessly over the slope, here and there leaving little pools whirling round in the shallow basins scooped out of the smooth granite. this is the _cascade_--only deserving the name when a freshet occurs, and then its heavy volume of water is said to be fearfully sublime, bringing down ice and gigantic trees which, catching in the margin of the smooth bed, are often flung up on end by the force of the current, and momentarily standing erect, then plunge headlong and broken down the terrible declivity. when the stream is low nothing can be gentler than this singular granite slope, fringed with trees. those ascending to the _flume_, will be glad to rest awhile on a rustic bench near the top of the slope, and refresh themselves with a draught from the cool stream _sliding_ noiselessly past. above the cascade, the stream is almost hidden among vast rocks and fallen trees of a ravine, becoming deeper, larger, and damper with every step. crossing and recrossing its numerous little waterfalls by means of rustic bridges, decayed logs, and rocks dripping and hung with the richest moss, we suddenly emerge from the dense wood, and stand in front of a stupendous narrow ravine which, from its fancied resemblance to the _flume_ of a mill, has acquired its well-known name. the _flume_ is about two hundred yards in extent, its greatest height is sixty or seventy feet, and has a general width of about twenty feet. its smooth sides have been excavated with the most singular evenness, and its bed is littered up with rocky rubbish, over which brawls the mountain brook that leaps into sight at the further end of this remarkable corridor. at that end we find the most wonderful feature of the _flume_, for there it suddenly contracts to a width of not more than ten feet, and in its jaws holds suspended over the cascade a huge rock twelve feet in height, and which, being undoubtedly a _boulder_, has rolled from above into the chasm, and there been held by its slight excess of breadth--not more than _two inches_ at the utmost. [illustration: the flume.] there being neither trees, nor shrubs, nor herbage of any sort, save the luxuriant mosses nourished by the eternal moisture, to break the long vista of the flume, it presents a very novel appearance to the visitor issuing from the dense wood below, and catching a sudden and complete view of its steep, dripping walls, and rocky bed, terminating with the suspended boulder and the cascade flashing underneath; while the tall hemlocks above the cliffs, shut out all save a small patch of blue sky. ordinarily the stream is very low, and visitors can not only pick their way over rocks and logs to the foot of the cascade, but can clamber over the granite ledges and pass under the suspended boulder that looks as if at any moment it might slip through upon them. this feat of passing under the rock is always a very _damp_ one, though during the season, troops of damsels may be seen bravely accomplishing it, scornful of the rock above and the wet below--and doing it too without the confident freedom of the _bloomer dress_! as the flume is little penetrated by the sun's rays, the eternal moisture of its depths makes it advisable for those disposed to linger in them, to take abundant extra clothing; fur during the warmest summer-day, when an artist issues from its damp walls after a long siege of its curiosities with canvas and colors, he looks as if he were rehearsing the favorite circus-feat of throwing off multitudinous jackets and vests! by following up the ravine beyond the suspended rock, the visitor can ascend the cliffs overhanging the flume; and if he or she have nerve enough, a large hemlock fallen across the chasm affords spacious footing whence a fine bird's-eye view of the ravine may be enjoyed. in winter and in spring the flume is said to present a scene of fearful interest--now bearded with icicles, and anon, from melting snows, filled with a torrent of ice and fallen timber crashing in thunder through its jaws, to be launched more freely over the broad slope of the cascade below. until very recently this extraordinary ravine was wholly unknown, and it is to be regretted that we have no authentic chronicle of the gradual cutting of the flume by the action of its stream; and also when and by what changes the suspended boulder has been caught in its present singular position. [illustration: view on the pemigewasset.] we can not recross the pemigewasset, on our return from the last great _lion_ of the franconia mountains, without another notice of that exquisite mountain-stream. though from its being so _over-fished_, it now holds out few inducements to enthusiasts in trouting, yet the prospect of having even "a glorious nibble," should tempt the angler to explore its beauties--its picturesque cascades, and deep, slumbrous pools above and below the bridge leading to the flume. the accompanying sketch shows one of these numerous fairy nooks, overlooked by _mount liberty_--the fine peak directly opposite the flume house. this sketch of the attractions of the great franconia notch must not be closed without mention of the view from mount lafayette, considered by many far more interesting than that from mount washington; for, though less extensive than the latter, it embraces a far more picturesque and beautiful region lying distinctly under the eye. hitherto this noble panorama has not been generally enjoyed, owing to the difficulty of its only mode of ascent--on foot. the coming season, however, will supply tourists with two bridle-roads, from the lafayette house and the flume house, at both of which well-kept hotels, every convenience in the way of horses and vehicles can always be had for the purpose of visiting the various curiosities scattered along this romantic defile. throughout the five miles of the franconia pass, there is not, excepting these two hotels at either end, a single human dwelling. the growing season is too short here to allow any thing to be raised on the patches of easy soil dotting the defile, that would, therefore, present, were it not for the public houses and the passing stage-coaches loaded with tourists, a scene of primeval nature and solitude. would that its stupendous scenery were linked with mighty incident, and that its rare loveliness were clothed with the sacred vestment of traditionary lore! but alas! its magnificent grandeur and picturesque beauty, so fitted to figure in indian romance or the settler's legend is sadly deficient in the hallowing charm of historic or poetic association! napoleon bonaparte.[ ] by john s. c. abbott. marengo. [ ] entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. napoleon, finding his proffers of peace rejected by england with contumely and scorn, and declined by austria, now prepared, with his wonted energy, to repel the assaults of the allies. as he sat in his cabinet at the tuileries, the thunders of their unrelenting onset came rolling in upon his ear from all the frontiers of france. the hostile fleets of england swept the channel, utterly annihilating the commerce of the republic, landing regiments of armed emigrants upon her coasts, furnishing money and munitions of war to rouse the partisans of the bourbons to civil conflict, and throwing balls and shells into every unprotected town. on the northern frontier, marshal kray, came thundering down, through the black forest, to the banks of the rhine, with a mighty host of , men, like locust legions, to pour into all the northern provinces of france. artillery of the heaviest calibre and a magnificent array of cavalry accompanied this apparently invincible army. in italy, melas, another austrian marshal, with , men, aided by the whole force of the british navy, was rushing upon the eastern and southern borders of the republic. the french troops, disheartened by defeat, had fled before their foes over the alps, or were eating their horses and their boots in the cities where they were besieged. from almost every promontory on the coast of the republic, washed by the channel, or the mediterranean, the eye could discern english frigates, black and threatening, holding all france in a state of blockade. one always finds a certain pleasure in doing that which he can do well. napoleon was fully conscious of his military genius. he had, in behalf of bleeding humanity, implored peace in vain. he now, with alacrity and with joy, roused himself to inflict blows that should be felt upon his multitudinous enemies. with such tremendous energy did he do this, that he received from his antagonists the most complimentary sobriquet of the _one hundred thousand men_. wherever napoleon made his appearance in the field, his presence alone was considered equivalent to that force. the following proclamation rang like a trumpet charge over the hills and valleys of france. "frenchmen! you have been anxious for peace. your government has desired it with still greater ardor. its first efforts, its most constant wishes, have been for its attainment. the english ministry has exposed the secret of its iniquitous policy. it wishes to dismember france, to destroy its commerce, and either to erase it from the map of europe, or to degrade it to a secondary power. england is willing to embroil all the nations of the continent in hostility with each other, that she may enrich herself with their spoils, and gain possession of the trade of the world. for the attainment of this object she scatters her gold, becomes prodigal of her promises, and multiplies her intrigues." at this call all the martial spirit of france rushed to arms. napoleon, supremely devoted to the welfare of the state, seemed to forget even his own glory in the intensity of his desire to make france victorious over her foes. with the most magnanimous superiority to all feelings of jealousy, he raised an army of , men, the very élite of the troops of france, the veterans of a hundred battles, and placed them in the hands of moreau, the only man in france who could be called his rival. napoleon also presented to moreau the plan of a campaign, in accordance with his own energy, boldness, and genius. its accomplishment would have added surpassing brilliance to the reputation of moreau. but the cautious general was afraid to adopt it, and presented another, perhaps as safe, but one which would produce no dazzling impression upon the imaginations of men. "your plan," said one, a friend of moreau, to the first consul, "is grander, more decisive, even more sure. but it is not adapted to the slow and cautious genius of the man who is to execute it. you have your method of making war, which is superior to all others. moreau has his own, inferior certainly, but still excellent. leave him to himself. if you impose your ideas upon him, you will wound his self-love, and disconcert him." napoleon, profoundly versed in the knowledge of the human heart, promptly replied. "you are right, moreau is not capable of grasping the plan which i have conceived. let him follow his own course. the plan which he does not understand and dare not execute, i myself will carry out, on another part of the theatre of war. what he fears to attempt on the rhine, i will accomplish on the alps. the day may come when he will regret the glory which he yields to me." these were proud and prophetic words. moreau was moderately victorious upon the rhine, driving back the invaders. the sun of napoleon soon rose, over the field of marengo, in a blaze of effulgence, which paled moreau's twinkling star into utter obscurity. but we know not where, upon the page of history, to find an act of more lofty generosity than this surrender of the noblest army of the republic to one, who considered himself, and who was deemed by others, a rival--and thus to throw open to him the theatre of war where apparently the richest laurels were to be won. and we know not where to look for a deed more proudly expressive of self-confidence. "i will give moreau," said he by this act, "one hundred and fifty thousand of the most brave and highly disciplined soldiers of france, the victors of a hundred battles. i myself will take sixty thousand men, new recruits and the fragments of regiments which remain, and with them i will march to encounter an equally powerful enemy on a more difficult field of warfare." marshal melas had spread his vast host of one hundred and forty thousand austrians through all the strongholds of italy, and was pressing, with tremendous energy and self-confidence upon the frontiers of france. napoleon, instead of marching with his inexperienced troops, two-thirds of whom had never seen a shot fired in earnest, to meet the heads of the triumphant columns of melas, resolved to climb the rugged and apparently inaccessible fastnesses of the alps, and, descending from the clouds over pathless precipices, to fall with the sweep of the avalanche, upon their rear. it was necessary to assemble this army at some favorable point;--to gather in vast magazines its munitions of war. it was necessary that this should be done in secret, lest the austrians, climbing to the summits of the alps, and defending the gorges through which the troops of napoleon would be compelled to wind their difficult and tortuous way, might render the passage utterly impossible. english and austrian spies were prompt to communicate to the hostile powers every movement of the first consul. napoleon fixed upon dijon and its vicinity as the rendezvous of his troops. he, however, adroitly and completely deceived his foes by ostentatiously announcing the very plan he intended to carry into operation. of course, the allies thought that this was a foolish attempt to draw their attention from the real point of attack. the more they ridiculed the imaginary army at dijon, the more loudly did napoleon reiterate his commands for battalions and magazines to be collected there. the spies who visited dijon, reported that but a few regiments were assembled in that place, and that the announcement was clearly a very weak pretense to deceive. the print shops of london and vienna were filled with caricatures of the army of the first consul of dijon. the english especially made themselves very merry with napoleon's grand army to scale the alps. it was believed that the energies of the republic were utterly exhausted in raising the force which was given to moreau. one of the caricatures represented the army as consisting of a boy, dressed in his father's clothes, shouldering a musket, which he could with difficulty lift, and eating a piece of gingerbread, and an old man with one arm and a wooden leg. the artillery consisted of a rusty blunderbuss. this derision was just what napoleon desired. though dwelling in the shadow of that mysterious melancholy, which ever enveloped his spirit, he must have enjoyed in the deep recesses of his soul, the majestic movements of his plans. [illustration: campaign of marengo] on the eastern frontiers of france there surge up, from luxuriant meadows and vine-clad fields and hill sides, the majestic ranges of the alps, piercing the clouds and soaring with glittering pinnacles, into the region of perpetual ice and snow. vast spurs of the mountains extend on each side, opening gloomy gorges and frightful defiles, through which foaming torrents rush impetuously, walled in by almost precipitous cliffs, whose summits, crowned with melancholy firs, are inaccessible to the foot of man. the principal pass over this enormous ridge was that of the great st. bernard. the traveler, accompanied by a guide, and mounted on a mule, slowly and painfully ascended a steep and rugged path, now crossing a narrow bridge, spanning a fathomless abyss, again creeping along the edge of a precipice, where the eagle soared and screamed over the fir tops in the abyss below, and where a perpendicular wall rose to giddy heights in the clouds above. the path at times was so narrow, that it seemed that the mountain goat could with difficulty find a foothold for its slender hoof. a false step, or a slip upon the icy rocks would precipitate the traveler, a mangled corpse, a thousand feet upon the fragments of granite in the gulf beneath. as higher and higher he climbed these wild and rugged and cloud-enveloped paths, borne by the unerring instinct of the faithful mule, his steps were often arrested by the roar of the avalanche, and he gazed appalled upon its resistless rush, as rocks, and trees, and earth, and snow, and ice, swept by him with awful and resistless desolation, far down into the dimly discerned torrents which rushed beneath his feet. at god's bidding the avalanche fell. no precaution could save the traveler who was in its path. he was instantly borne to destruction, and buried where no voice but the archangel's trump could ever reach his ear. terrific storms of wind and snow often swept through those bleak altitudes, blinding and smothering the traveler. hundreds of bodies, like pillars of ice, embalmed in snow, are now sepulchred in those drifts, there to sleep till the fires of the last conflagration shall have consumed their winding sheet. having toiled two days through such scenes of desolation and peril, the adventurous traveler stands upon the summit of the pass, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, two thousand feet higher than the crest of mount washington, our own mountain monarch. this summit, over which the path winds, consists of a small level plain, surrounded by mountains of snow of still higher elevation. the scene here presented is inexpressibly gloomy and appalling. nature in these wild regions assumes her most severe and sombre aspect. as one emerges from the precipitous and craggy ascent, upon this valley of desolation, as it is emphatically called, the convent of st. bernard presents itself to the view. this cheerless abode, the highest spot of inhabited ground in europe, has been tenanted, for more than a thousand years, by a succession of joyless and self-denying monks, who, in that frigid retreat of granite and ice, endeavor to serve their maker, by rescuing bewildered travelers from the destruction with which they are ever threatened to be overwhelmed by the storms, which battle against them. in the middle of this ice-bound valley, lies a lake, clear, dark, and cold, whose depths, even in midsummer, reflect the eternal glaciers which soar sublimely around. the descent to the plains of italy is even more precipitous and dangerous than the ascent from the green pastures of france. no vegetation adorns these dismal and storm-swept cliffs of granite and of ice. even the pinion of the eagle fails in its rarified air, and the chamois ventures not to climb its steep and slippery crags. no human beings are ever to be seen on these bleak summits, except the few shivering travelers, who tarry for an hour to receive the hospitality of the convent, and the hooded monks, wrapped in thick and coarse garments, with their staves and their dogs, groping through the storms of sleet and snow. even the wood which burns with frugal faintness on their hearths, is borne, in painful burdens, up the mountain sides, upon the shoulders of the monks. such was the barrier which napoleon intended to surmount, that he might fall upon the rear of the austrians, who were battering down the walls of genoa, where massena was besieged, and who were thundering, flushed with victory, at the very gates of nice. over this wild mountain pass, where the mule could with difficulty tread, and where no wheel had ever rolled, or by any possibility could roll, napoleon contemplated transporting an army of sixty thousand men, with ponderous artillery and tons of cannon balls, and baggage, and all the bulky munitions of war. england and austria laughed the idea to scorn. the achievement of such an enterprise was apparently impossible. napoleon, however, was as skillful in the arrangement of the minutest details, as in the conception of the grandest combinations. though he resolved to take the mass of his army, forty thousand strong, across the pass of the great st. bernard, yet to distract the attention of the austrians, he arranged also to send small divisions across the passes of saint gothard, little st. bernard, and mount cenis. he would thus accumulate suddenly, and to the utter amazement of the enemy, a body of sixty-five thousand men upon the plains of italy. this force, descending, like an apparition from the clouds, in the rear of the austrian army, headed by napoleon, and cutting off all communication with austria, might indeed strike a panic into the hearts of the assailants of france. the troops were collected in various places in the vicinity of dijon, ready at a moment's warning to assemble at the point of rendezvous, and with a rush to enter the defile. immense magazines of wheat, biscuit, and oats had been noiselessly collected in different places. large sums of specie had been forwarded, to hire the services of every peasant, with his mule, who inhabited the valleys among the mountains. mechanic shops, as by magic, suddenly rose along the path, well supplied with skillful artisans, to repair all damages, to dismount the artillery, to divide the gun-carriages and the baggage-wagons into fragments, that they might be transported, on the backs of men and mules, over the steep and rugged way. for the ammunition a vast number of small boxes were prepared, which could easily be packed upon the mules. a second company of mechanics, with camp forges, had been provided to cross the mountain with the first division, and rear their shops upon the plain on the other side, to mend the broken harness, to reconstruct the carriages, and remount the pieces. on each side of the mountain a hospital was established and supplied with every comfort for the sick and the wounded. the foresight of napoleon extended even to sending, at the very last moment, to the convent upon the summit, an immense quantity of bread, cheese, and wine. each soldier, to his surprise, was to find, as he arrived at the summit, exhausted with herculean toil, a generous slice of bread and cheese with a refreshing cup of wine, presented to him by the monks. all these minute details napoleon arranged, while at the same time he was doing the work of a dozen energetic men, in re-organizing the whole structure of society in france. if toil pays for greatness, napoleon purchased the renown which he attained. and yet his body and his mind were so constituted that this sleepless activity was to him a pleasure. the appointed hour at last arrived. on the th of may, , napoleon entered his carriage at the tuileries, saying, "good-by, my dear josephine! i must go to italy. i shall not forget you, and i will not be absent long." at a word, the whole majestic array was in motion. like a meteor he swept over france. he arrived at the foot of the mountains. the troops and all the paraphernalia of war were on the spot at the designated hour. napoleon immediately appointed a very careful inspection. every foot soldier and every horseman passed before his scrutinizing eye. if a shoe was ragged, or a jacket torn, or a musket injured, the defect was immediately repaired. his glowing words inspired the troops with the ardor which was burning in his own bosom. the genius of the first consul was infused into the mighty host. each man exerted himself to the utmost. the eye of their chief was every where, and his cheering voice roused the army to almost superhuman exertions. two skillful engineers had been sent to explore the path, and to do what could be done in the removal of obstructions. they returned with an appalling recital of the apparently insurmountable difficulties of the way. "is it _possible_," inquired napoleon, "to cross the pass?" "perhaps," was the hesitating reply, "it is within the limits of _possibility_." "forward, then," was the energetic response. each man was required to carry, besides his arms, food for several days and a large quantity of cartridges. as the sinuosities of the precipitous path could only be trod in single file, the heavy wheels were taken from the carriages, and each, slung upon a pole, was borne by two men. the task for the foot soldiers was far less than for the horsemen. the latter clambered up on foot, dragging their horses after them. the descent was very dangerous. the dragoon, in the steep and narrow path, was compelled to walk before his horse. at the least stumble he was exposed to being plunged headlong into the abysses yawning before him. in this way many horses and several riders perished. to transport the heavy cannon and howitzers pine logs were split in the centre, the parts hollowed out, and the guns sunk into the grooves. a long string of mules, in single file, were attached to the ponderous machines of war, to drag them up the slippery ascent. the mules soon began to fail, and then the men, with hearty good-will, brought their own shoulders into the harness--a hundred men to a single gun. napoleon offered the peasants two hundred dollars for the transportation of a twelve-pounder over the pass. the love of gain was not strong enough to lure them to such tremendous exertions. but napoleon's fascination over the hearts of his soldiers was a more powerful impulse. with shouts of encouragement they toiled at the cables, successive bands of a hundred men relieving each other every half hour. high on those craggy steeps, gleaming through the mist, the glittering bands of armed men, like phantoms appeared. the eagle wheeled and screamed beneath their feet. the mountain goat, affrighted by the unwonted spectacle, bounded away, and paused in bold relief upon the cliff to gaze upon the martial array which so suddenly had peopled the solitude. [illustration: drawing a gun over great st. bernard.] when they approached any spot of very especial difficulty the trumpets sounded the charge, which re-echoed, with sublime reverberations, from pinnacle to pinnacle of rock and ice. animated by these bugle notes, the soldiers strained every nerve as if rushing upon the foe. napoleon offered to these bands the same reward which he had promised to the peasants. but to a man, they refused the gold. they had imbibed the spirit of their chief, his enthusiasm, and his proud superiority to all mercenary motives. "we are not toiling for money," said they, "but for your approval, and to share your glory." napoleon with his wonderful tact had introduced a slight change into the artillery service, which was productive of immense moral results. the gun carriages had heretofore been driven by mere wagoners, who, being considered not as soldiers, but as servants, and sharing not in the glory of victory, were uninfluenced by any sentiment of honor. at the first approach of danger, they were ready to cut their traces and gallop from the field, leaving their cannon in the hands of the enemy. napoleon said, "the cannoneer who brings his piece into action, performs as valuable a service as the cannoneer who works it. he runs the same danger, and requires the same moral stimulus, which is the sense of honor." he therefore converted the artillery drivers into soldiers, and clothed them in the uniform of their respective regiments. they constituted twelve thousand horsemen who were animated with as much pride in carrying their pieces into action, and in bringing them off with rapidity and safety, as the gunners felt in loading, directing, and discharging them. it was now the great glory of these men to take care of their guns. they loved, tenderly, the merciless monsters. they lavished caresses and terms of endearment upon the glittering, polished, death-dealing brass. the heart of man is a strange enigma. even when most degraded it needs something to love. these blood-stained soldiers, brutalized by vice, amidst all the horrors of battle, lovingly fondled the murderous machines of war, responding to the appeal "call me pet names, dearest." the unrelenting gun was the stern cannoneer's lady love. he kissed it with unwashed, mustached lip. in rude and rough devotion he was ready to die rather than abandon the only object of his idolatrous homage. consistently he baptized the life-devouring monster with blood. affectionately he named it mary, emma, lizzie. in crossing the alps, dark night came on as some cannoneers were floundering through drifts of snow, toiling at their gun. they would not leave the gun alone in the cold storm to seek for themselves a dry bivouac; but, like brothers guarding a sister, they threw themselves, for the night, upon the bleak and frozen snow, by its side. it was the genius of napoleon which thus penetrated these mysterious depths of the human soul, and called to his aid those mighty energies. "it is nothing but imagination," said one once to napoleon. "_nothing but imagination!_" he rejoined. "_imagination rules the world._" when they arrived at the summit each soldier found, to his surprise and joy, the abundant comforts which napoleon's kind care had provided. one would have anticipated there a scene of terrible confusion. to feed an army of forty thousand hungry men is not a light undertaking. yet every thing was so carefully arranged, and the influence of napoleon so boundless, that not a soldier left the ranks. each man received his slice of bread and cheese, and quaffed his cup of wine, and passed on. it was a point of honor for no one to stop. whatever obstructions were in the way were to be at all hazards surmounted, that the long file, extending nearly twenty miles, might not be thrown into confusion. the descent was more perilous than the ascent. but fortune seemed to smile. the sky was clear, the weather delightful, and in four days the whole army was reassembled on the plains of italy. napoleon had sent berthier forward to receive the division, and to superintend all necessary repairs, while he himself remained to press forward the mighty host. he was the last man to cross the mountains. seated upon a mule, with a young peasant for his guide, slowly and thoughtfully he ascended those silent solitudes. he was dressed in the gray great coat which he always wore. art has pictured him as bounding up the cliff, proudly mounted on a prancing charger. but truth presents him in an attitude more simple and more sublime. even the young peasant who acted as his guide was entirely unconscious of the distinguished rank of the plain traveler whose steps he was conducting. much of the way napoleon was silent, abstracted in thoughts. and yet he found time for human sympathy. he drew from his young and artless guide the secrets of his heart. the young peasant was sincere and virtuous. he loved a fair maid among the mountains. she loved him. it was his heart's great desire to have her for his own. he was poor and had neither house nor land to support a family. napoleon struggling with all his energies against combined england and austria, and with all the cares of an army, on the march to meet one hundred and twenty thousand foes, crowding his mind, with pensive sympathy won the confidence of his companion and elicited this artless recital of love and desire. as napoleon dismissed his guide, with an ample reward, he drew from his pocket a pencil and upon a loose piece of paper wrote a few lines, which he requested the young man to give, on his return, to the administrator of the army, upon the other side. when the guide returned, and presented the note, he found, to his unbounded surprise and delight, that he had conducted napoleon over the mountains; and that napoleon had given him a field and a house. he was thus enabled to be married, and to realize all the dreams of his modest ambition. generous impulses must have been instinctive in a heart, which in an hour so fraught with mighty events, could turn from the toils of empire and of war, to find refreshment in sympathizing with a peasant's love. this young man but recently died, having passed his quiet life in the enjoyment of the field and the cottage which had been given him by the ruler of the world. [illustration: napoleon ascending the alps.] the army now pressed forward, with great alacrity, along the banks of the aosta. they were threading a beautiful valley, rich in verdure and blooming beneath the sun of early spring. cottages, vineyards, and orchards, in full bloom, embellished their path, while upon each side of them rose, in majestic swell, the fir-clad sides of the mountains. the austrians pressing against the frontiers of france, had no conception of the storm which had so suddenly gathered, and which was, with resistless sweep, approaching their rear. the french soldiers, elated with the herculean achievement they had accomplished, and full of confidence in their leader, pressed gayly on. but the valley before them began to grow more and more narrow. the mountains, on either side, rose more precipitous and craggy. the aosta, crowded into a narrow channel, rushed foaming over the rocks, leaving barely room for a road along the side of the mountain. suddenly the march of the whole army was arrested by a fort, built upon an inaccessible rock, which rose pyramidally from the bed of the stream. bristling cannon, skillfully arranged on well-constructed bastions, swept the pass, and rendered further advance apparently impossible. rapidly the tidings of this unexpected obstruction spread from the van to the rear. napoleon immediately hastened to the front ranks. climbing the mountain opposite the fort, by a goat path, he threw himself down upon the ground, when a few bushes concealed his person from the shot of the enemy, and with his telescope long and carefully examined the fort and the surrounding crags. he perceived one elevated spot, far above the fort, where a cannon might by possibility be drawn. from that position its shot could be plunged upon the unprotected bastions below. upon the face of the opposite cliff, far beyond the reach of cannon-balls, he discerned a narrow shelf in the rock by which he thought it possible that a man could pass. the march was immediately commenced, in single file, along this giddy ridge. and even the horses, inured to the terrors of the great st. bernard, were led by their riders upon the narrow path, which a horse's hoof had never trod before, and probably will never tread again. the austrians, in the fort, had the mortification of seeing thirty-five thousand soldiers, with numerous horses, defile along this airy line, as if adhering to the side of the rock. but neither bullet nor ball could harm them. [illustration: passing the fort of bard.] napoleon ascended this mountain ridge, and upon its summit, quite exhausted with days and nights of sleeplessness and toil, laid himself down, in the shadow of the rock, and fell asleep. the long line filed carefully and silently by, each soldier hushing his comrade, that the repose of their beloved chieftain might not be disturbed. it was an interesting spectacle, to witness the tender affection, beaming from the countenances of these bronzed and war-worn veterans, as every foot trod softly, and each eye, in passing, was riveted upon the slender form, and upon the pale and wasted cheek of the sleeping napoleon. the artillery could by no possibility be thus transported; and an army without artillery is a soldier without weapons. the austrian commander wrote to melas, that he had seen an army of thirty-five thousand men and four thousand horse creeping by the fort, along the face of mount albaredo. he assured the commander-in-chief, however, that not one single piece of artillery had passed or could pass beneath the guns of his fortress. when he was writing this letter, already had one half of the cannon and ammunition of the army been conveyed by the fort, and were safely and rapidly proceeding on their way down the valley. in the darkness of the night trusty men, with great caution and silence, strewed hay and straw upon the road. the wheels of the lumbering carriages were carefully bound with cloths and wisps of straw, and, with axles well oiled, were drawn by the hands of these picked men, beneath the very walls of the fortress, and within half pistol-shot of its guns. in two nights the artillery and the baggage-trains were thus passed along, and in a few days the fort itself was compelled to surrender. melas, the austrian commander, now awoke in consternation to a sense of his peril. napoleon--the dreaded napoleon--had, as by a miracle, crossed the alps. he had cut off all his supplies, and was shutting the austrians up from any possibility of retreat. bewildered by the magnitude of his peril, he no longer thought of forcing his march upon paris. the invasion of france was abandoned. his whole energies were directed to opening for himself a passage back to austria. the most cruel perplexities agitated him. from the very pinnacle of victory, he was in danger of descending to the deepest abyss of defeat. it was also with napoleon an hour of intense solicitude. he had but sixty thousand men, two-thirds of whom were new soldiers, who had never seen a shot fired in earnest, with whom he was to arrest the march of a desperate army of one hundred and twenty thousand veterans, abundantly provided with all the most efficient machinery of war. there were many paths by which melas might escape, at leagues' distance from each other. it was necessary for napoleon to divide his little band that he might guard them all. he was liable at any moment to have a division of his army attacked by an overwhelming force, and cut to pieces before it could receive any reinforcements. he ate not, he slept not, he rested not. day and night, and night and day, he was on horseback, pale, pensive, apparently in feeble health, and interesting every beholder with his grave and melancholy beauty. his scouts were out in every direction. he studied all the possible movements and combinations of his foes. rapidly he overran lombardy, and entered milan in triumph. melas anxiously concentrated his forces, to break through the net with which he was entangled. he did every thing in his power to deceive napoleon, by various feints, that the point of his contemplated attack might not be known. napoleon, in the following clarion tones, appealed to the enthusiasm of his troops: "soldiers! when we began our march, one department of france was in the hands of the enemy. consternation pervaded the south of the republic. you advanced. already the french territory is delivered. joy and hope in our country have succeeded to consternation and fear. the enemy, terror-struck, seeks only to regain his frontiers. you have taken his hospitals, his magazines, his reserve parks. the first act of the campaign is finished. millions of men address you in strains of praise. but shall we allow our audacious enemies to violate with impunity the territory of the republic? will you permit the army to escape which has carried terror into your families? you will not. march, then, to meet him. tear from his brows the laurels he has won. teach the world that a malediction attends those who violate the territory of the great people. the result of our efforts will be unclouded glory, and a durable peace!" the very day napoleon left paris, desaix arrived in france from egypt. frank, sincere, upright, and punctiliously honorable, he was one of the few whom napoleon truly loved. desaix regarded napoleon as infinitely his superior, and looked up to him with a species of adoration; he loved him with a fervor of feeling which amounted almost to a passion. napoleon, touched, by the affection of a heart so noble, requited it with the most confiding friendship. desaix, upon his arrival in paris, found letters for him there from the first consul. as he read the confidential lines, he was struck with the melancholy air with which they were pervaded. "alas!" said he, "napoleon has gained every thing, and yet he is unhappy. i must hasten to meet him." without delay he crossed the alps, and arrived at the head-quarters of napoleon but a few days before the battle of marengo. they passed the whole night together, talking over the events of egypt and the prospects of france. napoleon felt greatly strengthened by the arrival of his noble friend, and immediately assigned to him the command of a division of the army. "desaix," said he, "is my sheet anchor." "you have had a long interview with desaix," said bourrienne to napoleon the next morning. "yes!" he replied; "but i had my reasons. as soon as i return to paris i shall make him minister of war. he shall always be my lieutenant. i would make him a prince if i could. he is of the heroic mould of antiquity!" napoleon was fully aware that a decisive battle would soon take place. melas was rapidly, from all points, concentrating his army. the following laconic and characteristic order was issued by the first consul to lannes and murat: "gather your forces at the river stradella. on the th or th at the latest, you will have on your hands fifteen or eighteen thousand austrians. meet them, and cut them to pieces. it will be so many enemies less upon our hands on the day of the decisive battle we are to expect with the entire army of melas." the prediction was true. an austrian force advanced, eighteen thousand strong. lannes met them upon the field of montebello. they were strongly posted, with batteries ranged upon the hill sides, which swept the whole plain. it was of the utmost moment that this body should be prevented from combining with the other vast forces of the austrians. lannes had but eight thousand men. could he sustain the unequal conflict for a few hours, victor, who was some miles in the rear, could come up with a reserve of four thousand men. the french soldiers, fully conscious of the odds against which they were to contend, and of the carnage into the midst of which they were plunging, with shouts of enthusiasm rushed upon their foes. instantaneously a storm of grape-shot from all the batteries swept through his ranks. said lannes, "_i could hear the bones crash in my division, like glass in a hail-storm._" for nine long hours, from eleven in the morning till eight at night, the horrid carnage continued. again and again the mangled, bleeding, wasted columns were rallied to the charge. at last, when three thousand frenchmen were strewn dead upon the ground, the austrians broke and fled, leaving also three thousand mutilated corpses and six thousand prisoners behind them. napoleon, hastening to the aid of his lieutenant, arrived upon the field just in time to see the battle won. he rode up to lannes. the intrepid soldier stood in the midst of mounds of the dead--his sword dripping with blood in his exhausted hand--his face blackened with powder and smoke--and his uniform soiled and tattered by the long and terrific strife. napoleon silently, but proudly smiled upon the heroic general, and forgot not his reward. from this battle lannes received the title of duke of montebello, a title by which his family is distinguished to the present day. this was the opening of the campaign. it inspired the french with enthusiasm. it nerved the austrians to despair. melas now determined to make a desperate effort to break through the toils. napoleon, with intense solicitude, was watching every movement of his foe, knowing not upon what point the onset would fall. before daybreak in the morning of the th of june, melas, having accumulated forty thousand men, including seven thousand cavalry and two hundred pieces of cannon, made an impetuous assault upon the french, but twenty thousand in number, drawn up upon the plain of marengo. desaix, with a reserve of six thousand men, was at such a distance, nearly thirty miles from marengo, that he could not possibly be recalled before the close of the day. the danger was frightful that the french would be entirely cut to pieces, before any succor could arrive. but the quick ear of desaix caught the sound of the heavy cannonade as it came booming over the plain, like distant thunder. he sprung from his couch and listened. the heavy and uninterrupted roar, proclaimed a pitched battle, and he was alarmed for his beloved chief. immediately he roused his troops, and they started upon the rush to succor their comrades. napoleon dispatched courier after courier to hurry the division along, while his troops stood firm through terrific hours, as their ranks were plowed by the murderous discharges of their foes. at last the destruction was too awful for mortal men to endure. many divisions of the army broke and fled, crying, "_all is lost--save himself who can._" a scene of frightful disorder ensued. the whole plain was covered with fugitives, swept like an inundation before the multitudinous austrians. napoleon still held a few squares together, who slowly and sullenly retreated, while two hundred pieces of artillery, closely pressing them, poured incessant death into their ranks. every foot of ground was left encumbered with the dead. it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. melas, exhausted with toil, and assured that he had gained a complete victory, left gen. zach to finish the work. he retired to his head-quarters, and immediately dispatched couriers all over europe to announce the great victory of marengo. said an austrian veteran, who had before encountered napoleon at arcola and rivoli, "melas is too sanguine. depend upon it, our day's work is not yet done. napoleon will yet be upon us with his reserve." just then the anxious eye of the first consul espied the solid columns of desaix entering the plain. desaix, plunging his spurs into his horse, outstripped all the rest, and galloped into the presence of napoleon. as he cast a glance over the wild confusion and devastation of the field, he exclaimed hurriedly, "i see that the battle is lost. i suppose i can do no more for you than to secure your retreat." "by no means," napoleon replied, with apparently as much composure as if he had been sitting by his own fireside, "the battle, i trust, is gained. charge with your column. the disordered troops will rally in your rear." like a rock, desaix, with his solid phalanx of ten thousand men, met the on-rolling billow of austrian victory. at the same time napoleon dispatched an order to kellerman, with his cavalry, to charge the triumphant column of the austrians in flank. it was the work of a moment, and the whole aspect of the field was changed. napoleon rode along the lines of those on the retreat, exclaiming, "my friends, we have retreated far enough. it is now our turn to advance. recollect that i am in the habit of sleeping on the field of battle." the fugitives, reanimated by the arrival of the reserve, immediately rallied in their rear. the double charge in front and flank was instantly made. the austrians were checked and staggered. a perfect tornado of bullets from desaix's division swept their ranks. they poured an answering volley into the bosoms of the french. a bullet pierced the breast of desaix, and he fell and almost immediately expired. his last words were, "tell the first consul that my only regret in dying is, to have perished before having done enough to live in the recollection of posterity." the soldiers, who devotedly loved him, saw his fall, and rushed more madly on to avenge his death. the swollen tide of uproar, confusion, and dismay now turned, and rolled in surging billows in the opposite direction. hardly one moment elapsed before the austrians, flushed with victory, found themselves overwhelmed by defeat. in the midst of this terrific scene, an aid rode up to napoleon and said, "desaix is dead." but a moment before they were conversing side by side. napoleon pressed his forehead convulsively with his hand, and exclaimed, mournfully, "why is it not permitted me to weep! victory at such a price is dear." the french now made the welkin ring with shouts of victory. indescribable dismay filled the austrian ranks as wildly they rushed before their unrelenting pursuers. their rout was utter and hopeless. when the sun went down over this field of blood, after twelve hours of the most frightful carnage, a scene was presented horrid enough to appall the heart of a demon. more than twenty thousand human bodies were strewn upon the ground, the dying and the dead, weltering in gore, and in every conceivable form of disfiguration. horses, with limbs torn from their bodies, were struggling in convulsive agonies. fragments of guns and swords, and of military wagons of every kind were strewed around in wild ruin. frequent piercing cries, which agony extorted from the lacerated victims of war, rose above the general moanings of anguish, which, like wailings of the storm, fell heavily upon the ear. the shades of night were now descending upon this awful scene of misery. the multitude of the wounded was so great, that notwithstanding the utmost exertions of the surgeons, hour after hour of the long night lingered away, while thousands of the wounded and the dying bit the dust in their agony. if war has its chivalry and its pageantry, it has also revolting hideousness and demoniac woe. the young, the noble, the sanguine were writhing there in agony. bullets respect not beauty. they tear out the eye, and shatter the jaw, and rend the cheek, and transform the human face divine into an aspect upon which one can not gaze but with horror. from the field of marengo many a young man returned to his home so mutilated as no longer to be recognized by friends, and passed a weary life in repulsive deformity. mercy abandons the arena of battle. the frantic war-horse with iron hoof tramples upon the mangled face, the throbbing and inflamed wounds, the splintered bones, and heeds not the shriek of torture. crushed into the bloody mire by the ponderous wheels of heavy artillery, the victim of barbaric war thinks of mother, and father, and sister, and home, and shrieks, and moans, and dies; his body is stripped by the vagabonds who follow the camp; his naked, mangled corpse is covered with a few shovels-full of earth, and left as food for vultures and for dogs, and he is forgotten forever--and it is called _glory_. he who loves war, for the sake of its excitements, its pageantry, and its fancied glory, is the most eminent of all the dupes of folly and of sin. he who loathes war, with inexpressible loathing, who will do every thing in his power to avert the dire and horrible calamity, but who will, nevertheless, in the last extremity, with a determined spirit, encounter all its perils, from love of country and of home, who is willing to sacrifice himself and all that is dear to him in life, to promote the well-being of his fellow-man, will ever receive the homage of the world, and we also fully believe that he will receive the approval of god. washington abhorred war in all its forms, yet he braved all its perils. for the carnage of the field of marengo, napoleon can not be held responsible. upon england and austria must rest all the guilt of that awful tragedy. napoleon had done every thing he could do to stop the effusion of blood. he had sacrificed the instincts of pride, in pleading with a haughty foe for peace. his plea was unavailing. three hundred thousand men were marching upon france to force upon her a detested king. it was not the duty of france to submit to such dictation. drawing the sword in self-defense, napoleon fought and conquered. "te deum laudamus." it is not possible but that napoleon must have been elated by so resplendent a victory. he knew that marengo would be classed as the most brilliant of his achievements. the blow had fallen with such terrible severity that the haughty allies were thoroughly humbled. melas was now at his mercy. napoleon could dictate peace upon his own terms. yet he rode over the field of his victory with a saddened spirit, and gazed mournfully upon the ruin and the wretchedness around him. as he was slowly and thoughtfully passing along, through the heaps of the dead with which the ground was encumbered, he met a number of carts, heavily laden with the wounded, torn by balls, and bullets, and fragments of shells, into most hideous spectacles of deformity. as the heavy wheels lumbered over the rough ground, grating the splintered bones, and bruising and opening afresh the inflamed wounds, shrieks of torture were extorted from the victims. napoleon stopped his horse and uncovered his head, as the melancholy procession of misfortune and woe passed along. turning to a companion, he said, "we can not but regret not being wounded like these unhappy men, that we might share their sufferings." a more touching expression of sympathy never has been recorded. he who says that this was hypocrisy is a stranger to the generous impulses of a noble heart. this instinctive outburst of emotion never could have been instigated by policy. napoleon had fearlessly exposed himself to every peril during this conflict. his clothes were repeatedly pierced by bullets. balls struck between the legs of his horse, covering him with earth. a cannon-ball took away a piece of the boot from his left leg and a portion of the skin, leaving a scar which was never obliterated. before napoleon marched for italy, he had made every effort in his power for the attainment of peace. now, with magnanimity above all praise, without waiting for the first advance from his conquered foes, he wrote again imploring peace. upon the field of marengo, having scattered all his enemies like chaff before him, with the smoke of the conflict still darkening the air, and the groans of the dying swelling upon his ear, laying aside all the formalities of state, with heartfelt feeling and earnestness he wrote to the emperor of austria. this extraordinary epistle was thus commenced: "sire! it is on the field of battle, amid the sufferings of a multitude of wounded, and surrounded by fifteen thousand corpses, that i beseech your majesty to listen to the voice of humanity, and not to suffer two brave nations to cut each others' throats for interests not their own. it is my part to press this upon your majesty, being upon the very theatre of war. your majesty's heart can not feel it so keenly as does mine." the letter was long and most eloquent. "for what are you fighting?" said napoleon. "for religion? then make war on the russians and the english, who are the enemies of your faith. do you wish to guard against revolutionary principles? it is this very war which has extended them over half the continent, by extending the conquests of france. the continuance of the war can not fail to diffuse them still further. is it for the balance of europe? the english threaten that balance far more than does france, for they have become the masters and the tyrants of commerce, and are beyond the reach of resistance. is it to secure the interests of the house of austria! let us then execute the treaty of campo formio, which secures to your majesty large indemnities in compensation for the provinces lost in the netherlands, and secures them to you where you most wish to obtain them, that is, in italy. your majesty may send negotiators whither you will, and we will add to the treaty of campo formio stipulations calculated to assure you of the continued existence of the secondary states, all of which the french republic is accused of having shaken. upon these conditions peace is made, if you will. let us make the armistice general for all the armies, and enter into negotiations instantly." a courier was immediately dispatched to vienna, to convey this letter to the emperor. in the evening, bourrienne hastened to congratulate napoleon upon his extraordinary victory. "what a glorious day!" said bourrienne. "yes!" replied napoleon, mournfully; "very glorious--could i this evening but have embraced desaix upon the field of battle." on the same day, and at nearly the same hour in which the fatal bullet pierced the breast of desaix, an assassin in egypt plunged a dagger into the bosom of kleber. the spirits of these illustrious men, these blood-stained warriors, thus unexpectedly met in the spirit-land. there they wander now. how impenetrable the veil which shuts their destiny from our view. the soul longs for clearer vision of that far-distant world, peopled by the innumerable host of the mighty dead. there napoleon now dwells. does he retain his intellectual supremacy? do his generals gather around him with love and homage? has his pensive spirit sunk down into gloom and despair, or has it soared into cloudless regions of purity and peace? the mystery of death! death alone can solve it. christianity, with its lofty revealings, sheds but dim twilight upon the world of departed spirits. at st. helena napoleon said, "of all the generals i ever had under my command desaix and kleber possessed the greatest talent. in particular desaix, as kleber loved glory only as the means of acquiring wealth and pleasure. desaix loved glory for itself, and despised every other consideration. to him riches and pleasure were of no value, nor did he ever give them a moment's thought. he was a little black-looking man, about an inch shorter than myself, always badly dressed, sometimes even ragged, and despising alike comfort and convenience. enveloped in a cloak, desaix would throw himself under a gun and sleep as contentedly as if reposing in a palace. luxury had for him no charms. frank and honest in all his proceedings, he was denominated by the arabs sultan the just. nature intended him to figure as a consummate general. kleber and desaix were irreparable losses to france." it is impossible to describe the dismay, which pervaded the camp of the austrians after this terrible defeat. they were entirely cut off from all retreat, and were at the mercy of napoleon. a council of war was held by the austrian officers during the night, and it was unanimously resolved that capitulation was unavoidable. early the next morning a flag of truce was sent to the head-quarters of napoleon. the austrians offered to abandon italy, if the generosity of the victor would grant them the boon of not being made prisoners of war. napoleon met the envoy with great courtesy, and, according to his custom, stated promptly and irrevocably the conditions upon which he was willing to treat. the terms were generous. "the austrian armies," said he, "may unmolested return to their homes; but all of italy must be abandoned." melas, who was eighty years of age, hoped to modify the terms, and again sent the negotiator to suggest some alterations. "monsieur!" said napoleon, "my conditions are irrevocable. i did not begin to make war yesterday. your position is as perfectly comprehended by me as by yourselves. you are encumbered with dead, sick, and wounded, destitute of provisions, deprived of the élite of your army, surrounded on every side, i might exact every thing. but i respect the white hairs of your general, and the valor of your soldiers. i ask nothing but what is rigorously justified by the present position of affairs. take what steps you may, you will have no other terms." the conditions were immediately signed, and a suspension of arms was agreed upon, until an answer could be received from vienna. napoleon left paris for this campaign on the th of may. the battle of marengo was fought on the th of june. thus in five weeks napoleon had scaled the barrier of the alps: with sixty thousand soldiers, most of them undisciplined recruits, he had utterly discomfited an army of one hundred and twenty thousand men, and regained the whole of italy. the achievement amazed the civilized world. the bosom of every frenchman throbbed with gratitude and pride. one wild shout of enthusiasm ascended from united france. napoleon had laid the foundation of his throne deep in the heart of the french nation, and _there_ that foundation still remains unshaken. napoleon now entered milan in triumph. he remained there ten days, busy apparently every hour, by day and by night, in re-organizing the political condition of italy. the serious and religious tendencies of his mind are developed by the following note, which four days after the battle of marengo, he wrote to the consuls in paris: "to-day, whatever our atheists may say to it, i go in great state to the _te deum_, which is to be chanted in the cathedral of milan."[ ] [ ] the _te deum_, is an anthem of praise, sung in church as on occasion of thanksgiving. it is so called from the first words "te deum laudamus," _thee god we praise_. an unworthy spirit of detraction has vainly sought to wrest from napoleon the honor of this victory, and to attribute it all to the flank charge made by kellerman. such attempts deserve no detailed reply. napoleon had secretly and suddenly called into being an army, and by its apparently miraculous creation had astounded europe. he had effectually deceived the vigilance of his enemies, so as to leave them entirely in the dark respecting his point of attack. he had conveyed that army, with all its stores, over the pathless crags of the great st. bernard. like an avalanche he had descended from the mountains upon the plains of startled italy. he had surrounded the austrian hosts, though they were double his numbers, with a net through which they could not break. in a decisive battle he had scattered their ranks before him, like chaff by the whirlwind. he was nobly seconded by those generals whom his genius had chosen and created. it is indeed true, that without his generals and his soldiers he could not have gained the victory. massena contributed to the result by his matchless defense of genoa; moreau, by holding in abeyance the army of the rhine; lannes, by his iron firmness on the plain of montebello; desaix, by the promptness with which he rushed to the rescue, as soon as his ear caught the far-off thunders of the cannon of marengo; and kellerman, by his admirable flank charge of cavalry. but it was the genius of napoleon which planned the mighty combination, which roused and directed the enthusiasm of the generals, which inspired the soldiers with fearlessness and nerved them for the strife, and which, through these efficient agencies, secured the astounding results. napoleon established his triumphant army, now increased to eighty thousand men, in the rich valley of the po. he assigned to the heroic massena the command of this triumphant host, and ordering all the forts and citadels which blocked the approaches from france to be blown up, set out, on the th of june, for his return to paris. in recrossing the alps, by the pass of mt. cenis, he met the carriage of madame kellerman, who was going to italy to join her husband. napoleon ordered his carriage to be stopped, and alighting, greeted the lady with great courtesy, and congratulated her upon the gallant conduct of her husband at marengo. as he was riding along one day, bourrienne spoke of the world-wide renown which the first consul had attained. "yes," napoleon thoughtfully replied. "a few more events like this campaign, and my name may perhaps go down to posterity." "i think," bourrienne rejoined, "that you have already done enough to secure a long and lasting fame." "done enough!" napoleon replied. "you are very good! it is true that in less than two years i have conquered cairo, paris, milan. but were i to die to-morrow, half a page of general history would be all that would be devoted to my exploits." napoleon's return to paris, through the provinces of france, was a scene of constant triumph. the joy of the people amounted almost to frenzy. bonfires, illuminations, the pealing of bells, and the thunders of artillery accompanied him all the way. long lines of young maidens, selected for their grace and beauty, formed avenues of loveliness and smiles through which he was to pass, and carpeted his path with flowers. he arrived in paris at midnight the d of july, having been absent but eight weeks. the enthusiasm of the parisians was unbounded and inexhaustible. day after day, and night after night, the festivities continued. the palace of the tuileries was ever thronged with a crowd, eager to catch a glimpse of the preserver of france. all the public bodies waited upon him with congratulations. bells rung, cannon thundered, bonfires and illuminations blazed, rockets and fire-works, in meteoric splendor filled the air, bands of music poured forth their exuberant strains, and united paris, thronging the garden of the tuileries and flooding back into the elysian fields, rent the heavens with deafening shouts of exultation. as napoleon stood at the window of his palace, witnessing this spectacle of a nation's gratitude, he said, "the sound of these acclamations is as sweet to me, as the voice of josephine. how happy i am to be beloved by such a people." preparations were immediately made for a brilliant and imposing solemnity in commemoration of the victory. "let no triumphal arch be raised to me," said napoleon. "i wish for no triumphal arch but the public satisfaction." it is not strange that enthusiasm and gratitude should have glowed in the ardent bosoms of the french. in four months napoleon had raised france from an abyss of ruin to the highest pinnacle of prosperity and renown. for anarchy he had substituted law, for bankruptcy a well-replenished treasury, for ignominious defeat resplendent victory, for universal discontent as universal satisfaction. the invaders were driven from france, the hostile alliance broken, and the blessings of peace were now promised to the war-harassed nation. during this campaign there was presented a very interesting illustration of napoleon's wonderful power of anticipating the progress of coming events. bourrienne, one day, just before the commencement of the campaign, entered the cabinet at the tuileries, and found an immense map of italy, unrolled upon the carpet, and napoleon stretched upon it. with pins, whose heads were tipped with rod and black sealing-wax, to represent the french and austrian forces. napoleon was studying all the possible combinations and evolutions of the two hostile armies. bourrienne, in silence, but with deep interest, watched the progress of this pin campaign. napoleon, having arranged the pins with red heads, where he intended to conduct the french troops, and with the black pins designating the point which he supposed the austrians would occupy, looked up to his secretary, and said: "do you think that i shall beat melas?" "why, how can i tell? bourrienne answered. "why, you simpleton," said napoleon, playfully; "just look here. melas is at alexandria, where he has his head-quarters. he will remain there until genoa surrenders. he has in alexandria his magazines, his hospitals, his artillery, his reserves. passing the alps here," sticking a pin into the great st. bernard, "i fall upon melas in his rear; i cut off his communications with austria. i meet him here in the valley of the bormida." so saying, he stuck a red pin into the plain of marengo. bourrienne regarded this manoeuvring of pins as mere pastime. his countenance expressed his perfect incredulity. napoleon, perceiving this, addressed to him some of his usual apostrophes, in which he was accustomed playfully to indulge in moments of relaxation, such as, you ninny, you goose; and rolled up the map. ten weeks passed away, and bourrienne found himself upon the banks of the bormida, writing, at napoleon's dictation, an account of the battle of marengo. astonished to find napoleon's anticipations thus minutely fulfilled, he frankly avowed his admiration of the military sagacity thus displayed. napoleon himself smiled at the justice of his foresight. [illustration: napoleon planning a campaign.] two days before the news of the battle of marengo arrived in vienna, england effected a new treaty with austria, for the more vigorous prosecution of the war. by this convention it was provided that england should loan austria ten millions of dollars, to bear no interest during the continuance of the conflict. and the austrian cabinet bound itself not to make peace with france, without the consent of the court of st. james. the emperor of austria was now sadly embarrassed. his sense of honor would not allow him to violate his pledge to the king of england, and to make peace. on the other hand, he trembled at the thought of seeing the armies of the invincible napoleon again marching upon his capital. he, therefore, resolved to temporize, and, in order to gain time, sent an embassador to paris. the plenipotentiary presented to napoleon a letter, in which the emperor stated, "you will give credit to every thing which count julien shall say on my part. i will ratify whatever he shall do." napoleon, prompt in action, and uninformed of the new treaty between ferdinand and george iii., immediately caused the preliminaries of peace to be drawn up, which were signed by the french and austrian ministers. the cabinet in vienna, angry with their embassador for not protracting the discussion, refused to ratify the treaty, recalled count julien, sent him into exile, informed the first consul of the treaty which bound austria not to make peace without the concurrence of great britain, assured france of the readiness of the english cabinet to enter into negotiations, and urged the immediate opening of a congress at luneville to which plenipotentiaries should be sent from each of the three great contending powers. napoleon was highly indignant in view of this duplicity and perfidy. yet, controlling his anger, he consented to treat with england, and with that view proposed a _naval armistice_, with the mistress of the seas. to this proposition england peremptorily refused to accede, as it would enable france to throw supplies into egypt and malta, which island england was besieging. the naval armistice would have been undeniably for the interests of france. but the continental armistice was as undeniably adverse to her interests, enabling austria to recover from her defeats, and to strengthen her armies. napoleon, fully convinced that england, in her inaccessible position, did not wish for peace, and that her only object, in endeavoring to obtain admittance to the congress, was that she might throw obstacles in the way of reconciliation with austria, offered to renounce all armistice with england, and to treat with her separately. this england also refused. it was now september. two months had passed in these vexatious and sterile negotiations. napoleon had taken every step in his power to secure peace. he sincerely desired it. he had already won all the laurels he could wish to win on the field of battle. the reconstruction of society in france, and the consolidation of his power, demanded all his energies. the consolidation of his power! that was just what the government of england dreaded. the consolidation of democratic power in france was dangerous to king and to noble. william pitt, the soul of the aristocratic government of england, determined still to prosecute the war. france could not harm england. but england, with her invincible fleet, could sweep the commerce of france from the seas. fox and his coadjutors with great eloquence and energy opposed the war. their efforts were, however, unavailing. the _people_ of england, notwithstanding all the efforts of the government to defame the character of the first consul, still cherished the conviction that, after all, napoleon was their friend. napoleon, in subsequent years, while reviewing these scenes of his early conflicts, with characteristic eloquence and magnanimity, gave utterance to the following sentiments which, it is as certain as destiny, that the verdict of the world will yet confirm. "pitt was the master of european policy. he held in his hands the moral fate of nations. but he made an ill use of his power. he kindled the fire of discord throughout the universe; and his name, like that of erostratus, will be inscribed in history, amidst flames, lamentations, and tears. twenty-five years of universal conflagration; the numerous coalitions that added fuel to the flame; the revolution and devastation of europe; the bloodshed of nations; the frightful debt of england, by which all these horrors were maintained; the pestilential system of loans, by which the people of europe are oppressed; the general discontent that now prevails--all must be attributed to pitt. posterity will brand him as a scourge. the man so lauded in his own time, will hereafter be regarded as the genius of evil. not that i consider him to have been willfully atrocious, or doubt his having entertained the conviction that he was acting right. but st. bartholomew had also its conscientious advocates. the pope and cardinals celebrated it by a _te deum_; and we have no reason to doubt their having done so in perfect sincerity. such is the weakness of human reason and judgment! but that for which posterity will, above all, execrate the memory of pitt, is the hateful school, which he has left behind him; its insolent machiavellianism, its profound immorality, its cold egotism, and its utter disregard of justice and human happiness. whether it be the effect of admiration and gratitude, or the result of mere instinct and sympathy, pitt is, and will continue to be, the idol of the european aristocracy. there was, indeed, a touch of the sylla in his character. his system has kept the popular cause in check, and brought about the triumph of the patricians. as for fox, one must not look for his model among the ancients. he is himself a model, and his principles will sooner or later rule the world. the death of fox was one of the fatalities of my career. had his life been prolonged, affairs would have taken a totally different turn. the cause of the people would have triumphed, and we should have established a new order of things in europe." austria really desired peace. the march of napoleon's armies upon vienna was an evil more to be dreaded than even the consolidation of napoleon's power in france. but austria was, by loans and treaties, so entangled with england, that she could make no peace without the consent of the court of st. james. napoleon found that he was but trifled with. interminable difficulties were thrown in the way of negotiation. austria was taking advantage of the cessation of hostilities, merely to recruit her defeated armies, that, as soon as the approaching winter had passed away, she might fall, with renovated energies, upon france. the month of november had now arrived, and the mountains, whitened with snow, were swept by the bleak winds of winter. the period of the armistice had expired. austria applied for its prolongation. napoleon was no longer thus to be duped. he consented, however, to a continued suspension of hostilities, on condition that the treaty of peace were signed within forty-eight hours. austria, believing that no sane man would march an army into germany in the dead of winter, and that she should have abundant time to prepare for a spring campaign, refused. the armies of france were immediately on the move. the emperor of austria had improved every moment of this transient interval of peace, in recruiting his forces. in person he had visited the army to inspire his troops with enthusiasm. the command of the imperial forces was intrusted to his second brother, the archduke john. napoleon moved with his accustomed vigor. the political necessities of paris and of france rendered it impossible for him to leave the metropolis. he ordered one powerful army, under general brune, to attack the austrians in italy, on the banks of the mincio, and to press firmly toward vienna. in the performance of this operation, general macdonald, in the dead of winter, effected his heroic passage over the alps, by the pass of the splugen. victory followed their standards. moreau, with his magnificent army, commenced a winter campaign on the rhine. between the rivers iser and inn there is an enormous forest, many leagues in extent, of sombre firs and pines. it is a dreary and almost uninhabited wilderness, of wild ravines, and tangled under-brush. two great roads have been cut through the forest, and sundry woodmen's paths penetrate it at different points. in the centre there is a little hamlet, of a few miserable huts, called hohenlinden. in this forest, on the night of the d of december, , moreau, with sixty thousand men, encountered the archduke john with seventy thousand austrian troops. the clocks upon the towers of munich had but just tolled the hour of midnight when both armies were in motion, each hoping to surprise the other. a dismal wintry storm was howling over the tree tops, and the smothering snow, falling rapidly, obliterated all traces of a path, and rendered it almost impossible to drag through the drifts the ponderous artillery. both parties, in the dark and tempestuous night, became entangled in the forest, and the heads of their columns in various places met. an awful scene of confusion, conflict, and carnage then ensued. imagination can not compass the terrible sublimity of that spectacle. the dark midnight, the howlings of the wintry storm, the driving sheets of snow, the incessant roar of artillery and of musketry from one hundred and thirty thousand combatants, the lightning flashes of the guns, the crash of the falling trees as the heavy cannon-balls swept through the forest, the floundering of innumerable horsemen bewildered in the pathless snow, the shout of onset, the shriek of death, and the burst of martial music from a thousand bands--all combined to present a scene of horror and of demoniac energy, which probably even this lost world never presented before. the darkness of the black forest was so intense, and the snow fell in flakes so thick and fast and blinding, that the combatants could with difficulty see each other. they often judged of the foe only by his position, and fired at the flashes gleaming through the gloom. at times, hostile divisions became intermingled in inextricable confusion, and hand to hand, bayonet crossing bayonet, and sword clashing against sword, they fought with the ferocity of demons; for though the officers of an army may be influenced by the most elevated sentiments of dignity and of honor, the mass of the common soldiers have ever been the most miserable, worthless, and degraded of mankind. as the advancing and retreating hosts wavered to and fro, the wounded, by thousands, were left on hill-sides and in dark ravines, with the drifting snow, crimsoned with blood, their only blanket; there in solitude and agony to moan and freeze and die. what death-scenes the eye of god must have witnessed that night, in the solitudes of that dark, tempest-tossed, and blood-stained forest! at last the morning dawned through the unbroken clouds, and the battle raged with renovated fury. nearly twenty thousand mutilated bodies of the dead and wounded were left upon the field, with gory locks frozen to their icy pillows, and covered with mounds of snow. at last the french were victorious at every point. the austrians, having lost twenty-five thousand men in killed, wounded, and prisoners, one hundred pieces of artillery, and an immense number of wagons, fled in dismay. this terrific conflict has been immortalized by the noble epic of campbell, which is now familiar wherever the english language is known. [illustration: campaign of hohenlinden] "on linden, when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow, and dark as winter was the flow of iser, rolling rapidly. "but linden saw another sight, when the drums beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery." &c. [illustration: death at hohenlinden] the retreating austrians rushed down the valley of the danube. moreau followed thundering at their heels, plunging balls and shells into their retreating ranks. the victorious french were within thirty miles of vienna, and the capital was in a state of indescribable dismay. the emperor again sent imploring an armistice. the application was promptly acceded to, for napoleon was contending only for peace. yet with unexampled magnanimity, notwithstanding these astonishing victories, napoleon made no essential alterations in his terms. austria was at his feet. his conquering armies were almost in sight of the steeples of vienna. there was no power which the emperor could present to obstruct their resistless march. he might have exacted any terms of humiliation. but still he adhered to the first terms which he had proposed. moreau was urged by some of his officers to press on to vienna. "we had better halt," he replied, "and be content with peace. it is for that alone that we are fighting." the emperor of austria was thus compelled to treat without the concurrence of england. the insurmountable obstacle in the way of peace was thus removed. at luneville, joseph bonaparte appeared as the embassador of napoleon, and count cobenzl as the plenipotentiary of austria. the terms of the treaty were soon settled, and france was again at peace with all the world, england alone excepted. by this treaty the rhine was acknowledged as the boundary of france. the adige limited the possessions of austria in italy; and napoleon made it an essential article that every italian imprisoned in the dungeons of austria for political offenses, should immediately be liberated. there was to be no interference by either with the new republics which had sprung up in italy. they were to be permitted to choose whatever form of government they preferred. in reference to this treaty, sir walter scott makes the candid admission that "the treaty of luneville was not much more advantageous to france than that of campo formio. the moderation of the first consul indicated at once his desire for peace upon the continent, and considerable respect for the bravery and strength of austria." and alison, in cautious but significant phrase, remarks, "these conditions did not differ materially from those offered by napoleon before the renewal of the war; _a remarkable circumstance_, when it is remembered how vast an addition the victories of marengo, hohenlinden, and the mincio, had since made to the preponderance of the french armies." it was, indeed, "a remarkable circumstance," that napoleon should have manifested such unparalleled moderation, under circumstances of such aggravated indignity. in napoleon's first italian campaign he was contending solely for peace. at last he attained it, in the treaty of campo formio, on terms equally honorable to austria and to france. on his return from egypt, he found the armies of austria, three hundred thousand strong, in alliance with england, invading the territories of the republic. he implored peace, in the name of bleeding humanity, upon the fair basis of the treaty of campo formio. his foes regarded his supplication as the imploring cry of weakness, and treated it with scorn. with new vigor they poured their tempests of balls and shells upon france. napoleon scaled the alps, and dispersed his foes at marengo, like autumn leaves before the gale. amid the smoke and the blood and the groans of the field of his victory, he again wrote imploring peace; and he wrote in terms dictated by the honest and gushing sympathies of a humane man, and not in the cold and stately forms of the diplomatist. crushed as his foes were, he rose not in his demands, but nobly said, "i am still willing to make peace upon the fair basis of the treaty of campo formio." his treacherous foes, to gain time to recruit their armies, that they might fall upon him with renovated vigor, agreed to an armistice. they then threw all possible embarrassments in the way of negotiation, and prolonged the armistice till the winds of winter were sweeping fiercely over the snow-covered hills of austria. they thought that it was then too late for napoleon to make any movements until spring, and that they had a long winter before them, in which to prepare for another campaign. they refused peace. through storms and freezing gales and drifting snows the armies of napoleon marched painfully to hohenlinden. the hosts of austria were again routed, and were swept away, as the drifted snow flies before the gale. ten thousand frenchmen lie cold in death, the terrible price of the victory. the emperor of austria, in his palaces, heard the thunderings of napoleon's approaching artillery. he implored peace. "it is all that i desire," said napoleon; "i am not fighting for ambition or for conquest. i am still ready to make peace upon the fair basis of the treaty of campo formio." while all the continent was now at peace with france, england alone, with indomitable resolution, continued the war, without allies, and without any apparent or avowed object. france, comparatively powerless upon the seas, could strike no blows which would be felt by the distant islanders. "on every point," says sir walter scott, "the english squadrons annihilated the commerce of france, crippled her revenues, and blockaded her forts." the treaty of luneville was signed the th of february, . napoleon, lamenting the continued hostility of england, in announcing this peace to the people of france, remarked, "why is not this treaty the treaty of a general peace? this was the wish of france. this has been the constant object of the efforts of her government. but its desires are fruitless. all europe knows that the british minister has endeavored to frustrate the negotiations at luneville. in vain was it declared to him that france was ready to enter into a separate negotiation. this declaration only produced a refusal under the pretext that england could not abandon her ally. since then, when that ally consented to treat without england, that government sought other means to delay a peace so necessary to the world. it raises pretensions contrary to the dignity and rights of all nations. the whole commerce of asia, and of immense colonies, does not satisfy its ambition. all the seas must submit to the exclusive sovereignty of england." as william pitt received the tidings of this discomfiture of his allies, in despairing despondency, he exclaimed, "fold up the map of europe. it need not again be opened for twenty years." while these great affairs were in progress, napoleon, in paris, was consecrating his energies with almost miraculous power, in developing all the resources of the majestic empire under his control. he possessed the power of abstraction to a degree which has probably never been equaled. he could concentrate all his attention for any length of time upon one subject, and then, laying that aside entirely, without expending any energies in unavailing anxiety, could turn to another, with all the freshness and the vigor of an unpreoccupied mind. incessant mental labor was the luxury of his life. "occupation," said he, "is my element. i am born and made for it. i have found the limits beyond which i could not use my legs. i have seen the extent to which i could use my eyes. but i have never known any bounds to my capacity for application." the universality of napoleon's genius was now most conspicuous. the revenues of the nation were replenished, and all the taxes arranged to the satisfaction of the people. the bank of france was reorganized, and new energy infused into its operations. several millions of dollars were expended in constructing and perfecting five magnificent roads radiating from paris to the frontiers of the empire. robbers, the vagabonds of disbanded armies, infested the roads, rendering traveling dangerous in the extreme. "be patient," said napoleon. "give me a month or two. i must first conquer peace abroad. i will then do speedy and complete justice upon these highwaymen." a very important canal, connecting belgium with france, had been commenced some years before. the engineers could not agree respecting the best direction of the cutting through the highlands which separated the valley of the oise from that of the somme. he visited the spot in person: decided the question promptly, and decided it wisely, and the canal was pressed to its completion. he immediately caused three new bridges to be thrown across the seine at paris. he commenced the magnificent road of the simplon, crossing the rugged alps with a broad and smooth highway, which for ages will remain a durable monument of the genius and energy of napoleon. in gratitude for the favors he had received from the monks of the great st. bernard, he founded two similar establishments for the aid of travelers, one on mount cenis, the other on the simplon, and both auxiliary to the convent on the great st. bernard. concurrently with these majestic undertakings, he commenced the compilation of the civil code of france. the ablest lawyers of europe were summoned to this enterprise, and the whole work was discussed section by section in the council of state, over which napoleon presided. the lawyers were amazed to find that the first consul was as perfectly familiar with all the details of legal and political science, as he was with military strategy. bourrienne mentions, that one day, a letter was received from an emigrant, general durosel, who had taken refuge in the island of jersey. the following is an extract from the letter: "you can not have forgotten, general, that when your late father was obliged to take your brothers from the college of autun, he was unprovided with money, and asked of me one hundred and twenty-five dollars, which i lent him with pleasure. after his return, he had not an opportunity of paying me, and when i left ajaccio, your mother offered to dispose of some plate, in order to pay the debt. to this i objected, and told her that i would wait until she could pay me at her convenience. previous to the revolution, i believe that it was not in her power to fulfill her wish of discharging the debt. i am sorry to be obliged to trouble you about such a trifle. but such is my unfortunate situation, that even this trifle is of some importance to me. at the age of eighty-six, general, after having served my country for sixty years, i am compelled to take refuge here, and to subsist on a scanty allowance, granted by the english government to french emigrants. i say _emigrants_, for i am obliged to be one against my will." upon hearing this letter read, napoleon immediately and warmly said, "bourrienne, this is sacred. do not lose a moment. send the old man ten times the sum. write to general durosel, that he shall immediately be erased from the list of emigrants. what mischief those brigands of the convention have done. i can never repair it all." napoleon uttered these words with a degree of emotion which he had rarely before evinced. in the evening he inquired, with much interest of bourrienne, if he had executed his orders. many attempts were made at this time to assassinate the first consul. though france, with the most unparalleled unanimity surrounded him with admiration, gratitude, and homage, there were violent men in the two extremes of society, among the jacobins and the inexorable royalists, who regarded him as in their way. napoleon's escape from the explosion of the infernal machine, got up by the royalists, was almost miraculous. [illustration: the infernal machine.] on the evening of the th of december, napoleon was going to the opera, to hear haydn's oratorio of the creation, which was to be performed for the first time. intensely occupied by business, he was reluctant to go; but to gratify josephine, yielded to her urgent request. it was necessary for his carriage to pass through a narrow street. a cart, apparently by accident overturned, obstructed the passage. a barrel suspended beneath the cart, contained as deadly a machine as could be constructed with gunpowder and all the missiles of death. the coachman succeeded in forcing his way by the cart. he had barely passed when an explosion took place, which was heard all over paris, and which seemed to shake the city to its foundations. eight persons were instantly killed, and more than sixty were wounded, of whom about twenty subsequently died. the houses for a long distance, on each side of the street, were fearfully shattered, and many of them were nearly blown to pieces. the carriage rocked as upon the billows of the sea, and the windows were shattered to fragments. napoleon had been in too many scenes of terror to be alarmed by any noise or destruction which gunpowder could produce. "ha!" said he, with perfect composure; "we are blown up." one of his companions in the carriage, greatly terrified, thrust his head through the demolished window, and called loudly to the driver to stop. "no, no!" said napoleon; "drive on." when the first consul entered the opera house, he appeared perfectly calm and unmoved. the greatest consternation, however, prevailed in all parts of the house, for the explosion had been heard, and the most fearful apprehensions were felt for the safety of the idolized napoleon. as soon as he appeared, thunders of applause, which shook the very walls of the theatre, gave affecting testimony of the attachment of the people to his person. in a few moments, josephine, who had come in her private carriage, entered the box. napoleon turned to her with perfect tranquillity, and said, "the rascals tried to blow me up. where is the book of the oratorio?" napoleon soon left the opera, and returned to the tuileries. he found a vast crowd assembled there, attracted by affection for his person, and anxiety for his safety. the atrocity of this attempt excited universal horror, and only increased the already almost boundless popularity of the first consul. deputations and addresses were immediately poured in upon him from paris and from all the departments of france, congratulating him upon his escape. it was at first thought that this conspiracy was the work of the jacobins. there were in paris more than a hundred of the leaders of this execrable party, who had obtained a sanguinary notoriety during the reign of terror. they were active members of a jacobin club, a violent and vulgar gathering continually plotting the overthrow of the government, and the assassination of the first consul. they were thoroughly detested by the people, and the community was glad to avail itself of any plausible pretext for banishing them from france. without sufficient evidence that they were actually guilty of this particular outrage, in the strong excitement and indignation of the moment a decree was passed by the legislative bodies, sending one hundred and sixty of these blood-stained culprits into exile. the wish was earnestly expressed that napoleon would promptly punish them by his own dictatorial power. napoleon had, in fact, acquired such unbounded popularity, and the nation was so thoroughly impressed with a sense of his justice, and his wisdom, that whatever he said was done. he, however, insisted that the business should be conducted by the constituted tribunals and under the regular forms of law. "the responsibility of this measure," said napoleon, "must rest with the legislative body. the consuls are irresponsible. but the ministers are not. any one of them who should sign an arbitrary decree, might hereafter be called to account. not a single individual must be compromised. the consuls themselves know not what may happen. as for me, while i live, i am not afraid that any one will dare to call me to account for my actions. but i may be killed, and then i can not answer for the safety of my two colleagues. it would be your turn to govern," said he, smiling, and turning to cambaceres; "_and you are not as yet very firm in the stirrups_. it will be better to have a law for the present, as well as for the future." it was finally, after much deliberation, decided that the council of state should draw up a declaration of the reasons for the act. the first consul was to sign the decree, and the senate was to declare whether it was or was not constitutional. thus cautiously did napoleon proceed under circumstances so exciting. the law, however, was unjust and tyrannical. guilty as these men were of other crimes, by which they had forfeited all sympathy, it subsequently appeared that they were not guilty of this crime. napoleon was evidently embarrassed by this uncertainty of their guilt, and was not willing that they should be denounced as contrivers of the infernal machine. "we _believe_," said he, "that they are guilty. but we do not _know_ it. they must be transported for the crimes which they have committed, the massacres and the conspiracies already proved against them." the decree was passed. but napoleon, strong in popularity, became so convinced of the powerlessness and insignificance of these jacobins, that the decree was never enforced against them. they remained in france. but they were conscious that the eye of the police was upon them. "it is not my own person," said napoleon, "that i seek to avenge. my fortune which has preserved me so often on the field of battle, will continue to preserve me. i think not of myself. i think of social order which it is my mission to re-establish, and of the national honor, which it is my duty to purge from an abominable stain." to the innumerable addresses of congratulation and attachment which this occurrence elicited napoleon replied, "i have been touched by the proofs of affection which the people of paris have shown me on this occasion. i deserve them. for the only aim of my thoughts, and of my actions, is to augment the prosperity and the glory of france. while those banditti confined themselves to direct attacks upon me, i could leave to the laws the task of punishing them. but since they have endangered the population of the capital by a crime, unexampled in history, the punishment must be equally speedy and terrible." it was soon proved, much to the surprise of napoleon, that the atrocious act was perpetrated by the partisans of the bourbons. many of the most prominent of the loyalists were implicated in this horrible conspiracy. napoleon felt that he deserved their gratitude. he had interposed to save them from the fury of the jacobins. against the remonstrances of his friends, he had passed a decree which restored one hundred and fifty thousand of these wandering emigrants to france. he had done every thing in his power to enable them to regain their confiscated estates. he had been in all respects their friend and benefactor, and he would not believe, until the proof was indisputable, that they could thus requite him. the wily fouché, however, dragged the whole matter into light. the prominent conspirators were arrested and shot. the following letter, written on this occasion by josephine, to the minister of police, strikingly illustrates the benevolence of her heart, and exhibits in a very honorable light the character of napoleon. "while i yet tremble at the frightful event which has just occurred, i am distressed through fear of the punishment to be inflicted on the guilty, who belong, it is said, to families with whom i once lived in habits of intercourse. i shall be solicited by mothers, sisters, and disconsolate wives, and my heart will be broken through my inability to obtain all the mercy for which i would plead. i know that the clemency of the first consul is great--his attachment to me extreme. the chief of the government has not been alone exposed; and it is that which will render him severe, inflexible. i conjure you, therefore, to do all in your power to prevent inquiries being pushed too far. do not detect all those persons who have been accomplices in this odious transaction. let not france, so long overwhelmed in consternation, by public executions, groan anew, beneath such inflictions. when the ringleaders of this nefarious attempt shall have been secured, let severity give place to pity for inferior agents, seduced, as they may have been, by dangerous falsehoods or exaggerated opinions. as a woman, a wife, and a mother, i must feel the heartrendings of those who will apply to me. act, citizen minister, in such a way that the number of these may be lessened." it seems almost miraculous that napoleon should have escaped the innumerable conspiracies which at this time were formed against him. the partisans of the bourbons thought that if napoleon could be removed, the bourbons might regain their throne. it was his resistless genius alone, which enabled france to triumph over combined europe. his death would leave france without a leader. the armies of the allies could then, with bloody strides, march to paris, and place the hated bourbons on the throne. france knew this, and adored its preserver. monarchical europe knew this, and hence all the energies of its combined kings were centred upon napoleon. more than thirty of these conspiracies were detected by the police. london was the hot-house where they were engendered. air-guns were aimed at napoleon. assassins dogged him with their poniards. a bomb-shell was invented, weighing about fifteen pounds, which was to be thrown in at his carriage-window, and which exploding by its own concussion, would hurl death on every side. the conspirators were perfectly reckless of the lives of others, if they could only destroy the life of napoleon. the agents of the infernal-machine had the barbarity to get a young girl fifteen years of age to hold the horse who drew the machine. this was to disarm suspicion. the poor child was blown into such fragments, that no part of her body, excepting her feet, could afterward be found. at last napoleon became aroused, and declared that he would "teach those bourbons that he was not a man to be shot at like a dog." one day at st. helena, as he was putting on his flannel waistcoat, he observed las casas looking at him very steadfastly. "well! what is _your excellency_ thinking of?" said napoleon, with a smile. "sire," las casas replied, "in a pamphlet which i lately read, i found it stated that your majesty was shielded by a coat-of-mail, for the security of your person. i was thinking that i could bear positive evidence that at st. helena at least, all precautions for personal safety have been laid aside." "this," said napoleon, "is one of the thousand absurdities which have been published respecting me. but the story you have just mentioned is the more ridiculous, since every individual about me well knows how careless i am with regard to self-preservation. accustomed from the age of eighteen to be exposed to the cannon-ball, and knowing the inutility of precautions, i abandoned myself to my fate. when i came to the head of affairs, i might still have fancied myself surrounded by the dangers of the field of battle; and i might have regarded the conspiracies which were formed against me as so many bomb-shells. but i followed my old course. i trusted to my lucky star, and left all precautions to the police. i was perhaps the only sovereign in europe who dispensed with a body-guard. every one could freely approach me, without having, as it were, to pass through military barracks. maria louisa was much astonished to see me so poorly guarded, and she often remarked that her father was surrounded by bayonets. for my part, i had no better defense at the tuileries than i have here. i do not even know where to find my sword," said he, looking around the room; "do you see it? i have, to be sure, incurred great dangers. upward of thirty plots were formed against me. these have been proved by authentic testimony, without mentioning many which never came to light. some sovereigns invent conspiracies against themselves; for my part, i made it a rule carefully to conceal them whenever i could. the crisis most serious to me was during the interval from the battle of marengo, to the attempt of george cadoudal and the affair of the duke d'enghien." napoleon now, with his accustomed vigor, took hold of the robbers and made short work with them. the insurgent armies of la vendee, numbering more than one hundred thousand men, and filled with adventurers and desperadoes of every kind, were disbanded when their chiefs yielded homage to napoleon. many of these men, accustomed to banditti warfare, took to the highways. the roads were so infested by them, that traveling became exceedingly perilous, and it was necessary that every stage-coach which left paris should be accompanied by a guard of armed soldiers. to remedy a state of society thus convulsed to its very centre, special tribunals were organized, consisting of eight judges. they were to take cognizance of all such crimes as conspiracies, robberies, and acts of violence of any kind. the armed bands of napoleon swept over france like a whirlwind. the robbers were seized, tried, and shot without delay. order was at once restored. the people thought not of the dangerous power they were placing in the hands of the first consul. they asked only for a commander, who was able and willing to quell the tumult of the times. such a commander they found in napoleon. they were more than willing to confer upon him all the power he could desire. "you know what is best for us;" said the people to napoleon. "direct us what to do, and we will do it." it was thus that absolute power came voluntarily into his hands. under the circumstances it was so natural that it can excite no suspicion. he was called first consul. but he already swayed a sceptre more mighty than that of the cæsars. but sixteen months had now elapsed since napoleon landed at frejus. in that time he had attained the throne of france. he had caused order and prosperity to emerge from the chaos of revolution. by his magnanimity he had disarmed russia, by his armies had humbled austria, and had compelled continental europe to accept an honorable peace. he merited the gratitude of his countrymen, and he received it in overflowing measure. through all these incidents, so eventful and so full of difficulty, it is not easy to point to a single act of napoleon, which indicates a malicious or an ungenerous spirit. "i fear nothing," said napoleon at st. helena, "for my renown. posterity will do me justice. it will compare the good which i have done with the faults which i have committed. if i had succeeded i should have died with the reputation of being the greatest man who ever existed. from being nothing i became, by my own exertions, the most powerful monarch of the universe, without committing any crime. my ambition was great, but it _rested_ on the opinion of the masses. i have always thought that sovereignty resides in the people. the empire, as i had organized it, was but a great republic. called to the throne by the voice of the people, my maxim has always been, _a career open to talent without distinction of birth_. it is for this system of equality that the european oligarchy detests me. and yet in england talent and great services raise a man to the highest rank. england should have understood me." "the french revolution," said napoleon, "was a general movement of the mass of the nation against the privileged classes. the nobles were exempt from the burdens of the state, and yet exclusively occupied all the posts of honor and emolument. the revolution destroyed these exclusive privileges, and established equality of rights. all the avenues to wealth and greatness were equally open to every citizen, according to his talents. the french nation established the imperial throne, and placed me upon it. the throne of france was granted before to hugh capet, by a few bishops and nobles. the imperial throne was given to me, by the desire of the people." joseph bonaparte was of very essential service to napoleon in the diplomatic intercourse of the times. lucien also was employed in various ways, and the whole family were taken under the protection of the first consul. at st. helena napoleon uttered the following graphic and truthful eulogium upon his brothers and sisters: "what family, in similar circumstances, would have acted better? every one is not qualified to be a statesman. that requires a combination of powers which does not often fall to the lot of any one. in this respect all my brothers were singularly situated; they possessed at once too much and too little talent. they felt themselves too strong to resign themselves blindly to a guiding counselor, and yet too weak to be left entirely to themselves. but take them all in all i have certainly good reason to be proud of my family. joseph would have been an honor to society in any country, and lucien would have been an honor to any assembly. jerome, as he advanced in life, would have developed every qualification requisite in a sovereign. louis would have been distinguished in any rank or condition of life. my sister eliza was endowed with masculine powers of mind; she must have proved herself a philosopher in her adverse fortune. caroline possessed great talents and capacity. pauline, perhaps the most beautiful woman of her age, has been, and will continue to the end of her life, the most amiable creature in the world. as to my mother, she deserves all kinds of veneration. how seldom is so numerous a family entitled to so much praise. add to this, that, setting aside the jarring of political opinions, we sincerely loved each other. for my part, i never ceased to cherish fraternal affection for them all. and i am convinced that in their hearts they felt the same sentiments toward me, and that, in case of need, they would have given me every proof of it." the proud old nobility, whom napoleon had restored to france, and upon many of whom he had conferred their confiscated estates, manifested no gratitude toward their benefactor. they were sighing for the re-enthronement of the bourbons, and for the return of the good old times, when all the offices of emolument and honor were reserved for them and for their children, and the _people_ were but their hewers of wood and drawers of water. in the morning, as beggars, they would crowd the audience-chamber of the first consul with their petitions. in the evening they disdained to honor his levees with their presence. they spoke contemptuously of josephine, of her kindness and her desire to conciliate all parties. they condemned every thing that napoleon did. he, however, paid no heed to their murmurings. he would not condescend even to punish them by neglect. in that most lofty pride which induced him to say that, in his administration he _wished to imitate the clemency of god_, he endeavored to consult for the interests of all, both the evil and the unthankful. his fame was to consist, not in revenging himself upon his enemies, but in aggrandizing france. at this time napoleon's establishment at the tuileries rather resembled that of a very rich gentleman, than the court of a monarch. junot, one of his aids, was married to mademoiselle permon, the young lady whose name will be remembered in connection with the anecdote of "puss in boots." her mother was one of the most haughty of the ancient nobility, who affected to look upon napoleon with contempt as not of royal blood. the evening after her marriage madame junot was to be presented to josephine. after the opera she drove to the tuileries. it was near eleven o'clock. as josephine had appointed the hour, she was expected. eugene, hearing the wheels of the carriage, descended to the court-yard, presented his arm to madame junot, and they entered the large saloon together. it was a magnificent apartment, magnificently furnished. two chandeliers, surrounded with gauze to soften the glare, shed a subdued and grateful light over the room. josephine was seated before a tapestry-frame working upon embroidery. near her sat hortense, sylph-like in figure, and surpassingly gentle and graceful in her manners. napoleon was standing near josephine, with his hands clasped behind him, engaged in conversation with his wife and her lovely daughter. upon the entrance of madame junot josephine immediately arose, took her two hands, and, affectionately kissing her, said, "i have too long been junot's friend, not to entertain the same sentiments for his wife; particularly for the one he has chosen." "oh, josephine!" said napoleon, "that is running on very fast. how do you know that this little pickle is worth loving. well, mademoiselle loulou (you see that i do not forget the names of my old friends), have you not a word for me?" saying this, he gently took her hand and drew her toward him. the young bride was much embarrassed, and yet she struggled to retain her pride of birth. "general!" she replied, smiling, "it is not for me to speak first." "very well parried," said napoleon, playfully, "the mother's spirit! and how is madame permon?" "very ill, general! for two years her health has caused us great uneasiness." "indeed," said napoleon, "so bad as that? i am sorry to hear it; very sorry. make my regards to her. it is a wrong head, a proud spirit, but she has a generous heart and a noble soul. i hope that we shall often see you, madame junot. my intention is to draw around me a numerous family, consisting of my generals and their young wives. they will be friends of my wife and of hortense, as their husbands are my friends. but you must not expect to meet here your acquaintances of the ancient nobility. i do not like them. they are my enemies, and prove it by defaming me." this was but the morning twilight of that imperial splendor which afterward dazzled the most powerful potentates of europe. hortense, who subsequently became the wife of louis bonaparte, and the mother of louis napoleon, who, at the moment of this present writing, is at the head of the government of france, was then seventeen years of age. "she was," says madame junot, "fresh as a rose. though her fair complexion was not relieved by much color, she had enough to produce that freshness and bloom which was her chief beauty. a profusion of light hair played in silken locks around her soft and penetrating blue eyes. the delicate roundness of her figure, slender as a palm-tree, was set off by the elegant carriage of her head. but that which formed the chief attraction of hortense was the grace and suavity of her manners, which united the creole nonchalance with the vivacity of france. she was gay, gentle, and amiable. she had wit, which, without the smallest ill-temper, had just malice enough to be amusing. a polished and well-conducted education had improved her natural talents. she drew excellently, sang harmoniously, and performed admirably in comedy. in , she was a charming young girl. she afterward became one of the most amiable princesses in europe. i have seen many, both in their own courts and in paris, but i have never known one who had any pretensions to equal talents. she was beloved by every one. her brother loved her tenderly. the first consul looked upon her as his child." napoleon has been accused of an improper affection for hortense. the world has been filled with the slander. says bourrienne, "napoleon never cherished for her any feeling but a real paternal tenderness. he loved her after his marriage with her mother, as he would have loved his own child. at least for three years i was a witness to all their most private actions, and i declare i never saw any thing that could furnish the least ground for suspicion, nor the slightest trace of a culpable intimacy. this calumny must be classed among those which malice delights to take in the character of men who become celebrated, calumnies which are adopted lightly and without reflection. napoleon is no more. let his memory be accompanied only by that, be it good or bad, which really took place. let not this reproach be made a charge against him by the impartial historian. i must say, in conclusion, on this delicate subject, that his principles were rigid in an extreme degree, and that any fault of the nature charged, neither entered his mind, nor was in accordance with his morals or his taste." at st. helena napoleon was one day looking over a book containing an account of his amours. he smiled as he glanced his eye over the pages, saying, "i do not even know the names of most of the females who are mentioned here. this is all very foolish. every body knows that i had no _time_ for such dissipation." the church of the cup of cold water. one beautiful evening, in the year , the parish priest of san pietro, a village a few miles distant from sevilla, returned much fatigued to his little cottage, where he found his aged housekeeper, the señora margarita, watching for him. notwithstanding that one is well accustomed to the sight of poverty in spain, it was impossible to help being struck by the utter destitution which appeared in the house of the good priest; the more so, as every imaginable contrivance had been resorted to, to hide the nakedness of the walls, and the shabbiness of the furniture. margarita had prepared for her master's supper a rather small dish of _olla-podriga_, which consisted, to say the truth, of the remains of the dinner, seasoned and disguised with great skill, and with the addition of some sauce, and a _name_. as she placed the savory dish upon the table, the priest said: "we should thank god for this good supper, margarita; this olla-podriga makes one's mouth water. my friend, you ought to be grateful for finding so good a supper at the house of your host!" at the word host, margarita raised her eyes, and saw a stranger, who had followed her master. her countenance changed, and she looked annoyed. she glanced indignantly first at the unknown, and then at the priest, who, looking down, said in a low voice, and with the timidity of a child: "what is enough for two, is always enough for three; and surely you would not wish that i should allow a christian to die of hunger? he has not tasted food for two days." "a christian! he is more like a brigand!" and margarita left the room, murmuring loudly enough to be heard. meanwhile, the unwelcome guest had remained standing at the door. he was a man of great height, half-dressed in rags, and covered with mud; while his black hair, piercing eyes, and carbine, gave him an appearance which, though hardly prepossessing, was certainly interesting. "must i go?" said he. the priest replied with an emphatic gesture: "those whom i bring under my roof are never driven forth, and are never unwelcome. put down your carbine. let us say grace, and go to table." "i never leave my carbine, for, as the castilian proverb says, 'two friends are one.' my carbine is my best friend; and i always keep it beside me. although you allow me to come into your house, and do not oblige me to leave it until i wish to do so, there are others who would think nothing of hauling me out, and, perhaps, with my feet foremost. come--to your good health, mine host, and let us to supper." the priest possessed an extremely good appetite, but the voracity of the stranger soon obliged him to give up, for, not contented with eating, or rather devouring, nearly the whole of the olla-podriga, the guest finished a large loaf of bread, without leaving a crumb. while he ate, he kept continually looking round with an expression of inquietude: he started at the slightest sound; and once, when a violent gust of wind made the door bang, he sprang to his feet, and seized his carbine, with an air which showed that, if necessary, he would sell his life dearly. discovering the cause of the alarm, he reseated himself at table, and finished his repast. "now," said he, "i have one thing more to ask. i have been wounded, and for eight days my wound has not been dressed. give me a few old rags, and you shall be no longer burdened with my presence." "i am in no haste for you to go," replied the priest, whose guest, notwithstanding his constant watchfulness, had conversed very entertainingly. "i know something of surgery, and will dress your wound." so saying, he took from a cupboard a case containing every thing necessary, and proceeded to do as he had said. the stranger had bled profusely, a ball having passed through his thigh; and to have traveled in this condition, and while suffering, too, from want of food, showed a strength which seemed hardly human. "you can not possibly continue your journey to-day," said the host. "you must pass the night here. a little rest will get up your strength, diminish the inflammation of your wound, and--" "i must go to-day, and immediately," interrupted the stranger. "there are some who wait for me," he added with a sigh--"and there are some, too, who follow me." and the momentary look of softness passed from his features between the clauses of the sentence, and gave place to an expression almost of ferocity. "now, is it finished? that is well. see, i can walk as firmly as though i had never been wounded. give me some bread; pay yourself for your hospitality with this piece of gold, and adieu." the priest put back the gold with displeasure. "i am not an innkeeper," said he; "and i do not sell my hospitality." "as you will, but pardon me; and now, farewell, my kind host." so saying, he took the bread, which margarita, at her master's command, very unwillingly gave him, and soon his tall figure disappeared among the thick foliage of a wood which surrounded the house, or rather the cabin. an hour had scarcely passed, when musket-shots were heard close by, and the unknown reappeared, deadly pale, and bleeding from a deep wound near the heart. "take these," said he, giving some pieces of gold to his late host; "they are for my children--near the stream--in the valley." he fell, and the next moment several police-officers rushed into the house. they hastily secured the unfortunate man, who attempted no resistance. the priest entreated to be allowed to dress his wound, which they permitted; but when this was done, they insisted on carrying him away immediately. they would not even procure a carriage; and when they were told of the danger of removing a man so severely wounded, they merely said: "what does it matter? if he recovers, it will only be to receive sentence of death. he is the famous brigand, josé!" josé thanked the intercessor with a look. he then asked for a little water, and when the priest brought it to him, he said, in a faint voice: "remember!" the reply was merely a sign of intelligence. when they were gone, notwithstanding all margarita could say as to the danger of going out at night, the priest crossed the wood, descended into the valley, and soon found, beside the body of a woman, who had doubtless been killed by a stray ball of the police, an infant, and a little boy of about four years old, who was trying in vain to awaken his mother. imagine margarita's amazement when the priest returned with two children in his arms. "may all good saints defend us! what have you done, señor? we have barely enough to live upon, and you bring two children! i suppose i must beg from door to door, for you and for them. and, for mercy's sake, who are these children? the sons of that brigand, gipsy, thief, murderer, perhaps! i am sure they have never been baptized!" at this moment the infant began to cry. "and pray, señor clérigo, how do you mean to feed that child? you know very well that we have no means of paying a nurse. we must spoon-feed it, and nice nights that will give me! it can not be more than six months old, poor little creature," she added, as her master placed it in her arms. "fortunately, i have a little milk here;" and forgetting her anger, she busied herself in putting some milk on the fire, and then sat down beside it to warm the infant, who seemed half-frozen. her master watched her in silence, and when at last he saw her kiss its little cheek, he turned away with a quiet smile. when at length the little one had been hushed into a gentle slumber, and when margarita, with the assistance of her master's cloak, and some of her own clothes, had made a bed for the elder boy, and placed him in it, the good man told her how the children had been committed to his care, and the promise he had made, though not in words, to protect them. "that is very right and good, no doubt," said margarita; "i only want to know how we are all to live? the priest opened his bible, and read aloud: "whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward." "amen!" said margarita. twelve years passed by. the parish priest of san pietro, who was now more than seventy years old, was sitting in the sunshine at his door. near him, a boy of about twelve years old was reading aloud from the bible, looking occasionally toward a tall, fine-looking young man, who was hard at work in a garden close by. margarita, who was now become blind, sat and listened. suddenly, the sound of wheels was heard, and the boy exclaimed: "oh! the beautiful carriage!" a splendid carriage approached rapidly, and stopped before the door. a richly-dressed servant approached, and asked for a cup of water for his master. "carlos," said the priest to the younger boy, "go, bring water to the gentleman; and add some wine, if he will accept it. go quickly!" at this moment the carriage-door opened, and a gentleman, apparently about fifty years old, alighted. "are these your nephews?" said he to the priest. "they are more than that, señor; they are my children--the children of my adoption." "how is that?" "i will tell you, señor; for i am old and poor, and know but little of the world, and am in much need of advice; for i know not what to do with these two children." he related the story we have just told. "and now, señor, what do you advise me to do?" "apply to one of the nobles of the court, who must assign you a pension of four thousand ducats." "i asked you for advice, señor, and not for jest." "and then, your church must be rebuilt. we will call it the church of the cup of cold water. here is the plan. see, this is to be the vicarage; and here, divided by this paling--" "what does this mean? what would you say? and, surely, i remember that voice, that face--" "i am don josé della ribeira; and twelve years ago, i was the brigand josé. i escaped from prison; and--for the revolution made great changes--am now powerful. my children--" he clasped them in his arms. and when at length he had embraced them a hundred times, with tears, and smiles, and broken sentences; and when all had in some degree recovered their composure, he took the hand of the priest and said: "well, father, will you not accept the church of the cup of cold water?" the old man, deeply affected, turned to margarita, and repeated: "whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward." "amen!" replied the aged woman, her voice tremulous from emotion. a short time afterward, don josé della ribeira and his two sons were present at the consecration of the church of san-pietro-del-vaso-di-aqua-fria, one of the prettiest churches in the neighborhood of sevilla. my novel; or, varieties in english life.[ ] chapter xix.--continued. [ ] continued from the may number. "bother," said dick! "what do women know about politics. i wish you'd mind the child--it is crumpling up and playing almighty smash with that flim-flam book, which cost me a one pound one." mrs. avenel submissively bowed her head, and removed the annual from the hands of the young destructive; the destructive set up a squall, as destructives generally do when they don't have their own way. dick clapped his hands to his ears. "whe-e-ew, i can't stand this; come and take a walk, leslie; i want stretching!" he stretched himself as he spoke, first half way up to the ceiling, and then fairly out of the room. randal with his may fair manner, turned toward mrs. avenel as if to apologize for her husband and himself. "poor richard?" said she, "he is in one of his humors--all men have them. come and see me again soon. when does almack's open!" "nay, i ought to ask you that question, you who know every thing that goes on in our set," said the young serpent. any tree planted in "our set," if it had been but a crab-tree, would have tempted mr. avenel's eve to a jump at its boughs. "_are_ you coming, there?" cried dick from the foot of the stairs. chapter xx. "i have just been at our friend levy's," said randal when he and dick were outside the street door. "he, like you, is full of politics--pleasant man--for the business he is said to do." "well," said dick slowly, "i suppose he _is_ pleasant, but make the best of it--and still--" "still what, my dear avenel?" (randal here for the first time discarded the formal mister.) mr. avenel.--"still the thing itself is not pleasant." randal (with his soft hollow laugh).--"you mean borrowing money upon more than five per cent?" "oh, curse the per centage. i agree with bentham on the usury laws--no shackles in trade for me, whether in money or any thing else. that's not it. but when one owes a fellow money even at two per cent, and 'tis not convenient to pay him, why, somehow or other, it makes one feel small; it takes the british liberty out of a man!" "i should have thought you more likely to lend money than to borrow it." "well, i guess you are right there, as a general rule. but i tell you what it is, sir; there is too great a mania for competition getting up in this rotten old country of ours. i am as liberal as most men. i like competition to a certain extent, but there is too much of it, sir--too much of it!" randal looked sad and convinced. but if leonard had heard dick avenel, what would have been his amaze! dick avenel rail against competition! think there could be too much of it? of course, "heaven and earth are coming together," said the spider when the housemaid's broom invaded its cobweb. dick was all for sweeping away other cobwebs; but he certainly thought heaven and earth coming together when he saw a great turk's-head besom poked up at his own. mr. avenel in his genius for speculation and improvement, had established a factory at screwstown, the first which had ever eclipsed the church spire with its titanic chimney. it succeeded well at first. mr. avenel transferred to this speculation nearly all his capital. "nothing," quoth he, "paid such an interest. manchester was getting worn out--time to show what screwstown could do. nothing like competition." but by-and-by a still greater capitalist than dick avenel, finding out that screwstown was at the mouth of a coal mine, and that dick's profits were great, erected a still uglier edifice, with a still taller chimney. and having been brought up to the business, and making his residence in the town, while dick employed a foreman and flourished in london, this infamous competitor so managed, first to share, and then gradually to sequester, the profits which dick had hitherto monopolized, that no wonder mr. avenel thought competition should have its limits. "the tongue touches where the tooth aches," as dr. riccabocca would tell us. by little and little our juvenile talleyrand (i beg the elder great man's pardon) wormed out from dick this grievance, and in the grievance discovered the origin of dick's connection with the money-lender. "but levy," said avenel, candidly, "is a decentish chap in his way--friendly too. mrs. a. finds him useful; brings some of your young highflyers to her _soirées_. to be sure, they don't dance--stand all in a row at the door, like mutes at a funeral. not but what they have been uncommon civil to me lately--spendquick particularly. by-the-by, i dine with him to-morrow. the aristocracy are behindhand--not smart, sir--not up to the march; but when a man knows how to take 'em, they beat the new yorkers in good manners. i'll say that for them. i have no prejudice." "i never saw a man with less; no prejudice even against levy." "no, not a bit of it! every one says he's a jew; he says he's not. i don't care a button what he is. his money is english--that's enough for any man of a liberal turn of mind. his charges, too, are moderate. to be sure, he knows i shall pay them; only what i don't like in him is a sort of way he has of _mon-chering_ and my-good-fellowing one, to do things quite out of the natural way of that sort of business. he knows i have got parliament influence. i could return a couple of members for screwstown, and one, or perhaps two, for lansmere, where i have of late been cooking up an interest; and he dictates to--no, not _dictates_--but tries to _humbug_ me into putting in his own men. however, in one respect we are likely to agree. he says you want to come into parliament. you seem a smart young fellow; but you must throw over that stiff red tapist of yours, and go with public opinion, and--myself." "you are very kind, avenel; perhaps when we come to compare opinions we may find that we agree entirely. still, in egerton's present position, delicacy to him--however, we'll not discuss that now. but you really think i might come in for lansmere--against the l'estrange interest, too, which must be strong there?" "it _was_ very strong, but i've smashed it, i calculate." "would a contest there cost very much?" "well, i guess you must come down with the ready. but, as you say, time enough to discuss that when you have squared your account with 'delicacy;' come to me then, and we'll go into it." randal, having now squeezed his orange dry, had no desire to waste his time in brushing up the rind with his coat-sleeve, so he unhooked his arm from avenel, and looking at his watch, discovered he should be just in time for an appointment of the most urgent business--hailed a cab, and drove off. dick looked hipped and disconsolate at being left alone; he yawned very loud, to the astonishment of three prim old maiden belgravians who were passing that way; and then his mind began to turn toward his factory at screwstown, which had led to his connection with the baron; and he thought over a letter he had received from his foreman that morning, informing him that it was rumored at screwstown that mr. dyce, his rival, was about to have new machinery, on an improved principle; and that mr. dyce had already gone up to town, it was supposed with the intention of concluding a purchase for a patent discovery to be applied to the new machinery, and which that gentleman had publicly declared in the corn-market, "would shut up mr. avenel's factory before the year was out." as this menacing epistle recurred to him, dick felt his desire to yawn incontinently checked. his brow grew very dark; and he walked with restless strides, on and on, till he found himself in the strand. he then got into an omnibus, and proceeded to the city, wherein he spent the rest of the day, looking over machines and foundries, and trying in vain to find out what diabolical invention the over-competition of mr. dyce had got hold of. "if," said dick avenel to himself, as he returned fretfully homeward--"if a man like me, who has done so much for british industry and go-ahead principles, is to be catawampously champed up by a mercenary selfish cormorant of a capitalist like that interloping blockhead in drab breeches, tom dyce, all i can say is, that the sooner this cursed old country goes to the dogs the better pleased i shall be. i wash my hands of it." chapter xxi. randal's mind was made up. all he had learned in regard to levy had confirmed his resolves or dissipated his scruples. he had started from the improbability that peschiera would offer, and the still greater improbability that peschiera would pay him ten thousand pounds for such information or aid as he could bestow in furthering the count's object. but when levy took such proposals entirely on himself, the main question to randal became this--could it be levy's interest to make so considerable a sacrifice? had the baron implied only friendly sentiments as his motives, randal would have felt sure he was to be taken in; but the usurer's frank assurance that it would answer to him in the long run to concede to randal terms so advantageous, altered the case, and led our young philosopher to look at the affair with calm contemplative eyes. was it sufficiently obvious that levy counted on an adequate return? might he calculate on reaping help by the bushel if he sowed it by the handful? the result of randal's cogitations was, that the baron might fairly deem himself no wasteful sower. in the first place, it was clear that levy, not without reasonable ground, believed that he could soon replace, with exceeding good interest, any sum he might advance to randal, out of the wealth which randal's prompt information might bestow on levy's client, the count; and, secondly, randal's self-esteem was immense, and could he but succeed in securing a pecuniary independence on the instant, to free him from the slow drudgery of the bar, or from a precarious reliance on audley egerton, as a politician out of power--his convictions of rapid triumphs in public life were as strong as if whispered by an angel, or promised by a fiend. on such triumphs, with all the social position they would secure, levy might well calculate for repayment, through a thousand indirect channels. randal's sagacity detected that, through all the good-natured or liberal actions ascribed to the usurer, levy had steadily pursued his own interests--he saw that levy meant to get him into his power, and use his abilities as instruments for digging new mines, in which baron levy would claim the right of large royalties. but at that thought randal's pale lip curled disdainfully; he confided too much in his own powers not to think that he could elude the grasp of the usurer, whenever it suited him to do so. thus, on a survey, all conscience hushed itself--his mind rushed buoyantly on to anticipations of the future. he saw the hereditary estates regained--no matter how mortgaged--for the moment still his own--legally his own--yielding for the present what would suffice for competence to one of a few wants, and freeing his name from that title of adventurer, which is so prodigally given in rich old countries to those who have no estates but their brains. he thought of violante but as the civilized trader thinks of a trifling coin, of a glass bead, which he exchanges with some barbarian for gold dust; he thought of frank hazeldean, married to the foreign woman of beggared means, and repute that had known the breath of scandal--married, and living on post-obit installments of the casino property; he thought of the poor squire's resentment; his avarice swept from the lands annexed to rood on to the broad fields of hazeldean; he thought of avenel, of lansmere, of parliament; with one hand he grasped fortune, with the next power. "and yet i entered on life with no patrimony--(save a ruined hall and a barren waste)--no patrimony but knowledge. i have but turned knowledge from books to men; for books may give fame after death, but men give us power in life." and all the while he thus ruminated, his act was speeding his purpose. though it was but in a miserable hack-cab that he erected airy scaffoldings round airy castles, still the miserable hack-cab was flying fast, to secure the first foot of solid ground whereon to transfer the mental plan of the architect to foundations of positive slime and clay. the cab stopped at the door of lord lansmere's house. randal had suspected violante to be there; he resolved to ascertain. randal descended from his vehicle and rang the bell. the lodge-keeper opened the great wooden gates. "i have called to see the young lady staying here--the foreign young lady." lady lansmere had been too confident as to the security of her roof to condescend to give any orders to her servants with regard to her guest, and the lodge-keeper answered directly-- "at home, i believe, sir. i rather think she is in the garden with my lady." "i see," said randal. and he did see the form of violante at a distance. "but since she is walking, i will not disturb her at present. i will call another day." the lodge-keeper bowed respectfully, randal jumped into his cab--"to curzon-street--quick!" chapter xxii. harley had made one notable oversight in that appeal to beatrice's better and gentler nature, which he intrusted to the advocacy of leonard--a scheme in itself very characteristic of harley's romantic temper, and either wise or foolish, according as his indulgent theory of human idiosyncracies in general, and of those peculiar to beatrice di negra in especial, was the dream of an enthusiast, or the inductive conclusion of a sound philosopher. harley had warned leonard not to fall in love with the italian--he had forgotten to warn the italian not to fall in love with leonard; nor had he ever anticipated the probability of that event. this is not to be very much wondered at; for if there be any thing on which the most sensible men are dull-eyed, where those eyes are not lightened by jealousy, it is as to the probabilities of another male creature being beloved. all, the least vain of the whiskered gender, think it prudent to guard themselves against being too irresistible to the fair sex; and each says of his friend, "good fellow enough, but the last man for _that_ woman to fall in love with!" but certainly there appeared on the surface more than ordinary cause for harley's blindness in the special instance of leonard. whatever beatrice's better qualities, she was generally esteemed worldly and ambitious. she was pinched in circumstances--she was luxurious and extravagant; how was it likely that she could distinguish any aspirant, of the humble birth and fortunes of the young peasant author? as a coquette she might try to win his admiration and attract his fancy; but her own heart would surely be guarded in the triple mail of pride, poverty, and the conventional opinions of the world in which she lived. had harley thought it possible that madame di negra could stoop below her station, and love, not wisely, but too well, he would rather have thought that the object would be some brilliant adventurer of fashion--some one who could turn against herself all the arts of deliberate fascination, and all the experience bestowed by frequent conquest. one so simple as leonard--so young and so new! harley l'estrange would have smiled at himself if the idea of that image subjugating the ambitious woman to the disinterested love of a village maid, had once crossed his mind. nevertheless, so it was, and precisely from those causes which would have seemed to harley to forbid the weakness. it _was_ that fresh, pure heart--it was that simple, earnest sweetness--it was that contrast in look, in tone, in sentiment, and in reasonings, to all that had jaded and disgusted her in the circle of her admirers--it was all this that captivated beatrice at the first interview with leonard. here was what she had confessed to the skeptical randal she had dreamed and sighed for. her earliest youth had passed into abhorrent marriage, without the soft, innocent crisis of human life--virgin love. many a wooer might have touched her vanity, pleased her fancy, excited her ambition--her heart had never been awakened: it woke now. the world, and the years that the world had wasted, seemed to fleet away as a cloud. she was as if restored to the blush and the sigh of youth--the youth of the italian maid. as in the restoration of our golden age is the spell of poetry with us all, so, such was the spell of the poet himself on her. oh, how exquisite was that brief episode in the life of the woman palled with the "hack sights and sounds" of worldly life! how strangely happy were those hours, when, lured on by her silent sympathy, the young scholar spoke of his early struggles between circumstance and impulse, musing amidst the flowers, and hearkening to the fountain: or of his wanderings in the desolate, lamp-lit streets, while the vision of chatterton's glittering eyes shone dread through the friendless shadows. and as he spoke, whether of his hopes or his fears, her looks dwelt fondly on the young face, that varied between pride and sadness--pride ever so gentle, and sadness ever so nobly touching. she was never weary of gazing on that brow, with its quiet power: but her lids dropped before those eyes, with their serene, unfathomable passion. she felt, as they haunted her, what a deep and holy thing love in such souls must be. leonard never spoke to her of helen--that reserve every reader can comprehend. to natures like his, first love is a mystery; to confide it is to profane. but he fulfilled his commission of interesting her in the exile and his daughter. and his description of them brought tears to her eyes. she inly resolved not to aid peschiera in his designs on violante. she forgot for the moment that her own fortune was to depend on the success of those designs. levy had arranged so that she was not reminded of her poverty by creditors--she knew not how. she knew nothing of business. she gave herself up to the delight of the present hour, and to vague prospects of a future, associated with that young image--with that face of a guardian angel that she saw before her, fairest in the moments of absence: for in those moments came the life of fairy land, when we shut our eyes on the world, and see through the haze of golden reverie. dangerous, indeed, to leonard would have been the soft society of beatrice di negra, had his heart not been wholly devoted to one object, and had not his ideal of woman been from that object one sole and indivisible reflection. but beatrice guessed not this barrier between herself and him. amidst the shadows that he conjured up from his past life, she beheld no rival form. she saw him lonely in the world as she was herself. and in his lowly birth, his youth, in the freedom from presumption which characterized him in all things (save that confidence in his intellectual destinies which is the essential attribute of genius), she but grew the bolder by the belief that, even if he loved her, he would not dare to hazard the avowal. and thus, one day, yielding as she had been ever wont to yield, to the impulse of her quick italian heart--how she never remembered--in what words she could never recall--she spoke--she owned her love--she pleaded, with tears and blushes, for love in return. all that passed was to her as a dream--a dream from which she woke with a fierce sense of agony, of humiliation--woke as the "woman scorned." no matter how gratefully, how tenderly, leonard had replied--the reply was refusal. for the first time she learned she had a rival; that all he could give of love was long since, from his boyhood, given to another. for the first time in her life that ardent nature knew jealousy, its torturing stings, its thirst for vengeance, its tempest of loving hate. but, to outward appearance, silent and cold she stood as marble. words that sought to soothe fell on her ear unheeded: they were drowned by the storm within. pride was the first feeling that dominated the warring elements that raged in her soul. she tore her hand from that which clasped hers with so loyal a respect. she could have spurned the form that knelt, not for love, but for pardon, at her feet. she pointed to the door with the gesture of an insulted queen. she knew no more till she was alone. then came that rapid flash of conjecture peculiar to the storms of jealousy; that which seems to single from all nature the one object to dread and to destroy; the conjecture so often false, yet received at once by our convictions as the revelation of instinctive truth. he to whom she had humbled herself loved another; whom but violante?--whom else, young and beautiful, had he named in the record of his life? none! and he had sought to interest her, beatrice di negra, in the object of his love--hinted at dangers, which beatrice knew too well--implied trust in beatrice's will to protect. blind fool that she had been! this, then, was the reason why he had come, day after day, to beatrice's house; this was the charm that had drawn him thither; this--she pressed her hands to her burning temples, as if to stop the torture of thought. suddenly a voice was heard below, the door opened, and randal leslie entered. chapter xxiii. punctually at eight o'clock that evening, baron levy welcomed the new ally he had secured. the pair dined _en tête-à-tête_, discussing general matters till the servants left them to their wine. then said the baron, rising and stirring the fire--then said the baron, briefly and significantly-- "well!" "as regards the property you spoke of," answered randal, "i am willing to purchase it on the terms you name. the only point that perplexes me is how to account to audley egerton, to my parents, to the world, for the power of purchasing it." "true," said the baron, without even a smile at the ingenious and truly greek manner in which randal had contrived to denote his meaning, and conceal the ugliness of it--"true, we must think of that. if we could manage to conceal the real name of the purchaser for a year or so--it might be easy--you may be supposed to have speculated in the funds; or egerton may die, and people may believe that he had secured to you something handsome from the ruins of his fortune." "little chance of egerton's dying." "humph!" said the baron. "however, this is a mere detail, reserved for consideration. you can now tell us where the young lady is?" "certainly. i could not this morning--i can now. i will go with you to the count. meanwhile, i have seen madame di negra: she will accept frank hazeldean if he will but offer himself at once." "will he not?" "no! i have been to him. he is overjoyed at my representations, but considers it his duty to ask the consent of his parents. of course they will not give it; and if there be delay, she will retract. she is under the influence of passions, on the duration of which there is no reliance." "what passions? love?" "love; but not for hazeldean. the passions that bring her to accept his hand are pique and jealousy. she believes, in a word, that one, who seems to have gained the mastery over her affections with a strange suddenness, is but blind to her charms, because dazzled by violante's. she is prepared to aid in all that can give her rival to peschiera; and yet, such is the inconsistency of woman" (added the young philosopher, with a shrug of the shoulders), "that she is also prepared to lose all chance of securing him she loves, by bestowing herself on another!" "woman, indeed, all over!" said the baron, tapping the snuff-box (louis quinze), and regaling his nostrils with a scornful pinch. "but who is the man whom the fair beatrice has thus honored? superb creature! i had some idea of her myself when i bought up her debts; but it might have embarrassed me, on more general plans, as regards the count. all for the best. who's the man? not lord l'estrange?" "i do not think it is he; but i have not yet ascertained. i have told you all i know. i found her in a state so excited, so unlike herself, that i had no little difficulty in soothing her into confidence so far. i could not venture more." "and she will accept frank?" "had he offered to-day she would have accepted him!" "it may be a great help to your fortunes, _mon cher_, if frank hazeldean marry this lady without his father's consent. perhaps he may be disinherited. you are next of kin." "how do you know that?" asked randal, sullenly. "it is my business to know all about the chances and connections of any one with whom i do money matters. i do money matters with young mr. hazeldean; so i know that the hazeldean property is not entailed; and, as the squire's half-brother has no hazeldean blood in him, you have excellent expectations." "did frank tell you i was next of kin?" "i rather think so; but i am sure _you_ did." "i--when?" "when you told me how important it was to you that frank should marry madame di negra. _peste! mon cher_, do you think i am a blockhead?" "well, baron, frank is of age, and can marry to please himself. you implied to me that you could help him in this." "i will try. see that he call at madame di negra's to-morrow, at two precisely." "i would rather keep clear of all apparent interference in this matter. will you not arrange that he call on her?" "i will. any more wine? no;--then let us go to the count's." chapter xxiv. the next morning frank hazeldean was sitting over his solitary breakfast-table. it was long past noon. the young man had risen early, it is true, to attend his military duties, but he had contracted the habit of breakfasting late. one's appetite does not come early when one lives in london, and never goes to bed before daybreak. there was nothing very luxurious or effeminate about frank's rooms, though they were in a very dear street, and he paid a monstrous high price for them. still, to a practiced eye, they betrayed an inmate who can get through his money and make very little show for it. the walls were covered with colored prints of racers and steeplechases, interspersed with the portraits of opera-dancers--all smirk and caper. then there was a semicircular recess, covered with red cloth, and fitted up for smoking, as you might perceive by sundry stands full of turkish pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouth-pieces; while a great serpent hookah, from which frank could no more have smoked than he could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself up on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of moorish arms. what use on earth, ataghan and scimitar, and damasquined pistols, that would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in his majesty's guards, is more than i can conjecture, or even frank satisfactorily explain. i have strong suspicions that this valuable arsenal passed to frank in part-payment of a bill to be discounted. at all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had sold to the hairdresser. no books were to be seen any where, except a court guide, a racing calendar, an army list, the sporting magazine complete (whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume), and a small book, as small as an elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the side of a cigar-case. that small book had cost frank more than all the rest put together; it was his own book, his book _par excellence_; book made up by himself--his betting-book! on a centre-table were deposited frank's well-brushed hat--a satin-wood box, containing kid-gloves of various delicate tints, from primrose to lilac--a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes--an opera-glass, and an ivory subscription ticket to his opera stall. in one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and whips--i should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill for them,--and, mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of boots as bright as baron levy's--"the force of brightness could no further go." frank was in his dressing-gown--very good taste--quite oriental--guaranteed to be true india cashmere, and charged as such. nothing could be more neat, though perfectly simple, than the appurtenances of his breakfast-table;--silver tea-pot, ewer and basin--all fitting into his dressing-box--(for the which may storr and mortimer be now praised, and some day paid!) frank looked very handsome--rather tired, and exceedingly bored. he had been trying to read the _morning post_, but the effort had proved too much for him. poor dear frank hazeldean! true type of many a poor dear fellow who has long since gone to the dogs. and if, in this road to ruin, there had been the least thing to do the traveler any credit by the way! one feels a respect for the ruin of a man like audley egerton. he is ruined _en roi_! from the wrecks of his fortune he can look down and see stately monuments built from the stones of that dismantled edifice. in every institution which attests the humanity of england, was a record of the princely bounty of the public man. in those objects of party for which the proverbial sinews of war are necessary--in those rewards for service, which private liberality can confer--the hand of egerton had been opened as with the heart of a king. many a rising member of parliament, in those days when talent was brought forward through the aid of wealth and rank, owed his career to the seat which audley egerton's large subscription had secured to him; many an obscure supporter in letters and the press looked back to the day when he had been freed from the jail by the gratitude of the patron. the city he represented was embellished at his cost; through the shire that held his mortgaged lands, which he had rarely ever visited, his gold had flowed as a pactolus; all that could animate its public spirit, or increase its civilization claimed kindred with his munificence, and never had a claim disallowed. even in his grand careless household, with its large retinue and superb hospitality, there was something worthy of a representative of that time-honored portion of our true nobility--the untitled gentlemen of the land. the great commoner had, indeed, "something to show" for the money he had disdained and squandered. but for frank hazeldean's mode of getting rid of the dross, when gone, what would be left to tell the tale? paltry prints in a bachelor's lodging; a collection of canes and cherry sticks; half-a-dozen letters in ill-spelt french from a _figurante_; some long-legged horses, fit for nothing but to lose a race; that damnable betting-book; and--_sic transit gloria_--down sweeps some hawk of a levy, on the wings of an i o u, and not a feather is left of the pigeon! yet frank hazeldean has stuff in him--a good heart, and strict honor. fool though he seem, there is sound sterling sense in some odd corner of his brains, if one could but get at it. all he wants to save him from perdition is, to do what he has never yet done--viz., pause and think. but, to be sure that same operation of thinking is not so easy for folks unaccustomed to it, as people who think--think! "i can't bear this," said frank, suddenly, and springing to his feet. "this woman, i can not get her out of my head. i ought to go down to the governor's; but then if he gets into a passion and refuses his consent, where am i? and he will too, i fear. i wish i could make out what randal advises. he seems to recommend that i should marry beatrice at once, and trust to my mother's influence to make all right afterward. but when i ask, '_is_ that your advice?' he backs out of it. well i suppose he is right there. i can understand that he is unwilling, good fellow, to recommend any thing that my father would disapprove. but still--" here frank stopped in his soliloquy, and did make his first desperate effort to--think! now, o dear reader, i assume, of course, that thou art one of the class to which thought is familiar; and, perhaps, thou hast smiled in disdain or incredulity at that remark on the difficulty of thinking which preceded frank hazeldean's discourse to himself. but art thou quite sure that when thou hast tried to _think_ thou hast always succeeded! hast thou not often been duped by that pale visionary simulacrum of thought which goes by the name of _reverie_? honest old montaigne confessed that he did not understand that process of sitting down to think, on which some folks express themselves so glibly. he could not think unless he had a pen in his hand, and a sheet of paper before him; and so, by a manual operation, seized and connected the links of ratiocination. very often has it happened to myself, when i have said to thought, peremptorily, "bestir thyself--a serious matter is before thee--ponder it well--think of it," that that same thought has behaved in the most refractory, rebellious manner conceivable--and instead of concentrating its rays into a single stream of light, has broken into all the desultory tints of the rainbow, coloring senseless clouds, and running off into the seventh heaven--so that after sitting a good hour by the clock, with brows as knit as if i was intent on squaring the circle, i have suddenly discovered that i might as well have gone comfortably to sleep--i have been doing nothing but dream--and the most nonsensical dreams! so when frank hazeldean, as he stopped at that meditative "but still"--and leaning his arm on the chimney-piece and resting his face on his hand, felt himself at the grave crisis of life, and fancied he was going "to think on it," there only rose before him a succession of shadowy pictures. randal leslie, with an unsatisfactory countenance, from which he could extract nothing:--the squire, looking as black as thunder in his study at hazeldean:--his mother trying to plead for him, and getting herself properly scolded for her pains;--and then off went that will-o'-the-wisp which pretended to call itself thought, and began playing round the pale charming face of beatrice di negra in the drawing-room at curzon-street, and repeating, with small elfin voice, randal leslie's assurance of the preceding day, "as to her affection for you, frank, there is no doubt of _that_; she only begins to think you are trifling with her." and then there was a rapturous vision of a young gentleman on his knee, and the fair pale face bathed in blushes, and a clergyman standing by the altar, and a carriage and four with white favors at the church-door; and of a honeymoon which would have astonished as to honey all the bees of hymettus. and in the midst of these phantasmagoria, which composed what frank fondly styled "making up his mind," there came a single man's elegant rat-tat-tat at the street-door. "one never _has_ a moment for _thinking_," cried frank, as he called out to his valet, "not at home." but it was too late. lord spendquick was in the hall, and presently within the room. how d'ye do's were exchanged and hands shaken. lord spendquick.--"i have a note for you, hazeldean." frank (lazily).--"from whom?" lord spendquick.--"levy. just come from him--never saw him in such a fidget. he was going into the city--i suppose to see x. y. dashed off this note for you--and would have sent it by a servant, but i said i would bring it." frank (looking fearfully at the note).--"i hope he does not want his money yet. _private and confidential_--that looks bad." spendquick.--"devilish bad indeed." frank opens the note and reads half aloud, "dear hazeldean." spendquick (interrupting.)--"good sign! he always 'spendquicks' me when he lends me money; and 'tis 'my dear lord' when he wants it back. capital sign!" frank reads on, but to himself, and with a changing countenance: "dear hazeldean--i am very sorry to tell you that, in consequence of the sudden failure of a house at paris, with which i had large dealings, i am pressed, on a sudden, for all the ready money i can get. i don't want to inconvenience you; but do try and see if you can take up those bills of yours which i hold, and which, as you know, have been due some little time. i had hit on a way of arranging your affairs; but when i hinted at it, you seemed to dislike the idea; and leslie has since told me that you have strong objections to giving any security on your prospective property. so no more of that, my dear fellow. i am called out in haste to try what i can do for a very charming client of mine, who is in great pecuniary distress, though she has for her brother a foreign count, as rich as croesus. there is an execution in her house. i am going down to the tradesman who put it in, but have no hope of softening him; and i fear there will be others before the day is out. another reason for wanting money, if you can help me, _mon cher_! an execution in the house of one of the most brilliant women in london--an execution in curzon-street, may fair! it will be all over the town, if i can't stop it.--yours in haste. levy. "p.s.--don't let what i have said vex you too much. i should not trouble you if spendquick and borrowell would pay me something. perhaps you can get them to do so." * * * * * struck by frank's silence and paleness, lord spendquick here, in the kindest way possible, laid his hand on the young guardsman's shoulder, and looked over the note with that freedom which gentlemen in difficulties take with each other's private and confidential correspondence. his eye fell on the postscript. "oh, damn it," cried spendquick, "but that's too bad--employing you to get me to pay him! such horrid treachery. make yourself easy, my dear frank; i could never suspect you of any thing so unhandsome. i could as soon suspect myself of--paying him--" "curzon-street! count!" muttered frank, as if waking from a dream. "it must be so." to thrust on his boots--change his dressing-robe for a frock-coat--catch at his hat, gloves, and cane--break from spendquick--descend the stairs--a flight at a leap--gain the street--throw himself into a cabriolet; all this was done before his astounded visitor could even recover breath enough to ask, "what's the matter?" left thus alone, lord spendquick shook his head--shook it twice, as if fully to convince himself that there was nothing in it; and then re-arranging his hat before the looking-glass, and drawing on his gloves deliberately, he walked down stairs, and strolled into white's, but with a bewildered and absent air. standing at the celebrated bow-window for some moments in musing silence, lord spendquick at last thus addressed an exceedingly cynical, skeptical old _roué_: "pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in former times selling themselves to the devil?" "ugh," answered the _roué_, much too wise ever to be surprised. "have you any personal interest in the question?" "i--no; but a friend of mine has just received a letter from levy, and he flew out of the room in the most extra-or-di-na-ry manner--just as people did in those days when their time was up! and levy, you know, is--" "not quite so great a fool as the other dark gentleman to whom you would compare him; for levy never made such bad bargains for himself. time up! no doubt it is. i should not like to be in your friend's shoes." "shoes!" said spendquick, with a sort of shudder: "you never saw a neater fellow, nor one, to do him justice, who takes more time in dressing than he does in general. and, talking of shoes--he rushed out with the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right. very mysterious." and a third time lord spendquick shook his head--and a third time that head seemed to him wondrous empty. chapter xxv. but frank had arrived in curzon-street--leapt from the cabriolet--knocked at the door, which was opened by a strange-looking man in a buff waistcoat and corduroy smalls. frank gave a glance at this personage--pushed him aside--and rushed up-stairs. he burst into the drawing-room--no beatrice was there. a thin elderly man, with a manuscript book in his hands, appeared engaged in examining the furniture and making an inventory, with the aid of madame di negra's upper servant. the thin man stared at frank, and touched the hat which was on his head. the servant, who was a foreigner, approached frank, and said, in broken english, that his lady did not receive--that she was unwell, and kept her room. frank thrust a sovereign into the servant's hand, and begged him to tell madame di negra that mr. hazeldean entreated the honor of an interview. as soon as the servant vanished on this errand, frank seized the thin man by the arm: "what is this? an execution?" "yes, sir." "for what sum?" "fifteen hundred and forty-seven pounds. we are the first in possession." "there are others, then?" "or else, sir, we should never have taken this step. most painful to our feelings, sir; but these foreigners are here to-day, and gone to-morrow. and--" the servant re-entered. madame di negra would see mr. hazeldean. would he walk up-stairs? frank hastened to obey this summons. madame di negra was in a small room which was fitted up as a boudoir. her eyes showed the traces of recent tears, but her face was composed, and even rigid, in its haughty though mournful expression. frank, however, did not pause to notice her countenance--to hear her dignified salutation. all his timidity was gone. he saw but the woman whom he loved, in distress and humiliation. as the door closed on him, he flung himself at her feet. he caught at her hand--the skirt of her robe. "oh! madame di negra!--beatrice!" he exclaimed, tears in his eyes, and his voice half-broken by generous emotion; "forgive me--forgive me; don't see in me a mere acquaintance. by accident i learned, or, rather, guessed--this--this strange insult to which you are so unworthily exposed. i am here. think of me--but as a friend--the truest friend. o! beatrice"--and he bent his head over the hand he held--"i never dared say so before--it seems presuming to say it now--but i can not help it. i love you--i love you with my whole heart and soul--to serve you--if only but to serve you!--i ask nothing else." and a sob went from his warm, young, foolish heart. the italian was deeply moved. nor was her nature that of the mere sordid adventuress. so much love, and so much confidence! she was not prepared to betray the one, and entrap the other. "rise--rise," she said, softly; "i thank you gratefully. but do not suppose that i--" "hush--hush!--you must not refuse me. hush!--don't let your pride speak." "no--it is not my pride. you exaggerate what is occurring here. you forget that i have a brother. i have sent for him. he is the only one i can apply to. ah! that is his knock! but i shall never, never forget that i have found one generous, noble heart in this hollow world." frank would have replied, but he heard the count's voice on the stairs, and had only time to rise and withdraw to the window, trying hard to repress his agitation and compose his countenance. count di peschiera entered--entered as a very personation of the beauty and magnificence of careless, luxurious, pampered, egotistical wealth. his surtout, trimmed with the costliest sables, flung back from his splendid chest. amidst the folds of the glossy satin that enveloped his throat gleamed a turquoise, of such value as a jeweler might have kept for fifty years before he could find a customer rich and frivolous enough to buy it. the very head of his cane was a masterpiece of art, and the man himself, so elegant despite his strength, and so fresh despite his years! it is astonishing how well men wear when they think of no one but themselves! "pr-rr!" said the count, not observing frank behind the draperies of the window; "p-rr--. it seems to me that you must have passed a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. and now--_dieu me damne--quoi faire_!" beatrice pointed to the window, and felt as if she could have sunk into the earth for shame. but as the count spoke in french, and frank did not very readily comprehend that language, the words escaped him, though his ear was shocked by a certain satirical levity of tone. frank came forward. the count held out his hand, and, with a rapid change of voice and manner, said, "one whom my sister admits at such a moment must be a friend to me." "mr. hazeldean," said beatrice, with meaning, "would indeed have nobly pressed on me the offer of an aid which i need no more, since you, my brother, are here." "certainly," said the count, with his superb air of _grand seigneur_; "i will go down and clear your house of this impertinent _canaille_. but i thought your affairs were with baron levy. he should be here." "i expect him every moment. adieu! mr. hazeldean." beatrice extended her hand to her young lover with a frankness which was not without a certain pathetic and cordial dignity. restrained from farther words by the count's presence, frank bowed over the fair hand in silence, and retired. he was on the stairs, when he was joined by peschiera. "mr. hazeldean," said the latter, in a low tone, "will you come into the drawing-room?" frank obeyed. the man employed in his examination of the furniture was still at his task; but at a short whisper from the count he withdrew. "my dear sir," said peschiera, "i am so unacquainted with your english laws, and your mode of settling embarrassments of this degrading nature, and you have evidently showed so kind a sympathy in my sister's distress, that i venture to ask you to stay here, and aid me in consulting with baron levy." frank was just expressing his unfeigned pleasure to be of the slightest use, when levy's knock resounded at the street-door, and in another moment the baron entered. "ouf!" said levy, wiping his brows, and sinking into a chair, as if he had been engaged in toils the most exhausting--"ouf! this is a very sad business--very; and nothing, my dear count, nothing but ready money can save us here." "you know my affairs, levy," replied peschiera, mournfully shaking his head, "and that though in a few months, or it may be weeks, i could discharge with ease my sister's debts, whatever their amount, yet at this moment, and in a strange land, i have not the power to do so. the money i brought with me is nearly exhausted. can you not advance the requisite sum?" "impossible!--mr. hazeldean is aware of the distress under which i labor myself." "in that case," said the count, "all we can do to-day is to remove my sister, and let the execution proceed. meanwhile, i will go among my friends, and see what i can borrow from them." "alas!" said levy, rising and looking out of the window--"alas! we can not remove the marchesa--the worst is to come. look!--you see those three men; they have a writ against her person; the moment she sets her foot out of these doors she will be arrested."[ ] [ ] at that date the law of _mesne process_ existed still. "arrested!" exclaimed peschiera and frank in a breath. "i have done my best to prevent this disgrace, but in vain," said the baron, looking very wretched. "you see, these english tradespeople fancy they have no hold upon foreigners. but we can get bail; she must not go to prison--" "prison!" echoed frank. he hastened to levy and drew him aside. the count seemed paralyzed by shame and grief. throwing himself back on the sofa, he covered his face with his hands. "my sister!" groaned the count--"daughter to a peschiera, widow to di negra!" there was something affecting in the proud woe of this grand patrician. "what is the sum?" whispered frank, anxious that the poor count should not overhear him: and indeed the count seemed too stunned and overwhelmed to hear any thing less loud than a clap of thunder. "we may settle all liabilities for £ . nothing to peschiera, who is enormously rich. _entre nous_, i doubt his assurance that he is without ready money. it may be so, but--" "£ ! how can i raise such a sum!" "you, my dear hazeldean? what are you talking about? to be sure, you could raise twice as much with a stroke of your pen, and throw your own debts into the bargain. but--to be so generous to an acquaintance!" "acquaintance--madame di negra!--the height of my ambition is to claim her as my wife!" "and these debts don't startle you?" "if a man loves," answered frank, simply, "he feels it most when the woman he loves is in affliction. and," he added, after a pause, "though these debts are faults, kindness at this moment may give me the power to cure forever both her faults and my own. i can raise this money by a stroke of the pen! how?" "on the casino property." frank drew back. "no other way?" "of course not. but i know your scruples; let us see if they can be conciliated. you would marry madame di negra; she will have £ , on her wedding-day. why not arrange that, out of this sum, your anticipative charge on the casino property be paid at once? thus, in truth, it will be but for a few weeks that the charge will exist. the bond will remain locked in my desk--it can never come to your father's knowledge, nor wound his feelings. and when, you marry (if you will but be prudent in the meanwhile), you will not owe a debt in the world." here the count suddenly started up. "mr. hazeldean, i asked you to stay and aid us by your counsel; i see now that counsel is unavailing. this blow on our house must fall! i thank you, sir--i thank you. farewell. levy, come with me to my poor sister, and prepare her for the worst." "count," said frank, "hear me. my acquaintance with you is but slight, but i have long known and--and esteemed your sister. baron levy has suggested a mode in which i can have the honor and the happiness of removing this temporary but painful embarrassment. i can advance the money." "no--no!" exclaimed peschiera. "how can you suppose that i will hear of such a proposition? your youth and benevolence mislead and blind you. impossible, sir--impossible! why, even if i had no pride, no delicacy of my own, my sister's fair fame--" "would suffer indeed," interrupted levy, "if she were under such obligation to any one but her affianced husband. nor, whatever my regard for you, count, could i suffer my client, mr. hazeldean, to make this advance upon any less valid security than that of the fortune to which madame di negra is entitled." "ha!--is this indeed so? you are a suitor for my sister's hand, mr. hazeldean?" "but not at this moment--not to owe her hand to the compulsion of gratitude," answered gentleman frank. "gratitude! and you do not know her heart, then? do not know--" the count interrupted himself, and went on after a pause. "mr. hazeldean, i need not say, that we rank among the first houses in europe. my pride led me formerly into the error, of disposing of my sister's hand to one whom she did not love--merely because in rank he was her equal. i will not again commit such an error, nor would beatrice again obey me if i sought to constrain her. where she marries, there she will love. if, indeed, she accept you, as i believe she will, it will be from affection solely. if she does, i can not scruple to accept this loan--a loan from a brother-in-law--loan to me, and not charged against her fortune! _that_, sir (turning to levy, with his grand air), you will take care to arrange. if she do not accept you, mr. hazeldean, the loan, i repeat it, is not to be thought of. pardon me, if i leave you. this, one way or other, must be decided at once." the count inclined his head with much stateliness, and then quitted the room. his step was heard ascending the stairs. "if," said levy, in the tone of a mere man of business--"if the count pay the debts, and the lady's fortune be only charged with your own--after all it will not be a bad marriage in the world's eye, nor ought it to be in a father's. trust me, we shall get mr. hazeldean's consent, and cheerfully too." frank did not listen; he could only listen to his love, to his heart beating loud with hope and with fear. levy sate down before the table, and drew up a long list of figures in a very neat hand--a list of figures on _two_ accounts, which the _post-obit_ on the casino was destined to efface. after a lapse of time, which to frank seemed interminable, the count reappeared. he took frank aside, with a gesture to levy, who rose, and retired into the drawing-room. "my dear young friend," said peschiera, "as i suspected, my sister's heart is wholly yours. stop; hear me out. but unluckily, i informed her of your generous proposal. it was most unguarded, most ill-judged in me, and that has well-nigh spoiled all; she has so much pride and spirit; so great a fear that you may think yourself betrayed into an imprudence you may hereafter regret, that i am sure she will tell you she does not love you, she can not accept you, and so forth. lovers like you are not easily deceived. don't go by her words; but you shall see her yourself and judge. come." followed mechanically by frank, the count ascended the stairs and threw open the door of beatrice's room. the marchesa's back was turned; but frank could see that she was weeping. "i have brought my friend to plead for himself," said the count in french; "and take my advice, sister, and do not throw away all prospect of real and solid happiness for a vain scruple. _heed me!_" he retired and left frank alone with beatrice. then the marchesa, as if by a violent effort, so sudden was her movement, and so wild her look, turned her face to her wooer, and came up to him, where he stood. "oh!" she said, clasping her hands, "is this true? you would save me from disgrace, from a prison--and what can i give you in return? my love! no, no. i will not deceive you. young, fair, noble, as you are, i do not love you as you should be loved. go; leave this house; you do not know my brother. go, go--while i have still strength, still virtue enough to reject whatever may protect me from him! whatever--may--oh--go, go." "you do not love me," said frank. "well, i don't wonder at it; you are so brilliant, so superior to me. i will abandon hope--i will leave you as you command me. but at least i will not part with my privilege to serve you. as for the rest--shame on me if i could be mean enough to boast of love, and enforce a suit, at such a moment." frank turned his face and stole away softly. he did not arrest his steps at the drawing-room, he went into the parlor, wrote a brief line to levy charging him quietly to dismiss the execution, and to come to frank's rooms with the necessary deeds; and, above all, to say nothing to the count. then he went out of the house and walked back to his lodgings. that evening levy came to him, and accounts were gone into, and papers signed; and the next morning madame di negra was free from debt; and there was a great claim on the reversion of the casino estates; and at the noon of that next day randal was closeted with beatrice; and before the night, came a note from madame di negra, hurried, blurred with tears, summoning frank to curzon-street. and when he entered the marchesa's drawing-room, peschiera was seated beside his sister; and rising at frank's entrance, said, "my dear brother-in-law!" and placed frank's hand in beatrice's. "you accept me--you accept me--and of your own free will and choice?" and beatrice answered, "bear with me a little, and i will try to repay you with all my--all my--" she stopped short, and sobbed aloud. "i never thought her capable of such acute feeling, such strong attachment," whispered the count. frank heard, and his face was radiant. by degrees madame di negra recovered composure, and she listened with what her young lover deemed a tender interest, but what, in fact, was mournful and humbled resignation, to his joyous talk of the future. to him the hours passed by, brief and bright, like a flash of sunlight. and his dreams, when he retired to rest, were so golden! but when he awoke the next morning, he said to himself, "what--what will they say at the hall?" at that same hour, beatrice, burying her face on her pillow, turned from the loathsome day, and could have prayed for death. at that same hour, giulio franzini count di peschiera, dismissing some gaunt, haggard italians, with whom he had been in close conference, sallied forth to reconnoitre the house that contained violante. at that same hour, baron levy was seated before his desk, casting up a deadly array of figures, headed "account with the right hon. audley egerton, m.p., _dr._ and _cr._"--title-deeds strewed around him, and frank hazeldean's post-obit peeping out fresh from the elder parchments. at that same hour, audley egerton had just concluded a letter from the chairman of his committee in the city he represented, which letter informed him he had not a chance of being re-elected. and the lines of his face were as composed as usual, and his foot rested as firm on the grim iron box; but his hand was pressed to his heart, and his eye was on the clock; and his voice muttered--"dr. f---- should be here!" and at that hour harley l'estrange, who the previous night had charmed courtly crowds with his gay humor, was pacing to and fro the room in his hotel with restless strides and many a heavy sigh;--and leonard was standing by the fountain in his garden, and watching the wintry sunbeams that sparkled athwart the spray;--and violante was leaning on helen's shoulder, and trying archly, yet innocently, to lead helen to talk of leonard;--and helen was gazing steadfastly on the floor and answering but by monosyllables;--and randal leslie was walking down to his office for the last time, and reading, as he passed across the green park, a letter from _home_, from his sister; and then, suddenly crumpling the letter in his thin, pale hand, he looked up, beheld in the distance the spires of the great national abbey; and recalling the words of our hero nelson, he muttered--"victory _and_ westminster, but _not_ the abbey!" and randal leslie felt that, within the last few days, he had made a vast stride in his ambition;--his grasp on the old leslie lands--frank hazeldean betrothed, and possibly disinherited--and dick avenel, in the back-ground, opening, against the hated lansmere interest, that same seat in parliament which had first welcomed into public life randal's rained patron. "but some must laugh, and some must weep; thus runs the world away!" book xi.--initial chapter. it is not an uncommon crotchet among benevolent men to maintain that wickedness is necessarily a sort of insanity, and that nobody would make a violent start out of the straight path unless stung to such disorder by a bee in his bonnet. certainly, when some very clever, well-educated person, like our friend, randal leslie, acts upon the fallacious principle that "roguery is the best policy," it is curious to see how many points he has in common with the insane: what over-cunning--what irritable restlessness--what suspicious belief that the rest of the world are in a conspiracy against him, which it requires all his wit to baffle and turn to his own proper aggrandizement and profit. perhaps some of my readers may have thought that i have represented randal as unnaturally far-fetched in his schemes, too wire-drawn and subtle in his speculations; yet that is commonly the case with very refining intellects, when they choose to play the knave; it helps to disguise from themselves the ugliness of their ambition, just as the philosopher delights in the ingenuity of some metaphysical process, which ends in what plain men call "atheism," who would be infinitely shocked and offended if he were entitled an atheist. as i have somewhere said or implied before, it is difficult for us dull folks to conceive the glee which a wily brain takes in the exercise of its own ingenuity. having premised thus much on behalf of the "natural" in randal leslie's character, i must here fly off to say a word or two on the agency in human life exercised by a passion rarely seen without a mask in our debonair and civilized age--i mean hate. in the good old days of our forefathers, when plain speaking and hard blows were in fashion--when a man had his heart at the tip of his tongue, and four feet of sharp iron dangling at his side, hate played an honest, open part in the theatre of the world. in fact, when we read history, it seems to have "starred it" on the stage. but now, where is hate?--who ever sees its face? is it that smiling, good-tempered creature, that presses you by the hand so cordially? or that dignified figure of state that calls you its "right honorable friend?" is it that bowing, grateful dependent?--is it that soft-eyed amaryllis? ask not, guess not; you will only know it to be hate when the poison is in your cup, or the poniard in your breast. in the gothic age, grim humor painted "the dance of death;" in our polished century, some sardonic wit should give us "the masquerade of hate." certainly, the counter-passion betrays itself with ease to our gaze. love is rarely a hypocrite. but hate--how detect, how guard against it? it lurks where you least suspect it; it is created by causes that you can the least foresee; and civilization multiplies its varieties, while it favors its disguise: for civilization increases the number of contending interests, and refinement renders more susceptible to the least irritation the cuticle of self-love. but hate comes covertly forth from some self-interest we have crossed, or some self-love we have wounded; and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our offense! you may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life; you may be hated as often by one you have loaded with benefits; you may so walk as not to tread on a worm; but you must sit fast on your easy-chair till you are carried out to your bier, if you would be sure not to tread on some snake of a foe. but, then, what harm does the hate do us? very often the harm is as unseen by the world as the hate is unrecognized by us. it may come on us, unawares, in some solitary by-way of our life; strike us in our unsuspecting privacy; thwart us in some blessed hope we have never told to another: for the moment the world sees that it is hate that strikes us, its worst power of mischief is gone. we have a great many names for the same passion--envy, jealousy, spite, prejudice, rivalry; but they are so many synonyms for the one old heathen demon. when the death-giving shaft of apollo sent the plague to some unhappy achæan, it did not much matter to the victim whether the god were called helios or smintheus. no man you ever met in the world seemed more raised above the malice of hate than audley egerton: even in the hot war of politics he had scarcely a personal foe; and in private life he kept himself so aloof and apart from others that he was little known, save by the benefits the waste of his wealth conferred. that the hate of any one could reach the austere statesman on his high pinnacle of esteem,--you would dare smiled at the idea! but hate is now, as it ever has been, an actual power amidst "the varieties of life;" and, in spite of bars to the door, and policemen in the street, no one can be said to sleep in safety while there wakes the eye of a single foe. chapter ii. the glory of bond-street is no more. the title of bond-street lounger has faded from our lips. in vain the crowd of equipages and the blaze of shops: the renown of bond-street was in its pavement--its pedestrians. art thou old enough, o reader! to remember the bond-street lounger and his incomparable generation? for my part, i can just recall the decline of the grand era. it was on its wane when, in the ambition of boyhood, i first began to muse upon high neck-cloths and wellington boots. but the ancient _habitués_--the _magni nominis umbræ_--contemporaries of brummell in his zenith--boon companions of george iv. in his regency--still haunted the spot. from four to six in the hot month of june, they sauntered stately to and fro, looking somewhat mournful even then--foreboding the extinction of their race. the bond-street lounger was rarely seen alone: he was a social animal, and walked arm-in-arm with his fellow-man. he did not seem born for the cares of these ruder times; not made was he for an age in which finsbury returns members to parliament. he loved his small talk; and never since then has talk been so pleasingly small. your true bond-street lounger had a very dissipated look. his youth had been spent with heroes who loved their bottle. he himself had perhaps supped with sheridan. he was by nature a spendthrift: you saw it in the roll of his walk. men who make money rarely saunter; men who save money rarely swagger. but saunter and swagger both united to stamp prodigal on the bond-street lounger. and so familiar as he was with his own set, and so amusingly supercilious with the vulgar residue of mortals whose faces were strange to bond-street. but he is gone. the world, though sadder for his loss, still strives to do its best without him; and our young men, nowadays, attend to model cottages, and incline to tractarianism--i mean those young men who are quiet and harmless, as a bond-street lounger was of old--_redeunt saturnia regna_. still the place, to an unreflecting eye, has its brilliancy and bustle. but it is a thoroughfare, not a lounge. and adown the thoroughfare, somewhat before the hour when the throng is thickest, passed two gentlemen of an appearance exceedingly out of keeping with the place. yet both had the air of men pretending to aristocracy--an old-world air of respectability and stake in the country, and church-and-stateism. the burlier of the two was even rather a beau in his way. he had first learned to dress, indeed, when bond-street was at its acmé, and brummell in his pride. he still retained in his garb the fashion of his youth; only what then had spoken of the town, now betrayed the life of the country. his neckcloth ample and high, and of snowy whiteness, set off to comely advantage a face smooth-shaven, and of clear, florid hues; his coat of royal blue, with buttons in which you might have seen yourself _veluti in speculum_, was, rather jauntily, buttoned across a waist that spoke of lusty middle age, free from the ambition, the avarice, and the anxieties that fret londoners into thread-papers; his small-clothes of grayish drab, loose at the thigh and tight at the knee, were made by brummell's own breeches-maker, and the gaiters to match (thrust half-way down the calf) had a manly dandyism that would have done honor to the beau-ideal of a county member. the profession of this gentleman's companion was unmistakable--the shovel-hat, the clerical cut of the coat, the neckcloth without collar, that seemed made for its accessory--the band, and something very decorous, yet very mild, in the whole mien of this personage, all spoke of one who was every inch the gentleman and the parson. "no," said the portlier of these two persons--"no, i can't say i like frank's looks at all. there's certainly something on his mind. however, i suppose it will be all out this evening." "he dines with you at your hotel, squire? well, you must be kind to him. we can't put old heads upon young shoulders." "i don't object to his head being young," returned the squire; "but i wish he had a little of randal leslie's good sense in it. i see how it will end: i must take him back into the country; and if he wants occupation, why, he shall keep the hounds, and i'll put him into brooksby farm." "as for the hounds," replied the parson, "hounds necessitate horses; and i think more mischief comes to a young man of spirit, from the stables, than from any other place in the world. they ought to be exposed from the pulpit, those stables!" added mr. dale, thoughtfully; "see what they entailed upon nimrod! but agriculture is a healthful and noble pursuit, honored by sacred nations, and cherished by the greatest men in classical times. for instance, the athenians were--" "bother the athenians!" cried the squire, irreverently; "you need not go so far back for an example. it is enough for a hazeldean that his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather all farmed before him; and a devilish deal better, i take it, than any of those musty old athenians--no offense to them. but i'll tell you one thing, parson--a man, to farm well, and live in the country, should have a wife; it is half the battle." "as to a battle, a man who is married is pretty sure of half, though not always the better half, of it," answered the parson, who seemed peculiarly facetious that day. "ah, squire, i wish i could think mrs. hazeldean right in her conjecture!--you would have the prettiest daughter-in-law in the three kingdoms. and i think, if i could have a good talk with the young lady apart from her father, we could remove the only objection i know to the marriage. those popish errors--" "ah, very true!" cried the squire; "that pope sticks hard in my gizzard. i could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, i suppose, a shilling in her pocket--bless her handsome face!--but to be worshiping images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will never do. but you think you could talk her out of the pope, and into the family pew?" "why, i could have talked her father out of the pope, only, when he had not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. youth is more ingenuous in confessing its errors." "i own," said the squire, "that both harry and i had a favorite notion of ours, till this italian girl got into our heads. do you know we both took a great fancy to randal's little sister--pretty, blushing, english-faced girl as ever you saw. and it went to harry's good heart to see her so neglected by that silly, fidgety mother of hers, her hair hanging about her ears; and i thought it would be a fine way to bring randal and frank more together, and enable me to do something for randal himself--a good boy, with hazeldean blood in his veins. but violante is so handsome, that i don't wonder at the boy's choice; and then it is our fault--we let them see so much of each other, as children. however, i should be very angry if rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running away from the casino in order to give frank an opportunity to carry on a clandestine intercourse with his daughter." "i don't think that would be like riccabocca; more like him to run away in order to deprive frank of the best of all occasions to court violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at the casino?" squire.--"that's well put. considering he was only a foreign doctor, and, for aught we know, went about in a caravan, he is a gentlemanlike fellow, that rickeybockey. i speak of people as i find them. but what is your notion about frank? i see you don't think he is in love with violante, after all. out with it, man; speak plain." parson.--"since you so urge me, i own i do not think him in love with her; neither does my carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters." squire.--"your carry, indeed!--as if she were half as shrewd as my harry. carry--nonsense!" parson (reddening).--"i don't want to make invidious remarks; but, mr. hazeldean, when you sneer at my carry, i should not be a man if i did not say that--" squire (interrupting).--"she was a good little woman enough; but to compare her to my harry!" parson.--"i don't compare her to your harry; i don't compare her to any woman in england, sir. but you are losing your temper, mr. hazeldean!" squire.--"i!" parson.--"and people are staring at you, mr. hazeldean. for decency's sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. we are just at the albany. i hope that we shall not find poor captain higginbotham as ill as he represents himself in his letter. ah! is it possible? no, it can not be. look--look!" squire.--"where--what--where? don't pinch so hard. bless me, do you see a ghost?" parson.--"there--the gentleman in black!" squire.--"gentleman in black! what!--in broad daylight! nonsense!" here the parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on the pair, exclaimed-- "sir, pardon me; but is not your name fairfield? ah, it is leonard--it is--my dear, dear boy! what joy! so altered, so improved, but still the same honest face. squire, come here--your old friend, leonard fairfield." "and he wanted to persuade me," said the squire, shaking leonard heartily by the hand, "that you were the gentleman in black; but, indeed, he has been in strange humors and tantrums all the morning. well, master lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! the world thrives with you--eh! i suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee." "not that, sir," said leonard, smiling. "but the world has thriven with me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. ah, mr. dale, you can little guess how often i have thought of you and your discourse on knowledge; and, what is more, how i have lived to feel the truth of your words, and to bless the lesson." parson (much touched and flattered).--"i expected nothing less of you, leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound judgment. so you have thought of my little discourse on knowledge, have you?" squire.--"hang knowledge! i have reason to hate the word. it burned down three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on, mr. fairfield." parson.--"that was not knowledge, squire, that was ignorance." squire.--"ignorance! the deuce it was. i'll just appeal to you, mr. fairfield. we have been having sad riots in the shire, and the ring-leader was just such another lad as you were!" leonard.--"i am very much obliged to you, mr. hazeldean. in what respect?" squire.--"why, he was a village genius, and always reading some cursed little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with king, lords, and commons, i suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of the poor, and the crimes of the rich, till, by jove, sir, the whole mob rose one day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went farmer smart's thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire. we caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded laborers were let off with a short imprisonment. the village genius, thank heaven, is sent packing to botany bay." leonard.--"but did his books teach him to burn ricks, and smash machines?" parson.--"no; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he had no hand in those misdoings." squire.--"but he was proved to have excited, with his wild talk, the boobies who had! 'gad, sir, there was a hypocritical quaker once, who said to his enemy, 'i can't shed thy blood, friend, but i will hold thy head under water till thou art drowned.' and so there is a set of demagogical fellows, who keep calling out, 'farmer this is an oppressor, and squire that is a vampire! but no violence! don't smash their machines, don't burn their ricks! moral force, and a curse on all tyrants!' well, and if poor hodge thinks moral force is all my eye, and that the recommendation is to be read backward, in the devil's way of reading the lord's prayer, i should like to know which of the two ought to go to botany bay--hodge who comes out like a man, if he thinks he is wronged, or t'other sneaking chap, who makes use of his knowledge to keep himself out of the scrape?" parson.--"it may be very true; but when i saw that poor fellow at the bar, with his intelligent face, and heard his bold, clear defense, and thought of all his hard struggles for knowledge, and how they had ended, because he forgot that knowledge is like fire, and must not be thrown among flax--why, i could have given my right hand to save him. and, oh, squire, do you remember his poor mother's shriek of despair when he was sentenced to transportation for life--i hear it now! and what, leonard--what do you think had mislead him? at the bottom of all the mischief was a tinker's bag. you can not forget sprott?" leonard.--"tinker's bag!--sprott!" squire.--"that rascal, sir, was the hardest fellow to nab you could possibly conceive; as full of quips and quirks as an old bailey lawyer. but we managed to bring it home to him. lord! his bag was choke-full of tracts against every man who had a good coat on his back; and as if that was not enough, cheek by jowl with the tracts were lucifers, contrived on a new principle, for teaching my ricks the theory of spontaneous combustion. the laborers bought the lucifers--" parson.--"and the poor village genius bought the tracts." squire.--"all headed with a motto--'to teach the working-classes that knowledge is power.' so that i was right in saying that knowledge had burnt my ricks; knowledge inflamed the village genius, the village genius inflamed fellows more ignorant than himself, and they inflamed my stack-yard. however, lucifers, tracts, village genius, and sprott, are all off to botany bay; and the shire has gone on much the better for it. so no more of your knowledge for me, begging your pardon, mr. fairfield. such uncommonly fine ricks as mine were, too! i declare, parson, you are looking as if you felt pity for sprott; and i saw you, indeed, whispering to him as he was taken out of court." parson (looking sheepish).--"indeed, squire, i was only asking him what had become of his donkey--an unoffending creature." squire.--"unoffending! upset me amidst a thistle-bed in my own village green. i remember it. well, what did he say _had_ become of the donkey?" parson.--"he said but one word; but that showed all the vindictiveness of his disposition. he said it with a horrid wink, that made my blood run cold. 'what's become of your poor donkey?' said i, and he answered--" squire.--"go on. he answered--" parson.--"'sausages.'" squire.--"sausages! like enough; and sold to the poor; and that's what the poor will come to if they listen to such revolutionizing villains. sausages! donkey sausages!--(spitting)--'tis as bad as eating one another; perfect cannibalism." leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of sprott and the village genius, now pressing the parson's hand, asked permission to wait on him before mr. dale quitted london; and was about to withdraw, when the parson, gently detaining him, said, "no; don't leave me yet, leonard--i have so much to ask you, and to talk about. i shall be at leisure shortly. we are just now going to call on a relation of the squire's, whom you must recollect, i am sure--captain higginbotham--barnabas higginbotham. he is very poorly." "and i am sure he would take it kind in you to call, too," said the squire, with great good-nature. leonard.--"nay, sir, would not that be a great liberty?" squire.--"liberty! to ask a poor sick gentleman how he is? nonsense. and i say, sir, perhaps, as no doubt you have been living in town, and know more of new-fangled notions than i do--perhaps you can tell us whether or not it is all humbug, that new way of doctoring people?" "what new way, sir? there are so many." "are there? folks in london _do_ look uncommonly sickly. but my poor cousin (he was never a solomon) has got hold, he says, of a homely--homely--what's the word, parson?" parson.--"homoeopathist." squire.--"that's it. you see the captain went to live with one sharpe currie, a relation who had a great deal of money, and very little liver;--made the one, and left much of the other in ingee, you understand. the captain had _expectations_ of the money. very natural, i dare say; but, lord, sir! what do you think has happened? sharpe currie has done him! would not die, sir; got back his liver, and the captain has lost his own. strangest thing you ever heard. and then the ungrateful old nabob has dismissed the captain, saying, 'he can't bear to have invalids about him;' and is going to marry, and i have no doubt will have children by the dozen!" parson.--"it was in germany, at one of the spas, that mr. currie recovered; and as he had the selfish inhumanity to make the captain go through a course of waters simultaneously with himself, it has so chanced that the same waters that cured mr. currie's liver have destroyed captain higginbotham's. an english homoeopathic physician, then staying at the spa, has attended the captain hither, and declares that he will restore him by infinitesimal doses of the same chemical properties that were found in the waters which diseased him. can there be any thing in such a theory?" leonard.--"i once knew a very able, though eccentric homoeopathist, and i am inclined to believe there may be something in the system. my friend went to germany: it may possibly be the same person who attends the captain. may i ask his name?" squire.--"cousin barnabas does not mention it. you may ask it of himself, for here we are at his chambers. i say, parson (whispering slily), if a small dose of what hurt the captain is to cure him, don't you think the proper thing would be a--legacy? ha! ha!" parson (trying to laugh).--"hush, squire. poor human nature! we must be merciful to its infirmities. come in, leonard." leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon dr. morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed the woman--who "did for the captain and his rooms"--across the small lobby, into the presence of the sufferer. chapter iii. whatever the disposition toward merriment at his cousin's expense entertained by the squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the captain's doleful visage and emaciated figure. "very good in you to come to town to see me--very good in you, cousin; and in you too, mr. dale. how very well you are both looking. i'm a sad wreck. you might count every bone in my body." "hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy," said the squire kindly. "you were a great goose to leave them, and these comfortable rooms of yours in the albany." "they _are_ comfortable, though not showy," said the captain, with tears in his eyes. "i had done my best to make them so. new carpets--this very chair--(morocco!)--that japan cat (holds toast and muffins)--just when--(the tears here broke forth, and the captain fairly whimpered)--just when that ungrateful, bad-hearted man wrote me word 'he was--was dying and lone in the world;' and--and--to think what i've gone through for him!--and to treat me so. cousin william, he has grown as hale as yourself, and--and--" "cheer up, cheer up!" cried the compassionate squire. "it is a very hard case, i allow. but you see, as the old proverb says, ''tis ill waiting for a dead man's shoes;' and in future--i don't mean offense--but i think if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it would be all the better for your own. excuse me." "cousin william," replied the poor captain, "i am sure i never calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man's good-for-nothing face--as yellow as a guinea--and have gone through all i've gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart as i do. i can't bear ingratitude. i never could. but let it pass. will that gentleman take a chair?" parson.--"mr. fairfield has kindly called with us, because he knows something of this system of homoeopathy which you have adopted, and may, perhaps, know the practitioner. what is the name of your doctor?" captain (looking at his watch).--"that reminds me, (swallowing a globule.) a great relief these little pills--after the physic i've taken to please that malignant man. he always tried his doctor's stuff upon me. but there's another world, and a juster!" with that pious conclusion, the captain again began to weep. "touched," muttered the squire, with his forefinger on his forehead. "you seem to have a good tidy sort of nurse here, cousin barnabas. i hope she's pleasant, and lively, and don't let you take on so." "hist! don't talk of her. all mercenary; every bit of her fawning. would you believe it? i give her ten shillings a week, besides all that goes down of my pats of butter and rolls, and i overheard the jade saying to the laundress that 'i could not last long; and she'd--expectations!' ah, mr. dale, when one thinks of the sinfulness there is in this life! but i'll not think of it. no--i'll not. let us change the subject you were asking my doctor's name? it is--" here the woman 'with expectations' threw open the door, and suddenly announced--"dr. morgan." chapter iv. the parson started, and so did leonard. the homoeopathist did not at first notice either. with an unobservant bow to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, "how go the symptoms?" therewith the captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy reciting the catalogue of the ships in homer. he had been evidently conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. nor was there a single nook or corner in his anatomical organization, so far as the captain was acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. the squire listened with horror to the morbific inventory--muttering at each dread interval, "bless me! lord bless me! what, more still! death would be a very happy release!" meanwhile the doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting down in the leaves of his pocket-book what appeared to him the salient points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then, drawing forth a minute paper, said-- "capital--nothing can be better. this must be dissolved in eight table-spoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours." "table-spoonful?" "table-spoonful." 'nothing can be better,' did you say, sir?" repeated the squire, who, in his astonishment at that assertion applied to the captain's description of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire--"'nothing can be better?'" "for the diagnosis, sir!" replied dr. morgan. "for the dogs' noses, very possibly," quoth the squire; "but for the inside of cousin higginbotham, i should think nothing could be worse." "you are mistaken, sir," replied dr. morgan. "it is not the captain who speaks here--it is his liver. liver, sir, though a noble, is an imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. seat of poetry, and love and jealousy--the liver. never believe what it says. you have no idea what a liar it is! but--ahem--ahem. cott--i think i've seen you before, sir. surely your name's hazeldean?" "william hazeldean, at your service, doctor. but where have you seen me?" "on the hustings at lansmere. you were speaking on behalf of your distinguished brother, mr. egerton." "hang it!" cried the squire: "i think it must have been my liver that spoke there! for i promised the electors that that half-brother of mine would stick by the land; and i never told a bigger lie in my life!" here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was going to be bored with the enumeration of the squire's wrongs, and probably the whole history of his duel with captain dashmore, turned, with a languid wave of his hand, and said, "doctor, another friend of mine, the rev. mr. dale--and a gentleman who is acquainted with homoeopathy." "dale? what, more old friends!" cried the doctor, rising; and the parson came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired. the parson and the homoeopathist shook hands. "we have met before on a very mournful occasion," said the doctor, with feeling. "the parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced toward leonard. the doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognize in the person before him the gaunt, care-worn boy whom he had placed with mr. prickett, until leonard smiled and spoke. and the smile and the voice sufficed. "cott--and it _is_ the poy! cried dr. morgan; and he actually caught hold of leonard, and gave him an affectionate welsh hug. indeed, his agitation at these several surprises, became so great that he stopped short, drew forth a globule--"aconite--good against nervous shocks!"--and swallowed it incontinently. "gad," said the squire, rather astonished, "'tis the first doctor i ever saw swallow his own medicine! there must be something in it." the captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, "and as to diet? what shall i have for dinner?" "a friend!" said the doctor, wiping his eyes. "zounds!" cried the squire, retreating, "do you mean to say, sir, that the british laws (to be sure, they are very much changed of late) allow you to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? why, parson, this is worse than the donkey sausages." "sir," said dr. morgan, gravely, "i mean to say, that it matters little what we eat, in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. it is better to exceed a little with a friend, than to observe the strictest regimen, and eat alone. talk and laughter help the digestion, and are indispensable in affections of the liver. i have no doubt, sir, that it was my patient's agreeable society that tended to restore to health his dyspeptic relative, mr. sharpe currie." the captain groaned aloud. "and, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with mr. higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine." the captain turned an imploring eye, first toward his cousin, then toward the parson. "i'm engaged to dine with my son--very sorry," said the squire. "but dale, here--" "if he will be so kind," put in the captain, "we might cheer the evening with a game at whist--double dummy." now, poor mr. dale had set his heart on dining with an old college friend, and having, no stupid, prosy double dummy, in which one can not have the pleasure of scolding one's partner, but a regular orthodox rubber, with the pleasing prospect of scolding all the three other performer's. but as his quiet life forbade him to be a hero in great things, the parson had made up his mind to be a hero in small ones. therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he accepted the captain's invitation, and promised to return at six o'clock to dine. meanwhile, he must hurry off to the other end of the town, and excuse himself from the pre-engagement he had already formed. he now gave his card, with the address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to leonard, and not looking quite so charmed with dr. morgan as he was before that unwelcome prescription, he took his leave. the squire, too, having to see a new churn, and execute various commissions for his harry, went his way (not, however, till dr. morgan had assured him that, in a few weeks, the captain might safely remove to hazeldean); and leonard was about to follow, when morgan hooked his arm in his old _protégé's_, and said, "but i must have some talk with you; and you have to tell me all about the little orphan girl." leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about helen; and he got into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homoeopathist. "i am going into the country a few miles to see a patient," said the doctor; "so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. i have so often wondered what had become of you. not hearing from prickett, i wrote to him, and received an answer, as dry as a bone, from his heir. poor fellow! i found that he had neglected his globules, and quitted the globe. alas, _pulvis et umbra sumus!_ i could learn no tidings of you. prickett's successor declared he knew nothing about you. i hoped the best; for i always fancied you were one who would fall on your legs--bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in their undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of _chamomilla_ whenever they are over-excited. so now for your history and the little girl's--pretty little thing--never saw a more susceptible constitution, nor one more suited--to pulsatilla." leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the good doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor captain digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified the confidence. dr. morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of lord l'estrange. "i remember him very well," said he, "when i practiced murder as an allopathist at lansmere. but to think that wild boy, so full of whim, and life, and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities. well, wonders never cease. and he has befriended you, too, you say. ah, he knew your family." "so he says. do you think, sir, that he ever knew--ever saw--my mother?" "eh! your mother?--nora?" exclaimed the doctor quickly; and, as if struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and musing a few moments; then, observing leonard's eyes fixed on him earnestly, he replied to the question: "no doubt he saw her; she was brought up at lady lansmere's. did he not tell you so?" "no." a vague suspicion here darted through leonard's mind, but as suddenly vanished. his father! impossible. his father must have deliberately wronged the dead mother. and was harley l'estrange a man capable of such wrong? and had he been harley's son, would not harley have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him? besides, lord l'estrange looked so young;--old enough to be leonard's father!--he could not entertain the idea. he roused himself, and said falteringly-- "you told me you did not know by what name i should call my father." "and i told you the truth, to the best of my belief." "by your honor, sir?" "by my honor, i do not know it." there was now a long silence. the carriage had long left london, and was on a high-road somewhat lonelier and more free from houses than most of those which form the entrances to the huge city. leonard gazed wistfully from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to appeal to his memory. yes! it was the road by which he had first approached the metropolis, hand-in-hand with helen--and hope so busy at his poet's heart. he sighed deeply. he thought he would willingly have resigned all he had won--independence, fame, all--to feel again the clasp of that tender hand--again to be the sole protector of that gentle life. the doctor's voice broke on his reverie. "i am going to see a very interesting patient--coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir--man of great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. i can't do him much good, and he does me a great deal of harm." "how harm?" asked leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder. "hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water--very pathetic case--grand creature, who has thrown himself away. found him given over by the allopathists, and in a high state of _delirium tremens_--restored him for a time--took a great liking to him--could not help it--swallowed a great many globules to harden myself against him--would not do--brought him over to england with the other patients, who all pay me well (except captain higginbotham). but this poor fellow pays me nothing--costs me a great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. thank heaven i'm a single man, and can afford it! my poy, i would let all the other patients go to the allopathists if i could but save this poor, big, penniless, princely fellow. but what can one do with a stomach that has not a rag of its coat left? stop--(the doctor pulled the check-string). this is the stile. i get out here and go across the fields." that stile--those fields--with what distinctness leonard remembered them. ah, where was helen? could she ever, ever again be his child-angel?" "i will go with you, if you permit," said he to the good doctor. "and while you pay your visit, i will saunter by a little brook that i think must run by your way." "the brent--you know that brook? ah, you should hear my poor patient talk of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it--you would not know whether to laugh or cry. the first day he was brought down to the place, he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old deluding demon--a one-eyed perch." "heavens!" exclaimed leonard, "are you speaking of john burley?" "to be sure, that is his name--john burley." "oh, has it come to this? cure him, save him, if it be in human power. for the last two years i have sought his trace every where, and in vain, the moment i had money of my own--a home of my own. poor, erring, glorious burley. take me to him. did you say there was no hope?" "i did not say that," replied the doctor. "but art can only assist nature; and, though nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled, and so do i. you must tell me another time how you came to know burley, for here we are at the house, and i see him at the window looking out for me." the doctor opened the garden-gate to the quiet cottage to which poor burley had fled from the pure presence of leonard's child-angel. and with heavy step, and heavy heart, leonard mournfully followed, to behold the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and "set the table in a roar."--alas, poor yorick! chapter v. audley egerton stands on his hearth alone. during the short interval that has elapsed since we last saw him, events had occurred memorable in english history, wherewith we have naught to do in a narrative studiously avoiding all party politics even when treating of politicians. the new ministers had stated the general programme of their policy, and introduced one measure in especial that had lifted them at once to the dizzy height of popular power. but it became clear that this measure could not be carried without a fresh appeal to the people. a dissolution of parliament, as audley's sagacious experience had foreseen, was inevitable. and audley egerton had no chance of return for his own seat--for the great commercial city identified with his name. oh sad, but not rare instance of the mutabilities of that same popular favor now enjoyed by his successors! the great commoner, the weighty speaker, the expert man of business, the statesman who had seemed a type of the practical steady sense for which our middle class is renowned--he who, not three years since, might have had his honored choice of the largest popular constituencies in the kingdom--he, audley egerton, knew not one single town (free from the influences of private property or interest) in which the obscurest candidate, who bawled out for the new popular measure, would not have beaten him hollow. where one popular hustings, on which that great sonorous voice that had stilled so often the roar of faction, would not be drowned amid the hoots of the scornful mob? true, what were called the close boroughs still existed--true, many a chief of his party would have been too proud of the honor of claiming audley egerton for his nominee. but the ex-minister's haughty soul shrunk from this contrast to his past position. and to fight against the popular measure, as member of one of the seats most denounced by the people--he felt it was a post in the grand army of parties below his dignity to occupy, and foreign to his peculiar mind, which required the sense of consequence and station. and if, in a few months, these seats were swept away--were annihilated from the rolls of parliament--where was he? moreover, egerton, emancipated from the trammels that had bound his will while his party was in office, desired, in the turn of events, to be nominee of no other man--desired to stand at least freely and singly on the ground of his own services, be guided by his own penetration; no law for action, but his strong sense and his stout english heart. therefore he had declined all offers from those who could still bestow seats in parliament. those he could purchase with hard gold were yet open to him. and the £ he had borrowed from levy were yet untouched. to this lone public man, public life, as we have seen, was the all in all. but now more than ever it was vital to his very wants. around him yawned ruin. he knew that it was in levy's power at any moment to foreclose on his mortgaged lands--to pour in the bonds and the bills which lay within those rosewood receptacles that lined the fatal lair of the sleek usurer--to seize on the very house in which now moved all the pomp of a retinue that vied with the _valetaille_ of dukes--to advertise for public auction, under execution, "the costly effects of the right hon. audley egerton." but, consummate in his knowledge of the world, egerton felt assured that levy would not adopt these measures against him while he could still tower in the van of political war--while he could still see before him the full chance of restoration to power, perhaps to power still higher than before--perhaps to power the highest of all beneath the throne. that levy, whose hate he divined, though he did not conjecture all its causes, had hitherto delayed even a visit, even a menace, seemed to him to show that levy still thought him one "to be helped," or, at least, one too powerful to crush. to secure his position in parliament unshackled, unfallen, if but for another year--new combinations of party might arise, new reactions take place in public opinion! and, with his hand pressed to his heart, the stern, firm man muttered: "if not, i ask but to die in my harness, and that men may not know that i am a pauper, until all that i need from my country is a grave." scarce had these words died upon his lips ere two quick knocks in succession resounded at the street-door. in another moment harley entered, and, at the same time, the servant in attendance approached audley, and announced baron levy. "beg the baron to wait, unless he would prefer to name his own hour to call again," answered egerton, with the slightest possible change of color. "you can say i am now with lord l'estrange." "i had hoped you had done forever with that deluder of youth," said harley, as soon as the groom of the chambers had withdrawn. "i remember that you saw too much of him in the gay time, ere wild oats are sown; but now surely you can never need a loan; and if so, is not harley l'estrange by your side?" egerton.--"my dear harley! doubtless he but comes to talk to me of some borough. he has much to do with those delicate negotiations." harley.--"and i have come on the same business. i claim the priority. i not only hear in the world, but i see by the papers, that josiah jenkins, esq., known to fame as an orator who leaves out his h's, and young lord willoughby whiggolin, who is just now made a lord of the admiralty, because his health is too delicate for the army, are certain to come in for the city which you and your present colleague will as certainly vacate. that is true, is it not?" egerton.--"my old committee now vote for jenkins and whiggolin. and i suppose there will not be even a contest. go on." "so my father and i are agreed that you must condescend, for the sake of old friendship, to be once more member for lansmere!" "harley," exclaimed egerton, changing countenance far more than he had done at the announcement of levy's portentous visit--"harley--no, no!" "no! but why? wherefore such emotion?" asked l'estrange in surprise. audley was silent. harley.--"i suggested the idea to two or three of the late ministers; they all concur in advising you to accede. in the first place, if declining to stand for the place which tempted you from lansmere, what more natural than that you should fall back on that earlier representation? in the second place, lansmere is neither a rotten borough, to be bought, nor a close borough, under one man's nomination. it is a tolerably large constituency. my father, it is true, has considerable interest in it but only what is called the legitimate influence of property. at all events, it is more secure than a contest for a larger town, more dignified than a seat for a smaller. hesitating still? even my mother entreats me to say how she desires you to renew that connection." "harley," again exclaimed egerton; and, fixing upon his friend's earnest face, eyes which, when softened by emotion, were strangely beautiful in their expression: "harley, if you could but read my heart at this moment, you would--you would--" his voice faltered, and he fairly bent his proud head upon harley's shoulder; grasping the hand he had caught, nervously, clingingly: "oh, harley, if i ever lose your love, your friendship!--nothing else is left to me in the world." "audley, my dear, dear audley, is it you who speak to me thus? you, my school friend, my life's confidant--you?" "i am grown very weak and foolish," said egerton, trying to smile. "i do not know myself. i, too, whom you have so often called 'stoic,' and likened to the iron man in the poem, which you used to read by the river-side at eton." "but even then, my audley, i knew that a warm human heart (do what you would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. and i often marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder passions. happier so!" egerton, who had turned his face from his friend's gaze, remained silent for a few moments, and he then sought to divert the conversation, and roused himself to ask harley how he had succeeded in his views upon beatrice, and his watch on the count. "with regard to peschiera," answered harley, "i think we must have overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an idle boast. he has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. his sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during the last few days. i almost fear that, in spite of very sage warnings of mine, she must have turned his poet's head, and that either he has met with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration, or that he himself has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much embarrassed when i speak to him respecting her. but if the count is not formidable, why, his sister is not needed: and i hope yet to get justice for my italian friend through the ordinary channels. i have secured an ally in a young austrian prince, who is now in london, and who has promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial i shall transmit to vienna. _apropos_, my dear audley, now that you have a little breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young poet, the son of _her_ sister. at moments the expression of his face is so like hers." "ay, ay," answered egerton, quickly, "i will see him as you wish, but later. i have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. i rejoice to think so." "and your own _protégé_, this randal leslie, whom you forbid me to dislike--hard task!--what has he decided?" "to adhere to my fate. harley, if it please heaven that i do not live to return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not forget that he clung to me in my fall." "if he still cling to you faithfully, i will never forget it. i will forget only all that now makes me doubt him. but you talk of not living, audley! pooh!--your frame is that of a pre-destined octogenarian." "nay," answered audley, "i was but uttering one of those vague generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. and now farewell--i must see this baron." "not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be once more member for lansmere. tut! don't shake your head. i can not be denied. i claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it." "well, well, i know not how to refuse you, harley; but you have not been to lansmere yourself since--since that sad event. you must not revive the old wound--_you_ must not go; and--i own it, harley; the remembrance of it pains even me. i would rather not go to lansmere." "ah! my friend; this is an excess of sympathy, and i can not listen to it. i begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past." "you do appear to me of late to have changed," cried egerton, suddenly, and with a brightening aspect. "do tell me that you are happy in the contemplation of your new ties--that i shall live to see you once more restored to your former self." "all i can answer, audley," said l'estrange, with a thoughtful brow, "is, that you are right in one thing--i am changed; and i am struggling to gain strength for duty and for honor. adieu! i shall tell my father that you accede to our wishes." chapter vi. when harley was gone, egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed and jaded. "to go back to that place--there--there--where--courage, courage--what is another pang?" he rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast, paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. gradually his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure--the secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty collected front. the man of the world was himself once more. "now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer," murmured egerton, with that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. he rang the bell: the servant entered. "is baron levy still waiting?" "yes, sir." "admit him." levy entered. "i beg your pardon, levy," said the ex-minister, "for having so long detained you. i am now at your commands." "my dear fellow," returned the baron, "no apologies between friends so old as we are; and i fear that my business is not so agreeable as to make you impatient to discuss it." egerton (with perfect composure).--"i am to conclude, then, that you wish to bring our accounts to a close. whenever you will, levy." the baron (disconcerted and surprised).--"_peste! mon cher_, you take things coolly. but if our accounts are closed, i fear you will have but little to live upon." egerton.--"i can continue to live on the salary of a cabinet minister." baron.--"possibly; but you are no longer a cabinet minister." egerton.--"you have never found me deceived in a political prediction. within twelve months (should life be spared to me) i shall be in office again. if the same to you, i would rather wait till then, formally and amicably to resign to you my lands and this house. if you grant that reprieve, our connection can thus close, without the _éclat_ and noise, which may be invidious to you, as it would be disagreeable to me. but if that delay be inconvenient, i will appoint a lawyer to examine your accounts, and adjust my liabilities." the baron (soliloquizing).--"i don't like this. a lawyer! that may be awkward." egerton (observing the baron, with a curl of his lip).--"well, levy, how shall it be?" the baron.--"you know, my dear fellow, it is not my character to be hard on any one, least of all upon an old friend. and if you really think there is a chance of your return to office, which you apprehend that an _esclandre_ as to your affairs at present might damage, why, let us see if we can conciliate matters. but, first, _mon cher_, in order to become a minister, you must at least have a seat in parliament; and, pardon me the question, how the deuce are you to find one?" egerton.--"it is found." the baron.--"ah, i forgot the £ you last borrowed." egerton.--"no; i reserve that sum for another purpose." the baron (with a forced laugh).--"perhaps to defend yourself against the actions you apprehend from me?" egerton.--"you are mistaken. but to soothe your suspicions, i will tell you plainly, that finding any sum i might have insured on my life would be liable to debts pre-incurred, and (as you will be my sole creditor) might thus at my death pass back to you; and doubting whether, indeed, any office would accept my insurance, i appropriate that sum to the relief of my conscience. i intend to bestow it, while yet in life, upon my late wife's kinsman, randal leslie. and it is solely the wish to do what i consider an act of justice, that has prevailed with me to accept a favor from the hands of harley l'estrange, and to become again the member for lansmere." the baron.--"ha!--lansmere! you will stand for lansmere?" egerton (wincing).--"i propose to do so?" the baron.--"i believe you will be opposed, subjected to even a sharp contest. perhaps you may lose your election." egerton.--"if so, i resign myself, and you can foreclose on my estates." the baron (his brow coloring).--"look you, egerton, i shall be too happy to do you a favor." egerton (with stateliness).--"favor! no, baron levy, i ask from you no favor. dismiss all thought of rendering me one. it is but a consideration of business on both sides. if you think it better that we shall at once settle our accounts, my lawyer shall investigate them. if you agree to the delay i request, my lawyer shall give you no trouble; and all that i have, except hope and character, pass to your hands without a struggle." the baron.--"inflexible and ungracious, favor or not--put it as you will--i accede, provided first, that you allow me to draw up a fresh deed, which will accomplish your part of the compact; and secondly, that we saddle the proposed delay with the condition that you do not lose your election." egerton.--"agreed. have you any thing further to say?" the baron.--"nothing, except that, if you require more money, i am still at your service." egerton.--"i thank you. no; i owe no man aught except yourself. i shall take the occasion of my retirement from office to reduce my establishment. i have calculated already, and provided for the expenditure i need, up to the date i have specified, and i shall have no occasion to touch the £ that i still retain." "your young friend, mr. leslie, ought to be very grateful to you," said the baron, rising. "i have met him in the world--a lad of much promise and talent. you should try and get him also into parliament." egerton (thoughtfully).--"you are a good judge of the practical abilities and merits of men, as regards worldly success. do you really think randal leslie calculated for public life--for a parliamentary career?" the baron.--"indeed i do." egerton (speaking more to himself than levy).--"parliament without fortune--'tis a sharp trial; still he is prudent, abstemious, energetic, persevering; and at the onset, under my auspices and advice, he might establish a position beyond his years." the baron.--"it strikes me that we might possibly get him into the next parliament; or, as that is not likely to last long, at all events into the parliament to follow--not for one of the boroughs which will be swept away, but for a permanent seat, and without expense." egerton.--"ay--and how?" the baron.--"give me a few days to consider. an idea has occurred to me. i will call again if i find it practicable. good day to you, egerton, and success to your election for lansmere." chapter vii. peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to harley and the reader. on the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which belonged to his nature. his object was to compel riccabocca into assenting to the count's marriage with violante, or, failing that, to ruin all chance of his kinsman's restoration. quietly and secretly he had sought out, among the most needy and unprincipled of his own countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to riccabocca's participation in plots and conspiracies against the austrian dominions. these his former connection with the carbonari enabled him to track in their refuge in london; and his knowledge of the characters he had to deal with fitted him well for the villainous task he undertook. he had, therefore, already collected witnesses sufficient for his purposes, making up in number for their defects in quality. meanwhile, he had (as harley had suspected he would) set spies upon randal's movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to him violante's retreat, he had, at least, got scent of her father's. the discovery that violante was under a roof so honored, and seemingly so safe as lord lansmere's, did not discourage this bold and desperate adventurer. we have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at knightsbridge. he had examined it well, and discovered the quarter which he judged favorable to a _coup-de-main_, should that become necessary. lord lansmere's house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter's lodge. at the rear there lay fields crossed by a lane or by-road. to these fields a small door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to and from their work, gave communication. this door was usually kept locked; but the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. so far there was no obstacle which peschiera's experience in conspiracy and gallantry did not disdain as trivial. but the count was not disposed to abrupt and violent means in the first instance. he had a confidence in his personal gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which made him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview; and on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. randal's description of violante's personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her character, and the motives most likely to influence her actions, as that young lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the count required of present aid from his accomplice. meanwhile we return to violante herself. we see her now seated in the gardens at knightsbridge, side by side with helen. the place was retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house. violante.--"but why will you not tell me more of that early time? you are less communicative even than leonard." helen (looking down, and hesitatingly).--"indeed there is nothing to tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are so changed now." the tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a sigh. violante (with enthusiasm)--"how i envy you that past which you treat so lightly! to have been something, even in childhood, to the formation of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the load of a man's grand labor. and now to see genius moving calm in its clear career; and to say inly, 'of that genius i am a part!'" helen (sadly and humbly).--"a part! oh, no! a part? i don't understand you." violante.--"take the child beatrice from dante's life, and should we have a dante? what is a poet's genius but the voice of its emotions? all things in life and in nature influence genius; but what influences it the most, are its sorrows and affections." helen looks softly into violante's eloquent face, and draws nearer to her in tender silence. violante (suddenly).--"yes, helen, yes--i know by my own heart how to read yours. such memories are ineffaceable. few guess what strange self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest childhood!" she sunk her voice into a whisper: "how could leonard fail to be dear to you--dear as you to him--dearer than all others?" helen (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).--"hush, hush! you must not speak to me thus; it is wicked--i can not bear it. i would not have it be so--it must not be--it can not!" she clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her face, and the face was very sad, but very calm. violante (twining her arm round helen's waist).--"how have i wounded you?--how offended? forgive me--but why is this wicked? why must it not be? is it because he is below you in birth?" helen.--no, no--i never thought of that. and what am i? don't ask me--i can not answer. you are wrong, quite wrong, as to me. i can only look on leonard as--as a brother. but--but, you can speak to him more freely than i can. i would not have him waste his heart on me, nor yet think me unkind and distant, as i seem. i know not what i say. but--but--break to him--indirectly--gently--that duty in both forbids us both to--to be more than friends-than--" "helen, helen!" cried violante, in her warm, generous passion, "your heart betrays you in every word you say. you weep; lean on me, whisper to me; why--why is this? do you fear that your guardian would not consent? he not consent! he who--" helen.--"cease--cease--cease." violante.--"what! you can fear harley--lord l'estrange? fie; you do not know him." helen (rising suddenly).--"violante, hold; i am engaged to another." violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. she caught helen's hand firmly, and said, in a hollow voice-- "another! engaged to another! one word, helen--not to him--not to--harley--to--" "i can not say--i must not. i have promised," cried poor helen, and as violante let fall her hand, she hurried away. violante sat down, mechanically. she felt as if stunned by a mortal blow. she closed her eyes and breathed hard. a deadly faintness seized her; and when it passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer the same being, nor the world around her the same world--as if she were but one sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were but one inanimate void. so strangely immaterial are we really--we human beings, with flesh and blood--that if you suddenly abstract from us but a single, impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you seem to curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that connects us to matter, and to benumb every thing into death, except woe. and this warm, young, southern nature, but a moment before was so full of joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. it never till now had known its own intensity and depth. the virgin had never lifted the veil from her own soul of woman. what, till then, had harley l'estrange been to violante? an ideal--a dream of some imagined excellence--a type of poetry in the midst of the common world. it had not been harley the man--it had been harley the phantom. she had never said to herself, "he is identified with my love, my hopes, my home, my future." how could she? of such, he himself had never spoken; an internal voice, indeed, had vaguely yet irresistibly whispered to her that, despite his light words, his feelings toward her were grave and deep. o false voice! how it had deceived her. her quick convictions seized the all that helen had left unsaid. and now suddenly she felt what it is to love, and what it is to despair. so she sat, crushed and solitary, neither murmuring nor weeping, only now and then passing her hand across her brow, as if to clear away some cloud that would not be dispersed; or heaving a deep sigh, as if to throw off some load that no time henceforth could remove. there are certain moments in life in which we say to ourselves, "all is over; no matter what else changes, that which i have made my all is gone evermore--evermore." and our own thought rings back in our ears, "evermore--evermore!" chapter viii. as violante thus sat, a stranger, passing stealthily through the trees, stood between herself and the evening sun. she saw him not. he paused a moment, and then spoke low, in her native tongue, addressing her by the name which she had borne in italy. he spoke as a relation, and excused his intrusion: "for," said he, "i come to suggest to the daughter the means by which she can restore to her father his country and his honors." at the word "father" violante roused herself, and all her love for that father rushed back upon her with double force. it does so ever--we love most our parents at the moment when some tie less holy is abruptly broken; and when the conscience says, "_there_, at least, is a love that never has deceived thee!" she saw before her a man of mild aspect and princely form. peschiera (for it was he) had banished from his dress, as from his countenance, all that betrayed the worldly levity of his character. he was acting a part, and he dressed and looked it. "my father!" she said quickly, and in italian. "what of him? and who are you, signior? i know you not." peschiera smiled benignly, and replied in a tone in which great respect was softened by a kind of parental tenderness. "suffer me to explain, and listen to me while i speak." then quietly seating himself on the bench beside her, he looked into her eyes, and resumed. "doubtless you have heard of the count di peschiera?" violante.--"i heard that name, as a child, when in italy. and when she with whom i then dwelt (my father's aunt), fell ill and died, i was told that my home in italy was gone, that it had passed to the count di peschiera--my father's foe." peschiera.--"and your father, since then, has taught you to hate this fancied foe?" violante.--"nay; my father did but forbid me ever to breathe his name." peschiera.--"alas! what years of suffering and exile might have been saved your father, had he but been more just to his early friend and kinsman; nay, had he but less cruelly concealed the secret of his retreat. fair child, i am that giulio franzini, that count di peschiera. i am the man you have been told to regard as your father's foe. i am the man on whom the austrian emperor bestowed his lands. and now judge if i am in truth the foe. i have come hither to seek your father, in order to dispossess myself of my sovereign's gift. i have come but with one desire, to restore alphonso to his native land, and to surrender the heritage that was forced upon me." violante.--"my father, my dear father! his grand heart will have room once more. oh! this is noble enmity, true revenge. i understand it, signior, and so will my father, for such would have been his revenge on you. you have seen him?" peschiera.--"no, not yet. i would not see him till i had seen yourself; for you, in truth, are the arbiter of his destinies, as of mine." violante.--"i--count? i--arbiter of my father's destinies? is it possible?" peschiera (with a look of compassionate admiration, and in a tone yet more emphatically parental)--"how lovely is that innocent joy; but do not indulge it yet. perhaps it is a sacrifice which is asked from you--a sacrifice too hard to bear. do not interrupt me. listen still, and you will see why i could not speak to your father until i had obtained an interview with yourself. see why a word from you may continue still to banish me from his presence. you know, doubtless, that your father was one of the chiefs of a party that sought to free northern italy from the austrians. i myself was at the onset a warm participator in that scheme. in a sudden moment i discovered that some of its more active projectors had coupled with a patriotic enterprise schemes of a dark nature--and that the conspiracy itself was about to be betrayed to the government. i wished to consult with your father; but he was at a distance. i learned that his life was condemned. not an hour was to be lost. i took a bold resolve, that has exposed me to his suspicious, and to my country's wrath. but my main idea was to save him, my early friend, from death, and my country from fruitless massacre. i withdrew from the intended revolt. i sought at once the head of the austrian government in italy, and made terms for the lives of alphonso, and of the other more illustrious chiefs, which otherwise would have been forfeited. i obtained permission to undertake myself the charge of securing my kinsman in order to place him in safety, and to conduct him to a foreign land, in an exile that would cease when the danger was dispelled. but unhappily he deemed that i only sought to destroy him. he fled from my friendly pursuit. the soldiers with me were attacked by an intermeddling englishman; your father escaped from italy--concealing his retreat; and the character of his flight counteracted my efforts to obtain his pardon. the government conferred on me half his revenues, holding the other at its pleasure. i accepted the offer to save his whole heritage from confiscation. that i did not convey to him, what i pined to do--viz., the information that i held but in trust what was bestowed by the government, and the full explanation of what seemed blamable in my conduct--was necessarily owing to the secrecy he maintained. i could not discover his refuge; but i never ceased to plead for his recall. this year only i have partially succeeded. he can be restored to his heritage and rank, on one proviso--a guarantee for his loyalty. that guarantee the government has named: it is the alliance of his only child with one whom the government can trust. it was the interest of all italian nobility, that the representation of a house so great falling to a female, should not pass away wholly from the direct line; in a word, that you should ally yourself with a kinsman. but one kinsman, and he the next in blood, presented himself. brief--alphonso regains all that he lost on the day in which his daughter gives her hand to giulio franzini, count di peschiera. ah," continued the count, mournfully, "you shrink--you recoil. he thus submitted to your choice is indeed unworthy of you. you are scarce in the spring of life. he is in its waning autumn. youth loves youth. he does not aspire to your love. all that he can say is, love is not the only joy of the heart--it is joy to raise from ruin a beloved father--joy to restore to a land poor in all but memories, a chief in whom it reverences a line of heroes. these are the joys i offer to you--you, a daughter, and an italian maid. still silent! oh speak to me!" certainly this count peschiera knew well how woman is to be wooed and won; and never was woman more sensitive to those high appeals which most move all true earnest womanhood, than was the young violante. fortune favored him in the moment chosen. harley was wrenched away from her hopes, and love a word erased from her language. in the void of the world, her father's image alone stood clear and visible. and she who from infancy had so pined to serve that father, who had first learned to dream of harley as that father's friend! she could restore to him all for which the exile sighed; and by a sacrifice of self! self-sacrifice, ever in itself such a temptation to the noble! still, in the midst of the confusion and disturbance of her mind, the idea of marriage with another seemed so terrible and revolting, that she could not at once conceive it; and still that instinct of openness and honor, which pervaded all her character, warned even her inexperience that there was something wrong in this clandestine appeal to herself. again the count besought her to speak; and with an effort she said, irresolutely-- "if it be as you say, it is not for me to answer you; it is for my father." "nay," replied peschiera. "pardon if i contradict you. do you know so little of your father as to suppose that he will suffer his interest to dictate to his pride. he would refuse, perhaps, even to receive my visit--to hear my explanations; but certainly he would refuse to buy back his inheritance by the sacrifice of his daughter to one whom he has deemed his foe, and whom the mere disparity of years would incline the world to say he had made the barter of his personal ambition. but if i could go to him sanctioned by you--if i could say, your daughter overlooks what the father might deem an obstacle--she has consented to accept my hand of her own free choice--she unites her happiness, and blends her prayers, with mine--then, indeed, i could not fail of success: and italy would pardon my errors, and bless your name. ah! signorina, do not think of me save as an instrument toward the fulfillment of duties so high and sacred--think but of your ancestors, your father, your native land, and reject not the proud occasion to prove how you revere them all!" violante's heart was touched at the right chord. her head rose--her color came back to her pale cheek--she turned the glorious beauty of her countenance toward the wily tempter. she was about to answer, and to seal her fate, when at that instant harley's voice was heard at a little distance, and nero came bounding toward her, and thrust himself, with rough familiarity, between herself and peschiera. the count drew back, and violante, whose eyes were still fixed on his face, started at the change that passed there. one quick gleam of rage sufficed in an instant to light up the sinister secrets of his nature--it was the face of the baffled gladiator. he had time but for few words. "i must not be seen here," he muttered; "but to-morrow--in these gardens--about this hour. i implore you, for the sake of your father--his hopes, fortunes, his very life, to guard the secret of this interview--to meet me again. adieu!" he vanished amidst the trees, and was gone--noiselessly, mysteriously, as he had come. chapter ix. the last words of peschiera were still ringing in violante's ears when harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. at that voice there returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable anguish. to meet harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. she turned abruptly away, and hurried toward the house. harley called to her by name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. he paused a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her. "under what strange taboo am i placed?" said he gayly, as he laid his hand on her shrinking arm. "i inquire for helen--she is ill, and can not see me. i come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods and men had set their mark on my brow. child!--child!--what is this? you are weeping?" "do not stay me now--do not speak to me," answered violante through her stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made toward the house. "have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father's roof? a grief that you will not tell to me? cruel!" cried harley, with inexpressible tenderness of reproach in his soft tones. violante could not trust herself to reply. ashamed of her self-betrayal--softened yet more by his pleading voice--she could have prayed to the earth to swallow her. at length, checking back her tears by a heroic effort, she said, almost calmly, "noble friend, forgive me. i have no grief, believe me, which--which i can tell to you. i was but thinking of my poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him, it may be, with vain superstitious fears; and so--even a slight surprise--your abrupt appearance, has sufficed to make me thus weak and foolish; but i wish to see my father!--to go home--home!" "your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. no danger threatens him; and you, _here_, are safe." "i safe--and from what?" harley mused irresolute. he inclined to confide to her the danger which her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her father's will? "give me," he said, "time to reflect, and to obtain permission to intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know. meanwhile, this much i may say, that rather than you should incur the danger that i believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a protector--even, in randal leslie." violante started. "but," resumed harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness was apparent, unconsciously to himself--"but i trust you are reserved for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. i have vowed to live henceforth in the common workday world. but for you, bright child, for you, i am a dreamer still!" violante turned her eyes for one instant toward the melancholy speaker. the look thrilled to his heart. he bowed his face involuntarily. when he looked up, she had left his side. he did not this time attempt to follow her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees. an hour afterward he re-entered the house, and again sought to see helen. she had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he requested. he approached her with a grave and serious gentleness, "my dear helen," said he, "you have consented to be my wife, my life's mild companion; let it be soon--soon--for i need you. i need all the strength of that holy tie. helen, let me press you to fix the time." "i owe you too much," answered helen, looking down, "to have a will but yours. but your mother," she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of some reprieve--"your mother has not yet--" "my mother--true. i will speak first to her. you shall receive from my family all honor due to your gentle virtues. helen, by the way, have you mentioned to violante the bond between us?" "no--that is, i fear i may have unguardedly betrayed it, against lady lansmere's commands too--but--but--" "so, lady lansmere forbade you to name it to violante. this should not be. i will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. it is due to violante and to you. tell your young friend all. ah, helen, if i am at times cold or wayward, bear with me--bear with me; for you love me, do you not?" chapter x. that same evening randal heard from levy (at whose house he staid late) of that self-introduction to violante which (thanks to his skeleton-key) peschiera had contrived to effect; and the count seemed more than sanguine--he seemed assured as to the full and speedy success of his matrimonial enterprise. "therefore," said levy, "i trust i may very soon congratulate you on the acquisition of your family estates." "strange!" answered randal, "strange that my fortunes seem so bound up with the fate of a foreigner like beatrice di negra and her connection with frank hazeldean." he looked up at the clock as he spoke, and added-- "frank, by this time, has told his father of his engagement." "and you feel sure that the squire can not be coaxed into consent?" "no; but i feel sure that the squire will be so choleric at the first intelligence, that frank will not have the self-control necessary for coaxing; and, perhaps, before the squire can relent upon this point, he may, by some accident, learn his grievances on another, which would exasperate him still more." "ay, i understand--the _post obit_?" randal nodded. "and what then?" asked levy. "the next of kin to the lands of hazeldean may have his day." the baron smiled. "you have good prospects in that direction, leslie: look now to another. i spoke to you of the borough of lansmere. your patron, audley egerton, intends to stand for it." randal's heart had of late been so set upon other and more avaricious schemes, that a seat in parliament had sunk into a secondary object; nevertheless, his ambitious and all-grasping nature felt a bitter pang, when he heard that egerton thus interposed between himself and any chance of advancement. "so!" he muttered sullenly--"so. this man, who pretends to be my benefactor, squanders away the wealth of my forefathers--throws me penniless on the world; and, while still encouraging me to exertion and public life, robs me himself of--" "no!" interrupted levy--"not robs you; we may prevent that. the lansmere interest is not so strong in the borough as dick avenel's." "but i can not stand against egerton." "assuredly not--you may stand with him." "how." "dick avenel will never suffer egerton to come in; and though he can not, perhaps, carry two of his own politics, he can split his votes upon you." randal's eyes flashed. he saw at a glance, that if avenel did not overrate the relative strength of parties, his seat could be secured. "but," he said, "egerton has not spoken to me on such a subject; nor can you expect that he would propose to me to stand with him, if he foresaw the chance of being ousted by the very candidate he himself introduced." "neither he nor his party will anticipate that possibility. if he ask you, agree to stand--leave the rest to me." "you must hate egerton bitterly," said randal; "for i am not vain enough to think that you thus scheme but from pure love to me." "the motives of men are intricate and complicated," answered levy, with unusual seriousness. "it suffices to the wise to profit by the actions, and leave the motives in shade." there was silence for some minutes. then the two drew closer toward each other, and began to discuss details in their joint designs. (to be continued.) [illustration] ocean life. by john s. c. abbott sat. eve, march , . atlantic ocean. at precisely seven minutes after o'clock to-day, the steamer arctic left new york for liverpool. our whole ship's company, passengers and crew, amounted to one hundred and eighty. the day was clear and cold. a strong north wind swept from the snow-clad hills over the rough bay. icicles were pendent from the paddle-wheels, and the spray was freezing upon the decks. as the majestic steamship left the wharf, the crowd assembled there gave three cheers, and two guns were fired from on board. with the engines in active play, and our sails pressed by the fresh breeze, we passed rapidly down the narrows. no one can thus leave his home, to traverse weary leagues of land and sea, without emotion. images of the loved, who may never be seen again, will rush upon the mind. and even if the most resolute retire for a moment to their state-rooms, throw themselves upon the sofa, bury their faces in the pillow, and, with a moistened eye, plead with god for a blessing upon those who are left behind, it is not to be condemned as a weakness. i soon returned to the deck. it was swept by a bleak wintry wind. there was not a single individual on board the ship whom i had ever seen before. taking a stand in the shelter of the enormous smoke-pipe, so vast that twenty men could with perfect convenience cluster under its lee, we watched the receding shores. at half past three o'clock the gong summoned us to a sumptuous dinner. again returning to the deck we watched the dim outline of the land until it disappeared beneath the horizon of the sea. at seven o'clock we were again summoned to the tea-table. returning to the deck, we found dark and gloomy night brooding over the ocean. the wind, though piercingly cold, was fresh and fair. the stars shone brilliantly through black masses of clouds. our ship rose and fell as it plowed its way over the majestic billows of the atlantic. retiring to the dining-saloon, which is brilliantly illuminated with carcel lamps, i commenced this journal. and now "rocked in the cradle of the deep, i lay me down in peace to sleep." sabbath eve, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles made at noon . we have had truly a magnificent sabbath day. the sky has been cloudless, the wind fresh and favorable. at o'clock each day the captain takes an observation to decide our latitude and longitude, and the number of miles the ship has made during the last twenty-four hours. the sea is rough, and it is more comfortable, or, rather, less uncomfortable to be upon deck than in the saloons. sheltered in some degree by the smoke-pipe, round which the wind is ever circling, i have passed the weary hours of the monotonous day, looking out upon the solitary ocean and the silent sky; both impressive emblems of eternity and infinity. toward night the wind changed into the east, and blew more freshly. clouds gathered. angry waves, black and foaming, swept madly by. the solitude of stormy night upon the ocean! what pen can describe! and yet who can be insensible to the luxury of that solitude--to its melancholy sublimity! as i now write, our ship plunges and rolls in the heavy sea, and a death-like nausea comes over me. monday night, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles made . the malady of the sea drove me rather suddenly last night from my pen to the deck. but in an hour the clouds and the gust passed away. the stars came out in all their brilliance. the wind, however, has steadily increased, and it has been quite rough all day. many are very sick, and nearly all are in a state of decided discomfort. there is an indescribable charm which the ocean has in its wide expanse, and in its solitude, and the imagination loves to revel in its wild scenes, but it is, even in its best estate, an uncomfortable place for the body to inhabit. our most poetic descriptions of ocean life have been written in the enjoyment of warm and comfortable firesides on the land. cushioned upon the parlor sofa, the idea is delightful, upon the ocean wives to be "borne like a bubble onward." but there is altogether too much prose in the reality. it is indeed "distance which lends enchantment to the view." never did there float upon the ocean a more magnificent palace than that which now bears us. our ship is two hundred and eighty-five feet in length, that is, nearly as long as four ordinary country churches. from the keel to the deck it is as high as a common five story house. its width from the extremities of the paddle wheels is seventy-two feet, which is equal to length of most churches. the promenade deck, as we now sail, is as high above the water as the ridge-pole of an ordinary two story house. the dining-saloon is a large, airy, beautiful room, sixty-two feet long and thirty feet wide, with windows opening upon the ocean as pleasantly as those of any parlor, and where two hundred guests can dine luxuriously. the parlor or saloon is embellished in the very highest style of modern art. the walls are constructed of the most highly polished satin-wood, and rosewood, and decorated with paintings of the coats of arms of the various states of the union. magnificent mirrors, stained glass, silver plate, costly carpets, marble centre tables and pier tables, luxurious sofas and arm-chairs, and a profusion of rich gilding give an air of almost oriental magnificence to a room one hundred feet in length and twenty-five feet in breadth. when this saloon is brilliantly lighted in the evening it is gorgeous in the extreme. the state-rooms are really _rooms_, provided with every comfort which can be desired. there are beds to accommodate two hundred passengers. some of these rooms have large double beds with french bedsteads and rich curtains. there are nine cooks on board, whose united wages amount to over four thousand dollars a year. there is the head cook, and the second cook, and the baker, and the pastry cook, and the vegetable cook, &c. we have our butcher, our store-keeper, our porter, our steward. the ship's crew consists of one hundred and thirty-five men. there are four boilers, each heated by eight furnaces, and unitedly they consume eighty tons of coal a day. the two engines are of one thousand horse-power, and the weight of these enormous machines is eight hundred tons. fifty-two men are constantly employed in their service. the ship carries about tons. from the waste steam gallons of pure soft water can be condensed each day. this wonderful floating palace, which is built as strongly as wood and iron can be put together, cost seven hundred thousand dollars. even the ancients, endeavoring, with the imagination to form a craft worthy of neptune, their god of the ocean, never conceived of a car so magnificent as this to be driven one thousand steeds in hand. the united states have never yet done any thing which has contributed so much to their honor in europe, as the construction of this collins line of steamers. we have made a step in advance of the whole world. nothing ever before floated equal to these ships. their speed is in accordance with their magnificence. no one thinks of questioning their superiority. every american abroad feels personally ennobled by them, and participates in his country's glory. there are four ships of this line, all of equal elegance--the arctic, baltic, pacific, and atlantic. it is not to be supposed that such ships should be immediately profitable to the owners. they were built for national glory. they do exalt and honor our nation. how much more glorious is such a triumph of humanity and art, than any celebrity attained by the horrors and the misery of war. the english government liberally patronizes the cunard line of steamers. this line now needs the patronage of the government of the united states. we had far better sink half a dozen of our ships of war, important as they may be, than allow these ships to be withdrawn. tuesday night, mar. , lat. °, long. ° '. miles made . we are now about miles south of nova scotia, yet in the "lee of the land," as one of our officers says. toward morning we shall reach the western edge of the great bank of newfoundland, which is about miles broad. the wind is ahead, and the sea rolls in heavy billows. our ship rises and plunges over these vast waves with much grandeur. it is majestically sickening, sublimely nauseating. the day is magnificent--clear, cloudless; and this fresh breeze upon the land would be highly invigorating. the ocean, in its solitude, spreads every where. we see no sails, no signs of life, except a few sea-fowl, skimming the cold and dreary waves. though not absolutely sick, i am in that state that i must remain upon the wind and spray swept deck. we are now about a thousand miles from new york. on the whole, the discomfort of the voyage, thus far, has been less than i had anticipated. march is a cold and blustering month. we breakfast at eight o'clock, have an abundant lunch at twelve, dine at half-past three very sumptuously, take tea at seven, and those who wish it have supper at ten. the sun has gone down, the twilight has faded away, and night--cold, black, and stormy--has settled upon us. the wind is in the east, directly ahead; and, as we drive through it, it sweeps the deck with hurricane fury. i have been sitting upon deck, behind the smoke-pipe, around which the wind would most maliciously circle, till i was pierced through and through with the cold. life upon the sea is indeed monotonous, as hour after hour, and day after day, lingers along, and you look out only upon the chill dreary expanse of wintry waves, and the silent or stormy sky. the sunset to-night was, however, magnificent in the extreme, and we made the most of it. as the sun sunk beneath the perfect horizon, it was expanded by the mist, and resembled one of the most magnificent domes of fire of which the imagination can conceive. we have the prospect of a stormy night. the saloon is brilliantly illumined, and ladies and gentlemen are reclining upon the sofas, some reading, but more pensively thinking of home and absent friends. the imagination in such hours will fondly run back to the fireside and the loved ones there. the voyager who has a home that is dear to him, pays a very high price for his enjoyments, he finds, in abandoning that home for the pleasures of the sea. wed. morn., mar. , lat. ° ', long. ° ' miles made . we have now been out four days, and are miles on our way. the sun rose this morning bright and glorious. a strong east wind sweeps the ocean. the enormous billows rush by, crested with foam. our ship struggles manfully against the opposing waves. the _log_ is thrown every two hours, to ascertain our speed. notwithstanding the head wind, we are advancing nine miles an hour. the breeze wails most doleful requiems through our rigging. we are now upon the banks of newfoundland. during the day our upper saloon has looked like an elegant parlor, spacious and luxurious. the sun has shone in brightly through the windows upon the carpet. still the ship pitches so violently that it is with no little difficulty that one staggers from place to place. during many hours of the day, i stood upon the deck, watching the black and raging sea. as the sun went down in clouds, and the darkness of a stormy night came on, it became necessary to _house_ the topmast. it was fearful to see the sailors clinging to the ropes as the ship rolled to and fro in these vast billows. suddenly there was a loud outcry, and terrific groans came from the topmast. a poor sailor had somehow got his arm caught, and it was being crushed amidst the ponderous spars, far up in the dark and stormy sky. o! how drearily those groans fell upon the ear. after some time he was extricated and helped down, and placed in the care of the surgeon. from this scene, so sad, so gloomy, i descended to the ladies' saloon. how great the transition! the gorgeous yet beautiful apartment was brilliant with light. its ceiling richly carved and gilded, its walls of the most precious and highly polished woods, its mirrors, its luxurious furnishings, presented as cheerful a scene as the heart could crave. taking a seat upon the sofa with one of the most accomplished and agreeable matrons i have ever met, i found the barometer of my spirits rapidly rising to the region of clear and fair. it was a happy hour. the dark sea, the storm, the night, all were forgotten, as in that beautiful saloon, in social converse, time flew on silken wings. it is now nearly eleven o'clock at night. i have just returned from the deck. it is sublimely gloomy there. we are pitching about so violently, that it is with the utmost difficulty that i write. occasionally my inkstand takes a rapid slide across the table, when it is caught by a ledge, which prevents it from falling. thursday night, mar . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles passed . a dull easterly wind is still rolling a heavy sea against us which much retards our progress. the day has been cold, cloudy, and wet. sheets of mist are sweeping over the sombre and solitary ocean. it has been so cold, even in the saloons, which are warmed by steam-pipes, that it has been necessary to sit with an overcoat on. it is estimated that we are now just about in the middle of the atlantic. it is miles from new york to liverpool, by the route which the steamers take. the difference in time between the two cities is hours minutes. the wind to-night is high, and the ocean rough. but in our beautiful parlor we have passed a pleasant evening. nearly all have now become so accustomed to the motion of the ship, as to be social and agreeable. we have jews and gentiles, catholics and protestants, on board, and all tongues are spoken. our fellow-passengers are very pleasant and gentlemanly. most of them appear to be clerks or younger partners in mercantile houses going out to make purchases. there is, however, an amazing fondness for champagne and tobacco. were byron here, he would, without doubt, correct his celebrated line, "man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and a tear," into, "man, thou pendulum betwixt the wine glass and the cigar." friday night, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles made . the wind still continues in the east, strong and cold. nothing has occurred all day to break the monotony of ocean life. we are so far north that we meet no ships, and nothing relieves the dreary expanse of the dark clouds above and the angry waves below. our ship plows her way majestically through these hostile billows. "the sea, the sea, the open sea, the wide, the wild, the ever free." "oh!" said a gentleman this morning, as he looked out sadly upon the gloomy spectacle, "that is a fine song to sing _upon the land_." as our ship incessantly rises and plunges over these heavy swells, we become excessively weary of the ceaseless motion, even though no nausea is excited. one is often reminded of madame de stäel's remark, that "traveling is the most painful of pleasures." still, by reading a little, writing a little, talking a little, and thinking much, time passes quite rapidly. there are moments of exhilaration. there are hours of contentment. there are many hours of submissive endurance. now and then there will come moments of sickness, and pain, and gloom, very nearly approaching to misery. it, is perhaps, not well to introduce the reader into these dark chambers of the soul. but, if unintroduced the untraveled can not know what life upon the ocean is. this evening we plunged quite suddenly into a dense fog-bank. no one can imagine a more desolate and dreary scene than the ocean now presents. the rain falls dripping upon the deck. the fog is so thick that you can see but a few feet before you. the stormy wind directly ahead, wails through our moaning shrouds. the sky is black and threatening. the angry waves with impotent fury dash against the sides of the ship. the gloom without is delightfully contrasted with the cheerful scene within. the saloon is brilliantly illuminated. groups of ladies and gentlemen are gathered upon the sofas, some reading, some talking, some playing various games. saturday night, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles passed . we are now miles from new york. we have been out just one week, and, for five days, we have had a strong head wind. to-day the wind has increased into a violent storm. the decks are swept with rain and spray. the ocean is white with foam. our ship, enormous as it is, is tossed, like a bubble, upon these raging billows. you start to cross the saloon; a wave lifts the stern of the ship some twenty feet into the air, and you find yourself pitching down a steep hill. you lean back as far as possible to preserve your balance, when suddenly another wave, with gigantic violence, thrusts up the bows of the ship, and you have a precipitous eminence before you. just as you are recovering from your astonishment, the ship takes a lurch, and, to your utter confusion, you find yourself floundering in a lady's lap, who happens to be reading upon a sofa on one side of the saloon. hardly have you commenced your apology ere another wave comes kindly to your rescue, and pitches you bodily out of the door. it is with the utmost difficulty that i write. i have, however, contrived to block up my inkstand with books, and, by clinging to the table, succeed in making these hieroglyphics, which i fear that the printer will hardly be able to read. many are very sick and very miserable. i am in a state of submissive endurance. the reader, however, may be fully assured, that there are many positions far more agreeable than to be on the middle of the atlantic ocean in a wet, easterly storm. our noble ship is so magnificently strong, that we have no more sense of danger than when upon the land. there is something in this nausea, which seems to paralyze all one's mental energies. never before have i found such an effort of _will_ requisite to make any mental exertions. there was a portion of the evening, however, notwithstanding all these discomforts, passed very pleasantly away. in the boudoir-like magnificence of the ladies' saloon, with our excellent captain, and a few intelligent and pleasant companions, gentlemen and ladies, we almost forgot, for an hour, the storm and the gloom without, and conversed with just as much joyousness as if we had been in the most luxurious parlor on the land. these saloons, brilliantly lighted with carcel lamps, look far more gorgeous and imposing by night than by day. it is now eleven o'clock at night. every other moment an enormous billow lifts us high into the air, and then we go down, down, down, exciting that peculiar sensation which i remember often to have had in my dreams, when a child. the scene from the deck is truly sublime. the howling of the tempest, the rush of the waves, the roar of the sea, the blackness of the night, the reflection that we are more than a thousand miles from any land, floating like a bubble upon the vast waves, all combine to invest this midnight hour upon the ocean with sublimity. the waves to-night will rock us to sleep, while the winds wail our mournful lullaby. sabbath night, mar. . lat. °, long. ° ' miles made . last night our easterly storm increased to a gale, and blew with hurricane fury. it was utterly impossible to sleep, we were all so rudely jostled in our berths. the motion of the ship was so great that we were in constant danger of being rolled from our beds upon the floor. every timber in the iron-bound ship creaked and groaned, and occasionally a sea would strike our bows, which would make the whole fabric shiver. it was, indeed, an exercise in gymnastics to perform one's toilet this morning. every thing which was not a fixture was rolling hither and thither. it was utterly impossible to stand for a single moment, without catching hold of something for support. the ship now keeling in one direction, now in another; at one time rising ten or fifteen feet into the air, and again as suddenly sinking; now, apparently stopping, as struck by a heavy sea, and again plunging forward with the most sullen and determined resolution, presented a series of movements which defied all calculations. early in the morning i clambered upon deck, and leaning against the mast, and clinging to the ropes, looked out upon the wild, wild scene. the roar of the gale through our shrouds was almost terrific. it seemed like the voice of an angry god. but five persons sat down at the breakfast-table at the usual hour. it was, indeed, a curiosity to see the waiters attempt to move about upon the unstable footing of our floor. one would take a cup of coffee, and, clinging to the side of the cabin, and carefully watching his opportunity, would dart toward a pillar, to which he would cling, until he was prepared to take another start. but with all his precautions, he would frequently be thrown upon one of the cushioned seats of the dining-room, and the liquid contents of his dishes would be any where. a gentleman would attempt to raise a cup of tea to his lips. alas! there is many a slip. a sudden lurch of the ship ejects the hot beverage into his bosom instead of his mouth. it is almost dangerous to attempt to move about, you are thrown to and fro with so much violence. every thing is made fast which can be secured. it is a wild scene of uproar and confusion, and i have no desire again to witness a storm at sea. nausea sadly detracts from all conceptions of the sublime. very many are sick. i am very far from feeling comfortable. as i look around me upon this tumultuous scene, listening to the uproar of the elements, i feel how utterly impossible it is for the pen to communicate to the distant reader any idea of this midnight ocean-storm. by clinging to the table, so as to become, as it were, a part of it, i succeed, with much difficulty, in writing. the wind seems still to be rising as we advance into the hours of the night, and the ship struggles and plunges more and more violently. we have had a dismal, dismal day. there is no comfort any where. one can neither walk, nor stand, nor sit, nor lie. i have spent many hours of the day wrapped in my cloak, shivering upon the bleak and storm-swept deck. and now i dread to return to my state-room, for there can be no sleep upon these angry billows. the head aches, the stomach remonstrates. as the night, black and stormy, settled down upon the cold, bleak, wet deck, i thought of home, of the pleasant songs of our sabbath evening, of those lines, written by a sainted one, and ever sung in the peaceful twilight of the lord's day: "'tis sabbath eve and all is still, hushed is the passing throng, oh, lord, our hearts with praises fill and tune our lips to song." i hummed the familiar tune, in the midst of the dirges of the ocean. and as memories of the past came rushing over me the subdued spirit vanquished the sternness of manhood. who can not sympathize with the childish emotions of the pilgrim of three score years and ten, as he loved to place his gray hairs upon his pillow, and to repeat the infant prayer his mother taught him: "now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep. if i should die before i wake, i pray the lord my soul to take." monday night, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles made . toward morning the wind abated and _backed_ round into the north, and with a clear sky and a fresh breeze, we bounded over the agitated ocean. about two o'clock, however, the wind returned again to the east, and dim masses of clouds were rolled up into the sky. the barometer rapidly fell, and we were threatened with another gale. the sea was rising, the rain beginning to fall, and the ship was rolling and pitching, each moment more heavily, in the waves. we plunged suddenly into a dense fog bank, and prepared for a dreary and stormy afternoon and night. but after two or three hours of cold, and wet and dismal sailing, we suddenly emerged from the fog bank, and came out into pleasant weather on the other side. the moon shone out resplendently. just as the evening twilight was fading away we descried, far off in the northern horizon, a large steamship, undoubtedly the africa, which left liverpool yesterday. two signal rockets were thrown up from our ship, but they were probably not seen, as we obtained no response. i was quite amused with a little incident which occurred this evening. a large party of gentlemen were clustered upon the deck, talking together. a ship was dimly discerned in the distance. a gentleman looked through the telescope at the faint speck in the horizon, and very confidently said, "it is an english ship." "how can you tell?" another inquired "because," he replied, "she has so little sail set. an american captain would have every sheet spread in such a wind as this." some doubt was expressed whether one could thus accurately judge. "ask the captain," said he, "whether that is an english or an american ship." the captain was at some distance from us, and had not heard our conversation. he had, however, silently examined the ship with his glass. "captain," one called out, "what ship is that?" "it is an english ship," he quietly replied. "how can you tell?" was immediately asked. "because," he answered, "she has so little sail spread. no yankee would be creeping along at that pace in this breeze." it was afterward stated that the english captains are paid only while their ships are at sea, and that the payment is quite small. they are therefore rather under the inducement to make long voyages. the americans, on the contrary, are paid while the ship is in port, and they drive their voyages with the utmost speed. whether there be any foundation for this opinion, i know not. the incident however was quite interesting. tuesday night, mar. . lat. ° '. long. ° '. miles made . the captain informed us that we were miles from cape clear at noon to-day, and that we might expect to see the coast of ireland about six o'clock. the day has been magnificently beautiful. we have seen many ships in the horizon, indicating that we were leaving the solitudes of the ocean behind us. immediately after dinner all the passengers assembled upon deck to catch the first glimpse of land. at just a quarter before six o'clock we saw the highlands of the irish coast looming through the haze before us. no one who has not crossed the ocean can conceive of the joyous excitement of the scene. all the discomfort of ocean life was forgotten in the exhilaration of the hour. as twilight faded away, the outline of the shore became more visible under the rays of a most brilliant moon. soon the light from cape clear beamed brilliantly before us. it is now half-past ten o'clock at night, and the night is clear, serene, and gorgeously beautiful. the dim outline of the irish coast looks dark and solitary. upon those gloomy headlands, and in those sombre valleys what scenes of joy and woe have transpired during centuries which have lingered away. we are rapidly sailing up the channel, having still some two hundred and fifty miles to make, before we land in liverpool. but our ocean life is ended. we have crossed the atlantic. at seven o'clock to-morrow evening we expect to leave the ship. wednesday night, march . waterloo house, liverpool, o'clock. this last day, much to my surprise, has been one of the most cheerless and disagreeable days of our whole voyage. a chilling east wind has swept the cold and foggy ocean. the decks were wet and slippery. drops of water were falling upon us from the drenched shrouds. nothing could be seen but the dense mist around us, and the foamy track of our majestic steamer. it was a great annoyance to think that, were the sky clear, we might be almost enchanted by the view of the green hills and the cottages of england. for a few moments, about noon, we caught a glimpse, through the sheet of mist sweeping the ocean, of the coast of wales, but in a few moments the vail was again drawn over it, and wailing winds and rain and gloom again enveloped us. at about six o'clock in the evening we discerned, through the fog the steeples and the docks of liverpool. the whole aspect of the scene was too dingy, wet, and sombre for either beauty or sublimity. we were long delayed in our attempts to get into the dock, and finally had to relinquish our endeavor for the night, and to cast anchor in the middle of the river. about half-past seven o'clock a small steamer came on board bringing several custom-house officers. all our trunks were placed in the dining-saloon in a row, and the officers employed three tedious hours in searching our trunks for contraband goods. faithfully they did their duty. every thing was examined. many of our passengers were much annoyed and complained bitterly. i saw however, no disposition whatever, on the part of the custom-house, to cause any needless trouble. so far as i could judge they performed an unpleasant duty faithfully, and with as much courtesy as the nature of the case would allow. there is a very heavy duty imposed upon tobacco and cigars. there is a strong disposition to smuggle both of these articles into the kingdom. if it is understood that writing desks are not to be unlocked, and that packages are not to be opened, and that the mere word of any stranger is to be taken, the law at once sinks into contempt. the long delay was tedious, very tedious; but the fault was ours. had every man honestly, so arranged his trunk, as to show at once what was _dutyable_, the work might have been accomplished in one-third of the time. at eleven o'clock by a long step-ladder, we descended the sides of the ship to a little steamer, and were landed in the darkness of the fog upon the wet docks. taking hacks, nearly all of our passengers soon found themselves in more comfortable quarters at the waterloo hotel. it is now midnight. most of my companions are mirthfully assembled around the supper table. if songs and laughter constitute enjoyment, they are happy. i, in enjoyment more congenial with my feelings, am alone in my comfortable little chamber, in an english inn, penning these last lines of our ocean life. but i can not close without a tribute of respect and gratitude to our most worthy commander, capt. luce. by his social qualities, and his untiring vigilance, he won the esteem of all in the ship. our shipmates were friendly and courteous, and though of sundry nations, and creeds, and tongues, dwelt together in singular harmony. reader, forgive me for the apparent egotism of this journal. i have wished to give the thousands in our country who have never traversed the ocean, an idea of ocean life. i could not do so, but by giving free utterance to the emotions which the varied scenes excited in my own heart. i have only to add, that if you ever wish to cross the atlantic, you will find in the arctic one of the noblest of ships, and in capt. luce one of the best of commanders. drooping buds. by charles dickens. in paris, berlin, turin, frankfort, brussels, and munich; in hamburgh, st. petersburg, moscow, vienna, prague, pesth, copenhagen, stuttgart, grätz, brünn, lemberg, and constantinople, there are hospitals for sick children. there was not one in all england until the other day. no hospital for sick children! does the public know what is implied in this? those little graves two or three feet long, which are so plentiful in our church-yards and our cemeteries--to which, from home, in absence from the pleasures of society, the thoughts of many a young mother sadly wander--does the public know that we dig too many of them? of this great city of london--which, until a few weeks ago, contained no hospital wherein to treat and study the diseases of children--more than a third of the whole population perishes in infancy and childhood. twenty-four in a hundred die during the two first years of life; and, during the next eight years, eleven die out of the remaining seventy-six. our children perish out of our homes: not because there is in them an inherent dangerous sickness (except in the few cases where they are born of parents who communicate to children heritable maladies), but because there is, in respect of their tender lives, a want of sanitary discipline and a want of medical knowledge. what should we say of a rose-tree in which one bud out of every three dropped to the soil dead? we should not say that this was natural to roses; neither is it natural to men and women that they should see the glaze of death upon so many of the bright eyes that come to laugh and love among them--or that they should kiss so many little lips grown cold and still. the vice is external. we fail to prevent disease; and, in the case of children, to a much more lamentable extent than is well known, we fail to cure it. think of it again. of all the coffins that are made in london, more than one in every three is made for a little child: a child that has not yet two figures to its age. although science has advanced, although vaccination has been discovered and brought into general use, although medical knowledge is tenfold greater than it was fifty years ago, we still do not gain more than a diminution of two per cent in the terrible mortality among our children. it does not at all follow that the intelligent physician who has learnt how to treat successfully the illnesses of adults, has only to modify his plans a little, to diminish the proportions of his doses, for the application of his knowledge to our little sons and daughters. some of their diseases are peculiar to themselves; other diseases, common to us all, take a form in children varying as much from their familiar form with us as a child varies from a man. different as the ways are, or ought to be, by which we reach a fault in a child's mind, and reach a fault in the mind of an adult; so, not less different, if we would act successfully, should be our action upon ailments of the flesh. there is another thing, also, which puzzles the physician who attends on children. he comes to us when we are ill, and questions us of this symptom, and of that; and on our answers he is taught, in very many cases, to base a large part of his opinion. the infant can only wail; the child is silenced by disease; or, when it answers, wants experience, and answers incorrectly. again, for life or death, all the changes in the sickness of a child are commonly very rapid: so rapid, that a child which suffers under an acute disease should be seen at least every five or six hours by its medical attendant. he knows this quickness of action; he knows how swiftly and how readily the balance may be turned upon which hang life and death. he may have been to paris or to vienna, and have studied in an hospital for children; and, out of his experience, he may know how to restore the child whole to the mother's bosom. but all english students can not go abroad for this good knowledge; nor is it fit that they have need to do so. they have need at present. in a rough way, english practitioners of medicine no doubt administer relief to many children; but, that they are compelled to see those perishing continually whom a better knowledge might have saved, none are more ready than themselves--the more skillful the more ready--to admit and to deplore. the means of studying the diseases of children in london have been confined to one dispensary, and the general hospitals. in these, the hours, the management, and discipline are not readily adapted to the wants of children. it was found, when a committee of the statistical society, in , inquired into such matters, that only one in a hundred of the inmates of hospital wards was a child suffering from internal disease. can we wonder, then--when we call to mind the peculiar characteristics of disease in a child, and the sagacity and close observation they demand--can we wonder that the most assiduous students, growing into medical advisers, can in so many cases, do no more than sympathize with the distress of parents, look at a sick child's tongue, feel its pulse, send powders, and shake their heads with vain regret over the little corpse, around which women weep so bitterly? the want of a child's hospital in london is supplied. the hospital for sick children, lately established and now open, is situated in great ormond-street, queen-square. london, like a fine old oak, that has lived through some centuries, has its dead bits in the midst of foliage. when we had provided ourselves with the address of the child's hospital, and found it to be no. great ormond-street, queen-square, we were impressed with a sense of its being very far out of the way. great ormond-street belonged to our great-grandfathers; it was a bit of london full of sap a great number of years ago. it is cut off, now, from the life of the town--in london, but not of it--a suburb left between the new road and high holborn. we turned out of the rattle of holborn into king-street, and went up southampton-row through a short passage which led us into a square, dozing over its own departed greatness. solitude in a crowd is acknowledged by the poets to be extremely oppressive, and we felt so much scared in queen-square at finding ourselves all alone there, that we had not enough presence of mind to observe more than space and houses, and (if our vague impression be correct) a pump. moreover, there were spectral streets, down which the eye was drawn. great ormond-street was written on a corner house in one of them. it was the enchanter's label by which we were bidden forward; so we went into great ormond-street--wondering who lived in its large houses, some of them mansions--and looking hazily for no. . that was a mansion too broad, stuccoed front, quite fresh and white, bearing the inscription on its surface, "hospital for sick children." a woman with a child in her arms was finding ready admission at the great hall-door. the neat and new appearance of the hospital walls from the outside, restored our thoughts to our own day; and we presently resolved, and carried, that the committee had shown great judgment in their selection of a situation--quiet (very quiet), airy, and central. at the hall-door there was a porter, so new to his new work that the name of a surgeon to the institution was a strange sound in his ears. crossing a spacious hall, we were ushered into a fine old ancestral parlor, which is now the board-room of the institution; and there, before a massive antique chimney-piece, we found a young house-surgeon. many stiff bows and formal introductions had those old walls seen, when great ormond-street was grand, and when frills and farthingales lent state to the great mansion. many a minuet had been solemnly danced there; many hearts and fans had fluttered, many buckram flirtations had had their little hour; many births, marriages, and deaths had passed away, in due and undue course, out of the great hall-door into the family vaults--as old-fashioned now as the family mansion. many little faces, radiant in the wintry blaze, had looked up in the twilight, wondering at the great old monument of a chimney-piece, and at the winking shadows peeping down from its recesses. many, far too many pretty house-fairies had vanished from before it, and left blank spaces on the hearth, to be filled up nevermore. o! baby's dead, and will be never, never, never seen among us any more! we fell into a waking dream, and the spring air seemed to breathe the words. the young house-surgeon melted out of the quaint, quiet room; in his place, a group of little children gathered about a weeping lady; and the lamentation was familiar to the ancient echoes of the house. then, there appeared to us a host of little figures, and cried, "we are baby. we were baby here, each of us in its generation, and were welcomed with joy, and hope, and thankfulness; but no love, and no hope, though they were very strong, could keep us, and we went our early way!"--"and we," said another throng of shades, "were that little child who lived to walk and talk, and to be the favorite, and to influence the whole of this great house, and make it very pleasant, until the infection that could not be stopped, was brought here from those poor houses not far off, and struck us one day while we were at play, and quenched the light of our bright eyes, and changed our prattle into moaning, and killed us in our promise!"--"and i," said another shadow, "am that girl who, having been a sick child once, grew to be a woman, and to love and to be blessed with love, and then--oh, at that hardest time! began to fade, and glided from the arms of my young husband, never to be mine on earth!"--"and i," said another shadow, "am the lame mis-shapen boy who read so much by this fireside, and suffered so much pain so patiently, and might have been as active and as straight as you, if any one had understood my malady; but i said to my fond father, carrying me in his arms to the bed from which i never rose: 'i think, oh dear papa, that it is better i should never be a man, for who could then carry me like this, or who could be so careful of me when you were gone!'" then all the shadows said together: "we belonged to this house, but others like us have belonged to every house, and many such will come here now to be relieved, and we will put it in the hearts of mothers and fathers to remember them. come up, and see!" we followed, up the spacious stairs into a large and lofty room, airy and gay. it had been the drawing-room of the old house. a reviving touch had passed over its decorations; and the richly-ornamented ceiling, to which little eyes looked up from little beds, was quite a cheerful sight. the walls were painted, in panel, with rosy nymphs and children; and the light laughter of children welcomed our entrance. there was nothing sad here. light iron cribs, with the beds made in them, were ranged, instead of chairs, against the walls. there were half-a-dozen children--all the patients then contained in the new hospital; but, here and there, a bed was occupied by a sick doll. a large gay ball was rolling on the floor, and toys abounded. from this cheerful place we looked into a second room--the other drawing-room, furnished in a like manner, but as yet unoccupied. there were five girls and a boy. five were in bed near the windows; two of these, whose beds were the most distant from each other, confined by painful maladies, were resting on their arms, and busily exporting and importing fun. a third shared the profits merrily, and occasionally speculated in a venture on its own account. the most delightful music in this world, the light laughter of children floated freely through the place. the hospital had begun with one child. what did _he_ think about, or laugh about? maybe those shadows who had had their infant home in the great house, and had known in those same rooms the needs now sought to be supplied for him, told him stories in his sleep. one of the little patients followed our movements with its eyes, with a sad, thoughtful, peaceful look; one indulged in a big stare of childish curiosity and wonder. they had toys strewn upon their counterpanes. a sick child is a contradiction of ideas, like a cold summer. but to quench the summer in a child's heart is, thank god! not easy. if we do not make a frost with wintry discipline, if we will use soft looks and gentle words; though such an hospital be full of sick and ailing bodies, the light, loving spirits of the children will fill its wards with pleasant sounds, contrasting happily with the complainings that abound among our sick adults. suffer these little ones to come to such a christian house, and forbid them not! they will not easily forget it. around the gates of the child's hospital at frankfort, hangs a crowd of children who have been discharged, lying in wait to pounce with a loving word upon any of those who tended them when sick. they send little petitions in to the hospital authorities to be allowed, as a special favor, to come into the garden again, to play. a child's heart is soon touched by gentle people; and a child's hospital in london, through which there should pass yearly eight hundred children of the poor, would help to diffuse a kind of health that is not usually got out of apothecaries' bottles. we have spoken only of five children; the sixth was not in bed and not at rest. he was a literary character, studiously combining into patterns letters of the alphabet; but he had removed his work so far out of the little world to which he belonged, that he attracted no attention from his neighbors. there are larger children in a greater world who do the like. the solitary child was lonely--not from want of love--its thoughts were at home wandering about its mother; it had not yet learned to reconcile itself to temporary separation. we seemed to leave the shadows of our day-dream in attendance on it, and to take up our young surgeon again. having paid as we were able brief respects to each member of the little company, and having seen the bath-rooms on this floor, we continued our progress upward. of course there were no more stately drawing-rooms, but all the rooms were spacious, and, by modern care, had been, moreover, plentifully furnished with the means of ventilation. there were bath-rooms, of course; there were wards cut off from the rest for fever cases. good thought had been evidently directed to a good purpose every where. having seen all these things, we came downstairs again, and passing trough the surgery--upon whose jars and bottles our eyes detected many names of compounds palatable to little mouths--we were shown through an excellent consulting-room, into a wide hall, with another of the massive chimney-pieces. this hall is entered from a side street, and is intended for a waiting-room for out-patients. it had always belonged to the brave house in great-ormond-street, and had been used at one time for assemblies. what we have said of the few patients admitted at the early period of our visit, will have shown the spirit in which a child's hospital should be conducted. of course, to such an institution a garden and play-ground for the convalescent is an essential requisite. we inquired, therefore, for the garden in great ormond-street. we were shown out through a large door under a lattice, and found a terrace in the old style, descending by steps to a considerable space of ground. the steps were short, suited to little feet; so also in the house, according to the old style, which curiously fits itself to the modern purpose. we found that an air of neatness had been given to that portion of the ground immediately near the house; but the space generally is very ample, and is at present a mere wilderness. the funds of the hospital have only sufficed to authorize the occupation of a building, and the preparation for a great useful work. for means to plant the roses in the garden, and to plant the roses in the cheeks of many children besides those who come under their immediate care, the hospital committee has support to find. so large a piece of garden-ground waiting for flowers, only a quarter of a mile from holborn, was a curious thing to contemplate. when we looked into the dead house, built for the reception of those children whom skill and care shall fail to save, and heard of the alarm which its erection had excited in the breasts of some "particular" old ladies in the neighborhood, we felt inclined to preach some comfort to them. be of good heart, particular old ladies! in every street, square, crescent, alley, lane, in this great city, you will find dead children too easily. they lie thick all around you. this little tenement will not hurt you; there will be the fewer dead-houses for it; and the place to which it is attached may bring a saving health upon queen-square, a blessing on great ormond-street! the last revel. a tale of the coast-guard. when i was quite a lad, a servant lived with us of the name of anne stacey. she had been in the service of william cobbett, the political writer, who resided for some years at botley, a village a few miles distant from itchen. anne might be about two or three and twenty years of age when she came to us; and a very notable, industrious servant she was, and remarked, moreover, as possessing a strong religious bias. her features, every body agreed, were comely and intelligent. but that advantage in the matrimonial market was more than neutralized by her unfortunate figure, which, owing, as we understood, to a fall in her childhood, was hopelessly deformed, though still strongly set and muscular. albeit a sum of money--about fifty pounds--scraped together by thrifty self-denial during a dozen years of servitude, amply compensated in the eyes of several idle and needy young fellows for the unlovely outline of her person; and anne, with an infatuation too common with persons of her class and condition, and in spite of repeated warning, and the secret misgivings, one would suppose, of her own mind, married the best-looking, but most worthless and dissipated of them all. this man, henry ransome by name, was, i have been informed, constantly intoxicated during the first three months of wedlock, and then the ill-assorted couple disappeared from the neighborhood of itchen, and took up their abode in one of the hamlets of the new forest. many years afterward, when i joined the preventive service, i frequently heard mention of his name as that of a man singularly skillful in defrauding the revenue, as well as in avoiding the penalties which surround that dangerous vocation. one day, he was pointed out to me when standing by the cross-house near the ferry, in company with a comparatively youthful desperado, whose real name was john wyatt, though generally known among the smuggling fraternity and other personal intimates, by the _sobriquet_ of black jack--on account, i suppose, of his dark, heavy-browed, scowling figure-head, one of the most repulsive, i think, i have ever seen. anne's husband, henry ransome, seemed, so far as very brief observation enabled me to judge, quite a different person from his much younger, as well as much bigger and brawnier associate. i did not doubt that, before excessive indulgence had wasted his now pallid features, and sapped the vigor of his thin and shaking frame, he had been a smart, good-looking chap enough; and there was, it struck me, spite of his reputation as "a knowing one," considerably more of the dupe than the knave, of the fool than the villain, in the dreary, downcast, skulking expression that flitted over his features as his eye caught mine intently regarding him. i noticed also that he had a dry, hard cough, and i set down in my own mind as certain that he would, ere many months passed away, be consigned, like scores of his fellows, to a brandy-hastened grave. he indicated my presence--proximity, rather--to wyatt, by a nudge on the elbow, whereupon that respectable personage swung sharply round, and returned my scrutinizing gaze by one of insolent defiance and bravado, which he contrived to render still more emphatic by thrusting his tongue into his cheek. this done, he gathered up a coil of rope from one of the seats of the cross-house, and said: "come, harry, let's be off. that gentleman seems to want to take our pictures--on account that our mugs are such handsome ones, no doubt; and if it was a mildish afternoon, i shouldn't mind having mine done; but as the weather's rather nippy like, we'd better be toddling, i think." they then swaggered off, and crossed the ferry. two or three weeks afterward, i again met with them, under the following circumstances: i landed from the _rose_ at lymington, for the purpose of going by coach to lyndhurst, a considerable village in the new forest, from which an ex-chancellor derives his title. i had appointed to meet a confidential agent there at the fox and hounds inn, a third-rate tavern, situate at the foot of the hill upon which the place is built; and as the evening promised to be clear and fine, though cold, i anticipated a bracing, cross-country walk afterward in the direction of hythe, in the neighborhood whereof dwelt a person--neither a seaman nor a smuggler--whose favor i was just then very diligently cultivating. it was the month of november; and on being set down at the door of the inn somewhere about six o'clock in the evening, i quietly entered and took a seat in the smoking-room unrecognized, as i thought, by any one--for i was not in uniform. my man had not arrived; and after waiting a few minutes, i stepped out to inquire at the bar if such a person had been there. to my great surprise, a young woman--girl would be a better word, for she could not be more than seventeen, or at the utmost eighteen years old--whom i had noticed on the outside of the coach, was just asking if one dr. lee was expected. this was precisely the individual who was to meet me, and i looked with some curiosity at the inquirer. she was a coarsely, but neatly attired person, of a pretty figure, interesting, but dejected cast of features, and with large, dark, sorrowing eyes. thoughtfulness and care were not less marked in the humble, subdued tone in which she spoke. "could i sit down any where till he comes?" she timidly asked, after hearing the bar-woman's reply. the servant civilly invited her to take a seat by the bar-fire, and i returned, without saying any thing, to the smoking-room, rang the bell, and ordered a glass of brandy and water, and some biscuits. i had been seated a very short time only, when the quick, consequential step, and sharp, cracked voice of dr. lee sounded along the passage, and after a momentary pause at the bar, his round, smirking, good-humored, knavish face looked in at the parlor-door, where, seeing me alone, he winked with uncommon expression, and said aloud: "a prime fire in the smoking-room, i see; i shall treat myself to a whiff there presently." this said, the shining face vanished, in order, i doubted not, that its owner might confer with the young girl who had been inquiring for him. this lee, i must observe, had no legal right to the prefix of doctor tacked to his name. he was merely a peripatetic quacksalver and vender of infallible medicines, who, having wielded the pestle in an apothecary's shop for some years during his youth, had acquired a little skill in the use of drugs, and could open a vein or draw a tooth with considerable dexterity. he had a large, but not, i think, very remunerative practice among the poaching, deer-stealing, smuggling community of those parts, to whom it was of vital importance that the hurts received in their desperate pursuits should be tended by some one not inclined to babble of the number, circumstances, or whereabouts of his patients. this essential condition lee, hypocrite and knave as he was, strictly fulfilled; and no inducement could, i think, have prevailed upon him to betray the hiding-place of a wounded or suffering client. in other respects, he permitted himself a more profitable freedom of action, thereto compelled, he was wont apologetically to remark, by the wretchedly poor remuneration obtained by his medical practice. if, however, specie was scarce among his clients, spirits, as his rubicund, carbuncled face flamingly testified, were very plentiful. there was a receipt in full painted there for a prodigious amount of drugs and chemicals, so that, on the whole, he could have had no great reason to complain. he soon reappeared, and took a chair by the fire, which, after civilly saluting me, he stirred almost fiercely, eying as he did so the blazing coals with a half-abstracted and sullen, cowed, disquieted look altogether unusual with him. at least, wherever i had before seen him, he had been as loquacious and boastful as a gascon. "what is the matter, doctor?" i said. "you appear strangely down upon your luck all at once." "hush--hush! speak lower, sir, pray. the fact is, i have just heard that a fellow is lurking about here--you have not, i hope, asked for me of any one?" "i have not; but what if i had?" "why, you see, sir, that suspicion--calumny, shakspeare says, could not be escaped, even if one were pure as snow--and more especially, therefore, when one is not quite so--so--ahem!--you understand?" "very well, indeed. you would say, that when one is _not_ actually immaculate--calumny, suspicion takes an earlier and firmer hold." "just so; exactly--and, in fact--ha!--" the door was suddenly thrown open, and the doctor fairly leaped to his feet with ill-disguised alarm. it was only the bar-maid, to ask if he had rung. he had not done so, and as it was perfectly understood that i paid for all on these occasions, that fact alone was abundantly conclusive as to the disordered state of his intellect. he now ordered brandy and water, a pipe, and a screw of tobacco. these ministrants to a mind disturbed somewhat calmed the doctor's excitement, and his cunning gray eyes soon brightly twinkled again through a haze of curling smoke. "did you notice," he resumed, "a female sitting in the bar? she knows you." "a young, intelligent-looking girl. yes. who is she?" "young!" replied lee, evasively, i thought. "well, it's true she is young in years, but not in experience--in suffering, poor girl, as i can bear witness." "there are, indeed, but faint indications of the mirth and lightness of youth or childhood in those timid, apprehensive eyes of hers." "she never had a childhood. girls of her condition seldom have. her father's booked for the next world, and by an early stage, too, unless he mends his manners, and that i hardly see how he's to do. the girl's been to lymington to see after a place. can't have it. her father's character is against her. unfortunate; for she's a good girl." "i am sorry for her. but come, to business. how about the matter you wot of?" "here are all the particulars," answered lee, with an easy transition from a sentimental to a common-sense, business-like tone, and, at the same time, unscrewing the lid of a tortoise-shell tobacco-box, and taking a folded paper from it. "i keep these matters generally here; for if i were to drop such an article--just now, especially--i might as well be hung out to dry at once." i glanced over the paper. "place, date, hour correct, and thoroughly to be depended upon, you say, eh?" "correct as cocker, i'll answer for it. it would be a spicy run for them, if there were no man-traps in the way." i placed the paper in my waistcoat-pocket, and then handed the doctor his preliminary fee. the touch of gold had not its usual electrical effect upon him. his nervous fit was coming on again. "i wish," he puffed out--"i wish i was safe out of this part of the country, or else that a certain person i know was transported; then, indeed--" "and who may that certain person be, doctor?" demanded a grim-looking rascal, as he softly opened the door. "not me, i hope?" i instantly recognized the fellow, and so did the doctor, who had again bounded from his chair, and was shaking all over as if with ague, while his very carbuncles became pallid with affright. "you-u-u," he stammered--"you-u-u, wyatt: god forbid!" wyatt was, i saw, muddled with liquor. this was lucky for poor lee. "well, never mind if it _was_ me, old brick," rejoined the fellow; "or, at least, you have been a brick, though i'm misdoubting you'll die a pantile after all. but here's luck; all's one for that." he held a pewter pot in one hand, and a pipe in the other, and as he drank, his somewhat confused but baleful look continued leveled savagely along the pewter at the terrified doctor. there was, i saw, mischief in the man. "i'd drink yours," continued the reckless scamp, as he paused for breath, drew the back of his pipe-hand across his mouth, and stared as steadily as he could in my face--"i'd drink your health, if i only knew your name." "you'll hear it plainly enough, my fine fellow, when you're in the dock one of these days, just before the judge sends you to the hulks, or, which is perhaps the likelier, to the gallows. and this scamp, too," i added, with a gesture toward lee, whom i hardly dared venture to look at, "who has been pitching me such a pretty rigmarole, is, i see, a fellow-rogue to yourself. this house appears to be little better than a thieves' rendezvous, upon my word." wyatt regarded me with a deadly scowl as he answered: "ay, ay, you're a brave cock. master warneford, upon your own dunghill. it maybe my turn someday. here, doctor, a word with you outside." they both left the room, and i rang the bell, discharged the score, and was just going when lee returned. he was still pale and shaky, though considerably recovered from the panic-terror excited by the sudden entrance of wyatt. "thank heaven, he's gone!" said the doctor; "and less sour and suspicious than i feared him to be. but tell me, sir, do you intend walking from here to hythe?" "i so purpose. why do you ask?" "because the young girl you saw in the bar went off ten minutes ago by the same road. she was too late for a farmer's cart which she expected to return by. wyatt, too, is off in the same direction." "she will have company, then." "evil company, i fear. her father and he have lately quarreled; and her, i know, he bears a grudge against, for refusing, as the talk goes, to have any thing to say to him." "very well; don't alarm yourself. i shall soon overtake them, and you may depend the big drunken bully shall neither insult nor molest her. good-night." it was a lonely walk for a girl to take on a winter evening, although the weather was brilliantly light and clear, and it was not yet much past seven o'clock. except, perchance, a deer-keeper, or a deer-stealer, it was not likely she would meet a human being for two or three miles together, and farm and other houses near the track were very sparsely scattered here and there. i walked swiftly on, and soon came within sight of wyatt; but so eagerly was his attention directed ahead, that he did not observe me till we were close abreast of each other. "you here!" he exclaimed, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "i only wish--" "that you had one or two friends within hail, eh? well, it's better for your own health that you have not, depend upon it. i have four barrels with me, and each of them, as you well know, carries a life, one of which should be yours, as sure as that black head is on your shoulders." he answered only by a snarl and a malediction, and we proceeded on pretty nearly together. he appeared to be much soberer than before: perhaps the keen air had cooled him somewhat, or he might have been shamming it a little at the inn to hoodwink the doctor. five or six minutes brought us to a sharp turn of the road, where we caught sight of the young woman, who was not more than thirty or forty yards ahead. presently, the sound of footsteps appeared to strike her ear, for she looked quickly round, and an expression of alarm escaped her. i was in the shadow of the road, so that, in the first instance, she saw only wyatt. another moment, and her terrified glance rested upon me. "lieutenant warneford!" she exclaimed. "ay, my good girl, that is my name. you appear frightened--not at me, i hope!" "o no, not at you," she hastily answered, the color vividly returning to her pale cheeks. "this good-looking person is, i daresay, a sweetheart of yours; so i'll just keep astern out of ear-shot. my road lies past your dwelling." the girl appeared to understand me, and, reassured, walked on, wyatt lopping sullenly along beside her. i did not choose to have a fellow of his stamp, and in his present mood, walking behind _me_. nothing was said that i heard for about a mile and a half, when wyatt, with a snarling "good-night" to the girl, turned off by a path on the left, and was quickly out of sight. "i am not very far from home now, sir," said the young woman, hesitatingly. she thought, perhaps, that i might leave her, now wyatt had disappeared. "pray go on, then," i said; "i will see you safe there, though somewhat pressed for time." we walked side by side, and after awhile she said in a low tone, and with still downcast eyes: "my mother lived servant in your family once, sir." "the deuce! your name is ransome, then, i suspect." "yes, sir--mary ransome." a sad sigh accompanied these words. i pitied the poor girl from my heart, but having nothing very consolatory to suggest, i held my peace. "there is mother!" she cried in an almost joyful tone. she pointed to a woman standing in the open doorway of a mean dwelling at no great distance, in apparently anxious expectation. mary ransome hastened forward, and whispered a few sentences to her mother, who fondly embraced her. "i am very grateful to you, sir, for seeing mary safely home. you do not, i daresay remember me?" "you are greatly changed, i perceive, and not by years alone." "ah, sir!" tears started to the eyes of both mother and daughter. "would you," added the woman, "step in a moment. perhaps a few words from you might have effect." she looked while thus speaking, at her weak, consumptive-looking husband, who was seated by the fire-place with a large green baize-covered bible open before him on a round table. there is no sermon so impressive as that which gleams from an apparently yawning and inevitable grave; and none, too, more quickly forgotten, if by any resource of art, and reinvigoration of nature, the tomb-ward progress be arrested, and life pulsate joyously again. i was about to make some remark upon the suicidal folly of persisting in a course which almost necessarily led to misery and ruin, when the but partially-closed doorway was darkened by the burly figure of wyatt. "a very nice company, by jingo!" growled the ruffian; "you only want the doctor to be quite complete. but hark ye, ransome," he continued, addressing the sick man, who cowered beneath his scowling gaze like a beaten hound--"mind and keep a still tongue in that calf's head of yourn, or else prepare yourself to--to take--to take--what follows. you know me as well as i do you. good-night." with this caution, the fellow disappeared, and after a few words, which the unfortunate family were too frightened to listen to, or scarcely to hear, i also went my way. the information received from dr. lee relative to the contemplated run near hurst castle proved strictly accurate. the surprise of the smugglers was in consequence complete, and the goods, the value of which was considerable, were easily secured. there occurred also, several of the ordinary casualties that attend such encounters--casualties which always excited in my mind a strong feeling of regret that the revenue of the country could not be assured by other and less hazardous expedients. no life was, however, lost, and we made no prisoners. to my great surprise i caught, at the beginning of the affray, a glimpse of the bottle-green coat, drab knee-cords, with gaiter continuations, of the doctor. they, however, very quickly vanished; and till about a week afterward, i concluded that their owner had escaped in a whole skin. i was mistaken. i had passed the evening at the house whither my steps were directed when i escorted mary ransome home, and it was growing late, when the servant-maid announced that a young woman, seemingly in great trouble, after inquiring if lieutenant warneford was there, had requested to see him immediately, and was waiting below for that purpose. it was, i found, mary ransome, in a state of great flurry and excitement. she brought a hastily scribbled note from dr. lee, to the effect that wyatt, from motives of suspicion, had insisted that both he and ransome should be present at the attempt near hurst castle; that the doctor, in his hurry to get out of harm's way, had attempted a leap, which, owing to his haste, awkwardness, and the frosty atmosphere and ground, had resulted in a compound fracture of his right leg; that he had been borne off in a state of insensibility; on recovering from which he found himself in wyatt's power, who, by rifling his pockets, had found some memoranda that left no doubt of lee's treason toward the smuggling fraternity. the bearer of the note would, he said, further explain, as he could not risk delaying sending it for another moment--only he begged to say his life depended upon me. "life!" i exclaimed, addressing the pale, quaking girl; "nonsense! such gentry as wyatt are not certainly particular to a shade or two, but they rarely go that length." "they will make away with father as well as dr. lee," she shudderingly replied: "i am sure of it. wyatt is mad with rage." she trembled so violently as hardly to be able to stand, and i made her sit down. "you can not mean that the scoundrel contemplates murder?" "yes--yes! believe me, sir, he does. you know the _fair rosamond_, now lying off marchwood?" she continued, growing every instant paler and paler. "the trader to st. michael's for oranges and other fruits?" "that is but a blind, sir. she belongs to the same company as the boats you captured at hurst castle. she will complete landing her cargo early to-morrow morning, and drop down the river with the ebb-tide just about dawn." "the deuce they will! the cunning rascals. but go on. what would you further say?" "wyatt insists that both the doctor and my father shall sail in her. they will be carried on board, and--and when at sea--you know--you understand--" "be drowned, you fear. that is possible, certainly; but i can not think they would have more to fear than a good keel-hauling. still, the matter must be looked to, more especially as lee's predicament is owing to the information he has given the king's officers. where are they confined?" she described the place, which i remembered very well, having searched it not more than a fortnight previously. i then assured her that i would get her father as well as lee out of the smugglers' hands by force, if necessary; upon hearing which the poor girl's agitation came to a climax, and she went off into strong hysterics. there was no time to be lost, so committing her to the care of the servant, i took leave of my friends, and made the best of my way to hythe, hard off which a boat, i knew, awaited me; revolving, as i sped along, the best mode of procedure. i hailed the boat, and instructed one of the men--dick redhead, he was generally called, from his fiery poll--a sharp, clever fellow was dick--to proceed immediately to the house i had left, and accompany the young woman to the spot indicated, and remain in ambush, with both eyes wide open, about the place till i arrived. the _rose_ was fortunately off southampton quay; we soon reached her, shifted to a larger boat, and i and a stout crew were on our way, in very little time, to have a word with that deceitful _fair rosamond_, which we could still see lying quietly at anchor a couple of miles up the river. we were quickly alongside, but, to our great surprise, found no one on board. there was, however, a considerable quantity of contraband spirits in the hold; and this not only confirmed the girl's story, but constituted the _fair rosamond_ a lawful prize. i left four men in her, with strict orders to lie close and not show themselves, and with the rest hastened on shore, and pushed on to the doctor's rescue. the night was dark and stormy, which was so far the better for our purpose; but when we reached the place, no dick redhead could be seen! this was queer, and prowling stealthily round the building, we found that it was securely barred, sheltered, and fastened up, although by the light through the chinks, and a confused hum, it seemed, of merry voices, there was a considerable number of guests within. still, master dick did not show, and i was thoroughly at a loss how to act. it would not certainly have been difficult to force an entrance, but i doubted that i should be justified in doing so; besides, if they were such desperadoes as mary ransome intimated, such a measure must be attended with loss of life--a risk not to be incurred except when all less hazardous expedients had failed, and then only for a sufficient and well-defined purpose. i was thus cogitating, when there suddenly burst forth, overpowering the howling of the wind and the pattering of the rain, a rattling and familiar chorus, sung by at least a dozen rough voices; and i had not a doubt that the crew of the _fair rosamond_ were assisting at a farewell revel previous to sailing, as that hope, which tells so many flattering tales, assured them they would, at dawn. such merriment did not certainly sound like the ferocious exultations of intending assassins; still, i was very anxious to make ten or a dozen among them; and continued to cast about for the means of doing so, our attention was at length fixed upon a strange object, not unlike a thirty-six pounder red-hot round shot, not in the least cooled by the rain, projecting inquiringly from a small aperture, which answered for a window, half-way up the sloping roof. it proved to be master dick's fiery head, but he made us out before we did him. "is that bill simpson?" queried dick, very anxiously. the seaman addressed, as soon as he could shove in a word edgewise with the chorus and the numerous wind-instruments of the forest, answered that "it was bill simpson; and who the blazes was that up there?" to which the answer was, that "it was dick, and that he should be obliged, if bill had a rope with him, he would shy up one end of it." of course we had a rope; an end was shied up, made fast, and down tumbled master dick redhead without his hat, which, in his hurry, it appeared, he had left behind in the banqueting-room. his explanation was brief and explicit. he had accompanied the young woman to the present building, as i ordered; and being a good deal wrought upon by her grief and lamentations, had suggested that it might be possible to get dr. lee and her father to a place of safety without delay, proverbially dangerous. this seemed feasible; inasmuch as the fellow left in charge by wyatt was found to be dead-drunk, chiefly owing, i comprehended, to some powerful ingredients infused in his liquor by dr. lee. all was going on swimmingly, when, just as dick had got the doctor on his back, an alarm was given that the crew of the _fair rosamond_ were close at hand, and dick had just time to climb with great difficulty into the crazy loft overhead, when a dozen brawny fellows entered the place, and forthwith proceeded to make merry. a brief council was now held, and it was unanimously deemed advisable that we should all climb up to dick's hiding-place by means of the rope, and thence contrive to drop down upon the convivial gentlemen below, in as convenient a manner as possible, and when least expected. we soon scaled the loft, but after-proceedings were not so easy. the loft was a make-shift, temporary one, consisting of loose planks resting upon the cross rafters of the roof, and at a considerable height from the floor upon which the smugglers were carousing. it would, no doubt, have been easy enough to have slid down by a rope; but this would place the first three or four men, if no more, at the mercy of the contrabandists, who, i could see, through the wide chinks, were all armed, and not so drunk but that they thoroughly knew what they were about. it behooved us to be cool, and consider well the best course to pursue. while doing so, i had leisure to contemplate the scene below. wyatt was not there; but around a table, lighted by two dip-candles stuck in the necks of black bottles, and provided with abundance of liquor, tobacco, tin pannikins, and clay-pipes, sat twelve or thirteen ill-favored fellows, any one of whom a prudent man would, i am very sure, have rather trusted with a shilling than a sovereign. the unfortunate doctor, pale and sepulchral as the death he evidently dreaded to be near at hand, was sitting propped up in a rude arm-chair; and ransome, worse, i thought, than when i had seen him a few weeks previously, was reclining on a chest, in front of which stood his wife and daughter in a condition of feverish excitement. there at first appeared, from the temper of the roisterers, to be no cause for any very grave apprehension; but the aspect of affairs soon changed, and i eagerly availed myself of a suggestion of dick redhead's, and gave directions that preparation for its execution should be instantly and silently commenced. the thought had struck dick when perched up there alone, and naturally looking about for all available means of defense, should he be discovered. let me restate my position and responsibilities. it was my duty to rescue lee, the agent of the customs, from the dangerous predicament in which he was placed; and the question was, how to effect this without loss of life. it would no doubt have been easy enough to have turned up one or two of the loose planks, and have shot half the smugglers before they could have made their escape. this, however, was out of the question, and hence the adoption of dick's proposal. it was this: in the loft where we lay, for stand upright we could not, there was among several empty ones, one full cask, containing illicit spirits of some kind, and measuring, perhaps, between forty and fifty gallons. it was wood-hooped, and could be easily unheaded by the men's knives, and at a given signal, be soused right upon the heads of the party beneath, creating a consternation, confusion, and dismay, during which we might all descend, and end the business, i hoped, without bloodshed. this was our plan, and we had need to be quick about it, for, as i have said, the state of affairs below had suddenly changed, and much for the worse. a whistle was heard without; the front entrance was hastily unbarred, and in strode wyatt, black jack, and well did he on this occasion vindicate the justice of his popular designation. every body was in a moment silent, and most of those who could stood up. "what's this infernal row going on for?" he fiercely growled. "do you want to get the sharks upon us again?" there was no answer, and one of the men handed him a pannikin of liquor, which he drank greedily. "lee," he savagely exclaimed, as he put down the vessel, "you set out with us in half an hour at latest." "mercy, mercy!" gasped the nerveless, feeble wretch: "mercy!" "oh, ay, we'll give you plenty of that, and some to spare. you, too, ransome, prepare yourself, as well as your dainty daughter here--" he stopped suddenly, not, it seemed, checked by the frenzied outcries of the females, but by a renewed and piercing whistle on the outside. in the mean time, our fellows were getting on famously with the hoops of the huge spirit-cask. "why, that is richard's whistle," he exclaimed. "what the furies can this mean? unbar the door!" this was instantly done, and a man, a sailor by his dress, rushed in. "the _fair rosamond_ is captured, and the preventive men are in possession of her." my "quick! quick!" to the men, though uttered too loud, from the suddenness of the surprise, was happily lost in the rageful outburst of wyatt. "hell-fire!" he roared out. "but you lie; it can not be." "it is true" rejoined the man. "i and clarke went on shore about an hour ago in the punt, just to get a nip of brandy this cold night, as you won't let us break bulk on board. when we returned, tom went up the side first, was nabbed, and i had hardly time, upon hearing him sing out, to shove off and escape myself." we were now ready, and two of the planks just over wyatt's head were carefully turned over. he seemed for a moment paralyzed--for a moment only. suddenly he sprang toward mary ransome, grasped her hair with one hand, and in the other held a cocked pistol: "you," he shouted--"you, accursed minx, have done this. you went out two hours ago--" i lifted my hand. "hurra! take that, you cowardly lubber!" roared dick redhead; and down went the avalanche of liquid, knocking not only the pistol out of wyatt's hand, but himself clean off his legs, and nearly drowning mary ransome, her mother, and half-a-dozen others. a rope had been made fast to one of the rafters, down which we all quietly slid before the astonished smugglers could comprehend what had happened. resistance was then out of the question, and they did not attempt it. i took wyatt and one or two others into custody, for having contraband spirits in their possession; and the others were permitted to make themselves scarce as quickly as might be--a license they promptly availed themselves of. i have but a few words to add. henry ransome died, i heard, not long afterward, of pulmonary consumption, brought on by the abuse of alcoholic liquors, and his wife and daughter ultimately got into respectable service. mary ransome married in due time, and with better discretion than her mother, for she does, or did, keep one of the branch post-offices in bermondsey. dr. lee disappeared from the neighborhood the instant the state of his leg enabled him to do so, and i have never seen him since. john wyatt, _alias_ black jack, was transported for life, under the _alias_ of john martin, for a highway robbery near fareham, in the year . lately i saw him on board the convict hulk at portsmouth. drops of water. as all, or very nearly all, the animalcules found in water are invisible to the naked eye, no subject can be more interesting than that of these wonderful atoms, which, we have every reason to suppose, are by far the most numerous of those beings possessing life. the variety of form, the extraordinary construction, the rapid movement of some, the stationary life of others, and many other peculiarities, will prove subjects of interest and delight to the thinking mind. the one idea that a single drop of water may afford amusement and excite astonishment for hours to the investigator, is sufficient proof of the wonderful powers of the creator in this minute portion of his works. these little creatures prove quite fascinating; and hour after hour will be spent in watching their habits and movements, till the powers of the student are exhausted. a good microscope, in fact, opens a new world to the possessor, a world of beings totally different from any thing we have been accustomed to see; and the substance of which they are composed is in general so transparent, that the internal structure is visible to the eye--even the act of digestion can be perceived, and the food traced from its entrance at the mouth to its passage into the internal cavities; the eggs, also, can be seen within the body. these and many other peculiarities have been discovered only by very patient investigation, and several naturalists, both english and foreign, have almost devoted their lives to the study; and let no one say it is a useless one, for whatever can help to prove the power and wisdom with which this world was created can not be time thrown away. to those who only use the microscope as an amusement (and it is a never-ending one), a short time occasionally is well bestowed on one of the most beautiful parts of the creation. there are upward of seven hundred species of infusoria known and described. these are of all shapes and forms, some even assuming a variety in themselves; many possess eyes, others have none; some move so rapidly that the eye can not follow them, and others are attached to various substances; some have very many stomachs, or internal sacs, and others have only one; others, again, form a compound mass, that is, many individuals live in the same transparent case, and some are so minute, that by the aid of the best microscopes they can not be clearly discerned. many people are disgusted after viewing water through a microscope, and suppose that all water abounds in living creatures, and that, consequently, we drink them in myriads. this is an error: there are none, or very few, in spring water, and, as no one would think of drinking from a ditch or stagnant pool where plants abound, there is little to fear. if necessitated to partake of water abounding in life, the person is either ignorant of its state, or the want is so urgent that the thought does not occur; and even should it arise, these delicate transparent little atoms would not be perceived by the taste--this fear or disgust may therefore be dismissed. many waters abound in the larvæ of gnats and other insects, and minute creatures of the crustaceous order, but these can generally be seen by the naked eye. in all parts of the world, and in most waters where aquatic plants in a healthy state abound, these invisible creatures may be met with, and not only in stagnant pools, but in running streams and the broad ocean. among water-plants these little beings find shelter and food; therefore, when water is brought from these localities, some of the vegetation peculiar to the pool or stream should be procured at the same time. they swarm among duckweed. many are found also in clear shallow pools, particularly in the spring. when a pond is observed to have a stratum of dust on the surface, or a thin film, it will generally be found almost entirely composed of living creatures. this dust-like appearance consists nearly exclusively of species of the most beautiful colors, such as _pandorina_, _gonium_, &c. a shining film of various colors is also occasionally seen on standing water: this is composed of infusoria; a red appearance being often given to water by some species, and by others a yellowish hue. sheets of water often assume an intense green, from the presence of many of these minute bodies. lakes have been known to change their color very mysteriously, and to have caused some alarm in the superstitious; but it is now known to arise from infusoria, as they are attracted to the surface by the sun in the middle of the day, and descend as that luminary declines--thus the lake will be clear, morning and evening, and turbid, or of different colors, in the course of the day. if stalks of flowers are steeped for a few days in water, it will be found to swarm with life; even a few dead leaves, or a bit of dry hay, will produce the same effect. at first monads will appear; these will be succeeded by specimens of the genera _paramecium_, _amoeba_, and those of the class _rotatoria_. i have tried these experiments, and always with success. if the infusion be kept a few weeks (particularly that formed with leaves), one peculiar kind of animalcule will swarm to a most astonishing degree, so that a drop will contain hundreds, so close together that they form quite a crowd, and yet all are in a state of activity, and feeding from the vegetable matter disengaged from the decaying leaves. they are not even confined to these localities, for lakes and rivers, the fluids found in animals and vegetables, strong acids, and also the briny ocean, are full of these interesting creatures. one kind of phosphorescence (an appearance which is so often observed by the seaside and at sea) is occasioned by some species; and, when we remember that this luminosity often extends for miles, we are lost in astonishment at the immensity of their numbers. and here i may mention the evident use of these wonderful beings. they appear wherever decaying animal or vegetable substances are found in water, and are extremely useful in destroying what would otherwise taint the air with noxious gasses and smells. minute algæ also assist in preserving the purity of the water in which they live; they serve as food, also, to animals higher in the scale of creation than themselves. captain sir james ross, in his antarctic voyage, speaking of a small fish found by him in the south seas, and stating by what means it and many others are fed, says, "all are eventually nourished and sustained by the minute infusorial animalcules, which we find filling the ocean with an inconceivable multitude of the minutest forms of organic life." we may infer from this, the immense importance of the infusoria in the scale of existence, for although only remotely supporting the higher animals, yet the want of them would be greatly felt. ehrenberg states, that a single drop of water may hold five hundred millions of the smallest animalcules. what, then, can be the population of a lake or of the ocean? i have watched specimens of the genera _floscularia_, _vorticella_, and _stentor_, for hours at a time, and they have never ceased to feed on minute portions of animal and vegetable substances, brought to them by the current they are enabled to make in the water; others eagerly pursue their prey, or feed on the decaying vegetable matter floating about: indeed, the appetite of these little creatures seems insatiable. many genera have a strong chewing apparatus, like a mouth armed with teeth. all seem employed in the same way, though using different methods. much decaying matter must thus be taken away by this insatiable, though miniature army, provided for the purpose. they, in their turn, afford sustenance to aquatic insects, which are again preyed on by fishes; and thus food is prepared for more highly organized animals, and lastly for man. animalcules have never been observed to rest, or at least to sleep; but this may be partly owing to the light necessarily used in viewing them, which forms an artificial sunlight, exciting their powers of motion: they may rest during darkness, when they can not be seen by us. many are only attracted to the surface of the water by the light of the sun, and are difficult to be obtained on a dull day; they are, however, not much affected by cold or heat, for they are procurable in winter as in summer, though not in such profusion: they are found even under thick ice, and i have frequently broken, in severe frost, the frozen surface of a pond, and, inserting a bottle, have obtained some most interesting kinds. many of the _polygastrica_ will bear a great degree of cold, even more so than those of the class _rotatoria_, whose organization is of a higher order. it has, i believe, been generally observed, that the more simple the organization of animals, the more retentive is the creature of life, and this is the case with these minute beings. the _rotifer vulgaris_ will even bear revivification several times. dr. carpenter relates that he tried the experiment six times with twelve specimens, and each time some were perfectly restored to animation. by allowing the drop of water which held them to evaporate, and at the end of twenty-four hours giving them a fresh supply, he succeeded six times in restoring some of them: at last two only were left, and these unfortunately he lost. ehrenberg affirms, that if thoroughly desiccated they can not revive, but that they may remain in a lethargic condition if deprived of water for a certain time only. the same naturalist observes that when an animalcule is frozen with the water, it is surrounded by an exceedingly small portion which is unfrozen, occasioned probably by the animal heat of its body; but, should the cold be so great as to freeze this, the creature dies. animal heat in such an atom! how marvelous! yet they will bear a great degree of heat also. the same naturalist says, that the _polygastrica_, will bear the temperature _gradually_ raised to ° of fahrenheit, and some even to °, but if raised _suddenly_ they die at °. now, if we consider that water raised to ° is boiling, we shall be as much astonished at their powers of enduring heat as cold. sir james ross, in his antarctic expedition, found upward of seventy species of _polygastrica_ with _loricæ_, or silicious shells, in fragments of ice. it will, therefore, be seen, that animalcules are obtainable at all seasons, and in every place where there are ponds or pools of water; or they may be procured from water-butts, or by placing leaves, hay, or almost any vegetable substance in a little water, which has been previously found to have nothing living in it. edward drysdale. a leaf from the diary of a law-clerk. about the year , james bradshaw and william drysdale, both invalided masters of the royal navy, cast anchor for the remainder of their lives at about twelve miles' distance from exeter, on the london road. bradshaw named his domicile, an old-fashioned straggling building, "rodney place," in honor of the admiral in whose great victory he had fought. drysdale's smaller and snugger dwelling, about half a mile away from "rodney place," was called "poplar cottage," and about midway between them stood the "hunter's inn," a road-side public-house, kept by one thomas burnham, a stout-hearted, jolly-bellied individual, the comeliness of whose rubicund figure-head was considerably damaged by the loss of an eye, of which, however, it is right to say, the extinguished light appeared to have been transferred in undiminished intensity to its fiery, piercing fellow. the retired masters, who had long known each other, were intimate as brothers, notwithstanding that bradshaw was much the richest of the two, having contrived to pick up a considerable amount of prize-money, in addition to a rather large sum inherited from his father. neither did the difference of circumstances oppose, in bradshaw's opinion, the slightest obstacle to the union of his niece and heiress, rachel elford, with edward drysdale, his fellow-veteran's only surviving offspring. the precedent condition, however, was, that edward should attain permanent rank in the royal navy, and with this view, a midshipman's warrant was obtained in ' for the young man, then in his eighteenth year, and he was dispatched to sea. the naval profession proved to be, unfortunately, one for which edward drysdale was altogether unfitted by temperament and bent of mind, and sad consequences followed. he had been at sea about eighteen months, when news reached england of a desperate, but successful cutting-out affair by the boats of the frigate to which he belonged. his name was not mentioned in the official report--but that could hardly have been hoped for--neither was it in the list of killed and wounded. a map of the coast where the fight took place was procured; the battle was fought over and over again by the two veterans, and they were still indulging in those pleasures of the imagination in the parlor of the "hunter's inn," when the landlord entered with a plymouth paper in his hand, upon one paragraph in which his single orb of vision glared with fiery indignation. it was an extract from a letter written by one of the frigate's officers, plainly intimating that midshipman drysdale had shown the white feather in the late brush with the enemy, and would be sent home by the first opportunity. the stroke of a dagger could have been nothing compared with the sharp agony which such an announcement inflicted on the young man's father, and bradshaw was for a few moments equally thunder-stricken. but he quickly rallied. william drysdale's son a coward! pooh! the thing was out of nature--impossible; and very hearty were his maledictions, savagely echoed by burnham, with whom young drysdale was a great favorite, of the lying lubber that wrote the letter, and the newspaper rascals that printed it. alas! it was but too true! on the third evening after the appearance of the alarming paragraph the two mariners were sitting in the porch of poplar cottage, separated only by a flower-garden from the main-road, conversing upon the sad, and constantly-recurring topic, when the coach from london came in sight. a youthful figure in naval uniform on the box-seat instantly riveted their attention, as it did that of rachel elford, who was standing in the little garden, apparently absorbed till that moment by the shrubs and flowers. the coach rapidly drew near, stopped, and edward drysdale alighted from it. the two seamen, instead of waiting for his approach, hastily arose from their seats and went into the cottage, as much perhaps to avoid the humiliating, though compassionate glances of the outside passengers, as from any other motive. the young man was deadly pale, and seemed to have hardly sufficient strength to move back the light wicket-gate which admitted to the garden. he held by it till the coach had passed on, and then turned with a beseeching, half-reproachful look toward rachel. she, poor girl, was as much agitated as himself, and appeared to be eagerly scanning his countenance, as if hopeful of reading there a contradiction of the dishonoring rumor that had got abroad. in answer to his mute appeal, she stepped quickly toward him, clasped his proffered hand in both hers, and with a faint and trembling voice ejaculated--"dear, dear edward! it is not true--i am sure it is not, that you--that you--" "that i, rachel, have been dismissed the naval service, as unfit to serve his majesty, is quite true," rejoined edward drysdale, slowly, and with partially-recovered calm--"quite true!" the young woman shrank indignantly from him--fire glanced in her suffused eyes, and her light, elegant figure appeared to grow and dilate with irrepressible scorn, as this avowal fell upon her ear. "a coward!" she vehemently exclaimed; "you that--but no," she added, giving way again to grief and tenderness, as she looked upon the fine, intelligent countenance of her lover, "it can not be; there must be some error--some mistake. it is impossible!" "there _is_ error and mistake, rachel; but the world will never, i fear, admit so much. but, come, let us in: you will go with me?" we will not follow them till the first outburst of angry excitement is past; till the father's passionate, heart-broken reproaches have subsided to a more patient, subdued, faintly-hopeful sorrow, and rachel's wavering faith in the manhood of her betrothed has regained something of its old firmness. entering then, we shall find that only mr. bradshaw has remained obstinately and contemptuously deaf to what the young man has falteringly urged in vindication of his behavior in the unhappy affair which led to his dismissal from the service. he had, it appeared, suddenly fainted at the sight of the hideous carnage in which, for the first time in his life, he found himself involved. "you have a letter, you say, from captain otway," said mr. drysdale, partially raising his head from his hands, in which it had been buried while his son was speaking. "where is it? give it to rachel--i can not see the words." the note was directed to mr. drysdale, whom captain otway personally knew, and was no doubt kindly intended to soften the blow, the return of his son under such circumstances must inflict. although deciding that edward drysdale was unfit for the naval profession, he did not think that the failure of the young man's physical nerve in one of the most murderous encounters that had occurred during the war, was attributable to deficiency of true courage, and as a proof that it was not, captain otway mentioned that the young man had jumped overboard during half a gale of wind, and when night was falling, and saved, at much peril to himself, a seaman's life. this was the substance of the note. as soon as rachel ceased reading, mr. drysdale looked deprecatingly in his friend's face and murmured, "you hear?" "yes, william drysdale, i do. i never doubted that your son was a good swimmer, no more than i do that coward means coward, and that all the letters in the alphabet can not spell it to mean any thing else. come, rachel," added the grim, unreasoning, iron-tempered veteran, "let us be gone. and god bless, and if it be possible, comfort you, old friend! good-by! no, thank-ye, young sir!" he continued, with renewed fierceness, as edward drysdale snatched at his hand. "that hand was once grasped by rodney in some such another business as the letter speaks of, when its owner did _not_ faint! it must not be touched by you!" the elder drysdale took, not long afterward, to his bed. he had been ailing for some time; but no question that mortification at his son's failure in the profession to which he had with so much pride devoted him, helped to weaken the springs of life and accelerate his end, which took place about six months after edward's return home. the father and son had become entirely reconciled with each other, and almost the last accents which faltered from the lips of the dying seaman, were a prayer to bradshaw to forget and forgive what had past, and renew his sanction to the marriage of edward and his niece. the stern man was inexorable; and his pitiless reply was, that he would a thousand times rather follow rachel to her grave. the constancy of the young people was not, however, to be subdued, and something more than a year after mr. drysdale's death, they married; their present resources, the rents--about one hundred and twenty pounds per annum--of a number of small tenements at exeter. they removed to within three miles of that city, and dwelt there in sufficiency and peace for about five years, when the exigencies of a fast-increasing family induced them to dispose, not very advantageously, of their cottage property, and embark the proceeds in a showy speculation promising, of course, immense results, and really ending in the brief space of six months in their utter ruin. edward drysdale found himself, in lieu of his golden hopes, worth about two hundred pounds less than nothing. the usual consequences followed. an undefended suit at law speedily reached the stage at which execution might be issued, and unless a considerable sum of money could be instantly raised, his furniture would be seized under a _fi. fa._, and sacrificed to no purpose. one only possible expedient remained--that of once more endeavoring to soften the obduracy of mr. bradshaw. this it was finally determined to attempt, and mr. and mrs. drysdale set off by a london morning coach upon the well-nigh hopeless speculation. they alighted at the "hunter's inn," where drysdale remained, while his wife proceeded alone to rodney place. thomas burnham was friendly and good-natured as ever. the old mariner, he told drysdale, was visibly failing, and his chief amusement seemed to be scraping together and hoarding up money. james berry, a broken-down tailor, and a chap, according to burnham, who knew how many beans made five as well as any man in devonshire, had been for some time valet, gardener, and general factotum at rodney place, and appeared to exercise great influence over mr. bradshaw. the only other person in the establishment was the old cook, margery deans, who, never otherwise, since he had known her, than desperately hard of hearing, was now become deaf as a stone. drysdale, it was afterward remembered, listened to all this with eager attention, and was especially inquisitive and talkative respecting mr. bradshaw's hoarding propensities, and the solitary, unprotected state in which he lived. mrs. drysdale was long gone; but the tremulous hopes which her protracted stay called feebly forth, vanished at the sight of her pale, tearful, yet resolved aspect. "it is useless, edward," she murmured, with her arms cast lovingly about her husband's neck, and looking in his face with far more lavish expression of affection than when, with orange blossoms in her hair, she stood a newly-consecrated wife beside him. "it is useless to expect relief from my uncle, save upon the heartless, impossible condition you know of. but let us home. god's heaven is still above our heads, though clouds and darkness rest between. we will trust in him, edward, and fear not!" so brave a woman should have been matched with a stout-hearted man; but this, unhappily, was not the case. edward drysdale was utterly despondent, and he listened, as his wife was afterward fain to admit to myself and others, with impatient reluctance to all she said as they journeyed homeward, save when the condition of help spoken of, namely, that she should abandon her husband, and take up her abode with her children at rodney place, was discussed--by her indignantly. once also, when she mentioned that the old will in her favor was not yet destroyed, but would be, her uncle threatened, if she did not soon return, a bright, almost fiery expression seemed to leap from his usually mild, reflective eyes, and partially dissipate the thick gloom which mantled his features. this occurred on a winter's day in early march, and the evening up to seven o'clock had passed gloomily away with the drysdales, when all at once the husband, starting from a profound reverie, said he would take a walk as far as exeter, see the attorney in the suit against him, and, if possible, gain a little time for the arrangement of the debt. his wife acquiesced, though with small hope of any favorable result, and the strangely-abstracted man left the house. ten o'clock, the hour by which edward drysdale had promised to return, chimed from a dial on the mantle-piece. mrs. drysdale trimmed the fire, lit the candles, which, for economy's sake, she had extinguished, and had their frugal supper laid. he came not. eleven o'clock! what could be detaining him so late? twelve!--half-past twelve! rachel drysdale was just about to bid the servant-maid, who was sitting up in the kitchen, go to bed, when the sound of carriage-wheels going _toward_ exeter stopped at the door. it was a _return_ post-chaise, and brought edward drysdale. he staggered, as if intoxicated, into the kitchen, reached down a half-bottle of brandy from a cupboard, and took it to the post-boy, who immediately drove off. anne moody, the servant-girl, was greatly startled by her master's appearance: he looked, she afterward stated, more the color of a whited wall, than of flesh and blood, and shook and "cowered," as if he had the ague. mrs. drysdale came into the kitchen, and stood gazing at her husband in a white, dumb kind of way (i am transcribing literally from the girl's statement), till the outer door was fastened, when they both went up-stairs into a front sitting-room. curiosity induced anne moody to follow, and she heard, just as the door closed upon them, mrs. moody say, "you have not been to exeter, i am sure?" this was said in a nervous, shaking, voice, and her master replied in the same tone, "no; i changed my mind," or words to that effect. then there was a quick whispering for a minute or two, interrupted by a half-stifled cry or scream from mrs. drysdale. a sort of hubbub of words followed, which the girl--a very intelligent person of her class, by-the-by--could not hear, or at least not make out, till mr. drysdale said in a louder, slower way, "you, rachel--the children are provided for; but, o god! at what a dreadful price!" anne moody, fearful of detection, did not wait to hear more, but crept stealthily up-stairs to bed, as her mistress had ordered her to do when she left the kitchen. on the following morning the girl found her master and mistress both up, the kitchen and parlor fires lit, and breakfast nearly over. mr. drysdale said he was in a hurry to get to exeter, and they had not thought it worth while to call her at unseasonable hours. both husband and wife looked wild and haggard, and this, moody, when she looked into their bed-chamber, was not at all surprised at, as it was clear that neither of them had retired to rest. one thing and the other, especially kissing and fondling the children over and over again, detained mr. drysdale till half-past eight o'clock, and then, just as he was leaving the house, three men confronted him! a constable of the name of parsons, james berry, mr. bradshaw's servant, and burnham, the landlord of the hunter's inn. they came to arrest him on a charge of burglary and murder! mr. bradshaw had been found early in the morning cruelly stabbed to death beside his plundered strong-box! i must pass lightly over the harrowing scenes which followed--the tumultuous agony of the wife, and the despairing asseverations of the husband, impossible to be implicitly believed in even by that wife, for the criminating evidence was overwhelming. drysdale had been seen skulking about rodney place till very late by both burnham and berry. in the room through which he must have passed in going and returning from the scene of his frightful crime, his hat had been found, and it was now discovered that he, drysdale, had taken away and worn home one of berry's--no doubt from hurry and inadvertence. in addition to all this, a considerable sum of money in gold and silver, inclosed in a canvas-bag, well known to have belonged to the deceased, was found upon his person! it appeared probable that the aim of the assassin had been only robbery in the first instance, for the corpse of the unfortunate victim was found clothed only in a night-dress. the fair inference, therefore, seemed to be that the robber, disturbed at his plunder by the wakeful old seaman, had been compelled, perhaps reluctantly, to add the dreadful crime of murder to that which he had originally contemplated. the outcry through the county was terrific, and as edward drysdale, by the advice of mr. sims, the attorney, who subsequently instructed mr. prince, reserved his defense, there appeared to be nothing of a feather's weight to oppose against the tremendous mass of circumstance arrayed against the prisoner. and when, upon the arrival of the king's commission at exeter, mr. prince received a very full and carefully-drawn brief in defense--a specious, but almost wholly unsupported story of the prisoner's appeared all that could be relied upon in rebuttal of the evidence for the crown. according to edward drysdale, he merely sought mr. bradshaw upon the evening in question for the purpose of concluding with that gentleman an arrangement for the separation of himself from his wife and children, and their domiciliation at rodney place. it was further averred that he was received with greater civility than he expected; that the interview was a long one, during which he, drysdale, had seen nobody but mr. bradshaw, although he believed the aged and deaf cook was in the kitchen. that he had arranged that mrs. drysdale and his children should be early on the morrow with her uncle, and that he had received the money found on his person and at his house from the deceased's own hands, in order to pay the debt and costs in the suit wherein execution was about to be levied on his furniture, and that the residue was to be applied to his, the prisoner's, own use. that the expressions deposed to by anne moody, and his own and mrs. drysdale's emotion after his return home, which had told so heavily against him in the examinations before the magistrates, were perfectly reconcilable with this statement--as, indeed, they were--and did not, therefore, bear the frightful meaning that had been attached to them. with respect to the change of hats, that might easily have happened, because his hat had been left on entering in the hall-passage, and in his hurry, in coming out by the same way, he had no doubt mistaken berry's for his own; but he solemnly denied having been in the room, or near the part of the house where his hat was alleged to have been found. this was the gist of the explanation; but, unfortunately, it was not sustained by any receivable testimony in any material particular. true, mrs. drysdale, whom every body fully believed, declared that this account exactly coincided with what her husband told her immediately on arriving home in the post-chaise--but what of that? it was not what story the prisoner had told, nor how many times he had told it, that could avail, especially against the heavy improbabilities that weighed upon his, at first view, plausible statement. how was it that, knowing mr. bradshaw's almost insane dislike of himself, he did not counsel his wife to make terms with her uncle, preparatory to her returning to rodney place? and was it at all likely that mr. bradshaw, whose implacable humor mrs. drysdale had experienced on the very day previous to the murder, should have so suddenly softened toward the man he so thoroughly hated and despised? i trow not; and the first consultation on the case wore a wretchedly-dismal aspect, till the hawk-eye of mr. prince lit upon an assertion of thomas burnham's, that he had gone to mr. bradshaw's house upon some particular business at a quarter past twelve on the night of the murder, and had seen the deceased alive at that time, who had answered him, as he frequently did, from his bedroom window. "rodney place," said mr. prince, "is nine miles from drysdale's residence. i understood you to say, mr. sims, that mrs. drysdale declares her husband was at home at twenty minutes to one?" "certainly she does; but the wife's evidence, you are aware, can not avail her husband." "true; but the servant girl! the driver of the post-chaise! this is a vital point, and must be cleared up without delay." i and williams, sims' clerk, set off instantly to see mrs. drysdale, who had not left her room since her husband's apprehension. she was confident it was barely so late as twenty minutes to one when the post-chaise drove up to the door. her evidence was, however, legally inadmissible, and our hopes rested on anne moody, who was immediately called in. her answer was exasperating. she had been asleep in the kitchen, and could not positively say whether it was twelve, one, or two o'clock when her master reached home. there was still a chance left--that of the post-chaise driver. he did not, we found, reach exeter, a distance of three miles only from mr. drysdale's, till a quarter to three o'clock, and was then much the worse of liquor. so much for our chance of proving an _alibi_! there was one circumstance perpetually harped upon by our bright, one-eyed friend of the hunter's inn; cyclops, i and williams called him. what had become of a large sum in notes paid, it was well known, to mr. bradshaw three or four days before his death? what also of a ruby ring, and some unset precious stones he had brought from abroad, and which he had always estimated, rightly or wrongly, at so high a price? drysdale's house and garden had been turned inside out, but nothing had been found, and so for that matter had been rodney place, and its two remaining inmates had been examined with the like ill success. burnham, who was excessively dissatisfied with the progress of affairs, swore there was an infernal mystery somewhere, and that he shouldn't sleep till he had ferreted it out. that was his business: ours was to make the best of the wretched materials at our disposal; but the result we all expected followed. the foregone conclusion of the jury that were empaneled in the case was just about to be formally recorded in a verdict of guilty, when a note was handed across to mr. sims. one mr. jay, a timber merchant, who had heard the evidence of the postillion, desired to be examined. this the judge at once consented to, and mr. jay deposed, that having left exeter in his gig upon pressing business, at about two o'clock on the morning of the murder, he had observed a post-chaise at the edge of a pond about a mile and a half out of the city, where the jaded horses had been, he supposed, drinking. they were standing still, and the post-boy, who was inside, and had reins to drive with passed through the front windows, was fast asleep--a drunken sleep it seemed, and he, mr. jay, had to bawl for some time, and strike the chaise with his whip, before he could awake the man, who, at last, with a growl and a curse, drove on. he believed, but would not like to positively swear, that the postillion he had heard examined was that man. this testimony, strongly suggestive as it was, his lordship opined, did not materially affect the case; the jury concurred, and a verdict of guilty was pronounced and recorded amidst the death-like silence of a hushed and anxious auditory. the unfortunate convict staggered visibly beneath the blow, fully expected, as it must have been, and a terrible spasm convulsed his features and shook his frame. it passed away; and his bearing and speech, when asked what he had to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced according to law, was not without a certain calm dignity and power, while his tones, tremulous, it is true, were silvery and unassuming as a child's. "i can not blame the gentlemen of the jury," he said. "their fatal verdict is, i am sure, as conscientious as god and myself know it to be erroneous--false! circumstances are, i feel, strangely arrayed against me; and it has been my fate through life to be always harshly judged, save only by one whose truth and affection have shed over my checkered existence the only happiness it has ever known. i observed, too, the telling sneer of the prosecuting counsel, connecting the circumstances under which i left the navy with the _cowardice_ of the deed with which i stand here accused--convicted, i suppose, i should say. i forgive that gentleman his cruel sneer as freely as i do you, gentlemen of the jury, your mistaken verdict--you, my lord, the death-sentence you are about to pronounce. the manner in which i hope to pass through the brief, but dark and bitter passage lying between me and the grave will, i trust, be a sufficient answer to the taunt of cowardice, and the future vindication of my innocence, not for my own, but my wife and children's sake, i confidently leave them to him into whose hands i shall soon, untimely, render up my spirit. this is all i have to say." the prisoner's calm, simple, unhurried words, produced a marvelous effect upon the court and auditory. the judge, chief baron macdonald, a conscientious, and somewhat nervous man, paused in the act of assuming the black-cap, and presently said, rather hastily, "let the prisoner be removed; i will pass sentence to-morrow." the court then immediately adjourned. i was miserably depressed in spirits, which the cold, sleety weather that greeted us on emerging from the hot and crowded court considerably increased. i was thinking--excuse the seeming bathos--i was only a clerk, and used to such tragedies; i was thinking, i say, that a glass of brandy and water might not be amiss, when whom should i rudely jostle against but cyclops, _alias_ thomas burnham. he was going the same way as myself in prodigious haste--his eye bright and flaming as a live coal, and his whole manner denoting intense excitement. "is that you?" he broke out. "come along, then, and quick, for the love of god! i've missed sims and his clerk, but you'll do as well; perhaps better." i had no power, if i had the inclination to refuse, for the enthusiastic man seized me by the arm, and hurried me along at a tremendous rate toward the outskirts of the city. "this is the place," he exclaimed, as he burst into a tavern parlor, where two trunks had been deposited. "he's not come yet," burnham went on, "but the coach is to call for him here. he thinks to be off to london this very night." "whom are you talking of? who's off to london to-night?" "james berry, if he's clever enough! look there!" "i see; 'james berry, passenger, london.' these, then, are his trunks, i suppose." "right, my boy; but there is nothing of importance in _them_. sly, steady-going margery has well ascertained that. you know margery?--but hush! here he comes." berry--it was he--could not repress a nervous start, as he unexpectedly encountered burnham's burly person and fierce glare. "you here?" he stammered, as he mechanically took a chair by the fire. "who would have thought it?" "not you, jim, i'm sure; it must be, therefore, an unexpected pleasure. i'm come to have a smoke and a bit of chat with you, berry--there isn't a riper berry than you are in the kingdom--before you go to london, jim--do you mark?--before you go to london--ha, ha! ho, ho! but, zounds! how pale and shaky you're looking, and before this rousing fire, too! d--n thee, villain!" shouted burnham, jumping suddenly up from his chair, and dashing his pipe to fragments on the floor. "i can't play with thee any longer. tell me--when did the devil teach thee to stuff coat-collars with the spoils of murdered men, eh?" a yell of dismay escaped berry, and he made a desperate rush to get past burnham. vainly did so. the fierce publican caught him by the throat, and held him by a grip of steel. "you're caught, scoundrel!--nicked, trapped, found out, and by whom, think you? why, by deaf, paralytic, margery, whose old eyes have never wearied in watching you from the hour you slew and robbed her good old master till to-day, when you dreamed yourself alone, and she discovered the mystery of the coat-collar." "let me go!" gasped the miscreant, down whose pallid cheeks big drops of agony were streaming. "take all, and let me go." a fierce imprecation followed by a blow, replied to the despairing felon. a constable, attracted by the increasing uproar, soon arrived; the thick coat-collar was ripped, and in it were found a considerable sum in exeter notes--the ruby ring, and other valuables well known to have belonged to mr. bradshaw. berry was quickly lodged in jail. a true bill was returned the next day by the grand jury before noon, and by the time the clock struck four, the murderer was, on his own confession, convicted of the foul crime of which a perfectly innocent man had been not many hours before pronounced guilty! a great lesson this was felt to be at the time in exeter, and in the western country generally. a lesson of the watchfulness of providence over innocent lives; of rebuke to the self-sufficing infallibility of men, however organized or empaneled, and of patience under unmerited obloquy and slander. edward drysdale was, i need hardly say, liberated by the king's pardon--pardoned for an uncommitted offense, and he and his true-hearted wife, the heiress of her uncle, are still living, i believe, in competence, content, and harmony. a prison-scene during the reign of terror. i was mentioning one day to an old friend and fellow-rambler of mine the pleasure i had derived from a visit to the palais du luxembourg, in paris. "oh," said he, "my recollections of the luxembourg palace are any thing but pleasant. one entire generation has passed away, and a second has followed far on the same road, since i entered it; but were i to live to the age of an antediluvian, i imagine the remembrance of the period which i passed in the luxembourg would dwell with me to the last hour of my life." these words naturally raised my curiosity, and, from the character of the speaker, whom i had known for many years as a man of much and varied knowledge and unimpeachable probity, also aroused my sympathy; i pressed him, therefore, to favor me with the incidents which had made so indelible an impression upon his mind. he made no difficulty of complying with my request; but, stirring the fire, and leaning back in his easy chair, delivered his brief narrative very nearly in the following words. you do not perhaps remember that the palais du luxembourg was at one period used as a prison. some of those splendid saloons which you so much admire were once bordered with cells hastily erected with rough planks, the centre of the area being used as a common room for the whole of the prisoners. when the revolution of broke out in france, i was the junior partner of an english house doing business in a certain kind of merchandise in the rue st. honoré. i was very young, almost a lad, indeed, but i had invested the whole of my small fortune in the concern. i was active and sedulous, and i devoted my entire energies to the prosecution of our joint interests, which throve considerably. when the troubles came, my partners, who conceived that they had grounds for apprehension, resolved to quit the country; and they offered me the whole of the business upon terms so advantageous that i did not feel justified in refusing them. i had never meddled with politics (for which, indeed, i had no talent or inclination), i was too young to have any enemies or to be suspected of partisanship; so i closed with the offer that was made me, and resolved to brave the perils of the time, making my business the sole object of my care and solicitude, and leaving all things else to take their course. i pursued this plan rigidly, avoiding all participation in the excitement of the period, and not even conversing on the subject of public affairs, concerning which upon all occasions i professed, what indeed was the truth, that i knew nothing. i went on thus for some years, and amidst all the horrors and vicissitudes of the revolution my business throve prosperously. i experienced no sort of interruption--never received a single domiciliary visit from any one of the factions upon whom the sovereign authority so suddenly devolved--and, to all appearance, had escaped suspicion under each and all of the rapidly-changing dynasties. i had well-nigh doubled my wealth by unwearied diligence, and had long banished all thought of peril in the course i was pursuing, when, one rainy night in the summer of , i was roused from my rest after i had been a full hour asleep in bed, compelled to hurry on a few clothes at a minute's notice, pushed into a carriage waiting at my door, and driven off to a midnight tribunal. arrived at the hôtel de ville, i requested to hear the charge which had been made against me but was desired to hold my peace. i was brought there for identification, and not for a hearing, the ruffian in office informed me, and it would be time enough for me to hear the charge when i was called upon to answer it. it was in vain that i pleaded the injustice of such a proceeding; i was obliged to submit to their pleasure. a pen was put into my hand, and i was ordered to write my protest, if i had any to make. i did so in a few words, claiming protection as a french citizen. the presiding scoundrel pretended to compare my writing with some imaginary seditious document of which it was not possible that i could have been the author, and at once committed me to prison. i was kept in waiting while some other pretended examinations were gone through, and then, in company with three more unfortunates, was driven off to the luxembourg, where, at about two o'clock in the morning, i was bundled into a cell furnished with a straw _paillasse_ and rug, a deal table and a single chair, and lighted by a small lamp suspended aloft out of my reach. when i could find time to reflect upon the sudden calamity which had overtaken me, i could come to no other conclusion than that i had been made the victim of the cupidity of some villain or villains who had contrived to incarcerate me out of the way, while they made a plunder of my property. the imputation of seditious correspondence, which i knew to be nothing but a pretense, bore me out in this conjecture; and upon thinking the matter over again and again, i came to the conviction at last, that, bad as the matter was, it might have been much worse. i thought i saw that there was little chance of my being brought up for trial, as it would be more for the interest of my enemies, whoever they were, to keep me out of the way, than to bring me before a tribunal which might or might not condemn me to death, but which could hardly fail of discovering the motive of my abduction and imprisonment. thus i got rid of the fear of the guillotine, and i soon found another cause for gratulation in the fact that i had not been searched. i had a considerable sum of money in my pocket-book, and, by a piece of good fortune, the book containing my banking-account was in the breast-pocket of my overcoat, which i had put on on the previous evening in consequence of a sudden storm, and which, on hearing the pattering rain, i had instinctively seized upon coming away. before i lay down upon my miserable couch i contrived effectually to secrete my valuables, in the fear that they might be abstracted in case i should be so fortunate as to sleep. i had been locked in by the jailer, and i imagined that the ten square feet which limited my view would confine all my motions during the term of my imprisonment. in spite of all my anxieties and the disagreeable novelty of my position, i fell off to slumber about sunrise, and into a pleasant dream of home in england, and the sunny fields of childhood. i was awoke soon after seven o'clock by the sound of laughter and loud voices mingled with the twanging of a lute. i started up, and seeing that the door of my cell was standing ajar, i bent forward and looked out. my apparition in a red night-cap was received with a burst of merriment loud and prolonged from some fifty well-dressed individuals seated on chairs or lounging on tables in the centre of a large arena, surrounded on all sides with cells, the counterpart of my own. they hailed me as "le bonnet rouge," and wished me joy of my advent among them. making my toilet as speedily as possible, i joined them with the best grace i could, and requested to be allowed the pleasure of their society, if, as i supposed from what i saw, the rules of the prison permitted me the indulgence. a young man politely stepped forward, and volunteered to instruct me in the constitution and the etiquette of the society into which i had been so abruptly introduced. he was the model of courtesy and good breeding, and soon initiated me into the mysteries of the association which the prisoners had set on foot for the purpose of relieving the tedium of confinement, and for banishing the gloomy shadow of speedy and certain death impending over the major part of them. he informed me that we were at liberty either to take our meals in common at the general table in the saloon where we then were, or to withdraw with our several messes to our own cells; but that no gentleman who could not show a cheerful countenance, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, was expected to make his appearance either at dinner or supper, or, indeed, in the saloon at all, save for the purpose of periodical exercise. he argued that a dejected and sorrowful face, though it might be allowable in the case of a solitary prisoner, was clearly an offense against the whole assembly, each of whom having his own burden to bear, was entitled to at least as good an example of courage as he could furnish himself; and that upon those grounds they had come to the understanding, which was perfectly well known and acted upon among them, that those who had not sufficient fortitude to oppose a smile to the scowl of fate should confine their sorrows to their own cabins, and not disturb the enjoyments, short-lived as they were, nor unsettle the constancy of their fellows by the parade of unavailing dejection. he added, that if i could conduce to the amusement of their circle by any means, no matter how, i should be regarded in the light of a benefactor; that they had music, public debates, and dramatic representations, though without scenery or appropriate dresses; and that in all or any of these amusements i might take a part if i chose, and might feel sure of their candid appreciation of my endeavors. he then, with the utmost _sang froid_, gave me to understand that their first violin would that morning leave them, though he would give them a parting cavatina before he mounted the tumbril, which would call on its way to the guillotine about twelve o'clock. fifteen other gentlemen of their community were bound on the same voyage; they were liable to such deductions from their social circle, he was sorry to say--and he shrugged his shoulders--on occasions far too frequent for their repose; but then they were constantly receiving fresh additions, and their number was generally very nearly if not quite complete. he told me that among the twenty or thirty gentlemen conversing so cheerfully at the next table, seven would die that morning, and apologized for not pointing out the particular individuals, on the score of its being hardly polite to do so. i was perfectly horrified at the communication of my voluble companion. though living so long in the very centre and focus of revolution, i had kept so carefully clear of the terrible drama which had been acting, and had been so wrapped up in my own concerns, that i was altogether unprepared for the recognition of such a state of feeling on the subject of certain, sudden, and murderous death, as i now found existing around me. it required all the courage and self-control i was master of to repress the natural exclamations of dismay that rose to my lips. i thanked my new friend for his courtesy, expressed my determination not to appear in the social circle at any time when my spirits were not up to the mark, and, bowing ceremoniously, withdrew to my own cell to ruminate alone upon what i had heard. you may imagine what passed in my mind. i had been religiously educated in a protestant country; i had never, even in france, neglected the daily duties of religion. i had knelt, morning, and evening, from my earliest childhood, to my father's god; and i had devoutly sought the especial direction of his providence both in taking the step which led me to paris in the first instance, and in that which had fixed me there when my partners had fled in apprehension of calamity. the idea of death had been to me always one of unmingled solemnity; and the thought of opposing laughter and merriment to the grim aspect of the grisly king was abhorrent to my imagination. i remained all the morning in my cell, a prey to miserable and anxious thought. i heard the cavatina played with firmness and brilliancy by the musician who knew to a certainty that within an hour he would be a headless corpse. i heard the tumbril drive up to the door which was to convey sixteen of my fellow-prisoners to feed the dripping ax. i saw them defile past my cell as the jailer checked them off on his list, and heard them respond gayly to the "bon voyage" of their companions ere they departed in the fatal cart which was to carry them "out of the world." there is, however, a force in circumstances strong enough to overcome the habits and instincts of a life-time. i had not been a month in the luxembourg before the idea of death by violence, once so terrible and appalling, began to assume a very different aspect in my mind. our society consisted of above a hundred in number, and the major part of them, incarcerated for political offenses, were but in the position of losers in a game in which they had played the stake of life for the chance of power. they paid the penalty as readily and as recklessly as they had played the game; and the spectacle which their fate presented to my view, though it never reconciled me to their repulsive indifference to the importance of life, yet gradually undermined my own estimate of its value. every means of amusement that could be thought of was resorted to for diversion. plays were acted night after night, the female characters being personated by the youngest of the party in robes borrowed from the wardrobe of the jailer's wife. concerts were got up, and the songs of all nations were sung with much taste to the accompaniment of the lute in the hands of an old professor, who, it afterward came out, had been imprisoned by mistake, because he bore the name of an offender. card-parties sat down to play every evening; and men would continue the game, and deal the cards with a steady hand, though they heard their names called over in the list of those who were to grace the guillotine on the morrow. it was rare that executions followed on two successive days; there was often, indeed, a respite for a fortnight together; but i noticed with a shudder that, whenever the cells were all occupied, an execution, and usually of a large number, speedily followed. months passed away. i was unhappy beyond expression, from the want of sympathy and of occupation. i had been allowed to receive a box of clothes and linen from my residence; and my servant had put a few english books into the box, with a design to relieve the tedium of confinement. among the books was baxter's "call to the unconverted." it came into my head that i might find occupation in translating this work into french, and that by circulating it very cheaply among the populace i might perhaps do something to stem the course of bloodshed and profanity in which all seemed hurrying headlong forward. i procured writing-materials, and shutting myself up several hours a day in my cell, commenced the translation. i did not make very rapid progress; my attention was too much distracted by what was going on around me to permit me to do much during the day. at eleven at night we were locked in our cells, and then i generally wrote for a quiet hour before going to bed. i had been thus engaged for some three or four months, and had completed more than half my undertaking, when, as i sat one morning at my writing, one of the attendants knocked at my cell door, and announced a visitor in the person of an englishman, who, having been consigned to prison, had inquired if any of his fellow-countrymen were in confinement, and having been referred to me, now sought an introduction. i rose, of course, immediately, and proceeded to offer him such welcome as the place afforded. he was a man already stricken in years of a rather forbidding aspect, but with the fire of intellect in his restless eye. he introduced himself to me as thomas paine, the author of the "rights of man," and he hoped he might add, the consistent friend of liberty, though for the present at least, he had lost his own. i condoled with him as well as i could, and assisted in installing him in a cell next to mine which happened to be vacant. i may confess that i was much more astonished than gratified by the accession of such a companion; but as he never sought to intrude upon my privacy, i was enabled to proceed with my work unmolested. i made him acquainted with the etiquette of the prison, and the necessity of a cheerful face if he went into company; and he warmly approved of the regulation, though he rarely complied with it, as he kept himself almost constantly in his cell. he wrote for several hours every day; and told me that he was approaching fast toward the completion of a work, which, under the title of "the age of reason," would one day make a noise in the world, and do something toward putting the forces of priestcraft to the rout. at my request, he lent me a portion of the manuscript, which having perused with indignation, i returned with my unqualified condemnation, at which he laughed good-humoredly, and said i had been too effectually nursed in prejudices to be able to judge impartially. i did not return the confidence with which he had honored me by making him acquainted with the purpose for which i was laboring. the winter of ' - was nearly over before i had got my manuscript in a fit condition to be put into the hands of the printer. i remember being much troubled in the preparation of the last few pages by the crowded state of the prison. not only were all the cells occupied, but a full half of them contained a couple of inmates each, and i was obliged myself to purchase immunity from partnership with a stranger at a considerable sum. we who had been long in prison knew well enough what to look for from such a state of things, and every night after supper we expected the summons of the bell which preceded the reading over of the black list. it came at last after a respite of eighteen days, an interval which had caused many to hope that these judicial slaughters were at an end. the first stroke of the bell produced a dead silence, and we listened with horror while twenty-seven names were deliberately called over, together with the numbers of the cells in which their owners domiciled. i saw mr. paine seated in his cell, and clutching the door in his hand, as he looked sternly through the partial opening upon the face of the jailer as he read over the list. when it was concluded, he shut himself in, and i heard him moving about at intervals during the whole night. i did not sleep myself, and i felt sure that he did not attempt to sleep. when the victims were mustered the next morning previous to the arrival of the tumbrils which were to bear them to death, the jailer declared that the number was short by one; that he was bound to furnish the full complement of twenty-eight, which he asserted was the number he had read off the night before. he was requested to refer to the list, and read it again; but, by some strange management this could not be found. "gentlemen," said the jailer, "you must manage it among you somehow: it is as much as my own head is worth--though to be sure heads are at a discount just now--to send short weight in bargains of this sort. be so good as to settle it among yourselves." at these words a volunteer stepped forward. "what signifies a day or two more or less?" he cried, "i will go! gentlemen, do not trouble yourselves--the affair is finished!" a light murmur of applause was deemed a sufficient reward for his gratuitous act of self-devotion, which under different circumstances might have won an immortality of fame. the voluntary victim could have been barely five-and-twenty. he was allowed to lead off the dance in the grim tragedy of the morning. he did so with an alacrity altogether and exceedingly french. i do not recollect his name; his exploit was no more than a three days' wonder. from what reason i know not, but it began to be rumored that one of the englishmen ought to have completed the condemned list; and suspicions of dishonorable conduct on the part of paine were freely whispered about. they were perhaps founded on the fact of his being constantly in communication with the jailer, who brought him almost daily dispatches from some of his jacobin friends. it was reported _sotto voce_ that he had bribed the jailer to erase his name from the list; though, as he had never been brought to trial, nor, as far as i know, was aware, any more than myself, of the specific charge made against him, i do not see that that was very probable--a form of trial at least being generally allowed to prisoners. when my manuscript was ready i sent for a printer, and bargained with him, for a pretty large impression of the book, in a cheap and portable form. nearly two months were occupied in getting through the press, owing to the amount of business with which the printers of paris were at that time overloaded. when the whole edition was ready for delivery, i sent for a bookseller of my acquaintance, and gave him an order upon the printer for the whole of them, with directions to sell them at the low price of ten sous, or five-pence each, about equal to two-thirds of the cost of their production, supposing the whole number to go off, which, in my ignorance of the book-trade and of the literary likings of the parisians, i looked upon as the next thing to a certainty. this undertaking off my hands, my mind felt considerably more at ease, and i became capable of enjoying the few pleasures which my hazardous position afforded. the study of human nature, of which i had thought but little previous to my confinement, now became my only pursuit. i had acquired the habit of writing in the prosecution of my translation; and i now continued the habit by journalizing the events which transpired in the prison, and jotting down such portions of the biography of the several inmates as i could make myself master of. mr. paine shut himself closely in his cell, and i rarely saw any thing of him; and he appeared to have given up all communication as well with the world without as that within his prison. in july came the fall of robespierre, who wanted animal courage to play out the desperate game he had planned. i was the first who got the information, and in five minutes it was known to all my fellow-prisoners. in a few days i was set at liberty. i parted with the author of the "rights of man" and the "age of reason" at the door of the prison, and never set eyes on him afterward. i flew to my residence in the rue st. honoré. as i expected, everything of value had been plundered and the place gutted, my faithful servant having first been enlisted and packed off to the army. i resolved upon returning home. as a french citizen i had no difficulty in obtaining a passport for the coast; and within a month i was in london. twenty years had passed over my head, and paris was in possession of the allied powers, when, in , i again visited it. fortunately, owing to services which i was enabled to render to british officers high in command, i found myself in a position to vindicate my claim to the value of the property i had left behind me, and for the sake of which there is little doubt that i had been secretly proscribed and cast into a revolutionary prison. i eventually recovered the whole amount of my loss, the _quartier_ in which i had resided having to make it good. it now occurred to me to call upon the bookseller to whom i had confided the copies of baxter's treatise, with a view, if practicable, to a settlement. i was lucky enough to find him at his old place; and upon my inquiry as to the fate of my work, he informed me, to my perfect amazement and mortification, that the whole of the copies were yet upon his shelves, and that he was ready to hand me over the entire impression, of which, as he might well be, he expressed himself desirous of being relieved. he assured me that he had employed the usual means to push them off, but that he had not been able, in a single instance, to effect a sale. he regretted to say that it was the most decided failure in the literary line that had ever come under his observation; not, he was pleased to observe, from any defect in point of literary ability, but solely from the fact that matter of that nature was totally unfit for the parisian market. the whole edition was returned upon my hands; not a single copy had been sold in twenty years, although offered at a price below the cost of production. still i never repented the attempt, mistaken though it proved to be. it afforded me occupation during some wretched months of confinement, and comforted me with the hope that, were i to die by the guillotine, i might leave a voice behind me which might be of use to my fellow-creatures. a celebrated french clock-maker. the superiority of french clocks and watches has been achieved only by the laborious efforts of many ingenious artisans. of one of these, to whom france owes no little of its celebrity in this branch of art, we propose to speak. bréguet was the name of this remarkable individual. he was a native of neuchatel, in switzerland, and thence he was removed, while young, to versailles, for the purpose of learning his business as a horologist. his parents being poor, he found it necessary to rely on his own energy for advancement in life. at versailles, he served a regular apprenticeship, during which his diligence in improving himself was almost beyond example. he became greatly attached to his profession; and soon, by studious perseverance his talents were developed by real knowledge. at length the term of apprenticeship expired, and as the master was expressing to the pupil the satisfaction which his good conduct and diligence had given him, he was struck with astonishment when he replied: "master, i have a favor to ask of you. i feel that i have not always as i ought employed my time, which was to have indemnified you for the cares and lessons you have spent on me. i beg of you, then, to permit me to continue with you three months longer without salary." this request confirmed the attachment of the master to his pupil. but scarcely was the apprenticeship of the latter over, when he lost his mother and his stepfather, and found himself alone in the world with an elder sister--being thus left to provide, by his own industry, for the maintenance of two persons. nevertheless, he ardently desired to complete his necessary studies, for he felt that the knowledge of mathematics was absolutely indispensable to his attaining perfection in his art. this determined purpose conquered every obstacle. not only did he labor perseveringly for his sister and himself, but also found means to attend regularly a course of public lectures which the abbé marie was then giving at the college mazarin. the professor, having remarked the unwearied assiduity of the young clockmaker, made a friend of him, and delighted in considering him as his beloved pupil. this friendship, founded on the truest esteem and the most affectionate gratitude, contributed wondrously to the progress of the student. the great metamorphosis which was effected so suddenly in the young clockmaker was very remarkable. there is something very encouraging in his example, affording as it does a proof of the power of the man who arms himself with a determined purpose. at first, the struggle with difficulties appears hard, painful, almost impossible; but only let there be a little perseverance, the obstacles vanish one after the other, the way is made plain: instead of the thorns which seem to choke it, verdant laurels suddenly spring up, the reward of constant and unwearied labor. thus it was with our studious apprentice. his ideas soon expand; his work acquires more precision; a new and a more extended horizon opens before him. from a skillful workman, it is not long before he becomes an accomplished artist. yet a few years, and the name of bréguet is celebrated. at the epoch of the first troubles of the revolution of , bréguet had already founded the establishment which has since produced so many master-pieces of mechanism. the most honorable, the most flattering reputation was his. one anecdote will serve to prove the high repute in which he was held, even out of france. one day a watch, to the construction of which he had given his whole attention, happened to fall into the hands of arnold, the celebrated english watch-maker. he examined it with interest, and surveyed with admiration the simplicity of its mechanism, the perfection of the workmanship. he could scarcely be persuaded that a specimen thus executed could be the work of french industry. yielding to the love of his art, he immediately set out for paris, without any other object than simply to become acquainted with the french artist. on arriving in paris, he went immediately to see bréguet, and soon these two men were acquainted with each other. they seem, indeed, to have formed a mutual friendship. in order that bréguet might give arnold the highest token of his esteem and affection, he requested him to take his son with him to be taught his profession, and this was acceded to. the revolution destroyed the first establishment of bréguet, and finally forced the great artist to seek an asylum on a foreign shore. there generous assistance enabled him, with his son, to continue his ingenious experiments in his art. at length, having returned to paris after two years' absence, he opened a new establishment, which continued to flourish till , when france lost this man, the pride and boast of its industrial class. bréguet was member of the institute, was clockmaker to the navy, and member of the bureau of longitude. he was indeed the most celebrated clockmaker of the age; he had brought to perfection every branch of his art. nothing could surpass the delicacy and ingenuity of his free escapement with a maintaining power. to him we owe another escapement called 'natural,' in which there is no spring, and oil is not needed; but another, and still more perfect one, is the double escapement, where the precision of the contacts renders the use of oil equally unnecessary, and in which the waste of power in the pendulum is repaired at each vibration. the sea-watches or chronometers of bréguet are famous throughout the world. it is well known that these watches are every moment subject to change of position, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel. bréguet conceived the bold thought of inclosing the whole mechanism of the escapement and the spring in a circular envelope, making a complete revolution every two minutes. the inequality of position is thus, as it were, equalized on that short lapse of time; the mechanism itself producing compensation, whether the chronometer is subjected to any continuous movement, or kept steady in an inclined or upright position. bréguet did still more: he found means to preserve the regularity of his chronometers even in case of their getting any sudden shock or fall, and this he did by the parachute. sir thomas brisbane put one of them to the proof, carrying it about with him on horseback, and on long journeys and voyages; in sixteen months, the greatest daily loss was only a second and a half--that is, the , th part of a daily revolution. such is the encouraging example of bréguet, who was at first only a workman. and to this he owes his being the best judge of good workmen, as he was the best friend to them. he sought out such every where, even in other countries; gave them the instruction of a master of the art; and treated them with the kindness of a father. they were indebted to him for their prosperity, and he owed to them the increase of fortune and of fame. he well understood the advantages of a judicious division of labor, according to the several capabilities of artisans. by this means, he was able to meet the demand for pieces of his workmanship, not less remarkable for elegance and beauty than for extreme accuracy. it may indeed be said, that bréguet's efforts gave a character to french horology that it has never lost. so much may one man do in his day and generation to give an impetus to an important branch of national industry. bleak house.[ ] by charles dickens. chapter viii.--covering a multitude of sins. [ ] continued from the may number. it was interesting, when i dressed before daylight, to peep out of window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like two beacons, and, finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day came on. as the prospect gradually revealed itself, and disclosed the scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory over my life, i had a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects that had been around me in my sleep. at first they were faintly discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still glimmered. that pale interval over, the picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast, that at every new peep, i could have found enough to look at for an hour. imperceptibly, my candles became the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful landscape, prominent in which the old abbey church, with its massive tower, threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed compatible with its rugged character. but so from rough outsides (i hope i have learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed. every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so attentive to me, that i had no trouble with my two bunches of keys: though what with trying to remember the contents of each little store-room, drawer, and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and china, and a great many other things; and what with being generally a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person; i was so busy that i could not believe it was breakfast-time when i heard the bell ring. away i ran, however, and made tea, as i had already been installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they were all rather late, and nobody was down yet, i thought i would take a peep at the garden, and get some knowledge of that too. i found it quite a delightful place; in front, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached (and where, by-the-by, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with our wheels that i asked the gardener to roll it); at the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from that distance. beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden, and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear little farm-yard. as to the house itself, with its three peaks in the roof; its various shaped windows, some so large, some so small, and all so pretty; its trellis-work against the south front for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look; it was, as ada said, when she came out to meet me with her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin john--a bold thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek for it. mr. skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast, as he had been over-night. there was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about bees, he had no objection to honey, he said (and i should think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the overweening assumptions of bees. he didn't at all see why the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn't do it--nobody asked him. it was not necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. if every confectioner went buzzing about the world, banging against every thing that came in his way, and egotistically calling upon every body to take notice that he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the world would be quite an insupportable place. then, after all, it was a ridiculous position, to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone, as soon as you had made it. you would have a very mean opinion of a manchester man, if he spun cotton for no other purpose. he must say he thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. the drone said, unaffectedly, "you will excuse me; i really can not attend to the shop! i find myself in a world in which there is so much to see, and so short a time to see it in, that i must take the liberty of looking about me, and begging to be provided for by somebody who doesn't want to look about him." this appeared to mr. skimpole to be the drone philosophy, and he thought it a very good philosophy--always supposing the drone to be willing to be on good terms with the bee: which, so far as he knew, the easy fellow always was, if the consequential creature would only let him, and not be so conceited about his honey! he pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground, and made us all merry; though again he seemed to have as serious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. i left them still listening to him, when i withdrew to attend to my new duties. they had occupied me for some time, and i was passing through the passages on my return, with my basket of keys on my arm, when mr. jarndyce called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which i found to be in part a little library of books and papers, and in part quite a little museum of his boots and shoes, and hat-boxes. "sit down, my dear," said mr. jarndyce.--"this, you must know, is the growlery. when i am out of humor, i come and growl here." "you must be here very seldom, sir," said i. "o, you don't know me!" he returned. "when i am deceived or disappointed in--the wind, and it's easterly, i take refuge here. the growlery is the best used room in the house. you are not aware of half my humors yet. my dear, how you are trembling!" i could not help it: i tried very hard: but being alone, with that benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy, and so honored there, and my heart so full-- i kissed his hand. i don't know what i said, or even that i spoke. he was disconcerted, and walked to the window; i almost believed with an intention of jumping out, until he turned, and i was reassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. he gently patted me on the head, and i sat down. "there! there!" he said. "that's over. pooh! don't be foolish!" "it shall not happen again, sir," i returned, "but at first it is difficult--" "nonsense!" he said, "it's easy, easy. why not? i hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and i take it into my head to be that protector. she grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, and i remain her guardian and her friend. what is there in all this? so, so! now, we have cleared off old scores, and i have before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again." i said to myself, "esther, my dear, you surprise me! this really is not what i expected of you!" and it had such a good effect, that i folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. mr. jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as confidentially, as if i had been in the habit of conversing with him every morning for i don't know how long. i almost felt as if i had. "of course, esther," he said, "you don't understand this chancery business?" and of course i shook my head. "i don't know who does," he returned. "the lawyers have twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. it's about a will, and the trusts under a will--or it was, once. it's about nothing but costs, now. we are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing, and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about the lord chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs. that's the great question. all the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away." "but it was, sir," said i, to bring him back, for he began to rub his head, "about a will?" "why, yes, it was about a will when it was about any thing," he returned. "a certain jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune, and made a great will. in the question how the trusts under that will are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered away: the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished, if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them; and the will itself is made a dead letter. all through the deplorable cause, every thing that every body in it, except one man, knows already, is referred to that only one man who don't know it, to find out--all through the deplorable cause, every body must have copies, over and over again, of every thing that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which is the usual course, for nobody wants them); and must go down the middle and up again, through such an infernal country-dance of costs, and fees, and nonsense, and corruption, as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a witch's sabbath. equity sends questions to law, law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can't do this, equity finds it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do any thing, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for a, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for b; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the apple pie. and thus, through years and years, and lives and lives, every thing goes on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing ever ends. and we can't get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and _must be_ parties to it, whether we like it or not. but it won't do to think of it! when my great-uncle, poor tom jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the beginning of the end!" "the mr. jarndyce, sir, whose story i have heard?" he nodded gravely. "i was his heir, and this was his house, esther. when i came here, it was bleak, indeed. he had left the signs of his misery upon it." "how changed it must be now!" i said. "it had been called, before his time, the peaks. he gave it its present name, and lived here shut up: day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. in the mean time, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. when i brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me have been blown out of the house too; it was so shattered and ruined." he walked a little to and fro, after saying this to himself with a shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down again with his hands in his pockets. "i told you this was the growlery, my dear. where was i?" i reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in bleak house. "bleak house: true. there is, in that city of london there, some property of ours, which is much at this day what bleak house was then--i say property of ours, meaning of the suit's, but i ought to call it the property of costs; for costs is the only power on earth that will ever get any thing out of it now, or will ever know it for any thing but an eyesore and a heartsore. it is a street of perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out; without a pane of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder; the iron rails peeling away in flakes of rust; the chimneys sinking in; the stone steps to every door (and every door might be death's door) turning stagnant green; the very crutches on which the ruins are propped, decaying. although bleak house was not in chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with the same seal. these are the great seal's impressions, my dear, all over england--the children know them!" "how changed it is!" i said again. "why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; "and it is wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (the idea of my wisdom!) "these are things i never talk about, or even think about, excepting in the growlery, here. if you consider it right to mention them to rick and ada," looking seriously at me, "you can. i leave it to your discretion, esther." "i hope, sir--" said i. "i think you had better call me guardian, my dear." i felt that i was choking again--i taxed myself with it, "esther, now, you know you are!"--when he feigned to say this slightly, as if it were a whim, instead of a thoughtful tenderness. but i gave the housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to myself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the basket, looked at him quietly. "i hope, guardian," said i, "that you may not trust too much to my discretion. i hope you may not mistake me. i am afraid it will be a disappointment to you to know that i am not clever--but it really is the truth; and you would soon find it out if i had not the honesty to confess it." he did not seem at all disappointed: quite the contrary. he told me, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed, and that i was quite clever enough for him. "i hope i may turn out so," said i, "but i am much afraid of it, guardian." "you are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear," he returned, playfully; "the little old woman of the child's (i don't mean skimpole's) rhyme. 'little old woman, and whither so high?'-- 'to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.' you will sweep them so neatly out of _our_ sky, in the course of your housekeeping, esther, that one of these days, we shall have to abandon the growlery, and nail up the door." this was the beginning of my being called old woman, and little old woman, and cobweb, and mrs. shipton, and mother hubbard, and dame durden, and so many names of that sort, that my own name soon became quite lost among them. "however," said mr. jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. here's rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. what's to be done with him?" o my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point! "here he is, esther," said mr. jarndyce, comfortably putting his hands in his pockets and stretching out his legs. "he must have a profession; he must make some choice for himself. there will be a world more wiglomeration about it, i suppose, but it must be done." "more what, guardian?" said i. "more wiglomeration," said he. "it's the only name i know for the thing. he is a ward in chancery, my dear. kenge and carboy will have something to say about it;--master somebody--a sort of ridiculous sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the end of qualify court, chancery-lane--will have something to say about it; counsel will have something to say about it; the chancellor will have something to say about it; the satellites will have something to say about it; they will all have to be handsomely fee'd, all round, about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, and i call it, in general, wiglomeration. how mankind ever came to be afflicted with wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a pit of it, i don't know; so it is." he began to rub his head again, and to hint that he felt the wind. but it was a delightful instance of his kindness toward me, that whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was sure to turn comfortable again, and put his hands in his pockets and stretch out his legs. "perhaps it would be best, first of all," said i, "to ask mr. richard what he inclines to himself." "exactly so," he returned. "that's what i mean! you know, just accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet way, with him and ada, and see what you all make of it. we are sure to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman." i really was frightened at the thought of the importance i was attaining, and the number of things that were being confided to me. i had not meant this at all; i had meant that he should speak to richard. but of course i said nothing in reply, except that i would do my best, though i feared (i really felt it necessary to repeat this) that he thought me much more sagacious than i was. at which my guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh i ever heard. "come!" he said, rising and pushing back his chair. "i think we may have done with the growlery for one day! only a concluding word. esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me any thing?" he looked so attentively at me, that i looked attentively at him, and felt sure i understood him. "about myself, sir?" said i. "yes." "guardian," said i, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly colder than i could have wished, in his, "nothing! i am quite sure that if there were any thing i ought to know, or had any need to know, i should not have to ask you to tell it to me. if my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, i must have a hard heart indeed. i have nothing to ask you; nothing in the world." he drew my hand through his arm, and we went away to look for ada. from that hour i felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite content to know no more, quite happy. we lived, at first, rather a busy life at bleak house; for we had to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighborhood who knew mr. jarndyce. it seemed to ada and me that every body knew him, who wanted to do any thing with any body else's money. it amazed us, when we began to sort his letters, and to answer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning, to find how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. the ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, i think they were even more so. they threw themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner, and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. it appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole post-office directory--shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards, penny cards. they wanted every thing. they wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever mr. jarndyce had--or had not. their objects were as various as their demands. they were going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building (engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the sisterhood of mediæval marys; they were going to give a testimonial to mrs. jellyby; they were going to have their secretary's portrait painted, and presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him was well known; they were going to get up every thing, i really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity, and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. they took a multitude of titles. they were the women of england, the daughters of britain, the sisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the females of america, the ladies of a hundred denominations. they appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. they seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing their candidates in for any thing. it made our heads ache to think, on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead. among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious benevolence (if i may use the expression), was a mrs. pardiggle, who seemed, as i judged from the number of her letters to mr. jarndyce, to be almost as powerful a correspondent as mrs. jellyby herself. we observed that the wind always changed when mrs. pardiggle became the subject of conversation: and that it invariably interrupted mr. jarndyce, and prevented his going any further, when he had remarked that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who did a little and made a great deal of noise: the other, the people, who did a great deal and made no noise at all. we were therefore curious to see mrs. pardiggle, suspecting her to be the type of the former class; and were glad when she called one day with her five young sons. she was a formidable style of lady, with spectacles, a prominent nose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room. and she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her skirts that were quite a great way off. as only ada and i were at home, we received her timidly; for she seemed to come in like cold weather, and to make the little pardiggles blue as they followed. "these, young ladies," said mrs. pardiggle, with great volubility, after the first salutations, "are my five boys. you may have seen their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one), in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce. egbert, my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket money, to the amount of five-and-three-pence, to the tockahoopo indians. oswald, my second (ten-and-a-half), is the child who contributed two-and-nine-pence to the great national smithers testimonial, francis, my third (nine), one-and-sixpence-half-penny; felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the superannuated widows; alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself in the infant bonds of joy, and is pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form." we had never seen such dissatisfied children. it was not merely that they were weazen and shriveled--though they were certainly that too--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. at the mention of the tockahoopo indians, i could really have supposed egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave me such a savage frown. the face of each child, as the amount of his contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was by far the worst. i must except, however, the little recruit into the infant bonds of joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. "you have been visiting, i understand," said mrs. pardiggle, "at mrs. jellyby's?" we said yes, we had passed one night there. "mrs. jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the same demonstrative, loud, hard, tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and i may take the opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging by her eyes being what ada called "choking eyes," meaning very prominent: "mrs. jellyby is a benefactor to society, and deserves a helping hand. my boys have contributed to the african project--egbert, one-and-six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; oswald, one-and-a-penny-half-penny, being the same; the rest, according to their little means. nevertheless, i do not go with mrs. jellyby in all things. i do not go with mrs. jellyby in her treatment of her young family. it has been noticed. it has been observed that her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted. she may be right, she may be wrong; but right or wrong, this is not my course with _my_ young family. i take them every where." i was afterward convinced (and so was ada) that from the ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. he turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell. "they attend matins with me (very prettily done), at half-past six o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the depth of winter," said mrs. pardiggle, rapidly, "and they are with me during the revolving duties of the day. i am a school lady, i am a visiting lady, i am a reading lady, i am a distributing lady; i am on the local linen box committee, and many general committees; and my canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more so. but they are my companions every where; and by these means they acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general--in short, that taste for the sort of thing--which will render them in after life a service to their neighbors, and a satisfaction to themselves. my young family are not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance, in subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many public meetings, and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discussions, as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. alfred (five), who, as i mentioned, has of his own election joined the infant bonds of joy, was one of the very few children who manifested consciousness on that occasion, after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening." alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the injury of that night. "you may have observed, miss summerson," said mrs. pardiggle, "in some of the lists to which i have referred, in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce, that the names of my young family are concluded with the name of o. a. pardiggle, f.r.s., one pound. that is their father. we usually observe the same routine. i put down my mite first; then my young family enroll their contributions, according to their ages and their little means; and then mr. pardiggle brings up the rear. mr. pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves, but we trust, improving to others." suppose mr. pardiggle were to dine with mr. jellyby, and suppose mr. jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to mr. pardiggle, would mr. pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communication to mr. jellyby? i was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it came into my head. "you are very pleasantly situated here!" said mrs. pardiggle. we were glad to change the subject; and, going to the window, pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to me to rest with curious indifference. "you know mr. gusher?" said our visitor. we were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of mr. gusher's acquaintance. "the loss is yours, i assure you," said mrs. pardiggle, with her commanding deportment. "he is a very fervid, impassioned speaker--full of fire! stationed in a wagon on this lawn now, which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours! by this time, young ladies," said mrs. pardiggle, moving back to her chair, and over-turning, as if by invisible agency, a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket on it, "by this time you have found me out, i dare say?" this was really such a confusing question that ada looked at me in perfect dismay. as to the guilty nature of my own consciousness, after what i had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the color of my cheeks. "found out, i mean," said mrs. pardiggle, "the prominent point in my character. i am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable immediately. i lay myself open to detection, i know. well! i freely admit, i am a woman of business. i love hard work; i enjoy hard work. the excitement does me good. i am so accustomed and inured to hard work, that i don't know what fatigue is." we murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying; or something to that effect. i don't think we knew why it was either, but this was what our politeness expressed. "i do not understand what it is to be tired; you can not tire me, if you try!" said mrs. pardiggle. "the quantity of exertion (which is no exertion to me), the amount of business (which i regard as nothing) that i go through, sometimes astonishes myself. i have seen my young family, and mr. pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when i may truly say i have been as fresh as a lark!" if that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had already looked, this was the time when he did it. i observed that he doubled his right fist, and delivered a secret blow into the crown of his cap, which was under his left arm. "this gives me a great advantage when i am making my rounds," said mrs. pardiggle. "if i find a person unwilling to hear what i have to say, i tell that person directly, 'i am incapable of fatigue, my good friend, i am never tired, and i mean to go on until i have done.' it answers admirably! miss summerson, i hope i shall have your assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and miss clare's very soon?" at first i tried to excuse myself, for the present, on the general ground of having occupations to attend to, which i must not neglect. but as this was an ineffectual protest, i then said, more particularly, that i was not sure of my qualifications. that i was inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very differently situated, and addressing them from suitable points of view. that i had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to such a work. that i had much to learn, myself, before i could teach others, and that i could not confide in my good intentions alone. for these reasons, i thought it best to be as useful as i could, and to render what kind services i could, to those immediately about me; and to try to let that circle of duty gradually and naturally expand itself. all this i said with any thing but confidence, because mrs. pardiggle was much older than i, and had great experience, and was so very military in her manners. "you are wrong, miss summerson," said she: "but perhaps you are not equal to hard work, or the excitement of it; and that makes a vast difference. if you would like to see how i go through my work, i am now about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in the neighborhood (a very bad character), and shall be glad to take you with me. miss clare also, if she will do me the favor." ada and i interchanged looks, and, as we were going out in any case, accepted the offer. when we hastily returned from putting on our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner, and mrs. pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light objects it contained. mrs. pardiggle took possession of ada, and i followed with the family. ada told me afterward that mrs. pardiggle talked in the same loud tone (that, indeed, i overheard), all the way to the brickmaker's, about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged against another lady, relative to the bringing in of their rival candidates for a pension somewhere. there had been a quantity of printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling; and it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the pensioners--who were not elected yet. i am very fond of being confided in by children, and am happy in being usually favored in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me great uneasiness. as soon as we were out of doors, egbert, with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me, on the ground that his pocket-money was "boned" from him. on my pointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially in connection with his parent (for he added sulkily "by her!") he pinched me and said, "o, then! now! who are you? you wouldn't like it, i think? what does she make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?" these exasperating questions so inflamed his mind, and the minds of oswald and francis, that they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way: screwing up such little pieces of my arms that i could hardly forbear crying out. felix, at the same time, stamped upon my toes. and the bond of joy, who, on account of always having the whole of his little income anticipated, stood in fact pledged to abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we passed a pastry-cook's shop, that he terrified me by becoming purple. i never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a walk with young people, as from these unnaturally constrained children, when they paid me the compliment of being natural. i was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house; though it was one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pig-sties close to the broken windows, and miserable little gardens before the doors, growing nothing but stagnant pools. here and there, an old tub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. at the doors and windows, some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took little notice of us, except to laugh to one another, or to say something as we passed, about gentlefolks minding their own business, and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to look after other people's. mrs. pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral determination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits of the people (though i doubted if the best of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled. besides ourselves, there were in this damp offensive room--a woman with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, all stained with clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man, fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl, doing some kind of washing in very dirty water. they all looked up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face toward the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome. "well, my friends," said mrs. pardiggle; but her voice had not a friendly sound, i thought; it was much too business-like and systematic. "how do you do, all of you? i am here again. i told you, you couldn't tire me, you know. i am fond of hard work, and am true to my word." "there an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to come in, is there?" "no, my friend," said mrs. pardiggle, seating herself on one stool, and knocking down another. "we are all here." [illustration: the visit at the brickmaker's.] "because i thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" said the man, with his pipe between his lips, as he looked round upon us. the young man and the girl both laughed. two friends of the young man whom we had attracted to the doorway, and who stood there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily. "you can't tire me, good people," said mrs. pardiggle to these latter. "i enjoy hard work; and the harder you make mine, the better i like it." "then make it easy for her!" growled the man upon the floor. "i wants it done, and over. i wants a end of these liberties took with my place. i wants a end of being drawed like a badger. now you're a going to poll-pry and question according to custom--i know what you're a going to be up to. well! you haven't got no occasion to be up to it. i'll save you the trouble. is my daughter a washin? yes, she is a washin. look at the water. smell it! that's wot we drinks. how do you like it, and what do you think of gin, instead! an't my place dirty? yes, it is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. have i read the little book wot you left? no, i an't read the little book wot you left. there an't nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there wos, it wouldn't be suitable to me. it's a book fit for a babby, and i'm not a babby. if you was to leave me a doll, i shouldn't nuss it. how have i been conducting of myself? why, i've been drunk for three days; and i'd a been drunk four, if i'd a had the money. don't i never mean for to go to church? no, i don't never mean for to go to church. i shouldn't be expected there, if i did; the beadle's too genteel for me. and how did my wife get that black eye? why, i giv' it her; and if she says i didn't, she's a lie!" he had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now turned over on his other side, and smoked again. mrs. pardiggle, who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible composure, calculated, i could not help thinking, to increase his antagonism, pulled out a good book, as if it were a constable's staff, and took the whole family into custody. i mean into religious custody, of course; but she really did it, as if she were an inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station house. ada and i were very uncomfortable. we both felt intrusive and out of place; and we both thought that mrs. pardiggle would have got on infinitely better, if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking possession of people. the children sulked and stared; the family took no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog bark: which he usually did, when mrs. pardiggle was most emphatic. we both felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there was an iron barrier, which could not be removed by our new friend. by whom, or how, it could be removed, we did not know; but we knew that. even what she read and said, seemed to us to be ill chosen for such auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so much tact. as to the little book to which the man on the floor had referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterward; and mr. jarndyce said he doubted if robinson crusoe could have read it, though he had had no other on his desolate island. we were much relieved, under these circumstances, when mrs. pardiggle left off. the man on the floor then turning his head round again, said morosely, "well! you've done, have you?" "for to-day, i have, my friend. but i am never fatigued. i shall come to you again, in your regular order," returned mrs. pardiggle with demonstrative cheerfulness. "so long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shutting his eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like!" mrs. pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a little vortex in the confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others to follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and all his house would be improved when she saw them next, she then proceeded to another cottage. i hope it is not unkind in me to say that she certainly did make, in this, as in every thing else, a show that was not conciliatory, of doing charity by wholesale, and of dealing in it to a large extent. she supposed that we were following her; but as soon as the space was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire, to ask if the baby were ill. she only looked at it as it lay on her lap. we had observed before, that when she looked at it she covered her discolored eyes with her hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and violence and ill-treatment, from the poor little child. ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to touch its little face. as she did so, i saw what happened and drew her back. the child died. "o esther!" cried ada, sinking on her knees beside it. "look here! o esther, my love, the little thing! the suffering, quiet, pretty little thing! i am so sorry for it. i am so sorry for the mother. i never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! o baby, baby!" such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent down weeping, and put her hand upon the mother's, might have softened any mother's heart that ever beat. the woman at first gazed at her in astonishment, and then burst into tears. presently i took the light burden from her lap; did what i could to make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler; laid it on a shelf, and covered it with my own handkerchief. we tried to comfort the mother, and we whispered to her what our saviour said of children. she answered nothing, but sat weeping--weeping very much. when i turned i found that the young man had taken out the dog, and was standing at the door looking in upon us; with dry eyes, but quiet. the girl was quiet too, and sat in a corner looking on the ground. the man had risen. he still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but he was silent. an ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while i was glancing at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, "jenny! jenny!" the mother rose on being so addressed, and fell upon the woman's neck. she also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill-usage. she had no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when she condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no beauty. i say condoled, but her only words were "jenny! jenny!" all the rest was in the tone in which she said them. i thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and shabby and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one another; to see how they felt for one another; how the heart of each to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. i think the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. what the poor are to the poor is little known excepting to themselves and god. we felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. we stole out quietly, and without notice from any one except the man. he was leaning against the wall near the door; and finding that there was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. he seemed to want to hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that he did, and thanked him. he made no answer. ada was so full of grief all the way home, and richard, whom we found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!) that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts, and repeat our visit at the brickmaker's house. we said as little as we could to mr. jarndyce, but the wind changed directly. richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning expedition. on our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house, where a number of men were flocking about the door. among them, and prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. at a short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial company. the sister was standing laughing and talking with some other young women, at the corner of the row of cottages; but she seemed ashamed, and turned away as we went by. we left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling, and proceeded by ourselves. when we came to the door, we found the woman who had brought such consolation with her, standing there, looking anxiously out. "it's you, young ladies, is it?" she said in a whisper. "i'm a watching for my master. my heart's in my mouth. if he was to catch me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me." "do you mean your husband?" said i. "yes, miss, my master. jenny's asleep, quite worn out. she's scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights, except when i've been able to take it for a minute or two." as she gave way for us, we went softly in, and put what we had brought, near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. no effort had been made to clean the room--it seemed in its nature almost hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form, from which so much solemnity diffused itself, had been composed afresh, and washed, and neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on my handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly! "may heaven reward you!" we said to her. "you are a good woman." "me, young ladies?" she returned with surprise. "hush! jenny, jenny!" the mother had moaned in her sleep, and moved. the sound of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. she was quiet once more. how little i thought, when i raised my handkerchief to look upon the tiny sleeper underneath, and seemed to see a halo shine around the child through ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head--how little i thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come to lie, after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! i only thought that perhaps the angel of the child might not be all unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner. "jenny, jenny!" chapter ix.--signs and tokens. i don't know how it is, i seem to be always writing about myself. i mean all the time to write about other people, and i try to think about myself as little as possible, and i am sure, when i find myself coming into the story again, i am really vexed and say, "dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, i wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of no use. i hope any one who may read what i write, will understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me, i can only suppose it must be because i have really something to do with them, and can't be kept out. my darling and i read together, and worked, and practiced; and found so much employment for our time, that the winter days flew by us like bright-winged birds. generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, richard gave us his company. although he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of our society. he was very, very, very fond of ada. i mean it, and i had better say it at once. i had never seen any young people falling in love before, but i found them out quite soon. i could not say so, of course, or show that i knew any thing about it. on the contrary, i was so demure, and used to seem so unconscious, that sometimes i considered within myself while i was sitting at work, whether i was not growing quite deceitful. but there was no help for it. all i had to do was to be quiet, and i was as quiet as a mouse. they were as quiet as mice, too, so far as any words were concerned; but the innocent manner in which they relied more and more upon me, as they took more and more to one another, was so charming, that i had great difficulty in not showing how it interested me. "our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," richard would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that i can't get on without her. before i begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away at those books and instruments, and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here i am again!" "you know, dame durden, dear," ada would say at night, with her head upon my shoulder, and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "i don't want to talk when we come up-stairs here. only to sit a little while, thinking, with your dear face for company; and to hear the wind, and remember the poor sailors at sea--" ah! perhaps richard was going to be a sailor. we had talked it over very often, now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination of his childhood for the sea. mr. jarndyce had written to a relation of the family, a great sir leicester dedlock, for his interest in richard's favor, generally; and sir leicester had replied in a gracious manner, "that he would be happy to advance the prospects of the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power, which was not at all probable--and that my lady sent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied by remote consanguinity), and trusted that he would ever do his duty in any honorable profession to which he might devote himself." "so i apprehend it's pretty clear," said richard to me, "that i shall have to work my own way. never mind! plenty of people have had to do that before now, and have done it. i only wish i had the command of a clipping privateer, to begin with, and could carry off the chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause. he'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp!" with a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gayety that hardly ever flagged, richard had a carelessness in his character that quite perplexed me--principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd way, for prudence. it entered into all his calculations about money, in a singular manner, which i don't think i can better explain than by reverting for a moment to our loan to mr. skimpole. mr. jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from mr. skimpole himself or from coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to richard. the number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount, would form a sum in simple addition. "my prudent mother hubbard, why not?" he said to me, when he wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the brickmaker. "i made ten pounds, clear, out of coavinses' business." "how was that?" said i. "why, i got rid of ten pounds which i was quite content to get rid of, and never expected to see any more. you don't deny that?" "no," said i. "very well! then i came into possession of ten pounds--" "the same ten pounds," i hinted. "that has nothing to do with it!" returned richard. "i have got ten pounds more than i expected to have, and consequently i can afford to spend it without being particular." in exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good, he carried that sum to his credit, and drew upon it. "let me see!" he would say. "i saved five pounds out of the brickmaker's affair; so, if i have a good rattle to london and back in a post-chaise, and put that down at four pounds, i shall have saved one. and it's a very good thing to save one, let me tell you; a penny saved, is a penny got!" i believe richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there possibly can be. he was ardent and brave, and, in the midst of all his wild restlessness, was so gentle, that i knew him like a brother in a few weeks. his gentleness was natural to him, and would have shown itself, abundantly, even without ada's influence; but, with it, he became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be interested, and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. i am sure that i, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet suspected even by the other--i am sure that i was scarcely less enchanted than they were, and scarcely less pleased with the pretty dream. we were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast mr. jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription said, "from boythorn? ay, ay!" and opened and read it with evident pleasure, announcing to us, in a parenthesis, when he was about half-way through, that boythorn was "coming down" on a visit. now, who was boythorn? we all thought. and i dare say we all thought, too--i am sure i did, for one--would boythorn at all interfere with what was going forward? "i went to school with this fellow, lawrence boythorn," said mr. jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, "more than five-and-forty years ago. he was then the most impetuous boy in the world, and he is now the most impetuous man. he was then the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. he was then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest and sturdiest man. he is a tremendous fellow." "in stature, sir?" asked richard. "pretty well, rick, in that respect," said mr. jarndyce; "being some ten years older than i, and a couple of inches taller, with his head thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs!--there's no simile for his lungs. talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake." as mr. jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend boythorn, we observed the favorable omen that there was not the least indication of any change in the wind. "but it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, rick--and ada, and little cobweb, too, for you are all interested in a visitor!--that i speak of," he pursued. "his language is as sounding as his voice. he is always in extremes: perpetually in the superlative degree. in his condemnation he is all ferocity. you might suppose him to be an ogre, from what he says; and i believe he has the reputation of one with some people. there! i tell you no more of him beforehand. you must not be surprised to see him take me under his protection; for he has never forgotten that i was a low boy at school, and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. boythorn and his man," to me, "will be here this afternoon, my dear." i took care that the necessary preparations were made for mr. boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some curiosity. the afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear. the dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. the dinner was put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light but the blaze, when the hall-door suddenly burst open, and the hall resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and in a stentorian tone: "we have been misdirected, jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right instead of to the left. he is the most intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. his father must have been a most consummate villain, ever to have had such a son. i would have that fellow shot without the least remorse!" "did he do it on purpose?" mr. jarndyce inquired. "i have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his whole existence in misdirecting travelers!" returned the other. "by my soul, i thought him the worst-looking dog i had ever beheld, when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. and yet i stood before that fellow face to face, and didn't knock his brains out!" "teeth, you mean?" said mr. jarndyce. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed mr. lawrence boythorn, really making the whole house vibrate. "what, you have not forgotten it yet! ha, ha, ha!--and that was another most consummate vagabond! by my soul, the countenance of that fellow, when he was a boy, was the blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. if i were to meet that most unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, i would fell him like a rotten tree!" "i have no doubt of it," said mr. jarndyce. "now, will you come up-stairs?" "by my soul, jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer to his watch, "if you had been married, i would have turned back at the garden gate, and gone away to the remotest summits of the himalaya mountains, sooner than i would have presented myself at this unseasonable hour." "not quite so far, i hope?" said mr. jarndyce. "by my life and honor, yes!" cried the visitor. "i wouldn't be guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house waiting all this time, for any earthly consideration. i would infinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!" talking thus, they went up-stairs; and presently we heard him in his bed-room thundering. "ha, ha, ha!" and again, "ha, ha, ha!" until the flattest echo in the neighborhood seemed to catch the contagion, and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did, or as we did when we heard him laugh. we all conceived a prepossession in his favor; for there was a sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous healthy voice, and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. but we were hardly prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance, when mr. jarndyce presented him. he was not only a very handsome old gentleman--upright and stalwart as he had been described to us--with a massive gray head, a fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was--incapable (as richard said) of any thing on a limited scale, and firing away with those blank great guns, because he carried no small arms whatever--that really i could not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed with ada and me, or was led by mr. jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up his head like a blood-hound, and gave out that tremendous ha, ha, ha! "you have brought your bird with you, i suppose?" said mr. jarndyce. "by heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in europe!" replied the other. "he is the most wonderful creature! i wouldn't take ten thousand guineas for that bird. i have left an annuity for his sole support, in case he should outlive me. he is, in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. and his father before him was one of the most astonishing birds that ever lived!" the subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so tame that he was brought down by mr. boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and, after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted on his master's head. to hear mr. boythorn presently expressing the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good illustration of his character, i thought. "by my soul, jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit of bread to the canary to peck at, "if i were in your place, i would seize every master in chancery by the throat to-morrow morning, and shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets, and his bones rattled in his skin. i would have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means or by foul. if you would empower me to do it, i would do it for you with the greatest satisfaction!" (all this time, the very small canary was eating out of his hand). "i thank you, lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at present," returned mr. jarndyce, laughing, "that it would be greatly advanced, even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole bar." "there never was such an infernal caldron as that chancery, on the face of the earth!" said mr. boythorn. "nothing but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and precedents collected in it, and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the accountant-general to its father the devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it in the least!" it was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he recommended this strong measure of reform. when we laughed, he threw up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country seemed to echo to his ha, ha, ha! it had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete; and who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master, as if he were no more than another bird. "but how do you and your neighbor get on about the disputed right of way?" said mr. jarndyce. "you are not free from the toils of the law yourself." "the fellow has brought actions against me for trespass, and i have brought actions against _him_ for trespass," returned mr. boythorn. "by heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. it is morally impossible that his name can be sir leicester. it must be sir lucifer." "complimentary to our distant relation!" said my guardian, laughingly, to ada and richard. "i would beg miss clare's pardon and mr. carstone's pardon," resumed our visitor, "if i were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of the lady, and the smile of the gentleman, that it is quite unnecessary, and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance." "or he keeps us," suggested richard. "by my soul!" exclaimed mr. boythorn, suddenly firing another volley, "that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of nature, born in any station of life but a walking-stick's! the whole of that family are the most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads!--but it's no matter; he should not shut up my path, if he were fifty baronets melted into one, and living in a hundred chesney wolds, one within another, like the ivory balls in a chinese carving. the fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me, 'sir leicester dedlock, baronet, presents his compliments to mr. lawrence boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old parsonage-house now the property of mr. lawrence boythorn, is sir leicester's right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of chesney wold; and that sir leicester finds it convenient to close up the same.' i write to the fellow, 'mr. lawrence boythorn presents his compliments to sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and has to call his attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of sir leicester dedlock's positions on every possible subject, and has to add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake to do it.' the fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye, to construct a gateway. i play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine, until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. the fellow erects a gate in the night. i chop it down and burn it in the morning. he sends his myrmidons to come over the fence, and pass and repass. i catch them in humane man-traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the engine--resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians. he brings actions for trespass; i bring actions for trespass. he brings actions for assault and battery; i defend them, and continue to assault and batter. ha, ha, ha!" to hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have thought him the angriest of mankind. to see him, at the very same time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb, and softly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought him the gentlest. to hear him laugh, and see the broad good-nature of his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a summer joke. "no, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths, by any dedlock! though i willingly confess," here he softened in a moment, "that lady dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom i would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head seven hundred years thick, may. a man who joined his regiment at twenty, and, within a week, challenged the most imperious and presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the breath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is not the man to be walked over, by all the sir lucifers, dead or alive, locked or unlocked. ha, ha! ha." "nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over, either?" said my guardian. "most assuredly not!" said mr. boythorn, clapping him on the shoulder with an air of protection, that had something serious in it, though he laughed. "he will stand by the low boy, always. jarndyce, you may rely upon him! but speaking of this trespass--with apologies to miss clare and miss summerson for the length at which i have pursued so dry a subject--is there nothing for me from your men, kenge and carboy?" "i think not, esther?" said mr. jarndyce. "nothing, guardian." "much obliged!" said mr. boythorn. "had no need to ask, after even my slight experience of miss summerson's forethought for every one about her." (they all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) "i inquired because, coming from lincolnshire, i of course have not yet been in town, and i thought some letters might have been sent down here. i dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning." i saw him so often, in the course of the evening, which passed very pleasantly, contemplate richard and ada with an interest and a satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and he had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music, for his face showed it--that i asked my guardian, as we sat at the backgammon board, whether mr. boythorn had ever been married. "no," said he. "no." "but he meant to be?" said i. "how did you find out that?" he returned, with a smile. "why, guardian," i explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, "there is something so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and--" mr. jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting, as i have just described him. i said no more. "you are right, little woman," he answered. "he was all but married, once. long ago. and once." "did the lady die?" "no--but she died to him. that time has had its influence on all his later life. would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet?" "i think, guardian, i might have supposed so. but it is easy to say that, when you have told me so." "he has never since been what he might have been," said mr. jarndyce, "and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant, and his little yellow friend. it's your throw, my dear!" i felt, from my guardian's manner, that beyond this point i could not pursue the subject without changing the wind. i therefore fore-bore to ask any further questions. i was interested, but not curious. i thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when i was awakened by mr. boythorn's lusty snoring; and i tried to do that very difficult thing--imagine old people young again, and invested with the graces of youth. but i fell asleep before i had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when i lived in my godmother's house. i am not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects, to know whether it is at all remarkable that i almost always dreamed of that period of my life. with the morning, there came a letter from messrs. kenge and carboy to mr. boythorn, informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon him at noon. as it was the day of the week on which i paid the bills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact as possible, i remained at home while mr. jarndyce, ada, and richard, took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excursion. mr. boythorn was to wait for kenge and carboy's clerk, and then was to go on foot to meet them on their return. well! i was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, adding up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and i dare say making a great bustle about it, when mr. guppy was announced and shown in. i had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down, might be the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office; and i was glad to see him, because he was associated with my present happiness. i scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. he had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colors, a large hot-house flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with bear's-grease and other perfumery. he looked at me with an attention that quite confused me, when i begged him to take a seat until the servant should return; and as he sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs in a corner, and i asked him if he had had a pleasant ride, and hoped that mr. kenge was well, i never looked at him but i found him looking at me, in the same scrutinizing and curious way. when the request was brought to him that he would go up-stairs to mr. boythorn's room, i mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for him when he came down, of which mr. jarndyce hoped he would partake. he said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door, "shall i have the honor of finding you here, miss?" i replied yes, i should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look. i thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much embarrassed; and i fancied that the best thing i could do, would be to wait until i saw that he had every thing he wanted, and then to leave him to himself. the lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some time on the table. the interview with mr. boythorn was a long one--and a stormy one too, i should think; for, although his room was at some distance, i heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation. at last mr. guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference. "my eye, miss," he said, in a low voice, "he's a tartar!" "pray take some refreshment, sir," said i. mr. guppy sat down at the table, and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork; still looking at me (as i felt quite sure, without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. the sharpening lasted so long, that at last i felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my eyes, in order that i might break the spell under which he seemed to labor, of not being able to leave off. he immediately looked at the dish, and began to carve. "what will you take yourself, miss? you'll take a morsel of something?" "no, thank you," said i. "shan't i give you a piece of any thing at all, miss?" said mr. guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine. "nothing, thank you," said i. "i have only waited to see that you have every thing you want. is there any thing i can order for you?" "no, i am much obliged to you, miss, i'm sure. i've every thing i can require to make me comfortable--at least i--not comfortable--i'm never that:" he drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another. i thought i had better go. "i beg your pardon, miss?" said mr. guppy, rising, when he saw me rise. "but would you allow me the favor of a minute's private conversation?" not knowing what to say, i sat down again. "what follows is without prejudice, miss?" said mr. guppy, anxiously bringing a chair toward my table. "i don't understand what you mean," said i, wondering. "it's one of our law terms, miss. you won't make any use of it to my detriment, at kenge and carboy's or elsewhere. if our conversation shouldn't lead to any thing, i am to be as i was, and am not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. in short, it's in total confidence." "i am at a loss, sir," said i, "to imagine what you can have to communicate in total confidence to me whom you have never seen but once; but i should be very sorry to do you any injury." "thank you, miss. i'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient." all this time mr. guppy was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief, or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his right "if you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, i think it might assist me in getting on, without a continual choke that can not fail to be mutually unpleasant." he did so, and came back again. i took the opportunity of moving well behind my table. "you wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you, miss?" said mr. guppy, apparently refreshed. "not any," said i. "not half a glass?" said mr. guppy; "quarter? no! then, to proceed. my present salary, miss summerson, at kenge and carboy's, is two pound a week. when i first had the happiness of looking upon you, it was one-fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened period. a rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present date. my mother has a little property, which takes the form of a small life annuity; upon which she lives in an independent though unassuming manner, in the old street road. she is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. she never interferes, is all for peace, and her disposition easy. she has her failings--as who has not?--but i never knew her to do it when company was present; at which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors. my own abode is lodgings at penton place, pentonville. it is lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets. miss summerson, in the mildest language, i adore you! would you be so kind as to allow me (as i may say) to file a declaration--to make an offer!" mr. guppy went down on his knees. i was well behind my table, and not much frightened. i said, "get up from that ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise and ring the bell!" "hear me out, miss!" said mr. guppy, folding his hands. "i can not consent to hear another word, sir," i returned, "unless you get up from the carpet directly, and go and sit down at the table, as you ought to do if you have any sense at all." [illustration: in re guppy. extraordinary proceedings.] he looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so. "yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said, with his hand upon his heart, and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. the soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss." "i beg you to conclude," said i; "you have asked me to hear you out, and i beg you to conclude." "i will, miss," said mr. guppy. "as i love and honor, so likewise i obey. would that i could make thee the subject of that vow, before the shrine!" "that is quite impossible," said i, "and entirely out of the question." "i am aware," said mr. guppy, leaning forward over the tray, and regarding me, as i again strangely felt, though my eyes were not directed to him, with his late intent look, "i am aware that in a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a poor one. but, miss summerson! angel!--no, don't ring!--i have been brought up in a sharp school, and am accustomed to a variety of general practice. though a young man, i have ferreted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. blest with your hand, what means might i not find of advancing your interests, and pushing your fortunes! what might i not get to know, nearly concerning you? i know nothing now, certainly; but what _might_ i not, if i had your confidence, and you set me on?" i told him that he addressed my interest, or what he supposed to be my interest, quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination; and he would now understand that i requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately. "cruel miss," said mr. guppy, "hear but another word! i think you must have seen that i was struck with those charms, on the day when i waited at the whytorseller. i think you must have remarked that i could not forbear a tribute to those charms when i put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach. it was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was well meant. thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. i have walked up and down, of an evening, opposite jellyby's house, only to look upon the bricks that once contained thee. this out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. if i speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness. love was before it, and is before it." "i should be pained, mr. guppy," said i, rising and putting my hand upon the bell-rope, "to do you, or any one who was sincere, the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. if you have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, i feel that i ought to thank you. i have very little reason to be proud, and i am not proud. i hope," i think i added, without very well knowing what i said, "that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish, and attend to messrs. kenge and carboy's business." "half a minute, miss!" cried mr. guppy, checking me as i was about to ring. "this has been without prejudice?" "i will never mention it," said i, "unless you should give me future occasion to do so." "a quarter of a minute, miss! in case you should think better--at any time, however distant, _that's_ no consequence, for my feelings can never alter--of any thing i have said, particularly what might i not do--mr. william guppy, eighty-seven, penton place, or, if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or any thing of that sort), care of mrs. guppy, three hundred and two, old street road, will be sufficient." i rang the bell, the servant came, and mr. guppy, laying his written card upon the table, and making a dejected bow, departed. raising my eyes as he went out, i once more saw him looking at me after he had passed the door. i sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments, and getting through plenty of business. then i arranged my desk, and put every thing away, and was so composed and cheerful that i thought i had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. but, when i went up-stairs to my own room, i surprised myself by beginning to laugh about it, and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry about it. in short i was in a flutter for a little while; and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden. chapter x.--the law-writer. on the eastern borders of chancery lane, that is to say, more particularly, in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby, law stationer, pursues his lawful calling. in the shade of cook's court, at most times a shady place, mr. snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink, india-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in red-tape, and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass and leaden, penknives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention; ever since he was out of his time, and went into partnership with peffer. on that occasion, cook's court was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh paint, peffer and snagsby, displacing the time-honored and not easily to be deciphered legend, peffer, only. for smoke, which is the london ivy, had so wreathed itself round peffer's name, and clung to his dwelling-place, that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the parent tree. peffer is never seen in cook's court now. he is not expected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the church-yard of st. andrew's, holborn, with the wagons and hackney-coaches roaring past him, all the day and half the night, like one great dragon. if he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest, to air himself again in cook's court, until admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in cursitor street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it--if peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of cook's court, which no law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser. in his life-time, and likewise in the period of snagsby's "time" of seven long years, there dwelt with peffer, in the same law-stationering premises, a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty toward the end. the cook's-courtiers had a rumor flying among them, that the mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice: which acids, they held, had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. with whichsoever of the many tongues of rumour this frothy report originated, it either never reached, or never influenced, the ears of young snagsby; who, having wooed and won its fair subject, on his arrival at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. so now, in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby and the niece are one; and the niece still cherishes her figure--which, however tastes may differ, is unquestionably so far precious, that there is mighty little of it. mr. and mrs. snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the neighbors' thinking, one voice too. that voice, appearing to proceed from mrs. snagsby alone, is heard in cook's court very often. mr. snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. he is a mild, bald, timid man, with a shining head, and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. he tends to meekness and obesity. as he stands at his door in cook's court, in his gray shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds; or stands behind a desk in his dark shop, with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin, in company with his two 'prentices; he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. from beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; and, haply on some occasions, when these reach a sharper pitch than usual, mr. snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, "i think my little woman is a-giving it to guster!" this proper name, so used by mr. snagsby, has before now sharpened the wit of the cook's-courtiers to remark that it ought to be the name of mrs. snagsby; seeing that she might with great force and expression be termed a guster, in compliment to her stormy character. it is, however, the possession, and the only possession, except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to have been christened augusta); who, although she was farmed or contracted for, during her growing time, by an amiable benefactor of his species resident at tooting, and can not fail to have been developed under the most favorable circumstances, "has fits"--which the parish can't account for. guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits; and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint, that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or any thing else that happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. she is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'prentices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to mrs. snagsby, who can always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to mr. snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. the law-stationer's establishment is, in guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendor. she believes the little drawing-room up-stairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in christendom. the view it commands of cook's court, at one end (not to mention a squint into cursitor street), and of coavins's the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other, she regards as a prospect of unequaled beauty. the portraits it displays in oil--and plenty of it too--of mr. snagsby looking at mrs. snagsby, and of mrs. snagsby looking at mr. snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements of raphael or titian. guster has some recompense for her many privations. mr. snagsby refers every thing not in the practical mysteries of the business, to mrs. snagsby. she manages the money, reproaches the tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on sundays, licenses mr. snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner; insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the neighboring wives, a long way down chancery lane on both sides, and even out in holborn, who, in any domestic passages of arms, habitually call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the wives') position and mrs. snagsby's, and their (the husbands') behavior and mr. snagsby's. rumor, always flying, bat-like, about cook's court, and skimming in and out at every body's windows, does say that mrs. snagsby is jealous and inquisitive; and that mr. snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. it is even observed that the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example, in reality look down upon him; and that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady, whose lord is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of correction. but these vague whisperings may arise from mr. snagsby's being, in his way, rather a meditative and poetical man; loving to walk in staple inn in the summer time, and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are: also to lounge about the rolls yard of a sunday afternoon, and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times once, and that you'd find a stone coffin or two, now under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. he solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the many chancellors and vices and masters of the rolls, who are deceased, and he gets such a flavor of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he has heard say that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran down the middle of holborn, when turnstile really was a turnstile leading slap away into the meadows--gets such a flavor of the country out of this, that he never wants to go there. the day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully effective, for it is not quite dark. mr. snagsby, standing at his shop-door, looking up at the clouds, sees a crow, who is out late, skim westward over the leaden slice of sky belonging to cook's court. the crow flies straight across chancery lane and lincoln's inn garden, into lincoln's inn fields. here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives mr. tulkinghorn. it is let off in sets of chambers now; and in those shrunken fragment of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. but its roomy staircases, passages, and ante-chambers still remain; and even its painted ceilings, where allegory, in roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as would seem to be allegory's object always, more or less. here, among his many boxes labeled with transcendent names, lives mr. tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. here he is to-day, quiet at his table. an oyster of the old school, whom nobody can open. like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon. rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned mahogany and horse-hair chairs, not easily lifted, obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers, presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation, or the last but one, environ him. a thick and dingy turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, that give a very insufficient light to his large room. the titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding; every thing that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. very few loose papers are about. he has some manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. with the round top of an inkstand, and two broken bits of sealing-wax, he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his mind. now, the inkstand top is in the middle: now, the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. that's not it. mr. tulkinghorn must gather them all up, and begin again. here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened allegory staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, mr. tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. he keeps no staff; only one middle-aged man usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall, and is rarely overburdened with business. mr. tulkinghorn is not in a common way. he wants no clerks. he is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. his clients want _him_; he is all in all. drafts that he requires to be drawn, are drawn by special pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made, are made at the stationer's, expense being no consideration. the middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage, than any crossing-sweeper in holborn. the red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top, the little sand-box. so! you to the middle, you to the right, you to the left. this train of indecision must surely be worked out now or never. now! mr. tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, "i shall be back presently." very rarely tells him any thing more explicit. mr. tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, but nearly--to cook's court, cursitor street. to snagsby's, law stationer's, deeds engrossed and copied, law-writing executed in all its branches, &c., &c., &c. it is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in cook's court. it hovers about snagsby's door. the hours are early there; dinner at half-past one, and supper at half past nine. mr snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea, when he looked out of his door just now, and saw the crow who was out late. "master at home?" guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the kitchen, with mr. and mrs. snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the opposite house are not driving the two 'prentices to distraction, as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of guster, whose hair won't grow and never would, and, it is confidently thought, never will. "master at home?" says mr. tulkinghorn. master is at home, and guster will fetch him. guster disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration, as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture of the law: a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off. mr. snagsby appears: greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. bolts a bit of bread and butter. says, "bless my soul, sir! mr. tulkinghorn!" "i want half a word with you, snagsby." "certainly, sir! dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me? pray walk into the back shop, sir!" snagsby has brightened in a moment. the confined room, strong of parchment-grease is warehouse, counting-house, and copying-office. mr. tulkinghorn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk. "jarndyce and jarndyce, snagsby." "yes, sir." mr. snagsby turns up the gas, and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit. mr. snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save words. "you copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." "yes sir, we did." "there was one of them," says mr. tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and i rather like. as i happened to be passing, and thought i had it about me, i looked in to ask you--but i haven't got it. no matter, any other time will do--ah! here it is!--i looked in to ask you who copied this?" "who copied this, sir?" says mr. snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a twist of the left hand peculiar to law-stationers. "we gave this out, sir. we were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. i can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book." mr. snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seems to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger traveling down a page of the book. "jewby--packer--jarndyce." "jarndyce! here we are, sir," says mr. snagsby. "to be sure! i might have remembered it. this was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane." mr. tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill. "_what_ do you call him? nemo?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo, sir. here it is. forty-two folio. given out on the wednesday night, at eight o'clock; brought in on the thursday morning, at half after nine." "nemo!" repeats mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo is latin for no one." "it must be english for some one, sir, i think," mr. snagsby submits, with his deferential cough. "it is a person's name. here it is, you see, sir! forty-two folio. given out, wednesday night, eight o'clock; brought in, thursday morning, half after nine." the tail of mr. snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of mrs. snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea. mr. snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to mrs. snagsby, as who should say, "my dear, a customer!" "half after nine, sir," repeats mr. snagsby. "our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. i remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the rule office, and the king's bench office, and the judges' chambers, and so forth. you know the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?" mr. tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of coavins's, the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine into coavins's windows. coavins's coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. mr. snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head, to glance over his shoulder at his little woman, and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect: "tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!" "have you given this man work before?" asks mr. tulkinghorn. "o dear, yes, sir! work of yours." "thinking of more important matters, i forget where you said he lived!" "across the lane, sir. in fact, he lodges at a--" mr. snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insurmountable--"at a rag and bottle shop." "can you show me the place as i go back?" "with the greatest pleasure, sir!" mr. snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his gray coat, pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "oh! here is my little woman!" he says aloud. "my dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop, while i step across the lane with mr. tulkinghorn? mrs. snagsby, sir--i shan't be two minutes, my love!" mrs. snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. is evidently curious. "you will find that the place is rough, sir," says mr. snagsby, walking deferentially in the road, and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. but they're a wild lot in general, sir. the advantage of this particular man is, that he never wants sleep. he'll go it right on end, if you want him to, as long as ever you like." it is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full effect. jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants, and suitors of all sorts, and against the general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life--diving through law and equity, and through that kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what, and collects about us nobody knows whence or how: we only knowing in general that when there is too much of it, we find it necessary to shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop, and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of lincoln's inn, and kept, as is announced in paint to all whom it may concern, by one krook. "this is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer. "this is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer unconcernedly. "thank you." "are you not going in, sir?" "no, thank you, no; i am going on to the fields at present. good evening. thank you!" mr. snagsby lifts his hat, and returns to his little woman and his tea. but, mr. tulkinghorn does not go on to the fields at present. he goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of mr. krook, and enters it straight. it is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by a fire. the old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed candle in his hand. "pray, is your lodger within?" "male or female, sir?" says mr. krook. "male. the person who does copying." mr. krook has eyed his man narrowly. knows him by sight. has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. "did you wish to see him, sir?" "yes." "it's what i seldom do myself," says mr. krook with a grin. "shall i call him down? but it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!" "i'll go up to him, then," says mr. tulkinghorn. "second floor, sir. take the candle. up there!" mr. krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after mr. tulkinghorn. "hi--hi!" he says, when mr. tulkinghorn has nearly disappeared. the lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. the cat expands her wicked mouth, and snarls at him. "order, lady jane! behave yourself to visitors, my lady! you know what they say of my lodger?" whispers krook, going up a step or two. "what do they say of him?" "they say he has sold himself to the enemy; but you and i know better--he don't buy. i'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so black-humored and gloomy, that i believe he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. don't put him out, sir. that's my advice!" mr. tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. he comes to the dark door on the second floor. he knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so. the air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it, if he had not. it is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt. in the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if poverty had griped it, a red coke fire burns low. in the corner, by the chimney, stand a deal table and a broken desk: a wilderness marked with a rain of ink. in another corner, a ragged old portmanteau on one of the two chairs, serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. the floor is bare; except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. no curtain vails the darkness of the night, but the discolored shutters are drawn together; and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the bed. for, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just within the doorway sees a man. he lies there, dressed in shirt and trowsers, with bare feet. he has a yellow look, in the spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down, until the whole length of its wick (still burning) has doubled over, and left a tower of winding-sheet above it. his hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the general sickliness and faintness, and the odor of stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium. "hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick against the door. he thinks he has awakened his friend. he lies a little turned away, but his eyes are surely open. "hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "hallo! hallo!" as he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long, goes out, and leaves him in the dark; with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down upon the bed. the ghost-raiser. my uncle beagley, who commenced his commercial career very early in the present century as a bagman, _will_ tell stories. among them, he tells his single ghost story so often, that i am heartily tired of it. in self-defense, therefore, i publish the tale, in order that when next the good, kind old gentleman offers to bore us with it, every body may say they know it. i remember every word of it. one fine autumn evening, about forty years ago, i was traveling on horseback from shrewsbury to chester. i felt tolerably tired, and was beginning to look out for some snug wayside inn, where i might pass the night, when a sudden and violent thunder-storm came on. my horse, terrified by the lightning, fairly took the bridle between his teeth, and started off with me at full gallop through lanes and cross-roads, until at length i managed to pull him up just near the door of a neat-looking country inn. "well," thought i, "there was wit in your madness, old boy, since it brought us to this comfortable refuge." and alighting, i gave him in charge to the stout farmer's boy who acted as hostler. the inn-kitchen, which was also the guest-room, was large, clean, neat, and comfortable, very like the pleasant hostelry described by izaak walton. there were several travelers already in the room--probably, like myself, driven there for shelter--and they were all warming themselves by the blazing fire while waiting for supper. i joined the party. presently, being summoned by the hostess, we all sat down, twelve in number, to a smoking repast of bacon and eggs, corned beef and carrots, and stewed hare. the conversation naturally turned on the mishaps occasioned by the storm, of which every one seemed to have had his full share. one had been thrown off his horse; another, driving in a gig, had been upset into a muddy dyke; all had got a thorough wetting, and agreed unanimously that it was dreadful weather--a regular witches' sabbath! "witches and ghosts prefer for their sabbath a fine moonlight night to such weather as this!" these words were uttered in a solemn tone, and with strange emphasis, by one of the company. he was a tall, dark-looking man, and i had set him down in my own mind as a traveling merchant or peddler. my next neighbor was a gay, well-looking, fashionably-dressed young man, who, bursting into a peal of laughter, said: "you must know the manners and customs of ghosts very well, to be able to tell that they dislike getting wet or muddy." the first speaker, giving him a dark fierce look, said: "young man, speak not so lightly of things above your comprehension." "do you mean to imply that there are such things as ghosts?" "perhaps there are, if you had courage to look at them." the young man stood up, flushed with anger. but presently resuming his seat, he said, calmly: "that taunt should cost you dear, if it were not such a foolish one." "a foolish one!" exclaimed the merchant, throwing on the table a heavy leathern purse. "there are fifty guineas. i am content to lose them, if, before the hour is ended, i do not succeed in showing you, who are so obstinately prejudiced, the form of any one of your deceased friends; and if, after you have recognized him, you allow him to kiss your lips." we all looked at each other, but my young neighbor, still in the same mocking manner, replied: "you will do that, will you?" "yes," said the other--"i will stake these fifty guineas, on condition that you will pay a similar sum if you lose." after a short silence, the young man said, gayly: "fifty guineas, my worthy sorcerer, are more than a poor college sizar ever possessed; but here are five, which, if you are satisfied, i shall be most willing to wager." the other took up his purse, saying, in a contemptuous tone: "young gentleman, you wish to draw back?" "_i_ draw back!" exclaimed the student.--"well! if i had the fifty guineas, you should see whether i wish to draw back!" "here," said i, "are four guineas, which i will stake on your wager." no sooner had i made this proposition than the rest of the company, attracted by the singularity of the affair, came forward to lay down their money; and in a minute or two the fifty guineas were subscribed. the merchant appeared so sure of winning, that he placed all the stakes in the student's hands, and prepared for his experiment. we selected for the purpose a small summer-house in the garden, perfectly isolated, and having no means of exit but a window and a door, which we carefully fastened, after placing the young man within. we put writing materials on a small table in the summer-house, and took away the candles. we remained outside, with the peddler among us. in a low solemn voice he began to chant the following lines: "what riseth slow from the ocean caves and the stormy surf? the phantom pale sets his blackened foot on the fresh green turf." then, raising his voice solemnly, he said: "you asked to see your friend, francis villiers, who was drowned, three years ago, off the coast of south america--what do you see?" "i see," replied the student, "a white light arising near the window; but it has no form; it is like an uncertain cloud." we--the spectators--remained profoundly silent. "are you afraid?" asked the merchant, in a loud voice. "i am not," replied the student, firmly. after a moment's silence, the peddler stamped three times on the ground, and sang: "and the phantom white, whose clay-cold face was once so fair, dries with his shroud his clinging vest and his sea-tossed hair." once more the solemn question: "you, who would see revealed the mysteries of the tomb--what do you see now?" the student answered, in a calm voice, but like that of a man describing things as they pass before him: "i see the cloud taking the form of a phantom; its head is covered with a long vail--it stands still." "are you afraid?" "i am not." we looked at each other in horror-stricken silence, while the merchant, raising his arms above his head, chanted, in a sepulchral voice: "and the phantom said, as he rose from the wave, he shall know me in sooth! i will go to my friend, gay, smiling, and fond, as in our first youth!" "what do you see?" said he. "i see the phantom advance; he lifts his vail--'tis francis villiers!--he approaches the table--he writes!--'tis his signature!" "are you afraid?" a fearful moment of silence ensued; then the student replied, but in an altered voice: "i am not." with strange and frantic gestures, the merchant then sang: "and the phantom said to the mocking seer, i come from the south; put thy hand on my hand--thy heart on my heart-- thy mouth on my mouth!" "what do you see?" "he comes--he approaches--he pursues me--he is stretching out his arms--he will have me! help! help! save me!" "are you afraid _now_?" asked the merchant, in a mocking voice. a piercing cry, and then a stifled groan, were the only reply to this terrible question. "help that rash youth!" said the merchant, bitterly. "i have, i think, won the wager; but it is sufficient for me to have given him a lesson. let him keep his money, and be wiser for the future." he walked rapidly away. we opened the door of the summer-house, and found the student in convulsions. a paper, signed with the name "francis villiers," was on the table. as soon as the student's senses were restored, he asked vehemently where was the vile sorcerer who had subjected him to such a horrible ordeal--he would kill him! he sought him throughout the inn in vain; then, with the speed of a madman, he dashed off across the fields in pursuit of him--and we never saw either of them again. that, children, is my ghost story! "and how is it, uncle, that after _that_, you don't believe in ghosts?" said i, the first time i heard it. "because, my boy," replied my uncle, "neither the student nor the merchant ever returned; and the forty-five guineas, belonging to me and the other travelers, continued equally invisible. those two swindlers carried them off, after having acted a farce, which we, like ninnies, believed to be real." the three visitors of bernardin de saint pierre. one morning while bernardin de saint pierre was admiring, through one of the windows of his apartment, the glowing radiance of the rising sun, and thinking, perhaps, of transferring its bright tints, and the fragrance of early dawn, and the glittering dew-drops, to the pages of his _harmonies de la nature_, a stranger entered with noiseless step; he saluted the poet with deep reverence, respectfully apologizing for so early an intrusion, and it was not until after repeated invitations that he was prevailed upon to take a seat beside him. the young man's face bore the dark olive hue of the southern sun, his black hair fell in waves from his temples, over the collar of his military coat. his look was at once pensive and modest, yet proud. the fashion of his dress, his high boots, the white and fringed gloves, proclaimed him an officer of the french republic, whom the close of the campaign in italy had allowed to return home. and such indeed he was, as he took care to inform bernardin, when his excitement at finding himself in the presence of the celebrated author had a little subsided. "i congratulate you, sir," said saint pierre, "on having served under the great captain, who has so gloriously terminated this campaign. i can enter into such triumphs, for i, too, have been a soldier." "would that i were one no longer," exclaimed the young officer--"that i had never been one. war is hateful to me! i know neither enmity nor ambition--the conqueror and the conquered are alike to me. this soft, lovely, morning, with its dewy freshness, passed in tranquil conversation or lonely musings, has more charms for me than all the pomp and circumstance of war. then, what an avenue to fame! by slaughter!--butchery! laurels have been strewn in my path. i see nothing but the blood through which i have been wading." the poet extended his hand to the young soldier, who respectfully kissed it. "yours," he said, "is true glory. the names of paul and virginia will live forever in the memories and heads of men. ah, sir! this is the brightest day of my life. i asked of fortune only that i might live to see you, to tell you as man, the delightful hours my youth owed to you, and now my bright hope is realized. behold the treasure of my boyhood, the delight of my manhood, my companion in the college--on the fields of montenotte and lodi"--and the stranger took from his pocket a well-worn copy of _paul and virginia_, the leaves kept together only by a few threads. with all saint pierre's modesty, he could not but be deeply moved by the enthusiasm of the young officer. at a time like this, when war was raging both at home and abroad, it was rather unusual to find a soldier warmly interested in an indian idyl, and busying himself about a poet, in his obscure retreat on the banks of a pretty stream. "i am delighted," he said, "not so much with your too indulgent estimate of an ephemeral book, but with the sympathy between us--that bond of common love for mankind and for nature, a love of whose inspirations my book is but a feeble utterance of. it is only in some such obscure corner as this, that we dare now own that we love god and heaven, the dewy morning and peace on earth. discord still reigns at paris. is it not so?" the young officer looked up with a sad expression in his dark eyes. "alas, yes! it is reigning more furiously than ever; but it is too painful a subject; let us change it. are you at present engaged in any work? and are these its first sheets?" bernardin smiled as he answered--"they are old memorials to the directory at paris. i was once the secretary, the literary man of the revolutionary club of essoune, the republicans of that town having more warmth of patriotism than power of style, employed me to draw up their memorials, and i escaped the guillotine by accepting the office." "the author of _paul and virginia_ secretary to a village revolutionary club!" "neither more nor less. it was not very poetical; but so it was. however, during that time i have had some hours of leisure which i have devoted to a work that has been the dream of my life, and the thought of which has cheered me, in the forests of sweden, and under the burning skies of the isle of france. my object is to reveal the divine intelligence to the human race, through the universal relation between all beings. from physical order i elicit physical good; from the good, the moral, and from the moral, god. and the title of the book is to be the _harmonies of nature_. i was working at it when you came in, and meditating on the wise providence which, while giving to different beings different organs, has supplied the apparent inequality by special qualities and counterbalancing advantages. i intend also to treat of the harmonies of the stars. oh! how beautiful are our nights in france!" "and i, too, thought so, till i had seen the nights in italy," exclaimed the young stranger. "there every star is a living token of friendship or of love. two friends parted by long exile each pledge themselves to look at the same star at the same hour, and the light thus shared is a link between them. the young girl gives to the bright stars of the summer nights her own name and that of her lover, till the whole firmament is full of bettinas and ciprianas, francescas and giottos. should one of these tender links be severed by death, the still remaining one is comforted in her sorrow by seeing the bright memorial of her beloved still shining on the borders of that heavenly horizon, where their meeting will be forever." "this is indeed a tender harmony. yes, love is every where. but," continued bernardin, delighted at being understood; "but tell me, do you yourself write? with mental energies such as yours, why should you not cast upon the troubled waters of this age some thought that may yet be the fructifying seed to be found after many days. all soldiers write well." "i do write a little, sir," and the young officer blushed as he answered; "since your kind encouragement has anticipated my request, and thus emboldened me to make it, i venture to ask you to cast your eye over a few pages written to beguile the hours of a lonely midnight watch. you will remember it is the book of a soldier, and one almost a foreigner." "i thank you for the confidence reposed in me," said saint pierre, "and i am persuaded the friend will have no need to bias the judge in the impartial opinion that you have a right to claim from me." the young officer now rose, and with a request to be allowed to repeat his visit, and a cordial, though respectful pressure of saint pierre's hand, took his leave, and long after the garden-gate had closed behind him, bernardin stood watching the cloud of dust in which had disappeared his young visitor, and the steed on which he galloped back to paris. "so, then," thought the philosopher, as he re-entered his cottage, "there still exist some few minds free from the consuming toils of ambition. who would ever have expected to find a lover of nature with a republican epaulet? there is a simplicity in this youth most attractive; how modestly did he speak of himself; how bitterly lament the horrors of war; and his enjoyment of this lovely, dewy morning, was that of a sage no less than of a poet. doubtless the manuscript is some learned treatise on the art of war--the subject not his choice but the necessity of his position. the art of war!--art indeed--the art of killing the arts!" bernardin de saint pierre was mistaken. the manuscript was a pastoral romance--conceive his delight--a pastoral romance! "yes!" he said, "the noble mind must let fly the falcon imagination to cater for it. it can not feed on the garbage around." day after day now elapsed without bringing his young visitor; but some months after, bernardin, seated at a table placed under the shade of trees of his own planting, and covered with flowers gathered to serve as models for his word-paintings, was enjoying the soft evening breeze, when the visit of an officer was announced; and to his great surprise, instead of him whom he was eagerly advancing to welcome, he beheld a stranger. he had, indeed, the same black hair falling from his temples, the same dark eyes, the same olive hue of the man of the sun and the mediterranean. but he saw not the same person; his new visitor was at least ten years older than the first. "i am the elder brother, sir, of an officer who, some months since, did himself the honor of calling upon you." "his visit still lives in my memory as one most pleasant. he confided to me a manuscript which i would be glad to take this opportunity of returning, with my assurances of entire sympathy in his love of nature, and still more in his noble indignation against tyrants, his eloquent invectives against ambition. tell him, too, from me, how much i admire his style; its rich imagery--its--" "i must not let you go on, sir, for such praise has already rendered it difficult to avow myself the author of the book. i had not courage to submit it to you myself, but my younger and more adventurous brother gladly availed himself of it as a plea for his intrusion." after some courteous words interchanged between the new visitor and bernardin, the latter pointed to the flowers and said, "i was at that moment thinking of your brother; he had told me of the names given by loving hearts in italy to the stars, and i was reflecting that our associations with flowers were still trammeled by such a rugged nomenclature; it is enough to make the science of botany detestable." "ah, sir, you will teach all to love it; already has your _etudes de la nature_ made it popular throughout europe. i myself had formed a floral dial at a villa at florence where my regiment was quartered; every hour of the night and of the day was marked by the opening of different flowers. i am passionately fond of them, and can well understand the dutchman lavishing a fortune upon a tulip, and spending a life in giving it some new variety of tint." "what a simple-minded family!" thought bernardin. "one brother worships the starry splendor of the heavens, and the other luxuriates in flowers, and spends his idle garrison hours in watching them as they bud forth at every hour of the day; and these two young men are soldiers! war has not hardened their hearts, nor conquest made them despise simple pleasures." and now, saint pierre, leaning on his new friend, proceeded to show him his flowers, "which," he said, "though not like the lovely products of the fertile italy you have conquered, yet, as my own planting are not without their fragrance for the old man;" and as they walked along, he repeated to himself rather than to his companion, "felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum subjecit pedibus strepitumque acherontis avari" and in as low a voice, the officer went on--"yes! happy the wise man who penetrates the arcana of nature, and who tramples under foot the world's prejudices." and as he stooped to pluck a daisy, he added, "who the calm votary of the silvan deities beholds with unenvious eye the consular pomp and the glittering diadem. ah, sir! you, too, like virgil--do you know he is my poet of all poets?" and before they had gone the round of the garden, the sage and the soldier had repeated almost the whole of the second book of the georgics; and now, having begged and obtained a flower as a memento of his visit, the officer took his leave, with the promise of soon returning and bringing with him his brother. "if all republicans," said bernardin, "were like these two brothers, the republic would be heaven, and i need not so long to die." and with fresh impulse, and an interest increased by the sympathy of his visitor in his love of flowers, saint pierre turned to his labors. the second part of his _harmonies de la nature_ was finished, and he was now engaged upon the last division of his great work--"the harmonies of human nature," when one day a knock at the door of his library made him raise his head to see, as he believed, the face of one of his two friends in the italian army, though whether the elder or the younger he could not at once distinguish. on nearer survey, he discovered, to his great perplexity, that neither the one nor the other stood before him. the uniform of this third officer was exactly the same, he had the same masses of black hair, the same eyes, but though a little older than the first, and younger than the second of his former visitors, he seemed to bear more traces than either of the struggle and the vigil; and his brow was graver and more thoughtful. still the triple resemblance was most striking, and for a moment bernardin scarcely knew whether he was to greet him as a stranger; but before he could speak, the visitor introduced himself as the brother of the two officers, the kindness of whose reception had encouraged him to pay his respects to the friend of jean jacques rousseau, to the illustrious author of the _etudes de la nature_, and to venture to offer the admiring homage of a blunt soldier. was it those lips with their attic cut, and firm grace, which smile and threat seemed alike to become, or was it the deep voice, the piercing eagle glance, or his already high reputation as the greatest captain of the age, that riveted the attention of the philosopher upon this last of the three brothers, and indelibly impressed upon his memory every word of the conversation which now ensued? but this third brother and the poet spoke not of scenery, nor stars, nor sun, nor streams, nor flowers. they spoke of human nature, of the universal brotherhood of mankind, of philosophy, and patriotism. they spoke, too, of the present evil days--the old man with some little bitterness and much indulgence, the young man with hopes aspiring and daring as his conquests; and while laying open future prospects with almost prophetic clearness, he showed the certain and impending destruction of all parties by each other, and the consequent and near approach of peace. "god grant it;" cried bernardin de saint pierre. "god grants all to the firm will and the determined purpose," was the answer. some expressive pauses made breaks in a conversation which was less an interchange of words than of thoughts. vainly did bernardin several times attempt to introduce the subject of the campaigns in italy, as an opening for some complimentary tribute to the courage, the presence of mind, the clear mental vision, the resolute powers of action, of his visitor; the latter as constantly evaded the subject, for with all the exquisite tact which was his great characteristic through life, he guessed the philosopher could accord but a reluctant homage to any triumph of the sword, even when not drawn in the service of ambition. he felt, too, that the warrior should be like a fortress, from whose strong, silent walls, is heard only in time of war the booming of its artillery. thus, therefore, ran the dialogue: "italy is on fire with your name." "i have founded chairs of philosophy, of history, and oratory, in most of the conquered cities." "montenotte will ever be one of the most glorious monuments of french valor." "i have pensioned all the _savants_ of bologna, florence, and milan." "you have rivaled the renown of the immortal generals of antiquity." "whenever a city was taken, my first care was to command public monuments and private property to be respected, and to prohibit under pain of death all outrage to women, and before i allowed guards to be planted at my own door, i took care sentinels were at the gates of every church and hospital." "how you must have longed for repose, were it only to indulge the bright dreams of the future." "the actual and the real for me. i like best to shut myself up in my quarters to pursue my favorite studies of mathematics and history." struck with enthusiastic admiration of such simplicity, and such wise moderation, bernardin ceased any longer to pay forced compliments to the military prowess with which he had no sympathy, and now poured out his whole heart in homage to his noble qualities as a legislator and as a man. could he do less than read to him some few pages of his "harmonies"--the winding-up of his "harmonies of nature." to one of the three brothers, worthy to comprehend the sublimity of the science of heaven, he had shown the stars; to another, tender as rousseau, the flowers; and now the graver pages of his book to a third--graver, wiser than either--as wise as marcus aurelius; "nay, wiser," said bernardin, "for i am sure he never would consent to be made emperor." and now, who were these three officers of the italian army? the first officer, who wooed the stars and the dewy morning, and who had no ambition, was louis bonaparte, afterward king of holland. the second officer, who delighted in flowers, and in floral dials, was joseph bonaparte, afterward king of the two spains and of the indies. the third officer--the brother of the two others--who was a republican, a philosopher, a philanthropist, a lover of peace, and who had no ambition, was napoleon bonaparte, afterward emperor of the french, and king of italy! what an eclogue for bernardin de saint pierre--two kings and an emperor! a primitive people. the history of transylvania is, perhaps, one of the wildest and most romantic that ever told the story of a nation. it describes a people perfectly primitive and pastoral, and living under institutions as patriarchal as those existing at the time of lot or abraham. transylvania, long annexed to the austrian monarchy, was in old times looked upon as the rightful prize of the strong hand; and was, by turns, seized and plundered by turks, austrians, and hungarians. for a short time it chose its own princes, who aspired to be kings of hungary. their presumption met with the penalty of utter annihilation. to understand these peasants properly, the reader may, perhaps, be allowed to compare them to the highland clansmen of scotland at the same period. far before any authentic records, a people have dwelt in transylvania, who knew nothing beyond the deep valleys in which they lived; they held no intercourse with the rest of the world, or even with their neighbors, the other inhabitants of the country; and they formed as many little separate republics as there were valleys. each clan had, and even still has, its chief, who generally fills, also, the functions of judge and priest. in the morning and the evening they have public prayers; but, although like their lords, they belong to the reformed religion, they have no one among them specially intrusted with the cure of souls. when they marry their daughters, they make great ceremony and feasting, to which all comers are welcome. on these occasions, too, they sometimes pay a visit to the lord of the valley, that he may share in their simple rejoicing; but, at other times, they are shy of strangers, and few of them wander far beyond their native place. the agent, or the lord himself, usually visits them once a year; or, perhaps, more frequently the patriarch of the tribe goes to the lord and tells him of the number of his cattle, and of their increase, of what must be sold and what must be kept. certain of the peasants leave the depths of their valley toward the end of summer, and drive their flocks and herds into wallachia, along the banks of the mighty danube. here are found immense forests; and here, in spite of winter, the sheep may glean fresh and plentiful pasturage. the owners of the woods are paid, in return, a certain sum yearly. in the spring, merchants and cattle-dealers come down from constantinople, who buy their sheep and goats; and it is to this sale that the lords of transylvania look for the greatest part of their incomes. immediately after the shepherds have effected a sale, they dispatch a messenger to their lord who, in his turn, sends a trusty servant to receive the money. there are no bankers, no bills, no checks, no first and second of exchange, no post-office orders; the purchases are paid for in solid and very dirty silver, and it is carried through floods, rain, wind, and weather, to the lord with pastoral honesty and simplicity. all takes place with a good faith and punctuality, and an earnestness of purpose very touching to witness. besides this source of revenue, no sooner have the flocks and herds returned to the valley, than the lord sends in wagons to return laden with cheese, the produce of the year. these cheeses are some of them formed like loaves; and some, the most delicate, are pressed into the skins of young lambs, carefully prepared for the purpose by some primitive art. the third, and remaining portion, of a transylvanian gentleman's income is derived from wool, which is as faithfully and punctually delivered to him as his cheeses, or the cash for his flocks. there is neither corn nor wine in these valleys, and the dwellers in them live chiefly on a kind of thin paste and a fermented drink, in both of which the milk of sheep forms a very important ingredient. sometimes they regale themselves with a lamb or a kid; but this is a rare festival. they make their own garments from the wool of their flocks, which they fashion into coarse thick cloths, mighty against snow, and rain, and sun, and wind, but not pretty. their caps, too, are made of wool; and, with long, shaggy tufts hanging to them, look like weird, uncouth wigs. their women and children are clothed in the same way, and all live together in caves cut in the mountain side, or formed by nature in the solid rocks. i paid some of these people a visit, and found, in one of these cavern houses, an englishman's hat and umbrella. these things interested me, because their possessors had a legend that they had been received from a demon, and i could not help fancying it more likely that they had belonged to some luckless wight, who might have wandered thither and been lost. into the hat they had forced a cheese; but i fancied i detected a sort of superstitious reverence for the umbrella, and they evidently looked upon its mechanism with great wonder and respect. they asked eagerly for information upon the mysterious subject, and, after i had explained it (which i am now almost sorry i did), i fancy they looked upon me as we, in england, looked upon people who had a tendency for explaining things in the middle ages--as an unbeliever, a student in dark arts, a magician, in league with the evil one. but i had an object to answer, and i entered into negotiations for getting the cheese out of the hat, and offered, what mr. trapbois calls a "con-si-de-ra-tion," to be allowed to examine both hat and umbrella nearer, to see if i could find any mark or initials, giving a clew to their former owner. for a long time my efforts were useless; the cheese in the hat was intended for the lord, and they were afraid of offending the umbrella by allowing me to take any liberty with it; but a good-temper, and a cheery way, gets on wonderfully with simple folk, and at length they listened to my wish, but refused my gift. i could not, however, find any thing to reward my search. on returning to vienna the mystery was cleared up. it appears, that an english traveler making a tour in those parts on foot, had been overtaken by a gaunt man in a strange costume. the uncouth figure addressed him in an unknown tongue; and all presence of mind, for a moment, deserted him. without pausing to reflect if the greeting were friendly or hostile, he thought to conciliate his gigantic acquaintance (having no money about him) by offering the only things he could dispose of; so, taking off his hat, and resigning his umbrella with it into the hands stretched out in wonder to receive them, the english traveler took to his heels. the daughter of the bardi. a true old tale. the via dei bardi is one of the most ancient streets of florence. long, dark, and narrow, it reaches from the extremity of the ponte rubaconte to the right of the ponte vecchio. its old houses look decayed and squalid now; but in former days they were magnificent and orderly, full of all the state of those times, being the residences of many of the florentine nobility. how many struggles of faction, how many scenes of civil war, have these old houses witnessed! for in the period of their splendor, florence was torn by intestine feuds; from generation to generation, guelfs and ghibelines, bianchi, and neri, handed down their bitter quarrels, private and personal animosity mingling with public or party spirit, and ending in many a dark and violent deed. these combatants are all sleeping now: the patriot, the banished citizen, the timid, the cruel--all, all are gone, and have left us only tales to read, or lessons to learn if we can but use them. but we are not skilled to teach a lesson; we would rather tell a legend of those times, recalled to mind, especially at present, because it has been chosen as the subject of a fine picture recently finished by a florentine artist, benedetto servolini. in the via dei bardi stood, probably still stands, the house inhabited by the chief of the great and noble family from whom it takes its name--we write of the period of the fiercest struggles between the guelfs and ghibelines; and the bardi were powerful partisans of the latter party. in that house dwelt a young girl of uncommon beauty, and yet more uncommon character. an old writer thus describes her: "to look on her was enchantment; her eyes called you to love her; her smile was like heaven; if you heard her speak, you were conquered. her whole person was a miracle of beauty, and her deportment had a certain maidenly pride, springing from a pure heart and conscious integrity." from the troubled scenes she had witnessed, her mind had acquired composure and courage unusual with her sex, and it was of that high stamp that is prone to admire with enthusiasm all generous and self-devoting deeds. such a being, however apt to inspire love, was not likely to be easily won; accordingly, the crowd of lovers who at first surrounded dianora gradually dropped off, for they gained no favor. all were received with the same bright and beautiful smile, and a gay, charming grace, which flattered no man's vanity; so they carried their homage to other shrines where it might be more prized, though by an inferior idol. and what felt dianora when her votaries left her? we are not told; but not long after, you might see, if you walked along the street of the bardi toward evening, a beautiful woman siting near a balcony: a frame of embroidery is before her; but her eyes are oftener turned to the street than to the lilies she is working. it is dianora. but surely it is not idle curiosity that bends her noble brow so often this way, and beams in her bright, speaking eyes, and sweet, kind smile. on whom is it turned, and why does her cheek flush so quickly? a youth of graceful and manly appearance is passing her window; his name is hyppolito: he has long cherished the image of dianora as dante did that of his beatrice. in loving her, he loved more ardently every thing that is good and noble in the world; he shunned folly and idleness, and strove to make himself worthy of what he believed dianora to be. at length, one of cupid's emissaries--whether nurse or friend the chronicle does not tell--aided hyppolito in meeting dianora. one meeting succeeded another, till she gave him her heart, as such a true, young heart is given, with entire confidence, and a strength of feeling peculiar to herself. but what could they hope? hyppolito's family were of the opposite party, and they knew it was vain to expect from them even a patient hearing; nor were the bardi behind in proper feelings of hatred. what was to be done? there was but one dianora--but one hyppolito in the world; so have many wise young people thought of each other both before and since the days of the ghibelines; but these two might be excused for thinking so, for many who saw them were of the same opinion. to part--what was the world to them if they were parted? their station, their years, their tastes--so removed from noisy and frivolous pleasures--their virtuous characters, seemed to point out that they were born for each other. what divided them? one only point the adverse political feelings of their families. shall they sacrifice themselves to these? no. thus reasoned hyppolito; but we think the chronicles exaggerate the virtues of dianora's character; for how many a girl unchronicled by fame has, before the still tribunal of her own sense of duty to god and her parents, sacrificed her dearest hopes rather than offend them; and this, with all her heroism, dianora did not, but gave up all these dear early claims for her new love. delays were needless, for time could do nothing to smooth their path; so it was determined that hyppolito should bring a ladder to dianora's window, and, aided by their friend, they should find their way to a priest prepared to give them his blessing. the night appointed came--still and beautiful as heart could wish; the stars sparkling in the deep blue sky, bright as they may now be seen in that fair clime. hyppolito has reached the house; he has fixed the ladder of ropes; there is no moon to betray him; in a minute, his light step will have reached the balcony. but there is a noise in the street, and lights approaching; the night-guard is passing; they have seen the ladder, for the street is narrow. hyppolito is down, and tries to escape--in vain. they seize and drag him to prison. what was he doing there? what can he reply? that he meant to enter the house, to carry something from it, or commit some bad deed, can not be denied. he will not betray dianora; it would only be to separate them forever, and leave her with a stained name. he yields to his fate; the proofs are irresistible, and, by the severe law of florence at that period, hyppolito must die. all florence is in amazement. so estimable a youth, to all outward appearance, to be in reality addicted to the basest crimes! who could have believed it? but he confesses; there is no room for doubt. pardon is implored by his afflicted friends; but no pardon can be granted for so flagrant a crime. hyppolito had one consolation--his father never doubted him; if he had, one glance of his son's clear, though sad eye, and candid, open brow, would have reassured him. he saw there was a mystery, but he was sure it involved no guilt on hyppolito's part. hyppolito also believed that his good name would one day be cleared, and that his noble dianora would in due time remove the stain that clouded it. he consented to die, rather than live separated from her. yet poor hyppolito was sorry to leave the world so young; and sadly, though calmly, he arranged his small possessions, for the benefit of those he loved, and of the poor, to whom he had always been a friend. he slept quietly the night preceding the time fixed for his execution, and was early ready to take his place in the sad procession. did no thought cross hyppolito's clear mind, that he was throwing away, in weak passion, a life given to him by god for noble ends? we know not; but there he was--calm, firm, and serious. his only request was, that the procession might pass through the street of the bardi, which some thought was a sign of penitence, an act of humiliation. the sad train moves on. an old man sitting at a door rises, strains his eyes to catch a last glimpse of hyppolito, and then covers them in anguish, and sinks down again. this is an old man he had saved from misery and death. two youths, hand-in-hand, are gazing with sad faces, and tears run down their cheeks. they are orphans: he had clothed and fed them. hyppolito sees them, and even in that moment remembers it is he who deprives them of a protector: but it is too late to think now; for he is approaching the scene of his fault and the place of his punishment, and other feelings swell in his heart. his brows are contracted; his eyes bent on the house of the bardi, as if they would pierce the stones of its walls; and now they are cast down, as though he would raise them no more on earth. but he starts, for he hears a loud shriek, a rushing, and an opening of the crowd: they seem to be awed by something that approaches. it is a woman, whose violent gestures defy opposition; she looks like a maniac just escaped from her keepers; she has reached hyppolito; his fettered arms move as if they would receive her, but in vain. she turns to the crowd, and some among them recognize the modest and beautiful daughter of bardi. she calls out: "he is innocent of every crime but having loved me. to save me from shame, he has borne all this disgrace. and he is going to death; but you can not kill him now. i tell you he is guiltless; and if he dies, i die with him." the people stand amazed. at last there is a shout: "it must be true! he is innocent!" the execution is stopped til the truth is ascertained, and dianora's statement is fully confirmed. and who shall paint the return from death to life of poor hyppolito? and to such a life! for blazoned as the story of her love had been, dianora's parents, considering also her firm character, subjected even the spirit of party to the voice of affection and reason; and hyppolito's family, softened by sorrow, gladly embraced their ghibelline daughter. whether in after-life hyppolito and dianora were distinguished by the qualities they had shown in youth, and whether the promise of affection was realized by time and intimate acquaintance, no chronicle remains to tell. this short glimpse of both is all that is snatched from oblivion--this alone stands out in bright relief, to show us they once were; the rest is lost in the darkness of time. the moment chosen by the artist is when dianora rushes from her house into the midst of the crowd, and reaches hyppolito, surrounded by priests and soldiers. it is easy to see to what a varied expression of passion and action this point of the story gives rise. a curiosity in natural history. the crustacean class of animals, of which the lobster, crab, and shrimp are familiar examples, have this peculiarity of structure--that their soft bodies are inclosed within a coat-of-mail formed of carbonate and phosphate of lime. in fact, they carry their skeleton outside their bodies, both for defense of the vital parts within, and for the attachment of the muscles which move their limbs, and every part of their frame. no warrior of old was ever more completely enveloped in his hard coat-of-mail, with its jointed greaves and overlapping scales, than is the lobster in its crustaceous covering; with this exception, that the warrior could at pleasure unbuckle himself from his armor, whereas the body and limbs of the crustacea are completely incased in hollow cylinders, firmly and accurately jointed, from which there is no such ready release. now, as this shelly integument envelops them from their earliest youth, and as it does not expand and grow, the natural growth of the soft body beneath would be entirely prevented did not nature supply a remedy of a very curious kind--the exuviation, or periodical throwing off of the external crust, and the formation of a larger shell-covering fitted for the increasing growth of the animal. this is a circumstance which has long been familiar to naturalists, and indeed the most ordinary observer must have often remarked in the crabs and lobsters brought to table, appearances indicative of their change of external coverings. in the back of the edible crab, may often be noticed a red membrane lining the inner side of the shell, but so loose as to be readily detached. along the greater part of its course this membrane has already assumed a half-crustaceous consistence, and is just the preparatory process to the old shell being thrown off by the animal. there is another curious circumstance which has also been long known--that crabs and lobsters can renew lost limbs. some misconception, however, had existed regarding the manner in which this was effected, until the observations of the late sir john dalyell have thrown more accurate light upon the subject. this most amiable and eminent zoologist, who was lost to science last year, afforded a pleasing illustration of the solace and delight which the pursuit of the study of nature yields to the diligent inquirer into her mysteries. with a feeble constitution and frame of body, which precluded his mingling in the more active pursuits of every day life, this sedentary philosopher collected around him examples of minute and curious being from the depths of the ocean, from lake and river, and for many long years found the delight of his leisure hours in watching the habits of the animals, and in discovering and describing many singular circumstances in the constitution of their bodies, and the peculiar adaptations of their structure and instincts to their modes of existence. one of his last communications to the public, imparted with all the modesty and simplicity of true genius, at the last meeting of the british association in edinburgh, was on this subject of the exuviation of the crustacea. it appears from sir john's observations that crustaceans begin to throw off their shells at a very early period of their life, even in that embryo state in which they first appear after having left the egg, and before they have yet assumed that real form of their mature state. during every successive exuviation in this embryo state they assume more and more of their perfect and established form. while the crab is young and rapidly growing, frequent exuviations take place at short intervals, from three to five times in the course of one year. previous to the change, the animal almost ceases to feed, and becomes rather inactive; the proper time having at length arrived, exuviation is effected in the course of a few hours, body and limbs being alike relieved from their hard covering. until the new shell acquires firmness and strength, the creature is very shy, and in the state of nature, retires into cavities below rocks or heaps of protecting sea-weed. sir john had kept for some time one of our smaller species of shore-crabs (_carcinus monas_), of medium size, of a brown color, with one white limb. one summer evening it was put outside the window in a capacious glass-vessel of sea-water. in the morning a form exactly resembling its own, only somewhat larger, lay in the vessel. this was the same animal, which had performed exuviation, and extricated itself from the old shell during the night. the resemblance between both forms was complete--every thing was the same, even the white limb was seen in both. another specimen kept was of smaller size, the opposite extremities of the limbs being only thirteen lines asunder; its color was green, with three white patches on the back. in the course of little more than a year five exuviations took place at irregular intervals, the new shell and animal becoming larger each time. the third shell came on uniformly green, the white spots being entirely obliterated. on the fourth exuviation, the limbs expanded two inches and a half. from the long slender form of the limbs of crustacea, they are very liable to mutilation. crabs are also a very pugnacious family, and in their battles limbs are often snapped off. these mutilations, however, are readily repaired; although, contrary to what was the common belief, the restoration takes place only at the next regular period of exuviation. the full-grown common crab (_cancer pagurus_) is of a reddish-brown color, the claws tipped black; but some of the young are naturally of the purest white, which remains long unsullied. this does not arise from confinement, which, according to sir john, has no influence on color. "a young white specimen of the common crab was subjected to observation on th september. the body might have been circumscribed in a circle three-quarters of an inch in diameter, and the extended limbs by one and a half inch in diameter. its first exuviation ensued on th november, the second on the th of april following, and the shell then produced subsisted till th september, when another exuviation took place, introducing a new shell of such transparent white that the interior almost shone through it. all the shells were white, and increased somewhat in size successively. this last shell of th september subsisted until th march, being days, when it was thrown off during another exuviation." but what was remarkable, the animal now had only the two large claws, the other eight limbs were deficient. "resting on its breast as it was, i did not at first discover the fact, that the creature presented a strange and very uncouth aspect. however, it fed readily, and proved very tame, though helpless; often falling on its back, and not being able to recover itself from the deficiency of its limbs. i preserved this mutilated object with uncommon care, watching it almost incessantly day and night: expecting another exuviation which might be attended with interesting consequences, i felt much anxiety for its survivance. my solicitude was not vain. after the defective shell had subsisted eighty-six days, its tenant meantime feeding readily, the desired event took place in a new exuviation on d june. on this occasion a new animal came forth, and in the highest perfection, quite entire and symmetrical, with all the ten limbs peculiar to its race, and of the purest and most beautiful white. i could not contemplate such a specimen of nature's energies restoring perfection, and through a process so extraordinary, without admiration. something yet remained to be established: was this perfection permanent, or was it only temporary? like its precursor, this specimen was quite tame, healthy and vigorous. in days it underwent exuviation, when it appeared again, perfect as before, with a shell of snowy white, and little red speckling on the limbs. finally, its shell having subsisted days, was succeeded by another of equal beauty and perfection, the speckling on the legs somewhat increased. as all the shells had gradually augmented, so was this larger than the others. the extended limbs would have occupied a circle of four inches diameter. about a month after this exuviation the animal perished accidentally, having been two years and eight months under examination. it was an interesting specimen, extremely tame and tranquil, always coming to the side of the vessel as i approached, and holding up its little claws as if supplicating food." the shrimp when in confinement becomes very tame, and readily exuviates. the process is frequent, the integument separates entire, and is almost colorless. in female crustaceans the roe is placed outside the shell to which it adheres. during the period of such adherence, the female crab, so far as observation goes, does not change its shell--a marked provision of nature to preserve the spawn. we may remark that other classes of animals exuviate in a similar manner to the crustaceans. thus serpents throw off in entire masses their scaly coverings, even a slough from the eyes; and various insects in their larva state are continually throwing off and renewing their skins. from gold to gray. golden curls, profusely shed o'er the lovely childish head-- sunshine, caught from summer skies, surely here entangled lies: tossing to the light winds free, radiant clusters, what are ye? types of time that ripples now in bright wavelets o'er the brow-- of the hopes and feelings blest dancing in the guileless breast, beautiful in their unrest: sparkling joys and willing faith rising to love's lightest breath;-- of the future, seeming fair, that may darken with the hair. what are ye, dark waving bands that, beneath the maiden's hands, sweep around her graceful head? fold o'er fold of changeful shade touch the cheek's contrasted bloom with the poetry of gloom. offerings for a lover's eye; emblems of love's witchery, round her heart that richly lies-- shadows, while it beautifies; keepsakes love delights to give. did each friend one tress receive, every shining tress were lost, for the maiden had a host. ay! but trouble, stories say, locks as rich hath worn away. what of this? but _friends_ grew spare as the scant and falling hair! wherefore send your pallid ray, streaks of cold, untimely gray, through the locks whose burnish'd hue hath but seen of years a few? autumn leaves on summer trees were less sorrowful than these. portions of life's travel-soil; footprints left by grief and toil; relics, too, of watchings late, when one curl was too much weight on the hot brows, bending o'er some grave book of ancient lore. 'tis the mourning nature wears for the hopes of younger years; and the scorching breath of care thus can fade the brightest hair. hail to thee, thou glistening snow! full of placid beauty, flow o'er the furrowed brows that bear life's long story, written fair. 'tis the white foam, cast aside after time's receding tide. yea, and pleasant types are ye of each moonlight memory; shining from his far-off prime to the old man's evening time. more--ye are reflections shed from the heaven above his head; pale, but still assuring ray, of his nearly risen day. mortal! may thy hoary hair e'en such glorious meaning bear, that its silver threads may be messengers of light to thee! monthly record of current events. the united states. the increased activity of political parties has to some extent supplied the place of the usual interest in public affairs, though it has added little to the record of the events of the month. the meeting of the democratic convention for the nomination of candidates for the presidency and vice presidency, has been fixed for the st of june, at baltimore. a meeting of the whig members of congress was held at the capital on the th of april, to make similar arrangements for the whig convention. senator mangum, pursuant to a previous election, presided. resolutions were offered by mr. marshall of kentucky, declaring that the whig party would maintain the finality of the compromise measures. mr. stanley of n. c. objected that they were out of order, the meeting having been called for the sole purpose of fixing a time and place for the national convention. the chair sustained the objection, and ruled the resolutions out of order. an appeal was taken, and after an animated debate the decision of the chair was sustained by a vote of to . ten of the southern whigs then withdrew. a resolution had been previously adopted calling the national convention at baltimore, on the th of june. the southern whigs who withdrew from the meeting have since published an address, in which they seek to vindicate their course, on the ground that the decision of senator mangum was improper, and that the action they took was necessary to the vindication of southern rights. they deny that they have any wish to divide or disturb the whig party, but assert that they can not sustain any candidate, except with the distinct avowal that he is in favor of the compromise measures. they express a hope that such ground will be taken at the whig national convention. the debates of congress have been of considerable interest. in the _senate_ the resolutions on the subject of non-intervention have been further discussed, but no vote has been taken upon them. on the th of april, senator mason of va. spoke against any declaration upon the subject by the government of the united states, upon the ground that it would be a violation of the policy of neutrality which the country has always adopted and would tend to involve us in the wars of europe. on the th, senator bell spoke upon the subject--saying that he attached very little importance to the resolutions, inasmuch as in his judgment their adoption would have no effect upon european affairs. but the present state of europe involved considerations of great importance in regard to the united states, and to these his speech was wholly devoted. he referred to the condition of the several countries of europe, to show that absolute power has become more firmly established than ever, and he ascribed this fact to the fears inspired by the movements of socialists and fanatical reformers. he thought there was great reason to believe that when the absolute powers of europe shall have firmly established their authority at home, they will turn their united arms against the united states, and gave at length his reasons for this apprehension. in any such contest he thought england would become the enemy instead of the ally of this country. any new disturbance in europe, he thought, would inevitably involve the united states, as opportunities would be constantly sought to bring them into the contest. the reception already give to kossuth was as marked an insult to austria and russia as one nation could possibly give to another. from these various considerations, he urged the duty of immediately putting our national defenses in such a condition as should enable us to defy the hostility of the world. we ought at once to attend to our financial system, to establish an overland communication with the pacific, to take measures to secure a revenue in case of war and the consequent stoppage of foreign trade, to allay all sectional strife, and to make very large additions to our military marine. he expressed deep regret that while the future seemed so full of danger, the whole attention of the country should be so absorbed in the strife of contending parties. ---- on the th of april, a petition was presented from mr. henry o'reilley, asking the protection of the government, by the establishment of military posts, for the establishment of a line of telegraph from the mississippi to the pacific. detached posts of twenty men, at points twenty miles apart, would be quite sufficient. ---- a communication was also received from the secretary of the navy, in reply to a resolution of the senate, stating that a reconnaissance of the chinese seas could be conducted by the american vessels already in the service, at small expense, and to the obvious promotion of important public interests. ---- an amendment to the apportionment bill, fixing the number of members of the house of representatives at , in order to give california one more member, was adopted in the senate on the th, by a vote of to . ---- on the th, a bill granting to the state of ohio the unsold and the unappropriated public lands within her limits, was ordered to be engrossed, by a vote of to . ---- on the th, senator gwin introduced a bill to establish a monthly mail between shanghai, china, and san francisco, by way of the sandwich islands. ---- a bill which has excited a good deal of interest, making an appropriation of five millions of dollars for the payment of french spoliation claims, was passed by a vote of to . these claims have been pressed upon the attention of congress for many years. ---- a bill to supply deficiencies in the appropriations for government service during the last year, having been several days under consideration, senator seward on the th, spoke in favor of inserting a clause granting further aid to the collins line of steamers between new york and liverpool. under the existing contract with the government these steamers are to make twenty voyages, out and back, annually, for which they are to receive $ , --which is about $ , for each voyage. it is proposed to increase the number of trips to , and the pay to $ , each. mr. seward urged the passage of the bill mainly on the ground that the maintenance of this line of steamers is essential to the retention by the united states of the commercial supremacy they have already gained. he gave somewhat in detail a sketch of the measures taken by england to secure the control of the seas, and insisted upon the policy of our continuing the effort to gain for ourselves our share of the postal communication of the world, in which we have hitherto been so successful. no vote upon the subject had been taken when our record closed. in the _house of representatives_ discussion has mainly turned upon the partisan preparations for the presidential election. on the th of april, mr. jackson of georgia called up a resolution he had offered a fortnight before, upon the subject of the compromise measures. it was as follows: "_resolved_, that we recognize the binding efficacy of the compromises of the constitution--and we believe it to be the determination of the people generally, as we hereby declare it to be ours individually, to abide by such compromises, and to sustain the laws necessary to carry them out--the provision for the delivery of fugitive slaves, and the act of the last congress for that purpose, included; and that we deprecate all further agitation of the questions growing out of that act of the last congress, known as the compromise act--and, of questions generally connected with the institution of slavery, as useless and dangerous." to this resolution mr. hillyer, also of georgia, offered the following as an addition: "_resolved_, that the series of acts passed during the first session of the thirty-first congress, known as compromises, are regarded as a final adjustment, and a permanent settlement of the questions therein embraced, and should be maintained and executed as such." upon the latter the vote stood, ayes , noes . the first resolution was then also adopted by a vote of to --divided as follows: yeas. northern whigs northern democrats southern whigs southern democrats -- -- whigs democrats total . nays. northern whigs northern democrats southern whigs southern democrats -- -- whigs democrats free-soilers total . the bill in regard to naval discipline and the one giving a lot of the public lands to each actual settler, have been debated from day to day, but without result. warm political discussions in regard to presidential platforms and candidates have been held, while the last bill has been before the house, but they have been too exclusively of personal and temporary interest to merit notice here. the letter of instructions from the secretary of state to com. aulick, in regard to the japanese expedition, has been published. mr. webster states that in the opinion of the government, steps should be at once taken to enable our merchants to supply the last link in that great chain of oceanic steam navigation which unites all the nations of the world, by the establishment of a line of steamers between california and china. to facilitate this endeavor, it is desirable that we should obtain, from the emperor of japan permission to purchase from his subjects supplies of coal which our steamers may require. the interests of our commerce require that we should make one more effort to obtain from the japanese emperor the right of thus purchasing, "not the manufactures of his artisans, or the results of the toil of his husbandmen--but a gift of providence, deposited by the creator of all things, in the depth of the japanese islands, for the benefit of the human family." mr. webster therefore incloses to commodore aulick, a letter from the president to the emperor, which he is to carry to jeddo, the capital of japan, in his flag-ship, accompanied by as many vessels under his command as may conveniently be employed in the service. he is also to take with him a number of shipwrecked japanese sailors recently picked up at sea by an american bark, and to deliver them over to the emperor, with the assurance that the american government will always treat with kindness, any of the natives of japan whom misfortune may bring to the shores of the united states, and that it expects similar treatment of such of its own citizens as may be driven on the coasts of japan. the commodore is instructed, if possible, to secure one of the eastern ports of niphon for purchasing supplies of coal; but if this can not be done, it is suggested that the government may be willing to transport the coal by their own vessels to some neighboring island, whence it may be procured by the american steamers. he is also to impress upon the authorities that the american government has no power over the religion of its own citizens, and that there is, therefore, no cause to apprehend that it will seek to interfere with the religion of other countries. he is empowered to sign a treaty of amity and commerce, and is advised to fix the period for the exchange of ratifications at three years. the expedition promises to be one of no inconsiderable interest and importance. the new york legislature adjourned on the th of april, after a session of a hundred days, the limit of the term during which, according to the constitution, the members can draw pay for their services. the most important act of the session was a bill confirming the contracts made under the law of , for the completion of the state canals. doubt had been thrown upon their validity from the fact that they had not been formally approved by the canal board, although they were made under its direction. this law obviates that objection. their validity is now contested on the ground that the law of is unconstitutional. the question has been ably argued before the court of appeals, but the decision has not yet been pronounced. ---- a bill forbidding the sale of intoxicating drinks within the limits of the state was lost in the assembly, the vote standing yeas , nays . a whig stale convention in _virginia_ was held at richmond on the th of april, at which resolutions were adopted endorsing the compromise measures, approving of the administration of president fillmore, and expressing their preference for him as a candidate over all others named--desiring an equitable division of the public lands among all the states--sustaining a moderate protective tariff, and appropriations for internal improvement, and declaring in favor of maintaining the policy adopted by washington for the guidance of our foreign relations. delegates were appointed from all the districts to the whig national convention. a state election was held in connecticut during the month, which resulted in the election of seymour, democrat, governor, by a majority of . he received , votes: kendrick, whig, , ; scattering, . in the senate are democrats and whigs: in the house the democratic majority is . ---- in rhode island, the election resulted in the success of philip allen, democratic candidate, for governor, by about majority: s. g. arnold, whig, has been chosen lieutenant-governor. in the house there have been whigs and democrats elected; three vacancies to fill. in the senate, whigs and democrats have been chosen, and there are two seats vacant. mr. webster has written a letter to g. a. travenner, esq., of virginia, in reply to inquiries as to the proceedings in congress on the resolution of mr. jackson, noticed under our congressional summary. mr. webster reiterates his own entire approbation of the compromise measures, as necessary and expedient, and of the fugitive slave law, as "entirely constitutional, highly proper, and absolutely essential to the peace of the country." he thinks that the public mind, both north and south, will eventually come right upon this subject, and does not believe that further agitation can make any considerable progress in the north. he had noticed with regret the proceedings in congress referred to, and in regard to them, he had only to say, "that gentlemen may not think it necessary or proper that they should be called upon to affirm by resolution that which is already the existing law of the land." he did not believe that any positive movement, to repeal or alter any or all the compromise measures, would meet with any general encouragement or support. at all events, he adds, "my own sentiments remain, and are likely to remain, quite unchanged. i am in favor of upholding the constitution in the general, and all its particulars. i am in favor of respecting its authority and obeying its injunctions; and to the end of life shall do all in my power to fulfill, honestly and faithfully, all its provisions. i look upon the compromise measures as a proper, fair, and final adjustment of the questions to which they relate, and no re-agitation of those questions, no new opening of them, will ever receive from me the least countenance or support, concurrence or approval, at any time, or under any circumstances." a meeting of the whig members of the new york legislature was held at the capital on the th, at which resolutions were passed expressing a preference for general scott as whig candidate for the presidency, by a vote of yeas and nay. ---- the birthday of henry clay was celebrated by a public dinner at new york. senator jones of tennessee was present, and made the principal speech. ---- the whigs of north carolina met in state convention on the th of april, and adopted resolutions expressing a decided preference for mr. fillmore as candidate for the presidency, but avowing their willingness to support any nominee of the national convention who was "beyond doubt in favor of sustaining the compromise measures." they also opposed the doctrine of intervention, and disapproved the action of congress by which so large a portion of the public lands is given to new states, or to railroad companies. very heavy floods have been experienced in various parts of the country. at pittsburgh, on the th of april, the water in the ohio began to rise, and on the st it had risen thirty feet--submerging a large portion of the lower parts of the city and adjoining villages. seven lives were reported to have been lost, and property to the amount of very nearly half a million of dollars had been destroyed. great damage was also done to the chesapeake and ohio canal. in western virginia and maryland, in parts of ohio, and in central massachusetts, there have been very extensive and destructive freshets. ---- the month has been marked by numerous and disastrous steam-boat explosions and casualties at sea. the steamer _saluda_, bound for council bluffs, burst her boilers at lexington, mo., on the th of april, and nearly one hundred lives were lost. all her officers, except the first clerk and mate, were killed; many of her passengers were mormon emigrants, on their way to the great salt lake.--the _glencoe_ burst two of her boilers on the d, while attempting to effect a landing at st. louis, and being driven into the stream by the force of the explosion, immediately took fire. the number of persons killed and missing was sixty-five, and thirty-five more were severely wounded. she had just arrived from new orleans, and had about a hundred and fifty passengers on board.--on the d, the steamer _redstone_, from madison, indiana, for cincinnati, burst her boilers while backing out from a landing near carrollton. ten or twelve persons were killed.--the steamer _independence_, from new orleans, was wrecked on the bar of matagorda bay on the th of march, with a loss of seven lives.--the steamer _prairie state_, at pekin, ill., on the th of march, collapsed her flues while leaving the wharf, scalding and wounding some twenty persons, mostly of the crew or deck passengers.--an english bark, the _josepha_, from bristol, went ashore on the th of april, off provincetown, mass., thirteen of her crew, with two persons who attempted to go from the shore to their rescue, perished.--the schooner _trumlett_, of nova scotia, went ashore on squam beach, n. j., on the th, three persons being drowned; and the schooner _san luis_ was wrecked on the same beach on the st, with the loss of all on board.--this is a fearful list of disasters for a single month. ---- a letter from mr. clay has been published, stating that he had given governor kossuth no cause of offense by his remarks at their interview in washington, and denying that the meeting could properly be considered private or confidential. governor kossuth has returned from his southern tour, and, having visited new haven, hartford, and springfield, was at boston at the date of our record. he had a public reception from the legislature, and on the st was honored by a legislative banquet in faneuil hall. his speeches have been devoted to an exposition of the duty of nations to aid each other in their struggles for freedom, and to urging the claims of hungary upon the people of the united states. john young, ex-governor of the state of new-york, died in this city on the th of april, in his fiftieth year. he was born in vermont in , and removed to livingston county, new york, while very young. he was admitted to the bar in , and was elected a member of assembly in . in he was elected member of congress, and in went again to the assembly, where he took a prominent part in promoting the call of a convention to revise the state constitution. in he was elected governor, and was appointed to the office which he held at the date of his death by president taylor in . he was a man of great energy of character, of good intellectual faculties, and of amiable disposition and manners. hon. luther bradish has been appointed to succeed him. professor b. b. edwards, distinguished as a scholar and a divine, died on the th of april at athens, georgia, whither he had gone for his health. he was a native of northampton, mass., a graduate of amherst college and andover theological seminary, and first became known as editor of the quarterly register and biblical repository. he subsequently became professor of biblical interpretation and literature at andover, and conducted the bibliotheca sacra. he has also written several works of marked merit upon religious topics, as well as classical books intended for the use of students. he was a scholar of large acquirements, a most estimable man and a devoted christian. gen. solomon van rensselaer, of new york, distinguished in the last war with england, died at his residence near albany on the d of april, at the age of .--hon. james a. meriwether, of georgia, died at his residence in that state on the th april. although in the prime of life, he had been a prominent man in the state, and had filled many distinguished stations with credit to himself and honor to the state. he had filled the several offices of state legislator, representative in congress, judge of the superior court, and speaker of the house of representatives of georgia, in all of which he evinced a high order of talent, and a zeal and energy of character which pre-eminently distinguished him among his associates.--rev. dr. elijah hedding, the senior bishop of the methodist episcopal church, died at poughkeepsie, after a long and painful illness. he has been distinguished for over half a century for extensive learning, for great purity and simplicity of character, and the fervent admiration which he inspired in all who came within his influence. from california we have intelligence to the th of april. the aggregate shipments of gold at san francisco, from the st of january to the st of april, amounted to $ , , ; and two or three millions more were sent out in steamers of the d and th of april. the legislature was still in session. the bill allowing long contracts to be made for coolie labor from china, and for calling a convention to revise the state constitution, were still pending. the prevalent floods had entirely subsided, and spring had fully opened. great activity prevailed at the mines, and their returns continued to be large. new discoveries were constantly made, and every thing promised a season of remarkable success. it would be useless to attempt to give here any detailed notice of the several locations at which rich deposits have been recently found; but from the nevada placers, the southern mines, on the yuba and feather rivers and their branches, and in the sonora region, the reports are all in the highest degree encouraging.--at san francisco matters were quiet, the threatened action of the vigilance committee having thoroughly alarmed the rogues. at mokelumne hill a mexican named eslava was executed for robbery, under sentence of the vigilance committee. it is stated that great numbers of chinese are on their way to california, and that over three thousand were already located in the country. they are industrious, peaceable, and generally successful. the projected establishment of a line of steamers between san francisco and the coast of china can not fail to exert a most important influence on the affairs of eastern asia. the gentlemen attached to the boundary commission had left san francisco for san diego, preparatory to starting across the plains by the way of the gila and the rio grande, with a view to the completion of their work. the winter in california has been very severe, and business of all kinds in the country districts has been obstructed by heavy falls of snow. further indian difficulties have occurred on the klamath river. an indian was shot at happy camp for stealing a knife, and, in revenge, a miner who was supposed to have killed him, was shot by the indians. the whites soon after collected a large company, and on the th surrounded all the indian lodges at the indian ferry, and shot all the men, with several squaws, and destroyed the rancho. a similar scene occurred two miles above. about thirty or forty indians were killed. sandwich islands. we have news from honolulu to the th of march. an act has been passed by the hawaiian parliament admitting all flour, fish, coal, lumber, staves and heading from the united states, into the islands free of all duty, provided the government of the united states will admit the sugar, syrup, molasses, and coffee of the hawaiian kingdom into all united states ports on the same terms. the volcano of mauna loa is in a state of renewed activity. the eruption is described as one of the finest ever witnessed. a jet of molten lava, a hundred feet in diameter, is hurled five hundred feet into the air, and on falling, sweeps its fiery course toward the sea. the stream has filled up ravines, and swept away forests. the altitude of the present eruption is about ten thousand feet above the level of the sea. south america. the news of the downfall of rosas is fully confirmed, and the dethroned despot had reached great britain. we have further details of the decisive battle at santos lugares, which was far less bloody than was originally represented. rosas had collected in the intrenched camp there about , men, of whom the great majority were entirely inefficient, and none were under proper organization. the vanguard composed of men under general pacheco was dispersed and driven back by urquiza upon the intrenchments, and three days after, the whole army of urquiza offered battle in front of the fortifications. the two armies were about equal in numbers--the attack being general throughout the whole line, which extended over six miles. rosas, finding that there was very great disaffection among his own troops, seems to have abandoned the contest at an early stage, and to have sought personal safety in flight. he left the centre of his line, composed of picked infantry and artillery, under the command of chilavert, a deserter from urquiza's army, but a man of undaunted courage. this was the only part of rosas' army which maintained the fight. when it was routed, chilavert was taken prisoner and immediately shot as a deserter. the news of the result had been received with unusual satisfaction. one of the earliest acts of the new government was to appoint new justices of the peace, both for buenos ayres and for the country districts. a general amnesty had been proclaimed. decrees had been issued restoring to their owners, houses and other property which rosas had confiscated. passports, which rosas had required for traveling from one part of buenos ayres to another, had been abolished. the property of rosas had been declared to belong to the state. public affairs wore an appearance of encouraging tranquillity. from ecuador we have news of the progress of the invading force under gen. flores. he had reached the island of puna, in the river a few miles below the city of guayaquil, and had taken possession of it. he had under his command a large man-of-war and three other vessels, transports, for conveying his troops. he had anchored off the island, waiting for expected reinforcements. the government of ecuador had a force of about , with which it was preparing to resist his invasion. it had addressed a circular to all the representatives of foreign powers, threatening to treat as pirates all who should aid him. the pretext for his attack grows out of proceedings while he was president of ecuador, an office which he held for two years. he then packed a convention, caused a new constitution to be adopted, and had himself proclaimed president for eight years longer. these proceedings caused a revolution which drove him out of the country, first making an agreement with the leaders of the revolution that they should pay him $ , and an annual salary, with military pensions for his officers, as the condition of his leaving. the present government does not feel bound to fulfill these stipulations, and has refused to pay him his salary. the ostensible object of his expedition is to enforce its payment; but its success would of course place the government in his hands. he has no party of adherents in the country. it is stated that the american ship _lyons_ had left valparaiso with men and large supplies of ammunition to join him. mexico. the tehuantepec treaty with the united states has been rejected by the mexican congress. the details of this action, which can not fail to be considered as highly important to this country, have not reached us. ---- from the city of mexico we have dates directly only to the th of march. the embassadors of great britain, france, spain, and the united states have addressed a remonstrance to the mexican government against the unfairness of the custom-house regulations in mexico. the mexican secretary has replied, that the matter is before congress, and that it does not call for any interference on the part of foreign ministers. tuspan has been made a port of entry. ---- a contract has been entered into by the king of belgium and the mexican government, for transporting , belgians to the interior of mexico, where they are to receive lands to settle on, or work for mexican landholders, on certain stipulated conditions. ---- a bill has been introduced into congress repealing the stringent laws concerning foreigners, and imposing the penalty of banishment on any foreigner who may be judicially convicted of taking part in any revolutionary government, of having abused the liberty of the press, or of smuggling. at present foreigners may be expelled simply on suspicion, and without any judicial inquiry whatever. ---- a letter from louis napoleon, announcing the change in the government of france, to his "great and good friend," the president of the mexican republic, is published in the mexican papers. ---- complaints are constantly made against the mexican authorities at acapulco, of maltreatment of americans, and insults to the american flag. great numbers of emigrants to california have been driven into acapulco by wreck and other causes, and they very frequently come into conflict with the local officers. two or three instances are mentioned in which americans have been imprisoned on the most frivolous pretexts, and the remonstrances of the u. s. consul treated with contempt. great britain. the news of the month from england, as from all parts of europe, is unusually destitute of interest and importance. the new ministers resist every endeavor to elicit from them any definite information as to the policy they intend to pursue. in the house of commons repeated attempts have been made to procure some declaration of the intentions of government upon the financial policy of the country, but without effect. ministers avow their readiness to go to the people, but upon what issues they do not distinctly state. the earl of derby denies that there is any more necessity for settling the corn question now than there has been hitherto, but declares his readiness to meet it whenever it shall come up. lord brougham has introduced a bill to shorten the time within which parliament may meet after a dissolution, fixing it at not less than thirty-five nor more than fifty days. the general expectation is that the dissolution will take place in july or august. preparations, meantime, are made in various parts of the kingdom, for new elections, and no inconsiderable share of the public attention is absorbed in the various movements which these respective events involve. the new ministers, who resigned their seats in parliament upon taking office, have all been re-elected without opposition by their previous constituencies, except lord naas, who has been succeeded in the county of kildare by a stanch supporter of free trade. this result might seem like an indication of popularity on the part of the new cabinet, but for the fact that eight of its members have been re-elected by constituencies numbering in the aggregate only , electors, which is only a fifth of the number represented by lord john russell, and an eighth of that represented by mr. cobden. in the house of lords, on the th, lord lyndhurst protested warmly against the agitation which was carried on to force an early dissolution of parliament, as injurious to the country; and he took occasion to pledge the new ministry to carry out nearly all the measures of law reform of which the late administration had given notice. his assurances on this subject were pronounced satisfactory by lord brougham. on the th, lord beaumont asked lord derby to declare distinctly whether it was, or was not, the intention of the government to recommend an alteration of the present policy in regard to the importation of corn, at the opening of the new parliament. in reply, lord derby denied that there was any greater necessity for the solution of the free-trade question now than before the accession to power of the present government. he thought that the appeal to the people should be made as speedily as was consistent with the great interests of the country, but said that "neither taunts, nor calumnies, nor mortifications would induce him to recommend a dissolution one moment sooner than he thought it expedient." he denounced the operations of the anti-corn-law league, and complained warmly of the attempts which recently had been made by lord john russell to organize an opposition to his government, and thus force a dissolution. he denied the right of parliament to put, and declined to answer categorical questions as to the precise future course of the government; but he would say that he would never attempt, by a mere majority of votes, to force upon the country a measure distasteful to the great body of the people. similar questions in the house of commons have been met by similar answers from the chancellor of the exchequer, and other members of the government. mr. disraeli announced the intention of government to advise a dissolution so soon as measures deemed necessary for the security of the country should be passed. in a debate upon the army estimates, lord john russell contended very earnestly that it was unconstitutional and entirely unprecedented for a government, which was notoriously in a minority in the house of commons, to set up a claim to administer the affairs of the country for a period of many months, without any declaration of its policy, and without bringing forward any of the measures it had advocated while in opposition, and without an immediate appeal to the country. subsequently lord john said that the declarations of lord derby concerning the intended dissolution were so far satisfactory, that he should make no further opposition to immediate action upon necessary measures. ---- on the th of april, during an incidental discussion on the austrian dispatches concerning political refugees in england, the earl of malmsbury declared that great britain would continue to be an asylum for all exiles who wished to avail themselves of it. in the commons, a proposition to establish voting by ballot was rejected--there being in its favor votes, and against it . on the th, in reply to inquiries, the chancellor of the exchequer announced that sir c. hotham would immediately proceed to rio janeiro on a mission, in connection with a french ambassador, to place the commercial relations of france and england with the countries on the river plate, on a more satisfactory footing.--parliament adjourned over the easter holidays until april th. the usual mansion house banquet, given on easter monday, was signalized by a speech from lord derby, in which he urged the great importance of the confidence of the country to any ministry which hoped to administer its affairs with success. mr. f. peel, on the th, addressed a large meeting of the electors of bury, in lancashire, and took occasion to insist very strongly on the necessity of resisting to the utmost every attempt to restore high duties upon articles which, enter largely into the consumption of the masses of the people. considerable importance has been attached to a declaration made by sir r. inglis, the new solicitor-general for scotland, who said, in a recent address to his constituents, that he was not prepared to vote for any measure calculated to promote mere class interests, at the expense of the general welfare of the country; and that while he was "very sensible of the great pressure under which agriculture was suffering, he was satisfied that the evil might be greatly lessened, if not removed, without the necessity of reimposing a tax on the people's food." ---- a most painful sensation has been produced by the wreck of the steam troop-ship birkenhead, on her way to the cape of good hope, on the night of the th of february, attended by an immense loss of life. in order to save distance, the captain had run very close in to shore; and at a few minutes past midnight, while running eight and a half knots an hour, off point danger, the steamer struck a sunken rock, which penetrated her bottom just aft the foremast, and in less than half an hour the steamer had thoroughly gone to pieces. out of persons on board, only survived. the rush of water into the ship was so sudden that most of the men were drowned in their hammocks. the rest of the men were called upon deck, and marshaled under their proper officers. the cutter was launched with the women and children. the large boat in the centre of the ship could not be got at. very soon after, the ship broke in two in the middle, and two or three hundred persons struggling upon drift wood in the water were all that remained. they were then a mile or two from the shore--the water between was full of sea-weed and sharks, and but few reached the land. nine officers and men perished. the good order and discipline maintained on board after the wreck are spoken of in the highest terms of admiration. just as the vessel was going down, the commander called out for all that could swim to jump overboard and make for the boats. two or three of the officers urged them not to do so, as it would inevitably swamp the boats, in which were the women and children: it is added that only three made the attempt. ---- strenuous efforts are still made to prevent the crystal palace from being removed, but with slight prospects of success. on the d of april it was thrown open for a grand promenade, and was visited by over , people. a public meeting was subsequently held to urge upon parliament the propriety of taking steps to preserve it. ---- the penny subscription for a monument to sir robert peel has been closed, and is found to have yielded over £ , which has been placed in the hands of trustees. ---- a good deal of interest has been excited by the report that on the th of april, , the captain, mate, and others on board the ship renovation, on her way from shields to quebec, saw _two vessels_ imbedded in a large iceberg, about thirty miles from cape race, the southern point of newfoundland. the captain of the ship has not been heard from in regard to it; but two or three persons distinctly testify to having heard him relate the facts; while the mate, a sailor who was at the helm, and a passenger on board, concur in saying that they saw the ships. mr. simpson, the mate, examined them with a glass, and describes them as having been three-masted ships, with their masts struck and yards down, and all made snug. they were near each other--one upright, and the other with a slight inclination. the captain was sick at the time, and no pains were taken to examine the ships more closely. the admiralty has pursued its inquiries into the accuracy of the statement, under the supposition that the vessels seen may have been the ships of sir john franklin; but no reliable conclusion can as yet be formed upon the subject. ---- a new and well-appointed searching expedition, under captain belcher, set out for the arctic seas on the th of april. very remarkable accounts reach england of the abundance of gold in australia. according to a careful return, compiled from reliable sources, it is stated that from the th of september, the date of the discovery of the gold field, to the th of december, there had been taken out gold valued at £ , . the papers report that the field seems to be unlimited--the indications of gold extending over scores of miles, and each new deposit apparently surpassing all others in richness. france. the opening of the new senate and legislative body took place on the th of march. in his speech on that occasion the president briefly rehearses the reasons which made his usurpation necessary, and cites the readiness with which the people have submitted to a temporary abridgment of their liberties as proof of their conviction that they had been abused. he says, with regard to the rumors that he intends to make himself emperor, that he has had the opportunity to do so on three occasions if he had been so disposed, and he refers to his forbearance then as evidence of the falsehood of the reports. he declares that he is firmly resolved to maintain the government in its present form, unless the machinations of the disaffected shall compel him to claim greater powers. he repeats his assurances of peace, and declares that he will restore popular freedom and rights as rapidly as the security of the country will permit. ---- the ceremony of opening the chambers was brilliant and imposing. general cavaignac refused to take his seat, as he could not take the oath required. previous to the opening of the session the president issued a decree regulating the mode of doing business in the senate, council of state, and the legislative corps. no member of the latter can publish his speech without having obtained the authority of the assembly, and any unauthorized publication subjects the offender to heavy fines. ---- it was generally supposed that fixing the budget, or making appropriations for the civil list, for the current year, would be left to the legislature; but just before the meeting of that body the president established this also by a simple decree. the expenses of the year are estimated , , , francs--the receipts at , , , . there are some extra resources from the reduction of interest on the national debt, from the paris and lyons railroad, and from the alienation of the national forests. the salaries of the ministers are to be , francs a year, except the minister of war and of foreign affairs, who will have each , . the president's civil list has been fixed at twelve millions. ---- on the evening of april th, the highest judicial authorities of the state attended at the elysée to take the oaths prescribed by the constitution in presence of louis napoleon, who received them surrounded by his ministers. a complimentary speech was made to him on behalf of the judges. in his reply the president used strong expressions concerning the basis of his right to the office he holds. he said: "since the day on which the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people replaced that of divine right, it may be affirmed with truth that no government has been as legitimate as mine. in , four millions of votes, in proclaiming the power to be _hereditary in my family_, designated me as heir to the empire. in , nearly six millions called me to the head of the republic. in nearly eight millions maintained me there. consequently, in taking the oath to me, it is not merely to a man that you swear to be faithful, but to a principle--to a cause--to the national will itself." these expressions have been generally considered as indicative of hereditary imperial pretensions, to be made good at the earliest convenient opportunity. public rumor, indeed, had assigned the th of may, the occasion of a grand review of troops, as the day when the empire would be proclaimed. ---- a circular had been addressed by the minister of the interior to the prefects of the departments, concerning the organization of the new national guard. its chief peculiarities are that the government is to determine the exact number of citizens which is to compose the service, and on what occasions they are to be called out; and that they are to be selected (by a special committee appointed by the government in each district) from those persons between the ages of and , who are best known for their devotedness to the cause of order, as understood by louis napoleon. a decree has appeared reconstituting the university of france. in accordance with its provisions mm. michelet, quinet, and mickiewitz are deprived of their professorships. both mm. michelet and quinet had been suspended by the government of louis philippe, but it is only since the decree of the th of march that the government has the power of depriving professors of their honorary rank. they are dismissed, asserts the government, for having abused their chairs to infuse violent political sentiments into the minds of the rising youth, and for having converted their lectures into violent republican harangues. ---- the estates of neuilly and monceaux, formerly belonging to the orleans family, and confiscated to the state by the decree of january , have been taken possession of by the administration of the domain of the state. the swiss question has received further elucidation. in our last record we gave the text of a french note dated january , and demanding in peremptory terms the right of designating refugees in switzerland obnoxious to the french government, and requiring their immediate expulsion. the paris _debats_ publishes the reply of the swiss government to this demand. it is dated the th of february, and after declaring that the swiss government had hitherto exerted, and would continue to exert all legal means at its disposal to suppress or prevent all hostile movement among the refugees within its borders against the peace of neighboring nations, it positively refuses to accede to the demands of the french minister to be allowed to point out for instant expulsion from switzerland such refugees as he in his discretion might consider most dangerous to france. the honor and independence of the swiss confederation permit no other answer to be given to the french note. the law of nations sustains switzerland in the position taken, and from this position, declares the council, in conclusion, the threats of france will not avail to drive her. the reply to this note has not been published; but it is generally understood that the assurances which it contains of increased vigilance against attempts among the refugees against the peace of other powers, had been accepted as satisfactory. eastern and southern europe. in austria the sudden death of the prime minister, prince schwarzenberg, which occurred from apoplexy on the th of april, is the only event of interest during the month. the prince was a man of energy, ability, and political hardihood, and was the author of the severe policy which austria has lately pursued toward hungary. he is succeeded by count buol schauenstein, who has been for some time austrian minister in england. an official announcement has been made by the austrian government that no change in policy will follow this change of ministry. ---- count batthyani's estates have been seized by the high court of hungary. in prussia public attention is largely absorbed in measures for relief to the inhabitants of the eastern districts, who are suffering from famine. the corn harvest and potato crop have almost entirely failed in eastern prussia and silesia. ---- the first chamber has ratified a resolution in favor of voting the supplies for the ordinary budget of the state for a period of three years, instead of annually, as at present. another resolution enables the chamber to discuss the items of the budget, which now can only be accepted or rejected as a whole. the prince of prussia congratulated a deputation from the first chamber upon their recent reactionary votes, and impressed on them the necessity of increasing the army. in spain the summary dismissal of gen. concha as captain-general of cuba, excites a good deal of interest. the government has given no reasons for the act. his brother declares that he had fallen a victim to his desire to reform certain inveterate abuses in the administration. general caredo left cadiz, march th, as his successor. ---- severe measures have been taken by the government to restrain the freedom of the press. very heavy fines have been imposed upon several journals for their strictures on the government. ---- a squadron is to be fitted out to cruise in the mediterranean as a practical school for spanish sailors. in turkey reshid pascha has been reinstated as prime minister. his dismissal was the result of a court intrigue, and did not indicate any abandonment of the reform policy which he has established. ---- a new tax has been decreed--not upon foreign imports, but upon the domestic productions of the country. ---- gen. perczel, who distinguished himself during the hungarian war, and subsequently was detained in turkey, has left for the united states. in greece a good deal of interest has been excited by the trial, conviction, and banishment of rev. dr. king, who has been for several years a zealous american missionary at athens. he was accused of reproaching the established religion, tried by the areopagus, and, without being allowed to speak in his own defense, adjudged guilty. he was allowed fourteen days to leave the country. editor's table. what is education? on this question every man feels at home, and we know not, therefore, why it may not be made the subject of some brief remarks in our editorial table. the answers are almost innumerable--education is useful knowledge--it is practical training for all pursuits in life--it is culture--it is growth--it is discipline--it is learning to think--it is learning to act--it is _educing_ the statue from the block of marble--it is development--the development of the mind--the development of the mind and body--the development of the whole man, physically, mentally, morally--it is a preparation for business, for success in life, for working out the problem of humanity, &c., &c., &c. may we not find one term that will embrace whatever of truth there is in these metaphors, and yet exclude the error which may be regarded as attaching, more or less, to each one of them. perhaps the safest guide here to right thinking may be found in following out that analogy which providence has established between our spiritual and our material organization. what is the highest good of the body considered in itself, and without reference to any more ultimate bearing upon the well-being of the soul. health, is at once the answer. if man were all body (could such a case be conceivable), that state or organization of it we call its _health_, would be the highest end of human existence. we need not stop to define this prime excellence or _well-being_ of our corporeal organism. it is sufficient for our argument that there is such a state, better than all others, and therefore most desirable. the necessary assumption of the fact is enough to show the absurdity of that view which would regard this state as a _means_ to bodily utilities lower than itself, or to any thing else as an end which is not the transcending good of the spirit. why is bodily health desirable? what is the measure of its value? suppose the answer to be--we want it, and we take care of it, as an excellent help to making money, or to fit us for business, or in general, as a _means_ of acquiring the _means_ for the gratification of those ends which are not only lower than the good of health, but, in many cases, actually destructive of it when attained. would not the least reflecting mind be struck with the absurdity. it is making that which is itself an _end_, a _means_ to other things having all their value from their relation to that very thing whose position is so irrationally reversed. in how much higher a sense does the analogy hold good in respect to our spiritual organization? education, then, aims at the health of the soul, the production of a _sound mind_. without now going into any analysis of that in which this health consists, it is enough for us at present that there is such a state, most real as well as most desirable. there is such a _sound mind_--a good thing in itself, irrespective of any use to which it may be applied. the certainty of its reality furnishes the true answer to our question, lifting it, at once, above those views which would regard education solely as a means to some other and lower thing than could be rationally included in this essential idea of the spiritual hygieia. let us make clear our meaning by a well-known popular illustration. the famous pugilists, hyer and sullivan, as we were told by the newspapers, went through a course of most careful training or education of the body. its appetites, its affections, its faculties were all brought under proper regulation. they were made to practice the strictest temperance, the nicest discrimination was employed in respect to healthful and strengthening nourishment--in a word, the utmost attention was paid to the development of their corporeal powers. now, had all this been for the promotion of the bodily health as an end (even in itself considered), it would have commanded respect as a noble, though not the noblest motive. but how are the reason and the conscience both shocked at the thought, that all this seeming care of the bodily well-being was intended only as a _means_ to the brutal contests of the ring, and these a _means_ to the still more beastly ends of the vile gamblers who had superintended this whole course of corporeal education. do we not feel, instinctively, that the lowest intemperance is less degrading than such a use of the body and the body's health? and why should not even a deeper condemnation be visited on that kindred view which would regard the spiritual training in a similar light--which would look upon the soul's education only, or mainly, as subservient to what is called success in business, or the ends of political ambition, oft-times as deeply defiled with the base gambling spirit as any of the parties on the race course or the boxing ground, or, in short, to any object which, though better than these has no value in itself except as a means to that very thing which is so degraded from its proper ultimate rank. let this then be our general answer to the question--what is education? we would carry it through all departments, the nursery, the family, the common school, the high school, the academy, the college, the university. it is every where the _spirit's health_, as a good _per se_, as something even higher, and better, and, therefore, more desirable than happiness, or "pleasing sensations"--as, in fact, a true end in itself, irrespective of any thing else to which it may contribute any incidental aid or utility. take away wholly this idea, and its incidental benefits must ultimately perish. it will cease to be useful, it will, in the end, cease to stimulate thought, or to call out that enthusiasm which quickens invention, when it is degraded from the high position that gives it all its truly useful power. its intrinsic beauty is the source of its utility, its dignity of its value, its glory of its strength. when we have settled what this health of the soul is, both intellectually and morally, then whatever contributes to such an end is education. whatever tends to some other end is not education. it may be very useful as a means of training to certain particular pursuits, but it is not education. in any other use of the term we not only burst the bounds of any practicable definition, but are estopped from denying the claim of any other profession, trade, or business, to a like inclusion. the true idea, then, of education is catholic, in distinction from what is partial in human pursuit. it is that which pertains to man, _as man_, in distinction from what belongs to him as a farmer, a mechanic, a lawyer, an engineer, or a merchant. it embraces not the trades, the businesses, but the _humanities_. let the word be properly qualified, and there is then no serious objection to applying it in this partial and sectional way. we may thus have mercantile education, mechanical education, professional education. to prevent confusion, some other word would doubtless be better here, such as training, or apprenticeship, but when we speak of education in general, and of the schools in which it is to be obtained, the catholic idea must be preserved, or all ideas are lost, and we are declaiming on a matter to which there are no possible bounds except such as are imposed by each man's arbitrary conception. we may at some other time follow out this idea into some of its particular modifications. at present, however, we would take it, in its most general aspect, as the guiding thought in the exposition of some of the more common fallacies. tried by this test, all education is the same in idea, the same in quality, and differing only in the quantity, or the extent to which that idea is carried out. there is a unity pervading all, from the common school to the university. the philology, the mathematics, the belles-lettres, the philosophy of the one, are the expansion of the grammar, the arithmetic, the reading lesson, the catechism of the other. in the light of this thought we see at once the hollowness of that declamation which would represent these departments as opposed to each other--which would set forth the support of the one as the peculiar duty of the state, while all aid given to the other is denounced as aristocratic, impolitic, and unjust. it is sometimes dangerous reasoning from a metaphor. it frequently presents but one aspect of a truth, and the changing or inverting that aspect may invert the whole argument built upon it. it is very common, for example, to compare knowledge to heat. we lately read what the speaker doubtless regarded as a very imposing argument, grounded wholly upon such a simile. he was contending, with the greatest moral courage, that our common schools should receive the most liberal patronage of the state, while the colleges should be "left to themselves." "knowledge," says the undaunted advocate of this very unpopular doctrine, "knowledge will no more descend than heat will descend. if you wished to warm the lower stratum of air, would you heat the upper stratum first? no, sir! warm the lower stratum, and then you can not keep the upper cold." we know not which to admire most here, the science or the logic. a pretty good argument in favor of a higher education for legislators might be deduced from it, but not in such a way, perhaps, as the orator imagined. knowledge then is heat. heat ascends. ergo, the common schools are the foundation and, therefore, keeping the stove well supplied below is certainly the best means of warming the dummy above. admirably argued. but let us now change the metaphor. knowledge is _light_. this must strike most minds as being, to say the least, quite as appropriate a simile as the other. knowledge is light, and light comes down. its native seat is in the upper region. where now is our metaphorical argument? turned upside down, and every inference pointed like a battery against the very positions it was intended to support. with the change of a very few terms all that follows becomes a parody on the former meaning. "if you wish to _enlighten_ the lower stratum, keep clear the atmosphere above, and thus will the colleges give the common schools their clearest support. take care of the former, and they will take care of the latter," &c., &c. this is hardly better than another argument, employed by the same reasoner in favor of what he calls "practical knowledge." "our five later presidents," he says, "were men who were never taught to chop logic _secundum artem_, nor to play shuttlecock with abstractions in college halls." now it is well known that the four early presidents who preceded them were not only men of liberal education, but eminent for learning and the highest mental culture. they _had_ learned to deal with abstractions, and to reason _secundum artem_ in college halls. to which side of the scale the real force of this argument inclines, we believe our intelligent readers of all parties may well be trusted to decide. if we must have a metaphor, the common school, we may say, is the digging for the foundation, but not the foundation itself. it is the gathering of some of the materials, but is neither the main, nor the supporting part, of the great structure of national education. we have no wish to underrate its importance--its very great importance--and for this very reason do we attempt to expose those fallacies which, in aiming at the depreciation of the higher, would infallibly injure the lower and dependent interest. the best argument is simply an appeal to facts. all this inane declamation flies at once before it. in what states of our union are common schools most flourishing? precisely those, we answer, in which the best support is given to the higher institutions of learning. who will venture to charge the pilgrim fathers with anti-popular tendencies? and yet, in laying the foundation of a system of national education, they began with the college. the leading institution of the kind was founded before the birth of one generation, and only eighteen years after they first broke the silence of the wilderness. how much of that leaven of a _sound mind_ which has characterized new england may be traced to this one source? again--let any thoughtful man look over the face of our own state of new york. millions and millions have been given for the cause of popular education; and this is as it should be, as far as money is concerned. but will such means alone secure the desired result? no man at all acquainted with the facts can fail to see, that just in proportion as there is to be found in any town or locality in our state that higher intelligence which is the offspring of the higher institutions of learning, there the common school has ever had its best support, its best teachers, its most sound, and elevated, and healthful system of instruction. from thence, too, have been sent forth in return the best candidates for our colleges, or, to get up our metaphor again, the best supplies for those distributing reservoirs, of whose light and heat they had so liberally partaken. wherever, on the other hand, there has been no such leaven of a higher intelligence, the funds so lavishly bestowed have left the common mind very much as they found it. the stream has failed to rise above its fountain. light has failed to act contrary to its own law, in ascending out of darkness; and if there has been any "_heat_," it has only been the fermentation of ignorance, or of crude smatterings of knowledge, more mischievous, perhaps, than ignorance itself. any process, or public provision, by which our best colleges (and by such we mean those which have the least lowered their own standard in obedience to popular clamor) should be enabled to plant each year one of its most intelligent graduates in every county in the state, would do more to promote common school education than all the money that has been thrown broadcast over the land for the past quarter of a century. some seem to think that the only thing necessary is to distribute money over a certain space, and the work is done. "the great object," says the authority we have quoted, "is to endow the masses with sound minds and discriminating judgments." a most noble undertaking, truly! but how is it to be done? will the mere insertion of an item in the supply-bill create this magical power? it is very plain to one who thinks at all, that this "endowment of the masses with sound minds, &c.," must be somehow under the management of those who already possess "sound minds and discriminating intelligence," and this is something far more than a knowledge barely on a level with the instruction itself to be imparted within the walls of a district school. something higher, too, is required than normal institutions, supplying candidates more or less thoroughly instructed in the particular branches they are to teach, and thus placing them just in advance of their future pupils. no man is qualified to teach at all, unless his knowledge is much beyond that range of science to which his actual teaching is confined. there must be something higher than this--something more, even, than an acquaintance with particular branches far transcending that line. there must be an initiation, at least, into what we have called the _science of sciences_--the knowledge of knowledges. all this is necessary to make "_sound minds_ and discriminating judgments," capable of distinguishing in respect not only to the _quantity_ but the _quality_ of different kinds of knowledge--of determining what truly enter into the idea of education, and what belong to the partial, the sectional, or the ephemeral. thus viewed as leavening the community with minds of broad and liberal culture, the college becomes not only the "foundation," but the elevator of the common school. it is just such a class of minds as are now most, needed in this country--a class of _thinkers_ in distinction from your men of _action_, your noisy demagogues, your self-styled _practical men_, of whom we have at present so great an overstock. we want a class of minds who shall gradually create a philosophical and learned interest, thus causing, if we may use here the language of political economy, a steadily increasing demand for the article they represent--elevating the profession of the teacher, and in this way the whole national mind, to react again in a more liberal and fraternal support of all our institutions, the highest as well as the lowest. but our present editorial musings must be confined mainly to education in connection with the common school. and here there is one application of our leading thought on which we would briefly dwell. there are those who might admit the general correctness of our principle, and yet contend for some deviation from it in these primary departments. here, they would say, knowledge should be practical, predominantly physical, mainly connected with the outer world, and those partial pursuits that are afterward to occupy the active every-day life. the other view may belong, more or less, to the college and the university; but this brief period should not be wasted upon any thing except immediate practical utilities. we can not think so. the question still remains--what is the truest utility? and a proper settlement of this may lead to the conclusion that education in the common school should be even more catholic, in its idea, than that of the higher institutions. in some of the later periods of the college course, there may be some propriety in giving the studies a direction toward professional or partial pursuits. in the earlier stages this can only be done at the expense of that which is of far more value in itself, and which, if not then attained, can never afterward be secured. this thought is so practical that it is wonderful how it escapes the notice of those who claim to be pre-eminently our practical men. professional knowledge, mechanical knowledge, almost any branch of natural history, almost any modern language, may be obtained in after life. one who has laid a good foundation may at any time stoop down and pick them up when he has need of them. but there are other branches (although we can not now stop to specify them) in respect to which this is not the case. there is the knowledge, or the culture through which all other knowledge is acquired. it is the knowledge which, to a greater or less extent, is for all men, as men, for all ages, yea, for all _worlds_ of rational beings. each particular world in the universe may be supposed to have its own botany, its own geology, its own mineralogy, its own natural history; but a spiritual necessity, a behest of the reason compels us to say, that in all worlds there _must_ be the same logic, the same grammar or universal laws of language, whether by sounds or signs, the same laws of thinking, the same geometry, the same pure mathematics, the same ultimate rules of taste, the same principles of art, the same elements of the beautiful, the same æsthetic and moral philosophy. in other words, the good, the beautiful, the true in themselves must be essentially the same for all rational souls, and can not even be conceived of as having a diversity for different parts of the universe. now, we contend that that is the most truly practical view of education which makes this the pervading idea even for the common school. any youth of good ordinary intelligence may be made to understand its practical application to what we have called the spirit's health; and when once truly seen, this single idea may be of more practical value in guiding and elevating all his after thinking, than all the smattering of mineralogy, and zoology, and french, and agricultural chemistry, and civil engineering, and phrenology, too, which are now so much the rage. there are branches of natural science exceedingly valuable, even in connection with that idea of education which we are maintaining. we would underrate none of them when they can be pursued as they ought to be. but this can only be in one of two ways. it must be either _philosophically_, that is, in their seen connections with every other department of thought--and here we have the ground on which they would come into the general college course--or _scientifically_, that is, as they are studied by those whose minds have been peculiarly drawn to them, and from whom they exact the enthusiastic devotion of a life. if neither can be done, it is the most really practical and useful way to be content with giving, as empirical knowledge, those _results_ which have been elaborated by the truly scientific, rather than foolishly attempt to render each boy in our schools his own chemist, his own botanist, and his own engineer, anymore than his own clergyman, his own lawyer, or his own physician. and here comes up a distinction proceeding directly from that wise providential analogy of soul and body to which we first alluded. our bodily food maybe divided into two classes. one kind, besides pleasing the palate, may be useful in giving a temporary refreshment, or a temporary stimulus, which may be employed for various practical ends. but this is all of it. it passes off, leaving the system as it was, if not sometimes in a worse condition than it found it. again, there is other food which not only imparts vigor for a time, and for a particular purpose, but actually enters into the physical system, and becomes a part of it, constituting the elements of its growth, yea, of its very life. so it is with knowledge. some kinds lodge only in the memory; they have their abode on the surface of the soul; they have no inward hold. hence they are easily effaced, and when their outward scientific details are lost from the memory, they are lost entirely. there are other kinds that not only become assimilated to, but enter into the soul itself, into its very spiritual constitution. when the outward facts are forgotten, they still remain. the soul has grown by them, and out of them. in one sense it may be said to be made of them. if there be good grounds for this, how important the distinction! it is but little we can know at the utmost. it becomes, therefore, even in the highest and widest education, a question of selection and discrimination. how important, then, the choice in respect to the shorter period of common school instruction. if this precious season is so very brief, if so little can be learned, surely that small _quantity_ should be of the choicest _quality_, and the highest considerations connected with the soul, intellectual and moral health, should be taken into the estimate of its nature and its value. in making such estimate more regard should be had to what enters into the future _thinking_, than to what will enter into the future _action_, to the knowledge that assimilates itself to the very being of the soul rather than to that which belongs to particular and ever-changing circumstances. in other words, the preference should be given to that instruction which forms the law of the thoughts, which refines the taste, which elevates the affections, which gives a stock of ideas, precious though small, and ever in demand as the spirit's daily food amid the drudgery and worldliness of the coming life, rather than to those outward facts of science which must be to a great extent empirical for the brief primary school, and, in their best form for the college or the university, have but little hold upon the inner life. to make the practical application of this, let us suppose that two or three years are all that can be given, in some places, to common-school education. a part of this time is necessarily occupied with the very elements of knowledge, reading, writing, and numbers. how shall we best employ the residue? one plan is to give it up wholly to practical knowledge, as it is called, or what is supposed to have an immediate connection with the active business of life, although greatly overrated even in this respect. another would devote it to as good an acquaintance as can be formed with the best things in the best english classics--and this by a course of well-directed reading, or, as the greek boys were required to do in respect to their poets, by committing largely to memory. it would be well if time could be given to both. but this, we will suppose, can not be done, and we are to decide between the rival claims. can there be a doubt as to who is likely to be the useful man, the healthy-souled man, the _sound_ man, in the best sense of the terms? can we doubt as to who will have the richest store laid up for that future thinking and future feeling which is the true life of the soul--the boy whose precious time has been given to a little physiology, a little natural history, a little of that trash which sometimes goes under the name of meteorology, all forgotten as soon as learned, because never learned either philosophically or scientifically--or he whose mind has been brought in as close communion as possible with the richest, the most elevated, the most beautiful thinking in english literature--with milton, with shakspeare, with young, with addison, with johnson, with cowper, with irving, with wordsworth, and, above all, that "well of english undefined," as well as mine of thought unfathomable--the holy scriptures? but we can not pursue this train of thought farther at present. at some other period we may attempt to fill up these outline ideas with some more particular and varied illustrations. we should like, especially, to call attention to the subject of school-books for our primary institutions. it may strike some as rather a humble theme, and yet there are but few of higher practical importance. editor's easy chair. if ever, in the chronicle of any year, the old georgic averment of "_semper imbres_" might be written truthfully, it certainly must belong to that weeping april which made the middle of our slow-coming spring. forty days of rain were once reckoned a drowning punishment for a sinning world; and if equal dampness is any test of our present demerit, there was never a wickeder world than ours. it is easy, in our office-chair, to talk humorsomely of the floods which, since our last writing, have carried off the last white stains of winter. but a bitterer truthfulness lies in the woes and losses that the rains have showered upon thousands of the poor than we are wont to take cognizance of. it is a pretty thing to see--as we have seen--the mountain rivulets growing white and angry, and swelling into great torrents that run writhing around the heel of mossy rocks, and start the mouldering logs that bridged them, into sharp-flung javelins that twist and dash along the growing tide; and it is grand to see the lithe saplings that border such maddened streamlet, dipping their sappy limbs, and struggling, and torn away by the chafing waters; and it is like a poem--richer than any tame pastoral--to listen to the rush and whirl bearing down scathed tree-trunks, and mossy boulders, and loitering with a hissing laziness in some spreading eddy at the foot of a mountain-slope: but it is terrible, when the rush of a thousand such streams has doubled the volume of a river, and drowned the sweet spring banks, and borne off struggling flocks, and rose to the level of firesides--deluging gardens and families--spreading through the streets of a town like a reeling monster of a thousand heads, lifting its yellow ghastliness into chambers, and rocking from their foundations rural homes, and swaying the topmost limbs of fruit trees that shadow the roof. all this, it has been our lot, once in our life to see;--when panic seized the strongest-minded, and fathers crowded their crying households into tottering skiffs that went rocking and doubtful over the swift eddies among bent forest trees--bearing within them the poor remnant of the husbandman's estate. and just such scenes, if report speak true, have startled the men and women of western pennsylvania, and have made this year of a sad epoch in their history. but we turn from this gladly to the bursting summer, which, with minerva's suddenness, has leaped from the cleft skull of winter. in a week the flower-trees have put on bloom, and the grass caught its cloak of greenness. why is it, that thus far we have no virgil, or no prose pastoral to tell of the wondrous things which adorn the american spring and summer? if quick and gorgeous contrasts be any item in the sum of what makes up the beauty of a country, we have no rivals in the world; and we can show the gorgeous glassiness of ice, as wondrous in its adornments as are the silvan graces of our prairie wood. the time will come, by-and-by when the ocean-crossing shall be a matter counted by hours instead of days, when the searchers after the wonderful will gaze upon the ice-beauties of niagara as they now feast on its summer. schaffhausen, and handel, and terni, and the clyde never wear those crystal robes and trimmings which deck, bridally, the bass-toned pipes of our great organ of erie. the gush and the flow of sparkling water are all that lend grandeur or beauty to the great cataracts of europe. and if summertime do not steep them in warm mists that catch the sunshine in "bounteous colors three," the autumn only hangs heavy and cold--spitting catarrhal spray, and no winter is keen enough to set the edge of the torrents in sharpened icicles, and to sheet the near-lying wood with silver. but niagara--in such winter as has hung its lengthened pall upon our hoping hearts--dresses itself bridally; the rocks, loosened from the base, are sheathed in pearly casements, that rise with every morning's light, and comb over right and left, and climb in the very eye of the waters--breasting the spray, that clings ever, with new-added pearls, and cumulates into a mounded miracle of beauty. the near trees, too, catch the dampened air, day after day, and wear it in fleecy vestments, that bow them down, till their limbs touch the icy ground, and the visitor roams in fairy bowers of ice, and looks upon the spanning bow from the interstices of a crystal forest. far away along shore the dripping boughs wear silvery coats, and glisten in the january sun, like trees of glass. the eddies below whirl crashing fragments, that come over the sounding precipice, like atoms playing in the sunbeams; the foam plays round the ice-cakes, like whipt cream around transparent jellies; and the blue of the unfathomed depths gleams to the light, like a sky, relieving the sparkle of a starry "milky way." beyond this, streaming from bank to bank, like the gossamer web, which a dewy morning of june shows--stretching from grass-tip to grass-tip--the wire bridge spans the fretted chasm, and shakes, as summer webs shake, in the growing breath of a summer's day. nor is foliage wanting; for firs, green as those of norway, lie black against the carpeting snows, and black against the light clouds that the spray drifts along the wintry sky. and from amid the iciness, and the clearness, and the silvered woods the roar raises its organ-notes, pealing through the ice-haunted boughs, and dying upon the stillness of winter! but we are forgetting ourselves and our season. the violets are up and fragrant; the butter-cups are lying golden upon the hills, where we may not go; and the sweet haze of summer is stretching toward us from the country its alluring spell. happy the man who can cast off the city dust, and loiter by pleasant streams with books of old rhyme, or with rod and angle! a murrain on those who laugh at such enjoyment as this; and who cluster their withered comforts, from year's end to year's end, within the close-pent alleys of our city! and this mood of speech, into which the soft sun slanting upon our window has decoyed us easily, tempts us to lift a pleading voice, once more, for that park and wood, which seems to drift before our scheming lawgivers like a good thing--never to be caught. if only, when this easy-chair-writing were done, we could wear the hope of a stroll under trees, where country silence reigned, and where wayside flowers lifted their mild eyes, to wean us from the perplexities of toil, with what richer relish would we not pursue our task; and with what heartier prayer would we not thank god for our daily walk--as for our "daily bread!" look to it, you scheming rulers of our city, that you do not worry tender-heartedness into city hardness, and cramp, by your misplaced economy, the better instincts of our nature, into that careless and wiry spirit, which acts without love, and which works without feeling. that charity which honors wealth can find no better play than in spreading before the eyes, and the weakened feet of the poor, those paths of greenness, which bless with heaven's own refreshment. * * * * * two arrivals of the spring are in people's mouths--kossuth and jenny lind goldschmidt. kossuth comes pleading with his old eloquence, not a whit diminished by the labors of his long journeyings, and even sharpened by the approaching farewell into a more plaintive earnestness. reformers of every creed would do well to study, and emulate the sincerity and fervor with which he presses his claims. the same devotion, and the same tongue--tuned to such harmony as belongs to this extraordinary hungarian, would carry triumphantly to their issues a hundred halting causes of philanthropy, and of christian endeavor. it is not our province to speak of the weight of the hungarian claim, or to rebuke or foster the spirit which his ardor must enkindle. only be it said--in our easy way--that whatever national action may be, as a government, national sympathy will lie largely on the side of such struggling nation; and the redemption of hungary from austrian bonds would be welcomed with such heartfelt greeting, as no other nation would bestow. but, as we have hinted in our former careless _on dits_, sympathy is but a flimsy weapon to parry bayonet thrusts; and the destiny of suffering european nations lies more nearly (under providence) in their own resolve, and steadfastness, and manly growth, than in the pleas of demagogues, or the contributed thousands of well-wishing americans. as for jenny--(we write before her farewell song is sung)--she will have a grouping at her bridal concert, that may well add to her bridal joy. but we warn the fortunate bridegroom that he will meet critical and captious gazers; and that the world which has so long cherished his jenny, as a bride of its own, will not give up its claim without a sparkling of jealousy. let him wear his honor modestly, or he will kindle these sparkles into a blaze of burning rebuke. poor jenny!--that she should have gone the way of all the world, is not a little saddening! that her angel habit of song and charity should not have lifted her forever into a sphere, above the weaknesses of human attachments, may point the moral of a ditty! the issue only shows how human are the best; and that life, however lorded over by triumphant souls, yet drags us down to the bonds of that frail mortality, which lives and thrives by propping on mortality as frail as we, and which in its best estate is strong--not alone of ourselves--but through the aids and sympathies of others! * * * * * as usual at this season, the talk of the town is running upon the prospective enjoyments of the summer. and it is not a little curious to note, how, as the means of communication multiply and extend, our summer rambles take in a wider and wider circumference. years ago, and a sight of those mountain glories, which in grim stateliness, and darkened shadows, frown upon the hudson, was the limit of a summer jaunt. but now, even a trip beyond the alleghenies is not a thing of moment; and there are families who plot a season's festivity upon the upper mississippi. indeed, if beauty of scenery is the attracting cause, we know of no more glowing outline of shore and mountain than hems the summer traveler, over the alleghenies and along the rich wooded banks of the ohio. western pennsylvania, with its juniata, and its heavy-forested mountains, has no rival in the world of silvan beauty. the heights are sharp, and bold; the torrents are foamy, and wreathed into combing waterfalls, that drip, to the eye, through bowers of green. you see below you tops of woods, and forests that seem bandlets of shrubbery, and great rivers that are ribbons of silver. you see around you climbing heights, in all the sullenness of undisturbed nature--rich with every tree that grows, and echoing the shrill sounds of wild birds, and catching, with four-fold echoes, the sharp whistle of your groaning and puffing engine. you run along the edge of cliffs, with a nearness and a speed that would shock you to fear, did not the amazing grandeur sublime all sense of danger, and hand over your admiring sense into the guardianship of that providence which rears the mountains, and plumbs the depths. and when the mountains are past, there is no low-lying fat bedford level, to fatigue the eye; but the country is rounded into sweeping, irregular hillocks of green, whose sides are hoary with old wood, or verdant with the richest of springing grain crops. and in the bosoms of such hills, where the flow of water finds outlet, bright brooks silver the rounded mountains, and cover the earth into fragmentary lapses of meadow that tax the mower with the luxuriance of their grasses. if the reader has ever loitered among the green hill-slopes of northern devonshire, he may form therefrom a just, though a miniature idea of those green billows of land, which drop the allegheny heights to the borders of the ohio. and as for that far-western stream, which the french called, with a fitness of calling which we rarely cherish, _la belle rivière_--its banks are all a wonder, and its islands floating wonders. the time is not far away when the loiterers of the civilized world who have not drank in the beauties that hedge the ohio banks, and mirror themselves in the placid ohio water, will be behind their profession. the rhine and the hudson have each their beauties; and so has lake george, with its black mountain lying gaunt upon the water: but the ohio, with its bordering hills, fat and fertile to their very summits--various in outline as are summer shadows--and with its rich drooping foliage, touching the water, and its islands seeming to float in the stillness--and its bordering towns of modest houses sprinkling the banks and dotting the alluvial edge, and all mirrored, as clearly as your face in your morning glass, upon the bright steel surface that shines through a thousand miles of country--is worthy of as honorable mention as any river that flows. we see, in no very distant future, the time when pittsburgh packets will show companies of pleasure-seekers, who will luxuriate in the picturesqueness of the kentucky and ohio shores, as they now luxuriate along the hudson or the rhine. the time is coming, too--gliding now upon our clairvoyant vision, as we sit in our office solitude--when legends of early war, and indian chieftain, and poor blennerhasset, and border settlements, shall spring up under artist pen, and crown the graceful mountains, that swoop right and left from the ohio voyager, with charming historic beauty. * * * * * we have forgotten thus far that foreign chit-chat which has usually fallen under our pen. yet, with what spirit, can we speak of foreign gayety when the scheming tyrant of the day is forcing even festivity under the prick of his army bayonets, and winning willingness to his power, by debauching thought, and making joy drunk with lewdness? the honest american is no way bound to keep temper with such action as assails the principles he holds most dear--least of all at the hands of a man who gains his force by no poor right of prescription or inheritance, but only by usurpation. belgium, they tell us, is full of runaways from the autocrat of the army; and a poor exiled gayety makes glad the hearts of thousands of refugees. among these, in this day of proscription, is the man of a hundred romances--alexandre dumas. busy, as in the old time, he now gleans from the outcasts around him, the material for his versatile pen. madame hugo, he tells us, has latterly contrived a scheme for the relief of the neediest of suffering exiles, which does equal honor to her heart and to her cleverness. it was nothing more than the sale of valuable autographs, which were furnished at the mere cost of a few pen-strokes by well-wishers to the scheme. dumas tells us that the collection was most rich, not consisting merely of simple names, but such bits of thought added, as seemed to belong to the occasion, and as gave value to the writing. it is, we believe, the first instance on record where the barbarous hunt for autographs has been turned to a profitable and charitable account. we hope the hint will not be lost upon the benevolent intentioned of our own city; and when next some hague-street catastrophe shall call for deeds of kindness, let those whose "handwriting" is worth a dime, contribute their mite to the hospitable fund. who would not bid high for some kind and sympathetic expression in the ink, and from the pen of henry clay? what up-town lady, spending her eagles for peyser's crewels, would not willingly transmute a few of them for the purchase of some benevolent thought, set down in the ink-lines of an irving or a bryant? at least, the hint is worthy of consideration, and we dash it down for what it may count. * * * * * dumas always finds incident, let him go where he will; and it was to record something of the sort, that he has introduced his mention of madame hugo's autograph lottery. the assemblage, he says, was the gayest possible; the distinguished men of belgium, of france, and of england, honored the occasion. but, continues our romancer (and we only hope to catch an outline of his story), i was compelled to leave the charming scene at an early hour. the night was stormy, the streets wet, and the sky dismally dark. i congratulated myself on having secured a cabriolet--a thing, by-the-by, which i always do. every cabman of paris knows me; every cabman of brussels _will_ know me shortly. (by way of parenthesis, we must interpolate the fear, that the cabmen may possibly know dumas as a bad paymaster.) well, continues our veteran romancer, i made my way to my coach. at the moment a gentleman was claiming possession. i remonstrated. he represented that a young lady, his sister, had been promised attendance at a ball in the neighborhood. he desired the coach for her conveyance. none other was to be had. it was her first ball. in short, says he, i was constrained to allow him the carriage, bargaining only that i should be set down at the embassador's of ----. the face of the young man struck me familiarly. i had seen him before. we compared notes. i had met him in italy, and again in algiers. he was involved in the affair of may, . he was an earnest worthy young fellow of fortune. he was in high favor at the revolution of , and by singular good luck, saved his property from the great commercial wreck of that period. afterward he lost ground was subject to constant espionage--was driven from the country, and on his return was imprisoned. he had no relatives in the world, save only this younger sister. one day, as he mused despondingly in his casemate, he was told that a lady desired to speak with him. it was his sister. she had learned of his imprisonment, and desired to share his solitude. her request was granted. after some months he was offered freedom, provided he should quit france with his sister forever. he accepted the conditions, and emaciated, impoverished, despairing, he repaired to brussels. a few friends contributed to his support. his sister, a most estimable young girl, had won her way, by her attractions, no less than by her many virtues. it was at this epoch i met him; he confided his griefs to me. i gave him what encouragement i could. a week after i met him again; his face was glowing with satisfaction. he put in my hands a letter from a distinguished gentleman of the country, of large fortune and of high character. it ran thus: "sir--i have seen and love your sister, and have the honor to ask your assent to my continued and serious attentions, yours, &c. "and your sister?" said i. "is as happy as i." fortune comes in a flood, continues dumas, for the next day my young friend found an advantageous place, with fifteen thousand francs a year. the story shows how french fortunes are the matter of the hour; it shows how marriage is a thing of french anxiety, and of commercial importance; it shows how fate plays pranks with french mortality, and it shows how dumas can twist a story out of trifles, and weave a tender romance from a quarrel at a cab-stand! and here we bid dumas, and french trifles, and ohio scenery, and the bursting season of new-come summer, our monthly adieu! an old gentleman's letter. "the bride of landeck." indeed, my dear sir, i can not write any thing worth reading. you are very kind--very flattering, when you would persuade me that, at the end of a long life, i can amuse the public, through the pages of your new monthly magazine, preoccupied as the great literary stage is with writers of reputation. if i attempt a tale, there are bulwer, and james, and dickens, and hawthorne. if i write a history, there is macaulay; if an essay, there is legion. however, i will do my best, and tell you the story of "the bride of landeck," that you may make the experiment. only remember it is none of my seeking. i am like, in one respect, the great statesman of whom my friend, judge r----, in the character of a cockney, wrote: "he never sought for no prefarment, instead of that, he turned a rat, to prove that he died varmint." the great difficulty with an inexperienced person is where to begin--whether, with horace, in the middle--with count antoine hamilton, at the beginning--or, with the late lord stowell, at the end? the latter gentleman, by the way, was one of the most extraordinary men i ever met with--full of something more than talent--of genius of the highest order, and, to my mind, far superior in intellect to his more celebrated brother, the earl of eldon. his judgments are more elaborately beautiful and eloquent than any that i know, and when interested in a subject, his language was rich, flowing, and easy, beyond that of any man i ever heard speak. yet i remember his telling me once, that he would rather deliver a judgment, which occupied three whole days--such as that in the iron coffin case--than speak five sentences to return thanks for his health being drank after dinner. i will go on with my tale in a moment; but one point in sir william scott's (lord stowell's) character is interesting. with all his vast erudition and powers of intellect, he was in some respects as simple as a child, and had an uncontrollable passion for curious sights. i remember quite well, when i was in london, more than thirty years ago, walking down the strand, and seeing the carriage of lord stowell, then sir william scott, dashing rapidly up toward charing cross. i bowed to him, and, on perceiving me, he stretched out his hand, and pulled what is called the check-string, vehemently, as an indication for his coachman to stop. the man pulled up, and he beckoned to me eagerly, as if he had something of the utmost importance to communicate. i went up at once to the window, when to my surprise and disappointment, i must acknowledge, he inquired, "have you seen the bonassus?"--"no!"--"see him--see him! he is right in your way by exeter change. a very curious fellow, a very curious fellow indeed!" some years afterward, it so happened, his papers were placed in my hands for examination. in the top of each of the multitudinous tin cases which contained them, was written an injunction in his own hand, to take no copies of any of the documents within. i do not, however, think it any violation of his injunction, to show how far back this passion for any thing that is curious or extraordinary could be traced. among other papers was the memorandum-book of his expenses, when studying at oxford, and two of the items were curious. one was, "paid one shilling to see mr. ---- conjure" (i forget the man's name). then followed the observation, "very marvelous indeed!" some way down on the succeeding page was written, "paid one guinea to mr. ---- for teaching me to conjure." he conjured, indeed, to some purpose; for he left a very large fortune; and that brings to my mind an anecdote regarding his brother john, which may have been told over and over again, for aught i know; but i myself had it from a near relation of both brothers. while john scott, lord eldon, was chancellor, his brother, lord stowell, proposed to purchase an estate with some one or two hundred thousand pounds which he had saved. some delay occurred in perfecting the title, and lord stowell, uneasy at having so large a sum in the house, was hurrying to deposit it with a banker of good reputation, when he was met in the street by his brother, who asked him to come into his chambers and breakfast with him. the great civilian declined, telling his errand, and alleging the importance of disencumbering his person of the large amount he carried about him. the chancellor persisted, and almost dragged his brother into his chambers by main force. he then argued with the other most vehemently upon the imprudence of trusting his whole fortune to any private banking-house, urging him to lodge the sum in the bank of england. lord stowell was obstinate, and the dispute lasted till ten o'clock, when some papers were brought in for the chancellor's signature. he took a pen and wrote his name, and then, for the first time, informed his brother that the house with whom he had been about to trust his money was bankrupt. he had that moment signed the fiat. i must not quit the subject of the memorandum-book, however, without mentioning that it contained many a proof of kindness of heart and generosity of character, which showed that lord stowell possessed other, and perhaps higher qualities than those which recommended him to high station, or led him to wealth. among many interesting papers which those tin cases contained, were various records of his life at the university of oxford; and one packet i especially noticed, containing his lectures, famous at the time, but never printed, upon the civil polity of the athenians. his situation in life when he matriculated at the university, was not very brilliant, and the early history both of himself and his brother was rendered the more obscure by a curious mistake. his name, i was told by his daughter, appears upon the books of the college, as the son of a fiddler, which he certainly was not. she explained the error thus: when he arrived at oxford, william scott spoke with a somewhat strong northumbrian accent, and after having given his own name, and that of his father, was asked what his father's occupation was, to which he replied, "oh, just a fitter." the recording angel of the university had no conception of what a fitter was; and between his own want of knowledge, and the young man's indistinctness of speech, wrote the word "fiddler" after the father's name. now, a fitter, in northumbrian parlance, means a sort of intermediate merchant, or middle-man, between the owner of a coal mine and the shipper of the coals. it is well known that sir william scott was for many years greatly neglected by government, and his abilities even underrated by men very much inferior to himself. the cause of this was probably his reluctance to mingle much in political affairs, and the absence of political position. a well known pun of the celebrated jekyll, having reference to lord stowell, loses half its point as it is usually told. the real circumstances were these. on the very day that saw sir william scott created lord stowell, after long years of arduous services, he was invited to dine with a lady who had a house in hamilton place, london, and a house also at richmond. when the note of invitation was written, the family were at richmond, and sir william did not remark, or did not remember, amidst the hurry of events and of honors conferred upon him, that the place appointed for the dinner, was london. he was usually exceedingly punctual, often before his time; and he drove down to richmond so as to arrive there a few minutes before the dinner hour. to his surprise, he found the family had removed to hamilton place, but good-humoredly observing, "i dare say, i shall be in time, after all," he drove back with all speed to london. the whole party had waited for him, and some jesting observations had passed in regard to his giving himself airs upon his new title, though nobody really believed such a thing for a moment. "say something smart to him, mr. jekyll," said the lady of the house, as soon as the doors were thrown open to give lord stowell admission; and jekyll instantly advancing, took his friend by the hand, exclaiming, "i am glad to see the late sir william scott {appear} at last." {a peer} i have been told, but upon no very good authority, that lord stowell used to account for the difference between his own rapid and unhesitating decision of cases brought before him, and his brother's slow and doubtful habits, by saying, "i try to see every side of a question at once; john likes to look at them all in turn--and then to begin again." even after his death, some men, themselves of considerable abilities, were inclined, without denying his merit, to place him, i think mistakenly, far below his brother. i remember once at the house of the late sir robert peel, conversing with that gentleman on the characters of the two brothers, as we stood before their pictures. he differed greatly in his views from myself, and expressed his opinion of the superiority of lord eldon in a very decisive, perhaps, i might say, somewhat dogmatical manner. my own views, however, were afterward approved and confirmed by a greater man than any of the three. i had the good fortune, however, to agree with sir robert upon the merits of pictures better than upon the merits of men. after looking at the pictures of eldon and stowell, we turned to the full length portrait of canning, by sir thomas lawrence, and he asked me what i thought of it--mark, of the picture, not of the statesman. it represents canning with the right arm raised, declaiming violently. "i do not like it," i said. "nor i either," replied peel. "he looks like an actor," i added. i shall never forget the tone in which he answered. "and so he does." there was a cutting bitterness in it which seemed to imply more than he thought fit to utter. i have remarked through life that all men of cold and unimpassioned natures, imagine that those who show any touch of enthusiasm, are acting; yet every man has enthusiasm of some kind, and though but very slightly acquainted with sir robert peel, one of the least impassioned men that ever lived, i have remarked him display, when speaking on subjects of art, a spark of that light divine, which, to be really serviceable to man, should be merely as a lamp in the hand of reason. i am truly ashamed to find how far i have wandered from the point. i intended to write of quite different matters, and have been led into a number of collateral anecdotes by merely having mentioned lord stowell's name, in order to show the difficulty of choosing among the different ways, of beginning either to write, or read a story. i believe i did not even finish my illustration; so let me say, before i proceed farther, that the noble judge, i have alluded to, was accustomed always to begin a romance at the end; justifying it on legal grounds. he seemed to consider an author as an offender; and said that, as it was absolutely necessary act should be committed, before a man could be tried for it, the only way of arriving at truth, was, to begin at the catastrophe, and trace it back to its causes. there was a quiet, pleasant smile upon his face when he assigned this motive for his way of reading a book of interest, which indicated a good-humored jest at himself and at the public. but there can be no doubt that he always liked to begin a romance at the latter end. i find myself now at the close of my sheet, and therefore must put off to another occasion, the extraordinary story i set out to tell you, of "the bride of landeck." i dare say, i can finish it in one letter, if my mind can ever be brought to pursue one straightforward course, without being called off into collateral paths. but the proverbial garrulity of old age would not be half so bad without its discursiveness. the child hunts every butterfly, and turns aside to catch every wild flower; the second child pursues the butterflies, and culls the weeds of the mind. i recollect being in company for an hour with coleridge, a few years before his death, and in that short period, he discoursed upon seven-and-thirty different subjects. but, on my life, i am beginning to tell you another anecdote; and yet i have only space to say, i am yours truly, p. p.s. i will send you the story of "the bride of landeck," in my next. it will not occupy more than ten lines; but it is wonderfully interesting. i remember once--. but i can not begin another sheet, so good-by. editor's drawer. some years ago an english wag thus quizzed the style of legal examinations. the questions, it must be understood, open with "leading" or "introductory" queries, and then go on to "bankruptcy." _question._--"have you attended any, and, if any, what law lectures?" _answer._--"i have attended to many legal lectures, where i have been admonished by police-magistrates for kicking up rows in the streets, pulling off handles of door-bells, knockers, &c." common law. _question._--"what is a real action?" _answer._--"an action brought in earnest, and not by way of a joke." _question._--"what are original writs?" _answer._--"pot-hooks, hangers, and trammels." equity and conveyancing. _question._--"what are a bill and answer?" _answer._--"ask my tailor." _question._--"how would you file a bill?" _answer._--"i don't know; but i would lay a case before a blacksmith." _question._--"what steps would you take to dissolve an injunction?" _answer._--"i should put it into some very hot water, and let it remain there until it had melted." _question._--"what are post-nuptial articles?" _answer._--"children." criminal law and bankruptcy. _question._--"what is simple larceny?" _answer._--"picking a pocket of a handkerchief, and leaving a purse of money behind." _question._--"what is grand larceny?" _answer._--"the income tax." _question._--"how would you proceed to make a man a bankrupt?" _answer._--"induce him to take one of the theatres." _question._--"how is the property of a bankrupt disposed of?" _answer._--"the solicitors and other legal functionaries divide it among themselves!" there is not only a good deal of humor, but some salutary satire in this burlesque examination. many a victim can testify, for example, to the truth of the last answer. after all he was not so far wrong who said, that "law was like a magical stream; once wet your foot in it, and you must needs walk on, until you are overwhelmed in the endless stormy waters." * * * * * the history of beau brummell is a fruitful one. there can hardly be a better lesson taught of the consequences of a _useless life_, than is taught by his brilliant yet melancholy career. his impudence was inimitable--it was appalling. his sayings were delivered in a way that was so deliberate, so imperturbably cool, that no person could do justice to it. and yet people of the first class, nobles of the realm, nay, royalty itself, "put up" with his sarcastic says, his impudent comments, without either retort or remonstrance. here are a couple of specimens of his impudence, recorded by one who knew him well: "dining one day at a gentleman's house in hampshire, where the champagne was far from being good, he waited for a pause in the conversation, and then condemned it by raising his glass, and saying, in a voice loud enough to be heard by every one at the table: "'john, bring me some more of that wild cider.' "'brummell,' said one of his club friends, on one occasion, 'you were not here yesterday; where did you dine? "'dine!' he replied; 'why, with a person of the name of r----. i believe he wishes me to notice him; hence the dinner: but to give the devil his due he desired that i would make up the party myself, so i asked a----, m----, p----, and a few others, and i assure you, the affair turned off quite uniquely. there was every delicacy in or out of season. the sillery was perfect; and not a wish remained ungratified. but my dear fellow,' continued brummell, musing, 'conceive my astonishment, when i tell you that r---- _himself_ had the assurance to sit down and dine with us!'" the nonchalance, the total indifference which he could at any time assume, is well illustrated in the following anecdote: "an acquaintance having, in a morning call, bored him dreadfully about some tour he had made in the north of england, inquired with great pertinacity of his impatient listener, which of the lakes he preferred? "brummell, quite tired of the man's tedious raptures, turned his head imploringly toward his valet, who was arranging something in the room, and said, "'robinson!' "'sir." "'which of the lakes do i admire?' "'windermere, sir,' replied that distinguished individual. "'ah, yes--windermere,' replied brummell; so it is--yes; windermere!'" an anecdote of him which is somewhat more familiar, but which possesses the same characteristics with the above, is one which represents him as saying, in reply to the remark of a lady, who, observing that at a dinner where they met, the great beau took no vegetables, asked him whether such was his general habit, and if he _never_ ate any. "yes, my dear madam," he replied, "i once ate _a pea_!" but the best thing told of brummell, in this kind, is one which does not appear in captain jesse's "life" of him, nor, to our knowledge, has it appeared in print. but it is undoubtedly authentic. it runs in this wise. being one day seated at one of the tables of his favorite club-house, near the fire-place, he was enjoying the perusal of the _times_ newspaper, when a stout, burly member entered, and walking up to the fire-place, turned his back to the grateful warmth, parted his coat-tails, and stood before the beau in the attitude of the colossus of rhodes. presently he began to sneeze. brummell looked up imploringly and with a gesture indicating great annoyance, removed a little further off. scarcely had he taken his new seat, before another burst of sneezing, louder than before, startled him from his temporary repose. he was looking reproachfully, but "more in sorrow than in anger," when a third explosion of sternutation, "mist" from the effects of which reached to where he sat, brought him to his feet: "good heavens!" he exclaimed; "we can't stand this! waiter, it is raining! bring us an umbrella!" but this man, who was the very pattern in manners and dress of his time, who could even bully and satirize princes of the royal line with impunity, this example of an aimless life, met with a sad fate at last. his dissolute habits and enormous debts compelled him to flee from england, in the night, to a small town on the french coast, where, after being appointed, for a time, to the indifferent british consulate, he became again involved, by reason of his expensive habits and over-delicate tastes, and was at last confined in prison for debt. just before he was incarcerated, the following anecdote is related of him: "while promenading one day on the pier, an old associate of his, who had just arrived by the packet from england, met him unexpectedly in the street, and cordially shaking hands with him, said: "'my dear brummell, i am delighted to see you! do you know we thought in london that you were dead! the report, i assure you, was in very general circulation when i left.' "'mere _stock-jobbing_, mere stock-jobbing!' was the beau's reply." stock-jobbing on such a profitless subject as a decayed, penniless dandy! the farce of brazen impudence and assurance could no farther go. not long after this, brummell became partially insane; and the great inventor of starch was last seen shrieking from between his prison bars in the asylum, complaining that the pigeon given him for his dinner was "a skeleton;" that his mutton chops were "not larger than a penny-piece;" that his biscuits were "like a bad half-penny;" that he had "but six potatoes;" and that the cherries sent for his dessert were "positively unripe." and so he continued to the very last. he had a horror of sealing his insane notes with a wafer; he babbled of primrose-colored gloves, eau-de-cologne, and oil for his wigs, and patent-blacking for his boots. but at last he died. some charitable englishman tried to get him into a private asylum, but no such institution would receive him. this good samaritan was obliged to pay a person to be with him night and day; but still he, the refined, the _recherché_ beau brummell, the "glass of fashion and the mould of form," the "observed of all observers," the companion and pet of royalty and the nobility, could not even be kept clean. he drew his last breath upon a straw mattress, rising occasionally from his humble pallet to welcome an imaginary prince, or noble earl, or stately duchess, to his wretched apartment, with no diminution of his mocking grace and studied courtesy of manner. dandled, dreaded, deserted, doomed, demented, dying dandy! * * * * * "many men of many minds," is a proverb somewhat musty, as many a youngster learning to write can bear witness; and for and against the "use of the weed" it is perhaps more applicable than to any one thing else. many a reader of the "drawer" will take a high-flavored havana between his lips, press and draw it satisfactorily, while he peruses the following--while many a staid matron and careful housekeeper will regard the lines with great favor; bearing in mind all the time the smell of tobacco-smoke in the curtains, and in the clothes of their husbands, or their husbands' friends. but whether for or against, read the disgusted wife to her husband. "you promised to leave off your smoking, the day i consented to wed; how little i thought you were joking, how fondly believed what you said! then alas! how completely you sold me, with blandishments artful and vain; when you emptied your snuff-box, and told me you never would fill it again! "those fumes so oppressive from puffing, say, what is the solace that flows? and whence the enjoyment of stuffing a parcel of dust in your nose? by the habits you thus are pursuing, there _can_ be no pleasure conferred, how irrational, then, is so doing-- now, _isn't_ it very absurd? "cigars come to threepence each, nearly, and sixpence an ounce is your snuff; consider how much, then, you yearly must waste on that horrible stuff! why the sums in tobacco you spend, love, the wealth in your snuff-box you sink, would procure me of dresses no end, love, and keep me in gloves--only think! "what's worse, for your person i tremble-- 'tis going as fast as it can; oh! how should you like to resemble a smoky and snuffy old man? then resign, at the call of affection, the habits i can not endure; or you'll spoil both your nose and complexion, and ruin your teeth, i am sure!" whatever may be said of smoking, it must be admitted to have been the cause of much pleasant writing; nor has it failed to be turned to profitable instruction in verse; as witness the lines on a pipe: "the pipe that is so lily white, in which so many take delight, 'tis broke by the touch, man's life is but such-- think of this when you're smoking tobacco!" how admirably was this verse sung by the poor soldier in "st. patrick's eve," when he supposes he is smoking his last pipe! * * * * * there was an amusing account given some twenty years ago in an english periodical, of a footman to a gentleman in a provincial town (which was crowded with strangers on some week of rejoicing, or of some convention or other), being sent, as a favor, to cut the hair of a friend of his master's, who had "put up" at a neighboring inn. he had tried to shave a person once before, on an emergency, and cut his own thumb half-off through his cheek. his experience in hair-cutting was not much more fortunate; but let him tell his own story: "the first sight of my new 'patient' set my nerves dancing in all directions. he was a large, tall, brawny, red-hot irishman, with a head of hair bright orange, and curly as the wool of a negro. "'cut my hair!' he said, in a voice like the grating of wagon-wheels; 'and, you spalpeen, be handy wid ye, for it's these twenty-four hours that i'm after waiting for ye.' "the stranger's hair was stiff as wire; of an inveterate tight round curl; and bushy to absolute frightfulness from excess of luxuriant growth. he had started from london with it rather too long; worn it uncombed on a three months' journey through wales; and was waiting until he could arrive at some town where he could have it cut in the fashion. "'_cut my hair!_ i say, you devil's baby!' said the rollicking, roystering irishman, imbibing at the same time a large draught from a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which he was consuming while he dressed, and recommencing, in a horrible voice, to sing 'the lads of shillelagh,' a measure which my entrance had for a moment interrupted. "i obeyed, but with a trembling hand. the very first sight of his head had discomposed all my faculties. i plunged into the operation of adjusting it as into a voyage over sea, without rudder or compass. i cut a bit here and a bit there, taking off very little at a time, for fear of losing my way; but the detestable round curl, rolling itself up at the very moment i let go the end, defeated every hope, every chance of regularity. "'_thin the rest!_' blasphemed the sufferer, 'for i'll not wait. thin, it, and _leave_ it.' "this command put the finishing stroke to my perplexity. 'thinning' was a process entirely beyond my skill; but a fresh execration, interrupting, 'the lads of shillelagh,' left me no longer any power of thought. i had seen the business of 'thinning' performed, although i did not at all comprehend it. i knew that the scissors were to be run through the hair from one side to another with a sort of snip--snip--snip, all the way, so i dashed on; snip--snip--snip--through the close, round, red curls, quite surprised at my own dexterity, for about a minute and a half; and then, taking up my comb, to collect the proceeds of the operation, more than three-fourths of the man's hair came off in my hands! "what followed i have never exactly been clear in remembering. i think my victim must have felt the sudden chill occasioned by the departure of the thick-set hedge that constituted his head-gear. at all events, he put his hand to his head, and motioned as if he 'did address himself to rise.' i made a rush for the door, muttering something about being obliged to 'go for the heating-irons;' but as i turned round for a parting glance 'at that misguided man,' i saw _discovery_ in his eye. indeed, i see him in my mind's eye even now, with a countenance more in amazement than in anger, standing paralyzed, beside the chair upon, which he had been sitting, and rubbing his head with the left hand, as if doubting whether his right hand had not misinformed him; but at the moment when the thing occurred, i thought only of escape." that extempore friseur was never caught afterward with a pair of "thinning-scissors" in his hand! * * * * * as we are nigh upon the season of immature fruits, it may not be amiss to give, as a "solemn warning," the following touching sonnet on a youth who died of excessive fruit-pie. currants have checked the current of my blood, and berries brought me to be buried here; pears have pared off my body's hardihood, and plums and plumbers spare not one so spare. fain would i feign my fall; so fair a fare lessens not fate, but 'tis a lesson good: gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed ware wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued. grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse, that lies not, as it lies upon my clay; but in a gentle strain of unstrained verse, prays all to pity a poor patty's prey; rehearses i was fruit-full to my hearse, tells that my days are told, and soon i'm toll'd away! it will make any "christian" laugh to read the account which follows, of the manner in which eastern superstition was, on one occasion, overcome by a stubborn, matter-of-fact clockmaker, who was employed to repair the great clock in the tower of the mosque at tangier. he was from genoa, and a christian. how could the faithful followers of the prophet manage to employ him? the clock was fixed in the wall of the tower, and it was of course a thing impossible to allow the "kaffer" to defile god's house of prayer by his sacrilegious steps. one proposed to abandon the clock altogether; another suggested the laying down of boards, over which the infidel might pass, without touching the sacred floor; but this was not held to be a sufficient safeguard; and it was finally decided to pull up that part of the pavement on which the "kaffer" trod, and whitewash the walls over which he passed. the christian was now sent for, and was told what was required of him; and he was expressly commanded to take off his shoes and stockings, on entering the mosque. "i shan't do it!" said the stout little watch-maker; "i never take them off when i enter the chapel of the most holy virgin, and i won't take them off in the house of your prophet!" they cursed in their hearts the watch-maker and all his race, and were in a state of vast perplexity. the "wise men" had met early in the morning: it was already noon, and yet, so far from having got over their difficulty, they were, in fact, exactly where they had been before breakfast; when a gray-haired muezzin, or priest, who had hitherto been silent, claimed permission to speak: "if," said the venerable priest, "the mosque be out of repair, and lime and bricks have to be conveyed into the interior, for the use of the masons, do not asses carry those loads, and do they not enter with their shoes on?" "you speak truly," was the general reply. "and does the donkey," resumed the muezzin, "believe in the one god, or in mohammed, the prophet of god?" "no, in truth--no," all replied. "then," said the muezzin, "_let the christian go in shod, as a donkey would do, and come out as a donkey!_" the argument of the muezzin was unanimously applauded. in the character of a donkey, therefore, did the christian enter the great mohammedan temple! * * * * * that was a capital burlesque which appeared in "punch," about the time that prince de joinville bombarded algiers, in the shape of a letter from a french soldier to his mother in paris. it is brim full of good puns: "your kind letter, strange to say, found me alive. you ask me to send you an account of our model farm. the farm is surrounded by a stockade, and we mount not less than fifty forty-two pounders. these are constantly double-loaded with grape of the very best vintage. thus our guns bear upon our fields, if nothing else does. indeed, every thing about us may be said to be shooting, except the crops. still, i do not despair. two months ago we plowed two hundred arabs into a field of four acres, and now find that they are coming up very nicely in turnips. the agricultural glory there is rotting like bone-dust. "it is amazing to see how glory blesses us in this country. we feed the gallic cock upon small-shot; and, strange to say, the hens lay nothing but bullets. indeed, such is the violence of the arabs, that we are compelled to stand to our guns at milking-time and feed the pigs with fixed bayonets. we are, however, exercising the milk-maids in platoon-firing, and trust they are quite able to take the field with the cows, now that the guns, which they are to carry, have been provided us. "we yesterday held a court-martial on the sentinel who mounted guard at the ducks' house; a party of the enemy having scaled the wall at night, and carried off our only brood of ducklings. the drake and duck were found with their throats cut! were there ever such barbarous villains as these arabs? the sentinel was shot at six this morning, with all the honors. although the villains stole our ducks, they fortunately missed the onions: i say fortunately, for they might have found at least a rope apiece. "we are, however, preparing for a grand operation. we have deposited an immense quantity of gunpowder under the dunghill. we purpose to appear off our guard--shall suffer the enemy to scale our stockade, plant their banners on our dunghill, and then--as they think, in the moment of victory--blow them to atoms! thus may true glory be obtained, like mushrooms, even from a dunghill! "you will, from the above, judge of the delightful employment of cultivating beet-root and laurels in the same field. "but i am called away. our shepherd has returned without his nose and ears. our two sheep are carried off! we hasten to make a _sortie_, to avenge the honor of outraged france! '_vive la france!_'" * * * * * they are building a railroad in egypt; and late accounts from alexandria tell us that nine or ten thousand workmen are actively engaged upon it. think of that! crossing the desert after a locomotive! good-by to camels and dromedaries! farewell to tents beneath the spacious blue firmament overhead! a "long farewell" to arab guides and arab extortions! railroads and steamboats will yet thread through palestine, and paddle the sluggish waters of the dead sea! now look for trade in "pots and pearls," made from the "ash-apples" on "the dead sea's shore." sing the following, on the twenty-sixth page, "irregular metre." air: "go ahead!" over the billows and over the brine, over the water to palestine! am i awake, or do i dream? over the ocean to syria by steam! my say is sooth, by this right hand, a steamer brave is on the wave, bound positively for the holy land! godfrey of boulogne and thou richard, lion-hearted king, candidly inform us now, did you ever no, you never could have fancied such a thing. never such vociferations entered your imaginations as the ensuing: ----"ease her! stop her!" "any gentleman for joppa?" "'mascus, 'mascus?" "ticket, please, sir;" "tyre or sidon?" "stop her! ease her!" "jerusalem, 'lem, 'lem!"--"shur! shur!" "do you go on to egypt, sir?" "captain, is this the land of pharaoh?" "now look alive there! who's for cairo!" "back her! stand clear, i say, old file!" "what gent or lady's for the nile? or pyramids?" "thebes, thebes, sir, steady!" "now. where's that party for engeddi?" pilgrims, holy red-cross knights, had you e'er the least idea, even in your wildest flights, of a steam-trip to judea? what next marvel time will show, it is difficult to say: "omnibus to jericho, only sixpence all the way?" cabs in jerusalem may ply: 'tis not an unlikely tale; and from dan the tourist hie unto beersheba by rail. * * * * * a distinguished traveler mentions that in some instances in china, the "outside barbarians," are sometimes looked upon as gods, and at others as devils; and he mentions an absurd and very amusing story which goes to show the fear with which strangers are looked upon by this superstitious race: "after my friend had visited the porcelain tower, being somewhat fatigued, he stepped into a barber's shop, and by way of employing his time, he desired the barber to shave his head. the gentleman wore a wig, but which, for the sake of coolness, he had placed in his pocket. this operation of shaving, so common in china, was speedily and skillfully executed, the barber seeming to be delighted with the honor of shaving one of the illustrious strangers. previously to his leaving the shop, and while the man's attention was called in some other direction, my friend replaced his wig upon his head, little thinking of the result of his simple process. no sooner, however, had the barber turned round, and observed him whom he had so lately cleaned of every vestige of hair, suddenly covered with a most luxuriant growth, than taking one steady gaze at him. to make sure that he was not deceived, he let fall the razor, cleared his counter at a bound, and running madly through the crowd which was speedily collected, cried out that he was visited by the devil! "no entreaties could induce him to return, until every 'outside barbarian' had left the neighborhood; so palpable a miracle as this being, in his opinion, quite beyond the powers of all the gods and demons in the buddhist calendar!" * * * * * here are a few "_hints on popping the question_," which may be commended to the bashful, the hesitating, and the ignorant, as well as to the "instruction" of the lady-readers of "the drawer:" "if you call on the 'loved one,' and observe that she blushes as you approach, give her hand a gentle squeeze, and if she returns it, 'all right.' 'get the parents out of the room; sit down on the sofa beside the most adorable of her sex,' and talk of the 'joys of wedded life.' if she appears pleased, rise, seem excited, and at once ask her to say the important, the life-or-death-deciding, the suicide-or-happiness-settling question. if she pulls out her cambric, be sure you are accepted. call her 'my darling fanny,' and 'my own dear creature,' and this completes the scene. ask her to name the blessed day, and fancy yourself already in paradise. "a good plan is, to call on the 'object of your affections' in the forenoon; propose a walk; mamma consents, in the hope you will declare your intentions. wander through the green fields; talk of 'love in a cottage,' 'requited attachment,' and 'rural felicity.' if a child happens to pass, of course intimate your fondness for the 'dear little creatures': this will be a splendid hit. if the coast is clear down you must fall on your knee, right or left, for there is no rule as to this, and swear never to rise till she agrees to take you 'for better or for worse.' if, however, the grass is wet, and you have white pantaloons on, or if your trowsers are tightly made, of course you must pursue another plan: say, vow, you will blow your brains out, or swallow arsenic, or drown yourself, if she won't say yes. "if you are at a ball, and your charmer is there, captivating all around her, get her into a corner, and 'pop the question.' some delay until after supper, but 'delays are dangerous'--round-hand copy. "a young lady's 'tears,' when accepting you, mean only, 'i am too happy to speak.' the dumb-show of staring into each other's faces, squeezing fingers, and sighing, originated, we have reason to believe, with the ancient romans. it is much practiced nowadays, as saving breath, and being much more lover-like than talking." contributions to our drawer. our city readers will doubtless recollect the public exhibition, at niblo's garden, a few years since, of a magnificent specimen of the american century plant in full bloom. a certain worthy citizen, of considerable social distinction, but not remarkably famous for clearness or strength of intellectual vision, happened to be one morning at the period in question, describing to a fellow passenger in an omnibus "downward bound" the marvelous production of nature, which he had just been visiting. the description, although more immediately addressed to his companion, was (omnibus orators are not uncommon) leveled at the ten additional sixpences whom fate had thrown together in the same vehicle. among the most earnest listeners, was a meek little man, who ventured, at the conclusion of our friend's account, to inquire mildly, "if the plant belonged to the family of the cactuses?" "not at all," replied the dignified narrator, with evident compassion for the ignorance of the questioner, "it belongs to the family of the van renssellaers!" * * * * * shortly after the french revolution of , at a diplomatic party in london, the conversation happened to turn upon the extraordinary inconsistencies of lamartine's political career, and more particularly upon the singularity of the conservative position he then occupied, when contrasted with his revolutionary activity a short time before. "how does it strike you, lady m----?" inquired in french an attaché from one of the continental courts, of a lady not less known as a literary celebrity, than as a witty conversationalist. "monsieur," she replied, without a moment's hesitation, "_il me fait l'effet d'un incendiaire devenu pompier_"--"sir, he reminds me of an incendiary turned fireman." * * * * * speaking of lamartine, reminds us of a bitter taunt of m. guizot's addressed to that gentleman some years before the last overthrow of the monarchy. it is well known that lamartine entered public life as a stanch conservative, and gradually became almost an ultra-radical, changing, step by step, his seat in the chamber of deputies, from the extreme right to the extreme left. it is equally well known that many years ago, he made a sort of princely pilgrimage through certain sections of the east, and published an account of his travels, the statements in which are reputed to be more or less apocryphal. upon the occasion to which we allude, m. guizot in reply to a violent attack upon the government by the poetical orator, addressed him ironically as "_l'illustre voyageur_," _the illustrious traveler_, a title indifferently applicable to his adversary's oriental wanderings, or to his more limited bedouinism within the four walls of the hall of legislation. * * * * * we should be unwilling to particularize how long since, but at a time when we were considerably more verdant than at present, we happened to be traveling in ireland, that land whence so many travelers come, but to which so few go. having one day an invitation to dine with a gentleman who lived a few miles from one of the second-rate towns, we engaged a nondescript vehicle and an equally nondescript driver, to take us to the residence of our friend. paddy, with an independence as decided as if it had been nurtured under the stars and stripes, continued for a good part of the journey smoking villainous tobacco through a blackened pipe-stump, occasionally relieving his feelings by howling out some catch of a native melody _not_ idealized by moore. to us he did not condescend to address any conversation whatsoever, until suddenly at a turn of the road we found ourselves passing a grave-yard, _i.e. anglice_, church-yard, thickly studded with monuments. jehu, turning toward us, rather startled us by the statement that "only the blind were buried in that spot." noticing a fine mansion a short distance beyond, on the same side of the road, we modestly suggested that probably the imposing building before us was an institution for the blind. "not at all, yer honor," answered paddy. "but how then does it happen," we replied, "that this burying-ground is exclusively for the blind?" "why, d'ye see, yer honor," quickly answered the malicious milesian (we were a nice young man then, and thought all jokes at our expense malicious), "we're not in the habit in ireland of burying people _until they can no longer see_!" we had no pipe of our own, not even a stump--so that we could not, if requested, have put _that_ into it and smoked it. * * * * * some time last summer, a gentleman of massachusetts, who takes great interest in the subject of public instruction, and who, if we mistake not, has some official connection with the public schools of that state, visited, with an english friend, the shaker settlement at new lebanon. the worthy fraternity have a school of their own, which during the summer months is open for girls only, the boys taking their turn in the winter. strangers are courteously permitted to visit the establishment, and to examine the scholars. our two excursionists accordingly made the school the special object of their first visit to the village. at the instance of the head instructress our eastern friend called out a little girl who possessed a face indicative of more than ordinary intelligence, to go through her paces in spelling. "will you oblige me by spelling the word _feeling_?" was the first question. "_f-two-e-l-i-n-g_," replied the child, without a moment's hesitation. "try again, my dear," answered the examiner, with a shake of the head. the pupil spelled the word over again, in precisely the same manner as at first. with a dissatisfied expression of countenance the disappointed visitor was about calling for the "next," when, before he could do so, the instructress interposed with, "nay, friend, perhaps our system of spelling is not familiar to thee. under no circumstances do we consent to _doubling any thing here_." it is a singular sensation when on going abroad one for the first time finds oneself a foreigner. this is perhaps peculiarly the case with americans, for several reasons which we will not trouble the reader with developing. we get into the habit at home of considering our national type the standard, a variation from which in any respect is an evidence of oddness and eccentricity. in ourselves we find nothing peculiar, and we can not conceive for a moment that in a strange land, our nationality can at once be detected by signs palpable and impalpable, but always appreciable to an intelligent eye and ear. an american freshly arrived in paris, whether yankee or southron, is certainly occasionally guilty of a class of absurdities, into which none but a citizen of the great republic, would by any accident fall. the lumber-room of our memory supplies us with an instance in point. in one of the early years of the last decade, a friend of ours, an old "_flaneur_" in the boulevards, met accidentally at meurice's hotel, an acquaintance just come over from one of the great commercial emporiums of the union. "the acquaintance" was a personage of standing "on change," but not over practiced in some of the conventionalities of artificial life. after a cordial greeting on both sides, the new comer put himself into the hands of his more experienced companion, to be initiated into the mysteries of paris. now the first wants that an american feels in the great metropolis are material wants; the right place to dine, before the louvre; a tailor, before notre-dame; and a boot-maker, before the palais de justice. it is no small matter to carry a man through these necessities satisfactorily, and after all this had been done in the case in question, another want presented itself; some "_lingerie_" must be procured, such as pocket-handkerchiefs, &c. our man about town at once directed his steps to doucet's magnificent establishment in the rue de la paix. when they entered the shop, m. doucet was in a back room, and the two friends had ample time to examine and admire various marvelous dressing-gowns, cravats, &c., which lay broadcast upon the counters and chairs. among the articles, was a lot of superlative pocket-handkerchiefs embroidered in the corner with a ducal coronet, and the initials of the owner underneath. "these are uncommonly pretty," exclaimed our novice to his companion, "i should like wonderfully well to have some for myself embroidered in the same way." "but, my dear fellow," replied the other, "these belong to some man of rank, and of course you would never think of having a coronet upon your handkerchiefs." "and why not?" resumed his friend. "i take it, that it is only an ornament, i don't believe it means any thing, and i don't see why i should not make use of the same thing, if i like it." just then, to the horror of the man of the world, m. doucet entered, all smiles and salutations. "to whom do these pocket-handkerchiefs belong?" inquired our would-be fashionable friend of m. doucet, who, by-the-bye, understood and spoke english. "to the duke d'o----, a spanish nobleman," answered the shopkeeper. "could i not have a half-dozen, the exact counterpart of these, excepting the initials?" asked the customer. "undoubtedly, sir," answered doucet, without the slightest indication of a smile upon his features. at this point the unfortunate friend and introducer, who had already fidgeted his gloves on and off several times during the progress of the above short dialogue, interposed, and, in the most positive terms, protested against his companion's being guilty of such an absurdity. the companion after a moment's dejection in consequence of the decided manner in which his mentor had interposed to defeat the little gratification which he proposed to his vanity, suddenly turning once more to the expectant master of the establishment, exclaimed, "but, m. doucet, at least you can embroider an _american eagle_ in the corner of my handkerchiefs?" this time, m. doucet _did_ smile, but after an instant he replied, with perfect seriousness, "there can be no difficulty, sir, in embroidering an _eagle_, but i am quite ignorant of the distinguishing peculiarities of your national bird." "oh, i can soon remedy that," rejoined the now well-pleased customer, and taking a half-dollar from his pocket, he handed it over as a sample of what he desired. in due time, the handkerchiefs were embroidered and delivered. we are quite sure, however, that our friend, who was up to the proprieties of paris life, never again voluntarily placed himself in a position in which his national pride could be mortified by the ignorance and vanity of a fellow-countryman. * * * * * some time ago, there flourished, in one of the northern counties of this state, a scotch divine who rejoiced in the name of "caw," and who was particularly eager to ingratiate himself into the good opinions of his parishioners and his neighbors. as one means of accomplishing this, he became violently patriotic in his feelings toward his adopted country, and never omitted upon every possible occasion to throw overboard the scotchman and to assume the american as much as possible. in the process of time, the worthy doctor built him a house. the contractor was a shrewd yankee, who had more respect for the doctor's dollars than he had for his theology or his transferred patriotism. one day as the two stood together in front of the nearly finished parsonage, the minister, turning to his companion, asked, "dinna ye think, mister doolittle, it would produce an uncommonly good effect, if ye should put up a carved eagle with spread wings over the entrance door?" "you had better put a _crow_ there, mister _caw_," was the prompt but not very civil reply. * * * * * we recollect a scotch blacksmith who used to live, and very likely continues to do so, on the west side of church-street in this city. his establishment was at the farther extremity of an alley-way, and over the street entrance the following sign attracted the eye of the passer by: "sinclair lithgow, horse-shoeing smith, warks up this close wi' a' his pith; he does his wark baith weel and soon, but likes the siller when 'tis done!" how thoroughly _canny_ is this, particularly the allusion to the "siller." mr. lithgow, however, deserves a fortune for his wit. literary notices. one of the most valuable publications of the month is _the life and correspondence of niebuhr_, the celebrated roman historian, containing a sketch of his biography, with copious selections from his familiar letters on a great variety of literary and personal topics. the character of niebuhr is adapted to awaken a deep interest. he reveals his inner being with remarkable frankness in this correspondence. his private feelings, his studies, his literary projects, his plans of life, are all described without reserve. rugged, unyielding, opinionated, but singularly honest and benevolent withal, with a decided infusion of the domestic and friendly element, niebuhr was a fine model of teutonic integrity. his writings are in keeping with his character. these volumes, moreover, are rich in sketches of contemporary literary men and politicians, presenting, in fact, a lucid commentary on the development of german culture during the last half century. (harper and brothers.) _romance of natural history_, by c. w. webber (published by lippincott, grambo, and co.), is the title of a recent contribution to the illustration of american forest life, from the pen of a writer admirably qualified to do justice to the subject, both by his wide personal experience of romantic adventures on the frontier, and his uncommon power of bold and graphic description. the volume is composed of studies in natural history, narratives of remarkable incidents, pictures of silvan scenery, and sketches of the biography of celebrated pioneers and woodsmen. in addition to the personal reminiscences of the author, the work contains numerous striking selections from other writers, who have described the habits of animals, and scenes in the hunter's life. books of this character must always be read with avidity. they bring us near to the heart of nature. their influence, though singularly exciting, is pure and wholesome. the scenes which they depict present a refreshing contrast to the artificial life of cities, and open an impressive view of the wonders and glories of creation. mr. webber has won a high rank as a descriptive writer, by his previous productions. in this department of composition, he exhibits no less vigor than facility. the present volume is not unworthy of his reputation. although occasionally prolix, its narratives, for the most part, are distinguished for their vivacity, reproducing the strange experiences of the wilderness with great freshness and brilliancy of coloring. _ivar: or, the skjuts-boy_, by miss carlen. (harper and brothers.) a translation of a swedish novel, by professor krause. the writer, miss carlen, is a universal favorite in her native country, where she is said to sustain even a higher literary reputation than her gifted contemporary, fredrika bremer. she is not only known in the higher walks of society; but has won a cherished place in the cottages of the peasantry. she excels in the delineation of female character; her sketches in this kind combining an exquisite grace and beauty, with sculpture-like fidelity to nature. her warmest sympathies are with the people, and in sweden, her name is only spoken by their lips with grateful reverence. the present story abounds in pictures of swedish social life--with a great variety of character and incident--embodied in a cordial, racy style, to which the translator seems to have done eminent justice. a new venture in fictitious composition, by the successful authoress of "the wide, wide world," is issued by g. p. putnam, bearing the harsh guttural appellation of _queechy_. it is similar in construction and tone to the former work, presenting a series of lively portraitures of country life, and a fine specimen of character-drawing in the person of its heroine. without claiming a conspicuous rank as a work of literary art, this novel shows great freshness of feeling, a high religious aim, and a genuine love of nature, combined with a quiet lurking humor, which serves to explain, in part, at least, the wide popularity of the young authoress. she has the elements of a still more enviable success, and if she would cherish a greater loyalty to the principles of dramatic harmony, and bear in mind the old dictum of hesiod, that "the half is better than the whole," she would be able to leave this production quite in the back-ground. _the daltons_, by charles lever (published by harper and brothers), is the last novel of that popular author, displaying his usual dramatic force of representation with an unwonted vein of earnest reflection. in brilliancy of portraiture and vivacity of dialogue, it is not surpassed by any of his former productions, while in vigor of thought and high moral purpose it is greatly their superior. _hungary_ in , by c. l. brace (published by charles scribner), records the adventures of the author in a tour through hungary, after the revolution, where, among other novelties, he gets a taste of the inside of an austrian prison. the volume describes the domestic manners of the hungarians, in a simple and unpretending narrative, giving us a highly favorable impression of the magyar character, and of the excellent heart and modest enthusiasm of the author as well. _pequinillo_ is the title of another story (published by harper and brothers), by g. p. r. james, written in a style of playful gayety, with frequent touches of sarcastic humor, and many felicitous delineations of character. we find no shadow of falling off in the productions of this inexhaustible author, and we trust he will live to see as many native americans among the offspring of his genius, as he has before counted legitimate subjects of the "fast-anchored isle." a new edition of _english synonyms_, edited by archbishop whately, has been published by james munroe and co. it will be welcome to the lovers of nice philological distinctions. without dealing in hair-splitting subtleties of discussion, it presents a variety of acute verbal analyses, which are no less adapted to promote accuracy of thought, than correctness of diction. it may be said that the noblest operations of the mind refuse to submit to such minute verbal legislation; and if we admit that the language of passion and imagination must ever be a law to itself, it is also certain that the processes of pure thought can not be served by too refined and delicate instruments; and accordingly, every successful attempt to fix and distinguish the meaning of words is a valuable service to clearness and efficiency of intellect. the definitions in this little volume may not always be accepted; in some instances, they would seem to rest on an arbitrary basis; but, as a whole, they are marked by good sense, as well as by critical acumen; and, rich, as they are in suggestions, even to the most accomplished word-fancier, they can not be studied without advantage. thomas, cowperthwait, and co. have published _the standard speaker_, by epes sargent, containing a selection of pieces adapted to declamation, from the great masters of american and british eloquence and poetry. it is also enriched with a number of original translations from the classics, and from eminent modern orators in france. the work is arranged in a convenient and natural order; excellent taste is displayed in the selection of matter; and the translations are spirited and faithful. it will undoubtedly prove a favorite manual of elocution for the use of schools. nor is this its only merit. the editor is a poet himself, and a man of various accomplishments. his fine culture is every where betrayed in his volume, making it, in fact, a choice collection of the gems of elegant literature. hence, it is no less adapted for family reading, than for seminaries of learning. mr. sargent is entitled to the thanks of all friends of good letters for the zeal, fidelity, and judgment with which he has performed his task. _the glory of christ_, by rev. gardiner spring, published in two volumes by m. w. dodd, is a profound theological treatise, combining extensive research, great knowledge of the scriptures, and practised skill in argument, with a chaste and animated style, which often rises into the sphere of vigorous popular eloquence. dr. spring discusses the principal offices in the mission of the saviour, the glories of his divine and human natures, and the certain ultimate triumphs of his kingdom on earth. he treats the subject in an exhaustive method--leaving little to be said on the same topics--and blending the austere fervors of the puritanic age, with the freer and more practical tendencies of modern times. _a manual of grecian antiquities_, by professor charles anthon, is issued by harper and brothers, forming a companion volume to the recent work on roman antiquities by the same author. it is prepared chiefly from materials furnished by smith's dictionary of greek and roman antiquities, bojesen's hand-book, and hase's admirable treatise on the public and private life of the greeks. the convenience of the arrangement, the completeness of the information, and the condensation of space in this volume make it a most valuable work of reference, and it will soon be found on the table of every student of greek history or literature. _the works of the late president olin_, in two volumes, have been published by harper and brothers, comprising a selection from his pulpit discourses, his lectures on christian and university education, and a variety of missionary and other addresses and essays. this work is a valuable gift to the christian community in general, and will be received with a grateful welcome especially by the religious connection, of which the author was a prominent and beloved member. those who knew and honored dr. olin in life will cherish these volumes as an appropriate and expressive memorial of his admirable character and his abundant labors. the sermons here given to the public, though not intended for the press, are models of profound religious thought, and present numerous specimens of chaste and effective pulpit eloquence. the lectures on education are filled with weighty suggestions; they exhibit the results of ripened wisdom; showing an equal knowledge of human nature and sound learning; and in a style of remarkable sobriety, force, directness, and point. _thorpe, a quiet english town_, by william mountford, is a vague, dreamy story of humble english life, mystical in its tone, and languid in its movement--with little interest in its plot, though presenting some delicate portraitures of character--displaying less strength than beauty--and pervaded with a streak of tender sentiment, which sometimes borders on effeminacy. as an imaginative work, it has slight pretensions; its lady-like softness and grace are not relieved by any masculine energy; but its purity of tone and its frequent exquisite beauty of language reveal a refined and elegant mind, and will recommend it to cultivated readers. (boston; ticknor, reed, and fields.) harper and brothers have just issued the second volume of _the life of burns_, by robert chambers. the correspondence in this volume increases in interest, showing the character of the impulsive poet in some of its most extraordinary phases of strength and weakness. his letters, to clorinda especially, present an odd experience in the life of a fair devotee of scotch presbyterianism. the circumstances connected with burns' marriage to jean armour are detailed at length by the biographer. _fancies of a whimsical man_, by the author of "musings of an invalid." (published by john s. taylor.) there is meat in this book--not always strong, nor savory--but often spiced with piquant provocatives, and seldom insipid or flat. the tone of satire prevails throughout the volume; no one can complain of the author for taking things too easy; he is a grumbler by profession; he lays about him on the right hand and left with a certain spasmodic violence; but his weapons lack the curious temper and polished keenness of edge, without which satire is a mere bludgeon. it may serve to fell an ox, but it can not take off a man's head so deftly that the beguiled victim is for the moment unconscious of his loss. still, this book is out of the common track, and is well worth reading. it indicates the possession of more power than was used in its composition. _lyra and other poems_, by alice carey (published by redfield), is a neat volume, containing a selection from the author's poetical writings, which have been already widely circulated in the public journals. they include her most characteristic productions, and are well suited to legitimate her claims to a high rank among our native poets. though not distinguished for striking originality, or deep bursts of passion, they display a rare susceptibility to poetical impressions, and a flowing sweetness of versification which give them a peculiar charm, in spite of the uniform sadness of their tone. several of the pieces are effusions of melting pathos, clothed in language of great terseness and simplicity--but the same theme too often recurs, producing the effect of a long-drawn plaintive wail. miss carey has a quick and accurate eye for nature; her fancy swarms with a profusion of rural images; the humblest forms of domestic life supply her with the materials of poetry; and with uncommon facility of expression, she finds the way to the heart by the true feeling and quiet tenderness of her verse. the most elaborate piece in this volume is entitled "lyra, a lament," and we presume is a favorite with miss carey's more enthusiastic admirers. it displays a rich luxuriance of imagery; all the flowers of the seasons are woven into the elegiac wreath; but it is too artificial, too curiously wrought for the subject; it seems more like an experiment in poetry, than the sincere outpouring of grief; it has an antique miltonic flavor, instead of the freshness of native fruit; and, for our part, we much prefer the more simple poems, "jessie carol," "annie clayville," "lily lee," "annuaries," "the shepherdess," and the like, which are tender and tearful without pretension. _hand-book of wines_, by thomas mcmullen (published by appleton and co.) some will regard this work as a natural history of poisons, under a different name; others, as a treatise on one of the branches of the art of enjoying life. both will find it to be a complete mine of knowledge on the subjects of which it treats. that portion of its contents which addresses itself to practical men, whether as physicians, dealers, or judicious consumers, is carefully and critically compiled from the most distinguished foreign authors, to whose observations mr. mcmullen's own long and extensive experience gives weight and sanction. his chapter on the "purchasing of wines" is replete with good sense and will open the eyes of many who think themselves connoisseurs. we believe that the conclusion at which he arrives is the true one, namely, that "the only security against being imposed upon, and the secret of procuring good wine, is to purchase from honorable and respectable merchants, whose character and judgment can be relied upon, and to whom a reputation for selling fine wines is of ten times more importance than any thing they could expect to make by adulteration." another chapter, entitled "of the art of drinking wine," appears to us likely to prove highly useful to such youthful or inexperienced hosts as may wish to dispense the bounties of their hospitality with the most approved elegance, yet somewhat doubt their own judgment on such points, or their acquaintance with established precedent. to ourselves, rechabites in principle if not in name, the work was attractive chiefly from its descriptions of the lands whence "the sweet poison of misused wine" is procured. having ourselves wandered through most of them, we could the better test the accuracy of our author, and we can assure our readers, both those who have trodden those fertile soils, where the amber and the purple grape yield such goodly produce, and those fireside travelers who would fain learn what nature has done for other lands, that under mr. mcmullen's guidance they will make a pleasant and profitable tour, and on their return find themselves in their easy chairs, edified in mind and not fatigued in body. * * * * * a book which will delight many readers, the life of the veteran entomologist and christian philosopher, mr. kirby, is announced for publication. it is drawn up chiefly from his own letters and journals, by the rev. john freeman, m.a., clergyman of a parish not far from that of which mr. kirby was long the rector. william spence, whose name is ever associated with the subject of the memoir, supplies a "sketch of the history of his forty-five years' friendship with mr. kirby, and of the origin and progress of the 'introduction to entomology,' with numerous extracts from mr. kirby's letters to him." this will be not the least valuable portion of a volume to which we look forward with much interest. * * * * * among other works announced for speedy publication by messrs. longman and co. we observe a new book of travels, by mr. samuel laing, _notes on the political and social state of denmark and the duchies of holstein and sleswick_; also, _count arenberg_, a story of the times of martin luther, by mr. sortaine, whose tale of _hildebrand and the emperor_ was favorably received by the public. in the traveler's library, a translation is to appear from the german, of an _expedition from sennar to taka, basa, and beni-ameer_, by frederic werne, author of the 'expedition to the sources of the white nile.' the _life and correspondence of the late lord langdale_, is in progress, and will be published by mr. bentley, who announces likewise two series of biographies that promise ample material of interest-- . lives of the archbishops of canterbury; . lives of the prime ministers of england. * * * * * the duke of wellington, it recently transpired, has appointed the well known historical writer, lord mahon, to be his literary executor, and as his lordship stands in the same relation to the late sir robert peel, he will have enough to do. * * * * * a memoir of the late rev. dr. pye smith is in preparation: also the publication, nearly ready, of the course of lectures on christian theology, prepared by that divine for the students in homerton college; they have undergone revision, and will be edited by the rev. william farren, librarian of new college. * * * * * mary howitt, who has already endeared herself to the hearts of all children by her many fascinating and interesting publications for the young, is about to undertake the editorship of a new juvenile magazine the first number of which was expected to appear in june. * * * * * the lectures of niebuhr on ancient history, translated from the german, with additions and corrections, by dr. l. schmitz, once a pupil of the historian, will shortly be published. the work consists of three volumes, comprising the history of all the nations of antiquity, with the exception of that of rome. in his account of the asiatic empires and of egypt, niebuhr is reported to have foretold, more than twenty years ago, the splendid discoveries which have been made in our days by mr. layard and by others. by far the greater portion of the work is devoted to the history of the greeks and macedonians. * * * * * a translation has appeared, by leonora and joanna horner, of hans christian oersted's _soul of nature_. professor oersted died last year at the age of seventy-four, a few months after a jubilee was held in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of his eminent services at the university of copenhagen. in he attended the british association at southampton, at the closing general meeting of which sir john herschel pronounced a high eulogy of the danish philosopher, and described the new fields of research which he had opened up, including that important discovery which has led to the invention of the electric telegraph. a brief memoir of oersted's life and labors is prefixed to the volume. few men have so combined the patience and labor of experimental research with the genius and boldness of philosophical speculation. the writings of oersted are eminently suggestive as well as instructive; and with the researches on electricity, magnetism, and other branches of natural science, there are interspersed many wonderful discourses on the relation of the material and the spiritual, of the body and "the soul in nature." * * * * * of english literary gossip we have two or three stray fragments worth setting down. the one is, that tennyson is busy with a new poem, of a totally different order from any he has yet published, unless the fragment of the _morte d'arthur_ be counted; another is, that the gay and brilliant author of _the bachelor of the albany_ has nearly completed a new novel of a philosophical and satirical turn. thackeray, whose historical novel was to have been published last christmas, has not finished much more than half of his work. * * * * * johannes ronge, resident in england, announces as in preparation, a new work, to be published by subscription, on _the reformation of the nineteenth century, or the religion of humanity_--a subject, tasking the highest powers. * * * * * the london journals announce the resignation of his chair of moral philosophy in the university of edinburgh by prof. wilson. the cause assigned by the veteran poet and critic is ill health. * * * * * the americans, says _the london athenæum_, are becoming a race of book-buyers. every purchaser of old books--the literature of the period between gower and milton--has found by experience how much the demand which has sprung up within these dozen years across the atlantic for such works has tended to enhance their value in this country. every few days, too, we hear of some famous library, museum, or historical collection being swept off to the "new world." this week supplies two notable examples:--the prince of canino's valuable museum of natural history, his library, and his gallery of art have all been purchased by a private american gentleman; and the library of neander has been bought by the senate of rochester university in the state of new york. neander's books constitute one of the best collections on theology in germany. * * * * * our cousin john across the water is "nothing if not critical." his notices of american books are exceedingly curious specimens in their kind, usually remarkable for their self-complacent insolence. "the howadji in syria," however, seems to have won golden opinions, as witness the following from _the morning herald_: "even those of our readers who have taken up mr. curtis's 'nile notes,' and have been unable to lay them down again till the last page too soon presented itself, can hardly conceive the fascination which his 'wanderings in syria,' just published, will be sure to exercise over their senses. arabian poets have celebrated the beauty of cairo and of damascus, 'the pearl of the east,' and modern travelers have put forth all their powers of description, and have invoked fancy to aid them in their praise; but none of these latter have ever caught and been kindled by the oriental charm in an equal degree with mr. curtis. his work is a perfect gem--a luxury of beauty, and grace, and poetry, which all must read, and none can ever forget." the notice of the same work in _the examiner_, bestows reluctant praise: "another book has also appeared on the east by a lively foreign visitor, an american, who sought only pleasure and adventure there, and of course found both. 'the wanderer in syria,' by mr. george william curtis, is a volume supplementary to his 'nile notes,' formerly published. the subjects are the desert, jerusalem, and damascus; but the writer's manner and intention are less to describe what any other person may see in those places, and in eastern circumstances, than to tell us what thoughts and fancies, whimsical, poetical, fanciful, they suggested to him, the writer. his fault is to betray something too much of an effort both in his gravities and gayeties; but on the other hand the effort is not always unsuccessful. he is often undeniably gay, and as often says grave things worth listening to. we do not like him the worse for his love of america and occasional supercilious sneers at cockneyism." * * * * * the following passage from a letter written recently by leigh hunt will excite much sympathy and regret:--"i have not been out of my house (by medical advice) for these two months; for a considerable time past, i have not been able to visit my nearest connections, even by day; and last year i was not able to indulge myself with a sight of what all the world were seeing, though for the greater part of its existence i was living not a mile from the spot. to complete this piece of confidence, into which your making me of so much importance to myself has led me, and not leave my friends with a more serious impression of the state of my health than i can help, i have reason to believe that the coming spring will be more gracious to me than the last; and many are the apparent overthrows from which i have recovered in the course of my life. but age warns me that i must take no more liberties with times and seasons." * * * * * lady morgan has addressed a letter to one of the auditors of the benevolent society of st. patrick, proposing that a monument to moore should be raised in the poet's native city. she says: "the name of ireland's greatest poet suggests an idea which perhaps is already more ably anticipated, that some monumental testimony to his honor should be raised in st. patrick's cathedral, dublin; for westminster might well deny such a distinction to the irish bard as was refused to the remains of england's greatest poet since the time of shakspeare and milton--byron. nowhere could the monument of moore be more appropriately placed than near that of swift." * * * * * thomas hicks, the artist, exhibits this year at the national academy, a full-length portrait of ex-governor fish, which is _the_ picture of the exhibition. mr. hicks is the first of our artists. in just conception--splendor of color--vigor and accuracy of drawing--poetic imagination and living reality of impression, he has no master this side the sea. * * * * * a portion of mr. ralph waldo emerson's essays has been translated and published in paris, by m. emile montegut. an interesting review of this volume has appeared in the _pays_. the writer says that, "by a strange anomaly, in the classic land of daring and of novelty, all literary productions bear the same evidences of imitation; all are more or less remarkable for their close adherence to the style of some foreign model." then he declares cooper to be a disciple of walter scott, but at the same time, much more american than washington irving, who is the faithful copier of robertson and addison. * * * * * m. de bacourt, one of the executors of the late prince de talleyrand, has written a letter to the public journals stating that frauds similar to those lately discovered in england relative to shelley's letters, have been attempted in france with letters falsely stated to have been written by the late prince. "i have in my possession at present," says m. de bacourt, "a certain number of those letters, imitating exceedingly well the writing of the deceased prince--but which have been declared by the persons intimate with the deceased, such as m. guizot, the duke de broglie, count molé, duke pasquier, &c., to be forgeries." [illustration: railway official.--"you'd better not smoke, sir!" traveler.--"that's what my friends say." official.--"but you _mustn't_ smoke, sir!" traveler.--"so my doctor tells me." official (indignantly).--"but you _sha'n't_ smoke, sir!" traveler.--"ah! just what my wife says."] [illustration: childish teetotal movement. grandpapa.--"but for seventy years, my child, i have found that the moderate use of the good things of this life has done me good." young hopeful teetotaller.--"all a mistake, grandpa'. total abstinence is the thing. look at me! i've not tasted wine or beer for years!"] [illustration: deference to the sex. "will any lady have the politeness to ride outside, to accommodate a young gentleman?"] fashions for early summer. [illustration: figures and . ball costumes and coiffures.] we confine our illustrations of the fashions for the month of june to in-door costumes, since, in our variable and uncertain climate, the general out-door costumes appropriate to the closing month of spring are equally adopted for the opening summer month. the three styles of coiffure, which we present, though very different in general effect, as well as in detail, are each strikingly elegant and beautiful. figure represents a very elegant ball dress. two _pattes_ spring from the top of the head to the right and the left of the parting; they descend to the broad bandeaux, and are each entwined with a lock of the hair. the _coiffure_ is ornamented with a wreath of reed-leaves, in velvet and gold, with here and there small golden reeds. the leaves, small in the middle, increase in size at the sides, where they are intermingled with two white plumes, gracefully curved. the robe is of taffeta, trimmed with velvet. the body is low in the neck, having two _berthes_ of taffeta, which form the point in front, and rise to the shoulders, so as to form the _châle_ behind. these _berthes_ are not gathered. they are fastened to the body in front by three jeweled clasps. the body is somewhat pointed at the waist. the sleeves are close and short. the skirt is double. the lower one has two flounces; the upper one is held up on the left side by a bunch of white feathers, with a cordon of reed-leaves, similar to those of the _coiffure_. the lower flounce, of twelve inches in depth, has a ruby-colored velvet of three inches; the upper flounce, of ten inches, has a velvet of two and a half inches; and the tunic, one of two inches. these are all placed about an inch from the edge. the velvet upon the _berthe_ and sleeves is not more than an inch and a quarter. figure .--_coiffure à la jolie femme._--the hair is knotted somewhat low behind, and retained by a jeweled comb; the bandeaux are very much waved; the hair, from the front parting, is somewhat raised. the robe is low, with very short sleeves; the skirt very elegant, with large folds. the body is sown with little bouquets of variegated roses, small at the waist, but growing larger toward the bottom. these flowers, which are painted, are apparently fastened by a rich ribbon which ties them together, and which is embroidered upon the silk in shaded white. the flowers are apparently suspended by strings of pearls, also produced by embroidering. this robe, of _moir antique_, is very rich. a lace pelerine, forming the circle behind, ornaments the body. this lace has a very light pattern upon the edge. it forms the point in front, and is ornamented all around with a lace _volant_, very slightly gathered. lace sleeves, straight and rather short, leave the whole arm visible through them. a bunch of rose-leaves and rose-buds adorns the whole front of the body. this bunch is flattened at the bottom so as not to enlarge the waist. a long and elegant chain of gold, flung over the shoulders, falls down upon the skirt. [illustration: fig. .--full dress for evening.] the hair is ornamented with diamonds. two plats beginning at each side of the centre parting of the forehead, are raised, and tied in the middle; they then descend at the sides, where they are enveloped by curls thrown backward. behind, the hair twisted in a cord, forms four circles. the _torsades_ are fastened by a jeweled comb. in that part which constitutes the bandeaux are three mounted _agrafes_ on each side. the skirt is of white taffeta, with a lace flounce, of twelve inches in depth. tunic-robe of white _moire antique_. the body is open in front, and trimmed with a pointed _berthe_, slit up at the shoulders. this _berthe_ is decorated, at a distance of about half an inch from the edge, with a gold band of nearly an inch in width, fastened by a gold cord, passing through seven eyelet-holes. it is the same at the slit on the shoulders, only in these places the cords terminate in gold tassels hanging down. the edge of the tunic is ornamented with gold galloon, the lower galloon is one and a quarter inches wide, the second three-fourths of an inch, the third three-eighths. the first of these galloons is three-fourths of an inch from the edge, and the distance between them is half an inch, so that from the edge to the top of the last galloon the depth is about four inches. each opening of the tunic has a conical shape; the corners are rounded. the sleeves are round, and edged with galloon. the chemisette, which reaches above the low front of the body, is composed of lace like the flounce, and forms fan-shaped fluted plaits, confined by a thread passing through, and supported by the lacing of the front. the two following out-door costumes are decidedly pretty: carriage costume.--_jupe_ of lilac silk, with three deep flounces; there is a figured band at the edge of each flounce woven in the material; body _à la veste_ of purple velvet fitting close; it is open in the front, and has a small collar and lapel. the sleeves are wide; they have a broad cuff which turns back _à mousquetaire_. waistcoat of white _moire antique_: it is closed at the throat and waist, it is then left open to show the frill of the habit-shirt. transparent bonnet of light green _crèpe_, trimmed with white _blonde_: the brim is lined with a broad _blonde_ with a deep vandyked edge, the points of which come to the edge of the brim: inside trimmings and strings of shaded ribbon, long shaded feather drooping on the right side. promenade costume.--silk dress, the skirt with three flounces: a rich _chinée_ pattern is woven at the edge of each flounce, the last being headed by a band of the same. the body is plain, opens in the front nearly to the waist; the sleeves are wide, three-quarter length, and like the _corsage_, are finished to correspond with the flounces. _manteau à la valerie_, this _manteau_ takes the form of the waist, and is rounded gracefully at the back; it is embroidered and trimmed with a rich fringe _en groupes_: the fringe with which the cape is trimmed, reaches nearly to the waist: the ends, which are square in front, have a double row of fringe and embroidery. the bonnet is a mixture of white _crèpe_ and fine straw; the strings shaded, to correspond: placed low at each side are feather rosettes shaded pink and white. in the materials, we must call the attention of our fair readers to the _unique_ and beautiful silks for dresses; besides the elegant designs woven at the edge of the flounce, there are patterns woven for each part of the dress--the sleeves, corsage, and _basquire_. [illustration: figures and .--caps.] we give plates of two very elegant caps, which have made their appearance. figure is a dress cap, of _tulle_ and blonde, trimmed with ribbon and small banches of flowers. figure is a morning cap, entirely of lace insertion, and between each row is a narrow gauze ribbon, rolled or twisted. the borders of rich lace. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected. italics words are denoted by _underscores_. bold words are denoted by =equals=. transcriber note text emphasis denoted as _italic_ and =bold=. farmers' bulletin united states department of agriculture drug plants under cultivation [illustration] this bulletin gives general suggestions relative to the culture, harvesting, distillation, yield, marketing, and commercial prospects for drug plants. specific information is also given concerning the cultivation, handling, and yield of individual species and the demand and prices paid for the product. the market demand for many cultivated plant drugs is not large enough to justify growing them except as small minor crops. the haphazard production of crude drugs in small lots of a few pounds usually means a dissatisfied producer. a special knowledge of trade requirements is necessary in collecting, curing, preserving, and packing drugs for market. most farm products find a ready local market; a special market must be sought for plant drugs. high prices for plant drugs do not insure large profits in producing them. not the price received, but the difference between the cost of production and the selling price is the important point. contribution from the bureau of plant industry wm. a. taylor, chief issued, june, washington, d. c. revised, august, show this bulletin to a neighbor. additional copies may be obtained free from the division of publications, united states department of agriculture. drug plants under cultivation. w. w. stockberger, _physiologist in charge, drug, poisonous, and oil plant investigations_. contents. page. production of crude drugs some drug plants suitable for cultivation in the united states general cultural suggestions harvesting distillation yield marketing commercial prospects the cultivation and handling of drug plants production of crude drugs. interest in the possibility of deriving profit from the growing of drug plants is increasing yearly. the clearing of forests, the extension of the areas of land under tillage, and the activities of drug collectors threaten the extermination of a number of valuable native drug plants. annually, large sums of money are expended for crude drugs imported from countries where they are grown under conditions of soil and climate resembling those of many localities in the united states. as a means of guaranteeing the future supply of crude drugs and of lessening the dependence on importations, attention is now being turned to the cultivation of drug plants with a view to increasing domestic production. the problems presented by the cultivation of drug plants are not less difficult than those encountered in the production of many other crops. drug plants are subject to the same diseases and risks as other crops and are similarly affected by variations in soil and climatic conditions. they require a considerable outlay of labor, the same as other crops, and likewise require intelligent care and handling. they are subject to the same laws of supply and demand, and, like other products, must conform to the consumer's fancy and to definite trade requirements. a number of common medicinal plants have long been cultivated in gardens in this country, either as ornamentals or as a source of herbs used in cookery and as domestic remedies. a few of these plants, such as goldenseal, wormwood, wormseed, and peppermint, have been grown commercially for sale as crude drugs; but the acreage devoted to their production has been relatively small and for the most part restricted to certain localities. other drug plants which occur as common weeds in many places may prove to respond to cultivation; experiments should then be undertaken to determine whether it is profitable to grow them. in this connection it should be remembered that the soil type very often is an important limiting factor in propagating different kinds of plants. some plants grow best in well-drained loam, some prefer a marsh, some require soils rich in lime, while others thrive only in acid soil. the soil requirements of all plants are not understood; in fact it is not improbable that better comprehension of the soil, climatic, and cultural conditions adapted to the different kinds of plants will enable the successful propagation of species now regarded as unsuited to cultivation. in undertaking the growing of medicinal plants, therefore, it is essential to know that the species selected for cultivation will do well under the conditions of soil and climate existing where the planting is to be made. when necessary, this should be determined on small experimental plats before undertaking commercial plantings. assuming that the soil and climate of the situation selected are suitable for the growing of drug plants, it does not necessarily follow that they can be produced at a profit. the cost of production and marketing may be greater than the amount received for the crop when it is sold. some drug plants not well suited for cultivation on a large scale may be found profitable when grown on small areas as a side line. on the other hand, some may be produced more cheaply when cultivated on a scale large enough to warrant the use of labor-saving devices than when grown on small areas with the aid of hand labor alone. the value of land, the cost and availability of labor, and the possible returns from other crops are all factors to be considered carefully. on account of the variation in these factors according to locality, the same crop might prove to be profitable in one location and unprofitable in another. it is for these reasons that unqualified statements concerning the ease and profitableness of drug plant growing should not be taken too seriously. some drug plants suitable for cultivation in the united states. the number of drug plants which may be grown in the united states is large, although the same plants are not equally adapted to the conditions of soil and climate prevailing in different sections. often the most suitable plants for a particular locality can not be foretold, especially in those situations where no attempts have yet been made to grow them. in such cases it is well to select for cultivation plants which thrive elsewhere under conditions most closely resembling those of the new situation in which it is proposed to grow them. the success with which ordinary field or garden crops can be grown will in general indicate the possible suitability of a given location for growing many medicinal plants. since a number of native medicinal plants which in their wild state are restricted to certain localities have been successfully cultivated in situations far beyond their natural range, there are good reasons for believing that many such plants will thrive in sections where they are not now grown. however, good results can scarcely be expected unless the plants are placed under conditions similar to those in which they normally thrive. in suitable soil and under favorable weather conditions the following drug plants have been found to thrive well under cultivation in numerous places in the central and eastern states and will probably be found suitable for cultivation in many other situations if the difference in climatic conditions is not too great: anise. conium. elecampane. sage. belladonna. coriander. fennel. stramonium. camomile. digitalis. henbane. tansy. caraway. dill. horehound. thyme. some perennials, such as belladonna and digitalis, are only partly hardy and would be subject to winterkilling in the colder sections. such plants as aconite, arnica, lovage, poppy, seneca, valerian, and wormwood seem to thrive best in the northern half of the united states in situations where the rainfall is well distributed throughout the growing season. on the other hand, cannabis, licorice, and wormseed are better suited to the warmer climate of the southern half of the united states. aletris, althaea, angelica, calamus, orris, pinkroot, peppermint, serpentaria, and spearmint are adapted generally for situations in which the soil is rich and moist, but lavender and larkspur are partial to well-drained sandy soil. ginseng and goldenseal occur naturally on rich soil in the partial shade of forest trees and can be cultivated successfully only when planted in woodlands or in specially prepared soil under artificial shade (fig. ). general cultural suggestions. the special details of cultivation for each of the medicinal plants mentioned are given under the discussion of the individual species. suggestions which are of general application, however, are here brought together, in order to avoid unnecessary duplication. _propagation._--a number of the species considered later can be grown easily from seed, but others are best propagated from cuttings or by division. many wild medicinal plants are much more difficult to propagate from seeds than the species commonly grown in gardens. likewise, some of the species now grown abroad and suitable for cultivation in this country are not easily propagated and require special conditions if good results are to be realized. [illustration: fig. .--lath shed affording partial shade, especially well suited for growing woodland plants.] seeds of the better-known varieties of medicinal plants are regularly listed in the catalogues of numerous seed houses, and those which are less common can usually be obtained from dealers who make a specialty of one or more of these species. plants can frequently be obtained from nurseries or from dealers in hardy ornamentals. the catalogues of a number of dealers should be consulted and the varieties for propagation carefully selected. in ordering, the medicinal variety should always be called for, since many of the related ornamental forms which are listed are of doubtful, if any, medicinal value. _sowing the seed._--a relatively small number of medicinal plants can be satisfactorily grown from seed sown in the field. in many cases this method is quite uncertain and with some plants wholly inadvisable. in order to insure a good stand of thrifty plants it is frequently necessary to make the sowings in a greenhouse, hotbed, or coldframe and at a suitable time transplant the seedlings to the field. much information on seed germination, hotbeds, and coldframes can be gained by consulting farmers' bulletins , , and , entitled, respectively, "home gardening in the south," "the farm garden, in the north," and "the city home garden."[ ] [ ] these publications can be obtained free of charge upon application to the secretary of agriculture, washington, d. c. the preparation of the soil is of prime importance, whether the sowing of the seed is made in the open or under cover. many seeds, especially those which are very small, do not germinate well in heavy soils or in those which are cloddy and coarse in texture. a seed bed prepared by thoroughly mixing equal parts of garden soil, leaf mold, well-rotted manure, and clean sand will be suitable for the germination of most seeds. the depth of sowing is largely governed by the size of the seeds and the character of the soil. in general, the smaller the seed the less the depth of sowing. seed should be covered more deeply in light sandy soil than in heavy clay soil. fall-sown seeds also require a greater depth of covering than those sown in the spring. the exact quantity of seed which should be used for sowing a given area can not be definitely stated. the same kind of seed will be found to vary widely in its power to germinate; hence, the percentage of germination should be ascertained in advance of sowing and the quantity regulated accordingly. in general, the heavier the soil the larger the quantity of seed required. if the plants are to be thinned out or transplanted, or if they are especially subject to the attacks of insects, the free use of seed is usually advisable. when plantings are made in open ground it is preferable to sow the seed in rows or drills, in order that cultivation of the soil may be possible. a shallow furrow may be opened with a rake or hand hoe and the seed sown by hand. the rake or hoe may then be used to cover the seed with the required depth of soil. it is much more satisfactory to use seed drills, such as are commonly used by market gardeners, than to sow by hand, since with the drill the depth of sowing is more uniform and the soil is compacted over the seeds, thus favoring good germination. the distance between the rows is determined in part by the size which the plants attain at maturity, but depends chiefly upon the method of cultivation to be used. a spacing of to inches between the rows will readily permit hand cultivation, but the rows should be about feet apart if horse-drawn implements are employed. _cultivation._--there are no set rules for the cultivation of medicinal plants, and the grower's experience with other plants must be relied upon as a guide in many of the details of cultivation. as a general rule, the soil should be worked with the hoe or cultivator at frequent intervals and kept free from weeds. it is a good practice to cultivate after a hard rain as soon as the ground is sufficiently dry. during dry, hot weather loss of moisture from the soil will be diminished by frequent shallow cultivations. harvesting. drug roots are usually harvested in the fall or at the end of the growing season of the plant, but they may also be harvested early in the spring while still dormant. roots collected during the growing season often shrink excessively in drying and so do not form the most desirable product. on small areas either a spade or a potato fork is a suitable tool for digging most roots; but if the area is large, labor will be saved by using a plow to turn out the roots, especially with such crops as belladonna or burdock. most roots require thorough washing, and when the quantity is large this may be easily done if the roots are placed on a frame covered with wire mesh and water is applied by means of a garden hose. all roots must be thoroughly dried. large or fleshy roots are usually split or sliced, spread in thin layers on clean floors, and stirred or turned frequently. good ventilation is essential, as several weeks usually elapse before the roots are dry enough to be stored with safety. the proper point of dryness is indicated when the roots break readily on being bent. the time of drying may be reduced to a few days by the use of artificial heat. for this purpose the walls of a well-inclosed room are fitted with racks or shelves to receive the roots, or large trays with bottoms made of slats or wire screen are suspended one above the other from the ceiling. the room is heated by a stove, and the temperature maintained between ° and ° f. ventilators must be provided at the top of the room to carry away the moisture which is driven off from the roots. ordinary fruit driers have been used successfully in drying roots on, a small scale, but special drying houses or kilns will be necessary for successfully handling crops grown on an acreage basis. leaves and herbs are usually harvested when the plants are in flower. picking the leaves by hand in the field is a slow process, and time may be saved by cutting the entire plant and stripping the leaves after the plants have been brought in from the field. if the entire herb is wanted, it is preferable to top the plants, for if they are cut too close to the ground the herb will have to be picked over by hand and all the coarse stems removed. as a rule, leaves and herbs may be dried in the same manner as roots, but almost without exception they are dried without exposure to the sun, in order that the green color may be retained so far as possible. some flowers are gathered while scarcely open and others as soon after opening as possible, and in general they should be carefully dried in the shade to prevent discoloration. hand picking is very laborious, and mechanical devices similar to a cranberry scoop (fig. ) or seed stripper (fig. ) may often be used to good advantage. a homemade picker may be constructed as follows: from a stout wooden box, about inches wide, inches long, and inches deep, remove one end and connect the opposite remaining sides at the top with a stout strip, which will serve as a handle. drive long, slender wire nails through an inch strip of wood at quarter-inch intervals, thus forming a "comb" the teeth of which should be about inches long. this comb is fastened to the bottom of the box in such a manner that the teeth will project outward through the opening left by the removed end. on swinging this device, teeth forward, through the flowers, the heads will be snapped off by the comb and will fall into the box, from which they may be emptied into suitable containers. [illustration: fig. .--a berry scoop suitable for harvesting flower heads of large size.] [illustration: fig. .--a seed stripper which may be used for gathering flower heads.] seeds are harvested as soon as most of them have ripened and before the pods or seed capsules have opened. seedlike fruits, such as anise, coriander, fennel, and wormseed r are harvested a little before they are fully ripe, in order that they may retain a bright, fresh appearance, which adds to their market value. the machinery used for thrashing and cleaning ordinary seed crops will frequently serve a similar purpose for seeds of medicinal plants, provided the proper adjustments have been made. most seeds must be spread out to dry and turned at intervals until thoroughly dried before they can be stored in quantity. distillation. the volatile oil obtained from many aromatic plants by steam distillation is often their most valuable product. the equipment necessary for distilling volatile oils consists essentially of a steam boiler, a retort, and a condenser. a constant supply of cold water must also be available. a common type of retort consists of a circular wooden vat, about feet in diameter and to feet deep (fig. ), fitted with a removable cover, which can be made steam tight. metal retorts made of boiler iron three-sixteenths of an inch thick and jacketed with wood to prevent the radiation of heat are also used. a pipe leads from the steam boiler to the bottom of the retort and another from the top of the retort to the condenser, one form of which consists of a coil of tin-lined or galvanized-iron pipe inclosed in a jacket through which cold water is kept flowing when the still is in operation. [illustration: fig. .--a still used in the production of wormwood oil.] when the retort is filled with aromatic plants and steam is admitted through the pipe from the boiler, the volatile oil is extracted in the form of a vapor, which is carried over with the steam to the condenser, where both are condensed to liquid form. the oil and water together flow from the condenser into the receiver, one type of which is constructed like an ordinary milk can and is fitted with a siphon leading from the bottom, through which the water is drawn off to prevent the receiver from overflowing. many volatile oils will float on the water and may be drawn off from the top of the receiver at will. other oils, such as sassafras and wintergreen, are heavier than water, and should be collected in a receiver provided at the bottom with an outlet tap through which the oil may be drawn off. the cost of setting up a still will depend upon what facilities are already at hand and upon the size and efficiency of the apparatus installed. it may easily range from a small sum to several thousand dollars. yield. the yield that can be obtained from drug plants in different localities will naturally vary according to the suitability of the situation for the plants selected for cultivation. even in the same locality wide variations in yield will result from differences in the lay of the land and in soil, drainage, and seasonal conditions. the skill of the grower and the degree of care and attention which he bestows upon his crop are also factors affecting yield. many of the drug plants mentioned in this bulletin have not been grown on a scale large enough to give a very satisfactory basis for calculating yields. acreage yields calculated from the product of small garden plats are generally untrustworthy, since in such plats the plants are usually more favorably situated with respect to soil and are given better culture than when under field conditions. moreover, as the area increases, it becomes more difficult to maintain an approximately perfect stand and to protect the crop from the ravages of insects or other destructive agencies. the returns from small experimental areas can at most be regarded as only an indication of the yield that may be expected under favorable conditions, and the prospective grower will do well to proceed cautiously until he has determined for himself the possibilities of yield in his particular location. marketing. the commercial grower of drug plants can not give too much attention to the problem of securing a satisfactory market for his product. growers who live near the cities in which dealers in crude drugs are located or in sections where wild medicinal plants are collected may be able to find a local market, but in many situations the local marketing of crude drugs in quantity will not be possible. in such cases the grower should send samples of his product to dealers in crude drugs or to manufacturers of pharmaceutical preparations and request them to name a price at which they would purchase his crop. the material for the samples should not be specially selected or so prepared as to represent a quality higher than that of the whole lot, since this would give the purchaser just cause for making a reduction in price on delivery or for rejecting the whole shipment. it is well to send samples to a number of dealers, since their prices will be found to vary with the stock on hand and trade prospects. before selling, the state of the wholesale drug market should be learned. the prices to producers are, of course, always lower than the wholesale price; nevertheless, the grower who is informed in respect to the wholesale market will be in a position to judge of the fairness of the prices offered for his crop by dealers. under special conditions some crude drugs can be sold at a material advance over the prevailing market price. by always supplying a well-prepared, carefully selected drug of high quality some growers have built up a trade in their particular product for which they secure extra good prices. dealers and manufacturers also sometimes make contracts with reliable growers to take the entire crop of a particular drug, thus insuring to the grower a definite market and good prices for the product. commercial prospects. at the close of the year there existed a general and widespread shortage in botanical crude drugs, and prices in consequence had reached unusually high levels. the demand in other lines for unskilled labor at high wages has attracted elsewhere many persons who were formerly engaged in the collection or production of botanic drugs in this country. it is therefore probable that prices for most crude drugs will remain at a high level until the prices of other commodities undergo a general reduction and the present supply of labor greatly increases. although the average value of crude drugs, expressed in terms of money, has more than doubled since , it does not follow that their production offers a corresponding increase in profit to the producer. the prices of food and clothing, labor, and supplies of all kinds have for the most part more than doubled in the same time and the prospective producer of crude drugs will do well to consider carefully the comparative prices of the necessities of life which he must purchase before he engages in this enterprise. the unusually high prices now offered for many crude drugs are due to the underproduction, which has resulted largely from labor conditions and do not necessarily indicate any large increase in the demand for consumption. in view of the present disturbed economic conditions and the uncertainty as to the future course of prices, the general stimulation of drug growing in this country does not appear to be the best policy at this time. however desirable it may be to increase the available supply of crude drugs or to diminish the amount of money now sent to foreign countries for these products, the most important consideration for the american farmer who would grow drug plants is the probable profit to be derived from such an enterprise. many statements to the contrary notwithstanding, the commercial production of crude drugs does not normally present unusual opportunities for quick returns and large profits. knowledge respecting the cultivation and handling of medicinal-plant crops is far less widespread than in the case of such generally distributed crops as fruits, vegetables, and cereals, and certain individuals have taken advantage of this lack of information to lead the public to believe that extraordinary profits may be realized from growing medicinal plants, even in a situation no more promising than the average city back yard. such persons are interested usually only in the sale of the plants and seeds for propagation or the questionable directions for their cultivation, and the extravagant claims often set forth in their alluring advertisements are not only misleading, but frequently have little basis in fact. the market demand for any given crude drug is naturally a large factor in determining the prospects for its commercial production under cultivation. the demand for a number of drugs is quite variable or exceedingly limited, and hence insufficient to make it advisable to raise them on a large scale. in the case of other drugs, although the demand is fairly constant and steady, it could probably be fully satisfied by the product of a very few acres of good land. it is evident that the cultivation of any considerable acreage might easily result in overproduction, with a consequent decline in market price to a point where production would not be profitable. the cultivation of drug plants, to be successful in this country, will probably require the introduction of improved methods and the extensive use of machinery to replace hand labor so far as possible. growers of mints and numerous other plants yielding essential oils will find it desirable to equip themselves with a suitable distilling plant, although the latter can not be operated most economically when only a small quantity of material is available for distillation. the natural tendency will be to increase the acreage in the interest of more efficient operation, but here again there is danger of overproduction, and prospective growers should thoroughly acquaint themselves with market conditions before bringing very large areas under cultivation. very few, if any, drug plants are used in quantities sufficient to make them a promising crop for general cultivation. many of the common ones, which can be grown and prepared for market with little difficulty, bring but a few cents a pound, and their cultivation offers little prospect of profit. a number of the high-priced drug plants must be given care for two or more years before a crop can be harvested, and, since expensive equipment is usually required for their successful culture, the production of such crops offers little encouragement to inexperienced growers who are looking for quick returns and large profits from a small investment. the production of drugs of high quality requires skilled management, experience in special methods of plant culture, acquaintance with trade requirements, and a knowledge of the influence of time of collection and manner of preparation on the constituents of the drug which determine its value. small quantities of drugs produced without regard to these conditions are apt to be poor in quality and so unattractive to dealers and manufacturers that the product will not be salable at a price sufficient to make their production profitable. in general, the conditions in this country seem far more favorable to the growing of drug plants as a special industry for well-equipped cultivators than as a side crop for general farmers or those whose chief interest lies in the production of other crops. although a number of plants which yield products used as crude drugs are common farm weeds, they usually occur in scattered situations and in such small quantities that their collection would scarcely prove profitable for the farmer. even when relatively abundant it is a matter for careful consideration whether the time and labor necessary for their collection might not be otherwise employed to better advantage. moreover, it is not always easy to distinguish medicinal plants from others of similar appearance, and collectors not infrequently find that they have spent their time in gathering plants practically worthless as crude drugs. in proportion to the labor required in their collection, relatively low prices are paid for most crude drugs obtained from wild plants, and the farmer who turns to drug collecting as a source of additional revenue will probably meet with disappointment. the cultivation and handling of drug plants. the following cultural directions and suggestions regarding the handling of a number of drug plants have been compiled in part from the records of the office of drug, poisonous, and oil plant investigations and include data secured by various members of the staff of that office connected with testing gardens in several widely separated localities. the probable yields per acre are in many cases estimates calculated from smaller areas, and considerable variation from the figures given must be expected in actual practice. the prices mentioned are given merely to indicate the comparative value of the products concerned and not to fix the actual price which the grower of drug plants may expect to receive. this will depend very largely upon the state of the market at the time the crop is offered for sale. the plants mentioned in the following pages were selected for discussion because information regarding their cultivation is in constant demand. the purpose of this bulletin is not to recommend these plants for cultivation, but to give information concerning their culture which may be helpful to persons who are considering the production of drug plants on a commercial scale.[ ] [ ] for information in regard to weeds used in medicine not herein considered, see farmers' bulletin no. , which may be obtained from the superintendent of documents, government printing office, for cents. aletris. aletris, star-grass, or true unicorn root (_aletris farinosa_, fig. ) is a native perennial herb of the lily family, found occasionally on sandy soil throughout the eastern half of the united states; also frequently occurring in the pine and oak barrens of alabama and tennessee and elsewhere in the south. the root is used medicinally. [illustration: fig. .--aletris (_aletris farinosa_).] aletris is a slow-growing plant which seems to thrive best on a moist and sandy soil. it may be propagated either by division of the root stocks or from seeds. the seeds mature late in the summer, and should be sown soon after ripening, in a well-prepared and protected seed bed. in the following spring the seedlings may be transplanted to their permanent situation and set about a foot apart in rows inches or more apart. the soil about the plants should be stirred frequently and kept free from weeds. the root, consisting of a short horizontal rootstock bearing numerous small rootlets, may be harvested in the fall of the second or third year. in preparing the root for market the stem and leaves are broken off and the dirt is removed by shaking (or washing, if necessary), after which it is well dried. there are no available data on the probable yield. the prewar prices paid to collectors for aletris usually ranged from to cents a pound. the prices in june, , were about cents a pound. aconite. aconite (_aconitum napellus_) is a hardy perennial, introduced from europe and sparingly grown in this country as an ornamental garden plant. both leaves and roots are very poisonous, the latter forming the official drug. other varieties than _aconitum napellus_ are also grown in flower gardens, and several species occur wild in the united states. since the official species readily hybridizes with related varieties, often to the detriment of its medicinal properties, it is frequently difficult to secure seed which will come true to name. aconite seems to thrive best in a rather cool climate and will grow in any rich garden soil, but a well-drained gravelly loam in an elevated situation appears most suited for the cultivation of this plant. it may be grown from seed sown in the open late in the fall or early in the spring, or plants may be started in a seed bed and the seedlings later transplanted and set about a foot apart in rows feet apart. the preferable method of propagation is by division of the roots after the stems have died down in the fall, since thereby hybridization may be avoided. the plants usually flower in the second year from seed, when the roots may be harvested. it is preferable, however, to defer harvesting until the stems have died down in the fall, when all the roots should be dug, the smaller reserved for planting and the larger ones washed, sliced lengthwise, and dried. the leaves are also harvested, but are not in much demand. reliable data on yield are not available, although some estimates place the yield at about pounds of dry root per acre. the american market is supplied with imported aconite root, for which the prewar price ranged from about to cents a pound. the price in june, , ranged from to cents a pound. the quantity imported in was about , pounds. the demand for this drug is limited, and this fact, together with the probable low yield, makes its profitable cultivation in this country very doubtful. althaea. althaea, or marshmallow (_althaea officinalis_), is a perennial herb introduced from europe which now grows wild in marshy places near the sea in massachusetts and along tidal rivers in new york and pennsylvania. the root forms the official drug, but the leaves and flowers also are sometimes used medicinally. althaea will grow well in almost any loose garden soil of moderate fertility, but tends to winterkill in situations where the ground freezes to a considerable depth. the plants may be propagated from seeds or from divisions of the old roots made early in the spring. the seed may be sown in the open in shallow drills at least feet apart, and the seedlings should be thinned to stand inches apart in the row. under good conditions the plants attain a height of or feet; therefore, close planting does not give sufficient room for full development. in the second year of growth the roots are harvested, washed, peeled, cut into short lengths, and thoroughly dried. yields at the rate of to , pounds of dry root per acre have been obtained. the prewar wholesale price usually ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was to cents a pound. the annual importation of this root averages about , pounds. in view of the amount of hand labor required in preparing the root, the relatively low price, and the rather limited demand, the cultivation of this plant for profit is not very attractive. angelica. angelica (_angelica officinalis_) is a european biennial plant of the parsley family, sometimes grown in this country as a culinary herb and known commonly as garden angelica. the fresh stems and leafstalks are used as a garnish and for making a candied confection. the seeds and the oil distilled from them are employed in flavoring, and the aromatic roots are sometimes used in medicine. angelica thrives best in a moderately cool climate and may be grown in any good soil, although a deep, fairly rich loam which is moist but well drained will give the best results. the soil should be deeply plowed and well prepared before planting. the plant is most readily propagated from divisions of old roots, which may be set either in the fall or spring about inches apart in rows. the seeds germinate very poorly if more than one year old, and it is best to sow them as soon as they are ripe in a seed bed, which should be kept moist by frequent watering if necessary. early in the following spring the seedlings are transplanted and set about feet apart each way in their permanent location. plants may also be obtained from seeds sown in march in a spent hotbed or in a cold frame. in order to increase the root development, the plants are often transplanted a second time, at the end of the first year's growth, and set or feet apart. for the same reason the tops are often cut back to prevent the formation of seed. during the growing seasons the soil should be kept mellow and free from weeds by frequent cultivation. the roots are usually harvested in the fall of the second year, but sometimes those of the first-year plants are marketed. after being dug, the roots are washed and dried in the open air. in order to keep out insects and to preserve the aroma it is best to store the dried root in tin containers which can be tightly closed. the root of the european or garden angelica found in our drug markets is imported largely from germany. during the past few years the wholesale price has averaged about cents a pound. the root of a native species of angelica (_angelica atropurpurea_), commonly called american angelica, also occurs in the drug markets of this country. it is collected from wild plants, and the price to collectors in former years usually ranged from to cents a pound. the prices in june, , were for the seed cents and for the root cents a pound. anise. anise (_pimpinella anisum_) is an annual herb of the parsley family, widely cultivated in europe and to a limited extent in this country, chiefly in rhode island. although this plant may be grown quite generally throughout the united states, it has been found difficult to bring the crop to maturity in northerly situations where the growing season is short or in the south where the climate is hot and dry. it is grown chiefly for its aromatic seeds (fruits), which are used medicinally, and also in baking and for flavoring confectionery. the oil distilled from the seeds is used medicinally in cordials, and also for flavoring various beverages. anise thrives best in a light, moderately rich, and well-drained loam which has been carefully prepared before planting. it is grown from seeds, which are usually sown early in the spring directly in the field, since the seedlings are unfavorably affected by transplanting. the seeds, which should not be more than years old, are sown thickly, about two to the inch, and covered one-half inch deep. since the plants develop very slowly, seed should not be sown in weedy soil. when the seedlings are to inches high they are thinned to stand inches apart in the row. the rows may be inches or feet apart, depending on the cultivation intended. an ounce of seed should sow a row feet long, and about pounds will plant an acre when the rows are feet apart. the plants should receive frequent and thorough cultivation throughout the growing season. about three months from the time of planting the plants will blossom, and a month later the seed should be matured sufficiently for harvesting. as soon as the tips of the seeds turn a grayish green color they should be harvested, for if allowed to remain exposed to the weather they quickly turn brown or blacken. the plants may be pulled by hand and stacked, tops inward, in heaps about feet high, or they may be mowed and at once built up into cocks of the same height. in about four or five days the seed will have ripened, after which it should be thrashed out and thoroughly cleaned. yields of anise seed are quite variable, since the plant is very sensitive to unfavorable weather conditions. in a good season from to pounds per acre may be reasonably expected. the prewar wholesale price usually ranged from to cents a pound. the prices in june, , ranged from to cents a pound. during the war the average annual importation of tons was reduced to about tons. arnica. arnica (_arnica montana_) is a herbaceous perennial plant of the aster family, native in northern and central europe, where it thrives in the cool climate of the mountain meadows and upland moors. the flowers, leaves, and roots are employed in medicine. arnica requires a marshy soil, abundant rainfall, and a cool climate for its best development. it is propagated by divisions of the roots or from seeds sown either in the fall or the spring. seed may also be sown in august in a seed bed and the plants transplanted the following spring to stand about inches apart in the row. the flowers may be harvested the second year and the roots after three or four years. arnica is not produced commercially in the united states, and the small quantity imported annually is apparently sufficient to meet the market demands. its cultivation presents many difficulties, and efforts to grow it in the milder portions of this country have generally proved unsuccessful. belladonna. belladonna, or deadly nightshade (_atropa belladonna_), is a large, poisonous perennial which occurs wild in europe, where it is also cultivated. both the leaves and the roots are important crude drugs. in recent years it has been cultivated to some extent in this country, but is likely to winterkill in the colder sections. belladonna may be propagated in a small way from cuttings of the young shoots rooted in moist sand in the usual manner or from divisions of the fleshy rootstocks made early in the spring, but it is most readily grown from seeds which may be thinly sown in pots or well-drained boxes in a cool greenhouse in midwinter or in a sheltered place in a garden early in the spring. when the seedlings are large enough to handle they should be transplanted singly to small pots or pricked out in flats or shallow boxes of light, rich soil, placing them about inches apart each way, as with tomato or other vegetable plants intended for field planting. in the spring, as soon as danger from frost is over, they should be transplanted to the field and set about inches apart in rows or more inches apart sowing seeds in the field or transplanting directly from the seed bed to the field has rarely given good results in this country. belladonna seeds are small, and if well handled under glass or in protected seed beds ounce should produce , or more plants, sufficient to set an acre. belladonna thrives best in deep, moist, well-drained loam containing lime, such as will under proper fertilization produce good garden vegetables. the preparation of the soil should be very thorough and consists of deep plowing, either in the fall or early spring, and repeated working with the disk or spring-tooth and smoothing harrows. weeds should be kept under control at all times and the soil stirred with a hoe or cultivator at intervals of about days, particularly after each hard rain, and shallow cultivation given in hot, dry weather to conserve the natural moisture of the soil. good commercial fertilizers, such as are commonly used in truck gardens, are beneficial. those containing per cent of phosphoric acid, per cent of nitrogen, and per cent of potash are the most desirable and should be applied at the rate of about pounds per acre. stable manure at the rate of to tons to the acre may be used if plowed under when the ground is prepared. belladonna is sometimes affected by a wilt disease, which is aggravated by wet soils and fresh animal manures, and the foliage is greedily attacked by the potato beetle. dusting with lime, spot, or road dust in the morning when the leaves are wet with dew is occasionally effective. the destructive attacks of these pests are usually confined to the seed bed or to first-year plantings, but the insects may be controlled by the careful use of insecticides. the leaves are picked when the plants are in full bloom. they should be carefully handled, to avoid bruising, and dried in the shade in order to retain their green color. a hundred pounds of fresh leaves yield about pounds when well dried. one crop only can be collected the year of planting, but two crops are gathered in each of the next two or three years, after which it appears better to market the roots and make new plantings. while only the leaves should be collected for the best pharmaceutical trade, the young growth, including the smaller sappy twigs, has medicinal value and may be sheared from the plants and dried in the same manner as the leaves. the ease of collection and increased weight of material may render the latter method more profitable. the roots alone are not as profitable as the leaves. the best roots are those of the second and third year's growth. they are harvested in the fall after frost, the tops being mowed and raked off and the roots turned out with a deep-running plow, or with a potato fork if the area be small. they are carefully washed and cut into about -inch lengths, the larger pieces being split lengthwise to aid in drying. thorough drying either in the sun or with mild artificial heat is essential; otherwise, the roots will mold when stored. the high prices paid for belladonna during the war greatly stimulated the cultivation of this crop, which had previously been grown with some success in california, michigan, indiana, pennsylvania, new jersey, and some other states. in , acres of belladonna were harvested, the total production being about tons of herb (including leaves and stems), an average of pounds per acre. from acres tons of root were harvested, an average of pounds per acre. the marketing of this crop was followed by a decline in prices, the quotations in june, , being to cents a pound for the herb and cents a pound for the root. blue flag. blue flag (_iris versicolor_) is a native perennial plant of common occurrence in swamps and marshy situations throughout the eastern half of the united states. the underground stem (rhizome) and roots are the parts of the plant used medicinally. blue flag responds readily to cultivation when placed in a rich, moist, and rather heavy soil. it is readily propagated from divisions of old plants, which may be set foot apart in rows spaced conveniently for cultivation. if the plants are set in august or september, the crop may be harvested about, the last of october in the following year. the roots may be turned out with a deep-running plow, and after being thoroughly washed and the larger clusters broken up they should be thoroughly dried. artificial drying at low heat is usually desirable. yields at the rate of or tons of dried root per acre have been obtained from small plats. the prewar price paid to collectors varied from year to year and usually ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was cents a pound. this crop does not appear to be very promising, owing to the relatively small demand for the root boneset. boneset (_eupatorium perfoliatum_) is a hardy, rather long-lived perennial plant commonly found growing in low grounds throughout the eastern half of the united states. the dried leaves and flowering tops form the official drug. divisions of clumps of wild plants collected early in the fall will serve for propagation. these may be set about a foot apart in rows in well-prepared soil. during the first winter the newly set divisions should be protected with a light mulch of straw or manure. plants may also be grown from seeds, which should be collected as soon as ripe and sown in shallow drills about inches apart in a rich, moist seed bed, preferably in partial shade. when of sufficient size they may be set in the field at about the same distance as the divided clumps. the plants are cut late in the summer when in full bloom and the leaves and flowering tops stripped from the stem by hand and carefully dried without exposure to the sun. yields of well-cultivated boneset are quite large and , pounds or more per acre of dry herb may be obtained under favorable conditions. the prewar price for boneset rarely exceeded to cents a pound. the price in june, , was to cents a pound. since the demand is limited and the wild supply fairly available, the cultivation of boneset does not offer much prospect of profit. burdock. burdock (_arctium lappa_) is a large biennial plant well known as a common and troublesome weed in the eastern and central states and in some western localities. the dried root from plants of the first year's growth forms the official drug, but the seeds and leaves are also used medicinally. burdock will grow in almost any soil, but the best root development is favored by a light well-drained soil rich in humus. the seeds germinate readily and may be sown directly in the field, either late in the fall or early in the spring. the seed may be sown in drills inches or feet apart, as desired, and should be sown inch deep if in the fall, but less deeply if sown in the spring. when the seedlings are well up they should be thinned to stand about inches apart in the row. cultivation should continue as long as the size of the plants will permit. the roots are harvested at the end of the first year's growth in order to secure the most acceptable drug and also to prevent the plants from bearing seed and spreading as a weed. the tops of the plants may be cut with a mower and raked off, after which the roots can usually be turned out with a deep-running plow or with a beet lifter. in a dry and very sandy soil the roots frequently extend to a depth of or feet, making it necessary to dig them by hand. after digging, any remaining tops are removed and the roots are washed and dried, the drying being preferably by the use of low artificial heat. the roots are usually split lengthwise into two or more pieces in order to facilitate drying, although whole roots are marketable. yields at the rate of , to , pounds of dry roots per acre have been obtained. the prewar prices offered by dealers ranged from to cents a pound. the prices for the root and seed in june, , were cents a pound each. calamus. calamus, or sweet flag (_acorus calamus_), is a native perennial plant, occurring frequently along streams and in the edges of swamps throughout the eastern half of the united states. the dried root (rhizome or rootstock) is the part used as a drug. although calamus in a wild state is usually found growing in water, it may be cultivated in almost any good soil which is fairly moist. it usually does well on moderately dry upland soils which will produce fair crops of corn or potatoes. the plants are readily propagated from divisions of old roots, which should be set early in the fall foot apart in rows and well covered. during the following growing season the plants should receive frequent and thorough cultivation. the roots are harvested in the fall and may be readily dug with a spade or turned out with a plow. the tops, together with about an inch of the rootstock, are next cut off and used to make new plantings. the roots are washed and dried artificially at a moderately low degree of heat. the marketable product consists of the thick rootstocks deprived of their small rootlets often called "fibers." these may be removed before drying, but more easily afterwards, since when dry and brittle they break off readily with a little handling. roots thus treated are often called "stripped" and are more aromatic than those which have been peeled. yields at the rate of , pounds of dry roots per acre have been obtained. the prewar price for the unpeeled root usually ranged from to cents a pound. the prices in june, , were to cents a pound. the annual importation of calamus root ranges from to tons. calendula. calendula, or pot marigold (_calendula officinalis_), is a hardy annual plant native to southern europe, but frequently grown in flower gardens in this country. the dried flower heads are sometimes used in soups and stews, and the so-called petals (ligulate florets) are employed in medicine. calendula grows well on a variety of soils, but a moderately rich garden loam will give the best results. the seed may be sown in open ground early in the spring in drills inches apart. as soon as the seedlings are well established they should be thinned to stand about a foot apart in the row. in the north it is desirable to sow the seed about the first of april in coldframes or spent hotbeds and transplant the young seedlings as soon as the danger of frost is past. the plants blossom early and continue to bloom throughout the summer. the flowers are gathered at intervals of a few days and carefully dried. the petals (florets) which form the drug may be removed either before or after the flower heads are dried. the petals are removed by hand, but this process requires so much time that when the cost of the necessary labor is taken into account it is doubtful whether the price received for the drug would cover the cost of production. the dried whole flowers produced in this country were quoted in the wholesale markets in june, , at cents to $ a pound, according to quality; the petals, at $ . to $ . a pound. camomile, german. german camomile (_matricaria chamomilla_) is a european annual herb of the aster family, cultivated in this country in gardens, from which it has escaped in some localities. the dried flower heads are used in medicine. this species of camomile does well on moderately heavy soil which is rich in humus and rather moist. since the plants bloom about eight weeks after sowing the seed, a crop of camomile may be grown from seed sown either early in the spring or late in the summer, following early vegetable crops. the seed may be sown in drills and barely covered or may be broadcast, since the plants will soon occupy the ground and exclude the weeds. when the plants are in full bloom the flower heads are gathered and may be spread thinly on canvas sheets and dried in the sun. all leaves and stems should be removed, and when the flowers are thoroughly dry they should be packed for market in boxes or bales rather than in bags, since in the latter the flowers are likely to be badly broken in handling. returns from experimental areas indicate that a yield of about pounds of dry flowers per acre may be expected under favorable conditions. prewar wholesale prices usually ranged from about to cents a pound. the prices in june, , were to cents a pound. camomile, roman. roman camomile (also called english camomile, _anthemis nobilis_) is a european perennial herb of the aster family, frequently cultivated in gardens in this country and sometimes found growing wild. in america, camomile is grown chiefly as an ornamental plant, especially for use in borders, since the plants blossom from midsummer until killed by frost. the dried flower heads from cultivated plants are used in medicine. camomile grows well in almost any good, rather dry soil which has full exposure to the sun. the plants may be grown from seeds or propagated by dividing the roots early in the spring. the divisions of the root may be planted inches apart in rows spaced according to the method of cultivation to be used. when planted on a small scale the divisions, or offsets, may be set inches apart each way in carefully prepared soil. hand weeding is necessary, but since the plants soon spread and fully shade the ground, weeds usually have small chance of becoming troublesome. the flower heads are gathered just as they open, either by hand or by means of a flower picker, and are dried in the open in bright weather or, when necessary, on canvas trays in a heated room. rapid drying is essential, as it is desirable to retain the white color as far as possible. the yield is variable, but from to pounds of dried flowers per acre may be expected. the prices for roman camomile quoted in the wholesale drug markets of this country prior to the war usually ranged from about to cents a pound. the prices in june, , were to cents a pound. since this crop requires much hand labor, its cultivation in this country on a commercial scale does not promise to be very profitable. camphor. the camphor tree (_camphora officinalis_) is a large evergreen, native to asia. it is hardy in situations where the winter temperature does not fall below ° f., and for many years has been grown as an ornamental in the southern and southwestern united states. young trees suitable for planting as ornamentals may usually be obtained from the nurseries in florida and other parts of the south, or they can be easily grown from fresh seed. for culture on a commercial scale the climatic requirements of camphor are practically the same as those of citrus fruits. the tree can be grown in almost any soil, but the maximum growth is secured in soils which are rich and well drained. when planted for commercial cultivation new land is preferable. the following statements are based upon actual experiments and observations on the growing and production of camphor under conditions found in florida. camphor seeds ripen about the middle of october and should be planted while fresh, a better germination being obtained when the pulp is removed. the seed bed should be selected with care and the precaution taken to have one that will give sufficient moisture during the dry season and yet be well drained. for small seed beds of or acres or less it may be practicable to provide irrigation. excellent stands of seedlings have been obtained on slightly rolling land which originally was covered with "blackjack" oak. about the first of september, or somewhat earlier if conditions permit, the land should be well plowed and thoroughly worked down with a disk harrow. just before the seeds are planted it should again be worked over and all roots of bermuda grass or other weeds removed, since rapidly growing grasses or weeds will absorb so much moisture from the soil that the seeds can not germinate. the seeds begin to ripen during the first part of october and are usually in a fairly well ripened stage by the last of that month. from this time until the heavy frosts they can be gathered and planted with safety. seeds gathered after heavy frosts have been planted successfully, but it is not advisable to take the risk of too hard a freeze. in determining the time to gather seed a simple test is sufficient. seeds that fall into the hand when the cluster is slightly twisted are ripe enough to plant. in planting, a cotton-dropping machine, modified somewhat to meet the new requirements, may be used. the machine is set to plant the seeds or inches apart and cover them inch deep in rows far enough apart to permit horse cultivation. the plants begin to come up in about three months, but four or five months are often required for a full stand. as soon as the plants can be distinguished in the rows cultivation is begun, which at first is done by hand with either a wheel or hand hoe. later, as the plants attain size, a horse cultivator can be used, but a certain amount of handwork is necessary throughout the time the plants remain in the seed bed. when the plants are well started they should receive a good application of sheep or goat manure or of high-grade fertilizer. the first season a growth of from to inches may be expected, the irregularity of development depending on the vitality of the seed, variation in the soil, and numerous other factors. the plants are allowed to grow in the seed bed usually for a year and are then transplanted to the field. in transplanting it is customary to separate the plants into two grades, "sturdy" and "weak," planting each grade in a field by itself. by doing this the replanting is simplified, since the sturdy stock requires but few trees for replanting and the weak stock, which will require considerable replanting, is all in one section. previous to transplanting, the land is well prepared by deep plowing and thorough harrowing, and rows are laid off feet apart. the young trees are set in these rows feet apart, either by hand or with a tree-setting machine. this machine is simply a tobacco-setting machine fitted with a trench opener set to open a furrow inches deep, in which the trees are placed. the trees used for transplanting are headed back to within inch of the crown, and the lower end of the taproot and all large laterals are removed. the taproot of the tree as planted is thus reduced in length to or inches and varies in diameter according to the vitality and previous growth of the seedling. transplanting should be done in the winter months, when the trees are dormant. cultivation is begun as soon as the trees put forth shoots in the spring and continued until the rainy season of each year. after the rainy season the plants are again cultivated and all grass and weeds removed. at times cultivation is necessary during the rainy season in order to keep the trees from becoming smothered and killed by the fast-growing weeds. one-horse cultivators drawn by mules or a gang cultivator drawn by a light tractor may be used. in three or four years, after transplanting, the trees should be from to feet high. they are then trimmed by means of a special machine[ ] to form an =a=-shaped hedge and the trimmings distilled for the oil and camphor gum. trimming is carried on when the trees are in the dormant stage, which is twice each year, usually november to january and may to june. the summer dormant season is somewhat irregular and governed entirely by local conditions. [ ] a detailed description of this machine is given in u. s. dept. of agr. cir. , entitled "a machine for trimming camphor trees." . the cuttings are hauled from the field to the distilling plant, and if many large branches are present they are run through a heavy ensilage cutter. for distillation they are packed in large iron retorts, to which steam is admitted at the bottom. the outlet pipe of the retort is connected with a specially constructed condensing apparatus in which the oil and camphor carried over by the steam are condensed and partly collected. portions of oil and camphor not collected in the condenser are caught in a tub fitted with an outlet siphon which carries away the excess condensed steam but leaves the oil and camphor behind. when removed from the condenser the product is very crude, consisting of a mixture of oil, water, and camphor. this mixture is either thrown into a centrifuge and the oil and water removed or it is placed in large cylindrical vats and the oil and water allowed to drain out. the oil is then separated from the water by means of a siphon. the camphor and oil are marketed separately. the annual yield of cuttings has varied from to tons per acre, which should give approximately to pounds of marketable camphor. at present the planting of small areas does not seem advisable, in view of the heavy outlay required for the machinery necessary to produce camphor gum at a profit. an area of less than acres would probably not warrant the installation of the machinery necessary for the commercial production of camphor, and , acres or more will doubtless give a greater net return per acre. although the crop is a low-priced one, under favorable conditions it is estimated that a fair return per acre may be expected, but the data so far accumulated are not sufficient to warrant specific statements concerning the profitableness of the industry. camphor oil, or the oil from which camphor has been removed, is used in japan for illuminating purposes, and as a solvent for resins in the manufacture of lacquer. it is used in europe for its safrol content, and may probably be utilized for the same purpose in this country. there exists already in the american market a demand for the japanese oil at prices ranging from to cents per pound. camphor imports into the united states usually exceed , , pounds annually; hence, it does not seem probable that there is any danger of overproduction in the southern states. however, it is possible that at times camphor may be imported at a price so low as to render production in this country financially unprofitable. cannabis. the drug cannabis or indian hemp (_cannabis sativa_), consists of the dried flowering tops of the female plants. it grows well over a considerable portion of the united states, but the production of the active principle of this plant is believed to be favored by a warm climate. for drug purposes, therefore, this crop appears to be adapted to the southern rather than to the northern states. cannabis is propagated from seeds, which should be planted in the spring as soon as conditions are suitable, in well-prepared sandy of clayey loam at a depth of about an inch in rows or feet apart. the seeds may be dropped every two or three inches in the row or planted in hills about a foot apart in the row, to seeds being dropped into each hill. two or three pounds of seed per acre should give a good stand. about half the seeds will produce male plants, which must be removed before their flowers mature; otherwise, the female plants will set seed, thereby diminishing their value as a drug. the male plants can be recognized with certainty only by the presence of stamens in their flowers. ordinary stable or barnyard manure plowed in deeply is better for use as a fertilizer than commercial preparations and may be safely applied at the rate of tons per acre. however, good results may be obtained with commercial fertilizers, such as are used for truck crops and potatoes, when cultivated in between the rows at the rate of or pounds per acre. when the female plants reach maturity, a sticky resin forms on the heavy, compact flower clusters, and harvesting may then be begun. the tops of the plants comprising the flower clusters are cut and carefully dried in the shade to preserve the green color as far as possible. drying can best be done, especially in damp weather, by the use of artificial heat, not to exceed ° f. for several years cannabis of standard (u. s. p.) quality has been grown on a commercial scale in this country, chiefly in south carolina and virginia. after the flowering tops are harvested they are thoroughly dried under cover, then worked over by hand, and all the stems and large foliage leaves removed. this process gives a drug of high quality but greatly reduces the net or marketable yield per acre, which usually ranges from to pounds. some growers do not remove the stems and leaves, thus increasing the acreage yield but reducing the market value of their product. the quality of cannabis can be determined only by special laboratory tests, which most dealers are not equipped to make; consequently, they are usually unwilling to pay growers as high prices as they would if the low-grade cannabis were kept off the market. the market price in june, , for tested (u. s. p.) domestic cannabis was to cents; for nontested, to cents a pound. caraway. caraway (_carum carvi_) is a european biennial herb of the parsley family. it grows and fruits well over a considerable portion of the united states, especially in the north and northwest, but its cultivation in this country seems never to have assumed commercial proportions. the seeds are used medicinally, but are mainly utilized for flavoring cakes, confectionery, and similar products. on distillation with steam, the seeds yield an aromatic oil, which is more used in medicine than the seed itself. soil of a somewhat clayey nature and containing a fair proportion of humus and available plant food is particularly suited to caraway, but the plant generally grows well in any good upland soil which will produce fair crops of corn or potatoes. seeds should be sown in early spring in drills about inches apart, and from to pounds of seed are sown to the acre. frequent shallow cultivation throughout both growing seasons is desirable in order to keep the soil mellow and free from weeds, as a weedy crop at harvest time usually means a product inferior in quality. as soon as the oldest seeds ripen, which is usually in june of the second year, the crop should be harvested. the plants may be cut with a mower and should be left in the swath until they have lost most of their moisture, when they may be built up into small cocks, or they may be brought in from the field and the curing finished in a barn loft. if on handling in the field the seeds shatter extensively, the crop should be brought in in tight wagons. when drying is finished the seeds are thrashed out, cleaned, and stored in bags which contain about pounds each. returns from experimental areas indicate that a yield of about , pounds of seed per acre may be expected. one hundred pounds of seed will usually yield to pounds of oil. the average annual importation of caraway seed for several years has been about , , pounds, valued at about cents a pound. the war reduced the annual importations of oil of caraway from , to , pounds and increased the value from cents to about $ . a pound. cascara sagrada. cascara, or cascara sagrada (_rhamnus purshiana_), is a small tree to feet high, native to the western part of the united states, and found most abundantly in a narrow belt along the pacific slope from northern california to southern british columbia. the bark from the trunk and branches is the source of the drug, for which there is a constant and steady demand. plantings which have been made in the eastern states indicate that this tree may probably be grown along the atlantic slope in the piedmont or foothill belt from pennsylvania to georgia. the trees have been found to grow better in clay loam than in either sand or clay. propagation from seed is easy, but the seeds should be planted in the fall soon after they ripen or stratified in sand until used, since germination is very poor if the seeds are allowed to become dry. the seeds are sown in a seed bed under shade in drills inches apart and covered about inch deep. the seedlings reach a height of to inches the first year, and in the following spring before the leaves appear they are set in the field feet apart each way. it is advisable to cultivate frequently, in order to keep the weeds down and to maintain a shallow surface mulch. if the trees are pruned properly, a crop of bark may be harvested each year without killing the whole tree, as is done in collecting the bark from wild trees. at the time of transplanting, the trees are cut back to a straight stem about a foot high, from which all except the four uppermost buds are removed. the branches which afterwards develop from these buds are later deprived of their lower side shoots, thus causing the tree to grow a head of four long, stout branches instead of a single straight trunk. when the trees are large enough to yield a crop of bark, the longest of the four branches is cut off early in the spring flush with the trunk and a new branch is allowed to grow in its place. this process may be repeated yearly, removing only the largest branches of each tree in any one season. the bark on the cut-off branches is divided with a sharp knife into lengthwise strips of about an inch or two in width, which may be readily pulled off. it is then dried carefully at a low temperature in the shade and broken into small pieces to facilitate packing and handling. the price paid to collectors for cascara bark, which before the war usually varied from to cents a pound, in june, , was about cents a pound. so long as a supply of the wild bark continues to be available it is doubtful whether cascara can be cultivated at a profit. castor beans. the castor-oil plant or palma christi (_ricinus communis_) is a robust perennial in tropical countries which becomes an annual in regions subject to frost. the seeds of this plant, called "castor beans" or "mole beans," yield the castor oil of commerce. between and , the castor bean was an important crop in certain sections of oklahoma, kansas, missouri, and illinois, but during recent years its culture has been practically abandoned in favor of crops which are easier to handle and more profitable. for the commercial production of castor beans a warm climate and long growing season are necessary. if planted much farther north than st. louis, mo., or washington, d. c, the crop is very likely to be caught by frost. in general, any fertile soil which produces good crops of cotton or corn is suitable for castor beans, but a very fertile soil favors the growth of the plant at the expense of seed production and early maturity. the land is prepared in much the same manner as for cotton or corn; that is, plowed, disked, and harrowed level before planting, which may be done by hand or with a corn planter with specially prepared plates. the seed should be planted early in the spring, as soon as the soil is warm but still moderately moist. the time of planting varies according to locality, but in general corresponds to that of cotton. the seed is planted in hills at a depth of to inches. toward the north, the rows are usually made feet apart and the hills spaced feet apart in the row. farther south the rows should usually be made about to feet apart. on very light land the hills may be feet apart in the row; on heavier land, to feet apart. as a general rule three seeds are planted to the hill, and not less than two should be planted. one bushel of medium-sized seed should plant from to acres. when the plants are from to inches tall, the weaker ones should be removed, leaving one plant in a hill. the crop is cultivated similar to corn until the plants are large enough to shade the ground. in case the field becomes foul with weeds and grass, some hoeing may be necessary, but practically all the cultivation required can be done with a horse-drawn weeder. some varieties in which the beans pop out when the hull is fully ripe are known locally as "poppers," and after the beans begin to ripen, the field must be gone over every few days and the ripe beans collected in order to avoid loss. other varieties tend to retain the beans in the hull after they are ripe. the climate affects the popping of the beans, and a variety which shatters badly in one region may shatter very little when grown in another. in harvesting, a common method is to cut off the spikes with a knife and collect them in large sacks. they are then hauled to a shelter of some kind and allowed to dry until the pods will crush easily. various methods are used in thrashing castor beans. if the variety grown is one which "pops" or drops its seeds when they are ripe, the spikes are sometimes piled on a hard ground or plank floor fully exposed to the sun and furnished with sides of boards or cloth to feet high to catch the beans as they pop out. in some varieties mere drying does not cause the pods to open, and specially constructed machines have been used to remove the beans from the pods. after the beans have been thrashed or popped out, a fanning mill is used to separate the hulls, chaff, and dirt from the beans, which are then sacked and stored for market. the yield varies greatly and will depend much upon cultural conditions, the season, the variety grown, and the care exercised in harvesting and thrashing the seeds. in oklahoma the average yield of the popping varieties is said to be to bushels per acre. yields up to bushels per acre have been reported for favorable conditions. for some years prior to the war the farm price for castor beans was about $ a bushel. early in the war the increased demand for castor oil caused a sharp advance in the price of the beans, which has gradually declined. in june, , the wholesale market quotation was about $ a bushel. the normal market requirement in the united states for castor beans is about , , bushels annually, but during the last year of the war nearly , , bushels were imported. in the united states castor beans are used in quantity only by manufacturers of castor oil. in general, the equipment and operation of a castor-oil mill resembles that of a cottonseed-oil mill or linseed-oil mill, but special and expensive equipment is necessary for the proper extraction of the oil from castor beans. the best grade of oil is obtained from the beans by hydraulic pressure. an additional quantity of oil of lower grade is obtained by treating the press cake with naphtha or some other volatile solvent. the pomace resulting from the second extraction is used as a fertilizer for tobacco, corn, and other crops, but because of a poisonous principle can not be used for cattle feeding unless specially treated. owing to the heavy outlay required for the necessary machinery and the high cost of manufacture on a small scale, it has not been found profitable for the growers of castor beans to undertake the extraction of the oil. the castor-oil plant is not known to be poisonous, and although the leaves are not relished by farm animals they are said to be used as fodder for cattle in india. castor beans, however, contain a poisonous principle, and though harmless when handled, may cause serious if not fatal effects when eaten, especially in the case of small children. care should be taken to prevent these beans from being accidentally mixed with the grain fed to animals, since many cases have been reported in which the death of horses has been due to eating feed in which they have become mixed. catnip. catnip (_nepeta cataria_) is a european perennial plant of the mint family, which frequently occurs in this country as a weed in gardens and about dwellings. it has long had a popular use as a domestic remedy. both leaves and flowering tops find some demand in the crude-drug trade. catnip does well on almost any good soil, but thrives best on a well-drained and moderately rich garden loam. however, a more fragrant and attractive herb can be grown in sandy situations than in heavy soils. the plant may be propagated from seeds or by root division. the seed may be sown in rows either late in the fall or in early spring and covered lightly. fall-sown seed usually gives a more even stand and a heavier growth of herb. when the plants have reached a height of to inches they should be thinned to stand from to inches apart in the rows. in some localities the field sowing of seed does not give good results, in which case plants may be started in a coldframe and later transplanted to the field. shallow cultivation will favor a vigorous growth of the herb. the flowering tops are harvested when the plants are in full bloom and are dried in the shade to preserve their green color. in case the herb is grown in large quantity, it may be cut with a mowing machine, the cutter bar of which should be set high. the plants should lie in the swath until partially dry, and the curing may then be finished either in small cocks in the field or in the barn, care being taken to preserve the natural green color as far as possible. returns from experimental areas indicate that a yield of about , pounds of dried flowering tops per acre may be expected under good conditions. the herb must be carefully sorted and all the large or coarse stems removed, after which it may be made up for the market in bales of to pounds each. prewar prices to collectors ranged from to cents a pound. the prices in june, , for the herb were cents; for the leaves, cents; and for the leaves and flowers, cents a pound. chamomile. (see camomile.) conium. conium, or poison hemlock (_conium maculatum_), is a large, poisonous european biennial plant of the parsley family, naturalized in the northeastern states and in california. the full-grown but unripe seeds (fruits) and the leaves are used medicinally. conium is easily grown, and has been found to thrive in both comparatively moist clay soil and in dry sandy loam. in rich, moist land it may easily become a troublesome weed. conium grows readily from seed, which may be sown either in the fall or early in the spring in drills or more feet apart. as soon as the seedlings can be distinguished in the row, cultivation similar to that given ordinary garden crops is begun. the plants usually blossom in the second year, and when the oldest seeds are full grown but still green in color the plants are harvested and the seed at once thrashed out and dried with the least possible exposure to the light. the small and undeveloped seed should be screened out and rejected and the good seed stored in containers that will exclude light and air. the leaves are collected when the plant is in flower, quickly dried in the sun, and stored in the same manner as the seed. estimated yields at the rate of to pounds of seed per acre have been obtained, but the yield is very uncertain, since the flowering plants are especially subject to the attacks of insects which destroy the crop of seed. the prewar prices as quoted in the wholesale drug markets ranged from to cents a pound for the seed and to cents for the leaves. the prices in june, , for the seed were to cents, and for the leaves to cents a pound. coriander. coriander (_coriandrum sativum_) is an old world annual of the parsley family. for years the plant has been cultivated in gardens in the united states, and it is now reported as growing wild in many places. the aromatic seeds and the oil distilled from them have long been used medicinally. both the seed and the oil are also used for flavoring confectionery and cordials and as a condiment in bread and cake. coriander grows well on almost any good soil, but thrives best on deep and fertile garden loam. the soil should be well prepared before planting, which should be done moderately early in the spring. for field cultivation the seed is sown in rows feet apart, but if the cultivation is done by hand the distance between the rows may be reduced to inches. the seed should be sown thickly in order to insure a good stand. when well up, the plants are thinned to stand or inches apart in the row. cultivation should continue until the plants flower, which will be about two months from the time of planting. when most of the seeds are ripe the plants are cut with a scythe or mower, preferably early in the morning while moist with dew, in order to avoid shattering the seed. the plants are partially cured in small cocks in the field, the drying being finished in a barn loft or under other suitable shelter, after which the seeds are thrashed out and cleaned. the yield of seed is quite variable, but returns from experimental areas indicate that from to pounds per acre may be expected. five hundred pounds of seed will usually yield from to pounds of oil, according to the localities where grown. the annual importation of coriander seed is about , , pounds. the prewar price of the seed was about cents a pound; in june, , to cents. the wholesale price of the oil of coriander, which was $ to $ a pound before the war, in june, , ranged from $ to $ a pound. dandelion. dandelion (_taraxacum officinale_) is a well-known and troublesome perennial weed, occurring abundantly almost everywhere in this country except in the southern states. it is frequently cultivated in market gardens for the leaves, which are used for greens or salads, but the root alone is used in medicine. this plant will grow well in any good soil and has been successfully cultivated in the south, but in the colder parts of the country it may require slight mulching during the winter if the roots tend to heave out of the soil. the seeds, which are sown in the spring, are drilled in rows inches apart and covered one-half inch deep. about pounds of seeds should sow an acre. the seedlings are thinned to stand a foot apart in the row, and the crop should be well cultivated and kept free from weeds. the roots are dug in the fall of the second season after planting the seed. they should be washed and may be dried whole, or, to facilitate handling and drying, they may be cut into pierces to inches long and the larger, portions sliced. under favorable conditions, yields at the rate of , to , pounds of dry roots per acre have been obtained from second-year plants. the prices usually offered collectors for the dry root before the war ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was about cents. the quantity annually imported into this country varies from year to year, but averages about tons. a serious disadvantage attending the cultivation of this crop is the danger of seeding adjacent land with a very undesirable weed. digitalis. digitalis, or foxglove (_digitalis purpurea_), is a fairly hardy european perennial, which has long been grown in flower gardens in this country as an ornamental plant. the leaves are used in medicine, those from plants of the second year's growth being required for the official drug. digitalis thrives in ordinary well-drained garden soils of open texture and reasonable fertility. sowing the seed directly in the field occasionally gives good results, but is so often unsuccessful that it can not be recommended. the seeds are exceedingly small and do not germinate well except under the most favorable conditions. they should be mixed with sand, to insure even distribution in seeding, and sown as early as february in seed pans or flats in the greenhouses or in well-protected frames. when danger of frost is past the plants should be hardened off and transplanted to the field, where they may be set about a foot apart in rows spaced conveniently for cultivation. the plants do not flower until the second year, and it is necessary to cultivate them frequently during the growing seasons of both the first and second year. in localities where the cold weather is severe it may be desirable to protect the plants during the first winter with a light mulch of straw or coarse farmyard manure. the plants usually flower in june of the second year, and the leaves may then be collected. they are carefully dried in the shade and should be stored in such a manner that they will not be exposed to light and moisture. the results of experiments indicate that yields of to pounds of dry leaves per acre may be obtained under favorable conditions. in considering digitalis culture it should be borne in mind that the crop occupies the soil for the greater part of two seasons and demands even closer attention than many truck or garden crops. in small areas of cultivated digitalis, ranging from one-half to acre in extent, were harvested in pennsylvania, south carolina, washington, california, and some other states. several tons of digitalis leaves were also collected from plants of wild growth in the general region of the coast range of mountains on the pacific coast. digitalis is of great medicinal importance, but on account of its potency is administered in very small quantities; consequently, a few thousand pounds is sufficient to meet the annual market requirements. before the war the price for digitalis leaves averaged about cents a pound; in june, , it was about cents a pound. dill. dill (_anethum graveolens_) is an old world annual or biennial herb of the parsley family. although it is a native of southern europe, it is hardy plant and may be grown in a much cooler climate if given a warm situation and a well-drained soil. the leaves are used for seasoning, and the seeds (fruits), which are greatly valued for flavoring pickles, are used as a condiment and occasionally in medicine. a volatile oil distilled from the seeds is used chiefly for perfuming soap. dill is preferably grown as an annual plant, in which case the seed should be sown about one-half inch deep very early in the spring in drills a foot apart. a half ounce of seed is sufficient to sow feet of drill, and at this rate a pound should sow an acre. when sown in the field the rows may be to inches apart, and the seedlings should be thinned to stand about a foot apart in the row. the most favorable soil is a well-prepared loam, but the plants grow well in any good garden soil. frequent cultivation and freedom from weeds are essential for good results. early in the fall, as soon as some of the older seeds are ripe, the plants are mowed and built up; into small cocks in the field, or, if sufficiently dry, the seeds may be thrashed out at once. in very dry weather it is preferable to mow the plants early in the morning while they are moist with dew, in order to avoid shattering the seed. in case the seed is very ripe, it is well to cut the plants high and to place the tops directly on large canvas sheets, in which they may be brought from the field. after thrashing, the seeds should be spread out in a thin layer and turned frequently until thoroughly dry, since they tend to become musty if closely stored before all the moisture has been removed. the yield of dill seed is quite variable and is much influenced by climatic conditions. from to pounds of seed per acre is considered a good yield. the wholesale price in june, , ranged from to cents a pound. echinacea. echinacea (_brauneria angustifolia_, fig. ) is a native perennial plant of the aster family found on the prairies of the middle west, occurring most abundantly in nebraska and kansas. the roots of the plant are used medicinally. this plant has been found to do well under, cultivation in moderately rich and well-drained loam. it grows fairly well from seeds, which may be collected when ripe and kept dry until ready for use. plants should be started in a well-prepared seed bed by sowing the seeds thinly in drills about inches apart. the plants develop slowly and may be left in the seed bed for two years and then transplanted to the field in the spring and set about inches apart in rows. thorough cultivation is essential for the best results. the roots do not reach a marketable size under three or four years from the time of sowing the seed. they are harvested in the fall, freed from any adhering soil, and dried either in the open air or by means of low artificial heat. echinacea has not been cultivated on a scale large enough to give satisfactory data on the probable yield. the prewar wholesale price ranged from to cents a pound; in june, , it was to cents a pound. [illustration: fig. .--echinacea (_brauneria angustifolia_).] elecampane. elecampane (_inula helenium_) is a european perennial plant of the aster family, now growing wild along roadsides and in fields throughout the northeastern part of the united states. the root is used in medicine. elecampane will grow in almost any soil, but thrives best in deep clay loam well supplied with moisture. the ground on which this plant is to be grown should be deeply plowed and thoroughly prepared before planting. it is preferable to use divisions of old roots for propagation, and these should be set in the fall about inches apart in rows feet apart. plants may also be grown from seeds, which may be sown in the spring in seeds beds and the seedlings transplanted later to the field and set in the same manner as the root divisions. plants grown from seed do not flower the first year. cultivation should be sufficient to keep the soil in good condition and free from weeds. the roots are dug in the fall of the second year, thoroughly cleaned, sliced, and dried in the shade. the available data on yield indicate that a ton or more of dry root per acre may be expected. the price to producers usually ranges from to cents a pound. upward of , pounds of elecampane root were annually imported into this country prior to the war. fennel. fennel (_foeniculum vulgare_) is an old world perennial plant of the parsley family, occasionally cultivated as a garden herb in the united states. the aromatic seeds (fruits) are used in medicine and for flavoring. the oil distilled from the seeds is used in perfumery and for scenting soaps. fennel grows wild in mild climates in almost any good soil and thrives in rich, well-drained loams containing lime. it is propagated from seeds, which may be sown in the open as soon as the ground is ready for planting in the spring. the seed is sown thickly in drills to feet apart and covered lightly. from to pounds of seed should sow an acre. when well established the plants may be thinned to stand to inches apart in the row. plants may also be started in a seed bed from seed sown either in drills inches apart or broadcast. when the seedlings are three or four inches high they are transplanted to the field and set to inches apart in rows. the cultivation is the same as for ordinary garden crops. frequently, very little seed is formed the first year, but full crops may be expected for one or two succeeding years. the seed is gathered in the fall before it is fully ripe and may be harvested like anise or coriander. a yield of to pounds of seed, per acre may be expected. during recent years about , pounds of seed have been imported annually. owing to the war, prices for the seed and oil have about doubled. the prices in june, , for the seed were to cents a pound; for the oil, $ . to $ a pound. gentian. the common or yellow gentian (_gentiana lutea_) is the only species recognized in american medicine, although the roots of several other species are found in the drug trade. the plant grows wild in the mountains of central and southern europe, but it has proved very poorly adapted for cultivation in situations beyond its natural range. for its best development under cultivation, partial shade, similar to that required by ginseng and goldenseal, seems necessary. the plants are said to flower when about years old; hence, several years must elapse after sowing the seed before the roots reach a marketable size. apparently there have been no attempts to cultivate gentian commercially in this country. the prewar wholesale price of imported gentian root ranged from ½ to cents a pound. the price in june. , was to cents a pound. ginseng. ginseng (_panax quinquefolium_) is a fleshy-rooted herbaceous plant native to this country and formerly of frequent occurrence in shady, well-drained situations in hardwood forests from maine to minnesota and southward to the mountains of georgia and the carolinas. it has long been valued by the chinese for medicinal use, though rarely credited with curative properties by natives of other countries. when placed under cultural conditions, ginseng should be shielded from direct sunlight by the shade of trees or by lath sheds. the soil should be fairly light and well fertilized with woods earth, rotted leaves, or fine raw bone meal, the latter applied at the rate of pound to each square yard. seed should be planted in the spring as early as the soil can be worked to advantage, placed inches apart each way in the permanent beds or by inches in seed beds, and the seedlings transplanted to stand to inches apart when years old. only cracked or partially germinated seed should be used. ginseng needs little cultivation, but the beds should at all times be kept free from weeds and grass and the surface of the soil slightly stirred whenever it shows signs of caking. a winter mulch over the crowns is usually essential, but it should not be applied until freezing weather is imminent and should be removed in the spring before the first shoots come through the soil. the roots do not reach marketable size until about the fifth or sixth year from seed. when dug they should be carefully washed or shaken free from all adhering soil, but not scraped. curing is best; effected in a well-ventilated room heated to about ° f. nearly a month is required to properly cure the larger roots, and great care must be taken in order to prevent molding or souring. overheating must also be avoided. when well cured the roots should be stored in a dry, airy place until ready for sale. a market may be found with the wholesale drug dealers, some of whom make a specialty of buying ginseng root for export. the price of cultivated ginseng roots, as quoted in wholesale drug lists, ranges from $ . to $ a pound, according to quality and freedom from disease. further details respecting the culture of ginseng are given in a farmers' bulletin now in press, entitled "ginseng culture," and in farmers' bulletin , entitled "ginseng diseases and their control." goldenseal. goldenseal (_hydrastis canadensis_) is a native perennial, formerly quite abundant in open woodlands having ample shade, natural drainage, and an abundance of leaf mold. its range is from southern new york and ontario west to minnesota and south to georgia and kentucky. when grown under cultivation the soil should be well fertilized, preferably by decaying vegetable matter, such as woods soil and rotting forest leaves, which should be well worked in to a depth of inches or more. raw bone meal and cottonseed meal are also favorable in their action. seed may be sown in october in a well-prepared seed bed. it may be scattered broadcast or dropped one-half inch apart and covered with fine leaf mold to the depth of inch. during the winter the seed bed should be protected with burlap or fertilizer sacks, and should also be guarded against encroachment of moles or mice. plants may be set to inches apart each way and the rootstocks covered to a depth of about inches. for satisfactory growth goldenseal requires about per cent of shade during the summer, which should be provided by a lath shade or by cloth, brush, or vines. the soil should be kept free from weeds and the plants liberally watered throughout the growing season, but good drainage is necessary, since goldenseal does not thrive in boggy ground. under favorable conditions goldenseal reaches its best development in about, five years from seed, or, in a year or two less when grown from root buds or by divisions of the rootstocks. the root is dug in the autumn after the tops have withered. they are washed clean of all soil, sticks, etc., and dried on lath screens in an airy place in mild sunlight or partial shade, or indoors on a clean, dry floor. when dried in the open they should be protected from rain and dew. the cured root is kept in loose masses until marketed, since close packing may cause attacks of mold. the dried leaves and stems of goldenseal, commonly known as "seal herb," are also a marketable product. the prices in june, , ranged from $ to $ a pound for the roots and from to cents a pound for the herb. henbane. henbane (_hyoscyamus niger_) is a poisonous annual or biennial herb of the nightshade family, introduced into this country from europe and occasionally found as a weed in a number of the northern states. the leaves, flowering tops, and sometimes the seeds are used medicinally. henbane is propagated from seeds, but when these are sown in the open field germination is uncertain, and a very poor stand or total failure is a frequent result. germination is usually much more certain when the seeds are sown under glass, but the plants do not readily stand transplanting and often die after they are set in the open. very good results have been secured by sowing the seed in small pots under glass in january, transferring the seedlings to -inch pots in march, and transplanting in may to the field, where the plants may be set at least inches apart in rows. in handling the plants care should be taken to disturb the soil about the roots as little as possible. the soil requirements and method of cultivation are practically the same as for belladonna. the leaves of henbane usually suffer severely from attacks of the potato beetle, especially during the first year, and the crop is very likely to be destroyed if grown within the range of this insect. ordinarily the plants blossom about august of the second year and die after ripening their seed, but individual plants started early frequently bloom and set seed the first year. the leaves and flowing tops are collected when the plants are in full bloom and are carefully dried in the shade. the american crop of henbane has never much exceeded acres. the yield under favorable conditions is estimated at about , pounds per acre. the wholesale price in june, , was to cents a pound. horehound. horehound (_marrubium vulgare_) is a hardy perennial herb of the mint family, which occurs as a common weed in many places in the united states, especially on the pacific coast, where it threatens to become a pest. the leaves and flowering tops find some demand as a crude drug. their greatest use, however, is in the manufacture of candy, although they are sometimes employed for seasoning. horehound grows well in almost any soil and thrives in light, dry soils lacking in fertility. it grows readily from seeds, which are usually sown in drills early in the spring and covered with about an inch of soil. plants may also be started in coldframes, either from seed or cuttings, and later transplanted to the field. propagation may also be effected by division of old plants. plants may stand , , or inches apart in the row; those which stand close together will have small stems, and hence will yield a crop of finer quality. the plants are harvested just before flowering and should be cured in the shade in order to preserve the green color. if the stems are small, the plants may be cut close to the ground with a scythe, or with a mower if the area is large. in case the plants are tall and large they must be cut some distance above the ground and all coarse stems removed to make the herb suitable for marketing. yields at the rate of , pounds of dry herb per acre have been obtained. the prewar wholesale prices for the herb ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was to cents. the annual importation of horehound varies from year to year, sometimes reaching to tons. insect-powder flowers. insect flowers, from which pyrethrum or insect powder is prepared, are produced by several species of plants of the aster family which occur wild in the eastern mediterranean region, where they are also cultivated. the species here considered (_chrysanthemum_ [_pyrethrum_] _cinerariaefolium_) has been cultivated commercially in california for the production of insect powder. this species seems to thrive best in warm situations and should grow well in any good soil which is well drained and not too heavy. the seeds may be sown directly in the field, either early in the spring or in the fall, but it is preferable to start the plants in coldframes or well-prepared seed beds and transplant them to the field. the seed is mixed with sand and sown broadcast on the surface of the bed and lightly covered with a rake. water should be used sparingly on the seed bed, since the young seedlings and even mature plants are easily killed by a wet soil. when the seedlings are about a month old they are transplanted, during damp weather if possible, and set to inches apart in rows to feet apart. old plants may also be divided and used for propagation. the plants should be well cultivated during the growing season and will yield flowers for several years if they are well cared for. the fertility of the soil is maintained by the application of fertilizers. the time of harvesting varies from june to september, according to locality. the flower heads are gathered just as they open and may be collected by hand or by means of a flower picker. they are dried, preferably in the shade, on canvas sheets about feet square, on which they are spread in a thin layer and turned two or three times a day until dry. the average yield of dried flowers appears to be about pounds per acre. the wholesale price for these flowers in june, , was to cents a pound, which is from three to four times the prewar price. larkspur. the larkspur of the crude-drug trade is an annual plant (_delphinium consolida_), native of southern europe, which has long been cultivated in this country as an ornamental and is now occasionally found growing wild. another species of larkspur (_delphinium urceolatum_) is native to this country and is said to have properties very similar to those of the european species. larkspur seed is now used chiefly in remedies for external parasites. these larkspurs thrive best in a rich sandy or gravelly soil. in heavy soils they are likely to suffer from root-rot, which materially reduces the yield. a rather dry climate is suitable for plants of this character. they do not bear transplanting well and seeds should be sown in the fall or very early in the spring where the plants are to stand. the soil should be well fined and the seed thinly sown in drills spaced according to the method of cultivation to be used. when up, the plants should be thinned to stand inches or more apart in the rows. the necessary cultivation consists in keeping the soil between the rows and about the plants mellow and free from weeds during the growing season. when the seed capsules are fairly ripe, the seed is harvested by collecting the tops, which should be cut before the seed capsules have become so brittle as to risk the loss of seed by shattering and which can be handled best in the early morning while damp and pliable. they should be cured in a well-ventilated place, sheltered from rain, and when thoroughly dry may be thrashed out and cleaned. the wholesale price now quoted for larkspur seed is between and cents a pound. the seed of a european species of larkspur (_delphinium staphisagria_), commonly-called stavesacre, possesses medicinal properties and is recognized as an official drug. the wholesale price for stavesacre seed in june, , was about cents a pound. lavender. the true lavender (_lavandula vera_) is a small shrubby plant of the mint family, native to southern europe, and widely cultivated for its fragrant flowers and for the oil distilled from the fresh flowering tops. lavender thrives best in light and rather dry soils well supplied with lime, but may be grown in almost any well-drained loam. on low or wet land it is almost certain to winterkill. the plant is not easily grown from seed, but may be readily propagated from cuttings or by division. in cold climates the plants must be well protected during the winter, or they may be carried over in a greenhouse or coldframe. early in the spring the plants or rooted cuttings are set in well-prepared soil, to inches apart in rows spaced to suit the cultivation intended. frequent and thorough cultivation is desirable. not many blooms can be cut the first year, but full crops may be expected for each of the three following years, after which it will be best to start new plantings. the flowering tops are harvested when they are in full bloom, and if used for the production of oil are distilled at once without drying. if the dry flowers are wanted, the tops are carefully dried in the shade and the flowers later stripped from the stems by hand. on ordinary soil, yields of to , pounds per acre of fresh flowering tops have been obtained. the dry weight is about four-fifths of the green weight. the yield of oil varies widely, but from to pounds per acre may be expected under good conditions. the wholesale prices in june, , were about as follows: for "ordinary" flowers, from to cents a pound; for "select" flowers, from to cents a pound; for oil of lavender flowers, $ to $ a pound. licorice. licorice (_glycyrrhiza glabra_) is an old world plant, the culture of which has not succeeded commercially in this country, although the plant grows well in the arid southwest and in california, where in some localities it threatens to become a weed. licorice is used to some extent in medicine, and is said to be much in demand by manufacturers of tobacco. licorice is a fairly hardy plant, but it thrives best in warm regions, where the season is sufficiently long to promote strong growth. plants may be grown from seed, but propagation by means of cuttings made from the younger parts of the rhizome, or so-called root, usually gives best results. the cuttings are set perpendicularly in deep, moist, sandy, or loamy soil, and should stand about inches apart in rows so spaced as to allow for the cultivation necessary to keep the soil mellow and free from weeds. the yield under good culture is said to average about , pounds of dry root per acre at the end of every third year. the relatively low price at which, the imported root can usually be obtained has so far prevented the development of commercial licorice growing in this country. nearly , , pounds of licorice root and an average of about , pounds of licorice paste are annually imported into the united states when trade conditions are normal. prewar prices for the imported root usually ranged from to ½ cents a pound in bales. the price in june, , was to cents. lobelia. lobelia (_lobelia inflata_) is a native poisonous annual plant, occurring generally in open woods and pastures, but is most abundant in the states east of the mississippi river. the leaves, tops, and seeds are used medicinally. this plant thrives under cultivation in a rather rich, moist loam, and grows well either in the open or in partial shade. it grows readily from seeds, which are very small and must be sown on soil which has been well fined and exceptionally well prepared. the seeds are sown either in the fall or spring in rows feet apart. it is best not to cover the seeds but to sow them on the surface of the soil, which is then firmed with a float or by resting a board over the row and walking upon it. fall planting usually gives a better stand and a heavier crop. shallow cultivation should be given until the plants begin to flower. lobelia is harvested when in full flower or as soon as some of the older seed pods are full grown. the plants may be cut with a mower if the cutter bar is set high enough to avoid including the large stems. the herb should be dried in the shade, in order to preserve the green color. small areas have given yields at the rate of , pounds of dry herb per acre. the prewar price paid to collectors for the dried herb was about cents a pound. the prices in june, , were, for the herb, cents; for the seed, cents a pound. lovage. lovage (_levisticum officinale_) is a perennial plant of the parsley family, introduced into this country from europe as a garden plant and now grown as a crop in certain localities in new england and the west. the root has long been supposed to have medicinal properties and is in some demand in the drug trade. the flowering tops yield a volatile oil, for which, however, there is little demand. the seeds are used for flavoring confectionery and the leaf stems are sometimes blanched, like celery, and eaten as a salad. lovage is propagated by division or from seeds. the seeds may be planted in the fall in drills inches apart or sown in early spring in a hotbed, greenhouse, or well-prepared seed bed in a sheltered portion of the garden. they should be covered very lightly with sand or fine sifted soil, and in order to prevent the soil from drying out before the seeds germinate it is advisable to spread old burlap or sacking over the bed. the sacking may be sprinkled occasionally if the weather is dry and should be removed when the first seedlings break the soil. the plants should reach a size suitable for transplanting by the end of may, when they may be set at intervals of inches in rows far enough apart for convenient cultivation. lovage grows well in almost any deep, well-drained soil, such as will produce a fair crop of corn or potatoes, and is benefited by the liberal use of fertilizer, although heavy applications of manure tend to produce excessive top growth. the roots may be dug in october of the second or third year after setting the plants. numerous offsets will generally be found, and if these have good roots they may be used to renew the plantation without recourse to seed. such shoots should at once be reset at the usual distances apart. the freshly dug roots should be well washed, cut into slices about one-half inch thick, and carefully dried. if necessary, artificial heat, not to exceed ° f., may be used to hasten drying. returns from experimental areas indicate that a yield of about , pounds of dried root to the acre may be expected under good conditions every third year. the prices quoted for american lovage root in the wholesale drug markets range from cents to $ a pound, according to demand and quality. producers, however, usually receive much less than the wholesale price. melissa. melissa, balm, or lemon balm (_melissa officinalis_), is a perennial herb of the mint family, native to southern europe. in this country it has long been cultivated in gardens, from which it has escaped and now grows wild in many places in the eastern united states. the leaves of balm are widely used for culinary flavoring, and the leaves and flowering tops are used in medicine. the volatile oil distilled from the plant is said to be used in perfumery and also for flavoring. balm grows readily on any good garden soil and is easily propagated from seeds, cuttings, or by division. the seeds may be sown in the open early in the spring, but owing to their small size it is best to sow them in shallow flats in a greenhouse or in a hotbed. the soil should be well fined and the seeds sown thinly on the surface of the soil, which is then firmed with a float or a small board. when well up, the seedlings should be transferred to deeper flats, and when or inches high they may be transplanted to the open and set about a foot apart in rows spaced to suit the cultivation to be given. cultivation should be frequent and sufficient to keep the soil about the plants mellow and free from weeds. when the plants are in full flower the crop can be cut with a scythe, or with a mower if the herb is to be used for distillation. for preparing the crude drug only the flowering tops are collected, the coarse, stemmy portions of the herb being rejected. the leaves and tops are dried in the shade in order to preserve the green color. yields at the rate of about , pounds of dry herb per acre have been obtained, but if only the flowering tops are collected the yield will be very materially less. the prewar price paid to collectors for the leaves and tops ranged from to cents a pound. in june, , the price for the leaves was cents a pound. orris. orris (_iris florentina_) is a perennial, native to southern europe, and is cultivated chiefly in italy for its fragrant rootstocks, which yield the orris of commerce. the plant grows well in a variety of soils and flourishes in a rich, moist loam, but roots which are grown in rather dry, gravelly soil appear to be the most fragrant. orris is readily propagated by division of the old plants, which may be set either in the spring or fall about a foot apart in rows spaced conveniently for cultivation. since harvesting usually takes place only once in three years, the use of the land is required for that length of time in order to obtain one crop. after the roots are dug they are peeled and dried in the open air. the desired fragrance does not develop until after the dry roots have been stored for a number of months, during which time they are especially liable to the attacks of insects. the yield is from to tons of dry root per acre. the average annual importation of orris is normally about , pounds. the wholesale prices, which before the war ranged from to cents, in june, , were to cents a pound. the outlook for a profitable orris industry in this country does not appear promising, and it does not seem advisable for any considerable number of persons to undertake the growing of this crop. parsley. parsley (_petroselinum sativum_) is a biennial herb grown everywhere in gardens for use in garnishing and seasoning. all parts of the plant contain a volatile oil, that from the seed being especially rich in a constituent known as apiol, or "parsley camphor," which is still used to some extent in medicine. in the crude-drug trade there is a small demand for the root, leaves, and seed. a rich and rather moist soil is desirable for the growing of parsley. the seeds germinate slowly and are frequently sown early in the spring in cold frames or seed beds, from which the young plants may be removed later and set in the open in rows or more inches apart and about inches apart in the row. when the leaves are fully grown they may be collected and dried in the usual manner. the plants flower in the second year, and as soon as the seed is ripe it is harvested and carefully dried. at the end of the second growing season, late in october, the root may be dug and should be well washed and carefully dried. artificial heat may be used in drying if necessary. on small areas yields of seed at the rate of about pounds per acre have been obtained. during the past few years the wholesale price of the seed has varied from to cents a pound, according to demand and season. from to pounds of seed are required to yield pound of the oil, which in june, , was quoted at $ . to $ a pound. pennyroyal. pennyroyal (_hedeoma pulegioides_) is an annual plant, flowering from june to october, and is found in dry soils from nova scotia and quebec to dakota and southward. both the dry herb and the oil obtained therefrom by steam distillation form marketable products. pennyroyal grows well on average upland soils and is frequently abundant on sandy or gravelly slopes. in field planting the seeds should be sown in rows in the fall and covered not to exceed one-quarter of an inch, since they rarely germinate if planted at a greater depth. the plants come up early in the spring, and to secure the best results clean cultivation and freedom from weeds are essential, as with all cultivated crops. early in the summer, when the plants are in full flower, they may be mowed. to prepare the herb for market the plants are dried, preferably in the shade, and carefully packed immediately after drying. all the large stems should be removed in order to improve the quality of the product. the herb should be marketed promptly, since it deteriorates with age. for the production of the volatile oil, the plants should be harvested when in full flower and distilled without drying. returns from experimental areas indicate that a yield of about , pounds of dry herb per acre may be expected. the yield of oil varies from to pounds per acre. the price paid for the dry herb usually ranges from to cents a pound. the wholesale price of the oil ranges from about $ to $ a pound. peppermint. peppermint (_mentha piperita_) is a perennial of the mint family, frequently found growing wild in moist situations throughout the eastern half of the united states. it is cultivated on a commercial scale, chiefly on the muck lands of southern michigan and northern indiana. the volatile oil forms the principal marketable product, but there is some demand in the crude-drug trade for the dried leaves and flowering tops. peppermint is propagated from "roots," or runners, which should be set in an almost continuous row in furrows about feet apart and covered to a depth of about inches. it can be grown on any land that will produce good crops of corn, but is most successful on the muck lands of reclaimed swamps. on uplands it soon exhausts the soil and will not do well for more than two or three seasons without the rotation of crops. on rich muck lands it will grow for a number of years, the soil being plowed after the crop is harvested and the runners turned in to form a new growth the succeeding year. it is essential that the ground be kept free from weeds, since their presence in the crop at harvest would seriously injure the quality of the oil. when peppermint is grown on reclaimed swamps or muck lands fertilizers are rarely needed, but on uplands it is well to plow in or more tons per acre of rotted stable manure before planting. similar applications may be made between the rows in early spring and plowed in as the land shows signs of exhaustion. commercial truck or potato fertilizers cultivated in between the rows at the rate of pounds to the acre have proved useful in keeping up fertility, but manure is to be preferred, as it provides humus or vegetable matter as well as increases the fertility. harvesting is begun in july or august, when the plants are in full bloom. the herb is cut and cured like hay, and when fairly well dried is placed in large vats or stills having a capacity of from to tons of dry herb and distilled with steam to obtain the volatile oil. the yield of oil is exceedingly variable, but on lands well suited for the production of peppermint the average yield is not far from pounds per acre. the annual production of peppermint oil in the united states is about , pounds. for many years before the war the price of the oil varied from year to year, but averaged about $ . a pound. there is some demand for the dried leaves and tops, for which to cents a pound was paid to collectors in june, . for further information on the growing of peppermint, see farmers' bulletin , entitled "the cultivation of peppermint and spearmint." pinkroot. [illustration: fig. .--pinkroot (_spigelia marilandica_).] pinkroot (_spigelia marilandica_, fig. ) is a native perennial herb occurring in rich open woods from new jersey to wisconsin and south to florida and texas. the root is an official drug, the use of which has declined in recent years, apparently on account of the extent to which pinkroot has been adulterated with the worthless roots of another plant known as east tennessee pinkroot. prospective growers of pinkroot should obtain seeds or roots for planting from thoroughly reliable sources only. pinkroot makes a vigorous growth under conditions suitable for growing ginseng or goldenseal, and partial shade is usually necessary, although if given a rich, moist, loamy soil it may be grown without shade in situations not too hot and dry. it is propagated either from seeds or from divisions of old roots. it is best to sow the seeds as soon as they are ripe, but if mixed with moist sand and kept in a cool place sowing may be deferred until fall or the following spring. the seeds are sown in drills inches apart in well-prepared seed beds, and in the spring, when the young plants are a few inches high, they are set about a foot apart each way in the permanent beds. the old roots are divided when dormant, and each division should consist of a portion of the root with one or more buds and a number of the small rootlets. they are set in the same manner as the seedlings. thorough cultivation and freedom from weeds are essential for good results. the roots usually attain a marketable size in three years, but will give a heavier yield at the end of the fourth or fifth year. they are harvested in the fall, and after the tops are cut off the roots are well washed and thoroughly dried. little can be said regarding yield, but returns from small areas indicate that a bed by feet will yield from to pounds of dry root in four years. the prices paid to collectors of pinkroot before the war ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was about cents a pound. pokeweed. pokeweed (_phytolacca americana_) is a native plant of frequent occurrence in moist, rich soil along fences and in uncultivated land throughout the eastern half of the united states. the root, which is perennial, sends up large annual stems, sometimes attaining a height of or feet. this plant bears numerous long clusters of smooth, shining purple berries, very attractive in appearance, but the seeds are said to be poisonous. both the root and the berries are used in medicine. pokeweed thrives in deep, rich soils well supplied with moisture and may be readily grown from seed sown early in the spring in rows feet apart and barely covered. the seedlings may be thinned to stand about feet apart in the rows. cultivation should be shallow, though frequent. the plant develops a long, thick, and fleshy root, which when old is not easily harvested and may have to be dug by hand. if the roots of plants grown from seed are harvested at the end of the first year, they may be turned out by means of a deep-running plow without great difficulty. as soon as they are dug the roots are cleaned by washing and are usually cut into lengthwise or transverse slices for drying. they should be thoroughly dried, and if a large quantity is to be handled the use of artificial heat will be found desirable. a yield of about pounds of dry root per acre may be expected at the end of the first year, or three or four times as much from plants of the second year's growth. in the second year several hundred pounds of berries may also be obtained from acre. before the war, collectors received from to cents a pound for the roots and berries. the price in june, , for the dry, cut root was about cents and for the dry berries cents a pound. apparently there is but a small demand for either of these products. safflower. safflower, american saffron, or false saffron (_carthamus tinctorius_) is a hardy old world annual of the aster family, cultivated in gardens in this country for its flowers, which are used in coloring or for flavoring, and sometimes as a substitute for the true saffron. safflower grows well on moist soils and may be readily propagated from seeds sown in the open early in the spring. the soil should be fine and mellow, and the seeds sown an inch or more apart in drills and well covered. about three weeks from the time of sowing the seed the plants will be well started, and cultivation should begin at once and be continued until the flower buds form. the plants bloom in july or august, when harvesting may begin. only the florets are collected, and, since these must be removed by hand, harvesting is slow and expensive. the plants continue to blossom for several weeks, and the florets must be harvested almost daily. it is best to collect them early in the morning and to dry them in the shade on trays having muslin bottoms. the florets should be turned daily until thoroughly dry and then stored in tin containers. the yield is estimated at to pounds of dry florets per acre. the price for safflower is variable and ranges from to cents a pound. saffron. the true saffron (_crocus sativus_) is a low-growing, fall-blooming, bulbous plant of the iris family, native to southern europe, where it is cultivated commercially. it was formerly grown as a small garden crop in some localities in this country, chiefly in lancaster and lebanon counties, pa. the stigmas of the flowers form the saffron of commerce. saffron is used in cookery and for coloring confectionery, and was formerly widely used in medicine. a rich, well-drained garden soil favors a vigorous growth of the plant, but a better quality of saffron is secured on land of medium fertility. it is propagated from bulbs (corms), which may be planted in august about inches apart each way and inches deep in well-prepared soil. when grown on a large scale the bulbs are often set late in the spring. the ground is laid off in rows about inches apart, and a furrow to inches deep is opened for each row. in this furrow the bulbs are set in two parallel rows about inches apart and about inches apart in the row. the furrows are then filled and the surface of the soil brought to a uniform level. thorough cultivation and freedom from weeds are essential for good results. the purplish blossoms usually appear about october, but the main leaf growth of the plant is made in the following spring. the bulbs may remain undisturbed for three or four years, or they may be taken up yearly and the clusters divided. all unsound bulbs should be rejected, as they are often attacked by a fungus which readily spreads to the sound bulbs, causing them to rot. during the blossoming period, which frequently lasts from two to three weeks, the flowers are collected daily just as they open. the orange-colored stigmas are then removed from the flowers, either by pulling them out or by cutting them off with the finger nail, after which the flowers are thrown away. the stigmas are dried immediately, a common method being to spread them in a thin layer on a sieve which is suspended over a low fire. when fully dry they are placed in linen bags and stored in a dry place. the yield of saffron is variously estimated at from to pounds per acre, according to the situation where it is grown. about , flowers are required to produce a pound of dry saffron; consequently, the amount of hand labor involved in removing the stigmas is quite large. the price usually received for saffron in normal times is not far from $ a pound, but the prices in june, , ranged from $ to $ a pound. owing to the high cost of production, it is not thought probable that saffron culture would prove profitable in the united states. sage. the common sage plant (_salvia officinalis_) is a hardy perennial of the mint family, widely cultivated in gardens, and when once established it persists for several years. the leaves are used extensively for seasoning meats and soups, and a tea made from them is an old household remedy. sage is easily cultivated and will grow in any well-drained fertile soil, but seems to thrive best in a rich clayey loam. for cultivation on a large scale the seeds are sown in early spring in rows from to feet apart, and when the plants are well up they are thinned to stand about inches apart in the row. seedling plants have a tendency to produce narrow leaves; hence, the broad-leaved varieties which do not flower readily are the most desirable, since they give a larger yield of leaves. as the plants rarely set seed, they are usually grown from cuttings, which may be obtained from seed houses having their own propagating gardens. cuttings set as early in the spring as weather conditions will permit usually give a large crop. in the north the plants should be protected in winter by a mulch of manure. sage may also be grown as a second crop after early vegetables. a fair crop of leaves may be harvested the first season and a much larger one for five or six years following. only one picking should be made the first year, after which two or three pickings may be made in a season. if a product of fine quality is desired, the leaves are picked by hand and dried in the shade. sage leaves are apt to turn black while drying unless the removal of moisture proceeds continually until they are fully dry. a cheap grade may be obtained at a smaller harvest cost by cutting the plants with a mower, the cutter bar of which is set at such a height as not to include the woody stems. the dry herb should be marketed promptly, since it loses its strength rapidly with age. returns from experimental areas indicate that on good soil a yield of , pounds or more of dried tops per acre may be expected. in case the leaves only are harvested, the yield will be proportionately less. american leaf sage usually brings a considerably higher price than that imported from europe. during the last three years the price has ranged from to cents a pound, according to supply and demand. [illustration: fig. .--seneca snakeroot (_polygala senega_).] seneca snakeroot. seneca snakeroot, known also as senega or seneca root (_polygala senega_, fig. ), is a small native perennial, occurring in rocky woods in the eastern united states and canada. seneca is not yet grown on a commercial scale, although cultivated experimentally in a number of places. the root is used in medicine. seneca can be grown in good garden soil or in rather firm, stony soil, provided it contains a fair proportion of leaf mold or very well rotted manure. shade is not essential, although the plant thrives in partial shade or under modified forest conditions. roots for propagation may be obtained from dealers or may be collected from the wild in autumn or early spring. if set inches apart in rows, the plants may be readily cultivated until they reach a marketable size. the seeds ripen in june and may then be planted, or they may be stratified by mixing with sand and buried in boxes or flower pots in moist soil until the following spring, when they may be sown in seed beds or shallow boxes of loam and leaf mold. the seedlings when old enough to be handled safely may be transplanted to the permanent beds and set in rows to facilitate cultivation. in cold situations they will probably need to be protected during the first winter after transplanting. a light covering of straw or pine needles will be sufficient to protect them from severe frost. the plant is slow in growth, but experiments thus far indicate that about four years are required to obtain marketable roots. the roots should be dug in the fall, thoroughly cleaned, and dried. there are no reliable data on the probable yield. seneca root is in constant demand, and collectors formerly received from to cents a pound. the price to collectors in june, , was cents a pound. serpentaria. serpentaria, or virginia snakeroot (_aristolochia serpentaria_), is a native perennial plant occurring in rich woods in the eastern part of the united states, and most abundantly along the allegheny mountains. the roots of this plant are used in medicine. like many other woodland plants, serpentaria requires a rich, moist loam and partial shade for its best development. it may be readily propagated from seeds, which, however, require several months for germination. the seeds are best sown in a well-prepared seed bed as soon as they are ripe. they may also be sown broadcast or in drills inches apart and lightly covered with leaf mold. a thin mulch of straw or leaves will afford the necessary winter protection. in the spring the plants may be set inches apart each way in the permanent beds. plantings have been made in the open, in which case the plants were set inches apart in rows inches apart, but the results have been less satisfactory than with plantings made under shade. the roots are collected in the fall, thoroughly cleaned, and carefully dried. satisfactory data on probable yields under cultivation are not available. the price usually ranges from to cents a pound. spearmint. spearmint (_mentha spicata_) is a well-known perennial of the mint family which is very frequently found growing wild in moist situations throughout the eastern half of the united states. it is widely used for seasoning meats, and the leaves and flowering tops, as well as the volatile oil distilled from the whole herb, form marketable drug products. spearmint is easily grown in any fertile soil which is fairly moist. its culture and the method of distilling the volatile oil are the same as for peppermint. to prepare the dry herb for market the leaves and flowering tops are collected when the first flowers appear and before the leaves begin to fall and are carefully dried in the shade. the demand for the dry herb is small, but the annual market requirement for the oil is about , pounds. on ordinary soils the yield of oil varies from to pounds per acre, according to stand and season, but on muck lands the yield is usually only a little less than that of peppermint. before the war the wholesale prices for the oil ranged from $ . to $ , averaging about $ . a pound. the price in june, , was $ a pound. the dry herb, which formerly brought from to cents, is now quoted at to cents a pound. for further information on the growing of spearmint, see farmers' bulletin , entitled "the cultivation of peppermint and spearmint." stramonium. stramonium, jamestown weed, or jimson weed (_datura stramonium_), is a poisonous annual of the nightshade family, which occurs as a common weed in almost all parts of this country except the west and north. the leaves and seeds are used medicinally. although stramonium grows wild on a variety of soils, it thrives best under cultivation in rich and rather heavy soils which are fairly well supplied with lime. it grows readily from seed, which may be sown in the open early in the spring in drills feet apart and barely covered. when the plants are well established they are thinned to stand to inches apart in the row. the plants can be readily transplanted, and gaps occurring in the rows may be filled in with the plants removed in thinning. cultivation sufficient to keep the soil free from weeds is necessary for good growth. cultivated plants are frequently attacked by leaf-eating insects, especially in the early stages of growth, and it is often necessary to use lime or other insect repellents to prevent the destruction of the crop. the leaves, which are collected when the plant is in full bloom, may be picked in the field, but time will be saved if the entire plant is cut and dried in an artificially heated curing room at a temperature of ° to ° f. when the leaves are dry they can be readily stripped from the stems, and should be baled for shipment. such seed as is ripe may be easily thrashed out of the capsules after the leaves have been removed from the stems. yields of dry leaf at the rate of , to , pounds per acre have been obtained. the yield of seed is much more variable, and is estimated to range from to , pounds per acre. the prewar price for the leaves varied from to cents and for the seed from to cents a pound. the price in june, , for the leaves was cents and for the seed cents a pound. tansy. tansy (_tanacetum vulgare_) is a european perennial plant, long cultivated in this country in gardens, from which it has escaped, and it now occurs as a weed along fence rows and roadsides. the leaves and flowering tops are in some demand for medicinal purposes. the herb also yields a volatile oil, for which there is a small market. tansy grows well on almost any good soil, but rich and rather heavy soils well supplied with moisture favor a heavy growth of herb. it may be propagated from seed, but is more readily propagated by division of the roots early in spring. the divisions are set inches apart in rows feet apart. seed may be sown very early in the spring in the open or in seed beds, and the seedlings later transplanted to the field. such cultivation as is usually given to garden crops will be sufficient. the plants are cut late in the summer when in full flower, the leaves and tops being separated from the stems and dried without exposure to the sun, as the trade desires a bright-green color. for the volatile oil the plants are allowed to lie in the field after cutting until they have lost a considerable portion of their moisture. they are then brought to the still and the oil removed by the usual method of steam distillation. a yield of about , pounds of dry leaves and flowering tops per acre may be obtained under good conditions. the yield of oil varies, but about pounds per acre is a fair average. in the united states the center of production of oil of tansy is michigan, where about , pounds are distilled annually. the price of the oil in june, , was about $ a pound. the price of the leaves and tops usually ranges from to cents a pound. thyme. thyme (_thymus vulgaris_) is a shrublike perennial plant of the mint family, native to southwestern europe. it is a common garden plant, which lives for many years under good culture. the herb, often used for seasoning and flavoring, yields the oil of thyme, which has well-recognized medicinal properties. thyme grows well from seed, which may be sown early in the spring in drills feet apart, or the plants may be started in a greenhouse or in seed beds outside and later set at intervals of about inches in rows to feet apart. thyme may also be propagated, like geraniums, from cuttings rooted in sand under glass. the plants grow well in mellow upland soil of good quality, and should be well cultivated and kept free from weeds throughout the growing season. for preparing the dry herb only the flowering tops are used, and these are cut when the plant is in full bloom and carefully dried in the shade in order to preserve the natural color. the volatile oil is obtained from the entire herb, which is preferably cut when in full flower and subjected to steam distillation without previous drying. returns from experimental areas have shown great variations in the yield, which has averaged about a ton of green herb per acre. normally the yield from a planting increases for several years, as the plants become better established, and yields at the rate of about a ton of dry herb per acre have been reported. the wholesale price in june, , for the dry herb ranged from to cents a pound; for the imported oil, from $ . to $ . a pound, according to quality. valerian. valerian (_valeriana officinalis_) is a hardy herbaceous perennial, well known under the name "garden heliotrope" and often grown as an ornamental plant. it has also been cultivated as a drug plant in new york and in parts of new england. the dried roots (rhizome and roots) form the marketable drug. valerian grows well in all ordinary soils, but thrives in a rich and rather heavy loam which is well supplied with moisture. it may be readily propagated by dividing the old roots, either in the fall or in the spring, and setting the divisions about a foot apart in rows to feet apart. if the divisions are set very early in the fall in time to become well established before frost, a good crop may usually be harvested the following autumn. plants may also be grown from seed, which are preferably sown as soon as they are ripe in well-protected seed beds in the garden. early in the spring the seedlings may be transplanted to the field and set at the same distances apart as the divisions of the root. growth will be favored by a liberal application of farmyard manure, which should be well worked into the soil before the plants are set out. thorough cultivation is essential. the roots of the plants propagated by division may be dug in the fall of the first year's growth, although the yield will probably be small. those of seedling plants do not usually reach a size suitable for harvesting before the end of the second growing season. after digging, the roots are washed, preferably in running water, until all adhering soil is removed. washing and drying will be facilitated if the thick portion of the roots is sliced lengthwise. the drying should be very thorough, and the use of artificial heat will be found advisable. under good conditions a yield of , pounds or more of dried roots per acre may reasonably be expected. the prewar price ranged from to cents a pound, depending upon the place where grown, that from england usually commanding the highest price. the wholesale price in june, , was about cents a pound. vetiver. vetiver, or cuscus grass (_vetiveria zizanioides_), is a perennial of the grass family, native to southern asia. it is occasionally cultivated in this country in the warmer portions of the gulf coast states as an ornamental and also for its aromatic roots, which are often used to impart a fragrance to clothing. in other countries an oil is distilled from the roots and used in the manufacture of perfumes. vetiver will grow in almost any soil, but light, sandy soil enriched by farmyard manure is to be preferred. propagation is effected by dividing old clumps, which may be set in the field, either in the fall or spring, about or feet apart each way. during the growing season the plants are given sufficient cultivation to keep them free from weeds. vetiver grows in close bunches from to feet high, the numerous roots spreading horizontally about feet on all sides of the plant. harvesting the roots, which usually takes place in november, is a laborious operation. the soil about the plants is opened with a stout, sharp spade in a circle large enough to include most of the roots. the earth is then dug from beneath the center of the plant and the entire clump lifted. the roots are first beaten or shaken to free them from adhering soil, then cut off close to the root crown and thoroughly washed. they may be dried in the open air, but it is preferable to dry them in a closed room at a low temperature, since they lose in fragrance if exposed to the hot sun or to a free circulation of air. yields at the rate of to , pounds of dry roots per acre have been obtained. the prices in the markets of new orleans are said to range from cents to $ a pound. the oil is not produced commercially in this country. the demand for both roots and oil is quite small, and it has not yet been shown that vetiver would be a profitable crop in the united states. wintergreen. wintergreen (_gaultheria procumbens_) is a low-growing, broad-leaved, evergreen plant with a creeping stem. the shoots from this stem grow to a height of to inches and bear solitary white flowers, which are followed by red berries. these berries are edible and are widely known as teaberries or checkerberries. wintergreen is a common plant in woods and clearings from eastern canada southward to the gulf states, but its collection in quantity is somewhat difficult. both the dry herb and the oil form marketable products. like other woodland plants, wintergreen thrives only in partial shade, and plantings should be made in a grove or under a specially constructed shade, such as is used for ginseng or goldenseal. a fairly good growth may be expected in soil which is thoroughly mixed with leaf mold to a depth of inches or more. wild plants may be used for propagation. divisions of these may be set in the fall or spring, about inches apart each way, in permanent beds. wintergreen is usually gathered in october or at the end of the growing season. the plants are carefully dried and packed in bags or boxes for marketing. for the production of the volatile oil the plants are soaked in water for about hours and then distilled with steam. over , pounds of wintergreen oil were produced in this country in and , pounds in . the prewar price of the oil distilled from the wintergreen plant as quoted in the wholesale drug markets generally ranged from $ to $ a pound. recently the lack of labor has reduced the output of oil, and in consequence the price has advanced. the oil became practically unobtainable on the markets in october, , at which time it had reached a price of $ a pound. collectors usually receive from to cents a pound for the dry herb. the results of numerous trials indicate that, on account of the small yield, wintergreen production under cultivation is not likely to be profitable at the prices quoted. wormseed, american. american wormseed, or jerusalem oak (_chenopodium ambrosioides anthelminticum_), is a coarse weed, occurring commonly in waste places and often in cultivated ground throughout the eastern and southern parts of the united states. the seeds (fruits) and the volatile oil distilled from the tops of the plant are employed in medicine. this plant grows well under cultivation in almost any soil, but a good sandy loam is preferred. it is now cultivated for oil production only in a small area in carroll county, md. the seed is sown in well-prepared beds about march , and between may and june , when the seedlings are to inches tall, they are transplanted and set about inches apart in rows about feet apart. the soil is kept entirely free from weeds by shallow cultivation throughout the growing season. harvesting is usually begun early in september or as soon as the seeds have taken on a black color, but before the plants have turned brown. if harvesting is delayed until the plants are fully mature there will be considerable loss through shattering and a diminution in the yield of oil when they are distilled. the crop is harvested with large knives or sickles, either by cutting off the entire plant at the ground or by cutting the branches separately. the latter method saves the labor of handling a quantity of useless woody material and also requires a smaller still capacity to handle the crop. after cutting, the plants are laid out on the ground in rows and allowed to cure for about three days before they are distilled. in the south wormseed has been grown successfully as a seed crop. the ground is prepared in february and laid off in rows about feet apart. a furrow is opened in each row, in which a complete fertilizer is applied at the rate of to pounds per acre. the soil on each side of the row is thrown in with a turnplow, forming a low ridge, which is then flattened with a light roller. the seeds are sown on this ridge with a drill. the plants are thinned to stand inches apart in the row and are given frequent shallow cultivation. the crop should be ready for harvesting late in july or early in august and should be cut before the tops begin to take on a brown color. the plants are cut either with a mower or old-style grain reaper and are left in the field until thoroughly dry. they may be housed and the seed thrashed out when convenient, but, since the seeds shatter easily, waste will be avoided if the plants are thrown upon large canvas sheets and the seed thrashed out in the field. the seed is light and not easily cleaned, but wire sieves of suitable mesh have proved very satisfactory for this purpose. the yield of seed per acre averages about , pounds. the yield of oil varies, but under favorable conditions about pounds per acre is regarded as a fair average. the area planted varies according to the price of the oil and may range from to acres. the average annual production of oil is estimated by producers to be , to , pounds. the prewar price of wormseed ranged from to cents a pound. the price in june, , was about cents a pound. the prewar price of the oil ranged from $ . to $ . a pound. the price in june, , was $ to $ . a pound. wormwood. wormwood (_artemisia absinthium_) is a hardy herbaceous old world perennial of the aster family, which has escaped from cultivation in this country and now occurs as a weed in many localities in the southern part of the united states. for many years it has been grown commercially on a small scale, chiefly in michigan and wisconsin. the dried leaves and tops have long been used medicinally, but the volatile oil distilled from the plant now forms the principal marketable product. wormwood will grow in almost any soil, but the best results are to be expected in deep, rich, moderately moist loams. the seeds are frequently sown broadcast early in the fall, following a grain crop; but if the plants are to be cultivated, it is best to start them from seeds sown in seed beds early in the spring or from cuttings of the young shoots taken in the spring and rooted in sand under glass or in the shade of a lath shed. the seeds are very small and should be sown on the surface of the soil in coldframes or seed beds and lightly covered with very fine sandy soil. the plants are easily handled and may be transplanted in moist weather with good results at almost any time during the growing season. they are set about inches apart in rows or feet apart and are well cultivated. the soil should be kept absolutely free from weeds, since their presence in the crop at harvest time seriously damages the quality of the oil. a fair cutting of the herb may be expected the first year after planting and full crops for two or three successive, seasons, after which new plantings will be found more satisfactory. the plants are harvested when in full bloom and may be cut with a scythe, or a reaper may be used if the area is large. while still fresh, the plants are distilled with steam to obtain the volatile oil. to prepare the leaves and flowering tops for market they are stripped from the stems by hand after the plants are cut and carefully dried in the shade without the use of artificial heat. experimental plantings have given yields at the rate of , pounds of dry tops or pounds of oil per acre. when grown on a commercial scale the yield of oil appears to average about pounds per acre. the prewar price of the dry tops was about or cents a pound. its price in june, , was to cents a pound. the oil was once used extensively in the manufacture of absinth, but when the use of this product was restricted in the demand for the oil fell off and the price declined, until in the early part of it reached the low level of $ a pound. the price in june, , was about $ a pound. the average annual production of oil of wormwood is about , pounds. owing to the limited use of this oil, there appears to be little room for further profitable expansion of this industry. additional copies of this publication may be procured from the superintendent of documents government printing office washington, d. c. at cents per copy * * * * * transcriber note illustrations relocated to avoid splitting paragraphs. minor typos may have been corrected. abbr. by frank riley _brevity was the new watchword. vrythg dgstd stht lsrcdb njyd._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] walther von koenigsburg woke up a few moments after the earth shuttle had passed venus. as he gazed back at the lonely, shrouded planet, abandoned long ago when man won freedom to colonize more habitable worlds in deep space, walther realized that in just a matter of minutes his long pilgrimage would be over. soon he would walk down the ramp and set foot on earth--the almost mythical homeland of his people. walther was young enough, and old enough, not to be ashamed of the sudden choking in his throat, the moisture in his eyes. a light touch on his shoulder brought him back to the shuttle ship. the pert stewardess smiled at his start. "wyslgsr," she asked pleasantly. or at least that's what it sounded like to walther, whose ears were still ringing from the take off at the cyngus iii shuttleport. "i beg your pardon," he began. "i'm afraid...." for a moment she looked startled, then her full, red lips parted in another bright smile. "oh, i'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "i didn't realize ... i just asked, sir, whether you had been sleeping." she spoke with the mechanical, stilted perfection he had first noted when transferring from the aldebaran liner at the shuttleport. he had wondered, briefly, about the source of the accent, but had been too polite to ask. the stewardess put a small pillow in his lap, then placed a tray on it. the recessed compartments of the tray held a cup of steaming black coffee, a piece of pastry that reminded walther of apfelstrudel, and a paper-covered booklet entitled: "easy earth dictionary and orientation manual". stamped on the cover, in the manner of an official seal, were the words: "prepared under the authorization of happy time, ltd." "thank you," said walther, then he grinned buoyantly, eager to share these moments of excitement at being so close to earth. "but i don't think i'll need the dictionary!" tiny frown lines appeared between the stewardess's carefully arched eyebrows. "hg su'v rthsr?" she inquired uncertainly. "i don't understand...." the stewardess managed a professional smile that was edged with just the faintest touch of impatience. "that's what i thought. what i asked, sir, was how long since you've been on earth?" "this is my first visit!" "then you had better study the dictionary," she said firmly. "oh, no, i really don't need it!" walther's inner excitement showed in the flush of his fair nordic complexion. he turned toward her in a burst of confidence. "you see, my people always kept alive their native languages. my father's side of the family was german ... and down through all the generations they've managed to teach the language to their children! it was the same way with my mother's family, who were english...." pride came into his voice: "i could speak both languages by the time i was four." "and you've never taken this shuttle from cyngus?" "i've never been on cyngus before--nor on aldebaran vi--deneb ii--or arcturus ix," explained walther, naming the farflung way station across the galaxy. he added: "i'm on my way in from neustadt--andromeda, you know." respect replaced the hint of impatience in the stewardess's smile, which instantly became more personal. not for generations had a colonist from the andromeda galaxy boarded this shuttle; the andromeda run, across , , light years of space, could be made only by special charter, at a fantastic cost. this blonde young man with the stubborn chin and sensitive mouth was obviously a colonial of tremendous wealth. the pilot's buzzer sounded, and a red light flickered on the passenger instruction panel. "i have to go forward now," the stewardess said, regretfully. "we're entering the warp, and it's time to prepare for landing. maybe later...." she let the invitation trail off, and left him with a very special smile. walther understood the smile. he was a young man, but he was no fool. in the trading centers of andromeda many women smiled at him that way when they learned he was a von koenigsburg from neustadt. he dunked the pastry in the black coffee, took a generous bite and settled back to be alone with his thoughts. an earth woman was not an essential part of the dream that had taken him on this quixotic voyage. true, there might be a woman who would come to love him enough so that she would leave the old world culture and graciousness of earth for the colonial life on the immense frontier of andromeda. but, being of an age where the dreams of youth are merging with practicality, walther rather doubted he would find such a woman. he didn't doubt that the rest of his dream would come gloriously to life. while the shuttleship whirled without motion through the voidless void of hyper space, walther smiled at the prospect ahead. six months to immerse himself in the wonder of earth's culture! six months to enjoy the whole of it, instead of nourishing the few precious fragments kept alive by his family through the first centuries of colonial life in the new galaxy. delightful evenings at the symphony and the opera! beethoven, verdi, brahms, schubert and wagner! wagner!--perhaps he would even be able to attend a performance of die meistersinger. walther smiled to himself. his great, great grandfather, who had first discovered the incredibly rich mines, forests and black loam of neustadt, had started the tradition of naming the first son walther, after the whimsical meistersinger, walther von der vogelweide. then there would be leisurely afternoons in the great libraries and museums! all the great classics of literature and art, instead of the few faded pictures and the handful of volumes in the high beamed library of his family castle. the infrequent ships that traveled between the fringes of the two galaxies had little room for books and art treasures. three years ago, on the occasion of walther's twenty-first birthday, his mother had broken down in tears as she told of trying for half a decade to order a set of goethe as a coming of age present for him. but after the request had finally reached earth, some clerk had garbled the order and sent a four-page booklet that apparently was some kind of puzzle-book for children. now he could steep himself in goethe, schiller, dickens, maupassant, tolstoi! and best of all the conversation! the delicate art of communicating mind with mind! what tales he would have to tell when he sat again in the family banquet hall! how his mother's eyes would sparkle! how his father would roar with delight as he recounted some rapier-like _bon mot_.... but all this was only the small part of the dream. the small, personal part. the dream itself was so much bigger, as big as a dream must be to carry over from youth to manhood. he had first dreamed it as a boy, sitting on the hearth rug with his knees tucked up under his chin, watching the great leaping fire, while behind him in the shadows his grandfather played on the old violin. _meditation_, his grandfather had called it. by a long ago composer of earth, a man strangely named thais. his grandfather couldn't play very much of it, but the fragment had lodged in walther's heart and would be there to the end of his life. walther's dream was indeed a grand dream, shaped of a melody and leaping flames. he would not spend his lifetime wresting more wealth from the riches of neustadt. that had been done for him; the challenge was gone. but someday he would make the journey to earth, and bring back with him enough of the beauty and culture to make neustadt a miniature earth, out on the rim of andromeda. it was indeed a grand dream. he would spend his wealth for books and music and treasures of art. he would try to bring back artists and teachers, too, and from neustadt would spread the wonder of the new, old culture; it would reach out to all the colonies of the andromeda galaxy, giving texture to life. and it would be there like a shining beacon when man made his next great step across space, across the millions of light years to the camora galaxy, and beyond.... the stewardess again touched his shoulder, with a gesture that was not entirely according to shuttleship regulations. "we're through the warp and are now in orbit," she said. "we'll land at uniport in three minutes." uniport! the fabled entry port of earth! it was the new hub, the pulsing heart of the homeland. it was the syndrome of all earth culture, and its stratoways reached out like spokes of a spidery wheel to every city of the planet. walther's knees were a little shaky as he moved down the ramp, and the moisture in the corners of his eyes was not caused by the sleety december wind that whipped across the vast landing area. he was on earth. he was the first of his people to return to the fatherland that had cradled them and sent them out into the universe. when the stewardess said good-by to him at the foot of the ramp, she looked both puzzled and disappointed. her smile had been an invitation, and she had sensed the tug of it in his answering grin. but he only tipped his hat, and went on into the customs office. he felt like a small boy suddenly confronted by so many delights that he knew not which to sample first. * * * * * "destination?" the customs officer's blue pencil poised over the question on the uniport entry form. walther shrugged carelessly. "oh, i'll look around uniport awhile, then visit other cities ... new york ... london ... vienna.... i have six months, you know." "i know--i'm sure you'll enjoy your happy time. but you must have a destination--someplace where you can be contacted, or leave forwarding addresses." the official's voice was patient, but it had the curious mechanical quality walther had noted in speech of the pretty young stewardess. "can you recommend good lodging?" "the uniport landing provides excellent facilities, and you'll be among other travelers until you have a chance to adjust yourself to happy time activities." "oh, no! i don't want to waste a moment! i want to live among the people of earth from this very first night!" the customs officer peered at walther's entry permit. "andromeda ... that's what i thought." he shook his head dubiously. "you have your orientation manual?" walther fumbled in the pockets of his greatcoat. "i must have left it on the shuttleship, but i don't need it." the official pressed another copy of the manual firmly into walther's hands. "it is required," he said. "first visitors are not allowed to leave the uniport landing without one." walther was too happy to argue. he shoved the manual into one of pockets. "if i may suggest, sir," said the customs officer, his eyes widening as he looked over walther's letters of credit, "you will find the hotel altair most comfortable. it's where all important visitors in uniport stay." the next few moments went by so quickly they left walther a little dazed. a servo-robot took his bags and led him to a monorail car, which whisked him off to the hotel. "gdegr," said the doorman, another servo-robot, in a brilliant scarlet uniform. its wax-like features were set in a perpetual smile. walther blinked. "i'm sorry," he began. "i--" "thayr," said the majestic robot, taking walther's handtooled overnight bag and motioning imperiously for two bellhop robots to bring the rest of the luggage. silent and smiling, they leaped to obey. the desk clerk was a human, and greeted walther with an efficient: "wemtalr." he offered walther a pen and a registration card on which appeared some undecipherable combination of letters. walther began to have a sense of unreality about the whole thing, as if he were still day-dreaming in the venus warp. "really," he said, "i seem to be quite confused--" with a smile of sudden comprehension, the clerk produced a manual and thumbed rapidly through its pages. he pointed to a phrase with the tip of his pen, and walther read: what price room do you desire? opposite these words was the phonetic jumble: whprumuirer? walther shrugged to indicate that price was not important, but his thoughts were spinning. and they were still spinning when the robot bellhop left him alone in his suite. the possibility of a language barrier on earth was something he had never considered. with only six months planned for his visit, it would be impossible to learn a new language and still do all he had dreamed of doing. but the von koenigsburgs were noted for their stubbornness. walther's chin set, and he opened the manual to learn what this was all about. he promptly realized that this was a manual only for the most elementary needs of conversation, and that a great amount of study would be necessary for normal discourse. the first section of the manual devoted a short chapter to each of the basic languages of earth. turning from one to another, walther discovered that an extreme degree of condensation had taken place in all languages. it was as though a form of speedwriting and shorthand had been vocalized. but why? what did it mean? walther found a partial explanation in the orientation section which began: "be brief!" "soyez bref!" "mach' es kurz!" "sea breze!" in a score of languages, first-time visitors were admonished that an understanding of these two words was essential to getting maximum enjoyment out of their stay on earth. "even in an earlier age," the introduction pointed out, "the words 'be brief' expressed the essence of a new way of life, a life in which pace and tempo were all important. later, as technology and automation relieved man of the burden of labor, he realized that tempo was equally important to fullest enjoyment of his happy time hours. you will understand this better after a few pleasant days on earth." there was a false ring to the words that heightened walther's sense of forboding. under the glass top of his dressing table, he saw several brightly colored, attractively illustrated notices. one in particular caught his attention. it showed a young woman with lovely and poignantly expressive features. her hands were outstretched, as though she were singing or engaged in a dramatic scene. with the help of his manual, walther ascertained that the young woman was named maria piavi, and that she was an italian operatic soprano appearing currently in uniport with a new york company. walther's buoyancy began to return. what better way to become acquainted with earth's culture than to spend his first evening at the opera? he removed the announcement with maria piavi's picture from under the glass and stood it upright against the mirror. dinner in the hotel's main dining room was a confusing interlude. the cuisine was superb, the robot waiter faultless--although walther was beginning to weary of their fixed smiles. but more irritating was the flicker of huge, tri-dimensional television screens on the walls of the dining room. when he deciphered his bill, he saw he had been taxed for the tv entertainment. after dinner, he showed the opera announcement to the hotel clerk, and asked how to get there. the clerk wrote down the number of the monorail car he was to take, but when walther learned the opera house was only six blocks away, he decided to walk. the clerk was aghast at this, and followed him all the way to the sidewalk, waving his arms and protesting in an hysterical jumble of consonants. * * * * * the opera house itself was a revelation. all he had dreamed of, and more. the frescoed facade! the dazzling marquee! the crowd of elegantly dressed men and women, animatedly speaking their strange syllables as they watched a floor show in the lobby. when the floor show ended, and the crowd shifted to the far end, where a pantomimist was beginning his act, walther had a dear view of the life-size cutout of maria piavi in the center of the lobby. he stood in front of it, staring with unashamed admiration. there was an earthiness and warmth about her that reminded him of the young women of his own planet. paradoxically, there was also an air of remoteness and rigid self-discipline, a sense of emotion eternally controlled. he wondered which was the real maria. beside her picture was the photograph of a peppery old man whom walther was able to identify as willy fritsh. the consonants under his name said he was now a producer, and had formerly directed for many years. walther purchased his ticket without too much difficulty. the lights blinked, and he followed the crowd into the orchestra section. as he sank into the luxury of upholstered seat, walther opened his senses to the sounds and sights about him, the tingling scent of the lovely women, the ebb and flow of indistinguishable conversation, the strange, short bursts of music which he found to be emanating from a tiny, jeweled radio in the purse of the woman who sat next to him. his excitement and anticipation grew still greater when he carefully deciphered the program and discovered that maria piavi was to sing gilda, in rigoletto, this very evening. what unbelievable good luck! rigoletto, to commemorate his first evening on earth! walther vaguely knew the story of the opera, but from earliest childhood he could remember his mother singing snatches of _caro nome_ and _la donna e mobile_. now he would hear the entire arias, the full score of this masterpiece. suddenly all was quiet. the orchestra rose swiftly into view in front of the stage. the white-haired leader bowed. there was an eruption of applause, as brief as the crack of a rocket breaking the sound barrier. the golden baton rose, a glorious burst of music filled the opera house and the velvet curtain zipped upward so rapidly that the blinking of an eye would have missed it. the opening scene of festal entertainment in the hall of the ducal palace was a masterpiece in conception, but the gay cavaliers and ladies, the duke's twenty-second condensation of the "questa o quella" ballata, the plotting with rigoletto and the mocking of monterone were all accomplished and done with before walther knew what was happening. then he realized that he was looking upon a tremendous revolving stage, divided into many exquisite sets. each set appeared majestically, established itself, often with an almost indiscernable pause, and then moved out of view to be replaced by the next. the second scene was the deserted street outside rigoletto's cottage. rigoletto appeared and disappeared, gilda and the disguised duke flashed through their duets, the orchestra set up the briefest of fanfares, and the lovely maria piavi moved to the center of the stage to sing gilda's immortal aria, "_caro nome che il me cor...._" the words electrified walther to the edge of his seat. here were the first naturally spoken words of the opera, the words of gilda as she expressed joy at learning the name of her lover. walther's mother had sung the haunting words on many an evening as he drifted off to sleep in his nursery. but he had never heard them phrased so beautifully as they came now from the lips of maria piavi. after the numbing shock of the first scene, they started the blood throbbing in his temples again. but they were the last words he understood of the aria. using the archaic phrase with superb showmanship to startle her audience, maria swung with flawless technique into a contraction of verse and music that somehow managed to convey the beauty of both in the few seconds that she held the center of the stage. it was like passing a star just before you entered hyperspace. you saw it for an instant, it awed and choked you with its wonder, and then it vanished into a nothingness that was deeper than night. there was so much beauty in the fragment that walther ached to hear the rest of the aria. but gilda had been abducted to the duke's palace, and the stage had revolved far into act ii before walther could assimilate the realization that no more of "caro nome" would be heard this evening, or any evening. nothing mattered after this, not even the duke's half-minute condensation of "_la donna e mobile_". the stage picked up momentum, thunder and lightning flashed, the murdered gilda's body was discovered by her father in the sack beside the river, the final curtain swooped down over the grisly horror, the orchestra disappeared, lights flashed on and walther found himself being hurried along with the pleased audience toward the exit, where servo-robots were passing out handbills and pointing to a theatre across the street. the entire opera had lasted eleven minutes. * * * * * stunned, his dream crumbling, walther stood outside the opera house and watched the crowd disappear into the theatre across the street, or plunge into passing monorail cars. the wind of the late afternoon was gone. a light snow was falling; it melted on his cheeks and powdered the fur collar of his greatcoat. some of the younger couples didn't immediately board the monorail. they walked around to the stage exit and waited, laughing and chattering. walther joined them. in a few moments members of the cast began to appear. they waved gaily at friends in the crowd. maria came out in the company of two young men, followed closely by the peppery, bright-eyed little man whom walther recognized from the lobby poster as being willy fritsh, the producer. the young couples closed around them, applauding. walther shouldered his way toward the center of the group. maria was laughing with excitement. this was the warm, earthy maria, not the exquisite, almost aloof, artist walther had seen on the stage. she was a full-lipped, gay italian girl who was enjoying the plaudits of her friends. she was bundled in a white fur, and her teeth flashed as she tossed back a rippling comment to one of the young men standing near walther. as they started to move away, walther stepped forward in sudden desperation. "i beg pardon," he said. "can you wait while i try to ask one question?" maria looked startled, and one of her escorts stepped quickly between her and walther. "whtstywt?" the young man snapped. walther flushed at the tone. he wasn't used to being spoken to this way, certainly not by anyone his own age. his jaw set as he held on to his self control, and continued thumbing through the manual. then he noticed that maria was being hurried along by her other escort. he tried to step around the young man blocking his path. the young man put out his arm and pushed against walther's shoulder, as if to shove him back into the crowd. out of the corner of his eye, walther saw willy fritsh hurrying forward to intervene. but his own reflexes were already in motion. his left hand flashed up; the back of it struck the young man in the chest. walther didn't intend it to be a blow, merely a warning. he even managed to check it before it landed. but, to his bewilderment, the young man staggered back, slumped to his knees, gasping for breath. the other escort, though white-faced with fear, hurled himself at walther. still trying to maintain a measure of control, walther merely blocked the second escort by thrusting out the palm of his hand. the young man toppled backward, and the whole scene began to take on a never-never land quality. girls screamed in terror; the crowd around walther scrambled out of his reach. maria stared at him wide-eyed, but didn't move. "i'm terribly sorry," walther blurted. there was a shrill whistle, a drumbeat of running feet on the cold sidewalk. walther moved forward to help the young men to their feet. they shrank away from him, and then he was surrounded by three armed police officers, shouting a gibberish of commands. finally, willy fritsh made himself heard. he pointed to walther's manual, and spoke a few patient words of explanation. when one of the officers still seemed unsatisfied, willy turned to walther with a twinkle in his eyes: "they want to know if you are a professional pugilist?" walther felt immeasureably relieved at hearing these naturally spoken words. "good lord, no!" he gasped. he took out his entry permits, his identification certificate and his letters of credit, impressively drawn up on the stationery of the inter-galactic exchange union on deneb ii. when the doubting officer saw the amount of the credits, his hands shook and he handed the papers back to walther as if they were state documents. the officers helped the two young men to their feet, admonished them sharply, tipped their hats to walther and hurried back to their posts. willy regarded walther quizzically. "well, young man, you seem to have very persuasive ways!" at home, it had been easy for walther to slip from english to german. he did it now in the stress of the moment. "ich kann ihnen nicht sagen wie leid es mir tut--" he was in the middle of his apology before he realized he was talking german. he broke off in confusion. willy's pink cheeks crinkled with amusement. "ist schon gut. ich spreche auch das 'alte' deutsch." willy went on to explain: "as a young man i translated many of the german masters into our modern happy time presentations. now, what is it you wanted to ask miss maria?" walther addressed his question to willy, but he looked at maria as he spoke: "i ... i wanted to ask if she would ever consider singing rigoletto in its original form. i would be happy to pay all expenses...." "i'm sure you would," willy said drily. "but miss maria sings only the pure happy time essence of rigoletto. not for more than a century has verdi's original version been sung on earth." maria looked puzzled during the interchange. willy translated for her, and she nodded in vigorous endorsement of his words. there was a titter of laughter from the young couples who had crowded around them again. walther drew himself very erect. "thank you," he said. he turned on his heel and walked into the darkness beyond the stage exit. he walked blindly into the snow flurries, not caring where his steps were taking him. but he had not gone two hundred yards before he realized he was being followed. * * * * * walther stopped and waited. the footsteps behind him drew closer. a slight shadow bulked out of the darkness, and walther heard willy fritsh say in german: "don't be alarmed, young man." willy came up and linked his arm through walther's. "keep on walking--it's a cold night." the chill air rattled in willy's throat as he panted from the pace of overtaking walther. when he caught his breath, he asked: "what sort of world do you come from? it's quite amazing that someone from the andromeda galaxy should ask for the original rigoletto!" walther told the old producer something of his home and family. willy questioned him closely on several points, and finally seemed satisfied. "when they come from the stars," he murmured. "i beg your pardon?" "it is nothing--just the title of an old classic." at the next corner, willy stopped. "i leave you here." he stepped closer to walther and lowered his voice, even though there was nothing around them but darkness and drifting snow. "would you care to sample a bit of bohemia, my boy?" "well--i guess so," walther answered doubtfully. "tomorrow evening then, at eight. avenue b, apartment . can you remember that?" " avenue b, apartment ." "i must emphasize the need for discretion on your part. there will be important people present." "why do you trust me?" walther challenged. "because i am an old fool," chuckled willy fritsh. the chuckle emboldened walther to ask one more question: "will maria be there?" "now you are a fool!" willy took a step away, then returned, flicked on his cigarette lighter and studied walther thoughtfully. "or maybe not," he murmured. "maybe not. perhaps maria could be there, this once...." he snapped out the lighter. with another chuckle, willy disappeared into the darkness. avenue b, apartment . eight o'clock tomorrow evening. the directions whirled all night through walther's fitful sleep. they intermingled with a strange company of servo-robots, unintelligible phrases, the dry chuckle of willy fritsh and the haunting voice of maria piavi, beginning an aria she would never finish. the next day, walther determined to find out how the cult of brevity had changed other fields of earth's culture. he went first to the library, where foreboding hardened into bitter reality. classic after classic was cut to its essence. hamlet was reduced to a total reading time of seven minutes. but the old librarian seemed embarrassed about this. by mutual reference to the manual, she managed to convey to him that a new edition would be out soon, and that it would be edited down to five minutes reading time. did he want to sign up for a copy? walther gave her a stricken look, and silently shook his head. puzzled, she led him to the other classics on his list. each was a new blow. "great expectations" was cut to twenty pages, all of thoreau to one thin pamphlet, henry james to a pocket-size digest of less than ten pages; "leaves of grass" to a few lines of verse. walther's sense of loss became more than personal. he saw uncounted generations of boys who would never know whitman, who might never have time for the open road in the spring, the sweet springtime of life. the road and the poem, they were part of each other. without one, the other could not live. the fire of walther's dream flamed up fiercely within him. there was yet time for beauty in andromeda. time for quiet and thinking and true leisure. somehow, he must rescue the treasures of the ages from the tomb of earth and let them live again, three-quarters of a million light years away. he beckoned to the old librarian, and laboriously communicated his question: "the originals of these classics--where are they?" she frowned in bewilderment. he pointed to the proper words again, and gestured with his hands to indicate a large book. a smile of understanding replaced her frown. she consulted a larger edition of his own manual, and wrote: digester's vaults--lower six levels. he wrote back: can i go down there? after some delay, she encoded the answer: only authorized happy time digesters are permitted in the vaults. walther thanked her glumly. his spirits were so depressed that not even the digested version of the bible shocked him too greatly. the old testament amounted to eleven pages, in rather large type; the gospel of st. mark was three paragraphs; the acts of the apostles spanned less than half a page. walther left the library, and the icy wind roused him from depression. it lashed him to anger, to a desperate, unreasoning anger that drove him to find, somewhere on earth, an ember of the old culture. somewhere he had to find such an ember and bring it back to neustadt, where it would flame again. he managed to get directions to the vienna stratowaycar. surely in vienna he would find some trace of the spirit left by mozart and haydn, beethoven, schubert and strauss. ten minutes later, when he left the stratoway in the platz terminal near the vienna ring, his heart beat a little faster. this was indeed the old vienna, as he had envisaged it from the few pictures he had seen and the many stories he had been told. the buildings on the ring were in good repair, and not substantially altered. there was the burg theatre, the art and history museum, the buttressed facade of the ancient opera house, the soaring twin spires of the votive church. it was like seeing an old woodcut come to life. but, for walther, that was all that came to life in vienna. the burg theatre was currently presenting faust, in what was billed as a brilliant new production scaled down to seventeen minutes. walther sadly recalled goethe's prophetic line: _mein lied ertont der unbekaten menge_.... my song sounds to the unknown multitude. wandering outside the city itself, into the footpaths of the wienerwald, walther tried to lose himself among the gentle slopes and the old trees that cut latticework into the sky. he came suddenly upon the village of tullnerzing, where, from a tiny sidewalk cafe, music of a stringed ensemble came in short, quick bursts. it was scherzo speeded up a hundredfold, with not three but an infinite number of quarter notes blurred into what sounded like a single beat. these were the vienna woods! how could he ever tell his mother and father? heartsick, he returned to the platz and found the berlin stratoway. in berlin, his bitterness grew. he had known the unter den linden must have changed through the centuries, but he was not prepared for such a pace of life, such a frenzy of leisure. better not to have left andromeda. better always to have lived with a dream. the sight of two elderly burghers drinking beer reminded him of his own great grandfather, and gave him a heartening twinge of nostalgia. but as he stepped close to their table, he saw that as they sipped from their miniature steins the fingers of their free hands beat out a rhythmic accompaniment to the convolutions of an adagio team imaged on the table-top television screen. the final irony came to him when he read the lines of schiller, carved over the entrance to a museum near the brandenburg gate. because they were cut deep into the old stone, they could not be erased or condensed. they were there to give their ironic message to a world that could no longer read them: only through the morning gateway of the beautiful did you enter the land of knowledge. and beneath them was schiller's immortal warning to the artist: _der menschheit wurde ist in eure hand gegeben_, _bewahret sie...._ walther copied the entire passage on the back of his manual. this, at least, he could take back with him. these words he could preserve for the artists who would someday create their works of beauty on the frontier of andromeda. as he copied them, walther felt that the words were also a personal message from schiller to himself: _the dignity of mankind is placed in your hands_, _preserve it!_ _whether it sinks or rises depends on you._ _the holy spell of poetry_ _serves a wise world order;_ _may it guide man to that great sea_ _where harmony prevails._ the words sustained walther's spirits until he left the stratoway in paris and went to the louvre. he had told himself that by this time nothing could shock him, that he could take any blow. but the louvre was a new shock all over again. translating a title with the help of his manual and the servo-robot guide, walther found that the thin, wavering line, about two inches long, against a background of misty blue, was the mona lisa. the servo-robot explained, after much searching among its tapes for words: "this is the spirit of the famous mona lisa smile. the happy time artist has cleverly removed all non-essential detail so that you can get the meaning of the picture in the minimum amount of time." walther studied the thin, wavering line. this, then, was da vinci's eternal enigma of womanhood. perhaps it explained why he felt there were two marias. could there be one whole woman in a culture of fragmented lives? the portraits of holbein were reduced to a few sprinkles of geometric designs shot through with a single brilliant color. the nudes of watteau, rubens and velazquez were little more than shadow curves. in the east wing of the louvre, the servo-robot pointed to a series of larger paintings. each of these, walther learned, summarized the entire life work of a single artist. here it was possible to see all of titian or michaelangelo or van gogh on one simplified canvas. where were the originals of these classics? in the cultural vaults at uniport, the servo-robot explained. only authorized happy time artists could work with them. afterwards, walther was never quite certain what happened to the rest of his day. distraught, he wandered around the earth, changing from stratoway to stratoway, scarcely paying any heed to his next destination. rome, athens, moscow, jerusalem. everywhere the pace of leisure was the same. capetown, new delhi, tibet, tokyo, san francisco. everywhere he saw something that crumbled his dream a little more: the buddhist monk pausing for ten seconds of meditation while he counted his beads, not one by one but in groups of twenty; the world government chamber where the senator from the united states filibustered a proposal to death by speaking for the unprecedented period of four minutes; the cafe near the school where teenage boys and girls, immense numbers of them, danced, snapped their fingers and shrieked ecstatically as the latest popular record exploded in a wild three-note burst of sound. it was seven o'clock in the evening before walther became aware of the time. he was half the earth and just one hour away from his meeting with willy fritsh. avenue b, apartment . a bit of bohemia, willy had promised him. the words disturbed walther. he had been disappointed so often in his twenty-four hours on earth that he didn't feel like bracing himself for another let-down. nor did he feel in the mood for a gay evening, if that was what willy had meant. would maria be there? walther shook his head angrily. he was indeed a fool if he expected anything after this day. * * * * * avenue b was only a few moments by monorail from the hotel altair. a gentle-faced woman who reminded walther of his own mother answered his knock on the door of apartment . "kdftc?" she inquired politely. walther stared at her. was this all a cruel joke played by willy fritsh? certainly this elderly woman, this quiet building, contained no bohemia to be spoken of with discretion. "excuse me," he muttered, not even bothering to consult his manual. he bowed and backed away. "i'm afraid i've made a mistake--" she stayed him with a small gesture of her delicate fingers. glancing swiftly up and down the hall, she beckoned him inside. when the door was closed, she smiled a bright welcome, and spoke in the old tongue: "you're the young man from andromeda!" walther felt the tension inside him beginning to relax. he nodded, and she took his arm. "willy told us--we've been expecting you." she led him from the small foyer into a large, tastefully furnished living room. walther glanced around uncertainly, but his first impression proved correct. there was no one else here. the woman urged him forward with a light touch of her fingertips. "we must be so careful," she murmured. she guided him through the living room, past the kitchen and one bedroom, and then opened the door of what appeared to be the entrance to a second bedroom. this room was unexpectedly large, and contained many people. they were talking with great animation, but hushed abruptly as he entered. "the young man from andromeda," his hostess announced. the dry voice of willy fritsh came through the haze of cigarette smoke. "over here, boy! come and sit down!" he saw willy and maria sitting on a long cushion against the far wall. they moved over to make room for him. maria smiled rather hesitantly. he sensed she was very ill at ease. "i'll introduce you around later," said willy. "everybody's too keyed up right now. we've just had an unexpected surprise--really quite startling." the conversation had bubbled up again, and there was an electric feeling of excitement in the air. everyone was trying to talk at the same time. cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkled. while everyone was talking to those nearest, the most constantly recurring focal point of attention was the thin, balding man seated just across the room from walther, on the arm of the sofa. he was riffling the pages of a pocket-size notebook and smiling with self-conscious pride. willy nodded toward the man. "there's the gentleman who furnished our surprise--he brought shorthand notes on an entire chapter from don quixote!" after the day he had just been through, walther could appreciate this. he asked wonderingly, "where did he get them?" "he's a happy time digester." walther studied the little man. so this was one of the comparative few on earth who could get into the deep vaults of the uniport library! what wonders he must have explored! what beauty and adventure, what mind-stretching thoughts he must encounter in those underground catacombs. how deep into the past he could explore, how far into the future! why, he could range the universe faster than the warp drive, out even beyond the andromeda galaxy! willy cut into his thoughts. "he's going to read the entire chapter!" walther turned to maria to see if she shared his excitement. it was the aloof, controlled maria who smiled faintly at him. it was obvious she had come against her will, and was trying to be gracious about it. a middle-aged couple arrived. "dr. and mrs. althuss," willy whispered. "he's the famous heart surgeon...." the next arrival was a distinguished looking man whose fingers shook with nervousness. "that's the world government alternate delegate from england," willy whispered again. "it wouldn't do his reputation any good for word to get out that he spent an evening in this bohemian crowd...." their hostess moved to the center of the room, raised her hand and announced: "we're all here now. please go ahead, lorne." the room quieted instantly. the thin little man proudly began in the old english: "don cervante at the castle...." his reading was painfully slow, and he stumbled over the pronunciation of many words. the people in the room watched him so intensely, with such absolute concentration, that they gave the impression of reading his lips rather than listening to his words. frequently, he would have to translate a word or phrase into the new language, and there would be nods of understanding and relief. willy's bright blue eyes sparkled more brightly than ever. he ran his fingers constantly through his thin bristle of white hair. the elderly woman on the sofa beside the digester was so flushed and breathing so rapidly that walther feared she was on the verge of a stroke. even the urbane heart surgeon showed the emotional impact of this experience. his long, tapered fingers were clenched together, and he ran his under lip constantly over the edge of his greying mustache. maria seemed the only one in the room who was not affected by the reading. only a slight tightening of her lips marred her careful composure. soon walther lost himself in the tingling excitement of the room, and he forgot about watching the others. word by word, sentence by sentence, the digester led them along with don cervante. the reading, with its many pauses for translation, took almost two hours. when it was over, everyone was emotionally and physically exhausted. the little digester was so pale he looked ill; his high forehead dripped with perspiration. walther drew a long breath, and brought himself reluctantly back to reality. willy asked quietly: "what do you think of our intellectual underworld?" an outbreak of almost hysterical conversation made it useless for walther to answer. maria, with a look of reproach at willy, moved across the room to speak to their hostess. willy lit one of his cigars and leaned closer to walther. there was a gleam of amusement in his twinkling blue eyes. "you look more worn out than don cervante!" he chuckled. the contrast between this evening and the disillusionment of the day made it hard for walther to put his gratitude into words. "i can't thank you enough--" he began. "don't try," said willy. "i may have had my own devious reasons for inviting you." he glanced toward maria, who was making an effort at polite conversation with the hostess. "i'm afraid our young diva isn't an ardent admirer of the unexpurgated don quixote." there were many questions walther wanted to ask about maria, but he tactfully inquired, instead: "how often does this group meet?" "whenever there is something to share--a chapter of literature--a copy of an old painting--a recording. it all depends on what our few digester friends can manage--they don't have an easy time of it, you know." "is it difficult for them to take things out of the vaults?" "difficult ... and dangerous," willy answered grimly. "but why...?" "for reasons that make good sense, officially at least. a culture founded on brevity cannot be expected to encourage its own demise through the acts of its civil servants! think what could happen: a total work of art, whatever its form, takes time to appreciate! but if people spend too long at an opera, the legitimate theatre or the television industry would be slighted! if they paused too long in contemplation of a painting, newspapers might not be purchased! if they dawdled over the old-style newspaper, the digest magazines, the popular recordings, the minute movies, the spectator sports--the thousand and one forms of mass recreation offered the public--each in turn would suffer from unrestrained competition!" "it's inconceivable," walther protested, "that entertainment interests could be strong enough to shape a culture! surely the productive basis of earth's economy...." willy snorted. "my boy, work as such may still be important in andromeda, but how could it possibly be so here on earth? generations ago, automation, the control of the atom, the harnessing of the sun's energy--all combined with many other factors to make work a negligible part of man's existence! thus, with four-fifths of his waking hours devoted to leisure-time pursuits, the balance of power shifted inevitably to the purveyors of mass entertainment. great monopolies, operating under the happy time, ltd. cartel, seized upon the digest trend in the old culture and made brevity the basis of the new order. the briefer you make a piece of entertainment, the more pieces you can sell the public in a given number of leisure hours! it's just good business," willy concluded drily. walther was silent a moment, trying to frame this picture in his thoughts. but there were so many missing elements. "your artists and writers," he demanded, "all your creative people--don't they have anything to say about it?" "damn little. you see, the successful artist--whatever his field--is well paid by his particular monopoly. besides, he's been trained in the new form! i doubt if maria has ever seen the original score of an opera--let alone tried to sing an entire aria!" willy took a glass of wine from a tray offered by the hostess's servo-robot. he motioned to walther to help himself, but walther shook his head. another question was troubling him. "why do the monopolies even bother with digesters and the classics? why not let modern artists create in the new form?" willy's voice grew hard. "because," he snapped, "there have been no creative artists on earth for over a century! why create when your creation is only fed into the maw of the digesters? that which is not wanted dies--in a culture as well as in the human body! that--my young friend from andromeda--is the bitter tragedy of it all!" maria rejoined them, and whispered something to willy. the old producer sighed and turned to walther. "maria would like to leave now. will you take her back to our hotel? there are some people here i must see...." "of course!" yet, in spite of his eagerness to get better acquainted with maria, walther was reluctant to leave. there was so much more he wanted to ask, to learn. and deep beneath the surface of his thoughts a bold idea was beginning to form. as if reading his mind, willy said: "we have no performance tomorrow afternoon. come and see me at our hotel--we'll talk further! meanwhile--" willy's blue eyes sparkled again, "meanwhile, for the young, the evening is still young. it should be an interesting challenge!" * * * * * maria said nothing until they had left the apartment building and started across the street to the monorail station. then she stopped, drew a long breath of the wintry air, and shook her head. "whtrblvng!" she exclaimed. she smiled at his puzzled expression and tucked her arm through his. when they were inside the station, he handed her his manual. she flipped through the pages, but could not find the exact translation of her remark. finally, she picked out parts of three phrases. put together, they read: "what a terrible evening!" after the first shock of her words, walther realized he could expect her to feel no differently. she was a product of her culture, and evidently this had been her first visit to willy's bohemia. it was past midnight when they boarded the monorail, and they were alone in the car. fumbling in her purse for a coin, maria pointed to the small screen on the back of the seat in front of them. walther offered a handful of coins. she put one into the slot beside the screen. a comedy sequence appeared, lasting for approximately thirty seconds. much of it was lost to walther, because he couldn't understand the dialogue. but maria laughed gaily. the tension lines, the outward evidences of inner emotional control, began to smooth away. her cheeks flushed; her dark eyes began to sparkle. this was the maria walther felt he could learn to know. when the television screen went dark, maria promptly put another coin into a slot beside a small grid. a full-scale orchestra sounded what might have been the first chord of a symphony, but the piece was over before walther could identify it. a third coin, dropped into the arm of the seat, produced a small two-page magazine, which seemed to consist chiefly of pictures. one of the pictures showed maria herself, in operatic costume. she studied it critically, then tossed the magazine into a handy receptacle under the seat. a fourth coin brought out a game from the side of the monorail car. it vaguely resembled a checker-board, except that there were only six squares and two magnetized checkers. maria guided his hand while he made two moves. as she completed her last move, the board automatically folded back into the side of the car. a fifth coin summoned a miniature keyboard from just beneath the television screen. maria touched the keys, producing tinkling noises that sounded like a tiny celeste. then the keyboard zipped back into its enclosure. maria reached for a sixth coin. walther closed his hand over hers, and made a motion to indicate that his head was already in a whirl. she laughed, but didn't try to remove her hand. a moment later the monorail stopped in front of their hotel. as they crossed the lobby, walther pointed inquiringly toward the cocktail lounge. maria smiled and nodded gaily. a servo-robot waiter seated them at a small chrome table beside a tiny dance floor. maria ordered their drinks, and the waiter was back with them in a matter of seconds. the glasses seemed extremely small to walther, compared to the huge mugs and steins he was accustomed to on neustadt. the liquor tasted rather bland, more like a sweet wine than a whiskey. the servo-robot presented a bill with the drinks. money had never meant anything to walther, but he could scarcely repress a start when he deciphered the amount of the bill. by any standard of wealth or exchange, the drinks were fantastically expensive. a scattering of applause announced the return of the orchestra. maria held out her hand in an invitation to walther. with some misgivings, he led her out on the dance floor. she turned and came into his arms so naturally and suddenly that she almost took his breath away. she danced very close to him. her cheek was warm, and the faint perfume from the tip of her ear was something he would have liked to explore more thoroughly. but the moment was over before it began. the music stopped, the orchestra leader bowed and led his men from the stage. back at the table, walther lifted his glass to suggest another drink. she shook her head, explaining, "olndrptd." spelled out with his manual, her explanation was: "only one drink is permitted." and, after willy's brief orientation, this was understandable: nothing could disrupt the perpetual entertainment cycles more easily than excessive drinking. a tipsy person was not a good customer for other leisure-time activities. therefore, permit only one drink to a person, and charge enough for it so that the liquor monopoly would get its fair share of the entertainment expenditure. as willy would say, it was just good business. maria touched his hand to signify it was time to leave. walther took her up to her room on the nd floor, and they watched two musical comedies en route on the elevator pay-as-you-see television screen. in front of her door, maria lightly touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. she said, "thyfrwrdrftm." walther knew she was thanking him, but from force of newly-acquired habit he reached for his manual. she laughed, shook her head and translated her own words by raising up on tiptoe and brushing his lips with her own. their lips were together so briefly that walther wasn't sure whether he had really kissed her. he reached out to take her in his arms and make sure of it. deftly, she turned away and closed her door behind her. * * * * * many thoughts interfered with walther's second night of sleep on earth, and they weren't only of maria. in fact, as his idea took form, even the scent of her perfume and the moth-like touch of her lips were forced temporarily into the background of his consciousness. the next morning he waited impatiently for an hour after breakfast, then went up to willy's room. willy came to the door in his dressing robe, holding his glasses in one hand and a sheet of music in the other. he waved aside walther's apology for not waiting until afternoon. "nein ... nein!" he said. "i ordered an extra pot of coffee--because i didn't think you could wait!" willy led walther into his sitting room and poured him some coffee. "maria was already here," he chuckled. "she came to ... ah ... pick up music ... and to ask what i know about you. i told her nothing good, and nothing bad!" he settled himself in his easy chair with a luxurious sigh. his bristling white hair and cherubic cheeks gave him the appearance of a benign old innkeeper, brought to life from a canvas by holbein. "all right, tell me what you've been thinking about all night!" walther shifted tensely to the edge of his chair. he spilled a little coffee in setting his cup down. "i would like to buy copies," he said, "of everything your digester friends have ever smuggled out of the vaults!" "that's a large order, my young friend." "i'll pay ... whatever it costs!" "so would i--if i could afford it! but i fear it's not that simple. take, for example, the chapter of don quixote you heard last evening. the world government representative from england sent the digester's notes to an aunt in liverpool. she'll read them to her bohemian friends tonight, and tomorrow they may be in buenos aires or istanbul--who knows?" "but what happens to them eventually? aren't they kept in some central place?" willy spread his short, pudgy fingers in a gesture of hopelessness. "that would mean organization--and we're not organized. we wouldn't dare to be! i've never stopped to think what finally happens to these things. perhaps they end up among the papers of some old dreamer like myself. it's enough that they have brought their mellow moments of happiness!" "it's not enough!" walther protested fiercely. "it's a great waste! how will you ever improve things that way?" "who's trying to improve anything? the people of earth are content--and those of us who are not entirely so--well, we have our little underworlds of pleasure." "is that all you want?" "is there more?" walther jumped up angrily. "i believe there is--and i think you do, too!" he said harshly. "if you don't, why did you take me to that meeting last night and invite me here today? why did you send me off alone with maria?" willy only smiled, but under his silk robe his round belly shook with silent laughter. "you are a foolish young man ... and sometimes not so foolish! sit down. sit down...." he leaned forward in his easy chair, and his manner became grave. "perhaps it's difficult for an old man to come near the end of life fearing that the beauty he loves will never escape from its tomb. perhaps it's also difficult for an old maestro who cherishes the talent and loveliness of a young woman to know that she may never understand what her gift really means. perhaps an old man can still dream some dreams that a young man could not comprehend...." the tight knot in walther's stomach slowly unwound itself. "then you will help me," he said quietly. "yes, i will help you ... if i can ... and you will help me!" at willy's suggestion, they decided to talk first to the digester who had smuggled out the don quixote chapter. "he's been most successful of all of our friends," said willy. "he might be willing to organize a group of digesters who could bring out things to be duplicated, and return them, i question, though, that you could duplicate many things here on earth." "then we'll ship them away from earth! the outermost world of this galaxy--at least to my knowledge--is alden iv; it's technically well-developed and is a contact with our own galaxy." willy called the bald little digester, and he came over right after lunch. but his reaction to walther's proposal was not what they had expected. "this ... this is a terrible mistake!" he stammered. "it's ... it's too big--much too big! now--by being cautious--we can enjoy our little evenings together. but if we anger the happy time, ltd. people we'll lose everything!" willy snapped his fingers impatiently. "what have we to lose? a chance to be tea-cup rebels! this young man is giving us an opportunity to do something about what we profess to believe!" the digester looked pained. "we are already doing something," he protested. "did i not bring chapter ix of don quixote...." "you did, and we enjoyed it! but what if we could inspire a rebirth of art as big as a whole galaxy instead of entertaining each other with our little flings at bohemia?" the little digester struggled with the thought for a moment, then dismissed it with a shudder. "it's too big," he repeated miserably. "please forget about it, willy--our own way is best." he glared at walther, and his distress turned to rage: "i warn you, young man ... don't start trouble for us! if you can't accept the ways of earth, go back where you belong!" he held out a trembling hand to willy. "goodby, willy ... i go now." he hesitated, then added with the wistful air of a small boy waiting to be praised: "in two weeks i will bring another whole chapter to read!" when willy only shrugged, the little digester turned away and sadly left the room. during the next two days, willy contacted several other digester friends. in varying degrees, he met with refusals from each. by the end of the week, only two of the younger digesters in the bohemian set had agreed to cooperate and even they were careful not to promise too much. "at this rate," walther pointed out glumly, "it will take years to collect any real quantity of material--and i have only six months! is there no other source?" willy shook his head. "none that i know of." "there must be!" walther insisted. "do you mean to tell me that in all the homes of earth there are no treasured heirlooms of the past? no books? no paintings? no recordings?" "oh, i'm sure they are," willy agreed. "but how to reach them? we can hardly advertise." he paused, hesitated, then snapped his fingers. "wait--there may be a way--even more illegal than your first suggestion, but still a way...." "what is it?" "i used the word 'underworld' in speaking of our bohemian group last night, but actually there is an underworld, of a sort ... trafficking mostly in liquor. the cartel's one-drink restriction has never been too enforceable." willy lifted the seat of his piano bench and took out a bottle. "if you can afford it, you can always buy a bootleg supply." "what's liquor got to do with art?" "for a price--the underworld may be willing to traffic in art, literature and music ... in addition to alcohol!" willy sent out word through a bootlegger who supplied some of the opera singers with their favorite beverages. the next night, after final curtain, a greying, bespectacled and very distinguished looking gentleman in formal dress met willy and walther in a vacant dressing room backstage. he spoke tersely, and willy translated: "he says he has friends who could be interested in your proposition, if there's money enough in it." "tell him there's money enough," walther replied grimly. willy digested this, and their visitor smiled his scepticism. not accustomed to having his financial standing questioned, walther faced the man himself and demanded: "how much money do you want?" the man understood walther's tone, if not his words. after a brief calculation, he named a price that shocked willy, who turned to walther with dismay: "ten thousand credits for every usable piece of art that can be bought outright. an additional deposit of ten thousand if it has to be sent away from earth to be duplicated. you are to pay all shipping costs, as well as legal expenses if any of their men are arrested." walther accepted the terms with a nod. their underworld contact stared respectfully at walther, took off his suede gloves and proceeded to get down to business. it was soon arranged for walther to set up letters of credit in banks of all major cities. shipments of "tools and machinery" would be billed against these credits, after bills of lading had been inspected by walther or a designated representative. from the level of the discussion, they might have been transacting legal business on a corporation scale. their visitor shook hands with each of them, doffed his top hat and left with a courteous bow. willy wiped shining beads of sweat from his forehead. "high finance," he gasped, "is not a part of my daily routine!" he dug into a wardrobe trunk, brought out a bottle and poured two drinks. raising his glass high in the air, he toasted: "to art ... and crime! i hope we don't have to pay too much for either!" * * * * * "how are you getting along with maria?" willy asked a few days later. "just what do you expect to accomplish by throwing the two of us together so much," walther asked bluntly. "oh, i enjoy it, mind you--but, really, we're worlds apart. when i go back...." "with the young everything is possible--even the impossible," willy answered evasively. "well, tell me something more about her. where does she come from? has she ever been engaged? married?" willy filtered a cloud of smoke through his nostrils. "maria's the only talented offspring ever produced by a rather poor family in naples. she still supports them--or rather, makes it possible for them to be good happy time consumers. as for her talent ... well, it was discovered by her first school teacher--and from then on her education was taken over by the opera monopoly! engaged? nothing serious that i know of. married?" willy frowned. "i shudder to think of her marriage to one of our mechanical young rabbits!" walther blinked. "do you mind explaining that one?" willy grimaced. "i might as well. you see, sex per se is encouraged, with or without the formality of marriage. large numbers of offspring are good for society! we have the technology to provide for them, and the more there are, the more potential happy time consumers! but the arts of sex ... the refinements of love.... can't you imagine by this time what takes place in the boudoirs of earth? sex is something to be accommodated between pay-as-you see television programs! besides, you've encountered a couple of our young men, do you consider them physically capable of prolonged amour?" walther was finding it heavy going to picture some of the things willy was describing for him. but the mention of the two young men he had met outside the opera that first night brought up a question he'd been waiting to ask: "what was wrong with them? i barely touched them!" "participation sports--physical activity of any kind is discouraged as interfering with the mass entertainment media. the few gifted boys are trained to be professionals. the others scarcely develop enough muscle to walk against a strong wind. in fact, they don't walk any more than is necessary!" willy paced agitatedly around his room, and stopped in front of walther's chair. he held out his hands pleadingly: "be patient with maria," he begged. "you promised to help me, too ... and this is all i ask of you!" walther didn't find it unpleasant to comply with willy's request. he had nothing to do while waiting for the first shipment to be assembled, and so was able to attend rehearsals as well as the performances of the operas. at rehearsals, he saw a serious maria, a perfectionist devoted to her art, a superb technician. after rehearsals and the opera itself, he saw a maria who was a product of the alien leisure-time culture he had found on earth--a maria who flitted with tireless zest from one activity to another, who naturally and enthusiastically accepted the innumerable forms of entertainment offered by the happy time cartel. with growing despair, walther tried to find some activity they could share. he had always enjoyed sports, so he took her to all the attractions at the uniport arenas. each was a new disappointment. what was billed as a fight for the world's heavyweight title ended with a one-round decision. a basketball game was exciting--for three furiously-contested minutes. the professional tennis match consisted of each player serving four balls, which the other attempted to return. while traveling to and from the various attractions, there were always the diversions offered on the monorail and stratoway cars. private transportation, walther learned after hopefully exploring this possibility, had been eliminated for the obvious reason that it was restricted in the number of recreational opportunities it permitted, and might lead to over-indulgence in sex--from the point of view of the time involved, rather than promiscuity. and while walking was not strictly illegal, those who tended to over-indulge were advised to curtail their eccentricity. after much thought, walther did hit upon a possibility: it was prompted by his recollection that the natural beauty of such places as the vienna woods had not been obscured. since maria was not required to be at rehearsals until two in the afternoon, they could spend the morning visiting some distant beauty spots he had read or heard about back on neustadt. perhaps in some of these places the pace of leisure would be slowed. maria happily accepted his initial invitation to spend a morning in the south sea islands. they boarded a stratoway car immediately after breakfasting together at the hotel, and soon had exchanged chilly uniport for languorous tahiti. the island village, the natives and their costumes, the wet fragrance of the jungle and the soft rippling of the surf were all as walther had pictured them since his first reading of stevenson's voyages to the south seas. however, suspecting that the happy time cartel had probably made its presence felt in the village itself, walther steered maria around it, toward a path that wound invitingly between the tall palms and growths of bread fruit trees. maria's hand fell easily, naturally into his own, and she pressed a little closer to him, as if awed by the unaccustomed stillness. she smiled up at him, started to say something, but walther put his finger over her lips and shook his head. maria looked puzzled, then took out of her handbag a miniaturized, self-powered television set, with its own tiny coin meter. she popped in a coin, flicked the dial, and the image of an actor appeared on the screen. walther covered it with his hand. he took the set away from her, and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. then he pointed to her, to the shadowed trees around them--and spread his hands as if to ask what more anyone could possibly want. he wasn't sure she understood, but he put his arm around her waist and she rested her head against his shoulder. they continued a dozen steps down the path, until it ended at a silvery lagoon. here, she touched the radio button of her wristwatch--rented on a weekly basis--and the rhythm of a jazz band filled the tropical air. walther took her wrist, shut off the radio. he turned her toward him and held her face tightly between the palms of his hands. "no television," he said firmly, "no radio--no nothing--except this...." she yielded with a faint smile. her eyes closed, but their lips had scarcely touched when she tried to draw back. "not that way," walther told her. "this way...." he held her face firmly teaching her the kind of kisses that were used in a frontier world where people had time to make love. she struggled away from the unnaturalness of his kissing, then slowly she ceased to struggle. suddenly, the lagoon was lighted by a brilliant spotlight, and a servo-robot stepped out of the shadows. it said pleasantly: "since only tourists come to this spot, it is presumed that you come from some distant planet. therefore, let me point out that all couples are limited to two minutes by the lagoon. if you hurry, you can catch a native dance number before the next stratoway leaves." in the same pleasant tone, the servo-robot began to repeat these words in the other ancient languages of earth. maria's breath came in short, trembling gasps. her lips were still apart, and she touched them with the tip of her tongue. "_weil nur touristen nach diesem fleckchen erde kommen_ ..." the servo-robot droned along in its pleasing voice. "oh, shut up!" walther growled. he took maria by the arm and led her back up the path. "somehow," he promised her fervently, "somewhere--we're going to finish that." "dthgn," she whispered in breathless wonder. * * * * * the first shipment of "tools and machinery" had been assembled at the uniport landing. walther received a formal notice to this effect from the local exchange bank. the same evening, in a backstage dressing room, he and willy fritsh received a rather more informative report from the gentleman who was their contact with the bootleg underworld. every item in the shipment was listed and described with meticulous care. by reference to a leather-bound pocket notebook, the contact managed to furnish additional details. with willy's help, walther was able to judge the nature of the haul. he was both pleased and disappointed. numerically, it had more items than he had expected. qualitatively, it left much to be desired. there were no complete literary works, only fragments. the pictures were admittedly cheap copies; the recordings were only passages from major works. a total of eight hundred items had been purchased outright by underworld agents; fourteen hundred more had been borrowed on the security of the huge deposit. the latter would have to be duplicated on alden iv and returned to their earth owners as quickly as possible. walther had expended a huge fortune for a dubious return. but, through willy, he told the contact: "keep it up. get everything you can!" several items did look promising: from an elderly spinster in durban, south africa, the first two acts of "othello" had been obtained by the bootlegger who delivered her dry sec sherry twice a month; in new orleans, an undertaker had parted with a nearly complete louis armstrong original--about an inch was broken off one edge of the record, but the bill of lading stated that the rest was quite audible. there was also what was reported to be the last third of "crime and punishment," loaned by a lawyer in prague. the second shipment was on a par with the first, with the hopeful indication that some of the new acquisitions would complement others in the first shipment. walther stood beside willy at the uniport landing as the shuttleship carrying their second shipment blasted off on the first leg of the long route to far-off alden iv. the third shipment was much smaller, only three hundred outright purchases and seven hundred and twenty items obtained against deposit. with the bill of lading came a warning note. walther translated it himself. it was from their contact, who wrote: "don't try to get in touch with me until further notice. send off this shipment as soon as possible. the happy time boys know something big is going on." by paying a fabulous premium, walther was able to get the third shipment off on the midnight shuttle. afterwards he stood in the window of willy's hotel room, staring up at the star-filled sky. "well, that may be the end of it," he said. "you've done well," said willy, joining him. "i didn't think you'd get that much." "i hope it'll do some good. perhaps all this new material will at least form the basis of a good research library." willy glanced at him speculatively. "i was disappointed about the music," he said. "not one complete work." by this time, walther had learned to know when willy was maneuvering toward an objective. "just tell me what you've got in mind," he grinned. "no preliminaries." willy chuckled his appreciation, then grew serious. "our opera season ends this week.... we're supposed to take a month off, then start rehearsals for the next tour. perhaps, during this month...." walther sensed what was coming next, but he held his breath--waiting for willy to say it. willy did: "perhaps--if you still want to spend more money to pay them--we could persuade some of our group to record...." "a full-length opera!" walther exclaimed. "would they--could they--do it?" willy pursed his lips thoughtfully. "as for willingness--you've observed that your wealth is rather persuasive on earth. like most artists, our people spend more than they earn, and would probably try anything for what you could pay them. as for ability--we'd undoubtedly have to record in short sessions. we might even have to break up the arias into sections, because we're not conditioned for sustained effort." "i'll pay them anything to try it," walther broke in, enthusiastically. "where would you try it--here in uniport?" "hardly. but there's an old inn in north wales where i once spent a vacation with some of our group. if the happy time agents should be watching us now, it would be quite natural to return to that inn." "maria ... do you think she would?" willy sighed, and shrugged. "not for the money alone ... she's quite a perfectionist about her art. but i'm hopeful that by this time...." his eyes twinkled. walther laughed. "what a chess player you would make! i think you've been moving me around like a pawn ever since the first evening we met!" "not a pawn," willy corrected him with a smile. "a knight." however, they decided not to tell maria the real purpose of the proposed vacation until they were all set up at the inn in north wales. walther thought the setting sounded perfect for some personal unfinished business. "even i could sing an aria in such a place," willy enthused. willy began quietly and individually contacting other members of his company. with the kind of payment walther authorized him to offer, he had little difficulty getting performers for the venture. most of them thought the project ridiculous, but the money was more than they would normally earn in an entire season. willy swore each of them to silence. they were to treat the trip as nothing more than a vacation. he made arrangements for the various pieces of recording equipment to be shipped separately from london, berlin and new york. willy's pink cheeks were perpetually flushed these days, and his bright eyes sparkled brighter than ever. when walther brought up the question of which opera would be attempted, he discovered that the shrewd old maestro had long ago acquired puccini's complete "madame butterfly" and had already packed the music for shipment to north wales. the night before they were to leave uniport, a familiar, distinguished figure appeared backstage, threading his way between the huge crates being packed by the servo-robot stagehands. willy led him immediately to one of the dressing rooms. with admirable simplicity, the underworld contact put a proposition before them. the first three shipments had pretty well exhausted the supply of readily obtainable material. with the happy time agents now alerted, the risk of trying to get more material wasn't justified by the probable results. but the underworld wasn't anxious to let go of a good revenue source without one big payoff. what did they propose to do? willy's voice shook as he translated: "for--for the right--fee--they're willing to break into the uniport library vaults!" walther was silent for a long moment. instinctively, he recoiled from such overt action. but reason asked: why should he draw back now? everything taken from the vaults would be duplicated and returned in good condition. was it right to let his own personal reaction stand in the way of something that might benefit whole ages of mankind? when he had firm control of his own voice, he nodded and asked: "how do they propose to do it?" the plan was a piece of professional craftsmanship. in the century of its existence, no one had ever attempted to enter the new library illegally. with the absence of any known motive for doing so, the need for guarding against it was routine. there were the usual doors and time-locks, the alarm systems and servo-robot guards, but nothing that couldn't be handled. they would bring in technicians from vega vi to handle the time-locks. otherwise, barring some unsuspected move by the happy time security police, the job was within the bounds of their own abilities. of course, there must be meticulous attention to detail and planning. the contact explained that, according to preliminary surveys, they could count on about two hours of work after gaining entrance to the vaults. by concentrating only on books, for speed of handling and packing, a reasonable sized crew should be able to get at least twenty thousand volumes out of the vaults and into a waiting monorail transport, where the crates would already be assembled. previous arrangements could be made for the midnight freight shuttle to take the crates from the uniport landing to cyngus iii. from there, the crates could be dispersed throughout the immeasurable reaches of deep space. "but they must be returned," walther insisted. "i'll see to that!" their visitor shrugged, indicating that this detail was of no interest to him. he named a price, and when walther promptly agreed to it, willy poured them all a drink. "when i was a small boy," willy said, in a voice that still trembled, "i slid on the seat of my trousers down an icy slope in the alps. it was good fun for the first twenty yards; and then i realized i had gone beyond my power to stop. that's the way i feel right now. prosit!" as their caller started to leave, walther stopped him by raising his hand. throughout the discussion, an irresistible compulsion had been growing within him. now he had to speak: "i've come a long way," he told willy. "granting that nothing goes wrong, and that i'm able to leave, i know i'll never return to earth again. but there's one selfish, personal thing i want to do before leaving. it isn't sensible, i know--but neither was my dream to begin with. i want to go with these men into the uniport vaults--just to see for an hour--greater treasures than i can ever hope to see again." * * * * * from his room on the second floor of the bridge end inn, walther could look down upon the river dee, tumbling along beside what was still called the shropshire and union railroad canal, although the tracks of that ancient railroad had been torn up centuries ago. old ways and names had a way of persisting in north wales, despite the pace of modern leisure. walther had noted with satisfaction that the double consonants of the old language, with their strange throaty pronunciation, had defied contraction. llangollen and llantysilio were two nearby cities whose names were still spelled out, as they had been for a thousand years. he glanced at his watch. maria should be waking from her nap just about now. in a half hour, willy wanted to meet with her and ask her cooperation in doing "madame butterfly". walther had suggested waiting until the next day, since maria was tired from the closing night festivities in uniport, and from packing the rest of the night in time to catch the morning stratoway. but willy opposed delay. as he stood there by his window, walther had a sense of peace, for the first time since he'd been on earth. the moment was all the more to be cherished, since he knew it could not last. a light knock on his door jarred the view and the peace out of focus. "come in," he called, and turned, expecting to see willy. but it was maria who entered, looking remarkably refreshed after her short nap. she wore a sweater, a very short skirt and open-toed sandals. her long, dark hair was combed out loose. it was the first time he had seen her dressed so casually. she looked more like a welsh mountain girl than the star of the uniport opera. "hi!" he said, inadequately. she laughed at his surprise, and put her arms around him. "hi," she answered. maria had not forgotten her first lesson beside the tahiti lagoon; and walther was reviewing some subsequent lessons when both of them became aware of the unwelcome fact that they were not alone. willy fritsh stood in the doorway, smiling benignly. "oh, hell," said walther. "believe me, i didn't intend to interrupt," willy said happily. "but since we're all together right now ... under such ... ah ... propitious circumstances, suppose we talk things over." "later," said walther. ignoring his protest, willy sat himself comfortably on the window seat, opened a large envelope and took out the bound libretto of "madame butterfly". he handed it to maria, without comment. she stared at it curiously, but made no move to open it until willy motioned her to do so. she nodded with recognition at the title page, then as she riffled through succeeding pages, her expression changed from surprise to distaste. she tried to hand the libretto back to willy, but instead of taking it, he drew her to the window seat beside him, and spoke to her as a father might speak to his daughter. by this time, walther could understand a little of what willy was saying and he could guess the rest of it. maria's first reaction was to stare incredulously at willy. as the full meaning of what he was asking became clear to her, she looked up at walther. he saw scorn and anger in her dark eyes. when she looked back at willy, it was to shake her head in emphatic refusal. willy's tone became even more persuasive. he gazed out the window as he spoke, down at the river pouring over the weir and ducking under the old stone bridge. maria rolled the libretto into a tight scroll. her fingers showed white through her unpolished nails. willy stopped abruptly. he looked older, tired. maria remained silent, her lips compressed into a tight line. at last she answered him, in a voice that was tightly, coldly controlled. she stood up and walked toward the door. walther held out his hand; she ignored it. he started after her, and willy said, "let her go." willy looked so depressed that walther felt a need to comfort him. "it's all right," he said. "we'll forget the whole idea." willy shook his head. "she'll do it," he said wearily. "but...." "she'll do it because she thinks she owes it to me." walther waited for the old maestro to continue. "as soon as we're through recording," willy went on, pushing himself up from the window seat, "maria wants to be released to another opera company." "i'll go see her right now," walther began. "not now," willy interrupted. "she wouldn't have anything to do with you. she thinks your only interest has been this recording." * * * * * willy started rehearsals early the next morning, in the big stone barn behind the inn. the structure's high roof and thick walls provided natural acoustics, while its location was far enough from llangollen to avoid creating undue curiosity. recording equipment had been set up along one side; around it, the orchestra was grouped. the center area was marked off for vocal rehearsals. willy handled the direction himself, and not for a century had any director on earth undertaken such a staggering task. from the first moments of rehearsal, it became evident that the orchestra could never hope to play an entire number in one sustained effort. it was not so much the physical effort involved, as the difficulty of maintaining an emotional crest for so long a period. the first violinist fainted halfway through the opening sequence between lieutenant pinkerton and the american consul. this triggered a mass collapse among the woodwinds. the pianist wavered off an octave through sheer fatigue, and the drummer dropped his sticks when willy cued him to step up tempo. willy was frantic. "we'll have to record a few bars at a time--until they're more accustomed to the strain," he told walther. "what an editing job this will be!" the problem with the vocalists was even more acute. every duet would have to be recorded in at least ten segments. maria was the only one who stubbornly insisted on doing a complete number. it was a point of pride with her. she hated the music; it violated every principle she had ever learned. but the perfectionist in her, reinforced by her bitterness toward walther and her sense of obligation to willy, drove her to deliver the full measure of her promise. in the love duet between butterfly and pinkerton, which closed act i, the pale and perspiring pinkerton was nearly spent as he began his final lines: come then, love, what fear holds you trembling? have done with all misgivings.... his impassioned plea quavered; he clutched maria's arm to steady himself. willy cut the music. for five minutes they held cold compresses to the singer's wrists, while members of the orchestra slumped, exhausted, in their chairs. when all were somewhat recovered, pinkerton attempted the next two lines of his wedding night rapture: the night doth enfold us, see the world lies sleeping.... and then he had to rest again. but when maria answered, her dark eyes flashing defiantly, she went through her entire eight lines without a pause. her great test came with the famous second act solo, "one fine day". it was difficult enough to learn the strange words and music, but to achieve and hold the emotional peaks of the solo for nearly two minutes was something she had never before attempted. because she insisted on doing the entire aria without resting, willy set the recording for early in the morning, when the orchestra would be fresh. he asked them to assemble on the improvised sound stage an hour after breakfast. willy limited the orchestra to a minimum tune up period so that the musicians could conserve their energies for the ordeal ahead. the violins were the last to be ready. when the final string had been tuned, willy cued the engineers to stand by and pointed the tip of his baton toward maria. "un bel di...." the words came clear as the notes of a silver bell, calling back to life the beauty that had been dead for so long. walther felt his stomach muscles tighten; a tingle of wonder crept up his spine. standing there in the center of the old stone barn, wearing only sandals, shorts and a light blouse open at the neck, maria still managed to convey the feelings of the lonely young japanese wife who sang so confidently of her husband's return from across the sea. this was maria, the incomparable artist, using all of her technique to blend the unfamiliar words and music. but for the first few lines it was only a technical tour de force. then puccini's music began to take hold of maria, merging the artist with the woman, and creating yet a third entity out of the two. he saw willy turn, transfixed toward maria. his hands and baton continued to move, but not by conscious direction. his pink cheeks were pale, etched with deepening lines. his blue eyes were misted. even the other members of the company seemed moved by maria's performance. yet they could not stay with her emotionally; they were compelled to break the tension by shuffling their feet and self-consciously lighting cigarettes. to a man, the orchestra played as if hypnotized, sweeping through measure after measure with an intensity that seemed impossible to maintain. for an uncertain moment, near the end of the aria, it looked as if maria could not finish. she swayed, held tightly to the microphone for support. walther stepped forward to catch her, but she recovered, drawing on some inner source of strength to finish: "... this will all come to pass, as i tell you! banish your idle fears ... for he will return, i know it!" as maria finished, she tore herself away from the microphone. her lips were trembling; her eyes were wide, like those of a woman in shock. she half-ran out of the barn, stopped--confused--in the bright sunlight, and then ran on down the path toward the inn. * * * * * until late afternoon, maria would see no one. then she agreed to see willy for a few moments. when the old maestro left her room, he looked deeply troubled. "i don't know ..." he told walther, shaking his head. "i don't know what this has done to her." "what did she say?" "right now, she says she will never sing again. she's going to her home in italy this evening." "can we do anything?" "looks like we've already done more than we should. mixing two cultures in one artist is dangerous chemistry!" up to this moment, walther had deliberately avoided any decision about maria. she had been a continuing and delightful challenge, especially since tahiti, but beyond that he had not allowed his thoughts to go. now there was a responsibility he could no longer evade. he had watched the dual personality that was maria being shattered under the impact of puccini's music. how would the pieces fit together again? should he stand by and watch? or should he try to help? and if he could help her, how would it all end? the gulf between two cultures could be wider than the mathematics of space between two galaxies, or the bridging power of sex. against willy's advice, walther decided to catch the same stratoway with maria, and take his chances on what might happen. but a phone call from uniport abruptly changed his plans. it was from their underworld contact, who informed willy that the "board of directors" was meeting that evening; if walther wanted to attend, he would have to take the next stratoway to uniport. someone would meet him at the station. uniport or italy? willy intervened to make the decision easier. "this will be your only chance to get into the vaults," he counseled. "besides, maria must think some things through for herself." his emotions in turmoil, walther boarded the next stratoway for uniport. as north wales and england blurred into the ocean beneath him, he had the feeling that he would never see the river dee country again. a tall, thin young man, with eyes as colorless as waxpaper, met him at the uniport station and hurried him into a monorail car. walther tentatively began a question, but the young man stopped him with an opaque stare. four times they changed monorail cars, ending up eventually at a freight terminal, where an older man met them and pointed silently to one of the freight cars. inside, walther saw a strange assortment of smiling servo-robots and grim-faced humans sitting around on empty packing cases. the cases were already marked for shipment and trans-shipment throughout the galaxy. after quick, sharp glances of appraisal, no one paid any attention to him. he sat down beside one of the servo-robots and forced himself to wait as patiently as possible. for a half hour nothing happened. the servo-robots remained motionless; the humans chain-smoked until the air in the freight car was an acrid grey smog. nearly every human switched constantly and nervously from his tiny tv set to his watch-radio. one of the men brought out a bottle, but quickly put it away after a staccato command from the greying, square-jawed man who seemed to be in charge. at o'clock, without warning, the freight car vibrated slightly and began to move. the servo-robots stood up attentively; the humans snuffed out their cigarettes. peering through one of the small windows, walther saw that twilight was merging into night. it was completely dark when the car stopped at a loading platform behind the steel-grey building that towered above the uniport cultural vaults. a servo-robot guard stepped forward challengingly. at a gesture from the leader, one of the servo-robots within the car marched out on the platform and presented a punched bill of lading. as the guard fed the document into its tabulator, the other stepped closer and lightly brushed against it. the guard stiffened, as though from a severe shock. there was a sound like that of a racing motor suddenly thrown out of gear. then a click, and silence. the servo-robot guard unhinged itself at the knees and collapsed on the platform. another signal from the leader, and out of the car scurried the humans and servo-robots. they ran across the platform toward the shadow of the building. here, two of the men, who walther guessed to be the experts imported to earth for this job, traced a circle around the door with an instrument that resembled a small camera. evidently this was to cut off the alarm system, for almost immediately they relaxed and went on to open the door without any attempt at caution. proceeding in single file, lighting their way with powerful flashlights, they passed in similar manner through a series of inner doors to an elevator leading down into the vaults. a servo-robot took over its operation, and they shot downward. at each level, the leader stepped off the elevator to look around. at the sixth level, he nodded and they followed him into the vault. this was the book vault. tier upon tier, the stacks of books reached in every direction as far as a flashlight beam could probe. motioning walther to follow him, the leader took a piece of chalk and began marking off groups of books. the men rounded up library carts for the servo-robots, who swiftly fell to loading the carts and trundling them back to the elevator. walther soon moved ahead of the leader and began marking the books himself. they had started in the m-sections. with mounting excitement, walther chalked off machiavelli, mann, markham, masefield, maugham, maupassant, melville, millay, moliere.... leaping to the next tier, he raced through the stacks marking the works of nathan and newton, o'neill ... ovid.... then on to parker, pater, pepys, plato, poe.... racine, rousseau.... sandburg ... santayana.... what an astounding haul this would be! the masterpieces of the ages, to be whisked across space, from star system to star system, until at last they reached his homeland, where they would grow and multiply a million-fold, generation into generation, down through the millenniums of universal time. back to the a-sections! adams, aeschylus, anderson, aristotle.... on to the b-sections! bacon ... balzac ... benet ... bronte ... byron.... it was like drinking a heady burgundy. each new title whetted his taste for more. inevitably, the very magnitude of the thing began to have its sobering effect. was it actually possible to get so much material out of the vaults? off the earth? the leader caught up with him in the k-sections and motioned him not to mark off any more books. they'd have a hard time getting those walther had already chalked. walther rode up with the next elevator load. on the way down, he indicated to the servo-robot that he wanted to go all the way to the bottom level. there he stepped out of the elevator and stood in the darkness for a moment to steady himself from the excitement of marking so many books. then he swept his flashlight beam slowly around the vault. it was like turning on a light in a tomb that had been sealed for centuries. certainly this tomb had been sealed, to all except the digesters and the servo-robot attendants. the vault was at least two hundred feet high. walther could only guess at the other dimensions, and the extent of the corridors that fanned out like the spokes of a wheel. sculptured figures from all the ages of earth loomed out of the shadows with a quality of arrested life that might at any moment move again. the figures of the pharaohs were here, the chiseled perfection of athens and rome, the genius of the renaissance and the primitive gods of the aztecs. the armless venus gazed down dispassionately on the bowed back of the discus thrower, while rodin's thinker stared in eternal contemplation at the belly of buddha. and then walther looked upward. high overhead, reassembled on a great oblong span of artificial ceiling suspended from the top of the vault, were the nine immortal panels from the sistine chapel. tracing his beam of light through scene by scene of michaelangelo's creation of the world, lingering among the connective figures of the prophets and sibyls, the lunettes and triangles, walther lost all sense of time. when his back and neck muscles could stand the strain no longer, he wandered deeper into the dim recesses of the vault, following corridor after corridor, entranced. he was like a condemned man watching his last sunrise and trying to absorb it all, knowing he would not come this way again. walther did not realize how far he had wandered until he came at last to the end of a corridor and glanced at his watch. ten o'clock! he'd been gone from the group for nearly three hours, and the entire raid had been timed for two hours. he started running for the elevator. corridor led into corridor, gallery into gallery. it took him twenty minutes to find his way back to the main vault, another five minutes to locate the right elevator. he pressed the button and listened. there was no sound within the shaft. he shouted, and there was only the echo of his own voice reverberating through the ages around him. * * * * * fighting down a flutter of panic, walther turned off his light and leaned against the elevator door to organize his thoughts. he was sure the others had left on time to make shipment schedules at the uniport landing. they might have delayed long enough to make a cursory search for him, but his safety was no part of their commitment. they had successfully raided the vaults, which was all they had contracted to do. before morning, most of them undoubtedly would have embarked on inter-planetary cruises. walther's first decision was to try the other elevators on the off-chance that one had been left in operating gear. none had. next, he set off to look for a stair well, fire ladder or other method of exit. it took him three hours to cover the entire vault and its corridors. no doubt of it, the elevators were the only means of entering and leaving. it was now one o'clock. in eight hours the upper level doors would open to the digesters. no particular effort had been made to camouflage the gaps in the stacks. his one chance was to reach the street level before anyone noticed the missing books. meanwhile, he could do nothing except spend the night as comfortably as possible. he spread his coat on the marble floor behind the squat statue of a malayan goddess. surprisingly, he did doze off toward morning. he awoke shortly after eight o'clock, and began to punch the elevator button every five minutes. finally, at three minutes to nine, a faint hum responded within the shaft. he retreated hastily into the nearest corridor, and waited another ten minutes before bringing the elevator down to his level. then he entered it, pressed the street-level control and shot upward. he lit a cigarette, and was prepared to step out nonchalantly as soon as the door opened. his exit was nonchalant enough, but the servo-robot guard in front of the elevator held out its tabulator slot and said. "crdpls." walther was shaken, but did not freeze up. he fumbled in his pocket for a slip of paper and tried to cram it into the tabulator. a red light flashed on the servo-robot's chest; a buzzer sounded. thirty yards beyond, walther saw the front desk and the door open to the street. he acted with the impulse. a sidestep took him around the servo-robot, and then he was racing toward the door. three steps later, a vise-like grip clamped around his shoulders and swept him off his feet. twisting, he saw that the servo-robot's arm had elongated, and that the fingers had stretched to encircle his body. he kicked hard at the arm, and that was his last conscious act. the next time walther opened his eyes, his head throbbed so violently he closed them again. when the spinning stopped, he tried once more. around him he saw four metallic walls, and overhead a ceiling of similar material. except for a ventilator grid, and the outlines of two doors, there were no breaks in the wall and no decorations. he was lying on a low, narrow cot, and was still fully dressed. he felt his head. there was a large lump above his right temple, where he might have struck the floor. but he was still too groggy for much speculation. he closed his eyes to ease the throbbing, and fell into an uneasy sleep. the creaking of the door must have roused him, for it was closing as he focussed on it. a tray of food was within arm's reach. a smaller door behind his bed had been opened; it led to a tiny washroom. after freshening up and trying the food, walther felt much better. he was a strong-nerved young man, not accustomed to worry, and he tried to weigh the facts for and against him. if the shipments had gone off without a hitch, things might not be so bad. he'd been found leaving the vaults, but no one would suppose that he'd have stayed around after somehow disposing of the books. they might suspect him, but it would be hard to disprove his story that he'd taken the elevator by mistake the day before and been trapped overnight. anyway, as a visitor from another galaxy, he was entitled to certain consideration. he felt even better when the door opened late in the afternoon to admit willy fritsh and a tight-lipped man of about forty. "your lawyer," said willy. he looked and sounded grim. after completing introductions, willy told him that he was indeed accused of the theft, and would be arraigned in the morning. "they can't prove it," walther answered calmly. "they think they can. our digester friend--remember our bohemian evening?--has come forward to accuse you. he'll testify about the offer we made him." "we? will he accuse you, too?" "not exactly. i'm supposed to be an innocent bystander. a friend who was used!" in spite of the circumstances, a hint of the old sparkle returned to willy's eyes and he smiled faintly. "what can they do about it?" walther demanded. after all, he was a von koenigsburg. willy's smile vanished. "our legal friend here says ten years would be a light sentence." they discussed the case for an hour, while the lawyer took meticulous notes. then, through willy, the attorney began questioning walther about his financial status. even in the language of consonants, his voice was suave. the lawyer's precise little symbols wavered as walther briefly outlined his family circumstances, but a servo-robot opened the door before further questions could be asked. willy started to shake hands with walther, then impulsively put his arms around him. there were tears in the corners of his blue eyes. he tried to say something, but gave it up and hurried out the door behind the attorney. "wait." walther called after him. "have you heard anything from maria?" willy sadly shook his head. "no. nothing." walther had scarcely finished breakfast next morning when a servo-robot came to take him to court. the robot linked thumb and forefinger around walther's wrist with the grip of a handcuff. there were no spectators in the courtroom; perhaps, walther thought glumly, because it was a free attraction that would interfere with the consumption of happy time entertainment. willy joined him at the defendants table. "still the loyal, misguided friend," willy murmured. "i volunteered to be your interpreter." the judge was a human, but all clerks and bailiffs were servo-robots. as soon as the court was gaveled into session, the prosecutor presented a twenty-second digest of the case against walther, and called the little digester as a substantiating witness. walther didn't need any translation to understand what the witness was saying. shifting unhappily in his chair, and avoiding willy's eyes, the little digester answered preliminary questions in a scarcely audible voice. but when he pointed his finger at walther, his voice became shrill and he reddened to the top of his bald head. "now he'll be afraid to attend one of our meetings," willy murmured. "that's what he's really blaming you for." when the digester left the stand, a portly man, with a perpetual tick in his left cheek, arose to address the court. he was at the prosecutor's table, and until this moment had seemed to take very little interest in the proceedings. but now he spoke in a steel-edged voice that was in surprising contrast to his slow, heavy movements. "he's speaking as a friend of the court," willy whispered. "his office is legal representative of the happy time cartel in uniport. he's telling the court what a terrible offense you committed--but is willing--in the public interest not to press charges if you'll return the books at once. otherwise, he demands you be held for trial without bail." walther's lawyer conferred briefly with willy. the judge and prosecutor also conferred, and both spoke with obvious deference to the happy time attorney. with a bow to all three, walther's lawyer addressed the court. his smooth voice rippled lightly over the harsh consonants, and his thin lips parted often in a swift, mirthless smile. he spoke for almost a minute, and the judge began to toy with his gavel, watching the happy time attorney for a cue to his feelings. the attorney had slumped back in his chair, eyes drooping. but the tick in his cheek worked furiously. then walther's lawyer turned toward the happy time lawyer and paused dramatically. "he's talking about your family," willy whispered again. "i think he's exaggerating a bit, but he says they own an entire planet twice the size of earth." when the lawyer continued, the smoothness was gone from his voice. his words came hard, crisp, brief. the elderly judge sagged back in his chair, the prosecutor blinked and the happy time attorney allowed his eyes to close completely. "i hope you approve," willy said in a shaky whisper. "you've just offered to deposit a hundred million credits with the happy time cartel as assurance the books will be returned." "what?--i don't even admit taking them!" "neither does your lawyer. but, as he puts it, if anyone acting in your behalf, but without your direct knowledge, should have seized these books and shipped them off the earth, you will assume responsibility for their return. otherwise, they may be turned loose among the people of earth to plant seeds of future trouble." walther's lawyer emphasized one brief phrase, and sat down. even walther recognized the words: one hundred million credits. the happy time attorney slowly opened his eyes and heaved himself to his feet. he spread out both pudgy hands to the judge, and shrugged his bulking shoulders. he spoke briefly, and the steel-edge was gone from his voice. "he suggests that the court in its wisdom, temper justice with mercy." willy translated excitedly. after this it was a matter of detail, with the prosecutor insisting only that walther be kept in custody and deported immediately after the deposit had been arranged. the strain of the whole affair had been too much for willy, but as the smiling servo-robot led walther out of the courtroom, he called after him: "i'll be at the landing!" walther knew he should be happy. he had found what he wanted on earth. not in the way he had hoped, but the final reckoning was the same. still, there was an emptiness to it all, an emptiness and an aching. when he cleared customs, and was released by his servo-robot guard, walther saw willy fritsh waiting beside the cyngus iii shuttleship. a half dozen of his musicians were with him. willy said with simple directness: "if you want us, we'd like to go with you." of all the things that had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours, this took walther most completely by surprise. he stared, speechless, from willy to the musicians, most of them older men. "these few came to me," willy said. "they don't want to go back to our own music--neither do i!" his voice broke, and he continued, pleading: "we can help bring your dream to life in the few years left to us." walther enveloped the old maestro in a bear-hug that crushed the breath out of him. "want you?" he cried. "now, who's a fool?" "you are," gasped willy, "if you thought i'd leave part of my heart behind!" walther looked around quickly. at the top of the shuttleship ramp stood a young woman with half a smile and half a question on her lips. there was doubt in that smile, and fear. there was loneliness and wonder, and hope. it was a promise and a warning of all that lay ahead for them, out there beyond the stars. humbly, more knowing that he had yet been in his short life, walther held out his hands and walked up the ramp toward her--toward a dream that was over, and a reality that could be more bitter, more sweet, than any dream.